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Sf-travel

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About Sf-travel

  • Rank
    Virgin
  • Birthday 03/01/1989

Profile Information

  • Gender
    Male
  • Location
    California
  • Interests
    Faggot sub with few limits, and an insatiable appetite for cock and cum. Frequently locked in chastity as well... and when I am, I'll be your cumdump, toilet, whore, gimp, victim.

    I am actively training my body and mind to be the best faggot sub I can be. Want to help? Live in San Francisco, but travel globally and often.
  • Role
    Bottom
  • Porn Experience
    n/a
  • Looking For
    Men that want to use my holes. It's that simple.

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  1. (Cont…) That knock would play out in my head for years to come. That knock was the start of a slippery slope — a slope that would ultimately lead me 10 years later, blackout in a trashy motel, throating a 9mm pistol, effectively destroyed no matter the rules of his game. But that night 10 years ago? I just thought it was going to be some quick, rough fun. — Part 2. I felt my phone buzz. “Just knock when you’re here.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I was so fucking in over my head. And fuck me, I knew it. I had walked maybe 10 feet up his concrete driveway in East LA. And you could hear my heartbeat out in Malibu. I knew I was in over my head, but also knew how hot that was, how much it made my dick stir and my hole pulse. I was going to get fucked by this latino thug, maybe he’d slap me around a little, call me a puto. Maybe he’d even want his cum inside me. I was ready to have some fun, and that adrenaline? That uncertainty? It was hot. I could use some rough sex. But David? He wanted exactly what he told me he would want. My 20-year-old self… I just didn’t realize. I didn’t listen even when he told me exactly the truth. I didn’t listen when he repeated it before I came over that night. I didn’t listen, and I, well, I guess I needed the lesson. I needed that ultimate moment that shifts your life path, that moment when we discover who we really are. I far from knew it yet, but that's the lesson I needed. Its like some god of debauchery, some figure meant to corrupt born-fags — he let me ignore the warning signs, he let me look past so much... all of David's own warnings, all of those bullshit sexual assault seminars on campus about responsible behavior, all those things that Pastor Eric told me I'd be drawn to if I chose to be gay. I ignored all of it. And, well. There I was. Hard as a rock. I knocked. I remember how he opened the door, never showing himself. I remember the scent of sweat and man and drugs — I’d remember… after it was over… I'd remember that smell. That smell, that filthy reality — it was my future. I knew it. Somewhere deep down… past the porn, and the fantasy… I just knew. Years later I’d remember how that smell meant I was really getting used. Fucked Up Used. There was a connection there, some cerebral soldering that would turn every drug fueled gang bang of my 20s into a drug unto itself. An addictive one. One that meant I'd pursue extremes, submit myself to Men, hurt myself for men. It meant I'd sell myself to men not for profit, but to prove a point about hierarchy. That smell eventually meant I was doing it just fucking right; that night, that night it was simply new. David opened the door. After I stepped inside, into the dark, I got a glimpse from a light in the corner. He was fucking huge. Built. 6’3, maybe 6’4. Fit, dark skinned. Tatted with full sleeves. “Christ” was written across his chest. I couldn’t see it, but I knew: he was hung. I shut the door and smiled at him. I was going to have some hot, rough, fun sex. And then he slapped me. He slapped me so hard my head spun. He drew blood. Not a lot, but enough that I felt it and saw it on my hand. I had to catch myself with a step sideways. I was so off balance, and he caught me. I guess you’d call it a catch? He reached one arm out, and it was enough to support my entire weight. I remember thinking he cared. That I told him I liked slapping. That this was fun. It would be fun. I just need to, reset, ya know? This was just a heavy start. “You knocked, fag. We know what that means." And then -- and it felt so odd -- he touched my hair with his free hand, he touched it gently even. Like I was a prized possession. My cock had gone from shriveled with fear to rock hard instantly. I remember answering him, trying to sound seductive. "That we get to have some fun?" I coyly answered. "Not 'we' faggot." He pulled his arm back, made a fist, and our eyes held contact. He punched me square in the face, my body going limp as he pulled out his other arm; I hit the floor and I was out fucking cold. He, for the first time that night, was rock fucking hard.
