Chris for a Night - A prequel to The Trust Test (M/M)
Posted: Fri Aug 15, 2025 4:46 pm
Chris for a Night
A Prequel to The Trust Test
Eighteen years before the events of The Trust Test, Alex Rinaldi was not yet the calculating, trusted right hand to Marco that readers know today. He was just a guy in his mid-twenties, making ends meet however he could, the kind of man who would take any offer if the money was right.
One unexpected night in a crowded club would lead him to a private encounter that neither he — nor the man he met — would ever forget. It was the first step toward the man he would later become.
If you haven’t read The Trust Test yet, you can find it here:
https://tugstories.blog/viewtopic.php?t=23216
Disclaimer:
The events, characters, and companies described in this story are entirely fictional. The clubs, performances, and private encounters exist only in the imagination of the author. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, or actual places or organizations are purely coincidental. The author does not endorse or encourage unsafe practices — all scenes are depicted as consensual between fictional adults.
Scene 0 – The Invitation
The late-afternoon rush at Ironworks Gym was easing off, the clang of weights replaced by the hum of treadmills and the low thud of bass from the sound system. Alex was leaning against the cable machine, towel over one shoulder, watching a guy half his size grind through the last reps of a set he’d prescribed.
The guy wasn’t an official client — none of them were. Alex didn’t have the certificates or the license to work as a trainer here, but everyone knew if you didn’t want to pay the gym’s inflated rates, you could slip him some cash for a workout plan. The staff looked the other way, as long as it wasn’t too obvious.
The kid finished his set, breathing hard. Alex gave his shoulder a pat.
“Three times a week, stick to what I told you. You’ll see results.”
The kid’s eyes flicked over Alex’s torso — lean, cut, and tanned from hours in the free weights area. Proof enough.
From a bench across the floor, a man in his late thirties had been watching. Solid build, close-cropped hair, T-shirt stretched over his chest. As Alex walked past, the man spoke.
“You get paid for that?”
Alex smirked. “Sometimes.”
“You should,” the man said, looking him over without shame. “You’ve got the body for it.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “Ever think about making real money with it?”
Alex kept walking toward the locker room. “Depends what you mean by real money.”
The man followed, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Friend of mine runs a private club downtown. Good crowd, good pay. He’s picky, though. Wants to see what he’s paying for before he books.” He handed over the paper. A name — Adrian — and a mobile number written in neat block letters.
Alex unfolded it, glanced at the digits. “What, I call him?”
“I’ll call. He’s here now, using the sauna. If you’re interested, he can see you tonight.”
Scene 1 – The Sauna Meeting
The heat hit him the second he pushed the door open. The small cedar-paneled room glowed in the dim light, steam clinging to every surface.
On the top bench, a man sat with one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee, a towel knotted around his waist. Early forties, dark hair slicked back from the heat, a gold watch on his wrist that didn’t belong in a gym.
“This him?” Adrian asked without looking away from Alex.
“Yeah,” the gym regular said. “Told you he had the look.”
Adrian’s gaze swept over Alex slowly, taking in the damp hair, the sheen of sweat, the definition in his chest and arms. “Turn around.”
Alex did — and let the towel at his waist slip loose, drop to the bench. He stood still, the heat wrapping around him, the silence stretching.
Adrian’s expression didn’t change. “Confident,” he said finally. “You’ll do.”
“What’s the job?” Alex asked, picking the towel back up but not knotting it.
“Come to my place tonight. You’ll be part of a show. Nothing complicated. Look good, follow instructions. The crowd tips big when they like what they see.”
“How big?”
Adrian smiled faintly. “Enough to make you forget what you were planning to do tomorrow.”
Alex slung the towel over his shoulder. “Where do I go?”
Adrian reached into a small black gym bag, pulled out a Motorola flip phone, and tapped in a number. “You’ll get the address by text. Don’t be late.”
“And, by the way, it’s 350 Euros. Less then one hour.”
Scene 2 – Arrival at Vesper
The address Adrian had texted him led to a narrow street in the older part of the city, where the cobblestones rattled under the tires and the buildings seemed to lean inward.
Alex eased the dark blue BMW 3 Series into second, the straight-six engine purring in a way he never got tired of hearing. It was a 2001 E46 coupe — bought second-hand, but polished like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. He liked what it said about him: young, in shape, and doing better than most guys his age.
He spotted the number painted discreetly beside a heavy black door. No neon, no signs, just a small brass plate with Vesper engraved in sharp, understated capitals.
Pulling up to the curb, he killed the engine, letting the sudden quiet settle. Somewhere inside, he could feel the bass through the pavement — slow, deliberate, almost like a heartbeat.
He checked his reflection in the rearview, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out into the warm night. The BMW’s door closed with that solid, expensive thud he loved. Boots clicking on stone, he approached the door, where a tall doorman in a tailored suit gave him a quick up-and-down.
Without a word, the doorman pushed the door open.
Inside, the air changed — cooler, dimmer, touched with the scents of leather, cologne, and the faint tang of alcohol. Somewhere deeper in, the bass grew louder, steady and heavy, pulling him toward it.
Scene 3 – Backstage Heat
The hallway beyond the door was narrow and dim, lined with framed photographs that caught the light in brief flashes — bodies in motion, leather and shadows, the kind of images you couldn’t quite tell were art or something else.
A man in black met him halfway down the corridor. “Alex?”
“Yeah.”
“Follow me.”
They passed through a heavy velvet curtain, and the bass hit harder — not the frantic beat of a cheap club, but something slower, deliberate, with space between the notes. The air was warmer here, and thicker.
The man led him to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured him inside.
The dressing room smelled of leather, hairspray, and sweat under hot lights. A row of mirrors lined one wall, their bulbs casting a warm glow. Two men were already there — bare-chested, bodies slick with oil — checking gear and stretching rope between their hands.
From the doorway, a man in a sharp black waistcoat stepped in, a clipboard in hand. He had the easy grin of someone who owned the room.
“You must be the new one,” he said, looking Alex over. “Name?”
“Alex Rinaldi.”
The man arched a brow. “That your real name?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice just a little. “Better to pick something else here. Stage names keep life tidy. You don’t want someone from the crowd tracking you down.”
Alex shrugged. “Alright… Chris.”
“Chris what?”
“Chris Marchese.”
The man smiled like he’d just been given the punchline to a joke. “Perfect. By the way, they know me as Dante here.”
He slid a single sheet from the clipboard across the counter. The heading read Performance Consent & Liability Waiverin bold. Below, smaller print spelled out things like physical restraint, prop use, audience interaction, no permanent marks, performer release.
Alex skimmed it. “This really necessary?”
Dante’s smile didn’t change. “Keeps everyone safe. You, us, the club. Just means you understand the act and you’re fine with it. Legal name here”—he tapped a line halfway down—“stage name here.”
“What exactly’s the act?” Alex asked.
“Handcuffs, ropes… nothing permanent. You’ll be in the hands of two of our best. Crowd loves it. You’ll be fine.”
He told himself the number Adrian had mentioned earlier — 350 Euros flat plus tips — was worth it. What can it be? A few handcuffs, some rope. Nothing I can’t handle.
He picked up the pen and wrote Alex Rinaldi in the legal line, then Chris Marchese in the stage-name space. Sliding the paper back, he said, “Alright. Let’s get on with it.”
Alex was still putting the pen down when one of the two men in the room — tall, buzz-cut, rope draped casually over his shoulder — looked up from the mirror.
“All right, Chris… that’s your stage name?”
“Yeah,” Alex said. “And yours? How should I call you on stage?”
“Rico,” the tall one said.
“Max,” the other added, leaning back against the counter with a slow grin. “But don’t worry — you won’t have many chances to call our names tonight. We’ll make sure of that.”
Alex frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rico chuckled, running the rope through his hands. “Hasn’t anyone told you? You’re going to be gagged most of the show. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah. Of course I can,” Alex said, thinking of the 350 Euros and the tips. It’s just a gag. Rope, cuffs… no permanent damage. For that kind of money, why not?
Max glanced at Rico with a smirk. “Let’s hope he doesn’t panic like the other.”
