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Well, then, let's leave it at racism is racism. Extremism begets extremism.

Definitely valuable information in this thread.

If the top have specific wants/turnoffs they should let the cumdump know ahead of time. Or at least as soon as it becomes an issue. As a cumdump, I always want to know what I can do to make it the best experience for every top. I get off on them getting off. That's why I'm interested in this thread. I airways want to improve as a full service bottom cumslut.

dafuq

Hope there are more chapters added to this story soon

my fisting fantasy is to actually be able to take a fist armpit deep. I'm up to taking a 1" diameter toy 22" deep or a 2" diameter toy 18" deep, but can't seem to get past the 2" mark at stretching the inner ring. That's what is making armpit deep a fantasy instead of a reality.

Perfect!

The best!

Very hot!

I enjoy choking a cocksucker. My cock curves up so I love to put him on his back on the bed with his head hanging over the edge. When I thrust deep down his throat my balls are pressed hard over his nose so he can’t breathe through his mouth cuz it’s stretched over my cock and he can’t breathe through his nose cuz my balls are pressed over it. He can breathe when I pull back ready to thrust in again. I expect him to hold his breath when I’m rammed in deep shooting my load. I like to be well sweaty so he gets to smell my nuts when they’re hard on his nose.

Sounds like the PERFECT situation to me. That's my absolute dream demographic!! Maybe someday you'll get a group of them for a blowbang.

How do you feel about face fucking those of us who don't gag or choke or retch or any of that? Is it still a turn on to you if the cocksucker has learned to take it with no difficulty? Other than of course holding his head down tight with your cock all the way in so he cant breath. Seeing him desperately try to pull back to get air

