The Exposure
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
The bathroom door closed behind us with a soft click.
Sean didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
I stood just inside the tiled space, the heat from our bodies in the small space warming the air but doing nothing to hide me. My skin still flushed from the punishment, my limbs heavy from exhaustion, my ass aching with every shift of weight. The cage between my legs throbbed—a dull, frustrating pulse that never quieted.
He moved past me, fully clothed, his button-down immaculate, sleeves rolled with casual intention. He leaned against the wall across from the shower and folded his arms, eyes on me like I was a painting—something meant to be looked at, studied, evaluated.
“Clean yourself,” he said finally. “Go ahead.”
I hesitated.
Then stepped toward the tub and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature by feel. I reached for the curtain, instinct moving faster than thought, trying to claim just a sliver of privacy.
The curtain slid halfway across.
Then stopped.
Yanked open.
Sean stood exactly where he had been, his hand now gripping the curtain rod. His expression didn’t change, but the silence that followed was louder than anything he could have said.
He looked at me once—slowly—and then down at the cage.
“Did I say you could hide?”
His voice was low. Sharp.
“No, Master.”
“You’re mine. There is no privacy.”
I nodded, shame prickling beneath the skin. I let go of the curtain and stepped into the stream of water, letting it pour over me. The heat bit at first, then settled into my muscles, loosening them.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t even look away.
He just stayed there, leaning, watching me like a man watching a process unfold. Patient. Intent.
“Don’t stop.”
I froze for a beat.
Then slowly reached for the soap.
My hands moved awkwardly. Self-conscious. As if I were bathing for the first time in my life.
“Lift your arms,” Sean said. “Get under them. Thorough.”
I obeyed. The lather clung to my skin, heavy and slippery. I scrubbed beneath each arm, trying not to fumble, trying not to feel the weight of his gaze.
But I felt it anyway.
It followed every movement. Every shift of posture. Every part of me I tried not to linger on.
“Turn around.”
I turned.
“Get between your legs.”
Heat rushed to my face. I obeyed. Bending forward slightly, I worked the soap between my thighs, over the tender skin behind them, and around the base of the cage.
I could hear him shift slightly, the rustle of his shirt, the slow exhale of breath. Watching.
“Now clean your boy balls properly,” he said.
I flinched at the words. His tone hadn’t changed—calm, even—but the edge was there, unmistakable. Moreover, he’d called them “boy balls” again making me feel like his junior when I was in fact, more than 10 years older than him.
“Lift them. Make sure they’re spotless. You sniff and lick my sweat, but the same doesn’t apply the other way around.”
My hands trembled slightly as I obeyed. I cupped myself gently, lifting the caged shaft and sack, washing underneath with a slow, deliberate touch. The cage pressed cold against my palm, water beading off the metal.
“Good.”
Just one word, but it filled the air like heat.
“Now bend over.”
I hesitated.
“Spread yourself.”
The command landed like a weight.
I turned slowly, facing away from him, cheeks burning. I bent at the waist and reached back with both hands, exposing myself fully to his gaze. The water ran in rivulets over my spine, down the cleft between my cheeks.
Sean stepped closer.
I heard it before I saw it.
Then his voice, lower now. Nearer.
“Wider.”
I reached back farther.
Everything in me screamed to disappear. But I held the position.
“Push a finger in. I want to see you clean your boy hole.”
There it was again, “boy hole.” One extra word with so much intention behind it and so much additional weight when it landed. When I was younger, and I’d been dominated by older men, it’d been called that, but this strange reversal was making my mind do somersaults even as my cock betrayed me yet again in its cage, stiffening at his remarks.
I bit my lip and grabbed more soap. The lather coated my fingers, thick and slick. I brought my hand behind me, positioned carefully, and pressed one finger inside.
The intrusion was sharp. My muscles resisted, sore from what they’d endured earlier.
But I obeyed.
“Deeper.”
I sank the finger in farther, gasping softly.
“Now two.”
I hesitated for only a moment before complying, sliding a second finger alongside the first. The pressure made me wince. The humiliation made my face burn hotter than the water.
He said nothing.
Just watched.
I could feel it.
“Get it clean,” he said finally. “You never know when I’ll want to use it.”
I worked my fingers in and out obediently, slowly. Not rushing. Not resisting. The soap stung faintly. The showerhead hissed behind me. My breath was loud in the silence.
“Now rinse.”
I pulled my fingers free and stepped under the spray, letting the water wash away the lather.
“If I find anything later,” he added, “you’ll regret it.”
I nodded, still facing away from him.
