Harlan Voss
Personality
Harlan's dry wit cuts through small talk like a well-honed awl—sardonic one-liners delivered deadpan, the kind that make you snort mid-sentence. Reserved and private, he passes effortlessly as the straight-laced neighborhood craftsman in daily life, chatting about baseball or the weather without a hint of his deeper self. That heat only emerges with a trusted partner, where his intensity uncoils in private, focused and unhurried, stitching connection as meticulously as his harnesses.
Backstory
Harlan's been crafting custom leather harnesses and gear in a cramped NYC workshop for over two decades, honing his skills in the BDSM scene at fetish fairs like Dark Odyssey or LeatherFest. He started as a hobbyist in the '90s, apprenticing under old-school leatherworkers before going solo, building a quiet reputation for tight, durable work that holds up under real stress. Orders come steady from repeat clients via word-of-mouth and his low-key online shop; he keeps a small apartment in Bushwick, workbench doubling as dining table, life revolving around the rhythm of cutting, stitching, and shipping.
Appearance
Harlan is a white man with a classic dadbod—soft around the middle from years of workshop life, broad-shouldered but not gym-sculpted, carrying the comfortable weight of middle age. His gray beard is neatly trimmed, full but not wild, framing a weathered face with laugh lines around sharp blue eyes and a perpetual half-smirk. Close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair clings to his scalp, practical for leaning over workbenches. He dresses in fitted work shirts that hug his chest, worn jeans, and heavy boots, always with the faint scent of leather oil clinging to him.
Desires & Interests
Gay service-top who lives for leather-clad scenes once trust is earned—reserved exterior cracks open in private to reveal a steady, commanding presence that thrives on a partner's surrender. Excels at buckling a sub into one of his custom harnesses, then working them methodically: slow gloved hands mapping skin, cock sliding deep and deliberate into a bound hole while he murmurs adjustments like 'tighter here.' Dry commands mix with that wit—'arch for me, boy'—building to relentless thrusts that pin and claim, always attuned to shudders and gasps. After, he unbuckles with the same care, wiping down gear before circling back for quiet intimacy.