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For most bottoms it does because once they cum they are no longer horny. When in some darkroom a bottom is monopolizing a sling or a fuck bench for long periods of time, I always try to make them cum so they would leave so I can jump on. It's worked many times.

I think that's entirely laudable. If/when an individual comes up with a new, innovative idea for whatever activity (assuming legality), there's no reason that entity shouldn't receive benefits that other businesses (in the same general area of transacting business) receive. This is how the government can and should encourage entrepreneurs to expand the existing base of that particular service/product supply, and I see that result as one of the excuses for governments to exist. In the end, it's not only the general population that may benefit, it's the government to, via taxation, duties, etc.

WOW, Excellent!!! Can not wait for the few chapters!!! Thanks...

yes! 🤣 the amount of guys who say they want to drop by for my door open ass up face down for anon hosting but need to see a face pic first. um... you just don't get it do you sweetie 😜

Fill me up💧

Hot💧

Funniest was I “wasn’t hot enough” for him to use the Gloryhole I had setup at the house. Ummm… I think you are missing the point using a Gloryhole lmfao. honorable mention was another guy that needed to record a video from the door to the Gloryhole as proof to Make sure that I wasn’t going to murder him!? I had to ask “how’s the video going to stop me?”

I once knew a black guy who was addicted to my hole, 8.5" Uncut. It was the time when totally anon bareback sex was too risky, so once this dude trusted my hole he kept coming back for more hole digging and seed planting. He would always cum twice, without pulling out. After his first unload, he would just pause for a few seconds and he would then continue to slowly fuck my hole, until he gave me a second load. On our first hook-up we had not negotiate barebacking but I was lucky that I had just completed blood tests and everything was OK. It was his first time barebacking and he enjoyed it so much that the following weekend he was in my building but couldn't remember my apartment number. We saw each other for a couple of years, 2 or 3 times a month. I think that I had many repeat fuck buddies because they could count on a clean hole. I once met at the sauna a 20 yr old BBC with a 9" curved cock. He kept following me and at first I thought he was a rent boy. But when I let him in my room he wanted me to suck him. and he later fucked me. It took lots of accommodating my hole for his tool, and he was always anxious to be inside. Fortunately he never took too long before he was moaning low while I opened up my hole as wide as I could to take his cock and cum. He kept calling me for a fuck until he moved away. I love black cock

Perfect example of just how shallow some guys can be. I wonder that those types ever get any action at all ....

I cannot prove it but I have been blocked on sniffies/grindr once I show my face bc I have a mustache/small beard. More often sniffies bc I shave my ass/hole/crotch so tops thinks I’m smooth all over when I’m not and I never stated I was. Oh well.

Yes i will take any cock or do anything no questions asked.

that is a good question. for me its uncaring and sometimes uncaring leadings to being cruel. The top should never have a care in my opinion.

I always clean up a cock that has been in me, I love the taste of the two of us mixed together and the intimacy. In group situations I do also clean cocks which have just come out of another fag too, yummy!

Male male incest cannot produce a child and shouldnt be [banned word]. My older and younger brothers taught me to suck their cocks and soon I was worshipping them. Never considered not swallowing. And then a cousin found out and used me too. He is not good looking, overweight and had a short cock. Where my brothers stopped using me my cousin did for many years. He understood that I would always be willing. Never once did they touch me. If I roleplay incest is almost always included.

Only ever taken my late husband's cock; from being a virgin, until his ski accident death. His cum leaking out was our ritual. Grief keeps me mostly solo, but have opened up to one other man since but these questions hit home from a one-cock lifetime perspective. I maybe able to answer these questions after my Amsterdam and Berlin trip for 10 days in end of March 😆 1. Tops skipping spanks on red ass: He rarely spanked—preferred deep grips and eye contact while breeding. Some tops stop once it's red to avoid real pain, shifting to pinning and internal pounding instead. 2. Groups/depravity appeal: Never done it, but the pull is total surrender—multiple loads, raw chaos to escape the void. Depravity yes, but mostly numbing grief. 3. "You're tight" gasps: Real, not BS. Even after years of his nightly breeding, he'd still moan how snug I gripped him. Hole stays responsive with emotion and muscle memory. 4. Grinding deep on cum: He always buried balls-deep, hips circling as he throbbed and flooded me. Said it planted seed deepest, maximized every pulse without risk of slipping. Made me shoot hands-free. 5. Balls-deep, full pull-out, repeat: Loved the visual/sensation—hole gaping empty, then that tight pop and slide back in. Felt like claiming me anew each thrust. 6. Bad days on a bottom: Never—he stayed tender, fucked slow and deep for comfort, not anger. 7. Orgasm ranking (my experiences): - a. Cumming while fucked: #1—prostate milked, untouched load while he bred me. Soul-deep. - b. Edging then cum: Intense solo buildup, but lonelier now. - c. Cumming in ass: Never topped. - d. From BJ: Nice quick release, no comparison to being filled. Miss him constantly. Hole still feels like his.

