Okay. I really don't have a sexy caption here; sorry to...
Okay. I really don't have a sexy caption here; sorry to disappoint. But twenty points and a blowjob (well, okay, just twenty points) for whoever can guess why I find this picture so damn punny.
The place made you stoic. Not that that's a word...
The place made you stoic.
Not that that's a word he'd ever use, of course. But it did. It made you accept what you were given with equanimity, made you wear your bruises and cuts without flinching, made you hold your head high, because showing weakness only begat more injury, which would only beget more weakness. So out here he kept his chin up, his upper lip stiff, just like the increasingly infrequent letters from home told him to.
He walked tall, even though he could see him walking five guys in front of him as they traced dull circles around the courtyard, see him laughing with a group of his friends, see him looking back every couple of steps, furtively. Like he didn't want to acknowledge him, acknowledge what he'd done, what they'd done.
It made you stoic, sure, but sometimes it was the injuries that nobody could see that were the hardest to hide.
I've created a monster. I mean, Dr. Frankenstein...
I've created a monster.
I mean, Dr. Frankenstein wasn't a psychologist, right? And I didn't set out to do this. We went slowly. I was responsible. Hell, I was nervous, at first, and he was skeptical. But he was game—he's always game, that's one of the reasons I told him I thought he'd make an excellent subject—and so when I said that trying to put him under could be kind of fun, could spice things up, he'd agreed.
But now? Fuck, now. Is there such a thing as a hypno powerbottom?
It's like he craves it, all the time, to the exclusion of anything else. In the middle of sex he'll beg me to do it, hold out until I do. At dinner parties he'll try to steer the conversation to obscure topics that no one else cares about. Most people think it's cool he has such arcane interests; I know he's trying to force me to say one of his trigger phrases, to back me into a conversational corner where I'll have to say one, and then I'll have to watch his eyes droop for just a second until I say another, and that sight of him almost losing himself in front of my friends will make me so hard that when we get home I'll fuck him into the ground.
And I still regret making the MP3s. But he asked me, said I spent too much time at the hospital, said they'd just be to help him jack off, nothing else. And maybe they were, at first. But that's not how he uses them now. Now, if I say I'm not in the mood, or if I say I just want cuddle, or if I even say I just want to fuck like normal people, fuck somebody who isn't blissed out and high on endorphins and trance and whatever suggestions of narcotic-grade pleasure I made in those files, he just strips and lies down on the bed and gets out his iPod. He puts on a fucking show of it, too, of sliding on his headphones, of stretching out languidly, of biting his lower lip as he hits "play." He even tries to hold my eyes for as long as he can until his flutter shut and his head drops, and I groan and pull out my dick and give in, give him what we both want.
Except now he wants this—loves this, needs this—maybe even more than I do. Certainly more than I did, at any rate. I've created a monster, trained him, manipulated him, shaped him into what I needed.
Or maybe he has; I'm not sure.
Jake thought the visit was going well. I didn't. Although,...
Jake thought the visit was going well. I didn't.
Although, to be fair, it was not going well in a way I hadn't anticipated. I had assumed all the issues would stem from the fact that I was gay, that I was the first guy he'd brought home. Sure, he was gay, too, and he said that his family was fine with it, was fine with him. I didn't tell him this, but that's what I was afraid of. I mean, of course his family was fine with him—they knew him, loved him, probably even loved all the same stupid little things about him I thought I was maybe possibly falling in love with. But I'd just be this guy, this gay guy he was bringing home to the farm, the one who had corrupted and seduced him down the path of homosexual turpitude.
Surprisingly, that wasn't the issue. Maybe I should have given small-town Indiana more credit, but if his parents or brothers had any issue with my sexuality, I couldn't tell. And I think I would have been able to tell, considering they made it abundantly clear that they did have an issue with me.
I was a city boy.
