The boy knelt like he thought it mattered.
Randy leaned back against the couch, legs spread wide, watching the 21-year-old brunette settle between his thighs with a practiced eagerness that reeked of porn. The guy—muscleboyMaxx on the app—had messaged first. Full-body gym pics, drenched in sweat, cropped just low enough to hint at a thick bulge and a full ass. He called himself “submissive to the right alpha,” which Randy knew usually meant someone who liked the idea of surrender more than the reality.
And within five minutes of meeting, Randy had been proven right.
“Hands behind your back,” Randy said now, voice calm but unyielding.
Maxx hesitated, already palming Randy’s cock with one hand and bracing the other on Randy’s thigh. “I just like to get a good grip, Sir. Makes me better.”
“Behind your back.”
Maxx blinked, then obeyed, clasping his hands behind him with a grin like he thought it was part of a game. “Yes, Sir.”
Randy didn’t smile.
His cock was already half-hard from the earlier teasing, from the edge of control he had over this over-tanned, overly sculpted boy kneeling on his living room rug. Maxx lowered his mouth with exaggerated slowness, eyes flicking up in a way he probably thought was sultry.
It wasn’t.
Randy placed one hand at the back of Maxx’s head. “Mouth open. Don’t tease.”
Maxx opened up, tongue already out, and Randy slid in halfway, controlling the depth.
It felt good. The boy’s mouth was warm, wet, and eager. But he moved too much, trying to bob, to impress. His rhythm was practiced, almost like a routine he’d worked on. He moaned softly, rubbing his face against Randy’s pelvis like it was a performance.
“Still,” Randy growled, tightening his grip on Maxx’s hair. “You’re not in charge here.”
Maxx froze for a second, then resumed again, slower, but still improvising, still chasing his own idea of how the scene should go.
Randy sighed internally. Another one who didn’t listen.
He shoved deeper, pushing Maxx’s face down onto his cock, controlling the thrusts. The boy’s throat resisted briefly before opening, a wet gag echoing through the room. Randy held him there, just long enough to make his eyes water, then pulled back.
Maxx coughed, spit trailing from his lips. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he said hoarsely. “You like a sloppy mouth, huh?”
“You talk too much.”
“Sorry, Sir,” Maxx grinned, though he didn’t look sorry.
Randy shoved back in. This time, he set the rhythm, one hand on Maxx’s head, the other gripping the boy’s jaw to hold him open. The boy tried to suck around him, but even that was an attempt at artistry, tongue flicking in ways that were more about visual effect than obedience.
Still, his mouth was good. Wet and warm and practiced. His throat took Randy’s cock inch by inch as Randy built the pace, fucking into his mouth seeking control where he knew he would only find pleasure. Sweat began to bead along Randy’s chest. The leather couch creaked faintly under his shifting weight.
Maxx’s eyes watered again as Randy deepened his thrusts. Spit and precum coated his lips, sliding down his chin in strings that clung to his pecs. The boy looked used now, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.
Better—but not enough.
Randy grabbed the boy’s hair with both hands and began to fuck his face in earnest. The boy made pleased, breathless noises as if this was exactly what he wanted, like he’d gotten his way instead of obeyed. That made Randy fuck harder.
He was going to send this boy on his way with at least one lesson learned.
“You’re just a hole for my pleasure,” Randy said flatly. “This isn’t about you.”
Maxx nodded mid-thrust, gagging loudly, trying to nod again.
His efforts were valiant. Sloppy. Messy. The blowjob was technically good, physically gratifying. And it would get Randy off. But the boy’s whole energy grated. He wanted to perform submission, not offer it.
Randy’s muscles tensed. His breathing changed. He shifted his hips forward, holding Maxx’s head in place as he used his mouth with long, deep thrusts, feeling the boy’s throat flex around him. The heat built fast now. The pressure coiled. The finish came in a sharp wave.
With a final thrust, Randy pushed deep and came.
