The camera feed held steady as Laura sauntered out of frame, her hips swinging with the kind of confidence that made Pat’s teeth ache. No backward glance. No dramatic exit. Just gone.

The bull stayed. His gold tooth caught the light as he tucked in his shirt, his fingers thick and clumsy. A grin split his face, slow and satisfied, like he’d just polished off a five-course meal. He adjusted his cuffs, patted his pockets, then—finally—strolled toward the door, his gait loose, his belt still a little crooked.

Pat exhaled, his shoulders slumped, the cage aching, the unforgiving metal biting into him with every shallow inhale. His chest burned. Not the good kind. The hollow kind. The kind that made his ribs feel too small, his skin too tight. He pressed a hand over his sternum, right where 32 was printed in bold yellow, like that could somehow contain the mess inside him.

First one’s always the worst. Not because it hurt. Not because it was new. But because it was hers. That first moment when she chose them over him. When she let another man’s hands, another man’s cock, another man’s everything replace what Pat could not give her.

The first one's always the best. That perfect, crystalline second when the Bull pushed inside her for the first time, and Laura’s face lit up—not the practiced smirk, not the teasing pout, but the raw, unfiltered joy of a woman remembering what she’d been missing. The way her eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting just enough to let out that little gasp. God, he loved that. Loved that she got exactly what she craved—and he got to witness it.

The casino’s cacophony—chips clinking, dealers calling, Bulls laughing too loud—seeped back into Pat’s awareness like cold water sloshed on his face. He blinked, his eyelids sticky, and realized his thumb had been mashing the slot machine’s spin button for God knew how long. The digital reels blurred, a kaleidoscope of cherries and sevens and dollar signs, none of them making sense, the sounds a cacophony of noise, designed to suppress rational thought. "As if I could think at all, with that cage!", Pat murmured, more to himself.

He looked to the bottom of the screen, where his remaining credit line was displayed: $1287.93.

His gut lurched. Seven hundred bucks. Gone. Not even a calculated gamble. He'd just bet mindlessly, desperately mashing the button while Laura’s hips bounced on a cock.

Then his gaze flicked downward.

The tray at the base of the machine was full. Chips in every color—reds, greens, blacks—stacked haphazardly, some even spilling onto the carpet. A small fortune, just sitting there. The results if his absent-minded gambling.

Pat’s fingers curled around the plastic bucket beside him. He didn’t count. Didn’t need to—this was real money. Not the digital mirage on their phone, but cold, hard, redeemable cash. He scooped the chips up.

The slot machine’s digital leash snapped as Pat disconnected his phone, the displayed credit line now showing zero. He turned away from the machine, strolling into the hustle of a busy casino floor, looking for the cashier's window and the washrooms.

---

When Pat re-entered the casino, the low, predatory energy of bulls sizing each other up hummed across the floor. He weaved through the crowd, the scent of rubber and stale cologne thick in the air. Then he saw Mark—#25, slumped in a chair at the farthest poker table, his shoulders rounded like a deflated balloon animal.

Pat and Laura had known Sarah and Mark for years now. Double dates. Weekend getaways. That one camping trip where Laura and Sarah had "accidentally" gotten lost on a hike and come back giggling, their lips smudged. Mark had spent the whole evening sulking by the fire. Pat—ever the supportive friend—had handed him a beer, clapped him on the back and told him it was no big deal. But the ladies had objected immediatly, saying it had been a very big deal. Twice.

Mark didn’t even look up as Pat sidled up to him—just stared at his own phone, while trying to focus on his poker hand.

Pat cleared his throat. The sound came out rough, latex creaking as he leaned in.

"Rough night, Muffin?"

Mark looked up startled, but didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The screens on the nearby wall, clearly visible above the dealers right shoulder, said it all—Sarah, bent over a park bench in the Alleyway room, her dress hitched up, some Bull’s hands gripping her hips pulling her back onto his cock.

Mark exhaled through his nose. “She’s on her third. Third. And it’s not even seven pm.” His voice barely above a whisper.

The corner of Pat’s mouth twitched. He knew that tone—the one Mark used when he was trying to sound pissed but was really just excited.

“Third already?” Pat clucked his tongue, shaking his head like a disappointed uncle. “Jesus, man. And you know she's got stamina.”

Mark snorted. “Oh, fuck off, dude. As if your wife was a saint.”

