Chapter 30: Licking to Glory
The sharp tang of peat still coated Hector’s tongue, a humiliating reminder of his failure. The dungeon air felt thicker now, heavy with damp stone, incense, perfume, and something else – a low thrum of anticipation. Karen’s gentle chiding as someone dabbed her breast echoed faintly, but was quickly swallowed by Julia’s commanding voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Gentlemen," she announced, her crisp tone bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. "Kneel. Stay." Hector dropped obediently to his knees beside the others, the stone floor a cold shock through the thin leather. He heard the distinct snick of latches releasing near his ears. Then, darkness clamped down completely as the internal blindfold attachments clicked into place within the hoods, sealing out the dungeon's eerie jack-o'-lantern glow. Utter blackness. Smell and sound became his world: the piney incense, the cloying sweetness of spilled rum, the damp earthiness of the cellar, and the excited, nervous breaths of the surrounding women.
"Scoring recap," Julia’s voice rang out, clinical and precise. "A reminder of the stakes. Mr. Pink: nine points. Mr. Black: eight. Mr. White and Mr. Red: seven each. Tight race. Don’t get comfortable, Pink." Hector flinched at the direct address. "Now, the final challenge. Winner takes significant advantage."
He heard shuffling, the scrape of heavy furniture on stone. Soft grunts of effort. Then, distinct wet clicks and sighs – the unmistakable sound of clothing being deliberately, efficiently removed. Four sets of it. A collective intake of breath from the other women, followed by low murmurs – approval, amusement, perhaps envy.
"Ladies Brenda, Charlie, Henrietta, and Elizabeth," Julia continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr that vibrated in Hector’s bones. "Have graciously volunteered their… centres of pleasure for your dedicated attention. They are comfortably reclined. Legs elevated. Presented." The clinical description was worse than any crude term. "Your task is singular: dedicate your mouth and tongue to the lady before you. First gentleman to elicit a verifiable climax earns three points. Second: two. Third: one. And last?" She paused."Zero. A rather disappointing goose egg. Agnes will adjudicate."
Hector’s stomach lurched. This was beyond the plug, beyond the tasting, beyond anything he could have imagined. Performing this, blindfolded, in front of Dorothy, in front of everyone, while Agnes watched for signs of orgasm? The plug seemed to pulse in time with his hammering heart.
"Positions!" Julia commanded. Hands gripped Hector’s upper arms, steering him firmly forward. He stumbled, knees protesting on the stone. He sensed warmth ahead, the faint scent of lavender and baking spices. Brenda. The baker. He remembered her calendar photo, the flour-dusted apron hinting at curves. Now, inches from his concealed face, that scent intensified, mixed with the intimate musk of arousal. He felt the radiating heat of her body, the slight shift as she settled back on what must be the reclining chair.
Across the space, Henrietta let out a throaty chuckle. "Alright then, Mr. Whoever-You-Are. Don't be shy. Pretend it's the last custard tart in the shop!" Brenda shushed her, a nervous giggle escaping.
Elizabeth's voice, cool and expectant, cut through. "One trusts you understand the assignment. Efficiency is appreciated." Charlie remained silent, but Hector heard her quick, shallow breathing nearby.
"Begin!"
The single word hung in the air. For a heartbeat, absolute stillness. Then, the sounds began. Hesitant at first – a wet, exploratory lick from Hector’s right, a sharp intake of breath from the woman receiving it. A low hum from near Henrietta's area. Hector remained frozen, paralyzed by the enormity of it, by the proximity of Brenda’s heat, by the knowledge of Dorothy’s unseen eyes burning into him.
Do it. Just do it. Get it over with. The thought screamed in his head. Points. Just think about the points. Survive.
He leaned forward, blindly, until his face met yielding warmth. Soft skin. He smelled lavender more intensely, and beneath it, the unique, salty-sweet tang of her. His tongue darted out, clumsy, tentative, tracing what he hoped was the outer edge. Brenda gasped softly above him. "Oh!"
Encouraged, or perhaps simply driven by the desperate need to not be last, he tried again. Less tentative this time. He found a rhythm, circling, probing gently with the tip of his tongue, trying to remember… anything. Trying to disconnect his mind from the dungeon, from the hood, from the plug, from the scores, from Dorothy. Trying to focus solely on the texture, the heat, the subtle shifts in Brenda’s breathing.
