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Wow, THANK YOU FOR ANOTHER GREAT CHAPTER!!! This is always amazing each chapter you add onto this story!! And, always adding the poppers, mentioning the Fat Men and that they are all older men, so refreshing! Please continue when ever the mood strikes you....

Better late than never. it looks like grandpa is doing the honors to teach grandson how to relax and take getting fucked. It won't take long after a few weekends and some loads. [think before following links] https://thisvid.com/videos/black-daddy-fucking-his-twink-hard/

Nothing better than friends helping friends learn how to enjoy the feel of cumming from taking a hot fuck and feeling cum provide natural lube. [think before following links] https://thisvid.com/videos/encouraging-a-friend-to-fully-enjoy-a-fuck/

Very hot story!

Sounds like a great time!! I’ll be watching the calendar for the next one.

I'm late 60's and getting and giving more loads than ever. Just wish I'd started 20 years earlier

Mine

I'm currently paying for bbrt and sniffies.com. Lately, I'm seriously considering dropping bbrt—I've gradually decreased the frequency of my visits there (maybe once a week) primarily to check new users since my last visit, so I'm poking my head in just to see what new meat has joined. But, when I look at who's on while I'm there, I would guess 75% (and I feel I'm low-balling that estimate) of those logged on are Bottoms, vers Bottoms, or versatile—and most of the versatile guys actually just want to Bottom. So, the site in my area is awash with guys who are looking to get fucked. It seems like any/every true Top in my area could fuck several Bottoms every day and not fuck any that they already fucked for a year. The supply/demand dynamic is such that any Top has nearly complete control over who he chooses to fuck and when and how frequently. For a while, my go-to resource for sex "right now" has been sniffies.com. Whenever I connect to the site, I always find breeders to fuck me. I think part of my success is that I'm open to a wide range of different types of guys since I've always loved variety. So, I'm not declining guys because they're outside some arbitrary age range, I exclude no guys based on race/ethnicity. But that doesn't mean I'll sleep with any guy—it just means that since I don't exclude guys from consideration based on factors they have no control over, e.g., age, race, cock size, the pool of potential sex partners is larger. For instance, if you're looking for a guy who is 25–35 y/o, athletic build, smooth body and at least 8" cock and you want that/him "right now," you're probably going to end up just jerking off. In general, if you're open-minded, adventurous, and have a drive to explore and blaze new trails, you're going to be more successful connecting for sex, whichever, apps, websites, and resources you use. The more preference restrictions you have when looking to hookup, the less successful you're going to be. Think about it—are you using the same stale restrictive filters (that you've used for years/decades) for the type of guy you're seeking? How's that worked out for you? Try stepping outside your comfort zone a little. You might be surprised at what you've been missing when you expand your view and cast a wider net! Good luck.

congrats, well done. Good luck keeping that hole filled.

yes, not normal anymore, and no improvement today either.

Amazing 🤤

YES! not want, need it in me 🐷

If I had a dollar for all the [banned word] that want to watch me get fuck. I would be rich. So many guys request wanting me to find a top to fuck me do they can watch. ummm WTH so threesomes fall apart, regulars just say no already and those who watch leave if they aren’t interested. I’ve made a point to tell them bring a biddy or arrange someone. Have no idea I was that entertaining. These are tops that fuck me before but who now wanna watch me get fuck…. IDK

It’s just not letting everyone cum in you, it’s random -anon - assup being a machine for each guy to unload in one after another. It’s it’s not the quantity but the timing, continuous train for the next load and next load. That’s the drive. And when randoms become regulars that’s awesome but there will always be that scratch to hunt for next top to breed you.

