Your wrists twist against nothing as the first man works you toward the edge, reading every shudder, denying the finish you've been chasing for twenty minutes. The word "please" has lost all dignity in your mouth and you don't care.

Behind him, the second one watches with his belt already undone, measuring his patience against yours, knowing his turn comes the moment you finally break.

Your husband sits three feet away, forearms on his knees, eyes tracking everything — your arched throat, your ruined composure — wearing the quiet satisfaction of a man who arranged exactly this.