Rico’s grin widened. “Not that it mattered. The audience loved it. Thought he was giving them a real fight…”
Alex forced a laugh, but the words stuck with him longer than he liked.
Max nudged a pile of black leather toward him. “Here. Boots, shorts, collar. Don’t keep the crowd waiting.”
Alex lifted the shorts by the waistband, turning them over. “These are… smaller than I expected.”
Rico smirked. “Crowd likes to see what they’re paying for.”
The boots were heavy, polished to a shine, the kind that would thump against the stage floor. The collar was studded, the inside lined with soft leather that smelled faintly of oil.
Alex held it up. “You actually make people wear this?”
“Everyone wears one,” Max said. “Think of it as part of the uniform.”
Alex slid into the shorts — tight enough that he had to shift and adjust to get them right — then laced up the boots, feeling the weight immediately. The collar came last, Max stepping forward to fasten it snugly around his neck.
“How’s that?” Max asked.
Alex ran a thumb over one of the studs. “Feels like I’m about to walk into a cartoon version of hell.”
Rico chuckled. “You’ll change your mind when you hear the crowd.”
The dressing room door swung open and Dante leaned in, his voice carrying easily over the muffled bass from beyond.
“Two minutes, gentlemen. Rico, Max — you’re up first. Chris, you’re coming in on my cue.”
Alex rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the boots and the snug pull of the collar. The leather shorts clung like they’d been sewn on, each movement reminding him how exposed he was.
Dante stepped inside just far enough to look him over, eyes moving from collar to boots. “Good. The crowd’s going to like you.”
Then he turned and was gone.
Through the walls, Alex could hear the music dip, the beat softening into a slower, more deliberate rhythm. A moment later, Dante’s voice boomed from the stage, smooth and commanding.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Vesper is proud to present tonight’s special performance. You know them, you love them — the masters of the art, Rico and Max!”
A roar went up from the crowd, the bass surging again as Alex heard the other two stride out.
“And tonight,” Dante continued, letting the anticipation hang, “we have something… new for you. Fresh, untested, and ready for whatever our boys decide to do with him. Please welcome… Chris Marchese!”
Max’s words from earlier echoed in his head — you won’t have many chances to call our names tonight — as the stagehand motioned him forward.
The glare of the lights spilled through the gap in the curtain, the heat already rolling toward him. Alex took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out.
Scene 4 – The Show
The lights hit like a wall, bright enough to wash out the edges of the crowd. The heat was immediate — from the spots above, from the press of bodies in the room, from the bass that thumped through the floor into his boots.
Rico and Max were already working the stage, playing to the front rows, their hands loose at their sides like predators in no rush. Dante stepped back, letting the music swell.
Max reached him first, one hand brushing over Alex’s bare shoulder in a way that was half-greeting, half-possession. Rico circled behind, his presence a weight Alex could feel even without turning.
The first click came fast — a cuff snapping closed around his right wrist. Cold metal bit into warm skin, not the lightweight props he’d half-expected. His smile stayed fixed, but inside something shifted.
The second cuff came just as quickly, pulling his arms behind him, the lock turning with a solid finality that wasn’t theatrical at all.
The crowd cheered louder.
Max angled him toward the audience, one broad hand on his chest. Rico’s rope slid over his shoulder, around his biceps, snugging tight until the muscle pressed against skin. Every pull was deliberate, each knot cinched without slack.
Alex tested the cuffs — no give. The rope — tighter than comfortable. He forced himself to keep moving with the music, playing the part.
Then Max held something up for the crowd: a glossy black ball gag, the leather straps dangling. The cheer changed pitch, voices rising in anticipation.
Alex blinked at it — he’d seen them before, but only in passing, never up close. The ball looked bigger than it should, the shine under the lights making it seem even more solid.
He started to shake his head, just slightly, but Rico’s hand landed firm on his shoulder.
The ball pressed against his lips. Max’s expression didn’t change as he gave a quiet, deliberate push. Alex’s mouth opened without him meaning to, the ball sliding in until it filled the space completely, stretching his jaw.
The straps drew back, snug against the corners of his mouth, and buckled tight behind his head. The pressure was immediate — and so was the realisation he couldn’t form a single word.
The crowd roared, flashes from cameras catching the shine of the ball, the pull of the straps at his cheeks.
Alex tried to swallow, but the ball kept his mouth open, the first warm trace of drool already pooling before he could stop it. The surprise hit him harder than he expected — he’d never thought about what would happen if he couldn’t close his mouth.
Max tilted his chin toward the front row, letting the lights catch the gleam on his lower lip. The reaction from the crowd was instant.
Somewhere behind him, Rico gave the rope another sharp pull and murmured, “Welcome to the show.”
The crowd’s roar began to fade into a rhythmic chant, the bass pulsing under it.
From somewhere to Alex’s left, Dante’s voice cut through — smooth, amplified, made for this kind of stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen… our new boy, Chris Marchese,” he announced, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “First night, first time on this stage… and look at him now.”
The audience cheered again, flashes going off.
Dante strolled across the stage, microphone in hand, until he was standing beside Alex. He leaned in, the mic brushing close to Alex’s gagged mouth. “Let’s hear it, Chris.”
Instinct made Alex try to say something — anything — but the ball gag turned it into a deep, desperate mmmpphhhhh that came out loud over the speakers.
The crowd loved it.
“Oh, you like those sounds, don’t you?” Dante said to them, turning his head toward the front row without stepping away. “Our friends Rico and Max do such fine work… makes a man sound like he’s already given up.”
He shifted the mic to his other hand and, with unhurried precision, ran a single finger along the corner of Alex’s mouth. It came away wet.
“Well, well…” Dante smiled. “Drool already. He’s going to be very popular.”
The crowd roared, the heat of their attention almost as intense as the lights. Alex’s cheeks burned under the leather straps, his jaw aching, the drool trickling faster now that he was aware of it.
Behind him, Rico gave another deliberate tug on the ropes, tightening the harness around Alex’s chest. Max moved to his front, gripping the chain between the cuffs and tilting him slightly toward the crowd — displaying him like a prize.
Rico and Max worked in sync, guiding Alex toward the back of the stage where a heavy wooden chair waited under a single spotlight.
The cuffs stayed on, but the rope around his chest was unwound only to be retied, wrapping him to the chair’s backrest in snug, neat loops. His ankles were lashed to the front legs, knees cinched together just enough to restrict movement.
The audience’s noise dropped to a low murmur — the kind that means they’re watching closely.
Dante crouched beside the chair, his voice still smooth through the speakers. “Let’s see if we can make him feel even more… welcome.”
From behind, Max produced a wide strip of black fabric and, without warning, pulled it down over Alex’s eyes. The crowd reacted instantly, some with cheers, some with appreciative whistles.
Alex’s breath caught behind the gag. The sudden loss of vision made the heat of the lights feel hotter, the sound of the crowd sharper.
“Much better,” Dante purred. “Now, for our special guests tonight — a little closer, if you please.”
There was movement in front of him — footsteps, voices — then the warmth of bodies leaning in. A hand slipped into the waistband of his shorts, tucking something folded deep against his hip. Another did the same on the other side, fingers lingering longer than necessary, brushing against skin.
Alex jerked against the ropes with a muffled, startled mmmmmpphhh!
“Easy, easy,” Dante said smoothly, resting a hand on his shoulder like calming a skittish animal. Then, to the crowd: “Ohhh, how generous of you, sir… our boy appreciates it, don’t you?”
Another tip found its way into his waistband, the touch deliberate. The audience laughed and applauded.
Rico’s voice was close to his ear. “Told you the crowd likes to be involved.”
Alex tried to growl something through the gag, but it came out as another deep, frustrated moan that Dante was quick to turn toward the microphone. “Oh, listen to him — he does like it.”
The heat, the ropes, the gag, the blindfold — all of it pressed in at once, the noise of the crowd and the bass merging into something that felt endless.
The crowd noise swelled, laughter and cheers rolling over the bass. Every movement — every useless twist of his wrists in the cuffs, every involuntary jerk when a bill was tucked into his shorts — was amplified by the gag and the blindfold.
