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Part 3: A Perfect Man's Safe Poison The morning after is a quiet horror. The biker's load, which felt like a sacred gift yesterday, now feels like a ticking time bomb in your gut. You sit at your desk, the fluorescent lights of your office humming with a sterile indifference, but all you can hear is the frantic drumming of your own heart. You try to work, to lose yourself in spreadsheets and emails, but your mind keeps replaying the scene: the tattoo you saw—those sharp, menacing arcs pointing down towards his cock, a part of a larger, intimidating design. The used condom. The word "us" whispered in your ear like a vow. You open a private browser window. Your fingers, trembling slightly, type in the search query: "HIV transmission risk from single exposure, anonymous encounter." The results are a cascade of clinical terms and terrifying statistics. "Viral load." "Acute infection." "Window period." Each word is a nail in the coffin of your sanity. You click on a link to a forum, a place for people to share their stories of fear and diagnosis. You scroll through anonymous posts, each one a mirror of your own rising panic. One post includes a picture, a diagram of the body showing transmission points. And next to it, a user's avatar. It's a tattoo. Your breath catches in your throat. It's the same style. Sharp, tribal arcs. And in the center, unmistakably, is the biohazard symbol. The lines frame it and point downwards, just like the biker's. Your mind races. You click on the user's profile, and their signature line links to a photo gallery. You click. The page loads, and it's a gallery of the tattoo from every angle. On chests, on arms, on backs. Dozens of men, all marked with the same symbol, the same tribal arrows pointing down towards their cocks. It's a brand. A signature. A brotherhood. You stare at the screen, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. It wasn't just a tattoo. It was a declaration. The biker wasn't just some random guy; he was part of this world, a world you didn't even know existed until this very moment. He was one of them. The used condom, the word "us"—it all takes on a new, sinister meaning. He wasn't just fucking you; he was inducting you. The fear you feel is no longer just about a virus. It's about a culture, a brotherhood you may have just been forced to join. Your search history shifts. You're no longer just looking for risks. You're typing in new words, words that feel both forbidden and magnetic: "bug chasing," "gift giving," "poz breeding." The forum links appear, and you click, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The horror is still there, but now it's mixed with a dark, terrifying curiosity. You slam the laptop shut. No. This is not you. You are a successful 49-year-old man. You have a husband, a life, a future. This was a glitch, a moment of madness. It will not happen again. You make a vow, a silent, desperate promise to yourself: Never again. You need to be safe. That night, in the sterile quiet of your empty apartment, you open the app on your phone. It's a well-known platform for men to meet, a digital meat market where you can usually find anything you want, but tonight, you're not hunting for a thrill. You're seeking refuge. You filter with surgical precision. "Safe only." "D&D free." You scroll past the endless parade of shirtless torsos and the "anything goes" profiles, your eyes scanning for keywords of responsibility. And then you find him. His profile is a shrine to sanity. The main picture shows a muscular, hairy chest, the kind of powerful, masculine frame you've always been drawn to. There's no face pic, just the promise of a solid, warm body. His stats are perfect. His bio reads: "Visiting for business. Hotel fun. Sane, safe, and sorted. Safe only. No drama." He's the antidote. He's the proof that the world you used to live in still exists. Your heart pounds with a different kind of adrenaline—the adrenaline of hope. You message him. The conversation flows easily. He's witty, intelligent, and just as eager for a connection as you are. He's staying at a modern, business-class hotel downtown. You agree to meet the next evening, after work. A proper date, almost. A return to normalcy. You arrive at the hotel, your palms sweating. You take the elevator up, the soft music a stark contrast to the roaring in your head. He opens the door, and you're relieved to see he's just a guy. He's handsome, with a kind face that matches his warm personality. He's dressed in casual jeans, no shirt, no socks, his bare feet on the plush carpet. He looks relaxed, approachable. "Hey, come on in," he says, his voice warm and inviting. "I'm Mark." You step inside. The room is clean, orderly. He offers you a glass of wine, and you take one, needing the alcohol to steady your nerves. You sit on the couch, and he sits right next to you, close enough that your knees are almost touching. You make small talk, the wine loosening your tongue, the tension slowly easing from your shoulders. He puts a hand on your thigh, and you don't flinch. He leans in and kisses you, and it's a nice, normal kiss. It's not a battle for dominance; it's a meeting of mouths, a gentle exploration. He takes off your shirt, his hands roaming over your chest and back. You cuddle on the couch, his arm wrapped around you, the scene one of comfortable intimacy. It feels good. It feels safe. As he's kissing your neck, his hand drifts down to your crotch, grabbing your bulge. He feels the hard steel of your PA through your pants and stops. "Wow," he murmurs against your skin. "What's this?" You unzip and pull out your cock. He looks at your 00g PA ring, his eyes wide with genuine fascination. "That's beautiful," he says, his voice full of admiration. "Is that a tribal dream ring? I've never seen one in person." He touches it gently, his fingers tracing the intricate curves of the metal. His fascination is respectful, almost scholarly. This is a world away from the biker's growled, "Not so innocent as it seems." This is admiration, not possession. The wine and the closeness are making you both incredibly relaxed, a warm, hazy cloud of comfort settling over the room. He leans in and takes your cock in his mouth. He's not just sucking it; he's worshipping it. He spends an almost embarrassing amount of time on your PA, rolling the heavy steel with his tongue, flicking the balls with the tip of his tongue, making you moan with a pleasure that is deep, but somehow... hollow. It feels good, but it's missing the ownership, the primal claim of the biker. This guy is admiring a museum piece; the biker was testing his property. You're both rock-hard now, the air thick with a different kind of need—a safe, sane, consensual need. He pulls off, his lips glistening. He looks at you, his eyes full of desire and respect. "I want to fuck you," he says, his voice a low, gentle rumble. You nod, your heart pounding. This is it. This is the plan. This is safety. He stands up and takes your hand, leading you to the bed. He doesn't just push you down. He positions you gently, guiding you onto your hands and knees. He gets behind you, and you feel his hands on your ass, spreading your cheeks. And then you feel his tongue. He rims you for what feels like an eternity, his tongue exploring you with a patient, thorough intensity that is both incredibly pleasurable and deeply frustrating. It's the kind of rimming you'd fantasize about in your old life, but now, it just feels like a delay. You want the raw, brutal entry, not this gentle, teasing worship. Finally, he pulls away. You hear the drawer of the nightstand open. You hear the crinkle of foil. He pulls a condom from the drawer. It's not a cheap one—it's a black, XXL Magnum, the kind of serious protection for a serious cock. The foil packet gleams under the hotel lights like a badge of honor. He rips it open with his teeth, a confident, practiced motion. A wave of relief washes over you. This is what you wanted. This is what you needed. But deep inside, a small, dark voice whispers: Coward. This isn't what you want. Your cock, which was rock-hard and throbbing from the rimming, starts to soften. He notices immediately. He stops, his expression shifting from desire to concern. "Hey, you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle. "You seem a little distant." You force a smile that feels like cracking plaster. "Yeah, I'm fine," you lie, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. "Just... a lot on my mind from work. Don't worry about it." He doesn't buy it. He's too perceptive. He looks down at his own magnificent erection, then back at your half-limp cock, and a flicker of understanding crosses his face. It's not pity; it's empathy. He sees the conflict in you. His cock is a work of art, hard as steel, with a distinct upward curve and a bulbous, perfectly shaped head that's already leaking a steady stream of clear precum. Thick, prominent veins snake down the shaft, promising a powerful, rhythmic pulse. He is objectively, undeniably perfect. "Hey," he says softly, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Is it the condom?" You can't answer. You just stare at him, your throat tight. He lets out a soft sigh. "I get it," he murmurs. He sets the condom down on the nightstand. He leans back over you, his magnificent cock heavy and hard. He doesn't enter you. Instead, he begins to tease you. He drags the length of his shaft along your crack, the heat of it a stark contrast to the cool air. His cockhead, slick with precum, catches on your hole. He uses it as paint, smearing his own fluid around your puckered entrance, a warm, slippery promise of what's to come. He presses the tip of his bare cock right against your opening. It's a violation, a tease, a temptation. Your body betrays you. Your ass involuntarily relaxes, your lips trying to bloom, to embrace the head of his cock, to pull him in. He feels it. He looks down and sees your cock, which was moments ago soft and hesitant, now hardening again, rising with a mind of its own. He sees the undeniable physical evidence of your desire. He looks back at your face, his gaze intense, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He has you. He knows what you want, even if you can't say it. "Do you want me to go bare?" The question hangs in the air, heavy and toxic. It's the offer you've been dreaming of, the key to the kingdom you crave. But coming from him, it feels wrong. It feels like a compromise, a negotiation. The biker didn't ask; he told. He made you own your depravity. This man is asking you to choose it, to consciously step off the cliff. And in that moment, you realize you don't want to choose. You want to be forced. You open your mouth to say yes, to finally take the plunge, but the vow you made to yourself that morning—the promise of safety—rears its head. "I... I can't," you stammer. "I need to be safe." A look of profound relief washes over his face, but it's tinged with something else. "Thank you," he says, and he sounds genuinely grateful. "Because I have to be honest with you. I'm poz. Not for long and not on meds yet. My viral load in the millions. So the condom is for both of us, you know? I can't risk passing it on, and you definitely shouldn't risk getting it." The words hit you like a physical blow. The universe is playing a cruel, sick joke. You came here seeking safety, fleeing from the unknown risk of the biker. And you've just walked straight into the arms of the known, quantifiable, undeniable risk. He was offering you the very thing you craved, but you were the one who put on the brakes. The failure is entirely yours. He picks up the XXL Magnum and rolls it down his impressive shaft. He enters you, and the fuck is focused and determined. He's trying to make it good for you, to prove that safe sex can be just as hot. He fucks you with a new intensity, his hips snapping, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The upward curve of his cock is a masterpiece of engineering, grinding relentlessly against your prostate with every thrust. It should be heaven. It is heaven, for your body. Your cock hardens instantly, responding to the expert, targeted stimulation. You feel the familiar, tightening coil of an orgasm building in your gut, stronger and more insistent than anything you've felt in a long time. He cums with a loud groan, his body shuddering against yours. You feel the powerful throb of his cock through the latex, the warmth of his load flooding the reservoir tip, a contained, captured explosion. The sensation is the final, cruel irony. He's cumming inside you, but not really. You're being filled, but not at all. It's a simulation of the act you truly desire, a perfect, safe, and utterly hollow imitation. Your own orgasm, when it finally arrives, is powerful and intense, a massive, gut-wrenching release that leaves you breathless. Your cum shoots across your chest in thick, white ropes. It's the kind of orgasm that should leave you satisfied, spent, and content. But as the waves of pleasure recede, all you feel is a profound, aching emptiness. Your body got exactly what it needed. Your soul got nothing. He collapses on top of you, kissing your neck, whispering how amazing that was. Then he does something that feels both intimate and horrifying. He scoops up a glob of your cum from your chest with his finger. He brings it to his own lips, tasting it with a curious smile. Then he leans in and kisses you, his tongue pushing into your mouth, sharing the taste of your own seed. Next, he lowers his head to your chest. You watch, mesmerized, as his tongue extends, pink and wet, and slowly, deliberately, laps up a large, copious glob of your own cooling cum from your skin. He rises back over you, his face hovering just above yours. Your own seed is a pearly, thick pool on his tongue. He doesn't swallow. His eyes are locked on yours, and a slow, boyish grin spreads across his face. It's a look of pure, unadulterated delight, the kind of smile someone gets when tasting their favorite forbidden treat. You can see in that smile that he genuinely loves this, loves the taste of cum, loves the intimacy of sharing it. But beneath the joy, there's a flicker of something else—a deep, familiar sadness. It's the look of a man who now sees his own cum not as a gift to be shared, but as a poison he must keep to himself. A poison, locked away in the swollen reservoir of a black XXL Magnum lying on the floor beside the bed. He parts his lips slightly, and a single, thick strand of your cum begins to drool from his mouth, a glistening, white bridge connecting him to you. It dangles for a moment, then drops perfectly onto your waiting tongue. The taste is immediate, salty, and familiar—the taste of your own failure. And then he leans in and kisses you. It's a passionate, deep kiss, but this time it's different. It's not a sharing; it's a force-feeding. He pushes the entire contents of his mouth—your entire load—into yours. His tongue swirls with yours, making you taste yourself, coating your throat with your own seed. It's an act of ultimate intimacy, a desperate attempt to connect, to give you everything he has. But as you lie there, his weight on you, the smell of his sweat and latex filling your nostrils, you feel nothing. You're a ghost in your own life. The perfect fuck was a perfect failure. You lie together for a while, his arm draped over you, his breathing slowing into a post-coital rhythm. He's cuddling. He's being a good, normal lover. And every second of it is agony. You need to get out of there, but the thought of leaving this warm, safe bubble feels like a loss. "Hey," you say, your voice flat. "I should probably get going. Early start tomorrow." He lifts his head, and you see a genuine flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Oh. Okay. Sure," he says softly. He doesn't want you to go either. "Just let me hit the bathroom real quick," he adds, giving you a lazy, regretful smile. He slides out of bed, his naked body confident and relaxed. He disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of the fan clicking on, the door left slightly ajar. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your heart a cold, heavy stone in your chest. You hear the sound of him pissing, a steady, intimate stream. Then the rustle of toilet paper. A moment of silence. Then the sound of the wastebin lid opening and closing with a soft thud. He comes back out, still naked, and pads over to the dresser to pull on his jeans. "All yours," he says, his back to you. You slide out of bed, your own movements feeling stiff and robotic. You walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. It's pristine, white-tiled, and smells of lemon-scented cleaner. And your eyes go immediately to the small, chrome wastebin tucked beside the toilet. You kneel down, your heart hammering against your ribs. There it is. It's not just a used rubber; it's a heavy, swollen teardrop of black latex, the reservoir end straining with the sheer volume of its super-charged contents, tied off in a neat, careful knot. You reach in, your fingers trembling as they close around it. It's not just warm, it's hot, radiating a fierce, living heat against your palm. The weight of his massive load is a tangible, shocking thing. You hold it up to the light. The milky contents are thick, almost cloudy inside, a potent, living memory of the encounter. You bring it to your nose. The smell is intoxicating—a complex cocktail of the sterile latex, the sharp, salty scent of his fresh, toxic seed, and the faint, earthy trace of your own ass from where he's been. This is it. This is the ghost of the risk. You should flush it. You should throw it away and walk out and never look back. But the addiction is a demand, not a request. You look at your reflection in the mirror over the sink—at the naked, "safe" husband who is about to do something profoundly depraved. There is no place to hide it. No pocket. No bag. There is only one place to keep this secret. You lean against the cool edge of the counter, spreading your cheeks with one hand. With the other, you press the hot, knotted condom against your hole. After being fucked by his magnificent large cock, your ass is still relaxed, open, and welcoming. There is no resistance. With a slow, deliberate push, the heavy, cum-filled condom slides into you with a wet, obscene ease. Your body accepts it, embracing the shameful trophy. You feel a strange, uncomfortable, and deeply shameful fullness. You feel like a smuggler, a thief, a pervert. You also feel alive. You stand up slowly, the feeling bizarre. A secret weight shifting inside you with every move. You wash your hands, the act so mundane it's surreal. You look at yourself one last time in the mirror. You look the same, but you are fundamentally, irrevocably different. You open the bathroom door and walk back into the hotel room. He's fully dressed now, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his phone. He looks up when you come in, and his expression is soft, a little melancholic. You quickly pull on your clothes, the movements feeling clumsy and disconnected from your body. You stand by the door, the moment of departure hanging in the air between you, thick with unspoken words. He stands up and walks over to you. He doesn't go for a casual hug. He pulls you into a deep, tender embrace, holding you tightly for a long moment. You can feel his heart beating against your chest. It's the hug of a man who genuinely connected with you, who is sad to see you go. "It was really, really great meeting you," he says, his voice quiet and sincere as he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. "I wish... well, you know. Business trip." He gives you a small, sad smile. "Take care of yourself, okay? Be careful out there. Not everyone is as upfront as me." You just nod, your throat too tight to speak. He's the dream guy. He's perfect. He's even poz, the ultimate risk wrapped in a beautiful, considerate package. And you are walking away. You know you will likely never see him again. You turn and open the door, stepping out into the hallway without looking back. With every movement, you feel the condom inside you, a toxic bomb you are now carrying through the world. The walk to the elevator, the ride down, the walk through the lobby—it's all a dreamlike haze. The whole walk through town, feeling the toxic bomb inside your ass... what a mindfuck again. The walk home is a blur of paranoia and dark excitement. The weight inside you is a constant, physical reminder of your transgression. Every step, every jolt on the pavement, every time you have to clench your ass to hold it in, sends a fresh wave of illicit pleasure through you. You feel like a smuggler, carrying a precious, dangerous cargo through the mundane world of shops and pedestrians. By the time you reach your front door, your hands are shaking slightly. You unlock the door and step inside. The silence of your empty apartment is a stark contrast to the roaring in your head. Everything is neat, clean, and normal. The life you're supposed to have. You drop your keys on the table, and the sound is too loud. You kick off your shoes. You feel filthy, a contaminant in this sterile environment. You don't go to the living room. You go straight to the bathroom, your sanctuary and your crime scene. You lock the door behind you, a flimsy, meaningless gesture. You turn on the light and look at yourself in the mirror. You see your face, flushed from the walk, your eyes wide and dark. You see a successful 49-year-old husband. But you know the truth. You see a man who is carrying a used condom, filled with poz-cum, in his ass like a twisted trophy. It's time to retrieve it. You get on the floor, on your hands and knees, like an animal. You reach back and press on your hole, trying to push it out. It's not easy. Your body wants to keep it, to hold onto the secret. You have to bear down, your face contorting with the effort. On the one hand, you're being careful, not wanting to make a mess. But a darker, secret part of you wishes it might rupture, that the latex would tear and spill his toxic load inside you. You imagine the moment, the warmth spreading, the irreversible act. But it doesn't. It stays intact, a perfect, preserved ghost. Slowly, you feel the knot of the condom pressing against your rim. You push harder, and with a wet, obscene plop, it slides out onto the bathmat. It lies there, a glistening, deflated teardrop of latex. You pick it up. It's cool now, but still heavy. You hold it up to the light, the milky contents sloshing inside. You untie the knot. The smell hits you immediately—the sharp, sterile scent of latex mixed with the musky, complex smell of his cum, and the faint, earthy trace of your own ass from where it's been. You could flush it. You could throw it away. That would be the sane, safe thing to do. But you're not sane or safe anymore. This isn't just a used rubber; it's a vessel. It contains the very thing you were denied. The real risk. The toxic seed. A memory of the hotel encounter with one of the most perfect guys you have ever met. You carry it to the kitchen. You open the freezer. You move aside the frozen peas and the ready meals. You find a spot in the back, behind a bag of ice cubes. As you place the condom carefully on the small, empty shelf, a cold, rational thought cuts through the fog of your depravity. You know that freezing it will essentially sterilize it, killing any living virus. It's a scientific fact. It's the part of your brain that still functions, that still cares about self-preservation, offering you an out. It's not just a trophy; it's a safe trophy. A deactivated bomb. But that's not why you're doing it. You're not preserving it for its danger. You're preserving it for its memory. You're freezing the moment, the feeling, the scent of the perfect man who was poz, the risk he represented, the connection you threw away. The freezing is a lie you tell yourself to make the ritual bearable, but the truth is in the act itself. You are keeping a piece of him, a piece of the risk, a piece of the night you failed. You close the freezer door. You stand in your kitchen, naked, your ass still slick and tingling, a profound sense of calm washing over you. You know, with absolute certainty, that you will be back at that rest area.