  2. “Stop fucking flinching. Take it like the worthless faggot I always knew you’d become.” I could barely see straight through the fog of my high. It wasn’t anything hardcore yet that night, but the alcohol and edibles, paired with some fresh poppers and 8 loads earned deep in my cunt had me lost in pleasure and submission. There I was: ass up in a motel, taking anonymous loads… and it was him forcing my hole open. I knew his voice. It was the man who started it all. It was David. Again. 10 years ago I was a condoms-only college kid with a fantasy to submit. And then he showed me what it meant to really get used. What it meant to give myself to a real man. What it meant to regret it. And here he was - 8.5 thick inches pulsing deep inside me while he wrapped his hands around my neck and choked. 10 years ago I wouldn’t have recognized the shell of a faggot whore on that motel bed. Hell, I barely recognized him that night. As this beast of a man tore my hole open yet again, I realized just how far I had fallen. I was leaking in my cock cage, begging, and crying. But to him? I was just an object. No different than the object he’d raped 10 years earlier. And we both knew it. “Cmon, faggot. Put your mouth around the barrel of the gun. I want to play a game.” — 10 years earlier, and I was 20. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college in Los Angeles, and I’d grown more and more comfortable with my sexuality. I was a good looking guy: nearly 6’0, Italian blood, dark features, hairy and tight body. I could fuck any college kid on that campus, but it just didn’t quite scratch that itch. I needed to get used. Or at least thats what I fantasized about when I jerked off. And “getting used” seemed to be getting darker. Rough fucking had become verbal fucking. Light bondage. Slapping. Pain. I needed it to be kinkier and kinkier to get me off. I found myself falling down the rabbit hole, searching for boys crying, having forced orgasms, and — and it made me hard to even type it into search engines - getting raped. I wanted it. Or I thought I wanted it. It all sort of blurred together as I busted orgasm after orgasm to the kinkiest and roughest porn I could find. But I also knew that it wasn’t realistic. Real rape wouldn’t be ‘fun’. Real rape couldn’t be planned. Real rape was just a fantasy. But that didn’t stop me from being a tease. And thats when David first came into the picture. I’d met David online. He was clear from the outset: he didn’t want my name, he liked to fuck holes as objects, it would hurt. I did not matter to him. And I busted a load that first night we chatted - a huge, thick load. And then I quickly signed off. I did to David what I did to all these guys: I teased. I played out my fantasy to earn my own orgasm. Days and days. Countless orgasms. He took me deeper in those conversations, deeper than I knew I could go. He told me he whored boys out. I came. He told me he came from seeing fags cry. I came. He told me he beat a man nearly to death. I came. He told me he wanted to do it again. I came. This went on and on. Until the night that I let my 20 year old sex drive get the best of me. I agreed to go to his place. He told me it would be rough, but that I’d be fine — that he knew so many of my desires were just fantasy. He told me he got it. He told me I’d enjoy myself - that we’d have some fun. And I trusted him. My dick was leaking, my hole was pulsing, and I was speeding down the 405… until I was there. Heart racing, dick hard, skin moist from nerves, adrenaline and sweat. I was there, knocking on his door. That knock would play out in my head for years to come. That knock was the start of a slippery slope — a slope that would ultimately lead me 10 years later, blackout in a trashy motel, throating a 9mm pistol, effectively destroyed no matter the rules of his game. But that night 10 years ago? I just thought it was going to be some quick, rough fun.
  3. This topic has gotten all sorts of responses, when I think its actually quite straightforward... Getting your hole brushed by someone trying to cause pain will be painful. Any Dom who is wanting to brush your hole as an act of dominance, as an act of aggression... it's going to hurt. And have the various potential repercussions (desired or not) that so many have discussed. The description in the original post? The guy explicitly says he wants it to be brutal. While I'd excitedly let that Alpha use me, it sounds like he intends for it to hurt... so yes, it will hurt. Getting your hole brushed by someone trying to prep for conversion need not be so painful. You can use a soft toothbrush with lube and it doesn't take much to get it pink. You don't need to be bleeding out to have the micro-abrasions that cause that psychological rush or physical reality so many are seeking from brushing.

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