Patriarch's Collar
The silence of Simon Kensington-Morley’s penthouse wasn’t merely quiet; it was a physical entity after the events of the past days. It pressed down, thick and viscous, amplified by the relentless memory-loop playing in John Fletcher’s skull: the cold concrete of the garage bay biting his knees, Dean’s command echoing (“Mine”), the phantom sensation of violation deep within him, Simon’s smirk, and Adam Price’s unnerving, knowing eyes observing his unraveling. He sat rigidly on the edge of a cold steel-framed sofa, a forgotten cup of coffee turning tepid and bitter before him, a mirror to the chill that had settled into the marrow of his labour-honed bones. The brand Dean had smeared across his forehead – a mix of Adam and Simon’s essence – felt like it still burned, an invisible covenant etched in shame.
Ryan O’Sullivan’s face swam amidst the chaos. Simon’s bear-like, silver-haired friend, a board member, is perceptive and loyal. Dean’s command – “You’ll represent my interests… Observe… Tell me everything,” – was a barbed collar tightening around John’s throat. The facade of the reliable Head of Logistics, the struggling stepfather, felt like ancient plaster, fissured and crumbling, revealing only the trembling, owned thing beneath. He was no longer John Fletcher; he was Dean Miller’s reluctant instrument.
The subtle shift in the ozone-scented air, a faint disturbance of the penthouse’s sterile calm, announced Dean’s entrance before the soft pad of bare feet on polished concrete. He moved with unnerving quietness, freshly showered, damp, dark hair curling slightly at his temples. A simple black t-shirt clung to his naturally athletic build, honed by casual basketball, not obsessive training, and faded grey sweatpants hung low on his hips. An air of relaxed vigilance emanated from him, the Unconscious Catalyst utterly at ease in his dominion. His hazel eyes, sharp and unnervingly focused, immediately locked onto John, dissecting his state.
Adam Price, the Silent Sentinel Craving Command, stood near the kitchen island. His impeccably tailored butler’s uniform – charcoal trousers, crisp white dress shirt – seemed painted onto his formidable, muscular physique. The fine wool strained subtly across his broad shoulders and thick chest, hinting at the powerful arms maintained through disciplined routine. His short, neat salt-and-pepper hair was impeccable, but his pale blue-grey eyes, usually masked by professional neutrality, tracked Dean’s approach to John with unnerving intensity, missing nothing.
Dean stopped directly before John, forcing the older man to tilt his head back, enacting a wordless assertion of dominance. John’s blood, sluggish with dread moments before, now pulsed hotly, a sickening cocktail of fear and that treacherous spark craving the younger man’s regard.
“John,” Dean stated, his voice a low murmur that nonetheless filled the cavernous space. A summoning. A demand for acknowledgment.
John’s throat constricted. “Sir?” The honorific tasted like grit.
Dean’s gaze swept over him – the tremor in his calloused hands resting on his muscular thighs, the bruised shadows beneath his kind but weary eyes, the defeated slump of his broad shoulders that once carried authority but now bore the invisible weight of ownership. Dean was cataloguing his possessions, assessing their condition.
A beat of silence stretched, thick as tar. Then, Dean slowly raised his hand. John flinched internally, bracing for impact, for punishment. But Dean’s touch, when it came, was deceptively light. His fingers traced the line of John’s stubbled jaw, a gesture that could be mistaken for tenderness by an outsider. To John, it was a brand – a reaffirmation of the claim staked in the garage, a deliberate echo of the possessive touch from their arrival. Mine. The unspoken word vibrated between them, louder than any shout.
“Thinking about O’Sullivan?” Dean asked, his thumb brushing the frantic pulse point below John’s ear. “About service?”
John swallowed hard, the taste of cold coffee ash coating his tongue. Dean wasn’t just asking about the meeting; he was probing the state of John’s surrender. Was the Reluctant Patriarch reasserting himself? Or was the shame deepening the grooves of obedience? Dean needed to know if his instrument was still in tune and securely his.
“Yes, Sir,” John managed, the words scraping raw from his throat. His voice sounded hollow, defeated, devoid of the flicker of old competence that Dean might have sought–or feared. It held only numb acceptance. He remained seated, submissive under the touch. “The meeting... Adam provided the files.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the subtext in the tremor, the hollow tone, the passive posture. He saw the exhaustion, the bone-deep shame, the lingering nausea at the thought of ensnaring Ryan O’Sullivan. But crucially, he saw no spark of rebellion, no ember of defiance. Only the Reluctant Patriarch Unravelling, trapped and compliant. A flicker of cold satisfaction, deeper and more possessive than before, lit Dean’s pale eyes. The leash held. The web held. John Fletcher still belonged to him.
