All Activity

I'm hoping that this (ex-bi) guy, turns out to be more resistant to the poz bug than most, as this would necessitate some more chapters in the erotic tale........ describing a few more horny breeding sessions. Each session becoming more extreme than the last, reflecting the gifter's increading frustration at now being able to add this particular neg hole to his trophy cabinet! 😇 So, maybe a blindfold; then a full hood and some restraints and a tape gag.Then the anti is upped using stronger poppers; (can't use / or refer to use of chems in this section), but the neg sub can be plied with alcohol to 'deaden the pain' he would otherwise feel result from the vicious use of a sharpened finger nail (to scratch the lining of his rectum), but also the more brutal fucking (practically rape level) that finally takes taking place.

The handcuffed guy mentioned he wasn't worried if the keys go missing as the husband carries a spare set of keys for the handcuffs.

Yeah, Drew can play with his mates. I play with mine and often we all get together. We have no secrets and he lets me know what he’s up to. He knows I really enjoy fucking his cum-filled arse so he offered it up to me when he got home. I fucking loved it.

It is my hope that any media that was created with AI will require it to be clearly listed as having been so, in a similar way as the maturity ratings of media are required to be listed . I personally have no interest in reading, watching, or playing anything simulated by an algorithm. My time is limited and I would prefer to only enjoy the efforts of living and feeling people. However, if it is clearly listed as being constructed by AI by those that post it, then I have no problem with it being made available to consume by those who don't mind AI generated content. Just be honest about where it's coming from so we can each decide for ourselves whether we want to invest our time in it.

this is starting so hot

Hi im hiv neg looking to be breeded im visiting barcelona

yes it is true.. i agree with you

Oh man @cumfillthishole you have hit on a theme that gets my parv (sp?) meter way up there! I have a history of drug dealr sex. Each one unique but i haven't encountered an infestual dealer brother & junkie brother. I like the fact that Ray has had experience in doing something sex-related for more T. He doesn't sound like a smart "straight" boy...so I'm sure Walt knew it would be easy to get his brother and of course the feeding him more hits! Damn fine start! Can't wait for more!

1, 2, 7 always and only passive cumdump

Exactly

Throughout my extensive sexual experience I’ve noticed that many guys who identify as total tops are fascinated by- even get obsessed- with the opportunity to fuck other top guys. I get the thrill of being the ultimate dominant male and of course we all want most that which we cannot have so obviously that’s a huge part of it but I’m interested in hearing from the total top men about it. From my perspective I think it’s hot but I don’t really appreciate when the top who I’m servicing is more interested in the other top I’m servicing or is that just me being a greedy selfish and jealous bottom? It doesn’t help that I am generally not turned on by the thought of getting topped by someone who is actually truly a bottom trying to front

Absolutely not interested remotely lol

Hot 2nd chapter! Hope to read the 3rd soon!

Is Drew allowed to play freely like that with his mates, or does he have to get permission from you first? He is obviously trained to offer up his hole to Daddy at the end of the night.

Getting rimmed by my Top is the sensual warm up to a long hard session of fucking & fisting. To feel his tongue delicately exploring my lips & then to have a heavy tongue fuck is an exquisite feeling for the lips & inside area. A good Tops tongue will ease my hole & allow it to start stretching for him. A good rim job starts the muscle relaxing for the toys, cock & fists that will be accommodated at a later time.

