Pat's knuckles went white around his cards. Seven-deuce offsuit. Garbage hand, but he couldn't fold—not yet. Not with John settling into his chair like he owned the place, cologne thick enough to taste. The same cologne that was probably still clinging to Laura's skin.

The cage dug into him with every beat.

"Blinds are going up," Lily said, her voice cutting through the haze. "Fifty-hundred."

John tossed his chips in without looking, eyes on Mr. Suit. "You been playing long?"

"Couple hours." Mr. Suit flicked a glance at his cards. "You?"

"Just got here." John's gold tooth caught the light as he grinned. "Had to take care of some business upstairs first."

Pat's stomach clenched. He folded, sliding his cards toward the dealer with forced calm. Just another cuck at the table. Anonymous. Invisible.

Bulldog raised. The rookie called. John studied his hand with the lazy confidence of a man who'd already won tonight.

"What's the action like at this table?" John asked, matching Bulldog's raise. "Any sharks I should watch out for?"

"Just the usual." Mr. Suit's smirk returned. "Couple lucky cucks, but they're harmless."

The flop hit: queen of hearts, seven of clubs, three of diamonds.

Pat's next hand was better—pocket jacks. He raised pre-flop, face blank as the others called. The pot swelled, chips scraping toward the center.

The turn brought another jack.

His pulse jumped, but his breathing stayed slow. Checked to him. He bet half the pot—confident, not hungry. The rookie folded. Mr. Suit folded.

John called.

The river bricked—a four of spades. Pat pushed another stack in. John studied him for the first time, really looked at him—the latex suit, the yellow 32 on his chest, the cage visible through the cutout.

"All right, Thirty-Two." John mucked. "Take it."

Pat dragged the chips toward him, stacking them in neat towers. His hands stayed steady while John's attention lingered.

No DING. No message. Just the solid knowledge that Laura was upstairs, doing her thing. Enough.

John leaned back, one arm draped over the empty seat beside him like he was holding court. "So, what’s the damage upstairs?" he asked, scanning the other Bulls. "Any of you lucky bastards get a taste yet?"

Bulldog shook his head, his jowls wobbling. "Nah, saving myself for later. Gotta build the bankroll first."

The rookie adjusted his cufflinks. "Same. Heard the talent’s better after midnight anyway."

John smirked. "You’re missing out." He swirled his whiskey, ice clinking like a metronome. "Had this one just now—dark hair, legs for days. Told me she’d never been with a man before." He chuckled. "Can you believe that? Came here with some sad sack who can’t even keep it up for her."

Pat’s thumb traced the edge of his cards. *Never been with a man.* That was new. Laura had never said that. But the way John pitched it—leaning in, voice dropping like a secret—it almost landed.

"She said she’s been saving herself for someone who knows what to do with her." John’s grin widened. "Told me he's got—what’d she call it? *A little baby dick.* Couldn’t even make her come."

Mr. Suit snorted. "Sounds like every cuck’s wife up there."

Pat’s cage pinched. He shifted, latex squeaking. Humiliation settled in his gut, warm and heavy. No one at the table knew. No one but him.

John kept going. "Get this—she’s been with that guy for what, five years? And she’s *never* had a big cock before. Can you imagine? All that time stuck with some loser who can’t even fill her up." He shook his head, mock sympathy thick in his voice. "She’s desperate for it. Told me she’s threatened to leave him and find a real man to take care of her if he objects to her coming here."

The rookie’s eyebrows shot up. "Damn. You get her number?"

John laughed, swirling his drink again. "Didn’t need to. She’s upstairs right now, probably spreading for the next guy who walks in." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Between you and me? I think she’s looking for a sugar daddy. Someone to sweep her off her feet, get her out of this mess." He jerked his chin toward one of the screens, where a blonde rode some bull in a room draped in red velvet. "Can’t blame her, right? Why stay with a cuck when you can have the real thing?"

Heat spread through Pat’s chest. His cage ached, but in that good way—the ache that meant Laura had had her fun. John’s voice carried that rough, spent edge a man got after using a woman hard. Pat still saw the picture: Laura’s dark hair fanned on pink satin, her back arched as John drove into her like he owned her. For that little while, he had. John was bragging, but he wasn’t inventing that part.

