Rules
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Tuesday morning found me alone.
The cold side of the bed was my own. I’d returned here Sunday night, sore, dazed, raw in ways I couldn’t name, and now, two mornings later, the silence had settled back in like dust. Familiar. Unwelcome.
The apartment felt emptier after Sean’s. Dimmer. Even the light seemed less comforting coming through the window. I moved through my routines, shower, coffee, headlines on mute, as if by muscle memory. My body still ached in the places Sean had touched. Marked. Used.
And yet the ache had shifted.
It wasn’t just physical anymore.
It was the way I kept reaching for my phone. Not obsessively, at least that’s what I told myself, but just often enough to catch the difference. Nothing from him. Not since that encounter at the office yesterday.
Tuesday morning also brought reflection.
The past few weeks with Sean had been intense. A whirlwind of emotion, response and sex.
Exceptional sex.
In my time with Sean, I had experienced things I had only dreamed of in my previous encounters with other men. He had sown himself deep inside my mind—and my body—and I was, as he had predicted, loving every moment of it, even if I was occasionally conflicted by what he’d asked me to do.
Spending time with Sean had also seen me break many of the “rules” in my life that had, thus far, made me successful, put me in positions of leadership, made me a trusted advisor, all of the things that made me, me.
I’d slept with Sean after our first dinner, violating a rule that I’d held sacred for more than two decades. I’d allowed a veritable stranger to lock my dick away in a cage, taking away a piece of my agency, without even a thought. I’d let him introduce another man, even younger than himself, into our sex without even asking me, and I’d let that man— boy really — do things to me that I could almost still taste and smell. Things I would have said I’d never do if anyone had asked me only a few months ago.
So many rules broken in such a short time, disrupting all of my carefully constructed composition
My life had always been a series of routines, structure layered upon structure. Not out of any particular desire to be that way, but out of necessity because of the path my life had charted.
I’d grown up before it was OK to be gay, and there were walls that came with that. Walls that sprung up after being in a relationship with a fiancé who turned out to be an alcoholic and a drug user. Walls that were erected after three men had taken liberties with my body inside my place of work in my early twenties, while onlookers did nothing to help.
Walls that kept me safe.
Walls that left me alone?
Sean had seen all of my walls and sauntered right past them, with the same casual grace that he approached every task. He had seen past the impressive façade I’d meticulously crafted over the years, beyond the veneer to what lay beneath, and he liked what he saw.
Or at least, he desired it, and right now that was more than enough for me. Because in those moments with Sean, even when he was ordering me to do something that I could never have conceived of myself doing before, or that caused me pain, or that humiliated me to the core, I felt safer than I had in a long time.
Sean’s possession was security, it was a blanket that enveloped me and kept me warm, as deranged as that might seem when he was turning my ass the colour of a fire pepper.
I got out of bed, completed my morning routine and dressed slowly.
Not out of laziness, but deliberation. I didn’t feel rushed, just suspended, like the morning existed in a vacuum. I stood at the mirror for longer than usual, adjusting my collar, retying the knot in my tie twice. It didn’t look right, though I couldn’t have said why. My face looked pensive. Open. Vulnerable in a way I didn’t want to be at work.
Sean would see it.
Or worse, he wouldn’t.
I kept thinking about that smile he gave me yesterday, the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The one that made it impossible to tell if I’d done well, or if I was being dismissed.
It wasn’t the silence that was getting to me.
It was the not knowing where I stood.
Back when we’d first started, that uncertainty had been exciting. Erotic, even. I’d read into every glance, every command, wondering if there was something deeper beneath it all. But now… now the stakes felt different. Higher. He had me. I knew that. But what I didn’t know, what I couldn’t stop wondering, was if he wanted me. Beyond utility. Beyond obedience.
I’d given him everything: my mouth, my ass, my pride, my freedom. I’d locked myself into metal at his instruction and sent photographic proof of my submission without hesitation. I’d done it all eagerly.
