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Tag: Dom/sub (Page 2 of 4)
A gay chastity romance of temptation, denial, and surrender.
Dylan and Paul are thick, fortysomething suburban husbands with a secret spice to their sex life: chastity play. It starts as a fun experiment. A steel cage, a weekend apart, and a playful sense of control. But when a blizzard delays Paul’s return from a business trip, Dylan’s self control begins to unravel. Every touch, every thought, and every hour alone in his cage makes him more desperate.
Enter Mike, Dylan and Paul’s newly jacked neighbor with a smug grin and a home gym full of temptation. What begins as a harmless crush warps into something far more dangerous as Dylan’s sexual frustration distorts his judgment and his sense of loyalty.
What happens when a kink meant to bring two husbands closer invites a third man in? When denial becomes devotion, and submission becomes a way of life?
Equal parts erotic and emotional, Husband, Husband, Neighbor is a slow-burn gay chastity romance that explores what happens when desire gets caged, but obedience gets set free. Read chapter 1 on the site, and buy the whole story on Kindle.
The rectory was still, lit only by the faint golden spill from a desk lamp. Father Brad Whittaker sat at the edge of an old oak armchair, the burner phone hidden in his palm like contraband. The screen glowed in the dark, casting a blue light over his knuckles, which were white from the way he gripped it.
He scrolled an app he swore he’d delete after just one more look. Profiles, a mostly anonymous and faceless parade of torsos and gear, harnesses and collars, whipped past. One profile pinged.
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Catch up on part 2 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…
Part 3: Servant Leadership
The rain came down in sheets, hammering the windows of the cozy townhouse tucked into the sleepy cul-de-sac like applause from the sky. Inside, it was all warmth: amber firelight flickering across hardwood floors, the soft drone of a streaming reality show half watched, and the smell of cinnamon from some fancy coffee drink Frank had insisted on making despite Mike’s teasing.
Frank was curled under a blanket on the sofa, gray-socked feet resting on the coffee table as he scrolled through his phone. Mike, hair tousled from the shower, leaned back in the armchair with a dog-eared paperback, one finger holding his place while he sipped his room-temperature mug of “Mocha Minty” and tried not to smirk.
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Catch up on part 1 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…
Part 2: Slow Correction
The next morning, the lobby of Langston & Smythe Accountancy, Inc., was tranquil. The receptionist, Jason, sat blinking down at the steaming cup of coffee placed neatly on his desk. On the crisp cardboard sleeve, a smily face was drawn in permanent marker. Jason glanced up, perplexed, at the broad-shouldered man who had just handed it to him.
“Uh… thanks?” he said cautiously.
Brandon gave him what was clearly meant to be a warm smile. It appeared to have been copied from a YouTube tutorial on executive charm. “You’ve been so helpful this week,” he said, his voice more measured than usual. “Figured it was the least I could do to show my appreciation.”
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Part 1: The Spark of Discipline
Living up to its pretentious name, Bistro Bistro had a self-consciously sleek ambience particular to the upper tier of the city’s dining scene: cool lighting, leather banquettes, waitstaff in minimalist black, and wine lists that read like doctoral dissertations. It was the kind of place Mike wouldn’t have chosen himself—he preferred something cozier, more homestyle cooking and less performance art—but tonight Frank was celebrating surviving a particularly hellish client project, and Mike, ever gracious, had let him pick the restaurant.
They sat tucked into a semi-private alcove near the window, their fingers brushing across the crisp table linen as they shared a plate of olives and sipped on Tempranillo. Mike, as always, wore his quiet elegance like a second skin. With salt-and-pepper stubble, thin glasses framing his intelligent eyes, and a voice that rarely rose above a murmur, Mike knew how to disappear in a room unless he wanted to be noticed. Frank loved that about him.
But tonight, someone else wanted attention.
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Chapter 1: Caged Silence
The silence roared in my ears. The rubber hood amplified my pulse, the hiss of filtered air slipping in and out of the breathing tube, and the subtle, maddening sound of latex creaking as I shifted the barest fraction of an inch.
I was sealed in, encased from scalp to toe in black rubber, bent at the knees, and arms folded tight to my chest in the smooth, padded hollowness of a hidden chamber. Anyone glancing at it saw nothing more than a piece of designer furniture, a custom walnut bench beneath the living room window. Seamless, elegant, and dead silent.
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I’ve expanded My short story from 2023 into a full-length transformation epic. Read the first three chapters here.
Chapter 1: The Golden Ticket
I had been based out of Artemis Station for nearly a decade, working long-haul cargo routes to neglected outposts and failed experiments in galactic living. Six months to Vesta. Fourteen to New Rockall. The occasional ten-week jog to Hyperion. Interstellar freight isn’t glamorous, but the solitude suited me. The pay was steady. And when you’re in deep sleep for most of the journey, the years barely touch you.
Some guys can’t handle it—waking up decades older than their friends, missing birthdays, funerals, and civilizations. Me? I had nothing waiting for me planetside. No lovers, no obligations. I liked it that way.
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Office politics
“Your golden boy is a walking lawsuit.”
Jules Wexler dropped the thick personnel file onto Landon Shaw’s desk with the dramatic flair of someone who had earned the right to make it land like a gavel. The manila folder splayed open, exposing a collage of typed complaints, red-ink annotations, and HR bleeding red flags.
Landon didn’t flinch. He glanced down, uninterested. His espresso was still steaming, untouched, beside a single Montblanc pen that cost more than some of his junior associates made in a month.
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