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Love to be blindfolded and then used hard

Did love his humour, aswell as they humour of his mother in the film

Nothing wrong with curiosity. I grew up in a very homogenous neighborhood. No black friends or classmates, even in a HS student body of 1600. Even Asians/Latinos were pretty unusual. I was in some organizations out of HS with more diverse membership, one required showering together. I always positioned myself close enough to see who I wanted to see. I have a funny story re: my first uncut guy (well, funny for me, in retrospect. Not so much for him.) Thankfully, there are many guys of different races who are into white guys as well. It didn't take me too long to be with guys of most races, except for Native American. When I finally met a native Alaskan, I believe I checked off the last box. 🙂

There is just something so addicting about poz cum. He doesn't even know Tim is poz and toxic and he wants more. I'm sure he is going to get it this weekend.

Getting fucked raw and bred by under 21 year olds, I get off on taking these young innocent pristine clean cocks and completely ruining them. It’s so hot cause they have no idea they are sticking their cocks into a dirty hole that’s been used for 50+ years taking hundreds of loads. And hoping they have been turned into lifelong breeders.

I would have to say chubby guys feet, they always have a nice musky smell and taste even better. 🥴🤤🥴🤤 but if im being totally honest im such a slut for feet that I would never turn a pair away

Oh you’re in for the time of your life just remember everything changes after this

Very hot story and very well written.

Somewhere else on this site I have been telling about the boy I have "on loan" from a friend (acqaintance rather) because he was told not have anal sex for a while. This 24yo guy is more than hot. VGL muscle boy with huge smooth pecs and sensitive nips. Flat stomach, ass to die for and an 8-inch fat cock. He's been fucking me senseless 2-3 times a week and I love it. Fucking hot sweaty sex And he usually goes for a round two. Later I learned that my friend was paying him for his services. Which he uses for his education. After another round of athletic fucking I was catching my breath and he made himself comfortable waiting for his balls to fill up again. He purred he loved fucking me. He loved my sexual appetite. Unusual for older guys he said. I was sucking his nipple and stroking his big fat cock when he said his "relationship" with my friend had ended. Oh? He said my friend was told not have anal sex anymore. And with that his "services" were no longer needed. I looked up at him. What did that mean? Well, he needed to find another source of income. Ah..... I asked if he was looking at me for that? He hesitated a bit. Well, it would be nice but not necessary for now. He knew other Daddies who were more than willing to pay him. He grinned probably less sexual than me. Would even be better he said. We didn't talk about anymore. He was raging hard and ready to go again. Now I don't know. I knew he was a Kept Boy but it really didn't bother me that much. I wasn't paying him. Now, unless he finds another sugar Daddy, he may be looking at me. And I'm not sure what I'll do then. He's fucking me so good and so often I don't want him to go. But I'm also against paying him. What to do?

Here's a link to the first one @Room4ustwo: ANOTHER REAL EXPERIENCE P'TOWN PARTY WEEKEND PART 1

Caught - hook, line and sinker

Wish I had known when I was there in July 2023. It was about 110 outside, though.

[think before following links] https://barebackbastards.com/89883/partying-straight-related-cocks-i-milk-amp-accept-in-my-gut/

Hit Steamworks Berkeley last week for lights out. My first fuck of the evening was Asian daddy who began sucking my nips. I leaded back and he moved to my cock. Before long he impaled himself on my cock, with his tight hole. We from him riding and me thrusting in him. He moaned constantly in enjoyment. Begging for me to breed his ass. This was my first fuck of the evening, and wasnt ready to unload. But i made sure his hole was general happy with its usage. my next encounter started at the shower, as i was cleaning up from the first. This South East Asian Daddy was eyeing me. I notice he linger look. Before he disappeared. I found a short time later by the blow ramp and he has seat down looking around. I hung around the area and once more hes eyes were on me. And i moved closer. And we began to touch each other. Soon he hugged me,tightly. I had a feeling he was in need on body contact. We went back to my room where this continued, touching and hold other. Soon he shifted and began to blow me. With his ass near my face. Lubed my finger and began to play with the opening of his hole. Warming and building to him ready to get fucked. I had him lay on his stomach and laid on top to drive home the body contact. I began to fuck him, and felt would be fine place to unload in. Sadly, couldnt as i found myself overheating and losing to hardon. We parted soon after, he was happy. i eventually cooled off. I tried to show i was open to being fucked too. But no takers. Eventually i found a silver fox daddy and once body contact was the focus. Before I left. After a few rounds pacing i headed home. We i jacked off the my load. After the evening of stimulation. Ill be happy when my partner is home from his trip. I can definitely dump loads in my pig bitch holes.

