Randy for Submission, Chapter 2: Student Body

Chapter 2: Student Body

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

The city was just beginning to stir when Randy woke.

Pale light bled in through the narrow windows, cutting thin, tired lines across the hardwood floor. Outside, a streetcar rumbled past, the low vibration barely noticeable beneath the heavy silence of the apartment.

Randy blinked up at the cracked ceiling, taking stock. His body felt good, a little tight through the hips and thighs, the natural aftereffect of the night’s effort, but otherwise loose, ready. No soreness. No bruises. Nothing to mark the night except a faint lingering memory of the boy’s soft skin and the disappointment the encounter had yielded—like so many others.

He exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

It should have meant something.

It should have left a mark deeper than this.

The boy, he didn’t bother trying to remember the name, had begged prettily enough.

Had taken every rough thrust like he was starving for it. Had said all the right things, cried out all the right words.

But it hadn’t been real.

Randy had known it before he even finished.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the chill of the hardwood biting into the soles of his feet. The apartment felt larger in the mornings, somehow. Emptier. Every sound stretched a little too far. The radiator hissed faintly against the wall, fighting a losing battle with the early November cold.

He stood, stretching briefly, the muscles in his back flexing with casual strength. The mirror across the room caught the movement, a flash of lean muscle, clean skin, dark hair still tousled from sleep.

Still the man everyone wanted.

Still the man no one held.

He crossed to the bathroom, flipped on the light. Harsh fluorescence spilled over the cracked tile and the worn sink. He splashed cold water onto his face, blinking against the shock.

Toronto mornings always had a weight to them.

Not heavy, just dense. Packed with the breath of millions of people dragging themselves into the day.

Randy braced his hands against the sink, leaning into the mirror.

Blue eyes stared back at him, sharp and unreadable.

It wasn’t loneliness gnawing at him.

It wasn’t self-pity.

It was the simple, stubborn fact that this, another night, another body, another perfect, empty submission, wasn’t enough.

Not for him.

The more time went on, the less satisfying these sorts of encounters became.

He dried his face, moving efficiently, mechanically. His reflection faded as he turned away.

The coffee maker sputtered to life with a mechanical click as he moved into the kitchen. He worked through the motions without thinking, scoop, pour, press. Bitter smell rising, cutting through the last haze of sleep.

His phone buzzed once against the counter. A notification from one of the apps he hadn’t deleted yet.

Another profile. Another boy. Another promise of obedience, knees, pleasure.

He ignored it.

Randy poured the coffee into a battered black mug, wrapping his hands around the heat. He stared out the window, watching the gray light bleed across the buildings, smearing the edges of the skyline.

Somewhere out there, the city was waking up, streetcars clanging, office lights flickering on, coffee shops flooding with early commuters.

Somewhere out there, maybe, was someone worth finding.

He didn’t rush the thought.

Didn’t feed it hope or anger.

It was just there, solid, persistent, like the steady pulse in his veins.

He sipped the coffee, the bitterness grounding him.

It would be easy to give up.

To settle for the bodies who said the right things in the right tone, who knelt because they liked the idea of surrender without understanding its weight.

To take pleasure where it was offered and ignore the hollow pit it left behind.

But Randy had never been built for easy.

He would wait.

He would endure.

He would keep looking, not for the best body, not for the prettiest face, but for the boy whose submission rang real.

The boy who didn’t need to be taught how to kneel properly because he already knew, somewhere in the marrow of his bones, that he was made for it.

Until then, Randy would do what he always did.

He would endure the hollow nights.

He would wake to cold mornings.

He would walk through a city full of noise and faces and emptiness, and he would not bend.

He would wait.

By the time Randy stepped off the streetcar near Queen’s Park, the sky had lightened to a dull, wintery gray. Toronto had fully woken around him, morning rush traffic pulsed through the intersection, and the sidewalks were thick with bundled students and office workers moving with practiced haste.

He blended into the flow easily.

The University of Toronto campus spilled across the core like a stitched-together quilt of old stone and modern glass. Randy cut across one of the quieter side paths behind the medical sciences building, steaming coffee in one hand, satchel slung over the opposite shoulder. His pace was deliberate, unrushed.

He’d slept no more than five hours, but he didn’t feel tired. His body thrived on routine, on motion, on the structure of deadlines and checklists.

Sleep could always be postponed.

Satisfaction was what eluded him.

Inside the building, fluorescent lights hummed low above scuffed linoleum floors. He took the stairs two at a time and slid into the second-floor lecture hall just as students were beginning to settle into their usual seats. The hum of chatter, rustling paper, the clack of laptops waking up.

