Second Skin
Preface
Jax Carter once owned every room he walked into—quiet, married, dominant. But power shifts when you offer your throat to the right man.
That man is Tre Richmond—a thick-built ex-linebacker with inked arms, a 9.5-inch uncut dick, and a voice deep enough to settle storms. Tre didn’t ask to lead. He earned it—between Jax’s legs, inside his silence, through every motion that didn’t need explanation.
Now they train together. Not as teacher and student. As equals. Coiled tension. Swapped control. And Tre’s dominance isn’t just deep—it’s contagious.
Because someone else is watching.
Shawn Taylor, clean-cut and always plugged, runs the barbershop Tre works in. He belongs to Jax—or used to. But the way he trembles around Tre now, the way his voice shakes when Tre speaks—it’s more than curiosity.
It’s craving.
And somewhere in the shadows, someone is watching all of them.
A new Brotherhood is forming. Private. Dangerous. Raw.
Built not on theatrics.
But on presence.
Discipline.
And submission that means something.
Character Guide
Tre Richmond:
Tattooed. Massive. Confident in the quietest way. Tre’s cock is 9.5 inches—thick, uncut, with a piercing through the tip. He doesn’t fuck to perform. He fucks to own. And when he wraps his hand around your throat, you forget your own name. His dominance is calm, unbothered, and cruelly patient.
Jax Carter
Once the trainer. Now a tastefully trained submissive, though only Tre’s ever touched his hole. Jax is still pure presence—broad-shouldered, slow-moving, and always calculating. His 9-inch cock doesn’t rise often, but when it does, it commands. He doesn’t give in easily. But when he does, it’s devastating.
Shawn Taylor
Slim. Submissive. Beautiful when bent. His ass is kept stretched and slick by Jax—but lately, he’s been stroking to Tre’s voice instead. Always discreet. Always polite. But behind those perfect fades and clean lines? A plug is always warming his hole. He won’t say what he wants. But his body begs without a word.
Micah Lane (Mentioned)
A bratty twink with a pierced cock and a mouth that knows exactly how to get him punished. He’s not present this time, but his name still rings through the circle. Especially when Tre’s hand tightens mid-session and says, “You’re not Micah. So stop acting like him.”
Scene One: Reheat
9:17 p.m. — Taylor & Blade Barbershop (Back Room)
Tre didn’t knock.
He stepped through the rear hallway like he owned it—which, in all the ways that mattered, he did. Not on paper. But in presence. Energy. The air shifted when Tre walked in. Thickened. Slowed. Got quiet like it knew not to interrupt.
He wasn’t there for a lineup. Wasn’t there for Shawn.
Not exactly.
He came back for the clippers he “forgot.”
But what he really wanted was a moment. A check-in.
To feel the weight of Jax’s hands again—only they weren’t scheduled tonight. And Tre wasn’t the kind of man who begged.
Still, something buzzed under his skin.
And that’s when he heard it.
Low, breathy moans. A whisper of friction. That telltale creak of the leather client chair—the one in Shawn’s private booth.
Tre moved without rushing. Steps slow. Deliberate.
He paused at the cracked door.
Shawn was in the chair, reclined, shirt off. One hand on his cock. The other holding a remote.
The plug buzzed. Glowed red with every pulse.
And Shawn was wrecked.
Back arched. Mouth slack. Hair damp. His voice was a whisper of prayer—“fuck—please—God—”—as he rocked into his own hand. But it wasn’t desperate. It was indulgent. Like he needed to be seen.
And he was.
Tre leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
He didn’t say a word.
Not for a full thirty seconds.
When Shawn finally noticed, his whole body jolted.
“Shit—” He tried to cover himself. “Tre—what the fuck—”
“You left the door open,” Tre said calmly. “That was your choice.”
Shawn’s lips parted, but no words came out.
“You wanted to be caught?” Tre asked.
“No—”
Tre’s eyes didn’t move. “Then why the show?”
Silence.
The plug buzzed again. Shawn twitched.
“You read Jax’s text,” Tre said. “You know what I did to him.”
“I—” Shawn faltered. “I didn’t think you’d—”
“Watch?” Tre stepped inside. “You stroked to the thought of me. Don’t lie.”
Shawn gripped the armrest. Still hard. Still full.
“I ain’t gonna touch you,” Tre said, voice dropping. “But I’m here now.”
Shawn breathed harder.
“You want me to watch, say it.”
Shawn looked away.
Tre leaned closer. “Say it, or close the door and finish alone.”
The words slipped out like a confession.
“Watch me.”
Tre sat.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared as Shawn’s hand moved again. Plug buzzing. Hole twitching. His chest rose fast, moans soft now—like he was ashamed of how good it felt to be seen.
And Tre didn’t look away.
Didn’t stroke. Didn’t speak.
He watched like a man claiming territory.
