TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Where do you want it?” I ask, looking down at the boy. Our eyes are locked. Mine are unblinking. Unwavering. His are full of moisture. His chest rises and falls as he struggles to find his voice. It’s nighttime. The lights are off. Our bodies glow pale and blue in his bedroom’s dimness. “In my hole, dad.” When he’d opened his door and greeted me an hour before, he’d affected a gruff, deep timbre. Now he sounds breathy. Light-headed, even. Vulnerable. “I want your daddy dick in my hole.” “Which one?” I watch him thinking. Mere minutes ago he might have affected a shrug, or a diffident shake of the head. Now, though, I’ve got his defenses down. Slowly, he reaches down, lifts his hips. It’s with an almost-shy slowness that he pulls apart the lips sheltering his most private place. I nod. Correct answer. “You want me to fuck your boycunt.” Like so often in this kind of situation, it’s not a question. “Please,” he whispers. Then he adds, “Daddy.” I shove two fingers inside. He’s already wet in there. I feel the folds of his skin conform to my knuckles, softly wrapping themselves around the ridges. “You want me to wreck this boy hole.” “Oh fuck yes,” he says. Then, aware he’s betrayed himself with his eagerness, he adds, “If you want it, sir.” I kneeling between the boy’s spread legs. My cock is rigid. “Oh, I want it. On your knees,” I order. He hesitates, then quickly pulls himself up and turns over. He puts his rump in the air, displaying himself for my pleasure. I let my fingertips play in the soft pleats of skin. He jumps and gasps when they graze the nub that gives him the most pleasure. Then I run my hands over his smooth, pale ass, causing him to moan. Those cheeks are still sore from the beating I’d given him, just minutes before. He’d wanted to be placed over daddy’s lap, to be spanked for being bad. And not just spanked. Spanked hard. He wants my wedding ring to leave welts on his backside that he’ll feel for days. I’ve gladly obliged—first straight out of his underpants. Then with his ass slicked over with a thin layer of lube, to magnify the pain. “Please,” he says, pushing back and presenting to me, like a bitch in heat, despite the soreness. My cock has been ready for a long time. I find the correct spot with my fingers. Spread the lips. Slide the length of myself down the ass and under. Then the taut surface of my cock’s head parts those flaps of skin and sinks in, inch by inch. The boy’s head jerks back; his jaw drops. He lets out a soundless gasp until all of me is enfolded by his flesh. His body shudders, then subsides, until all that’s left is the faintest quiver in his loins. I’m stretching him wide. My right hand rests on the base of his spine, keeping him calm, the way an owner soothes an animal on the vet’s table. My left hand reaches under, between his legs, to rub him where he likes best. The quivering intensifies, ebbs, then grows in fervor once again. “Shit,” he curses to the mattress. “Holy shit. This isn’t fair.” “What’s not fair?” I ask. I’m not thrusting. Not yet. Just easing back and forth, making a home for myself in that sticky, wet tunnel. “You can’t just—fuck, dad.” He wrenches his head around to look at me. He’s a beautiful boy. Heavy, dark eyebrows. A masculine chin. My left hand travels from his most sensitive spot to the flat planes of his chest, where I trace the hard ridge that delineates his pectorals. Now he’s shuddering. “You just can’t. It’s not fair.” “It’s not fair I can walk in and make your holes mine?” He’s upheaval from stem to stern, an earthquake made flesh. When he doesn’t reply, I say, “It’s not fair some stranger knows what you need better than you do?” I can hear the tears in his voice when he finally replies. “Yes.” “Yes what?” “Yes, dad.” My right hand has been keeping him quiet, but we’re past the need, now. His shaking rattles the bed frame. When I haul off and slap his already-aching butt with my cupped palm, he lets out a yell. “I didn’t hear you.” “Christ! Yes dad!” I’m thrusting more of myself in and out of him now. My fingers dance down the flatness of his abdomen, feeling it heave in and out with every breath, to nestle again between his legs. “It’s not fair that I can fuck your boy cunt better than anyone you’ve ever had.” His forehead is banging against the mattress. “Yes sir!” “It’s not fair this fuck exceeds your expectations.” “No!” “And your expectations are already low to begin with, aren’t they?” He’s trying to use a vocabulary that’s abating by the second. Even in the dark, even with his face turned away, he can’t hide from me now, though. “I get treated like a . . . like a freak.” “Instead of the little faggot you want to be.” He grunts. Pushes back. Clinches down on my slippery pole. “Instead of a hot little fuck boy with a sweet pussy.” “Oh god.” The top half of his body is at a perfect incline, now. His arms are stretched out, his hands clutched into a single fist. He offers up his hole without reserve as I fuck my way in and out of its silky depths. “I don’t even believe in God, but . . . oh god.” I don’t say a word more. My fingers knead between his legs. My cock slides in and out. I know it’s not going to take long for him to climax. When he does, I pull him up into my arms so that we’re locked together, his back glued to my chest. We’re separated only where his spine arches so he can clamp my cock inside him. I hold him tightly while his shudders subside. When his head lolls back, my shoulder is there for him. My hands, flat and warm and broad, move up and down his naked torso to smooth the electricity from his skin. The gyration of his hips slows, like a spinning toy top, faltering once, then twice. Then he ceases. For a long moment I hold him close, and still. He sighs. But we’re not done. Toy tops are made to be spun more than once. “Don’t stop, daddy.” The whisper cuts through the silence. “Don’t worry, boy,” I murmur into his ear, and begin the slightest in-and-out motion. “I’m far from done.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here 1. God, I remember everything about that night. You came over to my place in the middle of August and the first thing you told me was how handsome I was. When you smiled at me I knew you could have anything you wanted. I remember it just like it was yesterday. I’m almost charmed at his memory. What was I wearing? I ask. You were wearing this blue checked shirt and some dark shorts. Dark green or blue, I think. Sandals. I remember thinking I had to get you into my apartment before someone else saw you and lured you away. I don’t allow myself to be lured away that easily, I tell him. Where did we do it? I took you by the hand and I led you to my bedroom. We were hardly in the door when you pushed me down onto the mattress and took my face in your hands and started kissing me. I’d lit candle because I knew you were coming over and the room was full of their scent when you started to undress me. There’s a detail I’m interested in. Candles? What scent? I don’t remember. I think they were some kind of sage. Why? Just curious. So, so curious. You have the perfect dick, and you let me suck it and get it wet for my hole before you slipped it in. Then you opened me wide with your big, bare monster. I still remember how perfectly you fit in me. Sage candles? I ask. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled sage candles before. All I know is that it was a perfect night and I want you back here again. Why are you so hung up on the candles? The reason I’m so hung up on the candles, I want to tell him, is that I’m trying to grasp onto some god-damned detail, some obscurity, some little foothold, that will REMIND ME WHO THE HELL YOU ARE. I’ll be the first to be upfront about things: I sleep with a lot of people. I mean, I’m always rolling my eyes when I’m watching television and there’s some swinging bachelor character—a Barney Stinson or a Joey Tribbiani or a Don Draper—who’s supposed to be a sure-fire hit with the ladies, and then the show reveals that the character has slept with some impossible number of different chicks in his lifetime . . . like thirty. I’ll sit there and wonder why, when a squadron of writers are brainstorming around the conference table, they’ve settled on thirty on a number so outlandishly impossible that it seems beyond the reach of most normal red-blooded American men. I mean, Christ, there’ve been many times I’ve gone through more than thirty different guys in a single week. Put me in the middle of a bathhouse or a good sex party, and I’ll make you look like a fucking monk, Barney. But that given, I still have a tendency to remember the guys I’ve been with. I’m bad with names, but the faces and circumstances I remember with great clarity. And I’m nearly one hundred percent certain I’ve never been with this guy. We’ve talked about it, sure. When I first moved out here he told me several times that we should get together and I told him that sure, we should. And now he’s telling me that we did, that I was great and he loved it, and we should do it again. So that’s why I’m asking for details. A sight. A smell. What was I wearing? A blue checked shirt? It’s true that I have one, but it appears in one of the photos I include in my sex profiles. Has he picked up on that detail from the profile he’s looked at so many times and simply imagined this night into being? It’s baffling me. Flattering as it is that he thinks I’m the greatest lover in the world—I mean, he’s not wrong or anything, mind you—I’m grinding my teeth trying to figure out if somehow I slept with him and forgot (which I didn’t) or whether he’s mistaken me for someone else. Or whether he’s just batshit crazy. Which is an option. You just kept looking right into my eyes the entire time you fucked me, telling me how beautiful I was, he’s saying. It really was the most perfect night in my life. My fingers hesitate over the keys. At long last, reluctantly, they type Thank you. But if I’m being honest, what they really wanted to peck out is What did you say your name was again? 2. WOOF. Yer hot. Thanks! I tell the guy, and unlock my photos before I go to look at his profile. I recognize him instantly. Drew, his name is. I remember him well. It’s not long before he sends me a note back that reads, I know I’m up in Boston but we ain’t that far, we should get together so you can rape me, grrrrr. We’re fucked before, stud, I tell him. I had a good time in your hole before and I’d like to do it again. He’s positively quizzical in his reply. We did? When? Valentine’s Day of 2005, I write back. We were at a fucking and fisting party at my friend Chris’s house. If it sounds unlikely that I’d be able to pull a date like that out of my memory bank when most weeks I’m unable to tell you what day of the week it is, let me defend myself. When I take X-rated photos with a guy or guys, I save them in individual folders. I label those folders with the date and the participants. So for Drew, I have a folder marked 050214 Drew/Tom/Bob/Chris. Because there were several guys at that particular party. I don’t know anyone named Chris, he writes back. Yeah, you do. He’s a tall guy. Bearded. Glasses. Good looking. You flew in from Boston to Detroit to spend the weekend with Chris, and he put together a fuck party. We had a good time. He writes back again. Detroit? I’ve never been to Detroit in my life. Why would I go to Detroit? Well, I don’t really have an answer to that last question. But this is Drew from Boston, I’m sure of it. Are you sure you don’t remember? You don’t remember there was that weird little bald guy there on meth who couldn’t sit still for more than three seconds at a time? Chris has a dungeon in his basement. He dressed me up in some of his leather gear and I fucked you and then I fisted you in his sling. My name is Rob. I was clean-shaven at the time, but I know we fucked. Hi, Rob, he writes back. You’re a sexy fucker. My name is Drew. I know your name is Drew, I pound back, managing not to type it in all capitals. We fucked on Valentine’s Day of 2005. I have photos of you in the sling with your face showing and me fisting you. I’ll send them to you if you want. When he gives me an email address, I send off a few of the old photos. Then I talk to my friend Chris. “Do you have time to look at a profile?” I ask him. “Sure,” he says. I hear him cross to his computer. “What’s the name?” He clicks some keys. “Oh wow, that’s Drew. That guy who flew in from Boston to spend a weekend with me a few years back.” “I KNEW IT!” I shout, exultant. “Didn’t we have that fuck party for him? And that little crackhead was there?” “That’s what I’ve been telling him. Are you sure it’s him? He swears up and down that he doesn’t know me, doesn’t have a friend named Chris, never spent the weekend with you, and has never been to Detroit.” “That’s definitely him,” he says. “Some of those photos are nearly 10 years old. They’re the ones he was using back then.” I thank him and hang up. Thank god. I thought I was going crazy. My inbox is tagged with a new message. Hopefully Drew has written back to apologize and say it’s all come back to him now. I don’t recognize you. We haven’t fucked, he says. But we oughta. Okay, so you don’t recognize me. But that’s you in the photos! Right? Right? I send back. His reply arrives much, much later. We should get together sometime. Grrrrrrr. Grrrrrrr is fucking right. More...

These days they're easy enough to cure, that's for sure. For a kid in his teens in a town so tiny it only had a single drugstore, pre-internet, it was a scary thing. And there's something about the smell of that shampoo that's unforgettable, isn't there?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I think I’ve mentioned before in these pages that during my college career I managed to have sex with the entire faculty of the French department. Not too impressive a feat, really, since there were only three of them at my little college. The first of my conquests was the well-hung older professeur who would find me on campus, graciously ask if I cared to take a walk with him, and then escort me either to his office or to the nearest quiet men’s room so that I could go down on his enormous cock. The third of them was a scrawny little bearded queen who picked me up in Williamsburg’s one and only cruisy park, which was more a tablecloth-sized yard of grass that technically was only a park by the fact that it had a bench and the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation hadn’t yet paved it over to make way for a Olde Tyme Ice Creame Shoppe. It’s the second of the three that I’m thinking about today. In one of those strange coincidences, the two of us met in one of the cruisy restrooms at the university where my parents were teachers, a good sixty-five miles away from where he taught and where I went to school. During the spring break of my freshman year I was whoring around in the library on my parents’ campus; the second-floor men’s room was one of several hot spots on campus. I’d already sucked off a couple of guys when the outer door creaked open and someone strode across the room and occupied the stall next to mine. The guy had enormous feet. I wear size eleven, which is already boat-like enough. These had to be at least size sixteens. When the foot closest to mine began tapping, I anxiously dropped my hand and let my fingers dangle invitingly at the bottom of the metal divider. As I’d hoped, he knelt down and thrust his already-hard cock under the stall. It was long—about eight and a half inches. Skinny—no where near as thick as mine. The knob at the end was a fierce red and was uncut, which in Virginia in the nineteen-eighties was something of a novelty. I knelt down, grabbed his balls in my hands, and gobbled him down. I didn’t get much time on his cock because someone interrupted us. One of those trolls who wouldn’t go away. Neither one of us wanted to play with this guy lurking just outside the stall doors, so we passed some notes on toilet paper back and forth, negotiating what we should do. For some reason I kept the notes until about a decade ago, when I discovered that they’d more or less disintegrated into the pulp from which they came. I remember his dark and angular handwriting still, though, in which he begged me to go somewhere else with him on campus where he could fuck me. He didn’t really have to twist my arm. We met in front of the library. He seemed to like the looks of me, though his appearance came as something of a startlement. Beale was a tall and angular man with a head of thick and fiery red hair that he kept in an unfortunate variation of the infamous bowl cut. It looked as if someone had taken a copper kettle and shoved it over the top of his skull. Also noteworthy were the glasses he had to wear for his poor eyesight. Those lenses had to be about an inch thick, and they were stuck in some of the ugliest horn-rimmed frames I’ve ever seen. From about the bridge of his nose to his large feet, Beale was an attractive and well-dressed man. It was just the top six inches it was difficult to look at. Those weren’t the inches that had caught my interest, though. I decided to overlook Beale’s physical flaws and took him to the basement of a nearby classroom building. There we fucked uninterrupted. It was afterward, when I was pulling up my pants and preparing to make a quick getaway that he told me he was from out of town. He taught at the college down I-64, but he came to Richmond some weekends and maybe next time he did, he could give me a call and we could fuck again? I was charmed (and still horny) enough that I confessed I went to the very same college down the road. This exchange started my mostly amicable and casual relationship with Beale. Unlike the big-dicked French professor who would only fuck me in his office or in a restroom, and unlike the prissy French professor who fucked me in the park, Beale actually preferred to have me over to his place when we had sex. Usually he’d pick me up on a Saturday morning. I’d stuff my backpack full of my homework and a change of clothes and he’d swing by the dorm. I’d get a little thrill from the risk that maybe someone I knew might see me getting into the car of an older man; he’d get a boy twenty-five years his junior in his front seat and in his bed. Beale lived in the second-floor flat of an old