Third Strike
Character Guide
- Tre Richmond: Ex-linebacker. Heavy-built. Inked from shoulder to calf. 9.5 inches of thick, uncut cock—pierced at the tip and always heavy. Tre’s voice alone makes men leak. But it’s his presence that ruins them. He’s no longer a student. He dominates with breath, pressure, and patience. And now, he leads the Brotherhood.
- Jax Carter: The original architect of obedience. 6’3”, built like power in a suit. His 9-inch cock is thick and slow, like the man himself. He used to own rooms with silence. Now he kneels for Tre in them. Still married. Still married. Still dangerous. But his submission is no weakness—it’s a weapon sharpened by trust.
- Shawn Taylor: Silent. Slim. Plugged even when fading up a client. His 7-inch cock is always thick when Tre speaks. He belongs to Jax—or did. Lately, he obeys Tre without question. But obsession is creeping in. And if he doesn’t learn the difference between craving and need, he might get broken in ways no one expected.
- Micah Lane (Returns): Bratty. Pierced. Always edging the line. Micah’s lean frame hides an endless hunger. His cock is caged unless someone earns his respect, and his mouth will get him punished if it doesn’t get him gagged first.
- Malik Rios (New – Dominant Initiate): 5’11”, Puerto Rican, faded gold chain, deep brown eyes. Ex-firefighter. Doesn’t speak much but stares until men squirm. His 8-inch cock curves upward, heavy with untested dominance. Tre sees potential. Others see threat.
- Bishop King (New – Submissive): 6’2”, 220 lbs. Brown skin, thick thighs, tattooed spine, lips made to be fucked. A switch who submits to no one—until Tre makes him drop without a single touch. His safe word? “Earned.”
- Unknown Man (Jax’s Former Owner): Still unnamed. But his presence is undeniable. He once trained Jax and walked away. Now he’s returned with his own agenda—and he’s watching Tre closely.
Scene One: Return of the Past
8:44 p.m. — Lower Garden Level, The Yard
The air didn’t move.
Tre Richmond stood on the edge of the reflecting pool, black dress pants sharp against his thighs, shirt rolled at the sleeves. He wasn’t sweating. Wasn’t blinking. Just still—hands in his pockets, presence filling the concrete garden like smoke.
Across from him sat a man.
Older. Clean-lined suit. Dark skin with undertones like bourbon. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed surgical.
He didn’t lean back in the teakwood chair. He leaned forward—hands together, elbows on his knees.
Like he was studying a problem.
Or watching a younger version of himself across a chessboard.
“You’re not what I expected,” the man said.
Tre’s voice came calm. “Don’t care.”
That made the man grin. “And you’re not scared of me.”
“Should I be?”
“You’ve got Jax Carter bent over for you, calling you sir.” The man chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “I’d say that earns you a little respect. But it don’t mean you own him.”
“I don’t.”
That made the man pause.
“I don’t own Jax,” Tre said, stepping forward just once. “He gave himself. That’s not ownership. That’s a gift.”
The man stood up slowly.
He was tall—maybe 6’4”—with long shoulders, unhurried limbs, and a soft southern accent hiding in the edges of his vowels.
“You think you’ve earned him?”
Tre didn’t flinch. “I did.”
The man took a step around the pool. Not aggressive. Not challenging. Just deliberate.
“I met Jax when he was twenty-three. No beard. No scars. Just that stare. Quiet. Heavy. He wouldn’t speak for an hour, then drop a sentence that changed your whole damn life.”
Tre didn’t respond. He just kept facing forward.
The man chuckled again. “You think I didn’t notice that he started using myphrases with you? That slow clap on the shoulder? That breath control training? That wasn’t him. That was me. My handprint’s still in the back of his brain.”
“He ain’t your boy anymore,” Tre said low. “And if you ever laid a hand on him again, you’d get folded before your dick remembered it used to work.”
Silence.
For a beat, the only sound was a soft wind moving over the water.
Then the man spoke, voice lower.
“You really think you’re the first man Jax Carter dropped for?”
Tre’s eyes didn’t move. But something tightened in his jaw.
The man smirked.
