Chapter 1 - Reed
REED
Darkness.
All I see is darkness.
A blindfold is draped over my eyes and tied at the base of my skull.
All I taste is the silky, cotton rope of a well-knotted gag, which makes my protests impossible. I want to see my hookup get undressed, but a submissive’s wants are second to those of their Dom.
My roommate is away, visiting his family, so Hank—an older man I met on a BDSM app called Kink Camp—agreed to come over.
My wrists are bound behind my head, arms raised, biceps on display and armpits exposed.
I kneel on the hard vinyl floor of my University of Wyoming dorm room in wait of my punishment, feeling like a superhero entrapped by his greatest foe.
The moment right before he summons his full powers to break free and save the universe.
Do I have the strength? Do I even realize what I’ve gotten myself into?
Earlier, after vibe-check drinks, Hank had set his bondage bag down by the door and inspected the room.
The plan had been to ease me, a total newbie, into Shibari with chair bondage, but the wooden desk chair is designed for suicide prevention, so it rocks back with the barest of motion.
The extra-long twin bed hardly has enough room for me to sleep in it, let alone space for me and this bulky Dom Daddy to do more physical activities, so the spread eagle with my arms bound to the headboard was out too.
“We’ll have to get creative,” he’d said, stepping methodically through the room with one hand scratching his dark beard, which bore hints of distinguished gray.
He looked comically large in the room with its low ceiling and narrow beige walls.
His size had my body abuzz with all the ways he could overpower me.
On my desk shelf, usually reserved for textbooks, I’d created a small shrine to Nova Ranger, my favorite superhero of all time.
My collection of comic books is lined up and preserved in polypropylene sleeves.
A mint collector’s edition Nova Ranger action figure, still in its original box, stands proudly beside a LEGO replica of Nova Ranger’s Cosmic Spacecraft that I painstakingly put together piece by piece when it came in the mail in the middle of a stressful week of midterms.
Scrutiny had threaded through Hank’s unmanicured brow.
I really should’ve hidden all traces of my inner nerd before he showed up here.
How did this stuff square with the sexually forward submissive I’d projected on Kink Camp?
I bet he second-guessed coming over and thought I was too young or too unserious to be any good in bed. But then—
“Big fan?” he’d asked.
“Sort of,” I’d said, downplaying it.
He’d met my gaze for a moment. “Nova Ranger was always my favorite superhero too.” His pointer finger roved over the spines of my comics, stopping midway through. He jimmied his selection out of the row. “The best one.”
“Oh, totally. I went as Nova Ranger from that issue for Halloween a few years ago,” I’d said. The illustrators made slight alterations to his super suit for that one. It’s the kind of detail only an avid fan would pick up on. Nobody at the frat party had been the type to notice.
“With the sparkly briefs?” Hank had asked.
I’d nodded, throat too dry to respond.
“Still got it?” he asked. “The costume.”
I nodded again, more eager this time.
“I’m going to keep that in mind.” His eyes held a lethal amount of mischief.
He’d guided me to the center of the floor, where he reminded me of our safeword before we grappled. Head-to-head, we’d wrestled until Hank conquered me, taking my feet out from under me and stealing the last of my hesitations.
That’s how I find myself naked and blindfolded in an armbinder gag.
My ears fill with the unmistakable jangle of a belt buckle being undone and the rasp of denim sliding down hair-coated thick thighs.
I crave to see what underwear Hank has on and how full the front pouch is.
Over the weeks we’ve been sexting, we’ve exchanged interests and limits and dozens of nudes, but lighting and angles in pictures can be deceiving.
I want to know if the real thing lives up to the hype.
In fairness, Hank has already surpassed my expectations everywhere else.
When he’d told me he was free Friday night, and I’d suggested we meet up in person at a dive bar not far from campus first to establish a rapport, I’d half expected him to balk at my nervousness, to chalk it up to my inexperience. To my surprise, he’d messaged back right away.
