The club’s bass still vibrated through the floor, but the energy had shifted—softer now, the crowd thinning as the night bled toward dawn. Laura swayed slightly as she stood, her legs unsteady, her thighs sticking together with the remnants of the bull’s release and her own slickness. She didn’t bother fixing her dress, just let it hang loose, the fabric clinging to her damp skin like a second layer.

Pat remained on his knees a moment longer, his breath measured, his body humming with denied need. His trapped hardness ached, swollen and throbbing, but the discomfort was distant, eclipsed by the warmth blooming in his chest. He watched Laura gather her things—her purse, her phone, the leash still dangling from her fingers like an afterthought. The sight of her—used, sated, his—made his throat tighten.

"Come on," she murmured, her voice rough with exhaustion. "Let’s go home."

He nodded, pushing himself upright. His legs were stiff, his muscles protesting, but he followed without complaint. The walk to the changing room blurred into dim lights and lingering moans, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Laura moved slowly, her steps unhurried, as if savoring the night’s last echoes.

The changing room’s fluorescent lights were harsh after the club’s mood lighting. Pat stripped off the lace panties first, the fabric damp and clinging, then the collar, his fingers fumbling with the buckle. Laura leaned against the wall, watching him with half-lidded eyes as he pulled on his jeans, the denim abrading his sensitive skin. His trapped flesh twitched against the cage, the metal cool and unyielding, but he ignored it. The shirt followed, then his shoes, each movement deliberate, like he was sealing away the night.

Laura didn’t speak. Just observed. Her own dressing was slower—she winced as she stepped into her underwear, the fabric chafing against her sore flesh, but her smile never wavered. She dressed with the leisurely confidence of someone who’d gotten exactly what she wanted.

Pat zipped his jacket, the sound loud in the quiet room. He turned to her, his hands hovering at his sides, uncertain. "Mistress?"

She reached for him, her palm cupping his cheek. Her thumb brushed his lower lip, still swollen from use. "You did so well tonight," she whispered.

His breath caught. The praise settled in his chest, warm and heavy, pushing back the last of his need. He leaned into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering shut.

"Let’s go home."

The exit door groaned shut behind them, sealing off the thud of music. Cool night air hit their skin, raising goosebumps. Laura exhaled, her breath curling in the dim glow of the parking lot lights. She took a step, then winced, her thighs protesting.

"Fuck," she muttered, pressing a hand to the small of her back.

Pat chuckled, low and rough. "Yeah. Me too." His gait was stiff, his inner thighs burning with every movement. He slung an arm around her waist, pulling her close. The heat of her body seeped through their clothes, grounding him. "Think we overdid it?"

Laura snorted, leaning into him. "No such thing." But she hissed as they descended the curb, her weight shifting onto her toes. "Okay, maybe a little."

They moved slowly, a tangled mess of limbs and shared exhaustion. The asphalt was uneven beneath their feet, every crack and dip sending fresh jolts through their overused muscles. Pat’s trapped flesh throbbed in its cage, the metal a constant, maddening reminder, but he didn’t complain. Just held her tighter, his fingers splayed against her hip.

"Next time we’re bringing a wheelchair," Laura said, her voice thick with amusement. "Or a stretcher."

They reached their car, parked under a flickering lamp. Pat fished the key fob from his jacket, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of Jake’s discarded panties stuffed inside. He paused, then zipped the pocket shut with a smirk. Laura caught the movement, her eyebrows lifting.

"Keeping souvenirs?" she teased.

"Evidence," he corrected, unlocking the doors. The interior light flared, casting them in pale yellow.

Laura smirked as Pat limped to the passenger side, his posture stiff but deliberate. He pulled her door open with a flourish, wincing as his thighs protested.

Laura slid into the seat, her body sinking into the leather with a quiet sigh. The way Pat moved—careful, like every action was measured—sent a slow thrill through her. He didn’t just open her door. He held it, his posture just a little straighter, his gaze flickering to hers for permission before he shut it. No grand gesture, no overt submission. Just… right.

She buckled her seatbelt, the click loud in the stillness.

The car door shut with a soft thud, sealing Laura inside. She watched Pat through the windshield as he turned away, his movements slow, deliberate. His gait was off—stiff, like his legs were locked in place—but he didn’t rush. Didn’t complain. Just walked, one hand brushing the car’s roof for balance, his shoulders squared despite the ache she knew was burning through him.

Her lips twitched. Getting your ass fucked will do that to a man.

