© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
The weekend passed in a haze of thought, a blur of restlessness disguised as routine. I cleaned the house—twice. Not a surface went untouched. I rearranged the books on my shelf alphabetically, then by color, then by theme. I reorganized drawers that didn’t need organizing, wiped down windowsills that hadn’t gathered a speck of dust.
I went grocery shopping despite having plenty of food. Bought ingredients I didn’t need, told myself I’d try a new recipe. The salmon sat untouched in the fridge while I ordered takeout and stared blankly at the television. I opened my laptop intending to catch up on work, but the blinking cursor mocked me. I didn’t write a word.
Everything I did felt like staging. As if I were preparing for someone to walk into the room and notice how orderly, how composed, how ready I was.
But beneath the surface of everything ordinary, I was humming with anticipation.
Sean.
His name alone had become a kind of pulse in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about him—his voice, his smile, the way he looked at me like he already knew the answer to a question I hadn’t asked yet. There was something unnerving about that look. Like I was a puzzle he’d already solved and was just waiting for me to catch up.
Every detail from the week replayed like a loop: the curve of his lips as he said my name, the lazy elegance of his posture, the calculated pauses before he spoke. Even the humiliations—fetching food, carrying boxes, crouching to retrieve his pen—had shifted in my memory, reframed not as indignities but as offerings. Each one a brick in a path I hadn’t realized I was walking until I turned around and saw the road behind me.
I told myself I should feel used. That I should resent the power dynamic we had silently built. But I didn’t. What I felt was a deeper kind of ache—one rooted in longing, in the delicious uncertainty of not knowing what Sean would ask of me next. And Monday, that blank space he’d marked with only a time and place, had become a beacon. It glowed at the edges of my thoughts, soft and insistent.
By Sunday night, I’d changed outfits three times just to sit on the couch and watch a film I couldn’t focus on. Every scene bled into the next, none of it sticking. I was restless in my skin, pacing the apartment like a man preparing for something. I kept glancing at the clock, not because I had somewhere to be, but because I felt like I was waiting. Not for a time. For him.
I dreamt of him that night. Vague flashes. His hand on my shoulder. His voice close to my ear. I woke up with my heart pounding and a tension low in my belly that didn’t ease.
Monday arrived like a weight.
At the office, I could barely function. I answered emails with robotic brevity, attended two meetings and retained nothing. Sean was visible only in passing—across the floor, at the end of a hallway. He didn’t come by my desk. Didn’t email. Didn’t call.
And yet his absence was sharp. Intentional. I felt it like a shadow stretching across the day.
I found myself watching for him without meaning to. Listening for his voice in the copy room, catching myself standing too long by the espresso machine just to catch a glimpse of him walking past.
At one point, I opened the drawer where I kept his note. I didn’t need to read it again. I already knew the words. But I read them anyway. Slowly. Letting them sink in again.
Dinner and Drinks. Barberian’s. Monday After Work.
A simple line. But it had become a kind of countdown, ticking louder with each passing hour.
By 4:30, I was in the office washroom, adjusting my shirt, redoing the knot of my tie. I second-guessed whether I looked too formal, too casual, too eager. I applied cologne last-minute, hoping it wasn’t too strong. I was, in every sense, preparing—not just for dinner, but for something more.
Barberian’s was warm against the evening chill, all polished wood and low lighting, the clink of glasses and hum of quiet conversation lending the place a subtle air of confidence. I arrived a few minutes early, heart knocking a little too loud in my chest, palms dry from over-washing in the office washroom.
Sean was already there.
Seated near the back, he was angled slightly toward the entrance like he’d been expecting me. He wore a dark navy wool blazer over a charcoal turtleneck, sharp but effortless, a contrast to my own meticulous second-guessing. He didn’t smile—just inclined his head the slightest bit in acknowledgment, as though we were picking up a conversation paused moments ago.
He stood as I approached, not formally, just enough to level our gaze.
“Right on time,” he said, motioning toward the seat across from him.
“You said after work,” I replied, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
He smirked faintly. “So I did.”
