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We looked inside some of the posts by seaminder and here's what we found interesting.
Average Info
Notes Per Post
68K
Likes Per Post
54K
Reblog Per Post
15K
Reply Per Post
73
Time Between Posts
20 hours
Number of Posts By Type
Text
13
Photo
4
Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
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You’re behind him again. Right where you belong.
He’s swaying on the subway pole, dazed from the lift, soaked from his own effort—dumb, happy, and full of protein. A good boy. Your boy. The back of his Harvard tee is stuck to his skin, and your face is buried in it, inhaling slow. Deep. Like he’s the air that makes your lungs worth filling. He smells like victory and armpit and salt. You breathe in again, pressing your nose harder between his shoulder blades, right where it dips and clings. He shivers. Doesn’t move away.
He never does.
Your hand finds his side, fingers slipping down the deep groove beside his obliques, past the soaked hem of his shirt, until you're palming the V that cuts down into his shorts. He twitches, lets out a little breathy "uhh" like a confused golden retriever catching the scent of his own dick. His thighs shift wider. Instinct. Submission. His brain’s not involved.
He’s rock hard already. You haven’t even touched it.
You whisper into his neck, lips brushing the heat of him. “I’m gonna unzip you again.”
He doesn't respond—he never knows what to say. Just pants, softly, gripping the overhead bar with both hands like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’m gonna wear you.”
His breath stutters. His shorts bulge visibly now, compressing the thick curve of his cock, foreskin trapped under the slick press of lycra. You can see it pulse. You can smell it.
“I’ll climb in through your ass this time,” you whisper, tongue flicking the sweat off his jawline. “Pull your skin up over mine, zip it behind your spine. Roll your fat cock over my cock like a sheath. Slide into your ass like it’s a pocket.”
He lets out a noise. Not a word. Not even a moan. Just... something helpless. Legs shaking.
No one in the train car looks up. They’re all in screens, tired, tuned out. You're wrapped in anonymity and the stench of raw, alpha jock sweat. You press your palm into the small of his back, lean your forehead between his shoulder blades like you’re resting.
But your other hand?
Slides between his thighs.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just breathes harder. Lets you handle it. His body’s yours. You could take him apart right here, unzip every instinct, stuff yourself inside the meat of him and drive his bones like a vehicle, and he'd still just mutter, “s’kinda nice, bro.”
Because he doesn't know what you're doing.
And you’re not going to tell him.
Not until you’re fully inside. Wearing him. Flexing his biceps. Cumming through his cock.
Not until the train pulls into the last stop, and he’s too empty to speak.
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