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Love where this is going! Looking forward to the continuation.

Beautiful cock, I’d love to wrap my lips around it

Add me @JunkiebTTmperv

@dopaminergicc Very few limits, love sleazy chats with dom tops Currently in North Europe but travel to the UK pretty regularly

Roommate with benefits!

For me it was always an attraction, but something I'd only do in a relationship when I was younger. Back then I was terrified of catching something. After coming to terms with the sleazy side of my sexuality (not just with the 'polite' aspects of being queer), I'm now leaning into my desires strongly enough that the cost (chance of std) is far outweighed by benefits.... I no longer do anything but bb if I can help it. If a prospective hookup on Grindr etc. says they want to use condoms, there's just no point hooking up. It's different at glory holes or adult theaters cause I have less control over whether the top wears one then. But I never request one and never ask questions. The most important reason to BB is providing more pleasure for tops, I am eager to please. The second most important is getting full of cum. I don't clean it out after, preferring to keep it in as long as possible. Being cum inside is really the point of sex for me, being fucked feels great but if I had to choose only one out of being fucked and getting loads, I'd take the loads in a heartbeat. Being a trans guy and having an intact front hole, I also get off for some reason on the risk of getting knocked up. HRT makes it less likely but not impossible, and I prefer taking that risk over using birth control. Ultimately getting loads makes me feel like I am being marked, owned, like the other person's seed is getting to do things to me that I cannot control, and that is a huge rush for a sub whore like me.

I have a few times

Holy Fuck! Is this a real club? I’d love to be on that bench🥵🤤

This is one of darkest fantasies. Taken by force, but really being led to being the sub btm boi that needs a dom top to show me who i really am - and break me in with his friends.

Nice work. Great writing. Just enough detail to know the characters and environment (If you are an aussie, you would understand a BBQ party and have fond memories of your own), but pulled back enough so the reader can fill the gap with imagination. Loved it.

Never Have. But definitely a fantasy of mine.

I am so fascinated by this. Would love to feel it up both my holes -- love a painful fuck.