Give me an address and a time, and I’ll be there.
At eight p.m. on the dot, Hank had strolled into the Buck Shot Bar and Tap Room, where the walls were overcrowded with taxidermy, hunting knives, and faded photographs of war veterans surrounded by fake poppies.
Above that, murals of the Wyoming mountains were painted in detail, but the scaling was off, making a roaming elk appear almost as big as the Teton Range beside it.
Maybe it was the angle I was at, or the two cheap beers I’d already downed to bite the head off my nerves.
I almost hadn’t recognized Hank because he fit right in with the clientele who all seemed to be white, have beards, and live in light-wash jeans and baseball caps. Even so, Hank had been the most attractive person in the place, with a presence even bigger than his frame.
His profile stats weren’t a lie, which is a relief.
He’s tall at six-foot-three, burly the way laborers tend to be—though he told me he’s in auto sales—and has eyes that are even greener in person.
Like a freshly mowed pasture where I’d wanted to lie down and watch the clouds pass in.
His hands, though, had caught most of my interest as they swung by his sides.
Those big bear claws with dark hair-dusted backs.
Long, thick fingers that would stretch me out upon entry. I hunger for them on me, in me.
I play back our meeting in my mind as I await Hank’s first touch. Will it be a caress or a blow? Light or hard? My cock jumps in anticipation.
“Interesting place,” Hank had said, settling across from me in the corner booth farthest from the pool table. No hello. No, how are you? Not even a small smile to put me at ease. I wondered if he did smile. Ever. He had that sort of face that seemed set, a mask of permanent seriousness.
“It’s convenient and inexpensive,” I’d said.
“It’s—” He’d looked around, scrubbed a hand over his beard, which was the right ratio of groomed to scraggly, and then never finished his sentence. “Got it.”
All throughout our conversation, my eyes had toggled down to Hank’s fist wrapped around his beer stein. I kept imagining my throat in place of the tall, sweating glass. What it might feel like to have Hank controlling my access to air.
The recent memory flickers out as my abs retract from a brush over my skin. But it’s not a finger. Not one of Hank’s calloused ones. No, it’s too soft and slender.
It must be a feather. Light and frilly. It sweeps circles around my navel, which causes laughs to pile up behind the gag. Out of all the dark, twisted toys in that black backpack Hank hauled out of his truck in the parking lot, he chose a feather? This man is full of surprises.
I wiggle away, questioning where the feather might land next or if he has another torture device close at hand.
“Don’t squirm, boy,” he says in a firm but gentle tone. His voice is a second set of ropes holding me in place. The feather skates over my chest and rings my nipples, which are erect against the air-conditioned room. My naked body is awash with goosebumps. “Just breathe, boy. Breathe.”
I try. I really do. But with only my nose available, I can’t get enough oxygen to calm me and combat the tickling, especially when the feather finds its way into my sensitive armpits. I buck and shy away.
“I said,” he growls in a darker register, “don’t squirm.”
Our nonverbal safeword for this bind is to tap both of my hands on my upper back three times.
As much as the tickling is torture, it’s good torture. The lack of control has my cock stretching and bobbing between my legs, and even though I can’t see it, I sense a puddle of precum forming on the floor in front of me.
“I’m going to give you one more chance, boy, before I have to punish you. Do you understand?” he asks.
I nod as best I can with my limited range of motion. The muscles in the back of my neck feel like an accordion smushed closed.
As badly as I want to be called a good boy by this man, I can’t hold my own against a fucking feather. My weakness only makes me want his guidance more. I need to be roughhoused, strong-armed, savaged. I need him to train me. I won’t be a real submissive until he does.
Hank tsks three times, spit landing on my face. Immediate disgust morphs into enjoyment. He should splatter me with his spit. He should degrade me for his own pleasure.
For several long moments, nothing happens.
I worry he’s removing a knife or something from a concealed pocket in his backpack to kill me with.
I’ve heard stories of worse happening when hookups weren’t properly vetted.
