norubbers

*please excuse any rough grammar in this one. Haven't gotten as much time to edit as I usually take, but I wanted to get this chapter out* "Curiosity is going to get you into trouble, Brock," Dale said. In person, Dale was even more striking than he had been on the screen. He was a bit over 6' tall and he was very fit. Not exaggerated like a body builder. More like a man who worked a very physical job or a natural athlete. His beard was still immaculately trimmed. He wore a white shirt that was nearly skin tight and contrasted nicely with his tan. His dark wash jeans were just tight enough for his bulge to be unmistakable. Brock started from his fixation on Dale's bulge, "Wait, how do you know my name?" "You really do look like your mom. Well, more like your grandpa Glen," Dale continued as though he hadn't heard the question. Dale had closed the distance between them. His eyes drifted down to Brock's dick and the substantial amount of precum dripping from it. He slicked his fingers through the precum. "Except that. That you get from my side of the family." He licked the precum off his fingertips. Brock was confused. "Your...side of the fam..what...?" Dale's laugh was a low, masculine rumble. "Before you ask, no I'm not your dad. My brother Rodney is." Brock was trying to process this information when the realization that his uncle had just swallowed his precum crashed over him. His dick throbbed. "So what are you doing here, Brock? This isn't exactly a place for preppy high school boys," he chided. "Online chat rooms said the bookstores were an easy place to get off," Brock replied sheepishly. "So I thought I'd check it out." "You decided to come to the Block for your first porn store experience?" Dale asked, somewhat incredulously. "What does your search history look like?" Brock looked down sheepishly and chuckled. He was still painfully hard and leaking precum. "They definitely left some things out." Dale chuckled again, "I'm sure they did. The preview booths can be pretty popular if you want some glory hole action." Brock could see his uncle's bulge was a bit more defined. "That's what I had heard. What was that video playing downstairs?" Brock was careful not to let on that he had seen the second part. "I do some amateur porn stuff. We sell...actually, just follow me." Dale swiped up some more of Brock's precum and walked toward the heavy curtain as he casually licked it off his fingers again. Brock stuffed his still hard dick back in his boxer briefs and buttoned his jeans before turning to follow. Behind the curtain was, as far as Brock had seen, the cleanest room in the building. He immediately recognized the futon. There was some very low tech camera equipment set up in front of the futon. "Welcome to my studio," Dale said sarcastically with an exaggerated gesture around him. "I opened the store back in the 80s fresh out of high school. Decided to try and cut some overhead by putting some home made products on the shelves." "And what about the fuck club the guy was talking about?" Brock was still trying to hide how much he knew. "Ah. That..." Dale turned to a small table and picked up a small orange flyer. He handed it to Brock. It advertised a monthly sex party and had the store's info. "Every second Saturday. All day. Usually rent out some space in a park or hotel depending on the weather. The video is part of the application process." "I want to apply," Brock blurted out immediately. Dale smirked a little, "You've seen what that process entails. Are you sure?" "Yes." Brock had already begun stripping his clothes off. Dale checked the camera and adjusted some lights. When Brock was down to just his boxer briefs, he sat down on the futon. Dale didn't start the camera rolling. He stripped his shirt off, baring his furry chest and abdomen and sauntered over to stand over Brock. Brock wasted no time unbuttoning the fly of Dale's jeans and getting the head of his uncle's dick in his mouth. It was covered in a layer of precum. Brock cleaned off every drop, savoring the taste and the feel of his uncle's slick, syrupy fluid on his tongue. Then he began to work his way down the shaft. "As you probably saw in the video, I am poz and not on meds," Dale said. "I'm sure you have learned about HIV in school." Brock mumbled something in the affirmative around Dale's massive dick. Dale pulled Brock off his dick roughly, "and you are aware that you will, in all likelihood, be infected?" Brock had been terrified of HIV when they learned about it in sex Ed. His bible-thumping health teacher and the abstinence only curriculum she taught had made it out to be a modern biblical plague sent down to cull the homosexual and exterminate the sexually immoral from the earth. Brock had written all of that off as hyperbole and researched it for himself online. He had a better idea of the risks and how it was transmitted, but he was still a little terrified. And that terror was like steroids for his libido. "Yes, sir," Brock looked up at Dale, a lustful hunger simmering to the surface, "I want you to poz me, uncle Dale." Dale growled something unintelligible in response and let Brock return to his dick. Brock enthusiastically devoured Dale's cock, pushing himself further down the shaft, letting Dale's cock stretch his throat. Before long, Brock's nose was buried in Dale's pubes. Brock was quietly impressed with himself and came up for air, working Dale's head with his tongue. Dale wrapped his hand around the back of Brock's skull and pushed. His dick rocketed back down the young man's throat and dale roughly and held him there until he felt Brock's throat spasm and saw the panic on Brock's face. Dale withdrew his dick and a mixture of saliva and Dale's precum dripped from Brock's chin. As he coughed and sputtered, trying to recover from being choked, Brock looked up at his uncle. The light and joking demeanor that had run under Dale's teasing only minutes before was rapidly being replaced by lust and a primal desire to infect his own kin. Before Brock could fully recover, his uncle's 8" member was sliding back into his throat. Brock was impressed with his ability to keep up, considering he'd only ever casually experimented with deep throating food. He suspected it was because his uncle' dick was thick enough that it left little room for gagging - it was like trying to squeeze a hot dog into a straw. When it was apparent that Brock was comfortable with the size of his dick, Dale pulled out and let his nephew clean the fluids off his dick. "Stand up. We need to get some interview material," Dale said. He stepped out of frame of the camera. The red light on top of the camera blinked on. "State your name and age for the camera." "Brock. 18." "And why do you want to join this sex club." Brock pondered this question for a minute. "I always thought I was destined to change lives," Brock said, grabbing his steel-hard dick and emphasizing the outline of his bulge against his compression boxer briefs. "I figure my best chance to fulfill that destiny is with this." Brock had often felt like an outcast among his peers. He had been the tallest in his class since the 6th grade. A couple guys on the basketball team had finally caught up to him this year, but otherwise he stood a good 3" over everyone else at his school. The nicknames about his height were corny, but liveable. The introduction of the locker room and having to change in front of his classmates had been fresh hell. He never could quite figure out why he was being made fun of for having a dick that bulged regular underwear to obscenity. He got really good at hiding his erections and wore athletic compression shorts to reduce his bulge, but still most of his peers had a rough idea of his size and decided it was something of ridicule. He tried to find new ways to hide what should have been one of his best traits. Standing there on camera, painfully erect, there was no hiding his dick anymore. "Take those off, let's get a look at you, Brock." Brock quickly shucked his boxer briefs. Dale picked up the camera and took the audience on a tour of his nephew's body. Starting from the top, he pointed out brock's chin-length auburn hair and full beard. The camera lingered on Brock's muscular arms and shoulders, toned pecs and abs generously pelted in dark red hair. And then the camera found its way to Brock's uncut, 9" cock nested in a thicket untrimmed public hair. "That is an impressive piece for someone so young," Dale commented. Brock shrugged. "Good genes, I guess," Brock smirked and saw a trace of amusement return to Dale's eyes before lust snuffed it out again. Dale circled Brock like a lion playing with its meal. After some good shots of Brock's meaty, muscular ass, Dale returned the camera to the tripod and stepped back into frame. "On your back, legs up," Dale commanded. Brock obeyed. Dale positioned his dick, dripping precum, just outside Brock's hole. From this angle, Brock had a great view of his uncle's scorpion tattoo. He reached out and caressed the tattoo gently with an air of longing. He thought about all the precum he'd already swallowed and trembled with excitement as he