welcome to where im going to talk about how bad i want to fuck pope cody. do you also want to fuck pope cody? or like lets say any of mr whore-tosy's (i say this with so much love) characters?
will this forever stay ONLY mr whortosy? PROBABLY NOT but that's where we're at right now
MDNI blocked on sight - but my eyes are bad. tell me if you see me interacting with a minor. yall catch me blocking freely too bc i cannot be bothered
call me osprey (like the bird), im in my 30s, ive been here for ages, im unlearning shame as we go.
also this is a sideblog so i most likely won't like anything to keep it separate but i promise i love you anyway i promise
i'll kinda be real i did 3 days on the poll time bc i didnt think id get a lot of answers but there's almost 150 of you who voted so like. thank you what the fuck🥹
anyway - i'm working on this while the poll is still going!
I could see him getting this when he just started in the military. Young, stupid, and way too drunk to make a smart decision of getting a tattoo that obscene.
You finally see it one night after too many drinks at the bar—you both getting close and touchy—finally realizing that the both of you have had the hots for each other for a long time. HR be damned.
You don’t even make it to the bedroom. Hair tossed, clothes strained from its previous position, and lips red and kiss bitten. You’re on your knees going for his belt buckle.
His cheeks flush a deeper red than they were before from the tequila you got him to buy at the bar. His hands are in his face as he lets out an embarrassed huff of a laugh at your wide curious eyes and growing smile.
“It was a long time ago,” he tells you in his gravelly voice.
You shrug your shoulders, “I like it.” pulling the waistband of his underwear to watch his cock spring free. It’s achingly hard, the tip flushed a dark peak with the tip leaking. Your mouth waters as your tongue eagerly licks the salty residue.
Jack’s head falls against the head of the couch as groan comes out of his mouth, deep and heavy as you finally enclose your lips on him. His hands go to you hair, he lifts his head up and watches you take him.
andrew pope cody who's self conscious about his dick because it's uncircumcised. who gets nervous about anyone seeing it for the first time. always feels this need to explain first, to grab their wrist before they shove their hand down his pants. i was born on a farm. there wasn't time. i don't know, my mom didn't think it was important. and like, he's more than used to it by this point. he's a 40-something year old man who's lived with his uncircumcised penis for just as long; he doesn't know what the alternative would even feel like. he just knows it's unusual, statistically, to be an american man with a dick that looks like his.
sometimes women in oceanside are weird about it. sometimes more or less so taken aback, surprised with an experience they've never had and didn't necessarily want to begin with. and while it usually just makes them pause, rather than reconsider completely, it does make him a little tired after a while of the same old song and dance. of getting to know someone and falling into bed and the usual disclaimer, the 'my dick is a little different, i hope that's okay’ content warning. having to prepare for whatever happens with their face, the unguarded expression that quickly slips behind closed doors, shutters the way polite women know how to with their eyes and their mouth. pretending, being nice. that's almost worse, he thinks, than if they were just plain mean about it.
it finally reaches a breaking point and so he just decides to add the information to his dating profile.
andrew, 43, uncircumcised.
and yeah, it kind of makes him feel like he's a prized hog being weighed at the county fair. but he also doesn't know what else to do, tired of trying to ease into it, to hold the words like delicate eggshells in his hands, hoping they don't shatter and make a mess all over the floor.
he's surprised, when he wakes up the next morning to a message from an account he's never seen before. a profile of a young woman, younger than he's usually interested in and out of his set distance range. still in california, but up north, near santa barbara. you only have one photo of yourself, standing at the base of the eiffel tower, hair half-blown into your eyes and smiling, a bright toothy grin that seems to take up half your face. the other three photos are of a border collie with a lolling pink tongue and curious disposition, its head cocked to the side. the description is rather short too. all it says is your name and one line: i like dogs.
you: hi andrew, 43, uncircumcised. is that your full name? :)
andrew blinks down at the message, then he looks at the photo again, at the big smile, the dog. he types a response.
