The hallway’s fluorescent glare seared Pat’s retinas, jolting him like a live wire. He winced, vision blurring as Laura yanked him forward, the leash stretched taut between them. Ahead, the club’s main floor sprawled like a beast’s open maw—all crimson velvet and slick black leather, the air thick with the musk of sweat and something sharper, something that crackled like static.

Laura didn’t hesitate. She moved with purpose, her hips swaying in a rhythm that kept the leash snug against Pat’s cage, each tug a sharp, metallic reminder of her ownership. His trapped cock pulsed, swollen and useless behind the bars.

Then—sound. Not just the bass-heavy thrum of the music, but the slick slap of flesh on flesh, the sharp crack of palm meeting skin, the raw, guttural gasps of someone being pushed past their limits. Pat’s breath caught. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms.

Laura guided him with a gentle but unyielding pull, steering him along the edge of the crowd like a skittish animal. Her gaze locked onto an unused play space tucked into a corner—a St. Andrew’s cross, a spanking bench, an array of toys, and a plush couch. Perfect.

She directed him toward the bench with another tug. "Up."

The leather groaned beneath him as he climbed onto the leg rests, still warm from the last body that had bent there. Pat exhaled slowly, his chest pressing against the padded slope. His wrists found the armrests instinctively, fingers brushing the cool metal of the rings, searching for something to anchor to.

A decade. More than ten years since he’d first knelt for her, since she’d first bound him like this. The benches had changed—this one was newer, sturdier—but the way it forced his spine to curve, the way his ass lifted, exposed and offered—that was the same. Muscle memory. His body knew the script before his mind could catch up.

The bench’s angle tilted his chin upward, his gaze level with the crowd, giving him an unobstructed view of the entire floor—every writhing body, every gasp, every groan laid out before him like a banquet he wasn’t permitted to taste.

The padding molded to his ribs, firm yet yielding—no cheap vinyl here, no rough edges digging in after twenty minutes. High-density foam, maybe even memory gel beneath the leather. Built for endurance. His weight settled, his hips cradled just right, the slope of the bench supporting his lower back even if he stayed like this for hours. And knowing Laura, he might.

His breath steadied. The bench wasn’t just comfortable—it was thoughtful. Someone had considered how a body would tire, how muscles would lock or nerves would scream if the angles were off. The rings had swivel clips, allowing his wrists to rotate just enough to keep the blood flowing. Even the leg spreads were adjustable, the straps lined with something soft against his inner thighs.

He could grow old here.

A flicker of dark humor cut through the haze of anticipation. Of course Laura would pick this one. She’d always had an eye for quality—the right tool for the job, whether it was a chef’s knife in the kitchen or a flogger in their playroom. No shortcuts. No compromises.

As he settled, he noticed one glaring difference from every other bench he’d known.

His cage swung freely between his thighs.

Pat’s throat tightened.

The panties Laura had forced him into—still damp, still clinging—pressed against the bars, the lace too delicate to hide anything.

He felt exposed.

Not just to the air, not just to the eyes of strangers, but to touch. The bench’s design ensured it. His cage wasn’t just visible; it was accessible. A hand could reach out. Fingers could trace the bars, test the lock. Tug. Squeeze.

His pulse spiked.

Laura didn’t slow her stride. She moved with the confidence of a woman who owned the room, her fingers trailing over his backside, following the string of the panties to his sore, stretched hole. A flick of her wrist, and the leash unclipped from his cage.

Her fingernail hooked under the fabric, adjusting the panties with deliberate slowness, dragging the cage snug against his balls. Her other hand mirrored the path her eyes had already taken—up the back of his thighs, over the curve of his ass, where the plug had left him tender. His breath hitched when her fingertip circled his hole, not pressing, just reminding. The string rasped as she tugged it higher, wedging the fabric between his cheeks, exposing him further.

Then her touch vanished.

Pat exhaled, his muscles tensing, waiting for the next contact. It came slowly—her nail tracing the ladder of his spine, each vertebra a step she climbed with measured precision.

Laura’s hip pressed against his shoulder, her warmth seeping through the flimsy barrier of her dress. Her fingers curled around the nape of his neck, possessive but grounding, anchoring him as the club’s chaos swirled beyond their corner.

Her breath warmed the shell of his ear, her fingers still sketching idle patterns on his skin.

