Collared Desires

Chapter 1: Under the Boot of Command

The soft gray morning draped itself over the city like a velvet shroud, casting a muted light through the tall windows of Jonathan’s office. Monty stood at the threshold, the cold metal of his collar biting into his neck, a constant reminder of his place. His muscular frame, hardened from years of labor on cargo boats before his transition, stood bare, save for the leather band that marked him as owned. His masculine presentation clashed with the softer curves of his body, a dichotomy that had intrigued Jonathan enough to purchase him years ago. Yet, in all that time, the therapist had never laid a hand on him—until now.

Jonathan sat behind his polished mahogany desk, his sharp suit a stark contrast to Monty’s nudity. His cold, calculating eyes flicked up from a stack of papers, pinning Monty in place. 'Come in,' he said, his voice smooth as polished stone. 'And strip. Though I suppose that’s redundant, isn’t it? You’ve nothing to hide from me.'

Monty’s jaw tightened, but he stepped forward, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet. 'I’m already bare, sir. What do you want from me today? Another errand? Or are you finally going to use what you paid for?' His tone was sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. He wasn’t some wilting flower, and he’d be damned if he let Jonathan think otherwise.

Jonathan’s lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. 'Oh, Monty, your tongue is as cutting as ever. But today, I want something... personal. Sit.' He gestured to the chair opposite him, but Monty remained standing, defiance flickering in his hazel eyes.

'I’ll stand, thanks. What’s this about?' Monty crossed his arms, his posture unyielding.

Jonathan leaned back, steepling his fingers. 'I want to know about you. Intimately. Tell me about the first time you touched yourself after you came into my possession. Spare no detail. I’m a therapist, after all—I thrive on the raw, unfiltered truth.'

Monty’s face flushed, a rare crack in his armor. 'You’re serious? You’ve ignored me for years, and now you want a bedtime story about my horny little secrets?' His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was a tremor beneath it.

'Dead serious,' Jonathan replied, his gaze unwavering. 'Humor me. Or do I need to remind you of the weight of that collar around your neck?'

Monty’s eyes narrowed, but he relented, his voice low and rough. 'Fine. It was a few months after you bought me. I... I stole one of your scarves. Silk, black, smelled like your cologne. I hid in a closet, wrapped it around my neck, and pulled. Tight. I choked myself until the world spun, and when I came to, I’d wet myself. And I’d squirted. Hard. It was the most arousing thing I’ve ever felt. Satisfied?' His words were a challenge, daring Jonathan to flinch.

But Jonathan didn’t flinch. Instead, his smile deepened, a dark promise in his eyes. 'Fascinating. Come closer, Monty.'

Monty hesitated, then stepped forward, his heart pounding. Jonathan’s voice dropped to a whisper, laced with command. 'Under the desk. Now. Lie down.'

Monty’s breath hitched, but he obeyed, lowering himself to the cool floor beneath the desk, his body tense with anticipation. 'What game are you playing, sir?' he snapped, even as he positioned himself, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

'No game,' Jonathan murmured, sliding his chair forward. His polished boot came to rest lightly on Monty’s throat, the pressure just enough to make him gasp. 'Just a test of control. Yours... and mine.'

Monty’s eyes flashed with defiance, but his body betrayed him, a heat building between his thighs as the boot pressed harder, restricting his air. 'You think you can break me with a shoe?' he rasped, his voice strained but fierce. 'I’ve hauled cargo in storms. This is nothing.'

Jonathan chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. 'Oh, Monty. I don’t want to break you. I want to see you unravel. Slowly.' The pressure increased, and Monty’s world began to blur at the edges, his body responding despite his sharp tongue—a storm of need brewing, wet and dripping, as the hours stretched on beneath the weight of his master’s command.