"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 14th Annual Cuckold Casino Night."

The stage lights had flickered on, casting a glow over the crowd. A woman in a tight bodysuit grinned into the microphone. "Tonight’s the night you’ve all been waiting for!"

The crowd inched forward, a slow tide of stilettos and nervous laughter.

Laura’s hip bumped against Pat’s thigh as they swayed toward the stage, her body molding into Pat's arm on her shoulder. The latex squeaked under her touch, but neither of them cared.

“You nervous?” she murmured, tilting her head back to catch his expression.

Pat’s thumb hooked under the thin strap of her dress, the one that kept threatening to slip off her shoulder. “Me? Nah. You’re the one about to go work all night to fund my gambling habit.” She laughed, low and warm, and pressed closer. God, he loved this part. The anticipation, the way his stomach coiled. He couldn’t wait to see her in action.

The woman on stage waited a few seconds for the last stragglers to shuffle intoplace. Her smile never wavered.

"For those of you who don’t know me—bless your hearts—I’m Mistress V. Your host, your hype woman, and tonight’s very enthusiastic referee." She grinned, the sequins on her corset catching the chandelier light.

"Look at all you lovely degenerates. So eager. So well-dressed." A ripple of laughter. Laura snuggled against Pat's side and put her hand on Pat's chest, her finger idly tracing the number 32 printed on his suit. The chateau’s grand hall smelled of polished wood and cheap perfume.

Mistress V’s lips curled up. "Seriously though—thank you. Without you lot, this night wouldn’t exist. The Bulls? Pfft. They’re just wallets with legs. But you?" She swept a gloved hand toward the crowd. "You’re the heart of the show. Without you, tonight would not be possible!"

She paused, letting her gaze sweep the room. "A special shoutout at this point to the real heroes here. The husbands." A smattering of laughter, a few nervous chuckles. "You lot," Mistress V continued, "volunteered to spend your evening watching your wives get railed by strangers while you sit back and watch from afar."

A smattering of claps filled the hall.

Laura’s elbow dug into Pat’s ribs. He blinked down at her, just in time to catch the way her lips curved—soft, secret—before she leaned up and kissed him.

"Mmmph—" Air lodged in his throat as her fingers trailed down, mapping the terrain of his surrender. When her palm cradled the cage, warm and possessive, his pulse spiked—not from shame, but from the knowing of what will happen in just a few moments. "Thank you, my love," she murmured, and fuck if that didn’t make the coil in his gut tighter. He loved this. Loved the way she owned him, the way she tormented him, the she always came back to him, full of stories and—

"Alright, listen up, you horny little fuckers." Mistress V continued with her briefing. "We all know you’ve read the waivers, signed the NDA in triplicate, and initialed the ‘no, I won’t sue if my ego gets bruised’ clause. But this isn’t just a normal party. It is a production. And like any good production, we start with a briefing—because nothing kills the mood faster than a trip to the ER or a phone call to the cops. So please humor me, and let's quickly go over tonight's rules."

Mistress V clapped her hands, the sound sharp enough to cut through the murmurs. "First up—the Safe Zone."

She pointed toward the east wing, where a pair of heavy velvet drapes had been pulled back to reveal a softly lit corridor. "That is your sanctuary, folks, accessible only for you, the couples. No bulls allowed. This is where you can check out of tonight's game for a few moments." A few of the wives exchanged glances, shoulders easing just a fraction. "Need a breather? A cry? A very private moment to question your life choices?" Laughter bubbled up, warm and knowing. "That’s where you go."

No cameras here, no audience. Just them, in this sliver of normalcy before the night stripped it all away—and Laura knew Pat loved that part. She felt his fingers twitch against her shoulder. His tension was palpable—not from fear, but from the thrill of what was coming.

"Showers, snacks, first aid—yes, even for emotional wounds." Mistress V winked. "And if you really neeto bail? There’s an exit through the kitchen. There's no shame in tapping out early. But—" she raised a finger, "—if you leave, you’re done for the night. No re-entry. So think hard before you go."