“Remember Vegas?”

His body stiffened under her touch—just for a heartbeat—before forcing itself to relax. Of course he remembered.

The hotel room had reeked of bleach and stale air freshener, the kind that masked decay rather than erased it. The bedspread had once been white; the furniture was held together by its paint job alone. They’d been young. Reckless. On a weeklong trip to celebrate their fifth anniversary, drunk on more than just the syrupy margaritas from the all-you-could-eat buffet.

They’d been wandering the casinos that afternoon, weaving through endless rows of slot machines and blackjack tables, past the vacant stares of elderly gamblers glued to their seats. As they searched for a lunch spot, Laura’s elbow nudged Pat’s ribs, her chin jerking toward a flickering neon sign—Palace of Sin—sandwiched between a pawn shop and a boarded-up wedding chapel. Her eyes had lit up, and she’d beelined for the door.

The bell above it jingled as they entered, the air sticky with years of neglect.

The walls were a shrine to poor choices and worse taste. Shelves sagged under the weight of plastic trinkets and rubber novelties.

A rack of I ♥ Vegas thongs—sequined, bedazzled, one with a tiny slit where the heart should be, the edges frayed from too many drunken fingers testing the stretch. Beside them, Bride to Be sashes in hot pink, the letters already peeling, dangled next to Groom’s Last Ride boxers featuring a cartoon donkey mid-buck.

A bargain bin labeled Sin City Souvenirs held glow-in-the-dark condoms shaped like slot machine handles, their wrappers promising Double the Luck, Half the Friction. Next to it, a stack of Vegas Vixen vibrators—hot pink, vaguely resembling the Eiffel Tower’s sad, battery-powered cousin—sat beside High Roller dildos, their bases molded into dice, the pips worn smooth. At the counter, a spinning rack displayed Vegas Wedding Night starter kits: lube packets shaped like poker chips, a “Just Married (Again)” blindfold, and various handcuffs and paddles, all bedazzled, all tacky beyond belief.

Laura’s fingers had hovered over a pair of fuzzy handcuffs—pink, with tiny rhinestones spelling Jailhouse Rock—before snatching them up with a grin. “These’ll do for Mum,” she’d muttered, already imagining her mother’s horrified expression on Christmas morning.

The tradition had started years earlier, back when Laura and her siblings were still teenagers. Their family had never been one for heartfelt gifts or sentimental gestures. Instead, they’d embraced the absurd. The rule was simple: find the worst possible gift, wrap it with care, and relish the horror on Christmas morning. The winner—the one who’d sourced the most appalling present—earned bragging rights for the year and a pass on dish duty. Laura was the reigning champion, having secured her title with a “How to Speak Australian” cassette tape for their father, who’d been born and raised in Sydney. The narrator’s accent had been so atrocious it sounded like a drunk pirate attempting to impersonate Steve Irwin.

The corner of Pat’s mouth twitched. “You’re really gonna spend our shopping money on that?”

Laura didn’t glance up from the rack of gag gifts. “Traditions matter, honey.” She’d picked up a keychain reading “I went to Vegas and all I got was an STD” and held it up to the light, examining it like a jeweler appraising a diamond. “Besides, I’ve got a title to defend.”

Pat’s lips brushed her temple, his stubble catching on her skin. “I’ll be right back. Gotta find a bathroom.”

Laura’s fingers paused on a mug reading “Vegas: 24-Hour Marriage, 24-Year Regret.” She glanced at the clock above the register. “Meet me outside in fifteen?”

Looking back, Pat knew he should’ve noticed. Should’ve questioned the way Laura’s bag bulged when she left the store, the plastic handles straining under the weight of whatever she’d stuffed inside. Should’ve registered the way the shop assistant’s eyes flicked toward him as he waited outside, her expression a mix of pity and amusement.

But he hadn’t. So it came as a shock when Laura tied his wrists to the headboard—not just with his belt, as usual, but with actual handcuffs. She’d promised him a night of kinky fun, and his cock had been hard before she even touched him, just from the way she’d looked at him when she whispered, “You’re mine tonight.” And he’d believed her.

He’d believed her when she blindfolded him and rode him until his ears popped. Believed her when she slapped his face just to watch his eyes snap back to hers, dazed and desperate, as she teased him with a feather and a flogger. Believed her when she locked the first cage around him—some cheap plastic thing with a padlock—and told him he wasn’t allowed to come.