But now, sitting at the edge of my bed, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt while the cage pressed uncomfortably against the fabric of my slacks, I realized something else.
I wanted to be seen.
Not just used. Not just controlled.
Seen.
There had been something about the way he looked at me Sunday morning, just after I’d swallowed every last drop of his load, still on my knees, still dazed, aching, aching for more. He’d said I’d pleased him.
Some part of me—some dangerous, hopeful part—had wanted to believe there was something else behind it. A flicker of interest. An ember of care.
I was starting to think about him differently. Not just as the man who made me crawl. But as the man I couldn’t stop missing once I’d stood back up.
That scared me more than anything.
I rose and slipped on my blazer, straightening the line across my shoulders. The cage shifted against me again, cold and firm. I breathed through the discomfort and picked up my keys.
Work would be a blur.
But at least it would be a distraction.
I didn’t leave the condo.
Not right away.
The clock ticked past eight, then eight-thirty. My calendar was light, no early meetings. I could afford a slow start. I told myself I was just being practical—avoiding rush hour, giving myself a breather—but I knew the truth. I didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not until I felt more composed.
I made a second cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, laptop open but untouched. My inbox filled steadily with the usual low-level chaos. I stared at the screen, then closed it again.
I wasn’t thinking about work.
I was thinking about him.
Not Sean.
The one before.
The only other man who’d ever made me feel something even close to this.
It had been years ago, back when I was still fumbling through the boundaries of submission and trying to figure out what I wanted from men beyond sex. I hadn’t even called myself submissive then—not seriously. I thought I liked control, yes. But I’d imagined it as something external. Roleplay. Dirty talk. Scenarios with rules.
It wasn’t until I met Ethan that I realized submission could live in silence too. That it didn’t need collars or contracts. Just intent.
He wasn’t my boyfriend. Not really. We saw each other for a few months, on and off, mostly on weekends, mostly in bed. He was tall, broad, handsome in a reserved kind of way. A teacher, of all things. Drama and English, I think. He had a habit of correcting people’s grammar mid-conversation, which should have been unbearable, but somehow, he made it charming.
And he knew how to take control.
The first time he touched me, it was casual. A hand on the back of my neck while we were talking, fingers resting lightly against my skin. But I remember how my stomach flipped when he didn’t pull away. When he tightened his grip, just slightly, making my cock stir.
That night stayed with me. The way he kissed, slow, exploratory, unhurried. He’d asked if I trusted him before we even made it to the bed. I said yes without thinking.
And then he told me to kneel.
Not as a joke. Not like it was just part of the game.
He looked at me and waited. No raised eyebrow. No smile.
Just stillness.
I remember how quiet the room became. How loud my pulse felt in my ears. I remember the carpet under my knees, the way his fingers traced the side of my face after I obeyed.
That was the first time I felt truly held in someone’s control.
And yet—even then, even in the heat of it—there was something missing.
I didn’t realize what, not at the time.
But I would.
Ethan tells me to close my eyes.
I’m kneeling in front of him, naked. The air is cool, but I’m warm everywhere. My hands rest on my thighs, palms up the way he’s taught me, and I can hear the soft rustle of him undressing just out of reach. Not quickly. Not for effect. Just... casually, like he owns the space.
He hasn’t said much since I arrived. We’d barely kissed at the door. He took my coat, led me into the bedroom, and told me to strip. I’d done it without question, my heart already ticking up into my throat. This is only the third time we’ve done this, but I know how he works. His control is quiet, contained in pauses. He never has to raise his voice.
I hear the belt slide free. The sound makes my spine go rigid.
Then his hand is on my head, broad, steady, resting there like a weight.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
The words make something flutter low in my gut. I breathe through it, trying to stay calm, but I’m already hard, twitching faintly between my thighs, straining with anticipation. I want him to use me. I want him to take what he wants and leave nothing behind.
He doesn’t pull me up. He doesn’t push me down. He just waits.
“I’m going to spank you tonight,” he says, his voice smooth. “And then I’m going to fuck you. If you want that, nod.”
