Dom Daddy Sub Boi

Chicago based Sub Son here! I 23 I This is stuff I find hot. Please message me daddy!!!

[babygirlbondage]

answers to "its too much"

i know (apologetically)

i know (condescendingly)

its supposed to

you can take more

this is how you learn

good sluts take it

stop complaining

i don't care

i didn't ask

your pleasure is irrelevant

you shouldn't have done *insert mistake*

focus on pleasing me instead

you're not supposed to like it

don't talk back

you look so cute like this

you're mine and i decide what you do

its your punishment for *insert mistake*

shut up

good

you're supposed to be focused on my pleasure

get used to it

you can take it cant you?

you asked for it

beg for it to stop then

you look prettier overstimulated

you'll stop when i tell you to

*gagging them so they're quiet*

your only purpose is to be a fuck toy for me so don't complain

you know you like it

aww but you look so cute like this

stop lying

it cant be that bad if you're still talking

did i ask?

[properplace]

Allowance

“Tell me why. Tell me why I should have this. Convince yourself for me.”

(True story) - His voice was low and gentle. His large hands wrapped around my hips and held me steady on top of him as he fucked me.

“I can’t. I...uhn...mmh...don’t like it.” I couldn’t meet his eyes. I wouldn’t lie to him. I never do.

“Let’s start there, then. Talk to me.” His pace was methodical, deliberate and unhurried. He watched my face patiently and waited for me to find my words while he casually caressed my tits in front of him. 

“Well, it’s my spending money. I've always been able to...unnf...ah...use it whenever I want because I earned it at...mmm...my job. I worked hard for it.” I explained. 

“You did work for it very hard, sweetie. But you didn’t earn it for yourself, did you? You earned it for your family - for me.” His cock continued to pump in and out me. 

“But…! Uhnf...fff…fu-…my salary is higher than yours! I went to school. I have a degree for this job. Ah-ah...mmh...it’s a good career, my colleagues respect-"  

He cut me off. “Does any of that change a thing? Be honest. Does it matter at all if you’re educated or people at work think you’re respectable? I still tell you what to wear, what to do, what to say. So does it matter? Tell me.” 

“No...ah! mmh...no, it doesn’t change anything I suppose. But both names are on the account. I could withdraw my spending money on my own. Uhnf...the bank...ugh…would let me.” The sound of my sloppy cunt - my body carelessly betraying me - offended my ears.

“Yes, your name is on the account," he conceded thoughtfully. "You have access to your body too. It’s attached to you, isn’t it? Does that mean it’s yours? Can you make it orgasm?”

“No.”

“Can you change it without permission?”

“Fffu-...no.”

“Do you decide when and how I use it?” 

“No—ugh...uhn…” 

“So does it belong to you?” 

“No, it doesn’t belong to me,” my voice wobbled. 

“Then why would your bank account be any different than your physical body? I own you and that means I own every little thing that you do. Everything that’s yours is actually mine.” 

“But…I hate it.”

I could feel him pick up his pace.  He moaned out the next words: “Tell me why.”

I stifled the start of tears. “I hate it because it’s oppressive and it’s wrong.” 

He groaned and I felt his cock stiffen as he pumped into me harder and faster. “Why is it wrong?” he goaded me. My cunt was a mess.

“Ah-ah-ah!...Because that money is mine!” A small sob. “It’s my spending money. And I earned it, it’s from my career, and it’s mine. And I feel pride.” 

“Oh. It’s okay, sweetie,” his tone was compassionate. He smiled at me gently and settled me down onto him for a moment. “Don’t worry, I’ll break it. Just give it a little time. You’ll feel better.” 

Another little sob. I rubbed my eyes to stop tears and tried to catch my breath. I could feel every thick inch of him inside me as I straddled him. I looked into his calm and measured expression, seeking mercy there. I began again with my plea: “But that money is mine…” 

He wrapped his fingers tightly around my arm, pulled me in close to him, our foreheads nearly touching. He began to pound into me, his eyes locked with mine. I felt my thoughts scatter across the surface of my mind and I scrambled to pick them up again. 

His voice was suddenly dark. “Nothing is yours. Not your body or your womb, not your mind or your vote. And neither is your money. You give it all to me. Do you understand me?” 

I began to cry into his neck, little sobs mixing with pathetic moans. “But I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it...” 

“I know, sweetie, I know. But I want it.” He pressed on that weak spot of my mental armor, waiting for the inevitable break. 

“You want it," I repeated, my voice was small.

“Yes, I want it. That’s enough of a reason. And you want to give it to me, don’t you? Nothing makes you happier than giving yourself to me, isn't that right?”

I moaned into him in assent. 

“You know I get what I want. So just relax. Just go with it. Enjoy saying yes. Say yes to me - that you’ll give it to me.” 

“I’ll give it to you.” Tears were in my eyes and smearing on his skin. 

I could feel him throbbing in anticipation of my mental undoing. He slowed his pace again, drawing out his finish. “That’s a good girl. I’ll take care of it. And you can be a good whore for me to earn my money. I'll tell you to send me photos and if I like them, you’ll hear ping! and a few dollars will come through Apple Pay for you for being a good girl. If you want to buy something, you ask me first. I might say no, but I bet there’s a way you could earn it.” He smiled, lazily fucking me, toying with what was left of my ego. I could sense the power high he was riding and it made me drip. Even so, I felt my pride scrape itself off the pavement for a last ditch effort. 

“Wait...you’d say no? Like with orgasm? So I would want to buy something with my money and you’d stop me? But, I-"

He distracted me from my question momentarily by pulling me forward over him and enveloping my nipple in his mouth, his lips teasing the sensitive skin. He picked up speed.

Again, my thoughts were tossed carelessly about and I rushed to compose myself. Before I made much progress, he placed his fingers on my lips; without thinking, I parted them to welcome him in. He gently pressed on my tongue as he pushed his fingers toward the back of my throat. I instinctively loosened the tension in my jaw and sucked on them, lapping with my tongue and coating them with saliva. He murmured his praise. Then his fingers were gone. 

His thick, drool-coated forefinger pushed into my asshole without warning. An inhuman sound escaped my throat. His finger and his cock on rubbed against each other inside me as he fucked me with both. 

I was crushed against him under his other arm. His voice darkened. “You think you’re even capable of owning money?” he said sharply, growling the words in my ear. "You don’t even own your holes, you whore. I can do whatever I want to you and you couldn’t stop me if you tried. Everything you have is mine because you are mine and that includes your money. I decide how you earn it back and how much, and you will thank me for it.”

I nodded dumbly, glassy-eyed, mumbling yes on repeat. A string of drool from my slackened mouth pooled on his pillowcase. The fullness in both holes overwhelmed me. He praised me for my obedient acquiescence and rocked into me to finally empty his balls into my cunt. 

His cock pulsed as his orgasm faded and he groped my tits and hips at his satisfied leisure. I leaned over him with half-lidded eyes, noticing the drool stain on his pillow. I vaguely pondered if I’d be punished for making a mess, but nothing else in particular came to my mind. He smiled with what appeared to be pride, and I smiled back.

Pride looks so good on him, I thought.

[perfecttrophyboys]

[reallymyanchor]

Trey could feel Sam’s hard cock against his ass. He wanted it so bad: wanted to drop his underwear and take all of him, as deeply as he could.

“Come on, surely we could? It’s your first heat, who gets pregnant on their first heat?” Sam asked.

Trey pushed his ass back gently, enjoying the feeling of Sam’s firmness behind him. Fuck he wanted that cock. He gritted his teeth, pulling himself away from the desire:

“I told you to bring condoms. That was the one thing I needed you to bring”.

“I was too excited and forgot them. I could pull out?” Sam offered, running his hands down Trey’s sides, toying with the waistband of his underwear, shuffling it down, over his bubble butt.

Trey stretched out his neck in pleasure, his sub instincts being activated, and Sam kissed down his neck. Trey melted, a toy for his own hormones.

“Yes” he whispered.

Eight months later, he was waddling around the house, huge and tight with twins.

[bargas]

[hornyguy346]

Ezra hadn’t realized what he was walking into when he took the job—restoring standing stones in the Highlands. He thought it would be simple: labor, solitude, peace. Instead, he found them.

Five men. All older. All watching. They called themselves a crew, but they moved like a pack.

Mac, 57, was the leader. Silver hair, a scar along his collarbone, and a voice that never needed to raise. He spoke in few words, and everyone listened. When he fixed Ezra with those calm, coal-dark eyes, he didn’t have to say anything at all. Ezra obeyed.