Pat shifted. The humiliation wrapped around him like a second suit, snug and exact. This was the game. This was why he came. To get talked about like this—to be scraped down to nothing while some stranger described, in nasty detail, how he’d just used Pat’s wife.

John took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring it. "She was tight, man. Like she hadn’t been fucked right in years." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Told me she was supposed to get married next year. Some poor sap is down here, gambling for the wedding funds, knowing his girl’s up there taking cock like a good little slut."

Pat’s left eyelid twitched, just once.

John rolled on, oblivious. "Yeah, she said the wedding’s off if they don't bring back enough cash tonight." He leaned in, grinning. "You should’ve seen her face when I told her I’d pay extra to fuck her bare. Said she’d never done it before—can you believe that? Engaged, and she’s never even felt a real dick without rubber."

The warmth in Pat’s chest soured.

Engaged.

Bullshit.

Laura would never claim to be engaged. She was married—seven years—and flaunted it. The ring stayed on like a badge, proof she could enjoy herself with her husband’s full blessing.

John was full of it.

Pat’s jaw tightened. The humiliation had been perfect—until the lies started. Now it felt cheap. Like John thought the truth needed dressing up.

Pat’s fists curled under the table. What was this guy’s problem? The story was good enough on its own—Laura’s enthusiasm, her eagerness, the way she’d begged for it. Why smear it with bullshit?

He forced his hands to loosen, breath slow. Don’t react. Don’t give up your cover.

John was still talking, something about how she’d promised to meet him later, but Pat tuned him out. The fun was gone. The cage might as well have been empty. He just needed to—

ATTENTION, GENTLEMEN!

Mistress V’s voice boomed through the casino, rich and commanding, slicing through the chatter. Every head turned toward the screens as her face appeared—smirking, lips painted the color of fresh sin.

"It’s time for our first event of the night!" She paused, letting the room lean in. "The Blow Job Race—where five of our finest whores will compete to see who can suck the most cocks to completion in thirty minutes flat!"

A cheer went up from the Bulls. Pat exhaled, shoulders loosening. Saved by the bell.

Mistress V’s grin widened. "The rules are simple: Five contestants. Thirty minutes. As many happy endings as they can handle. Every load swallowed counts toward their total—and yes, gentlemen, they will be swallowing." Laughter rolled through the crowd. "The winner takes home the title of Cum Guzzler Champion—plus a little something extra from our sponsors."

The screen split into five boxes, each labeled in bold pink:

LUCY – "The Throat G.O.A.T"

BAMBI – "The Deep Throat Queen"

VICTORIA – "The Cum Connoisseur"

JASMINE – "The Sloppy Topper"

LILA – "The Gagger"

Mistress V’s voice dropped to a purr. "Bulls, if you want to participate—or just watch the show live—head upstairs now. The action starts in ten minutes. And cucks?" Her gaze brushed the cameras, lingering long enough to make Pat’s skin prickle. "Don’t worry. You’ll get the best seats in the house—right here on the big screens."

The feed cut to a live shot of the stage being set—row of chairs, timer, a bucket labeled FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY in glitter.

The casino thinned fast—chairs scraping, laughter trailing off as Bulls streamed toward the stairs or the sports bar, where the big screens would show the Blow Job Race with full audio. Pat stayed put, watching them go with a wash of relief. The table dwindled to him, Lily, and a few abandoned chip stacks.

Lily shuffled with practiced ease, her dark eyes flicking up. "So. You’re not heading over to watch?"

Pat leaned back, latex creaking. "Nah. Seen enough blowjobs to last a lifetime."

She smirked, dealing a fresh hand just to keep her fingers busy. "Yeah, but not like this, right? This is, like… competitive."

"Competitive humiliation isn’t really my kink."

"Fair." She tilted her head, studying him. "Can I ask you something?"

Pat raised an eyebrow. "Depends. You gonna call me a loser?"

