Cleansed by Submission
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
I was dreaming of warmth. Of sunlight, I think—some flickering image of a dock, my childhood dog Charlie barking, wind teasing the water. But the warmth shifted. Grew oddly specific. Wet. Spreading across my chest.
Then a scent. Sharp, unmistakable. And before I could fully surface from sleep, a low voice reached through the haze.
“Wake up, Blake.”
My eyes flew open. I tried to stand up, but the cage didn’t allow for that. My forehead bumped the bars and I blinked into the morning light, disoriented, until another warm stream struck my skin.
Sean.
He was standing in front of the cage, naked from the waist down, calmly urinating through the bars like it was nothing. His aim was deliberate. The stream hit my chest, then stomach, then slowed… and suddenly redirected toward my face.
“Up. Now. Kneel and open your mouth.”
I scrambled, bones aching from the confined night, heart thudding. My body moved before thought caught up. I turned, pressed my chest against the cool steel, angled my head up between the bars. He didn’t wait for confirmation.
The stream found my lips.
I opened.
It clearly wasn’t about thirst. It wasn’t about any desire to perform the act. It was about the moment—being marked again, first thing in the morning, before my thoughts had even formed into full sentences. Before I’d spoken a word. My body responded, that now-familiar clench deep in my gut, the cage already pressing tight against morning wood I didn’t control anymore.
Sean’s piss was warm, a little bitter. With the tip of his soft cock settled comfortably in my mouth all of his stream found its target. But I didn’t flinch. I kept my lips parted and let him finish.
Only when the stream tapered off did he speak again, voice calm and casual. “Good. You’re learning.”
He stepped back and pulled up his boxers. He hadn’t even taken his shirt off. Just pulled down his underwear, relieved himself on and in his slave, and moved on with his day.
I stayed there, panting slightly. My face was damp. My chest was slick. My knees hurt. But I didn’t move.
Not until he said, “Out.”
He unlocked the latch and I crawled forward. Sean didn’t offer help. He just stood to the side, watching as I unfolded my stiff limbs onto the hardwood floor. I felt cold air against my wet skin, felt shame rise unbidden—but not resistance. Never resistance.
He walked past me, already heading for the bathroom.
“Shower. Use the same routine as yesterday. Don’t make me correct you.”
I followed on trembling legs.
I stepped into the bathroom, already bracing for his presence. Sean didn’t shut the door. Of course he didn’t. He leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, wearing a grey fitted tee now that barely concealed the muscle underneath. His joggers hung low on his hips. He looked like any man about to hit the gym. Except no one at the gym watched their co-worker strip naked and rinse off their morning piss.
I slid back the curtain, stepped into the tub, and turned the water on. Lukewarm. I didn’t dare make it hot.
“Start with your hair,” Sean said, voice mild. “Same as yesterday.”
I obeyed. Fingers in my hair, working in the shampoo from scalp to roots. I did it slowly, deliberately, knowing he was watching every movement. I tilted my head back, let the water run down my face and back, rinsing the sleep, and the humiliation, away.
But not really. Nothing washed away.
“Now your neck. Under the arms. Don’t skip.”
I didn’t.
The room filled with steam, but I was still cold. Not physically. Something deeper. A kind of internal nakedness. My skin felt too thin. Every time I brought my hands to my body, I imagined his eyes tracking the motion, storing it, judging me.
I moved to my chest, then stomach. I avoided my cock—it was still locked away, a humiliating, permanent reminder. I focused on the areas he’d expect. Inner thighs. Behind the knees. Feet.
“Ass,” he said.
I turned slightly, giving him a better angle, and reached back. The position exposed everything, spine curved, cheeks parted, balance precarious. But I knew better than to complain.
“Wider,” Sean said.
I shifted.
“Better.”
He said nothing else for a while. I finished rinsing, then stood there dripping.
“Come out,” he said eventually.
I stepped from the tub onto the mat, reaching for a towel.
“Leave it.”
I let it drop.
Sean looked me over like I was a freshly scrubbed animal at market. Then he came forward. His hands were warm. He took a cloth and dabbed under my eyes, along my jawline, down my collarbone, not drying me, not really. Just touching.
“You’re clean enough now.”
He stepped back. “Do the morning prep.”
