Cutedelicategay

Only ever taken my late husband's cock; from being a virgin, until his ski accident death. His cum leaking out was our ritual. Grief keeps me mostly solo, but have opened up to one other man since but these questions hit home from a one-cock lifetime perspective. I maybe able to answer these questions after my Amsterdam and Berlin trip for 10 days in end of March 😆 1. Tops skipping spanks on red ass: He rarely spanked—preferred deep grips and eye contact while breeding. Some tops stop once it's red to avoid real pain, shifting to pinning and internal pounding instead. 2. Groups/depravity appeal: Never done it, but the pull is total surrender—multiple loads, raw chaos to escape the void. Depravity yes, but mostly numbing grief. 3. "You're tight" gasps: Real, not BS. Even after years of his nightly breeding, he'd still moan how snug I gripped him. Hole stays responsive with emotion and muscle memory. 4. Grinding deep on cum: He always buried balls-deep, hips circling as he throbbed and flooded me. Said it planted seed deepest, maximized every pulse without risk of slipping. Made me shoot hands-free. 5. Balls-deep, full pull-out, repeat: Loved the visual/sensation—hole gaping empty, then that tight pop and slide back in. Felt like claiming me anew each thrust. 6. Bad days on a bottom: Never—he stayed tender, fucked slow and deep for comfort, not anger. 7. Orgasm ranking (my experiences): - a. Cumming while fucked: #1—prostate milked, untouched load while he bred me. Soul-deep. - b. Edging then cum: Intense solo buildup, but lonelier now. - c. Cumming in ass: Never topped. - d. From BJ: Nice quick release, no comparison to being filled. Miss him constantly. Hole still feels like his.

Fact—my husband's thick ~8" cock with its massive flared head was the only one I've ever taken, from my virginity until his tragic death in a ski accident. He popped my second hole almost daily through slow, intimate lovemaking, unlocking intense pleasure with no long-term issues. We made love in missionary nearly every day: bodies close, eyes locked, deep kisses. He entered slowly, stretching me warmly, then glided deeper. With a gentle push, his head slipped through the bend in one electric snap—sudden profound fullness flooded my core, prostate throbbing, warm waves making me tremble and leak. Slow thrusts built rolling anal orgasms far more intense than any ejaculatory ones I'd had before. I clung tight, moaning into his mouth as pleasure overwhelmed me—cum just dripped from my soft cock because the anal ecstasy was so powerful it shut down erection entirely. Pure connected bliss as he unloaded deep, warmth spreading. After, my hole tightened fully—no looseness, no problems. Daily loving depth heightened the ecstasy without harm. It didn't make me impotent; I could still cum (hands-free from anal alone), but anal orgasms became my preferred, more shattering release. The "second hole" is real, pleasurable, and harmless when consensual and gradual. Myth: deep fucking ruins you. Fact: it unlocked deeper, superior pleasure for me. 🍆❤️💦

As a gay bottom, barebacking with my husband was everything since I lost my virginity to him and until his last morning before a ski accident. No barriers—just his thick, bare cock sliding hot and deep into me, skin dragging slick against my walls, every vein pulsing like a heartbeat in my guts. The stretch burned sweet at first, then bloomed into full, heavy pressure that made my toes curl and my breath catch. His heat poured straight into my core, precum leaking warm ahead, turning every thrust into wet, filthy friction. When he came, it was raw power: hips locking, a low groan in my ear, then thick, scalding ropes blasting deep—pulse after pulse flooding me until I overflowed, his cum leaking hot and sticky down my crack while I clenched to keep him inside. That heavy, dripping fullness lingered for hours, marking me from within. Bare was the only way I felt truly his—filled, claimed, consumed by the man I loved. Nothing else came close.

Isn't it a personal preference at the end? I am a submissive bottom and very proud. I don't like myself to give up my agency. I like to have a say in what pleases me. I like my men to be masculine and hair is manly however neatly trimmed. Imagine yourself as the man trying to take that woman (me) home from the bar. I don't see any difference between heterosexuality and homosexuality except where the man can penetrate. Again this is ny personal preference and opinion. But at the end do whatever pleases you and if there is no match instead of degrading just move on.

OMG.......how can you sustain a 12 hour sex session? Tips welcomed. Pretty vanilla here. 2 or 3 sometimes 4 loads and I am done. My body just shuts down.....so does my mind

Forever since I understood human body and sexuality and my attraction for men. Have been reinforced forever by my protective and loving now deceased husband. I am proud of my role and of my core identity as a soft submissive person.

New to apps post-widowhood, matched a married guy obsessed with raw breeding but loaded with rules: full DL, no face pics, delete everything, sketchy meet only. Passed—too paranoid. Why do these guys cheat behind wives’ backs instead of discussing needs openly? Common reasons from threads here: - Fear of divorce/judgment — They’d rather risk STIs than risk losing house, kids, image. - Compartmentalization — “It’s not real cheating, just guy stuff, no feelings/pregnancy.” - Assume wife would reject or freak — So they skip the convo to “protect” her (really themselves). - Entitlement/double standard — Their urges are “needs” to satisfy quietly; her stepping out would be unforgivable. - Repressed bi/homophobia — Admitting it to wife feels too exposing; anonymous keeps it “not gay.” Safety angle: These DL hookups are high-risk. Multiple partners, raw sex, spotty status disclosure = elevated STI rates (gonorrhea, syphilis, HIV higher on apps per studies). They bring that home unknowingly to wives who never consented to the risk. That’s not just cheating—it’s reckless. Married/DL guys: Why not at least try talking fantasies/needs with the wife first? Open marriage, counseling, something? Worth the secrecy, guilt, and health danger? Thoughts? Not here for morality discussion but curiosity as I venture out from the constant comfort of my deceased husband.

