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I had a play with a couple of guys after work at the good cruising park. One dude was fucking me and another guy appeared from between some bushes. The dude, who was fucking me, pulled out and blew his load, a shame, I would have taken it. Then the new guy stuck his cock in and fucked me for a minute and pulled out. I asked him if he was going to cum, but he zipped up and took off. Later on, I pushed out a load, so I guess the second guy just blew real fast, or the first guy shot a couple of spurts in me before he pulled out - ether way I got a load.

Fuck I do that too. Particularly if my briefs are musky from sweat. Wearing a buddy's briefs right now. His load and my load are both in them. So fucking hot.

Wow! Fantastic moment you experienced brought so vividly to us as we read your recalling of the tale. I was right there watching everything over your right shoulder. That’s how it felt reading this.

…

I'll breed in any position. Doggy is usually my favorite. Something about having a guy on all fours on the floor, back arched, my cock deep inside his ass (love it if there's already loads seeding his pussy). Want to get every inch of my dick as deep as possible to get my cum so deep in his faggot ass.

Lucky Alex! Wish that was my conversion story!

Don't be *too* sad about that. All the production's money coming from only Canadian sources meant there was no negative creative interference with the adaptation of Rachel Reid's book. Jacob Tierney, the show runner, writer, and director, didn't want that. If there had been US money in the production it would almost certainly have made the series less than it is. Remember, Boots was a huge streaming hit on Netflix, based on a memoir called The Pink Marine. It got cancelled and didn't get a second season because of a media company merger that the companies thought would be threatened if they renewed it. I don't want to engage in a political discussion at all. I'm just saying that in these fraught times it's not a bad thing that Heated Rivalry wasn't distorted by US money or creative influence. FWIW, the budget for HR was minuscule. In an interview I heard Tierney say a number so low I won't repeat it as it can't be true. Best estimates I saw were CAD $10-12 million in total which I find difficult to believe given the quality of the results. Tierney has said he thinks the budget for Season 2 when they adapt The Long Game will be about the same. The program was produced by Jacob Tierney and his producing partner's company for Crave and initially picked up by HBO in Australia (I love my people). The HBO exec for AU suggested to his US counterpart that they look into Heated Rivalry and a rights deal was inked very shortly afterwards for the US. Yes, it totally sucks that the HR team aren't eligible for the Emmy Awards. When I balance an almost certainly lesser adaptation in terms of authentic queer representation versus what we ended up seeing, I'm at peace with it. I would expect HR stars to be showing up at US Awards season events perhaps as presenters this year.

I think I need to be on the end of your cock so you can show me 🤔 HMU (In London too).

When a Bottom, I just take all the direction - hard verbal or slapping - from the breeding Top. He'll get what he wants. Mouth closed and ears open and listen. Hole up and open, knees bent, face down and groan for Him. And say thank-you after He's loaded you hole, and suck his meat clean. It's just being polite.

With spunk splotches on my dark blue trackie bottoms and travel home on the London Underground trains is just a badge of honour. Well, i think it is. I try to swallow as much as possible but a Top can spray wherever he wants to, right? Marking his territory. 😜

Once after sucking a guy off at an ABS I went to a McDonalds and didn't know I had a glob of cum in beard. I didn't realize this till after I ate and went to the men's room and looked in the mirror. I even ask him as we driving back to pick up my car, "Do I have any cum on my face?" He replied, "no," I guess maybe that was his way to mark his territory or maybe just to humiliate his cocksucker.

