Category: Uncategorized

Is there a difference in sex drive between you and your partner? (I’m in a intergenerational relationship and he only needs it once a month and I need it like…everyday…)

It’s less an issue of sex drive and more an issue of simply not having much time together when we aren’t exhausted. We both work two jobs, and we basically don’t see each other at all (at home and awake) from Tuesday afternoon until Sunday afternoon. That said, I think the problem you describe is probably normal for relationships with age gaps. Hell, it’s normal for most relationships, I think. I certainly jack off more than my husband does, but I don’t really crave physical sex all that often. *Shrug* It’s just never been that big of an issue for us, at least.

Learning to Like Ass (Part 2)

Rudy started screaming, but the knife–it was definitely a knife, landed against his throat.

“I won’t kill ya–just…fuck up your voice box a bit. Or do you just wanna be quiet for daddy?”

He shut up. The knife rolled over his neck, and then the biker dragged the tip down his chest. He didn’t apply enough force to cut him, but Rudy stopped breathing anyway, freezing his body as best he could, feeling the knife slip lower, past his cock where it finally came up from his skin.

“Not an assman, what a crock a shit. Guys like you should be happy anyone’s willing tah offer you a hole at all. Can’t do to be that picky, you know.”

“I get plenty of tail,” Rudy spat at him.

“Heh, sure man. That’s why you’re prowlin’ ‘round the rest stop, cause ya got plenty a tail. No Rudy, no one wants tah get fucked a sad sack like you.”

Rudy started to retort, but froze when he felt something slip between his legs and between his ass cheeks. It wasn’t the knife, like he’d first expected–it was just the biker’s finger–and before he could object he started pressing at Rudy’s hole with the tip, massaging it slowly, and unable to stop himself, Rudy let out a long sigh, collapsed onto the bed and moaned.

“Don’t worry man, mah finger’s can work magic,” the biker said. “What do ya think, man? Think I can convince ya anal might not be so bad?”

“F-Fuck you…” Rudy groaned, his back arching, limbs tugging at the ropes holding him to the bed.

“Fuck me? No no no, fuck you, Rudy.”

He tried to shut his hole up, but the man’s finger just…just slipped into him effortlessly, and fuck, it felt good in there, like it fucking belonged. His cock was hard, and he could already feel it pulsing, getting ready to blow. Deeper still, fuck, more, another finger, something, he needed it, he was so close, he was gonna explode–

*

He woke up, with a suddering groan, two of his own fingers burrowed deep in his own ass, and his cock started spraying cum across the bed sheets he’d kicked off in the night. He just laid there, fingers still inside, panting and looking around. Hadn’t…he been tied up? Out the window, the sky was the deep purple of the hours before dawn, but it had been pitch black, hadn’t it? When he’d been in here? He realized his hand was still inside him, and he yanked it out, got up from the bed and immediately washed his hands over and over until he couldn’t smell it anymore, and then looked around for evidence, but found nothing. He had no bruises or marks on his wrists or ankles, not even a speck of ash from the biker’s cigar that he’d been smoking. So had it been a dream? He’d never had a dream like that, it had felt so damn real! He managed to shake it off after a bit, and by then it was time for work, so he got dressed and left the trailer, hoping he could just forget about it as quickly as possible.

The rest of the week was just…strange. He didn’t quite feel like himself. He’d look at himself in the mirror, and something would throw him off–the scraggly beard, the unkempt hair, the paunch–none of which he could recall having before. Sure, he was himself, but…maybe it was just his confidence or something, but he kept striking out. Girls who usually were desperate for a lay with him were suddenly throwing him cold shoulders or coming up with lame excuses for why they didn’t want to meet with him. The guys at the rest area seemed equally uninterested, and for the first time in long time, he went several days without fucking anyone, and it was driving him mad. It didn’t help that whenever he masturbated he…couldn’t get himself over the edge. He’d stroke for hours on end, but all that would happen is he’d end up even hornier than he’d started. He couldn’t sleep either. He was too terrified that he might…dream like that again, or worse that it hadn’t been a dream, and the biker would show up like before.

It was a week and a half, when it happened again. He’d started sleeping a bit better, but the crushing horniness was only getting worse. The heat was increasing too, as summer wore on, and he woke that night in a froth, his cock achingly hard, and resigned himself to try again. He started stroking, but nothing was happening, but he also couldn’t stop! He wanted to cum so badly, he’d…he’d do fucking anything.

