Chapter Text
She was sleek and leggy; a beautiful woman dressed in expensive leather who radiated poise and confidence. Even if he hadn't known Zoe Morgan, he'd have known she wasn't there to sign up for a self-defense class.
John saw her walk into the gym and take a seat on the bench near the door as he was wrapping up a beginners' session. It was a lunch hour class of about twenty women. He nodded a greeting in her direction but took his time with the few students who had questions.
He knew what she'd probably come for, the same thing she always wanted, but he was surprised to see her show up in person.
When the last student left, she approached him.
"Warren."
"I go by Riley now, like it says on the sign."
Riley's Gym. It was a rough space he rented on the edge of Chinatown, a bare-boned studio for classes at street level with a small, furnished living space above. Not much profit in the business. Almost every penny ended up in his landlord's pocket but he was okay with that. If he could help a few people feel less afraid, feel stronger, and pay his bills, it was all good.
"Is this part of your quest to protect the sweet and vulnerable?" she taunted him.
The jab was not far off from the truth but he could see she was already regretting the words, remembering she was here to ask for a favor.
"Retired, Zoe, remember."
"You haven't heard the pitch yet." She was following him to his office where he had a bagged lunch waiting on a desk he'd rescued from pickup on trash day.
A couple of years before, with his life falling apart, John had literally wandered into the BDSM scene. He'd been drinking hard and didn't really care where, especially after hours. A lot of leather, some chains didn't put him off. A young veteran named Joey Durban had picked him up in what John had a vague impression was a biker bar.
Durban had reached through John's whiskey-soaked senses in a way that few people could have. The 107th Infantry tattoo on his bare bicep caught John's eye. The 107th. He remembered them from deployment in Iraq. They'd seemed so young to him, still wide-eyed, wet behind the ears. John had looked from the tattoo up into a hopeful gaze and asked, "What can I do for you, soldier?"
The answer had been surprising and specific and John much too drunk to even consider it. Durban took him home anyway and when another, more sober day dawned, he offered himself to the nascent Dominant he sensed in John Warren.
John liked the kid and discovered a certain satisfaction in taking charge of the young vet. At a very dark and directionless time in his life their connection was a flicker of light for him. Through Joey he met others and discovered a community.
There was a great deal John knew about the human body, about pain and its infinite gradations. There was a lot he knew about manipulating the body and mind, their vulnerabilities; legacies of his shadow military career.
He had no interest in switching but otherwise John Warren proved to be an extremely versatile Dom. He rapidly gained a reputation for his skill and sensitivity, and a following among both male and female submissive players. He never pushed a sexual agenda and that went a long way to earning him the label, trustworthy.
There was always a surplus of single males trying on the role of Dominant, looking for a quick fuck, thinking they'd found a way to make women do what they wanted. They were easy to spot and quickly winnowed out.
The truth was it had been a while since John was interested in fucking anybody. He took care of himself. He preferred to be the one trusted with another person's physical needs and keep his own private.
There were also lot of confused and sensitive young women drawn to the scene, not unlike the students John now tried to help in his classes at the gym.
In his experience, the majority of people in the community, regardless of how they dressed or what they called themselves, were seeking someone to take charge of their needs: physical, emotional, mental, but mainly sexual. He sometimes wished he had a buck for every Master or Mistress who'd confided to him privately that they were interested in switching, if he was available.
Going pro was almost inescapable in an environment where the demand was never ending.
The businesswoman who recruited him was a savvy Domme named Zoe. She managed a small stable of pros, most of them female. John worked for her for about a year. She was an excellent manager and he honed his skills with a lot of different types of equipment. He gave pleasure to a devoted clientele but though he was always looking, he never found a partner who reached him beyond the set borders of a session. Joey, his first, had come closest to offering something more but the kid had moved on and married his childhood sweetheart.
The money was good enough that John stayed with it beyond the point he really wanted to, the point where he accepted he wasn't going to find what he was looking for. When the chance to rent the small gym space came along he announced his retirement.
Occasionally, he let Zoe talk him back into a special engagement but he'd been turning them down now for a while. He figured that was the reason she'd shown up in person.
Zoe closed the door to the office behind them.
"Make your pitch," he said.