Three days. Three days he’d walked those casino floors, his cock trapped in plastic, his mind fogged with need. She finally let him out on their anniversary, and he came in two strokes, sobbing against her palm like something broken.

The Vegas trip hadn’t been their first foray into BDSM and FemDom—just the first time Laura meant it.

“Yes,” Pat whispered, surfacing from the memory. “I remember Vegas.”

Laura’s heels clicked against the floor as she crossed the room, the toy wall looming ahead—a grid of polished metal and silicone, each implement arranged with surgical precision. Her fingers skimmed over floggers, paddles, a row of gleaming stainless-steel sounds—then hesitated.

The clamps were small, unassuming. A delicate chain linked the two alligator clips, their jaws lined with rubber to bite just enough. She plucked them from their hook, testing the tension with a flick of her thumb. A slow smile curved her lips.

She returned to Pat, who was transfixed by the spectacle of an orgy in full swing.

The crowd was a writhing, living thing—pulsing, ravenous. A woman in latex knelt at the feet of a man in a tailored suit, her lips wrapped around his cock while his hand fisted in her hair, dictating the rhythm. Beside them stood her husband—collared, leashed, his own cage glinting under the lights. His hands trembled as he balanced a drink tray, his gaze downcast while his wife choked on another man’s cock. What snagged Pat’s breath was the cuck’s outfit—he wore the same glossy black full-body latex suit as his wife, also crotchless.

Laura didn’t announce her return. She simply knelt beside the bench, reaching for his right nipple. It was already hard—from the air, from the anticipation, from the way she’d left him strung out and desperate. She pinched it between her fingers, rolling it until he gasped, then clamped the teeth around the bud with a firm click.

Pat’s back arched, a choked sound tearing from his throat. Laura ignored it, attaching the second clamp, the chain between them fastened to a ring in the bench. She tugged it experimentally, just enough to make him whimper.

The clamps bit sharp, but Pat had endured far worse since Vegas. The initial sting flared, then settled into a dull, insistent throb—familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. He exhaled through his nose, his muscles unclenching. Just pain. Just metal and pressure.

The cold kiss of metal against his inner thigh made him flinch. Laura’s fingers worked quickly, threading a slender chain through the cage’s bars, then securing it to a ring bolted beneath the bench. A tug—just enough to lift his balls—sent a jolt through his core.

She tested the chain’s give. It held.

Laura’s thighs brushed the bench as she crouched, her dress riding up just enough to tease. Her face filled Pat’s vision—her blue eyes alight with excitement, her hair still damp from the shower, her skin flushed with the kind of glow that only came from being thoroughly fucked.

She didn’t touch him. Didn’t need to. “Look at me.”

Pat’s gaze snapped to hers, the clamps and chain forgotten. The noise of the club faded into a dull hum, the latex couple’s performance reduced to a blur of motion at the edges of his vision. There was only Laura, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her irises, the way her pupils dilated when she knew she had him.

“We need to talk about tonight,” she said, her voice low and smooth. “And I need your full attention.”

Pat nodded.

Laura’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her thumb brushing the dampness at his temple. “Ten years,” she murmured. “Do you remember how awkward we were at first?”

Pat exhaled, a rough laugh escaping him. “The rope burns. The safeword you forgot. The time you tried to wax me yourself and—”

“—and I grabbed the stripper glue instead of the wax.” She grinned, unrepentant. “You walked like a bowlegged cowboy for a week.”

His chuckle vibrated against the bench. “You cried when you had to cut the first cage off me. Said you’d never lock me up again.”

“Liar.” She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “I had a new one ordered before the pliers even closed.”

They both laughed.

“Remember the park?” she murmured. “That bench by the river, the one with the broken slats? You knelt right there while I rode your face, my skirt hiked up, your hands cuffed behind your back. Some jogger nearly called the cops.”

The corner of Pat’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—just the ghost of a treasured memory.

Laura’s fingers stilled against his cheek. “Pat… this is different,” she said, her voice gentle through the haze. “What we did tonight… it wasn’t just a scene. It wasn’t just a game.”

Pat’s heart hammered in his chest. His gaze flicked to hers, then away, as if afraid of what he’d see if he looked too long.

