Mick didn't move. His hand stayed on the dildo's base, the weight of it a promise against Jay's prostate. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the office lights and the ragged sound of Jay's own breathing.

"She gave you three days," Mick said. Not a question.

"Yes, sir." Jay's voice came out thin, compressed by the position—cheek against the desktop, trousers pooled at his ankles, the dildo a long, insistent presence inside him.

Mick's fingers curled around the base. He pulled, slow, deliberate, until the head caught on Jay's rim, then pushed back in. Jay gasped, his hands flat on the desk, knees threatening to buckle.

"And she thinks she can dictate terms." Mick's voice was flat, considering, as if he were evaluating a line item on a budget sheet. He pulled again, slower this time, and Jay felt every ridge, every inch of the silicone sliding against his inner walls. "Thinks she can tell me when I can use my own property."

Jay's cock, trapped in the vibrating ring Elisa still controlled, twitched uselessly. The dildo pressed against his prostate and his vision blurred, pleasure and humiliation braiding together into something that made his toes curl inside his shoes.

"I—I don't know what she thinks."

"No. You don't." Mick thrust the dildo deeper, harder, and Jay's knuckles went white against the polished wood. "You're just the message boy, aren't you? Bent over my desk with your wife's toy up your ass, delivering ultimatums from a woman who's never once seen you on your knees for me."

Another thrust. Jay's breath caught. The head of the dildo pressed against his abdomen from the inside, and he could see it—a faint bulge pushing against his belly through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. The sight made him dizzy.

"But she's not wrong." Mick's voice dropped, thoughtful. "She caught me. Got evidence. Could bury me if she wanted." He pushed the dildo in to the hilt and held it there, letting Jay feel the fullness, the stretch, the weight of being held open and waiting. "That takes a certain kind of nerve. I can respect nerve."

Jay's balls swayed gently beneath him with each small movement, his cock hanging heavy and useless. He could feel a bead of precum forming at the tip, could feel it drip onto the carpet below. The shame of it burned through him, but so did something else—something that made his knees tremble and his breath come faster.

"So here's what's going to happen." Mick began to move the dildo again, fucking him with it at a steady, punishing rhythm. Each thrust pushed Jay up onto his toes, then let him settle back down. "I'm going to accept her terms. More or less."

The words registered through a haze of sensation. Jay's mind snagged on them—accept. Terms. He tried to focus, tried to parse what Mick was saying, but the dildo was hitting that spot again and again, sending sparks up his spine.

"She wants you at home. Fine. You're her husband. I don't need your evenings, I don't need your weekends. Mostly." Mick's hand moved faster, the slap of flesh against flesh filling the office. "But I need work events. Conferences. Trade shows. Those overnight things she probably hates anyway."

A particularly hard thrust drove Jay up onto his tiptoes, his whole body arching. He heard himself make a sound—high, desperate, shameful.

"And Friday nights." Mick said it like he was ordering a sandwich. "I want Friday nights."

He pulled the dildo out in one long, slow motion, and Jay felt suddenly, achingly empty. The absence was worse than the fullness—a hollow space inside him that seemed to go on forever. He stood there, bent over the desk, trousers around his ankles, the dildo glistening obscenely in Mick's hand, and waited.

"Stand up."

Jay straightened slowly, his legs shaky, his cock bobbing against his stomach. The dildo's absence left him feeling raw, exposed, and he had to fight the urge to clench around nothing.

"Turn around."

He turned. Mick circled him, slow and deliberate, the dildo still held loosely in one hand. Jay felt those small gray eyes on him—on his exposed cock, his sweat-sheened chest, the collar hidden beneath his shirt collar. He felt catalogued. Assessed. Claimed.

"Your wife knows how to pick her toys," Mick said, gesturing with the dildo. "This is quality silicone. Medical grade. She spent money on this."

Jay nodded, not trusting his voice.

Mick stopped in front of him. "I need your phone."

The request hit him like cold water. "My—"

"Your phone, boy. The one in your pocket. The one your wife calls you on."

