He wakes because the light is wrong. Not the gray-blue of his own bedroom through cheap blinds, but a hard white stripe across his face, sun through a gap in curtains he doesn't recognize. The smell hits him next—jasmine, coffee, and underneath it the animal musk of what happened on these sheets. His mouth tastes like copper and stale wine.

He rolls onto his back and every muscle files a separate complaint. His thighs burn. His jaw aches like he's been chewing gravel. And his cock—he looks down—is still half-hard, flushed dark at the tip, lying against his hip like something that doesn't belong to him anymore. There's dried come flaking on his stomach. His own. Somebody else's. He doesn't know.

The door opens without a knock.

"Oh good, you're up." Denise stands in the frame with a mug in one hand and her phone in the other, already dressed in a cream linen shirt and loose trousers, hair wet from the shower. She looks like a woman about to run errands. "Bathroom's down the hall on the left. Towels are in the cabinet. You've got twenty minutes before Yuki starts breakfast, and she doesn't like stragglers."

Tim pulls the sheet up over his chest. It's a reflex, and it's stupid, and Denise's mouth curves at the corner when she sees it.

"Twenty minutes," she says again, and leaves the door open behind her.

He gets up. His knees hold, barely. The hallway is bright and quiet, pale wood floors, a framed print of a coastline, a coat rack with four women's jackets on it and one empty hook. The bathroom door is where she said. Inside, the mirror gives him back a stranger: sandy hair plastered flat, a red mark on his throat the size of a thumbprint, another on his shoulder, freckles standing out against skin gone gray with exhaustion.

He turns the shower on hot and steps in before it's warm, and the cold shocks a sound out of him. He stands there with his palms flat on the tile and lets the water find the places that hurt. Soap. Shampoo that smells like Denise. He scrubs his chest, his stomach, the dried mess, and when he gets to his cock he stops.

It's sore. Not just used—sore, tender along the shaft, the head oversensitive to the point that the spray makes him flinch. He touches it anyway, cupping it, lifting it, and the skin is hot and tight. There's a faint bruise at the base. He doesn't remember which of them left it. Probably more than one.

On the shelf by the sink there's a disposable razor, still in its wrapper, and a can of shaving cream. Not his. Nothing in this apartment is his he sits to shave his face anyway, and when he’s done he looks less like a man who’s been dragged through the night. He wraps a towel around his waist and heads back down the hall.

The kitchen is at the end of it, open and bright, and all four of them are there.

Yuki is at the stove in an apron over her black turtleneck, working a pan with her wrist, and she doesn't turn around. Rosa sits at the island with a cup of coffee and her phone, hair down today, a red silk robe over what looks like nothing. Patty is leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, leather jacket on even indoors, and she looks at Tim the way she'd look at a report she's already read. Denise is at the table with a newspaper she isn't reading.

"Sit," Denise says, without looking up.

He sits. The chair is hard under his bare thighs and the towel rides up and he has to hold it down with one hand. Yuki slides a plate in front of him—eggs, toast, a sliced pear fanned out like something in a magazine—and a cup of black coffee, and only then does she look at him, a quick flat scan from his wet hair to his hands, and go back to the stove.

"Eat," she says. "You'll need it."

He eats. He's starving, actually—he can't remember the last time he ate—Nobody talks to him while he does it. Rosa scrolls. Patty cracks her knuckles, one hand, then the other. Denise turns a page of the newspaper. It's the most normal breakfast he's ever sat through and it's the most terrified he's ever been.

"So," Rosa says finally, setting her phone face-down. "How's the equipment this morning?"

Tim's fork stops halfway to his mouth.

"Rosa," Denise says, mild.

"What? I'm asking a practical question. We've got a long day ahead and I want to know what we're working with." She turns on her stool to face him, and the robe shifts, and Tim keeps his eyes on his plate. "Well? Sore?"

"Yes," he says.

"Good it will be worse by tomorrow"

He doesn't have an answer for that. He looks up at her, and she's smiling at him over the rim of her cup, and the smile is warm and awful.

"It's fine," he says.

"It's fine," Rosa repeats, to the room. "He says it's fine."

Patty snorts. It's the first sound she's made all morning. "Show us, then."

The kitchen goes quiet. Yuki's spatula stops. Tim looks at Denise, because Denise is the one who decides things, and Denise folds her newspaper in half and sets it down and looks back at him with an expression he can't read at all.

