Tuesday morning came like a hangover he couldn't shake.

Jay sat at his desk, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the familiar hum of the office around him. His coworkers moved through their routines—coffee, photocopier, the shuffle of papers—but everything felt different now. He could feel their eyes on him, the way conversations dropped when he walked past, the too-bright smiles that didn't reach anyone's gaze.

The dog dildo was gone, finally. Elisa had removed it when they had got home with a tenderness that surprised him, her fingers gentle as she pulled the silicone knot free. But the chastity cage remained, cold and unyielding against his groin, the remote vibrator a constant reminder of who controlled his pleasure now. The plug was back in, smaller than the dog but ever-present, a familiar weight that kept him grounded in his new reality.

Mick wasn't in the office. Sarah from HR had mentioned he was working from the regional office this week, something about a training seminar. A reprieve. A slow death of a different kind.

"Morning, Morrison." Peter from accounting walked past his cubicle, a coffee in his hand, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Quiet evening was it?"

Jay's throat tightened. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Peter's eyes held his for a moment too long, then he laughed and continued walking, the sound following him down the corridor.

He knows. He was there. He saw.

Jay's hands trembled as he pulled a file from his drawer, anything to look busy. The plastic was cool against his fingers, but all he could feel was the ghost of Peter's cock inside him, the wet sound of the gloryhole partition, Elisa's voice telling him to be a good slut for the nice man.

He closed his eyes. Breathed. The plug shifted inside him, a reminder of where he was, what he'd become.

"Jay? You okay?"

His head snapped up. Andrea from marketing stood at the edge of his cubicle, a sheaf of papers in her hands. Her expression was concerned, genuine. She didn't know. She was one of the few who probably didn't.

"Fine," he managed, his voice a croak. "Just—tired. Bad nights sleep."

She nodded, not quite convinced, and handed him the papers. "Mick's notes from the Devlin file. He asked me to drop them off as he is working out of the office for a few days. Said you'd know what to do."

Jay took the papers, his fingers brushing hers. He pulled his hand back like he'd been burned. "Thanks."

She lingered for a moment, then shrugged and walked away. Jay watched her go, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. She doesn't know. Not yet. But Peter knows. How many others? How many saw the video?

The day stretched on, each hour an eternity. He made calls, sent emails, filed reports. The motions of his job came automatically, muscle memory from a decade of the same routine. But every time he stood up, every time he walked to the printer or the break room, he felt eyes on him. Whispers that died when he approached. Laughter that felt pointed.

At lunch, he sat in the break room alone, a sandwich untouched in front of him. The television murmured in the corner, a daytime talk show he couldn't focus on. He stared at the plastic wrap of the sandwich, the way the light caught the condensation, and thought about Mick's hands on him, Mick's voice in his ear, Mick's cock in his mouth.

I am his. And Elisa's. And Devlin's. And anyone they share me with.

He pressed his palms against the table, the cool surface grounding him. The cage pressed against his boxers, a constant reminder of his captivity. Elisa has the key. She controls when I come. If I come.

His phone buzzed. A text from Elisa: How's my slut today?

He typed back, his fingers clumsy: Mick is out of the office. Coworkers are talking.

Her response came fast: Good. Let them talk. You're mine to show off now.

A flush spread across his cheeks, a mixture of shame and something darker. He pocketed the phone and stared at his sandwich, his appetite gone.

The afternoon was a slow bleed, every glance from a coworker a tiny cut. At three o'clock, he walked to the restroom, the click of his shoes on the linoleum echoing in the silent hall. He locked himself in a stall, leaned his forehead against the cool metal partition, and just breathed. The plug was a dull, constant pressure. The cage was a heaviness he couldn't ignore. He unzipped his trousers, just to look. The smooth metal of the Sphynx device gleamed under the harsh light, a cruel, perfect lock. He touched it, a quick, shameful brush of his fingers. It was cold. He was hard inside it, a trapped, useless ache. He zipped up quickly, his face burning. When he emerged, Peter was washing his hands at the sink, watching him in the mirror.

"Everything come out alright?" Peter asked, his voice casual. He dried his hands slowly, deliberately.

Jay couldn't speak. He just stared at the water swirling down the drain.

"See you around, sweetheart," Peter said, and tossed the paper towel into the bin. It landed with a soft, final sound.

