Garage Bound and Begging

The cold bite of metal cuffs snapped around my wrists, yanking my arms high against the rough wooden beam in his dingy garage. Tools cluttered the bench nearby—wrenches, shelves of junk—fire extinguisher mocking my exposed vulnerability. I was stark naked, my cock already half-hard swinging free, while he loomed behind me, buzzcut head close, tattooed arms flexing as he pinned me there. That black leather gag stretched my mouth wide, drool already pooling at the corners, blindfold plunging me into darkness. His musky scent hit me first—sweat-soaked skin and faded cologne—mixed with the sharp tang of motor oil hanging heavy.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled low, voice gravelly with hunger, his breath hot on my neck. One hand slid down my chest, nails raking over my nipples till they peaked hard. I whimpered into the bit, body arching instinctively, ass clenching in anticipation. Shit, just the restraint had my hole twitching, greedy for whatever filthy game he had brewing. His jeans rasped against my bare thigh—still dressed like the boss he was, bulge straining denim.

He stepped closer, chest pressing to my back, free hand gripping my hip to grind his hardness against my crack. “Arms up, boy. Stay.” The command shot straight to my dick, making it throb visibly. I tested the cuffs—solid, unyielding—heart pounding as vulnerability flooded me. Trusted him completely, but god, the power rush of surrender had me leaking pre-cum already, a sticky trail down my thigh.

Then he spun me slightly, wood creaking, his body enveloping mine from behind. Fingers tugged the chain from my gag, a short leash he wrapped around his fist. Pulled my head back—exposed throat, pulse racing. “Mine,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear, tongue flicking the lobe. I moaned, muffled and desperate, hips bucking air. His other hand roamed lower, palming my balls, rolling them rough till I squirmed.

Face to face now—or as close as the beam allowed—his buzzed scalp under my bound fingers if I stretched. He smirked, I felt it in the air shift, then dropped low. Kneeling? No, squatting, jeans stretching taut. His tattooed forearm flexed, and fuck—his palm wrapped my shaft. Veiny, hot, slick with my own drip. He stroked slow at first, thumb swiping the slit, collecting pre and smearing it down. “Such a leaky little slut. Gonna edge you till you beg through that gag.”

Wet schlick of fist on cock echoed off concrete walls, my moans turning frantic. Sweat beaded on my pits, dripping down ribs, body slick and trembling. Every pull built fire in my gut, balls drawing tight, but he’d slow—tease the frenulum, deny release. “Not yet,” he’d rasp, pinching the head. Emotional rawness hit—eyes watering under blindfold, loving how he owned my pleasure, my pain.

Pushed to the brink, hips thrusting into his grip, I shattered—ropes of cum splattering his wrist, the beam, floor. He milked every drop, chuckling dark. Afterglow buzzed, chest heaving, his arms holding me steady as I sagged.

But little did I know, that handjob was just the warmup… he’d unzip next, revealing toys from the bench that’d wreck my hole for hours.