Randy for Submission, Pursuing the One

Chapter 1: The Hunter

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

In the dim, battered apartment on Sherbourne Street, the walls pulsing with the muffled heartbeat of the city beyond, Randy’s body moved like a machine — relentless, efficient, unfeeling. He drove his hips forward again, burying his thick cock deep inside the slender twink sprawled beneath him.

The boy sobbed into the pillow, his arms straining uselessly against Randy’s iron grip. Sweat slicked their bodies, the air heavy with the raw stink of sex and something sweeter — cheap cologne, detergent, desperation.

"You like that, don't you, slut?" Randy growled against the boy's ear, his voice low, dark.

"Yes, Sir! Please!" the twink gasped, trying to push back into him, offering himself with frantic eagerness.

Randy sneered inwardly. The boy's body begged beautifully, pliant, shaking, slick with need, but there was no true surrender in it. No soul-deep craving. Just a hollow hunger for approval. For orgasm. For the idea of being used.

It wasn't enough.

Randy adjusted his grip, forcing the boy's wrists tighter into the mattress. His other hand clamped viciously on the boy’s narrow hip, anchoring him in place as he began to thrust harder. The twin slaps of skin on skin grew sharper, faster. The bed frame squealed in protest beneath them.

The boy moaned brokenly, his voice cracking under the weight of sensation. "I'm your whore, Sir! Your slut! Please use me!"

Randy leaned in, grinding deeper with a slow, punishing rhythm. He could feel every twitch of the boy’s hole around his cock, the **** tightening as the twink struggled to take it all. The muscles of Randy’s back and thighs flexed with controlled power, driving into the boy with cruel, rhythmic precision.

"Say it again," Randy murmured, his breath hot against the boy's ear.

"I’m your whore, Sir," the boy choked out, high and breathless.

The words were right. The body was right.

The feeling was wrong.

Randy’s thrusts grew harsher, more punishing. The headboard slammed against the wall with every motion. The boy’s face twisted in overstimulation, tears leaking from the corners of his closed eyes, a whimpering mess beneath him.

Still, Randy felt nothing deeper ignite inside him.

The boy’s body jerked as Randy shifted the angle of his hips, grinding hard against the boy’s prostate. He sobbed openly now, clutching the sheets with white-knuckled fists, his cock leaking against the crumpled bedding without ever being touched.

Randy bore down harder, his muscles straining. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. The air around them was suffocating — too hot, too close — but Randy drove through it, mechanical, merciless.

He adjusted again, dragging the boy’s thighs wider apart, forcing him even more open. The boy yelped, his body trembling on the edge of collapse.

"You’re nothing but a hole," Randy hissed against the boy’s temple. "A fucking hole for my cock."

"Yes, Sir! Yes, please — use me!" the twink cried, voice shattering under the ****.

Randy pistoned his hips faster, chasing his release with grim efficiency. Every thrust jarred the boy’s slight frame upward, muffled sobs torn from his throat. His legs kicked weakly, useless against Randy’s strength pinning him down.

The smell of sweat and spent need thickened in the air.

Still, Randy’s mind drifted — away from the trembling body beneath him, away from the **** moans, toward a phantom he hadn’t yet found. A boy who would mean it. A boy who would weep not from the ache of his hole but from the bliss of true surrender.

His cock twitched deep inside the twink’s body, warning him that climax was near.

Randy snarled low in his throat and doubled his pace, jackhammering into the boy with brutal finality. The twink wailed, toes curling, as he was pounded relentlessly into the stained mattress.

He felt the boy’s body clench around him — a tight, involuntary spasm. The twink was on the verge of cumming, untouched, undone purely by the violation.

Randy didn't care.

This wasn’t about giving. It wasn’t even about taking.

It was about filling the aching void inside him for just a few seconds. About proving, again, that no body — no matter how eager — could substitute for the kind of submission he craved.

His orgasm barreled through him without warning. Hot spurts of cum flooded the boy's hole, Randy shuddering through it with a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest. His fingers bruised the twink’s hips as he ground into him, forcing the last drops out.

