Marked by Morning
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
I woke the next morning to the sound of Sean’s breathing, slow, steady, imperious in its rhythm.
It was still dark. Not pitch black, but the kind of early-morning gray that settled over the condo like a weighted blanket. Somewhere beyond the blackout curtains, the city was beginning to stir, but in here, everything was still. Except me.
I was curled on the floor in the cage beside Sean’s bed, stiff, shivering faintly despite the warmth of the room. My muscles ached in places I hadn’t even known could ache. My knees, scraped slightly raw from the punishment bench. My jaw, from being clenched all night in restless, chastity-aggravated arousal. My back ached from sleeping on the sparse bedding Sean had provided without so much as a pillow to soften the cold press of the metal or a sheet to cover myself.
But it wasn’t just my body that felt used.
It was my mind. My sense of self.
There was something about waking like this, in a stranger’s home, locked in metal, my bare skin marked by someone else’s hands, that made my thoughts slow and glassy. I wasn’t a person in those first seconds. I was sensation. Heat. Restraint. Throbbing pressure against the steel that encased my cock.
I blinked hard. My eyes adjusted slowly. The metal beneath me smelled faintly of some sanitary product and skin. My own, probably. I’d been sweating during the night, and I could feel the dried residue of it on my thighs and chest. Worse, the lotion Sean had rubbed into me, fragrant, probably chosen deliberately, still lingered across my skin, making me feel slick and owned. My skin was softer now. The way he wanted it, I assumed. More pleasant to touch, Sean had said. More pleasant to use.
I shifted, trying to stretch my legs without making noise, but the cage tugged sharply as my cock responded to even the faintest thought of him, of the night before, of his voice telling me to sit cross-legged on the bathroom tile and clip his toenails like a servant. Of the way he’d smiled while I did it, faintly amused by the way I’d recoiled, like I was a ball of yarn he enjoyed watching unravel.
The memory made my stomach twist and my cock pulse helplessly. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep still.
I could just barely see the silhouette of Sean’s body in the bed above me. One arm was thrown lazily over a pillow, the sheets tangled around his hips. He was turned away, but the rise and fall of his breath told me he was still asleep.
I didn’t dare move more than I had to.
My cheek rested against my forearm. I could smell the faint tang of the cage, metal and skin and sweat, and feel the way it pressed into me with each slow inhale. I hadn’t touched myself in more than a week. Couldn’t. Not without permission.
And even if I could, I didn’t want to. Not unless Sean told me to. Not unless he made it clear I’d earned it.
I closed my eyes again, trying to still my thoughts.
But they kept circling the same helpless truth.
I was developing feelings for this man.
Not the kind I was used to. This was something else. Something darker. Something chemical and cruel. An obsession born of submission. A kind of desperate gravitational pull toward the man who had reduced me to this: naked, enclosed in metal—two ways, trembling on his bedroom floor and grateful for it.
There was something wrong with me.
And yet I had never felt more right.
I shifted again, just enough to ease the pressure on one side of my hip, and my body betrayed me. A sharp pulse of heat arced through my groin, and I felt the familiar, humiliating throb of my cock trying, futilely, to swell against the cage. The pressure made me wince. I had to pee badly but I wasn’t free to do so until Sean let me out of this confinement. His confinement.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to be still.
Above me, the sheets rustled.
Sean turned over.
My breath caught in my throat.
I didn’t move.
“Awake already?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep, the edge of a smile playing at the corners of it.
I swallowed. “Yes, Sir.”
He made a soft sound, pleasure, amusement. “Good boy.”
Two words. That was all it took.
The ache behind the cage intensified.
He shifted again, sitting up slowly. The sheets fell away from his torso, revealing the lean cut of his back, the shadowed slope of his shoulders in the early light. He stretched once, languid and unbothered, like a man who hadn’t a care in the world.
I didn’t lift my head until he stood.
“Stay there,” he said, not unkindly.
I nodded, not that I had any choice, pressing my forehead to the cage floor for added effect, hoping it would please him.
Then, with his foot, he gently nudged my side through the cage bars.
“Up.”
I moved slowly, rising to my knees. My muscles complained, but I didn’t make a sound.
He was shirtless now. Only his briefs remained, riding low on his hips, bulge heavy and relaxed. He looked at me the way someone looks at a mirror, checking for imperfections, but already pleased with the reflection.
“I’m making you disgusting,” he said softly. “And I love it.”
I didn’t answer.
“You should see yourself. Hair matted, lips cracked, that pathetic little cage leaking like it has any chance of being unlocked.”
I looked down. He was right. A faint bead of precum glistened at the slit, already soaking into the metal.
“Do you remember what I told you last night?”
I nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Say it.”
“You said… I was to prepare breakfast. Be ready for inspection. Never to curse in your home.”
“And are you ready for inspection, Blake?”
I hesitated. “I—”
He reached through the bars and gripped the back of my neck.
“I’ll decide.”
Sean’s hand tightened briefly at the back of my neck before letting go.
“Lie down.”
I hesitated—not because I didn’t want to obey, but because I didn’t know how I’d manage it in the cage. Sleeping in it had been one thing; maneuvering on command was another. Still, I did as I was told, shifting awkwardly from my knees to my side, then onto my back, the steel base of the cage pressing into my spine as I stretched out atop it.
The bars creaked slightly beneath my weight. Sean had padded the surface with a thin towel last night—more a gesture of ownership than comfort—and it was now bunched unevenly under me, damp in spots from the sweat and drool I hadn’t been able to control in my sleep.
My skin felt clammy, my face tight with dried moisture. I could still smell the lotion he’d rubbed into me the night before, something cedar-tinged and musky, subtle but cloying now that it had mingled with everything else.
I stared up at him.
Sean stood above me, fully awake now. He pulled his cock out from the fly of his pajama pants and my pulse began to quicken. His hair still held a hint of bed-mess, but his posture was easy, deliberate, perfectly at home in his body. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, relaxed but thick, swinging slightly as he stepped forward to loom before the cage.
He didn’t say a word.
I didn’t ask. I knew better.
I thought he was going to kneel. Or maybe make me blow him. Something, anything, but not this.
I realized what was happening the moment he gripped the base of his cock and angled it downward. My stomach lurched.
I froze.
The first splash hit my chest, a sudden, searing stream of heat that made me flinch on instinct. I didn’t speak, didn’t move. I didn’t dare. The stream continued, arcing over my torso like the stream of an Italian sculpture-fountain. The scent of it, sharp, unmistakable, filled the space between us like smoke.
Sean was pissing on me.
No warning. No explanation.
Just the steady, deliberate stream of his morning piss marking my skin as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do.
It splattered across my ribs, trickled over my stomach, pooled for a moment against the shallow dip just below my navel before rolling down toward the cage. I felt the now familiar sensation of liquid passing through the chastity cage, only now it wasn’t my own urine, it was his. My cock, confined and helpless, throbbed behind the bars, leaking slightly as if it didn’t understand this wasn’t a reward.
I stared at the ceiling.
Not because I didn’t want to look at him, but because I couldn’t.
I was too afraid of what he’d see in my face.
Shame? Arousal? Both?
My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The stream slowed, then stopped. A few final drops landed on my lower abdomen.
Sean exhaled, relaxed. Not pleased, exactly, but satisfied. Like a man finishing the first task of a full day.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The silence was worse.
I lay there, wet and still, the air cooling the mess on my skin as the scent intensified. My whole body flushed hot, as if trying to burn away the humiliation. But it wouldn’t leave. It had soaked into me. Into the towel. Into the cage. Into the parts of me I hadn’t even realized could be reached.
How had this happened?
How had I let it?
Sean, my junior at work, a man more than ten years younger, new to the firm—had just pissed on me like I was nothing. Not as a joke. Not as an accident. As a statement.
And I had done nothing to stop him.
Worse, I was hard. Caged, dripping, and hard.
I could feel the telltale ache of arousal pressing outward from behind the bars of the custom-made chastity cage, the trapped pressure growing unbearable as my body betrayed me. There was no space to swell. No relief. Just the constant throb of submission turned physical.
Sean crouched at my side studying me through the cage bars the way he always did, calm, unreadable, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next. Not because he doubted me.
Because he knew I’d do nothing.
His fingers reached out and dragged through the wetness on my chest. He brought them to my mouth without a word.
I opened. I don’t know why.
The taste hit hard, bitter, briny, unmistakable. I almost gagged. But I didn’t pull away. I let him push his fingers in, let him rub them against my tongue like he was testing how far gone I really was.
The answer was obvious.
When he pulled his hand back, he wiped the residue across my cheek with casual precision.
Then he stood. He retrieved the keys to the cage from his nightstand and unlocked the latch, opening the door and letting me free.
“Clean yourself,” he said. “Use the towel only. No soap. I want to smell myself on you while I eat.”
He turned his back to me and walked toward the bedroom closet, already choosing what he’d wear for the day.
As if I wasn’t even there.
I didn’t move for a moment, but it felt like an eternity.
I could hear him in the bedroom, drawers opening, the subtle shuffle of hangers, the occasional brush of fabric. The normal sounds of someone getting ready to face the day. Except nothing about this morning was normal.
