The double doors swung shut behind Laura, sealing her inside the cavernous play space. Warm, amber lighting spilled across plush sofas arranged in loose clusters, their dark leather gleaming under the glow. Between them, sturdy wooden benches stood like silent sentinels, their surfaces polished smooth by countless restless hands. And then there were the other furnishings—frames of chrome and padded leather, strange contraptions with straps and buckles, their purpose unmistakable.

A low hum of conversation and the occasional laugh filled the air. Laura’s fingers twitched at her sides as she stepped further in, her heels sinking slightly into the thick carpet. The scent of leather, sweat, and something darker—something electric—hung heavy.

Her gaze flicked from one tableau to the next.

To her left, a man knelt on a cushioned mat, his wrists bound behind his back, his head bowed. His wife—elegant in a sleek black dress—stood beside him, one hand resting possessively on the shoulder of another man. Their laughter carried, bright and unselfconscious.

Further back, a cuckold was secured to a St. Andrew’s cross, his chest heaving as a woman in a corset traced a flogger down his spine. His eyes were wide, locked onto the couple tangled together on a nearby sofa, their bodies moving in slow, deliberate rhythm.

Laura exhaled through her nose, her pulse thrumming in her throat.

A group of women lounged on a curved sectional, their drinks half-finished on the low table before them. One of them—a brunette with a smirk sharp enough to cut—leaned forward and snapped her fingers. A sissy maid quickly rushed over and dropped to her knees.

“Good gurl,” the lady purred, lovingly patting the sissies head before ordering a new drink.

Laura’s lips parted. She’d read about this, fantasised about it, but seeing it in the flesh was something else entirely. The raw, unapologetic ownership. The way these men were reduced to nothing but need and obedience, their pride stripped away like old wallpaper.

She took another step, her hips swaying just a little more than necessary. A few heads turned. A few gazes lingered.

The air thickened as Laura moved deeper into the club, the scent of sex and leather clinging to her skin. Her peripheral vision caught Pat—his back pressed against the wall, arms stretched above him in cuffs, the open crotch lace panties openly displaying the small metal cage. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, his thighs trembling.

She didn’t go over. Not yet.

----

A narrow hallway branched off to the right, lined with heavy curtains instead of doors. The sounds spilling from behind them were unmistakable—wet, desperate, the kind of noises people only made when they’d been pushed past shame. Laura’s fingers trailed along the wall as she stepped closer, the carpet giving way to cool tile beneath her heels.

The first curtain was drawn back just enough to reveal a glimpse inside. A woman straddled a man’s face, her thighs squeezing his head as he lapped at her like a man dying from thirst. His hands were bound behind his back, his cock—small, flushed—trapped in a cage that glinted under the dim light. The woman’s nails dug into the armrests of the chair, her back arching as she rode his mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips.

Laura’s breath hitched. She could taste the humiliation in the air, thick and intoxicating.

Further down, another curtain twitched. A man was on his knees, his forehead pressed to the floor, his ass in the air. A woman—tall, her dark hair piled high—stood over him, one stilettoed foot planted on his ass cheeks as another man fucked her hard from behind.

The bull’s fingers sank into the woman’s hips, his knuckles white. He yanked her back against him with a grunt, each thrust punishing, relentless. The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed off the walls, wet and brutal.

Her tits swung free, heavy and flushed, the nipples stiff as they bounced with every rough drive of his cock. A gasp tore from her throat, her head lolling back as the bull pounded into her. The man beneath them moaned, his face still pressed to the floor, his own useless cock trapped and aching.

“Fuck—yes—” the woman choked out, her voice raw. The bull’s other hand snaked up, gripping her throat just enough to tilt her head back further. His breath was hot against her ear, his hips snapping against her ass with a force that made her knees buckle.

The bull’s voice cut through the haze, rough as gravel.

“Look at your husband, slut. Still thinks he’s a man while he’s kneeling there like a fucking footstool.”

The woman’s laugh was breathless, her fingers clawing at the bull’s forearm as he drove into her. “Yessss, fuck me hard. Show him how to do it! Show him how to please a woman properly!"

The kneeling man’s shoulders hitched, a sound escaping him.