"Patty asked you something," she says.

His face goes hot. He's aware of the towel, the chair, the four of them arranged around him like furniture in a room built to hold him. He stands up. He lets the towel fall.

Rosa makes a low sound—not a laugh, something closer to appreciation. Patty's eyes move down and stay there. Yuki turns all the way around from the stove, arms crossed, and studies him the way she'd study a cut of meat she's deciding how to cook.

Rosa's smile changes. It gets slower and more real and much more dangerous. She reaches out and runs one fingernail, just the tip of it, up the underside of his cock from base to head, and his whole body jerks like she'd shocked him and to his horror and amazement he starts to go hard .

"nicely primed for another round, the perk of having a young pretty boy around. " she says, to the others.

"Sit down and finish your breakfast," Denise says. "You'll want the calories."

He sits. He picks up his fork. His hand is shaking hard enough that the eggs slide around the plate, and he eats them anyway, one bite at a time, while Rosa goes back to her stool and Patty watches him from the counter and Yuki turns back to the stove and Denise picks up her newspaper again. Nobody touches him. That's the worst part. He sits there naked in a kitchen full of women who have already decided what he is, and they let him eat. When the plate's clean, Yuki takes it without a word.

"Shower again and clean your teeth," Denise says. "Then the living room. We've got things to go over."

"What things?"

"The weekend," she says, and turns a page.

He showers again. He stands under the water longer than he needs to, not washing, just standing, letting the heat work on his shoulders and again, there’s nothing for him to wear..

The living room has a big gray couch, a low table, and a window with the curtains pulled back to show a street of parked cars and a man walking a dog. Tim stands at the edge of the rug and looks at that man for a second like he's looking through glass at another country.

"Sit," Denise says, patting the cushion beside her.

He sits. Rosa is in an armchair with her legs tucked under her. Patty is standing by the window with her back to the room. Yuki comes in last with a mug of tea and takes the other end of the couch, and when she sits she pulls her feet up and her knee touches Tim's thigh and she doesn't move it.

"Here's the situation," Denise says. "Your phone is in that drawer. Your wallet and keys are in another drawer.As of this moment, you're not going anywhere, because you don't have a way to go anywhere and because I haven't decided you're done."

"The table," Denise says, and stands.

For a second Tim doesn't move, because he doesn't know which table she means—the low one by the couch with the magazines on it, the dining table he ate breakfast at, something in another room he hasn't seen. Rosa solves it for him. She gets up off the armchair and walks to the dining table and drags it, scraping, out from under the window into the middle of the room, and then she pulls the chairs away one by one and stacks them against the wall. The table's dark wood, waist-high, solid. A bowl of pears sits on it. Yuki takes the bowl without being asked and sets it on the counter.

"Up," Rosa says, patting the surface. "On your back."

He looks at Denise. Denise has sat back down and crossed her legs and she's watching him with her chin on her knuckles, and she doesn't say anything, and that's the answer. He climbs up. The wood is cold against his bare back and his ass and the backs of his thighs, and he has to shuffle to get his whole length on it, and when he's flat the ceiling fan turns slowly above him, one blade, then the next, then the next.

Patty comes around to the head of the table. She looks down at him upside down, her jaw working, and then she takes his wrists, one in each hand, and lays them flat above his head and holds them there. Not hard. Just there. The message is the same either way.

"Comfortable?" Yuki asks, from somewhere near his feet.

"No."

"Good."

Denise stands up. She unbuttons her linen shirt, slow, from the bottom, and shrugs it off her shoulders and lays it over the back of a chair, and underneath she's wearing a cream bra that matches and nothing else above her trousers. She steps up to the side of the table so her hip is level with his head, and she looks down the length of him—his chest, his stomach, his cock lying soft against his thigh, his bare feet at the far end—and she says, "You know what to do. You did it all night. Do it properly this time."

She unhooks the bra and lets it fall and her breasts come free, full and heavy, the nipples already tight, and she leans over him and puts the left one to his mouth.

He lifts his head off the wood to meet her. That's the first thing—the stretch in his neck, the angle, the way he has to work to reach. His tongue comes out flat and he drags it up the underside of her breast, slow, the way he learned last night, and she tastes like soap and salt and the faint chemical ghost of her perfume, and above him she exhales through her nose and doesn't move.