More hands came and went, some fast, some slow. A few fingertips grazed skin just long enough to make him shift in the chair. The blindfold kept him guessing, and that uncertainty seemed to excite the crowd even more.
Dante played the room like he’d done it a thousand times, weaving between the “special guests” and Alex’s chair, sometimes narrating what was happening, sometimes simply holding the mic to Alex’s gagged mouth so the audience could hear his helpless, wet mmmppphhhhs.
“Oh, he’s going to remember this,” Dante said at one point, a low laugh in his voice. “Our boy Chris Marchese, giving you everything he’s got on his first night.”
Rico and Max tightened a few ropes for show, fingers brushing along his sides as they worked, drawing another round of sounds that Dante happily broadcast. “You love those sounds, don’t you?” he teased the crowd, and they roared back in agreement.
The tips kept coming until Alex could feel the waistband of his shorts heavy and uneven, stuffed on both sides. The smell of leather, the heat of the lights, and the press of the ropes made his skin damp. The drool from the gag dripped freely now, unnoticed by him until Dante swiped a thumb across his chin and showed it to the front row like a trophy.
Finally, Dante raised a hand to quiet the room.
“Gentlemen… and our generous guests… let’s give our new boy a round of applause.”
The lights dipped slightly, the bass softened, and Rico and Max began untying him — not quickly, but with the same showman’s pace they’d kept all along. The gag stayed in until the very last moment, when Max finally unbuckled it and pulled it free. Alex’s jaw ached, his mouth wet, but the noise from the crowd drowned out the first breath he took without it.
Dante leaned in close as they freed his ankles. “Welcome to Vesper, Chris. I think you’ve just earned yourself a fan club.”
Scene 5 – Backstage Aftermath
The crowd was still clapping as Rico and Max led him offstage, through the curtain, and back into the warm, dim safety of the dressing room.
The backstage lights felt dim after the stage glare, the air cooler but still heavy with the scent of leather and sweat. Alex sat on the bench, fully undressed now, the tight leather speedo tossed to one side. He was counting the bills from his waistband, the notes fanning out in his hands.
Rico leaned against the wall, still shirtless, a lazy grin on his face. “Generous night. One client tipped big.”
Max nodded toward Alex. “So no need to split the tips — they were meant for you.”
Alex glanced up, his mind still half in the roar of the crowd. He’d stopped at fifty, but the pile kept going.
Rico’s grin widened. “You’re a natural for this, you know that? You liked it, didn’t you?”
Alex snorted. “It’s the money. And that tight leather speedo… what the fuck, guys…”
Max chuckled, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Crowd loved it.”
Alex muttered something under his breath, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that his cock was still a bit harder than it should’ve been, even now.
The door opened and Dante stepped in, still in his waistcoat, looking as composed as if he hadn’t just been riling up a hundred people. He glanced at the bills in Alex’s hands, then back at him.
“There’s a special client waiting at the bar for you,” Dante said. “I guess it’s your lucky night.”
Alex raised a brow.
“What you do privately with clients out of here,” Dante continued, “is not our concern and not our responsibility. So choose carefully what you say or do.”
He started to leave, then added with a small smile, “But if I were you… I’d go. He doesn’t wait for just anyone.”
Scene 6 – The Client
The bar at Vesper was quieter than the main room, though the bass still pulsed faintly through the walls. Low amber lights glinted off bottles lined in neat rows behind the counter, and the smell of cologne mixed with something richer — cigar smoke, faint but expensive.
Alex spotted him instantly.
Not because of what he was wearing — dark shirt, open at the collar, tailored jacket — but because of the way he sat. Relaxed, legs crossed, one hand on his glass, like he owned the space and everyone in it.
The man’s eyes met his, steady and unreadable. He gestured to the empty stool beside him.
“No need for names here,” the man said as Alex sat. His voice was smooth, confident. “And yes, I know Chris is just your stage name. No need to pretend. Call me Tony, if you like.”
Alex leaned an elbow on the bar. “It was you who put a hundred euro bill in my shorts?”
A small smile touched Tony’s mouth. “Guilty.”
Alex glanced toward the bartender, who slid a short glass in front of him without being asked. “That’s… generous,” Alex said, turning the glass in his hand.
Tony shrugged. “Consider it an investment. You looked like you were made for that stage. But I think you could be made for… other things, too.”
Alex raised a brow, but Tony didn’t elaborate. He simply took a slow sip from his glass, watching Alex over the rim.
Tony set his glass down, eyes still on Alex.
“You were good out there,” he said. “Better than you know. I’d like to see more of that… in private.”
Alex let out a short laugh. “Yeah, not really my thing.”
“No?” Tony leaned back, unhurried. “Pity.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a black leather wallet, and flipped it open.
Alex watched as Tony counted — one, two, three, four, five crisp bills, each marked with a neat “100” in the corner. He placed them on the bar, the edges perfectly aligned.
Alex’s mouth was already forming a no when he caught himself, his eyes drifting to the stack.
“That’s… a lot for just talking,” he said.
Tony’s smile didn’t change. “Who said anything about talking?”
Alex took a sip from his drink, gaze still on the money. The weight of it in his mind was already heavier than the leather shorts had been.
He set his glass down. “Where do we go?”
Tony slipped the bills into Alex’s hands. “I’ll drive.”
Scene 7 – The Ride
Outside, the night air was warm, the hum of the city softened by the quieter streets around Vesper. Tony led the way without a word, his pace unhurried.
Parked half a block away, under a pool of amber light, was a deep graphite Maserati Quattroporte. The paint caught the glow of the streetlamp, every curve of the bodywork designed to make you look twice.
Alex whistled low. “Nice ride.”
Tony unlocked it with a click, the subtle flash of the indicators greeting them. “It gets me where I want to go.”
The interior smelled of leather and something faintly smoky — expensive, lived-in, but meticulous. Alex sank into the passenger seat, the upholstery soft but firm, the kind that made you sit straighter without meaning to.
Tony started the engine. The deep, smooth rumble was more felt than heard, a quiet power under the hood.
They drove without much talk. The streets slid by in streaks of light and shadow, the city thinning into quieter residential blocks. Alex noticed the way Tony’s hands rested on the wheel — relaxed, but precise — and the way he never seemed in a hurry, even when the Maserati’s growl deepened on the longer stretches.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into an underground garage. The walls were clean, the lines freshly painted. Tony parked in a private bay, the kind with a roll-down security gate.
“Upstairs,” he said simply, stepping out.
They took a private lift straight from the garage, Tony swiping a slim keycard against a panel before pressing the button for the top floor. The ride was silent except for the faint hum of the machinery, the walls mirrored so Alex caught glimpses of himself next to Tony’s calm reflection.
When the doors slid open, the apartment spread out in front of them — wide, open, and expensive without being flashy. Dark hardwood floors, cream walls, a low leather sofa facing a wall of glass with the city lights glittering beyond. A single painting dominated one wall, all sharp lines and muted reds.
Tony stepped inside and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of the sofa. “Drink?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, wandering a few steps in, eyes scanning the space.
Tony poured two short glasses of something amber and smooth, handed one over. “You’ve tied anyone up before?”
Alex gave a short laugh. “Not really my usual gig.”
Tony took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “Tonight, it is. Ropes are in the bedroom. Use your imagination.”
Alex felt the weight of the roll of bills in his pocket. “You sure about this?”
Tony’s smile was faint but certain. “Very. And remember — tonight, you’re in control.”
He set his drink down, unbuttoned his shirt, and walked toward the bedroom without looking back.
Scene 8 – The Rope Scene
The bedroom was warm, the air faintly scented with leather and something expensive Alex couldn’t name. A single lamp cast a low amber pool of light over the bed, where several coils of natural hemp rope lay neatly side by side.
Tony kicked off the last of his clothes without being told, the soft thump of fabric hitting the floor loud in the quiet.
“Start with my wrists,” Tony said over his shoulder. “Crossed behind my back. Keep the turns even—”
Alex grabbed him by the arm before he could finish and yanked it back. “I got it,” he said, voice flat.
