The bedroom mirror fogged at the edges from the shower’s lingering steam, but Laura’s reflection cut through sharp—black lace on her hips, garter straps hanging like unspoken promises. She straightened the stocking seam with quick fingers while Pat knelt behind her, his breath warm at the small of her back.

“Tighter,” she murmured, shifting onto one heel. “The clasp is slipping.”

His fingers fumbled for a second, then tightened the strap with careful precision. The metal of his chastity cage glinted beneath his trousers as he leaned in, the key hanging from the thin chain around her neck. He didn’t need to ask if it was locked. The weight against her skin answered for her.

“You’re staring.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her thigh, slowly, as if mapping her. “Can’t help it.”

She turned and caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Good. Keep looking.” Her voice roughened. “But remember—tonight, you watch.”

His jaw tightened. He knew the rules. Knew the way her mouth curled when she said it, the way her fingers paused on the zipper of her dress—black, backless, clinging like a second skin. The kind that left no doubt she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“What if someone—”

“They will.” She cut him off, palms smoothing down his chest. “That’s the point.”

His exhale stuttered. The cage had been on long enough that the ache of it blurred into background noise, a steady hum under his skin. Tonight, that hum would scream.

Laura stepped into her heels, the spikes clicking on the hardwood. She twisted her hair up, loose strands framing her face, then let it fall again with a shrug. “Too much?”

“No.” His voice came out rough. “Never enough.”

She laughed, low and knowing, and turned to the jewellery box. The collar was simple—black leather, silver ring at the front. She snapped it around her throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. Pat’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“You’re dripping.”

He didn’t deny it. The damp patch on his trousers was obvious, the cage useless at hiding it. Laura dragged a nail along the outline, just once, then stepped back.

“Let’s go. We’re late.”

The engine growled to life as Pat adjusted the rearview mirror. Laura’s reflection stared back—lips parted, fingers toying with the collar’s ring.

“You’re gripping the wheel like it owes you money.”

His knuckles had gone white. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

“Mmm.” She leaned forward, breath ghosting over the back of his neck. “You think that’s bad? Wait till you see what I’ve got planned for you.”

His jaw feathered. The cage pressed, unyielding, every bump in the road a fresh jab. He shifted, the damp fabric clinging.

“You’re cruel.”

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

They idled at a red light. Neon from a diner sign washed over her skin, turning her half-lit and sharp-edged. Pat swallowed.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” She sat back and crossed her legs. The slit in her dress fell open, flashing thigh, the lace tops of her stockings. “Tell me, darling—how long do you think you’ll last before you break?”

His laugh came out flat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I will like it.” The light changed. The car surged forward. Laura’s fingers trailed down her sternum, pausing over the key between her breasts. “But rules are rules. You don’t get to come till I say so.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. The industrial park rose ahead—chain-link, shadow, warehouse lights bleeding yellow into the dark.

“And if I can’t take it?” His voice scraped.

Laura smiled as the car rolled to a stop. “Then you’ll learn.”

The warehouse door groaned shut behind them, cutting off the night’s damp chill. Inside, the air hummed—low music, clinking glasses, the murmur of voices braided with laughter. A woman in a tailored suit, cufflinks flashing, stepped in before Pat could reach for Laura’s hand.

“This way, pet.” Her gaze dropped to the damp mark on his trousers, then up to his face. “You’re expected.”

Laura didn’t look back. She slipped into the crowd, her hips swaying just enough to make the slit in her dress flare, a quick slice of black lace before bodies swallowed her. Pat’s stomach pitched.

The changing room smelled of antiseptic and sweat. A single bulb buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across bare concrete. A broad man leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, biceps stretching his black shirt.

“Strip. Leave the cage. Everything else goes.”

Pat’s fingers trembled on his belt. The man didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just watched with the flat calm of someone who’d seen it all before. Pat’s trousers puddled at his ankles, heavy with damp. His boxers followed. The cage gleamed, obscene, the silver bar stark against his skin.