I nod immediately.
His fingers flex slightly against my scalp. “Speak.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Stay where you are.”
He moves away, and I hear the distinct sound of something wooden being dragged from under the bed. A paddle, I think. We used it last time. I remember the burn it left, the way he made me count each strike.
He tells me to stand and bend over the edge of the bed. I do. The sheets are cool beneath my chest. My ass is bare, vulnerable. I feel him come up behind me, his hand brushing lightly down my spine, then resting low on my back to hold me in place.
The first strike lands clean and sharp.
It stings, but I don’t cry out. I don’t even move. I want to take it well.
He makes me count.
“One.”
Another lands. Harder.
“Two.”
By six, I’m gripping the sheets.
By ten, I’m biting my lip.
He doesn’t say much, just lets the rhythm speak for him. When he stops, my ass is burning, warm and red. I can feel it without looking.
Then he’s pressing something slick and cold between my cheeks. Lube. A finger. He works me open slowly, carefully. He always does. He’s not cruel. Not careless. He stretches me with patience, muttering quiet encouragements as I groan softly into the mattress.
And then, finally, he pushes in.
The stretch is intense. He’s not huge, but I’m tight, and it’s been a while. He pauses once he’s halfway in, giving me a moment to breathe, his hands steady on my hips.
“You okay?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He slides in deeper.
It’s good. It’s more than good. I feel full, wanted. His rhythm is even, each thrust deliberate, his body pressing firm and heavy against mine. He uses one hand to stroke my cock while he moves, coaxing moans from me with every pass.
But something about it feels… guided. Not impersonal, exactly, but practiced. Like a man following a familiar pattern he knows will get results. He murmurs a few affirmations—“That’s it,” “You’re taking me so well,”—and they land, but not deeply. They feel like lines. Like he’s doing what he thinks a good Dom should do.
I try to focus on the pleasure. And there’s plenty of it. The pressure inside me builds with every thrust. His hand on my cock is skilled, his grip firm, moving in sync with his hips. I groan into the bedding, lost in sensation. I can feel my knees sliding slightly on the sheets, my body pushed forward with each motion.
“God, Blake,” he mutters, breath catching. “You’re tight.”
That lands. I moan again, arching back slightly, trying to take more.
His pace quickens. I can tell he’s getting close. His fingers tighten around my shaft as he strokes, the slap of skin on skin louder now. It’s hot, messy, satisfying in the way good sex always is. And yet…
He hasn’t said my name since. Not really looked at me. Not read me.
He’s giving me exactly what I asked for. But only what I asked for.
I feel the pressure in my gut spike and my whole body tenses. He strokes me faster, and I tip over the edge with a strangled gasp, thighs trembling. My cock pulses in his fist as cum spills onto the sheets beneath me. My arms give out slightly. I sag forward.
He groans and fucks into me harder. Two, three, four more thrusts—then he’s coming too. I feel the warmth spill inside me as his body shudders, his breath huffing against my back.
He pulls out almost immediately. No words. No praise.
I feel empty the second he’s gone.
The silence stretches.
He wipes himself down with a towel. Another lands on the bed beside me, tossed from across the room.
“Here,” he says, not unkindly.
I take it. Clean myself up in slow motions, stomach still sticky with cum, hole twitching faintly with aftershock. My body feels heavy, but not in a satisfying way. More like an echo.
Ethan slips into his boxers and leaves the room for water. I sit up slowly, still on the edge of the bed, towel crumpled in my lap. My ass is sore. My throat’s dry. My heart feels... light in the wrong way.
I don’t know what I expected.
He returns with a glass and hands it to me. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. That was—great.”
He smiles, modest, like he’s heard it before. “Good. You were really good.”
I drink the water too fast, grateful for something to do with my hands. He walks to the dresser, fiddles with his phone, opens a drawer, closes it again.
It’s not cold, what he’s doing. Not dismissive. But it feels like the end of a transaction.
And I realize, as I sit there with his cum still inside me, that I’ve already been released.
