The rest of Mistress V’s spiel had been the usual—safewords, security, and where to find the servants’ stairways if they didn’t want to risk running into Bulls. Logistics. Venue rules. The kind of things that blurred into white noise when Laura’s mind was already half-upstairs, imagining the way the first Bull’s hands would feel on her skin.

Around him, the other cucks stood in various states of anticipation—some rigid with tension, others already slack-jawed from the information overload and the immediacy of the long-awaited event.

God, he remembered the first time and how overwhelming this lifestyle had seemed. He’d been tied to a chair, blindfolded, with a plug gaping his asshole. Prior to the evening, Laura had told him, "You won't be there to perform, baby. You'll be there to witness."

And he had. Oh, he had.

Now? The latex was just part of the uniform. The cage? A familiar pressure, comforting in its own way. The real thrill wasn’t the fear anymore—it was the knowing. Knowing Laura would come back to him, flushed and grinning, her lips swollen from kisses that weren’t his. Knowing the Bulls would look at him with that mix of pity and envy, like he was some kind of martyr or fool, when really, he was the one who got to take her home.

Mistress V clapped her hands, the sound sharp enough to cut through his thoughts. "And that, my darlings, is everything. The venue is now open for you to explore—together—for the next fifteen minutes. At six o’clock sharp, the Bulls arrive, and by then, I expect every whore upstairs and every cuck downstairs. No exceptions."

She flashed a grin, all teeth and mischief. "Have fun."

The crowd thinned like syrup spreading, couples peeling off toward the casino or upstairs. Pat let Laura lead, her hips swaying just enough to make the hem of her dress flirt with indecency.

Laura’s fingers tightened around his wrist. "Over there!"

Sarah stood by the arched doorway, one hand resting on her husband's latex-clad shoulder. Mark—or Muffin, as Sarah called him when she was feeling affectionate—was a giant, coming in at 6 ft 8 in with over 320 lbs of pure muscle. The fact that he was kneeling next to Sarah, who held a leash to his collar, did not make his size any less intimidating.

Laura dragged Pat toward them. "Well, well. If it isn’t our favorite disaster duo."

Sarah’s face split into a grin so wide it could’ve swallowed the sun. "Oh, fuck—there you are!" She lunged, wrapping Laura in a hug that threatened to pop a seam or two on that flimsy dress. The kiss that followed was all wet lips and laughter, the kind of greeting that said, “I’ve missed you, and let’s cause trouble” in one breath.

Then she turned on Pat.

Before he could so much as flinch, she’d yanked him into an embrace that smelled like coconut oil and something floral—probably whatever lotion she’d slathered on to make her skin glow. Her hands squeezed his latex-clad shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks. "Look at you, all shiny and obedient." She pulled back, eyes raking over him with the kind of appraisal usually reserved for prime cuts of meat. "Laura's been feeding you, I hope? Can’t have you fainting before the Bulls even get here."

Pat opened his mouth—probably to say something stupid, like “I’m fine”—but Sarah cut him off with a sharp tug on his chastity cage, making him gasp lightly. "Good boy. All locked up and nowhere to go."

Pat and Laura had met Mark and Sarah at some godawful hotel meet-and-greet eight years back—one of those events where the carpet smelled like bleach and the complimentary cheese cubes had been sweating under plastic wrap since noon. The kind of event where couples eyed each other like rival pack animals, all polite smiles and hidden claws.

They’d ended up at the same table by sheer chance, squeezed between a pair of swingers who talked about rules like they were reciting the Ten Commandments and a bull wannabe who kept glancing at Laura's cleavage like he was memorizing it for a test. Mark had been the first to crack a joke—something about the buffet being the only thing getting some action that night—and just like that, friends had been found.

Turned out, they all had the same sense of humor: dark, a little twisted, and unapologetically filthy. The kind of laughter that made other couples clutch their pearls and side-eye them from across the room.

Dinner dates followed. Real ones—steakhouse booths and Italian places with checkered tablecloths, where they talked normal couple stuff, like travel plans, cooking trends, and that crazy doomsday-prepper uncle every family seems to have. Weekend trips, too. A cabin in the woods where they’d spent more time in the hot tub than out of it, Sarah straddling Laura’s lap while the men watched from the deck, beers sweating in their hands.

The first time they’d played together had been an accident—one of those drunken, why not? moments that somehow became tradition. Laura had been teasing Pat about his performance anxiety, and Sarah, never one to miss an opportunity, had leaned in and whispered, "Bet I could make him forget his own name in five minutes."

It took her four.

