$20,000.00
Pat stared at the screen. The numbers blurred, then snapped into cruel focus.
His thumb hovered over the notification. The water bottle slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Twenty thousand.
That wasn’t a fuck session. That was something else entirely.
His mind raced through possibilities. Laura had rules—hard limits. No overnight. No playing submissive. No—
The Safe Zone’s silence pressed in. The oppressive white noise grew from the fridge’s hum, #5’s distant sob, and the silence of #22’s phone.
Pat pulled up the transaction details. Timestamp: 09:02 PM. One minute ago. No other information.
He swallowed. His cage ached, metal biting as his body reacted. What the hell did she agree to?
Pat exhaled through his nose, the numbers burning into his retinas.
Twenty thousand.
His first thought was to storm upstairs and demand answers—but that wasn’t the game. Laura knew the rules. He knew the rules. If she’d just sold her time to a bull, he had his job to do.
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting palms. The Safe Zone’s soft lighting felt like a spotlight, exposing every doubt. No. He wasn’t some sniveling cuck who’d crumble at the first real test. If Laura was all in, so was he.
Pat stood, latex squeaking against the chair. The cage throbbed between his legs. He adjusted it with a grimace and straightened his shoulders. The number 32 on his chest felt heavier, like a target.
#22 glanced up, eyes red-rimmed. “You good, man?”
Pat just nodded and turned toward the exit.
The hallway swallowed him. The transition from Safe Zone to casino was like stepping from a library into a riot. Noise hit first—chips clattering, Bulls murmuring, and groans from the screens above the sports bar at the far end. Then smells: sweat, whiskey, leather, and latex.
Pat weaved through the casino. The screens showed the orgy still unfolding upstairs. His jaw tightened. Twenty thousand.
The poker table came into view. The Bulls had returned from upstairs, their postures loose, their grins content. All except John, who slumped in his chair like a deflated airbag, gold tooth glinting as he scowled at his phone.
“Fucking race,” John muttered, stabbing at the screen. “I bid four hundred, and some trust fund kid outbids me by a dollar.”
Bulldog smirked, his pinky ring catching the light as he shuffled chips. “Should’ve gone all in. You don’t half-ass a blowjob bid.”
“Now I’m stuck with blue balls and a lighter wallet.” John’s glare flicked up as Pat pulled out his chair. “Oh, look. Cucky’s back. You miss me, loser?”
Pat didn’t rise to it. He sat, latex squeaking, and connected his phone. Laura’s latest transaction sat in his gut like a stone.
“Where’s the suit?” he asked.
John leaned back, chair creaking. “Still upstairs, balls-deep in some redhead.” He smirked. “But don’t worry, he’ll be down soon.”
Lily’s fingers paused mid-shuffle. “Should we save his spot?”
Bulldog grunted, stacking chips with a sharp clack. “Yeah. Guy’s got deep pockets. I want a piece of that.”
John snorted. “Deep pockets and a wet dick.”
Pat’s fingers twitched. He kept his mouth shut. The wall screen showed a bull getting his cock sucked by two wives at once, their lips tangling around him as they alternated taking him deep. Pat’s cage throbbed, metal biting.
The cards hit the felt with a sharp snap. “Game’s on, gentlemen,” Lily said.
Bulldog leaned forward. “About time. I was starting to think we were here for a knitting circle.”
John grumbled, thumbing his phone. “Some of us got distracted by upstairs bullshit.” He stuffed the device in his jacket. “One fucking dollar.”
Mr. Soap chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks. “I told you to be more aggressive.”
“Easy for you to say,” John shot back. “You weren’t the one watching some kid get his dick polished while standing on stage with your dick out.”
Bulldog barked a laugh. “Just go upstairs and relieve the pressure.”
“And miss this?” John gestured at the table, then at Pat. “Nah. I’d rather watch cucky squirm.”
Pat barely registered it. His fingers hovered over his phone, the screen glowing with that number—$20,000.00. His mind spun through possibilities. What the hell did she agree to?
