Chains are quieter than questions.
Part 5: The Table as Altar
Each pair mocked him in a different key. Some whispered taunts between kisses, others laughed openly as his tongue mapped the terrain of heel and instep. One woman tapped her sole rhythmically to a jazz song playing faintly in the background, synchronizing the humiliation to tempo.
By the fourth pair, he had lost sense of time. His tongue moved on instinct now, scraping grime from arches, teasing sweat from deep between toes, letting it pool on his palate before swallowing it whole. The inside of the mask was slick with breath and shame.
“Don’t miss the ball of my foot, worm,” one man commanded. “I stepped on a fig earlier. Or maybe a slug.”
“He probably prefers the slug,” the woman laughed.
The couples nestled tighter, their bodies drawing closer, touches growing lazier, more intimate. And still he worked. Tongue against skin. Hands useless at his sides, bound. Erection useless, caged.
Then she rose.
Her heels clicked once on the tile, then silence.
The gimp paused mid-lick as her shadow crossed over him. He felt the touch of her fingers at his collar. A soft tug. The unmistakable click of a metal clasp.
A leash.
She guided him—not harshly, but with a firm, effortless authority—across the room.
“Come along now. That’s enough scuttling. Time to be still.”
She led him to the entertainment center. Sleek. Black. Minimalist. Modern.
“Lie down,” she said.
He obeyed.
She adjusted him gently, one foot nudging his thighs apart, one hand pressing his cuffed wrist flat to the carpet. When he was finally positioned, her voice fell like velvet.
“Now stay.”
And she walked away.
He lay there.
Leashed. Plugged. Masked. Caged.
And waiting.
When you can't lift your hands, all that’s left is obedience.