TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This will be my last installment on the pig party from last Saturday. I was there for so long, and the evening had several moods. It was difficult to roll them all into one entry. There was a moment before the sex started, though, when all of us were down in the basement and outside of the dungeon door, removing our clothes. I was talking to Chaz, whom I’d very much enjoyed at the first of Hardy’s pig parties. When we weren’t fucking that first night, we’d spent a lot of time on Hardy’s sofa, talking about concerts we’d both attended and musical groups we admired. We were kind of catching up, Saturday night, as we removed our clothing at the bottom of the stairs, when out of the blue he asked, “So does Mike ever come with you to these things?” “Mmmmike?” I repeated, not really understanding. Hardy’s friend, out-of-town Mike, was standing across the room. “He’s from Ohio. He’s Hardy’s friend, not mine.” “Not that Mike,” said Chaz, gesturing with his head to the guy near us. “Your Mike. Mikey.” I blinked several times, and realized exactly who he was talking about. I also realized that Chaz was letting me in on the fact he knew what Mikey was to me. “Oh. Mike. Well, I’m sure he would, but he and Hardy don’t know each other.” Hardy was walking down the stairs, carrying bowls with the snacks I’d brought. “Who is this?” he asked, overhearing. I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know exactly what I planned to say. Chaz stepped in and smoothly announced, “One of his friends.” There was a certain flatness to the word ‘friends’ that let me know, if I’d had any lingering doubts, that Chaz had talked to Mikey at some point. It wasn’t until later in the evening, after I’d fucked everybody there and fisted both out-of-town Mike and Hardy, that Chaz and I got a chance to talk again. We sat on the sofa, naked. Our limbs were intertwined together. He reached up and rubbed the back of my neck, hard, making me purr like a kitten. Hardy had laid down a towel on the cushions on my other side, and was leaning against me. “So I’m the only person who didn’t get to be in a sling tonight,” I said, after a moment. The Silver Fox and out-of-town Mike were still playing with each other across the room. We watched them idly. “Did you want to be in a sling?” asked Chaz. I kind of did, actually. If someone had offered to give me a really good rim job in one, I would’ve hopped right up. I would’ve tried the deceptively simple wrist restraints, and put my feet in the straps. No one asked, though, and I worried slightly about what would have happened after that, so I kept my mouth shut on the topic. “I got in my first sling at the age of fifteen,” I told them. “No way,” said Chaz. “Get out,” said Hardy. I nodded. It was the truth. “How old were you when you started messing around with guys?” “Twelve,” I told them. “Started getting fucked at twelve, started whoring at fourteen, first sling at fifteen.” They seemed both delighted and appalled by the confession. “I had a friend who put himself through school with money he made whoring himself,” he said. “He got me into it for two weeks because he told me it was easy cash. I didn’t like it, though. I wasn’t cut out for it.” I grinned. “In my mid-twenties I actually made the down-payment on my first house with money I earned from selling myself in my teens.” “Oh my god. You.” Hardy hopped to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and wandered off. I could tell he didn’t know whether to believe me or not. Chaz ruffled my hair. “Was Mikey your first sling?” I laughed. “No. Hardly.” Since we were alone, I decided to ask. “You know that Mike’s more than my friend, right?” “He told me. We talked.” His hand reached down to my dick and began to stroke. After about four hours of non-stop action I was a little worn down, but I had enough oomph in me to get hard again. “Okay. As long as you aren’t freaked by it?” “I was surprised, but not really surprised,” he admitted. “My brother and I were active with each other when we were kids.” “Younger or older?” “He was older. So you and I are both younger brothers. Cool. Yeah, we played around for about four years, then he went totally straight. He’s married now, two kids. I try talking to him, but there’s always something left unsaid between us. I know he’s got to think about it. We just never talk in that direction.” When I let my hand drift down to between his legs, I discovered that Chaz was rock hard again as well. “So when Mike told me that you two . . . well, I kind of gathered you still do stuff.” I inclined my head to agree. “It’s hot.” “Guys either find it totally hot, or totally repellant,” I admitted. “I think my brother worries, when he looks at me. When he looks at me. . . .” “. . . You think he’s worrying that he made you what you are? I think Mikey worries about that a lot.” I’d spoken too soon, and wrongly. “No, I think he worries I might come on to him,” said Chaz. He thought about it a minute. “Maybe I should. Maybe I should just grab him and bone him. Bone the shit out of him.” His voice was kidding, but his dick was not. “Mikey tends to be very competitive with me. We . . . compare notes,” I said. “Talk about things. Guys. After I tell him I’ve been with a man, three days later I’ll find out he’s sweet-talked his way there too.” “Hilarious,” said Chaz, squeezing me. He kissed me. “And hot.” “Mark my words. By Tuesday you’ll be writing me an email to say he’s been over to your place. It’ll happen.” Hardy wandered back then with a drink, so we changed the topic to other, more general things. The Fox and out-of-town Mike finished up their fuck, and collapsed on the floor near us. The party was due to break up soon. We all could sense it, but we sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit until our heads had cleared enough to dress and go on our ways. “Say hi to Mike for me,” said Chaz as we parted. “Who’s this other Mike person you guys keep talking about?” Hardy asked. This time, both Chaz and I spoke simultaneously. “A friend.” “Three days,” I told him, as I waved goodbye and walked off down the dark suburban street where I’d parked my car. “Mark my words.” I got an email from Chaz, Monday night. It only took two, he wrote. More...

To see Bend Me Over's original blog post click here A couple of readers liked my last post describing what it was like to take a beating. That's good. For me it meant testing some boundaries and finding some interesting things about the body and the mind. Which I guess is one of the reasons we blog. In the same spirit ... check out the latest post from The Breeder. I've only ever once managed to take a fist (not for want of trying) but this post has left me hungry for more. You couldn't ask for a better story of what a fist can mean for top and bottom. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I do it because I like to hear the man’s body speak. When people look at one of my online profiles and see I’m into fisting, a lot of them automatically assume, or fear, that I’m one of those cigar-chompin’, leather-wearin’, shit-talkin’ top men who doesn’t take guff and prefers to be called ‘sir’ even in my downtime. Those who’ve never experienced fist-fucking tend to assume it’s one of the nastiest extremes of sex, an invasive and degrading procedure that forever renders a guy submissive and unable to control his bowel movements. Some of them assume, and state right up front, that I’m going to turn every encounter into a handballing session. (“I’m not into that if it’s a requirement!”) A lot of the fisting porn that’s out there doesn’t really erase any of the impression that it’s a sexual variation performed by anyone other than the most hardened, muscular, and depraved of homosexuals. I have a friend from college who, I found out many years later, started making fisting films. All the descriptions from the video company talk about his scenes with a language that’s extreme and provocative. He doesn’t merely get fisted in the movies he’s made. He bends over like a bitch! And has his boypussy turned into gaping manflaps! By big, brutal meaty paws! That hole-punch him to a whimpering, wide-open man-whore! Yeah, I’d be running away from fisters too, if I thought my hole was going to be reduced to gaping manflaps. Jesus. I’m not hardened, or outstandingly muscular. Depraved, maybe. But fisting’s not like that at all. At least, it doesn’t have to be. Take Hardy, for example. The guy takes major things up his ass. The shelving unit of toys he keeps in his basement has a bin full of giant dildos, buttplugs the general size of traffic cones, and one of those life-sized latex arms that I suspect most stores stock only as a novelty item. He loves to be fisted. And he loves the way I fist him. For me, fisting is less about invasive hole-punching and more about creative, sensual, hand-and-ass play. It’s slow, and quiet. It’s intimate and reflective. Meditative, even. When Hardy hopped up into his leather hammock the other night and let his feet rest in the stirrups, I put a towel on the chair at the sling’s base and made myself comfortable. Hardy had already laid a bowl of shortening at arm’s reach. Next to it sat a rubber squeeze-bulb of a thick, clear lubricant with an eight-inch long, thin neck. Once we were both settled, I reached into the shortening, scooped up three fingers of it, and started rubbing it onto and in Hardy’s hole. Two fingers. That’s all I insert inside him to begin. He receives them easily. I’d just finished fucking him only moments before, so he’s still open and sticky. I ease in as much of the white, fluffy goop as possible, turning my fingers around and around. He sighs, and