The bedroom mirror fogged at the edges from the shower's lingering steam, but Laura's reflection cut through sharp--black lace clinging to her hips, the garter straps dangling like unspoken promises. She adjusted the stocking's seam, fingers deft, while Pat knelt behind her, his breath warm against the small of her back.

"Tighter," she murmured, shifting her weight onto one heel. "The clasp is slipping."

His fingers fumbled--just for a second--before tightening the strap with deliberate care. The metal of his chastity cage glinted beneath his trousers as he leaned in, the key dangling from a thin chain around her neck. He didn't need to ask if she'd locked it properly. The weight of it was answer enough.

"You're staring."

His thumb brushed the inside of her thigh, slow, like he was memorising the shape of her. "Can't help it."

She turned, catching his wrist before he could retreat. "Good. Keep looking." Her voice dropped, rough-edged. "But remember--tonight, you watch."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He knew the rules. Knew the way her lips curved when she said it, the way her fingers lingered on the zipper of her dress--black, backless, the kind that clung like a second skin. The kind that made it clear she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"What if someone--"

"They will." She cut him off, smoothing her palms down his chest. "That's the point."

His exhale hitched. The cage had been on long enough that the ache of it was just background noise now, a constant hum beneath his skin. But tonight? Tonight, the hum would be a scream.

Laura stepped into her heels, the spike of them clicking against the hardwood. She twisted her hair up, loose tendrils framing her face, then let it fall again with a shrug. "Too much?"

"No." His voice was gravel. "Never enough."

She laughed, low and knowing, and turned to the jewellery box on the dresser. The collar was simple--black leather, a silver ring at the front. She fastened it around her throat, the snap loud in the quiet room. Pat's fingers twitched at his sides.

"You're dripping."

He didn't bother denying it. The damp spot on his trousers was obvious, the cage doing nothing to hide the evidence of his arousal. Laura traced the outline of it with her nail, just once, before stepping back.

"Let's go. We're late."

The engine growled to life, low and throaty, as Pat adjusted the rearview mirror. Laura's reflection stared back--lips parted, fingers toying with the collar's silver ring.

"You're gripping the wheel like it owes you money."

His knuckles whitened. "Traffic's a bitch."

"Mmm." She leaned forward, just enough for her breath to ghost against the back of his neck. "You think that's bad? Wait till you see what I've got planned for you."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. The cage pressed, unyielding, every bump in the road a fresh reminder. He shifted in his seat, the damp fabric clinging.

"You're cruel."

"No." Her fingernail scraped the leather of the backseat, slow. "I'm generous. You'll be begging by the end of it."

The car idled at a red light. Neon from a diner sign bled across her skin, turning her into something half-lit and dangerous. Pat's throat worked.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely." She sat back, crossing her legs. The slit in her dress parted, offering a flash of thigh, the lace tops of her stockings. "Tell me, darling--how long do you think you'll last before you break?"

His laugh was sharp, humourless. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, I will like it." The light changed. The car lurched forward. Laura's fingers trailed down her own sternum, lingering above the key tucked between her breasts. "But rules are rules. You don't get to come till I say so."

Pat's grip tightened. The industrial park loomed ahead, all chain-link and shadow, the warehouse lights bleeding sickly yellow into the dark. His voice was rough. "And if I can't take it?"

Laura smiled, slow and deliberate, as the car rolled to a stop. "Then you'll learn."

--

The warehouse door groaned shut behind them, swallowing the night's damp chill. Inside, the air hummed--low music, the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices tangled with laughter. A woman in a tailored suit, her cufflinks glinting like teeth, stepped forward before Pat could reach for Laura's hand.

"This way, pet." Her gaze flicked to the damp spot on his trousers, then up to his face. "You're expected."

Laura didn't look back. She melted into the crowd, her hips swaying just enough to make the slit in her dress part, a flash of black lace before the bodies swallowed her whole. Pat's stomach dropped.

The changing room smelled of antiseptic and sweat. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. A man--broad, silent--leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His biceps strained the seams of his black shirt.

"Strip. Leave the cage. The rest goes."

Pat's fingers trembled on his belt buckle. The man didn't move, didn't blink, just watched with the flat-eyed patience of someone who'd seen this a hundred times before. The trousers pooled at his ankles, the damp fabric clinging. His boxers followed. The cage gleamed, obscene, the silver bar a stark contrast against his skin.

The man tossed a pair of black open crotch lace panties onto the bench. "Put them on."

