Mary's hand went up.
Joe froze. The lube bottle uncapped in his fist, a bead of clear slick already pooling at the tip, his other hand on Greg's hip through pink satin. He looked at his wife. Her palm was flat, fingers together, the gesture of someone who had all the time in the world.
"Not yet," she said.
Greg was still on his knees. The rug's wool had left red impressions on his shins. His cock throbbed against the dress, a damp spot spreading where he'd been leaking. The collar sat snug at his throat, the leash pooled on the floor beside Mary's bare foot. She hadn't picked it up yet. She was looking down at him, her dark eyes unblinking, and the phone was already in her other hand.
"He hasn't asked properly."
Joe grunted. Not disagreement. Acknowledgment. His thumb pressed into the small of Greg's back through the corset's whalebone, a reminder of how close he was, how ready. Greg could feel the heat of him, the denim of Joe's unzipped jeans brushing his ass through the dress.
"Beg for it," Mary said. Her voice was soft. Almost kind. "Tell Joe exactly what you want him to do to you. Ask nicely. Like a prissy little sissy."
Greg's throat closed. The word was there, somewhere behind his teeth, but his tongue was dry and thick and useless. Please. It was just a word. Five letters. He'd said it a thousand times in his life—please pass the salt, please hold the elevator, please don't leave me, Mary, I didn't mean it—but now it wouldn't come. His cock ached. That was the worst part. He was harder than he'd ever been, the head of his cock pressed against the corset's lower edge, and Mary knew. Of course she knew. She could probably see it straining against the dress.
She lifted the phone. Tapped the screen. The red recording dot appeared.
"Go ahead," she said. "We're waiting."
Greg opened his mouth. A sound came out—something between a gasp and a whimper. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, felt the satin slick under his palms, the garter straps digging in. Joe's thumb was still on his back. Steady. Patient. Like he could stand there all night with his cock out and the lube ready, waiting for Greg to find the words.
"I—" Greg's voice cracked. "Please."
Mary tilted her head. The phone didn't waver. "Please what?"
"Please—" He swallowed. His throat clicked. "Please fuck me."
It came out wrong. Mumbled. The words blurring together into something that sounded like pleasehowfuckme, a single desperate syllable dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. Mary's laughter was immediate and bright, the kind of laugh she'd used at parties when someone told a joke she genuinely found funny. It cut through him like a blade.
"Oh, Greg." She shook her head. The phone stayed level. "You're going to have to do better than that. That was pathetic. I'm giving you a gift. Joe is offering you the gift of fucking you in the ass just like the sissy whore you are. The least you can do is ask him for it nicely." She let the last word hang. Nicely. Like she was correcting a child's table manners.
Joe's hand moved. Not to his cock—to Greg's hip, fingers curling around the bone through satin, a grip that said I'm still here. Greg could feel the calluses even through the fabric. Mechanic's hands. Builder's hands. The same hands that had cupped his cock and squeezed, that had brushed his balls through the dress. Now they were waiting to spread him open.
"Turn around," Mary said. "Face him. If you're going to beg, beg to his face."
Greg's knees scraped the rug as he turned. The movement made the dress ride up, the hem sliding over his stockings, and he felt air on his thighs where the garters ended. Joe was looking down at him. Close-cropped hair. Thick jaw. Hazel eyes that held something Greg couldn't name—not cruelty, not exactly. Interest. Assessment. The way a man might look at a car he was thinking about buying, weighing the engine against the price.
The lube bottle was still uncapped in Joe's left hand. His right hand stayed on Greg's hip.
"Go on," Mary said from behind him. The phone was recording. Greg could feel its lens like a third eye, capturing everything—the honey-blonde wig askew, the lipstick smeared from sucking Joe's cock, the pink satin dress bunched around his thighs, the wet spot where his own arousal had stained the fabric. "Ask him."
Greg looked up at Joe. Joe looked back. There was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—not cruelty. Amusement. The easy confidence of a man who'd never had to beg for anything in his life, who'd never worn a dress or a collar or a leash, who'd never knelt on a rug while his ex-girlfriend filmed him from behind.
"Please," Greg said. The word came out steadier this time. "Joe. Please fuck my ass."
Joe's eyebrow twitched. The grin widened, just a fraction.
"Better," Mary said. "But not good enough. What do you think this is, Greg? A drive-through? You don't just say 'please fuck my ass' and expect him to do it. I want details. How do you want it?"
Greg's face burned. The heat of it was worse than the collar, worse than the dress, worse than the memory of Joe's cock in his mouth. He was kneeling in satin and asking another man to fuck him, and his own cock was so hard it hurt, and Mary wanted details.
"I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I want you to use the lube."
"Obviously." Mary's voice was dry. "Joe's not a monster. What else?"
Joe's thumb traced a small circle on Greg's hip. Encouragement. Or impatience. Greg couldn't tell.
"I want—" Greg's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I want the tip first. Just the tip. Then—"
"Louder," Mary said. "The phone can't hear you."
Greg's eyes squeezed shut. His hands were fists on his thighs. "I want the tip of his cock first. Then the whole thing. I want him to push it all the way in." The words were coming faster now, spilling out like water from a cracked dam. "I want him to thrust. To pump. In my ass."
"In who's ass?"
The question was a scalpel. Greg's eyes opened. Joe was still watching him, still grinning, still waiting. Mary was behind him, phone steady, question hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. In who's ass? She knew. Of course she knew. She just wanted to hear him say it.
Greg took a breath. The corset made it shallow. "In my sissy faggot ass." The words tasted like ash and honey. "That longs for Joe's cock and seed. Balls deep."
Mary laughed again. Not the bright party laugh this time. Something lower. Darker. Satisfied.
"There it is," she said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Greg was shaking. His whole body trembling, the satin rustling with every shudder. Joe's hand squeezed his hip once, then let go. The lube bottle made a wet sound as Joe shifted his grip. Greg watched him pour a line of clear slick onto his fingers. Watched him set the bottle down on the coffee table. Watched him reach for the hem of the dress.
"Wait," Mary said.
Joe's hand stopped an inch from the satin.
"I want him to say it again. Looking at the camera this time."
Greg turned. Mary was still seated on the couch, legs crossed, phone held at chest height. The red dot was still recording. Behind the phone, her dark eyes glittered. She was enjoying this. Every second of it. The breakup had broken something in her, she'd rebuilt herself harder and sharper, and now Greg was kneeling on her living room rug in a pink satin dress with a collar around his throat, and she was making him beg on camera for another man to fuck him.
He looked at the lens. At the red dot. At Mary's eyes above it.
"Please," he said. "Joe. Fuck my sissy faggot ass. I want your cock. I want your seed. Balls deep. Please."
The camera kept recording. Mary's smile widened.
"Good girl," she said.
She nodded at Joe.
Joe's hand found the hem of Greg's dress. Lifted it. The satin slid up over the garters, over the stockings, over the bare skin of Greg's thighs. Cool air hit him, and then Joe's slick fingers were there, pressing against him, and Greg's whole body clenched in anticipation.
"Breathe," Joe said. The word was a low rumble, the first thing he'd said since Mary raised her hand. "This is what you asked for."
Greg breathed. Joe's finger pushed inside.