Very hot

Wow. Thank you all so much for the incredible feedback. Reading your comments, knowing you were right there with me, feeling that same mix of terror and excitement... it's a huge rush. It makes me want to dive back in and share what happened next. This next part is again fiction, but it's inspired directly by some of the encounters I've had in the last few days. Things are... escalating. And I need to get it out. Part 2: The Biker’s Offering You're 49. You have a successful job that you're good at, a life that looks stable and normal from the outside. You've been married to your wonderful husband for over ten years. He is, without a doubt, the man of your dreams, the man you want to grow old with. But, as it turned out over the years, you're both... well, you're both more bottoms. Your sex life gradually decreased to a beautiful, respectful zero. You have a weekend relationship, which means you live apart during the week. There's this unspoken agreement that you are exclusive on the weekends when you are together, but everyone is free to do what they want during the week. You have never, ever spoken about safe or bareback sex. But to you, it feels like you're expected to stay safe, even though there would be no risk for him if you didn't, given the complete lack of sex between you. Don't get it wrong, you truly love him and would never do anything to intentionally hurt him. This need... this is for you alone. It's your private addiction. So, the next day after the lunchtime encounter, with all its unknown risks, you're back at your desk. It's a lazy work day. At 11:30, you feel the urge to go to the toilet and take a big crap. As you sit there, feeling your ass extend, a sudden, powerful thought hits you. What if you took off for lunch a little longer? What if you went back to the same rest area? You are in your car before you've even fully processed the thought. When you get there, there's only one other car in the lot. An average-looking guy, a little younger than you, is leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. You stay in your car, figuring the woods are probably empty. Then the guy drops his cigarette, grounds it out with his boot, and starts walking towards the entrance to the woods. But he doesn't just walk. He turns around one last time and looks directly at you in your car. His eyes lock with yours through the windshield. It's an invitation. A challenge. Your hand moves on its own. You pull out your poppers. One deep sniff. The warmth starts to bloom. Two. The courage begins to surge. Three, four. The world dissolves into a haze of confident, chemically-induced lust. You're no longer a successful 49-year-old husband. You're a hunter. You open the car door and follow him into the trees. But as you walk, the memory of yesterday floods your mind. The memory of the young apprentice was so vivid, so powerful. But it was the question that was consuming you: "You are healthy???" Why the emphasis? He was so dominant, so unconcerned with anything but his own pleasure. Why did that one thing matter so much? And now, today, you're following this younger guy into the woods. The memory of that solitary orgasm, the one you had while contemplating your potential conversion, makes your own cock throb with anticipation. You find him in a small clearing. He turns, and you see the look in his eyes. He's not the apprentice. He's just a guy. A guy who saw a hungry man in a car and decided to take a chance. You walk up to him in the small clearing. The air is thick with unspoken need, a palpable humidity of desire. He's exactly as you first saw him: average, maybe a little soft around the middle, with a nervous energy that clashes with your poppers-fueled confidence. You open your belts – he yours, you his – the metallic clicks sounding loud in the quiet woods. You pull each other's cocks out. He has this average, long but thin hard uncut cock, the foreskin already slick with precum. You wank each other, the familiar rhythm a mechanical comfort, like a dance you both know the steps to but have no passion for. You touch each other, your hands exploring chests, arms, faces. Your faces get closer, your cheeks touching. His stubble rubbing against your own trimmed beard, a scratchy, intimate sound that should ignite you, but doesn't. You kiss. Your tongues mingle, a wet, desperate dance, but it feels like performance. You're trying to find the apprentice in him, the dominant spark from yesterday, but all you can taste is hesitation and a weak, coffee-flavored tongue. There's no spark, no fire. He is hard and leaking, his body clearly ready, but your own PA cock is not getting fully hard. It's a heavy, inert piece of metal and flesh, a barometer of your soul's disinterest. Something is not right. The chemistry is off, the connection is false. You're going through the motions, a ghost playing at being a slut. Dropping to your knees feels like a strategic move, a way to do something, to force the arousal. You take his thin cock in your mouth. It's easy to take, the length sliding over your tongue. You blow him, working your lips and tongue, trying to convince yourself that this is what you want. Your body is on its knees, but your mind is somewhere else, replaying the apprentice's almost brutal, 30-second fuck. This feels like a chore, like sucking on a piece of pasta instead of taking a hard, thick