The water drummed against their shoulders, the steam curling around them like a living thing. Laura’s fingers traced the curve of Pat’s jaw, her thumb brushing the smile that wouldn’t fade. He leaned into her touch, his own hands settled at the small of her back, holding her close—not possessive, not demanding, just there.

She kissed him again, slower this time. No teeth, no dominance, just the soft press of her lips, the way her breath hitched when he responded. His hands slid up her spine, mapping the familiar terrain of her body, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. The water slicked between them, warm and endless.

Pat pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His lashes were dark with water, his grin lopsided. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Laura laughed, the sound bright against the hiss of the shower. “And yet, here you are.”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft. “Here I am.”

She kissed him once more, quick and sweet, before turning to shut off the water. The sudden silence was thick, broken only by the drip of water from their skin, the squeak of the shower door as she pushed it open. Pat grabbed a towel, shaking it out before wrapping it around her shoulders. His fingers lingered as he rubbed the fabric over her arms, her back, the way he always did—like she was something precious.

The towel snagged against Laura’s nipple, just enough to make her gasp. Pat froze, then grinned. “Still sensitive?”

She swatted his hand, but her laugh was warm. “Careful, or I’ll make you do it with your teeth next time.”

“Promises, promises.” He dragged the towel lower, slow now, deliberate. His knuckles brushed her ribs, her stomach, the way her breath hitched when he dipped between her thighs.

Then she flinched.

Not a joke this time. A sharp, involuntary twitch, her fingers digging into his wrist. Pat stilled, his own smile faltering. The towel hung between them, damp and heavy.

Laura exhaled through her nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t pain either. “Yeah. Yeah, he—” She cut herself off, shook her head. “Let’s just say Jake’s got a talent for leaving an impression.”

Pat’s thumb traced the inside of her thigh, light as a whisper. “Good one, though?”

She snorted, nudging his shoulder. “You’re asking that now?”

“Fair.” He dropped to his knees, pressing a kiss to her hipbone before looking up at her. “Here. Let me.”

Laura watched him, arms crossed, as he folded the towel with exaggerated care. He patted her pussy—pat pat—like he was drying a fucking teacup! She burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the tiles. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Shut up.” But he was grinning, his fingers gentle as he blotted the tender skin between her legs. “Better?”

She tangled her fingers in his damp hair, tugged just enough to make him look up. “Much.”

She snatched a fresh towel from the rack, carefully folding it open. The fabric was thick, plush, and expensive. She stepped up to Pat, her fingers brushing his hip before she started drying him with methodical strokes. His skin was still flushed from the heat, the water beading on his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

She worked her way down, her touch firm but careful, like she was handling something fragile. His arms, his chest, the dip of his waist. Pat stood still, letting her guide him, his breath hitching when she dropped to her knees in front of him.

Laura’s fingers hooked under the chastity cage, lifting it just enough to slide the towel beneath. The metal was cool against her palm, the weight of it familiar. Pat exhaled sharply, his hips twitching forward before he caught himself. A quiet sound escaped him—half moan, half laugh—when she pressed the towel against the sensitive skin underneath.

“Easy,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the underside of his balls. “Don’t want you getting too excited.”

Pat’s fingers found her shoulder, gripping just enough to ground himself. “You’re evil.”

“Mmm.” A smirk, not a denial.

She took her time, like they had all night. When she stood, she didn’t let go. Her hand stayed on his waist, her other arm looping around his neck, looking up at him. Pat’s arms came around her automatically, pulling her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. They stood like that for a long moment, just breathing, being.

Laura tilted her head back, her smile widening as she caught his gaze. “What?”

Pat shook his head, his fingers tightening just a fraction at her waist. “Nothing. Just… you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. “Sap.”

“Yeah, well.” He ducked his head, pressing his lips to the pulse point beneath her ear. “You love me for it.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she turned her face into his neck, her breath warm against his skin. “Maybe a little.”

They moved to the bed like that, tangled together, their steps slow, unhurried. The sheets were cool against their skin as they settled, Laura curling into Pat’s side, her head on his chest. His arm draped over her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her shoulder.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet was comfortable, the kind that only came when two people knew each other down to the bone.

Laura broke it first, her voice soft. “You okay?”

Pat exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath her ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” He hesitated, then laughed once, low and rough. “I’m good.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. His smile was there again, easy and real, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No regrets?”

