The cabana's bamboo blinds swayed in the artificial breeze, casting shifting shadows over Laura's bare skin. She lay sprawled on her stomach, cheek pressed into the mattress, one leg hitched up—like she'd forgotten how to move. Martin propped himself on one elbow beside her, fingers tracing the faint red marks his grip had left on her hips.

"So," he said, "this is… what, a once-a-year thing for you two?"

Laura exhaled a laugh, muffled against the fabric. "God, no. If we only got to do this once a year, Pat would lose his mind."

Martin's brow furrowed. "Then how does it work? The rest of the time."

She rolled her head to look at him, hair sticking to her damp temple. "Are you asking if we walk around in latex and chastity cages at the grocery store?"

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I was thinking more… in general."

Laura stretched, arms overhead, spine arching. The movement made her wince—sore in all the right ways. "Mostly? We're boring. We've got jobs. Pat works in cybersecurity; I develop software. We have friends who think we're adventurous because we tried that salsa dancing class once. We binge-watch Netflix, argue about who left the dishes in the sink, and—

"—fuck strangers in fake beach cabanas?"

"Occasionally, I do that, yes," Laura grinned. "But that's just a tiny fraction of our dynamic."

Martin’s fingers stilled on her hip. "Dynamic?"

Laura pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing as the movement sent a fresh pulse of soreness through her. "Female-led relationship. FLR. Have you heard of it?"

He shook his head, not with confusion, just curiosity. It was as if she had mentioned a wine he hadn’t tried yet.

She smirked. "Of course you haven’t. You’re not the type to lurk on femdom forums at 2 AM."

"Should I be?"

"Only if you want to see Pat in a maid outfit vacuuming while I critique his technique." She flopped onto her back, arms sprawled above her head. "But the short version? I’m in charge. I'm in charge, not just in a 'yes, dear' sitcom way, but actually in charge. Pat’s submissive. Not just in bed, not just here. At home, in private, in everything that matters."

Martin’s gaze flicked over her—lingering on the faint bruise his thumb had left on her thigh and the way her ribs rose and fell with each breath. "And he’s… okay with that?"

Laura barked a laugh. "Oh, he’s more than okay. He’s the one who brought it up years ago. It started with little things—tying his hands during sex, calling me Mistress when we were alone. Then the chastity cage. Then the rules." She rolled her head to face him, grinning. "Now? He doesn’t even own underwear that isn’t either lace, leather, or comes with small padlocks. I control when he comes, how he dresses, and what he eats half the time. And he loves it."

Martin exhaled through his nose, slowly, considering. "And if he didn’t?"

Laura sobered just enough to meet his eyes. "He could veto anything. Anytime. No safeword needed—just ‘Laura, stop.’ I don’t like this.’ And I’d stop. No questions. But he’s never used it."

"Why not?"

"Because he likes the way I run things." She stretched again, catlike, then propped herself up on one elbow. "You can go downstairs and check. You think he’s miserable?"

Martin’s jaw worked. "He’s… no."

"Exactly." Laura traced a finger down his sternum, watching his muscles tense. "He gets off on the surrender. He enjoys knowing that I am up here, doing whatever I want, while he is down there, watching.

Martin exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the mattress. "I still don’t get it. If you’re in charge all the time, what’s the… point? Where’s the balance?"

Laura snorted, swinging her legs over the edge of the cabana bed. "Who said anything about balance? Life’s not a seesaw, Martin. It’s more like…" She plucked a decorative seashell from the nightstand, turning it over in her fingers. "A tide. Sometimes I’m the wave, sometimes Pat is. But I’m always the moon."

Martin blinked. "That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard."

"Yeah, well, you try explaining power dynamics while your pussy still feels like it got hit by a truck." She tossed the shell back onto the nightstand with a clack. "Look, it’s not like I’m walking around in thigh-high boots cracking a whip 24/7. Most of the time we’re just… us. We bicker over who forgot to take out the recycling. We split a bottle of wine and argue about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. We cuddle on the couch watching a movie, while Pat pretends his hand landed on my boob 'by accident'."

Martin’s fingers stilled. "So it’s… normal."

"God, yes. Except normal with, like, 20% more latex and 50% more orgasms." She grinned, nudging his knee with her foot. "You think I’d put up with his snoring if I didn’t get something out of it?"