She swallowed the grin before it could form. Now wasn’t the time for amusement. Not when he was like this—careful, like every step was an offering.

The driver’s side opened. Pat lowered himself into the seat with a quiet hiss, his thighs tensing as he settled. The dome light cast sharp shadows under his cheekbones, his jaw tight. His gaze flicked to hers, dark and searching, like he needed to confirm she was still there.

The engine hummed to life, low and steady. Pat’s fingers flexed around the wheel, his knuckles pale for just a second before he eased the car into reverse. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the emptying lot as he guided them toward the exit.

Laura watched the way his shoulders rolled back, the subtle shift in his posture—softer, somehow. Like he was settling into his own skin for the first time. His movements were deliberate, his focus absolute, but there was something else now. A quiet attention, like every action was an extension of her will.

The highway stretched ahead, the lanes near-empty at this hour. Pat merged smoothly, the car gliding onto the asphalt with barely a shudder.

Thirty minutes later, the car eased into the underground parking garage, the concrete walls swallowing the sound. Pat killed the engine, the sudden quiet thick between them.

The car door clicked open. Pat stepped out, his movements precise—no rush, no hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who knew exactly what came next. The garage lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows as he shut the door behind him with a firm press of his palm.

Laura watched through the windshield as he rounded the hood, his stride even despite the stiffness in his thighs. His hands were steady, his posture unhurried but intent.

Her door opened before she could reach for the handle. Cool air spilled in, carrying the scent of concrete and oil. Pat stood there, his palm extended, fingers slightly curled in silent offering. No words. No grand gesture. Just this.

She took his hand.

His grip was warm, his fingers calloused as they closed around hers, helping her rise from the seat. The movement pulled at her sore muscles, but she didn’t flinch. Just let him guide her out, her body brushing against his as she stepped onto the pavement. The contact was brief—just a second of heat, of shared breath—but it lingered.

Pat didn’t let go. Not yet.

He shut the door with his free hand, the sound echoing in the empty garage. Then he turned, his shoulder pressing lightly against hers as he led her toward the elevators. His steps were measured, his pace just slow enough to let her match him without strain. The fluorescent lights flickered above them, casting their reflections in the polished metal of the elevator doors as they approached.

Pat pressed the call button. The panel lit up, the soft ding of its arrival cutting through the silence.

Inside, the elevator was empty, the mirrors lining the walls reflecting their disheveled states—Laura’s hair tangled, her lips still swollen, Pat’s collar slightly askew, his shirt rumpled. He hit the button for the 47th floor, the motion smooth, his fingers never trembling.

The doors slid shut with a whisper.

Laura leaned back against the wall, her body aching in all the right ways. Pat stood beside her, his shoulder still brushing hers, his presence solid. The elevator hummed as it ascended, the numbers ticking upward in silent rhythm.

The doors slid open with a chime and a quiet hiss. Their apartment hallway stretched before them, dimly lit by the sconces along the walls, the plush carpet muffling their steps.

The keycard beeped green, the lock disengaging with a soft click.

Inside, the apartment was still, the air stale with the scent of yesterday’s coffee and polished wood. Pat stepped over the threshold first, his shoes scuffing against the hardwood. He toed them off without thinking, then froze.

Laura shut the door behind them, the sound final.

Silence.

Pat stood frozen, his fingers twitching at his sides. What now? He didn’t ask. Just stood there, his shoulders tense, his gaze flickering over the familiar space—the kitchen island, the couch, the hallway leading to their bedroom—like he was seeing it for the first time.

What now?

The question gnawed at him, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he didn’t know. Didn’t know if he was supposed to kneel here, in the entryway, or if he should follow her to the bedroom. Didn’t know if he was allowed to speak first, or if he should wait for her command. Didn’t know if he was even allowed to hesitate like this—if this silence was failure already.

No physical restraints held him in place—it was the absence of instruction. No leash, no command, no clear line to follow. Just silence. And for the first time in hours, he had no idea what to do.

Laura exhaled, her breath shaky. She’d demanded this. Wanted it. But now, standing in their bright apartment, the reality of it settled like a stone in her gut. The club had been easy—roles defined, power exchanged in the dark, the rules suspended by the night. Here, under the glare of their pendant lights, everything felt brittle.

Laura’s fingers twitched. Enough.

She moved—sharp, decisive—her bare feet silent against the hardwood. The kitchen island’s edge bit into her palms as she leaned over it, reaching for the whisky decanter. Ice clinked against glass as she dropped cubes into two tumblers.