The server appeared almost instantly, offering a wine list and confirming the reservation under Sean’s name. He waved her off gently.
“We’ll start with drinks.”
Sean ordered a sparkling water. I ordered wine. Pinot Noir, by reflex.
He leaned back in his chair, his movements economical but full of presence. “You seemed distracted at the office today.”
“Just a lot on my plate,” I said too quickly. Then added, “Mondays.”
“Mm,” he murmured, the sound noncommittal but knowing.
The server brought our drinks, and I took a quick sip—more for composure than thirst. He watched, of course. His eyes were unreadable, but his mouth curled slightly at the edges.
Something in my chest twisted. A flicker of vulnerability. I felt suddenly warm beneath my collar.
“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly.
I smiled, trying to pass it off. “I just wasn’t sure what tonight was about.”
He tilted his head. “Do you need it to be about something?”
That shut me up. My heart was doing its own choreography now, something fluttery and fast. I sipped again.
“You look nice,” I offered, almost stupidly. “I mean—it suits you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Thank you. And you look like you changed shirts three times.”
I laughed, caught. “Only twice.”
“Still. Cute.”
That word again. My stomach flipped. It hung in the air with a strange kind of weight. Sean was younger than me—by at least a decade, maybe more—but there was no irony in his tone. He said it like it was fact, like it amused him to acknowledge it out loud. Cute. No one had called me that in years, and certainly not someone like Sean—someone so confident, so composed, someone who seemed to command rooms just by walking into them. Coming from him, it didn’t feel patronizing. It felt disarming. Intimate. Like he’d peeled something back in me and decided it pleased him.
He asked about my weekend, and I stumbled through half-truths: errands, books I didn’t read, an attempt at cooking. He didn’t press. Just listened, that subtle smile lingering as though he already knew every detail I left out.
By the time I was finishing my second glass, I could feel the warmth curling in my chest. My nerves had softened around the edges, dulled slightly into something hazy and almost pleasant. I started speaking more than I intended to—longer answers to his simple questions, stories with too many details. Every time I laughed, it was a little louder than I meant. I felt his eyes on me, absorbing, appraising, saying very little in return.
I couldn’t tell if I was impressing him or simply amusing him.
My hand kept reaching for the wine glass. I wasn’t drinking to enjoy it—I was drinking because I didn’t know how else to hold myself together in his presence. The alcohol made me braver, but it also made me clumsier. My thoughts were beginning to slosh at the edges.
He asked me how long I’d been at the firm. I answered. He asked if I liked it. I told him too much. I started to say something about the culture, about the hours, about how the partners tended to hoard their files—and then stopped myself, realizing how far off track I’d wandered.
Sean didn’t interrupt. He just watched.
That made it worse. Or better.
I ordered a third glass without thinking.
“You have a habit of saying yes to me,” he said, out of nowhere.
I paused. “Do I?”
He nodded, slow. “It’s not a complaint. Just an observation.”
“Maybe you’re just good at asking.”
He considered that for a moment. Then: “Or maybe you’re just better at obeying than you think.”
His comment struck me, not just because of what he said but how bluntly he’d said it. The heat in my face had nothing to do with the wine.
Dinner arrived, but I barely tasted it. The conversation had thinned out to a rhythm I couldn’t quite predict—his silences as precise as his words. Each question he asked felt like a door I chose to walk through.
He glanced around the restaurant again, then back at me. “I like this place,” he said. “Great steak. Really attractive décor.”
Already somewhere toward the bottom of my third glass, I said it. I didn’t mean to. It slipped out like a breath, like something caught between a laugh and a sigh.
“You’re really attractive.”
It came out too fast. Too plain. The second I said it, I felt the blood rise in my face.
Sean didn’t blink. He just waited.
“I mean—” I fumbled, suddenly aware of how loud my voice felt, how the words kept coming, “—I wasn’t going to say anything. It’s just—I guess the wine—sorry, that was forward.”
He let the moment stretch, his smile slow and almost indulgent.
