Jack’s POV:
His username was simple. Dominus77. His first message was direct but respectful:
“You said you want to surrender. I know how to handle that, if you’re serious. No games, if you’re real, I’m interested.”
We messaged. He described himself as a dungeon master—not the Dungeons & Dragons kind. The real kind. Someone who took ownership seriously. Ritual, obedience, discipline, and care.
It sent something sparking through me. Not fear. Not shame.
Recognition.
We negotiated for hours. What I wanted. What I didn’t know yet. What I feared. What I needed to feel safe. He listened. Asked questions. Laid out expectations with precision and grace. He never pushed.
And then: “I want you waiting. Ten p.m. Third swing at the old park on Richardson Place. Nothing but jeans and a plain black T-shirt. You’ll kneel when I say.”
That park is down the street from me.
The place I learned to ride a bike. Cried under the slide when my dog died. Sat on those swings with my Walkman turned up too loud, trying to drown out the static in my brain.
I told him yes.
Then it was 9:55 p.m.
The park looked smaller at night.
I hadn’t been back there in years, not since before my mom got sick. The mulch path was half-covered in leaves, and the swing set looked like it hadn’t been repainted since the Clinton administration. But it was still there. Still familiar.
I was there, just like he’d said.
Third swing. 10 p.m. Wear a black t-shirt and jeans. Be ready.
He never asked for photos. Never offered one either.
He said voice was too intimate—he preferred the discipline of written negotiation. At the time, it made sense. Felt precise. Controlled. Safe, somehow.
Only now, walking through the park I grew up in, I wondered: Why didn’t I question that more?
Why didn’t I insist on seeing his face?
Maybe part of me liked not knowing.
Because I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I had Ethan for care, for laughter, for us.
This was something else. An itch in the shape of obedience. A curiosity I couldn’t ask Ethan to scratch for me—though he was the one who encouraged me to name it in the first place.
So I answered the messages.
Said what I wanted. What I feared. What I fantasized about.
He was clear, calm, confident. And careful.
And tonight, he gave the instructions.
No car. No waiting in the shadows.
“Be visible,” he wrote. “On the third swing. I’ll find you.”
So I was.
It was 9:58 when I stepped into the playground. I passed the merry-go-round, the seesaw, the jungle gym where I once broke a tooth. I sat down on the third swing, the chain creaking a little under my weight. My palms were sweating.
I shifted, took a deep breath, and stilled myself.
It was thrilling. Terrifying. Erotic in the way exposure always is.
And then—at exactly 10:00—I heard footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Confident.
I didn’t turn. I kept my eyes forward, just like we’d agreed.
And then I heard the voice.
Low. Disbelieving. Edged with a stunned kind of laughter.
“No fucking way.”
It landed like a thunderclap in my chest.
I turned.
The security light over the rec center flickered once, then steadied—casting a soft amber glow over the man behind me.
Jeff.
My neighbor. Two grades ahead of me growing up.
He used to throw tennis balls for his golden retriever shirtless every summer, and I’d watch from my bedroom window with a hard-on and a notebook full of stories I never let anyone read.
He never once gave me the time of day. I don’t think we ever had a real conversation.
He was a myth. A sunbeam. A reminder that desire, back then, meant silence.
And now he was standing here, staring at me on a swing in the middle of the night.
No wonder he didn’t want to talk on the phone, I thought. No wonder he never asked for pictures.
He knew exactly who I was.
And I’d had no fucking clue.
The silence stretched.
I didn’t know if I wanted to bolt… or kneel.
Jeff’s POV:
No fucking way.
The words were out before I could stop them.
He turned—slow, measured, but I could see it in his face. That same flicker of recognition. He knew.
And yeah, for a split-second, it hit me like a shock collar.
That’s Jack.
The kid from down the block. Always lurking on the edge of things. Younger, quieter. Always looking.
And now he was here.
