It was a little past midnight. The roads were quiet, almost eerily so — just the occasional dog barking, a flickering streetlight, and the hum of my own nerves. We'd only talked for fifteen minutes on FetLife, but something about him — the confidence in his tone, the way he said "trust me, boy" — had me saying yes before I thought it through. I had an exam the next morning. The hardest one. But here I was, waiting outside my building for a man I barely knew.
He pulled up on his scooty, cool as ever. We exchanged a quick look, no small talk. I got on behind him, and just like that, we were off.
As we rode through the dark, his hand reached back to show me something on his phone. I leaned closer. It was an old chat… my photo. Me, tied in rope, fully bound. I had forgotten I’d ever sent it. He hadn’t. My own words echoed back at me: “Sometimes I love being bonded.”
My heart skipped. It was real now.
We reached a petrol pump, and he calmly filled up. Then, out of nowhere, he looked at me and said, “Let’s take the long route, my boy.”
I blinked. “I’m sleepy… big exam tomorrow.”
He leaned in with a smirk. “Trust me. I’ll wake you up with all your senses.”
Next thing I knew, he took my hand and placed it on his hard-on. I froze — completely not ready — but he turned around and kissed me. My first real kiss like this. Messy. Bold. Dominant.
I was scared. But God, I was horny too.
We kept riding until we saw another couple on a bike — probably making out. He honked to catch their attention… then turned back and kissed me again. Right there, in front of them. And whispered, “Open it. Stroke it. Don’t think.”
And I did. I was shaking. This was crazy. Wild. Hot.
He told me stories as we rode — all about his past subs, his wildest outdoor adventures. The way he said things made me realize something: this boyish-faced guy with a soft smile… was a devil in disguise. Way more experienced than me. A real dom — and he knew it.
Then we stopped by a quiet, dark spot off the highway. No one around. He got off, looked at me, and ordered, “Strip.”
I hesitated. Just for a second. Then my shirt hit the seat.
He made me give him a handjob right there. The breeze, the risk, his voice telling me what to do — it was next level. I even had to stick my tongue out while doing it. And then we rode back, half-dressed and drunk on lust.
I thought that was it.
But when we reached my building again, he whispered, “I haven’t cum yet. Let’s go upstairs.”
And I couldn’t say no.
We ran up the stairs. He told me to go ahead and be naked and ready. I rushed in, heart thudding, and threw off my clothes. He followed, slowly stripping piece by piece as he walked in, showing that confidence I was starting to crave.
My tone flipped from playful to submissive: from “you” to “sir.”
Then he told me his fantasy — consensual control, forced roles, consented resistance. I wasn’t usually a bottom… but I said yes. Somehow, it felt safe with him. Still terrifying. Still intense. But right.
We did everything — every kink I had dared to dream about. Anal. Edging. Recording. The angles, the moans, the power. At one point, I wasn’t sure if I was shaking from fear or desire. He even got me to suck him — something I wasn’t ready for — but he talked me into it, used that voice that dripped with dominance and charm.
The marks on my body? Each one was a memory now. Hot. Unforgettable.
By the end, I was spent — physically ruined and mentally flying. I collapsed on the bed, sore and overwhelmed.
Then he turned to me with a smirk.
“Tea. Now. Naked. Kitchen window open.”
I stared at him.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.”
So I got up, bare and shivering, and made him tea with the windows wide open. He filmed parts of it, kissed my shoulders, bit down again — claiming me one last time.
We sat, sipping in silence. Then I looked at the time.
“Shit. It’s 3 a.m. I have an exam in five hours.”
He just smiled.
“I told you I’d wake you up.”
Before leaving, he gave me a massage. Not a normal one — the kind where every touch knew exactly where my body was vulnerable. Where to press. How to make me melt all over again.
“I’ll go now,” he whispered. “But don’t stop craving me.”
And then he was gone.
I stood by the door, still naked, tea cold, body marked, breath shaky.
Still craving.
Still his.
Written by Vansh, 22y/o
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