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I’m not hundred percent sure but I guess it was the Angyal (in English Angel) Bar. It was one of the pioneer gay bars if not the very first one. Classic bar, with a small dark room and regular drag shows. It closed 15-20 years ago but then it operated in a different location.

I'd like to find a dominant, or alternatively a cuck or cuck-like individual who would enjoy facilitating my behavior. Someone who would enjoy at least splitting hotel costs, who would enjoy getting me spun, and then locate and turn me out to borderline abusive tops to use me while I am intoxicated. I love the psychological and physical challenges that are associated with serving groups, as well as the humiliation, degradation, and feelings of intimidation that serving groups also brings. Bondage that facilitates CNC situations is something I am always drawn to. Training, emasculation, feminization, sissification, is always welcome and I am fetish friendly. You know....standard stuff...😂 Central/Northern Pennsylvania or western NY state if anyone is interested in discussing options. Feel free to send a message and there is an email address on my profile page.

Because of the country where my owners operate me all photos of me being used are private to the users. Owners keep a very low profile of me being used.

I saw a post like this on bsky/Bluesky .. thought I'd repost the question here. Mine was The Warehouse, Hartford CT .. i think gone now. The bar was in the old Olivetti-Underwood (typewriters) factory. And by coincidence my grandfather use to work there for many years ..