“Don’t apologize for telling the truth,” he said.
I laughed nervously, unsure where to look. The wine was doing something strange to my confidence—it pushed me forward and pulled me back at the same time. I wanted to cover the silence, but I didn’t know how.
“You really like watching people squirm, don’t you?” I said, half-joking.
He tilted his head. “Only when they’re worth watching.”
He’d silenced me again.
I reached for the wine list again, signaling the server. “One more, please.”
Sean didn’t comment. He just watched me with that same unreadable calm, like he already knew what would happen next.
We picked at the last bites of our meal. The steak, perfectly seared, barely registered on my tongue. He complimented the peppercorn sauce, and I nodded like I’d tasted it. Mostly, I was thinking about how close his hand was to mine on the table. How far across the booth I would have to lean to touch him. How absurd that thought even was.
“So, what is this for you?” I asked, my voice lower now, the words loose with drink. “A power thing? Or just… fun?”
Sean raised one brow. “What do you want it to be?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You keep showing up. Doing what I ask. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? What it might mean.”
“Too much,” I admitted quietly.
The check came. He paid. I barely saw him sign the receipt. Everything had gone a bit blurry around the edges.
He invited me back to his condo.
As we stood outside, I inhaled the cool air, trying to sober myself with it. My chest was tight, my pulse fast.
“I don’t usually go home with people on the first night,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. “And yet here you are.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not my usual.”
“Nothing about this is usual.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to.
He started walking.
And I followed.
The walk to Sean’s condo was short, silent, and pulsing with tension. He led the way with calm assurance, never looking back to see if I was keeping up. He didn’t need to. I was tethered to him now—by curiosity, by need, by the quiet thrill that had followed me since Friday.
Yorkville shimmered with its usual veneer of quiet wealth. Upscale storefronts glowing behind thick glass. Polished stone underfoot. The streets were clean, curated—like the people who walked them. Sean fit into it effortlessly, his steps unhurried but purposeful.
When we reached his building, the doorman nodded as we passed, barely raising an eyebrow. Sean didn’t speak until the elevator doors closed behind us.
“Comfortable?” he asked, turning to face me.
I nodded. “Nice building.”
His lips twitched. “You haven’t seen my condo.”
The elevator glided upward with the soft hush of money well spent. My heart beat louder with each floor.
When we reached the top, he led me down a short, muted hallway. The door opened to a space that was stunning but understated—contemporary lines, dark wood floors, a clean palette of slate and cream. Every piece of furniture looked intentionally placed, chosen for both form and function.
I stepped inside slowly.
“You live like someone twice your age,” I murmured, trying to keep my tone light.
Sean slipped off his coat and tossed it over the back of a sleek armchair. “I take care of what I have.”
I nodded, glancing at the art on the walls, the glint of glass in the kitchen. The place smelled faintly of cedar and citrus.
Before I could finish my circuit of the room, I felt him behind me. Then his hand at my waist.
He turned me gently, then stared deep into my eyes, as if baring my soul.
No hesitation. No preamble. Just pressure and heat and the quiet command of his presence claiming mine.
I melted into it. Into him.
When he pulled back, he didn’t speak. Just studied me like he was reading a page he’d already memorized.
“Strip.”
The word landed like a stone.
My breath hitched.
He stepped back a pace, his arms crossed now. Watching.
I obeyed.
Piece by piece, I undressed under his gaze. The process felt longer than it was, because every motion was deliberate—because his stillness magnified every inch of skin I revealed. My jacket slipped from my shoulders. Then my shirt, my shoes, my belt. With each layer, the distance between us widened in a way that had nothing to do with space.
Sean didn’t move. He didn’t even shift his weight. He stood there, fully clothed, arms crossed, his turtleneck still pristine and snug against his neck. That contrast struck me. I was bare, vulnerable, exposed. He remained polished. Composed. Elevated.
A quiet beat passed. My chest rose and fell a little faster than normal. I could feel the heat of the apartment on my naked skin, the brush of air against places I was used to keeping covered. My hands, unsure of what to do, hovered briefly at my sides.
