bull breeding (m/m cockvore, str8)
Gabriel hated bullfights. He hated the way the crowd roared when the matador's sword finally plunged deep, hated the metallic stink of blood on hot sand, hated the way the dying animal's legs would buckle slow and confused before it collapsed. But Annah had begged—pleaded—with those big dark eyes of hers, clutching his arm in the café as she scrolled through her phone. "It's art," she'd insisted, tracing a fingertip over a photo of Emiliano Vega mid-pass, his sequined jacket catching the light like shattered glass. "Look at his form. It's like dance."
Now, sweat pooled at the small of Gabriel's back as they squeezed into their seats under the punishing Seville sun. The stadium smelled like fried dough and spilled beer. Annah bounced beside him, her knee jostling his, already half-drunk on sangria. "There he is!" she gasped, gripping Gabriel's thigh hard enough to bruise as the matadors paraded into the ring.
Emiliano moved like he owned the ground beneath him. The crowd erupted—women whistled, men bellowed—as he tossed his hat into the stands with a flick of his wrist. Gabriel watched, grudgingly fascinated, as the man's hips rolled with each step, the fabric of his obscenely tight pants straining with every shift. Then Emiliano turned his head, slow, deliberate, and Gabriel followed his gaze—right to Annah, who was clapping like a starstruck child.
The bull came charging. Emiliano didn’t flinch. Gabriel did. His fingers dug into the wooden bench as the beast’s horns grazed the toreador’s jacket—so close the sequins trembled. Annah let out a breathy gasp, her nails now biting into Gabriel’s forearm. "Did you see that?" she breathed. He had. He’d also seen how Emiliano’s eyes flicked to her again mid-dodge, how his smirk curled just for her.
The bull's hooves kicked up dust as it wheeled around, but Gabriel barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the way Emiliano's crotch strained against the silk of his traje de luces—every vein, every contour pressed obscenely against fabric that looked painted on. The man wasn't just wearing the pants; he was testing their structural integrity. Gabriel swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of his own khaki shorts, his own… average proportions. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple—was the sun always this hot?
Their eyes met then. Emiliano's were black as the bull's hide, glinting with something that wasn't quite amusement. It was the look a panther gives a housecat. For three endless seconds, Gabriel forgot to breathe. The toreador's smirk widened—just a fraction—before he turned back to the bull with a flourish of his cape, leaving Gabriel gripping the edge of the bench like he might float away otherwise.
Annah's fingers dug into his arm again. "He's amazing," she breathed, her pupils blown wide. Gabriel watched her watch Emiliano, saw the flush creeping up her neck. He knew that look. It was the same one she'd given him that first night in Barcelona, when he'd stupidly tried to dance flamenco and ended up knocking over a pitcher of sangria. Except now, it was directed at a man who moved like sex and danger had a lovechild.
The crowd gasped as Emiliano executed a veronica so close the bull's horn tore a ribbon from his jacket. Gabriel's stomach clenched—not from fear, but from the sudden, humiliating realization that his palms were sweating for entirely the wrong reason. Every fluid twist of Emiliano's hips, every arrogant arch of his spine, felt like a personal indictment. This was what Annah deserved: someone who could command an arena, someone whose very posture screamed virility. Not some graphic designer from Milwaukee who thought "adventure" meant ordering the spicy paella.
The sword went in smooth—too smooth—like sliding a key into a well-oiled lock. One moment Emiliano was a statue draped in gold and white, the next his body arched backward as the bull's weight carried the blade deeper, the hilt pressing flush against matador ribs. The crowd's roar hit Gabriel like a physical wave, but what stuck with him was the sound: wet and thick, like a butcher separating tenderloin from bone.
Annah was on her feet before the bull's knees hit the sand, her hands pressed to her mouth. Gabriel watched her instead of the death throes—watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the way her fingers trembled against her lips. "They're giving him the ear," she whispered, as if sharing a secret. Gabriel didn't know what that meant, but Emiliano was kneeling now, accepting something dark and dripping from the judges' box while the band played.
