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Any Dom breeders here in Tampa?

Most of the times I’ve initiated DP, either me or the other top(s) have some sort of relationship with the bottom, know he’s into it, and enjoy seeing him react as we stretch his hole. When we’re just using some random boy for our own pleasure, I’d usually prefer to take turns rutting. Not something I’ve thought much about but I would guess it’s because I generally want to plant my seed as deeply as possible. Just given the angles involved, DP isn’t ideal for that - it can be fun for a few minutes and then I get selfish.

I would. Looking for someone filming in Tampa

If there profile's say safe sex or thay ask we want be meeting if any think thay just get blocked, as my profile all ways say BB/Raw

Much the same sentiment as other bottoms posting here. I don't mind if a top watches porn while they fuck me. Hell, if it helps them get off and dump that nut up in me faster, I am all for it! Normally I throw on some bareback/breeding porn on my laptop, have it sorta nearby but not in the way--so if they want it, it's right there for them to watch, or if they don't they can just ignore it. Only ever had one top that explicitly didn't want it, but I think it was more him worried about it being on my laptop (thought I might be recording him) and he just reached over and shut the computer, then fucked my brains out.

I am a big fan of Brandts Boys. Hot guys. Hairy guys. They all seem to like each other. Dies anyone know if they're still doing porn? I wish I had more of their videos.

i've noticed this as well and am always trying to figure it out. but kink has gone mainstream in a big way and even older str8 people are confused as to why things like "choking a bitch" are now just a standard part of usual sex and not reserved for niche kinksters. dont get me started on pegging which i'm still not sure is actually a thing average str8s casually do 😜

Your first name (or a name you'll respond to): Chris sub bottom Your cell number (for texts and voice calls):760-663-9171 A location (be at least as specific as a zip code):Palm Springs, CA Times you're generally not available:After 530PM Age:57 Height:6-0 Weight:225 Ethnicity:wwight

Good to find a topic for smokers here! Started smoking Marlboro Reds regularly age 17, now up to 2ppd with a deep love for strong, unfiltered cigs that hit my throat and lungs hard. Living in Europe helps a lot in those regards. With my partner it started as something we did casually before/after sex. It went on to full fetish mode. Today, I don't think I'll be able to cum without a cig in my mouth and nicotine in my blood. Sex without smoke or danger is boring... Not planning to quit or to cut down, I love my tarred up lungs so much... and I think it goes well with the poz fetish :)

