I stand here, naked, in front of the full-length mirror, my reflection staring back at me with an intensity that matches my own.
My name is Ed Wolf, and at eighteen years old, I’m the epitome of youthful masculinity. My body is a testament to the raw power of testosterone—broad shoulders, a thick chest, and arms that could crush a man’s skull with ease. My skin is pale, almost porcelain, a stark contrast to the light blond hair buzzed short on my head. My eyes, icy blue and piercing, hold a softness that betrays my age, but my jawline is sharp, my lips full and often curled into a smirk that says I know exactly what I’m worth.
I run a hand over my chest, feeling the ridges of my abs, the hardness of my pecs. My fingers trace the veins that pop along my biceps, a roadmap of strength and vitality. But it’s not just my muscles that define me. It’s what’s between my legs that truly commands attention.
My cock.
It’s not just a part of me—it’s a declaration. Thick, long, and unapologetically dominant, it stands at attention, an eight-and-a-half-inch monument to my virility. The girth alone is enough to make most men hesitate, nearly six inches around, so wide my fist can’t close all the way. Veins ripple along its length, feeding into a broad, crimson head that throbs with life. Beneath it, my balls hang heavy, walnut-sized orbs nestled in a smooth, pale scrotum. They’re full, achingly so, loaded with the kind of cum that could paint a wall.
I grip my shaft, feeling the heat of it, the pulse of blood that mirrors my heartbeat. My thumb brushes the tip, and a pearl of pre-cum wells up, glistening under the bathroom light. I smirk. This isn’t just a cock—it’s a weapon. A scepter of power. And I know how to wield it.
I step closer to the mirror, my reflection looming larger than life. My hips shift instinctively, a slow roll that makes my cock twitch in my hand. I’m hard, always hard, fueled by the endless energy of youth. My testosterone is through the roof, and it shows in every inch of me. My load is massive, rope-thick spurts that can fly past my navel. And when I’m done, I’m not done. Give me a few minutes, and I’m ready to go again. Stamina like mine is rare, and I take pride in it.
I let go of my cock, watching it bounce slightly, heavy and proud. My balls tighten at the thought of what I could do with it. I’m not just a bull—I’m the alpha, the pinnacle of what it means to be a man. And I’m gay. Unapologetically, proudly gay. I don’t just fuck men; I worship them. I seek out other bulls, men who match my strength, my energy, my raw, untamed masculinity.
I turn away from the mirror, walking toward the bedroom. The air is thick with anticipation, the kind that comes from knowing what’s about to happen. The bed is messy, the sheets tangled from last night’s activities. I don’t bother making it. Why would I? I’ll just mess it up again.
I lie back, propping myself up on my elbows. My cock rests against my stomach, heavy and insistent. I run a hand over my chest, down my abs, and finally wrap my fingers around my shaft. It’s warm, alive, and I can feel the power coursing through it. I stroke slowly, savoring the way it fills my hand, the way it throbs with each touch.
My mind wanders to the last guy I fucked. He was a bull like me, broad and muscular, with a cock that could rival my own. We went at it for hours, trading dominance, pushing each other to the edge. I remember the way he moaned when I reamed his ass, the way he gripped the sheets as I pounded into him. And then, when it was my turn to take it, the way he filled me up, stretching me until I was screaming his name.
I groan, my grip tightening on my cock. I’m hard again, impossibly hard, my balls aching with the need to release. But I hold off, savoring the build-up. I’m not just about the quick fuck—I’m about the experience, the connection, the raw, primal energy that comes from two men worshipping each other’s bodies.
I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. My cock rests against the bed, and I thrust my hips gently, imagining it buried deep inside someone. My hands grip the sheets, my nails digging in as I picture a man beneath me, his legs wrapped around my waist, his hole tight and desperate for my thickness.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice rough and gravelly. I can feel my heart pounding, my breath coming faster. I’m close, so close, but I don’t want it to end. Not yet. I flip onto my back again, my cock jutting up toward the ceiling. I stroke faster now, my fist moving in rhythm with my racing pulse.
My eyes close, and I let the fantasies take over. I see myself in a locker room, surrounded by other bulls, all of us naked, all of us hard. I’m the center of attention, my cock the focal point as they gather around, hungry for a taste. I hear their grunts, their whispers of admiration, their hands reaching out to touch, to worship.
“Fuck, yeah,” I groan, my hips bucking into my hand. My balls tighten, and I know I’m on the edge. But I hold back, pushing myself further, testing my limits. I’m not just a man—I’m a force of nature, a testament to what it means to be alive, to be young, to be unstoppable.
Finally, I let go. My body tenses, every muscle clenching as I explode. Rope after rope of cum shoots out, landing on my chest, my stomach, even splattering my neck. It’s thick, hot, and heavy, a physical manifestation of my virility. I groan, my head thrown back, my lips parted in a mix of pleasure and exhaustion.
But even as I lie there, spent, I know it’s not over. My cock is already starting to stir, the blood flowing back into it, ready for round two. I smirk, reaching for a tissue to clean up. I’m Ed Wolf, and this is just another day in the life of a bull.
The story doesn’t end here, though. It’s just beginning. There’s always another man to fuck, another hole to stretch, another load to spill. And I’ll be there, ready and waiting, my cock at the helm, leading the way. Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
