Clumsy pup, failing the self timer.
Don’t forget your kneepads pup, you’re going to bruise! Also what is it that you hijacked there? A pair of underwear? This pup gets into mischief when not supervised it seems.
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Won’t you come to bed with me? Won’t you? Won’t you caress me, squeeze my shoulder, let your gaze roam my flesh? I can’t say anything that would convey how much I want you to come over here, how much I want you to express my semen from my body. I’m too shy anyway, to ask, so I have to show you instead. Am I not desirable enough, with my young face some partners have called “handsome”? Is my ass not rotund enough, or plentiful enough? Have those hours at the gym been for nothing, do you not notice my waist or the way my back muscles roll under my skin? I even got a pedicure, no thick callouses on my feet to scrape against the sheets, nails clean and scrubbed.
My body language says “I’m offering myself to you”, don’t you see? I’m spread wide open for you, accessible, eager. I’ve lifted my hips just forward enough to tease you by offering just a glimpse of my masculinity between my legs. My balls are full and low enough to rest on the mattress. Don’t they beg for a hand? Your dark hands would also look so artistic gliding over my ass, wouldn’t they?
I’ve picked this room on purpose. It’s so sterile and white, the sheets bleached and the walls scrubbed. I might be white but against the colorless palate I nearly glow, a sign of health and warmth. Aren’t I inviting? Won’t you please come over here? I’m too shy to ask…but I want you, more than breathing or eating. For years, I’ve wanted you, my eternal crush. Please… I beg with my eyes. I hold my breath.
He seems frozen in the doorway, momentarily stunned by my presence. My chest is starting to burn from lack of oxygenated air. Finally, finally he lets go of the doorknob and begins to walk over to me. I exhale so quickly I’m afraid I’ll pass out. He approaches me and strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers. I kiss his thumb, giving him another look of hope.
“You waited for me?” he asks, barely audible.
I nod.
“Through Hal and Scott and Lars, you waited?”
I nod.
He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you,” he whispers, then goes to lock the door.
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Text is fictional.
“What’s he doing?” my apprentice whispers into my ear. We’re watching the slave on webcam together.
“Mm. Adjusting to his new reality I suppose. Slave psychology is actually a rather interesting thing. They naturally respond to orders and demands in a snap, but they need some quiet moments to think and decompress during the day or else they get overstimulated.”
“Is that why you told Master Aberdeen 3:30 and put the boy in there at 3?”
“Yes. It’s his first time at auction, I don’t want to stress him out too much. He’s lucky to have attracted a potential private buyer though. Master Aberdeen has fine taste and enjoys – mmm, how should I say it? decorating his boys. Number 867 here will have a good future with him if the sale is completed.”
He squints at the webcam. “I’ll have to take your word for it Sir, I still am new to this region. Still, that’s a pretty heavy chastity device.”
“Oh yes, that. Master Aberdeen is very strict about how slaves access their own bodies… believes it’s the ultimate reward and should be off limits and coveted from day 0. ‘A horny boy is a happy boy.’ is what he likes to say. When Aberdeen comes by the office later, you should ask him over for brandy or coffee or something, I bet you could learn a lot from him.”
“Not later, he’s here,” my apprentice says, gesturing to the screen.
I smile. “Yes he is. Now watch closely, see how an accomplished Master works and tests new product.”
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Text is fictional.
You don’t realize how many holidays involve drinking until you’re trying to avoid them. Even the casual pool party is full of beer. A nice date night almost surely involves wine. Spiked eggnog cor Christmas, champagne on New Years, it’s ubiquitous. St. Patrick’s day is probably the worst as it’s synonymous with DUI checkpoints, green vomit, and cringe-worthy flashbacks about comments you made to that one hot redhead.
Normally, I try to keep busy with projects but there just wasn’t anything this time around. I found myself pacing around the house. I wanted to go out to a bar, have a drink, play pool, flirt with cute Irish boys from across the pond. Just one wouldn’t be such a backslide right? I knew myself though, one would turn into two, two into four, four into 4 am.
I was pacing around the bedroom, trying to push the nicotine-strong craving for booze out of my head and chewing my nails when my boyfriend came home.
“…Baby?” Ben called out, wandering the house until he found me. He was relieved to see I was here, but when he saw my face his clouded up. “Hey Tad, are you alright?”
I huffed loudly and sat on the bed, “Nothing it’s just… ” I raise a hand and then let it fall to the bed. “You know.”
