It’s not like I’m giving him coke, or anything. It’s not like I’m even keeping him in a steady supply of weed, or beer, or cigarettes, or anything else.
I mean, it’s not a real addiction. It’s not like he needs it, not like gets twitchy when he can’t have it. Not like I’ll look over when we’re at the library, both trying to study, and see him bouncing his leg and chewing his pencil and staring straight through the table towards where my crotch would be. It’s not like I see the raw need in his eyes, not like I can see the way they follow a well-packed pair of jeans on the street as a dude walks past him. It’s not like his texts, his messages that have to be subtext just because their text is so empty of content—“hey u busy?”—are getting more and more frequent.
And it’s not like I’m making it worse. It’s not like I’ve told myself that well, if I weren’t doing it he’d be on his knees in some trashy rest stop tea room out on the highway, and at least this way it’s safer. It’s not like it’s not safe, not like there’s some way in which doing it with me is more harmful, in the long term, more fucked up than doing it with a stranger. It’s not like he’s fixated. It’s not like he’s addicted. It’s not like I can see how this need, this basic, physical need for the sensations that come with a massively fat and leaking cock between his lips, is becoming tied up with another need, one that’s not physical, one that I see in his worshipful eyes when I look down at him and he looks up at me. It’s not like I’m constantly and deliberately putting him in situations where he can only look up at me.
It’s not like I’m an enabler.

It’s not like I’m giving him coke, or anything. It’s not like I’m even keeping him in a steady supply of weed, or beer, or cigarettes, or anything else.

I mean, it’s not a real addiction. It’s not like he needs it, not like gets twitchy when he can’t have it. Not like I’ll look over when we’re at the library, both trying to study, and see him bouncing his leg and chewing his pencil and staring straight through the table towards where my crotch would be. It’s not like I see the raw need in his eyes, not like I can see the way they follow a well-packed pair of jeans on the street as a dude walks past him. It’s not like his texts, his messages that have to be subtext just because their text is so empty of content—“hey u busy?”—are getting more and more frequent.

And it’s not like I’m making it worse. It’s not like I’ve told myself that well, if I weren’t doing it he’d be on his knees in some trashy rest stop tea room out on the highway, and at least this way it’s safer. It’s not like it’s not safe, not like there’s some way in which doing it with me is more harmful, in the long term, more fucked up than doing it with a stranger. It’s not like he’s fixated. It’s not like he’s addicted. It’s not like I can see how this need, this basic, physical need for the sensations that come with a massively fat and leaking cock between his lips, is becoming tied up with another need, one that’s not physical, one that I see in his worshipful eyes when I look down at him and he looks up at me. It’s not like I’m constantly and deliberately putting him in situations where he can only look up at me.

It’s not like I’m an enabler.

(via bestoftheboys)

"It’s amazing, isn’t it? Bet you didn’t even know it could do that, did you?"
He nods dully. Amazed.
Not that he’s dull! He’s smart, really—I mean, he’s not gonna make any breakthroughs in theoretical physics, or anything, but he definitely didn’t just get in on the football scholarship. Sure, I help him with his homework, sometimes—I always have, ever since high school—but he’s not dull. Nope. Not dull.
At least not usually—at the moment, underneath all his amazement, it’s harder to say. He’s so amazed that you couldn’t really test his intelligence right now; if you asked him a question he was confused about (and he’s already pretty confused) he’d look to me groggily for an answer, an explanation, like he’s looking to me for an explanation of the amazing fact that his football has suddenly developed the ability to levitate.
It hasn’t, of course. The football is still in his hand, no matter what I’ve made him think. Amazingly, though—and hypnosis is an amazing thing—he can actually see it floating right above his fingers: this ordinary, mundane, unimportant object that he thought he understood and knew intimately—something that was always by his side, something that he took for granted as always being there, to hand in high school and following him just as naturally to college—has suddenly shown a different, unexpected side of itself he never knew existed. Has suddenly gone and done something so very, very amazing.
And it will make it seem less amazing when, back in our dorm room, as I whisper and coo and reinforce all those feelings of wonderment and awe, I take advantage of the fact that his lips are already slightly parted in amazement.

"It’s amazing, isn’t it? Bet you didn’t even know it could do that, did you?"

He nods dully. Amazed.

Not that he’s dull! He’s smart, really—I mean, he’s not gonna make any breakthroughs in theoretical physics, or anything, but he definitely didn’t just get in on the football scholarship. Sure, I help him with his homework, sometimes—I always have, ever since high school—but he’s not dull. Nope. Not dull.

