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Rivalry Love

Brent peeled off his Elks uniform and chucked it across the locker room.  It landed halfway in the hamper, dripping sweat into the pool already on the floor.  He waved an aching arm at it.  Good enough.

His footsteps slapped hollowly through the empty rows of lockers and benches as he padded to the showers.  He had opted to stay late, preferring the solitude of the field for his endurance training; besides, then the showers were deserted and he could hose off in peace.

Brent adjusted the temperature with a practiced hand and stepped under the flow.  He closed his eyes to let the water tumble down his face.  He let out a deep sigh as his muscles started to relax.

“Oh!”

Brent whirled around at the single, startled word.  Standing buck naked at the shower room doorway was Rodney Whittaker, quarterback for the Bobcats, the Elks’ biggest rival.  More specifically, Rodney Whittaker was Brent’s biggest rival, his nemesis on the field and in the hearts of both schools’ cheerleading squads.

“I thought – uh, they said – I biked over to see Cynthia, and they said I could use the showers.”

Brent had never seen Rodney so flustered.  His gaze dropped to the other boy’s cock, which to his surprise was halfway hard.  Rodney followed Brent’s line of sight and suddenly his cheeks pinched in a smile.

“Right?  Everyone’s always like, ‘You just play football because you have a tiny dick, blah blah blah.’  So much for that.”

“Yeah,” Brent said.  He turned around slowly, staring at the wall and trying to think of anything else, because a sudden rush of blood was swelling his own dick.  He put a hand over it, tried to push it down.  He frowned at the sound of three of the other showers turning on.

But before he could turn around, another hand slid down over his, slipping between his fingers and gently caressing his shaft.  Brent moaned without prompting, his heart skipping beats wildly.  Rodney’s now-rock-hard cock pressed into his ass crack.

“I’ve seen you watching me,” the other boy murmured into his ear, making Brent shudder.  "I know you want this.“

Brent bit his lip.  A thousand scenarios flooded into his mind: the coach walking in to find them; his mother making a surprise visit to the school; his teammates discovering not only his pleasure but his fraternizing.  But worst of all: looking back on this day and regretting that he hadn’t taken the chance he had been dreaming of for almost three years.

So he put his palms against the wall and offered his ass to his greatest rival.  Rodney grinned, swiped his tongue across his hand, and moistened his cock.

"I won’t make any wide receiver puns,” he chuckled, and nuzzled the tip against Brent’s asshole.

The sound of the showers mostly drowned out the boys’ satisfied grunts.

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Closing Time

The tempered squawking of the baseball announcers was the only sound of life in the bar.  Grunting as he leaned across the counter to reach the far corner, the bartender glowered at the small figure hunched over the last stool.  "Hey.  Kid.  We’re closing.  Move along.“

The figure uncoiled, lengthening into a slender woman with a pixie cut.  She smacked a piece of white gum under her canines.  "Your sign’s still on,” she said with a jerk of her thumb over her bare shoulder.  The movement made her visible breasts quiver.

The bartender stopped mid-wipe and sighed.  "Right.  Okay.  Look, I’m turning off the sign.“  He crossed the distance behind the bar and flipped the switch.  Neon tubes hissed and died.  Hands to hips, the bar cloth dangling from his fingers, the bartender faced his last customer.  "We’re closed.”

“Excellent.”  The young woman swung off the stool, and with a thrill in his groin, the bartender realized she was not wearing pants.  Her heels ticked away the seconds as she moved to the door, bolted it, and slunk back towards him.

He suddenly found that his hands were awkward, no matter where he intended to rest them.  "Ma’am, I’ll h-h-h-have to ask you…“

"I’d prefer you give commands.”  She dropped to her knees on the rubber mat, her tongue lolling.  Like graceful divers, her hands disappeared into his pants and slid them off.  "So?  What’ll it be?“

"In your mouth,” he gasped, his hand moving without bidding to the back of her head.  Her hair was coarse, dyed too many times; he grasped a handful and pressed her nose into his crotch.  She accepted his length down her throat with a grateful gulp.

