Cutedelicategay

I totally understand why this fantasy is so appealing to many of us—it's raw, intense, and plays into that craving for total surrender and being overwhelmed. Super hot in the imagination. As someone with a legal background, though, I felt compelled to chime in: when someone is genuinely passed out and can't give or withdraw consent in the moment, it crosses into non-consensual territory—legally, that's assault/rape, no gray area. Fantasy versions (like pre-negotiated CNC with clear safewords and boundaries set while fully conscious) can keep the thrill alive safely. But real scenarios without that prior, enthusiastic agreement risk serious harm and legal consequences. Just sharing this because consent is everything—let's keep our play safe, sane, and truly mutual. Thoughts?

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.

In Amsterdam for a sex filled trip. 28, 29, 30 March 2026. Leaving on 31 March for Berlin. Would be visiting popular bars and the sauna as well. Extremely excited to be a part of Fuckboxx at Dirty Dicks on 28 March afternoon. Would love to meet up with sexy European men. Message me and we can meet for drinks and/or fuck. Any suggestions to make my trip sexier are always welcome.

The loss of Joshua still cut deep, even two years on. It was a crisp February day in the Rockies—perfect blue sky, fresh powder that sparkled like diamonds. We’d driven up for a spontaneous weekend, just the two of us. Joshua was fearless on skis, always chasing the best lines. While I nursed a coffee in the lodge, he kissed me quick—tongue teasing my bottom lip—and said, “One more run. Be back before you finish that.” He never came down. A hidden tree well, high-speed impact, catastrophic head trauma. Instant. No chance to say goodbye. The patrol found him buried in snow; the hospital confirmed what I already knew in my gut. I sat in that hallway clutching his wedding band, the world reduced to white noise and the smell of antiseptic. Sarah was my first call. Joshua’s ride-or-die lesbian best friend since their university days—loud, fiercely loyal, the one who’d tease him about his flannel obsession and drag us to every queer event in Toronto. She drove through the night, arrived at dawn, and became my anchor. She handled the calls, the paperwork, the funeral when I couldn’t string sentences together. And when the first shock wore off and the long, grinding grief set in, she stayed—bringing food, forcing me to shower, holding me while I sobbed on the bathroom floor. She saw the parts I tried to hide: the way my body shut down completely for the first year—no erections, no fantasies, no interest in touching myself or anyone else. My cock stayed soft, my hole untouched, desire buried under layers of guilt and emptiness. By the second year, frustration crept in like a thief. Random hard-ons that led nowhere, failed jerk-off sessions that ended in tears because every stroke felt like betrayal, a couple of Grindr attempts where I couldn’t even get it up because another man’s hands on me made my stomach churn with shame. I’d come home alone, balls aching, cock leaking uselessly, hole clenching around nothing, and curse myself for still having a body that wanted. Sarah heard it all over late-night coffees and tear-soaked texts. “You’re not betraying him by wanting to feel good again,” she’d say quietly. “Joshua loved you alive, Moshin. He’d hate seeing you punish yourself for having a libido. Pleasure isn’t disloyalty—it’s survival.” She started nudging me toward the gym more intentionally. “You’re still going late nights. That’s good. But maybe let someone see you there. Not to replace him—just to be looked at again. To feel desired without the guilt crashing in.” She’d noticed Tim when he transferred in—29, built like he lived under the barbell, quiet confidence, no drama. Single, grounded, and—importantly—aware of loss without turning it into his whole personality. After watching me finish a set of hip thrusts one night—ass flexing hard under the lights, sweat running down my smooth back, face flushed in a way that wasn’t just cardio—she decided. “Moshin,” she said, catching me at the water fountain, “there’s someone new on the desk tonight. Tim. He’s good. Let him look at you. Let yourself be seen. You deserve to feel eyes on your body again without it meaning you’re forgetting Joshua.” She walked me over. Tim looked up, eyes steady and warm. Sarah made the introduction: “Tim, Moshin. He and Joshua were basically gym royalty here. Joshua was my best friend. Moshin’s been carrying a lot.” Tim extended his hand. “I’m sorry about Joshua. Sounds like he was one of the good ones. Glad you’re still here killing it.” His gaze lingered—on my sweat-damp tank clinging to my nipples, on the way my shorts hugged the firm swell of my bubble butt—for half a second longer than polite. It was the first time in two years a man’s eyes on me made my cock twitch instead of my stomach turn. That was the beginning of the slow burn. Tim never rushed. He noticed everything: the sweat tracing my spine after sprints, the way my shorts rode up during squats exposing the smooth dip where thigh met ass, the hitch in my breath when he stood close to spot me—his chest brushing my back, forearms flexing, crotch grazing the top of my crack for one heartbeat too long. He’d text after shifts: “Kept replaying those hip thrusts. Your ass bouncing like that. Fuck.” “Could smell how turned on you were tonight. You were leaking through your shorts.” “Been hard since you walked in. Thinking about bending you over and sliding in raw.” I’d read them in the dark, legs spread, hand wrapped around my cock—stroking slow while I pictured him: thick, veined, uncut head pushing past my rim, stretching me open after two