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by ccallenreese

He came by to help you close up the store. Your sister runs the place, selling very nice bath products and tattoo care, soap and candles. She wanted a night off, so you worked her shift. By closing time, the place was dead, so you invited your boyfriend to keep you company.

Recently, you can’t seem to get enough of him. You’re still not really sure what happened, because he was a friend for the longest time and you were pretty goddamn sure he was straight. Apparently he’s just got the best gaydar cloaking technology in existence because you found his stash of your stolen undershirts and underwear when over at his place. You just had to take one look at this miserable face and incredibly hot body, and you know you were going to give him what he wanted instead of leaving him. Heck, you wanted him since day one but thought you were being the good gay friend by keeping your hands off. Now that the barrier had been broken, the mattress was not going to get a break.

Now, you could hardly go anywhere or do anything without thinking of him. And since you were alone and bored, of course you called him, and of course he came over with the promise of dinner after. But first – you were going to eat him. You locked the doors and shoved him against the wall. You were aware your sister probably had a security camera in place here, but dammit you could not resist him.

His taste, the fullness of his lips, the way his hard muscles trembled under your roaming fingertips. The boy liked to be kissed and you were happy to indulge him. You were slowly realizing that his alpha straight boy act was a cover too. You were always the one that pushed him back and lifted up his shirt, waiting for him to spar with you, but he just melted and let you take control. Surrendering to you came naturally to him. You rewarded him for his piety by tonguing his nipples while massaging his erection through his pants. He lifted his hips and moaned out your name, making your own cock ache.

There were glass windows on the storefront and you didn’t want anyone to call the cops, so you took him to the back room where there was a nice packing table waiting for use. You bent him over and got his pants down. That herbal spice body oil your sister created made for some damn great lube. It occurred to you that she should probably start selling it as such. You teased his hole with your slick fingers until he was pounding the table, begging for you to fuck him, but you waited until his cock was a tight, straining mess in your hands on the brink of spurting before you dove into him.

Your hands left oily marks on his hips as you set a relentless place, fucking him hard and sweet. You pressed kisses down his shoulder and licked the shell of his ear to make him insane.

The orgasm came far too quickly, and you wished you had a plug to hold in all the mess. You settled for cleaning him with warm, damp paper towels and kissing him until he was unmistakeably ravished. If it wasn’t for your grumbling stomachs, then you were sure you were going never going to stop making out with him. You reminded yourself to be careful and not go too fast, not taken advantage of him, because this boy just might be the love of your life and you had to remember he was a person and not just a vessel for sex, even if he wanted to be thought of that way. He had an amazing sex drive.

And taking care of your man meant feeding him after fucking him.
“Come on love, let’s get you some protein before we get carried away again. I much rather make love to you on a soft bed than a wooden table.”
And he gives you this heart-melting smile and slinks an arm around your waist. “Late night tonkatsu ramen?”
You groan. “Sounds fucking delicious.”
He kisses your cheek. “Not as delicious as you.”

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Text is fictional.

BACKING UP YOUR TUMBLR: THE SOLUTION IS HERE

BACKING UP YOUR TUMBLR: THE SOLUTION IS HERE

by ccallenreese

Ever since blissfuldominance and Chiernon have had to deal with their blogs being pulled out from under them, I’ve lived in mortal fear of this happening to me. What could be worse than signing in one day and discovering over a year of writing just – poof! gone!

I spent a long while trying to find a good cheap solution for this, ever since Bout of Context’s tool stopped working.

And there is a solution. It’s called Revert.Io. They do back-ups for a few things, like Evernote, but they also do Tumblr! They have a tiered pricing system, including a free option, and a trial system for paid services.

Guys this thing is amazing. It backs up your posts – the text, the pictures, the time/date, AND the tags. AND the original URL! You can even search through them.

And best of all? All your data can be downloaded to Dropbox. Although, if you have a lot of photos it will take a realllly long time and take up a loooot of space.

I’m not being paid to push this. Go forth you guys, and save your shit. You can thank me in dick pics later.

Please reblog!