Randy claimed his spot near the back, halfway up the stadium seating, with a clear view of the room. He liked sitting where he could observe, classmates, instructors, the subtle choreography of boredom and stress that played out each morning like clockwork.

He opened his laptop, clicked through to the day’s slides. Cardiology.

He scanned the room.

Same people. Same smells, coffee, wet winter coats, stale perfume. A few classmates had grouped up near the front, already trading jokes over their notes. Two rows down, a girl scrolled Instagram with a look of dead-eyed devotion.

His gaze passed over faces without much interest, until it caught on someone unfamiliar.

A boy near the far right wall, mid-row.

He was leaning forward slightly, one arm propped on the desk, the other tapping notes into a tablet. Hair still damp from a recent shower. Strong jawline. Slim shoulders under a well-fitted quarter-zip. He wasn’t flashy, no dyed hair, no piercings, no loud colors. But something about him made Randy’s attention pause.

There was a looseness to his posture, casual without being lazy.

He wasn’t posturing.

He wasn’t hiding either.

The boy laughed quietly at something his seatmate said, flashing a quick smile. It was easy. Unforced.

Randy tilted his head slightly. He couldn’t recall seeing the guy before, not unusual, given the size of the cohort, but he would’ve remembered that smile. That softness.

He studied him for a few seconds longer, then looked away as the professor launched into the opening announcements.

He didn’t look back again during the lecture.

After class, Randy headed to the teaching hospital for his small group rotation. It was a pulmonary session, case discussion, differential generation, the usual jostling for who could sound smartest with the fewest words. He played the game well. Knew when to speak. When to hold back just long enough to make the attending notice him.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was calibration.

Most of the other students were good, but Randy was better. He didn’t say it aloud. Didn’t need to. He knew how to operate in systems. Whether it was the pecking order in a hospital or the psychological structure of a scene, he understood hierarchy intuitively.

By noon, he’d seen enough strained lungs and anxious pre-clerks to last the week. He stopped at a campus café on his way back, ordered a sandwich he didn’t really want, and ate it outside under the weak sun.

His mind drifted back, unbidden, to the boy from the lecture hall.

There was something in that casual energy that had hooked him, even briefly. Not the looks, though he was handsome. It was the lack of pretense that had stood out. The ease.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe the guy was just another confident, straight-laced med student with a good moisturizer and a passable jawline.

Still.

Randy didn’t usually look twice.

He filed the impression away without deciding what to do with it.

There’d be another class. Another chance to watch.

Or not.

He stood, brushed crumbs off his coat, and turned back toward the main campus walkway, folding into the crowd again and headed back towards the café.

The campus café was crowded, but Randy found a table in the back near the windows, just far enough from the main counter to avoid the worst of the noise. His coffee steamed beside his laptop, half-drunk and already cooling. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, tapping through the day’s lecture slides while the city buzzed on the other side of the glass.

Heart sounds. Valve disorders. Too many acronyms, not enough clarity.

He was efficient. Always had been. He didn’t highlight every line or take decorative notes. He just read, absorbed, moved on. The same way he approached most things in life, directly, methodically, with as little wasted energy as possible.

But his attention was thinner than usual.

The boy from this morning — the one in the well-fitted quarter zip — kept flickering back into his thoughts. Not because of how he looked, exactly, but because of how he didn’t posture. So many men, especially in this city, wore their sex like marketing, loud, polished, designed to hook. But this one had just… existed. Present. Relaxed. Unimpressed.

Randy wondered if that ease extended into bed.

He hoped not.

He pulled out his phone without really thinking about it, thumbing into his messages.

Randy:

Another perfect body. Another perfect nothing.

How do you keep finding boys who actually mean it when they say “Sir”?

He sent it. Took a sip of coffee. Watched as the three little dots popped up, paused, then resumed.

Sean:

I don’t find them. I train them.

That’s the difference that comes with experience.

Randy smirked. Of course. Sean always answered like that — not cruel, just certain. The kind of confidence that didn’t need to be performed.

Randy:

Not all of us have a condo full of crying boys eager to be broken in.

Some of us are stuck sorting through pillow-biters with porn-script kinks.

Sean:

You’ll get there.

Or you won’t.

Randy let the phone rest on the table, the edge of his smirk fading. Sean wasn’t being an asshole. He was just honest. He didn’t say things to make people feel better. He said things because they were true.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Sean had mastered something Randy was still chasing, the ability to take a boy who liked rough sex and turn him into someone who needed to kneel.

Not as a kink. As an identity.

That wasn’t chemistry. That was skill.

