I’d held out for longer than I thought possible. But the instant Monica’s body gave up its last defense—her arms collapsing, her mouth wide open in a cry that echoed off the glassware—I lost it. My right hand shot down before I could stop it, and I gripped my cock hard, stroking once, twice, and then I was coming, hot and desperate and completely beyond my own control.

The first spurt shot across my stomach and onto the black leather; the rest ran in sticky pulses down my hand and the side of my thigh. I couldn’t breathe. I could only pant, the world reduced to a tunnel of pleasure and then, just as quickly, a bottomless pit of shame.

For a second there was nothing—no sound but my own frantic breathing and the cooling drip of sweat down my chest.

Jemma didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her disapproval was a physical thing, coating the air in a layer of frost that stilled everything else. She unbuckled the harness, moving with the kind of efficiency that made it look like she’d done it a thousand times. She set the cock on the table, beside Monica’s trembling form, and walked over to me.

She let the silence stretch, pulling her blouse straight, tucking stray hair back behind her ear with practiced precision. When she finally spoke, it was so soft I had to strain to hear it: “I told you not to touch.”

I couldn’t look up. I wanted to shrink into the chair, or maybe just dissolve entirely. My hand was still covered in cum, cooling against my skin and making me acutely aware of every inch of myself.

She knelt in front of me, taking her time, and braced her elbows on her knees. She was so close I could see the individual flecks of gold in her indigo irises. She waited until I finally met her gaze.

“What do you think I’m going to do with you now?” she asked.

I tried to answer. My mouth opened, then shut. The right answer, the clever answer, was nowhere to be found. I just shook my head, mute.

She stood up in a single, liquid motion, never breaking eye contact. Then she turned to Sami and Monica, who were both still recovering on opposite sides of the table. “Clean up. Then change into your uniforms. The ones on the sideboard.”

Neither argued. Monica slid off the table, her legs barely holding her, and reached instinctively for her left earlobe, as if expecting the pearl to have vanished in the chaos. She found it still there, blinked in surprise, and then limped to the sideboard where two stacks of cloth waited.

Sami was more composed. She smoothed her hair, wiped the fog off her glasses, and looked at me—not with contempt, but with an ambiguous smile that might have been sympathy or something darker. She padded over to the table and, using one of the cloth napkins, began to tidy up the various fluids smeared across the surface.

Jemma watched all this unfold like a theater director checking marks on a stage. She took a moment to collect herself, smoothing her skirt and blouse, then strode to the doorway. Her hand lingered on the frame as she turned back.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.

“Good. I’m glad you can at least follow some instructions.” Her tone was dry, but not without warmth.

She disappeared down the hall, her heels a diminishing echo. She motioned for Max to follow her. He went along happily, like a damn golden retriever.

For a long time I just sat there, unsure what to do, breathing slow and ragged. I wished for clothes, but I could hear Monica and Sami whispering as they changed into their uniforms—a snatch of nervous laughter, the slap of bare feet on polished wood. My own skin prickled with cooling sweat, every muscle trembling from exertion and adrenaline.

When I finally looked up, Monica was across the room, dressed in what amounted to a maid’s uniform with nothing underneath. She caught me staring and blushed, hands immediately fussing with the thin ties at her waist. Sami wore an even more revealing version, a band of black mesh with suspenders clipped to thigh-high stockings and a miniscule apron. She looked so at home in the outfit it might as well have been her birthright.

Neither of them said a word to me. They just waited in their assigned positions—Monica standing by the door, Sami near the table—each of us locked into our roles and uncertain of what would come next.

The room smelled of sweat, leather, and something sweet I couldn’t name. The candles were burned nearly to the stub, casting everything in a sticky, flickering haze.

I let my head fall back against the chair and exhaled, still half-hard, half-terrified, and entirely at their mercy.