The man tossed a pair of black lace panties onto the bench. “Put them on.”

Heat flooded Pat’s face. The fabric was cool and too small, elastic biting into his hips as he dragged them up. The cage pushed against the gusset, the lace useless at hiding it. His cock twitched, trapped, the ache sharp and constant.

The man stepped close with a collar—thicker than Laura’s, studded, a solid ring at the front. He didn’t ask. He snapped it around Pat’s neck and clipped a leash on. One testing tug.

“Kneel.”

Pat’s knees hit concrete. Cold sank into bone; his flushed face burned hotter. The man crouched, breath smelling of mint and something darker. “You stay on your knees unless told otherwise. You speak when spoken to.” He hooked a finger under Pat’s chin, forcing eye contact. “Understand?”

Pat swallowed and nodded.

The man stood and looped the leash onto a hook. “Good. Now wait.”

Ice clinked in Laura’s glass as she took a slow sip, gin sharp and clean on her tongue. She leaned on the polished bar, the crowd around her a restless shift of silk, leather, and muscle. No nervous husbands here, no fidgeting men staring at the floor. Just women—relaxed, loud—and men built like promises, their eyes sticking on her a second too long.

A woman in emerald slid onto the stool beside her, dark curls brushing Laura’s bare shoulder. “First time?”

Laura rolled the glass, watching the meltwater. “Is it that obvious?”

“No.” The woman smiled. “But you’ve got that look. Like you’re deciding which dessert to steal first.”

Laura’s laugh came easy. “Maybe I am.”

The woman—Mira, her name tag read—leaned in, her perfume rich and spiced. “Blond by the pool table? He’s new. Eager.” Her nail tapped her glass. “Or him, in the corner. Quiet. But his hands…” She mimed a slow, tight grip. “Know their job.”

Laura followed her gaze. The blond was all shoulders and open grin, sleeves rolled to show forearms dusted in pale hair. The other—dark, lean—sat with his knees spread just enough. His fingers turned his whiskey glass in slow circles.

“Decisions, decisions.” Laura sipped, gin blooming warm in her chest. “You come here often?”

Mira’s laugh purred. “Often enough to know the good ones.” She nodded toward a knot of women near the dance floor, their laughter sharp over the bass. “See the redhead? She’s into restraints. Her last boy didn’t walk straight for a week.”

Laura’s pulse picked up. “Impressive.”

“Mmm.” Mira’s eyes gleamed. “You looking for a show, or looking to be one?”

The question sat between them, heavy. Laura set her glass down, condensation ringing the wood. “Both.”

Mira’s smile widened. “Girl after my own heart.” She clicked her nails on the bar to flag the bartender. “Another round. And tell Marco the black lace in the corner’s got a taste for tequila.”

The bartender, sleeves of ink visible under rolled cuffs, winked. “He’ll like that.”

Laura’s eyes slid back to the dark-haired man. He’d set his drink aside, his fingers now tracing idle lines on his thigh. As if he sensed her stare, he looked up. Their gazes locked.

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

Laura’s breath caught. Oh, this one’s dangerous.

Mira murmured, “Or maybe you’ve already decided.”

The crowd parted around Marcus like it knew better than to brush him. No swagger, no rush—just steady movement, people shifting out of his way. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, fabric thin over muscle. When he stopped in front of Laura, the smell of leather and whiskey—and something faintly metallic, like fresh ink—cut through the perfumes.

Mira grinned openly. “Laura, this is Marcus. Marcus, this is the woman I told you about.”

His voice was low, rough at the edges. “Black lace. Tequila.” A beat. “Mira usually undersells.”

Laura’s fingers tightened on her glass. “Does she now?”

“Usually.” His gaze flicked to the key in her cleavage, then back to her face. “Not this time.”

Mira slid off her stool with a laugh. “I’ll leave you two.” She squeezed Laura’s shoulder, warm, almost possessive. “Play nice.”