"This is for a very special client," she said.
"Heard that before."
She shrugged. "This one really is. You'd be doing something good, for a very good man."
"And you know that, how?"
"He did me a favor a little while ago and I'd like to pay him back. If I could do this myself, John … I would," she said. "And, honestly, I think you'll like him."
He studied her face for a moment. He could use the infusion of cash and to a certain extent he trusted her.
"Okay. Last time."
She reached into a zippered pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out an envelope with a stack of crisp bills.
"This is upfront. Not part of your fee," she said. "I'd like you to buy yourself a good suit, John, and a nice coat. This man appreciates fine tailoring."
He glanced in the envelope and his brows lifted.
He could buy a very good suit for this kind of money.
"What do you get out of this?"
"His undying gratitude, I hope."
John was intrigued.
"All right. Tell me about him."
"He's a very private person. I'd say he's genius level brilliant. He has some physical issues, neck, hip. It may turn out you do nothing more than meet with him. He's not altogether sure he wants this, but I've convinced him to try it because I think it could do him a lot of good. I'll pay you for the initial meet whether anything comes of it or not … and you'll have a lovely new suit. He'll get in touch with details."
"What was the favor, Zoe?"
"I'm a pretty private person too, John."
He watched her walk out, feeling there was something he was missing. There was an awful lot of bait in the water and he wondered what kind of hook it was hiding.
***
The new clothes felt good. He'd invested the whole stack of bills. Getting ready for the meeting he prepared as if for a session, just in case, grooming himself meticulously. He paid extra attention to details, like moisturizing his hands, buffing and smoothing his nails. He was surprised to feel somewhat aroused by making the extra effort. He also felt a dangerous undercurrent of hope.
He hadn't been surprised, after Zoe's comments, to receive the checklists she'd given Harold Crane. Long, almost solid columns of hard limits. It was much as he expected with some notable exceptions. Nudity was acceptable, bondage, sexual touching was checked as possible, with negotiation. John was interested to see that sensory deprivation was acceptable.
What he had in mind to meet these parameters was a gentle but thorough form of bondage that involved wrapping. He packed his kit accordingly, including a tightly rolled, thick foam mat in case it was needed. Best to be prepared if something developed on site.
He felt the hunger to put his hands on the reins, to take charge and be trusted with another human being's vulnerability … and not harm them. To deliver someone safely where they needed to go. It didn't erase the past but sometimes it gave him respite.
***
The late sun was almost blinding, reflecting off the glassy exteriors lining the corporate corridor of Sixth Avenue. It was cold for the start of April and the street was like a wind tunnel. Not his favorite part of the city. John headed into the lobby of the IFT building, Ingram Finch Technologies. Harold Crane was an executive here, a tech wizard of some kind, according to Zoe.
Suits everywhere. His was several cuts above average which gave him a small measure of satisfaction. He bypassed the security desk. John had received a courier package with a guest badge, key card, address, date and time.
There were plenty of cameras, he saw, but not much staff. If he were coming here to harm this Crane guy he didn't think he'd have much trouble getting to him. As if he were reading John's mind, the guard at the elevator bay didn't take his eyes off him until the doors closed.
The building and the situation were dampening any hint of anticipation he'd felt earlier. It was too much like an executive party set up. Guy tells his wife he's got to work late and John arrives as most people are leaving the building, finds him eagerly waiting on hands and knees in a penthouse suite, wearing some kind of bondage gear.
Elevator nearly to the top but not quite.
More glass, mirrors, and a quiet, empty, unfinished reception area. It looked like it was in the process of being stripped down or redone. A couch with a few pillows drew his eye. The pillows looked broken in, slept on.
To the side, an open door and visible behind a massive desk, there was a small man working at a laptop. He looked up and closed his computer. It had to be Harold Crane, there was nobody else around.
Meeting on an unoccupied floor of the building. An odd way to seek privacy, John thought.
At first glance, John thought Harold Crane's picture should be in the dictionary next to the old-fashioned word, milquetoast. He looked prim, he looked shy but maybe milquetoast wasn't the right word. As he drew closer John's perception shifted and he thought it was definitely not the right word.
