Hello, I am Vansh, you can share me feedback on [email protected]
It started with a text, of course. The kind of message that felt too straightforward for someone who seemed so timid. I’ve had my share of messages on platforms like FetLife and Twitter, but this one stood out. He wasn’t like the others, not the usual brashness or eagerness. He was polite, soft-spoken, almost a little too controlled for someone trying to hide the anxiety beneath the surface.
His name was Raghav, a young man from Madhya Pradesh, currently in Pune for a job interview. I could sense the disconnect between his professional self and the one he was revealing to me. He was not here just for the interview, not really. The way he spoke to me, the way he phrased his requests — it was as if he was looking for something deeper. Something quieter. He wanted one night. One night to surrender, to step away from everything. No small talk. No obligations. No distractions.
He wanted stillness.
It intrigued me. That calm desperation in his words. It wasn’t an overt need for pleasure, not the kind you’d expect from someone eager to engage in kink. No, this was something different. This was a man who had lived under the weight of expectations for too long, someone whose mind was always buzzing with the next task, the next decision, the next thing to do. He needed a night where he could stop thinking, where his thoughts could dissipate into nothingness, where he could give up control entirely.
His message was simple:
“I think I do, Sir. I want to stop thinking. Just obey. Be told what to do.”
There was no hesitation in his words. It wasn’t an unsure request. It was an affirmation, a quiet declaration that he wanted to be emptied — if only for a few hours.
I knew then that this night would be different. It would be more than a mere interaction. It would be a transformation.
I set the rules — nothing elaborate, just simple instructions. It had to be exact.
No underwear.
Shower right before.
No scent other than his skin.
Door unlocked.
Kneel as I enter.
It wasn’t about the physicality. It was about the precision of the details. Every instruction would strip him further from the world he knew, preparing him for what was to come.
He replied quickly.
“Yes, Sir.”
Nothing more. Just obedience. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer pleasantries. That was what I wanted. Pure, unadulterated surrender.
I knew he was nervous. I could feel it even through the texts. But it didn’t matter. The moment he gave that simple affirmation, he had already made the choice. He was mine
The hotel was quiet when I arrived. It was near Model Colony, tucked away in a corner where the noise of the city couldn’t reach. As I stood outside the door, I couldn’t help but feel a subtle shift in the air. It was the kind of silence that seemed to vibrate, thick with anticipation. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Raghav was already kneeling.
He was dressed in a loose black hoodie and joggers, a casual outfit that barely concealed the tension running through his body. His shoes were off. He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes down, his posture perfect. I could feel the weight of his submission in the room, though there was an underlying energy of vulnerability too. He wasn’t just here to obey. He was here to disappear — to erase himself for a while. He was already giving up his autonomy, piece by piece.
I stepped in. The air between us felt electric, but in a quiet, almost meditative way. It wasn’t the kind of energy that demanded anything — it was a still, reverent calm that came from knowing what was expected.
"Good boy," I said, the words slipping from my mouth like a command. “Stand. Strip. Slowly.”
He obeyed, trembling slightly as he stood up, his movements unhurried but careful. The hoodie came off first, followed by his joggers. As he shed his clothes, I caught sight of his body — lean, smooth, toned in all the right places. There was nothing overt about him, nothing flashy. He wasn’t trying to show off. There was a quiet humility to his form, a softness that only added to the strength I could feel in the way he held himself.
He stopped for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. There were marks on his collarbone, faint impressions of something he had drawn there — small, deliberate dots that told me more than words could. They weren’t tattoos or anything permanent. They were marks he made for himself, reminders of how to breathe slow. How to still the frantic pulse of his mind. I traced them lightly with my fingers, appreciating the gesture. It was an act of submission in its own right.
"Do you like being looked at?" I asked, my voice low and steady, not demanding but still firm.
He didn’t answer right away, and that was enough. The silence spoke louder than words ever could.
"Yes, Sir," he whispered, barely audible.
I stepped closer to him, brushing my fingers down his spine. He held still, his body rigid with anticipation. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the tension in every fiber of his being. I could almost hear his heart pounding.
“And touched?”
He nodded. A silent permission. A soft
The room felt intimate, the air thick with anticipation. I could sense his eagerness, the way he held his body still, waiting for the next instruction. Every movement he made was deliberate, controlled, as if he were trying to hold himself together, waiting for the release I would offer him.
I reached into my bag, pulling out a simple piece of black cotton cloth. No complicated tools or extravagant gear, just something practical, something that would serve a singular purpose. I tied the cloth around his eyes, effectively shrouding him in darkness. There would be no guesses, no anticipation other than the sensations I would give him. I wanted him to feel the emptiness that came with not knowing, with not seeing.