Tony chuckled under his breath. “Just saying—”
Alex didn’t let him get any further. He spun him so his back was fully to him and pushed the other arm into place. The first loops went around fast, the rope rough against skin, the tension in the fibers humming under Alex’s grip. He cinched it tight, forcing the wrists flush together until Tony’s shoulders rolled back against the pull.
“Pull the knot here, not—” Tony started again.
Alex stepped away, kicked off his own shoes, peeled off his socks, and balled them up in his hand. “Open your mouth.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he obeyed.
The first sock went in deep, filling one cheek, the second pressing in after it until both were packed against his tongue. A muffled mmhhhhh came out, low and caught in the back of his throat.
Alex reached for the roll of black tape on the dresser, ripped off a long strip, and smoothed it down over his mouth, pressing until it sealed tight against the curve of his jaw. The gag bulged under the tape, the next sound — mmmppphhh!— louder but smothered.
“Better,” Alex said. “Don’t need anyone’s instructions.”
He circled rope around Tony’s chest, pinning his elbows in close to his body. Each turn pulled tighter than the last, the creak of the fibers loud in the quiet room. Another length bound his arms just above the elbows, locking his upper body into a single, immovable column.
“On the bed,” Alex ordered.
Tony shuffled forward. Alex pushed him down onto his stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight, the muscles in his back flexing as he landed.
Alex knelt behind him, wrapping more rope around his ankles, cinching them until the joints pressed together.
Scene 9 – The Hogtie
The rope trailed from his wrists like an invitation. Alex grabbed another length, threaded it through the ankle bindings, and pulled. Tony’s heels rose toward his cuffed hands, the tension humming through the lines.
MMMPPPHHH!
Alex pulled tighter, feeling the strain in Tony’s back and shoulders through the rope. The gagged sounds came quicker now, more urgent, but there was no real fight — just the flex and twist of a man testing his bonds.
Knot by knot, the hogtie took shape. Wrists anchored to ankles, rope cinched in a way that left no slack, no mercy. Tony’s body bowed, muscles locked in that perfect, helpless arch Alex had seen in the videos that played in his mind like muscle memory.
Alex walked around the bed, looking from every angle — the stretch of Tony’s spine, the way his chest rose against the tight wraps around his arms, the glint of tape over the bulge of the socks in his mouth.
“Comfortable?” Alex asked, not expecting an answer.
MMMPPPHHH!
He leaned down, palm on the small of Tony’s back, feeling the heat of skin under the ropes. “Thought so.”
The creak of the bed frame and the steady rhythm of muffled breathing filled the room. Alex’s own body was hard now, a steady throb that made him shift his stance. This was more than control — it was instinct, pulling him forward.
He stayed there for a moment, looking down at the man bound so tightly in front of him, every inch of him locked and silenced, and thought: This is mine, right now.
Scene 10 – Control & Climax
Alex circled to the side of the bed, running his palm slowly along the rope from Tony’s bound wrists to his arched ankles. The man’s body was warm under the fibers, muscles tightening and relaxing in subtle, useless shifts.
Alex’s cock was already hard, the ache in his groin pulsing with each second he stayed in control of this man’s body. He crouched near Tony’s head, fingertips brushing the tape stretched over his mouth.
“You want me to…?”
Tony’s eyes lifted to his, steady and unblinking. The nod was slow, deliberate.
Alex’s gaze shifted past him — to the small table beside the bed, where an open box of condoms sat, a foil wrapper half-slid from the top. Without a word, Alex reached over, tore one free, and ripped it open with his teeth.
The sound of the wrapper snapping caught Tony’s attention; his eyes followed as Alex rolled the condom down over his length with quick, practiced strokes.
Then Alex climbed onto the bed, straddling Tony’s hips, the mattress dipping under his weight. The ropes creaked under the shift, the hogtie flexing only slightly before holding firm. He gripped Tony’s waist through the taut lines and positioned himself, pressing forward until he felt the full, warm resistance of the man’s body beneath him.
There was no plan, no choreography — just instinct. His cock pressed hard against the taut curve of Tony’s ass, the slick warmth of sweat between them, the slow burn of control with every push forward.
The first push made Tony’s groan rumble low through the gag — mmhhhhh. His fingers curled inside the rope, the muscles in his back and shoulders drawing tight.
Alex adjusted, leaning into him, and began to move — slow at first, then harder, finding a rhythm. The sensation was raw, their skin slick where it met, every push rocking the bed, the tension of the hogtie forcing Tony to take each thrust without being able to shift away.
Tony’s muffled noises grew more urgent — mmpphh, nnnhhhhmmm — the sounds vibrating through Alex’s thighs. Bound as he was, his body still reacted in small ways: hips trying to push back, knees flexing against the pull of the rope, chest rising fast with each breath.
Alex’s grip on his waist tightened, fingers digging in as he drove forward harder, the control stoking the fire in his gut. He bent low over Tony’s back, feeling the taut stretch of muscle under his chest, the rope biting deeper into skin with every movement.
The bed creaked in time with them, the heat between their bodies building until Alex pushed in deep one final time and held there, breathing hard, the tension humming in both of them.
When he finally pulled back, Tony’s chest was heaving, the tape damp where it sealed his mouth. The ropes still held him perfectly in place, the hogtie bowing his body in that helpless, controlled curve.
Scene 11 – The Aftermath
Alex stayed there for a moment, still pressed against Tony’s bound body, his breath hot on the man’s shoulder. The room was filled with the faint creak of the ropes and the low sound of both of them catching their breath.
Then Alex peeled the tape off Tony’s face and pulled the socks out of Tony’s mouth.
He eased back, straightening up on his knees, the condom still snug around him. He pinched the base, slid it off carefully, and held it in his hand, glancing around.
“Where do I leave this?” he asked.
Tony’s eyes flicked toward the small table beside the bed. “Leave it there,” he said through a low, muffled tone, his voice rough after the gag. “Maybe I could have a taste of you later…”
Alex gave a short, amused snort. “If you want a taste of me, I could give you a fresh one.”
Tony’s gaze lingered on him for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe another time.”
Alex set the condom down where told, then leaned over, untying the knots with deliberate care.
The rope slackened, Tony’s arms and legs slowly relaxing from the forced arch. He rolled onto his side, and the evidence of his climax was clearly spread across the sheet beneath him.
Alex’s eyes caught it. “You… came by yourself?”
Tony’s half-smile deepened. “Means you’re good at what you do, aren’t you? I wonder if you could be good at other things too…”
Alex’s curiosity sharpened. “What do you mean?”
Tony didn’t answer, just waiting for Alex to finish untying him.
Scene 12 – The Reveal
Alex worked the last knot loose, the rope rasping faintly as it slid off Tony’s skin. He tossed the coil aside and froze for a moment. The skin underneath was flushed, patterned with deep, perfect lines — the imprint of every turn and cinch he’d made.
“They’re… pretty deep,” Alex murmured, almost apologetic. “Do they need treatment or something?”
Tony flexed his fingers lazily, testing the circulation, then shook his head. “They’ll fade in a couple of hours. Not the first time someone’s tied me up.” He smirked, sitting up and letting the marks catch the light. “I’ve been kept like this for a whole weekend once.”
Alex stared. “A weekend? Seriously?”
“Mhm.” Tony’s tone was casual, almost teasing. “Though my friend back then wasn’t half as good as you are.”
The compliment made Alex’s chest tighten in an odd way. He didn’t know if it was pride or the slow, unexpected satisfaction of hearing it from someone like him. His eyes lingered on the marks again — proof of what he’d just done, and of the fact that Tony had let him.
His gaze drifted to the nightstand, to a wallet carelessly left open… and a business card.
The print was crisp and clean:
Marco Marini
Marini Global Security S.p.A.
Alex’s gaze stayed on the card a moment longer before looking back at the man sitting naked on the edge of the bed.
“So,” he said, “it’s Marco Marini, huh?”
Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled — slow, unbothered. “And you’re not really Chris.”
Alex hesitated for just a breath, then gave it. “Alex. Alex Rinaldi.”
