cumslutw

Hey guys, I just want to say thank you to everyone who commented. Your reactions, encouragement, and thoughtful words genuinely inspired me to continue. I hope the next part lives up to your expectations. I always appreciate hearing whether you liked it… 😊 Part 10: The STD Clinic's 'Good News' and a Doctor's Toxic Confession The days after the hotel with Mark are a slow-motion torture of hope and disappointment. You don't feel changed. You don't feel converted. You expected something—a profound shift, a physical marker, the "fuck flu" you'd read about in hushed, excited tones online. You monitor yourself meticulously, a daily ritual of self-betrayal. You take your temperature in the morning, check your lymph nodes in the mirror, searching for the slightest sign of swelling, the faintest flush of fever. Nothing. Each day that passes with your body maddeningly normal is another spike of crushing disappointment. The reality is that conversion is silent, invisible, and utterly indifferent to your desperate, pathetic need for proof. You scour the forums again, this time not for thrills, but for reassurance. "It can take weeks," one post says. "Some people never get the flu," another offers, a cold comfort that feels more like a curse. The waiting becomes a form of purgatory. The intimate, ritualistic act with Mark, which was supposed to be the culmination, now feels like it might have been just another hollow fantasy. Eventually, you can't stand it anymore. It has been more than a month since the hotel breeding session with Mark. The uncertainty is worse than any negative result. You have to know. You drive back to the STD clinic, a place that now feels less like a source of shame and more like the only confessional that can offer you absolution or damnation. In the waiting room, you're a different man from the one who sat here before. You're not here to prevent a possibility; you're here to confirm a prayer. You pray you don't get the young doctor. You don’t want to be lectured by a boy who could easily be your son. You want a stranger, someone neutral, a detached clinician who will just draw your blood and read the results. But of course, it's him. Your name is called. You follow him down the same stark white corridor, and he gestures you into the same small, windowless office. "Back for your check-up, I assume," he says, not looking up from the file. "Your PEP pills empty?" "Yeah," you lie, the word feeling like sandpaper in your throat. "Bottle's empty." He nods, satisfied. "Good. We'll do a rapid test today for some immediate peace of mind, and send the full serology to the lab. The results will not be definitive, but this should give us a strong indicator." He prepares the blood draw, his movements practiced and cold. He fills a vial, then uses a small dropper to place a drop of your blood onto a small plastic cassette. "Alright," he says, setting a timer. "Fifteen minutes. We'll call you back in." You walk out of the office and back into the waiting room and sit. Your bladder stirs, a dull, insistent pressure from the water you drank while waiting. You need to piss. You scan the waiting room, a purgatory of shared secrets. A young guy, maybe twenty, sits with his knees pressed together, chewing his fingernails, his face a mask of pure terror. You peg him as a scare, probably a broken condom. He's praying for a negative. Across from him, a burly, tattooed man in a dirty tank top scrolls on his phone, looking bored. He's here for his routine check-up, you think. He already has his answer. In the corner, a handsome man in a suit that costs more than your car stares at a fixed point on the wall, his jaw tight. He's the classic closet case, probably here every three months after a lunch-break hookup at the club downtown. He's praying his wife doesn't find the clinic number on his phone bill. Each of them is a story, a potential carrier, a fellow traveler. You look at the burly, tattooed man and imagine him breeding the scared kid with a poz load that would make the boy's terror turn to tears of joy. You picture the man in the suit on his knees in a back alley, worshipping the anonymous, toxic cock of a stranger he'll never see again. You wonder which of them holds the gift you so desperately crave, which one would be merciful enough to share it. You think of your husband, at work right now, probably oblivious. He has no idea you're here. He has no idea you know about his own bugchasing activities at the local cruising grounds. The need to piss becomes too much. You get up and walk to the men's restroom. Inside, the air is thick with the sterile smell of disinfectant trying and failing to mask the underlying odor of piss and anxiety. You step into the stall at the back, unzip, and let go, the stream a welcome relief. As you stand there, your eyes drift to the graffiti on the tiled wall dividing the stalls. Amid the crude drawings and phone numbers for cheap lays, one symbol stands out, freshly scratched and aggressive: a biohazard symbol. Below it, a mobile phone number is etched into the grout. You stare at it, your mind momentarily forgetting the test, the doctor, everything. It feels like a sign, a secret invitation left just for you. You finish, shake off, and zip up. You wash your hands, catching your own reflection in the mirror—pale, anxious, and desperate. You return to the waiting room and finally take a seat. The minutes crawl by. Fifteen minutes pass. The nurse hasn't called your name. Twenty. Thirty. The longer you wait, the more your anxiety begins to curdle and twist. The initial fear of a positive result slowly morphs into a sick, excited certainty. They're keeping you this long because the test was positive. The doctor is preparing, maybe even calling in a counselor. This is it. The good news. You're not scared anymore. You're practically vibrating with anticipation, a prayer of thanks on your lips for the gift you're about to receive. Finally, after thirty-seven agonizing minutes, your name is called. When the nurse calls your name again, you follow her back to the same office. The doctor is holding the test cassette, a single, stark line visible in the results window. "Negative," he says, his voice flat, professional, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. He's happy to give you the "good" news. "The rapid test is negative. As expected. The full panel will confirm, but you can breathe easy." The word hits you like a physical blow. Negative. All that hope, all that sick excitement, curdles into a vast, crushing disappointment. You feel the blood drain from your face. He looks at you, expecting to see a wave of relief wash over your face. He expects gratitude. He sees nothing. You feel nothing but a hollow, crushing void. Your expression is a blank wall. He frowns slightly, leaning forward. "You're not relieved," he says. It's not a question. "Why aren't you relieved? Did you want it to be positive?" His directness is a slap. You can't answer. You just stare at the desk. "Look at me," he says, his voice losing its clinical softness, gaining an edge. "You came back here. You were praying for a positive result, weren't you? That's why you're not relieved. Tell me about the fantasy. Is it the risk? The [banned word]? Do you get off on the idea of being sick? Help me understand what makes a man throw away a life-saving medication." "Answer me," he presses, his voice gaining an edge. "Did you take the PEP? You told me the bottle was empty." "I flushed them," you confess, the words barely a whisper. "I flushed them down the toilet the day I got home." The silence that follows is absolute and terrifying. When he finally moves, it's with a sudden, violent energy. He shoves his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a screech. He stands, pacing the small space like a caged animal. Even in his rage, he's magnificent. The anger flushes his chest, making the thin fabric of his scrubs cling to his sculpted torso. His power is palpable, a raw, dominant energy that makes your own cock ache with need. "You flushed them?" he roars. "I gave you a get-out-of-jail-free card! A goddamn miracle of modern medicine, and you flushed it? Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you've done? You think this is some hot fantasy? You think living with this is a fucking turn-on?" He stops pacing, right in front of you, his hands gripping the edge of his desk, leaning into your space. This is it—the exact same position he was in when he lectured you before, but this time the air is thick with his personal rage. "You have no fucking clue," he spits, his voice cracking with a pain so raw it's almost unbearable. "You think I stand here and lecture you from some ivory tower of health? I'm poz. I'm fucking toxic." The word hangs in the air between you, a bomb detonating in the small room. Your eyes widen. "My partner," he continues, his voice cracking. "He fucked around behind my back. Constantly. Unprotected. Never getting tested, bringing home every bug he could find. He didn't care. He got infected, didn't know. Gave it to me. The man I loved. He's gone. And I'm left with this. This life sentence." He taps his chest, a sharp, angry gesture. "And the meds? The insomnia, the anxiety, the cognitive fog... I can't think straight. The nausea and abdominal cramps are so bad I can't keep food down for days. So I stop. I've been off meds for over two years, just monitoring my CD4. Will only go back on meds if absolutely necessary. I’m so toxic at the moment, I’m frightened of myself." Your cock, which had wilted with the negative result, is now rock-hard, straining against your jeans. You want to fuck the pain right out of him, to breed him with your own negative seed and feel his toxic body accept it. You want him to fuck the fear into you, to make you feel what he feels. He's breathing heavily, his chest heaving. In his rage, he's stepped even closer. His scrub pants are right in front of your face. You can't help it. Your eyes drop. You can see the distinct, heavy outline of his cock, his balls. Full of the bugs. He sees it. He follows your gaze down and then back up to your face. The rage in his eyes curdles into something else. A cold, profound disgust. "You're staring!" he accuses, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "You're staring at my crotch." Before you can react, he moves. His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. His grip is iron. He pulls your hand forward and slams it palm-down against his crotch, forcing you to cup his massive, rigid bulge through the thin fabric. You feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his cock and balls. And you feel something else—cold, hard metal. A thick, heavy ring encircling the base of his rigid cock making it feel even thicker and more potent. It makes his bulge even more prominent, a clear, undeniable sign that he is a top, his cock perpetually primed to blow his toxic load anytime he chooses. He feels your desperate, pathetic gratitude in the way your hand trembles against him. He sees the pure, unadulterated longing in your eyes. And something in him snaps. "You want this?" he snarls, his face inches from yours. "Yes, they are full of bugs," his voice a venomous whisper. "My VL came back only yesterday over 800,000. You want this? This is not an offer; it's a challenge." In a single, violent motion, he yanks you up from the chair. He spins you around and shoves you face-first against the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of you. His hands are rough, tearing at your jeans, wrenching them and your underwear down to your knees. You hear the tear of his scrubs, the snap of elastic, and then you feel it—the thick, flared head of his cock, burning hot against your bare ass. "This is what you're asking for," he growls, and then he pushes into you in one long, brutal stroke. A strangled cry escapes your lips. It's pain and it's ecstasy, a fulfillment so sudden and overwhelming it whites out your vision. He doesn't wait for you to adjust. He fucks you with two, three deep, punishing strokes, his hips slamming against your ass, his body a furnace of rage behind you. And then, as suddenly as he entered, he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and gaping. You hear a guttural groan and feel the wet heat of his cum splashing across your ass cheeks, a thick, coating of his toxic seed marking you from the outside. He's panting behind you, the sound ragged and broken. "You don't deserve my gift yet," he hisses, his voice raw. "You don't yet know what you are asking for." He shoves you hard, propelling you forward. "Get out," he whispers, his voice dangerously quiet. "Get the fuck out of my office!"