Long chapter here, but stick with it. Take it in small doses if you have to. --------------- Chapter 27: Monsters Inside Us Dressing room at InfraRed. 31-Oct-20XX. 22:08 MST. REDACTED location. The dressing room behind the InfraRed stage still pulsed faintly with the club’s rhythm, bass traveling through concrete and shelving in dull, physical waves. Colored light seeped under the door in smeared streaks of red and ultraviolet, painting the stacked liquor crates and tangled cables in uneasy shadow. The air carried heat, sweat, and disinfectant—but beneath it now lingered something else, metallic and sharp, like ozone after a lightning strike. That and the unmistakable smell of sex. Spencer leaned back against a tower of supply boxes, breathing hard. He had never been small. Even before tonight, Spencer’s body had been the kind built to command attention under strobes and mirrors—thick, stage-trained muscle layered across chest and shoulders, arms heavy with size, thighs carved dense from years of performance and conditioning. He’d always moved with the heavy grace of someone aware of how much space he occupied. Now that body was changing. Stag watched the shift with fixed, unwilling focus. It began as swelling—subtle only in comparison to how large Spencer already was. The muscle across his chest thickened further, pecs lifting and rounding until the skin stretched tight and gleaming. His shoulders broadened visibly, deltoids pushing outward into exaggerated domes of mass that seemed almost too large for his frame. Veins surfaced along his arms and across his torso, darkening beneath skin that was losing its warmth and sliding toward an unnatural grey. Spencer’s abdomen flexed as he drew in a breath. Even the deeply-cut definition there deepened, each segment of muscle pressing forward more prominently, as though something inside him demanded expansion. His biceps swelled when he shifted his hands against the concrete, bulging larger than they had any right to be—thick cords stacked atop one another, veins crawling over them in blackened tracery. The transformation didn’t make him misshapen. It made him excessive. Grotesquely, overwhelmingly muscular—like a bodybuilder pushed past biological limits and then hardened further into something denser and more powerful than flesh alone should allow. What had been a gift from God before was now a twisted, corrupted thing straight from hell. His fingers curled slightly where they rested. The nails had changed. Longer. Sharper. Edges no longer smooth but faintly hooked, catching the leaking club light in thin, dangerous glints. When Spencer inhaled again, his chest expanded wider than before, ribcage stretching to accommodate the new mass. His throat moved as he swallowed, and when his lips parted, Stag saw the shift in his teeth—canines lengthened, points clean and predatory against the darkening tone of his mouth. Spencer’s eyes opened slowly. They were darker already, the color draining toward black, depthless and reflective. Awareness settled into them with frightening speed—not confusion, not fear, but a clear recalibration, as though he were assessing a new body and finding it entirely acceptable. They landed on Stag. And stayed. The connection ignited a heartbeat later. Stag felt it move through him—the thread snapping taut between them, the newly shared awareness brushing along his mind. Spencer’s perception bled faintly into his own: sound sharpened, heat signatures of moving bodies beyond the door, the living press of the club outside the walls. Spencer pushed himself upright. The motion was smoother than it had any right to be for someone whose mass had just increased so drastically. His center of gravity had shifted, but he compensated instantly, spine straightening, shoulders rolling back to test the new range. The muscles along his back bunched and slid under greying skin, thicker than before, layered like armor plates. He looked bigger standing than he had lying down. Not merely tall or broad—but heavy with power, density packed into every line of him until he seemed carved rather than grown. Stag felt the instinctive claim rise in him before he could stop it. Mine. He crushed the thought down immediately, jaw tightening. Spencer took a step toward the door, gaze already drifting outward toward the living movement beyond the room—the dance floor, the bodies, the pulse of potential hosts. Stag moved in front of him without thinking. The gesture wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t overtly controlling. But it blocked the exit all the same, his body placed between Spencer and the club beyond. Spencer paused. His head tilted slightly as he studied Stag with those deepening black eyes. There was no fear in him, no lingering confusion from the infection. Only recognition—and the faintest edge of detachment. The new network hummed between them. Spencer’s awareness touched Stag’s thoughts lightly, almost curiously, and Stag felt the subtle pushback beneath it: not rejection, not anger—simply independence reasserting itself inside the bond. Stag felt something colder than victory settle into his chest. Spencer’s gaze