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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....

Always been a fan

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.

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.

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

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.

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 ,

A man’s hair holds his sent. I prefer to get used by men with hair. I find the senior holds intoxicating.

I get it. I suppose I was just saying that hair doesn't elicit THAT strongly a response for me either way. But I also have very few preferences when it comes to physical attributes...

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

Damn, @Rillion, every chapter is hotter than the one before.

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.

Keep these hot 🔥🔥chapters cumming 🍆☣️💦💦!!! Jason is now Blake's forever boy, soon 2 be his toxic Poz son!!! Lucky li'll cumdump!!! Wish I were Jason!!!!😈🐽😋

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.

Well, I can’t say I like black cocks better than others. However, I have a strong preference for large cocks. And, percentage wise, I find each new black cock especially exciting. And though I hate stereotyping, I am often disappointed when a black cock isn’t pretty damn big. But the sex may still be incredible. They say that you get a first impression of someone in the first four seconds, I find the same to be true of cocks.

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.

My dick. Anyone want it?

I can't tell that English is not your first language. This story is written very well and vividly--giving readers the necessary descriptions of places, people, and events to picture the story as it unfolds in the sentences. Your word use/choice is superb--with selection of words that convey deep meaning, which allows readers to be transported into the story as voyeurs of such. Although I believe your post could stand as a lone installment from begin to end, I encourage you to consider writing more installments that detail what happens to the protagonist in the coming days/weeks/months. Does he seek out more "risky" encounters at the rest stop? Or find websites like BZ to fulfill his curiosity about poz sex and gift giving? So many pozzibilities! Thank you for sharing this scenario!

Everytime I take a poz load I’m gonna take one more and distributes to the chasers in need. I’ll also make a personal please to the poz dude that we help chasers out more. lol

Is this for real?

Yes do share where you heard this?

Really???? Source?

Last night I drained a married black cock. Messaged him on Grindr and after some back and forth we decided I’d suck him in the cut behind his house. He was big, dominant, and forcefully shoved himself into my throat while I was on my knees behind some trash cans in a dark alley. If any of the neighbors heard me choking on his cock none came to investigate or join. Sadly he only lasted a few minutes before pulling out and shooting onto my mouth, beard, and tits. I wore his load as I drove home and made him promise to breed me next time.

I enjoy long fuck sessions. While I am sure I could cum a lot faster, I prefer to have extended and sensual fucks where I can really enjoy all of the sensations that a bottom's hole can provide. I'm essentially edging my cock until there's just no way I can last any longer. Usually a minimum of 15 minutes at a sex party (where other tops might be waiting for their turn, and especially if the bottom already is loaded with cum) to 45-60 minutes for one-on-one sessions where we have a great connection. Thankfully, my refractory period is short and I can fuck again in 5 or so minutes and cum a second or third time. My enjoyment for longer sessions was always at odds in porn shoots. Often I was the last one to cum in a scene - but those cums were intense. That's because I hadn't been allowed to cum days beforehand, was usually fucking a wonderfully sloppy hole and watching all the other hot tops in the intense shoot really loaded up my balls for a powerful release. The closest thing to intense cums in porn have been at Horsemarket parties, where I'd be fucking for hours along all the other stallions.

