I lay face-down on the hotel bed, the dim glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows across my bare skin. Zip ties bit into my wrists, secured tightly behind his back, while my ankles were spread and fastened to the bedposts. The restraints were crude, unforgiving — just like he'd asked. Just like he needed.

Iwas a married man, straight all my life. But this wasn’t about labels. It was about surrender — full, raw, and dangerous. The dominant man behind him moved with slow, deliberate steps, eyes drinking in vulnerability.

“You said you wanted to be used,” the man murmured, voice like velvet over steel as he ran a hand across my lower back, fingers lingering just enough to tease. I had fantasized about this in silence for years. Now, reality pulsed hot against his skin.

"Your body isn’t yours right now," the man continued, sliding onto the bed. "It’s mine to enjoy, to take… until I decide you’ve had enough."

I clenched his fists, the zip ties digging deeper, grounding him in the moment. I'd never felt so terrified — or so alive. And when the man finally touched him with intention, I didn’t resist. He moaned.

There was no ceremony to it — no hesitation. The man’s hands gripped my hips with a claiming force, positioning him exactly how he wanted. I gasped, exposed and helpless, as the man pressed against him, hard and demanding. I wasn’t being asked. I was being taken. Used. Just like I needed.