It was a normal Friday night, and I decided to head to the bar down the street — my favorite place to drink and, if I was lucky, pick up a hot top who’d take me home and pound me senseless. My luck varied, but usually I didn’t leave alone. I liked to get there early and stake my favorite corner table for two. From there I could watch the room, scan the men sliding through the door, and see who’d catch my eye.
The staff knew me. They’d give me the heads-up on who was worth watching. Tonight, I was nursing a beer, not thinking much, when I noticed him at the bar. He had his back to me — a leather jacket stretched over a muscular frame, the denim of his jeans pulled tight over a round, perfect ass. He moved like someone used to getting looked at. Salt-and-pepper stubble framed a square jaw, a dark moustache tickled his upper lip, and piercing blue eyes scanned the room with deliberate calm.
He was a regular; I’d seen him on Friday nights before, but tonight I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Something about him seemed magnetic. When he stood to go to the bathroom, he caught me staring. For a wild second, I considered following him — slipping into a bathroom stall — but the flash of those blue eyes was intimidating. He looked rough, a little too rough for me. I sank back into my chair and let him go.
He came back, and this time our gazes locked. He sat back at the bar and nodded at the barman. A minute later, a waiter brought a beer to my table. “On him,” the waiter said. I followed his line of sight to the guy at the bar. I lifted the bottle to say thanks and felt the air change as the waiter leaned in close.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice a low warning. “That one is trouble. Watch yourself.”
The words were a dare. I was already intimidated, but there was something about the way he said it — not cruel, not soft, just sure — that made my skin prickle.
A few minutes later the guy at the bar stood up, grabbed his whiskey, and walked over. “Is this seat taken?” he asked. I said no. He spun the chair around so it faced backward, straddled it, legs wide, leaning over the back toward me. He stared like a man wanting to break something.
“How do you want this to go?” he asked flatly.
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He smiled, and it was all teeth and danger. “The way I see it, we have two options,” he said. “One: I drag you out the back door into the alley, pin you to the wall, and pound you stupid. Quick, hard, one-and-done. You get what you want, and we both go home satisfied. Two: I take you home, and I train you. I’ll break you down — slow, methodical. I’ll make you my little fucktoy, have you craving every inch of me, waiting on my command. That one’s a commitment, if you can handle it”
Both options washed through me. Option one sounded clean and simple. Option two sounded filthy — and intoxicating. He paused, enjoying that little flicker of indecision on my face.
“You think I can be broken?” I asked.
A grin slipped across my mouth despite the nerves. “You want to try?”
He handed me a plain card. “Address. Be there in a couple of hours. I’ll be out a little while — got things to do — but be ready”
Knowing he probably planned to fuck other men before me shouldn’t have excited me, but it did. The idea of him out there taking what he wanted only made him more dangerous, more magnetic. I knew that it meant he saw me as more than just a sexual reprieve. I slipped the card into my pocket, downed my beer, and let the thought of being his — completely and willingly — flood me with a thrill I hadn’t felt before.
I pulled into his driveway and parked behind a black Indian motorcycle that sat like a promise against the curb. That bike didn’t surprise me — he looked like a man who’d ride one — but the house did. It was tidy, tasteful, the kind of place a man with pride in his life would keep. For a second, it threw me: the rough biker image at the bar, the beautiful, well-curated home in front of me. It softened something in my chest; maybe this wouldn’t be as savage as I’d imagined.
I knocked, and the door opened in less than a minute. He stood there like he had at the bar — tight black T-shirt clinging to his chest, the leather jacket cutting across his broad shoulders, his jeans tucked into black motorcycle boots. The chain at his throat caught the evening light. He was a fantasy standing in the doorway.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
“Vodka,” I said, and he poured one neat and whiskey for himself. We sat on the couch, the music low, the space comfortable in a way that made my nerves hum.
“You got any plans this weekend? Is anyone gonna come looking for you?” he asked, watching me.
The question seemed leading. Suggestive. My gut said I should have said yes, but I replied “Nope,”
The idea of being used all weekend sent a jolt of excitement through me and a flicker of fear. “I’m open.”
He smiled. “Good, I have plans for you”. Smiling, he stared me down. Looking for a reaction. I tried to hold his stare, but he scared me. He then followed up with, “You need to know what you’re signing up for.” Then, he asked, calm and direct, “Any limits? Anything I need to know?”
I swallowed. “I’ve been pretty vanilla,” I admitted. “Never done kink. Curious, though. Open to try anything.”
“A kink virgin?” His smile widened like he’d hit the jackpot. “Perfect. We’ll start slowly. Happy to test your limits, but we need a safe word. Something you wouldn’t normally say.”