@verstopplease check your private message that I sent you 😉

Not sure if I am reverse slutting (lol) I haven't had a load in January and doubt February and March. However spending 9 days in Amsterdam and Berlin leading upto Easter. Trust me I will get enough loads to surpass all of you combined 😆

The days after that tender night blurred into a soft rhythm of texts and calls from Tim. Each one built a quiet anticipation that made my heart stutter, stirring echoes of Joshua while kindling something new and fragile. Mornings started with his messages: "I woke up thinking of your smile—how it lights up even when your eyes are sad. I can't wait to see it again." Those words landed like a gentle hand on my shoulder, pulling me from the fog of loss where Joshua's absence still ached like a phantom limb. Afternoons brought voice notes, where his deep voice wrapped around me like a hug: "I just finished managing the late shift at the gym, saving lives in a different way, but I wish I was saving space in your day for us. Tell me something small that made you happy today." Evenings were longer calls, where we talked about everything and nothing—his dreams of traveling, my quiet hobbies like sketching Toronto skylines from my balcony, the way grief sometimes snuck up like a shadow but faded when I heard his laugh. He teased gently about "our next adventure," hinting at something special without giving it away. His words were laced with a promise that made my body ache with memory of him inside me, bare and deep, a sensation that both comforted and terrified me, as if letting Tim in meant loosening my grip on Joshua's soul. On Thursday evening, my phone rang while I was sipping tea and staring at Joshua's photo on the mantle. Tim's voice was excited, a little breathless: "Moshin, pack a bag for the weekend. Keep it light—jeans, sweaters, maybe something nice for dinner. Be ready by 6 pm tomorrow. It's a surprise, but trust me, it'll be good for us." My pulse quickened as nerves and want twisted together. "Where are we going?" I asked, my voice soft. He chuckled, that warm rumble that sent heat pooling low in my belly. "I'm not telling. Just know I want to spoil you, hold you, and make you feel everything good." We ended the call with him whispering, "Dream of me tonight. I'll be dreaming of being buried in you again." Unsettled but thrilled, I texted Sarah: "Late night coffee? I need to talk." She replied instantly: "I'm on my way. Bringing wine instead—sounds like you need it." She let herself in with her spare key, hugging me tight before we settled on the couch. I spilled it all—the buildup, the surprise getaway. Her eyes lit up. "Oh, honey, that's perfect. Tim mentioned something big to me earlier—he's planning to whisk you away and make it unforgettable. Go with it. You've been so brave opening up; this could be the next step in healing." She squeezed my hand, her encouragement like a lifeline. "Joshua would love seeing you like this—alive, desired, ready for more." Later that night, unknown to me, Sarah called Tim. Her voice was stern and protective: "Listen, Tim. Moshin's heart is fragile. He's broken as hell after what happened to Joshua—that sudden ski accident ripping his world apart—but if you break him further, you'll answer to me. Be careful." Tim's response was earnest and vulnerable: "Sarah, I'm in love with him. His shyness draws me in, the way he blushes and looks away but then opens up so completely. And his strength? Surviving that loss, keeping Joshua's memory alive while letting me in... it's inspiring. This weekend is my chance to confess it all, to show him I want forever. I won't hurt him—I swear." Sarah softened but kept it from me, texting only: "Sleep well. Adventure awaits." Friday at 6 pm sharp, Tim pulled up in his black SUV, grinning as he loaded my bag and kissed me softly in the driveway. "Ready for magic?" he asked, his hand on my thigh as we drove. We merged onto the Gardiner, then the QEW, and I realized with a jolt that we were heading west—toward the highway that leads to Niagara. My breath caught; surprise mixed with a rush of emotion. "Tim… are we going to Niagara Falls?" I asked, my voice small. He glanced over with a soft smile. "Niagara Falls, yeah. The views, the mist, just us. I thought it’d be romantic." Tears pricked instantly. Niagara—that's where Joshua had proposed on a foggy morning walk by the railing with the Falls in the background, then taken me back to our hotel to consummate it with slow, bare lovemaking that left me leaking his seed for hours. The memory hit like a wave, grief and joy colliding, a sharp pang in my chest that made me wonder if I was betraying Joshua or finally honoring his wish for me to live fully. I pulled out my phone, fingers shaking, texting Sarah: "It's Niagara. Where Joshua proposed. Freaking out—feels like betrayal and blessing at once." Her reply buzzed back: "Breathe, love. This is fate's way of weaving new threads with the old. Joshua's love is cheering you on. Let Tim show you his. You've got this." Tim noticed my silence, pulling over gently at a rest stop. "Hey, what's wrong?" I told him—halting words about the proposal, the raw emotion. He held my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles. "We can turn around if it's too much. But maybe… this is a way to honor him. Make new memories beside the old ones." His understanding melted me, easing the knot of guilt in my throat; I nodded, leaning in for a kiss that tasted like promise, a quiet vow to let love coexist with loss. We checked into a cozy suite overlooking the Horseshoe Falls—the roar a constant