Control.
But then a whimper broke free, high-pitched and raw. It snagged at him like barbed wire, dragging him back to Jordan’s tear-streaked face, his body shaking in Max’s arms. His voice breaking as he begged for care Max didn’t know how to give.
Max tightened his grip on the flogger until the leather bit his palm. He forced himself to see the man before him, not the ghost.
This isn’t Jordan.
He leaned in and dropped his voice to a near growl. “Good boy.”
The submissive shuddered, his head falling forward, every line of his body visibly melting under the words.
And just like that, the ghosts scattered. The only sound that mattered was thethudof leather against flesh, the rhythmsteady as a metronome, and Max’s own voice, low, relentless, the centre of gravity in the storm.
When the scene ended, the guy whispered thanks, still glowing as he drifted away into the haze of the club.
Max stayed behind, the silence pressing against him harder than the noise ever had. Chains swayed, metal on metal. The echoes would always be there.
But control was louder.
Max never lingered, and this night was no exception. Before conversation could bloom into connection, before anyone could mistake the rhythm of the scene for intimacy, he slipped out of the club into the cold night air. The sub’s thanks still lingered in his ears as Obsidian’s bass faded behind him, replaced by the city’s muted hum of tyres on wet tarmac, shattered now and then by sirens from a distance. For a moment, he could still smell the leather, still hear the faint clink of chains.
Niall’s flat didn’t feel like home yet, but Max didn’t plan on getting too comfortable: this wasn’t a long-term arrangement. Niall’s secondment in the US would end at some point, and then he’d want his flat and space back.
Until then, it was Max’s bolt hole, the location perfect for getting to the rehearsals he hoped wouldn’t be far off.
We’ve got a possible four. And that only took two weeks.
After the noise of the city, the silence in the enclosed space was immediate. He stripped off the leather, left it draped over a chair like a shed skin, and poured himself a whisky. The ice cracked sharply, a sound that sent his mind hurtling back to the club, to the past. He swallowed hard, ignoring it.
The whisky didn’t warm him.
The flat might have been quiet, but it wasn’t still. Floorboards creaked as he crossed to the window. He stared out at the city lights until the glass blurred. His hands still felt hot from the scene, but the flat was cold, stripped of voices, of need.
With a sigh, he reached for his phone. The voice memo app was always waiting. He hummed low, grounding himself in sound, first a bass line, steady and resonant, then another layer, harmony folding over harmony, precise, controlled. Music built the scaffolding he couldn’t allow in love.
Then Jordan was back, sprawled across his lap, his dark curls damp with sweat and tears.
The first sub who had ever called him Sir.
You think you’ve left the past behind, but sometimes it’s not done with you.
It had begun perfectly. Hours of negotiation, careful boundaries. The way Jordan melted under his voice, the way he surrendered not only his body but his trust. They’d spent nights talking until dawn, their sessions bleeding into intimacy.
But what had started sharp and clean began to fray. Jordanwanted: more intimacy, morehim. Submission in every hour, with every breath. Not just rules in the dungeon, but care in the quiet spaces too.
Max had tried.God, he’d tried. He gave what he thought Jordan needed. Structure. More protocols. More commands. More control, even when Max was exhausted, even when the hollow inside him yawned wider.
But rules weren’t what Jordan had been asking for.
And when he’d wept in Max’s arms, Max had smoothed his hair and whisperedI’ve got you.Except he knew deep down it wasn’t true. He wasn’t giving Jordan comfort; he was keeping him contained.
The memory cracked like a whip: Jordan’s face streaked with tears, his voice raw as he spat the words Max could never forget.
“You’re not my Dom. You’re my jailer.”
That night had gutted Max. He’d left the collar behind and walked out into the cold with resolve burning in his chest tonever again go through such an experience. There would be no love, no entanglements.
Scenes, yes. Contracts, yes. But nothing that could hollow him out.