years of nothing. I’d edge for hours, balls heavy and aching, pre-cum pooling on my stomach, then stop just before I came because spilling without him inside me felt wrong. Sarah watched the whole transformation. “You’re practically humping the air when he’s around,” she’d text. “I’ve seen you go from numb to this dripping, desperate mess. Let him fuck the grief out of you. You’ve earned it.” The night it broke was biblical rain—sheets hammering the windows, thunder rolling through the empty gym. I’d pushed myself to destruction: heavy deadlifts, ass-to-grass squats, hip thrusts that made my glutes burn and my hole throb. By the time I staggered to the desk, I was drenched—tank transparent over my nipples, shorts dark with sweat and the obvious wet spot at the front where I’d been leaking for an hour straight. Tim didn’t speak. Just stared, pupils blown, throat working. Then, voice barely audible: “Tanning room. Now.” I followed, cock straining, pre-cum soaking my jock. Door locked. Warm amber light bathed us like oil. He slammed me against the wall, mouth crashing into mine, beard scraping my smooth jaw raw, tongue fucking deep while his hands yanked my tank up and over my head. He palmed my ass hard, fingers digging into the firm meat, spreading me through the soaked fabric. “Been dying to get my tongue in this hole,” he growled, dropping to his knees and ripping my shorts and jock down. My cock sprang free—dark, flushed, dripping thick strings of pre-cum. He ignored it. Buried his face between my cheeks. Hot, wet tongue lapping flat over my pucker, circling, then spearing inside. I cried out, hips bucking back onto his mouth. He ate me ravenously—sucking, licking, groaning into my ass, beard burning the tender skin until I was shaking, sobbing his name, pre-cum dripping steadily onto the floor in long strands. He stood, clothes shed in seconds. His cock was obscene—heavy, thick, veins bulging, foreskin pulled halfway back, swollen head glistening and angry red. “First dick in two years,” he rasped, stroking himself once, pre-cum webbing between fist and slit. “Gonna wreck this tight little ass. Make you remember what it feels like to be filled and bred.” Lube poured over three thick fingers—no preamble—breaching me, scissoring wide, curling hard against my prostate until my knees buckled and I begged, “Please—Tim—fuck—need your cock—” He lined up. Blunt head kissed my rim. Pushed. The stretch was brutal, glorious—raw, burning, perfect. Inch after thick inch splitting me open, filling the hollow ache that had haunted me for years. I keened, forehead pressed to the warm vinyl bed, ass high, hole fluttering helplessly around his girth. He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls flush against me, and held still—letting me feel every throbbing vein, every heartbeat buried inside. Then he fucked me. Slow at first—long, dragging strokes that dragged over my prostate with every pass. My bubble butt jiggled with each deep thrust; his hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. “So fucking tight—sucking me in like you were made for my cock,” he panted, pace building, hips snapping, skin slapping skin in wet, filthy rhythm. He reached around, wrapped a rough fist around my leaking shaft—stroking fast, twisting at the head, thumbing the slit smeared with pre-cum. “Come on my dick. Show me how bad you needed to be bred after all this time.” I shattered—back arching, hole clamping vise-tight around him, cock erupting in thick, endless ropes across the bed, vision flashing white as two years of pent-up release tore through me in shuddering, sobbing waves. Tim snarled, thrusts turning erratic, then slammed home and came—hot, flooding pulses painting my insides, breeding me deep while I trembled and milked every last drop from him. He didn’t pull out right away. He eased us both down onto the tanning bed, rolling so I was sprawled across his chest, his softening cock still buried inside me, cum slowly leaking out around the base and down my inner thigh. His arms wrapped around me—strong, grounding. One hand stroked lazy circles over my sweat-slick back; the other carded through my damp hair. His lips brushed my temple, soft now. “You okay?” he murmured, voice wrecked. I nodded against his neck, throat tight. “Haven’t… felt anything… like that in so long.” He tightened his hold. “You’re safe here. With me. Whenever you need it.” We stayed tangled until the rain slowed, bodies cooling, his cum still warm inside me, leaking in slow, sticky trails. He finally eased out with a soft groan, both of us wincing at the loss, then pulled me back against his chest. We didn’t dress immediately. Just skin on skin. His hand resting possessively over my softening cock, thumb brushing idly over the head, smearing the last drops of my release. Sarah came in for her morning shift around 6 a.m. The gym was still quiet, rain reduced to drizzle. She was restocking towels when Tim walked out of the back hallway—hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, a faint hickey blooming under his collar. He caught her eye, gave a small, knowing smirk, and jerked his head toward the tanning room hallway. She raised an eyebrow. “You good?” He shrugged, casual. “Moshin stayed late. We… talked.” Sarah’s gaze flicked to the hallway, then back to him. She saw the flush still on his neck, the way he walked with that post-fuck looseness. Then she looked at the tanning room door—slightly ajar, light still on. She didn’t ask for details. Just nodded once, slow and satisfied. “He needed that.” Tim met her eyes. “Yeah. He did.” She texted me later that morning while I was still in bed, ass deliciously sore, Tim’s cum dried on my thigh: “Saw Tim this morning. Looked like he’d had a very productive night. You