hum, lights dancing on the water. Tim had it all planned: candles flickering, champagne chilling. We unpacked, then he drew me close, undressing me. "I've been craving you," he murmured, lips on my neck as he stripped me bare. I knelt before him, worshipping his body with the devotion of a man-wife who knows exactly how to make his husband feel revered and utterly owned. I started at his chest—lips sealing around one nipple, tongue flicking rapid circles before sucking hard, pulling the bud deep into my mouth while my teeth grazed just enough to sting sweetly, my other hand pinching and rolling the opposite nipple in slow, firm twists that made it harden instantly and sent shivers through his frame. I alternated, sucking one while licking wide, wet stripes across his pecs, tasting the faint salt of his skin, inhaling the warm, clean musk that rose from him as his breathing grew ragged. My mouth trailed lower, kissing and nipping the ridges of his abs, tongue dipping into every valley, tracing the defined lines down to the sharp V of his hips where I sucked hard enough to leave faint red marks, claiming him in return. Then I reached his cock—thick, veined, foreskin partially retracted over the flushed, leaking head. I peeled it back slowly with my lips, tongue swirling the sensitive frenulum in tight, teasing spirals before flattening to lap broad strokes along the underside from base to tip, collecting every bead of pre-cum that welled up and swallowing it with a low, appreciative moan. I took the head into my mouth, sucking with hollowed cheeks and slow, deliberate bobs, letting my tongue press flat against the slit to coax more pre-cum in thick, salty strings that coated my throat. I worked him deeper, throat relaxing to swallow every inch until my nose buried in his trimmed pubes, humming deep vibrations along his shaft while my hands worshipped his balls—cupping the heavy sac, rolling each one gently between my fingers, tugging downward with just enough pressure to make his thighs quake, then massaging the sensitive skin behind them in firm circles with my thumbs. I pulled off only to suck one ball fully into my mouth, tongue bathing every inch of the wrinkled skin, swirling and lapping while my fist stroked his slick shaft in long, twisting pulls, then switching to the other ball, sucking it deep and humming until he groaned my name like a prayer, hips rocking softly, pre-cum flowing steadily onto my tongue. I kissed the leaking slit one last time, tongue probing the tiny opening to taste him fully, then whispered against his skin, "I want to make you feel worshipped, Tim—every inch of you owned by my mouth, my hands" He prepped me tenderly—fingers slick with lube, scissoring my hole open, brushing and massaging my prostate until I leaked pre-cum in steady streams. Then he slid in bare, the stretch exquisite, his thick shaft dragging over every sensitive inch as he bottomed out, balls pressed to my ass. We fucked slow at first—long, languid thrusts, my walls clenching around his bare girth, milking him as he whispered, "Feel me breeding you already." The pace built—wet slaps of skin, his cock squelching in and out, pre-cum and lube mixing obscenely. I rode him, ass bouncing on his lap, hole gripping his veined length as I ground down, feeling him throb deep. He flipped me to my stomach, pounding harder, bare cock hammering my prostate until I cried out, clenching in waves as I came untouched, spilling ropes onto the sheets. He bred me deep—throbbing pulses flooding my guts with hot cum, leaking out around his shaft as he stayed buried, whispering endearments that soothed the raw edges of my heart. The weekend with Tim at Niagara Falls didn’t just heal wounds—it set them ablaze in the most tender, consuming way. Every touch, every thrust, every shared breath felt like he was claiming me while simultaneously cradling the parts of me that still belonged to Joshua. The romance and the raw hunger intertwined until they were indistinguishable, each moment laced with a depth of emotion that made my chest ache with the beauty of second chances. The suite’s massive window framed the Falls in a pulsing rainbow of floodlights, mist rising like smoke from the gorge below. Tim pressed me naked against the cold glass, my nipples hardening instantly from the chill and his heat. He dropped to his knees behind me, parted my cheeks delicately, and buried his face in my ass—his tongue spearing deep with firm, probing thrusts, swirling in wide circles to lap at the slick remnants of his earlier loads still clinging inside me, then flattening broad to lick long stripes from my balls to my rim before sucking gently on the puckered flesh, pulling it into his mouth with rhythmic tugs that made my hole flutter and drip pre-cum onto the carpet in thick, slow strings. The roar of the falls vibrated through the glass into my palms, syncing with the thrum of my pulse, the cool mist-scented air from the slightly cracked window mingling with the musky heat of our bodies, every lap of his tongue sending electric shivers up my spine, the world outside a blurry cascade of light and water while inside, I was unraveling thread by thread, tears pricking as Joshua's memory flashed—his own gentle explorations once feeling like home, now layered with Tim's passion, healing the loneliness I'd carried so long. He rose, lubed his bare cock until it glistened, thick veins standing proud, foreskin pulled back to reveal the flushed, leaking head. One hand braced on my hip, the other guided himself to my entrance. He sank in with agonizing slowness—inch by thick inch stretching me open, my