Nearby, Henrietta moaned, low and satisfied. "Ooh, that’s the spot, lad! Just there! Like ringin' the bell on last orders!"Mr. Black, Hector presumed, was clearly not hesitating. To his left, near Elizabeth, the sounds were more rapid, almost clinical.Mr. White? Or Red? Elizabeth’s sharp, approving "Yes… precisely," suggested someone knew what they were doing. Charlie remained quiet, but her breathing hitched in a rhythmic way that spoke of building tension.
Hector focused on Brenda. He laved broader strokes, trying to cover the area he could sense, then concentrated the pressure, mimicking what he thought Dorothy liked – that flicking motion just… there. Brenda’s hips jerked slightly. "Mmm, God…" she breathed, her voice thick.
He redoubled his efforts, the world narrowing to the taste of her, the feel of her soft skin against his lips and tongue, the muffled sounds of her growing pleasure. He heard a sharp cry from Henrietta’s direction, cut off abruptly by a guttural groan. "Bloody hell! Yes!" Henrietta gasped, her voice shaking. "Done! He's bloody done it!"
"Climax confirmed for Mr. Black!" Julia announced crisply. "Three points secured."
Hector’s heart sank even as he kept moving his tongue. Black won. He was still in it. He could still get second. He focused desperately, trying to block out the announcement, the knowledge that someone had already succeeded. Brenda was moaning steadily now, little whimpers escaping. Her fingers tangled briefly in the top of his hood, gripping the leather. "Please… don't stop… almost…"
He felt the tension coiling in her, the subtle tightening of muscles beneath his mouth. He concentrated on that sensitive spot, flicking rapidly. Her breath hitched, then released in a shuddering sigh that deepened into a low, sustained moan. Her thighs trembled against the sides of his hood. "Oh! Oh, fuck…" The curse, so unlike the mild-mannered baker, was unmistakable. Her body arched slightly, then went limp.
"Climax confirmed for Mr. Pink!" Agnes’s monotone was jarring after Brenda’s release. "Two points."
Relief flooded Hector, so intense it momentarily masked his shame. He pulled back slightly, panting, the taste of her lingering on his lips, the scent filling his nostrils. He’d done it. Second place. Points secured. He heard Elizabeth’s frustrated huff. "Really, Mr. White? Must I spell it out? More pressure. Consistent pressure." Charlie was making small, desperate mewling sounds.
Moments later, Elizabeth snapped, "There! Finally! Good Lord, the effort." Mr. White had managed third. Charlie’s whimpers subsided into near silence. "Failure for Mr. Red," Julia declared, a note of disdain in her voice. "Zero points."
The sounds of movement resumed. Bodies shifting, fabric rustling as the ladies covered themselves. The intimate heat receded. Hector knelt back on his heels, spent, adrift in the darkness. He felt hollowed out, reduced to nothing but sensation and shame. He'd performed like an animal, efficiently, for points. For survival. And Dorothy had watched it all.
"Well done, gentlemen," Julia said, her voice returning to its usual brisk cadence. "A decisive conclusion. Final scores: Mr. Black surges to eleven points.Mr. Pink retains second with eleven also? Agnes?"
"Mr. Pink: nine plus two is eleven, yes. Mr. Black: eight plus three, eleven. Mr. White: seven plus one, eight. Mr. Red: seven plus zero, seven," Agnes recited.
"A tie at the top!" Julia sounded delighted. "How thrilling. We shall have to devise a suitable tiebreaker for later." Her heels clicked across the stone, stopping near Hector. He flinched as cool fingers briefly brushed the crown of his hood. "You acquitted yourself… adequately, Pink. Eventually." The praise felt like salt in a wound.
He heard the women dispersing, murmuring, laughing softly, the tension dissolving into post-event chatter. Dorothy’s perfume cut through the lingering scents – jasmine and vanilla, sharp and close. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence was a cold weight beside him. Then, so quietly only he could hear it through the hood’s leather, her voice, flat and utterly devoid of warmth:
"Almost tender, Hector. Who knew?" The words hung in the sudden silence, colder than the dungeon stone, before the sound of her footsteps w