good?” I smiled into my pillow, typed back with shaking fingers: “Yeah. Really fucking good.” She sent one emoji—a simple fire—and nothing else. She’d watched me crawl through the dark. She’d nudged me toward the light. And now, for the first time in two years, I wasn’t walking alone. -‐--‐--‐--‐----------------------------------- As always my stories are based on true events. Names remain the same. I add erotica for readers to enjoy the event. Dedicated in love to all those who saw their loved ones just dropping dead during the AIDS crisis. To anyone still here, chest tight, eyes burning: If you’re reading this with your hand pressed over the hole where your person used to live… I see you. Two years (or five, or a lifetime) of waking to cold sheets, flinching at “touch,” choking on guilt the second desire stirs—you’re not broken. You’re carrying a love so big it carved you hollow. Joshua didn’t leave a manual for this. He just left. And for too long I thought wanting again meant murdering the only man who ever made me feel whole. But Sarah was right: living isn’t betrayal. Letting someone see the scars grief tattooed on your soul, letting them press their mouth to the places that still bleed, letting your body remember how to shake, leak, clench, and come undone… that’s not replacement. That’s the last stubborn proof that your heart refused to stop when you begged it to. If this story cracked your ribs open—if it made you ache for the day your own door locks, for the night someone looks at you like you’re still worth fucking, still worth filling, still worth the mess of tears and cum and whispered names—hold that ache like a fragile thing. It’s not disloyalty. It’s the avalanche’s aftermath: proof the snow can melt, the sun can touch skin again, and the body can still arch and sob and spill under someone else’s weight. When your moment comes—rough or tender, raw or slow—let it wreck you. Let it rebuild you. Let yourself cry while you come. Let yourself whisper his name and someone else’s in the same ragged breath. You’re allowed. And if these words made tears slip down your face in the dark… good. That means you’re still alive enough to feel the whole goddamn thing. That means you’re still here. And right now—that’s more than enough.

My Sacred Phallus Worship Ritual for 2026 On the dawn of January 1, 2026, as the first rays of the new year pierce the horizon, I commence the holiest of obligations—a ritual every true bottom must perform to honor the Phallus God and begin the year properly sanctified. Phallus worship and the reception of cum blessings are not mere indulgences; they are sacred imperatives, the very core of our purpose. Without this devotion, a bottom remains unfulfilled, his body an empty shrine awaiting divine occupation. Imagine yourself here with me on this sacred morning, driven by the same inescapable need: to kneel, to adore, to open your altar and beg for the god’s fertile blessing. Only through total surrender to the Phallus God can we be made whole. The chamber is bathed in the soft glow of beeswax candles, their flames trembling as though in reverence. The air is thick with incense and the primal promise of what is to come. I lower myself to my knees upon the crimson silk cushion, heart pounding like a devotional drum, and behold Him—the Phallus God manifested in all His terrifying glory. He rises before me like an ancient obelisk of living marble: impossibly thick, the shaft a perfect column of taut, silken skin stretched over steel-hard rigidity. Prominent veins twist and bulge along its length like sacred rivers carved into holy stone, pulsing visibly with every heartbeat, carrying the life-force that will soon flood my altar. The skin is flushed a deep, angry crimson at the base, fading to a glistening rose toward the crown. That crown itself is a masterpiece of divine design—broad and flared, the helmet swollen and shiny, its slit weeping a steady stream of crystal-clear precum that trails down the underside in slow, hypnotic rivulets. Below, His heavy balls hang low in their smooth sac, weighty orbs churning with thick, potent seed, radiating heat and the unmistakable musk of pure masculinity. Every inch of Him radiates power, fertility, conquest—an undeniable deity that demands worship. I bring my face closer, breathing Him in until my lungs are saturated with His scent: the sharp, salty edge of precum, the deeper earthiness of His balls, the intoxicating heat of aroused skin. My lips brush the underside in slow, reverent kisses, tracing each throbbing vein with my tongue, tasting the salty nectar that beads endlessly from His slit. I take the head into my mouth, stretching wide to accommodate His girth, feeling the velvet smoothness glide over my tongue as I swallow Him deeper—an act of oral communion that prepares both god and worshipper for the final sacrament. Yet the true heart of the ritual lies behind me. I turn and present myself, arching deeply, thighs spread wide in supplication. My ass becomes the sacred altar: smooth, rounded cheeks parted to reveal the tight, pink pucker at its center—a holy gateway framed by soft, hairless skin that flushes with arousal. The rim glistens already, slick with natural lubricant and the smeared precum He has anointed me with, quivering in anticipation like the entrance to a consecrated temple. The cleft is deep and inviting, the muscles beneath toned yet yielding, trained for one purpose alone: to open, to receive, to hold and honor the divine seed. Every bottom knows this truth—our holes are not mere flesh; they are altars crafted by nature itself, inner sanctums lined with sensitive, silken walls that ripple and clutch in devotional gratitude when filled by the Phallus God. He positions Himself at my altar’s