Hot spurts filled Maxx’s throat, and the boy choked once, then swallowed greedily, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face—undeserved Randy thought. His hands clenched behind his back. Randy stayed deep for a few seconds, watching the boy’s jaw strain, watching him try to hold the eye contact.
Then Randy pulled out sharply, leaving Maxx gasping, drooling, his lips raw and red.
Maxx licked them slowly, eyes dazed. “Fuck. That was incredible.”
Randy didn’t reply. He leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. His cock twitched once as the last of the sensitivity faded.
Physically, it had done the job.
Maxx knelt there like he expected praise. “Think I could see you again? Next time maybe I could bring lube and we could—”
“Maybe,” Randy said, voice neutral.
Maxx lit up like that meant something. He wiped his chin and smiled as he reached for his clothes.
Randy didn’t watch him go.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind the boy, Randy slumped forward slightly and exhaled.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The room still smelled faintly of sweat and spit. Randy pulled his joggers back on and wandered barefoot into the kitchen, the hardwood cool against his skin. He poured a glass of water, drank half of it standing by the sink, then dumped the rest and set the glass down with a muted clink.
The apartment was too quiet.
He should’ve felt relaxed. Sated. The blowjob had been good, technically very good. Most guys would’ve been thrilled. Maxx had even called him Sir without being prompted.
But it was the same as always.
The same parody of obedience.
The same shallow mimicry of what he wanted.
Randy grabbed his phone off the side table and sank into the couch again. The app was still open from earlier, a few new message notifications glowing at the bottom of the screen. He didn’t bother checking them. The faces would blur like they always did. The bodies would be sculpted and eager, the bios full of vague promises.
He started to scroll, not with hope, just with habit.
Randy scrolled through profiles without interest, letting the blur of jawlines, six-packs, and eye-fucking captions pass without registering.
He didn’t know why he kept opening the app. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was just a refusal to be alone with his own thoughts.
He passed the same faces, same promises.
Then paused.
Liam.
He remembered the profile. The guy from class. Same photo: sunglasses, smirking in a way that didn’t look practiced. A hiker’s tan, decent arms under a fitted tee. His expression wasn’t flirty. Just casual. Unbothered.
The line under his name still read:
Sometimes the right hands make all the difference.
Randy stared for a second.
Then tapped.
Randy:
“So you do cardio on weekends and in lecture halls?”
He hit send. The text wasn’t clever. It didn’t need to be.
A minute later, the reply came.
Liam:
“I do, you’re in my classes right; I think I recognize you?”
Randy:
“Yup. That’s me. I’m Famous.”
Liam:
“Could’ve said hi.”
Randy:
“Didn’t seem like a hi moment.
Also, you were laughing at something dumb. Killed the vibe.”
Liam:
“I’m hilarious when I’m sleep-deprived. You’re missing out.”
Randy smirked a little. There was something in Liam’s tone that didn’t feel forced. Not seductive. Just comfortable in his own skin.
That didn’t mean much. Plenty of guys had decent banter before revealing their inner disaster.
Still, Randy kept going.
Randy:
“You on here looking for anything specific?”
Liam:
“A good time? Mostly.
Someone who gets rough.
Most guys in this city just wanna cuddle after two strokes.”
Randy:
“That a complaint?”
Liam:
“A mild one.
I like control stuff.
Like, being told what to do. Getting handled a bit.”
Randy’s eyebrow twitched.
Randy:
“Like what? “Control stuff” covers a lot.”
Liam:
“Dunno. Being pinned. Held down.
Tied up, sometimes.
Used by guys who know what they’re doing.
Sweaty, aggressive, mean-hot—not psycho.”
Randy:
“You get off on being bossed around?”
Liam:
“Sometimes.
Depends on the guy.”
There it was. The subtle red flag. Depends on the guy. As if it was about charisma, not dynamic. As if submission were negotiable.
Still, Randy’s interest didn’t disappear. He could almost hear Liam’s voice—confident, maybe cocky, maybe completely wrong for him. But not boring.
