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by ccallenreese

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Nah. He’d put the jock on because—well, because he was a jock, right? I mean, he didn’t play anymore, but he had, he used to, and so wearing it was a habit, something he’d just never given up. This little piece of bro-hood that he kept with him, even as he’d grown and changed and moved on. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t at all a function of his new identity, the one he felt like he was still trying out sometimes, like a new pair of kicks or a new pair of sweats or, yeah, like a new jockstrap. It wasn’t that it framed his ass just so, wasn’t that it divided his body up, managing to emphasize both the rear he’d been starting to work so hard on (“It’s motherfuckin’ squats, man,” he’d said with a laugh when he got his first whistle at his new gym) and the dick he kept coiled in the pouch, the dick that (it turned out) liked locker rooms, athleticism, and bros just as much as he did. It wasn’t that he wore one so that then he could feel the fabric of his shorts sliding over his skin all day like a caress, wasn’t so that he could caress it himself, just run a hand along a cheek nonchalantly, you know, touching it, the same way other guys constantly and unconsciously scratched their nuts.

And it certainly—definitely, definitively—wasn’t that it made him feel so, so sexy.

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by ccallenreese

holdmelikeiwanttorunaway:

Everyone wants to have someones arms wrapped around them when they fall asleep at night. 

You hear the cries first. It pierces your rest like a sharp piece of glass. With great difficulty, you pull yourself away from the warm embrace of sleep. The baby is still crying. Your lover stirs under you, but you speak up first. “No, I’ll go.”
“But itsh my turn,” he slurs, mostly sleep still.
“Go back to sleep,” I say firmly. He worked a long shift today.
He doesn’t need another second to reconsider this and immediately dozes back off. You sigh and extract yourself from your comfort spot – latched onto his back like a koala. You sigh again as you get out of bed and your skin prickles in the cool air. You find your way into a bathrobe and stumble down the hallway like a zombie.

The baby is red faced and flailing. You smile when he stops crying to look at you with big blue eyes. He’s really cute, even when he’s waking you up in the middle of the night. Those cheeks! Those dimples! The tiny fingers! You transport the infant to the changing table and with practiced motions, whisk away the soiled diaper, clean the infant, and fix a new diaper in place. During the day you use cloth, but at night, you use disposable ones. Thank god, you think, yet again congratulating yourself on that idea.

The baby is still fussy, so you amble to the kitchen with the kid latched on your shoulder. With your eyes mostly closed, you wash your hands. Then, you prepare a bottle, test it on your wrist, and let the child nurse pressed up against your bare chest. You nod off but snap to attention when you remember what you’re doing. A long yawn follows. The baby burps in a timely fashion and is put back to bed; despite your fatigue you tuck him in carefully and make sure he is comfortable. You linger over his crib until he falls asleep.

It’s only then are you free to return to the paradise that is your own warm bed, complete with the thermal body of your beloved Sam. You slip out of the bathrobe and dive in, hurrying to be attached to him again.

Sam stirs. “Hey, e’rythin ok?”
“Yeah, the Goober’s fine.”
He smiles and chuffs through his nose. “I love that you’re such a good father to our baby. Its sexy,” he says. Or you think he says, as it all comes out as one long, slurred word.
You pause a moment, wondering if you heard that correctly. He said “our”. He hasn’t said that before now. It was always “his” baby, or when Sam was speaking, “my” baby. Technically, it wasn’t even his.

For a while, you two and Sam had an open relationship after years of waffling between on and off monogamy. Sam made the mistake of having one drunken night with a ex, only to wake up sober and discover she’d gotten six times more crazier since he’d left.

Not long after, Sam found out she was pregnant. They were gonna make it work. She had gotten her fix of attention during the nine months of pregnancy, but was over the whole motherhood thing an hour after a rather uncomfortable delivery. When she found out Sam was bisexual, and his lover had been a man, she said the baby boy was “tainted” and planned to leave town. Since Sam had used a condom, he had gotten a paternity test. The baby wasn’t his. Sam went over to her house to confront her the night she was leaving and they had gotten in a huge fight. She was going to be leaving town with some deadbeat that had blond hair suspiciously like the baby boy. Sam took a hair he found on the sofa, the baby, and left. The DNA in the hair matched the infant’s profile.

Sam knew he was not legally obligated to care for the infant, but to do so was a great miscarriage of justice. Turning that sweet, perfect baby over to a drug-dipping deadbeat with Aryan facial tattoos and no GED was a textbook recipe for trauma. Sam kept the baby as his own, and it brought his relationship with you to a new place. A closer, more intimate place where you were now a family instead of just a couple.