“Anything, Rudy?”

His stomach tried to crawl it’s way out his mouth. He looked over, and there, smoking one of those nasty cigars of his, was the fucking biker, right there in his armchair, watching him try to jack off. “What…How did you get in here?”

“The door, Rudy–you fucking dumbass,” the biker said, and stood up, “Yeah, dumbass. Anybody else woulda put two and two together, but ya couldn’t even get tah two in the first place. You remember what made you feel so good last time, Rudy? Why don’t you try that and see what happens.”

No–not that. But his hand, it…it wouldn’t stop. He licked two fingers, rolled over a bit and poked at his hole, gasping immediately as precum started gushing from his cock. He fingered himself, deep, desperate to cum, but as good as it felt, it…wasn’t enough. “I still can’t cum, you fuck,” Rudy said, “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“You can’t cum, Rudy, cause fingers aren’t enough for you–you know that,” the biker unzipped the fly of his pants and let his huge cock fall from his pants. It…looked ever bigger than before, and fuck, Rudy wanted it inside him, he hadn’t even known how much he wanted it, but fuck did he.

“Oh god, fuck me, fuck me please! Please, I just want to cum, please…” Rudy said, rolled up on his hands and knees, ass towards the biker’s cock.

“Heh, if you insist Rudy, if you insist.”

Learning To Like Ass (Part 1)

Rudy certainly wouldn’t have said he was bisexual–that was just another word for faggot, in his vocabulary. No, to him, it was just that the mouths of faggots and bitches were all the same–if they wanted to eat his cum, then fucking fine, let them. And so, when he couldn’t find a woman to screw, he’d usually just head down to the local truck stop, where the various faggots hung out. He’d hang out in the woods, and before too long some dumb, whimpering faggot would crawl over and beg him for his cock. Two rules though–they couldn’t touch him, anywhere, and if they did he’d pummel their face into the forest floor. He also was completely against anything anal–that was for shitting only, in his mind. What kind of sick, perverted freak could think it was alright to stick anything in there at all?

At least, until one afternoon. He’d struck out again with his usual bitches, and so he’d stopped by the truck stop to see if he could let loose a few loads in a faggot instead. Sure enough, he found a faggot mouth after a few minutes, who agreed to his two stipulations, and the guy started sucking him off–when Rudy noticed someone was watching them. This wasn’t unusual–there were more than a few fags who seemed more interested in watching someone else than in doing anything themselves. He thought this was strange, but they weren’t breaking his rules, so he let it slide. This watcher, however, wasn’t cut from the same cloth as most watchers. Usually, they were older, chubby, with small cocks–it was no wonder why they were alone, just jacking off–who’d want to fuck with someone like that? No, this guy…from what he was wearing, he was probably a biker, but his clothes…they were filthy. So nasty, that Rudy could smell him even fifteen feet away. It helped that he was downwind, which also meant that the guy’s cigar smoke kept drifting into his eyes. He thought about stopping, but this faggot was good with his mouth–then the biker walked over to them both.

Without speaking, he yanked down the faggot’s jeans and underwear, running his greasy, dirty hands over the fag’s ass and into his crack. Rudy felt the fucker…shiver. That was too much for him, he didn’t want to see this shit. He tried to extricate himself, but the biker said, “No, stay put–we’re gonna put this fucker on a spit.”

There was…something in the way the man said it, in his voice, in the smell of smoke and musk, that…made him stay put, watching the biker haul the fag’s ass up so he was bent over at the waist, and the biker…got down and started licking at the fag’s hole, shoving his tongue in–it was so disgusting, and yet Rudy couldn’t rip his eyes away, watching the biker take a deep inhale of smoke from his cigar and breathe it into the fag’s hole, feeling him moan around Rudy’s cock in his mouth. The biker kept it up for a few minutes, then stood up again, drool in his graying goatee, and he let some spit drop onto his cock, got it wet, and slipped it inside. Between them, the fag started jacking his cock faster, and after a minute he’d exploded all over the leaves between them. Rudy couldn’t stop watching the biker fuck–slow at first, and then he built up a rhythm, the sound was…filthy, and then the biker came, filling the fag’s guts up backwards.

“Turn around bitch, clean off my cock of your nasty hole,” the biker said, and the guy immediately left Rudy’s still hard cock and turned his attention to the biker’s disgusting shaft.

“Hey, I didn’t cum yet,” Rudy said.

