The casino floor had gone hushed, the usual clack of chips and low trash talk replaced by the distant roar from the Blow Job Race upstairs. The poker table sat abandoned, cards scattered like dropped leaves. Only Pat and Lily remained, eyes locked on the screen where Laura had just finished wrecking that poor kid in the Harem room.
Lily leaned on the dealer’s table, arms crossed, gold name tag catching the dim light. “Damn,” she said as she watched Laura stand and smooth her dress. “That was less a blowjob and more a masterclass.”
Pat’s fingers twitched around his glass, the ice long melted. His throat felt scraped raw, his cage a dull ache. “She does that. Makes it look easy.”
Lily smirked. “Easy for her, maybe.” She jerked her chin at the screen, where the kid lay sprawled on the cushions, dazed, his cock still half-hard and wet. “Poor bastard looks like he got hit by a truck.”
A laugh slipped out of Pat. “Yeah. She leaves a mark.”
Laura stepped out of frame, hips swaying. The kid fumbled for his phone, hands shaking as he tried to haul his pants up.
Lily pushed off the table and stretched, her ponytail swaying. “No kidding.” She nodded toward the bar, where the Blow Job Race would run on the big screens. “Are you heading over?”
Pat slid off his stool. Latex squeaked. The cage bit with every step, a constant, welcome pinch. He adjusted himself and headed toward the bar.
A loose semicircle of cucks and bulls had already formed, eyes glued to the massive screens above the backlit bottles. The feed was brutally clear, the angles obscene. Close-ups of glossy mouths and veins that strained under stretched skin. Pat slipped into a gap just as Mistress V’s voice rolled through the speakers, rich and amused.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get ready to suck!” Her whip cracked, sharp enough that half the room flinched. Onscreen, the stage was a gauntlet of cocks. Bulls in a straight line, pants around their ankles, dicks hard and leaking. Five contestants knelt before them, hands clasped behind their backs, lips parted.
Pat’s breath caught. Laura wasn’t up there. His fingers tightened on the bar edge, knuckles blanching. Onscreen, a red 30:00 flashed to life.
“Ready…” Mistress V dragged it out, whip tapping her palm. The wives leaned in, tongues darting over their lips. Bulls shifted, cocks twitching.
“Set…”
A beat. Then…
“GO!”
The place exploded.
The screen split into five feeds, each a tight shot of lips closing on cock, throats working, and hands held rigidly behind backs. The audio turned into a wet chorus—slurp, gag, schlick—cut with groans and sharp inhales. Pat’s cage throbbed, steel biting down as his own breath sped up.
“Oh-ho-ho, look at Lucy go!” Mistress V crowed. “Already deep-throating like a champ! But watch out—Victoria’s got her bull by the short hairs, metaphorically, of course!”
Pat’s gaze hopped between feeds. Lucy, on the far left, had her dark hair knotted in her bull’s fist as she took him to the root, her throat bulging. Next to her, a blonde, was it Jasmine? She held her bull’s cock flat on her tongue, lips stretched to the limit. His head tipped back, Adam’s apple jumping.
Then five phones pinged at once. A bright, ugly chime. Each screen flashed the same thing:
BLOW JOB RACE!
Pat’s head snapped toward the sound. One cuck’s face went slack; he clawed for his phone like it might explode. Beside him, a red-faced hubby with the #8 suit froze mid-sip, whiskey sloshing. Another—#12—let out a choked grunt, shoulders curling in.
The bulls swarmed.
“Ohhh, shit!” A trust-fund brute smacked #8’s back and nearly shoved him into the bar. “Your wife just made bank! Is that your girl, cuck? The one with no gag reflex?” Laughter snapped through the air.
“Aw, don’t be shy,” a bull in a rumpled suit slurred, fly still open. He leaned in, bourbon on his breath. “Your wife must be slaying it upstairs. Which one is she?”
#12’s face went redder. The bulls howled.
Onscreen, the race went on. Lucy’s mascara streaked as her mouth wrapped around a veiny cock, throat pumping like a piston. Victoria kept both hands behind her back while her bull used her hair as reins and fucked her mouth in short, brutal snaps. Cum dripped off Jasmine’s chin as her tongue chased the next drop before it hit her collarbone.
Lucy’s bull groaned and emptied down her throat. Her neck worked as she swallowed, her lipstick smeared, and her mascara now full raccoon. The crowd roared as she pulled off with a wet pop, chin gleaming, and lunged for the next cock—thicker this time, veins jumping.
A single phone chimed.
#22’s screen lit up like a flare:
BLOW JOB RACE.
The bar detonated.
“Ohhh, fuck!” A bull with a gold watch slammed #22’s shoulder and nearly toppled him. “That your girl, cuck? Lucy?” His mock sympathy boomed. “Damn, man, she’s sloppy tonight. Look—already got cum in her hair!”
Laughter ripped through the pack. #22’s face crumpled. His fingers shook around his phone, latex squeaking as he tried to fold in on himself. A younger bull, his tie half-askew, leaned close, whiskey stinking off him. “Bet you’re loving this, huh? Enjoy that little cage while she’s got her mouth full of real cock.”
A strangled sound tore out of #22. His stool scraped back, and he bolted, latex flashing under the bar lights. The bulls bayed, taunts snapping at his heels.
“Aw, don’t run, cuck! Your wife’s just getting started!”
Onscreen, Lucy gagged on the second cock, fingers twitching at her sides like they wanted to push—but rules were rules. The bull’s rhythm stuttered as he groaned, fists tight in her hair, forcing her deeper.
Pat’s molars ground. Laura wasn’t competing. Relief and something sharper twisted together in his gut.
This wasn’t the scene he liked. No slow build, no art, just drunk rich boys who swung their dicks like bats. One bleach-blond prick in a designer suit slapped #12’s phone out of his hand and sent it skidding across the bar. “Oops. Guess you’ll have to watch your wife like the rest of us, cuck.”
Pat’s jaw clenched. The cuck didn’t even move. He just stared at the screen, hollow, while his wife swallowed another load.
Then Pat’s phone chimed.
The sound cut through everything—clean, close, personal. His stomach dropped. The display lit up:
$750.00
His breath stuttered. The room stayed locked on the contestants on the screens, choking on cocks, mascara now full war paint. Nobody even glanced his way.
His hand shook as he killed the sound. Laura. His pulse thudded in his throat. She was at it again.
The betting booth’s board pulsed at the far end of the bar, a little island of numbers in the flash and shadow. Pat shoved his phone away, latex squeaking, his cage tugging with every step.
The line ran three deep. Cucks and bulls together, faces washed in the glow of the boards. A bull in rumpled Armani barked at the bookie, “Five hundred on Victoria, her stamina’s insane, and that last bull looked backed up for a week. ” A cuck in a #17 suit crushed a wad of chips in his fist, eyes glued to the screen where Victoria was deep-throating a bull with a tribal neck tattoo.
Pat slid onto the stool in front of a betting machine, latex sticking. The menu glared back, a grid of options, each uglier than the last:
WINNER (ODDS)
Lucy (2:1)
Victoria (3:1)
Jasmine (5:1)
Bambi (6:1)
Lila (9:1)
TOTAL LOADS (OVER/UNDER)
12.5 (Even)
MAX AGE OF BULL (OVER/UNDER)
73 (Even)
LONGEST SINGLE BLOWJOB (OVER/UNDER)
9:30
WILL A CONTESTANT VOMIT? (PROP BET)
Yes
No
He hovered over the touchscreen. On the main feed, Lucy gagged, throat bulging, the bull’s hands locked in her hair as his hips snapped. The room screamed as she tore off for air, a string of cum slipping from her lips before she latched onto the next cock.
He tapped Victoria for $200.
Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he scrolled to SPECIAL PROPS.
WILL ALL WIVES SWALLOW ALL LOADS? (YES/NO)
Yes (+250)
No (-350)
His thumb stalled.
Laura would.
The thought landed hard. His cage pulsed. He tapped YES – $100.
The printer spat out a receipt. He folded it without looking, the paper damp under his fingers.
Behind him, the crowd roared as Victoria’s bull groaned and shot down her throat. She swallowed, adam’s apple jumping, then turned straight to the next cock, thick, veiny, and already leaking.
The odds flickered and shifted as Victoria choked on her second cock, mascara gone to sludge. Pat added Jasmine for $150, over 12.5 loads for $100, then a scatter of smaller wagers, spreading it like Laura had taught him. “Never put it all on one hole, baby,” she had purred when they cuddled this morning and traced his cage. “Unless I tell you to.”
The booth spat another slip. By the time he folded it, all of Laura’s cash was either on the tables or riding the race. The paper went soft in his sweaty palm.
The Safe Zone’s velvet drapes loomed at the far edge of the floor, deep crimson against the neon glare. Pat cut through the bodies and aimed for that pocket of quiet.
The casino noise dropped to a muffle as the heavy doors swung shut. The air cooled and smelled of antiseptic and faint flowers instead of sweat and booze. A cuck in a #5 suit hunched on a bench, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. #22 slumped against the wall, latex unzipped at the throat, eyes dead as his phone kept chiming every few minutes.
Pat’s fingers twitched. He needed—
The mini-fridge hummed in the corner, rows of bottles glowing under soft light. He grabbed a water, plastic crackling in his grip, and twisted the cap. The first swallow hit cold and clean and sliced through the dryness in his throat.
Martin’s head lolled back, but his gaze snagged on the screens above the bar. Women on their knees, cocks in their mouths, the crowd roaring as the timer bled down. The sound hit like a blow: wet slurps, grunts, and the sharp crack of Mistress V’s whip on some lagging bull’s ass. His fingers twitched in Laura’s hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Laura’s tongue swirled slowly, and his hips jerked.
Her eyes flicked up. Locked on his.
Dark, knowing, amused.
His breath hitched. The screens blurred at the edges with bobbing heads and grasping hands, but Laura stayed clear. Her lips stretched around him, glossy and obscene, her throat working as she took him deeper. His pulse hammered; the lounge bass thudded through his bones. Somewhere a woman gagged, somewhere a man groaned, but Laura just watched him, lashes heavy, fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to bruise.
A laugh floated from the contest stage, high and fake. Martin’s grip tightened. His other hand crushed the velvet cushion, knuckles whitening. The air reeked of sweat and whiskey and Laura’s perfume. Rich, expensive. And every time her nose brushed his skin, a jolt shot up his spine.
She pulled off with a wet pop, lips slick. “See something you like, counselor?”
His chest heaved. The screens flickered at the edge of his vision. Some bull who fisted Lucy’s hair, mascara streaked down her cheeks, but all he saw was Laura. Her parted mouth. Her chin, shiny with spit.
His abs tightened as her thumb traced the vein along his shaft. Her tongue flicked the tip, slow, like she was savoring the last drop of good whiskey.
Then her fingers went still.
He looked down. Her wedding ring caught the low light, a thin platinum band, small but undeniable. It dropped into his gut like a stone.
“Does your husband know you’re here?” His voice came out rough.
Laura didn’t pause. Her lips wrapped around him again, a wet seal, then slid off with a smirk. “Oh, he knows.” Her grip tightened as she stroked him in slow, maddening pulls. “He’s downstairs, watching the screens. Probably jerking that little cage of his, hoping I’ll make you come harder than the last bull.”
Heat bled through her palm into his skin. Martin exhaled through his nose. His thumb brushed her jaw, not steering, just bracing.
“This isn’t what I expected.”
She paused, lips parted, a strand of saliva stretching between them. “No?”