Chapter 10: The Sanctum The red light of the Bacchanalia faded in Nate’s rearview mirror, replaced by the sterile white glow of Preston Hollow streetlamps. The mansion, with its symphony of flesh and its roaring chemical-fueled energy, felt like a dream from another life—or perhaps, a life they had just conquered. Now, as the Porsche glided silently into the driveway, the mission was over. The work was done. It was time to go home. Home. The word had a new weight, a new texture. It was no longer just a glass-walled house filled with expensive furniture and the ghost of a dead wife. It was a sanctum. A fortress for the four of them. They moved through the house with a quiet, exhausted intimacy. The energy from the mansion still clung to them—a musky, electric aura—but it was softening, settling into the familiar comfort of their shared space. Kyle Simmons, no longer "Coach" but simply "Kyle," moved with the easy confidence of a man who belonged. He dropped his bag by the door, his large frame seeming to fill the entryway with a grounded strength. No words were needed. They all knew the ritual. It was a purification of a different kind. One by one, they shed the clothes from the outside world and walked into the massive, open-air shower that adjoined the master suite. The water, hot and steamy, cascaded over their bodies, washing away the sweat, the lube, the piss, and the seed of the night. They didn't speak. They touched. Brandon soaped Nate’s back, his hands gentle, reverent. Geoff stood under the spray with Kyle, their foreheads pressed together, sharing a quiet moment of connection that went beyond the raw lust of the public arena. This was cleansing. This was returning to the self. Later, wrapped in thick, luxurious robes, they gathered in the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dark, sleeping city, but their world was contained within the warm, lamplit circle of the room. Brandon, ever the provider, built a fire in the grand hearth. Kyle produced a bottle of aged tequila and four glasses. Geoff put on a low, ambient record. This was their new normal. The Bacchanalia was the church, the sermon, the conversion. This was the fellowship, the quiet worship of each other. They sat on the plush rugs before the fire, a tangle of limbs and comfortable silence. The conversation started softly, a debriefing of the night's events. "Did you see the look on Thorne's face when he drank the chalice?" Geoff chuckled, a deep, proud sound. "He looked like he was dying and being born all at once." "He was," Kyle said, swirling the tequila in his glass. "You broke him perfectly, son. That's a gift." He looked at Nate, his eyes filled with a warmth that transcended their decades of friendship. "And you. You were a predator tonight. A king." Nate leaned his head against Brandon’s shoulder, a gesture of pure, unguarded affection. "I learned from the best." He looked at his twin, his son, his friend. "But that's out there. This..." He gestured to the space between them. "...this is what's real." The air grew thick again, but this time it wasn't the chemically charged haze of the spa. It was the slow, deliberate burn of intimacy, of love, of profound, undeniable need. Brandon set his glass down and moved behind Nate, his hands gently untying the belt of his robe. "Our king needs to be serviced," he murmured, his lips brushing Nate’s ear. Nate leaned back, a soft sigh escaping him as Brandon’s hands roamed over his chest. Kyle turned to Geoff, his expression softening. "And my champion? What does he need?" Geoff didn't answer with words. He simply knelt before Kyle, undoing his mentor's robe and taking his already hardening cock into his mouth. It wasn't an act of submission, but of worship. A son honoring the man who had helped guide him, who had completed his father's initiation. The scene that unfolded was the antithesis of the Bacchanalia. It was slow, tender, and exquisitely explicit. Brandon laid Nate down on the thick fur rug before the fire. He entered his twin slowly, face to face, their bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as their shared heartbeat. There was no talk of breeding or gifting, only whispered endearments and the soft sounds of pleasure. It was a reaffirmation of their bond, a love that had survived and been reborn. Beside them, Kyle laid Geoff on his back, lifting his legs. He entered his former student with the same powerful control he’d used in the sling room, but tempered with a deep, abiding affection. "You've become a man, Geoff," Kyle grunted softly, his hips rolling in a deep, steady rhythm. "A man I'm proud to call brother." They moved as two interconnected pairs, a beautiful, incestuous tableau of love and lust. The firelight danced on their sweat-slicked skin, illuminating the tattoos that marked them as members of the same tribe. The sounds were not of grunts and slaps, but of soft moans, whispered names, and the gentle rhythm of four bodies finding their home in each other. One by one, they reached their peaks, not with explosive roars, but with quiet, shuddering climaxes that felt like a release of the soul. Brandon flooded his twin's ass, and Nate’s own cum spurted between their bodies. Kyle emptied himself into Geoff, who cried out his mentor's name as he came. They lay in a heap, a tangled, satisfied mess of limbs and love. The fire crackled, the city slept, and outside, the revolution they had just ignited continued to spread. But in here, in their sanctum, they were just a family. A father, his brother, his son, and his best friend. Four men, bound by blood, by ink, by seed, and by a love so profound it had poisoned them to perfection. And they were home.