A teenager in a stained apron materialized beside their seats, holding out a folded slip of paper.
Gabriel took it automatically. The paper smelled of citric perfume. Unfolding it revealed three words in looping cursive: La Puerta Roja. Below, a rough sketch of a bull's head crowned with roses.
Annah snatched it from his fingers before Gabriel could react. "La Puerta Roja," she read aloud, the syllables curling off her tongue like smoke. Her thumb traced the inked roses—crude but deliberate—and Gabriel saw the exact moment her brain connected the dots. Her breath hitched. "It's him."
Gabriel's stomach dropped. He wanted to say something—anything—but the teenager was already gone, vanished into the sea of sweaty spectators shoving toward the exits. The noise was unbearable now: drunk men bellowing, women laughing too high, vendors hawking bloody souvenirs. He caught a whiff of something rancid—bull’s blood drying on hot sand—and swallowed hard.
Annah wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on the arena floor, where Emiliano stood surrounded by admirers, his jacket unbuttoned to reveal a sweat-darkened shirt clinging to every ridge of his abdomen. Even from here, Gabriel could see the way his pants still hugged him obscenely, the fabric straining as he shifted his weight to accept another glass of sherry from a blushing older woman.
Gabriel woke to cold sheets and the muffled throb of a headache pressing against his temples. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 9:47 AM in garish red—far later than they ever slept in. He reached blindly for Annah’s warmth, fingers grasping only rumpled linen still damp with sweat from last night’s… whatever that had been. The hotel room smelled of stale sangria and the sharp citrus of her perfume.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Three missed calls from Annah—all within the last hour. The screen lit up with a notification from Find My Friends, her pulsing dot lodged in the heart of the Triana district, a good fifteen minutes away by taxi. Gabriel sat up too fast, the room tilting. He jabbed at the address with a thumb that felt too thick. Callejón de las Flores, 12. The map zoomed in on a honey-colored villa crouched behind a wrought-iron gate, its terraces choked with bougainvillea.
The taxi ride was a blur of narrow streets and the driver’s cigarette smoke coiling thick in Gabriel’s lungs. He tipped too much, stumbled out onto cobblestones still slick from morning dew. The gate was unlocked. He pushed through, heels clicking too loud on the tiled path. Somewhere, a fountain burbled.
A high, keening wail—unmistakably Annah’s—cut through the heavy air. It crested, broke into ragged gasps, then dissolved into a string of Spanish so filthy even Gabriel’s half-remembered college classes couldn’t translate it. His feet moved before his brain could protest, carrying him up the staircase to a half-open balcony door. The sheer curtains billowed inward, carrying the scent of jasmine and something muskier, saltier.
The sound hit Gabriel like a physical blow—Annah's voice, raw and unraveling, tangled with Emiliano's low, taunting Spanish. He stood frozen in the doorway, the tiles cold under his bare feet, the curtains brushing his calves like ghostly fingers. Through the gap, he caught flashes of movement: Annah's bare back arching off rumpled silk sheets, Emiliano's bronzed hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. The headboard slammed against the wall in a rhythm that made Gabriel's stomach clench. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact punctuated by Annah's gasping pleas.
Emiliano's laugh was dark, satisfied. "Tan pequeña para mí," he murmured, and Gabriel didn't need to understand the words to feel their meaning. The man's body blocked most of Annah from view, but Gabriel could see enough—the way Emiliano's shoulders flexed as he drove into her, the obscene slap of flesh meeting flesh, the way his low-hanging balls swung heavy with every thrust. The scent of sex and sweat thickened the air, cloying as honey.
Annah's fingers scrabbled at Emiliano's back, her nails leaving angry red trails. Her legs were hooked over his arms, spread obscenely wide, her heels digging into the dimples above his ass. Gabriel could see the exact moment Emiliano angled deeper—Annah's mouth fell open in a silent scream, her body bowing off the bed. Emiliano's smirk was all teeth as he watched her come apart, his hips never slowing. "Mira cómo lloras por mi polla," he purred, thumbing at her clit in rough circles. Annah sobbed, her thighs trembling.
