The Consent
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Sean’s condo was all smooth edges and cold surfaces—brushed hardwood floors, matte-slate cabinetry, soft lighting that pooled in corners like secrets. Just as I remembered. It smelled faintly of leather and cedar, rich and masculine, like the inside of an expensive car. The moment I crossed the threshold, it felt like I no longer belonged to myself.
Sean closed the door behind me with a quiet click, the sound final in a way that made my pulse spike.
I stood there awkwardly, still in my jacket, clutching the strap of my bag like a child unsure where to put his shoes. My heart thudded in my chest—slow, loud, stupid. Sean’s presence behind me radiated heat, pressure, gravity.
"Drop your clothes," he said.
No greeting. No small talk. Just that.
I turned slowly to face him.
He was barefoot, still wearing the same pair of soft grey sweatpants from the doorway. His bare chest was gone now—he’d pulled on a dark henley shirt, rolled to the elbows. His hair was slightly tousled, golden in the low light. He looked maddeningly comfortable, maddeningly in control.
I hesitated for only a breath. Then I began to undress.
Jacket first. Then shoes. Belt. Shirt. Trousers.
Each movement felt exaggerated, slow, as if I were underwater. The silence between us thickened with every item I peeled away. I couldn’t look at him. Not directly.
When I finally stepped out of my briefs, I was left in nothing but the stainless-steel chastity cage—a small, merciless device that clung to me like shame itself.
Sean’s eyes swept over me with clinical detachment. He said nothing at first. Just let me stand there, exposed.
"Good," he said at last. "You’re learning."
He turned away and walked deeper into the condo. I followed automatically, naked and barefoot on cold concrete, the hum of the fridge and the low notes of a jazz piano from hidden speakers my only companions.
The living room opened wide—floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dark city skyline. A single armchair was positioned to face it, minimalist, unwelcoming. Sean gestured toward the couch.
"Sit."
I sat. Carefully. The cage pressed uncomfortably against me as I shifted to find a tolerable position. I folded my hands in my lap instinctively, but Sean gave me a sharp glance.
"Don’t cover yourself."
I dropped my hands.
Sean moved to the open kitchen and retrieved a short glass of something dark. He poured only one. Then he turned and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, studying me like a problem to solve.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
I blinked. "Sir?"
"The cage," he said. "How does it feel—right now."
I flushed. "Tight," I admitted. "It’s... uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "But you're hard."
I looked down. I hadn’t even noticed—my cock, as much as it could, was pushing helplessly against the cage, the skin around it flushed and swollen. The pressure was immediate and sharp.
Sean smirked. "That didn’t take long. You always get hard the moment you’re humiliated, or is that just with me?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, and sat in the armchair opposite me, legs spread slightly, drink still in hand. He looked completely at ease. I sat naked before him like an animal on display, the cage gleaming in the dim light.
"Answer the question."
"I... I don’t know, Sir."
"Try again."
"It’s worse with you," I said quietly. "Sir."
Sean sipped his drink, watching me over the rim. "That’s not a bad answer. But I think you do know. I think you've spent a long time trying not to know it."
He set the glass down on the side table, then leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the chair.
"You like being stripped. Caged. Watched. You like being made small. That’s what gets you hard—not just the stimulation, but the position. Isn’t it."
I couldn’t speak. I was too busy trying not to squirm. The cage pulsed again against my skin, the pressure unrelenting.
Sean laughed softly. "You're throbbing now."
I nodded, shame burning behind my eyes, the pulsing of my cage stretched out obscenely from my crotch confirming his assessment.
Sean just smiled approvingly.
Sean let the silence hang, just long enough to feel strategic.
I sat motionless, my skin flushed, the chill of the room doing nothing to ease the constant, aching heat pulsing beneath the cage. My cock throbbed with every heartbeat—swollen, contained, humiliated. And he knew it.
He didn’t stare. That would have been too easy. Too generous. Instead, his gaze wandered—unhurried, detached—pausing occasionally to note the way I sat, how I shifted, how I struggled not to cover myself again.
"It’s funny how quickly you got used to being locked," Sean said mildly, as if commenting on the weather. "Four days in a cage and already you twitch like a trained thing every time I look at your cock."
My breath caught. I hadn’t realized he was watching that closely.
"I guess I’m just good at following orders," I said, quietly.
Sean raised an eyebrow. "No. Following orders is what good boys do. This—" his voice dipped slightly as he gestured toward the gleaming cage, "—this is something else. This is need. Don’t dress it up like discipline."
I tried to hold his gaze, but I couldn’t.
"I saw the photo you sent Wednesday night," he continued. "You thought you were being obedient. But I could see it in your eyes. That tight little smirk you couldn’t hide."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You were proud of being locked. Weren’t you."
I hesitated. "A little. Sir."
"A little," Sean echoed with amusement. "That’s cute. You’re proud because someone finally made the decision for you. Because deep down, you didn’t want the responsibility of your cock anymore."
He didn’t need to say it louder. The sentence cut all on its own.
I shifted in my seat, the cage now a hot, painful weight between my thighs.
Sean let his eyes flick lazily downward. "Still hard," he noted. "Of course you are."
He stood and crossed slowly to the far wall, one hand drifting lightly along a cabinet edge as he walked. The city lights outside caught on the curve of his jaw, his silhouette clean and tall in the soft glow. I watched him like something tethered, helpless to move.