Laura didn’t let him hide. She gripped his chin, firm but not cruel, forcing his eyes back to hers. “We brought someone else into our relationship. That changes things.”

His throat worked. “I know.”

“Do you?” Her thumb brushed his lower lip, her touch deliberate. “Because this isn’t like the park or the beach or any of the other times we’ve played. This is real. If we keep going down this path, it will change our relationship. Change us.”

The club’s bass thrummed through the bench, vibrating against Pat’s ribs, but he barely noticed. Laura’s touch on his chin didn’t waver, her fingers warm against his skin. Her eyes—those damn eyes—held something raw, something he hadn’t seen in years. Not just hunger. Not just control.

Uncertainty. Fear.

Pat’s breath hitched. He knew that look. Knew the way her lower lip caught between her teeth when she was torn, the way her pulse jumped in her throat. She wanted more. But the cost—

His voice came out rougher than he intended. “You think I don’t see it?”

Laura’s brows knit. “See what?”

“That you’re scared.” He swallowed, the words scraping his throat. “That if we do this—really do this—it’ll break us.”

Her breath shuddered out. For once, she didn’t mask it. Didn’t laugh it off or twist it into a game. Just stared at him, vulnerable in a way that made his chest ache.

Pat exhaled slowly. “I’m not.”

Her grip tightened. “Not what?”

“Not scared.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “I’ve spent ten years learning how to kneel for you. Tonight? That was just another step in the right direction.”

Laura’s thumb traced his jawline. “And if I want more?”

The question hung between them, heavy with possibility. Pat’s pulse pounded, but his voice stayed steady. “Then take it… Mistress.”

Laura’s lips pressed to his forehead, warm and lingering. When she pulled back, the vulnerability in her eyes had vanished, replaced by the familiar glint of mischief

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice smooth as silk.

Pat exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. That was all he needed—those two words, that tone. The world righted itself.

Laura stood, her dress swaying with the movement. She didn’t glance back as she walked toward the toy wall, her hips rolling just enough to make it clear she knew he was watching. The clamps tugged at Pat’s nipples with every breath as he tried to twist his body to follow her, the chain between his legs a constant reminder of who owned him.

Laura’s heels marked her return, each step deliberate.

Pat strained against the bench, but the angle hid her hands—only the rustle of plastic, the faint clink of metal against the floor behind him. His fingers curled into fists. What now?

Laura’s fingers curled around his cage, her grip firm but not cruel. She gave a slow, deliberate tug—just enough to lift his balls, to make the metal bite. His breath hitched, a sharp inhale through his nose

“Eyes forward,” she murmured.

The latex couple had shifted positions. The wife now straddled the suited man’s lap, her husband kneeling beside them, hands clasped behind his back. The bull’s fingers dug into the woman’s hips as she rode him, her latex squeaking with every roll of her body. Pat gasped when the husband leaned in—not to interrupt, but to lick. His tongue traced the curve of his wife’s breast where it spilled from the latex, then tried to suck on her nipple—a task nearly impossible with the bouncing of her tits.

The suited man’s grunts grew louder, his grip bruising as he yanked the woman down harder onto his cock. Her husband’s tongue never stopped, lapping at her sweat-slicked skin, his own cage glinting with every desperate shift of his knees.

Pat’s breath hitched—that was devotion. That was surrender.

Laura’s thumb traced the underside of his cage, pressing just hard enough to make him squirm. “Tell me what you see.”

Pat swallowed, his voice rough. “The guy in the corner—the one with the red collar. He’s on his knees, hands bound behind his back. His wife’s got him leashed to the arm of that chair while some guy in a leather vest fucks her from behind.”

Laura’s fingers stilled against the cage as she looked up to see herself, then resumed her gentle, merciless touch. “Go on.”

Pat’s throat worked. “She’s got one hand on his head, forcing him to watch. The other’s wrapped around the bull’s wrist, like she’s making sure he doesn’t pull out too soon. Every time the guy thrusts, she moans—loud, like she wants her husband to hear how good it feels.”

A sharp tug on the chain made Pat gasp. “And him?”

“His face is—fuck, he’s begging for it. Tears running down his cheeks, but he’s not looking away. He’s hard, even though he can’t do anything about it. His cage is dripping, and his wife just—” Pat’s voice cracked. “She just laughs.”

Laura’s nails scraped the cage’s bars, her voice a velvet blade. “Do you like what you see?”