“Oh, yeah. You thought you cracked something no one else could. You thought he chose you. He did. But I trained him to want that.”
“You trained him to fear it,” Tre said.
That made the man freeze.
Then: “Say that again.”
Tre stepped closer, slow and grounded like a man who didn’t bluff.
“You trained him to flinch at want. To wait until the room was too quiet. To second-guess pleasure. To control instead of connect.”
“You don’t know shit about—”
“I know what his shoulders did when I held him the first night,” Tre said.
Voice still calm. Still quiet.
“I know how fast his throat clicked when I didn’t hurt him. When I said no the first time. When I plugged him but didn’t fuck him, just to prove I could wait.”
The older man stared now. Harder. But Tre didn’t blink.
“That’s not control,” Tre said. “That’s dominance. And you wouldn’t recognize it because you’ve never had it. You took it.”
Silence again.
The man laughed once. Sharp. “So what now? You expect me to kneel?”
“No,” Tre said. “You expect me to throw the first punch. So you can prove I’m just a boy with bark.”
He stepped back.
“You’re gonna follow me. You’re gonna watch me work. You’re gonna see men drop without me raising a hand. And when Jax gets better—when he moans without apology, when he walks like his ass is still leaking because I made him wait for it—you’re gonna realize you never owned him. You broke him. I rebuilt him.”
Tre walked away.
The man didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
But he followed with his eyes—like a man watching an empire he thought he built… walk away with someone else’s flag flying high.
Scene Two: First Brotherhood Gathering
9:17 p.m. — West Loop, The Obsidian Loft
No signs marked the building.
Just black brick, heavy steel, and a keyless entrance that didn’t open unless it knew you.
Tre entered first.
Black slacks, loose collar, ring on his right middle finger. He didn’t speak as he stepped into the freight elevator alone—wide space, no buttons, just one ride to the top.
Inside, you didn’t hear music. You felt it.
Sub-bass like breath. Vibration like pulse. Velvet shadows moving between concrete beams.
The Obsidian Loft wasn’t built for play.
It was built for presence.
And tonight, the first gathering had begun.
—
Three men waited in silence.
Jax stood near the window, hands behind his back, black tee tight on his arms. No collar. No smirk. His face unreadable.
Shawn knelt already—plug in, posture perfect, cock hard but untouched. The mark behind his neck had faded from the last session, but the obedience hadn’t.
The third figure was new.
Malik Rios.
Ex-firefighter. Puerto Rican. 5’11”, lean but brutal, with a gold chain and calm stare. He leaned against the wall, eyes on Tre the second he entered—but didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
Tre stepped into the center of the room and waited.
No nod.
No announcement.
Just breath.
And slowly… silence bloomed.
The others came in like shadows. A man in a velvet harness with nothing else on. A tall Black sub in leather pants, hands clasped behind his back. Micah, caged again, wrists bound in front like a brat who knew he wasn’t getting attention tonight.
They stood in a circle.
Tre’s voice was the first thing to break the still.
“Presence,” he said, tone clean and deep, “is earned. Not performed.”
Eyes on him.
“No safe words tonight. Because there’s no play. There’s no fucking. No kneeling unless told.”
Shawn’s cock twitched. Micah bit his lip. Malik’s hands curled into fists like he was fighting the urge to test that.
Tre walked the inside of the circle. His boots echoed against the polished concrete. Slow. Heavy.
“I started this because I got tired of performance,” he said. “Tired of watching men fake control. Moan on cue. Stroke when nobody meant it.”
He stopped near Jax.
“You all want something. Some of y’all want to submit. Some of y’all want to own. Some of y’all don’t know what the fuck you want.”
He looked at Malik.
Malik didn’t look away.
“Tonight’s not about labels. It’s about earning.”
Tre turned, then spoke to the room.
“This is the House of Obsidian. The only rule is you leave your ego at the door. Nobody’s owed anything. Nobody’s above correction. If you step wrong, you get stripped. If you fake it, you get denied. If you beg for attention, you better be ready to be ignored.”
The tension in the room thickened. You could feel it in your teeth.
Tre nodded once.
“Strip.”