Lily dealt the cards. “Betting starts.”
Bulldog tossed in a chip. “So you’re just going to pout all night?”
John scowled but matched. “I’m playing. Next time, I’ll go all in. In both senses.”
Mr. Soap smirked. “Why wait? Just go upstairs. No waiting, no bidding wars.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” John leaned back. “Half the thrill is watching these cucks twitch while we talk about fucking their wives.”
Pat’s fingers tightened around his cards. Two of hearts. Nine of clubs. Garbage. He folded without a word, losing the big blind. $19,700 remaining.
His gaze flicked to the screens. The blowjob race had ended. One feed showed a wife straddling a bull on the couch, back arched, hands tangled in his hair. Another showed a bull bending an older wife over a bench, pistoning into her ass, making her tits sway.
Pat’s throat went dry. Was Laura in one of those rooms?
John followed his gaze and grinned. “See something you like, #32?”
Pat didn’t answer. He stared at the screens, searching for her.
The next hand was dealt. Pat barely glanced at his cards before folding. $19,500.
John chuckled, tossing in his bet. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a break? Maybe cool off in the Safe Zone?”
Bulldog snorted. “Leave him alone. He’s focused.”
“On what?” John leaned in, breath reeking of whiskey. “On how his wife’s probably getting railed by some guy with a bigger dick than his forearm?”
Pat’s jaw clenched. He didn’t rise to it. His fingers twitched over his phone, itching to pull up the texting app to demand answers. But he couldn’t. Not here.
The rookie’s eyes flicked to the screen behind Pat, chips frozen mid-stack.
John followed his gaze and smirked. “Oh, that one? Yeah, I hit that earlier.” He leaned back, stretching. “That’s the one I told you about. Worth every penny—she’s got a tight little ass. Rode me like a fucking champion. Begged me to finish inside her.”
Bulldog chuckled, tossing a chip into the pot. “Nice. You got pics?”
“Nah, but I didn’t need ’em.” John’s smirk deepened. “Memory’s enough.”
Pat stared at his cards, edges blurring. Just behind him, Laura had to be on screen, arching her back, some bull’s hands gripping her hips—
Fuck.
No way he could turn around without them noticing.
FUCK.
He swallowed hard. His cage barely contained his aching cock.
The rookie whistled low. “Damn. She’s flexible.”
John laughed. “Told you. Best money I’ve spent all night.”
The table fell silent except for chips clinking and the casino’s hum. Pat kept his gaze locked on his cards.
Lily’s fingers moved with practiced ease, but her eyes flicked to Pat for half a second—just long enough for him to catch the smirk. She slid the next card across the felt. “Place the blinds, please.”
John leaned forward, chair creaking. “Oh, shit. Look at that.”
Pat’s fingers twitched. Don’t look. Don’t fucking look.
Bulldog let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some talent. I didn’t know you could fold a bitch like that.”
The rookie swallowed. “She’s—uh… really going for it.”
Lily dealt the next hand, gaze flicking to the screen before landing on Pat.
John grinned. “Told you she was worth it. Look at that—she’s deepthroating him like a fucking pro.”
Pat’s throat went dry.
Bulldog chuckled, tossing a chip. “Guy’s got his fingers in her while she does it. Look at her hump that hand.”
The rookie shifted. “How’s she even—?”
“Practice,” John said. “Lots of practice.”
Pat’s fingers tightened around his phone. $19,500.
John leaned back. “Bet she’s loving this. Look at how she’s—fuck—see his cock bulging her throat?”
Pat’s stomach twisted. Twenty grand.
Lily dealt the next card. “Bet or fold, #32.”
Pat didn’t look up. He tapped his phone, folding blind. $19,300. His thumb hovered over the screen, itching to pull up the texting app. Ask her. Just ask her what the hell she’s doing.
But he couldn’t. Not here.
