Tag: male nudity

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Our boss dislikes me because I’m black and he dislikes Sean because he’s not “for the cause”. If he found out Sean was “queer” and not “doing his part” by making more blue-eyed American babies, he would likely combust into a million pieces and fire us on the spot. Yet, he tolerates us because we stay late and help out at the business. Little did he know that when we “stay late”, Sean and I go into the maintenance room and commit sodomy.

I was shocked to learn what a horny bottom Sean was. He loved getting attention from another man. When his clothes came off, he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. I had no idea a white man could have a booty like he did. A big full, bouncing buttwith full jiggle power. It was a shame he hid it in khakis cause it was a thing of beauty. I forced Sean into all sorts of positions and fucked him raw. I took him on all fours, pulling his hips up to mine while I buried my cock deep into his gut. I took him on his back like a female whore, and watched him struggle to focus on stroking his adorable pink cock while his brain melted from sex. That boy just loved taking it up the ass.

I took him standing up, sitting down. I made him suck me off, which he did with great fervor. He loved the taste of my cum. By the end of each session, he’d be putty in my hands. I would feel an odd calm settle over me, that I had claimed him and put things right in the world. I would stroke his red head and ejaculate on his face – an unmistakable sign that I was superior to him. Sean loved it.

Shame our boss rarely got laid, cause if he did, he would recognize the “nagging smell” in the maintenance room was in fact, Astroglide.

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Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

yeahstr82gay:

The biggest thrill was being had.

For five days a week, Ray was a buttoned-down, on-top-of-things guy at work, and for two days every weekend he finished the honey-do list at home, went to his kids’ events, and maybe carved out three hours on Sunday to watch the game.  He led, managed, fixed, and loved; he was the guy, the dude, the Man.

But now this business trip had changed everything.  Jack, who was only supposed to be another cog in the wheel, a junior manager whom Ray was actually sent to evaluate in preparation for a potential dismissal, had seen something in Ray he didn’t even know was there, and now here he was, the last day of his trip, walking in a leather jock and leather boots,his ass bare to the world, his body viewed and appreciated by a street filled with hundreds, hand-in-hand with a man who spent all last night cherishing him, unlocking him, adoring and making love to him. Hurt?  Like hell.  But worth every moment.

He was had, and it was wonderful, and he just didn’t know that he’d ever be able to go back.

There is no back, only forwards.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

I yawn, ruffling my hair as I amble into the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, slightly startled to see a slightly older man cooking in the buff. His focus is on a pot on the stove. I tilt my head and rub my eyes. I didn’t think anyone else was home. George didn’t mention he had a houseboy. Well, some men don’t think to, they get so used to having them around.
“Morning, how about some coffee?” I say, sounding sluggish.
He glances in my direction, but doesn’t say anything back. I shrug it off, figuring he’s a silent type, then go about pouring some cereal into a bowl. I add the milk and sit down to read the paper. Halfway through on article on an all male ballet revue, I realize I still don’t smell coffee.
“Hey, do you mind making some c-” I tilt the paper back. The houseboy isn’t there. I look left and look right. I began to feel odd and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. The stove is clear; the towel is hanging on the oven.

I put the paper down and glance out of the window toward the driveway; not a soul. I wander around the house, hoping to find him there or in the backyard. Feeling slightly frightened, I launched myself up the stairs to George’s room and find him safe and shaving in the bathroom.

“Hey um, George?” I pant.
“Hey is everything alright?” he asks, mid stroke.
“I …I don’t know. I ran into your houseboy downstairs and now he’s vanished. I was wondering if maybe I was wrong in thinking he’s your houseboy and someone broke in the house and….George why are you looking at me that way?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t have a houseboy.”
“….What?”
George’s eyes are wide. “Well, I mean…I did, but he…he passed away a couple years ago.”
“Christ,” I gasp and lean against the door-frame. “I swear, there was a guy I saw downstairs. He was cooking something on the stove.”
George finishes shaving as quickly as he can. He washes his face off and we scramble downstairs to the kitchen. The towel is on the floor when we get there.