I was still kneeling in the cage, soaked in piss, breath coming shallow, heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
Sean hadn’t even looked back at me.
He’d said what he said. Done what he’d done. And then continued on with his day like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
No part of me had expected that. Not even after everything else. The punishment room. The toe-clipping. The cage.
I thought I was learning the rules. That there was structure in his cruelty. But this, this wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t a lesson.
It was just power.
Pure, unfiltered dominance. An assertion that my body, my sense of self, even my boundaries, none of them mattered unless he said they did.
And the worst part was: the more time I spent with him, the truer that became.
I sat up slowly, the towel squelching beneath me. The cage groaned under the shift in weight. My skin was damp, tacky, pungent. The smell of his piss clung to me in a way soap would never fully erase. My chest felt tight, my stomach hollow.
But I didn’t cry.
I didn’t speak.
I just proceeded to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and began to clean. I took the opportunity to empty my bladder while I was there as well, an experience which itself had been marked by Sean since the introduction of the chastity cage. I could no longer stand and pee with comfort as I’d once been able to. Now every trip to the bathroom involved sitting down, aiming my caged cock into the toilet carefully, pissing while avoiding the cage’s bars and then the clean up afterwards too.
When I was done, I made sure to clean up any footprints I’d left on my way to the bathroom. I knew without asking this would be expected.
He wanted to smell it on me, he’d said.
That thought made my face flush so hot I thought I might pass out.
Not because of the command itself, but because of how quickly, how automatically, I accepted it.
There had been a time when I held seniority in every room I entered. A time when I was the one articling students deferred to. When I gave direction, and others followed. When I was respected. When I was whole.
Now?
Now I was crawling out of a cage, covered in a younger man’s piss, and preparing to make him breakfast while wearing nothing but the sour reek of his approval.
And somehow, that made me feel more purposeful than anything I’d done at work in years.
I rose to my knees first, then stood slowly, ignoring the way my muscles tensed and ached from the awkward night. My legs were unsteady. My neck felt tight. But I moved without hesitation. I didn’t wait for Sean to tell me again.
The apartment was silent as I made my way to the kitchen.
The floor beneath my feet was cool, polished. Each step felt strange, bare, exposed, wrong. But that wrongness had begun to feel like home.
The kitchen was spotless, of course. Minimalist and masculine. Everything in its place. I washed my hands at the sink, no soap, just water, and dried them on a small linen cloth folded neatly on the counter.
I pulled the eggs from the fridge. Bread. Avocado. A cast-iron skillet.
Everything was curated. Sean’s kitchen was like Sean himself: clean, sharp, controlled. There was nothing accidental about the space. Nothing that hadn’t been chosen for both function and aesthetics.
I began prepping mechanically.
Crack. Whisk. Slice. Toast.
Every motion was careful. Deliberate. I didn’t want to make a mistake. Not because I feared correction—although I did—but because I wanted, desperately, to please him.
And that was the part that scared me most.
I didn’t know when the shift had happened. When I stopped obeying out of fear and started doing it out of hunger. Out of need.
When I stopped flinching at his cruelty and started craving his praise.
I heard footsteps behind me and straightened instinctively.
Sean entered the kitchen fully dressed—navy slacks, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. No tie. His hair still damp from his shower. When had he taken a shower? He looked effortlessly put together. Professional. Handsome.
He glanced at the stove. At the food. At me.
“Avocado; good choice,” he said, walking past to pour himself a glass of water.
“Yes, Sir,” I replied softly.
He sipped. Then leaned against the counter and looked me over.
Still naked. Still marked.
His nostrils flared slightly, as if testing whether I’d obeyed.
I hadn’t washed myself. I knew the scent lingered. I could feel it. Could taste it when I swallowed.
He nodded faintly, approving.
I turned back to the pan, careful not to rush the eggs. They were nearly finished, soft but structured, just the way I guessed he’d want them. I hadn’t been told. I was guessing. Trying to anticipate his preferences before he voiced them.
That felt like its own kind of service.
I plated the food carefully: toast first, avocado fanned neatly, eggs overtop. Salt. Chili flakes. Everything arranged to please.
When I turned, Sean was already seated at the small dining table, scrolling through his phone.
I set the plate down in front of him, then stood beside the table, hands folded in front of me, waiting.
He took one bite, chewed slowly, and nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Relief flooded my chest.
He didn’t look up. Just kept eating, one hand still idly flicking across his phone screen.
I stood there, silent, naked, hard in the cage, reeking of him, and felt more fulfilled than I had in a long time.
Sean didn’t look at me as he ate.