Laura’s gaze drifted over the crowd. Around them, the other cucks formed a bizarre brigade draped in glossy black latex—each suit a bizarre covering for only their torso, upper legs and arms, like a tailored uniform for vulnerability. Some suits clung snugly, accentuating their forms, while others hung loose or strained at odd angles, creating a strange tapestry of fit and fluster.

A bold cutout at the front displayed their chastity cages with remorsefless splash, adding an extra layer of unabashed humiliation. Their heads were bare to display the cuck's face to the world—flushed or pale, angsty or relaxed. No hiding the winces, the swallowed groans, or the way their eyes darted after their wives like puppies on leashes.

The hands, too, were uncovered. The official reason given was hygiene; however, they all suspected a somewhat naughtier reason—to display the mandatory wedding bands flashing under the chandeliers. Most were in gold, some silver, and one titanium because, of course, some had to be different. Laura smirked. As if the metal mattered when the wife was upstairs.

And then there were the cages. Oh, the cages. The cut out in the suits framed them like works of art—steel, silicone, and at least one ridiculous plastic contraption in bright pink that looked like it’d snap if someone sneezed. Pat’s was simple. Functional. Steel. Tiny. Locked. Laura could feel the key in her cleavage. Her fingers traced the edge of Pat’s collar, her nail snagging on the seam. Thirty-two. His jersey number in this game of 'How Much Can You Take?'

Three years running, and she still got a kick out of the uniformity of the cucks' outfits. Like a perverted school photo, if the school specialized in humiliation and bad life choices. Some of the cucks stood stiff, like mannequins in a kinky department store. Others fidgeted, latex protesting with every shift. One poor bastard—Number 6—kept tugging at his cage, as if willing it to vanish.

The guy to their left—Number 42—had his hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, like he was trying to disappear into his own spine. His wife, a blonde in a sequined mini-dress that barely covered her arse, had one hand resting on his shoulder, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. Rookie energy, Laura decided. Too much tension.

Then there was Number 17, a bear of a man with a paunch that strained the latex over his belly. His wife—petite, raven-haired, dressed in what looked like a cheerleader outfit from the dollar store—had one arm looped through his, her other hand idly tracing circles on his chest, right over the yellow number. Repeat offenders, no doubt. The way he leaned into her touch, the easy slump of his shoulders—been here, done this, probably got the cum stains on the T-shirt embroidered.

Laura’s eyes snagged on Number 8. Now that was interesting. The guy was wiry, all sharp angles, his latex suit a size too big, pooling at his elbows and knees like he’d borrowed it from a larger friend. His wife—taller than him, statuesque, dressed in a slinky red number that clung like a second skin—had her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, but his hands stayed loose at his sides.

Pat shifted beside her, rolling his shoulders, his number stretching over his chest. She didn’t look at him, but she felt the way she gasped when her fingers brushed his nipple—accidental or not, it did the trick. His posture relaxed fractionally, the rigid set of his shoulders easing. Good boy.

Laura’s mouth quirked. God, she loved this part. The anticipation, the quiet hum of nerves and excitement, the way the air practically vibrated with the promise of what was coming. The Bulls weren’t even here yet, and the room was already thick with it—the need, the desperate, squirming, can’t-wait energy of men and women who’d spent months fantasizing and waiting for this night.

Mistress V’s stiletto clicked against the stage as she pivoted. "Now, let’s talk about the main event."

A collective lean-in. Pat’s pulse jumped—Laura's fingers on his balls had settled into a rhythm of gentle squeezes.

"Upstairs," Mistress V purred, "is where the real fun happens." She jerked her chin toward the grand staircase, its mahogany banister polished to a mirror sheen. The second floor loomed, shadowed and promising. "The Red Light District—your wives’ office for the night."

A few of the ladies tittered, hips swaying as they exchanged glances. One—tall, blonde, her dress desperatly trying to hitch up her bubble butt—licked her lips and winked at her husband. He squirmed next to her, unable to meet her gaze.

Across the room, Number 3 and his wife were locked in an intimate conference, her lips caressing his ear, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. First-timers, maybe. Or maybe he just really, really liked the buildup.