became consciously aware he'd already consumed a substantial amount of his Dale's virus-laden venom. His uncle's infectious DNA was dripping onto Brock's hole. Brock knew he was ready for the sting of inevitable death. To be reborn among those who would not only appreciate him, but celebrate the things about him that he had been bullied for. The things he resented. He wanted what his uncle was talking about in the private video he's seen in the office. The Scorpion Society. That was where he belonged. With the unexpected, gentle gesture, Dale seemed to have a sudden change of heart and instead of plunging his stinger into Brock for the kill, he nealt down and engulfed Brock's dick in his mouth. He took Brock to the root in one swift movement. Brock could feel his uncle's throat working around his soda can thickness with ease. "Holy fuck..." Brock managed before he devolved into gutteral moans of pleasure. Brock's eyes rolled back in his head. Brock's orgasm had been building from the moment before he got out of his car. Brock had been through a roller coaster of emotions. Anxiety. Curiosity. Lust. Terror. Lust again. More lust. Brock felt like all of those emotions were being loaded directly into his vas deferens and if his uncle kept going, they were going to explode. Spectacularly. Dale seemed to realize this and released his nephew's cock, trailed his tongue past his balls, and buried it in Brock's furry hole. Dale was showing his brother's bastard son much more compassion than he had shown for Zeke in the video downstairs, which did not go unnoticed by Brock. Dale alternated swirling his tongue around Brock's hole with probing deeper with his tongue. Before long, Dale was working a finger deep inside his nephew. It seemed effortless. Brock was vibrating with excitement when he realized his uncle had slicked up his finger with the deadly slime oozing from his dick. Brock knew that his uncle's virus was already going to work against the vulnerable mucosa that were the only barrier between him and his coming conversion. Dale worked his way up to three fingers. Brock noticed a feeling of burning while his uncle worked his hole open the last bit. Dale returned to his original position, dick positioned just outside his cognate's now slightly agape hole. Brock spotted the blood under his uncle's fingernails. He knew his T cells had already lost the war that was on the verge of raging in his blood. The blood he shared with the man commanding the assault. The man whose viral dna was dripping into his hole as he waited for the perfect moment to strike.

Yep. Just lime my other story, the next chapter is started, but work ate most of my time to work on it. Hope to have both out this week.

Yeah. I have thr next chapter started. Work got unexpectedly crazy on me and I started another story. But the next part IS coming.

As Brock was herded back up the stairs by the cashier, he noticed the cold of the wet patch covering most of his left thigh from where his own copious precum had saturated his jeans. At the top of the stairs, Brock expected to be taken back to the register, or maybe worst case he'd be kicked out, so he was surprised when he was escorted to a room in the back. It appeared to be an office of some kind. The beat up desk took up most of the room. A heavy black curtain covered the wall behind the desk. On the wall opposite the curtain was the only thing that looked like it was bought this decade: a massive flat screen TV that looked brand new. "Have a seat." The cashier commanded. Brock immediately dropped into one of the mismatched chairs. "Look, I'll leave. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to go down there. It's my first time...," he blabbered. He was nervous. Who could blame him. From somewhere nearby, Brock heard a creak like a door hinge and the shuffling of feet. "Fuck! Stay here." The man barked and quickly exited the room. As soon as he was out of the door, Brock shot up out of his chair and started pacing around the room. He assessed his situation quickly and decided to make a break for it and get out of there. As he passed the desk, he saw the remote to the TV and another DVD case. The paper insert read "090305 'Zeke' 22," this time in blue sharpie. Brock stopped in his tracks as though he'd run into a brick wall of curiosity. Mixed with libido. He was still mostly hard despite the terror of the ordeal. And Zeke and Dale were fucking hot. Any chance to see more of them, he would take. He listened very intently to see if the cashier was coming back. He heard only silence. Before he thought more about it, he snatched up the remote, turned the TV on and hit play. The timestamp in the corner was 09/03/2005. Yesterday. Brock understood the first numbers on the handwritten cases. The room on screen was the same as the film dowstairs but the futon was nowhere to be seen. Brock recognized both people on screen. On what looked like a medical exam table was Zeke, once again in his boxers. He still looked like a surfer twink just as before. But he looked a bit worse for the wear. His eyes were a bit sunken and he looked like he had lost a bit of muscle tone. The second was not Dale. It was the man who had just left the room. The store's cashier was finishing setting up equipment next to the table. He pulled on latex gloves Brock recognized Dale's voice when he spoke from behind the camera, "Welcome back, Zeke. How was the rest of your summer." "It was fine," Zeke responded neutrally, "went home for a bit. Moved into an apartment for my senior year since I just have my big professional development class. Don't need the distraction of the dorms." "And how are you feeling," Dale asked, emphasizing the last word. "I'm poz, if that's what you're asking," Zeke responded coolly. "Was a three day ordeal from hell, but I knew to expect it at least. Told my parents it must have been an out of season flu." "Are you ready for the next phase of initiation?" "...yeah," Zeke sounded weary, but also excited. Like he had been a roulette wheel of feelings about this moment for two months and had landed on acceptance "Excellent. Two questions before we begin First have you, to your knowledge, received the HIV virus from anyone other than me prior to or since your initiation? Zeke shook his head. "I need a verbal answer," Dale chided. "No." Zeke responded definitively. "Second, did you start antiretroviral therapy?" "Of course I did. I'm undetectable." Zeke replied. "Green." Dale said, though this was directed at the cashier, who turned back to the equiment. "You are about to be branded as a member of the Scorpion Society. It is an international brotherhood of poz men. You will find a nest of us in every major city in the world and many rural communities. Like this one." It sounded like Dale had given this speech many times. "Each nest is headed by a Jarl, that's me, who holds the original strain of that nest. Each Jarl may have up to two Thanes of his choosing. The Thanes are hand selected and convertedd personally by the Jarl to ensure their strain is as pure as possible. Jarls and Thanes are identified by their orange scorpion tattoos." Brock realized he was rubbing his dick through his jeans again. HIV had been a footnote in his "abstinence only" sex education curriculum. He had never even considered it as something he might encounter in his life. He had definitely never considered there were people who were so open and clinical about it. Who spread it intentionally. The thought of it was triggering some side of him he had absolutely no control over. "Thanes are not allowed to be on ART. If a Thane starts ART, he loses status and joins the citizenry and a new one will take his place. Citizens bear green scorpion tattoos." The cashier showed Zeke his forearm, which had a scorpion tattoo identical to Dale's, but in a dark green. "Tell Walt where you want your tattoo and he will get started." Zeke gestured to the right side of his torso. Walt set to work. Dale continued: "Citizens can partake in all membership benefits and have open access to all member facilities. Your only obligation as a citizen is to the Jarls and Thanes. You are to submit your hole to them at their command. Immediately and without question. In the event you go off ART and infect someone, they are not considered citizens of this society and they will be excluded from citizenship due to their tainted strain. Benefits of citizenship transfer to other nests, should you travel or move Do you understand these guidelines?" "I understand." Zeke said with finality. Brock was transfixed by what he was seeing and hearing. At some point, he had unbuttoned his jeans and taken them and his boxer briefs down to his thighs. His hand was wrapped around his uncut dick, idly stroking his length as his precum ran down the length of his shaft to his hand. He slicked his dick up and still more dribbled onto his underwear and the floor. He had always been an extremely heavy precummer. He heard a rustle behind him and an ice cold chill raced down his spine. He fumbled to turn the TV off and quickly turned to see someone stepping out from behind the heavy black curtain.