It felt good.

It felt empty.

Randy stayed inside for a few breaths, catching the tail-end spasms of the boy’s abused body, feeling the way the twink unconsciously milked him even after climax.

Then, without a word, he pulled out sharply.

The boy whimpered, collapsing fully onto the bed, body trembling, hole dripping.

Randy stood over him for a moment, breathing heavily, staring down at the mess they’d made.

And feeling nothing but the familiar gnawing emptiness clawing at his gut.

Randy stepped back from the bed, his cock slick with the remnants of release. The twink curled into himself, small, wrecked, still gasping from the rough use. His hole gaped slightly, leaking steadily onto the stained sheets.

For a moment, Randy just watched him.

"Thank you, Sir," the boy whispered, voice shaky and thin.

Randy wiped himself clean with a discarded t-shirt, his expression unreadable.

"Can I see you again?" the twink asked, hope flickering in his voice. "Please, Sir... I—I want to serve you properly next time."

Randy offered a faint smile, softening his voice just enough to sound kind. "Sure," he said easily. "Message me."

The boy's face lit up with something dangerously close to adoration.

He knew he wouldn’t answer.

Knew even as he spoke that the boy had already slipped from his mind.

In the tiny bathroom of the boy’s apartment, Randy twisted the faucet hard. Water blasted from the cracked showerhead, too hot, searing against his skin. He stepped under it without flinching, letting the scalding jets strip the sweat, the scent, the touch of the night from his body.

Steam filled the cramped space, curling against the cracked tiles, fogging the mirror until only a vague silhouette remained.

Randy scrubbed himself with mechanical efficiency, his hands moving fast and rough over his chest, his arms, his thighs. He wanted the boy’s touch gone. The memory of the boy’s neediness. The cheap, aching sweetness of it.

The water beat down on him, too hot, punishing.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

When he finally shut off the tap, the apartment was eerily quiet. The faint thump of music from a neighboring unit, the occasional groan of pipes — but otherwise, silence.

He wiped a clear patch in the fogged mirror and stared at himself.

At twenty-three, Randy still looked younger than he was — the sharpness of youth clinging to his features like an aftertaste. His body was lean, muscular without bulk, every line carved clean by years of discipline. Fair skin stretched over tight abs and a broad, athletic chest, smooth but for a faint dusting of dark hair trailing down his belly.

His cock, thick and uncut, hung heavy between his thighs, a fading remnant of his earlier satisfaction. His ass, high and firm, flexed unconsciously as he shifted his weight.

His face held that boyish charm that drew people in — the wide, mischievous blue eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the impish set to his full mouth. His hair, dark brown so deep it bordered on black, still clung wetly to his forehead.

It was the kind of face — and body — that made men lose their minds.

Randy knew it.

He knew exactly what he was.

And tonight, like too many nights before, it mattered less than nothing.

The reflection looking back at him was perfect, desirable, lethal, and hollow.

He wrapped a towel low around his hips and turned away from the mirror without another glance.

The apartment felt smaller once he re-entered it. The boy was already asleep, curled naked under the tattered sheet, a smear of Randy’s cum still drying between his thighs.

Randy stepped around the bed carefully, gathering his shirt and jeans from the floor. He dressed quickly, not bothering to wake the boy. No words of parting. No tenderness.

There was nothing left to say.

The night outside called to him, cool, alive, full of things that interested him more than the boy he’d just left behind.

He slipped out into the Toronto night, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

The cool night air hit Randy the moment he stepped outside, cutting through the heat still clinging to his skin. He welcomed it. The street was quiet, almost emptied out, save for the occasional rumble of a streetcar farther south.

Sherbourne stretched ahead of him, cracked sidewalks glowing under tired streetlamps. He set off without thinking, his boots striking a steady rhythm against the pavement. The city murmured around him — the distant hum of traffic on Queen Street, the low bassline leaking from a bar somewhere down the block, the hiss of tires gliding over wet asphalt.