"You ever think about what it means that you’re like this?" Sean asked. "Naked. Leaking. Hard inside something designed to deny you relief. And not only do you accept it—you obey without question. You send proof. You report in."
He turned, drink in hand.
"Does it make you feel small?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And that’s what gets you off. The smallness."
I nodded.
Sean returned to the armchair, slow and unhurried. He sat with his legs slightly parted again, drink poised lightly in one hand.
"You like being stripped. Watched. Owned. You like being made to want things you can't have. That’s the part that turns you on. Not just the restriction—the imbalance."
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
"You ever tasted someone after they’ve worked out?" Sean asked suddenly, changing direction without warning.
I blinked. "No, Sir."
He nodded slowly. "You will."
Then silence again. Heavy. Absolute.
I sat naked before him, heart hammering, cock swollen inside the cage, thighs trembling from the tension in my own body. He hadn't laid a finger on me.
He didn’t need to.
Sean hadn’t moved for nearly a minute. He sipped his drink like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was deliberate. A leash made of stillness.
Finally, he broke it.
"What do you jerk off to?"
I blinked, startled. "Sir?"
He didn’t repeat himself. Just watched me.
I swallowed. My throat was dry again.
"It depends," I said carefully.
Sean’s brow arched. "You mean it used to depend. You haven’t touched yourself in four days. So I’m asking—what was it, before I locked you up? What really got you off?"
I shifted on the couch, every movement making the cage grind a little tighter against swollen skin. The answer swelled in my chest before I could stop it.
"Submission," I said.
Sean tilted his head. "Be specific."
"I liked imagining... being used. Being told what to do."
He nodded. "Men? Women?"
"Men."
"Rough? Gentle?"
"Rougher," I admitted. "Usually."
"Usually," he repeated, his tone dry. "What else?"
My face burned. I was sweating now, though the room was cool.
"Control. Restraint. Sometimes... being gagged. Or blindfolded."
Sean gave a faint, amused exhale through his nose. "You do like not seeing what’s coming, don’t you?"
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He watched me a moment longer, then leaned back slightly, setting his drink down again.
"What about rimming?"
The question hit me low in the gut. My whole body tensed.
"Yes, Sir."
"Giving or receiving?"
"G—giving," I said, voice tight.
Sean’s smile barely curved. "Now we’re getting somewhere."
He didn’t press further at first. Just let the confession settle between us like smoke.
"You like worshiping a man's ass," he said eventually, calm and clinical, as if he were reciting a file note. "You like spreading him open with your hands and burying your face where it’s hottest. Don’t you."
My cock throbbed painfully against the steel.
"Yes, Sir."
He gave a satisfied nod. "I suspected."
He stood again, stretching slightly. The hem of his shirt rode up just enough to reveal the V of muscle leading below his waistband. I stared too long. He saw.
"It’s not just the act," he said. "It’s what it means. Getting off on having your tongue somewhere no one else wants to be. Loving the taste of filth because it makes you feel owned."
"Yes, Sir," I breathed, too humiliated to hide how much it hit.
Sean stepped closer. I could smell his skin—clean sweat, soap, and something warmer beneath. My eyes dropped, instinctive. He let them linger there.
"Even now," he said, almost amused. "Just the idea of it has you hard. Caged and leaking. All because I’m talking about letting you lick my hole."
I nodded, unable to look away.
Sean tilted his head.
"Look at you. Just a few words and you’re trembling."
I was.
My thighs quivered from the effort of staying still, from the ache building between my legs, from the heat radiating out from every corner of my exposed skin.
Sean smiled faintly, then turned his back again, walking toward the hallway.
"Don’t move," he said, voice even.
I froze in place, breath shallow, every muscle locked.
He didn’t leave. He just stood there, taking another slow sip of his drink, as though we were at a cocktail party instead of me kneeling naked and dripping on his bedroom floor.
"I could watch you squirm all night," he said after a moment. "But I’m more interested in what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours."
Sean didn’t leave.
He just stood over me, one hand loosely holding his drink, the other in his pocket, studying me like a painting he hadn’t yet decided to keep. The silence stretched, deliberate. Unyielding.
"You haven’t moved," he said quietly. "That’s good."
"Thank you, Sir."
"But you’re not still because you're obedient," he added. "You're still because you're afraid of what happens if you aren’t."
The words hit somewhere between bone and breath.
Sean crouched slowly, bringing himself back to my eye level. Not to meet me there—never that—but to remind me how far above me he stood, no matter our position.
"You're not thinking right now, are you?"
I shook my head, voice low. "No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say."
Sean’s lips twitched slightly at the corners. It wasn’t quite a smile.
"And because," he said, "you like not having to think. Isn’t that right?"
The words lodged deep. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to pretend I had some piece of self-respect left to wrap around my nakedness. But there was no point.
"Yes, Sir."
Sean nodded slowly, as if that answer merely confirmed something he'd already filed away.
"You’re a lawyer," he said. "A professional. A man people trust to hold their future in his hands."
"Yes, Sir."
"And yet here you are—naked, caged, and dripping. Letting me strip you of everything you use to feel powerful. And not only letting me... thanking me for it."
