The pain hit like a live wire—white-hot, searing, a brand pressed to his nerves. His back arched, a shrill sound tearing from his throat as the clamps came free, blood rushing back into his abused nipples with a vengeance. His cock, already trapped and throbbing, wilted inside the cage, the fire of arousal snuffed out in an instant.

Fuck. Fuck.

His mind scrambled, thoughts slipping like greased pigs. One second, he’d been floating, drunk on Laura’s words, on the filthy, impossible future she’d painted—her men, her rules, her everything. The next, his body betrayed him, the pain sharp and real, dragging him back to the bench, to the strap-on buried inside him, to the cold truth of what she was asking.

24/7.

Not just scenes. Not just the club. Every day. All day.

The strap-on slid free with a wet, obscene sound, leaving him hollowed out, his hole pulsing in the cool air. No more pressure, no more fullness—just the ghost of it, the memory of Laura’s hips slamming against his ass, her voice low and cruel in his ear.

You’re mine. All of me. Every part.

His breath hitched, shallow. The bench’s leather creaked under him, his weight still pressed into it like he was waiting for permission to move. The cuffs were still off. Had been the whole time. His wrists ached from gripping the bench’s edges, knuckles white, but he hadn’t even tried to pull away.

Could’ve.

Didn’t.

His cock twitched in the cage, a pathetic, trapped thing. Not hard. Not anymore. The slick trail of his own pre-cum cooled against his skin, a sticky reminder of how eager he’d been. How his body had clenched around her, how his cock had ached to be free, to be used—even locked away as it was.

Laura didn’t wipe the strap-on clean. Just let it dangle, heavy and obvious, as she stepped into his line of sight. It glistened between them, slick with lube and his own submission.

Her voice cut through the haze of pain and afterglow, soft but unyielding. "Decision time, my love."

Pat’s fingers twitched against the bench. The leather groaned as he shifted, his hole still throbbing.

Laura tilted her head, the strap-on swinging like a pendulum. "I’m going to the bar to get us something to drink. When I come back—" She let the words hang, letting him fill in the blanks. "You’re either on your feet, or you’re on your knees."

No dramatics. No threats. Just the weight of it, pressing down like a hand on his chest.

"If you’re standing, we walk out. Chalk it up to a fun night." A faint smirk, but her eyes stayed serious. "No hard feelings. You know I love you either way."

Pat exhaled, sharp. The air smelled like sweat and leather and the faint metallic tang of his own arousal.

"But if you’re kneeling?" Her fingers traced the harness straps, idle, like she was already imagining the next time she’d buckle into it.

The strap-on hit the floor with a dull thud, the harness pooling around it like a discarded skin. Laura didn’t look back. Just turned, her heels clicking against the concrete, her hips rolling with the kind of confidence that made men stare and women wonder.

Pat watched her go. The crowd parted for her like she was gravity itself, bodies shifting just enough to let her through. The bar’s neon glow painted her in blues and purples, the light catching the sheen of sweat still damp on her collarbone.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

His ass ached where the strap-on had stretched him, his hole still loose, still hers. He could still taste the phantom weight of her hands on his shoulders, the way she’d leaned in close enough to whisper Mistress like a secret, like a promise.

The club hummed around him—moans, the snap of a crop, a woman’s laughter sharp as broken glass. Somewhere to his left, a man groaned, low and rough, the sound of a zipper being yanked down. The air smelled like sex and leather and the faint, coppery tang of someone’s juices cooling in the air.

Pat exhaled. His fingers uncurled from the bench’s edge, the leather cool under his palms. No cuffs. No chains. Just his own choice, his own want.

He didn’t think about the mortgage. Didn’t think about the neighbours or the way his coworkers would look at him if only they knew. Didn’t think about the before—the years of half-truths and hesitant kinks, the way Laura had always held back, like she was waiting for him to catch up.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was the way she’d looked at him when she’d said permanent. The way her voice had gone soft, almost tender, when she’d called him good boy. The way his cock had wept behind its bars, desperate to be hers, even when it couldn’t be.

His knees hit the padded floor before he’d even realised he’d moved. His hands found their place on his back, fingers clasping the elbows, spine straight. The position was familiar—instinctive, almost. Like his body had been waiting for this.