Jay's phone was in his trouser pocket. Which were around his ankles. He looked down at the pooled fabric, then back up at Mick's face, and felt the heat of mortification climb his neck.

"Well? I don't have all day."

Jay bent at the waist, reaching down to fish the phone from his pocket. The movement shifted everything—he could feel his asshole clench against the empty space where the dildo had been, could feel his cock swing forward, could feel the absurdity of his own position: a fifty-year-old man with his pants around his ankles, reaching into his own pocket to hand his boss the phone so his boss could call his wife and negotiate custody of his ass.

His fingers found the phone. He straightened, unlocked it with a thumb that trembled, and held it out.

Mick took it. His eyes never left Jay's as he scrolled through the contacts, one thick finger moving across the screen. Jay watched, frozen, wondering which name Mick was looking for—Elisa's name, or someone else's, a friend, a colleague, his mother, someone who would see the naked need in his eyes and know everything.

Mick found what he was looking for. He pressed the phone to his ear, still holding Jay's gaze, and smiled—that predator's smile that made Jay's stomach drop and his cock twitch in the same confused instant.

"No. This is Mick, Jay's boss." His voice was easy, conversational, the voice of a man who'd never been refused anything in his life. "Yes, it is good to finally speak to you too. I feel like we know each other, since I have heard so much about you. Yes. Quite."

A pause. Mick listened, his eyes never leaving Jay's. Jay felt sweat trickle down his spine, felt his heart hammering against his ribs. Elisa. It had to be Elisa. But what was she saying? What deal were they making over his head, over his body, while he stood here naked from the waist down like a piece of meat on display?

"I just thought I should let you know that I am happy to accept your offer..." Mick paused, letting the words hang. "...with two tiny amendments."

Jay's breath caught. Amendments. He watched Mick's face, trying to read the conversation, but Mick's expression was unreadable—pleased, satisfied, the look of a man who was getting exactly what he wanted.

"One, Jay will be required to attend work events. Conferences, trade shows, the like. Good, I thought that might be the case but thought I should check." Another pause. Mick's smile widened. "The other is Friday nights. I want our little slut Friday nights."

The silence that followed was the longest of Jay's life. He could hear a faint murmur from the phone—Elisa's voice, distant and indistinct—but he couldn't make out the words. He stood there, trousers pooled at his ankles, cock hanging exposed, and waited for his wife to decide his fate.

Would she say yes? Would she hand him over for one night a week to the man who'd remade him, who'd taught him what it meant to kneel? Or would she say no, would she draw a line, would she claim him entirely for herself and leave Mick with nothing?

Jay didn't know which outcome terrified him more.

"Excellent." Mick's voice broke the silence, warm and satisfied. "Then we have a deal. He is my whore during the work day, including conferences, etc., and every other Friday night until ten a.m. Saturday morning. It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

He paused, listening. Then: "It would certainly be nice to meet you one day. Yes, I'll look forward to it."

He ended the call and lowered the phone, that predatory smile still fixed on his face.

"She agreed."

The words didn't seem real. Jay stood there, swaying slightly, his mind struggling to catch up. She agreed. His wife had agreed to share him. Had agreed to hand him over to Mick for Friday nights, for conferences, for whatever work events Mick deemed necessary.

She'd handed him over. Just like that.

The thought should have horrified him. It did horrify him, somewhere in the rational part of his brain that still remembered what normal looked like. But beneath the horror, beneath the shame and the confusion and the fear, something else stirred—a dark, twisted relief.

He was wanted. He was fought over. Two people, his wife and his master, had negotiated over him like a prized asset, and neither one had been willing to let him go.

The thought made his cock ache.

"Over the desk." Mick gestured to the front of his desk.

Jay once again bent at the waist over Mick’s desk and he felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over him.

Mick settled into his own chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He leaned back, studying Jay with those small, calculating eyes.

"Your wife is an interesting woman."