"Slower," she says.

He slows down. He licks in smaller strokes, working his way up the swell of her, and when he reaches the nipple he takes it in his mouth and sucks it soft and she makes a sound low in her throat that he feels more than hears. He keeps his hands where Patty's holding them. He doesn't try to touch her. That's the trick he figured out somewhere in the long hours of the bar—that they want him to serve, not to grab,

Denise lets him work for a while. Then she switches, pushing the right breast into his mouth without a word, and he takes that one too, and this time she cups the back of his head and holds him there, and he has to breathe through his nose around her, and his cock is starting to fill against his thigh, and he can feel it happening and can't do anything about it.

"There it is," Rosa says, from somewhere. "Look at him."

Denise steps back. His mouth is wet and cold where she left it, and he's breathing hard, and she looks down at his cock, half-hard now and rising off his hip, and she smiles the way she smiled at breakfast.

"Next," she says.

Rosa takes her place. She's already untied the robe and it hangs open over bare skin, and she doesn't bother taking it off, just leans over the table and lets one breast drop into his face, and she's warmer than Denise and she smells like coffee and sleep and her nipple is already hard before he touches it. He licks her the way he did Denise, slow and thorough, and she reaches down and takes his chin in her fingers and tilts his head to the angle she wants.

"That's it," she says. "Good boy. Right there."

While she's talking, a hand closes around his cock.

He jerks—can't help it—and Patty's grip on his wrists tightens just enough to remind him, and he holds still and keeps licking. The hand is Yuki's; he knows it by the size of it, small and dry and quick, and she's not stroking him, not really, just holding him, lifting him off his belly and letting him drop, feeling the weight of him. Her thumb drags once, slow, over the head, and his hips come up off the table an inch and she lets go.

Rosa laughs and pushes her other breast at him and he takes it and sucks harder than he means to, and she makes a pleased noise and pats his cheek with two fingers. "There's the mouth I remember," she says, and steps away.

Patty takes her turn because Patty does things in her own order. She lets go of his wrists—he keeps them where they were, above his head, because he's learned that too—and she unzips the leather jacket and shrugs it off onto a chair and stands over him in the white tank top with her arms crossed, looking down.

"Sit up," she says.

He sits up. The table creaks. She pulls the tank top over her head in one motion and her breasts are small and firm and her ribs show and there's a scar under her left arm and she steps between his knees and puts a hand on the back of his neck and brings his face to her.

He licks her slowly, the way he did the others, but she's different—she doesn't sigh or hum or tell him he's good. She just stands there with her hand on his neck and watches him work, her jaw set, and when he's been at it long enough she pulls him off her nipple with a thumb on his chin and looks at him for a long second and then lets him go.

"Fine," she says. Which, from Patty, is a lot.

He's hard now, fully hard, and it aches. The shaft is sore from last night and the head is oversensitive and every time one of them touches it his whole body flinches and they all see it and none of them care. Denise comes back to the table and looks down at him sitting there with his cock standing up off his stomach and she nods once, satisfied, like a woman checking a recipe.

"Lie back down," she says. "Rosa's first."

Rosa climbs onto the table. She does it the way she does everything, unhurried, one knee and then the other, and the robe falls open and she straddles his face with her knees on either side of his head and her cunt an inch above his mouth, and she looks down at him through the gap of her own body and smiles.

"You know this one," she says. "You were at it all night. Do it proper and I won't have to squeeze your balls.

She lowers herself onto his mouth.

She's wet already—slick and hot and tasting of salt and something darker—and he opens his mouth and gets his tongue up into her and she settles her weight down onto him and rocks once, testing, and he has to fight for air through his nose. Above him her thighs are solid on either side of his head. He licks up the length of her, flat and slow, and then flicks at her clit, and she makes a low satisfied sound and grinds down a little harder.

"That's it," she says. "Right there. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. He works her with his tongue in a steady rhythm, up and around and back, and she braces her hands on his chest and rides his face, and the whole time—

The whole time, a hand is on his cock.

Yuki's, again. She's kneeling at the side of the table and she has him in her fist, not stroking, just holding, her thumb moving in small circles over the head, and every few seconds she stops and lets him throb in her palm and then starts again, and it's not enough to get him anywhere and it's exactly enough to keep him right where he is, hard and aching and going nowhere. He moans into Rosa's cunt and she laughs above him.