“Avocado,” I blurted out, half laughing at myself.
He nodded like it was the exact right word. “Perfect. Say ‘avocado’ and everything stops. Understood?”
“Understood.” The relief of that small safety check steadied me.
He watched me for a beat and then, softening nothing, shifted back and commanded. “Okay. From now on, you’re mine. You hear me cunt.”
Something in the harshness of his voice and change in tone thrilled me. “Yes,” I said, faster than I expected.
He then continued,”At first I'll find your limits. Nice and slow. Then I’ll take you hard and fast. I’ll have you begging for my cock, crying to be fucked. I’ll make you want release so bad it’ll drive you crazy. You okay with that, you fucking faggot?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” I followed up quickly with “Sir”
“Good, let’s move to the playroom. Where the fun really starts.”
He led me to a basement door and pulled it open. It was dark down there, and a small yellow light guided my way. The staircase descended into a different world. A wave hit me as I stepped down — smoke, sweat, a metallic tang under it all. The lights were dim, casting a low glow that made shadows dance across black walls. The floor was vinyl; in one corner hung a sling, and along another wall stood a St. Andrew’s cross. Whips and chains were organised on hooks. A table held an assortment of toys, dildos, plugs; a closet was stuffed with leather: harnesses, vests, chaps, gloves. He had everything.
I stared at the room, the scent and sight crowding into me, and felt that delicious, ridiculous panic-and-anticipation. He looked at me, pleased. “You’re gonna be here a while,” he murmured. “Ready?”
I tucked the safeword into the back of my mind like an anchor and let him guide me deeper into the dark.
He snapped his head toward the cross and the sling, eyes bright with appetite. Without a word, he seized my hands and hauled me toward the St. Andrew’s cross, cinching my wrists tight.
Once I was securely fastened, I watched him move around the room. He crossed to a wooden humidor, thumbed open the lid, and took out a fat cigar. He bit the end off with a casual, animal motion, sparked a torch, and brought the flame to the tip. He drew smoke slowly, savouring it, then blew a ribbon of grey that hung between us. Watching him smoke was part intimidation, part intoxication.
He walked up until he was inches from my face, the cigar smoke washing over me. I closed my eyes and let it sting my lashes. When he looked me up and down. It was clear he didn’t like what I was wearing. With one hard yank, he grabbed at my shirt and tore it from my body. The fabric split and fell away.
His callused hands went to my chest—pinching, rolling, making me flinch and breathe harder. “You're a cute little faggot,” he said. There was no softness in it. He slipped his hand lower, palms rough against my hips, and with a practised motion unbuckled my belt and tugged my jeans down. Yanked them off, taking my shoes with them. Throwing them into the corner.
My arms felt heavy, my wrist restricted. I stood exposed. just my jockstrap. The elastic was damp from the night and clung to me. He then rubbed his rough hands over my groin, arousing me. He then grabbed the elastic and pulled my jockstrap down with one quick movement. He picked them off the floor and brought them to his nose. Taking a deep breath in, before shoving them in my mouth.
He smiled, reading me like a book. “i can tell you’re going to be a good little submissive whore,” he said, and I felt my cheeks burn. He disappeared into the leather closet like a priest going into a chapel. I watched the door swing closed and heard the soft scuff of boots. When he returned, he carried a small stack of things: a thick leather harness folded over his arm, a heavy brass buckle, a narrow leash, a snug leather jockstrap, and a heavy steel chain coiled like a serpent.
When he slid a metal ring over my cock and balls, the cold hit me first — a brutal, bright jolt. Then he locked a tiny chastity cage around me, pressing until the lock clicked and the metal sat tight and unforgiving. “Your cock is mine, you hear me cunt”. I nodded without saying a word.
He unbuckled the harness and eased it up behind me, the leather cool and firm against the small of my back. His hands were efficient and sure — sliding straps under my arms, clipping heavy snap hooks into place. When the harness cinched across my chest, it pressed into the flesh, an even, intimate pressure that made my pulse spike. He adjusted the straps so they sat high under my pecs and low across my sternum, the leather hugging and defining in all the right places.
Next was the jockstrip — not fabric but moulded leather, a jockstrap with reinforced seams and a snug pouch. He pulled them up slowly, the leather whispering against my thighs. The jock he’d already locked over the cage got a second layer now, the leather compressing the metal, making everything feel smaller, more contained. The sound of buckles clicking into place felt loud in my ears. When he fastened the crotch strap, it pushed the metal snug against me, making the catch of the cage a constant, intimate companion to every breath.