Rhys, 54, was the broadest of them—quiet, bearded, and tattooed from throat to wrist. He’d lifted Ezra clean off the ground on his first day without so much as a grunt. Since then, he’d taken to standing behind Ezra during breaks. Just close enough to make him feel prey-like.

Tomas, 51, had a knife always strapped to his thigh and a laugh that never reached his eyes. He was the most playful, but it was the dangerous kind of playful. The kind that left Ezra’s pulse stuttering when he said things like, “Pretty boys should kneel when real men work.”

Gregor, 49, didn’t speak much at all—but when he did, it was usually while gripping Ezra’s jaw. Between his two thick fingers and saying something in a low growl like, “You look better when your mouth is shut.”

And Fraser, 46, the youngest of them—but still old enough to have years of grit in his bones—was the one who always watched Ezra like he already owned him. Smirking. Waiting. Patient.

Ezra was twenty-nine. Still strong, still stubborn. But surrounded by them, he felt young in a way that wasn’t about years—it was about power. He could say no, but he wouldn’t. Not to Mac. Not to any of them.

Not now. That day, they had just finished setting a carved capstone in place when Mac crooked a finger at him.

“Boy,” he said simply. “Come here.”

Ezra obeyed. The others flanked him, slowly, as if they'd done this before. As if it was natural. As if they'd been waiting for him to understand something he hadn’t yet realized.

“Do you know what happens,” Mac said softly, “when a Circle decides to keep what it finds?”

Ezra's breath hitched. “No, Sir.”

Mac’s fingers curled into the back of his hair, slow, deliberate. “We claim it. Mark it. Use it. Ruin it for anyone else.”

Gregor murmured from behind him, “You’re the youngest thing any of us have touched in years.”

“Fresh,” Tomas added. “Soft.”

Ezra trembled. He wanted to run. He wanted to kneel.

Mac tilted his chin up. “You want it. Don’t you?”

Ezra nodded once. Then again.

“Yes, Sir.”

The five men moved in. Boots crunching over stone. Kilts brushing against sweat-slick thighs. No one rushed.

Predators never do. Ezra stood still in the center of the circle—young, outnumbered, trembling—and exactly where he belonged.

The stone beneath Ezra’s knees was cold. They’d led him—no, escorted him—into the heart of the stone circle like something sacred, something offered. The moment he stepped inside, the temperature shifted. The wind stilled. The world narrowed to five men and the heat radiating off their bodies, off their stares.

He was on his knees now, at the center. Shirtless. Marked with dust, sweat, and the fingerprints they’d left behind guiding him into place.

Mac stood before him. The others circled in silence, eyes gleaming in the firelight like wolves who had waited too long for their meal.

“Do you know why we brought you here?” Mac asked, voice low.

Ezra swallowed. “To… prove I belong?”

Mac’s mouth curled into something darker than a smile.

“No, boy. You already belong.”

He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down Ezra’s cheek, slow and firm. “This is just where we show you what that means.”

Rhys stepped in next. He didn’t say anything—just laid a thick, gloved hand on Ezra’s bare shoulder, squeezing once. Ezra felt the weight of that touch in his chest more than his skin.

Tomas crouched beside him, tilting his head. “Still holding yourself upright?” he whispered, amused. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Gregor pressed his hand between Ezra’s shoulder blades, firm, forcing him a little lower. “Head down, hands behind your back. Submit properly.”

Ezra obeyed—his breath shaking, his spine bowed, his palms resting against the small of his back. The cold stone kissed his knees. His heart pounded.

Fraser knelt behind him, whispering close, “You’re going to be so easy to keep once we’re done with you.”

Mac stepped in again, circling him slowly. “Five of us. One of you.” His fingers slid along Ezra’s shoulder, then under his jaw, lifting his head just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet none of us are rushing. You know why?”

Ezra’s voice wavered. “Because you already own me?”

Mac smiled. “Good boy.”

Then he leaned down and kissed Ezra’s forehead—not rough, not showy. Devotional. And one by one, they followed.

Rhys’s kiss pressed into his temple. Tomas ghosted his lips across Ezra’s cheek. Gregor’s was rough, right over the crown of his bowed head. Fraser’s lingered by his neck—hot breath and stubble, a silent promise.

When Mac knelt in front of him again, it was with slow reverence, resting one heavy hand over Ezra’s sternum.

“We’re not just taking you,” he said. “We’re marking you. As ours. As kept. As a group.”

Ezra’s breath hitched.

“Do you want that?” Mac asked.

Ezra nodded, almost too fast. “Yes, Sir.”

Mac leaned in, close enough to taste the words on Ezra’s lips. “Then remember this, boy: there’s no going back.”

The circle closed in. And Ezra didn’t want to.

The keep was old stone, high-ceilinged, lit with firelight and silence. Ezra knelt again—this time on a thick wool rug in the center of their private den. His bare skin was warmed by the hearth, but his body still trembled from the weight of five men watching. Every breath he took felt like it was borrowed. Every second, suspended.

They’d stripped him slowly when they brought him inside—not just of his clothes, but of everything he thought he’d be allowed to keep. Confidence. Modesty. Control. Now all that remained was obedience.

Fraser was the first to speak. “What are you, boy?”

Ezra kept his eyes down. “Yours.”

“All of ours?” Rhys asked, voice a quiet scrape of thunder.

“Yes, Sir.”

Gregor’s voice was sharp, near his ear. “And what does that mean?”

Ezra swallowed. “It means I don’t belong to myself anymore. It means I listen. I serve. I obey.”

“And if one of us tells you to stop?” Tomas asked, circling him.

“I stop.”

“And if all of us tell you to kneel?” Mac added, stepping close.

“I kneel.”

Mac cupped the back of his neck. “That’s right.”

Ezra was kissed again—first by the firelight, then by their hands. His shoulders. His ribs. His thighs. Every part of him claimed. Not rushed. Not rough yet. Just known.

They didn’t take him that night—not fully. Not yet.They made him wait. Made him kneel and listen as they spoke over his head—about him. Around him. Like he was already furniture. Already theirs.

***************************************************

Flashback

It had started months before Ezra even arrived. Mac had seen him first—on a video, a recommendation from another crew. “Strong back. Sharp eyes. Fast learner. Pretty.”

Gregor was the one who asked the question none of them voiced: “Is he submissive?”

Fraser smirked. “Let’s find out.”

They’d shared men before—briefly, in pairs or threes, during long winters when the keep felt too empty. But it had never lasted. No one could handle all five. Not really.

Not until Ezra. They saw it in him from the first day. The way he bent. The way he waited. How he flinched from praise like it hurt more than punishment. They talked in the dark that night, gathered around Mac’s long wooden table.

“He won’t last,” Tomas had said at first.

“He might,” Rhys countered. “If we take our time.”

Mac sipped his whisky, slow and certain. “We don’t take him. We train him.”

Fraser leaned back in his chair. “As what?”

“As ours.” Mac looked up. “Evenly. Fully. Permanently.”

Gregor only nodded.

The pact was made. Not just to share Ezra. To shape him. To strip him down until there was nothing left but instinct and obedience. To give him five centers of gravity. Five hands. Five voices. Five men who’d never need to raise one to remind him where he belonged.

***************************************************

Back in the present in the keep. Ezra’s head was bowed. His body ached—not from pain, but from holding still.

Mac knelt behind him now, lips brushing his neck. “Tomorrow, we begin properly. You’ll learn our rules. Our rhythms. Our hands.”

Ezra’s voice was barely a whisper. “What about tonight?”

“Tonight,” Mac said, “we teach you how to sleep* in service.”

Ezra blinked. Fraser was already lifting him up, strong arms around his waist. Rhys pulled back the furs on the bed. Tomas slid beneath them first. Gregor held out a hand.

And Ezra—naked, trembling, undone—was pulled into their bed and laid in the center like an offering on a shared altar. Hands curled around his waist. Arms wrapped around his chest. Someone kissed his temple.

“Breathe, boy,” Mac murmured as Ezra exhaled.

“You belong here now.”

Ezra woke to warmth—too much warmth. Not the kind that came from a hearth or sunlight through an open window. This was the warmth of skin, of breath, of bodies wrapped around his like he was a prize hoarded through the night. His limbs ached, heavy from sleep and something deeper—something that left his muscles soft and his bones humming.