I looked down, shame burning hot behind my eyes. But Sean didn’t allow it.
"Eyes up."
I obeyed.
"You’re not weak for wanting this. You’re not broken. But don’t pretend this isn’t exactly where you belong."
He stood again, effortlessly reclaiming the height difference like it was armor.
"And since you’re finally learning to shut off that overworked brain of yours," he said, "why don’t you sit back and reflect on why that makes you so fucking hard."
Sean didn’t move. He just stood above me, radiating patience, his gaze unwavering.
"Do you remember how you felt the first time you put the cage on?"
I hesitated. "Yes, Sir."
"Nervous? Excited?"
"Both."
"Why excited?"
"Because it made everything real."
Sean nodded once. "And what part of it felt the most real?"
I swallowed. "When you held the key. When you walked away and I knew I couldn’t change my mind."
"And that turned you on?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean paced slowly behind me now, out of sight, but I could feel him moving like pressure in the room.
"When did you first realize you wanted this kind of control?"
"I don’t know exactly. I think... I always wanted it. But I didn’t know what it was until—"
"Until what?"
"Until you showed me."
He stopped walking.
"So I gave you language for your craving?"
"Yes, Sir."
He stepped into view again, just to the side, drink still in hand.
"Do you like that you’re caged?"
"I hate it, Sir," I said truthfully. "But I also want it."
"That’s not a contradiction," he said. "That’s obedience."
Then another pause.
"What do you think I see when I look at you like this?"
I blinked. "I don’t know, Sir."
"Try."
"A toy?"
"A toy," he echoed, amused. "Is that what you are?"
"I—maybe."
"You’re not sure?"
I hesitated. "I'm sure I want to be what you want."
Sean smiled faintly. "A better answer."
He took a slow sip of his drink, then lowered himself smoothly into the armchair across from me. I was still bare, caged, trembling slightly.
"What’s worse," he asked, "being denied something you crave—or being made to want it more every time I withhold it?"
I swallowed hard. "The second one, Sir."
Sean smiled faintly. "Because that’s the part that reminds you who’s in control."
"Yes, Sir."
"And how often have you thought about coming?"
"Constantly."
"But you haven’t begged for it."
"I didn’t think I was allowed to."
Sean tilted his head.
"You're not."
He let the words hang.
"And that doesn’t bother you, does it?"
"No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Because wanting it and being denied is part of the control."
Sean didn’t respond right away. Just watched me.
Then:
"Do you think you’ve earned release?"
I froze.
The question wasn’t cruel. It was quiet. Measured.
But it struck harder than any insult.
"No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Because I haven’t given you enough. I haven’t been pushed far enough. I haven’t been—"
"Broken in?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean leaned back, eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you want that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"To be broken?"
"Yes."
"To be used?"
"Yes."
"To be owned?"
"More than anything."
Sean said nothing for a while. He simply watched me—naked, slightly cold from the air, caged. Then he moved back in front of me, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"When’s the last time you sucked a cock?"
I blinked. The question landed like a slap.
"Almost a year ago, Sir."
Sean tilted his head. "And how often have you thought about it since then?"
"Almost every day."
"Did you imagine it the way it happened—face to face? Or kneeling?"
"Kneeling, Sir."
He nodded slowly, unsurprised. "And how often did you picture swallowing?"
My face burned. "Every time."
Sean stepped closer, casually, like we were discussing weather.
"Have you ever fingered yourself while jerking off?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How often?"
"Not often. But... enough."
"Why?"
I hesitated. "It made me feel used."
Sean smirked. "And you liked that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Even when you hated yourself for it?"
I swallowed. "Yes."
Sean crouched in front of me again. Not to comfort. To interrogate up close.
"You get hard imagining it, don’t you—being on your knees in front of a man you barely know. Letting him throat-fuck you until you can’t breathe."
I nodded, unable to lie.
"Do you come fast when you imagine that?"
"Yes, Sir."
He studied me.
"Have you ever tasted your own cum after?"
I paused. "Once, Sir."
"Did you like it?"
"I hated it."
Sean gave a short breath of amusement. "That’s more honest than I expected."
He stood again, calm and towering.
"You know what I see when I look at you?"
I didn’t answer.
"A man who’s spent his whole life pretending he isn’t this. Who lets everyone think he’s in charge, who says all the right things, wears the right suit, shakes the right hands—and then goes home and fingers himself while imagining getting face-fucked by someone who doesn’t care what he’s done for a living."
I said nothing. I couldn’t.
"And now here you are," Sean added, voice quieter, "doing exactly what you were always afraid you wanted."
I nodded, throat tight.
"Say it."
"I’m doing what I was always afraid I wanted."
"And are you afraid now?"
"No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Because it’s you."
Sean’s eyes darkened just slightly. He let the silence sit. Then:
"You still want to be used tonight?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"And the day after that?"
"Yes."
"And if I told you this wouldn’t stop until I said so—if I told you I’d keep you locked and aching for as long as I want—would you stay right where you are?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean reached out and lightly tapped the cage with one knuckle. The soft click sounded louder than it should have.
"Then beg for the privilege of serving me."
Sean’s voice had landed like a command, even if he hadn’t said it that way.
I inhaled once, sharply. My knees ached. My throat burned. My cock pressed furiously, uselessly against the cage — not for release, but for recognition.