"He likes that," she says. "Feel how he's licking now."

He is licking harder. He can't help it. The hand on his cock is doing something to his mouth, some wire running between the two, and every circle of Yuki's thumb comes out of his tongue, and Rosa takes it and takes it and grinds down onto him until her thighs start to shake.

Then the hand stops.

Yuki lets go and sits back on her heels and Tim whines into Rosa's cunt, an actual whine, and hears himself do it, and Patty snorts from somewhere behind him.

"Not close," Yuki says, flat. "He was getting close."

"Then keep him there," Denise says. "That's the point."

Rosa comes a minute later. It's not loud—she goes quiet and still and her thighs clamp around his ears and she holds his head against her with both hands and grinds down slow, once, twice, three times, and then she's done and she lifts off him and swings her leg back over and stands up, and his face is wet to the chin and he's gasping.

"Good boy," she says, patting his cheek again. "Told you I'd say it."

She gets off the table. Yuki gets on.

She doesn't straddle him the way Rosa did. She kneels over his face facing his feet, her back to his chest, and lowers herself down onto his mouth from the other direction, and it's a different angle and a different job—her clit is right there, right under his tongue, and she's already slick and she doesn't rock or grind, she just settles and waits, and he has to do all of it.

He does all of it. He gets his tongue flat on her and works it up and down, slow and steady, and she braces her hands on his knees and lets him, and above him her back is straight and her hair falls forward and she doesn't make a sound for a long time.

While he's working her, Denise's hand finds his cock.

She's slower than Yuki. She takes him in her fist and strokes him root to tip, long even pulls, and her palm is warm and dry and she knows exactly how much is too much—she stops a half-second before he needs her to, every time, and lets him sag back down, and then starts again. His hips are lifting off the table now. He can't stop them. He's moaning into Yuki's cunt around his tongue and Yuki reaches back without looking and puts a flat hand on his sternum and presses him back down onto the wood.

"Still," she says.

He holds still. It takes everything he has. Denise's hand keeps working him and Yuki's cunt keeps waiting on his tongue and he is one long wire from his mouth to his cock and he can't tell anymore which end is which.

Then Denise stops.

She lets go of him and he feels the air hit the wet head and he makes a sound like he's been hit. Yuki, above him, shifts her hips once, just once, and he gets back to work with his tongue because it's the only thing he's allowed to do.

Patty takes the next turn at his cock. She doesn't stroke him at all. She just wraps her hand around the base and squeezes—a firm, steady pressure, the way you'd hold a tool you were about to use—and holds it there while he licks, and the pressure is somehow worse than the stroking, because it keeps him full and hard and right at the edge of something without ever moving him toward it. Her thumb caps the head of his cock and bears down, and his whole body jerks, and she doesn't react.

Yuki comes quietly. Her thighs tighten on either side of his head and her hand on his sternum curls into a fist and she makes one small sound, almost a sigh, and then she's off him and standing and pulling her turtleneck back down over her head, and Tim is left lying on the table with his mouth wet and his cock in Patty's fist and nothing to do with any of it.

"Denise," Yuki says, settling her turtleneck. "Your turn."

Denise gets on the table last. She takes her time about it—steps out of her trousers first, folds them, sets them on the chair with her shirt, and then climbs up over him in just her panties, and she peels those off last and drops them on his chest and he has to lie there with them on him while she gets into position.

She straddles his face and looks down at him and takes his hair in one hand.

"You know what I want," she says.

He does. He gets his tongue up into her and she's wet and warm and tastes like the shower and underneath it like herself, and she rides him slow and deliberate, working herself on his mouth like she's working a muscle, and she doesn't hurry and she doesn't stop and she keeps his head pinned with the hand in his hair.

And while she does it, three hands find his cock at once.

Rosa's on the shaft. Yuki's on the head, thumb circling. Patty's cupping his balls, weighing them, rolling them gently in her palm, and the three of them work him together in a slow unspoken rhythm, never fast, never enough, and every time he gets anywhere near the edge one of them stops and the others slow down and he sags back onto the wood with a sound that isn't a word.

"Look at him," Rosa says. "He's shaking."

Denise comes on his mouth with her hand fisted in his hair and her thighs locked around his ears and her whole body going rigid above him, and she stays there for a long moment after, breathing hard through her nose, and then she lifts off and looks down at him.

