Leather Daddy’s Strict Discipline
I kneel in the center of the shadowed alcove, my bare knees grinding into the worn wooden planks. Below us, the muted bass of the club’s main floor thrums through the floorboards, vibrating up my shins. Heavy velvet curtains shield us from the crowd, but the sensory bleed is intoxicating—the sharp tang of oiled leather, the heat of packed bodies, the distant crack of a whip. My wrists are bound behind my back in supple leather cuffs, secured with a deliberate, agonizing slowness by Darius earlier tonight. A physical reminder of my quiet rebellions all week.
Darius stands above me. His tall frame is encased in black leather that creaks a deep, rich warning with every shift of his weight. The jacket grips his broad shoulders; the pants mold to his thighs. Five years of this, of him, and the sound of his boots on the wood still makes my breath hitch. His gloved palm catches my jaw, the rough grain of the leather biting into my skin as he forces my head up.
“You’ve been restless,” he murmurs. His voice is barely more than a rumble, edged with a dark, familiar steel. “Testing boundaries. After all this time.”
I swallow hard against the rigid leather collar hugging my windpipe. “Yes, Sir.”
He releases my jaw and begins to circle. *Step. Creak. Pause.* A heavy riding crop appears in his hand, the leather-wrapped handle dark with age. He taps the tip against his thigh—*thwack, thwack*—matching the erratic spike of my pulse. He leans in close, the scent of his cologne and warm leather washing over me, and whispers about the voyeurs just beyond the velvet drape, painting a picture of exactly who might hear me break tonight.
“Present,” he orders. The single word drops like an anvil.
I fold forward instantly, pressing my chest to the floor and elevating my hips. The position leaves me entirely exposed, the cool air from the overhead vents ghosting over the fever-hot skin of my back and ass. Darius traces the line of my spine with the tip of the crop, a phantom touch that makes me shiver violently. He settles behind me, his heavy leather-clad thighs bracketing my hips.
He doesn’t give me the mercy of a countdown. The crop comes down—a sharp, stinging bite across my right cheek.
“One,” I gasp, my voice trembling in the dim light.
The second strike bites the left, a mirrored flare of heat that sends a jolt straight to my groin. I jerk against my restraints, my half-hard cock dragging against the rough floorboards.
“Two.”
He pauses, the leather of his glove rasping over the twin welts, smoothing the heat, letting the psychological weight of my submission press down on me. I am trembling, perfectly primed, waiting in the dark for his next move.
The low rasp of his zipper cuts through the bass pulsing from below. Darius works his pants open with one gloved hand, freeing the heavy length of his cock into the heated air of the alcove. The scent of warm leather and his own musk thickens around us as he steps closer, the creak of his boots deliberate. He drags the blunt head along the cleft of my ass once, leaving a slick trail, before shifting to kneel fully behind me.
His gloved fingers close around my cock without preamble, the supple hide gripping tight and unyielding. He strokes in long, measured pulls, thumb pressing firmly over the slit to spread the leaking fluid across the crown. Each pass drags a broken sound from my throat, my hips rocking into the relentless hold while the club’s distant voices swell and fade beyond the curtains. He works me harder, leather sliding over sensitive skin in a rhythm that builds unbearable pressure, his other hand spreading my cheeks wide to expose me further to the cool vent air.
Spit-slick leather brushes lower, one thick finger circling my entrance before pressing inside, twisting deep to stretch and prepare. The intrusion burns sweetly, matched by the steady pump of his fist on my shaft. He adds a second finger soon after, scissoring slowly, the wet sounds obscene in the shadowed space. My cock throbs in his grip, every stroke pulling me closer to the edge as he leans over my back, breath hot against my neck.
Oil pours cool and thick over his fingers, the bottle set aside with a soft thud. He coats himself thoroughly, the slick liquid warming quickly against skin and leather. The blunt head of his cock nudges my entrance, pressing with steady insistence. Friction builds as he pushes forward inch by inch, the oil easing the way yet leaving every ridge and vein to drag against tight muscle. My body yields with a deep, burning stretch that forces a guttural moan from my chest, the heat of him sinking impossibly full while the leather of his pants brushes my spread thighs with each slow advance.
He bottoms out with a low grunt, hips flush to my ass, the weight of five years of claimed submission settling between us. The velvet curtains sway faintly from the club’s movement below, carrying up the murmur of strangers who might catch the shadow of our bodies or the wet slap of flesh. Darius draws back and drives in again, each thrust deliberate, the oil-slick glide punctuated by the creak of his jacket and the slap of leather against bare skin. His gloved hand returns to my cock, stroking in time with the heavy rhythm, fingers squeezing just under the head on every pull.
The knowledge that any of them could be listening—that Darius is taking me apart where the sound might carry—tightens everything inside me. His thrusts grow sharper, the stretch and drag relentless, the leather brushing my reddened cheeks with every snap of his hips. Pleasure coils tight at the base of my spine, fed by the possessive grip and the exhibitionist thrill of being conquered here, where the bass thrums through the floor and echoes the pounding of my heart.
Release crashes through me in hot, pulsing waves, spilling over his gloved fist and onto the planks beneath. My body clamps down around him, milking every inch as he buries himself to the hilt with a rough growl. He follows seconds later, flooding me deep with each throbbing pulse, the heat of it mixing with the oil and sweat already coating my skin.
Darius stays pressed close, breathing ragged against my shoulder, the leather of his jacket warm where it brushes my back. He eases out slowly, the slick drag leaving me empty and trembling. Gentle hands—still gloved—work the cuffs free first, then the collar, massaging the faint lines left behind with careful pressure. He draws me upright into his lap on the bench, wiping us both clean with a soft cloth from the side table before smoothing cooling salve over the marks on my skin.
The jacket creaks softly as he pulls me tighter against his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring me. Outside the curtains the club continues its low thrum, but here the alcove holds only the quiet aftermath, the scent of leather and spent heat settling around us like something claimed and safe once more.