Marco’s smirk deepened, his tone carrying that quiet, assured weight. “I’ll remember that.”
A Prequel to The Trust Test
Eighteen years before the events of The Trust Test, Alex Rinaldi was not yet the calculating, trusted right hand to Marco that readers know today. He was just a guy in his mid-twenties, making ends meet however he could, the kind of man who would take any offer if the money was right.
One unexpected night in a crowded club would lead him to a private encounter that neither he — nor the man he met — would ever forget. It was the first step toward the man he would later become.
If you haven’t read The Trust Test yet, you can find it here:
https://tugstories.blog/viewtopic.php?t=23216
Disclaimer:
The events, characters, and companies described in this story are entirely fictional. The clubs, performances, and private encounters exist only in the imagination of the author. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, or actual places or organizations are purely coincidental. The author does not endorse or encourage unsafe practices — all scenes are depicted as consensual between fictional adults.
Scene 0 – The Invitation
The late-afternoon rush at Ironworks Gym was easing off, the clang of weights replaced by the hum of treadmills and the low thud of bass from the sound system. Alex was leaning against the cable machine, towel over one shoulder, watching a guy half his size grind through the last reps of a set he’d prescribed.
The guy wasn’t an official client — none of them were. Alex didn’t have the certificates or the license to work as a trainer here, but everyone knew if you didn’t want to pay the gym’s inflated rates, you could slip him some cash for a workout plan. The staff looked the other way, as long as it wasn’t too obvious.
The kid finished his set, breathing hard. Alex gave his shoulder a pat.
“Three times a week, stick to what I told you. You’ll see results.”
The kid’s eyes flicked over Alex’s torso — lean, cut, and tanned from hours in the free weights area. Proof enough.
From a bench across the floor, a man in his late thirties had been watching. Solid build, close-cropped hair, T-shirt stretched over his chest. As Alex walked past, the man spoke.
“You get paid for that?”
Alex smirked. “Sometimes.”
“You should,” the man said, looking him over without shame. “You’ve got the body for it.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “Ever think about making real money with it?”
Alex kept walking toward the locker room. “Depends what you mean by real money.”
The man followed, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Friend of mine runs a private club downtown. Good crowd, good pay. He’s picky, though. Wants to see what he’s paying for before he books.” He handed over the paper. A name — Adrian — and a mobile number written in neat block letters.
Alex unfolded it, glanced at the digits. “What, I call him?”
“I’ll call. He’s here now, using the sauna. If you’re interested, he can see you tonight.”
Scene 1 – The Sauna Meeting
The heat hit him the second he pushed the door open. The small cedar-paneled room glowed in the dim light, steam clinging to every surface.
On the top bench, a man sat with one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee, a towel knotted around his waist. Early forties, dark hair slicked back from the heat, a gold watch on his wrist that didn’t belong in a gym.
“This him?” Adrian asked without looking away from Alex.
“Yeah,” the gym regular said. “Told you he had the look.”
Adrian’s gaze swept over Alex slowly, taking in the damp hair, the sheen of sweat, the definition in his chest and arms. “Turn around.”
Alex did — and let the towel at his waist slip loose, drop to the bench. He stood still, the heat wrapping around him, the silence stretching.
Adrian’s expression didn’t change. “Confident,” he said finally. “You’ll do.”
“What’s the job?” Alex asked, picking the towel back up but not knotting it.
“Come to my place tonight. You’ll be part of a show. Nothing complicated. Look good, follow instructions. The crowd tips big when they like what they see.”
“How big?”
Adrian smiled faintly. “Enough to make you forget what you were planning to do tomorrow.”
Alex slung the towel over his shoulder. “Where do I go?”
Adrian reached into a small black gym bag, pulled out a Motorola flip phone, and tapped in a number. “You’ll get the address by text. Don’t be late.”
“And, by the way, it’s 350 Euros. Less then one hour.”
Scene 2 – Arrival at Vesper
The address Adrian had texted him led to a narrow street in the older part of the city, where the cobblestones rattled under the tires and the buildings seemed to lean inward.
Alex eased the dark blue BMW 3 Series into second, the straight-six engine purring in a way he never got tired of hearing. It was a 2001 E46 coupe — bought second-hand, but polished like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. He liked what it said about him: young, in shape, and doing better than most guys his age.
He spotted the number painted discreetly beside a heavy black door. No neon, no signs, just a small brass plate with Vesper engraved in sharp, understated capitals.
Pulling up to the curb, he killed the engine, letting the sudden quiet settle. Somewhere inside, he could feel the bass through the pavement — slow, deliberate, almost like a heartbeat.
He checked his reflection in the rearview, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out into the warm night. The BMW’s door closed with that solid, expensive thud he loved. Boots clicking on stone, he approached the door, where a tall doorman in a tailored suit gave him a quick up-and-down.
Without a word, the doorman pushed the door open.
Inside, the air changed — cooler, dimmer, touched with the scents of leather, cologne, and the faint tang of alcohol. Somewhere deeper in, the bass grew louder, steady and heavy, pulling him toward it.
Scene 3 – Backstage Heat
The hallway beyond the door was narrow and dim, lined with framed photographs that caught the light in brief flashes — bodies in motion, leather and shadows, the kind of images you couldn’t quite tell were art or something else.
A man in black met him halfway down the corridor. “Alex?”
“Yeah.”
“Follow me.”
They passed through a heavy velvet curtain, and the bass hit harder — not the frantic beat of a cheap club, but something slower, deliberate, with space between the notes. The air was warmer here, and thicker.
The man led him to a side door, pushed it open, and gestured him inside.
The dressing room smelled of leather, hairspray, and sweat under hot lights. A row of mirrors lined one wall, their bulbs casting a warm glow. Two men were already there — bare-chested, bodies slick with oil — checking gear and stretching rope between their hands.
From the doorway, a man in a sharp black waistcoat stepped in, a clipboard in hand. He had the easy grin of someone who owned the room.
“You must be the new one,” he said, looking Alex over. “Name?”
“Alex Rinaldi.”
The man arched a brow. “That your real name?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice just a little. “Better to pick something else here. Stage names keep life tidy. You don’t want someone from the crowd tracking you down.”
Alex shrugged. “Alright… Chris.”
“Chris what?”
“Chris Marchese.”
The man smiled like he’d just been given the punchline to a joke. “Perfect. By the way, they know me as Dante here.”
He slid a single sheet from the clipboard across the counter. The heading read Performance Consent & Liability Waiverin bold. Below, smaller print spelled out things like physical restraint, prop use, audience interaction, no permanent marks, performer release.
Alex skimmed it. “This really necessary?”
Dante’s smile didn’t change. “Keeps everyone safe. You, us, the club. Just means you understand the act and you’re fine with it. Legal name here”—he tapped a line halfway down—“stage name here.”
“What exactly’s the act?” Alex asked.
“Handcuffs, ropes… nothing permanent. You’ll be in the hands of two of our best. Crowd loves it. You’ll be fine.”
He told himself the number Adrian had mentioned earlier — 350 Euros flat plus tips — was worth it. What can it be? A few handcuffs, some rope. Nothing I can’t handle.
He picked up the pen and wrote Alex Rinaldi in the legal line, then Chris Marchese in the stage-name space. Sliding the paper back, he said, “Alright. Let’s get on with it.”
Alex was still putting the pen down when one of the two men in the room — tall, buzz-cut, rope draped casually over his shoulder — looked up from the mirror.
“All right, Chris… that’s your stage name?”
“Yeah,” Alex said. “And yours? How should I call you on stage?”
“Rico,” the tall one said.
“Max,” the other added, leaning back against the counter with a slow grin. “But don’t worry — you won’t have many chances to call our names tonight. We’ll make sure of that.”
Alex frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rico chuckled, running the rope through his hands. “Hasn’t anyone told you? You’re going to be gagged most of the show. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah. Of course I can,” Alex said, thinking of the 350 Euros and the tips. It’s just a gag. Rope, cuffs… no permanent damage. For that kind of money, why not?
Max glanced at Rico with a smirk. “Let’s hope he doesn’t panic like the other.”