He looked me over once—not hungrily, not cruelly, just with a kind of possession. Like he was confirming something he already knew. Like I had passed a silent test.
Then, calmly: “Crawl.”
But I hesitated for half a second, still standing there, skin prickling under the weight of his gaze.
I was entirely naked. The light from the pendant fixtures caught on the lines of my body—slight but fit, toned more from habit than regimen. My chest was smooth, my stomach flat, a faint trail of hair leading downward. My thighs were lean, my hips narrow, and my ass tight from years of walking the city instead of driving it. Between my legs, my cock had already begun to stir—rising involuntarily under the heat of Sean’s gaze. I was beyond aroused, and I could feel it beginning to harden with an embarrassing swiftness. I had always taken care of myself, but standing before Sean like this, I felt exposed in a way I never had before.
Sean’s eyes flicked down, and he gave a soft, amused hum. “That’s cute,” he said simply. “Small, but eager. You get hard just from being looked at, don’t you?”
My cock—circumcised, with a slight upward curve—wasn’t much to boast about at just four and a half inches when fully hard. But I’d always been told it was handsome, neat, well-shaped. The kind of cock people described with the word pretty, if they were feeling generous. And in that moment, despite its modest size, it stood at full attention. Completely exposed, throbbing slightly under Sean’s unblinking gaze.
The flush that spread over my chest had nothing to do with shame, though I felt it burn behind my ears. It was the way he said it—cool, observational, indulgent. As though he already owned every response my body gave him.
The room wasn’t cold, but I shivered all the same. He hadn’t moved. Still fully dressed, arms folded, his expression unreadable. I could feel how stark the contrast was: me, bare and nervous, him, composed and layered in wool and confidence.
It made me feel small. Owned. Like this moment had always been his to orchestrate.
“Kneel,” he said.
This time I lowered myself to my knees.
The hardwood was warm beneath them, but that did little to comfort the strange ache building in my chest. I kept my eyes forward, unsure where exactly to look. At his feet? His hands? His face? I settled somewhere in the middle, gaze fixed on the hem of his trousers, the crease clean and sharp, the fabric clearly expensive.
He hadn’t said another word since his last command.
His silence wasn’t passive. It was heavy. Directed. I could feel the shape of it settling over me, guiding the moment more than any spoken command could.
I waited, naked and still, feeling the slight tremble in my thighs and the humiliating throb of my arousal. My cock—so quick to respond—stood half erect, bobbing subtly with each breath I took. I hated that he could see that, and I loved it too.
Sean circled me slowly, his footsteps quiet but unmistakable. A slow prowl. When he came to a stop behind me, I held my breath.
Then, his voice—low, close, deliberate.
“Crawl to the bedroom.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I placed my hands on the floor and shifted forward, feeling the stretch in my shoulders, the echo of my movement in the otherwise silent apartment. The hardwood cooled my palms and knees as I crawled slowly, each motion deliberate, every inch forward making me feel more vulnerable—more his.
Behind me, I could hear his footsteps. Not rushing. Not slowing. Just there. Steady. Measured.
The hallway to his bedroom was dimly lit, cast in soft amber from a single wall sconce. The shadows danced over the sleek lines of the floorboards and crept up the baseboards as I moved. I kept my gaze down, focused on the subtle grain of the wood, but I could feel him behind me, watching. Always watching.
By the time I reached the doorway, my knees ached slightly and my breathing had gone shallow. The bedroom itself was as curated as the rest of his home—minimalist, masculine, meticulous. Dark linens, black-and-steel fixtures, and another faint trace of that warm cedar scent.
I paused just inside the threshold, unsure if I should stop or keep going.
Sean stepped past me. Finally. He moved to the far side of the bed and turned to face me.
“Up,” he said, a single word that landed soft and sure.
I rose to my knees again, waiting.