Wider. Older. Powerful in a way that wasn’t polished but earned. Sitting obediently on the third swing like he was born to wait. Wearing what I told him to wear. Showing up exactly how I told him to.
The swing creaked beneath him, but he held his posture. That part hadn’t changed—always watching, always still.
But now the stillness had weight. Intention.
And I…
I had a decision to make.
It took maybe half a breath for the shock to burn off.
Then the Dom in me stepped forward, pulled on the gloves, and took the wheel.
Because here’s what was true:
We’d talked. We’d negotiated.
He wanted this. Asked for this. Over and over.
Submission. Obedience. Power. Ritual.
He’d done everything I asked.
And now—standing here, watching him—the universe had just handed me a twist: it wasn’t just some guy kneeling at my feet.
It was him.
The kid who used to sneak glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The one I dismissed as a quiet neighbor, a harmless blur in the background of my adolescence.
Now a man. A solid, beautiful, almost hulking figure of need and curiosity.
And he was mine. If I wanted him.
So the question wasn’t “do I recognize him?”
The question was: Do I follow through?
Do I keep my promise?
Do I reward the boy who waited years to ask for what he needed by giving him exactly what he asked for?
Or do I step away, let fear and familiarity steal something sacred from both of us?
He was looking at me now—not like a deer in headlights, but like a player waiting for the signal. Breath shallow. Back straight. Hands folded in his lap like he wasn’t sure what this meant, but he wasn’t about to run.
I took a step closer. Then another.
And I smiled.
Not cruel. Not warm either. The kind of smile that says: Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’ve just unlocked.
Maybe I’d won the lottery.
Or maybe this was one of those stories people tell after saying be careful what you wish for.
Either way?
I was going to find out.
Jack’s POV:
Jeff.
I hadn’t seen him in years, not up close. Not without the distance of time, of age, of power.
But it was him. Two grades ahead. Neighborhood royalty. Shirtless summers and perfect teeth. He mowed lawns like it was foreplay. I’d watched him from behind curtains, pretended I wasn’t staring.
And now he was standing in front of me—older, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him.
And he knew me.
The look on his face said it all: the surprise, the flicker of memory, and something else. Something darker. Focused.
I felt the heat rise in my face, my neck. Every cell in my body screamed: Abort.
But another part of me—deeper, quieter, stronger—said: No. You came here for this. Don’t back down now.
Because this wasn’t high school.
This wasn’t the sidewalk or the school bus or the empty seat behind him in homeroom.
This was now.
And I’d put in the work. I’d negotiated, defined limits, dared to want this.
I’d come to the swing. I’d arrived on time. I’d followed every goddamn instruction.
And Jeff—or Dominus77, or whatever he wanted to call himself tonight—was standing here, fully present. Not mocking. Not bailing. Not breaking character.
Waiting.
The air buzzed around me. Not just from memory or humiliation, but from the wild, electric possibility that this might still happen. That this should still happen.
So what else could I do?
I slipped out of the swing. Slow. Deliberate.
The mulch crunched under my boots. I let them fall away behind me. Then I lowered myself to my knees. Right there in the dirt. On the edge of the playground I grew up on.
My palms rested on my thighs, fingers splayed.
I kept my chin up, my eyes lowered—not in shame, but in choice.
And I waited.
I waited for the boy I used to stare at to become the man I hoped he really was.
I waited for his voice. His command. His hands.
I waited for all the blind negotiation to mean something.
And in that waiting…
I wasn’t embarrassed.
I wasn’t small.
I was ready.
Jeff’s POV:
He knelt like he was born for it.
Even with the surprise of recognition—Jack, the quiet neighbor kid who used to trail two steps behind the rest of us—I couldn’t deny it: he was here, willing, prepared. Every inch of him buzzed with readiness.
His posture was perfect. Not performative. Present.
My instincts surged to the surface. The man in me—the one who’d wanted control and reverence in equal measure—took hold again.