Honest to God, I was trying. I was trying to not come off as pretentious (no mean feat for me), trying to be polite and gracious and show an interest in the farm without seeming patronizingly intrigued by their simple life, but it just kept backfiring. Like, I'd call a combine a tractor, and suddenly it'd be this big joke to be repeated twelve times over the lunch table. Or his oldest brother, Gabe, invited me out to see the cows get milked. I didn't want to get up at five in the morning—shit, I was usually barely in bed then—but I did, and then Gabe thought it'd be fun to show me how to milk them by hand. He asked me to lean in as he got Bessie started, and next thing I know there's a stream of hot, thin milk squirting up at me from the teat in his hand and I'm stumbling backwards into a pile of straw and shit and Gabe and Jake are laughing, and then at breakfast the rest of the family has a chance to laugh, too, when they heard the story. His dad—typically taciturn—wouldn't join in the comments, instead just humming the Green Acres theme under his breath every time I walked in a room. Even his mom—his dear sweet mother, who embroiders and gardens and makes fucking preserves—got into the fun, started calling me Jake's "city mouse."
And if I thought I'd be able to turn to Jake in all this, I was wrong. Something had happened as we drove south of Indianapolis. Maybe it was the local pollen or something, or just the scent of cow shit in the air, but he got more country with each hour, until he had this subtle drawl I'd never picked up on before, until he answered most questions with some monosyllabic yep/yip/yup hybrid, until he walked with a slow and easy lope that looked uncannily like the way I walked to the bathroom in his apartment when I didn't want his load to drip out of my ass. He just laughed at his brothers' jokes, got up early to help his dad with the chores, asked his mother—excuse me, asked "ma"—for another piece of pie.
Eventually, it got to be too much, and the second afternoon as we were back outside the barn I blew up at him. Normally it'd have been a fight, back in the city, but here he just said "sorry, man" and leaned back against the wood, unzipping his jeans by way of apologizing.
I'll say this for life on the farm: some things definitely were simpler.
I mean, I suppose "committed" is still the word...
I mean, I suppose "committed" is still the word I'd use to describe our relationship…
Of course they'd been trying to get loose already, but the...
Of course they'd been trying to get loose already, but the sounds of voices—laughing, drunk, male—echoing up from the trail close below made them redouble their efforts, both with the same thought about that old joke with the two runners and the bear.
gentlebreath: Sometimes, when being handed change by a cute cashier, or being handed anything by...
Sometimes, when being handed change by a cute cashier, or being handed anything by anybody cute, I look at the webbing between the thumb and index finger, and think of cum running down the valley as their hand is wrapped around their cock.
And he doesn’t even need pictures!
thoughtfulbenagain: People ask me why I bother looking for...
People ask me why I bother looking for intelligent lads. "After all, you don't need to talk to them, just use them." Maybe intelligent is the wrong word, but there has to be some kind of depth to explore. The lad in this picture has a world of emotional storm in his beautiful heart: memories and yearnings, half-healed hurt and naked desires which never burn out.
With a simple bimbo boy you get the body, sure, but being a top is a mental thing too. I want him to hand over all the keys and passwords to his inner world so I can make myself at home even in his thoughts, his secrets, his embarrassing fantasies. I want to go exploring him at the cost of his dignity and privacy, and I expect him to thank me for it. But if all he's got is a backyard sale, it's all over in five minutes.
I want him to be a rambling curiosity shop where I can make lingering visits, time and time again, ignoring all the Do Not Touch signs and paying for nothing I break. I want him to be aware how much damage I can do, and still trust me for no good reason at all, except that I'm the nightmare he's been hoping for. This is why he's thinking about me a lot these days, especially during his long, long showers.
Of course it's fundamentally very narcissistic, but isn't this what every boy dreams of? Of being found worthy to be perused, to be examined, to be opened, to be thumbed through—either mentally or physically?
If he'd studied English and not engineering, he'd...
If he'd studied English and not engineering, he'd have known that woods are always magical, but dangerous, places.
Rumors about exactly how he'd broken it flew around the...
Rumors about exactly how he'd broken it flew around the party like—well, like rumors around a party.
People might have thought it was just something from the gym—an errant basketball—or some mundane injury around the house, but he was being so damn coy about it. You'd sidle up to him, manage to break his attention away from Shaun's drunken ass grabs, and ask how he was, what'd happened, and he'd say something cryptic like "Ya work hard, ya play hard" and smirk and laugh and take his drink and his man into a corner to enjoy both.
Needless to say that in such an environment theories, each more elaborately sexual than the last, thrived.