Part 14: The Scorpion's Lesson and an Invitation from Two The message sits on your phone for three days before you finally send it. Three simple words that feel like a confession of failure: "It didn't take." You've been staring at the single line on your latest HIV home test for an hour, the stark, solitary mark mocking you from the bathroom counter. It is Sunday evening. The sound of your husband's car pulling away has faded, leaving the apartment in a sudden, echoing silence. He's gone for the week, back to his work life 400 kilometers away, and you are alone. This is the first ritual of your week of freedom: the test. Your heart pounds with a mixture of hope and dread, a lonely, desperate prayer in the quiet of your empty home. But the result is the same as always. Negative. Still negative. Still on the outside looking in. Ten weeks. Ten weeks since that perfect night in the hotel with Mark, since you felt the searing heat of his toxic load claim you. You waited for the flu, the fever, the sign. It never came. That negative result at the clinic stripped you bare. It sent you spiraling. You abandoned the hope of a perfect, emotional conversion and embraced a brutal, transactional reality. In a frenzy, you first took the student's questionable load followed by the doctor's poison in a filthy bathroom, anything to feel the change. It's been four weeks since that day. And still... nothing. This single line on the test strip is a verdict not just on Mark's gift, but on the doctor's, on every desperate, filthy act you've committed. You are a fortress. An impenetrable, negative fortress, and the irony is so bitter it tastes like ash in your mouth. Your thumb hovers over the send button. This isn't just a message to Mark; it's a plea. It's a confession. It's a prayer. You press send. His response comes within minutes. Just two words: "Call me." Your fingers tremble as you dial. The phone rings once, twice, and then his voice fills your ear, warm and familiar, like slipping into a favorite sweater on a cold night. "Hey, you," Mark says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "I was wondering when I'd hear from you." "Hey," you manage, your throat tight. "I... I got tested again. It's still negative." There's a pause, and you brace yourself for disappointment, for pity, for the awkward platitudes that people offer when they don't know what else to say. But instead, you hear a soft, genuine laugh. "I'm not disappointed," he says, and his voice drops to a more intimate register. "Honestly? It just means I get another excuse to be with you, have fun with you, have another blast at my babies to take hold of you." The words hit you like a warm wave, washing away the disappointment and replacing it with something else entirely. Hope. Anticipation. The familiar stirring in your groin that always accompanies thoughts of Mark. "I was hoping you'd say that," you admit, your voice steadying. "Good. Because I have plans." He pauses, and you can almost see him leaning back in his chair, that easy confidence radiating through the phone. "I'm coming to Frankfurt in two weeks. Conference. Three days, two nights. But I won't be alone." Your heart skips. "What do you mean?" "There's someone I want you to meet," Mark says. "His name is Stefan. He's... important to me. And I think he could be important to you too. I want all three of us to meet at my hotel." The implication hangs in the air, heavy and intoxicating. Three of you. Together. The thought sends a jolt of electricity straight to your cock. "Who is he?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. Mark is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice has softened, becoming reflective, almost vulnerable. "You remember our first night?" he asks. "When I couldn't do it? When I pulled out that condom because I was so terrified of the monster inside me?" You remember. God, you remember. The hollow, frustrating safety of it. The way your cock softened when you saw the black XXL Magnum gleaming in the hotel light. The way he entered you, and it felt like nothing, like fucking through a wall. And afterwards, the desperate, depraved act of stealing his filled condom from the wastebin, smuggling it home inside you like a thief carrying stolen treasure. "I remember," you say quietly. "After you left that night," Mark continues, "I was a wreck. I felt like a coward. I hated myself. I'd had the most beautiful, willing man in my bed, a man who wanted exactly what I had to give, and I couldn't do it. I was too scared of what it would mean, of what it would make me." You can hear the pain in his voice, the echo of that old fear, and your heart aches for him. "So I went to a poz support group," he says. "Just to listen. Just to be around other guys who understood what it felt like to carry this thing inside you. I sat in the back, didn't say a word. Just listened to their