By Wednesday we had a system. Daniel stayed denied. Completely. I let him touch me, taste me, fuck me — always under strict instructions, always with the same rule. He could get as hard as he wanted. He could beg (and he did). He could call me Mommy in that wrecked, quiet voice that made my stomach flip. But he did not come.

Marcus, on the other hand, got to finish. Often. Sometimes in my mouth while Daniel watched, hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles went white. Sometimes inside me while Daniel knelt and held my thighs open like a very well-trained assistant. I made...