Gary'd heard that Shaun's dick is so big that when he's fucking him out he still gasps and shudders every time, and he gasped and shuddered and slipped in the shower. Kyle heard it had happened at a very different kind of party and had involved a faulty sling and a floor slick with lube. Jamie heard that's just the kind of sex they had—rough, physical, animalistic—and it was a shock it hadn't happened sooner.
Others said he'd finally managed to break his way into Shaun's ass, had finally sweet talked his 130%-top of a boyfriend into letting him play with his hole, but then the thing was so damn tight it'd broken his fucking finger.
bookofbaitnate: Legends from the Amazon Rainforest tribes say...
Legends from the Amazon Rainforest tribes say that the Boto, a type of freshwater dolphin native to the region, can transform into people, and sometimes come onto the land for their own mysterious purposes. It is said that they are always strikingly beautiful, and seduce the unwary back into the river's airless depths.
I realize that it's one of a long series of folktales in the lusophone world (and beyond, I'm sure) designed to control girls' sexuality and excuse men's—the botos invariably transform into beautiful men, not women—but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely, without doubt, the hottest.
I'm afraid I wouldn't have gotten the message—an attractive, mysterious young man who'll be gone by morning? If you need me, I'll be down by the river.
thoughtfulbenagain: I know every look in your eye by now. I...
I know every look in your eye by now. I know you express several kinds of vulnerable, and they are quite distinct.
There was the 'I'm completely new to this. I don't know what to do' kind of vulnerable.
There's the 'You're pushing my limits here, and I don't know if I'm going to cope and please you, or let you down', kind of vulnerable.
There's the 'You don't want to hurt me, do you?' kind of vulnerable you put on when you want to tease and provoke me.
There's the 'You're frightening me a bit here' kind of vulnerable, which suits you better than you can imagine.
And there's this one. This new one tonight. I've seen it before, but never on your face, never in your eyes till now. It's the 'I love you' vulnerable. You won't say the words aloud because you know I won't like it. So you say it with your eyes which means I can't even dismiss it because then you can play innocent and make it seem like it's my imagination wanting to believe you love me, and so tip the whole boat over sinking us both. You're impossible! You've been impossible from the start! And maybe that's why I kinda like you … quite a bit.
Yeah. You guys are all gonna wanna follow this guy.
"Good morning." "Mornin'." In some...
"Good morning."
"Mornin'."
In some sense, we met because we both were broke/cheap, because he didn't want to shell out for a gym membership and I didn't want to pay four bucks (or however much it is) for overpriced coffee at some cookie-cutter corporate coffeehouse. So instead I'm out here everyone morning, sipping my coffee and watching the sun rise as he runs up and down the stairs.
He lives three floors down, I think—at least that's where he starts on the days I beat him out here, on the days when I can look down through the grating and see him bending over, lacing up. I don't know for sure, though—we've honestly never said much to each other except those short little greetings. There's no need to, really; even when the sex started it was largely silent, largely without words, largely just the polite thing to do.
Even so, I feel like I know him. I know that's weird, borderline stalkerish, but at this point our silence is so companionable, you know? It's like we've spent so much time together, him, me, the birds, the sun, the morning, the cityscape. It's not like we don't talk because we're shy—of course we're not shy; I give him a blowjob in broad daylight five days a week. It's because there's really nothing left to say.
nicosar: "Uh… well, to be honest, I have to admit that...
"Uh… well, to be honest, I have to admit that listening to you rape my husband is kinda hot. I mean, I suppose I'll still pay the ransom, but if you could tape what you're doing I'll throw in another thousand or so."
See, now that's romance, right there.
Walking back to the table, I was sure every set of eyes in the...
Walking back to the table, I was sure every set of eyes in the place was on me.
I knew they weren't, even if his was. I mean, I knew I was just some guy walking out of the bathroom, that people couldn't hear the door over the music, and that even if they could, they'd have just taken a quick look before turning back to their burgers and their beers.
But it's not what it felt like. It felt like they were all watching me, and like they all knew. I mean, it's possible. It's possible for fifty people in a bar to simultaneously and instantly develop x-ray vision capable of seeing through a pair of jeans, right? Or maybe there had been a cam above the stall, one I hadn't seen, and as soon as I walked into the bathroom a giant projection screen slid down over the bar, the Packers game went off, and that screen and every other TV in the place switched to a closed circuit view of me carrying out his instructions?