The amber liquid sloshed as Laura turned, the glass catching the light.

"Pat."

Her voice was soft. Worn.

He lifted his head, his shoulders easing at the sound of his name—not boy, not pet, just him. His breath escaped in a quiet rush as he crossed the room, his steps slower now, like he was afraid to break the moment.

Laura slid a glass toward him as he reached the island. Their fingers brushed, just for a second, as he took it. The cold glass bit into his palm, the whisky’s scent sharp and smoky.

She didn’t raise her glass. Didn’t toast. Just watched him over the rim as she took a slow sip, her throat working. The ice clinked when she set it down.

"You okay?" she asked.

Pat’s thumb traced the rim of the glass, the condensation slick against his skin. This wasn’t the voice of his Domme, commanding submission. This was just Laura. No act, no performance—only the furrow between her brows, the white-knuckled grip on her drink as if steeling herself.

He exhaled, slow. "Sore," he admitted. "But not… not in a bad way." He took a slow sip, the whisky burning its way down. "I don’t regret it," he said quickly, his voice rough. "Any of it."

The words hung between them, heavy and honest.

Laura’s throat tightened. She set her glass down, the ice shifting with a quiet clink. "Not even—"

"Not even that," he cut in, softer now. His free hand found hers on the counter, his fingers threading through hers. "Especially not that."

Then his voice cracked. "Just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don’t know what comes next."

The words hung there, raw. No script, no safeword to hide behind. Just the truth, heavy and unpolished.

Laura nodded, her throat working as she took another sip. The ice shifted in her glass, the sound too loud. "Yeah," she murmured. "Me neither."

Laura’s fingers tightened around Pat’s, her pulse steadying.

The roles, the games—they’d always been extra. Not the core.

She looked at him—really looked. The man who’d held her hair back when she was sick, who still left his socks in the damn laundry basket after a decade, who knew exactly how she took her coffee. The one who’d laughed with her in Vegas when she’d first snapped that cage around him, his eyes alight with trust.

She took a sip. The burn of the whiskey was immediate, searing down her throat, but she welcomed it. Something to focus on besides the way her pulse still jumped when she looked at him—her husband, her submissive, her cuckold—standing there in their kitchen like a man waiting for permission to exist.

Pat drank. The liquor hit him harder, his empty stomach protesting, but he didn’t flinch. Just set the glass down with a quiet click and exhaled.

Laura watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his gaze flicked to the hallway—toward the bedroom, the shower, the places where routines used to live.

She set the glass down with a sharp click.

"Pat."

His name cut through the silence, and his head snapped up, eyes locking onto hers.

"Come here."

Not an order. Not yet. Just a request, soft but firm.

He moved without hesitation, rounding the island in three long strides. His hands found her waist, his touch hesitant at first, then settling as she leaned into him. The heat of his body seeped through her clothes, familiar and grounding.

Laura exhaled against his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "This doesn’t change us," she murmured. "Not the parts that matter."

His arms tightened around her, his breath warm against her temple. "Then what does it change?"

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "Everything else. But we’ll figure that out," she promised. "Together."

The kitchen light hummed overhead, casting a warm glow over them. They stood like that—Laura’s cheek pressed to Pat’s chest, his arms wrapped around her—for a full minute. No words, no demands, just the steady rise and fall of their breaths in sync. The quiet between them wasn’t fear—it was recognition: the rules had been bent, even broken, but beneath it all, their trust remained unshaken, solid and unyielding.

Eventually, Laura pushed herself off his chest, her nose wrinkling. "Ugh. We reek."

Pat huffed a laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest. "Yeah. Like a distillery and a gym sock had a baby."

She pulled back just enough to smirk up at him. "Charming." Her fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, playful despite the soreness in her muscles. "Shower. Now. Before we contaminate the whole apartment."

He didn’t argue. Just let her lead him down the hall, their steps slow, their shoulders brushing. The bathroom tiles were cool underfoot as Laura reached in to turn the water on, steam already curling into the air. She stripped first—no teasing, no performance—just peeled off her clothes and let them drop to the floor in a damp heap. Pat followed, his movements careful as he undid his jeans, the cage glinting under the bathroom lights before he stepped out of the last of his clothes.

The shower was big enough for two, but they still ended up pressed together under the spray, the water sluicing over their skin, washing away the sweat and salt and lingering scent of the club.

The water drummed against Pat’s shoulders as he reached for the shampoo, his fingers brushing Laura’s temple. She tilted her head back without a word, her eyelashes dark and spiked with water. No command, no demand—just the quiet trust of a decade spent like this, in the unspoken rhythm of their marriage.