Awesome and ffuckhoT story Please go on

Chapter 5: The Aftermath He was true to his word. The remaining $40,000 hit my account the next morning. I sat in my bed, staring at the number on the screen, the digital proof of my debt’s demise. I should have felt elated. Victorious. I felt nothing. A hollow, numb emptiness, a void where my relief should have been. My body ached in places I’d forgotten I had. The smell of latex and poppers and him—a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely, intimately male—seemed to be baked into my skin, a phantom scent I couldn’t escape. I showered for an hour, scrubbing until my skin was raw and pink, but I couldn’t wash away the feeling of him inside me, or the memory of his final, triumphant thrust. The rationalization began almost immediately. It was a transaction. A business deal. I’d provided a service, he’d provided payment. It was over. I could move on with my life, debt-free. But it wasn’t over. A part of him was literally inside me, working its way into my bloodstream, rewriting my biological code. I was a walking, talking incubator for his consequence. The dread announced itself not in a single blow, but in a creeping, insidious wave of symptoms that my anxiety weaponized against me. On the second day, a headache bloomed behind my eyes, a dull, persistent throb I attributed to stress and lack of sleep. But by the afternoon, it had escalated into a full-blown migraine, complete with a sensitivity to light so severe I had to draw all the blinds and lie in the twilight of my bedroom. Every pulse of pain felt like a countdown, a biological alarm bell. Then came the fatigue. It wasn't just tiredness; it was a leaden weight in my bones, a gravitational pull that kept me pinned to my bed. The thought of putting on my work clothes, of smiling at customers, of performing the mundane rituals of my old life was an impossible feat. I called in sick, my voice a raspy lie on the phone. "A flu, maybe. I'll be out a few days." The third day brought a new horror: a low-grade fever that came in waves. One moment I would be shivering under a mountain of blankets, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. The next, I’d be kicking them off, my skin slick with a clammy sweat that felt tainted, unclean. I’d stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, my face pale and beaded with perspiration, and see a patient zero. My throat began to feel scratchy, and every time I swallowed, a fresh jolt of panic would course through me. Is this it? Is this the seroconversion? I spent hours scouring medical websites on my phone, my trembling fingers typing symptoms, each vague match feeling like a confirmed death sentence. I avoided everyone. My phone buzzed with concerned texts from friends and a call from my mother. I let them all go to voicemail. I couldn't form a coherent sentence, couldn't fabricate a lie convincing enough to explain the sheer terror in my eyes. I was terrified I had a new sign on my forehead, an invisible biohazard symbol that everyone could see. I started compulsively checking my skin for a rash, convinced a tell-tale bloom of red would appear any moment, the physical manifestation of my shame. On this the third day, the silence was broken by a buzz that cut through the fever-haze. It was him. A week. Get tested. Send me the results!! Understand boy?!? The message was cold, a clinical quality control check. I was just a project to him, a fetish fulfilled. The numbness was suddenly replaced by a hot, sharp anger. He’d used me, degraded me, and now he wanted a lab report? I didn’t reply. Another message, an hour later. I’m not asking!! The anger curdled into something else. A dark curiosity. A twisted connection had been forged in that sterile room. He had seen a part of me no one else ever had—the desperate, willing, hungry part. He had created it. I found myself opening the browser on my phone. I didn’t go to my bank’s website. I went back to the site where it all began. I logged into my account. My old ad was still there, but now there was a new message in my inbox. The subject line made my blood run cold and my cock twitch with a traitorous interest. Re: Your Conversion - The Next Fantasy My finger hovered over the delete button. I should block him. I should take the money and run. I should never think about this again. Instead, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, I opened it. Boy, it began. The video came out even better than I hoped. You were perfect. The money was just for