He unbuttoned his blazer slowly and folded it over the back of a nearby chair. Then the turtleneck, peeled away to reveal the lean muscle beneath—toned, defined, but effortless in its appeal. He undressed methodically, not for show, but with the quiet certainty of someone who understood the effect each gesture had.
Then his fingers went to the button of his pants.
My breath caught.
There was nothing theatrical about it—just a smooth, practiced motion as he undid the button, slid down the zipper, and pushed his slacks over his hips. He stepped out of them easily. His black boxer briefs clung to his thighs, the outline of his cock already visible.
I couldn’t stop staring.
Sean didn’t say a word. He just hooked his thumbs into the waistband and drew the briefs down in a single movement, letting them fall. Then he stood tall, completely naked, as if that had been the plan all along.
My eyes dropped before I could stop them.
His cock hung thick and heavy, circumcised, the head pronounced and clean. Even soft, it looked big—at least six inches, maybe six and a half. It wasn’t just size, though. It was the way he carried it. The way he carried himself. Like being looked at was his right, and being worshipped was inevitable.
I felt myself flush.
I didn’t know where to look. Or rather, I knew exactly where I wanted to look, and hated how much I wanted it.
Sean met my eyes. Steady. Unblinking.
“You’ll learn it,” he said quietly. “Every inch.”
When he was done, he sat at the edge of the bed, still watching me.
“Come here,” he said. “On your knees.”
And I obeyed.
I crawled to him, the last few steps drawing out like something sacred. The air between us felt thick, still humming with the tension of everything unspoken. When I reached him, I settled between his legs, looking up at him for instruction, though I expected I already knew what he wanted.
Sean’s hand came to rest on the back of my head, his fingers weaving loosely through my hair.
“Show me, pet,” he said quietly, his voice dark and calm. “Show me how eager you are.”
I leaned forward, inhaling first—his scent hit me in waves: clean skin, a trace of cologne, and something more primal beneath. I opened my mouth, lips parting, and took him in slowly. He was already half hard, the warmth of him filling my mouth inch by inch.
His breath hitched once, just barely, as I began to move, tongue working instinctively, reverently. I let him guide the pace with the slightest pressure of his hand, easing me down further, until my throat adjusted to the rhythm.
Sean was big—larger than most I’d been with. He was at least eight and a half inches long when hard, with a girth that made my jaw strain from the first full thrust past my lips. The skin of him was smooth, slightly veined, the head flared just enough that each time it nudged the roof of my mouth, I felt it like punctuation—deliberate, unignorable. I had experience, though. I knew how to position my tongue, how to breathe evenly through my nose, how to tilt my neck just so to coax a deeper slide. I’d practiced, I’d prepared. But this… this was an exercise in surrender. Every inch I managed to take felt like a negotiation between eagerness and endurance. I could feel him stretch my lips, feel the tension in my throat as I eased him in deeper, trying to take him as far as I could without pulling away.
I managed to take most of him, but holding it at the back of my throat for more than a few seconds was impossible. The gag reflex kicked in, unavoidable. Each time I pulled back for air, humiliated but eager, I returned with more determination—trying to impress him, trying to show him that I could be worthy of his size, of his attention. That I could handle him.
Just then he pulled back, withdrawing his entire shaft from my mouth, provoking a feeling of longing and lust in me I didn’t know I could still muster, a horny desire I hadn’t felt since my first love when I was twenty-three years old. His cock slipped from my lips with a plopping sound and he tapped his massive member on my face a few times depositing my spit there like a mark or a lewd piece of art only he could appreciate. I thought maybe I wasn’t doing a good enough job, that my gagging had upset him, but it quickly became clear it was that Sean had other plans.
Stepping away from the bed and leaving me kneeling without so much as a word, Sean exited the bedroom and slowly walked off towards another part of the condo. I didn’t know what he was doing but I didn’t even dream of moving from my spot. When I first saw Sean at the firm, I never thought I’d seriously have the opportunity to socialize with him, given our age and seniority difference. I absolutely never thought I would have the chance to be on my knees servicing his cock after just one dinner date — if that was even what it was?