Laura watched her go, then looked back at Marcus. He hadn’t moved. Hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked over denim. Waiting.

“First time at one of these?” he asked. No edge. Just curiosity.

She took a sip, tequila burning a clean line down her throat. “That obvious?”

“No.” His mouth twitched. “But you’ve got that look. Like you’re not sure if you’re the hunter or the prey.”

Laura set her glass down. “Can’t I be both?”

His laugh was quiet, more vibration than sound. “Best kind.”

She leaned in, her breath skimming his jaw. “We’ve done parties. Swapping. Sharing. But this?” Her nail traced the rim of her glass. “This is new.”

He didn’t back off. His eyes dropped to her collar, the ring catching the low light. “And your husband?”

“Pat.” The name felt like a secret. “He’s… adjusting.”

“First time in chastity?”

“No.” She let the word hang. His pupils widened a fraction. Good. He likes that.

“You lock him up often?”

“Often enough.” She studied him. “You ask a lot of questions.”

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

Ice clinked as she tipped her glass. “Not yet.”

Marcus’s smile sharpened. “There’s a yet now.”

She didn’t bother answering. The air between them said enough—promise, dare. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch her and was smart enough to wait. Make her ask.

Laura glanced at the dance floor. A woman in crimson had a man kneeling, fist in his hair. His hands slid up her legs, drawing a shiver from her.

Marcus followed her line of sight. “You like watching?”

“I like control.” She turned back, her knee brushing his thigh. “You?”

His voice dropped. “I like taking it.”

The leash snapped tight and jerked Pat’s head up. The organiser—a woman with a voice like cracked leather—didn’t look at him. She just tugged again.

Up.

His knees screamed as he stood. The lace panties rode high; the cage dug in, a hard, maddening weight. Around him, other men rose in a rustle of fabric and metal—collars, chains, a few strained whimpers. No one met anyone’s eyes.

The organiser led them through a heavy curtain. The air cooled, sharper, tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The play space spread out in front of them—a maze of stations. A St. Andrew’s cross with cuffs hanging open. A spanking bench, its vinyl shining under the lights. A suspension frame, ropes coiled like snakes. Off to one side, a corridor of doors. On the other, a low stage visible from everywhere.

Her heels clicked as she stopped at the cross. The cuffs gaped, ready. She pointed.

One cuckold stepped out of line, shoulders hunched. She grabbed his wrist, slammed it to the beam, and buckled him in. The snap echoed. His breath hitched as she strapped the other wrist, then his ankles, pulling him wide. His caged cock—small, flushed—jerked, already wet.

No talk. No comfort. Just work.

Pat’s heart hammered as she moved to the next setup: a row of glory hole booths, curtains tied back. A woman in latex gloves waited beside them, a ring of keys at her hip. She lifted a finger. Two men stepped forward, collars gleaming. One hesitated, throat bobbing.

“Scared?” she asked, amused.

He shook his head, hands shaking anyway.

“In,” she ordered, jerking her chin at the first booth.

They knelt on the padded benches, facing the wall. Restraints closed around wrists and ankles with brisk snaps. Curtains swished shut, swallowing them.

Pat’s stomach turned. The organiser’s leash went taut, dragging him past a cluster of men in frilly aprons and fishnets. Their faces were hot and blotched as a woman in a corset barked orders—polish the glasses, kneel when you speak, and for fuck’s sake, stop slouching. One dropped a tray of flutes. Her slap cracked across his cheek. “Again.”

A sob cut through the noise.

Pat’s head whipped toward it. On a punishment bench, a man lay strapped down, wrists and ankles pinned. His ass was bare, still unmarked, a cane resting against the leg of the bench. His collar was thicker, reinforced, a heavy chain running from its ring to the frame.

Pat flinched. The organiser’s fingers tightened on his leash, nails biting his neck. “Eyes forward.”

He obeyed.

Ahead, a sissy maid in thigh-highs and a corset held a silver tray—lube, a dildo, a coil of rope. No smile. Just a small nod toward an empty corner.