Hey everyone, Huge thanks for all the amazing feedback on the previous chapters. Your reactions and theories are the fuel that keeps this story going, and I appreciate every single one. I'm really eager to hear what you think of this new chapter: What moments hit you the hardest? What do you think should be coming next? Did any particular line or scene make you feel something? It pushes me to make the next part even better. Don't hold back — let me know what you're thinking in the comments below. Now, on with the show... Part 17: The Cruising Grounds: Working Night Shifts The fluorescent lights of the office hum with the same monotonous drone as the highway on Friday, but today the sound isn't a promise of escape; it's the soundtrack to your purgatory. It’s Monday, your first day back at work since the bathhouse, and the coffee tastes like ash in your mouth. You sit at your desk, a successful 49-year-old man in a button-down shirt, but your body is a secret ledger, and you are obsessively tallying the debits and credits of the weekend. You know the science. You’ve read the forums until your eyes burned. The fuck flu, if it comes at all, won’t arrive for another one to three weeks. The bathhouse was a celebration, a beautiful, communal offering of your body to a room full of poz men, but it was a single event. A lottery ticket. And as the hours of Monday morning crawl by, you feel the chilling reality set in: the celebration is over. The cold, hard equation remains. Every load is a probability. Every toxic cock is a variable. The more loads you take, the higher the chances of conversion. You shift in your chair and feel a phantom ache, a ghost of the relentless breeding from Friday night. Your hole is still tender, a constant, physical reminder of the dozens of men who used you, of the two-headed god who guided you, of the final, terrifying toxic gift from the troll. But there are no signs of the divine sickness you crave. It's too early. You could sit back, relax, and wait for the probability to resolve itself. But you are not a patient man. You are eager to work for your conversion. The active hunt has to continue, and it has to continue tonight. You can't just wait for the probability to resolve itself; you have to actively increase it. You need more data points. You need a larger sample size. The hunt is no longer a weekend hobby; it's a full-time job. And tonight, you're clocking in. The clock on your computer screen clicks past 4:00 PM, and your body responds before your mind does. It's a conditioned response, a new kind of muscle memory. You save your work, shut down your computer, and grab your keys. The hunt is on. The longer spring days have changed the atmosphere at the rest stop, creating distinct, predictable shifts in the population, ecosystems you’ve come to know as well as your own neighborhood. The lot is already filled with cars and vans, some work trucks, their engines ticking as they cool in the afternoon air. These men are mostly craftsmen—carpenters, electricians, plumbers. Their hands are calloused, their jeans worn and stained with the honest dirt of their labor. A few office workers in suits and ties are mixed in, their crisp collars a stark contrast to the work boots and tool belts. You walk into the woods, and the encounters begin immediately. They are quick, silent, and transactional. Most are tops, who have convinced themselves that fucking a guy doesn't make you gay—only bottoming does. They fuck you standing against a tree or bent over a fallen log, their breath hot and desperate on the back of your neck. There's no intimacy, only a raw, primal release. They fuck bare because that's what they've always done; they haven't used a rubber since their teenage girlfriend. They don't think about risk, they just think about getting home to their wives and kids. They have never tested for HIV, most don’t even know about PrEP. They are walking reservoirs of accumulated, anonymous bugs, and you are their necessary release valve. You love it. You love the feeling of taking their unexamined risk into your body, turning their thoughtless pleasure into your deliberate prayer. As dusk settles, a new, more aesthetically pleasing crowd arrives. They are younger, gay men, their bodies sculpted and gleaming from a post-workout pump. The sex is more athletic, more playful. There's more kissing, more mutual exploration. But you know the truth. You hear the tell-tale signs of the well-informed gay man: the casual discussion of parties, the mention of PrEP. You know many of them are on it. You take their loads because they're hot, their bodies beautiful instruments of pleasure, but in your mind, they are low-risk. They are a beautiful, but ultimately futile, distraction from your real goal. Even with their hot cum leaking from your hole, you feel disappointed. It's a hollow victory, a beautiful but empty calorie in your statistical feast. You head back to your car, satisfied but not satiated, your mind already calculating the probability of the loads you've just taken. Even with their hot cum leaking from your hole, you feel a nagging sense of incompleteness. It's like you've eaten a delicious meal, but you're still hungry for the one thing that will truly nourish you. You've increased the numbers, but you haven't yet found the key to unlock the final door. The work is never done. At first, you come back twice a week. Then it's every other evening. Then, the compulsion becomes too strong. You start coming every single day after work, the drive to the rest stop an unbreakable part of your routine. You have become a regular to the rest stop. One evening, you're walking back across the darkening parking lot, the familiar ache of unsatisfied desire settled deep in your gut. The gym rats were hot, but their PrEP-protected loads felt like hollow victories, adding nothing to your statistical equation. The need to piss hits you, a pressing, physical demand. You head for the small, blockhouse public toilet. The moment you step inside, you're plunged into near darkness. The only light bulb at the ceiling is broken, and the fading twilight filtering through the grimy, high windows does little to cut through the gloom. You have to pause for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dim, murky interior. The air inside is thick with the acrid smell of stale piss and damp concrete, but it's surprisingly warm from the industrial heating, a stark contrast to the chilly evening outside. As your vision slowly clears, the signs of recent fun resolve from the shadows: milky cum stains splattered on the tiled walls and the edge of the metal urinal trough, used condoms—some empty, some swollen and filled, some neatly tied off—lying in the trough and scattered across the grimy floor like discarded party favors. And there he is. The Leather Biker. You haven't seen him in a while, not since the bathhouse. He's not pissing. He's just leaning against the wall, a dark, imposing figure, watching you enter. Dressed only in a leather vest and leather chaps, all his junk exposed. You see the huge PA in his cock, heavy ballstretchers straining his walnut-sized balls, and the biohazard tattoo that lords over it all. A mark that sends most men running, but which draws you in, a promise of the danger you crave. "Leaving already?