Let every step leave something behind.
Part 8: The Table as Altar
The silence that followed her departure was not a reprieve. It was a suspension—of air, of time, of whatever pieces of identity he still clung to beneath the mask.
He remained prone, belly rising and falling, pulse pulsing weakly at his throat, the leash curled like punctuation across his shoulder. His body had become a stage. A prop. And the final act had not yet arrived.
Then they came.
The last couple.
Their approach was slower, deliberate. Less cruel, perhaps—but not less humiliating. If anything, it was worse: the carefulness of connoisseurs inspecting a delicacy.
She was older than the others—elegant, poised, with an icy stillness to her beauty. Her partner was younger, sculpted, self-satisfied in a way that made even laughter feel predatory.
They took their positions: one foot each on his thighs. Testing. Adjusting.
“Hmm,” she said. “Softer than I imagined.”
The man snorted. “Most things that fail to become men usually are.”
And then they climbed.
Her foot pressed onto his lower belly, then chest. She rose slowly, one leg at a time, steadying herself on her partner’s shoulder. He followed—his bare soles planting firmly on the gimp’s ribcage, then sternum. Their combined weight settled into place like a ceremony completed.
They began to move.
But this time… they didn’t sway.
They glided.
Their feet worked in practiced tandem—step by mirrored step, weight shifting across his chest like calligraphy traced in flesh. It wasn’t painful. It was precise.
Their steps were measured, synchronized, intimate.
Above him, they barely spoke. Instead, they made eye contact. Touched fingertips. Shared private smiles.
Her foot pressed on his shoulder as she leaned into her partner’s neck.
His heel pressed into the side of the gimp’s ribs as he exhaled through his nose, amused.
They didn’t use him to dance.
They used him to be closer.
To become art.
And he understood, suddenly, that this was not punishment.
It was a privilege—to be beneath them.
When the music slowed, she made her move.
One foot to his collarbone.
Then up, slow and steady, to his throat.
The other joined her.
Together, they stood on his masked face.
He froze. Again.
This time, the air vanished faster. His breath snagged immediately, the arch of her sole sealing the nose holes, his mouth blocked entirely.
The mask grew slick.
Inside, he counted. One. Two. Three—
She tilted her head to her partner.
“Kiss me.”
He did.
Their mouths met directly above the rubber and leather and flesh that once thought itself a husband. Her toes curled as she melted into the kiss, pressure increasing subtly on the gimp’s mouth.
Her weight—modest, precise—felt absolute.
The man reached a hand to cradle the back of her head.
The gimp’s lungs screamed. His ears rang. His world blurred.
And still, the kiss continued.
When they finally parted, she stepped down with an almost maternal gentleness.
He collapsed back into himself, body shuddering, air flooding through the mask with a whistle.
The man lingered, one foot still planted on the slave’s sternum.
“Didn’t break,” he said. “Disappointing.”
Then stepped off.
They returned to the couch without another word.
He lay there.
Not as man. Not as memory.
As floor.
There’s no aftercare for the ones who never mattered.