risk. But with every bob of your head, the feeling of wrongness grows stronger. This isn't the primal, risky act you crave. This feels... clinical. In the end, you pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You separate, a silent, awkward agreement of failure. He zips up and walks away, disappearing towards the parking lot. While you were playing, another guy arrived and passed you, walking deeper into the woods. You're still horny, but the poppers effect is already gone, leaving you with only the bitter taste of frustration. You pull out your poppers and take a few more hits, the chemical rush washing over you again, trying to reignite the fire that's sputtering out. Then you look for him. You find him leaning against a large oak tree, looking like a character from a fairy tale. He's about 30, with a soft, round belly and a long, unkempt beard that frames a kind, gentle face. He seems approachable, safe. And a part of you hates him for it. You didn't come here for a gentle giant; you came here for a monster. You approach him. You grope each other's bulges. He pulls out his cock – a little nub of flesh, not even four inches hard, with a thick thatch of pubic hair. You wank him, your movements mechanical, but again, you can't get really hard. The frustration is mounting, a sour taste in your mouth. Again, you go on your knees, this time out of a desperate, last-ditch hope. A nice load of cum might stimulate you, might get you hard. You take him in your mouth. He tastes nice, clean, like freshly washed skin and the faint scent of shower lotion. The cleanliness is an insult. You want to taste sweat, and dirt, and the raw, unwashed scent of a man who lives on the edge. You want to taste danger, not fucking soap. It doesn't work. You are not a size queen, you tell yourself, but his cock just doesn't give you any pleasure, to scratch that deep, masochistic itch. There's no stretch, no burn, no feeling of being taken and used. Eventually, you pull off, mumbling an excuse. You separate, another wave of disappointment washing over you, cold and sharp. You're left standing there in the quiet woods, your knees dirty, your cock still half-limp, a profound sense of failure settling in. The hunger is still there, a roaring beast in your gut, but you've just tried to feed it salad. You came here seeking a risk, a transformation, and all you've found are two awkward, unsatisfying encounters. You came here to be used, to be filled, to be changed, and instead, you feel emptier than before. You contemplate driving back to work, your lunch break a complete and utter waste of time. At this point, you hear some cracking behind you. You turn around and see him. A guy around your age, a biker type in his leather gear. He's just standing there, directly staring at you, his arms crossed over his chest, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips. He looks like the monster you were looking for. "Been watching you," he says, his voice a low, confident rumble. "I know you need more." You are magically attracted to him, a moth to a dangerous, hypnotic flame. You walk over, your feet moving as if pulled by an invisible string. He is pure dominance. He doesn't wait for you to speak. He grabs your crotch, his grip firm, possessive, a claim. He unzips you and pulls out your cock, his eyes fixing on your heavy PA. "Not so innocent as it seems," he chuckles approvingly. He opens the zipper of his leather pants. Wow, he is commando. He pulls out his own monster, a thick, curved beast with a PA even bigger than yours, a heavy circular barbell with two heavy-duty steel balls that look less like jewelry and more like ammunition, promising a unique kind of pleasure. He's going to fuck you. You know it. He knows it. But the memory of yesterday, the apprentice's question, the lingering risk, makes you nervous. "Condom?" you ask, your voice betraying your eagerness with a slight tremble. He just smiles, a slow, cruel twist of his lips. "I can wrap up," he says, reaching into his leather pocket and pulling out a foil packet. He dangles it between his fingers, a tiny, square tease. "I have one." He looks you dead in the eye, his gaze piercing through your chemically-induced haze. "But do you really want me to?" He lets the question hang in the air, heavy and toxic. "I don't need one..." The back-and-forth is a torture of its own. You, the man who took a load without a question yesterday, now hesitating. He, the dominant biker, giving you the choice, making you own your depravity. He slowly, deliberately tears open the foil packet. The sound is loud, sharp. He pulls out the thin rubber, holding it by the tip between his thumb and forefinger. He brings it to your face, not to put it on, but to taunt you with it. He holds it under your nose. You can smell the sterile, latex scent, a smell of safety that now smells like cowardice. "You seem a little tense," he says, his voice a low purr. He puts the condom away and pulls out his own small, brown bottle of poppers. "Let's clear your head." He twists off the cap and places the bottle directly against your right nostril. "Five deep sniffs," he commands. "Don't you dare lose any." You inhale, the chemical rush flooding your system, stronger than your own. He moves to your left nostril. "And five more." You obey, your head spinning, the world dissolving into a warm, pulsing haze of pure submission. He