I was cruising sniffies the other day when a familiar profile/photo of a sexy ass appeared. It was a cumdump I used to breed regularly about five years ago. This guy is a sexy man, handsome AF, tall, lean, muscular, and has an ass made for taking cock. We stopped connecting as I moved out of the area for a couple years. I immediately got hard thinking about breeding him again. I was at the gym last night and messaged him if he was taking dick. He got back to me right away like a cock starved bottom and said yes. I left gym all sweaty. Got in my truck drove over and parked. He was ass up and ready for my cock. He didn’t remember me, I didn’t mention that we fucked before. Funny how a cumdump takes so many cocks that they lose track of cocks they’ve had before. Anyway, I lick his hole, taste the previous loads he had inside him from earlier in the day. I slide my cock in and do long slow strokes, pulling out to see his gaped hole and cum on my cock. I keep pounding away like that and finally get ready to cum. I hit the poppers right after he did and told him I’m going to knock him up with my 7 day load. I let my orgasm take over and my cock busted a huge load. It pumped so much cum up inside his guts. I came down from my orgasm. Gathered my stuff and left. There was another car parked outside waiting, another car driving past looking for a spot to park. He was getting some cock last night. He is a sexy dude so I can see how he’d be getting lots of action. As I drove home I passed a former fuckbud’s house where I’d breed him good. He is a sexy porn star that lived there awhile ago and has since moved. Real bummer I can’t breed him anymore. The guy was extremely hot, beefy, muscular, beard, 9”uncut cock and a hungry hole. Anyway, hope the last night’s dude doesn’t disappear on me. It’s be really convenient to have a local cumdump to keep my balls drained.

This is my cock pumping my seed into his sweet fuckhole

Wow. Thank you all so much for the incredible feedback. Reading your comments, knowing you were right there with me, feeling that same mix of terror and excitement... it's a huge rush. It makes me want to dive back in and share what happened next. This next part is again fiction, but it's inspired directly by some of the encounters I've had in the last few days. Things are... escalating. And I need to get it out. Part 2: The Biker’s Offering You're 49. You have a successful job that you're good at, a life that looks stable and normal from the outside. You've been married to your wonderful husband for over ten years. He is, without a doubt, the man of your dreams, the man you want to grow old with. But, as it turned out over the years, you're both... well, you're both more bottoms. Your sex life gradually decreased to a beautiful, respectful zero. You have a weekend relationship, which means you live apart during the week. There's this unspoken agreement that you are exclusive on the weekends when you are together, but everyone is free to do what they want during the week. You have never, ever spoken about safe or bareback sex. But to you, it feels like you're expected to stay safe, even though there would be no risk for him if you didn't, given the complete lack of sex between you. Don't get it wrong, you truly love him and would never do anything to intentionally hurt him. This need... this is for you alone. It's your private addiction. So, the next day after the lunchtime encounter, with all its unknown risks, you're back at your desk. It's a lazy work day. At 11:30, you feel the urge to go to the toilet and take a big crap. As you sit there, feeling your ass extend, a sudden, powerful thought hits you. What if you took off for lunch a little longer? What if you went back to the same rest area? You are in your car before you've even fully processed the thought. When you get there, there's only one other car in the lot. An average-looking guy, a little younger than you, is leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. You stay in your car, figuring the woods are probably empty. Then the guy drops his cigarette, grounds it out with his boot, and starts walking towards the entrance to the woods. But he doesn't just walk. He turns around one last time and looks directly at you in your car. His eyes lock with yours through the windshield. It's an invitation. A challenge. Your hand moves on its own. You pull out your poppers. One deep sniff. The warmth starts to bloom. Two. The courage begins to surge. Three, four. The world dissolves into a haze of confident, chemically-induced lust. You're no longer a successful 49-year-old husband. You're a hunter. You open the car door and follow him into the trees. But as you walk, the memory of yesterday floods your mind. The memory of the young apprentice was so vivid, so powerful. But it was the question that was consuming you: "You are healthy???" Why the emphasis? He was so dominant, so unconcerned with anything but his own pleasure. Why did that one thing matter so much? And now, today, you're following this younger guy into the woods. The memory of that solitary orgasm, the one you had while contemplating your potential conversion, makes your own cock throb with anticipation. You find him in a small clearing. He turns, and you see the look in his eyes. He's not the apprentice. He's just a guy. A guy who saw a hungry man in a car and decided to take a chance. You walk up to him in the small clearing. The air is thick with unspoken need, a palpable humidity of desire. He's exactly as you first saw him: average, maybe a little soft around the middle, with a nervous energy that clashes with your poppers-fueled confidence. You open your belts – he yours, you his – the metallic clicks sounding loud in the quiet woods. You pull each other's cocks out. He has this average, long but thin hard uncut cock, the foreskin already slick with precum. You wank each other, the familiar rhythm a mechanical comfort, like a dance you both know the steps to but have no passion for. You touch each other, your hands exploring chests, arms, faces. Your faces get closer, your cheeks touching. His stubble rubbing against your own trimmed beard, a scratchy, intimate sound that should ignite you, but doesn't. You kiss. Your tongues mingle, a wet, desperate dance, but it feels like performance. You're trying to find the apprentice in him, the dominant spark from yesterday, but all you can taste is hesitation and a weak, coffee-flavored tongue. There's no spark, no fire. He is hard and leaking, his body clearly ready, but your own PA cock is not getting fully hard. It's a heavy, inert piece of metal and flesh, a barometer of your soul's disinterest. Something is not right. The chemistry is off, the connection is false. You're going through the motions, a ghost playing at being a slut. Dropping to your knees feels like a strategic move, a way to do something, to force the arousal. You take his thin cock in your mouth. It's easy to take, the length sliding over your tongue. You blow him, working your lips and tongue, trying to convince yourself that this is what you want. Your body is on its knees, but your mind is somewhere else, replaying the apprentice's almost brutal, 30-second fuck. This feels like a chore, like sucking on a piece of pasta instead of taking a hard, thick risk. But with every bob of your head, the feeling of wrongness grows stronger. This isn't the primal, risky act you crave. This feels... clinical. In the end, you pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You separate, a silent, awkward agreement of failure. He zips up and walks away, disappearing towards the parking lot. While you were playing, another guy arrived and passed you, walking deeper into the woods. You're still horny, but the poppers effect is already gone, leaving you with only the bitter taste of frustration. You pull out your poppers and take a few more hits, the chemical rush washing over you again, trying to reignite the fire that's sputtering out. Then you look for him. You find him leaning against a large oak tree, looking like a character from a fairy tale. He's about 30, with a soft, round belly and a long, unkempt beard that frames a kind, gentle face. He seems approachable, safe. And a part of you hates him for it. You didn't come here for a gentle giant; you came here for a monster. You approach him. You grope each other's bulges. He pulls out his cock – a little nub of flesh, not even four inches hard, with a thick thatch of pubic hair. You wank him, your movements mechanical, but again, you can't get really hard. The frustration is mounting, a sour taste in your mouth. Again, you go on your knees, this time out of a desperate, last-ditch hope. A nice load of cum might stimulate you, might get you hard. You take him in your mouth. He tastes nice, clean, like freshly washed skin and the faint scent of shower lotion. The cleanliness is an insult. You want to taste sweat, and dirt, and the raw, unwashed scent of a man who lives on the edge. You want to taste danger, not fucking soap. It doesn't work. You are not a size queen, you tell yourself, but his cock just doesn't give you any pleasure, to scratch that deep, masochistic itch. There's no stretch, no burn, no feeling of being taken and used. Eventually, you pull off, mumbling an excuse. You separate, another wave of disappointment washing over you, cold and sharp. You're left standing there in the quiet woods, your knees dirty, your cock still half-limp, a profound sense of failure settling in. The hunger is still there, a roaring beast in your gut, but you've just tried to feed it salad. You came here seeking a risk, a transformation, and all you've found are two awkward, unsatisfying encounters. You came here to be used, to be filled, to be changed, and instead, you feel emptier than before. You contemplate driving back to work, your lunch break a complete and utter waste of time. At this point, you hear some cracking behind you. You turn around and see him. A guy around your age, a biker type in his leather gear. He's just standing there, directly staring at you, his arms crossed over his chest, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips. He looks like the monster you were looking for. "Been watching you," he says, his voice a low, confident rumble. "I know you need more." You are magically attracted to him, a moth to a dangerous, hypnotic flame. You walk over, your feet moving as if pulled by an invisible string. He is pure dominance. He doesn't wait for you to speak. He grabs your crotch, his grip firm, possessive, a claim. He unzips you and pulls out your cock, his eyes fixing on your heavy PA. "Not so innocent as it seems," he chuckles approvingly. He opens the zipper of his leather pants. Wow, he is commando. He pulls out his own monster, a thick, curved beast with a PA even bigger than yours, a heavy circular barbell with two heavy-duty steel balls that look less like jewelry and more like ammunition, promising a unique kind of pleasure. He's going to fuck you. You know it. He knows it. But the memory of yesterday, the apprentice's question, the lingering risk, makes you nervous. "Condom?" you ask, your voice betraying your eagerness with a slight tremble. He just smiles, a slow, cruel twist of his lips. "I can wrap up," he says, reaching into his leather pocket and pulling out a foil packet. He dangles it between his fingers, a tiny, square tease. "I have one." He looks you dead in the eye, his gaze piercing through your chemically-induced haze. "But do you really want me to?" He lets the question hang in the air, heavy and toxic. "I don't need one..." The back-and-forth is a torture of its own. You, the man who took a load without a question yesterday, now hesitating. He, the dominant biker, giving you the choice, making you own your depravity. He slowly, deliberately tears open the foil packet. The sound is loud, sharp. He pulls out the thin rubber, holding it by the tip between his thumb and forefinger. He brings it to your face, not to put it on, but to taunt you with it. He holds it under your nose. You can smell the sterile, latex scent, a smell of safety that now smells like cowardice. "You seem a little tense," he says, his voice a low purr. He puts the condom away and pulls out his own small, brown bottle of poppers. "Let's clear your head." He twists off the cap and places the bottle directly against your right nostril. "Five deep sniffs," he commands. "Don't you dare lose any." You inhale, the chemical rush flooding your system, stronger than your own. He moves to your left nostril. "And five more." You obey, your head spinning, the world dissolving into a warm, pulsing haze of pure submission. He caps the bottle and puts it away. "Now," he says, his voice cutting through the fog. "Tell me. Do you need a condom? Or do you want my cock raw?" Your addiction to the risk wars with your fear, but the poppers have already won the war for you. You can't form the word. You just shake your head, a barely perceptible motion of surrender. He spins you around and bends you over a fallen log. He presses the thick head of his cock against your hole, but you're too tight, too tense, even for the chemically-induced relaxation. His massive tool won't go in. "Hmm," he grunts, frustrated. He looks down at the ground and spots something. He leans over and picks up a used, tied-off condom lying in the dirt. "Might need a condom after all," he says, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He holds it up. It's not just full; it's heavy, and you can see a slight steam rising from it in the cool air. "Still warm," he chuckles, a dark, appreciative sound. "Someone just got lucky." He unties the knot and a thick, milky glob of another man's fresh cum drips out. He squeezes the contents onto his own massive shaft, using the stranger's still-warm seed as lube to finally, brutally, force his way inside you. The sensation is overwhelming. The stretch, the burn, the knowledge of what's inside you, what's now being used to open you up for him. This isn't just some old, ghostly load; this is a fresh deposit, a living offering you're being coated with. He doesn't fuck you for 30 seconds. He fucks you for what feels like an eternity, his thick PA-studded cock dragging against your insides, the hard steel of the oversized barbell's balls slapping against your prostate with every thrust, a constant, stimulating, punishing presence. Ten minutes, fifteen, your legs bent over the log, starting to shake and weaken from the strain. The poppers haze begins to lift, the edges of reality sharpening. Your consciousness and nervousness come flooding back. "Are you gonna cum?" you finally pant, a new kind of panic in your voice. "Please... pull out before you cum." He just chuckles, his rhythm never faltering. "Too late," he grunts, his voice calm and controlled. "I already shot twice. This is number three." The revelation sends a shockwave through your system. The sheer, unrestrained power of it. The endless stamina. The endless seed. The fact that he's already been cumming inside you, silently, while you were lost in the sensation. That's it. You can't hold back. You cry out as your own cock explodes, untouched, creaming yourself all over the leaves and dirt beneath you. As your orgasm tears through you, you become vaguely aware of movement in the periphery. A few more guys have appeared, drawn by the sounds of raw, animalistic sex. They're on their lunch breaks, looking for a quick encounter, but they've stumbled upon something else entirely. They don't dare join. They don't dare disturb this powerful scene. They just watch from a safe distance, their own hard cocks in their hands, wanking slowly as they witness the biker claiming you. You're no longer just a participant; you're the main event in a grim, outdoor theater. A part of you wanted to shrink away, to hide from their eyes. But a bigger, darker part of you preened. You weren't just being fucked; you were being worshipped. Every one of them was wishing they were you, or wishing they were him. He fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging it, owning it, then finally, with a deep, satisfied groan, he empties his third, massive load deep inside you, mixing with the stranger's fresh cum he used as lube. He stays inside you for a long moment, his chest heaving, marking his territory. The small crowd of onlookers melts back into the woods, their own needs satisfied by the show. You pull off, your legs trembling, your body buzzing, your mind completely blown. You get dressed in a daze, your movements clumsy and slow. You turn to leave, but you have to look back. You have to see him one more time. He's tucking his junk back in his leathers, and as he does, you see it. The lower part of a tattoo, right above his cock. The lines are sharp, deliberate. Arcs beginning their menacing descent towards his pubic hair, pointing to the magnificent cock that just owned you. The rest of it is hidden by his belt and jacket, but it's clearly part of a larger, intimidating design. He catches you staring. He zips up his fly slowly, the sound loud and final in the quiet woods. He walks over to you, his presence overwhelming. He doesn't touch you. He just looks you up and down, a predator assessing its kill. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to pluck a single leaf from your hair, letting it fall to the ground. It's a small, intimate gesture of ownership, a claim being staked. He leans in close, his voice a low, possessive whisper right next to your ear. "If you want more of that," he says, his breath hot against your skin, "you know where to find us." He pulls back, gives you that same slow, knowing smile, and turns, walking away without a backward glance. The words hang in the air, a challenge and a permission slip all in one. He's not telling you to come back. He's telling you that he's here, and the choice to be claimed again is yours. And as you stand there, the phantom feeling of his load already warming you from the inside, you both know what you'll choose.