“Shh,” the woman cooed, grinding back against the bull’s cock. “You don’t get to make noise unless I say so. Not while real men fuck me like I deserve.”

The bull’s grip on her throat tightened, his hips stuttering as he bottomed out. “You hear that, cuck? This cunt’s mine tonight. Gonna fill her up so full you'll still taste me in two weeks.”

A whimper. The kneeling man’s cock strained against his cage, precome dripping onto the tiles beneath him. He wasn’t even being touched, but his whole body shuddered with every thrust the woman took, like the denial itself was driving him out of his mind.

Laura’s thighs pressed together. She could feel the damp heat building between them, her pulse a heavy thrum in her clit.

A low, guttural moan cut through her haze—deep, male, the kind of sound that came from a place beyond thought. She turned.

The last room had no curtain. Just an open doorway, framing a scene that made her stomach flip.

A man was bent over a spanking bench, his wrists and ankles secured, his ass red and glistening. A woman—her back to Laura, her black latex dress clinging to every curve—gripped his hips and fucked him with a strapon in long, punishing strokes. His cock, uncaged but ignored, leaked onto the bench beneath him, his body jerking with every thrust.

“That’s it,” the woman growled, her voice rough. “Take it like the little slut you are.”

The woman’s hips snapped forward, the harness creaking with the force. Her fingers dug into the man’s flesh, nails biting deep.

“Gonna come, aren’t you?” she taunted, her voice a dark purr. “Gonna shoot your pathetic load all over this bench like the desperate little bitch you are—and no one’s even touching that useless little dick of yours.”

The man’s breath came in ragged gasps, his knuckles white where they gripped the bench. “N-no—fuck—I can—”

“You can’t do shit.” She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’re mine. Every whimper, every drop of precome leaking out of you—mine.” Another sharp thrust, the strapon burying deep. “And you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Just from my cock in your ass, like the needy little slut you are.”

His thighs trembled, his cock twitching, the head swollen and dark. “P-please—”

“Please what?” She laughed, low and cruel, and drove into him harder. “Please let you pretend you’re still a man? Please stop so you can jerk that sad excuse for a dick and lie to yourself about who really owns you?” Her free hand snaked beneath him, grabbing his balls. “Or are you begging me to keep going? To fuck this tight little hole until you scream?”

His hips jerked, his body betraying him. “I—I don’t—nnngh—”

“You don’t what?” She pulled back, then slammed home, her thighs slapping against his ass. “You don’t want to come? Liar.” Another thrust, deeper this time, her voice dropping to a growl. “You’ve been dreaming of this. Of some real cock stretching you open. Of being used like the fucktoy you are.”

His breath hitched, his body tensing—

“That’s it,” she crooned, her lips against his ear. “Let go. Come for me.”

A sound tore from his throat, his back arching as his cock pulsed, ropes of cum splattering onto the bench beneath him, thick and heavy. His ass clenched around the strapon, milking it as his body shuddered, his release wrenched from him without a single touch to his own cock.

The woman didn’t stop. She fucked him through it, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, dragging out every last twitch of his spent body.

“Good boy,” she murmured, slowly pulling the strapon out of his stretched asshole. “You're such a good little slut for me.”

The woman’s fingers wrapped around the base of the strapon, her latex-gloved hand glistening under the dim light. With a slow, deliberate tug, she pulled free, the condom slick with lube. He gasped, his body still trembling from the forced orgasm, his spent cock twitching against the bench.

The curtain rustled.

A sissy maid glided into the room, her movements fluid in her frilly black dress and white apron. Her blonde wig was perfectly styled, her lips painted a glossy red. She carried a damp cloth in one hand, a small silver key in the other. Her gaze flicked to the man’s softening cock, still leaking the last of his release onto the bench. Without waiting, she pressed the cloth to his shaft, wiping away the come with slow, methodical strokes. He flinched, his hips twitching, but the maid’s grip was firm.

The woman above him chuckled.

The maid finished wiping him, then reached for the chastity cage resting on the side table. The cool metal clicked open, the hinges whispering. Before he could even react, she cupped his balls and cock, guiding them back into their prison with practised ease. The cage snapped shut, the key turned.

Click.

“There,” the maid said, patting his soft cock through the cage. “All safe and sound.”