Brock stepped off the last concrete step into a short, narrow hallway. In the room beyond, he could see there were mismatched sofas ranging from floral paisley that looked like it had been lifted directly out of his grandmother's family room to a broken down leather La-Z-Boy that appeared to have lived a short, hard life in a frat house. Brock crept to the door and surveyed the very dim room in front of him. There were 10 sofas in total facing one of the unfinished concrete walls like theater seating. That appeared to be the goal, as there was a porno flick playing on the unfinished wall from a beat up projector. That was the only source of light in the room. Four men were scattered amongst the sofas. A mid 40s, average build business man in a Grey suit sat on the paisley sofa nearest the door with a very obvious erection under his suit pants, idly rubbing himself through the fabric. A muscular guy in designer label clothes sat in the far back corner, an obscene bulge quite evident in his joggers but he didn't seem to be giving much attention to it or the flick. A slight, nebbish man who wore a plaid button up and khakis sat transfixed on the film, the film reflecting off his glasses contrasting with how still he sat. The last guy was dressed much like Brock. He was seated in the front row, so Brock couldn't tell much about him other than he wore a ball cap, a plain shirt, and jeans. Of the four on the sofas, he was the only one who appeared to notice Brock, turning his head slightly toward the door. The porno on the wall appeared to be something very low budget. In fact, it looked like a home movie that had been recorded on a Handycam or something. The timestamp in the corner read 07/03/2005, which was two months ago, and the title was "Zeke." A younger guy - probably in his early 20s - with long blond hair was sitting in his boxers on a cheap metal futon being interviewed by someone out of frame. "So what brought you here tonight, Zeke?" The guy out of frame asked. Brock turned his attention away as Zeke was starting to answer. Behind the sofas, the projector sat on top of a half wall. A fifth guy stood behind the wall. His pants and briefs were around his ankles and he was stroking himself hard. He was a stocky guy and from the look of his stiffer-by-the-second dick, he had a short, beer can thick dick. Brock was a bit taken aback that someone was just openly jerking off, but he was immediately reminded how horny he was as his teenage dick strained against the tight denim of his jeans. The man saw Brock, then he used some spit to slick his cock up a little and continued wanking while staring openly at Brock for a few seconds before turning back to the film. Set into the walls on the left half of the room were four small alcoves. Small amounts of light from the central room barely made it into them and they were pitch black otherwise. Still more curious than anything, Brock started toward the nearest. Inside, there was another guy jerking off. He had tied twine around his dick and scrotum in some kind of home made Oxballs style cockring. His average sized dick was engorged and purple under the constraint of his knot work. He idly played with his dick, leaking some precum which he was enthusiastically licking from his fingers. He nodded to Brock, which may have been an invitation. Brock was oblivious, though, as he continued to the next alcove. Inside, he found a very roughly constructed plywood "table" at about the right height for fucking. An orange light bulb cast an eerie glow on the table. No one was in that alcove currently. The last two alcoves were two entrances into the same small, dark room. Inside were two construction workers. They still wore their vests. Each of them had his pants undone and around his thighs. Both appeared to have above average dicks. Kneeling in front of them was a man who had to be in his 60s. He wore nothing but a jockstrap. He was alternating sucking each of the dicks in front of him. "I'm gonna cum," one of the construction guys announced casually. The older man took his dick all the way down his throat and swallowed every drop of the man's seven inch uncut dick before turning his attention to the other dick. The guy who'd cum stuffed his dick back in his pants, buttoned up, and walked out of the alcove past Brock. Brock turned back to the film. Zeke had been joined on camera by a second man, Dale. The new guy was middle age. Dark hair and eyes. A bit taller than Zeke, but Zeke didn't look particularly tall. Dale looked like the "best friend's hot dad" in every teen sex comedy movie. Neatly trimmed beard, just a little bit of gray starting to come through, obviously knew his way around the gym. USDA Grade A Certified DILF. Zeke was now standing naked with his hands clasped in front of his groin. He looked a bit more uncomfortable now. Dale was walking around him groping him and pointing out tattoos and other details about him. Everywhere he would touch, the cameraman would get a closeup. "Alright, now we need some closeups of your dick and your ass, and then we can start the next part of the interview," Dale said as casually as if he were asking him to make some copies or fetch a coffee. Zeke seemed reluctant, but he eventually unclasped his hands. He had a decent size dick, even totally soft. "Oh yeah, this is going to work great, Zeke," Dale said enthusiastically. He unbuckled his pants and pulled out his semi-hard dick. Commando. Brock had watched a lot of porn. I mean, A LOT of porn. But he had rarely seen anything this...rough. There was no editing to speak of, just one continuous shot from the single camcorder. Everything about it felt so amateur and real. Brock's dick pulsed it's approval. Dale had one of the largest dicks Brock had ever seen. "Might be as big as mine," he thought. The only word he could think of to describe it was "photogenic." Thick with a couple prominent veins. Large head, but proportionate with the rest of the shaft. "Show me what you can do," Dale said, gesturing to his cock. Zeke got down on his knees and took the head of the man's dick in his mouth. Brock found his way over to an empty couch in the back and his left hand went straight for the steel pipe in his own jeans. He realized he hadn't touched his own dick since he'd gotten here. Even through his jeans he felt like he could explode instantly. In the flick, Dale was groaning as Zeke worked his head and the first bit of the shaft. He placed his hand on the back of Zeke's head and was less than gently coaxing Zeke further down his shaft. Zeke seemed to be much more comfortable with Dale's meaty head against his tonsils than the had been minutes ago. Zeke was also quite talented from the look of it. Before long, Dale's entire dick was sliding effortlessly in and out of his throat, skullfucking Zeke. A mixture of fluids dripped off Zeke's face as he accepted the massive length and girth of Dale's dick into his throat. A hunger burned behind his eyes. "Please fuck me, sir," Zeke coughed out during a quick break when Dale had pulled completely out to show the camera his dick layed across Zeke's face. "You sure you're ready, kid?" Dale chided. Zeke responded by scooping up a handful of the fluids still on his face and smearing between his cheeks. Then he laid back on the futon and presented his hole to Dale. Dale took off his shirt. Between his navel and his pelvis, on his muscular lower abdominals, he had a single tattoo: an orange scorpion. It wasn't a complicated tattoo, but it was exquisitely done. On screen, Zeke asked if the tattoo meant what he thought it meant. Dale didn't answer, he just shucked his pants and began smearing precum on Zeke's waiting hole directly from the head of his massive dick. "Does that mean what I think it means!?!" Zeke said more urgently this time. He looked genuinely terrified. He began to squirm, but Dale had him in a bad position and 40 extra pounds of leverage. Brock found himself confused, but undeniably aroused by the scene on the screen. Why had Zeke been so terrified of a tattoo? What did the tattoo mean? "This is gonna hurt," Dale said as he plunged his massive member into Zeke's hole. He had slicked Zeke's hole and his own cock with a generous amount of precum, but even that was not enough to prepare Zeke. Zeke screamed. He writhed. The pain was evident in every fiber of Zeke's body. Dale was clearly enjoying it, but he held back for the benefit kd the camera. The cameraman got a close up of Dale's cock impaling Zeke's hole. You could see Zeke's hole spasm, trying desperately to eject the sudden intrusion. Dale didn't move much