I had met him on BBRTS a year earlier. He lived about two hours away, but there weren't many men where I lived, and his profile piqued my interest. It said he was 30, versatile, and it provided two photographs of a sexy dude with a nice cock in bed. HIV status: ask me. I contacted him with my bugchasing profile. He was interested, but said he didn’t know his status, adding that he preferred not to know so that he wasn't culpable of pozzing guys. We talked off and on for a few months trading fantasies. A re-occurring fantasy of his was that of fucking drunk college boys from the large school in his town and pozzing their asses with unmedicated cum. At the time I was mostly just fantasizing. I had taken an undetectable poz load once or twice a year earlier, and honestly wasn’t sure about this guy, but I knew I wasn’t going to drive two hours to find out if he was legit. And if he was poz and unmedicated, I wasn’t ready for that either. I lost track of him after about a while. A year later I spot him online again and by chance I would be driving near his town, so I contacted him. This time he didn’t hesitate to tell me he had recently been confirmed as POZ, and was still unmedicated. The last bloodwork had shown a viral load of 97,000. He mentioned he had been thinking of calling me, and so I found we ended-up talking about what he wanted to to do me. His voice was masculine and projected a cocky jock attitude. He told me to call him when I hit the road for my trip. A few weeks later, I was ready to drive. I called him after a few minutes on the road. He wanted to meet at a bookstore right off the highway. It wouldn’t add a minute to my trip. I was losing excuses to avoid his toxic load at the last minute, like on-the-fence chasers like me do sometimes. We talked for a few minutes then he said something that clinched it. He wanted to talk to me the entire way until I was at the bookstore, when I was 30 minutes away he would head towards it to meet. We perved for 30 minutes, my cock out and dripping precum as I drove. He wanted me inside a booth with a jock on ready to be pozzed. My heart pounded and I edged my cock as he told me about his latest escapades fucking his raw load into college boys. His favorite thing to do was fuck safe sex only bottoms. He bites the tip off of the condoms he uses, with his cock penetrating skin on skin while the ring and base of the condom remain in place. He relishes in the times the bottoms reach back to make sure there is a condom, feeling the latex ring and relaxing their holes to receive his death seed thinking they are safe from harm. I oozed precum as he told me of the many safe-sex boys to find themselves drunk, questioning if he came in their ass after being slammed full of his cock and cum. He assured them it was just extra lube he had used so his cock wouldn’t hurt them, and reminding them they saw and felt the condom. I was at the exit for the book store, so I telephoned him, saying I was pulling off the highway, and would be there shortly. He replied saying he was five minutes from the book store. We hung up as I parked. I was shaking with excitement as I tucked my cock into my waistband and went inside the metal building where I paid the admission fee and entered the video area. The video booth area was cleaner than any I had seen before. They looked brand new. There weren’t any gloryholes, and unfortunately, I was alone. I had asked him to be verbal so that others could know I was getting poz fucked. Maybe next time. I picked a booth and stripped my shirt and pants off, leaving me standing in a jock, athletic socks, and tennis shoes. He texted saying he was entering the store. The cracked booth door pulled open, he stepped in and closed it behind him. My dick was dripping precum all over the floor in a way it never had before. I dropped to my knees and pulled out his cock. It was about seven inches, decently thick, cut, with a big head. I licked his precum before deep-throating and working his cock. All the while complementing my skill at sucking his cock, he talked to me like the faggot slut I was, telling me I was going to submit to his toxic cock and get his AIDS strain I stood up and turned my hole towards his direction. I bent over and braced against the wall of the booth. He plunged his cock into my ass rough. His dirty talk was beautiful. Nonstop poz domination, telling me how I would succumb to and get sick from his unmedicated toxic poz seed. I ached for it and rocked my ass against him to take his cock deeper. He ground my ass like this for what seemed like 15 or 20 minutes, roughly handling my neg jock body, slamming me against the wall, tightening his hand around my neck as he made me beg for AIDS. He made me promise to stay off meds and pass it to college studs who will fall for my hot jock body, all while impaling me with his raw cock. He was ramping up to blowing his load of cum, and it was all I could to do hold my load in and wait for him to climax. I had been gripping my cock still the entire time, on the brink from the first penetration. As he grunted with the release of the first rope of toxic cum into my gut I pulled down on my cock, putting pressure on the skin on the head and shot all over the booth wall. His pace slowed and he continued to grind his cock in and out of my hole for another minute or so.. My post cum regret was quickly sinking in. Fucking idiot fag slut, taking unmedicated poz seed on purpose. This always happens. But this time was the shortest yet. I hurried out of the booth, but by the time I made it to my car I was hard. A minute after driving away I found myself texting him, making plans for my next seeding.

I was sent an invite to a BB gangbang in London and jokingly showed my now wife. To my suprise and joy, she suggested we go. She took one Prep pill and I watched her get fucked by all the guy 13 cocks in total and many gave her multiple loads in her cunt. I know realise the one prep pill was useless and she was fucking totally unprotected. Unfortunately no poz but what an amazing night. I dream about her getting poz and being an Eve to loads of chasing guys including me.

Agreed, there are definitely specific kinks or physical traits that act as a bridge to that feeling of deep connection. When you’re in the zone trading oral or fucking while riding that high, it feels incredibly connected. It’s like a physical euphoria that creates its own version of making love, even if it’s more about the intensity of the sensation in that moment. We spend so much of our sexual lives chasing those different zones, and it can become unhealthy if we aren’t honest with ourselves. It’s easy to use that intensity to mask what’s actually going on, and if we don't respect our own limits, that "chase" can turn into something a bit more self-destructive rather than connecting.

Any Berliners or visitors (m/f/d) in Berlin during the holidays seeking some POZ pump n dump or gang breeding fun?