Lily laughed, bright against the casino’s low hum. "No, I’m actually curious. I deal blackjack at the Golden Nugget most nights. This is my first time at one of these… events." She waved a hand at the emptying room. "So. You and your wife—how does this work? Like, emotionally?"

Pat blinked. No one asked that. Not here. Bulls thought they already knew, other cucks were drowning in their own shit, and the wives had better things to do.

He picked up his chips, flipping them. "It’s not just the sex," he said slowly. "I mean, yeah, the sex is a big part. But it’s about trust, too. Laura could fuck every guy in this room and I’d still know she’s going home with me."

Lily’s fingers stilled. "That doesn’t… I don’t know, hurt?"

Pat chuckled. "Oh, it hurts. But in a good way. Like a deep tissue massage for your ego." He tapped his chest over the #32. "You ever see those videos where guys eat the world’s spiciest pepper? They’re crying, snot everywhere, begging for milk—but they keep going because the burn is the point?"

Lily snorted. "So you’re an emotional masochist."

"You could phrase it like this." He gave her a weak smile. "But it's not just about that. It’s also about… surrender. Dropping all the bullshit about what a man’s supposed to be. Protector, provider, only dick in her life." He smirked. "When you stop chasing that, you get to just… be. And Laura? She loves that I trust her this much. Loves that I’m secure enough to let her have her fun."

Lily’s gaze slid to the screens, where the Blow Job Race stage was almost ready. A crew tested the mic on Lucy, who was stretching her jaw like a fighter loosening up.

Pat followed her look. Lily’s fingers drummed on the table. "And you don’t get… I don’t know, jealous?"

Pat laughed, genuinely. "Jealous of what? Some guy thinking he’s special because he got to fuck my wife for twenty minutes?" He leaned in, voice dropping. "Here’s the secret, Lily: I’m the one she goes home with. I'm the one she curls up with later. I’m the one she whispers to in the dark about how good it felt. Jealousy’s for guys who think they own their women." He tapped his chest through the latex. "I don’t own Laura. She chooses me over everybody else here. And that’s hotter than anything."

Lily’s cheeks pinked, but she held his gaze. "That’s… actually kind of beautiful."

Pat grinned. "Told you this wasn’t just about—"

DING.

Lily’s eyes dropped to Pat’s phone, the $500 transfer glowing like neon. "Damn," she breathed. "Talk about timing."

Pat killed the notification, scanning the near-empty casino. No extra eyes, good. "Hey—can you keep a secret?"

Lily’s eyebrows jumped. "What? I don’t even know your wife."

Pat exhaled, leaning in. "Seriously. If these guys figure out who she is, they’ll target me at the table. Or worse—target her upstairs."

Lily mimed zipping her lips. "Scout’s honor."

Pat nodded and turned to the screens, sweeping the feeds. There—LOUNGE CAM 7. Laura sprawled across a velvet couch, dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she ground her ass against some fresh-faced Bull’s lap. The kid—couldn’t be older than twenty-five—had his hands all over her, squeezing her tits like he was trying to wring them out.

Pat’s cage pinched. Perfect.

He jerked his chin toward the screen. "That’s her."

Lily’s breath caught. She stared—at Laura’s fingers tangled in the Bull’s hair, the dress bunched up her thighs, the smug little smile as she worked him. Then she swallowed. "She’s… wow."

Pat smirked. "Yeah. She’s something."

Color climbed Lily’s throat. "I—I didn’t mean—shit, I shouldn’t have—" She fumbled with a chip stack. "Forget I said anything. I’m not supposed to—fuck, I could get fired for—"

"Relax." Pat chuckled, nudging her arm. "I won’t tell Mistress V you’ve got a crush."

"What?" Lily’s face went red. "No, I just—she’s gorgeous, okay? Any straight woman would—ugh, never mind."

Pat grinned. "If you want, I’ll introduce you later. Laura loves making new friends."

Lily’s eyes flew to his, wide. "I can’t—I’m working—"

Pat held up both hands, latex creaking. "Easy. No pressure. Just saying—if you change your mind, the offer’s there."

Lily exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Right. Yeah. Sorry, I just—this is all new."