He flinched slightly as I pulled the rope from my bag, the soft fibers brushing against his skin as I wrapped it around his wrists. The rope felt warm from the room, comforting in a strange way, and I made sure each knot was precise, tight enough to keep his arms behind his back, but not too tight to cause pain. The tightness of the ropes wasn’t for discomfort; it was for presence. For a reminder that he was here to be seen, to be held in place, to exist only in the moment.
I gave him space to breathe, letting the rope settle against his skin before moving to his legs. His body was pliant under my hands, every muscle tensed in response, but never resisting. I tied the rope around his thighs, cinching it firmly, securing him in place. I wasn’t trying to inflict pain — I wanted him to feel something else. The weight of the knots, the restraint, was a constant reminder that his body was no longer entirely his own.
I took a moment, stepping back to inspect the work. The rope was perfect, the lines running smoothly down his body, marking him. But I wasn’t done yet.
I took a small handkerchief, folded it neatly, and pressed it against his mouth. Not to gag him completely, but enough to muffle any words, to keep his voice from spilling out too freely. It was a small measure, an act to silence him only in the most intimate way. To remove his need to speak, to give him the freedom of obedience without the burden of words.
I ran my fingers over his chest, the soft texture of his skin beneath my touch. He had marks there too, faint, like breath marks left behind from a long-held tension. I took a marker, writing across his chest in bold strokes. “Obey.” Across his side, “Quiet.” And finally, on his thigh, “Used.” It wasn’t meant to shame him. It wasn’t meant to degrade him. It was a declaration. A mark of where he was. Who he was in this moment. It was a symbol of submission — not just of his body, but of his mind, his will.
The air felt heavy, the silence between us thick, punctuated only by the sound of his breath, shallow but steady. I guided him to the shower, untangling the ropes just enough so he could crawl to the space. I wanted him to experience it all, even in the most basic of tasks. As I sat on the toilet seat, he knelt before me, his head lowering instinctively as he washed my feet. Each stroke of his hands was reverent, slow, methodical, as though he were offering a silent prayer to the sensation of my skin beneath his touch.
There was something beautiful in that, something intimate. It wasn’t about the act itself, but about the attention. The care. He wasn’t cleaning me in the physical sense. He was cleaning my presence into his mind, washing away the weight of his responsibilities, his worries, his distractions. Every part of him was engaged, focused solely on the task before him. I let him stay there, in the steam and the heat, letting him settle into the stillness.
After a while, we returned to the bed. This time, the rope wasn’t necessary. I just wanted him to exist in the moment. I laid him down, feeling his body relax as it sank into the mattress. There were no words between us for a while. I simply traced my fingers down his arm, feeling the way his muscles tensed at the touch, the way his skin shivered under the lightest contact. He was still, but I could feel his energy, his thoughts, buzzing just beneath the surface.
I could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. He was on the edge, the brink of something. The quiet was overwhelming him. It was as if he was on the cusp of losing himself completely, and that was what I wanted. That stillness.
I asked him, gently: “How do you feel now?”
He whispered, barely audible, as if the words themselves might break the spell: “Like I’m fading. But it feels safe.”
I nodded, understanding. It was a surrender, yes, but it was also a moment of calm. It wasn’t about the submission being forced. It was about the freedom in letting go.
I moved back to his side, pressing my hand to his heart, feeling the beat beneath my palm. His breath slowed, his body responding to the stillness I had created. There was no urgency, no tension. Just the quiet rhythm of his pulse under my fingers. I told him to stay still, to let go, to fade completely. And he did.
There was no struggle. No resistance. He stayed quiet, letting himself melt into the space we had created. Occasionally, I would stroke his hair, or trace my fingers along his ribs. Small touches, barely noticeable. But they were enough. Enough to ground him, enough to remind him that he was still here, still with me.
At some point, I tied a soft rope belt around his waist. It wasn’t meant to be a visible mark. It was subtle, something hidden beneath his clothes. But it would be there, all day, a constant reminder of the night. Of the surrender. Of the stillness.
He stood, and I helped him into his clothes. The navy blue shirt, the grey trousers. He looked like any other man on his way to an interview. But I knew the truth. I knew that under those clothes, beneath the façade of professionalism, he was mine. He was marked. And that rope, hidden but present, would remind him of that all day.
He stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie, his hands steady despite the weight of what he carried. I kissed his neck lightly, pressing my lips against his skin, then whispered in his ear: “You’re not alone. You’re claimed. And you will carry that with you.”
He smiled slightly, looking at himself in the mirror, half-dazed but grounded. He had been to the edge and back. And he had been transformed.
Later, he messaged me.
"I couldn’t stop thinking of last night. I was hard the whole time. But I nailed the interview."
It wasn’t about the physical release. It wasn’t about the pleasure or the pain. It was about the transformation. One night, one body, one mind, bent and rebuilt. He had stepped into the void of silence, and in doing so, he had found something deeper within him.