Chapter 9: The Bacchanalia The ride from Nate’s office was a non-linear journey through a neon-slicked nightmare. Marcus was no longer the pilot of his own body; he was a passenger strapped into a vessel hurtling toward an unknown, terrifying destination. The city lights blurred into streaking watercolors, and the low, authoritative thrum of Nate’s voice was the only thing anchoring him to a reality that was rapidly dissolving. They didn't go to the Midtowne Spa. This was something else entirely. The Porsche pulled up to a sprawling, modernist mansion in the exclusive enclave of Turtle Creek, its glass walls glowing with an eerie, pulsing red light, like a heart beating in the night. Inside, the air was a physical entity, a thick, humid soup of incense, sweat, amyl poppers, and the raw, musky smell of aroused, chem-fueled men. This was no clandestine gathering in a back room; this was a full-blown Bacchanalia, a cathedral of flesh dedicated to the glorious poison of their truth. The main room was a panorama of unbridled lust. To Marcus's left, a man with intricate tribal tattoos covering his entire back was strapped to a St. Andrew's cross. A masked dom, his own cock a thick, heavy club, systematically worked a series of increasingly large sounding rods down the man's urethra, while a third man knelt at his feet, not just drinking, but bathing his face in the stream of piss that erupted from the bound man's cock. His moans were a mixture of agony and ecstatic surrender. Near the grand fireplace, a geyser of golden shower was in full effect. A muscular, silver-haired man stood over a younger, leaner partner who was on his knees, mouth open, receiving the warm, chem-laced piss directly onto his tongue and down his chest. The younger man was stroking himself furiously, his body glistening, lost in the act of total degradation and worship. In a corner, a group was gathered around a black gyno table, their faces illuminated by the glow of their glass pipes as they blew clouds into the air, the smoke mingling with the scent of Crisco and lube. The man on the table, his legs held back by two others, was being fisted. The top, his arm buried to the forearm in the man's hole, worked it slowly, methodically, twisting his fist. "Open up for me, you beautiful pig," he grunted. "Take my fucking arm. I want to feel your heartbeat from the inside." The man on the table could only respond with guttural, animalistic grunts, his cock leaking a steady stream of clear fluid onto his own stomach. Everywhere Marcus looked, there were rituals of conversion. A man in a leather sling was being slam-fucked by a top who had just administered a powerful hit to the bottom's jugular, the rush hitting him instantly as the top's cock pounded away. Another pair was in a 69, shotgunning thick clouds of meth smoke back and forth between them, their bodies writhing, their connection a feedback loop of chemicals and lust. This was the brotherhood in its full, unadulterated glory. A tribe of beautifully damned souls, all celebrating the gift, all passing their strains in a glorious, orgiastic communion. Brandon and Geoff moved through the throng like sharks, their presence commanding immediate respect. Geoff, his body already gleaming with a sheen of sweat, approached Marcus and Nate. He gave his father a deep, possessive kiss, tasting the chemicals on his breath, then turned his burning eyes to the new initiate. "Welcome to the family," he growled. "Time for your conversion." He led a dazed, pliant Marcus to the center of the room, to a single, black leather sling hanging under a stark, focused spotlight. It was an altar. The room's activity didn't stop; it simply shifted its focus. All eyes, all energy, turned to the new offering. Marcus, stripped of his suit and his dignity, was guided into the sling. His legs were placed in the stirrups, his hole exposed and twitching, a desperate, empty void that suddenly ached with a need so profound it was terrifying. Nate stood by his head, stroking his hair, his voice a calming anchor in the storm. "Just let go, Marcus," he whispered. "Stop fighting. Receive the gift." But Marcus couldn't hold it in. The sight, the sounds, the chemicals roaring through his system—it was too much. His hole, his very being, was crying out. "Please," he whimpered, the word torn from his throat. "Oh god, please... fill me. I need it. I need it