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KTV9JF3RC

Nice. Hopefully more to come. Are you on prep or are you just ready to risk it?

He probably likes your cock, but doesn't like the bush. I'm not a big fan of real bushy junk either, especially ballsack.

Have you tried using a VPN. I use one to by-pass the stupid UK online access law that came in to force in July (requiring sites to robustly check that users are 18+).

Get over yourself!

What happened? If you're OK discussing?

I wouldn't be attracted in the least. I'd sooner do a FTM trans where I'd at least have a pussy to unload in. Never have (bucket list!) He'd need top surgery, though. I like the masculinity (even if twink like) and losing my "gold star" status -- on a technicality -- might be interesting 🙂

Or at least explain to your nephew. You may need to demonstrate.

DECEMBER EVENTS This Week … Bear Night - Thursday, December 18th @ 8pm Happy Hour - Friday, December 19th from 4-7pm

I've been to Killean many times. Time to start getting those numbers up pig! 🙂

Welcome to The Master Pathogen Christmas Special. While our main story is on hiatus until next year, @leatherpunk16 and I decided to post a short aside piece as a fun one-off to tide everyone over until we start the story back up. I hope everyone enjoys the short series and feel free to comment and share your thoughts. We will be posting each day until it's finished on Christmas Eve. Below is a link to our original story and source material... The Master Pathogen And without further ado, here is a teaser of what's to come: --------------------------------------- Prologue: Twas the Snowstorm Two Weeks Before Christmas... Snow drifted in gentle spirals over the Merrydale Christmas Tree Farm, settling on the endless rows of evergreens like powdered sugar. The lights strung along the pathways glowed a soft gold, illuminating smiling families carrying bundled trees toward their cars. Laughter chimed through the crisp winter air, warm and bright despite the cold. Grace Turner stood at the end of the main lane, watching the final visitors depart. She breathed in the scent of pine, her chest lifting with a feeling that was almost too big to contain. Everything around her felt peaceful—settled—as though the world had finally aligned in exactly the way it should. She turned toward the man standing beside her. Cole Henderson waited with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a shy, contented smile on his face. Snow dusted his shoulders and dark hair, giving him a quiet, gentle glow. His presence was as steady as the old farmhouse behind them—solid, dependable, safe. “Today was perfect,” Grace said softly, her voice touched with wonder. “I—I didn’t know it could feel this right. Staying here. Being here.” Cole stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold. “It’s because you made it that way.” He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “You brought life back to this place.” Grace let out a shaky, emotional laugh. “I thought I needed skyscrapers and boardrooms to be happy. But… standing here now, I realize I was always running in the wrong direction.” Cole smiled, warm enough to melt the snow between them. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you come home.” She looked up at him, eyes shining. “I ended things with Andrew,” she whispered. “For good. I’m not going back. I don’t want that soulless corporate life anymore.” The words hung in the air—not dramatic, just true. Cole touched her face, gentle and sure. “You deserve a life that feels like yours.” Snow swirled around them as she leaned into his touch, emotion thick in her throat. “I want to stay,” she said. “Here. With you.” Cole’s forehead rested against hers. The background lights blurred softly, turning the world warm and golden. “Then stay,” he murmured. “Stay, Grace.” She closed her eyes. “I will.” Their lips drew closer—slow, inevitable, filled with quiet certainty. The world around them seemed to hold its breath. Rows of trees whispered in the wind as the last light of evening glimmered over them. Grace stepped forward, heart full, ready to— — Grace Turner’s frozen, love-struck face lingered on the TV screen for barely two seconds before an avalanche of popcorn and empty beer cans pelted the image. Groans erupted from every corner of the room. “BOOOOOO!!! TURN THAT SHIT OFF,” someone yelled. But it was Bran Coletti, Chapter President of Phi Alpha Gamma, who truly commanded the chaos. Towering over the others even from the couch, Bran had a voice that operated at only two volumes—loud and louder—and both were currently in full force as he pointed accusingly at the screen. “Who in the holy hell requested we watch this?” he demanded. “Seriously. Whose emotional support movie is this? Stand up. Confess.” The rest of Phi Alpha sprawled around him in varying states of drunken festivity. Evan Marsh hovered near the window like a nervous bird, mumbling about the storm. Ty King, already shirtless for no reason anyone could identify, lay half-asleep on the floor. Zach Dempsey, eternal