Chapter 2: Walk of Shame Into Their Trap
The next evening after a day of tech conference drudgery, Brett gathered courage to revisit the hotel bar. He had replaced his torn panties and this time wore the pink chemise under a similarly colored button up shirt. It wasn’t a ladies shirt but was also hard to call it a man’s. Given the gender fluid nature of some bar patrons it was unique but not entirely out of costume.
The whiskey-sour air of the bar turned to glass in Brett’s lungs shortly after he arrived. Time didn’t slow; it shattered, each fragment a razor-sharp detail. The pink silk of his blouse felt suddenly ridiculous, a child’s costume. The lace of the panties he’d chosen so carefully earlier that evening was now an escape proof prison.
Damon… leaning back against the bar, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His eyes, same as in the elevator, held a lazy, possessive recognition. And on his lap, perched with a casual intimacy that had stopped Brett’s world, was Jan.
His Jan… here in Vegas. In a little black dress he’d never seen with Damon’s hand on the pale skin of her thigh just inches from her married pussy. She smiled, a small, knowing curl of her lips that was entirely new. Ted stood beside them, one hand casually resting on Jan’s bare shoulder. Ted, from the office and who he had spent all day with talking to customers.
All three of them were looking at him. Not with surprise. With expectation.
Brett’s feet were rooted to the patterned carpet. The low murmur of the bar, the clink of ice, the distant ding-ding-ding of a slot machine—it all warped, sounding underwater.
Jan slid slowly off Damon’s lap. She walked toward him, her heels ticking on the floor. She stopped close and kissed his cheek. Her perfume, usually a soft floral, smelled darker, spicier.
“Hi, honey,” she said. Her voice was calm and controlled. A lecturer’s calm.
“Jan… what…” Brett’s tongue was thick.
“I saw your search history last week.” She said it plainly, as if discussing a grocery list. “The ‘sissy cuckold fantasy’ folder was very… illustrative.” She reached out and brushed a non-existent piece of lint from his silk-clad shoulder. Her fingers traced the seam. “All those videos. All those stories. The ones with… well, with men like Damon and Ted.”
Brett’s vision tunneled. The humiliation was a living thing, squirming in his gut.
Ted approached, a friendly grin on his handsome face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Buddy. Don’t look so spooked. Jan just wanted to give you what you really want. A real experience. Not just some… anonymous hotel room thing.” His gaze dipped to Brett’s tight jeans and the pink shirt. “Looks like you dressed for the occasion.”
Damon pushed off the bar. He moved like oil, stopping just behind Jan. He didn’t touch her. He just looked at Brett, over her head. “Told you I knew what you were,” he murmured, the memory of Vegas a ghost in the words. “Seems your wife knows, too.”
“I admit that I was hurt and confused at first,” she explained. “I read the stories and watched the videos… it didn’t take long for me to get turned on and hatch this little plan.”
“I helped her talk through things.” Ted admitted. His friend Ted had been talking to his wife about his perversions for over a week. Brett’s cheeks flushed.
“We’ve been talking,” Jan said, her eyes locked on Brett’s. “All three of us. Planning. Damon you already met. Ted’s here for the ‘conference,’ right, Ted?” She smiled at the inside joke. “We have a suite. A nice big one. We thought we could all… talk there. Properly.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a verdict.
Brett found himself nodding, a mechanical bob of his head. He was led, not by the hand, but by the sheer force of their collective will, out of the bar, across the lobby, into the elevator. No one spoke. The elevator was mirrored. Brett saw the four of them: Ted, confident; Jan, serene; Damon, predatory; and himself, a pale imitation of a man in a pink silk blouse, his reflection screaming fraud.
The suite was vast, all cream and gold, with a sprawling living area and a bedroom visible through an open door. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket. Three glasses. Not four.
Jan turned to him. “Take off the blouse, Brett.”
He flinched.
“Now,” she said, her voice still soft, but final.
His fingers trembled on the mother-of-pearl buttons. The silk slithered off his shoulders, puddling at his feet. He stood in his tight jeans, feeling the cool air around the babydoll.
“And the jeans,” Ted said, leaning against the bar. “Let’s see the full effect.”
Brett’s hands went to his belt, fumbling. He pushed the jeans down his hips, stepping out of them. He stood in the center of the room, exposed. Just the lace panties, stockings held up by a garter belt he’d put on with such illicit thrill hours before. His cage, a small, polished steel device, confined his sex, making him look smooth and absurd. The babydoll fell down to the top of the panties.
