I’ve long wanted to write a story about the raw masculinity of young, handsome guys we see in the streets, showing their animal side in a quiet way. Using AI to translate, I’m not sure if it’s good, but it aims to capture their wild, honest vibe.
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When summer takes over cities, you can’t ignore the raw presence of men in the streets. They walk, some tall and strong, others lean and restless, their bodies full of wild energy, slaves to their genitals. Their ugly, basic penis, hanging with heavy, smelly balls, controls their thoughts, movements, and habits. From birth, their sex is celebrated—“It’s a boy!”—and the community praises this penis as a symbol of who they are. All men, from the most polished to the roughest, carry the same penis, the same balls that swing with every step, giving off a strong, musky smell, a sign of their animal nature. Even the man with the softest face, young features, and tender eyes hides an obscene penis under his underwear, always ready to stir, filled with a restless desire.
Compared to the female body, smooth and perfect, almost divine, the male body is a clumsy, organic mass, weighed down by a grotesque bulge between the thighs—a ridiculous yet powerful burden that defines and chains them. These heavy balls push them from childhood to manhood without their choice, replacing innocence with an endless need to ejaculate, dominate, and conquer. But behind their tough mask, you can see that a child remains, laughing at crude locker room jokes, showing an innocence trapped in a body ruled by testosterone.
They leave home clean, shirts neatly ironed, hair carefully styled, a light cologne trying to hide their raw nature. But summer ruins this in a moment. Heat makes sweat drip on their forehead, neck, and chest. Their skin shines, giving off a sharp smell, made stronger by their balls that release a heavy scent under the burning sun. This musky trace, a mix of sweat and testosterone, marks crowded subways, air-conditioned offices, and overheated rooms. It attracts and repels, a sign of raw manhood no expensive cologne can hide. You notice this smell when a man passes by, a musky hint that betrays his slavery to the bulge between his legs.
Their strong, hairy chest is a banner of manhood, shaped by effort and testosterone, rising with deep breaths, sometimes faster after a soccer game or a run in the hot sun, which these big kids love. The hair, thick or sparse, spreads in uneven patterns, catching sweat and the musky smell from their body. These curls, stiff or soft, declare their wildness, like young wolves. Some, without hair, lack this sign of their masculinity, but for those with it, the hair spills from open shirts like weeds breaking through society’s rules. In their private room, this chest becomes the stage for their surrender, splattered with their hot seed in a raw grunt, a ritual driven by their biology.
Their muscled arms, often hairy, show their raw strength. Some have big biceps, built by hours of sport, while others, slimmer, have a nervous energy just as fierce. Their hands, wide or thin, are made to grab hips or breasts during sex, holding their partner firmly as they push, guided by their genitals’ instinct. The hair on their forearms, sometimes reaching their knuckles, adds a wild texture, contrasting with their sometimes gentle gestures.
When they raise their arms to greet a friend or teammate—because life is a sport for men—their bushy armpits, free from metrosexual nonsense, release a musky smell. You can’t help but notice the raw appeal of a young man raising his arms boldly, showing his manhood through his hair, proving he’s a man in full power, without shame.
Their deep, sometimes rough voice rumbles, grabbing attention whether they want it or not. When they speak, their throat releases a hint of their desire, a sound that echoes the urgency of their full balls, even in a laugh or casual chat, always ready to turn into a raw grunt.
In Europe, we see more and more young Arabs, whose manhood shines with raw intensity, rooted in an Islamic faith that lifts their masculinity like a sacred flag. Just by seeing their Arabic face, we know they’ve been circumcised, like all good Muslim boys, their penis—center of their manhood—marked by pain turned into fierce pride. This ritual, forced on them in childhood, often in the pain of a home or clinic ceremony, carves loyalty to Islam into their flesh, tying their manhood to their duty to make more Muslims by emptying their balls full of halal cum, a sign visible even under their clothes. Their tan skin glows in the summer sun, standing out against the pale city crowds, drawing eyes like a challenge. Their full lips, framed by a thick, bushy beard, add raw appeal to faces with deep, dark eyes that hint at contained wildness. Their hair, cut in an undercut, blends bold modernity with tradition, while their bare feet, rough and smelly in open sandals, show the marks of an active life—soccer games in the streets, manual work, endless energy. These feet give off a sharp smell, echoing their heavy balls, full of thick, Muslim seed, declaring their drive to spread it.