I moved to the counter without needing further instruction. I opened the cabinet and laid out what he required, his toothbrush, toothpaste already applied in a neat line. A clean face towel folded just the way he liked. Deodorant uncapped and waiting. Hair product open, ready to use. Razor, should he decide to shave. Mouthwash, poured precisely to the fill line in a glass.
When I turned back, he was watching.
“Not bad,” he said. His tone was neutral, but I felt the flicker of satisfaction in my chest all the same.
Sean stepped forward, eyeing the container of styling cream I’d set out. He dipped two fingers into it and motioned to the stool in front of the vanity.
“Sit,” he said simply.
I obeyed, still damp. My bare ass met the cool wood of the seat. Sean stood behind me, his reflection visible in the mirror. His eyes were fixed on my hair, his expression unreadable.
He began working the product into my hair, slowly, deliberately, molding the strands with a precision that felt oddly intimate. His fingers combed through me like they had every right to. Like my head was his to shape, like I was a doll to be arranged for display.
“You looked better like this yesterday,” he murmured, pressing my hair into a familiar side part. “We’ll keep it this way.”
He didn’t ask if I liked it.
He didn’t need to.
His hands lingered a little longer than necessary, smoothing, adjusting, controlling. I sat perfectly still, heart hammering, breathing shallow. No one had styled my hair for me since I was a child. Not even lovers. It was too vulnerable, too personal. But Sean didn’t treat it like a kindness.
It was a claim.
He stepped back, inspected me once more in the mirror, then nodded faintly.
“Good.”
Sean’s fingers gave one final pass through my hair before pulling away. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me in the mirror like he was appraising his work. Or maybe like he was appraising me.
I sat motionless, trying not to shiver. The last traces of shower water still clung to my skin, cooling now in the morning air. I expected him to step away. To say something dismissive and tell me to get breakfast ready. That would’ve been routine.
Instead, I felt his hand on my shoulder. Firm. Still damp with the hair cream he’d used. His grip tightened slightly as he leaned forward, and I caught the shift in his breathing before I saw it.
I stood when he released me, legs stiff from sitting so long. That’s when I saw it.
Sean was hard.
Painfully hard, judging by the shape pressing forward beneath his joggers. The grey fabric didn’t hide much. It clung to the outline of his cock—thick, long, pulsing visibly with each slow breath he took. His eyes were half-lidded, gaze dragging down my body like he was starving.
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at me with a mixture of hunger and restraint, like something inside him had been simmering all morning and was now rising to a boil.
“I usually like breakfast first,” he said at last, voice smooth. He stepped closer, the bulge in his pants almost brushing my stomach. “But this morning…”
His hand found my jaw. He tilted my head up, not hard, just enough to make sure I was looking at him.
“This morning I’m hungry for holes.”
My breath caught.
He smiled faintly, almost amused at his own phrasing, but there was no warmth in it. Only heat.
“I’ve let you get away with too much ritual,” he added. “Time to remind you what all that cleanliness is really for.”
Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.
I followed.
We crossed the hall into his bedroom, sunlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds. The bed was unmade—his side mussed from sleep, the other untouched. I wasn’t allowed in it. Not at night.
He stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face me. Wordlessly, he pushed his joggers down, stepping out of them without ceremony. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already glistening at the tip. It was even larger than I remembered from last night. Or maybe it just looked more threatening in the daylight.
“On the bed. On your back.”
I climbed up without hesitation, the sheets cool against my skin. I lay down flat, staring at the ceiling until his face came into view above me.
“I’m not going to make this pretty,” he said. “This is about hunger. About satisfaction. You exist for that.”
I swallowed hard. My heart was thudding against my ribs, but I nodded.
“Yes, Master.”
That earned a slow smirk. Then he climbed up between my legs.
Sean didn’t pounce. He settled. That was somehow worse.
He knelt between my legs with the unhurried poise of a man already confident in the outcome. His cock—thick, ruddy, and heavy with heat—rested briefly against my stomach, a warm, living weight. My own caged erection throbbed beneath it, unseen and irrelevant.
He leaned forward, one hand braced beside my head, the other cupping my jaw.
“Mouth first,” he said softly. “You clean the plate before you get the meal.”
I opened.