Mark had watched, arms crossed, grinning like a man who’d just won the lottery. Afterward, he’d clapped Pat on the back and said, "Welcome to the club, buddy."

The PA crackled to life with Mistress V’s voice. "Five minutes, my darlings. Five minutes until the Bulls arrive. Better make your goodbyes count."

Laura’s fingers curled into the latex at Pat’s chest, pulling him close. The kiss started slow—lips brushing, breath mingling—but deepened fast, tongues sliding together like they had all the time in the world. Pat’s hands found her waist, thumbs tracing the hem of her dress, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin.

She broke away just enough to whisper against his mouth, "You’re going to watch me, aren’t you? Watch every second, every cock, every time I come." Her fingers teased the cage, pressing just enough to make him shudder. "And you’ll try to focus on your cards, won’t you? Try so hard to win, even though you’ll be thinking about my legs wrapped around some stranger’s waist."

Pat exhaled, rough and needy. "Fuck, Laura—"

"Good boy." She kissed him again, quick and dirty this time, before stepping back with a smirk. "Have fun tonight, my love."

A few feet away, Sarah wasn’t wasting time on sentiment.

She’d already shoved Mark to his knees, her skirt hiked up to her waist. One hand fisted in his hair, yanking his face against her. "Get me wet, Muffin. Now."

Mark didn’t hesitate. His tongue dragged up her slit, slow and thorough, like he was savoring the last bite of something sinful. Sarah’s free hand braced against the wall, her breath hitching as he worked. "That’s it. Just like that. Make me drip for them." She rocked her hips, grinding against his mouth.

Continue the story.

Laura hooks her arm into Sarah's. They turn away and head for the staircase, anticipating their fun, their husbands forgotten.

Mark and Pat head over to the casino.

Laura’s fingers tightened around Sarah’s elbow, nails digging in just enough to sting. "Come on, you slut. Let’s go make some money."

They moved like a single, sinuous thing—hips swaying in unison, laughter trailing behind them like perfume. The staircase loomed ahead, carpeted in red, the kind of color that promised sin and left no room for second thoughts. Behind them, Pat and Mark exchanged a glance—no words needed.

The casino doors swung shut behind Pat with a thud that echoed like a judge’s gavel. 5:58. The digital clock above the roulette table flickered, its red glow casting long shadows across the green felt. The air smelled of polished leather, stale cigar smoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of anticipation.

Pat adjusted his cage. Game time.

Mark loomed beside him, a mountain of latex and restrained energy. The chastity cage between his legs looked like it was struggling to contain him, the metal glinting under the harsh overhead lights. He adjusted the collar around his neck with a grunt, his fingers thick and clumsy. "Christ. Feels like we’re back in high school, waiting for the prom king to show up."

Pat exhaled through his nose, scanning the room. The other cucks milled about like black latex ghosts, their numbered chests rising and falling with shallow breaths. Some clutched their phones like lifelines, thumbs twitching over the screens. Others stood rigid by the poker tables, their postures screaming, "I am not nervous, I am not nervous."

The bar was already three deep, the cucks' voices a low hum of forced bravado and poorly disguised anxiety. A bartender in a crisp white shirt slid a tray of shots across the counter, the glasses clinking like wind chimes in a hurricane.

Pat’s gaze flicked to the screens mounted on the walls. On it he could see the rooms, the corridors, and the dungeon, all empty. For now. The wives were all in the bar, waiting for the arrivals of their customers. But soon—very soon—they’d come to life, filling with the kind of footage that’d make a priest blush. His stomach twisted, but not from dread. Anticipation. And that sweet pang of jealousy he craved and feared.

A sharp click cut through the murmur.

Every head turned.

The chateau's doors groaned open, hinges protesting under the weight of what was coming. The first Bull stepped through like he owned the place—tailored suit, salt-and-pepper stubble, and a gold watch gaudy to probably historic. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the cucks with the kind of amusement usually reserved for particularly slow zoo animals.

Then the dam broke.

Bulls poured in, a tide of cologne and crisp fabrics and the kind of confidence that came from knowing you held all the cards. Some beelined for the stairs, their eyes already glazed with the promise of what waited upstairs. Others drifted toward the casino, their grins sharp as knives.

One of them, mid-fifties, soft in the middle in that way that said, "I pay people to care about my health," stood out. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, the fabric so dark it drank the light. He moved like he owned the floor beneath him, his smile all teeth and no warmth.

A group of cucks a few meters away—#12, #19, and #34, by the numbers—went rigid as the Bull stopped in front of them. His gaze raked over the group, lingering on the cages, the latex, and the way their hands twitched at their sides.