Rico’s grin widened. “Not that it mattered. The audience loved it. Thought he was giving them a real fight…”
Alex forced a laugh, but the words stuck with him longer than he liked.
Max nudged a pile of black leather toward him. “Here. Boots, shorts, collar. Don’t keep the crowd waiting.”
Alex lifted the shorts by the waistband, turning them over. “These are… smaller than I expected.”
Rico smirked. “Crowd likes to see what they’re paying for.”
The boots were heavy, polished to a shine, the kind that would thump against the stage floor. The collar was studded, the inside lined with soft leather that smelled faintly of oil.
Alex held it up. “You actually make people wear this?”
“Everyone wears one,” Max said. “Think of it as part of the uniform.”
Alex slid into the shorts — tight enough that he had to shift and adjust to get them right — then laced up the boots, feeling the weight immediately. The collar came last, Max stepping forward to fasten it snugly around his neck.
“How’s that?” Max asked.
Alex ran a thumb over one of the studs. “Feels like I’m about to walk into a cartoon version of hell.”
Rico chuckled. “You’ll change your mind when you hear the crowd.”
The dressing room door swung open and Dante leaned in, his voice carrying easily over the muffled bass from beyond.
“Two minutes, gentlemen. Rico, Max — you’re up first. Chris, you’re coming in on my cue.”
Alex rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the boots and the snug pull of the collar. The leather shorts clung like they’d been sewn on, each movement reminding him how exposed he was.
Dante stepped inside just far enough to look him over, eyes moving from collar to boots. “Good. The crowd’s going to like you.”
Then he turned and was gone.
Through the walls, Alex could hear the music dip, the beat softening into a slower, more deliberate rhythm. A moment later, Dante’s voice boomed from the stage, smooth and commanding.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Vesper is proud to present tonight’s special performance. You know them, you love them — the masters of the art, Rico and Max!”
A roar went up from the crowd, the bass surging again as Alex heard the other two stride out.
“And tonight,” Dante continued, letting the anticipation hang, “we have something… new for you. Fresh, untested, and ready for whatever our boys decide to do with him. Please welcome… Chris Marchese!”
Max’s words from earlier echoed in his head — you won’t have many chances to call our names tonight — as the stagehand motioned him forward.
The glare of the lights spilled through the gap in the curtain, the heat already rolling toward him. Alex took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out.
Scene 4 – The Show
The lights hit like a wall, bright enough to wash out the edges of the crowd. The heat was immediate — from the spots above, from the press of bodies in the room, from the bass that thumped through the floor into his boots.
Rico and Max were already working the stage, playing to the front rows, their hands loose at their sides like predators in no rush. Dante stepped back, letting the music swell.
Max reached him first, one hand brushing over Alex’s bare shoulder in a way that was half-greeting, half-possession. Rico circled behind, his presence a weight Alex could feel even without turning.
The first click came fast — a cuff snapping closed around his right wrist. Cold metal bit into warm skin, not the lightweight props he’d half-expected. His smile stayed fixed, but inside something shifted.
The second cuff came just as quickly, pulling his arms behind him, the lock turning with a solid finality that wasn’t theatrical at all.
The crowd cheered louder.
Max angled him toward the audience, one broad hand on his chest. Rico’s rope slid over his shoulder, around his biceps, snugging tight until the muscle pressed against skin. Every pull was deliberate, each knot cinched without slack.
Alex tested the cuffs — no give. The rope — tighter than comfortable. He forced himself to keep moving with the music, playing the part.
Then Max held something up for the crowd: a glossy black ball gag, the leather straps dangling. The cheer changed pitch, voices rising in anticipation.
Alex blinked at it — he’d seen them before, but only in passing, never up close. The ball looked bigger than it should, the shine under the lights making it seem even more solid.
He started to shake his head, just slightly, but Rico’s hand landed firm on his shoulder.
The ball pressed against his lips. Max’s expression didn’t change as he gave a quiet, deliberate push. Alex’s mouth opened without him meaning to, the ball sliding in until it filled the space completely, stretching his jaw.
The straps drew back, snug against the corners of his mouth, and buckled tight behind his head. The pressure was immediate — and so was the realisation he couldn’t form a single word.
The crowd roared, flashes from cameras catching the shine of the ball, the pull of the straps at his cheeks.
Alex tried to swallow, but the ball kept his mouth open, the first warm trace of drool already pooling before he could stop it. The surprise hit him harder than he expected — he’d never thought about what would happen if he couldn’t close his mouth.
Max tilted his chin toward the front row, letting the lights catch the gleam on his lower lip. The reaction from the crowd was instant.
Somewhere behind him, Rico gave the rope another sharp pull and murmured, “Welcome to the show.”
The crowd’s roar began to fade into a rhythmic chant, the bass pulsing under it.
From somewhere to Alex’s left, Dante’s voice cut through — smooth, amplified, made for this kind of stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen… our new boy, Chris Marchese,” he announced, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “First night, first time on this stage… and look at him now.”
The audience cheered again, flashes going off.
Dante strolled across the stage, microphone in hand, until he was standing beside Alex. He leaned in, the mic brushing close to Alex’s gagged mouth. “Let’s hear it, Chris.”
Instinct made Alex try to say something — anything — but the ball gag turned it into a deep, desperate mmmpphhhhh that came out loud over the speakers.
The crowd loved it.
“Oh, you like those sounds, don’t you?” Dante said to them, turning his head toward the front row without stepping away. “Our friends Rico and Max do such fine work… makes a man sound like he’s already given up.”
He shifted the mic to his other hand and, with unhurried precision, ran a single finger along the corner of Alex’s mouth. It came away wet.
“Well, well…” Dante smiled. “Drool already. He’s going to be very popular.”
The crowd roared, the heat of their attention almost as intense as the lights. Alex’s cheeks burned under the leather straps, his jaw aching, the drool trickling faster now that he was aware of it.
Behind him, Rico gave another deliberate tug on the ropes, tightening the harness around Alex’s chest. Max moved to his front, gripping the chain between the cuffs and tilting him slightly toward the crowd — displaying him like a prize.
Rico and Max worked in sync, guiding Alex toward the back of the stage where a heavy wooden chair waited under a single spotlight.
The cuffs stayed on, but the rope around his chest was unwound only to be retied, wrapping him to the chair’s backrest in snug, neat loops. His ankles were lashed to the front legs, knees cinched together just enough to restrict movement.
The audience’s noise dropped to a low murmur — the kind that means they’re watching closely.
Dante crouched beside the chair, his voice still smooth through the speakers. “Let’s see if we can make him feel even more… welcome.”
From behind, Max produced a wide strip of black fabric and, without warning, pulled it down over Alex’s eyes. The crowd reacted instantly, some with cheers, some with appreciative whistles.
Alex’s breath caught behind the gag. The sudden loss of vision made the heat of the lights feel hotter, the sound of the crowd sharper.
“Much better,” Dante purred. “Now, for our special guests tonight — a little closer, if you please.”
There was movement in front of him — footsteps, voices — then the warmth of bodies leaning in. A hand slipped into the waistband of his shorts, tucking something folded deep against his hip. Another did the same on the other side, fingers lingering longer than necessary, brushing against skin.
Alex jerked against the ropes with a muffled, startled mmmmmpphhh!
“Easy, easy,” Dante said smoothly, resting a hand on his shoulder like calming a skittish animal. Then, to the crowd: “Ohhh, how generous of you, sir… our boy appreciates it, don’t you?”
Another tip found its way into his waistband, the touch deliberate. The audience laughed and applauded.
Rico’s voice was close to his ear. “Told you the crowd likes to be involved.”
Alex tried to growl something through the gag, but it came out as another deep, frustrated moan that Dante was quick to turn toward the microphone. “Oh, listen to him — he does like it.”
The heat, the ropes, the gag, the blindfold — all of it pressed in at once, the noise of the crowd and the bass merging into something that felt endless.
The crowd noise swelled, laughter and cheers rolling over the bass. Every movement — every useless twist of his wrists in the cuffs, every involuntary jerk when a bill was tucked into his shorts — was amplified by the gag and the blindfold.
