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I was always ashamed of my penis size and started off my gay journey forcing myself to strictly bottom. I learned that you don't have to be hung to be a top. People enjoy sucking me and fucking me just as much as anyone else, and if you're into 'hUnG oNly" that's on them, next!

I wanted to fuck him again. But I knew I needed time to recharge. “Give me an hour, boy, and I’ll rape that cunt of yours again.” I stretched my arms out wide as I rolled to my back. “How much did you smoke, boy?” I lay there for a while to catch my breath. Turned to Scout and admired the shimmer from the piss and cum spread across this smooth, pale skin, enhancing his masculine physique. His angelic face smeared in cum. He kept licking his lips in search of a drop. He was descending into a sexually driven state. I lay there for a while, catching my breath, the room still humming from everything that had just passed through it. When I turned, Scout was stretched out beside me, skin damp from the piss and cum; catching the low light, giving him this almost unreal glow. There was something striking about him in that moment. Not innocence. Not anymore. Something sharper. Hungrier. His chest rose and fell slowly, but his eyes… They were elsewhere. Fixed on nothing, or maybe everything at once. His face smeared in cum, his tongue across his soiled lips, absentmindedly, like he was chasing a feeling that hadn’t quite finished with him. I watched him, trying to understand what I was seeing. He wasn’t just reacting anymore. He was slipping into it. Letting it take him somewhere deeper, somewhere instinctive, stripped back, where thought didn’t matter and only sensation remained. And the longer I looked, the more I realised… He didn’t want to come back. I pushed myself up slowly and looked over at Scout. There was no softness left in the moment now, only intent. I told him to get dressed, but not to wash. I wanted the night to carry forward exactly as it was; no reset; no clean slate. Just layers building on top of each other. He pulled on loose shorts and a singlet, the kind that barely held shape, his appearance still marked by everything that had come before. The night was far from over. Something restless had taken hold of me. A need to move, to escalate, to see how far this could stretch before it snapped. Not just for me, but for him. How deep he’d go. How much of himself he was willing to hand over to the moment. I checked my stash. Untouched. Exactly where I’d left it. Control, at least in that sense, is still intact. Scout mentioned, almost casually, that he hadn’t smoked earlier, that whatever he was feeling had come from the shard the old man shoved in his ass. It registered, filed away in the back of my mind without much thought, just another variable in a night already running off rails. I set up a couple of lines, clean and deliberate. We both leaned in, no hesitation, no ceremony. I packed some supplies. Poppers, a baggie of meth and the pipe. Because whatever this was… It wasn’t slowing down. We moved through the building like we had nothing left to hide. Past reception. Past residents. Eyes followed us; lingering, judging, confused. Scout didn’t try to cover himself, didn’t shrink under it. If anything, he carried it with a strange kind of pride, as he’d already crossed too many lines to care about one more. There was a smell trailing us. Faint, but there. Enough to turn heads. At the desk, the receptionist looked up – and froze. I recognised him instantly. History was sitting right there in a cheap suit. The guy who fucked my ex-wife. The guy who kicked off the cuckolding adventures my ex and I once shared, until she got pregnant by a stranger. His eyes flicked between Scout and I, trying to piece together what he was seeing. Failing. Good. I didn’t slow down, didn’t explain. Didn’t care. Whatever this had become, it wasn’t private anymore. It was out in the open, raw and undeniable. And I was too far gone to pretend otherwise. High, wired, detached from consequences. That was a problem for later. Right now, I was chasing something else entirely: control, excess, the edge of where a person starts to disappear into their own impulses. Scout was already halfway there, and part of me wanted to see just how far he’d go. We hit the car park, footsteps echoing in the concrete hollow. I barely registered the movement. A force slammed into me from the side, driving me hard into a pillar. Air punched out of my lungs. Pain followed a split second later. Scout’s father. Of course it was. “Get away from my son!” He roared, eyes wild, voice echoing through the car park. His gaze snapped to Scout – Shock, anger, and what looked like grief all clashing at once. “What have you done to him.” It wasn’t a question. He slammed me back into the pillar. Sharp and immediate, pain shot through my ribs. “How’s your wife?” I spat. That did it. The punch came hard, straight into my gut, folding me over. “You’re a piece of work,” he snarled, and hit me again for good measure. Then he grabbed Scout’s arm, trying to drag him away. “Come on. You’re coming with me. We’re getting you out of this. We’re fixing this.” “I’m not going anywhere,” Scout said, planting himself. There was a standoff – seconds stretched thin – until security came ruching in, boots pounding against the concrete. They pulled his father back, arms pinned, his voice still cutting through the air. “I’m not going anywhere,” Scout repeated, calmer now, as he stepped toward me instead. We moved quickly after that. “I’ll make you pay for this!” his father shouted as we reached the car. “You hear me? You’ll pay!” I didn’t answer. Didn’t look back. The engine turned over, and we pulled into the night. The drive was quiet. Too quiet. The adrenaline still hadn’t settled, still buzzing under my skin. I needed to know – needed certainty, or something close to it. “Are you sure about this?” I asked, eyes fixed on the road. “About… all of it.” Scout didn’t answer straight away. Just sat there, looking out the window, the city lights sliding across his face in fragments. Then, slowly, he shifted closer – not saying a word, but making his choice in the only way he knew how. He unzipped my fly and pulled out my fat cock and sucked me off to full hardness. That was answer enough. We drove on. Out towards the edge of the city, where the lights thinned, and the roads opened up. I’d heard about the place before; Whispers, half-stories traded in back rooms. I was told that this place attracts all sorts of blokes eager to fuck, and like the cumdump I saw at the cruise club, this beat was perfect for attracting strangers. A stretch under the Westgate Bridge, tucked into scrub and shadow. A place where men went when they didn’t want names or questions.

