Breakfast for Two
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
The kitchen was quiet. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft pad of my bare feet against tile. I moved slowly, not just from soreness, but from a kind of stunned reverence, like I wasn’t entirely back in my own skin yet.
The eggs came out of the fridge first. Then butter. Bread for toast. I didn’t have to ask how he liked it anymore, I’d watched, learned, filed it away like any good servant does. The pan hissed softly as I dropped the first pat of butter in. The scent filled the space almost immediately: warm, familiar, grounding.
But my body still felt foreign.
My ass still ached, not brutally, but undeniably. A dull soreness that flared each time I shifted my stance or reached too far. My hole pulsed with the echo of him—emptied now, but not forgotten. It felt like something had been left behind in me that wasn’t physical. Not just cum. Something more.
He had taken his pleasure with control and purpose. Not as punishment, not as reward. Just because he could. Because I was there. Because I was his.
And the worst part—the part that lingered even deeper than the ache—was that I wanted it. Even now, standing here, cracking eggs into a pan, I could feel it: that quiet shameful throb in my cock, still locked in steel, still leaking faintly. The cage rubbed just enough against my skin to remind me what I wasn’t allowed.
I thought of his voice. The slap across my face. The way he’d looked down at me afterward—stern, yes. Angry. But also sure. Like he knew I would never make the same mistake twice.
I wouldn’t.
The toast popped.
I plated everything with care, his eggs slightly runny, mine scrambled dry. A few slices of bacon on each plate. A glass of water. Coffee poured and already cooling in the mug he preferred.
He hadn’t said where he wanted to eat, so I laid everything out at the table. Neat. Symmetrical. Waiting.
Then I knelt beside his chair, hands folded in front of me, and waited.
The ache between my legs reminded me I’d been used.
But the warmth in my chest reminded me I hadn’t been discarded.
I heard him before I saw him, footsteps soft against the hardwood, followed by the gentle squeak of the bathroom door clicking open. The shower had stopped a few minutes earlier, but I hadn’t moved from my position: kneeling beside the table, hands folded neatly in my lap, eyes low. Two plates waited. One chair. One place setting.
He padded into the kitchen barefoot, a towel slung low around his hips. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. He said nothing at first. Just took a long look around the room, at the meal, at me.
Then, casually: “Good.”
He sat.
I rose from my kneeling position and moved to retrieve my own plate—not for the table, but for the floor.
He didn’t stop me.
I set it gently down beside his chair, then lowered myself into a cross-legged sit, the cold tile a minor shock against my skin. I hesitated for a moment before beginning to eat, not sure if I should wait, or bow, or speak. But Sean didn’t comment. Just watched me once, then resumed eating.
It wasn’t a ritual yet.
But maybe it was becoming one.
Sean dug in with the casual appetite of a man who’d just emptied himself thoroughly. A forkful of eggs. A strip of bacon. A sip of coffee.
“You cook better when you’re freshly fucked,” he said, not even glancing down.
We ate in silence for a moment. The food grounded me. Warm. Salty. Familiar. My stomach had been hollow all morning, not just from hunger but from… everything else.
Sean broke the silence first.
“So,” he said between bites, “where’d you grow up?”
I blinked.
It took me a second to answer—not because I didn’t want to, but because the question was so… ordinary.
“Toronto,” I said. “North end. My parents still live there. Same house since I was twelve.”
“Private school kid?”
“Eventually. Public until high school. Then UCC for the last couple years.”
He nodded. “Explains the posture.”
I glanced up at him.
“I’m serious,” he added. “You carry yourself like someone who was taught to hold a teacup a certain way.”
I smiled faintly. “And now I carry myself like someone who holds his ankles over his head on command.”
He snorted, but didn’t disagree.
“What about you?” I asked, voice soft.
“Kitchener,” he said. “Grew up in a townhouse with two sisters and a mother who worked nights. Learned early not to wait for anyone to make things happen.”
“Explains… a lot.”
That got me another glance, this one more curious than annoyed.
“You travel much?” he asked.