He was surrounded. Gregor’s chest was pressed against his back, one thick arm slung over his middle, holding him in place like a man guarding something sacred. Rhys was curled at his front, the slow rhythm of his breathing steady against Ezra’s throat.

Fraser's legs were tangled with his, one foot hooked around his ankle like he might float away if not claimed completely. Tomas sprawled behind them all, fingers idly combing through Ezra’s hair. And Mac—Mac sat at the edge of the bed, watching.

Always watching. Ezra blinked slowly, head swimming in the haze of what came before: hands and mouths and heat and being opened again and again until he was nothing but sensation. There was no pain left. Just the echo of being taken.

And now... he knew. This wasn’t over. This was just the beginning. He could feel it in the tension coiled beneath their softness. In the way Rhys’s breath had quickened. In the weight of Gregor’s arm tightening across his waist. In Mac’s eyes, sharp and unreadable in the quiet dawn.

They were waiting. Waiting for him to wake. Waiting for him to understand. He was going to be claimed. Not gently. Not sweetly. But fully.

No more soft mouths or whispered promises. No more teasing touches meant to ease him into obedience. He’d had his initiation. He’d been made pliant, made open, made theirs.

Now came the rest. Now came the ruin. One round for each man. Five bodies. Five lessons. Five ways to be undone. And Ezra? Ezra wasn’t afraid. He was ready. He didn’t need to ask what they would do. He simply met Mac’s gaze, swallowed thickly, and whispered:

“I’m yours.”

And they moved towards him both in unison and each of them individually.

Fraser was the first to move. Of course he was. The others stood back, watching with lazy curiosity, arms folded, lips curled in that half-smile the group shared when they knew something was about to be taught. Ezra was already trembling, lying back on the furs, his thighs slick with sweat and aching need. He was still soft in the way new boys always were—eager, overwhelmed, too pliant for his own good.

Fraser, at 46, was the youngest of them, but he carried it with sharp confidence, coiled like a whip rather than worn like armor. He didn’t need age to own Ezra. He needed only a smirk and two fingers hooked beneath the boy’s jaw.

“You look sweet when you beg,” Fraser murmured, straddling Ezra’s hips, dragging the backs of his fingers across Ezra’s flushed chest. “You don’t even know what you’re begging for yet. You think you do. That’s cute.”

Ezra arched beneath him, breath stuttering in his chest. “I just—”

Fraser pressed a thumb to his lips. “Shh. Don’t ruin it by talking too much.”

He leaned in, his beard scratching lightly over Ezra’s cheek as he whispered, “Round One isn’t about what you get. It’s about what you’re denied.”

And then it began. Fraser rocked his hips, slow and steady, letting Ezra feel the pressure of him, the promise of friction, without giving anything real.

He rolled his body against Ezra’s, his hands braced on either side of the boy’s shoulders, dragging his torso deliberately across Ezra’s trembling frame.

“You’re already making those sounds?” he teased. “I haven’t even started.”

Ezra whimpered, back arching helplessly under him. Fraser’s rhythm was maddening—grinding, rolling, hovering just on the edge of friction. He let their bodies meet just enough to make Ezra pant, just enough to make his cock throb, but never enough. Not to fall. Not to come.

He bent down and nipped at Ezra’s throat, teeth dragging just hard enough to sting.

“Sweet little mess,” Fraser growled. “You’re going to come apart from nothing, aren’t you?”

Ezra tried to respond, but Fraser kissed the words right out of his mouth—wet, hungry, filthy kisses that left Ezra gasping. Every time Ezra bucked his hips, Fraser stopped. Froze. Smiled. Waited.

“You’re not in control,” Fraser whispered. “Not even of your own need. That’s mine now. You understand that?”

Ezra’s voice cracked. “Y-yes, Sir.”

Fraser nipped his lower lip. “Good.”

He kept Ezra there, teetering on the edge for what felt like hours. Hands roaming. Mouth exploring. Heat building like wildfire in Ezra’s belly, only to cool again and again when Fraser paused—denying, denying, denying.

It wasn’t until Ezra was flushed to the neck, trembling with need, his body arching helplessly into every denied motion, that Fraser finally leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered:

“Now you’re soft enough for them.”

And just like that, he slipped away, leaving Ezra panting, untouched, completely unraveled—and still aching for more.

Ezra barely had time to catch his breath. Fraser’s teasing had left him flushed and aching, chest rising and falling in desperate little gasps, eyes wide and glassy with want.

He was pliant now—softened and opened by denial, left to tremble on the rug like a well-kept toy still waiting to be played with. And Tomas? Tomas liked his toys needy.

At 51, Tomas had the lean, coiled build of a predator that liked to stalk close. He wore his tattoos like warning signs, half-faded and wrapping down his arms like a story told in blood and ink. He grinned as he stepped forward, cocky and feral, a flash of teeth behind a beard still damp from whisky.

“Well now,” he drawled, crouching beside Ezra’s wrecked body. “Look at you. Soft little thing, twitching like you’ve already been ruined.”

Ezra blinked up at him, lips parted, barely able to respond.

“Don't worry,” Tomas purred. “Fraser just unwrapped you. I get to break you in.”

Without warning, he gripped Ezra’s jaw—firm, controlling, but not cruel. Yet.

“Open your mouth,” Tomas said, and when Ezra obeyed, he hummed in approval. “Good boy.”

Then he turned to the others, who were still watching like wolves at the edge of the firelight. “Hear that?” Tomas asked. “He still listens.”

Gregor snorted. “We’ll fix that.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Tomas muttered, turning back to Ezra with a smirk. “Let’s see how much noise you make when I’m really inside you.”

He didn’t strip—he didn’t need to. He simply pushed Ezra onto his back, straddled his hips, and began to move against him—grinding, rougher than Fraser had dared, hands planted on Ezra’s shoulders to pin him down. Ezra gasped, voice cracking into a needy cry.

“There it is,” Tomas grinned. “That’s the sound I wanted. You like that? Getting taken like a boy who begged too pretty?”

Ezra nodded, but Tomas shook his head.

“No, no. You answer. Use your voice, pretty thing.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ezra whimpered. “Please, more.”

“More?” Tomas echoed, hips dragging over Ezra’s again, harder now. “More of what? You want my hand on your throat, or my hips between your legs? Or both?”

Ezra moaned. “Both. Please—”

Tomas laughed, leaned down, and bit Ezra’s throat—not enough to break skin, just enough to leave a mark.

“You’re going to be black-and-blue before the sun comes up, and you’ll *thank* us for it.”

Ezra writhed beneath him, hands clawing at the rug, overwhelmed by the mix of rough friction and Tomas’s voice in his ear—taunting, cruel, intoxicating.

“You begged for this,” Tomas growled, shifting his weight, grinding harder now. “Begged to be taken. Claimed. Filled. You know what that makes you?”

Ezra sobbed. “Yours.”

Tomas chuckled, low and rough. “Ours. But tonight? Tonight, I make the first deep bruise.”

He gripped Ezra’s wrists and pinned them above his head, bending down to press their chests together—his mouth barely an inch from Ezra’s ear.

“Don’t come,” he whispered. “Not until you’ve taken all five of us. And if you do?”

Ezra trembled. “Then I get punished.”

Tomas smiled against his skin.

“Now you’re learning.”

When he finally pulled away, Ezra was wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Tomas stood up, looked down at the red marks blooming across Ezra’s collarbone and throat, and gave a satisfied hum.

“Don’t wipe those off,” he said to no one in particular. “I want to see them in the morning.”

Then he walked away, boots slow against stone, and left Ezra gasping in his wake—ruined just enough for the next man to start again.

Ezra barely moved. His skin was flushed and glowing, streaked with sweat and marked by Fraser’s teasing fingerprints and Tomas’s bruising bite. His lips were swollen from kisses, his thighs trembling from friction, and his arms lay limp at his sides like he’d already surrendered the rest of the night.

But they weren’t done with him. He heard the shift of heavy boots and opened his eyes just in time to see Gregor standing over him—still shirtless, kilt hanging low, arms crossed over his broad chest. He said nothing.

Gregor never said much. At 49, he didn’t need to. Gregor moved like stone—not fast, not loud, but inevitable. Where Tomas had been fire and Fraser had been smoke, Gregor was gravity. Ezra didn’t realize he was being pulled until it was already too late.

Without a word, Gregor reached down and gripped Ezra’s bicep, hauling him upright in one fluid motion. Ezra gasped as his knees scraped across the rug, trying to find balance.

