call me mutt

I like things more like—I’m out in a bar, passively cruising while chatting with friends, when a guy catches my eye. he jerks his head towards the bathroom in a silent question. without missing a beat, I tug the hem of my shirt up high enough to expose the scars on my chest. raise an eyebrow, the practicality of my safety more of a background to the question of whether or not he can handle a man like this. smiling when he does, slipping off my stool to mirror him and follow him to the bathroom.

pushing him to his knees, rough. no handwringing about how big my dick is, whether I’m a ‘real man.’ any anxiety about this situation will be his, and I don’t really care, because I’m a dude and I’m about to get my dick sucked. whether his pupils dilate and he swallows or he looks a little like an animal caught in a trap, it doesn’t matter to me. as long as he’s on his knees, he’s on his knees for a man that won’t hurt him more than anybody else. affirmation implicit in everything we do, in the low noises I make, in the way I hold his head a little too tight to my pelvis when I cum.

Pantsing a cute tboy and pushing him onto his back, spreading his legs as he flusteredly squirms, embarrassed to have his body fully at my disposal.

Rubbing my dick against the clear outline of his cunt through his underwear, hearing how he can't help but let out little moans and gasps as he desperately begs me not to touch him "there".