moved past him again, toward the door. Toward the world. And Stag, watching the man he had just remade grow larger, stronger, and already slipping beyond his reach, understood with sudden clarity that infection had not made Spencer his. It had only made Spencer more himself. The storage room door burst open hard enough to rattle the metal shelving. The music from the main floor flooded in for a second—sweat, lights, bodies—before the door slammed back against the stopper. The club owner stood in the doorway, face flushed and furious, shirt half-unbuttoned and tie hanging loose around his neck. “What the hell is going on back here?” he snapped, eyes jumping from the overturned crate to Spencer—then lingering there. “Spencer, get your ass back on stage. You’re up in three minutes. I don’t pay you to hide in the back with—” His gaze shifted to Stag, dismissive and irritated. “—whatever the hell this is.” Spencer didn’t move. He stood in the flickering light, newly broadened shoulders rising and falling slowly, breathing steady now. The stage-trained grace was still there—but it had been sharpened, weaponized. His muscles looked even more obscene under the harsh fluorescent light, chest thick and striated, arms swollen beyond their already impressive size. The grey tone of his skin was more noticeable now, veins crawling dark beneath it like fault lines. The owner either didn’t notice—or refused to. “Spencer,” he barked again, stepping into the room. “You don’t get to pull this diva crap tonight. Halloween’s our biggest revenue draw. If you don’t get back out there, I’ll have security drag you—” Stag moved before the sentence finished. One second he was standing still. The next, his hand had closed around the owner’s collar, fingers digging in hard enough to wrinkle fabric and flesh beneath it. He lifted him clean off the floor and slammed him back against the metal door with a crack that echoed through the room. The owner’s feet left the ground. His mouth snapped shut mid-threat. “Back off,” Stag growled, voice low and resonant, something monstrous rumbling beneath it. The owner struggled, kicking uselessly, eyes wide now—not with anger but with dawning realization that this wasn’t a drunken customer dispute. “You—put me down—security—” Stag tightened his grip. The door behind the owner bowed under the force, hinges whining. For a split second, Stag considered crushing his windpipe entirely—silencing him permanently. A flicker of approval moved faintly through the network. Spencer watched. Not afraid. Not shocked. Interested. That look—the way Spencer’s darkened eyes tracked Stag’s strength, the way his head tilted slightly as though assessing—sent a surge of pride through Stag that he immediately masked as rage. “This doesn’t concern you,” Stag said, voice dangerously calm. “You don’t touch him.” The owner opened his mouth to respond, but Stag released him only to throw him. The man hit the far wall hard enough to knock over a stack of empty crates, collapsing in a heap amid splintered wood and scattered plastic. Silence followed. The bass from the dance floor thudded on, oblivious. The owner groaned once, tried to push himself up—and failed. His head lolled to the side, consciousness slipping away. Spencer stepped forward slightly. His expression had shifted. Not softened—refined. There was something in his eyes now that Stag recognized immediately: admiration layered with something colder. Approval of dominance. Evaluation of power. And beneath that—distance. Stag felt it like a knife pressing just under his ribs. He told himself the reaction surging through him was satisfaction. That he’d protected Spencer. That he’d handled it. But the truth pressed closer: He hadn’t acted because Spencer needed protecting. He’d acted because he couldn’t tolerate someone else exerting authority over him. The connection between them pulsed again. Spencer’s awareness brushed his—cool, expansive, outward-facing. The club owner lay unconscious at their feet. And for the first time, Stag felt the faint, creeping sense that he had not just created something powerful— He had unleashed it. The approval Stag had expected never fully came. Instead, something colder slid through the network. A pressure. Subtle at first—like a hand settling at the back of his skull. Then firmer. Heavier. Commanding attention. Why are you alone? The Alpha’s presence did not need volume. It did not need to shout. The voice threaded through Stag’s mind with smooth, suffocating clarity. Stag stiffened, jaw tightening. Spencer felt it too—he straightened slightly, eyes unfocusing as the connection widened. You were sent to spread the gift. The temperature in the room seemed to drop to Stag. And yet you hide. Infecting one. Causing spectacle. Stag’s lips peeled back slightly, not quite a snarl. “Handled it,” he muttered under his breath, though the words were half-thought, half-spoken. “He was interfering.” The Alpha’s attention sharpened. You were not tasked with protecting. You were tasked with multiplying. Spencer shifted his weight, head tilting as if listening to someone just out of sight. The glow in his darkened eyes deepened. For