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that echoes in the small space. "The buffet's still open. But I guess you need to drain your pipe first." Before you can answer, he moves towards you, grabs your arm, not roughly, but with an unshakeable authority that sends a jolt straight to your cock, and pulls you into the darkest corner of the room, away from the urinals. While looking you deep in the eyes, he slowly starts to undress you, his movements efficient and deliberate. He pulls off your jacket, then your t-shirt, tossing them into a dusty corner. He unfastens your jeans and yanks them down, pooling around your ankles before pulling them off completely. You're now naked, your skin prickling in the warm, humid air. He sits down on the grimy, tiled floor, his back against the wall, and pulls you down with him. The feeling of the cold, dirty tiles against your bare ass is a shock, a grounding, filthy reality. He positions you to sit between his spread legs, leaning back against his firm, leather-clad chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you in place. It's surprisingly comfortable, a secure, filthy embrace. You can feel the texture of his leather vest against your skin, the cool metal of his wrist cuffs against your arm. "Didn't you come in here to piss?" he murmurs into your ear, his voice a low, intimate vibration that makes you shiver. You nod. "Good," he says. "Let it flow. Don't hold back. Just let it all go." As he says this, you feel a sudden, powerful warmth spreading across your back. He's letting go with his own piss, a heavy, hot stream that splashes against your skin and puddling on the floor beneath you. The feeling is so intimate, so transgressive, that it instantly breaks down your last resistance. You relax your bladder and let your own stream flow, adding to the growing puddle, the warmth soaking into your skin, a shared filth that feels more like a baptism than a degradation. As you're pissing, you feel his hand move to your cock. He takes it in his firm grip and aims it upwards, so your own stream arcs up and splashes across your stomach and chest. You are pissing all over yourself, and the feeling of utter surrender is intoxicating. The sound of the door creaking open breaks the moment. A few other men from the "pretty" crowd come in to piss. They see you two on the ground—a naked man sitting between the leather-clad legs of another, soaked in piss—and they either stare in shock or grin and quickly move to the far end of the trough, giving you a wide berth. But one, a muscular guy with a hungry look, doesn't. Instead of using the urinal, he walks over, aims his own stream, and adds it to the puddle, splashing his warm piss all over your chest and legs. The Biker doesn't care. His focus is entirely on you. "This is just the appetizer," he whispers, his voice calm and steady as his other hand finds your hole. He pushes two fingers inside, and you're still slick and open from the last gym rat. He swirls them around, feeling the loads inside. "But the men you really want... the ones with the real poison... they don't come out until the sun is gone. They're creatures of the dark. They're drawn to the filth, to the depravity. They can smell it on you." He pulls his fingers from your hole, slick with the anonymous loads from the evening. He brings them up to your lips. "Taste it," he commands. "Taste what you've collected so far." You open your mouth, and he pushes his cum-slicked fingers inside, letting you taste the evidence of your hunt. As you're cleaning his fingers, the muscular guy who just pissed on you starts stroking his hard cock. With a grunt, he steps forward and sprays his load all over your face, thick, warm ropes of cum landing on your cheek and lips as you're servicing the Biker's fingers. While you're still cleaning his fingers, his other hand finds a used condom on the floor beside him and squeezes the thick, anonymous load over your own hard cock, using it as lube. He starts stroking you, slowly. "There," he murmurs. "Now you're thinking with the right head." His fist is a warm, slick vise around your cock, stroking you with a maddening, expert rhythm. He brings you to the very edge of orgasm, your body tensing, your breath hitching, the pressure building to an unbearable peak—and then he stops. He just holds you, his grip firm but still, letting the wave of climax recede until you're left panting and trembling with unfulfilled need. He does this again and again, each time pushing you higher, making you more and more horny, until your mind is a blank, buzzing slate desperate for release. All the while, he gives you a masterclass in the ecology of the rest stop. He points out the different types, the signs to look for, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that makes you feel safe even as he describes the most depraved things, his control over your pleasure making his every word feel like divine truth. The door opens again, and this time two guys come in. They're older, maybe late forties, and they're clearly here to watch the show. They don't even pretend to use the urinals. They just lean against the opposite wall, rubbing their crotches. One of them unzips and pulls out his cock, stroking it slowly as he watches you. The Biker just smiles, a dark, predatory grin. "See?" he whispers in your ear. "They're getting interested. They can smell the desperation on you. They want to add to the mess." He reaches down and scoops up a handful of the piss-and-cum puddle you're sitting in, bringing it up to your chest and smearing it all over you like a foul, lukewarm lotion. "Mark yourself," he commands. "Show them what you are." The two guys are getting closer now, emboldened. The one who was stroking his cock walks over, his dick hard and leaking. He stands over you and starts jacking off in earnest. The Biker just holds you tighter, one hand still stroking your edging cock, the other hand now pinching your nipple, hard. "Open your mouth," the Biker commands. You do, and a second later, the stranger grunts and a thick, surprisingly large load of cum shoots directly into your mouth, followed by another that splatters across your forehead. Before you can even swallow, the Biker is kissing you, his tongue forcing the stranger's load back into your mouth, sharing it in a deep, filthy kiss. The second watcher, seeing this, can't hold back either. He steps up and adds his own, smaller load to the cum already drying on your chest. This new stimulation, the fresh cum and the Biker's possessive kiss, makes you writhe in his lap. He picks up the pace of his stroking, his fist flying on your cock, bringing you right back to that agonizing, beautiful edge. He keeps you there, hovering in that painful, blissful state for what feels like an eternity, his voice a constant, hypnotic murmur in your ear about the creatures of the dark and the poison they carry. Finally, as the last of the twilight fades from the high, grimy windows, he gives you one final, slow stroke and leaves you hanging right on the precipice. He gently pushes you forward. "Now," he says, his voice filled with a dark finality. "It's time." You look down at yourself. You're naked, soaked in piss, and splattered with cum. "I can't go back into the woods like this," you say. "Nobody will want to touch me." The Biker stands and pulls you up with him. He turns you to face him, his hands on your shoulders. "You think they care?" he asks, his voice intense and certain. "The men you're after? The creatures of the dark? They'll see you and they'll think you're one of them. They'll see the filth on you and they'll know you're serious and desperate. They'll see you as a brother. They'll want you more than ever." He leads you out of the blockhouse. He doesn't give you your clothes. He just walks you, naked, into