farmhouse outside of town. For much of our Saturdays we’d sit quietly on his sofa, sometimes back to back, sometimes legs or feet touching. He’d grade his students’ homework. I’d do my reading. In the afternoon we’d retire to his bed and suck and fuck. Then he’d make dinner for me, and we’d watch television and screw some more in the evening, when he’d take me home. Once in a while he’d invite me to stay over. I usually agreed. I never thought of Beale as my significant other in any sense of the word. He was a little startling enough in appearance—at least from the nose up—that I didn’t particularly want to be seen as his arm candy. With those Coke-bottle glasses off, though, and the straight bangs of his red hair brushed off his face, he wasn’t quite as horrifying. Just kind of cross-eyed. So no, we weren’t lovers, exactly. But I did like his company, and I looked forward to the Saturdays when he’d call and ask if I wanted to spend the weekend with him. Then it all came crashing down, early in my junior year. I was walking across campus when Beale accosted me out in front of his department’s building, right as I was about to cross the Sunken Garden that’s an architectural feature of the campus. “I have to talk to you,” he said in a hushed voice. “I have crabs.” Innocent that I was, I thought he meant I have crabs as in I’m going to make some delicious crab cakes fried in butter tonight. Want some? So I just stared at him blankly. “Crabs,” he repeated. “They’re a kind of sexually-transmitted lice. Did you give me crabs? No, of course you didn’t.” Damn right of course I didn’t. I’d never had lice in my life. Sexually-transmitted lice sounded horrible, like something he’d made up in an attempt to scare me. I continued to stare at him blankly. “It’s just that my boyfriend came down with crabs and he blamed me, and then I checked myself and I have them all over.” He was still keeping his voice down so that passing students and faculty and tourists wouldn’t hear. “Then he said that maybe that little whore I was cheating around with gave them to me. He meant you.” Now, maybe over time I’ve boiled down in my memory his speech so that is sounds a lot more unpleasant than it really was. But of three things I was pretty immediately sure. One, he’d just told me I could have some kind of monster pubic lice. Two, he had a BOYFRIEND that I’d never known about. Three, that BOYFRIEND had just called me a whore. So after I spent a little time processing all this information, I loftily intoned, “Please inform your boyfriend that I did not give you lice,” and stalked off. Then I never saw Beale again. (I saw him around campus. We just didn’t fuck.) I was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened to me as I crossed the Sunken Garden. It’s a wide-open space that on that day was just filled with sunshine. So I had good light when I looked down on my arm and saw something very small and insect-like crawling there. I flicked it off, and fled to the nearest men’s room. When I had my pants down in the stall, I examined my crotch as best I could. To my dismay, I could spy several small blotches among the blond hairs. I had crabs. Not a lot of them—in retrospect I know now that if Beale and his boyfriend had them all over, it was infinitely more likely that he’d given them to me. And this was in the days before the internet. I had absolutely zero resources to deal with the infestation. I was too mortified to go hunting in the library for information. I couldn’t call my parents and say “Hey do you know any remedies for crab lice? Oh no reason. Just wondering.” I didn’t have friends who’d know. I didn’t have a doctor and didn’t want to go to the campus clinic with anything so embarrassing. But somehow I managed to figure it out on my own. I scraped off the full-grown lice that had burrowed into my skin. I noticed that there were adhesive little globes on some of my pubic hairs that probably were eggs; those either I detached with my fingernails, or plucked out the pube entirely and disposed of it in the toilet. Three times a day under a strong light I examined my crotch and thighs and scraped and pulled and felt like a dirty, dirty whore. I swore a vow—a sacred vow, witnessed by God himself—that I’d never have sex again. I felt grim and polluted. My infestation was so light, though, that I’d pretty much rid myself of it completely in about four days. I kept my legs together and my pants up for another week while I nervously watched for more signs of the pesky little critters, paranoid at every itch. By the end of the month, though, I was so horny that I was once again throwing caution to the winds and putting out for anyone who stepped up behind me in the park at night. So much for that sacred vow, right? My first time being The Other Woman in someone’s sordid affair came complete with my first STD and a sense of shame so complete I wanted to hide my head beneath the blankets for an entire month. Hey thanks, Beale! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m going to hop right to some reader questions today, because I have a suspicion my answers to a couple of them might be on the longer side. Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns. The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals. When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top? A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick. I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year. What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight. What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds. So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it. I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.) Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too. It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit. When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again? I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight? No, I’m being facetious. (Really.) I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light. But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal. I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper. It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either. Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again. I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck. He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal. The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole. My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do. Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups? In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however. I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies. While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper. Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Put it in me,” he whispers. My arms are underneath his armpits; I’ve got myself propped up on my palms. My cock’s head is nudging against his hole. His chute is already wet and sloppy from the half-hour’s worth of eating I’ve already given it. I could shove it in right now, but I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Fifteen stories below, down in the streets there’s the sound of a siren blaring. He breaks the silence with a needy whine. “Please. Put it in me. I want to see if it feels like I remember. Please.” “Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps. “All those years ago?” I nod. “I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.” “I was invited.” He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.” “Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?” He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.” His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells. “Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.” — 1997. I met them in a chat room I frequented then, long extinct now. I was driving from Michigan to Chicago the following week; they were in Indiana. I agreed to drive an extra hour out of my way to hook up with them for a few hours. The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before. I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth. He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—taller than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?” I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.” “I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed. “Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!” I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.” I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole. He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’ “Tim,” he whispered. “Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?” The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.” All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips. — “You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.” “That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him. “You loved being fucked.” “I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.” We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?” “Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.” “Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?” He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.” “You still see him?” “Once in a while.” “Because he turned you into what you are.” “A hole,” he says, agreeing. “A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?” “You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.” “What, your ex used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?” He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.” “You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear. He touches the back of my head with a hand and pulls my own ear down to his lips. “I have hoped for this for so long,” he whispers. — Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you? I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you? Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night. That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked. His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times? I was happy to oblige. — “Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load. I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology. He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.” “I’m surprised you recognized me.” “You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?” There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes. Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.” He smiles, happy again. It’s a pledge I definitely can keep. More...

A decade ago I had a university job that required me to be all over the campus. I took advantage of the freedom to take occasional long lunches at a local bathhouse. Another guy in my department had the same idea, because I'd see him there pretty frequently among the lunchtime crowd. His way of coping with having a colleague present was never ever to acknowledge me. He'd follow me into the steam room, spread his legs, and stroke himself hard and allow me to suck him off--but his eyes would be clamped shut the entire time. He never spoke to me, looked at me, or returned the favor. I think he reasoned that not 'seeing' me let him off the hook for any complications he thought might arise. I sucked him dozens of times, but outside the baths neither of us acknowledged our lunchtime dalliances. We were always very friendly, though.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “I don’t usually like white dick,” he says. He’s kneeling down in front of me on the living room carpet. I look at that coal-colored skin against the burgundy wool; the athletic socks he’s left on are tattletale gray. He’s strewn his sweats on the ottoman and pushed the furniture beside him. His round, worked-out ass nudges it when he leans forward. “No offense, but it doesn’t appeal to me a lot,” he says, examining my hardness up close. “But damn.” I’m sitting in nothing but a T-shirt. My pants have joined his on the ottoman. My elbows rest on sides of the armchair; I’ve got an index finger supporting my forehead. From the waist up I could be listening to someone at any casual get-together in any coffee shop. From the waist down, it’s pure porn set scenery. “Suck it,” I suggest. For a black man who doesn’t usually like white dick, he’s quick to obey. I feel first the heat of his breath as he open his mouth to accommodate me, then the softness of his lips. My dick takes a slow trip through the warm cavern of his mouth and the tighter, wetter tunnel of his throat. I slide forward on the upholstery a little bit in order to give him full access to my inches. The man knows how to give head. He does that thing I like the best, when he applies most of the friction on the trip back up to the head, then opens wide to spear his throat on my meat. When he’s at the base, his lips open wider to attempt to encompass my balls. Their soft scraping against the skin plays my spinal cord like a harp. This is turning out better than I expected. “Very nice,” I murmur, as my fingers rustle across the short coarse hairs of his scalp. He hums to himself softly in reply. He’s not really paying attention to anything but my dick. No matter what the color, he’s lost in the head job he’s giving me. All he cares about is maintaining that rhythmic, gentle, repetitive motion. He’s nursing at it. Suckling it. He’s a baby at his mama’s tit, a calf hungry at the udder. His eyes are closed and his breathing heavy; he’s got his arms lying atop my thighs so he can hold me around the waist. His fingers are tucked between the cushion and my butt. I’m torn. I intend to fuck this one. He’s got a hot ass that looks like it needs to be plugged. But the head is so good I’m reluctant to stop him. The blow jobs I get are so indifferent or poor or just plain too rough that a good one is rare. I’m dimly aware it’s a dilemma other tops would give their left nut to have. I let him suck for long minutes, watching him take as much of my inches as he can with every gulp. His own meat stands ignored, stiff, and raging between his thighs. It’s a curved and uncut seven inches, thickly hooded at the enormous head. It jerks and throbs to some internal rhythm, beating his flat stomach like a timpani stick. He solves the problem for me when finally he disengages from my cock and lets it slap down on my abdomen with a wet splat. “Never had white dick inside my ass either,” he says, looking me in the eye. “Maybe you want to try it.” Like so many of the other things I say during sex, it’s not a question. He grunts and gives me a single nod. “Maybe I do.” “Or maybe I should just put it away,” I say. We both know that won’t happen, but I sure try to make it sound as if it might. “Maybe I should put my big white dick back in my pants so you won’t be tempted by it. Don’t want you taking a white dick if you don’t like it.” His face has gone hard. He’s not amused by my little game. “I didn’t say I didn’t like that white dick.” “Do you?” We stare at each other for a long moment. He nods, but I’m not letting that response pass. “Then say it.” “You want me to say the words, huh.” “Exactly. I want you to say the words.” His own cock is still rock hard. It’s standing out in front of him stiff and pointing due north by the compass. He licks his lips, swallows. “I like that white dick. I really like it” “You want this white dick.” His dick jumps, betraying his excitement. “I . . . want that . . . big . . . white man’s dick you got there,” he growls. “I want it up in my guts. I want that big white dick making babies up in this cunt.” My meat’s been glistening already from his spit and slobber. His words make precum bead at the tip. I look down at my cock, grab wrap my fist around the bottom few inches, then spread the gooey fluid over the head. The man’s lips part. “Please.” He clears his throat again. “Please, sir.” “All right.” My voice comes out as a lazy drawl. “You earned it.” It’s clear I’m not moving. He spits in his hand and rubs it around on his hole, then turns around and bends over. He’s exposing himself for me. Showing it off. I see him spit again. His fingers massage more spit against his shitter. When he cranes his neck around to look at my cock, I hold it out for display. He backs up. Sits down. Allows me to spread his ass for him while I direct the head at that shiny black pucker. The pinkness of my head contrasts against his dark skin for a moment, then disappears, little by little. His hole swallows the last crescent moon, then slides down on my shaft. I’m in, all the way to the nuts. I slide down in the armchair. My body is a shelf for him to sit on. He raises himself up and down on my cock, his hands stretching his ass cheeks out so that there’s nothing preventing him from taking me as deeply as possible. “Oh god,” he mutters to himself. “Oh god, yes.” “How’s white dick feel?” I ask. “So good.” His response is instantaneous. Genuine. Heartfelt. “So damn good. So damn good, baby.” “I knew you’d like it.” The horny fucker is doing some fancy shit—swiveling his hips, grinding, clenching with his hole. No matter. As long as he keeps sliding that greasy ass up and down the length of my inches, I’m good. “Keep going,” I tell him. “Be a good boy and you’ll get some white man cum.” “Please,” he says. “I want that white man cum. I need that white cum up in me. I love that white dick.” He keeps repeating words to himself. I can see his eyes are closed. He’s not talking to me so much as praying. “Please give me that white cum. I’ll do anything you want for that white man cum.” I don’t have to say a fucking thing. He keeps doing all the talking for me while he bounces up and down on my dick, edging me closer and closer to the inevitable. First white dick or not, he’s experienced enough to know how to get it out of me, too. When I blow, I hold him down. He practically falls back onto me and reclines on my body like a mattress, but he’s supporting himself on the chair’s arms so I’m not crushed. My seed blasts into his hole, deep. At the same time, the position changes enough that my dick starts to slip out. I try to hold him still so I can finish loading him up before it pops out. Most of it makes it in there. Then my shaft slops out and falls between my legs, where another glob of semen falls onto the carpet. He’s trembling. “Thank you,” he says. Then he falls once again to his knees, uses his mouth to lift up my slick cock, and swallows it. He spends long moments cleaning it off in a worshipful manner. “Thank you, sir,” he says again, when he’s done. I cup his chin. “Now you can either put on your clothes and slink out of here with your first white man’s load in your hole,” I tell him. “Or you can collect them, take them into the bedroom, then lie down on that bed and be ready to take some more dick and cum. Your pick.” He stares at me, then nods and stands up. Slowly he pulls out his sweats and his top from under my jeans. Then he makes the choice I knew he’d go for, all along. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Remember that old sock of mine I used as a cum rag for a month, then gave away to commemorate the fourth anniversary of my blog? Yeah. That'd be the one. Right there in that cocksucker's mouth. Well, the winner of the prize was so turned on to receive a memento so thickly encrusted with my DNA that he decided that since I was too far to deliver my sperm in person, he'd get some of it in his hold by any means possible. So he greased himself up and prepared his hole. Then he fucked the sock in, and just let his hole absorb all that dried semen. Then he took those photos just for me and you guys. I'd call that a devoted reader, wouldn't you? And now he's a favorite reader, as well. I'm sure you guys can see why. Certainly made my day. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “This is all I want,” are the words he says as he falls to his knees. His eyes implore me for the permission he knows I’m going to grant. I nod. His fingers race to unbutton my jeans and tug down the zipper. The bedroom is cool. Gooseflesh covers my thighs. Each hair is a miniature flagpole atop its own mound. I clear my throat. “What is it you want?” I ask. “Your manhood in my mouth,” he pleads. “Just to service you the way you need.” He’s pretty. Clean-cut, shaved smooth, worked out. He’s arrived in athletic gear, as if he’s expecting a workout. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair. “The way I need?” “The way you deserve.” My hard cock is still contained in its pouch of cotton. It’s positioned just above his face. All he’d have to do is lean forward an inch to touch it. So far, he hasn’t allowed himself to do so. “You deserve worship. You and that dick deserve a boy who worships you.” I nod. That’s right. At moments like these I don’t have to indulge in false modesty. He and I both know we’re beyond it. I could deny him. I could pull up my pants and let him dream forever of how close he came to getting what he wanted. But I don’t. Instead I hook my thumbs into the elastic of my shorts. My cock springs out, free of confinement. I hear the man hiss and sigh at the sight of it. “So beautiful,” he says, with the reverence he knows I crave. His fingers moves up, half-turned, half-open. But his eyes are locked onto mine. He looks like Adam, on the Sistine ceiling, reaching for the hand of God. “Please let me.” I nod again. He doesn’t waste a moment. I’m already half-leaning against the foot of my mattress. He pushes me back onto the bed and ingests my cock in one gulp. The length doesn’t even give him pause; I feel his throat open and take me in as if he’d been planning the maneuver for months. Maybe he has. His eyes are closed. He’s making satisfied noises to himself as might a baby with a pacifier. His hands knead at my thighs as he nurses me like a starving kitten. Slobber is making his chin shiny. He doesn’t care how he appears. All he cares is that I feel good. His eyelids fly open. He looks at my face as his tight lips slide up and down my meat, watching my reaction, judging his own performance. My own mouth is dropped a little, working from side to side. This guy is good. Really good. He knows exactly how much pressure I like on the head, which parts of the shaft are most sensitive. Where to give that extra little attention. Little smiles are crossing my lips. I give him the slightest of nods to continue. After a long time, I ask him, because I’m curious, “Are you happy?” “Yes!” he responds with a rush of air to his lungs. “Fuck yes. This is perfect, you are perfect, this cock is just what I wanted.” He takes another slurp to the base, nuzzles my pubes, and comes up for air again. “I bet you get a lot of men wanting this cock.” I nod. It’s the truth. “So I’m just another cocksucker to you,” he says. His pupils are dilated with sexual excitement. “Just another hole for your member’s pleasure.” I know the answer he wants. “Pretty much.” I can smell his spit on my engorged flesh. He’s positioned beneath it, looking up at me like a supplicant. “I figured.” “Does that offend you?” I ask. I already know the answer. “Noooooo,” he breathes. “Fuck no! I am just so fucking lucky to be one of your holes.” “Damn right,” I tell him. I drag him up onto the bed, where he lies between my legs. He’s still in his Under Armour top and his sweatpants. I see his round ass shoving roughly into the mattress as he spears himself with my dick, taking it down to the base and pushing to get even more. “Keep doing that,” I say, scratching his scalp affectionately, “and you’ll be one of my regulars.” He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pushes me back against the pillows and lets me sink into them as he, in turn, forces my dick to sink even more deeply inside his gullet. I watch as he loses himself in sucking my cock, loses himself in the raw sensations of my hard shaft sliding in and out between his lips. His pleasure in service is taking him beyond the humdrum of his everyday life, beyond fantasy, beyond all his worldly cares and regrets and worries. My cock is his present, his past, and his future. It’s all he cares about. All he needs. It’s all he wants. My orgasm starts more as a painful itch than pleasure; it builds to a seething boil, a hot desire to rid myself of it at any cost. I grab the back of the cocksucker’s head and hold him down. His cheeks bulge; he looks up me with rheumy eyes and a red face that darkens the longer he’s deprived of air. My dick pulses and throbs and lets loose my load. He’s close to choking, but he knows his duty. Not until he’s gulped down every drop does he allow himself to drag air through his nostrils into his starved lungs. Not until my cock subsides and softens slightly does he even allow it to slide out of his throat. Then with respectful lips he cleans my cock, careful of the sensitive bits. When he withdraws his mouth, he’s panting. “Maybe you’d like to be one of my regular cocksuckers,” I tell this handsome man, as he looks up at me once more with those green eyes. “Please,” he says, even more aroused at the thought of a repeat performance. “If I did good enough work, sir. Please.” “You did amazing work,” I’m barely able to whisper. “You’ll be back.” “Thank you, sir. It’s your cock that’s amazing, sir.” I nod, and sigh, and relax. He’s not wrong. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Deal-breakers. All of us have them. What’re yours? Not that long ago I was going about my day when I got a direct message on Twitter. It was from a reader. He loved my blog, he told me. He thought I was hot. He wanted me to be his daddy and fuck his hot little ass. Well, it’s tough for me to hold up against blandishments like that. I couldn’t tell much about the guy from his Twitter profile other than he did indeed appear to have a hot ass (it featured prominently as his user photo), so I asked him to tell me more about himself. He responded with some photos and information. He was young—in his early twenties. Of mixed race. Muscular and attractive. His dick was large, his ass round and larger. And he happened to be taking a train from Manhattan home back to somewhere else in New England he happened to call home, and would be passing through my area around dinnertime. I actually had that afternoon and evening free, and was able to host. I offered the kid my phone number and asked him what time his train was coming through my area. Well look, he replied. I can’t commit right now. It depends on whether these muscle guys get back to me or not. Which made me ask him, Huh? I was going to hook up these muscle guys if they get back to me. But if they don’t I am totally free to chill with you, he wrote back. I took a moment to make sure I understood the situation. So I’m really just second choice behind some muscle couple? I wrote. No, no, he wrote back, trying to soothe me. They’re not a couple. Just two hot muscle guys. Not together. I’ve been after one of them for a long time, but I told the other if the first didn’t get back to me I’d fuck with him. If I don’t hear back from either of them it can be you, daddy. Followed by little smiley faces. I was so taken aback I could’ve spit nails. The little motherfucker was telling me outright that I wasn’t his first or second choice of hookups, but a distant third, behind some random guys with muscles. Now, for some guys, this state of affairs might be fine. Some guys are more laid back than I. Some chaps don’t have as huge an ego to wound. I, however, was offended. After I made sure that I’d assessed the situation correctly, I wrote back to the kid plainly and politely. I’m going to say no to meeting, I told him. I’m not interested in being your third choice. Good luck to you. Unfortunately, the kid tried to badger me for the rest of the day. He said he’d tell the other two guys no and meet up with me. He said he’d wanted me first all along, but had been afraid to ask. Then he turned right around and said I’d better meet him because after all, I wasn’t going to get any better offers than him. No thank you, I wrote, then blocked him on Twitter. Also unfortunate was the fact I’d already given him my phone number. Immediately after that the text messages started to come. Pleas. Photos. Please stop contacting me, I texted him, and blocked the number on my phone. Then somehow he started to send me messages on one of the geolocation apps on my phone. I blocked him there, too. It was a lot of weirdness in a very short period of time, and it just made me kind of glad that I discovered how annoying and stalkery the kid really was before I’d actually met him. He’s unfortunately not unique, however. There are certainly a lot of men out there who need to realize the impression they’re giving when they’re trying to lure someone between the sheets. The deal-breaker here, of course, was the presumption that I’d be okay with the bronze medallion in this guy’s sexual olympics. I wasn’t. Frankly, nobody should be happy to be anyone’s third place. Before I’m accused of hypocrisy, let me state that yes, absolutely, I have confessed on these very pages before to double-booking and even triple-booking a time slot I know I’ll have open and available for some sexual gymnastics, so that if my first choice of playmate doesn’t show, at least I’ll have a couple of other options from which to choose. Sure I do. Almost every time. But you know what I don’t do? I don’t tell the guys. I don’t inform someone that I might be available Wednesday night and if so, would he like to get together, and oh, by the way, he’s the backup to my backup. Telling the guy is fucking rude. I’d basically be saying I’d be happy to give him the amazing gift of myself but that he doesn’t mean as much to me in return. When I’m fucking someone, my goal is make sure they know they’re my gold trophy. Not just something I’m dumping a load into because better options weren’t available. So I’m interested. What are your deal-breakers? What can a guy say or do, after he’s interested you in meeting, to make you break off the deal? Is it issues of common courtesy, as mine? Or is it more specific, like finding out a guy’s a smoker, or married, or hasn’t visited the dentist in ten years? What behaviors or attributes will make you do a complete one-eighty in your attitude and send a prospect packing? Sound off in the comments below. And for the record, I certainly did have better offers than that kid, that night. I usually do. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Were anyone to ask me, out of the blue, if I’m a selfish top, I’d be offended. Hell no, I’d reply. I’m a giving lover. I do everything I can to tailor the experience specifically for my partner. I want him to feel better than he’s felt in a long, long time. With a smile, I’d tell you I was anything but a selfish top. It’s a fucking lie. I’m a gentleman on the outside. True enough. But it’s often a front, a thin veneer of manners and words. I might appear to be wearing a smile, but it’s really a snarl of a carnivore exposing sharp teeth to his prey. I use the words to get my quarry right where I want him. I might be a lot of things. But I am no gentleman. Not tonight. Not with this hole. It doesn’t matter whose. Maybe he’s been in these pages before. Maybe not. Like I said, it doesn’t fucking matter. All I care about is that this hole is tight, and warm, and slick with the lube I’m shoving deep inside with my index and middle fingers. That’s all he is to me at this moment, in the half-darkness. He’s thrashing around on the mattress like a netted fish on a trawler’s deck. Maybe he’s protesting how rough I am. You know what? Whatever he’s saying doesn’t fucking matter, either. I can’t hear it. Not above the pounding of my heart. My blood’s a heavy slurry being forced through my veins with every percussive beat. I can’t hear anything but the quickening of my pulse and the greedy slaverings of the beast inside the thin layer of civility. Fuck it, it chortles to me. Fuck that hole. Maybe that hole is ready. Maybe it’s actually presenting itself, high in the air, taunting me with its moist throbbing. Inviting me to take it, even. Maybe it’s not. Doesn’t matter. I would’ve taken it anyway. Ready or not, I would’ve pressed my engorged meat against that little pucker and shoved in, waiting for the head to pop through that taut outer ring before plunging in deep. I would’ve sunk in to the hilt just like now, then sadistically forced it in a little more and made it swell, just to get the same reaction of shock, just to get that moment’s apprehension that there’s still more to come. A gentleman doesn’t does that. A gentleman doesn’t treat his fuck like so much warm meat. He doesn’t press his lips together and furrow his brow and ignore the soft affirmations and thanks coming from the hole’s lips. He would respond to the thank-yous and the praise instead of disregarding them as noise—the mere buzz of a fly as it wings by the ears. Listening and responding to his partner—that’s what a considerate man would do. But all I’m considering is how good the hole feels wrapped around the meat. My meat. My pleasure. How deep I can get it. How much of a grunt I can get when I shove it in again, hard. At this moment, about courtesy I don’t give a shit. Gentleman—fuck that. This is how an animal fucks. Not even an animal. A beast. Domesticated animals actually listen when they’re chided or encouraged. Dog have the decency to look guilty when scolded. A beast roars, and takes, and uses. A beast doesn’t know what decency is. To me this quivering flesh doesn’t even belong to a person. It’s a hole. It’s a hole meant to be fucked and filled. And I’ll be god-damned if anyone else but me does the filling tonight. I’ve got my prey pinned down. Helpless. Submissive beneath my relentless thrusts. The dick feels good. Looks good. Feels juicy, as I shove it brutally in and out. I’ve got the chute loose and ready for my load. Those cunt lips are split open, stretched wide and pulled out. Puffy from fucking. Just as it should be. I’m wrecking that hole. Spreading it to fit my massive meat. Ruining it for smaller dicks—ruining it for fucking gentlemen. This is not a gentle fuck. It’s a ramming, a complete and utter violation. As I mash my rigid cock deeper, deeper, and deeper still, I’m only dimly aware that my fuckmeat has released a load of semen in a puddle on the mattress. Oh, the hole has a dick? Huh. I guess it’s there, pointed down at his feet, untouched, unused, dripping semen. Don't care. My load is the only thing I'm fucking concerned about. Getting it in deep. Leaving my mark. Making sure it never, ever comes out. I shove in with a savage thrust and start squirting my juice. My sight dims from the strength of the climax. This is what it’s all about, this moment when my DNA floods his guts. The beast inside me roars. It stands and lifts its head to the heavens and beats its chest as it lets loose with a mighty blast that silences the jungle. For a moment, it is satisfied. Then I start to come to. The tattoo of rainforest drums is only my heartbeat. The roar that echoes in my ears still is only my blood draining from my dick back to my brain. And beneath me, the hole is murmuring to himself. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I loved it.” Of course he fucking loved it, the beast smirks, as he retreats into the shadows to hide beneath the veneer of civility again. He got it from ME. Me. My dick. My load. The hole belongs to me now. Yeah, tonight I’m a selfish top. And you know what? I just don’t give a fuck. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here . . . a certain contest. A winner for the Cum Sock Contest has been declared! The winner has been notified by email and has dutifully sent me his home address. Now I can drop one last load into what is already a crusty length of cotton, seal it up in a plastic baggie, and send it his way. Everyone congratulate SlurpATL for winning the lucky draw! Maybe he'll be good enough to share what he intends to do with the thing. Check back here for a new blog entry tomorrow! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He came late to the party, that night. An hour in? An hour and a half? At the orgy I wasn’t wearing a watch, to be honest. Neither was anyone else. All I know is that a dozen of the twenty-eight people present at start had already left by the time Terry walked in. Of course I noticed him. I knew what he looked like. Even if I hadn’t, he would’ve been (in his own words) the only dark-skinned boy invited that night. As he stood chatting with our host close to the front door, our eyes locked from across the room. I had just fucked a load into Colby’s ass and was pulling out. A group of guys had clustered around the bed to watch us fuck. I had to back my way out between them to break free of the press of their flesh against my own. I watched Terry nod as our host said something to him. He smiled, and responded politely. His body and head faced our host, but his eyes and attention were solely on me. Even though I’d just shot a few moments before, I felt my dick swelling again. It gets like that, in groups. Of all the guys I’d talked to before my birthday gangbang last month—which, I must again stress, was neither a gangbang nor took place on my birthday—Terry was the one I looked forward to meeting most. He attracted most of my attention among the several guys trying to contact me ahead of the party simply by barraging me with X-rated photos of himself. In the morning he’d send me a shot of himself in the shower, hands pressed against the tile, water pouring down his back and between his butt cheeks. In the afternoon, I’d get a shot of him bent over in the office men’s room, slacks down, tie scraping the toilet as he managed to take a butt selfie in the cramped quarters of his stall. At night he’d send me shots of guys fucking him, of his muscular butt clutching at big cocks like my own. I’ve got to have your big white cock in me, he’d text, as he showed me shots of himself shoving enormous pink dildos up his hole. Or, You need to rape this little black hole. Stuff like that gets my attention, all right. I made my way over, not even blinking as we continued to lock glances. “Hey,” said our host to me, when I reached them. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Rob, Terry. Terry, Rob.” “Hi,” he said in a soft voice. “Hey.” I nodded at him. Then I pulled him to me, claiming him as my own. I remember unbuttoning Terry’s shirt as the two of us made out by the kitchenette doorway, but I never really learned how his clothes came off. I think our host removed his shirt and pants for him as we stood there, kissing as if there was no one else in the room. All I know is that he was naked by the time our tongues disentangled and I said, “I didn’t think you were going to show.” “I was held up at work,” he whispered. His voice was low and shy. “I was afraid you’d be gone by the time I got here.” “I’m right here, baby,” I whispered in his ear. My lips planted soft kisses up and down the side of his neck, then under his chin. “Right here waiting and waiting to fuck you.” There’s a moment I always look for when I’m with a bottom. It’s the moment that comes after I’ve removed his clothing and laid him down on the bed, when I’ve stroked his skin and made him accustomed to my gentle touch, when I’ve sent shivers up and down his spine with my kisses and my lips against his soft skin. Then I’ll move up to his ears and whisper something—something sweet and intimate and just perfect for him and him alone. My reward is to feel him sigh, to feel the release of his muscles as they soften from tense to relaxed. To feel him give in. That’s the moment I know he’s mine, and mine alone. It’s the moment I know I can do anything I want. When I murmured those words into Terry’s ears, I felt the change beneath my palms. He melted in my grasp like chocolate softening from my body heat. That’s when I guided him to the sofa bed. Other men were coupling on the thin mattress. When they saw the two of us approaching with intent, they slid over to make room. He was already lubed. He must’ve done it before he’d left his apartment. His butt was in the air even before his head hit the mattress; his legs wrapped around my midsection to pull me in. My cock was hard and still covered with the juices of another, but he didn’t care. He just wanted me inside him. When I drove inside, his eyes popped wide open. “Oh fuck,” he said aloud, in a normal volume. Amid the soft whispers and groans the other men were making, it sounded like a shout. “Oh, fuck.” “You need me to stop?” I asked. “Noooo!” he exclaimed. “I knew that big dick would feel good inside me,” he breathed. “I just didn’t know how good.” His own inches were erect and lying flat on his stomach. He was a good seven or so—large, but not super-sized. I felt his ass muscles clutch at me. “Let’s fuck then,” I told him, and drove in. It wasn’t a romantic fuck. It wasn’t sweet, or gentle, or soft. He’d made the mistake of arousing me too much in the days prior, and now was when he paid the price. With his ankles on my shoulder and his ass in the air, I made the fragile sofa bed shake as I slammed into his hole. My cock was large and red and angry. I’d already blown my first load by that point, so I had plenty of time before the second. I intended to make it count. “Oh shit,” he said, when ten minutes into the slam-fuck I flipped him over onto his knees. His face smeared over the bed; his lips were pulled by friction into a droopy, stunned expression. “This white boy really knows how to fuck,” he slurred. “Damn straight this white boy does,” I growled, happy to refer to myself in the third person. The vigor of my thrusts had Terry sprawled over the little double bed. Already we’d pushed one fucking couple off. I didn’t give a shit. All I could think about was the need to get my sperm into that hole of his. I planted a foot on the bed and continued to drive my hips against his bubble butt. His hole was so puffy and distended from my use that I was pulling it out along my shaft whenever I withdrew. Again, I didn’t give a fuck. He came before I did. The only reason I was aware of it at all was that the majority of it squirted down onto my left foot. I heard him gasping and crying as squirt after squirt of the hot staff came shooting out. Whether or not he wanted me to stop after he ejaculated wasn’t any of my concern. Getting my load in was all I cared about. And it came soon after, as I grunted and growled and my nails left half-moon marks on his black ass where they dug into the flesh. Animal. That’s what I was when I came in him. A fucking animal with foam coming from its mouth. That’s what all the best fucks are. After the last of my body’s tremor’s subsided, I stood there with my cock still buried up that pucker. I blinked several times, then finally said, “You know you deserved that.” “Yes.” His voice was exhausted, muffled by the mattress. “Fucking cocktease.” I pulled slowly out. My meat withdrew in a slick, mathematical curve. “I’m real sorry,” he moaned, his ass still up in the air. I stepped aside so that some other man could take my place. He didn’t even seem to notice when a smaller, less rigid slab of meat took my place. He just looked into my eyes from his posture on the fuck bed, his stare still as bold and hungry as it had been when we’d first exchanged glances from across the room minutes before. “But I’m not that sorry.” That made sense to me. I pushed some voyeur off the mattress and leaned against the sofa’s back, legs spread, so he could nurse my cock and clean it off while a second and third man fucked in my sperm. I just hooked my fingers to cradle the back of my head, watched, and waited for my second go-round. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During the last couple of weeks that I was moving house, I managed to miss a milestone that’s usually pretty important to me—the fourth anniversary of my blog. (And the 750th installment, too!) I’m not going to recap my motivations for starting this account of my sex life. I’ve talked about those before. What I’d like to address, briefly, is the primary reason I keep doing it. It seems to me that when people engage in dialogue about sex, the conversation takes place either in the hushed tones of the forbidden, or the loud shrieks of the outraged. There’s a lot of allure to both extremes, admittedly—it’s fun to wear either the scarlet hues of the slut and the pure white robes of the saint. So wherever I turn, there’s always a lot of talk about sexual behavior that borders on the fantastical. It’s either extreme and pornographic to an extent that one wonders whether any of the acts within could actually take place, physiologically . . . or it’s so shrill in its denial that humans of all ages engage in sexual behavior and desire sex that it’s equally as dubious. Simply put, there’s not an awful lot of honest talk out there about people’s real sex lives. So few people share anything genuine. People hide away their desires and indulge in them only in fantasy, and even then feel morbid guilt afterward. Men and women alike engage in furtive encounters and hope they’re erased from time and memory even before the body warmth has faded from the sheets. Meek little mice in real life engage in braggadocio on the internet, hoping to get a slice of the action they’ve always craved, while brazen sluts whore under cover of dark and hope they’re never discovered. I’m perfectly aware that people assume because I have a lot of sex in a lot of unusual circumstances, that what I write in my blog is fiction. It isn’t. I keep myself honest when I write here. I think it’s important for people to realize that one doesn’t have to be compartmentalized and secretive about sex. I think it’s important for people to know that sometimes sex is more than just one body part spurting excretions into another body part, and that there are actual, genuine human beings involved. That sometimes those human beings bring their hearts and hopes and disappointments and joys into the bed with them. And of course, sometimes sex can be nothing but sheer heat, hard body parts, and slick skin. That’s okay too. 2013 was rough for me in a number of ways—stalkers and a patch of poor health discouraged me from writing during a few months of the year. There are still days, I admit, when I’ll get a rash of hate mail or death threats and wonder what the use of it all might be. But I keep stubbornly plugging along because I think what I do is important. Important in a very very small way, of course. A bee pollenates only one flower at a time, though—but think of all the blooms it makes possible later in a season. I like to think of myself as one of those little invisible bees, doing little bits of good with my work. In the past I’ve celebrated my anniversaries with contests. So let’s have another one! While I was packing up earlier last month, I ran across a favorite pair of old socks that I used to love. I can’t really say why I liked them so much other than that the tops of them looked good sticking up over a pair of leather boots when I was naked and fucking. (Isn’t that enough?) Anyway, they were old and worn out and unsuitable for wear anymore, but I put them aside. During the month of February, I used one as my exclusive cum rag. I wiped up my semen with it when I masturbated. I wiped up the Runt’s sperm with it when he’d shoot his loads all over the place. I mopped up with it the semen of a couple of other guys who came on their bellies when I fucked them. But mostly it’s my sperm that’s made it crusty. And as I did once before with some underwear in probably my most popular contest, I’m giving away this glorious cum-soaked footwear to another lucky winner! Here’s what you do to enter. 1. Write a comment on this entry before the deadline. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Even ‘Enter me!’ will do. But most important of all, GIVE ME A NAME so that I can announce who won, later on. It doesn’t have to be your real name. It can be a made-up handle. You don’t have to use a Google account to comment . . . you may still do so anonymously as long you identify yourself with a name of some sort. (And if your name is common, make it a little less so with an initial or something, wouldya?) 2. Alternately, if you are absolutely adverse to commenting on this entry, send me an email telling me you want to enter the contest, before the deadline. But again, GIVE ME A NAME so that when I announce the winner here, you can respond. 3. BE PREPARED TO SHARE YOUR MAILING ADDRESS WITH ME LATER. LATER, I TELL YOU. This is vital. I can’t email you this DNA-soaked sock if you don’t give me your mailing address. If you don’t feel you can trust me with your mailing address . . . well, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not going to send seventy-five pizzas to your house or anything. 4. And again, DON’T SHARE YOUR ADDRESS RIGHT AWAY. I will announce a winner and then give that winner a few days to respond with his or her address at that point. 5. I’ll take entries until MIDNIGHT, MARCH 17. That’s Monday. St. Patrick’s Day. Enter by then if ye want t’ be after me lucky charms. If you do win, I thoroughly encourage you to tell me (or send me photographs!) of what you’ll be doing with my cast-off cum rag. Such a course of action is not, however, required. (And if your answer is “I’ll be washing that nasty thing in Lysol, thank you very much,” I know you’re my grandmother on my mother’s side.) Enter today! What’re you waiting for? Do it now! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My readers might have noticed that I’ve not been online much in the last week. I apologize for that. No, nothing to worry about. My health is fine, and I don’t have any stalkers making my life miserable again. I’ve merely been moving into my home. Most of you guys who’ve been on this ride with me for a while know that when I moved to the east coast three years ago, it was into an apartment meant to be temporary. I ended up staying in it a little longer than the three or four months I expected. Now that I’m finally in place more permanently, I’m having to haul everything that’s been in storage for the duration and find a place for it. It’s a grubby process, made more mystifying by locating numerous items that I’m not even sure I knew I had. There are some huge decorative bowls, for example, which we all gazed upon blankly with absolutely no recollection of whose they might be or where they came from. (Last-minute moving gift? Surprise Christmas gift one of us forgot to give the other, then just plain forgot? Stolen from the neighbors?) I was very happy to find, on the other hand, a box of sex toys and accessories that I’d squirreled away four years ago when I put my old house up for sale. I remember making the cache when I considered all the prospective buyers walking through the house and poking into my bedside drawers. So I took a couple of cock rings I used regularly and a bottle of lube and kept those accessible. Laughingly, I expected to sell the house within a couple of months and assumed I’d be in a more permanent place a few months after that. But the rest of the sex toys I put into a box, taped it up, and hid it away from prying eyes. The problem was that when I arrived in my new location, I’d forgotten exactly what that box looked like, where I’d tucked it away, and how I’d labeled it. I’d made several excursions to the storage locker to try to find the thing, but they’d all been fruitless. I was about to give up the notion that I had a secret cache of sex toys hidden away somewhere as a mirage when something triggered my memory this week, and I investigated an old trunk that was my mom’s—a present from her parents when she went away to college. It had been at the back of the storage unit, taped up and dusty, and held a rug, a trumpet mute (another of those mystery items, since no one in my family plays trumpet), the stuffed teddybear that was my present for my first birthday, and a shoebox made impenetrable by multiple layers of tape (and helpfully marked ‘Shoes’). When I cracked open the shoebox, all sorts of things tumbled out. A half-dozen cock rings of various sizes and materials. Four bottles of lube. One Fleshlight. Two butt plugs, one teeny-tiny, one long. Two sets of snake bite nipple suckers. One pair of nipple clamps with a metal chain. One enormous double-headed dildo. Let me tell you, there’s nothing better than finding your sex toys after they’ve been gone for years. It’s like a pervert’s Christmas morning! So please forgive me if I take a few more days finally to settle in. I promise I’ll be back with more stories of fucking in the near future. Until then I’ll just be unpacking pounds and pounds of dusty books and shoes, and putting that Fleshlight to good use. Let’s get to some reader questions. Today I’m attending to some questions written directly to my email box. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, just hit me up at the address in my sidebar. Put the word ‘Question’ in the subject line, just to help a geezer of my advanced age sort out the wheat from the chaff, would you? What size bed to you sleep/play in at home (usually)? Growing up, I slept in a creaky old single bed that had belonged, box springs and dusty mattress and all, to my father when he had been a kid. It was fine. I didn’t know any better. I graduated to a new twin mattress and springs when I started high school. That’s the bed I still sleep in when I visit my dad, these days. In college and grad school, I always had a twin-sized mattress. I already had the sheets for it, after all. I’ve always been way too tall for a twin bed, though; my feet dangle off the bottom. So when I finally got hitched and moved into a home of my own, I discovered the luxury of a queen-sized bed. Oh, I loved it. I could stretch out and not have to compromise by letting limbs hang off the bed’s edge. If I was on my own, I could even spread my legs wide apart (get your mind out of the gutter!) and still not touch the corners. Even though I secretly envy those with a king, these days I still sleep on a queen—a memory foam mattress on a wood platform bed, to be exact. Best bed I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve had less insomnia and less tossing and turning on the memory foam than any other bed, anywhere else. The queen-sized bed seems a little smaller these days than it used to, but I suspect that’s because usually I have one cat parked between my ankles all night, and other shoving her butt in my face as I sleep. Do you end up doing lots of laundry then, to keep fresh sheets and towels handy? The only kind of laundry I don’t mind doing is sheets and towels. They’re a breeze. They don’t require sorting or hanging up. Just wash them, dry them, fold them, and you’re done. I never really mastered that technique people use to fold fitted sheets, though. I know this admission is going to make a dozen readers write in and tell me how easy it is to fold fitted sheets and how even a child can do it and there are videos and YouTube that’ll show me how easy it is. I know that there are six-year-olds who can best me at fitted sheet folding. I’ve seen the videos. All I know is that when I attempt to replicate this ‘easy’ technique, I end up with what looks like a dead body wrapped up for dumping in the East River. If you’re wondering specifically how I keep the bed clean for fucking, I usually put a spare blanket atop the (queen-sized) bed that I and my partners fuck on. Then afterwards I’ll just pop it into the laundry. It has square corners that I can fold as well as any kindergartener. Do you get the chance to sleep (overnight) with any of your partners, or does that take a whole other level of planning? It happens, but it’s rare. I probably could count on two hands the number of men with whom I’ve had overnighters in the last twenty years, and even then I’d suspect I’d have a lot of fingers left over. It’s not something I do casually, because it involves a lot of fortunate timing and planning on my part; I tend to have my sexual encounters in the daytime or early evenings instead of during the usual sleeping hours. I’ve also done sleep-overs when I’m traveling. I think the last person with whom I slept over a lot was Spencer—and he basically was living with me and sleeping in my bed for the better part of a year. Also, I really don’t get asked to sleep over, that much. Even though I’d probably have to say no, I’d be honored to be asked. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here 3. Colby During the initial meet-and-greet part of my birthday gangbang, I remember standing around with my clothes on, a drink awkwardly in my hand. A group of four or five of us stood in a tight circle talking about what we did for a living. It’s a conversation I generally tend to dislike. Telling people about my career has about the same impact as if I were simply to announce I’d devoted my life to becoming a professional adult male cheerleader. That is, the reaction I tend to get is one where people say “Ahhh?” in a way that indicates they think there might be people who actually do what I do, somewhere out there, but they’re certainly not making any money at it, are they? So mostly I was smiling politely and listening to the fellows tell me what they did for a living, while I kept wondering why the party felt so odd. Why I didn’t feel particularly connected with a vast majority of the guys there. The answer came to me when, in a moment of solemnity devoted to one guy’s oration about how really tough it was to work in Wall Street these days, my buddy Blake reached out with his bare foot and pressed it against mine. Though he was nodding and commiserating with the speaker, it was very plain he had things other than the commodities market on his mind. That fleshy contact make me realize exactly what I’d been missing. I simply wasn’t used to seeing these guys with their clothes on. I’d checked out the profiles of basically all the attendees before the night of the party. I’d been treated to an assortment of bare chest photos, mostly. Pecs on parade! Lots of muscles, all more or less uniform, with varying degrees of tan and fur. Dicks and asses by the pound. I’d seen the faces of most of these guys in their photos, but they tended to appear peeking over the owner’s shoulder while the guy lay spread-eagled in an inviting position. You know, almost as if the man’s face had photo-bombed his own ass shot. In that context, my focus tended to be elsewhere than on the guy’s mug, no matter how handsome. Case in point: one of the guys in that little career circle was someone I’d talked to a fair amount in the week before the party, and yet I had no idea until he mentioned that he was visiting from Florida. “Oh!” I said, with sudden recognition. “You’re—!” And at the same moment, he pointed at me. “I know who you are!” he announced, pleased. Neither of us said the words, but it was pretty plain what we both meant. If he’d seen me flashing my hard cock, he would’ve had no problems recognizing me. And if I’d seen him with his pretty little round ass in the air, I would’ve cornered him immediately. Colby is a short man—maybe five-four at most. He’s got hair with the finish and sheen of a local network evening news anchor and the good wholesome looks to match. The night of the party, he had a well-manicured layer of stubble outlining his cheeks and jawline. I don’t really remember what he did for a living, but it should’ve been in front of a television. He was that good-looking. If I’d seen him walking down the street or standing around at a legitimate cocktail party, I certainly would’ve probably never guessed that online he masquerades as bottomless_cumhole. But that’s what he was, and what he wanted to be with me. When we both finally realized who the other was, I could tell from the hungry looks he kept giving me that he wanted to be on the receiving end of a breeding. The problem of the night, though, turned out to be getting to him. At first I found myself cornered by Blake. That was fine. That was good. It got the party started. But once the pair of us started searching out other mouths to kiss, other bodies to touch and asses to rub and handfuls of flesh to fondle, Colby was already kneeling on the edge of the sofa bed in the living area, taking the cock of a grizzled top from the Village while some Jersey lawyer with an open dress shirt and slacks to his knees is taking advantage of that open mouth. I moved on. Then he was in the bedroom, looking at me under the crook of my host’s arm when my host had me cornered in the armchair there. “I want to watch you fuck,” growled my host in my ear, as he told me what he’d fantasized. “I want to watch you fuck some ass!” “Okay!” I agreed, and tried to slither out from under the cage he was making by leaning on the chair’s arms and back. But my host didn’t really want to let me go at that point, and I was too polite to press the issue, so some other fucker took advantage of Colby’s primed hole. When I finally got free, my little buddy was already groaning from another six inches sliding in and out of his chute. I moved on again. Colby and I encountered each other once more late in the evening, when somehow we ended up lying next to each other back in the living area, on the sofa bed. He had some gruff fucker pounding away at his ass. I had some not-very-attractive but insistent guy pushing me down so that he could ride my cock. I looked to my right, and there was Colby, staring at me. We kissed. I leaned my head over so my mouth could meet his. I’ll be honest—he was the best kisser of the bunch. His lips were soft and pliant; his tongue didn’t have any strict agenda. For a few passionate moments the two of us simply lost track of the other men using our bodies; we were with each other, not them. When we separated, his eyes were glazed and dreamy. “I want you,” he told me. “I want you,” I replied. “No,” he said. “You don’t get it. I want you.” Atop me, my bottom was gyrating on my dick. I was hard, but I wasn’t enjoying it. Colby’s body shook a little with every thrust from his top. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was staring at me. “I want you. All I’ve wanted the entire time at this party is you. Your dick.” “Oh.” “Have you cum yet?” I shook my head. “Don’t you dare fucking cum. Don’t you dare fucking cum in anyone else but me. I want it.” My dick was already hard. I’d been fucking for over an hour. Listening to him talk with that grim need in his voice made my meat swell to a rigidity I hadn’t felt since I was a teen. “Excuse me,” I said politely to my bottom. He seemed surprised, but he obliged by getting off of his knees and allowing me up. Then, to the guy topping Colby, I said, “This one’s mine, now.” He looked as if he might protest. Then he glanced down at my cock—red, swollen, angry, glistening with lube—and pulled out. He stood up and stepped aside without a word. I took over the duty of holding Colby’s ankles in the air. When I fingered his hairy hole, it was already slick with the fluids of other men. It made me want him even more. “You’ve got the biggest dick here,” Colby said, looking up at me. “I know.” I did know. I say I don’t care about these things, but I notice them. I’m not going to say I wasn’t proud of the fact. I’d be lying if I did. Colby lifted his hips from the thin mattress. “Stick it in me. Please.” I teased his pucker with my slit. “Tell me again. Tell me what you want.” This time, when he said the words, I could barely hear them. “I want you.” But I knew he meant it. I shoved in so hard that he yelled. A few guys had been standing in the kitchen, taking a break. They stopped their conversation and began to gather around. I positioned my hands on the sides of Colby’s biceps and leaned forward, taking his hips with me. I was pounding my dick almost straight down into him from this position. And fuck, the little shit had a great hole. I didn’t care how many guys had been in it before me. That was the kind of hole meant for many men to enjoy. Warm, deep, not at all resisting the invasion I was giving him, but at the same time not so loose and sloppy that it felt like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. With every thrust he met me, clutched at me, dragged his ass lips over the shaft and held onto me as if he never wanted to let go. “I don’t know if I can take any more,” he gasped, after a good few minutes of my relentless pounding. “It hurts.” “You’ll take it,” I told him. “No seriously,” he said, his eyes widening in panic. “You’re big. It hurts.” I acquired the selective deafness I like to employ during sex, and kept on fucking. He wanted me. He was getting me. Besides, I knew the pain would pass. All he had to do was work through it and he’d emerge on the other side. As I predicted, in mere moments the wince lines around his eyes deepened, then disappeared. He sucked in a chestful of air and then settled into the mattress. He was through it. By the time I came, I had his legs straight up in the air. I was standing by the side of the pull-out bed; he was basically on his shoulders in what would’ve looked like an advanced yoga pose, if I hadn’t been manhandling his ankles and ripping into his hole. “Take it,” I told him, while around me I heard several guys cheer me on. I drove in. Once, twice, three times I shot. It kept coming. Four times, five. My body grew as rigid and unyielding as my dick. I shuddered and grimaced; my face was a rictus of pain and pleasure mingled. When I looked down, he’d spilled a little drizzle of his own semen down his belly. It didn’t touch his skin, but rested on the hairs there like dew on the tips of grass. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, when I finally let him go. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.” I left him to his prayers and went to wipe up. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thanks to several of my readers, I had a birthday that I can describe only as . . . well, you’ll see. It’s true that I got some DVDs. It’s also true that I got a book for my relaxation time. And I did get some underwear. But mostly I got jocks. And jocks. And jocks. (Yes, I posted the last two before.) In fact, it was something of a jockapalooza. Thank you, readers! I (and some local guys who like jocks) am a very happy camper. I’m still taking questions for my Sunday morning columns. My account at formspring.me is still working, but it’s not quite as anonymous user-friendly as it used to be, so feel free to email me at the address on the sidebar. Put Sunday Questions in the subject line so I can find it easily, and you’ll be my favorite reader of the day. Do you ever experience that sweet sorrow after hooking up with someone you know (or have reason to believe) that you will never meet again? The first time I had that experience was during my college years. I met an older guy in the cruisy campus toilets and had sex with him in the stall. He was in his late thirties, handsome, not married, and obviously not from the podunk town where I was stuck during my undergraduate years. It turned out he was indeed just passing through, and would be leaving for his home in the District of Columbia the next morning. He invited me to his motel room to spend the night, though. That was novel for me. So I told my roommate lies about where I'd be, biked to the motel on the edge of town, knocked at his door, and found myself ushered into his room. He'd somehow bought a couple of cheap scented candles and had gone to an effort to make things nice, which is an accomplishment in a Motel 6. He made love to me that night, over and over again. It wasn't fucking. It was lovemaking. He kept telling me how handsome I was, and how excited I made him. In fact, he was so sweet and gentle and hot that I fell in love with him that night. And even though he left at dawn the next morning and I never saw him again, I truly believed then—and now—that knowing our paths were crossing only for a short time made the coupling even sweeter. Not to go all Pippin on you, but everything has its season. Not every person in your life is meant to be in it forever. People play cameo roles in your life and vanish, just as you do in theirs. The duration of their appearances is not necessarily what's important; what they say, and how they behave, and the intensity and flavor of what they bring determines how important they are, and will become. There's sorrow in that, yes. But the sweetness is what matters in the end. Have you ever hit someone hard enough to hurt them? Did you regret it immediately? Did they deserve it? When I was in third grade, a kid named Michael Rennie was being a total dick to me (I thought . . . I don't remember on what grounds I decided it) when we were walking home from the bus stop after school. I swung up with my lunchbox and banged him on the head. The blow brought him to his knees. It was a metal lunchbox. Snoopy, if you must know. He wasn't seriously hurt, but it only took a few short seconds for me to learn that no matter how dickish someone is behaving, beaning them over the head with a lunchbox made me even more of a dick. I apologized profusely afterward, but never really forgave myself. I've never hit anyone since then. With or without Snoopy. However. I have hit guys hard enough to hurt in roleplay sexual contexts. They loved it, and I didn't regret it. You Blog is new to me. Have you an opinion on the "Why?" of last year's trial in Kennebunk, Maine? (Me, I do not.) It took me a while to get around to this question because it required, you know, actually researching the whole trial thing. (And I'm fundamentally lazy.) But if you mean the Kennebunk, Maine trial about the Zumba teacher who was running a prostitution ring in which over 60 clients were charged as well. And my reply is . . . well, is there really anything else to do in Kennebunk? It really seems that most of the press coverage is of a slut-shaming sort that revels in tsk-tsking at the fact that the woman involved not only enjoyed having sex, but wasn't all that ashamed about engaging it in with multiple partners, without shame or regret. Good for her. I hope that she's able to parlay her story into a book or TV movie to tell her side of the story. Also: Zumba has never sounded so appealing. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “I’ve only got until six,” he says the moment I’m in the door. He whirls in place and pads across the living room on bare feet. I guess he trusts me to close the front door behind myself. Around the thickly-upholstered sectional he walks and down the hallway. “Then I’ve got to. . . .” He’s still talking, but already he’s out of earshot. “What was that?” I say, as I follow the scent of him down the hallway of the ranch-style house. At last I find him in one of the bedrooms. He’s on all fours, ass in the air, the hole squarely pointed at the doorway. Did I forget to mention he’d answered the door completely naked? His voice is slightly muffled from the pillow into which he’s buried his face. “I said, at six I have to jet down the Avenue and meet the wife and kids for dinner. Valentine’s day, you know.” I know. I’d already spent a half-hour in the van with the Landscaper at lunchtime. Since then, the thought of him sucking the head of my dick for the first time has kept my meat three-quarters hard, even during the unerotic tasks of cleaning the cat litter boxes and salting the front walk. It’s been raging for a place to unload ever since, actually. I kick off my boots and start unbuttoning my shirt. “You don’t have to worry about foreplay with me,” he says in a conversational tone as I undress. “Just drop your pants and fuck it hard if you want. I don’t need to be eaten out or anything. Just been a while since I had a good cock, and you’ve got a hell of a nice one.” “Thanks,” I say. I’m not enjoying the prattle, exactly. And to be honest, guys who tell me to skip the foreplay aren’t usually going to get the best of my attention. I’m all about the foreplay. Plus, my dick’s not a broomstick handle. It’s not rigid when I push down my jeans and shorts and let it flop out. Sure, it’s halfway there, but it likes a little attention before I just ram it home. I stagger over to the bedside and pull his head toward my crotch. He opens his mouth again. This time it’s to suck. The guy’s got a good mouth on him. His hair is long enough to be styled in a kind of retro-seventies feathered way—eccentric for the area, but obviously expensively-done. He’s got the body of a daddy who manages to get in a few workouts here and there, between picking up the kiddies from gymnastics and ferrying them in the family SUV to dance class. He’s young. No more than thirty. But he sucks like he’s been doing it all his life, gobbling down to the root of me and breathing heavily enough to stir my pubes through his nostrils. I’m hard and glistening to spit within moments. He buries his head in the pillows again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see much of my face,” he says as I stride around to the foot of the mattress. Too late for that. I saw it in the photo he’d texted me, minutes before I showed up. I’d seen it when he’d answered the door, even though he’d walked off too quickly for me to get a good look. If total anonymity was what he needed, he should’ve backed up that ass to a gloryhole at the Bridgeport adult bookstore. When I finger his hole, I find he’s greased-up