Chapter 18: Graveyard Shift Central Dispatch, County EMS. 18:48 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED LOCATION. The station had that end-of-day hush where noise carried farther than it should. In the locker room, the fluorescent tubes hummed, and somebody’s half-torn paper bat trembled in the faint breeze from the vent. On the bench, Rafi sat with his boots unlaced and a Styrofoam cup of coffee steaming between his palms like evidence. Marco, already zipped into his jacket, folded his spare uniform top along the seam as if the way the fabric met might keep the universe from falling apart. Kyle stood at his open locker, pretending to reorganize the same three items—trauma shears, penlight, spare gloves—until they felt like they belonged to him. The room smelled of sanitizer and old sweat, and beneath that, the crisp trace of October air that leaked in whenever someone opened the bay door. He could hear it out there: the distant carry of kids’ voices on the street, laughter ricocheting down from one porch to the next, the dry whisper of leaves against asphalt. Rafi didn’t look up. “You sure you’re ready for tonight?” Kyle clipped his radio to his belt and managed a nod. “Ready.” Rafi grunted, noncommittal. “Everybody’s ready until they meet the Q-word.” Kyle turned. “The… what?” Marco didn’t glance away from the precise fold. “Don’t say quiet in this building. Especially not on Halloween.” “That’s— everyone says it's just superstition.” Kyle smiled, then corrected himself. “I mean—got it.” Rafi finally dragged his eyes to him, half amused. “Rookie rule number one: we honor the gods of pattern recognition and spite. Don’t tempt ‘em, or every patient will shit themselves.” Voices spilled in from the hallway: the echoes of day crews shedding momentum. Locker doors clanged, someone laughed too loud, someone else swore about paperwork. A paramedic in a sweat-damp undershirt leaned through the doorway, hair stuck to her forehead. “You three on nights?” Rafi lifted his cup. “Our sins demand it.” “Watch the east bypass,” she said, already moving on. “They’re still fucking cleaning up that jackknife from this morning.” “Hit a deer?” another voice called from the hall. “Nah,” someone answered. “News said dog.” That drew a round of scoffs. “If that was a dog, it had its own ZIP code. Should have seen what it did to the front of that semi.” The woman reappeared just long enough to add, “MPs showed up and sent everyone packing. Never seen that on a pileup.” Then she was gone, leaving the word MPs hanging in the air as a dare. Rafi rolled his eyes and stood, the bones in his knees cracking like gravel. “Helixion’s in that direction. People say ‘dog’ when they don’t want to say ‘lawsuit.’” Kyle closed his locker. “The article said animal containment. Veterinary wing.” Marco slid the folded jacket onto the shelf and shut his locker with two fingers. “You will learn two things fast,” he said mildly. “One: press releases are bedtime stories. Two: we are not the audience.” Rafi drained the last of his coffee, grimaced at whatever it had done to itself, and crushed the cup. “Rule two,” he told Kyle as they filed out. “Trust nothing you didn’t check with your own hands.” “Rule one was—” “Don’t say quiet,” Marco replied. “Rule three is: if in doubt, blame dispatch.” Kyle laughed because it seemed expected, and because laughter made his chest feel less tight. They stepped into the bay, and the night breathed at them. The big doors stood open, letting in a ribbon of cold air that smelled faintly of cut grass and exhaust. Out beyond the apron, the neighborhood glowed—porch lights, jack-o’-lanterns, plastic ghosts on fishing line rocking in some invisible convection. A kid in a dinosaur costume sprinted past the far end of the lot, the cheap tail bouncing like a metronome, a parent’s voice trailing after him—slow down, watch for cars. Medic 14 waited in her slot, white paint still showing the day’s handprints of road dust. Marco slapped her side as if greeting a dog. “There she is.” “Be nice,” Rafi said. “She hears you.” Kyle climbed into the box and let the cold settle on his face for a second before the familiar antiseptic chill took over. He moved methodically—open, check, close; confirm the monitor leads, peek at the charge on the suction, squeeze the Ambu bag and listen for the healthy squeak. He counted Epi pens and Narcan, confirmed the insulin dates, ran a finger down the inventory checklist as he read aloud, catching himself and falling silent when he realized he’d spoken. Rafi leaned in through the side door. “Talk to the gear if you need to. Just don’t talk to the radio.” Kyle’s grin came easier this time. He kept moving. Hands found the rhythm on their own. When he reached the narcotics box, Marco had already popped it, checked the seal together, then nodded for Kyle to sign the log. “You want me to—?” “Yep,” Marco said. “Your name, your license number. Means you’re accountable now. Congratulations.” The pen hovered a heartbeat; then Kyle wrote, block letters neat from years of school forms. His name looked too clean on the line. He blew on the ink out of habit. In the common room, a muted TV ran the evening news with captions: INTERSTATE FULLY REOPENED AFTER EARLY-MORNING CRASH. The footage was standard—tow trucks, a semi at an angle like it had pivoted on its own shadow, a rectangle of tarp carried between two men, the corners sagging with weight. No rain. No fog. Just that clean, flat fall light that exposed everything. A few off-shift medics hovered in front of the screen finishing donuts. One of them jabbed a finger. “Back it up. See that?” Rafi didn’t look. “Don’t feed the birds.” “Bro, tell me that’s not a military truck,” the medic persisted. Marco, beside Kyle at the doorway, watched a moment and then blew air through his nose. “Could be DOT. Could be National Guard.” “Could be Helixion has friends,” someone else said. “All I’m saying. I hear that freaky shit goes down in that place.” Kyle glanced between the screen