the darkness, not back to the parking lot, but back into the woods. The cold night air is a shock against your piss-and-cum-slicked skin, but you don't shiver from the temperature. You feel insulated by the filth, armored by it. Back in the woods, the landscape has completely changed. The last of the gym rats have vanished. In their place, the "creatures" begin to emerge from the shadows. They are gaunt, haunted figures, moving with a slow, deliberate purpose. The Biker stops in a small clearing and pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, holding you in place. He's not just holding you; he's presenting you. You are shivering, not from the temperature, but from excitement. Your PA cock stands upright, hard as it hasn't been in a long time, a testament to your horniness and utter surrender. He doesn't say a word. He just murmurs in your ear, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Just watch and wait. They'll come." And they do. At first, they just watch from the shadows, drawn by the scent of sex and filth that clings to you. As they drift closer, you see them more clearly. These are not the sculpted bodies of the gym crowd. One is an older man with a large, soft beer belly that hangs over his unfastened jeans, his chest covered in a thick mat of gray hair. Another is younger, but his body is wasted, his skin loose and hanging on his frame, the track marks on his arms faintly visible in the moonlight. A third is just average, pale and soft, with a nervous energy that makes him twitch. They are real, imperfect men, their bodies bearing the marks of hard lives and harder choices. They approach with the caution of wild animals, testing the air. One reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touches your arm, feeling the dried cum. He seems surprised when you don't flinch, when you stay right where you are, held securely in the Biker's embrace. Emboldened, another one touches your chest, flicking a hard nipple. A third grips your PA, pulling on it, feeling the weight of the metal, stroking your cock. They are feeling if you are real, testing if you will run away, but you don't. You stay where you are, a willing sacrifice in the arms of your dark priest. Sensing their readiness, the Biker shifts. He spins you around in his arms, so you're facing towards him, your ass now presented to the small crowd. He holds you firmly under your arm pits, his grip a silent offering. "Go on," the Biker's voice is a low growl, a permission granted into the darkness. "He's here for it. He wants you! He needs you!" That's all the encouragement they need. The one with the beer belly steps forward immediately, his hands kneading your ass cheeks. You simply stick out your ass for him, an unspoken invitation. He runs a finger down your crack and over your hole. "Fuck, look at that," he grunts. "Already slick and gaping. Smells like cum in there." He brings his fingers to his nose, then his eyes. "Still got the loads from those pretty boys in you, don't you? Well, my cum's gonna be different. My cum's gonna take." He spits on his cock and pushes into you with a groan. "Gonna give you my strain," he grunts, fucking you with deep, punishing strokes. "Gonna knock you up good." "Yeah, breed him," the wasted one chimes in, stroking his own cock as he watches. "Fill his guts with our bug." The verbal poison is intoxicating. "Yes," you moan, pushing back against the man inside you. "Poison me. Change me." The first man grunts and floods you, and before he's even pulled out, the nervous one is taking his place. You keep your ass pushed out, ready for the next one, the Biker's strong hands keeping you steady as the frantic, jabbing cock pounds into you. "Toxic load coming up," he snarls. "Gonna feel this tomorrow. Gonna feel it for weeks." He adds his own potent deposit to the mix. For over an hour, they pass you between them. One after another, three, then four of them, each one fucking and breeding you with a desperate intensity, their poz talk a constant, liturgical chant in your ears. They treat you like a communal vessel, a sacred repository for their shared sickness. When the last one finishes, they simply melt back into the darkness, leaving you panting, dripping, and overflowing with their collective gift. You stand up on shaky legs and lean into the arms of the Biker, a profound sense of accomplishment washing over you. You didn't just take a load; you were the centerpiece of a ritual. You were claimed. After a long moment, the Biker's voice breaks the silence. "Your husband waiting for you at home?" he asks, his tone casual but knowing. "No," you breathe, still catching your breath. "He's not back until the weekend." "Come with me," he says, leaving no room for argument. He leads you back to the blockhouse. The air inside is still thick with the smells of your baptism. You gather your clothes from the dusty corner, your keys still on the floor where you dropped them. You were expecting a motorcycle, expecting to follow him in your own car, but instead he leads you to a black BMW SUV parked in the shadows. He opens the front passenger door, spreads clean, white towels over the leather seat, and tells you to get in. You do, still naked, your skin sticky and cooling in the car's air conditioning. He drives into Frankfurt, heading for the Westend—an exclusive district known for its many costly Gründerzeit villas. The city lights blur past, a world away from the primal filth of the rest stop. This was not what you had expected. He stops in front of one of the grandest villas, dark and imposing behind a high wall. At the push of a button in his car, a metal gate noiselessly opens, and you drive inside, into a world of wealth and order that feels like a different planet. The inside of the villa is just as stunning as the outside, a perfect marriage of old-world charm and stark modern luxury. Your bare feet feel the smooth, cool grain of ancient, beautifully renovated wooden floors. The walls are a clean, minimalist white, serving as a canvas for huge, arresting paintings of abstract art. But it's the library that truly stuns you. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every available wall, packed not with decor, but with hundreds of well-worn books—volumes on history, politics, art, and philosophy. You find yourself drifting towards them, your filth-covered body a stark contrast to this world of intellect and order. While you're lost in the titles, he moves with an easy grace through his home. He quickly lights a fire in a massive stone fireplace, its flames immediately chasing away the evening's chill, and drapes soft, wool blankets over a large leather sofa. He steps out of his boots, chaps, and vest. You are both naked, but here you don't feel naked. It feels natural, as if this is the only way you should be in his presence. He disappears into a kitchen, returning with a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses. He steps up to you, holding them out, and you see him clearly for the first time. Before, it was always in the dark of the rest stop or the dim light of the blockhouse. In the bathhouse, you were blindfolded. Now, in the warm glow of the firelight, you see him. He is an impressive, handsome man, with distinguished features that carry an air of classic Hollywood elegance. He's probably ten years older than you, maybe sixty, but a man who clearly takes care of himself—a true silver fox, his dapper salt-and-pepper hair a hallmark of his refined look. His body is lean and athletic, with a flat stomach and a medium build