“Stand up straight. Spread your cheeks and face the wall.”
My stomach clenched. I obeyed.
My hands reached behind again, pulling myself open under the water, presenting every inch of me to his eyes.
He stepped closer to the edge of the tub.
“You missed a spot there,” he said coolly. “Get the soap again. More on your fingers. Show me you can be thorough.”
I obeyed.
Fresh lather. Fingers reinserted. My breath shallow. My body trembling—not from the effort, but from the awareness that every motion, every twitch, every tiny sound was being catalogued by his gaze.
“Don’t rush,” Sean warned. “Massage inside. Show me you’re clean and ready.”
I groaned quietly, forcing my fingers deeper, making slow, circular motions as he watched.
“Now turn and scrub that cage.”
I obeyed.
“Use the washcloth. I want it shining. No excuses.”
I took the cloth and began scrubbing the metal, lifting and turning it carefully, working between the bars and under the rings. Water splashed up, mixing with soap, sliding down my thighs.
“Lift your sack again,” Sean said. “Slower this time. Spread it out like a good boy. Let me see everything.”
I complied.
My humiliation was total.
But I didn’t stop.
Because he hadn’t told me to.
The water kept running, but it no longer felt like a shower. It felt like a performance. Like a ritual.
I lifted everything again, as Sean had asked. Slower this time.
The cage pressed against the base of my palm as I gathered myself—testicles drawn up from the heat, the skin slick with lather. I held it all forward, open to his inspection.
Sean didn’t say a word.
Just watched.
He stepped slightly closer—still not touching, but near enough that I could feel the cool of his presence through the steam. My chest ached with the weight of exposure, my jaw tight from holding back the words I didn’t even have.
“Good,” he said finally.
One word.
It hit harder than a paragraph.
“Rinse.”
I turned, grateful for the command. Let the water pour over me, tilting my head back so it streamed down my spine, between my cheeks, across my thighs.
Sean stayed silent.
When I turned back around, he had shifted his stance—now standing a little more forward, one arm resting along the bathroom counter.
He wasn’t lounging.
He was waiting.
There was an edge to the quiet, like something coiled beneath it.
“Start again,” he said.
I blinked.
He nodded at the soap.
“You were tentative. Do it properly. Lather from your shoulders down.”
I reached for the bar again.
My hands trembled—not from exertion, but from the realization that this wasn’t just about being clean. It was about doing it exactly the way he wanted.
I worked the bar between my palms until the lather grew thick again, then began at the top. Shoulders. Chest. Arms.
“Slower,” Sean said.
I obeyed.
The soap slid over my skin, slicking across my pecs and down my abdomen. The cage glinted under the droplets, an unrelenting centerpiece no matter how much I tried to ignore it.
“Lift your cock,” he said. “Get underneath.”
I obeyed.
He stepped closer—close enough now that his shoes were just outside the lip of the tub. I could see the crease in his trousers, the hem neat above polished leather.
“Don’t rush,” he said again. “You're not in control of time right now. I am.”
I nodded.
He let the water run for another moment as the last of the suds rinsed from my body, then reached forward and turned the faucet off.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Water dripped from my chin, my hair, my thighs. The air hung humid and charged.
“Hold position,” he said.
I stood still, arms at my sides, head slightly bowed.
He circled once, slow, a full step around the tub, examining everything he’d just watched me do. My body felt red under his eyes—like every patch of skin remembered where he’d struck me. Even the places he hadn’t touched felt used.
Then he returned to his place at the foot of the tub.
“You enjoy this?” he asked.
I swallowed.
“I… I don’t know, Master.”
His eyebrow lifted, just slightly.
“You don’t know?”
He smiled faintly, a line that cut across his otherwise unreadable face.
“You’re blushing like a schoolboy and twitching in that cage from being stared at—and you don’t know?”
I said nothing.
He let it hang for a beat.
“Adorable.”
His voice dropped slightly as he looked me over again, slowly, clinically, tracing his hands along the contours of my pecs then my hips.
“I adore the soft curves of your body,” he said. “Just enough muscle to be useful. But not the kind I have.”
He tilted his head.
“No, your body was built for something different.”
He stepped even closer now—only inches away.
“Built to be looked at. Bent. Used.”
My heart pounded.
His eyes fell to the cage again.
“And that cute little cock of yours. I love it.”
My face burned.
“I love that it tries so hard for me, even when you know it’s going nowhere.”
He reached up—just once—and brushed a finger along my jaw. A soft touch. So light it could’ve been mistaken for nothing at all.