Mistress V’s grin turned razor-sharp. "Now, gentlemen—" she swept her gaze over the sea of latex-clad husbands, "—this part’s for you. The Red Light District is a whore’s domain." She let the word hang, savoring the way some of the men flinched. "That means no husbands upstairs. No peeking, no ‘accidental’ wanderings, no ‘just checking if she’s okay.’"

She leered. "Like the true professionals they are, the ladies will want to fully focus on their customers’ needs. And trust me—"her voice dropped to a purr—"they will be very attentive to their customers' needs."

A few cucks chuckle, some disappointed or uneasy, all of them horny.

"Thirty rooms," Mistress V continued, "each with its own… flavor." She ticked them off on her fingers. "We’ve got the Boudoir of Broken Vows—all lace and guilt. The Alleyway—for those who like it rough and authentic. The Dungeon—self-explanatory, and yes, the St. Andrew’s cross is bolted to the wall. No, Karen, we didn’t skimp on the padding this year."

A ripple of laughter. Pat’s throat went dry—his mind already supplying the sounds: the crack of a flogger, the creak of leather, his wife's moans echoing off stone.

Laura's thumb traced slow circles on his balls—full with cum and need after 2 weeks of constant teasing without relief, a first thick betrayal of his need escaping the cage’s vent. Laura seized it before it hit the floor. Her fingertip glistened—slow, deliberate—as she brought it to her tongue, salty, thick, with the faint metallic tang of his cage. "Mmm." Her lashes fluttered at him.

On the stage the briefing continued. "There’s the Motel Misery—complete with a flickering neon sign and beds that squeak just loud enough to haunt your dreams. The Classroom—because nothing says ‘power dynamic’ like a chalkboard and a ruler. And for the truly adventurous?" Mistress V’s expression turned lecherous. "There are many open-area play spaces designed for group activities."

One of the cucks let out a low, nervous groan. His wife—blonde, on the heavier side, her dress stretching thin over her gigantic sagging tits, barely able to contain them—leaned over and murmured something in his ear. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

"Oh, and one tiny detail," Mistress V added, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "Every room’s got cameras. Lots of cameras. No blind spots. No ‘oops, the lens cap was on.’" She mimed adjusting an imaginary camera. "And all of it—every moan, every slap, every ‘Oh god, just like ’that'—will be recorded.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Fuck." The word slipped from some poor cuck three rows ahead, raw and resigned. His wife patted his shoulder, her laugh bright as a wind chime.

Mistress V grinned. "Yes, they will, darling."

Her stilettos were audible against the stage as she turned around. "Now, gentlemen, let’s talk about your playground," she said, pointing towards the west wing, where a pair of heavy oak doors stood ajar, spilling golden light into the hall. "The Casino."

The warmth of Laura’s palm lifted from his cage, and Pat exhaled sharply, his skin prickling in the cool air. Her fingers didn’t retreat—they dug deeper, slipping beneath the latex to trace the seam of his surrender. He gasped when her nail grazed his inner thigh, the ache flaring hot and insistent. His hips twitched, and the cage bit down, a cruel promise. It wasn’t the pain that made his breath catch. It was the thought of her upstairs, spread out and moaning for strangers, like a priestess of lust mid-prayer. His balls, full and heavy, throbbed just thinking about it, the denial adding to the the physical weight of the cage between his legs. He smiled as he held Laura's shoulder tight. Fuck, he loved this game.

"Through those doors," Mistress V continued, "lies your realm for the night. Poker, blackjack, roulette—all the classics, plus a few slot machines. For the risk takers, there is a sports betting room at the very back near the bar, because nothing pairs better with bad decisions than whiskey. Just be aware that the betting will not be on horses, ridden by jockeys—it will be on whores, ridden by a bull."

Mistress V’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. "Now, ladies—" she turned, looking directly at a young woman in the front.

"The casino is not your battlefield." Mistress V’s face had adopted the solemn look of a woman about to save souls, chin lifted and brows drawn, though the mischievous glint in her eye ruined the act. "It’s a den of vice, and trust me, darlings, you’ve got plenty of vices to tend to already." A few of the women snorted, exchanging knowing glances.

