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Love smokers and love smoking while playing! 😈

I'm a smaller guy who loves older . I lost my anal virginity by cheating on a girl for a hung daddy when I was 21 and immediately knew my place.

Local here as well! 😈

I’ve always had a thing for older men, as far back as I can remember. Still love a dad using me anyway he wants 😈

I think so, there's an FSM event on Sep 12 Currently I'm planned to be there for both 🐷

@Hunter22 Is there one planned for Folsom in Berlin too?

I'm a cock hungry fag who loves having my cunt gang banged & flooded by piss & cum but, getting fucked & flooded like this, I would be in paradise especially if I was used multiple times a day.

Too bad you'll be missing the fickstutenmarkt that's on the April 4th

In the sewer pipe under the interstate. It was clean, not waste system. Drained only for heavy rains to keep the interstate clear and open.

I'm loving that Dan is slowly awakening to his true self. Maybe a pool party is all it will take, or Rick has some guests round and he is drawn in. So many options, and I am looking forward to where @mancoco leads us!

Any number that getting fucked n taking dick in his ass or has it in his mouth is me

Jűrgen Klopp, former Liverpool FC Manager (and current Trivago guy) looks like he would refuse to take "no" for an answer.

thank you i found and i love

Picture two asses getting fucked side by side and you’re down there licking that wet dick as it pulls out.

ANON CUM DUMP HOSTING in the South Bronx (Foxhurst area) Door Unlocked, Face down, Ass up (lubed & poppered up) waiting & Hungry.. Tonight Wends. 1/28 from Midnight - ?.. Hit me up for info!!

