Cory spent the next of the day in a fugue state. He sat through lunch with his roommates, nodding absently at their stories about morning lectures and weekend plans, unable to hear them over the roaring in his own ears. Every time he moved, the dull ache in his rear served as a tangible reminder of Byron’s ownership, a brand that hadn't yet been pressed into his skin but might as well have been.
By the time evening fell, the anxiety had curdled into a frantic, buzzing energy. Cory couldn't sit still. He paced his small bedroom, checking the clock every five minutes. He spent twenty minutes just staring at his reflection in the mirror, trying to see what Byron saw. Was he really a slave? A cockhungry slut? The words made his face burn, but they also made his cock twitch, a traitorous reaction that sealed his fate.
By 11:00 PM he was standing in front of Byron’s door again, trembling, his hands clammy and cold. He looked down at his worn-out sneakers, then up at the imposing steel door. Behind it was the man who had turned his world upside down in less than twenty-four hours. Behind it was the decision to surrender control completely. Once he knocked, there was no going back. He wasn't just a curious neighbor anymore; he was a supplicant asking for a collar.
Finally, he raised his hand and knocked. The heavy deadbolt slid back with a sharp *clack*. The handle turned, and the door swung open, revealing Byron standing the doorway, a vision of dark, commanding authority. He was wearing the same leather trench coat from yesterday, with a just leather harness strapped tight against Byron’s bulging pecs. Leather chaps framed the man’s thighs, with just a leather jockstrap covering the cock that Cory has been dreaming about all day. Shiny ankle boots with metal toes completed the look.
"Come in, kid" Byron said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Cory's chest. "You made the right choice."
Cory stepped over the threshold, the air in the apartment feeling thicker, heavier than the corridor outside. As the door clicked shut behind him, the finality of it settled in his stomach like a stone. He was here. He had come back.
"You're trembling," Byron observed, his voice amused but not unkind. He reached out, his hand gripping Cory’s shoulder, steadying him. "Nerves or anticipation?"
"Both," Cory whispered.
"Good," Byron replied, his grip tightening possessively before releasing him. "Fear keeps you sharp. Anticipation keeps you hungry. You're going to need both tonight."
Byron walked past him, the heavy leather of his coat swishing with a sound that made Cory’s knees weak. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who owned not just the space he occupied, but the person standing in it. "Strip and follow me," he commanded without turning around, walking toward the bedroom. "When you’re in my house, the only thing you’re allowed to wear is the collar I’ll give you."
Cory didn't hesitate. The authority in Byron's voice bypassed his logical brain and went straight to his limbs. In a few seconds, he stood there, completely naked, his hands awkwardly at his sides while Byron’s gaze raked over him like a physical touch. He felt exposed, his skinny frame and pale skin starkly contrasting with the dark, rich atmosphere of the apartment.
"Good," Byron murmured, walking back to stand directly in front of him. He reached out, his rough hand gripping Cory’s chin and forcing his head up. "Now, the formalities."
Byron turned and walked over to a heavy oak sideboard against the wall, the click of his metal-booted heels on the hardwood floor echoing like gunshots in the silent room. He opened a drawer and retrieved a thick, heavy black leather collar, studded with gleaming silver rivets, with a sturdy D-ring dangling from the front.
Byron stepped back into Cory’s personal space, the scent of leather and musk overwhelming his senses. He undid the buckle with a practiced snap, then wrapped the stiff leather around Cory's neck. The feel was cold and foreign, sending a shiver down Cory's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Byron tightened it—not enough to choke, but snug enough that Cory was constantly aware of its presence.
Byron lifted a small, brass padlock from his pocket. With a decisive *click*, he threaded it through the buckle and locked it shut.
The sound echoed in the quiet room, final and absolute. Cory’s breath hitched. He reached up with trembling fingers to touch the cool metal of the lock resting against his throat. There was no keyhole on this side, no quick release. He was collared.
Byron stepped back, admiring his handiwork with a critical eye. "It suits you," he said, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "Marks you for exactly what you are—nothing but a slave to be used and abused. Now hands behind your back!"