Jan circled him. A slow, appraising circuit. “It’s actually very pretty lace,” she said clinically. “You have better taste than I do.”
Damon came up behind Brett, close enough that Brett could feel the heat of him. He didn’t touch. Brett’s skin prickled with the anticipation of it.
“On your knees,” Damon said.
The command, voiced in front of his wife, his friend, broke something open. A floodgate of shame and devastating arousal. Brett sank to the carpet, the plush fibers scratching his stockinged knees. He kept his eyes down.
He heard the sound of a zipper. Damon’s hand was suddenly in his hair, not gentle, guiding his head forward. “You know how this goes, princess.”
Brett closed his eyes as Damon’s cock, thick and already fully hard, brushed his lips. It smelled of soap and musk. The taste, when he opened his mouth, was salty skin. He took it in, the memory of gooning for hours crashing over him—the hypnotic voices, the surrender. He bobbed his head, a shallow, awkward rhythm.
“Look at him, Jan,” Ted said, his voice closer now. Brett could hear the rustle of clothing. “Look at your husband. This is what he wants.”
Jan didn’t speak. Brett, through his watering eyes, saw her shoes approach. She stood beside Damon, watching. Her expression was unreadable.
Damon’s thrusts became deeper, more controlling, hitting the back of Brett’s throat. Brett gagged, tears springing to his eyes. Spit dripped down his chin.
“Good,” Damon grunted. “Take it all. Show your wife how well you suck cock.”
Jan’s hand came down, then, not on Brett, but to cup Damon’s ass, urging him deeper into Brett’s mouth. That small, participatory gesture from her—the proof of her complicity—unraveled Brett completely. A pathetic, muffled sob vibrated around the cock in his mouth.
Damon pulled out, his length glistening with spit. He patted Brett’s cheek, twice, hard. “Now the main event.”
Brett was pulled up, pushed toward the sprawling sofa. Jan sat down first, arranging her dress. She looked at Ted. “You first, I think.”
Ted, now shirtless, his torso muscular and tanned, smiled. He pushed Brett down over Jan’s lap. Brett’s stomach was on his wife’s knees, his lace-clad ass in the air, facing Ted and Damon. Jan’s hand smoothed over the lace.
“Such a pretty presentation,” Ted said. His fingers found the side seam of the panties. With a sharp tug, the lace tore, just as Damon had done the night before. The ruined fabric was pulled aside.
Brett moaned as Ted lubed up his ass with his fingers.
Ted’s cock, shorter than Damon’s but thicker, pushed against him. There was mild resistance while Brett squealed into the fabric of Jan’s dress. Ted eased his way in, a slow and impossible stretch.
“Oh, fuck, he’s tight,” Ted gasped, but he didn’t stop. He buried himself, beginning a hard, piston-like rhythm.
The pleasure was blinding. Brett clutched at Jan’s legs. She stroked his hair.
“Is this what you dream about, Brett?” she whispered, her voice in his ear. “Being used like this? While I watch?”
He couldn’t answer. Ted was grunting, pounding into him, each thrust jolting his whole body. The degrading, burning fullness was everything he’d fantasized about and nothing like it. It was real. It was his wife’s perfume in his nostrils. It was his friend’s sweat dripping onto his back.
Just as Brett felt a grotesque, pained arousal building in his cage, Ted pulled out with a wet sound. “Your turn,” he said, breathless.
Damon moved in. Brett was raw, open. Damon’s entry was smoother, wetter, but deeper, hitting places Ted hadn’t. He folded himself over Brett’s back, one arm snaking around to clutch Brett’s chest, his other hand gripping Brett’s hip.
“Tell your wife,” Damon growled into his ear, his hips driving hard. “Tell her what you want.”
“You’re… you’re fucking me like a girl,” Brett choked out.
“What else?”
“I want you to be… her bull.” The words, spoken aloud in front of Jan, were the ultimate obscenity.
“Damn right,” Damon snarled. His pace became frantic, animalistic. Jan’s hands were on Brett’s shoulders now, not soothing, but holding him down for the taking. Jan pulled up her dress and told Brett to lick her pussy.