Jay didn't know how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

"She threatened to destroy me. Had evidence. Photographs, I assume—the ones I showed at the conference. She must have found a way to get copies. Smart." Mick tapped a finger on the desk. "But she didn't use them. Didn't call HR, didn't go to the police. She made a deal instead."

"She—" Jay's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She said she wanted to try."

"Try what?"

"To be... what you are. To me." The words came out in a rush, jumbled and desperate. "She said she wanted to understand. She put the collar on me. She used the remote. She—" He stopped, the memory of Elisa's hand on his balls, the sharp pain of her kick, flooding back. "She punished me."

Mick's eyebrows rose. "Did she now."

"Yes, sir."

"And you let her."

"I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice." Mick leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "You chose to submit. You chose to let her punish you. You chose to come here today, wearing her toy, delivering her message, and bend over my desk." His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You're making a lot of choices, boy. The question is whether you're making them consciously, or whether you're just floating downstream, letting whoever's current is strongest carry you along."

The words hit harder than any spanking. Jay opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He didn't have an answer.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen now." Mick sat back, the picture of relaxed authority. "I'm going to give you back to your wife tonight. You're going to go home, and you're going to tell her about our conversation. You're going to tell her that I accepted her terms, and that evry other Friday night you are mine and whoever else I choose to let fuck you for my amusement. And then you're going to let her do whatever she wants to you, because that's the deal."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"And on Friday, at six p.m., you're going to come back here. You're going to spend the night with me. And on Saturday morning, at ten a.m., you're going to go home to your wife and pretend that everything is normal."

Mick stood, walked around the desk, and stopped behind Jay. He reached down, grabbed Jay's cock between his legs and gently massaged it.

"You belong to two people now. Your wife owns your evenings and your weekends—except alternate Fridays. Devlin owns one day a month. And I own your work days. I own your Fridays. I own the conferences, the trade shows, the hotel rooms, the moments when you're on your knees and wondering how you got there."

His thumb pressed against Jay’s periternium, pressing just hard enough to cause discomfort but stopping short of pain. Jay’s cock twitched in his hand.

"You wanted to be wanted, boy. Well, now you are. By two people. And you will be used by a lot more than that. Let's see if you can survive it."

He let go and stepped back.

The sound reached him before the meaning did—a metallic rasp, the zip of Mick's trousers parting. Jay's breath caught, held, refused to leave his lungs. Behind him, the rustle of fabric, the shift of weight from one foot to another, and then—

Warmth. Heavy. The head of Mick's cock resting against his still-gaping hole, pressing just enough to announce itself, to let him know what was waiting.

Jay's hands flat on the desk, his forehead pressed to the polished wood, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still. He could feel it—that thick, blunt pressure against his rim, the heat of Mick's body behind him, the faint sound of Mick's breathing, slow and unhurried, a man in no rush at all.

He's going to fuck me. He's actually going to—

The thought fragmented, dissolved into sensation. The cock head resting there, not pushing, not entering, just waiting, and Jay's body knew what it wanted even if his mind was still catching up. His asshole clenched, then loosened, a reflexive invitation that made him burn with shame.

Seconds passed. The cock didn't move.

Jay waited, his heart hammering against his ribs, sweat pooling at the small of his back. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the office and his own ragged breathing. Mick's hand settled on his hip—not guiding, not pushing. Just there. Holding him in place.

Still the cock didn't enter.

The waiting became unbearable. Jay's body screamed for it—for the fullness, the stretch, the brutal claiming that would complete the circuit. His own cock, still trapped in the ring, ached with a desperate, useless need. He shifted his weight, trying to press back, to take that cock inside him, to end the torment.

Mick matched the movement perfectly, shifting with him so the head stayed exactly where it was—resting, teasing, refusing to breach.

"Please, sir." The words escaped before Jay could stop them, a thin, desperate whisper that seemed to belong to someone else. Someone weaker. Someone who knew exactly what he needed and wasn't ashamed to ask for it.

