The bass thrummed through Laura’s ribs as she stepped closer, Jake’s heat a solid presence at her back. The air smelled like sweat and leather, the musk of sex thick enough to taste.

Pat was right there—bound, gagged, his chest rising in sharp little gasps, his throat working around the gag. A sheen of sweat glistened on his collarbone, spit running down his chin.

Then she saw the couple.

A woman sprawled on the table in front of Pat, her skirt hitched up, her thighs spread wide. A bull stood between them, his thick, veined cock about to impale the woman. The woman’s fingers dug into the wood, her knuckles white, her lips parted as she panted, her gaze locked onto the bull’s face like she couldn’t look away.

Laura’s breath hitched. Jake’s fingers twitched against her hip, his thumb pressing in just enough to ground her.

The bull didn’t waste time. He grabbed the woman’s hips and yanked her to the edge of the table, her ass half-hanging off. She let out a sharp, breathy laugh as he lined himself up, her legs wrapping around his waist before he even pushed in.

Laura’s pulse jumped. Pat’s eyes were glued to them, his chest heaving, his cock straining against the small cage.

Jake’s breath was hot against her ear. “Fuck.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her tongue felt too thick, her skin too tight. The bull snapped his hips forward, and the woman’s back arched, her nails scraping against the table. A choked sound tore from her throat, half moan, half gasp, her tits bouncing with the force of his thrusts.

Laura swallowed. “That,” she said, her voice rough. “I want that.”

Jake’s grip tightened. “Right now? Here?”

She shook her head, her gaze flicking to Pat. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, his breath coming in sharp little bursts through his nose. The bull’s grunts filled the air, the wet slap of skin on skin, the woman’s whimpers growing louder, needier.

“Not yet,” Laura murmured. “We have time.”

Jake’s thumb traced a slow circle on her hip. “Then what?”

She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the table’s edge, just inches from where the woman’s hand clawed at the wood. The bull’s cock glistened, slick with her, his balls tight as he fucked her harder, the table creaking under them.

Laura turned to Jake and leaned in, her lips nearly touching his ear. “We start slow. Don't look at my hubby, just enjoy the show for the moment”.

The bull’s hips pistoned, his thighs slapping against the woman’s legs, each thrust making the table judder. Laura let her gaze drift—just a little—towards Pat.

His chest hitched, his bound wrists flexing against the restraints. She could see the moment he noticed her. His breath stuttered, his pupils blowing wide, dark and desperate. A whine escaped him, muffled by the gag.

Laura didn’t react. Just tilted her head, like she was still watching the bull fuck the woman raw, as if Pat wasn’t even there.

Then she shifted, just enough. Jake’s arm brushed against hers, his bicep pressing into her side. She let her fingers trail down his forearm, slow, deliberate.

Pat’s eyes flicked. Locked onto Jake.

Laura smirked.

The woman on the table cried out, her back arching as the bull hammered into her, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. Laura licked her lips, her thumb tracing idle circles on Jake’s wrist.

Pat’s throat worked. His cock twitched, the cage doing nothing to hide how hard he was.

Laura’s fingers curled around Jake’s arm, her touch soft and seductive.

“Let's have a seat.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just tugged him down onto the low couch on the very edge of Pat’s field of vision. Jake’s muscles tensed as he sat, his knees spread just wide enough to brush against hers. Laura didn’t hesitate. Her palm slid up his thigh, her thumb tracing the inseam of his jeans, slow and deliberate. Jake's breath hitched as he watched the show right in front of them, the bull’s grunts filling the air and the woman’s moans rising in sharp, breathless bursts.

Pat struggled to keep them in sight, but he achieved very little. His head was securely fastened, forcing him to face straight ahead, the couch just barely visible out of the corner of his eye.

Laura ignored him.

Her fingers found the button of Jake’s jeans, popped it open. The zipper gave way with a quiet shink, the sound lost under the woman’s sharp cry as the bull bottomed out inside her. Laura’s knuckles grazed the hard line of Jake’s cock through his boxers, her touch light, teasing.

Jake’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already slick. Laura wrapped her fingers around the base, her thumb brushing the vein that pulsed along the underside. Not too thick, not too small, not too large—just right. Just perfect.

She stroked upward, slow, her grip firm. Jake’s breath hitched, his thighs tensing beneath her touch.

This was it.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. Pat’s muffled sounds were a constant hum in the background, his bound body trembling. She could stop. They could walk away. Pretend this was just another game, another night of teasing.

But Jake’s cock twitched in her grip, hot and heavy, the vein throbbing under her thumb.

Laura exhaled slowly. Her other hand slid up Jake’s chest, her nails scraping lightly over his shirt. His breath hitched when she pinched his nipple through the fabric, just hard enough to make him gasp.