No shouting.
No countdown.
Just obedience.
Shawn moved first—silently, folding his clothes, folding his hands.
Micah struggled with his cage keys but still kept his mouth shut.
Malik didn’t flinch. He took off his shirt like he’d done it a thousand times in smoke and sweat. His chest was scarred from heat. His nipples ringed. He didn’t remove his chain.
Tre let it slide.
“You’ll earn your role tonight,” Tre said.
Malik nodded.
Jax hadn’t moved. He wasn’t being commanded tonight. But his eyes were locked on Tre like he was watching something divine form in front of him.
Tre circled back to the center. Raised one finger.
“Two steps forward.”
Only three men moved—Malik, Micah, and the tall sub in leather pants.
Tre looked at each.
“Why are you here?”
Micah spoke first. “Because nobody else can control me.”
Tre smirked. “You haven’t been controlled. You’ve been teased. There’s a difference.”
Micah swallowed, breathing harder.
Tre moved to the leathered sub. “You?”
“I want to earn silence,” the man said, voice shaking.
Tre nodded. “We’ll see if you can take it.”
Then he turned to Malik.
No question this time.
Malik spoke anyway.
“I want to lead. But I want to deserve it.”
The whole room paused.
That was the right answer.
Tre stepped close—barely six inches from Malik’s face.
“You ever submitted?”
“No.”
“You ever dominated?”
“Yes.”
“You ever doubted yourself?”
A beat.
Then Malik said, “Yes.”
Tre looked at him for a long moment.
“Strip the rest,” Tre said.
Malik did it.
Slacks gone. Boots left by the door.
His cock was thick, uncut, darker than the rest of him—and already hard.
Tre touched his own ring. Turned to the room.
“No one leaves tonight with pleasure. But every man here will leave with purpose.”
He stepped back.
Jax stepped forward—slowly—took off his ring, and set it on the floor in the center.
Then, without speaking, he knelt.
Tre didn’t react.
Didn’t gloat.
Didn’t move.
Just said quietly:
“This is what presence looks like.”
And in that moment, half the room stopped breathing.
Scene Three: Shawn’s Obsession
10:13 p.m. — Back Room, Taylor & Blade Barbershop
The shop was empty.
Clippers wiped down. Capes hung. Chairs locked.
But Shawn was still there.
Door dead-bolted. Phone flipped over. Light off in the break room. Only the low buzz of the mini fridge humming near the floor.
He was on the couch.
Shirt off. Pants open. Plug already inside him—one Tre had used on him last week. Slightly thicker than Jax’s, colder to the touch.
He lubed it again anyway.
Not because it hurt.
But because he wanted it to.
—
Shawn wasn’t supposed to be doing this.
Tre was Jax’s now—or something like that.
But ever since that night in the loft… the way Tre stood in front of everyone… the way even Jax dropped…
Shawn hadn’t been able to stop thinking.
And now, he couldn’t stop stroking.
One hand braced on the couch. One wrapped around his thick, dripping cock—7 inches, curved slightly left, full even when soft. But right now he was leaking down his own wrist.
He didn’t think about the clients.
Didn’t think about the cameras.
Didn’t think about the rules.
Just Tre’s voice.
That low, barely-there rumble in the loft:
“Presence over performance.”
Shawn moaned quietly—biting his own fist—grinding down against the pressure of the plug.
He whispered, “Fuck…”
And that’s when he realized—he wasn’t alone.
—
Tre leaned against the doorframe.
No sound. No warning.
Just presence.
6’2”, broad, arms bare beneath a black tee. His thick, tattooed forearms crossed as he watched. Boots silent on the tile. His eyes never blinked.
Shawn froze.
Hand still wrapped around his own dick.
Plug still pulsing inside him.
Tre didn’t say anything.
He just tilted his head slightly.
“Fuck,” Shawn breathed again—this time in a whole different voice.
Tre stepped into the room.
No smile. No commands.
Just presence.
Shawn scrambled to sit up, to pull his pants—“Wait, I didn’t know—”
Tre raised one finger.
“Stop.”
Shawn froze again. Breathing ragged now.
