I wasn’t expecting him to text me tonight.

I was out. Dinner with a friend—someone I’ve flirted with off and on but never really taken seriously. Just enough heat to keep things interesting. We’d met for drinks at a cozy bar, low lighting and laughter rolling between the tables. I’d worn something soft and clingy, a high neckline and no bra. A skirt short enough to feel it when I sat down. Nothing underneath.

My phone buzzed as I was swirling my wine.

Him: “How’s the company?”

I smiled.

Me: “He’s sweet. Funny. Definitely watching my thighs.”

The three dots appeared.

Him: “Does he know that pussy still belongs to me?”

My core clenched. I crossed my legs tighter.

Me: “No. He just knows I’m wet and distracted.”

Him: “Good. You’ve done well. But I think it’s time for your first obedience test.”

I blinked down at the screen. My friend was talking about something—his weekend plans? A new job offer? I didn’t hear a word. The only thing I could focus on was the buzz growing in my lower belly. That ache of being owned even while surrounded by normal life.

I swallowed and typed, “What do you want me to do?”

Him: “Go to the bathroom. Text me when you’re there.”

I looked at my friend. He was sipping his beer, smiling easily, completely unaware.

“Be right back,” I said casually, pushing my chair back. My thighs were slick where they touched the seat.

The bathroom was empty. One stall. Mirror with chipped edges. Soft hum of a vent overhead.

I locked the door and texted him.

Me: “Alone now.”

Him: “Take off your top and skirt. Sit on the toilet. Legs spread. No pictures. Just feel.”

My hands trembled. I slid the soft top over my head, heart thudding, then pushed the skirt down and stepped out of it.

The seat was cold against my bare skin as I sat. Exposed. Vulnerable. My nipples were tight in the chill of the room. My clit was already throbbing.

Him: “Now listen. Slide two fingers inside yourself. Slowly. Keep your phone in your other hand. You don’t cum until I say. Understood?”

Me: “Yes, Sir.”

My fingers sank into the mess between my thighs. I was soaked. Shamefully wet from nothing but a few texts and the thrill of knowing he could reach me anywhere.

I moaned under my breath.

Him: “Describe it. Quietly.”

Me: “So warm. So tight. My fingers are sliding in so easy. I can hear it. I’m throbbing.”

Him: “Good girl. Now rub your clit. Circle it. Don’t go fast. Make yourself suffer.”

I did exactly what he said.

Slow, tight circles. Just enough pressure to make my legs twitch. I leaned my head back against the wall, biting my lip, trying to stay quiet even as my hips rocked into my own hand.

Him: “Imagine if he walked in right now. Found you like this. Leaking and shaking. Do you think he’d be able to resist?”

I whimpered. My fingers moved faster before I even realized.

Him: “Stop.”

My body jerked. I froze.

Fingers still buried inside, clit pulsing, orgasm teetering right on the edge.

Him: “You don’t cum until you beg. And you mean it.”

Me: “Please. Please Sir. I need to cum. It hurts. I’m dripping down my thighs; I’m so close I can’t think. I’ll say your name. I’ll moan for you even if someone hears. I just need it so bad—please let me cum. Please.”

There was a pause. It felt like an eternity.

Him: “Cum. Right now. Let that filthy little body shake for me.”

I didn’t hesitate.

My fingers moved fast, hard, desperate. The orgasm crashed through me like a wave breaking against a seawall. I shook. I gasped. I covered my mouth with the hand holding my phone to keep from crying out.

I stayed there, slumped, legs wide, chest rising and falling.

Another message buzzed through.

Him: “Good girl. You’ve made me proud tonight. Now put yourself back together, get back out there, and smile like nothing happened. Because you’re mine. Even when you’re with someone else.”

I stepped out of the bathroom glowing. Throat dry. Thighs slick. My friend smiled at me as I returned to the table.

“You okay?” he asked.

I just smiled. “Yeah. Just needed a moment.”

He reached out to touch my hand, and I let him.