Second Cumming..... Shaved Head’s voice cut through the chemical fog like a blade, low and measured, each word dripping with deliberate control. "Breathe in—slow, pigboy," he murmured, thumb pressing into the hollow of Tommy’s throat. "That’s it. Feel it? That’s your body remembering who owns it." Tommy’s chest hitched, lungs fighting the weight of the drugs, but the hand on his neck tightened just enough to guide him. "Good. Now out." The exhale shuddered out of him, ragged at the edges, his cock twitching against the cool air. "Submission isn’t surrender, Tommy. It’s *clarity.*" The wiry one’s fingers—nimble, relentless—worked the rubber harness tighter, the latex hissing as it stretched over Tommy’s flushed skin. Every millimeter of pressure sent shockwaves up his spine, his balls throbbing under the unforgiving grip of the stretchers. "Look at him," the wiry one mused, tapping the underside of Tommy’s cock with a fingernail. The sound—sharp, metallic—echoed in the room. "Like a fucking wind-up toy." He twisted the lowest ring, and Tommy’s hips jerked off the table, a strangled noise tearing from his throat. "Just needs the right key." The door creaked again. A new voice—deep, rolling, syrup-thick with amusement—cut through the haze. "Y’all takin’ too long." Tommy’s head lolled toward the sound. Tarelle—black, broad-shouldered, Nike Tech Fleece clinging to the swell of his chest—leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Gold hoops glinted in his ears. His grin was all teeth. "Shit, I *know* y’all ain’t just starin’ at this pig without puttin’ him to work." Tommy’s stomach flipped. The wiry one snickered, stepping back as Tarelle pushed off the frame. His Jordans—white and blue, pristine—squeaked against the linoleum as he crossed the room. Methodical. Unhurried. Tommy watched, pulse hammering, as Tarelle’s fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt. The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing the thick, coiled muscle beneath, skin gleaming under the fluorescents. His sweatpants followed, folded precisely, stacked atop his shoes like an offering. The scent of cocoa butter and weed clung to him. Tarelle’s cock—already thick and heavy, the head flushed dark—curved against his thigh as he palmed himself, the slow drag of his fist making Tommy’s mouth water. “Ain’t polite to stare, piggy,” he murmured, lips quirking. His free hand snagged Tommy’s chin, forcing his head up. “Unless you *wanna*.” Tommy’s breath hitched. Oh wait, you can't see. Tarelle’s thumb pressed against his lower lip, the gag’s silicone ridges digging in. “Anybody got trimix?” He glanced around, lazy, like he was asking for a spare lighter. “Dude’s *twitchin’*, and I ain’t even touched him yet.” Shaved Head stepped forward, syringe glinting between his fingers, the liquid inside catching the light like molten gold. “Got you, big man.” His grin was all teeth as he knelt beside Tarelle, fingers skimming the thick vein running along the underside of his cock. “Gonna make him *sing*.” The needle slid in with practiced ease—no hesitation, no wasted movement—and Tarelle’s breath hissed between his teeth as the drug hit his bloodstream. His cock swelled instantly, veins standing in stark relief against the dark skin, the head purpling with every throb. “Fuck,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “That’s the shit, dis injection is tha next key to Pigboys transformation" Tommy’s cock *ached*—eight inches of desperate, harnessed need, the latex straps biting into the swollen flesh. His balls throbbed under the stretchers, pulled taut and heavy, every heartbeat sending a fresh pulse of heat straight to his core. The blindfold robbed him of sight, but his body *knew*. The shift in the air—Tarelle’s breath warming his inner thigh, the low chuckle vibrating against his skin—sent goosebumps racing up his spine. His hips jerked involuntarily, the stretchers clinking with the movement. “Oh, he *knows*,” the wiry one crowed, giving the lowest ring a sharp tug. “Look at him—fucking *begging* for it.” Then—sudden, unexpected—the press of padded headphones clamping over his ears, sealing him into silence. The world muffled instantly—no more laughter, no creaking floorboards—just the staticky hum of white noise and his own ragged breaths echoing inside his skull. Tommy’s jaw clenched around the gag. *Fuck.* Sensory deprivation cranked the hypersensitivity of his skin to eleven—every brush of air, every accidental graze, electric. His cock twitched, precome beading at the tip. A fingertip—broad, calloused—traced his rim, slow and deliberate. Tommy flinched, hips jerking, but hands pinned him down before he could squirm away. The touch circled again, slick with something cold, clinical. Lube, probably. Or spit. His hole fluttered uselessly against nothing. "Relax," a voice rumbled through the headphones—distorted, robotic—but the cadence was unmistakably Tarelle’s. "Breathe out." Tommy exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling. The finger pressed in without warning, knuckle-deep in one smooth thrust. His back arched off the table, a silent scream trapped behind the gag. Then—hotter, thicker—the blunt head of Tarelle’s cock nudged against him, the tip catching on his rim with a sticky, obscene noise. Tommy’s breath hitched. The stretch burned, even through the chemical haze clouding his nerves. Tarelle’s hips rolled forward—slow, inexorable—and Tommy felt every millimeter, every ridge, every vein as his body yielded. His toes curled. His balls throbbed against the stretchers. The headphones crackled with static, drowning out his own choked whimpers. Halfway in, Tarelle paused. Tommy could *feel* him twitching inside, the thick, swollen base of his cock pressing against that deep, electric spot that made his vision whiten. His own dick jerked violently against the harness, precome dribbling in hot pulses down the shaft. The sensation ricocheted through him—Tarelle’s cockhead nudging his prostate, the stretchers tugging his sack taut, the trimix turning his erection into a live wire. His hips bucked involuntarily, desperate for friction, for *more*. Then—cold, unexpected—another pair of hands gripped his cock, the latex straps creaking under the pressure. The touch was methodical, clinical, fingers mapping every vein with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. A thumb swiped over Tommy’s leaking slit, spreading the wetness down his length in slow, torturous strokes. The rhythm was inhuman—too perfect, too steady—like a machine programmed to wring him dry. Tommy’s breath hitched. His hole *fluttered* around Tarelle, muscles going slack as pleasure overloaded his nervous system. The voice in the headphones crackled again, layered now with something mechanical—a synthesized echo that burrowed under his skin. *You are Pigboy.