This story was inspired by a sub friend that recently shared a similar morning ritual he has with his Dom BF and a picture I came across.
The penthouse always seemed to wake before the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the pale gray light of morning, spilling across marble floors, leather furniture, and art that spoke of a life well-lived, well-earned.
He was already at the table, immaculate in a robe that looked more like it belonged in a boardroom than a bedroom—pressed silk, dark as espresso. Success followed him like cologne; he wore it as naturally as the watch on his wrist.
From the hallway came the sound of bare feet, soft against stone. Then the boy appeared, fresh from the shower, his flawless skin still dewy, his body cut and golden in the dawn. Only a pair of simple white briefs clung to him, snug and ceremonial, as much a uniform as any suit or tie.
He approached with that loose, sun-struck confidence, every muscle moving as if designed for admiration. But when he reached the man, his grin softened into something almost reverent. He clasped his hands lightly behind his back, eyes bright but awaiting permission.
“Good morning, boy, don’t you have something to ask me,” the man said. The boy’s voice warm and guileless responded, “Sir, would you like coffee… or a blow job?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a ritual, the same one every morning, rehearsed until it had the weight of devotion. The older man looked at him for a long moment, savoring both the sight and the choice.
Power, after all, was never louder than in quiet routines.
And the boy—beautiful, obedient, adored—was the perfect proof that power could be dressed in nothing more than white cotton and a smile.
A small smile curved his lips—he liked the ritual, the obedience, the fact that beauty itself stood before him waiting to be directed.
“Not the coffee,” he said at last, voice low and unhurried.
The boy’s chest rose, almost in relief, almost in anticipation. He shifted subtly, shoulders squared, posture attentive. This was what he had been trained for: to be ready, to be useful, to be pleasing. Every movement carried the imprint of lessons learned, of discipline wrapped in affection.
He sank gracefully to his knees on the polished floor, the white cotton of his briefs glowing in the morning light. The city skyline loomed behind him, but here, in the penthouse, there was only the quiet intimacy of service.
When he looked up, it wasn’t with a dumb smile, but with something far more dangerous—devotion sharpened into focus. His mouth parted slightly as if already in mid-offer, but his eyes stayed locked on the man’s, waiting. Always waiting, never assuming.
The man leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment. Control was never about haste; it was about savoring the fact that someone so perfect, so young, so effortlessly beautiful, had been shaped into the ideal vessel of pleasure and loyalty.
Only when he gave the smallest nod did the boy move, and even then, his first act was not touch, but gaze: the silent vow of a creature made to serve, whose mouth was less an instrument of speech than a gift.
After the man used his boys mouth to satisfy his morning sexual need, the silence in the room seemed to deepen, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below. The man’s gaze lingered on the boy a moment longer before he spoke, his voice calm but firm.
“Go clean yourself up, you horny slut” he instructed. “Then bring me that coffee.”
The boy nodded, wordless, rising smoothly to his feet. Even in something so simple as obedience, he moved with an elegance born of training—a grace that came not from thought but from instinct. He disappeared down the hall, only to return minutes later, a tray in his hands.
The cup was steaming, perfect, and placed with quiet precision in front of the man. But it was not the coffee that made him pause.
It was the sight of the boy, standing there in nothing but the simpl white briefs, body as flawless as marble under the morning light. Broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, stomach taut with the kind of definition that comes only from hours in the gym, every line of muscle declaring youth at its peak. He stood easy, comfortable, unashamed in his display—an ornament, a servant, a prize.
The man took the cup, savoring the first sip, then let his eyes travel slowly upward, back to the boy’s face. Handsome, boyish , masculine, confident. A creature sculpted by vanity and discipline, now bent toward something greater than himself: service.
In that quiet moment, the man felt the weight of his own fortune. Success was measured in many ways—figures on a page, towers with his name on them, the empire he had built—but none of it compared to this: the living, breathing proof of power and desire intertwined.
Here was beauty that knew its place. Here was youth made obedient, loyalty dressed in nothing but cotton. Here was a boy who understood and accepted that his pleasure will always come second to the man’s.
And as the older man sipped his coffee, he smiled. Yes—life was very good indeed.
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