skeptic, looked personally offended by the movie’s existence. Derek Vance lounged with a smug smirk, clearly proud he’d thrown the empty beer can that hit “Grace” between the eyes. And Paul “Porkchop” Carter—adorably sentimental and two drinks past capacity—was sniffling into his sleeve. “Oh my god,” Zach muttered. “Is Chop actually—?” Porkchop shot up, cheeks flushed. “Shut the fuck up guys,” he snapped, voice thick with emotion. “She… she should be able to spend her life how she wants, okay?” Dead silence. Then the entire room detonated with laughter. “CHOP IS CRYING!” “Bro’s fuckin’ HAMMERED.” “Oh my god, someone take his schnapps away.” “He’s got a fuckin hard on too!” “I am empathizing,” Porkchop insisted, with all the dignity of a man slurring. Bran—President, tyrant, self-appointed god-king of the house—clapped his hands sharply. “Alright! That’s enough. We are NOT ending the night on emotional tree-farm drama.” He pointed at Noah Vance, Derek’s younger cousin, the pledge, who was trying to disappear into his too-tight children’s Christmas sweater. “Rookie. Up.” Noah froze. “Uh… what?” Bran waved him forward with the authority of a drill sergeant who’d been given a candy cane and too much power. “Pledge task. Pick the next movie. And don’t fuck it up or you’re on toilet duty for the entire next semester.” Noah stumbled toward the huge mixing bowl on the coffee table, filled with folded slips of paper—the frat’s chaotic holiday watchlist. He stuck his hand in, swirled, pulled something out. Bran snatched it before he could read it. “KRAMPUS!” he yelled triumphantly. “Hell. YES.” The room exploded. “FINALLY!” “Murder time!” “Christmas is SAVED!” “Play it, Rookie!” Noah hurried to cue up the movie while Ty grabbed another beer and Derek mock-wiped tears from Porkchop’s face. As the opening music of Krampus started, Evan drifted to the window again, tipping aside a tangle of pathetic garland. “Guys… the snow is getting, like… really bad.” Zach didn’t look away from the TV. “How bad?” Evan pressed his forehead to the glass. “Like… campus-shuts-down bad. I bet classes get cancelled tomorrow.” A triumphant roar shook the room. “FUCK YEAH! SNOW DAY!!” “No exams!” “Long live Phi Apha!” Behind them, the Christmas lights blinked twice, then once more… a faint, hesitant flicker. No one noticed. Not yet. — Krampus was barely ten minutes in before Phi Alpha Gamma descended into the predictable chaos of a winter-night watch party. Bran Coletti, Chapter President and self-declared Emperor of Christmas Movie Night, lounged in the center of the couch like it was his throne, barking commentary at the screen every few minutes. Ty whooped every time something vaguely violent happened, and Derek yelled back alternate lines he thought the characters should’ve said. Porkchop, miraculously recovered from his emotional meltdown, shoveled fistfuls of cinnamon popcorn into his mouth at a rate science would consider dangerous. Noah, the pledge, sat wedged between two couch cushions, trying not to look like a frightened woodland creature. Outside, the storm still raged—but the power in the neighborhood hadn’t so much as flickered. Through the front window, rows of houses remained warm and bright; the streetlights glowed steadily beneath the snowfall. This, unfortunately, did nothing to reassure Evan Marsh. “Guys,” Evan muttered, forehead nearly pressed to the glass, “the snow is really piling up out there. Like, uh… aggressively.” “No one cares, Evan,” Zach said flatly. “No, seriously, look—there are weird footprints in our yard. Like… big ones. That’s not normal, right?” “Footprints?” Ty perked up. “Like Santa?” “No,” Evan whispered. “Like… not human.” Before anyone could mock him further, the movie hit a tense beat: a child screaming, Krampus bells jingling ominously. And then— Every light in the frat house died. Instant. Total. Silent. The TV blinked out. The Christmas tree went dark. The heater cut off with a dull, defeated sigh. But through the front window, all the neighboring houses remained lit. And the streetlights still glowed. For a moment, no one said a word. Then Bran’s voice tore through the pitch-black living room. “OH, WHAT THE HELL? Why is OUR house the only one out? This is bullshit!” Ty yelped, “My beer— I can’t find my beer!” which was approximately the least helpful observation possible. Zach groaned. “It’s a blown breaker, obviously. This dump is older than Porkchop’s browser history.” “Hey,” Porkchop sniffed defensively, “my history is— is tasteful.” Someone bumped the coffee table. Someone else tripped over a plastic reindeer. The house filled with the sounds of chaos and mild suffering. Derek launched an empty can in Bran’s direction. “Nice job plugging in that sketchy space heater again, Prez.” “It was COLD,” Bran snapped. “Now shut up. We just need someone to flip the breaker.” As if on cue, a faint whistle drifted through the room. A cold draft crept up from the hallway leading to the basement—icy and damp, like something breathing from below. No one noticed. Not even Evan, who’d pressed closer to the window