until Zeke had calmed down a bit. As Zeke's hole adjusted, Dale began short, slow strokes in his hole. "Yes, the scorpion tattoo means what you think it means," he said matter of factly. "You told me you were serious about becoming a member," he added. "The club...," Zeke sputtered. "I wanted to join the fuck club, not get POZZED!" "They are one and the same," Dale replied. "Trust me, the benefits are worth it." The pleasure of the fuck was beginning to set in for Zeke. His cries and sharp breathing were quickly turning into moans and panting for more. Dale pulled his dick out of Zeke. The coating of juices on his dick had streaks of red through it. He flipped Zeke over face down on the futon. He plunged his cock back into Zeke's battered hole with the full weight of his muscular body behind it. Zeke was rocking his hips on every thrust to let more of Dale penetrate him. Dale shoved Zeke's head into the mattress of the futon as he slammed his dick into Zeke's puffy hole. The cameraman got a closeup of Zeke's angry red pucker as Dale hammered his length into him. The camera panned back out to a wider shot and Dale wrapped his muscular arm around Zeke's neck. "I'm going to poz you up, kid. And then sex will never be complicated again. You want fucked. You take cum. Someone wants to fuck you. You take cum." Dale said, mere centimeters from Zeke's ear. Dale slowed down his strokes. "Do you want it, Zeke? Do you want to fuck freely? Do you want more sex than you can possibly imagine?" "I want it," Zeke mumbled. "Say it like you mean it, kid." Dale had pulled Zeke up against his chest by his hair, his dick still dripping red tinged fluids. It was poised just outside the wreckage that used to be a sphincter, looking very much like a stinger ready to inject a lethal dose of venom. "I WANT IT! I WANT YOU TO POZ ME" Zeke shouted. Dale threw him back down on the bed, inserted his dick firmly into Zeke's hole, and, as if on cue, began emptying his toxic payload into Zeke's guts. The camera captured every flex and spasm of Dale's dick. In agonizing detail. Every spurt of cum was clear as Dale's venom painted the inside of Zeke's guts. "Welcome to the nest, initiate." Dale said as he pulled out and disappeared out of frame. Zeke stayed face down on the futon as the camera got some closeups of his ruined hole. The cameraman's arm appeared from out of frame and threw a business card onto Zeke's back. It was black with a scorpion embossed in an amber orange color on the side facing the camera. "Instructions." The cameraman said and then the camera was put down on a tripod or something, still recording Zeke. Zeke sat back down on the futon. For the second time, Brock noticed Zeke's cock, but now it was rock hard. It was fairly long. Probably around 7 inches. And average thickness. Zeke slicked his hand with some of the juices seeping out of his hole and jerked himself off without ceremony. Zeke was dressing himself on screen when suddenly Brock felt a hand grab his shoulder. He yelped and sprang up from the couch. He whipped around to see the cashier from upstairs with a stern look on his face. "This area is for members only," he droned, grabbing Brock's shoulder again and pushing him toward the door to the stairs. "I...uh...I was looking for. Uh. Bathroom? I thought the bathroom was down here." As the older man escorted him to the stairs, he stopped to take the disc out of the player hooked up to the projector and put a new one in. He put the disc in one of those plain sleeve cases labeled "070305 'Zeke' 22."

Brock's heart was racing. He hadn't even gotten out of the car and he could feel his pulse in his temples. Brock was just starting his senior year of high school and the closest he had gotten to sex was mutual masturbation with friends during their much more curious years. Before it got weird. Those days were long past. He had chatted with countless guys online about the 'Block. On websites he hadn't technically been old enough to access. But hey, thats growing up gay in small town America. What else was there to do? None of that mattered now, though. It was his 18th birthday and here he was in the parking lot of this local legend. Brock's dick stirred in his jeans a bit. It was now or never, and he knew it. He pulled a ball cap on and headed for the door. There were a couple other cars in the parking lot, he noted. He opened the door - no window, which struck him as odd - and stepped in. The place was seedy on a level Brock could not have imagined. The locals in the chat rooms did not do this place justice. The floor was sticky and the air smelled like an ashtray filled with cum. The entire space was poorly lit. The walls were lined with case displays full of DVDs and VHS tapes. Most of the displays were sticky, too. The center section of the store was cramped with shelves packed full of magazines and small books of erotica. There was a small section of Polaroids lined up in a box like trading cards as well as packets of pictures like you get when you develop film. The products only filled half of the overall space. The other section looked empty as far as Brock could tell. The single register was manned by a guy who had to be in his 60s. Bald on top with some coarse white hair left on the back and sides. He sported an unkempt beard. He was dressed in tattered camo pants and a beat up leather vest. No shirt. His entire torso was a canvas of tattoos of wildly differing quality. He was smoking a cigarette inside despite the city wide ordinance prohibiting smoking indoors. Brock's dick stirred again. The cashier gave Brock a glance over. Brock had been able to buy his mom's cigarettes without getting carded since he was 15. He'd always been big for his age, but his last growth spurt had put him just over 6'6" tall and switching out of general PE into the athletic conditioning class had put about 215 pounds of muscle on that frame. Coupled with his beard, which had stopped being patchy last year and now looked really good if he kept it trimmed, everyone assumed he was older than he was. The cashier included, evidently, because he turned his attention back to a small TV on the counter as Brock was reaching for his wallet to pull out his license. Brock quickly found a display of DVDs to pretend he was perusing. He noted that besides himself and the cashier, the place was empty. He again noted that his pulse was racing. He began to legitimately browse the shelves, hoping the distraction would calm him down. Brock had a fair amount of exposure to porn at this point - again, what else was a gay boy supposed to do in the midwest - but he noted he had never heard of any of the studios or performers he saw on the cases. In fact, one display very near the register was full of cases that just had plain paper inserts with things like "010120 'Chuck' 48" written in sharpie. Brock scanned the case. "082805 'Carl' 62," he read. He heard the bell on the door chime and nearly jumped out of his skin. He very unsubtly turned to see who was walking in through that windowless door. The man walking in was a little shorter than average and overweight. Probably in his early 50s. He had beady, dark eyes and stringy brown hair. If the cashier looked unkempt, this man looked disheveled. Stained gray sweatpants and an A shirt that probably was white at some point. The man didn't even acknowledge Brock on his way to the counter. He threw a pack of cigarettes at the cashier, who disinterestedly put a stack of coins on the counter. The man quickly snatched up the coins and shuffled off past the desk to the empty section of the store. Brock stared after him just a little too long. "There's preview booths in the back if you see something you want to try before you buy," he said. Brock jumped again. "Uh...thanks," he stammered. The cashier went back to his little TV. Brock could feel himself losing his nerve as his pulse crept up again and his breathing became irregular. He felt like he might throw up or pass out. Probably both. He spotted a hallway lit by a single orange bulb in the back area and took off that direction, hoping it led to the bathroom. As Brock drew closer to the hallway, his nerves settled a bit. Which was good because the hallway wasn't really a hallway. It was an exit to the outside that appeared to be welded shut and a staircase, presumably to a basement. Brock realized that his 18 year old dick was rock hard in the wake of everything he had seen so far. It struck him as odd that this area would just be left open and the cashier wasn't making any effort to stop him, so he started down into the dark of the basement.