I looked up at him.
Not to plead. To present myself.
"Please, Sir. Let me serve you."
"Not good enough."
"Please," I repeated, slower this time. "Please use me. However you want. However long you want."
Sean stood perfectly still.
"I’ll do anything. I’ll learn what you like. I’ll learn what you hate. I’ll make myself into what you want, Sir."
He said nothing.
"I want to be yours. Not just tonight. I want you to take what you want from me. When you want it. Without asking."
"And what do you want in return?" he asked, quiet.
"Nothing."
Sean’s brow lifted. "Nothing?"
"Only your attention. Your approval. Your control."
"Your control," he repeated.
"Yes, Sir."
He circled me slowly, hands still in his pockets, saying nothing for several beats.
I didn’t move. I didn’t shake. I didn’t breathe more than necessary.
"Stand up," he said.
I did.
"Hands behind your back."
I complied.
He walked once more around me, inspecting. Then he came to stand just in front of me again.
"You want to serve?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You want to be trained?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You want to earn my cock?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean looked down briefly at the cage. Then up, locking eyes with me again.
"You won’t come for a long time," he said calmly. "You will ache for me. You will serve without expectation. You will submit without limits. And when you disappoint me—because you will—I’ll make sure it costs you."
"I understand."
"I’m not finished."
I nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"You will lose the right to pleasure. To initiative. To privacy. I’ll decide what you are, and what you’re for. Do you consent to that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You will ask permission to speak. To touch. To look, if I decide that’s required. You will ask to serve, and when I permit it, you’ll do it without hesitation or pride. Do you still consent?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean stepped closer. His presence felt immense, even though he hadn’t raised his voice once.
"You don’t get to beg for what comes next," he said. "You’ve already begged enough."
And then—quietly:
"Now you get to earn it."
Sean didn’t move right away. He just stood in front of me, gaze level, hands in his pockets like he was debating whether I was worth the next step.
Then:
"On your hands and knees."
I obeyed immediately. The cold of the floor met my palms, my knees. My cock throbbed uselessly inside its cage as I shifted into position—spine bowed, ass exposed, head lowered. The air felt heavier in this posture. Denser. Like I had passed through a membrane into something irreversible.
"Crawl."
One word. That was all.
He didn’t point to where. Didn’t specify direction.
But I knew.
I began to move.
The floor was smooth and cool under my knees, and each slow step forward made me more aware of how vulnerable I was—how exposed. The muscles in my thighs flexed with the tension of not knowing what came next. My breathing grew shallow, not from exertion but from anticipation.
Behind me, I could hear Sean’s bare feet on the floor. Not hurried. Just following.
He let me reach the bedroom on my own. Let me feel every inch of that crawl. Let me carry the weight of his eyes.
When I reached the doorway, I stopped, unbidden.
I could see the bed now—broad, neatly made in charcoal-grey sheets. The walls here were darker, more intimate. The light was lower. Warmer. The space smelled like him: cedar soap, clean sweat, something sharper underneath.
Sean stepped past me and into the room.
"Stay."
I held still.
He walked slowly to the far side of the bed and sat on the edge. His sweatpants still clung to his hips. His arms rested lightly on his thighs. He said nothing. Just looked at me—naked, kneeling, waiting.
Then he reached down and pulled the waistband of his sweatpants low, just enough to let his cock and balls drop free.
It was deliberate. Calculated.
"I think you know what comes next," he said.
"Yes, Sir."
"Then earn it."
I began to crawl forward again—closer, inch by inch, until I was between his knees, breath hitching as the scent of him enveloped me.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t guide me. He didn’t have to.
I leaned forward and began with a kiss. Just one—at the base of his cock, soft and reverent. Then another, lower. Then my tongue.
No rush.
Just service.
Sean didn’t gesture. He didn’t move.
He just looked down at me where I knelt between his legs, cock and balls exposed, heavy with sweat and authority.
"You remember what I told you in that message," he said.
"Yes, Sir."
"Say it."
"You told me to come hungry, Sir."
"And are you?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sean leaned back slightly on the bed and spread his knees. The movement was deliberate, lazy—like he was lounging for a massage.
"Then eat."
I hesitated a fraction too long.
Sean’s voice hardened.
"Not the part you want to worship. The part that makes you gag. The part no one talks about. The part you fantasize about when you’re pretending not to be a fucking pervert."
I felt heat rise up my neck. My cock pulsed helplessly in its cage.
"Well?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then show me."
He leaned back further, planting one foot on the floor and lifting the other onto the edge of the bed. His posture opened fully now—blunt, exposed, unashamed. His hand gripped the base of his cock, tugging it to the side, out of the way.
"Put your mouth where it belongs."
I bent forward, guided not by instinct but by command. My hands reached to steady his thighs—he didn’t stop me, but he didn’t acknowledge the touch either. I could smell him now, hot and musky from the day. Nothing perfumed. Nothing cleaned up for presentation.
Just sweat. Skin. Male.
"Sluts like you live for this," Sean said calmly. "You’ll open your mouth for what other men don’t even talk about. You’ll bury your face where they wouldn’t put a finger. Because it makes you feel owned."
He was right.
I did.
"Go on," he said. "Get your tongue in there."