George kneels and picks it up. “Ivan always used to wear this over his shoulder when cooking. I used to chide him when it fell off, which was often…” his voice catches in his throat.
“Jesus, George.”
George walks to the living room, clutching the towel, and gestures to a photo on the mantel. “That was us.”
My skin breaks out in small bumps. “That’s him!” I squeak, “That was him. He looked at me!”
“His name is Ivan,” George says, sniffling. “Oh god, why is this happening. Ivan passed away two years ago. He had cancer, it got into his brain. Why did he show himself to you and not me?”
Suddenly, George is crying and I’m embracing him, trying to comfort my new boyfriend. I’m soothing him and stroking the back of his head as he mourns when I smell it.

I sniff the air. George holds his breath and sniffs too.
“Do you smell that?” he asks, hesitant.
“Yeah I do,” I reply, swallowing my fear in my throat again. “It’s the smell of fresh coffee.”

We both look at each other and bolt to the kitchen. The scent is fading. There aren’t any full cups on the counter. No steam comes from the pot. However…the cupboard revealing the cups is open.

George and I are speechless.
“I …I think he wants me to make coffee,” I volunteer.
“Why would he want you to do that?”
I think. “Maybe he wants me to take care of you.”
George face lights up. “You think so? You think it’s his way of approving of you?”
“Perhaps so,” I say with a smile. I go about making coffee and a nice breakfast, looking over my shoulder the entire time.

George and I were on edge all morning, but there were no other traces of Ivan on that day or any other day. I kept dating George and eventually moved into his house. I mostly assumed Ivan had moved on. Although, once in a while, I would come into the kitchen to make dinner and find the towel on the floor, and I would wonder…

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Text is fictional. Happy Halloween. Be nice to have a source for this.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

neweygn:

I need a houseboy to do my ironing. Don’t we all?

Hamal presses a cup of tea into his hand. “Come upstairs, I gotta finish the ironing.”
Dan nods and follows him, still trying to get used to the fact that his friend is a nudist. They go up the stairs and into the secondary bedroom, everything in pause from when Hamal went downstairs to greet Dan at the door.
“So how’s your brother?” Hamal asks, turning on the iron again.
“He’s doing a lot better, thankfully. Working out in the country has done more for him than any city rehab clinic did. Mom wants to see him for Christmas but we’re not sure bringing him back to Springfield is a good idea, cause it’s where all his drug contacts are. We might have Christmas in the country.”
“That actually sounds better than Springfield.”
Dan chuckles. “Yeah it does. I’m happy for him though. I hated seeing my Dad worry about him.”
“I hope he stays sober too. Are you still working for that accounting firm?”
“Yeah, I am. I am up for a promotion next year. I think I’ll get it, considering the last audit I did for a client turned up a couple hundred thousand in extra money.”
Hamal smiles. “Way to go, Dan! You must be their favorite person in the world right now.”
“Considering the bear hug their CFO gave me, I would say so.”
“You were always good with numbers.”
“Mhm.”

The conversation hit a dead end. The hiss of the iron and the sound of the metal plate swishing over fabric was the only noise in the room.

“What happened to you man?” Dan blurts out, watching Hamal iron.
“Excuse me?” Hamal replies, looking up from working on a shirt sleeve.
“You’re standing there, butt naked, ironing some guy’s workshirts in the middle of a Sunday afternoon like you’re his servant girl. What does he got on you to make you do this?”
Hamal sets the iron down with a bang, making Dan jump. “What does he got on me? William doesn’t have a thing on me. Are you implying he’s blackmailing me into doing his laundry?”
“Well, it’s the only explanation I can think of. You used to get higher grades in class than I did – you were like the top student in our engineer department. You could have been at JPL or Boeing by now, instead of…” Dan gestures. “This. What gives? Everyone wonders what happened to you after graduation.”