The week stretched, a flatline of dread. Wednesday was worse. By Thursday morning, the tension was a live wire under his skin. He arrived early, the office still dark and empty, and sat at his desk watching the door. Mick was due back today. Sarah had said his first meeting was at nine. Jay’s was at nine-fifteen.

At nine-fourteen, his phone buzzed. A single word from Mick: Now.

His legs didn’t want to work. He stood, smoothed his trousers, adjusted his glasses. The walk to Mick’s office was thirty-seven steps. He counted each one.

The door was ajar. He pushed it open.

Mick was behind his desk, the same scarred oak, the same leather chair. He looked bigger somehow, having been away. His bald head gleamed under the overhead light. He didn’t look up from the papers in front of him. "Close it."

Jay closed the door. The latch clicked, loud in the quiet room.

"Sit."

He sat in the visitor’s chair, back straight, hands on his knees. The air smelled of Mick’s cheap cologne and something else, something metallic and cold.

Mick finally looked up. His small gray eyes moved over Jay, taking inventory. "You look like shit."

"Yes, Sir."

"Elisa keeping you busy?"

Jay swallowed. "Yes, Sir."

Mick leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. His button-down shirt strained over his belly. "Tell me."

The story spilled out in a low, halting monotone. The dog dildo. The wig and the skirt. The drive to the bookstore. The gloryhole. The men. Peter from accounting. Elisa recording. Elisa climaxing on his face. The leash. The ride home. The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he said them all, every humiliating detail, just as Mick had trained him to do.

Mick listened, his face impassive. When Jay finished, there was a long silence. Mick picked up a pen, tapped it against the desk blotter. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"She's creative," Mick said finally. "I'll give her that."

Jay said nothing. He watched the pen.

"The cage," Mick said. "My idea. The app. Hers. Who has the key?"

Jay’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. He’d known it was coming. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the cold, small piece of metal. He leaned forward and placed it on the edge of Mick’s desk. It made a tiny, definitive sound against the wood.

"Elisa has the other one," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mick looked at the key. He didn't pick it up. He just stared at it, his expression unreadable. Then he grunted, a short, dismissive sound. He opened the top drawer of his desk, swept the key inside with the back of his hand, and closed the drawer.

"It's unlikely I'll ever need it," Mick said, his tone flat. "If she's doing her job, you won't either."

The casual dismissal was worse than anger. The key, the symbol of his last shred of… what? Dignity? Autonomy? It was gone, tossed into a drawer full of paperclips and dead batteries. He was truly locked now. Owned.

"Stand up," Mick said.

Jay stood. His knees felt weak.

"Trousers and boxers. Down. Ankles."

The command was so familiar, so brutal in its simplicity. Jay’s fingers fumbled with his belt, his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet office. He pushed his trousers and boxers down to his ankles, the air cool on his exposed skin. The chastity cage hung between his legs, a lewd, gleaming weight.

"Turn around. Face the window."

He turned. The window looked out over the city, a grid of gray buildings under a flat, white sky. His reflection was a pale ghost in the glass—a middle-aged man in a shirt and tie, his lower half naked, a metal cage dangling from his groin.

He heard Mick stand. Heard the chair roll back. Heard the clink of a belt buckle.

"Keep looking out the window," Mick said, his voice closer now. "Tell me again. The gloryhole. The last man. What did he say to you?"

Jay’s throat closed. He stared at his own ghostly reflection. "He said… he said, 'Open wide, slut.'"

He felt Mick behind him, the heat of his body, the smell of him. A hand, rough and heavy, landed on his hip.

"And did you?" Mick asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you like it?"

Jay squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes, Sir."

Mick spat into his palm. Jay heard the wet sound. Then he felt the blunt, insistent pressure against his hole. The plug was still in. Mick’s fingers found it, gripped it, pulled it slowly free. The slick pop of its release made Jay gasp. Mick dropped it on the desk with a soft thud.

Then he was pushing inside. No lube but spit. A brutal, stretching burn. Jay’s hands flew to the window ledge, his fingers splaying against the cool glass.

"Look at yourself," Mick grunted, his thrusts deep and punishing. "Look at what you are."

Jay opened his eyes. His reflection stared back, his face contorted, his mouth open in a silent cry. Behind him, Mick’s bulk moved, a shadow dominating him. The cage swung with each thrust, a mocking, metallic pendulum.

"How many?" Mick demanded, his breath hot against Jay’s ear.

"S-six, Sir. Six men fucked me, six more used my mouth."

