Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for violence, alive in the fight.
#manenuf, after dark. Untagged USFW discussion, imagery, and writing inbound. Mature audiences only.

Kiana Khansmith

if i look back, i am lost

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tannertan36
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@chokeu
Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for violence, alive in the fight.
#manenuf, after dark. Untagged USFW discussion, imagery, and writing inbound. Mature audiences only.
[breed.] sender fucks receiver deep and finishes inside. + reverse ⚓ @chokesme
You would never, ever find yourself with the roles reversed. It’s not something you can so much as fathom happening. Not when the very notion of another having power over you, another being above you, beckons a darkness to your stern gaze, a spiral of fury down to the pit of your stomach. You don’t like that fury ⸻ you can’t stand it nor the person it morphs you into. Debased by yourself, eternally chasing the high born of Angel deliberately quickening your heartrate. You let him do it without question, desperate to unravel those tightly wound threads of normalcy strung up in your chest. Whatever kind of person his presence reduces you to, you love it. Life is easier when you stoop to those murky depths, losing yourself in a wildfire of sex and violence. The simple explanation is that every part of yourself is at odds, an existential paradox. To be tender has underlying threshold of toughness, forged by the defense of what is yours and yours alone. To be gentle implicates you in robust strength, something you always have the capacity to employ and merely opt against. Being a man entails both what you are and what you are not. Endure that complexity. Tolerate it. Angel always manages to tug it loose because you are so grossly hyper-vigilant around him, surveilled by a panopticon of men’s expectation. Forever struggling to measure up.
Back and forth and back again: what does Angel get out of this? Is it only to meet those carnal needs? What does a man of his caliber gain from giving it up to you? Festering warmth until it is snuffed out too suddenly, you two are close, too close, and the gelid bite that follows makes your head spin. Try (fail) to put him in his place, and lower yourself to all things you despise / the violence you have been running from / the violence you have been running from / the violence you have been running from / the you you have been running from.
He lets you do it, so you do it. Maybe the kissing comes first, as you think it’s meant to, weak approximation of every women you’ve been with prior. It was always like you were following some glossy-paged guidebook hidden in your skull’s margins, put your hands there, don’t move too fast, plant a kiss and then another against petal-soft lips failing to entrance or allure you. You’d press on anyways, coax yourself into passable hardness sufficing in sheathing yourself inside, praying you’d finally feel something. You never did, not like you feel now. Heart thrashing wildly, rising to some grand crescendo while your hands tremble with adrenaline, with the thought of all things you want to do to him. You know it’s not quite right ⸻ not the proper way to comprehend things, rationalize and spin a worldview ⸻ to think of this exchange in absolute black and white. Being the man above him doing the fucking doesn’t enforce any true superiority in you, but fuck, it feels good, alright? You feel good about yourself in doing this, like you’re somehow taking the things you lack straight from him. Like a leech or a parasite. You don’t care what he says or what he has you do so long as you have that over him. You’re a fucking idiot, Dae-ho.
It’s not the first time this has happened, between the two of you, and you pray to whatever fucker is up there that it won’t be the last. The kissing, that’s right, you know you don’t do it very well. There’s too little tongue and too much teeth, and some stupid amalgamate of the two, but it’s just enough to rile you up in stripping garments off, baring beefy chest that’s puffed out obnoxiously, bull-headed oaf that you are. You roughly grab at his face, just shy of pulling him onto you. You want and want, and for once in your life, you’re going to get. Avalanche of progression, then, touch on touch on touch on touch snowballing to where you’re effectively begging to fuck him with your desperate pawing, weakening at the flash of broad grin dissipating into nothingness. He says something that doesn’t register, maybe something that you don’t care enough to internalize if it doesn’t directly escalate to you pushing inside. Finally. Fucking finally.
This, again, feels simpler when it’s all take, offering up no vulnerable parts of yourself to be stolen away by these late-night trysts ⸻ when you have him pushed over on the mattress, left hand pinning down just below his neck, between his shoulder blades. No eye contact, no distress, nothing. You are free to fall victim to temptation. Your skin glimmers with sweat, the fruits of your labor, having worked your thrusts up to a satisfying and consistent pace. You hit deep, biting back an impassioned groan each time you fuck into him. That damned left hand, depraved and solicitous, snakes up, searching for a fistful of hair to tug. Take some violent action to feel something, to embolden yourself in all that manliness you know you lack, pitifully, pathetically. Eventually you will cut this thread loose, when Angel has outlived his usefulness in his life, when you no longer feel urged to bask in the self-hatred that he alone unleashes in you, always without fail. Sometimes that dread creeps in before you’ve chased the peak of your climax, a lilt in your thought process to remind that you’re not gay, that this says nothing about you so long as you are man enough to do the fucking. It’s not always easy to believe. You’re an experienced liar, after all, and the person you’ve deceived most often has always been yourself. Trying to be something you’re not. Stronger. Smarter. Braver. Not a fucking faggot.