* The words dripped into his skull like syrup, slow and sticky. *You exist for pleasure.* Tarelle’s hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Tommy’s scream dissolved into a wet gurgle. *Your hole and cock are the property of CHEMBOSS.* The hands on his shaft tightened, twisting just shy of pain. His vision whited out. *You will submit to anyone who brings pleasure.* Tarelle’s cock dragged against his prostate with every withdrawal—slow, deliberate—each ridge scraping that swollen bundle of nerves until Tommy’s thighs trembled. His dick pulsed violently in its harness, precome pooling in the hollow of his stomach, the latex straps biting into flushed skin. The stretchers clinked with every ragged breath, the weight of them dragging his balls into a taut, aching pendulum. The hands on his cock moved faster now, matching Tarelle’s rhythm—pulling, twisting, *milking*—until the pleasure crested into something unbearable. His hole fluttered helplessly around Tarelle’s girth. The headphones crackled, the voice inside them warping into something deeper, synthetic. *"You are not permitted to hold back any load from your pigboy dick."* The words slithered into Tommy’s skull, slick and insistent. *"If you do, you will be slammed again and risk losing your cock."* A shudder ripped through him—half-terror, half-obscene *want*—as the voice droned on, layering over the wet slap of skin against skin. *"Every drop belongs to CHEMBOSS. Every spurt is proof of your purpose."* Tommy’s hips jerked, his cock twitching like a live wire. The threat coiled low in his gut, sharp as the needle still buried in his vein. Tarelle’s thrusts grew jagged, his rhythm fracturing as his own cock swelled impossibly thicker inside Tommy’s hole. The stretch burned—hotter now, relentless—each ridge of Tarelle’s shaft scraping Tommy’s prostate raw. The hands on Tommy’s shaft tightened, twisting just shy of pain, the latex straps creaking under the strain. Precome dribbled in thick pulses down his length, pooling in the hollow of his stomach. *"See?"* The voice purred. *"Your cock knows its role. It leaks without permission. It begs to be emptied."* Tommy’s breath hitched. His balls churned, the stretchers dragging them taut, the weight unbearable. Tarelle flexed—deliberate, cruel—his cockhead grinding deep into Tommy’s prostate. The sensation ripped through him like live wire, his hips bucking against the restraints. The hands on his shaft moved faster now, matching Tarelle’s rhythm—pulling, twisting, *milking*—until the pleasure crested into agony. Tommy’s vision whited out. His hole fluttered helplessly around Tarelle’s girth. *"There it is,"* the voice cooed, synthetic and slick. *"The first betrayal. Your body gives you away."* His cock pulsed violently, the tip smearing wetness across his stomach. *"Now finish it."* Then—sharp, chemical—the hiss of pressurized vapor flooding the hose connected to Tommy’s gag. The taste hit first: burnt plastic and artificial watermelon, cloying sweetness clinging to the back of his throat. He gagged, but the DMT forced its way into his lungs anyway, expanding like liquid heat in his chest. The first exhale came ragged, his pupils blowing wide behind the blindfold. The second hit sent fractals spiraling across his vision—neon geometries pulsing in time with Tarelle’s thrusts, the room dissolving into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors. By the third, his orgasm wasn’t *coming*—it was *everywhere*, a supernova detonating behind his ribs, his cock convulsing untouched as the DMT rewired his synapses into pure, screaming pleasure. Tarelle’s fingers dug into Tommy’s hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm stuttering as Tommy’s hole clenched around him in erratic spasms. "Fuck—" His voice cracked, thick with exertion. "Piggy’s *milking* me—" The stretchers on Tommy’s balls jingled obscenely with every snap of Tarelle’s hips, the metal rings biting into swollen flesh. Tommy’s cock *ached*, the trimix turning his erection into something inhuman—veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin, the head purpling with every throb. Precome dribbled in thick ropes down his shaft, pooling in the hollow of his stomach, the latex harness creaking under the strain. The chain came without warning—cold, heavy, *final*—slithering over Tommy’s collarbones like a serpent. His breath hitched as the links settled against his throat, the metal searingly cold against sweat-slick skin. The pressure tightened gradually, each breath shallower than the last, until his pulse hammered against the restraint in frantic, rabbit-quick beats. A click echoed through the headphones—sharp, mechanical—as the lock snapped shut. The chain constricted further, stealing another fraction of his air, the edges of his vision blurring into static. His cock *twitched*, precome smearing across his abs in wet, glistening streaks. *Fuck.* The deprivation cranked the high higher—every gasp burned, every heartbeat throbbed in his dick, every *lack* of oxygen sharpening the pleasure into something jagged and unbearable. The needle gleamed—silver-bright under the fluorescents—as Shaved Head tapped the syringe with a fingernail, clearing the air bubble with a flick of his wrist. The liquid inside shimmered, viscous and gold-tinged, like honey cut with amphetamine. Tommy’s breath hitched when cold alcohol swabbed the side of his throat, the scent sharp and clinical. The chain rattled as he tensed, links biting into his flesh. "Left jugular," Shaved Head murmured, fingers tracing the throbbing vein beneath Tommy’s skin. His thumb pressed down—hard—flattening the vessel against the bone. The needle slid in with practiced ease—sharp, then *gone*—buried deep where Tommy’s pulse stuttered against the intrusion. "There we go," came the whisper, whiskey-rough against his ear. "Pigboy’s first *direct line* to bliss." Tommy’s hole clenched around nothing—a phantom *squeeze*—as the plunger depressed. The drugs hit *immediate*, a molten flood roaring through his carotid, burning a superhighway straight to his brain. His vision whited out. His cock *jerked*, untouched, smearing precome in sticky arcs across his stomach. The chain slackened—just enough for Tommy to drag in a ragged breath—but the relief was short-lived. Tarelle’s cockhead *nudged* his prostate—once, twice—with lazy precision, each brush sending lightning forks of pleasure up Tommy’s spine. His thighs trembled. His *balls* ached, the stretchers dragging them into a tight, flushed pendulum. "Fuck—" The word dissolved into a wet gasp as Tarelle rolled his hips, the thick ridge of his cockhead *scraping* Tommy’s sweet spot raw. "There it is," Tarelle chuckled, deep and honeyed, his palm slapping against Tommy’s ass with a *crack*. "Pigboy’s *trigger*."