walls gripping him like velvet, sucking him deeper until his heavy balls kissed my ass and his pubic bone ground against me. “Look at the falls while I breed you,” he rasped against my ear, voice wrecked with want. Then he fucked me—long, powerful strokes that made my body jolt against the glass with every deep plunge. The wet, obscene squelch of bare cock pistoning in and out filled the room, louder than the roar below. My cock slapped my stomach, smearing pre-cum across the window in glistening arcs. He reached around, fisted my leaking shaft, stroking in perfect rhythm with his brutal thrusts, whispering filthy praise: “So tight for me… so wet… taking every inch like you were made for my cock.” The cold glass bit into my skin, contrasting the fiery drag of him inside, the falls' mist cooling my flushed face through the pane, every thrust echoing the thunderous water below, my senses drowning in the scent of lube and sweat, the taste of salt on my lips from biting them to stifle cries, emotion surging as I felt wanted again, deeply, in a way that bridged my shattered past. When my thighs started trembling, he pulled out abruptly, spun me to face him, lifted me so my legs locked around his waist, and slammed back inside—deep, claiming, my back arching against the glass as he fucked me standing. I clung to his shoulders, nails digging in, riding the brutal upward snaps of his hips that made my ass bounce and my hole clench greedily around his throbbing girth. The falls glittered behind us like a living aurora. He kissed me desperately—tongue fucking my mouth the way his cock fucked my ass—until I shattered, untouched, cum erupting in hot ropes between our pressed bodies, painting his abs. He followed instantly—growling my name, bare cock pulsing violently, flooding me with thick, scalding spurts that overflowed immediately, running down my crack in warm rivers. The heat of his release spread like liquid fire inside, the overflow slick and sticky on my thighs, the falls' roar amplifying the pounding of my heart, every sense heightened—the metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue, the cool glass grounding me as waves of pleasure crashed through, a sob escaping as the intensity cracked open my guarded heart, letting gratitude for this new love flood in alongside the lingering sorrow. Still buried to the hilt, still throbbing, he carried me to the bed without pulling out. He laid me on my back in full missionary—legs hooked over his elbows, spreading me wide so he could see every flicker of emotion on my face. He rocked slowly through the aftershocks, then began again—deliberate, languid drags of his cum-slick shaft over my swollen prostate. Eyes locked on mine, he leaned down, licked slow, wet stripes across my parted lips, tasting my moans. “I want to watch you come undone for me,” he breathed. “Every tear, every gasp, every pulse around my cock.” He kissed me open-mouthed, tongues sliding together as he fucked me deeper, slower, more intimately. I came again—quiet, shuddering waves, hole spasming rhythmically, milking him until he groaned and unloaded a second time—slow, loving throbs that painted my insides white, cum seeping out around his base as he stayed buried, forehead pressed to mine, whispering “I love you” like a prayer. In the afterglow, we lay entwined, his weight a comforting anchor, the warmth of his seed inside me a lingering reminder of connection, my body humming with a deep, sated peace that blurred grief into gratitude, tears drying on my cheeks as his fingers traced lazy circles on my skin, the room filled with our mingled breaths and the distant hum of the falls, every sense cocooned in tenderness, the emotional tide receding to leave a profound, glowing serenity where I felt seen, held, and whole for the first time since Joshua. Saturday morning, we woke to soft light filtering through the curtains, falls still rumbling. Before breakfast, we stumbled into the shower, steam thick and enveloping as hot water poured over us. This time I took control first—dropping to my knees under the spray, worshipping his body anew: tongue circling his nipples until they hardened under the warm water, sucking and biting gently while my hands roamed his wet chest and abs, tracing every muscle. I moved lower, kissing down his torso, then took his cock in my mouth—deep-throating him with slow, deliberate bobs, throat constricting around his girth, tongue pressing the underside vein while my fingers massaged his balls, rolling and tugging them in rhythm with my sucks, drawing out thick pre-cum that mixed with the shower water on my tongue. He groaned, hands in my hair, hips rocking gently as I worshipped those heavy balls—sucking one fully into my mouth, tongue bathing it thoroughly, then the other, alternating while stroking his shaft with a slick, twisting grip. The water streamed down his body, over my face, heightening every sensation; I felt powerful, desired, knowing I could make him tremble the way he made me. Then he turned the tables—pinning me to the tiles, rimming me under the spray with ferocious hunger: tongue thrusting deep and twisting, sucking water-diluted cum from my hole with loud, wet pulls, fingers spreading me wide to probe and curl against my prostate, making my legs shake as I moaned against the wall. He stood, entered me bare from behind—slow at first, then pounding with water-slick slaps, hand fisting my cock in time, whispering "You're mine now, but Joshua's love made you this strong" as I came hard against the tiles, clenching to pull his throbbing release deep inside, cum mixing with water in warm