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by ccallenreese

“You found him?” I repeat.
“Uh huh, just wandering around the streets, when I was out on my beer run,” Sully explains.
“Poor thing, he’s in shock,” Marcus adds.
“It’s pretty cold tonight.”
“He’s cute, can we keep him?” Marcus asks.
“Marcus, he’s not a puppy. Sully, did he say anything?”
“He just said that his Master got mad at him for ‘getting in the way’ and told him to take a long walk. He got lost. Then he clammed up, said he’s not allowed to speak to men without permission.”
I cup his chin, check his teeth. “He’s well cared for. Well-nourished. No scars or burns. Not neutered.”
Sully sips his beer. “Should we call the cops?”
“No, he’ll stay here tonight, where it’s warm and safe. If this slave meant so much to his Master, he would not have sent him out so late at night for something so unspecific. That’s how slaves get kidnapped on the black market. I’m going to make that Master fret all night about his boy.”
“Are you sure we can’t keep him? Sully never does the dishes around here.”
“Marcus!” I sigh. “No. He’s got a collar on. If we kept him, that’d be considered theft of property.”
“…But he looks so cute with that rope we found.”
“Why don’t you just get a puppy?” Sully wonders.
“I should, shouldn’t I?”
“Alright, it’s time we all went to bed.” I stand up.
“Can he sleep in my room?”
“He’ll sleep in the guest room, on that futon in there.”

“Thank you Sir, that’s kind of you.”
Everyone looks at the slave boy.
“It’s important that you’re well rested. An exhausted slave is useless.” I reply with a shrug. “Are you finished with your broth?”
“Yes sir.”
“Alright, bed time then. We’ll work this out in the morning.”

We tidied up the living room and trooped upstairs. After we put the boy down to bed, Marcus asked me again. “Are you sure we can’t keep him?”
I told him ‘no’ for the millionth time, and told him to go adopt a puppy.

If I had known that said Master had sent his boy outside to purposely “get kidnapped” by blackmarket slave traders in exchange for a huge pay-out, I would have never gotten involved. Because they would come looking for him, and we would put up the fight of our lives just so one slave could have a good home because, well, we grew attached him. He even got along well with our new puppy.

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Text is fictional.

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by ccallenreese

I watch Esteban sigh, toss, then turn. My eye rests on his rump before considering the bigger picture.
“What’s wrong? Did I not satisfy you?” I ask my oldest and dearest friend.
“No no, not at all. Your blowjobs are fantastic, each one better than the last. I’m just…restless, I think. Normally, your wonderful mouth makes me drowsy and I have the most wonderful naps sometimes. I just – I don’t know. I can’t sit still. I can’t relax. I want to nap, but can’t slow my brain.”
I furrow my brow. Now this was a challenge. I prided myself in filling all of his needs. My mother had been his family’s housegirl when I was growing up, and her son – me – became attached to the Gonzalez’s second son, Esteban. We were, and always would be, inseparable.
As I enjoy the sight of him shirtless, it dawns on me. “I know just the thing.”
“Oh?” Esteban asks, turning his face toward me.
“Spread out, face down,” I instruct. Rest your cheek on your arms.”

I wait for Esteban to get into position, then I climb into his bed and straddle the back of his legs.
“What are you going to do?”
I don’t answer him. Instead I reach forward and rake my nails down his back.
He arches up under me and groans. “Oh my god backscratches, yesss.”
I suppress a laugh and end up snorting out my nose. He always liked these as a little kid, but for some reason it’s not something people do as adults. I start at his shoulder blades, and scritch his upper arms, before returning to his upper back and working my way down his spine. I admire this rare view of him, and enjoy the sight of his muscle and bones and the shadows it casts on his sandy skin.

Under me Esteban is grunting and moaning. “Yeaah that feels so good.”
I smile, pleased with myself. I always know what he wants. It is my responsibility, more than anything else in the world to carry on the tradition – his family, my family, the symbiosis we share. 

When he begins to squirm with sensitivity, I change technique to a muscle rub. By the time I make my way downward to knead his firm doughy ass, Esteban has drifted off in a nap. I massage his balls for a moment, unable to help myself, and then I let him rest. Another challenge, another accomplishment – another scene of satisfaction. Esteban is getting the rest he needs.

I feel energized though. I decide to go make him some cookies for when he awakes.
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Text is fictional.

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by ccallenreese

Style 4 – Haruki Murakami // Japan, in the late 1960s
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I walked across the rooftop to where my new friends were smoking, laughing, and looking at the city scape below. It was pretty, but I could not concentrate on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be here, that I was supposed to be back in Tokyo, sitting in one of those jazz cafes like I did every day when I wasn’t at school and wait for him. I told everyone I wrote poetry and listened to records, trying to be the next generation of Japanese revolutionists without having to do a thing. But I was there, watching for Kaoru, because for many years I had loved him. To Kaoru, I was nothing, like a sheet of agar melting into simmering water.

There had been a party, and I had gotten drunk. I had spotted Kaoru, against the wall, looking very American and non-chalant. He was smoking, talking with a gorgeous blond woman about the latest rumor that a blunt had been found by he police which had shut down the entire production of Hair. It was a great scandal, at least in this scene I was pretending in as one of them. I should have cared.

I ended up alone, with Kaoru, and I kissed him. His face clouded and he left, leaving me, standing there like a phone off the hook.