The woman straightened, her latex dress creaking as she stretched. “Such a good bitch-boy,” she cooed, running her fingers through his hair one last time. “But Mistress has other plans now. Other needs.” She glanced toward the maid. “Put him in on glory hole duty. He needs the training.”

The man’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against the bench. “M-Mistress, please—”

“Please, what?” She arched a brow, her lips curling. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.” She turned toward the door, her hips swaying. “Enjoy your evening, love. Try not to drown in all that cum while I’m out playing with real men.”

The maid curtsied as the woman swept past.

Laura’s fingers stilled between her thighs, her breath catching as she realised what she was doing—where she was doing it. The damp heat of her own touch, the slick drag of her fingertips over swollen flesh, all of it suddenly too much. Too exposed.

She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned, her pulse hammering in her throat. The air in the hallway was thick, cloying, the sounds of pleasure and degradation pressing in from all sides. Her skin prickled, her nipples tight against the lace of her bodice.

Get it together.

She straightened, rolling her shoulders back, and stepped back out into the open play area. The lights here were brighter, the space more expansive, but no less charged. Couples and groups mingled, some talking, others already deep into scenes—bodies tangled, hands gripping, the sharp crack of a crop cutting through the hum of conversation.

Laura’s gaze flicked over the room, searching. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Inspiration. A spark. Something to pull her out of her own head and back into the night.

A low laugh drew her attention.

----

The laugh came from a man leaning against one of the black-painted columns, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was younger than her—mid-twenties, maybe—with the kind of lean, athletic build that spoke of gym routines and careful discipline. Dark hair, slightly tousled, like he’d been running his fingers through it. His shirt clung to his shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his hands kept flexing, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Laura stepped closer, the heels of her boots clicking against the polished concrete.

“First time?”

He blinked, straightening up. “That obvious?”

“Only because I’m in the same boat.” She nodded toward a nearby scene—a woman in a corset, her fingers tangled in the hair of a man kneeling between her thighs, his face pressed against her stockings. “Either that, or we’re both really bad at pretending we know what we’re doing.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah. I expected there’d be… I don’t know. Instructions?”

“Disappointing, isn’t it?” Laura crossed her arms, mirroring his stance. “I half expected a welcome packet. ‘Step one: Pick your kink. Step two: Surrender all dignity.’”

That got a real laugh out of him, sharp and unexpected. “God, if they had those, I’d pay extra.”

The man shifted, his gaze flickering around the room before snapping back to her. “You here with someone?”

“Sort of.” Laura hesitated. “My hubby is… occupied.”

“Lucky him.”

She smirked. “Depends on how you look at it. You?”

“Alone.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I’d… dip a toe in. See what the fuss was about.”

“And?”

“I'm seeing the fuss. Still figuring out what it's about." His eyes darted to the nearby couch—a woman sitting on her husband's face while a big cock is pounding her pussy. “You?”

Laura followed his gaze. “Same.”

Laura tilted her head, studying the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“You ever done anything like this?” she asked him, pointing at the threesome.

He exhaled through his nose, a short, humourless laugh. “Not like this.”

“Good.” She stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—something woodsy, undercut with sweat. “Because I need someone who won’t overthink it.”

His brows lifted. “Need someone for what?”

Laura didn’t answer right away. Instead, she nodded toward the far corner of the room, where Pat stood, gagged and tied to the wall. His wrists were still bound to a chain above him, his head securely fastened to make sure he could only look straight ahead. Panties, cage and plug were glistening under the dim lights.

“See that guy?” She kept her voice low, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. “That’s my husband. And right now, he’s desperate.”

The man’s gaze flicked to Pat, then back to her. His pupils dilated.

Laura reached out, her fingers brushing the back of his hand before sliding up to his wrist. His pulse jumped beneath her touch.

“You game?” she murmured. “I lead. You follow. And we both make sure he remembers this night for the rest of his life.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t pull away.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Her thumb traced a slow circle over his skin. “Just one rule—you don’t hold back.”

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then he nodded, sharp and decisive.

“Alright.”

Laura smiled, slow and seductively. “What’s your name?”

“Jake.”

She released his wrist and looked at him with a beaming smile. “Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Laura. Let’s go introduce you to my husband.”