I stepped forward. Close enough to let him feel my boots on the mulch. Close enough that my voice would drop into his bones.
“What a surprise, boy,” I said, low and steady. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
He didn’t flinch. His breath hitched once. That was all.
“You are here. You are surrendering to me. Willingly submitting within the parameters we’ve already discussed.”
He nodded, eyes still lowered, chest rising and falling in sharp, excited bursts.
But that wasn’t enough.
“I need to hear you say it, boy,” I said. “Consent is sexy.”
Jack raised his chin, just enough to meet my eyes.
“Yes, Sir. I consent.”
There it was. Clear. Eager. Solid.
I smiled—not soft. Satisfied.
I reached into my coat and pulled out the stainless steel cuffs. Cool, well-worn, clean. He held out his hands in front of him without being told. Beautifully obedient.
The click of the metal around his wrists made my cock twitch.
Then I pulled the leather collar from my other pocket—black, simple, but sturdy. I held it up for him to see, a silent offering, then looped it around his neck and buckled it with practiced ease. He swallowed when I clipped the lead to the front.
“Up, boy,” I said.
He rose without hesitation. Big, solid, shirt stretched tight across his chest. And mine to lead.
I gave the leash a gentle tug and turned toward the edge of the park.
He followed.
Boots crunching over mulch. Swing chains creaking behind us like a memory. The park that once belonged to our childhoods now bearing witness to something far more honest.
I walked us out of the park, across the quiet street, into the deeper shadows toward my house—where the lights were already low, the space already prepared.
Tonight, Jack would not just kneel.
He would belong.
CHUNK 24 – Jack’s POV: Led Home
I could hear the swing creak behind us as we walked away. That small, familiar sound disappearing into the dark.
The leash was short, the rhythm of Jeff’s steps firm. My cuffs clinked with every motion, wrists heavy in front of me, slightly awkward—but more grounding than I’d expected. I couldn’t hold anything. Couldn’t gesture. Couldn’t pretend to be casual.
I wasn’t here to perform.
I was here to obey.
And we were walking past the same cracked sidewalk where I used to ride my bike. Past the faded fence where the neighbor’s dog used to bark until someone yelled through a window. The air smelled like wet leaves and distant fire pits.
I was being led by a man I used to watch from a distance. A man who’d never looked twice at me growing up. And now I was his. For the night. Maybe longer.
Every footstep echoed with a silent what the fuck are you doing?
But underneath that was something truer.
You’re doing what you always wanted. You’re being seen. You’re choosing this.
I thought I’d feel humiliated. Exposed.
But I didn’t.
I felt… alive.
My pulse was thunder in my ears, and my cock was half-hard just from the act of walking. My shirt clung to my back. The collar around my neck wasn’t tight, but I could feel it—an ever-present reminder that I was owned. Even if only temporarily.
I wondered what the houses thought.
The ones I trick-or-treated at. The ones where I delivered paper routes or shoveled snow or watched cartoons through someone’s bay window. What would they see now?
A hulking man in boots and jeans, collared and cuffed, walking quietly behind someone he’d once thought was untouchable.
The neighborhood didn’t know.
But I did.
And every step closer to Jeff’s house—his house, just two houses down—sent another jolt through me.
Because this wasn’t some anonymous hookup at a hotel or behind a bar.
This was home turf.
My own ghosts watching from front porches.
And I wasn’t hiding.
Not anymore.
CHUNK 25 – Jeff’s POV: Into the Dungeon
I didn’t speak as we walked.
Jack followed in silence, his boots crunching softly behind mine. The leash between us stayed taut—just enough to remind him of the balance we’d struck. Of who he was to me now.
It wasn’t far to my place—just across two quiet streets, past dark houses that had no idea what was unfolding on their sidewalks.
But when we reached the backyard, I turned off the main path and guided him toward the bulkhead doors.