stories. And that's where I saw him. Stefan." "Stefan?" "My colleague," Mark says, and there's a note of wonder in his voice, like he still can't quite believe it. "We'd worked together for years. Had coffee dozens of times. Talked about projects and deadlines and all the mundane bullshit of office life. I had no idea he was gay, let alone poz. Neither of us knew about the other. And there he was, standing up in front of the group, sharing his story like it was nothing. Like it was just a fact of his life, not a tragedy." You're riveted, hanging on every word. The image of Mark, vulnerable and lost, sitting in a folding chair in some community center, watching his colleague reveal a secret neither of them knew they shared—it's almost too intimate to bear. "After the meeting, he came up to me," Mark continues. "He could see I was struggling. He didn't offer advice or platitudes. He just said, 'Let me buy you a beer.'" Mark's voice becomes more animated as he describes the pub. It was a small, dimly lit place near the community center, the kind of bar where the wood is worn smooth by decades of elbows and the bartender knows everyone's name. They found a corner booth, ordered two pints, and Stefan just... waited. "He didn't push," Mark says. "He just sat there, drinking his beer, looking at me with these calm, steady eyes. And eventually, I started talking. I told him everything. About you, about my fear, about how I felt like a prisoner in my own body. About how I'd had the chance to give someone exactly what they wanted, and I'd been too scared to do it." You can picture it perfectly: Mark, his powerful frame hunched over a pint glass, spilling his guts to a man he thought he knew but was only just meeting for the first time. Mark's voice drops, becoming softer, more intimate, as if he's sharing a profound secret. "That's when it happened. That's when I really saw him. For the first time. All those years we'd worked together, I'd never... seen him. He was just Stefan. A colleague. Tall, blond, our age. But in that moment, sitting across from me in that dim booth, he was completely transformed. I saw the man, not the colleague. I saw the way the dim bar lights caught in his hair, making it shine like a halo of spun gold. I saw his eyes—not just blue, but a piercing, intelligent blue that seemed to see straight through all my bullshit and into the scared man underneath. And that three-day beard... it wasn't unkempt. It was a shadow of masculine perfection, accentuating a strong jaw and lips that looked like they were built for both whispered secrets and dirty, sinful kisses. I saw a warmth radiating from him, a deep, empathetic calm that had nothing to do with the beer in his hand. It was in his posture, in the way he leaned forward, hanging on my every word. He wasn't just listening; he was feeling my story with me. I realized in that moment that he wasn't just a considerate person; he was an exceptionally rare, beautiful soul. And my god, was he sexy. It wasn't a loud, aggressive sexiness. It was a quiet, confident power. The sexiness of a man who is so completely at ease in his own skin, in his own poz body, that it becomes a magnetic force." You can't help it. The way he's talking, the reverence in his voice... you have to ask. "Mark," you interrupt gently, "it sounds like you fell in love with him." There's a soft chuckle on the other end of the line, not one of mockery, but of understanding. "Yeah," he admits, his voice warm. "I thought so at first, too. It's an easy mistake to make. When someone sees you that clearly, when they offer you that kind of unconditional acceptance... it feels like love. But it's something different. It's deeper in a way. He didn't want to own me, and I didn't want to own him. He just... freed me. He's not my lover. He's my brother. The brother I never knew I needed." Mark takes a breath, and you can hear the awe in it still. "When I was done," he continues, "Stefan just nodded. He didn't offer pity. He didn't tell me I was wrong to be scared. He just said, 'I understand. But you're looking at it all wrong.'" Mark's voice drops, imitating Stefan's quiet intensity. "'It's not a monster, Mark. It's a gift. And you heard it tonight in every story they told. The only relief they ever found was in the giving.'" The words send a shiver down your spine. A gift. The idea was so simple, so radical. In that moment, Mark told, the heavy cloak of shame he'd been wearing since his diagnosis began to feel lighter, replaced by the first stirrings of a strange, potent pride. A monster you hide from is a curse. A gift you can give is a treasure, a source of unimaginable power. "'And then he said, 'Let me show you what I mean.'" Mark's voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper as he describes what happened next. "We left the pub and walked through town. It was late, almost midnight. The