Summer brings short sports shorts, often picked with the bad taste of young straight guys, showing strong legs, muscled pillars shaped by years of walking and sports. Each step is firm, heavy, as if the earth must bend under their force. These legs, hairy for the most virile, seem ready to leap, chase, conquer, carrying the bulge between their thighs with instinct. Every step reminds us of their slavery to their hanging penis and heavy balls full of cum that weigh down their walk. Even the most stylish men move with this instinctive heaviness, like hunting beasts, their thighs flexing under light fabric, showing raw power society can’t tame. When they sit, their thighs spread naturally to let their big balls breathe. The shorts, tight against their balls, show their shape boldly, and you can almost smell their musky scent, a statement to the crowd: they are men, proud of their genitals, showing their manhood without shame.
Their round, muscled buttocks are a stunning sight under tight shorts or pants. Firm and strong, they clench hard during sex, their full balls swinging in a raw motion. Their anus, ringed with thick hair, rubs between their cheeks with every step, making an intimate scent they’re secretly ashamed of. This hips movement is known to all men, who, from a young age, feel the urge to thrust against their mattress, a reflex that takes over during sex. We see these handsome men in the streets, all sharing this raw urge to penetrate, fill, ejaculate, their sex slick with desire, a drive carved into their flesh since youth.
Their smelly feet, marked by effort, sports, and walking, shine in fashionable sandals. Too big for stillness, they carry the marks of their activity: calluses, red marks, sticky sweat. When they take off their shoes, a sharp smell escapes, mixed with testosterone, blending with the scent of their groin. These feet, often hairy, leave a wet mark on the ground, a trace of their passing, echoing the smell of their balls soaking their underwear. They can’t stay still, always moving, driven by the urgency of their organs, an energy that pushes them into an endless dance.
Their face, often with a wide nose, has a rough, almost carved beauty. This nose, shaped by nature—because male muscles need more oxygen than women’s—is a sign of manhood. The beard, bushy or neatly trimmed, is the ultimate mark of masculinity, a bold frame for their features. It grows like a mask, showing their balls’ work on their body, rejecting any blur between man and woman. Behind this mask, even the man with the softest smile hides a raw urge to ejaculate, driven by the smelly bulge between his legs.
Their eyes show a mix of softness and wildness, a tension that betrays their slavery.
All day, their glands fill with thick seed, testosterone pushing them to ejaculate, an obsession that consumes them. Their foreskin makes impurities, sticky bits that build up in the heat, quickly cleaned by a fast swipe, a shower, or soaked into their underwear, adding to their scent’s story. We see these men in the streets, all carrying this load, a truth written in their flesh. Sports, which they love, try to channel this raw energy, but effort only makes their balls’ smell stronger, their weight heavier, pulling them back to their core.
In the steamy haze of locker rooms, under the pounding showers, men bare their penises without a hint of shame, a silent vow: “I’m the same man as you.” Stripped naked, they shed the weight of the world, becoming boys again, where nudity was pure freedom, a reckless joy untouched by judgment. This raw ritual, sealed by the heavy, musky swing of their balls, is a sacred space women can never enter—a privilege granted only to those with testicles, dangling low as proof of their manhood. In this damp, echoing haven, they expose their weakness to their male comrades, the grotesque ugliness of their penises, veined and raw, hanging heavy under the water’s spray. This isn’t just nudity; it’s a primal pact, a display of vulnerability and power where each man, dripping with sweat and water, shows his brothers the unfiltered truth of his body. The thick, animal stench of their balls fills the air, mingling with the soap and steam. But even a muscled body’s grace fades before the ridiculous, smelly penis hanging like a grotesque burden.
A quick glance at a woman’s curves—butt, breasts, hips—sparks an unwanted erection, betraying them in public. This crude penis forces them to adjust their pants, hide their shame, as modern society demands they bury their animal side. But their body is a song to that animal side, their eyes locked on female forms, even when partnered, always imagining flesh penetrated, filled with their seed. This drive, deep in their nature, is a reflex they can’t control, an obsession that makes them stare at breasts, hips, butts with a predator’s intensity.
Their body, shaped by youth and hardened by their thirties, is a temple of testosterone, built by years of life, struggles, and confidence. No overblown, grotesque muscles like bodybuilders they find unnatural. Their beauty comes from activity, movement, a fluid strength, almost feminine in grace but deeply masculine in power. Their underwear, a private diary of their slavery, is soaked with sweat, traces of arousal, and the sharp smell of their balls. Every fold, every stain tells of their days, their hidden desires, their sudden erections.