A reluctant smirk tugged at Martin’s mouth. "Fair. But—" He hesitated. "You’re telling me you two have… normal sex?"

Laura snorted. "Oh, honey. We have amazing sex. Just because I’m in charge doesn’t mean I’m celibate."

He blinked. "But the chastity cage—"

"—is for control, not punishment." She rolled her eyes. "Pat’s not locked up 24/7. Just when I want him to be. Which, fair enough, is a lot. But when do I let him out?" She fanned herself dramatically. "Let’s just say he makes up for lost time."

Martin’s brow arched. "How generous of you."

Laura grinned, unrepentant. "Oh, my generosity is very self-serving! Pat’s hung."

Martin choked on his breath.

"Yep." Laura propped herself up on her elbows, smirking at his reaction. "Eight and a half inches, thick as my wrist, and he knows exactly what to do with it. Stamina for days. Can go from sweet and slow to ‘holy shit, I’m seeing God’ in two thrusts." She sighed dreamily.

Martin exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "This is the most confusing relationship dynamic I’ve ever heard of."

Laura flopped back down, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. "Only because you’re thinking about it wrong. It’s not about denying him—it’s about owning him."

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. "And he’s… okay with that? Watching you with other guys?"

Laura’s grin turned wicked. "For Pat, watching is part of the foreplay. Half the time, he's so wound up from seeing me with someone else that he comes in his cage before I can unlock him." She mimed an explosion with her fingers. "Poof. Like a champagne cork. It’s adorable."

Martin rubbed his temple. "That’s… a lot."

"Oh, you have no idea." Laura flopped backward onto the bed again, arms splayed. "First time I let him watch me with another guy in person? He came so hard he saw stars. Then he cried a little. Then he thanked me." She sighed, thinking back. "Best anniversary ever."

Martin stared at her. "You’re serious."

"Deadly." She rolled onto her side, propping her head up. "Look, it’s not for everyone. But for us? It’s like… imagine your favorite meal. The one you’d drive an hour for. Now imagine someone told you that you could only have it if you also got to watch someone else enjoy it first. And you realized that watching them eat it actually made it taste better when it was your turn." She shrugged. "Pat's a gourmet pervert. I’m the chef. And tonight?" She gestured vaguely at the cabana, the casino beyond, and the entire chateau humming with debauchery. "This is the Food Network on steroids."

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, carefully: "And you’re… sure he’s fine with that?"

Laura’s smile softened. "He’s more than fine. He needs it. The jealousy, the humiliation, the proof that I’m his, but I can still do whatever I want?" She reached out, tapping his chest lightly. "That’s his kink. And mine's making sure he never forgets it."

Martin stared at her for a long moment, then—against all odds—laughed. "You’re terrifying."

Laura beamed. "Thank you!"

The poker table hummed with the kind of tension that came when money stopped being fun and started being personal. Mr. Suit, back from upstairs, leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a fresh cigarillo dangling between his fingers. The scent of clove and tobacco curled into the air, mixing with the sharp tang of whiskey and the underlying musk of sweat. He’d been gone for twenty minutes—long enough to leave with a flush in his cheeks and a smugness in his smile that said he’d gotten exactly what he paid for.

Pat didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

His stack of chips had grown a bit, but not as much as the balance on his phone had shrunk—he was busy converting Laura's earnings into redeemable chips.

John, though? John was seething.

The Bull had been on a losing streak ever since he returned from the Blow Job Race, his pile of chips dwindling like his patience. His tailored jacket was slung over the back of his chair now, his tie loosened, his gold tooth glinting every time he sneered at his cards. He’d been muttering under his breath for the last three hands, and when Lily dealt another garbage spread—7-2 offsuit—his fist hit the table hard enough to make the chips jump.

"Fucking rigged," he snapped, glaring at the dealer like it was her fault the universe had conspired against him.

Lily didn’t even blink. "We don’t rig, Jack, sugar. The house does not care who wins at poker."

John’s nostrils flared. He shot a venomous look at Pat, who was carefully not meeting his eye, then at Mr. Suit, who exhaled a slow stream of smoke and said, "Maybe the cards just don’t like you?"

John’s face twisted. "Oh, they like me fine. Just not when I’m stuck at a table with a bunch of—" His gaze flicked to Pat and Mark, who'd just joined the table. "—losers."