Randy:
“You into pain?”
Liam:
“Yeah. Not needles or blood.
But spanking, slapping. Biting.
Face pushed into the floor.
That kind of thing.”
Randy:
“Dirty talk?”
Liam:
“The filthier the better.
I’ve begged with a cock in my mouth before. Would do it again.”
Randy shifted on the couch, readjusting his sweatpants. His cock was beginning to twitch back to life. That didn’t mean much. His body didn’t care whether someone was sincere.
Randy:
“Feet?”
Liam:
“Licking? Yeah.
Especially after gym. Or a run.
I like sweat. Musk. Not afraid of it.”
That got Randy’s attention. A little.
He let a few seconds pass before replying.
Randy:
“Any experience?”
Liam:
“Some.
I’ve been used. Nothing serious.
Had a guy call himself a Dom, then asked me to “rate his performance” after.”
Randy rolled his eyes.
Randy:
“That’s bleak.”
Liam:
“You’re telling me.
I wanna kneel, not do a Yelp review.”
Randy almost smiled.
Almost.
But the voice in his head was louder. Still just another boy. Still chasing a good lay, a good story. Submission was a kink to them. A phase. A role.
But Liam had his attention.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Liam:
“What about you?
You one of those “looking for connection but just here for head” types?”
Randy:
“Not exactly.
I fuck. A lot.
But I’m not confused about what I want.”
Liam:
“Which is?”
Randy didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch. His thumb hovered over the screen. A response this early would feel like a confession. And Liam hadn’t earned that.
He kept it simple.
Randy:
“I want someone who listens.”
Liam:
“That’s rare?”
Randy:
“You’d be surprised how many boys say they’re submissive, then start choreographing the whole blowjob.”
Liam:
“Oh god. I’ve done that.”
Randy raised an eyebrow.
Randy:
“You’re not selling yourself well.”
Liam:
“I’m just being honest.
I’ve learned a bit since then.”
Randy could believe that. The kid didn’t sound like a liar. But honesty wasn’t the same as depth. And “learning” didn’t mean “ready.”
He leaned his head against the back of the couch. The leather felt cool through his shirt. A thin layer of sweat still clung to his skin from earlier. He should’ve showered. He didn’t move.
Randy:
“So what makes you think you’re a sub?”
Liam:
“It turns me on.
Just the thought of it.
Wanting someone’s approval.
Getting used.
Even when it’s rough. Especially when it’s rough. 
”
Randy:
“You want to serve?”
Liam:
“Yeah. I think so.
I want someone to take control and not ask me what I need every five seconds.”
That earned a grunt of approval from Randy. He’d had more than a few boys beg to be “broken,” then flinch when things got real. They’d whine about wanting a “mean dom,” only to sulk when they weren’t coddled between thrusts.
Randy:
“You bratty?”
Liam:
“Not unless I’m bored.”
That felt like the truest thing he’d said.
Randy:
“And how often does that happen?”
Liam:
“A lot more than I admit.
Most guys just want me to moan and call them Daddy.
Even when I’m not into it, I fake it so they get off.
It’s easier than disappointing them.”
Randy narrowed his eyes.
There it was.
That little flicker of something deeper. Maybe not true surrender. Maybe not the thing he was hunting for. But a hint of pressure under the surface. A need that hadn’t found the right outlet.
He tapped out a reply.
Randy:
“You fake it often?”
Liam:
“I guess.
It’s expected.
Guys want me to moan; I give them what they want.”
Randy:
“You ever wonder what would happen if you didn’t perform?”
Liam:
“Yeah.
But I’m not sure anyone would stay.”
Randy stared at the screen.
For the first time in hours, he felt the edge of a feeling that wasn’t irritation or hunger.
Not quite hope.
Just…curiosity. A deeper kind.
He typed slower this time.
Randy:
“You say you want to obey.
But what you’re describing is pretending.
If you fake moaning, fake liking it, fake being a good boy—
how’s anyone supposed to know what you actually need?”