His palms cradled her skull, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of her neck. The shampoo lathered between his fingers, thick and fragrant, as he worked it into her scalp with slow, deliberate circles. Laura exhaled, her breath hitching just slightly when his nails grazed the right spot.

The suds ran in rivulets down her temples, her cheeks, the curve of her jaw. Pat rinsed his hands under the spray, then guided her forward, letting the water sluice the bubbles away.

Then the body wash. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—just squeezed a dollop into his palm and started at her shoulders, his touch deliberate. The soap slid over her collarbone, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the faint marks left by teeth and hands—not his. His breath hitched, but his movements didn’t falter. He worked downward, over the swell of her breasts, his fingers careful.

Laura didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow, as his palms glided over her ribs, her stomach, the dip of her waist. She let her head fall back against the tile, her eyes fluttering shut, enjoying the sensations.

He worked downward, his hands mapping the familiar terrain of her body—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, his fingers tracing the places where other hands had been. His fingers moved on, soaping the backs of her knees, tracing the faint redness where fingers had gripped too hard.

When he straightened, Laura turned under the spray, letting the water rinse her clean. She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. No words. No need for them.

Pat reached for his own soap, but her hand closed around his wrist before he could.

"Let me," she murmured.

He nodded, turning to give her access. The roles reversed without fanfare, her fingers working through his hair, her nails scraping his scalp just the way he liked.

Her touch was methodical, almost clinical, but there was a warmth to it—something that went beyond routine. She rinsed the suds away, her thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of his skull. He exhaled, his body sagging slightly under her hands, the tension easing out of him in slow waves.

Then her fingers stilled.

Her gaze dropped, following the path of the water down his spine, over the curve of his ass, to the cage glinting between his thighs. The metal was slick with water, but that wasn’t all. His trapped flesh strained against the bars, the tip swollen and dark, a bead of pre-cum already welling at the slit, thick and glistening. Another followed, then another, dripping down the length of the cage in slow, obscene rivulets.

Laura’s breath caught.

He hadn’t said a word. No whimper, no shift in stance, no plea for relief. Just stood there, his hands braced against the tile, his focus entirely on her—her touch, her needs, her everything. Like his own body was an afterthought.

Laura’s chest tightened, something fierce and bright blooming behind her ribs. This—this—was the man she’d married. The one who’d laughed when she first suggested a blindfold, who’d trusted her with his body, his pride, his everything, without a second thought. And now? Now he stood here, caged and aching, his entire being bent toward her pleasure, his own need secondary. Not just submitting—diving. No hesitation, no looking back. Just sheer, unguarded devotion.

Her fingers trembled—just once—as she reached for him.

The soap was slick between her palms as she traced the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way his muscles tensed and released under her touch. Her thumbs pressed into the tightness at the small of his back, working slow circles until she felt him melt into her hands, his breath evening out.

The cage was last.

She didn’t rush. Let her fingers linger on the cool metal, tracing the bars, the lock, the way his trapped flesh strained against the confinement. His pre-cum had slowed, but the tip still glistened, a slow bead welling at the slit before dripping down the length. She watched it fall, mesmerized. Not from pain, not from force—just from her. From the sheer, overwhelming rightness of his surrender.

Her touch was deliberate as she cleaned him, her soaped fingers gliding over the cage, the suds swirling around the bars. She didn’t tease, didn’t linger—just tended to him, thorough and sure.

Her heart hammered, her pulse loud in her ears.

She turned off the water.

The shower door groaned as Laura slid it open, steam billowing into the cool bathroom. She stepped out first, her bare feet slapping against the tiles, and grabbed two towels from the rack. One landed in Pat’s hands with a damp thwack before she even turned to face him.

"Out. Now. Before we turn into prunes."

Pat didn’t argue. The towel was rough against his skin as he scrubbed at his hair, the droplets flying. Laura watched him for a second—his shoulders slumped, his trapped flesh still straining uselessly against the cage—before snapping her own towel open with a sharp flick of her wrist.

They dried each other in silence, efficient and familiar. Laura rubbed the towel over Pat’s back and down his legs.

"Jesus, Pat," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "You’re dripping."

Pat glanced down, his breath hitching. A thick, pearly bead of pre-cum welled at the cage’s slit, another already trailing down the metal bars. His thighs trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer, relentless need his body had ignored for hours.

"Huh," he exhaled, almost laughing. "Didn’t even notice."

