The Chastity Contract: The Complete Series Bundle
Title Page Copyright Part 1: The First Client Part 2: Cuck Night at the Club Part 3: Anonymous Gangbang Contract Part 4: Dubcon Family Breeding Night Part 5: Permanent Ownership and Total Pussification Part 6: Total Surrender: The Public Claiming About Jace Thorne Subscribe to Taboo XXX Press
The Chastity Contract
The Complete Series Bundle
Jace Thorne
Copyright © 2026 by Jace Thorne
All characters in sexual situations are age 18 and over.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The First Client
My phone buzzed at 2:17 a.m. on a Tuesday because I’d forgotten to turn off notifications again. I was already awake, lying on my back in the dark, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked more like a bruise every day. The apartment smelled faintly of mildew and yesterday’s takeout. I hadn’t eaten since noon.
I rolled over, grabbed the phone off the floor where it had been charging on a frayed cord. I checked my bank app first—a habit now. Balance: $47.13. Rent due three months ago. My landlord taped an eviction notice to the door last week, which I ignored because opening it felt like admitting defeat. Credit card maxed. Student loans in default. No family to call. No friends who hadn’t already heard the same sob story too many times.
I opened email next, expecting another collections notice.
Subject: Offer of Employment – Immediate Start – Discreet
Sender: Ellis Consulting
Spam filter should have caught it. I almost deleted it, but the word “immediate” made my thumb freeze.
I opened it.
The body was short, formatted like a corporate memo:
Mr. Ellis requires a personal assistant for one calendar year. Compensation: full room and board in his private residence, plus $4,000 monthly deposited directly to your account. Duties include household management, errands, and intimate service. Applicants must be male, 18–30, physically fit, and willing to undergo medical screening and sign a binding contract. Serious inquiries only. Reply with recent full-body photo (clothed) and current financial situation.
I read it twice. Then a third time, slower.
Intimate service.
The phrase sat in my stomach like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of heat moved outward. My cock twitched against the waistband of my boxers—half-hard before I even processed why.
I set the phone down. Sat up. Rubbed my face with both hands.
This was insane. A scam, probably. Or worse—some kind of trafficking thing. I should delete it. Block the address. Go back to applying for barista jobs I’d never get because I had no clean shirt left that didn’t smell like despair.
But $4,000 a month.
Rent would be paid. Groceries. Phone bill. Might even be a little left over to start paying down my debt. A whole year. Twelve months of not waking up wondering if today was the day the landlord changed the locks.
And intimate service.
I knew what that meant. I wasn’t stupid. I’d read enough porn, scrolled enough forums, jerked off to enough online ads that never went anywhere. Older man. Rich. Controlling. A younger guy who had no other options.
My dick was fully hard now. I hated that it was.
I picked the phone back up. Opened the camera. Stood in front of the bathroom mirror—the only place with decent light at this hour. The fluorescent bulb flickered like it was judging me.
Sweatpants low on my hips. Old university hoodie, faded gray, sleeves too long. Hair a mess. Dark circles under my eyes. I looked exactly like what I was: twenty-three, broke, tired, cornered.
I took the photo. Full body, head to toe. No smile. Just me, staring straight at the lens like I was already surrendering.
I attached it to a blank reply.
Fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I typed:
My name is Alex. I’m 23. Financial situation: three months behind on rent, $47 in the bank, no savings, no support network. I’m physically fit (I used to run track in college). I’m interested. Please let me know next steps.
I stared at the words. They looked pathetic. Honest, but pathetic.
My thumb hovered over Send.
I thought about the alternatives. Sleeping on a friend’s couch until they got tired of me. Signing up for gig apps that paid pennies. Applying to another dozen jobs and hearing nothing. Or—worst—going home to parents who’d say “we told you so” while handing me a plate of pity.
I hit Send.
The little whoosh sound felt final.
I dropped the phone on the counter like it had burned me. Walked back to the mattress on the floor. Lay down. Cock still hard, tenting the boxers. I didn’t touch it. Didn’t want to give in to whatever this feeling was.
But I couldn’t stop picturing it.
A man—older, calm, wealthy—reading my email. Seeing the photo. Deciding whether I was worth $4,000 a month. Deciding what “intimate service” would look like. What he’d make me do. How he’d make me beg.
My hole clenched at the thought.
