Prologue
Prologue - Austin
One Year Prior
He’s beautiful. Intoxicating. Mesmerizing in his vulnerability.
Panting hard, every muscle taut and glistening under the low light. Sweat traces slow, shining paths down the deep cuts of his chest and abs.
I have him exactly where I want him—kneeling on the bed, heels to ass, back to the headboard, thighs spread wide. Silk rope bites into his skin, wrapping from his wrists all the way up to his biceps, yanking his arms tight behind his back and forcing his chest forward. The motion makes his back arch just a little. Shadows dance across the scars carved deep over his back, stretching from down his left bicep, over his shoulders to end near the middle.
The black blindfold covers his eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving only his full, swollen mouth exposed. His cock juts upward, brutally hard, the head flushed a deep, angry purple and slick with a shiny mix of my saliva and the lube I’ve been working into him for the last hour.
I curl my thumb and forefinger into a tight circle and stroke him with agonizing slowness, base to tip.
“You want to come?” My voice is low, rough with want.
“Yes, Sir,” he gasps, his head dropping forward just a fraction. But he doesn’t thrust into my hand. Not even a twitch of his hips. He stays perfectly still, obedient even when his body is screaming for release. The only betrayal is the broken little moan that escapes him when I tighten my grip around the slick, swollen head of his cock and squeeze.
I’ve been edging him for nearly forty minutes. Fuck, the man has insane stamina. It’s exhilarating—how perfectly submissive he is, how instantly responsive to every command, every touch. Every time I bring him right to the edge and pull him back, he obeys without hesitation. No sobbing pleas, no frantic bucking. Just trembling need and flawless control.
I don’t even know his name.
He doesn’t know mine.
Delilah called me yesterday. She’s an acquaintance who owns one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in the Midwest. She knew I was in Chicago for the conference and asked me for a personal favor. Said she had a client passing through who wanted a very specific kind of scene—intense, controlled, anonymous. None of her regular Doms felt right for it. When she described what he was looking for, my cock had throbbed before she finished speaking.
I don’t usually do random hook-ups. I prefer my regulars back home—subs I know, trust, and can push safely. But something about this man’s list lit a fire in me I couldn’t ignore.
And Christ, he’s exceeded every expectation.
“I don’t care, really, if you want to come,” I murmur, letting the circle of my fingers glide smooth and feather-light along his throbbing cock, teasing him with barely-there friction. “Because you aren’t in control, are you?”
“No, Sir.”
The words come out breathless, obedient.
“Who is?”
“You are, Sir.”
“Exactly.” I reward him by dragging my tongue slowly over his peaked nipple. The low, guttural groan it pulls from his chest shoots straight to my balls. “You come when I want you to. You do exactly what I want, when I want it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
My voice drops lower, rough with hunger. “And right now… what I want is to fuck your mouth.”
A violent shudder rolls through his bound body. His cock twitches hard in my grip, and a thick bead of precum wells up from the flushed tip, trembling there like an offering.
“You want that?” I can’t keep the raw eagerness out of my voice. “You want me to slide my cock between those perfect lips, fuck your throat, and come down it?”
He hesitates.
The pause makes me grin, even though he can’t see it behind the blindfold. He knows the game—if he admits how badly he wants it, I might deny him just to watch him suffer so sweetly. But refusing to answer could earn him the same denial. The delicious conflict is written all over his trembling frame.
Fuck. The power, the uncertainty, the way he’s fighting to stay in that perfect submissive headspace, to resist taking control back from me… it makes my cock throb even harder. I love introducing just enough chaos to remind him he has zero power.
Exactly what he asked for.
“Yes, Sir,” he finally says, the words cautious.
“Good answer,” I praise, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his full mouth. Then I move with deliberate care, shifting his bound body until he’s lying flat on his back, arms still trapped beneath him, chest arched. I swing a leg over and straddle his face, one hand guiding my aching cock to his parted lips while the other fists tightly in his thick, dark hair.
“That’s it,” I murmur, voice thick with lust as I push forward in shallow thrusts, letting him adjust to the stretch and weight of me filling his mouth. “Take it.”
He gags softly around my length, his body squirming beneath me, but he doesn’t pull away. Not even for a second. The wet heat of his throat squeezes me perfectly, and a deep groan rips from my chest as I start to fuck his mouth in earnest.
I keep one hand fisted in his dark hair, guiding him, while the other braces against the headboard. Every slide of my cock over his tongue, every choked moan vibrating around me, sends sparks of pleasure racing up my spine. He’s so fucking good—taking me deep, working his throat around me even when tears soak the edges of the blindfold. His bound arms twitch helplessly behind his back, chest heaving, cock still achingly hard and leaking against his stomach.
“Look at you,” I rasp, hips snapping forward a little harder. “Taking my cock so beautifully. Such a perfect fucking mouth.”
His response is a desperate, muffled sound that makes my balls draw up tight. I don’t rush. I savor every second—drawing out the thrusts, pulling back until only the head rests on his tongue, then sliding deep again until I feel the tight flutter of his throat. The wet, obscene sounds of him sucking and gagging fill the room, mixing with my low groans and the creak of the bed.
I edge myself too, pulling out completely when the pleasure climbs too high, stroking my slick cock against his swollen lips while he gasps for air. Then I feed it back to him, slower, deeper, watching the way his body trembles with the effort to stay open for me.