he maintains in good shape. A thick dusting of silver hair covers his chest, narrowing into a perfect, dark treasure trail that leads downward. But the trail ends abruptly at his pubes, which are shaved clean, making the bold, black biohazard tattooed there stand out even more. It's the symbol that attracts you so much, a stark, deliberate declaration of the danger he represents. His cock is again fully hard, a beautiful, powerful thing with an upward curve, the heavy PA gleaming at its tip, framed by the stark ink of his tattoo. "I'm Markus," he says, his voice a smooth, warm baritone, handing you one of the glasses. You just nod, the name echoing in your mind. The name feels more significant than any handshake. He pulls you in, and you kiss. It's not the rough, possessive kiss from the toilet. This is slow, deep, and intimate. He guides you to the sofa, motioning for you to sit. You hesitate, acutely aware of the dried cum and piss still caking your skin, the filth of the rest stop ground into you. "Should I... should I take a shower first?" you ask, feeling small and out of place. He just smiles, a genuine, warm smile that reaches his eyes. "Don't worry," he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I love you like you are. I wouldn't want you any different." With that, he pulls you down onto the sofa, positioning you between his legs, your back resting against his hairy, athletic chest—a perfect echo of your position in the toilet a few hours before. Only now, you're on a clean sofa, in a warm room, the fireplace casting a cosy, golden atmosphere. You both take a sip of wine, the rich, complex liquid a welcome warmth spreading through you. You kiss again, the taste of the Bordeaux mingling on your tongues. He starts to talk, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur against your ear. "You're trying too hard," he begins, echoing his words from the parking lot but with a new, gentle intimacy. "You're treating it like a math problem. A statistical equation to be solved. But that's not how this works. The magic, the conversion... it's not something you can hunt down and force. It's not a transaction." He takes a sip of his wine. "You've been collecting loads like they're trophies. But you're not a museum. You're a garden. And right now, you're trying so hard to force a flower to bloom that you're treading all over the seeds." He runs a hand down your chest, smearing a bit of dried cum. "You need to stop trying to get it," he whispers. "And you need to start letting it in. You need to be still. You need to be receptive. The body knows when the mind is at peace. You're so full of desperate, frantic energy, you're fighting it. You're a fortress, and you're the one holding the gates closed. You just have to... let go." He is quiet for a moment, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back. "I wasn't always like this," he says softly. "I wasn't always the Biker. I used to be... someone else. I was an investment banker. My husband, the man of my life, he was a lawyer. We were successful. We travelled, we partied, we fucked around a lot. It was the 80s. We thought we were invincible." He pauses, his gaze distant in the firelight. "He got pozzed early on, back when there were no good treatments. I watched him almost die, more times than I can count. But he always fought his way back. He was the strongest person I ever knew." "He was always so caring, even then," Markus continues, his voice thick with memory. "He insisted I always use rubbers to fuck him, to protect me, because he never became undetectable. When PrEP finally became available, it was a revelation. He agreed we could fuck bareback, as long as I stayed on my blue pills. We had both made so much money by then, we decided to retire early and just... live. Travel the world, enjoy the life we had built." "But the world had other plans. Soon after we retired, he was diagnosed with cancer. Lung cancer. It was too advanced, too late to cure." You feel a single, hot tear drop onto your shoulder. "When the end was coming, I... I couldn't bear the thought of his legacy, his strength, just disappearing. I made him promise. I begged him to let me stop my PrEP, to let him pass his virus on to me. So a part of him could continue in me, so I could carry him with me and spread his gift to the world. He agreed." He takes a long drink of his wine. "My doctor wasn't thrilled when I told him I didn't want to go on meds. He monitors my viral load and T-cells regularly, ready to start treatment the moment it's absolutely necessary. But until then... I enjoy the freedom. The freedom of bare, poz sex. And I honor him by gifting chasers with his legacy as often as I can." He kisses the top of your head. "You're not just hunting a virus," he whispers. "You're trying to find a story. A connection. You can't find it in a dark toilet. You have to be still enough to let it find you." He is quiet for another moment, letting his words sink in. "Now, tell me about your relationship," he says softly, his voice a low vibration against your back. "I want to understand the man who lets you come here to me." As you take a breath to speak, you feel his fingers begin to trace patterns on your chest, a slow, deliberate exploration. "It's... a weekend relationship," you begin, your voice a little unsteady as his thumb finds a nipple and begins to circle it. "We live mostly separate lives during the week. We have this unspoken agreement, a 'don't tell, don't ask' policy." He gently twists the nipple, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your cock, which begins to stir against your leg. "We've never, ever talked about safe sex or barebacking. It's just not a conversation we have." His other hand drifts lower, skimming over your stomach until it finds your balls. He carefully hefts them, stretching them, his touch both possessive and intimate. "There are others, though," you continue, your voice growing thicker with desire. "Friends who understand. There's Mark and Stefan, in Munich. They're the ones who organized the bathhouse gangbang for me." His fingers find your PA, tugging on it gently, making your cock fully hard. "We're all in a Telegram group chat, we talk every day. They're my real community in this..." His hand moves from your balls, sliding down the cleft of your ass. A finger finds your hole, still slick and swollen from the night's breeding. He circles the puckered rim, then slowly pushes inside. You gasp, arching your back slightly. "...But they're in Munich," you manage to finish. "They're too far away to be here for me when I need them." You feel his cock, hard and insistent, throbbing against your back through his own arousal. "So you're alone in this," he murmurs, his voice filled with a deep, resonant understanding as he works his finger deeper inside you. "You're surrounded by people, but you're completely alone. No wonder you're a fortress. You have to be." He pulls his finger out, and you feel a sudden emptiness, but it's only for a moment. He brings his hand up in front of your face, his fingers glistening with the cum of the creatures from the woods. "Taste it," he commands softly. "Taste what you've collected." You open your mouth, and he pushes his cum-slicked fingers inside, letting you clean them with your tongue. The taste is sharp, primal, a tangible reminder of your hunt. As you're lost in the sensation, he pulls his fingers from your mouth and turns your head to face him. He kisses you, a deep, possessive kiss, sharing the taste of the anonymous loads from your own ass. It's