gate. The scalding heat of His crown presses against my rim, smearing more sacred oil across the entrance. I whisper the ancient plea: “Enter Your temple, O Phallus God. Bless this altar with Your divine essence.” The breach is slow and ceremonial—first the broad head forcing my ring to bloom open in a burning ring of fire that melts into exquisite fullness. Inch by thick inch He advances, veins dragging along my inner walls, the slick sounds of penetration echoing like temple chimes. His balls finally rest heavy against mine as He seats Himself fully, the entire length of the god buried within His altar, stretching me to the limits of mortal capacity. The breeding rite begins in earnest. Powerful, rhythmic thrusts drive Him deep, each withdrawal pulling at my walls, each plunge slamming home with a wet, fleshy clap. Sweat drips from His body onto the small of my back, tracing hot paths down my cleft to mingle with the fluids already leaking from my stuffed hole. The chamber fills with the symphony of worship: my desperate moans rising like incense, His guttural growls the voice of divinity, the obscene squelch of His girth pistoning through my slick channel a sacred hymn. When the moment of blessing arrives, He swells even thicker inside me, the veins pulsing wildly against my clutching walls. With a primal roar He buries Himself to the root and unleashes the flood—jet after jet of scalding, thick cum blasting deep into my altar. I feel every powerful spurt: hot ropes painting my insides white, coating every sensitive fold, filling the sacred chamber until it overflows. The sheer volume is overwhelming, creamy excess forced out around His buried shaft to drip in slow, viscous strands down my thighs, marking the altar both within and without. The scent of fresh seed—sharp, bleachy, victorious—rises like sanctified smoke, sealing the ritual. He remains lodged deep for long moments, grinding gently to ensure every drop is offered and received. When He finally withdraws, my altar gapes softly, flushed and glistening, a steady trickle of His blessing leaking from the sanctified entrance—a visible testament to the god’s favor. I stay arched in position long after, feeling His cum shift warmly inside me, a living weight that will remain for hours. My body thrums with aftershocks, every nerve singing in gratitude. Thus begins 2026: properly consecrated, thoroughly bred, my altar forever transformed by the Phallus God’s divine touch. Fellow bottoms, let this be your call. The Phallus demands worship. Your ass is His altar. Open it. Receive His blessing. There is no higher purpose.

(As always my stories are true events with erotica added to make the readers unload their load in my name) I first noticed Corey when he moved in next door with his widowed mother about six months ago. He was in his late twenties, fresh off a contested divorce that his dramatic ex was turning into a full-blown spectacle—court dates, accusations flying, the works. As a landscaper, he had that sun-kissed, rugged look: tanned skin from hours outdoors, calloused hands, broad shoulders under his work tees, and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow that made my submissive gay bareback bottom side ache with need. I'd see him mowing the lawn or trimming hedges, sweat soaking his shirt, outlining those firm pecs and the V of his hips. He projected straight, but there was something in his lingering glances when I waved hello. One afternoon, he knocked on my door, looking stressed, a folder of divorce papers clutched in his fist. 'Hey, man,' he said, shifting awkwardly. 'You're the one who works in legal stuff, right? I heard around the neighborhood. Mind if I pick your brain? This shit with my ex is killing me—she's dragging it out, claiming I cheated or whatever bullshit to get more alimony.' I invited him in, pouring us coffees in my living room. As we sat, his eyes wandered to the walls—my collection of tasteful naked men art, sculpted bodies in oil and bronze, cocks and asses captured in raw, erotic poses. He didn't look away; instead, he leaned closer to one print, a guy bent over, hole exposed. 'These are... intense. You into that kind of thing? Like, art-wise?' I smiled, sensing the curiosity. 'Yeah, I'm gay. Been out forever. Love celebrating the male form—no shame in it.' He nodded slowly, asking questions that started innocent but got personal: How does it work dating guys? Ever been in a serious thing? What's the sex like? His cheeks flushed, but he didn't stop, and I answered openly, describing bareback hookups, the thrill of a thick cock breeding deep, submitting to a dominant top. By the time he left, papers annotated with my informal advice, there was a spark. He thanked me with a firm handshake, his grip lingering, eyes flicking to my crotch. A week later, his mom announced she was traveling for a full week to visit family. That evening, Corey texted— we'd exchanged numbers for divorce updates—inviting me over. 'Mom's gone. Beers? Could use more advice... and company.' My cock twitched at the opportunity. I showed up with a six-pack and a joint, dressed casual in shorts that hugged my ass. His place was modest, mom's taste in decor clashing with his landscaper tools in the garage. We cracked beers in the living room, the divorce talk flowing into lighter stuff. 'That art you have... got me thinking,' he admitted after his second beer. 'Never really explored that side. Ex was vanilla as hell.' I sparked the joint, passing it over. He inhaled deep, coughing, then relaxed, the weed loosening him up. 'Wanna see the hot tub out back?' he suggested, standing. 