and the room and felt the double-pulse of the job: inside jokes stacked on top of the unspoken. He knew better than to ask follow-ups. He grabbed a water from the fridge and stood alongside, in the eddy of conversation where nobody had to perform. The TV cut to sports. The room loosened like a held breath let go. Rafi took a long pull on a fresh coffee, made a face, then another as if daring it to get worse. “All right,” he said. “We staging or we haunting the recliners?” “Staging,” Marco said. “I don’t want my legs forgetting how to exist before 2200.” They rolled the ambulance to the lip of the apron and idled with the doors open for another minute, just to feel the night. Crisp. Clear. A whisper of warmth still trapped in the concrete from the day’s sun. One could hear the county moving—distant tires, a garage door stuttering up, the tiniest chorus of trick-or-treaters negotiating trades at a curb. (I’ll swap you two Reese’s for your full-size KitKat—no, full-size.) “So, man, why EMS?” Rafi asked, eyes on the driveway, tone idle. Kyle surprised himself by telling the truth without polishing it. “My brother, the junkie. A couple years back. I found him. Paramedics were… they were steady. They made something feel less… out of control.” He took a breath. “I figured if I could do that for somebody else, maybe—” Rafi nodded once, not dramatic. “Good reason.” Marco, not looking away from the street, added, “And a hard one. You okay on overdoses?” “I’m okay.” That much was true; he had rehearsed okay until it fit in his mouth like a mouthguard. “I’m okay.” Rafi drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Then rule four: you’re allowed to feel later. It’s not heroism to feel nothing. It’s a one way ticket to burnout.” The radio crackled to life with a routine radio check. Rafi answered, voice flipping to that even cadence—Medical 14, clear and available. The dispatcher returned the affirmation. Kyle watched the channel indicator slide back to their home frequency. Clean. Quiet—no. Calm. They ran a lazy round of the nearby streets to “let the wheels remember,” as Rafi put it, then parked in the small cutout where ambulance employees were tolerated by the diner across from the station. The windows down half an inch cleared the stale cab air and let in hints of bacon grease and cold air. The waitress inside waved without making them come in; she knew better than to pin medics to a table. Rafi pulled a notepad from the console and flipped through three pages of scribbles. “Calls you’re likely to see tonight,” he announced into the cabin, mock-formal. “Unsupervised teenagers meeting alcohol for the first time. Parents calling 911 because their kid ate four fun-size Snickers and ‘looks pale.’ A guy who thinks he’s possessed running down the street naked because his vape pen is ninety percent THC. Lots of allergic reactions. Lots. Someone falling off a porch while adjusting a skeleton. And—if the gods really hate us—somebody’s grandma who waited all day to call and now can’t breathe.” “Also,” Marco said, “one extremely sincere haunted house actor who won’t break character while we try to take his blood pressure.” “That happened?” Kyle asked, then realized how naive it sounded. “Everything happens,” Rafi said. “Given enough time.” In the passenger mirror, a pair of teenagers drifted by at the end of the block, faces painted white, black hoodies up, a carton tucked under an arm. They clocked the ambulance the way kids clock a school mascot: half awe, half mischief. Rafi saw Kyle watching and gave a noncommittal noise. “Harmless until they’re not. Keep your windows up if you see ‘em later.” “Got it.” A breeze lifted dry leaves in a little swirl and set them down again. The sky held that deep, clean navy that meant it would be cold by midnight. Kyle listened to the steadiness—no wind, no sirens close by, just the everyday thrum of a county minding its business. If dread lived anywhere tonight, it lived in other people’s heads. The radio chirped once with a unit clearing the hospital. Nothing for them. The second hand on the dash clock ticked into 20:00. An hour of night, and all they had to show for it was coffee breath and a short list of rules. Kyle let his shoulders drop, just a notch. Across the street, a dad in a puffy vest shepherded a princess and a vampire past the diner window. The little vampire was already chewing, cape flaring with each step. “Okay,” Rafi said, settling deeper. “We wait. We listen. We don’t say the thing we don’t say.” Marco tapped the radio with a knuckle. “And we answer when it calls.” Kyle nodded. He found his spot—the space in his head where boredom and readiness braided together—and stayed there. The night held. The air was cold and clean. Somewhere not far away, kids practiced throwing their voices to sound scarier than they felt. The rig smelled like disinfectant and plastic and the faintest trace of chocolate from some wrapper that had slipped under a seat. Kyle reached into his breast pocket for his penlight, clicked it on and off—a nervous habit—and watched the circle of light bite into the dash and disappear. He didn’t have a name for the feeling that came next; it wasn’t fear, and it wasn’t excitement. It was that sense of standing at a door and hearing footsteps on the other side. Not running, not rushing—just coming. He breathed once, deep, the way instructors told you to, and let the cool air clear him out. The door would open when it opened. His hands were ready. The radio broke the quiet at 20:42 with the clean, two-tone chirp every medic’s body knew how to answer. “Medic Fourteen, respond priority one, possible allergic reaction. Pediatric patient, age nine. 214 Oakridge Lane, cross of Willow. Caller reports difficulty breathing after eating candy containing peanuts.” Rafi’s hand was already on the ignition before the dispatcher finished. “Show us en route,” he said into the mic, the calm practiced tone of someone who’d said those words ten thousand times, before yelling to the back cabin