Pat’s breath quickened. 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. “And if you’re very good… maybe you get a reward.”

The crowd shifted, and Laura stood alone at a high table, watching.

She didn’t look up when a man’s presence settled close behind her. “You always move in this fast?”

“Only when it’s worth it.” His voice was smooth, low, no strain. He tilted his glass toward Marcus at the bar, still watching her, gaze heavy. “Saw you with Marcus earlier. He’s got the look of a man who’d rather break things than share them.”

She rolled her drink, ice clinking. “And you don’t?”

Derek’s chuckle stayed down in his chest. “Oh, I break things.” He sipped his whiskey. “I just like putting them back together after.”

Laura met his eyes. Sharp. Measuring. Not a predator’s stare, like Marcus. More like someone weighing tools. “You’ve done this before.”

“Cuckolding?” He tipped his head. “Oh yes. More times than I can count.”

“With the husband in the room?”

“Sometimes.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Depends on what they want. Some want to watch. Some want every detail later. Some don’t want to be involved at all.”

Her fingers tightened on the glass. “Pat’s not like that.”

“No?” His brow rose. “Tell me about him. Tell me about you.”

She exhaled through her nose. “We’re new. We’ve talked about it, roleplayed, fantasised… but tonight’s the first time actually doing it.”

“You’re worried?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her jaw worked. “I don’t want to wreck us. I know I’ll get to fuck attractive guys, but what about him? I know it’s his fantasy; I know he wants it. I just don’t know how to keep his dream from turning into a nightmare.”

Derek’s mouth curled. “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?”

“By giving him what he really wants.” His eyes flicked to the key between her breasts, then back. “You know what sets him off. I’d bet humiliation’s a start. Teasing. Edging. But it’s the after that counts. How you tell him what happened. How it felt. How good it was. How sore you are.” His fingers tapped the table, slow. “Maybe let him clean you up. Make him beg to do it again.”

Her breath caught. The glass shook in her hand.

“You ever let him lick another man off you?” Derek asked.

“No.” The word came out thin.

“You should.” His smile went slow, sure. “Nothing makes a cuckold harder than the taste of the man who just fucked his wife.”

The wall was cold against Pat’s back, the concrete scraping where his skin flattened. His shoulders screamed as the cuffs yanked his wrists high. The organiser hauled the last buckle tight at his ankles, spreading him wide. A strap across his forehead locked his head in place. No slack anywhere.

Gloved fingers dug into his hip. Something slick and thick pushed against his hole. He tried to tense, but the cage pinned his cock, metal biting the underside as the dildo forced its way in. No warm-up. No easing. Just steady, implacable pressure until his breath sawed through his nose and the base seated flush. The stretch felt obscene, too much.

His eyes blurred. The inflatable gag came next—rubber, wet with spit as she shoved it between his teeth. The pump hissed. The ball swelled, packing his mouth until his jaw throbbed, tongue pinned. A strap snapped behind his head, sealing it in. He gagged; drool spilled down his chin, muffled by the rubber plug.

Heels clicked away. “Good,” the organiser said. “Now you listen.”

A metal table scraped into place in front of him, the edge digging into his chest. The height was perfect for someone to lean on while they watched. While they watched him.

His breath came fast through his nose. The dildo sat heavy inside him; the cage burned against his skin. Sounds sharpened—the whip-crack of cane on flesh, a choked sob, heels on concrete. His cock twitched helplessly in its cage, pain and want knotted tight.

A shadow fell over him. The sissy maid gave him a slow once-over and nodded, satisfied. “First time?” she asked, softening. “You’ll get used to it.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even nod. His pulse hammered at his throat.

The bright overheads snapped off. Red and blue wash lights bled across the room, and soft music slid in over the speakers.

“Sorry, got to get to my station. Have fun!” the sissy chirped, vanishing into the dark.

A door opened to Pat’s left. Light spilled in as a crowd poured into the playspace.

He swallowed hard.