Laura had not even reached the bar yet.

Pat swallowed. His pulse thrummed in his throat, his cock twitching uselessly in its prison.

He’d never been so sure.

The ice in Laura’s martini clinked like a toast to something already won.

She didn’t let it show—the relief, the pride—but it settled in her chest, warm and heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. There he was. Right where he belonged. Knees pressed to the padded floor, hands clasped behind his back, the curve of his spine a perfect spire.

Good boy.

The thought hummed through her, sweet as the first sip of gin.

She stopped just shy of him, close enough that her shadow fell over his shoulders. The bottle of water sweated in her grip, condensation beading down the plastic. She didn’t offer it. Not yet.

"Look at you." Her voice was light, almost conversational. Like they were discussing the weather, not the fact that he’d just knelt his way into a lifetime of hers. "All proper. All mine."

Pat didn’t move. Didn’t dare. But his breath caught, just slightly, his ribs expanding under the thin sheen of sweat still damp on his back.

Laura tilted her head, following the line of his body down to the bench. The leather gleamed under the club’s low lights, dark and slick where he’d leaked against it. A damp patch, sticky and obscene, right where his cock had been pressed against the padding.

She set the water bottle down. The thunk of plastic on concrete was loud in the quiet between them.

"Didn’t even think to clean up after yourself?" She tsked, swirling her martini. The glass caught the light, the olive skewered on the toothpick like a tiny, sacrificial offering. "That’s rude, love. Leaving a mess for someone else."

Pat’s throat worked. His fingers twitched against his elbows, but he didn’t break position. Didn’t dare.

Laura took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. The gin burned smooth and cold down her throat. She savoured it. Savoured this—the weight of his obedience, the way his body tensed, waiting.

"Fix it." She sat down on the bench, clear of the wetspot. "Tongue only. And don’t miss a spot."

No, please. No, if you’re comfortable. Just the order, gentle in tone but sharp and final, hanging between them like a blade.

Pat exhaled. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction, before he leaned forward.

The bench’s leather was warm under Pat’s lips, the slickness of his own pre-cum still tacky against his tongue. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t let himself think about the way the club’s lights caught the wet trail on the floor, or how the air smelled like salt and leather and the faint, musky tang of his own arousal.

His tongue dragged slow, deliberate, lapping up the drying cum. The taste was bitter, sharp—familiar. But this time, it didn’t burn with shame. It pooled on his tongue like something precious, like nectar given to him.

Laura’s fingers traced the rim of her martini glass, idle. "Look at you," she murmured, voice low, almost affectionate. "Like a good little cum-bucket cleaning up his mess."

Pat’s jaw tightened, just for a second, before he leaned in again. His tongue found another bead of fluid, lapping it up with a quiet, slurping sound. The floor was cool under his palms, the concrete rough against his knees.

"You’ve done this before," Laura continued, swirling the olive in her drink. "But never like this, huh?"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The way his cock twitched in its cage said enough.

Pat’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t stop. His tongue worked in slow, methodical strokes, chasing every last drop. The taste was richer now, thicker—his body’s betrayal, his mind’s surrender, all wrapped up in one filthy, perfect mouthful.

Laura’s fingers tangled in his hair, just for a second, before pulling him to a spot he missed. "That’s it. Every last bit."

He obeyed.

The last slick trail vanished under Pat’s tongue, the leather clean, the taste of his own need lingering like a confession. He stayed there, close to the bench, breath coming in short, controlled bursts. Waiting.

Laura’s thighs shifted against the leather, the sound soft, deliberate. She scooted over to where Pat had just cleaned the bench and placed herself right in front of his face. The heat of her as she spread her thighs was sudden and overwhelming. The scent hit him first: musky and salty, the sweet tang of her arousal. His cock jerked in its cage, the metal biting into his swelling flesh.

"Thirsty, love?"

Pat’s breath stuttered. His lips were still damp, his chin glistening. He didn’t dare lift his head, didn’t dare breathe too deep, but his body betrayed him

Laura’s fingers brushed his jaw, her touch light, almost absentminded. The water bottle appeared in his periphery, condensation beading down the sides, her manicured nails tapping against the plastic. "Drink."

