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You're great pussy boy. I'd love to fuck you pussy raw

Not to a guys office but I do have a guy who works from home who hits me up to suck him off while he's in zoom meetings. LOL Just some light sucking, licking while he's in the meeting, when it's over then I got to work. Swallow his load and I'm on my way. 🙂

Chapter 4: The Christmas Stocking Paul Carter lay on his back in the narrow bed, phone balanced against his chest, the screen casting a soft bluish glow across the ceiling. Snow drifted across the tiny frame of the movie playing—one of those saccharine Christmas romances he’d clicked on without thinking, the kind that promised warmth and happy endings even when the world outside felt thin and cold. Onscreen, two men stood in a flurry of lights and music, breathless and smiling, the argument finally over. They ran toward each other through falling snow, laughter breaking through tears, arms wrapping tight like they were afraid the other might vanish if they didn’t hold on hard enough. Paul sniffed, embarrassed by the sound, and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his palm. “Shut up,” he muttered to himself, even though the room was empty. He told himself it was the alcohol, the storm, the long night—anything but the tight ache building in his chest as the couple kissed and the music swelled. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress beside him before the credits could roll. The screen lit again almost immediately as his messages opened, the familiar thread already at the top. He hadn’t meant to open it. His thumb just… knew where to go. The breakup text stared back at him, cruel in its simplicity. No explanation worth anything. No apology. Just blunt words and an even blunter dismissal. Paul’s jaw tightened as he scrolled, the memory crashing back uninvited—the night before, the way he’d tried so hard to be everything the other guy wanted, how eager he’d been to please, to prove he was worth staying for. Hell, he even let the guy bareback him, crawling on his knees and begging him. And then the next morning came. The text. You weren’t that good. I’ve already moved on. Don’t message me again. Paul swallowed hard, his throat burning. He hated how much that still hurt. Hated that it made him feel stupid, small, disposable. He locked the phone again, dropping it face-down this time like it might bite him if he looked too long. “Not tonight,” he whispered, forcing the words out like a promise. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the storm batter the house, the wind whining along the eaves like something lost and angry. Somewhere below him, the frat house creaked and shifted, settling into the cold. Laughter drifted faintly from downstairs, muffled now, distant enough to feel unreal. Paul rolled onto his side, curling slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He told himself he just needed distraction—anything to keep his thoughts from circling back to the same bruised places. Something loud. Something physical. Something that didn’t ask him to feel wanted or loved. Just something that made him feel anything else. He reached for his phone again, screen lighting his face in the dark as the storm outside howled on. Paul stared at the glowing screen for a long moment before unlocking it again. The house felt too quiet up here, the laughter from downstairs fading into something distant and hollow. He needed noise. Motion. Anything to drown out the thoughts pressing in on him. He didn’t open the movie back up. Instead, his thumb drifted through apps without much thought, muscle memory guiding him somewhere familiar and mindless. Images of men fucking in different positions and acts loaded—too bright, too sharp against the darkness of his room—and he felt his shoulders loosen just a little as his focus narrowed. This, at least, didn’t ask him to feel hopeful. It didn’t promise happy endings or soft confessions in falling snow. It was simpler than that. Paul exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow. He told himself it was just about distraction, about shutting his brain up for a while. About not thinking of text messages or mornings-after or how easy it had been for someone to decide he wasn’t worth keeping. He spit on his hand, and slowly pulled his boxers down, before effortlessly shoving two fingers into his still puffy and abused hole. The alcohol helped. It softened the edges of everything, made the room feel warmer than it was. His thoughts drifted lazily instead of spiraling, and he let himself sink into the sensation of it—into the idea of not having to be careful, not having to anticipate what someone else wanted from him. He picked out a fisting video and watched as the top commanded the muscular guy to get into the stirrups and the scene shifted. The guy was now dripping and stretched as the top pulled a massive black dildo