Hamal presses his lips together until they were a thin line. “You’re just like my parents. Ever since I was little, it was study study study study. Science camps in the summer, tutors in the fall, flashcards before bed. My father wanted me to be an engineer or a doctor or a lawyer. Those were the only choices they gave me. They sent me to a magnet high school. They never let me take an extracurricular that wasn’t somehow "good for me”. I never even owned my own soccer ball, Dan. You bet that I had very little choice over where to apply for college, or what program I applied to.“
"But you were good at it! You were good at numbers, and at math and science. You can’t blame your parents for trying to nurture that,” Dan counters.
“But no one ever asked me what I wanted!” Hamal nearly yells, pointing at himself. “No one EVER asked me if I wanted to be an engineer! If I wanted to spend my life stuck in a cubicle doing math and science for big faceless corporations. Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I have to have a career in it. I wanted to take home ec and learn how to bake. You know, once I tried to take a quilting class at the local YMCA but when my dad found the papers, he beat me and threatened to kick me out of the house.”
“….What?”
Hamal huffs. “Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. It’s ~gay~ or whatever you deem it to be. But I liked it. I like sewing, I like cooking. You know, fifty, sixty years ago, it was expected of a woman to do these things for her husband. We all just assumed they were all repressed now. My grandmother was a housewife. She loved being a housewife. You know, when we were downsizing her house before she died, we found this album of old photos. She was a tennis whiz. She won all these trophies. Could have easily gone pro. She chose to get pregnant and stay home…. and we all pitied her, you know, because we thought she sacrificed her career after an accidental pregnancy. She always insisted she got pregnant on purpose. When she was 90, and half senile, her home aid would find her in the kitchen at 3 am trying to bake apple tarts for her kids. She just wanted to be a mother and housewife, and no one could understand that.” Hamal continues ironing angrily. “I don’t see why a man can’t want the same thing.”

“….And that’s …what you want?” Dan asks slowly.
“Yes,” Hamal replies firmly. “I find it much more satisfying. I would go insane in a cubicle.”
“I just…” Dan puffs his cheeks and runs his fingers through his hair. “I just had no idea. It’s hard to fathom that what people consider tedious chores, you prefer over anything in the world.”
“But it’s not just chores,” Hamid explains patiently. “It’s because I do them for William. William was the first one who really understood me. I made him cookies once, when we started dating, and he thought it was awesome that I liked to bake. I did his laundry once and the look on his face told me he was thinking of marrying me right then. William loves his job in the DA’s office, and has no time for like, life stuff. He hates chores, cause he grew up in a family of eight. So the fact I anticipate what he needs and do it for him is hugely flattering. Makes him feel like a million dollars. I like that.” Hamal smiles.

“But …I mean…what comes after? I mean, this has to wear off sometime. Are you still going to be a houseboy when you’re 50?” Dan asks. “You’re gonna get bored.”
Hamal moves on to another shirt. “Don’t think I’m so simple, Dan. I tutor low-income kids struggling with math skills. I keep busy. I volunteer at animal shelters. William and are talking about fostering or adopting soon, so I’m dreaming of a house full of kids. Then after? Who knows. I’ll get a part time job until William retires, then we will travel the world together. We already travel a lot. We also go to the ballet, movies-”
“Kids? You never mentioned wanting kids.”
“I always wanted kids,” Hamal says, sounding a bit sad. “Just no one ever asked me what I wanted. Being a stay-at-home dad sounds so much fun.”

Dan looks at his old college friend sideways, trying to see the real Hamal instead of the one he thought he knew his entire life. “So you’re…really happy just…ironing? You’re happy being his houseboy? His, um, naked houseboy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you want?”
“Yes. And I like being naked. It’s comfortable. Plus, William likes it, and when he’s wound up the sex is amazing,” Hamal mutters.
Dan turns red.
Hamal smirks.
Dan sips his ignored tea and watches Hamal iron. “Well if that’s…what you want, then I’ll try and support that.”
Hamal’s face softens. “Thank you. That means so much to me Dan. I know it’s hard to comprehend, but thank you for at least trying. Also, when the kids arrive, I am totally making you babysit.”
“Hey!”
Hamal chuckles. “I’m just about done here, and I gotta get the towels off the line outside. But if you want to stick around…I am baking chocolate chip cookies afterwards.”
“…Chocolate chip cookies?” Dan perks up. “Any chance we could put peanut butter in them?”
“Oh, I think that is definitely doable. William loves peanut butter too.”

William comes home that afternoon and finds two cute boys making cookies in his kitchen. He nibbles one and wonders why on Earth more people didn’t have houseboys. He watches Dan and Hamal lick the beaters clean, and admired how happy they were. It is a relief for William to see that Hamal still has companions outside his own circle. It also makes William a little jealous though, and he smothers down his lust for Hamal in an apron for hours until Dan finally leaves after dinner.

