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It depends on the situation. Am I sucking him on my lunch break? It really needs to be fairly quick, probably like 10 minutes or less. If I don’t have anywhere I have to be then I think the 30-45 minutes is the sweet spot for me.

i've watched some of the televised cabinet meetings the White House put out, kinda creepy how everyone around the table seems to take turns fawning on Trump.

I think it would be hot to make this a series of Joe's conquests

In a ice fishing tent on display inside cabelas

sounds hot - enjoy

When I attended on Naked Nights. I never got any action. 😞

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score VI The world returns with the familiar, jarring click-clack of your key in the front door. The air inside is still and quiet, a stark contrast to the humid, chemical chaos you just left. It feels sterile. Every muscle aches with a deep, satisfying soreness. You feel the dried stickiness on your inner thighs, the phantom sensation of still being open, still being used. You are a vessel returning home, filled to the brim. He's there, sitting on the couch. He looks up as you enter, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. He rises, crossing the room to pull you into a hug. His arms feel both like a comfort and a question. "Rough day?" your husband asks, his voice a low murmur against your hair. "You have no idea," you reply, your voice hoarse. You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, and then you kiss him. It's a deep, possessive kiss that leaves no room for doubt. You taste the lie on his tongue, the secret. And yet, you love him more than ever. He knows where you were and what you did, but he has no idea that you know he was there too. Moreover, he has no clue that you know what he was up to at the rest stop the other week. You are again the one holding all the cards, and the power feels more intoxicating than any load you took tonight. You smile, a genuine, radiant smile, and pull him in for another kiss. Later, you're in bed, the day's events replaying like a fever dream. Your husband is asleep beside you, his breathing soft and even. The house is dark and silent. Your phone, face down on the nightstand, buzzes once, lighting up the room. You pick it up. The screen's glow illuminates your face. It's a message from a group chat with Mark and Stefan. It's a photo. At first, you just stare, your heart pounding. It's not a selfie. It's taken from between your spread legs, while you were still in the sling. Your hole is open, a glistening rosebud leaking cum. Mark and Stefan are on either side of you, their faces turned to the camera, giving a thumbs up, their smiles tired but proud. You have a vague memory of this, of someone holding up a phone, but you were too exhausted to register it. It's only now that you notice the background. Behind you, hanging on the wall, is the blackboard. Your heart hammers. You zoom in, your thumb trembling, the pixels snapping into clarity. You can see the chalk marks perfectly. You scan them, counting the night's toll. There, many marks under POZ, some even under TOX. And then your eyes find it: a single, stark line under AIDS. You remember that one well. Then you see the NEG column. Surprisingly, only two marks. One is clearly from the young guy at the end, the triumphant, mocking ?. But what about the other one? A simple, clean mark with no question mark. A chill runs through you. Was this your husband? Or is he among the poz, maybe even toxic, a secret he keeps from you? The thought is dizzying, a sudden, terrifying shift in the power dynamic you thought you controlled. You stare at the image—your own transformed, debased self, your two brothers, and the proof of your journey, now riddled with a new mystery. Below the photo, Stefan has typed a single line: "Our brother. Forever." A slow, tired smile spreads across your face in the darkness. It's a vow. It's the final confirmation. This wasn't just a scene. It was an initiation. You look at your sleeping husband, then back at the glowing screen, the mystery of his mark burning in your mind. You are part of a brotherhood now, a secret tribe bound by a shared, toxic journey. Your body is a temple to their gifts, a testament to the night. And you have never felt more powerful, or more safe, in your entire life.