a filthy, intimate act of ownership, and it makes your head spin. He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. "That ends tonight," he says, his voice firm but kind, his eyes burning into yours in the firelight. "You're not alone anymore." With those words, the gentle mentor vanishes and the dominant Biker returns. He stands, pulling you effortlessly to your feet. He doesn't lead you to a bedroom. He simply pushes you down onto the thick, wool rug in front of the crackling fireplace. As he moves into the firelight, you see it again: the bold, black biohazard symbol tattooed on his shaved pubes, a stark declaration of the danger he represents, a crown over his majestic cock. The heat from the flames washes over your front as he kneels in front of you, his presence a towering shadow that blocks out the rest of the room. He spreads your legs wide with his knees, his hands gripping your hips. You feel the blunt, wet head of his cock press against your hole. There's no teasing, no waiting. This isn't about seduction anymore. It's about claiming. He pushes into you in one long, relentless stroke, and you gasp. His cock feels different—hotter, thicker, more significant than any of the others. "Feel that?" he growls, his voice a low rumble as he bottoms out inside you, his heavy PA pressing deep against your insides. "Feel my PA scraping your insides? I'm scratching you up, making thousands of tiny little wounds for my venom to get into. I'm opening the door for my army to invade." He begins to fuck you, his strokes deep and powerful, his rhythm deliberate and punishing. But then, something shifts. His grip on your hips becomes bruising, his breath turns into a guttural snarl. He's no longer a man; he's a beast, reduced to a single, primal purpose. His massive, spear-like cock pistons into you, the heavy PA a blunt instrument hammering against your deepest walls with every brutal thrust. It's not pleasure; it's a furious, possessive onslaught. He slows for a moment, burying himself to the hilt. Instead of long strokes, he begins to short-stroke, grinding his hips in tight circles while staying deep inside you. You can feel the heavy PA move inside you, a dense metallic weight tapping against your inner walls, like the clapper of a deep, silent bell tolling only for you. "Look at you," he snarls, his voice a mix of lust and genuine admiration. "So desperate to be destroyed. Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see that perfect, smooth skin that I can't wait to mark. I see those lean muscles, that flat stomach, that tight ass—all of it so healthy, so strong. It makes me so fucking hard to know I'm going to ruin it. I'm going to poison that perfect, healthy body from the inside out." His hand slides up your chest and wraps tight around your throat, cutting off your air just enough to make your head swim with a dizzying mix of fear and lust. "Say it. Beg me to poison you." His verbal poison is the final trigger. You feel a profound shift inside you, a psychological lock clicking open. All the frantic energy, all the desperate searching—it all melts away. You go completely limp beneath him, surrendering not just your body, but your mind, your will, your entire quest to him. You are no longer a hunter; you are the territory being claimed. "My doc says my viral load is off the charts," he continues, his voice hot against your ear as he feels your surrender. "He calls it a 'viral tsunami'. You're not just taking a load, you're about to drown in it." He feels your surrender. With a final, roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the villa, he buries himself to the hilt and unloads. You feel it not just as warmth, but as a pressure, a force. "I'm gonna burn that negative test result out of your bloodstream," he grunts, his cock pulsing. "I'm gonna replace all your healthy white cells with my dirty, toxic soldiers. I'm gonna make you sick in the most beautiful way." And then, as suddenly as it began, the beast is gone. He collapses on your chest, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He releases your throat, and you suck in a desperate lungful of air. He kisses your neck, a series of soft, tender kisses. "Shhh," he whispers, his voice once again the gentle, loving daddy. "I've got you. I've got you now." He stays buried inside you, his cock softening against your tender walls. When he finally pulls out, the sudden emptiness is a shock, but it's instantly replaced by the familiar, full pressure of a large metal plug he pushes into your hole, sealing his load inside. "Don't want to waste any of this," he murmurs, pulling you into his arms, your back against his chest as he drapes a blanket over you both. "Once this takes, you're ruined for the clean world," he whispers, his voice a low promise against your ear. "You'll never go back. You'll always be marked, always be mine. Every time you get sick, you'll be thinking of me. That flu you're waiting for? That's the receipt. The proof of purchase. I'm buying you, body and soul, and the fever is the brand." You lie there in the firelight, listening to his heartbeat slow, his arms a secure cage around you, utterly claimed and content. But the rest is a temporary peace. You feel his cock begin to harden again against your back, and the cycle begins anew. He rolls you over, pushes your legs to your chest, and the beast returns. This time, his fucking is less about pure brutality and more about overwhelming, relentless stamina. He pounds into you with a tireless, machine-like rhythm, his grunts a steady, primal beat in the firelit room. He's testing your endurance, breaking you down with sheer force and duration. When he finally floods you a second time, the load feels even hotter, more potent—a reward for having survived his relentless assault. He plugs you again, and you fall back into his embrace, your body aching with a profound satisfaction. But the beast is still not satisfied. You both drift in a haze of sex and exhaustion until you feel his cock begin to swell against you for a third time. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "One more," he whispers. "To make sure it takes." This time, he kneels between your legs before he enters. You watch in a mix of terror and anticipation as he fiddles with his PA. With a deft, practiced movement, he unscrews the heavy, smooth balls from the barbell, setting them aside like discarded jewelry. From a small dish on the coffee table, he picks up two new, sinister-looking attachments—sharp, metal spikes—and screws them into place on the barbell still embedded in his cock. The sight makes your hole clench involuntarily. "Now I'm gonna rip you up inside," he snarls, lining the spiked head up with your hole. "Gonna make some fresh wounds for my bugs to take hold." With that, he slams back into you. The sensation is indescribable—a white-hot flash of agony and ecstasy as the spiked PA tears at your already tender flesh, ripping you open from the inside. "Feel those spikes?" he grunts, his voice a ragged, triumphant snarl. "I'm carving a highway straight into your bloodstream." He's not just fucking you anymore; he's flaying you from within, ensuring his toxic venom has direct access to your bloodstream. He uses long, strong strokes, each one a deliberate act of destruction designed to tear you up so his bugs can better take. "Every stroke is planting it deeper," he growls, his rhythm never faltering. "I'm grinding my strain into your very DNA to knock you up." When he finally cums, it's a roar of absolute conquest. "Take it! Take