When they return home, they give in to the need that’s burned all day. They kick off their shoes, freeing sweaty feet that leave a wet mark. Their underwear, heavy with testosterone’s scent, is tossed aside. On the bed, in flowery sheets chosen by their girlfriends, they lie naked, summer’s heat sticking to their skin. With their dick exposed, balls rolling free, they give in to a raw ritual: thighs spread, face serious, feet tensing, they masturbate, their balls swelling in an animal grunt, splattering their chest with hot, thick seed. This solitary act, though lonely, is their deepest truth, a biological need no will can stop.
Those with girlfriends aren’t to be pitied; their sex life proves their manhood. Returning from a walk, their bodies still hot from summer, they push their wife onto the bed, her wet pussy ready for their dick. Protective, they undress her with quiet urgency, muscles tight, rough hands sliding over her soft skin, tracing paths of raw desire. In this moment, men shed their humanity, becoming beasts with one burning need: to ram their throbbing dick into a warm, wet hole and unload their thick seed. Their movements aren’t those of a thinker but a slave to their heavy, pulsing balls, each thrust a blind, grinding reflex, hips slamming, muscles flexing, as their primal urge takes over.
When they start fucking in missionary, their round buttocks clench with beastly force, their anus showing with each thrust, strong legs rooted in the mattress, feet tensing in pleasure. Their penis, swollen and slick, moves slowly, then faster, each thrust marked by the slap of their full balls against her flesh. Their deep voice escapes in low grunts, their eyes burning with wild intensity, fingers digging into her hips or breasts, claiming her. One final push, a deep grunt, and their hot seed spills, flooding her, sealing their conquest in a raw act tied to their need to reproduce, a promise of life in every drop.
In doggy style, the act grows even wilder. They grab her hips, fingers sinking into her flesh, biceps bulging with effort. Their penis, hard and commanding, thrusts with fierce force, their big balls slapping her skin, spreading their musky smell, a raw testosterone scent that fills the air.Their rough voice grunts like dogs, broken by heavy breaths, as they give in to the urge to ejaculate. At orgasm, their whole body tightens, feet tensing, muscles stiffening, legs trembling. A thick stream of seed bursts out, sealing their bond in a burst of heat and life.
You can’t deny that men’s summer is a raw parade, a dance between beast and man. Every step, look, and drop of sweat tells a story of desire, slavery, and surrender. Their ugly, smelly penis and heavy balls are the center of their world, a force they can’t tame or ignore. This truth, carried naked under their clothes, makes them magnificent, flawed slaves to a biology bigger than them.
------
When summer takes over cities, you can’t ignore the raw presence of men in the streets. They walk, some tall and strong, others lean and restless, their bodies full of wild energy, slaves to their genitals. Their ugly, basic penis, hanging with heavy, smelly balls, controls their thoughts, movements, and habits. From birth, their sex is celebrated—“It’s a boy!”—and the community praises this penis as a symbol of who they are. All men, from the most polished to the roughest, carry the same penis, the same balls that swing with every step, giving off a strong, musky smell, a sign of their animal nature. Even the man with the softest face, young features, and tender eyes hides an obscene penis under his underwear, always ready to stir, filled with a restless desire.
Compared to the female body, smooth and perfect, almost divine, the male body is a clumsy, organic mass, weighed down by a grotesque bulge between the thighs—a ridiculous yet powerful burden that defines and chains them. These heavy balls push them from childhood to manhood without their choice, replacing innocence with an endless need to ejaculate, dominate, and conquer. But behind their tough mask, you can see that a child remains, laughing at crude locker room jokes, showing an innocence trapped in a body ruled by testosterone.
They leave home clean, shirts neatly ironed, hair carefully styled, a light cologne trying to hide their raw nature. But summer ruins this in a moment. Heat makes sweat drip on their forehead, neck, and chest. Their skin shines, giving off a sharp smell, made stronger by their balls that release a heavy scent under the burning sun. This musky trace, a mix of sweat and testosterone, marks crowded subways, air-conditioned offices, and overheated rooms. It attracts and repels, a sign of raw manhood no expensive cologne can hide. You notice this smell when a man passes by, a musky hint that betrays his slavery to the bulge between his legs.
Their strong, hairy chest is a banner of manhood, shaped by effort and testosterone, rising with deep breaths, sometimes faster after a soccer game or a run in the hot sun, which these big kids love. The hair, thick or sparse, spreads in uneven patterns, catching sweat and the musky smell from their body. These curls, stiff or soft, declare their wildness, like young wolves. Some, without hair, lack this sign of their masculinity, but for those with it, the hair spills from open shirts like weeds breaking through society’s rules. In their private room, this chest becomes the stage for their surrender, splattered with their hot seed in a raw grunt, a ritual driven by their biology.