Toronto never really slept. It just softened.

Randy kept his head down at first, letting the city’s pulse bleed into him. Somewhere to his left, a cluster of young guys laughed too loudly outside a late-night pizza place, their breath steaming in the chill. One of them caught Randy’s eye as he passed, a quick once-over followed by a grin that lingered a beat too long.

Randy didn’t slow. Didn’t acknowledge. The kid was pretty enough, in a soft, harmless way, but the energy was wrong. Too light. Too eager. Too easy.

He moved on, his hands deep in his jacket pockets, the cold biting at his damp hair.

At Church Street, the heart of the Village unfurled ahead of him. Bars spilled light and noise onto the sidewalk, rainbow flags still fluttering above doorways like faded promises. Men leaned against brick walls, nursing drinks, trading glances like currency. The sharp tang of smoke hung in the air.

A tall, leather-clad man caught his gaze, lifting a brow in silent invitation.

Randy looked past him without breaking stride.

A smaller guy in a harness whistled low as Randy passed, a sound half-appreciation, half-challenge. Randy didn’t even turn his head.

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t even disdain.

It was exhaustion.

He had no interest in pretending tonight. No appetite for the empty rituals. The flirting, the sizing up, the slow, inevitable slide toward another disappointment.

His boots splashed through a shallow puddle as he crossed Carlton. Neon signs reflected in the water, red, green, sickly yellow, smearing the world into a haze of color. A convenience store buzzed under flickering fluorescent lights. A battered taxi idled at the curb, the driver drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel.

Randy passed them all, a ghost in the city’s half-sleep.

The Village behind him, the streets grew quieter. Residential. Older brick buildings with black iron railings and cracked front steps. Trees with bare branches clawing at the sky. Here and there, a window glowed warm, the vague shapes of people moving inside.

He wondered, fleetingly, what it would feel like to belong somewhere like that.

Then pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Farther ahead, The Stag came into view. Nestled between a shuttered dry cleaner and a Vietnamese restaurant, the bar looked almost abandoned at first glance — no flashy signs, no booming music leaking through the walls. Just a battered black door, a flickering red light above it, and the low throb of bass pulsing through the concrete.

Exactly the kind of place that didn’t bother pretending to be anything it wasn’t.

Randy hesitated on the sidewalk, pulling in a deep breath. The city’s cold wrapped tighter around him, sharp and clean. For a moment, he stood there, watching the muted life on the street, the quiet drift of late-night stragglers moving from one warm doorway to another.

It would be easy to call it a night. To go home. To sleep and forget the dull ache behind his ribs.

But he knew better.

It didn’t fade. It just waited.

He reached for the door handle and pushed his way inside.

The air inside The Stag hit Randy like a wave — thick with the smell of sweat, leather, stale beer, and the faint metallic bite of cheap cologne. The low throb of bass pulsed under his skin, anchoring him to the floor with every beat.

The lighting was dim, barely functional. Enough to see by, but shadow ruled most corners.It suited the place.

Randy moved to the bar without hesitation, claiming a worn stool near the edge. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a silver ring through his nose, slid a draft beer in front of him without being asked.

"Rough night?" he asked, his voice easy.

Randy smirked faintly, lifting the glass. "Same old."

The bartender just nodded, moving off to wipe down a spill.

Randy sipped the beer without real interest. It was cold, bitter, forgettable.

He let his gaze drift across the room.

The Stag was busy for a weeknight. Clusters of men leaned against cracked tables and along the walls, their bodies language a constant, shifting negotiation. Harnesses gleamed under the muted lights. Collars gleamed even brighter. Here and there, bare chests flashed between half-open leather jackets, muscles flexing under appreciative stares.

There was beauty here — lean bodies, tight abs, artful tattoos curling over sinewy arms.

There was even eagerness.

What there wasn't, Randy thought, was substance.