Trying to determine if having thinner skin resulting in bleeding and bruising is a result of HIV or just aging. Haven’t really found an answer anywhere I’ve looked. Ex: If you scrape your arm or leg on something gently and it seems to bleed or bruise easily, is it likely related to HIV (meds or no meds)? Do cuts or bruises that used to heal in a few days seem to take a month?

I am looking for a serious and motivated sub, beginner or not, eager to learn and evolve into a relationship based on trust, exchange and respect for limits. Discretion, maturity and communication are essential. If my ad interests you, write me directly on Telegram: Mistressjessica5122 Kik me : misjessicahm512 Teams: hoh391453@gmail.com Zangi number -1015610752

March 27&28

Dude dropped by my cabin after skiing yesterday, to hot tub and fuck. Used a rubber (first one I can recall in many years). After he wrecked my hole and nutted and left the evidence at my bedside, I noticed it sprung a leak inside me, so I figured I deserved to slurp up the rest. Filmed a 16-minute solo vid of me draining and guzzling the used rubber, then gooning and busting my own nut. Go here for the free trailer, or Subscribe if you’d like to see the full length vid plus 120 others, lots of bb, cumplay, kink, felch, piss: justfor.fans/YourCabinDad

My eyes are bigger than my hole and I've gotten a lot of plugs and dildos and I can't take more than half of them. I have a "big" fantasy of being able to take my largest toys (>3.2" across), two (or three!) dicks at a time, or a fist, I also want a nice, punched-out hole. The pic is an old one of Andy Star ... I'd love to be able to take dick and have a hole like his. Let's see if 2026 can be my (hole's) year.