The woman’s back bowed off the table, her fingers clawing at the wood as her orgasm ripped through her. She let out a cry, her legs clamping around the bull’s waist as he fucked her through her orgasm, his own grunts growing ragged.

Pat is caught by surprise, his focus snapped to the woman’s trembling body, his cock straining uselessly against the cage. All his senses were assaulted by sex, his mind barely able to register everything happening around him.

Laura didn’t waste the opening. She sank to her knees, the cold floor biting through the thin lace of her stockings. Jake’s thighs tensed and then spread as she ducked under the table, the dim light casting long shadows over his lap. His cock jutted upward, flushed and leaking, the scent of him musky and sharp.

The first taste of him hit her tongue—salt and heat, the weight of his cock heavy on her palm. Twelve years since she’d had another man’s flesh in her mouth. Twelve years of Pat’s familiar shape, his predictable sounds, the way his hips would twitch when she took him deep.

Jake wasn’t her husband. His thighs trembled as she traced her tongue up the underside of his shaft, slow, deliberate. His breath stuttered above her, fingers digging into the couch's cushioned edge. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him in inch by inch, the stretch of her lips around his girth sending a jolt through her. Different. Thicker at the root, the head broader, the vein pulsing harder under her tongue.

Pat’s muffled sounds cut through to her, but she didn’t look. Didn’t care. Her focus narrowed to the way Jake’s cock jerked when she swirled her tongue around the tip, to the way his breath got ragged when she took him to the back of her throat.

Her free hand slid up his inner thigh, nails grazing the sensitive skin just behind his balls. He gasped, his hips lifting off the bench before he caught himself. She hummed around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

Good.

This wasn’t for Pat. This was for her. For the way her blood thrummed between her legs, for the way her skin prickled with the wrongness of it, the filth of kneeling under a table in a club full of strangers, sucking off a man who wasn’t her husband while Pat watched, helpless. It felt so wrong! It was exactly what she was craving.

Jake’s fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. She let him, let his shallow breaths fill the space between them, let the sounds of the bull fucking the woman into the table become background noise. Her lips sealed around the base of his cock, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she pulled back, slow, until just the head remained between her lips. She flicked her tongue against the slit, tasting the bitter tang of precome, before taking him deep again.

Jake's thighs tensed. “Fuck—Laura—”

That very moment, Laura forgot any concerns of Pat and his situation. She knew he was tied up, struggling and horny— but Pat was not important right now. This moment was only about her. About how she loved Jake’s cock throbbing against her tongue, the way her own arousal dripped down her thighs, about the power of knowing she could reduce a man to nothing but gasps and trembling limbs.

Her fingers tightened around the base of his shaft, her other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. Jake groaned, his hips jerking upward, his cock hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed around him, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Above her head, on the table, the bull’s grunts grew ragged, the woman’s moans turning breathless. None of it mattered.

Laura pulled back, her lips dragging along his length, her tongue tracing the ridge of his head before she took him deep again. Jake’s fingers tightened in her hair, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

The woman’s cry shattered the air—high, desperate, her body seizing as the bull buried himself to the hilt. The table groaned under their weight, the bull’s growl raw as he came, his hips stuttering against her thighs.

Laura had had enough. She didn’t wait.

She released Jake with a wet pop, his cock glistening in the dim light, his breath ragged. His fingers twitched in her hair, like he wanted to pull her back, but she was already moving. The cold floor bit into her palms as she pushed up, her stockings snagging on the bench’s rough edge.

Jake’s face was flushed, his lips parted, but she didn’t give him time to speak.

“Come on.”

Her voice cut through the haze of his arousal, sharp enough to make his eyes snap to hers. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers digging in, and yanked. Not gentle. Not asking. He stumbled after her, his cock still half-hard, his jeans gaping open.

The bull was still pumping in and out of the woman, their combined grunts and cries loud in the heavy air, but Laura didn’t glance their way. Her gaze flicked to Pat—just for a second.

His chest heaved, his bound wrists straining against the restraints, his eyes wide and dark. His attention was firmly locked on the cumming woman a few inches in front of him.

She looked away.

Jake’s fingers fumbled with his zipper, but she didn’t slow. “Leave it.”

His breath hitched, confused. “What?”

She didn’t answer. Just dragged him forward, her heels clicking against the concrete, the sound swallowed by the club’s pulse.

Jake’s cock, still exposed, twitched and bobbed, losing none of its hardness, as she pulled him toward the empty rooms at the far end of the room.

----

The heavy curtain fell shut behind them, muffling the club’s noise to a dull thrum. A sissy maid in fishnets and a frilly apron bustled past, her chastity cage glinting under the low lights.

Laura snapped her fingers. “You. Untie my cucky over there in the corner. Blindfold him, bring him here and put him in the chair.”