Mark didn’t react. He was too busy staring at his phone, thumb hovering over Sarah’s latest text: a selfie of her cum-covered face with a kiss emoji and the caption "Thinking of you ♥."

Pat, though, felt John’s glare like a brand. He kept his expression neutral, but his fingers tightened around his cards—Ace-10 suited. Playable. Good, even. But the weight of John’s resentment was a physical thing, pressing down on the table, souring the air, and making Pat’s skin itch.

Pat glanced at his phone again. Still nothing from Laura.

Where the hell is she?

The last update had been the $20,000 transfer, and that had been—he checked the timestamp—fifty-three minutes ago. No messages. No photos. No ding of another transaction. Just radio silence.

His thumb hovered over the screen, itching to text her. Are you okay? Need me? What the fuck are you doing up there?

But he didn’t.

Because if he did, she’d either ignore him—just to remind him who was in charge—or she’d send back something worse. A photo. A voice note. Proof that she was too busy to answer because she was currently wrapped around some bull’s—

"Bets to you, cucky," John sneered, dragging Pat’s attention back to the table.

Pat blinked. Right. Poker.

He glanced at his cards again—still ace-10 suited. Still decent and playable. But John’s aggression was a live wire, crackling with the kind of energy that made Pat’s instincts scream trap.

Across the table, Mark had already folded his hand—some garbage with a 3-7 offsuit—and was now scrolling through his phone, thumb swiping absently over what was definitely another photo from Sarah.

Mr. Suit, ever the picture of calm, exhaled another slow stream of smoke, his fingers tapping idly against his stack of chips. "Clock's ticking, 32."

Pat exhaled through his nose.

Focus.

He tossed in a standard raise—$200—just enough to see where John’s head was at.

John’s lip curled. "Cute." He shoved in a $1,500 reraise without hesitation, chips clattering like hail.

Pat’s fingers twitched.

The turn had been a beautiful, beautiful thing—a 10 of diamonds, landing right next to the 10s of clubs and spades already on the board. With the 10 of hearts in his hand, he had quads.

But John’s bet was loud. Too loud. The man was practically foaming at the mouth, his entire demeanor screaming, 'I have something good.'

Pat hesitated.

Or he’s bluffing.

Or he’s not.

Or—

"Call," Pat said, sliding in the chips.

John’s grin was all teeth. "Good boy."

The river hit—King of spades. Useless to Pat. His quad tens were still the best possible hand.

John glanced at his chips, then at Pat. "All in."

The table went still.

Mr. Suit’s cigarillo paused halfway to his lips. Mark finally looked up from his phone, blinking like he’d forgotten other people existed. Lily’s smirk faltered for a split second before she schooled her expression back into professional detachment.

Pat stared at the mountain of chips in the middle of the table.

John's stack was significantly larger than Pat's. If he called and lost—

You don’t lose with quad tens.

But John wasn’t acting like a man who was bluffing. He was acting like a man who knew he’d won.

Pat’s pulse hammered in his throat.

What does he have?

A full house? Possible. The board was 10-10-K-10-7. If John had a king or a 7 in his hand, he’d have a pair turned into a full house with the 10s on the board.

Or—

"Clock's ticking, sweetheart," John purred, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

Pat’s jaw tightened.

Fuck it.

"Call."

The word hung in the air like a gunshot.

John’s grin widened. He flipped his cards—5-7 suited.

"Full house," he announced, like it was a coronation. "10's full of 7's."

Pat didn’t move.

John’s smile faltered. "What the fuck have you got, Cuck?"

Slowly, Pat turned over his Ace-10.

John’s face went slack.

"Quad. Tens." Pat’s voice was steady, but his hands were shaking.

Silence.

Then—

"WHAT?!"

John’s chair screeched as he shot to his feet, his fist slamming onto the table hard enough to make the chips jump. "BULLSHIT!"

Lily’s eyebrows shot up. "Language, sir."

"FUCK language!" John’s face was purple, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Pat didn’t react. He just sat there, watching as Lily pushed the massive pot toward him, chips sliding across the felt like a landslide.

John’s breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving. "You fucking cheater!"

Mr. Suit finally spoke, voice dry. "Son, if you’re going to accuse a man of cheating, you better have proof."

"I don’t need proof! I know! He’s a fucking cuck! There is no way he's got that much luck!"

