Mr. Dillinger was ruthless, both in the bedroom and in the boardroom.

He was at his most ruthless when the boardroom became the bedroom, spreading secretaries and interns across the rich maple desk, enjoying both moments of shock and submission - the first at his advance, his hands fearless and firm, the clear command in his touch, and the second at his thick, monster cock.

The subtle but inevitable conflict in their wide mascara’d eyes made him so hard: they’d already gone too far to stop, but… this?

Things get very real very fast when you’re staring at the biggest fucking cock you’ve ever seen.

The parent peeking in is hilarious, but how great is this photo in general, with the tube socks, fresh sheets and authentic retro posters?

I have a feeling that this is a boy I would date, six years later when he’s a hot, grown-up illustration intern. He’d tell me about this moment while we lie in bed Saturday morning, his “most embarrassing sexual experience” story. I’d laugh; rub him hard; keep him on his back for another hour or so.

Or, he might be gay. Guys with this stiff, masculine grace are sometimes gay. I’m not mad about it, I just… mmmm…

(Source: humansaremegafauna)

I was told today about a casual acquaintance who supposedly has a “gargantuan” cock.

That’s a strong word. 

Then again, this cock is as strong and thick as a bat. So swing it then. Slap it hard against my ass. Slide it through my legs and let it peek through the other side, wetter and thicker with each stroke.

Licking my lips.

That body, those lips, that red elastic waistband, pulled down by a ready hand.

Yes. Please.

I deal with a lot of testosterone bravado at my job. Sometimes I like to think about these men’s cocks, and wonder how many are over-compensating, and how many are just swaggering with confidence, knowing that they do in fact have the biggest dick in the room.

This sexy motherfucker falls into the latter category, clearly.

(Source: gentlemanpervert)

It’s.

Go time.

(Source: vooduud3)

Holy fuck are men ever hot.

This is from 1942.

He needs to lay his dirty, Southern hands on me, smelling of real tobacco and tasting of salt, silent but for his rough breath and sudden, strained moaning.

Goddammit this man is hot.

If I could, I’d pay $10,000 for a weekend with him.

The boys of summer have gone.

Like sea creatures they turned at once, and started a long migration arcing into the deep.

(Source: sissydudeomen2)