andrew: no
it doesn’t take very long for him to get one in return, phone buzzing in his hand.
you: no?
he types out another response.
andrew: it’s my first name, my age, and my dick.
his phone buzzes in his hand almost immediately. he looks down at his screen.
you: lucky me :)
you: can i see it?
his brow furrows.
andrew: see what?
you: your dick, silly
andrew regards the messages for a moment. then types back,
andrew: why?
you: just curious to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of you :)
slow warmth spreads up his chest, his neck, settling in his cheeks. he rubs at his face, sitting up a little straighter against the wall.
andrew: i’m not hard
his phone vibrates a few times as you message him.
you: oh that’s okay
you: can i still see it?
you: i really want to
you: pretty please, andrew
andrew stares down at the influx of messages, like maybe they will clarify into something else. something that’s not a rather insistent request from a stranger to see his soft penis. did women even like that sort of thing?
the messages stare back up at him, unchanged. unmoving. unmistakable.
andrew doesn't send nudes. to tell the truth, he doesn't think he's sent a photo of himself to anyone, ever. any part of him. what's up on his profile is all he's shared. a picture of him at the beach. one of him surfing. an old photo deran took years ago of him and craig wrestling in the living room at smurf's. a hand on his skateboard.
he looks at the photo in your profile again, the one of you, not the dog. your arms are stretched out wide, the lights of the eiffel tower twinkling behind you, like get a load of this. you look happy, content. young.
he slips a hand below his waistband, cups his balls and tries to imagine you standing in front of him instead, at the edge of his bed, maybe. that same pretty face but a softer smile, arms at your sides. a sweet voice he makes up to say a version of the same words, ‘pretty please, andrew. can i see it?’
yeah, okay.
he closes his eyes, inhaling, a small tug of pleasure in his belly, warming him from the inside. it makes his dick plump up just a tad against his thigh.
in his fantasy, you’re climbing onto the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress and then the other. you're wearing the same dress as in the photo and he can see the curve of your breasts as you start to crawl. crawling up the bed, between his legs. this look on your face like you want nothing more than to see what he’s hiding beneath his waistband.
andrew lets go of his phone and slips his other hand into his shorts, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. not jerking it, not yet, just holding it, just letting the warmth from his palm bleed through. it feels good, feels familiar. the same as it has since he was thirteen.
you’re close enough now that your head is between his knees. you’re lowering yourself down, tummy to mattress and crossing your ankles behind you like in one of those teeny-bop shows julia always had on tv when they were kids. no magazine though, just a coy smile as you prop your chin in your hand, draw a light finger over the inside of his left knee.
‘show me?’ you ask, voice still just as sweet as the first time and it makes his stomach swoop, his dick twitch a little in his hand.
maybe he's secretly a pervert and he just never knew it. a sick desire lain dormant until a woman half his age messaged him on a dating app and asked, apropos of nothing, to see his uncircumcised penis.
andrew tugs the waistband of his shorts down, lets it bunch up under his balls, the elastic pushing them up, showing them off to you, showing you everything really. the hand, the back of his bruised knuckles, the soft but warm length slowly filling out in his palm. eager beneath your gaze as you smile at him, roll your bottom lip between your teeth.
‘yeah,’ you murmur, cute, wet tongue peeking out, and drag your eyes along his dick, like you’re filing a memory for later.
andrew’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his dick and balls at the same time, his mouth dropping open a little. he’s filling out now, properly, thickening up as more blood rushes south, giving him shape, definition. enough so that he thinks he can risk it, the photo.
he picks up his phone again, sparing one last glance at your profile before he opens the camera app and tries to snap a photo at a flattering angle. it takes a couple tries. the first few are too blurry. the next has a shadow of his phone cast over half of it. the last one isn’t too bad, well-lit, soft morning sun streaming in through the windows and making sure you can see the whole thing. his dick, his hand, the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt's been rucked up.