Pat’s fingers twitched.

Oh, you dumb motherfucker.

He didn’t rise to the bait. He just stacked his new chips, slow and deliberate, like he was counting sheep.

"Sir." Lily’s voice was steel. "Please calm down."

John’s face twisted as he turned on Lily. "You—you—SMUG LITTLE BI—"

Two massive guards materialized out of nowhere, their black suits stretching over muscles that looked like they could bench-press a car. They moved in sync, stepping between John and Lily like a human wall.

John’s chest heaved like a bull about to charge, but the guards didn’t flinch. One of them—a mountain of a man with a scar cutting through his eyebrow—leaned in just close enough for John to get a whiff of his cologne (something expensive, something mean) and said, low and pleasant, "Walk away, sir."

John’s nostrils flared. He shot one last venomous glare at Pat, then at the table, then at the guards, before snatching his jacket off the back of his chair and storming toward the bar.

The table exhaled.

Mr. Suit took a slow drag of his cigarillo, exhaling smoke through a smirk. "Well. That was entertaining."

Mark, who’d been silently scrolling through Sarah’s latest exploits, finally looked up. "Dude's got issues."

Pat didn’t answer. His hands were still shaking—adrenaline, not fear. He stacked his chips neatly, then pushed back from the table. "I need a break."

Lily arched a brow. "Want us to keep your seat reserved?"

Pat managed a weak grin. "Yes, please. I just need a few minutes."

The Safe Zone was exactly what it promised—a bubble of quiet in the storm. The velvet drapes swallowed sound, the soft lighting turned everything gold and warm, and the air smelled like lavender and clean towels instead of sweat and whiskey. Pat’s shoulders dropped an inch the second he stepped inside.

He beelined for the lockers, fingers fumbling with the combination. The door swung open with a metallic click, revealing the neat stacks of cash he had already stashed for Laura—earnings from earlier in the night, before the $20,000 bombshell. He added his latest winnings, then hesitated, counting the bills twice. Enough. More than enough.

The shower stalls hissed in the background, the sound of running water mixing with the occasional laugh—someone else’s reprieve, someone else’s moment to breathe. Pat leaned against the lockers, rubbing his temples.

Where the hell is she?

He looked up to see Sarah leaning against the doorway of the changing area, a towel wrapped around her. Her usual sleek ponytail was a mess, her mascara was smudged, and the dress she’d been wearing earlier was now a crumpled heap on the floor beside her. She had a fresh set of bruise-like hickeys blooming across her collarbone and a smirk that said she’d earned every one.

"Jesus, Pat," she said. "You look like someone just stole your puppy."

Pat blinked. "I don’t have a puppy."

"Exactly." She tossed the towel into a nearby laundry bin—missed—and started putting on her new outfit. "What’s got you all twisted? Did Laura finally find a bull that can keep up with your size?

Pat’s jaw tightened. "What?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly." She pushed off the doorway and sauntered over, barefoot, her new outfit—some slinky red number that looked like it was held together by prayer and double-sided tape—barely covering anything.

Sarah plopped onto the velvet bench, one leg crossed over the other, her freshly painted toes wiggling in the air. "Well? What are you waiting for, Cinderella? Get over here."

Pat blinked at the stilettos dangling from her fingers—black, strappy, with heels so thin they looked like they could snap under her weight. "Put them on me, genius." She wiggled her toes again, smirking.

Pat swallowed. Right. The deal. Laura and Sarah had an agreement—each could use the other’s slave however they pleased. Just like Laura could borrow Mark for a foot rub or a humbling chore, Sarah had free rein with Pat.

He knelt in front of her, the plush carpet soft under his knees. The scent of Sarah's perfume filled his nose as he took the first shoe, his fingers brushing against her arch. Her skin was still warm from the shower, her toenails glossy with fresh polish.

"You’re trembling," she observed, voice laced with a mix of amusement and concern. "Everything all right?"

Pat focused on sliding the heel onto her foot, his thumb pressing against her instep. "Laura got a $20,000 transfer an hour ago. Haven’t heard from her since."

Sarah’s other foot stilled mid-air. "Twenty thousand? Damn. Who’s the high roller?"

"Don’t know." Pat secured the strap, the buckle clicking into place. "She’s not sent anything since."