Please be gentle - I am not a native English-speaker. This is my first time posting a story. It is fiction, but very close to what I experienced myself today.... The morning meeting had been a drag, a blur of spreadsheets and forced smiles in a sterile conference room an hour from home. You were driving back, the highway a monotonous ribbon of gray, your mind already on the afternoon you'd have to spend catching up on work. Then you saw it. The green sign for the rest area. A place you knew from online forums, a spot whispered about in certain circles. The thought was a spark in the dry tinder of your boredom. It was just after noon. Guys on their lunch breaks. The chance was too good to pass up. You signaled, pulling off the highway and onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. You sat in your car for a moment, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You needed courage. You pulled the small brown bottle from your pocket, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to your nostril. One deep, long hit. The chemical rush flooded your head, a warm wave washing away your anxiety and replacing it with a gnawing, confident lust. Now you were ready. You left your car and walked into the trees, your boots sinking softly into the damp ground. In a small clearing, four guys were standing around, a silent, tense circle of unspoken need. Nobody was touching, nobody was talking. It was a standoff. And then you saw him. He looked like an apprentice, maybe in a trade, with the confident, slightly bored swagger of a young man who knows he's good-looking. He had Mediterranean features—dark, slicked-back hair, deep brown eyes, and an undeniable bulge straining against his work jeans. He was the focal point, the reason for the gathering tension. You walked past them, your path bringing you within arm's reach of him. As you passed, you reached out, your hand confidently cupping his balls through his jeans, giving them a firm, knowing squeeze. He didn't flinch. He just turned his head, and your eyes met. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. The invitation was accepted. Just then, an older, paunchy man, the kind who spent his lunches chasing a fantasy he could no longer catch, broke the stalemate. He gave a pleading look to the group and then scurried into a smaller, adjacent clearing. The apprentice followed him, his walk a confident stalk. The older guy didn't waste a second. He dropped his pants, exposing his pale, flaccid ass, and bent over, bracing himself against a tree. "Fuck me," he whimpered. "Please." The apprentice unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock. It was exactly as you'd imagined: thick, hard, and cut, the head a perfect, angry-looking dome, framed by a thick, neatly trimmed patch of dark pubic hair. There was no condom in sight, no mention of one. I would have offered one, but I was not planning for a lunch fuck and did not even bring one. He spat on his hand, lubed himself, and pressed it against the man's hole. He pushed, but the older guy cried out, his body tensing up. "It's too big! You're too big!" he whined. The apprentice grunted in frustration, shoving him aside. "Useless," he muttered, his cock still jutting out, hard and unsatisfied. You saw your chance. While he was dealing with the failed bottom, you stepped up to the older man, who was now looking lost and rejected. You knelt down and took his limp cock in your mouth, trying to coax some life into it. It was a distraction, a means to an end. The apprentice watched you for a moment, a smirk playing on his lips. He saw the older man's failure, and he saw your willingness. You were usually a bottom, but the energy in the air, the raw, primal need, made you feel bold. You stood up, your own cock now hard and demanding. "Let me try," you said, nodding towards the older man's ass. He shrugged, a gesture of permission. You stepped behind the older guy. Your cock was different. It was pierced with a heavy, 10mm tribal dream ring, a piece of metal that always got a reaction. You pressed the cool metal of your PA against his hole. It slipped in easily, a smooth, foreign object. But the moment the ring was inside, the older guy's ass clamped down like a vise. You couldn't get your swollen cock head in to follow. He was too tight, too panicked by the unfamiliar sensation. Frustrated, you pulled back. You looked at the apprentice, his magnificent cock still hard and glistening. "Want to fuck me instead?" you asked, your voice low and direct. His smile returned, wider this time. "Yeah," he said, his voice a low growl. You didn't need to be told twice. You turned around right there in the open space, not bothering with a tree for support. You let your pants fall to your ankles. The cold air hit your exposed skin, making you shiver. You pulled your Poppers back out and took another deep hit, the world dissolving into a warm, pulsing haze. Before you could even cap the bottle, you felt him behind you. He didn't wait. He didn't prep. He just grabbed your hips, his grip like iron, steadying you as he slammed his raw, thick cock into you in one brutal, satisfying stroke. The burn was immediate, but the Poppers turned it into pleasure. He started fucking you with an aggressive, short-stroked rhythm, a man on a mission. There was no finesse, only force. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your PA swinging wildly with the impact. You were just a hole for him to use, and the thought of it made you dizzy with lust. It wasn't a prolonged fuck; it was a lightning strike. He was clearly just looking for a quick release. After maybe twenty, thirty seconds of relentless pounding, his grip on your hips tightened painfully. "I'm cumming," he grunted, the words strained and urgent. "Shoot it all inside me!" you gasped, pushing back against him, wanting to absorb every drop. "Give me everything!" He let out a deep, guttural groan, and you felt it—the hot, powerful, pulsing warmth as he emptied himself inside you. He held himself deep, his body shuddering as he drained himself into your guts. He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving against your back, then pulled out as abruptly as he'd entered. A sudden coldness hit your exposed, wet hole. You both quickly rearranged your clothes, the silence of the woods pressing in around you. You turned to face him. He was already zipping up his jeans, his face unreadable. He looked you straight in the eye. "You are healthy???" he asked, his voice casual, but the three question marks hung in the air, turning it into an accusation, a challenge. "Yes," you answered. It wasn't a lie. It was the truth. You were healthy. For now. He watched your face as you said it, a flicker of something in his dark eyes. Was it satisfaction? Triumph? Or was it just the simple relief of a guy who'd gotten what he wanted and was now covering his own bases? He gave a slow, knowing smile. "Good," he said. He didn't offer any information about himself. He didn't say "I'm clean too." He just nodded, as if you had passed a test, and then turned and walked away, disappearing back towards the parking lot without a backward glance. You stood there for a moment, your body trembling, his cum already starting to leak out of you and down your thigh. The drive back to work was a blur. The encounter played on a loop in your mind: the confidence in his eyes, the brutal force of his fucking, the heat of his load, and that one, pointed question. And a new, terrifying thought kept surfacing: Did those thirty seconds change my life? Now you're back home, the day finally over. You're lying naked on your bed, your hand stroking your hard cock. The memory is so vivid, so powerful. But it's the question that's consuming you. You are healthy??? Why the emphasis? He was so dominant, so unconcerned with anything but his own pleasure. Why did that one thing matter so much? And then a new, terrifying thought takes root, blossoming in your mind, dark and beautiful. What if he gets off on this? What if the question wasn't about safety; it was about eligibility. He wasn't asking if you were a safe place to fuck. He was asking if you were a worthy target. He wanted to know if you were negative, if your "yes" meant anything. Maybe he's a collector. Maybe he gets a thrill from pozzing neg guys, from turning another man, from adding another notch to his belt. Your honest answer, your "Yes," wasn't a reassurance for him. It was the green light. It was confirmation that you were a prize worth claiming. But then the other possibility, the logical one, pushes back. Maybe he was just a regular guy, a player who loved to fuck raw but was terrified of the consequences. Maybe he asked because he genuinely needed to know for his own peace of mind, a hypocritical but human act of self-preservation. Maybe his smile was just the cocky smirk of a young man who'd gotten away with exactly what he wanted. You can see it now so clearly. He wasn't just fucking you. He was converting you. Every powerful thrust was a hammer blow, forging a new reality. The heat of his load wasn't just cum; it was an inoculation. A gift. A curse. You were just another victim, another story he could tell himself. You moan, stroking your cock faster. The thought is so repulsive, so dangerous, and so unbelievably hot. You reach back and press two fingers into your still-slick hole. You pull them out, coated in his essence. You bring them to your lips, and this time, you don't just taste. You lick. You suck them clean, imagining the millions of potential viruses swarming in your mouth, in your blood. You're so close. You're right on the edge. You close your eyes and you can feel him inside you again, but now it's different. It's not just a memory. It's a transformation. Was that just an anonymous fuck on a Tuesday afternoon? Or was it the moment you were chosen? The moment you were changed? You'll never know for sure. You'll never see him again. You'll have to live with the uncertainty, with the three-month wait, with the gnawing, exhilarating possibility. And as your own cum explodes across your chest, hot and thick, you realize that this uncertainty is the ultimate prize. He didn't just fuck your ass—he fucked your brain. He gave you a gift that will last forever: the endless, thrilling question of what he really left behind.

Language disconnect. Yeah, probably more often than we realize. Even the courts wrestled with what constitutes sex when Clinton was brought up on the carpet re Monica Lewinsky. Ultimately, i think language is subject to the individuals using it at the time (context) vs a carved in stone meaning that everyone always agrees on. Seems the word sex is a polysemy. For me, from a strictly physical perspective (and i don't believe sex is ever "strictly physical) sex involves the Top having an orgasm in me. Without His orgasm in me, it's still foreplay. But i believe trying to reduce sex to 'just' a physical act requires repression/suppression/denial of our other parts (emotion, thought). i think that's where we encounter all the differences on what constitutes sex. i'm really specific when i am communicating with another person about having sex... i spell it out: "i want you to penetrate me with your cock and have your orgasm inside of me." lol, that's the simple, quick explanation, i can get way more complicated , but i never just use the word "sex." i see a lot of profiles where the best guys can come up with is the vagary: "looking to have fun." wtf? i won't even approach those guys lol Making love? For me, that happens when lots of my parts holistically (i.e., physical, mental, emotional...'spiritual?') and lots of His parts engage/connect while penetration with the cock is happening. And i've had that happen with anonymous walk in with a complete stranger... i'm not sure how well it can be quantified? I've literally had to bite my mattress to keep from declaring my undying love for a Guy when He manages to fuck me in such a (seemingly) intentional way that (i perceive) all those parts are engaged and connecting from both sides. And i consider that explanation a gross and inadequate simplification. i think words are only a part of language and communication, and we have to do a lot of asking and exploration, listening and hearing to truly communicate.

Freshman Project: Jason (Part 9) Blake woke up on Sunday afternoon and reached out to wrap his arm around Jason, but the bed was empty. Conflicting thoughts ran through the jock’s head. He remembered almost everything that happened the night before and he was both excited and a little concerned. Ecstasy always made him a little emotional, but he had never before told anyone he loved them, not even Coach. Coach was the man he had devoted his life to and done whatever the man had ordered him to do, but he loved Coach like a father, not someone he loved as a partner. Blake had a bond with Aiden, but he didn’t love the sophomore. The boy had been fun to take under his wing and turn into a slut, but it was not the same connection he had developed with Jason. Did he actually love Jason, or had that just been the drugs talking he wondered. Did Jason love him, and would the boy still feel the same way this morning about taking multiple toxic loads from him last night? Had Jason run off this morning in regret as soon as he woke up? So many questions were running through Blake’s mind, and many of them were new territory of him. The jock got up and exited his bedroom. He heard some noise from the kitchen, which did not take much in his small one bedroom apartment to notice. Apparently Jason had not fled. Blake wiped the sleep out of his eyes as he entered the kitchen. “Good morning, Master. Coffee is ready, I’ll get you a cup, and the bacon and eggs will be ready in just a few minutes,” said Jason. The boy was naked except for his chastity cage as he slid along the counter to the coffee pot and poured a cup of coffee for Blake. He added just a small amount of cream, which is how Blake liked his coffee, then turned and brought the cup to Blake. Blake grabbed the coffee and took a drink. He hoped it would jump start his mind and allow him to figure out what was going on. “Good morning, Jason,” he finally managed to get out. “Did I put your cage back on last night?” he asked. “No Sir, but I when I work up this morning, I figured you would want it back on since you only took it off me last night so I could play with myself on the E. Thank for that Sir. I’ve gotten used to the cage and I like it on because it reminds me of my place as your Boy, I hope I didn’t do anything wrong Sir?” said Jason, hoping he hadn’t done anything wrong. “No Boy, it is fine. I’m glad you put it back on, you saved me the effort,” said Blake trying to cover for his surprise at finding it on Jason. “I’m going to go take a shower, have breakfast ready for me when I get back and we’ll talk more over breakfast,” said Blake as he tried to regain control over the situation. “Yes Master,” responded Jason as he turned back to the stove and tended the eggs. Blake’s eyes lingered over the V of the boy’s back as it joined his ass. He shook his head to break the spell this twink had apparently cast over him and headed to his shower. He entered his bathroom then warmed up the water till it was comfortable, then jumped under the spray. As he stood under the spray of the shower he thought about why he had gotten so attached to Jason. He was self aware enough to know to that he had a strong connection with each of the college boys he had converted, but none had been like this. He still occasionally saw Charlie and Ian as he supplied them with drugs to sell and collected their proceeds, but both young men had gone on to be sluts in different ways. While they still worked for Blake and Coach as dealers and whores under Blake’s direction, Blake was not fucking either one regularly. They both had found older Daddies that were their focus sexually. Aiden was still someone he would consider his Boy, but as Blake showered and got that clarity that sometimes come with shower thoughts, he realized that Aiden would be just fine without him. Jason on the other hand needed him in a way the others never had. The boy was just so naturally submissive and there was something that appealed to Blake in that regard. He had been unlocking the inner slut in boys these last few years, but he had been doing it because Coach told him to, now though, there was something about Jason that just hit differently. “Master, your breakfast is ready,” called Jason from the kitchen. The boy’s call broke Blake out of his deep thoughts over the Jason and the other boys. He quickly finished rinsing off then dried himself off with a towel. Before heading out to the kitchen naked, he went back to his room and pulled two bottles out of his nightstand. There were eggs, bacon, buttered toast, a fresh cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice sitting on the table for Blake when he entered the kitchen. It was set for one person, even though there was enough food on the plate for two. Blake sat down in the chair. As soon as he was seated, Jason knelt down beside him, “I hope Sir likes.” Blake set the bottles down on the table, then looked down at the twink that was on his knees next to him, “Yes, I do like it Boy. I could get used to waking up to this. But we need to talk, please sit at the table with me and grab yourself a plate. We need to talk about last night, not as Master and Servant, but as friends, hopefully.” Panic flashed across Jason’s face, his first instinct was that now that Blake had fucked him, he was going to dump him. He tried to regain his composure as he pulled himself up off the ground, grabbed a plate from the cabinet and then sat in the chair opposite of Blake at the small table. He couldn’t bring himself to speak and stared down at his empty plate. Blake grabbed the two pill bottles and pushed them towards Jason. “We touched it on last night, but I feel we need to talk about this now, when both of us aren’t rolling. I’m HIV positive and I haven’t taken any medications in a few months, so I’m infectious. I care for you and I want to make sure I am not pressuring you into anything you don’t want. So these pills, which Charlie got me from the health clinic, are a full course of PEP, post exposure prophylaxis. I remember putting at least two loads into you last, and there may have been a third. You said you wanted them at the time, but now in the cold light of day, I’m offering you the opportunity to treat yourself, just in case I infected you last night and you’ve changed your mind.” Jason gave Blake a confused look, “I knew what was happening last night, I wanted it. Do you no longer want me?” “I want you, I want to be with you, but I don’t want you ever regretting your decision. I don’t want you, years from now blaming me, and saying I took advantage of you while you were high, I never want you to ever regret what we did,” explained Blake. “Blake, I will do whatever you say, including taking every toxic load you will give me, but I want you to know, I’m doing so because I want to. I want to obey you, it makes me feel like I’ve found my purpose in life. I’ve spent my life obeying my father, his Pastor, my mother, my teachers, basically anyone with authority. I know what it feels like to obey someone when you don’t want to, with you it feels different. With you I’m not just obeying you, I’m submitting to you, willingly. It feels right for the first time in my life. I feel like I’m no longer pretending to be someone else. I’m my true self finally. I don’t just not care that you are infecting me, I want it. I want to belong to you, I need it. Now, being honest, if you are just using me and want to make me another mark on your scorecard, if you don’t care about me the same way I care about you, if you don’t want to own me, now and forever as you said last night, well I’ll take those and we can go our own ways. I hope you will still by my friend and maybe help me find someone that will want me to be theirs. If you do want me to be yours though, now and forever, then go ahead and dump those down the drain cause there is nothing more than I want, than to have a part of you inside me forever, even if it is a potentially deadly virus. I want to be yours, now and forever,” said Jason, as he fought back tears in his eyes. Blake’s cock was rock hard. “Boy, grab those bottles, open them, and take out one pill from each bottle into your hand,” said Blake, his voice clearly indicating he was back in ‘Master’ mode. “Yes Sir,” answered Jason still not sure exactly what Blake’s answer was. Even though he wasn’t sure what was going on, he obeyed. He opened the bottles, and took a pill from each in his hand. His mind was racing, was this Blake’s way of dumping him, was he going to order him to take today’s dose of PEP instead of just coming out and saying he didn’t want him. “Now go over to the sink and turn on the water,” Blake commanded. Jason did as he was order. As soon as the boy got up, Blake grabbed the bottles and followed Jason to the sink. Jason turned on the water, the pills in his hand. He was devastated as he felt that Blake was about to order him to take the pills as the older boy’s way of letting him know that he had just been using him. Instead, Blake used his left hand to push Jason’s torso down, bending the boy over the sink. He set the bottles in his right hand down on the counter next to the sink, then used the hand to line his cock up with Jason’s hole. He roughly shoved his dry cock into Jason’s asshole. “You’re mine Bitch,” growled Blake as worked his cock all the way into Jason’s tender ass, which was still a bit sore from last night. Still it had the remains of Blake’s cum and the lube from the night before which helped a bit to ease the passage of Blake’s thick nine and half inch cock into the Jason’s ass. Once Blake had bottomed out in twink’s ass, he leaned in so his mouth was next to Jason’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you slow so that you have enough time to drop a round of pills into the garbage disposal each time I bottom out. I’m going to fuck you until both those bottles are empty. You understand me Bitch Boy?” He asked. “Yes Sir,” said Jason as he wiggled his ass, doing his best to adjust the position of his ass to accommodate Blake’s thick cock. He dropped the pills in his hand down into the drain with garbage disposal. “Good Boy! Here I’ll help you,” said Blake as he reached over and knocked over the pill bottles, spilling the contents over the counter. “Now grab some more and watch your chance at avoiding becoming positive go down the drain,” said Blake as he slide his cock almost all the way out. As soon as Jason grabbed a handle of pills, he started slowly thrusting back in and timed it so that he bottomed out with a hard extra little push as he saw Jason drop his handful of pills down the drain. “You are going to stay here the next couple weeks, only leaving to go to your classes, you’re quitting that shit cafeteria job; you’re my Boy now,” said Blake as he pulled back and waited until Jason had grabbed more pills off the counter. “Dump those,” he said as he started sliding back in the twink’s tight but no longer virgin hole. When Jason dropped the pills into the sink, Blake finished his thrust with a hard push, making sure all of his thick hard cock was up inside the twink. Jason was enjoying the rough slow fuck. Sure Blake was ordering him to drop the pills into the sink with each thrust, but Jason realized he was actually in control of this fuck. While his first handful had been whatever he could grab, by his third he was only grabbing a couple pills to drop with each thrust. By the fourth thrust, it was obvious to both of them what was happening and who was now driving this fuck as Jason was quickly grabbing one pill at time and throwing it into the sink as fast as he could. “Please Sir, give me your toxic load, poz me, convert me, make me yours forever,” begged Jason as he did his best to quickly drop pill after pill into the sink. Blake for his part was enjoying trying to time his thrust with Jason feeding pills into the sink. Eventually both young men gave up on the pretense of the scene as Blake started thrusting hard and fast into Jason’s ass. Jason for his part just swept the rest of the pills off the counter and into the sink. While Blake had come a few times last night, Jason had not. He had enjoyed himself and felt ecstatic bliss while getting fucked while rolling on ecstasy as he had several anal orgasms, but he didn’t have a true ejaculatory climax. This fuck though was doing it for him now that he was no longer tripping. Every time Blake thrust in he was hitting the boy’s prostate. The whole scene was so hot for both of them and Jason soon realized he was about to cum. “Sir, please permission to cum, please Sir,” he begged. “Yes Boy, cum for me, shoot that load, show me how much you want to be mine and carry my virus in you. Shoot for me Boy,” responded Blake as he started thrusting harder into the twink. It wasn’t long before he felt Jason’s asshole spasm around his cock as cum started pouring out of the boy’s caged cock. Blake reached down and grabbed the boy’s cock as soon as he started to feel the boy’s ass contracting around his cock. The chastity cage was on and keeping the boy’s cock from expanding outward, but the boy’s cock was firm and pushing the cage outward with most of the boy’s erection still inside the boy’s crotch. Blake collected the rest of the boy’s load into his hand. Once he was sure the boy was done cumming he brought his cum soaked hand up to Jason’s mouth. “Here Boy, eat one of your last negative loads. I’m going to be there and make sure you eat all your last negative loads before you are truly pregnant with my babies,” growled Blake as he place his cum covered hand over Jason’s mouth. Jason did his best to lick up as much of his own cum as he could. Soon though he felt his real reward as Blake grabbed his hips and thrust hard into him then held his cock there as the older boy started cumming. Jason smiled as he felt his Master’s cock unloading another toxic inside his unprotected ass. As Blake grunted and ground his crotch against his Boy’s ass, Jason reached over and turned the garbage disposal on to destroy the PEP pills.