"Names."

Jay’s mind blanked. "I… I don't know all their names."

Mick’s hand came down hard on his ass, a sharp crack that echoed. "Try."

"Peter," Jay gasped, the name ripped from him. "Peter from accounting. The others… strangers."

"What did Peter do?"

Mick’s pace increased, each thrust driving Jay against the window ledge. The glass shuddered.

"He fucked me," Jay choked out. "He used the gloryhole. He said… he said he always knew I was a faggot."

"And are you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Say it."

"I'm a faggot, Sir." The words were acid in his mouth, and yet his cock strained uselessly against its cage.

Mick’s hand tightened on his hip, fingers digging in. "And your wife? What did she do?"

"She watched. She recorded it. She… she came. On my face."

Mick laughed, a low, dark sound. "She's a natural. I thought she might have it in her." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "You belong to her. And you belong to me. And you belong to any man we give you to. You understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're a whore."

"Yes, Sir."

"A cocksucking, cum-drinking whore."

Tears blurred his reflection. "Yes, Sir."

Mick’s thrusts became erratic, harder, faster. Jay braced himself against the glass, his forehead now pressed to the cool surface. He could feel Mick swelling inside him, feel the familiar, terrifying build of pressure.

"Take it," Mick snarled, his body going rigid. "Take your Master's load, you filthy slut."

Jay clenched around him, a helpless, automatic response. He felt the hot pulse deep inside, filling him. Mick held himself there, buried to the hilt, for a long moment, his weight pressing Jay into the window. Then he pulled out, leaving Jay empty, dripping.

For a second, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then Mick’s hand wrapped around the base of the cage and gave it a sharp, painful tug. "Clean yourself up. Get dressed."

Jay remained bent over, trembling, his trousers around his ankles, Mick’s seed already starting to leak down his thigh. He heard Mick zip up, heard the chair creak as he sat back down.

"The Devlin meeting is next Wednesday," Mick said, his voice back to business. "Four PM. Conference room B. You'll wear the collar. Nothing else under your suit. The plug will be bigger. He’s bringing a board member to watch, maybe join in."

Jay didn't move. He couldn't.

"You have a problem with that?" Mick asked.

"No, Sir."

"Good. Now get the fuck out of my office. I have work to do."

Jay straightened slowly, his body protesting. He pulled up his boxers and trousers, the fabric sticking to his wet skin. He didn't look at Mick. He couldn't. He fumbled with his belt, his fingers numb.

As he reached for the door handle, Mick spoke again, his tone casual, almost bored. "Oh, and Jay?"

Jay froze, his hand on the cool metal.

"Leave the plug. On the desk."

He turned. Mick was watching him, a faint, cruel smile on his face. The plug lay where he'd dropped it, glistening on the scarred oak. Jay walked back, his steps unsteady. He picked it up. It was still warm, slick with spit and his own body. He placed it carefully in front of Mick.

Mick picked it up, examined it, then dropped it into the same drawer where he'd tossed the key. The drawer closed with a solid, final thunk.

"See you Friday," Mick said, and picked up his pen.

Jay left. The hallway outside was bright, sterile, empty. He walked back to his cubicle, the wetness in his boxers a cold, shameful secret. He sat down, his body sore, his mind blank. On his computer screen, his email inbox glowed, full of unread messages. Normal things. Work things.

He put his head in his hands. The cage pressed into his flesh, a permanent, unyielding reminder. He had no key. He had no say. He was just a thing to be used. And in six days, in Conference Room B, two more men would be watching and fucking him.

The image was frozen on Peter's phone screen, held up like a trophy as he walked past Jay's cubicle. Jay's own face stared back at him—mouth stretched around a stranger's cock, eyes glassy, the blonde wig askew. The gloryhole partition was just visible at the edge of the frame, the cheap wood paneling of the bookstore booth unmistakable.

Jay's blood turned to ice. His hands dropped from his face, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk so hard the plastic trim creaked.

Peter didn't stop. Didn't slow. He just kept walking, the phone still raised, the image still burning into Jay's retina. He turned the corner toward the break room, and the screen vanished, but the ghost of it remained, seared into Jay's vision like afterimage.

He has a picture. He has proof. He can show anyone.