Sarah leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. "Pat. Breathe." She waited until he looked up, then tapped his temple with one sharp nail. "She's fine. If she wasn’t, you’d know. Laura doesn’t do stupid shit."

Pat exhaled, shifting to the other shoe. "Yeah, but—"

"No buts." Sarah’s voice softened just a fraction. "You think this is the first time she’s gone radio silent? Please. Remember Vegas? That Brazilian guy with the—"

"Yes, I remember." Pat’s grip tightened on the stiletto. The memory still made his stomach twist.

Sarah grinned. "Exactly. She’s having fun. And you’re here, worrying like a little lost puppy." She wiggled her newly shod feet, admiring them. "Now. You can either sit here fretting, or I can go upstairs, find your wife, and make sure she’s not currently being worshipped by a cult of billionaires."

Pat hesitated. "You’d do that?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Of course I’d do that. Someone’s got to keep you cucks from spiraling." She stood, steadying herself on his shoulder as she tested the heels. "But if I find out she’s just ignoring you because she’s busy riding some guy’s face into the stratosphere, I’m telling her you cried."

Pat exhaled, some of the tension uncoiling from his shoulders. "Thanks, Sarah."

She waved a dismissive hand, already adjusting the strap of her dress. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get sappy on me, Cucky. Save the gratitude for when I actually do something heroic, like teaching Laura how to deepthroat without gagging."

Pat choked.

Sarah cackled, linking her arm through his as they stepped out of the Safe Zone. The velvet drapes whispered shut behind them, sealing away the quiet.

The grand staircase loomed ahead, its gilded banister gleaming under the chandeliers, the casino’s hum audible from down the hallway—laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional yelling from the craps tables.

Sarah paused at the bottom step, turning to face him. "Alright, slave boy. Go back to your poker table. Win some money."

Pat opened his mouth—

"—Yes, Mistress," she cut in, mimicking Laura’s tone perfectly.

He rolled his eyes but played along. "Yes, Mistress."

Sarah grinned, gave his chastity cage a playful flick, making Pat wince, before sauntering up the stairs with hips swaying like a pendulum. Pat watched her go, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction.

Then he turned back toward the casino, already mentally calculating his next bet—

He didn’t see John standing behind the marble statue of some long-dead aristocrat, his gold tooth glinting in the shadow as he watched Pat and Sarah part ways.

The cabana’s fake ocean soundtrack burbled in the background, waves crashing just loudly enough to mask the distant thump of the casino’s bassline.

"So," Martin said, "you and Pat do this often?"

Laura rolled onto her side to face him. "What do you mean?"

"The cuckolding. Outside of… this." Martin gestured vaguely at the chateau beyond the bamboo blinds. "Do you have regulars?"

Laura barked a laugh. "Oh, you mean like a stable of bulls on speed dial?" She shook her head. "God, no. Finding a decent bull is like trying to find a unicorn that also does taxes. Most guys love the idea of fucking a married woman—right up until they realize her husband might actually be in the room. Or even worse, involved."

Martin’s eyebrows lifted. "Involved how?"

Laura propped herself up on one elbow, her fingers tracing idle patterns on Martin’s chest. "Pat’s not just a spectator. He’s part of the experience."

Martin’s pulse jumped under her touch. "How so?"

She smirked. "Oh, where to start?" Her nail circled the flat disc of his nipple, just enough pressure to make him exhale sharply. "Sometimes he preps me. Gets me all warmed up, edges me until I’m desperate, then hands me over like a present. Other times, he’s the bartender. Serves us drinks, refills the ice, and makes sure the bull’s glass never gets empty." Her grin turned wicked. "And if the bull’s into it? Pat’s on his knees faster than you can say ‘open wide.’"

Martin’s throat worked. "You’re saying he—"

"—sucks cock like a champ?" Laura finished, nodding. "Oh yeah. Not because he’s bi—he’s not—but because I told him to." She leaned in, her breath hot against Martin’s abdomen as she started slowly stroking his hardening cock. "He’s my slave. If I say, ‘Pat, be a good boy and clean up the mess made by Mr. Big Dick,’ he doesn’t ask questions. He just gets to work."

Martin’s fingers twitched against the mattress. "And he’s… okay with that?"