Gabriel's knees threatened to buckle. He'd never heard her make sounds like that—guttural, needy, like an animal in heat. The wet squelch of Emiliano's cock plunging into her overstimulated cunt was louder than the fountain below. Saliva pooled under Gabriel's tongue; he couldn't swallow past the knot in his throat. Emiliano's strokes grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh grunts. One hand fisted in Annah's hair, yanking her head back to expose the bruise-dark love bites littering her throat. "Grita para mí," he ordered.
Annah's scream crested—raw, primal—as her body bowed off the sheets, her thighs clamping around Emiliano's hips like a vise. Gabriel watched, transfixed, as the toreador's smirk widened, his hands tightening on her waist before he pulled out with a wet pop that echoed obscenely in the tiled room. Emiliano's cock glistened in the morning light, thick and uncut, the veins standing proud like rope under sun-darkened skin. It twitched—pulsed—as he turned toward Gabriel, the tip already beading with fresh arousal.
"Tu puta tiene un coño delicioso," Emiliano murmured, stroking himself lazily as Annah whimpered behind him, her fingers still clutching at the rumpled silk. His balls hung heavy between his thighs, the sac drawn tight and flushed dark. "Tan fértil… no pude resistirme." The admission curled through the air like smoke, settling hot in Gabriel's lungs.
Gabriel's knees locked. He should run. Should scream. But his eyes were fixed on the way Emiliano's cock moved—not just hardening, but swelling, the flesh rippling unnaturally as it thickened beyond human proportion. The head ballooned grotesquely, the slit parting wetly as the shaft elongated, veined and throbbing like some monstrous breeding tool.
Emiliano sighed, rolling his shoulders as if stretching after a long match. "Gasté demasiada energía hoy," he mused, stepping closer. The floorboards groaned under his weight—or was it the weight of it, that obscene flesh now swaying at Gabriel's eye level? "Necesito llenar mis huevos para darle lo que merece a tu puta."
Gabriel stumbled back, his heel catching on the threshold. The curtains tangled around his ankles as Emiliano's cock twitched, the tip glistening with something thicker than precum. It lunged.
The impact knocked the breath from Gabriel's lungs. Heat—wet, suffocating heat—enveloped his face as the slit yawned wide, the inner flesh pulsing greedily around his skull. He thrashed, nails scraping at Emiliano's thighs, but the toreador merely chuckled, his hands settling on Gabriel's shoulders like a lover's. "Si…Más movimiento… joder…" he crooned, hips rolling lazily.
The swallow was inexorable. Each desperate twist of Gabriel's body only spurred the hungry undulations of Emiliano's flesh, the muscles milking him deeper with slick, rhythmic contractions. His shoulders disappeared into the weeping slit, the heat unbearable now, the air thick with the musk of cum.
Emiliano moaned, head tipping back as Gabriel's waist vanished inside him. "Sí… nutricioso…" His free hand drifted to Annah's thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the red marks he'd left earlier. "Haré mi leche más potente para ella… para todas mi putas."
Gabriel's ribs creaked under the pressure. His vision swam—black spots blooming at the edges—as Emiliano's cock swallowed him to the hips. The flesh around him rippled, squeezed, wringing a choked sob from his throat. The sound was muffled, drowned in slick meat.
The toreador sighed, satisfied, stroking the bulge in his shaft where Gabriel writhed. "Te haré mejor," he murmured, thumbing the tip where Gabriel's shape distorted the skin. "Parte de un hombre real." His other hand tangled in Annah's hair, dragging her close until her lips brushed the weeping slit. "Chúpalo," he ordered. "Ayúdalo a disolverse."
Annah obeyed without hesitation. Her tongue flicked out, lapping at the slickness beading around Gabriel's trapped form. Emiliano shuddered, his cock twitching around its meal, the walls convulsing tighter. Gabriel's movements grew sluggish—weaker—his body succumbing to the heat, to the enzymes seeping into his skin.