"Gambling is addictive." Mistress V’s voice sharpened, a faked edge of a warning beneath the teasing. "It’s designed to hook you, to make you chase the high, to convince you that one more hand will fix everything." She shook her head, her earrings catching the light. "Don’t fall for it. You’ve got better things to do. Or rather—you've got better cocks to do."

A burst of laughter rolled through the crowd. One wife—tall, brunette, her dress clinging like it was painted on—laughed and patted her husband on the head. He let out a quiet "oof," but his lips twitched.

Mistress V’s stiletto clacked a slow, deliberate rhythm against the stage as she turned her full attention to the sea of black latex. "Now, gentlemen—" her voice dropped, rich with promise, "—let’s talk about your night."

The cucks straightened—some eager, some tense, all of them listening.

"As I mentioned before, you’ll be spending your evening in the casino. But here’s the fun part—"her expression sharpened—"you won’t be alone." A ripple of tension rolled through the crowd. They all read the website, signed the NDA, and knew what's coming. But hearing it live hit different.

"Oh yes," Mistress V purred, "the Bulls have full access to the casino. They’ll be gambling right alongside you. And let’s be honest—" she leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr, "—some of them just love the idea of playing poker against the husband of the woman they just fucked."

A few of the cucks shifted, uneasy. One—Number 6, the fidgeter—let out a quiet, strained laugh. His wife squeezed his shoulder, her nails digging in just enough to make him feel it.

"Now, now," Mistress V crooned, "don’t look so nervous. It’s all part of the game." She spread her hands, palms up, like she was offering a gift. "Think of it as… additional motivation."

Pat forgot to breathe, his focus splintering. Mistress V’s voice blurred into white noise as Laura’s fingertips returned to tracing idle circles on his balls. A warm, sticky wetness had started escaping the cage’s tiny slit. The scent of latex and his own arousal clung to his nostrils, thick and embarrassing. Fuck. He was leaking like a goddamn faucet, and the night hadn’t even started. He shifted, legs trembling, but Laura’s grip tightened, her nails pricking his skin. "Pay attention, sweetheart," she murmured, "or you’ll miss the good parts."

"The Bulls don’t know which of you belongs to which wife," Mistress V continued, her voice smooth as honey. "But they can guess. And if they guess right?" She shrugged, a slow, deliberate lift of her shoulders. "Well. Let’s just say there’s no rule against using that little advantage at the poker table."

A pause, thick as honey. Then—

"Fuck me," muttered Number 17, the big guy with the paunch. His wife sneered, her fingers tensing on his arm.

"Not tonight we won't," Mistress V said, laughing, eliciting a nervous chuckle from some of the cucks.

"Now, now," Mistress V stepped toward the edge of the stage, her hips swaying with each click of her heels. "Don’t look so nervous." She reached out, her gloved fingers resting on Number 17’s shoulder—just a featherlight touch, but he flinched like she’d zapped him. Her voice dropped into a faux-consoling purr. "Don’t look so sad, big guy." She patted his cheek, her glove rubbing against his stubble. "You won’t miss your wife all night. She’ll be right there with you."

His eyes widened. His wife’s fingers dug into his arm, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. Mistress V turned, her corset groaning as she swept her arm toward the west wing. "We didn’t want to leave our dear cuckolds out of tonight's activities." Her laugh was warm and knowing. "Where’s the fun in that?"

A few of the cucks exchanged glances. Pat swallowed hard, his latex suit squeaking as Laura’s nails grazed the sensitive skin beneath his cage. Three years running, and his body still betrayed him like this—hot, aching, desperate. Her fingers tightened, just enough to make his knees weak.

Mistress V’s smile turned wicked. "You see, gentlemen, we’ve decked out the casino with a little… ambiance." She paused, letting the word hang in the air like a dare. "Every wall," she said, "is lined with screens. Big, beautiful, high-definition screens." Her fingers mimed framing a rectangle in the air. "And every single one of them is hooked up to the cameras upstairs."

The words hung in the room.