the first time, Stag realized with a flare of irritation that Spencer could hear this—could feel the reprimand flowing through him. The Alpha pressed harder. Why only one? A pulse of suspicion edged the mental voice. Why this one? Explain yourself… Bryce. Stag’s jaw clenched. “Does it matter?” he shot back, reflexive and sharp. The response was immediate. Pain lanced through his skull. Not physical—worse. It felt like something squeezing inward from all sides, compressing thought itself. His vision blurred at the edges as the Alpha tightened its grip, punishing the back talk with cold precision. Stag staggered a half-step, a broken sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. Spencer’s head snapped toward him. The Alpha’s tone dropped lower. You forget yourself. The pressure increased just enough to force Stag to one knee. Do not confuse attachment with loyalty. The word ‘attachment’ hit harder than the pain. Spencer watched him now—not with sympathy. With assessment. And that burned worse than the psychic vise. The Alpha shifted focus. You, newly awakened, it said to Spencer. Spencer inhaled slowly. His chest expanded, grotesquely full and powerful. You will go forth. Spread the love. A directive. Clean. Absolute. Spencer nodded once. Stag’s head jerked up. “No.” It slipped out before he could stop it. The Alpha’s presence flared. You do not command him. I do. Remember that. Stag forced himself upright despite the lingering ache in his skull. “He’s not ready,” he said through gritted teeth. Spencer’s gaze flicked to him—confusion there, faint and fleeting. The Alpha’s reply was almost amused. He is more than ready. Another presence joined the mental space—heavy, blunt, observant. Lockjaw. You will not operate alone, the Alpha continued. Lockjaw will supervise. Since you clearly can’t be trusted to follow my orders. The implication hung in the air: You are being watched. Stag swallowed the urge to say something reckless. Spencer took a step toward the door. His movements were smooth. Confident. Eager. He didn’t look back at Stag. Lockjaw appeared in the doorway moments later, broad frame filling the space, black eyes unreadable, horns threatening to breach the black skin. He glanced from the unconscious club owner to Stag, then to Spencer. “New one?” Lockjaw asked aloud, voice flat. God, he’s huge. Fuck. Stag forced his expression into something indifferent. “Spencer,” he said curtly. “Just some random slut I … needed to teach a lesson to. Gave him what he deserved. He had it coming.” Spencer turned and gave Stag a silent glare, then turned away with distaste. The dance floor lights flickered against his sharpened features as he stepped into the corridor, already scanning for his next target. Lockjaw’s gaze lingered on Stag for a moment longer. “You look tense,” he observed. Stag scoffed. “Mind your business, asshole. Shouldn’t you be worried about your ever-missing boyfriend? He run off again or something?” Lockjaw quietly looked over at him before rolling his eyes and looking back at Spencer. But through the network, he could feel Spencer’s thoughts beginning to branch outward—curious, calculating, predatory. And for the first time since infecting him, Stag felt something dangerously close to regret. Not for what he had done. But for what he might have lost. The nightclub swallowed Spencer almost immediately. InfraRed pulsed with Halloween chaos—strobes cutting through fog, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, glitter and sweat and cheap latex costumes blurring under red light. The music was loud enough to rattle bone. To anyone watching, Spencer looked like he had simply rejoined the crowd. Only Stag could feel the difference. Through the network, Spencer’s thoughts flickered—quick, curious, newly sharpened. The infection had stripped hesitation from him. What remained was appetite. Who first? Ready to use a willing hole. The thought drifted across the link like a lazy ripple. Stag tried not to react. Lockjaw stood beside him near the hallway entrance, arms folded, silent and observant. Not interfering. Just watching. Spencer moved with predatory ease now, his grotesquely expanded frame parting dancers without effort. His skin had deepened to that slate-gray sheen, veins faintly pronounced under the lights. His teeth flashed too white when he smiled. Stag felt the moment Spencer’s attention locked onto someone. Oh. That one. The thought carried a flicker of amusement. Across the room, leaning against the bar, was a punk rocker with a bright red mohawk and nose ring, tunnels in his ears, tattoos and a leather jacket and chaps completed the look. The guy looked familiar in that vague way club regulars often did. Spencer’s thoughts sharpened again. I heard about him. Used to do adult films. Says he can take anything. Even hit me up a few times at the gym wanting to worship me. Now he can have his chance. The implication curled darkly beneath the surface. Stag could literally see the images flooding in from Spencer. The red-haired man with the mohawk bent over, moaning in ecstasy and agony. Spencer smacking his ass and pounding his new, massive dick as hard as he could until he roared aloud with each shot of blackened, tainted cum flooding his ass. The punk shivering and begging for yet another load as the virus quickly began to take hold in his battered and abused ass. Stag’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to feel this. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to care. But through the network, he could feel Spencer’s interest spike—curiosity sliding toward intent. Lockjaw noticed. “Your… boy seems enthusiastic, and just as twisted as someone else I know,” he remarked casually. Stag’s head snapped toward him. “He’s not my—” Lockjaw cut him off with a look. “Right.” The word wasn’t cruel. Just factual. Spencer approached the mohawked man, smile widening slightly. The punk laughed at something Spencer said, leaning closer, clearly interested. Stag felt the pull of it through the link. The ease. The connection. It made something twist in his chest. Lockjaw shifted his weight, watching Spencer’s body language with quiet assessment. Then, almost lazily, he said, “Funny how fast people move on. You must bring that out in people, Stag.” Stag didn’t respond. But the words hit. Because he remembered. He remembered standing in the doorway of their apartment, the gym bag still slung over his shoulder. The smell of cologne in the air that wasn’t his. The cardboard box half-packed on the bed. Spencer not looking at him. “I’m sor… actually, no. I’m not sorry. I just… I want something different, Bryce. And you clearly can’t give that to me.” Not angry. But cold, almost cruel. Just done. Stag had laughed then, too sharp and too loud, like it was a joke. He’d told Spencer he was being dramatic. That he’d been trying—hadn’t he? He’d quit smoking. Started lifting heavier. Tried to be less of an asshole. Tried to soften the sharp edges. Be more attentive. Hell, he’d even let Spencer top him whenever he asked. And it hadn’t mattered. He’d watched Spencer zip the suitcase. Load up the last few things into the box. Watched him leave. Now, across the dance floor, Spencer leaned in toward someone new, smiling like he’d never left anything behind. Lockjaw glanced sideways at Stag. “Seems happier on the longer leash,” he added mildly. That one landed harder than intended. Stag’s hands curled into fists. Through the network, Spencer’s excitement flared brighter. The infection hummed with it. He’s a horny little shit, Spencer thought. He’ll come with me. Almost seems to want it. Stag swallowed. He hadn’t expected the Alpha’s punishment to feel like this. Because it wasn’t pain. It was watching. Watching the man he’d infected—claimed—move through the world without him. And realizing that even now, Spencer didn’t need him to feel powerful. He didn’t actually need him at all. The Alpha did not need to step onto the dance floor to make himself known. His presence pressed into Stag’s mind like a hand on the back of his neck—firm, deliberate, undeniable. The music in the club dimmed beneath it, not physically but perceptually, as though the network itself shifted its attention. You disobeyed. The words were not shouted. They were simply placed inside Stag’s thoughts with surgical precision. Stag kept his posture rigid, refusing to bow his head even as the pressure increased. Across the room, Spencer’s laughter rang out, bright and easy as he leaned closer to the red-mohawked punk. The connection between them flared again—curiosity tipping toward intent. The Alpha let Stag feel it. Every flicker of Spencer’s rising hunger. Every pulse of anticipation. Every thread of desire building. Your punishment, the Alpha continued smoothly, is observation. Don’t think I can’t read your mind and know every little thought that went through your sick head, Bryce. I know exactly why you were so intent on infecting this one. A sharp spike of pain lanced through Stag’s skull when he tried to block the connection. Not enough to incapacitate—just enough to remind him who held control. You will watch him choose someone else. You will watch him take them. You will watch him enjoy it. Someone other than you. Lockjaw shifted beside him, sensing the tension spike but saying nothing. On the dance floor, Spencer placed a hand on the punk’s waist. The other man grinned, clearly interested, clearly flattered by the attention of someone built like Spencer had become—massive, sculpted, intoxicatingly confident. Stag’s throat tightened. The Alpha’s tone shifted, almost amused. Spread my strain. Increase our numbers. Do what I sent you out for. The command rippled outward through the network. Stag felt Lockjaw receive it. Felt the rest of their kind adjust, scatter, seek. Lockjaw gave Stag a sidelong look. “Well… looks like we got our orders.” Stag nodded once, jaw clenched. He would not give the Alpha the satisfaction of another outburst. Lockjaw peeled away toward the front entrance, eyes settling almost immediately on the club’s bouncer—a thick-necked man who had been watching the dance floor with detached boredom. Lockjaw’s stride was smooth, confident, and purposeful. Stag turned in the opposite direction. He found his target near the edge of the floor: a slim blond dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, glitter catching in his hair under the strobes, pink dress short enough to blur the line between costume and invitation. The same twink Stag had dismissed earlier with a sneer. The twink caught his eye and smiled shyly. Stag told himself this would be simple. Mechanical. Necessary. He didn’t look back at Spencer. But through the network, he could still feel him. Still hear the faint hum of anticipation building as Spencer guided the red-mohawked man toward a darker hallway. The Alpha’s presence lingered, heavy and observant. Watch him, it reminded him softly. And learn your place, Bryce. And Stag hated that he obeyed. The hallway near the storage rooms was quieter, the bass from the main floor reduced to a dull vibration in the walls. The Glinda-costumed twink followed Stag eagerly, heels clicking against concrete, glitter catching in the dim light. Up close, the kid smelled like cheap cologne and vodka. “You gonna just glare at me,” the twink teased lightly, brushing a hand against Stag’s chest, “or are we actually doing something?” Stag forced himself to focus. This was easy. It should be easy. He’d done this before—long before the infection. Cold detachment came naturally to him. He knew how to compartmentalize. How to separate physical action from emotional involvement. He reached out, gripping the twink’s waist, guiding him roughly back toward the wall. Through the network, Spencer’s presence pulsed brighter. The punk moaned as Spencer murmured in his ear, pulling his pants down and taking his ass in one quick movement. Spencer’s mental voice flickered across the network—curious, hungry, excited. Considering. Selecting his next victim. Stag’s jaw tightened. He leaned in closer to the twink, but his movements were mechanical now, delayed. There was no predatory thrill behind them. No hunger. The twink noticed. “You… um okay?” he asked, frowning faintly. “You look… distracted. Are we actually gonna do something?” “I’m fine,” Stag muttered. But he wasn’t. Because through the network he could feel Spencer stepping deeper into a side corridor. Feel as Spencer began to shoot his load. Feel Spencer’s excitement spike as the Alpha’s approval brushed against him. It was too much. The twink shifted under Stag’s grip, irritation replacing playfulness. “You’re kind of boring, you know that?” he said flatly. “The asshole act might be intense, but you’re not actually doing anything.” Stag blinked. “What?” “I said,” the twink snapped, shoving lightly at his chest, “you’re boring. If you’re not gonna make a move, I’ll go find someone who will.” The words hit harder than they should have. Boring. For a split second, the hallway vanished. He was back in his apartment. Back in the living room. Watching Spencer shove clothes into a duffel bag while refusing to meet his eyes. I need someone who actually makes me feel something, Bryce. You’re boring. And you’re not enough. This isn’t what I need, and you never will be. The twink rolled his eyes and pushed past him. “Jesus. I’ll find someone better.” The words overlapped perfectly with the memory. Stag didn’t move. Through the network, Spencer’s pleasure flared brighter—focused elsewhere now, locked on the red-mohawked man, already intent on pumping another tainted load into the man. The Alpha hummed approval at the progress. A hot spike of panic shot through Stag’s chest. What if Spencer didn’t need him anymore? What if this—this infection, this grotesque new power—was the only reason Spencer had ever looked back at him at all? What if even now he was just a stepping stone? Stag’s breathing grew uneven. His thoughts began to spiral. He tried to blink back the flood of tears threatening to come out of his eyes. Maybe I really am boring. Maybe I was never enough. Maybe this is the only way anyone would ever want me. The Alpha’s presence lingered at the edge of his mind, observant but silent. This was all for him. To give him what he wanted. Yeah, it gave me the infection, too, but – I needed a way to tie him to me. Permanently. And for what? He doesn’t even care now that he has what he wants. What do I do now? Lockjaw appeared at the end of the hall a moment later, posture loose but eyes sharp. There was a faint smear of dark residue on his jawline—evidence that he had already completed his assigned task. He slowed when he saw Stag standing there alone. “You're… done already?” Lockjaw asked, tone suspicious. Stag straightened too fast, blinking fast and planting a cocky grin on his face, letting out a carefree laugh as he spoke. “Yeah. Obviously.” Lockjaw didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked past Stag toward the dance floor—toward Spencer—then back. “You’re staring at him still,” Lockjaw said quietly. Stag forced a scoff. “Fuck off… And mind your own business.” But Lockjaw didn’t move away. Instead, he gently stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You both dated, didn’t you? How long have you two been broken up?” The question landed heavier than the Alpha’s psychic pressure ever had. And for the first time since this all began— Stag didn’t have a ready answer.

