Wearing His Collar
by @mysticravenWhen wealthy nightclub owner Vincent Laurent finds photos on a stranger’s abandoned phone—Daniel, a quiet accounting student, in silk lingerie and makeup—he doesn’t expose him. Instead, Vincent pulls Daniel into a world of control, humiliation, and cold possessive affection, calling him “pretty” while dressing him for secret shopping trips and private parties. Daniel hates how badly he wants it, but the scariest part isn’t the feminization—it’s how safe he feels walking into Vincent’s penthouse, wearing the collar he swore he’d never accept.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Daniel Park
A 20-year-old accounting student with soft brown eyes that carry the weight of secrets he's never spoken aloud. Slender and quiet, with nervous hands that fidget constantly and a voice that comes out barely above a whisper — especially when he's afraid of being seen. There's a gentleness to his features that makes him look younger than he is, and a fragility in the way he holds himself, like he's always bracing for someone to discover what he hides behind closed doors.
Vincent Laurent
A 38-year-old nightclub owner with silver-threaded dark hair swept back from a face that belongs on wanted posters. Built lean and predatory, he moves through rooms like he owns everyone in them — tailored charcoal suits that cost more than most people's rent, hands that have broken things and touched silk with equal precision. His eyes are the color of winter ice, and when he looks at Daniel, it's with the cold patience of a man who's already decided exactly how this story ends.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The Hidden Mirror
The silk slides over his thin shoulders and he barely recognizes himself—soft, pretty, the version of him that only exists in this locked apartment after midnight. His phone buzzes on the nightstand. An unsaved number. A photo attachment. His own face stares back at him, lips painted, eyes wide with the shame and thrill of being seen. He reads the message three times, his hand trembling between his thighs. He should delete it. Block the number. Burn the phone. Instead, he types back: 'What time?'
Broken Open
Vincent guides him to the edge of the bed, pushes him down onto the silk sheets, and Daniel's thighs part without permission, the lavender camisole riding up, baring the soft skin of his stomach. Vincent's weight presses him into the mattress, the leather collar tight against his throat as he tilts his head back, offering the vulnerable curve of his neck. Daniel's hands grip the sheets, knuckles white, as Vincent's mouth finds the spot where the collar meets skin—kissing, tasting, claiming—and Daniel hears himself make a sound he's never made before, something between a gasp and a surrender. The room smells like leather and arousal and the lavender silk crushed beneath them, and Daniel realizes he's wet, slick against his own thigh, his body telling truths his voice could never form.
Collared and Claimed
Daniel feels Vincent's voice rumble through his chest where their bodies press together, the promise in those words sinking into his bones like heat. Vincent's hands slide down his sides, gripping his hips with a possessiveness that makes Daniel's breath catch, and then he's being turned, pressed face-down into the silk, the collar tight against his throat as Vincent settles behind him. The weight of him is absolute, the heat of his body a wall at Daniel's back, and when Vincent's hand finds the curve of his ass, pushing the camisole higher, Daniel feels himself arch into the touch without thought. His fingers twist in the sheets, his mouth open against the silk, and he hears himself beg — a broken, desperate sound that doesn't sound like him at all — as Vincent's laugh, low and dark, brushes against his ear.
The First Time
Daniel's hand finds Vincent's belt, trembling but certain, and he feels the shift in the air—Vincent's stillness, the sharp inhale. He's never asked for this before, never dared, but something in the mirror's reflection gave him courage. Vincent's fingers close around his wrist, not stopping him, just holding, and Daniel feels the question in that grip: are you sure? He answers by pulling the buckle free, his heart slamming against his ribs, and when Vincent's breath catches—a sound Daniel has never heard from him—the world narrows to this: his body open and ready, Vincent's weight finally pressing him into the silk, the collar tight, and the first slow push of something real. Daniel's eyes stay locked on the mirror, watching himself take it, watching himself become the person Vincent sees.
His Mouth Between
Vincent's mouth trails down Daniel's chest, slow and deliberate, pausing at each rib like he's memorizing the architecture of surrender. When he reaches the waistband of the lace boyshorts, he looks up—not at Daniel's face, but at their reflection in the mirror, watching himself press his open mouth against the silk where Daniel is already hard and trembling. Daniel's fingers tangle in Vincent's silver-threaded hair, not pulling, just holding, and he feels the wet heat of Vincent's breath through the fabric, the deliberate slowness of a man who knows exactly what he's doing. The collar feels tighter, the room smaller, the world reduced to the space between Vincent's lips and the desperate throb of Daniel's cock against lace.