"Oh, fuck," Number 6 groaned, his voice cracking. His wife giggled, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"That’s right," Mistress V said, her voice carrying over the murmurs. "While you’re enjoying your evening, our lovely whores will be enjoying theirs—and you’ll get to watch every. Single. Moment."

She let that sink in, watching the way the cucks’ postures shifted—some slumping, some straightening, all of them reacting.

"The screens are everywhere," she continued, her tone almost gentle. "Above the poker tables. Behind the bar. Even in the fucking bathrooms."

A few of the cucks let out strained laughs. Pat’s stomach twisted, heat pooling low in his gut. Laura’s breath was warm against his neck; her lips curved in a smile he couldn’t see but could feel.

"You won’t be able to miss it," Mistress V said, her voice a silken promise. "No matter where you look, no matter where you turn, somebody's wife will be there. Moaning. Begging. Taking it. And I can promise you, every single lady will be on a screen somewhere at any time—you might just have to go search to find yours."

Mistress V’s stiletto marked time like a metronome, a deliberate rhythm against the stage. "Gentlemen." Her voice dropped, rich and knowing. "All of those feeds do not transmit audio. There is only one place downstairs where you will be able to hear your wife cry out in ecstasy while riding a bull's cock. Above the bar near the sports betting, there’s a big screen, and at any given moment…" She paused, letting the anticipation coil tight. "The naughtiest, loudest, most depraved fuck happening upstairs will be on full display. Audio included."

A ripple of tension. Number 6—the fidgeter—let out a whimper. His wife patted his cheek, her laugh bright as a bell.

"So." Mistress V spread her hands, palms up. "If you want to hear your wife, boys—motivate them. Tell them to earn that spotlight for you to enjoy. Tell them you want to share that wonderful experience with your new friends, the Bulls."

The silence stretched, thick as syrup.

Number 17’s wife leaned in, her lips against his ear. Whatever she whispered made him cough, his fingers clenching into fists as he tried to suppress the sound.

Laura’s fingers stilled as she leaned into Pat's kiss. There it is. That beautiful, brittle moment when the waiting was over, weeks of fantasy and anticipation being replaced by a reality rushing in. Around them, the cucks stood frozen—some wide-eyed, some pale, all of them trapped. The whores? Oh, they glowed. A few exchanged smug glances, lips curled in slow, knowing smiles. The air hummed with it—the shift. The point of no return.

Mistress V's voice pulled her back.

"Now, let’s talk about the one thing that makes the world go ‘round’." She held up a phone, its sleek black surface catching the light. "Money, darlings."

A ripple of murmurs—some eager, some nervous—rolled through the crowd.

"Tonight isn’t just about fun and games," she continued, her voice dropping into a no-nonsense tone. "It’s about business." She winked. "The oldest profession meets the oldest motivator. Your job tonight, bitches," Mistress V said, turning her full attention to the women, "is to make as much of it as possible." She held up the phone, giving it a little shake. "The Bulls come here with one thing on their minds—and trust me, it’s not poker." Laughter bubbled up, warm and knowing. "Those Bulls are what happens when you give a trust fund baby a Viagra and a God complex. They want to fuck. And they’re willing to pay for the privilege."

Mistress V held up a finger, her nail lacquered a deep, wicked red. "There are no menus. No price lists. No ‘standard rates.’" A few of the whores exchanged glances, shoulders easing. "This isn’t a drive-thru. It’s a marketplace. And you?" She swept her gaze over them, voice dripping with promise. "You’re the prize."

Laura could feel Pat's arm shift, holding her tight. His fingers crept upward, slow as a thief in the night, the palm hovering—hesitant, reverent—before cupping the weight of Laura’s breast. The heat of her skin bled through the thin fabric of her dress, the barbell piercing cool against his thumb.

Laura didn’t move. Just let him explore, her breath controlled as his touch ghosted over the metal, tracing the curve of her nipple. His fingers trembled—just barely—but she felt it, the way his pulse jumped through his palm. Always so careful. Like she’d shatter. She arched into his hand, just enough to make his breath stutter. His thumb brushed the barbell again, lighter this time, as if testing its weight. His gift. His mark, accompanying her to every lover, to every sin.