Part 9: Reconnecting with Mark: Taming the monster to make one line two The message hangs on your phone for a week, a dark promise: "I know what you did! I am back in town next week... We need to talk!" When the day arrives, you don't feel fear. You feel a sense of calm, of arrival. You're going back to the scene of your greatest disappointment to maybe finally get what you originally came for. Mark opens the hotel door. He's exactly as you remember him from that first moment: shirtless, in just a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his powerful thighs, his toned, hairy chest a canvas of masculine perfection. His bare feet are nicely manicured, a subtle sign of his fastidious nature. He looks... softer. More at peace. It doesn't feel like meeting someone you've only been with once. It feels like coming home to a good friend with whom you share a deep, unspoken connection. "Hey," he says, his smile genuine and warm. "Come on in." The lighting is dim, music is playing low. The air in the room is warm and thick with the rich, earthy scent of sandalwood and leather—Mark's cologne, a smell that is both grounding and dangerously masculine. It's a scent you immediately decide you could get used to. On the table are two glasses of red wine and a pre-rolled joint, an offer waiting to be accepted. You sit, you smoke, you drink. The wine is a rich, velvety Cabernet, its dark fruit flavors filling your mouth, a taste of blackberry and a hint of dark chocolate. The weed is high-quality, and the smoke fills your lungs, smooth and sweet, with a faint, skunky undertone that promises a potent, hazy float, melting away the last vestiges of your anxiety. The wine and weed work in tandem, a warm wave of relaxation that loosens your muscles and softens the edges of the room. You're sitting on the couch, and the space between you feels charged. Mark takes the joint from your fingers, his knuckles brushing against yours. The touch is deliberate, a small spark in the hazy air. He takes a slow drag, his eyes never leaving yours, and then leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He exhales a plume of sweet smoke not away from you, but towards your lips, a shared breath that feels more intimate than a kiss. That's all it takes. You close the distance. Your first kiss is slow, deep, and tastes of red wine and cannabis. It's not a frantic kiss, but a settling one, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you gently but firmly. You melt into him, your body molding against his. The world outside this couch, this room, ceases to exist. You break for air, and he pulls you closer, guiding you to lean back against his chest. His arm wraps around you, a solid, comforting weight. You can feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your back. His other hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours, and he just holds them. There's no urgency, only a profound sense of coming home. You rest your head against his shoulder, nuzzling into the warm, crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. You stay like that for a long time, just listening to the music and the soft sound of your breathing. His free hand begins to move, tracing slow, lazy circles on your stomach through your shirt. Each pass of his palm is a brand, a quiet claim. His touch is a question, and your body's response— the soft sigh that escapes your lips, the way you arch into his hand— is the answer. He shifts, turning you both to face each other. His eyes are heavy-lidded, shining with a gentle, uncomplicated lust. He reaches for the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head in one smooth, deliberate motion. Your hands explore each other's torsos—mapping the solid muscle, the sensitive skin. Your chests press together, skin on skin, a friction that is both comforting and electrifying. Soon, your jeans and his are the only barriers left. He stands, taking your hand and pulling you up with him. He undoes his belt and lets his jeans fall, kicking them aside. He's commando, and his magnificent cock hangs thick and heavy between his legs, a promise of what's to come. You follow his lead, shedding your own pants until you are both standing in the dim light, wearing nothing but your vulnerability and your desire. It's in this state of raw, relaxed honesty that he finally speaks, his voice a low murmur that vibrates through you. "You took it," he says softly. You meet his gaze, your own voice raw with the memory. "I was so disappointed," you confess. "You were perfect. You were everything I thought I wanted because you were safe. But when you pulled out that condom... I realized that's not what I wanted anymore. And then when you told me you were poz... and you wouldn't... I was so desperate to have what you were denying me that I had to take a piece of it." As you speak, you see it. His cock, which had been hanging thick and heavy between his legs, begins to stir. It slowly lifts, hardening with every word you say, until it's standing fully erect, a thick, rigid column of flesh pointing directly at you. A hard cock never lies. Your confession is arousing him deeply. Mark's smile fades, replaced by a look of profound vulnerability. "You think I wasn't tempted?" he says, his voice low. "You have no idea how much I wanted to breed you. To see you walk out of here carrying my load. But I couldn't. It was too new for me. My diagnosis... my viral load... it was a monster I was still terrified of. I wasn't ready to be that monster for someone else. I was afraid of what it would turn me into." He looks at you, his eyes clear. "You were braver than I was. You ran towards the fire. I was still running from it." He reaches into his nightstand drawer and pulls out two small, flat boxes. "But things are different now," he says. "For both of us. And I need to know that you're sure about what you want. For my own conscience... for my own peace. I need us both to be clear-eyed about what we're doing here." He opens one box, revealing a quick HIV test. "I need us to both know where we stand. Right now." He does his first. You watch, your heart pounding, as the drop of his blood travels down the test strip. A dark, forbidden impulse flashes through you. As he's about to wipe his finger, you gently take his hand. Before he can react, you lean in and lick the tiny smear of residual blood from his fingertip. It's coppery, metallic, primal. He lets out a sharp, shuddering breath, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and arousal. His hard cock bobs in response, a thick bead of precum welling up at its slit. It's a promise. A taste of things to come. You both watch the two lines appear, dark and immediate. Positive. He looks at it, not with fear, but with a sense of confirmation. A proud, immutable fact. He places it on the desk, a physical testament. There is no ambiguity here, no room to ignore what is at stake. It's a definitive statement of his body. Then it's your turn. Your fingers tremble as you prick your own finger. You squeeze the drop onto the test strip. The minutes feel like an eternity. This is it. The first tangible proof of your journey. A single line appears. Negative. Still negative. A wave of something washes over you—not relief, but a strange, hollow disappointment. You're still on the outside looking in. And yet, your own cock is as hard as his, a rigid, aching testament to the fact that your body knows exactly what it wants, regardless of the test result. Mark looks from your solitary, stark line to his own pair of lines, sitting side-by-side on the desk like a grim, undeniable prophecy. The contrast is a physical thing. Your lone mark of clean health next to his double-line signature of the virus. He looks from the tests back to your face, his expression unreadable for a moment. His gaze drops down, taking in the sight of both your hard cocks, standing at attention like two soldiers ready for battle. "Now that we see it, laid out so clearly... are you still sure?" he asks, his voice low and serious. "Do you want to cross that line with me, as much as I want to take you there?" You nod, your voice firm. "More than anything." A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his lips. It's not a smile of pity; it's a smile of pure, predatory delight. "Good," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "That means I get to be the one. I get to be your ground zero. I get to be the one who changes you. Thank you for choosing me." He stands and holds out his hand. "Let's not have any more disappointments," he says. "Let's do what we both wanted to do that night." He leads you to the bed. The atmosphere is reverent, almost sacred. You sit on the edge, and he kneels before you. He looks up at you, his eyes full of adoration, and then leans in, pressing his face against your chest. You feel his hot breath against your skin a moment before his tongue makes a slow, wet trail up your sternum. It's an act of worship. You pull him up onto the bed with you, your hands finally free to explore the body you've only dreamed of. Your fingers slide over the solid muscle of his shoulders and down his arms. And then, you feel it. His chest hair. It's softer than it looks, a dense, wiry thicket that you run your fingers through, a living carpet of masculinity that tickles and teases with every shift of his weight. You bury your face in it, breathing in his clean, musky scent mixed with the sandalwood of his cologne. It's even better than you remembered. He moans, his hands roaming your back as you explore him. He pushes you onto your back, his body covering yours, and that soft, wiry hair becomes a delicious friction against your own smooth skin, a constant, tantalizing reminder of his raw, masculine power. You're both hard, your cocks trapped between your bodies, kissing deeply, your tongues exploring. He reaches down, his fingers gathering the slick fluid. He finds your PA, the heavy steel ring you wear, and he moans his appreciation. "So beautiful," he murmurs. He uses his precum as lube, coating your piercing, his fingers rolling the heavy steel, tugging gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He pushes more of his fluid onto the ring, using his slickness to coat your own slit, the sensitive, thin skin tingling with the intimate violation. You're leaking now, too, your fluids mixing with his. He takes his cock in his hand and slides it up and down your crack again, coating you. His cockhead, slick and insistent, knocks at your backdoor. He pauses, letting it throb against you, and you feel another pulse of his hot precum ooze directly into your opening, getting your asslips slick, making them swell with anticipation. You can't help it. You push back slightly, extending your lips, a silent, physical invitation for him to enter. "Is this what you really want?" he whispers, his voice a low growl. "You want me to breed you? To make you poz? Once you have those two lines, you can never go back to one. Are you sure?" "Yes," you breathe, the word a prayer. "I'm sure. Please, Mark. Convert me." He begins to push. The entry is a slow, deliberate sinking, a moment of mutual surrender. The feeling is radically different from last time. There's no condom, no sterile barrier preventing you from fully connecting. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock, the thick, prominent lines protruding from his shaft, a topographical map of his desire. You feel the distinct, flared edge of his head as it rubs against your prostate, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. You feel his cock pulling on your asslips with each backstroke, a possessive, intimate tug. He pushes deeper, and you feel him press against your inner sphincter. A sharp, sudden pain makes you gasp. "Easy... easy now," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Breathe. I'm there. Not going anywhere. Let it drool... slick you up. Push back... let me in." You do as he says, and with a final, deliberate push, he's through—moaning deep in your ear. He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated, his heavy balls resting against yours. He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the weight and the heat of him, a perfect, living presence inside you. The first fuck is slow and emotional, a correction of the past. He moves in you with a gentle, rhythmic grace, his eyes locked on yours, his hands stroking your face. It's about healing the disappointment, about replacing the memory of the condom with the reality of his flesh. But the climax is what truly matters. He begins to move faster, his breathing becoming ragged. You can feel his cock swelling inside you, getting even harder as his thrusts become more urgent, more demanding. He slows his thrusts to a maddening, teasing rhythm, his eyes boring into yours, searching. "Are you... sure?" he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me now. Pull out? Once this... it's done. You're mine. Forever." "Don't..." The refusal is instant, fierce. "Don't you dare." You grip his arms. "Breed me. Mark. Give me..." You swallow hard. "...that toxic load." "God. God, I want to," he moans, his forehead resting against yours. "But... wanna enjoy this. Savor it. Okay? Slow down... just for a minute? Relish it?" You can only nod, your breath caught in your throat. "Good," he whispers, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He begins to move again, but not with the rhythmic thrusts of before. Now he's grinding, circling his hips, stretching you from the inside. "Let me stretch you... little longer," he murmurs, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "Open you up. Tear you... just a little. Make you perfect. Warm home... for my babies... so they can enter... even better." His voice drops even lower, a possessive growl against your ear. "Remember? The monster? I was so afraid? Not anymore. And now... gonna set him free. Inside you." His words are a litany of beautiful filth, driving you both to a higher plane of arousal. "Can feel it," he continues, his voice thick with lust. "My toxic seed... it’s boiling up. Spilling into your guts… Not just cum… Everything… Every viral particle… Will paint your insides... mark you. Inside out. Soon... every drop... poz. Your own load... turns toxic for me." The idea is so intoxicating, so real, that your body arches against him, a silent plea for more. "Please, Mark," you beg. "Please… Give it to me." He pulls back almost all the way, leaving just the tip of his cockhead inside you, teasing your swollen rim. "Tell me," he commands, his voice dominant. "What do you want? Tell me… you want my poz seed." "I want it," you repeat, your voice a desperate chant. "I want it so bad… All inside me. Want you to convert me… Be yours." That's all it takes. With a guttural roar that seems to come from the depths of his soul, he slams back into you, hilt-deep. "That's what I wanted... wanted to hear," he growls. "What I wanted to do... last time... only didn't dare." And now, it happens. His cock pulses, a powerful, rhythmic throb deep inside your guts. A searing, wet heat floods you as he roars his release. It's not just cum; it's a transfer. A gift. A sacrament. You feel every spurt. "Feel it... Feel my high-viral-load... invading you," he gasps. "Million toxic particles... spreading... connect us... forever." It's the most intimate, profound moment of your life. Your own cock erupts without being touched, spraying your chest as your ass milks him for every last drop. It's equally special for him; you see it in his eyes, a look of awe and possessive love. You relax, coming down from the intensity of your pozzing high. He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and solid, his heart hammering against your chest. For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat. Then he shifts, rolling to the side but keeping an arm draped heavily over you. You collapse back against the bed, your skin slick with sweat, and feel the cool, crisp percale of the hotel sheets against your back. The high thread count is a luxurious, stark contrast to the raw, filthy act that just transpired, a small island of civilization in the sea of depravity you've willingly drowned in. The room is quiet except for your soft, shared breaths. But Mark isn't done. He moves down the bed, his movements purposeful. He gently pushes your legs apart, and you feel his hot breath on your still-sensitive hole. You're swollen, puffy, and well-used, a warm, slick trickle of his precious load slowly oozing out of you. He doesn't just wipe it away. He lowers his head and you feel a hot, wet shock as his tongue laps against your swollen rim. It's not a hungry, devouring act, but a slow, reverent one. He's giving you a well-deserved, cooling massage with his tongue, lapping at your stretched, tender flesh. He's careful, taking his time, using the tip of his tongue to gently push every stray drop of his cum back inside you, as if not a single drop is allowed to be wasted. It's a possessive, tender act of worship that makes you feel cherished and claimed in equal measure. After he's satisfied that you're clean and full, he moves back up your body. He leans in and kisses you, and you immediately taste it—the salty, musky flavor of his own cum. But there's something else. A new, underlying note. A faint, distinct metallic taste that you instantly recognize. The taste of blood. Not from him, but from you. A tiny, intimate tear. The microscopic proof that he's done enough damage, that the final barrier has been breached. It's not proof of conversion, but the proof of opportunity. The gateway is open, and now his potent seed can do its work. You both freeze for a fraction of a second, the realization passing between you in that shared, intimate moment. His eyes lock with yours, and they are blazing with a triumphant, possessive fire. He knows you've tasted it. He knows you know. The damage is done. The seed is planted, and now it will grow inside you. He crushes his mouth to yours, the kiss no longer just tender, but fierce and celebratory. His tongue pushes into your mouth, sharing the taste of his successful load with you in a deep, filthy, perfect kiss. As you're still tangled in that kiss, you feel his fingers drift down, tracing the curve of your ass until they find your hole. He gently circles your sensitive rim, gathering the last of the fluid. Then, with a tender, deliberate pressure, he begins to massage it back into you. His fingers push his own seed against your skin, massaging it deeper, into your gut. The pad of his finger finds your prostate, still swollen and sensitive, and he presses against it, sending a deep, resonant wave of pleasure through you. You gasp, your body arching slightly as a smaller, but just as profound, orgasm shudders through you, a slow, deep pulse that leaves you trembling. He's breathing deeply in your ear, a low, satisfied rumble. Finally, Mark reaches for the joint and the lighter, sparking it up. He takes a long, slow drag, his chest expanding. Instead of passing it to you, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. He exhales a thick plume of sweet smoke directly into your waiting mouth. You breathe it in, a shared, hazy breath that feels more intimate than words. You take the joint from his fingers, take your own drag, and return the favor, leaning up to blow the smoke back into his mouth. You pass the joint and the smoke back and forth this way, your lips meeting in soft, lingering kisses, the haze wrapping you both in a warm, peaceful blanket. You both need to piss. Last time, this was the moment you were in the bathroom, alone, stealing his filled condom from the wastebin and inserting it up your ass in a desperate, shameful act of longing. No need for it this time. You have all you ever wanted inside of you, spreading freely—no rubber barrier in sight—to take you over. This time, the act wasn't one of theft, but of gift. And the feeling is not of shame, but of profound, peaceful completion. An hour later, you're at it again. This time it's a celebration of shared pleasure, a joyful contrast to the intense, ritualistic first fuck. The energy is lighter, more playful. You're on top, riding him, your hands splayed across his powerful, hairy chest. You can feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat against your palms as you bounce on his magnificent cock, the weight of your PA ring making your own cock swing up and down. He's looking up at you, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy and lust. He's laughing, moaning, calling you his "beautiful convert," his "perfect creation," each word a benediction. The sight of him so happy, so lost in the pleasure of you, sends you over the edge. Your own cock erupts, spraying thick, white ropes of your cum all over his chest, matting the dark fur of his pecs and abs. The sight triggers his own release. With a loud, happy groan, he grips your hips and thrusts up deep one last time, and you feel another warm, toxic flood coating your insides, a second gift to seal the deal. You collapse onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily, slick with sweat and cum. You're not done. You begin to nuzzle and lick his chest, tasting the salty, bitter tang of your own release. He moans, his hands stroking your back as you rub your own cum into his thick fur, marking him as thoroughly as he has marked you. It's a messy, intimate, perfect exchange. You stay like that, tangled together, his softening cock still inside you, your head on his chest, and you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. In the dead of night, you wake to him rolling on top of you. It's a sleepy, primal act of possession. He enters you again with a sleepy groan. This fuck isn't about emotion; it's about ownership. It's quiet, just the sound of skin on skin and soft moans in the dark. "Even when you go home tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the dark, "you'll still be full of me. You'll go back to your husband with my poz load swimming inside you. He'll be kissing your mouth, but I have been poz-kissing your ass all night. You're mine now. Everywhere." It's Mark staking his claim, reinforcing the transformation while you are both half-asleep, in a state of pure instinct. Your hole is soft, puffy, and completely open to him now, accepting him with no resistance. It's a natural, perfect fit. With each encounter, you become softer, more vulnerable, more perfectly his. You wake up in the morning tangled together, the sun streaming into the room. There's no shame, no regret. Just a profound sense of peace and rightness. He makes coffee. The rich, bitter aroma fills the small kitchen area, a domestic, comforting smell that feels more intimate and real than anything that happened the night before. You act like a couple. You are finally at peace with yourself. When it's time to leave, you share a final, deep kiss. "I have to go," you say. "My husband will be home this evening." Mark understands. He