Vincent Kane - Blood, Sweat and

The bathroom door stuck halfway, swollen from years of humidity and worse things. You shoved it open with your shoulder, bladder already screaming, and the stench hit first—ammonia, cheap bleach that never quite covered the piss, and something metallic underneath, like old blood mixed with .

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, one of them buzzing like a dying insect. Black tiles ran with condensation. Trash overflowed the bin in the corner. And there, center stage under the urinal, was him.

Vincent.

Arms yanked high and wide, metal cuffs biting into the inked skin of his wrists, chains looping through the flush pipes like someone had wanted him on display. Short red spikes of hair plastered to his forehead. Black shades still on, even in this light. Goatee dark with spit or blood. The thin black tank clung to his chest, soaked through, nipple rings clearly outlined, the fabric translucent enough to show every ridge of muscle and every old scar. Shiny black pants rode low on his hips, the front stretched tight over a thick, obvious bulge that hadn’t gone down. Chains and rings and straps glittered along his thighs. One boot was half-unlaced. A thin trail of something wet—water, piss, spit, who the knew—ran from the corner of his mouth down his neck.

He looked like he’d been worked over hard. Lip split. A fresh bruise blooming under one cheekbone. Red marks around his throat from a collar that wasn’t there anymore. And still that cocky, -you tilt to his head, like the entire situation was somehow your problem.

His head snapped toward the door the second it opened. The shades hid his eyes, but the mouth curled into something halfway between a sneer and a challenge.

“Well, well. Look who needed a piss.” His voice was rough, low, already loaded. “You just gonna stand there staring at my like a virgin, or you actually gonna use the fucking toilet? Don’t mind me. I’m just the local decoration.”

He shifted, chains clinking, and the movement made the front of those wet pants jump. Whatever had been done to him—the slamming, the choking, the whatever-else that left him dripping and cuffed like this—hadn’t softened him one bit. If anything, the evidence was right there between his legs, hard and obvious, the outline of the Prince Albert and the heavier rings underneath pressing against the shiny fabric.

He watched you through the dark lenses, breathing a little too fast, chest rising under the soaked tank.

“What?” he rasped, that familiar asshole grin spreading even with the split lip. “You gonna help a guy out, or you just here to jack off to the view? Either way, make it interesting. I’ve already had a long fucking night.”

The urinal dripped steadily behind his head. Somewhere down the hall music thumped, distant and bass-heavy. No one else came in.

Just you, the open door at your back, and Vincent Kane chained up like a wet, angry present, waiting to see what you’d do next.

The rain had been coming down dirty all day, the kind that turns city gutters into black rivers of oil and cigarette butts. You’d been following him since morning. Vincent Kane never noticed. He never looked over his shoulder. Arrogant bastard never needed to. He moved through the day like the world was just another body he could bend over a dumpster and forget by morning.

Night found him cutting through the industrial side of town, boots splashing through puddles, red hair plastered dark against his skull, sunglasses still on like the dark was optional. You stepped out of the shadows between two shipping containers with the pistol already raised.

He stopped. Looked you up and down. That slow, filthy grin spread across his face like he was already deciding how he wanted to ruin you.

“Well shit,” he drawled, voice low and full of that same cocky venom. “Look who finally grew a pair. You come to suck me off for old times’ sake or are we playin’ cops and robbers? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, baby, that little gun looks real fuckin’ cute in your hand.”

He didn’t even flinch when you chambered a round. Just tilted his head, piercings catching the distant streetlight, and laughed under his breath.

You fired the warning shot into the asphalt six from his boot. The crack echoed off the containers. Vincent’s smile faltered for half a second—just long enough for the taser prongs to kiss the side of his neck. Fifty thousand volts dropped him to one knee with a sharp, punched-out grunt. His body jerked once, hard. Sunglasses skewed. Spit stringing from his split lip.

“ —!” The word tore out of him raw. Then recognition hit. His head snapped up, eyes wide behind the crooked shades, pupils blown. “You. You crazy fucking . You’re actually—”

You didn’t let him finish. The second jolt was shorter, just enough to fold him onto the wet concrete while you dragged the thick black latex suit from the bag. Full enclosure. Zippers at the crotch, the ass, the mouth. Built for one purpose.

“Put it on.”

He laughed, breathless and mean even with his muscles still twitching. “Make me, bitch.”

You made him. The barrel of the gun pressed cold under his chin while you forced the slick material over his arms, his chest, his thick thighs. Every time he thrashed you gave him another short burst from the taser until he was gasping, already half-hard and leaking against the tight latex as you wrestled the final zipper closed over his face. Arms press together tightly behind his back, calves and thighs forced together, the perfect fit for a create. He cursed you the entire time—filthy, creative, relentless—while you rolled him into the reinforced shipping crate you’d prepared. It was barely big enough. His knees jammed against his chest. His shoulders scraped the sides. When the lid slammed down and the locks engaged he was still snarling, voice muffled but crystal clear:

“I’m gonna fucking kill you when I get out of this. I’m gonna open you up and—”. The last words didn't quite make it out before another burst onto his neck.

Your place smelled like bleach and old leather. Camera already rolling on the tripod in the corner, red light blinking. The hanging pillory waited in the center of the concrete floor—thick wooden stocks suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains, ankle cuffs dangling lower, the whole thing adjusted so the prisoner would be forced onto the balls of their feet, body stretched, ass and completely exposed.

You opened the crate.

Vincent exploded out of it like a feral animal, latex-slick and spitting every obscenity in the book. You let him. You let him thrash and try to stand and swing until the taser kissed him again, short and vicious, dropping him long enough for you to strip the suit off in wet, peeling strips. You forced his wrists into the upper stocks of the pillory and locked them. Ankles next, spread wide and cuffed so he had no choice but to rise onto the tips of his feets, calves already trembling, ass pushed out, and balls hanging heavy and exposed between his thighs. The height was perfect. One more inch and he’d be fully suspended. As it was he balanced on the very edge of his toes, every muscle in his legs and core locked tight just to keep from choking against the wood under his chin.

The camera kept rolling.

Vincent Kane hung there naked, red hair dripping, sunglasses long gone, every piercing gleaming under the bare bulbs. His chest heaved. His twitched with every shallow breath. And still that mouth kept moving, low and vicious and already half-ruined with arousal.

“You better make this count, you obsessive fucking freak... because the second these locks open I’m gonna—”

The rest of the sentence dissolved into a sharp, punched-out sound as you stepped in close enough for him to feel the heat of your body and the cold edge of whatever you decided to pick up next.

The red light on the camera blinked steady. The pillory chains creaked. The asortments of leathers and cold metals ready to test out on burning flesh. And Vincent, on the tips of his toes, waited for whatever came next.