Cory didn't hesitate, though his movements were stiff with anxiety. He crossed his wrists behind his lower back, the pale skin of his forearms contrasting sharply against the dark leather of the cuffs Byron now fastened around them. The buckles clicked with a sound of terrifying finality. Byron tightened them until they were snug, ensuring there was no way for Cory to slip his hands free.
Byron moved to his leather chair and settled into it, spreading his legs wide. The leather creaked under his weight, a sound that seemed to amplify the silence in the room. He looked every inch the king of this domain, his chaps framing the leather jockstrap beneath, his muscular chest rising and falling steadily beneath the harness.
"Kneel," Byron commanded, pointing to the floor directly in front of him.
Cory obeyed instantly, sinking to his knees on the plush rug. The carpet was soft against his skin, a stark contrast to the harshness of his position. He knelt with his back straight, unsure of where to look, so he kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the polished metal tips of Byron’s boots.
"Look at me," Byron commanded.
Cory lifted his gaze. Byron was watching him with an intensity that made his breath catch. The older man’s presence was overwhelming like this, framed by the leather chair, his body encased in the gear that Cory had fantasized about for years.
"We need to address proper etiquette first," Byron said, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a severe, instructive tone. "From this moment on, you will always address me as Master or Sir. Because that’s what I am to you now—your owner. Do you understand?"
Cory’s throat felt dry. He swallowed hard, the collar shifting slightly against his neck. "Yes... Sir," he whispered, the foreign title feeling heavy and yet terrifyingly natural on his tongue.
Byron nodded, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Good. And in return, I will call you whatever I please—slut, bitch, whore, boy. You will answer to all of them. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir," Cory whispered, the heat rising in his cheeks.
"Good," Byron replied, his hand moving to the fly of his leather jockstrap. He unsnapped the leather pouch with a deliberate, slow motion, revealing his semi-hard cock. He wrapped a hand around the base and began to stroke it, his eyes never leaving Cory’s face. "And whenever I give you a command, you will respond with 'Yes, Sir.' No mumbling, no hesitation. Immediate compliance."
Byron’s hand moved up and down his shaft, his fingers squeezing the head until a bead of precum glistened in the low light. The sight was mesmerizing, and Cory felt his mouth go dry, his own cock stirring between his legs despite the fear curling in his stomach.
Byron leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking softly, his grip on his shaft firm and deliberate. "Look at it, boy," he rasped, his voice thick with authority. "Look at what you're here for. Tell me. How badly do you want this cock?"
Cory’s eyes were locked onto the sight, his mouth watering involuntarily. The words caught in his throat, tangled up in his lingering shame and overwhelming need. "I... I want it, Sir," he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible.
Byron stopped stroking. The silence that followed was heavy with disapproval. He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "That was pathetic. As my slave, you need to learn that getting this"—he gave his cock a sharp squeeze for emphasis—"is a privilege. It’s a reward. And you need to learn to beg for it properly. Not like a scared college kid, but like a hungry cockslut who knows his place."
Cory’s face burned with humiliation. He knew he wasn't selling it, not the way Byron wanted, but the words felt like stones in his throat. "I'm sorry, Sir," he stammered, his eyes darting away from Byron's intense gaze. "Please, Sir... I want your cock. I really do."
Byron chuckled darkly, a low sound that made Cory's skin prickle. "You want it? Sure. But do you *crave* it? Do you *need* it? That was barely a request, boy. It sounded like you were ordering a coffee." He leaned forward, his expression hardening. "Perhaps you need more motivation to loosen that tongue."
Byron glanced toward the wall behind the chair and picked a riding crop that hung from a small hook. "Fetch it for me," he ordered.
"Let's start your training," Byron announced, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of menace. "Since your mouth seems to be having trouble forming the right words, perhaps we can start by teaching your body to listen."
Without warning, Byron brought the riding crop down in a sharp, fast arc. It landed with a loud *crack* against Cory's left buttock.
Cory cried out, more from shock than pain—though there was definitely a stinging burn radiating across his skin. He jolted forward, nearly losing his balance, but caught himself at the last second, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Did I say you could move?" Byron barked, the crop hovering threateningly in the air.
