Chapter 1: Budget Domming and Bound Mirth
The lamplight flickered, throwing shadows that danced across the half-finished panels of dragons and warriors taped to the walls. In the center of the room, Hank sat, bound to a sturdy wooden chair. The ropes were tight, cinched with a sailor’s precision around his thick forearms and chest, emphasizing the mural of ink that swirled across his shoulders and back. He was naked save for the simple black leather collar around his throat, the attached leash pooled on the floor like a dormant snake.
He flexed, just to feel the bite of the hemp. A playful smirk touched his lips.
Kaidan paced before him, the sound of his tall leather boots a staccato rhythm on the scuffed floorboards. The black latex of his bodysuit squeaked faintly with every movement, hugging every slight curve. His pink hair, usually a soft cloud, was tucked behind long, realistic bunny ears that twitched with his agitation. A fluffy white tail bobbed at the base of his spine.
“You think this is a game,” Kaidan said, his voice attempting a low, dangerous purr. It wavered, just a little. He stopped pacing and tapped a gloved finger against the chair’s armrest. “You have no idea the depths of my displeasure.”
Hank’s red eyes, usually so unsettling, were warm with affection. “Do my worst, bunny.”
Kaidan’s nose scrunched. He wasn’t supposed to be ‘bunny’ right now. He circled the chair, his boots clicking. “Silence. Your insolence will be accounted for.” He paused behind Hank, his breath hitching as he stared at the intricate tattoos. He’d always loved them. Now, he was supposed to be indifferent. He reached out and trailed a gloved finger down the knotted muscle of Hank’s spine.
Hank shivered, a genuine, full-body reaction that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Encouraged, Kaidan leaned close, his lips near Hank’s ear. “I had plans,” he whispered, the menace slipping into something more like a confidential complaint. “Real plans. There was this restraint chair, all steel and padding, it would’ve been perfect. But it was like, seven hundred dollars.” He sighed, the air warm against Hank’s neck. “And the good gimp mask? The one with the breathing tubes? Rent was due. So we’re working with the… the IKEA special of bondage here. Don’t laugh.”
Hank didn’t laugh. He let out a low, appreciative groan instead. “You’re killing me. This is better.”
“It is not better,” Kaidan huffed, moving back into view. He crossed his arms, the latex straining. “It’s economically pragmatic. There’s a difference.” He uncrossed them, flustered. The script was gone. He’d rehearsed this for weeks, but now, under the heat of Hank’s gaze, all the carefully crafted lines about punishment and protocol had evaporated, replaced by the crushing reality of his credit card statement.
Hank watched him, utterly captivated. The way Kaidan’s ears drooped slightly when he was frustrated. The tiny furrow between his brows. This wasn’t a sadistic dom; this was his anxious, brilliant artist, swimming in a costume two sizes too big for his personality. It was the most erotic thing Hank had ever seen.
“So what’s the verdict, master?” Hank prompted, his voice a gravelly tease.
Kaidan blinked, coming back to himself. Right. The scene. He snatched the leash from the floor, the leather slapping against his glove. “The verdict is you talk too much.” He gave the leash a sharp, definitive tug.
The collar pulled snug against Hank’s throat. His head tilted back, a flash of something dark and hungry crossing his face before it settled back into open admiration. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
A thrill, electric and entirely new, shot down Kaidan’s spine. Sir. He tightened his grip on the leash. This was power, but it felt nothing like the power he’d read about. It was given, freely, by the most dangerous man he’d ever known. It was terrifying. It was incredible.
He pulled again, leading Hank’s gaze upward. “You’re mine to deal with. You understand? All this,” he gestured vaguely at Hank’s bound form, “this strength, it’s for my amusement. I decide when it’s used.”
Hank’s smirk returned, broader now. “Prove it.”