"Well, well," he boomed, his voice the kind that carried without trying. "Look at you, all dressed up for the occasion." His chuckle was a wet, phlegmy thing, the sound of a man who’d spent decades laughing at his own jokes. "Must say, I appreciate the effort. Your wives, I mean." He waved a hand, his watch catching the light. "Bringing them here. Sharing them. Very generous of you."

A muscle feathered in Pat’s jaw. Here we go. Every. Fucking. Year. Some Bull who thought humiliation meant cruelty, like they’d walked off a bad porn set and into real life.

Beside him, Mark didn’t move, but his fingers curled into fists, the latex creaking.

"Of course," the guy continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "let’s be honest, gentlemen. What use are you, really? Tonight’s about real men giving your wives what they need." His grin widened, a golden tooth glinting. "But no hard feelings, eh? After all—" He clapped #12 on the shoulder, hard enough to make the cuck stumble. "Someone’s got to do the hard work, right?"

Some Bulls around him laughed, a chorus of sharp, mocking barks. The Bull winked, then turned, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he sauntered toward the stairs. "Enjoy your evening, boys," he called over his shoulder. "Have fun trying to break the bank while we break your wives."

The laughter followed him, a wave of derision that left the cucks standing there, their faces burning. Pat exhaled through his nose, his fingers twitching. Asshole.

He turned his attention back to the screens and finally saw them. Laura and Sarah appeared on a screen showing the bar area. They stood at the back and watched as the first bulls arrived upstairs. Some moved with the swagger of men who’d done this before, their gazes sharp as they scanned the room. Others hesitated just inside the doorway, their confidence wavering under the weight of too many choices.

The whores didn’t wait.

A blonde in a sequined dress that barely covered her ass sauntered forward, her hips swinging like a metronome set to filth. She hooked a finger at a bull in a pinstripe suit, her lips forming words Pat couldn’t hear but could guess—You look like you could use some fun, sugar.

The bull’s grin was all teeth. He leaned in, his hand already sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her face lit up, practiced, her fingers toying with his tie like she was considering other uses for it.

A brunette in a nurse’s outfit—complete with stethoscope—had a Bull pressed against the wall, her fingers walking up his chest like she was taking his pulse. His hands were already buried in her skirt, his mouth moving fast, desperate. She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again, her grin sharp as she negotiated.

A sharp ding cut through the murmur.

Every head snapped toward the sound.

Some poor cuck—#8, by the number on his chest—stared at his phone like it had just bit him. His fingers trembled over the screen, his throat working. Then his shoulders sagged, just for a second, before he straightened, pasting on a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

The Bulls roared.

A chorus of whoops and catcalls erupted, the sound bouncing off the walls like a pack of hyenas scenting blood. One of them—a slick bastard in a vest that cost more than Pat’s car—slapped #8 on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Atta boy! First payout of the night! What’d she charge?"

#8 didn’t answer. Just swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and turned back to his phone.

Pat’s stomach twisted. Not envy. Not pity. Just the sharp, electric thrill of knowing that sound would be for him soon. Laura would come to an agreement with some Bull, he would pick up his phone, scan her code, and confirm the payment. And then—ding. The whole room would know.

His cock throbbed against the cage, precome dripping down. Fuck.

Another ding.

This time, it was #11, a wiry guy with the kind of posture that screamed, "I do yoga and hate myself." He flinched as he stared at a screen, watching his wife climb on a bull's lap.

Rookie mistake. Now every bull in the vicinity knew who his wife was, and it took only a few seconds for a few of them to give him a running commentary of what they thought of his wife's performance.

The casino hummed with the sound of dings—sharp, insistent, a digital chorus of surrender. Phones lit up like fireflies in a jar, the glow casting jagged shadows across the cucks’ latex-clad chests. No more cheers. No more jeers. Just the relentless ping of money changing hands and the unspoken “I know what you’re doing upstairs” hanging thick in the air as the gambling gained momentum.

Pat’s fingers twitched against his thigh. Any moment now.

On the screen, Laura leaned against the bar, her dress riding high enough to make a priest renounce his vows. She laughed at something a Bull said, her head tilting just so, her fingers toying with the stem of her glass. Teasing. Always teasing. Sarah stood beside her, one hip cocked, her gaze sharp as she scanned the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield.

Then a new bull appeared in the frame.

Mid-forties, salt-and-pepper stubble, built like he hates carbs. He sidled up to Sarah, his smile all teeth and no warmth. His lips moved—something smooth, something practiced—and Sarah’s answer was a laugh, bright and sharp as a knife.

