Reorientation
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Monday morning arrived like a slow wave. My alarm went off at 6:30, but I had been awake for at least an hour, staring at the ceiling of my apartment and trying not to think about the feel of the cage between my legs. It was, of course, impossible.
It didn’t hurt—not really—but it pressed into me with such unwavering presence that my body seemed to interpret it as pain anyway. A low hum of discomfort that never quite crested, never quite faded. It was a reminder. Of Sean. Of the weekend. Of who I now was when I was with him.
And now I was going to see him. In the office. As though nothing had happened. As though I hadn’t spent the past two days on my knees or bent over, used and drained and completely under his control. As though the man I’d knelt before—who had made me clean him with my tongue and thank him for the privilege—was just another colleague.
Except he wasn’t. And never would be again.
I showered and dressed with meticulous care, but it made no difference. The cage forced me into looser-fitting slacks, and I walked with the slight hesitation of someone who didn’t fully trust his body not to give him away. I avoided mirrors. I avoided eye contact with strangers on the subway. I avoided my own reflection in the glass doors of the office building as I stepped through them.
Sean wasn’t at his desk when I arrived. That helped. I busied myself with emails, faked focus through a call, and tried not to flinch every time someone said my name.
But around 9:45, I caught sight of him through the glass pane of a nearby meeting room.
He was laughing at something a client said. Relaxed. Charming. Perfectly at ease in his shirt and tie, the same clothes he’d been so eager to remove in front of me less than twenty-four hours ago. I wondered if his skin still carried the faint ghost of my mouth, if he'd showered that morning thinking about me. If the feel of me still lingered.
He turned. Met my eyes.
A smile. Just for me. Small, crooked, conspiratorial.
I looked away so fast I nearly dropped my pen.
The rest of the morning was a blur of tension. I overcompensated. Too formal in meetings. Too polite in emails. Too stiff at the coffee machine. I was terrified someone would notice something was off, worse, that someone might guess. I imagined the chastity cage clicking against the porcelain of the urinal. I imagined someone staring too long at the line of my pants.
And through it all, I thought of Sean. His smirk. The way he always seemed to know what I was feeling before I did.
It was only a matter of time before he made a move. I knew that. But not knowing when: it was torture.
Just before lunch, I passed him in the hall. He brushed against my arm—lightly, deliberately. Without turning, he murmured, "Nice tie."
Then he walked away, casual as ever, as though he hadn’t just ignited something shameful and lustful in every fibre of my being.
I stood frozen for a full thirty seconds, stunned. My face flushed hot, and my throat tightened. The words weren’t lewd, not even suggestive, just a quiet observation. But in Sean’s voice, with his breath that close to my ear, they felt like a hand traced seductively down my spine. A reminder. A trigger.
My cock twitched inside its cage—an involuntary pulse that only deepened my humiliation. I hadn’t even wanted to wear a tie. I’d put it on because it made me feel more in control, more composed, less like the man who’d spent the weekend licking the sweat off someone else’s skin. But now it felt like a noose. Something he’d noticed just to yank me back into place.
I made it to the end of the hall before I had to stop. My fingers curled into fists, tucked discreetly into my pockets. I tried to breathe evenly, to center myself, but the pressure was rising again—low in my gut, sharp behind my eyes.
The tie burned against the front of my throat.
He was going to make the office just as dangerous as his bedroom. That was the message. This wasn’t some neat compartmentalization of kink and real life. There would be no boundary, no separation. He would haunt me from across the room. Possess me in silence. Dismantle me in polite conversation. And I wouldn’t even be able to cry foul, because technically, he wasn’t doing anything at all.
He was smiling. Making jokes. Holding doors. Offering compliments.
And I was unraveling.
I ducked into the nearest conference room and shut the door behind me with a little more force than necessary. The lights were off. I leaned against the table, my back to the frosted glass, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
My heart thudded in my chest. I could feel the cage pressing against my slacks, unyielding, impossible to ignore. The fabric clung in the worst way. I adjusted my stance, subtly, and hated that even the smallest shift in pressure made my body react.