The casino’s hum became white noise for Pat’s thoughts. He tuned out the Bulls’ laughter, the chips clinking, and the wet sounds from the screens—all of it faded. His fingers moved on autopilot, tapping to fold, call, and raise. The numbers were just numbers. The game was just a game.
Focus on the cards. The bets. The math.
His balance ticked down—$19,300, then $19,100, then $18,850—but he barely registered it. The ache between his legs was constant, but he pushed it back. Laura would expect him to play. To win. Or at least try.
A hand landed in front of him—7♠ 9♦. Garbage. He folded before the dealer finished burning the top card. $18,700.
John snorted. “You folding every hand now, #32? Or are you just scared of losing what’s left of your wife—”
Pat didn’t look up. The words washed over him, meaningless. He was a machine. A cuckold-shaped poker bot, here to do one thing: play the game.
Next hand—**A♣ K♥**. Strong. He raised, his fingers steady. The Bulls matched him, their smirks faltering when he didn’t flinch. The flop came—3♣ 7♥. Q♣. A flush draw. He bet again, pulse steady.
John leaned in. “You got something, or are you just bluffing with your wife’s money?”
Pat didn’t answer. He tapped his phone, raising another $500. $18,200.
The turn—2♣. His flush was live. He bet again. The Bulls hesitated. Bulldog folded. The rookie bit his lip, then called. John scowled but matched.
The river—J♦. No help. Pat checked.
John grinned, tossing in a chip. “Told you. Bluffing.”
Pat called.
John flipped his cards—Q♠ Q♦. A set.
Pat turned over his A♣ K♥. The pot slid toward John, who laughed, gold tooth flashing.
“$17,700,” the screen read.
Pat exhaled, slow and controlled. Next hand.
The night blurred into rhythm. Bet. Fold. Raise. Lose. Win. The numbers ticked down—$17,200, $16,800, $16,500—but he didn’t let it rattle him. The Bulls’ jabs became background noise.
Laura would want him to last. Would want him to focus on his task.
He thought of her hands on his cage earlier, her nails tracing the metal, her voice a purr. “Good boy.” The memory settled in his chest, warm and heavy.
A new hand—J♠ J♦. Pocket jacks. He raised. The Bulls called, smirks back in full force.
The flop—4♣ 8♠ J♥. Trip jacks. He bet, pulse steady.
John leaned back. “You’re getting bold, #32. Do you think your wife’s luck is rubbing off on you?”
Pat didn’t answer. He raised another $800, for a total of $15,700.
The turn—2♠. No help, but he bet anyway. The Bulls folded one by one until only the rookie remained, fingers trembling.
“Call,” the kid muttered.
The river—7♦. Pat checked.
The rookie exhaled, then flipped his cards—A♠ K♠. A missed draw.
Pat turned over his J♠ J♦.
The rookie groaned. The pot slid toward Pat—$3,200.
John scowled. “Lucky fucking cuck.”
Pat didn’t react. He tapped his phone, already moving on.
—
The lounge’s plush couch dipped as Laura sank into it, velvet cool against her bare thighs. The screen above the bar flickered with highlights from the blowjob race—Bambi gagged on a bull’s cock while the crowd cheered—but Laura barely noticed. Her focus locked on the number glowing on her phone.
$20,000.00
She exhaled, slow and controlled, then grabbed Martin’s wrist and yanked him down beside her. His tailored suit whispered against the fabric as he settled, composure flickering.
“Alright,” she said, voice low, fingers tapping the screen. “What’s this?”
Martin blinked. “What do you mean?”
She turned the phone toward him. “This. Twenty thousand. For what, exactly?”
His brow furrowed. “For the night.”
Laura arched an eyebrow. “The whole night?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Laura looked at him squarely. “And what exactly do you intend to do for the whole night?”
“You know, the usual,” Martin said, waving at the emptying lounge.
She studied him—his calm expression, fingers resting loosely on his knee, and no tension in his shoulders. Just expectation. Like he’d ordered a steak and was waiting for it to arrive.
