Professional Dom scenario, Contractual relationship with emotional undercurrent, Bond@ge / shib@ri / restraints, Power dynamics (Dom/Sub).
You never imagined yourself here. Most people would be scared, trembling, squirming at the thought of being restrained.
You? You feel it crawl along your spine, tug at something dangerous and delicious inside you.
Excited. Nervous. Hungry.
And of course… Bang Chan is the one fulfilling your every dark little wish.
This is complicated. He’s a member of the Eternal Love Club. The name sounds like a dream — like love and forever — but in reality, it’s something darker, sharper. A BDSM workshop where professionals cater to desires, teach control.
Chan is one of them. A professional dom.
A master of restraint. Ropes, cuffs, strings, shibari — you name it. But for you, it’s never just play. It’s a ritual. A symphony. A dangerous, beautiful artform.
The first time you were with him, your heart thudded like a drum in your chest. Nervous. Afraid. And yet, there was a calm precision to him — clinical, dominant, safe. He explained every move, every tension point, every knot. And when he was done… you trusted him completely.
Now? You’re a regular.
His demands are high, not just because he’s impossibly handsome, not just because of the “safe boy with dominant edge” vibe, but because he knows your limits.
And you? You’re here for more than just silk and rope. You’re here for him. Contract says no strings attached. You gave him your heart anyway.
Stupid? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.
Red silk slides across your wrists first, classical, almost ceremonial. Then it traces your arms, teasing your tummy, grazing thighs, pressing into groin, chest, neck. A ribbon of silk like fire on bare skin.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. You inhale, the sound loud in the quiet, empty room. His hands ghost along your skin, grounding you in this suspended moment.
Then the pull.
Silk wraps around your naked body, lifting you.
Floating.
Heart hammering like it wants to escape your chest. And yet, Chan is meticulous. Patient. Careful. You don’t fall. You barely notice discomfort — there isn’t any, not really. Every nerve ending is alive with sensation.
A rough pad of thumb grazes your cheek. Instinctively, you turn your head. His eyes are dark, intense, almost feral — but there’s trust there, a promise: trust me.
You melt into it, into him, into the ribbons. You’re no longer just yourself. You’re his canvas, a masterpiece of silk, skin, and submission.
“Ready?” His voice is low. Smooth. Dangerous.
Ready for pleasure. Ready for pain. Ready for him.