I know I can move on. Three fingers. My thumb and pinkie act as a natural base as I ease my fingers in and out. I like keeping my face close to the hole, when I’m opening it slowly. It’s not that I have to be close to hear the sounds of Hardy’s gentle moaning, or to smell the Crisco, but I like being near to him, when I’m doing this. The sling’s a fine place to give me easy access to a hole, but I’ve fisted most men in their beds, and I hold them in the same way; I like to be as close to them as possible, so that this is an experience we’re sharing. Not an operation. Not something I’m performing on them. I like laying a hand upon my partner’s stomach as I move in and out, sometimes. I can feel his body speak to me this way. When he’s tense, before he’s ready for more, his stomach will be tight and distended. As he relaxes, his breathing becomes deeper and more regular, and that’s when I know it’s all right to proceed. Four fingers. When my pinkie joins the others, I scoop up more shortening from the bowl with my free, left hand. With my index and middle finger, I smooth more of around my knuckles, and push it deeper into Hardy’s widening hole. Only my thumb is on the outside, now. He can feel immediately the difference, and his stomach distends again. I hear him take a deep breath as my fingers compress into a column and move in and out, in and out, in a slow and deliberate motion. The girth of my four longest fingers is really no more than of my dick. Any resistance he has at this point is sheerly mental, as he envisions how my hand must look as it disappears into him. I rest my head upon the inside of his thigh, closing my eyes and enjoying the sensation of his flesh around my skin. Five fingers. Again I slather on more of the Crisco with my free hand, then wipe it on a towel. My thumb takes its place with my other fingers, nestling in the hollow they’ve created for it. The shortening that I add all around the circumference of my hand now reaches almost to my wrist. My knuckles gently nudge against his hole, causing his breathing to become more shallow. He shifts uneasily, knowing what comes next. With my left hand, I pick up the rubber squeeze bottle. My thumb eases out, and the long neck replaces it. I ease the black nozzle into his ass and give the bulb a squeeze until I can feel a puddle of cool liquid around my fingertips. When the bottle’s on the floor once more, my thumb again takes its place. My left hand returns to his stomach, feeling its rise and fall. Hardy’s fingers entwine around mine as he holds on—though I don’t know whether for comfort, or support, or simply because he wants us to be as close as possible at that moment. This part is the most difficult, here at the widest part of my hand. Yet it’s not that difficult at all. He trusts me enough to relax. We’ve been down this route before together, and he knows I won’t hurt him. I compress my knuckles and fingers to make them as narrow as possible, and rub my forehead against his thigh to remind him I’m there. Then I slide in to the wrist. I can’t imagine what he feels on his end. I’ve never bottomed for a hand. I’ve been curious, yes, but I can barely take a finger without regretting it. He’s clearly enjoying himself, though. Without seeing I can tell that his neck has arched and carried his head back. He groans with pleasure, and his skin comes alive with gooseflesh. No, I don’t know what he feels, but I know that this is the truly pleasurable part for me. It’s an unfortunate analogy, but once I’m in to the wrist, fisting is a lot like playing in mudpies. Not because of the color of what normally comes out of that orifice, but because the sensation is much like plunging my hand into something soft, and wet, and warmed by the sun. It’s a sheerly tactile pleasure that has nothing to do with my dick, which I can endlessly enjoy for its own sake. Once I’m this far into Hardy, I like to vary the sensations he’s feeling. He’s fond of my twisting my hand the most; I rotate it as far as I can without going much deeper. Each pass of my knuckles causes him to shiver and moan. When I’m this close to him, this deep inside, I can feel the pulse of his heart; I can hear when it quickens or when it settles back into its steady rhythm. Though I quicken the pace of my turning wrist, I never speed up to the point that it’s outright fast. This experience we’re sharing is not one intended to be speedy. It’s quiet, and slow, and deliberate, and as intimate as two men can be. I keep my eyes closed as I penetrate further into him. There’s no need to look at what I’m doing, save for the moments when I apply more grease to my arm or side the rubber nozzle back inside him to douche his hole with a dose of the cool and viscous lube. All I need to know I can learn from the sounds he’s making, the pace of his breathing, and the motion of his body. He’s grinding his hips slightly as I twist and slowly push my way in, accepting more flesh at his own pace. From time to him his fingers still grasp at mine, or he’ll pull my free hand to his lips and kiss the fingertips. Once in a while I’ll rub my beard over the skin of his leg, or kiss the inside of his thigh, just to remind him I’m still present. It’s not a necessary reminder, though. He knows I’m there. It’s hard to miss me. He’s relaxed enough now that there’s no issue in sliding in and out. I’ve been in holes where it’s been difficult to find that natural passage inside, but Hardy’s never given me a problem. The mere fact that I can find my way deeper inside him without having to search merely heightens the intimacy between us. When I withdraw my arm to the wrist, the dungeon’s cool air creates a chill on my skin. It feels a little bit like leaving the depths of my hot tub on a chilly winter’s night, so I move back inside, to be warm again. This is not an invasion. It’s a completeness between us. A slow and steady exploration of trust. “How far are you in me?” he asks at last. It sounds as if he’s drowsy, or has woken from a deep sleep to ask his lover a simple question. “Show me,” he says, guiding my fingers to his own arm. Without looking, I feel up past his fingers and wrist. An inch below the crook of his elbow, I stop. I make a circle with my left thumb and forefinger there. “Oh, wow. Amazing,” he says. Then, a little bit after, as if he’s drifting back off, “Happy hole. Happy . . . hole.” My motion now is constant and steady, but still slow. I twist slip in and feel him part for me, warm and wet. I slip out, and feel the circulating air on my skin and the pull of his hole, beckoning me back in. On and on it goes, for long minutes. Just the quiet, and the warmth, and the wetness. I’m perhaps halfway inside when I can feel his ass pushing me back out. His body is telling him he’s had enough, and I honor it. He wants to expel me all at once, but that’s not a good thing; I exert a steady pressure to keep him from pushing too hard and too fast, and withdraw slowly and deliberately. My arm emerges inch by inch, and then my wrist. My knuckles. My fingers. Their tips. His hole contracts, then widens, then contracts again, and I smooth my fingers over it. He sighs. It’s done. Saturday night I spent perhaps almost an hour on Hardy’s hole, while the others played and watched. When it was done and I’d wiped him free of the grease with a hand towel, I walked out of the dungeon and went to wash my forearm in the warm water of the laundry tub. The water was hotter in temperature than Hardy’s ass, but the warmth didn’t sustain itself. It vanished too quickly, as I dried off. When I returned to the dungeon area to settle down and relax for a while, Hardy was padding around with big smile. He came up to me from behind and gave me a hug, then kissed me. “Happy hole,” he said, as satisfied as a little boy on Christmas. “Thank you so much.” “No. Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “You know I love that with you.” I watched him bounce off to get a snack with a lightness in his step. “Happy hole,” he repeated, over and over again, as he hugged himself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I blogged about the Silver Fox the other day, I off-handedly mentioned a fist-and-fuck party at which we’d teamed up, a few months ago. The host was a guy named Hardy, a very pleasant, educated fellow with a handsome face and an intense pair of dark eyes who’d ridden my dick and hand several times before. I respect Hardy a lot for being a pig when the clothes come off and a decent, humorous guy all the time, but I think I really did tick him off a little bit at that gathering, last fall. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to assemble a group of about ten guys that he’d personally met and thought would hit it off well. It wasn’t until about three-thirty in the morning, that night, that everyone was finally drained and relaxing and he said, “Yeah, I thought this would be a good group. I’d gone to a lot of trouble to invite an equal number of total tops and total bottoms and no versatiles. But I guess there was only one total top.” Then he’d glared at me. At least the four other tops I’d bent over and fucked had the decency to look abashed. I thought that perhaps I’d be banned from Hardy’s parties for life, but scarcely had I posted the Silver Fox entry the other day than he sent me an email inviting me to a party on Saturday night. The Fox also sent me a message, telling me he’d be there and that he wanted me to come. So of course I said yes. The group was smaller, this time—just five of us. The Fox was there, looking handsome and sexy in a pair of leather pants and a trim leather vest that showed off his biceps. Another guy I’d met and really liked from the first party, Chaz, arrived at the same time as I. The three of us were the so-called tops (though I’d fucked both Chaz and the Fox several times at the last get-together). Hardy and an out-of-town friend, Mike, were the two dedicated bottoms, in Hardy’s scheme. So naturally, the first thing I did when the clothes came off was to tag the two tops. No, I’m not kidding. But it wasn’t intentional, honest. Hardy has one of the most elaborate fuck dungeons I’ve ever seen. It’s a closed-off, finished room in his basement that contains its own heater. Carpeting covers the floor, keeping it warm and soft for any guys topping at the three slings. Yes, three slings. One’s a traditional leather hammock, another’s a padded flat bench with a pillow, suspended by chains. There’s also a leather harness hanging at the dungeon’s other end. Hardy’s additionally installed a padded fisting bench, and set a futon and a comfortable sofa in corners for those who like somewhere more traditional to fuck. No less than five mirrors hang suspended from chains around the room’s edge; they can be angled with hooks to reflect anything. There are mirrors over each of the three slings. Outside the room’s entrance are two tall metal shelving units that accommodate a hospital’s worth of white towels and washcloths, jars of every lube imaginable, and tins of generic vegetable shortening. Inside the room are another couple of shelving units that contain plastic bins of dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators. It’s quite an elaborate set-up. Hardy doesn’t cut corners when it comes to his anal pleasures. Which is why I guess I’m surprised he buys the generic vegetable shortening, I idly mused Saturday night once everyone was in the dungeon and naked. I sat on the corner of the futon watching Hardy bring in towels and tubs of faux-Crisco, when Chaz stood in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of gray socks. I and opened my mouth while I gazed meaningfully up at him. He immediately slid his dick between my lips. Chaz and I are built similarly, with narrow shoulders and trim hips and big dicks and beards, though his is more auburn while mine’s a perpetual dirty blond. I submitted to his meat as he slid it in and out, managing not to gag when he’d push it in to the base. He held onto the back of my head and ground his hips as if my mouth were an ass. I was at rock hard attention from being treated that way. The Fox moved over and stood in front of me as well. He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt, his vest, his weighty black boots, and another of his many jock straps. While I sucked Chaz, the Fox moved the bulge of his jock lasciviously back and forth over my left cheek. Once he’d hardened, he pulled out his heavy dick and began beating my face with it. When I switched from Chaz’s dick to the Fox’s, Chaz dropped to all fours and began to suck me. Once I’d gotten the Fox’s dick slick, he moved behind Chaz. Without much in the way of preliminaries, he started working into Chaz’s hole. The intensity made Chaz swallow my own cock to the base and leave it there, while he groaned and struggled to accommodate the Fox’s girth. Soon, though, he was moving back and forth between us, setting his own rhythm. Like we had only a few days before, the Fox and I stared in each other’s eyes and grinned, enjoying the connection we had as a single man serviced us both. There’s something about flipping a top that makes my meat more rigid and my nuts pull in tighter; it’s an expression of power and of dominance. Watching a masculine, attractive top give up both holes to me and to one of my favorite buddies . . . well, that’s priceless. My dick swelled harder than concrete as I slipped in and out of Chaz’s mouth. Hardy split us up. That didn’t surprise me. I almost expected him to be a little jealous that his three invited tops had split off and started their own mini-orgy. What did surprise me, however, is how he lifted a dazed and blinking Chaz to his stockinged feet, guided him over to the harness sling, and pushed him back into it. Expertly he arranged the straps so that Chaz’s feet rested in them, and then slipped twin leather nooses around his wrists. “They’re deceptively simple,” he told us. Chaz tugged with his arms and found quickly that the leather slip knots around his wrist tightened immediately. When he attempted to create slack, they remained just as tight. “He won’t be getting out of that. Fuck him,” said Hardy, looking right in my eyes. That part did surprise me. “I know you want to. I like watching you fuck his ass,” he said. From one of the shelving units he grabbed a pristine bottle of lube. He broke the seal, squirted out a generous handful, and walked around to where I stood at the sling’s base. His hand wrapped around my dick, slathering it with the cold goo. “Fuck him like you did last time,” he said. “Breed his hole.” I didn’t need any further invitation. I stepped forward and started working my dick into Chaz’s pucker. It was already wet from the Fox’s spit. The lube mixed with what was already there so that I slid right in. Just like he had been last time we met, Chaz was warm and tight inside. At my invasion he grappled helplessly with his arms, trying to struggle away or to reach out. It was impossible to tell what he was trying to do, because the straps restrained his movement to arcs in the air. I grabbed onto the chains next to his calves and stood there, letting the pendulum-like motion from the sling do the fuck-work for me. I like to start with more of a grinding motion than outright slamming. The sling wasn’t adjusted very well for my height; I had to stand on tiptoe to stay in his hole, and I was by far the tallest man there. I was enjoying myself too much to ask Hardy to change the hooks, however, and frankly I thought that standing on the balls of my feet was a small price to pay for an ass that fine. Chaz’s eyes were mere slits, glinting from time to time in the dim dungeon light. Hardy’s fingers kept darting out to touch the root of my cock as I slipped in and out. The Fox, in the meantime, ran his hands over Chaz’s chest. Gradually my strokes became faster and longer. The sling began to bounce back and forth, its metal and leather making slight protests with every thrust. Hardy brought out a pair of wooden clothespins. One at a time he placed them over Chaz’s nipples. Chaz didn’t even notice the first one being applied; when he felt something cutting through the pleasure the second time, he opened his eyes to find not one, but both of his nipples being chewed on by the wooden pegs. It wasn’t so much the sensations that excited him as the surprise of it. His ass clamped down immediately. The pressure made my dick explode almost unexpectedly. I’d been building up to orgasm little by little, but the extra sensation pushed me over the edge. I heard all four men grunting in appreciation as I unloaded with shudders. The Fox stood behind me and held me while the lights came back in my eyes; I felt Hardy drop to his knees and clean my dick off. I don’t get invited to sex parties because I arrive wearing hot costumes, or because I bring snack. I don’t get invited for my good looks, which are modest. I get invited for four reasons. I show up when I say I will. I arrive on time. I have a big tool. And most importantly, I shoot multiple loads and stay hard between them. Barely had Hardy sucked the cum and lube from my cock than the Silver Fox was on his knees, grabbing the back of the sofa and putting his butt in the air. “I didn’t get any of that dick a few days ago,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ it now.” I glanced at Hardy to see if his face was annoyed by the fact that within the space of a half hour, I would have already fucked two of his so-called tops, but he was just fascinated by the fucklust of it all. Chaz had helped out-of-town Mike onto the bench sling and was rubbing his hole with shortening, but Hardy started rubbing his hands all over the Fox’s body, spreading his cheeks and inviting me inside. I spat on my hand, rubbed it over the Fox’s hole, and slid in. There’s not much of a challenge to get in the Fox’s ass; it’s been well-worked over the years, top or not. He bucked and groaned as I entered him inch by inch, but once he felt my nuts against his, he sunk into the sofa’s upholstery and sighed. Hardy drizzled more lube onto my dick as I pulled it out. He seemed to be enjoying watching. From angle to angle he moved while I screwed, as I put on a show for him. I’d pull my dick all the way out, pause, and then plunge it back inside, causing the Fox to groan with every sudden invasion. Hardy seemed to enjoy it in the way he’d enjoy a particularly good porn film, only in 3-D with exceptional sound and the ability to inhale the clinical lube smell. Stoking his cock, he got on his knees and from underneath watched my dick slide in and out, stroke by long stroke. Eventually the Fox started to fuck back. He planted a leg on the ground, left one foot on the sofa, and started to meet my thrusts. My balls knocked against his like some kind of childrens’ toy; the dungeon was filled with the soft and steady sound of my hips slapping against his butt cheeks. This wasn’t gentle lovemaking by any means. This was balls-to-the-wall, ass-slappin’, man-fuckin’. The two of us sustained a most excellent rhythm. In and out I slammed, while he bucked and grunted like a bronco. It was when Hardy reached up, grabbed my balls, and started to twist them that I lunged forward, growled like an animal, and planted my second load in the Fox’s ass. He collapsed forward, hitting the wall with a thud. I was already shaky on my pins, post-orgasm. He carried me