At least not usually—at the moment, underneath all his amazement, it’s harder to say. He’s so amazed that you couldn’t really test his intelligence right now; if you asked him a question he was confused about (and he’s already pretty confused) he’d look to me groggily for an answer, an explanation, like he’s looking to me for an explanation of the amazing fact that his football has suddenly developed the ability to levitate.

It hasn’t, of course. The football is still in his hand, no matter what I’ve made him think. Amazingly, though—and hypnosis is an amazing thing—he can actually see it floating right above his fingers: this ordinary, mundane, unimportant object that he thought he understood and knew intimately—something that was always by his side, something that he took for granted as always being there, to hand in high school and following him just as naturally to college—has suddenly shown a different, unexpected side of itself he never knew existed. Has suddenly gone and done something so very, very amazing.

And it will make it seem less amazing when, back in our dorm room, as I whisper and coo and reinforce all those feelings of wonderment and awe, I take advantage of the fact that his lips are already slightly parted in amazement.

(via likesdudesalot)

When he’s done, he pulls his underwear back up, and his sweatpants too—mostly, at least. I lean back on my knees and wipe my lips with the back of my arm, and he’s rubbing his left wrist with his other hand, massaging the spot where I’d been holding on to it as he loosed his load into my mouth.
"Sorry," I say, blushing.
He laughs, and it’s free and open and easy and relaxed. I mean, it makes sense that he’s relaxed—he just came—but that he’s the other things, too, that he hasn’t gone silent or pensive or dickish now that he got his nut, surprises me. Pleasantly.
"You got really excited there, huh? Not gonna let me pull out for anything! Should’ve seen the look in your eyes—fuckin’ daggers, man."
I chuckle, fall against his bed, stretch my neck out alongside it, since he’s not telling me to get out, not saying he really has some shit he’s gotta do, not saying his gf’s gonna be home soon, not doing any of the other things that have ended moments like these in the past. “What can I say? I want what I want.”

When he’s done, he pulls his underwear back up, and his sweatpants too—mostly, at least. I lean back on my knees and wipe my lips with the back of my arm, and he’s rubbing his left wrist with his other hand, massaging the spot where I’d been holding on to it as he loosed his load into my mouth.

"Sorry," I say, blushing.

He laughs, and it’s free and open and easy and relaxed. I mean, it makes sense that he’s relaxed—he just came—but that he’s the other things, too, that he hasn’t gone silent or pensive or dickish now that he got his nut, surprises me. Pleasantly.

"You got really excited there, huh? Not gonna let me pull out for anything! Should’ve seen the look in your eyes—fuckin’ daggers, man."

I chuckle, fall against his bed, stretch my neck out alongside it, since he’s not telling me to get out, not saying he really has some shit he’s gotta do, not saying his gf’s gonna be home soon, not doing any of the other things that have ended moments like these in the past. “What can I say? I want what I want.”

(via frat-in-fl)

asker

Anonymous asked: Is it possible to fall in love with someone through his anonymous captions on the internet? If so, you have seduced me.

I was going to write something about me blushing, but “blush” really doesn’t cover the kind of full body flush we’re talking about, does it?

Which is to say: thank you, Anonymous!

HEY CAPTIONEERS! (And other people, too!)

So, last year I took two weeks during the summer to do a little thing where I only captioned pictures with reading material in them. I called it the Book Festival For Your Junk, and it was extraordinarily fun, and successful, and generally just good times!

I’m doing it again this year, beginning two weeks from today, on August 4th. It’ll last only a week this time around (sorry—life), but I plan to supercharge it with captions. To that end, I’d like to gently encourage and invite other people to get in on the fun by writing their own captions during/for that time, or submitting pics and story ideas (those even more than pics), etc, etc. Some people played along last year, and it was great fun; it’d be cool to get even more participation this year.

Thanks in advance!

asker

plantago84 asked: "... with all the subordination that entails" - There are just so few people who can give me a hardon when talking about grammar.