But inside, I was still buzzing—still echoing with his voice, his hands, his control.

Because even when I’m touched by someone else…

I’m still his.

I came back to the table flushed and glowing—trying to hold it together. My body was still twitching from the orgasm he allowed me. My inner thighs were damp. My lips swollen. My heart beating way too fast for how calm I was pretending to be.

The man sitting across from me—the one I wasn’t married to—smiled as he sipped his beer, completely unaware of the filthy storm I’d just weathered in the bar’s single bathroom.

“You good?” he asked, voice warm, flirty.

I nodded. “Just needed to cool off.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You look even warmer now.”

We both laughed, and I took another sip of wine to chase the truth back down my throat.

We finished our drinks and moved to a new spot—a quieter bar across the street. Low lights, red leather booths, music soft enough to ignore but loud enough to mask secrets. The kind of place where hands can wander under the table without raising suspicion.

I was tipsy. Warm and loose. Riding that perfect line between dangerous and obedient.

Until he walked in.

My husband.

I felt him before I saw him—like a shift in the air. Then I caught him out of the corner of my eye, sliding into a booth across the room. Calm. Composed. Watching. The kind of predator no one notices until it’s far too late.

He didn’t acknowledge me. Not really. Just a glance that hit like a slow-burning brand. I didn’t point him out to the man I was with. I didn’t need to.

My phone buzzed.

Him: “Enjoying yourself? “Looks like he likes watching your mouth. Can’t blame him.”

Another message.

Him: “I’m here to see how well you behave when you think you’re safe.”

My pulse started racing again.

My friend leaned closer, his thigh pressing against mine under the table. His voice dropped a little.

“You wanna split another drink?”

I nodded, too distracted to speak. My phone buzzed again.

Him: “No more alcohol. Stay sharp for me. Be present in your body. I want to see what he does when he thinks I’m not looking.”

I didn’t respond. I just tucked the phone into my lap and smiled.

My friend reached out and played with the strap of my top. His hand dipped under the table, casually sliding up my thigh. His fingers brushed higher, meeting bare skin. He froze.

“You’re not wearing anything under this?” he whispered, grinning.

I shrugged. “I like to feel a little wild sometimes.”

He bit his lip, his hand sliding up to cup my inner thigh. Then higher. His fingers brushed against the oversensitive mess between my legs and I nearly jolted.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

I swallowed hard. My legs spread just slightly—inviting. I should have stopped him. Should’ve remembered my husband was watching.

Instead… I looked straight across the room.

Locked eyes with him.

His eyes narrowed.

Then the man beside me found that spot with his fingers. A spot only people who’ve known me a long time usually find. A soft rhythm—firm and deep—while his thumb brushed over my clit with just the right kind of pressure.

It caught me off guard. I gasped. Tried to suck in a breath, but it stuck halfway in my chest.

He whispered something—sweet, meaningless—and I laughed too hard, trying to hide the panic. The pleasure. The guilt. My hips started moving against his hand under the table, slow at first, then sharper. Desperate.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

I didn’t check it.

I knew what it would say.

He was watching. He could see the way my body was changing. The way I was clenching my fists in my lap. The way my lips were parting, breath catching, eyes fluttering.

I looked back at him.

Right at my husband.

His jaw was set. His hands were folded on the table like he hadn’t moved at all.

The other man curled his fingers just right and pressed harder against my clit, and I felt it—the crash rising up my spine like fire.

I shook my head. Whispered, “no no no,” barely audible. Not to him. To myself.

But I didn’t stop it.

And he knew.

I came.

My toes curled, my thighs trembled, and my whole body jolted just slightly. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.

And the entire time… I didn’t break eye contact with the man across the room.

My husband.

He didn’t move.

Not a muscle.

But when my orgasm finally let me go, my phone buzzed again.

I looked down.

Him: “Get up. Tell him you’re tired. Go home. I’ll deal with you when you get there.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Trouble didn’t even begin to cover it.

