Randy for Submission, Pursuing the One, Chapter 15: Old Habits

Chapter 15: Old Habits

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

Randy woke to a gray Monday sky bleeding through the blinds. He lay there for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling, yesterday still sitting heavy on him. The sex with Ezra had been unreal, but that didn’t stop the knot in his gut. He’d let himself believe in something that wasn’t there.

He sat up, feet hitting the floor, and rubbed his face. Ezra had never promised anything. He’d laughed off any talk of something more, changed the subject the second things edged too close. Randy had noticed — he’d just ignored it because the sex had been that good.

And it was good. Ezra would let him spit on him, slap him, choke him, and still crawl back for more. That counted for something. It meant Randy never had to go without release. Ezra would always be there when Randy wanted him.

But that wasn’t the goal. Randy wanted more than someone who’d kneel and obey. He wanted someone who’d stay. Someone he could love and still own.

He moved through his morning without rushing, pulling on jeans, tossing a hoodie over his head, ignoring the coffee cooling on the counter while he packed his bag. By the time he zipped his winter jacket, his head felt clearer. Ezra could be used again, but Randy’s focus had already shifted.

He stepped outside into the brittle cold, breath hanging in the air, and told himself the same thing with every step toward campus: Ezra might be the perfect sex slave, but Randy wasn’t done searching.

Classes blurred into each other. Randy cut across campus between lectures, boots crunching thin patches of old snow. The cold found every gap in his jacket and made his shoulders hunch. He wished it was spring already. He wanted to feel the sun, ditch the coat, stop worrying about scarves and salt-stained boots.

He tugged his bag higher and kept walking. Students passed by, all bundled and silent, just heading somewhere warm.

That’s when he saw him.

The boy from before.

He was coming from the opposite direction, heading toward the humanities building. The crowd shifted just enough for Randy to really see him.

Dark hair, almost black. Strands slipped out from under a gray knit cap, brushing his ears, the ends curling slightly when they caught the breeze. His skin was pale from winter, smooth — the kind that would burn fast once the weather turned.

Randy’s eyes stayed on his face. Strong cheekbones, a straight nose, a mouth with a slight curl like it might turn into a smirk if something amused him. His eyes were darker still, steady and aware, like they missed nothing.

His jacket was plain, dark, a little worn. Gray jeans that fit right. White sneakers somehow still bright despite the mess underfoot.

Randy stared too long, and the boy noticed. Their eyes locked for a second — barely that — but it was enough. There was something there, a flash of knowing.

The boy looked away and kept walking, disappearing into the stream of students.

Randy stayed still for a moment, breath fogging in the air, then started moving again, the wish for spring sitting heavier in his chest.

That second of eye contact wouldn’t leave him. It crept into his head in the middle of lectures, while he stirred sugar into his coffee, even when he stood at the urinal between classes. The boy hadn’t smiled or lingered, but there’d been something deliberate in the look.

By Monday afternoon, Randy was dragging his pace across campus, checking faces, hoping for another glimpse. He saw nothing. He kicked at a patch of ice, annoyed, and thought again how much better everything would feel if winter would just end.

At first, it was just the comfort he craved: walking without the sting on his face, not thinking about gloves and zippers. But later, lying in bed, it shifted. He started picturing the same paths without his coat. His arms bare, shirts that showed his chest, the thought of the boy seeing him without all the distracting layers.

By Tuesday morning, Randy decided to work with what he had. If winter wasn’t leaving, he’d look his best in it, even wearing a winter coat. He stood longer in front of the mirror. Picked a fitted sweater instead of the usual hoodie. Swapped his heavy coat for one that hugged closer.

He left early, hoping for a glimpse. Shoulders back, jacket open just enough to show the line of the sweater, he looked sharp. He knew it.

The boy didn’t show. Not Tuesday.

Wednesday, Randy dressed with the same care. A black turtleneck this time, dark jeans, boots clean of salt. He walked the same paths.

The boy wasn’t there.

Thursday, the routine felt automatic. Another sweater. Another jacket. Every group that passed, Randy checked for the dark hair.

Still nothing.

Friday he tried again: a pale gray sweater, a jacket he hadn’t worn all week. Even bundled, he wanted to look like the kind of bundled people noticed.

But the boy never appeared.

By late afternoon, frustration crept in.

Randy pulled out his phone.

Ezra’s name was near the top. Randy stared for a second, then typed.

Randy: Be here at eight. Naked. Ready to serve.

He hit send.

Ezra’s reply came almost immediately.

Ezra: Yes, Sir.

Randy set the phone face down on his desk and leaned back. Ezra would come. Ezra always came.