The bull didn’t flinch. Just nodded, pulled out his phone, and scanned.

Mark’s device dinged.

$500.00

His fingers jerked, the screen flashing like a warning. His breath hitched, his massive chest expanding under the latex. Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, and tucked the phone away. His gaze flicked to the screen—just in time to see Sarah grab the Bull’s tie and yank him toward the blue bedroom. He gave Pat a nod and turned away, headed for the blackjack tables.

Pat’s gaze stayed locked on the screen, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his thigh. Around him, the other monitors had come alive—a silent, obscene symphony of flesh and need. On one, a blonde rode a bull like she was trying to win a rodeo, her tits bouncing with every sharp roll of her hips. Another showed a redhead on her knees, her lips stretched obscenely around a cock thick enough to make Pat wince. The bull’s hands were tangled in her hair, his hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts.

Pat barely registered them and was still trying to keep track of Laura without giving himself away.

A bull shouldered his way into the frame—that bull, the fat asshole from earlier, his gold tooth glinting like a challenge. He sidled up to Laura, his smirk all teeth, his hand already reaching for her waist like he owned the space between them.

Pat swore under his breath.

The bull’s fingers curled around Laura’s hip, his grip possessive, his grin a greasy smear of self-satisfaction. Pat’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. Of course. Of fucking course it’d be this guy. The kind who’d probably spend the whole time talking about his stock portfolio between thrusts.

On screen, Laura tilted her head, her smile slow and dangerous. She said something—Pat couldn’t hear, but he knew that tone. The one that said, “I’m humoring you, but don’t push it.” The Bull laughed, his free hand sliding up her thigh like he was testing boundaries. Laura didn’t slap him. Didn’t flinch. Just arched a brow, her fingers tapping idly against her glass.

The negotiation had begun.

Pat’s stomach twisted. He hated this part. The haggling. The back-and-forth. The way Bulls always acted like they were doing the whores a favor, like their money was some kind of gift instead of the price of admission. But Laura? She loved it. The power play. The push and pull. The way she could make a man feel like he’d won, even when she was the one holding all the cards.

The bull’s mouth moved again, his fingers inching higher. Laura’s smile didn’t waver, but her fingers stilled on the glass. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. The bull’s face went slack for half a second—got him—before he nodded, eager as a puppy.

Fuck.

Laura pulled back, her grin sharp enough to draw blood. Laura’s phone screen lit up, the glow casting sharp shadows across her face. She tapped—once, twice—her thumb moving with deliberate slowness, like she was typing out a message instead of a price. The bull’s eyes flicked down, his eyebrows climbing as the numbers appeared. No reaction. No flinch. Just a slow, approving nod, like he’d expected more and was pleasantly surprised.

Then she turned the screen toward him.

The bull didn’t hesitate. Just pulled out his own device and scanned. His thumb hovered—just for a second—before swiping with the kind of finality that made Pat’s stomach drop.

Confirmed.

Pat exhaled, rough and unsteady, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

DING!

His throat went dry. His fingers spasmed around his phone, the $2000.00 notification burning his retinas.

Two thousand.

His stomach lurched. That wasn’t a blowjob. That wasn’t even a quick fuck. That was premium territory. The kind of number that came with extras. The kind of number that made his cage ache just thinking about it.

The sum glared up at him, mocking in its simplicity. $2000.00. Not a number—an accusation. A promise.

His gut twisted, hot and sour. What the fuck did she agree to? The question clawed at him, sharp and insistent. A blowjob didn’t cost two grand. Neither did a quick fuck against the wall. That kind of money bought creativity. It bought the kind of things Laura only whispered about when she was half-drunk and feeling wicked, her lips curved against his ear like a secret.

Pat’s breath hitched, his cage suddenly too tight, too present. The metal bit into him, a cruel reminder of exactly where he stood in this equation. His mind raced, painting pictures he didn’t want to see—Laura on her knees, her lips stretched around that bull’s cock. Laura bent over the bed, her ass in the air as he took her from behind. Laura was riding him, her tits bouncing, her head thrown back in a moan that wasn’t for Pat.

His stomach churned. His cock throbbed, traitorous and eager, precome leaking down his thigh.

Fuck.

He forced himself to look up.

The screen they had just been on was empty. Gone. Just like that.

Pat exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was surfacing from a dive. His fingers flexed, the phone screen dimming as the notification disappeared.

Game on.

Pat’s chair screeched as he lurched up, the latex of his suit sticking to the vinyl with a wet schlick. His cage pinched, the metal biting into him as he took his first step, his thighs trembling like overcooked noodles.