I obeyed. I spread him open and leaned in, tongue pressing against the sensitive skin below his balls, tracing down lower. The scent hit me harder now—heady and raw—and I licked slowly, firmly, parting him.
Sean let out a soft breath, almost a chuckle.
"That’s it. That’s what you’ve been thinking about since Thursday, isn’t it? You’ve been leaking into your little cage just imagining the taste of my ass."
I moaned softly, tongue pushing deeper now, licking him open.
"Good boy," Sean murmured. "You’re not even hesitating. You’ll lap up anything I give you, won’t you?"
I nodded into him, groaning, my tongue working more eagerly now, fueled by the humiliation.
"That’s right. Keep going. I want you breathless. I want the taste of me stuck on your tongue tomorrow. I want you remembering exactly where you belong every time you swallow."
Sean let me work for a while. He didn’t guide. He didn’t speak. He just sat—legs spread, body loose, his hand resting lightly in my hair as I tongued his hole with slow, practiced care.
Then finally:
"You’ve done this before."
"Yes, Sir."
"How many times?"
"A few."
"But never like this."
"No, Sir."
"No, Sir."
His fingers tightened slightly, gripping the back of my skull.
"That’s why you’re so fucking eager. Why you knew exactly how to open me up without being told."
I moaned in assent, not slowing.
"And now that you’ve got your tongue in my ass, you can’t stop. Can you?"
"No, Sir."
"You don’t even want to."
"I want to serve you, Sir."
"Good. Then use that mouth. Prove it."
He pulled my head tighter between his cheeks.
I inhaled as he pressed against me—warm and soft and commanding. The heat radiated from his skin, the smell of sweat and control heavy in my nose and mouth. I flattened my tongue and dragged it slowly from the base of his crack up to the center, then circled his hole with steady, practiced pressure.
It was tight. Tighter than anyone I’d ever tasted.
My tongue met resistance with every stroke—firm, unyielding. The muscle clamped instinctively as I pushed deeper, and I realized with a shudder: no one had ever penetrated him. No one had been allowed. He wasn’t just untouched—he was untouched by design.
Sean’s grip locked harder at the base of my skull.
"You feel how tight it is?" he asked. "How pristine? How untouched?"
"Yes, Sir."
"It’ll stay that way."
He pushed my face harder into him.
"This hole isn’t for cock. It’s not for fucking. It’s for worship. And right now, it’s yours to serve—but never to take."
I moaned into him, dizzy with need.
"You exist to clean it. To keep it soft. To give me other forms of pleasure."
I kept licking—slow, reverent, hungry—feeling my own cock pulse helplessly in the cage with every humiliating swipe of my tongue.
Sean exhaled quietly through his nose, not just in pleasure, but in ownership.
"Keep going," he murmured. "Your mouth doesn't stop until I say so."
Sean didn’t release his grip on the back of my head right away.
He held me there, face buried between his cheeks, until my breath came in shallow gasps and my tongue began to slow from sheer exhaustion.
Then—finally—he pulled me back by the hair.
The sudden brightness of the room and the rush of cool air hit me like a slap. My mouth was wet, chin slick, lips swollen. My jaw ached.
But Sean only looked at me.
"You really are good at that," he said. "Like your mouth was made for it."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t dare.
He tilted my head up by the chin, studying my face like a man considering whether to buy or return something used.
"I wonder if that talent carries over."
He spread his legs a little wider and let his cock fall naturally into view—thick, heavy, flushed dark with blood. It bounced slightly as it hung, half-hard, still glistening where it had been pressed against his thigh.
"You want it in your mouth."
"Yes, Sir."
"Of course you do."
He wrapped one hand around the base and gave it a slow, absent stroke.
"But you don’t get to take it. You wait for me to give it to you."
"Yes, Sir."
He leaned forward, fingers gripping my chin.
"And you don’t get to suck it like some horny little bitch who wants to make me come. You suck it like a servant. Like someone polishing a weapon that doesn’t belong to them."
He tapped the head of his cock lightly against my lower lip.
"Open."
I obeyed.
He didn’t thrust. He didn’t guide. He just let the weight of it rest on my tongue, thick and humid and alive. It filled my mouth even before it was hard. I adjusted instinctively, tongue curving underneath, jaw stretching.
Sean’s voice stayed calm.
"No showing off. No pride. Just obedience."
I began to move—slow, controlled, careful. I licked around the head, then down the shaft, then back up again. Every motion was meant to serve. Not seduce.
He placed his hand on the top of my head—not forcing, just keeping it there.
"That’s better. No ego. No self. Just tongue."
I took him deeper, inch by inch, until the head pressed into the back of my throat. I gagged softly, breathing through my nose, holding still.
Sean let out a single breath through his nose. Not a groan. Not approval. Just observation.
"You’ll work for every inch," he said. "You don’t get anything I don’t allow."
Sean didn’t move for a while.
He sat with his legs apart, his cock slick and glistening from my spit. My face was soaked. My jaw trembled. But he didn’t pull me toward either place.
He just let me kneel there, panting, between his thighs. My mouth open. Waiting.
"You really would do anything I said," he murmured, almost idly.
"Yes, Sir."
"You don’t even hesitate now. Don’t even ask what’s next. That’s good."
I felt a flicker of something close to pride—but it vanished when he spoke again.
