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Whatever a top wants to call it is fine with me. I refer to it as my fuckhole. But as others have said, all that matters is he fucks me and fills me. If the top enjoys using other derogatory terms, well he is the top, he is in charge.

Being a pig bottom that started getting bred in my early teens I think I should weigh in on this one. lol. My first “relationship” was with my step dad. It’s a long story but I was 13. He is hung. 9” and thick. When he started breeding me I was not aware that he was larger than normal. I just thought I was undersized. He showed me what it truly was to bottom. Because of the time it took to break me in I thought all tops were hung and this is what it was to bottom. Needless to say I took to it well and became insatiable. By the time I went to college and met my second long term relationship I had certain expectations. Lucky for me he was even bigger than my dad. So for the first 9 or 10 years of my sexual experience I was bred by very large cocked men. Now that I have had literally thousands of men inside me I can say with confidence it was worth it. I owe being a sloppy pig bottom to some special big dicked tops.

Yes It Is.

as long that I am getting my hole flooded I don’t care what anyone calls it. Bottoms should just enjoy everything a top wants to do to us. Any nasty toxic tops. Text me. 973 997 4934

I wish i could have been you. I never had the chance to be with someone my age when i was young and really horny.

The bass thumped through the floor, a deep, rhythmic pulse that vibrated in Alex’s molars. He stood at the edge of the dimly lit common area of The Steamworks, a labyrinth of tile and shadow he’d only ever read about online. The air was thick with humidity, chlorine, and a musky, anonymous scent. At twenty-two, this was his pilgrimage, his first step into the world his desires pointed toward, yet his body thrummed with a virgin’s paralyzing anxiety. He’d rented a small private room, a cubicle just big enough for a narrow cot, a locker, and his racing heart. The door had a simple hook latch, not a lock. He told himself it was for safety, for air flow. He lay down on the stiff vinyl, listening to the muffled laughter, the slap of sandals on wet floor, the relentless, enveloping music. His plan had been to gather his courage, to venture out, to maybe just talk to someone. But the sensory overload was immense. The thumping bass began to feel like a lullaby for the overwhelmed. His eyes, gritty with nervous exhaustion, grew heavy. The distant sounds blurred into a single, oceanic roar. He fell into a deep, sudden sleep. He didn’t hear the door sigh open. He didn’t feel the shift in the air as a larger, older body filled the doorway. He only began to surface from the depths of sleep when a heavy weight settled on him, a hand clamping firmly over his mouth. His eyes flew open to near-total darkness—the curtain had been drawn across the glass block window. A silhouette loomed, featureless in the gloom. “Shhh,” a voice, gravelly and calm, breathed into his ear. “Just relax. It’s easier.” Panic fired through Alex’s nerves, but his body was leaden, trapped in the syrupy residue of sleep and shock. He tried to buck, to twist, but the man was strong, practiced. Alex heard the soft, definitive *click* of the hook latch being secured. Trapped. The man’s other hand worked efficiently, impersonally. The violation was a quiet, methodical theft. There was no passion, no desire, only a cold, crushing exercise of power. The music swelled in the hallway, perfectly masking any stifled whimper, any rustle of the vinyl cot. Time distorted, stretching into an eternity of helpless shame. The man finished as quietly as he had begun, adjusting his own towel. Before he left, he leaned close again, his breath smelling of mint and stale coffee. “Leave the latch open,” he whispered, a grotesque parody of advice. “A nice boy like you shouldn’t sleep alone. Let the party in.” Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Alex curled into a tight, trembling ball, feeling shattered and filthy. For long minutes, he couldn’t move. The act itself was a nightmare, but the words… *Leave the latch open*. They echoed in the hollow space where his courage had been. He felt a desperate, irrational need to defy the command, to lock the world out. Shakily, he pushed himself up and fumbled for the hook latch. His fingers, slick with sweat, finally managed to secure it. *Safe*. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the locker, taking ragged breaths. He just needed a moment. Just a moment to think, to process the incomprehensible. A soft knock at the door, barely audible over the music, made him jump. Then another. More insistent. Confusion cut through his shock. Had the man come back? A wave of nausea hit him. He remained silent, frozen. The knocking stopped. He heard a faint shuffling in the corridor. Then, a sliver of light appeared at the bottom of the door as the hook latch, from the outside, was quietly, expertly, lifted and pushed open. The door swung inward. Standing in the hallway wasn’t the older man. It was a stranger, younger, with a towel slung low on his hips. He looked at Alex’s tear-streaked face, his hunched posture, and his expression showed no surprise, only a casual, waiting appraisal. He didn’t enter. He just… waited. And then Alex saw past him. His blood turned to ice. Behind the first man, illuminated in the gloomy red hallway light, was another. And behind him, another. A silent, patient queue of silhouettes stretched down the tiled corridor, a line of men waiting their turn. No one spoke. No one met his horrified, darting eyes. They just stood, a procession of shadows, having been instructed, by the monster who started it all, that the door to room seven would be open. That the new boy inside was available. The last thread of Alex’s reality snapped. The thumping music was no longer a beat; it was the drumming march of his own doom. The line did not advance. It simply existed, a living, breathing testament to his violation and the disease—both physical and existential—that had just been seeded in his blood. The horror was no longer a single act in the dark. It was the future, waiting in the hall, and it had already formed an orderly line.