Their muscled arms, often hairy, show their raw strength. Some have big biceps, built by hours of sport, while others, slimmer, have a nervous energy just as fierce. Their hands, wide or thin, are made to grab hips or breasts during sex, holding their partner firmly as they push, guided by their genitals’ instinct. The hair on their forearms, sometimes reaching their knuckles, adds a wild texture, contrasting with their sometimes gentle gestures.
When they raise their arms to greet a friend or teammate—because life is a sport for men—their bushy armpits, free from metrosexual nonsense, release a musky smell. You can’t help but notice the raw appeal of a young man raising his arms boldly, showing his manhood through his hair, proving he’s a man in full power, without shame.
Their deep, sometimes rough voice rumbles, grabbing attention whether they want it or not. When they speak, their throat releases a hint of their desire, a sound that echoes the urgency of their full balls, even in a laugh or casual chat, always ready to turn into a raw grunt.
In Europe, we see more and more young Arabs, whose manhood shines with raw intensity, rooted in an Islamic faith that lifts their masculinity like a sacred flag. Just by seeing their Arabic face, we know they’ve been circumcised, like all good Muslim boys, their penis—center of their manhood—marked by pain turned into fierce pride. This ritual, forced on them in childhood, often in the pain of a home or clinic ceremony, carves loyalty to Islam into their flesh, tying their manhood to their duty to make more Muslims by emptying their balls full of halal cum, a sign visible even under their clothes. Their tan skin glows in the summer sun, standing out against the pale city crowds, drawing eyes like a challenge. Their full lips, framed by a thick, bushy beard, add raw appeal to faces with deep, dark eyes that hint at contained wildness. Their hair, cut in an undercut, blends bold modernity with tradition, while their bare feet, rough and smelly in open sandals, show the marks of an active life—soccer games in the streets, manual work, endless energy. These feet give off a sharp smell, echoing their heavy balls, full of thick, Muslim seed, declaring their drive to spread it.
Summer brings short sports shorts, often picked with the bad taste of young straight guys, showing strong legs, muscled pillars shaped by years of walking and sports. Each step is firm, heavy, as if the earth must bend under their force. These legs, hairy for the most virile, seem ready to leap, chase, conquer, carrying the bulge between their thighs with instinct. Every step reminds us of their slavery to their hanging penis and heavy balls full of cum that weigh down their walk. Even the most stylish men move with this instinctive heaviness, like hunting beasts, their thighs flexing under light fabric, showing raw power society can’t tame. When they sit, their thighs spread naturally to let their big balls breathe. The shorts, tight against their balls, show their shape boldly, and you can almost smell their musky scent, a statement to the crowd: they are men, proud of their genitals, showing their manhood without shame.
Their round, muscled buttocks are a stunning sight under tight shorts or pants. Firm and strong, they clench hard during sex, their full balls swinging in a raw motion. Their anus, ringed with thick hair, rubs between their cheeks with every step, making an intimate scent they’re secretly ashamed of. This hips movement is known to all men, who, from a young age, feel the urge to thrust against their mattress, a reflex that takes over during sex. We see these handsome men in the streets, all sharing this raw urge to penetrate, fill, ejaculate, their sex slick with desire, a drive carved into their flesh since youth.
Their smelly feet, marked by effort, sports, and walking, shine in fashionable sandals. Too big for stillness, they carry the marks of their activity: calluses, red marks, sticky sweat. When they take off their shoes, a sharp smell escapes, mixed with testosterone, blending with the scent of their groin. These feet, often hairy, leave a wet mark on the ground, a trace of their passing, echoing the smell of their balls soaking their underwear. They can’t stay still, always moving, driven by the urgency of their organs, an energy that pushes them into an endless dance.
Their face, often with a wide nose, has a rough, almost carved beauty. This nose, shaped by nature—because male muscles need more oxygen than women’s—is a sign of manhood. The beard, bushy or neatly trimmed, is the ultimate mark of masculinity, a bold frame for their features. It grows like a mask, showing their balls’ work on their body, rejecting any blur between man and woman. Behind this mask, even the man with the softest smile hides a raw urge to ejaculate, driven by the smelly bulge between his legs.
Their eyes show a mix of softness and wildness, a tension that betrays their slavery.
All day, their glands fill with thick seed, testosterone pushing them to ejaculate, an obsession that consumes them. Their foreskin makes impurities, sticky bits that build up in the heat, quickly cleaned by a fast swipe, a shower, or soaked into their underwear, adding to their scent’s story. We see these men in the streets, all carrying this load, a truth written in their flesh. Sports, which they love, try to channel this raw energy, but effort only makes their balls’ smell stronger, their weight heavier, pulling them back to their core.