I knelt beside him in silence, my legs folded neatly beneath me, back straight, shoulders still aching from the night in the cage. The towel under my knees was thin and damp, already clinging unpleasantly to my skin. I could feel his piss drying on my chest, tightening against my pores like a second skin. The smell lingered faintly, unmistakably his. That was the point.
He took his time with breakfast. Forkful by forkful. No rush. No conversation. Occasionally, he scrolled through his phone, glancing at notifications, replying to a message with one hand while lifting his coffee cup with the other.
I remained perfectly still.
Then, without preamble, he stood and walked to the fridge.
I didn’t follow him with my eyes. I’d learned not to move unless instructed.
I heard the fridge door open. Liquid sloshing. The faint clink of glass. Then his footsteps returned.
He held a small tumbler in his hand.
“Here,” he said.
He set the glass on the floor in front of me.
It was half full—about a half orange juice by color, the rest a cloudy amber that didn’t quite blend. There was no ice. No garnish. Just the soft scent of citrus overpowered by something more acrid.
My stomach turned.
I knew what it was. Even before I brought it to my lips.
He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t tell me what he’d done. Didn’t smirk or watch me expectantly. He just walked back to the table, picked up his coffee, and sipped.
The silence was louder than any instruction.
I picked up the glass with trembling fingers.
It was warm.
I brought it to my mouth, trying not to breathe.
The first sip hit hard. The juice was tangy, sweet, but with a faint bitterness underneath. Not like a bad batch, just something that didn’t belong. The second sip clarified it.
Urine.
His.
Half a glass of orange juice. Half a glass of his morning piss.
I coughed, nearly gagged, but forced it down. My throat tightened reflexively. My eyes watered.
I swallowed anyway.
There was no way to pretend I didn’t understand. No way to tell myself this was a mistake or a test I could decline.
This was the test.
And I was already failing if I thought I had the right to refuse it.
I took another sip. Smaller. Slower.
The shame crept in behind the warmth in my throat. Not just from the act, but from the realization that I would finish it. That I would take it all down, no matter what it tasted like. Because he’d given it to me. Because it came from him.
I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see if he was watching.
The final mouthful was the hardest. By then the warmth had faded slightly, but the flavor had grown more concentrated. I swallowed it like a pill—whole, fast, final.
The glass made a soft sound as I set it back on the towel.
Sean didn’t speak until long after I’d lowered my hands to my thighs again.
“That’s your breakfast,” he said mildly.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just… matter of fact.
As if what he’d just fed me wasn’t a violation of anything sacred, but merely a decision he was entitled to make. Like any other man deciding what to feed his pet.
I nodded once, keeping my head bowed.
“Thank you, Sir.”
When he finished eating, Sean stood without a word. He stretched, long, slow, utterly unconcerned. The kind of stretch a man does when he owns the room, the day, and everyone in it. A panther’s grace wrapped in tailored cotton.
“I wake up horny,” he said casually, setting his plate in the sink with a clink of ceramic on steel. “It’s your job to fix that.”
I barely had time to register the command before his fingers tangled in my hair. He yanked me upward with a force that stole my breath, dragging me to my feet with an efficiency born of practiced cruelty. The scalp-tight pull wasn’t sadistic. It was clinical. Efficient. A means to position me.
He spun me toward the kitchen counter, then shoved me forward. My chest hit the cold granite with a slap, the edge biting into my ribs. My palms flattened instinctively against the surface, scrambling for balance as his hand slammed down on my hip, holding me in place.
My ass was exposed, glistening faintly in the light from the window. The residue of sweat, lotion, and degradation clung to my skin like varnish. I was wide open. And he hadn’t even undressed me—because I hadn’t been allowed to clothe myself in the first place.
“Spread your legs.”
The words came as a low growl, tight with arousal.
I obeyed.
My thighs parted, trembling. The chastity cage swayed heavily between them, already dripping in anticipation. I was still raw from the punishment bench. Still sore from the whipping. Still stained with the stink of his piss and the shame of my breakfast. And yet my body pulsed with need.
I felt wetness at my hole, Sean’s spit, then his fingers as he lubricated my hole for his entry. Then his fingers found my mouth, thrusting into my throat obscenely, gathering what spittle they could before returning to my ass again. I heard Sean spit another wad of saliva onto my opening and then I felt the tip of his dick rubbing at my hole insistently.
His cock pressed against my entrance—thick, blunt, impatient. There was no warm-up. No warning. Just a muttered, “Still tight, even after last night,” and then the punishing thrust of his hips as he forced his way inside.
I gasped, the breath knocked from my lungs as he buried himself to the hilt in a single motion.
The burn was immediate. Deep. A tearing fullness that made my back arch, my mouth open in a silent cry. I gripped the counter’s edge, muscles clenching, breath coming ragged. His cock filled me completely, a brutal claim renewed without ceremony.