I rolled onto my stomach, pressed my hips into the mattress, ground once—hard—then stopped. No. Not yet. If this was real, I wanted to save it. Save the ache. Let it build.
I closed my eyes.
Told myself it was probably nothing. A scam. A joke.
But deep down—way down where the shame lived—I hoped it wasn’t.
I hoped he wrote back.
I hoped he wanted me.
I hoped he’d lock me up and never let me go.
Sleep came eventually, restless and shallow, full of half-formed dreams about steel cages and deep voices giving orders I couldn’t refuse.
When the reply arrived two days later, I didn’t hesitate.
I packed a small duffel.
I waited for the black SUV.
And I told myself this was just survival.
But, deep down, I knew it was something else.
• • •
Two days after I sent the email, the black SUV arrived at 7:00 p.m. sharp.
I’d spent the afternoon pacing the tiny apartment, duffel bag already packed and sitting by the door like an accusation. Jeans, three pairs of underwear, a couple T-shirts, toothbrush, razor. Nothing valuable. Nothing I’d miss if it disappeared. I’d showered twice, shaved everything below the neck out of some nervous instinct I couldn’t explain, and put on the cleanest clothes I had left. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. Sneakers that were starting to split at the toe.
I watched from the window as the SUV pulled up—no markings, windows tinted so dark they looked painted black. The driver stepped out: tall, broad-shouldered, dark suit, earpiece, no expression. He didn’t knock. He just opened the rear passenger door and stood there, waiting.
My heart slammed against my ribs. This was it. Last chance to turn around, lock the door, pretend the email never happened.
I grabbed the duffel, stepped outside, locked the apartment behind me for what felt like the last time. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint smell of rain on concrete. I walked to the SUV like I was walking to an execution.
The driver didn’t speak. Just nodded once toward the open door.
I slid onto the leather seat. It was cold through my jeans. The door closed with a heavy, expensive thunk. No interior lights came on. The partition between front and back was up—solid black glass. I was alone in the dark with my own breathing.
Before I could buckle the seatbelt, the driver opened the partition window and reached back, handing me a folded black cloth and a pair of leather cuffs.
“Blindfold yourself,” he said. First words he’d spoken. Voice flat, professional, bored. “Then cuff your wrists behind your back.”
I stared at the items in my lap. The blindfold was soft—silk or high-thread cotton. The cuffs were lined with leather, but the locks looked industrial.
My hands shook as I unfolded the blindfold. I pressed it over my eyes, tied it tight at the back of my head. Darkness swallowed everything. The world narrowed to sound and touch: the low hum of the engine starting, the faint scent of leather and new-car smell, my own pulse loud in my ears.
Then the cuffs. I fumbled them behind me, managed to get one wrist in, then the other. The leather was cool against my skin. I pulled the straps tight as I could. Click. Click. Locked. No key in sight.
I tested them. Solid. No give.
The SUV pulled away from the curb smoothly. No lurch, no drama. Just motion.
We drove.
At first I tried to track turns—left out of my street, right at the lights, straight for a long stretch. But after ten minutes the pattern dissolved. Highway merge, acceleration, steady cruise. Then exit ramp. Surface streets. More turns. Gravel crunch under the tires at one point. I gave up mapping it. Wherever we were going, it was far from my neighborhood. Far from anything I knew.
The blindfold made every sensation sharper. The seat leather creaking when I shifted. The faint vibration of the road through the floor. My own breathing—too loud, too fast. The cuffs kept my shoulders pulled back, chest forward, making me hyper-aware of how exposed I felt even while fully clothed.
My cock stirred in my jeans. Not full hard, just…interested. The darkness, the helplessness, the unknown. It was everything I’d jerked off to in secret for years, and now it was real. I pressed my thighs together, tried to will it down. No point getting hard if someone was about to lock me in chastity. But the thought of that—of steel closing around me—only made it worse.
I swallowed. Throat dry.
The SUV slowed. Turned. Gravel again, longer this time. A private drive. We climbed a gentle slope, then leveled out. Stopped.
Engine off. Silence.
The driver’s door opened, closed. Footsteps on gravel. My door opened. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant pine.
“Out,” the driver said. “Leave your bag.”