Emiliano groaned, tilting his hips to feed more. "Sí… así…" His voice was thick, drunk on the sensation of Gabriel's body breaking down inside him. Annah sucked greedily, her cheeks hollowing, her fingers kneading Emiliano's swollen balls as they churned with fresh seed.
Emiliano exhaled through his nose—a slow, satisfied sound like a bull settling after a kill. His hand drifted downward, fingers splaying over the taut swell of his gut where Gabriel's shape had long since dissolved into nothing but nutrients. The skin there was stretched glossy, veins mapping the surface like rivers of ink. His other hand cupped the obscene weight of his balls, now swollen to the size of cantaloupes, heavy with molten seed thickened by Gabriel's essence. He squeezed experimentally, and a thick pearl of cum welled at his tip, glistening in the morning light.
Annah watched, lips parted, as Emiliano's body changed. His shoulders broadened, muscle layering over muscle in visible undulations beneath his skin. The veins along his arms thickened, snaking up toward his collarbones like living things. When he flexed, the sound of sinew rearranging itself was audible—a wet, organic click that made Annah's thighs press together.
"Mira lo que me diste," Emiliano murmured, dragging a thumb through the spill on his stomach before pressing it between Annah's lips. She sucked greedily, her tongue lapping at the salt-bitter taste of Gabriel's dissolved proteins, now laced with Emiliano's musk. The flavor burst across her tongue—hot and metallic, like licking a fresh wound.
Emiliano's laugh was a low rumble as he palmed his cock, now thicker, darker, the veins standing proud like cables. "Tan hambrienta," he mused, watching her swallow. His hips rolled forward, the tip of his cock nudging her bottom lip. "Abre."
Annah obeyed without hesitation, her mouth stretching wide around the swollen head. Emiliano groaned as her tongue swirled along the slit, lapping at the pre-cum already beading there—thick as syrup, warm as blood. His fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her deeper, until her nose pressed into the wiry curls at his base. Her throat fluttered around him, the muscles working instinctively even as tears welled in her lashes.
"Buen chica," Emiliano praised, his free hand drifting to his balls—now heavy as ripe fruit, swinging with every shallow thrust into Annah's mouth. The sac was tight, hot to the touch, the skin stretched thin over the churning load inside. He squeezed experimentally, and Annah whimpered around his cock as a fresh pulse of pre-cum flooded her throat.
The nutrients from Gabriel's body had done their work. Emiliano could feel it in the way his muscles knit tighter, in the new ridges of sinew rising along his forearms like living armor. When he flexed, the veins along his biceps snaked outward, branching like dark rivers beneath his skin. He exhaled through his nose—slow, satisfied—as Annah's saliva dripped down his shaft, her efforts growing sloppier, more desperate.
"Ya basta," he decided suddenly, pulling free with a wet pop. Annah gasped, her lips slick and swollen, her chin glistening. Emiliano's smirk was all teeth as he hauled her up by the hair, her body arching against his. "Ahora," he purred, his palm pressing flat against her stomach, "quiero sentir cómo te lleno."
Annah's thighs trembled as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs hooking around his waist. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance, already slick with her arousal—and something else, something thicker, hotter, the promise of what churned inside his swollen balls. Emiliano exhaled sharply through his nose as he sheathed himself in one smooth thrust, the stretch drawing a ragged cry from Annah's throat.
"Dios—!" Her fingers scrabbled at his shoulders, nails biting into the new muscle there. Emiliano groaned, his hips snapping forward, driving her back into the mattress. The bedframe creaked under the force, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythm that matched the wet slap of flesh on flesh.
Like many of other girls Emiliano has claimed he would fill her womb with his thick cum, she would carry one of his baby boys like all the other whores he seduced after consuming their boyfriends and husbands. She is just one more on the list of lovely couple he ruined.
dededos
2087
annaxmalina
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn