Jay woke before the alarm, the plug a familiar pressure now, a constant reminder of what he'd become. He lay in the dark of the bedroom, listening to Elisa's soft breathing beside him, and tried to remember the last time he'd woken up feeling anything other than dread or guilt. The ceiling was the same ceiling it had always been, the same hairline crack running from the light fixture to the corner, and he had stared at it for ten thousand mornings without noticing it.

Now he noticed everything. The way the light fell across her pillow. The way his own body felt different—occupied, claimed, marked in ways no one could see but him.

He dressed carefully, the collar hidden under his button-down, the plug a steady pulse of presence that made him walk differently. Straighter. More careful. Like a man carrying something precious and dangerous. Elisa stirred as he passed the kitchen, mumbled something about coffee, and he made her a cup without being asked, setting it on her nightstand with a kiss on her forehead that felt like a lie and a truth wrapped together.

"You're up early," she said, her eyes still closed, her hand finding the mug by instinct.

"Meeting at ten. Big client." He said it too quickly, too brightly, and heard the false note in his own voice. "I'll see you tonight."

She made a sound that could have been acknowledgment or sleep, and he let himself out, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made his chest ache.

The train was crowded, the morning rush pressing bodies together, and Jay stood with his hand on the overhead rail, feeling every jostle and sway as the plug shifted inside him. He'd stopped being able to ignore it, stopped pretending it was just a thing he wore. It was part of him now, as much as his heartbeat, and the thought should have horrified him. It did horrify him. And it also made him hard, his cock pressing against his trousers as the train lurched around a curve, and he closed his eyes and thought about spreadsheets, about invoices, about anything except the way his body was betraying him in public.

The office was already humming when he arrived, the fluorescent lights casting their usual flat yellow glow over the cubicles, the coffee machine gurgling in the corner. He nodded at Sheila from accounting, waved at the intern whose name he could never remember, and sat at his desk with his hands resting on the keyboard, the plug a secret pulse beneath his chair.

Nine forty-five. Fifteen minutes until the meeting.

He opened the Devlin file, stared at the numbers without seeing them, closed it again. His fingers found the collar through his shirt, traced the edge of it, and he forced his hand back to his keyboard. Ten years of making himself invisible, and now he couldn't stop drawing attention to the very thing that would ruin him if anyone saw it.

The clock on his computer screen ticked over to nine fifty-two, and he stood, adjusted his tie, and walked toward Mick's office with the sensation of walking toward a cliff edge he couldn't see the bottom of.

Mick's door was open. The man himself sat behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, a cup of coffee steaming beside his elbow. He glanced up when Jay appeared in the doorway, and his face was unreadable—not the predatory warmth of the hotel, not the cold command of yesterday's summons. Just a manager, looking at his employee.

"Morrison. Come in. Close the door."

Jay stepped inside, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood in front of the desk with his hands at his sides, trying not to look like a man who'd knelt in this very spot less than twenty-four hours ago.

Mick didn't look at him. He was reading something on his desk, a sheaf of papers that seemed to require his complete attention, and the silence stretched until Jay felt it in his teeth.

"Sir," he said, and the word came out smaller than he intended, a mouse's voice in a room full of cats.

Mick looked up slowly, his small eyes meeting Jay's, and there was nothing in them. No recognition. No heat. Just the flat assessment of a manager sizing up a subordinate. "The Devlin account. We've been going back and forth for three months, and he's still not satisfied with the proposal."

Jay blinked. "I—yes. He keeps changing the scope. I've revised the projections four times."

"I know." Mick slid a manilla envelope across the desk, not offering it, just placing it near the edge where Jay could see it. No company logo. No return address. Just a plain envelope, closed with a metal clasp. "This needs to go to his office. Hand delivery. Fourteenth floor."

Jay stared at the envelope. "What is it?"

"Something that'll finally make him happy." Mick's voice was flat, professional, dismissive. "Take it now. He's expecting it."

Jay didn't move. He waited for something else—a look, a test, some sign that this was part of whatever game Mick was playing with him. But Mick had already returned to the papers on his desk, his pen scratching across the page, his attention gone as completely as if Jay had already left the room.

"Sir?" Jay said, hating the need in his own voice, the way he was practically begging for something, anything, to acknowledge what had happened between them.

"That'll be all, Morrison." Mick didn't look up. "Let me know when Devlin signs off."

Jay's hand trembled as he reached for the envelope. It was lighter than he expected, not documents, but something else, something that shifted with the movement. He tucked it under his arm, turned toward the door, and felt a surge of something that took him a moment to identify.

Disappointment.

He'd come in expecting to be used. Expecting Mick to test him, to command him, to push the plug deeper into him while whispering orders into his ear. Instead, he'd been dismissed like any other employee, sent on an errand like a mailroom clerk, and the absence of Mick's attention felt like a loss he couldn't name.

He stepped into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind him, and stood there with the envelope clutched against his chest, the plug pressing inside him, and the terrible realization that he had wanted Mick to do something. Anything. That the disappointment was sharper than the relief, and that this was what Mick had meant about becoming his.

The elevator doors opened, and a group of people spilled out. Jay stepped aside, let them pass, then walked into the empty car and pressed the button for the lobby, his thumb leaving a damp print on the plastic.

The walk to Devlin's office building took twenty minutes. The envelope was warm against his chest, tucked inside his jacket, and he found himself touching it every few steps, checking that it was still there.

Devlin's building rose above him, all glass and steel and the kind of corporate architecture that made him feel like an ant. He pushed through the revolving door, crossed the marble lobby to the security desk, and gave his name to the guard, who checked a list and handed him a visitor badge.

"Fourteenth floor. Mr Devlin's expecting you."

The elevator ride was silent, the car empty, and Jay watched the numbers climb with each floor, his heart beating faster than it had any right to. The envelope sat heavy in his hand, and he turned it over, looking for some clue about its contents, but there was nothing. Just the metal clasp, holding something he couldn't see.

The doors opened onto a reception area that was all chrome and white leather and a receptionist who looked at him like he was a stain on her clean floor. "Mr Morrison? Mr Devlin will see you now. Down the hall, last door on the left."

Jay walked past her, the carpet swallowing his footsteps, and found the door at the end of the corridor. He knocked, heard a gruff "Come in," and stepped through.

Devlin's office was as Jay remembered it—cluttered, expensive, the desk covered in papers and coffee cups and the detritus of a man who ran his business like a war. Devlin himself was behind the desk, a heavyset man in an expensive suit, his face red from too many lunches and too little patience.

"Morrison. Took you long enough." Devlin didn't offer a hand, didn't invite him to sit. "What's this about? I told your people I need revised projections by Friday, not a personal visit."

Jay held up the envelope. "Mr Harlow asked me to deliver this personally. He said it would... settle things."

Devlin's eyes narrowed. He stared at the envelope like it might bite him, then reached out and took it, his thick fingers working the metal clasp. "This better be good. I've been patient for three months, and I'm running out of—"

The photograph slid out, and Devlin stopped mid-sentence.

Jay watched his face change, the anger shifting to something else—confusion, then recognition, then something that looked almost like pleasure. Devlin held the photograph up, his eyes moving across it, and Jay felt a cold hand close around his spine.

"What is that?" he asked, his voice thin, and Devlin looked at him with an expression Jay couldn't read.

"You don't know what's in here?"

"No. I was just told to deliver it."

Devlin laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender, and turned the photograph around so Jay could see it.

The world stopped.

It was him. Naked, on his knees, in the hotel room, his mouth open, his eyes glassy, the collar stamped SLUT visible around his throat. And across the bottom of the photograph, in Mick's heavy handwriting: Being a good and loyal customer comes with benefits.

The room tilted. Jay grabbed the edge of the desk, his legs threatening to give out, and he stared at the image of himself—his degradation, his surrender, captured and preserved and now in the hands of a client he'd been trying to satisfy for months.

"I..." He couldn't finish. The word died in his throat.

Devlin was studying the photograph with the attention of a man reading a contract. He turned it over, examined the back, then looked at Jay with new eyes—eyes that saw him differently, that measured him in ways that made Jay's skin crawl and his cock twitch in the same breath.

"Harlow said you were... accommodating." Devlin's voice was lower now, quieter, the gruffness replaced by something that made Jay's stomach clench. "But he didn't mention the extent of it."

Jay shook his head, a jerky motion that he couldn't control. "I didn't know. He didn't tell me—"

"What did you think was in the envelope?"

"I don't know. Papers. A contract. Something for the account."