Chapter 3 I spent the next week thinking about Joel and the invitation from my former high school. I had called Linda back the next morning to formally accept the invitation, but Joel's voicemail kept replaying in my head. Better that than the dream, I guess. Memories of Joel occupied most of my thoughts on the drive out for Spartan Trifecta weekend. Joel and I go way back. He and I attended school together from kindergarten through graduation. K-12 all in one building. Average graduating class from the high school was about 65 people. This school was tiny. Despite the tiny size of the student body, Joel and I barely knew each other until middle school when I started working for Joel's parents. They owned one of the largest tree farms in the midwest and would hire out extra workers during peak seasons. Labor laws allowed kids as young as 13 to work in agriculture. Pretty sure those laws weren't intended for work involving axes and saws, but loopholes are loopholes. That job paid for my first summer theater camp, which eventually led to my nickname. Junior year, the camp production found me center stage, shirtless, and wearing a viking helmet. Joel had come to see me in the show. He sought me out backstage in the dressing area after the show. "You looked like some kind of viking Hercules up there, man," he said after. "Everyone in that audience is probably scarred for the rest of their lives having seen me shirtless," I countered. "Blinded, too. I'm incandescent up there with the stage lights on me." "Dude..." he started, trying to pull me to the mirror, which was comedically futile. "You really have no idea how good you looked up there, do you?" While I still had one good growth spurt left in me, at the time I was 6'4" and about 235 pounds. Work on the tree farm was very physical, so I had decent bulk to go with my height. I felt like I was more chub than muscle at this point. In contrast, Joel was about 5'5" and maybe 120 during a bulk. He kind of looked like a child trying to push his dad on the swings. I got up and let him take me over to the dressing mirror. He was right, I did look pretty damn good. While there was a little bit of pudge still to go, there was no mistaking the sheets of muscle that ran beneath. I already had a decent amount of dark auburn body hair, and I could have grown a beard if my mom didn't insist I shave every couple days. I put the helmet back on. "Viking Hercules, you say?" I asked sarcastically, a goofy grin spreading across my face. "Yeah, but that's too long. How about V-H for short?" He quipped. We both laughed. The daydream faded as I pulled my subaru into the parking lot of the compound of cabins that would be my home for the next 3 days. I got my key from the attendant and surveyed the parking lot. No one else from my training group was here yet. I threw my duffle on the end of one of the beds in my cabin and headed back out. Maybe the training course would take my mind off things. In a way, I was right. On the training course, I met Scott, future-DILF. He was average height - about 5'10", but from 6'8" everyone looks about 5'10" - and about 230 pounds of fresh-from-the-gym muscle and too much beer and pizza. He had dark blond hair and blue eyes. He stared at me on every obstacle on the training course. Especially after I took my shirt off after the dunk wall and my soaked shorts were clinging to my obscene bulge. Compression shorts my ass. After finishing the course, I doubled back toward the start of the course and met Scott as he was finishing the course. As I walked past him toward the cabins, I grabbed my bulge and nodded. He turned tail and followed me without a word. Good to know my cruising instincts still worked. I led him into my cabin. His tongue was in my mouth before I even got the door closed. He was a good kisser, but I had other goals. His hands found my bulge, rapidly hardening in my compression shorts. I pushed him to his knees and pulled the waistband of my shorts down as he went. His tongue found my balls, slightly musky from the course. His eager mouth struggled with my cock at semi-hard. This was going to be fun. He hesitated as my cock reached full hardness. I clamped a hand around the back of his head and forced my length into his throat. I could feel his throat convulse as he gagged. God I love that feeling of panic. I pulled my dick out of his throat. Tears streamed from his eyes as he coughed and tried to catch his breath. "Relax your fucking throat," I growled, shoving the length of my uncut cock back in his mouth. I felt teeth and abruptly pulled back out, clapping him on the side of his head - harder than was probably necessary, but I wanted to ensure he got the message. "And watch your teeth." We attempted a few more times, each ending with him gagging and panting for air. He was beginning to look a little unsteady on his knees. I hauled him off his knees and shoved him over onto the bed. He flopped on the bed, nearly delirious. I fished through my duffle for my poppers. I uncapped them and shoved them under his nose and watched the haze roll over his eyes. I positioned him on his back with his head hung over the bed. I took a generous hit of poppers for myself. All thoughts faded except using his holes to get off. I plunged my dick back into his throat and started fucking it in earnest. Through his popper-induced stupor, he gave no resistance and his throat stretched to welcome my girth with every thrust. Now this was more like it. I pulled out, a generous coat of spit on my cock. His initial popper fog was starting to lift. "Turn over. Ass up," I commanded. He did as he was told and I tossed the poppers to him. "You're probably going to want some more of those" I rummaged through my duffle for lube. "I'm poz. Undetectable. I don't do rubbers." I left no room for discussion. I took him reaching back to spread his cheeks as consent enough. He muttered something about PrEP. I hadn't really noticed, but he had a generous coat of dark blond fur over most of his body, including his ass and around his hole. I slathered a generous amount of lube into his hole. I took another hit of poppers. The head of my prick found his furry hole. I pressed the head of my dick into his guts without ceremony, stopping only when my head met resistance deeper in his hole. He didn't flinch from my dick. Either the poppers were really doing their job or he was a very well-worn bottom. Whichever, his hole felt great. I pressed into him until the head of my dick met resistance deeper inside. I fucked the first few inches of his guts deliberately - pressing against his second sphincter with every deep thrust. At some point he must have hit the poppers again because he pushed back into one deep thrust. The sound he made as the rest of my dick sank into him was best described as a howl. my pelvis rested comfortably against his bubble ass and he immediately began trying to come off of my cock. I grabbed his right arm and leveraged him down on the bed, pinning him; my dick still deep inside. I could feel him squirm beneath me, whimpering as his intestines struggled to make friendly with their new invader. When the squirming stopped, I resumed thrusting into him. God he had a great hole. I could feel the cum beginning to brew in my balls. Deep penetrating thrusts mixed with quicker, harder thrusts as his body was dribbled against the cheap mattress springs. His howls had long since turned into moans. I released the armbar pinning him to the bed and pulled him up to his knees. In doggy style, the rhythmic slap of our bodies joined his moans. I was nearly certain our sexual symphony could be heard by at least the neighboring cabins. I pulled out of him again and rolled him