This is so goddamn stupid.
❛❛ … ❜❜ Lips curl inward, radiating with words unspoken; you want nothing more than to bring him down to your level, make him feel as small as you do. It’s the one thing sex can’t remedy.
Fuck, then. Your free hand traces down his back, weaseling into grasp at his sides. Every action you take burns with envy. You want to look more like him, act more like him. You want more attention than he gives you. You want to smash his stupid face in with a hammer, or at least shatter the ice-block of this back and forth, push-pull, hot and cold. You
You
You
You
You
You
You
You
You
You can’t take it anymore, not these nauseating feelings, not the heat pooling in your gut. A lean of your weight forward, just to bridge the gap, just to feel close enough for your worthless plight to mean something. Whatever power you have now, you’re choking on it. ❛❛ I hate you, ❜❜ you sputter, hips fighting tirelessly for your release. ❛❛ So much. So fucking much. ❜❜ (It’s not worth a lot.) Beholden to your lechery, you chase this stupid gratification no matter the harm it brings you. You slam into him, shifting to pull him further down onto your cock as you finally spill into him. Your grip intensifies, blunt nails dug to where they may not do damage; you try and try and try and it will never be enough.
(And this isn’t glamorous, nowhere near it. You are sneaking around to some hotel room costing more for a night than a month’s worth of your groceries. You are angry, with Angel, with yourself. He brings out the very worst in you like he’s getting paid to do it. Maybe you if you had the courage to defend yourself, resist his batshit provocations designed to perfectly burrow beneath your skin, maybe things could be different. You’re not man enough for that.)
His words were a blur, partly not wanting to hear his excuse of a plea but also because you didn’t believe a second of it. You never did before, why now. —hard pushes slow in motion, and freeing the hand that held his neck down to add even more pleasure by gripping on to his hardened length, “—you’re not” whispering sharply into his ear, while hand find wrap and slide to a rhythm to stimulate his heat even more that matched the sound of his moans to hitch further. and the faster, the more you had him —quite so— wrapped around your finger both physically and emotionally, the more you fought against his request. Which only meant you were succeeding. succeeding in proving a point. (What point exactly? That you make him weak? Or that it confirms something . . .)
Denial again, you’re not good for me stopping you for a moment. another view of expected shame to be with you. Heavy breathing against his ear and eventually coming up for air, to face him and immediately locking into his eyes. To which, you never had a problem doing so. Between the both of you, you knew you could truly look at him, and not turn away. No words just yet, motion slowing into a pause and th silence so loudly present as you tried to respond. but only a brush of your nose against when you shake your head to refuse. Could feel the truth wanting to slip out but getting chocked up because you refuse to give in. (But you are good for me). You can’t show vulnerability now . . . Not when it’s still fun . . . Not when you have him still showing up—
Scared to admit you liked this. Scared that he’d slip away once you showed an ounce of softness, Of Emotion that wasn’t anger or competition. to want to be the one to show up for him, No. Little sammy that once begged for love was long gone, You don’t respond, you let your lips react instead— this time it was deep still but slow, The kind you’ve never done before. Usually it’s always fully hunger, or roughly craving to satisfy the sense of control. No, this time it was . . . Passionate. Body still on top of him, laying on him as you deepen kiss to now prove that, you were good for him.
You want to kill him. You want to bring your brawny hands in to feel the grooves and indentations of his neck as you squeeze, his pulse fluttering coquettishly beneath your hold. The irksome part is that you know you’d never be capable of it. You’re not, he says, and you loathe the verity. You are not serious about the newfound independence you preach because it is all a lie. What you want is to take Sam as your own, your lover, not merely a dirty secret to snuff out amidst the late-night creaking of the mattress supporting you both. And yet you don’t think it’s possible. Not when he’s so volatile, like the vibrant mottling of a bruise he’s sucked into your flesh or you’ve beat into his. The lack of stability makes you want him more. One second he’s on you, the next is spent acting like you don’t exist. Or, worse yet, that you’re entirely disposable, seeing him a day later with an arm thrown possessively around woman without name nor identity, a mere bit piece in the Rube Goldberg machine of hurting your pride, ego, and your stupid goddamn feelings. And you, you, terrible you, you let him get away with it. You want him so bad that you grit your teeth and bitterly bear anything. You want him so bad that you will permit the both of you to suffer for it. What is love if not about suffering? You measure love dispensed to you by how terrible it makes you feel. This is a blessing bestowed by Father, and you wield it, gleaming sharp and tenacious, like a knife.