Devlin laughed again, and this time the sound was warmer, richer, like he'd just been told a very good joke. "The account. Right. You thought this was about the account." He set the photograph down on his desk, face up, and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. "Morrison—can I call you Jay?"

Jay swallowed. "Yes."

"Jay. I've been doing business with your company for twelve years. I've had a hundred account managers. And not one of them has ever made quite this kind of... impression." He tapped the photograph with one thick finger. "Harlow knows how to close a deal."

Jay's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, trying to still them, but the tremor ran through his whole body. The plug pressed deeper with every breath, a reminder of where he was and what he was, and he felt a flush spread across his chest and up his neck that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with something he couldn't name.

He was horrified. He was aroused. And the horror and the arousal were tangled together so tightly that he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"He sent you here," Devlin said slowly, his eyes moving over Jay like he was measuring him for something, "knowing I'd see this. Knowing I'd recognize you." He paused. "You don't seem surprised."

Jay opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and what came out was not what he expected. "He's training me."

The words hung in the air between them, and Jay heard himself say them like he was listening to someone else speak. Training me. As if he were a dog. As if he were something that could be shaped and molded and taught to obey.

Devlin's eyebrows rose. "Training you."

"I'm his," Jay said, and the words came easier now, a confession that tasted like copper and sugar. "I'm his slut. His whore. He can do whatever he wants with me."

Devlin studied him for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a pen, and signed the revised proposal that had been sitting on his desk for three weeks—the one Jay had revised four times without success.

Devlin set the pen down with a click that sounded louder than it should have. He slid the signed proposal across the desk, his thick fingers resting on it for a moment longer than necessary, and Jay stared at the signature like it was a wound he hadn't noticed opening.

"There," Devlin said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction that made Jay's stomach turn. "Three months of revisions, four different sets of projections, and all it took was the right... incentive."

Jay's mouth was dry. He looked from the signed document to the photograph still lying face-up on the desk, and he understood, with a clarity that felt like a blade sliding between his ribs, that this was the test. Not the plug. Not the collar. Not the humiliation of the hotel or the walk through the lobby in a stained dress. This—standing here, in front of a client who now knew exactly what he was—this was the real test.

And Mick had sent him here knowing he would pass it.

"Mr Devlin," Jay said, and his voice came out steady in a way that surprised him, "I want you to know that I'm... available. For anything else you might need."

Devlin's eyebrows rose. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and studied Jay with a new kind of attention. "Is that right."

"Mick—Mr Harlow—he's training me. To be useful. To be accommodating." Jay's hands were trembling, but he pressed them flat against his thighs and kept going, the words spilling out of him like water through a cracked dam. "I'm his slut. His whore. And if you want to use me, if that's what it takes to keep your business with the company, then my body is yours to use."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Devlin's small eyes moved over Jay's face, his body, the way his hands were pressed white-knuckled against his legs, and something in his expression shifted. Not softened—Devlin didn't seem like a man who softened for anything—but sharpened, focused, like a predator who'd just realized the prey was already dead and waiting to be eaten.

"You're offering yourself to me," Devlin said slowly, tasting the words. "Right now. In my office."

"Yes." Jay swallowed. "If you want to use me."

Devlin laughed, that gravel-in-a-blender sound, and stood up from his chair. He was shorter than Jay remembered, wider, his expensive suit straining at the seams as he walked around the desk and stopped a few feet away, close enough that Jay could smell the coffee on his breath and the stale tobacco in his clothes.

"Strip," Devlin said. "By the window. I want to see you against the glass."

Jay's heart hammered against his ribs, but his hands moved before his mind could catch up, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. He fumbled with the first one, got it through the hole, then the second, the third, the fabric parting to reveal the collar beneath, the word SLUT stamped into the leather, the silver ring glinting in the fluorescent light.

Devlin's breath caught. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the collar, and Jay felt a flush spread across his chest that was equal parts shame and something darker, something that made his cock stir in his trousers.

"He collared you," Devlin said, and there was something like reverence in his voice. "Actually collared you. With that word."

"Yes." Jay's fingers found the collar, tracing its edge. "He says it's what I am. What I chose to be."

"And did you? Choose?"

Jay met his eyes. "Yes."

Devlin held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded, a short sharp motion that said more than words could. "The window, Morrison. I'm waiting."