His fingers flexed against her cheek. “I was told it was a private event. High-end escorts. Discretion.” A dry sound scraped his throat. “Not… this.”
Above the bar, a bull’s ass flexed as he shot into Jasmine’s open mouth, her eyes already locked on the next cock. The speakers crackled with slurps and breathy moans. Martin glanced at the feed, then back at Laura. Her eyes gleamed, unreadable.
“I didn’t know about the husbands. Didn’t know they’d be downstairs, locked up and watching.” His voice dropped. “Didn’t know it was an orgy with rules.”
Laura’s hand went still again. Not retreating. Adjusting. “And now that you do?”
His jaw clenched. The lawyer in him was already drafting waivers, NDAs, and fucking subpoenas—because this was a minefield. Cameras. Public screens. Husbands.
His hips twitched as her tongue circled the head of his cock, slowly. “This is…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “This is a legal nightmare waiting to happen.”
She drew back just enough to speak, breath hot on his skin. “You’re not here as a lawyer.”
“No, but I am one.” His fingers dug into the cushion, velvet fraying under his grip. “And right now my brain’s screaming about consent forms and revenge porn statutes and, fuck…”
Laura’s mouth shut him up. Her lips sealed, throat working as she took him deeper. His argument broke into a groan; his head dropped back. The screens above pulsed with flesh, some bull’s hand in Victoria’s hair, her mouth stretched obscenely, but Martin’s focus tunneled down to Laura. To her, fingers curled at his base, possessive. To the flash of her wedding ring in the low light.
He exhaled sharply, abs tightening. “I don’t get it. Why would any husband agree to this?”
Laura released him with a wet pop, lips glossy. She sat back on her heels, dress riding up her thighs, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Because he asked for it.”
His brows shot up. “What?”
A slow smile tugged at her lips. “Pat’s the one who brought it up years ago.” Her fingers drew idle circles on his thigh, nails grazing the fabric. “We were at some boring-ass party, one of his colleagues droning on about a new boat. Pat leans over and goes, ‘What if I watched you with someone else?'” She dropped her voice, softer, almost shy. “What if I just… sat there, and you let me see?”
His cock throbbed under her palm. The image burned in. Pat, the office nobody, who whispered filth in his wife’s ear while coworkers clinked glasses. “And you said yes.”
Laura’s laugh came low and rough. “Not right away. I told him he was drunk.” Her thumb smeared precome over the tip. “But he kept circling back. Little things at first. That guy at the gym keeps looking at you. Notice? What would you do if he tried to flirt?” She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Turns out my husband’s a lot kinkier than his khakis suggest.”
His breath caught as her teeth grazed his balls. “You’re telling me he likes this. Watching you with other men.”
She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “He loves it.” Her hand tightened as she stroked him slowly. “Loves knowing I pick them. Loves knowing I come home to him after.” A smirk, “Loves that little cage, too.”
His hips jerked, cock swelling in her grip. The picture was too sharp. Pat locked up, who watched his wife get railed by strangers, his own dick trapped in steel? “That’s fucked up.”
Laura’s laugh vibrated against his skin. “Oh, counselor.” Her tongue teased the underside of his cock. “You have no idea.”
The contest timer hit zero with a shrill beep. WINNER: LUCY! flashed in neon pink. Cum streaked Lucy’s chin with mascara-like war paint, but Laura didn’t glance up. She stayed on Martin, lips stretched around him, throat working as she took him deeper.
His fingers twisted in the cushion, velvet shredding under his hand. The stage exploded. Cheers, catcalls, the wet slap of Mistress V’s palm on Lucy’s ass, but all he heard was his own ragged breathing and the slick glide of Laura’s mouth.
She pulled off on a gasp, lips swollen, chin wet. Cool air hit his cock abruptly. “Fifteen minutes left.” Her voice was rough, fingers still wrapped around his base. “How do you want to spend it?”