“Good,” Dean murmured, the single word laden with an approval that sent a treacherous, shameful warmth battling the chill in John’s gut. He withdrew his touch, leaving John’s skin tingling, and turned his head slightly towards Adam. “Ensure John eats something before he leaves, Adam. He needs his strength.” The instruction was mundane, yet another layer of control disguised as care, maintaining his asset. Dean didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked back towards the corridor, his bare feet silent, the possessor assured. Adam shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, his focused gaze settling back onto John, the Silent Sentinel ready to enforce the Master’s will, watching the defeated man caught in the tightening centre of Dean’s evolving game.
Time crawled. John remained frozen on the edge of the sofa, the cold steel seeping into him, Adam’s presence a silent, oppressive weight. He didn’t know how long he sat there, trapped in the aftermath of Dean’s touch and command, before the subtle shift in the air announced Dean’s return. Not from the corridor this time, but entering the main living space with purpose. Dean’s hand landed firmly on the small of John’s back – not guiding, but possessing, compelling him to stand. The touch burned through his worn flannel shirt, a brand reigniting the covenant sealed days earlier in the cold garage bay, marked by Dean’s command and Adam’s knowing eyes. Mine. The word echoed in the hollowed-out space John’s former self had occupied as Dean propelled him forward.
Ambient lighting bathed the vast living space in deceptive warmth, illuminating minimalist furniture and the breathtaking, indifferent cityscape beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. The air hummed with the faint ozone of the city and the lingering scent of Simon’s expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne. Standing near the windows, a silhouette against the glittering skyline, was Adam Price. He turned as they entered. His impeccably tailored butler’s uniform seemed painted onto his formidable muscular physique, the fine wool stretched taut across his broad shoulders and thick chest. His pale blue-grey eyes, usually masked by professional neutrality, flickered with unnerving anticipation and chilling understanding as they swept over John’s haunted expression and Dean’s unnerving, unintentional intensity.
“Good,” Dean stated, his voice low, resonant, effortlessly commanding the opulent space. “Everyone’s here.” He dispensed with a preamble. His naturally athletic build radiated a conqueror’s ease despite the dampness clinging to his faded jeans and grey hoodie. His gaze scanned the three older men – the Pillar of Power Undone, the Silent Sentinel, and the Reluctant Patriarch Unravelling. “Strip. Now.”
The command, absolute and devoid of inflection, hung heavy, crackling with suffocating tension. Obedience wasn’t a choice; it was the only reality Dean permitted. Simon Kensington-Morley moved first. His mature, handsome face, usually a mask of command, held profound fatigue, residual ecstasy from the bath, and ingrained submission. Fingers, strong and well-maintained but trembling almost imperceptibly, went to the belt of his thick white terrycloth robe. He shrugged it off, letting it pool like snow at his feet. Naked beneath, his mature, powerful frame was fully exposed. His dense mat of dark chest hair glistened faintly with lingering moisture, trailing down his still-defined flat stomach. Silver streaks tastefully highlighted his dark hair, now damp and dishevelled. His muscular thighs tensed as he stood awaiting the following command.
John Fletcher followed, movements robotic. His kind but weary face burned crimson with soul-crushing shame. He avoided looking at Simon, Dean, or Adam’s observant eyes. His calloused hands fumbled with his robe’s belt. The terrycloth fell away, revealing his labour-honed chest covered in a thin layer of dark chest hair, the powerful torso built by physical labour, his muscular thighs and broad shoulders laid bare and vulnerable. He stood, utterly exposed, the reluctant patriarch reduced to trembling flesh.
Adam Price was last. His movements were precise, deliberate, and personified silent efficiency. His observant eyes never left Dean as he unbuttoned the crisp white dress shirt. Each button revealed more breathtaking expanse: thick, defined pectoral muscles capped with small, dark nipples, leading down to a perfectly carved six-pack rippling like plates of armour. His shoulders and arms, now fully visible, were densely packed – powerful deltoids, biceps like corded steel. A light dusting of dark hair covered his pecs and trailed down his abs. He folded the shirt meticulously. He then unfastened his trousers, pushing them and his boxer briefs down his powerful thighs – thick with quadriceps – revealing his thick, heavy cock, already half-hard, curving upwards from a nest of dark pubic hair. He stepped out, kicking the clothes aside, and stood naked: an awe-inspiring monument to masculine strength and disciplined submission, the Sentinel disarmed.