Next part, guys! Love to hear what you think... Part 8: The Return to the Rest Stop: Breeding the Bugchasing Husband It's winter, already pitch dark, and you see several cars parked in the lot. Your husband is supposed to be home for the weekend, but you still have an hour before expecting him to arrive. Feeling safe with the PEP prescription in your hand, you think, Why not one last time? All the cars are from locals, no one inside. Probably all in the woods. You enter the familiar trail. You only hear muted voices deep in the back, the occasional glow of a cigarette in the dark. Like a moth, you are drawn to the light. You hear the voices more clearly. "What a slut! Been taking loads for more than an hour now! His mancunt is wider than my wife's after giving birth to our three kids!" You see a group of six or seven middle-aged guys in work boots and Carhartt jackets, gathered around someone bent over a fallen log. Married guys on their way home to their wives. You know these men. You see them at the hardware store, at the mall. Married for years, maybe decades. They've spent twenty years fucking their wives with no thought for a condom because that was for 'other people.' Now the sex at home has dwindled to a monthly chore, and their balls are heavy with pent-up seed. A gay cumdump in the woods is an easy opportunity, a warm hole to drain their balls in on the way home. They never test. They've never heard of PrEP, or they'd rather die than ask their doctor for it, terrified their wife might find the prescription. They are walking reservoirs of every bug they've ever picked up over the decades, and they spread them carelessly, naively, into any willing hole. These are the real threat, your mind whispers. They're walking time bombs, and they don't even know it. One of them is fucking the bent over guy furiously, the sounds of wet, excited slapping filling the cold air. And then you see HIM. The leather biker from the rest stop. He turns sideways, looking you straight in the eyes. He pulls on his cigarette, the glow revealing his majesty. This time he's wearing leather chaps instead of pants—commando. A massive metal ring stretches his balls obscenely long, his girthy rod is hard, curved upward, glistening with cum or ass-juice, the heavy circular barbell crowning its top. And—now clearly visible in the orange glow—a biohazard tattoo right above his cock. He smiles and winks you over, guiding you into the scene. Whispering, "I knew you would be back!" One of the guys has just finished. Somebody wants to freeze the scene, pulls out his phone and takes a picture. The flash illuminates the bottom‘s heavily used ass. You see the open cunt in front of you, gaping open. You can see all the way inside, a milky puddle of cum pooling in there, leaking out and dripping from his balls. You are focused on this sight, you don't even care what kind of guy this is. The dark is hiding everything. The leather biker steps behind you, his presence a warm wall in the cold. He opens the buttons of your jeans, pulling them down, releasing your hardening cock. He plays with your own PA, his hands moving up under your jacket and t-shirt, twisting your nipples, which are directly wired to your cock making it twitch. He’s holding you to his own body, hugging you, warming you in the cold winter evening. "In for a dive? Go for a dip!" he whispers in your ear. You put your cock to the bottom's cunt. It's so loose, your PA and cock head enter easily without even touching flesh. You push until your balls hit his skin. You feel his asslips close around your shaft, pulling you further in. You feel the biker's cold PA at your own back entrance, leaking. You start to fuck. On every stroke out, you impale yourself inch by inch on the biker's poz cock. The dirty poz talk is a low growl in your ear. "That's it, take my poz cock while you fuck that sloppy whore. You feel that? You're swimming in all those married men's loads right now. They have no idea what they're shooting. They think they're just draining their balls. But they're not. They're shooting decades of accumulated bugs, every chronic infection they've ever had, right into this hungry hole. And your cock... your unprotected cock is drowning in that cocktail right now. All those viruses trying to invade your system through your skin. But me... I'm different. I'm not shooting blanks. I know exactly what I'm giving you. My last lab results were... impressive. Every load those guys gave him was a gamble, a lottery ticket. But we... we're the jackpot. We're giving him a confirmed gift, the one he's been craving." The words stimulate the bottom, who realizes he's being used by true giftgivers, and they reinforce your own role as an active participant in the poisoning. You're fucking harder and harder, your juices boiling in your balls, when the bottom moans loud, "Knock me up! Give me your gift! Please! I have been craving this for so long! Convert me! Make me one of you! I want to be toxic! I want to feel the sickness inside me, a permanent part of me! Make me a brother!" The voice. It cuts through everything. It's not just familiar; it's the voice of your safe harbor, your shared life, your "I love you." But it's twisted into this guttural, depraved plea. For a split second, your entire world stops. Your conscious mind screams in denial. No. It can't be. Your world shatters. It's not an orgasm; it's an implosion. A violent, painful convulsion rips through you, and your cock erupts, pumping your betrayal deep into your cheating husband's guts, who is obviously a just as sleazy bugchaser as you. But the horror doesn't stop there. Your body betrays you further, your ass clamping down like a vise on the biker's shaft. Each spasm of your own release milks him in return, and you feel a searing heat pulse into you as he roars his victory. Through the daze, you hear the bottom's guttural moan as he's filled by a stranger. The three of you are a single, convulsing beast of pleasure and poison, and you are its broken, beating heart. The biker pulls out, breathing heavily. He feels the shift instantly. You're not moving. You're rigid, making a choked, sobbing sound. The group starts to disperse. He has to physically pull you out of the scene, grabbing your arm and pulling you back into the darkness, just as your husband pulls up his jeans and stumbles away, oblivious. "Whoa, you okay? That was... intense," he says, his tone shifting from dominant to curious. You turn to him, your face a pale mask in the dark, tears or sweat or both streaming down your face. You can barely speak. You just grab his arm and whisper, the words torn from your soul: "That guy... The one we were fucking... That's my husband. I didn’t know…" The biker processes this for a second, a slow, dark understanding dawning on his face. He doesn't recoil. He lets out a low, dark chuckle of pure astonishment. "Holy... fucking... shit." He sees the absolute devastation on your face. He understands you've just been shattered. This is his moment. He pulls you into that comforting hug again, grounding you. His voice is a low, conspiratorial whisper in your ear. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe. It's okay. You just saw his ghost. You think that's a coincidence? You think it's an accident that you're both here, in this place, on this night? The universe brought you here. It brought you to me. Now... let me give you something real. Something to hold onto. Let me give you another one of my loads. I'm toxic as fuck right now, my VL is through the roof. So let's make sure it takes! Let me seal your fate. I know you want this. I know you need this." You can't think right now. You just turn around and guide his cock back into your own loaded cunt, and he fucks himself to another fantastic orgasm that sends you to heaven—without any poppers. The scene is so intense, so hot on its own, that it doesn't need any chemical enhancement. This fuck isn't about risk; it's about claiming. Every thrust is a hammer blow, forging you into a new shape. His PA isn't just ripping you open; it's a chisel, carving away the old you. "That's it," he groans, his voice a sacrament. "Take my high VL. Let it rewrite you. Let it become part of you." You don't just feel the peace; you seize it. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, actively pulling the gift deeper. This isn't something happening to you anymore. It's something you are choosing. And as you feel him pulse inside you again, you know you're finally home. You also get dressed and leave, drive home, your husband already there. He opens the door with a smile. "Hey honey! You're late." He has showered—he's always fastidious. He smells of your shared soap, a chilling contrast to the scent of cum and dirt you can't wash off your own skin. He gives you a quick perfunctory kiss on the cheek. As he turns to walk to the kitchen, you swear you see a faint, darker spot on the seat of his jeans, near the seam. Is it just water? Or is he already leaking? The uncertainty drives you mad. "Yeah," you manage, your voice hoarse. "Was at the doctors and took longer than I thought. Great that you are already here! Have been missing you! Let's order something to eat!" You eat and move to the couch, continuing the Netflix series where you left off last weekend. As you lie there, you're looking at him—totally normal from the outside—but in reality, you're picturing his cunt. You're wondering how it's probably looking right now, how a toxic cocktail of cum from who-knows-who is leaking from his ass. You wonder if he can feel it, if he's clenching to keep it desperately inside. And mixed in with all that anonymous seed, you know, is your own. Your load, pumped into him at the peak of his depraved confession, now swimming inside him without his knowledge. You're picturing the bugs, the viruses from all those married men, swarming in his guts, invading his flesh, all mingling with your own betrayal. All the while, you're watching another Netflix episode. He laughs at a joke on the show, a bright, easy sound that feels like it's coming from another planet. In bed at night, you can't sleep. Thinking he's a slut like you—maybe even sluttier! Two perverted souls on the same path, walking separately but connected through a wedding ring. And then, another thought hits you. A slow, dawning realization that cuts through the haze of the day. Your "don't ask, don't tell" agreement. You've always lived by it. Your freedom during the week was sacrosanct, and his was too. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you. But in all your years of careful negotiation, you never once discussed the terms of safety. It was the one, glaring omission you both silently agreed to ignore. You realize he's been cheating bare on you. The thought should be a lightning bolt of betrayal, but it isn't. It's a key turning in a lock. You've been consumed by guilt for your own barebacking, for the risks you've taken. But he's been doing the same thing. The same risk, the same betrayal, the same secret life. You're not just in the same boat; you're sailing on identical, secret courses. A wave of relief so powerful it almost makes you laugh washes over you. The scales are balanced. The hypocrite's guilt that has been eating you alive vanishes. You're not the only one compromising his health, his body, your shared life in the pursuit of filth. He is, too. He's just as much of a slut as you are. And in that shared, unacknowledged depravity, you find a twisted, comforting sense of peace. You're not alone in this anymore. At least he will understand when it's time... You make a decision. You go downstairs. The house is silent. You take the PEP packet out of your backpack. You look at the pharmacist's instructions, the warnings. You unscrew the child-proof cap. You pour the pills into your hand. They look so small, so innocent to hold so much power. You think about the doctor's words, the cold clinic, the shame. And then you think about the biker's warmth, the bottom's plea, your husband's voice. You drop the pills into the toilet bowl. You watch them float for a second before you flush. The sound of the rushing water is the sound of you letting go. As the bowl empties, a strange warmth spreads through your groin—not arousal, but a deep, cellular hum. It feels like a switch being flipped. You think of the doctor's piercings, his hard cock, his words: 'I get it.' And now, you finally do. You are not just choosing this path. You are becoming it. You are now all-in. As you get back to bed, you see your phone glowing on the nightstand. A message. You unlock the screen. It's on Romeo. It's from Mark. "I know what you did! I am back in town next week... We need to talk!" Your heart hammers, but you slowly fall to sleep, dreaming of the last days' experiences.

When fucking doggy I want the bottom to arch his back and not pull away (or push his ass back on my dick slightly as I’m thrusting).

I like missionary, full body contact, kissing while being bred.....

The story resumes Friday morning. Be sure to tune in.

Totally Agree with you - remember starting a young Bottom - Fingering - lube - having 3 Raw Tops doing me but when my Uncle having 7 Tops / Raw breeding - he had me introduced me to Poppers - Sniffing - Fucking / Sucking - Cum loads - Dripping Wet - realizing How much TOPS loves Tight / Young Bottoms !

Oh yes, cum must never be wasted.

it's low level chem sex. like booze it helps u relax but also makes you lose some motor coordination like weed it hightens emotions so even banal sex seems good but that in itself can become addictive where it's hard to have sex sober anymore. like T its chems, unnatural and a health risk. it's not as addictive as T but then the high isn't nearly as good. but it's somewhat of a similar head-in-the-clouds high and of course party type behavior is its own caution. i e had nights where ive done all 4: booze, weed, poppers and T. i've never heard of anyone going to poppers rehab but it's still a chem addiction, or can be. i've noticed that since going sober from T, my poppers usage just skyrocketed as a sort of "safer alternative".