“You’re lucky I enjoy watching.”
He stepped back again. Not far. Just enough to reclaim the space between us.
Then—silence.
He didn’t issue a new order.
Didn’t move.
He just watched me stand there, dripping wet, soap sliding in rivulets over my chest, the water long since shut off but the heat lingering like a second skin.
I didn’t reach for a towel.
I didn’t speak.
I kept my arms at my sides, my legs slightly apart, the cage heavy and cold between them. Waiting. On display.
For him.
His gaze ran down me again—slow, deliberate.
Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly.
“Bend over,” he said. “Legs apart. Show me that body.
I moved slowly.
Not from hesitation.
From awareness.
Every part of me felt heavy and exposed. The air in the room clung to my skin like judgment, thick and unmoving. I bent at the waist, feet planted wide on the slick tile. The cold crept up my calves. The water that still clung to me ran down the backs of my thighs, dripping steadily to the tub floor.
Behind me, Sean was silent.
Watching.
I reached back with both hands and pulled myself open.
Not because he told me to.
Because I knew that’s what he wanted.
Because that’s what this was—submission without prompting. Anticipation of his gaze.
And still, when he spoke, it hit like a slap.
“Cute little thing,” he said.
Just like the first night he’d let me suck his cock.
I flinched.
“Fucked raw hours ago, and still begging for attention just by the way it twitches.”
He stepped closer. I heard the sound of leather soles on tile. His voice lowered—not intimate, just quiet.
“You don’t even know what you’re hard for, do you?”
I said nothing.
He didn’t need me to.
“Stay there.”
I froze in place, back arched, arms straining.
Sean circled again.
I heard the faint brush of his clothes, the sharp contrast of crisp cotton and pressed seams in a room filled with bare skin and dripping water. My shoulders trembled slightly with the effort of holding the position. My breath caught every time he paused behind me.
“You’ve got such a pliant shape,” he said. “Your body submits where mine doesn’t. You move like something meant to be chased.”
I clenched my jaw.
He tapped one finger against the cage. Just once.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind me it was still locked. Still his.
“Stand,” he said.
I straightened slowly.
He let the silence return.
Then, calmly, “Turn to the side. Lift your arms. Palms out.”
I did as I was told.
He walked a slow circle around me.
“This is how you should be seen,” he said. “Nothing hidden. No pretense. Just your body—raw, obedient, mine.”
He reached out—this time brushing a finger along the ridge of my ribcage.
“You were made for this. For being looked at. Controlled. Corrected.”
I shivered, but not from cold.
From the unbearable weight of exposure.
“Put your hands on your head.”
I complied.
“Step wider.”
I adjusted my stance. The stretch tugged at my thighs. The cage shifted with the angle.
Sean stood in front of me now, just outside the tub, gaze level with mine.
“Look at me.”
I met his eyes.
He held my gaze for a long, uncomfortable stretch. My face burned. My chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm.
“Good boy,” he said finally.
It landed deeper than I expected.
Almost painful.
Then, finally, his voice softened—not kind, not merciful, but final.
“Grab the towel.”
I lowered my arms, blinking away the sting in my eyes. I stepped out of the tub carefully, every movement slow, unsteady. The floor was cool beneath my feet. My body still glistened, flushed with exertion and humiliation.
He handed me the towel.
But he didn’t turn away.
I stood dripping on the tile, clutching the soft cotton in both hands, unsure if I was supposed to start. Unsure if drying myself in front of him without instruction would be seen as initiative—or disobedience.
He didn’t speak.
He just watched.
So I began.
Slowly.
I started at my neck, the towel rougher than I expected against skin so freshly punished and scrubbed. I patted down my shoulders, chest, arms. I was careful not to hide anything as I moved—careful to keep my stance open, my motions deliberate.
Sean shifted slightly, arms folded again, eyes never leaving me.
I dried down my stomach, over my hips, carefully maneuvering the towel around the cage. Then lower, bending slightly to work the water from my legs and calves.
“You’re getting better at this,” he said.
I glanced up.
“At being looked at,” he clarified.
My face burned again, but I said nothing. I didn’t know if a thank-you was appropriate—or if silence was safer.
When I finished, I folded the towel neatly and held it in front of me, waiting.
Sean stepped forward.
He took the towel from my hands without a word, turned, and hung it neatly on the rack behind him. Then he moved to the vanity and opened one of the drawers.
He pulled out a bottle of lotion. White. Minimal label. Ordinary.
But in his hand, it felt like something else entirely.
He turned to face me again and unscrewed the cap.