"No, Sir! Sorry, Sir!" Cory cried out, quickly forcing himself back into the rigid kneeling position, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sting on his ass was sharp and hot, blooming into a dull throb that made his breath hitch.
"Good," Byron mused, looking down at the red mark already forming on Cory’s pale skin. He ran the tip of the crop lightly over the welt, tracing it, making Cory shiver. "You've got a nice ass for punishment. It takes a color well."
"Now," Byron said, lifting the crop away and letting it rest against Cory’s trembling shoulder. "Let's try that again. I want to hear how badly you want this cock. And make me believe it, or the next one won't be a love tap."
Cory’s heart was hammering so hard he thought it might bruise his ribs. The sting on his ass was pulsing, a hot reminder of the crop's bite. He looked up at Byron, his eyes wide and pleading. "Please, Sir," he started, his voice shaking. "I... I need your cock, Sir. I need it so bad."
Byron raised an eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. "You seem to be a slow learner. A slave doesn't just say please; he begs because he knows he isn't worthy. He knows that it's only because of his master's generosity that he is allowed to serve the master's cock." He raised the crop again.
The crop whistled through the air, landing harder this time. A sharp, stinging line of fire ignited across Cory's right cheek, accompanied by a loud *crack* that echoed in the room.
Cory yelped, his body jerking forward instinctively to escape the pain. He nearly toppled over, his knees scraping against the rug as he fought to maintain his balance with his hands bound behind him. The pain was intense, a bright, blooming heat that overshadowed the dull ache from the night before.
"I didn't tell you to stop!" Byron barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "Get back in position! Now!"
Cory scrambled to regain his kneeling posture, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs. The fire on his backside was throbbing in time with his racing heart, a sharp, stinging reminder of Byron's dominance. He forced his back straight, trembling violently, and lowered his head, staring at the polished metal toes of Byron's boots.
"I'm sorry, Sir! I'm sorry!" Cory gasped out, the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I'll be a good slave, Sir, I swear!"
"Then show me," Byron said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silky calm. He tapped the crop lightly against Cory's shoulder, a tactile threat of what was to come. "I don't hear desperation in your voice. I hear a kid playing a game. Is that all this is to you? A game?"
"No, Sir," Cory choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. The burning stripes across his ass throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a relentless rhythm of pain and arousal. "I'm not playing."
"Then prove it," Byron said. "I want to hear the slut in you. The one who was drooling over me in the elevator. Beg me for my cock like your life depends on it, because as far as you're concerned, your pleasure does."
Cory squeezed his eyes shut, shame and desire warring inside him. The pain of the crop had stripped away his last layer of dignity, leaving only the raw, desperate need underneath. He took a shuddering breath.
"I need it, Sir," Cory cried out, his voice cracking as he finally let go of the inhibitions that had been holding him back. "I need your cock more than anything. Please, Master, I’m just a desperate slut and I need you to use my mouth. I want to choke on it, Sir. Please, let me show you what a good bitch I can be. I’m begging you!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Cory kept his head bowed, his chest heaving, terrified that he had gone too far or not far enough. He could feel the wet heat of tears on his cheeks, mingling with the flush of humiliation.
Byron let the moment stretch, the riding crop resting lightly against Cory's trembling shoulder. "Better," he said finally, his voice a low rumble of approval. "Much better. See? When you stop thinking and start feeling, the truth comes out."
Byron leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking, and ran the cool leather tip of the crop down Cory’s heaving chest, tracing the line of his sternum. Cory shuddered at the touch, his skin hypersensitive after the stinging blows.
"That was almost convincing," Byron mused, though the smirk playing on his lips suggested he was enjoying Cory's desperation. "But we both know actions speak louder than words. You still haven't earned the right to wrap your lips around my cock. A slave has to work for his rewards."
Byron shifted in the chair, planting one boot firmly on the floor and extending the other leg out. The black leather gleamed under the lights, polished to a mirror finish. "You're going to start at the bottom. Literally. Lick my boot!"