Pat's face burned. The fabric was cool, too small, the elastic biting into his hips as he pulled them up. The cage pressed, the panties doing nothing to hide the outline of it. His cock twitched, trapped, the ache sharp and constant.

The man stepped forward, a leather collar in his hand--thicker than Laura's, studded with a silver ring at the front. He didn't ask. He fastened it, the snap loud in the quiet room, then hooked a leash to the ring. A tug, just once, to test the weight.

"Kneel."

Pat's knees hit the concrete. The cold seeped through, but the heat in his face was worse. The man crouched, his breath smelling of mint and something darker. "You'll stay on your knees unless told otherwise. You'll speak when spoken to." His finger hooked under Pat's chin, forced his gaze up. "Understand?"

Pat swallowed. Nodded.

The man stood, looping the leash on a nearby hook. "Good. Now wait."

--

The ice clinked in Laura's glass as she took a slow sip, the gin sharp and clean against her tongue. She leaned against the bar's polished edge, the crowd a shifting sea of silk and muscle around her. No nervous husbands here, no fidgeting cuckolds with their eyes glued to the floor. Just women--confident, laughing--and men built like promises, their gazes lingering a second too long.

A woman in emerald green slid onto the stool beside her, her dark curls brushing Laura's bare shoulder. "First time?"

Laura swirled her drink. "Is it that obvious?"

"No." The woman's lips curved. "But you've got that look. Like you're deciding which dessert to steal first."

Laura laughed, low and unguarded. "Maybe I am."

The woman--Mira, according to the name tag clipped to her dress--leaned in, her perfume something rich and spiced. "The blond by the pool table? He's new. Eager." Her fingernail tapped the rim of her glass. "Or there's the one in the corner. Quiet. But his hands..." She mimed a slow, deliberate grip. "Know what they're doing."

Laura followed her gaze. The blond was all broad shoulders and easy grins, his shirt sleeves rolled up to show off forearms dusted with gold hair. The other--dark-haired, lean--sat with his legs spread just enough to hint at what he was packing. His fingers toyed with a whiskey glass, slow, methodical.

"Decisions, decisions." Laura took another sip, the gin warming her. "You come here often?"

Mira's laugh was a purr. "Often enough to know the good ones." She nodded toward a cluster of women near the dance floor, their laughter bright against the throb of the bass. "See the redhead? She's got a thing for restraints. Her last boy couldn't walk straight for a week."

Laura's pulse jumped. "Impressive."

"Mmm." Mira's eyes gleamed. "You looking for a show, or you looking to be one?"

The question hung between them, heavy with possibility. Laura set her glass down, the condensation ringing against the bar. "Both."

Mira's smile widened. "Girl after my own heart." She flagged down the bartender, her nails clicking against the counter. "Another round. And tell Marco the black lace in the corner's got a taste for tequila."

The bartender--sleeves of ink peeking from under his rolled shirtsleeves--winked. "He'll like that."

Laura's gaze flicked back to the dark-haired man. He'd set his drink aside, his fingers now tracing idle patterns on his thigh. As if he felt her looking, his head lifted. Their eyes locked.

No smile. No nod. Just a slow, deliberate once-over that lingered on the collar at her throat, the key glinting between her breasts.

Laura's breath hitched. Oh, this one's dangerous.

Mira's voice dropped to a murmur. "Or maybe you've already made your choice."

The crowd parted for Marcus like water around a blade--no rush, just the quiet certainty of a man used to being let through. His shirt clung to his shoulders, the fabric stretched thin over muscle, and when he stopped in front of Laura, the scent of leather and something darker--whiskey, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of a fresh tattoo--cut through the perfumed air.

Mira didn't bother hiding her grin. "Laura, this is Marcus. Marcus, this is the woman I was telling you about."

His voice was low, rough-edged. "Black lace. Tequila." A beat. "Mira's got a habit of underselling."

Laura's fingers tightened around her glass. "Does she now?"

"Usually." His gaze flicked to the key nestled between her breasts, then back to her face. "But not this time."

Mira slid off her stool with a laugh. "I'll leave you two to it." She squeezed Laura's shoulder, her touch warm, possessive. "Play nice."

Laura watched her go, then turned back to Marcus. He hadn't moved, just stood there with his hands in his pockets, thumbs hooking the denim. Waiting.

"First time at one of these?" His question wasn't mocking. Just curious.

She took a sip, the tequila burning smooth down her throat. "That obvious?"