My Sex Goal for 2026 is to take a big hard cock in my ass, every single day. I'm already practicing, hitting the Adult Bookstore near me, twice a day, wearing my bare ass leather chaps, and climbing into the sling, where guys can just walk right up and fuck me.

Jerked to this a bit today and I contend that Pigs at the Troff is not only a great porn, but certainly the greatest watersports focused porn ever made. If I had a list of top 5 pornos I wish I could transport back and be in, this would be #2. I also think DickWadd managed to do verbal better than any other studio has ever done since. It could be tailored a little more and a little less "yeah yeah yeah" but they are saying other things too, and it's hot an additive. Now we just get thrusting moans with TIM and the very occasional and faint "you want this poz cum" every 30th scene or so. Take the DickWadd style of verbal and update it, turn it in to PozTalk, it would be amazing. Sad that the venue where the movie was shot and the corresponding event "Fort Troff Maneuvers" is no longer around. This movie gave me a lot of ideas of things I wanted to try (buttplug with funnel e.g.) that fortunately I've been able to cross a lot off of. (Being locked in a dog cage for several days getting dick in my hole and piss in my mouth being another....)

I live near Union Station downtown so there are a fair amount of junkies and homeless around. I was walking my dog this morning, totally tweaked and filled with cum already, and this junkie asked me for money. I told him I didn't have any but if he gave me a load I'd give him a slam. He came back, fucked me on the floor. I felt his hole and it was loose as fuck and had some loads in it so clearly I wasn't the only one he'd fucked around with....

I think it's important to remember the love and lust responses are different in the brain. Here's a link I tried to find quickly: [think before following links] https://neurosciencenews.com/hormones-sexual-behavior-neuroscience-29459/ So, there's conversational-speak and sciencey-speak (love vs sex/lust). But, importantly, a person can love asexually and have great sex without love and everything in between. It's also the foundational logic as to why discrimination against gays is ludicrous, a rationale our broader community has kinda forgotten -- a Millennial/GenZ trait. There's nothing wrong with two men or two women loving each other, but in such a pairing natural reproduction is impossible. But reproduction, an outcome driven by the lust/sexual impulse, is not love. Equally, there's nothing wrong with an asexual person but being so makes reproduction tough. Again, reproduction is not love. "Making love," it seems, was an invented phrase to allow "having sex" to sound more meaningful.

Hosting activities not possible in clubs and hotels aboard a narrowboat on the canals of these areas. Four to six guys accommodated per night over six different weeks through the year, starting in March/April , until end of October.