caps the bottle and puts it away. "Now," he says, his voice cutting through the fog. "Tell me. Do you need a condom? Or do you want my cock raw?" Your addiction to the risk wars with your fear, but the poppers have already won the war for you. You can't form the word. You just shake your head, a barely perceptible motion of surrender. He spins you around and bends you over a fallen log. He presses the thick head of his cock against your hole, but you're too tight, too tense, even for the chemically-induced relaxation. His massive tool won't go in. "Hmm," he grunts, frustrated. He looks down at the ground and spots something. He leans over and picks up a used, tied-off condom lying in the dirt. "Might need a condom after all," he says, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He holds it up. It's not just full; it's heavy, and you can see a slight steam rising from it in the cool air. "Still warm," he chuckles, a dark, appreciative sound. "Someone just got lucky." He unties the knot and a thick, milky glob of another man's fresh cum drips out. He squeezes the contents onto his own massive shaft, using the stranger's still-warm seed as lube to finally, brutally, force his way inside you. The sensation is overwhelming. The stretch, the burn, the knowledge of what's inside you, what's now being used to open you up for him. This isn't just some old, ghostly load; this is a fresh deposit, a living offering you're being coated with. He doesn't fuck you for 30 seconds. He fucks you for what feels like an eternity, his thick PA-studded cock dragging against your insides, the hard steel of the oversized barbell's balls slapping against your prostate with every thrust, a constant, stimulating, punishing presence. Ten minutes, fifteen, your legs bent over the log, starting to shake and weaken from the strain. The poppers haze begins to lift, the edges of reality sharpening. Your consciousness and nervousness come flooding back. "Are you gonna cum?" you finally pant, a new kind of panic in your voice. "Please... pull out before you cum." He just chuckles, his rhythm never faltering. "Too late," he grunts, his voice calm and controlled. "I already shot twice. This is number three." The revelation sends a shockwave through your system. The sheer, unrestrained power of it. The endless stamina. The endless seed. The fact that he's already been cumming inside you, silently, while you were lost in the sensation. That's it. You can't hold back. You cry out as your own cock explodes, untouched, creaming yourself all over the leaves and dirt beneath you. As your orgasm tears through you, you become vaguely aware of movement in the periphery. A few more guys have appeared, drawn by the sounds of raw, animalistic sex. They're on their lunch breaks, looking for a quick encounter, but they've stumbled upon something else entirely. They don't dare join. They don't dare disturb this powerful scene. They just watch from a safe distance, their own hard cocks in their hands, wanking slowly as they witness the biker claiming you. You're no longer just a participant; you're the main event in a grim, outdoor theater. A part of you wanted to shrink away, to hide from their eyes. But a bigger, darker part of you preened. You weren't just being fucked; you were being worshipped. Every one of them was wishing they were you, or wishing they were him. He fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging it, owning it, then finally, with a deep, satisfied groan, he empties his third, massive load deep inside you, mixing with the stranger's fresh cum he used as lube. He stays inside you for a long moment, his chest heaving, marking his territory. The small crowd of onlookers melts back into the woods, their own needs satisfied by the show. You pull off, your legs trembling, your body buzzing, your mind completely blown. You get dressed in a daze, your movements clumsy and slow. You turn to leave, but you have to look back. You have to see him one more time. He's tucking his junk back in his leathers, and as he does, you see it. The lower part of a tattoo, right above his cock. The lines are sharp, deliberate. Arcs beginning their menacing descent towards his pubic hair, pointing to the magnificent cock that just owned you. The rest of it is hidden by his belt and jacket, but it's clearly part of a larger, intimidating design. He catches you staring. He zips up his fly slowly, the sound loud and final in the quiet woods. He walks over to you, his presence overwhelming. He doesn't touch you. He just looks you up and down, a predator assessing its kill. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to pluck a single leaf from your hair, letting it fall to the ground. It's a small, intimate gesture of ownership, a claim being staked. He leans in close, his voice a low, possessive whisper right next to your ear. "If you want more of that," he says, his breath hot against your skin, "you know where to find us." He pulls back, gives you that same slow, knowing smile, and turns, walking away without a backward glance. The words hang in the air, a challenge and a permission slip all in one. He's not telling you to come back. He's telling you that he's here, and the choice to be claimed again is yours. And as you stand there, the phantom feeling of his load already warming you from the inside, you both know what you'll choose.