"Please what, slut?" Mick's voice was gruff, patient, the voice of a man who had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

Jay's mouth opened. Closed. His throat worked, trying to form words that his pride was strangling before they could reach the air. Please fuck me. Please put your cock in me. Please use my hole like the whore I am.

The words were there. They were true. And every instinct he'd spent fifty years building fought to keep them buried.

"Please f…fuck me, sir." His voice cracked on the word fuck, and he felt the shame of it bloom across his face, hot and undeniable. "Please."

Mick's hand tightened on his hip, a fraction of pressure, acknowledgment rather than approval. "Beg like you mean it, slut. Tell me what you want."

The demand hit him like a whip crack. Beg. Really beg. Not the polite, half-hearted version that let him pretend he still had dignity. The real thing—the naked, humiliating, desperate truth of what he needed.

And God help him, he wanted to give it.

"Please fuck me, sir." The words came faster now, tumbling out like water through a broken dam. "Take me. Sodomize me. Please—" His voice broke, reformed, broke again. " Please use my boy-cunt. I need it. I need you inside me."

He heard himself say it— boy-cunt —and the word should have shattered him. Instead it unlocked something deeper, something that had been clawing at the inside of his ribs for weeks, months, maybe his whole life.

"I'm your fuck meat, sir. Your cock socket. Please—" His voice rose, thick with tears he couldn't hold back, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the polished wood of the desk. "Please make me your bitch. Your whore. Your—"

A sob caught in his throat. He pushed through it.

"Breed me. I want to be a receptacle for your sperm. Your—your cum-bucket. Please, sir, please —"

The word please became a litany, a prayer, a confession. He was begging now, truly begging, the words pouring out of him in a flood that he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. And he didn't want to. For the first time in his life, he didn't want to.

Mick's smile was audible in his voice. "What a slut."

And then he plunged.

The invasion was absolute—one brutal, seamless thrust that drove Mick's cock balls-deep into Jay's bowels. Jay's body arched, his mouth falling open in a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, his fingers scrabbling at the desktop for purchase that wasn't there. The stretch was immense, overwhelming, the sensation of being filled beyond capacity, beyond reason, beyond anything he'd ever known. Yes the dildo was bigger in both length and girth… but it was also less real.

Yes. Yes. This is what I needed. This is what I—

" Yes, sir, yes, fuck me, sir! " The words tore out of him, raw and desperate, his hips already pushing back, driving that cock deeper still. impaling himself on his Masters penis. "Harder! Fucking give it to me! "

Mick's hands found his hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and began to move. The rhythm was brutal, punishing—a piston-driven hammering that drove the air from Jay's lungs with every thrust. There was no gentleness here, no pretense of mutual pleasure. This was using. Pure, simple, honest using.

Jay's mind went blank. There was only the feeling of Mick's cock ploughing into him, the sound of flesh striking flesh, the wet, obscene noise of his own body being claimed. His own cock bounced uselessly beneath him slapping against the desk, trapped in the ring, a forgotten appendage that existed only to remind him of what he couldn't have.

"That's it." Mick's voice was strained, his breathing ragged, the first sign of effort Jay had heard from him all day. "That's my little cum-bucket. Taking it. Taking all of it."

Jay moaned, a long, shuddering sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside his body. He was impaled. He was being used. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Whose slut are you?"

"Yours, sir!" The answer came without thought, a reflex honed over weeks of training. "I'm your slut, your whore, your—" A particularly hard thrust drove the rest of the sentence into a gasp.

"Whose boy-cunt is this?" Mick's hand slapped down on Jay's ass, hard enough to sting, to leave a mark. "Whose hole am I fucking?"

"Yours, sir! It's yours! All of me is yours! my body belongs to you. use me for your pleasure Master"

Mick's rhythm faltered, just slightly, and Jay felt a surge of desperate hope— he's close, he's going to come, he's going to fill me —and he pushed back harder, meeting every thrust, driving that cock deeper into himself, wanting it, needing it, craving it.