John could see the neck issue in even the smallest movements and read chronic pain there. The stiff posture had created the prim impression. The man's gaze was direct and unflinching even though he was coloring up slightly.
"Please have a seat," Crane said, in a voice that took it's time getting from one word to the next. It was a soft but confident voice.
There was something professorial about him, the intelligence in his eyes, maybe, the sense he conveyed that he knew things and could deliver a lecture. John found him compelling; his face a collection of imbalances that added up to something more interesting than symmetry.
This is a clever man, John thought. The longer he looked the less he saw a professor -- there wasn't a whiff of academia about him. Not in those clothes. The president of a prestigious university might be able to afford that kind of hand-tailoring, John thought, but it was unlikely the styling would be that sharp.
The clothes, the setting, the key card access … John's instincts told him this "private person" was a whole lot higher up the food chain here than Zoe had indicated. Probably at the top of it. What was this outfit called: Ingram … Finch? John smiled and to himself, said, hello … Finch.
He took a seat in the chair in front of the broad desk and set his case on the floor. He sat back slightly, in an unhurried fashion, letting his coat and suit jacket fall open casually, watching to see where the man's eyes traveled. He saw the blue-eyed gaze drop down his body to his crotch, blink and rise to his face again. Somewhere in John's chest there was a warming sensation and he felt his body respond with interest.
Now he was hoping this meeting would lead to something more and he could take command of this diminutive popinjay.
"Mr Riley, I would like to make clear from the outset that I do not find any pleasure in pain. I don't wish to be hurt, in any way." He frowned slightly. "Or humiliated."
"No pain," he agreed. "No humiliation." Crane relaxed slightly. He broke eye contact to reach into a drawer of the desk and take out the papers; he'd kept a copy of his lists.
"Ms Morgan provided me with these rather alarming checklists. I'm afraid I find almost everything here objectionable and yet she adamantly believes that some sort of bondage would be beneficial to me. You should also know, I've never considered myself to be submissive in any sense of word."
Crane looked up from the papers. He was frowning and a little flushed, possibly from handling the checklists in the presence of someone who could do some of those nasty things to him. What John saw in him was someone who was unquestionably submissive. Not weak, but in need of someone to trust long enough to give his mind a rest. John saw a body that needed release of tension and relief from pain. He longed to be given control of those needs and fulfill them.
"I've read through them," John assured him, to smooth the ruffled feathers. "I can work with them. What can you tell me about your injuries?"
"Pins in my neck, at the top of my spine. In my hip. Is that a problem?"
"No. Not a problem."
Lips still pressed together, eyes narrowed. It was a very expressive face. John could practically hear the wheels spinning in the man's head, looking for some excuse to call this whole thing off. He watched him take a careful breath and exhale. Here it comes, thought John, and desperately did not want to let it happen.
"Do you have reservations," John asked, before Crane could speak, "beyond the issues you mentioned?" He was trying to forestall any outright dismissal, a salesman's ploy. He had never worked with someone this hesitant, this conflicted about engaging. He'd had clients who were coy or embarrassed about what they wanted, but this was different.
John believed he did want something, he needed something, or he wouldn't have let Zoe talk him into this. And he was surprised by how badly he wanted this session to happen, for himself. He had no time to figure out why.
"Do you enjoy ... giving pain?" Crane asked, as if everything boiled down to this.
"No," John answered honestly, and the man's eyes measured him.
"Please assure me, if we do this, that we can stop at any time, if I wish to."
"Absolutely."
Another deep breath and he gazed down at his desk as if it were more than a blank surface. "Well ... I have cleared this evening," he said. There was still some reluctance but his tone had softened.
"I'm free," John said, feeling a rush with the certainty it was going to happen.
Crane looked up, now ever-so-slightly alarmed.
"I haven't made any preparations. I didn't consult that list because I thought … "
"Are you sober?" John asked. The man looked affronted.
"I am."
"That's my requirement." The only suggested preparation that pertained to what John had planned for Harold Crane was a shower. To him, Crane looked like he had, in fact, showered, that he had prepared himself.
"Is this something that can be done here or does it have to be done in some sort of dungeon?"
"Here is fine."