Sorry everyone. I got in trouble for posting this story in the wrong chat. Thank you to those who have made. barebackbro thank you for the pick up. I'm an Essendon supporter and I should know that a Brownlow is an award for AFL. Let's go with it. Anyway, the story continues. Let me know what you think and what you think happens next. She sensed that I just was not into it and remembered what I am now renowned for. Eating cum from pussy. So, she set up the whole thing. Our sexual life took a hot turn. We would go to bars and check out men. She would insist that I pick out the guys. At first, I thought it was unnerving. Checking out guys is gay. I’m not gay. It was the sight of a dripping wet pussy that got me off. Occasionally, my mind went to the vision of a glistening cock, but I would shake the thought away. But she insisted, so I was soon checking out guys. I would select the guy, and she would make her flirty move on him. Soon enough, she would be in the toilets getting railed. We would head home for me fuck her cummy cunt. At first, I would pick good-looking fellas. Tall, very fit, and modal material types. Eventually, we would be more upfront about what we are doing and found that there was significant interest. One guy called it cuckold. I didn’t know it was a term. The random guys would fuck and use my wife while I would watch. Then, when they unload in her, I would take sloppy seconds. Sometimes the guys would stay and watch. Other times, they would leave while I bathed in the cummy mess. Over time, my selection of men started to change. Yeah, I would go for the hottest guy in the room, but something started to change. I found myself looking for particular types. Burley types, real masculine, high testosterone guys pushing on the side of aggressive and unforgiving. I felt a tingle. But I would shake it off and tell myself it is the game my wife and I are playing, that’s all. One particular night, I chose the large, lumberjack-type guy. We were in a seedy pub. I found that that’s where we get the best type of men. He didn’t give much away. Seemed expressionless, unimpressed. A dirt-unshaven beard, and looked as though he had just finished work and went straight out for Friday beers with his boys, judging by his dirty jeans and stained shirt. I guessed a diesel fitter. We decided to book a hotel instead of heading to our penthouse. He would meet us there. My wife got herself ready by stripping down to her sexy lingerie. I set up the mood lighting and went to grab a few drinks from the minibar. But realised they had none. I took off to buy some booze. It took me a little longer than I had hoped because I wasn’t familiar with that area of Melbourne. When I finally returned, I could hear moaning and thumping from our room. I swiped the card and walked in. The lumberjack was her, and he was already deep inside my wife. But he wasn’t alone; he brought with him his four buddies from the bar. These guys were large men, just as rough-looking and varied in age from mid-30s to around my age, 50s. The youngest fella noticed me standing there, stunned. ‘Her old man is back.’ He pointed out to the rest of the guys, who had their attention on their mate, fucking my wife hard. To my surprise, my wife had no concern. He moaned while her leg flapped around with every thrust from the lumberjack. I was rock hard. My jocks strained my cock. I had to pull it out. I put the booze down on the side bench and noticed a plate with lines raked up. Fuck! I knew straight away that these fellas meant to party. ‘Help yourself.’ The older guy said, pulling his t-shirt off to reveal a fully tattooed, slightly out-of-shape, but bulky body. I went straight to the coke and sniffed two lines. By this stage, all the men were undressed. My wife moaned really loudly. ‘Yeah, cum for me bitch.’ He picked up his pace. I could tell she was cumming by the way her body shivered. I have never had her cum for me. ‘Argh! Yeah, oh yeah. I’m cumming!' She squealed. The lumberjack did not hold up. He kept fucking her hard. I could hear the wet, splashy sounds coming from the penetration. She began to settle, but he kept powering through. I looked at her, and I could tell she was spent. But it was clear that he was not done, and there were still four other blokes to have their way with her. I saw one of the blokes grab a bottle of Coca-Cola I'd bought as a mixer for the scotch I'd bought. He poured a glass, and I saw him pour another liquid into it. He walked over to my wife, and the lumberjack stopped for a moment. ‘Here, drink this. It will help you relax and get really into it.’ She looked at me, and I gave her the ‘Do as you want’ look in return. She drank it. ‘Good girl.’ Said another bloke. ‘Tonight, you are in for a ride.’ ‘You are gonna get a lot of cock.’ The older guy followed. The lumberjack began to fuck her. He kept at a slow pace and watched until he saw the effect of what they gave her kick in. I could sense that she was high on whatever they gave her, and the lumberjack picked up the pace again. By this stage, I was naked on the couch, jerking off at the show. The rest of the blokes were circled around the bed. My wife, in the middle, getting railed by the massive bloke. I could see what was going on through the gap of two hairy thighs. The lumberjack’s hairy arse is pumping up and down hard and fast. His pace started to shorten and become a little erratic. ‘None of us pulls out. I hope you are on birth control.’ The lumberjack groaned, ‘Because I’m about to blow.’ He barely finished his sentence, and he began to cum. ‘ARGH! I’m cumming.’ He held her tight. Cock deep inside her as his body shivered and shook. He seemed to unload in her for a long time. ‘He is a heavy cummer.’ One of the blokes said, ‘I’m next.’ The lumberjack slowly pulled out, and that’s when I got to see his cock for the first time. It was thick and veny… And wet with her juices and his cum. I jacked off hard, my tongue hanging out, drooling from the mouth. ‘Look at her husband.’ The older man laughed, ‘He’s fucking getting off on it.’ ‘He looks like a starving animal.’ I was, and I couldn’t hold off any longer and just unloaded all over my stomach and hairy chest. I felt all my energy being pulled through my cock and into my ejaculation. I had not blown a load like that in ages. I was drenched in my own cum. By this stage, one of the other men was in position and pushed his long cock into my wife and fucked hard from the get-go. She was wet, open, and he knew she could take it. The night went on like this while I sat back and watched. I did not fuck her that night. The men kept giving her what I learnt to be G., and while they did fuck and use her, I was surprised by the respect they had. Occasionally, they would check in on her. She was in heaven and willing to let them do as they pleased. I never saw her get so relaxed and slutty horny like that with me. She was a completely different person. So they kept using her like a whore, and she loved every bit of it. I sat back, drenched in my own cum. Some of it was on my collarbone, and I don’t know what came over me, but I scooped it up and ate it. ‘Oh, look, guys. He’s a fucking cum eater.’ The men laughed at me. It must have been 4 am by the time the fucking mellowed down. I had so many lines of coke, I was practically tweaking. The blokes were chilling out and admired my wife’s sloppy cunt. I crawled towards her on all fours. ‘Fuck boys. Look at this.’ I got between her legs on my hands and knees. My hairy arse in the air. I planted my face in her cunt and ate away. She moaned as I sucked and chewed and licked at her sloppy, used pussy. I don’t know how long I was down there for, but when I lifted my face up for air, I noticed that the blokes had all bailed. The next few months had a shift in the air. My wife was quiet. Distant. We didn’t argue, but I could tell that there was tension in the air. Wondered if I crossed the line by allowing five men to gangbang her. We didn’t have sex, and I was reduced to pulling my dick in the shower. The feeling was just not the same. I focused my time and energy