out of his ass, and quickly replaced it with his black gloved first. The guy groaned as the top spit in his mouth, calling him a good boy. He swallowed, adding another finger while admitting something quietly to himself that he rarely said out loud: it was easier to want things when he was a little drunk. Easier to imagine letting go. Easier to pretend, just for a few minutes, that being wanted like this could be uncomplicated. His phone slipped from his hand onto the bed as he closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the haze, focusing on the sensation of his battered hole being stretched open again as he mentally put himself in the place of the bottom guy.. The storm outside surged again, wind rattling the window like impatient fingers, but he barely noticed. His attention had turned inward, wrapped around thoughts he usually pushed away during the day. He wasn’t thinking about love. He wasn’t thinking about relationships. He was thinking about control—or the lack of it. About how nice it might feel to stop making decisions altogether. To stop bracing himself for rejection. To let something else take over, even if only for a moment. The thought unsettled him enough that he opened his eyes again, heart thudding a little faster. He shifted on the bed, restless now, and reached for his phone once more, scrolling without really seeing what passed beneath his thumb. “Just… calm down,” he murmured to himself, voice low and shaky. A sudden knock at his door made him flinch hard, phone slipping from his fingers and bouncing against the mattress. Paul sucked in a sharp breath, pulse racing. “Yeah?” he called, scrambling to sit up, pulling his pants up and wiping his hand on the sheets in a panic. “Who is it?” The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. The silence stretched just long enough for Paul to wonder if he’d imagined the knock. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him, and cleared his throat. “Hello?” he called again, louder this time. “Who is it?” The handle turned. Derek leaned into the doorway with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The hall light framed him in a thin yellow outline, making the rest of him look oddly dim, like the shadows clung too closely to his shoulders. He looked relaxed—almost loose—swaying faintly as if he’d had one drink too many. “Hey Paul,” Derek said. “You… busy?” Paul blinked. “Uh. Just… sleeping?” He pulled the covers closer around himself, then frowned. “What’s up?” Derek’s gaze drifted past him into the room, unfocused, as if he were looking at something that wasn’t there. “Need a hand downstairs,” he said after a beat. “Kitchen stuff. Noah was sleepwalking in there and I need to get him back to bed. It’ll just take a minute.” The way he said Paul’s name—Paul, not Porkchop—made Paul pause. Derek almost never used it. The familiarity felt wrong in his mouth, too deliberate. Paul opened his mouth to comment on it, then hesitated. Derek was older. Vice President. Noah’s cousin. If he needed help, it was probably easier just to go. “Yeah. Okay,” Paul said slowly. “Give me a sec.” Derek nodded once, already turning away. His footsteps retreated down the hall without waiting for an answer. Paul sat there for a moment, heart thudding, trying to shake the strange feeling crawling up his spine. He grabbed his phone and flicked on the flashlight, the narrow beam cutting a clean path through the dark as he stood. The house felt cooler than before, the warmth from earlier draining away like someone had cracked a window somewhere. He followed Derek down the stairs, the beam bobbing slightly with each step. The living room was empty now, couches abandoned, the TV a black mirror reflecting nothing. The storm outside pressed against the walls, wind moaning through the frame like it was searching for a way in. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul slowed. The basement door stood ajar—just a few inches—breathing out a thin ribbon of cold air that raised goosebumps along his arms. It smelled damp, metallic, and faintly chemical, like old pipes and something sharper layered beneath. “Derek?” Paul called, uneasy. “Where’s Noah? Were you able to get him to wake up?” Derek stood near the kitchen threshold, back to him. He turned slowly, smile still fixed in place, eyes glassy and distant. For a split second, Paul thought he saw something dark flicker behind Derek’s reflection in the microwave door. He took a step forward. Something warm and wet struck his face without warning. Paul gasped as the sensation spread—slick, clinging, burning faintly as it seeped across his skin. His flashlight clattered to the floor, the beam spinning wildly as dizziness slammed into him. The world tilted violently, his stomach lurching as heat surged through his chest and down his limbs. “Oh—shit—” he tried to say, but the words tangled and fell apart. It felt like inhaling something