Sean moved with deliberate intensity. His rhythm was slow, controlled, but every thrust slammed my hips into the counter, the granite unyielding beneath my chest. His fingers dug into my waist, anchoring me, marking me. Each snap of his hips drove me harder against the cold surface, a rhythm of ownership that left no doubt as to my role.
I was a hole. A body. His.
“You love this,” he snarled, voice hot at my ear, breath cutting like a lash. “Fucked like the slut you are. Ready to be filled with my cum.”
I couldn’t speak. My mouth moved, but no sound came. My head spun.
His dominance was suffocating—a tide dragging me under. And I let it. I clung to it.
My ass clenched reflexively around him, desperate to hold him tighter, to prove I could take more. The friction, the stretch, the heat, it was unbearable—and it was perfect.
I felt it before I could stop it.
My caged cock pulsed hard once, then again. A weak spurt of cum dribbled through the bars, wetting my thigh in thin, shameful lines.
It was over before I knew it had begun.
Sean stopped mid-thrust.
His hands gripped my hips tighter.
He pulled out.
Slow. Intentional.
His cock slipped free of me with a wet sound, the emptiness abrupt and punishing.
Then came the silence.
He stepped back, eyes dropping to the telltale wetness slicking the inside of my thigh.
“What’s this?” His voice was low, flat—dangerous.
I didn’t answer fast enough.
“Did you just cum?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Without my permission?”
My heart dropped into my stomach.
“I—I’m sorry, Master,” I stammered, voice small, panicked. “I didn’t mean—”
“Sorry?” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide when you cum. That’s mine to control.”
He struck me.
A loud crack as his palm landed hard against my ass, sending a bolt of heat across already-sensitive flesh.
I cried out, hips jerking forward against the counter’s edge.
“Unbelievable,” he hissed. Another slap. Then another. Each one harder than the last. “You think you can steal pleasure? Without earning it? Already?”
I whimpered, the pain radiating through me. My cock, still half-dribbling, throbbed with traitorous arousal, the punishment feeding the very lust it was meant to correct.
He reached into the drawer beside the stove and pulled out a wooden spoon.
The kind you stir sauces with.
He held it loosely, testing its weight in his hand.
“You need a lesson in control,” he said, voice calm now, chillingly so. Like a teacher preparing to correct a slow student.
He stepped to my side and placed a hand on the small of my back.
“Count them. Ten strikes. And think about why this is happening.”
The first blow landed with a crack that made my vision blur.
“One,” I choked, voice already trembling.
The second came faster.
“Two.”
Each strike was merciless, precise. The spoon’s flat surface delivered a burn that bloomed instantly, deep and hot. I gripped the edge of the counter like a lifeline, teeth clenched, tears leaking freely.
“Three. Four. Five.”
By six, I was shaking.
By eight, I could barely form the word.
By ten, my voice was a broken whisper, my entire body trembling, my ass a blaze of welts and bruises.
He dropped the spoon on the counter. The sound was quiet, surgical.
Then his hand returned to my back—gentle now. Steady.
“Let’s talk about control,” he said, turning me slowly to face him.
His eyes were clear. Cold. Focused.
“Your pleasure belongs to me, Blake. Every twitch. Every drop. That little cock of yours?” He tapped the cage. “It’s locked for a reason. You don’t cum unless I say. You don’t even imagine it unless I say.”
I nodded. My voice caught in my throat.
“I understand, Master,” I whispered.
His expression flickered—almost a smile.
“You will.”
Then, softly, at my ear: “Next time you cum without permission… you’ll beg for that spoon.”
Sean didn’t give me time to recover.
His hand slid from my chest back to my hip in one fluid motion. Before I could register the intent behind his grip, he shoved me forward again—bent over the counter, raw and shaking, my face flushed against the granite.
“Now to finish what I started,” he growled.
His cock pressed once more against my entrance, still slick from earlier, still hard, still thick with need. My ass throbbed, the fresh welts from the spoon flaring in protest as his tip found the exact point of resistance.
He spit on my hole once, then, without warning, he thrust.
I cried out, a ragged sound torn from my throat. The intrusion was brutal, deeper than before. My body wasn’t ready, and that was the point. His cock filled me with an intensity that bordered on insanity, reasserting the ownership he’d already made clear.
The pain was exquisite.
Each inch stretched me anew, reigniting the fire already burning in my muscles. My ass screamed with the sting of each impact as he drove into me with relentless force. My skin, tender, welted, took every thrust like a lash. The friction made my eyes water. My hands scrambled against the granite, slipping, grasping for something solid as I was used.
Sean’s breathing was hard now. Close. Animal.