John let his focus deepen. He'd been feeling the pull of the session from the moment Harold's eyes had caressed him and now he fully embraced it. The skills and talent he brought to bear were not different, in essence, from the ones he'd employed as an operative but now he used them to much different ends. He wanted this odd, charismatic little person to give himself to him, to open up and blossom in his hands.
"All right," Crane said. "Is there some honorific I'm supposed to use to address you?" The brows knit as he asked this.
"Not necessary, unless you have one in mind." It was often the case, a title or name dear to a sub's heart: Daddy, Master, Father … it made no difference to John.
"Believe it or not, I did actually consider this," he said. "Most of the titles in the literature strike me as … absurd. I suppose that Sir would be the easiest for me to use. It sounds polite, at least."
"It does," John agreed, suppressing a smile thinking of how little politeness had to do with most scenes in which the title, Sir, was used. "And did you consider what you would like to be called?"
"Mostly I considered what I would not like to be called. I think we covered that … with the subject of humiliation. Could you call me by my name?"
"Harold," John said. He said it slowly and affectionately. He'd never been asked to use someone's real name before. Crane might be fictitious but Harold felt and sounded real.
The eyebrows lifted in surprise and John thought he could see a tiny glint of pleasure.
"If I ask you to do something, Harold, you can say no. The session or action can be stopped any time. Your choice. But I'd like you to do what I ask, if you can. Understood?"
"Yes … Sir." He tried the title and it came out without much difficulty.
"Good," John said. "Very good. Let's begin."
Normally, at this point he'd have instructed him to use the bathroom and undress but John wanted to capture the man's attention before he gave him a chance to go off by himself and start spinning the mental wheels again.
"Take off your jacket and tie and your shoes now. The vest, your cufflinks, too." Harold nodded and complied. John could see it kept him calm to fulfill such simple requests.
When he'd done these things he stood at ease, waiting.
John sat forward slightly. "Now, Harold, I'd like you to approach me on your hands and knees, if you can. It's not too far. I think you can do it if you move slowly and carefully."
John felt his heart beating hard. It was a simple but crucial command. If Harold could perform this action it would be a doorway for him to pass through, opening a new space for him to inhabit mentally. Physically, it would redistribute his body weight, stretch muscles and ultimately, after minimal discomfort, release tension.
John watched his face; slight consternation, considering, no doubt, if this were meant to be humiliating, after all. John had deliberately couched the command in the tone of an invitation, with encouragement, to help him comply.
Harold was composing himself, looking at the floor and John could see the gradual relaxation of his features as he decided to do as he'd been asked. It was a beautiful moment for John.
He watched Harold's slow progress across the floor, maybe twelve feet, all told. It took some effort, putting stress on his core, his hands, his arms, neck and shoulders, realigning his hips.
"Good."
Harold had come to berth between John's spread thighs. John grasped him under his arms to support his upper body weight as he rose to his knees. John could already see a subtle change in Harold's neck and shoulders, his face, particularly his mouth had become smoother, lips fuller.
John stood up, positioning his foot between Harold's knees. He made no attempt to further sexualize the posture, did not press to touch Harold's erection, though he was aware of it, or bring the man's face into contact with his, which hadn't fully distended or subsided -- John was riding the edge of arousal.
"You can rest on my thigh," John said.
Harold leaned the inch foreword to let his forehead press lightly and John stroked his soft, fine hair.
"When you're ready to stand, lift your arms." Harold remained there for long seconds, resting, his breath was warm on John's thigh, which felt almost too good.
The arms came up, tentatively and John lifted him as he had before, taking most of his weight until he was standing.
"I'm going to take off your clothes, Harold," he said, keeping his voice low. "I won't touch you, sexually."
"Yes, Sir," he whispered.
John felt time stretch and his senses expand as he unbuttoned the first button in the row. He watched it slip free of the hole, and moved to the next. He was aware that fingertips could convey a wealth of sensation. He saw that Harold had closed his eyes and was accepting the resonance of this intimacy. He was, in fact, drinking it in.
John was surprised but pleased by how quickly Harold was letting him in. There was no restlessness for him to defuse, no defensive body responses. Harold was butter in his hands.
