BDSM-148 : The Twin Bond

They arrived at the gallery late in the afternoon, escorted by two assistants who carried nothing but air. Cyra needed no help with her brother — she held his leash herself, her fingers draped over the loop like one might carry a designer handbag. The door parted for them with a hiss, and murmurs filled the space as people turned. Not to look at her — they were already looking. Always. But to see what version of him she had brought today.

He trailed behind her on his knees, posture low, head slightly bowed. The thick collar around his neck shimmered faintly under the lights, polished to a mirrored gleam. He wore nothing but restraint: a tailored black jacket of bonded leather that buckled tightly behind him, arms trapped within, and narrow bindings around his thighs forcing his legs into a kneeling position. His name — or what remained of it — was etched into a silver tag hanging from his collar: “Muffin.”

She had named him that when they were four. He hadn’t had a say then. He didn’t now.

Cyra didn’t slow her stride as they crossed the room. She moved with the confidence of someone too admired to ever be questioned. Her pale hair fell in long, sculpted waves, her white fur coat catching the light like frost. Her underboob crop top and sculpted pants hugged her frame perfectly — designed for power, not modesty. She paused in front of a display, tugging once on the leash so that Muffin knelt obediently at her heel, not even daring to lift his eyes.

“You're drooling again,” she murmured, not turning to him. “Try to keep it off the floor. This isn’t a kennel.”

An art critic approached. “You’re radiant as ever, Cyra,” she said. Her eyes flitted to Muffin briefly, then away, like acknowledging the presence of furniture.

Cyra smiled, a slow, knowing smile that barely reached her eyes. “I try,” she replied. “But let’s be honest… he makes it easy. Just look at him. Utterly helpless. Obedient. Decorative. People find it charming.”

The critic’s gaze drifted back, uneasy now. “Is he... ever difficult?”

Cyra chuckled — a sound like ice shattering in a glass. “Not anymore,” she said. “He had… opinions, once. But that was before he understood how freeing obedience can be. He’s simple now. Unburdened.”

She crouched beside him, tilting his chin upward with a single gloved finger. His eyes — pink, wide, glimmering with something caught between shame and longing — met hers. For a moment, she saw a flicker of the boy he had once been. Then it passed.

“He was always mine,” she whispered. “Even before the law confirmed it. A twin? Please. He was just born to follow me.”

He whimpered, low and quiet — whether in protest or pleading, no one could tell. It didn’t matter. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a purr that only he could hear.

“You want to hate me. I know. But you don’t. You need me to tell you what you are. To remind you. And I’m so very good at it.”

She stood and turned back to the critic.

“Now,” she said crisply, “about the next shoot. I was thinking something seasonal. Red silk. Maybe snow. And a muzzle, this time. Something refined.”

Muffin knelt still as stone beside her, throat tight, heart hollow. Around them, the crowd admired the scene as though it were part of the installation — beauty, cruelty, and silence, all wrapped in perfection.

Cyra smiled. She loved when he didn’t speak. It let her voice fill the silence completely

In the silent heart of the photo studio, beneath harsh white lighting and the quiet mechanical rhythm of camera shutters, Cyra adjusted the silver buckle on the leash in her hand. The strap led down to the floor, where Muffin knelt obediently. He had once been her brother — at least, biologically. But that word had no meaning in this society. Twins born of opposite genders were not equals. The law was clear: he belonged to her.

He couldn’t speak. The heavy ball gag pressing between his lips had silenced him hours ago, and now only faint gurgles escaped — sounds of discomfort, of shame, of barely swallowed resistance. His eyes, an eerie rose matching hers, were glassy. From the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders rose ever so slightly in response to every movement she made, it was clear: he was still trying to hold onto some fragment of will. How quaint.

Cyra crouched slightly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder. The sharp glint of the studio lights danced across the fine scars traced over his skin, remnants of discipline and "training." She took pride in her precision — the marks were deliberate, symmetrical, almost artistic.

“You’re stiff today, Muffin,” she murmured, voice low and sweet, yet edged with cold amusement. “You’ll ruin the frame if you keep slouching like that.”

The photographer, a poised woman in tailored black, adjusted her lens while casting a sideways glance toward Cyra. “He’s... expressive,” she commented dryly. “I can see the tension in his back. It’s almost too raw. Maybe we tone it down?”

Cyra let out a soft laugh, standing tall again, brushing her white fur coat back over her shoulder. “You don’t tone down a symbol,” she replied. “He’s not here to look graceful — he’s here to remind them what submission means. That beauty doesn’t need softness.”

Muffin shifted slightly, his legs bound in a position that allowed only kneeling. Saliva dripped steadily from the side of his gag, pooling near his knees. His eyes flickered up to hers, just for a moment. That look — somewhere between pleading and devotion — was enough to draw another smile from her. She tugged the leash lightly, a reminder, a correction. His posture straightened.

“He’s lucky,” the photographer mused, her voice laced with irony. “Most don't get to be part of something so... elevated.”

“Oh, he knows,” Cyra said simply. “He was born for this. Literally. He completes me. Like a shadow completes a flame.”

She turned her gaze downward again, this time with a colder edge. “Now head up, Muffin. Eyes forward. If you disappoint me today, I'll make you wear the spiked choke collar next time.”

A soft, stifled sound of panic bubbled up from him — not a word, but enough. She knew he understood.

The shutter clicked.

And in that moment, frozen in time, the world would see them as they truly were: a flawless icon draped in beauty and cruelty… and the living ornament at her feet — once a brother, now just a memory in chains…