Finally, he uncoiled the heavy steel chain. It was thick and cold where he held it, but the moment he looped it around my neck, it warmed against my skin. The padlock was weighty in his palm; when he clicked it shut, the sound was small but absolute.
For a heartbeat, all I felt was that lock — the tiny, absolute confirmation that I was claimed. The chain hung heavy, the weight pulling my chin down just enough that I had to tilt my head back. It wasn’t painful; it was real. It was ownership made audible.
With me properly attired, he then kicked my legs apart and attached each ankle to the cross. Now I was fully locked in place. I had no control. He stepped back and admired the composition: leather and metal, cigar smoke haloing his shoulders, my body wrapped and contained. “Look at you,” he murmured, almost fond. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”
He lifted the cigar, blew smoke into my face, then jerked the chain and pulled me close. Our lips met — his rough, whiskey-tinged breath and the taste of smoke. The kiss was possessive, claiming, and I let it take me for a frantic, dizzy second.
He stepped back, admiring his work: me naked but bound, my skin flushed from the whip, cock caged and straining, leather straps biting at my wrists. He stood fully dressed in boots and leather, a cigar smouldering between his fingers, watching me like an artist studying his own creation. Smoke curled around his head like a crown. I had no idea what was next.
Without a word, he reached down, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. It hung low and heavy, thick, even soft, a bull's cock. For a second I thought he was just going to stroke himself while he stared at me — smoke in his lungs, power in his eyes. Instead, he stepped forward, still smoking, and tilted his hips.
A hot stream hit me without warning. It splashed against the leather of my jockstrap and ran down my legs in rivulets, steaming, shocking. The smell and heat made my skin crawl and ache at once. He angled higher, letting it run over my belly, my chest, until it streaked my nipples and dripped off my chin. The hiss of his piss and the wet slap of drops on the floor filled the room. My breath came ragged; I couldn’t move.
When the stream slowed, he reached over, dragged the jockstrap from my mouth, and used it to wipe the piss from my skin — but not cleanly. He smeared it over me, up my abs, across my pecs, rubbing it into my skin like oil. When he was satisfied, he shoved the soaked fabric back into my mouth. The taste and smell filled my head. I was shocked at how good it felt, how excited I was by his smile.
He stepped closer, voice low and sure, eyes burning into me. “You’re going to smell like me, boy. Sweat. Piss. Cum. My scent on every inch of you. And you’re going to love it. You fucking cunt”
He pressed himself against me, our cocks grinding, his hard and heavy dick rubbing against my caged length. The cigar’s ember hovered near my cheek; he exhaled smoke into my face, his breath hot and thick. He leaned in, lips almost at my ear. “How do you want to start, boy? Are you ready for training? Ready to be whipped and broken in?”
Before I could answer, he began unfastening the belts at my arms and legs, loosening one only to spin me around and strap me tighter. My legs were forced apart again; leather cuffs snapped closed around my ankles, securing me so my arse was exposed and my cock hung low, directly in front of the cross. I turned my head, trying to watch him as he moved behind me. His hands came up and down my back, slow and deliberate, like he was reading a map of my skin — testing me, measuring me, readying me for whatever came next.
I’d never been whipped before. The idea of relinquishing that kind of control — of letting him draw lines I’d never crossed — made something inside me ache with desire. “Yes, Sir” I nodded, small and trembling, and he hummed with pleasure.
He circled to his wall of whips like a predator choosing a tool. He tested each one — the snap, the weight, the way the leather flexed — then settled on a thin black strap. He snapped it once in front of me, the sound loud in the hush, and smiled when he caught the flash of fear in my eyes. He took the jockstrap from my mouth and smiled. I want to hear you enjoying yourself. I want to hear every moan and scream. I want to hear the joy you have at being controlled. Then, with sly wink, added “or not”. Then gave a wicked smile.
He came up behind me and stroked the strap along the curve of my back, just a caress. Then he struck — one clean crack across the skin. Heat exploded where leather met flesh; a white-hot flare that left a shallow red line. I gasped and the sound turned my own fear into something raw and electric.
He watched my reaction, reading the way my muscles clenched and my breath caught, then struck again. The hits came measured at first, then with a rhythm that found my edges. Each sting bled into a slow bloom of heat and aching that pulsed deliciously under my skin. I cried out each time and moaned in the same breath, the punishments dissolving into pleasure as my body surrendered.
Between strikes, he leaned in close, fingers tracing the red lines as if admiring art. “You ready to submit, boy?” he whispered, voice soft but certain. “Willing to give yourself to Daddy?”