Her lips curved.

In an hour, some stranger’s calloused fingers would yank at the piercing, twist it, and use it. No gentleness. No hesitation. Just rough, greedy need. Pat’s touch was a whisper compared to the storm coming.

And God, she couldn’t wait.

On the stage, Mistress V continued the briefing. "The Bulls will come upstairs with their dicks hard and their brains off, but they won’t know what anything costs. That’s your job to decide." She leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "Want to charge extra for that special thing you do with your tongue? Go ahead. Think your tits deserve a premium? Name your price. Prefer a flat rate for the night? Make it happen."

A few of the women smirked, hips swaying.

"They’ll haggle," Mistress V warned, grin widening. "Oh, they will try. But here’s the thing—" she held up the phone, giving it a little shake, "—they came here to fuck somebody's wife and spend money. And you will help them with both."

Mistress V’s grin turned razor sharp as she caught the flicker of doubt in a few of the wives’ eyes. "Oh, darlings," she purred, "don’t worry about demand."

She held up a hand, fingers splayed. "Let me paint you a picture. Tonight, we’ve got over two hundred and fifty Bulls roaming the halls upstairs." She paused for a second. "Two. Hundred. Fifty."

A petite, brunette whore, her dress clinging like it was sprayed on, let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Mistress V’s laugh was rich and knowing. "That’s right, sweetheart. Five men for every one of you. And most of them have enough money to buy more than one fuck." She let that sink in, watching the way the women straightened, chins lifting, eyes brightening. "You could fuck a different one every hour and still have leftovers."

A ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd.

Mistress V held up the phone, its screen glowing under the chandeliers. "This, my dears, is your new best friend. You all should have received a phone we like to call iSlut, and it has two apps on it."

Mistress V pressed the first app on the screen, and a chat window popped up—clean, minimalist, with a single contact, "Hubby," the only one available.

"This," she said, "is a direct line between the two of you. Texting only. You can send photos, though." Her grin turned wicked. "Selfies with your clients. Close-ups of their hands on you. Maybe even a shot of the mess they leave behind. You can only text each other, it is impossible to text bulls, other wives or cucks."

Mistress V pressed the screen again, and a neon-green screen pulsed to life. "This is our PayPlay app. This app looks different, depending on your role tonight. Ladies, when you and your customer agree on a price, you punch the agreed-upon sum in here." Her red nail stabbed the keypad. "Then—" she flourished the device like a magic wand, "—he scans the QR code with his phone, he swipes, and if he has enough money in his account, the money will instantly be transferred. Always do this BEFORE providing the service!"

Mistress V’ turned, the iSlut disappearing into her cleavage with a practiced flick. "Now, gentlemen—" her gaze swept over the sea of black latex, "—let’s talk about your role in this little economic stimulus package."

Pat’s fingers on Laura’s nipple twitched as her grasp on his cage and balls tensed, her nails a sharp, grounding pressure. The weight of Laura’s hand was a brand, a promise. His breath came shallow, his ribs too tight, and his skin too hot under the latex. Here it comes. He’d spent weeks dreading this—the slow unraveling, the way his control would fray like cheap rope. But now? Now the fear was a live thing, squirming in his chest, and beneath it, deeper, darker, was the want. The sick, hungry part of him that craved the fall.

His fingers trembled against Laura’s breast, the barbell piercing a cool contrast to her heat. His wife. In an hour, she’d be a whore for some stranger—moaning, writhing, screaming—while he sat downstairs, his cage aching, pride, anticipation and jealousy burning through his veins.

The thought could have gutted him. Instead, it settled in his bones like a familiar weight. This was the rush. The terrifying, exhilarating freefall. The feeling he loved, hated, and needed.

"Every time your wife earns a pretty penny—or fifty, or five hundred—" Mistress V continued, her grin turning wicked, "—it’ll ping straight to your phone." She held up a second device, its screen pulsing with a dull blue glow. "And I mean the pinging literally—you can't disable it. Wouldn’t want the Bulls at your table to miss hearing how well your wife’s doing without you, would we?"

The laughter, this time, was much more strained.