He left him in his unbuttoned shirt to kneel in front of him and remove his trousers. Harold swayed slightly and John steadied him, holding his hips to stop the motion. He felt tempted to continue to hold him, to press his face against Harold's belly, to kiss him. He consciously cleared the image from his mind.
John did allow himself to breathe in his scent. The man was scrupulously clean but through the soap and powder fragrances there were body smells released with the escaping warmth when John slid his underwear down.
He was careful not to touch the semi-hard penis jutting so close to him, but he couldn't stop himself from wanting to.
Naked, Harold was compact, his legs looked strong, smoothly muscled though not well developed, as if he'd been a runner in his youth. John could see which muscles bore most of the strain of supporting the injured areas. There was extensive surgical scarring but John saw no evidence that Harold was ashamed of or self-conscious about the scars.
The room temperature wasn't quite warm enough and John intentionally allowed him to become slightly chilled before he took off his own coat, warm with his body heat to wrap around him like an embrace. Harold uttered a breathy sigh of pleasure as the coat enveloped him.
John wanted to hug him, run his hand down his back, let him feel his erection and kiss him. He took a step back, warning himself to be careful. It was so novel to feel this kind of desire for the submissive in his hands that careful was the last thing John wanted to be. But this was a professional engagement and restraint was essential. If there was a quality John possessed in abundance, it was self control.
He positioned Harold comfortably to wait, kneeling on the floor with his head down on the chair where John had been sitting, kept warm with John's coat draped over him while he prepped his work area. There wasn't much to prepare; he unrolled the mat on the desk and retrieved the pillows he'd seen in the next room. He took a few items from his case and some bottled water. He found the thermostat and turned it up a few degrees.
The material he used for wrapping was essentially bandaging but the cloth was dyed a rich purplish black for use where a medical reference might be disturbing. For some play the medical component was key but for Harold it was definitely not.
It was time to cocoon him, gently urge him into a beneficial, secure shape. Harold was pliant and accepting as John moved him into different positions to facilitate the wrapping. He responded in a soft voice to any questions.
John began with his head, his face and neck, to give him maximum relief for his eyes, his jaw and neck. The darkness and muffled sound would intensify all the sensations to follow.
It was a sweet torment to handle him. John was grateful that Harold could not see him. He was gentle, wrapping the man's genitals, careful not to stroke him but Harold's cock was fully erect and welling with moisture. The wet and sensitive parts of his body, his mouth and penis were painfully appealing to John, the places where Harold opened to the world from the inside. He sighed and trapped the thick shaft against the wrapped belly and was grateful that the procedure never bared the temptation of Harold's asshole to him.
John paid particular attention to his hands and feet, using separators for the toes and cotton balls to separate the fingers. He was careful not to strain them in any way.
When he was finished, Harold lay on the massive desk cushioned by the foam mat with the supplemental support of the pillows to take pressure off his hip and neck. His nose and mouth were free but the rest of his body was enveloped in gentle pressure; arms and legs separately, in relaxed positions.
John timed and checked, drank water, timed and re-checked. Timed. He had managed not to linger over intimate contact. He now gave vent mentally to desire, acknowledging how he wanted to run his hands over Harold's wrapped limbs, kiss him, manipulate the swollen mound of his genitals until he soaked his wrappings. He imagined Harold's cock and balls left naked, his ass exposed. He felt guilty even envisioning these things. Harold was so peaceful, so vulnerable.
If he could have him for his own, if Harold were his, John thought, he could do these things and more, much more. The thought of it was too intense to be borne; he imagined kissing the bared mouth, sliding his tongue in him, sliding his dick between Harold's lips. He shook these thoughts off. This was not the time to indulge himself, this man was not his to make love to.
"I'm going to begin to release you," John said quietly when the time had come for Harold to begin the journey back.
"Not yet … John, please." Harold's voice was a breathy plea. A sub always wanted more, something John invariably shut down. But his name …. John felt an almost unbearable pleasure at the sound of his name on Harold's lips.
"It's time," he said. He stroked Harold's stomach, his thigh.
"I'm sorry … I shouldn't have said your name. Please … don't release me."
"Harold," John said. "You're allowed to say my name. I'm not punishing you. It's been longer than you realize. I'm going to start at your feet. It's time." He began to cut away the bandages with blunt-nosed medical scissors he'd warmed first in his hand.
