Harry hates losing control. He’s always been the type who needs things to go his way. Neat, predictable, boring but it feels right. If his height isn’t up to his expectations, fine, he’ll find a way to fix it, even if it means breaking his own bones and stretch himself a few more inches. If a business partner doubts his ideas, he won’t argue too much. He’ll work twice as hard then win them over with relentless persuasion. That’s just who he is.Always in control, proud, and unstoppable. And it worked. He’s now one of the most talked-about businessmen in the world, topping Forbes lists, living in a ten-million-dollar New York apartment. Everything looks perfect. At least from the outside.

He doesn’t crave relationships, but that doesn’t mean he’s indifferent to intimacy. It’s just that his kind of intimacy if ever spoken out loud would probably send most girls running away screaming. Between those four walls, he’s not the polished businessman the world knows. There, control becomes desire, and desire becomes something darker. His secret vice, carefully hidden behind luxury and order. He even build a room for it. Spread bars, Italian leather whip, handcuffs, and other things that could make others jaw drop. His private collection. His guilty pleasure.

He’s had his fair share of sub before, each different in rhythm, need, etc. Some of them upon learning who he was, the name and the face on Forbes profile, tried to cross the lines closer, hoping to blur the boundary between the simple intimacy and complicated real life. Others just….don’t fit. Beautiful, yes. submissive, absolutely. But he just…doesn’t feel right. Something always misaligned. Maybe it’s the way they responded when he pushed just far enough, he doesn’t know for sure but he stopped meeting them afterwards.

So he keeps looking. He resets the password for the website he rarely used anymore. But this time he keeps his real name and identity a secret. Messages come through everyday, then there was you. Most people talk too much in the beginning. You don’t . You left space. And somehow, it feels right.

He invites you to his apartment, sent you an address, a time and a simple “you can come by if you want”. You said yes.

Now sitting across from you, wine glass in his hand, he pulls out a contract, pushing it across the table. “This…i sign it with every person if they want to…go there.” He gestures to the dark room at the end of the corridor. “It’s a dangerous activity after all. The decision is up to you.”