Chapter 1 -- Gifting Season Noah drifted toward consciousness as though rising through layers of thick, warm water. His mind floated somewhere above his body, disconnected and sluggish, and for several moments he hovered between dreaming and waking without understanding which was which. A heavy heat curled low in his stomach, radiating outward through his limbs, turning every inch of his skin oversensitive and flushed. His head felt thick, dense, as if cotton had been stuffed behind his eyes and pressed gently against the inside of his skull. The sensation was unfamiliar but not entirely alien—like a drug high he couldn’t quite place, only magnified and distorted. He groaned softly and shifted without thinking, only to jolt sharply at the sudden rush of cold air sweeping across his bare skin. Every part of him. The realization slammed into him a heartbeat later, and he blinked rapidly, confusion giving way to alarm as he became acutely aware that nothing covered him. No clothing. No blanket. Not even the cheap fleece throw he’d passed out under during movie nights. His breath caught as he forced himself fully awake, heart stumbling into a faster rhythm. He was naked. Completely, utterly, inarguably naked in a place that was definitely not the Phi Alpha Gamma living room. The world around him resolved slowly into a dim, blurry chamber. Rough stone walls pressed in close, dark and wet-looking, glistening with beads of moisture that caught the weak red light overhead. The air was thick, humid, and unpleasantly warm—heavy enough that each breath felt slightly too dense, carrying a faint chemical tang that prickled the back of his tongue. Wispy strands of mist clung to the floor, rippling faintly with each uneven inhale Noah forced into his lungs. Red Christmas bulbs—old ones, big plastic ones like his grandmother used—hung in drooping arcs above him, strung together with sagging wires that looked decades old. Some flickered erratically, casting twitching shadows across the walls, while others pulsed faintly as though struggling to stay lit. The effect made the room seem alive, as if breathing alongside him. His shoulders ached with a dull, grinding pressure. When he tried to lower his arms, something bit sharply into the skin of his wrists. A startled breath escaped him, and he craned his neck upward to see thick strands of old Christmas lights wound tightly around his wrists, knotted over and over until the wires looked fused together. The same cords circled his ankles, holding his legs just far enough apart that there was no dignity left to cling to. The lights hummed faintly, warm against his skin in a way that felt almost biological—like there was a pulse moving through them. Panic surged through him, sharp and bright, but tangled immediately with a hot spark of anger. Hazing. It had to be hazing. Some stupid, charter-violating, archaic fraternity bullshit. He’d heard stories about other chapters doing things like this—blindfolding pledges, leaving them tied up in cold places, stripping them as some kind of psychological “test.” But Phi Alpha Gamma was not supposed to be one of those chapters. Derek had looked him in the eye when Noah rushed. Had promised this frat was different. “We don’t do that stuff here,” Derek had said. “I wouldn’t bring you in if we did. Trust me.” Trust me. The words curled bitterly in Noah’s thoughts. He yanked against the lights, teeth gritted, but the cords didn’t give at all. Instead, the wires dug deeper, almost tightening in response, and the sudden exertion sent the heat in his body spiraling upward. His head throbbed, vision blurring at the edges. His breath came too fast, too shallow, like his lungs couldn’t quite catch onto the rhythm his body needed. The warmth under his skin intensified—rolling waves that felt horribly familiar. A dizzy, tingly buzz bloomed behind his eyes, drifting down the back of his throat and into his chest. “Oh god,” he whispered, a tremor running through him. “This is like… like that night Porkchop dared me to try poppers…” Except stronger. Much stronger. Instead of a head rush, this sank deep into his bloodstream, blooming through every nerve until he felt unsteady, exposed, and frighteningly sensitive. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t a prank. Something had been on whatever hit him downstairs—something chemical and potent, something that made his body feel hot and loose and pliant in ways he didn’t want to think about. He forced his eyes shut, trying to steady his breath, attempting to pull himself back from the rising swell of panic. “Okay,” he muttered, voice trembling despite his effort to sound firm. “Just calm down. It’s a prank. It’s a fucked-up prank, but that’s all it is. You get out of this, and you’re reporting every single one of these idiots to the dean. Derek can explain himself later.” The words didn’t reassure him as much as he hoped. His breathing stayed shallow, and the heat coiling through him didn’t ease. His skin prickled with a hypersensitive awareness he didn’t want, tightening each breath into something sharp and uncomfortable. He opened his eyes again—and then froze. A sound drifted through the chamber. Not the click of Christmas bulbs. Not the distant groan of old pipes. Something else. Something alive. A long, slow, deliberate inhale. Then another. And another—each one slightly out of sync, as if more than one massive chest was expanding in the dark. Noah’s heart tripped over itself and stumbled into a faster, unsteady rhythm. He stared into the shadows beyond the weak circle of red light, vision blurring slightly despite his desperate attempt to focus. This wasn’t Derek. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t human. “Derek?” he called again, though it came out barely above a breath. “Guys…? Okay, seriously… if this is some kind of joke—cut it out.” The chamber answered him with silence. And then, faintly, with a wet, clicking sound—like teeth shifting slowly against each other. A shiver raced up Noah’s spine. Whatever else was down here with him… had been watching him the entire time. And it was breathing. Waiting. Patient. The realization landed in his chest like a stone: This was not hazing. This was something else entirely. The breathing in the dark grew louder, deeper, no longer blending into the room’s ambient hum. Each inhale rolled through the chamber like it belonged to something large—several somethings. Noah’s pulse quickened as he strained to hear anything human, any hint that this was still a prank. But there were no voices, no nervous laughter, no Derek whispering “gotcha.” Only the slow, synchronized breathing of creatures too massive to hide. The first silhouette peeled itself from the darkness and stepped into the red glow of the sagging Christmas lights. Noah’s breath caught in his throat. The creature stood nearly seven feet tall, its body carved in smooth, unnatural muscle, obsidian skin gleaming like polished stone. Long, curved horns swept back from its skull, ridged and imposing, as if grown for battle. Its broad face was wrong in every way—sharp angles, too-long jaw, rows of glistening pointed teeth. Where eyes should have been, there were only dark, unreadable hollows. A second creature followed. Then a third. Soon seven of them stood before him in a wide semicircle, each subtly different in build or horn shape, but all sharing the same monstrous design. Their movements were controlled and deliberate, heavy enough that Noah felt faint vibrations through the floor. They didn’t attack. They simply observed him, massive chests rising and falling in quiet, predatory unison. Noah’s skin prickled as their attention fixed on him. Suspended by the warm, humming Christmas lights, he felt horribly exposed under their collective stare. Every tremor in his muscles, every unsteady breath—nothing escaped their notice. Then the entire group shifted, turning slightly toward the creature standing closest to Noah. This one moved differently. Its posture was disciplined, its breathing steady and measured. Its horns were sharper, curving back like twin blades. Even in stillness, it radiated a sense of practiced readiness, the controlled tension of something trained. A low ripple of growls passed through the others, almost like a chant, and a word rose from that rumble: “…Zero…” The name echoed against the stone, low and resonant. Noah felt his stomach drop. He didn’t know what Zero meant, but the way the others said it carried weight—deference, expectation, something close to ceremony. Zero tilted its horned head slightly, acknowledging the name, and the others quieted as though waiting for its next move. Noah swallowed hard, dread crawling into his bloodstream. The monster closest to him—the one standing just inside the edge of the red light, so close he could see the faint sheen of drool on its teeth—was Zero. Zero was not a title or a concept. Zero was the creature chosen for him. And Zero was stepping closer. Zero stepped closer with a slow, predatory deliberation that made the air in the chamber feel suddenly thinner. The other six tightened their semicircle behind him, drawing in around Noah with quiet, expectant growls. Their obsidian bodies shifted with a muted sheen, horns catching the red light in sharp, jagged silhouettes. Noah felt surrounded not just physically, but psychologically—boxed in, studied, assessed like prey that had already been chosen. The warm buzz in his veins spiked as Zero neared. Noah tried to pull back instinctively, but the Christmas lights only tightened around his wrists, holding him suspended and helpless. A new dizziness washed over him, deeper than before, clouding the edges of his awareness. His skin flushed in a sudden wave of heat, as if the creature’s proximity alone amplified whatever chemical was still working through his system. Zero leaned in until Noah could feel its breath against his cheek—humid, thick, and faintly acrid. Its chest expanded with a slow inhale, drawing in the scent of him as if cataloging every detail. Noah turned his face away with a strangled breath, heart hammering. “Please…” he whispered, though he wasn’t even sure what he intended to plead for. Zero responded with a soft rumble that vibrated through Noah’s ribcage. It wasn’t soothing, nor mocking—just a low acknowledgment, almost as though it approved of his fear. The monster’s clawed hand lifted, moving toward Noah with surprising steadiness, fingers flexing once before settling near his shoulder. The heat inside Noah pulsed harder. His head swam. His breath hitched. Zero touched him. He felt as Zero’s clawed fingers gently traced along his sides, his body twitching from fear and a strange sense of alien excitement. It slowly dipped down, fondling his cock and balls, giving it his hard cock a few firm tugs, Zero letting out an appreciative growl and smile as Noah let out a shocked gasp and moan, despite how terrified he was. The creature pulled its hand away for a brief moment and spit on its hand, the same foul liquid coating the fingers like slime. Satisfied, he then dipped his hand lower, before tracing around his hip leaving a trail and pressing several fingers into his asshole, the sharp nails almost expertly, the slimy saliva easily allowing them to penetrate his entrance. The reaction was instantaneous. Noah’s body jerked, his breath catching in a shocked, involuntary gasp. The chamber spun in slow, nauseating circles, red lights blurring into hazy smears above him. His stomach dipped, thighs trembling as a wave of dizzying warmth pushed down his spine. “No—stop—” he managed, voice thin and breathless. Zero didn’t stop. It merely adjusted, claws tracing along Noah’s chest with a terrifying precision, as if following a pattern only it knew. The chemical haze surged again, turning Noah’s limbs soft and uncooperative, weakening his voice into a hoarse whisper. The pack shifted closer in response. Not touching—yet—but watching, their unified stillness adding weight to the moment. Noah sensed a hierarchy at play, an order to their movements. Zero was performing a role, and the others were witnessing it. Another pulse of heat flashed through Noah’s bloodstream. His vision trembled at the edges. He had the horrible sensation that something inside him was beginning to yield—not by choice, but by chemical force. Zero growled again, deeper this time, and leaned in, pressing its forehead briefly against Noah’s, its horns framing his vision as his clawed fingers pushed deeper. The gesture wasn’t affectionate. It was claiming. And Noah felt the shift in the group— a collective anticipation— as Zero prepared to continue. Strangely, he felt numb to the fingers after a few moments, that same heat now spreading from his ass as the fingers were removed, now mostly dry. Without warning, he felt his legs get pulled upward, his weight evenly spread between the cord around his wrists and the monster’s grip around his now spread legs, straddling him as he felt the monster’s cock press tightly against his hole. He tried to struggle, before realizing what he was doing at the last second as the tight ring of muscle relaxed suddenly, causing him to suddenly sink hard and fast, penetrating him in one slick movement. He cried out, feeling the massive cock seating itself deep in his guts. The red lights flickered overhead, dimming momentarily as though reacting to the energy building in the room. Noah sagged harder into the restraints, his body wilting under Zero’s control, his mind fraying at the edges of panic and chemically amplified sensation. The pack’s breathing synchronized again—slow, steady, ritualistic. Zero’s claws tightened on Noah’s hips. The true ritual was only beginning. The effect on Noah’s body was immediate and overwhelming. A shudder passed through him, involuntary and intense, as though the heat inside him had been suddenly stoked into a sharper flame. His ribs strained with each breath, and his arms pulled weakly against the Christmas lights, the warm cords tightening in response as if adjusting to keep him perfectly in place. A low rumble spread through the semicircle of monsters. Not loud, but deep enough that Noah felt it reverberate in his bones. The six creatures behind Zero shifted closer, closing the gap between them until their obsidian bodies formed a near-solid wall of muscle, horns, and slow-moving breath. Their presence constricted the space, tightening the air around Noah until he felt boxed in from every angle. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the chemical pulse running through his veins made everything feel thick and swimmy. When a fresh wave of warmth rippled through his abdomen, his head fell forward with a faint sound he didn’t recognize as his own. Zero’s claws rose to Noah’s waist, anchoring him again. Its breath rasped across Noah’s shoulder—hot, humid, wrong—and then it resumed its slow, ritualistic exploration. He felt as Zero slowly began to pull out, a small, hopeful part of his brain thinking it was over, that they were somehow stopping, when suddenly, Zero slammed hard and fast deep inside of him again, making him whimper. This continued a few more times, each time less painful and somehow more enjoyable. Soon, Zero was fucking him hard and fast, Noah no longer feeling pain but a strange pleasant pressure and burn deep inside him when Zero finally pulled him hard and fast down onto him in one final slam, shooting volley after volley of cum deep in his guts. Noah’s knees jerked reflexively, his whole body curling inward for a moment before the restraints forced him still again. His vision blurred around the edges, red lights melting together in a dizzy haze. The monsters’ collective breathing grew louder, more synchronized, like they were inhaling in perfect rhythm to Noah’s faltering breaths. Something shifted deeper in the chamber. Not movement. Not footsteps. Pressure. A heavy weight pressed down from somewhere unseen, a thickening of the air that made Noah’s lungs tighten. It felt like the moment before a storm breaks—static and anticipation and the sense of something vast drawing near. The other six monsters reacted immediately. Their growls softened, posture lowering, horns angling toward the far side of the room. Even Zero paused—not releasing Noah, but holding perfectly still, claws poised, as if awaiting judgment. Noah lifted his head in confusion, chest heaving. “What… what is that…?” he whispered, voice raw. None of the monsters answered. They didn’t need to. The air trembled again, heavier this time. Zero’s claws tightened on Noah in a silent assertion of possession, as if reminding him—and the others—that he was already claimed. A faint glow shifted in the darkness beyond the pack. Something massive was approaching. Zero leaned in close, breath rolling over Noah’s ear, and released a soft, resonant growl that felt almost like a warning: “The Alpha is coming.” The chamber thickened around Noah as the presence in the darkness approached—so potent and tangible it felt like pressure building inside his skull. The air turned heavy, humid, and strangely electric, making the red Christmas lights overhead flicker with an almost nervous pulse. Even the stone beneath him seemed to hum faintly, as if bracing for whatever was about to emerge. The pack sensed it instantly. The six monsters behind Zero lowered their heads, horns angling downward in a unified gesture of submission. Their bodies shifted apart just enough to form a clear path through their ranks, creating a corridor of shadows and anticipation. Zero remained closest to Noah, but even he moved slightly aside, still touching Noah yet no longer centered. His posture tightened in a way that felt almost formal—respectful, deferential. Noah felt the pressure before he saw the Alpha. A deep, resonant vibration slid into his awareness, not entirely sound, not entirely sensation. The hair on his arms lifted; his heart stumbled. The chemical warmth in his blood quivered, reacting instinctively to the new power entering the room. Noah tried to steady his breath, but the air itself seemed too dense, too hot, making each inhale a struggle. Then the Alpha stepped into view. He dwarfed the others—not just in height, though he was easily a foot taller than Zero, but in presence. His horns were longer, sweeping back in grand curves that made his silhouette impossibly striking. His pitch-black skin reflected the red lights in deeper, richer tones, muscles shifting beneath the surface like living stone. The air around him swirled as he moved, as though even the atmosphere recoiled and obeyed in the same breath. When his face fully entered the red glow, Noah felt something crack open inside him. The Alpha had eyes. Or something resembling them—deep, molten slashes of faint crimson light resting where the other monsters had hollows. They flickered subtly, almost like embers beneath soot, and when the Alpha looked directly at him, Noah’s whole body seized in a wave of overwhelming heat. Then Noah heard him. Not with his ears. Not with sound. Inside. Noah Vance. The name echoed through his mind as if spoken against the walls of his skull. Noah inhaled sharply, chest constricting, pulse leaping into a panicked rhythm. He shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear the voice. “Stop—please—get out of my head—” Zero released a low, warning growl beside him, sensing Noah’s rising panic. The Alpha silenced it with a single glance, and the room seemed to shudder at the shift in authority. The voice returned, deeper this time, sliding through Noah’s thoughts with a deliberate, predatory ease. You came down here alone. Curious. Unwatched. Unclaimed. “No,” Noah rasped, though the word barely held shape. “I—I didn’t know—please, I didn’t—” The Alpha stepped closer. Heat radiated from him in powerful waves, washing over Noah’s bare skin until he trembled under the weight of it. The flickering red lights cast shadows across the Alpha’s horns, drawing sharp lines down his face, accentuating the broad sweep of his jaw and the long, serrated teeth glistening beneath it. Another voice—this time spoken aloud, deep enough to rattle Noah’s chest—rolled out of the Alpha’s throat. “You should not have opened the way.” Noah blinked, dizzy and terrified. “What do you mean? I didn’t open anything—” The Alpha leaned closer, lowering his head until his horns framed Noah’s face. His breath washed over Noah in thick, consuming waves. Your brothers left a door unlocked. You walked straight into the dark. And we followed the cold you left behind. Noah’s pulse stumbled. The basement door— that old maintenance entry they’d all forgotten existed. Had it really been open? And had something been waiting for that? He tried to speak again, but the Alpha’s clawed hand rose, touching Noah’s jaw with shocking gentleness that contrasted violently with the situation. The chemical heat in Noah’s blood surged under the contact, almost as if responding to him. Zero stepped back fully now, lowering his head and yielding his place. The Alpha’s grip tightened. Noah felt the ritual shift. The first part was over. The second—far worse—was beginning. Slowly, each of the other monsters lined up as if orchestrated, and the next monster grabbed his legs, pulling him down by his hips forcefully, the cum from his brethren slickening the way. Each monster took its time, fucking him hard, fast and with earnest, flooding him deeply before moving out of the way for the next. After a while, Noah’s mind couldn’t take it anymore and mentally started begging for them to go harder, faster, to make it hurt. The heat inside Noah swelled into a blazing pulse that made his knees jerk and his breath fracture. His head dropped forward, the strength in his neck failing as waves of dizzy warmth passed through him. The Alpha’s voice curled through his mind again, softer now but far more intimate. You will not leave here unchanged. You were chosen. You will be remade. Noah shook uncontrollably, words failing him completely. The Alpha positioned him with terrifying ease. Suddenly, he felt as two of the other monsters, one he was sure was his maker, Zero, held him up by the legs, allowing the Alpha easier access to his hole, Zero’s long, almost serpentine tongue, licking and tasting the head of his leaking cock, before taking it deeply in his mouth. He could feel the dangerous brush of too sharp teeth threatening to slice into the delicate skin of his cock as Zero seemed to feast on the precum dripping out of him. The other monsters growled in a soft, unified rhythm, their horns angled forward, their bodies swaying slightly as though caught in a trance or feeding on Noah’s reactions. The Alpha’s final whisper pressed into Noah’s mind like a brand: This is the moment you break. And become ours. Noah choked on a breath and felt consciousness begin to slip. The ritual was not done. But his mind was already unraveling. The Alpha’s presence consumed everything—air, heat, sound, even thought. Noah hung suspended in the Christmas lights like an offering, his body limp, trembling, reacting to the chemical haze still burning steadily through his veins. Each breath felt fragile, caught between a sob and a gasp, the effort overwhelming even before the Alpha moved again. Zero and the other six had fallen silent, forming a curved wall around the two of them. Their horned silhouettes flickered with each pulse of the dim red bulbs, making them appear almost carved from shifting shadow. They were waiting—expectant, reverent, as though the ritual depended on the Alpha alone. The Alpha adjusted his grip on Noah’s hips, claws resting just firmly enough to remind him how easily he could be torn apart. Noah whimpered, a thin breath scraping from his throat despite his efforts to stay quiet. His head lolled forward, chin brushing his chest, sweat dripping in slow trails down his ribs. The Alpha’s voice touched his mind again—no louder than a murmur, but heavy with certainty. Do not resist the change. Let it take you. Noah tried to shake his head, a weak, pitiful motion. “I—I don’t want—please—” His plea dissolved into a broken sound as the Alpha positioned him. Suddenly, he felt as the Alpha began to penetrate his already abused and cum flooded hole. The already battered flesh strained to accommodate the massive demonic looking cock. The reaction inside Noah was instant and catastrophic. His body arched against the restraints, breath ripped from him in a raw, involuntary gasp. The chemical heat exploded through his abdomen, spreading into his limbs like molten electricity. His legs shook violently, barely held steady by the arms binding his ankles. As they shook, the string of Christmas lights clacked against each other in a weird, macabre percussive symphony. Each pulse inside him felt heavier, deeper, striking through him again and again until he no longer knew if he was crying out or if the sound was only in his head. The Alpha growled low in his ear, voice rumbling through both the air and Noah’s bones. Good. You are yielding. Let me in fully, Noah Vance. Noah’s mouth opened, a fractured sound spilling out, half protest, half overwhelmed surrender. His vision blurred, red lights stretching into smeared halos. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think past the waves of heat crashing through him. He looked down and could see the end of the Alpha’s dick causing his flat stomach to bulge out, his insides feeling like they were being rearranged. His consciousness wavered. Reality thinned around the edges. Everything became sensation—heat, pressure, trembling muscle, the Alpha’s claws keeping him steady, the deep vibration of monstrous voices rising and falling around him. The pack’s growls shifted into a rhythmic cadence, almost a chant, synchronized with Noah’s ragged breaths. The Alpha’s mind pressed harder into his. You will remember this in your blood. You will wake differently. Mine. It is time to release your seed for your brother and maker Zero. Show him your thanks for this gift. The final surge hit Noah like a blow, tearing through the remnants of his resistance. He convulsed, heat piercing him from within, flooding outward until he felt like his body was no longer a separate thing from the Alpha’s hold. Then— he felt the second the Alpha began to fuck him. Slamming hard and fast, making it feel as if his insides were being ripped apart, his asshole being split in two. It went on mercilessly for several minutes until he finally felt it. The Alpha’s cock was like a firehose inside his guts, flooding him with an obscene amount of tainted cum, finally driving him over the edge as Zero greedily sucked every drop out of his throbbing dick. Somehow, part of him knew that Zero and the rest would enjoy the taste of his pure untainted cum, that it would feed and nourish them for the night ahead. His mind warped and he felt as more and more cum shot out of him, fueled by the thoughts of wanting to empty himself of his useless seed to make room for more, to feel as his cum became tainted and corrupted, his veins bulging and darkening and then his skin turning black. His body would become stronger, taller, leaner and more muscular. His cock would grow longer and thicker, his balls larger and heavier, no longer just for sperm but as the perfect place for the virus to incubate. To feel his own set of horns sprout fully out of his head and his teeth sharpen. To feed and be fed from his new brothers to make his transformation take even faster. Of joining the hunt as they sought out new uncorrupted men to infect and turn. The heat spiked once more, blinding and total. Noah cried out—a raw, hoarse, broken noise—and then his entire body sagged, all strength leaving him at once. His consciousness flickered, dipped, fought to stay afloat… and finally lost. The Alpha held him suspended for another moment, claws steady and secure. Noah’s head fell against the creature’s chest, eyes half-open but unseeing. A lazy smile spread across his face. A satisfied growl rolled through the chamber, answered by the low rumbling of the pack. The ritual was complete. Noah’s last dim sensation was the Alpha lowering him slightly, pulling its still bloated cock out of his ass and letting a small trickle of black cum out of his destroyed ass. The Christmas lights adjusting their hold as though alive, cradling him into a suspended, slack-limbed sleep. Then darkness folded him under. — The movie upstairs had finished long ago, a new movie picked from the fishbowl in its place. Empty beer cans clattered as someone shifted on the couch. The storm battered the windows with a steady, rising howl. Evan checked his phone for the tenth time, frowning. “Noah’s been down there for almost two hours,” he muttered. Zach shrugged, but his expression was tight. “He probably fell asleep behind the furnace.” Bran didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the basement door—ominous, still, the faintest cold draft curling out from underneath it. Finally he exhaled. “Enough. Someone’s going down there.” The others fell silent. And beneath them, far below the floorboards, the chamber’s red lights pulsed once—bright, then dimming again. As if settling. As if briefly satisfied.