I hated that I was this responsive to him. That a single whisper, a passing glance, could trigger a chain reaction that short-circuited my entire day. That he could own me without saying my name. Without touching me.
And worse: I hated how much of me wanted more of it.
Shortly after my hallway brush with Sean, the rest of the office became a minefield. Every conversation felt laced with subtext, every glance stretched too long or not long enough. I had a brief meeting with a junior associate—someone bright, enthusiastic, and barely out of law school—who paused mid-sentence while reviewing a contract to ask if I was feeling okay.
"You look like you’re running a fever," she said, almost kindly.
"Just tired," I muttered, and she nodded, but her expression didn’t quite relax.
Back at my desk, I spotted Sean again. This time, he was leaning casually against another associate’s cubicle wall, Daniel, one of the litigation team members. He laughed at something he said, placed a hand lightly on the partition, and tilted his head in that way I knew too well. His eyes never strayed toward me. But mine didn’t leave him.
I watched his mouth form words, watched the other associate smile. I imagined his hand brushing Sean’s, imagined his cologne lingering on Sean’s hoodie, imagined his name murmured between breaths while Sean used his body. It was irrational, completely detached from reality, but I couldn’t stop it.
By the time he turned and disappeared down the corridor, I was already spiraling. And that was before Mark.
Mark was in his mid-forties, competent, friendly, and openly gay. We’d worked together for years without incident—occasional drinks at firm events, mild gossip exchanged in the break room. Nothing flirtatious, nothing inappropriate. Just the quiet camaraderie of two men who moved in similar orbits.
We crossed paths near the kitchen. Mark was standing at the counter, one hand resting on his hip, the other lazily stirring a mug with the kind of unbothered grace that made him look almost regal in profile. Monday morning didn’t touch him the way it touched the rest of us, he always carried himself like the day had bent to his schedule, not the other way around.
The scent of his tea—something rich and spiced—hung in the air between us. Rooibos, maybe. It fit him: warm, complex, a little unexpected. He turned slightly at the sound of my approach and smiled. Not with surprise. Not like I’d interrupted anything. Just easy, open, and entirely confident.
Mark was a man who knew himself. Openly gay, well-respected, sharp as hell in a negotiation and always impeccably dressed. He never flaunted anything, never made it a show. But the knowledge of who he was, sat in his posture, his cadence, his eyes. He had nothing to prove.
And right now, that made him terrifying.
“Morning, Blake,” he said. His smile deepened as he gave me a quick once-over, not lecherous, just... observant. “You look sharp today.”
Harmless words. Innocent, even. But they hit me harder than they ought to have.
My throat tightened. My mind screamed: Does he see it?
The cage felt enormous. Too obvious. A foreign object wrapped around my cock, pressing it down, restraining it. My trousers didn’t feel sharp, they felt traitorous.
I coughed a quiet, awkward laugh. “Thanks,” I said, trying to sound normal. The words came out tight, barely above a whisper.
Mark turned back to his tea as if he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe I was already projecting. The spoon clinked against the inside of the mug, a rhythmic little punctuation that echoed in the silence between us.
“You get up to anything exciting this weekend?” he asked, casual, still not looking at me.
I hesitated. “No, not really. Pretty quiet.”
A lie, and not a good one. I’d spent the weekend gagged, restrained, pinned beneath Sean’s weight. My body still ached in places. My knees still bore the faint impressions of carpet. My throat still remembered the stretch.
Mark didn’t react. He chuckled, swirling the spoon. “Sometimes quiet’s best. I keep saying I’ll take a weekend totally off—no emails, no texts. Just three days of doing absolutely nothing. But I never manage it.”
I nodded too fast. “Yeah. Same.”
The mug I was holding felt useless. I didn’t even want coffee. I’d grabbed it to look busy, to keep my hands from trembling.
Then, as he turned toward the sink to rinse the spoon, he asked, “New trousers?”
My heart stuttered.
I blinked. “No—old ones. Just hadn’t worn them in a while.”