By eight, the apartment was ready. The coffee table was pushed back. The leather whip lay coiled on the counter next to a pair of cuffs. One lamp lit the room, throwing shadows across the walls.

A knock.

Randy opened the door. Ezra stood there in jeans and a hoodie, eyes already down, waiting.

“Inside,” Randy said.

Ezra stepped in.

“Shut the door. Shoes off.”

Ezra kicked off his sneakers, lined them by the mat.

“Clothes.”

Ezra stripped — hoodie, shirt, jeans, briefs. His skin flushed as the cold air hit him, but he didn’t say a word.

Randy didn’t offer praise or comfort.

“Kneel.”

Ezra dropped, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.

Randy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve been waiting for this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy grabbed his jaw, lifting his head. “Think about me when I’m not here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy spat in his mouth. “Swallow.”

Ezra obeyed.

Randy stood, grabbed the cuffs, and stepped behind him. “Hands.”

Ezra clasped his wrists. The cuffs clicked shut tight.

“Stay on your knees.”

Randy uncoiled the whip and let the cool leather drag across Ezra’s shoulders before pulling it away.

“You know why you’re here?”

“To serve you, Sir.”

Randy laughed under his breath and slapped him across the face. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting.

“That’s right. Nothing else.”

Ezra’s breath caught, but he didn’t move.

Randy flicked the whip in his hand and brought it down. The crack cut through the quiet. Ezra sucked in a breath, his back tightening but he didn’t pull away.

Another lash. Harder. A red line bloomed across his skin.

“You like that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy circled him, dragging the whip’s edge across Ezra’s chest before striking low, just above his hip. Ezra gasped, a tremor running through him.

Randy tilted his chin up, spit into his mouth.

“Keep it.”

Ezra held it, cheeks hollow, eyes locked on him.

Randy slapped him again. “Swallow.”

Ezra swallowed.

“You’ve been waiting for this all week,” Randy said, his voice even. “Checking your phone, hoping I’d text you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re not here because you’re special,” Randy said. “You’re here because you’re handy.”

Ezra’s lips parted. “Yes, Sir.”

Randy spat again, this time on his cheek. It stayed there, glistening.

“Fuck,” Randy muttered. “Covered in spit and you’re still nodding like you want more.”

Ezra’s breath quickened.

Randy brought the whip down three times in fast succession, each strike harder than the last. Ezra moaned low, his shoulders jerking, knees staying locked to the floor.

“Good,” Randy said.

He tossed the whip aside and grabbed a fistful of Ezra’s hair, yanking his head back.

“You think this makes you mine?”

Ezra opened his mouth, but Randy slapped him again.

“It doesn’t.”

Ezra blinked, eyes wet, and nodded.

“Face down.”

Ezra lowered his eyes, cuffed hands awkward behind him.

Randy pushed his knees apart with his foot. Ezra’s chest pressed to the cold floor, his ass lifted.

Randy crouched, bringing his face down to Ezra’s level, ran a thumb along Ezra’s lip, and spit hard onto his face.

“Open.”

Ezra opened wider. Randy shoved two fingers in.

“Get them clean.”

Ezra sucked, tongue working around them, spit spilling down his chin.

“You like this,” Randy said.

“Yes, Sir,” Ezra mumbled.

Randy pulled his hand away, spit stretching in strands, then unzipped his jeans.

Ezra leaned in, mouth open, waiting.

Randy pushed his cock in slow, snaking Ezra’s throat with his shaft. Halfway in, he stopped.

“Hold it there.”

Ezra froze, throat straining.

Randy spat on the back of his head, spit sliding into his hair.

“You’re nothing but a hole right now,” Randy said. “That’s all you get to be.”

Ezra moaned, the sound vibrating around him.

Randy shoved deeper, making him gag.

“Stay there.”

Ezra’s eyes watered, spit flooding out.

Randy held him there, then yanked him back by the hair.

“Look at this mess,” Randy said, spit trailing from Ezra’s mouth. “Clean it up.”

Ezra licked at him, sloppy and eager, hands useless behind him.

Randy shoved him forward again, filling his mouth. Ezra gagged, spit dripping down his chest.

“Pathetic,” Randy muttered.

He dragged him back. “Breathe.”

Ezra gasped, spit stringing from his lips.

“You look disgusting,” Randy said. “Perfect.”

He pushed back in, slower this time, letting Ezra take him to the base. Ezra hollowed his cheeks, trying to please him.

Randy yanked him off and let him collapse forward, coughing.

“On your back.”

Ezra rolled clumsily, wrists bound, chest heaving.

Randy spit on his cheek and wiped it across his lips. “You’ll lick up whatever I give you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy sat back on the couch, pulled off his socks. Bare feet on the floor, toes curling slightly.