When I finally can’t hold back anymore, I tighten my grip in his hair and growl, “Gonna come. Swallow every drop.”
He moans around me in answer.
The orgasm crashes through me like euphoric lightning. I bury myself deep in his throat and pulse hard, spilling down it in thick, hot ropes, my vision hazing a little from the bliss. He swallows convulsively, taking everything I give him without spilling a single drop. The sight of his throat working around me, the feel of his lips stretched wide, the broken little whimpers vibrating against my cock—it’s almost too much.
I stay there for a long moment, panting, letting the last tremors roll through me before I slowly pull out. His lips are red and swollen, glistening with spit and cum. A thin string connects them to the head of my cock until it breaks.
“Fuck… good boy,” I whisper, voice hoarse.
It’s the third orgasm I’ve had in the last hour—a fucking record for me. And I’ve already pulled two out of him before the long, brutal edging session. Part of me wants to keep him there, suspended on that razor’s edge, just to see how long this exquisitely obedient man can hold out for me.
But I’m not cruel.
Still trembling with aftershocks, I shimmy down his sweat-slick body, pressing open-mouthed kisses and slow licks along every inch of skin I can reach. When I finally reach his cock, it’s throbbing violently, flushed dark and leaking steadily onto his abs.
“You’re gonna come now, boy. Got it?” My voice is low, rough, barely more than a growl.
“Yes, Sir—” The word cuts off into a choked gasp as I sink my mouth down over him in one smooth, wet slide.
I take him deep, sucking hard with steady pulls, my tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. That’s all it takes. His hips jerk uncontrollably, a raw, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he comes hard. His whole body shakes, thighs trembling, cock pulsing thick and hot across my tongue. A broken string of “fuck, fuck, fuck” rumbles from his raw throat while fresh tears soak into the blindfold.
I swallow every drop, milking him through the intense waves until the violent shuddering finally eases and he collapses boneless against the sheets.
Only then do I move. I quickly untie the knots running up his arms, loosening the rope with careful fingers so the circulation returns safely.
But I leave the blindfold exactly where it is.
The first rule on his request was absolute anonymity—no names. The second was that the blindfold stays on. It was meant to heighten the lack of control… but it also prevents me from seeing his face. That bothers me more than it should. I want to look into his eyes, read them clearly, make sure I didn’t push him too far, too hard.
Instead, I shift us carefully until he’s lying on his back with his freed arms pulled forward. Reaching for the nightstand, I grab the damp cloth I set there earlier and wipe him down with gentle strokes—his chest, his stomach, the mess on his thighs. I check the circulation in his arms and wrists, massaging lightly where the rope left faint marks. Once we’re both clean, I press the bottle of Gatorade to his lips and make him drink half of it. He gulps it down greedily, throat working.
Only then do I curl around him, pulling his larger frame so he’s draped across my chest. I tug the covers up over us both, shielding him from the sudden chill in the room. My hands drift slowly over his body—tracing the line of his spine, the curve of his ribs—tracking every breath, every heartbeat, staying alert for any sign of sub-drop after such an intense scene.
My fingers brush over the scars striping his back. They’re ugly, deep, raised lines that tell a story I’m not allowed to ask about. He shivers slightly every time I drift across them.
“Does it hurt when I touch your scars?” I ask softly.
“No, Sir,” he answers, voice quiet and a little hoarse.
I let out a small chuckle. “You don’t have to call me Sir now.”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, I feel the tiniest curve of his lips against my collarbone—a ghost of a smile, soft and secret. We stay locked together like that, barely moving, the room quiet except for the sound of our breathing. Long minutes pass until his heartbeat slows against my chest, settling into a strong, steady thump that matches the calm rhythm of mine.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough from everything I put it through.
“My pleasure,” I answer softly.
For a moment, the words hover on my tongue. I consider saying more. Asking more. I want to trace the deep scars on his back with my fingertips and ask how he got them. I want to know why the blindfold was so important, why the secrecy mattered so much. I want to know his name.
But what I really want—what burns hottest in my chest—is to ask if he’d ever consider doing this again.
Because this has been one of the best scenes, the best sex, I think I’ve ever had. The way he surrendered, the way his body responded to every command, the perfect mix of obedience, sexuality, and raw need… it’s seared into me.
But I don’t ask. Something stops me—some invisible wall made of his rules, my own caution, and the heavy knowledge that this was always meant to be anonymous. One night. No traces. No names.
A few hours later, when I finally slip out of the bed and close the hotel room door quietly behind me, leaving him still curled under the sheets, the regret starts to creep in.
By the time I make it back to my own hotel, strip off my clothes, and stand under the scalding shower, it’s already sharper.
I fall into bed and then slog through another full day of the academic conference, pretending the ache isn’t growing heavier.
Manage to make it through the plane ride home, the cab through the quiet streets, unpack my suitcase in my still house. It isn’t until later when I’m lying in my own bed staring at the ceiling in the dark… that’s when it hits me full force.
I am a fucking idiot for not asking.
Because I already know I’m not going to find another sub like him. No one else will ever feel quite like that—so perfectly responsive, so deliciously erotic, so beautifully broken open for me.
He’s ruined me for anyone else.
And I don’t even know who he is.