The old cellar entrance creaked as I opened it. He hesitated for half a second. I felt it in the slack of the leash.
Then he followed.
Good boy.
The stairs were narrow and steep. I went first, descending into the dim, red-hued light that pulsed softly from sconces on the walls below. When I reached the bottom, I turned and looked up.
Jack stood in the doorway, framed in shadows, breath rising in short, sharp pulls.
“You okay, boy?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir,” he said. Quiet. Steady.
“Then come down.”
And he did.
Step by step, slow and careful. By the time he reached the floor, the door had closed behind him. The walls swallowed the sound.
This place—my place—had taken years to build.
Soundproofed walls. Soft rubber floors beneath heavy rigging. Restraint points anchored into thick oak beams. Everything clean, sorted, oiled, gleaming. A cross. A padded table. A rack of floggers and paddles displayed like fine tools. Shelving lined with toys of all varieties, organized by use and material.
Not gaudy. Not showy.
Just right.
And Jack—Jack—was finally standing in the center of it. Collared. Cuffed. Breathing like he was halfway to coming just from looking.
I led him forward, to the middle of the room. He followed beautifully.
When we reached the padded ring at center, I turned to face him.
I unhooked the leash from his collar, folded it into my hand, and set it aside.
Then I reached for the cuffs. Click. Click. They came free.
He stood there, wrists red and twitching slightly, but still.
Perfect.
Then I gave the first real command of the night. No negotiation. No buildup.
Just my voice, deep and absolute.
“Now strip.”
Jack’s POV:
Two words. Just two.
But they landed in my gut like a punch wrapped in velvet. My skin flushed before I even moved. My heart took off like it was sprinting to escape.
I nodded once, not trusting my voice, and reached for the hem of my t-shirt.
I pulled it up slowly, over my chest, arms raised. My skin prickled in the air, and I could already feel his eyes on me. Watching every inch of me emerge from beneath cotton and nerve.
The shirt hit the floor. My arms trembled.
I unbuckled my belt next. Fingers unsteady.
Then the button.
Then the zipper.
Each sound—click, pop, hiss—made my cock throb harder.
I pushed my jeans down, bending awkwardly, kicking off my boots to get them all the way off. The denim pooled at my ankles. Off. Gone.
Then just my briefs. Black. Fitted. Wet at the front.
I hesitated.
Only for a second.
Then I hooked my thumbs under the waistband and pulled them down, too. I stepped out of them, one foot at a time.
Now I was nude, naked, bare.
Completely.
I stood there, eyes forward, breathing fast, my dick flushed and aching in open air. My arms moved automatically—like I’d rehearsed it in my dreams—and folded behind my head, elbows high, chest open.
Exposed.
I felt everything.
The cold air. The sweat running down my spine. The way my thighs felt too thick, too obvious. The way my stomach didn’t flatten the way I wished it would.
But more than anything—I felt his eyes.
Jeff didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
Because the way he was looking at me—like he’d just been handed something precious and dangerous and perfect—was its own kind of command.
And I was buzzing with it.
Scared? God, yes. What if I did it wrong? What if I wasn’t enough?
But also…
Excited.
Alive.
Aroused to the point I could feel my own pulse in places I didn’t know could throb.
And underneath all that?
Something deeper. Something quieter.
Pride.
Because I hadn’t run.
I’d stripped.
I’d stood.
And I was ready for whatever came next.
Jeff’s POV:
He stood there perfectly—nude, arms raised, hands laced behind his head, his whole body humming with tension.
I let him feel my silence. Let it stretch long enough for his muscles to start buzzing, for his breath to grow shaky but not break. He wanted to be watched, and I gave it to him.
Slowly, I began to circle.
No contact yet. Just my eyes.
I moved around him like he was a sculpture I was considering buying at auction. I took in the definition of his shoulders, the pink flare of arousal down his chest, the slight tremble in his thighs. His cock stood proud and flushed, heavy against his stomach. I could smell his sweat and the residual detergent in his clothes and something animal underneath.