The casino’s screens loomed—dozens of them, a mosaic of flesh, each one a different angle of betrayal. Laura threw her head back as a meaty paw squeezed her ass on the BOUDOIR ENTRANCE 3 feed. Pat’s stomach flipped. He swallowed, his throat clicking like a broken metronome.

He moved.

One step. Then another. His latex suit squeaked with every shift, the sound obscene in the casino’s low hum. The other cucks barely glanced up—too busy watching their wives spread for strangers, their phones lighting up like fireworks. A man in a #47 suit whimpered as his screen showed his wife riding some bull reverse cowgirl, her tits bouncing in time with his thrusts. Pat’s fingers twitched.

Focus.

Laura and her bull weaved through the feeds—there, on PINK ROOM CAM 1, her dress riding up as she pressed him against a wall, her fingers tracing the collar of his shirt. Pat’s breath hitched. The camera angle was excellent, catching her smirk and the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. His cock throbbed, trapped, leaking into the cage’s tight confines.

He sidestepped a cuck slumped in his chair, his #42 suit glistening with sweat, his phone clutched in white-knuckled fingers. The screen he stared at showed his wife on her knees, some bull’s cock buried in her throat.

The PINK ROOM CAM 1 feed flickered as Laura’s fingers worked the buttons of the bull's shirt, her nails scraping against his chest hair. His gold tooth flashed as he grinned, his hands already groping at her hips, pulling her onto his lap. The sofa’s pink velvet groaned under his weight, the fabric swallowing his suit like a hungry mouth.

Pat’s breath hitched. That’s my spot.

The casino stretched before him—a gaudy maze of green felt and flickering screens, the air thick with the scent of stale cigars and expensive cologne. He needed cover. Needed a place to watch where no Bull would clock him as hers.

The slot machines lined the far wall, their screens flashing neon promises of jackpots. Perfect. Pat ducked his head, his #32 glowing like a brand under the chandeliers, and weaved between the tables. A bull in a rumpled blazer barely glanced up as Pat sidestepped him, the man’s focus locked on the DUNGEON CAM 4 feed—somebody’s wife strapped to a spanking bench, some dom in leather wielding a paddle like a metronome.

Pat didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

The slots beckoned, their garish lights casting jagged shadows across the floor. He slid into the end machine, the vinyl seat cold under his thighs. The screen in front of him blinked INSERT CHIPS, and Pat quickly scanned his phone, giving him credit to play with. Then he looked out of the corner of his eye over to the wall where the PINK ROOM CAM 1 feed was mounted.

Laura straddled the bull now, her dress ridden up to her waist, her fingers tracing the waistband of his slacks. The bull’s hands were everywhere—palming her tits, gripping her hips, his tooth glinting as he muttered something against her neck. Pat’s stomach twisted. His cage pinched, the metal biting into him as he shifted, his latex suit constraining both body and mind.

Pat pushed the button, and the slot machine erupted in lights and noise, in cover and distraction.

Upstairs, the bull—John, he called himself—dug his fingers into Laura's flesh like he was kneading dough, his grip all thumbs and zero finesse. She bit back a sigh as his palm mashed her tit flat. Christ, this guy handled steak with more subtlety.

John’s breath reeked of scotch and bad decisions, his fingers fumbling at her zipper like a blind man reading braille. Laura arched an eyebrow, letting her lips curl into that practiced smile—the one that said, “You’re so close, baby,” while her brain screamed, “Amateur hour.”

Two grand for a basic fuck? Please. She could’ve charged him double, and he’d still be here, puffing his chest out like a peacock who just discovered Viagra. His Rolex glinted under the pink neon light, the kind of flashy garbage men bought when they wanted to scream, "I have money but no taste." She’d seen a dozen like him tonight—all bluster, all desperate to prove something to the cucks downstairs. Pat’s probably watching right now, poor thing. The thought sent a little thrill through her, her nipples tightening under the cheap fabric of her dress.

His hands slid up her thighs, all grabby and desperate, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t anchor her down. Pat would’ve had me out of this dress in ten seconds flat. Not that she was comparing. Much. But at least her husband knew his way around a zipper.

John’s voice was a gravelly whisper, all “Yeah, baby, just like that,” like he was narrating his own porno. Laura tilted her head, letting her hair brush his cheek—distraction tactic 101. His belly was fat, his ego fatter. And if he wanted to pay for the privilege of thinking he’d broken her in, well.

That was the game, wasn’t it? Enough stalling.