I could not bear being in the same city as Kaoru, knowing we were walking the same streets, reading the same underground zines and listening to jazz records in the same cafes. It was unbearable.

So I told my parents I wanted to continue my studies in Europe for a semester. They were impressed, considering I had never once been passionate on my own, which also baffled me because the Japanese education system raises you to not have any thoughts at all. I packed my suitcase, methodically, careful not to pack anything I wore when I kissed Kaoru.
In hindsight, I was a coward. I was running away, as if Kaoru was all of Tokyo. But in this far continent my love for Kaoru did not lessen, and as the days went by, I became completely obsessed with wanting to know what he was doing. I called Shoko, in Shinjuku, and made her go to the cafe and wait for Kaoru. She called me back, with a phone card in the middle of the night, to tell me he was there and alone. He was smoking, and reading a book of poetry.

I had read the same one. I laid back on the bed in the small dorm I lived in and watched the moonlight come through the lace curtains and listened to Shoko. I thought about how funny it was that despite our distance, Kaoru and I were connected by the same book.

I lingered on this through-out the day, which ruined it. My new, artificial friends decided to take me to a spot in the city where we could watch the sunset and smoke. But as I strolled across the roof, I was struck with a terrible onset of ennui. It all looked wrong. I wanted nothing more than to go home to Tokyo, because I had to be where he was.

I made myself wait an anguishing long time where the time zones were. I made Shoko call and get his phone number from the directly.

I laid there in my bed and dialed his number. I watched the rain come down against the lead glass windows, and listened to my phone as it rang and rang and rang.

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Text is fictional. This is more serious than the other 3 I did, but it was the only author I could easily emulate. I like Yukio Mishima more than Murakami, but he’s more widely known.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Style 1 – Bad Romance Novels
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Aramis screamed like banshee as the dangerous dragonbeast lurched out of the forest toward him, acid dripping from his fangs. Just as the great mouth loomed above him, a sure arrow flew through the air, piercing it between the eyes. The dragonbeast roared and loomed up, exposing its soft belly. Another true arrow flew free and buried itself deep in the beasts heart. It lurched over, dead.

Aramis looked with quivering green eyes up at his strapping savior. He pressed up against a tree as if trying to draw strength from it He went weak at the knees when he saw his hero. It was Archer, having come to save him from the perils of this dangerous woods! Aramis felt his manparts in his codpiece tighten and rise like bread under a wet cloth. His strapping hero had a body of rippling sand dunes, with skin the color of birch, eyes like the deepest blue river. His bulge was huge, like a boulder. His gaze was pensive, inquisitive, and roamed over Aramis like was instead the prey and not the dead dragonbeast next to them, bleeding black blood into the plush moss of the forest floor.

“You came to rescue me, Archer!” Aramis cried, his words ringing like bells over the meadows. A wind stirred the big green leaves in the trees above, and a bird sang in the distance now that the danger was over.
”I could never let you be in danger,” Archer purred, his blood pulsing with possession.
The prince began to cry and threw himself at his savior. Archer set down his bow of elfswood he’d won from elves and scooped Aramis into his arms. The young man was trembling like a kitten that had narrowly avoided being picked up by a hawk. His bosom heaved with every sob, as if his pounding heart was trying to break free. Archer pushed away the tears and seized Aramis’s full, plush lips. Under him, Aramis went slack. Archer felt the young man press his soft hands against his muscular chest. Archer was his big tree now.

At once, Archer knew what he must do. His pheromones were raging, sending out signals to all the alpha animals in the forest. Archer paused to examine his love. Gentle blond curls spilled around around tear-streaked face like a waterfall. His fine clothes, tan breeches, and a silken shirt with jewels sewn into it, were dirty and torn. He wouldn’t need them. Archer took him to the stream where the water babbled over the rocks, like choir maidens singing, and laid down Aramis on a bed of leaves.
“My love, I must have you.”
“Oh Archer, take me! For I am yours!” Aramis begged, his bottom lip quivering. “I am wet and ready to take you!”
Archer again pushed away the tears from Aramis‘s green-glass eyes, letting them fall to the ground where they would nourish he dirt underneath. With fingers strong from a childhood of archery, Archer deftly undid the fine finery and set them aside.
Archer’s perfect lips formed the word “yes” at the sight of sweet Aramis bared naked for him. He was a beautiful boy, pale as the moon, curvy like a woman. His chest peaked in two buds, and there was hardly any hair leading down to the turgid pink cock jutting forward as if reaching out for someone to touch it. Drops of milk swirled down the shaft into the pale birdsnest of blond hair.

The Archer felt his heart hammer in his muscular chest, knowing that Aramis was the one he was destined to marry. It was his destiny to claim him and quell the throbbing in the full plums under his generous meatstick, thudding in his ears like the drum at a parade.
“Don’t you worry. I know you need a strong man, and once you feel my babyseed inside of you, you will know that you are mine.”

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Text is fictional, and so terrible I can’t even finish it. This is Jeremy Renner from the TV show Archer. I apologize to him for this.

April

April

by ccallenreese

So it’s the first day of the new month, and we’re almost at 5,000 followers. However, I think you can all agree with that my writing style is really boring. So tired of writing about the same cock, the same balls, the same sex. I think I need a change. I’m gonna try some new styles, and I want your feedback!! Please feel free to submit styles to me.

You guys let me know which one is best ok?