He nods. “The craving is back?”
“Like a beast. Fuck, I can just taste it… like, I can smell the bar and everything.”
Ben stands in front of me. “Cause of Saint Patrick’s Day, huh?”
I nod miserably. “Just one…I just want one…”
He takes my hands in his own. Ben’s been my rock in all of my recovery, and when I plead like this, what I’m really asking is for a distraction. I never expect him to say “fine, only one” and he never, ever has.
Ben kisses my forehead. “How about-” he pushes me backwards and climbs on top of me, straddling my waist while discarding his shirt, “-we stay in, instead. Save us the money we’d waste, and fuck.”
“Mnnn I do like fucking but…you’d finish in a couple minutes, then what?”
The corners of Ben’s lips slide up into a Chesire grin, “Whaaat about if I bottom?”
“…You’re in the mood to bottom?”
“A rare occurrence but yes. And you know how tight I am, could take a while to loosen me up. Maybe a shower first?”
I grab his hips, slide my hands over his bubble butt. “That could take a while…” I agree.
He arches over and kisses me. I can’t help kissing him back. He’s incredibly convincing shirtless, I’m not sure if it’s his nipples or his pecs or what. I pause to inhale some air. “But…but what about after?”
“Well, if we do it right, you’re going to be exhausted, thinking of my hot body instead of a bar. I like to think I smell better anyway, even after sex.”
I snort.
“And, Tad, I thought after we cleaned up, we’d make one of those English breakfasts you love so much for dinner and have a picnic in the living room.”
I look at Ben’s hopeful face as I fiddle with his short strings.
“So… I can either go out, drink too many beers, get sick, hungover, and have to deal with your guilt tripping me the next morning, potentially ruining our relationship; or I can stay in, fuck my hot boyfriend who rarely ever wants to bottom, and then watch him make my favorite meal wearing only an apron? Man, that is a hard choice.” I smile, squeezing his ass with both hands.
Ben grins before he bends over and ravishes me with kisses again. “Your cock has already made the choice I see…”
I huff air through my nose. “Thank god I have a separate brain in my dick that knows what’s good for me.”
“Thaaank god,” he agrees, relief and pride all over his handsome face.
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Text is fictional; the man on top is Jake Bass, the man on bottom is Tommy Defendi. Thanks to annamartinwrites for the names.
Whomever said you shouldn’t wear white after Labor Day has never met David, clearly. That confidence on his face is such a turn on. “Yeah I’m a goddamn principal danseur at the Bolshoi and you’re who?”
Tiit
Four little letters is all you need to know whose elegant feet those are. “Tiit” is Tiit Helimets, an Estonian dancer in the San Francisco Ballet. He is one talented motherfucker.
Quick explanation for new users
I have an influx of new followers – we’re up to 2,600 something now – and so I just want to notify you guys of a couple things:
1) Every caption on this blog is fictional.
2) None of the photos are of me.
3) I blog from Pacific Standard Time (US, West Coast), and once in a while at around 3 am I’ll post Late Night Ballet Reblogs. So, if you see a bunch of dancers on your dash, that’s why. I have a thing, obviously.
4) If you know a source to a photo, or find a typo, please message me with it.
Thank you for following, liking, and reblogging!
(Edit: Aaha aww, this is a post for new users yet two of my longest and dearest followers commented first. Somehow, I knew they would. Thanks captionstojerkby and bookofbaitnate, love you guys.)
“Now do you believe me when I say I’m a professional ballet dancer? …Hello? Um, you can close your jaw now.”
(Anyone know who this is?)
No one will ever see you the way my eyes do
He’s been gazing at me for almost half an hour now. It’s a little unnerving, and sometimes I want to look away. I eventually put down my book and turn my attention to him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just thought I’d have my whole life to lie in bed and look at you, so I’m getting it while I can.”
“Oh god, don’t talk like that, please.” I set my book on the nightstand.
“Well it’s true,” Robert sniffs.
“No…no it’s not. You need to be an optimistic. The doctor said the new drugs work really well.”
“They won’t,” he says, resting his head against my shoulder, “They didn’t help Chris, they didn’t help Marcus, or Jesse. I haven’t met anyone they did help.”
“You’re biased. We’ve gone to three funerals but no parties right? No one is celebrating it, but lots of people have survived this, you just don’t hear about it.”