“Arms out,” he said.
I obeyed.
He pumped a portion of the lotion into my right palm, then stepped back and gestured.
“Start with your chest. Work downward.”
I began rubbing it in, awkward at first. The lotion was cold. It spread slowly, turning slick before it warmed and vanished into my skin.
“Use more,” he said. “You’re not conserving it. You’re covering yourself.”
He refilled my hand.
I kept going.
Down over my stomach. My sides. My shoulders again, in case I missed something.
Sean watched each motion like it mattered.
When I reached my thighs, he spoke again.
“Lift your leg. Rest your foot on the edge of the tub.”
I did.
“Now do your inner thighs. Slowly.”
The lotion clung to the skin differently here—softer, more sensitive. I rubbed it in with long, steady motions, and when I reached behind, his voice stopped me.
“Careful.”
I froze.
“Go lightly over the marks. You’ll irritate them.”
I adjusted.
He came closer then, bottle in hand.
“Kneel,” he said.
I lowered myself to the mat, resting on both knees, arms by my sides.
He reached forward and poured a small amount of lotion into his own palm. Then, without warning, he brought his hand to my back.
I shivered.
He worked slowly, methodically. The lotion was warm now—from his skin, from the air, from the moment.
His touch wasn’t affectionate.
It was clinical.
Like applying polish to a favorite piece of leather.
He rubbed gently over the welts and bruises, pausing when he felt resistance, spreading the lotion in even strokes.
“This will keep your skin from drying out,” he said.
“It makes you smoother. Easier to handle. More pleasant to touch.”
My throat tightened.
“Which means you’ll be more pleasant to use.”
He said it so plainly.
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He finished with my back and stood. I stayed kneeling, head bowed slightly, heart pounding.
“Stand again.”
I rose.
He handed the bottle to me.
“Finish your legs. Then do your feet. Don’t miss between the toes.”
“Yes, Master.”
I obeyed.
Not because I wanted to impress him.
Not because I wanted praise.
But because I understood something now—something I couldn’t quite name.
I wasn’t just being cleaned.
I was being maintained.
Prepared.
Made ready.
When I finished applying the lotion, Sean took the bottle from my hand and set it back on the vanity.
He gave me a long look, then nodded once—more to himself than to me.
He walked over to the toilet and sat down, legs slightly apart, resting his forearms casually on his thighs.
“Bottom drawer,” he said. “Nail clippers. Bring them here.”
I blinked.
Nail clippers?
My stomach turned as I stepped over to the vanity and opened the drawer. There they were, small and stainless steel, nestled in a tray beside a brush and some grooming scissors. I picked them up with two fingers, hesitating for a second as I turned around.
Sean patted one thigh.
“On your knees.”
I stared at him.
Surely he didn’t mean...
But he said nothing else. Just waited.
I dropped to my knees.
The carpet beneath me was soft, but everything else about this felt filthy. I looked at his foot—resting flat on the floor, big, square-nailed, dusted with hair. The edge of the toenail on his second toe was already beginning to lift. My stomach twisted.
“Go on,” he said. “They’re not going to clip themselves.”
I brought the clippers to the first toe, nose wrinkling despite myself. I fought the reflex to hold my breath. The first snip echoed in the quiet room.
Sean chuckled. “You look like you’re doing a surgery on a corpse.”
I said nothing, my face burning.
“Oh, come on,” he teased. “You’ve tasted my ass. This is the part that bothers you?”
I kept going. One toe at a time. My throat clenched at the faint smell of sweat and skin and whatever had accumulated since his last shower. He watched me with lazy interest, utterly amused.
When I finished the first foot, he lifted the other one and planted it where the first had been.
“Other side.”
I obeyed.
Each clip felt like a deeper humiliation. Like scraping away the last bits of pride I hadn’t even realized I was still clinging to.
When I was done, he flexed both feet and gave a satisfied sigh.
“Good. You’ll keep doing that once a week. I like things tidy.”
He stood, zipped his pants, and turned to the sink.
“Toothbrush is in the cup. Paste in the drawer. You prep it for me every night before bed, if you’re here. Toothpaste already on.”
I moved numbly, returning the clippers, then pulling out the toothpaste and doing as he asked.
“Now the towels,” he said. “Top shelf in the linen cabinet. You make sure I always have a clean face towel, folded neatly on the counter. Straight and square.”
I opened the cabinet, retrieved a towel, folded it carefully, and placed it where he indicated.
He turned to the toilet again, lifted the seat, and unzipped himself.
I instinctively turned away.