Pat’s breath came fast, his hips twitching against her hand. “Yes, Mistress.”

Laura’s fingers abandoned the cage, trailing lower.

Pat’s breath hitched as her thumb pressed against his hole—still sore, still stretched from earlier. He jerked against the bench, but the restraints held firm.

“Good,” Laura purred, her touch circling, teasing. His muscles clenched around nothing, desperate, the need shooting straight up his spine, melting his mind.

Laura’s thumb pressed deeper, just enough to make Pat’s hips jerk against the bench. “Again. Pick another.”

His gaze darted across the room, landing on the couple tangled on the low, padded platform near the far wall. The woman was on all fours, her back arched, her head buried between the thighs of the man beneath her. The bull knelt behind her, his hands gripping her hips like handles, his cock disappearing inside her with every brutal thrust.

Pat’s voice came out rough. “The platform—they’re in a sixty-nine. The guy on his back… he’s licking her while the other guy fucks her from behind.”

Laura’s touch stilled. “Describe it.”

Pat swallowed, his throat dry. “She’s got her knees spread wide, her ass in the air. The bull’s got her by the hips, pulling her onto him so hard the whole platform shakes. Every time he bottoms out, she moans—loud, like she can’t help it. And the guy underneath her—” His breath hitched. “He’s not stopping. Not even when the bull’s balls slap him in the face.”

Laura’s fingers resumed their slow, maddening circles, slowly edging deeper.

The bull’s rhythm stuttered, his thrusts turning jagged before he buried himself deep with a guttural groan. His fingers dug into the woman’s hips, locking her in place as his body jerked—once, twice—his cock pulsing inside her. Pat’s breath hitched as the woman collapsed forward, her palms slapping the platform, her back arching as she took every last spurt.

Then the bull pulled out.

Cum dripped from her, thick and obscene, glistening on her thighs as she turned, her movements slow, deliberate. She didn’t rise. Didn’t hesitate. She simply swung one leg over the man beneath her, lowering herself until her soaked pussy hovered over his mouth.

Pat’s throat went dry.

The man beneath her didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist. His hands stayed bound above his head, his cage glinting under the lights as his wife sank onto his face, feeding him the bull’s cum with a slow, rolling grind of her hips. His tongue darted out, eager, lapping at the mess between her legs while his own cock strained uselessly against its prison.

Laura’s thumb pressed deeper, stretching him just enough to make his voice crack. “Keep going. What do you see?”

Pat’s stomach twisted. “He’s—fuck, he’s eating it. All of it. She’s grinding down on his face, and he’s just—” His breath came fast, his hips jerking against the bench. “He’s licking her clean. Like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.”

Laura’s laugh was dark, amused. “And? You act like this is new.”

Pat’s face burned. “It’s not the same—”

“Isn’t it?” Her thumb twisted, just slightly, and his words dissolved into a gasp. “You’ve knelt in the shower how many times, tongue out, waiting for me to feed you your own cum out of my pussy? You beg for it.”

His muscles locked, his cock throbbing uselessly against the cage. “That’s different.”

Pat’s breath came uneven, his body strung tight between the bench and the chains.

Laura didn’t argue. Didn’t mock. She simply stood, her dress whispering against her thighs as she stepped back. The moment her fingers left him, Pat’s skin prickled with the loss, his body arching futilely against the restraints, hoping to meet her touch.

Laura's finger pointed toward the wall on their right.

A screen displayed a CCTV feed—grainy, slightly distorted, the camera angle high and unobstructed. The image showed a dozen men, all caged, all tethered to the wall by a long chain connected to their collars. Plastic chairs, cheap and unyielding, lined them up against the wall like trophies on a shelf. Some sat stiff-backed, hands clasped between their knees. Others slumped, their heads bowed, their breathing ragged. One rocked slightly, his fingers digging into the edge of his seat like he was fighting the urge to touch himself.

Laura's voice cut through the haze. "Tell me what you see."

Pat's gaze flicked over the screen, his brow furrowing. The men didn't move. Didn't speak. Just... sat.

He swallowed, his throat dry. "They're just... waiting?"

Laura was rummaging through the toys behind him, her fingers brushing against silicone and steel. "And?"

Pat's eyes darted across the feed again. "They're all caged. Collared. Chained to the wall. But they're not—" His voice faltered. "They're not doing anything."