“Then use his hole–still tight. Got lot’s of seed to lube it up for ya,” the biker said.

Rudy looked down, the hole oozing cum down the crack. He…he couldn’t. “No, that’s fucking disgusting.”

The biker chuckled. “Little boy, scared of an asshole.”

“You faggots are fucking disgusting, I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Rudy said, and hiked up his jeans, shoving his spit-slick cock back in his underwear. The biker didn’t say anything, but Rudy could feel the man’s eyes on him as he left the woods and returned to his truck outside the restroom. That fag’s mouth had been damn good too–but that nasty fucker had ruined everything. He got in and got back on the freeway, heading home again–the small single wide in the trailer park, which was all he could afford with his shitty job at the factory one town over. It wasn’t much, but it was home, at least. He called up a couple of bitches again; no one even answered the phone, and so he had to resort to his hand that night. Still, it was hard getting even one load out–all he could see, as he got close, was that biker’s seed leaking from that hole, and he’d go soft every time. He eeked out an unsatisfying load, drank way too much whisky, and then climbed into bed.

It was the smoke that woke him, in the dark. His first thought was that something was on fire, but this smoke, he’d smelled it before, back in the woods. He tried to get up, but discovered his arms and legs were tied at the wrists and ankles to the end of the bed. This had to be a dream, it had to be. He still felt a bit drunk from the night before, was this some fucked up nightmare? He looked over, and saw the dull light of an ember in the dark, and heard that same chuckle. The biker?

“What, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Followed you home, boy,” the biker said, walking slowly into the dim light from Rudy’s window, “Easy enough to pick that shitty lock. You were so out, I didn’t even have to use this,” he said, and some metal glinted–either a gun or a knife, Rudy couldn’t tell which. “But I came because I like ya boy. Because you ‘n I are gonna have some fun together for a while, how does that sound?”

Sold (Sketch)

The last stop of the school bus–Axel was the only one who got out here. Here, out in the sticks, at the end of the line, twenty minutes further than anyone else, and he hated it. he hated this place, the dust, the smell of cow manure, the nothing–all of the nothing. He wanted out, but then again, so did everyone. Still, he wasn’t going to make it–he didn’t have the proper escape velocity. Then again, not many people did. Jordan Wright–he could make it, maybe, off a football scholarship. Martin whatever-his-last-name, he was smart, and focused, even though everyone hated him and teased him for it. But Axel? Axel was average. A good football player, but not great. Alright in his classes, but no college was going to give him a scholarship. He was stuck. He was seventeen, a senior, and stuck here, in this shithole, living with his shitty dad, and he’d probably die in this same shitty place. He kicked a rock and watched it skitter. He kicked it again when he came to it, across the two lane road, and then headed up the road to the rundown house where he lived with his dad.

It was pretty rundown–his dad didn’t exactly have much money to keep the place up. He made decent money as an electrician, but with the economy the way it was and a slew of medical bills after his mom died when he was ten, Axel didn’t have to know the details to know his dad wasn’t going to be paying tuition for him. He saw out front a car in the driveway–one he didn’t recognize. Standing beside it was an older man in a stiff suit, obviously waiting for someone–Axel skirted him and went up to the front door, and slipped inside.

“I-I’m sorry, but this…this is crazy.”

“Five million dollars, and that’s my final offer. It’s a good one–you’ll never have to work for the rest of your life. He’ll be happy, I promise.”

“I’m sorry, but this is insane. I can’t believe I even let you in here, now get out of my house.”

“This isn’t like you, Aaron, I know how reasonable you are. You need to think about you, or the bank will come knocking next. Is that what you want?”

Axel came around the corner of the entryway, and found his father in the kitchen, face red, with a man Axel had never seen before. He was rather old–probably in his mid-50’s, rather portly, and wearing a starched, stiff suit. “Dad? Who is this?”

“Axel–don’t worry about him, he’s leaving right now.”

The man gave a harumph, “You should know, sir, that I’m not one to take a no lightly. Very well, we will speak again, however–I guarantee it.”

The man looked at Axel with…a strange look as he passed him, and then left. Axel pressed his dad for details, but his father wouldn’t give him any, and he pushed the odd encounter from his mind–until a month later, when his dad opened a piece of mail and let out a loud curse–apparently, his father’s finances had been worse that he’d thought–the bank was foreclosing on their house. Axel freaked out, but his dad just told him to stay calm, that he’d do what he could, but Axel needed some air–he left, and went for a walk, down the driveway to the road–but as he was walking, a familiar car rolled up to him, the window rolled down, and it was the same man from before.