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Stop with the cute stories my heart is gonna explode. ((Jk please don’t stop writing them)) (((Also I will not put you at fault for my cuteness-related death)))

Stop with the cute stories my heart is gonna explode. ((Jk please don’t stop writing them)) (((Also I will not put you at fault for my cuteness-related death)))

by ccallenreese

Isn’t this the third message you’ve sent me like this? XD Maybe you need medication. Here, I have a box of candy hearts here. Eat one, every paragraph.

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by ccallenreese

When you move into a new building, every face is a new face. When you see a face again, you assume they live there, as opposed to being a guest. You make snap judgments about people, cause you only see them for a second. Oh, this person is cranky, this guy talks too much, that girl is always covered in cat hair, this dude never leaves the building…. etc. Struggling families. Single guys. Ambitious corporate types. Lonely old people. Every building has them. I began to notice this young man that lived on my floor. I normally saw him taking out trash or fetching mail. I never saw him with a school bag, but grocery bags, or baskets of laundry. What I found to be odd though is that he never looked at me. He always looked down, away, as if he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him. When we got stuck in an elevator together, he would always move far away as possible.

I didn’t know much about this guy, not even his name. I could see he was young, in his late teens maybe. I knew he lived with an older man, a real stern guy about ten years older. Maybe in his 40s. Ramrod straight posture, ice grey eyes. He was well on the path to be the quintessential old-white-guy stereotype: loud, angry, and racist. And his voice – he had a big, booming voice he used to scare anyone who didn’t agree with him into submission. It was also the voice he used to yell at Obama on the TV. At least, that’s what I thought he was yelling at, until I started listening. Then, I realized it wasn’t the TV the old guy was screaming at – it was the young man.

The more I began to pay attention, the more I saw things I don’t think I was meant to see. Or maybe I was. I assumed the kid was kind of a klutz, but I slowly realized that I never saw him without a mark. He always seemed to have a bruise on him. Once it healed, it’d be replaced by a split lip, then later with another bruise. A cut on his hand. A limp to his walk.

About seven months after I moved in, I came home one night and found him sitting outside their apartment door, naked, all crouched up into a ball. I begged the kid to tell me what was going on, but he refused and insisted I leave. My noise caused commotion, and the old guy came out and threatened to call the cops on me. He dragged the kid back into the apartment and slammed the door.

I didn’t see the kid for like a week, and when I saw him in the elevator that next Saturday, he had white bandages under his shirt, all up his neck.

It was a strange situation, because you know something bad is happening, and you know you should say something. But you also know reality, and you know the cops will come, the old guy will say nothing is a matter. He was fighting with his grandson or something, trying put his “mouthy” troublesome grandson in place. Without a complaining witness, the cops would leave…and that kid would probably get hurt more.

I began to dread seeing that kid around the building, because it was just a reminder that I couldn’t stop what was happening to him. I finally hit my breaking point after the kid got the bandages off. I spotted him in the laundry room in the basement in this old white T-shirt. Where the bandages had been now revealed fresh, pink skin. He’d been burned. White heat coursed through me. We were alone, I had to say something. So, I did. I said, “If you need me, I’m in apartment 10J. Don’t let anyone hurt you again.”

The kid furrowed his brow at me, then looked away, his face a mask of shame. He gathered his things and left the laundry room without saying a word.

I hadn’t expected him to take my advice to heart. I expected to come home one day and find cops in front of the door, the door blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. I learned to not hear the screaming or the fights.

One spring night, about a year or so after I moved into the building, there was a knock on my door. It was just after dinner time, and I was headed to the kitchen for ice cream when the knock came. I figured it was the lady in apartment 10K telling me she had my mail again. I was surprised to find the kid standing there, white as paper. Blood was pouring out of his nose, marring his handsome face, and pooling in his hand.

“Jesus, shit,” I gasped. The kid was too frightened to say a word. We both heard the old guy turn the knob and come out of his apartment. I grabbed the kid’s sleeve and pulled him into my apartment, then slammed and locked the door. The old guy began to beat on my door, accusing me of “kidnapping his houseboy” and that I should “give him back so he could take his punishment”.