area. “Called it on the first call.” The diesel engine caught with a low growl. Kyle snapped his seat belt and swung into motion before thought could catch up—monitor bag secured, airway kit at his feet, gloves out of the box. His pulse sped, but his hands were steady. First real call of the night. The first anything. Outside, the town slid by in Halloween colors. Pumpkins glowed on porches, a few late trick-or-treaters still hopping between houses in groups. The air was crisp enough to sting his lungs when he breathed deep; the stars sharp, unblurred by cloud. No rain, no fog, just the hum of tires on clean asphalt. Marco read from the tablet. “Mom reports the kid’s swelling up fast. Says he’s allergic but didn’t have his EpiPen.” “Classic,” Rafi muttered. “People always remember the costume, never the meds.” They turned off Main and into a neighborhood where the streetlights stood farther apart. Each beam of yellow left a pocket of darkness between, full of tree branches and quiet yards. Porch decorations rocked gently in the night air. Kyle leaned forward between the seats, eyes scanning numbers. “Oakridge Lane—on the right.” “There,” Marco pointed. “Blue house, porch light flashing.” Rafi pulled to the curb, killed the siren but left the flashers painting the siding in red pulses. Parents were already outside—mom waving, dad pacing tight circles in the driveway. Kyle grabbed the airway bag and followed Marco up the path. Inside was chaos in miniature: candy wrappers everywhere, a child sitting upright on the couch, face blotched and puffy, breaths short and whistling. The mother’s voice trembled between words. “He—he grabbed the wrong candy—I didn’t—he’s allergic to peanuts—” “Okay,” Marco said, gentle but firm, kneeling in front of the boy. “You did the right thing calling. We’ve got him.” Kyle dropped to one knee, opened the med kit, found the auto-injector, thumbed off the safety cap. He’d practiced this motion on oranges until he could do it blind. “I’ve got epi ready.” Rafi stood behind them, starting vitals—pulse ox clipped to a finger, cuff around the small arm. “Go ahead.” Kyle placed the injector, counted under his breath, pressed, held. The boy flinched, then gasped, and the wheeze turned to a rough inhale. Color crept back toward pink. The mother started crying from relief. “Good response,” Marco said quietly. “Let’s get him loaded for transport. Mom, you can ride in the transport with us and have dad follow in the car.” Rafi called out vitals for the report: “Pulse 110, sat 94 and climbing, BP 92/58, respirations 28.” He nodded toward Kyle. “Bag the wrappers, bring one for the hospital.” Kyle gathered the torn candy pieces into a glove, tying off the end like evidence. One wrapper was smeared in chocolate and what might have been grass—probably dropped in a yard—but when he turned it in his hand, he noticed two faint indentations along the edge. For a split second he thought teeth marks, then corrected himself: Probably just creased. He shoved it into his pocket and helped lift. They wheeled the stretcher down the walkway. Somewhere up the street, laughter exploded—a group of kids sprinting past, voices high on sugar. One yelled, “Cool lights, dude!” as they ran by, a chorus of sneakers slapping pavement. The boy’s father jogged alongside, out of breath and holding an Epi pen as well. “He started coughing maybe five minutes ago, I ran—” Rafi raised a hand, slowing him. “We’ve got him. Follow us in your car if you want, but don’t tailgate the rig.” They loaded the patient, clicked the stretcher into the floor mount. Kyle climbed in beside him, Marco took the jump seat. The doors slammed; the sound sealed them into a bubble of light and soft mechanical beeps. Rafi’s voice came through the intercom. “All right, gentlemen. County General?” “Yep,” Marco answered. “Let’s ride.” The ambulance eased from the curb. Kyle switched on low cabin light and monitored the boy’s breathing—still fast but smoother now. He offered oxygen through the pediatric mask, adjusting flow until the boy’s chest rose easy. “You doing okay, buddy?” Kyle asked. The boy nodded slightly, eyes wide but focused. “Yeah… I’m… okay.” “You’re doing great. Just breathe slowly.” Marco filled out the electronic chart, fingers tapping softly. “Kid’s lucky. Textbook reaction, textbook fix.” Kyle smiled faintly, adrenaline beginning to ebb. For the first time that night, he felt the job click into place—fear giving way to procedure, chaos shrinking to something you could measure in numbers on a screen. Then came the first thunk. A hollow pop on the side panel, then another—thwack, thwack. Wet, flat sounds. Rafi’s voice burst through the intercom. “What the hell—?” Kyle glanced at Marco. “Tire?” Marco leaned toward the small rear window, then laughed, short and disbelieving. “Nope. We’re getting egged. Fuckin’ teenagers these days man. That’s going to be a bitch to get cleaned off.” Outside, a trio of teenagers darted from the shadow of a hedge, their silhouettes briefly caught in the strobe of the light bar. One threw again, the egg bursting in a smear that slid down the glass. Rafi laid on the air horn. The kids scattered, shrieking with laughter. “Happy Halloween to us,” Marco muttered, shaking his head. “God, I really hate this job.” Kyle let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh he hadn’t expected. The boy on the stretcher even managed a weak smile beneath the oxygen mask. “See?” Kyle told him. “You’re not missing much out there.” Rafi’s voice came back, dry. “Remind me to file for emotional damages. Damn near spilled my coffee.” The rest of the drive was uneventful. The monitor’s rhythm smoothed, the pulse settled under a hundred, and the boy’s breathing evened out to sleepy sighs. Marco called to report to the ER: age, cause, treatment, response. Routine, professional, steady. When they pulled beneath the bright wash of the hospital canopy, Kyle hopped out first, unlatched the stretcher, and guided it down the ramp. The automatic doors