"The first time was an accident, really. This bull kept complaining about how Pat was just sitting there while he fucked me. So I asked Pat to shut him up." She mimed zipping her lips with her free hand. "Next thing I know, Pat's on his knees, the guy is moaning like a porn star, and I'm feeling left out."

Martin let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "And you’re telling me guys actually back out of such opportunities because the husband might join in?"

Laura rolled her eyes, her hand rolling his balls gently. "Oh, you’d be surprised. Half these wannabe alphas can’t handle the idea of a man who’s secure enough to watch—or participate." She propped herself up on one elbow, grinning. "They love the fantasy of ‘stealing’ a wife, but the second they realize that Pat is not a weeping, emasculated mess, their enthusiasm disappears." Poof." She mimed an explosion with her fingers. "Egos shatter like cheap glass."

Martin’s brow furrowed. "So they’d rather fuck a woman whose husband is miserable?"

"Exactly!" Laura smirked. "They want to be the big, bad bull who ‘conquers’ the poor, neglected housewife. The second they realize Pat’s choosing this? That he’s getting off on it? Suddenly, they’re not so tough."

Martin exhaled through his nose, amused. "So no one’s ever… stuck around?"

Laura’s smirk faded just a fraction. "Oh, we’ve tried. A few times, even." She plucked at the cabana’s cheap seashell decor, tossing it aside with a clatter. "There was this one guy—Derek, I think?—who lasted almost three months. Pat liked him. Brought him coffee, ironed his shirts, and even invited him to fuck me without me prompting." She snorted. "Derek lasted right up until Pat asked if he wanted to help pick out a birthday present for me. Guy ghosted us the next day."

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. "He couldn’t handle… shopping?"

Laura rolled her eyes as she continued working his now glistening cock. "Most bulls love the idea of a submissive husband—right up until they realize he’s not actually less of a man. Just a different kind." She sighed. "We’d kill for a long-term arrangement. Someone who gets it. Who doesn’t treat Pat like a prop or me like a trophy? But?" She gestured vaguely at the chateau beyond the blinds. "Look around. This place is full of wannabe alphas who think ‘cuckold’ is a dirty word, not a lifestyle."

"So," he said, voice carefully casual, like he was asking about the weather, "theoretically speaking… how would one apply for such a… permanent position?"

Laura's fingers stilled. She blinked. Then she blinked again, realizing that she hadn't misheard that. The cabana's fake ocean sounds burbled on, oblivious to the sudden shift in the room. "You're asking," she said, "how to be our bull."

Martin's gaze didn't waver. "I'm asking how to be your bull."

The possessive nature of the word "your" sent a shiver down her spine. Laura arched an eyebrow, resuming her strokes with deliberate slowness. "You realize that's a job interview, right? And you're currently naked, sporting a hard-on, and covered in fluids."

Martin's lips quirked. "Consider it a… unsolicited application."

Laura huffed a laugh, but her thumb circled the head of his cock, spreading the bead of precome like she was polishing a prize. Then she sat back, eyeing him like he was a puzzle she'd just realized had more pieces than she thought. With a wicked grin, she lifted her hips, positioned him at her entrance, and sank—inch by slow, burning inch—until she was fully seated, her breath escaping in a shaky fuck.

Martin's hands flew to her waist, steadying her, his fingers splayed wide like he was afraid she'd bolt. "You alright?"

Laura's laugh was breathless and strained. "Peachy. Just reminding myself why I don't do back-to-back rounds with men who have your definition of 'gentle.'" She rocked her hips experimentally, wincing as the soreness flared. "Alright, counselor. The interview's officially in session. Rules are simple: I ask, you answer." She rolled her hips in a slow, testing circle, and Martin's breath caught. "The first question is easy. Why should we hire you?"

Martin cleared his throat, fingers flexing against Laura’s hips as she rocked forward again, slow and deliberate. The movement sent a jolt through him, but he kept his voice steady, professional. "I believe my skill set aligns well with your long-term objectives."

Laura’s laugh was breathy, her nails digging into his chest just enough to sting. "Skill set? That’s what we’re calling it?" She rolled her hips again, a testing circle that made them both exhale sharply. "Elaborate."

Martin swallowed. "I’m a team player. Adaptable. And I’ve got… stamina." His voice roughened on the last word as Laura shifted, the drag of her tight around him sending sparks down his spine. "I understand the importance of performance metrics—"

Laura cut him off with a sharp rock of her hips, her breath hitching. "Oh, we’ll be measuring performance, counselor." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "But let’s talk about culture fit. You strike me as the top-down management type. How do you handle… shared leadership?"