“I wasn’t… it was just—”
“I said stop.”
The tone wasn’t raised.
But the command hit like weight.
Tre walked over and sat in the barber chair opposite the couch. Legs spread. Elbows on thighs. Cock heavy behind his zipper.
He didn’t stroke.
Didn’t unzip.
Just watched.
“You came back for somethin’?” Shawn asked, voice shaky.
Tre’s eyes didn’t move. “I never left.”
Shawn flushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“You wanted to be seen.”
Shawn hesitated.
“…No.”
Tre smirked.
“You plugged up. Shirt off. Strokin’ loud. Door unlocked.”
A beat.
“Your body was already saying yes, even if your mouth still playing scared.”
Shawn looked down. His cock was still full—throbbing now, painfully so. His ass clenched around the plug like it didn’t know what to do next.
Tre leaned forward.
“You want to be used?”
Shawn swallowed. “…Not by just anyone.”
“I’m not anyone.”
Silence.
Then Tre stood.
Walked over.
Stood above him.
Close.
So close Shawn could smell his cologne—bergamot, tobacco, heat.
Tre didn’t touch him.
Just spoke low.
“You’re already leaking. Don’t lie.”
Shawn looked up, jaw tight. “Then what do you want?”
“I want to watch you edge yourself again,” Tre said. “And this time, you ask me if you can come.”
Shawn’s breath caught.
Tre didn’t sit this time. He stayed towering. Watching.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Show me.”
—
Shawn didn’t speak.
He just did it.
He leaned back into the couch, body already shaking.
Hand gripped his own cock, slower this time—more exposed. The plug inside him throbbed with his heartbeat, deeper now, as if it knew Tre was there.
“Eyes on me,” Tre said.
Shawn looked up.
And that’s when it clicked.
It wasn’t about coming.
It wasn’t even about being touched.
It was about being owned—without a hand laid on him.
Tre’s voice came again, softer now.
“Slower.”
Shawn slowed.
“Good.”
Another stroke.
“Now say it.”
Shawn blinked. “Say what?”
“Say what this is.”
Shawn shivered. “…Obedience.”
Tre’s cock bulged beneath his pants.
And for the first time, he did unzip.
Didn’t stroke. Just let it rest.
9.5 inches. Thick. Uncut. The tip glistened already, pierced straight through with a dark silver barbell.
Shawn moaned.
“I didn’t say come,” Tre whispered.
“I—fuck—I can’t—”
Tre’s voice hardened. “You can.”
Shawn squeezed. His balls ached. His spine arched.
“Ask me.”
“Please—”
“Ask like you mean it.”
Shawn’s voice cracked. “Sir… can I please come for you?”
Tre stepped closer.
Close enough that his cock hovered just inches from Shawn’s lips.
“…Do it,” Tre said.
Shawn exploded.
He bucked, moaning into his own wrist, cum spilling across his hand, his stomach, his thighs. He writhed through it, leaking and leaking, body trying to hold the shape of the command inside him.
Tre didn’t move.
Didn’t stroke.
Just stood there—watching.
And whispered:
“Next time, you don’t get to use your hands.”
—
The room fell silent again.
Shawn collapsed back, chest heaving.
Tre turned.
But paused at the door.
“You’re learning,” he said.
Then left—without a backward glance.
Scene Four: The Challenge
11:56 p.m. — The Lookout, Private Loft, River North
The room wasn’t loud.
But it listened.
Concrete walls. One black camera. No angles but direct.
Five men sat along the far side of the glass loft, silent in their chairs, wearing rings, holding nothing but ice-melted bourbon.
And at the center of the room—bare knees pressed to leather, shoulders squared—was Jax Carter.
Stripped.
Unplugged.
Waiting.
The tattoo between his shoulder blades glistened faintly from lube. His chest still held a scratch mark Tre hadn’t meant to leave last time. But he didn’t cover it.
Tre stood ten feet away.
No shirt. Slacks open. Cock hard but untouched—9.5 inches of thick, heavy dominance ready to shift the whole room.
And seated in the far corner, arms folded?
Jax’s former owner.
Watching.
Smiling.