More hands came and went, some fast, some slow. A few fingertips grazed skin just long enough to make him shift in the chair. The blindfold kept him guessing, and that uncertainty seemed to excite the crowd even more.
Dante played the room like he’d done it a thousand times, weaving between the “special guests” and Alex’s chair, sometimes narrating what was happening, sometimes simply holding the mic to Alex’s gagged mouth so the audience could hear his helpless, wet mmmppphhhhs.
“Oh, he’s going to remember this,” Dante said at one point, a low laugh in his voice. “Our boy Chris Marchese, giving you everything he’s got on his first night.”
Rico and Max tightened a few ropes for show, fingers brushing along his sides as they worked, drawing another round of sounds that Dante happily broadcast. “You love those sounds, don’t you?” he teased the crowd, and they roared back in agreement.
The tips kept coming until Alex could feel the waistband of his shorts heavy and uneven, stuffed on both sides. The smell of leather, the heat of the lights, and the press of the ropes made his skin damp. The drool from the gag dripped freely now, unnoticed by him until Dante swiped a thumb across his chin and showed it to the front row like a trophy.
Finally, Dante raised a hand to quiet the room.
“Gentlemen… and our generous guests… let’s give our new boy a round of applause.”
The lights dipped slightly, the bass softened, and Rico and Max began untying him — not quickly, but with the same showman’s pace they’d kept all along. The gag stayed in until the very last moment, when Max finally unbuckled it and pulled it free. Alex’s jaw ached, his mouth wet, but the noise from the crowd drowned out the first breath he took without it.
Dante leaned in close as they freed his ankles. “Welcome to Vesper, Chris. I think you’ve just earned yourself a fan club.”
Scene 5 – Backstage Aftermath
The crowd was still clapping as Rico and Max led him offstage, through the curtain, and back into the warm, dim safety of the dressing room.
The backstage lights felt dim after the stage glare, the air cooler but still heavy with the scent of leather and sweat. Alex sat on the bench, fully undressed now, the tight leather speedo tossed to one side. He was counting the bills from his waistband, the notes fanning out in his hands.
Rico leaned against the wall, still shirtless, a lazy grin on his face. “Generous night. One client tipped big.”
Max nodded toward Alex. “So no need to split the tips — they were meant for you.”
Alex glanced up, his mind still half in the roar of the crowd. He’d stopped at fifty, but the pile kept going.
Rico’s grin widened. “You’re a natural for this, you know that? You liked it, didn’t you?”
Alex snorted. “It’s the money. And that tight leather speedo… what the fuck, guys…”
Max chuckled, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Crowd loved it.”
Alex muttered something under his breath, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that his cock was still a bit harder than it should’ve been, even now.
The door opened and Dante stepped in, still in his waistcoat, looking as composed as if he hadn’t just been riling up a hundred people. He glanced at the bills in Alex’s hands, then back at him.
“There’s a special client waiting at the bar for you,” Dante said. “I guess it’s your lucky night.”
Alex raised a brow.
“What you do privately with clients out of here,” Dante continued, “is not our concern and not our responsibility. So choose carefully what you say or do.”
He started to leave, then added with a small smile, “But if I were you… I’d go. He doesn’t wait for just anyone.”
Scene 6 – The Client
The bar at Vesper was quieter than the main room, though the bass still pulsed faintly through the walls. Low amber lights glinted off bottles lined in neat rows behind the counter, and the smell of cologne mixed with something richer — cigar smoke, faint but expensive.
Alex spotted him instantly.
Not because of what he was wearing — dark shirt, open at the collar, tailored jacket — but because of the way he sat. Relaxed, legs crossed, one hand on his glass, like he owned the space and everyone in it.
The man’s eyes met his, steady and unreadable. He gestured to the empty stool beside him.
“No need for names here,” the man said as Alex sat. His voice was smooth, confident. “And yes, I know Chris is just your stage name. No need to pretend. Call me Tony, if you like.”
Alex leaned an elbow on the bar. “It was you who put a hundred euro bill in my shorts?”
A small smile touched Tony’s mouth. “Guilty.”
Alex glanced toward the bartender, who slid a short glass in front of him without being asked. “That’s… generous,” Alex said, turning the glass in his hand.
Tony shrugged. “Consider it an investment. You looked like you were made for that stage. But I think you could be made for… other things, too.”
Alex raised a brow, but Tony didn’t elaborate. He simply took a slow sip from his glass, watching Alex over the rim.
Tony set his glass down, eyes still on Alex.
“You were good out there,” he said. “Better than you know. I’d like to see more of that… in private.”
Alex let out a short laugh. “Yeah, not really my thing.”
“No?” Tony leaned back, unhurried. “Pity.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a black leather wallet, and flipped it open.
Alex watched as Tony counted — one, two, three, four, five crisp bills, each marked with a neat “100” in the corner. He placed them on the bar, the edges perfectly aligned.
Alex’s mouth was already forming a no when he caught himself, his eyes drifting to the stack.
“That’s… a lot for just talking,” he said.
Tony’s smile didn’t change. “Who said anything about talking?”
Alex took a sip from his drink, gaze still on the money. The weight of it in his mind was already heavier than the leather shorts had been.
He set his glass down. “Where do we go?”
Tony slipped the bills into Alex’s hands. “I’ll drive.”
Scene 7 – The Ride
Outside, the night air was warm, the hum of the city softened by the quieter streets around Vesper. Tony led the way without a word, his pace unhurried.
Parked half a block away, under a pool of amber light, was a deep graphite Maserati Quattroporte. The paint caught the glow of the streetlamp, every curve of the bodywork designed to make you look twice.
Alex whistled low. “Nice ride.”
Tony unlocked it with a click, the subtle flash of the indicators greeting them. “It gets me where I want to go.”
The interior smelled of leather and something faintly smoky — expensive, lived-in, but meticulous. Alex sank into the passenger seat, the upholstery soft but firm, the kind that made you sit straighter without meaning to.
Tony started the engine. The deep, smooth rumble was more felt than heard, a quiet power under the hood.
They drove without much talk. The streets slid by in streaks of light and shadow, the city thinning into quieter residential blocks. Alex noticed the way Tony’s hands rested on the wheel — relaxed, but precise — and the way he never seemed in a hurry, even when the Maserati’s growl deepened on the longer stretches.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into an underground garage. The walls were clean, the lines freshly painted. Tony parked in a private bay, the kind with a roll-down security gate.
“Upstairs,” he said simply, stepping out.
They took a private lift straight from the garage, Tony swiping a slim keycard against a panel before pressing the button for the top floor. The ride was silent except for the faint hum of the machinery, the walls mirrored so Alex caught glimpses of himself next to Tony’s calm reflection.
When the doors slid open, the apartment spread out in front of them — wide, open, and expensive without being flashy. Dark hardwood floors, cream walls, a low leather sofa facing a wall of glass with the city lights glittering beyond. A single painting dominated one wall, all sharp lines and muted reds.
Tony stepped inside and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of the sofa. “Drink?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, wandering a few steps in, eyes scanning the space.
Tony poured two short glasses of something amber and smooth, handed one over. “You’ve tied anyone up before?”
Alex gave a short laugh. “Not really my usual gig.”
Tony took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “Tonight, it is. Ropes are in the bedroom. Use your imagination.”
Alex felt the weight of the roll of bills in his pocket. “You sure about this?”
Tony’s smile was faint but certain. “Very. And remember — tonight, you’re in control.”
He set his drink down, unbuttoned his shirt, and walked toward the bedroom without looking back.
Scene 8 – The Rope Scene
The bedroom was warm, the air faintly scented with leather and something expensive Alex couldn’t name. A single lamp cast a low amber pool of light over the bed, where several coils of natural hemp rope lay neatly side by side.
Tony kicked off the last of his clothes without being told, the soft thump of fabric hitting the floor loud in the quiet.
“Start with my wrists,” Tony said over his shoulder. “Crossed behind my back. Keep the turns even—”
Alex grabbed him by the arm before he could finish and yanked it back. “I got it,” he said, voice flat.