I swung my legs around awkwardly, cuffed hands making balance hard. He caught my elbow—firm grip, not gentle—and helped me stand. Gravel crunched under my sneakers. He guided me forward: five steps, maybe six. Then smoother surface—stone or marble. Up two shallow steps. Through a doorway. Warm air, polished wood smell, faint trace of expensive cologne already lingering.
Hallway. Carpet muffled the footsteps. Another door. Hiss of an elevator opening. Inside. Ascent—smooth, quiet. Maybe three floors. Doors opened.
Another hallway. Longer. Marble again. Stop.
A final door opened in front of me. Cooler air, richer smells—leather, books, faint cigar smoke.
The blindfold stayed on for another few seconds. Long enough for my pulse to spike again.
Then fingers—different ones, larger, steadier—untied the knot at the back of my head.
The cloth fell away.
I blinked against warm lamplight.
Dark walnut paneling. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk that dominated the room.
And behind it, Mr. Ellis. He didn’t have to introduce himself. His power alone defined who he was.
He didn’t rise. Just watched me with those assessing eyes, silver at the temples catching the light.
The driver uncuffed me without a word, removed the blindfold from my hand, and left. The door closed softly behind him.
I stood there, rubbing my wrists where the leather had pressed faint red lines into my skin, duffel still slung over one shoulder.
Ellis leaned back in his chair.
“Strip,” he said.
No hello. No welcome. Just the command.
And my body—traitor that it was—responded before my brain caught up.
My fingers went to the hoodie zipper.
• • •
Ellis didn’t move from behind the desk. He just watched as my fingers found the zipper of the hoodie and pulled it down inch by inch. The sound seemed obscenely loud in the quiet room—metal teeth parting like a slow confession.
I shrugged the hoodie off my shoulders. Let it fall to the floor beside the duffel. Underneath was a plain white T-shirt, slightly too small after too many washes, clinging to my chest and stomach. I hooked my thumbs under the hem, lifted it over my head. Static-charged hair fell back into my eyes. I dropped the shirt on top of the hoodie.
Bare from the waist up now, my skin prickled in the cool air. My nipples tightened—but not from cold alone.
Ellis’s gaze never wavered. No leer, no smile. Just appraisal. Like I was a piece of art he was deciding whether to buy.
“Continue,” he said.
I toed off my sneakers. Left sock, right sock. Then jeans. Button. Zipper. I pushed them down over my hips, stepped out, folded them roughly and set them on the growing pile. I stood there in plain black boxer briefs that had seen better days. The outline of my cock was visible—half-hard already, pressing against the cotton from nothing more than his voice and the weight of being looked at.
“Everything,” he said.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and hesitated for half a second—long enough for him to notice.
“Problem?” His tone was mild, but the edge underneath cut.
“No, sir.” The word slipped out automatically. I hadn’t planned to say it. It just happened.
I pushed the briefs down. My cock sprang free—thicker now, curving upward slightly, head flushed. Balls drawn up tight from nerves. I stepped out of the underwear, kicked them onto the pile. Naked. Completely.
The room felt ten degrees colder. Or maybe it was just me.
Ellis rose then. Slow. Deliberate. Circled the desk like a predator deciding where to bite first. He stopped a foot away. Close enough that I could smell him—clean linen, faint cedar, something darker underneath like aged leather.
“Hands behind your head.”
I laced my fingers at the nape of my neck. Elbows out. Chest forward. Cock twitching under his scrutiny.
He walked around me once. Slowly. I felt his eyes on every inch: shoulders, back, ass, thighs, calves. When he came back to the front he stopped, tipped my chin up with two fingers so I had to meet his gaze.
“Twenty-three,” he said, as if confirming a fact from a file. “Five-foot-ten. Approximately one hundred seventy pounds. Runner’s build—lean, not bulky. No visible scars. No tattoos. Uncircumcised.” His thumb brushed the underside of my jaw. “Clean-shaven below the neck. Recent.”
I swallowed. My throat clicked.
“You prepared for this,” he observed. Not a question.
“I…thought it might be expected.”
A ghost of a smile. “Good instinct.”
He released my chin, stepped back half a pace. “Turn. Slowly.”
I pivoted on the spot. I felt his stare rake over my back, the curve of my ass, the dimples at the base of my spine. When I faced him again he was closer.
“Spread your legs. Shoulder width.”
I did.
He crouched—eye level with my cock and balls. Didn’t touch. Just looked. Studied the way my foreskin covered the head, the faint vein along the shaft, the way my sac hung slightly uneven. I felt heat crawl up my neck.