Dean smirked, a faint, dangerous curve on his open, expressive face. His hazel eyes swept over them like a predator surveying claimed territory – Simon’s hairy, mature authority laid low; Adam’s scarred, disciplined strength presented for use; John’s blue-collar strength radiating shame and burgeoning obedience. The contrast was devastating.
“Simon,” Dean commanded, slicing the silence. “On your knees.”
Simon dropped instantly, fluid despite the tremor, his knees hitting the plush rug with a soft thud. His breath hitched audibly as Dean stepped closer, radiating dominance. Dean unzipped, his thick, flushed cock springing free, fully erect. Simon’s gaze fixed on it, dread and desperate hunger darkening his eyes.
Dean gripped Simon’s silver-streaked dark hair, tilting the CEO’s head back with absolute ownership. “Open.” Simon obeyed. Dean pushed forward, the velvety head brushing Simon’s lips before sliding deep. Simon’s lips wrapped around him, tongue swirling, hollowing his cheeks as Dean set a relentless rhythm, thrusting into his throat. Simon gagged but adapted, mature frame trembling, eyes watering. Wet, sucking sounds filled the room.
“Adam,” Dean growled, not pausing his thrusts. “Bend over the couch.”
Adam moved instantly, his muscular physique flowing. He positioned himself before the low Chesterfield, facing the city view, and bent forward at the waist. His powerful back tapered to a narrow waist, his firm, muscular ass presented – high, round, vulnerably exposed. His thick cock bobbed heavily, fully erect. He braced his strong, capable hands on the sofa back, head bowed, awaiting use. His breathing was slightly elevated, the disciplined mask fracturing to reveal latent desire.
Dean pulled out of Simon’s mouth with a wet pop. “Stay.” He locked eyes with John, whose own thick cock betrayed him. “John. Him.” Dean nodded towards Adam.
Fresh panic and perverse arousal washed over John. Fucking Adam? Simon’s protector, another owned thing? The intimacy, the degradation, was staggering. Yet, the command was absolute. The allure pulsed alongside the shame. For Dean’s sake. With trembling legs, John stepped towards Adam.
He positioned himself behind the bent butler, his labour-honed frame feeling clumsy next to Adam’s sculpted power. He grabbed the lubricant Adam had silently placed nearby – part of his disciplined observation. He slicked himself roughly, the cool gel shocking, the artificial strawberry scent jarring. He pressed his thick, flushed cock against Adam’s tight entrance. Adam tensed fractionally, a low inhale his only sound, then deliberately relaxed, pushing back. John pushed forward, encountering fierce resistance, then yielding to a surrender. Adam gasped, sharp and bitten-off, knuckles whitening, powerful thighs trembling. John sank deeper, inch by agonising inch, the tight, hot clench overwhelming, a brutal reminder of his own violation, yet charged with terrifying power bestowed by Dean. He bottomed out, buried to the hilt. He paused, gasping, feeling Adam’s inner muscles flutter.
“Move,” Dean commanded, watching John’s hesitation with dark amusement. He guided Simon’s mouth back onto his cock. Simon resumed sucking eagerly.
John obeyed. He pulled back slowly, then thrust forward, establishing a deep, rhythmic pace. Each drive drew a guttural groan from Adam. John gripped Adam’s hips, his calloused hands digging into hard muscle, anchoring himself against shame, disgust, and the shameful thrill of dominance granted by Dean’s command. The wet slap of skin joined the sounds from Dean and Simon. Adam’s moans grew louder, less controlled. His body pushed back, meeting John’s thrusts.
Dean watched both scenes, rapt, his own arousal evident. He saw Simon unravelling beneath the relentless fucking of his mouth. He saw John finding a grim rhythm with Adam, the head of logistics claiming the Sentinel. Dean’s hazel eyes held a predatory gleam. He pulled almost out of Simon’s mouth. “Harder, John,” he commanded, voice rough. “Make him feel every inch. Make him remember who’s fucking him.” He pushed Simon’s head down. “You too, Simon. Deeper.”
John obeyed, driving into Adam with renewed force. Adam cried out, raw and unfiltered, back arching, cock leaking onto the leather. “Fuck! Yes!” The admission from the silent man was electrifying.
Dean’s thrusts into Simon’s mouth grew punishing. His free hand tangled in Simon’s dense chest hair, pinching a nipple hard. Simon moaned around Dean’s cock.