Tony chuckled under his breath. “Just saying—”
Alex didn’t let him get any further. He spun him so his back was fully to him and pushed the other arm into place. The first loops went around fast, the rope rough against skin, the tension in the fibers humming under Alex’s grip. He cinched it tight, forcing the wrists flush together until Tony’s shoulders rolled back against the pull.
“Pull the knot here, not—” Tony started again.
Alex stepped away, kicked off his own shoes, peeled off his socks, and balled them up in his hand. “Open your mouth.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he obeyed.
The first sock went in deep, filling one cheek, the second pressing in after it until both were packed against his tongue. A muffled mmhhhhh came out, low and caught in the back of his throat.
Alex reached for the roll of black tape on the dresser, ripped off a long strip, and smoothed it down over his mouth, pressing until it sealed tight against the curve of his jaw. The gag bulged under the tape, the next sound — mmmppphhh!— louder but smothered.
“Better,” Alex said. “Don’t need anyone’s instructions.”
He circled rope around Tony’s chest, pinning his elbows in close to his body. Each turn pulled tighter than the last, the creak of the fibers loud in the quiet room. Another length bound his arms just above the elbows, locking his upper body into a single, immovable column.
“On the bed,” Alex ordered.
Tony shuffled forward. Alex pushed him down onto his stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight, the muscles in his back flexing as he landed.
Alex knelt behind him, wrapping more rope around his ankles, cinching them until the joints pressed together.
Scene 9 – The Hogtie
The rope trailed from his wrists like an invitation. Alex grabbed another length, threaded it through the ankle bindings, and pulled. Tony’s heels rose toward his cuffed hands, the tension humming through the lines.
MMMPPPHHH!
Alex pulled tighter, feeling the strain in Tony’s back and shoulders through the rope. The gagged sounds came quicker now, more urgent, but there was no real fight — just the flex and twist of a man testing his bonds.
Knot by knot, the hogtie took shape. Wrists anchored to ankles, rope cinched in a way that left no slack, no mercy. Tony’s body bowed, muscles locked in that perfect, helpless arch Alex had seen in the videos that played in his mind like muscle memory.
Alex walked around the bed, looking from every angle — the stretch of Tony’s spine, the way his chest rose against the tight wraps around his arms, the glint of tape over the bulge of the socks in his mouth.
“Comfortable?” Alex asked, not expecting an answer.
MMMPPPHHH!
He leaned down, palm on the small of Tony’s back, feeling the heat of skin under the ropes. “Thought so.”
The creak of the bed frame and the steady rhythm of muffled breathing filled the room. Alex’s own body was hard now, a steady throb that made him shift his stance. This was more than control — it was instinct, pulling him forward.
He stayed there for a moment, looking down at the man bound so tightly in front of him, every inch of him locked and silenced, and thought: This is mine, right now.
Scene 10 – Control & Climax
Alex circled to the side of the bed, running his palm slowly along the rope from Tony’s bound wrists to his arched ankles. The man’s body was warm under the fibers, muscles tightening and relaxing in subtle, useless shifts.
Alex’s cock was already hard, the ache in his groin pulsing with each second he stayed in control of this man’s body. He crouched near Tony’s head, fingertips brushing the tape stretched over his mouth.
“You want me to…?”
Tony’s eyes lifted to his, steady and unblinking. The nod was slow, deliberate.
Alex’s gaze shifted past him — to the small table beside the bed, where an open box of condoms sat, a foil wrapper half-slid from the top. Without a word, Alex reached over, tore one free, and ripped it open with his teeth.
The sound of the wrapper snapping caught Tony’s attention; his eyes followed as Alex rolled the condom down over his length with quick, practiced strokes.
Then Alex climbed onto the bed, straddling Tony’s hips, the mattress dipping under his weight. The ropes creaked under the shift, the hogtie flexing only slightly before holding firm. He gripped Tony’s waist through the taut lines and positioned himself, pressing forward until he felt the full, warm resistance of the man’s body beneath him.
There was no plan, no choreography — just instinct. His cock pressed hard against the taut curve of Tony’s ass, the slick warmth of sweat between them, the slow burn of control with every push forward.
The first push made Tony’s groan rumble low through the gag — mmhhhhh. His fingers curled inside the rope, the muscles in his back and shoulders drawing tight.
Alex adjusted, leaning into him, and began to move — slow at first, then harder, finding a rhythm. The sensation was raw, their skin slick where it met, every push rocking the bed, the tension of the hogtie forcing Tony to take each thrust without being able to shift away.
Tony’s muffled noises grew more urgent — mmpphh, nnnhhhhmmm — the sounds vibrating through Alex’s thighs. Bound as he was, his body still reacted in small ways: hips trying to push back, knees flexing against the pull of the rope, chest rising fast with each breath.
Alex’s grip on his waist tightened, fingers digging in as he drove forward harder, the control stoking the fire in his gut. He bent low over Tony’s back, feeling the taut stretch of muscle under his chest, the rope biting deeper into skin with every movement.
The bed creaked in time with them, the heat between their bodies building until Alex pushed in deep one final time and held there, breathing hard, the tension humming in both of them.
When he finally pulled back, Tony’s chest was heaving, the tape damp where it sealed his mouth. The ropes still held him perfectly in place, the hogtie bowing his body in that helpless, controlled curve.
Scene 11 – The Aftermath
Alex stayed there for a moment, still pressed against Tony’s bound body, his breath hot on the man’s shoulder. The room was filled with the faint creak of the ropes and the low sound of both of them catching their breath.
Then Alex peeled the tape off Tony’s face and pulled the socks out of Tony’s mouth.
He eased back, straightening up on his knees, the condom still snug around him. He pinched the base, slid it off carefully, and held it in his hand, glancing around.
“Where do I leave this?” he asked.
Tony’s eyes flicked toward the small table beside the bed. “Leave it there,” he said through a low, muffled tone, his voice rough after the gag. “Maybe I could have a taste of you later…”
Alex gave a short, amused snort. “If you want a taste of me, I could give you a fresh one.”
Tony’s gaze lingered on him for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe another time.”
Alex set the condom down where told, then leaned over, untying the knots with deliberate care.
The rope slackened, Tony’s arms and legs slowly relaxing from the forced arch. He rolled onto his side, and the evidence of his climax was clearly spread across the sheet beneath him.
Alex’s eyes caught it. “You… came by yourself?”
Tony’s half-smile deepened. “Means you’re good at what you do, aren’t you? I wonder if you could be good at other things too…”
Alex’s curiosity sharpened. “What do you mean?”
Tony didn’t answer, just waiting for Alex to finish untying him.
Scene 12 – The Reveal
Alex worked the last knot loose, the rope rasping faintly as it slid off Tony’s skin. He tossed the coil aside and froze for a moment. The skin underneath was flushed, patterned with deep, perfect lines — the imprint of every turn and cinch he’d made.
“They’re… pretty deep,” Alex murmured, almost apologetic. “Do they need treatment or something?”
Tony flexed his fingers lazily, testing the circulation, then shook his head. “They’ll fade in a couple of hours. Not the first time someone’s tied me up.” He smirked, sitting up and letting the marks catch the light. “I’ve been kept like this for a whole weekend once.”
Alex stared. “A weekend? Seriously?”
“Mhm.” Tony’s tone was casual, almost teasing. “Though my friend back then wasn’t half as good as you are.”
The compliment made Alex’s chest tighten in an odd way. He didn’t know if it was pride or the slow, unexpected satisfaction of hearing it from someone like him. His eyes lingered on the marks again — proof of what he’d just done, and of the fact that Tony had let him.
His gaze drifted to the nightstand, to a wallet carelessly left open… and a business card.
The print was crisp and clean:
Marco Marini
Marini Global Security S.p.A.
Alex’s gaze stayed on the card a moment longer before looking back at the man sitting naked on the edge of the bed.
“So,” he said, “it’s Marco Marini, huh?”
Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled — slow, unbothered. “And you’re not really Chris.”
Alex hesitated for just a breath, then gave it. “Alex. Alex Rinaldi.”
Marco’s smirk deepened, his tone carrying that quiet, assured weight. “I’ll remember that.”