Tommy's fingers twitched against his phone screen, scrolling through Grindr profiles with the practiced boredom of someone who'd done this too many times. His thumb lingered on a photo—some guy with dilated pupils and a lazy smirk, shirtless in what looked like a dealer's dim living room. The caption read "party favors?" and Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose. The room smelled like stale sweat and the faint chemical tang of leftover vape juice. He adjusted his grip on himself, hips shifting against the sheets, imagining the press of unfamiliar hands pinning him down, the burn of smoke in his lungs before everything went soft at the edges. His pulse jumped when the app pinged—another message from someone named "Cloud9" with a wink emoji and an address two blocks over. Tommy's fingers hesitated over the reply box. He could already picture the sticky heat of a stranger’s apartment, the way the carpet would feel under his bare knees. His thumb hovered—then the front door creaked open downstairs. His stomach lurched. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The footsteps were too quick, too purposeful, the kind that didn’t bother to wipe their shoes on the mat. The bedroom door slammed open before he could sit up. Two figures blurred into the room—one tall with a shaved head, the other wiry, grinning like this was fucking Christmas. Tommy’s mouth went dry. He opened it to yell, but the taller one lunged, a damp cloth reeking of chemicals smothering his face. His nostrils burned. His vision swam. "Easy, pigboy," the wiry one chuckled, knee digging into Tommy’s thigh as he fought. The taste of acetone flooded his mouth. His limbs turned liquid. Distantly, he felt fingers—rough, calloused—wrapping around his cock, stroking him through the haze. His hips jerked involuntarily. The last coherent thought before the dark swallowed him whole: *fuck, I’m still hard.* Cold linoleum pressed against his cheek when he blinked awake. His tongue felt like cotton. The room spun—fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows of figures moving behind him. A hand gripped his hair, yanking his head back. "Look alive," someone muttered. A phone camera clicked. Tommy’s vision swam into focus on the screen—his own slack face, pupils blown, spit slicking his chin. Behind him, Shaved Head smirked, gripping Tommy’s jaw. "Say *ahh*." Wrists jerked against padded cuffs. He was spread-eagled in some kind of medical sling, ankles hooked wide, the restraints biting into his skin. His cock twitched against his thigh—still half-hard—and the realization hit like a bucket of ice water. *Naked.* Blindfolded. The gag wasn’t fabric; it was silicone, contoured to force his mouth open just enough to breathe. He tried to scream. It came out a wet gurgle. “Should’ve answered my fucking messages, Tommy.” A familiar voice—Cloud9 from Grindr—low and amused, somewhere to his right. A fingertip dragged down Tommy’s sternum, nails scraping just shy of pain. “Would’ve been easier on you. But nah, you had to be a *tease*.” Something cold and metallic tapped against his ribs. “Think he’s ready?” The taller one—Shaved Head—snorted. “Oh, he’s ready.” The words dripped like syrup. “Look at him. Already leaking.” Tommy thrashed, heels skidding against the restraints, his pleas muffled into nonsense by the gag. His cock betrayed him, thickening against his stomach, the tip smearing precome onto his skin. The wiry one laughed, leaning in close enough for Tommy to smell stale cigarettes and mint gum. “Begging looks good on you,” he murmured, and then—sharp, sudden—the hiss of compressed air. The gag’s valve clicked open. A rush of chemical sweetness flooded Tommy’s mouth, his nostrils, the back of his throat. Poppers. His vision tunneled instantly, heat surging from his belly to his fingertips. His cock jerked, fully hard now, aching. Shaved Head gripped Tommy’s jaw, forcing his head back. “Swallow,” he ordered. Tommy gagged—too much, too fast—but the liquid burned down his throat anyway, thick as syrup. His muscles slackened instantly, limbs heavy as lead. “There you go,” the taller one crooned, palming Tommy’s cock with rough strokes. “Feels better already, huh?” Tommy’s head lolled. His thoughts dissolved into static, the world narrowing to the drag of calloused fingers on his skin. Distantly, he registered the wiry one rummaging through a bag—glass clinking, foil tearing—but his body wasn’t his anymore. It arched into every touch, every scrape of teeth against his neck. Something tight and elastic circled his bicep—rubber bands, pulled taut just shy of pain. Tommy’s pulse hammered against the constriction, his skin flushing hot where the bands bit in. The wiry one whistled low, admiring his work. “Look at that,” he murmured, flicking one band with a fingernail. It twanged against Tommy’s flesh, sending a jolt straight to his cock. “Veins popping like a fucking map.” Shaved Head chuckled, rolling a needle between his fingers. The glint of steel made Tommy’s stomach twist—but his hips jerked anyway, needy and dumb. “Gonna make you feel so good, piggy,” the taller one promised, thumb pressing into the swollen blue vein beneath the rubber band. The needle slid in with practiced ease—sharp, then gone—and Tommy gasped around the gag as something warm and liquid flooded his dick. Trimix, probably. His cock throbbed instantly, swelling thicker, heavier, the head purpling under the fluorescent lights. His balls drew up tight against his body, the skin there already tingling, oversensitive. The wiry one whistled again. “Christ. Look at him twitch.” His fingers traced the straining vein along Tommy’s shaft, featherlight. Tommy whimpered—half-protest, half-plea—but the sound dissolved