There’s no aftercare. No guidance. No sense of where to go now—physically or emotionally. Just a half-smile and a silence I don’t know how to fill.
He didn’t do anything wrong.
He gave me exactly what I asked for.
But not what I needed.
I stayed for another half hour after that.
Ethan offered to order in. I declined. Told him I had work the next day. He nodded, not pressing, and walked me to the door. Kissed me lightly on the cheek like we were old friends parting ways. His hand lingered at my waist, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull me back in or let me go.
I left feeling satisfied, technically.
But I also remembered the soreness in my ass. The paddling he’d given me had been sharp, intense, ten strokes, maybe more. He hadn’t asked what I liked. Hadn’t built toward it with care or purpose. He just decided to spank me because it seemed like the thing a Dom was supposed to do. There had been no rhythm. No escalation. No meaning behind it. Just the dull sting of obligation, delivered confidently and without context.
I hadn’t safeworded. I hadn’t even thought to. It wasn’t bad.
But it was empty.
And that emptiness had lingered far longer than the ache.
Now, sitting alone in my own kitchen years later, the contrast cut through me like glass.
Sean never did anything just to do it.
When he spanked me—really spanked me—it wasn’t about pain for its own sake. It was for a reason. About message. The way he had stripped me down, bent me over, and delivered each strike with a deliberate pace, knowing exactly how far he could push me without breaking the scene. The way he changed implements mid-session, never because it was expected, but because it aligned with something unfolding in his mind that I hadn’t yet been allowed to see.
Even when he paddled me under the pretense of “training”—and I later realized that rationale had been a lie, a game, a way to indulge himself—it still felt intentional. Coherent. A thread in a longer, darker tapestry that he wove with precision.
Sean didn’t need my permission. He didn’t need my reassurance. When he looked at me after a scene, it wasn’t to confirm if I was okay with what had just happened. He already knew. He had planned it. Executed it. Made it mine before I even knew it was coming.
Ethan had always looked at me after sex like he wanted a gold star. Like he was hoping I’d say he’d done it right.
Sean didn’t hope.
Sean expected.
Even when I was gagging on his cock, choking on the weight of him, face slick with saliva and tears, he hadn’t asked if I was all right. He told me I was doing well. Good boy. Those words landed like mana from the godst. Not just praise. Claim.
And after?
He didn’t disappear.
He stayed. Not tender. Not romantic. But present. Watching me clean him. Watching me lock myself in the cage he had selected. Watching me submit even after he was done using me.
I mattered in his gaze.
Ethan had made me feel sexy.
Sean made me feel owned. And more.
And the terrifying truth?
I needed whatever he was giving me.
I decided to walk to work.
The subway or my car would have been faster. Warmer. But I wanted the extra time.
Outside, the cold hit my face like a slap. Sharp, bracing, real. I pulled my scarf tighter, hands buried in my coat pockets, and headed east toward Bay Street. The sidewalks were wet with melt, the sky a flat stretch of gray.
I liked that kind of quiet.
It gave me room to think.
I kept coming back to Ethan. To the towel he’d tossed me. To the way he had smiled after sex, waiting for me to fill in the silence with approval. The way he’d called me good boy like it was borrowed language, not a truth he’d uncovered. Even when he’d had me tied up, fully vulnerable, I’d never felt out of control. Not really. I’d still been managing things in my own head—watching myself, analyzing, because I knew it was a scene we had explicitly scripted beforehand. There were no surprises to be had.
With Sean, there was no acting.
There was no version of submission to perform because he never gave me the script. He certainly didn’t ask me to help write it. He didn’t tell me what pleased him—he let me guess, let me reach, let me earn it. And when he did speak, every word felt like a reward or a warning. I’d never met someone who could make silence feel so heavy.
Ethan had let me move at my own pace. Sean never did.
Sean set the pace.
Even when he gave me space—like now, like yesterday—he did it with precision. The distance was part of the design. He didn’t vanish. He let me feel the ache of absence on purpose. It was a tension he knew I’d carry in my chest like a secret. Like a leash.