—
“You sure about this?” Tre asked, voice calm, for the fifth time.
Jax didn’t look up.
But his answer was low, certain.
“I’m yours tonight. Do what you came to do.”
Tre’s jaw flexed.
He stepped forward.
Boots quiet on the lacquered concrete. Eyes locked on the room—on the watchers, the bourbon, the ex-dom stroking his own thigh. He didn’t glance at Jax yet.
Just said:
“This ain’t about pain.”
One man in the chairs shifted.
“This ain’t about humiliation,” Tre continued. “He’s not a toy. He’s the man who taught me control by testing it.”
He stopped behind Jax.
Now he looked down.
“But he gave himself to me. And I’m not giving him back.”
Silence.
Then Tre knelt.
Not in surrender.
In preparation.
One hand slid up Jax’s spine. Slow. Deliberate. A palm that knew the map already but wanted to trace it anyway.
Jax’s head dipped, breathing steady but tight.
Tre spoke near his ear.
“You want to speak tonight?”
Jax’s voice came low. “Only when told.”
Tre’s dick throbbed.
He looked up at the wall of men.
Then he reached down—and parted Jax slowly.
No plug.
No prep.
Just muscle. Warmth. Trust.
And when Tre spat into his palm and rubbed slow pressure into the center of Jax’s hole, the man didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
Just exhaled—like a man who’d been waiting for this.
“You ever watched someone fuck their mentor?” the man in the corner whispered to no one.
Another watcher stroked himself slowly.
Tre heard it.
Didn’t stop.
He pressed the head of his cock to Jax’s hole and didn’t move.
Not yet.
He let the weight of it speak first.
Then he leaned forward and whispered, “You ready?”
Jax nodded once.
And Tre pushed in.
Slow.
Thick.
Jax’s jaw tightened.
But he didn’t cry out.
Didn’t push away.
Tre bottomed out.
Held.
Didn’t move.
Just wrapped a hand around Jax’s chest and breathed against his neck.
“He takes it well,” the ex-dom said softly. “Better than when I had him.”
Tre still didn’t respond.
But his hand moved lower. Gripped Jax’s cock.
Still soft.
Still untouched.
Tre didn’t stroke.
Just held.
“You ever been filled and told not to come?” Tre asked aloud—directed at no one and everyone.
Jax didn’t speak.
Tre pulled back… then slid in again, slower.
This wasn’t porn.
This was claiming.
Jax’s body opened, thick and slow, his hole stretched around Tre’s meat like it missed it.
Tre didn’t grunt. Didn’t pant.
He just breathed.
Harder now.
Longer strokes.
One hand flat on Jax’s lower back. One wrapped around the front of his throat—not choking, just holding him in that perfect line between pleasure and possession.
And finally—Jax moaned.
Loud.
Unfiltered.
Like he forgot anyone was watching.
—
“Stroke him,” the ex-dom said softly, like it was his turn to direct.
Tre ignored him.
He whispered in Jax’s ear:
“Don’t move. Don’t speak. Let me show them.”
Then he started to fuck him deeper.
Harder.
But not fast.
Not sloppy.
Every thrust was a decision.
Every pause a performance.
And Jax—this man who once broke others—was now nothing but receiving.
Eyes shut.
Ass clenched.
Cock twitching untouched between his thighs.
Tre pulled out slowly.
Spat on his cock again.
“Open.”
Jax opened.
Tre slid back in.
And now the watchers couldn’t sit still.
One of them stroked.
One of them whispered, “Fuck…”
The ex-dom’s breathing changed.
And still—Tre didn’t lose control.
“Y’all think dominance is yelling,” Tre said to the room. “You think it’s slapping or spanking. But real control?”
He fucked harder now.
Slower.
Jax arched.
Tre growled: “Real control is when a man begs without saying a word.”
And Jax was begging now.
Not with his mouth.
With every inch of his body.
—
“Come,” Tre whispered in Jax’s ear.
And Jax did—without being touched.
His whole body spasmed.
Cum hit the floor like a confession—thick, wet, violent.
Tre didn’t stop.
He kept fucking until his own voice broke.