John’s pace quickened, spurred by Adam’s responsiveness and Dean’s command. His own climax coiled tight. “Dean...” John panted, ragged. “I’m close... Adam’s...”
“Let him come,” Dean ordered, voice thick, his own rhythm erratic. “Fill him. Mark him inside.” He looked down at Simon. “You too. Swallow it. All.”
With a guttural groan torn from his labour-honed chest, John slammed forward one final time. His body locked, hips grinding as his cock pulsed violently, jetting hot cum deep into Adam. The release was shattering, shame-tinged oblivion.
Adam roared, a primal sound ripped from his core. His powerful frame convulsed violently as his own orgasm crashed over him. Thick ropes of semen arced onto the Chesterfield and the floor. He shuddered, inner muscles milking John.
Simultaneously, Dean thrust hard, holding Simon’s head down. “Swallow!” Simon’s throat worked desperately as Dean emptied himself. Simon choked, swallowed convulsively, tears streaming, but took it all.
Dean pulled out slowly, leaving Simon gasping. He looked down at Simon, wrecked, then at John, still buried in the shuddering Adam. A satisfied smirk touched Dean’s face. John slowly pulled out, eliciting a soft whimper. Adam slumped forward. John stumbled back, legs trembling, neglected cock aching. Shame warred with terrifying emptiness.
Dean’s gaze swept over them. “On your knees. All of you. Now.”
Simon pushed himself weakly up. Adam slid off the sofa and knelt with silent efficiency. John sank heavily. They formed a rough triangle before Dean, heads bowed, bodies glistening – Adam in the centre, John and Simon flanking. The air hung thick with musk and submission.
Dean looked down at Adam, eyes lingering on the cum leaking from between his muscular thighs. “Clean him off,” he commanded, voice resonant. “Every drop. Show your gratitude.”
John flinched. Lick Adam clean? After fucking him? Simon made a low, wounded sound. Adam merely bowed his head lower. John moved first, driven by a desperate need for Dean’s approval. He leaned forward, calloused hands trembling on Adam’s powerful thighs. He avoided Adam’s eyes, focusing on glistening streaks. Tentatively, his tongue darted out. Salty, musky, overwhelmingly intimate. Adam shuddered, a low groan escaping. John continued, swallowing the bitter essence like acid penance.
Simon mirrored the action on Adam’s other thigh, movements slower, wearier, laced with complex shame. They worked silently, their tongues cleaning their skin, swallowing evidence of their shared submission. John cleaned Adam’s stomach, chest, and the light dusting of dark hair. Simon tended to his back and shoulders. When Adam was mostly clean, they turned towards Dean.
He stood before them, jeans pushed down, freeing his slick, softening cock. John moved first. He knelt before Dean, head bowed, and took the head into his mouth. Musky tang – his violation, Dean’s essence, Simon’s saliva. Simon leaned in, tongue swiping up Dean’s shaft. Adam cleaned Dean’s thighs and abdomen, strong, capable hands steadying his hips, tongue broad and thorough, pale blue-grey eyes blazing with focused intensity to serve.
Dean watched, a satisfied smirk playing on his expressive face. He threaded fingers through John’s short, practical hair, grey showing at the temples, just possessing. His other hand rested on Simon’s head. “Good boys,” he murmured, voice a low thrum of absolute approval sending a synchronised shiver through all three men. “You learn quickly.” He sighed with deep contentment. “Now... untie nothing. Adam,” he nodded towards the hallway, “open the terrace doors. Simon, John... on your feet.” His gaze, heavy with renewed anticipation, swept over them. “The water looked inviting. Let’s see how much more you can take.”
The command hung thick with exhaustion and Dean’s dominion. The pool awaited. The second session under the indifferent stars was about to begin. The game continued, and the web held.
---
The low command – “Think about O’Sullivan. Think about service,” – vibrated in the humid air long after Dean disappeared. John stared into his black coffee, the bitter liquid mirroring the taste coating his mouth. Adam remained a silent statue by the penthouse door, his observant eyes cataloguing every detail: the slump of John’s broad, labour-honed shoulders under the thick robe, the tremor in his calloused hands clutching the mug, the utter defeat etched into his weathered face.
Ryan O’Sullivan’s name echoed in John’s hollow conscience – a comfortable “bear” in his sixties, shrewd eyes missing little. Enmeshing Simon’s loyal friend felt like crushing an ancient oak under John’s shame. Yet beneath the revulsion, Dean’s dark promise pulsed – release through utter surrender. A traitorous tear escaped John’s cheek.