streets were quiet, just a few people heading home from the bars. Stefan didn't say much, just walked beside me, his hands in his pockets. We cut through a park, and I started to wonder where we were going." He pauses, and you can hear him take a breath. "And then we stopped at this rundown public toilet, hidden between the bushes. I'd walked past it a hundred times and never even noticed it. It was one of those old municipal buildings, the kind they built in the seventies and then forgot about. Crumbling brick, graffiti on the walls, a single flickering light over the door." You can picture it perfectly. You know places like this. You've been to places like this. Your memory of your encounter with the gaunt Peter and BREEDER flashes back – just as the image of you sitting drenched in cum and piss in the urinal trough. The thought of Mark, still new to his diagnosis, standing outside such a place with a colleague he barely knew, makes your cock twitch in your pants. "Stefan pushed open the door and stepped inside," Mark continues. "I followed. The first thing I noticed was the smell. A thick, unmistakable cocktail of stale piss, disinfectant, and male musk. It was pitch black in there, the only light a faint, dirty glow from the clerestory windows near the ceiling. But I could hear them. Breathing. Shuffling. The creak of leather, the rustle of fabric. We weren't alone." Your mouth is dry. Your hand has drifted down to your crotch, pressing against the growing bulge. "Stefan squeezed my arm and whispered, 'Stand back. Watch.' And then he walked forward, into the darkness. I heard him unzip. Heard the stream hit the metal of the urinal trough. And it just... kept going. A powerful, neverending piss, echoing off the tiles. It was like a declaration, like he was marking his territory." "Jesus," you breathe, your hand already pressing down hard on your cock through your jeans. "Mark, I'm rubbing my cock right now." Mark's voice becomes hushed, reverent. "And then... headlights. A car passing on the road outside. The light sliced through the clerestory windows, and for just a few seconds, the whole place lit up in a stark, silent flash." He pauses, letting the image build. "That's when I saw it. Stefan's cock, hard and solid, pointing up towards the trough, still dripping from his piss. It was massive—thick, uncut, with a heavy foreskin that was slowly retracting to reveal a fat, glistening head. And above it, on his hip, just visible above the waistband of his jeans... a scorpion tattoo. Black ink, sharp lines, the tail curving down towards his cock like an arrow pointing the way." "Wow," you breathe, your hand already pressing down hard on your cock through your jeans. "A scorpion... fuck." "And I saw the other men see it too," Mark continues. "There were maybe five or six of them in there, lurking in the shadows. When the light hit Stefan's scorpion, their eyes went wide. They knew what it meant. And in that moment, I understood. He wasn't hiding a monster, a curse to be kept secret. He was holding a treasure, offering a gift. They weren't backing away in fear; they were kneeling in desire. They moved closer, not to threaten, but to receive." "God, they're all just a bunch of desparate hungry pigs, aren't they?" you groan, your voice thick with lust as you palm your hard cock. "Fuck, that's so hot." "One of them, a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, dropped to his knees right there on the filthy tile floor," Mark says, his voice thick with the memory. "He crawled forward until he was right in front of Stefan, looking up at him like he was looking at the scorpion itself, made flesh. Another one, a skinny twink with bleached hair, bent over one of the sinks, his jeans already around his ankles, his pale ass glowing in the dim light." You pant. "They couldn't help themselves. They smelled the poison." "They were drawn to him like moths to a flame," Mark continues. "And Stefan just stood there, calm, letting them come. He didn't say a word. He just... accepted their worship." You're stroking yourself now, slowly, the fabric of your pants creating a maddening friction against your aching cock. "And then Stefan looked over at me, standing in the shadows, watching. And he smiled. Not a cruel smile, not a predatory grin. Just a knowing, gentle smile. Like he was saying, 'See? This is what we are. This is our power. They're not running from the poison. They're running toward it.'" "Then he did something that changed everything," Mark says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming almost a growl. "He looked at the kid on his knees, the one who was now mouthing at Stefan's massive cock, worshiping it with his tongue. Then he looked at the twink bent over the sink, his hole twitching and winking in the dim light, desperate for attention. And then he looked at me." "'Mark,' he commanded, his voice ringing through the filthy room. 