he sends it off before he can second guess himself or the decision. and then he sits there, dick slowly softening against his thigh as the nerves eat away at him. one minute, two.
fuck, what if you hate it? what if it’s the ugliest cock you’ve ever seen? shit, he shouldn’t have sent it. shouldn’t have bothered at all. he should delete it. maybe if he deletes it fast enough you won’t have time to see it. he’ll have spared you the horrible experience completely. he’ll delete it and then he’ll delete his entire account right after.
he picks up his phone right as it buzzes in his hand. it buzzes and then it buzzes again, and again, and again and again.
swallowing his trepidation, andrew swipes open the dating app.
you: oh fuck
you: oh fuck you’re so pretty
you: like i knew you’d be pretty but seeing it is totally different
you: i knew you’d be a big boy. big like the rest of you, yeah?
you: god it’s probably heavy when you walk
andrew stares down at his phone, a burning warmth beginning to spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. his entire body feels electrified, like his skin is one second away from sparking from the heat.
another message comes through.
you: fuck, andrew. i’m really wet
he closes his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. you’re wet. you’re wet just from seeing a photo of his half-hard cock. saliva pools in his mouth. he grinds his teeth together.
he picks up his phone.
andrew: for real?
you: yeah, for real
you: you wanna see?
he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, rolls his hips up into it.
andrew: yes
then remembering his manners, he says,
andrew: please
a minute goes by, during which andrew grips his phone in his right hand and rocks into his left. stares at the photo of you, at the messages calling his dick pretty. then his phone buzzes again and it’s not a photo you’ve sent at all. it’s a video file.
he presses play with his thumb so fast and so hard, it makes a tapping noise.
the video starts to play. a little shaky at first, like the camera (phone?) is unsteady in your hand and then it focuses, a low-lit grainy view pointing down between bare thighs, soft and spread open just enough to fit your hand. he can hear your breathing, a little fast, as you slide two fingers up and down your wet slit. he can’t see your pussy too well like this, but he can hear it, when you move the camera close enough, can hear the slick sounds it makes when you rub yourself, over your clit, he thinks, as you let slip a quiet, soft moan. the video abruptly ends.
andrew plays it again. then again. he clicks the volume button all the way up to try and catch that moan at the end, presses the speaker against his ear and pretends you’re moaning with your mouth pressed against his neck while he’s filling you up. fitting the head of his cock against your entrance and guiding you slowly down with a hand on your soft waist. the fantasy is so good. you sound so good.
he types out a message, left hand fisted around his cock, squeezing tight.
andrew: you have the sweetest voice
then,
andrew: i want to hear you say my name
when you don’t immediately respond, he thinks maybe he’s pushed too far. then another video file comes through.
the camera is balanced on your tummy this time, a straight forward view of your knees raised, hand snug between your thighs. you must be lying down now. andrew watches, ears and eyes focused to catch every single detail. you moan again as your hand moves and it takes a second for him to realize you must be fucking yourself with your fingers.
shit. andrew slowly drags his hand up and down his cock in time with your breathing.
‘andrew,’ the voice on the video suddenly murmurs, almost a whine, and he nearly dents his phone with how hard he squeezes it. ‘andrew, please.’
andrew, please.
oh fucking hell, andrew thinks, spitting in his palm and jerking himself a little faster. sweetest voice, all breathy and needy saying his name. he doesn’t even know you. a stranger messaging him from almost 200 miles away, soft and pretty and, for some reason, begging for his cock.
he flips open the camera app again, taking his own short video. fucking his fully hard dick into his hand, foreskin pulled back to show how wet and pink he’s become. he sends it over.
andrew: you’re driving me crazy
you message back almost immediately.
you: oh my god
you: oh my god fuck
you: need to feelyou inside me
you: youd stretch me out so god
you: pleasjcr nbe ver had a dick so big
the messages are full of typos, like you’re too distracted to pay attention, too busy fucking your pussy with your fingers, maybe close to release. andrew grunts, dick kicking up in his hand. he’s imagining you squirming in his lap, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out, ‘so big, so big andrew, fuck oh my god.’