trails down my legs, the steam carrying our mingled scents and the raw emotion of being fully claimed and fully cherished. After drying off, breakfast—strawberries, croissants, coffee—him feeding me bites, licking jam from my fingers. We walked the promenade hand-in-hand, mist kissing our faces, then took the boat tour, drenched and laughing under ponchos, his arm tight around my waist. Afternoon was lazy—napping naked in each other’s arms, his fingers idly tracing my spine, my head on his chest listening to his heartbeat, quiet tears slipping as I whispered about Joshua, Tim holding me through the vulnerability, his presence a balm that made the grief feel shared rather than solitary. Dinner was perfect: candlelit table overlooking the Horseshoe Falls, steak cooked rare, red wine flowing, our knees brushing under the table. Midway through dessert he took both my hands, voice low and steady. “Moshin, I’ve fallen so hard for you. Your quiet strength, the way you blush when I look at you too long, how you carry Joshua’s memory with such grace—it makes me want to build a life with you. I love you. Completely. Will you let me love you forever?” Tears spilled before I could speak; I nodded, whispered “Yes,” and kissed him right there, the restaurant fading around us, my heart swelling with a joy that felt like forgiveness, like Joshua's spirit nodding approval from somewhere beyond the pain. Back in the suite, desire ignited like wildfire. He stripped me against the same window, facing out so I could watch the falls while he ate my ass—tongue fucking deep, lapping at the cum still inside from earlier today, making me drip pre-cum. Then he bent me over the desk by the window, bare cock sliding in with one brutal thrust—hard, possessive fucking that had me gripping the edge, moaning loud enough to compete with the water. He pounded relentlessly, balls slapping my ass, cock dragging every sensitive ridge inside me until I was babbling his name. He pulled out, sat on the armchair facing the window, and guided me onto his lap—reverse cowgirl so I could ride him while staring at the illuminated cascade. I sank down slowly, taking every thick inch, then bounced—ass slapping his thighs, hole gripping and releasing his bare shaft in rhythmic pulses. He gripped my hips, thrusting up to meet me, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. “Ride me, baby—milk my cock, take my load again.” I ground down hard, circling my hips, feeling him throb deep. When I started to shake, he lifted me, carried me to the bed, laid me missionary—legs wide, eyes locked. He fucked me slow and deep now, every thrust deliberate, forehead pressed to mine. “Look at me when you come,” he breathed, licking slow stripes across my lips, then kissing me open-mouthed as I clenched around him. I came hard—hole spasming, cum painting my chest in hot ropes—pulling his orgasm with me. He flooded me again, bare cock pulsing, breeding me full while he stared into my soul, whispering “I love you” with every throb. Sunday morning, we woke tangled, his morning hardness already nudging between my cheeks, my hole still slick and puffy from two nights of breeding. The room smelled of us—sweat, cum, faint sandalwood from the candle we'd lit the first night—and the distant roar of the falls felt like a heartbeat, steady and eternal. Tim rolled me gently onto my back, eyes searching mine in the soft dawn light. "One more time," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Let me feel you one more time before we leave this place." I nodded, tears already gathering, because this wasn't just sex anymore—it was surrender, it was healing, it was Joshua's soul somehow present in the room, guiding me, whispering that it was safe to let go of the fear that loving again meant forgetting. He kissed me slow, deep, tasting like coffee and salt and promise. Then he moved down, spreading my legs, and buried his face between my thighs. His rimming was worshipful, almost prayerful—tongue plunging deep with slow, deliberate thrusts, curling to massage my inner walls where his loads still clung, then broad, luxurious stripes from my perineum to my rim, sucking the puffy flesh into his mouth with gentle, rhythmic pulls that made my hole clench. He alternated between long, dragging licks that collected every trace of his cum, and pointed, probing flicks that targeted the sensitive ring, circling it in tight spirals before pushing inside again, humming low vibrations that traveled straight to my core. The sensation was overwhelming—wet heat, the faint sting of overstimulation, the slick slide of his tongue mixing with the remnants of his seed, the scent of sex and clean water filling my nose, the roar of the falls outside blending with the wet sounds of his mouth on me. Tears slipped down my temples as I felt Joshua's presence—not as pain, but as peace, as if he was standing at the edge of the room, smiling softly, saying, "This is okay. This is love continuing. Let him in beside me." Tim rose, lubed us both despite the lingering slickness, and entered me bare—slow, reverent, eyes never leaving mine. The stretch burned sweetly, my walls fluttering around his thick girth as he bottomed out, balls flush against me, the fullness so complete it stole my breath. He moved with aching tenderness—long, rolling thrusts that dragged his swollen head over my prostate with devastating precision, every glide accompanied by the wet, intimate squelch of cum-lubed flesh, the scent of our mingled arousal thick in the steam-warmed air. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as emotion surged. "I feel him here," I whispered, voice cracking. "Joshua. He's... he's okay with this. He's guiding me to accept you." Tim's eyes shimmered, forehead pressed to mine. "Then let him watch how much I love you," he breathed, kissing my tears as he thrust deeper, slower, more intimately. I came first—quiet, full-body convulsions, hole pulsing in endless waves around his bare shaft, milking him rhythmically as cum spilled between us in warm ropes. He followed—deep, throbbing pulses flooding me one last time, his release mixing with everything already inside, leaking out in slow, intimate trails as he stayed buried, rocking us gently through the afterglow. The emotional tide was overwhelming: his seed a comforting weight, my body limp and glowing, a tidal wave of peace washing over me, blending sorrow's echoes with love's promise. Senses alive with the sticky warmth between us, the faint roar outside mirroring the calm in my heart, tears of catharsis drying as he held me, whispering affirmations that rooted me in the present. For the first time, the fullness inside felt like a bridge—not between past and future, but between two loves that could exist side by side, Joshua's soul quietly approving from wherever he was. He drove me home Sunday evening, hand on my thigh the whole way, kissing me at the door with a promise: “This is just the start.” I showered, still feeling him seep from my tender, swollen hole, the hot water a reminder of our weekend intensity. Midway through, Sarah let herself in—key in hand, concern and love in her eyes. She was excited to know everything – the most intimate details, I told her everything: the proposal, the window sex, the riding, the missionary breedings where he stared into my eyes, licked my lips like he was drinking my surrender, the showers where I worshipped his body and cock until he shook, where he rimmed and fucked me under the spray until I sobbed with release, the Sunday morning when it felt like Joshua's soul was in the room with us, guiding me to accept this new love alongside his own. I broke down then, voice cracking: "Sarah, I felt him. Joshua. Not as pain, but as... peace. Like he was telling me it's okay to love again. That Tim isn't replacing him—he's just... sitting beside him in my heart." She pulled me into a fierce hug, tears in her own eyes. "That's it, Mo. That's the healing. Joshua loved you so completely he wanted you to keep feeling that depth of love—even if it came from someone else. He wouldn't want you locked in grief forever. Tim's showing you that love can grow beside what was, not over it. You've carried Joshua's memory with such grace; now let yourself carry new joy too. Say yes to him. You deserve to be held like that again—fiercely, tenderly, completely." Her words cracked open the last wall inside me, and I sobbed against her shoulder, relief and gratitude pouring out, the falls still roaring in my memory, Tim’s cum still warm inside me, and for the first time in years, the future felt like home—not empty, but full of light and possibility. As I fell asleep, I went back in time with Joshua..............................(Part 4) ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ As always my stories are based on true events with original names, of course erotica added. Dedicated to those whose lovers were stolen by AIDS, who sat vigil besides them while they counted down the last breaths, who held fever-hot hands until the grip went slack, who whispered “I love you” into ears that could no longer answer, who buried their partners and then buried their own capacity for joy because every touch felt like a betrayal of the grave, because skin remembered too much: If you’re reading this and the grief still tastes like coffee gone cold, if the quiet of your apartment still carries the echo their labored breathing, if you still wake reaching for a body that isn’t there and feel the guilt twist like a knife—know that I see you. Not as someone who “got over it,” but as someone who loved so completely that the world tried to make you pay for it with silence and solitude. You carried the shame of being the one left behind. You carried the fear that opening your legs again would erase the vows you made to them. You carried the belief that your hole was a tomb, that pleasure was blasphemy, that letting someone breed you raw would mean forgetting the way their seed once felt like home. You are not wrong for wanting to be filled again. You are not desecrating their memory by letting a new cock stretch you slow and deep, by letting thick, warm pulses flood the places grief hollowed out, by letting your body clench and shudder and spill while tears run down your face. When your moment arrives—when the rimming is worshipful and patient, when the bare entry burns sweet and full, when the thrusts drag over every nerve until you’re sobbing with release, when you finally come apart in arms that hold you through the aftershocks—know that every tear carries their name. Every pulse of ecstasy honors the love they poured into you. Every drop of cum that leaks from you afterward is proof that you refused to let the virus erase desire forever. You loved them in the shadow of death. You survived the unimaginable. Now let yourself be loved again—raw, vulnerable, trembling, alive. They would want this for you. They would want to see your back arch, your hole clench, your voice break on someone else’s name while their memory still lives warm and steady in your chest. You deserve to feel full again. You deserve to feel held, bred, cherished—without apology. This is not replacement. This is continuation. This is love refusing to die.