"Please, sir. Please come in me. Fill me up. Mark me as yours. Let me feel your cum inside me for the rest of the day, for the rest of my—"

Mick's hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off the words. The thrusts sped up, became erratic, and then—

A guttural groan, low and animal, torn from somewhere deep in Mick's chest. His hips slammed forward one last time, grinding against Jay's ass, and Jay felt it—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into him, filling him, painting his insides with claim and ownership and filthy, beautiful surrender.

Jay's eyes rolled back. His body went rigid. And then the orgasm hit him—not from his cock, which was still trapped and useless, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside his chest or his spine or his soul. A dry, wrenching climax that tore through him without a single drop of semen, leaving him shaking and sobbing and utterly, completely spent.

Mick stayed inside him for a long moment, breathing hard, his weight pressing Jay into the desk. When he finally pulled out, the sound was obscene—a wet, sucking release that left Jay feeling hollowed out, empty, raw.

He felt the cum leaking from him immediately, a warm trickle sliding down over his balls, marking him. Evidence. Proof of what he was.

Mick stepped back. Jay felt the dildo being jammed back into his hole and buried deep inside his rectum, pluging him completely. Sealing Mick’s seed deep inside his guts. “on your knees bitch” Mick commands and Jay instantly drops to his knees.

Without a word, without warning, Mick's cock was there—pressing against Jay's lips, still slick with his own cum and the filth of Jay's body. The smell hit him first: the sharp, musky odor of sex, of his own asshole clinging to Mick's skin, mixed with the salty tang of fresh semen. Jay's eyes went wide, his mind screaming protest even as his lips parted automatically, obediently, trained to receive.

The taste was apocalyptic.

His own filth—the warm, earthy residue of his bowels where Mick had plunged into him—coated his tongue first, a flavor so intimate and wrong that Jay's stomach lurched. Then the cum hit, thick and bitter, Mick's seed mixing with the taste of Jay's own body in a cocktail of degradation that made his eyes water. He should gag. He should pull away. He should—

His mouth closed around the head. His tongue moved, lapping at the shaft, cleaning it, worshiping it.

What am I doing? What am I—

But his body knew. His body had learned. His lips sealed around Mick's cock and he sucked, hard, drawing the taste deeper, swallowing the mixture of his own shame and his master's pleasure. The salt hit the back of his throat, and he felt tears streaming down his cheeks as he licked and sucked, cleaning every inch of that filthy shaft, tasting himself in ways he'd never imagined.

"That's it." Mick's voice was thick, satisfied. "Clean me up, boy. Lick every drop of your own stink off my cock."

Jay moaned around the shaft, a sound of pure misery, but his tongue kept working. He traced the veins, lapped at the head, dipped into the slit to collect the last traces of cum. The taste was everywhere now—in his mouth, on his lips, coating his tongue in a film of ownership that he knew would linger for hours.

Then Mick's hand grabbed his head.

The grip was immediate, painful, fingers twisted into his thinning hair, yanking his face forward. Jay's nose pressed against Mick's belly, the full length of the cock sliding down his throat in one brutal thrust. He choked, gagged, his throat convulsing around the invasion, but Mick held him there, held him impaled on that cock, letting him struggle.

Can't breathe—can't—

His eyes bulged. His hands came up, instinctively, to push against Mick's thighs, but he stopped them before they made contact. No. This is what I am. This is what I chose. His hands dropped. His throat relaxed. He took it.

Mick pulled back, gave him a half-second of air, then drove forward again. The rhythm was merciless—piston-driven, brutal, each thrust burying that cock deeper into Jay's throat, past the point where his body wanted to reject it, past the point where he could pretend he wasn't being used.

Jay gagged. Choked. Spit ran down his chin, mixed with tears, mixed with the taste of his own filth and Mick's cum. He could hear himself making sounds—wet, desperate, helpless—and the shame of it burned hotter than any blow.

But he didn't stop sucking.

Even as Mick fucked his face, even as his throat convulsed around the shaft, even as his lungs screamed for air—he sucked. He hollowed his cheeks. He let his tongue work, let it trace and lap and worship the cock that was destroying him.