“When I can. I spent a summer in Croatia once. Backpacking. Did Barcelona, Nice, a bit of Japan.”
He nodded. “Europe’s nice. You ever been to Colombia?”
I shook my head.
“You’d like it,” he said. “Men there are shameless.”
The way he said it made my cage tighten.
“And law school?” I asked.
“Osgoode. Straight through. No breaks.”
“Top or bottom of your class?”
Sean looked down at me then. Really looked.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “You’re the one who graduated with a slave.”
That made him laugh. Not a big one, but real.
He set his fork down and sipped his coffee, looking pleased with himself—and maybe with me.
“I like this,” he said.
“What?”
“You. Quiet. Fed. Naked. Obedient.”
“You’ve had that before.”
He looked down at me for a long moment, long enough that I almost regretted asking.
Then, casually, almost like he was still talking about breakfast, he said,
“Never with a boy who actually intrigues me. Someone who makes me hard again just after I’ve fucked them… just from kneeling by my feet.”
He gestured lazily toward his lap. The towel had slipped slightly, and the bulge forming beneath it was unmistakable.
I swallowed.
Whatever hunger he’d fed that morning, it wasn’t gone.
It had just evolved.
Sean set down his fork with the ease of someone who knew he wouldn’t be cleaning up after himself. He stretched once in his chair—arms up, spine long—then pushed his plate an inch forward like the movement alone completed the meal.
“Clear the table,” he said, reaching for his coffee again. “And don’t drop anything. That would ruin your streak of near-perfection this morning.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a smile as I rose.
“Yes, Master,” I said quietly, stacking our plates and carrying them to the sink.
I rinsed everything quickly, wiped the counter, then turned back to find him already walking toward the living room. The towel still hung low around his waist. Somehow that made the pace of his retreat feel even more casual, like he didn’t need clothes to own the space. Or me.
He dropped onto the couch without ceremony, legs spread, back deep into the cushions. He looked completely at ease.
“Here,” he said, patting the floor between his feet. “I’m feeling indulgent. You can have a front row seat to my lounging.”
I lowered myself without question, crossing my legs in front of him. The position wasn’t uncomfortable, yet, but I could already feel the dull weight of anticipation behind it.
He took a long sip of coffee, eyes on the window now, where sunlight stretched across the hardwood.
“God, I love a Sunday,” he said. “You get to fuck your slave, eat like a king, and watch the neighbors take their yappy little dogs out in socks.”
I let out a small laugh before I caught myself.
“Was that a joke?” I asked.
“It was an observation. You can decide whether to laugh, be disturbed, or weep for humanity.”
He glanced down at me then, smirking.
“Or all three.”
I smiled again, softer this time.
He didn’t return it, at least not fully. But something in his gaze settled, just a notch. A flicker of quiet satisfaction.
“So,” he said, “besides law school and a tight ass, what else should I know about you?”
I shrugged. “I like to travel. I hate olives. I have a dog named Charlie.”
Sean raised an eyebrow. “You had a dog named Lucky. Present tense implies autonomy.”
“Fair point.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Weimaraner. He’s with my ex for the weekend.”
“Your ex let you keep visitation rights?”
“I insisted. He’s my dog. I just travel too much to keep him full-time.”
Sean nodded, leaning his head back against the couch. “My ex once tried to keep my espresso machine in the breakup. Claimed ‘emotional attachment.’”
I blinked. “Did you let him?”
“Hell no. I had receipts. And a caffeine addiction.”
That made me laugh again.
He looked down at me—almost approvingly.
“I don’t mind the talking,” he said after a beat. “You speak well when you’re not begging.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t. It’ll go to your head.”
His voice was dry, but the warmth had settled in. The kind of warmth that didn’t need to touch you to be felt.
I stayed at his feet, quiet for a moment, letting the tension fade just enough to forget I was naked and caged and still leaking the memory of his cock. For now, this was just a man and another man—talking.
But I knew better than to believe it would stay that way.
Sean drained the last of his coffee and set the mug on the side table without looking. He didn’t move otherwise, still slouched on the couch like a man who didn’t need posture to command authority.