Gregor didn’t help. He simply stepped behind him, one hand curling tight around the back of Ezra’s neck, pressing him back down—hard—until Ezra’s cheek was flush against the rug, hips raised, thighs spread.

The message was clear: stay there. Ezra whimpered, chest heaving. Gregor still hadn’t spoken a word. He kneeled behind him, the weight of his body radiating heat over Ezra’s back. One large hand slid slowly up Ezra’s spine, trailing sweat and tension. The other gripped Ezra’s hip—not roughly, but firmly, a wordless claim.

Ezra waited for a command. A question. Anything. But Gregor gave him only the slow, heavy slide of pressure—grinding against him with brutal, controlled force, letting Ezra feel every inch of what was to come without once breaking the silence.

Ezra cried out—a sharp, broken sound that echoed in the stone room. Still, Gregor said nothing.

He rocked into him, relentless and brutal, his hand tightening at the back of Ezra’s neck to keep him down, keep him obedient. The only sounds in the room were Ezra’s cries and the punishing rhythm of their bodies colliding.

There was no sweet talk. No praise. No warnings. Just the grind of hips, the slap of skin, and Ezra’s desperate, strangled gasps for breath. Gregor’s control was terrifying. And perfect.

Ezra wasn’t just being used—he was being silenced, reshaped, ruled by the absence of comfort. He couldn’t beg, couldn’t speak, couldn’t process anything except the way Gregor moved—like every thrust was a nail sealing Ezra’s place in the group.

His hands clawed at the rug. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His body shook under the weight of it.

And then, just when Ezra thought he couldn’t take another second, Gregor pressed a flat palm between his shoulder blades and buried himself in a final, punishing thrust that made Ezra sob outright. Silence again.

Gregor didn’t linger. He stood slowly, adjusted his kilt, and leaned down just once—pressing a single kiss to the back of Ezra’s neck. Soft. Gentle. Intimate.

Then he was gone. Ezra was left gasping, trembling, forehead pressed to the rug like a prayer. Not a word had been spoken. But the message was clear: You are mine.

Ezra had stopped pretending he could hold himself up. His limbs were shaking, skin marked with fingerprints and heat, his breath shallow in the cradle of his throat. He lay on his side now, curled just enough to feel small, just enough to feel held, even if no one was touching him yet.

But that was about to change. Rhys approached quietly, like the tide. He didn’t have Tomas’s bite or Fraser’s smirk or Gregor’s silence. He had weight—gravity of a different kind. Not like Gregor’s stillness. Rhys was movement. Rhythm. Pulse.

He knelt behind Ezra, one massive arm sliding underneath his waist to lift him gently. Ezra gasped at the touch—too soft after what had come before—and was immediately gathered close, cradled against a broad, hairy chest slick with sweat and warmth.

“Shh,” Rhys murmured, voice like crushed velvet, deep and rasped from too many years of smoke and cold mornings. “I’ve got you now.”

At 54, Rhys had strength like ancient stone. His hands dwarfed Ezra’s frame. He moved slowly, but when he moved, it was final. He didn’t take. He claimed. Ezra melted into him before he even realized he’d done it.

Rhys shifted, settling back against the thick headboard, pulling Ezra fully into his lap. One big hand rested on Ezra’s chest. The other between his thighs. Not moving. Not yet. Ezra whimpered.

“You’ve been through it, haven’t you?” Rhys murmured, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s temple. “All wrecked and wet and needy.”

Ezra nodded, breath catching.

“You still want more?” Rhys asked, rubbing slow circles over Ezra’s ribs.

Ezra moaned, whisper-soft: “Yes, Sir.”

Rhys chuckled, low and warm, and tightened his grip.

“Then let me give you what the others can’t.”

And then he moved. Slow. Grinding. A steady, possessive rhythm that stole Ezra’s breath and left him open and full. He rocked his hips with purpose, with heat, with ownership—every motion a wordless declaration: Mine.

Ezra cried out with each movement, body oversensitized, already wrung out, but Rhys didn’t care. He held him through the tremors, pressed Ezra’s back against his chest, kissed his shoulder, whispered praise between every deep, shattering thrust.

“You take it so well,” he murmured, mouth brushing Ezra’s ear. “All of it. All of us. But right now—right now, you’re mine.”

Ezra nodded, tears in his eyes. “Yours. Yours, yours—”

“That’s right.” Rhys buried his face in Ezra’s neck. “And I’m not letting you go.”

His thrusts grew deeper, heavier, more insistent. Ezra couldn’t move, couldn’t think—only feel. The press of skin. The fullness. The unbearable sweetness of being wanted by a man who didn’t stop.

Rhys held him tighter. “I don’t fuck to get off,” he whispered. “I fuck to keep. And you’re not leaving this bed until your bones remember that.”

Ezra sobbed, body curling into the rhythm, hips pushing back desperately against Rhys’s every stroke.

“You’re going to feel me tomorrow,” Rhys promised. “And every time you sit. Every time you *kneel.* You’ll remember who put you there.”

When he finally finished, it wasn’t with a growl or a curse—it was with a broken breath, a kiss to Ezra’s throat, and a whisper so soft only Ezra heard it: “I could stay inside you for hours.”

Ezra collapsed in his arms, boneless, floating.Rhys held him through the aftershocks, stroked his hair, kissed his jaw.And just before sleep could steal him away, Ezra whispered, “Don’t let me go.”

And Rhys—possessive, patient, unyielding—only held him tighter.

Ezra didn’t know how long he lay there, wrapped in Rhys’s arms, breath shallow and heart pounding.

His body felt like silk pulled too tight—frayed at the edges, buzzing with overuse, oversensitivity, over-everything.He was soaked with sweat and praise, his skin shining with possession, every inch of him touched, tasted, taken.

He thought it was over.He was wrong. When Rhys let go—slowly, gently, like he was offering something back to the group—Ezra felt the shift. The air in the room grew heavier. The furs were tossed back. The others stepped away, and the last man approached. Mac.

At 57, Mac didn’t move like a man his age. He moved like time—slow, inevitable, quiet until it wasn’t. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Because when Mac entered the room, every other man stood still. And now, so did Ezra.

Mac’s voice, when he finally spoke, was low and firm. “On your knees.”

Ezra obeyed instantly, body moving before his brain could catch up. His thighs ached. His skin burned. But he knelt, trembling, head bowed.

Mac stood over him, silent, just watching. The others gathered like shadows around the edge of the room—bare-chested, satisfied, silent now. Because this wasn’t just the fifth round.

It was the final one. The claiming. Mac stepped forward and tilted Ezra’s chin up with two fingers, meeting his eyes.

“Say it.” he murmured.

Ezra’s throat was dry. “Say what?”

Mac crouched down in front of him, their faces nearly level. “Say who you belong to.”

Ezra blinked back tears. “All of you.”

Mac’s eyes didn’t flicker. “No. Not enough.”

Ezra’s lips parted, breath catching. “I belong to us.”

Still not enough. Mac leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You belong to me. Every inch that’s been touched tonight—every sound that left your mouth—it’s mine now. And I’m going to take it. Slowly.”

Ezra’s whole body shuddered. “Yes, Daddy.”

That made Mac smile. He stood again, then stripped—deliberate, unhurried, folding his shirt neatly and placing it aside. He approached Ezra not like a man who needed to fuck—but like a man delivering a sentence.

His hands gripped Ezra’s hips, guiding him up and over onto all fours. Ezra was beyond thought. Beyond fear. Beyond shame.

He was ready. Mac’s first thrust was slow and deep—not rushed, not angry. But firm. Like he was sliding into place. Like he’d always belonged there.

Ezra cried out, head dropping, arms shaking under the weight of it. Mac growled, wrapping an arm around Ezra’s chest to pull him up, body flush against his back.

“You’re not going to ride this one out like a good boy,” he whispered. “You’re going to feel me.”

Ezra moaned, completely gone. Mac didn’t thrust fast. He didn’t have to. He fucked like a king—controlled, claiming, ruthless. Every roll of his hips shoved Ezra forward, then dragged him back. Over and over. Deep. Cruel. Absolute.

“You’re not just mine tonight,” Mac said, voice rough in his ear. “You’re mine forever. You’ll sleep in our bed. Crawl to our boots. Beg to be used. And every time you’re touched, you’ll remember who took you last.”

Ezra sobbed, body trembling.