Jay turned and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window that made up most of the far wall, his shoes clicking against the polished floor. The city spread out below him, a grid of glass and concrete and tiny cars moving through the streets like insects, and he could see people on the pavement, walking, talking, living their ordinary lives.

He unfastened his trousers, let them fall to his ankles, and stepped out of them. His boxers followed, and then he was standing in nothing but the collar and the plug, his pale body reflected in the glass, his erection visible and shameful and impossible to hide.

Devlin made a sound behind him—a grunt of approval, or maybe just satisfaction. "Hands on the glass. Spread your legs."

Jay pressed his palms flat against the cold surface and spread his feet apart, feeling the plug shift inside him, a constant pressure that made his knees weak. The glass was cool against his skin, and he could see the street below, the people who would look up and see nothing but a dark shape against the window, a silhouette that meant nothing to them.

"Now turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you."

Jay turned, his hands dropping to his sides, and stood naked before Devlin in the middle of the office, the signed proposal on the desk behind him, the photograph of his own degradation still lying face-up beside it. Devlin's eyes traveled over him like he was taking inventory, cataloging every flaw and every asset, and Jay felt himself hardening under the scrutiny, his cock rising against his stomach.

"Come here," Devlin said, and he sat back down in his executive chair, spreading his knees wide. "I want a lap dance. And I want it to be worth my time."

Jay walked toward him on unsteady legs, the plug pressing deeper with every step, his erection bobbing with the movement. He stopped between Devlin's spread knees, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man's body, and he reached down to grip the arms of the chair, lowering himself onto Devlin's lap with a grace he didn't know he possessed.

The rough wool of Devlin's trousers scraped against Jay's thighs as he settled into place, his ass pressing down onto the hard ridge of Devlin's cock through the fabric, and he began to move. Slow at first, tentative, his hips rolling in a rhythm he'd never practiced but seemed to know instinctively, grinding his bare skin against the expensive cloth, feeling the heat and the pressure and the growing hardness beneath him.

Devlin's hands found his hips, gripping him with a force that would leave bruises, and he guided Jay's movements, speeding them up, pushing him down harder. "That's it," he muttered, his voice rough, his breath hot against Jay's chest. "You know how to move. Harlow taught you that too?"

"Some of it," Jay managed, his voice thin and breathy. "The rest is... instinct."

"Good instincts." Devlin's hands slid up Jay's sides, over his ribs, his thumbs brushing across Jay's nipples in a way that made him gasp. "You're a natural little whore, aren't you?"

"Yes," Jay said, and the word came out like a confession and a claim at the same time. "Yes, I am."

Devlin's cock was fully hard now, a thick pressure against Jay's ass through the wool, and Jay could feel his own arousal leaking onto his stomach, a smear of pre-cum that caught the light. He ground down harder, faster, his breath coming in short gasps, and Devlin let him move for a long minute before gripping his hips and stilling him.

"Enough," Devlin said. "Kneel."

Jay slid off his lap and onto the floor, his knees meeting the carpet with a soft thud, and he looked up at Devlin with wide eyes, waiting. Devlin unfastened his trousers with deliberate slowness, pulled down the zipper, and reached inside to free his cock—thick and heavy and already leaking, the head glistening in the office light.

"You know what to do," Devlin said, and it wasn't a question.

Jay leaned forward, his hands finding Devlin's thighs for balance, and he opened his mouth. The taste hit him first—salt and skin and the musk of a man who'd been sitting in meetings all day—and then the weight of Devlin's cock on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw as he took it in, the sound Devlin made when the wet heat of Jay's mouth closed around him.

He set a rhythm without thinking, his head bobbing, his tongue tracing the vein along the underside, his hand wrapping around what his mouth couldn't reach. Devlin's fingers found his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt, and he began to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, pushing into Jay's throat until Jay gagged and had to pull back, gasping, spit stringing between his lips and Devlin's cock.

"Don't stop," Devlin growled. "Take it all."

Jay opened his mouth wider, relaxed his throat, and let Devlin fuck his face. The rhythm was brutal and unrelenting, Devlin's hips driving forward with a force that made Jay's eyes water, and Jay took it, swallowed around it, let himself be used in exactly the way Mick had trained him to be used. He tasted Devlin's pre-cum, bitter and thick, and he moaned around the cock in his throat, the vibration making Devlin grunt and thrust harder.