Pat didn’t bother correcting him. Didn’t need to. They both knew the truth—Laura was many things, but modest wasn’t one of them. Pat slapped Marks shoulder, connecting his phone to the table.

A prompt pulsed at the bottom: "Connect to Table?" He tapped Yes.

The dealer’s tablet chimed. "Player #32 connected," she announced, her voice smooth as a freshly dealt card.

Pat took his seat, the latex stretching against the leather. The table was a mix: three Bulls, but no other cucks besides him and Mark, and the dealer, whose name tag read Lily in swirling gold script.

The bull to Pat’s right was a wall of muscle in a tailored suit, his fingers drumming the table like he was counting down to something explosive. The one across from him had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp—all pinched lips and squinty eyes, his watch glinting every time he adjusted his stack of chips.

The third bull was a walking contradiction—the gut of a guy who clearly had too many steak dinners, a ring on his pinky that probably cost more than your average car, and the wide-eyed wonder of a kid who’d just snuck into his first R-rated movie. His chip stack towered like a Jenga game mid-collapse, but his fingers trembled every time he glanced at the screens. One second he was ogling Sarah’s performance in the Alleyway, the next his gaze darted to another screen where a busty lady sucked on a dick as if her life depended on it. His lips parted like he’d just solved a math problem he didn’t understand. Pat could smell the rookie on him—sweat, too much aftershave, and the faint, panicked tang of a man who’d jumped in the deep end of the pool for the first time.

The dealer—a young woman with a sleek black ponytail—tapped the green felt with her cards. "Small blind, twenty-five. Big blind, fifty. Let’s go, gentlemen."

The dealer flicked two cards face-down toward each player. Pat peeked at his, seeing 3♦ | 6♣—not great, not terrible.

The bull to Pat’s right—Mr. Suit—shoved a black chip into the pot without hesitation.

Then it was Pat’s turn.

His thumb hovered over the screen. The app displayed his options in clean, uncluttered text:

FOLD | CALL ($50) | RAISE

He tapped Call. The phone vibrated. "Confirm $50 bet?" Another tap. Done.

The dealer’s tablet lit up again. She didn’t even glance at it—just reached into the chip tray beside her and slid a crisp red fifty-chip toward the center of the table. "#32 calls."

Mark’s turn. He hesitated—just for a second—before stabbing at his phone. The dealer added his chips to the pot without comment.

The rookie Bull—Mr. Steak—fumbled with his stack, knocking a chip off the edge. It spun like a drunkard before clattering to the felt. He flushed, then shoved in his bet like he was trying to prove something.

The flop came: 7♠ | K♦ | 2♣

Tailored Suit checked, quickly followed by Pat and Mark and Bulldog. The rookie hesitated, then raised $100.

His phone updated instantly. The pot now sat at $325. His balance: $1,237.93.

Mr. Suit didn’t even blink, just slid his bet in with the ease of a man who’d never met a number he couldn’t easily spend. Bulldog already had the chip ready to call, his pinky ring glinting as he organized his chipstack, jaw set like he was daring the universe to contradict him.

Pat glanced at his cards again. Still 3♦ | 6♣. Still trash.

His thumb hovered. The screen pulsed, waiting.

Fold. The pot—$425—was nowhere near worth the risk.

Mark’s fingers twitched over his phone, his latex-clad shoulders tensing like a coiled spring. He exhaled through his nose, a sharp huff, then jabbed the screen. "Call $100."

The dealer didn’t react—just slid another crisp stack of reds into the pot. "#25 calls." Then she deals the next card, its the queen of hearts.

Mr. Suit and Mark checked, but the Bulldog immediatly shoved a bronze $200 chip forward like he was slamming a door. "Raise."

The rookie’s eyes widened. His stack of chips looked suddenly smaller, like a sandcastle at high tide. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then flicked his gaze to the screens—where Sarah was now straddling the guy, her nails digging into his shoulders, her tits bouncing with every thrust. He checked his cards again. "Fold," he muttered, throwing away his cards.

Mr. Suit didn’t even blink as he shoved his chips into the pot.

Mark’s turn. He stared at his phone, his thumb hovering. His balance—$459.24—mocked him from the corner of the screen. He exhaled, long and slow, then tapped Fold. The dealer didn’t even look up as she scooped his chips into the pot.

The dealer flipped the river: A♠.

Bulldog’s face didn’t change, but his fingers twitched. Tailored Suit just tapped his chips with the confidence of a man who’d already won before the cards were dealt.

"Showdown, gentlemen," the dealer purred.

Bulldog flipped J♦ | J♣—a pair of jacks. Not bad.

Mr. Suit turned over A♦ | 10♦—top pair, top kicker. The dealer dragged the pot towards him.

Mark’s chair scraped back, the sound grating against the casino’s hum. He didn’t look at Pat—just stood, latex stretching, and adjusted the waistband of his suit like it had personally offended him.

"Bathroom break," he muttered, already turning.

Pat didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

The screens above the dealer’s head showed the Alleyway room empty, Sarah’s pink dress nowhere in sight. Mark’s fingers twitched at his sides, his steps too quick, too purposeful.

Pat smirked into his chips. Some men chased fame, others chased fortune. Mark chased Sarah.

A new bull sauntered up to the table, his cologne announcing his arrival before he even sat down. He was all sharp angles—cheekbones, jawline, the crisp fold of his shirt cuffs—like he’d been carved from expensive soap. His chips clinked as he stacked them, neat and precise, before sliding into the seat beside the rookie.

The dealer didn’t miss a beat. "New player at the table. Blinds are twenty-five and fifty. Let’s go."

She dealt the cards.

Pat peeked—8♥ | 9♣. Decent. Playable.

Then—

DING.

His phone lit up like a slot machine jackpot, the sound loud enough to make the rookie jump.

A smirk played at the corners of the dealer's lips. "#32’s credit line just increased by $750.00." She didn’t even glance at Pat—just announced it to the table like she was reading the weather.

The screen’s glow painted Pat’s face in sickly blue, the notification still pulsing like a neon sign: +$750.00. His stomach twisted—not from the money, but from what it meant. From the way the bulls’ heads snapped toward him, their grins were as sharp as knife edges.

The new Bull—Mr. Soap, Pat decided—leaned in, his cologne cloying. “Damn, #32. Your girl’s busy up there.”

Pat didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their amusement pressing down like a boot on his neck. His fingers twitched against the table, the latex squeaking faintly. His cock throbbed, trapped and traitorous, a constant, delicious ache. There it is. That sweet, sour tang of shame, fizzing in his veins like champagne. The bulls’ grins, their knowing smirks—each one a needle, pricking at the thin skin of his pride. And God, did it feel good.

Laura was up there right now, legs spread, back arched, taking what she wanted—what he couldn’t give her. The thought sent a jolt through him, sharp and electric, his cage biting down just a little harder. Good girl. He could almost hear her laugh, breathy and bright, as some stranger’s hands mapped the curves of her body, as his cock filled her in ways Pat could not. The image burned behind his eyelids, vivid as a brand.

The bulls thought they were mocking him. They didn’t get it. This wasn’t loss, it was luxury. The rare, exquisite pleasure of being unnecessary. Of knowing she chose them over him, again and again, and still, she came home to him. His fingers twitched against the table, the latex squeaking softly. Take your time, baby. The longer she played, the sweeter the ache. His gaze flicked upward, scanning the screens like a man searching for his reflection in a funhouse mirror. Every angle offered something—someone—but none of them was Laura.

His thumb traced the edge of his phone, the screen still glowing with that obscene +$750.00, a taunt, a tease, a promise. Somewhere up there, she was working on a cock.

The dealer’s voice cut through the haze. "Your turn, #32."

Pat blinked. The table waited. The bulls smirked.

He tapped Call.

The flop came: 5♠ | 8♦ | Q♣

His pair of eights. Weak. But his.

The Bulls checked around. Pat did the same, his thumb hovering over the screen. The pot sat at $425. His balance: $1,987.93.

The turn: 9♦

Two pair.

Bulldog bet $200. Mr. Soap—the new guy— folded, Mr. Suit called without hesitation. The rookie folded, his face flushed.

Pat’s turn.

He tapped Call.

The dealer didn’t even glance at him as she added his chips to the pot. The Bulls’ eyes did, though. Burned.

The river: J♠

Bulldog checked. Tailored Suit did the same.

Pat’s fingers trembled—just once—before he tapped on his phone. The dealer’s tablet chimed.

"#32 bets $500", Lily announced.

Silence.

Bulldog’s smirk faltered. Tailored Suit’s eyebrows lifted, just a fraction.

Then—

"Call."

The cards flipped.

Bulldog: A♣ | K♦—nothing.

Tailored Suit: 10♠ | 10♥—just a pair.