I remained at his feet, cross-legged, upright. I didn’t know how else to sit around him anymore.
“So,” he said after a quiet moment. “You’ve mentioned an ex. How many serious ones?”
I paused. “A few. My first was the longest—five years, in my twenties. We met in undergrad. Moved in together after school. Broke up when life caught up.”
Sean nodded slightly. “And the others?”
“Shorter. A year here. Nine months there. Nothing that stuck.”
His gaze didn’t shift. “Any of them Doms?”
I shook my head. “Some. A few that were a little rough around the edges, sure, but nothing… structured.”
He smirked. “So no one ever told you when to kneel.”
“Not seriously.”
“And no one ever caged you.”
“God, no.”
“You’re a late bloomer,” he said, with something like amusement in his tone. “But I do like a challenge.”
His eyes dropped to my cage. I shifted slightly, the metal pulling against me just enough to remind me of its presence.
“You always bottom before me?”
“Exclusively,” I said, meeting his eyes.
His smile widened, sharp, almost pleased in a way I hadn’t seen before. Like I’d just confirmed something he suspected but wanted to hear out loud.
“Good,” he said, voice curling with delight. “Makes everything I do to you feel that much more appropriate.”
“What’s the biggest cock you ever took before mine?”
The question came with no warning, and no change in tone. Just another item in his personal inventory of me.
“Seven and a half,” I said after a beat. “Maybe eight. Thick. Not long.”
He leaned back again, draping his arm across the back of the couch. His towel shifted lower, but he didn’t adjust it.
He didn’t have to.
“Do you like this, Blake?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, Master.”
Sean didn’t shift in his seat, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even look particularly worked up, but something in the room had changed. The atmosphere wasn’t conversational anymore. It had sharpened. Quieted. Like the moment right before a judge delivers a sentence.
“Now that we’ve cleared the biographical fluff,” he said, “we’re going to discuss expectations.”
I stayed still at his feet, heart picking up just slightly.
“This isn’t just some dirty weekend,” he said. “And it’s not a trial run. If you’re kneeling here, in my home, naked and caged, you’re going to follow rules. Mine. Exactly.”
He let that sit a moment. His voice wasn’t angry, it was controlled. But it had weight. Finality.
“You don’t wear clothes in my condo unless I tell you to. Not because it’s about comfort, but because your body is mine to see and use when I want. I can’t do that if it’s covered.”
I nodded once.
His eyes locked onto mine.
“You’ll answer me out loud.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You speak when spoken to. You ask permission to speak if we’re not already in conversation. That includes in the morning. That includes when you wake up locked in a cage. No exceptions.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Your tone stays respectful. Always. And when you’re in this space, you call me ‘Master’ or ‘Sir’—not Sean, not ‘babe,’ not some cheeky nickname.”
I swallowed. “Yes, Master.”
His gaze flicked to my shoulders, then lower, sweeping down my frame like he was assessing inventory.
“You will remain clean. Hair, teeth, hole, skin. You will maintain yourself like a kept object, because that’s what you are here. If I find sweat, dirt, stubble, or anything that doesn’t meet my standard, you’ll be corrected.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You do not cum without permission. You do not beg to cum unless explicitly told you may. I don’t care if you’re locked or free—your orgasm belongs to me. You understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You obey first. Then you think.”
The words landed with a thud. Not cruel. Not rushed. Just matter-of-fact.
“You don’t delay. You don’t second-guess. If I want you on the floor, you’re there. If I want your mouth open, it opens. If I tell you to hold still, you don’t flinch. You learn quickly. Or you’ll be corrected.”
“Yes, Master.”
He leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose between them. His voice stayed low, deliberate.
“I could get this from a hookup,” he said. “I have.”
His gaze tightened.
“But I want more from you. I want consistency. I want to train you to be mine.”
I felt that last word deep in my stomach.
“Because if I’m going to train you—truly break you in—I need to know you can follow orders even when you’re tired, sore, humiliated, aching for release. Especially then.”
He sat back again.
“This isn’t playtime, Blake. It’s ownership. And I need to know you’re capable of being owned.”