Jay's stomach lurched. He pressed a hand to his mouth, bile rising hot in his throat. The cage was a cold weight between his legs, the wetness in his boxers suddenly freezing against his skin. Mick's cum was still inside him, leaking slowly into his underwear, and Peter had seen him— that him—on a screen small enough to fit in a pocket.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Nice pic. Want coffee?

Jay stared at the words. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, trembling. He typed Who is this? and deleted it. Typed Please don't show anyone and deleted that too. Finally, he just wrote: Who?

The response came instantly. You know who. Break room. Five minutes.

Jay set the phone down. His hands were shaking. He looked around the office—the hum of computers, the murmur of voices, the fluorescent light bleaching everything flat. Andrea was on the phone at her desk, her back to him. Sarah from HR was walking toward the printer, a stack of papers in her arms. Normal. Everything was normal. No one knew what Peter had on his phone. Not yet.

He stood. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The walk to the break room was twenty-three steps. He counted because counting was the only thing keeping him from running.

The door was propped open. Peter was sitting at the small table, two cups of coffee steaming in front of him. He looked up when Jay entered, that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Close the door."

Jay closed it. The latch clicked. The break room was small—a counter with a microwave, a fridge, a bulletin board covered in memos about fire safety and the company picnic. The coffee machine gurgled in the corner.

"Sit."

Jay sat across from him. The chair was plastic, hard, unforgiving. He could feel the wetness in his boxers, the slow leak of Mick's seed soaking into the fabric. He pressed his thighs together, a useless attempt to contain it.

Peter pushed one of the cups toward him. "Drink. You look like you need it."

Jay didn't touch it. "What do you want?"

Peter leaned back, his chair creaking. He was maybe forty, lean, with a runner's build and thin brown hair combed over a receding hairline. His eyes were small and sharp, the kind that missed nothing. "Straight to the point. I like that." He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and set it on the table between them. The image was still on the screen. Jay couldn't look away from it—the way his own eyes were half-closed, the way his throat bulged around the cock in his mouth. "Nice quality, right? Good lighting. Your wife has an eye for composition."

Jay's heart stopped. "Elisa gave you that?"

Peter laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Fuck no. I took it. While you were busy with the guy in booth two. You were so focused I could have walked right in and joined."

The world tilted. Jay gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "You were watching?"

"Had to wait my turn, didn't I? Figured I'd document the occasion." Peter picked up his coffee, took a long, deliberate sip. "It's a good shot. Really captures the moment. The joy of service, you know?"

Jay's mouth opened, but no words came. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest, crushing his lungs. He could feel his face burning, his ears red, his throat tight.

"Relax," Peter said, setting the cup down. "I'm not gonna post it on the company Slack. Not unless you give me a reason to."

"What do you want?" Jay repeated, his voice a rasp.

Peter's smile widened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Small, silver, glinting under the fluorescent light. He slid it across the table. It came to rest next to Jay's untouched coffee.

"You know what this is?"

Jay stared at it. His mind was blank, a white static roar. "No."

"It's to the supply closet on the third floor. The one by the fire exit. No windows, no cameras." Peter's voice was casual, conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "I'm working late tonight. Everyone else clears out by five thirty. You're going to come find me there. And you're going to finish what you started at the gloryhole."

The blood drained from Jay's face. "Peter, I—"

"I'm not asking, Morrison." Peter's eyes hardened, the smirk gone. "I have a photo of you deep-throating a stranger in a gloryhole while your wife watched and recorded. I have a dozen more on my phone from that night. I could send them to HR, to everyone in this building, in about thirty seconds. You wanna test me?"

Jay shook his head, a tiny, helpless motion.

"Good. Then we understand each other." Peter stood, picking up his phone and pocketing the key. He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the bin. "Six o'clock. Don't be late. And Morrison?" He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "Wear something easy to take off."

The door opened. Peter stepped out. The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving Jay alone in the small, humming room.

He sat there for a long time. The coffee grew cold in front of him. The fluorescent light buzzed. He could hear the faint murmur of the office outside, the normal sounds of a normal day, and he was sitting in a break room with Mick's cum drying on his thighs and a blackmail threat hanging over his head like a guillotine blade.

His phone buzzed again. Another text from Elisa: How's my slut? Mick treating you right?

He stared at the screen. He should tell her. He should tell her about Peter, about the photo, about the supply closet at six o'clock. She would know what to do. She would handle it. She was in control now, wasn't she? She was the one who had taken him to the bookstore, who had made him a whore for strangers. She had made him this.