The challenge was there, gleaming in those crimson eyes. Kaidan felt a spike of panic, quickly smothered by a surge of something else—determination. He dropped the leash. The leather slithered down Hank’s chest. Kaidan walked to the cluttered desk, shoved aside a pile of inked panels, and picked up a simple, slender bamboo cane he’d bought from a gardening store.
He turned. Hank’s expression had shifted. The playfulness was still there, but beneath it, a focused intensity. Waiting.
“You want proof?” Kaidan said, his voice finding a steadier register. He approached, the cane held loosely at his side. “You crave it. I can see that.” He brought the tip of the cane to rest lightly on Hank’s collarbone, tracing a line down his sternum. “All that control you have to wield out there in the world… you just want to let it go. You want me to take it from you.”
Hank’s breath caught. No words this time. Just a slow, deliberate nod.
Kaidan raised the cane. He’d practiced on a pillow. The sound had been a pathetic whump. This would be different. He aimed for the meat of Hank’s shoulder, a safe, padded area.
The crack that split the air was shockingly loud. It echoed in the small room, dissonant against the cozy backdrop of art supplies.
Hank jolted in the chair, the ropes creaking. A sharp inhale. Then, a long, shuddering exhale. A red line bloomed across his tan skin.
Kaidan froze. “Oh god. Was that too hard? Did I—”
“Again.” The word was rough, stripped bare.
Kaidan stared. Hank’s eyes were half-lidded, his body thrumming with a visible tension that was pure anticipation, not pain. The submission wasn’t an act. It was a profound release.
The next strike came easier. A second line, parallel to the first. Then a third, lower across the pectoral. Each crack was a punctuation mark in the quiet room. Each one made Kaidan’s own heart hammer harder. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He was doing this. He was causing this powerful man to flinch, to groan, to offer up his body like a canvas.
He stopped, panting slightly. The leash was back in his hand. He wound it around his fist, shortening the tether, pulling Hank’s face close to his own. He could see the sweat beading at Hank’s temples, feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“Who do you belong to?” Kaidan breathed, the question leaving him in a rush.
“You.” No hesitation.
“Say it.”
“I belong to you, Kaidan.”
The sound of his real name, in that context, with Hank’s voice so ruined by desire, broke the last of the performance. Kaidan kissed him. It was messy, urgent, a clash of latex and skin. Hank strained against the ropes, kissing back with a desperate hunger, trying to deepen the contact, but the bindings held him fast.
Kaidan broke away, drunk on the power. He looked at the ropes, at the deep impressions they were leaving in Hank’s flesh. The chair groaned under a particularly forceful shift of Hank’s weight.
A thought, clear and absurd, cut through the haze. He could break it. He could snap these ropes and this chair like kindling if he wanted to.
The realization was a lightning bolt. The power wasn’t in the restraints, or the cane, or the costume. It was in Hank’s choice not to break them. It was in the trust that those ropes represented.
Hank saw the understanding dawn in Kaidan’s eyes. His smirk softened into something real, something vulnerable. “See?” he murmured, his voice raw. “Told you it was better.”
Kaidan let out a shaky laugh, resting his forehead against Hank’s. The leash was still wrapped tight around his hand. “The chair’s creaking.”
“It’s cheap.”
“I know.”
Hank nudged his nose against Kaidan’s. “So untie me. Or don’t. But if you don’t, I’m gonna bust out of this thing in about thirty seconds, and then I’m gonna ruin that very expensive latex suit.”
The threat was a promise, and it made Kaidan’s knees weak. He fumbled for the knot at the back of the chair, his gloved fingers clumsy. The complex knot, which he’d practiced for an hour, now felt impossible. “I can’t… I can’t get it.”
Hank’s shoulders tensed. The muscles in his back coiled. He took a deep, centering breath, the tattoos shifting like living things. Then he heaved.
There was a sound of tearing fiber, a sharp pop as the main rope around his chest snapped. The chair legs screeched against the floor. Another brutal twist of his torso and his right arm was free, then his left. He didn’t explode from the chair. He unfolded from it, a study in controlled force, the broken ropes sloughing off him like dead skin.