The morning after the tanning room I woke slowly, the way you do when your body remembers more than your mind wants to admit. Sunlight slipped through the blinds and pooled on Joshua’s pillow—the one I still reached for sometimes in the dark, half-expecting to find him there. My ass was still tender, swollen in that soft, used way, hole loose and slick, leaking slow, warm trails of Tim’s cum down my crack and onto the sheets. I clenched experimentally and felt the silky slide of him still inside me, thick and warm, coating every inch. It should have felt wrong. Instead it felt like proof I could still be wanted, could still be filled, could still feel something other than absence. Joshua’s memory was in every breath I took in that bed. He’d been the one who taught me how love could live in your skin—slow, bare, eyes locked while he buried himself deep and whispered “you’re safe with me.” His accident had ripped that away in one brutal second, but it hadn’t erased the shape of him inside me. Now Tim was tracing the same contours—different hands, same care—and that overlap hurt and healed at the same time. I texted him, throat tight: “Still carrying you. Can we talk tonight? My place? I need gentle… and you to hold me when I fall apart remembering him.” His reply was almost immediate: “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. 7 pm. I’ll bring dinner and whatever quiet you need. I’m here for all of it.” Sarah texted at noon, her message landing like a hand on my shoulder: “Tim asked me this morning if it was okay to take you out properly. I told him yes—but only if he’s patient with your heart. He looked at me like he understood. You deserve this kind of soft, Moshin. Joshua would want you held like this.” Tears came fast. She’d spent two years reminding me that surviving didn’t mean forgetting—it meant making room for new love to sit beside the old one. The afternoon passed in quiet ritual. Fresh sheets on our bed. The sandalwood candle Joshua loved flickering low. A single white lily on the nightstand. No plug, no frantic prep—just lube, open heart, clean skin, and the hope that tonight I could honor both loves in the same place. Tim arrived at 7 with takeout from the Italian spot Joshua and I used to haunt—same sauce, same place we’d steal bites from each other’s plates—and a bottle of red. He wore a soft charcoal sweater, jeans, and carried white lilies. He stepped inside, set everything down, then just opened his arms. I walked into them, face pressed to his chest, breathing him in—clean sweat, cologne, safety. We ate on the couch, wine poured, pasta shared slowly. We talked between bites: Joshua’s laugh that used to fill this room, the way he’d kiss the back of my neck while I cooked, the ski accident that stole him in one merciless second, the years I’d kept my body locked because letting anyone in felt like erasing the only man who’d ever made me feel completely seen. I told Tim how Joshua’s love still lived in the way I craved tenderness, how his memory shaped every hope I had for what came next. To ease the weight, Tim pulled a small joint from his pocket—gentle indica, he said, “just to help us breathe.” We shared it on the balcony, Toronto night air cool against our skin, smoke curling up into the dark. The buzz settled over us like a warm blanket, softening the edges of grief, making my body hum with quiet want. Back inside, wine glasses refilled, I leaned in and kissed him—slow, tentative, tasting salt and smoke and possibility. He kissed back the same way—soft, searching, hands cradling my face like I was something fragile and precious. When we moved to the bedroom, I led him to our bed. Paused at the door, heart hammering. Tim wrapped his arms around me from behind, lips at my ear. “We can stay out here,” he whispered. “This is your space. Your memories.” I turned in his arms. “I want you here. In the bed where I felt most loved. Where I can feel it again… with you. Where Joshua’s love can stay, and yours can grow beside it.” His eyes shimmered. He kissed my forehead, then my eyelids, then my mouth—slow, reverent, full of quiet devotion. We undressed each other with aching care: his sweater lifted slowly, revealing the broad chest I’d clung to last night; my sweater eased off, his palms warm on my smooth skin. When we were bare, I took my turn to worship him—kissing his collarbone, tracing the ridges of his abs with my lips, kneeling to take his hardening cock into my mouth. I made love to his body—tongue swirling around the thick, veined shaft, sucking the swollen head until pre-cum coated my tongue in salty strings, hands cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently while I took him deeper, throat relaxing to swallow every inch until my nose pressed against his trimmed pubes. I worshipped the way his foreskin pulled back under my tongue, the musky taste of him, the way his thighs trembled and his breath hitched when I hummed around him, vibrating along his length, drawing low groans from his throat. I sucked him with tender devotion—slow bobs, tongue pressing the underside vein, cheeks hollowing as I drew him in, bringing him right to the edge where his cock throbbed against my tongue, pre-cum flowing steadily, before pulling off with a wet pop and kissing the leaking slit. “Moshin… you’re incredible,” he breathed, fingers gentle in my hair, hips rocking softly as I worshipped him. He pulled me up to kiss me—tasting himself on my tongue—then laid me back on the mattress with the gentleness of someone handling something infinitely precious. Kissed every inch—forehead, temples, the hollow of my throat where my pulse fluttered, nipples drawn into wet heat, tongue flicking and teeth grazing until they pebbled hard and aching, down my ribs to the dip of my waist, the curve of my hips. When he reached my hardening cock, he kissed the head tenderly, licked the pre-cum in slow, deliberate stripes, took me into his warm mouth with slow, loving strokes—lips sealing around me, tongue tracing every vein, sucking with gentle suction while one hand rolled my balls and the other teased my slick hole with a single finger, circling the rim before pressing in to the first knuckle, then deeper, curling to brush my prostate until pre-cum leaked steadily from my slit. Tears welled as memories flooded: Joshua’s mouth there once, his gentle teasing, his whispers of forever. I cried then—quiet at first, then deeper, sobs shaking my chest. Tim paused, climbed up, gathered me into his arms. Held me tightly against his heartbeat, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. “Let it out, my love,” he murmured, voice cracking with emotion. “Cry as much as you need. I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re so deeply loved.” I sobbed into his neck—grief for what was lost, gratitude for what was found, the overwhelming tenderness of being held while I mourned and desired at once. Tim rocked me gently, kissed my hair, whispered soft affirmations: “Joshua loved you so well. You loved him back with everything you had. It’s okay to let someone hold you now. It’s okay to feel this much joy and this much sorrow at the same time. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for all of it.” When the sobs eased into quiet hiccups, desire returned—soft, deep, intertwined with the tenderness. He positioned me on my back, lifted my legs with exquisite care, hooked them over his arms so I was open but cradled. Lubed us both slowly—his bare cock glistening, thick and veined, foreskin pulled halfway back, head flushed and leaking steadily; my hole slick and ready, still tender from last night, twitching under his gaze. He pressed in with infinite patience—the stretch a slow, sweet burn, my walls fluttering and gripping around his thick girth as he sank bare inch by inch, eyes never leaving mine, tears shining in his own. When he bottomed out—balls flush against my ass, throbbing deep inside—he stilled, forehead to mine, breathing with me. “Feel me,” he whispered. “Feel how much I want to be here. With you. In this bed. Holding all of you—the joy, the grief, the love.” He moved with aching tenderness—long, languid rolls of his hips, dragging the swollen head over my prostate with every pass, building ecstasy like a slow-rising tide. The wet, slick sounds of our bodies joining filled the room—slow glides of bare cock in bare hole, my walls sucking him back in with every withdrawal, pre-cum and lube mixing with the remnants of last night’s load to create obscene, squelching friction. My cock leaked steadily onto my stomach in thick strands, untouched, as he rocked into me, his heavy balls tapping softly against my ass with each gentle thrust. I clenched around him deliberately—milking his length, feeling every ridge and vein drag over my sensitive walls—and he groaned low, hips stuttering for a moment before he found the rhythm again, his bare shaft throbbing harder inside me. My arms wrapped his neck, legs locking his waist, pulling him closer. Tears flowed again—remembering Joshua’s gentle rhythm here, his love—and Tim held me tighter, letting me cry out, nurturing me with soft words: “I’ve got you, Moshin. Let it all come. Cry for him. Cry for us. You’re so beautiful when you feel everything. I love you like this—open, tender, whole.” I came first—quiet, shuddering waves, hole clenching softly around his bare shaft in rhythmic pulses, milking him as I spilled between us in warm, gentle ropes that painted my abs and chest, some hitting my chin. He followed—deep, bare throbs flooding me, breeding me with slow, loving pulses while he whispered my name like a vow, arms cradling me as if I were the most precious thing in the world. His cum mixed with mine, warm and thick, leaking out around his softening cock in intimate trails down my crack and onto the sheets. We stayed joined—his cock still twitching inside, cum slowly seeping out—for long minutes. He held me through the afterglow, through the quiet sobs that came not from pain, but from the overwhelming beauty of being loved again. Kissed my tears, stroked my hair, whispered how strong I was, how worthy, how deeply cherished. Later—cleaned up, wrapped in each other under the covers—he traced lazy patterns on my back, lips brushing my temple. “Stay with me tonight?” he asked softly, voice vulnerable. “Not just for this. To support you. To hold you if the memories come back in the dark.” I nodded, tears pricking again. “Yes. Please. I need you here.” My phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. Sarah. “Heard from Tim it was tender tonight. You okay, love?” I smiled through drying tears, Tim’s arms still around me, typed: “Yeah. He held me while I cried for Joshua. Loved me in our bed. He’s staying to support me. It feels like coming home again—to myself, to love.” She replied: “That’s my brave boy. Proud of you both. This is just the beginning.” And it was........ ---‐--‐--------------------------------‐------ As always story based on true events with original names, of course erotica added. Dedicated to those whose lovers were stolen by AIDS, who held hands in hospital rooms while machines beeped and time ran out, who kissed foreheads slick with fever and whispered “I’m here” until the end, who buried their beloveds and then buried their own desire because touch felt like danger, because skin-to-skin carried ghosts of loss: If you’re reading this and the grief still tastes like latex gloves and hospital antiseptic, if the silence in your bed still echoes with labored breathing and the names you called out in the dark, know that I see you—not as a survivor who “moved on,” but as someone who loved so fiercely that the world tried to punish you for it. You carried the guilt of surviving when they didn’t. You carried the fear that wanting again meant betraying the promise you made in those last moments. You carried the belief that your body was a graveyard, that pleasure was a desecration. You are not wrong for craving warmth again. You are not betraying them by letting someone slide inside you raw, by letting their heat flood the places that once held only terror, by letting your body remember how to shake and spill and sob without shame. When your moment comes—when the stretch is slow and careful, when the flood is warm and deep, when you finally let yourself tremble and come apart in someone’s arms—know that every tear you shed carries their name. Every pulse of pleasure honors the love they gave you. Every breath you take after is proof that you refused to let the virus win completely. You loved them in the teeth of a plague. You survived the unimaginable. Now let yourself be loved again—bare, open, trembling, alive. They would want this for you. And you, more than anyone, deserve to feel full, held, wanted—without apology.

This is why the injection doesn't appeal to me. I enjoy taking PrEP vacations.

hot

Fucking love ass to mouth. The look on a guy’s face when pulls out after breeding you and you immediately start cleaning his cock off is such a turn on for me.

I love ATM