impossibly strong, like his head had been dunked into a haze that stripped his thoughts down to their softest edges. His knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet him. As he collapsed onto the kitchen tile, vision swimming, Paul managed to look up one last time. Derek loomed over him, swaying gently, smile widening just a fraction too much. Then a shape moved behind him—tall, broad, impossibly dark—and strong arms lifted Paul from the floor as if he weighed nothing at all. The last thing Paul saw before the fog swallowed him completely was the kitchen filling with silhouettes that did not belong in any house built by human hands. --- Paul came back to himself in fragments. First the cold—tile pressing against his back, leeching heat from his skin. Then the smell: old beer, something metallic, and beneath it all a faint, acrid sharpness that made the back of his throat prickle. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming, the ceiling light above him reduced to a dull halo. He was on the kitchen table. That realization arrived slowly, accompanied by the distant clatter of a bottle being set down somewhere nearby. His clothes were gone—when that registered, a weak rush of embarrassment flickered through him, dulled almost immediately by the lingering haze in his head. Panic tried to rise, but it met resistance, like it was pushing through syrup. He swallowed hard. “D-Derek…?” The name came out thin, barely audible. Figures stood around him. At first, his brain insisted they were frat brothers—tall silhouettes, broad shoulders—but the illusion fractured as his vision steadied. These weren’t people. Their bodies were too large, too symmetrical, their movements too fluid and deliberate. Skin the color of wet ink caught the low light, glossy and smooth like polished rubber stretched tight over muscle. Horns rose from their heads in sweeping curves and jagged points, casting warped shadows across the cabinets and walls. Paul’s breath hitched. His mouth opened, then closed again, soundless. His thoughts skidded uselessly, failing to form a coherent response to what he was seeing. One of the figures stepped closer, looming at his side. The air seemed to thicken with its presence, pressing down on his chest. Another followed, then another, until the kitchen felt impossibly crowded, as if the walls had crept inward. A voice echoed—not through the air, but inside his head, reverberating with layered depth. “Patch.” The name struck like a bell. One of the creatures responded immediately, shifting forward with calm assurance. He was broader than the others, posture relaxed but unmistakably dominant, as if this space already belonged to him. Paul felt the weight of that attention settle over him, pinning him in place more effectively than any physical restraint. Patch tilted his head, studying Paul with open curiosity. A low chuckle rolled from him, the sound vibrating through the table beneath Paul’s back. “You already know what you like,” the voice murmured—heard and felt at once, threaded directly through Paul’s thoughts. “You just don’t like admitting it.” Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a thin, broken sound escaped him. Hands—large, careful, impossibly strong—adjusted his position, arranging him with unsettling familiarity. Paul’s gaze drifted helplessly to the edges of the room, where more of them stood watching. Some held bottles of beer, tipping them back casually, dark eyes never leaving him. Others were smoking cigars, the ends glowing in the dark. A sudden, dizzying realization cut through the fog. Derek stood among them. And Noah. Both smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. They leaned close, faces calm, almost gentle, eyes reflecting something Paul didn’t recognize anymore. Derek met his gaze and smiled—not cruelly, not kindly, but with the certainty of someone who had already crossed a line and wasn’t looking back. “Relax,” Derek whispered. “It’s easier if you do.” Noah nodded in agreement. “We did. And man, it feels fucking amazing.” The words hollowed Paul out. His fear faltered, replaced by a strange, aching confusion. If they were standing there—if they were like this—then whatever was happening to him wasn’t chaos. It was a process. Patch’s attention returned to him fully. A massive hand settled against Paul’s hip, not rough, not gentle—simply inevitable. “This one’s been waiting,” Patch said, tone almost conversational. “Even upstairs, he was waiting.” Paul squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head weakly. “Please… don’t hurt me.” A presence brushed against his mind—vast, patient, impossibly heavy. The Alpha. Even without seeing him clearly, Paul felt that authority settle over his thoughts, smoothing his panic, reshaping it into something quieter and more malleable. “You want this,” the Alpha’s voice echoed softly within him. “You asked for it in ways you don’t yet