She planted her hands on his chest and shoved. John stumbled back with a grunt, hitting the backrest of the pink velvet sofa hard enough to send up a puff of dust. Before he could protest, Laura dropped to her knees between his spread thighs, the carpet rough against her bare skin. The camera mounted in the corner whirred, zooming in on her—good—let Pat get a nice, clear view of this.

John’s breath hitched as she popped the button on his slacks, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. His cock sprang free like a jack-in-the-box, already weeping at the tip, the precum glistening under the boudoir’s garish lighting. Laura wrapped her fingers around the base, giving it a slow stroke. Not too tight. Not yet.

"Fuck—" John’s voice cracked. His hands fluttered at his sides, unsure whether to grab her hair or his phone.

Laura tilted her head, batting her lashes up at him. "Mmm? You wanted this, didn’t you, big boy?" She gave his cock another lazy pump, her thumb smearing the precum over his slit. His hips jerked as he swallowed hard.

The camera lens adjusted again, the red light blinking like a heartbeat. Hi, baby. She could practically see Pat’s cage weeping in despair as he watched his wife on her knees for another man.

She leaned in, her breath hot against his cockhead. "Are you going to answer that, sweetheart?" Her tongue darted out, just a quick flick against his slit. John’s entire body tensed, his phone clattering to the floor.

"Fuck—fuck—" His fingers tangled in her hair, his grip tight enough to sting. Laura didn’t flinch, just gave his cock another slow stroke, her nails grazing the underside.

The camera was right there. Good. Let Pat see this. Let him see how eager she was. How naughty she’d be.

John’s hips twitched, his cock pulsing in her grip. "C’mon—" His voice was rough, desperate.

Laura’s lips parted, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock as she took him in—slow, deliberate. The tip hit the back of her throat with a wet thunk, his salt-sweet taste flooding her senses. Not bad. Not great, but not the chemical burn of cheap whiskey and bad decisions she’d braced for.

Pat would’ve been bigger.

The thought flickered, unwanted, as her throat relaxed around John’s cock. When Pat’s dick wasn’t locked up like a museum exhibit, when that cage wasn’t turning his balls into prunes, he filled her mouth. Stretched her lips. Made her gag.

John’s fingers spasmed in her hair, his grip tightening like he was afraid she’d vanish. "Fuck—" His voice cracked, his hips jerking upward, shallow and uncontrolled. Laura hollowed her cheeks, her tongue swirling around his shaft as she pulled back—just enough to let him see his cock glistening with her spit before she took him deep again.

She counted in her head. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi—

John yanked her off with a wet pop, his cock slipping from her lips with an obscene schlick. His chest heaved, his gold tooth flashing as he panted. "Shit—shit, I’m gonna—" His fingers trembled against her scalp, his grip more plea than command.

Thirty seconds. He'd lasted thirty seconds.

Laura blinked up at him, her lips swollen, her chin shiny with spit. She let her tongue dart out, tracing the tip of his cock—just a quick tease. "Mmm," she purred, her voice thick with the weight of his cock still glistening on her lips. "Are you going to fuck me like a real man now, sweetheart?" Her lashes fluttered, her gaze locking onto his—daring him, taunting him.

John’s gold tooth flashed, his chest puffing up like a peacock’s. "Damn right," he growled, but his voice cracked like a teenager’s. His hands shot to her hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Come here. Ride me, baby."

Laura didn’t argue. She pushed to her feet in one fluid motion, her dress clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. The camera mounted on the table whirred, tracking her every move, the red light blinking like a heartbeat. Good. Let Pat see this. Let him see her take it; let him see her love it.

She turned, slow and deliberate, her back to John as she hooked her thumbs under the hem of her dress. The fabric whispered against her skin as she tugged it up, baring herself to the camera—to him. The cool air hit her exposed ass, her pussy already wet, already aching for it.

John’s breath hitched behind her, his fingers fumbling at his belt. The sofa creaked as he shifted, his slacks pooling around his ankles. Laura didn’t wait. She sank down, her thighs spreading wide as she reached between her legs, guiding his cock to her entrance.

The camera was right there.

Mounted at eye level, the lens is a dark, unblinking eye. She could see herself in the reflection of the glass—her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, her fingers wrapped around John’s cock as she lined him up. Hi, baby.

She sank onto him in one smooth motion, her body swallowing his cock like it was made for it. John groaned, his hands flying to her hips, his gold tooth flashing as his head lolled back. "Fuck—"

Downstairs, Pat's breath skipped as Laura sank onto John’s cock, her back arched, her fingers digging into the Bull’s paunch.

There it is.