“You don’t get to flinch from me,” he snarled, hips slamming against my ass with punishing rhythm. “You take it. You fucking take it.”
I couldn’t speak. My mouth was open, but my mind was somewhere else, adrift between agony and the cold, brutal clarity of submission. There was no me anymore. No Blake Everett, no firm partner-in-waiting, no man with a reputation. Just this: a shaking, sobbing, piss-streaked body, held open for use by a man twelve years younger than me, junior in title but absolute in power.
And I let him. I wanted to let him.
My caged cock was numb now, still aching from its shameful release, but I felt every pulse of it with a sick sort of clarity. I was hard again. Leaking again. Wanting again.
Sean didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. His cock pistoned in and out of me with punishing force, each thrust colliding with the sore swell of my ass, the welts acting like targets. I sobbed into the countertop, the cold stone anchoring me as my body broke apart beneath him.
He was grunting now. Low. Ragged.
“God, your ass,” he gasped. “Tight. Fucked raw. Just how I like it.”
My breath came in gasps. My muscles trembled. I had no voice left to plead.
I was beyond pleading.
And then he stiffened.
With a final, devastating thrust, Sean slammed into me, his cock buried to the base. A low growl escaped his throat as he came, hot, thick, his load flooding into me with possessive heat.
I moaned, a broken, involuntary sound, as the warmth spread deep inside, mixing with his earlier release. My whole body spasmed under the weight of it, my legs shaking.
He didn’t move for several seconds. Just stayed there, cock sheathed in my used hole, one hand braced on my lower back like he was pinning me down for good.
Then, slowly, he pulled out.
I slumped forward, chest heaving, arms limp across the countertop.
I barely had time to breathe before I felt his fingers tangle in my hair again.
“Clean me,” he said flatly.
I dropped to my knees on instinct.
His cock was slick, coated in a mess of cum and sweat and everything he’d just poured into me. I opened my mouth and took him in—no hesitation, no protest. My jaw throbbed from the night before, but I ignored it. This was what he wanted. What I was for.
I sucked slowly, methodically, tongue tracing the veins along his shaft, gathering every drop. The taste was bitter, musky, and almost welcome now. My lips sealed around his cock, working him clean with reverent care.
His hand rested lightly on the back of my head, guiding me but not forcing.
“That’s it, slave,” he murmured. The words were softer now, almost indulgent.
I swirled my tongue around the head, savoring the heat of him, the last traces of his climax melting onto my tongue. I licked down the base, then back up again, suckling until there was nothing left.
When I was done, he pulled free with a soft pop.
He wiped the final smear of cum and spit across my hairline with the tip of his cock.
“Good.”
That one word—flat, decisive—made my chest tighten with pride.
He stepped back, still fully erect but disinterested now, already leaving me behind.
“Stay,” he said simply.
And then he turned.
I remained on my knees, the kitchen floor cool beneath me, my mouth still tingling with the taste of him, my ass leaking, the welts on my skin pulsing with heat.
Sean moved out of view, his footsteps soft on the hardwood, his presence lingering like smoke.
I didn’t dare shift position. My hands rested on my thighs. My head bowed slightly.
In the silence that followed, I felt it, a stillness inside me. A quiet. Not peace, exactly. But purpose.
He had broken me.
And I wanted more.
Time passed strangely in Sean’s apartment.
I remained on my knees, exactly where he’d left me.
The floor was cold now, cold enough that the bones of my shins began to ache, but I didn’t dare shift position. I had no sense of how long he’d been gone. Five minutes? Ten? It didn’t matter. Sean’s commands existed outside time. He could return in a minute or an hour and expect to find me unchanged, still marked, still still, still his.
My muscles trembled from the strain. Not from exhaustion, exactly, but from the aftershocks. My thighs were tacky with sweat. My ass throbbed with each breath, the welts from the spoon fresh and fiery, pulsing with every small movement of my posture. His cum, still inside me, had begun to cool and seep downward. I could feel it leaking slowly from my hole, trailing along my inner thighs, sticky and obscene.
The scent of him lingered on my skin—an overlapping tapestry of piss, sweat, and sex. I had tried not to smell it at first. But now it was inescapable. It clung to my face, my hair, the soft flesh behind my ears. It had become the air I breathed.
And still, I stayed still.
I felt empty in a way that wasn’t quite sadness. It was more like aftermath. Like standing in the wreckage of a structure you used to believe was solid, only to realize it had collapsed quietly around you.
Some part of me had still believed I was choosing this.
Even after the cage. After the punishment room. After the first slap, the first withheld meal, the first moment he denied me basic dignity and made me thank him for it.
But this morning, this moment, had stripped away the last illusions.
