Twelve hours wearing his collar—that’s how it starts. But where does it lead when you give yourself over to what you want the most? From sessions on cam to real-life meets, from twelve hours to three nights to nine years, handing over control can bring satisfaction and frustration in equal measure, and maybe something deeper than you could ever have hoped for.
Rab Green © 2023
All Rights Reserved
I can’t do this.
We’ve only just entered the club, walked down the stairs, haven’t even got to the coat check at the bar, but this feeling in my gut is… What? What is it?
The half dark and bar lights, the men standing around, talking or checking each other out, voices raised against the thumping background music. And this feeling in my gut is—a thread, yanking me back to the first time I ever set foot in a gay bar. Standing here now, full-grown man, the years of experience and confidence I’ve built up are wiped away like all that time didn’t matter. Overwhelmed and exposed, desire laid bare to be judged.
I’d assumed tonight would be a fetish night, and tho there are a few guys stripped to the waist, one or two stripped down to their underwear, everyone else is dressed in their street clothes. And I see them, looking at him in his leather chaps and jeans, and looking at me, more like them, in plain jeans and T-shirt, except for what I’m wearing round my neck: the leather collar he put on me.
He’d said the walk from the apartment to the club was only five minutes. He either lied or got lost; we took the long scenic route. He took us through the busiest, well-lit streets of a Friday night in the city, so the collar round my neck could be seen by everyone and anyone who cared to look. And with him walking beside me—the sheer fucking leather horniness of him—I felt obvious and on show. By the time we got to the club, my brain felt fried and exhausted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me, and I know my panic is starting to show.
“I have to go.”
“I have to leave, I have to go—”
I stop myself from saying home because that would make me sound like a child, even tho that’s where I want to be.
“I want to go back to the apartment.”
He takes a slight step away from me, looks me up and down, and waits for me to admit—
“I can’t do this. Can I have the key?”
“To the apartment?”
There’s a small padlock on the collar; he has that key too.
“Yes, the apartment key. Can I—?”
“But I want—”
“I don’t want to leave. There’s only one key, and I’m not giving it to you. I’m not going to waste my night wondering if you’ll still be awake to let me in or if you’d even still be there when I get back.”
“So what am I—?”
“You have your phone and your wallet. If you want to leave, find somewhere else to stay.”
Is this it?
“My bag is at the apartment.”
“You can pick it up in the morning.”
Our first proper meet, ending like this.
I touch the collar.
“But what about—?”
“The key’s back at the apartment.”
“So I have to wear it? I can’t take it off if I leave?”
“It’s leather. It’s not metal, it’s not welded on. If you want to take it off, you’ll take it off.”
I see it all fall away.
The engulfment of me, by him, that I’d willingly stepped into, gone.
Nothing’s keeping me here; he’s not keeping me here. I could leave, get a room in one of those dingy hotels round the station, stay there, get my bag in the morning, get the train home, all done, all doable—and it’s horrible to imagine.
He steps back towards me, hooks two fingers under the collar, pulls my face close to his.
“Twelve hours wearing my collar—that was the deal. I’m not the one going to break it.”
There’s a long bench attached to the wall to the side of the stairs we came down. He walks over and takes a seat, sits there, watching me, with his hands on his knees, legs wide apart, heavy boots planted solidly on the ground. And I know that position. It’s how he sat in the chair in the apartment earlier this evening.