This is what I am now. This is what I—

His hand moved without conscious thought. Reaching up, between Mick's legs, his fingers finding the soft, hairy flesh of Mick's perineum, then sliding higher. The tip of his finger found Mick's anus—tight, wrinkled, hidden in the coarse hair—and pressed gently.

Mick's rhythm faltered.

Jay felt the cock in his mouth twitch, pulse, harden further. Encouraged, he pressed harder, his finger sliding into the tight heat of Mick's body, just the tip, just enough to feel the muscles clench around him. He heard Mick groan—a low, surprised sound—and felt the shaft in his throat begin to pulsate, the telltale throb of imminent release.

Mick's hand tightened in his hair. Yanked. Forced Jay's face forward until his nose was crushed against Mick's belly, the entire cock buried in his throat, cutting off his air completely.

The orgasm hit Mick like a punch. Jay felt it—the first hot surge of cum flooding directly into his throat, no chance to breathe, no chance to do anything but swallow. Thick and bitter and endless, pulse after pulse, filling him, marking him from the inside out.

Swallow. Swallow. Don't waste a drop. Let him use your throat like the whore you—

His throat worked automatically, swallowing, swallowing, the cum sliding down into his stomach, and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't think and all he could do was take it, take all of it, let his master empty himself down his throat like he was nothing more than a receptacle, a warm hole, a—

Mick pulled out.

Jay collapsed forward, his hands catching him on the carpet, coughing, gasping, his throat raw and burning. A strand of saliva and cum stretched from his lips to the carpet, snapping as he heaved for air. The taste was everywhere—on his tongue, on his teeth, coating the back of his throat in a film he could still feel.

"Lick it up."

The words didn't register at first. Jay was still choking, still trying to draw air into his abused lungs, his vision swimming with tears.

"I said lick it up, slut." Mick's foot nudged his shoulder. "Every drop you spilled on my carpet. Get it. With your tongue."

Jay looked down. A small puddle of cum and saliva glistened on the gray office carpet, the evidence of his own use staining the fibers. Mick's cum. Jay's spit. Mixed together on the floor like the proof of what he was.

He bent his head. His tongue touched the carpet, rough and abrasive against the sensitive flesh, and he began to lap. The taste of wool and dust mixed with the taste of his master's seed, and he licked and licked, cleaning the stain, removing the evidence, his tears dripping onto the same spot.

This is what I am. This is what I am. This is what I—

"Good boy." Mick's voice was almost gentle. "Now get dressed. Get back to work."

Jay straightened slowly, his knees aching, his throat raw, his ass full of the dildo and Mick's seed. He reached for his trousers, pulled them up, zipped them. His fingers found the button of his shirt, did it up. The cum in his ass shifted as he moved, a warm, wet pressure that made him feel constantly, achingly full.

Mick was already at his desk, seated, reviewing papers as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just spent the last half hour using Jay's throat like a flesh-light, as if Jay's tongue hadn't been cleaning his own shame off the carpet.

Jay walked to the door. His legs were shaky, his balance wrong, the dildo pressing against his prostate with every step. He could feel the cum trickling around the base of the silicone, could feel the wetness spreading against his underwear, and he knew—knew —that it would stain, that he would smell of it all day, that everyone who walked past him would know what he was.

He opened the door. Stepped into the corridor. Closed it behind him.

The open-plan office stretched before him, rows of cubicles, the hum of fluorescent lights, the click of keyboards. Normal. Professional. A world where people did spreadsheets and took phone calls and went home to their wives at five o'clock.

Jay walked to his desk. Every step pushed the dildo deeper, reminded him of what was inside him. He sat down carefully, feeling the silicone shift, and opened his computer.

The spreadsheet was still there. The Devlin file. Emails. Deadlines. The ordinary machinery of a life he no longer recognized.

A giggle from somewhere to his left. He didn't look up. Another giggle, followed by a whispered comment he couldn't quite hear. Then a snigger—low, mean, unmistakable.