He reached up, his hand cupping her face. “Not a single one.”

Laura believed him. She could see it in the way his thumb brushed her cheekbone, in the steadiness of his gaze. She curled back into his touch, her own smile matching his.

The hum of the club seeped through the door—low, rhythmic, insistent. A bassline thrummed beneath muffled laughter, the occasional sharp crack of a crop against flesh, the wet sounds of bodies in motion. Laura’s fingers stilled against Pat’s chest, her head tilting just enough to catch the rise and fall of voices, the unmistakable gasp of someone being pushed to their limit, and beyond.

Pat’s breath hitched. Not a flinch, not a pull away—just a quiet, involuntary reaction, his pulse jumping beneath her palm. His fingers flexed against her waist, his own attention snagged by the same sounds.

Laura didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She felt it, the way his body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax. His thumb traced slow circles on her hip, but his focus was elsewhere now. Listening.

A door slammed somewhere nearby. The vibration traveled through the floor, up Laura’s spine. She shifted, just slightly, her ear pressing closer to Pat’s chest. His heartbeat was steady, but his breathing had changed—shallower, quicker. The sounds from outside weren’t just background noise anymore. They were a reminder. A taunt.

Her fingers resumed their idle path, tracing the dip of his sternum, the ridge of his ribs. The warmth of Pat’s skin under her fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his chest—it should’ve been enough. It was enough, in a way. But then there were the sounds from the hallway, the echoes of what she’d just had, what she could have again if she wanted.

And fuck, she wanted.

Laura’s thighs pressed together, a slow, deliberate squeeze. The memory of Jake’s hands on her hips, the way he’d filled her—stretched her—while Pat watched, while Pat listened, while Pat suffered—it simmered low in her gut, hot and insistent. She could still feel the ghost of it, the way her body had clenched around something real, something big, something Pat could never give her.

Her nails twitched on Pat’s shoulder, just for a second. He didn’t react, just kept tracing lazy patterns on her back, his touch gentle, devoted. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He would devote himself to this. To her. No questions, no hesitation. He’d kneel. He’d watch. He’d let her.

The thought made her wet. She shifted, her hip rolling against the mattress, her breath stuttering just slightly as she laid her head on Pat's chest. His fingers stilled against her skin. “Laura?”

“Mmm?” She kept her voice light, but her pulse was a traitor, thrumming in her throat.

His hand slid up her side, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just… there. “You’re thinking too loud.”

She laughed, low and breathy, but didn’t deny it. Because of course he’d notice. Of course, he’d care. And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? He’d care even as she rode someone else. He’d care even as she came on another man’s cock, even as she used him for it.

The idea should’ve made her guilty.

It made her hungry. Hungry for more.

The realization settled in her chest, heavy and intoxicating. She could have it all. A loving husband. A willing cuck. And as many big, thick cocks as she wanted, whenever she wanted them.

Fuck.

The ache between her legs was a delicious, insistent reminder—Jake hadn’t just fucked her. He’d used her. Taken what he wanted, the way she’d begged him to. And now, every shift of her hips sent a sharp, sweet twinge through her, her muscles protesting even as her mind craved more.

She bit her lip, her fingers drifting lower, testing. Sore. Really fucking sore. But the wetness was there again, slick and shameful, her body already betraying her with the thought of doing it all over again.

Laura’s cheek pressed against Pat’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat against her ear. Her gaze dropped lower—past the faint bruises on his ribs, past the trembling muscles of his stomach, to the cage. Gleaming metal, the faintest twitch beneath it.

Laura watched it—fascinated—as the metal glinted under the dim light, the tiny bar shifting with each futile pulse of Pat’s trapped cock. No sound. No touch. Just the desperate, rhythmic twitch of something that would never be enough.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her fingers hovering just above the cage, not quite touching. “Still trying.”

His throat worked, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The way his hips lifted just a fraction, the way his breath caught—it said everything.

She smirked, her thumb finally dragging along the cool metal, pressing just enough to make him gasp.

Laura had made her decision.

----

Laura pushed up from Pat’s chest, her fingers lingering on his collarbone before sliding away. The loss of her touch made him shiver.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her back to him, and stretched—slow, deliberate, like a cat waking from a nap. The muscles in her thighs protested, a deep, satisfying ache that made her smirk. Jake’s work. His mark. And Pat—her Pat—was still here, still hers, still waiting.