I stopped behind him and brought my hands up.
Just fingertips at first—one slow pass down the ridge of his spine. He shivered.
Then across his shoulders, his lower back, the swell of his ass. I tested the weight of it in my palm, gave it one firm squeeze, then a gentle tap. He flinched, then relaxed. Good.
I brushed his inner thighs with the backs of my knuckles, just enough to make him shift his stance wider without instruction.
“Kneel. Present.”
His body moved instantly, smoothly, a big man folding down into stillness.
Knees spread. Back straight. Arms behind him.
I stepped behind him again and retrieved the cuffs. Click. Click. This time, his hands were locked behind his back—mine now, not his.
Then the blindfold.
I slipped it over his head, settling the padded leather across his eyes. He didn’t speak. Just inhaled, deep and shaky, and gave himself to the dark.
“Stay,” I said.
And I walked away.
Quickly. Quietly. Years of practice in making my movements deliberate.
I stepped to the side of the room where a garment rack waited—half ritual, half readiness.
My boots stayed on. My jeans dropped to the floor. I pulled on the leather chaps—thick black, snug over my thighs, secured at the waist with a wide buckle. My jock underneath was tight, built for display, the codpiece easy to snap away when the time came.
I stripped off my jacket and t-shirt. Beneath them, my leather chest harness crisscrossed my torso, framing the ink on my ribs and the scar under my collarbone. I adjusted the straps—centered, tight, grounded.
Then I paused.
Checklist.
Condoms: prepped.
Lube: at arm’s reach.
Floggers, clamps, wipes: sorted.
Water. Aftercare gear. Clean towels.
Mind: clear. Control: absolute. Consent: confirmed.
I stepped back toward him.
Jack knelt where I left him, blindfolded, cuffed, unmoving. He looked beautiful there—silent, surrendered, charged with potential.
I removed the blindfold.
He blinked up at me once, eyes going wide.
Good.
I said nothing.
I let him see me—fully kitted, fully present, the Dom he’d negotiated with in the dark, now made real.
I watched the awe spread across his face like heat.
Then I reached over, unclipped the leash from the wall, and snapped it back to the ring on his collar.
“Come,” I said.
He rose slowly.
I led him across the room to the padded bench, its straps already open like an invitation.
Tonight, he would be bound.
Not just with leather and buckles.
But with everything he asked me for.
And I intended to give him all of it.
Jack’s POV:
The blindfold came off, and the world was different.
Jeff stood in front of me like something out of a dream—no, not a dream. A fantasy I hadn’t let myself have until recently. Leather chaps over his thick thighs, a jock hugging him tight, a chest harness framing his body like it belonged there. His skin was flushed and alive, his eyes focused, locked on me.
This wasn’t neighborhood Jeff. This was him. My Dom. My handler. My fucking operator.
And I was kneeling.
My breath hitched. My cock twitched. My mind screamed holy fuck.
Then he clipped the leash back onto my collar.
“Come.”
One word. Solid. Commanding. Simple.
I rose, slowly, trying to control the shake in my legs. The cuffs behind my back tugged with the movement, reminding me I couldn’t catch myself if I fell.
But I followed.
He led me across the room to the padded bench. I'd seen benches like this online. In porn. In diagrams. In forums Ethan had nudged me toward. I'd stared at them, curious and skeptical and so fucking hungry.
But now it was real.
Now I was the one being led toward it.
The leather was dark and clean. Wide, with thick straps hanging off each side like waiting hands.
I faltered.
Just for a breath.
Just one second of what the fuck am I doing, right as we reached the edge of it. My heels scuffed against the mat. I hesitated.
Jeff turned his head just enough to see me. He didn’t speak. Didn’t scold. Just waited.
I looked at the bench.
Then at him.
And I stepped forward.