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score V The poz troll shuffles away, the crowd parting for him once more, leaving a void of silence in his wake. The air still feels thick, charged with the finality of what just happened. You lie in the sling, trembling, Mark and Stefan's hands a comforting anchor on your own. You're still processing the fire that's now burning inside you, a warmth that promises to become a part of you forever. Then, movement. You hear a hesitant step forward. The crowd, which had been murmuring amongst themselves, goes quiet again. "I'm next," a voice says, young and shaking with adrenaline. "I... I have to." You feel him step between your legs. He's different. Where the last man was all bone and papery skin, this one is all youthful vitality. You feel his smooth, toned thighs as he positions himself, the skin taut over firm muscle. He's lean, probably a runner or a swimmer. When he leans over you, you feel the soft, fine hairs of his treasure trail brush against your stomach, and his clean, soapy scent—a stark contrast to the acrid smell of sickness and sex that still lingers in the air—is almost shocking. He is gentle. His hands aren't just grabbing; they're exploring. He touches your chest with a reverence that feels completely out of place, stroking the fur, feeling your nipples with a curious thumb. You can almost feel his eyes on you, admiring your body in this ruined state. They move down to your thighs to grab hold, but it's a careful, almost hesitant touch. He turns his head, his voice still trembling but clear. "I'm neg. Not on PrEP. May I fuck him anyway? I know you prefer toxic guys, but I just have to… too hot to pass." "Fuck, look at this kid," someone in the crowd whispers, a mix of pity and fascination. "He doesn't know what he's doing." "He knows exactly what he's doing," Stefan's voice rumbles beside you, a proud, dark amusement in his tone. "He's seen the promised land, and now he wants a taste. Go ahead. Enjoy!" A collective, sharp intake of breath from the crowd. This is no longer a spectator sport for him. You feel his cock, hard and eager, at your entrance. It's a perfect, healthy specimen, and for a moment, a flicker of something like guilt cuts through your haze. But it's instantly extinguished by a wave of dark pride. He's choosing this. He's choosing you. He pushes in, and you hear him gasp. It's not a clean entry. You hear the wet, sloppy sound of his perfect cock displacing the gallons of cum already inside you, feel some of it being pushed out to run down over your balls. He's not just fucking a hole; he's baptizing himself in a toxic swamp. He fucks you with a wild, desperate energy, his strokes short and frantic. He's not trying to get off; he's trying to feel. He wants to feel all the toxic cum coating his own perfect, healthy cock. He's chasing the poison, bathing himself in your filth. His body starts to shiver uncontrollably from the sheer intensity, the overwhelming mix of pleasure and terror. Seeing this, Stefan moves behind him, his own cock hard, bobbing with predatory arousal as he closes the distance. He holds the young man firm, his strong arms wrapping around the trembling frame to comfort him, his rigid shaft nestling between the young man's taut ass cheeks. It's a gesture of comfort that is also one of absolute possession. "Easy now," Stefan whispers, his voice a dark, seductive lullaby. "Enjoy this fuck. Go slow. Feel how all this toxic spunk inside my brother's ass coats your beautiful cock. Don't just feel it, see it in your mind. See the bugs crawling all over your shaft, your cockhead, down your slit, looking for a way inside you." "Look at him," Mark murmurs beside you, his voice thick with possessive pride. "He's not just fucking, he's chasing that thrill. The one that changes you forever." That line hits you like a physical blow. The thrill that changes you forever. You know because you've been there. Suddenly, you're no longer in the sling. The memory drags you under, so vivid it's like you're there. A dark room years ago. Your first time. A poz bottom begging for your load. You remember pulling out, your own neg cock slick with his charged-up cum. The same terrifying thrill, the same cold sweat, the same dizzying knowledge that you'd crossed a line and could never, ever go back. It was the ultimate thrill, the one that ruined you for safe sex forever. It was the fuck that started you on this path, the one that led you directly to this sling today. And now you're watching it happen to someone else. The circle is complete. He doesn't last long. The sheer intensity of the moment overwhelms him. He cums with a strangled, sobbing cry, his body tensing as he adds his own healthy, neg load to the poisonous mix inside you. But his shout isn't one of pleasure; it's one of revelation. "I can feel it! I can feel the toxic cum on my dick!" he yells, pulling out. His cock emerges from you, glistening and obscene, a thick rope of cum connecting your hole to his tip before it breaks and drips down over his balls. He stumbles back, panting, his mission accomplished, staring in awe at his own cum-slicked member. The sight is too much for Stefan. With a groan, he grips his own cock and aims it at the young man's crotch, shooting his own thick, powerful load all over the glistening, cum-dripping dick. It's a final, possessive anointing, marking the young man's cock with his own toxic seed. The young man gasps, looking down at the scorpion tattoo on Stefan’s body and the double load covering him. A slow, blissful smile spreads across his face. He relishes the sight, using his hand to stroke his cock once more, spreading the mingled cum from his base up over his stomach and chest. Finally, he brings his dripping fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Stefan, kisses him gently on the forehead, a benediction, a welcome, and then lets him go, his face a mask of ecstatic bliss. Mark rises, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. He walks to the board. You hear the chalk scrape as he puts a mark under "NEG". But he's not done. With a final, dramatic flourish, he adds a question mark right next to it. As the young man stares at the board, Stefan puts a comforting arm around his shoulder. "Don't worry," he says, his voice a promise of beautiful decay. "That question mark is just temporary. We'll be scratching it out and moving you up top soon enough." The message is clear. Another conversion has begun. The energy in the room slowly deflates, the spell broken. The audience begins to disperse, their whispers fading into the humid air. You are floating, adrift in a haze of exhaustion, overstimulation, and profound satisfaction. Every nerve in your body is singing a final, discordant song. Mark and Stefan are by your side, a grounding force in the swirling aftermath. The distant thrum of the bathhouse music, the hiss of a distant shower—it all fades into a dull, meaningless roar. The last thing you feel is Stefan's hands on your ankles, unstrapping you with a gentle, practiced touch. Then, nothing. The world goes black.