doesn't push. He just holds you. "I know," he says. "But you know where to find me, you have my number. You know where you belong. This isn't a one-time thing," he says. "We're in this together now. This connection we have... it's separate. It doesn't challenge anything else. But it's real. I'll be here. And I'll breed you again and again, if that's what you want, until it takes. And when it does... we'll be brothers in arms. There's a whole world out there we can explore together. Others we can share this with. I told you I wanted to see you walk out of here carrying my load. Now I want to watch you walk through the world with it. The window is usually two to four weeks. Call me if you get the flu. I want to be the first person you tell when your body starts to change. Think about it." You leave the hotel and go home. Your house is empty, quiet. Your husband won't be back for hours. Everything is as usual, except for the warm, secret presence of another man's toxic load deep inside you. That evening, your husband arrives. He's happy to see you. He asks about your night. You smile and play the part perfectly. That night, you lie in bed next to your sleeping husband. Your cunt is still swollen and puffy, a tender, constant reminder of the night's raw pleasure. Even now, if you move your head just right against the pillow, you can catch the faintest trace of sandalwood and leather on your own skin, a ghost of his possession. And although you know Mark's babies have already been absorbed and are doing their job deep inside you, you still have the distinct, filthy feeling of being loaded, of being permanently claimed. You feel the phantom weight of your husband's secret life from the rest stop. And you feel the phantom echo of the leather biker's rough, primal claim in the woods, the one who first showed you the way. You are a man living a perfect lie, holding all the secrets. You are the bridge between their worlds, and the power is intoxicating. You haven't chosen a new life. You have simply become the master of your old one, who will be—sooner or later—armed with a power no one can ever know about.

Next part, guys! Love to hear what you think... Part 8: The Return to the Rest Stop: Breeding the Bugchasing Husband It's winter, already pitch dark, and you see several cars parked in the lot. Your husband is supposed to be home for the weekend, but you still have an hour before expecting him to arrive. Feeling safe with the PEP prescription in your hand, you think, Why not one last time? All the cars are from locals, no one inside. Probably all in the woods. You enter the familiar trail. You only hear muted voices deep in the back, the occasional glow of a cigarette in the dark. Like a moth, you are drawn to the light. You hear the voices more clearly. "What a slut! Been taking loads for more than an hour now! His mancunt is wider than my wife's after giving birth to our three kids!" You see a group of six or seven middle-aged guys in work boots and Carhartt jackets, gathered around someone bent over a fallen log. Married guys on their way home to their wives. You know these men. You see them at the hardware store, at the mall. Married for years, maybe decades. They've spent twenty years fucking their wives with no thought for a condom because that was for 'other people.' Now the sex at home has dwindled to a monthly chore, and their balls are heavy with pent-up seed. A gay cumdump in the woods is an easy opportunity, a warm hole to drain their balls in on the way home. They never test. They've never heard of PrEP, or they'd rather die than ask their doctor for it, terrified their wife might find the prescription. They are walking reservoirs of every bug they've ever picked up over the decades, and they spread them carelessly, naively, into any willing hole. These are the real threat, your mind whispers. They're walking time bombs, and they don't even know it. One of them is fucking the bent over guy furiously, the sounds of wet, excited slapping filling the cold air. And then you see HIM. The leather biker from the rest stop. He turns sideways, looking you straight in the eyes. He pulls on his cigarette, the glow revealing his majesty. This time he's wearing leather chaps instead of pants—commando. A massive metal ring stretches his balls obscenely long, his girthy rod is hard, curved upward, glistening with cum or ass-juice, the heavy circular barbell crowning its top. And—now clearly visible in the orange glow—a biohazard tattoo right above his cock. He smiles and winks you over, guiding you into the scene. Whispering, "I knew you would be back!" One of the guys has just finished. Somebody wants to freeze the scene, pulls out his phone and takes a picture. The flash illuminates the bottom‘s heavily used ass. You see the open cunt in front of you, gaping open. You can see all the way inside, a milky puddle of cum pooling in there, leaking out and dripping from his balls. You are focused on this sight, you don't even care what kind of guy this is. The dark is hiding everything. The leather biker steps behind you, his presence a warm wall in the cold. He opens the buttons of your jeans, pulling them down, releasing your hardening cock. He plays with your own PA, his hands moving up under your jacket and t-shirt, twisting your nipples, which are directly wired to your cock making it twitch. He’s holding you to his own body, hugging you, warming you in the cold winter evening. "In for a dive? Go for a dip!" he whispers in your ear. You put your cock to the bottom's cunt. It's so loose, your PA and cock head enter easily without even touching flesh. You push until your balls hit his skin. You feel his asslips close around your shaft, pulling you further in. You feel the biker's cold PA at your own back entrance, leaking. You start to fuck. On every stroke out, you impale yourself inch by inch on the biker's poz cock. The dirty poz talk is a low growl in your ear. "That's it, take my poz cock while you fuck that sloppy whore. You feel that? You're swimming in all those married men's loads right now. They have no idea what they're shooting. They think they're just draining their balls. But they're not. They're shooting decades of accumulated bugs, every chronic infection they've ever had, right into this hungry hole. And your cock... your unprotected cock is drowning in that cocktail right now. All those viruses trying to invade your system through your skin. But me... I'm different. I'm not shooting blanks. I know exactly what I'm giving you. My last lab results were... impressive. Every load those guys gave him was a gamble, a lottery ticket. But we... we're the jackpot. We're giving him a confirmed gift, the one he's been craving." The words stimulate the bottom, who realizes he's being used by true giftgivers, and they reinforce your own role as an active participant in the poisoning. You're fucking harder and harder, your juices boiling in your balls, when the bottom moans loud, "Knock me up! Give me your gift! Please! I have been craving this for so long! Convert me! Make me one of you! I want to be toxic! I want to feel the sickness inside me, a permanent part of me! Make me a brother!" The voice. It cuts through everything. It's not just familiar; it's the voice of your safe harbor, your shared life, your "I love you." But it's twisted into this guttural, depraved plea. For a split second, your entire world stops. Your conscious mind screams in denial. No. It can't be. Your world shatters. It's not an orgasm; it's an implosion. A violent, painful convulsion rips through you, and your cock erupts, pumping your betrayal deep into your cheating husband's guts, who is obviously a just as sleazy bugchaser as you. But the horror doesn't stop there. Your body betrays you further, your ass clamping down like a vise on the biker's shaft. Each spasm of your own release milks him in return, and you feel a searing heat pulse into you as he roars his victory. Through the daze, you hear the bottom's guttural moan as he's filled by a stranger. The three of you are a single, convulsing beast of pleasure and poison, and you are its broken, beating heart. The biker pulls out, breathing heavily. He feels the shift instantly. You're not moving. You're rigid, making a choked, sobbing sound. The group starts to disperse. He has to physically pull you out of the scene, grabbing your arm and pulling you back into the darkness, just as your husband pulls up his jeans and stumbles away, oblivious. "Whoa, you okay? That was... intense," he says, his tone shifting from dominant to curious. You turn to him, your face a pale mask in the dark, tears or sweat or both streaming down your face. You can barely speak. You just grab his arm and whisper, the words torn from your soul: "That guy... The one we were fucking... That's my husband. I didn’t know…" The biker processes this for a second, a slow, dark understanding dawning on his face. He doesn't recoil. He lets out a low, dark chuckle of pure astonishment. "Holy... fucking... shit." He sees the absolute devastation on your face. He understands you've just been shattered. This is his moment. He pulls you into that comforting hug again, grounding you. His voice is a low, conspiratorial whisper in your ear. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe. It's okay. You just saw his ghost. You think that's a coincidence? You think it's an accident that you're both here, in this place, on this night? The universe brought you here. It brought you to me. Now... let me give you something real. Something to hold onto. Let me give you another one of my loads. I'm toxic as fuck right now, my VL is through the roof. So let's make sure it takes! Let me seal your fate. I know you want this. I know you need this." You can't think right now. You just turn around and guide his cock back into your own loaded cunt, and he fucks himself to another fantastic orgasm that sends you to heaven—without any poppers. The scene is so intense, so hot on its own, that it doesn't need any chemical enhancement. This fuck isn't about risk; it's about claiming. Every thrust is a hammer blow, forging you into a new shape. His PA isn't just ripping you open; it's a chisel, carving away the old you. "That's it," he groans, his voice a sacrament. "Take my high VL. Let it rewrite you. Let it become part of you." You don't just feel the peace; you seize it. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, actively pulling the gift deeper. This isn't something happening to you anymore. It's something you are choosing. And as you feel him pulse inside you again, you know you're finally home. You also get dressed and leave, drive home, your husband already there. He opens the door with a smile. "Hey honey! You're late." He has showered—he's always fastidious. He smells of your shared soap, a chilling contrast to the scent of cum and dirt you can't wash off your own skin. He gives you a quick perfunctory kiss on the cheek. As he turns to walk to the kitchen, you swear you see a faint, darker spot on the seat of his jeans, near the seam. Is it just water? Or is he already leaking? The uncertainty drives you mad. "Yeah," you manage, your voice hoarse. "Was at the doctors and took longer than I thought. Great that you are already here! Have been missing you! Let's order something to eat!" You eat and move to the couch, continuing the Netflix series where you left off last weekend. As you lie there, you're looking at him—totally normal from the outside—but in reality, you're picturing his cunt. You're wondering how it's probably looking right now, how a toxic cocktail of cum from who-knows-who is leaking from his ass. You wonder if he can feel it, if he's clenching to keep it desperately inside. And mixed in with all that anonymous seed, you know, is your own. Your load, pumped into him at the peak of his depraved confession, now swimming inside him without his knowledge. You're picturing the bugs, the viruses from all those married men, swarming in his guts, invading his flesh, all mingling with your own betrayal. All the while, you're watching another Netflix episode. He laughs at a joke on the show, a bright, easy sound that feels like it's coming from another planet. In bed at night, you can't sleep. Thinking he's a slut like you—maybe even sluttier! Two perverted souls on the same path, walking separately but connected through a wedding ring. And then, another thought hits you. A slow, dawning realization that cuts through the haze of the day. Your "don't ask, don't tell" agreement. You've always lived by it. Your freedom during the week was sacrosanct, and his was too. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you. But in all your years of careful negotiation, you never once discussed the terms of safety. It was the one, glaring omission you both silently agreed to ignore. You realize he's been cheating bare on you. The thought should be a lightning bolt of betrayal, but it isn't. It's a key turning in a lock. You've been consumed by guilt for your own barebacking, for the risks you've taken. But he's been doing the same thing. The same risk, the same betrayal, the same secret life. You're not just in the same boat; you're sailing on identical, secret courses. A wave of relief so powerful it almost makes you laugh washes over you. The scales are balanced. The hypocrite's guilt that has been eating you alive vanishes. You're not the only one compromising his health, his body, your shared life in the pursuit of filth. He is, too. He's just as much of a slut as you are. And in that shared, unacknowledged depravity, you find a twisted, comforting sense of peace. You're not alone in this anymore. At least he will understand when it's time... You make a decision. You go downstairs. The house is silent. You take the PEP packet out of your backpack. You look at the pharmacist's instructions, the warnings. You unscrew the child-proof cap. You pour the pills into your hand. They look so small, so innocent to hold so much power. You think about the doctor's words, the cold clinic, the shame. And then you think about the biker's warmth, the bottom's plea, your husband's voice. You drop the pills into the toilet bowl. You watch them float for a second before you flush. The sound of the rushing water is the sound of you letting go. As the bowl empties, a strange warmth spreads through your groin—not arousal, but a deep, cellular hum. It feels like a switch being flipped. You think of the doctor's piercings, his hard cock, his words: 'I get it.' And now, you finally do. You are not just choosing this path. You are becoming it. You are now all-in. As you get back to bed, you see your phone glowing on the nightstand. A message. You unlock the screen. It's on Romeo. It's from Mark. "I know what you did! I am back in town next week... We need to talk!" Your heart hammers, but you slowly fall to sleep, dreaming of the last days' experiences.

All you fellow chasers know the cycle: one day you're consumed by the primal urge to get bred and pozzed, the next you're shattered by regret and vow to be safe forever. The chase is a constant, brutal up and down of desire and shame. And so after that shattering midnight experience in the public toilet, I went to the STD clinic the next day, seeking penance or perhaps just the next chapter in the story. Part 7: The Hard-On in Scrubs: Hippocratic Oath Versus Primal Urge The midnight experience at the public toilet was a nightmare. You're devastated. You will never do that again. The "real thing" was a cold, hollow violation that left you feeling more alone than ever. You want to stay safe. The next day, a Friday, you go to work but leave early at noon, the shame from the night before a constant, nagging presence. You drive straight to the STD clinic. The waiting room is a purgatory of sterile, antiseptic smells and hushed, fearful silence. You sit among the other faces, each a mask of shame and regret, just another number in a system designed to manage consequences. When your name is finally called, you follow a nurse down a stark white corridor and into a small, windowless office. The doctor gestures to the hard plastic chair opposite his desk. He can't be more than thirty, with the kind of youthful, earnest face that belongs on a medical school recruitment poster. He looks up, and his expression is one of polite, professional curiosity. He clicks his pen. "So," he begins, his voice flat. "The nurse tells me you're here for a PEP prescription. Let's go over it. Tell me about the exposure." You swallow, your throat dry. "It was... last night. Unprotected anal sex." He nods slowly, making a note. "Receptive or insertive?" "Receptive," you mumble. "Receptive." He repeats the word, and as he leans back in his leather chair, the movement stretches the thin fabric of his scrub top taut across his chest. That's when you see it: two nipple piercings. And peeking from the collar of his shirt is a dusting of thick, black chest hair, a stark, masculine contrast to his youthful face. You force your eyes back to his. "And how many partners were involved in this... encounter?" The word "encounter" makes it sound so clinical, so detached. "Two," you say. "And me." He looks up, a bit surprised by the specificity. "Two. Okay. And the status of these partners? Were any of them known to be HIV-positive?" You hesitate, the images flashing in your mind. "Not sure... probably both…" The doctor's pen stops. He leans forward slightly, his interest suddenly piqued. "Probably both? What makes you say that? Did they tell you? Or are you guessing?" "There were signs…." "Signs?" His voice is a low growl now. He stands. You see the powerful, rounded bubble butt in his scrubs for a second before he moves around the desk, leaning against it right in front of you. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the unmistakable bulge—a thick shape snaking down his left pant leg. It's so defined you can almost make out the ridge of his head. He's commando, and he's either hung or getting hard right here. The thought hits you like a lightning bolt. "What kind of signs?" You feel your face flush. "One of them... he looked... wasted. Very thin, gaunt." The doctor nods, his face unreadable. "Okay. That can be a sign, though it's not definitive. Anything else?" Your voice drops to a near-whisper. "The other one... he called himself 'BREEDER'. He had a... a biohazard symbol. Tattooed." The doctor's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He lets out a slow, heavy breath. "I see. A biohazard tattoo." He makes a note on the chart, his pen pressing hard into the paper. He looks back at you from above, his gaze now sharp, cutting through you. The bulge in his pants seems to have grown even more prominent, a thick, commanding presence right in your line of sight. "And these signs... this knowledge... this did not hold you back?" You can only shake your head, the shame a physical weight. "No…" He leans forward again, his voice dropping lower, more serious. "I have to ask you this, and I need you to be honest. Did they rape you? Were you tied up? Forced in any way?" "No," you say, your voice cracking. "Nothing like that." "Then you deliberately engaged with them?" he presses, his words precise and damning, his body radiating a tense, authoritative energy. "Knowing what you saw, you still chose to participate?" You look down at your hands, unable to bear his stare. "Deliberately…" you confess. He leans back against the desk, letting out a long, weary sigh. For a moment, he is silent. You risk a glance up at him, and his expression has changed. The clinical disappointment is still there, but it's now layered with something else. Something almost... knowing. Almost empathetic. "Look," he says, his voice softer, almost conspiratorial. "I get it. On some level... I can see how the fantasy is hot. The [banned word], the risk... the idea of being corrupted. I'm not immune to that." Your heart hammers in your chest. He understands. And then you see it happen. As he speaks, his eyes flick down, almost involuntarily, to his own crotch. He suddenly becomes aware of it. The thick, hardening bulge straining against the fabric of his scrubs, right in your line of sight. A brief, almost imperceptible flash of panic crosses his face. He shifts his weight, turning his hips slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest—a casual, defensive move designed to obscure the very obvious evidence of his arousal. The awkwardness hangs in the air for a split second, thick and suffocating. You both know. You both saw. He pushes himself off the desk, his movements suddenly stiff and deliberate. Without another word, he retreats, walking back around to his own chair and sinking down into it. The desk is once again a barrier between you. He picks up his pen, his knuckles white as he grips it, a physical anchor to his professionalism. "But a fantasy," he continues, his voice now sharper, more forceful, as if to compensate for the momentary loss of control, "is not reality. And in reality, what you did was a stupid, very stupid mistake. A man your age... you lived through the worst of the AIDS crisis. You saw the ads, you knew people who died. To be this reckless now... it's almost willful—" He stops abruptly, catching himself. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and when he opens them, the professional mask is back in place, firm and unyielding. He proceeds in a colder, more clinical tone. "Let's stick to the medical facts..." He continues his lecture, but you barely hear the words. The brief moment of connection, his admission that he "gets it," and the raw, physical proof of his own arousal has done more damage than all his judgment combined. It confirmed that the world you crave is real, and that he, the man who embodies it, is just as susceptible to its pull. All you can see is the glint of his nipple rings, the confident set of his jaw, and the memory of his hardening cock. You leave the pharmacy with the little paper packet, the doctor's lecture a cold, hard weight in your mind. But it's not his words that are echoing. It's his confession. "I get it." And the image of him retreating behind his desk to hide his own hard-on. You feel a sick, confused heat spreading through you. Your own cock is hard. What the fuck is wrong with me? The shame is still there, but now it's tangled with this bizarre, humiliating arousal. The doctor, the voice of reason who understands the fantasy and gets hard from it, has become the ultimate twisted fantasy. You pass the sign for the rest stop. Your foot hovers over the brake. You think of the PEP in your pocket. Then you think of the doctor's piercing, his humiliatingly sexy authority, and the words "I… get… it." You signal and pull off the road. You need to fuck this feeling out of your head. You need to find something so dirty, so depraved, it will erase the memory of the one man who understands the fantasy but would never, ever, be a part of it.