I once attended a cumdump for a friend who lived across the street. It was Christmas Day, and he didn't celebrate the holiday, so he hosted a cumdump. I gave him his first load, and made sure he was set up for the event. But I can't imagine it went well for him. His hole was COLD. Like he shoved ice up there before playtime. I dumped my spunk, and made sure the others who arrived got started on him before going back to check on my turkey. He got a decent number of guys, then spent the day at the bathhouse. Can collect loads, for sure, but his hole is not a positive memory. He just kinda knelt there and took it.

Also listed on Sniffies. Hoping to get a good response

I have experienced the same thing reading stories just like this one years ago. So are you going to stop taking your prep or have you already stopped taking it? Years ago when I first started having sex with guys instead of women I gave prep a lot of thought. But reading stories on this site convinced me that I really didn't want to take prep which I have not taken it. I enjoy getting fucked bare and wondering if this guy is Pozzing me.

That's the way it should be.

"So, I see two stories here, faggot" said the Latino clerk, possibly shift manager, who had yet to offer a name, "story number one - my buddy Daschelle here ID'ed that guy who went running out of here as a middle of the road plug, so from what I see, you two meet here to do a deal, he gets spooked, runs out of here leaving you with all this shit," he gestures at the drugs and paraphernalia on the table in the little stock room, "and you panic and dump it in the trash." "That's not..." I tried to clarify. "Shut up, homo cunt. Real men are still talking. So second story is you are his supplier, and he ran off with the shit and without paying you jack. No way that your fat fucking bitchass could catch him. So which is it, slut?" I knew I was in trouble. My piss would be almost pure meth if the cops were to take me in and U/A me. I couldn't risk any word of this getting back to the state licensing board. And I was still high from earlier and the musky smell from the Latino guy was doing weird things to my brain. "Findom" I blurted out. Then I realized how fucked I was now. "What was that?" Latino clerk asked, puzzled. They didn't hear, that's good. "Findom" I said again, "Financial domination. I'm a submissive, I get off paying Dominant guys to control and abuse me and humiliate me, and that guy I came in with was supposed to fuck me in public in exchange for $160." Why was I explaining this, you might ask? Because I wanted to pick up the pipes from the table and smoke them so badly and maybe they would let me if I cooperated. Daschell the clerk and the Latino clerk looked at each other and started laughing. It was an evil laugh, full of bad things to come. "So, cunt, you had to pay some guy $160 to fuck your fatass, and he takes the money and runs before he has to stick his dick in that fat cunt. If that loser was work $160, me and my buddy here are easily worth $500...apiece. It's your lucky day, cashpig. Now, strip."

Hey gonna be in the Harrisburg area march 8-13, staying in a hotel near the airport and would love to have some fun every night. Masc bi bottom for one on one to group fun, love sucking and being fucked. Toys, leather, love being watched and filmed. Hit me up if interested in helping keep me full and dripping