I heard the sound of shuffling in the distance, as though Sean was rummaging through a drawer somewhere and then a moment later he returned. When he did, I couldn’t help but feel relieved; Sean was still nude, still hard, still horny for me and he was still as gorgeous as ever. Then I saw what he held in his hand and my heart dropped; it was a ruler, the type you might have used in elementary school for math or arts and crafts. Thirty centimetres long, rigid and perfect for delivering an ass spanking to a boy who hadn’t sucked your cock just the way you wanted.
Sean approached the bed, holding the ruler in one hand and slapping it lightly into the palm of his other. Despite my trepidation at the thought of what was coming, I couldn’t help but remain hard, throbbing, even leaking a drop of precum as Sean again stood before me, his mighty cock pulsing in my face.
“Up on the bed, boy,” he ordered. I complied, instinctively getting on the bed on my hands and knees, ass up so he would have a clear approach to my ass with the ruler. Sean’s next command terrified me even more.
“No, no. Roll over. On your back.”
I complied, not hesitating, but with fear now creeping into my movements. I knew some guys were into abusing another guy’s balls, but it wasn’t really my thing, and surely I hadn’t performed so badly as to earn that kind of punishment? Nevertheless, the thought of losing the chance at Sean’s cock compelled me to comply and I got on my back, even spreading my legs to give Sean the access he needed.
“Good boy,” Sean said. “Look at that cute little cock, hard and dripping for me.”
Then he did something I hadn’t been expecting at all. He took the ruler and placed it to the base of his own hard member right where his shaft met his pubes. He looked down for a moment, appearing to be assessing something and then he spoke, “Eight and three quarter inches.” He flicked the tip of his dick down, causing the enormous piece to spring back up, slapping against his abs, and then he moved down to the bed, getting on his hands and knees, kneeling over me. He proceeded to do the same thing with the ruler and my cock.
“Four and a quarter inches.” He giggled to himself. “I need to make sure this is accurate.”
He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a tape measure; not the type that retracts into a metal box, a soft cotton type that tailors use. He proceeded to take all manner of measurements of my cock, length, width, my balls, everything and he checked it twice then checked again, repeating the numbers to me as he measured. He even ordered me to let my dick go soft so he could see “just how small it gets,” taking measurements then too.
When he was finally done he murmured something to himself that sounded like, “Cute little size.”
Then he spoke to me again. “Back on your knees at the edge of the bed, boy!”
I obeyed, kneeling before him again as he sat with his legs spread to encompass me. He pulled my mouth back onto the tip of his still steely pole.
“You’ve definitely got the cock of a bottom; small, pretty, just the way I like ‘em. Nothing compared to my big dick eh?” He asked.
I struggled to answer with my mouth full of his big cock head but I managed a muffled “mhfhmf” which got a rise out of Sean and a fierce thrust of his manhood into my throat. It dawned on me then that the whole measuring exercise had been designed to humiliate, or perhaps to emphasize the difference in status between the two of us. Either way, it had been effective. Sean thrust into my mouth once, twice, three times. When I gagged he spoke again.
“This big cock might be a mouthful, but a bottom like you knows how great it’ll feel in that ass of yours.”
I managed another stifled affirmative as Sean continued to urge his shaft further and further down my throat. Sean proceeded to use my mouth, as I proceeded to slip from reality so engrossed with my task, my new obsession.
He didn’t speak much—just murmured the occasional low encouragement that slid into my ears like velvet-coated commands: “Good boy.” The words made my chest swell with pride even as my mouth was full. “That’s it,” he said, just as I dared to push myself a little deeper, my lips brushing the base of his shaft. “Take it all,” came next, low and firm, as if he were tuning my movements like an instrument, knowing exactly how to draw the best from me.
The words fell over me like praise and punishment both, electrifying in their simplicity. Each time he said them, my body responded. My cock twitched with need, trapped in aching anticipation, ignored but not forgotten.