He glanced back at me over his shoulder. Another smile. Still warm. Still friendly. But now it felt... wrong. Or maybe it was just me. The timing of the question. The tone. The way he didn’t look away immediately.
Did he see something?
Was the outline visible? Had the fabric shifted wrong? Was there a bulge, a contour, anything that gave it away?
“Nice cut,” Mark said, rinsing his spoon under the tap. “They suit you.”
I swallowed. My skin felt too tight. “Thanks,” I murmured, and the word barely made it out.
Mark didn’t say anything else for a moment. He dried his spoon with a napkin, set it beside the sink, and then turned halfway to face me again.
“You okay?” he asked gently. “You seem a little... tense today.”
Tense. Tense.
The word came at me like an assault. I was tense. I was clenched from scalp to heel, barely holding myself together.
“Just tired,” I said quickly. “Didn’t sleep well.”
Mark nodded, a soft expression on his face. He didn’t push. “Well, I hope the rest of your day goes a little smoother. Mondays are cruel enough without dragging any extra weight.”
The phrase extra weight sent a spike of heat through my spine. I didn’t know if he meant anything by it. But my brain parsed it like a code.
He gave me one last smile and left, his footsteps fading into the hallway like nothing had happened.
But everything had happened. I stood there, motionless, a mug in one hand, pulse thudding like I’d just come out of an interrogation.
I didn’t pour the coffee. I didn’t even wash the mug. I left it on the counter and walked out like a man escaping the scene of a crime. I kept my eyes down, my pace slow, trying not to draw attention to the hammering in my chest or the way my breathing was starting to go shallow and fast.
I made it into the bathroom before the spiral caught up with me.
I ducked into the last stall and locked the door behind me, then sat down hard on the closed toilet seat. My elbows braced against my knees, and I buried my face in my hands.
Had he seen it?
I played the moment again in my mind. New trousers? Just a question. Just a compliment. But too precise. Too timed. Too... intentional. What if Sean had told him?
No. That didn’t make sense. Mark was respectful. Discreet. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d get off on humiliating someone, especially not in public.
But that’s what made it worse.
Because if Mark had known—if Sean had let something slip, or worse, if Sean had shown something—Mark wouldn’t joke. He’d be subtle. Gentle. Disarming. Just like he’d been.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
What if they’d talked? What if, after one of our scenes, Sean had smirked and said something like, “Have you heard the latest gay gossip at the firm? Did you know Blake was into having his cock locked away in a cage?” What if they’d laughed about me?
What if everyone knew?
My hands dropped into my lap. I stared at the seam of my slacks, could feel the press of the cage beneath. My cock had been aching off and on all morning, more from denial than anything else, but now it felt like a brand. Like I was broadcasting it. Every time I shifted, I felt it move against me, cold and unyielding.
New trousers.
It hadn’t been a question about fashion. It had been a spotlight. A trigger. An alarm.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss it. It was ridiculous. There was no way Mark knew. No way Sean would risk that. Right?
But the doubt was there now. Lodged under my skin like a splinter. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore it. Not until I talked to Sean. Not until I confessed.
I stood up slowly and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were glassy, my cheeks flushed, my tie slightly askew. I looked... off. Not unprofessional, not sloppy—but not right either. I looked like someone trying too hard to act normal. Someone who had something to hide.
And I did.
That was the worst part. I did.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, I kept my head down and returned to my desk like a shadow. I sat. Opened my inbox. Scrolled mindlessly. I didn’t hear what anyone said. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I chewed the inside of my cheek and checked Sean’s office door every few minutes like it was a countdown clock.
I had to tell him.
Because if I didn’t, I was going to explode.
When I finally returned to my desk, I avoided everyone. I kept my headphones in, even though I wasn’t listening to anything. I typed slower. I read every email twice. I avoided looking at Sean’s door.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was exhausted—not from work, but from the relentless self-interrogation.
I needed to talk to him. I didn’t want to, but I needed to.
I knocked on Sean’s office door.
He was reclined in his chair, scrolling through something on his phone. When he saw me, he tilted his head, not quite smiling. "Blake."
"Do you have a minute?"