“Yeah that’s the problem. If more people heard about this, they’d know to be more careful. I should have been more careful…”
I pull Robert into a hug. “Don’t dwell on the past. What’s done is done. We need to focus on the future.”
“What future?” he huffs.
I bite my lip. “Tomorrow. And the day after. Next month. Your birthday. Then the next month…and the next year. Every day we can be together.”
“Won’t you tire of me, when I’m sick and dying?”
“Jesus Robert, stop talking like that! You need to be optimistic.”
“I don’t want to die,” he says softly, his voice cracking.
I embrace him as tight as I can, as if pushing him tight against my rib cage will suppress my own torrent of emotions hiding just behind a low wall.
“Medical science will do what it can, but If…if the time comes, when the drugs don’t work,” I pause to take a deep breathe, “I will be there for you. I won’t abandon you. Even if it costs my job, I’ll be by your side every second.”
I feel Robert’s body jerk as he starts crying into my shirt. “I don’t want to end up like Chris, wearing a stupid suit, in a hole, covered in dirt!”
I wipe tears from my own eyes, feeling futile in my efforts to soothe him, “Then we’ll celebrate instead. We’ll have a big party, lots of alcohol and food. Go go boys.” I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. I shove a second into his hand so he doesn’t get snot on my shirt.
“Like… a disco?”
“Yes. A disco, or a gay cabaret, whatever you want.”
Robert hiccups. “I’d like that. No suits.”
“No no.”
We rest there for so long I think Robert’s fallen asleep. I reach for my book again but he startles me by speaking.
“I’m scared, Justin.”
“I am too,” I say.
“Do you think I’ll live to see 1987?”
“I think so.”
“But it’s a year away.”
“Be optimistic, Robert. The grim reaper hates optimism.”
“Does it like sex?”
“Well…we don’t know anyone that’s died during sex,” I admit.
He looks up at me with red eyes, “Do you still want to fuck me, although I have AIDS?”
“Yes, yes I do. You’re still my lover, and always will be.”
He kisses my chin, a now rare smile on his face. “I’ll go get the condoms.”
I sigh in relief as he slides off the bed to go get them. Deep down, I’m more terrified than he is. The doctor said although my tests are negative, the virus can turn up months later. We had sex twice before Robert got the diagnosis; it was a “gift” from one of his clients. Still, I dread Robert purposely wanting to infect me so we can die together. I can’t be strong for him if I’m wasting away from it too. Someone needs to see Robert’s memory is remembered. I just hope it will happen when he’s 100 and not 30, but my gut feeling tells me he is going to end up another statistic. My poor, poor baby. It’s just not fair.
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Text is fictional.
“Mmm, what are you thinking?” I ask, ghosting my fingers over his sternum.
“I’m thinking…that I’m really happy you’re my boyfriend. I feel lucky,” James answers.
“Oh…?” I softly respond.
“Cause you’re…just this amazing person. Selfless, not selfish. Smart, without making me feel stupid. Witty without being annoying. Polite. Plus you’re really cute and you have the most beautiful penis I’ve ever seen.”
I turn beet red and bury my face into his neck, giggling. “You should smile when you tell your lies.”
“No, it’s not a lie,” he insists, “I swear I wasn’t really into blowjobs before I met you. It just seemed awkward and it tasted weird, but when I see you naked I want to suck you. And I enjoy it.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it makes me want to give it attention. Like, when your cock looks like that it shouldn’t be neglected. Plus your balls are nearly even in size, and they’re all…plump, I guess, which turns me on for some stupid reason.”
I smile. “I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s male genitalia. You’re gay, it’s supposed to turn you on.”
“See? This is what I mean. You can have a discussion about these things without being condescending about it.”
“Why thank you. Even with pillow talk, I try to be a gentlemen.” I try to hide how flattered I am he thinks these things about me. “Mmm. There is one other thing though, I really like,” James says.
“…What? Tell me! Please, I mean.”
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a serious look. “For some reason, after you cum, you smell like cinnamon buns.”
We stare at each other, then simultaneously dissolve into laughter.
The whole evening goes like this, staying up late, talking. Fooling around. Me making tea and grilled cheese, then back into bed for another round of chatting and foreplay. It’s pouring outside, but here, tucked up into this cozy loft of this cabin, we’re safe and warm and near delirious with love and happiness.
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Text is fictional. I think the couple is Sonny & Will from Days Of Our Lives.