the final dose!" he bellows, his body convulsing as he unloads deep inside your ruined hole. He plugs you one last time, the cold steel a shocking comfort against the raw, burning heat of your brutally violated hole. He doesn't just hold you this time; he arranges you both on the rug, pulling more blankets over your entwined bodies. You're facing him now, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you as the fire dies down to a soft glow. You are boneless, a puddle of blissful exhaustion, completely and irrevocably his. The rest stop has become your new church, and the dark hours after dawn your sacred time. The woods belong to the creatures now—the poz trolls, gaunt and hungry, their eyes gleaming with a desperate, predatory light. They know you by name, or by reputation. They know you're the easy fuck, the grateful hole that takes their diseased loads without question, the one who cherishes their poison like a sacrament. You've already taken three of their loads tonight, your hole slick and tingling, a toxic cocktail simmering in your guts. You feel depraved, powerful, and alive. It's a Friday. Your phone buzzes, a sudden, jarring light in the gloom. It's your husband. “Running late, stuck in traffic. Love you.” Your heart pounds. A thrill, sharp and cold, shoots through you. More time. An extra hour of this beautiful filth. But as you slip the phone back into your pocket, you see him. He's not stuck in traffic. He's already here, deep in the woods, bent over a fallen log. And he's not alone. A gaunt, skeletal man you and Markus had been watching, the one with the hacking cough and sunken eyes, who has bred you less than an hour ago, is behind him, rutting into him with a frantic, desperate energy. That's my husband, a voice in your head purrs with a surge of dark, proud joy. My beautiful, dirty pig, taking a raw, toxic load from one of the sickest-looking trolls here. You've seen him here before, him not knowing that you know. But seeing him again follows with a wave of dark, exhilarating arousal. He's truly one of them. He's just as much of a pig as you are. A sense of proud, sick excitement overcomes you. Markus sees your excitement and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. "He's a hungry little pig, isn't he?" he grunts, his voice a low rumble of approval. "Come on. Let's give him what he wants. Together." He pulls his own thick cock out of you unexpectedly. You try to clench your hole shut, but it's too late; all the toxic cum you've collected splatters from your gaping ass onto the ground, a wasted offering. Without a word, he nods you forward. Your legs feel weak as you step through the undergrowth, your own raw cock leading the way. Careful to avoid your husband seeing and recognizing you. Markus steps in front of your husband, who is still bent over and catching his breath. Markus sits down on the very log your husband was just leaning on, his massive, hard cock sticking up like a meaty flagpole. He grabs your husband's hips and pulls him down, guiding him until his slick, already-used hole sinks onto Markus's pole. Your husband cries out, a moan of pure pleasure as the heavy PA breaches him. "That's it, you fucking pig," Markus snarls up at him. "Ride that dirty cock. You like that metal crown churning up all that poison already inside you?" "Fuck yes," your husband groans, his voice a depraved rasp you've never heard before. "Churn up all that filthy juice inside of me. Fill me with more toxic seed. Make me a factory for your strain." The exchange is so filthy, so honest, it makes your head spin. This is the man you kiss good morning. As your husband starts to ride Markus with abandon, bouncing on his cock, Markus winks at you. He points a finger directly at the place where their bodies are joined, at your husband's stretched-out hole, now gripping his cock. An invitation. A poz troll who's been watching from the shadows puts a firm hand on your lower back, pushing you forward. You stumble closer until your own hard cock is pressed against your husband's lower back. Without even turning around, your husband reaches back, grabs your shaft, and pulls it down towards his already-plowed hole. There is no resistance. He's so well-used, so opened up, that you slide in beside Markus's thick pole with a slick, easy heat. The sensation is overwhelming. Your cock is trapped against Markus's, the two of you fucking him simultaneously. You can feel his PA, a hard, unyielding ridge of metal, rubbing against the sensitive underside of your shaft with every thrust. Then you hear it: a sharp, metallic tink-tink-tink as your two PAs click together inside his ass, a percussive rhythm that cuts through the grunts and moans and pushes you right to the edge. Just as your husband shouts out, "Give me your dirty seed! Knock me up for good!" you can't hold back any longer. The friction, the depravity, the clicking metal—it's all too much. You erupt, your own load adding to the toxic cocktail already churning inside him. But this time, the power dynamic has shifted. You're not the one being claimed. You're the one claiming. With a silent, knowing nod to Markus, you pull out, your cock dripping with the combined fluids of the night. Last time it was you husband, who left first and welcomed you home unknowingly. This time, you leave first. You walk away, leaving Markus to finish the job, to pump another legendary load into your husband's hungry ass. Seeing the line of creatures waiting to deposit their own poison, you know he'll be busy for at least another hour. You go home and shower, the secret of the night burning inside you, a new, potent kind of fuel. An hour later, your husband arrives home, feigning exhaustion from "traffic." He collapses onto the couch next to you, his arm around you as he flicks on Netflix. "Long night," he sighs. You just nod, kissing his temple. You are living a double life, a secret performance of staggering depravity. Under the blanket, you slide a hand down the back of your own jeans, pretending to scratch an itch. Your fingers find your own tender, loaded hole, still puffy and wet from the night's hunt. You push two fingers inside, scooping out a bit of the remaining cum. You bring your fingers up, hidden by the blanket, and smell them—the familiar, intoxicating scent of anonymous sex and toxic seed. Then, you lick them clean, tasting the night's conquest while you sit next to your unsuspecting husband. He nuzzles closer, completely oblivious to the fact that he's currently full of other men's cum, and that the man he loves is tasting the evidence of his own secret life. This secret performance, this shared, unspoken depravity, is a power more intoxicating than any load you've ever taken. The weeks bleed into a new kind of normal. You take dozens of loads, but still, nothing. No flu. No fever. No swollen glands. No symptoms at all. You know the lore; you know that not everyone gets the seroconversion sickness. You could be one of the lucky ones who converts silently, without the feverish baptism you crave. But silence isn't enough. You have to know. You can't stand the equation being unsolved for a moment longer. You plan to go to the clinic for a definitive answer tomorrow. Your cock twitches at the thought of returning to that sterile office—not for the test, but for the possibility of seeing him again. The young doctor. You want to taste the rage and poison that hangs around him like a cologne, to see if another negative result might finally provoke him to breed the answer into you right there on the exam room floor.