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score IV After a while, the two get you back in the sling, the blindfold back on your face. You hear the door crack open again. Then come the others. The ones the sign was truly for. The room quickly fills again, the air growing thick with a new kind of anticipation. One after the other, they fuck a load into your gaping hole. You lose count. But Mark and Stefan record each breeding in chalk on the board. You're fucked by a slow and gentle fucker. His rhythm is a stark contrast to the anonymous roughness before. His cockhead rubs against your prostate with a surgeon's precision. He's not a heavy fucker; he lets the sling do the work, his hand on your thighs, pulling you rhythmically onto his pole. You feel his hand, a manly hand—not that of a heavy worker, but of an office worker. He grabs your hand back and holds yours, a simple, intimate connection in the midst of the depravity. And then you notice it. A scent. It cuts through the miasma of sweat and cum, sharp and achingly familiar. It's a scent you know better than your own. Your mind races, trying to place it, a cold dread mixing with a confusing warmth. Mark notices your body tense. He hugs you, his voice a soothing whisper in your ear. "Relax, don't worry. This guy is a good one—husband material." Husband. The word hits you like a physical blow. The scent. It's your husband's cologne, the one you bought for him in Dubai. It's Friday. He was supposed to be home late. A cold, sickening wave crashes over you. Is he here? Has he now found out your secret, just like you found out about his at the rest stop? Your spiraling thoughts are shattered as his rhythm breaks. He cums with deep, strong strokes, a quiet groan escaping his lips. He pulls out, leaving you empty and reeling. No words. Mark adds a mark to the board, but you don't know which column. Before you can think about it further, the next guy is already there. Mark's voice is in your ear, urgent and excited. "Wow, you are in for a real treat now!" He puts poppers under your nose. "Take three deep hits. You will need them!" You sniff, holding the hits until your lungs burn. You're flying. You feel a massive cock enter you, followed by the smell of smoke and faint leather. He's hard as rock, with an upward curve that hits your prostate, harder than anyone else. There's something to his cock, a texture, a presence, that is giving you an intense pleasure different from any of the others before. He leans over, his voice a low, possessive growl in your ear. "Recognize this PA tearing you open for my bugs to take?" The biker. The leather biker from the rest stop. The one who coached you there to breed a random bugchaser—the one you later found out to be your husband. The biker who loaded you at the same time, twice, with toxic juice. The only one who knows your shared, twisted secret. He pounds into you, churning the cum inside you into a frothy mess. "Love churning up the load of your husband inside you! Did you recognize his cologne? He bred you good before I got my turn." He pauses, his cock still buried deep, letting the words sink in. "But guess what... you're not the only one getting a toxic load from me tonight. I loaded him up about an hour ago, right before he came in here to breed you." The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place. The betrayal, the shared vulnerability, the fucked-up unity—it doesn't break you. It completes you. The fear evaporates, replaced by a profound, ecstatic hunger. You open up for him, for his load, for everything. As he finishes, you find your voice, breathless and desperate. "More," you gasp. "Get the most sleazy guys in here! I want the worst you can find!" Stefan chuckles, a dark, approving sound. "Oh, I think the guy you are looking for just entered." The crowd in the room turns to the door in a unified wave of awe. The air grows heavy, thick, and cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. He approaches the sling, and the crowd parts for him like a diseased sea. You hear his footsteps—not heavy, but a shuffling, scraping sound, like he's dragging his feet. When he finally touches you, his