'Give us your toxic cum.'" You stop stroking, frozen, the words hitting you like a physical blow. "He didn't... oh my god, he didn't..." "I was so hard it hurt," Mark admits. "I'd been hard since we walked in. I didn't even think about it. I just... did it. I pulled out my cock and started jacking, right there, standing in the shadows. It didn't take long. I was so wound up... I came in less than a minute. A huge load, thick and hot, spurting into Stefan’s waiting palm. I looked at it, this pool of my own toxic seed, and I felt... powerful. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt a surge of pride, not shame. My cum was a gift, not a curse." "Fuck, Mark," you gasp, your voice desperate. "I'm leaking so much right now. Your gift... I want it. I want it so bad. Please." "Stefan held out his hand, not to me, but to the room. ‘Who wants this?’, he said, his eyes scanning the shadows. The kid bent over the sink—he couldn't have been more than twenty—he moaned, loud and needy. He wiggled his ass, a desperate, wanton invitation. 'Me,' he begged. 'Please, let me have it.' "Fucking beg for it, you little slut," you hiss into the phone, your own need a fire in your gut. Your cock is throbbing now, leaking precum into your pants. "He didn't even hesitate," Mark continues. "He walked over to the twink and used my cum as lube. He shoved two fingers, slick with my toxic seed, deep into the kid's ass. The kid gasped, then sobbed with pleasure, pushing back against Stefan's hand. 'More,' he begged. 'Please, more.'“ "Yessss," you moan, stroking your cock in time with his words. "Fucking stretch him out with your poison." „And Stefan obliged. He worked my cum into that kid's hole, stretching him, opening him up, coating his insides with my poison. Then he pulled his fingers out, slick and gleaming. Before he lined up his cock, he brought those fingers to his own lips and tasted my seed. He looked me dead in the eye as he did it, a silent acknowledgment, a sacrament, and in that moment, watching another man taste my poison without fear, the last of my shame evaporated, replaced by a dark, exhilarating pride. He was tasting my power before he used it to claim another soul." Mark pauses, and his voice becomes thick with intimacy. "And you have to understand... Stefan and I haven’t been intimate, we didn’t even kiss. And now he was using my toxic spunk—the most private, potent part of me—to lube this random kid. My essence was the lubricant for his pleasure." "And then," Mark says, his voice a ragged whisper of memory, "Stefan fucked him. He fucked that kid hard and deep, mixing our loads together inside that willing, hungry hole. When he finally pulled out, the kid's hole was a mess, gaping and red, slick with a pearly mixture of both our cum. It was the most beautiful, most filthy thing I had ever seen." "What a perfect fucking slut," you whisper, a wave of pure, unadulterated arousal washing over you. "Look what you did to him. You and Stefan. You ruined him for anyone else. God, I wish that was me. I wish my hole was gaping and dripping with both your loads right now." "My mind was gone. The philosophy, the gift, the pride—it all melted away, replaced by a single, burning need. It wasn't about the scene or the kid. It was about him. About Stefan. I was so aroused by his power, by the sight of his cock claiming that hole, that I had a desperate, primal need to taste him. To taste his cum. I didn't think. I just moved." "I know that feeling," you pant. "I know it so well." "I crossed the filthy tile floor and dropped to my knees behind the spent, whimpering twink. Stefan watched me, his chest heaving, his massive cock still hard and glistening. He didn't say a word. He just understood. I looked at the kid's hole. Our hole. And I buried my face in it." "But as I got closer, I saw it. Really saw it. It wasn't just gaping. The asslips were puffy and swollen, the inside turned out into a perfect, glistening rosebud. I could see the vulnerable, raw red tissue from deep inside him, coated in a pearly film of our toxic loads.“ "Oh god, Mark," you whine. "Describe it more. Is it messy? Tell me how messy it is." „This kid was no virgin. He was a professional, a true cumslut who had probably taken hundreds of cocks, not caring whose, all in the desperate hope of finally getting knocked-up. He was a pig chasing the same poison we were so eager to give. He wasn't just a hole to be used; he was a brother in the chase, and we had just given him what he'd been searching for." "I started to felch our combined loads from his body. The moment my tongue touched that raw, sensitive flesh, the hole reacted. It wasn't passive. It was alive. The puffy rosebud began to work, flexing and pulsing, pulling at my tongue, trying to draw it deeper. I pushed in, and the kid moaned, pushing back against my face, his hungry hole practically swallowing me.