Pat turned over his 8♥ | 9♣—two pair, eights and nines.

The dealer didn’t even hesitate. She dragged the pot—$1,425—toward him.

The Bulls leaned back, a slow murmur of approval rippling through them. Mr. Steak let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he’d just witnessed a magic trick. "Damn," he muttered, "that’s cold."

Bulldog’s smirk twisted into something almost respectful. "You got stones, #32. I’ll give you that." Mr. Suit’s just stared, his fingers tapping the table, once, twice.

The table softened. The bulls’ grins lost their teeth, their taunts mellowing into the easy, rhythmic trash talk of men who’d found their measure in each other. Chips clinked. Cards flipped. The screens above were still alive with the night’s symphony, but down here, it was just another poker game.

---

The bar had been a calculated gamble—Laura was hunting for a specific type. Fresh-faced Bulls, too nervous to approach, too eager to be led. She’d perched on a stool, her dress riding high enough to tease, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass like she was already bored. Then Felix appeared—all gangly limbs and flushed cheeks, his suit a size too big, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in rough water.

One smirk. One crooked finger. That was all it took to reel him in. He confirmed payment only minutes later.

Now, the Harem room swallowed them whole—silks draped from the ceiling, low couches piled with cushions, the air thick with incense and the faint, musky scent of other people’s sins. Laura didn’t waste time. She shoved Felix onto a couch, his tie already loose, his hands clutching the fabric like it might save him.

“First time at such an event?” she purred, kneeling between his knees.

Felix nodded, his voice a squeak. “Y-yeah.”

“Good.” Her fingers worked his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet. “I love breaking in new toys.”

His cock sprang free—thick, veiny, the kind that made her eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise. Well, well. She wrapped her fingers around the base, her thumb brushing the pulse point at his wrist. “You’re packing more than I expected, Felix.”

Felix’s face burned. “I—I don’t usually—”

“Shh.” She cut him off with a slow lick up his length, her tongue swirling over the tip. His breath hitched, his hips jerking like he’d been electrocuted. Adorable.

Felix’s fingers tangled in her hair, his grip tentative, like he was afraid she might bite. Oh, baby. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deep, her throat fluttering around the head. His gasp was music. His hips stuttered, his control unraveling by the second.

“Fuck—”

Laura pulled off with a wet pop, her lips glistening. Felix’s cock twitched, desperate, the tip already slick with precome. She stroked him slow, her nails grazing the underside just enough to make his thighs tremble.

“So, Felix,” she murmured, her breath hot against his skin. “You paid for a fuck. What exactly do you want from me?”

His face flushed darker. “I—I don’t know. Whatever you—”

“No, no.” She tutted, giving his shaft a firm squeeze. “This isn’t a charity. You’re the client. Tell me exactly what you want.” Her thumb swirled over his slit, smearing the wetness. “Do you want me to swallow? Ride you? Let you fuck my tits?” She leaned in, her voice a whisper. “Or do you want something… else?”

Felix’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His fingers flexed in her hair, his grip tightening just enough to show he was listening. “I—I want it all,” he blurted. “Like… like in porn. The blowjob, the…” He faltered, his cheeks burning. “…and—and different positions."

“Mmm.” She hummed, her breath ghosting over his cock. “And how do you want to finish, Felix? On my face?” She tilted her head, her fingers still slow-stroking him. “Or… do you want to fill me up?”

His hips jerked, his cock pulsing in her grip. “Yes,” he gasped. “I—I want to come inside you.”

Laura purred, her lips brushing the head. “Good boy.” She sat back on her heels, her dress riding up just enough to tease. “But first, I need a favor.”

Felix blinked, dazed. “A favor?”

She reached for her phone, tucked between the cushions. “I want you to take pictures. Close-ups.” She unlocked the screen, pulling up the camera app. “For my dear husband.”

Felix’s eyes widened. “Your—”

“Mmm.” She pressed the phone into his hand, guiding his fingers around it. “He is downstairs, gambling with his cucky friends, and he loves seeing what his wife gets up to when she’s working.” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Make sure you get my face when I’m sucking you. And my ass when you’re fucking it.” She smirked. “He’ll love that.”

Felix’s grip on the phone was clumsy, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the camera. Laura didn’t wait. She dove back down, her lips sealing around his cock, her tongue swirling as she took him deep. Felix groaned, the phone tilting wildly before he finally—finally—managed to snap a shot.