“Ah! Axel, just the boy I was looking for. I suppose your dad got his notice today, eh? Pity–such a nice home, he’s never going to be able to afford anything like that again, you know.”

Axel just stared at him, unable to grasp how the man might know any of that.

“I offered him such a large sum, too. And you! You could be out of here. Out of this terrible place. You’d never have to smell manure again in your life–such a terrible odor, truly. Alas, I doubt his mind can be swayed, but here, take these papers, and tell him if he signs them, then the deal stands–ten million, that’s my last offer.”

He handed Axel a roll of documents, and then rolled up the window without another word, and his driver took off down the road, leaving Axel in the dust.

He…he could leave?

He could get out of here, his dad could keep the house, and…and did he say ten million? He unrolled the paper, but it was all gibberish to him, but there the number was–ten million paid out over fifty years–even taxes would be paid ahead of time, it looked like. Why in the world had his dad said no? He turned around and ran back to the house, and found his dad crying in the kitchen. He handed the papers to his dad, and told him to sign it. His dad told him that he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t sign something like this, but Axel just screamed at him. That he didn’t want to be homeless. That he didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t he love him? Didn’t he at least want the money? He left the papers in his dad’s hand and ran up to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Downstairs, his father wiped his eyes and looked at the papers again, at what they might mean. It had sounded…impossible, what the man had said, but did he even have a choice? And Axel was miserable here, and he’d be miserable staying here. No one knew better what it was like to feel trapped in a place than he, and maybe…maybe this would help them both escape. Was it worth it? He didn’t know for sure, and he knew that if he signed it, there was no backing out. He was weak; he signed it, and as soon as he did, there was a gentle knock on the door, and the man opened it and let himself in.

“I’m here for my property,” was all he said.

“He’s…upstairs.”

“It’s upstairs, you mean,” the man said, and pushed past him and up the stairs to Axel’s room, where he was tugging at the strange collar that had appeared around his neck a moment earlier. “There you are–come, we’re going home,” the man said. Unable to resist, Axel followed after him, shouting at his father to help him, but he wouldn’t even look him in the eye. He got in the car with the man–not, not a man, with…with his master, that’s what his mind kept saying, and the driver pulled out of the driveway.

“That’s good slave, now, let’s start on your training,” the man undid the fly of his suit, and let out his cock, “Get sucking–let’s see how many loads I can pump down your throat before we reach home. If you make me cum five times, then I won’t punish you–how does that sound?”

Axel tried to resist, but the collar dragged him down into the man’s lap, helplessly sucking, and figured out what exactly that ten million dollars had bought–him. His service, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be free again for quite some time.

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

Are there any tropes in TF stories that bother you?

Honestly, I just get tired of the same old shit. Admittedly, I put out “the same old shit” myself from time to time, but I try my hardest to push and evolve my stories in new directions, with mixed results, but I try. What bothers me, is when writer’s stop trying. I can tell when someone is in a rut–maybe they like the rut! That’s fine too! But if I can see a new story from someone, and know right away where it’s going to go, then I’ve just lost all interest. I want to read stories that surprise me, that send characters in directions that are unexpected. I get super tired of wish fulfillment. No one in a story should get everything they wanted. 

This general thing is what bothers me the most, for sure. It’s difficult to describe in any clearer words, but that’s the gist of it. I’m bothered by writers who seem content to rehash more than innovate. 

Any good non-porn things you’ve read recently?

Haven’t read any books lately. Mostly I read a lot of thinkpieces/longform articles on politics, because I torture myself like that. Best things lately? Two of them:

“

Damn Right Amazon Runs a Fucking Deficit and So Should America,” by Holly Wood

“Of Flying Cars and the Declining Rate of Profit,” by David Graeber

There’s more I’m sure, but that’s all I’ve had on my mind recently.

What realistically can a sub do to change into a better and more obedient sub?

As soon as you add the word realistically in there, I bow out. This is all fantasy, and my experience in BDSM and power exchange relationships is…limited, and the few experiences I’ve had were extremely negative, without going onto gory detail. These stories are fantasy–and I don’t have much practical advice beyond safe, sane and consensual. Go talk to someone like @foxbear–he has written some of the best stuff on BDSM theory and praxis I’ve ever read. I mean, I’m more than happy to fuel your fantasies, but my experience and expertise ends at the imagination.