Very hot, detailed and written beginning chapters. Can't wait for more of the story

I don't think I ever had standards to begin with. As a sex addict from an early age I took any cock hard enough to fuck me. Although, I must admit that when I top, my standard is for the hole to be shit-free. I respect everyone's kink and fetish, but that's my only standard I still abide by.

@pupbranxxx

People think this stuff is easy Naive - take your time and the inspiration will come!

Absolutely GREAT Chapter, he is looking for donations, it is only right that he receives some good donations inside his chubby ass!!! LOVE all the blessed old trolls that have helped all these young men so far, please continue when you can!!!

Mine is when my cousin shot his load in my mouth for the first time. We were both 18. Had been blowing our cocks for almost a year. One night I was so horny I asked him to cum on my face and in my mouth. He didn´t last long after that. I can still remember the ropes of cum on my face, the taste of his cum, the feeling of the blast in my mouth. It was amazing.

Here is a true story (with an assist from Grok) about my favorite encounter I had sucking cock… My heart pounds like a bass drum as I hear that knock on the door, signaling the arrival of a stranger from Grindr who replied to my post saying, “Wanna get your cock sucked and cum down my throat? Hosting now!” I open the door and there he fucking stands, looking at me with that shit-eating grin, knowing I’m the cocksucker who’s about to suck his soul out through his cock. I affirm myself in my mind, knowing I’m about to give this bastard the dirtiest, most erotic blowjob of his fucking life, where my skill as a cocksucker will make his dick pulse with every goddamn lick and suck. Without wasting a single fucking second, I grab him and yank him inside, my hands tearing at the waistband of his jeans like a beast in heat. They slide down, revealing a fucking monster of a bulge that’s swelling, straining against his underwear. The feel of his cock growing hard under my touch sends shivers down my spine, affirming my fucking love for sucking dick. His man scent hits me — a musky, earthy fucking smell, amplified by his workout, driving my desire into fucking orbit. I guide him to the couch, where he slumps back, spreading his legs like a fucking invitation this cocksucker can’t resist. I drop to my knees, my hands eagerly pulling down his underwear, freeing his big, throbbing cock. It’s a sight to fucking behold, thick, veiny, and already dripping with need. I take it in my hand, feeling its heft, the heat of his skin against mine. My lips part, and I guide him into my mouth, the taste of him overwhelming my senses. I work my mouth over him like the pro cocksucker I am, my tongue swirling around his head, savoring every fucking inch, knowing this is pure, dirty fucking eroticism. I move lower, my tongue tracing down to his sweaty, musky balls. They’re ripe with his scent, adding an edge of raw fucking masculinity that thrills me. I lick them, suck each one into my mouth, enjoying the soft sounds of pleasure escaping him. The taste is salty, the muskiness fueling my fervor.Then, I guide him to turn, exposing his ass to me. His scent there is even more intense, a fucking mix of musk and the sharp tang of sweat from his workout, a primal fucking allure that calls to me. My tongue dives into the crevice, rimming him with a hunger I can’t fucking control. The taste is exhilarating and makes my cock hard as a rock. Working my way back up, I take his cock back into my mouth, aiming to deepthroat him. He grabs the back of my head, pushing it down hard, my skull bobbing up and down, taking his entire cock down my throat. At that point, he grunts out, “Fuck, you suck cock better than my girlfriend.” I wet my finger with my spit and slide it into his ass, stimulating his prostate. The combination of my mouth and finger sends him over the fucking edge. He groans, his cock twitching, and then he explodes, flooding my mouth with his hot, thick cum. I hold the cum in my open mouth, showing him his load, then I gargle it, the sound lewd in the silence, before gulping it all down. As he catches his breath, he says, “When I saw you with your mouth full of my cock… I fucking recognized you from your pics and videos online with the caption saying, ‘BiBottomCockSucker loves to Suck Cock!’ I knew from jerking off to those videos that you’d be a skilled cocksucker.” “You know if you Google yourself (BiBottomCockSucker) you’ll find pics and videos of you with a mouthful of cock all over the internet, don’t you?” I was a bit perplexed and intrigued since I thought I was still mostly closeted as a cocksucker. Oh well. Oops…

Hello, I agree with leaky hole. Lowering my slutty standards would be defined as being picky about tops while cruising. chiilfuck

What ABS was that?

Looks good, nice biceps and shoulders for sure.

Update. Making gains but need to get bigger. Also to lean out, though both simultaneously is tough.