understand.” Paul’s breath stuttered. Memories surfaced unbidden—loneliness, longing, the desire to be taken seriously, to be wanted without conditions. The fog thickened, wrapping those thoughts in warmth until resistance felt pointless. Patch leaned closer, his shadow swallowing Paul’s torso. “We’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “Just let go.” Paul didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His thoughts drifted apart, pulled gently but relentlessly toward the dark certainty pressing in around him. The kitchen lights flickered for a brief second before blinking off again. And whatever Paul Carter had been clinging to began to slip away. Patch did not rush. That was the first thing Paul noticed—dimly, through the haze pressing against his thoughts. Where the others moved with a predatory stillness, Patch moved with patience, like someone following a familiar set of steps. The kitchen felt less like a room now and more like a prepared space, every surface humming with a low, almost inaudible resonance. Patch’s attention stayed fixed on Paul as if nothing else existed. The others receded to the edges of Paul’s awareness—present, watching, but no longer the focus. Even Derek and Noah seemed to fade slightly, their shapes blurring as Patch’s presence sharpened. “You don’t have to fight,” Patch said, voice threading directly into Paul’s mind. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Your friends already learned what happens when you do.” Paul swallowed, throat dry. His fear had not vanished, but it had thinned, stretched out into something softer and more uncertain. He felt exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like every private thought he’d tried to bury upstairs had been pulled into the open. Patch’s hand traced a slow line along Paul’s side, not touching skin so much as skimming the air just above it. Wherever that attention passed, warmth bloomed, dulling the cold and sending a strange, calming heaviness through Paul’s limbs. “You want to be full,” Patch continued, almost gently. “You want to stop holding yourself together.” Paul shook his head weakly, though the denial felt automatic, unconvincing. His thoughts drifted back to the bed upstairs—the movie, the messages, the ache he hadn’t known how to name. The Alpha’s presence brushed against those memories, turning them over, reframing them. “You sought release,” the Alpha murmured, distant but unmistakable. “Patch will show you how.” The room seemed to tighten around that statement. Patch leaned closer, his shadow falling across Paul’s chest, and Paul felt the weight of attention settle over him completely. Something in Patch’s demeanor changed—not more aggressive, but more focused, like a craftsman beginning his work. Hands guided Paul’s posture, adjusting him with careful precision. Paul’s muscles wanted to tense, to resist—but the warmth spreading through him made it hard to remember why he should. Each movement felt inevitable, as though his body understood what his mind was still struggling to accept. “Breathe,” Patch instructed. Paul did. Shallow at first, then deeper, drawn along by the steady cadence of Patch’s voice. With every breath, the edges of his panic softened further. The kitchen sounds—the storm outside, the distant creak of the house—faded into a dull background hum. Patch’s attention pressed inward, not just on Paul’s body but on his thoughts, nudging them open. Images surfaced unbidden: being seen, being chosen, being used for something specific and purposeful. The loneliness that had gnawed at him upstairs twisted into something else entirely—a yearning to be shaped, to be told exactly what he was for. “You like being opened up,” Patch said, not accusing, not mocking—simply stating a truth as he understood it. “You like when someone knows you better than you know yourself.” Paul’s breath hitched. His denial caught in his throat and dissolved before it could form words. Derek and Noah leaned closer again, their voices soft, familiar. “It’s okay,” Derek murmured. “This part’s hard, but it doesn’t last.” “You’ll feel better after,” Noah added, eyes bright with something unreadable. “We did. It feels so fucking good.” Paul’s gaze flicked between them, confusion and a fragile hope tangling together. If they could stand there—changed, calm—then maybe what was happening to him wasn’t just destruction. Maybe it was becoming. Patch felt the shift immediately. A low, satisfied sound vibrated through him. “There,” he said. “That’s it.” The Alpha’s presence pressed down once more, sealing the moment. “Begin.” Patch moved with certainty then, initiating the ritual in earnest. Paul watched as his boxers were ripped away, and with a loud wet sound, a glob of whatever had hit his face suddenly impacted his battered hole, dripping and slightly burning as hit got into the small tears in the flesh. He felt as his hole immediately relaxed, like