The flash was blinding in the dim room.

Laura pulled off just enough to smirk up at him, her lips slick, her eyes gleaming. “Good boy,” she murmured. “Now take another.”

Felix’s fingers fumbled over the phone, his breath coming in ragged bursts as Laura’s lips slid down his shaft, her throat fluttering around the head. The camera flash strobed like a disco light, each snap accompanied by a wet slurp as she pulled back just enough to let him see—her tongue pressed flat against his cock, her wedding ring glinting under the harsh light.

Click.

Felix’s breath hitched as Laura’s tongue dragged lower, her lips brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls. His fingers spasmed around the phone, the case squeaking in his grip.

“W-what are you—?”

She didn’t answer. Just nipped at the soft flesh of his inner thigh, her nails scraping lightly over his perineum before her tongue pressed—hot, wet—against his hole.

Felix’s entire body jerked like he’d been tasered. “Oh fuck—”

Laura hummed, the vibration making him twitch, her fingers still slow-stroking his cock. She swirled her tongue in lazy circles, her free hand gripping his hip to hold him still as he squirmed. The phone flashed again, the angle wild, half her face buried between his cheeks, her eyes locked on the camera like she was daring him to look away.

“L-Laura, I don’t know if—”

She pulled back just enough to murmur, “Shut up and take pictures, Felix.”

Then her tongue pressed in, firm and insistent, and Felix’s protest dissolved into a broken moan. His cock throbbed in her grip, precome dripping down her fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Laura chuckled, the sound muffled against his skin. She lapped at him again, her tongue teasing the tight muscle before she pulled back, her lips smacking. “You like that, baby?”

Felix’s answer was a strangled noise, his hips lifting off the couch like he was trying to chase her mouth. She gave his cock a slow, twisting stroke, her thumb smearing the wetness over his tip. “Good. Because you’re gonna love what comes next.”

The phone flashed again. This time, she made sure the shot was perfect—her tongue pressed flat against his hole, her eyes wide and wicked as she stared up at him. For Pat. The thought sent a fresh pulse of heat between her thighs. She didn’t care about the angle—just the proof. The way her tongue pressed flat against his puckered hole, her lips smeared with his precome, her wedding ring glinting under the harsh light. For you, my love, she thought, as she hollowed her cheeks, lapping at him like a thirsty dog, her free hand sneaking between her own thighs to tease herself through the damp fabric of her dress. The humiliation burned, sweet and filthy, the way her jaw ached, the way her knees pressed into the carpet, the way Felix’s cock twitched against her palm like it owned her.

And it did. For now.

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. Felix’s face was a mess—flushes, his mouth slack, his eyes glazed like he’d just seen God. Or the devil. It depended on who you asked. Click. Evidence. Ammunition. A gift wrapped in shame, just for Pat.

Felix’s breath hitched as Laura let go of his cock, her fingers trailing up his thigh before she pushed herself up from the floor. The loss of her mouth was a physical ache, his dick throbbing, wet and neglected, as she sauntered toward the low, silk-draped bed in the center of the room. The hem of her dress rode high, flashing the damp scrap of lace between her thighs—his doing, his pre-come glistening on her chin like a badge of honor.

She didn’t bother with finesse. Just flopped backward onto the mattress, her legs falling open, the damp fabric of her panties clinging to her lips. The air was thick with the scent of her—musky, sweet, the kind of aroma that made Felix’s head spin. His cock twitched, desperate, as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and tugged them aside, baring herself completely.

“Well?” Laura arched a brow, her voice husky. “You paid for it. Don't you want to play with it?”

Felix nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste, his suit pants still pooled around his ankles. He crawled onto the bed, his knees sinking into the silk, his hands planting on either side of her hips like he was afraid she might vanish. His cock bobbed, heavy and flushed, the tip already weeping.

Laura didn’t wait. She grabbed his shaft, guiding him toward her entrance, her thighs trembling with anticipation. Felix bit his lip, his forehead beading with sweat as he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds.

Then—slow. Too slow. A cautious inch, like he was testing the water.

Laura’s patience snapped.

Her legs locked around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back as she yanked him forward. Felix gasped as she impaled herself on him, her wet heat swallowing him to the hilt in one brutal motion.

Felix’s eyes rolled back, his hips stuttering as Laura’s nails raked down his spine. She didn’t give him time to adjust—just clenched around him, her inner walls fluttering like a heartbeat, her breath hitching in a way that wasn’t entirely faked.