He watched a boy on his knees near the back, head bowed low as a thick man in a harness looped fingers lazily through the ring of his collar. The boy arched under the attention, his spine a perfect curve of offering. His face was radiant, eyes bright, mouth slightly parted, but the act was too smooth. Too polished. A show for anyone who cared to look.

The man's friends laughed raucously nearby, raising their glasses in mock toasts.

The boy smiled at them, basking.

Randy looked away.

A slim figure brushed past him, bumping his shoulder deliberately. Randy turned his head slightly to catch the boy’s eye, delicate features, full mouth, tight body wrapped in leather straps. An invitation, unmistakable.

The boy held Randy’s gaze for a beat too long, tilting his chin up in silent challenge.

Randy considered him.

The boy was pretty enough. His body would take a beating beautifully. His mouth would look good stretched around a cock. He would probably whimper in all the right places, call him Sir breathlessly, beg for more.

He would be perfect.

And he would be empty.

Randy turned back to his beer.

The boy lingered a moment longer, then melted into the crowd without a word.

The noise washed over him, laughter, moans from the back room, the sharp crack of a flogger hitting flesh somewhere out of sight. The air was dense with it, every breath heavy.

Randy drained his glass and set it down with a muted thud.

The bartender caught his eye again, raising an eyebrow.

Randy shook his head once.

He wasn’t staying.

He pushed away from the bar, his boots thudding against the sticky floor. Eyes followed him, hungry, appraising, hopeful, but Randy ignored them all.

At the door, he paused, letting one final glance sweep the room.

The boys here were beautiful. They would kneel. They would serve. They would cry if he hurt them hard enough, call him Sir if he fed them the right lines.

It would all feel good for a moment. The slickness of skin, the heat of broken bodies under his hands, the tremble of obedience.

It would all fade the second he finished.

They weren't what he needed.

Not tonight.

He pushed the door open and stepped back into the cold.

The city had settled into its quieter shape by the time Randy stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The sharpness in the air cut through him easily, no longer softened by the crowd’s warmth or the noise of the bars.

Dawn loomed faintly at the edges of the horizon, bleeding a thin gray light into the spaces between the buildings.

He turned west, toward home.

Yonge Street’s well-worn sidewalks stretched out ahead, littered with the occasional beer can or sodden flyer. Streetlamps flickered lazily over puddles and cracked concrete.

Randy walked without urgency, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, boots striking a slow, steady rhythm against the wet ground.

The city looked different at this hour.

Bare. Honest. Like it wasn’t pretending.

He passed shuttered storefronts and silent apartment buildings. Somewhere, a dog barked once and fell silent. The sky shifted above him, dark softening into something lighter, if not warmer.

He let his mind drift.

The boys he had used lately blurred together — pretty faces, eager mouths, tight, willing bodies. They had called him Sir, fallen to their knees with theatrical grace, opened themselves like flowers **** for sunlight.

But always, underneath the polished surface, the same familiar emptiness had lurked.

Randy could spot it now, even before he touched them. The way their eyes flicked up, measuring him. The way they held themselves just a little too perfectly. As if they knew the steps to the dance but didn’t understand the music at all.

They gave themselves because they wanted to be seen. To be desired.Not because they needed to belong to someone.

He moved through an intersection without thinking, the city's rhythm slowing around him.

And then there was Grant.

The thought slipped in, stubborn, persistent.

The one boy who had almost been different.

Randy remembered the first time he'd met him; Grant had seemed quiet, steady, reserved in a way that felt genuine. Not shy, but thoughtful.

His submission had felt organic at first, an instinct rather than a performance. He had obeyed easily, accepted pain without needing to turn it into spectacle.

For a while, Randy had let himself believe.

Three months, maybe four.

Grant had been good — almost perfect.

But the cracks had come. They always did.

It started subtly. A look, now and then, when Randy pushed too hard. The way Grant would hold a little too still under the cane, making small adjustments to absorb the blows better.

The soft suggestions: "Maybe tonight we could..." or "What if we tried...?"

Harmless at first. Sweet, even.

Until it wasn't.