His face is a mess. His cock is a mess. He's lying flat on the table with his arms still above his head where Patty left them and his hips twitching up into nothing and his mouth open and he can hear himself breathing like he's been running.

"Please," he says. He doesn't plan it. It just comes out.

Denise swings her leg over and stands up off the table and looks down at him for a while, and then she reaches down and takes her panties off his chest and steps into them and pulls them up.

Denise stands there with her panties on and her arms crossed, looking down at Tim where he's still sprawled on the dining table, cock standing up off his stomach, face wet, chest heaving. She doesn't say anything for a long moment. She just looks at him the way you'd look at a problem you're about to solve.

"Get up," she says finally.

He gets up. His legs aren't steady and the table creaks under him and he has to put a hand on it to keep from pitching forward. The air on his wet cock makes him flinch. He stands there naked in the middle of the living room with the four of them arranged around him and the man with the dog long gone from the window, and he doesn't know what comes next, which is exactly how they like him.

"Arms out," Denise says.

He puts his arms out. He feels stupid doing it, standing there like a scarecrow in a borrowed living room, but he does it, because that's what he does now. Rosa gets up off the armchair and comes over and circles him once, slow, looking at him the way she looked at him on the table, and then she reaches out and runs a finger down the center of his chest, from his collarbone to his navel, and he shivers.

"Good posture," she says. "Chest out. You're going to need it."

"For what?"

Nobody answers. Yuki comes in from the hallway carrying something white and lacy over her arm, and she lays it on the couch back like she's setting out a garment for inspection. Patty is still by the window, arms crossed, watching. Denise walks over to the couch and picks up the thing Yuki brought and holds it up.

It's a dress. Baby blue, almost white, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that will barely cover his ass. There's a bra underneath it, matching, with lace cups and thin straps, and when Denise holds the dress up against him, measuring it against his chest with her eyes, he sees the whole shape of the next hour in her face.

"Put it on," she says.

He takes it. The fabric is slippery in his hands, cool and expensive. The bra is even more ridiculous than the dress—lace cups that will do nothing but cover his nipples, straps that will cut into his shoulders. He looks at Denise.

"Now," she says.

He puts the bra on first because it's underneath, and the lace is scratchy against his nipples and the cups are too small and his chest is flat and the whole thing makes him look like a boy playing dress-up, which is exactly what he is. The dress goes over his head and settles down his body and the skirt is so short that when he moves at all it rides up and shows everything. There's no underwear. Of course there's no underwear. He stands there in the baby-blue dress and the lace bra and bare feet and the skirt barely covering his cock, and he feels the air on his thighs and he wants to put his hands over himself and he doesn't.

Rosa makes a sound of approval. "Oh, that's good. That's very good."

"Shoes," Yuki says, and holds out a pair of white heels, low and strappy, the kind of thing a teenager would wear to a dance.

He puts them on. They fit, which he doesn't want to think about. The heels make him taller and push his ass out and he has to balance in a way that makes his thighs flex under the short skirt, and Patty, from the window, says, "Heels. Good."

Denise comes over and adjusts the straps of the bra where they've slipped off his shoulders, tucking them back into place with practiced fingers. Her touch is impersonal, like a mother fixing a child's collar, and that's somehow worse than anything else she's done to him. She steps back and looks at him.

"Dance," she says.

He blinks. "What?"

"You heard me. Dance. For us. That's the job." She sits down on the couch and crosses her legs and looks at him expectantly. "You did it at the bar. Do it here."

The bar was different. At the bar there were dozens of them and he could lose himself in it. Here it's just the four of them and the room is quiet and there's no music and they're all watching him with the same patient, hungry attention.

He stands there. The heels dig into his arches. The lace of the bra scratches his nipples. The skirt is a whisper of fabric over his bare cock and he can feel himself starting to harden again, which is just—it's not his choice anymore, none of it is, and they all see it happening.

"Look at that," Rosa says, delighted. "He's getting hard in a dress. That's adorable."

"Dance," Denise says again, and her voice is patient and final, the way you'd speak to a dog that knows the command. "You'll do it, and then we'll dress you in the next one, and you'll do it again. The sooner you start, the sooner you get to the last one."