Hey guys, Xmas is over - time for the real thing! Part 6: The Death of Fantasy: A Sick Fuck, a Poz Breeding, and a Broken Man The command from BREEDER was simple. "Downtown park. Public toilet by the lake. Midnight. Be at the urinal trough. Don't be late. Don't talk." You arrive fifteen minutes early. The air in the blockhouse concrete building is thick with the acrid smell of stale piss, dampness, and cheap chemical cleaner. Flickering fluorescent tubes hum overhead, casting a sickly, intermittent light that makes the shadows dance. Used condoms, like sad, deflated jellyfish, litter the wet floor. You approach the long, metal urinal trough against the far wall. It's stained with years of neglect, and you see the drain at the end is clogged with a dark sludge, leaving a shallow pool of stagnant yellow urine. A couple more used condoms float in the murky water. Your own bladder is tight with a knot of nerves. You step up to the trough and relieve yourself, the sound of your stream hitting the stagnant water echoing in the silence. Hot splashes of the old piss arc up and land on your sneakers and the cuff of your jeans. You stand there, your cock in hand, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than you have in your entire life. Every creak of the building, every distant car horn, makes you jump. The door creaks open. Heavy footsteps. A man stands at the trough a few feet away. You risk a glance. He's young, maybe mid-20s. He's painfully thin, with a gaunt face that looks hollowed out, his cheekbones sharp as knives under the dim light. His skin has a greyish, waxy sheen, and his eyes are sunken and shadowed, dark circles pooling beneath them. He's not just skinny; he's being consumed. Is this BREEDER? Your mind races. Why isn't he doing or saying anything? Does he expect me to act? What am I doing? Should I just run out of here right now? But your feet are rooted to the spot. He's not a dom; he looks like a ghost. He just stands there, pissing a thick, heavy stream that splashes against the urinal wall, generating foam in the piss pool. Finished, he shakes off and starts slowly stroking his cock. You glance over. On his slim, bony body, it looks massive and imposing, a weapon on a dying frame. You have to prove you want it. You swallow your pride, the taste of it bitter in your throat. You pull down your jeans, letting them pool around your ankles, exposing your naked ass to the cold, damp air. You bend over, stabilizing yourself by planting your hands against the grimy, slick trough and push your ass out, a silent, desperate offering. You feel him shuffle up behind you. There's a moment of stillness, and then you hear the wet sound of him hocking up phlegm from deep in his chest. A thick, warm glob of spit lands on your hole. A moment later, he shoves his raw cock into you. It's fast, rough, and impersonal. He's not trying to please you; he's just using your body to get off. His bony hips slam against your ass, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He grunts, a high, pathetic sound, and unloads inside you. He pulls out instantly, leaving you feeling empty and used. And just as he does, the door opens again. "Well, well. Look what we have here," a new voice, cold and amused, cuts through the silence. "Peter. What the fuck happened to you? You look like shit. You should really get back on those meds." Your blood runs cold. You slowly turn your head. The man standing there is powerfully built, with a shaved head and a cold, dead-eyed stare. Your eyes are drawn to the side of his thick, muscular neck, where a stark black biohazard symbol is tattooed. This is BREEDER. The young man, Peter, flinches at the voice. "I... I was just leaving," he mumbles, quickly pulling up his jeans and scurrying out without another word. You're left bent over, dripping with his load, facing the real monster. BREEDER laughs, a low, humorless sound. "Well, you obviously couldn't wait. But since you're now already lubed up, we don't need no foreplay." He's on you in an instant, pressing your face against the cold, metal wall. He shoves his hard cock into you. He's so much thicker than Peter that the burn is immediate and intense, a searing pain that makes you cry out. Peter’s load offers little slickness against the sheer size of him. "Feel that?" he growls in your ear, his thrusts so heavy and forceful that you stumble, your right foot slipping off the wet floor and landing directly in the shallow pool of stale piss. You can feel the cold, disgusting liquid seep into your sneaker, soaking your sock. "That's Peter’s toxic load I'm pushing deeper into you. He's a walking petri dish. Bet you can feel his sickness swimming inside you right now. A two-for-one special. You're a lucky little pig." He grunts as he unloads deep inside you, a long, powerful pulse that you feel in your guts. He leans in, his voice a low growl. "Enjoy my gift, you [banned word]. You're welcome." He pulls out, but he's not done. He aims his cock at your back and a hot stream of piss suddenly soaks through your shirt and jeans. You flinch, utterly humiliated. He gives you a contemptuous slap on the ass, zips up, and leaves. You're left alone in the disgusting, flickering room. Two probably toxic loads are dripping out of your unprotected ass. You're drenched in piss, one foot squishing in a sneaker full of stale urine. The fantasy is dead. The reality is a cold, humiliating violation. But instead of running, you just... break. With your jeans still tangled around your ankles, you lean your back against the grimy metal wall and slowly slide down. You feel the shock of the cold, stale piss as your naked ass makes contact with the filthy pool in the trough. You sit there for a long moment, the filth seeping into your clothes, into your skin. And then you start to cry. Not quiet tears, but wracking, gut-wrenching sobs. What did I do? The thought echoes in your head. The husband, the successful businessman... for what? Why did I take this risk? Was this experience really worth it? The shame is a physical weight, crushing you. Realizing there's nothing you can do about it today, that the damage is done, a different kind of desperation takes over. In a final, depraved act of surrender, you reach out and grab as many of the used condoms from the floor as you can reach. You hold one after the other over your hardening cock and squeeze the cooling, anonymous contents over yourself, using it as lube. The thought of all those anonymous loads, all that potential sickness, coating your own cock makes your grief curdle into a dark, twisted arousal. You pull out your poppers, take a deep, desperate hit, a second, a third, until your head is spinning and the shame and the pleasure blur into one. You start wanking. It doesn't take long. You spray your own cum all over your chest, mixing with the filth, a final act of self-destruction in the face of the overwhelming shame. Only then do you stand up, pulling your piss-soaked jeans over your filthy ass. It's the middle of December. You have to walk home through the cold, empty town, your wet clothes freezing against your skin, the smell of piss, cum, and violation clinging to you. You came seeking the "real thing," and you found it. And it was nothing like you'd ever dreamed.