Martin’s fingers twitched on her waist. "I thrive in collaborative environments. I don’t need to be the one calling the shots to—fuck—to deliver results."

Laura’s grin was all teeth. "Good answer." She lifted slightly, then sank back down with a slow, deliberate squeeze. "Now, let’s discuss conflict resolution. For example, if Pat has concerns about our working relationship, how would you address them? How do you handle pushback from stakeholders?"

Martin’s breath came faster, but his voice stayed even. "I’d address it directly. Transparency is key. If Pat has feedback, I’d want to hear it—ah—so we can align on expectations."

Laura’s nails scraped down his chest, her rhythm stuttering as her breath grew ragged. "And if he’s resistant to change?"

Martin’s hands slid up her back, grounding her as she moved. "Then I’d demonstrate value. Show him how this benefits all parties." His hips lifted just enough to meet her next descent, the friction making them both gasp. "I’m not here to disrupt. I’m here to enhance."

Laura’s laugh was shaky, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. "God, you’re good at this." She bit down lightly on his collarbone, her hips still rolling in slow, torturous circles. "Final question: Where do you see yourself in five years?"

Martin’s grip tightened, his voice roughening. "Right here. Embedded in this role. Deeply committed." He thrust up gently, earning a broken moan from Laura. "I don’t do short-term contracts."

Laura’s breath hitched, her nails digging in as her rhythm faltered. "Fuck—a proven track record is important, Martin." Her voice was thinning, her body tightening around him. "You’ll need to demonstrate that."

Martin’s hands slid to her ass, guiding her as his control frayed. "I’m a quick learner." His hips lifted again, shallow and controlled, but enough to make Laura’s breath stutter. "And I adapt well to feedback."

Laura’s laugh dissolved into a whimper. "God, you’re overqualified." Her movements turned jerky, her body clenching around him as she chased the edge.

"Let’s talk availability," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "This isn’t a nine-to-five position, Martin. We’d need you to be on call."

Martin’s hands slid up her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine as he met her gentle rolls with shallow thrusts of his own. "I understand the demands of the role," he said, voice rough but controlled. "But I do have prior commitments. My firm expects billable hours."

Laura huffed a laugh, her hips stuttering as a spark of pleasure-pain shot through her still sore pussy. "We’re not asking for exclusivity, counselor. Just… dedication." She shifted, the drag of him inside her sending a shiver down her spine. "Can you prioritize?"

Martin’s grip tightened, just for a second, before he forced his fingers to relax. "I can reallocate resources as needed." His hips lifted in a slow, testing arc, and Laura’s breath hitched. "But I’d need clear expectations. How often would you require my… services?"

Laura’s laugh was breathless, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. "Let’s say biweekly to start. With quarterly reviews." She rocked forward again, her body clenching around him. "And we’d expect you to be willing to work the night shift."

Martin’s breath came faster, but his voice stayed steady. "I’m open to incentive structures." His hands slid to her ass, guiding her in slow, shallow circles. "But I’d need flexibility. Some weeks, I might only be available for remote sessions."

Laura’s grin was all teeth. "We can work with that," she managed, her voice thinning as her climax crept closer. "Now, let’s discuss the compensation package."

Martin’s breathing turned jagged, his hips surging upward to meet her next roll. "Terms?" he managed, voice rough.

Laura’s laugh trembled, her walls fluttering as she teetered on the brink. "Performance bonuses."

That did it. Martin’s restraint shattered. His palms gripped her ass, steering her as he drove into her—faster, rougher, his climax charging forward like a freight train.

Laura’s laughter melted into a needy gasp, her body clenching around him as she rode out the waves.

Martin followed with a rough groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her, his cum filling her battered pussy.

For a long moment, the only sound in the cabana was their ragged breathing and the fake ocean waves burbling in the background.

Laura remained impaled on his softening cock, her cheek pressed against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "Well," she murmured, her voice still thick with aftershocks, "I think that concludes the interview."

Martin’s chest rumbled with a laugh, his arms wrapping around her, holding her close. "I'll await your decision."