They know. They have to know. The way I walk, the way I—

His face burned. He stared at the spreadsheet, numbers blurring, and felt the cum leaking inside him, felt the taste of Mick's seed still coating his tongue, felt the dildo pressing against his prostate with every small movement.

Someone coughed. Another snigger. A phone rang.

Jay watched the clock. 2:47 PM. Two hours and thirteen minutes until he could go home.

Two hours and thirteen minutes of sitting here, a dildo holding his master's seed inside him, the taste of Mick on his lips, the sound of his coworkers' laughter echoing in his ears.

He touched his collar, hidden beneath his shirt. His finger traced the embossed letters—SLUT—and he felt a strange, aching comfort.

This was what he was now. This was what he had chosen. This was what he had begged for, on his knees, with tears streaming down his face.

The clock ticked. The sniggers continued. Jay's throat burned with the memory of Mick's cock.

And somewhere deep inside him, buried beneath the shame and the disgust and the horror, something small and dark and twisted was still singing.

The email chimed. A new message from Devlin, forwarded by Mick. Subject line: Confirmation for Monthly Session.

Jay opened it. His hands were steady. The words blurred on the screen.

Looking forward to our arrangement. The board member is confirmed. I’ll have the room prepared. Remember—no underwear but wear stockings. The collar stays visible.

He closed the email. The words didn’t go away. They sat in his brain, a fact now, a date on a calendar. A monthly appointment to be used.

Across the aisle, Sarah from Marketing leaned over the cubicle divider. “Hey, Jay. You okay? You look a little… flushed.”

Her eyes were bright with fake concern. He could see the curiosity in them, the hunger for gossip. She’d heard something. They all had.

“Fine,” he said. His voice came out rough, sandpaper on his abused throat. “Just a cold.”

“Sounds rough.” She didn’t move. Her gaze dropped to his neck, to the collar hidden beneath his shirt. He could feel it there, a strip of leather against his skin, the letters pressing into his flesh. Did it show? Could she see the outline?

“Yeah.” He turned back to his screen. A spreadsheet. Rows and columns. He tried to focus on a number, any number. The dildo shifted inside him as he leaned forward, a blunt reminder. He bit his lip.

Sarah lingered for another second, then retreated. He heard her chair squeak, heard the whisper start up again. He didn’t need to hear the words. He knew.

Three-thirty.

The afternoon dragged, each minute a separate agony. Every time he shifted in his chair, the silicone pressed against his prostate, a low, constant buzz of humiliation. The cum had leaked past the dildo’s base, a warm, wet patch soaking into his boxers. He could smell it. A musky, intimate scent that he was sure was spreading. He kept his thighs pressed together, trying to contain it, knowing it was useless.

At four o’clock, Mick’s door opened.

Jay didn’t look up. He felt Mick’s presence like a change in barometric pressure, a heavy, silent weight moving through the office. Footsteps approached his cubicle. Stopped.

“Morrison.”

Jay stood. Too fast. The movement jostled the dildo, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from making a sound. “Yes, sir?”

Mick held out a manila folder. “The Devlin amendments. Needs filing. Now.”

He took the folder. Their fingers didn’t touch. Mick’s eyes held his for a beat too long—a silent reminder, a claim—then he turned and walked back to his office without another word.

The folder was warm from Mick’s hand. Jay stood there, holding it, feeling the eyes of the office on him. The sniggers had stopped. Now it was just silence, a watching silence.

He walked to the filing room. Each step was careful, measured, an attempt to move without the sway his body wanted. The dildo moved with him, a foreign presence he couldn’t ignore. He passed Karen from Accounts. She glanced at him, then quickly away, a faint blush on her cheeks.

She knows. They all know.

The filing room was a narrow, windowless space at the end of the corridor. Shelves of binders, the hum of a server rack in the corner. He closed the door behind him. The silence was a relief, thick and total.