I've had bathhouse moments that were what I might call momentarily intimate. We're aware of each other and that we're each trying to satisfy ourselves while satisfying someone else. But none of those has ever moved outside the front door. Almost always if I came in with a buddy; I left with him - but that mostly because "home" was 2 - 3 hour drive and we shared a vehicle.

Yeah, it’s taken me some time to train Drew to take loads in his throat. I’ve been shooting loads in his mouth for years and he loves that. It helps that he enjoys the taste of my sperm. I’ve been face fucking him for a while but it’s only recently that I’ve been able to cum in his throat. Sometimes he chokes a bit when I cum and he coughs up some of my sperm over my balls but I enjoy that. That last session was his first with one of my mates. I really wanted to get in close to get a good look of Steves cock going deep and his balls on Drew’s nose. I stood beside Steve to watch his cock go balls deep. I could see Drew’s throat stretch as Steve went in. I was behind Steve when he shot his load. Drew looked so fuckin hot. Eyes wide open, tears in his eyes as he swallowed. Steve’s load. Some his splashed out over his balls and I licked them clean. Next time I'd like to watch all our mates throat fuck him.

After it was dark and I could reduce the chance of people truly realizing the state I was in (looking like a total cumslut and partier), I had to walk the dog again. I didn't want to be out long mostly because it's windy as fuck and I'm tired from the fucking and partying. But regardless I do the same loop twice each day which passes by where I found the junkies yesterday. Come to think of it it's where I've noticed this every day, but just not thought anything of it. There they were again - at least two of them. The first guy that fucked me and the third guy who was too high to finish. I looked ridiculous with a giant puffy coat, baseball cap, face mask...but I walked over thinking "round two could be a good way to close the day." I walked up to them and started speaking semi quietly telling them I could give them more stuff if they wanted to go for round two. They looked at me like I was insane and then I realized they probably could recognize me (despite the dog). I took off the mask and cap and they realized what was going on. Let us go find our friend though so we don't leave him behind (they said he was off picking something up...). We agreed they'd text when they were ready to get in to the building. They indeed found their friend, showed up, I've got them a small baggie, and I got two quick, transaction, no bullshit loads back to back. This time it was #1 and #3 who came. #2 wasn't feeling it. IF THIS WORKS OUT and they hold their post in the small park in front of Whole Foods, I could have 1-3 built in loads whenever I want them for a very small price. 🙂

Goals for 2026: continue with the hunky young stud who's fucking me several times a week and encourage him to bring friends more often. Get invited to (daddy) sex parties.

Just go outside at 4am looking like you're carrying a bunch of loads in you and are completely thwacked. You might be surprised lol. Actually headed out now to walk the dog again (now that its' finally dark and people won't be able to see what a trashy whore i look like as easily) and see if I can't snag another couple loads.

It's your body hair....so if you like your stuff hairy then fuck anyone who said it needs to be otherwise!....I, personally trim the shit outta mine but, I do like hair....I'm a friggin man and it's, in my opinion, sexy as hell!

I'm a cum slut bottom who is selective about hair. I don't suck full on pube guys, trim up and I'm all over it, I hate a mouth full of hair ... don't rim guys unless I find a smooth bottom... To each their own, we all have our wants, I like trimmed... not a fan of total shaved, but nice trimmed patch. I don't want pubes in my teeth, nose etc... there are plenty of guys that are into that, just not me

This is a position you'll never win. You'll find people who love body hair and people who don't. You do you, and let them find someone else if they're not interested.