opened, releasing a breath of warm air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and cafeteria soup. “County EMS to Bay 3. County EMS to Bay 3.” The tinny sounding speaker overhead announced their arrival, as one of the nurses pointed them in the correct direction from the ambulance bay. A nurse waved them through triage. “Room three. They’re ready.” Within minutes, the boy was transferred to a hospital bed, IV equipment switched over, parents ushered in by social work. Rafi finished the handoff with the attending physician and met Kyle and Marco by the door. “Good work, newbie. Nurses were happy you got an 18 guage in him,” he said simply. Kyle nodded, feeling the rush of quiet after action—the echo of purpose that hung in the chest once adrenaline drained away. Outside, under the floodlights, he noticed the streaks of egg on the side of the rig drying to a pale crust. He wiped one with a gloved thumb, the shell grit scratching faintly against paint. Marco grinned at him. “Congratulations, rookie. First Halloween call, textbook save, and you’ve been officially hazed by the disobedient youth of America.” Rafi climbed into the driver’s seat, calling back, “We should start a bet on who cleans the rig. My vote’s for the guy whose handwriting is still legible.” Kyle rolled his eyes, half-smiling, and climbed in. The engine rumbled to life again, and the ambulance eased out of the bay toward the cool dark streets waiting beyond. Through the windshield, the night looked clean and harmless—porches still lit, windless trees, candy wrappers skittering across asphalt like leaves. For now, it was just another shift. And for the first time since clock-in, Kyle believed it might actually stay that way. — By midnight, the tempo of the night had found them. Calls rolled in steady, a rhythm that carried them through the quiet neighborhoods and back again: chest pain at a retirement complex, a drunk fall in a parking lot, a teenager with a panic attack after too much caffeine and a vape pen that wasn’t just nicotine. Each run blurred into the next—the routine calls that defined the job. The air outside had grown colder, the smell of dry leaves sharp enough to bite. Trick-or-treaters were gone, replaced by the late-night crowd: bar hoppers in costume makeup flaking off, voices slurred into laughter. Kyle started to recognize the small sounds of fatigue in Rafi’s voice, the sigh in Marco’s. They joked less now, talking mostly in shorthand. “You got the monitor?” “Yeah.” “Vitals clean?” “Clean enough.” They cleared a call near the industrial park—false alarm, a man sleeping behind a warehouse mistaken for a body—then another for a domestic dispute that turned into a refusal when both parties decided they loved each other again, dry humping on the couch in the living room. It was the kind of night that trained you to be patient, to keep the machine in motion. Then the odd calls began. A report of a smash and grab at a convenience store, only to find the place completely empty. PD cleared them before they arrived—nobody there to transport. A welfare check at a motel, where the occupant swore something was crawling in the walls. No injuries, just fear and the smell of bleach. And then the call from dispatch that made Rafi stop mid-sentence. A voice over the radio, hesitant for once. “Medic Fourteen, respond to multiple injuries, possible assault outside the InfraRed Club, 8130 Fifth Avenue. PD on scene requesting medical.” The words hung there. The InfraRed wasn’t just any nightclub—it was one of those places that pulled half the city’s drunks and ODs and a good share of its trouble. Halloween there usually meant fights, but multiple injuries at once was a different tone entirely. Rafi put the rig in gear. “Here we go again.” Marco tapped the address into the tablet, the glow washing his face pale. “Reports are saying five, maybe six victims. Some kind of animal attack? PD’s still sorting it out.” Kyle blinked. “Animal attack? In the warehouse district?” “That’s what they said.” The tires hummed as they picked up speed, passing the quiet suburban streets and heading back toward the city lights. Ahead, the skyline shimmered faintly with blue and red strobes bouncing off glass. The radio chatter grew thick—units calling in, updates overlapping. “… unknown assailant—” “… requesting additional units for crowd control—” “… bites and lacerations—possible dog, large—” Kyle felt that small, familiar tightening in his chest. Not fear, exactly—just awareness sharpening. He checked the airway kit, more out of habit than necessity. “We’re really going to another dog call?” Rafi’s eyes stayed on the road. “If it walks like a dog and barks like a dog… it’s probably just some nut job in a dog outfit outside a gay nightclub.” Marco didn’t laugh this time. “Helixion’s two miles from there.” The siren wound up, a long, rising note that sliced through the night. Storefronts flashed by in streaks of orange and silver; the world compressed to light and sound and motion. Kyle tightened his seat belt and looked out at the streets rushing past—costumes, flashing lights, faces turning toward the noise. For a moment he caught a reflection in a window: three figures inside the ambulance, framed in red light, racing toward something they didn’t understand. Dispatch came back on the air, voice clipped and urgent. “Medic Fourteen, be advised—PD reports at least one officer injured. Scene not yet secured.” Rafi’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t slow down. “Copy. We’ll stage a block out.” He turned on to Fifth. The city opened in front of them—a smear of flashing lights, a crowd spilling into the street, something chaotic at its center. Kyle could see shapes moving—officers, bystanders, maybe victims. The scene pulsed like a heartbeat. He felt the shift inside him again—the edge between the world he knew and whatever waited ahead. “Welcome to Halloween,” Rafi muttered, killing the siren. “Let’s earn our keep.” The rig rolled forward into the light.