@PozPigCumDumpOMG......thank you for taking the time to give me the details. I really appreciate. I am looking forward to this trip more as a healing trip and coming out of my overall numbness. If you can please follow my life story in the series Numb to Bred (more parts to followl and My Conversion series (completed). Those stories may sound erotic but are a reflection of my life so far.

Thank you for your kind words and yes I will be missing on a few events however I will be traveling for about 6 weeks and then I also have a surprise waiting for me at home. If you’re are following my series of Numb to Bred I will be disclosing my surprise in one of the parts. BTW the series is my story and writing about it has become a part of my healing as well.

That's the beauty of Europe and Europeans. They have normalized sex and sexuality a long time ago whereas we North Americans still politicize sex and sexuality.

The morning after the tanning room I woke slowly, the way you do when your body remembers more than your mind wants to admit. Sunlight slipped through the blinds and pooled on Joshua’s pillow—the one I still reached for sometimes in the dark, half-expecting to find him there. My ass was still tender, swollen in that soft, used way, hole loose and slick, leaking slow, warm trails of Tim’s cum down my crack and onto the sheets. I clenched experimentally and felt the silky slide of him still inside me, thick and warm, coating every inch. It should have felt wrong. Instead it felt like proof I could still be wanted, could still be filled, could still feel something other than absence. Joshua’s memory was in every breath I took in that bed. He’d been the one who taught me how love could live in your skin—slow, bare, eyes locked while he buried himself deep and whispered “you’re safe with me.” His accident had ripped that away in one brutal second, but it hadn’t erased the shape of him inside me. Now Tim was tracing the same contours—different hands, same care—and that overlap hurt and healed at the same time. I texted him, throat tight: “Still carrying you. Can we talk tonight? My place? I need gentle… and you to hold me when I fall apart remembering him.” His reply was almost immediate: “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. 7 pm. I’ll bring dinner and whatever quiet you need. I’m here for all of it.” Sarah texted at noon, her message landing like a hand on my shoulder: “Tim asked me this morning if it was okay to take you out properly. I told him yes—but only if he’s patient with your heart. He looked at me like he understood. You deserve this kind of soft, Moshin. Joshua would want you held like this.” Tears came fast. She’d spent two years reminding me that surviving didn’t mean forgetting—it meant making room for new love to sit beside the old one. The afternoon passed in quiet ritual. Fresh sheets on our bed. The sandalwood candle Joshua loved flickering low. A single white lily on the nightstand. No plug, no frantic prep—just lube, open heart, clean skin, and the hope that tonight I could honor both loves in the same place. Tim arrived at 7 with takeout from the Italian spot Joshua and I used to haunt—same sauce, same place we’d steal bites from each other’s plates—and a bottle of red. He wore a soft charcoal sweater, jeans, and carried white lilies. He stepped inside, set everything down, then just opened his arms. I walked into them, face pressed to his chest, breathing him in—clean sweat, cologne, safety. We ate on the couch, wine poured, pasta shared slowly. We talked between bites: Joshua’s laugh that used to fill this room, the way he’d kiss the back of my neck while I cooked, the ski accident that stole him in one merciless second, the years I’d kept my body locked because letting anyone in felt like erasing the only man who’d ever made me feel completely seen. I told Tim how Joshua’s love still lived in the way I craved tenderness, how his memory shaped every hope I had for what came next. To ease the weight, Tim pulled a small joint from his pocket—gentle indica, he said, “just to help us breathe.” We shared it on the balcony, Toronto night air cool against our skin, smoke curling up into the dark. The buzz settled over us like a warm blanket, softening the edges of grief, making my body hum with quiet want. Back inside, wine glasses refilled, I leaned in and kissed him—slow, tentative, tasting salt and smoke and possibility. He kissed back the same way—soft, searching, hands cradling my face like I was something fragile and precious. When we moved to the bedroom, I led him to our bed. Paused at the door, heart hammering. Tim wrapped his arms around me from behind, lips at my ear. “We can stay out here,” he whispered. “This is your space. Your memories.” I turned in his arms. “I want you here. In the bed where I felt most loved. Where I can feel it again… with you. Where Joshua’s love can stay, and yours can grow beside it.” His eyes shimmered. He kissed my forehead, then my eyelids, then my mouth—slow, reverent, full of quiet devotion. We undressed each other with aching care: his sweater lifted slowly, revealing the broad chest I’d clung to last night; my sweater eased off, his palms warm on my smooth skin. When we were bare, I took my turn to worship him—kissing his collarbone, tracing the ridges of his abs with my lips, kneeling to take his hardening cock into my mouth. I made love to his body—tongue swirling around the thick, veined shaft, sucking the swollen head until pre-cum coated my tongue in salty strings, hands cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently while I took him deeper, throat relaxing to swallow every inch until my nose pressed against his trimmed pubes. I worshipped the way his foreskin pulled back under my tongue, the musky taste of him, the way his thighs trembled and his breath hitched when I hummed around him, vibrating along his length, drawing low groans from his throat. I sucked him with tender devotion—slow bobs, tongue pressing the underside vein, cheeks hollowing as I drew him in, bringing him right to the edge where his cock throbbed against my tongue, pre-cum flowing steadily, before pulling off with a wet pop and kissing the leaking slit. “Moshin… you’re incredible,” he breathed, fingers gentle in my hair, hips rocking softly as I worshipped him. He pulled me up to kiss me—tasting himself on my tongue—then laid me back on the mattress with the gentleness of someone handling something infinitely precious. Kissed every inch—forehead, temples, the hollow of my throat where my pulse fluttered, nipples drawn into wet heat, tongue flicking and teeth grazing until they pebbled hard and aching, down my ribs to the dip of my waist, the curve of my hips. When he reached my hardening cock, he kissed the head tenderly, licked the pre-cum in slow, deliberate stripes, took me into his warm mouth with slow, loving strokes—lips sealing around me, tongue tracing every vein, sucking with gentle