I bent over it, heart thudding in my ears. The padding met my chest, hips settling into place. I exhaled, long and shaky.
Jeff moved without hesitation.
The first strap came around my right wrist—tight, secure. Then the left.
Another across my upper back. One across each thigh.
The cuffs came off so the straps could replace them. This wasn’t decoration. This was real.
I was being bound.
Deliberately. Fully. Thoroughly.
I thought I’d panic. I’d always assumed that moment—the moment when movement became impossible—would terrify me.
Instead, I felt…
Free.
The fight left my muscles.
The tension I’d carried my whole fucking life—about performance, about hiding, about getting it right, about being strong—bled out of me like steam from a cracked pipe.
I couldn’t move.
So I didn’t have to try anymore.
And fuck—fuck—that felt good.
I pressed my face into the padding, inhaled leather and anticipation.
Jeff placed one hand on my lower back. Firm. Warm.
Still silent.
But I knew. I knew he felt it too.
This was what we’d both been waiting for.
Not sex. Not power.
But this moment. This stillness.
And the freedom that came with surrender.
Jeff’s POV:
Jack was strapped down. Secure. Spread wide and breathless.
His body rested perfectly on the bench, muscles loose now, like something deep inside him had finally let go. His back curved in a slow, strong line, arms anchored, thighs strapped down firm, collar snug at the base of his neck.
He looked incredible.
Not just because he was naked and bound—though, yes, that was undeniably part of it—but because he wasn’t pretending anymore. He’d surrendered with everything he had, and that made him shine in a way no gear ever could.
I stood back for a moment, letting myself feel the hum in the room.
My scene. My space. My sub.
Then the mental checklist kicked in.
Negotiated items:
- Mild impact play ✔
- Sensory deprivation ✔
- Praise ✔
- Tease and denial ✔
- Light degradation? Possible, depending on response.
- Penetration? On the table, but end-of-scene, if the energy felt right.
But that was all written for an anonymous submissive. A name on a profile. A body imagined, not known.
This was Jack.
Jack, who I used to see on the periphery.
Jack, whose eyes tracked mine back in the day and who I now realized I may have ignored on purpose. Because somewhere, even then, I knew.
He was too much potential. Too much heat.
And now, laid bare for me?
He was even better than I’d expected.
So I adjusted.
I could push the sensory elements—tease longer, more edges. I’d hold off on certain toys until I saw how he processed pain. And I’d double down on presence. Voice. Proximity. Power.
No gimmicks. Just control.
I stepped forward, my boots thudding softly on the mat.
My hands hovered for a second over the curve of his ass—full, tight, flushed with anticipation. He twitched at the nearness of my skin, already aware I was about to make contact.
I smiled.
Then I brought my hand down.
Crack.
Firm. Measured. Not playful, not cruel. Just claiming.
Jack jerked slightly in the straps and gasped—a sound more shock than protest. Good.
I waited a beat. Let it settle.
Then again.
Crack.
The other cheek.
The warmth in his skin bloomed under my palm. My cock stirred inside the jock, already heavy from the sight of him. From the rightness of this.
He moaned this time—low and open-throated. Nothing performative about it.
I exhaled slowly.
This was no longer just a scene.
It was a beginning.
The bench took Jack’s weight beautifully. He was still panting softly from the firm handstrikes I’d laid on him, the skin of his ass pink and blooming, a faint sheen of sweat on his back.
But he wasn’t struggling.
He wasn’t flinching.
He was soaking it in.
I walked around to the wall rack and chose a medium-weight flogger—deerskin, thuddy but supple. Nothing harsh. Something to warm him up, keep his nervous system alert and his mind open.
When I turned back, Jack was shifting just slightly in the straps. Not to escape. To feel. Every inch of him radiated that rare energy: ready.
“Good boy,” I murmured.
Then I began.
The first pass was light. A caress more than a strike, the falls landing across his shoulders, his back, his thighs.