That first, slow stretch. The way her lips parted on a silent gasp, her thighs trembling as she took him inch by inch. Pat’s cage pinched, the metal biting into him hard enough to make his vision swim. His fingers spasmed around the slot machine’s lever, the vinyl squeaking under his grip.

Fuck.

He’d seen it a countless times—the way her body yielded, the way her back curved like a bowstring when she took a cock for the first time that night. But it never got easier. That first, cruel slide always hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath, making his balls ache in their prison.

On screen, John’s tooth flashed as he groaned, his hands mauling Laura’s tits like he was trying to knead bread. His cock disappeared between her thighs, her dress ridden up to her waist, the cheap fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin.

Pat’s throat worked. His free hand crept down, his fingers pressing against his cage. The metal bit back, sharp and unyielding. Good. He deserved the pain. He deserved the way his stomach twisted and the way his pulse roared in his ears like a freight train. His other hand kept hammering that button, the slot machine merrily whirring along.

Laura’s hips rolled, slow and deliberate, her ass flexing with every lift and fall. The camera angle was perfect—close enough to catch the way her nails pressed into John’s chest as hands found purchase and the way her lips parted on a moan. Pat’s breath came faster, his fingers mashing the slot machine’s spin button.

Ping.

The machine made noise, the reels lighting up in a blur of cherries and sevens. Pat barely noticed. Glancing over, he noticed the words 'extra spin,' but his eyes immediately snuck back to the screen, to the way Laura’s body moved—fluid, practiced, hungry. The way she rode John like he was nothing. Like Pat was nothing.

Mine.

The word burned in his skull, sharp and useless. His wife. His Mistress. And she was taking another man’s cock like it was her fucking job.

Because it is.

The slot machine dinged, the reels clattering to a stop. JACKPOT flashed in obnoxious gold letters. Pat didn’t even glance at it. His focus was locked on Laura, on the way her back arched as John’s hips snapped up, his gold tooth glinting as he grunted like a fucking animal.

Pat’s fingers spasmed. His other hand shot to his crotch, pressing hard against the cage. The pain grounded him, sharp and electric. Breathe.

Upstairs, John’s gut heaved beneath Laura’s palms, his skin clammy under her fingers. His thrusts were lazy, his cock barely filling her as he wheezed like a broken bellows. Pathetic. She could’ve done better with a battery-operated toy and a glass of wine.

Time to have some fun.

Laura arched her back, letting her head loll like she was lost in ecstasy. "Ohhh, John," she moaned, her voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. "You feel so good, baby. But I—I need more." Her nails scraped down his chest, just hard enough to make him grunt. "I want to feel you everywhere."

John’s gold tooth flashed as he grinned, his grip on her hips tightening. "Yeah? You want it rough, bitch?"

God, no.

Laura bit back a sigh. "Mmm, yes. But not—" She rolled her hips, slow and deliberate, feeling his cock twitch inside her. "Not there." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I want you to fuck my ass, John. Please."

His entire body tensed under hers. His cock pulsed, his breath hitching like she’d just offered him the keys to Fort Knox. "Fuck—are you serious?"

Laura pulled back, her lashes fluttering, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "I need it, baby. Need you to stretch me open." She reached between them, her fingers trailing down her stomach, teasing the slick heat between her thighs.

John’s hands shot to Laura’s hips, his fingers digging in like he was afraid she’d change her mind. "Fuck yeah," he breathed, his gold tooth glinting as he fumbled for his slacks.

Laura didn’t wait. She swung her leg over his lap, her back pressing against his paunch, the cheap fabric of her dress riding up to her waist. The camera mounted on the small table was pointing directly in front of her—perfect. Pat would have a front-row seat to this.

She reached back, her fingers wrapping around John’s cock, guiding him to her ass. His breath hitched, his hips jerking upward, eager and clumsy. "Shit—are you sure you can take it, bitch?"

Laura let out a breathy laugh, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Oh, baby," she purred, pressing the tip of his cock against her, "I was made for this."

John groaned, his gold tooth flashing as his head lolled back against the sofa. His hands slid up her thighs, his grip trembling—desperate, needy. "Fuck—"

Laura bore down, slow and deliberate, her body resisting at first before yielding with a wet, obscene pop. Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into her own knees as she took him inch by inch. "Ohhh—" She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her lips parting on a gasp. "You’re so big, John. So fucking big."

John’s chest puffed up like a goddamn peacock’s. "Damn right," he grunted, his hips twitching under hers. His fingers spasmed against her skin, his grip more plea than command. "Fuck, you’re—you’re really tight, baby. Like, uh. Like a virgin or something!"

Laura rolled her hips, just a little, feeling the way his cock pulsed inside her. "Mmm—" She let her lashes flutter, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You like that, baby? You like how tight I am for you?"