Sean didn’t feed it to me right away. He brushed the tip across my lips, back and forth, letting his arousal smear against my skin. I caught the bitter tang of precum, the faint salt of sweat from the base. He hadn’t showered since pissing on me. The scent made my head spin, sharp, earthy, inescapably male.
“Wider.”
I obeyed.
He pressed in.
It wasn’t a gentle motion, but it wasn’t brutal either. Controlled. Measured. Sean pushed until his cock filled my mouth, stretching my jaw wide, settling against the back of my throat. I fought the reflex to gag, focused on breathing through my nose.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, fingers lacing into my hair. “Let it happen.”
He began to move. Slowly at first, small thrusts, dragging himself across my tongue. The taste of him coated everything. Sweat, skin, musk. I focused on each breath, on relaxing my throat, on being useful.
“You always suck cock better in the morning?” he asked. His voice was low, amused. “No wonder I skipped breakfast.”
He started fucking deeper.
The pace quickened—not violently, but insistently. Like a man who hadn’t eaten all week and was now letting himself indulge. My throat began to protest. My eyes watered. Saliva spilled from the corners of my lips, coating my chin, mixing with the precum already slicking his cock.
Sean’s grip on my head tightened.
“No hands,” he said. “Just lie there and take it.”
I did.
He thrust slowly at first, savoring the initial resistance of my throat. His cock filled my mouth inch by inch, pushing past my tongue, stretching the corners of my lips until I couldn’t close them fully around him anymore. I gagged, once, and he paused, not with concern, but calculation. Measuring.
Then he kept going.
The next time I gagged, he didn’t stop. He fed himself deeper, one long, smooth stroke that planted him fully in my throat. My eyes watered instantly. I struggled to inhale through my nose, tried not to panic. I knew this. I’d done this.
The pain behind my jawbone faded into a kind of numb burn. My lips ached. My throat pulsed around him with every shallow breath I managed to draw. Sean’s scent, clean sweat, lingering piss, thick arousal, clung to my skin, clung to the back of my tongue.
He began to use me in earnest.
The rhythm he settled into was relentless, just controlled enough to stop short of brutality. He wasn’t punishing me. He was feeding on me. Sliding in and out with increasing confidence, using my face like he was testing the limits of what I could endure.
The sounds were obscene, slick, wet, raw. Every thrust forced a new stream of spit from my lips, drooling down my chin in thick ropes. My face was a mess, but I didn’t try to wipe it away.
He didn’t want me clean.
“Fucking hell,” Sean muttered above me, voice strained. “You take it now. You don’t shy away from it anymore.”
I couldn’t respond.
My hands were balled into fists at my sides, more from tension than willpower. My knees were bent awkwardly against the mattress, my chest heaving as I fought to time each breath between strokes. My throat wasn’t just sore, it was open, trained, owned.
He gripped both sides of my head now and started thrusting faster, harder, like something inside him had snapped. No more taunts. No more training tips. Just the sound of skin meeting skin, of his groans growing louder as I gagged and moaned and fought not to pass out.
I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted it.
To be used this way. To be his relief. To make him come not because he was being pleasured but because he was so far above me he could take whatever he wanted from my mouth.
Then—just when I thought he might lose control entirely—he pulled back.
Not all the way. Just enough so that the head of his cock rested on my tongue, leaking and twitching, my spit coating him from base to tip.
“Breathe,” he said, rough and low.
I sucked in air through my nose.
He didn’t let me up.
“Keep me there. Don’t swallow. Don’t close your lips. Just hold me.”
I obeyed. My mouth stayed open. My lips parted in a slack oval around the flare of his head. He pulsed against my tongue, each throb sending a new bead of precum into my mouth. My saliva pooled under my tongue, thick and warm.
Sean looked down at me like I was a possession well-used.
He stayed like that for a long moment. Long enough to feel the ache in my jaw deepen. Long enough to make my eyes start to water again. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then, at last, he pulled back, slowly, carefully, dragging himself across my raw tongue like a man savoring the final bite.
My lips clung to him involuntarily. I couldn’t help it.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
And then, finally, he flipped me.
Sean didn’t say a word when he flipped me. He just gripped my hips and turned me like he was resetting a pillow, no care for grace, no ceremony. I landed chest-down on the mattress, face buried in the wrinkled sheets, my legs bent awkwardly beneath me.