“Oh, fuck—” His voice cracked, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the silk sheets.

Laura arched beneath him, her back lifting off the mattress as she forced him deeper, her thighs trembling with the effort. “Harder,” she gasped, her voice raw, desperate. “Fuck me like you mean it, Felix.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

His next thrust was brutal—hip bones slamming onto her skin, the sound wet and obscene. Laura cried out, the noise tearing from her throat like a prayer, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. The camera flashed again, Felix’s grip white-knuckled around the phone as he snapped another shot—her tits bouncing with each thrust, her lips parted in a scream of ecstasy.

Click.

“Just like that,” she moaned, her voice a ragged whisper. “Fuck me, baby. Make me scream.”

Felix groaned, his rhythm turning frantic, his cock swelling inside her. He dropped her phone and grabbed her hips. Laura met him thrust for thrust, her hips lifting off the bed, her nails digging crescents into his ass. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, her gasps mixing with his grunts.

“Oh God—” His voice was a broken whine, his cock twitching, his balls drawing up tight.

Laura’s legs locked around him, her heels digging into the small of his back as she pulled him flush against her. “I want your cum, Felix. I want you to fill me up,”she panted, her breath hot against his ear.

“Fuck—” His voice broke, his cock swelling, his fingers spasming around the phone.

Laura leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Do it,” she whispered. “Fill me up, baby. Breed me.”

Felix’s answer was a guttural noise, his hips stuttering as he fought to hold back. Laura didn’t let him. He came with a broken cry, his cock pulsing inside her, his cum flooding her in hot, thick spurts. Laura rode him through it, her own orgasm crashing over her as she milked him dry, her nails raking down his chest, her breath a ragged mess of gasps and curses.

Felix collapsed onto Laura’s chest, his breath ragged, his cock still twitching inside her. She could feel him softening, the pulse of his release slowing to a dull throb. His weight pressed her into the mattress, the silk sheets clinging to her sweat-slicked skin.

For a moment, neither moved. Just the sound of their breathing—his shallow and shaky, hers slow and satisfied—filled the room. Then Felix exhaled, long and slow, and pushed himself up on trembling arms. His cock slipped free with a wet schlick, a thick rope of cum stretching between them before snapping back against her thigh.

Laura didn’t bother covering herself. Just lay there, legs spread, his mess glistening between her thighs. She reached for her phone where Felix had dropped it, unlocking the screen with a sticky thumb.

Felix fumbled with his pants, his fingers clumsy as he tucked his softening cock back into his boxers. His face was still flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. He glanced at her—then away—then back again, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look.

Laura smirked. “Take a picture.”

Felix blinked. “A—what?”

She lifted the phone, angling it toward herself. “Of me. Like this.” She spread her legs wider, her fingers trailing down her stomach before pressing two against her swollen lips. A thick bead of cum welled up, glistening. “Close-up.”

Felix’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He took the phone, his grip hesitant, like it might bite. The camera lens flickered to life, the flash reflecting in his wide eyes.

Laura adjusted her position, her wedding ring catching the light as she spread herself open. “Get it all,” she murmured, her voice husky. “I want him to see exactly what you left inside me.”

Felix swallowed hard. The camera flashed—once, twice—his fingers shaking as he zoomed in. The close-up was obscene: her glistening folds, his cum dripping onto the sheets, her wedding band a stark contrast against her skin.

Click.

Laura’s lips curled. “Good boy.”

Felix handed the phone back like it was radioactive. He finished dressing in record time, his tie still crooked, his jacket buttoned wrong. He hovered at the edge of the bed, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “Uh. Thanks. That was—”

“Amazing?” Laura purred, stretching like a cat. “I know.”

Felix flushed. “Yeah. I—uh. Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So. Bye.”

Laura waved her fingers, her wedding ring glinting. “Bye, Felix.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

She didn’t move. Just lay there, her fingers tracing lazy circles over her stomach, her thighs still sticky with him. The phone buzzed in her palm—a notification from the PayPlay app.

+$250.00

Laura smirked. Felix had just tipped her.

Pat’s gonna love this.

---

The poker table had been a battlefield of ebbing fortunes—Bulldog’s once-towering stack now a sad little fortress, his jaw set as he shoved some of his last few chips into the pot with the resignation of a man who knew he was already beaten.