Grant had begun to shape the scenes around his comfort. He'd started guiding the dynamic, nudging Randy toward things he wanted, softening the edges he didn't. Always couched in deference, always careful, but present, nonetheless.

It was topping from the bottom.

And Randy hadn't seen it immediately — or maybe he hadn't wanted to.

Outside of scenes, Grant had clung tighter. He expected more than Randy was willing to offer.

He lingered at Randy’s side, searching his face for approval after even the smallest exchange.

A soft, **** need for something Randy couldn’t give — or didn’t want to give without real surrender first.

Randy knew what Grant had wanted.

Not just to be used.

Not just to be mastered.

He wanted to be adored, to be held in the warm safety of someone’s arms and told he was special.

He wanted to lead Randy to that conclusion by playing the perfect boy until Randy believed it.

But that was never how Randy worked.

He couldn’t love someone who wouldn't give him everything.

Not just the body. Not just the gestures.

The soul.

The messy, terrified, broken pieces.

Grant had never really surrendered them.

He had just negotiated their absence politely.

Randy could still picture the night he had ended it. Grant sitting small and confused at the edge of the bed, trying to understand.

Trying to fix it.

As if love was something that could be bargained for.

There had been no anger. No cruelty.

Just a quiet certainty that Grant wasn’t, and would never be, enough.

Randy turned onto a narrower street, the sky bleeding a little more light into the crumbling edges of the buildings around him. The air smelled faintly of damp asphalt and distant exhaust.

He adjusted his collar against the chill and kept walking.

He wasn’t angry when he thought of Grant. Not bitter. Not even sad.

It was simply a reminder.

Even when it looked right, even when it felt close, it could still be wrong underneath.

Finding what he needed was harder than it should have been.

Maybe harder than it was for most men.

But Randy had accepted that a long time ago.

He would rather walk alone through the empty city at dawn than lie beside someone who only played at surrender.

Randy’s apartment was dark when he let himself in, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind him.

The faintest scent of laundry detergent hung in the air, clean, sterile, almost clinical.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights.

The streetlamps outside cast enough glow through the narrow windows to paint the living room in thin, skeletal lines. The worn leather couch sat empty, the kitchen beyond it tripped down to bare functionality.

A single glass drying by the sink. No clutter. No signs of life beyond what necessity required.

Randy toed off his boots and shed his jacket with a shrug, letting it fall onto the back of a chair. His body ached faintly, a dull, low throb in his lower back and thighs. The kind of ache that used to feel satisfying.

He moved through the apartment on autopilot, stripping off his shirt, his jeans. The cool air brushed against his bare skin, pulling a shiver from him that he ignored.

He stood there a moment, naked in the half-light, feeling the city’s hum beyond the windows.

It wasn’t loneliness that filled the space.

It was absence.

The absence of something he had no name for yet, only a shape he could feel pressing against the edges of his chest.

He padded barefoot into the bathroom, splashed cold water onto his face, and braced his palms against the edge of the sink. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, damp hair falling over his forehead, blue eyes sharp and tired, mouth set in a line too firm to be casual.

Still beautiful.

Still wanted.

Still alone.

He dried off mechanically and made his way to the bedroom.

The sheets were cool against his skin as he slid into bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist.

He lay on his back for a while, staring up at the faint, cracked patterns in the ceiling he knew too well.

Outside, the city stirred faintly as morning stretched its fingers across the horizon.

Somewhere nearby, a bird called once, sharp and thin against the heavy quiet.

Randy closed his eyes.

He would find him.

Or he wouldn't.

Either way, he wouldn't stop looking.

He would wait for the boy who could truly kneel.

The one who wouldn't just play at submission but would live it, breathe it, ache for it in every corner of himself.

The boy who would not guide him, would not mold him, would not need to be coddled.

The boy who would simply — finally — belong.

Until then, he would endure.

Until then, he would walk through the city’s sleeping streets, sit at its bars, scan its endless parade of beautiful, empty faces.

Until then, he would keep searching.

Patient.

Relentless.

Ready.

Always ready.

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