'Installed it myself last summer.' We stripped down—me first, peeling off my shirt and shorts, revealing my smooth, toned body and the jockstrap cupping my hardening dick. Corey watched, then shrugged off his clothes: faded tee, jeans dropping to show his thick thighs and that uncut cock swinging semi-hard between them, balls heavy and low. Fuck, he was built like a god, chest hair trailing down to his pubes. The hot tub bubbled invitingly under the stars. We sank in opposite each other, water jets massaging our skin, beers on the edge. Conversation turned flirty fast—the weed making us bold. My foot brushed his under the water; he didn't move it. 'So, that gay lifestyle... you submit a lot?' he asked, voice husky. 'All the way,' I replied, shifting closer. 'Love a guy taking charge, fucking my ass raw, breeding me full.' His cock visibly stiffened below the surface. I reached over, hand grazing his thigh. 'You ever tried it?' He shook his head but leaned in. Our lips met—tentative at first, then hungry. His tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of beer and smoke. Hands roamed: mine to his chest, pinching nipples; his to my ass, squeezing cheeks. 'Fuck this,' he growled, standing, water sluicing off his ripped body, cock now rock-hard, eight inches of veiny meat throbbing. I dropped to my knees in the tub, water lapping at my chest, and engulfed his dick. Lips stretching around the girth, I sucked deep, tongue lapping the foreskin back to swirl his leaking slit. He groaned, fingers tangling in my hair, thrusting into my throat. 'Shit, yeah... swallow that cock.' Saliva dripped as he face-fucked me, balls smacking my chin, gagging me until tears welled. 'Need your hole,' he panted, pulling out. I turned, hands on the tub rim, ass arched high. He spat on my pucker, fingers probing—first one, then two, twisting to open me. 'Tight... gonna ruin this.' His cockhead nudged my entrance, then shoved in raw. The burn was exquisite as he sank balls-deep, pubes grinding my cheeks. He pounded relentlessly, water splashing with each slam. 'Take my dick, you bottom slut.' Hands bruising my hips, he railed my ass, prostate hammered until pre leaked from my untouched cock. 'Gonna breed you first load.' 'Yes! Fill me!' I begged. He buried deep, cock pulsing, hot cum erupting inside—spurt after thick spurt coating my guts. He thrust through it, churning until it leaked out around his shaft. We moved inside, dripping on the floor, grabbing fresh beers and another joint. On the couch, naked and buzzed, his dick stirred again against my leg. 'Round two,' I whispered, lying back, legs spread wide, cum-slick hole winking. He mounted me missionary, sliding in easy on his own seed. Chest to chest, he fucked slow then hard, pinning my arms, mouth claiming mine. 'This ass is mine tonight.' Sweat slicked our bodies as he hammered, balls slapping. 'Second breeding coming...' 'Pump it in!' My hole clenched, milking him as he unloaded again, cum overflowing, mixing with the first load. I shot untouched, ropes hitting my abs. We crashed, dozing, but an hour later, he hardened once more. On all fours now, I presented, ass up. He took me doggy, gripping my shoulders, slamming deep. 'Third time's the charm—gonna flood you.' His pace brutal, hand jerking my cock. We came together—his torrent gushing out, my load on the cushions. Exhausted, plugged with his cum, we lay tangled. 'That was insane,' he murmured. 'Mom's back soon, but... we should do this again.' Three days later, another text: 'Buddy Spencer over—work partner. Told him about you. Come for drinks? He's curious too.' Spencer, Corey's married landscaper pal, early thirties, built like a tank with a buzzcut and tattoos, had been sex-starved with his wife for months. I arrived to them on the patio, beers flowing, joint lit. Corey grinned, eyes hungry; Spencer eyed me appraisingly, his cargo shorts tenting. We smoked, buzz hitting, clothes coming off casual-like. Corey's hot tub again, all three sinking in naked. Cocks bobbed: Corey's familiar thick uncut, Spencer's girthy cut nine-incher, veiny and curved. 'Heard you're a pro bottom,' Spencer said, voice rough. 'Wife ain't putting out—need this.' I knelt between them in the water, hands stroking both shafts. Corey's in my mouth first, sucking deep while jerking Spencer. They groaned, hips bucking. 'Share him,' Corey said. I alternated—deepthroating Spencer, his balls hairy and musky, then Corey, foreskin sliding. 'Tag team that ass,' Spencer growled. I bent over the tub edge, Corey entering first, fucking my cum-stretched hole with wet slaps. Spencer fed me his cock, face-fucking as Corey railed. 'Suck while he breeds you.' Corey unloaded quick, adding to the mess inside me. Spencer took over, his thicker dick stretching wider, pounding deep. 'Fuck, sloppy from his load—gonna add mine.' Water churned as he hammered, hands spreading my cheeks. I moaned around nothing now, Corey watching, stroking himself hard again. Spencer came with a grunt, flooding me further, cum bubbling out. They switched—Corey back in, churning the double load, while I blew Spencer clean. 'Your turn to breed again,' I begged Corey. He did, third load for him mixing with Spencer's. Inside now, on the living room rug, they spit-roasted me proper. Spencer in my ass, Corey in my mouth, thrusting in sync. 'Gangbang this hole,' Spencer said, slapping my cheeks. Sweat poured, bodies slapping loud. Spencer pulled out, Corey dove in, then back—trading my ass like a toy, each dumping loads until I overflowed, cum dripping down my thighs. Finally, both knelt, jerking over my face as I fingered my wrecked hole. 'Open up.' Ropes of cum painted my tongue, chest—swallowing what I could. Exhausted, we collapsed, their cocks soft against me. 'Best night ever,' Spencer admitted. Corey nodded. 'More where that came from.' My ass throbbed, bred multiple times by two studs—submissive heaven.

