barkrk

[barkrk]

fuzzy boy friday?

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so slutty when a man stretches and exposes his lower tummy. you know what you're doing.

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we were not born to text we were put on this earth to smoke blunts and jerk eachother off in massive fields of soft grass on a breezy sunny day

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when hes not hairy and im like boy you dont even have hair on your ass

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How are yall fucking ripped guys when there's nothing to hold onto but bone and muscle. I want to feel like I'm taking down a bison in the bedroom

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Playguy: Come to the Stable (1977) photography by Colt Studios

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We need a hooters for fat men

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I don’t know what the stupid prettyboy city kid is doing here. family friend or something. either way, he doesn’t belong here. his hair’s too shiny and his teeth are too white. he went all owl-eyed when he saw me sitting out at the gate. and he made one hell of a face when I tried to offer him a smoke. he’s hardly seen two cows in his life, he doesn’t know how to tie any knots, shit, he can barely walk on the rocky soil. we tried to put him in one of my old pairs of boots, but they don’t fit him well. he stumbles around after me like a goddamn puppy.

so it isn’t surprising how easy it is to get him on the ground and bind his arms up with baling twine. the hay shed’s far enough from the house that nobody can hear him squeal. not like they’d care, anyways. they’d probably agree he could use a little dirt on his face. there are tears in his eyes when I hold his cheek against the ground with my boot, and he’s whining like a virgin. probably is one. I deeply enjoy the complete shock on his face when I lean down and spit on him. even still, he’s wriggling around, saying please, please. if the boy’s good for anything, at least he makes a pretty picture. so I get down with my knees on either side of his head and put that sweet little mouth to good use.

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“think we should get you one?”

the two of you are at the tractor supply, he’s holding up a muzzle. the wire basket kind, made for dogs. you scoff and sort of smile, because clearly he’s joking, right? but he’s still waiting for an answer.

“you think I need one?” you ask.

“I think it’d look good on you.” he teases. is he teasing, though? he sounds pretty genuine. you get what you’d come for in the first place and forget about the muzzle.

later, you wake up from your nap on the couch and find the thing strapped to your face. how he’d managed to buy it without you noticing — let alone put it on you — is beyond you. you reach for the leather strap and find a lock blocking the clasp. you’re yanking on it, trying to slip out of it when he walks in looking far too pleased with himself.

“take it off.” you demand, already embarrassed and warm in the face. this is a stupid joke and you never agreed to it and you want it off.

“I was right,” he says, “it does look good on you.”

“fucking take it off.” you repeat, grabbing the muzzle with both hands and shaking your head around. the thing hardly budges. you slip off the couch and onto the floor, attempting to pry it off with your foot. he’s really, really amused by all of this. he takes your spot on the couch and hooks a finger into the front of the muzzle, pulling you around to face him.

“you make a handsome dog.” he says, giving the front of the muzzle a little tug. you snap your teeth at him. the toe of his boot presses in quick and hard between your legs.

“fuck,” you breathe. you hadn’t realized how hard you’d gotten, but he certainly did.

“you gonna beg like a dog?” he asks, giving that little condescending tilt of the head that would make anyone irate, muzzled or not. he sees the frustrated wrinkle on your nose and his foot withdraws a little. the loss of friction draws a weak noise out of you that he seems to like. so you whine a little for him, like a dog might, despite the burning embarrassment.

“good boy.” he nods, and pushes his boot in again. fuck, does it feel good. “again.”

so you give him another whimper. from where you’re kneeled, it’s easy to see when his cock twitches. you press your face to the inside of his knee, muzzle resting against his inner thigh as you rock your hips. he must like the view.

“go on.” he urges. “like a dog.”

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[barkrk]

worst part about the Internet is knowing that there are finally people who both match and complement your freak. the nearest one is 2,318.4 miles away and your time zones are awkward

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"my daughter turned out fine" your son cries when told that daddy loves him during sex

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[barkrk]

joyous tummy tuesday to all who celebrate

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Computer, show me images of beautiful men with varying degrees of nudity

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