He groaned softly. A little tension left his legs.
I started a rhythm.
Left shoulder. Right. Mid-back. Thigh.
Pause.
Repeat.
The leather fell with a satisfying thump, louder than painful, a rolling rhythm like percussion. I modulated the strength gradually, letting the pattern deepen, letting the skin catch up. Jack responded like someone born for it—hips rising slightly, mouth open, every muscle tuned to sensation.
Ten minutes in, I changed floggers.
Heavier. More sting. A suede hybrid.
He took it.
Every hit.
A few whimpers, a few growls—real ones. But no safeword. No panic.
His body was dancing with mine, even though he was the only one restrained.
I felt my heart pounding—not just from arousal, but recognition.
This was rare.
A sub who wasn’t flinching through it or enduring it to please me—but meeting me in it.
He was giving as much as he was taking.
We found a rhythm. And within that rhythm, I let myself enjoy.
I wasn’t managing him—I was with him.
And it was fucking beautiful.
Eventually, I slowed.
Let the flogger fall across his back in softer strokes until he sighed into the leather of the bench, his whole body vibrating like a struck bell finally silencing.
I gave him a moment—then unstrapped his thighs, his wrists, gently rolling his big frame up into my arms.
“You’re incredible,” I whispered against his shoulder. “Still with me, boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” he breathed. “So much.”
“Good. We’re not done.”
I walked him slowly to the sling. His knees nearly buckled once, but I caught him with a hand at his waist. He steadied. His eyes were glassy—high, but anchored. Present.
I guided him in, helped him settle.
Leather cradled him under his ass, his back, behind his knees. I clipped the supports, adjusting the angle so he was open, exposed, but held.
His arms lay loose at his sides now, free from bondage—but not from submission.
I stepped back for a moment, just to look.
Jack. In my sling. His skin flushed. Chest rising and falling like waves. His cock still hard, curved toward his belly. Legs spread in leather. Ready.
And all I could think was:
Fuck yes. He’s mine tonight. Mine all the way.
I walked around him, slow and silent, letting the tension stretch just a little longer.
He didn’t speak.
He breathed.
And waited.
I ran a gloved fingertip down the center of his chest, between the line of his pecs, across the swell of his stomach. He twitched under the touch—just a little. His breath caught.
“Good boy,” I murmured, circling behind him.
I reached for the lube and gloves. No need for showmanship now—just presence. Intent.
I warmed the lube in my hand and reached between his legs, teasing a slick finger along the sensitive skin behind his balls, not penetrating yet—just touching. Tracing.
Jack moaned.
The sound wasn’t polished. It wasn’t restrained. It was honest.
And it made my cock throb behind the codpiece.
I worked him open slowly. One finger, then two. Deliberate. Patient. Not just for safety, but for the sake of control. Because this was mine. And he was mine.
Every time I curled my fingers, his hips bucked into the sling. Every time I slowed down, he whined—guttural, aching.
“You want to come, boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” he gasped.
“Too bad.”
I pulled my fingers out slowly. He groaned—frustrated, hungry.
I walked around to the front, unhooked the codpiece with a satisfying snap. My cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the base hugged by the jock strap’s ring. I stroked myself slowly, deliberately, as I looked down at him.
Jack’s eyes widened, his lips parted.
“Please, Sir…”
I leaned in and pressed my palm flat against his chest. He arched into the contact like it was the only thing holding him to earth.
I didn’t answer.
I lowered my hand back to his cock and wrapped it firmly in my grip—slicked it, squeezed just hard enough to make his thighs jump in the stirrups.
He whimpered again.
I started stroking him—slow. Firm. Every downward motion met with a gasp, every pause answered with a desperate little sound that made me smile.
And I edged him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jack was trembling in the sling, sweat slick across his chest, thighs open and quivering. I had edged him three times already—held him on the cusp until he was whimpering, high on surrender, and begging without words.
He was gorgeous like this.