“Yes,” I breathed. The word unlatched something inside me, and the next lash landed softer because he let it — a reminder that this was his control, but it rested on my agreement.
He paused, hung up the strap, and came around to press the glowing cigar to the hollow at the back of my neck. The heat kissed my skin, and his finger found the rim of my arse, starting slow — one, then two — testing and stretching me. The sensation was intimate and invasive; I wanted more. I moaned in ecstasy as his fingers teased my whole. They want to make me greedy.
Then he walked back to the wall and looked through his collection, making me watch as he handled each toy. He held up two — one modest, one enormous — and let the choice hang between us. My stomach flipped at the sight of the larger one. He was deliberate in the way he lubed them, the sound of plastic and oil filling the room like an announcement.
When he returned, I could feel his fingers teasing my rim, coaxing and praising with tiny presses.
He brought lube with slow deliberation, the cool slick sliding down my crack. He started with a smaller one. He eased it in, stretching me to a comfortable, familiar size. It moved in and out with a patient rhythm until my muscles loosened and my moans softened. I relaxed into the testing, grateful for the small mercy.
He then leaned in, whispering into my ear. “Ready for the real thing?” he asked, voice low.
I wanted to scream “no”, that I didn’t know if I could take such a large dildo, yet somehow the answer came out of me before I could stop it: “Yes. Please.” My voice was ragged and raw.
He eased the big dildo’s head to my entrance. It pressed, slow and unrelenting, widening me until my breath hitched and tears stung the corners of my eyes. The first inch was the hardest—an animal, exquisite burning that made me feel both violated and wanted. He moved with patient cruelty, inch by deliberate inch, letting me adjust, letting my body learn the geometry of being filled.
When the head popped through and the shaft pushed deeper, I thought I’d break — pain braided tightly with a fierce hunger. He murmured, “Good little whore,” and drove forward, slow then steady, showing me how to take him. He pushed until I felt the base at my taint; then he withdrew a little, giving me a brittle, aching reprieve before pushing again.
It was relentless and rhythmic, pounding into that place in my guts that kept wanting more even as it burned. The first shouts of pain blurred into long, low moans until pleading and praise were the same thing. Each thrust slammed me into a new little surrender, and at one point I opened my mouth to cry the word I trusted would stop it — but when I tasted smoke and whiskey and his scent, the safeword stayed folded back inside me, because I wanted this in every ruined-piece way.
He set the tempo: long, heavy strokes to remind me who held the rhythm, quicker drives when he wanted to hear me break into desperate noises. Between insertions, he cupped my chin with his hand and kissed the shell of my ear — a brief tenderness that kept the edges from going truly savage. It was a lesson in control: the pain, the relief, the praise.
When he finally slowed and withdrew, my body shuddered with a fierce, hollow thrill. I sagged against the cross, palms chafed, back hot and striped, the metal chain at my throat a constant weight and reminder. He looked at me with that hungry, satisfied look and murmured, “That was a good little faggot. You took it well.”
I could barely form words. “Thank you,” I managed, and those two words felt like worship. The ache in me was a bright, humming ember; the knowledge that I’d survived — and loved — the lesson made something warm and awful bloom in my chest.
He looked at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Boy, you’ve given me one hell of a workout. I’m starving. I’m going to grab some late-night pizza. You wait here for me. Maybe I’ll even take a nap before I come back down.”
I looked at him, shocked. How could he leave me like this?
He turned and opened the door at the top of the stairs. A slant of warm light fell into the basement for a heartbeat before he shut it, the heavy lock clicking into place.
Alone, bound to the cross, I sagged against the leather. Every muscle ached, my skin slick with sweat. My hole throbbed, empty, already craving the next violation. I drifted in and out, half dreaming, until exhaustion pulled me under.
I woke to the sound of the door opening, the glow from the stairwell spilling over me. Heavy boots on the stairs. He appeared, eyes glinting, fresh cigar in hand. “I see you’ve had a little rest,” he said. “Good. You’ll need it.”
He held a bottle to my lips. I drank greedily, only to realise it wasn’t water but vodka. He chuckled at my gasp. “Not too much, boy.” Then, with a smirk, he poured it out and refilled it with real water. “Hydrate. You’re going to need it.”
He unbuckled my straps. My arms dropped to my sides, aching. I fell to my knees. On the floor, I looked up at him. He watched me, slowly unzipping, pulling his cock free — heavy, swollen. I opened my mouth instinctively, hoping for a taste.
Instead, a stream of hot piss hit me square in the face, splashing over my lips, running down my chest. My instinct was to close my mouth, but I left it open, letting it trickle over my tongue, down my cheeks. He caught my chin in one hand, forcing my jaw shut. “Swallow, boy.”