already. I wipe a little of that lube on my cock head, letting it mix with the spit he’s left there. “Fuck it,” he says. This time he sounds like he’s begging. I pull him a little closer to the edge, aim at his pucker, and slide in. He’s not tight. Fucking him feels like fucking pussy; his insides are soft and moist and warm. He offers little resistance to my stiffness as I push inside. From the time my head disappears until the moment my nuts bounce against his for the first time, he begins groaning. “Yes,” he says. “Oh god yes. Yes. This is what I needed.” I start fucking with long, deep strokes, mesmerized by how the flare of my cock head pulls out his ass lips. They roll over the edge, cling to the tip, and on the return trip glide back inside him along with my shaft. “Oh fuck yes. I knew you’d know how to fuck, with that dick.” I don’t really care that he’s talking too much, or denying me my foreplay. After the charged lunchtime with the Landscaper, I really just need a hole to load. I close my eyes and shut out the domestic artifacts littering the bedroom around me—the eyeglasses, the basket of laundry, the novels on the bedside table—and just enjoy the sensations. “Give it to me,” he whispers. He’s got his back arched and his forehead resting on his arms, which are clutching the pillow. “Give it all to me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.” My eyes open again. He’s looking back over his shoulder at me, showing that face again. Our eyes connect as I fuck him in silence. For a crystal clear moment, we measure each other and render judgment. He and I both know what we’re there for. Maybe he can sense how his words excite me. He buries his head again and starts repeating them. “Fuck that cunt. Knock it up with your seed, man. Make me pregnant. Knock me up with your babies and make me carry ‘em for you.” My breathing intensifies. I fuck harder. The bedstead rattles from the force of it. “Plant that fucking seed, man. Make that hole yours. Spray that juice so far up me I can taste it in my fucking throat. Damn!” Now he’s beating his head against the mattress. “Do it. Seed it. Fuck me!” I grunt. I’d already come all over the Landscaper earlier. This load is bigger, juicier, the orgasm even more intense. When I shoot, I’m holding him at the crook of his neck and shoulder, yanking him down onto me to get it in as deep as possible. Once, twice, three times my cock spurts. Then, a moment later, a fourth. I try to pull out slowly, but he’s already hopping up and dabbing himself off with a hand towel. “Woof,” he says, passing me to get to the bathroom. “Now that was a great fuck. I bet I’m the happiest married man in town, this Valentine’s Day.” I think of the Landscaper as I tug up my jeans. Second happiest, maybe. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.” “What? Mmmmf. Mmmmmf. Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.” “C’mon, babe. Don’t you want your Valentine’s present?” The woman glares at the camera. Rolls her eyes. Opens her mouth. His cock slides between her lips. The Landscaper and I are in the back of his van. It’s a fucking cold day, but he’s been running the engine so that we’re not freezing. Still, I’ve got my jeans pulled down below my butt, and my rock-hard meat exposed. My fist is clutching my dick as I stroke to the video he’s showing me on his smartphone. “That feels great, honey. Keep going.” First I hear his voice, tinny and hollow on the little speaker. Next I hear the live thing in my ear, deep and masculine. “She’s hot, huh? She can really suck.” I nod. She really can suck. It’s pretty obvious the wife is doing a good job on the Landscaper’s cock. He’s nowhere as big as I. In fact, I can’t really see much of it on the little display except when she pulls out to the base of the head. Most of the time, he’s grinding his blond pubes against his wife’s chin and pulling her face down on him. The Landscaper and I have this agreement, when we meet, that I’m totally straight. I wouldn’t want to see his dick. So he makes sure she’s the one in plain view. I can’t deny how hard his domestic scene is making me. He can see my arousal in the red tautness of my head, in the precum that’s flowing from the tip. “She’s hot, huh?” he repeats. I nod, mesmerized by the footage he’s showing me. She’s all right, in that early-thirties Lululemon-wearing suburban mommy kind of way. I think this is the closest we’ve ever been. When we meet, we’ve lately got our act down to a relentless routine. He gives me notice a week before asking if I’m available. We set a date. We meet in his van, in a strip mall parking lot off the freeway not far from home. He gives me cash. I stroke while he watches from between my legs. Sometimes—sometimes—I let him put his lips on my nuts when I’m close to coming. More accurately, I pretend not to notice when he sucks on my nuts as I’m ramping up to blow my load. Of course I wouldn’t let a dude lick my nuts. That’s fag stuff. Today though. He sent me some kind of joke text in the early morning with a big ol’ photo of a vagina and a corny punchline—Cun’t wait to wish you a happy Valentine’s, or some subtle crap like that. Begged to see me that very afternoon, at lunchtime. He’d toss in an extra fifty if I’d make the time, even take me to lunch after if I wanted. And now we’re both sitting next to each other, our back against the driver’s side seat. His chest is pressed against the back of my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his body against my right side. When he breathes, it tickles my cheek. I’ve never let him get this intimate with me. But he’s got to be there to show me the movie, see. It’s only because he’s showing me the movie. “I like watching movies where the chick really knows how to suck, you know?” he says to me, all hearty and bluff and masculine. This is the way dudes talk to each other when they’re alone, in his head. “I mean, lookit how mine does it. She sticks those lips out so she can reach all the way to the base, you know? That way she’s taking it all. Feels real good when someone takes it all, right?” You don’t have to be a genius to know that he wants to be the ‘someone’ taking all my dick. But you know. Real dudes just don’t think that way. I grunt, keep my eyes on the little screen, keep my hand on my knob. “Let me show you this,” he said. He pulls the phone away for a second so he can look through his videos. His body is still close to mine, though. He rests his chin on my shoulder as he browses. I honestly don’t know whether he’s deliberately taking the liberty, or whether he’s just unaware he’s doing it. “Okay, this one. I took it just for you.” When he sticks out the phone this time, he’s fucking pussy. She’s at a strange angle—on her back, legs lifted, I think—and he’s moving the camera around so rapidly it’s almost impossible to get a look at the fucking. But then the camera rights itself and he’s sliding in and out of that sweet pussy like a pro. Then abruptly, it cuts off. “Too short,” he complains, then starts it over again. I get twenty seconds of crazy camera, then one good shot of his dick gliding in then out, then it stops once more. “You want to fuck her?” “I’d fuck her,” I tell him. “I’d fuck her hard.” “You’d fuck her with that big cock of yours?” He’s turned off the phone, now. But he’s still leaning against me, totally unselfconscious about how close we are. “That’s a fucking pussy wrecker. A hell of a lot bigger than mine.” “Fuck, I’d fuck her real good,” I say, sticking to the limited vocabulary of my trade persona. “She’d never want me to fuck her again after you were done fucking her,” he says. “Fuck.” Personally, I’m wondering how many more times we can use the word ‘fuck’ in the conversation. It’s been repeated so many times at this point it’s beginning to sound like a nonsense syllable. But I can’t help adding, “Fuck yeah.” My entire right side goes suddenly cold when the little landscaping devil over my shoulder moves to his usual spot between my legs. I re-settle myself into my usual position. “Stroke it,” he whispers, watching up close. “God damn.” I close my eyes. Lift my knees and spread my thighs a little. Soon he’ll be putting his mouth on my balls when he thinks I won’t notice. But that moist touch on my nuts doesn’t come. I hear him rasp out instead, “Let me suck you.” I open my eyes. Stop stroking. A real straight guy would be offended at the suggestion. My expression is leaden, but my dick is concrete and growing harder. I open my mouth as if to say no. “Let me suck your big dick,” he pleads. “Come on. I’ll do it like she does. All the way down.” “Dude,” I complain. “It’ll be okay,” he says. I can tell he’s genuinely worried about offending me with the gay stuff. “It doesn’t mean shit.” “I don’t think—“ “Just the head.” There’s a whine to his voice, a deep-seated need. I’ve known for months—years—that we’d get around to this point. To be honest, I’m getting off on his urgency, feeding from it like a vampire on someone’s essential life force. Making him want it this badly. Protracting it. Making it laaaaast. That’s what keeps me coming back, time after time. If I’d shoved my dick down this wanna-be cocksucker’s throat the first time we’d met, I would’ve never seen his handsome mug again. It would’ve been too much, too fast. He would’ve been overwhelmed. Instead I’ve taunted him with what he wants. I’m made him think about it. Obsess about it. At the same time I’ve kept it one step out of reach. Thinking maybe next time is what keeps him coming back, time after time. “You won’t tell,” I say. It’s more demand than question. He looks at me with surprise. Pauses. He can’t fucking believe it. “I won’t tell, dude. Just between us.” “Just the head,” I say, trying to sound reluctant. “Just the head. You don’t like it, I’ll stop. Promise.” When I don’t answer right away, he wheedles some more. “Seriously. I’m just helping you out.” He waits to see if I take the bait. After a long minute, I wrap my fist around my dick. The head is poking out of the circle made by my thumb and forefinger. It’s scarlet in hue, engorged. I point it at him. He goes at it greedily, worshiping the bare inch of flesh. The taste of my precum must surprise him, because he almost backs right off. But he manages to swallow it down. I feel his tongue slathering the crown, trying to map every contour. My straight married dad of a Landscaper isn’t a wanna-be anymore. He’s officially a cocksucker. I don’t last long. “Dude, move back,” I warn him, right before I shoot. The orgasm is explosive. One of those that feels less like shivery pleasure and more like an angry explosion of lava from my nuts. He’s not ready to swallow. Not yet. But I’m pumping streams of the stuff all over his face. I’m painting his mouth and lips with the sticky goo, getting it on his eyebrow and cheekbone. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. He doesn’t even wipe it away. Then he rests the side of his head on my thigh, being careful not to get the juice on my denim. I say nothing for a moment. It’d be pointless to deny I enjoyed it. He knows I’ve never come that hard for him. My dick’s still hard, even though it’s leaking cum still. I hold it in my hand for a minute, then pull up my shorts and stuff it in the pouch. “You promised,” I remind him. “Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “We’re good.” He’s good, at least. His eyes are shining. He’s still aroused, still breathing heavily. My sperm’s still decorating his face. While I’m yanking on my jacket from the passenger seat, I can hear him playing with his phone again. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.” “What? Honey. It’s not even six-thirty.” I know that the second I step out of that vehicle, he’ll be frantically wrestling off his pants on the van floor and masturbating to a fast climax. He’ll probably be whacking off to the memory of tasting his first dick for the next six months. Maybe by that time I’ll let him go all the way down. “Later,” I mumble with feigned embarrassment, as I stuff my shirt back into my jeans and maneuver myself back up to the front seats. “You want to catch some lunch?” he calls. I decline, this time. One of us has already eaten. More...

I'll pay you back handsomely, Mike.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here 2. My Host Anyone who knows me well in bed knows I love to be touched. The host of my birthday gangbang last week knows me well. For several long minutes he’d had me cornered at one end of the bedroom with his hands spidering out all over my skin. My naked ass was propped on the top of the back of the armchair; my feet were on the seat. He had me leaning forward with my head buried between his pecs, so that he could have unhampered access to my neck, my back, my shoulders. Every time his fingers scritched over the top of my head, I shivered. “I’m so glad you came,” he whispered right into my ear. I looked up into his face. My host is a handsome older man. He’s a muscular dude in his late fifties with an ass that’s round and full, thanks to the squats to which he’s addicted. He’s got a headful of thick salt-and-pepper hair and a matching soul patch. They suit him. I was shivering all over from his touch, but I looked up and into his eyes. “I wouldn’t miss my birthday gangbang,” I told him, with a little bit of a grin. “You know what would make me very happy?” “What?” He nodded in the direction of the bed. We weren’t the only ones in the bedroom. About seven guys were sprawled on the king-sized mattress, fucking in every combination. Another trio was standing in front of the closet, making out with each other. Men drifted in and out of the room, watching, stroking, joining in. But my host and I were an isolated pair, lost only in each other for the moment. “Watching you with other men tonight would make me very, very happy,” he whispered against my lobe. I could feel the huzz and tickle of his voice , the warmth of his breath on every tiny hair, in every cell of my skin. I grinned at him. “I want to watch you fuck,” he continued in a murmur. “I want to watch you fuck some ass.” “All right,” I told him. “I’ll do that.” “Yeah?” he asked. “You’ll fuck some ass for me?” “I sure will.” I moved forward. Ordinarily this would have been his cue to give me some space so I could push by him. I had the hole I wanted within my sights, just as the barrel-chested top from the Village pulled his red, dripping meat right out of it. I was ready to fuck. However, my host did just the opposite of what I thought he would. He lifted up his leg and propped his foot on the chair’s arm. It blocked me in. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re going to fuck ass after ass while I watch tonight. You’re going to turn me on, watching you fuck man after man here.” “Yes I am,” I agreed. “I picked them out for you,” he told me. His lips traveled down my cheek, my neck. Kisses decorated my collarbone. His fingers traced down my shoulder. “Just for you to fuck.” “Well, let me at ‘em,” I said, still quivering from his attention. Once again, instead of letting me go by, he propped his foot even further back on the arm. If I wanted to escape, I was going to have to vault over the fucker’s head. Much as I was enjoying the man’s kissing and touches, I was honestly a little baffled. Though he kept telling me about the voyeuristic fantasy he had of watching me fuck hole after hole sheerly for his pleasure, he certainly was doing a good job of impeding me from getting at them. One of my rules at a group thing is that I feel obligated to treat the host well. Putting together a group is a lot of work and hassle, and even out-of-pocket expense. I like to show my gratitude in physical ways. So yeah, I could’ve said “Excuse me” and shoved my way to a hot hole, but doing so would’ve made me feel like an ungrateful turd. Plus I felt badly for the guy. Not for his looks—no need to pity him for being a good-looking man. Not for his desire to see me with someone else, either. I felt badly because I know in the past, he’s hinted that he never gets have any fun at his own parties. He’s always worried about everyone else getting along, about getting those who might not be as comfortable throwing themselves into the pile to join in freely. Tonight he was worried about answering the door, about the nibbles, about the wine, about everything but his own dick. I didn’t want him to regret his own generosity by not having any fun at his party. So I said there atop that armchair as he touched me, and as we made out for long minutes, and let him tell me again and again how much he wanted to see me fuck others, while he continued to back me further and further into the corner. I couldn’t see how in the world I’d ever escape. I did, eventually; there was a minor emergency when one of the guests had to leave prematurely and couldn’t remember where he’d left his clothing. I hurried my ass out of the corner and threw myself into a pile of men in the suite’s living area, where I couldn’t be cornered again. But to be honest, I felt like shit for doing it. I made it up to him later. My host was the last fuck of my night. The guy named Blake had crawled off my dick only seconds before when my host came up behind me, pressed his pelvis against my ass, and started kissing me over my shoulder. “I wish you had more left in you,” he told me. “Oh, I’ve got more,” I told him, flopping down onto the mattress. “Hop on.” He greased up my already-cummy dick, straddled my body with his knees, and began to lower himself down. I was still hard, turned on by the number of guys I’d experienced that evening and by the smell of Blake still on my face. The party had thinned out a lot by that point, but there were still seven or eight guys in the room still. Some of them stood around to watch, dicks or wine glasses in hand, as my host punctured his own ass with my spear. “Fuck,” he said, sinking down on it. His head was back, his eyes closed. “I needed this.” “Take what you want,” I told him. “I’ve got more for you.” He looked into my eyes then, grateful. I knew from the expression in his eyes—and he confirmed it for me later—that he’d not been fucked at all until that point. Hadn’t been fucked at his own sex party. That, I thought to myself, was a damned shame. So I made it good for him. My dick swelled and stretched his hole as he rode. Blake got up on the sofa bed and squatted over my face; I began to eat out his hole, where I could taste my load dripping slowly from the depths of his gut. Blake’s focus was our host as well, though. He kissed our host and twisted our nipples as the man rode my dick. Another of the men still linger stepped up behind our host and took his shoulders in his hands. He planted soft kisses along the host’s shoulders and neck, and kept whispering soft obscenities I couldn’t hear into his ears. From time to time I’d look up past Blake’s swinging balls and limp but heavy dick into Blake’s face. Our eyes would meet, then travel to our host. Both of us wanted to make certain he was enjoying himself. I would catch the other man’s eyes, too. We’d recognize our common goal, and then he’d press his lips against the host’s ear again, whispering soft words of encouragement to help him along. “Come in me,” said the host at last. “I want us to come together.” His voice was raspy and hoarse. I held him by the hips and maneuvered my hips so that I was thrusting upward into his ass as far as I could go. I stabbed at him with my dick while Blake twisted those nipples even harder. The third man pulled apart the host’s ass to get me in there deeper. Blake sat his ass down on my face a moment before I started to shoot, so that my cries of orgasm were muffled and desperate. My ears, however, could hear the host’s shout as he came. Warm droplets splattered my belly a moment later. The two of us kept gyrating and moving, until slowly and surely our rotating hips ground to a halt. My host lifted himself off of my dick and flopped down onto the mattress so hard that Blake and I bounced. He groaned and reached for his hole, then inspected his sticky fingers when they came away wet. Though he’d been completely serious until that point, when he saw my seed on his fingertips, he started laughing. “Holy fuck. I needed that!” I cracked my knuckles and stood to my feet. “And that, gentlemen, is how a good guest treats his host,” I announced, as I made my way to the bathroom for the last time so I could prepare to go home. My host sighed in contentment from the thin sofa mattress. “The man ain’t wrong,” he opined. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Three days until your birthday gangbang. Only a couple of more days until your birthday gangbang! Are you ready for your birthday gangbang tomorrow? See you tonight . . . for your birthday gangbang! It wasn’t my birthday. The event wasn’t technically mine. And it wasn’t a gangbang. But my friend who enjoys throwing group sessions for like-minded guys to meet and fuck latched onto the fact that I was having a milestone birthday this last week. After that, all I heard about was my birthday gangbang. As I told a couple of people, hey—if it got me a few spankings, I was one hundred percent good with the host advertising it under that moniker. All of us who’d confirmed our attendance that night received a few days in advance a list of the other guys coming. There were about twenty-five of us in all. I browsed my way through the names and looked up their profiles. Though I’m a little too laid-back to write the cuter guys to say Hi! We’re going to the same orgy! I hope to suck you there!, some less-inhibited of the party had no problems sending me notes online to beg me for some private attention at the party. And as it turned out, those turned out to be the very guys I ended up spending the most time with. Over the years I’ve written this blog, I’ve had a lot of men write in to ask how a group sex session like this one goes down. Is it awkward at first, with people pushing each other away and the unattractive guys shoved to the sidelines while the hot ones go for each other? Do guys just strip and go at it? Is there conversation? Are the lights on? Does everyone who says they’ll attend actually show up? My answer is always: a lot of the tone of a group get-together has to do with the guys who put it together. Throw together a random group off of Craigslist and invite anyone and everyone who responds, and you’ve got a recipe for a party in which two guys go at each other with lackluster passion while a handful of men of various ages and levels of attractiveness and cleanliness stand against the wall and fondle themselves while rejecting any advances. If the host takes a little trouble to weed out the gawkers and to use some common sense in sending out the invitations, the party has a good chance of being more of a success. The best kind of party is that like my birthday gangbang. A party for which the host carefully curates the guest list, selecting guys of a similar sexual hunger—guys he’s met and knows as sexual partners. He’ll select a good proportion of bottoms, versatile guys, and tops. Most importantly, though, the host remembers one thing: that a good group session isn’t merely about collecting a bunch of hot body parts and dumping them into a room. Orgies are attended by people. Invite good people, and the men will have a good time. It’s not dicks and holes that make an orgy successful. It’s people. So rather than write about the birthday gangbang as a whole, I’m going to talk about a handful of the men I met there, one by one. 1. Blake His profile was intriguing. Top, it said. Masculine. Looking for similar. Must know how to kiss, or else no deal. Was I surprised when, after I looked at his profile, he sent me a note telling me he wanted to bottom for me at the party? Nope. I get that a lot from other tops—almost to the point that when another top looks at one of my profiles, I’ll assume he needs a rogering. It’s not that I like to presume I’m prime alpha of every top present. But I know that just about every top out there, even those who relish the position (like myself), every once in a while wants to get his clocks cleaned. When they get that itch, a lot of them trust me to scratch it. This guy was totally my type, too. Tall—taller than I, even. Shaved head. Piercing eyes. His profile showed his facial hair in various length. Clean-shaven, he looked like a mischievous devil. Scruffy, he seemed like the bad boy at which guys might take sidelong, yearning glances when he’d walk down a corridor. Fully bearded, he’s a hot motherfucker. Put him in a leather vest and he’d be a biker. Put a whip in his hand and most people would fall to all floors with a hurried yes sir! Naked, and erect, he looked dangerous. I’d be glad to fuck you, I wrote him back. When I arrived at the party, he was the only man there other than the host. He was standing there in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans cuffed over a pair of bare feet. His grip, when I reached out to shake his hand, was so firm I almost lost circulation. He stared right into my eyes, the stare unwavering and steady. “Hey,” he said in a deep voice. “Hey,” I said back. Then he used that grip to reel me into his arms, where he squeezed me hard and planted his lips on mine. While the host watched, the two of us made out in the middle of the hotel suite’s living area, swaying back and forth as if we were in a slow dance. We weren’t alone for long. Within ten minutes, the small suite had about twenty men crowding the living area. Hot men, too. The kind of well-heeled, handsome, beefy specimens I’m accustomed to seeing walking at high metropolitan speed from their workout at Crunch toward brunch at their Chelsea apartments. A couple of the men were in their thirties, but from the preponderance of salt-and-pepper hair cut short and high, I would’ve guessed that most were in their mid-forties or higher. Fit men. Men with tattoos encircling their biceps. And all of them, for the first twenty minutes of the party, stood around either in their shoes or stockinged feet and their clothing. Chatting. I know when guys ask me about how these things start, they’ve got this worry fixed in their heads that they’ll actually have to make some casual conversation with some of the other attendees. Nonsense, I usually tell them. I’d never attended an orgy at which guys just didn’t walk in, strip down, and go at each other like animals. Except for this one, that is. While I was talking to Blake after our kiss, it was a couple of minutes before I realized that everyone who’d walked into the room had kind of followed our example of standing around with a glass of wine in one hand and a cheese slice on a cracker in the other, chit-chatting about our careers in that superficial way that men in New York tend to do. The host, meanwhile, didn’t try to coax anyone into other activities. He flitted around in the background, refilling the bowls of peanuts and chips. After a while, I looked around at all these prime examples of Manhattan beef, and thought to myself, Holy crap. Is the fucking ever going to start? There must have been some trace of the bewilderment in my expression, because when I turned my attention back to Blake, I saw his eyes twinkling. “It’s getting a little hot in here with all these bodies pressed so closely together,” he growled. Then he reached out and undid the top button of my shirt. “I think you’re right,” I said back. Our eyes met again. A sexual stare between two men is rigid. Magnetic. When our eyes locked, nothing was going to pull them away. My fingers danced down his shirt and loosened the buttons holding the flannel together. He used both hands to undo mine, and then snapped open my belt buckle with what felt like a flick of his fingers. My jeans slithered to the floor. He grabbed my shirt in a fist, used it to pull me close to him, and then I felt his lips around mine once again. We kissed each other roughly, beard rasping against beard as we wrestled each other’s clothes off. Still trying to keep our mouths in a lip lock, we lifted our feet and pulled off our pants and shorts. Our hands reached for each other’s cocks. He was wearing a steel cock ring; I wore two rings made of rubber. And still we were the only undressed men in the room. Not for long, though. The moment we’d started removing clothing and tossing it to the window ledges, men had started to crowd around the two of us. Maybe it was the effect of our magnetic stare, drawing them closer. While Blake and I made out, deeply, passionate, I heard belt buckles all around me. The conversation subsided and was replaced by the sound of sighs, of grunts of appreciation and hisses of breath as men touched each other’s chests and twisted each other’s nipples. Blake pushed me to my knees. One of the room’s armchairs was behind me. I perched on the edge of the seat and took his meat deep into my mouth. His cock wasn’t as big as mine. In fact, when I peered around at the ocean of erect penises all visible at my new eye level, my ego got a bit of a boost as I saw that I was the biggest at the party. Blake wasn’t interested in any comparison, though. He’d gotten a hungry cocksucker right where he wanted him, and he knew what to do. With one hand holding the back of my head still, while the other positioned it at the correct angle, he skull-fucked me hard. I could feel his nuts bouncing off my chin with every thrust. Other cocks came at me. Blake turned my head so that my mouth opened for another one—it belonged to a man with an enviable barrel chest and a porn-star goatee. “Yeah, boy,” he hissed as he sunk it in. “Suck that big dick.” I sucked cock after cock while Blake stood behind me, hands on the sides of my head, directing it any meat he wanted to see my mouth on. The party had only been officially started for five minutes, and already I’ve had more than a half-dozen dicks battering the back of my throat. Finally, he pulled me up. Hugged me to himself. And licked the pre-cum and spit from my lips. “I like that taste on you,” he murmured. I didn’t encounter Blake again until near the end of the party, about three hours later. I’d shot a couple of times by that point. More than half of the twenty-eight guys who eventually showed had left. But there were a few stragglers standing around recouping their strength by eating a few snacks, in the living room. Blake straggled out of the bedroom with a sheepish grin on his face. “There you are,” he said, when he spied me on the naked mattress of the pull-out bed that had been hidden in the sofa. “There you are, you mean,” I told him. I’d seen him fucking other dudes all night. He nodded down at me. “You’re still hard.” I realized I was echoing everything he said, but still I repeated his words. “I’m still hard.” He placed one knee on the pull-out bed, then the other. “Fuck me lying down,” he whispered. About eight guys crowded around the bed as I slid into him. I knew they were digging the sight of this tall, muscular man spreading his legs for me. “Go slow,” he begged, as I started to fill him. “I don’t get fucked that—oh. Oh!” I was in. The man’s hole was tight. I don’t know whether I was imagining the sensation of his fur sliding over my dick, or whether it actually was creating extra friction, but I liked it. “How many guys has that guy fucked?” I heard someone ask. The number was of no importance. This was the man I was fucking right now. The fuck right now was the one that mattered. The stow-away bed creaked under the weight of us as I pounded into him. The man’s voice, normally a basso, soared up to the treble as he let loose little cries of wordless soprano pleasure. It came back down to earth as he begged, “Come in me. Please come in me.” I’d been fucking too long that night to have any more explosive, loud orgasms. This one was muted, soft. I held him in my arms and drove in deep, and simply released the seed into his ass. I know he felt it—or felt the pulsing of my shaft as it pumped out its payload. His ass gripped tight to my cock. His hands clutched my fingers, and kept me close to him. “You know,” I whispered in his ear. “If you invited me over some night, I’d spend the entire evening making love to you. Just. Like. That.” “Yessssss,” he hissed. His chest deflated with relief, like a balloon. Later that night, after I fucked one more time, Blake and I left together. He was heading downtown; I was going back to the train station. Once we were outside in the cold night air, he said, “You know that sensation after Thanksgiving dinner when you’ve eaten too much? That’s what I feel like right now. Stuffed.” “Using that metaphor,” I told him, since we were surrounded by people, “How many ‘meals’ did you get stuffed with tonight?” He looked up to the heavens while he figured it out. “Four?” he said. “And I ‘stuffed’ three others.” We sat side by side on the nearly-empty subway all the way to Grand Central, rocking back and forth as we talked over the rattle and clatter of the train. “I would really, really like to see you again,” he told me, holding both my hands as we were about to part ways at the turnstiles. “Just you and me.” “You’ve got a deal, mister,” I told him. When he kissed me on the lips, without shame, without looking around to see who might be watching, right in the mob of people swarming around us either to their train or to the shuttle, I saw a glint of the devil in his eyes once more. “And the next time,” he assured me, “I’m getting all the loads.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I have some of the nicest readers around. Every now and then I need to remind myself of that fact. You’d think it’d be evident all the time, right? There are days, however, when I open my mail application and find the same old shocked-granny responses to my latest blog post, all of which read as if they were written by two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Puritans still clutching original copies of the Geneva Bible. Then there are the stern schoolmarm responses in which I get lectured up and down for one thing or another—if it’s not lectures about the kind of sex I have, it’s lectures about the the nicknames I use in my blog for guys I see regularly, or chiding about seeing married men, or a stern scolding about corrupting younger guys, or just general dunning over my scandalous, sin-filled lifestyle and its effects on the seventy-five-mile radius around me. Then there are usually a generous helping of letters from the outright crazies—the guys off their meds who foam at the mouth and make no sense whatsoever, or send me notessssss ssssssaying that Ssssss***** hassssss sssssstolen my sssssssoul (yes, just like that), the stalkers who attempt to pinpoint my home address by analyzing the geotag information on my photos, and the schizophrenics who very kindly share with me their letters to god. Or outer space. Sometimes I can’t tell which. Add to all that the guys who just want a ride on my coattails, the people who write a couple of times a week to criticize my grammar and word choices, the come-ons from guys I’ve already ignored a half-dozen times, and you can understand why there are days when I stare at all the trashed messages and wish I’d never started a blog and kind of wished my permanent address was in a cave without internet access or mail delivery. So then I have to remind myself: I have some of the nicest readers around. I have readers who email me genuinely interesting stories about their lives, who share of themselves in the same way I share with them. I have readers with whom I have genuine, long-term dialogues—stimulating back-and-forth conversation about the issues I raise that are of interest to us both. I have readers I think of as long-distance friends. I have readers who started as friends and became playmates in bed. And of course I have readers who send me naked photos of themselves for my enjoyment. (I can never have too many of those!) The sweetness outweighs the rotten by far. I’ve been particularly struck by it this week, because of the many birthday wishes I’ve gotten from you guys already—and it’s not even my birthday until the latter half of the week. It’s not even the tokens a few of you have sent so far from my Amazon wish list that touch me most (though they do touch me in the most intimate of places…more pictures will be forthcoming in a few days, I hope). It’s that I’ve received so many personal emails from readers who’ve written to wish me a happy natal day, and who tenderly inquire if I’m okay with the impending half-century mark. They tread delicately on the big, round number, fearful it might be a sore spot (unlike my real-life friends, who are only too anxious to crow about how old I am). They write to assure