But what would she do? She might be proud. She might be angry. She might tell him to do it, to let Peter use him, to add another name to the list of men who had fucked her husband. She might record it. She might bring Mick.

He typed back: Fine. He's back. It went okay.

The lie tasted like ash. He pocketed the phone and stood, his legs unsteady. He dumped the cold coffee in the sink, rinsed the cup, left it in the drying rack. The motions were automatic, muscle memory from a thousand coffee runs in a thousand break rooms.

He walked back to his cubicle. The office looked the same. The same faces, the same sounds, the same gray carpet under the same fluorescent lights. But everything had shifted. The ground under his feet was unstable, a thin crust over something dark and bottomless.

At his desk, he sat down and stared at his computer screen. The Devlin file was still open, Mick's notes scrawled in the margins. Wednesday. 4 PM. Conference Room B. Board member attending. Wear the collar. Nothing under the suit.

That was six days away. He had six days before two more men used him. And tonight, at six o'clock, he had Peter in a supply closet.

His cock stirred against the cage, a desperate, trapped twitch. The shame was a constant, a low hum under his skin, and underneath it, underneath the terror and the disgust, was something else. Something that made his breath catch and his face burn even hotter.

He was wanted. He was needed. He was a thing to be used, and men wanted to use him.

The thought made him want to vomit. It also made him hard inside his cage.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his keyboard, the keys biting into his skin. The plug was gone, but the memory of it remained, a phantom weight. The cage was a constant presence, a lock that held his pleasure hostage. And somewhere in the building, Peter was walking around with a phone full of pictures of him on his knees, waiting for six o'clock.

His phone buzzed one more time. A text from Mick: Forgot to mention. Devlin called. He wants an appetizer before Wednesday. Friday night. My place. 8 PM. Bring the collar. Don't be late.

Jay read the message three times. Friday night. That was tomorrow. That was Mick's night, the every-other-Friday from the deal with Elisa. But Devlin would be there too. An appetizer, Mick had said. A warm-up for the main event on Wednesday.

He typed back: Yes, Sir.

Then he put the phone face-down on his desk and stared at the wall.

The clock on his computer read 2:47 PM. Three hours and thirteen minutes until six o'clock. Until Peter and the supply closet. Until another man added his name to the list.

He thought about Elisa's face as she watched him through the gloryhole, her phone raised, her lips parted. He thought about Mick's hands on his hips, his voice in his ear, the hot pulse of his seed. He thought about Devlin's window, the city spread out below him, the cold glass against his cheek.

He thought about Peter's key, the one he'd slid across the table like it was nothing. Like Jay was nothing. Like he was a door to be opened, a hole to be used.

And he thought about how, despite everything, despite the shame and the fear and the bone-deep humiliation, he was already counting the minutes.

The afternoon was a slow bleed of minutes, each one a tiny cut. He tried to work. He opened a spreadsheet, stared at the numbers until they blurred into gray lines. He answered an email, his fingers clumsy on the keys, his mind a thousand miles away—or maybe just three floors down, in a supply closet by the fire exit.

At four-thirty, Andrea walked past his cubicle again, a stack of folders in her arms. She paused, her eyes scanning his face. “You sure you’re alright, Jay? You look…” She trailed off, searching for a word that wasn’t ‘haunted’.

“Just a headache,” he said, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in dry clay. “Long week.”

She nodded, unconvinced. “Well, take an aspirin. Don’t want you keeling over before the Devlin thing next week.” She gave him a small, sympathetic smile and walked away.

Before the Devlin thing. As if it were a meeting about quarterly projections, not a gangbang in a conference room.

Five o’clock. The office began its evening exodus—the soft whir of computers powering down, the rustle of coats, the low murmur of goodbyes. Jay stayed at his desk, a statue among the movement. He watched the clock on his screen tick from 5:01 to 5:02. The cage felt heavier with each passing second, a cold, metallic heart beating between his legs.

At five-forty, he stood. His legs were stiff, his back sore from sitting hunched for hours. He walked to the men’s room, his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty hallway. Inside, the fluorescent lights were too bright, bleaching the white tiles into a sterile glare. He locked himself in a stall, leaned his forehead against the door.

You don’t have to go.

But he did. The alternative was the photo, sent to HR, sent to Mick, sent to everyone. Ruin. The end of the tenuous, humiliating life he’d built. The end of Elisa’s proud ownership. The end of being Mick’s thing to be used.