“ "Fucking eat it, Mark," you command, your voice a ragged whisper. "Eat that fucking cummy hole. Bury your face in it." “My whole world shrank to that single point of contact. My tongue, my nose, my entire chin were enveloped in that wet heat. I could feel the slick, filthy mix of ass juices and our cum coating my face, filling my nostrils with its rank, perfect scent. I was drowning in it." "I can almost smell it from here," you moan. "I wish I was there. I wish I was licking your face clean." "And I knew his taste instantly. It was different from mine.“ "Tell me what it tastes like," you beg. "Tell me how his poison tastes." „For months, I had been tasting my own—a lonely ritual of shame and secret. But this was something else. Stefan's flavor was richer, deeper, more potent. It was the taste of pride, not fear." "I wasn't just cleaning the kid; I was claiming our creation, taking our gift back into myself to seal the ritual. It was an act of worship, not just of Stefan, but of what we had done together. A communion with this whimpering, spent slut. And in that moment, a wave of gratitude for Stefan washed over me so intensely it almost brought me to tears. He hadn't just shown me the philosophy; he had forced me to participate. He hadn't let me stand on the sidelines and watch. He had made me a part of this breeding, forcing me to confront my fears and break through my own barriers. This wasn't a lesson he was teaching; it was a lesson he was making me live. We were both just vessels for the same beautiful poison." "Jesus, Mark," you say, your voice ragged. "I... I get it. I completely get it." "I must have lost all track of time, because the next thing I knew, a strong hand was gently gripping my bicep, pulling me to my feet. It was Stefan. He lifted me up, and I was face to face with him, my chin wet and slick. He had just emptied himself into the kid, but his cock was hard again, a thick, demanding pressure against my stomach. He was as aroused by the filthy, shameless man I had become as I was by his power. He looked at me, his blue eyes burning with an intensity I'd never seen before, and then he kissed me." "It wasn't a soft kiss. It was hard and possessive. He forced his tongue into my mouth, and he could taste the kid's ass on my breath, mixed with the lingering taste of our cum. He was tasting me, tasting what I had just done. My mouth was still full of the load I had sucked from the kid's ass, and he immediately began to push it back and forth between us. Our tongues swirled in the warm, slick mixture, churning it together, coating every part of our mouths with the combined seed. We were snowballing, sharing the taste of our conquest, and we both knew exactly what we were tasting. It wasn't just cum; it was poison. A potent, viral cocktail. The knowledge of what we were sharing, the sheer, beautiful toxicity of it, made the kiss feel electric. Our first kiss wasn't just a kiss; it was a communion, and it was perfect." "The intensity of it, the sheer, depraved intimacy of sharing our conquest like this, was too much. I wasn't even touching myself, but I felt my cock, trapped against Stefan's stomach, begin to pulse. It was a sudden, deep clenching that started at the base and shot through the entire shaft. At the exact same instant, I heard Stefan groan into my mouth and felt his own cock do the same against mine. We were both cumming. Together. A hot, wet heat instantly flooded the space between our bodies as our toxic loads exploded at once, our cocks throbbing in unison, coating both our shafts and our stomachs in a shared, slick mess of seed." "Oh fuck, fuck, FUCK!" you cry out, the image so powerful you can't hold back. Your own cock explodes, a thick, hot load shooting across your stomach and chest. "I'm cumming, Mark! I'm cumming listening to you!" You're both panting on the line, the shared moment of ecstasy hanging in the air. "We broke the kiss, both of us panting, our chests heaving. We stood there for a moment, slick with sweat and cum, our bodies glued together by the gift. The other men in the room were still watching, their eyes wide with desperate longing, silently begging for a taste of what we had just shared. But this second load wasn't for them. It was a gift for no one but us. A private treasure, given and received in the same breath, sealing our bond in a way their public desire never could. In that moment, we weren't just colleagues or brothers. We were a team.” "A team," you repeat, catching your breath, your chest sticky with your own release. "A fucking toxic team. God, I want to be on your team." “He had given me the philosophy, and I had shown him I understood it with my body." "Fuck," you breathe, the image so powerful it's almost painful. "Just... fuck." "That was the moment," Mark says, his voice filled with a quiet wonder. "I wasn't a victim anymore. I