Part 3 It only took me a short moment to regain consciousness. First thing I noticed was my throat was sore and my stomach felt queazy from the multiple huge loads of Vince’s special brand of cum in it. Then I noticed I wasn’t in the living room but I was in Vince’s bed. He must have carried me here when I was out. “Hey you didn’t die! That’s good news for me. I would have had to work hard to dump a load in your ass before you got cold, he he he.” Vince was there playing with my ass. He had a couple fingers in me that he replaced with his tongue. As good as it felt I turned over and faced him, which incidentally landed my legs around his waist and his semi hard cock touch my ass. “How long was I out?” My voice was scratchy as I asked rubbing my throat. “Less then a minute. I figured you’d like to be more comfy.” His arms wrapped around my legs. His hands rubbing my ass. He moved his hips forward and his shaft ground against my crack. “Vince, my ass is sore, my throat is sore. My stomach hurts. I can’t handle anymore messing around.” “You said you’d suck my cock anytime.” “You can’t possibly go another round so soon.” “He he, yeah you’re right. I’ll need a while before I’m ready to go again. A younger version of me would be more energetic and I’d be hips deep in your ass about now.” He continued his humping. Miming out the motions of ass fucking. His dick was only half erect which was impressive enough given his two orgasms earlier. He grabbed his dick and was aiming it towards my hole, trying to push it in. “Vince I thought you weren’t going to fuck me?” “I’m not, I just need to take a piss.” He forced his half hard cock in my ass which gave little resistance. “Again? I don’t want piss up my ass.” “Oh then would you like to drink it?” “Ew no. No water sports.” “I won’t ask for another blow job today if you let me piss in your ass from now on. You’re throat could use a rest.” “Ugh fine make it quick.” I was still horse and rubbing my throat. It hurt to talk and if I could give my mouth a break for a while then I’m fine with taking a little piss where I can’t actually taste it. As soon as I gave to go ahead, I felt a hot spreading sensation in my ass. He was already relieving himself inside me. “Ahhh, that’s a good toilet boy. Oh how I wanted you like this the moment I saw you. Yeah that’s a thirsty ass. Oof drink me up toilet boy.” “That nickname better not stick. God, how much do you have in you?” I was feeling my guts bloat as Vince continued to stream. I hadn’t even noticed that he was all the way inside me. But that didn’t count for much given how he was only half soft. “You’re all they way inside me this time.” “Ah, yeah. It’s easier this way. But you better hope I don’t get a full hard on like this, or it’ll get full on hard at full length. Oh, there we go. All finished. How do you feel?” “Like I’m going to burst. I should go to the bathroom.” Vince kept me glued to his cock. “Not yet. We don’t want to blast it all over the sheets now. Just let it spread deeper in you. Trust me, I’m very experienced with this. The more you wait the more my piss will work it’s way up and you’ll feel a little less bloated.” I laid back and waited for his piss to spread deeper in me. While I waited I considered my situation. This was the fifth time I’ve had his cock in me now? I lost track. But I’m here in his room with it up in me again. Somehow how he keeps getting me to do these things. But to be fair it’s not entirely his fault. My curiosity and minor enjoyment of some of the things he does has also been a factor. At first I thought it was all him but more and more I’m starting to get into more kink myself. I learned I liked having my feet played with. And if I try to think about it with an open mind, sure, a cock pissing in my ass is kinda hot too. Weird, last week I was a totally vanilla guy and now I’m doing raunch with a dirty poz fucker. If any of these kinks stuck I should definitely try them about with other guys. Ouch what’s that? “Ooh seems like I’m getting a little harder, ooh he he he. What will happen to your ass if I get to full mast?” “Ow can you pull out now?” “Why? Let’s see where this goes.” He was now fucking my ass again. This time filled with piss and his hips firmly pressed against my ass. His dick was getting harder and it was bulldozing it’s way in me. It was hurting the more he kept it in. “Ah, no more. I need up, seriously.” “Okay, such a serious boy.” He stopped fucking and slowly pulled his cock out. I managed to clench up but a little piss still got out. “Oops, we’ll I guess that was bound to happen. Oh well it’s only a little.” I slowly got up and left Vince’s room. I got rid of whatever I could from the piss fucking and brushed my teeth. I looked for any pepto but we were out. I could barely recognize my reflection. I was turning into a kinkster wither I wanted to or not. And my roommate was the corrupter. For the rest of the day I managed to go unmolested. Minus a few minor incidences. Vince regained his need to cum and was looking for hookups. I enjoyed my day while he was out. I managed to get a few assignments finished since I didn’t have the distractions. My throat was still a little sore but my stomach not longer hurt. I guess Vince’s cum can do a number on you in more ways then one. Can you get food poisoning from cum? After I felt like I was productive enough I went out myself. I needed time away from the flat and unwind. I went to a local gay bar that was close by. I just wanted a couple drinks, and exchange glances with handsome strangers. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to hook up but the attention would be welcomed. I sat at the bar and ordered a whisky cola. After a few refreshing sips I surveyed the place. A few faces I recognized, some new ones, some creepy ones, some cute ones. There weren’t many there tonight, probably because it was still early. One drink turned into four. I was getting a comfortable buzz on. Not crazy drunk but I was definitely feeling it. I had chatted with a couple guys casually until they had to go meet up with friends. I had an invite to join a group for bar hopping but I had class in the morning and wasn’t up for it. When the semester is over I’ll be able to take a little brake from the crazy scheduling. At some point I needed to take a leak so I wandered to the bathroom. I was wobbling a bit. The booze was probably effecting me a little more then I thought. The bathroom was way in the back and had one of those weird layouts. An L shaped room with urinals around the counter of the stalls. I think it was pretty popular for cruising, not that I’d have any experience with that. I wandered all the way around at the end of the urinals to the only one that looked the least dirty. As I was doing my business someone else came in. He went to the urinal right next to me. Of course he chose that one. Of all the urinals he could have picked he picked the one next to me and we were both at the far end of the room. “Hey there. Nice