He lifts his hands. He doesn't know what to do with them. He's never danced for anyone in his life, not like this, not on purpose, and the heels make him feel like he's standing on a cliff. But Denise is watching him with that patient look and Rosa is smiling and Yuki has her chin on her hand and even Patty has turned from the window to look, and he knows the shape of this room now, knows it the way you know a cage you've been in long enough to map the bars.

He moves.

It's not good. It's not even a dance, at first—just him shifting his weight from foot to foot, the skirt swaying around his thighs, his hands hanging at his sides. But Rosa makes a sound, a small correction, and he lifts his arms and turns, a slow rotation that makes the skirt flare, and the heels click on the wood floor and he finds a rhythm in it, something that isn't quite music but is close enough.

"That's it," Denise says, low. "Keep going."

He keeps going. He turns and dips and the skirt rides up over his ass and he can feel the air on him and he knows they can see everything and he does it anyway, because it's the only thing he's allowed to do. His hands find his hips. He runs them up his sides, over the lace of the bra, and the touch of his own fingers on his own skin makes him shiver and he sees Rosa lean forward.

"Slower," she says. "Make us watch."

He slows down. He moves his hips in a circle, a small motion that makes the skirt sway, and he watches their faces while he does it—Rosa's smile widening, Yuki's eyes tracking his hands, Patty's jaw working, Denise's chin on her knuckles. He's hard now, fully hard, the head of his cock poking out from under the hem of the skirt, and he can't hide it and he doesn't try.

"Good boy," Rosa says, and the words go straight to his cock like a hand on it.

He dances until his calves burn in the heels and his hips ache, and then Denise says, "Enough. Take it off."

He stops. He's breathing hard. He reaches for the hem of the dress and Denise says, "Slow. Make it a show."

He makes it a show. He turns his back to them and reaches over his shoulder and pulls the zipper down, inch by inch, and then he turns back and lets the dress fall. It pools at his feet, and he steps out of it, and he's standing there in the white lace bra and the heels and nothing else, and his cock is standing up hard against his stomach, and Rosa whistles.

He takes off the heels. He takes off the bra. He stands naked in front of them again, and his cock is so hard it aches,

Yuki is already standing. She's holding something pink—a dress, a short one, with thin straps and a skirt that will be even shorter than the last one, and she holds it out to him and he takes it.

It's pink. It's the pinkest thing he's ever worn, a bright shocking pink that makes his skin look pale and his freckles stand out. There's a bra with it too, pink to match, and the cups are padded and they give him a shape he doesn't have, a suggestion of breasts that makes him feel like he's looking at a stranger. He puts the bra on and then the dress and the skirt is so short it doesn't even cover his ass when he stands up straight, and Yuki hands him a pair of pink heels, higher than the white ones, and he puts those on too.

He's a doll. He's a doll in a pink dress and pink heels with his cock hard and visible every time he moves, and the four of them are arranged around him like an audience at a show they've paid to see.

"Dance," Denise says.

He dances. It's easier this time. He knows what they want now—knows the rhythm of it, the way to move his hips, the way to let the skirt flare and ride up, the way to catch their eyes and hold them. He runs his hands up his body, over the padded bra, down to the hem of the skirt, and he turns his back to them and bends over slowly, and he hears Rosa make a sound that isn't a laugh.

"He's learning," Yuki says, and there's something in her voice that might be approval.

"He's a quick study," Denise says. "I told you."

He dances until his thighs burn and his feet hurt in the heels, and then Denise says, "Off," and he takes it off slow, making a show of it, the way she wants and he's naked again and he's never been harder in his life.

The next outfit is worse. Yuki holds up a leather skirt—black, short, with a zipper up the back—and a bra top that's just two triangles of leather on strings, and when he puts them on he looks in the window's reflection and barely recognizes himself. The leather hugs his hips. The bra top does nothing to cover his chest. His cock is hard and the skirt is short enough that the head peeks out from under the hem, and he stands there in the leather and the heels and he feels like something they've built.

"Dance," Denise says.

He dances. He dances harder this time, because the leather makes a sound when he moves, a creak and a whisper, and the bra top shifts on his chest and the strings tickle his stomach and he can feel all four of them watching him like they're starving. He turns and dips and runs his hands over the leather over his ass and he hears Patty make a sound, a low grunt that might be appreciation, and he does it again.

"Touch yourself," Rosa says, and her voice is rough. "Through the skirt. Show us."