He gestured lazily toward the chair across from him. "Sure."
I sat down, but didn’t lean back. My spine was stiff, shoulders tense. He noticed, of course he did.
"Something happened today. With Mark. I thought he knew. About us. About... the cage."
Sean’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked more amused.
"Did he say something?"
I recounted the entire exchange. Word for word. The glance, the comment, the smile, the goddamn trousers question. I didn’t even realize how much I remembered until it all poured out. Sean listened, mostly impassive, the occasional twitch of his brow the only interruption.
When I finished, he sat back, folding his hands behind his head. "Mark? I mean, I know who he is. But I didn’t even know he was gay."
"You didn’t set me up?"
"Set you up?"
I hesitated. "To be embarrassed. Or tested. Or humiliated. Or—I don’t know. To see if I’d break."
Sean's lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Why would I go through all that trouble? You unravel all on your own."
I exhaled, but it wasn’t relief. More like deflation. "It felt like he knew. I couldn’t stop thinking about it."
Sean leaned forward, elbows on the desk, studying me. "What exactly were you afraid of? That he saw the cage? That he’d guess you let someone younger use your mouth and ass all weekend? Or that he might actually understand what you are now?"
My mouth opened, but I didn’t know what to say. The words fumbled at the edge of my tongue and refused to come.
"I think it’s the last one," Sean said casually. "Because if Mark did understand, then you’d be exposed. Not just wearing something hidden under your clothes, but actually seen."
I swallowed hard.
"And you liked it. The spiral. The way it consumed your day. The way it made everything else vanish except the fact that you’re owned."
I shook my head—too quickly. "I didn’t like it. I hated it."
"Sure," Sean said. "But you also came to me. You wanted to talk. You wanted to confess. That’s what slaves do when they feel out of alignment."
I flinched. "I don’t understand—"
"Yet," he interrupted.
We stared at each other. My face felt hot. His gaze never wavered.
"You couldn’t focus all day," he said. "Couldn’t think. Couldn’t relax. Because of me. That’s not something you fight. That’s something you learn to live inside."
He stood, slowly, and walked around the desk. Stopped in front of me, hands in his pockets. His slacks were tented, subtly but unmistakably. My confession had turned him on. The thought hit me like a blow—my shame, my unraveling, my desperate need to talk had made him hard. And he wasn’t hiding it.
"Do you want to live inside it, Blake? Or are you going to keep pretending this is just about a weekend?"
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t wait.
“Close the door, and lock it”
I obeyed.
"On your knees."
I hesitated. Just for a second.
He didn’t repeat himself.
I got up, walked around the chair, and sank to the floor.
I didn’t want to. Not then. Not like that. But my mouth opened anyway.
It was muscle memory now, an instinct shaped by repetition, by the certainty of what he expected. I shifted forward onto my knees, palms flat on the carpet to brace myself as I looked up at him. Sean didn’t move. Didn’t touch me. Just stood there, his hands in his pockets, watching me with that maddening patience. That stillness that said everything: You know what to do.
I reached up slowly, fingers fumbling slightly with the leather of his belt. My hands weren’t steady, and he must have seen it—my nerves crackling just beneath the surface. He didn’t help. He never did. This part was mine to own. My performance. My offering.
The buckle came undone with a soft click. I slid the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sent a shiver through me. He wasn’t wearing underwear. He rarely did. His cock fell heavy against the open air, already half-hard, thick and flushed, its tip beaded with a smear of precum. He smelled like skin and sweat and something distinctly male. Something his, but now, also mine.
I hesitated for the briefest moment, just long enough to feel the shame rise again in my chest. Then I leaned in and pressed my mouth to the base of him, inhaling first before letting my lips part.
The initial stretch made my eyes sting. He was still growing, still hardening as I took him in, and the thickness filled my mouth too fast. My jaw ached almost immediately. I pulled back an inch, gathered myself, and went again—deeper this time.
Sean let out a breath through his nose. Nothing more. Just that soft exhale of approval. He placed one hand lightly on the back of my head—not to guide, but to claim. His fingers rested just above my nape, warm and immovable.