so bad." A collective, appreciative murmur went through the crowd. The initiate was ready. Brandon appeared with a ornate, silver chalice filled with a steaming, golden liquid. "The first communion," he announced, his voice resonating through the room. "Drink. It's from the brothers. It will prepare you for the breeding." Marcus, lost in a haze of complete submission, drank deeply. The liquid was hot, salty, and bitter, the unmistakable taste of chem-piss from dozens of men. It was a potent offering of their collective essence, a final act of defilement that felt strangely like purification. It burned down his throat and settled in his gut, a fire that demanded to be quenched. Now the true ritual began. Geoff was the first to claim him. He stood between Marcus's spread legs, his own poz cock thick, hard, and dripping. "This is the Brand's welcome," he snarled, spitting a thick wad onto Marcus's hungry hole. "You're about to get a full introduction." He entered with a single, brutal thrust, making Marcus cry out, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. As Geoff began to fuck, Brandon knelt, his own hands slick with lube. He began to work his fist into Marcus's hole alongside Geoff's pistoning cock. The double penetration was an overwhelming, white-hot flash of agony and ecstasy that shattered what was left of Marcus's mind into a million glittering pieces. "You're taking it," Nate coached from above, his voice a steady drumbeat in the symphony of lust. "You're taking our gift. You're being bred by the brotherhood." Geoff fucked him hard, his balls slapping against Marcus's ass, until he roared and buried himself deep, pumping a toxic load into Marcus's guts. "First seeding done!" he yelled, pulling out. But the sling wasn't empty for a second. Another man took his place, then another. It was a conga line of conversion. Each man had a different strain, a different story. A massive, muscle-bound bear with a spider tattoo grunted as he added his load. A lean, twink-like figure with a demonic brand followed suit. Marcus was a vessel, a receptacle for the collective seed of the tribe. He was no longer Marcus Thorne, the CEO. He was a hole, a canvas, a thing to be bred and marked. After a dozen men had gifted him, his hole was a gaping, messy masterpiece, dripping with a river of cum. The final participant stepped forward: Nate. He looked down at his rival, now a whimpering, broken, blissed-out thing. His hole was ruined, his body covered in sweat and spit, his mind completely rewritten. This was the ultimate hostile takeover. Nate entered him slowly, his nine-inch cock sliding into the sloppy, well-used depths with ease. "This is it, Marcus," he said, his voice low and final. "This is my strain. The one that started it all in our world. I'm not just breeding you. I'm claiming you. You belong to me now. You belong to the Brand." He began to fuck, not with anger, but with a deep, possessive rhythm. As he thrust, he reached down and grabbed Marcus's cock, which was inexplicably rock hard. He began to jerk him off in time with his strokes. "You're going to cum for me, Marcus," Nate commanded. "You're going to cum while I'm breeding you. You're going to associate this pleasure, this surrender, with your new purpose." The command was absolute. Marcus's body arched, and with a strangled scream, he erupted, shooting a massive load of his own cum across his chest. The sight of his total surrender sent Nate over the edge. He slammed in deep and unleashed his own potent, toxic seed, the final, definitive deposit in the breeding. He stayed plugged in, marking his territory. The room erupted in applause, not of politeness, but of primal approval. Brandon stepped forward, a tattoo gun in his hand this time. The buzzing of the needle cut through the air. "He is one of us," Brandon declared. He began to work on Marcus's lower back, just above his ass, etching the permanent biohazard trefoil into his skin. Marcus didn't even flinch. He just lay there, a tear of pure joy rolling down his cheek as the needle burned his new identity into his flesh. The Bacchanalia had succeeded. The Brand had claimed another soul. And as Nate watched, he knew this was only the beginning. They were a plague, and they were just learning how to spread.

Remind me of that when we eventually get to meet ...

Does anyone know who this hot, hairy daddy is, please?