"I'm going to come," Devlin said, his voice strained, his grip tightening in Jay's hair. "Swallow it. Every drop."

Jay nodded as best he could, and then Devlin was coming, a thick hot flood that hit the back of his throat and kept coming, pulse after pulse, and Jay swallowed, swallowed, swallowed until his throat was coated with it and still there was more, spilling past his lips and running down his chin, a mess of cum and spit that dripped onto the carpet.

Devlin pulled out, his cock glistening, and Jay sat back on his heels, his mouth full, his chin wet, looking up at the man who had just used him like a fuckhole. Devlin was breathing hard, his face flushed, his small eyes dark with satisfaction, and he looked at Jay with something that might have been approval.

"Good," he said. "Now get me hard again."

Jay leaned forward without hesitation, taking Devlin's softening cock back into his mouth, licking and sucking with a desperate urgency that surprised him. He worked his tongue over the head, traced the veins, took the whole thing deep into his throat and held it there, and within minutes he felt Devlin hardening again, growing thick and heavy against his tongue.

When Devlin was fully erect, he pushed Jay away and stood up, his cock jutting out from his open trousers. "Remove the plug. Then turn around and put your hands on the window."

Jay's fingers trembled as he reached behind himself, found the base of the plug, and pulled. It came out with a soft wet sound that made him flush, and he felt suddenly empty, a loss that was almost physical, before the emptiness was replaced by the cold air against his stretched hole.

He walked to the window on shaking legs and pressed his palms against the glass, his forehead touching the cool surface, his ass presented to Devlin like an offering. The city sprawled below him, indifferent and vast, and he could see people on the street, living their lives, never knowing that a man was about to be fucked against the window of the fourteenth floor.

Devlin stepped up behind him, and Jay felt the thick head of his cock pressing against his hole, pushing, stretching, and then sliding inside with a single brutal thrust that made Jay cry out. The sound was raw and animal, torn from his throat before he could stop it, and Devlin didn't pause, didn't slow, just began to fuck him with a rhythm that was all force and no mercy.

Jay's hands squeaked against the glass as he was driven forward, his cheek pressed flat against the window, his breath fogging the surface. He could see the street below, the tiny figures walking and talking, and he thought about how any one of them could look up and see him, a naked man being fucked against the glass, and the thought made his cock ache and his hole clench around Devlin's thrusting cock.

"You like this," Devlin grunted, his hips slapping against Jay's ass with each thrust. "You like being used like a whore."

"Yes," Jay gasped, the word forced out of him with every impact. "Yes, yes, yes—"

"Beg for it. Beg me to sodomize you."

"P…please sir, please fuck me." Jay said, his voice breaking. "I'm a worthless whore. I'm everyone's whore. Use me, please, use me. Fuck me harder. Sodomize me. Take me like a whore."

Devlin fucked him harder, faster, his thick fingers digging into Jay's hips hard enough to bruise, and Jay let himself be taken, let himself be used, let the rhythm of Devlin's cock inside him become the only thing that existed. The city blurred below him, the glass fogged with his breath, his cock slapped wetly against the glass. He was nothing but a hole, fuckmeat, a whore being fucked against a window fourteen floors above the gutter where he belonged.

Devlin came with a grunt, his hips pressing deep, his cock pulsing inside Jay's ass, filling him with heat that spread through his body like a flood. Jay felt it dripping down his thigh as Devlin pulled out, a warm trickle that traced a path through the hair on his leg, and he stayed where he was, hands on the glass, ass in the air, stretched and gaping, twitching spasmodically as it tried to close.

Devlin tucked himself back into his trousers, zipped up, and walked back to his desk. He picked up the signed proposal, held it out to Jay without looking at him. "Tell Harlow I'm satisfied with the service. I'll be a loyal customer for as long as this is the kind of attention I can expect."

Jay pushed himself off the window, his legs shaking, his ass aching, his thigh slick with Devlin's cum. He took the signed contract with a trembling hand. A payment for services rendered. He began to dress, his fingers clumsy on the buttons of his shirt. He reinserted the plug into his wrecked hole hoping it would seal Devlin’s seed deep in guts. He pulled on his trousers the fabric sticking to the wetness on his skin.