Ruined and radiant.
But we weren’t done.
I stepped between his legs, pulled a condom from the drawer, rolled it on with practiced ease. He was open already, his body welcoming, hungry. I'd spent long minutes teasing, stretching, preparing him—watching how he responded to every shift of pressure, every push and retreat.
Now it was time.
I pressed in slow. Controlled. Steady.
His eyes flew open, and he gasped—but not from pain. From the truth of it.
The joining.
The claiming.
He wrapped his legs around my waist instinctively, ankles flexing in the stirrups. His hands—still unbound now—gripped the leather straps above him. I braced against the sling and started to move.
Not fast. Not pounding.
Just sure.
Each thrust pulled a sound from him—a moan, a whisper, a broken little “yes” that made my chest ache in the best possible way. I could feel it: we weren’t playing now. We were merging.
His submission wasn’t just posture—it was trust carved into muscle and sweat and the soft whimpers that said, I’m yours.
I leaned in, my forehead against his, my breath ragged.
“Look at me,” I said.
He did.
Eyes locked. Pupils blown. Lips parted.
I reached down and gripped his cock—still hard, still pulsing—and stroked him in rhythm with my thrusts.
It didn’t take long.
His entire body coiled under me, shuddering. His orgasm hit fast, raw, torn from somewhere deep. He came hard, crying out, his body clenching around me in rhythm as I drove in, riding out the wave with him.
I kept going.
Until I couldn’t.
I pulled out just as the edge took me—ripping off the condom, stroking myself fast and rough, and letting go with a growl that felt more like a claim than a climax.
I finished across his chest and neck—then higher, across his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t flinch.
He looked exalted.
Marked. Claimed. Glowing.
And mine.
Jack’s POV:
My body was still trembling.
Not from fear. Not from exertion. But from something deeper—like a bell that had just been rung too hard, still humming in its frame.
The sling cradled me. My arms felt loose, my thighs ached, my chest was slick and cooling fast. I blinked up at the ceiling, heart pounding in that quiet, uneven way that only happens when you’ve just given more of yourself than you knew you had.
And then I felt his hand on my cheek. Steady. Warm.
“Relax,” Jeff said, voice softer now. Different. “We’re done. You’re Jack. I’m Jeff. And I need to take care of you now.”
The shift in tone nearly undid me.
I don’t know what I expected after everything—some kind of lingering dominance, a cold untangling, a pat on the head and a door shown—but not this. Not him saying my name like it mattered. Like I mattered.
He wheeled over a cart I hadn’t even noticed before. Stainless steel, smooth-rolling, like something from a massage room.
On it: a basin of water, steam rising gently from it. A neat stack of hand towels. A bucket of ice cradling several bottles of water.
No performance.
Just care.
He unhooked the sling supports one by one, moving with precision. I sagged forward but he caught me instantly, arms steady around my waist.
“Breathe,” he said, close to my ear.
I did.
He guided me upright—slowly, carefully. My legs buckled the moment I put weight on them.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
And he did.
I leaned into him for a beat, letting my feet relearn the ground. Then, despite the ache, the wetness, the dizzy warmth in my limbs—I stood up.
Really stood.
Not perfect. Not polished. But proud.
Jeff looked at me and nodded, like he saw something I hadn’t dared hope was there.
He took a towel from the stack, dipped it in the basin, wrung it out with practiced ease. Then he started to clean me—chest first, then stomach. Each stroke slow and deliberate, the warmth of the cloth almost shocking in its gentleness.
It wasn’t just the cum he was wiping away.
It was the last residue of doubt. Of fear. Of the person I thought I had to be in order to be safe.
“How do you feel, Jack?” he asked.
My throat caught.
I didn’t have a polished answer. No quip. No pre-written script.
Just the truth.
“Like I finally stopped pretending.”
Jeff smiled—just a little.
“Good,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”
And for the first time in my life, I believed it.
