The edge of the table had no give to it; I could see the red pressure marks on Sami’s hips each time Jemma slammed her in, the skin flaring up with a heat I could feel from where I sat. Jemma’s hands weren’t just props: she controlled every inch of the scene with them, one locked around Sami’s nape, the other flat and wide on her back, keeping her bowed over the lacquered surface. Even when the motion blurred, her control was absolute. The table rocked in time, its legs creaking in protest.

Sami’s glasses had started the scene high and tight on her face, but now they were halfway down her nose, one temple askew and the lenses fogging over. Her head whipped with every thrust, cropped hair flying, but the glasses held on until a particularly savage snap of Jemma’s hips sent them skittering across the tabletop. They caught the gutter of candle wax, spun, and landed perfectly upright. No one laughed.

Jemma’s hair veiled her face, but I could see her jaw set, her mouth fixed in a flat line of determination. She rode Sami with relentless precision, the thick shaft of the strap-on moving in piston strokes, punctuated by the wet slap of skin against skin and Sami’s breathy, hiccuping moans. It wasn’t the sound of pain—though I knew it would leave marks. It was the sound of someone falling down a bottomless chute of sensation, each rung further from the surface.

Every fourth or fifth thrust, Jemma would look over at me—like she was checking in on her science experiment, evaluating the data. My hands were iron on the armrests; my knuckles ached. The urge to reach for my cock, to even shift my weight, was overwhelming. But the thought of breaking Jemma’s order, even a little, even just to flex, felt like it would undo the spell holding the room together.

Monica was on her knees, right at the edge of the table, not allowed to touch but forced to watch everything up close. Her face was so close to the action that each time Sami was pulled back, the ends of her hair brushed Monica’s cheek. Monica had her thighs pinched together, bare feet curling against the floor for purchase, and she was chewing her lower lip so hard it looked raw.

Jemma kept the pace for what felt like forever. She alternated the angle, sometimes drawing nearly all the way out before slamming home, sometimes rocking her hips in a tight, grinding circle. Each technique sent a different, visible shudder through Sami’s body—her back arching, shoulders jerking, hands white-knuckled on the table edge. The bruises on her ass had deepened from pink to a sullen maroon.

Twice, when Sami’s whole frame tensed and she let out a strangled, “Please, oh, please—” Jemma stopped dead, holding her there, buried inside, letting the denial hang in the air like a chord that refused to resolve. She kept Sami right at the brink, hips trembling, then pulled out entirely, leaving Sami panting and desperate, her body chasing after the lost contact.

The second time, Sami’s voice cracked with a little sob of frustration. Jemma rewarded her with a stroke of her hand, not gentle but not cruel either—fingers running down the length of Sami’s spine, stopping at the base to circle the spot with her thumb. “Good girl,” she whispered, just for Sami. Then she straightened, reached for Monica’s chin, and yanked her head up until Monica’s eyes met mine.

“Look at him. Don’t stop looking at him,” Jemma ordered.

Monica’s eyes were wild, pupils huge in the half-light. I saw the embarrassment in her face but also something closer to awe, as if the spectacle had short-circuited her ability to process anything but the raw input.

“Do you see, Monica? Do you see what happens to good girls?” Jemma’s voice was gentle, almost a caress.

Monica nodded, and when she spoke, it was a whisper. “Yes, Mistress.”

Jemma didn’t let go of Monica’s jaw. She squeezed, just enough to make her wince. “And what about you? Are you a good girl?”

Monica hesitated, her lips working silently as if she wanted to say something truer than yes but couldn’t find the words. Finally: “I want to be, Mistress.”

Jemma released Monica’s chin and returned her attention to Sami. She resumed the rhythm, slower this time, every movement deliberate. Sami’s noises became choppy, staccato, her whole body shuddering in anticipation of release. The third time she edged her, Jemma only waited a breath before saying, “Now. You may come, Sami.”

The effect was immediate. Sami’s head snapped back, like, she had just been waiting for permission, a cry tearing out of her so sharp it startled even Jemma. She came in convulsions, fists pounding the table, legs buckling as her whole body seized and released in waves. Jemma held her through it, supporting her with both hands, letting her ride out every aftershock. When Sami finally collapsed, boneless, onto the tabletop, Jemma stroked her hair, pushed it out of her face, and even retrieved her glasses, setting them gently back on Sami’s nose.

Jemma pulled out, wiped the silicone shaft with a pristine white cloth, then turned to Monica.

“Your turn,” she said. Her tone had changed, darker, more patient, as if she was savoring this part.

She guided Monica onto the table, arranging her on all fours with clinical precision. Monica’s hands shook as she steadied herself, hair hanging down in her face. Jemma ran her palm down Monica’s back, flattening her into a perfect arch, then stepped around to my side of the table so Monica was facing me directly.

“Eyes on him, Monica. If you look away, we stop.”

I watched as Jemma slicked the cock, lined it up, and pressed into Monica in a slow, steady thrust. Monica’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. She shuddered all the way down to her toes, every muscle in her back tense with the effort to stay perfectly still.

Jemma started slow, one hand braced on Monica’s hip and the other playing lightly along her spine, fingers teasing, nails raking lightly. The restraint drove Monica insane; her thighs trembled, and the moans that spilled from her lips were high, broken things. I saw sweat bead on her forehead, watched the color drain and then flush back into her cheeks in bright, wild patches.

All the while, Monica’s eyes stayed locked on mine, as if the act of looking was as much a punishment as anything happening to her body. Each time her gaze flickered or threatened to close, Jemma would reach around, grab a handful of Monica’s hair, and pull her head up. “Don’t you dare look away,” Jemma would say, voice ice-cold, and Monica would nod, eyes wide and shining.

I was sweating now, too. The cold floor did nothing to cool me. My cock was straining against nothing, every pulse of blood a reminder of how badly I wanted to break the rules. My fingers burned from being held so tight, fingernails cutting into my skin, shoulders beginning to shake with the effort. The pain only heightened everything else.

Jemma fucked Monica with a slow, devastating certainty. Each thrust seemed to drive Monica closer to the edge, and the only release she was allowed was the ragged, shameless sounds that spilled from her mouth. The table rocked under them, candle flames guttering in the wake.

“Are you close, Monica?” Jemma asked, not breaking stride.

“Yes, Mistress,” Monica gasped. “Please, please—”

“Not yet,” Jemma said, and drew back, denying her even as Monica’s body begged for more. She waited, letting Monica cool off, then resumed with an even more excruciating pace.

Monica’s jaw was quivering. Tears slicked down her cheeks, not from pain, but from the overload of everything happening to her at once.

“Do you want to cum?” Jemma asked.

“Yes. Please,” Monica sobbed. Her eyes, even through the tears, never left mine.

“You will thank Damien and Max for watching. And then you may cum.”

It took Monica three tries to find the words. She said, “Thank you, Damien, Max,” voice shredded and raw.

And then Jemma let her have it, pounding her hard, relentless, and Monica’s scream was so loud I thought the glassware would shatter. She collapsed, shaking, onto the table, her hands slipping in her own sweat.

Jemma released her, straightened, and walked over to me. She leaned down, her face only inches from mine, and surveyed me with that same mix of satisfaction and analysis.

“See what happens to good boys who follow the rules?” she said. Her lips brushed my cheek, a ghost of a kiss. “You get to watch the world burn.”

I could taste salt and leather and the iron edge of desire, and I had never wanted anything more in my entire life.