andrew: you gonna cum?
andrew: i want to hear you cum
andrew grabs the bottle of lotion off his nightstand while he waits for your response. he depresses some into his hand, warming it, then spreads it all over his dick. his bites his lip at the sensation. slick, wet. he can almost pretend it’s your pussy.
his phone buzzes. fuck. a new video file. andrew squeezes the base of his dick to keep himself from shooting off too early. just the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in that video has his head going fuzzy. he swallows and presses play.
you’ve set the camera up across the room. must have, on some type of surface. a dresser, maybe. it’s facing the bed. he can see you from the waist down and thinks you’re fully naked. because you’re kneeling upright and all he can see is gorgeous, soft skin.
god, he wants to touch you, he wants to know what sounds you’ll make when he runs his hands over your stomach, your thighs. he wants to shove his head between them and lap at your pretty cunt until you’re pushing him back with both hands, overstimulated and sensitive.
a quick, and deeply selfish thought runs through him: disappointment that he can’t see your tits like this, and then the thought is immediately diverted when he sees what’s in your hand.
a dildo. a rather life-like one from what he can tell from his vantage point across the room. thick, mushroom tip and a pair of silicone balls at the bottom. not as thick as him, of course, but still impressive. andrew hates it immediately. he’s gonna throw it out the first second he gets. when he meets you for real, in person. he’s gonna throw out all your toys and fill you up with his cock instead. let you use his dick whenever you want. every day, every hour if that's what you need.
you’re balancing the stupid thing on a pillow, flat base held still as you slowly sink down.
oh fuck, he thinks, fisting his cock, watching your pussy swallow it whole.
you whine as you begin to shift your hips back and forth, grinding on it like it’s real, like it’s him, your stomach muscles tensing as you move.
andrew makes sure to time his hand perfectly in tempo as you grind. this is what you would look like if he was there with you. shaky, trembling legs and desperate noises, except his hands would be all over you. he’d make sure to cover every inch of skin.
‘andrew,’ you moan, and your voice is just as a sweet as the last video. ‘fuck, you feel so good.’
yeah, fuck. he’s gonna lay you out on your bed and use your soft thighs as earmuffs. he’s gonna stretch out your cunt so slow on his dick that you're begging him to move, hips tilted up as you whine. he’s gonna watch your tits bounce and your eyes roll back and your mouth drop open and he's gonna give you absolutely everything you ask for. he’s gonna make sure no one ever compares.
‘ohh,’ you cry, slipping your free hand between your legs to rub at your clit. ‘i need it, i need it, i need it.’
‘yeah,’ andrew says, aloud, even though you can’t hear him. ‘yeah, fuck, you do.’
andrew groans, fucking his fist, pleasure coursing through him as he watches you spasm and shake around the dildo, whining and grinding your way through your orgasm. he shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine coming inside you as you do, filling you up and feeling it all slide back out, getting his lap all messy when he lifts you up in his arms.
he paints his own chest with his cum, thick, steady ropes of it as stars burst behind his eyelids. he lies there, half lying, half sitting up against the wall, panting for a full minute until his heart rate slows.
jesus christ, he can't remember the last time he came that hard. he takes a photo of the mess and sends it back to you.
you: wowie
you: any chance you're open to long distance?
andrew is already pulling on real pants and grabbing his keys.
I really genuinely think Pope would not be interested in hooking up with someone in a relationship speaking in general terms. It's messy, it's probably not worth the effort... BUT! I do think that if he hears that a pretty thing like you is having trouble with their boyfriend? Who isn’t treating you right or fucking you how you want?
I think he goes a little haywire over it. Doesn’t see the point in not trying to help you out. It’d be rude, and maybe part of him is tired of hearing you complain? But he’s helping though, right?