Liam:
“I don’t know.
Maybe I don’t even know what I need.
But I know I’m tired of pretending.”
That hit closer than it should have.
Randy shifted on the couch. His cock wasn’t hard anymore, but his chest felt tight. Not in a painful way. Just alert.
Randy:
“You ever served anyone properly?”
Liam:
“Not really.
There was one guy.
He tied me up, made me edge for hours, called me a useless hole.
I came so hard I nearly blacked out.
But he never called again.”
Randy didn’t say what he was thinking.
That most of them don’t.
That boys like Liam are disposable to men who like the scene more than the submission.
He stretched his neck, cracked his knuckles.
Then typed:
Randy:
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
There was a long pause.
Liam:
“Nothing in the evening. Why?”
Randy:
“Maybe I’ll give you a chance to stop pretending.”
Liam:
“I’d love that.”
Randy:
“I’m sure you would.”
he chat slowed after that.
Liam’s responses came at longer intervals. Shorter sentences. A yawn emoji here. A “need to shower” there. Eventually, he sent one final message.
Liam:
“Anyway. If you ever wanna talk more. Or not talk. Whatever.
You know where to find me.”
Randy didn’t reply.
Not right away.
He stared at the screen, then locked it and set the phone face down on the table beside him.
The apartment was quiet again. The mess from earlier had been wiped away. No sign of Maxx, no lingering scent of sweat or spit. Just the clean chill of night air drifting through the cracked window.
Randy stretched out along the couch, one arm tucked behind his head.
He wasn’t hard. He wasn’t restless. But his mind wouldn’t settle.
It wasn’t Liam’s profile that had gotten to him.
It was the flicker in the conversation—the moment where something had cracked. Not in Liam, maybe, but in the way Randy had listened. The way he’d wanted to test him. Push back. See what was behind all that casual honesty.
He’d heard it before, from other boys. But not in quite the same cadence.
And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
He should’ve written Liam off already. Too verbal. Too self-aware. Not enough silence between his answers. Not enough uncertainty.
But…
There’d been that one line. “I want someone to take control and not ask me what I need every five seconds.”
That had landed harder than any brag about blowjobs or begging ever could.
Because most boys begged for attention. Liam, at least for a moment, had sounded like he was begging for direction.
Maybe that was just good game.
Maybe it was real.
Randy hated that he couldn’t tell yet.
He shifted on the couch again, eyes half-lidded, letting his thoughts run.
What would it be like, if Liam came over? If he dropped to his knees without needing instructions? If he didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to negotiate the scene midstream, didn’t try to turn Randy’s control into a collaboration?
What if Liam didn’t perform?
What if he just obeyed?
Randy’s cock stirred faintly at the idea.
Not because of the sex. Not because of the body. But because of what it would mean to have someone finally listen the right way. To serve without making it a spectacle.
He didn’t believe it yet.
But the idea had teeth.
And tonight, that was more than he’d had in a long time.
He reached for his phone again, unlocked it, and reread the last few lines of their conversation.
He didn’t message Liam.
Didn’t need to.
Not tonight.
Instead, he stood and headed for the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and sweats, and stepped into the shower. The water was cold at first, then hot, then hotter. He let it blast over his back, his chest, the back of his neck.
He washed Maxx off of him. Washed the spit, the sweat, the memory of being called “Sir” by someone who didn’t mean it.
He stood under the water for a long time.
By the time he shut it off, the mirror was fogged, and the night had gone still outside.
Back in bed, he lay flat on his back, one arm over his eyes, the other resting across his bare stomach. The sheets felt too cool. His body felt tight again, not with arousal, but with anticipation he didn’t trust.
Liam was just another boy.
But Randy didn’t delete the chat.
Didn’t swipe left. Didn’t scroll past.
He left it open.
And slept with the faintest curl of tension still coiled in his chest.
A question, unanswered.
A thread, unpulled.
A maybe.
Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
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