"No." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "But you've got that look. Like you're trying to decide if you're the hunter or the prey."

Laura set her glass down. "Can't I be both?"

His laugh was quiet, almost a rumble. "Best kind."

She leaned in, just enough for her breath to ghost against his jaw. "We've done parties before. Swapping, sharing. But this?" Her fingernail traced the rim of her glass. "This is new."

Marcus didn't pull back. His gaze dropped to her collar, the silver ring catching the low light. "And your husband?"

"Pat." The name tasted like a secret. "He's... adjusting."

"First time in chastity?"

"No." She let the word hang, let him fill in the blanks. His pupils dilated, just slightly. Good. He likes the idea.

"You lock him up often?"

"Often enough." She tilted her head, studying him. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Only the ones that matter." His thumb brushed his lower lip, slow. "You ever let anyone else play with him?"

The ice in her glass clinked as she swirled it. "Not yet."

Marcus's smile turned sharp. "There's a yet now."

She didn't answer. Didn't need to. The air between them was thick with it--the promise, the challenge. His fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. Smart man. He'd wait. Make her ask.

Laura's gaze flicked to the dance floor, where a woman in crimson silk had a man on his knees, her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands were sliding up her legs, giving her a shiver.

Marcus followed her gaze. "You like watching?"

"I like control." She turned back to him, her knee brushing his thigh. "And you?"

His voice dropped, rough. "I like taking it."

--

The leash tugged sharp, snapping Pat's head up. The organiser--a woman with a voice like cracked leather--didn't look at him. Just jerked the leash again, a silent command.

Up.

His knees ached as he stood, the lace panties riding too high, the cage a constant, maddening pressure. Around him, the other men rose in a rustle of fabric and clinking metal--collars, chains, the occasional whimper. None of them met each other's eyes.

The organiser led them through a heavy curtain, the air shifting instantly--cooler, sharper, smelling of antiseptic and something electric. The play area stretched before them, a maze of stations: a St. Andrew's cross, its leather cuffs dangling; a spanking bench, the vinyl gleaming under the low lights; a suspension rig, the ropes coiled like sleeping snakes. Off to the right, a corridor led to a suite of rooms, while to the right, a stage was visible to all.

The organiser's boot heels clicked against the concrete as she halted beside the first station--a St. Andrew's cross, its padded leather cuffs already unbuckled, waiting. She didn't speak. Just pointed.

One of the cuckolds stepped forward, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a blow. The organiser grabbed his wrist, yanked it against the cross's vertical beam. The snap of the buckle was loud. His breath hitched as she secured the other wrist, then his ankles, spreading him wide. His cock--small, flushed--twitched against the cage, already leaking.

No words. No reassurance. Just efficiency.

Pat's pulse hammered as she moved to the next station--a row of glory hole booths, their heavy curtains drawn open. A woman in latex gloves stood beside them, a silver keyring jingling from her belt. She crooked a finger. Two cuckolds stepped forward, their collars glinting under the harsh lights. One hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing.

The latex-gloved woman smirked. "Scared?"

He shook his head, but his hands trembled. The woman jerked her chin toward the first booth. "In."

They kneel on the padded benches, facing the wall and are quickly secured. The curtain was drawn and they were swallowed whole.

Pat's stomach twisted. The organiser's leash went taut again, dragging him past a cluster of men in frilly aprons and fishnet stockings, their faces flushed as a woman in a corset barked orders--polish the glasses, kneel when you speak, and for fuck's sake, stop slouching. One of them fumbled a tray of champagne flutes. The woman's hand cracked across his cheek, sharp. "Again."

A sob cut through the murmur.

Pat's head snapped toward the sound--a punishment bench, its padded top already gleaming with something slick. A man was bent over it, his wrists and ankles strapped down, his ass bare, as yet unstriped from a cane resting against the bench's leg. His collar was different--thicker, studded, sturdier. A heavy chain attaches the ring to the bench.

Pat flinched. The organiser's grip on the leash tightened, her nails biting into his skin. "Eyes forward."

He obeyed.

Ahead, a sissy maid in thigh-highs and a corset held a silver tray--lube, an anal plug, a coil of rope. She didn't smile. Just nodded toward an empty corner.

Pat's breath came fast. The organiser unhooked his leash, her fingers brushing the collar at his throat. "You'll stay quiet. You'll stay still." Her lips grazed his ear, her voice a blade. "And if you're very good... you'll see."