"You can see yourself out," Devlin said, already sitting back down, already reaching for another stack of papers, as if the last twenty minutes had never happened.

Jay tucked his shirt in, adjusted his tie, and walked to the door with the signed proposal clutched against his chest. His ass throbbed with every step, Devlin's cum leaking down his thigh, and he felt hollow and full at the same time, a contradiction he couldn't begin to untangle.

He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, and his eyes met those of Devlin's PA, the woman who had looked at him like a stain on her clean floor. She was standing at her desk, a file in her hand, and she was watching him with a small smile that said she knew exactly what had happened in that office.

"Productive meeting?" she asked, her voice light, her eyes flicking down to the wet spot spreading on his trousers and then back up to his face. “I hope he wasn’t too hard?”

Jay's face burned. He wanted to disappear, to sink through the floor and never be seen again, but he heard himself speak, his voice steady in a way that felt like a betrayal. "Very productive. Mr Devlin was... satisfied."

Her smile widened, and she tilted her head, letting him know without words that she had heard everything, that she knew exactly what kind of satisfaction had been achieved. "I'm glad. He's been very hard lately. To please I mean. You must be very good at your… profession."

Jay walked past her, his legs stiff, his ass screaming with every step, and he could feel her eyes on his back, on the wet patch spreading against the fabric of his trousers, on the way he was walking like a man who had been fucked thoroughly and completely. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby with a finger that wouldn't stop shaking.

The doors slid closed, and he was alone, the signed proposal in his hand, Devlin's cum leaking down his thigh, and the knowledge that he had just become something new. A corporate whore, something that couldn't be undone, something that Mick had planned for him all along.

The elevator doors slid closed, and Jay stood alone in the chrome and mirrored box, the signed proposal clutched against his chest, Devlin's cum cooling on his thigh. He watched himself in the polished metal of the doors—a man in an office-appropriate suit, collar hidden, hair still in place, looking for all the world like he'd just come from a routine business meeting. If you didn't look too closely at the way his hands shook, or the slight tremor in his legs, or the way he held himself like a man who'd been hollowed out and filled with something he couldn't name.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled for it with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling. The screen glowed with Mick's name, the message already visible in the notification bar: Report to my office before you clean up.

Jay stared at the words, reading them three times before they made sense. Before you clean up. Which meant Mick knew. Of course Mick knew—he'd arranged the whole thing, sent him there with the envelope, set up the test and watched him pass it. But the timing of the message, the way it arrived the moment the elevator doors closed, suggested something more. That Mick had been waiting. That he'd known exactly when Devlin would be finished with him.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, the impulse to reply rising and dying in the same breath. Mick hadn't asked for a response. He'd given an order.

The elevator reached the lobby, and the doors slid open onto the marble atrium, the security guard at his desk, a cluster of people waiting to ascend. Jay stepped out, holding the signed proposal like a shield, and walked across the lobby with his legs pressed together, trying to minimize the wet friction of his thighs, the way Devlin's cum was soaking into the fabric of his boxers, leaving a damp trail that anyone with eyes could see.

The guard barely glanced at him as he handed back his visitor badge. "Have a good day, sir."

Jay made a sound that might have been acknowledgment and pushed through the revolving door, emerging into the grey afternoon light. The air was cool on his face, but he felt it everywhere—the breeze against his cheeks, the grit of the pavement under his shoes, the weight of the cum in his underwear, the ache of his stretched hole, the plug pressing against Devlin's seed, sealing it inside him the way Mick had taught him.

The walk back to the office took twenty minutes, and every step was an agony of wet fabric and bruised flesh. He walked stiffly, carefully, a man carrying an injury no one could see, and he caught a woman on the street glancing at his trousers, at the dark patch that was spreading against the grey fabric, and then looking away with the quick embarrassment of someone who'd seen something she wasn't supposed to.

He wanted to disappear. He wanted to crawl into a hole and never be seen again. And beneath that, buried so deep he could barely feel it, was a current of something else—a heat that pooled in his stomach every time he thought about the look on Mick's face when he walked through the door, still marked, still wet, still obedient.

The office building loomed above him, familiar and indifferent, and Jay pushed through the glass doors, crossed the lobby, and pressed the button for the elevator with a finger that left a damp print on the plastic. The car was empty when it arrived, and he stepped inside, watching the numbers climb, counting the seconds until he reached Mick's floor.