“You think they softened you up for their pleasure?” Mac growled. “No, boy. They were preparing you. Because only I get to finish what they start.”

Mac’s thrusts grew harsher, heavier. Ezra could barely hold himself up. Every movement wrecked him deeper. Every thrust made him cry out.

“You’re going to carry this inside you,” Mac whispered. “For days. Weeks. You’re going to leak ownership when you walk.”

Ezra was beyond words—only tears and moans and desperate, clinging hands. His body gave in. His mind followed. And Mac was relentless.

When he finally came, it was with a roar—his hips grinding deep, his body shaking against Ezra’s, and his hand gripping Ezra’s throat just hard enough to hold him there. When it was over, Ezra collapsed face-down into the furs, his body still twitching, his mind blank.

Mac didn’t leave him. He pulled Ezra into his lap, still inside him, cradling him like something precious. Ezra clung to him, breath shallow, tears running silently down his cheeks.

“You’re ours now,” Mac whispered against his temple.

“You’ve been broken in. Now we build you back up.”

Ezra only nodded. Because he knew—there was nothing left to give. And everything left to become.

Ezra wasn’t supposed to still be conscious. He was trembling in Mac’s lap, wrecked and ruined, body limp and marked in every shade of ownership.

Every breath he drew was shallow. Every inch of him burned. He couldn’t remember the last time he spoke a full sentence.

Which is why no one expected him to whimper and whisper: “Don’t stop.”

Silence. Mac stilled behind him. The other four—Rhys, Fraser, Tomas, Gregor—turned toward the bed, all breath and stillness and need.

“Please,” Ezra choked, voice raw. “I—I can take more. I want to feel you all again. I want it to hurt.”

It was Tomas who growled first.

“You don’t ask for the final round, pretty boy,” he said darkly, stepping forward. “You beg.”

Ezra looked up, eyes bloodshot but burning. “Please… hurt me. Ruin me. Fuck me so hard I forget who I was before tonight.”

That was all they needed. The room moved fast—like wolves drawn to a kill. Mac didn’t stop them.

He offered Ezra. Gregor grabbed his arms. Rhys took his throat in a steady, firm hold to keep his head tilted back. Tomas straddled his thighs, pinning him flat. Fraser leaned in from behind, one hand tangled in his hair, the other already trailing down his spine.

And when they took him again—together—it was with violence made holy. No rhythm. No teasing. Just brutality.

They used him like a body, a thing. Each man harder than the last. Thrusts rough enough to shake the bed. Hands gripping. Teeth biting. Voices low and brutal in his ears.

“Don’t run,” Fraser snarled. “You asked for this.”

“You begged,” Gregor muttered, slapping his thigh. “Now take it.”

Tomas bit down on his shoulder. “You’re nothing but a fucktoy now.”

Rhys kissed his cheek and growled, “And still ours.”

Ezra sobbed through it all—shaking, screaming, begging more, more, more—until his voice cracked and his body stopped fighting and he surrendered. Entirely.

By the time Mac stepped in, he didn’t even need to say a word. He flipped Ezra onto his back, climbed on top of him, and took him one last time—mercilessly, fully, with every ounce of strength he had left.

No praise. No care. Just the final, deep, devastating stretch that made Ezra scream like he was being split in half. And he was. He was being split—into what he had been, and what he now belonged to.

When Mac came, he didn’t groan or curse. He whispered: “That’s it. There’s nothing left of you now, is there?”. Ezra didn’t speak. He couldn’t. But he nodded. And they all knew he meant it.

Ezra didn’t remember the moment they stopped. Only that he wasn’t alone when the stillness came. There was no fanfare. No final word.

Just a quiet settling—like the house itself had exhaled. The room no longer pulsed with heat and hunger, but with something heavier. Something sacred.

Ezra lay across Mac’s chest, limp and quiet. He wasn’t asleep. He was somewhere beneath it—deep in the soft, shivering silence of subspace, where nothing hurt and everything echoed. His skin burned.

His body twitched when anyone touched him. But he didn’t flinch. Because every hand that touched him now was gentle. They moved around him with care.

Fraser gathered a towel. Rhys stoked the fire. Gregor swept the sweat-soaked sheets from the bed and laid out clean furs. Tomas knelt beside him, a damp cloth in one hand, eyes unreadable. And Mac?

Mac never moved. He held Ezra like he was cradling something holy. When Ezra whimpered, Mac pressed his lips to the boy’s temple. “You’re here,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

No one else spoke. Not because they had nothing to say—but because the moment didn’t need words.

Tomas wiped the sweat from Ezra’s neck, careful not to press too hard. “You did well,” he said quietly. “Better than any boy we’ve ever had.”

Gregor poured warm water into a basin near the hearth. “He didn’t fight once.”

“He didn’t need to,” Rhys said. “He wanted it.”

Mac kissed Ezra’s forehead. “He wanted us.”

Ezra didn’t reply. His lips parted, but only a soft breath came out. He was gone—but not in the bad way. He was far, far under. Floating.

Fraser scooped him up gently, towel in hand, carrying him toward the bath like something precious. Ezra curled into his chest instinctively, his head resting against Fraser’s collarbone.

They washed him in silence. Warm water. Strong hands. No teasing. No touching below the waist. Just steady care—palms sliding over his arms, his back, his thighs. Gentle fingers through his hair. Murmured praise. You were perfect. You did so good. You’re ours now.

Ezra wept softly—but not from pain. It was the kind of crying that happened when someone let go of something they’d been carrying too long.

When they laid him in the clean bed, five hands were on him. Stroking. Holding. Settling. Fraser curled around his back. Gregor pressed close at his chest. Tomas spooned behind Fraser. Rhys’s arms went over all of them. And Mac—he rested a hand on Ezra’s chest, thumb stroking a slow rhythm over his heart.

“Sleep now, boy,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be anything but ours anymore.”

Ezra blinked once. And then he slept—deep, silent, safe.

Ezra woke slowly. Not from sleep exactly, but from whatever place he’d drifted to inside himself. The fire had burned low. The air was cool against his skin.

The bed was soft. But it wasn’t any of those things that made him open his eyes. It was a voice. Low. Rough. Quiet. Mac’s: “You’re safe.”

Ezra blinked. His head rested on someone’s chest—Rhys, by the sound of the heartbeat. He felt Fraser curled behind him, one strong arm around his waist. Tomas’s leg draped lazily over his thighs. Gregor’s hand still rested at the small of his back, heavy and grounding.

And Mac sat at the edge of the bed, looking at him. Like he hadn’t taken his eyes off him all night. Ezra opened his mouth to speak, but the words cracked. His throat ached. His eyes burned.

Mac reached forward, thumb brushing gently over his cheek. “You don’t need to talk. Just listen.”

Ezra nodded.

“You took all of us,” Mac said. “Every round. Every man. You let us into your body. You let us see you fall apart. And you never ran.”

Ezra’s lips quivered. His voice came out, cracked but real. “I didn’t want to.”

“We know.” Mac’s voice softened. “That’s what made it holy.”

Ezra looked down, unable to hold the weight of those words. “I’m... scared,” he admitted. “I didn’t know I needed this. I didn’t know it would feel so… big. Like I don’t exist anymore unless I’m with you.”

Fraser nuzzled into the back of his neck. “That’s not fear, baby. That’s surrender.”

“And it’s beautiful,” Rhys murmured, arms tightening around his ribs.

Gregor’s hand slid up his spine, warm and firm. “Let it happen.”

Tomas leaned over, brushing his fingers through Ezra’s hair. “You don’t need to be strong when you’re with us. That was never the point.”

Ezra’s tears started silently. No sobs. Just soft shaking and quiet wetness that trailed down his cheeks. He didn’t speak for a long time. Just let them hold him.

Then—he whispered: “I always thought I was too much... too needy. Too soft. Too loud in my head. Every time I wanted to give in, I’d tell myself I was pathetic. That no one would want to keep someone like me.”

Mac leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “You’re not too much.”

“You’re exactly enough.” Tomas added.

Rhys grunted. “You were made for this.”

“You belong.” Gregor said simply.

Fraser kissed the back of his neck and murmured, “Ours.”

Ezra sobbed. And this time, he didn’t try to stop it. Five sets of arms held him through it. And when he finally came down, breath soft, body warm, tears drying against Rhys’s chest—Ezra looked at them all and whispered: “I don’t want to leave.”

Mac smiled: “You don’t have to.”

