The collar clicking around Trey’s neck was supposed to be the culmination of months – years – of planning, the final realization of all his hopes and dreams.
It made the feeling all that much more sour. This collar wasn’t pretty, like the ones in the contraband romance novels. It wasn’t light and airy, it wasn’t comfortable, like the ones Trey had played with, in underground clubs and quiet swing parties. It didn’t come with nice words and a quiet understanding of his place in the world, a sense of comfortable inevitability, a sense of honored submission.
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