The plastic cracked under Pat’s grip as he snatched the bottle, his throat working before the rim even touched his lips. Water hit his tongue, cool and sharp, drowning out the bitter tang of his own taste. He gulped it down, desperate, the liquid spilling over his chin, dripping onto the bench between his knees.

Laura watched, amused, as his Adam’s apple bobbed frantically. "Easy, love. Don’t choke."

He didn’t slow down. Not until the bottle was half-empty, his breath ragged, his lips slick with spilled water. The last swallow hit his stomach with a dull thud, the chill spreading through his chest.

"Better?" Laura’s voice was soft, but her fingers didn’t leave his hair, twisting just enough to remind him who held the leash.

Pat nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The movement was automatic, clumsy—like he’d forgotten how to be anything but hers.

Laura tilted her head, her thumb brushing his lower lip. "Wash your face, cumslut." Her grip tightened, just slightly, pulling his face up until their eyes met. "And make sure you get it all. I don’t want your cum spoiling my beautiful pussy tonight."

Pat’s breath hitched. The words landed like a slap, sharp and filthy, sending heat pooling low in his gut.

Laura’s smile was slow, knowing. "Unless you’d rather I find someone else to clean me up proper?"

The threat hung between them, sweet and poisonous. Pat’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t dare.

The water hit Pat’s skin like a shock—cold, sudden, a jolt back to his body. His fingers trembled as he cupped another handful, scrubbing at his chin, his mouth, the sticky residue of his own submission.

Clean. Clean for her.

His mind raced, thoughts slipping like oil on water. The club’s noise blurred into a dull roar—moans, the crack of a whip, a woman’s laugh—all of it distant, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the heat of Laura’s thighs against his shoulders, the way her breath hitched when he leaned in.

Laura was sore.

The thought burned through him, sharp and sweet. Jake’s doing. Jake’s cock. The way she’d ridden him, the way she’d taken him—hard, brutal, like Pat had never dared.

Good. She deserves to enjoy great sex.

Laura’s skin was hot under his lips, her thighs trembling just slightly as he parted her with his fingers. The scent of her hit him first—rich, musky, the sharp tang of sex still clinging to her. His nose brushed her inner thigh, the stubble on his jaw catching on the dampness there. She’d been used. Roughly. The thought didn’t twist in his gut the way it once might have. Instead, it settled, warm and heavy, like a stone dropped into still water.

Good. Her needs were taken care of.

His tongue dragged slow, deliberate, from the bottom of her slit to the top. The taste of her was familiar—salt and copper and something uniquely hers—but beneath it, something else. Or rather, somebody else. Pat didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He worked methodically, lapping at the residue, cleaning her like he was polishing silver. No rush. No wasted motion.

Her breath hitched when he found a sensitive spot, her fingers tightening in his hair just for a second before relaxing again. He filed that away. Note to self: left side, just inside the labia. Responds well to pressure.

His cock twitched in its cage, the metal biting into his trapped flesh. The ache was there, dull and persistent, but it didn’t burn. Not like before. Not like when he’d been the one inside her, when his own pleasure had been the point. Now, it was just… background noise. A reminder, nothing more.

Interesting.

His own arousal plateaued, hovering just below the edge of desperation. His cock stayed hard, trapped and throbbing, but the need didn’t spiral. It didn’t consume him. It just… was. A steady hum in the back of his mind, like the bassline of a song playing in another room.

Huh.

Laura’s moan was low and throaty when he found the right rhythm—slow, firm strokes of his tongue, just enough pressure to make her hips lift off the bench. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not guiding, just holding, like she needed something to anchor to. He adjusted, tilting his head just slightly, letting his nose brush her clit with every pass.

Another sound—softer this time, almost a whimper—and her thighs trembled again. His tongue worked faster, not because he needed it, but because she did. Her taste filled his mouth, rich and intoxicating, but it wasn’t about the taste. It wasn’t about him. It was about the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps and the way her nails scraped his scalp when he hit the right spot.