It seems like you are unable to understand the topic thread which talks about Mr. Wolf's felony charges, incarceration, child pornography and how to protect children from such exploitation. This ensures that children go through their natural process of confirming their sexuality rather than being subjected to the process by other adults. It is very obvious that you have a problem with President Trump and his administration however, in the system that the Americans have accepted Mr. Trump has won a legitimate election and voted to power by the American voters. Every politician gets elected on their agendas and if you do not agree with their agenda then commenting here is against the purpose of this site. All you can do is to wait until 2029 and vote against President Trump and his agend and in the meantime rally support against his administration. Blaming everyone else for someone who is now a confirmed felon is not helping other users to enjoy the site as well. I am sure courtesy is normal on the entire political spectrum.

Not going into details of the case what I see prima facie that a guilty plea is enough for the court to convict the accused of the charges. The Crown as I am in Canada has to prove beyond reasonable doubt in criminal matters whereas defence has balance of probability. Any defence wouldn't want their client to plead guilty especially when charges lead upto very long incarceration. Again not commenting on the merits of the case when Mr. Wolf pleaded guilty to the charges means that the defence couldn't find a lot to play with even if it is on balances. Mr. Wolf is sentenced to 19 years in prison. Irrespective of what an individual stands for, as one of the comments posted indicate that Mr. Wolf stood for whatever groups or rights or what not, doesn't wipe out the crimes. Possession and distribution of child pornography is a felony in almost all jurisdictions. While most porn hosting websites are doing a great job in ensuring such videos do not land up on their websites many still slip through the cracks. However this is never allowed as a defence because the user should have known better. Also enticing an underage for purpose of having sex with them is also a crime even if the act doesn't happen. Gay community has long romanticized with twinks but it comes with a huge risk - legal and social. There are multiple case laws in the common law system where courts have disagreed with looks or appearance or being on Grindr as proof of age etc. It becomes harder when manipulation or coercion or authority relationship are involved. Also understand this from a perspective of the society and a growing up children's future. Children will experiment sexually and they can do that safely within their age cohort. Most of the time such encounters lead to sexual abuse and the children are now stuck with stigma resentment and mental health challenges. This I am saying from personal experience and not as a professional. Whether someone is a gay or a straight is a natural process of identifying. Doesn't need a random adult to be a part of that exploration. Many people won't like my comment but I believe that sexual freedoms should come with limits and consequences. Every app or website catering to adult material should be ensuring the age by virtue of ID. Many will argue privacy and loss of revenue etc but so be it. We all lose money in heavy taxes without much in return and we have accepted it. We give IDs at every other place including cannabis stores etc. and we have accepted it. Laws work for overall social good and in case of sex involving underage the overall social good trumps every other aspect. There is no witch hunt however since we all have personal beliefs we use witch hunt argument to satisfy our belief system. Being a gay and a total submissive bottom I enjoy virility and who doesn't however if you are using apps and romanticizing sex with twinks set proper filters for the apps. Lack of filters use Block profiles features for 18 years old profiles no matter. Go to gay bars and bathhouses. Do not give your addresses until you are convinced that the other person is really not underage. If someone wants sex they would generally be willing to share a bit more about them otherwise they are just online for instant gratification and picture collection.

I have been flirting with this cute young man at my gym and we spend some time talking about things including gays and sex in th sauna. I flirt with him a lot and he always responds back with equal flirting and strong vibes. I believe at least from his talks that he has had some same sex experiences. The other day I saw him outside a restaurant where I too was waiting for my take out. He was with a young woman and I don't mean any disrespect to women however the woman he was with was overweight. Many men wouldn't even give her a second look forget thinking about bedding with her. Next time when we were together in the gym I asked him about the woman who was with him at the restaurant. He told me that she is his girlfriend. Trust me I dropped the weights out of surprise. That raised a lot of questions about human behavior. When it comes to straight sex men wouldn't mind stocky or even overweight women however to fuck a bottom they want a lean athletic flat stomach and what not. I have no answer for this male behavioral contradiction except hypocrisy. What do you guys think? Please don't disrespect women when you give your opinion.