well you actually were part of the inspiration, remembering that party we ran into eachother on the outskirts of the city. You were head down arse up, but that could be either of us.

I love it to be used blindfolded, this helps me more to concentrate on dicks in my mouth or butt. Even more it makes it more exciting that you do not see what is happening around you. But it can be dangerous as well

Well, on the other hand, maybe don't ..... Those NY's resolutions always seem to last an hour or so, and then forgotten. At least mine often get forgotten sooner than later 😉

I'm going to make it happen, but looking at my schedule it will probably be January. Maybe I'll make it my New Years resolution 😁

I think that would be great. I have been to some events in SOCAL where that were playing amateurish OF loops, and can confirm that there was some great fucking at those events, although I didn't really have time to pay much attention to the porn that was playing. I believe Club 541 in Palm Springs, plays OF on some of their monitors, but always find way to many other things to do rather than watch the porn.

So we're going hungry with just that appetizer to tide us over ??? <<<filthiest of grins >>>

7.5” hung top/vers visiting Thailand 9-20 November, looking for younger subs or ladyboys to breed. Chiang Mai 9-14 Nov Phuket 14-18 Nov Bangkok 18-20 Nov Can accom

Actually I'm making a resolution to cross fucking or getting fucked on video and posting the video off my bucket list in the near future. I do know and have had sex with several guys who make some OF content, and had a casual conversation with one who moved away from Portland a couple of years ago. I had thought I might have an opportunity to do it this weekend in Palm Springs, and started shopping for a suitable ski mask earlier this week. Unfortunately life happened and I didn't get to make the weekend trip I was hoping to take. I am committed to make it happen in the next several months, I would prefer it to be as part of group scene, and will make sure I post a link to it here on BZ.