I obeyed, swallowing hard, the taste bitter and shocking, making me shudder with shame and heat. He pissed over my hair, my shoulders, my chest until I was dripping.
Happy with my pathetic form — kneeling, exhausted, covered in his acrid piss smell — he shoved his cock into my mouth. I tasted the bitter tang still clinging to him, his piss coating the tip before he forced it deeper, driving the taste straight onto my tongue.
His cock swelled in my mouth as I licked it clean, the taste of piss and precum heavy on my tongue. I looked up at him — cigar clenched between his snarling lips, smoke curling around his face, his eyes locked on me with pure disdain. Happy with my pathetic form — kneeling, exhausted, coated in his acrid piss smell — he suddenly drove his cock deeper, stretching my lips wide, shoving the bitter taste further down my throat. Each thrust pressed the sharp flavour of him hard against my tongue, forcing me to swallow it like the filthy whore he’d made me.
His hand locked at the back of my head, pushing me down hard on his cock. He used my throat like it was made for him, hips snapping forward with animal precision, stretching my lips wider than I ever imagined, battering the back of my throat without mercy. Smoke curled down from his cigar, drifting across me as I gagged, drooled, and tears streaked my cheeks.
“That’s it, cunt,” he growled, his voice low and certain. “You’re mine to use.”
The pressure of his hands — forcing my mouth up and down, controlling me — sent heat crawling through me. I took him greedily, swallowing every inch, my lips sliding over him again and again. He would pause occasionally, head bowed, taking deep pulls of his cigar, smoke curling between us. I looked up at him, half-broken but still burning with want, and he caught my gaze.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Take every inch, you filthy whore.”
When he finally pulled out, spit and precum smeared across my face, a slow smile curled his lips. “Sling time, boy.”
Without hesitation, he hauled my spent body up and eased me into the leather sling. The cool backing pressed against me, my arms gripping the chains as my legs were lifted high, leaving me fully exposed. He dropped between my thighs, drawing a deep inhale on his cigar before exhaling smoke across my ass, letting it curl over my skin. He rubbed it in like a mark, a claim.
“I’ve been waiting for this all night,” he said, beard scraping the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as his tongue slid between my cheeks. I gasped, body trembling. His rimming was slow, deliberate, and thorough — the kind of humiliation that made me ache harder. My cock strained in its cage, aching unbearably, every nerve alive. His tongue explored me like a map, mapping my arse with possession and intent.
Then he stood, cock glistening, eyes dark with hunger. My ass ached and begged for him. “Are you ready for your cunt to be owned?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pressed himself against me.
With one hard thrust, he was inside me to the hilt. I cried out, chains creaking under my grip. Pain rippled through me, sharp and deep, and beneath it a burning, aching hunger. He leaned over, smoke curling from his lips, beard rough against my cheek as he kissed me — claiming me.
He pulled back, returned the cigar to his lips, and began to pound me, each thrust harder and heavier than the last. “You’re mine now, whore,” he snarled into my ear. “My boy. My hole. My bitch. I’m going to fill you up. You’re going to take it all.”
“Yes,” I gasped, voice trembling. “Fill me.”
His rhythm was relentless, brutal. Pain and pleasure braided together as my body clenched around him. My cock strained in the cage, aching with need. His pace grew savage, guttural moans escaping him as his body tensed. With a deep groan and a shudder, he came — body stiff, spilling deep inside me. I clenched, shuddering, every nerve alight as I felt him flood me, each heavy stroke driving him deeper.
When he finally pulled out, cum leaked down my thighs. His fingers caught it, pressing it to my lips. Without hesitation, I sucked them clean.
““Good boy,” he murmured, his voice softer now but still laced with command. Sweat dripped from his brow onto my skin. “How did you like your first day of training?”
I looked up at him, lips still swollen, and smiled weakly.
“You were quite the little whore,” he said, a hint of pride under the growl. “I’ve got more for you if you’re up for it.”
“I’m all yours, Sir,” I whispered, throat raw but certain.
His mouth curled into a slow, predatory smile. “That’s what I like to hear…”
“Normally, I’d leave you down here on the cold floor and have you ready for round two in the morning. But it’s your first time. I’ll let you come up and sleep with me.”
I followed him upstairs into a room unlike the basement — clean, quiet, almost serene. The morning light told me we had been down there awhile. He undressed slowly, cock still heavy between his thighs, then slid into bed behind me. His chest pressed warm against my back, his cock nestled between my cheeks. I let the exhaustion take me. I drifted into a haze of heat and ache, not even aware of time, and didn’t care.