it had the night before when the guy had him huffing poppers and riding his cock. He watched as Patch’s hands went into the same shape as the fisting top’s did in the video and suddenly was pushing deep inside him, twisting and pushing, his ass burning as he choked out a startled gasp. He felt as Patch’s fingers began to spread out and stretch him further, tears streaming down his face as he felt like he was tearing in half, his hole impossibly stretched to accommodate the abuse when he felt it. Patch pushed in and with an audible plop his massive fist suddenly slammed deep inside him, his asshole clenching in response as he tried to let out a loud screaming sob, only to be stopped by Noah and Derek holding him down and clamping their strangely too strong hands down on his mouth. Each smiling as they deeply inhaled their cigars. Paul’s thoughts fractured under the pressure—not shattering all at once, but peeling away in layers. Fear bled into sensation. Sensation into acceptance. Acceptance into something dangerously close to need. He gasped, gripping the edge of the table as the room seemed to tilt around him. The warmth inside him flared, spreading, reshaping him from the inside out. He felt smaller somehow—lighter—like he was being hollowed out to make room for something else. Suddenly, Patch stepped closer and shoved his monstrous dick in beside his hand. Paul sobbed, his mind reeling from the pain as his asshole felt like he was giving birth. Patch easily began to fuck his ass, drolling more saliva into his ass as he began to fuck his hand inside of Paul. Suddenly, he felt as Patch shuddered forward, and a burning sensation began to spread through his guts, the pain suddenly giving into deep pleasure as he felt his legs begin to quiver. Patch quickly pulled out and began to shove his arm deep inside of Paul, who was now panting and shaking, feeling as his body began to relax and surrender, until suddenly he looked down and saw Patch’s fist pushing upwards, deep inside him and making his stomach bulge obscenely. He swore he could feel the sharp claws on the fingers scratching his insides, as more and more pleasure flooded him and made him groan. WIthout warning, Patch devoured his leaking cock whole, and after a few quick sucks, Paul began to shoot without warning, feeling as his ass tried pitifully to clench down on the forearm burning deeply in his ruined guts. Patch continued to nurse on his cock until he finally finished coming and pulled out his fist with a loud wet plop. He stayed close, steady, guiding him through it. “Good,” he murmured. “Let it happen.” And despite everything—despite the cold table, the watching figures, the impossible reality pressing in—Paul felt himself letting go. The change in the room was immediate. Paul felt it before he understood it—like the air itself had thickened, pressing inward, drawing every sound and movement into a single, heavy focus. Patch slowed, his motions easing to a deliberate stillness, head lowering a fraction in deference. Around them, the other figures shifted subtly, attention snapping toward the same point. The Alpha had moved closer. Paul didn’t see him at first. He felt him—an immense gravity settling across his thoughts, steady and inescapable. The warmth coiling through Paul’s body deepened, no longer frantic or disorienting, but purposeful, as if something inside him had finally found the rhythm it wanted. “Enough,” the Alpha’s voice murmured, resonant and calm. Not a command shouted across the room— a certainty placed gently into Paul’s mind. Patch withdrew his hands and stepped aside without hesitation. Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His thoughts drifted, then snagged on the Alpha’s presence like fabric on a hook. Every instinct he had left screamed that this was the moment he should fight harder—but the scream faded, smoothed over by the steady pressure pressing against him. The Alpha came fully into view. He was larger than the others by far, horns sweeping upward in ornate, impossible curves. His form radiated heat and authority, the faint glow beneath his skin pulsing in time with the low hum vibrating through the room. When his gaze settled on Paul, it felt less like being looked at and more like being measured. “You are afraid,” the Alpha said—not unkindly. “And you want it anyway.” Paul swallowed. The truth of it landed with startling clarity. His fear was still there, coiled tight in his chest—but beneath it lay something heavier, older. A longing he hadn’t known how to name upstairs, alone in his bed, staring at a phone that never gave him what he wanted. “I didn’t mean—” Paul started, then faltered as the Alpha’s presence brushed his thoughts aside. “Intent is not required,” the Alpha replied. “Desire is.” Paul’s breath shuddered. His resistance, already worn thin, finally tore. He felt it happen—felt something inside him loosen and slip free, drifting toward