And Tom? Are you tested?

Heated Rivalry was not for Breeding.Zone community. They didn't use condoms, but they didn't "fuck" either. This was not porn as the female Intimacy Coordinator was a few feet away. Hudson was injured in their first sex scene in Las Vegas. Each wore the "cock-sleeve" during filming, but Hudson declined the extra protection for his rear and Connor's balls were slapping up against him. Connor had to use a bigger pad. It was not eligible for an Emmy because Jacob kept it 💯 Canadian and funded with Canadian tax dollars. Series of books written by Rachel, but the TV show was written by Jacob. Rachel was involved throughout the process including the first 2 screenings in Toronto and Montreal. Jacob shopped around Hollywood and promoters said no sex scenes until the 5th episode. It would have been very different and not the Novelty it became. It did win TV series at the GLAAD Awards last Sunday Night in LA after Connor hosted Saturday Night Live in New York the day before. Hudson made a brief cameo and gave Connor an emotional hug at the end. Jacob and Connor's mom and sister were in the audience. Hudson missed the awards show, but Scott, Kip, Ilya and our 3 supporting female actors attended with Jacob accepting the award. There were no sad storylines or tragedies but took the viewers on some emotional roller-coasters and brought gay characters with depth and reality to the general public. We were represented as full individuals and not just 1-2 character types. The 3 "Empty Netters" did an excellent review with notes and commentary for each episode, though they did not show any scenes from the TV show. They work on scripts/productions in LA and comfortable with the storylines. Good news for fans is everyone has signed on for season 2 with filming to start August 2026 and set to air in spring 2027. It is still a Crave production filmed in Canada. Will HBO pick it up again? HBO is part of Warner Brothers and being merged into Paramount.

Unprepared For Stealthing

I only got fisted to the elbow one time. My top was extremely skilled at gently coaxing-open my colon. He was also my dealer who had just gotten me higher than I had ever been. As a result I begged and begged him to fist me. But we weren't prepared and there was no lube or vaseline or any lubricant in the house at the time. Nonetheless, I went into the shower and cleaned out, tripping on how the water douch was doing a mental trip. Anyway, we then got into position for the fisting, me on the floor on my hands and knees, him behind. He had fortunately found a new bottle of poppers and so we began. His technique was to enter the asshole and gently tap and tickle open the passageway, and once he got a section open he would work it in and out until that new section was completely loose, before advancing to the next section by the tickling and tapping. And of course I would use the poppers when I felt he was advancing to a new section. He commented several times at how loose my hole was. The Tina had now passed through my system and arrived in my hole! But I just remember how each section felt like an accomplishment for me, but really thinking back it was easy. I think he was only about 6 inches deeper that I normally go. But after he got to the elbow, he asked our friend to come see and he took a photo of the fisting event. He asked me if I wanted him to keep going, but I was a little worried about not having any lubricant and plus he had been inside me for almost an hour at that point. So that was a long time ago now and I haven't been fisted in ages. I do keep opened-up with my long dildos and dongs tho, and I look forward to someday getting back into it

I asked ChatGPT for an answer on this. It waffled a fair bit, but I pressed it for an answer. Here's what it finaly said:

One thought. The urinary incontinence issue may be a major issue for some partners. 25+ years ago as an escort, I arrived at a client's home. The first thing he asked: "are you into watersports?" I said I wasn't. His next question: "Ever wanted to try it?" Me: No thanks. Turns out he'd had radical prostate surgery causing constant (albiet gradual) dribbligns from his dick. When he orgasmed it came out in a giant stream of urine. It wasn't my scene and I would have left earlier had I not been paid by the hour. I have no idea what the surgerys are like today and what percent chance there are of certain side effects. But you may find yourself very popular with certain aspects of the watersports community. I'm sure they'd love urinary orgasms. Good luck to you with your medical challenges.

Any Italian prv or Greek with a corruptive mind and a lot of imagination?

Dan is nearly there and trying hard to stick to the rules... I hope he succeeds 😈

The best story ever. There is no doubt. I have looked for years a story that fully represents my beautiful trauma and my fav kink. And this story is simply all I needed. It's already printed, every page framed and soon I will knew it by memory, every line. It makes me live it, like my own memories and this story, I don't know anymore if there is any difference at all

Naw. Someone once recommended a motel near the airport to make it easy to get to?

No cock refused, and always bareback!

Topped by a FB. Is a huge summer too.