"Please." He sounded desperate.
John saw the wrapped hips attempt to move, Harold's breathing got more harsh and he seemed agitated. John made a decision though they had not negotiated sexual contact. He hoped he was deciding for Harold's sake and not his own. He lay a calming hand on his chest.
"Relax, relax now. Is this what you want?" He brushed his other hand over the hump of his bandaged erection, he could feel the heat of it through the cloth.
"Yes, " he breathed.
"Good," John said, as calmly as he could. He began massaging the bound cock and balls, rolling them under his palm while he reached between the spread legs to push hard with his fist into his perineum. Harold trembled under his hands as John triggered his ejaculation and John shuddered, breathing deeply. When the spasms passed John stepped away, feeling his own body hot with desire and a sexual flush. He covered Harold with his coat, exposing him only where he was cutting the bindings, keeping him warm and hiding him from sight at the same time.
He turned off the lights in both rooms when he was almost done, leaving only the sconces by the elevators for distant illumination. Even so, he warned Harold not to open his eyes right away when he uncovered them. He offered him water.
If only there were a bed nearby where he could lie down with him, hold him, though he was too aroused for it to be peaceful.
Instead, he watched over him, pulling the desk chair over to sit and observe him in the dim light. After a time he would make him sit up.
John tried to quiet his thoughts. He willed his body to relax but his thoughts were spinning. The session was drawing to a close. Harold was not his in any way. He would not be able to touch him, even within the strict limits he'd set for the session.
Harold might want more sessions, he thought. John hoped so. But he could just as easily not want them, or make appointments and cancel them. Move on, as Joey had. That had been disappointing. This would be … devastating.
Ridiculous, he thought. He didn't know Harold Crane, or Finch, or whatever the hell his real name was, why should it matter? But it did. Something in John had come alive in this hour and a half.
"Open your eyes now. I'll help you sit up."
John helped him up slowly. Harold drank some water. He stayed upright and John rearranged the coat around his shoulders.
He went to retrieve the man's clothing. He knew he should try to let him do as much as he could for himself. It was better to encourage a submissive to surface. But these might be the last moments of touching and John wouldn't give them up.
Harold was watching him with owlish eyes, he'd grasped the cloth of John's coat and was holding it closed around himself.
"John, does everyone … fall in love with you?" he asked him.
"Sometimes ... people fall in love with submission. Not with me, I'm not ..." what? What could he say? I'm not a good man. I'm not the man you think I am.
"You're not what?"
"We should get you dressed now. Unless … you'd like to keep that coat." He said it lightly but wanted to give it to him, wanted to keep the mental picture of him in it.
"I should keep it," Harold said. "And get it cleaned for you. But I don't want you to be cold when you go out."
"I'll be fine." John relaxed. If Harold was planning to get the coat cleaned it meant he planned to see him again. "Would next week be good for you, same night?"
"Yes. Maybe somewhere … nicer than this."
"I'll take care of it," John said, beginning to gather his things. The discarded bandages went into a trash bag he'd brought for that purpose. Better not to leave traces behind. Scissors, unused wrap. Tape. "I want you to keep the mat, Harold. It'll be better for your naps than that couch."
"How did you know?"
"The pillows."
"I suppose they do look slept on. John … "
"Yes." His case was packed. It was time to go. It was hard to go.
"Am I allowed to ask for … a kiss?"
He's going to kill me with sweetness, John thought. He had not kissed anyone in a very long time. He hesitated. If he kissed Harold would it be too much? Would he overdo it, overwhelm him, scare him?
"Sure," he said, and put his case down. He walked the few steps toward him and paused, studying him in the low light. Harold was still so open, so inviting. John took the sleeves of the coat and tied them to softly bind him in it. He turned up the collar against the back of Harold's neck and rested his hand there to steady him.
Harold was perfection to kiss, yielding and clinging at the same time, giving John every soft surface of his mouth. Feeling the warm wetness he'd been craving, John's hard-on returned with a vengeance. He drew back before he became reckless, briefly pressing his lips to Harold's forehead.
"I have to go," he told him. "Rest, eat something and stay hydrated. I'll see you next week."
He left then, while he still could.