Ezra woke to the smell of coffee. Not the kind you bought in shops—this was something darker, earthier. Ground by hand, brewed low and slow, filling the air like incense. He stirred beneath warm furs, his body sore and soft, every muscle humming like it remembered everything.

He was in the bed still. Alone, but not abandoned. The linens smelled like firewood and sweat and men who had taken him apart and put him back together again.

His fingers curled into the fabric, and he let out a soft sigh. Then the door creaked open.... Tomas, shirtless, barefoot, his hair a sleepy mess, a mug in each hand. His grin was lazy, like he'd never slept a full night in his life but didn’t care. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with warmth. “Thought you might be ready for something warm that doesn’t involve getting split open.”

Ezra blinked. “...You make it sound like a threat.”

Tomas chuckled, set one mug beside the bed, and handed him the other. “Baby, if I was threatening you, you wouldn’t be able to speak yet.”

Ezra smiled softly, the mug shaking just a little in his hands. His arms felt weak. His thighs ached. His chest was tight with something he hadn’t named yet—but it wasn’t fear.

“Where are the others?”

Tomas sat beside him, sipping from his own mug. “Mac’s downstairs. Rhys and Gregor are splitting firewood. Fraser’s in the shower.”

“And me?” Ezra whispered.

Tomas tilted his head, watching him. “You’re in bed where you belong. Cared for. Claimed. Wrecked six ways from Sunday, but still ours.”

Ezra’s eyes shimmered.

Tomas leaned in, kissed his temple. “You don’t have to earn it. You already are it.”

Moments later, Fraser wandered in, hair wet, towel slung low on his hips. He leaned against the doorway and grinned. “He’s awake?”

Ezra nodded.

Fraser’s eyes softened. “Good. Was starting to miss your noises already.”

“You’re awful,” Ezra muttered, blushing into his mug.

Fraser crossed the room, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “And you’re beautiful.”

Then Rhys appeared, shirtless, chest slick with sweat and morning air, carrying a folded bundle of soft gray cotton. “Clothes,” he rumbled. “If you want them. But no one’s asking you to put them on.”

Gregor was behind him. He didn’t say anything—just walked over to Ezra’s side of the bed and rested a heavy, warm hand on his head. A quiet gesture. A silent vow.

And then Mac entered. Fully dressed. Hair combed. Calm as always. He looked at Ezra like he was looking at the dawn. “Good morning, boy.”

Ezra’s throat caught. “Morning, Sir.”

Mac walked over, sat beside him, and cupped the side of his face.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You don’t go back to the life you had. Not unless you want to.”

Ezra blinked. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you stay.” Mac leaned in. “We build something here. Not just sex. Not just power. Something sacred. You give us your trust. We give you everything.”

Ezra’s voice cracked. “I want that.”

They all whispered to him in unison: “You have it.”

The others didn’t speak. But their silence was full. Of love. Of ownership. Of home. Ezra looked around at them all—five men, rough and real and devastatingly gentle in ways he never expected—and whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”

Mac kissed his lips, slow and firm.

“You do,” he said. “And we’ll remind you every day until you believe it.”

Mac leaned in once more, voice barely above a whisper as his thumb traced along Ezra’s jaw, and said,

“You’re not just ours tonight, sweetheart—you’re ours every sunrise, every breath, every time your heart beats like it was made to belong.”

He kissed him then—slow and deep, not to take, but to remind—and when he pulled back, the warmth in his eyes said what words couldn’t:

“You don’t have to earn love here. You just have to let us keep you.”

[daddymehardplease]

Beautiful. I want to be Ezra.

[quinloki]

It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.

Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.

Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.

The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.

The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.

She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.

She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."

She was booked into the county jail. The headlines wrote themselves. A grandmother running a pot bakery. It seemed like a joke to the legal system, a quirky local news story about an older woman behaving badly.

But Mary wasn't baking for fun. And she certainly wasn't baking for profit.

To understand why Mary risked her freedom, you have to understand the silence of the early 1980s.

San Francisco was gripping the edge of a cliff. A mysterious illness was sweeping through the city, specifically targeting young men. Later, the world would know it as AIDS. But in those early days, it was just a death sentence that no one wanted to talk about.

Families were disowning their sons. Landlords were evicting tenants. Even doctors and nurses, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, would sometimes leave food trays outside hospital doors, afraid to breathe the same air as their patients.

Men in their twenties were wasting away in sterile rooms, dying alone.

Mary knew what it felt like to lose a child.

Years earlier, in 1974, her daughter Peggy had been killed in a car accident. Peggy was only 22. The loss had hollowed Mary out, leaving a space in her heart that nothing seemed to fill.

When the judge sentenced Mary for that first arrest, he ordered her to perform 500 hours of community service. He likely thought the manual labor would teach her a lesson.

He sent her to the Shanti Project and San Francisco General Hospital.

It was a mistake that would change American history.

Mary walked into the AIDS wards when others were walking out. She didn't wear a hazmat suit. She didn't hold her breath. She saw rows of young men who looked like ghosts—skeletal, in pain, and terrified.

She saw "her kids."

She began mopping floors and changing sheets. But soon, she noticed something the doctors were missing. The harsh medications the men were taking caused violent nausea. They couldn't eat. They were starving to death as much as they were dying of the virus.

Mary knew a secret about the brownies she had been arrested for.

She knew they settled the stomach. She knew they brought back the appetite. She knew they could help a dying man sleep for a few hours without pain.

So, she made a choice.

She went back to her kitchen. She fired up the oven. She started mixing batter, not to sell, but to save.

Every morning, Mary would bake. She lived on a fixed income, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered her rent. Yet, she spent nearly every dime on flour, sugar, and butter.

The most expensive ingredient—the cannabis—was donated. Local growers heard what she was doing. They began dropping off pounds of product at her door, free of charge.

She packed the brownies into a basket and took the bus to the hospital.

She walked room to room. She sat by the bedsides of men who hadn't seen their own mothers in years. She held their hands. She told them jokes. And she gave them brownies.

"Here, baby," she would say. "Eat this. It'll help."

And it did.

Nurses watched in amazement as patients who hadn't eaten in days began to ask for food. The constant retching stopped. The mood on the ward shifted from despair to a quiet sort of comfort.

Mary Jane Rathbun became "Brownie Mary."

For over a decade, this was her life. She baked roughly 600 brownies a day. She went through 50 pounds of flour a week. She became the mother to a generation of lost boys.

She washed their pajamas. She attended their funerals. She held them while they took their last breaths.

She did this while the government declared a "War on Drugs."

By the early 1990s, the political climate was hostile. Politicians were competing to see who could be "tougher" on crime. Mandatory minimum sentences were locking people away for decades.

In 1992, at the age of 70, Mary was arrested again.

This time, the stakes were lethal. She was charged with felonies. The district attorney looked at her rap sheet and saw a repeat offender. He threatened to send her to prison.

One prosecutor famously whispered to a colleague that he was going to "kick this old lady's ass."

They underestimated who they were dealing with.

They thought they were prosecuting a drug dealer. In reality, they were attacking the most beloved woman in San Francisco.

When the news broke that Brownie Mary was facing prison, the city erupted.

It wasn't just the activists who were angry. It was the doctors. It was the nurses. It was the parents who had watched Mary care for their dying sons when the government did nothing.

Mary turned her trial into a pulpit.

She arrived at court not as a defendant, but as a grandmother standing her ground. The media swarmed her. Reporters asked if she was afraid of prison. They asked if she would stop baking if they let her go.

Mary looked into the cameras, her voice gravelly and firm.

"If the narcs think I'm gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS," she said, "they can go fuck themselves in Macy's window."

The quote ran in newspapers across the country.

The court didn't stand a chance.

Testimony poured in. Doctors from San Francisco General Hospital wrote letters explaining that Mary’s brownies were medically necessary. Patients testified that she was an angel of mercy.

The charges were dropped.

Mary walked out of the courthouse a free woman. But she didn't go home to rest. She realized that her personal victory wasn't enough. As long as the law was broken, her "kids" were still in danger.

She needed to change the law.

August 25 was declared "Brownie Mary Day" by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It was a nice gesture, but Mary wanted policy, not plaques.

She teamed up with fellow activist Dennis Peron. Together, they opened the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Club—the first public dispensary in the United States. It was a safe haven where patients could get their medicine without fear of arrest.

But Mary wanted more. She wanted the state of California to acknowledge the truth.