Instead, I called the cops. The rest of the evening melted together. The old guy was arrested, the kid had to be taken to the hospital. He told the EMTs his name was Trevor.

I made sure Trevor got a good lawyer. I later found out that I was the only one that visited him in the hospital. On one of these visits, Trevor told me everything one night. He grew up in foster care. His last foster family used to “loan” out the kids as maids, essentially, for money. When Trevor turned 18, he was turned out of the foster care system with no GED (missed too much school), no money (not allowed to work), and no family. So, when his family offered him an opportunity to be a live-in houseboy for Mr. Erickson, Trevor felt he had no other choice.

Trevor broke my heart when he told me he didn’t leave at first because he assumed the abuse was normal. It was only seeing an article in the newspaper about a Filipino woman kept as a sex slave did he realize what was happening to him, but he was completely trapped.

I told Trevor he was not going to be alone anymore. I stood by his side the whole time. When my lease in the building came up, I declined it, and Trevor and I moved into a new building together.

I was worried though that Trevor would think of me just another man wanting to monopolize and abuse him, so the first thing I did was give him a promise gift. Inside the box was the key to the front door on a chain and a new cell phone. He would always be a free boy now, but I was offering him a home if he wanted one. Someone needed to love and take care of Trevor. If he trusted me, I
promised myself I would do that and more. I would never let him feel
unwanted again. 

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Text is fictional.

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by ccallenreese

There is praise I can never give you, for there are not words, or emotions, or smiles to convey how much I am grateful for you. You somehow, always, telepathically know when I’m at my worst. It’s usually after therapy, but sometimes just for no reason. Those are the days when the medication isn’t working, and I just can’t get out of bed. I don’t know why you want to be with a guy suffering from clinical depression. I mean, I love you, but it’s hard for me to show it. I don’t feel like I deserve to love you, or if I’m even loving you right at all, because I don’t feel many emotions. I mostly feel just negative ones. I always feel unworthy of you.

Yes, I know that release of endorphins and hormones from sex is healing and therapeutic. You know that making me have release can help wash my brain of the crap inside so that the drugs can move in and start working. I just struggle to initiate it. I mean, I struggle to lift my spoon. And yet you somehow, magically, see every time when I need it the most. You swap out my underwear for jockstraps while I’m showering and so of course, I put them on. I feel sexier that way, which enforces a positive body image. Still, I just can’t make myself go after you but you always, always come to me.

You climb into bed with me and pry me off of the pillow. You scoop me into your arms and kiss me, like I’m Sleeping Beauty. You make me feel treasured, and curiously flattered when your hand squeezes my ass. You rub against me and make me forget everything – how depressed I am, how deep in debt I am, how bleak my future is. You remind me that my future has you in it too, and just maybe, I can climb out of this hole.

Your embrace becomes this warm envelope of hope and humanity. You turn my sorrow into silk. For that, and all the ways you’ve supported me, I will always love you. And because of that, I have stopped thinking about suicide; because if the afterlife is absent of you, I do not want to go.

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Text is fictional. “You turn my sorrow into silk” is a lyric from giselle’s Silk. The Favored Nation’s remix is pretty good too. By the way, if any of you have suicidal thoughts, please call 1-800-273-8255 or your nation’s helpline.

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by ccallenreese

“Amir! Amir!” The press gather around him as he exits the Theatre, peppering him with dozens of questions:
“How does it feel to win your first Academy Award?”
“Amir, how do you feel about taking the win over Tom Cruise?”
“Amir, what comes next?”
“How will you celebrate?”

Amir freezes, trapped on all sides by journalists, unable to move. The lights are bright and dizzying. For a moment, his anxiety flourishes. He’s still high from his unexpected win and everything is just so over-whelming. However, Amir prevails because he remembers his training. He remembers that the approval of the public and the film industry and his fans comes second to his Dom. Caïn was there first, and Caïn taught him resilience and courage and patience Amir needed to go from a struggling actor to a household name. Caïn also taught Amir that someone would always love him, even if he failed. Amir momentarily closes his eyes and takes a few deep breathes. His fingers drift up to his neck without them even meaning to. He presses his fingertips against the starched white linen and feels for the metal circlet underneath. Amir is aware he is on camera, and that his Dom is probably watching. 