There’s a pun to be had about apo koinou and getting it from both ends…

The hotel I chose is only a few minutes away from the office; it doesn’t take me more than a few minutes to get there, and leaves me plenty of time for a leisurely “lunch with clients.” He’s there, waiting, naked on all fours on the bed, as I’d directed. He’s folded his clothes, and they sit neatly on the chair—he can’t have them rumpled, can’t look disheveled when he comes back to the firm after we’re done here.
I don’t allow that from my employees.
His tie is sitting neatly on top of the pile, and I pick it up. He’s left it tied, but the tail hangs long and loose, and I run the silk over and around my hands, wrapping it in my fist before throwing it on his back.
"Put it back on," I say, and he does so. I reach over and slide it around, so the satiny fabric hangs down over his muscled back, brushes against his winking hole.
"How much money did you cost the brokerage when ImmedTech collapsed?" He names a figure. "And to how much risk are you, as a junior trader, authorized to expose the company?" He quietly names a much smaller figure. "And how much cash could you get me if you liquidated each and every one of your assets right now, if you left this room owning nothing but your dignity and that tie around your neck?" He names the smallest figure yet. "And what about if it was just the tie?" He doesn’t give me a figure at all, just hangs his head. I sigh and unzip.
Forty minutes later, I pull out, wash up, and when I return from the bathroom he’s collapsed onto the bed, face buried in the pillows, the wide end of the tie I’d used to pull his head up when I shot my second load buried in the sweat- and semen-slick valley of his ass. "I did some looking. Beefy, ex-marine, Ivy-educated trader ass—or, at least, the ass of a built whore who can pass himself off as a vet while probably being a better, more experienced, more satisfying fuck than you make—can be had at a rate of $300 per hour. That means we’ll need to do this—well, you can do the math on your own time. And please try not to lose any more money on your way back to the office, yes?"
In the end, I did let him keep the tie.

The hotel I chose is only a few minutes away from the office; it doesn’t take me more than a few minutes to get there, and leaves me plenty of time for a leisurely “lunch with clients.” He’s there, waiting, naked on all fours on the bed, as I’d directed. He’s folded his clothes, and they sit neatly on the chair—he can’t have them rumpled, can’t look disheveled when he comes back to the firm after we’re done here.

I don’t allow that from my employees.

His tie is sitting neatly on top of the pile, and I pick it up. He’s left it tied, but the tail hangs long and loose, and I run the silk over and around my hands, wrapping it in my fist before throwing it on his back.

"Put it back on," I say, and he does so. I reach over and slide it around, so the satiny fabric hangs down over his muscled back, brushes against his winking hole.

"How much money did you cost the brokerage when ImmedTech collapsed?" He names a figure. "And to how much risk are you, as a junior trader, authorized to expose the company?" He quietly names a much smaller figure. "And how much cash could you get me if you liquidated each and every one of your assets right now, if you left this room owning nothing but your dignity and that tie around your neck?" He names the smallest figure yet. "And what about if it was just the tie?" He doesn’t give me a figure at all, just hangs his head. I sigh and unzip.

Forty minutes later, I pull out, wash up, and when I return from the bathroom he’s collapsed onto the bed, face buried in the pillows, the wide end of the tie I’d used to pull his head up when I shot my second load buried in the sweat- and semen-slick valley of his ass. "I did some looking. Beefy, ex-marine, Ivy-educated trader ass—or, at least, the ass of a built whore who can pass himself off as a vet while probably being a better, more experienced, more satisfying fuck than you make—can be had at a rate of $300 per hour. That means we’ll need to do this—well, you can do the math on your own time. And please try not to lose any more money on your way back to the office, yes?"

In the end, I did let him keep the tie.

(via neilps)

asker

captionx asked: I am a big fan of your writing style! thanks for being so inspirational. I have a question tho. I guess people around you in ur daily life dont know abt CTJB. Bt I am assuming that a writer of ur ability n stature has another outlet which is exposed to the outer world. Do u have diff writing styles for that n CTJB? If yes, how do u keep these writing styles separate? Do you consciously make an effort to write for diff domains n audiences? not sure if i framed the ques coherently!

The question was not only framed coherently—it was thoughtful and interesting, to boot! Thanks much.

The short answer is yes, I do write differently depending on what I’m writing. At the moment all I write is this and academic prose, but in the past I’ve done some creative nonfiction (essays and the like), and all three have separate, distinct styles. My prose here, or in my essays, is much too mannered and self-conscious for an academic setting; I’d take a vicious red pen to anything like it in a piece of writing where the goal is clear communication of an idea, and not (at least hopefully) the evocation of an emotional or sexual response in a reader. At the same time, I use all sorts of little rhetorical devices in my fiction that would also have zero place in my more creative nonfiction, too.

But all three styles do, to a certain degree, overlap.  I prefer long, complex sentences, generally, with all the subordination that entails; I also, though, think I use coordination more frequently than is average in English prose. (See what I did there?) I am a whore—a dirty, filthy slut—for em dashes and semicolons, and that doesn’t change no matter what I write. While the voice I use is slightly different for all three modes, the voice of my personal essays is very, very close to the default voice I use here, and I’d be fascinated to hear how that overlaps with the voice in my academic writing. To me they appear very different, but I imagine that’s a function of how conscious I am of their difference.