She campaigned for Proposition 215. She traveled the state, despite her failing health. She spoke in her simple, direct way. She didn't talk about liberties or economics. She talked about compassion. She talked about pain.

She forced voters to look at the issue through the eyes of a grandmother.

In 1996, Proposition 215 passed. California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana.

It was a domino effect. Because one woman refused to let her "kids" suffer, the public perception of cannabis shifted. The Economist later noted that Mary was single-handedly responsible for changing the national conversation.

She never got rich.

She had always joked that if legalization ever happened, she would sell her recipe to Betty Crocker and buy a Victorian house for her patients to live in.

She never sold the recipe. She never bought the house.

Mary Jane Rathbun died in 1999, at the age of 77. She passed away in a nursing home, poor in money but rich in legacy.

Today, over 30 states have legalized medical marijuana. Millions of people use it to manage pain, seizures, and nausea.

Most of them have never heard of Mary.

They don't know that their legal prescription exists because a waitress in San Francisco decided that the law was wrong and her heart was right.

They don't know about the 600 brownies a day.

They don't know about the thousands of hospital visits.

Mary didn't set out to be a hero. She told the Chicago Tribune years before she died, "I didn't go into this thinking I would be a hero."

She was just a mother who had lost her daughter, trying to help boys who had lost their way.

She proved that authority doesn't always equal morality.

She proved that sometimes, the most patriotic thing a citizen can do is break a bad law.

Every August, a few people in San Francisco still celebrate Brownie Mary Day. But her true memorial isn't a date on a calendar.

It is found in every oncology ward where a patient finds relief. It is found in every dispensary door that opens without fear.

It is found in the simple, quiet courage of anyone who sees suffering and refuses to look away.

Mary taught us that you don't need a law degree to change the world. You don't need millions of dollars. You don't need political office.

Sometimes, all you need is a mixing bowl, an oven, and enough love to tell the world to get out of your way.

Sources: New York Times Obituary (1999), "Brownie Mary" Rathbun. San Francisco Chronicle Archives (1992, 1996). History.com, "The History of Medical Marijuana." Weird Everything, FB december 12, 2025

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Tags quoted from Previous:

#i didnt reblog the first time #because i wanted to verify this #and now that i have? hell yeah brownie grandma

Can you please share how you verified, and give alternate sources, so we can maybe quiet the accusations of "A.I. slop" in the comments?

[redsixwing]

I'd be only too happy to do that. I was suspicious to start, too. It seemed a bit on the nose to have the weed brownie grandma named "Mary Jane," but also, that's a very common combination in a certain place and time, so I thought it was worth the extra effort.

What I did was find sources that made the claim (in this case, that a woman named Mary Jane was a medicinal marijuana activist in California, USA in the 1980s and 90s.) I checked the dates to get some certainty those sources aren't AI slop, then checked that the sources are generally reliable.

Then I followed useful details about the place and time, and other people involved, to explore it more fully.

The first thing I did was search for "Brownie Mary" and see if that turned anything up at all. It turned up a LOT of results. Predictably, some of them were recipes, but not all of them.

Next up, I checked sources and dates. Wikipedia can be dodgy for academic use, but their policy on LLM-generated input is very clear: they don't want slop. I started by reading that page and then went on to read others.

The Atlas Obscura article is from 2018. I found another one from SFWeekly from 2017.

Both of those are decent sources - Atlas Obscura gets a High factual reporting rate from MediaBiasFactCheck, and while MBFC doesn't have a rating for SFWeekly, the verbiage in that article is very close to what GastroObscura has. (Also to what the post itself has, right down to the choice of pull quote.)

Now, we can stop there and feel pretty confident that articles published before the wide availability of LLMs are not, in fact, LLM generated.

...or we can go deeper, and run this all the way back to source.

I spotted references to a Chicago Tribune imterview of Mary Jane Rathbun, published in 1993.

My search string of "Chicago Tribune 1993 Mary Jane Rathbun" hit it in the top 3 results. That article includes some fun new details: she wore a cannabis leaf shaped pendant to her trial!

She also objected to being portrayed as a cuddly grandma up against The Man, so I must retract my flippant tags, above.

The evidence now strongly points to Brownie Mary being a real woman who really went to court for giving AIDS patients weed brownies. But can we get closer? I've now seen several mentions of a 1980 attempt at convicting her too.

The articles have mentioned Sonoma County and a nonprofit called the Shanti Project, so let's hook onto that and see what we get.

Searching for "Mary Jane Rathbun Sonoma County 1980" gets me an article from a law firm; that mentions the prosecuting attorney by name, and points to a book: Lust for Justice: The Radical Life & Law of J. Tony Serra, by Paulette Frankl. It even has an excerpt!

We can run the book down too, just for fun (now we have a primary source.) My favorite used book site has a copy for $1. Amazon gives a view of the back cover, too:

...wow. I should see if my library has that!

The excerpt on the site has a mention of a candelight vigil held for her death in 1999. It took some hunting past things I'd already read and a bunch of shops giving written tributes, but I found a news report about that, too.

There's a lot of information out there, and it's worth digging into. Otherwise it's altogether too easy to think something real and worth knowing is just another bit of slop.

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Thank you.

Signal boosting for the Truth.

As I said in the tags previous to this, A.I. is damaging to our culture not only for producing slop, but also for spreading mistrust of the truth.

[nonbinarythorin]

[chubbychemist9-deactivated20250]

Grommr saw it first ;)

[bigbff]

woah! you got huge!

[domdaddysubboi]

Anyone know his current grommr? Plz

[arabicsultan]

Training a pussyboy:

1. Discourage use of his cock. Every time he uses his cock he is experiencing pleasure as a Top, is neglecting his pussy and learning to get off with his cock instead of his hole. If you aren’t into the whole BDSM and chastity scene, encourage him to hold back from masturbating with his dick, and encourage him to finger himself instead. If you are in bed together and he is trying to wank, push his hands away from his cock so he gets used to sexual pleasure without associating it with cock pleasure. When you fuck him make sure he is focused on the sensations his pussy is giving him by not allowing him to wank during sex - fuck him in a position that is difficult for him to do so such as face down on the bed.  Buy him jocks so that his cock is hidden away and minimised but his pussy and ass is on display and have sex while he wears these so he learns that his cock is not necessary for good sex. Very controversially, and only if this fits with the type of relationship you have, encourage the boy to feel naughty if he touches his dick, but reward him for playing with his pussy. If he has a small dick, or if it is smaller than yours, remind him how small it is compared to your cock, and encourage him to think that his cock is small because it is only meant to pee and not to fuck. Fucking is reserved for Men/Daddies/Tops with Real Cocks, not for a boy and his little nubbin. If he is caught touching his dick, act disappointed, so he feels shame when he touches himself there. Of course if you are in a BDSM relationship then there are many options available to you to reinforce this notion that boy touching his nubbin is bad - whether through chastity or punishment. The idea is to encourage negative feelings towards his cock and achieving orgasm in a conventionally ‘male’ way.

2. Make him feel good about his pussy. All boys are naturally self conscious and worried about what their Daddy/Top thinks about them. By telling him how beautiful and delicious his pussy is, and letting him know how much you love it as often as you can, he will gain confidence in his pussy and be much more comfortable in showing it off and using it. Reinforce behaviour which glorifies his pussy and puts it at the forefront of his sexual pleasure and identity. Much like you are trying to promote a feeling of the forbidden and negative towards his cock in tip 1, here you are trying to promote feelings of desirability and positivity surrounding his pussy and being a pussyboy.

3. Give him pleasure through his pussy. If you want him to be a true bottom and love it, you need to make sure he is feeling satisfied enough anally to forget about his dick. Casually grab his ass cheeks, rub his hole when kissing, play with it during foreplay and ignore his cock completely. As covered in previous posts, REAL MEN EAT PUSSY. If you truly love boy pussy then you will lick, suck and eat it out and make him moan like a bitch on heat and beg for your cock. Rub it. Play with it. Give him pleasure through it, and when you do come round to fucking it, make sure you drive him wild through the fuck and aim to give him an anal orgasm if possible. When he does have an anal orgasm, kiss him, congratulate him, make him feel proud for being a good bottom. Remember that especially for a young boy to ignore his cock and try to experience pleasure through his pussy alone is a VERY difficult task. That means that as a Top you need to be up to the task of giving him the satisfaction necessary for him to feel that it is worth all the trouble and denial he is going through.

