TheBreeder

VersBareCub, Pretty much. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Remember that pair of shorts I crusted with cum and gave away in a contest a couple of weeks ago? (Jase, you should've had them in your paws by now, my friend!) Well, these ain't them. What they are, however, are another pair of shorts I made for a very special reader shortly thereafter, and dropped in the mail for him. He promptly donned them, took some snaps of himself wearing them, and sent me the results so that I could post them for Breeder's Readers to see. I think my cummed-up briefs look pretty good on this guy. What do you fellows think? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I know his name. Not because he’s told me. Even his emails are stripped of any real names. Yet his identity’s printed on the Business Week lying upon his kitchen table. It’s all over the stack of bills he’s left sitting in the hall. It’s on the birthday card affixed to the refrigerator with photograph magnet of a heavily muscled shirtless man: Michael—Happy birthday! Tim and Janie. For two years, every six weeks or so, he’s communicated to me in code. Wife and kid are gone for the weekend. I’m going to bed at ten, he’ll say, when he’s in the mood. If I don’t get the letter in time or if I don’t reply, he knows not to expect me. If I write back something equally benign—Sleep tight, buddy—I’ll find a light shining over the side door when I park on his quiet street. The door is always unlocked. I shut it behind me. I’m never in a hurry. His thrill is in having an intruder in his house; I know he likes to hear me slowly making my way through his rooms, a stranger among his familiar belongings. Just to heighten his excitement I’ll knock against his piano just so the glass atop it will bounce a little. I’ll kick a chair, just slightly, so that it scrapes against his hardwood floors. I’ll bang against a door, as if off-balance in the dark. When I finally finish toying with sounds in the living room, I’ll make my way up the stairs. Slowly. One step at a time, as if I’m trying to keep silent. I’ve learned that one of the stairs squeaks in the middle, so I press my weight onto it slowly. It lets out a long, plaintive cry. Then I pause, as if I were a prowler listening for a response from the bedroom. I could just stomp into the house and walk up to where he’s waiting for me on the bed. He’d welcome me all the same. But over the years I’ve learned how well he responds to this long, drawn-out succession of cues that tells him how far I’ve trespassed into his house. Once again, I’m right. By the time I read his bedroom, his breath is raspy. If I placed a hand to his chest, I’d feel his heart thumping like a wild, caged animal desperate to escape. It’s not time to touch him, though. Not yet. The only light in the room comes from the neighbor’s house next door. It eases through the wooden slats of his blinds and reveals the shape of him, face down, ass up. He feigns sleep badly. Though his eyes are closed, he knows I’ve made it to his room, and he can barely conceal his excitement. He always arrays the equipment he wants me to use on the other side of the king-sized bed, as if he had been carrying a towel and lube and sometimes a dildo across the room, forgot he’d set them down, and accidentally fallen asleep atop the covers beside them. This time there’s a bandanna as well, carelessly strewn over the side of the bed. I cross my arms. And I wait. I’m in no hurry. Prolonging the moment only makes him more desperate. In the weak and borrowed incandescent light the curve of his ass only arouses me; I watch him grind his pelvis into the mattress, helplessly waiting for me to do something. But I wait. Finally, when neither of us can no longer stand it, I reach for my belt, and unthread the leather from the loop that holds it tight. My fingers let go, deliberately. The metal of the belt jangles, then falls silent. In the quiet it seems like the clang of a church bell or the sound of a shot being fired. A moment later, I release the button of my jeans and pull down the zipper. It’s a softer noise, but just as audible. It’s a noise of intent. He stirs slightly as I reach over him for the bandanna and take it by the corners, twirling it around until it’s a long strip of cloth I can ease over his forehead. He’ll roll his head slightly to help me, here, but it’s a natural motion, the rag-doll loll of a man deep in sleep. I’ve been gentle up until now, but when I yank the knot tight of the blindfold, it’s with a jolt. I use my fingers to grab the knot and I jerk his head back so I can whisper curses into his ear. His fantasy is to have a man violate his house and then violate him; I instantly jam two fingers of my left hand into his ass. It’s already lubed, as always. He only resists momentarily before he clamps down on my digits, warm and wanting. He’s by far more muscular than I. He could toss me off with a mighty push if he cared, but he wants to be helpless as a kitten. I spit profane warnings in his ear, and he nods and moans. I could recite the Lord’s Prayer to him now and he wouldn’t notice if I did it in a growl. The fulfillment of his fantasy takes him beyond words. Every time he vocalizes it’s with a groan or a growl. It’s not one of those nights when he wants his burglar to taunt him with sex toys or bind his wrists or clamp his nipples. He hasn’t left out the equipment for those things. He just wants to be used. When I yank on his hips to bring him to his knees, I can feel that the bedcovers where he’s been lying and waiting are soaked his precum, and not in small patches, but a large, slimy circumference. He cries out when I enter him. I haven’t bothered to undress, or even to pull my pants down much below my balls. With no apologies I’m on his bed in my jeans and t-shirt and boots, driving into him as deeply as I can. I can tell by the way he yelps that the prong of my belt buckle is gouging him with every thrust, cold inflexible metal against his warm ass. My zipper’s scraping him, too, with every back and forth motion of our pelvises. Too bad. I’m too far gone much to care. With my right hand still gripping the back of his blindfold, I jerk him backwards. I’m as deep as I can go, now. With all the anticipation in silence and the violent release he can’t last long, I’ve learned. I can gauge his arousal by the sounds he’s making. They’re louder and breathier, now, as I continue to pound into him. I pull out almost all the way and slam it in, three times. On the fourth, he yells as I feel his hole twitch and jerk around me. I’ve also learned that once spent, he’s done for the night; sometimes I have to pull out, spit on my palm, and blow my load all over his buttocks, but tonight we’re in synch. Our orgasms are nearly simultaneous, with me finishing only a few seconds after him. He’s still groaning as I pull out. When I reach down beneath where he’s kneeling, I can feel the trails of sperm left by his jerking, untouched cock. There’s nothing for me to do but pull up my pants from around my hips, zip, and fasten my belt again. He’s collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, but I lean over and warn him not to rise until he’s heard my car pull away. He agrees, meekly, as if my power over extends beyond the fiction we’ve created. I leave the path I came, only swiftly and silently. His email’s waiting for me the next morning. Thank you, it simply says. I really needed that. He never signs his name. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Writing my 'Dumb Fuck' entry yesterday reminded me of another encounter involving tattoos, several years ago. --- I first noticed the tattoo when he pulled the hospital scrubs top over his head. Against his brown, tanned skin it was a deep hue of indigo. Then Doug’s head appeared from under the tangled garment, grinning at me. I let my eyes linger over his sweet face, his dark and liquid eyes. They trailed down to nipples dark as chocolate and to his flat stomach lined with a trail of fur that disappeared beneath the scrubs bottoms, right where the white skin of his tan line began. “What?” he asked from curiosity, watching me gaze at him. I shook my head. “You’re just so beautiful to look at, that’s all.” That made him smile even more broadly. “Let me show what I think of you,” he suggested. He’s a small person, a compact man who barely comes up to my chest when we’re standing, but when he straddled me and pushed me back into the pillows, I scarcely noticed his size. It wasn’t until an hour later, naked and dozy and smelling of each other, that I noticed it again. Our faces were close together as we talked. “What’s the tattoo of?” I asked. I traced it with my fingers. At the top, the design blossomed into something like—well, I couldn’t quite tell. It was like a flower, abstract and unlike any bloom I’d seen. It was like water, or a fountain. It was something like a person as well. Two lines, like a scythe, trailed away from the design into the blanket against his skin. “It’s angels,” he said. “It’s the logo from the cover of Jesus Christ. . . .” “. . . Superstar,” I said with him. I recognized it now. He turned on his side so that I could see it all. What I thought was a scythe was the circle connecting the two angels. I kissed the tattoo as I pulled him close. My cock pressed against the small of his back. “I see it now.” We lay there for a moment more. He trembled and made small murmurs of pleasure where I touched him, parting his legs to let my hands wander to shivery spots. “Does your partner know you’re here?” I asked in his ear. “Gary knows I’m here,” said Doug. “I mean, he doesn’t know the exact address, but he knows I’m with you, yes.” His skin burst into gooseflesh where I moved my hands. After a moment, I made an attempt at apology. “I hope that question wasn’t too intrusive. About Gary knowing where you were.” “No, no, not at all! You can ask me anything. I trust you.” I smiled at that. “All right. So why Jesus Christ Superstar?” I asked. He flipped over on his back again and smiled, his dark brown eyes two slits in the twilight. “You want to hear the Jesus Christ Superstar story?” he asked. I nodded. I expected it to be a simple explanation—he’s been in a community theatre production of the musical, or he’d really rocked out to it as a kid when it had been released. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ve been with Gary for eight years, but before that, I had another lover named Michael. We were together for ten years and he made me very happy. Then he died. Of AIDS.” My head was propped up on my hand as I stared down at him. He looked at me quickly to see how I took that information. What did he expect? Revulsion? Fear? I just nodded. My hand didn’t stop moving across his chest. “I was taking care of him as best I could, but of course it wasn’t enough. There was a moment right before the end—one of his rare lucid moments, I should say—when Michael held my hand and looked at me and said, I don’t know how I’m going to recognize you down here on earth once I’ve changed. He said it like that. Once I’ve changed. He said, How am I going to find you down here? He was really frightened. “And I told him, You’ll recognize me because I’ll have an angel on my shoulder. He was really weak. I could barely hear him when he said, But lots of people have angels on their shoulders. And I squeezed his hand and said, Then I’ll have two. My own personal angel. And you, watching me. “That was the last thing I was able to tell him that I know for certain he heard.” A tear spilled from his right eye, making a getaway for the pillow. Doug reached up and arrested it with a finger, wiped away its traces, and grinned at me in an embarrassed way. “After the funeral I went out and got this tattoo, so he could recognize me.” I let him sink into the safety of my arms as my nose nestled against his ear. The open window let in the sounds of late summer—the splash and play of trickling water from the garden, the sounds of the neighbor kids at play, the huzz of locusts merging with the sound of a far-away lawnmower. In the distance, a mother yelled out to remind her son it was a school night. We lay there and listened to them. “Thank you,” I whispered to him. “No, thank you!” he said. He sniffled in deeply, trying to clear his nose, but his tone was much stronger and confident. “It’s just funny. It’s been nine years and you know, it really doesn’t feel that long at all.” “I’ve always felt that my losses and griefs are like—” I searched for a metaphor. “They’re like one of those hobo bags, you know, like they used to carry in the Peanuts comics? A bag on the end of a stick that you carry over your shoulder?” He nodded. My words sounded soft in the gathering darkness. “I feel like I pack up all the good things and the bad stuff about a person when they’re gone, so I can carry everything around and remember them all by it. It’s like, it gets heavier with every loss, the older I get. And even though I always seem to have the strength—so far—to pick it up and carry it with me wherever I go every day, there’s always the question in the back of my mind of when I’ll find it too heavy to bear. You know?” “Yeah,” Doug said. “I know. It’s a burden, but I wouldn’t give it up. I’m supposed to carry it, right? It just helps to remind me that there’s a lot of love in the world. Do you believe that? That there’s a lot of love in the world?” I nodded. Yes, I did. “I’ve got this thing. I think love should be shared. Not just with one person, but with as many people as you can love.” I nodded again. Uncertain that he could see me in the shadows of the bedroom, I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said, my voice husky and choked. He laughed slightly, no more than a burble in his chest. “I hope I didn’t freak you out.” “No,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying the warmth of his body. “You didn’t freak me out.” More...

Cumbro, I'm really glad you found it stimulating! Thanks, man.