His eyes fell on the envelope, splashed with beer, resting where she had been sitting.  His name was on the back.  His fingers trembling with the effort of concentrating, he managed to extract the card.

Happy birthday, bud.  Have one on us.

It was signed by bar owner and his coworkers.

Stabilizing himself on the edge of the counter with his palms, he adopted a wider stance.  "Deeper, bitch,“ he said, and she went to work.

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An Unusual Weapon

She is almost six feet tall, her breasts bound in plated strips of pulsing charged armor.  Most of the rest of her body is nude, except where similar electrified panels hold in the un-aerodynamic parts of her body.  She moves like the night, dark and sudden, shadowed and malicious.

It doesn’t strike me that anything is unusual about her until she draws her blade.

My hand drops to my holster, but her weapon whips out and strikes my hand.  My hackles rise, my ears flatten, and by instinct a howl fills my throat, a cry of pain equal to the sting of her blade.  Instead of a mortal wound, a harsh red welt rises on my wholly intact furred fingers.

I stare in disbelief at the warrior woman’s weapon, which quivers upright in the air.  It shimmers insubstantially, as if undecided on what form it will take.  One of those forms is distinctly phallic, and now the weapon hardens into this shape as she smacks it into her other palm with a toothy smile.

“We both know how this fight ends,” hisses her translator.  Her grey lips do not move, but her eyes narrow and widen expressively.  "You, on your knees, ass in the air.“

She is so frank that I give her the benefit of the doubt.  My jaws work around the words of the common language, but it is like gnawing tough game.  "And if I shoot you first?”

“You won’t,” her translator says, and follows this up with an eerie facsimile of a chuckle.

Something whips under my feet and I am on my face in the loam, spitting leaves.  She gently rests her booted feet against my hips, and the cool tip of her weapon slides into the small of my back and against the waistline of my uniform.  She leans down, so close that I can feel the pulse of her armor on the back of my neck.

“Now,” she says, and it is not the translator speaking for her anymore, “let’s see how you like this.”

The tip of the weapon moistens and slides down my skin as I shudder with anticipation.  If only every spat between bounty hunters ended like this.

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Roman Rule

She stares at oncoming dust cloud until her muscles tremble with the strain, but still she does not move.

At last, she can see his horse, its muscles rippling under its dusty white coat, and then the gleam off his helmet.  She falls to her knees and lifts her hands above her bowed head.

She dares not cough even as the dust swirls around her.  His booted feet land in her line of sight and she clenches her eyes shut, desperately trying to contain the urge to stand and embrace him.

“Master,” she whispers, the first words the slave has spoken in the months he has been gone to war.

His rough hands descend upon her shoulders, wrenching the tunic from her.  He squeezes her breasts and presses his mouth to hers, his breath hungry as his tongue seeks hers.

He spins her around and slams her shoulders against his horse’s flank.  The beast noses at her hair as the rest of her dress falls away and he presses his hard cock against her entrance.  His hand on the top of her head, he presses her down and she cups her lips around him, taking him until she gags.

Without warning, he lifts her and holds her hard against the horse, this time holding her weight on his forearms.  He thrusts into her, and she cries out, the void between her legs filled again at last.

When he is done, he lets her collapse into the dust to recover a moment while he pulls his armor back on.  Then he extends a hand, meeting her eyes for the first time.

“Come,” he says, and lifts her onto the horse, leading the beast and his exhausted slave girl back to his home.

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Me: that…might not go over so well, yse
Me: also yes
Me: which is not as awesome as yse which sounds like Yoshi’s sex noise
Brandon: wow
Me (offline, under my breath): yse! yse! yse!

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w0lvves:

I don’t understand why people always draw apples with like, beads of water rolling down on them.

Like all wet and stuff, and they’re on teachers walls and it’s weird. 

I feel like it’s almost sensual. Like someone thought it’d be funny to slap a few sweat beads on an apple, like some creepy apple porn

Like ooooh yeah hot and heavy apple oh yeah look at leaf 

HAHAHA I was searching for apple pictures but this is so much better

also the tags are not mine

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When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time.

Lady Gaga (via quirksandqueries)