And Shawn came harder than he had in months.
Scene Two: Private Heat
8:57 p.m. — Char & Smoke, Private Wine Room
The door was already cracked.
Tre didn’t knock. Just stepped through.
Char & Smoke’s private cellar wasn’t meant for pleasure, but Jax used every space like it could be one. Dim wall sconces. Chilled oak walls. A single table with two untouched bourbons sweating in crystal.
Jax stood near the shelf. Black-on-black suit. No tie. No cigar this time—just heat behind the eyes and a stillness that made Tre stop walking.
“You’re late,” Jax said, not turning.
“Two minutes,” Tre answered. “You miss me already?”
Jax turned slowly, lips hinting at a smirk. “I saw you watch him.”
Tre didn’t flinch. “He told you?”
“Didn’t have to. He came plugged and breathless to my house. I could still smell your name on him.”
Tre said nothing. Just poured the bourbon, sipped once.
Jax stepped close. “You ever touch him?”
“No.”
“You want to?”
Tre’s voice didn’t rise. “I think he wants me to.”
Jax’s jaw tightened—barely.
Tre took another sip. “That why I’m here?”
“No,” Jax said. “You’re here because I need to see if you can stay in control… when everything in the room wants you to lose it.”
Jax turned, opened a second door behind the wine rack.
Inside was a man—mid-30s, lean, brown skin, blindfolded, collared. Not trembling. Not scared. Just ready.
Plugged. Kneeling. Submissive from his bones outward.
Tre walked forward, shirt sleeves cuffed. Slow.
“What’s his name?” Tre asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jax said. “You’re not here to know him. You’re here to own him.”
Tre didn’t step in yet.
“You watching again?” he asked.
“I always do,” Jax said.
Tre exhaled through his nose. Then stepped in.
9:12 p.m. — Through the One-Way Glass
Shawn leaned forward, knuckles white where they gripped the armrest.
He didn’t know Jax had installed observation glass in the wine room. But he wasn’t shocked either.
What did shock him was the way Tre moved—unbothered. In control. Not even aroused yet, but dripping in dominance.
Tre stripped the sub without rush.
Didn’t fuck him. Didn’t even touch his cock.
He bent the man forward on command. Slid two fingers between his cheeks, just enough to edge the plug. Spoke only once.
“Arch deeper.”
And the man obeyed.
That’s what made Shawn hard. Not the visuals.
The obedience Tre pulled without raising his voice.
Shawn looked down at himself.
Hard again.
And Jax noticed.
“You jealous?” Jax asked, voice quiet beside him.
Shawn didn’t answer.
“He’s not yours,” Jax added. “But he sees you.”
Shawn clenched his thighs tighter.
In the room, Tre leaned in.
Still clothed. Still calm. Still not touching himself.
“Say thank you,” he told the sub.
And when the sub obeyed, Tre didn’t smile.
He just locked eyes with the glass—like he knew someone was behind it.
And Shawn couldn’t look away.
Scene Three: Exposure
10:41 p.m. — Char & Smoke, Observation Wing
Tre didn’t need confirmation.
He knew.
Knew someone was behind the glass. Knew the way heat shifted in a room when someone was watching and trying not to be seen.
That wasn’t paranoia. That was presence.
He ended the session early. Not because the sub was done—but because he didn’t need more.
He’d already claimed control.
And the air had started to feel heavy in a different way.
Tre stood, pulled the door shut behind him, and headed straight for the hallway behind the cellar. The observation wing.
He didn’t knock.
He opened the door and caught Shawn mid-stroke.
Pants halfway down. Plug in again. Shirt sticking to his chest from sweat.
Jax stood behind him, arms folded, watching him like a man grading an exam.
Shawn gasped.
Tre said nothing.
He just looked at Jax.
Jax nodded once. “He followed me here.”
Shawn scrambled, fumbling to stand. “I didn’t mean—”
“You meant it,” Tre said, voice calm.
“You been watching him for weeks,” Jax added. “That tension’s not curiosity. That’s craving.”
“I’m not—”
Tre stepped forward. Slow. Controlled.
“Every time I walked in the shop, you’d hold your breath.”
Shawn swallowed. “That’s not—”
“You were hoping I’d notice. I did.”
Shawn backed up until the wall hit him. Face flushed. Cock still wet.
Tre stepped closer, close enough to smell the clean sweat and nerves on him.
“You want me to touch you?”
Silence.
“You want Jax to give you to me?”
More silence.
“I won’t ask again.”
Shawn’s eyes fluttered. “Yes.”
Tre didn’t smile. He didn’t even move.
He just turned to Jax.
And waited.
Jax studied both of them. Then finally, slowly, nodded once.
“You can have him,” he said. “But not tonight. Not until he earns it.”
Tre stepped back, like a command was given and received.
And that’s when Shawn broke—whimpering as the denied release hit deeper than any stroke could have.