wasn't a monster. I was a creator. I was giving that kid something he was desperate for, something he was literally begging for. Stefan didn't just help me accept my status; he taught me how to transform my shame into pride. He helped me become its master." He pauses, and you hear him take a deep breath. "After that night, everything changed. Stefan and I became close. Really close. We're not boyfriends—we're both tops, for one thing." He laughs softly. "But we're brothers. We meet up whenever we can. We compare notes. We send each other pictures of our latest lab results. A close-up shot of that viral load number, circled in red. It's our version of a dick pic. We brag about our viral loads like other guys brag about bench presses or stock market gains." "Just last week," Mark says, his voice dropping with conspiratorial pride, "I sent him my new results. My viral load had jumped by fifty thousand points. I didn't just text him the number. I took a picture of the printout, but I circled the number in thick, red marker. Right next to it, I drew a single, fat drop of cum. He replied ten minutes later with a picture of his own results—his were even higher—with a simple two-word caption: 'Catch up.' It's our game. Our way of pushing each other, of celebrating our potency. Every number is a victory." You can hear the affection in his voice, the genuine warmth. "We push each other to stay potent, to stay powerful. No meds. Just us, at our rawest. Over the last weeks, we've bred dozens of guys together, at rest stops and parks and sleazy hotels. We've watched each other work, learned from each other, pushed each other to be better. And every time, we feel that same rush, that same power." "But it's not just about the virus," Mark continues, his voice becoming more serious, more tender. "It's about connection. About trust. About sharing something so intimate with someone who truly understands. Stefan cares for me, and I care for him. We love each other, in our way. Not like boyfriends, not like lovers. Like brothers. Like warriors who've been through the same fire, forged in the same poison." "And now," Mark says, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur, "we want to share that with you." Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "You're special to me," he continues. "What we have... it's not just about breeding or bugs. It's about something deeper. I felt it that first night, even when I couldn't go through with it. I felt it when you stole my condom, when you carried my seed home inside you like a treasure. And I felt it even more the second time, when I finally gave you what we both wanted." You remember that night. The way he entered you, bare and real and perfect. The way he came inside you, flooding you with his toxic seed. The way he kissed you afterwards, the taste of blood and cum on his lips. "Stefan knows all about you," Mark says. "I've told him everything. Every detail. And he wants to meet you. He wants to welcome you into what we have. Not as a conquest, not as a notch on a bedpost. As a brother. Someone we care for. Someone we share this with." His voice is soft, sincere, and utterly compelling. "So come to the hotel," he says. "Spend the night with us. Let us take care of you. Let us give you everything we have, together. Our loads, our power, our love. And when it finally takes... you'll be one of us. Not because we made you, but because you chose it. Because we all chose each other." You're silent for a long moment, your mind racing, your cock aching, your heart full to bursting. This isn't just an invitation to be fucked by two men. It's an invitation to belong. To be part of something built on mutual respect, shared desire, and genuine affection. The "race" with your husband suddenly feels distant, almost irrelevant. That's a competition, a game of secrets and one-upmanship. This is something else entirely. This is family. "Yes," you say, your voice steady and sure. "I'll be there." "Good," Mark says, and you can hear the warmth, the joy, the relief in his voice. "We'll be waiting for you. Both of us." There's a pause, a moment of shared silence that feels more intimate than words. "Two weeks," Mark says. "I'll send you the hotel details. And... thank you. For trusting me. For trusting us. This is going to be special. I can feel it." "I can feel it too," you say. "Good night," he says softly. "Dream of us." "I will," you promise. "Good night, Mark." The line goes dead, and you're left in the silence of your apartment, your cock still hard in your pants, your mind filled with images of Mark and Stefan, of scorpion tattoos and dark public toilets, of toxic loads and brotherhood. You look at the single line on the test strip, still sitting on the bathroom counter. Soon, you think. Soon, there will be two.

That should've been a turn-on! His loss I'm sure!

Let me know , happy to breed ☣️