Laura’s towel paused mid-scrub. She followed his gaze, her lips parting at the sight—the cage glistening, his trapped flesh desperate but denied, leaking like a faucet. A slow, wicked grin curled her mouth.

"Come on," she murmured, tossing her towel aside. Her fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom. "Before you make a mess on the floor."

Pat pulled back the duvet and climbed in first, his muscles protesting as he settled against the cool sheets. The mattress dipped under his weight, the scent of fresh laundry and Laura’s perfume wrapping around him.

Then—movement.

Laura didn’t just slide in beside him. She climbed in on all fours, slow and deliberate, her knees pressing into the mattress as she crawled toward him. The sheets rustled under her, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Her hair dripped onto her shoulders, dark and damp, her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—not yet.

Pat’s breath hitched. This wasn’t the Laura who’d dominated him at the club, or the one who had made him eat another man’s cum. This was something else—hungry, her gaze locked onto his like she was savoring the sight of him trapped, leaking, hers.

She didn’t stop until her face was inches from his, her breath warm against his lips. "Still think you can handle me?" she murmured.

Pat’s pulse spiked. This wasn’t part of the script. No teasing, no drawn-out denial, no game. Just Laura, her eyes dark and locked onto his, as she inserted the key with a quiet click.

The cage’s lock was cold under her touch.

One twist.

The metal fell away.

Pat’s cock surged upward, the sudden freedom making him gasp. Thick, heavy, the veins pronounced along the shaft, the head already flushed dark and weeping—a slow, pearly bead of pre-cum welling at the slit before dripping down the length. He hadn’t even realized how swollen he was until the cage was gone, the blood rushing back in a hot, aching pulse.

Laura’s breath hitched.

She’d seen him hard before—of course she had—but never like this. Never after hours of teasing and brutal denial, never with the evidence of his desperation so obscene. Another bead of pre-cum rolled down the shaft, glistening.

Pat’s fingers twitched against the sheets, his body tensed like he was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. "Laura—?"

His voice cracked. Surprise laced every syllable, raw and unguarded. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t dared to.

Laura’s fingers hovered, her palm itching with the need to touch. The ache between her own thighs was a dull, insistent throb—a reminder of how thoroughly she’d been used. But the sight of him, like this—his cock jutting upward, the tip already slick with need—sent a fresh pulse of heat through her.

She exhaled, slow, and wrapped her hand around him.

Pat’s breath stuttered. His hips jerked upward, just a fraction, before he forced himself still, his muscles locking like he was afraid to move. The heat of him was obscene, the skin velvet-smooth over the iron-hard shaft, the veins pronounced under her grip. She stroked—once, twice—her thumb swiping over the slit, gathering the thick bead of pre-cum that welled there.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice raw.

Laura shifted, her thighs pressing into the mattress as she rose onto her knees. The sheets whispered under her, cool against her heated skin. She didn’t rush. Just guided herself over him, her fingers brushing the slick, swollen head of his cock before settling her weight down—slow, deliberate.

Pat’s breath hitched, his hips jerking upward before he forced himself still. The heat of her was everywhere, her inner walls clenching around him in a way that made his stomach twist.

Laura exhaled, her palms pressing into his thighs as she found her balance. The position left her back to him, her spine arched just enough to let him see the curve of her waist, the way her hair spilled damp over her shoulders. She didn’t move. Just sat, her weight settled over him, her breath slow.

"Do you feel that?" she murmured, her voice soft.

Pat’s fingers twisted into the sheets, his knuckles white. "Yeah," he managed, his voice rough. "Fuck, yes."

Laura rocked—just a little, a slow, testing shift of her hips. The movement sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, her body still tender from earlier. She could feel him throb inside her, the veins along his shaft pronounced, the tip of him pressing deep. "Do you feel how stretched I am?"

His breath stuttered. "Laura—"

"Shh." She cut him off, her fingers pressing lighter into his thighs. "Just feel it." Another slow rock, her inner walls clenching around him. "Do you feel how open I am for you?"

Pat’s hips twitched, his body betraying him. He could feel it—the slickness of her, the way she gave around him, like she’d been broken in. His cock pulsed, another thick bead of pre-cum welling at the tip, lost inside her.

Laura’s lips curled, her breath warm. "Do you feel them in me?"

His stomach twisted. Not jealousy—no, not that. Something darker, something that made his cock ache with need. "Yeah," he whispered.

She leaned forward slightly, her palms sliding up his thighs, her nails digging in just enough to make him gasp. "Good," she murmured. "Because I want you to."