“You’ve missed this,” he said, voice low. “You’ve been thinking about it all day.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mouth was full of him, my lips stretched thin around the shaft. But the hum I gave in my throat wasn’t just agreement, it was relief. Being used like this stripped away the noise in my head. The anxiety, the doubts, the self-questioning. It left only sensation. Only him.
He started to move, not urgently, not aggressively, but deliberately. Testing depth. Pacing himself. His cock slid against my tongue in long strokes, wet now with saliva and the taste of his arousal. I focused on breathing through my nose, on relaxing my throat. My body remembered the rhythm, even when my mind reeled.
“You don’t even need instruction anymore,” Sean murmured. “That’s how I know I’ve gotten in your head.”
He adjusted his stance, his legs shifting wider. His hand pressed a little firmer into my scalp. I surrendered to the motion, let my hands slide behind my back as he’d taught me, clasping them at the wrist. My body tipped forward slightly, guided only by the tempo of his thrusts.
“You’re making a mess,” he said, though there was a thread of satisfaction beneath the rebuke. “Drooling all over yourself. Look at you.”
I was drooling. My chin slick, strands of spit connecting my lips to his cock whenever he pulled back. My nose was running. My eyes watered freely. And I loved it—loved the way it reduced me, the way he watched me not as a man but as a tool. I’d worry about my appearance around the office later.
He began to fuck my face in earnest. Not brutally, but with increasing force. The slap of his hips against my face grew louder, wetter. I gagged again, this time harder, and he didn’t stop.
“Breathe through it,” he said, tightening his grip. “If you choke, you choke. That’s what a mouth like yours is for now.”
That line sent something cerebral through me. My cock twitched helplessly in its cage, pressed tight and aching against my pants. I whimpered around him, not for mercy, but because it was all too much. And just what I needed.
He held me down for a beat longer, just until the panic sparked behind my eyes, then pulled back, letting me gasp. I coughed once, messily, and tried to blink through the tears.
But he didn’t let me retreat.
“Back,” he ordered. “I’m not done.”
I took him again, no hesitation this time. My throat opened wider, ignoring the sting. I matched his rhythm now, desperate to please him. Each thrust forced air from my lungs. Each groan from him lit something low and frantic inside me.
And then it changed. His movements became shorter. Tighter. His breathing clipped. His fingers gripped the back of my skull hard enough to hold me in place.
“Don’t pull off.”
I didn’t. I braced myself—and when he came, it was with a growl that curled low in his chest and vibrated against my lips. Hot spurts hit the back of my throat, one after another. I swallowed instinctively, gagging slightly around the thickness still lodged between my lips.
He held me there through every twitch, every final pulse. My mouth filled with him, his seed, his heat, the weight of his claim.
When he finally let go, it was with a soft, drawn-out exhale. His cock slid out slow, wet and slick with saliva and the remnants of his climax. I stayed there, kneeling, lips parted, spit trailing from the corner of my mouth.
He tucked himself away without a word. Fastened his belt. Smoothed his shirt cuffs like he’d just finished a meeting, not used my mouth like a toy.
Then he looked down at me. One corner of his mouth lifted—something fond, something smug.
“You’ll sleep better tonight.”
He reached out, not to help me up, but to wipe his thumb along the curve of my cheek. When it came away damp with spit, he didn’t clean it off. He rubbed it between his fingers, then tapped it against my bottom lip like punctuation.
I stayed kneeling after he stepped away. I stayed kneeling long after he sat back down in his office chair and pulled his pants back up.
Sean didn’t speak again after he fastened his belt.
He moved past me like I wasn’t there—no praise, no acknowledgment, no afterthought. Just the soft shuffle of his shoes against carpet, the faint click of his chair as he sat back down, and the quiet tap of fingers returning to his keyboard.
I stayed kneeling. Not because I’d been told to, but because I didn’t know what else to do.
My throat ached. My jaw felt stretched and sore, and the taste of him still coated the back of my tongue—salty, bitter, unmistakably his. A smear of spit and precum still clung to the corner of my mouth, drying slightly in the office air. I reached up to wipe it away.