His hand goes to his cock through the leather and he strokes himself once, twice, and the friction of the leather on the head makes him gasp and his hips buck forward and he hears Denise say, "That's enough of that. Not yet."

He takes his hand away. He's shaking. He dances until his legs give out and he has to stop, and Denise says, "Off," and he takes the leather off piece by piece, the bra top first, then the skirt, and he's naked and hard and desperate and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

"Last one," Denise says, and there's a promise in her voice. "The best one."

Yuki brings it out. It's lingerie—black lace, a babydoll that falls to his waist, with a matching thong and a garter belt and stockings that roll up his legs. There are heels too, black and high, so high he has to hold onto Yuki's shoulder to step into them. He stands there in the lace and the stockings and the heels, and his cock is hard and visible through the sheer fabric of the babydoll, and he looks like something out of a magazine, and he knows it.

"Oh," Rosa says, softly. "Oh, that's perfect."

"Dance," Denise says. "But you don't take it off. That's the rule for this one."

He dances. He dances in the lingerie with the lace swishing around his thighs and the stockings making his legs look smooth and the heels making him tall, and he moves like he's been doing it his whole life. He turns and dips and the babydoll rides up and shows the thong and the garter straps and his cock straining against the lace, and he watches their faces while he does it, and he sees the hunger there, all four of them, and he knows what's coming.

He dances until Denise stands up and walks over to him and puts a hand on his chest, over the lace, and pushes him back against the couch. She looks at him for a long moment, at the lingerie and the heels and the desperation in his face, and then she says, "Good boy," and his whole body jerks like she's touched him.

And then her hand is on his cock through the lace, and the other three are moving in, .

Her fingers close around him through the lace, and the fabric is wet where he's been leaking against it, and she makes a sound low in her throat that isn't quite approval and isn't quite anything else. She strokes him once, slow, and the lace drags against the head of his cock and he makes a sound he's never heard himself make before, something high and desperate that gets swallowed by the weight of her palm.

"Look at that," Rosa says, and she's right there, her hand on his thigh through the stocking, sliding up. "He's soaked through the lace. You've been dancing for us like this the whole time, haven't you, sweetheart?"

He can't answer. Denise's hand is still on him, moving in a slow circle, and the friction of the lace is maddening, just enough to keep him hard and nowhere near enough to finish him. He's been hard for what feels like hours. His balls ache. His thighs are shaking in the stockings.

"Please," he hears himself say, and the word comes out cracked.

"Please what?" Yuki asks, and she's moved in close too, her small hand on his chest, her thumb finding his nipple through the lace. "Please what, Tim? You have to say it."

He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He knows he needs something, needs it the way he needs air, but the words won't come and Denise keeps stroking him through the lace and Rosa's hand is sliding up his thigh under the babydoll and Patty is standing behind him, close enough that he can feel the heat of her, and he's surrounded, pinned, theirs.

"I think he's forgotten how to talk," Rosa says, delighted. "I think we broke something."

"He's fine," Denise says. "He's just learning his place." Her hand stops moving and he makes a sound of protest that he can't help, and she smiles.

She steps back, and the other three follow her lead, and suddenly he's standing alone in the middle of the room again, in the lingerie and the stockings and the heels, his cock straining against the lace of the babydoll, and all four of them are looking at him like he's a meal they're deciding how to eat.

"You dance so pretty for us," Denise says. "But we're not even close to done with you yet."

He nods. He doesn't know what else to do. His throat is too tight to speak and his cock is so hard it hurts and the lace is chafing him with every breath.

"I think he needs to be reminded who he belongs to," Rosa says, and there's a glint in her eye that he's learned to fear. "Don't you, Patty?"

Patty doesn't answer with words. She steps forward and puts her hand on the back of his neck, her grip firm and sure, and she walks him backward until his calves hit the couch and he has no choice but to sit. The babydoll rides up. The garter straps dig into his thighs. He sits there in the lingerie, looking up at them, and he feels small and seen and completely, utterly theirs.

Yuki kneels in front of him. Her hands are gentle when they find his knees and push them apart, and he lets her, because letting her is the only thing he knows how to do anymore. She reaches under the babydoll and finds the thong and pulls it aside, and the air hits his bare cock and he shivers.

"No more lace," she says softly. "I want to see him."

Denise makes a sound of approval. "Good idea."