"Now," Mistress V continued to purr, "here’s where it gets fun." She tapped the phone against the poker table, where a QR scanner flickered green. "This little beauty? It’s your only way to turn her hard-earned cash into chips." Her teeth flashed. "Slots? Just dock your iSlut. Tables? Scan your QR code, tap your bets in our PayPlay app and the dealer will place your bets for you. "

"Now, I know what you’re thinking." Mistress V’s stiletto tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the stage. "‘Why can’t we just pocket the cash and call it a night?’ Because this isn’t a savings account, gentlemen. It’s a debit line—and the only way for you to cash out?" She held up a poker chip, rolling it between her fingers. "You gamble with your debit line. What you don’t gamble by sunrise will be gone. Win big? Take your chips to the Cuckout-Cashier and walk out with cold, hard cash." A beat. "Lose it all at the tables?" She shrugged, her corset creaking. "Well. The Bulls do love a good story. Especially one that ends with ‘and then he went home empty-handed.’"

No more laughter, just an audible gulp from a cuck in the back.

"No matter how hard your wife works—" Mistress V's gaze swept over the sea of black latex, lingering just long enough to make each cuck feel seen, "—no matter how much she endures, no matter how used she is, how messy she got, how wobbly her legs are when she crawls down those stairs —" Laura felt an almost physical jolt, the slick heat between them impossible to ignore, the promise in Mistress V’s words coiling in her gut, hot and heavy, "—if you’re unlucky? If the cards don’t fall your way? If some Bull with a poker face and a fat wallet outplays you?" Mistress V did not have to finish the sentence.

Pat’s shoulders slumped, just a fraction, but Laura felt it—the way his spine curved, his chest caving in like a building giving way. The fight in him started to unravel, thread by thread, until all that was left was the raw, trembling need to submit.

And fuck if that didn’t make her wet.

Her fingers clenched on Pat’s cage, her thumb scoring the damp metal, the proof of his surrender glistening in the chandelier light. Good boy. She didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. The words hummed between them, thick and unspoken, as his breath brushed against her temple. His hands—clumsy, desperate—found her waist, his grip just shy of bruising, like he was clinging to her as the world tilted beneath him.

Laura exhaled, slow and deliberate, her lips burning against his. "That’s it," she murmured, her voice a velvet purr. "Let it go." She could taste his need to sub—salt and latex and the bitter tang of anticipation. The cage’s vent wept—thick, salty, a traitor’s tribute. She caught it with her fingertip, her touch featherlight, before bringing it to her lips. The flavor of him—musky, desperate—exploded on her tongue.

Laura’s free hand slid up his chest, her palm flat over the yellow 32, feeling the way his heart hammered beneath the latex. "You’re mine, my lov," she purred, her words a quiet promise. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Always." Her fingers locked on his cage, just enough to make him gasp. "And you’re going to be such a good boy for me tonight," she murmured, her voice now suddenly dripping with honeyed venom. "Aren’t you?"

Pat’s nod was jerky, him gasping in short, sharp pants. His whimper was soft and broken, his hips twitching forward like he could somehow fuck the air, fuck her, and fuck the very idea of resistance. His hands slid up her arms, his touch reverent, like she was something sacred. Like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning. The thought sent a jolt through him, sharp and sweet. He loved her like this—hungry, unapologetic, his.

Laura’s pussy clenched, empty and aching. She could already imagine it—the way the Bulls would look at her, the way their hands would seize her hips, the way they’d groan her name like a prayer. But this? This was the real high. The moment Pat chose to stop being her husband and to focus on his role as devoted cuckold slave.

And fuck, she loved that.

Pat’s entire body shuddered, his cock twitching in its cage. A fresh droplet of pre-cum escaped, dangling on the cage. Laura scooped it up again, her fingers slick with him, her pussy throbbing with the need to be filled. She held her finger up to his face and looked at him, gently, lovingly, with steel in her eyes. "Are you my good boy?"

His breath caught, his eyes glistening. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered as he opened his mouth to accept her finger covered in his cum.

Laura’s pussy flooded. Fuck.

Tonight was going to be glorious.