Simon appeared in the corridor doorway, draped in a towel low on his hips. Damp, silver-streaked, dark hair tousled over his mature, handsome face, his powerful frame – broad shoulders tapering to a still-defined, flat stomach – glistening with shower water. Residual ecstasy softened his features into vulnerability. “John?” His voice rasped, stripped of corporate authority. “Come to bed. Please.”
Adam’s gaze intensified as John set down the mug with a clatter. Following Simon’s retreat, John felt the Silent Sentinel’s eyes burning into him until the bedroom door clicked shut.
Simon’s suite reeked of sandalwood and sex. Moonlight carved shadows across Simon’s naked form – his dense mat of dark chest hair glistening over powerful pecs, silver streaks highlighting the hair on his thick, muscular thighs. John stood frozen near the door, his labour-honed body tense beneath the robe: thick chest covered in coarse dark hair, muscular torso built by decades of physical work, powerful thighs straining against the fabric. Simon closed the distance, his strong, well-maintained hands reaching for John. “I need you to do this… for me, your boss… and for Dean.”
John’s resistance crumbled. His robe slipped off, revealing the rugged landscape of his body – coarse, dark chest hair trailing down to his labour-thickened abdomen, muscular arms roped with veins earned from loading docks and warehouses. Simon’s mouth found his – not demanding but pleading – as John’s calloused hands mapped the CEO’s broad, hairy shoulders.
“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, pushing John onto the bed. His experienced hands peeled off John’s pants, exposing tree-trunk thighs and the thick cock springing free. Simon buried his face between John’s cheeks, tongue probing with desperate intensity. “Oh god, yes–” John gasped, fingers tangling in Simon’s dense chest hair. Simon worshipped John’s body – licking salt from the valley between his powerful pecs, biting a nipple, finally claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss.
When Simon pulled away, his mature, handsome face flushed, John returned the favour. He mapped Simon’s silver-streaked chest hair with his tongue, nipped at his flat stomach, before swallowing Simon’s thick cock whole. “Fuck, John–you’re a natural,” Simon groaned, his salt-and-pepper hair damp with sweat.
John shifted lower, rimming Simon with fervour, tasting salt and sandalwood as Simon’s powerful torso arched off the sheets. Simon flipped onto his back, muscular thighs spreading. “Need you inside me. Now.” John positioned himself behind Simon’s lean frame, his thick cock pressing against Simon’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, both men gasping at the stretch. John fucked him with deep, measured strokes, his labour-honed biceps flexing as he gripped Simon’s hips.
“Harder!” Simon demanded, his powerful back meeting John’s thrusts. When Simon came, thick ropes of semen arcing across his hairy chest, John followed – spilling onto Simon’s stomach, their fluids mixing in the dense dark hair.
Simon rolled John onto his back without warning. “My turn.” He sheathed himself in John’s body, his whipcord-lean torso pistoning relentlessly. John cried out as Simon hammered his prostate, his thick cock spurting across his labour-carved abdomen. “Fuck, John!” Simon gasped, emptying himself inside John.
Afterwards, John lay spent as Simon licked cum from his ridged stomach, savouring it with a predator’s grin. Simon crushed their mouths together, sharing the bitter-salty taste of surrender.
Their coupling was a frantic collapse – Simon’s broken gasps against John’s neck, John’s choked sob as he held Simon’s trembling mature frame. In that moment, John’s internal war ceased. The Reluctant Patriarch was gone. He was Dean’s instrument now.
Wrapped in towels at the kitchen island, steam curling from mugs Adam placed before them, Simon’s powerful thigh pressed against John’s. “Ryan’s circling,” Simon stated, his CEO composure regained but eyes shadowed. “Asking about my ‘distraction’.”
John sipped coffee, his voice unnervingly steady. “He knows.”
“Conference Room Delta. Thursday.” Simon traced his mug. “He’ll probe the Zenith contract weaknesses.”
Adam materialised, sliding a tablet between them. Security footage showed Ryan O’Sullivan’s bear-like frame pacing executive hallways. “Adam has Vargas’s neuroses,” Simon tapped the screen. “Chen’s ambitions. Ryan’s blind spots.”
John met Simon’s gaze, then Adam’s. The Silent Sentinel gave an almost imperceptible nod – no judgment, only expectation.
“Yes,” John said, the word an oath. Simon’s hand closed over his on the marble. “We protect what’s ours now.”
Ours meant Dean’s. John picked up the tablet, his hands steady as he opened the Zenith files. The Reluctant Patriarch was dead. Dean’s soldier had taken his place.