I walked slowly at first, trying to act casual, but then realized I was probably walking too slowly, so I sped up—until I realized I was probably walking too fast, and I slowed down and then sped up again, and thank God by that point I was at the table and able to sit down.
He took a swig of his beer.
"You do it?"
I nodded.
"Where are your briefs?"
I cringed, but no one around us seemed to have heard.
"The bottom of the trash bin."
"And you put it on?"
Another nod from me, a smile—loving, proud, arrogant?—from him before he took another swig.
"Eat up, and then let's head back home, yeah?"
hello, how're you? I really like your blog and after i read it, i started my own, which i'd like you to come and visit. I love this new trend of posting profound, sexy captions to go with the pictures, make pictures so much hotter. I wanted to ask you that all of this prose you write, is it inspired by true love or all of it is a fragment of your imagination and a product of your creativity? I would understand if you find this question too personal and choose not to answer. :)
It's not too personal at all! I always love answering questions, and I too (obviously) love the trend of people captioning smutty pictures—although I'd balk at calling my captions profound.
The vast majority of what I write here is all just my fevered imagination at play, although there are certainly inspirations from my actual life. Even if the (often baroque) scenarios I write about are wholly fictional, the feelings described in them are usually ones I've had—or at least fantasized about having. (Other people fantasize about emotional states, too, yes?)
More specifically, my more romantic posts (they're there, honest!) are all pretty much directly inspired by my feelings about the Husband. I could churn those things out at a mile a minute, if necessary, because—not to get mawkish—I pretty much just write down what I feel for him.
My other direct-from-life source of inspiration, especially for captions having to do with seedy hookups, is my own period of sluttiness before I settled down. There are all kinds of delightful memories/stories there, ones that I file away to use when I'll be wistfully looking back at my life when I'm in the Home, but also that lead directly into some of the captions I've written here.
But by and large, it's all just imagination and (even though I'd hesitate to describe myself as creative) creativity.
bzork: 'You're my good boy, aren't you? My very good boy who...
'You're my good boy, aren't you? My very good boy who listens to my voice, who remembers what I say. You love being my good boy, being told you're my good boy, feeling like such a good boy. Because when you feel like a good boy, your whole body feels good. You remember how good it feels to be mine. The memory of it makes you smile and the smile makes you feel good. And the better you feel the easier it is to remember. To remember that place where you can be nothing but a good boy, all mine, with nothing to do but listen to my voice. You remember the spots. The spots dance in front of your eyes because you don't need to see: good boys just listen. And you're so good and close. Close to feeling so good, close to being so good, close to being mine.
'Good boy.'
I'd been planning on writing one of my long, discursive, detailed, why-I-think-it's-hot posts about why I think that "Good boy" is the sexiest phrase in the language, but here he goes and says it all, every last little nuance, for me.
Bondage is cheap. No, no, not like that—I don't mean...
Bondage is cheap.
No, no, not like that—I don't mean it's inexpensive. In fact, it's exactly the opposite; it's all too easy to drop way too much money on stuff you don't need when you could find the same materials cheaper at Home Depot, and even find a cute dude in flannel who'll tell you how to make a nice set of stocks—and might even offer to model them for you.
No, bondage is cheap as in easy. As in a cop out. Sure, hog tie a man and of course he'll stay like that, of course he'll remain on your bed in that position until his muscles ache; he doesn't have a choice. But that's not control.
Control is simply having him in that position and ordering him to keep it, and knowing that he will, knowing that he'll hold it, just because you told him to. Just because you gave an order, and he chose—no, he's continually choosing, through each moment of soreness and cramping—to obey.
thoughtfulbenagain: There is so much explicit stuff out there,...
There is so much explicit stuff out there, it can be a bit numbing, making me forget that it was always possible to dominate you, and men like you, with a whispered obscenity in public, with a glance from your crotch to your unblinking eyes followed by a smile that says, 'we both know I own you', or right here with the heat of my unhurried breath on the nape of your neck in a silence you dare not break…
"Rape" is such an ugly word, don't you think?
"Rape" is such an ugly word, don't you think?
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