As he’s got your legs over his shoulders while he’s eating you out, tongue circling your clit and two fingers curled inside of you. The squelching is loud and you have your own hand covering our mouth to quiet your moans. It's feels bad because you do think you still like the guy you're seeing, but Pope spitting directly against your clit had you tumbling over the edge and your brain fuzzy.
He's convinced that he's helping as your thighs tremble against his cheeks. Boyfriend who? Was it not the guy still between your legs, drinking up the juices forced out from the sheer intensity of your orgasm, cleaning up his fingers, pressing your thighs apart to slot himself between them.
"Not done yet," he kisses the skin beneath your ear and down your jaw before he grinds himself, still in his jeans, against your exposed pussy. "Gotta treat your right if he won't."
The guy who doesn't treat your juice like ambrosia, who doesn't spread your lips apart while he slots his the tip of his cock just inside of you, who doesn't slide in slow only to pull out and fucks back inside you so hard it takes your breath.
Pope will be that guy though, who drills into you, bruising the spots where his hips bang against yours, one big hand on your thigh, one big hand grabbing both of your wrists. He'll be the guy to kiss you through the second orgasm, swallowing down your moans and cries as he holds back shaky breaths of his own.
He convinces you to stay the night, even though it doesn't take much, and he's still that guy in the morning. Hands sliding down your stomach, cupping your mound lazily, waiting until you get impatient and start to rock into his hand. To him, it doesn't matter if it takes minutes or seconds, just showing enthusiasm for him is enough to push a finger into you again.
I really genuinely think Pope would not be interested in hooking up with someone in a relationship speaking in general terms. It's messy, it's probably not worth the effort... BUT! I do think that if he hears that a pretty thing like you is having trouble with their boyfriend? Who isn’t treating you right or fucking you how you want?
I think he goes a little haywire over it. Doesn’t see the point in not trying to help you out. It’d be rude, and maybe part of him is tired of hearing you complain? But he’s helping though, right?
As he’s got your legs over his shoulders while he’s eating you out, tongue circling your clit and two fingers curled inside of you. The squelching is loud and you have your own hand covering our mouth to quiet your moans. It's feels bad because you do think you still like the guy you're seeing, but Pope spitting directly against your clit had you tumbling over the edge and your brain fuzzy.
He's convinced that he's helping as your thighs tremble against his cheeks. Boyfriend who? Was it not the guy still between your legs, drinking up the juices forced out from the sheer intensity of your orgasm, cleaning up his fingers, pressing your thighs apart to slot himself between them.
"Not done yet," he kisses the skin beneath your ear and down your jaw before he grinds himself, still in his jeans, against your exposed pussy. "Gotta treat your right if he won't."
The guy who doesn't treat your juice like ambrosia, who doesn't spread your lips apart while he slots his the tip of his cock just inside of you, who doesn't slide in slow only to pull out and fucks back inside you so hard it takes your breath.
Pope will be that guy though, who drills into you, bruising the spots where his hips bang against yours, one big hand on your thigh, one big hand grabbing both of your wrists. He'll be the guy to kiss you through the second orgasm, swallowing down your moans and cries as he holds back shaky breaths of his own.
He convinces you to stay the night, even though it doesn't take much, and he's still that guy in the morning. Hands sliding down your stomach, cupping your mound lazily, waiting until you get impatient and start to rock into his hand. To him, it doesn't matter if it takes minutes or seconds, just showing enthusiasm for him is enough to push a finger into you again.
Jack Abbot wants to find love again - he's just not quite ready to start dating yet
cw - portal pussy, dub con, reader is a sex worker
Jack never thought he'd be one of those guys.
One of those creepy old guys that have a favourite porn star, or pays for prostitutes. He's only been to a strip club once in his life when he was in the army. He'd been dragged by one of the older guys and Jack had tried to say that he had a fiance. That only made him try harder, spouting some bullshit about not being able to get married until Jack experienced the "full range of the female species" whatever the fuck that meant. Jack stopped fighting, and slipped back to the barracks as soon as his very awkward lap dance was over and called his future wife in tears.