His own satisfaction grew with every sound she made, every shift of her hips, every tremor in her thighs. It wasn’t the desperate, clawing need of his own orgasm. It was deeper. Warmer. Like sinking into a hot bath after a long day—relief, not release.

This is what she needs. This is what I’m here for.

The realization settled into his bones, heavy and sure. His cock ached, but the ache was good. It was right. Like the soreness in his knees from kneeling, the sting in his wrists from gripping the bench too tight. Proof. Evidence. This is happening. This is real.

Laura’s voice cut through his focus, breathless but firm. "Yes! Yes! Come and fuck me!"

Pat’s tongue froze mid-stroke.

A hand—rough, calloused—gripped his shoulder and shoved. The force sent him sprawling, his palms skidding against the concrete, his cage biting into his trapped cock as he hit the floor. The impact jarred up his arms, his teeth clicking together with a sharp snap.

Laura’s gasp was lost under the bull’s grunt, the wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping flesh.

Pat barely had time to register the man—thick thighs, salt-and-pepper hair, the heavy swing of his balls—before he was inside her. No warning. No negotiation. Just the slick, brutal stretch of Laura’s cunt taking him in one stroke, her back arching off the bench with a choked cry.

Pat’s palms stung where they’d scraped the concrete, the skin already prickling with the promise of bruises. He didn’t dwell on it. Just pushed himself back up, knees finding the padded floor like they’d been magnetised. The bull’s grunts filled the air—low, guttural, the sound of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Older. Salt-and-pepper stubble, a paunch softening his midsection, but none of that mattered. Not when his cock stretched Laura like that—long, veined, the tip disappearing inside her with every thrust. Pat’s throat went dry. Not thick. Not the kind of girth that split a woman open. But long. So fucking long.

Laura’s nails raked the bench, her back arched like a bowstring, her mouth open in a silent O. The bull’s hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking into flesh, pulling her onto him with every snap of his waist.

She loves it.

The thought burned through him, sharp and bright. Laura’s eyes were glazed, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Not the performative moans. Not the careful, measured sounds of a woman in control. This was raw. This was need.

The bull’s cock glistened with her, the length of it disappearing inside her again and again, his balls swinging heavy between his thighs. Her body shuddered with every thrust, her skin flushed, her hair damp with sweat. The bull’s hips snapped against hers, the sound wet and brutal, the bench creaking under the force. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her fingers clawing at the leather beneath her.

Pat watched.

Not with hunger. Not with envy.

With wonder.

The club’s neon glow painted her in streaks of violet and crimson, the light catching the sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her nipples pebbled under the bull’s rough hands. Her thighs trembled, her muscles taut, her entire body a live wire, sparking under the man’s touch.

She was undone.

Not the careful, controlled Laura who scheduled dentist appointments and remembered anniversaries. Not the woman who folded the laundry just so, who measured her words like ingredients in a recipe.

This was her—raw, unfiltered, a storm given flesh. Her moans were broken things, half-swallowed, her back arching off the bench like she was trying to crawl out of her own skin. The bull’s cock stretched her, filled her, owned her in a way Pat never could.

And she glowed.

Pat’s chest ached, his ribs too tight, his heart pounding like it wanted to break free. His cock throbbed in its cage, but the pain was distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was the way Laura’s lips parted on a silent oh, and the way she wrapped around the bull’s hips, pulling him closer, deeper.

Mine.

The word burned in his throat, bright and fierce.

Not his in the way he’d once thought—not his to control, not his to possess. But his in the way that mattered. His to witness. His to serve. His to love, even like this. Especially like this.

The bull’s voice cut through Pat's train of thoughts. Laura’s breath came in ragged gasps—low, gravelly, the kind of tone that carried weight without effort.

"That’s it, slut. Take this old man’s cock like the greedy little whore you are."

Pat’s breath hitched. His fingers curled into the padding beneath him, nails biting into the foam. He hadn’t heard the words at first, lost in the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies slapping together. But now—

"You like that, don’t you? Like being stretched by a real man’s dick while your cuck watches?"

Laura’s moan was broken, desperate. "Yes—fuck, yes—"

The bull’s hips snapped forward, his thighs slapping against the backs of hers. "Say it. Say who owns this pussy now."