Then Sam had proposed. You said yes. The wedding was in a few weeks, and you could barely wait.

You snuggle up to your beau, infatuated with him and lovesick. The magnitude of passion you feel toward him and that small helpless baby in the other room overwhelms you sometimes. You’re tired, and part of you just wants to cry with bliss. Sam presses back against you.

He keeps pressing. You’re surprised he’s still awake. Your groin begins to stir as his round little butt keeps brushing against your silk boxers, right over where your cock has nested for the night. You grunt.
“Sam…” you say.
“Mnnng…” he replies, still rubbing. You reach over and down and feel for his cock. It’s hard and jutting straight forward. Not hard to miss. Sam makes a content noise when you play with it.

You’re not quite sure if you are dreaming all of this, but you have to be, because there’s no way you can stay awake. Yet, you find yourself reaching backwards for the nightstand drawer. In the dark, you fumble, and find a condom and lube. You tear it open with your teeth and roll it on; you open the lube one handed and drip it everywhere. You slick up your own cock, then toss the closed lube bottle on the floor.

“Hold still,” you whisper. Sam stills. You put a leg over his hips and position the blunt tip of our cock against him. In one motion, you’re in him, and Sam moans. He hasn’t gotten laid properly in two weeks. You’re in him, and he’s magnificent. Sam undulates against you and you make love to him gently. You kiss his shoulder and reach again for his impressive cock. The pace accelerates from zero to sixty in three seconds. You work your hips quickly; you both tense, and then it’s over. Sam cums into your hand; you fill the condom. It takes a tremendous effort to move again. You wipe your hand on a tissue and rip off the condom. You just leave it open in the trashcan, there’s no energy left in you to tie it.

Sam is asleep again, smiling now. You can tell, his breathing has changed. A feeling of comfort settles over you, of paternal belonging and satisfaction in your roll as a man of the house. You’ve taken care of your offspring. You’ve pleased your man. All is good in your house and domain.

The night is now yours. You cling to Sam, and fall back asleep.

__________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“Mmnngf!”
“I’m pretty sure this is going to be the last time I catch you breaking into the building. I know, I know, it’s tempting. The city’s only gay nudist-friendly condo units. But those gates exist for a reason. We gotta keep the riff-raff out somehow.”
“Nnnng mff!”
“I don’t think turning you over to the cops is gonna help. You sit there and think about what you’ve done.” I ignore his pleas and turn to leave.
“Oh I forgot one more thing.” I pull a little butterfly knife out of my pocket. His eyes go wide.
“No no you big baby, I’m not going to cut you.” I kneel between his legs, pleased the ropes are holding him place. I make a cut through his underwear and put the knife away. From my other pocket, I take out a small flat vibrator and tuck it between his cock and his balls. The cotton holds it in place.
“Mmnnhhhh!”
I hold the remote in my hand and turn it on. He groans loudly and squirms in the ropes.
“There. That should keep you busy. I tweak his nipples. I’ll be back, sweetheart to check on you briefly. Don’t go anywhere now.”

_________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“I can’t sleep,” he said, messing with his toes. “I dozed off but I had this bad dream and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
I exhaled through my nose and sit down on the edge of the bed. I awoke due to his cries, which echoed through-out the entire house.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you,” he added in that soft, delicate tone of his, sweet as treacle and fragile as the skin on top of cocoa.
“It’s quite alright, Caleb. I expected there to be a period of adjustment.”
He looked down and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t quite believe me. After a moment, he spoke again. “Everything is different here. The bed is higher, the night sounds are strange, the sheets smell different.” He sniffed. “I miss home.”
“Oh sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you homesick?”
“Yes,” he replied, big crocodile tears sliding down his pale cheeks. “I want to sleep in my old room again. I’m so far from home!”
“Caleb…” I scooted across the bed and opened my arms. He crawled to me, sitting half in my lap, legs all over the bed. I enfolded him in my arms as he cries into my bathrobe. I rocked him, soothing him.

“I know it’s scary. But you have to be brave.”
“I don’t want to be brave!”
“I’m sure in the next couple of days you will learn a lot about my house, you’ll adjust, and discover Yellow Ridge is not a terrible place to live and I’m not a terrible person to live with.”
He sniffled again. “I’m not going to be a good husband to anyone.”
“Oh that’s not true, that’s not true. Shhh… relax. Breathe now.”