"But you still think this is about you."
I blinked. "No, Sir—"
He gripped my hair suddenly and yanked my head back, not roughly, but with unmistakable precision.
"Don’t lie."
I winced. "I—I don’t mean to, Sir."
"You think I don’t see the way your eyes dart to my cock every time I speak. Like you’re hoping I’ll reward you for being obedient."
I swallowed hard, still held in place.
"You want me to say 'good boy.' You want to be cherished for being a whore. You want affection wrapped around your degradation so it doesn't feel so raw."
He leaned in slightly, voice low and exact.
"But I’m not here to pet you. I’m here to see what breaks first—your body, your pride, or your hope."
He let go of my hair.
"Back down."
I lowered my face automatically toward his cock, but he stopped me.
"No. Kneel back. Sit on your heels. Hands behind your back."
I obeyed, confused, pulse hammering in my throat.
Sean stood.
He didn’t say a word as he walked around me, letting his presence circle me like a storm. I heard him shift behind me, then felt his foot nudge between my shoulder blades.
"Lower."
I bent forward until my forehead touched the floor.
"Stay."
He walked away.
I didn’t know where he was going. The sound of his bare feet on hardwood disappeared into silence.
The silence stretched. And stretched.
My back ached. My knees were screaming. But I didn’t move.
When I finally heard him return, I flinched—but stayed in place.
Then:
"Up."
I straightened.
Sean stood before me again, cock still half-hard, heavy and expectant.
"You ready to try again?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. But not the way you expect."
He reached down, gripped his cock, and tapped the underside against my cheek once. Twice. Then let it rest on my lips.
"Lick the base. Just the base. Keep the head dry."
I obeyed—confused, aroused, humiliated all over again.
"Yes, Sir."
I licked the base of Sean’s cock like he’d ordered—tongue flat, slow, careful to avoid the head. My mouth was sore, but I didn’t stop. My whole body was tense with the effort of doing exactly what he wanted, the way he wanted it.
Sean didn’t speak. He just watched.
After a minute, he reached out and gave me a light slap across the cheek. Not hard. Not angry. Just a reminder.
"You’re polishing cock, not painting a portrait. Less art, more pressure."
"Yes, Sir."
I adjusted—firmer now, faster.
He gave me another slap, this time a little harder. My head jerked slightly from the impact.
"Better."
He stepped away, and I followed with my eyes, uncertain if I was supposed to move. But he returned almost immediately—this time to sit further back on the bed, his legs spread wider than before.
He looked down at me.
"Get under."
I moved to the floor between his legs and leaned in, but he stopped me with a hand on my forehead.
"Slower."
I adjusted. Crawled in closer. Let my shoulders slip under his thighs. His cock hung heavy above me now, his balls resting just inches from my face.
"Lick everything. Ignore the cock for now. Start with the balls. Show me you know how."
I obeyed.
I took one of his balls into my mouth slowly, gently, rolling my tongue across the skin. The scent was stronger here—clean, but raw. I moaned softly, letting it vibrate against him.
"Don’t suck like you’re scared. Use your mouth like it’s your job. Because it is."
I adjusted—sucked a little harder, pulled gently, then switched to the other. My tongue moved between them, tracing along the underside where they met, and then further down.
Sean lifted one leg slightly to give me room.
"Good. Now lower."
I knew what he meant.
I licked his taint carefully at first, then with firmer pressure, flattening my tongue and dragging it slowly upward. The texture changed—smoother, tighter, more intimate. He spread his thighs a little more.
"Keep going."
I licked again. His scent coated my tongue now—earthy, masculine, overwhelming. I moved back up to his balls, then back down again. Worship. Reset. Worship again.
He let me work like that for several minutes—licking, sucking, cycling between his balls and the space beneath, never reaching his cock. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t guide. He just let me serve.
Then he spat.
It landed squarely across my cheek, hot and wet.
"Don’t flinch," he said.
I didn’t.
He leaned forward slightly and spat again—this time right into my open mouth.
"Swallow."
I obeyed.
He gripped my chin between thumb and forefinger, studying my face.
"You're starting to understand what obedience looks like."
"Yes, Sir."
Without another word, he reached down and slapped my face again—harder now. A real sting. My cheek burned, but I didn’t move.
"That was for slowing down when you started thinking."
"Understood, Sir."
Sean leaned back again and dragged one leg across my shoulders, repositioning me beneath him—spread wide, exposed, mine to serve.
"Now ask me to use your mouth again."
"Please, Sir," I said, voice dry, lips trembling. "Use my mouth again. However you want."
He gave a slow nod.
"Then get it wet. Make it ready."
I made his cock wet with long, deliberate strokes of my tongue—starting from the base, never touching the head. Sean let me do it in silence, his legs spread, his posture casual. A man waiting for a delivery, not a blowjob.
"That’s enough."
He tapped the head of his cock against my lips.
"Open."
I did.
He pushed in slowly at first, letting the shaft stretch my jaw. When the head hit the back of my throat, he paused.
"You’re going to take all of it. Every inch. No rhythm this time. Just pressure."
Then he pressed forward—deep, steady, filling my mouth, then my throat. I gagged hard. My eyes watered instantly. Sean held me there until my whole body trembled.
Then: release.
Then: back in.