fingers are like bony claws, but it's the texture of his skin that's truly shocking—it's dry, papery, and hot, like old paper left too close to a fire. You feel his hairless, wasted chest as he leans over you, his weight surprisingly light. You feel his thighs, mostly bone, no muscle, his skin hanging on his buttocks, seeming two sizes too large for his frail frame. He's seen better days, probably a muscular hunk in his prime, now a ghost of that man. But then you feel his cock, a shocking contrast to the wasted body it's attached to. It's not just big; it's swollen and unnaturally hard, like a piece of gristle. The shaft is thick and veiny, a roadmap of sickness, and at its base, you feel the cold, unyielding bite of a thick metal cockring, strangling the flesh and making it swell even larger. The head is a bloated, purple dome. You feel the rough, uneven texture of the warts that circle the rim, a crown of disease on this monstrous appendage. "Christ, he's hung for a sick guy," another voice murmurs. "A purple monster on his pale body! See those angry warts? That thing looks like a weapon." "Now you're in for the ultimate treat," Stefan whispers in your ear, his voice a dark, excited thrill. "This one's the real deal." You feel your heart hammering. What an experience, the ultimate thrill. He puts the tip of his monster at the entrance of your gaping hole. The crowd leans in, their voices a depraved commentary. "Is he really gonna fuck his seed into this poor guy?" "He asked for it… now he's gonna get it!" You can't stay silent. This is what you wanted. You moan, your voice raw with need. "Give me that toxic cock. Show me what a real plague feels like!" Your words spur him on. He leans in closer, his rattling breath hot against your ear. "You want this, you little chaser? You want my disease?" He starts to shove inside, starts to thrust, a wheezing, rattling sound with every push into your cum-filled hole. "Yes!" you cry out, your body arching in the sling. " I want your strain! Fucking convert me!" He laughs, a wet, broken sound. "Gonna knock you up for good, you dumb little ass. This ain't just a poz load, this is the jackpot. Here’s my gift! Here are my toxic babies to conquer you!" He leans in closer, his rattling breath a foul gust in your ear. "They've thrown everything at me, you know. Every drug they got. But my strain... my strain is special. It's resistant. It ate all their magic pills for breakfast. The docs say I'm a dead man walking." He gives a short, harsh laugh. "So yeah, I'm happy to take a begging little chaser like you with me. You wanted the worst? You're getting it. This is the load to convert you! You will never recover from this! You're getting my legacy." He doesn't last long. He cums with a shuddering, final gasp. Even with all the cum pooling in your chute, you feel his eruption, a load that has been brewing in his balls for quite a while. It feels like a fire being injected directly into your soul. You feel his thick, bug-laden sperm; it feels more permanent, more transformative, than all the others combined. It's a warmth that burns, a poison that feels like a cure. As he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, you feel strong hands take yours. Mark is on one side, Stefan on the other. They're not just watching; they're with you. They squeeze your hands, and you feel Mark's other hand gently stroking your forehead, his thumb wiping away sweat you didn't realize was there. It's a gesture of pure comfort, calming the shivers that rack your body. But when you hear their voices, the pride is unmistakable. "Shhh, we've got you," Stefan murmurs against your temple, his breath warm. "You did so good. We are proud of you!" "You took it for us, the three of us," Mark adds, his voice thick with emotion as he continues to stroke your hair. "You're one of us now. Truly." You hear the chalk scrape again, but it's not a single mark. It's Stefan, drawing a new, crude heading at the top of the board. You can't see it, but you hear the scratching of the letters. Then, a single, decisive mark beneath it. Mark leans in, his voice filled with a dark reverence. "He just made you a new category."