suction while one hand rolled my balls and the other teased my slick hole with a single finger, circling the rim before pressing in to the first knuckle, then deeper, curling to brush my prostate until pre-cum leaked steadily from my slit. Tears welled as memories flooded: Joshua’s mouth there once, his gentle teasing, his whispers of forever. I cried then—quiet at first, then deeper, sobs shaking my chest. Tim paused, climbed up, gathered me into his arms. Held me tightly against his heartbeat, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. “Let it out, my love,” he murmured, voice cracking with emotion. “Cry as much as you need. I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re so deeply loved.” I sobbed into his neck—grief for what was lost, gratitude for what was found, the overwhelming tenderness of being held while I mourned and desired at once. Tim rocked me gently, kissed my hair, whispered soft affirmations: “Joshua loved you so well. You loved him back with everything you had. It’s okay to let someone hold you now. It’s okay to feel this much joy and this much sorrow at the same time. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for all of it.” When the sobs eased into quiet hiccups, desire returned—soft, deep, intertwined with the tenderness. He positioned me on my back, lifted my legs with exquisite care, hooked them over his arms so I was open but cradled. Lubed us both slowly—his bare cock glistening, thick and veined, foreskin pulled halfway back, head flushed and leaking steadily; my hole slick and ready, still tender from last night, twitching under his gaze. He pressed in with infinite patience—the stretch a slow, sweet burn, my walls fluttering and gripping around his thick girth as he sank bare inch by inch, eyes never leaving mine, tears shining in his own. When he bottomed out—balls flush against my ass, throbbing deep inside—he stilled, forehead to mine, breathing with me. “Feel me,” he whispered. “Feel how much I want to be here. With you. In this bed. Holding all of you—the joy, the grief, the love.” He moved with aching tenderness—long, languid rolls of his hips, dragging the swollen head over my prostate with every pass, building ecstasy like a slow-rising tide. The wet, slick sounds of our bodies joining filled the room—slow glides of bare cock in bare hole, my walls sucking him back in with every withdrawal, pre-cum and lube mixing with the remnants of last night’s load to create obscene, squelching friction. My cock leaked steadily onto my stomach in thick strands, untouched, as he rocked into me, his heavy balls tapping softly against my ass with each gentle thrust. I clenched around him deliberately—milking his length, feeling every ridge and vein drag over my sensitive walls—and he groaned low, hips stuttering for a moment before he found the rhythm again, his bare shaft throbbing harder inside me. My arms wrapped his neck, legs locking his waist, pulling him closer. Tears flowed again—remembering Joshua’s gentle rhythm here, his love—and Tim held me tighter, letting me cry out, nurturing me with soft words: “I’ve got you, Moshin. Let it all come. Cry for him. Cry for us. You’re so beautiful when you feel everything. I love you like this—open, tender, whole.” I came first—quiet, shuddering waves, hole clenching softly around his bare shaft in rhythmic pulses, milking him as I spilled between us in warm, gentle ropes that painted my abs and chest, some hitting my chin. He followed—deep, bare throbs flooding me, breeding me with slow, loving pulses while he whispered my name like a vow, arms cradling me as if I were the most precious thing in the world. His cum mixed with mine, warm and thick, leaking out around his softening cock in intimate trails down my crack and onto the sheets. We stayed joined—his cock still twitching inside, cum slowly seeping out—for long minutes. He held me through the afterglow, through the quiet sobs that came not from pain, but from the overwhelming beauty of being loved again. Kissed my tears, stroked my hair, whispered how strong I was, how worthy, how deeply cherished. Later—cleaned up, wrapped in each other under the covers—he traced lazy patterns on my back, lips brushing my temple. “Stay with me tonight?” he asked softly, voice vulnerable. “Not just for this. To support you. To hold you if the memories come back in the dark.” I nodded, tears pricking again. “Yes. Please. I need you here.” My phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. Sarah. “Heard from Tim it was tender tonight. You okay, love?” I smiled through drying tears, Tim’s arms still around me, typed: “Yeah. He held me while I cried for Joshua. Loved me in our bed. He’s staying to support me. It feels like coming home again—to myself, to love.” She replied: “That’s my brave boy. Proud of you both. This is just the beginning.” And it was........ ---‐--‐--------------------------------‐------ As always story based on true events with original names, of course erotica added. Dedicated to those whose lovers were stolen by AIDS, who held hands in hospital rooms while machines beeped and time ran out, who kissed foreheads slick with fever and whispered “I’m here” until the end, who buried their beloveds and then buried their own desire because touch felt like danger, because skin-to-skin carried ghosts of loss: If you’re reading this and the grief still tastes like latex gloves and hospital antiseptic, if the silence in your bed still echoes with labored breathing and the names you called out in the dark, know that I see you—not as a survivor who “moved on,” but as someone who loved so fiercely that the world tried to punish you for it. You carried the guilt of surviving when they didn’t. You carried the fear that wanting again meant betraying the promise you made in those last moments. You carried the belief that your body was a graveyard, that pleasure was a desecration. You are not wrong for craving warmth again. You are not betraying them by letting someone slide inside you raw, by letting their heat flood the places that once held only terror, by letting your body remember how to shake and spill and sob without shame. When your moment comes—when the stretch is slow and careful, when the flood is warm and deep, when you finally let yourself tremble and come apart in someone’s arms—know that every tear you shed carries their name. Every pulse of pleasure honors the love they gave you. Every breath you take after is proof that you refused to let the virus win completely. You loved them in the teeth of a plague. You survived the unimaginable. Now let yourself be loved again—bare, open, trembling, alive. They would want this for you. And you, more than anyone, deserve to feel full, held, wanted—without apology.

In Berlin for a sex filled trip on 31 March 1 and 2 April 2026. Staying in Axel Hotel Berlin. It's Easter Berlin week as well. Rock my bottom guys!! Any ideas for sex filled 2 days are more than welcome.