----

The gag in Pat’s mouth had long since soaked through with spit, the rubber pressing against his tongue until every swallow felt like choking. His arms ached, wrists raw from the cuffs digging in, but the real torture was the waiting. The not-knowing. The way the minutes stretched like taut rubber, ready to snap.

And then there was the view. Right in front of him, a man's hand splayed across a woman's lower back, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of her latex skirt. She arched into him, lips parting as his tongue pushed past hers, a wet, hungry sound escaping her throat. Pat’s breath hitched, his caged cock twitching uselessly.

They didn’t even glance his way.

The bull’s free hand slid up, thumb brushing the underside of her breast before squeezing, hard. She gasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to bite his bottom lip. His chuckle vibrated against her mouth as he pulled her onto his lap, her skirt riding up to expose black stockings, the garter straps snapping against her thighs. The bull’s fingers dug into her hip, guiding her to grind down against him, the movement slow, deliberate.

A whimper clawed up Pat’s throat, muffled by the gag. He could smell her—perfume, sweat, the musk of arousal. His own body betrayed him, heat pooling in his gut, the plug shifting with every shallow breath he took.

The woman's nails raked down the bull’s chest, her voice a purr. “You’re such a tease.”

“You love it.” His grip tightened, fingers leaving red marks on her skin as he rocked her harder against him. The latex squeaked with the friction.

Pat’s vision blurred at the edges. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but his body refused, locked in place by something darker than just the restraints. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. The plug pressed deeper, the weight and width of it maddening. He twisted his wrists in the cuffs, the metal biting into skin, but no one noticed. No one cared.

The woman's hand slipped between them, her fingers working at the bull’s belt. The click of the buckle undoing was louder than the music. Pat’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, even as the bull’s cock sprang free, thick and veiny, her manicured nails already wrapping around the base.

The woman’s tongue flicked over the head of the bull’s cock, her lips parting as she took him into her mouth. The bull groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair, guiding her deeper. His hips lifted off the chair just enough to push himself further down her throat.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Your husband teach you?”

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips glistening. A smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “He wishes he could.”

The bull chuckled, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Where is he, then? Let me thank him for sharing.”

Her gaze flicked toward the far corner, where a group of slaves were busy serving drinks and snacks. “Over there somewhere.”

The bull’s grin turned predatory. “Working hard, is he?”

She took him back into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she bobbed her head, the sounds obscene. Between gulps, she managed, “Mmm-hmm. Desperate little thing.”

She stood, her skirt riding up as she straddled the bull’s lap again, this time facing Pat. Her fingers traced the bull’s length, guiding him toward her wet pussy. The bull didn’t hesitate—his hands gripped her hips, pulling her down as he thrust up, filling her in one rough motion. Her head tipped back, a gasp tearing from her throat. Her nails dug into her lover's shoulders as she rode him, her tits bouncing with each slap of skin against skin.

Pat’s muffled moan cut through the noise, his body straining against the restraints. He couldn’t look away—didn’t want to—until movement flickered at the edge of his vision.

Laura.

----

His stomach dropped.

She stood there, only a few feet away, her arm resting on some guy’s shoulder. His fingers rested on Laura's ass, possessive, familiar. Their gazes are locked on the fucking couple, Laura’s lips slightly apart, her tongue darting out to wet them.

Pat’s pulse spiked, his wrists twisting in the cuffs. No. No, no, no—

The stranger leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of Laura’s ear. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her breath hitching as the woman on the bull’s lap let out a broken moan.

Pat’s vision tunneled. The plug inside him suddenly felt like a brand, the cage chafing with every shift of his thighs.

Right in front of him, the bull’s grunts grew louder, his hips snapping up, the woman’s cries turning to a ragged "Fuck, fuck—”.

The bull’s grip on her hips hardened, his thrusts erratic. “That’s it, take it like the slut you are." But Pat barely registered it, his focus fully on Laura.

The stranger’s hand slid lower, his thumb hooking under the waistband of Laura’s skirt. He laughed, deep and unselfconscious, as he pulled walked Laura to a couch a few feet away. She sank into it, her skirt riding up just enough to flash the tops of her stockings.