She glanced over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, just watched her, his expression soft, almost hopeful. Like he thought this was over. Like he thought they’d just… stop.

Laura let out a low laugh, shaking her head.

His breath caught. Just that. No words. Just the way his fingers twitched against the mattress, the way his gaze flicked to the cage between his legs—like he was already remembering what it felt like to be useless. To be hers.

She stood, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin, and turned to face him. His eyes traced the curve of her hips, the faint red marks Jake’s fingers had left on her thighs. She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t need to. Let him look. Let him want. Let him ache.

“Get up,” she said, her voice dropping into that tone—the one that made his cock twitch behind its bars, the one that made his shoulders tense in anticipation. “On your knees.”

He moved instantly, rolling to the edge of the bed, his bare knees hitting the carpet with a quiet thud. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers spread, waiting. Always waiting.

Laura reached for the discarded collar on the nightstand, the leather cool and familiar in her fingers. She didn’t speak, not yet. The silence between them was thick, charged with the weight of what had already happened—and what was about to.

Laura stepped closer, the collar dangling from her fingers. Pat’s breath hitched as she leaned in, her free hand cupping his jaw. The kiss was slow, deep, possessive. His lips parted under hers, his body swaying forward like he wanted to melt into her. She let him have it, just for a second.

Then she pulled back, her thumb brushing his bottom lip before she fastened the collar around his neck with a sharp click. The sound made him flinch.

“Good cucky,” she murmured, her voice already cooling. “Now. Get me my clothes.”

His fingers trembled as he turned, scanning the room. The black lace bra was draped over the back of a chair. Her stockings, one tangled around the leg of the bed, the other crumpled near the door. The dress—her dress—pooling on the floor like a discarded promise. He crawled toward it first, his movements stiff, the cage between his legs a constant reminder of who he was. Who he wasn’t.

Laura didn’t help. She watched, arms crossed, as he gathered each piece with clumsy care. The stockings were damp in places, and he hesitated before balling them in his palm. His face burned. She knew. Of course, she knew.

His pulse thrummed in his throat as he leaned forward, pressing his face to the floor, searching under the bed. The cage dug into his balls with every shift, a sharp reminder of why he was on his hands and knees in the first place. Her fault. His shame. Their game.

A glint of black caught his eye—one heel, half-hidden under the edge of the bed. He lunged for it, fingers closing around the slender strap. He lifted it, turning it in his grip like it was something sacred. The spike of the heel could leave a mark if she wanted. He knew that. He liked that.

The other shoe was nowhere in sight.

He swallowed, his mouth dry, and forced himself to crawl farther, his shoulder bumping the bedframe. The sheets still smelled like sex—her sex, Jake’s sweat, his failure. His cock twitched behind the cage, useless and desperate.

There. A flash of black lace, half-tucked under the nightstand. Her panties.

He froze.

They weren’t just discarded. They were ruined. The crotch was dark, damp, stretched out of shape. His stomach twisted, heat crawling up his neck. Jake’s cum. Her arousal. His wife’s pussy, used and left to soak into the fabric he was now holding between his trembling fingers.

A sound escaped him—something between a whimper and a groan. He shouldn’t be hard. He shouldn’t. But the cage was wet, his balls aching, his body betraying him like it always did when she pushed him this far.

“Found my panties?”

Laura’s voice cut through the haze of his humiliation. He flinched, his grip tightening around the panties before he forced himself to turn, to offer them up like an offering. Like the pathetic, devoted little cuck he was.

Laura gave him a beaming smile. “Thank you, my love.”

Laura looked at her clothes in his finger, letting them dangle from Pat's outstretched finger. His eyes locked on the damp fabric.

“Would you mind helping me get dressed?” Her voice was sugar, her smile razor-sharp.

His throat worked. A question. Like he had a choice.

Pat’s fingers fumbled with the first stocking, the silk slipping through his sweaty grip. He tried again, breath shallow, and this time managed to unroll the top. The fabric was cool against his palms, still damp in places—the ghost of their bodies pressed together.

Laura didn’t rush him. She stood there, naked, watching as he lifted her foot and slid the stocking up her calf. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he was handling something precious. Like she might break if he pressed too hard.

She didn’t.

The second stocking went smoother, his fingers steadier now, memorizing the shape of her ankle, calf, the dip behind her knee. He lingered there, just for a second, his thumb brushing the soft skin before he forced himself to keep going.