“Spread,” he said.
I did. Slowly, on instinct. I bent my knees, let them fall open until I was exposed. Vulnerable. Presented.
I felt him shift behind me, one hand planted on my lower back, the other moving down to part my ass.
There was no sound for a moment but our breathing.
Then I heard him spit.
It hit skin, wet, fast, familiar. I flinched only a little. He did it again. A second wad, this time landing right on my hole. The warmth of it, the weight, made me freeze.
His thumb followed immediately after, rubbing the spit in, not gently but not carelessly either. Just enough to slick the surface, to make himself welcome.
“That’s all you get,” he said, almost to himself. “You’re trained now.”
I nodded into the mattress. Or tried to. The pressure on my back kept me pinned.
I felt the head of his cock press against me next. Thick. Unforgiving.
He didn’t ram it in. He pushed. Slowly. With the same patience he’d shown with my mouth earlier, but none of the softness. He applied steady pressure, inch by inch, forcing me open on his spit and his will alone.
It still hurt but it felt so good too.
Like being filled beyond what I thought I could take. Like my body was being shown its real purpose by someone who didn’t need to prove anything anymore.
My breath came in sharp gasps.
I gripped the sheets in both hands, knuckles white, thighs trembling. My hole stretched around him, burned at the edges, then… gave way.
He was in.
“Fuck, Blake,” Sean breathed, suddenly tight-voiced. “You’re so fucking tight still.”
He didn’t give me time to adjust.
He pulled halfway out and pushed back in, faster now, testing the fit. My ass clenched instinctively, and he groaned low in his throat.
“I said relax,” he growled. “You’re not supposed to fight me. You’re supposed to welcome me.”
He grabbed both sides of my hips and adjusted his angle. This time, when he drove in, he hit deeper—deeper than I thought possible. My mouth opened against the sheets, a sound escaping I didn’t recognize. Pain? Shock? Something worse?
Something better?
He began to fuck me in earnest.
Sean set the rhythm like he was laying track. Measured at first. Intentional. Each thrust drove deeper, spreading the ache until I stopped trying to contain it. I let my head drop into the mattress, body slack except where his cock commanded tension.
He leaned forward, chest grazing my back. His hands slid up from my hips to my sides, then down again. Not tender. Not rough. Just aware. Like he was reminding me that this body belonged to him now—rented flesh he had no intention of giving back.
“This is how I want you,” he said low, close to my ear. “Open. Obedient. Fucked before you’ve even had a meal.”
His thrusts deepened.
I moaned. Not on purpose. Not performative. It just happened. A long, guttural sound that left my throat before I could mute it.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s right. You feel that. You feel me.”
I did.
Every stroke carved the thought of him deeper into me—erasing hesitation, scraping pride from my insides. The spit had mostly dried by now. My hole clung to him with every pullback. My body ached to be full, even as it struggled to keep up.
Sean straightened, one hand sliding up my spine, tracing the knobs of my vertebrae like keys on a piano.
Then he slapped my ass. Once. Hard.
“Don’t let that hole slacken,” he warned.
I nodded, breath caught.
He slapped the other cheek—less force, more ownership.
“Good boy.”
Something twisted inside me when he said that. Not quite pleasure. Not quite humiliation. Just… surrender.
I stayed down, stayed open, stayed quiet except for the stuttering breaths forced from me with each thrust.
He owned the rhythm. He owned the air.
He owned me.
Sean set the rhythm like he was laying track. Measured at first. Intentional. Each thrust pushed deeper, spreading the ache until I stopped trying to contain it. I let my head drop into the mattress, body slack except where his cock demanded tension.
He leaned forward, chest grazing my back. His hands slid up from my hips to my sides, then down again. Not tender. Not rough. Just precise. Like he was confirming every part of me still responded to him. Still bent where he wanted. Still fit around him exactly how he liked.
His hips snapped forward. I gasped.
“You feel just as tight as you were last night,” he went on, more to himself. “Or maybe I’m just harder now. Hungrier.” He chuckled at his own little joke about breakfast.
I moaned, low and involuntary. The sound echoed in the mattress. I couldn’t hold it in. Couldn’t hold anything in. Sean wasn’t just filling me—he was hollowing me out to make more room for himself.