"Trust me, I get it." Pat nodded at the screen. "First time I saw Laura with another guy, I almost puked. Now?" He leaned back. "Now I just enjoy the show."

Lily followed his gaze. On screen, Laura had the Bull’s belt undone, his cock in her hand. She stroked him slow, lips moving—teasing, by the flush in his face. Then she leaned in.

---

The kid’s hands shook as Laura wrapped her fingers around his cock. Oh, honey, she thought, biting back a smirk. He tried so hard to look smooth—leaning back, one arm slung over the couch like this was routine. But his Adam’s apple bobbed like a buoy, and his grip on her shoulder was just a little too tight.

"You want me to take care of you, baby?" Laura purred, stroking him slow, thumb circling the tip. His breath hitched. Amateur.

She barely had to work. One flick of her tongue, a little suction, and he was already twitching, hips jerking like he’d grabbed a live wire. Laura hollowed her cheeks, took him deep—too deep for what he deserved, but she wanted this done. The kid groaned, fingers tangling in her hair, trying to establish his rythm, and she had to fight a laugh. Please, sweetie, like you’re the first to try.

She pulled back, letting her lips pop off him, wet and loud. "You like that?" she murmured, giving him a slow lick. "You like how my mouth feels on your cock?"

"F-fuck yeah—" His voice cracked. She almost pitied him.

Almost.

She swallowed him again, this time letting her teeth graze just enough to make him gasp. His hips bucked, frantic, and she had to pin them with a hand on his thigh. Pat will be watching this. The thought sent a little thrill through her. Her husband, downstairs, cage aching, hands probably clenched while some baby-faced Bull blows in her mouth.

His breathing turned ragged. "I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna—"

Laura didn’t ease up. She cupped his balls, rolling them gently. That did it—he stiffened, fingers yanking at her hair as he came with a choked groan. She swallowed around him, milking him dry, then pulled off with a satisfied hum.

"There you go," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "All done."

The kid slumped, chest heaving. "Holy shit."

Laura patted his cheek, already reaching for her phone. "Mmm. You were very good." $500 sent blinked on the screen. She stood, smoothing her dress. "Now run along, sweetheart. Mommy’s got work to do."

He was still catching his breath as Laura sauntered toward the bar, hips swaying just enough to turn the remaining Bulls’ heads. The air stank of whiskey and bad decisions, the kind that clung to places where inhibitions went to die.

She slid onto a stool and crossed her legs. The bartender—a broad-shouldered guy with a "VINCE" nametag—gave her a once-over. "What’ll it be, Miss?"

"Cosmo. Extra lime." Laura leaned forward, letting her cleavage speak. "And keep ‘em coming."

Vince grinned, already grabbing the shaker. "You here for the show?"

She followed his gaze to the stage. The five contestants were lined up, jaws stretched, lips glossed. Lucy—the self-branded Throat G.O.A.T—cracked her knuckles like she was about to arm-wrestle. Bambi hiked her push-up bra, tits nearly spilling. Victoria, Jasmine, Lila stood in a row, each with a water bottle and a look of grim focus. Behind them, a line of Bulls snaked across the stage, some already unbuckling.

Laura took her drink, smirking. "Wouldn’t miss it."

The lights dimmed. A spotlight hit Mistress V as she strode onstage, stilettos clicking like a metronome. "Ladies and gentlemen," she purred, "let’s get ready to suck!"

The crowd roared. The timer above the stage flashed 30:00.

"GO!"

The first five Bulls surged forward. Lucy dropped to her knees in front of a grizzled guy with a beer gut, already working his belt. Bambi grabbed a younger Bull, her lips around him before he’d fully stepped up. Victoria—pure pro—guided her Bull into her mouth, free hand cupping his balls like produce.

Jasmine gagged right away but didn’t pull back, throat working as her Bull groaned. Lila, true to her nickname, was already tearing up, mascara streaking as she took her man to the hilt.

Laura sipped her cosmo and watched the mess. Bulls shifted at the back of the line, a few already stroking themselves. One—tall, broad, snake tattoo coiled around his bicep—caught her eye and winked. She raised her glass.

