Chapter 3: Patrol in Leather
The city beneath his boots was a blur of smeared light and shifting shadow. Solaris hovered above the financial district, a golden sentinel against the deepening twilight. The solar amulet on his chest blazed with clean, righteous power.
Against his throat, the leather collar was a brand.
It rubbed with every slight adjustment of his posture, a persistent, intimate friction. The uniform’s high collar was supposed to hide it, but he felt it like a second heartbeat—a dark, warm pulse that answered nothing but the fading echo of her voice. Each rub sent a thin wire of heat straight down his spine to coil, tight and demanding, in his groin.
One hour. The command was a loop in the static of his mind.
He’d been in the air for twenty-three minutes. Time had become viscous, each second stretched by the relentless, low-grade thrum of arousal. He tried to focus on the usual patterns: the flicker of a breaking window alarm over on 5th, the disordered flow of traffic below, the distant, tinny scream of a police siren.
His thoughts kept unraveling.
Her smile. The look in her eyes when she called him ‘pet.’ The smell of his own cum on his skin this morning.
He clenched his jaw, the muscles bunching. “Focus,” he growled into the wind. The word was stolen by the updraft.
A new signal flashed on his wrist display—a distress ping from the rooftop of a parking garage three blocks east. Assault in progress. His body reacted before his mind could, arcing through the sky, the golden trail of his flight path cutting a stark line through the purple dusk.
He landed on the gravel-covered roof with a soft crunch. The scene was textbook: a kid, maybe nineteen, backed against a ventilation unit, hands up. Two larger men circling, one with a tire iron.
“Evening,” Solaris said, forcing his voice into its usual baritone of authority. It felt like wearing a mask over rotting flesh.
The men spun. Their bravado crumpled into instant, piss-colored fear. “Shit! It’s Solaris!”
“Walk away,” Solaris commanded. He took a step forward. The movement made the collar press insistently against his Adam’s apple. A vivid, unwanted image flashed: Selene’s fingers, tapping that same spot. My good thing.
His concentration flickered.
The kid saw his chance and bolted, scrambling past the thugs toward the roof access door. One of the men, panicked, swung the tire iron wildly—not at the kid, but at Solaris’s head.
Marcus saw it coming in slow motion. A simple move. Catch the weapon, twist it away, subdue the perpetrator. Basic kinetics.
His body was sluggish, heavy with a warm, syrupy lassitude. He moved a fraction too slow. The iron clipped the side of his helmet with a dull clang. It didn’t hurt, not physically. But the shock of the impact, the sheer incompetence of it, reverberated through his bones.
The man gaped, horrified at his own audacity.
Solaris should have ended it. Instead, he staggered back a step. The collar felt tighter. His blood was singing, not with battle-lust, but with a creeping, shameful excitement. This is what you are now. Weak. Pathetic. Hers.
He grabbed the man’s wrist. His grip, usually iron, was just firm enough to make the man yelp and drop the iron. The other assailant was already vanishing down the stairs after the kid. The fight was over. He’d stopped the crime. Technically.
He stood alone on the cooling rooftop, the city’ noise swelling up to fill the silence his failure left behind. His breath came in ragged pulls. He could feel his own pulse in his cock, a thick, aching presence confined within the taut fabric of his uniform. It was unbearable. The humiliation was a kind of fuel, heating the need inside him to a critical mass.
He leaned against the vent, his great shoulders slumping. One gloved hand came up, not to check for injury, but to press hard against the collar through the uniform. He moaned, the sound lost in the metal ductwork.
“Mistress.”
This time, he didn’t whisper it. He uttered it—a confession to the empty sky.
The word was a key. A dam broke.
He fumbled for the seam of his uniform trousers, his fingers clumsy with urgency. He couldn’t wait. Not another second. The need was a physical pain, a frantic scrambling in his guts. He managed to wrench the front panel open, just enough to free his erection. It sprang out, fully hard, flushed and leaking against the dark blue fabric.
He didn’t stroke. He grabbed himself, a brutal, punishing grip, and began to fuck his own fist. There was no technique, no art. Just a frantic, piston-driven need for release. His hips jackhammered into the air. His forehead thumped against the gritty vent casing.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck, Selene. Mistress.”
He babbled. Spit strung from his lips. The imagery in his head was a torrent: her straddling him, riding him, her perfect tits bouncing while she laughed at the blank, eager look on his face. Him on his knees, tongue buried in her cunt, her hands in his hair, his nose smeared with her juice.
“Wanna be yours,” he grunted, the pace of his hand turning brutal, slick with his own precum. “Wanna be your dumb fuck-toy. Your little slut. Just wanna come. Please, let me come.”
He was a monument to the city, debasing himself on a rooftop where anyone with a high-powered lens could see. He didn’t care. The collar owned him. The pleasure built, a tsunami of mind-annihilating sensation cresting from his balls up his spine. It wasn’t joy. It was oblivion.
With a raw, animal shout that echoed off the nearby water towers, he came. His seed shot out in thick, violent spurts, arcing through the air to splatter across the gravel and the dented vent. He kept pumping, milking himself dry, shuddering through waves of devastating, empty bliss.
He sagged, spent, his uniform open, his softening dick exposed to the chill night air. The glowing amulet on his chest seemed to mock him. Below, the city carried on, oblivious to the hero defiling its skyline.
A soft, chiding laugh sounded in the depths of his ear, transmitted through the sub-dermal communicator only she could access.
“Public indecency, pet?” Selene’s voice was a lover’s purr. “And you didn’t even clean up your mess. What would your adoring public think?”
Marcus couldn’t form a thought. He just panted, a hollow vessel.
“The hour is up,” she whispered. “You may remove the collar. For now. But we both know where it belongs. Don’t we?”
The connection died.
With trembling, leaden hands, Marcus Vance fastened his uniform. He avoided looking at the evidence of his ruin glistening on the gravel. He lifted off the rooftop, his flight unsteady.
The collar was in his pocket. It felt heavier than the whole city beneath him. He knew, with a certainty that was the last coherent thought he’d have for a long time, that he would put it on again the moment he was alone.
He was hers. Solaris was just a costume he wore over the truth.