Until he growled loud—deep—and buried himself one last time before unloading everything into Jax’s stretched hole.
He came hard.
He came deep.
And when he finally pulled out, he didn’t collapse.
He stood.
Wiped sweat from his brow.
And turned to the ex-dom.
“You ever see a man fuck without raising his voice?”
The man didn’t speak.
Tre smiled.
“That’s presence.”
Then he walked away.
Jax stayed kneeling.
Full.
Leaking.
Owned.
Scene Five: The Decision
10:42 p.m. — Lower Level, The Smokehouse, Private Lounge
Tre had never seen this part of Jax’s restaurant.
Basement level. Smoked-glass walls. One massive cedar table in the center. Candles lit instead of overheads. Smelled like ash, bourbon, and memory.
Four chairs already filled.
Shawn was in one—back straight, collar open, eyes locked on Tre.
Micah leaned in another—legs up, tongue playing with his lip ring, black hoodie unzipped low, caged dick visible beneath his sweats.
Jax sat at the head.
Not in chef whites.
Not in his usual control.
But in all black. Slacks. Bare forearms. Wedding ring off.
The last chair sat empty.
Waiting for Tre.
—
“You late,” Jax said, voice even.
“I’m not,” Tre answered, stepping in, boots echoing low.
He sat.
No apology.
Micah whispered, “Daddy vibes tonight.”
Tre ignored it.
Jax didn’t smile.
He reached into the box in front of him—lined with leather cuffs and weighted rings—and pulled out a small, dark metal coin.
Set it in front of Tre.
Engraved with a symbol.
Simple. Brutal.
A closed fist bound by rope.
Below it: Dominari. Custodi. Tace.
Dominate. Guard. Obey in silence.
—
“We’ve all had trainers,” Jax said. “We’ve all served someone or been served.”
He looked at each of them.
“But we’ve never built anything. Just followed.”
The air shifted.
“I’m not interested in a sex ring. I’m not building a sex club.”
He tapped the coin.
“This is about legacy. Discipline. Brotherhood.”
Micah perked up. “So like… secret society with plugs?”
“Discipline,” Jax repeated, louder.
Micah nodded. “Got it. Leather first, lube later.”
Tre spoke next. “Why now?”
Jax didn’t hesitate.
“Because too many men get trained then disappear. Or worse—abused, forgotten, made to believe this world don’t have rules.”
He looked at Shawn.
Shawn looked down.
Then back at Tre.
“Jax told me I was his,” Shawn said. “But he never told me why until last year. It wasn’t about sex. It was about stability.”
Micah rolled his eyes. “Cute.”
Tre’s voice darkened. “You came in a cage.”
Micah shut up.
Jax slid a sheet across the table. Names. Marks. Symbols. Each man in the room had already signed once.
Now it was Tre’s turn.
But before he could…
The side door opened.
Someone stepped in.
Young. Maybe 24. Maybe less.
Slender. Tall.
Eyes wide but not afraid.
A black leather ring on his middle finger, matching the coin on the table.
Tre stiffened.
Jax looked up slowly.
“I didn’t call you.”
The young man stepped forward. “I was watching. Upstairs. You saw me.”
Micah whispered, “The fuck…”
“I followed your work. All of you. You’re not like the clubs. You’re building something real.”
Jax didn’t blink.
Tre stared hard.
The stranger turned to Tre. “That night. When you owned him in the loft. I knew.”
Shawn shifted in his seat.
“You watched?” Shawn asked, stunned.
The stranger smiled. “You didn’t close the door.”
Micah leaned forward. “Okay I love him.”
Tre stood slowly. “You want in?”
The young man nodded. “I want to earn it.”
Jax watched Tre closely.
Then gave a slow nod.
Tre stepped aside.
The boy dropped to his knees.
“Then take your first position,” Tre said, voice like steel. “But understand—this isn’t play.”
The boy whispered:
“I don’t want to play.”
And then he reached up—unbuckled his own jeans—and exposed himself.
Plug already in.
Ready.
The table went silent.
Jax stood last.
“Welcome,” he said.
Then turned to the group.
“The Brotherhood begins tonight.”
—
To Be Continued
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