Onstage, Lucy’s Bull stiffened, fists in her hair. A guttural groan, a last shove—she swallowed and pulled back, smirking. LUCY: 1 flashed above her. The next Bull stepped up before the first had zipped.

The timer ticked—27:47—as the next Bull’s bid flashed: $1,200. Built like a linebacker, cock already half-hard as he fisted himself toward Bambi’s mouth. She took him without hesitating, lips stretching around his girth.

Laura sipped her drink, eyes on the leaderboard and the action. LUCY: 3 already. The woman barely came up for air. Jasmine gagged again, tears cutting black tracks down her cheeks, but her hand kept pumping—JASMINE: 2.

Near the back, some tech bro in a Patagonia vest groaned as the timer hit 20:00. His $200 bid wasn’t getting him far. He’d be very lucky to get his dick wet before the buzzer.

Laura skimmed the bar instead. Vince frozen mid-pour. A cocktail waitress biting her lip. Bulls craning their necks like meerkats. Every gaze glued to the screens.

Except one.

Three stools down, nursing a whiskey neat, sat a guy in a charcoal suit. Mid-thirties, salt-and-pepper stubble, hands wrapped around his glass like it was the only solid thing here. His eyes stayed off the stage. Off the leaderboard and screens. Fixed on the middle distance, like he was waiting for a bus in the world’s filthiest terminal.

Laura’s pulse kicked.

She turned on her stool, letting her dress slide higher on her thighs. The motion snagged his attention—a flicker, then focus. His gaze met hers and held. No smirk, no leer. Just a cool assessment, like she was a problem he might solve.

She lifted her cosmo and let her tongue trace the rim. His fingers tightened on the glass.

Interesting.

She took a slow sip, finally swallowing the syrupy mix, then set the glass down with a sharp clink. The ice shifted, loud in a lull between amplified gulps from the stage.

"You look like you’re about to ask me for directions to the bathroom."

His head snapped up. Dark eyes—wide, like a startled deer’s—locked on hers. A flush crept up his neck, but he didn’t look away. "That’s… not what I was going to ask."

"No?" Laura dragged her gaze over him, slow. "Then you’re either lost, lonely, or really bad at small talk."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Martin."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"My name. It’s Martin." He cleared his throat, grip tightening on the glass. "I was going to ask if you’d like to join me for a drink."

Laura laughed—sharp, bright, cutting through the bar’s hum. She leaned in, close enough for him to count the freckles on her collarbone. "Sweetheart, I don’t do drinks. I charge by the fuck or by the minute. Take your pick."

Martin didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He took a slow sip of bourbon, eyes never leaving hers, then set the glass down, precise. "Let’s start with an hour," he said with an easy smile. "And see where this is going."

Laura’s fingers flew over her phone. She’d punched in $750 like a dare, waiting for the choke, the stammer, the retreat. Martin just nodded, like she’d quoted cab fare. His phone was out, screen glowing as he scanned her QR with the casual ease of swiping into a subway. No pause. No haggling. Just a quiet beep, a swipe of his thumb, and—

"Payment confirmed: $750.00"

The notification lit her phone. Laura’s breath hitched—not at the amount, but at how he’d paid. Like he was buying coffee. Like this was normal.

Before she could catch up, his hand settled at the small of her back, warm and firm, guiding her through the crowd. On stage, a Bull groaned as Bambi took him deep; another grunted, sloshing his drink as Victoria swallowed around him. The air throbbed with perfume, sweat, and wet, amplified sucking sounds.

Martin didn’t look. Didn’t react. Just steered her past the chaos to a velvet sofa against the back wall—far enough from the main show to feel private, close enough that the gasps and moans still bled through.

He gestured for her to sit.

Her heels sank into the plush cushion as she lowered herself, dress riding up just enough. She crossed her legs, slow, watching his gaze dip to her thighs, then snap back to her face.

Martin sat beside her, one arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers just brushing her bare shoulder. Not grabbing. Not claiming. Just there.

"So," she said, tilting her head. "You’re not going to ask me to suck your dick in the first two minutes?"