We definitely need more of this story!!

That phrase is the operative one, in that the host most likely cannot come up with every permutation of gay sex, and thus address each one prior to the event. Instead, parameters can be posted prior to the event regarding decent behavior towards others (meaning, respect for others, etc, etc,). It could be sticky trying to get down in the weeds with explicit rules about this particular act or that. The emphasis should be generalized, requiring respect for all, with the remedy being asked to leave. I don't mean "formal" stuff -I mean basic human dignity. Some guys just don't like X sexual act, and that's ok. I realize that not every guy has access to fuckjoints like Slammer - and hosts of group-sex events elsewhere are to be thanked heartily for their efforts. But, talk is cheap - what counts is the behavioral limits being respected. Just a handful of guys can wreck the whole endeavor for everyone else. When the basic rules of human interaction are respected, let alone human sexual perversion, everyone wins. Decency offered to strangers, the common "default" position at one time, seem to be in short supply in some places. Thus, the hosts - whether a fuckjoint or an individual or group pf fuckbuddies - need to convey the "limits" of the event, and get attendees to sign an "I agree" type of document before issuing the actual invitation (meaning, time/place, etc). The operative phrase here, is "documented", as opposed to "implied".

I wish I knew. I caused at least 1 guy but I think 2 to have anal orgasms. The guy I know for sure explicitly said so and I caused him to have 2 anal orgasms. This was just fucking these two guys. So the guy who got 2 for sure told me after I had fucked him the 3rd or 4th time that he had had an anal orgasm. I had never heard of this and was still basically coming out at the time (or close to coming out + 1 year). Then he told me that he had had an anal orgasm already the 1st or 2nd time I had fucked him. Then a Dutch boyfriend before him seemed to have had an anal orgasm over a long fuck weekend and he described an anal orgasm but I didn't put everything together at the time (I was really inexperienced and didn't always know what he was talking about sexually at the time). The only thing is that almost everyone I fucked at that time were also bottoms and we were bottoms getting together and they made me fuck them. But I have no idea what I was doing to trigger their anal orgasm.

I volunteer distribute for this

Love it great writing

Not been rimmed but would love an toxic Poz top to rim along my hole geting it wet and it accidentally slips in

I don’t know how long you guys have been hooking up, but I’m sure he’s been wanting to do all that just had to build up momentum and comfort. I know I had a bottom bud, with the same scenario I’d go over before work and have those wham bam quickies, then one day I just wanted to take my time eating that hole and watching my dick go in slow. Ah I miss him lmao

Lose

That's an idea - I might have to write an additional chapter