And skill took time.

Randy closed the chat and leaned back in his chair, stretching briefly before clicking back to his lecture notes. The material was dry, but his mind locked back onto it with mechanical ease.

Mitral regurgitation. Heart murmurs. Pulmonary hypertension.

Things he could master.

Things that didn’t lie.

He worked for another forty minutes before his concentration began to wear thin. The café had emptied slightly, the lunch rush fading, and the sun outside had dipped just far enough to turn the window glass reflective. He caught his own eyes for a moment, serious, calm, faintly tired.

His phone buzzed again.

Not Sean this time, a message from one of the apps.

Someone new. Generic. Shirtless. Flexing in a gym mirror.

He didn’t open it.

Instead, he pulled up the app and scrolled, slowly, without much interest. It was habit more than hope. Faces and bodies blurred past. He wasn’t really looking.

Until one profile stopped him. Familiar.

The boy from class.

The profile picture wasn’t obvious, a cropped photo from a hike, maybe. Sunglasses, tight shirt, smile a little too wide for the angle. But it was him. The jawline. The quiet confidence. The unforced casualness.

A name: Liam.

No stats listed. No tags. Just a short line under the name:

“Sometimes the right hands make all the difference.”

Randy studied it for a few seconds longer, then closed the app without tapping anything.

He didn’t need to rush.

There’d be another class.

Another look.

If Liam was what he appeared to be, Randy would know soon enough.

He gathered his things, slung his bag over one shoulder, and tossed his empty cup in the bin near the door. The air outside had cooled since morning, and the sun was beginning to burn low behind the buildings. The wind pushed faintly through the trees as Randy slipped into the pedestrian stream and headed home.

He walked like he always did, soundlessly, deliberately, unhurried.

The apartment felt the same as it always did when Randy returned. Quiet. Still. A little too clean.

He slipped out of his coat, hung it neatly by the door, and crossed to the kitchen. The light outside had faded to a muted blue. Not quite night. That in-between hour when the city slowed just enough to breathe but hadn’t yet gone still.

He filled a glass of water and drank it without thinking, then leaned against the counter, staring out the window. The street below was half-lit, traffic easing into its early lull. Horns softer now. Headlights streaking against the buildings in long, broken lines.

He thought about the day.

It hadn’t been bad. The lectures were manageable. The hospital session had gone fine. He’d spoken just enough to stand out, not so much that he drew attention. The café had been quiet enough to work. The coffee was average.

Then there was Liam.

The image came back easily. The boy’s face tilted in soft laughter. The small, natural movements. The way he hadn’t noticed being watched. It wasn’t lust that lingered. It was the absence of performance. The kind of thing you couldn’t fake, and most didn’t even know they were missing.

Still, Randy didn’t overthink it. A glance was just that.

He moved to the couch, set the water down, and opened his laptop. Checked his calendar, scanned his to-do list for the next day. Nothing urgent. He could stay up late. He would anyway.

The silence of the apartment wrapped around him. Comfortable, but not inviting. Every surface was organized. Every item in its place. He lived well. Lived efficiently.

But tonight, would feel like the others.

Randy glanced at his phone. The app was still open from earlier, the profile list waiting just below the screen. He swiped it closed, opened it again without thinking.

He didn’t scroll yet. Just stared at the screen.

There was no illusion. He wouldn’t find what he needed there. Not the thing he was really looking for. But it didn’t mean the body wouldn’t be warm. That the mouth wouldn’t be eager. That the control he craved wouldn’t feel good for a little while.

It was enough to keep the ache at bay. Sometimes that had to be enough.

He set the phone down, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and let his mind settle. Not on a name. Not on a face. Just on the familiar rhythm of the night ahead.

There would be a message. A meeting. The same quick talk, the same anticipation. A boy would kneel, call him Sir, beg to be used.

Randy would take. He always did. He would fuck hard, take what was offered, leave satisfaction in the body and silence in the soul.

He wouldn’t stay long.

He never did.

He picked the phone back up and opened the app for real this time. Started scrolling, this time with purpose. The boys blurred together. They always had. Smooth skin. Open mouths. Empty captions.

He paused once or twice, considered. No one special. But he’d find someone. He always did.

The city was full of boys who wanted to be touched.

But it was still waiting for the one who wanted to be owned.

He tapped out a few words. Waited. A reply came quickly.

The ache was already dulling. Not gone. Just contained.

He stood, returned to the kitchen to rinse the glass. His movements were easy, practiced. The body didn’t need a reason. The mind didn’t need a reward.

He was still looking.

But tonight, he’d settle.

Just enough to forget.

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