the Alpha’s steady pull. Images surfaced unbidden: himself empty of doubt, shaped with purpose, no longer bracing for rejection or disappointment. No longer waiting to be chosen—already claimed. Him being reshaped and perfected. “I…” His voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “I just don’t want to be alone anymore.” The Alpha’s attention softened—not gentler, but more precise. “Then you will not be.” A massive hand settled against Paul’s chest, radiating heat that sank straight into his bones. His body arched instinctively beneath the touch, not from pain but from recognition, as if this contact completed a circuit that had been waiting to close. Patch watched closely, satisfaction evident even in stillness. Derek and Noah leaned in, eyes bright, reverent. The Alpha’s voice filled Paul’s mind completely now. “Let go of what you were.” “There is nothing left for you there.” Paul’s thoughts unraveled at the edges, memories losing their sharpness—faces blurring, words losing meaning. The ache that had followed him for months from rejection after rejection dissolved into a warm, spreading certainty. “Yes,” he whispered, surprising himself with how easily the word came. “Okay.” The Alpha’s presence enveloped him fully, sealing that choice in place. “Good,” the voice murmured. “Then we will finish.” The room pulsed once, like a living thing drawing breath. He watched and held his legs up, waiting as his new master stepped forward and with one simple push, buried itself deep inside him and began to fuck him hard and fast. And Paul surrendered to it. The Alpha let out a growl and began to cum deep inside him, flooding his tattered and ruined guts with its black foul cum. Paul could feel as it flooded his body, his mind rolling in pleasure as thoughts of being chained up in a sling, countless men flooding his guts and working the loads deep inside his ass with both hands up to the shoulder. His mind shifted and he was being walked around with a chain around his neck, letting men piss and cum inside his gaping ass, held open by a metal ring. Mindlessly thanking the men as he felt his precum dribble out of the cockcage around his locked up meat. The moment Paul gave in, the room seemed to exhale. He began to cum uncontrollably, covering his chest and stomach with rope after rope of cum, watching as each of his new brothers, Noah and Derek included, descended upon him, feasting on his still fresh and untainted cum, his body almost seeming desperate to rid itself of the nourishing liquid to give way for his body to start making its own tainted cum. The pressure that had been bearing down on him did not vanish—but it changed. Where it had once crushed and disoriented, it now settled into something colder and steadier, like chains locking into place. The Alpha withdrew his hand, not because Paul was free, but because the work had been done. Derek stepped forward and placed a mostly smoked cigar in his mouth, mentally telling him to suck hard and deep on it, that it would make him feel even better. Paul’s breathing slowed, his virgin lungs sucking in and absorbing the thick smoke as his body began to subtly change. He lifted his legs up and held his gaping ass open and begged each of his new brothers, including the two newest ones, Derek and Noah, to shoot their tainted loads inside him, smiling happily as each one shot inside the gaping crater of his ass. His thoughts, once frantic and spiraling, dulled into a heavy calm. Memories of upstairs—the movie, the bed, the ache in his chest—felt distant, like scenes from a life he’d watched rather than lived. He tried to summon the sharpness of fear again and found only a faint echo. Patch straightened, satisfied. “It’s set,” he rumbled, the words carrying weight beyond language. “He’s already begun to change.” The Alpha regarded Paul for a long moment, eyes unreadable, presence immense. Then, with a subtle nod, he stepped back into the shadows. The other figures followed his lead, retreating slightly, their attention loosening now that the ritual’s core was complete. Paul sagged where he lay, exhaustion rolling through him in deep, irresistible waves. His body felt warm, heavy, and strangely right, as though something inside him had been rearranged into a shape it preferred. He realized—dimly—that he wasn’t afraid anymore. He, too, would grow massive horns, his body losing all its fat and instead covered in massive muscles and skin black. That realization should have terrified him. Instead, it brought relief. The Alpha knelt briefly beside him, tilting Paul’s head with a firm but careful hand. “Rest now,” he said. “You’ll wake when you’re ready to spread our gift. Relax and let the changes happen.” The words sank deep. Darkness folded in, thick and quiet, carrying with it the faint hum of something alive beneath his skin. Paul’s last conscious thought slipped away as easily as breath: I won’t be alone anymore.