He stood, looming in the flickering light, the red lines stark on his skin, the collar still tight around his throat. The leash trailed from it, the other end still clenched in Kaidan’s frozen hand.
Hank closed the distance between them in one silent step. He took Kaidan’s face in his hands, his touch devastatingly gentle. “My turn,” he whispered, and the world tilted.
Kaidan found himself lifted, then cradled against Hank’s chest. The latex squeaked in protest. He was being carried to the bed, a nest of mismatched sheets in the corner, buried under sketchbooks. Hank laid him down as if he were something precious, then followed him down, his weight a welcome anchor.
He nuzzled the base of one fluffy bunny ear, his voice a low vibration against Kaidan’s skin. “You were perfect.”
The suit, the cane, the chair—it all fell away. There was only this: the scent of ink and sweat, the sound of their breathing, and the profound, silent understanding that thrummed between them in the dark. The scene was over. Something else, something real, had just begun.
Something else, something real, had just begun.
Hank’s mouth was on his, swallowing Kaidan’s shaky breath, tasting like salt and promise. The gentle cradling was over. Now, Hank’s hands were everywhere, mapping the latex, searching for a way in. He found the hidden zipper at the back of the bodysuit and tugged it down with a sharp, ripping sound that made Kaidan gasp.
“Hank—”
“Shhh.” Hank peeled the suit from his shoulders, revealing pale skin inch by trembling inch. The cool air hit Kaidan’s chest, followed instantly by the searing heat of Hank’s mouth on his collarbone. “You talked enough. Now you feel.”
Kaidan arched off the bed, a whimper catching in his throat. His hands fumbled at Hank’s sides, feeling the welts from the cane, the powerful flex of muscle beneath. He was out of his depth, drowning in the sheer physicality of this man. Hank made short work of the suit, pushing it down to Kaidan’s waist, then his thighs, until it was a tangled restraint at his ankles. The collar was still on Hank. The leash was still in Kaidan’s fist, a tangible thread of the power he’d been granted.
Hank knelt between Kaidan’s spread legs, his red eyes dark with hunger. He hooked his hands under Kaidan’s knees, his grip firm, and lifted. Kaidan’s world tipped, his back pressed into the mattress, his legs in the air. Hank leaned forward, aligning his body, and Kaidan felt the hot, heavy slide of Hank’s cock against his inner thigh.
“Fuck,” Kaidan breathed.
Hank rubbed himself there, a slow, grinding friction in the tight space between Kaidan’s thighs. The feeling was obscenely intimate—the slick pre-come, the throbbing heat, the coarse hair tickling his sensitive skin. Hank’s eyes were locked on his, watching every micro-expression of shock and want that flashed across Kaidan’s face.
Kaidan’s own cock, small and hard, ached against his belly. He reached down, palming himself through the remaining patch of latex at his groin. The material was slick, smooth. The added pressure made his hips jerk. He was a mess of sensation—the stretch in his thighs, the phantom sting of the cane on Hank’s skin, the possessiveness in Hank’s gaze.
He tightened his grip on the leash. Gently, he pulled.
Hank’s movement stilled. He allowed the leash to guide him, his head dipping down, away from Kaidan’s body, following the pressure.
“The boots,” Kaidan said, his voice thin but clear. “You should… exploit them more. They were fucking expensive.” He gave another little tug, guiding Hank’s face toward the tall, polished leather of his boots, still laced up his calves. “I’d feel bad if they ended up unused. Kiss them.”
For a heartbeat, Hank just looked. He looked from the boot to Kaidan’s flushed face, to the hand nervously stroking his own cock. A slow, deep understanding passed between them. This wasn’t just play anymore. This was Kaidan claiming the role, building on the fragile confidence Hank had handed him.
Hank lowered his head. He pressed his lips to the gleaming toe of the boot. It was a chaste kiss, absurd and filthy at once. Then he did it again, on the arch, his stubble scraping the leather. He nuzzled the side of it, a gesture of sheer submission that made Kaidan’s stomach clench with a violent, aching want.