The maid’s eyelashes fluttered, her glossed lips parting. “Yes, Mistress.”

Jake’s breath hitched as Laura shoved him deeper into the room. The space was small—just a bed, a sturdy chair, a wall lined with restraints, another with mirrors. The air smelled of leather and sweat.

The door clicked shut. Laura pressed Jake against it, eagerly grasping for his cock. “You’re still hard. Good.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What do you want?”

Laura’s gaze never wavered as she released Jake and crossed the room. She swayed with a deliberate sensuality, the swing of her hips making her intentions unmistakable. She perched on the edge of the bed, back straight, eyes gleaming with a mix of stormy desire and calculated precision.

“You see, Jake,” she started, voice velvet smooth, “Pat and I have shared this fantasy for a long time. Years, even. We watched movies, read books, and played online." Laura took a deep breath. "But tonight is our first time actually doing it.

Jake leaned against the door, arms crossed. Despite the stillness of his body, his eyes tracked her movements with a sharpness that betrayed his intrigue.

“Go on.”

Laura continued. "For this to work, his new reality must be driven home. Pat needs to learn his place. That’s why we’re here.”

Jake frowned. "His place?"

“Second. Last. Whatever you want to call it.” Her lips twisted into a knowing smile. “Beneath me, beneath you, beneath everyone.”

Laura held Jake’s gaze. Her tone shifted, playful but commanding, “I want you to take me like I’m nothing but a cum dump. A set of holes you take, use, and then forget. A whore to be fucked by any man — except my dear hubby Pat.”

Jake nodded slowly.

Laura pushed on. "Fuck me like you mean it. No amateur humping. No gentle cuddles. No mercy. And do not acknowledge Pat. Not once.”

Jake exhaled through his nose. “And you?”

Laura smirked. “I’ll handle my little cucky. Every word out of my mouth is for him. Every moan, every command—for his ears.” She stepped back, stripping off her corset. The lace hit the floor with a whisper. “Everything else is for you alone."

Jake’s jaw set firm. He approached like a measured beast, purposeful and unwavering. His hands found Laura with a sudden decisiveness, his previous hesitation melting away like frost in the sun. He angled her back onto the bed, her laughter low and electric.

“Good,” Laura purred, her satisfaction as palpable as the tension in the room. There was a beat, an intake of breath before Jake succumbed to this dark, liberating role.

His cock pressed against her, thick and unfamiliar. Not Pat’s careful, practiced entry. This was blunt force, the head stretching her with a slow, deliberate burn. Laura’s breath stuttered. First time. The words echoed in her skull, hot and electric. She’d fantasised, teased, but this—the weight of him, the wrongness of another man’s body—sent a jolt through her.

Jake’s grip tightened on her hip. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Good girls always are.” She wrapped her legs behind his back, taking another inch. The stretch bordered on pain, but she chased it, her nails raking the bedspread. “Give it to me.”

A grunt. His other hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head up just enough to meet his gaze in the mirror across the room. Dark eyes, half-lidded. Hungry.

Then—pressure, relentless and deep. Laura’s mouth fell open, a sound tearing from her throat. Not a moan. A laugh. Sharp, disbelieving. Because this was happening. His cock seated fully inside her, filling her in a way Pat’s never had. The realisation coiled low in her gut, slick and vicious.

Jake’s thumb pressed against her clit, circling once. “Like that, do you?”

Laura’s vision blurred. She rolled her hips, chasing his touch. “Yesssss.”

He kept pumping in and out of her.

The bedframe knocked against the wall. She twisted, catching her own reflection in the mirror on the wall: flushed, lips parted, a stranger’s cock buried inside her.

“Harder,” she pleaded.

Jake’s rhythm stuttered, then slammed home. The impact drove the air from her lungs. Laura’s laugh turned feral. “Yes—just like that.”

A knock. The maid pushed in, dragging Pat by a leash on his cage. His wrists were bound behind him, a black blindfold covering his eyes, the gag still prohibiting any sound.

Laura moaned.

----

The maid had moved with practised efficiency, her heels silent on the plush carpet. She kneeled beside Pat, whose posture, stiff and forced, mirrored his internal fight with helpless anticipation and humiliation. Her delicate fingers traced the locks binding him to the wall, her presence a signal to Pat he’d soon be freed from this particular torment.

The shackles snapped open. Pat groaned, the sound throatily desperate through his gag, as his legs were unchained. Arms long held above his head descended slowly, muscles trembling with relief and fresh protests of circulation resuming.

The maid’s hands, feathery and attentive, swept along Pat’s limbs. Her touch, gentle yet detached, coaxed his blood back into motion, kneading away the numbness born from prolonged captivity. Not a whisper escaped her painted lips; she might’ve been a ghost or a figment of some fevered dream from which Pat could neither stir nor retreat.