John’s answer was a rough, wordless groan, his gold tooth flashing as his mouth hung open. His hands slid up, palming her tits like he was trying to memorize the shape of them. "Fuck—fuck—"

Laura arched her back, pressing her ass against him, taking him deeper. "Ohhh—yes, John. Just like that." Her fingers trailed down her stomach, teasing the slick heat between her thighs. Hi, baby. She could practically hear Pat’s breath hitching downstairs, his cage straining as he watched his wife take it up the ass from a stranger.

John’s cock sawed in and out of her ass, his rhythm sloppy, his breath ragged from the effort. Laura’s fingers slid lower, her nails scraping against her clit. There. The first touch sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric, her body clenching around John’s cock. His groan was rough and desperate as his head lolled back.

"Fuck—baby—" His fingers dug into her hips, his grip bruising.

Laura didn’t answer. Her focus was on the camera—the lens a dark, unblinking eye, the red light blinking like a heartbeat. She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip as her fingers circled her clit. Slow. Deliberate. For you, my love.

John’s thrusts stuttered, his cock pulsing inside her. "Shit—you’re so fucking tight—"

Laura’s laugh spilled out, breathy and sharp, as she rolled her hips back against him. "Mmm—just for you, baby." Her fingers moved faster, her thumb pressing hard against her clit. The pleasure coiled tight in her gut, her body clenching around John’s cock. His breath hitched, his gold tooth glinting as he groaned.

The camera was right there.

Laura locked eyes with it, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting on a silent gasp. Watch me. Her fingers worked faster, her thumb slick with her own arousal. John’s thrusts turned erratic, his cock swelling inside her, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—" His voice cracked, his fingers spasming against her skin.

Laura didn’t let up. Her other hand shot back, her nails digging into his thigh. "Yes, John," she moaned, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Fill me up, baby. Give me everything."

His cock jerked inside her, his gold tooth flashing as his mouth hung open. "Fuck—!"

Laura’s fingers moved faster, her thumb pressing hard against her clit. The pleasure crested, sharp and brutal, her body clenching around him as she came. Her breath hitched, her back arched, her lips parting on a silent scream—for the camera. For Pat and his caged dick.

John groaned, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside her, his gold tooth glinting as his head lolled back. "Shit—shit—"

Laura didn’t stop. Her fingers kept moving, her thumb working her clit as the aftershocks rippled through her. Her breath came fast, her body still clenching around John’s softening cock.

Pat's focus wasn’t on the credits displayed on his slot machine. His gaze was locked on the PINK ROOM CAM 1 feed, where Laura’s back arched, her fingers buried between her thighs, her ass swallowing John’s cock like it was nothing.

Then she came.

Pat’s breath hitched. He couldn’t hear it, but he saw it. The way her body locked up, her spine bowing like a drawn arrow. The way her pussy twitched, her thighs trembled, a slow trickle of cum, and her own arousal painted her inner thighs.

His cage pinched, the metal biting into him hard enough to make his vision swim. His free hand pressed against the latex over his chest, right above his heart, like he could somehow contain the ache.

On-screen, John deflated, his gold tooth flashing as he slumped back against the sofa, his cock slipping from Laura’s ass. She didn’t rush. Just turned, slow and deliberate, her dress still ridden up to her waist. The camera caught it all—the way her ass glistened, the way her fingers trailed through the mess between her thighs before she smeared it onto her lips, her tongue darting out for a taste.

Pat’s stomach twisted.

John fumbled with his slacks, his thick fingers clumsy as he tucked himself back in. Laura didn’t help. Just watched, her lips curled in a smirk, her hips swaying as she stepped back—right into the camera’s frame.

The lens focused, the feed sharp enough to count the beads of sweat on her skin. She knew. Knew Pat was watching. Knew every cuck, every bull in the casino could see the way her ass leaked, the way her thighs shone with another man’s cum.

She turned, slow as syrup, her back to the camera. Then bent—just a little—letting the dress ride up higher. The camera angle was cruel, catching the way her ass glistened and the way her fingers teased the mess between her thighs before she reached back, spreading herself open.

Look.

Pat’s breath came fast, his fingers spasming around the slot machine’s lever. He saw the guy finally standing up, his belt still undone, his gold tooth flashing as he grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

Laura straightened, her hips rolling as she tugged her dress down.

The dress snapped back into place—final, like a curtain dropping. Laura’s smirk never wavered, but her eyes winked at the camera, cold and sharp, sending a clear message.

The show is over, cuck. Get to work!