“Good,” Kaidan whispered, the word barely audible.
Hank looked up from the boot, his eyes blazing. That was all the encouragement he needed. He surged forward, pushing Kaidan’s legs back, folding him almost in half. The leash went taut.
“Need you,” Hank growled, the words rough against Kaidan’s mouth. “Now.”
Kaidan could only nod, frantic. He fumbled for the nightstand, for the lube they’d placed there earlier as part of the “scene.” His fingers closed around the cool bottle. Hank took it from him, his movements efficient, desperate.
The sound of the cap flicking open was loud in the quiet room. Hank slicked himself, his strokes quick and sure, his gaze never leaving Kaidan’s face. He pushed Kaidan’s thighs wider, positioning himself.
The first press was an earthquake. Kaidan cried out, his back bowing off the bed. It was too much, too fast, a stunning invasion that tore the air from his lungs. Hank paused, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Look at me,” Hank commanded, his voice shattered.
Kaidan forced his eyes open. He saw the sweat on Hank’s brow, the wild devotion, the raw, unchecked need. He saw the man who had broken ropes for him now holding himself on a razor’s edge.
“Move,” Kaidan pleaded, yanking on the leash. “Please, god, move.”
Hank did.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start. Each thrust was a claiming, driving the breath from Kaidan’s body in punched-out gasps. The bed slammed against the wall in time with their bodies, a chaotic drumbeat beneath the wet, slick sounds of their joining. Kaidan’s world narrowed to the stretch and burn, to the overwhelming fullness, to the sight of Hank’s fucked-out expression above him.
He wrapped his legs around Hank’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him deeper. The leash was still wrapped around his fist, a pointless tether now. Hank was beyond being led. He was lost in it, chasing his own release with a single-minded intensity that was terrifying and beautiful.
“You feel that?” Hank grunted, his pace relentless. “That’s you. That’s all you. You own this. You own me.”
The words unlocked something in Kaidan. A raw, climbing tension coiled at the base of his spine. His untouched cock jerked between them, leaking onto his stomach. He was close, so close, just from the sheer force of Hank taking him, from the obscene poetry of Hank’s surrender.
“Hank—I’m gonna—”
“Come.” It was an order, guttural and final. “Come for me, bunny. Let me feel it.”
The permission shattered him. Kaidan’s climax ripped through him violently, a white-hot wire of pleasure short-circuiting every nerve. He screamed, his body clamping down around Hank in rhythmic pulses, vision dissolving into static.
The sensation tore Hank over the edge with him. With a ragged shout that was half-Kaidan’s name, half a wordless roar, Hank drove in one last, deep time, and spilled himself inside. Heat flooded Kaidan, a final, intimate claim.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the smell of sex and leather and sweat. Hank collapsed forward, catching his weight on his forearms, his forehead pressed against Kaidan’s shoulder. The leash went slack.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The flickering lamp. The manga panels watching from the walls. The ache in Kaidan’s body, profound and perfect.
Hank stirred first. He carefully pulled out, a movement that made Kaidan wince and sigh. Hank rolled onto his side, gathering Kaidan against him, heedless of the mess. He nuzzled the top of Kaidan’s head, his breathing gradually slowing.
“The boots,” Hank mumbled into his hair, his voice thick with exhaustion and amusement. “Really?”
Kaidan laughed, a weak, breathless sound. “They were on sale. But still.” He tilted his head back. “You kissed them.”
“I’d kiss anything you tell me to.” Hank’s eyes were closed, a smile softening his face. “Sir.”
The word, post-climax, felt different. Warmer. A private joke. A cherished truth.
Kaidan nestled closer, his ear pressed over Hank’s steady heartbeat. Outside, the city hummed its indifferent night song. In here, in their nest of sketches and spent desire, there was only this: the profound peace that came not from taking, but from being given everything.