In the steamy haze of locker rooms, under the pounding showers, men bare their penises without a hint of shame, a silent vow: “I’m the same man as you.” Stripped naked, they shed the weight of the world, becoming boys again, where nudity was pure freedom, a reckless joy untouched by judgment. This raw ritual, sealed by the heavy, musky swing of their balls, is a sacred space women can never enter—a privilege granted only to those with testicles, dangling low as proof of their manhood. In this damp, echoing haven, they expose their weakness to their male comrades, the grotesque ugliness of their penises, veined and raw, hanging heavy under the water’s spray. This isn’t just nudity; it’s a primal pact, a display of vulnerability and power where each man, dripping with sweat and water, shows his brothers the unfiltered truth of his body. The thick, animal stench of their balls fills the air, mingling with the soap and steam. But even a muscled body’s grace fades before the ridiculous, smelly penis hanging like a grotesque burden.
A quick glance at a woman’s curves—butt, breasts, hips—sparks an unwanted erection, betraying them in public. This crude penis forces them to adjust their pants, hide their shame, as modern society demands they bury their animal side. But their body is a song to that animal side, their eyes locked on female forms, even when partnered, always imagining flesh penetrated, filled with their seed. This drive, deep in their nature, is a reflex they can’t control, an obsession that makes them stare at breasts, hips, butts with a predator’s intensity.
Their body, shaped by youth and hardened by their thirties, is a temple of testosterone, built by years of life, struggles, and confidence. No overblown, grotesque muscles like bodybuilders they find unnatural. Their beauty comes from activity, movement, a fluid strength, almost feminine in grace but deeply masculine in power. Their underwear, a private diary of their slavery, is soaked with sweat, traces of arousal, and the sharp smell of their balls. Every fold, every stain tells of their days, their hidden desires, their sudden erections.
When they return home, they give in to the need that’s burned all day. They kick off their shoes, freeing sweaty feet that leave a wet mark. Their underwear, heavy with testosterone’s scent, is tossed aside. On the bed, in flowery sheets chosen by their girlfriends, they lie naked, summer’s heat sticking to their skin. With their dick exposed, balls rolling free, they give in to a raw ritual: thighs spread, face serious, feet tensing, they masturbate, their balls swelling in an animal grunt, splattering their chest with hot, thick seed. This solitary act, though lonely, is their deepest truth, a biological need no will can stop.
Those with girlfriends aren’t to be pitied; their sex life proves their manhood. Returning from a walk, their bodies still hot from summer, they push their wife onto the bed, her wet pussy ready for their dick. Protective, they undress her with quiet urgency, muscles tight, rough hands sliding over her soft skin, tracing paths of raw desire. In this moment, men shed their humanity, becoming beasts with one burning need: to ram their throbbing dick into a warm, wet hole and unload their thick seed. Their movements aren’t those of a thinker but a slave to their heavy, pulsing balls, each thrust a blind, grinding reflex, hips slamming, muscles flexing, as their primal urge takes over.
When they start fucking in missionary, their round buttocks clench with beastly force, their anus showing with each thrust, strong legs rooted in the mattress, feet tensing in pleasure. Their penis, swollen and slick, moves slowly, then faster, each thrust marked by the slap of their full balls against her flesh. Their deep voice escapes in low grunts, their eyes burning with wild intensity, fingers digging into her hips or breasts, claiming her. One final push, a deep grunt, and their hot seed spills, flooding her, sealing their conquest in a raw act tied to their need to reproduce, a promise of life in every drop.
In doggy style, the act grows even wilder. They grab her hips, fingers sinking into her flesh, biceps bulging with effort. Their penis, hard and commanding, thrusts with fierce force, their big balls slapping her skin, spreading their musky smell, a raw testosterone scent that fills the air.Their rough voice grunts like dogs, broken by heavy breaths, as they give in to the urge to ejaculate. At orgasm, their whole body tightens, feet tensing, muscles stiffening, legs trembling. A thick stream of seed bursts out, sealing their bond in a burst of heat and life.
You can’t deny that men’s summer is a raw parade, a dance between beast and man. Every step, look, and drop of sweat tells a story of desire, slavery, and surrender. Their ugly, smelly penis and heavy balls are the center of their world, a force they can’t tame or ignore. This truth, carried naked under their clothes, makes them magnificent, flawed slaves to a biology bigger than them.
it's rare that I cum to a text but this time I did it 