into a moan when the taller one pinched his nipple, hard. “You are going to make a *perfect* slam pig,” Shaved Head murmured, lips brushing Tommy’s ear. His breath smelled like whiskey and spearmint. “All that wasted potential…” His hand slid down Tommy’s chest, over his quivering stomach, then wrapped around his cock again. The grip was merciless. Tommy’s hips bucked, helpless, his vision blurring at the edges. “See? Even now—” A sharp twist of his wrist. Tommy choked on a sob. “—your body knows what it’s for.” The needle gleamed in the light as the taller one flicked it between his fingers. “Nothing you can do to stop this.” Tommy’s cock pulsed violently against the rubber encasement, veins straining against the slick latex, the pressure so tight his balls ached with every heartbeat. The wiry one laughed—bright, delighted—and leaned in to press another soaked rag to Tommy’s face. Poppers flooded his sinuses, sharp as shattered glass. The room dissolved into fractals, colors bleeding into shapes that didn’t exist. His cock throbbed, trapped and desperate, the sensation magnified by the drugs singing through his bloodstream. He tried to scream, but the gag muffled it into a wet groan. Shaved Head moved first—fluid, practiced—palming a syringe from the tray with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times. The needle gleamed under the flickering fluorescents. Tommy’s stomach lurched. The wiry one straddled his hips, pinning him with bony knees, fingers digging into Tommy’s biceps hard enough to bruise. Shaved Head tapped the syringe with a fingernail, clearing the air bubble with a flick of his wrist. The liquid inside shimmered, oily and thick. “Left arm,” he murmured, and Tommy’s breath hitched when cold alcohol swabbed the crook of his elbow. The second needle slipped in—sharp, then gone—buried deep in the vein. Tommy’s pulse hammered against the intrusion. The wiry one grinned, pressing his thumb to Tommy’s wrist, holding him down like a butterfly pinned to corkboard. Shaved Head’s fingers curled around the plunger. Their eyes met—some silent signal—and Tommy’s throat clicked around a soundless plea. Both plunger depressed quickly and empty into Pigboys mind body and spirit. Tommy didn’t even feel the needles withdraw. The popper rush had already hollowed out his skull, reducing the world to a kaleidoscope of fractured light and sound. His lungs seized mid-breath—triple coughs ripping through him, wet and jagged. His chest convulsed. “Oh fuck—” His voice cracked. The fluorescent lights above streaked into white-hot halos. “Oh fuck—” His cock jerked, untouched, spitting precome onto his stomach. “Oh fuck me—” The taller one laughed—low, indulgent—as he wiped Tommy’s chin with his thumb. “Already are, piggy.” His fingers tangled in Tommy’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “Look at you. Just—” A sharp slap to Tommy’s cheek. His vision swam. “—falling apart.” Tommy’s breath hitched, his lungs burning with the lingering chemical sweetness. The air tasted like burnt plastic and sweat. He barely registered the creak of hinges—the front door swinging open downstairs—over the roar of blood in his ears. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, too heavy, too eager. The bedroom door bounced off the wall with a crack. Two new figures loomed in the doorway—one built like a linebacker, his knuckles already wrapped in grimy tape, the other slim-hipped with a shock of bleached hair. Both reeked of stale beer and leather. The linebacker whistled low, eyeing Tommy’s twitching cock. “Fuck, he’s primed.” Bleached Hair grinned, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a latticework of track marks. “Like Christmas came early.” Tommy’s hole clenched around nothing as the taller one—Shaved Head—slicked two fingers with something cold and viscous. The lube smelled clinical, sterile, like a hospital corridor. Tommy whimpered around the gag when those fingers pressed in without warning, the stretch burning even through the chemical haze. “Relax,” Shaved Head murmured, twisting his wrist. Tommy’s thighs trembled. “Gonna ruin you so good.” The fingers crooked, and Tommy’s back arched off the table—a sharp, electric jolt straight to his cock. His balls ached—already swollen and tight—when the wiry one knelt between his legs, a trio of heavy steel rings clinking in his palm. The first stretcher clicked into place with a *snap*, the cold metal cinching tight around Tommy’s sack. His breath hitched. The second followed—tighter, lower—forcing his nuts to stretch obscenely away from his body. By the third, Tommy’s thighs were shaking, his dick *pulling* with every heartbeat, the weight dragging his balls down into a taut, flushed pendulum. The wiry one grinned, giving the lowest stretcher a sharp tug. “Look at that,” he breathed. “Like a fucking bellrope.” Tommy barely registered the laughter—low and thick, from somewhere behind him—until a broad hand clamped down on his shoulder. The voice was deep, honeyed with amusement. “Thas what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Fingers—thick, blunt—trailed down Tommy’s spine, pausing at the dip of his waist. “We gonna milk this pig from the inside out.” The hand slid lower, calloused palm scraping over Tommy’s ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Tommy’s vision swam. His mouth worked around the gag—useless—as Shaved Head leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Breathe through it, pig.” His breath was hot, whiskey-sour. “Cause you got more cummin’.” Tommy’s stomach flipped. The words slithered under his skin, curling around his spine like smoke. “First stage of your pigboy transformation’s begun.” A wet chuckle. “Time to be consumed with pleasure.”