For certain @phillygwm. I know men who started with adults around them as a young person and they at least appear to have thrived with that. But I also know people who emotionally crashed and burned as a result. Indeed incest has been pretty universally made illegal. But the mindset for that is dad/daughter.

Never had a hint of fuck flu. And initial infection was pretty mild, VL 11,000 and CD4 900. And VL dropped without meds to 300.

i wish i could find me a hot santa with a great candy cane to sit on and deliver santas yearly load to my hole. here in the uk if anyone wants an elf fir night of fun xx

As a masochist, it is usually me having to encourage guys slap, choke and spit on me while using either my oral or anal vaginas

Yes, i have been to guy's work places specifically just to suck their dick, but when they had it all to themselves. i've also had anonymous guys come to my work space just to get their cocks sucked.

60 bottom uk here, very good cocksucker and can deepthroat but also love my ass being filled. hot couple would do me in the middle then switch i would satisfy everywish xx

This may not be most people's cup of tea (get it? haha!) but just thought I'd write something for those who are enticed by the stories on here to try it, the only problem is most of the stories here have just "a lil" embellishment, and they never really tell you what happens after that first, sexy time you read about on here. Digging from real lived experience, hope you enjoy. Don't turn out like me. Buyer beware. You've been partying on and off for the last two years now, taking long breaks in-between where you crash and tell yourself never again, yet the hook has been permanently embedded in your cheek like a fish on a river. These lapses in-between you're just stuck in a waiting period for good ole fisherman Tina to reel you back in. Why did we start in the first place? Who knows. Could it have been my repressed homosexuality from upbringing and inability to be open about who I am? Or societal pressure to present as straight because society says gay = bad? Or maybe from my complete lack of self esteem from unresolved, buried trauma and that growing, creeping desire to destroy my life is finally reaching it's peak. It doesn't really matter, because smoking meth is easier than going to therapy. No cap. Enough time has passed since you broke down and cried in your bathtub for letting it consume your life, and you have all but forgotten that abyssal hole, and start thinking about how it wasn't really that bad the last time. You're back on track for that sexy relapse, baby. You start on the usual hunt, scanning for keywords and terms on the usual sites - get a message, but they don't mention parTy in the message or in their profile? Skip. Not worth my time. I don't care who you are, only what you can provide my dopamine starved brain. You spend a few days sending messages to everyone who will trip you down that rabbit hole, but because they're all doing meth, it's hard to connect. Eventually, you hit the jackpot, and drive over to a strangers place, after only exchanging a few words and confirming that special celebration is about to happen. Questions on interests? Or HIV status? Face pic? Nah, miss me with that shit. His torso is clearly a human, so I couldn't care less. He opens the door, and the pictures from his profile you can tell are 10 years old. No worries, just showing you a reflection of the mirror of your life, pre and post Tina. You take your clothes off and sit on the couch, where bareback porn is already playing on the adjacent screen. His apartment is new, yet the same as every other time. He tells you to help yourself to the pipe while he measures out the G, and you don't even consider saying no. Why be content with doing just one drug? You're already doing meth, stupid. Take more drugs to lower your inhibitions further is clearly the right call here. You take that first inhale and the sparks fly in your brain - almost as good as the first time, but not quite. It'll never be as good, but you won't stop chasing it anyway. After you take a few hits back to back to catch up, he sits down and hands you the Gatorade. You both down it, and start rubbing your flaccid cocks to the porn on screen, while making small talk. A few more hits before the G kicks in, and you've finally reached blastoff. Your inhibitions replaced by pure lust, not for the guy, just what he provides. You roll around in bed like animals, sucking each other's soft cocks and making out, until the G wears off and you both decide to take a break. Sexual frustration begins. You return to the couch, and start passing the pipe back and forth. You lost count of how many hits you've done, but you're keeping up with him. He is clearly and intentionally trying to get you extremely high, and while that realization hits, you push that thought down and keep grabbing the pipe every time it's offered. Good job, buddy. Once you've reached that peak tweaker status, your host prepares the second dose of G. But now because you're both incredibly high, you both can't stop yapping, causing the second dose of G to take 45 minutes to prepare. Your