The first thing Kevin registered was the smell—thick, rich leather, so deep it coated the back of his throat like a second skin. It pressed against his nostrils, warm and suffocating, as if he’d been sealed inside something alive. His lungs expanded against resistance, the material clinging to his ribs with every shallow breath. Panic flickered, but before it could take root, another sensation overwhelmed him: the pressure.
His entire body was encased in it.
The leather—slick, unyielding, perfect—molded to him like a second skin, so tight he could feel the stitching pressing against him. His arms were trapped at his sides, fingers curled into useless fists inside thick leather mitts, the seams digging into his knuckles when he tried to flex them. His legs were straight, knee-high boots laced so snugly over his feet that his toes ached from the compression, the soles of his feet arching helplessly against the unyielding leather. He wiggled his fingers, his toes—nothing. Not even a twitch. The suit had him locked, controlled and imprisoned.
Then there was the hood.
No light. No sight. Just darkness, absolute and smothering, broken only by the two tiny grommets pressed against his nostrils, flaring with every desperate inhale. His mouth was stretched obscenely around something thick and unrelenting—a pecker gag, the bulbous head wedged deep between his lips, the shaft filling his mouth so completely his jaw throbbed from the strain. Saliva pooled at the back of his throat, thick and hot, with nowhere to go but down. He gagged, the sound muffled into a wet, choking grunt, his throat working around the intrusion. The taste of polished leather and his own musk clung to his tongue.
Fuck.
He tried to lift his head, but a strap dug into his forehead, holding him in place. His neck strained against the resistance, muscles burning. That’s when he realized—he wasn’t just wearing this. He was strapped down.
Bands of leather cut across his body—ankles, knees, waist, chest—each one cinched so tight he could barely draw a full breath and pressed him firmly down. The one across his hood pressed his skull into whatever padded surface he was lying on, the leather groaning softly as he thrashed. His cock, already half-hard from the sheer wrongness of it all, twitched against something cold and unyielding. A chastity cage. The metal rings bit into the base of his shaft, his balls tucked snugly behind, the entire package compressed into a neat, tightly encased inaccessible bundle. He whimpered, hips jerking uselessly, the movement only making the cage dig in deeper.
And then there was the fullness.
Something thick and unrelenting stretched his ass, the burn of it radiating up his spine. A plug. No—more than a plug. The flare of the base pressed against his cheeks, the weight of it dragging at his entrance every time he squirmed. He clenched experimentally, and the intrusion shifted, the ridged surface dragging against his inner walls. A broken moan escaped him, the sound distorted around the gag, his cock throbbing in its prison.
How the fuck did I get here?
The last thing he remembered was the bar. The dim red lights, the scent of whiskey and sweat, the way his pulse had jumped when that man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in leather that looked like it had been painted onto his skin—had leaned in close enough to murmur in his ear. "You look like you’d take a collar well." Kevin had laughed, flirted, and after a few drinks let himself be led somewhere dark and private. And then… nothing. Just black.
Until now.
The sound of boots against a hard floor made his entire body lock up.
Slow. Deliberate. The click of polished leather soles, the faint creak of well-oiled harness straps. Kevin’s breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears. The air shifted as someone approached, the scent of leather and something darker—musky, male, dominant—washing over him. A gloved hand settled on his chest, fingers splaying over the leather covering his sternum, the pressure just shy of painful.
"Good. You’re awake."
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