William and Hamal don’t even make it to the stairs before the lust overwhelms them. Hamal still smells like cookies, and William devours him.

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Text is fictional. Long ranting houseboy story, ahoy. Also JPL stands for Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

As he put away my coat, a bing came from the kitchen. “Ohhh the roast is ready.”
Before I could say anything my houseboy jogged back to the kitchen, his pert butt bouncing behind him. I followed him there. “Henry, what is that smell?”
“Roast chicken,” he replied, matter of factly. “I put a lot of butter on the potatoes this time cause I know you like that.” He pulled out an impressive looking dinner and set it on the stove.
“Damn, that looks amazing. But no I mean, the other smell. It smells like a candle factory exploded.”
My boy pulls off his oven mitts and blinks at me. “Ohhh that.” He moves to the cabinet and begins to make me a vodka cranberry. “It’s spices. I thought since we live in a climate where we actually get seasons now that it would be appropriate to get into the mood of things.”

“Things…?” I repeat.
“You know, fall! Autumn! Pumpkins. Pies. Cinnamon. Apples. The leaves outside are turning colors! Here’s your drink Sir.”
I accept it, and sip it. “Thank you, boy.” I enjoy watching him move about the kitchen, fussing over the chicken and setting the table. “So you lit a candle?”
“No Sir, I had to change the air filters so I rubbed a mix of cinnamon and allspice and cloves on them.”
“How did you come up with that?”
“Well they were at the grocery store, but they were expensive, so I just decided to do it myself.”
I stare at him. “Well that’s quite intelligent.”
“Is it? Thank you Sir.” Henry frumps around with making gravy. “You know, I was thinking, why don’t we have a little house warming party?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Boy, I don’t think that’s a great idea. People are avoiding me at work because I was upfront that I was gay. I just moved here, I don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

Henry pauses and tilts his head. “Forgive me for saying this Sir, but I think having a housewarming party would be even more useful this way. Perhaps the people you work with aren’t used to ‘homosexuals’, or whatever they call us. It’s a perfect opportunity to show them that you’re a normal person, you live in a normal house, have a normal life. We don’t have a dungeon in the basement… well, yet. Plus, I’m a damn good cook.”
I smile. “That you are. You know, you might be right.”
“Ooo that means I can decorate the house. I could carve a pumpkin. Make that cinnamon apple cake I like… god I love parties.”

I set the drink down on the kitchen table and sink into a chair. “Come here for a moment, Henry.”
He sets a serving spoon down on the counter, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks over to me. “Yes sir?”
“Sit on my lap, boy.”
He lifts up the apron and straddles my thighs. I give him a kiss on the lips and squeeze his ass with my hands.
“God I love it when you’re domestic,” I admit, low and husky in his ear.
“Do you Sir?”
“I have no idea why, but it makes me want you. You just get this glow about you when you get into one of your moods…”
“Well, I am happy when serving the man I love.”
I capture his mouth with another kiss. My right hand moves forward, under his apron. I give his locked cock a proper tug, then cup his balls in his hand and massage them as I kiss him. Henry moans against me and grinds into my hand.
“You must really like buttered potatoes,” he breathes.
“Mmnn…I think I just really like autumn,” I say. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes Sir. I always lube up right before you get home, just in case you want to relieve some stress.”
“That’s a good boy,” I murmur. “Stand up a minute.”
He does so, so I can unzip my pants and extract my cock. I groan when the wet tip touches cool air. Henry takes over and strokes me with his hand, his eyes fixated on me. He’s flushed, but I can’t tell if it’s from cooking or from stimulation. When I’m breathing slow and properly stiff, Henry crawls back into my lap. He holds onto my shoulders so he can raise his ass up and position my cock in the right spot. I bite off a cry when I feel his body envelope me, a slow, tight heat around me, down to the hilt. I plunder his mouth again and push his waist downward so he’s sitting on my lap once more.

“God that’s it, Henry,” I murmur. He rides me, without even asking. I watch in fascination as his pelvis and hips roll while his shoulders stay mostly still. His eyes are glazed over now. I notice there’s a wet spot flourishing on the apron. Soon, I cannot stay still any longer and drive up into him. Henry cries out, begging me to keep moving. We collide over and over until he’s squeezing my shaft so hard I can’t even breathe.