Then came the panties.

He held them out, the black lace dangling between his fingers, the crotch dark and stiff with dried cum. His own face burned. He couldn’t look at her, not really—not when the scent of Jake was still clinging to the fabric, musky and thick. Not when his own cock was throbbing in its cage.

Laura looked at the ruined panties dangling from his fingertips, the lace swaying like a pendulum between them. She tilted her head, studying Pat’s face—his flushed cheeks, the way his breath hitched every time the lace brushed her thigh.

“Hmm.” She let the word hang, dragging it out. “Should I wear these?” Her free hand traced the inside of her thigh, fingers skimming the tender skin Jake had marked. “Or…” She stepped closer, close enough that Pat could feel the heat radiating off her. “Should I just go without?”

His throat worked. His gaze flicked from the panties to the glistening pink between her legs—still swollen, still used. The sight made his cock twitch behind the cage, the metal biting into his trapped flesh.

Laura smirked. “Well? What should I do, cucky?” She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You just cleaned and dried my pussy with such care, and now those panties will stain it again!" Her face showed concern, clearly fake, mocking him. "But when I leave them off, everybody might see how sore Jake made my pussy!"

Pat’s breath came faster, his fingers curling into the carpet. His stomach twisted, the scent of another man’s cum filling his nose, shame and arousal warring inside him.

“N-no panties,” he forced out, the words rough. His voice cracked. “Please, Mistress.”

Laura’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. “If that's what you want, I'll do it for you.”

She took the panties from his trembling fingers and put them aside, the damp lace landing with a quiet plop on the nightstand. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just the cool air against her swollen lips, the ghost of Jake’s touch still lingering between her thighs.

Pat exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping in relief—or maybe defeat. It didn’t matter. He was hers.

“Dress,” she ordered, stepping into the pool of black fabric at her feet.

He moved instantly, scooping it up with clumsy hands. The material was slick, clinging to his fingers as he held it open for her. Laura lifted her arms, letting him guide the dress up her body, the fabric hugging her body like a second skin. The neckline dipped low, the back barely there, the fabric so thin it might as well have been paint.

Pat’s hands trembled as he smoothed the dress over her hips, his knuckles brushing the curve of her ass. The hem barely covered it—every shift, every step, and anyone looking would see everything. The thoughts screamed in his mind.

Laura turned, catching his wrist before he could pull away. “Shoes,” she murmured, her voice a dark promise.

He dropped to his knees again, the carpet rough against his skin. The heels were still warm, the leather supple as he slid the first one onto her foot. His fingers lingered on her ankle, tracing the delicate bones before he secured the strap. The second shoe followed, his touch firmer now, more confident. He belonged there. This was where he was meant to be.

Laura stepped back, admiring the way the dress clung to her, the way the heels made her legs look endless. She turned toward the full-length mirror, her reflection a study in sin—black lace, flushed skin, the faint sheen of sweat still glistening on her collarbone.

And between her thighs? Nothing.

She took a step, watching the way the dress rode up, the way her ass cheeks peeked out with every movement. Another step. Another flash of skin. The cool air kissed her wet folds, the ghost of Jake’s cum still slick between her legs.

Perfect.

Laura spun on her heel, the dress swirling around her thighs. Her fingers flew to her lips, eyes widening in mock horror.

“Oh no,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her chest. “My favourite panties.”

Pat’s stomach dropped. The black panties, bought only last week in a clearance sale at the sex shop, lay crumpled on the nightstand, wet, stained, ruined. His throat went dry.

Laura pouted, tilting her head. “I love these.” She stepped closer, her bare ass peeking from beneath the hem of her dress with every sway of her hips. “We can't just leave them here, can we?!”

Pat’s face burned. He couldn’t look away.

She picked them up, holding them between two fingers like they were something delicate. The scent of sex—filthy, raw—filled the air between them. “Such a waste.” Her voice dropped, husky and slow. “Unless…”

His pulse spiked.

“Would you hold on to them for me?” She dangled the panties in front of him, the lace swaying like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “Would you do that, cucky? Keep them safe? Please?”

Pat’s throat worked, his fingers twitching against his thighs. The lace dangled between them, a dark promise, a filthy gift.

Laura’s lower lip jutted out just a little, her lashes fluttering. “Please?” she whispered, like she was asking for a favour. Like this was nothing.

