Mary's hand landed on Joe's hip before he could push forward. Flat palm. Firm. Stopping him an inch from entry.
"Not yet, sweetheart."
Her voice came out soft, almost kind, the way you'd speak to a child who didn't know the rules yet. She didn't look at Joe when she said it. She looked at Greg's reflection in the dark glass, at the way his ass clenched on empty air, at the way his spine arched seeking what wasn't there anymore.
"I need you to tell the camera something first."
Greg's breath came in wet, ragged pulls. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, leaking a clear, thin string that caught the lamplight and stretched until it broke against the rug. The satin of the dress bunched at his hips, pink and slick in patches where his precum had smeared.
"Tell me what happens after Joe fills you." Mary shifted on the couch, recrossing her ankles. The phone in her hand never wavered. "What are you going to be when he's done?"
Joe stayed still behind him. The heat of his cock pressed against Greg's inner thigh, a solid, insistent weight. Greg could feel the pulse in it. Could feel the slick head leaving a wet trail on his skin.
"I'm going to be—" Greg's voice cracked. His throat was raw from moaning. "I'm going to be—"
"The camera's waiting, Greg."
"Your bitch." The words came out strangled. "Joe's bitch."
Mary tilted her head. The phone caught the glint of his tears on his cheeks, the smeared makeup, the lipstick long since kissed off onto Joe's skin. "Say it again. Slower. I want to make sure I got it."
"Your bitch." Greg's hips pushed back without meaning to, empty and desperate. "Joe's bitch. I'm going to be Joe's bitch. I'm going to be your bitch."
"Good girl."
She nodded at Joe.
Joe pushed forward in one solid stroke.
Greg's vision whited at the edges. A sound tore out of him—not a moan, not a gasp, something bigger than both, a screaming thing that started in his chest and came out shaped like "oh god oh god oh god" until the words collapsed into noise. Joe's cock filled him in a single motion, the lube making it slick but not gentle, the stretch lighting up every nerve in his body at once.
Joe didn't wait. He pulled back and drove in again. Harder. His hands locked onto Greg's hips, fingers digging into the dip above the hipbone where the corset ended, and he fucked into Greg with the determination of a wolf about to dump into its bitch.
"There you go," Mary said. Her voice floated somewhere above the sound of skin on skin. "That's what you needed, isn't it?"
Greg couldn't answer. Each thrust shoved a noise out of him—a yell, a moan, something in between. His cock bounced against his belly with every impact, smearing precum across the pink satin in dark, wet streaks. The fabric clung and released, clung and released, the friction against his sensitive head making his thighs shake.
"Look at yourself," Mary said. "Look at the glass."
He did. He couldn't not. The reflection showed him everything: the blonde wig tangled and askew, the collar bright pink against his flushed throat, the dress rucked up around his waist, the black stockings still perfect on his legs, the garters pulling taut every time Joe slammed home. And behind him, Joe—thick jaw set, eyes dark, sweat gleaming on his forehead, fucking into him with a single-minded intensity that felt like being consumed.
"You're moaning louder than I've ever heard you," Mary observed. The camera tracked his face. "Is it good, Greg? Is Joe's cock good?"
"Yes—" The word got fucked out of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"
"Say it. Say 'Joe's cock is good.'"
"Joe's cock is good. Joe's cock is—" Greg's voice pitched higher as Joe found a new angle, something deep that made his vision spark. "—so good, it's so good, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop. Please don't stop. Please—"
Joe growled behind him. A low, guttural sound that Greg felt in his spine. His pace increased, the rhythm turning brutal, each thrust punching the air out of Greg's lungs. The rug burned under Greg's knees. His arms were shaking so hard he could barely hold himself up.
"He's close," Mary said. Not to Greg. To the camera. "I can tell. Can you tell?"
Greg could tell. Joe's breathing had gone ragged, his rhythm faltering at the edges, his grip on Greg's hips tightening to the point of pain. The sound of him—wet and deep and relentless—filled the room like a heartbeat.
"Joe's going to come inside you," Mary said. Her voice had gone soft again, almost dreamy. "He's going to pump you full of his cum. And you're going to feel every drop of it, aren't you, Greg?"
"Yes—"
"Because you're his bitch. You said it yourself. His bitch."
"His bitch. I'm his bitch. I'm—"
Joe tensed. His rhythm broke into something frantic, something desperate, and Greg felt it in the way his cock seemed to swell even thicker inside him, felt it in the way Joe's grunts turned into a continuous, guttural sound—
And then Joe came.
The first rope of cum squirted into Greg's ass, hot and deep, and Greg felt it. Felt it in a way that was physical and undeniable—the wet splash of it against his insides, the way Joe's cock pulsed and jerked, the way Joe kept pumping, kept driving through it, emptying himself in thick, rhythmic surges.
And Greg started to come.
He couldn't hold it back. His cock—still untouched, still bouncing against the ruined satin of his dress—erupted. No warning. No buildup he could control. One second he was full of Joe's cum, the next his own was spurting across the rug in long, helpless ropes, his ass clenching tight around Joe's still-pulsing cock, his whole body seizing with an orgasm so violent he thought he might black out.
He heard himself screaming. Didn't know what words, if any. Just sound, raw and animal, tearing out of his throat while his hips bucked and his cock kept spurting and Joe kept pumping into him from behind.
And then, through the white noise in his ears, he heard Mary's voice.
"Oh." Soft. Surprised. Delighted. "Oh, would you look at that."
The camera was pointed at the rug. At the mess Greg had made. At the wet, glistening evidence of exactly what had just happened.
"You came," Mary said. "Without anyone touching you." She tilted the phone back up to his face, and her smile was the brightest thing in the room. "You came from getting fucked by my husband. From his cock in your ass. From being filled with his cum."
Greg couldn't speak. His arms gave out. He collapsed forward, his face pressing into the rug, his ass still raised in the air, Joe still buried inside him. His body kept trembling, little aftershocks that made his cock twitch and his hole clench.
Joe pulled out slowly. The sensation of it—the drag of his softening cock, the wet slide of cum trickling out behind it—made Greg whimper against the rug.
"I think," Mary said, lowering the phone, "we got exactly what we needed."
She stood. The hem of her dress brushed past Greg's peripheral vision as she walked around him. Her bare feet stopped inches from his face.
"You have no idea how long I've waited to see that."
Greg's breath fogged against the rug fibers. His cock lay soft and slick beneath him, still leaking. The satin dress was a ruin of sweat and cum and lube. His ass felt open, used, dripping.
"Look at you," Mary said. Not cruel now. Something else. Something almost like wonder. "You really are his bitch."