A storage container in the backyard of a run-down house, 1 of 3 residential vestiges amid a block of industrial buildings. It was cold--and sketchy, of course--and my buddy who picked me up had apparently been awake for a couple of days. He gave me his load, then immediately passed out. I was just kneeling there in the cold box with one of those extra comfy, Mexican blankets over my shoulders while watching porn on my phone until he woke up for round 2 then took me home lol

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score III You hear the door click shut, cutting off the sounds from the hallway. The frantic energy in the room dissipates, replaced by a quiet, sacred intimacy. They unstrap you, their hands gentle and sure. Mark lifts you out of the sling, his strong arms supporting you as your legs tremble, refusing to hold your weight. They remove the blindfold. The room looks like a disaster zone, the floor beneath the slick leather a huge, glistening pool of cum. They lay you down on a soft mat on the floor, the contrast immediate and overwhelming. Mark is kissing you, his tongue exploring your mouth, a deep, claiming kiss that tastes of pride and possession. Stefan is between your legs, his fingers massaging your open, swollen hole. He scoops up a handful of the leaking cum, a warm, slick cocktail of seed from a dozen strangers. A toxic brew of high-VL strains and resistant bugs. He brings his fingers to your lips. "Taste it," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Taste the sick seed we and everyone else dumped in your willing hole." You open your mouth, and he feeds it to you, his fingers coated in the filth. You taste the salt, the bitterness, the most beautiful taste in the world. Then Mark leans down and kisses you again, a deep, filthy cumkiss, sharing the taste of your own debasement. Then Stefan is back between your legs, pushing more fingers into your hole. Three, four, up to his knuckles. Your hole, already wrecked and overflowing, offers no resistance. He goes in further. With a slight, insistent push, his entire hand slides inside. You've never been fisted before. It feels wonderful. His hand is opening and closing rhythmically, a living thing inside you, stimulating your prostate to the max. He's slowly punching deeper, his knuckles a firm, constant pressure against your most sensitive spot. All the while, Mark is kissing you deeply, his hands roaming your body—caressing your chest fur, the hair on your stomach, following your treasure trail down to the cold metal of the chastity cage. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Stefan is working deeper, and then he does something that steals your breath. He pulls his closed fist out. The sensation is a shocking void, your entire body clenching around the emptiness. But as quick as he pulled out, he's pushing in again. He repeats it, a slow, deliberate rhythm. He's punchfucking you. The sensation is indescribable. He pushes deeper, and with a final, gut-wrenching pull, your insides turn inside out. Your prolapsed gut blossoms into a perfect, glistening rosebud. The shock is electric, a mix of violation and a terrible, thrilling excitement as the cool air strikes your inner walls, now exposed to the world. "Here's something for you!" Stefan grunts to Mark. Mark moves down there, his face disappearing between your legs. You feel his tongue, hot and wet, lapping at your rosebud. He's caressing every single wrinkle with his tongue, cherishing all the toxic juices that cling to it, buried in the tiny crevices… lapping at the cocktail of anonymous loads. Your rosebud starts to contract, to pulse, and it feels as if his entire face is being pulled inside you. The pressure is too much. You're cumming, your first true anal orgasm ever. A wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure crashes over you, and cum leaks from the slits of your cock cage in a steady, pathetic stream. Mark licks up every drop, then moves up to share your final neg load with Stefan and you in a three-way, salty kiss. It's not the frantic breeding of strangers; it's a slow, intimate possession. They kiss you, touch you, murmur words of praise against your skin. "You're doing so good," Mark whispers. " So fucking beautiful like this."

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score II The door creaks open, and the noise from the hallway floods in—the thumping bass, the distant moans, the murmur of voices, and the distinct, tinny sound of porn playing on TV screens. You hear footsteps slow down, men peering inside, their shadows falling across you. You can practically feel their eyes on the sign, reading the depraved invitation. Some linger in the doorway, their whispers a mix of shock and curiosity. "Come on in!" Stefan calls out, his voice loud and welcoming. "Our friend here needs your help!" More men enter. The room begins to fill, the air growing thick with body heat and anticipation. A low buzz of conversation starts up. "Shit, for real?" a voice asks, skeptical. "You're actually looking for poz loads?" Another voice answers, "Fuck yeah, look at the board. They're not kidding." The crowd grows larger, jostling for a better view. The energy in the room shifts from curious to predatory. It's now a packed, buzzing audience, hungry for the show. This is when Stefan makes his move. He holds up a hand, and the room immediately falls silent. His voice drops, losing its welcoming tone and becoming something hard, serious, and cutting. „Tonight, this hole becomes a toxic waste dump. We're filling it with the most charged-up loads in this city." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. "Real talk for a second. Any neg guys, you wanna fuck him? Cool. But know you're walking out poz. No question. And for the guys on PrEP? Don't kid yourselves. We got some serious, resistant bugs in the room tonight. That blue pill ain't a shield here. You fuck him, you join him. Plain and simple. So... yeah. Consider yourselves warned." A stunned silence hangs in the air for a moment, thicker than before. Then, a low, hungry murmur ripples through the crowd. The warning hasn't scared anyone off; it's just raised the stakes to an unbearable level. "Now," Stefan says, his voice ringing with pride. "Who's first? Toxic preferred." "Hell, yeah. I'm in!" You feel the presence of men drawing closer, a circle of heat and intent. The first one steps up. A hand with long, soft-skinned fingers traces your legs, your thighs. Mark's hand rests on your chest, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "I'm with you. Let it happen." The voice of a young guy, maybe a student from the local university, cuts through the air. "Nice hole. Not a virgin..." You chuckle, imagining what your hole must look like after yesterday's double-penetration. He steps between your legs, you feel his fingers circling your rim, your ass lips still tender from the abuse. "Lube?" you ask. It's your first fuck of the day. You hear the metallic clank of a lid and the crinkle of a plastic bag. "Got some!" a man says. Something warm and heavy is placed on your stomach. Then another. You feel them—two used rubbers, heavy with spunk, still at body temperature. Almost certainly the only rubbers of the day. The young guy takes one, and you feel the warm, thick liquid drip onto your hole. He's lubing you with who-knows-whose cum. "Cum is the best lube there is," he says. "Nothing like it!" "So young... and he looks so innocent and clean," someone whispers from the crowd. "But I know for sure - this guy is not shooting blanks." You hear Mark's voice, low and dirty. "Open up." You part your lips, and he presses the second, still-warm rubber to your mouth, squeezing the contents onto your tongue. The taste is salty, metallic, and thick. He leans in and kisses you, his tongue pushing the anonymous load deep into your throat, sharing the depraved gift in a filthy cumkiss. You feel the tip of the young guy's cockhead at your entrance. The sensation is exaggerated by your blindness; every touch, every sound feels more intense, unreal. He pushes in with short strokes, fucking deeper and deeper. The inner ring that gave you so much pain yesterday is no longer a barrier; it yields to him willingly. You feel neatly trimmed pubes scratching against your asshole as he bottoms out. He's all the way in, fucking you with a slow, methodical, grinding rhythm, his hands holding you in place, owning every inch of your hole. It's a deep, possessive breeding. The speed increases, ever so slightly. "I hope you know what you're in for," he grunts. "I'm not pulling out." He's jackhammering into you now, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust, driving himself to climax. "Yeah, take it, you fucking chaser," he growls, his voice raw. "Gonna knock you up good." You hear the chalk scrape against the blackboard. Scrape. "POZ," Mark calls out, his voice ringing with pride. A cheer goes up from the crowd. He pulls out, and the next man steps up without a moment's pause. He's broader. You feel his thick, hairy, muscular thighs against you—a bear. He goes right for your hole. His cockhead is wider, opening you up further, but the young guy's load helps. He shoves in balls-deep. He's shorter, but he's giving your hole a nice stretch, reminding you of yesterday. "Goddamn, the bear's gonna wreck him," someone mutters. "Look at that gut, he's gotta be toxic as fuck." "Bet his viral load is off the charts," another agrees. After only a few strokes, he unloads with a deep, guttural grunt. No words. Another scrape of chalk on the board. "TOX," Mark announces. "And a big one." He is replaced by the next, and the next, and the next. Men keep coming in, watching, talking, commenting on your gaping, cum-filled hole. "Fuck, look at that cunt," someone mutters from the crowd. "It's already a sloppy mess." "Gonna need a plunger to get all that spunk out," another laughs. "Lucky bastard. Getting what we all dream of." You lose count. Suddenly, Mark gets up, squeezes your hand, and steps between your legs. He couldn't hold back any longer. He's staring directly at your wrecked cunt, looking at the deep pool of cum inside, overflowing down across your balls. "Look at you," he breathes, his voice thick with awe. "What a beautiful mess. All this toxic spunk inside you." Hard as always, he plunges in. "Fuck! Love this feeling… It's heaven! My cock bathing in tons of poz sperm." His upward curve hits you inside in all the right places, causing your locked-up cock to throb and leak a steady stream of precum. He doesn't last long, and with a deep, possessive moan, he adds his own high-VL load to the mix. "Fuck yeah," he grunts, his voice tight with release. "Gifting you my strain, brother. Take it deep." "What a hunk," a voice whispers respectfully. "Look at the muscle on him. That's a prime poz bull right there. His strain's probably legendary." He is immediately replaced by Stefan, who has been furiously stroking himself right next to you. He steps up and, with a loud groan, jacks his load directly onto your hole for everyone to see. You feel the hot, thick ropes of his cum splatter against your sensitive, puffy rim. It's not a fuck; it's a primal act of marking. Before you can even process it, he shoves his cock in, not to fuck, but to push his seed deep, to ensure it takes. "One-point-two-million!" he grunts out proud. "If this doesn't take..." He slowly pulls out, and you feel the resulting gush of air and cum as your gaping hole tries to close around nothing. Mark, still breathing heavily, picks up the chalk. Without a word, he walks to the board and makes two deliberate, sharp marks under the "TOX" column. A tribute to their joint potency. He turns to the room, his voice loud and clear. "Our brother needs a break. We need a private moment. But we'll be opening the door again soon. So save your fucking loads. He's not done yet. He needs more."