(This is the story based on true events in 2018 summer in Washington DC. My husband Justin was still alive and he helped me satisfy my daddy craving and our first open relationship encounter) The moment we stumbled into the hotel room, my legs were already up over Justin's shoulders. He'd been rock hard since picking him up at the airport, his military-honed body pressing me into the mattress. 'Fuck, I've missed this tight hole,' he growled, slamming his thick cock into me raw, no lube, just his spit and my eagerness. I gasped, my lean athletic frame arching as he pounded deep, balls slapping against my ass with every thrust. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wide, and I could feel every inch of him stretching me, owning me like the submissive slut I am. 'Take it, boy,' he grunted, his hips snapping forward, breeding me hard after three days apart. I moaned loud, my own dick leaking pre-cum on my abs as he filled me up, his hot load shooting deep inside until it dripped out around his shaft. We showered together after, his strong hands soaping my body, fingers teasing my sore hole while I dropped to my knees and sucked his cock clean. 'Good man-wife,' he murmured, pulling me up for a deep kiss tasting of cum and soap. We dried off quick, then got ready for the night. Mid-August heat had me dressing slutty—tiny booty shorts hugging my ass, a cropped tank showing off my flat stomach, and sandals. Justin looked dominant as hell in shorts, polo, and sneakers, his bulge already straining. Nellie's was packed for the drag show, the air thick with sweat and cologne. We grabbed drinks at the bar, and that's when Justin started chatting up this mid-50s daddy—Dan, I learned later. Built like a tank, muscular arms straining his shirt, salt-and-pepper hair, and a confident smirk that made my hole twitch. His son Timothy joined after the bathroom, this androgynous 20-year-old twink, shy and blushing, femme like me but even younger, studying in DC. I sat at our table watching, sipping my beer, as Justin invited them over. The sexual spark in his eyes was the same one he gave me when he wanted to fuck—now aimed at Timothy. Dan shook my hand, holding it too long, his thumb stroking my fingers, eyes raking over my body. Tension crackled; I felt it in my gut, my cock stirring under the table. Justin and Timothy bantered, laughing easy, while Dan's gaze locked on me, winking as Justin bragged, 'My boy's a total slut, keeps me satisfied as my man-wife. Loves getting bred raw.' Drinks flowed, inhibitions melted. Talk turned flirty, heavy—Justin spilling about our shifting kinks, how I craved strong daddies and he wanted submissive sons. Our first open play. Timothy blushed crimson, but Dan just grinned, his hand brushing my thigh under the table. I got mad when they stepped away to talk, but Justin pulled me close, pinching my nipples through my tank, fingers dipping into my shorts to grope my ass. 'Relax, baby,' he whispered, French kissing me deep until I melted, hard again. They agreed to join us back at the hotel. I slipped out for a joint, and Dan followed. In the alley, we smoked, his body pressing behind mine, big hands squeezing my ass cheeks through the thin fabric, thumbs circling my hole. 'Such a eager little slut,' he rumbled in my ear, his breath hot, cock grinding against me. 'Bet you need a real daddy to fill you up.' I shivered, nodding, my voice breathy as we talked dirty about what we'd do. Back inside, Justin was already making out with Timothy on the bar stools, tongues sloppy, hands roaming. We piled into the cab, tension electric, and hit the room. Justin and Timothy crashed on the couch, clothes flying—Justin's polo off, Timothy's shirt gone, revealing a smooth, twink chest. Justin shoved the kid down, yanking off his pants, Timothy's slim cock springing free. 'Suck it, son,' Justin commanded, but no—wait, he flipped it, pushing Timothy's head to his thick military dick. Timothy obeyed, slurping eagerly, gagging as Justin face-fucked him rough. Dan grabbed me, steering to the bed. 'Time for daddy to claim his boy,' he said, voice gravelly, stripping me fast. My booty shorts hit the floor, cock bobbing hard. He shoved me down on all fours, his massive frame looming, pants off to reveal a veiny, thick daddy cock, uncut and leaking. No words—just spit on his hand, smearing my ass, then ramming in bareback. I cried out, the burn turning to bliss as he stretched me wide, deeper than Justin ever had, his hairy balls smacking my taint. Across the room, Justin had Timothy bent over the couch arm, pounding that tight twink ass raw. 'Fuck yeah, take daddy's cock,' Justin groaned—no, he was the dominant top, but the age play flipped natural, him owning the shy boy. Timothy whimpered, 'Yes, sir, breed me,' his voice high and needy, ass cheeks rippling with each slam. Dan gripped my hips, bruising, fucking me primal, like an animal. 'That's it, boy, milk daddy's dick,' he snarled, one hand fisting my hair, yanking my head back. His cock hit my prostate hard, making me leak ropes of pre-cum on the sheets. I pushed back, submissive hole clenching, begging for his load. He slapped my ass red, the sting fueling my moans. 'Gonna fill this slutty hole, make you mine tonight.' Justin laughed rough from the couch, his thrusts audible, wet slaps echoing as he railed Timothy, the kid's cries mixing with mine. Dan leaned over, biting my shoulder, his sweat dripping on my back, cock pistoning faster. I was lost, body shaking, so close— But they weren't done yet, the night just starting to heat up.

