He had been messaging me for weeks—nervous, needy, desperate to serve. I didn’t respond right away. I let him sit in his craving. Let him imagine what it would be like to kneel for a man who doesn’t beg, doesn’t flatter—only commands.

When I finally sent him my address, I gave no details. Just: "7PM. Be clean. Be still."

He showed up on time. I heard the knock, but didn’t answer right away. I wanted him sweating, wondering. I let the silence stretch long enough for the ache to begin. Then I opened the door—shirtless, harness tight, leather pants snug, boots polished. Dominance doesn’t need words. It breathes.

He stood there, breathless.

"Inside. Shoes off."

He obeyed.

The room was dim. Leather furniture, polished wood, candles low and flickering. A rug in the middle. I sat in a black armchair, spread my legs slightly, and looked down at him.

I pointed.

"Kneel."

He dropped.

I let the silence build again. Let his mind unravel as mine stayed steady. Control doesn't always mean movement. Stillness breaks them faster.

"Strip."

He hesitated just a second, then obeyed. Jacket. Shirt. Jeans. Briefs. Socks. Piece by piece until he was bare, skin flushed under my gaze. He didn’t cover himself. That was a good sign.

"Hands behind your back."

He complied. I fastened soft leather cuffs to his wrists, tightening them until he gasped slightly. I stepped behind him. Ran my palm down his spine. He trembled.

"You don’t speak unless I ask you to. Nod if you understand."

He nodded.

"From this moment on, your thoughts belong to me. You don’t worry about right or wrong. You obey. You please. You endure."

Another nod. He was breathing harder now.

I slid a blindfold over his eyes.

"Good boys don’t see. They feel."

His lips parted slightly. Anticipation.

I started with a flogger—not harsh. Teasing strokes. He flinched at first, but I could feel the tension melting under each flick. A little sting, then a pause. My boots moving slowly around him. I circled. His breathing synced with my pacing.

Then I whispered.

"You're not here to be comfortable. You're here to be used."

I struck harder.

He gasped. The sound echoed perfectly in my space. I took my time—changing rhythm, sometimes grazing, sometimes biting. Not pain for punishment—pain as attention, pain as proof.

He whimpered. Not from agony, but surrender. I could hear it.

"Crawl."

He obeyed. Sightless, unsure, on all fours. I directed him with my voice alone—left, forward, stop. He moved like he wanted to impress me.

He reached the base of my chair.

"Kiss."

His lips touched my boot.

"Now lick."

And he did—slow, reverent. The leather shimmered beneath his tongue.

I grabbed his hair. Pulled his head back gently but firmly. His mouth was open, breathing shallow.

"You're here because you begged for this. Because something in you wanted to be claimed."

I removed my belt slowly. Let the sound tease him. Then coiled it around my fist and gave him a light strike across his thighs.

He flinched, then groaned.

I leaned in close.

"Say it."

He stammered, barely audible. "I want to be yours, Sir."

"Again."

"I want to be yours, Sir."

I made him repeat it. Over and over until it became rhythm. Prayer. Truth.

Then I put him on his knees, back against the wall, hands cuffed, thighs spread. I stepped out of my pants, and he heard it. His mouth opened by instinct.

"Not yet."

I teased him. Tapped his cheek with the head of my cock. Let it slide across his lips. He moaned. I held him still, then finally gave him what he was aching for.

He sucked like he was starving. I didn’t let him control the pace. I guided his head. Took what I wanted. When he gagged, I held him there for a second longer.

"You're not here to enjoy this. You're here to take it."

But he was enjoying it. His cock was leaking on the floor. He was lost.

I pulled out. Grabbed his jaw. Made him open wide. Spit into his mouth.

"Swallow."

He obeyed.

I dragged him back to the rug. Bent him over my lap. Spanked him with my bare hand, hard and slow, until his moans turned to whimpers, then silence.

"You take pain beautifully, boy."

I spread his legs wider, cupped his balls, whispered into his ear.

"You don't come until I say. Not even a drop."

He whimpered.

I edged him with slow, ruthless strokes. Every time he tensed, I stopped. Over and over until his whole body was shaking. I never let him cross that line.

Then I made him beg.

Not just for release—but for the right to be used. To be owned. To be brought back again.

His voice cracked. His words broke. And finally, I gave him what he needed.

He came hard—kneeling, spent, a mess on my floor.

"Now clean it up."

He bent down and licked it off the rug without hesitation.

When he finished, I uncuffed him. Sat down. Pulled him between my legs.

"Good boy."

He melted.

And I knew I'd see him again.