Cory stared at the extended boot, the polished leather reflecting the harsh light of the room. He hesitated, his brain warring with the overwhelming command in Byron’s voice. The idea of licking a shoe was degrading in a way that went beyond the sex act itself—it was an act of total submission.
"I said *now*, bitch," Byron snapped.
The crop lashed out, not against Cory's ass this time, but snapping sharply against his sensitive inner thigh. Cory cried out, his body jerking at the sharp, stinging bite on the soft skin of his inner thigh. It was a white-hot flash of pain that stole the breath from his lungs and instantly dissolved any remaining hesitation. His pride, already battered and bruised, finally crumbled under the weight of Byron’s authority.
"Yes, Sir! Yes, Sir!" Cory gasped, his voice trembling with panic and submission. He scrambled to lower himself, the movement awkward and ungainly with his wrists still locked behind his back. He had to shuffle forward on his knees, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the stinging welts on his ass, until his face was level with Byron’s extended boot.
Cory stared at the polished black leather. It gleamed under the lights, reflecting his own terrified, distorted visage back at him. The smell of it was intense—leather polish, musk, and the faint, lingering scent of the street outside. It was ground-in-dirt reality, and he was being ordered to worship it.
"Do it," Byron commanded, his voice bored but expectant. "Show me you know where you belong in the hierarchy. My boots are higher than you right now."
With a whimper that caught in his throat, Cory leaned forward. He stuck out his tongue, the movement feeling alien and absurd, and gave the toe of the boot a tentative, clumsy lap.
The taste was immediate and overwhelming—bitter polish and the faint, dusty tang of the street. It was a flavor that screamed *domination*, grounding him in the reality of his submission. Cory pulled back slightly, grimacing, his tongue recoiling at the chemical bitterness.
Byron let out a dark, disappointed chuckle. "Is that it? That’s hardly worship, boy. That’s an insult. Get your tongue back on there and put some effort into it. Make it shine. If you can’t show devotion to my boots, you certainly don’t deserve my cock."
The threat in Byron’s voice was clear. Cory squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcing his brain to bypass the humiliation. He leaned back in, this time with more intent. He flattened his tongue against the cool, stiff leather of the toe and dragged it slowly upward.
Cory dragged his tongue up the arch of the boot, tasting the bitter tang of polish and the faint, earthy grit of the city. The texture was smooth and unyielding against his soft tongue, a physical manifestation of Byron’s unshakeable dominance. He felt disgusting, degraded, and yet, a dark, twisted heat bloomed in his groin. He was actually doing this. He was on his knees, licking a leatherman's boots, and the sheer depravity of it made his own cock twitch against his thigh.
"That's it," Byron murmured, his voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction. He watched Cory with a hawk-like gaze, tracking every movement of the boy's head. "Get the sides. Don't miss the stitching. A slave should take pride in his work, even if he's just a boot cleaner."
Cory obeyed, turning his head slightly to run his tongue along the side of the leather shaft. The taste was acrid, filling his mouth and senses, but he found himself moving with more fervor. He lapped at the leather, his saliva spreading a glossy sheen over the black surface. He worked his way down to the heel, awkwardly maneuvering his cuffed wrists to keep his balance, and bathed the metal tip with his tongue, the cool metal shocking against his heated mouth.
Byron watched him work, the riding crop resting idly against his thigh. The sight of the young man, so eager to debase himself, seemed to satisfy something deep within the older man’s predatory nature. He let Cory continue for several minutes, the only sound in the room the wet, rhythmic noise of tongue against leather and Cory’s ragged breathing.
"Look at you," Byron mused, his voice thick with amusement. "Yesterday you were just some shy kid in the elevator, too scared to look me in the eye. Now look at you. Tonguing my leather like a starving puppy. You really are a natural-born submissive, aren't you?"
Cory didn't stop, couldn't stop. He just moaned softly around the leather, a vibration that hummed against Byron's foot. The shame was still there, burning hot in his cheeks, but it was fueling something else—a desperate, clawing need to be told he was good, to be useful.
[to be continued]