A lot of people were probably watching.

Amir thinks about his collar, and the still healing stripes on his back from their session last night. He thinks about how proud Caïn might be of him.

The press falls quiet. Someone asks if he is alright. Amir turns a little pink and opens his eyes. “Sorry everyone. I just – this is a very overwhelming night for me. I am still in a stupor. Mostly, I feel unworthy because as a young actor, I don’t feel like I deserve it. Well, yet, maybe. I’m still learning, every day. I hope Tom Cruise isn’t mad at me. I really respect him as an actor.”
Light laughter floats up.
“I have two more films in production right now, so I am going to focus on being a better actor and a roll-model for gay men in the film world. And mostly, I am going to celebrate by being not a good Muslim and getting very very drunk tonight.”
More laughter. Amir waves at them and makes his hasty exit to the awaiting car. Inside the privacy of the car, Amir is able to finally check his phone, which has exploded. He scrolls through the text messages until he finds the ones from Caïn:
There’s a few, but a new one pops up at that moment: “So very proud of you, boy. You handled yourself beautifully on TV. I know you are super nervous about live work. Also – when I saw you reach for your collar, it made me very horny. I cannot wait until you come home. Love you, and congrats again.”
Amir smiles and texts back: “I must be the only person depressed that I have to go to an Oscar party instead of being home.”
“Stay out all night if you have to, as I will tie you down tomorrow. I will be here, oiling my leather strap…waiting for you…I think champagne goes well with leather, don’t you think?”
Amir moans and adjusts his chastity device he wore tonight to control his boners, which have a mind of their own. “Thank you for permission to stay out Sir. I think champagne and leather is a great combination.”
“You’re a good boy Amir. You still locked?”
“Thank you Sir. I am, Sir. Happy you locked me Sir, as I am very excited right now.”
Caïn responds again: “So proud of the boy you’ve become Amir. It pleases me very much to know that everyone will want a piece of you tonight, but your cock still belongs to me.”
Amir groans. “I’m going to be thinking of that all night now, Sir!”
“Good. Now go celebrate. That’s an order.”
“Sir, yes Sir!”

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Text is fictional. This is Zayn Malik of the band One Direction apparently? Or ex-One Direction member? This caption is not fan-fiction and in no way attempts to personify him or assume his sexuality.

Release

Release

by ccallenreese

gayboykink:

Out of the blue, my boyfriend unlocked me from my CB yesterday. He said he was in for some romanticism… some intimate, close, warm and cuddly sex. No rough kinky fucking or dominance. Just me and him, skin to skin. And so we got to the bedroom and slowly undressed each other. Surprisingly, he was the one who began feeling slutty, which was an interesting turn of events. He sucked my dick for the first time in forever, which felt sensitive as fuck after all this chastity for many many weeks. I literally forgot how it felt, and it was great. ^^ I even started talking my boyfriend into making me cum, so he could enjoy a cummy face for once. But he knew that was just me trying to talk myself into an orgasm so he told me to mind my words and told me to get on hand and knees.

He fucked me on all fours, while we kissed and cuddled at the same time. No rough thrusting, just making love. My boyfriend got close quickly, so he started to jerk me off. ‘Let’s cum together at the same time’, he proposed. I loved the idea that I was going to cum, without being in control myself. With very slow but deep thrusts bf kept himself on the edge as he jerked me off. The moment I began moaning and tensing my back and legs, he increased the speed of his thrusts as he knew my orgasm was getting closer. I’m quite vocal and always tense up before cumming, especially in unusual positions, so bf perfectly knows how to time edges or ruined orgasms. But he wasn’t going to do that this time. We were going to cum together. My cum all over the bed sheets, and bf’s up my ass like always. But the moment we were both about to cum, my boyfriend lost focus and stopped jerking me off, causing a terribly frustrating ruined orgasm while he filled me up. About fifteen seconds later bf realized he ‘forgot’ to keep stimulating me, so he started again for a few seconds, not realizing that he was just causing another ruined, yet explosive orgasm, leaving me in a bit of a horny mess. 