But before I could, Sean’s voice—absent until now—cut through the silence.
“Use your tongue,” he said without looking up. “Don’t waste what’s mine.”
It wasn’t a request.
I swallowed, cheeks burning, and obeyed. I let my tongue trace the seam of my lips, slowly, carefully. Then I pressed two fingers to the wet patch on my cheek and dragged it back into my mouth. The act was quiet, clinical, almost invisible, but I felt it everywhere.
Sean didn’t watch. That was the worst part. He just kept typing, like the scene was already over. Like I was just catching up.
When I stood, it was with effort. My legs ached from kneeling, and I could still feel the way my knees had pressed into the carpet. I straightened my spine, adjusted my tie. There was no mirror, but I tried to compose my face into something neutral.
Sean didn’t glance at me. Didn’t dismiss me. He simply said, “Close the door behind you.”
That was it.
I left.
The hallway outside his office felt impossibly bright. My eyes stung from the shift in light. My skin felt hot. Too many sensations all at once.
I walked stiffly past a paralegal chatting near the copier. I think she smiled at me. I might’ve nodded. I don’t remember.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the stainless steel walls. My hair was slightly mussed. My lips looked chapped. My collar was crooked.
I’d spent the last ten minutes on my knees in a locked office. Giving head to a man more than ten years my junior. At work. After telling him I’d felt humiliated. After confessing I’d spiraled all day, obsessed with the idea that someone knew about the cage I was wearing.
And he’d gotten hard from it.
He hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t reassured me. He’d just used me. Because that’s what he wanted. Because my distress excited him. And because he’d known that’s exactly what I’d needed to settle.
It was like he knew me better than I knew myself and that thought both scared and excited me at the same time.
The rest of the day passed without event. My mind eased, Sean’s cum like an anxiety pill, his brief presence a comfort blanket.
I descended in the elevator into the underground garage and crossed toward my car like I was dreaming. My hand trembled when I unlocked the door.
I didn’t even realize I was hard—aching, throbbing against the cage—until I sat down and felt the sharp pressure of it press deep into my pelvis.
The pain made me gasp.
I adjusted in the seat, breath shallow. The urge to touch myself was overwhelming. Not even to cum—just to relieve some of the pressure, to feel. But there was nothing I could do. The cage didn’t budge. It held me there, pulsing, swollen and trapped.
My hands shook on the steering wheel. My mind wouldn’t settle.
I should’ve felt violated. I did, in some way. But I also felt—sickly, guiltily—wanted. And not just wanted: known.
Sean had seen the truth beneath all my careful layers. He hadn’t punished me for it. He’d rewarded himself with it. Like my shame was an offering. Like my spiral had been foreplay.
And the worst part?
I was still aroused.
Not in a fleeting, animal way. But deeply. Ache-in-my-spine, fire-in-my-throat, sick-with-longing aroused. My body was a live wire. My mind a wreckage.
He hadn’t even kissed me.
He hadn’t even kissed me.
Did that matter in the end?
Wasn’t it worse, maybe, that he hadn’t? That he could draw so much from me—obedience, surrender, need—give so little in return, and still ignite so much passion and need in me? He didn’t have to manipulate. He didn’t need to seduce. He didn’t need to do much to make me crawl.
He just needed to exist. To look at me like I was already his.
And that was enough.
I sat motionless in the dark of my apartment, still fully dressed, the cage pressing into me like punctuation. I could feel it throb with every heartbeat—a dull, relentless ache that had long since blurred into arousal, confusion, obsession.
I didn’t know what I wanted from Sean. A thank you? A kiss? Permission to hope for more?
Or just another command?
I wasn’t sure anymore. I only knew that I would keep answering, whatever he asked.
Follow me on X: @BBGayErotica or on Bluesky: bbgayerotica.bsky.social for more kinky fun!
You can also follow me on Instagram now to see some of the boys in my stories: instagram.com/brokenboundariesgayerotica/ or on Youtube: @BrokenBoundariesGayEnt
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