over. Throwing his legs back and exposing his furry hole. I wanted to see the look on his face as I filled him with my seed. I sank my hardness back into his guts. We both hit the poppers one more time as I took up a steady rhythm in his hole. His own cock was average, but rock hard. It pointed straight up to his belly button and pulses of precum erupted from the tip every couple strokes. As my orgasm built, I pressed him into the bed, my hand at his throat. "You ready for my load?" "Fucking breed me!" He pleaded. I began to unload in his hole. The orgasm wracked my body, ejecting rope after rope of my DNA into his core. When the spasms finally stopped, I looked down to see that Scott's furry tummy was shot through with a couple modest ropes of his own cum. I pulled out and a small torrent of my special sauce poured from his hole. "Shame you're undetectable..." he murmured. I ran my hand over my biohazard tattoo. This was a sentiment I had encountered before. In my experience, PReP guys go through phases. Phase one: "I'm still going to be safe." This involves still using condoms and barebacking with committed partners who they know are tested regularly/on PrEP. The phase ends when the guy starts barebacking with non-monogamous partners who are presumably negative/on PrEP. Phase two: "Trust the guy, trust the meds." The guy is regularly barebacking nonmongamous partners who self-report being tested and negative and/or on PrEP. This phase ends when the guy takes his first confirmed poz load. This load is nearly always undetectable. Phase three: "U=U." This is where you will find most guys on PrEP. And for good reason. This is where the current science stands. These PrEPed guys will take a load from an undetectable guy without a second thought. I can usually spot these guys a mile away out in the wild. Phase three ends when the guy misses a dose or lapses on a refill and takes a load anyway. He will decide "it's fine because he's undetectable." Alternatively, he will take a load of unknown potency because "that's what the meds are for and he's so fucking hot and I'm so fucking horny." This is how phase four begins. Phase four: a chaser is born. The guy will seek out a viral load or cease taking medication. He has gotten a taste of the risk. And risk is a drug. The high of beating the odds wears off quickly and he will take riskier and riskier actions to feel that high again. Some chase passively and just don't do anything to mitigate the risks. Reveling in their close calls after the fact. Others move on to chasing actively. For the active chasers, getting infected is the only way to feel that high again. My best guess, Scott was on his way out of phase three or was in the early stages of chasing. "I can help with that..." Scott sat bolt upright at the new voice. I glanced over to the door and smirked. The door frame was occupied by a 5'3" tank of a man, 6" cut prick in hand. Guess I get to room with with Cal this weekend.

Chapter 2 I arrived home and opened the door to find a manila envelope had been slid under with a note stuck on it "Leif- You were a hit! The internet loves you." I opened the envelope and pulled out the papers. "Hey, reddit! I'm Leif Erikssen (u/nonotthat1), creative mind behind 'Role for Initiative', where A-list meets D&D. AMA." I scanned through the transcript of the forum with notes and highlights from my PR lead, Brenda. I skipped ahead to the section about our Role for Education" charity work. Brenda had scribbled some notes about positive engagement. The very last section was all of the personal questions. I felt like I had done a fairly graceful job fielding the declarations of love and marriage proposals that so commonly pepper the comments. Brenda's had some notes about not alienating potential viewers scrawled next to an answer about being gay. I tossed the packet on my desk and stripped out of my jeans and flannel shirt and headed for the shower. The pouch of my jock was plastered to my matted pubes - must not have quite been done cumming after all. I peeled the jock off and hopped in the shower. A quick scrub and I dried off and went to bed. I dreamed that I was back in Joel's high school bedroom. His furniture stopped being a comfortable fit for me when i was 16 and 6 inches shorter. This was just comical, but that's dreams for you. We were watching a movie. I glanced over at him. From up close, he was quite the sight to behold. His shaggy black hair and beard were immaculately kept. His joggers and t shirt fit him perfectly, despite the casual look. I was in joggers and a muscle shirt. He caught me looking and I turned my attention back to the movie. He nudged my leg to draw my attention to a joke or something in the movie. The contact sent a pulse straight to my dick. I went from zero to 60% hard nearly instantly - god this really was like being back in high school. I tried to adjust my joggers in order to hide the bulge, but that just drew attention to the situation brewing in my lap. Without a word, he squeezed my thigh. He leaned in to kiss me, his other hand finding its way to my face to stroke my beard. In unison, our mouths parted and our tongues met and another electric thrill coursed through my body to my cock, now rock hard. I maneuvered myself off the futon to lean - though with my size and the comically small futon it was more like loom - over him. I leaned him back gently, continuing to savor his mouth. I broke our kiss only to pull Joel's t shirt off and appreciate the bare-chested otter stud laid out before me. God the years had been good to him. I resumed kissing him, making my way to his ear, where I nibbled briefly on his earlobe before working my way down his neck to his chest and abs. Through ragged breaths, he stopped me at the waistband of his joggers and sat up. He ran his hands over several of my tattoos: Norse runes down my left arm, a complex sleeve on my right arm designed to look like armor. His hands found their way to the hem of my muscle shirt and his kissing became more insistent. He tugged at my shirt and I helped him the rest of the way, exposing my fur-coveres pecs, abs, and a few more tattoos including my biohazard sign. By this point I had a substantial wet spot in the front of my joggers and he hadn't even touched my dick. His hands continued exploring my body, tracing my tattoos to distract from their intended destination: my throbbing erection. Just before he grabbed the sticky, wet bulge in my joggers, I pushed him back down onto the sofa and held him there. I pointed to my biohazard tattoo. "Do you know what this tattoo means?" I interrogayed him with some amount of urgency. He nodded, his light brown eyes sparkling. "And?" I demanded. He smirked a little and reached for the waistband of my joggers again. I pinned both hands over his head with one hand while my other hand pinned his chest. From his position, he couldn't move mucb, but the struggle was adorable. "Joel, I have HIV. If we continue, there is a chance I could infect you." "I know you're poz. I've known since, like, 8th grade." He mustered as much strength as he could in his awkward position and knocked me off balance backward. He got his legs under him faster than I expected and before I knew it, I was on my back, he was straddling my legs, and my pants were half off. I reoriented myself and realized that he was staring - transfixed maybe - at my dick. "Holy. Shit." He punctuated. "What?" I asked. "Your dick is..." he trailed off. "I mean, I knew you were hung in high school. But not this hung." "Dude, I'm 6'8". My dick is normal size for someone my height," I defended. He didn't respond. Instead he got up and took his own joggers off, revealing his own substantial