Laura set the phone on the low table between them, the screen casting blue light over her crossed legs. “Martin,” she said, her tone patient, like explaining algebra to a distracted student. “Twenty thousand doesn’t buy ‘the usual.'”
His confusion deepened. “I don’t understand.”
She leaned in. “For twenty thousand? You could get anything here. Bondage. Degradation. A threesome. A foursome. You could rent out the dungeon for an hour and have a girl strapped to a cross while you do whatever the hell you want.” She tilted her head. “You could pay somebody to piss on you, if that’s your kink. But you don’t get ‘the usual’ for that kind of money. You get more. But I don’t provide that kind of service.”
Martin’s fingers stilled. His gaze flicked to the phone, then back to her face. “I don’t want more.”
Laura waited.
He exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. “I just want you. For the night. No… extras.”
She held his gaze as she searched for the catch. “No dungeons. No pain. No weird shit.”
“No.”
Laura studied him—his pupils steady, breathing even. No bullshit. No hidden agenda. Just honesty.
Laura’s thumb hovered over the Cancel Transaction button, the screen’s glow casting sharp shadows across her cheekbones. The lounge’s ambient noise—glasses clinking, a quiet moan from a nearby sofa, Bulls murmuring—faded to a dull hum. She tilted the phone so Martin could see the confirmation prompt, nails tapping the case.
“Last chance,” she said, voice smooth as the whiskey in his untouched glass. “We walk over to Mistress V right now, undo this, and you go find some other whore who’ll let you tie her up or spit in her mouth or whatever weird shit you’re actually here for.” Her finger didn’t move. “No hard feelings. No questions asked.”
Martin didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on hers, steady. “I’m not here for that.”
She laughed—sharp, humorless—and let the phone drop to her lap. “Bullshit. Twenty grand buys fantasies, Martin. Not some vanilla fuck-fest where you fuck me in missionary for six hours and call it a night.” Her fingers drummed the screen. “You’re a lawyer. You don’t strike me as the type who pays for basic.”
His jaw tightened for a second. “I’m not asking for basic.”
“Then what—” She cut herself off, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You think this is some romantic thing?” Her laugh was genuine this time, bright and mocking. “Oh, honey. I’m married. Happily married.” She grabbed his wrist and pressed his fingers against the cool metal of her wedding band. “Feel this? This ring says the love of my life is downstairs, probably thrilled and freaking out at the same time, thinking about the $20,000.” She leaned in close enough for him to smell her perfume. “No amount of money changes that. You don’t get to buy me out of my marriage. You don’t get to keep me.”
Martin didn’t pull away. His fingers stayed flat against the phone, skin warm where it met glass. “I understand.”
Laura searched his face—no smirk, no gotcha glint in his eyes. Just acceptance. It threw her off balance, like a missed step on a staircase. She released his wrist and sat back, recrossing her legs. The velvet squeaked.
“Fine,” she said, swiping the app closed. “But you break one rule—you push one boundary—and I’ll have you kicked out. And I keep the twenty grand.” She held up a finger, nail sharp in the low light. “No rough stuff. No surprises. No ‘accidental’ slaps or choking or whatever dominant bullshit you think you’re entitled to.” Another finger joined the first. “No trying to negotiate mid-fuck. No ‘but I paid for this’ whining.” A third finger. “All toys are agreed upon before you use them, and”—raising her pinky—”if you even think of doing anything gross, I’ll kick your balls.”
Martin nodded once, crisp as a contract signing. “Agreed.”
Laura studied him, waiting for the catch, the smirk, and the tell. Nothing. Just that infuriating calm competence, like a man who’d read the terms and conditions and actually understood them. She exhaled through her nose and tapped her phone against her knee.
“Alright, counselor,” she said, standing in one fluid motion. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
—
Ten minutes.
That’s how long it took for Laura to realize she’d underestimated Martin.