I shout and explode inside of him. Henry whines, a loud needy noise, and then I feel something hot and wet pool through my work pants. I realized I haven’t breathed in what seems like forever and so I inhale, sharply. The world spins around me, and I cling to my houseboy. He is staring me with love all over his face, looking completely blissed out. I bless him with a few more kisses, then we slide apart. He looks upset at the loss, but enjoys playing with my softening cock after settling back down without it inside of him. My seed drips out of his hole and back onto my legs too. Instead of feeling filthy, I feel deeply possessive and horny again.

“That – that was a wonderful surprise Sir,” he says, his sternum heaving.
“Mnnnh…you were divine. Did I trigger something? You made a mess on my leg.”
Henry lifts up the apron corner. “I think you triggered a small anal orgasm, Sir…I felt like someone was blowing up a balloon in me and it popped and then it just felt wonderful. I feel so light.”
I smirk. “That is how it should be. That is the joy I give you.” I plant a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Thank you Sir, for that gift then.” Henry nuzzles my cheek. “I am afraid I have soiled your pants Sir.”
“You can scrub the semen stains out after dinner. I don’t think I can get up right now Henry, fetch me a clear pair of slacks would you?”

I watch in great amusement as a pouting Henry dismounts me and wobbles off like a baby deer, one hand pressed between those round ass cheeks. I sip my cranberry vodka and look over at the chicken roast. I must be the luckiest man in the world. 

As I sip, my thoughts drift back to that idea of a housewarming party. I like the idea more and more. I want every homophobe in that office to be jealous of what I have with Henry. I want them to see our chemistry, our happiness. I also want them to see hickeys. I swirl the ice in my glass. Yes, yes, for sure. I can hear Henry approaching with my pants. After dinner, after he’s scrubbed my pants and done the dishes, I will fuck him silly and give him those lovebites for the week.

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Text is fictional. I pulled this image from this post.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

“Hey William, you here?”
“Woah you’re home? Yeah um – shit I’m not wearing-”
I come into the kitchen and we catch each-other off guard. “Oh! Yeah you’re not wearing pants,” I chuckle.
“Gah, sorry, Patrick, I didn’t realize you’d back so early.” He blushed, holding his tank top over his crotch. It’s not long enough and pulling it down has exposed his pectorals.
I feel a flash of envy at his muscular body. “It’s alright, we’re both guys anyway.” I shrug.
“Yeah… that’s true. It just um, well it’s kinda sore so it feels better to just not wear pants.” He’s blushing even harder now and looking at the ground.

“Wait…Will, are you telling me? Did he -?”
“Yeah,” Will gives a sheepish smile, “He did.”
“Ohh he finally pierced you! Congrats. I know this is weird, but can I see?”
My roommate shifts foot to foot then lifts his tank top enough for me to see the tip. “See? Right through the foreskin.”
“Oh wow. That’s a pretty ring. Did it hurt?”
“It hurt so bad! But it was over in a second. Daddy said he was really proud of me.”
I long ago got over my uncomfortableness with him using that term to describe his significant other. Adult discipline relationships were completely foreign to me but I tried to be understanding. “So things must be going well hm?

Will covers himself again and smiles. "Yeah they’re going well. Really well. His lease expires in four months, we’re talking about perhaps moving in together.”
“You’re over there all the time anyway.”
“This is true. I dunno Patrick… I feel so comfortable around him. I love his presence in my life. Plus now, there’s this. I feel kinda warm inside when I think about it. He’s been such a positive force in my life. I’m happy he still wants to mark me, to make me his.”
“Aww, Will, you are so lucky to have someone like that. I hope to meet a girl one day that appreciates me half as much.”
“Oh! That reminds me…” Will scurries off in an awkward waddle.
“What?” I asked, setting my stuff down on the kitchen table.
He came back wearing a pair of loose shorts. “Here. The piercing girl was cute. She had a Young Frankenstein tattoo. I got her name and number for you.”
“Oh sweet! Thanks Will, you’re the greatest.”
He beams. “Call her.”
“I plan to. You know, I have a really long tank top I never wear cause it’s too long. You look really uncomfortable – you want that tank top so you can take off your shorts?”
“God yes,” he groans. “It’s so sore!”
I chuckle. “Poor Will. Love hurts.”