member. I admired the sight. He had thicker body hair on his lower body. Jet black like the rest of his hair, coarser. He, too, kept his pubes natural. There was a drop of precum glistening on the end of his uncut dick. My mouth watered. "I am 7" - 7.5", which is above average." He wrapped his hand around his dick. It looked sizeable in his hand, for sure. He came back to the futon and put his dick and his hand next to mine. The difference was evident immediately. "Okay. So I'm hung, I guess?" I said. "Beyond hung." He said, taking my pants down the rest of the way and moving his mouth toward my dick. My dick was coated in precum. I have always been a heavy precummer. I used to keep extra underwear at school in the event of an errant boredom woody soaking through my underwear. I started to protest, but he already had my head in his mouth, any thoughts of protest evaporated as I laced my fingers into his shaggy hair and offered some gentle encouragement. He was struggling with the first few inches and I didn't want to push too far. He enthusiastically tried to take more of my dick, initially stopping when he gagged. Eventually he pushed past his gag reflex and got the head of my dick into his throat proper. He was a quick study. He continued trying to throat my whole dick for a bit. When he stopped to let his jaw, throat, and lungs catch up, he experimented with working my shaft with his hand, playing with rolling my foreskin back over my head. Watching him play with my foreskin, I was struck by how different our dicks were. Like the rest of me, my cock was pale. Two very prominent veins bulged, winding their way along the length of my shaft. When soft, my foreskin covered about 40% of my mushroom head. When fully hard, my foreskin pulled back off the head completely. Guys who didn't see me soft often didn't realize I was uncut. In contrast, Joel's foreskin covered most most of his head - about 60%, even fully hard. He also had some prominent veins - more than me, in fact. But they were smaller and a bit more subtle. His dick was certifiably perfect. My mouth continued to water. He continued stroking me while he buried his face between my thighs, seeking my nuts. He nuzzled against them at first with his beard providing extra waves of stimulation. My contented grunts signaled it was time for exploring them with his tongue, then his mouth. I could feel the cum starting to churn deep in my balls. I reached down and pulled him back up to kiss me, pulling him close to me. He fell right into the trap. I grappled him and rolled him off of me onto the floor, then dropped down onto my hands and knees over him. While he was still reeling from the sudden reversal of position, I kissed my way down his fuzzy body once more to his beautiful dick. I took his dick - god a swear that dick was straight out of a dirty magazine; you couldnt airbrush a better looking dick - down my throat with practiced ease and delighted in his gasp as I did. He began to buck his hips and I let him fuck my throat like that, pulling off of him when I needed air. I moved to go back down on him. "If you do that again, I will cum," he said with a tone of lust in his voice. "Probably immediately." "I mean, that is the goal here, right?" I asked. "Not yet," he said, pulling his legs up between us, exposing his hole. Needing no further instructions, I buried my face in his hole. My beard provided extra stimulation, but my tongue was doing the heavy lifting. I devoured his hole. I started with thorough exploration of his ass, gently licking every inch of his hairy, tanned skin from his balls to his hole. I could feel his body becoming restless with all this stimulation of his hole and shifted gears. Slow licks were replaced with quicker flicks of my tongue that whipped him into more of a frenzy. He was making sounds somewhere between a grunt and a moan. He became increasingly excited as I started working a finger in. He was tight, but enthusiastic and I tried to match my efforts to stretch him to his natural efforts to adjust to being penetrated. Whenever I withdrew my finger, I immediately replaced it with my probing tongue, which I drilled into him. We worked our way up to 2 fingers. By this point he was precumming pretty heavily. I used some to add additional lubrication while our work continued to prepare his hole. With 3 fingers sliding comfortably in and out of him, I repositioned and placed the head of my dick at his hole. "You're sure you want this? You know the risk." It was a statement more than a question. "I want you," he replied. "All of you." He ran his hands through my chest hair, sending tingles through my whole body. I shivered a little in anticipation. And with that, I pressed into him. I gave him some time to adjust to just my cockhead. Even taking three fingers, it was a substantial leap to taking my dick. He screamed out in some blend of pleasure and pain and I tried to pull back but he pulled me into a kiss. "Just go slow," he said between soft, quick kisses. I could feel his sphincter fighting against my dick, every muscle in his rectum trying to push me back out. But I held steady and little by little the spasms stopped. Now the real challenge started. I dont think I've ever fucked someone that slowly. At least not since I hit my 30s and sex became more of a lustful thing I sought when i was horny rather than anything related to genuine desire. My overproduction of precum helped keep things slick and allowed very slow progress of the first 4 inches of my dick. After what felt like hours, the head of my dick had found his second sphincter and he was starting to enjoy feeling me inside him. I started to gently make love to his hole. Long, slow strokes with plenty of added spit and my own precum. He was in pure ecstacy. After several strokes against his second hole, I pushed through it and stopped again, savoring the look of exquisite agony on his face. He recovered more quickly this time, as he was getting a feel for how to relax his hole. "I want you to pound me, Leif." He said. I picked up the pace and realization of his judgemental error crashed over him. I backed off a bit, and he looked disappointed. "I want to make you cum," he insisted. I smirked a little. "I could cum whenever I want. I dont need to pound your hole to get off. I just want to make sure you get your fill." He spit in his hand, grabbed his prick and started stroking which I took as permission to resume fucking him. I matched my thrusts into his hole with his strokes of his cock "Together, then?" I said. His building moans provided his assent. A couple minutes later, he locked eyes with me. The message was clear though he didnt say a word: it was time. His moans as he began oozing bright white, pearly cum were primal and animal. He wasn't a shooter, that's for sure. But he did have a good sized load. God, even his cum looked good. As his hole spasmed around me, my member swelled up as I began blasting ropes of cum into him. I lost count at 18 spurts. I leaned down to kiss him, trying to keep my dick in his hole so my cum wouldn't leak everywhere. And then I woke up. Why was I exhausted? Why did I smell cum. I threw the comforter back and surveyed my sheets. It looked like a murder scene, but the splatter was white instead of red. The details of the dream were fading quickly but one detail wasn't going anywhere: he had said he had known I was poz since the 8th grade. That was factually correct. I had been born poz. But he shouldn't have known that. I chalked it up to wibbly wobbly dreamy weamy bullshit and tried to shake the sleep haze off. I pulled the sheets off the bed and put them in the laundry. And made a mental note to buy sheets that weren't navy blue.

