The sensation of suffocation does not always originate in the throat.

Sometimes, it stems from absolute control—from a cold, silk necktie that carries the faint scent of cologne.

By day, we remain among the most respectable people in this city. Dressed in impeccably tailored suits, we move through the glass-walled corridors of high-end office buildings, meeting clients and superiors with flawless, practiced smiles. No one knows what absurd and frenzied dramas unfold behind the locked doors of this apartment once night falls.

I had believed that I was gradually growing accustomed to Schroeder’s rhythm. I thought the lash of a leather belt and his cold, rigid rules were the absolute limits of what he could inflict upon me.

I was wrong.

That Friday evening, the air was thick with the restless energy that precedes the weekend. Schroeder returned an hour later than usual. As he pushed open the door, his deep black suit remained crisp and sharp, yet a trace of subtle exhaustion—and a flicker of volatility—lingered in his expression.

I sat on the carpet, watching as he tossed his briefcase onto the entryway shelf. He said nothing, simply observing me in silence. His gaze was that of a seasoned hunter studying prey that had fallen into a trap—prey that was still struggling, all in vain.

"Come here." His voice was low, tinged with a faint rasp.

I did not hesitate—or rather, my body reacted before my reason could intervene. Pulled by some invisible force, I crawled slowly to his feet.

He was wearing a dark red silk tie, patterned with intricate, barely visible black motifs—resembling some sort of cryptic emblem. He lowered his head, his long, slender fingers resting on the knot, and gave a gentle tug.

The smooth silk fabric emitted a soft, friction-filled sound. He pulled the tie from around his neck and began to toy with it in his hands. I expected him to use it to blindfold me or gag me, just as he had done before. I even braced myself for the sting of a belt, my back muscles tensing involuntarily.

But he didn’t.

He suddenly crouched down, his knees coming within inches of my nose. I was instantly enveloped by his scent—a blend of tobacco and a sharp, woody fragrance. Without warning, his cold hands reached toward my lower body.

"Schroeder...?" I looked up, startled, my body instinctively pulling back.

"Don't move."

The two words carried such immense weight that they pinned me firmly in place.

His eyes held no trace of desire; they were as detached as if he were performing a precise surgical procedure. His fingers deftly undid my restraints, and then, I felt that dark red silk tie—still warm from his own body—gently wrap around my most vulnerable part.

My mind went completely blank.

What was he doing?

Before I could react, he gripped both ends of the tie and pulled them taut with a sudden, sharp tug.

"Urgh!"

A short, strained cry escaped my throat.

The tie cinched tightly around the base of my genitals. Though the silk was soft, under Schroeder’s merciless grip, it became an unyielding iron band. Blood flow was instantly cut off, unable to return; an unprecedented, throbbing ache—laced with a dangerously intense pleasure—washed over me like a tidal wave.

I arched my body violently, my hands clawing at the edge of the carpet, my knuckles turning white from the strain.

Too tight.

The sensation of being completely locked down made my breathing shallow and jagged. I felt like a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit—poised to snap under such terrifying tension.

Schroeder watched my reaction with satisfaction. He rose slowly to his feet, his hand still gripping the other end of the tie.

Towering over me, he looked down—his deep black suit lending him the air of an inviolable deity. There was not a shred of pity in his eyes, only a pure, chilling desire for dominance.

"Right now," he began, his voice echoing through the empty living room, "even the right to find release rests entirely in my hands."

With that, he suddenly took a step back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he wrapped the other end of the tie twice around his palm, as if gripping a leash.

"Come here, Peter."

He gave the tie a gentle tug.

A powerful force pulled from below. The fear and sharp, stinging pain in such a vulnerable area made my entire body tremble violently. Powerless to resist, I was forced to crawl half a step forward, trailing after him in a state of utter wretchedness.

"Schroeder... please... loosen it a little..." I tilted my head back, my voice thick with an unmistakable, tearful tremor.

It was too tight, too painful. The torment of being forcibly held back—denied any release—was enough to incinerate what little sanity I had left. I felt as though I might shatter at any moment, bound by this dark red tie.

He remained unmoved. With one hand tucked into his trouser pocket and the other gripping the "leash," he stood with an air of elegant composure. He watched me struggle and gasp in agony at his feet, his eyes as deep and bottomless as a black hole.

"I didn't give you permission to speak," he said, cutting off my plea with cold indifference, while tightening his grip even further.

A pained whimper escaped my lips, and my body was pulled forward once more, following his lead against my will.

And so, we remained locked in this standoff in the living room. With every step he took backward, he tugged on the tie, leaving me to crawl along the floor—stripped of all dignity, like a dog—forced to follow his rhythm.

Each pull brought with it a jolt of pleasure that made my scalp tingle, intertwined with a sense of humiliation as deep as an abyss.

I looked up, my vision blurred by involuntary tears, and gazed at the man before me.

He was dressed in impeccable formal attire; the collar of his white shirt remained crisp and upright, the creases in his trousers as sharp as a blade. He was pristine, noble, and utterly imperious. And what about me?

I knelt at his feet, disheveled and undone. My most intimate, vulnerable parts were bound tight by his necktie—a tether he used to yank me about as if I were nothing more than a beast. Every shred of my dignity and pride lay shattered beneath his cold, condescending gaze.

Yet, it wasn’t this humiliation that brought me to the brink of despair and collapse.

It was the fact that, amidst this profound degradation, my own body—shamelessly, frantically—cried out for more.

Forced to look up at his cold, unyielding face—to witness the raw, undisguised desire for control in his eyes—I felt an indescribable jolt, like an electric current, surge from my spine straight to my brain. I loathed my own wretched state, but I loathed myself even more for finding, within this terror of total subjugation, a pleasure so intense it felt as though it might tear my very soul apart.

I wanted to be controlled by him.

I wanted to surrender completely, sinking into the depths beneath his cold, tailored suit.

The realization terrified me. I shook my head violently, desperate to cast out these maddening thoughts. I bit down on my lip—hard—until the metallic tang of blood bloomed in my mouth.

"What are you thinking about, Peter?"

Schroeder’s voice rang out from above. He stopped moving backward, though his grip on the tie remained as unyielding as ever.

I gasped for air, drenched in sweat as if I had just been pulled from the water. I dared not answer; I feared that if I opened my mouth, the words that spilled out would be ones even I would find too shameful to utter.

He leaned in slightly, his gaze seemingly capable of piercing through to the filthiest corners of my soul.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Trembling, I slowly raised my head and met his eyes.

In that instant, I caught a flicker of dark fire deep within his gaze—not the composed, dominant air he usually wore, but a raw, perilous hunger that threatened to consume me entirely.

With a sharp tug, he tightened the necktie he held, pulling me roughly between his legs.

"You like this, don't you?" His voice was a low, barely audible murmur, yet it struck my ears like a thunderclap.

I said nothing. I was beyond the power of speech.

Forced to tilt my head back, my cheek pressed firmly against the cold fabric of his trousers. The dark red tie remained cinched tight, holding every shred of my desire and reason teetering on the brink of collapse.

Under his all-seeing, commanding stare, I closed my eyes and surrendered, letting the surging tide—a tangled confluence of humiliation and pleasure—wash over me completely.