He was more afraid of the end than he was of the supply closet.

He pulled down his trousers and boxers. The cage was there, gleaming under the harsh light. Mick’s seed had dried into a stiff, sticky patch on the fabric of his boxers. He stared at his own reflection in the polished metal of the stall door—a pale, middle-aged man in a cheap shirt and tie, a metal device locked around his soft, useless cock.

He was hard inside the cage. He’d been half-hard since Peter had shown him the picture.

The shame was a hot, sick wave. He closed his eyes, breathed through it. When he opened them again, his hands were steady. He cleaned himself as best he could with damp paper towels, wiping away the dried evidence of Mick’s use. He tucked himself back in, zipped up. His face in the mirror over the sink was a stranger’s—pale, hollow-eyed, resigned.

5:53.

He walked out of the restroom. The third floor was the accounting floor. It was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers packing up. He took the stairs, his footsteps too loud in the concrete well. The air grew cooler as he descended.

The third-floor hallway was dim, the overhead lights already switched off for the night, only the emergency exit signs casting a green glow. The supply closet was by the fire exit, just like Peter said. A plain, unmarked door with a brushed steel handle.

He stood in front of it. His heart was a frantic bird in his chest. He could turn around. He could walk away. He could go home to Elisa and tell her everything and let her decide.

But he already knew what she’d decide. She’d told him. You’re mine to show off now.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and tried the handle. It was unlocked.

The door opened inward to darkness. A sliver of green light from the exit sign fell across a mop bucket, a shelf of cleaning supplies, the faint smell of bleach and dust. He stepped inside, his breath catching.

The door clicked shut behind him, plunging the room into near-total darkness. He could make out shapes—shelves, boxes, a stepladder. The air was still, stale.

“Right on time.”

Peter’s voice came from the corner, low and amused. A lighter flicked, the small flame illuminating his face for a second before he lit a cigarette. The tip glowed orange in the dark. “Close the door all the way. Lock it.”

Jay fumbled behind him, found the lock, turned it. The click was final.

“Come here.”

He took a step forward, then another. His eyes were adjusting. Peter was leaning against a shelf, one ankle crossed over the other, smoking casually as if they were sharing a break. He took a drag, the ember brightening his features. “Take your jacket off.”

Jay shrugged out of his suit jacket, draped it over a box of copy paper. The room was cool, the air conditioning humming through a vent somewhere above.

“Tie. Shirt.”

His fingers were clumsy on the knot of his tie. He pulled it loose, draped it over the jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, his skin prickling in the cool air. When he was done, he let the shirt hang open.

Peter exhaled a stream of smoke. “The rest.”

Jay bent, untied his shoes, stepped out of them. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the small room. He pushed his trousers and boxers down to his ankles, stepped out of them. He stood naked except for his socks and the cage, his clothes in a heap on the concrete floor.

Peter took another drag, his eyes moving over Jay’s body in the dim light. “Turn around.”

Jay turned, facing the shelves. He could feel Peter’s gaze on his back, his ass, the back of his thighs.

“You’re still wet,” Peter said, his voice closer now. “From earlier. With Harlow.”

Jay said nothing. His throat was too tight.

Peter’s hand came down on his ass, not a slap, just a flat, possessive press. His fingers traced the seam of his cheeks, dipped lower. “He fucked you raw, didn’t he? No lube. Just spit.”

“Yes,” Jay whispered.

“Good.” Peter’s hand moved away. Jay heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle. “Bend over. Hands on the shelf.”

Jay leaned forward, his palms flat on a metal shelf. A box of printer paper dug into his ribs. He closed his eyes.

He heard the tear of a foil packet, the soft sound of Peter spitting into his hand. Then the blunt, insistent pressure against his hole. He was still loose from Mick, still tender, and Peter pushed in without ceremony, a slow, relentless invasion.

Jay gasped, his fingers curling against the metal shelf.

“Tight,” Peter grunted, his hands settling on Jay’s hips. “Tighter than I expected after a week of being everyone’s bitch.”

He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper, harder. Each thrust drove Jay forward, the edge of the shelf biting into his stomach. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, of Peter’s ragged breathing, of Jay’s own choked gasps.

“Look at you,” Peter muttered, his voice thick with exertion. “Office slut. Harlow’s little whore. And now mine.”