He leaned against the door, let his head rest against the cool wood. His breath came out in a shudder. For a moment, just a moment, he was alone. No eyes. No laughter. Just him and the thing inside him and the taste still on his tongue.

He opened the folder. The Devlin contract. His own name, listed under “Points of Contact.” A clause, highlighted in yellow: Monthly review sessions to be conducted with the designated liaison (J. Morrison).

He filed it under D. His hand shook. The paper felt heavy, final.

Back in the open office, the clock read 4:28.

Thirty-two minutes. He could make it. He could sit here, pretend to work, pretend he wasn’t full of his boss’s cum, pretend his throat wasn’t raw from being fucked, pretend the collar around his neck didn’t say SLUT in embossed letters.

He sat. The chair creaked. The dildo pressed. He opened an old email, stared at it without seeing.

At 4:55, his phone buzzed. A text from Elisa.

Dinner at 6. Don’t be late.

Normal. Domestic. The words of a wife expecting her husband home. He typed back, Okay. His thumb hovered over the screen. He added, Love you. Sent it.

The reply came instantly. You too.

He put the phone face down on the desk. The lie of it burned in his gut, hotter than the shame. He loved her. He did. And he was going to go home to her, kiss her hello, sit across from her at the table, and talk about his day. He would not mention the dildo. He would not mention the taste in his mouth. He would not mention the contract, or the Friday nights, or the way Mick’s hand had felt in his hair.

Five o’clock.

The office began to empty. Chairs pushed back, bags zipped, goodbyes called across cubicles. Jay waited, pretending to finish something, until most of them were gone. He couldn’t face the walk to the elevator with a crowd.

When the coast was clear, he stood. The wet spot on his boxers had cooled, a damp, sticky patch against his skin. He could feel the dildo, a constant, humiliating presence. He gathered his things, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked toward the exit.

He passed Mick’s office. The door was ajar. Inside, Mick was on the phone, his back to the glass. He didn’t look up.

Jay kept walking.

The elevator ride down was empty. He watched the numbers descend. His reflection in the metal doors was ghostly, blurred. A fifty-year-old man in a cheap suit. Thinning hair. Wire-rimmed glasses. Nothing to see.

The doors opened to the lobby. He walked through, head down, toward the revolving doors. The evening air hit him, cool and clean, and for a second he thought he might be sick.

He made it to the bus stop before his knees gave out. He sat on the bench, his bag between his feet, and let the shaking take him. It started in his hands, a fine tremor, then moved up his arms, into his chest. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. He put his head in his hands.

Get it together. You chose this. You begged for it.

But the thought didn’t help. The shaking got worse. He was crying, he realized. Silently, shoulders hunched, tears dripping between his fingers onto the pavement. The bus arrived. He didn’t look up. It left without him.

He sat there until the shaking subsided. Until he was just a man on a bench again, waiting for the next bus. He wiped his face with his sleeve. His throat ached. His ass ached. His soul ached.

And beneath it all, beneath the wreckage, the song was still there. A dark, humming thread of satisfaction. He had been used. Thoroughly. Completely. He had been fought over. He was wanted.

The next bus arrived. He got on. Found a seat in the back. Stared out the window as the city passed, a blur of lights and strangers.

He would go home. He would kiss his wife. He would eat dinner. He would lie in bed beside her, the dildo still inside him, and he would stare at the ceiling and wonder what he had become.

And on Friday, at six p.m., he would go back. Present himself in Mick’s office. And beg his master to use him again.

The bus stopped a block from his house. He walked the rest of the way, each step a reminder. His key in the lock sounded too loud. The door swung open.

Elisa was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She turned, smiled. “Hey. You’re late.”

“Traffic,” he said. His voice was normal. He was amazed he could make it sound normal.

She came over, kissed his cheek. She smelled of rosemary and garlic. “How was your day?”

He looked at her. Her blue eyes, her blond hair tied back, the yoga pants she’d changed into after work. His wife. The woman who had collared him, who had kicked him in the balls, who had negotiated the use of his body with his boss.