hand glued to your soft cock you've been trying to rub back to life like that time you found Aunt Donna dead already for 12 hours. Spoilers, unlike her stiff rigor mortis corpse, you will not be getting hard tonight. After word vomiting your entire life story to a stranger and hearing his, all of which you've already forgotten, you finally down the G again, and a second round of piggy sex ensues. But alas, no fucking still, because a wet noodle against a gaping hole just doesn't do anything for either of you. It's just mostly body contact and rimming your strangers asshole while he moans, the T making you eat it up like it's the last meal alive. Did he even shower? Who knows, you're not considering this at all. Why would you? You're getting your fix, gotta give him something. Sexual frustration returns. Time for break 3, and as your doing a new marathon of sucking clouds in and out, your new friend starts probing you on your interests, fetishes and kinks. He is holding back, but testing the waters. He eventually nonchalantly brings up some questionable topics, and you feign interest and change the subject to what can only be the 40th bareback video he has playing on his screen, ad naseum. You realize this is why he was so generous with the T on round 2, to lower your inhibitions and hope to receive curiousness back, but despite this, your brain is flooded with dopamine so you hardly react. You imagine if you weren't exhaling on cloud 9, a sober you would get up and leave. But you stay, because you needed this. You needed these clouds. You needed this little break from reality. So what, you think, I don't really care what he is into anyway. To each their own. Far be it from me, a meth addict, to kink shame anyone. Again, it's all about what he can provide, not the substance of his character. As you nod your head to whatever he is rambling about now after you changed topics, you get a brief lapse of clarity, asking how you got here. Brief though, as your eyes dart back to the porn playing. You're both extremely horny yet unable to satisfy each other, just endless rubbing on your flaccid cocks while watching porn and more pointless conversation. You stretch it out and think, did mine get smaller too? Oh well, who cares. I don't, I'm in that zone, hell yeah. Some time passes, and unfortunately, by changing the topic and not indulging in his questionable interests he brought up, your host inevitably calls it, says he needs to get up early and kicks you out. You finally look at a clock, only 12 hours have passed. Only. Before you are able to actually exit, it takes another 30 minutes to get to the door. He's telling you about some other hookups odd behavior. You don't care about any of the words coming out of his mouth, but you're polite, so you nod and wait til he finishes to leave. As you get in your car, you realize sweat is pouring off you, and you check the mirror to see your glassy eyes with huge dilated pupils. It's totally fine, you tell yourself. If you get pulled over on the way home, no way will they suspect your high. I'm playing this cool. Real cool. As you drive home, your mind races between three thoughts only: of wanting to rub your shrunken dick again while you drive but resisting so you don't crash your car, finding another vessel for your unquenchable lust, and wondering if I continue down this path will you end up enjoying the things he brought up, a corrupted trick of the mind that happens while you flood it with dopamine and expose it to these things. You get home, and the middle idea takes over. As you go back online to search for your next empty hookup, you'll find your host on the same site you found him on, online and looking for more. You do the same. On and off through various hookups over the course of the night and new day, any and all men you can find willing to fill that gaping hole in your soul that Tina made bigger, you also see your old host still logged in as well. Two peas in a pod. After about 36 hours, it's finally wearing off, and you are able to fall asleep. The cycle is complete. Timer reset and ticking down for the next relapse. The end (for now.)

Not much more that I can add that hasn't been said. But to be on the record, raw of course! What is the purpose for fucking otherwise? Have a piece of rubber shoved up my ass? I dont think so. Besides as a bottom I find as others have said, almost no one even asks. If your out at some venue bottoming it seems to be assumed you want it raw.

A few days ago bred a guy in a hotel. Later that night hooked up with a Latino bear with a fat uncut cock and he dumped a 3 day load in my hole. I could feel his cock pumping it in me. Right after that I went to go breed a regular who had 6 loads in his hole.

I got 2 uncles that a dont really like, but to be between them in a sexual relationship would break me.😵

what a lucky lucky man

It just turns me on. Two uncles and a cousin. So what….

First fuck of the day has to be spit for lube or dry if I'm relaxed. After that don't need lube because I'll usually keep my cunt well fucked & cum is the best lube.

it got reduced by the moderator... sometimes it is hard for me to stop myself