Oh, he sure did. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Sometimes people ask me why I’ve kept a journal since I was seventeen—which at this point is bumping up against thirty years of self-reflection on almost a daily basis. Lately I’ve been saying it’s because picking out the moments I want to write down and remember gives me the ability to look at something perfectly commonplace and see the extraordinary that lies beneath. And when Bobby’s clothing flew off his body and landed on my living room floor in an explosion, like some kind of musical comedy punchline, I felt like I was being treated to the extraordinary that was concealed by layers of the drab and everyday. Bobby was really the most astonishingly good-looking guy I’ve met in recent months. His body belonged to a porn actor, or one of those smiling, welcoming models on the login screen of an adult site. His upper right arm was sleeved in inks of blue and green in a way that only accentuated the size of his bicep; another tattooed creation lay on the flat planes above his right hip, revealed when he lifted his arms above his head, hooked his hands behind his head, and stretched. Somehow he cracked his back in a way that displayed to best advantage his lean and muscular torso, his nipples the size and color of old pennies, and the wispy hair beneath his arms, yet didn’t seem at all calculated to show off. I was still astonished. “You really are beautiful,” I told him. His smile was slow and sleepy. When he flashed it at me, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Aw, gee, you don’t have to say that. You are too though.” “You definitely don’t have to say that,” I echoed, still looking him over. Then, suddenly aware that anyone walking or driving by would be looking him over too, through my front windows, I said, “Let’s go upstairs.” My bedroom was dark when we walked inside. “You mind if we have some light?” he asked. “I want to see that big dick when I suck it.” My reply was to flip on the bedside lamp and then to drop my pants. I’d only been wearing a pair of camo shorts from the hamper, with no underwear beneath. I’m not sure whether it was because of the anger I’d had toward him when he’d been pulling his stunt with not being able to find my house, or whether I’d simply been so overwhelmed at the sight of the guy’s magnificent little body, but my dick had yet to catch up with the arousal my mind was feeling. “Let me get that hard for you,” he whispered, pushing me back onto my bed. I settled some pillows behind my back and sat up as I watched him spread my legs and crawl between them. He took my stiffening dick in his hands and opened his mouth to receive it. I watched as his eyes closed and he let himself slip into the abandon of sucking at my dick. His mouth was a good fit for me. The tip of my cock nestled into his throat just above the base. Bobby would let it push there against the invisible tightness within, then lower himself just a little more in order to let me feel my cock head spearing the innermost throat muscles, as his lips tickled my pubes and his tongue would dart out to tease my nuts. My dick was slick and moist after a few moments, then seemed to get even more glossy and sleek. When he’d remove it from his mouth and come up for air and to look at his handiwork, it glistened in the light. Satisfied, he’d absorb it back into his mouth and continue. “I’m getting you close, huh?” he asked at one point. I’d had to remove his mouth from my dick completely because I’d been so near to orgasm. “Ye-es,” I breathed, astonished again at the brilliance of his eyes and the sheer beauty of his face as he looked up at me. “Well if you cum in my mouth you’re gonna have to have another load ready for my ass,” he said. Then, with a boyish wriggle, he jumped up to his knees flopped face-down on the mattress beside me. He was still wearing that colorful jock. When I got up on my own knees, Bobby looked exactly like he had in that first photograph I’d seen of him. “You have the perfect butt,” I announced. He giggled—and it was definitely a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh. “Thanks dude.” “My pleasure.” Then to prove my statement, I spread his legs and buried my face in that beautiful, perfectly round butt. His hole was lightly furry. I swirled the hair as I worked my tongue inside, alternating my licking with biting and kissing. “Oh,” he said. He arched his back and swung his pelvis so that it mashed back against my face. His eyes closed yet again, and he grabbed the pillow to hang onto. “Oh!” he said, over and over again as I continued to rim him for long, slow minutes. No matter whether I was gentle or whether I was ravaging the hole with my mouth and beard, that was the only word he’d say. Sometimes it was an exclamation, and sometimes a whisper, but somehow he managed to milk a hundred different meanings from the syllable. I had to fuck him. The sucking has left my dick dripping with his spit, but rimming always gets me rock-hard and ready to plow. I rubbed lube from the bottle on my nightstand onto my dick and spared a little for his hole. He settled back onto his knees and presented his pucker, letting it pulsate against the open air. My knob pressed against it, and then slid in, almost unimpeded by resistance. “Oh shit,” I said, when I reached bottom. “You feel so good. So warm.” “Oh god,” he said, curling himself up. “Your dick is so big.” I slid in and out of him slowly at first, keeping our bodies close as I left gentle kisses on his shoulders, his spine, his neck. My hair hung down around my face as I whispered dirty words into his ear and told him how beautiful he was, and how wonderful he felt. He responded to every movement, every thrust, and every word with the faintest and sweetest of high-pitched grunts, as if caught at the pleasurable peak between distress and desire. His dry lips worked, trying to produce words. “You fuck so good,” he finally said. “I love your big dick in me.” “Get on the side of the bed,” I ordered him. He obeyed my order instantly, putting his knees on the mattress’ edge. He curled himself up into as small a ball as possible as I stood on the cold wooden floors and entered the furnace temperatures of his hole once again. I’ve seen a certain type of guy assume that position before, making themselves as tiny as possible by ducking their head to their chest, arching their backs, folding their arms, and keeping their ankles closed. I recognized the trained submissiveness of it. “Fuck me, daddy,” he whispered. “Please.” I couldn’t help myself. His posture brought out my rough side. After I’d accommodated myself inside him once again, I started to slam in and out, moving around and stabbing at his guts with such violence that the bed began to move across the floor. I followed it, determined not to miss an inch of the fuck. He let out a series of little yips, high-pitched grunts, and ohs! that made me determined to fuck him harder—to make sure he felt what I was dishing out to him. “You want my cum?” I asked when I was getting close. It was a moot question. He was going to get it whether he wanted or not. “Yes,” he answered, in the smallest voice. “Please.” “I thought so.” I upped the savageness of my thrusting. He met me, bang for bang, his hips slamming back against me as roughly as I shoved into him. When I came, it was explosive. I grabbed his pelvis and yanked him against me so that I could be as deep as possible inside him as I let loose with my sperm. He thrashed around like a fish on a hook. Eventually the two of us subsided, and I collapsed on top of him on the bed. “Can I cum?” he begged after a few moments. “Is that okay?” I told him it was, and he asked if I could be inside him when it happened. We eventually settled on a position in which I was lying on my back, and his little body lay at an angle across it, riding my still-hard dick. It was then for the first time that he pulled down the pouch of his jock, letting flop out an enormous, thick, uncut dick. It struck me briefly as unfair that anyone as pretty as this guy should be gifted with such a fucking huge cock, but when he started playing with himself that he was a show-er and not a grow-er. Though soft it had been a fat six inches, hard it was pretty much the same size. I continued thrusting in him, enjoying the sensations of my cum oozing out onto my nuts, as he played with himself. “You like daddy’s dick deep in that hole?” I whispered at one point. He responded so automatically and with such intensity to the words that I knew I was on the right track. “You love knowing daddy bred that hole deep, don’t you?” “Yes,” he whispered, jacking himself more furiously. “It’s like you were made for daddy’s dick, wasn’t it?” “Oh. Yes. Oh!” He moaned, and writhed, and without warning let loose. His sperm spattered his belly and rib cage, landing as far as those penny-colored nipples. His breathing, which had been labored and rasping, eased into something more normal. Then he lay there atop me, sprawled out and nearly unconscious, his arms above his head. We rested there for a few moments, both of us almost half-asleep in the late hour. “Tell me about your ink,” I said at last. My hands had been traveling over the intricate patterns, none of which had been derived from any tattoo artist’s standard book of designs. He grinned sheepishly. “This one’s all about chess,” he said, letting his fingers tickle over the pattern above his hip. “I like to study chess. It’s a real old game from Persia, you know, so these are Persian figures.” He explained in detail the significance of the various chess pieces that made up the work, and the alterations he’d asked for to suit his own personality and life, while I listened to him. I didn’t absorb half of what he said. I was too busy marveling at the notion that anyone who couldn’t figure out that streets were usually divided into odd and even sides could manage a game requiring as much forethought and insight as chess, plus being delighted that all my misconceptions about him were being stripped bare. “Wow,” I said, when Bobby was finished. “That’s beautiful.” His palm stroked over the larger of the two tattoos, almost protectively. “This one’s of Icarus,” he told me. “You know about Icarus? He flew too close to the sun and his wings melted. That story always freaked the shit out of me when I was a kid, but now I kind of like it. Icarus is me, you know?” “Why?” I asked. He looked at me through his pretty, slitted eyes and smiled. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me. There was some story there. I wasn’t close enough to hear it, though. Not yet. “Hey,” he said, eyes widening. His expression was suddenly impish. “You know why Icarus was a bottom?” I didn’t really understand the question. “Why?” He gestured to his tattoo. “So he’s flying, you know, and his wings melt all over the place, because they’re held together with wax and feathers, right? Even though Daedelus was like, dude, don’t fly that high, he did it anyway." His tone was the kind of intimate I really only hear in those sweet moments after sex, when all a man's inhibitions and barriers have melted away. Usually I hear it when I'm lying in the dark with the man, our skin still warm and sticky and connected. Bobby was standing up, and I was cross-legged on my bed, listening, like a child listening to a teacher's story, but the connection was the same nonetheless. "He just flew so high, and so far, that he couldn't even hear what Daedelus was telling him." He pronounced Daedelus with a hard A sound. "Do you know this already?" "Tell me," I said, not wanting to cut short the tale. My eyes dropped from his, so I could examine more closely the artwork decorating the skin. In the middle of the painterly expanse of blue and green inks lay a naked male body, reclining as if he floated in the water, his body a backward curve. Lean and pink, motionless, yet forever caught in his downward trajectory. The artist had given him a tiny comma for a navel. It was a detail that made the figure look all the more vulnerable. Bobby had a far-away look in his eyes. "So here Icarus is, falling, and falling, with all this sky and sun above him and nothing but all that space and what he knows is gonna happen, below. And he’s totally fucked.” He grinned at me, changing the mood on the turn of a dime. “That’s why Icarus is a bottom.” I stared at this beautiful guy as a genuine smile spread across my face. And I realized that, no matter how dumb and pedestrian I’d assumed this guy to be, someone exceptional lived inside that perfectly-sculpted frame. “You really charmed me just now,” I told him, feeling solemn. “You think?” He sounded astonished. “Guys have told me that before. I just don’t see it. Huh.” Looking at something commonplace and seeing the extraordinary beneath. That’s why I keep my journal. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here dude i cant find ur house, flashed the text message on my phone. what does it look like? It’s the only house on the block that has the light on, I messaged him. Then, as an afterthought, It’s the only house with a for-sale sign. so what does it look like? he repeated. It’s two stories, has a big front porch with a bench, a FOR SALE sign, brick front steps, roses in the garden. I hit the send button and then walked to the front bedroom to see if I might spot the guy. I saw his car sitting directly in front of the house. You’re parked right in front of it!, I punched out. If text messages could come with something to convey tone, mine might have sounded like a dog baring his teeth. He didn’t pick up on the growl, though. i dont think so dont see anything like that, he sent back, and a second later, I heard him release the brakes. I watched in astonishment as he sailed away, down the street. Was he playing me? I couldn’t quite tell. I’d noticed the guy a couple of times before on Manhunt, but we’d never talked until Friday night, when he sent me a brief greeting and unlocked his photos. Bobby, he said his name was. The pictures told a story, or so I thought; the first was of a slim and muscular young man lying face down on a bed, wearing nothing but a jock that framed his perfect, round, bubble butt. His hands clutched the bedframe; his feet were restrained in cuffs. It was the kind of photo that made my dick stand instantly erect. The next couple of photos showed how handsome was his face. His eyes were so beautifully-formed they seemed almost feminine, but his features were rugged, photogenic, and movie star-like. His chest was muscular and well-made, his sculpted arms every gym-bunny’s dream. The first several photos showed him with unblemished skin, but the rest were of a man covered in tattoos—so obviously they had to be more recent. There were some subtle differences between the inked photos and their earlier counterparts. The guy’s stomach wasn’t quite as flat; he had a little bit of a paunch, even. His butt seemed a little saggier, his face less angular and sharp. Okay, I thought to myself. The guy has gotten a little out of shape over time, and threw in a few older photos to lure guys in. I was fine with that, to an extent. It was after midnight. I’d been idly hunting for someone to play with for over two hours at that point, and Bobby seemed interested, so I’d given him directions to my house and waited for him to show. Now, from his place to mine the directions were fairly simple. Head up one big street for two miles. Turn right. Travel four blocks. Turn right again, and find me four houses down on the right-hand side. That was it—straight line, right turn, four blocks, right turn, four houses. Easy, right? Not for this guy. From my perch in the window I watched as he re-parked at the far end of the block, then got out of his car and walked up to a house on the other side of the street so that he could peer at the address. i thought u said I was parked in front of ur house, he messaged. “Idiot!” I barked at no one in particular. The guy was such a dumb fuck! My instructions had been perfectly clear. God knows they’d gotten plenty of other men to my front door. I looked up and down the dark street, and sure enough, mine was the only one with a porch light burning, making it look like Las Vegas in the middle of a dark desert. “If you can’t fucking find my house,” I said, as if getting ready to text it, “then Bobby-buddy, you don’t fucking deserve to get in my bed.” But instead of texting that, I sent, You were parked directly in front of it a minute ago. Come back. I was slightly mollified when he got back in his car, turned around, drove back down the street, turned around again, and stopped the car in front of my house. “About time,” I muttered. I put my phone in my pocket and stomped downstairs to meet him. Despite the crisp, nippy air out, I opened my front door and stood in it so that he’d see me. He couldn’t miss that, right? I waited. And waited. And then, after what seemed like an eternity my pants leg vibrated. I fished in the pocket, withdrew the phone, and looked at the screen. It said, dude u said u were 9139 but all the #s here are eeven. Seriously? As I prayed that my neighbors weren’t being roused from their sleep and watching, I stepped outside. Beyond the porch light’s glare, I could see a dark figure in sweat pants and a baggy hockey shirt walking up and down the sidewalk on the street’s opposite side, visible by the light of his cell phone screen. Anyone looking out their window right then, I thought to myself, was going to think a burglar was casing their joint. I was seriously considering turning around, walking inside, turning out the light, and turning off my phone when suddenly the guy finally saw me. “Is that you?” he called out, breaking the cardinal no-talking rule of the sleepy suburbs at one in the morning. I heard the sound of footsteps as he trotted across the street. His feet tripped on the curb; he caught himself and kept his balance only at the last minute. “Oh my fucking god,” he said, when he reached my porch steps. “Your place is so fucking hard to find!” “No, it’s really not,” I said, not at all pleased. I was nearly ready to send him home, at that point. “All the numbers over there are even!” he said in an accusatory tone, as if I’d tried to pull a fast one on him somehow. “Yeah, and all the numbers over here are odd,” I pointed out. “My house is an odd number. That’s how it usually works.” “Oh,” he said. He let out an unexpected giggle. I pulled the porch door and let him in the house, not really willing to have this argument out in the dark and the open. “I’m kinda stupid, too. I had to remember that a nine is an upside-down six, duh.” My lips were slightly parted. I blinked a couple of times. I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. When I looked him over in the light of the living room, his clothes were so enormous and baggy that I knew underneath him, his body probably was a lot more out of shape than even his photos had let on. His Red Wings shirt was so oversized that the hem reached his knees and made his shoulders seem so slumped they were nearly ski slopes. “At least you’re here now, I guess,” I said, without a lot of enthusiasm. “Yeah, right?” He seemed to have regained his good spirits, now that the even-odd mystery of the ages had been cleared up. Before I invited him to, or before I could say anything, he shucked his clothes. He kicked off his shoes so that they went crashing against the fireplace screen. Down went his sweatpants. Off came the hockey shirt. He stood before me wearing nothing but the same jock that had been in some of his Manhunt photos. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic and snapped it, then put his hands on his hips in a pose that clearly said, here I am. Hope you like it. And I’ll be damned if beneath all that sloppy, baggy clothing was the most perfect, muscular body I’d seen in a dog’s age. It wasn’t as good as the first couple of pre-tattoo photos in his profile—it was much, much better. The guy was a dope, but he was one beautiful, pumped-up, worked-out dope who smiled at me with perfect teeth and said, in a way that made me melt, “Gee, you’re real cute. Do you wanna fuck?” “Yeah,” I said, almost gulping in the way that the Wile E. Coyote swallows when he sees the Roadrunner. “I wanna fuck.” (continued tomorrow) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So, those of you over there on the eastern U.S. seaboard, did you make it through Tropical Storm Nicole all right? Over the last week some of you have told me about the torrential rainfalls and the winds, and one of you sent me horrifying photos of a parking lot of cars afloat in a flood of water. Yikes. Sounds like a serious interruption of the daily dose of porn surfing! Today, as is my traditional Sunday custom, I'll be answering some of the questions that have been accumulating on my formspring.me account. If you've not visited it before, give it a try--it allows anyone, even you, to ask me questions anonymously or, if you prefer and you set up an account with them, with your identity attached. I'll answer just about anything that's not too invasive or redundant. Of course, you always have the option of reaching out to me via email if you'd prefer. I get around to all my emails eventually--honest! What foot size do you have? I wear a size eleven shoe. How many pillows are there on your bed? Three. Two for people's heads, and a small one I keep between my knees when I sleep. This is a very unsexy question, but how do you do it all, time-management-wise? You seem to have a relationship, family, career and then a very active sex life that fuels a well-written blog. How the heck do you do it all? First, thanks for the compliment. I've said this a few times, but it probably bears repeating: I don't have a standard office job. I have the luxury of arranging my work, personal, and home life to suit the needs of the current day. If my needs involve some playtime, I can pretty easily accommodate it. If I have a deadline or if I have household affairs that need my attention, those will come first. But I'm grateful to have an opportunity to earn a living in a creative profession that allows me--when it comes to time management--a quality of life I never had when I was a nine-to-fiver. When did you have your first bareback orgasm in an ass? Were you a virgin to anal sex? Did you take or give a load first? I took my first load before my teens. The first load I shot into an ass was when I was twenty-two or so. What do you think of geek guys? Are they attractive to you? Oh my gosh, geeky guys are like catnip to me. I gush over geeky guys! Have you ever participated on a bukkakke? Nope. I can't think of anything I'd like to do less than jack off on someone's face. If it doesn't involve a hole, I'm usually not fully aroused. On NPR this morning a story about someone who wanted to move from Michigan but couldn't because house hadn't sold. How long do you have for your house to sell? The sooner the better, generally, which is why I've been motivated to get everything in tip-top condition before the house was on the market. However, I don't have a specific deadline by which I have to be in the new place (my other half does, but I don't). If it means I stick around for a couple of extra months until it sells, so be it. Want to buy it? Have you ever touched your father's penis? I have, but not in a sexual context. He had surgery a few years ago that required me to nurse him for a couple of weeks, and during that time I has to bathe him three or four times. When you move, will you get a new Adam4Adam username since your current one includes your zip I guess I will. A couple of services let you change your user name; I don't think A4A or Manhunt are among them, though. Ever considered writing a primarily non-sexual blog in addition to A Breeder's Journal? If so, what would you name it? P.S. Be careful what you ask for. Hehe. My blog is really an extension of my private journal--mostly it's the sexual stuff with the names (and sometimes some identifying characteristics) altered. It's all stuff that happens to me on a day-to-day basis, though. so neither age nor race is a factor when fucking someone? no preference whatsover? I don't have real preferences when it comes to race, no. I like dicking younger guys, it's true. I have a real fondness for my boys. At the same time, I'm not one of those middle-aged men who either pretend they're a twenty-something themselves, or shun all others who don't fall into that category. I've been turned on by all ages throughout my life, and I don't see that changing. Are there guys you've wanted to, or have had the option to, snuggle in and sleep all night with? There are many men I've wanted to cuddle with all night. There are a handful with whom I've had the privilege. Have you ever done something along the lines of this video? No, I can't really say I've ever had golden wings or a light saber spring out of the rose growing over my crotch. Lately, anyway. Do you think your kids could be gay? I think it's possible for just about anyone, or anyone's kids, to be gay. Do I think it's probable? I haven't seen any evidence to suggest it, one way or another. Say you can, and must, choose between two new men. They're equally handsome, well built, versatile, successful. The only real difference: One's as intelligent as you, the other just average. Which would you have sex with; why? In that kind of situation, the deciding factor would be personality—who's more pleasant, less stand-offish, more engaging in conversation? Failing that, who has the better ass? How do you decide how to position the bottom? A lot of the time I can tell what positions he likes by the way his body responds when it's time to fuck--he'll scoot into a position he wants to open with, for example, or outright tell me, "I want to sit on your dick now." If I get my druthers, I prefer to start out with them on their knees or belly, butt-up. I get more control and depth that way. How close have you come to getting caught (specifically by your significant other)? I've had only one close call, ever, when the spouse texted me to ask if I needed anything at the supermarket five blocks from home, right as a bottom was about to arrive at the house. I fucked the boy quickly and was all cleaned up well in enough time, though. Have you ever had any kind of sexual contact during a visit with a health care professional (doctor, dentist, shrink, massage therapist, chiropractor, etc.) that wasn't pre-planned? Nope. Are there any nationalities of guys that you've had great sexual experiences with? For me, I've had the best sex with Cubans and Brazilians I've had a lot of really, really good sex with Mexican guys, and every Australian man with whom I've gotten naked has turned out to be fantastic in the sack. The Brazilians I've bedded have been very good--but I've only had a couple. Your youth seems to have been one of incessant sexual practices a youth shouldn't engage in. Do you feel this has made sex more of an act of domination/submission for you? Or perhaps even made sex a ritually based addiction? I've thought about this question quite a lot in the last week, and frankly I find it difficult to address because it comes pre-laden with a lot of negativity. The use of the word 'incessant' and phrases like 'shouldn't engage in' and 'ritually based addiction' are so laden with judgment that they're difficult to separate from the question itself. If you wanted to ask if having sex in my pre-teens and early teens made a difference in my adult sex life, that's one thing. But it seems as if you've already made your decision about it, from your phrasing, and that's a shame. I don't mean to accuse you of being deliberately hostile with your question. I do think, however, that you're making your own assumptions about sex fairly clear, and hope you know that not everyone is going to agree with them. I don't really believe there's activity that someone 'shouldn't engage in' based solely on reaching the age of legal consent in a municipality, or reaching the age of 18, or the age of 21. Sexual maturity--and I'm talking about the emotional kind--arrives earlier for some than others. There are full-blown adults older than me whom I don't think are emotionally ready to engage in sex, either casual or committed. They simply don't have the mental resources to cope with it. I think it's as dangerous to insist that anyone can prescribe when it's appropriate to begin engaging in sexual exploration as it is to allow someone to prescribe exactly what sexual behaviors in which we're allowed to indulge. Anyone seeking to assert authority over the sexual activity of consenting adults--whether it's the deeds, the suitability of the partners, or the frequency--should be questioned. I also believe that to accuse anyone who enjoys sex, and enjoys an active sex life, of 'addiction' is a dangerous cliche. Our culture today, largely because of talk shows and a self-help movement actively attempting to gain notoriety and sell books, seminars, and air time, has fixed upon the notion of sexual addiction as the obvious explanation for any man simply being a man and doing what a man does. That's a damned shame. If my sexual activity were to interfere with my career, my home life, or my social sphere, I might sympathize with your question. But it does not. If it were done compulsively without any joy or appreciation, then yes, I might agree that the behavior might be approaching the addictive. Anyone who reads my journal, however, knows that while I might have a good amount of sex, it's far from joyless, un-meaningful, and never done without thought and consideration. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The little house lay at the end of a dead-end street curled up next to the freeway, hidden and snug behind the tall wall of brick designed to keep out its droning sounds. Despite the rush-hour traffic on the other side, what I mostly heard was the usual sounds of a quiet neighborhood—the chatter of birds, the whirr of a mower across the street, the faint percussive chatter of someone’s television playing behind an open screen door. When I approached the address I’d been given, I saw that the front door was open. He stood on the other side, in the shadows of the shaded living room. It’s always something of a relief when they look like their pictures, these online hookups. There were no surprises in store when he opened the storm door and greeted me. I shook the hand of a shorter cub of a man with dark skin and the thinnest of beards on his face. This reader of mine—the fourth I’ve met since I started my online sex blog—said he was a top like me, but I was pretty sure that even barring that, there were plenty of other things we might be able to try. “Nice to meet you,” he said, giving me a firm shake. I just moved in for a kiss. His lips were soft and full, and responded to the touch of my own by parting slightly. My tongue slid into his mouth. The guy was a good kisser. Slow. Responsive. Just the right amount of moisture upon his lips and a good amount of suction on my tongue when I thrust it in. While we made out, standing there on the living room mat, his hands moved to my shoulders, down my sides, onto my hips. I grabbed his right hand and forced it against the thickening rod in my pants, rubbing his open palm down the shaft that hung down the left leg of my pants. He broke away from the kiss. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s big.” He grabbed for my top button, but I was already a step ahead of him. I popped it loose, then unzipped. He got down onto his knees and pulled my jeans and shorts mid-thigh, and began to suck. Sometimes tops give the best head. This guy had it. His mouth was warm, and wet, and every time he hit bottom I could feel those beautiful lips scraping the tips of my pubes. He went at it softly and slowly, not rushing, the way some overanxious bottoms tend to do. Some men try their hardest to suck me off. This guy, the top, simply respected the dick, and did everything he could to keep me hard and on edge. His goal wasn’t the load. It was my pleasure, and every time he deep-throated my pole so that I could feel the head lodging in his throat, it made my knees buckle. “You have a bedroom or something?” I said at last. He did. We made our way to the back of the little house, where he shucked off his athletic shorts and threw a pillow on the floor. I lost my sandals and pants and sunk my inches back into the velvet depths of his mouth. The top’s own cock was a fat number, thick and dripping with juice. He stroked it off and on as he worked on my meat. “Come up here,” I told him, finally, hauling myself up on the bed. I lay on my back while he straddled me. Our dicks lay against each other whenever mine sprang up to meet his. “Tell me,” he said, as we played with each other. “Tell me about the butts you’ve fucked.” The two of us have covered some territory in our area, dipping our poles into many of the same holes. We swapped talk for a little bit, talking about some of the ones we had in common, and a lot about the ones we wanted to share. The talk not in the least romantic or flowery. It was Anglo-Saxon. It was blunt, and dirty. It was the crude language of two men who recognize the need to fuck and to stretch a hole to its widest, and who respect the other for having the same urges. It was when he was describing what he wanted to do to one of my regulars that I felt a tide rising in my nuts that spread through the shaft and erupted into a short gush of the white stuff. He reached down and grabbed and handful and slopped it onto his dick. A moment later, he shot his load over his own hand, and onto my dick and belly. It was hot. It was quick. And it was pretty damned explosive, for two top men who didn’t have a hole to fuck. One more reader down. Only a quarter of a million (minus four) to go! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've been thinking about this memory a lot, lately, since my house has been on the market, and strangers have been tramping through it. I thought it was unusual, the first time I met him, that he was waiting for me outside the house at the address he’d given me, leaning on his car. Even twelve years on I can remember how imposing a figure he was—broad-shouldered, thick-necked. He was a coarse and handsome man who sported the kind of club-like jaw with which you could smash oysters. A wedding band hugged his ring finger, but I'd expected that. “Hey,” he said in a booming voice. “Glad to finally meetcha.” He grabbed my hand in one of those hearty hetero-looking handshakes and pumped it up and down like I was a pump on a prairie farm and he was desperate for the water. He led me up the sidewalk, inserted the key in the front door, and fumbled with the locks. I thought he seemed unusually nervous. While I waited for him to let us in, I wondered what the inside of his house would look like. From the obvious expense of his shirt and tie and shoes, I was picturing tasteful furnishings. Expensive reproductions of antiques. Wood floors. Subdued lighting. I’d scarcely formed the picture when he finally popped open the door and let me in. The heady scent of potpourri assailed my nostrils as I stepped into the hallway. I’d been wrong about the décor. Nothing was antique or wooden about the place. The place was clean, but cluttered. The deep pile carpet was of a red hue that approached scarlet. The furniture consisted of mismatched tables and sofas clawed by generations of pets, alternated with cross-stitched samplers and little bouquets of dried flowers on the wall. It looked as if tornado had denuded a country kitsch store and regurgitated it all here. “Um,” he said, looking from the dining room to the left to the living room at the right. “Let’s go this way.” He led me through the dining room with its quaint variety of candles and pinecones and photographs framed cunningly with bark-lined sticks, and into the gingham-wallpapered kitchen. Neat rows of jams and jellies in squat little jars decorated with cloth lid-toppers and handmade labels had been spread across the window over the sink; a cross-stitched sampler saying Bless this mess hung among the pots and pans on the wall. He looked around, confused. “This way,” he said. We passed through a small hallway past a bathroom that reeked of lavender, and back into a den where all the chairs had been pointed in the direction of a giant television screen. A flight of stairs in the house’s center led to the second floor. “Let’s go upstairs and get comfortable,” he said in a meaningful tone. Our footsteps barely sounded as we climbed the carpeted steps. He looked wildly around at the summit, peeking first into what was obviously a child’s bedroom, and then a guest bedroom, and then finally into a large, dark blue room with a canopied bed that was the master suite. I assumed he was making sure none of his family was home. “Here we are,” he said with a leer. He immediately began unbuckling his belt, and then unzipped. “You like what you see?” he asked in a softer, more urgent tone. When I nodded, he took me by the shoulders and pushed me to my knees. All I did was suck him, nursing on his dick until he grabbed my shoulders and pumped a salty load down my throat. Afterward, when I had rinsed my mouth in the sink and washed my hands and reclaimed my clothes, he followed me downstairs. “Let me walk you to your car,” he whispered in my ear. He opened the front door. Still sheltered by the latticed screen, he gave me a deep kiss against the doorframe. “I hope we can do this again,” he growled. “You are one fuckin' good cocksucker.” My attention, though, had shifted to the lockbox hanging from the front doorknob, something I’d overlooked on the way in. it was one of those types with a push-button code, and it hung ajar. “This isn’t even your house, is it?” I accused, suddenly more than a little freaked. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find his way around! “Hey, hey,” he said, grabbing my hands to calm me down. “It’s okay. I’m a real estate agent.” When I didn’t reply, he kept on explaining. “I can’t do this shit at home!” When we left, he fastened the front door and deposited the key back into its lockbox. “Act casual,” he instructed, turning us around and pointing up to the second floor, as if drawing my attention to a feature up there. “Just in case the neighbors are watching.” I got in my car and drove home, angry and guilty. Never again, I swore. Never again. He sent me email that night. Sorry if I misled you, it said. But I’d like to have more of that sweet mouth sometime. After that, I felt angry and guilty and aroused. For three months I met him in other people’s houses. At my request, most of them were deserted and unfurnished. We’d fuck on the carpets, surrounded by the impressions of where furniture used to be, illuminated by the dusk filtering through dusty Venetian blinds. We’d roll and tumble and hear our grunts and shouts echo in the emptiness of the rooms, and then we’d make a circuit around the back of the house and out the front again, as if checking out the yards before parting. It seemed a victimless crime, pure and simple, without much risk. It was sleazy and sordid and kind of exciting. Very occasionally—maybe three times—we would have to meet in a still-occupied home. He wanted to have sex on top of the beds there, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to touch anything that belonged to anyone. It made me uncomfortable. The affair peaked the day we arrived at a house before the couple living there had managed to leave. They were still racing around, trying to collect the dog and escape before we arrived, when he and I reached the door. “We’re just getting out of your way,” said the young woman. “How long are you going to be, about?” said the young man. They seemed like a nice pair, probably married out of college. She was clearly expecting. Even the black lab seemed amiable. “Oh, I don’t know. A half hour?” said my real estate agent. “We’ll be gone an hour, in case,” said the wife. She smiled at me, having obviously assessed me as a fine and upstanding candidate for the suburban neighborhood. They left the door open for us. We entered the house. To my ears it felt as if it was still ringing with the sound of their hurried voices. “So where do you want to do it?” he asked. I sat down on the stairs and shook my head. “What?” he asked. He looked out the front window. “They’re almost gone. They’re loading up the dog.” “I can't,” I said. He tried cajoling me back into a good mood, but it was gone forever. “We're done.” I rose to my feet and made for the door. He tried catching my wrist. “They’re not even gone yet. They’re going to think it’s weird if you leave so soon.” I didn’t care, though. I opened the door again, but he grabbed my wrist. “How about later this week?” he insisted. Shaking my head, I yanked my arm from his grasp, turned away from him for the last time, and sprinted to my car. The couple had just slammed the back of their van shut, and looked at me in surprise. I spared a wry smile for them, hopped into my car, and slammed shut the door. Through the crack in the window, I could hear my real estate agent approaching the couple. “Sorry for the trouble, folks,” he said. “He’s really looking more for something with a garage.” The sound of my ignition drowned out their chorus of understanding. Though the three of them waved at me as I drove off, I didn’t return the gesture. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Ten minutes before, the room had been spotless. I’ve been keeping the house tidy, ready for a realtor showing with virtually no notice at all. The bedroom floors had been swept clean, the rugs there rolled up and stowed away to show off the hardwood planks. The bed had been made. All personal effects had been put away. And here was Darryl, my married dad buddy, crouching on the floor in the bedroom closet, digging through the laundry hamper inside like a determined pig rooting for truffles. He was totally naked. His hairy haunches were spread as he squatted down on the floor, shorn balls dangling low between his legs, his dick solid and wet at the tip. He’s a lean and rangy man, and on his spare frame it jutted out so rigidly—so hard and implacable—that his prick seemed permanent, like architecture fashioned of crude, thick stone, than anything of mere flesh. His thin lips were set in an expression of concentration as he searched through the basket. Pants and socks and board shorts from the days it was warm, not so long ago, lay in random piles around him. They weren’t what he wanted. Every now and again he’d lift one of the articles of clothing to his nose and give it a sniff, and then reach down with his left hand to squeeze his dick. Then he’d toss it aside and move on. I watched from my position on the narrow bed. I was sitting on my rear, legs spread, arms resting on my bent knees, watching. For a moment Darryl seemed frustrated; he ran his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed. I realized then however, that his upset came not from not finding what he wanted, but having too much of an abundance of choice. He picked up some of the briefs he’d set into a pile and examined them again, then gave them the sniff test. “This pair,” he said at last, grunting, as if the week-old funk of dirty laundry had been a potent hit of poppers. “You sure?” I asked. I recognized the briefs. I’d bought them myself at the Gap. They were plain white cotton. The inside front of the waistband was slightly dirty from handling. I could see a few faint pee stains on them. “Yeah,” he told me. This time he used both hands to lift them to his face. He inhaled deeply. His eyelids flickered, then settled to half-mast. Finally, in a hormone-induced haze, he straightened up and strode to join me on the bed. “These are the ones.” Darryl and I don’t fuck. We talk, and we stroke, and sometimes we suck. If we make that far, that is. For months we’ve been swapping two pairs of underwear back and forth, slopping them up with our spilled loads and then trading off whenever we meet. This time he wanted something new. “These are real nice,” he said, taking another hit. The sheets we knelt on already smelled somewhat; they hadn’t been washed in a week. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but it was definitely noticeable. I couldn’t imagine how much stronger the briefs must have been. I reached down and took his steel-hard dick in my hand, running the palms beneath the rigid rod, collecting a glob of his pre-cum, and then using it to slick up the stiff shaft. “You want ‘em?” I asked. His lids flew open. Beneath them, his eyes were hard and cold and full of focused lust. “Yes,” he growled. It was the kind of feral snarl some men make as they fuck, only neither my nor Darryl’s dicks were shoved into a hole. “I want these.” “They're yours. You bring me anything?” He seemed reluctant to end the trance the shorts had induced, but he reluctantly got to his feet and pulled his jeans from the floor. From the back pocket Darryl unfolded a flimsy pair of cotton panties. They weren’t male underwear. He held them out to me. I raised my eyebrows at the married man, the husband, the good provider. “These are hers?” He nodded. “Put your dick through them. I want to see your dick in there.” “Hold them for me,” I instructed. He did as I told, stretching out the flower-printed panties in his hands. I pulled down on the crotch and let my dick slide between the layers of cotton, penetrating the spot where pussy would have been. Back and forth I moved, stimulated by nothing but the wispy edges, thrusting into the hole in his imagination. His mouth twitched again. I was arousing him even more, if that was possible. “You want to see me fuck her?” I asked. He didn’t say anything. “You’ve thought about it. You think about me in her.” He nodded slowly, acknowledging that it was so. “You’re going to be thinking about it when you go home to her after this. When you see her across the dining table. When she gets into bed, while you watch, you’re going to be thinking about me mounting her. Shoving my tongue down her throat. Forcing my rock-hard dick inside her. Aren’t you?” When he let out the little “Yes!”, it arrived as a sob. He thrust the Gap briefs into his mouth and grabbed his dick. That’s all it took—one grasp with his fist around that engorged meat and suddenly he was shooting, pumping out squirt after squirt of juice over the backs of my hands and the flowery panties they held. His moans and cries were muffled by the shorts in his mouth as he came. His orgasm put me over the edge. My own dick unloaded everywhere—on him, on the panties, on the bed, on my own hands. We were both covered with semen. I recovered more quickly than he. Darryl gripped the headboard as if he might topple over, so strong had his climax been. I took the briefs from his mouth and used them to mop up what sperm I could see or feel on my skin. “There,” I said. “A new starter pair.” His only thanks was a curt nod. “I kinda need those back,” he said, gesturing to the other pair. “The wife'll notice they’re missing.” “Gonna wash ‘em?” I wanted to know, since they were wet with my cum stains. He shrugged, then stood up, his head finally clear. At last he grinned at me. “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” Ten minutes later, the room was spic and span again, the windows open to clear the strong smell of spunk. A prospective buyer would never have been able to tell two daddies had been going at it in there. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve mentioned before that it’s tempting to think of the people in my life as some sort of traveling commedia del’arte troupe in which the actual actors may change, while the roles stay the same. Just as there’s always a Pagliaccio, always a Harlequin and a Scaramouche, my life always seems always to have people playing the same archetypes over and over again. Zanies. Schemers. Lovers. Heroes. Confidants. Tempting, as I said, to think of people I know only as their roles. When I see people I know walking through life with the same gait and taking the same paths as those I knew before them, I try to concentrate on their differences. We’re all similar to others in many ways, after all, yet it’s those differences that most of us should be prizing. Still, sometimes the parallels are spooky. I mentioned last week that in college I had a mild crush on a boy named Jefferson. Jefferson was in my college class year and lived in the next dorm over. I noticed him the very first week on campus. Like me, he was tall and extremely lean. His hair was like a light auburn cloud; it smelled of mousse whenever he’d walk by. He wasn’t exactly handsome, by any means. His eyes were too small and beady. There was an irregularity to his jawline that made him keep his chin close to his chest in self-consciousness. His profile wasn’t effeminate, but it was almost feminine in its delicacy; I remember him being something like a character from Japanese anime, with his nose and chin coming to little points as if drawn with single, delicate strokes from a pen. Whenever I passed Jefferson, he’d look at me. Most of the time when I saw him on campus, he’d be loping along the pathways with his head down, his lumpy jawline concealed, eyes on the ground. It was as if he was attempting not to be seen. When he noticed me, though, his eyes would fix on mine. They’d remain locked until we’d pass. I would always smile at him, but he’d leave his face blank and without expression. Or what he thought was without expression, anyway, because I could tell that Jefferson’s stares were laden with yearning—and sadness. I was experienced enough to suspect that he didn’t know, however, exactly what he yearned for. During my sophomore year I found out Jefferson’s surname and boldly sent him an email through the campus system. I simply asked him if he’d like to get together and have dinner at the student center or play Ms. Pac-Man at the Tinee Giant. We’d never met, never talked face-to-face. In his reply he seemed to know who I was, though, and didn’t say no. Why would we want to do that? he asked. I didn’t have a smooth answer. You looked like you might need a friend, I finally said. For my last three years of college, I’d send an email every couple of months. Casual notes, saying nothing, but offering companionship. We certainly never mentioned anything naughty, but the looks we’d exchange as we passed on campus grew more and more heated. Still we never spoke. Until the last night I was in Williamsburg, that is. The night before graduation, I received an email message from Jefferson asking if he could visit me in my dorm room. I lived in a single, then, all alone. My clothes and books and belongings were packed in boxes and stuffed into paper bags, ready to be loaded into my parents’ car trunk after the ceremony the next day. The room was down to bed and cinder block walls and a stack of movables in the middle of the floor when he finally arrived, nervous to the point of trembling. I closed the door, and invited him to sit on the bed. He obeyed, and stared straight ahead, his legs together, his hands resting on the mattress. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. Almost immediately he jerked it away. “I don’t like anyone touching my hands,” he said, and showed them to me. They were covered with the ghosts of past incisions. I learned that the dent in his jawline had been the result of a tumor, in high school. The skin of his chest and hands and arms was a white tracery of scars from the dozens and dozens of cysts and tumors that had grown and been removed all his life. “I don’t care,” I told him. “I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you. I thought you might like me too.” He nodded, and looked at me with his tiny eyes. That was when I kissed him. We made love that night. I undressed him, and made out with him, and sucked him off, and let him touch me in the places he had always wanted. I could tell he wasn't experienced, by his clumsiness and passivity. It was only his second time ever, he told me, after. He stayed until early in the morning, when he collected his shirt and his white briefs and sat on the edge of the bed with his head hung low. “This isn’t who I am,” he said. I was puzzled. Did he mean the one-night stand? The scars? “I’m supposed to get married and have kids and be normal. Sorry, but this isn’t who I am.” Oh. The homosexuality. He pulled on his clothes and went back home without a word, exiting stage left from the theater of my life. I didn’t see him at the graduation ceremony. There’s another kid I know these days—Jason’s his name. He’s twenty-five, married, a father of four already, and secretly gay. He’s an expert at compartmentalization, and manages to justify to himself that his secret quests for cock and cum are just him ‘cutting loose’ when the wife is out of town or busy for the evening. He’s always treated it like some kind of hobby he can give up at will, like wood-burning or model railroading. He’s one of those young men whom you know will age quickly. Already his hair is thin, and his small eyes are rimmed with dark, tired circles. I used to fuck Jason a year or so ago. I stopped because he wasn’t always reliable about showing up, though we’ve remained on friendly terms. He’s constantly prowling online under various vaguely sinister-sounding nicknames, changed every six weeks to keep his wife off his track. He’ll message me and tell me about his latest cocksucking escapades or complain about his life. His wife’s the bread-winner of the family; he works a part-time job stocking fruit at a local market. He finds a lot to complain about. Jason’s always full of plans. Sometimes he wants to go back to school. Other days, he wants to start his own business, if he could get the money. He’s wanted to join the Peace Corps, even. He won’t admit it, but all his plans amount to the same end: he wants to get out. Every time I talk to him, he wants to unburden himself of the wife and the children and the responsibilities he assumed too young. “You know anywhere a guy can go to get a quick circumcision?” he phoned me earlier this week. “Huh?” I replied. It’s just one of those questions one never really expects to be asked. He repeated himself, then added, “I’m thinking about joining the army tomorrow.” “Why in the world would you join the army?” I asked him. I’d never known him to be particularly patriotic. “Because if I waited any more there won’t be any damned Arabs left to kill,” he replied. While I was trying to think up a stern, tactful, fatherly reply to that one, he messaged, “Kidding, dude. I need to be doing something important with my life.” “I don’t think they require circumcision in the Army.” “I heard they do.” “I’m pretty sure they don’t,” I said, “Adult circumcision is painful.” “I’ll get over it. I just need to make a change.” “That’s just a weird change,” I told him. “Are you talking shit so you can run away from your family? You’re a father and a caregiver. Isn’t that an important thing to do with your life?” “That’s not who I am,” he said, and for the first time since I’d known him, he sounded sad. It was at that moment I realized that Jason reminded me of Jefferson. The thin and air-dried hair. The small, dark eyes that looked more often at the ground or the horizon than at other people. His skinny frame. Even the paleness of his skin. It was as if I’d been given a glimpse into Jefferson at the age of twenty-five, four years after the night we spent together, having done the acceptable thing with his life. Having learned that the married life wasn’t really him, after all. I know Jason’s not Jefferson. Those weren’t even Jefferson’s words in his mouth—they were the words of thousands of men and women who’ve found themselves yearning for a life other than the one they lead. Yet it still felt as if I had placed an old-fashioned stereopticon to my face. Two slightly different pictures seen from slightly different angles, converged into one three-dimensional portrait, rich and strange in its vividness. Then the moment passed, and the two went back to being their individual selves once more. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The room attendants for the little hotel by the freeway’s side were busy when I stepped out of the elevator onto the second floor. Carts laden with towels and toilet paper and little disposable bottles of shampoo blocked the hallways at regular intervals. I passed by several rooms in which the doors and blind were wide open, and where maids in uniform wrestled to lay bedsheets flat against the mattresses. The door to room 222, however, was cracked, its security bar holding it open. I took the knob in my hand and pushed. For the briefest of moments I saw the fellow I’d come to meet, framed by the doorway’s light. He was stocky and broad, a muscular English bulldog of a man. He was naked, and sitting on the corner of the bed, legs spread, exposing himself. I shut the door. The two of us were blanketed by almost complete darkness. He stood up and approached me as I kicked off my sneakers. When his arms went around mine, I placed my hands on his chest, and our lips met. I could tell from the start that he was a very, very good kisser. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy. I said nothing, and instead kissed him more deeply, and harder. When I think about it for any length of time, I’m always a little bit astounded that my foray into the world of sex blogging hasn’t resulted in more actual action. I get offers and attention from a lot of readers, to be sure, but they all seem to be out of the state, or else they haven’t yet followed through with their promises of doing all kinds of unholy things to my dick. After months of blogging, I’ve only met two readers who were so turned on by my more-or-less daily entries that they’ve made arrangements with me to meet—my good friend in Kentucky, and a local reader who sucked me off in a mall restroom a couple of months ago. About six weeks ago, I’d gotten an email from someone who said he was a reader of mine, and who wanted to offer me something unusual. He was the chair of the history department at a prestigious southern university; since he had to visit the Detroit area in order to consult with the Henry Ford Museum for one of their exhibits, he asked if I might like to go along with him so that he could give me a private tour of the displays there. I was so charmed by the off-the-wall offer and found it flattering to both my libido and my brain cells that I began swapping emails with the fellow. Quite quickly we got down to his admission that he really wanted me to fuck his brains out, but that the museum tour would still be on the table if I wanted. Interested as I might have been, I was definitely up more for the fucking. We arranged a day to meet, the following week, when he was due in down. The day of his arrival, though, he left me a panicked phone message. He’d missed his plane, he said, and he’d have to reschedule. I’d talked to the guy on the phone a couple of times and never got the impression he was any kind of player, so I took the postponement at face value. At the same time, though, a little part of me in the back of my head kept wondering, who misses a plane? Because I’m anal about that kind of thing. Was I being suckered? I didn’t worry about it overmuch, though—and good thing, because my academic got in touch with me week before last and told me he’d rescheduled his museum visit. We agreed to meet Wednesday morning, when I knew I’d have several uninterrupted hours to play. And when he sent me his location and room number, and was sitting naked on his bed just as I’d told him, I knew that he was going to be the third of my readers to get bred by the Breeder’s dick. We didn’t really come up for air until we were both on the bed, making out like teenagers at a party in somebody’s mom’s basement. “Well hey there, professor,” I said to him. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, looking at me with something akin to marvel. “You’re so handsome, too.” From time to time he would regard me as if I were some kind of legend sprung to life, a figure of myth or a religious icon that had stripped down in his room and decided to get dirty with him. The sensation of awe was palpable, and a little unsettling at times. “I want to give you so much pleasure today. It’s all about you today. If you let me,” he said, sounding hopeful and tentative all at the same time. Of course, if being regarded with a little bit of awe resulted in that kind of offer, I was down with it. The professor did give me pleasure—immense amounts of it. Wave upon wave of it, in fact, as he settled my naked body back against a bank of pillows and sucked my dick. I didn’t protest or feel guilty about the attention. It was what I’d come for. Sometimes he’d break contact with my meat and reach up to kiss me, still hungry for my mouth. I’d hold his face with my hands and we’d kiss more, which would only make me harder for him. He turned me over and ate my ass for what seemed like hours, without me having to betray my anxiety about asking for it; he nibbled at my nuts and chewed at my nipples in just the right amount. After an hour of being showered with attention, though, I couldn’t take any more. “I have to fuck you,” I told him. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He gulped audibly. “Good god yes.” The professor didn’t protest at all when I flipped him onto his stomach and began licking at his ass. He groaned, and quivered, and began thrusting his hips into the mattress with very tiny motions, as if impatient for me to enter. I positioned my dick against his hole and stretched up so that I could whisper in his ear. At the same time, I spat in my hand and worked it onto my knob for lube. “You came to town just to have this dick,” I growled. He whimpered, agreeing. “Are you ready for it?” “I want it so bad,” he said, clutching the pillows. “Please.” I swear, I hadn’t meant to enter him right away. I’d only wanted to tease his underused hole with the tip of my dick and to get him yearning for it. When I pushed forward a little to find the hole’s edge, though, I found myself sliding in, and not meeting any resistance whatsoever. Just warmth, and a slight moisture, and the depths of his hole. The guy was wide open for me. “Oh my god,” I said, marveling at how easily I’d slipped all the way in. “When was the last time you were fucked?” “To be totally honest, the last time was the day after Christmas, last year,” said the professor, chuckling nervously. Ruefully, he added, “Boxing day.” I wouldn’t have been able to tell it had been ten months, to be honest. “But I’ve been practicing with my Jeff Stryker dildo, to be ready for you.” “I’m no Jeff Stryker,” I told him. “No. You’re more handsome. And you’re bigger.” Well, there was no way to respond to that one save for with a kiss to shush his nonsense. I haven’t shot so much cum lately as I did last Wednesday afternoon. Load number one I shot directly into his hole after fucking him slowly and in a number of positions; number two arrived quickly afterwards, when I was still dicking him in my own load and getting a little overexcited at the sensations. “Are you going to write about me?” he asked, while we were relaxing a little after that. “Of course” I said. “I write about just about all the sex I have.” “Be kind,” he joked. I make a noise expressing derision of that. “You have no idea how I love reading about your adventures. You’re like a Quixotic, picaresque hero of an eighteenth-century novel. I picture you in a broad-rimmed hat, and knee-high leather boots, and a poofy shirt, with a saber at your side, bedding your way across the western world in a series of comic and erotic scenarios.” I rather liked that vision of myself, and told him so. “You’re so accessible, though,” he said as a follow-up. “I love your Byronic hair.” Which I took to mean messy, and floppy, and mostly in his mouth. “I kind of find it amazing that an A-Lister like yourself would even have sex with a B-Lister like m—” I stopped that train of discussion immediately. “For someone so highly educated,” I told him sternly, “you couldn’t say anything dumber.” I am on nobody’s A List, truth be told. And if someone does have an A List, they’re likely not the sort of person I’m interested in meeting or hanging around. I’m ready to like the people I meet, period. No matter what their size or shape or length or girth, they either all bring something to the table, in which case I glow about them, or they bring little to nothing at all, in which case I walk away disappointed. With the professor, there was no chance of disappointment. I went back in him for a third load, and then to my surprise, pumped a fourth in his hole. There was something about the way his ass felt against my hips and thighs that made penetration very pleasurable in a way that the guys who are all hipbone and skin don’t manage. When he wheedled, “Can I feel you in me one more time?” when I was getting ready to go, I couldn’t help myself. Nothing against you twinky guys—you know I love you to death, too. But often nothing’s better a hot, beefy man with a little meat of his bones. There ain’t nothing B-List about that. And that’s how the professor was the first person I’ve been with in over a year got five loads out of me in less than three hours, all of them deep into his hungry hole. Who’s stepping up to be reader number four? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Since my contest last week, in which I offered a cum-crusted pair of briefs in a random giveaway (congratulations to Jase for winning those, by the way . . . they'll be in tomorrow's mail), I've received a number of discreet inquiries from readers about the possibility of purchasing a similar pair. Who am I to say no to such an opportunity to capitalize upon my popularity, such as it is? Readers, such a thing can be easily worked out. Contact me directly at the email address in the sidebar, and we can negotiate. I still have a major adventure from last week to write up, but today, as ever is our custom here on Sundays, I'll be recapping some of the answers I've been giving to anonymous questions on formspring.me. You guys have been sending in and posting some provocative questions there lately, and I thank you for them. Not only do they give me something interesting to consider, but it also lets me read the general vibe of interest out there. So speak up! As always, if you'd prefer to ask your questions directly, emailing me is good, too. I get to all my emails. Eventually, anyway! About how many men have you had sex with in your life? I have not kept track, but I'd hit the quadruple digits before my twenties. I'm sure it's a number that would either make people envious or appalled. How much debt are you in?? The double question marks make it sound as if you assume I'm swimming in it. I have a mortgage, and a car to pay off, and that's about it. Why, do you want to be my sugar daddy? I'm all for it. I apologize if this is a dupe. Do you ever feel as if you've lost a little piece of you when you make love to a stranger opposed to just fucking a stranger? How do you develop intimacy so quickly with a stranger? One can tell a lot about a stranger by his or her body language—the way he responds to a hand on the side of his face, the way he kisses, whether or not he lingers and wants more or avoids it completely and wants to get down to business. I'm pretty good at assessing what a person needs and desires, and the style in which they want it, before we've exchanged even more than a couple of words. Then I place myself in the position of giving them what they need. If they're open to intimacy, at that point I've established it. I don't think that making love to someone gives part of myself away. It's rewarding on its own terms, even with someone I know I'll never see again. Sport fucking, done in the right spirit with both parties, is equally as fun. It's the sex that's fraught with miscommunication, frustration, and charged with my partner's fear of his own desires that I find dehumanizing and frustrating, and feels as if I've had bits of me stolen and trampled upon. Good question. You love to be rimmed. Are there any other places on your body where you loved to be touched? My neck and back are highly sensitive and I crave attention there, whether from a pair of lips, or hands, or fingertips. I am also a sucker for foot massage or touching. There's really no portion of my body I don't like touched. When you are going out to breed a new hole, do you take a fuck pack and, if so, what would be inside? I do not. I will wear a cock ring sometimes, and occasionally take a small bottle of lube with me on occasion, but otherwise I show up with the only equipment kneed, right between my legs. You're amazing! Your stories about endless sex are fantastic. How do you get so much ass and still not get STD's...going bareback all the time! What's the secret? While it's true that one can catch an STD through unprotected sex, it doesn't follow that every act of unprotected sex leads to an STD. I've only had four incidents in my sexual career, and three of those were with crabs. Why so fast for the move? I'm not really anticipating making the actual move for another two months at least, so it's not that fast. What did you have to put away to make your place presentable for selling? Just the sling, the fuck bench, the pillory, the meathooks in the basement, the built-in gloryhole wall, the St Andrew's cross, the enema room, the donkey's stable (and they donkey), the fucking machine, and the cotton candy maker. Not much. Why? Any professors from your past you wish you had bottomed for but didn't? Topped? There was a theater faculty member--he taught set design and construction--for whom I would have presented my hole. There was also a PE instructor I had for two semesters whom I thought was hot as hell. I can't remember either of their names, however. Scenario: you're the top to one bottom, one session...what's the largest number of hole poundings/loadings (one bottom, one session) you've done in your illustrious career? Seven. Biggest number of men you bottomed for in a day? Thirteen. Can we, your fans, reasonably hope that you will one day have sex at the Icelandic Phallological Museum? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_Phallological_Museum) Gosh, a guy can hope! What, if anything, do you miss about bottoming? I miss the weight of a body on top of mine, most of all. It's a weird thing to miss, isn't it? I liked the warmth of it, and the security of being pinned down in that way. If you were going to a fancy dress party, who would you dress as? For a Wizard of Oz party once, I wore a Hawaiian shirt. Hanging from the bottom hem I'd pinned a decal from a Lucky Charms breakfast cereal box. It was Summerwear Over the Rainbow. Geddit? Geddit? Well, I thought it was funny. Do you have a celebrity look alike? In my twenties, I was told I looked like Sting, and was once mistaken for Entertainment Tonight host John Tesh. I don't think they look similar at all, though. Other than the guy in the AT&T 'Pure Imagination' TV ad, I don't think I have any lookalikes out there. I'm going on a trip to CO in about a week. I have a hot buddy that I'll be staying with. We almost participated in a gang bang few yrs ago but it didn't happen. Any tips on how I can get him to j/o with me? Assume that he's straight. Bring out the beers. Talk about chicks. Remind him relentlessly of the gang bang. If all else fails, get him alone and put on some porn, either on the TV or the laptop. Given your mention of Jerry Springer, what Jerry Springer Show style topics can you think of that would accurately reflect things, men, and women you've done in your past? "Just 'Cuz You Ain't Buyin' It Don't Mean I Ain't Sellin' It" "I'm A Teenaged 'Ho--And You Can't Stop Me!" "He Ain't Heavy--He's My Brother . . . And My Lover!" "I'm The Bitch Who Stole Your Man, Bitch!" "You Used Me For My Sperm And That Ain't Right!" To name a few. Awesome question. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Google Scribe. Heard of it? It's one of Google's experimental projects that projects what one is about to write, as one writes it. Well heck. That certainly sounded relaxing to me. I could do with a good day off in which all I had to do was punch a button here or there while some invisible Google pixies did the smut-writing for me. So in the interests of experimentation—and let's face it, the gleaming, lazy prospect of not having to think about all those pesky color words and adjectives and watching my adverbs and subject-verb agreements (not that it stops me most of the time)—I took some of my more popular recent entries, typed in a few words from them, and let the invisible pixies finish the rest. Here's our alternate version of this week's Restroom Lunch (as always, click on the images to enlarge them): Nice! I like it! Those American Chemical Society boys are the biggest sluts I've ever met. And remember Boy in the Woods? I could've saved myself a whole couple of hours if I'd just gone with the Google Scribe flow: I'm not exactly sure how cats and small enterprise development connect, but I'm sure it would've been hot! Charming Accent was one of my more popular entries in the last couple of months. Oh, if only I'd thought of taking a rip-roaring fuck in that direction. Well, live and learn. And finally, An Open Letter to the Hungry Bottoms of the World takes on an entirely new tone, thanks to Scribe: Dear people of the mighty Google corporation—I'd like to thank you for your new tool. I'll be using it all the time for my entries from now on, so I can spend less time thinking of proper English and trying to summon up images and metaphors and all that mess, and utilize my newly-free time in some new hobby. Like Farmville, maybe, or macrame. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The only thing I knew about the guy was that his online name was SexInPublic, that he had a couple of photos showing a beefy, hairy body and a nice mouth fringed with fur, and that judging by his profile, we both liked to cruise the same places. Would love to run into you at the mall restroom, he emailed me out of the blue earlier this week, naming the mall where I do most of my hooking up when I’m in that kind of mood. Damn nice cock—bet you deliver a hell of a load, too. It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down? Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours. Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock. And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down. I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures. While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands. The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face. I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife. My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly. And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick. Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition. When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs. I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said. “Now?” I raised my eyebrows. “Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth. I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.” I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it. It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed. When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands. I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip. No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The guy had it all—on my computer screen, anyway. His Manhunt profile pics showed him to be a scruffy guy of about thirty. His arms curved and bulged in all the right places. His chest was muscular, defined, and shaved smooth. His stomach was flat, his waist narrow. All of his photos showed a side view off his round little butt, a perky mound of flesh as cute as a bunny’s. They’d all been taken from the same angle—left side presented to the camera lens, head tilted up, eyebrows raised and arched as he pulled the exact same smile time after time—as if someone had once told him he looked really hot from that particular stance and he’d decided never to vary from it. He was hot, in short, and our online correspondence had been pretty much to the point. You're hot. I want you to fuck the bejesus out of me, he’d said. You free? Free and ready, I wrote back. I really need to be fucked. I can come over now if you’re hosting. I was hosting, so I suggested he call so I could give him directions. My phone rang; I picked it up, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a deep, sexy voice at the other end. “I’m only like ten minutes from you, man,” he growled, sounding in my right ear like testosterone and pure sex. “Give me your address, fucker.” I told him the cross-streets I was closest to, then launched into my MapQuest routine. “It’ll be easiest if you take the freeway until you reach my exit,” I started. I continued in that vein for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Uh-huh.” Then, as I was telling him my street address, he let out this nasal, driven grunt. “Unhhhh!” The noise was strange enough to arrest me in mid-sentence. “What was that?” “You know what?” he said. I had to blink a few times at my end of the conversation. The guy’s voice had completely changed. Before it had been heavy, deep, sex-laden. Now it was light and casual, the voice of a guy making light chit-chat at a bar before he excused himself for a smoke. “Something just kind of came up, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. So. . . .” “Did you just come?” I asked, unable to believe what I was hearing. The fucker had just shot his wad while I’d been giving him my god-damned street number. “Um.” “You just came,” I said. “You blew your load while I was telling you my address.” He at least had the decency to sound sheepish about it, slightly. “I didn’t mean to, dude.” “You had your hand on it or something, dude,” I repeated, emphasizing the familiarity in an annoyed way. “You seriously couldn’t keep your hands off yourself for ten fucking minutes?” “Hey, don’t be annoyed,” he said, sounding impatient with me—as if it were my fault the back of his hand was covered with spunk. It was too late for that, though. I shook my head and hung up on the guy, then logged back on Manhunt. Guys are always curious why my ignore list there seems to be so much longer than my list of buddies. All I can say is that every guy on that page has a little story. Just like the guy who had it all—on my computer screen, anyway. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I spent much of Sunday morning at the mercy of friends. When finally I got some alone time at around five-thirty, I flipped up the lid of my notebook and logged onto Manhunt. My buddy with the private gloryhole, Urlipsmypole, was online. I opened up and looked at his profile. I knew that’s all it would take. My name would appear on the list of who viewed him, and if he wanted me, he’d let me know. It didn’t take thirty seconds for my menubar to flash that I had mailing waiting. Haven’t seen you in a while, he wrote. It had been all of three weeks, really. Let me know when we can meet again. My reply was more direct. How about now? I wrote. I can be there in 10 minutes. All I need to do is pull on my pants. You put yours on and I’ll take mine off, he said. See you in 10. I love it when hookups are that simple. The guy lives in my neighborhood; all I have to do is drive a few blocks east, head north, and cross one semi-major road to get to his house. As always, his back yard was immaculate. I wasn’t admiring his even clumps of cornflowers or his freshly-painted birdhouses, though, when I opened the latch to his gate and let myself onto his back porch. I was too busily thrusting my hands deep in my jeans to conceal the erection snaking down one pants leg. Once I’d closed the door behind me, though, my hands scrambled to loosen the buttons of my fly. I dropped my jeans below my knees, and knelt down on the pillows set before the wooden partition, dick in hand. The hole was at face level before me, shadowed by the form in the kitchen beyond. Both that room and the porch lay in the artificial twilight of drawn shades and blinds and shutters; it was possible for me to see the outlines of forms, but little else. When the man’s dick eased out through the hole, though, I could see it well enough. I sighed, and touched it, and brought it to my mouth. It had occurred to me on my short drive over that perhaps I could get some photos, or maybe even a video while I nursed on my buddy’s dick through the hole. Secretly, of course—I didn’t want the flash going off during the experience, giving the game away. I’d brought up my phone’s camera application while driving, and turned off the phone’s volume so there wouldn’t be any of those giveaway clicking noises. As I began to suck my anonymous friend’s meat, angling my head so that it could accommodate its downward curve, I fished in my pocket and withdrew the device and turned it on by feel. As I still sucked, getting his rod slick with my spit and letting him enjoy the warmth of his mouth, out of the corner of my eyes I peered at the camera and tried to adjust the settings. Then I positioned my finger over what I hoped was the on-screen shutter button, pointed it in the general direction of my face, and pressed. Then I repeated it a couple of more times, hoping something would take. I wasn’t there with the goal only of taking photos of myself sucking dick, though; that wasn’t my primary purpose. I had a cock to please. So I put the camera back in my pocket and got back to the matter at hand. I squeezed the guy’s shaft with the palm of my right hand, took both of his nuts in my mouth and sucked on them, and then returned my attention to my buddy’s engorged, dripping cock head. I’m not sure if the camera inspired my cocksucking, Sunday afternoon, or whether he or I were just unusually horny, but I had the man close to orgasm in almost no time flat. Usually I work him to a climax slowly, using first my mouth alone and then using my fingers, one by one, for more stimulation. Sunday, however, I didn’t need any of that. I had stuck the first joint of my left index finger into my mouth as I sucked and gotten it wet. Then I simply applied its tip to his taint, right at the area directly behind his sack. Something about the slippery stimulus right at that spot pushed my friend to the edge very closely. I heard him gasp; his started thrusting through the cutout hole and banging his hips into the plywood so that it rattled with every grind. “Oh, fuck,” I heard him say on the other side. I slipped my finger back into my mouth and gently stroked it along the underside of his tightening nut sack, using the same motion I might to tell someone to come closer. He did come closer, and closer. His breath came in ragged pulses, and before I knew it, I felt his dick force itself forward, deeper down my mouth until the tip was lodged in my throat. Then he started to unload. Gush after gush came, out, collecting in the back of my mouth and in my throat. I forced my windpipe to stay open, and willed myself not to choke on the volume of sperm he was pushing out. Finally, though, it subsided. I opened my mouth and my throat, collected as much of it as I could, and swallowed in one gulp. I savored the salty fluid as it went down. Then I clamped my mouth around his dick again, as I fisted myself to my own climax. He always waits for me to finish, when I suck him. His pleasure comes first, then mine. I came noisily, my grunts and cries muffled by the cock plugging my mouth, the harsh huffs of air from my nose cooling the top of his dick. My semen went all over the floor—the pillow, the towels covering it, the stairs leading up to the kitchen, the plywood. I shuddered, and closed my eyes. Then he withdrew, knowing I was done. “Damn!” I heard him call out in the darkness. “I needed that, boy!” I could see his lean form stride away from the partition between us, as he padded off in search of clothing. That was my cue to pull up my jeans, button up, and get the hell out. Some of his cum was still on my lips at that point. I didn’t want to wipe it away quite yet. “Thank you,” I whispered through the hole, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, and that he wasn’t listening. “Thank you so much.” I don’t get to indulge that side of my desires very often. The opportunity always deserves thanks. (For a dark video of part of the experience, please visit my Xtube page. The things I do for you guys!) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wanted to make his hole hurt. It was that simple. The man was sprawled out on my mattress, clutching one of my pillows between his hands so that he could bury his face in its depths. His ass was in the air, as perfectly round as a melon. His knees were spread to the cracking point at the nine and the three of an imaginary clock. His thinning hair was tousled and messy; he clasped his hands over the back of his neck and locked them. The posture couldn’t have been any more submissive. And I wanted to make his hole hurt. I don’t know why the man brought out that vicious top side of me. He was just some fuck from the internet who’d promised to be available in the morning, and who’d actually followed through—which is something of a rarity. When he’d showed up to my place at the appointed time, he’d proven to be much smaller in frame and stature than I’d imagined. He couldn’t have been any more than five-four, or weighed more than a buck-ten. His shoulders were narrow, and his waist tinier than that. The dick that swung limp and useless between his legs with every one of my thrusts was like my pinky finger. Perhaps it was his tininess bringing out my savage side. Unlike the large men I have to mount and ride, this guy I could really manhandle. Moving him into positive felt like lifting him up and spearing his hole onto my red, angry dick. Every time I pulled it out of his greased-up hole and let it throb and vibrate outside that little hairy brown pucker, the contrast between my size and his made me want to drive back into him without consideration, without restraint. Without thought, almost. Maybe it was the noises he made. When I would plow into him, he’d grunt. Or whimper. Or catch his breath and groan. His wasn’t the porn-flick dirty-talk, or the practiced, melodious moan of a slut pretending to enjoy himself. No, the noises he made were beyond words, beyond thought. Whether of pleasure or pain, they were the sounds an animal would make. I took an enormous pride in reducing him to that. I wanted to make his hole hurt. I wanted to make him remember me. I moved to the left so that my hips were no longer in perfect alignment with his own. When I thrust in, hard, my cement-hard dick went in at an oblique angle, driving toward his right hipbone. His head flew back. His eyes opened, his jaw went slack. The noise he made was almost more engine than human—the slow whine of his gears grinding to a screeching halt. I withdrew, and moved slightly to his right. When I went in again, my dick popped a painful curve to the left, stretching his chute in an entirely new direction. The little fuck’s head dropped. His forehead collided with the pillow with an audible thud. He said something. I reached out with my hand and seized the scruff on the back of his head, so I could yank it up. “What?” I asked. “Stretch me,” he whispered. I couldn’t even make out the words at first. I was already eight inches deep, but it felt I slipped in another inch or three as I pushed my weight onto his little body and moved my head closer to his mouth so I could hear. “Stretch me,” he said, soft as the patter of snow falling against a frozen pane of glass. “Stretch me open. Ruin it. Use it. Stretch me.” “Is that what you want?” I twisted his head so that he had to look at me through squinted eyes. His head nodded, very, very slightly. “All right then, fucker.” When I drove in the next time, this time pointing my dick in the general direction of the mattress, his knees buckled. He let out another animal noise. Not agony, this time. Not entirely. Mostly it was pleasure. Maybe it wasn’t the size of him, or the barely human sounds he made. Maybe, I thought, as I began to savage his hole and build up to the load that would be filling him very, very soon, maybe it was his hunger that fed my angry lusts. Maybe it was that he’d given me permission to fuck as two men really could, but not often do. When I sent him home, two loads and an hour later, he walked with the crab-legged gait of a man who’d be having a hard time sitting down for the rest of the day. He thanked me for it, of course. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Before we hold the grand prize drawing today, I'd first like to thank the editor of gaydemon.com for his kind recommendation of this blog as an editor's pick. For those of you unfamiliar with the site, gaydemon.com collects, indexes, and reviews gay porn sites, and brings its fans a fresh dose of boner-inducing goodness on a daily basis. If you're one of my new readers or followers, welcome! I'll be getting back to my usual ramblings about my sex life after today's contest drawing—but in the meantime, you've plenty of back entries to catch up on. There will possibly be a pop quiz at some point, after all. You can always explore the links in the sidebar to find my various online profiles, my Twitter stream, my formspring.me question site, and my various wish lists, if you're so inclined. This week I'll be writing (and posting a couple of photos and a video) about a gloryhole session I had yesterday, and I still have a fuck from last week to catch up on as well. Back to our contest. Between your emails and your comments on Thursday's entry, as well as a couple of entries over at formspring.me, I had over 70 entrants in the Win A Pair of The Breeder's Cum-Crusted Shorts contest. That's a flattering number of men who want to get into my pants today. I've entered all the names into an application designed for random lottery drawings. The winner will have until Thursday morning to contact me via email (see the 'email me' link under 'More About the Breeder' sidebar) with a mailing address. If I don't hear from him by then, I'll draw another name and repeat the process. And the winner is. . . . Jase — who commented with the thought the contest was 'hot, and a totally cool idea'. I'm glad you think so, Jase! Because now you'll be getting the spooge-covered grand prize. Contact me to pick up your winnings, my friend. And if anyone has more ideas for future contests, let me know. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thanks, readers, for helping me hit a quarter of a million unique visitors this morning. It happened at 8:41, my time. How do I know? Because I happened to check the counter at that time, and it read 250,001. Next stop, five hundred thousand—then world domination! In the most pleasurable sense of the word domination, of course. Don't forget: I'm giving away a pair of Jockey bikinis crusted with my cum to celebrate. If you'd like to enter to win this DNA-laden prize, all you need to do is leave a comment on Thursday's blog entry by tomorrow morning. I'll be selecting a name from all the entrants, and that person will have a couple of days to get in touch with me and provide an address. None of us think any the less of anyone who enters, trust me. So drop me a comment and you might win. If you were blindfolded & were asked to taste & to smell a specimen of cum, would you be able to identify by taste & aroma whose cum it was? It's unlikely. Of which of these terms do you approve & of which, disapprove?...bottom, man pussy, hole, pussy hole, mangina, anus, ass, butt, bum, arse, behind, buttocks, derriere, backside. What term do you yourself use to describe your anus? I don't usually disapprove of language at all. I usually call my own, 'my butt.' Ok, I have a bit of a "thing" for GloryHoles. I see them, and a switch flips- ALL I want to do is Worship and Pleasure the cock that comes sliding through. What are your thoughts on them? I live local to you and the idea of backing my ass down over you I'm a gloryhole fan. Most of my very earliest public sex encounters were through gloryholes. They're hard to find in my vicinity nowadays, however; the only ones I know of that aren't in one adult bookstore are private gloryholes that various men have set up in their houses. If you're local to me, we should fuck around. Get in touch with me. Can you tell when you're topping a guy who's never been with anyone as big as you? Do you enjoy that? Usually I can tell because they say so. However, there's a breed of guy who won't tell me in advance because they're frightened I might back off, or not fuck them hard, or deep, or that perhaps I won't fuck them altogether, if they admit I'm bigger than their previous dicks. I can usually tell with them simply by the look of apprehension in their eyes, and the way they react when it starts to go in. Truth be told, it kind of turns me on. Can you tell us more about the sex (I think it was during college for you) that turned you on to topping? What did that guy do? I addressed your question in depth in a blog post entitled "The Fulcrum." Thanks for inspiring me to write about it. Do you lubricate your boy scruffy when you fuck him? I don't fuck without lube. I produce enough precum to do the job in most cases, but I'm careful about chafing myself. My experience is that if never mentioned, the majority of men will give it take it bare. So I don't bring it up one way or another. What has your experience been with this? My experience is very much the same. It also seems as if every man who says he's into safe sex only barebacks when the pants come off—including some extremely rigid safe sex advocates. Out in Public (http://www.outinpublic.com/) features gay sex in various public venues. Which of the venues features in OiP's videos have you had sex in (you've prev written about restroom-sex)? Which have you not had sex in, but would consider trying out? Here are the sites on OiP and my checklist: Construction site: Yes On the beach: Yes Behind a motorcycle repair shop: I don't know where one is, sadly. Bike path: Yes Truck stop: Oh yes Frozen foods section of a gas station: Um, no, nor would I Restaurant kitchen: Yes, when it was closed Theater: Oh yes Outside a gas station: Not right by the pumps like those guys, but in the woods nearby, yes Mechanic shop: Yes, but it was closed On a bus in Russia: No In the cold foods aisle of a supermarket: No (what's with all the refrigerated foods?) Department store dressing room: Yes Car wash: No Night club alley: Well, yes Under a restaurant table: Only a hand job Public bathroom: Yes Office building roof: Yeesh, no Behind a dumpster: Yes Public park: Yes Docks: Yes Parking lot: Yes, at night Scenario...line of urinals in a crowded public men's room, handsome guy standing on your right & staring at your cock...would you then & there jerk off? I've done that many, many times. You wrote that you were moving to the Bay State, coastal. To which part of the coastline will you be cumming? Actually, I'm moving to the Nutmeg State. Moving from the savage Wolverine State to the Nutmeg State is a bit of a comedown. They should've just named it the Tea Cozy State or We're A State of Big Ol' Bottoms and called it a day. This is supposed to be a question, so I'll ask, are you looking forward to a meeting a new breed of boys in NewYorkachusetts? I am sad to be leaving many of my long-time friends and sexual partners, some of whom I've had for over a dozen years at this point. But I am kind of looking forward to being 'new meat' in my upcoming home. It would be an honor if I could be your first New England fuck. Could we make this so? Someone's got to be first, right? Should I have a competition? An auction? For charity? Man, I LOVE reading of your adventures... and your view on life. I hope you keep this window open for a long while, it makes my dick hard and my mind Think! Ok, apple polishing time is over.. I was wondering.. you have not mentioned your FLESHLIGHT in Your question cut off, but my Fleshlight is doing well. Now that I've learned to soak it in warm water for a few minutes before penetrating it, I've been fucking it senseless every couple of weeks. I'd kind of like to share it with someone. I'd get off on that. Are you able to part with any of your books as you get ready to move? Funny you should ask. I have four cartons of books to give away (and fifty boxes of books to keep). I haven't yet gone through all the cookbooks I intend to throw out, either. What would you say is different, for both you and the bottom, when you're making love as opposed to just fucking him? Fucking is hydraulics. Making love is human. When I make love with someone, I like my partner to know that I am there, in the moment, and enjoying the totality of the experience. I'm not using a body part, or banging an anonymous hole. I'm passionate, and sensual, and bringing all of my experiences and the totality of who I am into the bed with me. I enjoy both, but I think you can tell which I prefer. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Don't forget I'll be giving away these, come Monday (pun intended): Oh man, did I get something new on those?! Click on the link above to see how to enter. (Pun not so intended, that time.) More...