Randy lifted one foot. “Kiss it.”

Ezra pressed his lips to Randy’s toes.

“Again.”

Ezra kissed harder.

“Now lick.”

Ezra dragged his tongue across the arch, kissed each toe, sucked them one by one, spit pooling.

“That’s it,” Randy said. “You’ll suck my toes like you suck my cock.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ezra mumbled around a toe.

Randy switched feet. Ezra kissed and sucked until Randy pushed his face away with his foot, smearing spit across his cheek.

“You fucking love my feet, pig,” Randy said. “You love my body.”

He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped close, looming over Ezra like a mountain.

“Turn over.”

Ezra rolled onto his stomach, ass raised.

Randy spat between his cheeks and pressed a thumb in.

“Stay still.”

He lubed his fingers, pressed one in, then another. Ezra moaned, head dropping to the floor.

“This isn’t for you,” Randy said. “This is for me.”

Randy pulled his fingers out, lined himself up.

“Don’t move.”

He pressed forward until the head sank in. Ezra gasped.

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Sir. Please fuck me.”

Randy shoved deeper.

“Such a tight little hole. That’s all you’re good for.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy spit on his back, the trail sliding down. He started thrusting, slow but heavy.

“Quiet,” he warned, when Ezra’s moan slipped out high and raw.

Randy pulled out halfway, then slammed back in. Harder.

Ezra whimpered, biting his lip.

Randy spit again, letting it drip between his cheeks over where he was driving in and out.

“You’re leaking all over me,” he muttered.

He yanked out, flipped Ezra onto his back, and shoved his cock into his mouth.

“Taste yourself.”

Ezra gagged as Randy thrust shallow, smearing spit and his own taste across his tongue.

“Don’t even think about spitting it out.”

Ezra swallowed around him, tears streaking.

Randy pulled out, flipped him back, and shoved into his ass again, this time rougher.

The rhythm turned punishing. Each thrust shoved Ezra forward, cuffs rattling.

“You’re nothing but a hole,” Randy repeated against his ear.

Ezra’s body jerked under him, hips pushing back into every thrust.

Randy spit into his mouth when he turned to look, then pinned him down again, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

His thrusts sharpened. Ezra’s breath hitched with each one.

“You take it so good,” Randy muttered. “You’re probably already thinking about the next time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy yanked his head back by the hair. “You think I’m doing this for you?”

Ezra shook his head. “No, Sir.”

Randy’s mouth curved. “That’s right. It’s never for you.”

He sped up, grip digging into Ezra’s hips. The slap of his body against Ezra’s was loud and constant now.

“Take it,” Randy growled.

A few more thrusts, deeper, harder, until he pushed in all the way and stayed there, cock twitching as he emptied himself.

He stayed inside until the last wave passed.

Finally, he pulled out. “Up.”

Ezra’s legs shook as he got to his knees.

“Clean me”

Ezra dutifully took Randy’s cock into his mouth, licking clean every trace of cum and his own ass that lingered on Randy’s rapidly softening member. Randy wasn’t done with Ezra yet though. If Ezra wanted to be his slave boy, he’d get the full treatment.

“Follow,” Randy ordered simply.

Randy dragged Ezra to the bathroom, flipped the light, and nodded toward the tub.

“Get in.”

Ezra stepped in, cuffed, still covered in sweat and cum.

Randy stood over him, grabbed his hair, tilted his head back.

“You know what’s coming.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Randy smirked, aimed, and let go.

The stream hit Ezra’s chest, streaked down his stomach, then his face. Ezra tilted his head back, catching what he could.

Randy kept going until he was empty, the splash loud in the small room.

He stepped back, shook himself off once, and looked down at Ezra.

“We’re done. You can clean yourself.”

He left, shutting the door.

Randy dropped onto the couch, the living room dim and heavy with the smell of sex. His jeans lay in a heap, but he didn’t bother pulling them on yet. He sat in his briefs, elbows on his knees, listening to the faint trickle of water as Ezra rinsed off.

Ezra was perfect for this. He showed up. He knelt. He begged. He swallowed spit and piss like they meant something. He could take everything Randy handed out.

But Randy knew — it wasn’t enough.

He needed someone who would kneel and look up at him like Ezra did but also stay when the cuffs came off.

Randy stood, finally pulling on his jeans, buttoning them slowly.

Ezra would be used again. But Ezra wasn’t the point.

He glanced toward the bathroom door, heard the water still running, and pulled his hoodie over his head.

Next week he’d find that boy on campus again. And if not, he’d find someone else.

The search wasn’t over.