His pulse hammered in his neck. He couldn’t look away from the panties, from the way the lace still glistened in places. Jake’s cum. The proof of what she’d let another man do to her. And now, Laura wanted him to carry this badge of shame as a trophy of her lust.

His cock twitched behind the cage, the metal biting into his swollen flesh. The humiliation burned, but so did the need—the hunger—to obey.

“Yes, Mistress,” he rasped.

Laura’s lips curled into a wide, triumphant smile as Pat’s fingers closed around the damp lace. The fabric clung to his palm, the scent of Jake’s release thick between them.

“Such a good boy,” she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Always so helpful and willing.” She reached out, her fingers brushing his jaw before sliding down to his collar. The leather was warm from his skin, the buckle snug against his neck. “You like that, don’t you?” she murmured. “Holding what’s mine. What he left inside me.”

Pat’s whole body flushed, his free hand curling into a fist against his thigh.

Laura’s grin sharpened. “Put them on.”

His head snapped up. “W-what?”

She didn’t repeat herself. Just stood there, arms crossed, her dress riding high enough that the cool air kissed the backs of her thighs. Waiting.

Pat’s fingers trembled around the lace. The fabric was tiny, barely more than a scrap. His pulse roared in his ears.

“Now,” she said, soft and dangerous.

He fumbled with the waistband, the elastic stretching as he tried to make sense of the angles. His cock throbbed behind the cage, the metal biting into his swollen flesh with every shift of his hips.

Laura watched, her lips parted, as he finally—finally—got the panties up his thighs. The lace clung to him, the crotch riding high, the string brushing against his still tender ass. The cage bulged the fabric, the sticky mess already mixing with his own shame.

“Look at you,” she breathed, stepping back to admire her work. She motioned him to turn around. "Stick your ass out, cucky!"

Pat’s mind reeled—minutes ago, she’d been curled against him, her breath warm on his neck, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. His Laura. Soft. His.

Now?

Now she was watching him with that look—the one that made his stomach twist, the one that said she knew exactly how far she could push. How fast she could rip the ground out from under him.

“Turn around,” she repeated, slower this time, like she was speaking to a child. “Let me see you.”

His throat burned. He obeyed, the carpet rough under his knees as he shifted, his ass lifting just enough to let the cool air hit the lace stretched over his cheeks. The panties rode up, the crotch pressing against his cage, his balls aching with every breath.

Laura watched him—her Pat, her devoted husband, her broken little cuck—kneeling there in her ruined panties, the lace clinging to his thighs, the cage glinting through the damp fabric. His shoulders trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of what she’d just made him do. What he’d let her do.

And god, she loved him for it.

The night had been a storm—Jake’s hands, his teeth, the way he’d used her while Pat listened—but this? This quiet moment, the way Pat flushed when she touched his collar, the way his fingers still twitched like he was fighting the urge to reach for her? This was the calm after. The part that mattered.

She’d pushed him. Hard. But he was still here. Still hers.

Her chest warmed, something soft and fierce unfurling behind her ribs. She’d needed this—the raw, filthy honesty of it, the way Pat’s submission grounded her, even as she flew apart. And he’d needed it too. The proof was in the way his eyes kept flicking to her, hungry and unsure, like he was waiting for her to tell him he’d done well. Like he needed her to see him.

She did.

She always did.

The club’s noise bled through the door. Laura’s pulse kicked up, her body remembering the way Jake had bent her over, the way Pat had suffered, his cock straining against its bars.

The club’s hum thrummed through the door. Laura’s skin prickled, her body still thrumming from Jake’s touch.

She wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Up,” she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument.

He obeyed, his movements stiff, her panties riding up his thighs with every shift.

Laura didn’t look at his face as she knelt in front of him, her fingers deft as she clipped the leash to the cage. The metal was warm from his body, the scent of his trapped arousal thick between them. She gave the leash a sharp tug, just enough to make him hiss.

“There,” she purred, rising to her feet. “Now we won’t lose each other.”

His face burned, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The leash was a promise, a threat, a claim—and they both knew it. Laura turned toward the door, the leash taut in her grip. Pat followed, his steps unsteady.

The club’s noise swelled as she pulled the door open, the bass of the music thrumming through the floorboards, the air thick with sweat and sin. Behind them, two sissy maids rushed into the room, cleaning it for the next visitors.

Laura and Pat did not pay them any attention.