Men in Control
Men in control of my imagination.
Men in Control
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adaddyslove:

He tossed me around like a rag doll, flipping and rubbing me with soft, low grunt as he teased my hole with his fat, brown cock. It wasn’t until he threw me onto my back against the arm of the couch that we made eye contact. I don’t know what happened, but he changed. Our gaze didn’t break, and as we stared his pace gentled, grew slower. Pressing my legs around his waist, he continued to stare into my eyes as his dick angled itself into my hole. He clasped a hand onto my chest and I gripped it with both of mine as he stroked me, long, shallow thrusts, that showed me he was willing to please me more than to pacify his animal desires.
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kicksforpigs:

piledriveu:

sweaty pile of mess…….give up already bro

Don’t give up. Let him go all the way.
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lessthanaman:

Beautiful. Just fuckin beautiful. Intense knotting.
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buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
buffskruffnskin:

No Such Thang As 2 Big  buffskruffnskin.tumblr.com
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dominatedmen:

Teen Wolf - Derek is tired of Stiles’ wimpy ass. He cant make a wolf out of him but he sure as hell can make a bitch out of him.
dominatedmen:

Teen Wolf - Derek is tired of Stiles’ wimpy ass. He cant make a wolf out of him but he sure as hell can make a bitch out of him.
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lunersea:

Get on your knees boy.  It’s time to worship. 
lunersea:

Get on your knees boy.  It’s time to worship. 
lunersea:

Get on your knees boy.  It’s time to worship. 
lunersea:

Get on your knees boy.  It’s time to worship. 
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rileylouis:

Persian
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withalowercaseb:

The reality of daily life is that we cannot live out our roles completely, the way we’d like to.
For one, we don’t live together. He and I have been together for three years now, but the truth is that we’re both successful, busy people, we live independent lives. We each have our own flat at opposite ends of town. He’s away for work a lot, sometimes for stretches of several weeks. Consequently, through necessity, we have an open relationship. Even though we’ve both acknowledged that sex only truly works for each of us when the dynamic is right - and the dynamic between he and I is just that - the reality is that sometimes you just need to scratch an itch. He’ll get on Grindr and have some lad up to his hotel room to fuck while he’s away, and I’ll occasionally find a Top on Recon to come over and split me open. But that kind of sex is perfunctory, meaningless. Which is why it doesn’t upset the balance between us.
That’s where the holidays come in.
Every six months or so we book a cottage somewhere in the UK - last time it was Wales, but we’ve also done Scotland, and even just locally in the countryside of Cambrideshire - and have a holiday living together as Daddy and boy. It’s the thing we both need most; to fully live out those roles, completely and wholly, hence the choice of destination. We don’t need beaches, foreign climates, we don’t even really need the sun. What we need is to experience living together domestically as we’d like to do permanently one day.
We send each other links to cottages we’ve liked the look of on various websites and eventually we agree on one and one of us books it. And then the date is set. Ten days or two weeks together as Dad and boy.
The day rolls round. He comes to pick me up at my flat. I am fully packed and ready, I have made all the necessary preparations: My bodyhair gone, all my jockstraps washed and packed. I am wearing little boyish shorts, trainers with the socks pulled up, a small t-shirt. He arrives wearing the Man’s clothes: a shirt with a sweater over the top, jeans and shoes. He is clean shaven. (At this point I’ll mention that I have a beard and he is clean shaven. One might think that the opposite should be the case, but the reality is that these days that’s not so. Facial “scruff” belongs to young lads now, the Men are still shaving. Simply go out in Shoreditch on a Saturday night and you’ll see all the young twenty-somethings sporting facial hair, while the real men know the importance of being clean shaven, a level of cleanliness that commands respect and “means business”).
The first stage, before we do anything - even kiss - is to lock me up. It is important that this is done before we commence anything else, that from the moment we set off my cock is gone, out of the picture, that I am his babyboy. He has the chastity device ready. He enters my place and we each smile at the effort the other has made. He’s the epitome of Man; tall, broad, clean, smartly dressed; he steps towards me with a powerful stride. He tells me I am the cutest boy that ever lived, that once my cock is done away with I’ll be perfect. I lower my shorts for him and he scoops me out of the pouch of my jockstrap swiftly. Needless to say I don’t experience anything - my cock has been shrivelled and atrophied for as long as I can remember. He fixes the device on with the efficiency of a medical procedure and then pulls the fabric of the jock back over it.
"There we are baby, you’re good to go," he says, smiling deeply. I pull my shorts back up. He pats me on the bum. I have to reach up to meet his kiss; he is almost a full head taller than me and his heeled shoes have added another inch.
"These your cases babyboy?" he asks, gesturing my two small cases by the bed.
"Yes Daddy," I reply. He lifts them both and gestures that I go ahead. I lock up the flat. We get in the car and off we go.
And that’s that. We live out the next ten days as we’d like to live our lives together permanently. He is the Man, I am his boy. It sounds fetishistic but I can assure you, it doesn’t feel it. All it feels is natural. I suppose if you changed the terminology to “Man and wife” it might make more sense to some, appear more “normal”. While I am not feminised - there is certainly no cross dressing or anything like that - it is a relationship where there is only one Man and that is him. There is only one set of Male genitalia in the bedroom. Being the Man also extends to being the protector, all his natural paternal feelings come to the fore, hence the leaning towards “Dad”. And of course, he is in charge. That doesn’t mean to say I become a doormat. I am still free to exert my opinions but the last word is his. I can choose a restaurant for us to dine in but if he deems it too expensive we will not go. Being the Dad also comes with the practicality of mind; I am always spending more money than I have and he reels me in.
As I said, the holiday is primarily about just enjoying living our lives as Daddy and boy. That is the focus. So a lot of it is just spent indoors. If he sits on the sofa I’ll sit on a pillow on the floor, between his legs, cuddling his giant thighs and nestling into his groin while we simply chat and have a cup of tea. Just domestic stuff. We’ll make love several times a day and my pussy will quickly come to the point where it just doesn’t close anymore. He’ll spend extended periods eating it, though not nearly as much time as I’ll spend sucking him. We’ll wile away entire afternoons reading with me between his thick parted legs, lazily nibbling and sucking on his cock and balls while we each lose ourselves in our respective books. Every now and then his desire will get the better of him and he’ll tell me to put my book down and drain him. In these instances I do not even finish my paragraph.
Of course we do play at some fetishistic stuff. If I am to go out without him - one instance was my popping to the Sainsbury’s in the town eight miles along to buy meat while he got the fire for a barbecure going back at the cottage - he’ll make sure he brands me before I am allowed to leave.
"Baby, the Men out there will be on you like panthers, look at you," - he gestures to my clothes, the shorts that cling to my buttocks, my hairless legs. "On your knees."
I kneel before him, just inside the front door. He stands over me and swifly beats out a load. A minute later he is coating my face in thick cum ropes. He ignores the accompanying orgasm as this is not sex, it is purporting to another function. I am being marked for my safety and protection. When he is finished he rubs it into my skin, coating every inch of my face. I catch myself in the mirror. My face glistens.
"Ok baby boy, you can go."
And I have to say, walking around Sainsbury’s, my pussy gaping under my shorts and my face branded - molded and modelled by him - I feel so loved and I beam with pride. I do not waste a single minute. I am desperate to get home to him.
To anyone troubled at my renouncement of my cock: I have as many orgasms as he gives me. Over half the times we make love I will climax, my ejaculate obviously still comes from the front but that is not where the sensation of the orgasm resides anymore, it is merely the pipe through which the fluid passes. My pussy spasms repeatedly, my whole body tenses up as if I was having a seizure, my skin is covered in fire, every other sense - even sight - is temporarily eclipsed and for that moment I become pure sensation, writhing in agony underneath him, at his mercy. It wrings his climax from him and my insides flood, his ejaculate - twenty times that of my own - filling me, entering my blood stream, nourishing me down to the very cells which now crave it like they crave water. He collapses on top of me and his weight pins me in place, I can do nothing but lay under him, the last thing I feel as I lose consciousness is his member slippng out of my loose hole, flooded as it is, skating across my soaked buttocks and resting between my open legs. We sleep for twenty minutes or so, utterly spent.
Does it still trouble you now?
We return to London and resume our lives. The cock cage comes off - the reality is that I might not see him for over a week now. The memory of the holiday is fresh and we each feel invigorated.
And, of course, one day it will become permanent.