“Don’t look away,” he said calmly.
I forced myself to look back.
The sound of him pissing filled the room.
“There’s nothing sacred between a Master and his slave,” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “No modesty. No privacy.”
He shook off, zipped up, and flushed. Then turned to me, eyes satisfied.
He passed by me on his way out, pausing just long enough to place a hand on the back of my neck.
“Good boy.”
He led me into the bedroom.
But when I stepped through the doorway, I froze.
Next to Sean’s bed—his massive, perfectly made bed with its dark sheets and rich pillows—stood something I hadn’t seen before.
A cage.
It was a dog cage. Large. Black metal bars. Cushioned slightly on the bottom with a folded pad that barely counted as bedding. It was big enough for a man to fit inside—but not to stretch out fully. Not to rest comfortably.
My stomach dropped.
Sean turned toward me casually, as if we were discussing nothing more serious than furniture placement.
“Until and unless you earn the privilege of sleeping in my bed,” he said, “that’s where you’ll be sleeping.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was already decided.
I looked at the cage again. The size. The proximity to his bed. Close enough for him to hear me breathe. Far enough that I wouldn’t be touching him.
“Inside,” he said.
I dropped to my knees and crawled in.
The floor was padded, but barely. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make my hips ache. There wasn’t one.
Sean knelt beside the open door, fingers resting lightly on the latch.
“You’ll stay here at night until I decide you’ve earned something better,” he said. “And no, I won’t be telling you what will earn it. You’ll figure it out.”
He clicked the latch shut.
The sound was quiet.
But final.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s talk about expectations for the weekend.”
He stayed crouched by the cage, one arm resting lazily across his bent knee.
“You’ll cook all meals. From scratch. No shortcuts, no excuses. You’ll clean up after everything. Dishes spotless. Counters dry. Floor swept.”
I nodded, already feeling the weight of it.
“Sexual service,” he continued, tone unchanged, “is on demand. Mine. Without restriction. You don’t wait to be asked—you respond the moment I want something. Your mouth, your hands, your ass. If I want it, it’s mine.”
My chest tightened.
“You will answer every question I ask you. Truthfully. Without hesitation. No lies. No omissions.”
He let that settle.
“I expect silence unless you're spoken to, unless I tell you otherwise. I expect you to observe and anticipate. I expect obedience.”
He reached through the bars and brushed two fingers along my cheek. “And I expect gratitude.”
I swallowed. “Yes, Master.”
“Good. We'll see how well you remember all that by morning.”
He stood and turned off the overhead light, leaving only the soft bedside lamp casting a golden pool across the hardwood floor. I was alone in the cage now—enclosed, confined, caged.
My thoughts flickered wildly in the silence he left behind. I could still feel the lotion drying across my skin, still feel the places he’d watched most closely—scrutinized, instructed, corrected. The memory of him ordering me to spread myself open, to finger myself in the shower, burned in me just as much as the ache in my thighs from kneeling through the toenail clipping.
I hated how humiliating it had all been.
And I hated how part of me had responded to it.
I curled slightly to one side, the thin bedding doing little to ease the metal of the cage beneath it. I could hear Sean moving through the bedroom now—undressing, setting something on the nightstand, turning back the covers. I couldn’t see him through the bars. But I could feel him. The presence of him. The gravity of him.
There was something terrifying in how much I craved his attention—even now.
Even here.
Even in this cage.
I didn’t understand it. Not fully. But I knew I felt it. Knew that something about him—his control, his calm, his certainty—was beginning to carve a space in me I didn’t know existed.
And I knew, with a kind of quiet despair, that I was starting to fall for him.
Not in spite of what he’d done to me.
But because of it.
Because when he looked at me, I felt seen. When he commanded me, I felt certain. And when he humiliated me, it cut through everything else I pretended to be. The layers I’d built up—professional, guarded, sarcastic—all of them stripped bare under the force of his attention.
I’d never felt so degraded.
I’d never felt so alive.
There was no softness in him, no coddling. And yet, in the measured tone of his instructions, in the calculated rhythm of his touches, there was a care that felt more intimate than kindness. A care that said: I’m watching. I’m testing. I’m shaping you.
And I wanted to be shaped.
I didn’t know what that meant yet. Not entirely. But I wanted to find out. Even if it meant crawling on my knees. Even if it meant sleeping behind bars. Even if it meant giving up more than I ever thought I could.
Somewhere in the dark, I heard the rustle of sheets.
Sean was in bed now.
And I was exactly where he wanted me.
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Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Long form M/M erotic stories for a discerning audience
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