Welcome to The Master Pathogen Christmas Special. While our main story is on hiatus until next year, @leatherpunk16 and I decided to post a short aside piece as a fun one-off to tide everyone over until we start the story back up. I hope everyone enjoys the short series and feel free to comment and share your thoughts. We will be posting each day until it's finished on Christmas Eve. Below is a link to our original story and source material... The Master Pathogen And without further ado, here is a teaser of what's to come: --------------------------------------- Prologue: Twas the Snowstorm Two Weeks Before Christmas... Snow drifted in gentle spirals over the Merrydale Christmas Tree Farm, settling on the endless rows of evergreens like powdered sugar. The lights strung along the pathways glowed a soft gold, illuminating smiling families carrying bundled trees toward their cars. Laughter chimed through the crisp winter air, warm and bright despite the cold. Grace Turner stood at the end of the main lane, watching the final visitors depart. She breathed in the scent of pine, her chest lifting with a feeling that was almost too big to contain. Everything around her felt peaceful—settled—as though the world had finally aligned in exactly the way it should. She turned toward the man standing beside her. Cole Henderson waited with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a shy, contented smile on his face. Snow dusted his shoulders and dark hair, giving him a quiet, gentle glow. His presence was as steady as the old farmhouse behind them—solid, dependable, safe. “Today was perfect,” Grace said softly, her voice touched with wonder. “I—I didn’t know it could feel this right. Staying here. Being here.” Cole stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold. “It’s because you made it that way.” He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “You brought life back to this place.” Grace let out a shaky, emotional laugh. “I thought I needed skyscrapers and boardrooms to be happy. But… standing here now, I realize I was always running in the wrong direction.” Cole smiled, warm enough to melt the snow between them. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you come home.” She looked up at him, eyes shining. “I ended things with Andrew,” she whispered. “For good. I’m not going back. I don’t want that soulless corporate life anymore.” The words hung in the air—not dramatic, just true. Cole touched her face, gentle and sure. “You deserve a life that feels like yours.” Snow swirled around them as she leaned into his touch, emotion thick in her throat. “I want to stay,” she said. “Here. With you.” Cole’s forehead rested against hers. The background lights blurred softly, turning the world warm and golden. “Then stay,” he murmured. “Stay, Grace.” She closed her eyes. “I will.” Their lips drew closer—slow, inevitable, filled with quiet certainty. The world around them seemed to hold its breath. Rows of trees whispered in the wind as the last light of evening glimmered over them. Grace stepped forward, heart full, ready to— — Grace Turner’s frozen, love-struck face lingered on the TV screen for barely two seconds before an avalanche of popcorn and empty beer cans pelted the image. Groans erupted from every corner of the room. “BOOOOOO!!! TURN THAT SHIT OFF,” someone yelled. But it was Bran Coletti, Chapter President of Phi Alpha Gamma, who truly commanded the chaos. Towering over the others even from the couch, Bran had a voice that operated at only two volumes—loud and louder—and both were currently in full force as he pointed accusingly at the screen. “Who in the holy hell requested we watch this?” he demanded. “Seriously. Whose emotional support movie is this? Stand up. Confess.” The rest of Phi Alpha sprawled around him in varying states of drunken festivity. Evan Marsh hovered near the window like a nervous bird, mumbling about the storm. Ty King, already shirtless for no reason anyone could identify, lay half-asleep on the floor. Zach Dempsey, eternal skeptic, looked personally offended by the movie’s existence. Derek Vance lounged with a smug smirk, clearly proud he’d thrown the empty beer can that hit “Grace” between the eyes. And Paul “Porkchop” Carter—adorably sentimental and two drinks past capacity—was sniffling into his sleeve. “Oh my god,” Zach muttered. “Is Chop actually—?” Porkchop shot up, cheeks flushed. “Shut the fuck up guys,” he snapped, voice thick with emotion. “She… she should be able to spend her life how she wants, okay?” Dead silence. Then the entire room detonated with laughter. “CHOP IS CRYING!” “Bro’s fuckin’ HAMMERED.” “Oh my god, someone take his schnapps away.” “He’s got a fuckin hard on too!” “I am empathizing,” Porkchop insisted, with all the dignity of a man slurring. Bran—President, tyrant, self-appointed god-king of the house—clapped his hands sharply. “Alright! That’s enough. We are NOT ending the night on emotional tree-farm drama.” He pointed at Noah Vance, Derek’s younger cousin, the pledge, who was trying to disappear into his too-tight children’s Christmas sweater. “Rookie. Up.” Noah froze. “Uh… what?” Bran waved him forward with the authority of a drill sergeant who’d been given a candy cane and too much power. “Pledge task. Pick the next movie. And don’t fuck it up or you’re on toilet duty for the entire next semester.” Noah stumbled toward the huge mixing bowl on the coffee table, filled with folded slips of paper—the frat’s chaotic holiday watchlist. He stuck his hand in, swirled, pulled something out. Bran snatched it before he could read it. “KRAMPUS!” he yelled triumphantly. “Hell. YES.” The room exploded. “FINALLY!” “Murder time!” “Christmas is SAVED!” “Play it, Rookie!” Noah hurried to cue up the movie while Ty grabbed another beer and Derek mock-wiped tears from Porkchop’s face. As the opening music of Krampus started, Evan drifted to the window again, tipping aside a tangle of pathetic garland. “Guys… the snow is getting, like… really bad.” Zach didn’t look away from the TV. “How bad?” Evan pressed his forehead to the glass. “Like… campus-shuts-down bad. I bet classes get cancelled tomorrow.” A triumphant roar shook the room. “FUCK YEAH! SNOW DAY!!” “No exams!” “Long live Phi Apha!” Behind them, the Christmas lights blinked twice, then once more… a faint, hesitant flicker. No one noticed. Not yet. — Krampus was barely ten minutes in before Phi Alpha Gamma descended into the predictable chaos of a winter-night watch party. Bran Coletti, Chapter President and self-declared Emperor of Christmas Movie Night, lounged in the center of the couch like it was his throne, barking commentary at the screen every few minutes. Ty whooped every time something vaguely violent happened, and Derek yelled back alternate lines he thought the characters should’ve said. Porkchop, miraculously recovered from his emotional meltdown, shoveled fistfuls of cinnamon popcorn into his mouth at a rate science would consider dangerous. Noah, the pledge, sat wedged between two couch cushions, trying not to look like a frightened woodland creature. Outside, the storm still raged—but the power in the neighborhood hadn’t so much as flickered. Through the front window, rows of houses remained warm and bright; the streetlights glowed steadily beneath the snowfall. This, unfortunately, did nothing to reassure Evan Marsh. “Guys,” Evan muttered, forehead nearly pressed to the glass, “the snow is really piling up out there. Like, uh… aggressively.” “No one cares, Evan,” Zach said flatly. “No, seriously, look—there are weird footprints in our yard. Like… big ones. That’s not normal, right?” “Footprints?” Ty perked up. “Like Santa?” “No,” Evan whispered. “Like… not human.” Before anyone could mock him further, the movie hit a tense beat: a child screaming, Krampus bells jingling ominously. And then— Every light in the frat house died. Instant. Total. Silent. The TV blinked out. The Christmas tree went dark. The heater cut off with a dull, defeated sigh. But through the front window, all the neighboring houses remained lit. And the streetlights still glowed. For a moment, no one said a word. Then Bran’s voice tore through the pitch-black living room. “OH, WHAT THE HELL? Why is OUR house the only one out? This is bullshit!” Ty yelped, “My beer— I can’t find my beer!” which was approximately the least helpful observation possible. Zach groaned. “It’s a blown breaker, obviously. This dump is older than Porkchop’s browser history.” “Hey,” Porkchop sniffed defensively, “my history is— is tasteful.” Someone bumped the coffee table. Someone else tripped over a plastic reindeer. The house filled with the sounds of chaos and mild suffering. Derek launched an empty can in Bran’s direction. “Nice job plugging in that sketchy space heater again, Prez.” “It was COLD,” Bran snapped. “Now shut up. We just need someone to flip the breaker.” As if on cue, a faint whistle drifted through the room. A cold draft crept up from the hallway leading to the basement—icy and damp, like something breathing from below. No one noticed. Not even Evan, who’d pressed closer to the window again and whispered, “Guys… I’m serious. Those footprints are really fucking weird.” Noah lifted his phone, its flashlight cutting a small pale circle through the dark. Zach’s voice came from somewhere near the tree. “Pledge. Basement. Breaker panel. Go.” Noah froze. “Why me?” “Because you’re the pledge,” Bran said, as if that were the entire explanation, the law, the universe. “And because someone needs to fix this before my toes freeze off.” Derek added, “Basement’s right there, buddy. Don’t scream too loud. Krampus might getcha.” Laughter rippled around him—forced, shaky at the edges. Noah swallowed. He turned toward the basement door. A stronger gust of cold rushed up as he pulled it open—unnaturally cold, like winter had carved itself into the earth beneath the house. He hesitated. Behind him, Bran barked, “Go on, Rookie. We believe in you. Sort of.” Noah stepped down the first creaking stair, phone flashlight trembling in his hand. The basement swallowed the light. The whistle echoed again—just for a moment, just enough to raise goosebumps. But the guys upstairs were already resettling themselves, arguing about whether they should start where Krampus stopped or restart it entirely. No one paid any more attention when Noah disappear into the dark, each guy grabbing their cellphones to kill the time. — Noah descended the basement stairs with steady, reluctant steps, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his phone high like a makeshift lantern. The narrow beam of light pushed weakly into the darkness below, illuminating dust motes that drifted through the cold air like tiny, suspended particles. The further he went, the more the warmth of the frat house disappeared behind him, replaced by a chill so sharp it felt as though the temperature dropped several degrees with each step. His breath fogged immediately, a thin white cloud that startled him—this basement shouldn’t have been that cold. The space opened before him in a low sprawl of clutter and neglect. Cardboard boxes marked XMAS DECOR leaned crookedly against the far wall, their corners softened by years of damp. Tangles of old Christmas lights were piled in plastic bins or strewn carelessly across the concrete floor like discarded serpents. A cracked inflatable snowman sagged in the corner, deflated and slumped over as if defeated by time. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—an acrid, chemical bite that made Noah’s throat tighten when he inhaled too deeply. He swallowed and tried to focus. The breaker panel sat near the furnace, its metal face dull with age. Noah forced himself toward it, trying to ignore the uneasy sensation that someone—or something—might be watching him from the darker corners of the basement. The feeling wasn’t entirely new; the basement had always felt strange, but tonight the atmosphere seemed charged in a way he couldn’t explain. There was a stillness to the air, a heavy, waiting quality that made him quicken his steps. A cold draft brushed the back of his neck as he reached the panel. It wasn’t the casual chill of an unsealed window or a poorly insulated wall—this felt like a long, icy exhale. Curious and unnerved, Noah turned and swept his flashlight toward the far wall. That was when he noticed it: a narrow door he had never seen before, partly obscured behind a stack of storage bins. The wood was warped and discolored, the frame cracked, as though it had endured decades of neglect. The door hung open by perhaps an inch, swaying subtly with the draft that flowed from the darkness beyond it. A soft, wavering whistle escaped from the unseen space behind the door, a hollow sound that pricked at his nerves. He didn’t investigate. His instincts urged him to turn back to the breaker. With fingers that trembled despite his efforts to steady them, he flipped the tripped switch. The house above him responded instantly—lights came back on, voices erupted in cheers, and the muffled thump of resumed movie sound reached him from the ceiling. Relief washed over him so quickly it made him dizzy. He let out a shaky laugh, raking a hand through his hair. He headed back toward the stairs, eager to rejoin the brightly lit world upstairs, but halfway up he paused abruptly. Something in the corner of his peripheral vision tugged at his attention. He turned, hesitant, and his flashlight swept across the basement floor. The tangled string of Christmas lights he’d seen earlier was no longer sitting motionless. The entire strand was shifting, inching slowly across the concrete floor like a living thing. The bulbs flickered irregularly—green, red, green, red—in a pulsing pattern that reminded him disturbingly of a heartbeat. The sight rooted him to the stairs, caught between disbelief and a rising sense of dread. Before he could convince himself he was imagining it, something struck him across the face. It wasn’t a physical blow so much as a wet impact, a sudden splatter of warm, viscous slime that hit with enough force to make him stumble back a step. He gasped as the substance slid down his cheek and jaw, its sickening chemical odor flooding his senses. His eyes burned from the sudden contact, and he instinctively wiped at his face, only smearing the slick fluid across his skin. Behind him, from the direction of the warped basement door and the creeping lights, a low growl rolled through the darkness. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that vibrated in the air around him. Noah froze on the stairs, heart pounding wildly in his chest. The growl shifted, curling upward into a sound that was unmistakably a chuckle—wet, guttural, and inhuman. His phone screen flickered violently as it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dimmed. The last coherent thought Noah had was that he needed to run. But his legs were already buckling beneath him as the world went black. — For the first twenty minutes after the power returned, none of the Phi Alpha Gamma brothers gave Noah a second thought. The movie was back on, the lights were on, the beer was flowing, and the living room had snapped right back into its rowdy rhythm. Bran restarted Krampus “properly, from the beginning, because cinematic excellence deserves respect,” and everyone groaned but went along with it. Ty sprawled across the rug with his head on a pillow shaped like Santa’s ass; Porkchop got emotionally invested in the opening scenes for reasons no one understood; Derek heckled the movie nonstop; Zach critiqued the pacing; Evan sat close to the window, flinching at every rattling gust of wind. Noah’s absence barely registered at first. He’d only gone to flip the breaker. A two-minute job. Maybe he’d stopped to check the Wi-Fi. Maybe he’d taken a leak. Maybe he’d found a dusty treasure trove of weird old frat history down there. And the movie was good. So good they didn’t notice how long it had been. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five. By the time the movie hit its midpoint, the guys were laughing, shouting, deeply engrossed—and Noah had been gone long enough for a quiet unease to slip into the edges of the room. It showed first in Evan, whose nervous habit of glancing at the basement door had become more frequent. Between flickers of lightning outside, he kept pressing his forehead to the glass, watching the snow pile into white drifts that swallowed the yard. Streetlights still glowed; nearby houses were still brightly lit. Their house remained the odd one out. The storm grew louder—wind scraping at the siding, rattling the gutters—and still the pledge hadn’t come back. When Ty finally muttered, “Damn, Rookie’s been down there forever,” it broke the spell over the room. Zach paused mid-sip of beer. “Huh. Yeah. He really has.” Bran frowned at the screen, though his gaze wasn’t quite focused anymore. “He’ll come up in a sec. Probably wiping cobwebs off the porn stash Derek keeps pretending isn’t his.” “They aren’t mine! I wasn't even alive to have that old of Playboys, you jackasses!” Derek barked, because that was the law of the universe. The laughter was weaker this time, the timing off. Another ten minutes passed. The snow outside grew deeper. The storm howled harder. The movie played on. And Noah remained conspicuously absent. Eventually, Porkchop sat up, frowning blearily. “Guys? Seriously. He’s usually back fast. Like… puppy-returning-with-the-ball fast.” Zach scoffed, but it didn’t carry the same confidence. “He’s fine. Probably went down a TikTok rabbit hole.” “Noah doesn’t even have TikTok,” Evan said quietly. The room went still again. Bran shifted forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. He looked toward the basement door, the only completely dark spot in the entire house. Something about it—the angle, the stillness—felt wrong, as though the darkness there was heavier than natural shadow. “How long’s it been?” he asked, voice lower now. Ty checked his phone. “Uh… like an hour? Maybe more?” An uneasy silence rippled through the room. “That’s… not normal,” Porkchop mumbled. Evan swallowed hard. “If he slipped or passed out or something—we’re gonna be in so much trouble. You know campus security already thinks we’re on probation even when we’re not.” No one argued. The paused Krampus frame stared back at them from the TV, claws raised mid-swipe, frozen in a way that made the air feel suddenly colder. Bran stood, breaking the tension with a crack of his knuckles. “Alright. Enough. Someone go down and get him.” The others looked at one another. No one moved. Not a single person volunteered. The basement door loomed in the far corner, a dark rectangle swallowing the soft glow of Christmas lights. And for the first time all night, even Bran didn’t bark an order.

Ae you all know I'm 21 year old top busy in daily work studies and stuff so don't have time to shave or clean my bushes 😜, today I was using grinder because I want to breed someone really bad but one guy whom i already meet before , ask me did u clean myself I was like i just woke up it's 7 in morning and then he asked did i removed all hair around my ass and dick , like seriously being a dom top i want my sub slut to listen to my order and rimm me properly weather it's hairy or something else but yr sad he can't rimm me and meet me because I get bushes 😑😑in both front and back ,

I doubt any rawguy with some experience would posit that hole-hair (or any pubic hair, for that matter) is unattractive. "Natural" is the key for most, whether that means a jungle of pubes or a bald as a cue-ball guy, the presence of hair or lack of it is really just icing on the cake, or lack of it. I've fucked all kinds of holes; from jungle-hairy to cue-ball bald. I do have a preference, of course, but it's not cast in concrete. The only thing I actually will avoid is a guy that's careless about hygiene, which is not an inherited trait. Just because I take special delight in fucking a "fresh-outta-the-jungle" hole doesn't mean I won't fuck a smooth one. When all is said and done, it's all good.

Luv being piss fucked!! It happened twice to me by some buddies I dubbed my Pig Boys (because they were sooooo nasty and I had incredible fun with them every time we hooked up). They were amazed that my extended bladder was able to hold it in without spilling a drop as I drove my Jeep Wrangler home. Sooooooooo much fun!! I need it again badly!!🍆💦💦🕳️😛

Hosting in Sunnyvale this weekend. 415-683-0386

Chubby cumdump hosting Black Friday. Starting at 8am, no load refused, ass up & ready for you. Visiting family in the Orlando area for Thanksgiving, getting away Friday morning for a cumdump session. Come by and drop your load off 🥵

I've never understood people who dislike pubic hair and hair around dicks. This is the way some people's dicks are. When the dick is inside you you can't see it so who the fuck cares? As an aesthetic thing, sure, we all have preferences, but once you're fucking? Makes no sense to me. Frankly, you're well rid of this princess.

Always been a fan

The homophobia calls coming from inside the house is always wild to me lol.

I’ve crossed into intimacy with people at bathhouses in moments of lust, but I wouldn’t say I was making love. Every encounter is different, and everyone has their own threshold for what feels too intimate in a hookup. For some men, kissing is off the table; for others, it’s essential. While both are physical acts, it’s simplistic to treat “making love” as purely innocent intimacy. Sex is something you do with someone; making love is something you share with someone. My bathhouse motto tho: "I'm into havin' sex, I ain't into makin' love" - 50 Cent - In da Club

Hairy is always better... shows higher testosterone.. embrace it! Id someone else doesn't like it, move on. Their loss.

He probably likes your cock, but doesn't like the bush. I'm not a big fan of real bushy junk either, especially ballsack.

First time I was bred and loved it. I’ve been sucking and swallowing this guy a few times and he has a magnificent cut cock. He would just rim me while I deep throat him until he cums down my throat. Sometimes I would spit some of his cum on my cock and jack off with it. He’s been asking to fuck me but as I was still an anal virgin I would say know, but I wanted him in me. So finally went out and bought a medium size training plug and a dildo and started training myself. After a bit of training, I invited him over to play. I came over and immediately began passionately eating my hole. I begged for him to fuck me which he eagerly obliged. It was slow and deep while I was prone bone. I loved that. Then he flipped me over and put my legs over his shoulders and fucked me for a bit. He started to slow down saying he didn’t want to cum yet and that’s when it. “Don’t slow down, I want you to cum inside me.” He started to pick up the pace again and all I could say was “please breed me.” When he did, I was in heaven. I couldn’t believe how good it felt to be so slutty and submissive. I can’t wait to see him again.

I got my last loads, yes loads, at Club Buddies here in Colorado Springs. I was in a sling for 10 hours and was fucked, bred, seeded for hours and was left and loose, juicy and a cummy hole! Cum all over me inside and out and all.over the floor where it dripped out or off of me! I fucking loved it!