He braced a hand between my shoulder blades and drove in harder. His thrusts weren’t wild, they were deliberate. Confident. Like he knew exactly what he was taking from me and exactly how much I could give before something in me gave way.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
Buried to the hilt, he stayed there. Just breathing. Letting me feel every inch of him pulsing inside me.
One of his hands slid across my lower back, up to my shoulder. His palm rested there, warm, grounding.
“I want you to think about this,” he said quietly. “How deep I am. How full you are. How right this feels now.”
He pulled out an inch, then slammed back in, not brutally, but hard enough to jolt a cry out of me.
“That’s your purpose, Blake.”
He didn’t move again. Just stayed there, deep and thick and maddeningly still, his breath brushing my neck.
Sean withdrew slowly, agonizingly slow, dragging his cock out inch by inch like he was peeling himself from inside me. I almost whimpered at the loss. My hole clenched involuntarily, slick and sore, still open and wanting.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood behind me, breathing heavily, letting my body miss him.
Then his hand came down, flat against the small of my back, then lower. Not a slap. A press. A firm, anchoring palm that told me not to move.
“You’re doing well,” he said, voice rough. “But I want to see your face.”
He stepped back.
“On your back. Legs up. Hold them.”
I rolled over, body sluggish and boneless. My thighs trembled as I lifted them, ankles parted. I reached behind my knees and pulled them back toward my chest, exposing myself completely.
I’d never felt more exposed than I did in that moment.
Naked. Caged. Sweaty from being used and still holding the pose I knew he’d find most satisfying.
Sean stared down at me like he was seeing something pure. Something broken in just the right way.
Then he climbed back onto the bed, one knee between mine, guiding himself with one hand.
“You’ve never looked better than this,” he said.
He rubbed the head of his cock along my hole, teasing it, letting the swollen tip catch on the stretched entrance that was already red and used. He smeared the mix of spit and precum around, just enough to keep me pliant.
Then he pushed in again.
The stretch was sharper this time. Deeper. My new position forced him in at a different angle, one that made my breath catch in my throat.
He started thrusting slowly, working himself back into the rhythm. My legs trembled in my hands, muscles straining to keep them up. But I didn’t let go. I wouldn’t.
“Look at you,” he said. “Holding yourself open like it’s nothing. Like your only job is to be fucked.”
He reached up with one hand and stroked my inner thigh, slow, almost affectionate. But there wasn’t just warmth behind it. There was also possession.
“You’re not allowed to touch your cock,” he said. “But you can ache. That’s part of the deal.”
He adjusted his hips and thrust harder. I cried out.
“I want to hear you,” he said, thrusting again. “No more holding it in.”
I obeyed.
My voice broke in the air between us, moans slipping out with every push. I didn’t care how it sounded. I didn’t even know if it was pain or pleasure anymore. Just sensation. Just fullness.
Just him.
Sean’s rhythm had changed.
It wasn’t just the angle or the position, it was the pressure behind every thrust now. A growing force. Purposeful. Final.
He drove into me like my body was something he’d ordered and waited to unwrap. My back arched involuntarily with each impact, thighs burning as I struggled to keep them spread, lifted, held. The muscles in my arms trembled from the effort. My breathing was ragged.
My cock was caged and aching, pressed between my pelvis and stomach, leaking onto my skin in thick, frustrated dribbles. Every thrust into my hole sent a matching throb through my shaft, unbearable, electric, cruel.
I couldn’t take it.
“Please—” I gasped.
Sean didn’t slow.
“Please, Master—let me cum.”
That stopped him.
The next thrust never landed.
He stayed buried deep inside me, cock twitching, breath catching in his chest.
Then he pulled out, not gently this time, but sharply, like yanking a plug from a drain.
Before I could react, his hand cracked across my face.
Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to shock. My head turned with the impact, cheek stinging. My mouth fell open, and I froze—legs still in the air, thighs spread wide, hole wet and gaping.
A second slap landed across the other cheek.
Not punishment. Correction.
Sean’s face hovered above mine now, dark with fury. His cock still pulsed against my thigh, slick and flushed, but his voice was cold.
“You don’t get to ask that.”