I spotted him from across the bar. Not much of an accomplishment since the entire bar was roughly the size of my basement and had less seating than my office conference room. But I hadn't seen him in 15 years, so that deserves some credit, right? He wore his hair a little longer now - a style that clearly took a lot of effort, but looked like he put no effort in. The beard was new. He wore it well. But it was his eyes that gave him away. Light brown and far softer and gentler than the rest of his dark dark features. He looked good. I was barely across the threshold of the bar and I was right back in high school. I had known of Joel since kindergarten. He was a 3 sport athlete from the time he could run, attended sports camps all summer - even day camps when he was too young for overnights. He was one of the most popular guys in our class. It was very rare to find him without an entourage of teammates and cheerleaders. He was the quintessential high school preppy jock. I was...not. I had only really gotten to know him after taking a summer job at his family's tree farm. 15 years later, he looked like nothing had changed - except the entourage. He sat by himself at the bar counter opposite the door i had just walked in. He made small talk with the bartender and the patrons around him. A picture of effortless confidence. He was dressed modestly in a pullover and jeans. They showed off his athletic frame, but otherwise he would not have looked out of place on the cover of a cookbook titled "So You Gave Up Grilling for Lent". His immaculate black converse hightops completed the look nicely. Some things never change. Suddenly from off to my left, someone shouted, "VEECH!" I winced as the daydream shattered and reality flooded back to the front of my brain. My uncut member was working it's way into - what was his name? Baron? Byron? Right! Bryan. "With a 'y,'" he had said emphatically. The dim, warm amber light of the bathroom played nicely off his olive skin. I felt a pang of guilt for letting my mind wander. The snap back to reality made me very aware of the dull throb starting in my balls. My cum was churning, ready to go whenever I got my fill of Bryan's sculpted ass trying to accomodate my throbbing cock. I kept the pace of my thrusts steady, moving about half the length of my dick in and out of him in time with his moans of pleasure and his muttered requests to fuck him harder. As the pressure built in my balls, I pushed more of myself into him, eventually managing to work the full length of my dick inside. I lingered a second longer the first time I felt my coarse, auburn pubes pressed between my pelvis and his ass. I had never felt the need to measure my dick. The look on Byron's face when he felt me balls deep the first time was a big part of why. His eyes rolled back and his hands clenched the edge of the countertop he was perched on top of, his knuckles instantly going white. The sounds coming out of his throat warped into a delightful, guttural white noise. Like he needed to yell out, but pleasure had temporarily stripped him of his ability to produce any noise that was identifiable as intelligible - let alone human speech. After that brief syncopation, I resumed thrusting, pushing to the hilt every few thrusts in rhythm with his moans, which continued to devolve into gurgles each time my full length penetrated him. Bryan recovered enough of his sense that he started trying to leverage himself deeper on my prick every thrust. I could feel his guts beginning to spasm around my cock and his breathing was beginning to sound like he was choking. Then I realized that his cum was seeping through the neoprene or whatever his jock was made out of. Well, that was easy. I pulled out of Bryan's hole and he let out a little whimper, trying to keep his hole around my dick. There was a generous gape to his hole with the abrupt withdrawal of my girth. "Where do you want my load?" I asked, teasing his hole with some gentle pressure from the head of my dick. "Breed me full of that toxic seed, daddy!" He moaned. And just like that, the pang of guilt I felt at being distracted disappeared as a new revelation crashed over me: I was this man's - what was he? 22? - this kid's fetish. I looked down at Bryan with clinical detachment. He was a twink trying desperately to cosplay as anything else. He was over a foot shorter than me and less than half my weight. His designer jock was flattering, but impractical. The razor burn peeking out over the waistband suggested he shaved his pubes. Otherwise his tan skin was hairless. His leather harness and armbands looked brand new and their placement was just a little off. Like he had never worn them before. I looked down at myself. My 6'8" frame towered over him and the counter he was perched on. That frame supported 240 pounds of muscle built over years of physical work and maintained with Spartans and my training regimen for them. My muscles weren't as well defined as Bryan's. But the broad cords of muscle were taught under my pale complexion. Pale wasn't quite the right. I was honestly quite pasty underneath a very generous pelt of auburn body hair. I could probably throw this twink across the room with little more effort than throwing a bag of garbage in the dumpster. All of that reddish brown fur trailed it's way back to my coarse, natural pubes. Nested in that thicket of hair was my member. As I said, I had never really felt the need to measure my junk, so i couldnt tell you exact measurements. Mine felt pretty proportional to what I had seen in porn and stuff. Most dicks I encountered were smaller than mine, but I usually attributed that to the fact that I was also significantly taller than most guys. A little over two handbreadths long and thick enough to fill my palm comfortably. It had been a bit of a journey to acceptance of my body. I had a graduating class of 60 in high school. Being a statistical outlier of any kind makes you a target. Most of the nicknames bestowed upon me were not kind. It took me a while to grow into my body and even longer to appreciate it. I felt a pang of melancholy as my eyes drifted over my biohazard tattoo. That was when I noticed that Bryan's eyes were locked on that specific ink. So reductive. His loss. It wasn't even my most interesting tattoo. I sharpened my attention back on Bryan. "You want my virus, kid?" Buying into the poz talk pulled his attention from the ink that wrapped around the smooth skin over my right flank. "Oh, fuck yes!" he began chanting, his magazine-worthy body trembling as he tried to maneuver his hole back on the head of my cock. I slicked a wad of spit down my length, hoisted him off the counter by the straps of his harness - god he did not weigh much - and impaled him on my dick. His eyes went wide and he he looked like he was going into shock. Guess his hole rebounded faster than I thought. Oh well. Several rough thrusts later I began emptying the contents of my balls into his traumatized guts. As he felt the first few spurts begin to paint the walls of his colon, a rapturous glaze washed over his face. By the time I was done cumming, a bolus of spunk was sloshing in Bryan's guts every time I moved my cock and i couldn't really sort out the look on his face. Impressed. Disgusted. Horny. Relieved. Lustful. All of the above. I pulled my cock out just as quickly as I'd penetrated him and a rush of cum evacuated with it before he managed to clench his ruined hole. I stuffed my prick back in my jock and buttoned the fly of my jeans. "I'm on meds." I said casually. Bryan's dumbfounded stare definitely made me feel better about being reduced to my serostatus. "Contestants for the leather newcomers division, please make your way to the stage," the bartender intoned over the PA system. Bryan gave a yelp and pushed himself off the counter. He rushed out into the dark of the bar and turned left toward the ramp up to the stage. I finished tucking my shirt in and buckled my belt before making my way back out into the bar. I glanced across the lineup on stage. All eight of the contestants looked good up there. The bartender was reading off cards with their stats, hobbies, fetishes, and preferences. I watched until he got to Bryan. "Bryan is a dominant top" he read. If I had been standing closer, I could have heard the dollop of my jizz fall from his hole onto the stage at the word "top." The bartender stumbled over the next part of the card and stared as drops two through four fell to the stage. His leaky hole was making a puddle. My chuckle joined the snickers and mumbles of the crowd as I turned and headed for the door. As I drove home, I found my thoughts wandering back to Joel. I replayed the voice mails that I'd gotten earlier that day. "Mr. Erikssen, my name is Linda Harroway with the Illinois district 109 school board. I am calling to inform you that you have been selected to be inducted into "Seeds of Success," the White Oak High School Wall of Fame. The induction ceremony will be part of the high school commencement ceremony with faculty reception to follow. We would be honored if you would deliver the keynote speech for the graduates, as well. Please check your email for an email from the engraving company to submit information for your plaque. We hope to see you May 28th." A brief tone played. "VEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!" I winced again on reflex before the familiar inflection of Joel's voice resonated with something deeper than my repressed feelings about the nickname. "Congrats on 'Seeds.' I heard your segment on the 'Dungeon Delver' podcast. I played it for some of my students. They can't wait to meet you. They were giddy when they turned in your nomination form. School's first celebrity on the wall and he's famous for table top gaming. Hope to catch up with you if you have time while you're in town." Perhaps some things changed after all...