I’d also love to fuck with Johnny Weir and Adam Rippon.

I think we want to hear about all three months if you are okay with it.

I was very happy when the male skaters wore dark color pants. When I could see contrasts, I could see their dark legs against the white ice. They always looked so skinny and long to me. I knew those legs were muscular. And, their asses were also tight and muscular. I wanted so much to bury my face and then my dick in their athletic butts. As I wrote elsewhere, I had the opportunity to go to a skating show, then to the Meet and Greet afterword. I had written Champions On Ice, in hopes of meeting Rudy Galindo. He was so sweet to me when we met. We first shook hands, then I gave him a small gift. He was extremely gracious when he took it. Before he left, he gave me a full hug. He didn’t do that with anyone else. I don’t know if it was because I am blind, and he wanted to give me a little something extra, or if his gaydar was pinging. At about 5’6 and 135lb, he had a nice little body, although, still bigger than me. I would have been more than happy to go to bed with him, even though, he had announced nine months earlier, that he was positive. Thank you Rudy, for giving me an experience I won’t forget.

Gonorrhoea 3 times last year and currently have it again but never had anything else. Its almost expected ill catch something when taking lots of guys in a sauna cumdump session, especially when one guys dick was already visibly dripping discharge before he put it in me on the last session in a sling but i just see it as part of the life.

this is what homeless guys are good for, give them a few bucks, some pot, a few drinks and fuck their ass and you can fuck as hard as you want. Once you break them in, they will find others for you or beg for more.

Hot !!! I love old men breeding me.

That's my ideal encounter. Three up the ass and one down the throat.