He’d pissed in my breakfast and smiled while I drank it.
He’d fed me with the same hand that beat me, then fucked me open again before the bruises had even set.
And I hadn’t protested. Not once.
I had thanked him, and I had meant it.
A sharp prickle of shame rose in my chest, but it didn’t land properly. It fizzled somewhere in the space between who I had been and who I was now.
I remembered who I used to be. Blake Everett, senior counsel, firm mentor, board chair, senior to nearly every man I worked with, including Sean. Especially Sean. I had reviewed his onboarding paperwork. I had skimmed his resume.
And now I had his cum in my ass and the taste of him in my mouth.
How the fuck had this happened?
But even as the question echoed, I knew the answer.
It had happened because he wanted it to. Because he’d seen something in me the moment he walked into my office—some flicker of weakness, of hunger, of rot. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d seized it. And he hadn’t let go.
I had let him shape me into this.
And I would let him do more.
The thought should have terrified me.
Instead, I found myself exhaling, slowly, steadily, like I’d finally accepted something I didn’t have the language to refuse.
I heard his footsteps returning before I saw him.
Measured. Unhurried.
Sean stepped back into the kitchen, dressed now in the same dark slacks and open-collared shirt from earlier, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. He had a watch on his wrist. Cufflinks in his sleeves. He looked every inch the polished professional he was at work—clean, in control, cold.
He glanced down at me, still kneeling, then opened a drawer, pulled out his toothbrush, and squeezed a line of paste onto it.
He didn’t speak.
He just walked toward the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, then paused at the doorway.
“Come.”
I stood on legs that trembled faintly from the abuse they’d taken and followed him—still naked, still leaking, still stinking of everything he’d done to me.
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.
I was already there.
The bathroom was cool and silent when we stepped inside.
Everything was in place, dry towels folded crisply, the mirror spotless, the air still faintly scented with citrus and restraint. It hadn’t been used since the night before. Sean’s world was always like this: ordered, exact, untouched until he chose to mark it.
He gestured toward the shower without speaking.
I crossed to the tub and pulled back the curtain. The water knobs gleamed. I turned the left one first—hot, the way he liked it when he watched—and stepped in once the steam began to rise. The water hissed against my skin, heightening every welt, every bruise. I closed my eyes for a second, steadying myself.
From the stool beside the sink, Sean said nothing.
But I could feel his gaze through the curtain.
I began to wash.
Bar of soap in hand, I moved methodically, chest, arms, thighs. I lifted the cage and washed beneath it. I bent slightly to clean between my cheeks, careful not to linger, mindful of his eyes even when they weren’t visible. I turned under the spray, rinsed my hair, lifted my arms.
I thought I had done everything.
Then his voice cut through the sound of the water.
“Stop.”
I froze.
His expression was unreadable.
“You missed your lower back,” he said. “And your right armpit. Sloppy.”
“I’m—” I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Master.”
He didn’t respond with words.
Instead, he reached forward and gripped my upper arm, turning me slightly until my ass was angled toward him, still inside the tub, still dripping.
“Bend,” he said. “Present yourself properly.”
I obeyed.
I braced my hands against the wet tile and arched my back, ass jutting slightly beyond the tub’s edge. The water continued to run, steaming down my spine, pooling between my feet. I could feel the cool air from outside the curtain meeting the heat of my body. My thighs trembled from the exposure, from the expectation.
And then he struck me.
His hand came down hard across my ass, bare skin against bare skin, no warmup, no warning. The slap was sharp, wet, echoing.
I flinched.
Another blow followed. Then another.
His forearm pressed against my back to keep me steady, and the heat of him soaked into me with every punishing impact. He remained outside the tub, angled precisely to avoid the water, but close enough to make sure every strike landed flush.
The pain blossomed instantly, my already-bruised skin now flaring under fresh humiliation. The water only made it worse. Each slap came with a sting that spread, sharp and high. The noise of it filled the room. My face burned with shame.
“You think you’re clean?” he growled. “You think half-assed effort is enough?”
“No, Sir,” I gasped.
“You’ll do it right. Every time. Or I’ll teach you every morning.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll do better.”
He gave me two more swats, hard, stinging, and then released me.
“Finish up. Dry off exactly how I showed you.”
The water hit my welts like fire. I rinsed quickly, trembling, and turned off the shower. I stepped onto the bathmat, dripping, careful not to track water. My reflection in the mirror looked wrecked, hair plastered to my forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
He handed me a towel without a word.
I remembered the ritual.
Arms. Chest. Thighs. Undersides. Feet last.
I followed it exactly.
When I finished, Sean stepped behind me and motioned toward the stool by the vanity. I sat. My legs shook slightly from the cold and the beating.