And Hank is the kind of handsome that makes you forget your own name, let alone your safety.
Over drinks, in passing, Hank spoke of a friend in New York.
“Where’d you meet?” I’d asked.
“In Rawlins,” he’d said.
Everybody in Wyoming knows Rawlins for one thing and one thing only, the state penitentiary. It’s not the kind of place you choose to live unless a court orders you to.
Hank’s dark-green eyes had fixed on mine over my beer stein, which had paused on its way to my mouth. It was clear he hadn’t meant to say that, but since it was out there, he was curious to see how I’d react or what I’d say.
Of course I’d had questions. I wanted to know what he’d done to get locked up and how long ago his sentence was.
Had it been a petty crime, a violent one?
Then, his teeth had scraped over his lower lip, and I lost all capacity for speech.
I had excused myself to the restroom, where I splashed water on my face, stared myself down in the mirror, and attempted a pep talk.
He’s a person. People make mistakes. That doesn’t make them bad.
Judging from the way my dick had grown against the zipper of my pants, my reservations had nothing at all to do with whether I thought he’d killed someone. They were obviously about whether that turned me on more.
His record—whatever may be on it—adds a heightened sense of danger to our interaction that cranks my cock up like an out-of-control jack-in-the-box.
I like being a little careless with my life.
When I left for college, I promised myself I’d be reckless for once.
Though maybe getting into bed with a potential murderer is too reckless.
In the bar restroom, I’d splashed my face with cold water again, and when I’d looked back in the mirror, I wasn’t alone.
Hank had hovered behind me, mouth a stern line. His right eyebrow, with a barber’s slit, arched at me through the Sharpie-drawn graffiti-covered glass.
His green eyes had roved away from the mirror and toward the window past the stalls and urinals, up near the ceiling line.
“I’ll give you a boost,” he’d said.
I’d turned toward him, confused at first, but then I understood. “I wasn’t going to—”
“You weren’t?” he’d asked, cutting me off before I could say run away.
I’d shaken my head, resolute. “Nope.”
What might’ve been five steps for me was only one for him. He’d closed the gap between our bodies. My ass had pressed against the chipped porcelain of the heavily scratched sink.
“This is your chance. Maybe you should,” he’d said. The glint of his canines in the splotchy light had me imagining them sinking into the soft flesh of my neck and drawing blood.
“Maybe,” I’d said, a little breathless. “But I don’t think I will.”
His left eyebrow had joined his right up near his hairline, which was still thick. Maybe I’d impressed him. I liked that. Earning his respect now meant he’d disrespect me even better later. “You’re not even going to ask what I was in for?”
My heart had pumped so loudly that I swore he could hear it beneath the banal music churning out of the overhead speakers. “Would it shock you if I said that I didn’t care?” I’d asked.
A wicked smile had painted his face. The first smile I’d won from him. “Not much shocks me anymore,” he’d said.
And I don’t know if it was the beers, his arresting green eyes, or the way his statement sounded like a challenge that tipped me over the edge, but I’d pitched in and kissed him hard on the mouth.
He’d tasted like darkness. Like drinking the night sky. Like if debauchery were a person.
He’d grabbed my arms and shoved me back. “Did I tell you that you could kiss me, boy?” His brow had furrowed with huffy disappointment.
“Sometimes I have the impulse to be bad, Daddy,” I’d said, lightly buzzed and rabidly horny.
I’d glanced up at him through fluttering lashes.
Pressed that close, he’d smelled of pine cones, hops, and sweaty leather.
His heightened musk had me unsteady, diluting my performance as a doe-eyed innocent.
Confidence dripping off him, he’d grabbed the bulge in the front of my pants, squeezed my hard cock, and then pushed up.
He was demonstrating his command, his ownership.
He could’ve collared and leashed me, and I’d have followed him straight out the door.
“Lucky for you, I know how to tame a brat,” he’d said.
And that’s exactly what he does when I can’t handle the feather.