on work and coaching the high school footy team. It was mid-season, and my team was in peak form, having only lost one game at the beginning of the season. I would push them. Give them the no bullshit treatment. Heavy sprays when I was not happy with their performance, but good recognition when they outdid themselves. They were a good bunch of boys. I noticed that something in me changed, though. I never look at guys sexually. Men were just lads in my view. But since picking out guys to fuck my wife, it opened up a side of my mind, thoughts and feelings I did not know I had. At first, I would push them aside the moment they surfaced, but over time, they grew a little more tense and stuck around longer. I was looking at guys sexually, and it fucked with my mind. I was drinking a lot more and on Coke every weekend. My wife noticed. I knew I had a problem when I found myself checking out the footy team. They were all seniors, aged 18. But still. I knew it was not right for me, being a 52-year-old, looking at these young 18-year-old lads. It took a lot of mental energy to keep my eyes away from the perky peach bums as they hit the showers or watched them dry off. I had to make an effort to keep myself out of the locker room. Once they all got changed and left, I would hit the shower and jerk off to get it out of my system. One time, after the lads had left and I was in the shower, I had my head leaning against the tiled wall, hot water spraying across my solid hairy shoulders and back, fist wrapped around my hard cock, pumping away hard and just as I was cumming, I heard a sound near the lockers. I lifted my head as I swung around, cum shooting everywhere, just to see who or what was making that noise, but there was no one there. I resigned to the thought that it was just in my mind. That night, I got home to find my wife sitting on the large marble kitchen bench, an overnight bag next to her. ‘Going somewhere?’ She looked up at me. ‘I’m pregnant.’ My mind raced. I got her pregnant? I thought a little harder. It has been nearly five months since I fucked her. It is possible. Maybe. Then I realised. She was not pregnant by me, but by one of the five guys who gangbanged her a couple of months ago. ‘Oh shit. Honey… Um, I don’t know what to say.’ ‘You know who got me pregnant.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘It must have happened from the unplanned gangbang.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Honey?’ ‘Did you get their names and numbers. Anything?’ ‘No. I didn’t. I didn’t think we would need to. I didn’t think we would see them again.’ ‘So we know nothing about who they are or where they are from.’ ‘I know nothing, honey. I wasn’t really thinking straight. I was lost in the moment.’ She was silent for a moment again. ‘So what are you going to do? You’re not going to keep it, are you?’ ‘I knew you were going to ask me that. And yes. I’m keeping it.’ ‘What?’ I was getting a little annoyed, ‘You are going to keep it, knowing nothing about who the father could be and having no way of finding out who he could be? I’m sorry, but I just can’t do that. I just can’t live with a child that is not mine and having no idea whose it could be.’ Silence again. ‘Yes… I’m keeping it. And I am leaving.’ ‘What?’ ‘I know you. I won’t force you to change... I am having my baby... But it is more than that. Since that night, you have been drinking every night and snorting a lot of coke. You are stuck in your old ways again. If I am having this baby, I can’t be around it.’ She grabbed her overnight bag and walked over to me. Kissed my cheek and left. I was alone in my massive penthouse. Have your input. What do you think happens next?

Ilove this story

I'm young, got started young, and will not stop. Hundreds of loads later, still need it

Has Anyone here missed or Skipped an important Family Gathering or Situation because you were getting Dicked down or fucking some manpussy, I literally missed Nephews birthday today because I was getting fucked by multiple men in a rundown dirty motel.