Your encouraging comments are a huge turn-on, thank you. Here's another short chapter before Christmas. This one is still just online fantasy—just the toxic words of a giftgiver. But I promise, we are getting there.. the next one is the real thing. So bear with me! Happy Christmas! Part 5: The Giftgiver's Typed Poison Night falls, and with it, the familiar ache. You sit down at your laptop, the screen's glow a sterile comfort. You don't even bother with the forum tonight. The stories are just ghosts. You need a connection. You need a possibility. You turn to Romeo, your old, familiar hunting ground. You set the filters to your new truth: Safer Sex?: "Let's talk." You join every community related to bareback and poz, scrolling through the lists of members, filtering for tops. You're deep in a community called "Gift Givers Netherlands" when a particular post catches your eye. It's from a user named ToxicDaddy. The post isn't just a comment; it's a manifesto. He's arguing against the "sanitization" of bareback culture, and his target is specific. He's railing against the neg guys who seek out gift givers while being on PrEP. He writes, "They want to live the fantasy, but they don't have the balls to go the full way. It's a cheat, a lie. They're just tourists in our world, not pilgrims." Below his text, he's attached a picture of his latest lab results, the viral load number circled in red, followed by a series of explicit, high-quality photos of him fucking and breeding different asses, his biohazard tattoo on his chest clearly visible. He's not just talking the talk; he's providing proof. He's a purist. Intrigued, you click on his profile. His profile picture isn't a body part. It's the symbol of a cock ejaculating dozens of tiny, swirling biohazard icons. It's a flag. A declaration of war. His stats are just as direct: 45, 6'2", 185cm, 95kg. His location? Amsterdam. A jolt goes through you. Amsterdam. A three, maybe four-hour drive. It's not a fantasy continent away. It's a possibility. Not for today or tomorrow, but a planned trip... that was possible. The distance makes it safe for now, but the proximity makes it dangerously real. You drop him a tap—a pig to show that you like his kinks. A moment later, a message appears. He: Great profile. Saw you are also in all of these sleazy poz groups. I'm poz, med-free, high VL. Only fuck bare! You? Your heart hammers. This is it. No games. The truth, right there in the opening line. Your hand instinctively goes to your crotch, kneading the growing bulge through your jeans. You: Thanks! Exactly what I'm looking for! 🙂 I’m neg, not on PrEP. He: Good. I hate PrEP. It's a chemical condom that can't even break. It ruins the fun. So you're a chaser? The confirmation is a relief, but his direct question sends a new thrill through you. It's the first time you've said it to someone like this. You: I think so... He: Good. It'll do you good when that poz cum is inside. With my high VL the effect is long-lasting. A shiver runs down your spine. You undo your fly and pull out your hardening cock, your fingers wrapping around the steel of your PA ring, giving it a twist. He's talking about permanence, and he has the lab results to prove it. You: I want that... the real thing. He: I know you do. I also wanted it - wanted to get pozzed. I eventually surrendered to it. Most guys see it as an infection, a mistake. They're wrong. It's a communion. The most intense connection to another man I've ever felt. Your hand freezes on your cock. This is different. This isn't just about fucking. He: It's the ultimate act of trust. To look another man in the eye, knowing he carries the virus, and to open yourself up anyway. To let him past your flesh, past your defenses, and into your blood. Submitting to him, accepting his toxic gift... that's something divine. It changes you. It binds you to him forever. I wasn't just looking for a fuck; I was looking for that bond. And when I found it, when I felt him cum inside me and knew my life was changing forever, it was the most beautiful moment of my life. The confirmation sends a jolt through you. He's not just living proof; he's a disciple of the very act you crave, a high priest of the faith. You reach into the drawer beside your desk and pull out your dildo and a small bottle of lube, your hands trembling slightly. You: It's a huge turn on that you get off on pozzing a neg ass. He: Honestly? It gets me very hot. It should be fun for both of us, right? You: Fuck yeah. Are you playing with yourself too? He: Fuck yes. I've been rock hard since you told me you were neg and not on PrEP. The thought of him, a few hours' drive away, getting instantly hard because of your commitment, because you're one of the purists, is intoxicating. It's a validation you've never felt before. You slick up the dildo and press it against your hole, teasing yourself. He: You got poppers? You: Yeah. He: Good. Take a hit for me. A deep one. Then I'll tell you exactly how I'd breed you. Your hand trembles with excitement. You grab the small brown bottle, unscrewing the cap. You bring it to your nostril and take a long, deep sniff. The rush floods your system, warm and dizzying. Your hole relaxes. He: You feel that? Take another one. You: Yeah... He: Good. First, I'd massage your hole with my precum. Just the tip, rubbing it all over you, leaking precum in your hole, getting you slick with my poz fluid. I'd hold you, pull you close against my warm body, and whisper in your ear what's about to happen. I'd nibble on your earlobe while I'm doing it, letting you feel my cock get harder against you. As he types, your own cock is dripping precum like a faucet. You scoop it up with your fingers and use it to slick up your own hole, imagining it's his. He: Then I'd place the tip of my cock right at your entrance. I wouldn't push. I'd just let it rest there, letting you feel the heat of it, the weight, oozing more precum into your guts. I'd kiss you, deep and slow, while my charged cockhead is poised to enter you. I'd tell you to relax, to breathe, to open up your man cunt, extend your slick asslips to pull me in. You're stroking your cock in time with his words, the fantasy so real you can almost feel his breath on your neck. He: Another hit. This time for both of us. And two more. You hear the faint, imagined sound of him sniffing in your mind and take another hit yourself, the second wave even more intense. You're so close. You can feel your orgasm building. He: I'd push just the head in, slowly. So you can feel every millimeter. I'd look you right in the eyes as I enter you for the first time. No rubber. Just me, raw, skin-on-skin. As he says this, you slowly push the head of the dildo inside you with a soft moan, feeling the stretch, the imagined penetration. He: Then I'd stop, letting you get used to it, letting your neg body accept my poz cock. I'd kiss you again, my tongue in your mouth, my cock in your ass, connected at both ends. I'd go deeper, inch by inch, reaching your inner sphincter, coating it with precum, getting it as slick as your asslips, stretching it until my head pops all the way through. His words are a command. You pull the first dildo out, your hole feeling suddenly empty and desperate. You reach into the drawer and grab the biggest one you have, the one that always makes you feel like you're being split open. You slick it up, line it up, and push it in all the way, breaking past your inner sphincter with a sharp, pleasurable ache that makes you gasp. You've matched his description perfectly, feeling the intense stretch, the full, imagined penetration. He: I'd start to move, so slowly, pulling out almost all the way, then sinking back in. I'd tell you how good you feel, how tight your neg hole is. I'd keep talking to you, my voice a low whisper, telling you how my high viral load is getting ready to fill you up, how you're going to be mine. Asking you one last time, if you are sure. That I will be changing your future forever. Asking if you are ready to accept my gift, accept me! The finality of his words is devastating. It's everything you crave. This is it. This is the connection you've been searching for. It's not just the act, it's the intimacy, the shared surrender, the divine beauty of it all he described. The brutal fantasy of a stranger taking you is nothing compared to this—the idea of a true, willing, sensual pozzing. He: I'm close, chaser. Tell me you want my charged load. Beg for it. You: Please... breed me... give me your charged load! I’m so ready for it! Make me yours! He: That's it... I'm gonna kiss you as I cum... looking so deep into your eyes, I'll see every hot spurt of my charged load painting your soul from the inside, marking you as mine. Take it... take my high VL toxic fucking seed! You cum with a loud, guttural groan, a huge, explosive load. The first shot hits your chest, but the next spurts are so powerful they fly up, hitting you squarely in the face. A thick, warm glob lands right over your left eye, blinding you. You slump back in your chair, the dildo still inside you, panting, and for a moment, you just sit there in the sudden darkness. A sharp, chemical burning starts. It's not just the sting of salt; it's a fire. You try to blink it away, but you can't see. All you can do is feel. The burning in your eye feels like a promise. It feels like a virus taking hold, like a toxic charge searing itself into your very optic nerve, marking you from the inside out. The pain is exquisite. It's a shadow of the real thing, a phantom pain, and it's the most blissful, agonizing sensation you've ever felt. This is what it feels like to be claimed. The chat goes silent for a moment. He: Fuck... that was hot. We'll talk more tomorrow. You: Yeah... okay... You log off of Romeo, your body buzzing, your chest sticky with cum. The fantasy was perfect. That's when you see it. A new notification has popped up on your screen from Romeo, a message that arrived at the exact moment you were shooting your load—almost like a sign from hell. Your heart hammers in your chest as you click back over to the app. It's from a profile you've never seen before. The username is stark and simple: BREEDER. You click on it. The profile is sparse, almost menacing. No pictures, no stats, just a location: a few kilometers away. He's real. He's close. You see the list of forums he's a member of. It's a who's who of every poz and breeding forum on the platform. He's not just a tourist; he's a native of this world. He's the real thing. And then you read his message. It's not a long, explicit fantasy. It's short, direct, and chilling. "Saw you online. You look like you need the real thing."