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. My lip trembled. My whole body had gone still, except the cage, which pulsed with need between us like a betrayal.
“You just came last night,” he said. “You think I forgot that?”
His hand gripped my jaw, squeezing just enough to make it hard to speak.
“You come when I decide it’s time,” he hissed. “And you beg only when I let you. Do you understand?”
I nodded quickly, heart racing. Shame burned hotter than my cheeks.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“Say it again. Like you mean it.”
“Yes, Master. I understand.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then released my jaw.
“Hold your legs.”
I obeyed instantly, hands locking under my knees once more, exposing my still-throbbing hole like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just overstepped. Like I hadn’t just been reminded—forcefully—who I belonged to.
Sean leaned forward and lined himself up again.
“Now take your fuck like a good boy.”
And with that, he drove back into me.
Sean didn’t ease back in.
He claimed me—shoved himself deep in one punishing thrust that knocked the air out of my lungs and erased whatever pride had been left hanging in the corners of my chest. My mouth opened in a silent cry. My whole body shook, not from pain, but from the clarity of knowing: I’d crossed a line, and now I was being put back in place.
He set a brutal rhythm.
Not reckless. Not wild.
Just relentless.
His hips slammed against the backs of my thighs, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room like punctuation. Each thrust filled me completely, down to the root, down to that aching, overstretched part of me that now pulsed around him with instinctive need. Every time he bottomed out, I thought it might be the last. That he’d finally finish. But he didn’t. He kept going. Working me like a tool that still had more to give.
“Keep those legs up,” he growled. “You don’t get to collapse now.”
I nodded weakly, arms trembling, sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes. I couldn’t wipe it away. My muscles were screaming. My cock throbbed behind its cage like it might break itself in protest.
Sean adjusted his angle, shifting one knee up onto the bed for better leverage. The next thrust hit something inside me that sent my back arching off the mattress.
He grinned.
“There it is,” he muttered. “Your spot.”
He hit it again.
And again.
Each time, my eyes rolled back. My fingers clenched around the backs of my knees. My hole spasmed around him uncontrollably.
His sweat dripped onto my chest. His breath came faster, harder. I could feel him teetering now—close. So close. His thrusts were shallower, tighter, like he was trying to milk the last seconds of control from his body before release.
My hole burned. My abs were locked. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t beg again even if I’d been allowed to. My mind had gone quiet—blank except for the steady chant repeating behind my eyes:
Take it. Take it. Take it.
Sean groaned, deep and guttural.
He was almost there.
Sean’s rhythm broke down into stuttering bursts, less pattern, more need. Each thrust landed with urgency now, his body vibrating with tension. I could feel it in his cock, swollen to its thickest, pulsing so hard inside me it felt like it had a heartbeat of its own.
His hands gripped my thighs tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just beneath my hips, holding me exactly where he wanted me—open, exposed, perfectly fucked.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, Blake—fuck, you’re mine.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
He slammed in again, balls tight against me, grinding now rather than thrusting, chasing the final stretch of friction that would push him over. His cock throbbed violently, and I felt it then: the shift. That unmistakable moment when a man stops controlling the experience and surrenders to the explosion building in his spine.
Sean came with a growl.
The sound tore from his throat, low and feral, his hips locked tight against mine as he spilled into me, thick, hot, pulsing again and again with brutal insistence. His cock twitched deep inside, flooding me with a warmth I could feel spread through my gut like a claim made physical.
He didn’t move.
Not at first.
His chest was flush to mine now, body trembling with aftershocks, forehead pressed to the side of my neck. I could feel the heat of his breath, the weight of him, solid, sweat-slicked, grounded. His cock stayed inside me, buried to the base, thick and slowly softening.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. I just lay there, arms still hooked under my legs, held open, used.
Owned.
His breathing slowed.
Then I felt his lips move against my neck. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just the brush of his mouth, followed by a murmur.
“You’re such a greedy bottom,” he said quietly. “Always wanting more dick.”
His voice was flat, but not indifferent.
He stayed inside me a moment longer.
Then finally, with one last shallow thrust, he slid out, slowly. Carefully. His cock left my body wet and empty, and I clenched involuntarily at the loss.
Sean didn’t comment on that. He just sat back on his knees and looked down at me—spread, sweating, filled.