Laura propped herself up on one elbow, her grin lazy and satisfied. "Oh, I’m sold." She shifted slightly, wincing as the movement sent a fresh pulse of soreness through her. "But I’ll need to verify with my business partner."

Martin’s brow furrowed. "Business partner?"

Laura’s smirk was all teeth. "Pat."

Martin blinked. "Pat has a veto?"

Laura’s laugh was soft, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Of course he does." She shifted again, this time pulling off him with a wet sound, his cum dripping down her thighs. "This isn’t just about me, Martin. It’s about us."

Martin’s expression darkened, just for a second, before he schooled it back into neutrality. "I see."

Laura’s grin softened. "Don’t look so worried. He’s not the jealous type." She reached for her phone, tapping out a brief message. "I'll just quickly arrange a meet and greet for him!"

With that, she lifted herself off of Martin's cock.

----

The poker table had become Pat’s sanctuary—a place where the only thing that mattered was the cards, the chips, and the next bet. He’d folded his way through two hands, bluffed his way through a third, and just raked in a decent pot with a pair of kings that held up against Mr. Suit’s overconfident flush draw. His stack of chips had grown steadily while the online balance kept going down. Neat towers of red and black stood next to him, each one a small victory against the gnawing uncertainty in his gut.

Ten thousand, two hundred, and fifty dollars’ worth of chips. Not bad.

He exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his latest haul, the plastic smooth under his fingertips. The casino’s hum wrapped around him—the clatter of dice from the craps table, the occasional cheer from the slots, and the low murmur of Bulls trading war stories like they were comparing golf handicaps.

His phone buzzed against his thigh.

Pat’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for it. Not yet. One more hand. Just—

The buzz came again. Insistent.

His head snapped up. Only one person was able to text him on that phone—Laura. His pulse jumped.

The text was short.

"Pineapple. Safe Zone."

Pat’s breath left him in a rush. His shoulders dropped like he’d been holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Pineapple. Their code for 'everything’s fine, but drop what you’re doing.' The one that meant 'I need you,' but not in the way that made his stomach twist with fear. It was a feeling that made his skin prickle with anticipation.

He didn’t hesitate.

"Fold," he said, tossing his cards face-down before the next hand even started.

Mr. Suit arched a brow. "Are you sure, 32? You’re on a roll."

Pat was already standing, chips scraping as he shoved them toward the center of the table. "I’ll be back. Can you save my seat?"

The velvet drapes of the Safe Zone swallowed the casino’s chaos the second Pat stepped through. The air smelled different here—cleaner, softer, like lavender and warm towels instead of sweat and whiskey. His pulse still hammered from Laura’s text, but the quiet wrapped around him like a blanket, muffling the distant clatter of chips and the occasional cheer from the poker tables.

And there she was.

Laura leaned against the far wall, one shoulder propped against the plush upholstery, her dress—some slinky black thing—hiked up just enough to tease. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick smudged, and the faintest bruises bloomed on her thighs where fingers had gripped too hard. But her smile? Radiant. It was as if she had just won the lottery, along with the man who sold her the ticket.

Pat didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the room in three strides, his hand cupping her jaw as he kissed her—hard, desperate, like he could taste the night on her lips. She melted into it, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed over the faint red mark on her collarbone, his brow furrowing.

"You okay?" he murmured.

Laura’s laugh was breathless, her eyes bright. "Better than okay." She bit her lip, then grinned. "I think I just found us a long-term bull."

Pat blinked. ‘You—what?’ But Laura was already hiking up her dress, and oh, fuck, she was dripping, she was—

She didn’t give him time to process. She stepped back, her finger firmly pointing towards the floor. "Lie down, my dear slave."

Pat’s body moved before his brain caught up. The carpet was plush under his knees, then his back, the fibers soft against his skin as he stretched out, his hands resting at his sides. His cock twitched uselessly in its cage, the metal warm against his skin.

Laura hovered over him, her dress pooling around her waist, her thighs bracketing his head. The scent of sex, sweat, and another man's cum hit him like a punch to the gut. Her pussy glistened, swollen and used, cum leaking in slow, thick rivulets down her thighs. More dripped from her ass, streaking her skin, proof of how thoroughly she’d been taken.

Pat’s breath hitched.

Laura grinned down at him, her fingers tracing his jaw. "Pat," she purred, "I'd like you to meet Martin."

And with that, she lowered herself onto his face.