“Turn again. Bend at the waist. Hands on knees.”
I obeyed. Ass presented. Hole exposed. The position made my face burn. He didn’t comment, just walked behind me. I heard him breathe—slow, controlled. Then fingers—dry, cool—traced the cleft of my ass, not probing, just mapping. Down one cheek, up the other. A single fingertip pressed lightly against my hole. Not entering. Just pressure. Testing resistance.
I clenched involuntarily.
“Relax,” he said.
I tried. The finger stayed there a moment longer, then withdrew.
“Stand up. Face me.”
I straightened, cock fully hard now—traitorous, leaking a thin bead of pre-cum at the tip.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Erect already.” Not mocking. Clinical. “From being looked at. From following orders. From exposure.”
I couldn’t speak. Just nodded once.
He returned to the desk, opened a drawer, removed a small black box and a single sheet of paper. Set both in front of the chair opposite his.
“Sit.”
I lowered myself into the chair—naked ass on cool leather. Cock bobbed against my stomach. The contrast made me dizzy.
He pushed the paper toward me. “The contract. Read it carefully. Aloud.”
I picked it up, hands shaking slightly, and cleared my throat.
“‘This agreement is entered into on this date between Alexander James Harrow’—that’s me—‘hereinafter referred to as the Submissive, and Mr. Victor Ellis, hereinafter referred to as the Owner…’”
I read on. Voice cracking at first, then steadying as the words sank in.
Total submission of body and will. No right to orgasm without express permission. Financial servitude for the term of one year. Discipline including corporal, psychological, and sexual at Owner’s sole discretion. The Submissive will be made available to the Owner and any designees thereof for intimate use. Breaches by the Submissive result in immediate termination with no compensation and retention of all photographic and video evidence collected. Breaches by the Owner allow early release with full compensation to date. The Submissive acknowledges that consent is ongoing and may be withdrawn only by written notice delivered in person, at which point all obligations cease and compensation is prorated.
I reached the end. Looked up.
Ellis watched me steadily. “Do you understand every clause?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have questions?”
I hesitated. “The…intimate use. By designees. That means—”
“Other men I choose. When I choose. How I choose. You will service them exactly as you service me. No negotiation. No refusal.”
My cock throbbed at the words. A fresh drop of pre-cum slid down the shaft.
“And the cage?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Non-negotiable. You will be locked for the duration unless I decide otherwise. Your orgasms are mine to grant or withhold. Your erections are irrelevant.”
I stared at the paper. Then at him.
“If you sign,” he said, “you belong to me for one year. Starting tonight. If you don’t, the driver will return you home. No hard feelings. No money. No second offer.”
Silence stretched.
I thought about the $47 in my account. The eviction notice. The fridge with nothing in it. The dreams I’d had since I was eighteen—of being owned, used, stripped of choice.
I picked up the pen he placed beside the contract.
Signed my full name.
Dated it.
Pushed it back across the desk.
Ellis took it. Read the signature. Nodded once.
He opened the black box.
Inside was the chastity cage. Matte black steel. Heavy ring. Short, curved tube. Brass padlock engraved with a simple E.
He lifted it out. Turned it in the light.
“On your knees,” he said.
I slid off the chair. Dropped to the hardwood. Knees wide. Cock jutting forward, aching.
He crouched in front of me.
“Last chance to change your mind.”
I looked up at him and met his eyes.
“I’m ready, sir.”
He smiled then—small, satisfied, dangerous.
“Good boy.”
• • •
Ellis stayed crouched in front of me, the black steel cage held loosely between his fingers like it was already part of my body. The brass padlock dangled from the hasp, catching the lamplight in tiny flashes.
“Spread your knees wider,” he said. “Hands stay behind your head. Do not move them.”
I shifted my knees apart on the hardwood until the stretch burned in my inner thighs. Cock jutting forward, painfully hard now—head shiny with pre-cum, foreskin partially retracted from the swell. Balls drawn up tight against my body.
He set the cage on the floor beside him for a moment and reached for a small bottle of clear lube from the open drawer. Unscrewing the cap, he poured a generous amount into his palm. The scent was neutral, clinical—nothing scented to distract from the act itself.
He warmed the lube between his hands, then reached for me.
First the ring.
He lifted ...