"Excuse me, Sir" There were three clerks working the adult bookstore, that I could see. A skinny, tatted up Latino guy who looked like a gangbanger trying to go straight, a chubby kid with acne who had to be fresh out of high school, and a tall, broad, athletic black kid. It was the kid with acne whose voice stopped me in my tracks as I attempted to walk out of the video store. "Uh, excuse me, Sir, is there a problem with the booth or the video you selected?" "No, it's just..." I started to explain. "Because you can switch to another video if you aren't finding that one to your standards, Sir. Maybe something more kinky?" The acne faced 18 year old blushed, saying the word "kinky" to a guy old enough to be his dad. "Thank you - it's all fine. It's just my...friend had to leave unexpectedly and so I don't really need the booth anymore." I replied, aware that both the other employees and the early morning customers were all looking now. The Latino kid went into the booth, probably glad he didn't have to scrub jizz off of the walls. I thanked the ginger teen with the bad skin and started to walk out again. "Uh uh - stop him Daschell" shouted the Latino kid as he walked out of the booth with the garbage can. "He ain't going nowhere." Suddenly the 6'2" 20 something black kid made of pure muscle was between me and the door. Me, I'm 43 and almost 400lbs. There's no way I'm getting past him. He grabs my arm and pulls me back to the register counter. The ginger teen and the Latino are standing there with the small garbage can from video booth 4 on the counter. Inside, two full meth pipes, three torches and a sack of something I couldn't identify, and a partial sack of meth. I put it all into the garbage can because I couldn't walk out carrying it all. "So, faggot" the Latino said when Daschell brought me to them, "looks like you and your friend planned a little party today. Suddenly he takes off like the place is on fire, then your fat faggot ass tries to slip out quietly, and I find all these drugs in our store. What do you think it all means, faggot." Every time this tatted up Latino adult video store employee called me a faggot, I tried not to show how much I enjoyed it. This was a very delicate moment. There were three of them, but I was twice their age. They had some serious shit I had left behind, but as long as I didn't show any weakness, I could talk my way out of it. But I hadn't counted on Daschell, all 6'2 and 200lbs of him, who pressed his 20 year old hard body up against my flabby 43 year old ass, and said "I recognize that old nigger who went running out of here. He deals some quality shit. Looks like they were doing a sale and he got spooked and ran. What would a voluptuous slut like you," here his hands reached around and grabbed my fat bitch tits and squeezed, "be doing meeting someone like him in a place like this at 7:00am on a Thursday morning?" I gave a short, sharp gasp as his fingers found my large nipples and twisted. I was losing ground here and needed to establish dominance before things spiraled out of control. As strange hands massage and grope my man breasts and tweak my nipples, I struggle to maintain coherent thought. Before I could say anything, I was interrupted by the Latino kid. "Hey Milo, you watch up here's. Me and Daschell and this junkie faggot are gonna go to the back room to talk," he grumbled, picking up the plastic bin and walking towards a door labeled Employees Only. Daschell somehow kept his hands busy on my body while dragging me back there. I knew whatever was about to happen would not be good.

Yes Sir. It is what we crave!

Dude. First of all, thank you for sharing such a good and well written story. Never have I ever identified so well with a story. I've never been a bug chaser, though I always liked bareback and stealthing. This story has change me, never have I been so caught up in a story like this. The conflicts, the struggle to accept. I was so turned on, and I think I've jerked off 10 times reading everything. Last three times, Ive imagine myself being fucked by a poz guy, not taking my PrEP, and it gets me so horny like never before. I never knew. Thanks for opening my eyes man. I finally feel I know myself better. I have a pussy and I need a poz dick inside me now. Just now, I came twice in a row fucking myself with a dildo, while imagining it to be a poz cock.

"Motherfucker!" That was the moment I realized that what's his name had not left the video booth to go get poppers, lube, Molly and coke. In fact, I was almost 100% sure that if I walked out the side exit and around towards where he had parked his car, it would be gone. This sucked for a few reasons. First, I had just electronically sent him $160 to fuck me. Second, I was staying in North Portland and he had just ditched me at Mr. Peeps in Beaverton with no way home. Third, he had left three cheap torches, a sack of meth, two cheap glass pipes that had seen better days but were full of melted shards, and another bag of powder on top of the video console. I was in gym shorts with no underwear, and a tank top. If I tried to walk out with most of this stuff, I'd be clinking and clanking and far too obvious, unless I got the least judgmental Uber driver in the universe. It had to be done - I lifted the cheap plastic garbage can that smelled faintly of cum on the inside up to the level of the top of the console and swept all of paraphernalia and drugs into it, then tucked it back under the video console. Time to leave and figure out how to get home and I can't risk being distracted right now. Now that was taken care of, I grabbed my hoodie and stepped out of the booth into the main video store.

I don’t care if my cocksucker is choking and gagging. But he MUST keep his mouth open and available at all times while I’m fucking his throat. Gagging is a reflex action BUT a submissive committed cocksucker should have no problem willingly keeping his mouth open. Anyway, it’s a turn on for me to see him with tears running down his cheeks, drooling, choking and retching while I’m pumping my seed deep in his throat. After all, isn’t that what he craves?