Jay’s cock strained against the cage, a trapped, throbbing ache. The shame was a fire in his veins, and underneath it, a darker, deeper heat. He was being used. He was being taken. He was a thing, a hole, and Peter was using him because he could, because he wanted to, because Jay had let him.

“You like this, don’t you?” Peter’s thrusts became harder, faster. “You like being the office secret. The little faggot everyone walks past and has no idea.”

“Yes,” Jay choked out.

“Say it.”

“I like it.”

“Louder.”

“I like it!” The words tore from him, raw and true.

Peter laughed, a breathless, ugly sound. “Of course you do. Why else would your wife parade you around like a show pony?” He gripped Jay’s hips tighter, his fingers digging in. “She’s a piece of work, your Elisa. Recording it all. Making you her own little porn star.”

Jay’s mind flashed to Elisa’s face, her eyes dark with arousal as she watched him through the gloryhole partition. Her phone raised. Her lips parted. Be a good slut for the nice man.

Peter’s pace hit a ragged, frantic rhythm. “You’re gonna come for me, Morrison. You’re gonna come in that little cage for me.”

“I can’t,” Jay gasped. “Elisa has the remote. The key—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the key.” Peter’s hand snaked around, gripped the cage, squeezed. The pain was sharp, electric. “You’ll come if I tell you to come. You’ll do anything I tell you to.”

He was pistoning into Jay now, brutal, claiming. Jay’s body was a vessel, a thing being filled, used, owned. The shelf rattled with each thrust. A box of staples fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Come for me, you fucking whore,” Peter snarled, his voice breaking.

And Jay did. It wasn’t an orgasm, not really—it was a seizure, a white-hot convulsion that ripped through him with no release, his trapped cock straining against the unforgiving metal, a silent, agonizing peak that left him shuddering and empty.

Peter groaned, his body locking, his thrusts stuttering to a stop. Jay felt the hot pulse deep inside, another man’s seed joining Mick’s. Peter stayed there, buried, for a long moment, his weight heavy on Jay’s back, his breath hot against Jay’s neck.

Then he pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shock. Jay heard the condom being rolled off, tossed into the dark corner of the room. The zip of Peter’s trousers.

“Get dressed.” Peter’s voice was flat now, the arousal gone. “And for fuck’s sake clean yourself up. You’re a fucking mess.”

Jay pushed himself upright, his legs wobbly. He found his clothes in the dark, pulled them on with shaking hands. His boxers were still damp with Mick’s dried cum, now freshly stained with Peter’s. He didn’t care. He just needed to be covered.

When he was dressed, he turned. Peter was leaning against the door, smoking another cigarette, the lighter flame illuminating his face as he lit it. He looked at Jay, his expression unreadable in the gloom.

“The photo,” Jay said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You’ll delete it?”

Peter took a drag, exhaled slowly. “I’ll think about it.” He pushed off the door, unlocked it. The hallway light spilled in, blinding after the darkness. “See you around, Morrison.”

He stepped out, leaving the door open. Jay stood in the supply closet, the smell of sex and smoke and bleach thick in the air. He could feel Peter’s seed leaking out of him, a warm, shameful trickle down his thigh.

He waited until the sound of Peter’s footsteps faded down the hall. Then he walked out, closing the door softly behind him. The hallway was empty, silent. The green exit sign glowed like a malevolent eye.

He took the stairs back to his floor, each step a fresh humiliation. His body ached. His mind was a blank, white noise. He collected his briefcase from his cubicle, his movements automatic. The office was deserted, the only sound the hum of the vending machine in the break room.

He rode the elevator down to the lobby, his reflection in the polished doors a ghost. The security guard nodded at him as he passed. “Night, Mr. Morrison.”

“Goodnight,” Jay mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

Outside, the evening air was cool against his face. The city lights were coming on, windows glowing in the gray dusk. He walked to the bus stop, his body moving on its own, a machine programmed to get him home.

On the bus, he sat by the window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t look at it. He knew who it was. Elisa. Or Mick. Or maybe Peter, sending him another picture, another demand.

He closed his eyes. The cage was a cold, hard fact between his legs. Peter’s seed was a wetness inside him. In six days, he would be in Conference Room B with Devlin and a board member. Tomorrow night, he would be at Mick’s with god knows who. And somewhere, on a phone he couldn’t control, was a picture of his own face, his mouth full of a stranger’s cock.

The bus lurched to a stop. Jay opened his eyes, stood, and stepped off into the gathering dark.