Silence.

"That's the Cuckgarden," Laura said, her voice low, almost casual. "Hotwives drop their husbands off there when they don't want them underfoot."

Pat's pulse hammered in his neck. His cock twitched behind the cage, the metal biting into him. "They just... leave them?"

Laura nodded. "All night, if they want." Her hand returned to Pat's ass, her thumb pressing against his hole. "Imagine it. They sit there, knowing their wife is out there, getting used. Getting filled. Getting owned by someone else."

Pat's hands clenched into fists. His gaze locked onto the screen. One of the men shifted in his seat. Nobody reacted.

"But what do they do?" he rasped.

"Nothing." Laura's voice was matter-of-fact. "They can't even hear the party. No music, no TV, nothing. They sit for hours in a quiet, white room, surrounded by other cucks, and all they can do is imagine."

The screen's glow burned into Pat's retinas. The men weren't just restrained—they were forgotten. No sounds, no sights, no proof of what their wives were doing beyond those four white walls. Just the slow, creeping agony of not knowing.

Pat's mouth opened—

Closed.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Laura's breath was warm against his ear. "You're not like them, Pat."

His throat worked. "I'm not?"

"You're mine to use," she murmured, her fingers tracing his spine. "Not to forget."

The words settled into him, warm and heavy. His breath steadied. The clamps bit into his nipples, the chain between them tugging with each inhale. The strapon inside him was a constant, insistent presence. He was here. He was hers. He was chosen.

Laura's hand slid down his back, her touch possessive. "This could be our life, you know."

Pat's pulse jumped. "This?"

"Not just scenes. Not just weekends." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I want you collared. Always. I want your cage on, your obedience absolute—at home, at work, in bed."

His breath hitched. The strapon twisted inside him, just slightly.

"And I want to include other men." Her fingers tightened on his hip. "You'll serve them too."

Pat's cock throbbed against the cage. The idea should have terrified him. Instead, his pulse roared in his ears.

Laura leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. "You'll kneel for them. Pour their whiskey. Shine their shoes." Her hips rolled, the strapon grinding against his prostate. "And if they want to use that pretty mouth of yours? You'll open wide and take every inch like the good little slut you are."

Pat's breath came in ragged gasps. The clamps pulled at his nipples, the chain between his legs taut.

Laura's voice dropped to a whisper. "And when they're done with me—when they've filled me up and left me dripping—you'll clean me. Tongue first."

Pat's vision blurred. His cock ached behind the cage, his hole burning around the strapon. This was wrong. This should have terrified him. But all he felt was the fire in his veins, the rightness of her words, the way his body responded to her voice like a well-tuned instrument.

Laura's hand slid up his spine, her nails scraping lightly. "We'd still have boundaries. Safe words. Rules." Her other hand wrapped around the cage, giving it a sharp tug. "But no more pretending this is just a game."

Pat's pulse hammered in his throat. The strapon filled him, the clamps bit into his nipples, and the weight of her words pressed down like a physical force. He wanted this—God, he wanted it—but doubt coiled in his gut, cold and insistent. "What if I can't—"

Laura's laugh cut him off, low and knowing. She didn't mock him. She just slid her hand up his spine, her thumb pressing against the base of his skull. "Pat," she murmured, "you already are."

His breath hitched. The bench creaked as she shifted, her other hand wrapping around his wrist—his free wrist—and lifting it. The leather strap dangled loose from the ring, the buckle undone. No marks. No restraints. Just his own skin, slick with sweat where the phantom weight of cuffs had been.

"You've been free this whole time," she whispered. "No locks. No chains. Just you, choosing to stay. Choosing me."

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. His chest burned. The clamps pulled at his nipples, the strapon ground against his prostate, and his locked cock throbbed behind the cage—all of it his choice. He wasn't trapped. He was hers.

Laura's grip on his wrist tightened, just for a second. "That's what makes you mine, love. Not the cage. Not the bench." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The fact that you stay."

Laura's fingers curled around the clamps, gently tugging.

Pat's vision blurred. The club's noise faded to a dull roar, the other couples reduced to shadows at the edges of his vision. There was only this: the weight of her hand on his wrist, the ache in his nipples, the fullness inside him. The truth of it.

Laura tore off the clamps.

Pat screamed.