me that I’ve still got it, that I’ve got many great years ahead, and other messages of inspiration and support. I love it. How can I not be touched? Who wouldn’t be grateful for such a loving bunch of people? I mean, heck. If you’re reading me regularly, I already know you have faultless taste, right? So thank you for making my week, last week, with your many messages of love. I’m definitely buoyed by the support. Let’s get to some reader questions. If you’re a member over at formspring.me, I’m still collecting and answering questions there. If you’re not, just submit them to me via email with Reader Questions in the subject line and I’ll answer them anonymously in future editions. I get tested regularly for all of them and check with my partners about their status. I understand you do as well. But those exchanges haven't appeared in your posts (which makes sense) and I'm curious how that works for you. I know the foundation is both trust and knowledge, but the trust part, particularly when on-line, can be missing, or faint. What part does all of this topic play in who you bed or don't? Or in what play you engage in with them? I don't discuss STDs in my blog because there are too many people out there who want to turn sex blogs into blogs about The Wages Of Sin. It's bad enough that I get a ton of comments (that I don't publish any more) that are nothing more than passive-aggressive ill-wishing—crap like "Must be NICE not ever to worry about catching anything or giving it to others, huh!" I also get a substantial number of comments (that I also don't publish) that signal to me that some guys visiting my blog repeatedly are clearly getting off to the raw fucking, but feeling super-guilty afterward. It tends to turn them into stern schoolmarms who write things like "Sex should only be had safely!" or the ridiculous "Think of the children!" Nobody's forcing these people to read my sexcapades. They could've left without comment at the first mention of unprotected sex. But they read, they enjoy what they read (why do it, otherwise?) and then they feel compelled to lecture me about my choices. The life stories I share in my blog are mostly erotic. There are exceptions, but the focus is on the fun sex I have. I—and I suspect my readers—would find it decidedly unerotic if every time I recorded a sexual escapade I had a little section that ran: "My darling, may I ask you a question?" "Yes, of course, love," I say, gazing into his eyes. "I just want to know—" he looks at me shyly. "Have you been tested for all relevant sexually-transmitted diseases in a recent and timely basis by a qualified medical practitioner?" I give both his hands a squeeze. "I can assure you that I am utterly free of infection. Here are my papers, signed by an accredited physician belonging to the American Medical Association. Would you like to examine them while I give you a free back massage?" "No, my super-hung stallion. That is not necessary. Do you have the condoms for the safe sex?" "I do, for while sex is but a fleeting pleasure, love is for a lifetime, dear one." He smiles. "Please allow me to apply it to your erect penis so that the safe sex may be had with vigor." And yet, if you read any sort of steamy romance novel, or most gay erotica (no offense, but especially that written by women, or by guys who don't actually have sex), you'll encounter these kinds of eye-rolling, anti-erotic scenes as a matter of course. I'm not ever going to include that crap just to allay the fears of a subset of readers who are offended at the notion that I don't Obey The Rules. If readers don't like how I fuck, they can easily opt out of reading about it simply by going to some other website full of fake-ass shit. I have contracted STDs in the past. In my thirty-eight years of sexual activity, I’ve had a few mishaps. I’ve contracted two or three cases of crabs. I've caught gonorrhea once, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I’ve tested positive for syphilis once, and endured the shots. I'm not going to pretend that unprotected sex doesn't have risks, because it does. I always advise readers to take only those risks with which they are comfortable. If they are the personality type who writhes with anguish and regret after sex because of the fears of having contracted disease, if they are going to loath themselves for days on end because they might have been exposed to something, I'd recommend using protection all the way, every time. All those days and weeks of self-hate simply aren't worth the few minutes of sex. I expect any of the guys I see who are taking risks to be a man about it and test regularly—and then to do something about the situation if they pick up something. And you're right, basically it comes down to a matter of trust. It's impossible for me to instruct anyone in how and when to trust someone else. For me, it kind of runs along the lines of asking myself basic questions like, "Does this man seem like he has enough on the ball to recognize an STD if he had one?" or "Is he likely to have access to and use professional health care providers if something came up?" But I tell you, in recent years the big question I ask myself is, "Does this guy PNP?" Because if the answer is yes, I'll pass. All the close calls and actual trips to the clinic I've had in the last twenty years have come from guys heavily into partying. There's a point for those gentlemen at which the need for the drugs bypasses any other consideration to their own health and safety. Either they don't screen their partners in any form at all, or they are too high to notice that something's wrong with their systems, or—as in the case of the gonorrhea I once had—they know they've got something but just don't fucking care enough about their partners to tell the multiple guys they've lined up to fuck their hungry holes. This is why, when I see profiles in which The men posTing Them Think They're being compleTely subTle abouT signaling Their use of crysTal meTh (but aren'T), I completely ignore them. That's just one thing of many I look for. Everyone must come up with his own guidelines for with whom he plays and with whom he won't. If he's in a situation in which he's feeling uncomfortable about his partner's health, he should be prepared to extract himself gracefully. If he does catch something, he should be prepared to deal with it in an adult manner—and accept the responsibility that it might happen, before it happens. That's really all I can advise. Whether it’s MH & A4A or BBRT or numerous phone apps including but not limited to Grinder, Jack’d, Hornet, or Scruff is there such a thing as too much exposure when looking for sex? How long should one hang out on line trying to secure a hook up? Yes, I absolutely believe it's possible to be overexposed on these sites. With Manhunt or BBRT or sites one accesses through the computer in a traditional manner, usually you can estimate how long a guy's been hunting on a site by his position in one of the 'Guys Online' lists. If he's near the top, or at least on the first couple of pages, he's only been prowling for a little bit. If he's way far down in the list, he's been at it for a few hours. Or days. I think we've all known of guys who seem to be on all these sites 24/7. Frankly, I find it a little off-putting and needy . . . and I'm certain I'm not the only one . . . if I check in on Manhunt at eight in the morning and a certain gentleman checks me out within a minute of my login, and then I discover he immediately checks me out again on A4A when I check my mail over there two hours later. If he's doing the same on BBRT when I look in mid-afternoon, and I see he's still on Manhunt, trying to get my attention still if I check my mail before midnight, I find it definitely creepy and I'm likely to ignore him. Sure, there are days when I'll be logged into a site for a couple of hours while I cruise. But iIf you're hanging around online every waking hour of the day, I'm thinking, you're not really using your time well . . . or you're intent on wasting mine. I'm not going to instruct guys in how long is too long. We're all adults. I'm not paying your internet bill. You do what you want. But I've noticed that after a while on any particular site, fatigue sets in. Even my profile gets so ubiquitous that men just pass over it. (I know, right? How could they, the fuckers?) I tend to take vacations from sites on a periodic basis. It really does work to use one site for a little bit and not any others . . . just for a couple of weeks. Perhaps work up a few new photos, in the hiatus. When I come back, I'm suddenly new meat again. Did your parents read to you or make-up stories for you when you were little? Both my parents read to me when I was very little. My mother was fond of reading picture books, particularly Dr. Seuss. My dad enjoyed reading aloud Peanuts comic strip collections for my juvenile enjoyment. When I learned to read for myself at the age of 5 or 6, I was able to go back to the stories I really loved the most because of them, and read them for myself. I completely ascribe my love of story-telling to my parents, because no part of the day was as exciting to me as when they'd cuddle up on the bed with me, a book in one of their laps. One of the things we used to do in the long summers when I was a little older, when we had only three stations to choose from on the television, no internet, and no video games to play, was to read aloud to each other as well. We'd sit on the side porch in the shade and while the cicadas buzzed away, read humorous essays by Bob and Ray or Erma Bombeck to each other, or sometimes plays we'd checked out of the library, or funny satires by Nathaniel Benchley or Wodehouse. And then Pa would go out to the Dakota territories and kill a bear and Ma and Mary and Me would go into town and barter at Olsen's Mercantile for a yard of gingham. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here 1. “Shoes go here.” I’m still radiating cold from the outdoors, standing there in my heavy winter coat and boots. The guy who’s come down to answer the door, though, is completely naked. He’s got a shaved head and a chest full of fur, and stands there with his hands on his hips. The fact he’s got a juicy erection bobbing between his legs leaves him completely unabashed. I haven’t even gotten my hat or gloves off, but it’s obvious he’s expecting me to hurry it up. I unzip my boots on the sides and kick them off. He’s heading up the stairs now, his bare feet making a soft noise in the carpet. He tugs me by the sleeve into a bedroom. It’s large. Living-room sized, really. There’s a sofa and a TV occupying one corner, a computer desk in another. There’s an empty double bed in the corner. “Leave your clothes here,” says the naked man. He shrugs to tell me that’s it. “See you in a couple.” I wait until he’s left the bedroom before I start removing my clothing. I stack it all into a neat pile, one of many similar stacks atop and around the sofa. It’s not a fancy apartment, this, but the inhabitant obviously has a lot of taste. He’s decorated the surfaces with Arts and Crafts pottery, with expensive blown glass and books on antiques. If I’d come here for a cocktail party or an afterglow following a show, I’d be studying the decor and the photographs and the diploma on the wall for cues for my light conversation. But I’m not here for the conversation. I don’t anticipate knowing anyone here. I don’t expect to go home with any new names in my phone’s contact list. I’m here to fuck, pretty basically. When I move into the other bedroom—the room with the big, king-sized bed and the darkened shades—the scene is like some fundamentalist’s vision of Hell, or an Italian avant-garde film. Bodies writhe all around me. On the floor are couples slithering between each other’s legs. Against the wall a trio slides up and down as they suck face and cock in turn. The bed is a seething mass of moving flesh, male on male, cock to cock, ass to mouth, dick to hole. I don’t even hesitate. I step over the fornicating pair and plunge into this nightmare of sex and desire straight out of Hieronymous Bosch. Hands clutch at me immediately, pulling me into the vortex, pulling me under. I’m gasping for air beneath all that weight and mass, but I’m the happiest drowning man ever. 2. There’s mouth on my right nipple. There’s a mouth on my dick. I haven’t even bothered to look down to see whose. All my attention is on the man kissing me. He’s the host—a retired professor from a prestigious New England university. His cock’s not much to look at. I’m not even sure it gets hard. His looks are past their prime, I think it’s safe to say. But he’s still attractive in a handsome-daddy kind of way. He’s got piercing blue eyes and a barrel of a chest spiked with prominent, eraser-shaped nipples. And holy crap, his kissing is amazing. We’ve been making out for a good ten to fifteen minutes while mouth replaces invisible mouth on my cock. Sometimes there’s an addition tongue licking my nuts, or attempting to slip down between my legs to my ass. Every time someone dives for my hole, though, their host pushes them away. “That’s mine,” he even barks to one guy. I’m fine with that. I’m good to my hosts. “You’ve got beautiful blue eyes,” he growls at me. He’s nuzzling my ear, then pushing my head to the side so he can attack my with his open mouth. Then he’s back to holding my face to his and plunging his thick tongue into my mouth, as far back as he can, while he rams two of his fingers up my ass. It’s only a day after my time with the Haiku Writer who stretched my hole wide open with his massive uncut meat, so I’m still tender down there. On the up side, I’m pretty much still wide open, too. “I am going to molest you good,” he promises. I fucking melt at his words. “Please, sir,” I whimper. It only makes him jam those fingers inside me deeper, up to the third knuckle. As I squirm and groan, he clutches me harder to his chest. Connected to each other, and to the men surrounding us, we sink into the maelstrom. 3. “You’re. . . .” He’s grasping for a name. “. . . Rob? Is that it?” I’m slightly insulted in theory. One familiar face has surfaced in the crowd. He’s a piece of sexy bald muscle that I’ve fucked at the hotel group for married men. I fucked him in my bed at home, too, after that. Just for not remembering, I shove my dick up his guts so hard that he sucks in lungfuls of air and winces. “That’s right.” He looks back over his shoulder again, as he braces himself against the mattress. “I remember that cock.” “You oughta,” I mutter. This whore’s been over every dick at the party, and I love him for it. The only reason I’m not really insulted by his sex-fueled memory loss is that moments before, when he’d crawled off some older guy’s meat still dripping with lube and semen, he told me that he’d have to leave soon and that he’d saved the best for last. A little sop to my ego goes a long way, in my book. He’s got one of those worked-out asses that’s absolute perfection. Round as the globes in my middle-school library, hard as cement, sheltering a tight little pucker that’s easy to open and soft and wet to slide into. He’s definitely not thinking about the wife and kiddies as he backs up onto my cock, not worrying about work when he’s twisting and grinding on my meat and trying to take it even more deeply than it already goes. Eyes are on me as I bang this little bitch. He might be all muscle, but he’s no taller than five-five, lighter than I am. I make a show of working the hole, of pulling out all the way so that those cunt lips drag over the girth of my meat, then shoving all the way in. Every thrust makes the little fucker gasp. I feel someone behind me. There’s a pair of lips on my neck, a hand on my shoulder and another on my hip. When I look around, I can tell it’s a tattooed guy who’s been circulating around the group from the time I’ve been there. His skin is a dark tan that shows off his blond military cut. Half his tattoos are military in nature as well. The one on his chest proclaiming his love for God and Country and the U.S. Army could be used on a recruiting poster. His other passion is the Yankees, apparently. He’s got the logo on his calf, on the inside of his hip bone, and squarely between his shoulder blades. That hip bone digs into my ass. The little bald guy is kneeling on the edge of the mattress and I’m standing on the floor. There’s so little room between my back and the wall that the tattooed guy has to press close in. I can feel his cock jumping as it brushes my crack. He kisses me over my shoulder. His breath’s a little sour, but the guy’s a good kisser. He’s yanking my head around aggressively to get more of my mouth while his hips move with mine as I continue fucking my bald little muscle. “Rape that hole,” he growls at me. I obey. I pick up the pace and make the muscle grunt. Then I hear the snap of a plastic top and feel the cold wetness of lube dripping down my rear. The head of his cock separates my ass and hones in for the hole. I was just fucked the day before. My hole is still sore. But it looks like I’m about to be fucked again. “Christ,” I spit out when the Army guy’s cock shoves home. He’s not large. Maybe about five and a half inches. Big head, though. My eyes pop wide open as it slides relentlessly home. I’m overwhelmed in sensation again. It’s almost too much, this feeling of my hole being opened wide while I’m already balls-deep in a slippery hole. Every nerve in my body is overloaded; the electricity in my nether parts makes me jangle like discordant bells. I can hear men cheering us on, both me and the Army guy who’s shoved himself inside. But the cries are distant, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the rush of my blood, and the insistent shrill of my muscles as they quiver and convulse. I feel more wetness on my backside. Warm, this time. The tattooed guy’s cock slides out and shoots its load as it does, so that half of it glazes my butt. The rest slops out of the hole. I’m so aroused that the wet sensation pushes me over the edge. I shove inside the muscle guy so hard that he loses his balance and collapses onto the mattress. I follow, shooting pulse after pulse of seed deep inside. “Hot ass,” says the Army dude with a pat to my ass, as he walks away. “That hole is real tight.” I’m not so sure it is, any more. More...