again and whispered, “Guys… I’m serious. Those footprints are really fucking weird.” Noah lifted his phone, its flashlight cutting a small pale circle through the dark. Zach’s voice came from somewhere near the tree. “Pledge. Basement. Breaker panel. Go.” Noah froze. “Why me?” “Because you’re the pledge,” Bran said, as if that were the entire explanation, the law, the universe. “And because someone needs to fix this before my toes freeze off.” Derek added, “Basement’s right there, buddy. Don’t scream too loud. Krampus might getcha.” Laughter rippled around him—forced, shaky at the edges. Noah swallowed. He turned toward the basement door. A stronger gust of cold rushed up as he pulled it open—unnaturally cold, like winter had carved itself into the earth beneath the house. He hesitated. Behind him, Bran barked, “Go on, Rookie. We believe in you. Sort of.” Noah stepped down the first creaking stair, phone flashlight trembling in his hand. The basement swallowed the light. The whistle echoed again—just for a moment, just enough to raise goosebumps. But the guys upstairs were already resettling themselves, arguing about whether they should start where Krampus stopped or restart it entirely. No one paid any more attention when Noah disappear into the dark, each guy grabbing their cellphones to kill the time. — Noah descended the basement stairs with steady, reluctant steps, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his phone high like a makeshift lantern. The narrow beam of light pushed weakly into the darkness below, illuminating dust motes that drifted through the cold air like tiny, suspended particles. The further he went, the more the warmth of the frat house disappeared behind him, replaced by a chill so sharp it felt as though the temperature dropped several degrees with each step. His breath fogged immediately, a thin white cloud that startled him—this basement shouldn’t have been that cold. The space opened before him in a low sprawl of clutter and neglect. Cardboard boxes marked XMAS DECOR leaned crookedly against the far wall, their corners softened by years of damp. Tangles of old Christmas lights were piled in plastic bins or strewn carelessly across the concrete floor like discarded serpents. A cracked inflatable snowman sagged in the corner, deflated and slumped over as if defeated by time. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—an acrid, chemical bite that made Noah’s throat tighten when he inhaled too deeply. He swallowed and tried to focus. The breaker panel sat near the furnace, its metal face dull with age. Noah forced himself toward it, trying to ignore the uneasy sensation that someone—or something—might be watching him from the darker corners of the basement. The feeling wasn’t entirely new; the basement had always felt strange, but tonight the atmosphere seemed charged in a way he couldn’t explain. There was a stillness to the air, a heavy, waiting quality that made him quicken his steps. A cold draft brushed the back of his neck as he reached the panel. It wasn’t the casual chill of an unsealed window or a poorly insulated wall—this felt like a long, icy exhale. Curious and unnerved, Noah turned and swept his flashlight toward the far wall. That was when he noticed it: a narrow door he had never seen before, partly obscured behind a stack of storage bins. The wood was warped and discolored, the frame cracked, as though it had endured decades of neglect. The door hung open by perhaps an inch, swaying subtly with the draft that flowed from the darkness beyond it. A soft, wavering whistle escaped from the unseen space behind the door, a hollow sound that pricked at his nerves. He didn’t investigate. His instincts urged him to turn back to the breaker. With fingers that trembled despite his efforts to steady them, he flipped the tripped switch. The house above him responded instantly—lights came back on, voices erupted in cheers, and the muffled thump of resumed movie sound reached him from the ceiling. Relief washed over him so quickly it made him dizzy. He let out a shaky laugh, raking a hand through his hair. He headed back toward the stairs, eager to rejoin the brightly lit world upstairs, but halfway up he paused abruptly. Something in the corner of his peripheral vision tugged at his attention. He turned, hesitant, and his flashlight swept across the basement floor. The tangled string of Christmas lights he’d seen earlier was no longer sitting motionless. The entire strand was shifting, inching slowly across the concrete floor like a living thing. The bulbs flickered irregularly—green, red, green, red—in a pulsing pattern that reminded him disturbingly of a heartbeat. The sight rooted him to the stairs, caught between disbelief and a rising sense of dread. Before he could convince himself he was imagining it, something struck him across the face. It wasn’t a physical blow so much as a wet impact, a sudden splatter of warm, viscous slime that hit with enough force to make him stumble back a step. He gasped as the substance slid down his cheek and jaw, its sickening chemical odor flooding his senses. His eyes burned from the sudden contact, and he instinctively wiped at his face, only smearing the slick fluid across his skin. Behind him, from the direction of the warped basement door and the creeping lights, a low growl rolled through the darkness. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that vibrated in the air around him. Noah froze on the stairs, heart pounding wildly in his chest. The growl shifted, curling upward into a sound that was unmistakably a chuckle—wet, guttural, and inhuman. His phone screen flickered violently as it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dimmed. The last coherent thought Noah had was that he needed to run. But his legs were already buckling beneath him as the world went black. — For the first twenty minutes after the power returned, none of the Phi Alpha Gamma brothers gave Noah a second thought. The movie was back on, the lights were on, the beer was flowing, and the living room had snapped right back into its rowdy rhythm. Bran restarted Krampus “properly, from the beginning, because cinematic excellence deserves respect,” and everyone groaned but went along with it. Ty sprawled across the rug with his head on a pillow shaped like Santa’s ass; Porkchop got emotionally invested in the opening scenes for reasons no one understood; Derek heckled the movie nonstop; Zach critiqued the pacing; Evan sat close to the window, flinching at every rattling gust of wind. Noah’s absence barely registered at first. He’d only gone to flip the breaker. A two-minute job. Maybe he’d stopped to check the Wi-Fi. Maybe he’d taken a leak. Maybe he’d found a dusty treasure trove of weird old frat history down there. And the movie was good. So good they didn’t notice how long it had been. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five. By the time the movie hit its midpoint, the guys were laughing, shouting, deeply engrossed—and Noah had been gone long enough for a quiet unease to slip into the edges of the room. It showed first in Evan, whose nervous habit of glancing at the basement door had become more frequent. Between flickers of lightning outside, he kept pressing his forehead to the glass, watching the snow pile into white drifts that swallowed the yard. Streetlights still glowed; nearby houses were still brightly lit. Their house remained the odd one out. The storm grew louder—wind scraping at the siding, rattling the gutters—and still the pledge hadn’t come back. When Ty finally muttered, “Damn, Rookie’s been down there forever,” it broke the spell over the room. Zach paused mid-sip of beer. “Huh. Yeah. He really has.” Bran frowned at the screen, though his gaze wasn’t quite focused anymore. “He’ll come up in a sec. Probably wiping cobwebs off the porn stash Derek keeps pretending isn’t his.” “They aren’t mine! I wasn't even alive to have that old of Playboys, you jackasses!” Derek barked, because that was the law of the universe. The laughter was weaker this time, the timing off. Another ten minutes passed. The snow outside grew deeper. The storm howled harder. The movie played on. And Noah remained conspicuously absent. Eventually, Porkchop sat up, frowning blearily. “Guys? Seriously. He’s usually back fast. Like… puppy-returning-with-the-ball fast.” Zach scoffed, but it didn’t carry the same confidence. “He’s fine. Probably went down a TikTok rabbit hole.” “Noah doesn’t even have TikTok,” Evan said quietly. The room went still again. Bran shifted forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. He looked toward the basement door, the only completely dark spot in the entire house. Something about it—the angle, the stillness—felt wrong, as though the darkness there was heavier than natural shadow. “How long’s it been?” he asked, voice lower now. Ty checked his phone. “Uh… like an hour? Maybe more?” An uneasy silence rippled through the room. “That’s… not normal,” Porkchop mumbled. Evan swallowed hard. “If he slipped or passed out or something—we’re gonna be in so much trouble. You know campus security already thinks we’re on probation even when we’re not.” No one argued. The paused Krampus frame stared back at them from the TV, claws raised mid-swipe, frozen in a way that made the air feel suddenly colder. Bran stood, breaking the tension with a crack of his knuckles. “Alright. Enough. Someone go down and get him.” The others looked at one another. No one moved. Not a single person volunteered. The basement door loomed in the far corner, a dark rectangle swallowing the soft glow of Christmas lights. And for the first time all night, even Bran didn’t bark an order.

I keep getting this message on the home page. And I cannot access the site. I constantly have issues with access to this site and find it very slow to respond. I often wonder if it's because I live in Australia. Will I get credit for the days I have been locked out? David

Actually, its a shared labor with @leatherpunk16. We've been working on this since June. Both of us writing and proof reading each other's contributions. Both of us are the authors. 🙂