Sean’s hips barely moved. He let me work, allowed me to prove myself on him inch by inch, all while he observed with an expression that balanced indulgence and assessment. Every time I adjusted the angle of my jaw or slowed to tease the head with my tongue, I heard the quiet rumble of his approval—subtle, guttural, and devastatingly effective. His stillness wasn’t disengaged; it was deliberate. I was the one moving, laboring, performing—and every flicker of his pleasure was earned. His control was absolute. Even in pleasure, he withheld just enough to make me chase it.
“Look at you,” he murmured, tilting my face slightly. “So desperate to serve.”
I moaned softly around him in response, the vibration making him shudder.
“That mouth of yours was made for this,” he added, brushing his thumb across my cheek as he guided my head again. “My perfect little pet.”
He pushed me down a little further, slow and controlled, until I gagged again around him—wet, involuntary. My throat clenched, eyes watering, and he let out a breath that sounded almost pleased.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take what you can. Try again.”
I pulled back, gasping softly, then dove forward again, lips stretched wide, jaw aching. My tongue curled underneath him, slick and steady, coaxing pleasure from every inch I could manage. I used both hands now, one wrapped loosely at his base, the other pressed to his thigh for balance. He was hard and pulsing in my grip, his thickness filling my mouth with each forward motion.
Sean groaned low in his throat when I circled the head with my tongue and flicked at the sensitive underside. His hand gripped the back of my neck firmly—not rough, but possessive.
“Such an eager mouth,” he said. “I could get used to this view.”
He let me set the rhythm again, watching with a clinical calm that made me want to perform. I went slower, deeper, pushing myself past the edge of comfort just to see his jaw tighten ever so slightly. The tip hit the back of my throat again, and I held him there until I choked.
Saliva spilled from the corners of my mouth, pooling at the corners before sliding down to glisten on my chin. I didn’t bother to wipe it. It felt like part of the act—part of the image I was giving him: eager, messy, devoted. When he finally reached out to smear it gently across my cheek with the pad of his thumb, it felt less like a gesture of care and more like a mark—like he was signing his name across me with every stroke.
“Sloppy little thing,” he said softly. “I like you this way.”
I whimpered, flushed and desperate, sucking harder now, mouth working hungrily around his length.
“Don’t stop,” he breathed. “Not until I say.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. My only focus was him—his pleasure, his praise, the control he held over every breath I took.
I felt him begin to swell, the pressure growing at the back of my throat. I braced myself, moaning again as he pushed in deeper, holding me there for a long moment.
“I’m going to finish now,” he said softly, voice tightening. “And you’re going to swallow every drop.”
I nodded as best I could.
Then he came—thick, hot, pulsing into me. I swallowed quickly, hungrily, not letting a drop spill. His hand never left my head.
When he finally pulled back, his cock slick, I stayed kneeling, catching my breath, dazed and lightheaded. Sean looked down at me with calm satisfaction.
“Good boy,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’ve earned nothing. But you’ve pleased me.”
And then he stood, leaving me there—on my knees, flushed, trembling, still hard, still wanting.
I watched the muscles shift beneath the skin of his abdomen as he moved, the slow stretch and flex as he reached for a towel to wipe himself clean. I could still taste him. Salty, raw, unmistakably male. My mouth throbbed in time with the beat in my ears, my jaw stiff from the effort.
The scent of sex clung to the air, rich and warm. My throat burned slightly from how deep I’d taken him—again and again—driven by his commands, by the soft praise that landed like reward and challenge in equal measure.
I could still feel the weight of him on my tongue, the slow stretch of every downward glide, the catch of breath in his throat when I buried my nose in the dark thatch at his base. Every second of it still lived in my body—in my knees, in the damp between my thighs, in the ache at the back of my neck from holding my posture just so, perfectly submissive, perfectly eager.
I wanted to speak, to ask if I could move, if I could lie down, but I didn’t dare. Not yet. The air between us was still too charged, the energy not yet spent.
Sean looked down at me and smirked. “Get dressed and let yourself out,” he said. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
My mind surged with possibility. Still hard. Still hungry. Still waiting for whatever came next.