His gaze flicked to the screens. Lucy was wiping her face, Victoria was already grinding on a bull, but his mind blanked when Laura’s thumb dragged over his tip and smeared precome. His hips jumped, abs clenching.
“Fuck.” It came out like a prayer.
Laura’s smirk showed teeth. “That’s the general idea.”
His pulse hammered in his throat. The lawyer in him still shouted about cameras and liability and husbands, but the rest of him just wanted to bury his hands in her hair and use her mouth.
Laura felt the hesitation, the tight coil of a man used to control, not surrender. Her fingers tightened around the base of his cock, thumb circling the slick head. His breath snagged, his abdomen going hard.
Time to fix that.
She leaned in, lips brushing the underside of him, voice low. “You’re thinking too much, counselor.”
His fingers twitched on the cushion. “This is…”
“Exactly what you paid for.” Her tongue flicked just under the crown. His hips jolted. She didn’t give him space to regroup. Her mouth closed over him, wet and hot, her throat opening as she drove down. His groan broke against her lips, his hands finally giving in and tangling in her hair to hold on.
She worked him like she owned him.
Her lips stretched tight around his girth, tongue swirling, throat flexing as she swallowed him. His sounds, ragged, half-choked, sent a live wire through her. His grip on her hair tightened, his breath coming in sharp bursts. She pulled back just far enough for him to see her eyes, dark and sure, then sank down again.
“Fuck.” His voice cracked.
She didn’t stop.
Her hand cupped his balls and rolled them, a finger sneaking further back, pressing lightly against his pucker. His thighs shook. His cock throbbed on her tongue, salt sharp on her palate. She hollowed her cheeks, lips sealing hard as she bobbed, her other hand wrapped at his base and stroking in rhythm. She watched him. The stutter of his breath. The twitch of his hips. The way his fingers clenched in her hair like a man going under.
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips slightly bruised, chin slick. “You like that?” Her voice scraped.
He answered with a broken groan.
She smirked and took him in again, deep. Her throat opened, and he slid all the way. His hips bucked; his hands twisted in her hair. His breathing turned sharp, desperate. He swelled against her tongue, hot and heavy, and filled her.
And then he came.
The sound wrenched out of him, raw and low, his hips jerking as he spilled down her throat. She stayed put. No backing off, no mess. Her throat worked and swallowed each pulse, lips locked until he finished.
When he sagged, breath shredded, she let him slip free with a slow, deliberate pop. His cock shone, softening, his abs jumping as he dragged in air.
Laura rocked back on her heels and wiped her mouth. Her phone screen still glowed 8:52, but Martin was done. His eyes had gone heavy-lidded, his chest lifting and falling like he’d run hard.
She reached for his fly, fingers quick as she tucked him away and smoothed the fabric. Then she slid beside him and crossed her legs, her dress rucking up her thighs. “So,” her tone went light. “What’s your plan for the rest of your night?”
Martin blinked, brain still sputtering. “What?”
Laura smoothed her dress, the fabric hugging her thighs, and reached for her phone. Her hour with Martin was almost up.
Martin just watched her. Tie loose, cuffs undone, hair mussed, lips a little swollen where she’d bitten, but his eyes were sharp again.
“You’re leaving.” His tone was flat, not a question.
Laura arched a brow and dropped her phone into her clutch. “Your time’s up, counselor.” She rose, heels sinking into the plush carpet. “Unless you want to negotiate an extension?”
His fingers twitched on his thigh. Then he stood, movement controlled. “I do. I want the night.” His voice was steady. “All of it.”
Her smirk deepened. Her fingers traced the rim of her clutch. “Oh, counselor.” She tilted her head, chandelier light catching the gold in her eyes. “Tonight’s not about exclusivity. And I don’t think you’ve got the bankroll for it.”
He didn’t blink. He took her clutch and slipped her phone out, the screen still lit. His thumbs moved, unlock, tap-tap, scan. His own phone flashed as he swiped. Then he handed hers back, his thumb brushing her palm.
Laura looked down and gasped.