He stopped speaking, but the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded. Balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
I sat at his feet, unmoving. Not because I feared the consequences of movement, but because I understood them now. More clearly than I ever had.
These weren’t arbitrary rules. They weren’t dirty talk disguised as instruction. They were requirements. They were boundaries with consequences, expectations rooted in desire—not just his desire to dominate, but to dominate well. Intentionally. With precision.
And maybe, just maybe, something more.
This wasn’t a hug goodbye. It wasn’t a safe zone. It wasn’t fair.
And yet… I didn’t want fair.
My cock was still locked, the ache dulled now into a low throb I could almost ignore. But the ache in my chest was something else. A pulse of fear and craving, tangled together. I wanted to be good. I wanted to impress him. Not just for praise, ut for proximity. For belonging.
I thought about the list. The tone. The words: ownership, obedience, correction.
I wasn’t a natural submissive. I hadn’t been raised to serve. I didn’t spend my twenties getting off on the idea of someone else making my choices. But somewhere along the line, the veneer of control had cracked. And Sean—without asking—had found the fracture.
He hadn’t just stepped through it.
He’d built himself a throne on the other side.
And now here I was. Kneeling. Listening. Wanting more.
Not because he’d forced me to.
But because he hadn’t needed to.
Sean said nothing for a long time.
Just stared at me.
Then: “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t change.
But the command landed like a strike.
My mouth opened and nothing came out at first. Not because I didn’t have thoughts. I had too many. They clawed at the back of my throat, tangled and aching, and I didn’t know which ones were safe to say.
But he hadn’t asked for safe.
He hadn’t asked for polite or measured or filtered.
He’d asked for everything.
“I’m thinking,” I began quietly, “that I crave you.”
His head tilted slightly. No expression.
“I crave being here. On the floor. At your feet. I crave your approval, your attention, your… control. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
Still no response.
My throat tightened.
“You’re the most attractive man I’ve ever been with. Not just physically—though God knows you’re… perfect. But everything about you. Your voice. The way you look at me like you already know what I’ll say. The way you use me like it’s your right. That gets to me. More than I ever thought it would.”
The shame hit me halfway through the next breath.
But I didn’t stop.
“I think about your cock inside me when you’re not even in the room. I think about being locked up for you, degraded by you. I think about how I’d do anything to be good enough for you to keep using me like this.”
He blinked, but gave nothing away.
“I want you to own me,” I whispered. “To take away my choices. To tell me who I am. Because when you do, I feel more myself than I ever have.”
I dropped my gaze then, unable to hold his.
“I know I probably sound insane. Or pathetic. I’ve never said any of this to anyone. I don’t even know what this is. But whatever it is… I want more of it.”
My cheeks burned. I could feel the flush climb my neck, hot and obvious. A pulse beat in my throat—too fast. Too exposed.
Silence.
And then, slowly, Sean reached out.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t shift his posture or adjust his expression.
He just patted my head once—firmly. Deliberately. Like I was a dog who had done something worth acknowledging but not worth praise.
I closed my eyes.
And let the humiliation settle in my bones.
Sean hadn’t moved since patting my head.
He let the moment hang—let my confession linger in the air like smoke—and then, as if plucking the next string just to hear how I’d hum, he asked:
“How do you feel about public exposure?”
My head snapped up before I could stop it.
I froze, pulse thudding. “I… hate it.”
Sean’s brow lifted, mildly curious. “Hate?”
“Yes, Master.” I swallowed. “The idea of someone seeing me like this—nude, caged—it makes my stomach twist.”
He nodded, almost thoughtfully.
“Good.”
Then he gestured with two fingers, slow and deliberate, toward the wall of windows across the living room. They stretched from floor to ceiling—clean, sunlit, facing directly into a glass-wrapped condo building across the narrow courtyard.
“Go stand in front of the glass,” he said. “Let them see what kind of boy you are.”
My heart stopped. “Master—”
He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look angry.
He just waited.
I stood on shaky legs.
Each step toward the window felt like I was walking toward a cliff—except I wasn’t afraid of falling.
