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

Wish I was there drinking your hot piss

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

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

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

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

Awesome story

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

Same and you’re absolutely right which is why I love to get spit roasted! Also love when they pull out of my hole and shoot in my mouth then pop it back in my hole and either keep going or finish there

Man, an amazing journey so far. Jake, Tim and Jake, lots of Jake and now just Tim. Like the deviant mind so far

Gotta be dominant masculine forceful and verbal. Everything else will sort itself out 🙂

Camden, NJ has fallen from its #1 ranking? Wow times have changed, but it's still no great prize. Used to live in the same county and have been back to visit since. I can believe Baltimore, Memphis and Oakland because they've always been 💩but some of the others in that list are peculiar. And some of those missing are odd. Philadelphia's Kensington neighborhood is a drug supermarket with junkies in every corner and very open dealing that has been beyond police control for some time. I've watched some of the more independent reporting on how residents are responding to the DC swarming and they've been pleased with it. Of perhaps ancillary interest is the protest in DC to remove the Federal law enforcement and National Guards recently -- not only was it an almost entirely "white" affair, precious few were actually from DC itself. Protestors for hire yet again. I had a feeling you were sarcastic on RFK Jr and Gabbard. From your position on the left I can see RFK not being appealing, but what was it about Gabbard that you thought was disturbing? C'mon, @hntnhole, who doesn't love a yellow school bus? 🤣 Actually I mostly agree with you (surprise). However, I don't know that we can call the racism card after 8 years of Obama. We've elected black leaders, had diverse cabinets, and have had a progressive increase in women in leadership positions in government. Nikki Haley was of Indian ancestry. Tulsi Gabbard is part Samoan. Patel is American born of Indian decent. Elon Musk took time out to do DOGE, and he's a great example of a successful African American. 😀 Both Buttigieg and Bessant are gay. Sorry, don't agree that we can cry racism any longer, I sure don't see protests about "Oust the queers", and not a single person protesting Tesla is doing so because they have a problem with African Americans. So yes, she's multi-racial and racially ambiguous. It felt disingenuous that she'd make appearances in black venues and suddenly change from her normal diction into a more vernacular sounding accent that really made you wonder: Did she really think she needed to do that? And how much does she really hold in common with most blacks in the US? The cackling, the word salads, all made it seem like the college kid who didn't do the reading for the assignment but insisted on talking about it. Like you, I didn't think she had the mettle for going toe-to-toe with world leaders, but she was also an example of 'failing up'. She went from prosecutor in San Francisco to Attorney General of California, then Senator, then VP. And when she was VP, Biden made her "Border Czar", and we could see how that went. I suspect we might differ on the border control situation and CBP/ICE so I won't do a tangent there, but we need to address criminal illegals. As for pushing her VP role too far, so many are coming forward to say that Biden was losing faculties for the last couple years. Jill could have been largely to blame, but we have a 25th Amendment for just those situations.

Moderator's Note: Added it for you

Yes! More! I love family sex

Love making out, especially before the clothes come off