--

The had crowd shifted and Laura stood alone at a table, observing the crowd.

Laura didn't look up from her drink when she felt a man’s presence close behind her. "You always move in this fast?"

"Only when it's worth it." His voice was smooth, the kind that carried weight without raising volume. He nodded toward Marcus, still leaning against the bar, his gaze dark with promise. "I saw you talking to Marcus earlier. He's got the look of a man who'd rather break things than share them."

She swirled her glass, the ice clinking. "And you don't?"

Derek chuckled, low. "Oh, I break things." He sipped his whiskey, neat. "Just prefer to put them back together after."

Laura finally met his eyes. They were sharp, assessing--but not in the way Marcus's were. Not a hunter's gaze. A craftsman's. "You've done this before."

"Cuckolding at parties?" He tilted his head. "Oh yes. More times than I can count."

"With the husband in atttendance?"

"Sometimes." His thumb traced the rim of his glass. "Depends on what they're after. Some want to watch. Some want to be told about it later, in detail." A pause. "Some just want to be left out entirely."

Laura's fingers tightened around her glass. "Pat's not like that."

"No?" Derek's brow lifted. "Tell me about him. Tell me about you."

She exhaled through her nose. "We're new this. Not cuckolding, but parties like this. We talked about it, roleplayed it, fantasized about it... but tonight will be the first time actually doing it."

Derek leaned in, just slightly. "You're worried?"

Laura exhaled. "Yes. I don’t want to ruin our relationship. I know I'll get to have public sex with attractive hunks, but what about him?! I know its his fantasy, I know he wants it. I just dont know yet how I can keep his dream from becoming a nightmare."

Derek chuckled. "Then you know the trick isn't just making sure you get off." His voice dropped. "It's making sure he does too. Even if he never touches you."

Laura's pulse jumped. "How?"

He smirked. "By giving him what he really wants." His gaze flicked to the key nestled between her breasts, then back to her face. "You should know what he reacts best to. I'd guess humiliation's a start. Maybe some teasing, edging? But it's the after that matters. The way you describe what happened. Tell him how it felt, how good it was, how sore you are. Maybe let him clean you up and make him beg for the chance to do it again."

Laura's breath hitched. Derek's finger tapped the table, once, twice. "You ever let him lick another man off you?"

The glass trembled in her hand. "No."

"You should." His smile was slow, knowing. "Nothing makes a cuckold harder than the taste of the man who just fucked his wife."

--

The wall was cold against Pat's bare back, the concrete rough where his skin pressed flat. His wrists screamed in the cuffs, the leather biting deep as the organiser ratcheted the last buckle tight--ankles spread, arms yanked high, his head locked in place by a strap across his forehead. No slack. No mercy.

A gloved hand gripped his hip, fingers digging in as something slick and thick pressed against him. He tried to tense, but the cage trapped his cock, the metal bars biting into the underside as the big, vibrating anal plug breached him. No warm-up. No gentleness. Just a slow, relentless push until his breath hitched through his nose, his body forced to take it all. The base seated flush against him, the width stretching him obscenely.

Pat's vision blurred. The inflatable penis gag came next--rubber, slick with spit as the sissy maid worked it between his teeth. The pump hissed, the rubber penis expanding, filling his mouth until his jaws ached, his tongue pinned flat. A strap buckled behind his head, sealing it in place. He gagged, saliva dripping down his chin, but the sound was swallowed by the gag's bulk.

The maid stepped back, her boot heels clicking. "Good. Now you're ready."

A metal table--small, square--scraped into place in front of him, the edge digging into his sternum. The height was deliberate. Just right for a woman to lean on while she watched the show. Watched him.

Pat's breath came fast through his nose, the plug a constant, heavy presence inside him, the cage a cruel reminder of why he was here. The room's noises bled into the background - a muffled sob, heels clicking on the floor. His cock twitched, trapped, the ache sharp and desperate.

A shadow fell across him. The sissy maid looked Pat over and gave him a satisfied nod. "First time?" She gave Pat a sympathetic smile. "You'll get used to it."

Pat couldn't answer. Couldn't nod. Could only stare, his pulse hammering in his throat.

Suddenly the bright lights went out. The whole space was dimly lit with red and blue mood lights and soft music started to play over the loudspeakers.

"Sorry, got to go to my station. Have fun!" the sissy said, before vanishing into the dark.

A door opened to Pats left, and amongst a beam of light, a crowd of people entered the play area.

He gulped.