All this to say, Jack is not a pervert.
But it's hard to be sure of this fact when he's scrolling through the options on the portal pussy website.
He's been in kind of a weird head space lately. He's felt more secure recently, almost like he's ready to start dating again but every time he thinks about going out to a bar with the explicit purpose of talking to women, or one of those godforsaken apps, his hands get clammy and he feels the begging of a panic attack starting to set in.
So maybe he's not quite ready for that step, but he's getting tired of his hand.
He doesn't even look at the thing for the first two weeks he has it, disgusted with himself for actually going through with it. The small round container with a twist off lid sits next to his bed, mocking him, reminding him of how low he's stooped.
But then his wedding anniversary rolls around. And his wife's side of the bed is still so empty.
He caves. He reaches over and twists the lid open. He's half hoping it'll be empty, that he got scammed and his credit card numbers are now on the dark web somewhere.
Instead, plump folds and pretty skin stare back at him. Guilt radiates from him in waves as he brings the container up to his nose and take a deep breathe.
Fuck, it's been too long.
His hand twitches at his side and he gives in. It's a bit strange at first, not knowing what someone's face looks like when you're pulling apart their outer folds with your fingers, looking at what you're working with. He has none of his usual tells to figure out if he's doing good or not - no changes in expression, no whispers in his ear, no full body shudders as they fall apart on his fingers.
But he's never backed down from a challenge before. He eases into it. His fingers slip through with no resistance. From the outside he doesn't have much indication about what you feel, but his mother raised a gentleman so he rubs slow circles on your clit first.
He laughs as your cunt clenches around nothing. He teases you more, two fingers sliding along your lips just ghosting over your entrance, his thumb keeping light pressure on your clit. He wishes he could see her face.
After he thinks she's had enough he slips one finger side, moaning at wet it makes when he flexes his fingers. Fuck, he missed this. He massages her walls, finding that spot that makes her squeeze his fingers.
His cock is straining against his pants. He ignores it for now, too entranced on working on the task at him. He hesitates, bringing it up to his lips. But curiosity gets the better of him. He leans forward, sucking her clit into his mouth, smiling to himself has she cums undone for him
*****
Of course, of course this new guy would chose now to use your pussy for the first time.
You slump against the bathroom door, reaching behind you with shaky hands until the lock clicks into place.
You got the notification that you had a new buyer two weeks ago. And since then nothing, you don't even think that that he's opened the damn thing in that time. And you've been wearing your special panties for your contractually obligated time, but your alarm didn't go off and you rushed to make it to your shift on time, completely forgetting about your side hustle.
You slump against the sink, biting down on your fist to keep from moaning out.
You're a little pissed off, the first time your client is actually good at sex and you're at work. You're still new to this, your past two clients never gave a shit about your body. They'd use your pussy without so much as touching your clit. Which didn't surprise you, you'd only signed up to make some extra cash during residency.
But this new client was playing your body like a damn fiddle.
It was difficult enough to ignore when he was teasing your folds while you were trying to explain the disimpaction procedure to your elderly patient. But then his stupidly thick fingers had stretched you open and you were scrambling to the bathroom before you orgasmed in front of poor 80 year old Mrs. Bennet and her concerned teenage grandchild who brought her in.
The room suddenly gets very hot as his fingers start to curl inside you. You're panting, hunched over the sink as you struggle to breathe. That fucking asshole, keeping you on edge - letting you get so close to what you want but not letting you finish.
You take a peak at your watch, someone's definitely going to start wondering where you are soon.
But it's really hard to care when the prick of stubble scratches at your lips before he sucks on your clit. Your eyes shoot open, chest heaving as you bite down on your fist so hard you taste metal on your tongue.
You squeeze your thighs together, trying to quell the throb between your legs to no avail. As soon as you straighten yourself out and walk out the door, that tongue returns, this time lapping at your clit.