cock.” Yup, he was cruising. He was a tall 40 something fat guy with greasy messy dark hair and thinning on top. He had baggy worn through clothing and sandals. He had harsh rough facial features and a nasally voice. He wouldn’t classify as a bear, more like a weirdo living in his mothers basement. The type of guy I’d normally avoid. He wasn’t pissing. I glanced down at his dick and he was stroking a fat 5 inch cock with a large cock head, his balls were big but his bush was unkempt. The alcohol was throwing me off guard because I wasn’t subtle enough at the glance. He caught me staring. “You can suck it if you like.” He turned towards me and stepped closer holding his dick up. He had BO. I could tell but the way he talked and carried himself, he wasn’t all there. I said nothing and finished shaking my last few drops. But before I could put my dick away he put a hand on my butt. “You’re Vince’s boy right?” “What? How…” That got my attention. How did this guy know Vince and how did he know we knew eachother? But I wasn’t anyones ‘boy’. The harsh looking guy looked over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was around then went behind me and pulled my pants down. He bent me over the urinal and I was having trouble keeping my balance. Woah what’s happening right now? He’s not actually going to fuck me is he? “I just gotta do this real quick.” He spat on his cock and was jabbing against my hole. His head was digging into me and he put his hands on my hips and slammed forward penetrating me all the way. “Ow what the hell?!” He was fucking me desperately. He was clumsy and rough. I was able to take his length easy enough but the girth was challenging. “Oh yes! Hot ass!” His slamming was relentless. His big belly rested on my ass and it felt like I was getting absorbed into him. My face was almost against the wall. He was too big to get away from and he was enjoying my ass like a starving dog. “Dude pull it out.” I grunted softly. I didn’t want to be too loud because I was terrified of what anyone would think if they saw this. I wasn’t even sure he heard me. “I haven’t fucked a delicious boy like you before. Oh fuck I’m gonna cum! Sorry! I have to cum in you! You don’t mind! You’re a dirty cum pig! ARGHH!” He slammed into me several times as he unloaded into me. His cock throbbed as it gushed. Shit what did he just say? Fuck no, this guy needs to get the hell off me. He kept thrusting in me a few times as he finished up. I wanted him out as soon as possible but he just held me in place. Then I heard him sigh. “Ahhhh…” my ass felt a familiar hot spreading. ‘Damn it, am I getting pissed in again?!’. He was definitely pissing inside me. I could feel it spreading deep but luckily it wasn’t a huge amount. The creep eventually pulled out of me. A small stream of yellow squirted out my ass and dripped on the floor. He let go of me and I fell to the floor. As I looked up at him he stared down at me. “You should come home with me. I have plans for a handsome juicy boy like you.” The sketchy guy took off a sandal and held a foot in front of my face. It was massive and plump like a size 14 and dirty on bottom. ‘Hu? What is he doing?’ He brought it down and smeared his foot sweat on my face. I was grabbing his leg and trying to get him away but i couldn’t stop his large foot. It was moist and rank. This guy was trying to get as much kink mileage as he could. Then he shoved his toes in my mouth. I protested but nothing else I was doing worked so I figured it would be best to do what he wanted so he’d leave. I reluctantly sucked his toes the same way Vince sucked mine. The taste was almost like Vince’s cum, salty and foul, but a bit cheesy. I was hating it, but after a minute of licking his foot clean my dick was starting to get hard. ‘Oh fuck! I’m not getting into this am I?’ I tried to fight back my boner but there was something about the softness of the bottoms of his feet that felt, cushy? Soft? Something like that. I couldn’t really describe it. It was…nice? “Nice, boner there.” He moved his foot from my face down to my cock and rubbed it. He put his hands in the wall to support himself while he was jacking me with his foot. It felt good and I was leaking pre so his foot job was getting slippery. It was so embarrassing. I was getting turned on by it. Not from him but from what he was doing. I couldn’t help but grab it and move my hips so I could hump it in rhythm to his movements. He stopped moving his foot and let me fuck his sole at my own pace. His meaty toes caressing my head. It didn’t take me long to work up to a cum shot. I blasted my load all over his foot and between his toes. My heart was beating fast and the creepy guy kept looking around. He turned around and for a second I thought he was going to leave but he walked backwards towards me and pulled his pants down revealing his fat lumpy pockmarked ass. He spread his cheeks and exposed a dark hairy gaping ass hole. It was large and moist and it was coming right toward me. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” I threw my hands up and pushed them against his huge ass but he buried my face in it regardless. My resisting stopped his slimy pulsing hole from kissing my lips but just ever so slightly. He stank and I didn’t want to rim him. But my arm strength was failing me. He let go of his cheeks which engulfed my head ear to ear. His drooling doughnut hole puckered towards me like a hungry beast ready to devour prey wandering into it’s cave. Oh shit I’m about to eat the ass of this gross basement troll. “Come on, stick that tongue out. Shove it in my hole. Lick me clean.” Luckily someone else came in the bathroom, but straight into a stall by the entrance. That made the chubby stranger jump a bit and remember we weren’t in a perminantly private place. He pulled his ass away and stood up. Thank goodness, I thought I was going to get swallowed whole by that bottomless cavern. “Here, you can have this back.” He handed me my phone. When did he get that? When he fucked me? “Why did you have this?” “I have your number now. I have a bigger apatite then this. I’ll see you around.” He hurried out of there leaving me alone. I looked through my messages. He shot videos of himself fucking me and giving him foot service. It looked like he sent himself the videos too. Also my number and home address were sent to him. Great now I’m gonna get stalked by the living definition of a stalker. I’ll need to get tested soon because that pig shot in me too. I stood up and I was still wobbly. I didn’t bother with getting his piss out of me, I just wanted to leave as soon as possible. So I made my way home. When I got home I struggled with the keys for a bit but managed to get the door open. I wanted a damn shower after what I don’t even want to think about happened. I was tired and dizzy with too much to drink. I leaned up against the couch and stripped my clothes off. I was going to head to the shower but I ended up falling asleep right there.