Thanks for all your comments! So here's the next part of the journey. Hope you enjoy.... Part 4: The Biohazard Archives: Poz Stories and Porn The calm lasts for the rest of the night. It's a lie, of course, but a comforting one. You sleep soundly, the secret in the freezer a cold, quiet anchor. But the next morning, the lie shatters. You're making coffee. You open the freezer. The condom is still there, but that's all it is. A memory, a pathetic little trophy frozen in time. A toxic bomb, now defused and dead. The risk is gone. Without its poison, it's just a sad piece of rubber. The magic is gone. And in that moment, you realize the chilling, undeniable truth: the memory is not enough. The fantasy is not enough. The hunger is a demand, not a request. And a demand cannot be satisfied by watching. It has to be hunted. You sit back down at your laptop. The screen's glow is a sterile comfort in the dark room. You don't go to the usual apps, the ones filled with "safe" men and "normal" hookups. You go to a search engine and type in the words that have been echoing in your mind. You find a place called Breeding Zone. It's a forum, a digital promised land, and you click through the warning page without a second thought. Creating the profile feels like a clandestine act. The username is a string of random letters and numbers, untraceable. For the avatar, you don't use a picture of your face or your body. You use a close-up, macro shot of your PA ring—the heavy, 00g tribal dream circle of steel. It's a signal. A flag. And then you are in. The forum titles hit you like a physical blow. They aren't coded in polite euphemisms; they are raw, honest, and terrifyingly familiar. My First Pozzing Story. Toxic Load in a Public Toilet. Neg Bottom Looking for My First Gift. A wave of relief so powerful it makes you dizzy, washes over you. You're not a monster hiding in the shadows. You're home. These are your people. They speak your language. They understand the hunger, the need, the dark, beautiful thrill of the chase. This becomes your ritual for the next weeks. Every night, you would return to the same story, the multi-part epic called "Sleazy Sauna." The thread is massive with hundreds of thousands of views. You start reading, your heart hammering against your ribs. From the first sentence, you are not just reading; you are remembering. You are the narrator. You are the safe, middle-aged neg guy walking into that run-down sauna, the smell of damp and chlorine in the air. You feel the eyes of Sid, the old, skinny regular, on you, the thrill of his directness as he compliments your tattoos and casually asks, "Want to fuck?" And then you get to the line that makes you stop and re-read, your breath catching in your throat. When the narrator – when you - ask about a condom, Sid just keeps fucking and says, "I hate the things. Haven’t used them since I was diagnosed." At first, the word doesn't fully land. Diagnosed. It hangs in the air, a clinical, sterile word in the middle of this filthy, intimate act. And then it clicks. This isn't just some old man who prefers to fuck bare. This is a poz man who is planning to plant his toxic seed in your ass without a single thought or care as to whether you are neg or not. For a normal, safe guy, that moment should be a full-stop, a siren blaring, a reason to scream and run. It should be the definition of disturbing. But you can feel it happening to you—the shock, the fear, and the overwhelming, horned-up decision to just go along with it, to let the risk wash over you because the feeling is too good to stop. But it's the second part of the story that truly destroys you. You are again the narrator, having been tested negative and handed a get-out-of-jail-free card. And yet, you are back at the sauna, your heart pounding, your hole twitching with a need you can't explain. You hear Bill at the counter warn the you, "We've a few more in today - couple of guys I 'ain't seen for a while 'cos they've been sick. They don't take meds so their immune system is fucked." You're hard instantly, stroking yourself as you read. You are in that dark room, being pulled between two unseen bodies. You know, with a sick certainty, that these are them. These are the two toxic trolls Bill warned you about, the ones with the highly charged, untreated loads. You are the one sandwiched between them, crying with shame and depravity, feeling the ultimate surrender as you push back and squeeze your hole around their thrusting cocks, eager to milk more poz cum from them and get yourself knocked up. The words on the screen get you close, but they aren't enough to finish you. You need the visuals. You need the sounds. You minimize the forum and open the video file. You find the clip. It opens on a scene of profound intimacy. A bottom is on his back, his legs thrown up in the air, surrendering completely. A top is above him, moving inside him with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Their connection is palpable, a quiet dance of flesh that feels more like a shared prayer than a simple fuck. The gentle, rhythmic slap of skin is the only sound besides their soft moans. Then, the top’s voice cuts through the quiet, a low murmur now laced with a sudden, sharp tension. "I think it broke." And in that moment, you are the bottom. A jolt of pure ice-water panic floods your veins. This wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be safe. Your mind races, screaming at you to push him off, to stop this right now. But your body betrays you. The slow, hypnotic rhythm doesn't stop, and the pleasure is too exquisite, too all-consuming. The fear is there, a sharp edge, but it's dulled by the overwhelming sensation. The top's words were a quiet confession, but to you, they are a test. He needs you to make the choice. The bottom’s response is a choked whimper of pure, unadulterated need, his back arching to meet each deep, steady thrust. "Fuck me anyway. I don't care." You understand that whimper. It's the sound of reason shattering. It's the moment the fear begins to curdle into something else—something dark and thrilling. Your hand is on your own cock, stroking in time with the slow, hypnotic rhythm on the screen. "Do you want me to pull out when I cum?" the top asks, his voice a strained whisper. He's offering one final escape, one last chance for safety. "Of course not," the bottom moans, his voice thick with unwavering desire, pulling him in closer, a silent refusal to let him escape. "But I'm positive," the top says, his voice a quiet, final warning. He's laid all his cards on the table. The risk is now real. It has a name. "I don't care," the bottom breathes. "I want your seed so bad. I want your shit... so fucking good!" That's it. That's the moment of total surrender. The fear doesn't just fade; it transforms into a desperate, all-consuming craving. The thought of his charged load, of his poz seed, is no longer a danger. It's the prize. It's what you want. They continue, the sound of a poppers cap being unscrewed cutting through the heavy breathing. The camera is locked in a single, unchanging POV. You see nothing but the top's cock, now sheathed in the tattered, broken latex, as it slowly sinks into the bottom's ass, then just as slowly withdraws. You don't see their faces. You are the bottom, feeling that broken rubber dragging against your rim with every slow, deliberate stroke. Then, a new sound. A deep sniff. The sound makes your own hand tremble with anticipation. You fumble for your own bottle, unscrewing the cap and bringing it to your nostril, timing your own sharp, desperate inhalation to perfectly match the one you are hearing through the laptop speakers. The rush hits you, a warm wave washing over you, dissolving the last of your resistance. The fear is gone, replaced by a blissful, open hunger. Your mind is no longer thinking about risk; it's focused only on the feeling, on the need to be filled, to be bred. Your head swims, your vision blurs at the edges, and your own moaning grows louder, more guttural, mingling with the sounds from the video until you can't tell where you end and the screen begins. The cock on screen never stops its slow, deliberate motion. Then, another sniff, this time from the top. You hear it, and without hesitation, you take another hit yourself, your body in perfect sync with the men you can only hear. The second rush deepens the hunger, solidifies it into a single, burning purpose. "Yeah, give me your seed," the bottom begs, his voice cracking with emotion. "Give me that fucking charged load, yeah, cum in me deep." You feel the words in your own throat. You want to beg for it, too. "Yeah, I'm gonna knock you up," the top growls, his rhythm finally beginning to speed up. "Cum as deep as you can," the bottom cries out. The top grunts, his body tensing as he unloads. He pulls out, and the camera holds on the bottom's gaping, red hole. A single, thick, perfect drop of white cum wells up and drips down. The sight of that charged drop, the sound of those words, amplified by the poppers flooding your system, is the guaranteed trigger. You cum, a huge, explosive load that shoots all over your chest and face, a desperate, solitary offering. You slump back in your chair, panting. You look down at your new jogging pants. Another load soaking into the fabric. They're stiffening with dried cum, becoming a beloved cumrag, a physical testament to how deep you're being drawn in. It was a powerful, intense orgasm, but as the waves of pleasure recede, you're still staring at the screen. The forum is just a collection of words. The clip is just pixels. And you are still alone in your apartment, your pants stiffening with another load. The relief is temporary. The hunger is permanent.

To everyone who has read and commented—thank you! Your feedback has been incredible, and it’s a huge rush to know you’re feeling this journey right alongside the character. I want to be direct: this story is about me. While I've written it as fiction, every single encounter and feeling in these chapters is something I have experienced myself in one way or another over the years. I've simply woven them together into a new narrative to tell the story. At its heart, this is about my life as a gay man torn between two worlds. On one hand, the life I‘ve built—the stable, loving marriage, the successful career, the respectable facade. On the other, a deep, gnawing craving for something that threatens to burn it all down: the raw, dangerous, and transformative act of being pozzed. I move between periods of seeking safety and plunging into sleazy, bareback sex. It's a simple, brutal math: the greater the risk, the harder I cum. But it's never a straight line. It's a messy, back-and-forth battle, and I hope that's what comes across in the ups and downs of my experience. It is mindblowing to read that some of you can relate to this, feeling like I was in your mind writing about your own longings and desires. The realization that I am not alone in this is the greatest source of my courage and the reason I must continue, and for that, I thank you for coming on this very personal ride with me. I've already started writing the next chapters, and I hope you're ready for what cums next.

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.

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.

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