I crossed Yonge and turned down King. The morning crowd thickened, heads bowed against the wind, collars turned up. I moved through them without looking up, aware of my own body in a way most people probably weren’t at this hour. The cage pressed against my slacks with every step, a constant reminder of where I belonged.
Not to Ethan.
Not even to myself.
To him.
And that was the difference.
Ethan had played with power.
Sean held it.
The elevator ride to the twenty-sixth floor felt longer than usual.
I stood in the back, surrounded by colleagues I barely noticed, my coat still damp at the shoulders, scarf bundled in one hand. No one spoke. Phones lit up, notifications buzzed softly, and the overhead lights flickered slightly with the building’s hum.
When the doors opened, I stepped out last.
The office smelled like paper and carpet cleaner, like winter coats and burnt coffee. Familiar. Ordinary. And yet my pulse had picked up, steady and expectant, like something was about to happen.
I didn’t see him at first.
My desk sat polished in its office, undisturbed. A few post-its from the night cleaning crew, a file I’d left open, a note to follow up with Sandra. I peeled off my coat slowly, trying to appear casual, trying not to look around too obviously.
Maybe he wasn’t in yet.
Maybe he’d—
“Morning, Blake.”
The voice came from behind me. Warm. Quiet. That particular cadence I’d begun to crave like heat in winter.
I turned.
There he was.
Sean stood in his office doorway, coffee in one hand, the other tucked in his pants pocket. His tie was undone at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Casual. Polished. Entirely in control.
But it was the look on his face that hit me hardest.
Not a smirk. Not a test. Just a small, easy smile—genuine. Focused. For me.
Something in my chest loosened.
“Morning,” I managed, too soft at first. I cleared my throat. “Morning.”
Sean stepped forward just enough to lower his voice.
“Late start today?.”
“I wanted the walk.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Good. Helps clear the head.”
Then he took a sip of his coffee and looked me over—not the way he did in scenes, not the way he did when I was naked or gagging on his cock—but in a way that still made me feel bare. Seen.
“You look good today,” he said. No inflection. Just fact.
And then, more quietly, like he was speaking to no one else in the world:
“I missed having you around.”
The words landed somewhere behind my sternum, unexpected and devastating.
I couldn’t speak.
He held my gaze for one more second—just long enough for the silence to throb between us—then turned, heading back toward his office.
I watched him go, every nerve in my body alive.
And just before he disappeared through the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Come by later. I’d like to go for lunch.”
Not a command.
A promise.
I stood at my desk for a moment after he disappeared, one hand still on the back of my chair.
He hadn’t said much. Just a few words. A look. A faint smile. But it settled into me like warmth through fabric. Slow. Steady. Undeniable.
I shouldn’t have read into it.
It was just a greeting and an invitation to lunch. A casual nod between colleagues, maybe a little softer than necessary. A glance over the shoulder. A line that could mean anything.
Come by later. I’d like to go for lunch
Still, I felt it.
The quiet hum beneath my skin. The tension that had haunted me since Sunday, since he’d pulled out and walked away without a word, started to ease. Not vanish. But shift. His presence steadied me. Calmed something raw and restless that had taken root during his silence.
I slid into my chair and opened my inbox, trying to look busy, trying not to keep glancing toward his office.
There was nothing romantic about what had just happened.
And yet, I couldn’t stop replaying it.
The way he’d looked at me.
The way his voice had sounded when he said he’d missed me.
I wanted more. God, I wanted more. Not just the scenes. Not just the commands and the cage and the use. I wanted the pauses between those things. The moments after. The possibility of being something to him outside the roles he crafted so carefully.
And maybe I wasn’t crazy to think it was possible.
Maybe it was there.
The flicker of it. Quiet, buried, but real.
I turned back to my screen. Tried to focus. Tried to breathe like everything was normal.
But inside, I was already counting the hours until I’d walk through his door.
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