Fuck. His hand’s around your cock. Fuck. You feel like a desperate slut. You are a desperate slut? You’d stay like this with him forever if you could, fucking each other day in and day out, slick with sweat and cum and self-hatred. It’s the best way for you both to get along. With bodies, not words. Sex and violence, exactly what any men worth a damn lose themselves to. Your eyes are locked onto each other, and you immediately feel like a wild animal illuminated in the headlights. Sam holds you still and sees right through you, you know it. Not that it surprises you that he’s the one to have you in this position. If it was going to be anyone, it would be Sam. It compromises too much of you, takes control straight from your grasp; you want and you want, your head angles back, your chin up, you heave a wanton moan from the deep cache of your throat. You grind and writhe and arch your back pinned beneath him. When ravenous lips press into yours, you anticipate aggression. The rhythmic slapping of skin against skin continues, Sam fucking into you rough and steady, but the kiss is entirely bereft of these barbaric characteristics. You want more, but the kiss is not that. What this kiss insists to you is that you like him a lot more than you want to hurt him, and fuck is that dangerous.
sex with a guy who wants to hunt you for sport for 6-12 hours immediately beforehand
sex with a guy who gave you a big head start and mocks you about it after he’s caught you anyway
sex with a guy who wants to watch your brain kick down a few notches when he pins you down like you’re a prey animal that knows it’s done running
Daeho & Sam. ( @manenuf ) : ❝ This is the last time, then never again. This has to stop. ❞
A bitter laugh escaping over his lips, in between heightened heavy breaths already, what a bold statement to make in the midst of pleasure— sometimes the tug and pull was starting to make you feel unimportant, though it still pushed you to prove him wrong even more. “Don't make promises you know you're going to break, we —both know that’s a lie.” mumbling against his lips, heavily broken into every thrust, and with you being dominantly on top for once returning your statement with confidence.
still no label, no promises, no declaration of what you were to each otherc. but with every chance behind closed doors was slowly beginning to stir emotional attachment. ( No this was just fun. A score to settle. ) and anytime he declares ‘last time’ made you more furious, why? —no this can’t be feelings. you don’t do feelings. Strictly pleasure. “Unless you want me to stop now, then that settles my score with you.”
This guilty feeling begs for the other shoe to drop, for there to be some nonsensical altercation that leaves the two of you irreparably separated. Back to him, again. Then again. Shirking your shirt and your boxers and letting the clash of teeth and musculature play out as it wishes. You are desperate, so very grossly desperate. You chase the momentary validation that explodes in a vibrant plume of heat and lust, and always you feel the shame creep in like sweat at the back of your neck once you are alone. But Sam just keeps up the bullshit: he makes you feel as though it is stupid pipe-dream to posit, he fucks into you, and you rock your frame back into him, trying to chase whatever high of sensation he can give.
❛❛ I’m— ❜❜ And your self-defense is turned inward before you ever have a chance to shoot off the projectile / stifled by the hiccup of a moan, wanton, vibrating off abused lips, ❛❛ I’m serious. ❜❜ You certainly don’t sound serious, nor do you want him to stop. You seek control and it slips between your fingers like sand. You posture, act gruff and cruel like the learned behavior it is, and sooner than later you are relegated to the juvenile urge of physically stuffing yourself into your bedroom closet, trying to give no indication you are there. ❛❛ You’re not good for me. ❜❜ You say this with a certain audacity, almost as though you believe yourself worthy of anything good. You don’t. This façade, surely, undoubtedly, it has to mask the barren wasteland of your heart, alleviating some of the tension that comes in getting closer to others: you will always be the one to walk away first.
Another moan passes through you, brows knitting together of frustration. You are easy. You feel easy, at least. He calls, you answer. Or maybe you’re the one haplessly pawing at the door, in desperate need of that attention. Your thumb hooks over your teeth, blocking your mouth, trying to give yourself some leverage that never quite measures up how it should. Whatever. Fuck it all.
google/men suffering
pornhub.com/men tied up and whimpering and suffering
ponrhub.com/men tied up with rope over their clothes and the clothes roughly pulled aside in a few places so you can see bruises and whelts and also they're whimpering and suffering and being crushed underneath a big leather boot and somehow being both so brave and so pathetic about it at the same time
Sex is great but have you considered hitting me as hard as you can
𝐒𝐞𝐱, 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫, & 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞.
Bold what does apply to your muse, italicize what applies in sometimes, strikethrough what never applies.