Feast on the filth. And call it privilege.
Part 3: The Table as Altar
The living room glowed with the same cultivated comfort—candles flickering on side tables, low jazz humming from hidden speakers. The guests had sprawled out onto plush sectionals and deep love seats arranged around the fireplace. Each pair curled together like royalty at rest—legs entwined, drinks refreshed, shoes discarded, and soles now propped on low leather ottomans arranged before them.
She had designed it perfectly. Three couples. Three ottomans. Three altars.
And now, the creature that had once been her husband crawled into view.
He emerged slowly from under the table, blinking against the light he could not see. The gimp mask wrapped tight across his head muffled sound and erased direction. His breath rasped faintly through the nose slits, and he could feel—not see—the guests watching.
His knees shuffled forward with the awkward grace of someone half-human, half-symbol. Each movement echoed in his mind: the clink of the small padlocks on his collar, the tug of leather cuffs that fixed his wrists to his thighs, the rigid hum of the plug inside him reminding him he wasn’t just being displayed—he was being kept.
The cage between his legs pressed cold and tight. Not painful. Just enough to say: this doesn’t belong to you anymore.
He felt their eyes on him.
All six of them.
And he could see none.
“Look at him,” one voice drawled. “All dolled up like a mutt in heat.”
A soft laugh. “Does he even know where he’s going?”
“Use your nose, darling,” came her voice—his ex-wife, his owner. “Your eyes are just for decoration now.”
He obeyed.
Nose to carpet. Crawling. His tongue still slick with the grime of their shoes. He pressed his masked face toward the floor and began his search—like a blind bloodhound tracing heat.
He brushed past a set of shoes still warm with departure. Then the edge of an ottoman.
Then it came—the unmistakable musk of skin. A trace of lotion. The faint sweetness of sweat laid bare.
He leaned in. The toes were only inches away.
“Oh, he’s found us,” a woman purred. “Let’s see how well he remembers where to begin.”
Another added, “Be a good boy and don’t miss the underside this time.”
He opened his mouth, still on hands and knees, tongue pressing forward.
But not yet licking.
That would come next.
And they all knew it.
To taste her walk is to know your place.