Part 16: The Bathhouse Ledger and the Final Score I The bathhouse looms before you, a multi-story building from the 70’s, nestled in the heart of the city. As you approach the metal glass doors, a thick wave of chlorine and humidity hits you, a sharp contrast to the crisp evening air. The scent is sterile, almost chemical, a promise of what awaits inside. The neon sign above the door flickers, casting an eerie glow on the sidewalk, and the distant thump of a bassline spills out onto the street. Mark and Stefan are already there, waiting for you in the locker room, their faces split into identical, predatory grins. They're dressed in sleek, black neoprene harnesses, framing their chests, accentuating their masculine pecs, a testament to their control and dominance. The cold neoprene feels alien against your skin, a stark reminder of the night ahead. The yellow piping on their harnesses a stark, almost mocking contrast to the harsh fluorescent lights of the lobby. A jolt goes through you. Yellow. The universal color for watersports. You've always loved it—the filth, the degradation, drinking it straight from the tap, taking it up your hole. But you had no idea they were into it. A thrill of discovery mixes with a strange sense of disappointment. Tonight, piss play seems almost... quaint. Harmless. A child's game compared to the real prize you're all hunting. The yellow piping suddenly feels like a ghost of a kink, a reminder of a simpler kind of perversion you've all left behind. Stefan, bold and utterly shameless, throws his arm around you, pulling you close. He doesn't bother to lower his voice. Instead, he projects it across the locker room, making sure every man within earshot hears his challenge. "Ready for your conversion, brother?" The effect is instantaneous. The low hum of conversation dies. A locker door slams shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Every head turns. Men pretending not to listen suddenly stop toweling off, their jaws tight, their eyes wide and fixed on the three of you. Some look away quickly, a flicker of fear or judgment in their eyes. Others stare openly, their expressions a mixture of shock and raw, undisguised hunger. The air crackles, not with silent judgment anymore, but with a loud, electric tension. You can feel their collective gaze on you, a physical weight. In this moment, you are no longer just another patron; you are the main event, the offering, the spectacle. And Stefan has just announced the show to the world. Mark just grins, reaching into a small duffel bag at his feet. He pulls out two identical metal cockrings, each a solid band of polished steel, completely encircled by a repeating, sharp-edged biohazard symbol. He hands one to Stefan, who slips it onto his cock with a smirk. Mark does the same, the metal cold and unyielding against his skin. The clinking of the rings echoes in the tiled room, a chilling soundtrack to your transformation. Stefan turns to you, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and hunger. "We need to keep you focused," he says, his voice soft but firm. He reaches into the bag again and pulls out a metal chastity cage, the locks gleaming ominously. "This should do the trick." He locks it onto you, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your body. You can feel the weight of it, a constant reminder of your submission. "We'll make sure you blow your load at the end," he promises, his voice a dark caress. "But for now, the attention is on your hole." Mark nods in approval, and the three of you grab the towels from your lockers. Instead of wrapping them around your hips, you each throw them over your shoulders, a clear, deliberate signal. You walk out of the locker room as a unit, your cocks and gear on full display, showing everyone exactly what's on offer. The bathhouse is a labyrinth of steam and sex. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, lube, and bleach. A pulsing, electronic beat vibrates through the walls, mingling with the distant sounds of moans, the slap of wet skin on skin, and the hiss of a steam room. You pass by open doorways, catching glimpses of men stroking their meat, trying to attract guys for some 1-on-1 or group action. The atmosphere is electric, a mix of anticipation and debauchery that sets your nerves on edge. As you walk, Stefan leans in, his breath hot on your ear. "Feel that energy?" he whispers, his voice a low growl. "All that raw, male filth. This is your world tonight. You're the king of it." You can feel your cock straining against the chastity cage, a futile effort that only serves to heighten your arousal. Mark chuckles, his hand resting on your shoulder, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. Finally, you reach the rented sling room. Mark hangs a printed sign on the door, the letters stark and uncompromising: "No loads refused. Poz & Toxic preferred. Use him." It's a declaration, a promise, a warning. Anyone who enters this room knows exactly what they're in for. The sign hangs there, a stark reminder of your purpose, your transformation. Inside the sling room, the air is thick with anticipation. The sling hangs from the ceiling, a leather and metal contraption designed for maximum exposure and minimum comfort. The leather creaks softly as it sways gently, a chilling promise of what's to come. Mark pulls out a small blackboard and hangs it on the wall, the chalk already poised in his hand. He draws three columns, each stark and unyielding: NEG, POZ, TOX. It's a scoreboard, a tally of your transformation, a visual representation of your journey. The chalk squeaks against the board, a haunting sound that echoes in the silent room. You stand there, chastity cage locked, harnesses gleaming, sign hanging, blackboard ready. The ritual is complete, but before the main event, the world outside this room needs to disappear. Mark steps forward first, his expression softening. He doesn't just grab you; he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. He leans in and kisses you, and it's not possessive or demanding. It's deep and slow, a grounding force. You can taste the salt on his skin, the faint, clean hint of lube and sweat, but underneath it all is the familiar taste of Mark, of home and safety. It's a kiss that says, "We're here. We've got you." As he pulls back, Stefan moves in behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his arms wrapping around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his warmth seeping into you. He doesn't speak, just holds you, his presence a solid, comforting weight. You can feel his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against your thigh, but it's not a demand. It's just a fact, a part of him, a part of this shared moment. His hands roam your body slowly, not with arousal, but with a quiet reverence, tracing the lines of your sides, your hips, as if memorizing you one last time. You lean your head back against Stefan's shoulder, your eyes closed, letting their combined presence envelop you. The sounds of the bathhouse—the distant music, the muffled moans—fade into a dull, irrelevant hum. In this room, between these two men, you are not an offering or a spectacle. You are their brother, their project, their cherished friend. The fear is gone, replaced by a profound, unshakeable calm. You know, with every fiber of your being, that no matter what happens next, they will take care of you. "This is it. This is your last chance to change your mind. No shame, no judgment. We lock this door, and it's just the three of us. We'll spend the night here, together. We'll still be brothers. But if you want what's on that board... once that door opens, there's no turning back. You're ours to give away. You understand?" You hold his gaze, your heart pounding a steady, heavy rhythm against your ribs. You nod, a slow, deliberate grin spreading across your face. Stefan's own grin mirrors yours, but he doesn't let it go. He steps closer, his hand resting on the back of your neck, his touch warm and grounding. "You know we both love you. We need to know you're ready to let go. To trust us to be here for you, no matter what happens in the next hours. Can you do that?" "I trust you," you say, your voice clear and steady. "Completely." A wave of relief washes over their faces. Mark's serious expression breaks into a proud, loving smile. "Good," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Then don't be afraid. Don't hold back. Accept every gift they give you. We'll be right here. We'll make sure it takes." Stefan leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "We're gonna let them fill you so full of toxic seed, you'll have no choice but to join the family. Let's go make you one of us." Stefan guides you to the sling, his hands firm and steady as he helps you settle into the leather. Mark lifts your legs, securing them in the loops high above your head, leaving you completely exposed. The blindfold settles over your eyes, plunging you into a world of darkness. The last thing you see is Mark's proud, loving smile, and then Stefan's hand is on your thigh, a grounding, warm weight. "Just feel," he whispers. "Let us do the seeing."

I remember once in a Caribbean Island I was contacted by a senior doctor of infectious disease somewhere from the US with Craiglist... He fucked me bare and it was great. I don't know if he was Poz or not but it felt absolutely great... Later, a couple of years, I met up with a Norwegian doctor and he too, fucked me bare and loaded me up. Me not knowing if he was Poz or not. Until today I am still negative... But I love to hook up with medical gay professionals....

No... Please don't... Too late... You are slowly converting to the brotherhood kid...