“You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I like to be prepared,” he replied with a dangerous smile. “Take off your shirt.”
My fingers fumbled with the buttons in my eagerness. When I finally got my shirt off, Connor stepped close again, running his hands over my bare chest. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as his calloused fingers traced my collarbone, my shoulders, and my nipples.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and I felt myself blush. No one had ever looked at me the way Connor did. He acted like I was something precious, something worth taking his time with. It was like being worshipped in the most intimate way.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that dom register that made my knees weak.
I obeyed, turning to face the door, my palms flat against the wood. I felt him step close, his chest against my back, his breath hot on my neck.
“Do you trust me, Ryder?” he asked, his lips brushing my ear.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “Completely.”
I felt the first touch of rope against my skin, cool and smooth as he began to wind it around my chest. He worked with practiced efficiency, creating an intricate harness that wrapped around my torso, framing my pecs and crisscrossing my back. Each time the rope slid against my skin, I shivered, my arousal building with every knot he tied.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I asked, my voice unsteady as he pulled a section of rope taut across my nipples.
“I told you I used to perform,” he said, his voice low and focused. “Rope was part of my act. Among other things.”
The thought of Connor on stage, working rope with the same confident precision he was using on me now, sent another jolt of desire through my body. I pictured him tying up other men, their muscles straining against bonds similar to the ones he was creating for me.
“Arms behind your back,” he instructed.
I complied, crossing my wrists at the small of my back. Connor secured them efficiently, binding them together in a way that was snug but not painful. The position forced my chest out, making me even more aware of the rope harness encircling my torso.
“How does that feel?” he asked, running his hands over his hands over my bound arms, checking the tension. “Not too tight?”
“It’s perfect,” I managed to say, though my voice was strained. I flexed against the restraints, testing their strength.There was just enough give to be comfortable, but not enough that I could break free. The feeling was intoxicating.
Connor turned me around to face him, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of me. I stood there, my chest harness accentuating my muscles, arms bound behind me, utterly helpless. I felt exposed and vulnerable, yet completely safe in his hands.
“On your knees,” he ordered softly.
I sank down, the wooden floor hard beneath me. Looking up at him from this position felt right, like I was exactly where I belonged. Connor towered over me, powerful and in control. He reached down, running his fingers through my hair before gripping it firmly.
“The rope suits you,” he murmured, his voice rough with want. “I love the way you look all tied up. My good boy.”
I whimpered at the praise, my cock throbbing painfully in my jeans. Connor must have noticed because his free hand moved to the front of my pants, palming me through the denim.
“So hard already,” he observed. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about for two weeks? Being on your knees for me?”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted, leaning into his touch. “Every night.”
He smiled, a predatory curve of his lips that made my breath catch. Slowly, he unbuttoned my jeans and pulled down the zipper. I lifted my hips to help as he tugged them down to my knees, leaving me in just my underwear. The outline of my cock was clearly visible, the head peeking out above the waistband, already wet with pre-cum.
“Look at you,” he said, hooking his fingers into my underwear. “So eager.”
He pulled the fabric down, releasing my cock. It sprang up, hard and flushed, the silver ring gleaming at the base. Connor’s eyes darkened at the sight, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“You weren’t lying,” he said, running a finger along the underside of my shaft. “You’ve been wearing it faithfully.”
“I promised I would,” I replied, shuddering at his touch. “I’m yours.”
Connor’s expression softened for just a moment, something warm and tender flickering in his eyes before the dominant mask slid back into place. He circled me slowly, admiring his handiwork from all angles. I felt his gaze like a physical touch, hot and heavy on my skin.
“What should I do with you now?” he mused, stopping in front of me again. “I have you all trussed up like a gift. How should I unwrap you?”