Laura’s fingers closed around Pat’s wrists, her grip firm as she guided his hands upward. His palms met the weight of her breasts, the skin still warm from the shower, the nipples tight under his touch. She arched into him, just slightly, her back pressing against his chest as she ground down—slow, deliberate.

"Squeeze," she ordered, her voice rough.

Pat obeyed. His fingers flexed, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, the sensation sending a jolt through her. She was full—stretched, used, her body still humming from the night’s abuse. And now he was inside her, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged against her shoulder.

"You like that?" she murmured, her hips rolling in a slow, torturous circle. "You like feeling how ruined I am?"

Pat’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Fuck, Laura—"

She cut him off with another slow grind, her inner walls clenching around him. "Say it."

His voice was a growl, raw and broken. "Yes."

Laura’s lips curled. She could feel him—all of him—his cock swelling inside her, the veins pronounced, the tip pressing deep. His body was a coiled spring, every muscle locked tight, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

"You’re close," she whispered, her nails scraping down his thighs. "Aren’t you?"

Pat’s hips jerked upward, his control fraying. "Laura, please—"

She leaned back, her spine arching as she took him deeper, her body stretching around him in a way that made his vision blur. "Beg me," she demanded, her voice a dark purr.

His fingers twisted into the sheets, his knuckles white. "Let me—"

"No." She cut him off, her hips stuttering to a stop. "Beg."

Pat’s breath came in ragged bursts, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Please," he gasped. "Please, let me cum. Please, Mistress—"

She didn’t give him a warning.

Her hips snapped down, taking him to the hilt, her inner walls clamping around him like a vise. Pat’s control shattered.

A roar tore from his throat, raw and guttural, as his cock exploded inside her. His hips bucked wildly, his release hitting him like a freight train—thick, violent, endless. He came in deep, wrenching pulses, his body locking up as he emptied himself into her, his cock twitching with every jet. The roar dissolved into broken, shuddering sobs—relief tearing from his throat.

Laura didn’t stop. She rode him through it, her nails digging into his thighs as she ground down, milking him for every last drop. His cum filled her, hot and thick, dripping down his shaft as he shuddered beneath her.

Pat’s body went limp beneath her.

One second, his fingers were clawing at her tits, his cock still twitching inside her as the last of his orgasm wrung him dry. The next—nothing. His head lolled back, his muscles turning to water, his ragged breath stuttering.

Laura blinked.

Then she laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that echoed off the bedroom walls.

"Oh, you poor thing."

She didn’t stop riding him. Just slowed her hips to a lazy roll, savoring the way his spent cock slipped free with a wet, obscene sound. His cum dripped down her thighs, thick and warm, pooling on the sheets beneath him. She reached between her legs, her fingers swiping through the mess before pressing two inside herself—just enough to feel the slick, swollen stretch of her own body.

"Fuck," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "That’s gonna leave a mark."

She pulled her fingers free with a slow, wet sound, then wiped them on Pat’s thigh, leaving a glossy streak on his skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his face slack, his lips slightly parted. The sight of him—ruined, blacked out from sheer pleasure—sent a fresh thrill through her.

Laura swung her leg over him, the mattress dipping as she stood. A trail of cum dripped down her inner thigh, thick and slow. She didn’t bother wiping it yet, just turned, her hips swaying as she padded toward the en-suite bathroom, her reflection in the mirror already smudged with steam.

The faucet squeaked as she twisted it on, the water running cold over her fingers. She cupped her palm under the stream, then pressed it between her legs with a quiet hiss. The cool water did little to ease the ache, but she didn’t mind. The soreness was a reminder—of Jake’s hands, of Pat’s devotion, of the way her body had been used and taken and worshipped all in one night.

She grabbed a washcloth from the rack, the fabric rough under her fingers. A quick wipe between her thighs, then another over her stomach, clearing away the worst of the mess. She returned to the bedroom.

Pat hadn’t moved. Still sprawled on his back, his cock softening against his thigh, his chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. A thin line of cum had dried on his stomach, flaking slightly at the edges. Laura’s lips twitched.

The washcloth hit the nightstand with a damp thud.

Laura crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. The duvet was cool against her skin as she tugged it over them both, the fabric whispering as it settled.

Then she pressed close, her body fitting against Pat’s side like a missing piece. Her head found the hollow of his shoulder, her cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed under her ear—slow, strong, alive.

"Sleep well, love," she murmured. "You earned it."