Pat's senses sharpened with each passing second, awareness piercing through the fog of submission and pain like a shard of ice through thick fog. The gag, only a few moments ago a mere backdrop to his discomfort, now dominated his senses, its presence undeniable and unyielding as it pressed relentlessly against his jaw. He shifted, the unfamiliar freedom of movement adding just a touch of rebellion to his posture.

But any defiance wilted as the plug shifted inside him, a constant reminder of the game played at his expense. Its continuous hum kissed his prostate with an insistence he could not ignore, sending tendrils of sensation spiralling up his spine. Pat clenched involuntarily, a futile attempt to control the uncontrollable pulse that arched his back towards a pleasure almost overpowering in its intensity.

In the dim light of the room, the maid remained silent, an enigmatic sentinel as she moved to adjust the last of his bindings. No reassurance or promise of release punctuated her ministrations, only the echo of Pat’s shallow breaths against the steady mechanical throb within.

“Turn around.” Two simple words quietly given.

Pat obeyed, his movements sluggish—weighted by more than just the weariness of constraint. He shifted, legs unsteady, but stood. The maid's silent patience held him steady against the current of his own sway.

The maid worked deftly, guiding his hands behind his back, shackling them once more, the cold metal a feeling of bondage and liberation all in one. Her hands worked through the familiar steps, rendering him once more into submission.

A strip of dark cloth fell over Pat’s eyes, firmly tied at the back of his head. The world dimmed into a sensory void, leaving only the maid’s presence as his anchor: the slight rustle of fabric, the scent of light lavender perfume mingling with the room’s musk.

The leash clipped onto his cage with precision, the cold bite of metal a fresh reminder of his ever-subordinate status. A guiding nudge from the maid, firm enough to be felt, coaxed him forward.

He stumbled but followed, drawn into her silent train, her footsteps an unseen path on which he tread. Together, they entered the playspace’s murmur and throb, his own private parade of disgrace amidst a universe unfurling in its own rhythm beyond his darkened stare.

The maid guided Pat through the thrum of the club. His footsteps faltered slightly, the blindfold heightening the weight of his exposed collar against his skin. He felt the ironies of his position press heavily upon him—freed from the shackles only to be led into further indignity.

Each step forward was a deliberate act of enduring humiliation, his movements dictated by the firm guidance of the maid. The tug of the leash served as both command and reassurance in the swirling chaos he couldn't see but could keenly feel.

Pat’s awareness of his appearance was excruciatingly acute. He burned with the knowledge of his vulnerability, his helplessness only exacerbated by the echoes of laughter and the distant hum of conversation. The cold air of the club kissed every inch of his bare skin, intensifying the shame that coursed through his blood, a torrent of mortification that seared his face beneath the edges of the blindfold.

His cock's visible state, locked tightly within its tiny cage, was a beacon of disgrace that weighed upon him, a pointed reminder of his submission. Conversations ebbed and flowed around him like a current he couldn’t see, yet instinctively knew it lapped right against his being, brushing past him with careless disregard. Pat’s pace, set by the maid’s steady hand, was a public exhibition of his reality.

Each droplet of drool slipping from the gag across his chin was a hot trail of humility, an involuntary testament to his powerlessness. The gag was both a physical constraint and a psychological trigger, fortifying the barrier that set him apart from the world, robbing him of speech, and leaving him with a mere guttural acknowledgement of his state.

Wrapped up in his own discomfort, he strained against the plug nestled snugly inside. It transformed his walk into an ungainly lumber, every stride punctuated by the ever-present pressure, only increasing the spectacle he unwittingly created. His cursed waddle was as pronounced as a signature—each step an accentuated mime of the roles he played within this merciless theater of lust.

In darkness, his other senses sharpened poignantly. The air was thick with sweat and leather. The scent of arousal and smoke clung to his nostrils, rich and almost suffocating. Pat’s breath caught as the cacophony of nearby sounds wrapped around him.

Moans—sultry, unrestrained—drifted towards him. He flinched, each one a potential echo of Laura's voice transported on the lust-laden air. Each sharp crack of a whip or slap of skin morphed into imagined betrayal, a mental tapestry woven with vivid scenes of his wife entwined with one or many unknown.

Yet, amidst this, Pat sensed the maid’s guiding presence. Her silent companionship, though an indifferent authority, anchored his spiral of imaginings. She ushered him along with assured nudges, leading him ever deeper down into the imaginations of his own mind.

Pat was in heaven. Pat was in hell.

The sounds of the open play space grew fainter as they turned a corner. The sissy maid stopped, and Pat heard her knocking on a door.

With a soft click, the door opened.