"You—" Her voice cracked. "You do. You own my pussy. Fuck, I’m gonna—"

Pat’s cock jerked in its cage, the metal biting into his trapped flesh. His own breath came short, sharp, his chest tight. The words shouldn’t have turned him on. They shouldn’t have. But the way Laura’s body reacted—the way her back arched, her nails raking the bench, her cunt clenching around the bull’s cock like she was trying to milk him dry—

"Gonna cum on this old cock, slut?" The bull’s voice dropped, rough with effort. "Gonna let me fill you up while your husband kneels like the little bitch he is?"

"Yes—" Laura’s voice was a whimper, a plea. "Yes, please, I—"

Her body locked, her thighs trembling, her breath stuttering in her throat. The bull groaned, his rhythm stuttering as her pussy clamped down around him. "Fuck—just like that—"

Pat watched, transfixed, as Laura’s orgasm crashed over her. Her back bowed off the bench, her mouth open in a silent scream, her entire body shuddering with the force of it. The bull’s cock disappeared inside her, buried to the hilt, his balls drawn up tight as she pulsed around him.

"Fuck—fuck—" His voice was a growl, his hips stuttering, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. "Take my cum like a good little—"

A final, brutal thrust, and he bottomed out. The bull’s groan was raw, guttural, his body jerking as he emptied himself inside her.

Laura’s whimper was soft, broken, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her own climax. The bull collapsed forward, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching inside her as the last of his cum spilled into her waiting cunt.

The bull’s cock slid free with a wet sound, his cum already dripping from Laura’s stretched cunt. He didn’t bother with niceties—just swiped the head of his dick against her inner thigh, smearing the last of his release across her skin before tucking himself back into his jeans. The zipper rasped shut, loud in the sudden quiet.

"Cheers, love." His voice was rough, satisfied, as he clapped Laura’s thigh once—possessive, almost paternal. Then he was gone, his boots thudding against the concrete as he ambled toward the bar, already reaching for his abandoned pint.

Laura didn’t move. Just lay there, sprawled on the bench, her thighs slick and trembling, the bull’s cum leaking out of her in slow, thick rivulets. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a sprint. The club’s neon glow painted her in streaks of violet, her skin glistening with sweat, her hair a tangled mess against the leather.

Then her gaze flicked to Pat.

He was still kneeling, his hands clenched behind his back, his knuckles white. His cock strained against the cage, the metal bars biting into his swollen flesh, his balls aching with denied release. The scent of sex filled the air, thick and musky, clinging to the back of his throat.

Laura’s voice cut through the haze, soft but firm. "I don’t want to leave a mess, so…"

She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

Pat’s throat worked. His pulse hammered in his ears, but his body moved before his mind could catch up. His palms pressed to the concrete, the cool bite of the floor grounding him as he shifted forward. The bench’s leather was warm under his lips, the scent of her—salt and copper and the sharp tang of the bull’s cum—overwhelming.

His tongue dragged slow, deliberate, from the bottom of her slit to the top. The taste hit him first—bitter, salty. His cock jerked in its cage, the metal biting into his trapped flesh, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t hesitate.

Laura’s breath hitched as his tongue found her entrance, lapping at the thick, leaking cum. Her fingers twisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding, her thighs trembling as he worked. The bull’s release was warm, almost rich, the flavour clinging to his palate like a filthy sacrament.

"Good boy," she murmured, her voice rough, almost distracted. Like she was commenting on the weather, not the fact that her husband was cleaning another man’s cum from her used cunt.

Pat’s jaw ached, but he didn’t stop. His tongue pressed deeper, chasing every last drop, the slick, obscene sounds of his efforts filling the space between them. His own need was a distant thing—dull, persistent, but irrelevant. All that mattered was the way Laura’s breath stuttered when he hit a sensitive spot, the way her hips lifted just slightly off the bench, offering him better access.

The last of the bull’s cum vanished under Pat’s tongue, the taste lingering like a brand. He pulled back, his lips glistening, his chin damp, and looked up at her.

Laura’s smile was slow, satisfied, full of love. "You are such a gorgeous, good little cleanup bitch, my love."