Pat sat back in his chair. His phone lay dark on the table, the balance a measly $34.00, the numbers glaring like a neon sign in a back-alley dive. His winnings, though—those were real. A mountain of chips in every color, stacked haphazardly before him, the plastic edges sharp against his fingertips. He didn’t touch them. Didn’t yet need to bet them. These weren’t digital mirages, not the ephemeral high of Laura’s earnings flashing across his phones' screen. These were cold, hard, redeemable.

His cage was a constant, delicious pressure, the metal warm against his skin. Every shift in his seat sent a jolt through him, a reminder of exactly why he was here. The screens above the dealer’s head flickered—Laura was still not on them.

The dealer’s fingers were a blur, cards snapping onto the felt with practiced ease. Lily didn’t even glance up as Pat’s phone lit up like a firework, the DING sharp enough to cut through the casino’s hum.

+$250.00

The dealer’s tablet chimed.

“#32’s virtual stack is now at $284", Lily announced, her voice smooth as polished marble.

Mr. Suit’s grin stretched wider, his teeth too white, too perfect. “At this rate, your wife’s gonna out-earn my ex by midnight. And that bitch took me for half a mil.”

Pat didn’t even glance up from his cards. Just flicked a chip between his fingers, the plastic click sharp in the quiet. “Yeah, well. At least you got fucked in the divorce.”

The table went still.

Bulldog’s snort turned into a full-blown laugh, his shoulders shaking as he slapped the felt. The rookie’s eyes widened, his drink halfway to his lips.

Mr. Suit’s smirk faltered—just for a second—before he barked out a laugh, sharp and surprised. Even Lily's lips curled as she dealt the flop.

The game picked up again, chips clinking, bets sliding across the felt. Pat called and folded, lost and won.

Then his phone buzzed. Not a loud DING. Subtle. Just a vibration against his palm, the screen lighting up with a single, unassuming notification.

Pat didn’t hesitate and angled his phone away from prying eyes. The first image loaded before he could even register what he was seeing—Laura, her lips stretched obscenely around a cock, her throat bulging as she took him deep. The flash had caught the wetness on her chin, the way her eyes locked onto the camera like she was daring him to look away.

His breath hitched.

Next image.

Laura, her face buried between some guy’s cheeks, her tongue pressed flat against his hole, her fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. The angle was crude, unflattering—the kind of shot meant to hurt. To twist the knife. His cock throbbed against the cage, the metal biting into him, the ache sharp and sweet.

Last one.

Laura, sprawled on a rumpled bed, her legs spread wide, her pussy glistening with cum. Thick, white ropes dripped onto the sheets beneath her, her wedding band smeared with it, her fingers lazily tracing the mess like she was admiring a masterpiece.

Then he read the text she sent with the pics: "Thinking of you." And a kissing emoji.

Pat’s breath caught, his ribs squeezing like a vise, the cage suddenly a brand against his skin, every nerve alight. His thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the curve of Laura’s hip in that last photo—the way she smiled, her lips smeared with another man’s cum. Thinking of you. Three words. A knife twist. A love letter.

His cock throbbed, trapped and traitorous, the ache so sharp it bordered on pain. He bit the inside of his cheek, the copper tang of blood grounding him. Focus, you idiot. The poker table wasn’t the place for this—too many eyes, too many bulls waiting to scent weakness. But God, the way she’d looked at the camera, her lips parted, her fingers lazy in the mess between her thighs—

A chair scraped.

“Deal me in, sweetheart.”

Pat blinked, the haze of Laura’s photos dissolving like smoke. The rookie bull—Mr. Steak—shifted to the side, making room. A new presence loomed, broad-shouldered and loud.

Pat’s thumb jabbed the screen, closing the message app. The photos vanished, but the afterimage burned—Laura’s smirk, the glisten of cum on her thighs, that fucking wedding ring.

He looked up.

And froze.

The new bull was already settling into his seat, his gold tooth glinting as he stacked his chips with the easy confidence of a man who’d just been thoroughly serviced. His cuffs were still slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been in a hurry to put it back on. The flush on his neck hadn’t quite faded.

Pat’s stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The new bull didn’t even glance Pat’s way. Just leaned back, his chair creaking, and flagged down a waiter with a flick of his fingers. "Whiskey. Neat." His voice was rough, satisfied. The kind of rough that came from having a woman’s throat wrapped around his cock not thirty minutes ago.

Pat’s fingers twitched against his phone. The cage bit into him, sharp and sweet.

Fuck.