I continued to rock him, feeling more that I was rocking a little boy than the young man who was betrothed to me. It was, on paper, a good match. My family blood line is one of the upper seven or so distinct names, a historical name of wide influence in society and business. Caleb was from a lesser family line. Heterosexual marriage between blood lines is not encouraged amongst our people due to blood mixing. The only way for a family to gain a higher standing is to be lucky enough to have a gay son or daughter to offer to an upper family for their own homosexual son or daughter to marry. From the perspective of Caleb’s parents, he was a golden child. They were eager to abide by even the most conservative traditions. They had insisted Caleb be sent here to be my houseboy until the wedding, when he turned 18.

Even calling it a wedding was a broad term – it was more of a political ceremony. I had heard about wedded couples that each kept their own lovers; I however was a traditionalist, and hoped my bride and I would be true to each-other and monogamous.

I began to suspect that Caleb wasn’t going to be ready at 18 though. His parents had mollycoddled him and babied him. Freshly 16, he was still very much a sheltered child. I glanced down at the bundle in my arms. It was difficult to imagine that in two years, I was expected to consummate that marriage. Our five year difference suddenly felt wide as a chasm. His parents had likely taught him nothing about sex. I wondered if Caleb ever played with himself at all before his chastity device was affixed. He was still probably adjusting to that too. I pondered if it would be better to have it removed and let him explore.

More than anything, I felt pity for my bride. Thrust into a strange world, into strange arms, at a time when his body and its hormones were transforming in the most awkward ways. I also felt a bit of anger and disgust that the temple elders had clearly not sensed Caleb was a vulnerable creature – if I had been a man of lesser morals, I could have violated Caleb terribly. I made a note to call the Temple Counsel in the morning to file a complaint.

I would not send him back though. It would not benefit Caleb to go back into the womb at his age. As he got older, this behavior would be more difficult to correct. He was going to be a man soon. There were going to be expectations of him. I hoped keeping house and receiving home schooled lessons would keep his mind occupied. I kissed the top of his head and tried to remove Caleb but he’d worked his fingers into my bathrobe.

“Are you going to send me back?” he whispered.
I wondered if the boy could read minds. “No,” I said firmly, “You need to fledge from the nest. Every duckling and songbird falls a little when learning to fly. You’ll get used to things. You’ll find happiness in your work. Once you turn old enough, I will teach you the most wondrous pleasure your body is capable of. Are you feeling pain in your device?”
I felt the heat of his cheeks through my clothes. “No,” he says. “It’s snug, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Ok, let me know if it does.”
He nodded.
“Will you try to sleep now?”
Caleb eyed the bed warily. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
I thought. “Just this time, duckling”
He seemed satisfied with that. I cleaned his face, made him blow his nose, and have a sip of water. I then tucked him in lovingly and then spooned up next to him, me on top of the covers. Caleb had exhausted himself and was asleep within minutes. I lingered a moment, watching his eyes move under his eyelids, marveling at how long his lashes were. His face still possessed some of its babyfat, especially in the cheeks. He was going to be stunning all grown up.

I just had to make sure he would grow up. I was sure once he got a taste of his new found freedom he would thrive. Tomorrow would be a most interesting day.
“Good night, duckling,” I murmured, as I turned off the light and went back to my room.

_______________________________________________________
Text is fictional. This is model Graeme Metz photographed by Cecilie Harris for Boys by Girls magazine issue 6, titled “The Truth About Boys”. The T-Shirt by American Apparel and Underwear by Calvin Klein. This caption is not a projection or assumption of Graeme’s personality or sexuality.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“Well, now what do we have here?”
“Oh! Um, Coach that’s …well I- I…”
“Wearing your best brand jock strap to boxing practice? I think you want to impress someone, Richie.”
“Gosh Coach, I’m so embarrassed you found out this way…”
“I think you wanted me to find out. You have a cute butt. I was right about that.”
“…You really been checking me out, Coach?”
“Well not as much as you’ve been checking out me,” he said, releasing the elastic and cupping Richie’s left cheek.
“You could tell??” Richie said, sounding shocked.
Coach tried to suppress a laugh. “Your eyes always lingered in certain places, boy. You are a tremendous flirt and are always trying to get my attention. Too shy to take the first move? Have you worn these for me every time, hoping one day I’d notice?”
“I- I- well -um-”
“You have a hot body, Richie. I mean, I sculpted it myself, but I’ve never gotten to taste it. Why don’t we hit the showers early?”
“Oh wow, Coach, you mean it?”
He reaches around and squeezes Richie’s cock between his shorts. “Unless you want everyone to see you get fucked over the weight lifting bench.”

Richie gulps. “No, Coach, I want you all to myself!”
“You are one of my best students Richie. You know why? Because you listen and respect your superiors. Come on, let’s go. We’ll finish up your lesson later.”
“Yes Coach!” Richie asks, pulling off his boxing gloves in a hurry.

________________
Text is fictional.