4. Combat his shame. A lot of pussyboys may feel shame for many reasons. They may feel shame for being gay, or that they are not very masculine compared to other boys/Men. They may worry about what people think about them. Even if they come to terms with being gay and being less masculine, they may still feel bad about being exclusively passive pussyboys because let’s face it, Tops get a lot more respect than bottoms both from gays and straights. In order for your boy to truly feel comfortable in his own skin and identity as a fully 100% passive pussyboy and completely give himself to you, and by extension accept you as his 100% active long-term partner, you need to not only encourage that behaviour, but let him know that being a pussyboy is OK and anyone who disagrees can go fuck themselves. An important way to do this is to reinforce the message that you are his Man/Daddy and you will keep him safe and protect him from what any haters may say or think. Show him your love and affection as well as your dominance.

If you follow the above with a boy who is willing and wants to be trained then you may well end up in the Yin and Yang type relationship so many people idolise. Man and pussyboy the same as Man and wife. Opposites which fit together perfectly to make a whole

[fagwishes-deactivated20171008]

😍

[nohomodotcom]

Timothy Champagne & Jake Preston & Clark Reid

[brosinthecloset]

CW: Incest, mpreg

Alpha brothers always treat their little omega brothers like the flawless princes they are. Dad's orders. He won't tolerate anyone harming a hair on his little baby's head. But it's also innate. The big brothers have an intense need to protect and please omegas. They recognise that he is going to be a future boymother to more sons, hopefully alphas, and that is a sacred, precious thing.

Speaking of dad - he's there, watching. Making sure that this intimate bonding session doesn't transgress into fucking. He knows his sons are desperate to breed - like all alphas. But he won't have them breeding his omega sons.

That's for daddy to do.

[whatshewontdo]

“I couldn’t tell you how long it’ll be. He just said he’d be back later.” Mr. Wilson said. He was a walking wet dream. Tall, hairy, with a working man’s body. Everything in the basement smelled like man. I was sitting across the room trying not to inhale his musky scent too deep. I couldn’t even look at him too long. I knew I’d get hard. “Is it ok if I wait here? We were supposed to hang out today he’s not answering any calls or texts.” I said. “Yeah that’s probably my fault Little shit…can you believe he left me alone on Father’s Day?” he asked. “Oh shit! That’s right…Happy Father’s Day Mr. Wilson. I never think of it I don’t actually have a dad,” I giggled. “Thanks baby. I’ll be your Dad today because I obviously don’t have a son!” He replied. Baby. He called me baby. He said he’d be my Daddy. I started to chub up and I really had to focus on not getting all the way hard. “All this cause I got a lil too rough last night when we fucked.” He said. I choked, I was coughing and sputtering. “Yeah yeah believe it… I got a lil enthusiastic and maybe I slapped him a little too hard or was ramming too deep. Woke up and he was gone. He does this everytime I’m too rough. Tries too teach me a lesson…if you think about it, for as long as I’ve been gutting that boy he should be able to handle anything I dole out.” He rambled. “I don’t— Uhm maybe— I couldn’t say… he text me last night. Told me to come through.” My head was racing trying to process what I heard, my dick understood because it was rock hard. I covered it with a sofa cushion. “What time last night?” He asked. “Around 11:30” I answered. “I had already cored him out.” He said. “I see, I guess you’re kinda rough huh?” I asked with a nervous giggle. “I’m a man. I’m dominant. Boys are animals and you gotta break an animal to train it.” He said flatly. “I see” I said blowing out my cheeks as I exhaled. “Move that pillow of your lap.” He ordered. I filled with dread but I moved it. I was at full mast. “I think I’m understanding what he did now. See on Father’s Day he knows he has to do everything I want. I really put him through it last year. He disappears and here you are. A beautiful boy with no Daddy. He’s trying to buy his freedom. He might have done it…Do you like rough sex? Would you enjoy serving me? Being my good baby boy?” He asked. His voice was commanding but so seductive. “I do, and I would Mr. Wilson.” I whispered. “Aht aht, none of that Mr. Wilson nonsense. My son has to call me what I am baby,” he said. “Sorry Daddy.” I replied. “Mmm much better” he answered. He started slowly lifting his leg over the arm of the chair. He feet were huge, His muscles were bulging, his crotch, I couldn’t pick here to look first. “Look at you seeing your Dad for the first time, such a precious boy. This is gonna be a happy day after all.” He said. “I think I’m dreaming Daddy.” I whispered. “This is happening trust me…now remember when I told you that boys were animals? That’s exactly what you are. So Daddy wants to see his baby crawl on all fours. You’re gonna crawl to me. When you get here you will kiss Daddy’s foot to show you understand your place ok? Then you’re going to push that beautiful face in my sweaty crotch. I need you to understand where you came from honey. Now don’t make mistakes and Daddy won’t have to correct you. Corrections hurt. I don’t wanna have to hurt you so soon. So just do as your told. Kiss my foot, face in crotch, those are your first instructions. Start crawling.” He said. I was on the floor and moving so fast that he laughed. “I think I love you Daddy.” I said. “I know I love you baby.” He said. My first Father’s Day was already the best day of my life.

[justacupcakewithsprinkles]

people on this site won't understand how much I need him for myself

[shakeandbakey-deactivated202305]

Post chest day

[domdaddysubboi]

My Ideal Man

[austinspankingdad]

The brats were all locked in their cages with care

And their dom had just shaved off all of their hair.

Their cocks would be full soon and straining with glee,

With hopes to earn freedom before Christmas Eve.

… Not a chance.

[butt-only-from-behindz]

[allbecauseoftheboys]

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Freddy says against Dante’s neck. Dante embraces his boy and gives him a squeeze of reassurance around the waist. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Freddy. It’ll take time.” “I don’t even feel sick anymore. Why am I still so exhausted?” “Because you still feel sick. Your body fought that virus hard, it’s tired. It needs to regain it’s strength. Don’t push yourself, the house work and cooking can wait.” “But I want to cook. The meat’s going to go back in the freezer.” “I can make meatloaf, don’t worry, I’m not helpless without you boy.” “Why not?” Freddy pouts. Dante chuckles. “You are so pitiful.” “I’m tired,” he whines. “I think I’m going to tuck you into a blanket on the couch and put on a movie for you while I make dinner.” “But that means I have to get up. I like the way you’re massaging my butt. And you’re so warm. ”We can cuddle after dinner.” Freddy sighs in resignation but didn’t move. “Thanks for keeping me locked during this time.” “Of course, but where did that come from?” “Cause I hate it when something ruins the build up and I just get milked in the most boring frustrating way, and we have to start over. I was worried you’d do that cause I’m sick. I’m so exhausted, there’s no way I’d make it through a session right now, but I think I’m going to feel better right as that time comes around…looking forward to it.” “Me too. Don’t forget that keeping you locked is long term, boy. Rain or shine. Your needs are mine to look after as long as you’re with me.” Freddy nuzzles Dante and leans against him more. “Are you sure we can’t cuddle on the couch? I want to play with your cock.” “I suppose dinner can be a little late tonight. Cuddling sounds nice. I missed having you in my bed when you were sick. I hated hearing you cough in the guest room, all alone.” “Aww really?” “Yeah I felt really helpless, in my room all alone, powerless to make you feel better. I didn’t realize what a big part of my life you’ve become. God dammit, how do you suddenly make me all sentimental?” Freddy giggles. “My bottom powers are returning.” Dante pats his butt. “Your powers are returning. Come on, let’s go cuddle on the couch. You can play with my cock all you want.” “Yiiiiiss. Can I play with your balls too please?” “You can play with my balls too.” “Yyyyyiiiiiiisss.”

________________ Captions are fictional.

[fulgenzi-fantasy]

Trying to get fat

[feelfine543]

So many “thirst traps” in this Vid or should I say “Hunger Traps”🤤👅🔥🐖…the tent in the tight shorts, the growing soft plump Belly on this Yummy Piglet, the meaty ass….mmmmm😈

[ruelpsen]

Visit Original Link

I got a request earlier this month for an audio where I play up the moans, sighs, and whimpers when I belch. Turns out stuffing my face with an entire pizza was a really easy way of making that happen! I didn't have to try very hard to get all those extra noises coming, and when they started, they simply couldn't stop. Listen to me belch, pant, and moan my way through enough food for at least two people, with some belly slaps in there for good measure!

Please consider leaving a tip if you enjoy!

[jack-jones]

[pnw-sir]

Be ready to present whenever he needs