He used me like that for minutes—no pattern. Sometimes deep, sometimes shallow. Sometimes with pauses that lasted too long. Sometimes with no warning at all.
"You’re breathing too loud."
I fought to quiet it, to stay still. Saliva spilled from my mouth, down his shaft, over my chin.
"Better. But I can still hear thinking."
He pulled out fully.
"Look at me."
I raised my eyes.
"What’s the worst thing I’ve made you do so far?"
I swallowed. "Nothing’s been too far, Sir."
Sean smirked faintly.
"Not yet."
He reached forward and slapped my cheek lightly—once, then again. Not angry. Just assertive. His hand gripped my jaw after the second one.
"Do you still want to serve me?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Say it again. Slower."
"I want to serve you, Sir."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I want to serve you. I want to be used. I want to be broken in by you."
He smiled with no warmth.
"That’s better."
Then, without preamble, he yanked my head forward and thrust back into my throat.
This time he didn’t hold still.
He began to fuck my mouth in sharp, controlled strokes—just enough speed to disorient me, just enough power to make it hurt.
I gagged. Cried. Drooled. Endured.
"You’ll take it all," Sean murmured. "Even when it’s too much. Especially then."
Sean pulled out slowly, the shaft of his cock dragging against my raw tongue. My throat was sore, my lips swollen, my chin soaked with spit. I knelt panting, eyes unfocused, waiting for the next command.
But none came.
Sean didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
He just looked at me.
Then he stood.
For a moment, I thought he might walk away again—but he didn’t. He stepped around me instead, coming to stand behind.
"Bend forward. Palms flat on the floor."
I obeyed, face flushing. The position exposed everything—my caged cock, my ass, the back of my thighs. I felt ridiculous. Like furniture. Like something meant to be stepped over or leaned against.
Sean crouched behind me. I felt his fingers rest lightly on my ass. Not possessively. Just measuring.
"You’re shaking."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good."
Then: nothing.
He stayed there, behind me, silent. Watching.
The tension stretched.
"You like not knowing what comes next, don’t you."
"Yes, Sir."
"You’re hard again."
I swallowed. "Yes, Sir."
"From being slapped. From choking. From licking my hole like a bitch in heat."
"Yes, Sir."
He reached forward and slapped my ass—sharp, sudden. I gasped.
"Say thank you."
"Thank you, Sir."
He slapped the other cheek—harder this time.
"Say it again."
"Thank you, Sir."
Another slap.
"You moaned that time."
"I’m sorry, Sir—"
"You’re not sorry. You liked it."
"I did, Sir."
He stepped back again.
Behind me, Sean’s silence pressed into every step.
Sean didn’t tell me to turn around. He didn’t tell me to lie down.
He just walked up behind me and stood there. Silent. Tall. A presence.
Then he stepped around in front and crouched down, meeting me eye to eye.
"You want to lick me again."
"Yes, Sir."
"Say where."
"I want to lick your hole, Sir."
"And?"
"Your balls, your taint, your cock—wherever you want."
He leaned closer.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I want to serve you with my mouth, Sir. I want to be your toy. I want to lick you everywhere and be used for it."
Sean smiled faintly.
"Better."
Then he spat in my face.
It hit my cheek and dripped slowly down toward my jaw.
"You’ll lick it clean."
I obeyed—leaning forward, dragging my tongue up my own cheek where the spit had landed, tasting the warmth of it, the salt, the humiliation. Sean watched.
"Again," he said.
This time, the spit hit my lips.
"Open."
I parted them. He spat again—directly into my mouth.
"Swallow."
I did.
"Good."
He stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed.
"You’ve been working hard. I think it’s time you show me you can go longer."
He spread his legs and pulled them slightly higher on the mattress, his back resting against the headboard now, his body open. His cock hung semi-hard, slick from earlier use. His hole was faintly wet from my tongue.
He pointed down.
"Face in."
I climbed up between his legs and buried my face again without hesitation—licking, opening him with slow, reverent strokes, pushing my tongue into the heat and pressure of him, knowing the taste, the texture, the assignment.
His hand landed on the back of my head again.
"Don’t stop this time. Not until I say."
I licked. I moaned. I adjusted the angle of my shoulders to reach deeper.
My tongue slid against the tight muscle at his center, still unyielding, still impossibly firm. Every flick of my tongue was effort. Every stroke a test.
"That’s it. Get in there. Mess your face up with it."
I groaned, tongue dragging over him again, again, again.
"Do you think the other partners at our firm would recognize you like this?" he murmured.
I whimpered.
"Imagine them walking in right now. Seeing you like this. On all fours. Nose in my ass. Mouth full of your Master’s taste."
I moaned louder, tongue working faster now, my hands shaking as they held his thighs apart.
"You’d cry, wouldn’t you?"
"Yes, Sir."
"But you wouldn’t stop."
"No, Sir."
"Because this is who you are."
"Yes, Sir."
His hand pressed down harder on my head.
"Then show me."
Sean’s hand stayed heavy on the back of my head, keeping my face pinned between his thighs as I licked his hole with slow, deliberate pressure. I was past the point of comfort. My tongue was raw. My jaw trembled. My nose was filled with the heat of his scent, my lips stretched wide, spit clinging to my chin.
He still hadn’t told me to stop.