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Text is fictional. I think this is Czech model Martin Gardavský.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

I had gone to the dungeon as a last resort. Years of psychological damage from childhood and poor self esteem had left me fragmented and hollow, and therapy could not touch it. I wanted release. I wanted to break through. I wanted to crumple and die and be reborn on the other side.

I was terrified when they tied me to the A frame with ropes and cuffs and chains, spread eagle and naked for a handful of naked and leather-clad spectators. I wanted to use the safe word. It was on the tip of my tongue. Instead I used “yellow”, over and over and over again, until I was sure the man in the mask would frustrated with me and tell me to get out. He did not.

Instead, he listened. He went slow. He spanked me and whipped me until I screamed and my muscles shuddered after each strike. I saw nothing but stars. Over and over until I lost track of them all. I could hear the others murmuring but could not make out what they were saying. I could hear him heaving from the effort. Then, he said, “Good boy,"  and gave one final strike. At that moment, I felt myself come apart. I ejaculated all over the floor. That gross, ugly, dirty shadow of shame that had clung to me ripped away and left me fresh and new and exposed on the frame.

"Stop” crossed my lips as I burst into tears. It hurt to cry – my face ached, my throat hurt. It felt as if my body had sweated out all its liquid and was pulling water from deep inside of me. The masked man and his assistant immediately untied me. The masked man set aside the whip and brought me to the floor and wrapped me into his strong arms. I did not care about his scent, or that his biceps were damp from sweat. I clung to him like a buoy as if I were deep out in dark waters. He rocked me and shh’ed me. His assistant brought me water; I drank it so fast I got hiccups.

The masked man chuckled and soothed me through my hysteria, cleaning my nose and my eyes with a handkerchief.
“There there…it’s alright. Come down now. That was very intense for your first session. I was impressed by your stamina. Alright, breathe for me. Yes, that’s a good boy now.”
“Am – Am I really – good?” I stammered.
He blinked down at me. ‘Yes. You’re a good boy,“ he said, petting my hair.

At that moment, I fell in love with him. I didn’t know his name. I hadn’t seen his face. But I loved him. I curled up against his broad chest and just breathed. No one had ever called me a ‘good boy’ before. No one had ever told me they’d loved me and meant it. No one had held me like this in my life.

I heard a new voice at that moment and realized it was the voice of his assistant. "Master Beaumont, I must say, I think he’s yours.” I looked up at him through swollen eyes, but I did not understand the expression on his face or the sentence he just said. I didn’t care. I fell asleep.

I woke up in the nurse’s office in the dungeon, under a blanket. My back felt hot, but numb. They must have put something on it. I was on my side. I tried to sit up. The noise of the blanket gave me away and a man came into the room.
“You’re up,” he said, relieved.
When I heard his voice, I realized it was Master Beaumont. His face was like a charcoal sketch, angles and lines with a sweeping jaw and bright curious eyes. My love for him did not weaken.
“No – no don’t sit,” Master Beaumont instructed. “Your bottom is still quite tender.”
I reclined back down to the pillow. “Yes sir.”
“Good boy,” he said, almost on reflex.

I tried not to weep more. I was completely dry. He gave me more water with a straw in it and had me drink. I felt better.
Master Beaumont said down on a chair next to me. “Peter said to me – that he’s never seen a session like that before. When I was rocking you at the end, he also said you the same expression his dog had when he adopted her from the pound.”
I gazde up at him, smitten, although I didn’t know what to say exactly. “Keep me,” I said.
He let out a slow breath. I knew he wanted to say something, but instead he said nothing and just thought.

I live in his house now. I serve his needs. I serve his body. I care not for my clothing or the importance of a career or some resemblance of identity. All I seek is for him to seek me. Even an offer of his warm hand stretching forward to cup my cheek makes me melt away. I love these simple moments, these delicate caresses when he shows me the same love I feel for him. And if he wants to make me the happiest person in the world, he will add “Good boy” for a job well done. It’s all I’ll need for the rest of my life.

I have broken through, and here, on this side, there is peace.

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Text is fictional. Still looking for source.