The beach cabana’s bamboo walls creaked with every thrust, thin curtains fluttering in the artificial breeze. The scent of coconut oil and sweat hung thick, mixing with the faint metallic tang of lube Martin had slicked onto his fingers before working her open. Laura’s knees burned against the woven mat, fingers clawing the cushioned bench as her tits swayed with each snap of his hips.
He’d been fucking her like this for ten minutes—doggy, relentless, his cock hitting that spot inside her with surgical precision. Not too big, not too small, just right, like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was stuck. Her thighs trembled, voice raw from screaming, words dissolving into “fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Eleven.
Twelve?
She lost count somewhere after the fourth orgasm, her body reduced to nerves and heat, pussy swollen and sore and still clenching around him like a greedy fist. Martin’s breath was steady behind her, hands gripping her hips just hard enough to bruise, cock pistoning with a rhythm that made her vision white at the edges.
“You close?” she’d gasped earlier, when her legs first started shaking.
“No.”
Just that. No smirk. No brag. Just a flat, certain no, like he was reading a menu and she was the appetizer he’d barely touched.
Now her throat was sandpaper, her voice wrecked. “Martin—fuck—too much—”
His fingers dug in. “You can take it.”
“I—” Another orgasm wrenched a broken sound from her, back arching, nails scraping the bench. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
And the worst part? She could. Her body obeyed, pussy fluttering around him even as it ached, skin slick with sweat and the sheen of too many releases. But goddamn it, she was sore, the friction burning, pleasure edged with rawness that made her whimper.
“Martin, please—” Her voice cracked. “My ass. Fuck my ass.”
His rhythm didn’t falter. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” She twisted to glare at him over her shoulder, hair sticking to her cheek. “Unless you’re not up for it—”
That did it. His grip shifted, cock sliding free with a wet sound that made her shudder. She barely had time to brace before his fingers were there, slick with lube, circling her back entrance with maddening slowness.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice rough for the first time all night.
She huffed a laugh, forehead pressing into the bench. “Easier said than—” His finger breached her, slow and firm, and her words dissolved into a groan. “Oh, fuck.”
Martin worked her open with patience that made her want to scream, his other hand snaking beneath her to stroke her clit, her pussy, everywhere, until she was trembling and gasping. “You’re tight,” he observed, like he was commenting on the weather.
“Shut up and—” The head of his cock pressed against her, broad and insistent. She bore down, breath hitching as he pushed in, inch by careful inch. Fuck—”
“Breathe.”
She did. Or tried to. Her body stretched around him, the burn sharp and sweet, fingers twisting in the fabric beneath her. “Move, damn you—”
He did.
Not hard. Not fast. Just deep, hips rolling in a rhythm that made her see stars, hands roaming—her tits, her clit, the small of her back—like he was memorizing her. Every touch sent sparks through her body, caught between the fullness of him in her ass and the ghost of pleasure from her overused pussy.
“Martin—” His name came out as a whine, voice wrecked. “I can’t—”
“You can.” His fingers found her clit again, circling, pressing, and she sobbed, her body betraying her as another orgasm crashed over her, her ass clenching around him, milking him.
“Fuck—” His breath hitched, his rhythm stuttering for the first time. “Laura—”
“Come on,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “Give it to me.”
He groaned, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks, cock swelling inside her as he finally let go, release pulsing deep. She felt it, hot and thick, her body clenching around him as the last waves of her orgasm dragged out, limbs liquid, mind blank.
For a long moment, there was only ragged breathing, the cabana creaking, and the distant hum of the Chateau’s ventilation. Martin’s forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, skin damp against hers.
Then, slowly, he pulled out. She whimpered at the loss, her body oversensitive, her ass throbbing. His cum dripped down her thigh, warm and obscene.
“Are you good?” His voice was rough, fingers gentle as he traced the curve of her hip.
Laura laughed, the sound breathless and wrecked. “Ask me in an hour.”
She collapsed onto the mattress, limbs heavy, skin singing. Martin moved beside her, his weight dipping the cushions, and his hand landed on her. She didn’t pull away.
Ten minutes.
And she was ruined.