I was afraid of being seen.
There was no curtain, no tint, no cover. Just glass and sky and the possibility that someone—anyone—might glance out from their kitchen, their couch, their workspace, and see me standing there.
Naked.
Caged.
Owned.
I stepped up to the glass and stopped. I didn’t press against it. I didn’t pose. I just stood there, breathing hard, staring out across the way at a building full of strangers who probably weren’t looking—
But might be.
Sean didn’t say anything. Didn’t get up. He watched me from the couch like a wreck on the side of the road.
After ten seconds—twenty—he spoke again.
“That’s enough.”
I turned and walked back toward him. My chest felt tight. My limbs jittered from something I couldn’t name. Not fear. Not quite shame.
But close.
I dropped to my knees in front of him again, eyes low, throat dry.
He didn’t touch me this time. Didn’t pat me or speak.
But I felt his satisfaction —maybe even affection — like heat against my skin.
He’d wanted to see if I’d crack.
And I hadn’t.
I stayed kneeling in front of him, breath still uneven from the test. My pulse hadn’t settled. Neither had the heat on my skin.
Sean took another long look at me. Then, finally, he spoke.
“You did well.”
It wasn’t praise. Not the way most people give it. It was more like a formal acknowledgment. Like passing a bar.
Then his voice flattened again, into the tone I was starting to recognize as instructional.
“That was a small thing,” he said. “A controlled test. But your reaction told me what I needed to know.”
I didn’t ask what that was.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. Not menacing. Just… focused.
“I want to be clear about what you’re agreeing to. Because this thing between us, it won’t always be comfortable for you.”
I stayed quiet. Still.
“You’re my slave. That means I’ll instruct you. Use you. Humiliate you. Sometimes for my pleasure. Sometimes to train you. Sometimes just because I feel like it. And you will submit.”
My throat tightened.
“I’ll test you,” he continued. “Regularly. In ways you won’t enjoy. I don’t care if you enjoy them. That’s not the point. The point is obedience. Adaptation. Growth.”
He let that sit for a moment.
“But I’m not insane,” he added, almost casually. “I’m not going to do anything illegal, or anything that could fuck up your career. I don’t get off on recklessness.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“But I do have kinks. A lot of them. And I expect you to meet me there.”
“I understand,” I said quietly.
He didn’t blink. “Do you?”
I swallowed.
“I think so, Master.”
He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ll learn the rest as we go.”
It wasn’t a warning.
It was a promise.
The conversation continued.
Not in sharp commands or painful tests, but in quiet disclosures. Details, history, the raw material of real lives.
Sean told me about his first boyfriend. About being sixteen and already certain he would never bottom for anyone. About law school exams and a drunken New Year’s in Bogotá that ended with him being carried out of a salsa bar with one shoe.
I told him about my mother’s basil obsession. About the first time I kissed a boy, behind the science building in grade eleven. About London, and long walks, and how I used to think I wanted to marry someone mild.
We didn’t laugh much. But there were smirks. The occasional exhale of amusement. And one moment where his knee brushed mine, not by accident, and he didn’t move it.
As it approached noon, the light shifting higher through the windows, he finally stood.
“Get dressed,” he said. “You’re going.”
The words weren’t warm or cold. Just matter-of-fact. A conclusion.
I obeyed slowly, almost reverently, dressing in silence—feeling the texture of cotton and denim in a way I hadn’t two days ago. My skin still felt warm from where his hands had been. My hole still sore, used. My jaw, my knees, my pride—softened, but not broken.
When I was clothed again, I stood in the entryway, unsure if I should speak.
He didn’t kiss me goodbye.
Didn’t hug.
He just looked at me and said, “We’ll talk soon.”
And I believed him.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I made my way down the hallway, out of the building, and into the cool air of late morning. The city felt different. Like I was stepping into it from far away. Like I’d just returned from something sacred. Or dangerous.
Or both.
I didn’t know where we were going.
But I knew what I wanted:
To kneel again.
To serve again.
To feel that hand on the back of my neck.
Whatever had started this weekend—it wasn’t done.
Not even close.
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