Silent.
Waiting.
Sean sat back, still breathing hard, sweat glistening on his chest and shoulders. His cock hung heavy between his thighs—softening, streaked with spit and rimmed with the last traces of cum. My hole ached, raw and pulsing, still parted from the stretch of him. I didn’t move.
He studied me in silence. Then, finally, his voice:
“Roll over. Carefully.”
I obeyed.
The movement was slow. My arms trembled. My spine bent awkwardly as I unfolded myself and turned onto my back. I could feel his cum shift inside me, thick and unmistakably present. My thighs stayed parted, open like I’d been trained.
Sean leaned forward and placed two fingers against the inside of my thigh. Then lower.
I flinched slightly when his fingers pressed against my entrance.
He didn’t speak.
He just pushed two fingers inside.
His cum coated them immediately. He slid in deeper, scooping it out, then drew his hand back.
He looked down at his fingers. Then at me.
His expression didn’t change.
“Open,” he said.
I did.
He pressed the fingers into my mouth, slowly, letting me taste what he’d left behind. I closed my lips around them automatically, tongue swirling over the salt and musk. It wasn’t just about taste. It was about submission. About knowing that even his release wasn’t mine to waste.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound and wiped them casually on my chest.
Then he stood.
His cock dangled in front of my face now, glossy, wet, beginning to soften but still heavy with the memory of what it had done.
“You know what to do.”
I pushed myself up on one elbow and leaned in.
My tongue made the first pass, slow, from base to tip, gathering sweat, spit, and the last remnants of cum. I licked him clean with deliberate strokes, my lips following, pressing softly against the skin that had just violated me so completely. I worked under the head, then around the crown, then down along the shaft, until no trace remained.
Sean watched me do it, silent.
He didn’t praise me.
He didn’t need to.
When I was done, I knelt back on my heels, head bowed slightly.
The taste lingered in my mouth. The ache lingered in my body.
And I waited for whatever came next.
Sean’s cock slipped from my mouth with a quiet wet sound. I stayed still, kneeling on the mattress, face flushed and chest streaked with spit and sweat. I could still feel the slick heat inside me, gravity pulling it downward, threatening to leak.
But Sean wasn’t done.
He stepped closer again, fingers brushing my thigh, then sliding down between my cheeks. His touch was casual—clinical, almost—but the way his fingertips circled my hole felt anything but indifferent.
“You’re leaking,” he said quietly. “What a wasteful little hole.”
He knelt, just slightly, and spread me with one hand. I sucked in a breath as two fingers slipped inside again, deeper this time. The cum that had started to slide free was scooped back, gathered like it still belonged to him.
He pulled his hand back, fingers coated in his own release.
“Look at me.”
I looked.
He held his fingers in front of my face.
“Open.”
I obeyed.
The taste was familiar now—bitter, salt-heavy, still warm from my own body. I sucked his fingers clean without hesitation, letting my tongue work between them, licking up every last trace. I didn’t gag. I didn’t flinch. I swallowed, then looked up at him again, ready for more.
But Sean simply stood and stretched.
“That’s enough.”
He turned toward the ensuite, already stripping off his shirt as he walked. He didn’t look back.
“Wipe up anything still dripping,” he called over his shoulder.
Sean simply stood and stretched.
He turned toward the ensuite, already peeling off his shirt as he walked. Muscles flexed in his back, glistening slightly in the morning light. He didn’t look back.
At the doorway, he paused.
“And Blake?”
I looked up, still kneeling.
“Make us breakfast.”
His tone was flat, final.
Then he disappeared into the steam, the sound of the shower starting a moment later.
I stood slowly. My legs trembled as I stepped down from the mattress. The ache between my cheeks pulsed with each step—dull, swollen, unmistakably used. I reached for the towel folded on the low dresser and brought it between my legs. I pressed it there gently, wincing as I dabbed away the remaining slickness.
It was a strange thing—wiping up evidence of someone else’s pleasure from your own body.
But it didn’t feel wrong.
It felt… earned.
I carried the towel to the hamper, folded it once, and dropped it in.
Then I turned toward the hallway. My body was still naked, my hair still exactly the way he liked it, and my stomach growled quietly.
Breakfast.
For both of us.
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