We collapsed. Even though I just came twice, I still felt like being somewhat denied. I begged my boyfriend to please give me another orgasm, and not ruin it, because it was clearly not his purpose to do so. He smiled: ‘You can jerk off… but keep looking in my eyes. And stop immediately when I say so.’
I knew what was going to happen..

So, I got comfortable on my back, took my dick in a firm grip – because that’s what it takes after two semi-orgasms – and stared deep my boyfriend’s blue eyes. As I was about to tense up again and to spray my load, bf told me to stop. Just after a few seconds he made me continu. Then he stopped me again at the edge. And continu. And stop. Continu. Stop. etc. All while looking bf in the eyes. After some giggling out of frustration, some begging and loud moans I finally got that long wished permission to finish myself off. While looking bf in the eyes, I came all over my belly with my third big load in fifteen minutes and it was awesome.

I stopped masturbating. Bf grinned: ‘Did I tell you to stop…? Go on.’
I moaned. I was already sensitive after weeks of chastity and now he wanted me to continu jerking off until I came again? He had mentioned post orgasm torture before, so I accepted this little experiment and kept stroking. It started out a bit too sensitive, but after a minute of pushing myself, the stroking became rather enjoyable again and I felt that another orgasm was buildng quickly. However, this time my boyfriend didn’t order me to stop. I had to continu and came a fourth time. Again four big spurts up to my nipples. Still I wasn’t allowed to stop. Within five minutes I came a fifth and even a sixth time and I’m not joking that the last shot was the biggest of them all. 

So what started out as intimate love making, ended with some hot masturbation control and fully drained balls. Who would’ve thought that I got to cum like this, especially now recently my boyfriend seems to enjoy my chastity more than ever? ^^

And for next weekend he already mentioned something about exhibitionism, local woods, his car and me wearing very few clothing. *omg* You know, bf really can be strict, but when he allows me to cum, he makes sure to make it worth waiting for. Hoooly fuck. 

Is this reality?? I can’t write captions as hot as this! (That said – this is a lovely example of the reward of chastity, of trusting your keyholder with your cock.)

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by ccallenreese

“BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK!”
I clutch my sides, unable to stop laughing. “Pup! Brodie! Brodie! Seriously. Come here! you are never going to catch that seagull.”
He looks at me and whines, then puts his head down on his paws and wiggles his butt.
The seagull watches him with one beady eye from up on the fence, its beak clamped around a bag of barbeque potato chips.
“BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK!”
“Brodie!” I wheeze. I have to sit down.

The seagull hops to another fencepost. Brodie inches forward, muscles tense with energy. I watch from the sand as Brodie creeps up underneath the gull, more of a cat than a dog. The gull doesn’t seem interested in Brodie and gazes over the beach, as if trying to figure out where he eats the prize.

I’m holding my breath, watching Brodie seek his prey. Closer. Closer. After a few long moments, Brodie was directly under the gull. Slowly, slowly, slowly, my pup reaches up. We’re both holding our breathes. The gull could take flight at any moment. I’m silently cheering for my pup.

Then – Brodie makes a move. Like a lizard’s tongue, his fingers shoot out and grab the chip bag right out of the seagull’s beak. The seagull squawks and jumps, then looks around as if trying to figure out what just happened. Brodie looks at the chip bag in his hand in shock, then looks at me. My jaw is on the ground. I then whoop and punch a fist into the air. Brodie puts the chip bag into his mouth and begins to bounce up and down on his paws, woof-ing his head off.

People are staring at us now. Brodie puts his paws on the fence and shakes it under the gull flies away, and my pup gives it a loud farewell.

Satisfied, my pup trots over and puts the chip bag in my lap. I scritch him all over, then he headbutts me. I open the chip bag and feed him one. Brodie scarfs it down and licks my fingers.

“Alright, let’s go finish eating our lunch ok, boy?”
Brodie wiggles his butt, forgetting he’s not wearing his tail. “Arf arf!”

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Text is fictional. Puppy butt :3