Scene Four: Brotherhood
11:28 p.m. — Private Loft, South Loop
The elevator didn’t ding.
It just opened—silent and smooth—like it knew who was coming up.
Tre stepped in first. Still buttoned, still unreadable. Jax followed. Calm. Surer now in his silence than he ever was in command.
The loft didn’t look like anything kink-related. No toys. No padded benches. No black-and-red drama.
Just a beautiful, open space—leather, concrete, jazz humming under the air vents. A wall of whiskey. Clean windows showing no one could see in.
But the air?
It buzzed.
Shawn was already there. Dressed. Plugged. Silent.
He looked different tonight.
Not unsure.
Just… ready.
Jax didn’t wait. He walked to the kitchen island and laid down a small black box. Opened it.
Inside: three polished silver rings. No stones. No flash. Just weight.
“This isn’t a collar,” he said. “It’s not decoration.”
Tre stepped closer, arms still folded.
“This ain’t for people who want to play power. This is for men who understand that it costs something.”
“What’s the ring mean?” Shawn asked, voice low.
“That you’ve submitted,” Jax said, “or earned submission.”
Tre picked one up.
It wasn’t light.
It had presence.
“Something’s been forming since South Side,” Jax continued. “I didn’t plan it. But it’s happening.”
“What is it?” Shawn asked.
“A brotherhood,” Tre said. Voice even. Deep.
Jax nodded.
“Not a club. Not an app group. A network of men who train and hold each other accountable. Subs. Dominants. Watchers. Learners. Nobody performs. Nobody begs for views. You either earn your place… or you get out.”
Shawn looked between them. “You think there’s others?”
Jax locked eyes with Tre. “There are. And they’ve been waiting.”
The air thickened.
“Who leads it?” Shawn asked.
Jax didn’t speak.
Tre didn’t either.
That silence was the answer.
Shawn’s lips parted—but he didn’t argue.
Scene Five: Interference
10:02 p.m. — The Monroe Hotel, 34th Floor, Private Cellar Suite
Tre entered the suite with no questions.
He’d gotten the message from Jax an hour ago.
“There’s a new submissive. I need you to prepare him for me. Room 3402. Walk in. Don’t ask. Just begin.”
It wasn’t a request.
It was trust.
Tre moved like he’d done this a hundred times. Boots heavy on marble. Shoulders broad under black linen. A presence that filled the room before he spoke a word.
The submissive was already there—naked, kneeling, plugged, collared.
But it wasn’t just any submissive.
It was Jax.
Tre’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t freeze.
He stepped forward, removed his coat, and let it fall to the chair.
Jax didn’t lift his head. He stayed still. Breathing slow. A man surrendering on his own terms.
Tre circled him once.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t touch him. Just… looked.
Then finally—voice low, sharp, clear:
“You sure?”
Jax’s voice came out quiet, but steady. “I told you not to ask.”
Tre’s cock throbbed in his slacks.
He undressed without rush, until only his heavy, veined, pierced dick hung between his thighs—thick, swaying, already full.
He didn’t tease.
Didn’t prep.
Just pressed Jax down over the bench, pulled the plug with one clean grip, and slid inside.
Jax moaned.
The kind of moan no one had ever heard from him.
And Tre didn’t stop.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t wait.
He gripped Jax’s waist, leaned forward until sweat slid off his neck, and owned the moment.
There was no talking.
Just impact.
Breath.
Stretched dominance inside a man who had once trained everyone else.
Tre stroked himself inside Jax’s ass. Slow. Deep. Commanding.
And Jax took it.
Every inch.
When Tre came, it was thick—filling, warm, gut-deep. He didn’t warn him. Didn’t ask permission.
Jax just shuddered.
And whispered, “Good.”
11:09 p.m. — Hotel Balcony
They stood side by side in robes, silent.
Wind moved across the skyline. The city didn’t know what had just happened.
But they did.
“You’re becoming something else,” Jax said.
Tre didn’t look over. “What’s that mean?”
“It means you don’t just dominate rooms anymore,” Jax said. “You rearrange them.”
Tre finally turned. “You regret it?”
Jax smirked. “I came twice. What do you think?”
They didn’t laugh. They didn’t touch.
They just stood there, two dangerous men—one still leaking from the other—watching the city breathe.
12:01 a.m. — Basement Parking, Lower Level
Tre made it halfway to his car before a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Older. Tall. Dressed like money and danger.
“You Tre Richmond?” the man asked, voice smooth, Southern.
Tre didn’t answer.
The man smiled, but it never touched his eyes.
“So you’re the boy who thinks he can train the one I used to own.”
Tre’s jaw set.
The man stepped closer.
“I’m not here to fight you,” he said. “I’m here to watch. And maybe… remind you who Jax Carter really belongs to.”
The door behind them closed.
Scene cut.