He picked up a narrow black comb and began to draw it through my hair.
His movements were slow. Measured.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask how I wanted it. He simply parted it on the opposite side of what I usually chose, smoothing it down with faint pressure, adjusting the line just so.
I stared into the mirror.
It looked… wrong.
Or maybe not wrong. Just not mine.
No one had touched my hair like this since I was a child. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let someone else decide how I should look. Even as a teenager, I’d styled it myself, always neat, professional, controlled.
Now, it belonged to him too.
“There,” Sean said, setting the comb down. “Much better.”
He leaned against the sink, arms crossed.
“Starting tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll wake before I do. You’ll prep my toothbrush, set out clean face towels, and lay out the cologne bottles. You’ll kneel in here while I shave. You’ll only speak if spoken to.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You’ll refill the mouthwash, check the water temperature for the sink, and stay quiet. I don’t like distractions in the morning.”
I nodded, heat flooding my cheeks.
“You’ll be silent, present, and useful,” he finished. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said again, voice low but steady.
“Good.”
He stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.
I remained seated on the stool.
Hair neat. Skin wet. Body sore.
I looked in the mirror again.
The man I saw was not the one who’d walked into Sean’s condo a few weeks ago.
He was being remade, inch by inch, strand by strand.
And he hadn’t even asked to stop it.
Sean didn’t speak again until I’d finished folding the towel.
He stepped just into the doorway, his body casting a shadow over the bathroom’s clean tile. He was dressed now in gym clothes, black joggers, a fitted charcoal shirt that clung to the hard lines of his chest and arms. His gym bag hung casually from one shoulder, water bottle in hand.
“Come.”
I followed.
We moved down the hall, past the bedroom, into the wide, open living space. The condo was quiet, brightened now by the morning sun filtering through sheer blinds. The light made the space feel different—less like a dungeon and more like a high-end apartment again. As if nothing degrading had ever happened here.
But I could still feel the welts on my ass. The taste in my mouth. The soreness in my jaw.
He stopped near the dining table, dropped his bag by the front door, then turned to face me.
“I’m heading to the gym,” he said simply. “While I’m gone, you’ll clean.”
I blinked.
He was already stepping into his shoes.
“Living room, kitchen, bathroom. Towels washed and folded. Floor vacuumed. No music. No phone. I want it done properly, not rushed.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, startled at the sound of my own voice. It felt strange, now, to speak freely, even under command.
He walked past me and opened the door, then paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Stay naked.”
Then he left.
Just like that.
The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone.
Alone.
I stood in the middle of Sean’s condo, the silence pressing down like weight. No background hum of his voice. No footsteps. No instructions. Just stillness, and me, stripped of everything, except a task.
I looked around the space.
It was tidy already. Impeccable, in fact. But I could see now, with an unsettling clarity, how every surface would be judged. Every missed crumb, every streak of lint, every towel folded slightly off-centre.
This wasn’t a casual command.
It was another layer of control.
And yet… he’d left me here.
Unattended. Unwatched.
There was no lock on the door. No key in my hand. He hadn’t even set a timer or installed a camera.
He trusted me.
Or thought he had trained me well enough that it didn’t matter.
The thought unsettled me.
I moved slowly to the living room and began collecting the small items on the coffee table—coasters, an open book, a half-used candle with a slightly burned edge. My body ached with every motion. The cage throbbed, chafed, pulsing against me like a silent reminder of failure and ownership.
But my hands worked steadily. Efficiently.
Because this, too, was submission.
Not the kind that came with a paddle or a command barked into your ear—but the quiet kind. The one that came with being left behind, expected to serve without supervision. Like a machine.
Or a maid.
Or a slave.
I wasn’t sure what it meant that I felt something close to pride in that.
I caught my reflection in the TV screen as I passed—a naked man, freshly spanked, hair neatly combed, cock locked up, quietly picking lint from under a couch. No part of him looked like a senior lawyer. Or a board chair. Or someone in control of his own life.
But he looked… calm.
My hands kept moving. I gathered stray fibers from the rug. Aligned the shoes at the entryway. Smoothed the folds of the throw blanket draped over the armrest. My thoughts stayed fixed on Sean, on the way he’d looked over his shoulder before leaving, like he was checking a possession one last time.
He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t kissed me. Hadn’t praised me for the morning.
But he had left me here.
That meant something.
Didn’t it?
I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to mean.
I only knew that I wanted to do a good job. That I wanted him to return and find every surface gleaming. That I wanted him to walk back in and know, without a word, that I had obeyed.
Because that would mean I still belonged here.
Still belonged to him.
I reached for the vacuum.
And began to clean.
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Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
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