Pat’s throat worked around the gag, his pulse a frantic drumbeat. They were talking. Smiling. Laura’s fingers toyed with the stem of a glass some passing maid had left, her other hand gesturing toward the fucking couple as she said something that made the stranger throw his head back and laugh.

His hand slid up Laura's thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to her soaked panties. Laura didn’t stop him. Instead, she spread her legs, the movement deliberate, slow.

But just at that moment, the woman on the bull’s lap let out a scream, her body locking up as she came hard. The bull didn’t care. He didn't even bother to pull out. One rough yank, and the woman was pushed against the table, the bull driving into her from behind. The first thrust made her gasp, her lips parting, eyelids fluttering open.

Dark, blown-wide pupils locked onto Pat’s. A whimper spilled from her throat as the bull bottomed out, his balls slapping against her clit. Her breath came in ragged bursts, hot and damp against Pat’s skin. A string of spit stretched from her lower lip to the table as the bull pounded into her, the sound obscene, the table creaking under the force.

Pat’s breath hitched. She was right there. Close enough that her panting misted against his knee. His cock twitched, useless, trapped in its tiny metal cage. His pulse roared in his ears, but something else tugged at his mind—

Laura! Where is she?

Pat struggled with the cuffs, the metal biting into skin as he craned his neck. The stranger still sat on the couch, one foot propped up on a different chair, his fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the armrest. His grin was slow, knowing, as he watched the bull rail the woman against the table.

But Laura—

Gone.

Pat’s stomach dropped. His gaze darted across the crowd, past the writhing bodies, the glint of metal, the flash of skin. Nothing. No sign of her.

Then—movement.

The stranger’s hand shifted, his thumb brushing against something unseen beneath the table. A dark head, half-hidden by the cloth. The stranger’s fingers flexed, tangling in hair—Laura’s hair—before guiding her deeper.

Pat’s breath stalled.

The stranger’s other hand lifted, his glass of whiskey catching the dim light as he took a slow sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his gaze never leaving the fucking couple. But his fingers? They twitched in Laura’s hair, his grip tightening just enough to make her throat work around whatever filled it.

A choked sound tore from Pat’s chest, muffled by the gag. Laura—his Laura!— was on her knees, blowing some other man's cock! His vision tunneled, the mind reeling.

The stranger’s fingers tightened in Laura’s hair, his grip unyielding as he pulled her off with a wet pop. She gasped, her lips glistening, her breath ragged. The stranger didn’t look down. Didn’t need to. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick, before guiding her back down on his cock, glistening with Laura’s spit, the head flushed dark, veins standing out along the shaft.

But before Pat could process what he had just seen, the woman being fucked right in front of him let out a raw, unfilterd scream. Her back arched off the table as the bull’s fingers dug into her hips, his own breath ragged as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock twitching with the pulse of his release. Pat’s gaze snapped to them, trapped by the sight—her thighs trembling, her nails clawing at the wood, the bull’s jaw clenched as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.

A slurping, wet sound filled the air as he pulled out, his cock glistening, a string of cum stretching between him and her dripping cunt. The woman collapsed forward, her hands finding purchase on Pat, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Pat’s throat worked around the gag, his pulse hammering. The woman’s fingers twitched against his chest as she caught her breath. A droplet of cum slid down her thigh, thick and slow, catching the dim light before disappearing into the shadow between her legs.

The bull didn’t bother cleaning up. He just tucked himself back into his pants, his knuckles brushing her ass before he stepped away, already scanning the crowd for his next conquest.

The woman finally climbed down from the table. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her skirt, her stockings snagged where the bull’s belt buckle had dug in. She didn’t glance at Pat. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just swayed slightly as she steadied herself, her breath still uneven.

A maid appeared, silent and efficient, offering the woman a warm towel. She took it without a word, her movements sluggish as she wiped between her thighs, her expression distant. The maid didn’t linger. Neither did the woman. She turned, her heels clicking against the floor as she melted back into the crowd, leaving Pat alone with the scent of sex and the damp patch on his chest where she had drooled. He craned his neck, looking for—

Laura.

Gone. Again

The stranger’s couch was empty, the whiskey glass abandoned, a single lipstick smear on the rim. Pat’s breath hitched, his pulse stuttering. He frantically scanned the crowd in his view, bodies pressing close, then pulling away, but none of them were Laura.