the status. What I’m proposing next… is for the experience. To see how far you’re willing to go. The price is higher. The fantasy is darker. You’re already mine in one way. Let me show you another.Think about it. - M I dropped the phone like it had burned me. I stared at it, lying on my cheap apartment carpet. This was the off-ramp. This was the moment to get out. I thought about the debt, now gone. I thought about the mind-numbing grind of my job, the years of financial anxiety that had just vanished in one night. But mostly, I thought about the feeling of the blindfold. The sound of his voice. The terrifying, exhilarating loss of control. The pure, animal high of being used for a singular, powerful purpose. I had sold my status to escape a cage. But the freedom I found on the other side was a different kind of prison, one with a master who knew my deepest, most shameful desires. And as I slowly, slowly reached down to pick up my phone, I knew with a dreadful, thrilling certainty that I was going to write him back. The week that followed was a slow-motion nightmare. The acute symptoms—the fever, the headache—subsided, leaving behind a profound exhaustion and a hyper-vigilance that turned my own body into a enemy. Every twinge in my muscles, every minor ache in my joints, was scrutinized and catastrophized. I became a prisoner in my own apartment, the four walls closing in on me with each passing hour. Time lost all meaning, measured only in the slow crawl toward the seventh day, the day I could get tested. The morning of the test was the quietest of my life. The clinic was sterile and hushed. The phlebotomist’s cheerful small talk sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. The vial of blood she filled looked dark, like a sin made visible. The next 48 hours were an agony of waiting. I jumped every time my phone buzzed, my stomach lurching. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just paced, or sat perfectly still, trapped in the purgatory of not-knowing. The results came via a secure email link on a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was shining outside my window, a cruel mockery of the moment. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely type my password. The page loaded, slow and deliberate. There it was. My name. My date of birth. The test date. And next to HIV-1 Antibody Screen, the word REACTIVE. The world didn’t end. There was no scream. There was only a silence so complete it felt like a physical force, sucking all the air from the room. The word “Reactive” pulsed on the screen, a black hole absorbing all light, all hope, all future. A coldness seeped from my core out to my extremities, a glacial calm that was more terrifying than any panic. Positive. He was inside me. Not just his memory, not just his money. His virus. His mark was permanent. I was converted. I was his. My phone buzzed on the table beside me, vibrating against the wood. A new message. I already knew who it was. I looked from the screen with its life-shattering word to the phone with its insistent buzz. Slowly, mechanically, I picked up the phone. The results. It wasn’t a question. He knew. He knew the moment the lab did. I didn't type a reply. I didn't send the PDF the clinic provided. Instead, I simply took a screenshot of the results page, the word REACTIVE glaringly clear in the center of the image. My hand was steady now, unnervingly calm. I attached the image and hit send. The response was immediate - “Good boy. Now you’re ready. The next fantasy awaits.”

Wish I was there drinking your hot piss

Chelsea Hotel is the place for cum dump. Post your party at sniffies.

I have a top master you will love. He will make you his bitch faster than you can imagine. Dm me

Anytime that someone has asked me how I got pozzed, I've always told the truth! (Including my doctors, and my social worker)... I tell them that, honestly, I don't know who pozzed me, that I'm a slut, and have had probably over a thousand sex partners, most of them anonymous/one night stands/adult bookstores/theaters, etc.. I usually laugh, as I tell them this. If they act shocked, or offended, oh well!

The internalized monologues are incredible how revealing and personalized they are, unique to each individual in how they think, not just in the history they reveal. Bravo becomes more than the sum of it's parts.

Awesome story

I love drinking from big white cocks. They always have so much piss. I make sure to hit some poppers before and then tell them to let it loose.