Yuki takes the hem of the babydoll and lifts it, slow, folding it up over his chest until it's bunched under his chin, and then she sits back on her heels and looks at him. He's naked from the waist down except for the stockings and the garter belt, his cock standing up hard and red and leaking, and she looks at it like she's looking at something she's been waiting to unwrap.

"So pretty," she says, and her hand wraps around him, and the touch of her bare palm on his bare cock makes him jerk so hard he nearly comes right there. "So hard for us. You've been so good, dancing for us ."

"Don't let him come," Denise says from somewhere behind him. "Not yet."

"I know," Yuki says. "I'm just looking."

She's not just looking. Her thumb traces the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate, and her fingers circle the base and squeeze, and he makes a sound that's half a sob. She strokes him once, twice, and then she stops and squeezes the head, hard enough to make him gasp, and she smiles.

"He's close already," she says. "Look at him. One good stroke and he'd be done."

"That's the problem," Denise says. "He's too easy. We need to teach him some endurance."

Rosa is beside Yuki now, her hand on Tim's thigh, sliding up to where the stockings end. Her fingers find the garter strap and trace it, and then they dip lower and find his balls and cup them, and he makes a sound that he's not ashamed of, because he's past shame now, has been for hours, is somewhere on the other side of it where all he can do is feel.

Yuki's hand is still on his cock, slow and teasing, and Rosa's hand is on his balls, and Denise is behind him, her fingers in his hair, tilting his head back. He's surrounded. He's theirs. He's never been more aware of his own body in his life, every nerve ending standing at attention, every breath a prayer.

"Please," he says again, and his voice is barely a whisper. "Please, I need—"

"You need what?" Denise asks, and her voice is soft and cruel. "Tell me what you need, Tim. Say it."

"Say it," Rosa says. "Say 'I need to come.' Say it and mean it."

"I—" His voice breaks. "I need—"

"Go on," Yuki says, and her hand tightens on him, just a little, just enough to make him see stars. "Say it."

"I need to come," he gasps. "Please. I need to come so bad. Please let me—"

"Not yet," Denise says, and Yuki's hand stops moving, and the pressure is still there, the promise is still there, but it's not moving, and he's balanced on the edge of something he can't fall into. "You're not done dancing for us yet."

He sobs. He can't help it. The sound comes out of him, raw and broken, and he sees Rosa's smile widen and Yuki's eyes soften and Patty's jaw work, and he knows he's given them what they wanted, knows he's shown them exactly how much he needs this, and he can't take it back.

"Stand up," Denise says.

He stands up. His legs are shaking in the stockings. The babydoll is still bunched under his chin, and Yuki reaches up and pulls it down, smoothing it over his chest, and then she stands and steps back and all four of them are looking at him again.

"Dance," Denise says. "Until we tell you to stop. And this time, you don't touch yourself. You don't get to come. You just dance, and you let us watch, and you remember who you belong to."

He dances again for them, rolling his hips to their command, a bright, hollow grin fixed on his face.

After ten minutes, Denise holds up her hand. “That’s enough of that, cutie. Go with Rosa and clean the kitchen for us.”

He follows her, still hard, still in the lace and heels, and for half an hour she has him scouring pans and scrubbing the counters, her fingers brushing his thigh, his stomach, his cock, keeping him aching as he works.

She sets up the ironing board, and for another dull hour, he presses clothes—mostly Denise’s, but a few pieces from the others. The women barely look at him, yet all four drift by now and then, stroking him back to full hardness. The work is mind-numbing, and the heels make standing a grind, but he keeps at it, sweating for them.

By now, the ache in his calves is a dull, persistent burn, and the thin sheen of sweat on his skin has cooled to a clammy film. He’s grateful when Denise finally waves a hand toward the sofa, a silent dismissal. He sinks into the cushions, the fabric rough against his bare back, and lets his eyes close for a moment. The air is still, carrying the faint scent of starch and lemon polish.

He hears the clipped rhythm of Rosa’s heels on the pavement, the murmur of Patty and Yuki’s voices as they go out for a walk. He lets out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing. Denise’s pen scratches steadily across paper, the only sound in the room. She doesn't look up, but he feels her presence, a quiet weight in the chair across from him. He shifts, the leather of the sofa creaking beneath him, and watches the slow rise and fall of his own chest. For these thirty minutes, he is allowed to simply exist, a body at rest, the pulse in his cock finally slowing to a faint, stubborn throb.