Thanks again for the excellent question. If you’re interested in more, I’ve put a further discussion of some of the choices I make when captioning below, so as not to overwhelm people’s dashes with discussions of my dashes!

Read More

asker

Anonymous asked: What are your favorite stories on here? :)

Thanks for the lovely ask, Anonymous!

A couple of disclaimers: I’m going to assume that by ‘here’ you mean my own blog, and not Tumblr in general—if I’m wrong, you can check out my #reblog tag, with the understanding that the overlap between the set of stories I’ve reblogged and my favorite stories is not perfect. I’m also going to take your question at face value and list my favorites, which are not necessarily the ones I think are actually hottest. They’re thus an idiosyncratic group—the ones that make me smile, that I think are especially well-written, or that I otherwise especially feel warm and paternal towards. This means that in some ways they are often my most unusual ones, and aren’t representative of my work overall—there are multiple supernatural/fantastic/sci-fi stories here, for example, and precious little frat rape. This is also only a partial list, since I’ve written easily north of five hundred captions; I could have extended it greatly!

But anyway, in chronological order, I’d select:

At Least One Antelope. My first caption—it wasn’t my first posted, but it was my first written. Looking back, there’s a lot more to be done with the picture, and with the visibility of the guy in it who’s taking the picture. Ah well—I was so young!

Tentatively, At First.

Best Friends Forever.

The Eastern Iowa Lame-ass Taxi Service.

Do We Even Have a Lacrosse Team?

Messy Breakup.

Three-Body Problem.

My Good Side.

Irrumo, Irrumare, Irrumavi, Irrumatus Sum.

Involuntary Reflex.

Cliff Face.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Monsters in Boxes.

Exposure.

Cultural Exchange.

Tutorial.

Smoking Cessation.

Don’t Fuck the Students.

Home for Christmas.

www.zackisabottomwhore.com.

The Miller’s Boy/A Prayer for St. Corbinian.

Scansion.

Coming Out Story.

Heart of Gold.

Shiloh Syndrome.

Debate Team.

Machine Code.

You’re Special.

"Where the hell did you even come from?"

The Eyes of Servants.

Susurrus. 

Getting Over, Getting Seth.

Foreign Body.

Little Man.

The Old McCreary House.

Taking Tea.

Vocational Therapy.

Audition.

And then, I have some—well, ‘series’ isn’t right. I don’t write series, as in long, multipart narratives centered around the same story. (There are other caption-writers who do that so much better than I could, foremost among them allbecauseoftheboys, yeahstr82gay, and bzork—who handles his series with such consummate care that there’s even been a crossover between two of them!) But I have several groups of captions with a controlling theme, and these I tend to be very, very proud of:

Gods of.

Impermeable. (Okay, this one is a single story.)

Butterflies. (So is this one.)

Harrison’s Introductory Neuroscience.

Anth(rop)ology.

I hope you find some that please, and thanks for the question!

I’m out on the balcony having my coffee, reading the paper, when he steps out. “Big meeting today,” he says, and unzips.
Maybe it’s different since I’m not his employee. Maybe since I see him wearing a ballcap and sweatpants running errands, maybe since I know what it looks like when he nods off while watching a game on Sunday afternoon, I miss some of his—well, what should I even fucking call it? Imperiousness? Authority? Whatever it is that makes his employees and their employees and their employees always have one eye on him at the company picnic. I don’t automatically see that every time I look at him, I don’t think—I mean, I’ve seen him drool into his pillow, and it’s not like he can fire me.
But still, though. When he gets dressed for work in the morning, sharp and smart and proud, and I stare up at him, at his set jaw and hard eyes and harder dick, not doing what he says—which he hasn’t even said yet—isn’t an option.

I’m out on the balcony having my coffee, reading the paper, when he steps out. “Big meeting today,” he says, and unzips.

Maybe it’s different since I’m not his employee. Maybe since I see him wearing a ballcap and sweatpants running errands, maybe since I know what it looks like when he nods off while watching a game on Sunday afternoon, I miss some of his—well, what should I even fucking call it? Imperiousness? Authority? Whatever it is that makes his employees and their employees and their employees always have one eye on him at the company picnic. I don’t automatically see that every time I look at him, I don’t think—I mean, I’ve seen him drool into his pillow, and it’s not like he can fire me.

But still, though. When he gets dressed for work in the morning, sharp and smart and proud, and I stare up at him, at his set jaw and hard eyes and harder dick, not doing what he says—which he hasn’t even said yet—isn’t an option.

(via journeyofaformaljockboy)