The air in Steamworks Toronto hung heavy with the musk of sweat and cum, the kind of scent that hits you right in the gut during Cumunion nights. Bodies moved in shadows, grunts and moans echoing off the tiled walls like a filthy symphony. I was deep in it, my hole already twitching from the tease of the crowd, craving that raw bareback stretch. As a total sub bottom, I lived for this—getting used, loaded up, no barriers, just pure cock owning my ass. I slipped into a dark corner, the blackness wrapping around me like a promise of anonymous pounding. That's when I felt it first—a thick, cut 7-inch cock brushing my lips, already leaking precum like a faucet. The guy didn't say a word, just grabbed my hair and shoved it forward. I opened wide, my mouth watering as I wrapped my lips around that fat head. Fuck, it was girthier than I expected, stretching my jaw as I sucked hard, tongue swirling over the slit to lap up every salty drop. He groaned low, hips bucking, feeding me more of that slick precum that coated my throat. I hummed around him, slurping greedily, my own dick soft but leaking a steady stream down my thigh. No hardness for me tonight; I was here to take it all, power bottom style, my body built for the abuse. He didn't let me suck long. With a rough push, he spun me around and bent me over the nearby fuck bench, the leather cool against my chest. My ass was up, exposed, begging. He spat on my hole—once, twice—then slammed in bare, that thick 7 inches splitting me open in one brutal thrust. I gasped, fists clenching the bench as he started pounding, balls slapping my ass with every deep drive. 'Take it, slut,' he growled, voice rough in the dark. I moaned back, 'Fuck yeah, breed me deep.' His cock pistoned relentlessly, stretching my walls, hitting that spot that made my vision blur. Precum dripped from my soft cock in ropes, pooling on the floor as he hammered harder. After what felt like minutes of raw friction, he buried deep and unloaded, hot cum flooding my guts. I clenched around him, milking every spurt, my body shuddering in a full-body wave of pleasure—no orgasm, just that electric rush. He pulled out with a wet pop, cum trickling down my thigh, but before I could catch my breath, another cock replaced him. This one was just as hard, thicker maybe, shoving in without mercy. The second guy grabbed my hips, yanking me back onto his shaft as he fucked deep and relentless. 'Gonna fill this hole,' he grunted, pace brutal. I pushed back, power bottom instincts kicking in, grinding my ass to take him balls-deep. His thrusts were powerful, churning the first load inside me, making sloppy sounds echo. I leaked more precum, my body on fire, every slam sending jolts through me. He didn't last long—roared and pumped his heavy load, thick ropes coating my insides. I trembled, ass full and dripping, savoring the warmth as he slid out. I staggered to the showers after, the quick rinse doing nothing to wash away the cum still leaking from my used hole. Water cascaded over me, but my mind was on more—always more. Dried off, I headed to another dark area, the crowd thicker here, cocks poking from glory holes and shadows. I dropped to my knees, sucking whatever presented itself: a veiny 6-incher first, then a curved one that hit the back of my throat. I slurped and gagged, tasting sweat and precum from strangers, my lips numb but eager. Moans mixed with the wet sounds of my mouth working them over. Someone yanked me up by the arm, spinning me to face a wall. 'Bend over, boy,' a deep voice commanded. I complied, ass out, and felt the head of an almost 8-inch beast nudge my sloppy hole. He thrust in hard, no lube needed with the loads already greasing me. Fuck, it was massive, thick meat burying deep, stretching me to the limit. I cried out, hands braced on the wall as he started pounding—long, hard strokes that made my knees buckle. 'Yeah, take this dick,' he snarled, one hand on my neck, pinning me. Precum poured from my soft cock, soaking my legs as he railed me for nearly 20 minutes, relentless, hitting my prostate with every plunge. My body quaked, full-body orgasms rippling through me, no cum from me but waves of ecstasy that left me gasping. Finally, he growled and unloaded, flooding me with his nut, deep and hot. As he pulled out, strong hands gripped me—darker skin, I could tell in the faint light. It was the BBC, a monster of a cock, at least 9 inches, thick as my wrist, already rock-hard and veined. He didn't ask; he dragged me through the crowd to the sling area, the murmurs and eyes following us. 'Get in, gonna wreck this ass,' he rumbled, voice like thunder. I climbed in, legs up in the straps, hole winking and leaking. He stepped between my thighs, rubbing that fat black head against my cum-slick entrance before slamming home. The stretch burned so good, filling me completely as he started pounding—hard, powerful fucks that rocked the sling. The crowd gathered, stroking themselves, some shooting ropes of cum across my chest and abs as they watched. 'Look at him take it,' one muttered. I locked eyes with the BBC, moaning, 'Pound me, fuck, harder!' He obliged, hips snapping with raw power, his balls slapping my ass in a wet rhythm. Each thrust massaged my nut deep inside, building those full-body highs, my precum leaking in a steady stream onto my belly. He fucked me mercilesslike, sweat dripping from him onto me, the sling creaking under the force. After what felt like forever of that brutal bareback ride, he buried deep and erupted—his fourth load for me, thick and endless, mixing with the others in my guts. But as he pulled out, more shadows closed in, cocks hard and ready, the night far from over...