Brett was a nexus of their combined will—Jan’s quiet orchestration, Ted’s casual participation, Damon’s raw dominance. He was a instrument being tuned past its breaking point, his mouth on his wife as another man hammered into him from behind.
“Switch,” Jan breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair, holding his face against her. Her taste was familiar and utterly alien now.
Damon pulled out with a slick, vulgar sound, leaving Brett gasping into Jan’s thigh. Ted, already hard again, didn’t wait. He positioned himself and sheathed his thick cock back into Brett’s well-used hole with a single, brutal shove. Brett cried out, the sound muffled by his wife’s skin.
“That’s it, buddy,” Ted grunted, his rhythm immediately punishing. “Take it like a good girl.”
Jan pushed Brett’s head back, her eyes dark and focused. “Look at him, Brett. Look at your friend fucking you.” Brett’s gaze swam, finally focusing on Ted’s face, contorted in a pleasure that Brett himself was providing. The shame was a fire in his veins.
Damon moved to the side, watching. He traced the beads of sweat on Brett’s back with a rough finger.
“Loose enough yet?” Damon asked Ted, his voice casual.
“Getting there,” Ted panted, his thrusts driving Brett forward with each snap of his hips. “Definitely getting there.”
“Jan,” Damon said, not taking his eyes off the junction where Ted’s body met Brett’s. “You want to see him bred?”
Jan’s hand stilled on Brett’s head. A profound silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of skin on skin and Ted’s ragged breathing. Brett’s heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic bird in a steel cage.
“Yes,” Jan said, the word final and clear. “I do.”
“Then we’ll need him on his back,” Damon stated, as if discussing a procedural step. “So he can see it coming. So he knows.”
Ted pulled out. Brett collapsed onto his side, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was maneuvered onto his back, his stockinged legs pushed up and apart. The ruined lace of his panties framed his exposed, leaking hole. The steel of his cage glinted, a cruel joke.
Damon loomed over him, his cock glistening with saliva and pre-cum. He positioned himself, the heavy head pressing where Brett was sore and stretched.
“Watch,” Damon commanded, and Brett’s eyes, wide with terror and want, locked onto the sight.
Damon pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that burned and filled. Brett shook his head, his hands scrambling at the couch fabric. Jan appeared beside his head, her face calm. She wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb.
“This is your fantasy, baby,” she whispered. “This is the real thing.”
Damon’s thrusts began, deep and languid at first, each one a claim staked in Brett’s guts. Brett could see everything—the powerful flex of Damon’s stomach, the dark, determined set of his jaw, the way his own body yielded each time. The visual reality of it unraveled his last thread of pretense.
“Gonna fill you up,” Damon growled, his pace quickening, becoming harder, less controlled. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you.”
Brett’s own untouched cock strained hopelessly against its cage. A pathetic, simpering noise escaped his lips with every drive. Jan’s hand smoothed over his forehead.
“You’re taking it so well,” she cooed, her voice a perverse mirror of marital comfort. “My good girl.”
Damon’s rhythm broke. He slammed home and locked, his body rigid. A guttural roar tore from his throat. Brett felt it then—the hot, sudden flood erupting inside him, a searing violation that was also a completion. Damon grunted through clenched teeth, pulsing again and again, marking him from the inside.
Brett’s body went limp as Damon pulled out, his softening cock trailing a strand of viscous white onto Brett’s trembling stomach. Ted was already there, his hand slick with lube, working his own thickness.
“My turn for the sloppy seconds,” Ted said, his tone light, conversational. He didn’t bother with preamble. He pushed into the wet, used space Damon had vacated and filled with his seed. Brett gasped, oversensitive and raw.
Ted fucked him with a workmanlike efficiency, chasing his own finish. Brett was just a vessel now, a well-fucked fleshlight being used for the second time. Jan watched, her hand resting on Brett’s heaving chest.
“Almost there, darling,” Ted said, his breath hot on Brett’s neck. His thrusts became erratic, frantic.
With a final, deep plunge, Ted stilled. Brett felt another, flood join the first, a second claiming. Ted shuddered, sighed, and collapsed partly on top of him.
Silence, heavy and absolute, descended. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the Strip below. Brett lay pinned, soaked in sweat and other men’s release, the proof of his deepest fantasy pooled inside him. Jan looked down at him, her expression unreadable. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.
“Now you know what it feels like to let go completely,” she whispered. “I love you baby.”