His mouth quirked. "I paid for an hour. I’d rather not rush." His voice was low, rough, like good whiskey.

Laura’s fingers stilled on her hem. Her head tipped a fraction, gaze sharpening. *What do you want?* hung between them, heavy as the perfume on her skin.

Martin didn’t answer with words.

He lifted his bourbon instead, swirling the amber. "How was your day?" he asked, conversational, like they were at some jazz bar instead of inside a flesh carnival.

Laura blinked twice, then smiled slow and dangerous. Oh. So that was the game. She leaned back into the sofa, letting the neckline gape just enough. "I was at the university. I'm a student," she lied without missing a beat. "Art history. Specializing in erotic sculpture." Her fingers traced curves and lines in the air, suggestion obscene. "I love how marble feels under my hands. Cold. Hard."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His lips threatened a laugh. "Your parents must be happy you study."

Laura matched his tone. "My parents don’t know." She leaned in. "They think I'm in choir."

Martin’s breath burst out in a rough, surprised huff. Then he threw his head back and laughed—real and deep, cutting through the lounge’s moans like a bell. His shoulders shook. His eyes crinkled. For a second he looked young. Loose.

Then it shut down.

His fingers strangled the glass, knuckles pale. The laughter died, swallowed by something darker.

Laura’s hand stilled on his thigh. The air shifted—not away from heat, just into something quieter. His laugh had cracked open and slammed shut, leaving a bruise in the room. She knew that sound. A man realizing he’d let too much out.

She exhaled, slow, sinking back into the velvet. "You don’t have to perform for me," she said, voice soft but steady. "We’ve got forty-nine minutes. We can talk about the weather. Your job. My nonexistent choir career." She angled her head to catch his profile, the tight line of his jaw. "Or we can sit here and pretend the rest of this circus doesn’t exist."

The ice in his glass clinked as he took another sip, slower. His next breath came out shaky, like it had been stuck for years. "I’m a lawyer," he said finally, the words dragged up from somewhere deep.

Laura’s lips twitched. "Ah. So you know how to ruin a good time."

That earned her a ghost of a smirk, then a laugh. His hand slid lower, coming to rest on her ass.

Martin’s fingers tightened again, bourbon sloshing. "I’m married to my job," he said, voice rough. "Always was. Cases, clients, courtrooms—never time for anything else." His thumb traced the rim. "Thought I could have both. Career and a life. But one always ate the other."

Laura’s chest pinched. Not the fun way. The familiar way. She’d seen it—loneliness hollowing men out. But she wasn’t a therapist. And she sure as hell wasn’t a savior.

Her fingers dug into his thigh, just shy of painful. "Martin," she said, low but firm. "I’m not here to fix you."

His breath hitched. Then he nodded, slow, like he’d expected it. "I know."

"Good." She looked him dead-on. "Because I charge extra for emotional labor."

A rough sound tore out of him—half laugh, half groan. His hand slid up her back, warm and heavy, but he still didn’t yank her closer.

"Fair enough," he said.

But Laura was done talking. The man needed a fuck. Now. She didn’t ask. Her hand slid up his thigh, slow, until her palm pressed against the heat straining his pants. His leg twitched, sharp and surprised, but he didn’t pull away. Just exhaled through his nose, fingers clenching harder around the glass.

"I—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hips gave a tiny jerk before he forced them still. The glass trembled in his hand. "I didn’t come here to—"

"Talk?" She cut him off. "Neither did I."

Laura’s grip tightened, nails skimming his zipper. "I’m not your therapist, Martin," she murmured, voice going rough. "I’m not your wife. I’m not even your friend."

His throat worked. "Then what—"

"A distraction." She rolled her palm, slow, and his breath stuttered. "A very expensive one. I can't solve your problems. But I can make you forget them for another…" Her fingers walked up his chest, tapping his watch. "Thirty-eight minutes."

The zipper came down with a soft hiss. Laura didn’t waste time. Her hand wrapped around him—hot, hard, pulsing—and Martin’s breath punched out of him, his head tipping back against the sofa.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word raw, dragged from his chest, as her lips wrapped around his cock.