"You don’t need a leash," he murmured above me. "You’re already tethered where it counts."
I moaned into him. He pulled my head back by the hair—just enough for me to speak.
"You think you still have limits?"
I gasped. "No, Sir."
"You think you still have privacy?"
"No, Sir."
"You think I care what turns you on?"
I hesitated. That one stung more.
Sean raised an eyebrow. "Answer."
"You don’t care, Sir."
"That’s right. I care about one thing: that you function exactly how I want, when I want, and for what I want."
He released my hair. I leaned forward to resume, but he stopped me.
"No. Hands behind your back. Sit up. Face me."
I repositioned quickly, legs folded under me, head bowed slightly.
Sean looked down at me with quiet satisfaction.
"Do you know why I keep spitting in your face?"
"No, Sir."
"It’s not punishment. It’s a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"That your self-respect isn’t yours anymore. That it belongs to me. That what would humiliate a man... marks a slave."
He reached out and slapped me—clean, crisp, across the cheek.
I didn’t flinch.
"Good."
He stood and walked around behind me again. I heard him shifting something on the bed, adjusting the pillows, preparing the space.
Then he spoke again, quieter now.
"I want you like this all the time."
"Yes, Sir."
"Not just in here. At the office. In your head. When you're speaking to clients. When you walk past me in a meeting, I want you to remember what my hole tastes like. I want you to feel my spit drying on your cheek while you draft policy memos."
"Yes, Sir."
Sean stepped in front of me again and crouched low.
"I’m not training you for a one-night thing. I’m making you mine."
"Yes, Sir."
"Say it back."
"You’re conditioning me to be yours."
He nodded. Slowly. Deliberately.
"To serve when told. To ache when ignored. To obey when humiliated. To stay hard and silent and waiting until I decide what you’re for."
My body shook with the truth of it. My cage throbbed painfully.
I moaned, knees pressed together tightly.
Sean stood and looked down at me.
"You’ve earned the chance to be prepared."
Sean stood over me at the edge of the bed, his cock hard, heavy, hanging with intent.
"On your stomach."
I obeyed instantly, chest flat to the mattress, arms at my sides, the cage biting into the sheets as I adjusted. I heard him step closer. Then the bed dipped behind me.
"Spread your legs."
I opened them slowly, exposing everything.
"Lift your hips."
I arched my lower body upward, presenting.
Sean crouched behind me, silent. I could feel the heat of him—close, watching.
"You’ve been fucked before."
"Yes, Sir."
"But not like this."
"No, Sir."
He reached down, spread my cheeks, and spat directly onto my hole. I gasped at the wet impact, the heat of it, the complete disregard.
"You know what that’s for?"
"To prepare me, Sir."
"Not to make it easier. Just to make it possible."
His fingers smeared the spit across my entrance, spreading it in lazy circles.
He spat again—this time slower, dragging his palm across my skin as it landed.
"You’re not getting stretched to be enjoyed. You’re getting stretched to be used."
I groaned, hips flexing instinctively.
"Stay still."
"Yes, Sir."
His index finger circled my hole again, then pressed in—just the tip at first, then deeper with unhurried pressure.
"What’s your job right now?"
"To open for you, Sir."
"And?"
"To be trained. To be broken in."
"Who do you belong to?"
"You, Sir."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I belong to you. I exist to be used by you."
His finger slid deeper.
"You’re tight," he said. "Not because you’re inexperienced—because no one’s ever made you stay open."
I whimpered.
"Is this what you pictured?"
"Not exactly."
"What’s different?"
"The way you control it. The way you make me say it."
"And do you like that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Even though it hurts?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Even though it’s humiliating?"
"Especially because of that."
He withdrew his finger slowly, then leaned over me. I heard him gather spit in his mouth.
Then I felt it—thicker this time, warm and deliberate, landing directly on my exposed hole.
He used two fingers now, working them in together. I hissed through my teeth. The stretch was sudden, intense, consuming.
"Say thank you."
"Thank you, Sir."
"For what?"
"For using spit. For not making it easy."
"Good boy."
He twisted his fingers inside me, scissoring slowly.
"You’ll take me next."
"Yes, Sir."
"And how will you take it?"
"However you want, Sir."
"Say what I’ll do to you."
"You’ll fuck me. Use me. Claim me."
He pulled his fingers free again. I exhaled shakily.
Then I felt him shift. A pause.
“Open.”
I turned my head slightly, mouth parted.
Sean brought his slick fingers to my lips and pushed them inside. I tasted everything—spit, sweat, myself. I sucked without hesitation, cheeks hollowed, lips tight.
“Get them clean.”
I did.
His eyes never left mine as I licked every knuckle.
This was what I was for.
A mouth. A hole. A body to stretch and repurpose.
I had never been used like this. Not in all the meaningless hookups, not even in the best of them. No one had ever stripped me like this—layer by layer—until I couldn’t remember what part of me had once said no.
And I didn’t want to remember.
Sean pulled his fingers free with a wet sound.
He spat again, one final time, and rubbed it across my hole.
Then I felt it—his cock. Heavy. Warm. Slick with saliva. Resting just against me, not entering. Just claiming the space.
"You feel that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"That’s what waits for you."
"Yes, Sir."
Sean leaned in slightly. I could feel his breath at my neck.
"Your service to me is just beginning."