I walked through the front door like I wasn’t soaked. Like I wasn’t still trembling from a forbidden orgasm that never should’ve happened.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

My heart pounded as I slipped off my shoes and made my way down the hall. I knew he was home. His truck was outside. His energy filled every corner of the space—thick, still, waiting.

When I opened the bedroom door, he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips. Phone in hand. The light from the screen illuminated his face, but his eyes didn’t rise to meet mine.

Not yet.

I stood there silently, unsure if I should speak.

Finally, he said, “Close the door.”

I obeyed.

“Clothes off.”

I swallowed. “All of them?”

His jaw flexed. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

I stripped—slow, nervous. He still hadn’t looked at me. My body was bare. Cold. Flushed.

I stood there, exposed and ashamed.

Finally, he raised his eyes.

And the heat in them burned.

“Come here.”

I walked to him. He didn’t touch me. Just looked at me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved and was disappointed in the answer.

“I watched you cum for another man,” he said flatly.

I tried to speak. Tried to explain. But he shook his head.

“No. I don’t want excuses. I want the truth.”

I looked down. My voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to. He hit a spot and I—I couldn’t stop it.”

“But you didn’t ask. You didn’t beg. You knew the rule.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

He stood slowly. “No. You’re not. Not yet. But you will be.”

He grabbed me by the jaw—not rough, but firm. His voice was low, deadly calm.

“You made me watch you fall apart for someone else. You gave him what was mine. So now… I’m going to take it back.”

He pulled me to the bed and bent me over the edge.

“No warm-up. No toys. No teasing. You don’t get to be spoiled tonight.”

He kicked my legs apart, then stepped behind me. I could hear the rustle of his sweats, the low growl of his breath.

“Count.”

The first slap landed across my ass—sharp, hot. I gasped.

“O-one.”

Another. Harder.

“Two.”

By seven, my skin was on fire. By ten, my legs were shaking.

“Color?” he asked.

“Green,” I whispered. “I deserve more.”

He growled. “You’re damn right you do.”

He slid two fingers into me—rough, fast, deep.

“Still wet,” he spat. “You liked cumming for him, didn’t you?”

My breath hitched. “I liked being watched.”

That made him still. Silent.

Then he pulled his fingers out and shoved them between my lips.

“Open.”

I tasted myself on his skin.

“Did he taste you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then this is mine.”

He dragged me onto the bed, flipped me over, and climbed on top of me.

His hand wrapped around my throat.

“You’ll cum tonight. But it’ll be for me. And not until I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He slid inside me hard—deep enough to make me arch, to make me cry out.

He held my wrists down against the mattress, his body pinning mine, hips grinding deep.

“You’re not a toy for other men,” he growled. “You’re a gift. You belong to me. And if I choose to share you, it’s because I want to. But you don’t give away what’s mine.”

Tears slid down my cheeks. Not from pain—but from the weight of his love, his control, his claim.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed.

“Not yet.”

He fucked me harder—hips snapping into mine, his breath ragged.

“Beg me.”

“Please,” I gasped. “Please let me cum. I want to cum for you, Sir. I want to make it right. I want to feel you claim me. I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”

He let go of my throat and grabbed my chin.

“Look at me.”

I locked eyes with him—wide, red, needy.

“Cum.”

It hit me like lightning.

I came with a scream, shaking underneath him, sobbing as the pleasure broke through me like a wave through glass.

And he didn’t stop.

He made me cum again.

And again.

By the fourth, I was gone—just a body, a vessel, a trembling mess.

He finally came inside me with a roar, teeth sunk into my shoulder, fingers tangled in my hair.

We didn’t move for a long time.

When he finally pulled out, I curled into him—wrecked and raw. He held me close, kissed my temple, and whispered praise into my hair.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Even when you fuck up. Especially then.”

“I know,” I whispered. “And I’ll do better.”

“I know you will,” he murmured. “You’ll earn me again. Every time.”

He stroked my back as I cried quietly, every inch of me sore and satisfied.

“I’ll remind you who you belong to,” he said.

And he did.

All night.