with him. For a moment we were both stunned, and then we laughed and wiped the sweat from our faces. The Fox stood up to clean himself off in the laundry room outside, but Hardy stayed on the floor for a couple of minutes, rubbing my feet while my head cleared. We both sat there in silence and watched Chaz go at out-of-town Mike across the room. “Listen,” I said at last, once I had my breath back. “I’m really sorry.” “For what?” Hardy wanted to know. I gestured in Chaz’s direction and then at the closed door, beyond which the Fox was making splashing noises. “For loading up your tops, first thing.” “You had fun, right?” I nodded. He reached out and played with my dick, which was still hard and resting on my thigh. “And I know you’re able to go again.” “Sure.” I found myself being taken by both hands and hauled to my feet. Hardy led me across the dungeon to the traditional sling next to the bench, which was rocking back and forth with Chaz and out-of-town-Mike. He didn’t let go of my hands until he’d propped his butt against the leather and needed his own to grab hold of the chains. He hauled himself up and back so that his legs were spread and his hole was at the perfect height for fucking. “Well then,” he said, as if he were explaining something simple to a child. “I know how you work. Get the first two out of the way, and then your third fuck lasts and lasts.” I had to crack a grin at his smug little smirk. “They might get you first, but I get you longest.” Smart man. He was right about that. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He likes to find me face down. When he comes over other times, family times, he'll knock at the door like anyone. He'll sit at the kitchen table, or help himself to the food in the fridge, or join us at night in the den and watch television. But this is how we do it, the times Mikey comes over when I'm alone. I'll leave the side door unlocked, and head up to my bedroom. I'll strip down to my shorts and place my head on the pillow, then close my eyes. There's no radio, no porn on the television. Nothing but the whirr of the ceiling fan overhead, the chirps and cries of the birds outside, or the distant noise of someone mowing their lawn. He lives only a couple of miles away, so it never takes long for him to arrive. I'll hear the house exhale and inhale as he enters through the door, then the shuffle of him crossing the dining room, the living room, and finally his foot on the carpeted stairs. There'll be the creak of wood as he stands in my bedroom doorway. There's always a pause, then. It's a long silence in which I know he's looking at me, studying me. Appraising me. I'm an entirely different person from the first time he looked at me face down on my bed in my underwear. Every atom in my body had to have changed since then. He still makes the same sound at the sight, though—long and drawn out, half sigh, half hiss of pleasure. It's followed by the sound of his belt unbuckling. After knowing each other so long in this way, there aren't a lot of frills to our sex. There's an economy to it that's come from years of walking down the same paths. But we're not rushing to get each other off as quickly as possible—there's no rapid-fire jerking, or frantic grinding. Nothing perfunctory. We simply cut right to the things the other enjoys the most, without having to ask, or fumble. He'll ease off his pants and open his shirt and straddle me. The fire of his groin meets the warmth of my ass as only two thin layers of cotton separate them. It's the heat that makes his cock grow. I'll feel it unfurl itself against me as it becomes rigid. He knows what I like best, and it's the simplest thing in the world: the feel of his hands over my back. Like mine, his hands are long and narrow. He lets his fingers drift over my neck, the most sensitive part of my body. His palms meet my skin, skimming lightly over me and raising goosebumps in their wake. This is the best thing he can do for me: to touch my beck and back, to bring pleasure that renews and reawakens itself with every pass. All I can do is gasp, and clutch at the blanket, and pray that it doesn't end. Soon, but not too soon, it does. He'll tug at the elastic of my trunks and ease them down until they tangle around my ankles. I'll feel his fingers probe at my crack and pull apart my ass cheeks. Then I'll feel first his mustache, and then his chin, and then his mouth and tongue against my hole. He knows what I like; he buries his face in my ass and eats me with a vengeance. When he pauses to bite at my cheeks and rake his teeth over the skin, my head flies up and I gasp. It will be the first time my eyes open. Over my shoulder I'll see him behind me—the top of his gray-haired head, the arc of his shoulders, his pale white ass up in the air as he kneels at the bed's edge. At long last he'll surface, panting for air. He's in his late fifties, but he's still a handsome man. "I missed you," he'll say. He says it every time, no matter how long it's been. If he's visited a couple of days before for dinner and drinks, he still means it, but if he's been away, as he has for the last six weeks, it rings especially true. "I missed you too," I'll say sincerely. He'll push my back down to the bed and raise my legs so that they naturally hug his waist. I'll feel the hardness of his dick as it nudges against my balls. He's shorter and lighter than me, though we both share an almost identical spareness of frame, and largeness of dick. Our chests and mouths press together, and we kiss. His mustache grinds into my beard, and my beard into his chin, and his chin into my neck as his lips travel to my ears. "I've missed you so much," he'll repeat, grinding into me. "I've missed that pretty butt of yours. I've missed your lips and your mouth." It's my turn to please him. I'll turn him onto his back until he's in a half-reclining, half-sitting position. He likes to wear a metal cock rings that turns his dick into something deep red and savage, and pushes his balls out. I'll make a hiss of my own at the sight of that dick, the dick I know better than any other. I take it between my lips, and begin moving my mouth up and down the shaft. His precum tastes like my own, mostly sweet, a little salty. Like me, he pumps it out in quantity. It seems as if whenever I surface from the base, a new batch of it oozes out onto the tip of my tongue. I've never seen any other man who's been able to suck him to completion. I know how. My thumb and forefinger wrap around the very base, where soft flesh turns to stiffness. My other fingers touch his balls lightly, barely scraping the skin as my sucking moves them up and down. I don't slide my fingers up and down his seven inches, as I do with most men. I let the tightness of my mouth do that work for me. Though I've seen other cocksuckers labor for long minutes, even an hour, to coax a load from him, I'm proud that my technique does the trick. After only a very few moments his breath will start to catch. His stomach will tighten and drawn inward. I'll feel the touch of his hand on my hair, and then my neck. Finally, with no more noise than a whoosh of air through his mouth and nostrils, he'll let loose. I'll find my mouth flooded with his sperm—one enormous gush, all at once. It's usually so much that it takes me three swallows to finish it all. He's done what I've liked best, and I've done what he likes best. Now we do what we both equally enjoy. Onto our sides we'll roll, with him spooning against my belly. I'll lick my hand and rub it on my dick, then spit once again to moisten his hole. He's not tight. Entering him is no struggle, the way it is when he's tried to open me the last few years. He accepts my dick with a sigh, pushing back against me so that he's pressed tight against my ribcage. I hold him in my arms, moving back and forth with the slightest of motions at first, grinding in a circular pattern. We both love the feeling, and curl together to enjoy it. It's sexual, yes, but it's comforting for us both. Mikey will remain curved into an almost fetal position as gradually I straighten out and lengthen my body. My grinds become thrusts, in and out, longer and longer. Without my having to ask, he'll squeeze and clamp down on my dick when I'm in at my deepest, clutching at it with his hole as if he never wants it to leave. For long minutes we'll do this without saying a word. And then, every time, he'll reach out and twine my fingers between his, pull my hand where my hips meet his, and touch my fingers to the cock making love to his ass. "That's where you should be," he'll say. "That's where you belong, little brother." Every time it's enough to push me over the edge. I'll shift my weight and pin him down, driving in deeper than I thought possible. When I shoot with Mikey, I don't explode. I don't blast. I release. It's a smooth transfer of my sperm from my nuts to inside him, soft and gentle, like a stream. He'll relax. Almost immediately, I'll feel the sticky sensation of my essence puddling around my balls. We'll lie there, me on top of him, until our breathing is back to normal. The outside world begins to trickle back in, then, one distant telephone ring and chirp and huzz of a fan or lawn mower at a time as we lie there and return to ourselves. Then his chest will rumble with the faintest of laughter. "I really love you," he'll usually whisper. It's nice to be able to say it back. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Dear Michael, my Backyard Neighbor, It’s me. The guy behind your house who has the mildest of crushes on you. Okay, maybe it’s not so mild. Ever since you moved in and you and I made contact over our fence, talking about the power lines, my heart goes all pitter-pat whenever I’m working in my den and, through the big glass doorwall, I see you leave your side door to take out the trash. Now, we both know that compared to Brady, the Abercrombie and Fitch daddy two doors down from me, you’re not much of a looker. He’s lean and tanned and worked out and fond of jumping around his back yard wearing nothing but shorts, as if he’s still playing on his college extreme disc golf team. You’re pale and constantly struggle with your waistline, your nose is large and sharp, and you’re a little too old for the long, curly hair you cultivate. Not that you’re not dreamy, mind you. When Brady’s charms have receded with his hairline, you’ll still be an American classic. I think it’s because my appreciation of this fact that you’re always putting on a little show for me whenever you appear in your back yard. My favorite was how last summer, whenever I was on my deck working and you were home, you sat on your patio with your chair angled directly facing me, so you could sprawl with your legs spread and your arms stretched behind your head, eyes slitted so you can watch me trying not to stare at you too much. Now that it's spring, I'm appreciating it when you start doing your backyard stretches and exercises, ass bent and prominent, at the exact moment I’ll step outside to eat my breakfast cereal. And the time you recently watched me from your upstairs window, then came out onto your porch to parade around shirtless in your boxers, while you kept an eye on me? I wanted to applaud. Bravo! Your latest exploit in the art of teasing the bisexual neighbor, however, has had serious side effects. I believe you know to which incident I refer, sir. Yes, it would have been Tuesday night, when I was afflicted with a mild insomnia and was sitting in my dark den with the laptop illuminating my face. I was sitting there, trying to bore myself into sleep, when the brightness of your kitchen overhead light cut through the pitch black between our yards. And there you stood, naked, back turned, so that all I could see was how very perfect was your bare ass, as you leaned against the kitchen counter, shifting weight. Yes, I was a little stunned at how you showed it off. When you moved out of the window’s view for a few moments, I was disappointed. Yet you came back, once again displaying that magnificent ass for my benefit. Then you turned and faced the window, and simply stood there. Just leaned against the counter, showing me your chest and the top of your bush. You did nothing with your hands. You weren’t drinking or fidgeting. You merely stood there, completely naked, staring through the window in my direction, making me wonder if you knew how hard my heart was thudding in my chest. After a few moments in which I had a good look, you sauntered very slowly up to the window and stood framed for it for several last moments in which you seemed to be peering through. Then, very deliberately, you turned out the light so that the whole world seemed to go black again. Yes, that incident. Remember it? Well dude, thanks. You appear to have given me a perpetual case of blue balls. Sincerely, Your horny stalker one street over. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I met the Silver Fox a little over a year ago, on a very cold February day. I remember how frigid it was because I absolutely hate sub-freezing temperatures and I shivered the entire time over there, bitter at myself for leaving my warm house on such an awful, snowy morning. The Silver Fox lives in the green and fertile heart of the most exclusive and wealthiest suburb in my area. His home was designed by an actual architect, one with a capital-N Name. It’s exquisitely decorated. And the Silver Fox is definitely A-gay material himself. He’s handsome and immaculately groomed, a gray-haired former model with a killer body and a closet full of leather. I saw him at IML last year walking through the crowd in his harness and chaps—the cock of the walk, trailed by admiring would-be bottoms, all of whom looked like porn stars. He’s just that handsome. And for me, he flips his ass in the air. It’s a compliment. I also remember how cold it was when we first met because that morning, the Silver Fox and I had sex all over his house. We started in the living room and then moved to his kitchen, then took it to the bedroom with its panorama of picture windows. “You want to know what would be hot?” he asked. I shook my head. “If we fucked outside. In the snow.” It sounded awful, to be honest, but the Fox was so hot that I just nodded my head and agreed, and went outside with him in the forest that was his backyard and fucked him rough against a pine while the snow fell around us. We met again a couple of months later at a fuck-and-fist party on the other side of town, where we were both all over each other the moment I walked through the door. I found out afterward that all the other men at the party had thought we were boyfriends because of the way we made out while we tag-teamed holes together. (That was also the party in which the host, who had carefully proportioned a greater number of tops to the ratio of bottoms, got mad at me because I fucked every single one of the tops. It’s not like I knew. They’re all bottoms to me when they’ve got their asses in the air.) Since then we’ve been buddies, swapping information on bottoms and meeting up from time to time. I’m always flattered that I hold his attention and interest, because personally, I’ve always felt myself a couple of leagues below the guy in terms of appeal—yet he always makes me feel like not only a long-lasting and driven guy who happens to enjoy fucking, but like a genuine alpha top stud who he's proud to have running by his side. It’s a good feeling. So when he got in touch with me Tuesday morning to let me know that he had a bottom coming over and that he wanted me to share him, I was all Barry White growling, awwwww yeah. We’re going to DP the little bitch, he messaged to me. He’s one of my best. The bitch in question was a guy who’d been chasing after me off and on for several months on Manhunt, though we never seemed to be able to find a time or a place to play. His name was Elliot, and in his photos he was a wiry little thing. Small in height, a small frame, a small head with big eyes, and enormous nipples on a lightly muscular chest. I wrote the Fox back and told him I’d be on my way. When I reached his house (and parked behind his Jaguar), the Fox greeted me at the door in a military-style shirt with the sleeves ripped out to expose the curves of his biceps, and a black jockstrap with red piping. “Damn, you look good,” he said, which was a generous compliment to someone wearing a pair of jeans, a brown T-shirt, and a hoodie. He pulled my head to his and our beards ground together as we made out. My hands ran over his hard pecs, tweaked his nipples, felt his full, bulging basket, and then sampled the heavy firmness of his buttocks. I let my hand trail between his cheeks, and when the tips of my fingers felt that his hole was wet and pre-greased, I could barely suppress a laugh. I’ve had occasional guys grease up for me in advance before. But every single bottom in the last week revealing themselves to be greased up the moment I pull down their pants? It’s like some kind of crazy Californian fad. “The hole’s in the bedroom.” The Fox was still nuzzling my neck as he pulled me through his elegantly-appointed kitchen and living room and into an office that looked like a spread in Architectural Digest. “He was so anxious to get fucked that he circled the block over and over again until my boyfriend finally left. Get your clothes off in here and we’ll go meet him.” It was a little difficult for me to remove my clothing while the Silver Fox pinched my nipples and made out with me, but somehow I managed to get down to my T-shirt and a pair of square-cut trunks. We walked into the bedroom where the bottom was on all fours. The expensive duvet was protected by a thick layer of towels. I’d contacted the bottom more than a few times, though nothing had ever come of it. His Manhunt profile did not do him justice. Online, his photos made him look like vaguely attractive. In person, he was a hot little fuckstud. I was already mostly hard from the Fox’s attentions. The sight of Elliot with his hairy, tiny ass in the air made my dick swell. “Fuck yeah,” said the Fox, when he heard me catch my breath. “Pretty, huh?” I didn’t answer. I’d already vaulted to the bed’s edge so I could bury my face in Elliot’s hole. Almost immediately my tongue went numb. More lube, of course. The desensitizing kind, which tastes none too great. Apparently the only hole in Michigan that’s not self-lubricating these days is my own. I tried to wipe it out of my mouth. Elliot, however, distracted me by whipping around and planting his mouth on my dick, sucking on the cotton of my trunks as his mouth half-surrounded the prize within. While I ripped off my underwear so I could shove the uncovered dick into his mouth, the Fox took off his military shirt, then pulled aside his jock to reveal his own cock. He’s very generously hung—perhaps an inch shorter than me, though thicker and vacuum-pumped. His apparatus was strangled to a deep purple color by the complex leather straps encaging it, but damn. What a dick. The two of us continued to make out while Elliot sucked me. At one point I removed his lips from my meat and pointed them at the Fox’s; he suckled at it like a hungry baby. The Fox enjoyed it for a while, then set him nursing on me again. Back and forth we went, sharing that mouth, while the two of us made out with each other, stroked each other’s chests, and slapped each other’s asses. After a while, the Fox growled, “You want me to open him up for you?” I tend to connect emotionally and mentally with other top men, in a three-way situation. The hierarchy of my focus is roughly this: #1—my dick. #2—The other top and his dick. A distant #3—The hole we’re sharing. It’s a primal thing between two tops. The world revolves between us, and the other man is just fuckmeat for our pleasure. I lay down on the bed with my back propped up on the pillows so that Elliot could suck me. The Fox knelt behind him and spread his legs wide, then adjusted the height of his ass. The boy’s mouth flew wide open as the Fox pushed inside; he yelled bloody murder. Gradually, slowly, his agony subsided and was replaced by something else entirely. His eyes shut, and his mouth softened from a rictus of pain to a gentle smile. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again. “Thank you.” He moved his mouth to my nuts and dick. I didn’t pay much attention, because all my attention was on the Fox. He and I locked eyes as he fucked into the boy. He went slowly, siding in and out with full-body strokes that eased him back and forth. We barely even blinked as we stared into each other’s eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked up. He was getting off on looking at me as I laid back with my arms over my head, getting serviced. I grinned back to watch him fucking that hole with such obvious relish. For long minutes the two of us enjoyed fucking both ends of the boy, our eyes never leaving the other’s. “Your turn,” he said at last. We swapped positions. Onto my dick I slapped some of the gun oil the Fox had set out, then rubbed my cockhead against the hole. Elliot was tight. Tight like a boy, tight. I’m usually very good at getting into a clamped-down hole, but it was tough to open him enough to squeeze in, and he’d just had the Silver Fox’s meaty dick in there. After some more lube I finally got it open enough to pop in. I do mean pop. There was massive resistance, and then a sudden implosion as he opened up and let me in. Then he clamped down again, so rigidly that I had sudden visions of having to call 911 to have them rescue me. “Feels great, huh?” asked the Fox. “Holy shit,” I said, my eyes wide open. I had to admit, I don’t think I’ve been in a fully adult hole that clenched, ever before. It was as unrelenting as a vise grip as I fucked it. As I had with him, the Fox nodded and grinned and licked his lips while he watched me fuck. “There is no way this hole’s going to be able to take a DP,” I said, after a while. “Let’s give it a try,” the Fox suggested. So we did. I’ve only done double penetrations from one position. Usually because of my length, I’m lying on my back so that the bottom can climb on my dick and ride it. The other top comes in from behind, so that I’m usually lying under two hundred and fifty pounds or more of manflesh. I enjoy the act of double-penetrating a hole with another guy, but it’s not the ultimate end-all, be-all experience for me. I don’t get much control over the sensations. With so much poundage piled atop me, I don’t get much chance to thrust, and I’m rarely in all the way to the base. It’s pleasurable, sure, but I’ve never climaxed that way. I lay down and got into position. It quickly became apparent, though, that I wasn’t going to be able to single-penetrate Elliot with him on top of me, much less the two of us get into him with our considerable dicks. We grunted and strained and made Elliot yell a couple of times, but it wasn’t happening. Still, it was all good. I flipped him onto his knees again and fucked my way back deep while the Silver Fox whispered in my ear beside me, egging me on. “Seed his little hole,” he’d say. Then he’d grab my hand and move it down to his own ass. “Like you’re going to seed mine, next time you see me.” I’d be helpless as he tilted back my head with his hands and kiss me. It was when he grabbed my fingers with his and moved them both down to where my dick was sliding in and out of Elliot’s hole that I found myself being pushed over the edge. “Yeah,” grunted the Fox, recognizing the signs of impending orgasm. He grabbed my balls from behind and pulled down on them. “Breed that little fucker.” I did, shortly thereafter, erupting inside him with what felt like white-hot pulses of lava. I’d barely started breathing normally again than the Fox pushed me aside and shoved his dick in there, fucking in my load so roughly that it began to spill out around his cock and onto the towels below. He came mere moments later, unloading with harsh and guttural cries. When he finally pried himself out and away, his hands had left enormous red prints on Elliot’s ass. “Oh my god,” Elliot said, looking at what was dripping between his legs. He reached down, felt his hole, and pulled away three fingers loaded with cum. “Here’s the thing,” said the Silver Fox to him. He very gently lowered me down to the mattresses and adjusted the pillows behind my back. “My buddy here ain’t finished yet. He doesn’t go down after one load. Do you, buddy?” he asked. I shook my head. “So why don’t the two of us do him a big favor and coax one more load out of those pretty nuts?” “You don’t have to,” I said. My head was still spinning. “Seriously.” It was too late, though. Elliot was already down between my legs, licking at my balls. The Fox began cleaning off my dick with his mouth. The sensations the two of them produced brought me back to full hardness in no time. They sucked for what felt like endless, formless hours. “Switch,” the Fox would say on occasion. He’d start to munch at my balls while Elliot sucked my dick. I started to quiver. My legs began to shake. When I opened my eyes, I found the Fox staring directly into them. “What do you need?” he wanted to know. “I need to fuck again,” I gasped. “Then do it.” He helped me get Elliot to the bed’s edge. His hole was still super-tight, but I got in relatively quickly and began thrusting. I wasn’t going to last long. The Fox positioned himself on the floor so that he was staring up at the sight. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeated more than once, stroking himself. “Fuckin’ awesome. Do it, buddy.” The Fox shot another load all over his jock and belly, almost silently. I didn’t know he’d done it until I noticed him buckling and thrashing below me. He scooped up his load with his index and middle fingers, and slapped it right onto my hole. That was enough to push me over the edge. With a mighty roar I shot again, four or five great big pulses that left me panting and breathless. Elliot slowly pulled off me and fell forward onto his shoulders and face. A glob of cum had splatted down onto the Fox’s chest. At first I though it had come from Elliot’s ass, but no. Elliot had shot while I’d fucked him, all over our buddy. While Elliot was in the shower, cleaning up before he went to work, the Silver Fox helped me dress. He held my jeans for me to step in, and knelt down on the floor to help me into my sneakers. He zipped my sweatshirt for me like a dad helping his son get ready for school, and then leaned in close for another kiss. “You are always so good to me,” he said. “I’m so good to you?” I laughed, incredulous. My legs were still wobbly as I tried to navigate to his front door. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Jim had to leave after one load, Monday morning. I showered and cleaned up and tried to settle down to do the work I’d sworn I’d do earlier. I’d barely sat down to my computer when my phone’s screen lit up. Hey handsome, read a message from a vaguely local number. What r u up to today? I had no idea who it was. When I looked at the text message history from that person, there were only two of the briefest clues. One was a message from him saying On my way now on the fifteenth of the month. The other was from me a couple of minutes later, saying, See you soon! with a smiley face. I looked at my calendar for the fifteenth and remembered it being the day I’d spoken to that all-female college class, but I had no recollection of how I’d spent the morning or afternoon. My journal didn’t help. The name ‘Mike’ meant nothing. Everyone I know is named Mike. There are so many of them in my life that I refer to them by different monikers—Canadian Mike, Accountant Mike, Irish Mike, My Brother Mike—whatever helps to label them. Frankly, I was a little embarrassed that I couldn’t keep track of my tricks. But you know, that’s what comes of being a bit slutty and having so few memory cells that I have to offload everything into my journals. Besides, I was still horny, so I decided to play Text Message Sex Roulette and see what I got. Come on over! I texted this mysterious Mike. How bad could it be? I couldn’t remember having sex with anyone who truly repelled me other than the porn star guy in the bathhouse last week, and I certainly didn’t give him my number. It took him about a half hour to arrive. The minute the car pulled up in front of the house I remembered exactly who this Mike was. He’d been a fifty-year-old guy from Manhunt whose profile boasted a bunch of leather-clad photos of himself looking tough and butch and mean. In our brief correspondence he’d seemed like a nice guy, so I’d had him over the day of that college lecture. He’d strutted into my house in jockwear and an artfully-battered baseball cap, but there were a couple of things that his gear-focused photos didn’t really reveal. The first was that he was quite short. Not quite Lollipop Guild-short, but getting there. That’s fine. I’m six-foot-three and just about everyone's short to me. I like short guys. The other was that when he opened his mouth—nope, it wasn’t his voice, that was fine—he had a pair of incisors that were just a touch longer than his other teeth. When I'd seen them for the first time, a couple of weeks before, I’d automatically given him the nickname of Gopher Mike. I know. Awful. I can’t help what my brain does sometimes. He was a sweet guy and hot in the sack—I’d fucked three loads into him the first afternoon we’d met and was getting dressed when he wrestled me back down to my bed, cleaned off my dick with his mouth, and somehow managed to talk me into giving him a fourth. The guy has a sexy tattoo-covered body and I like his aggressiveness in bed, even when he’s bottoming. There’s nothing gopher-like about that. Monday we started making out the second he walked in. I wrestled him out of his leather jacket and grabbed his ass. He rubbed the long bulge snaking down the right leg of my jeans. I didn’t waste any time. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said. He’d dressed in a red jockstrap and a white tanktop that showed off his pecs. Obviously he enjoyed stripping for me; I enjoyed watching him take off his clothes slowly and deliberately with his eyes locked on my face. I’d shucked my jeans before I’d cleared the door, and lay on my back with my dick point at the ceiling, stroking it for him. When he opened his mouth and began to swallow it, the last thing I was thinking about was his teeth. “Put your legs up,” he growled. “I want to eat your hole.” I did him one better. I hopped up to put my face in the pillows and flipped right over for him. He took both arms and hauled up my waist to meet his mouth, and buried his face in there. I really enjoy being rimmed by someone who knows what he’s doing, but I’m awfully shy about asking a guy to do it. Never mind that I could rim for an entire night without surfacing for air—it always seems to me an imposition to ask a guy to eat me out. (Maybe it, occurs to me, because when I rim it’s usually as a prelude to fucking the hole, and I feel badly about asking someone to rim what they’re not likely going to fuck. I don’t know. Everyone has hangups.) I was glad, then, that he just took it. When he came up for air long minutes later, I’d dripped a puddle of pre-cum on the blanket. “That’s it,” I said. “Not waiting any more.” It was his turn to eat the pillows. When I reached between his buns, I found that he’d already lubed up his hole before he arrived. (Which means what, every fuck I’ve had in the last five days has been pre-lubed? I’m not going to say I don’t like it. I do. But is this a trend, all you bottoms out there? Or don’t you like the brand I use?) Regardless. I drove into him, already frenzied by the nerve endings tingling in my hole. “I love eating your ass,” he gasped out. “You’ve got such a hot ass.” “I don’t have an ass,” I told him, fucking harder. “It’s flat.” “I like that.” We were mating like breeding dogs, but gasping out conversation to each other when we could. “There are two things I like,” he said, a few words at a time. “One is tall guys. And you’re really tall. The other is small asses.” “Well thank you,” I told him. Then I pushed his face down into the pillows, thrust once hard, and shot my second load of the day—his first. Immediately I rolled over to the side with him, and reached down. His six inches were hard and pre-cum oozed all over the shaft. “Beat my dick,” he told me. I grabbed the meat with my left hand and jacked it with my left hand while pulling him against my chest with my right arm. “Wait a sec,” he said, bounding up. “Let’s do it this way, like last time.” The last time he’d visited, Mike had perched me at the very edge of the mattress, and then had stood up and lowered himself down on my dick. He was short enough that he could ride up and down without bending his knees very much at all, and he took my still-slick dick without even a gasp. While I fingered his nipple he bounced up and down, beating himself furiously. It only took him a minute to shoot. “Can you do it again?” he asked. I only laughed, flipped him over and onto his knees, and then entered him from behind. It’s my favorite position. I like looking down and seeing my meat stretching the hole wide, and I love the sight of a round ass lifted up for my pleasure. When I see that, it’s as if all is as it should be. After my third load—his second, I flopped face-down on the bed again. He lay beside me. “You know,” he said, “I could eat your ass all day.” “PLEASE DO,” I said, in all capital letters. He laughed. “You’re a nice guy.” “Thanks.” “What I really wanted to do was fuck it,” he said, unexpectedly. I raised my eyebrows. “I wanted to eat you and make you feel real good and then just kind of move up and slide in you, just a little bit. I'm not that big. It wouldn't have hurt. Then I would have pulled out and eaten you a lot more, and then put a little more in you. Just to show you how good it feels. I wouldn't have done it all the way. But I didn’t know if you wanted that.” I didn’t know if I wanted that, either. Though I admit it sounded appealing, on a certain level. “You’re a nice guy too,” I told him at last, not committing to anything. “I just want to make you feel as good as possible so you’ll keep having me back.” I watched as he sat up and pulled on his tank top. “That’s not going to be an issue,” I said, before giving him a big bear hug. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Hey,” I said into my cell phone. The parking lot of the Comfort Suites was slick from a thin layer of early morning ice; even though I’d been running the car for fifteen minutes, I could still see my breath wisping out before me when I breathed. “You ready?” “Room 219,” was all he said. I heard a click when he disconnected. I’ve always felt awkward walking into a motel where I’m not a guest. I used to try to saunter in as if I were renting a room for the night—looking at the snack machine, peeking at the pool to see if it were occupied. Now I don’t even bother. With a brief smile at the friendly people manning the front desk, I strode in as if I knew where I was going, found the elevator, and took it a floor up. His door was unlatched, as he’d told me it would be. I stepped inside to find the room almost completely dark, save for a slice of muffled morning light from window’s edge. Soft dance music played from the laptop open on the desk. And he lay exactly as he’d told me I’d find him, sprawled on top of the neatly-made bed with his knees dug into the mattress, head down, ass up and waiting. A tight nylon hood covered his head, the black fabric obscuring his face; a black leather collar with metal studs fastening it across his Adam’s apple. A blindfold, again of leather, covered his eyes. As he’d told me, he wore a tight-fitting wrestler’s singlet, faded from countless washes, green, with ragged blue piping around the edge. He let out a sigh. “Is that you?” he asked, in what was barely a whisper. I let the door click behind me in answer. I dropped my coat onto the floor, kicked off my shoes, and positioned myself by the bed, exactly between his legs. When I unbuckled my belt, I did it noisily, letting the metal jangle. My pants I unzipped slowly, pulling out the fabric so that he could hear the slider unfastening every tooth. As I’d hoped, he twitched, grinding his hips against the air, anxious. I let my pants fall to the ground, and stepped out of them. He’d cut a hole in the singlet—a perfect cat’s-eye that framed inches of shaved, pink flesh beneath. I dropped to my knees, hooked my hands where his legs met his hips, and pulled him to the bed’s edge, so I could flick my tongue across its length. The stranger groaned loudly, trying to pull away, but I held firm. The more insistently I worked on his hole, the more he tried to struggle away. Despite his musculature, though . . . and he did have the same enviably perfect, unflawed body from the photos he’d sent me . . . he was a small man, barely feet-foot-five, and so lean I could have flung him over my shoulder without much exerting myself. Everything I could have needed for the encounter he’d laid out on the bed beside him. I dipped two fingers in the tub of lube he’d left opened and greased him up, feeling him twitch and squirm as my fingers dipped inside his hole. After I’d readied myself, I rubbed the tip of my cock around his butt. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want it.” Then he added, “Hold me down. Please.” Without a word, I set one foot on the bed, grabbed his collar from behind, and shoved him deeper into the mattress. Concrete-hard, I began slowly sliding into his ass, while his fingers clawed for handfuls of the comforter. “Hold me down!” he whispered, his voice strangled and frantic. While I fucked him, I kept hold of the collar and wrapped my fingers around the hood’s fabric, pulling it even more tightly against his face. I used my weight and my forearm to keep his right shoulder against the bed, still grinding deep inside. He tried to shift his weight, but I kept him fastened against the mattress, letting him know that it was my scene now, and that I was in control of it. For long minutes we struggled like that, with him occasionally trying to break away and me refusing to let him. He responded with what sounded like sobs of happiness when I hauled off and whacked his butt. I would convulse with pleasure whenever he’d squeeze me tightly during one of his attempts to shift me. After several minutes, I spoke what had been my first words to him: “I’m going to shoot.” His hands clutched at my hips behind him, then, holding me firmly and trying to draw me even more deeply inside than I already was. I grunted, shuddered, and let the fingers of my right hand splay over the nylon covering the back of his head; it felt like I could almost hold his entire skull in my palm. After a moment my head cleared. “Not yet,” he said, begging, when I attempted to pull out. “Pin me.” Both his hands reached up and clutched for mine; I took them with my left hand and restrained them over his head. My weight I shifted so that I was now lying atop him. “Pin me,” he asked again, his voice breaking. I rested my right forearm across his shoulder, pushing him further into the bedclothes. “Yeah,” he said, trembling. “Pin me!” Over and over he said the two words, like a prayer, unless at last they trailed off into nothingness. Then, all at once, he yelled, "Breed it!" His body shivered in quick spasms; our hands were so tightly intertwined that my left fingers felt swollen and puffy. After a moment, though, he relaxed, and I felt small prickling sensations return to my digits. I shot in his guts, turned on by the way he'd contracted and writhed while he came. Carefully, I slid out of his cummy hole. When I rolled him over, he panted. A pool of sticky wetness splotched his abdomen, spreading by the second from where his cock bulged under the fabric. He lay there, lifeless and limp, his chest heaving up and down as his breathing returned to normal. I pulled on my clothing, took a moment to put on my shoes, and left. Downstairs in the lobby, I smiled at the hotel clerk as I grabbed a pastry from the continental breakfast. “Thanks for staying with us!” he said as I exited to the parking lot. I nodded, as if I’d belonged there. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday morning I’d been on cam for about an hour, showing off my goods in a lascivious manner for any and all to see, and I’d amassed over two hundred and sixty viewers—men and women both, enough viewers in total to vault me onto the site’s front page. It was also so many viewers that I’d more or less given up trying to chat in the room associated with each camera, because the messages were flying by too rapidly. I’m about the politest of men who displays his penis and body to strangers on the internet, and I try to respond to everyone who asks a question, and to give my thanks to those who bless me with compliments, so giving up was really a last resort. Then I got a private message from someone: Your dick is fucking amazing, sir. And because I am the most polite of exhibitionists, I replied. Thank you. It is truly the superior tool of an alpha male, he messaged back. Other men should bow before you and recognize your superiority. My natural instinct with this sort of compliment is simply to ignore it as overblown (though, you know, not untrue or anything), but instead, I simply wrote back, Damn right. May I offer you a tribute to your superiority? he asked. I didn’t know what he meant, so I simply typed back a question mark. I would like to make a deposit to your PayPal account. It was such an oddball request that I didn’t respond right away, so he typed, I get off on offering tributes of money to superior men. I can try to explain if you want. Explain, I said. There are others like me who worship superior alpha men such as you, he wrote. (Shut up, those of you who know me. I hear your snickering.) Since I cannot express my admiration and abasement in person the least I can do is give you cash. Please sir. It is even more fulfilling than sex to me to give my tributes. I’d heard of the concept of cash slaves before—usually internet-only relationships between a submissive type and a dominant involving the exchange of cash for verbal abuse and perhaps some on-camera sex play—but I’d always thought of them as a mythical thing or at least something that would never impinge on my life. I got him to email me his photo, so I could see what I was dealing with. He sent me several shots of himself—a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties. A boy-next-door type. White, attractive, and buttoned-down. So what is this shit? I asked. You want to pay me your fag tax or something? Oh fuck. Yes sir, he wrote back. Please let me pay. Let me pay my fag tax. Out of curiosity I asked, How much? Would $40 be sufficient for sir? Holy fuck, is that all I’m worth to you? I typed. I will give you $60, he wrote. Of all the lessons I learned from my teenaged whoring around, though, it’s to recognize a soft negotiating price. $75. Please, sir. I don’t think so, I typed back. Then I dug my finger into the tip of my penis and withdrew a long, sticky stream of pre-cum that I pulled into the air. On my broadcast screen I could see a silvery, gleaming thread that bowed into an arc before it snapped. My public room chat screen filled with appreciative comments. Fuck, wrote my would-be cash slave. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Ten minutes later I had a hundred more dollars in my Paypal account. He’d checked off ‘services’ as the reason for payment. The little memo he wrote read, Paying my fag tax. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My father did the grocery shopping in our family, when I was a kid. My mother couldn’t take the smell of a supermarket for very long; the mingled smells of produce and meat and disinfectant upset her lifelong-touchy stomach. I usually went with him, for the simple reason that while he took an hour to plod along the aisles of the Colonial Market and comparison shop, I got to run around Azalea Mall. The supermarket anchored one end of the little mall, and Woolco the other. A Thalheimer’s and a Woolworth’s rounded out the major stores. When I was eleven, the summer between fifth and sixth grades, I was whittling away the minutes in People’s Drug Store, standing in front of the long and bright display of magazines in the store’s front section. I seem to remember I was reading an issue of Cracked—a journal I never bought, as it was little more than a lowbrow cousin to Mad, to which a portion of my allowance was devoted. I’d read it from the stands, though, and on that particular warm afternoon I must have been fairly absorbed in the pages, because the sensation that followed affected me like a bright shock from static, making me jump and blink my eyes, startled. It was just the slightest of sensations, really. Just the faintest touch through the fabric of my pants, right beneath the head of my cock. Typically I wore Levi’s corduroys in those days, though that particular afternoon I was wearing one of my two pairs of dressier slacks—a pair of green denim pants with wide flares around the ankle. The slacks were super-tight and embellished with raised seams that ran down the front of each leg. (Hey, it was 1975.) Almost immediately I began to get hard. I reacted in surprise because I hadn’t done anything to arouse myself that way. My magazine wasn’t particularly saucy, and I hadn’t yet reached that age of puberty when I was one walking erection, though that hormone-driven phase was to come very, very soon. I looked around to see if anyone might notice the bulge that had swelled across the front of my pants, but the only person in the area was a man who’d walked by moments before, as absorbed in his magazine as I’d been. I shook my head and went back to my reading. A moment later, the man standing several feet to my left put his magazine back in the rack, then slowly crossed in front of me again. I was paying more attention this time as he passed, and noticed that he slowed when he was in front of me. Again I felt the slightest of tickles, this time traveling the length of my erection—as if he was using a fingernail to trace prominent outline there. Never before has my heart beat so hard. I thought it might pound its way out of my chest. It felt as if I was encased in a giant timpani and made to suffer during an angry tattoo across its top. My eyes were so filled with rushing blood that for a moment I couldn’t see clearly, but then I took a look at the man who’d just touched me. He was in his late thirties, perhaps, and had one of the enormous porn mustaches that men often wore in that decade. His shirt was tight across his broad chest, and synthetic, and brightly-patterned, and the top two buttons opened to expose a pale and hairy chest. I knew at that point that I was more attracted to guys than girls. I’d read the sections about homosexuality in the sex manuals my parents had given me, and I’d recognized myself within the pages, somehow. Yet I’d never really looked at an older man before and thought about him as a potential partner for sex. Hell, I hadn’t even known it was much of an option. At that point my sexual experimentation had consisted largely of occasionally bunching up a pillow between my legs and rubbing against it furiously until I enjoyed a dry orgasm; I didn’t have a clue of how to masturbate with my hands, nor had I the urge to seek anyone out for sex. I didn’t even fantasize, at that point. I humped my pillow, thinking about nothing. No pornographic movies played through my head. I didn’t have any specific fantasies. My sessions with my pillow were pure instinct, with no concrete thought. When I looked at this man, I found him moderately attractive. But frightening. The smart part of me knew I should walk away, or retreat to somewhere with more people around. The few inches of me engorged with blood, however, prompted me to stay where I was. It wanted to see what happened next. The man picked up another magazine and leafed through it, slowly, casually. Then he tossed it onto the rack, and began walking in my direction. As he passed in front of me, he paused. His hand was curled into a fist, which was the pendulum suspended from the pivot at his shoulder. Out it swung, until the side of his fist collided with my hard dick. It rested there for only a moment—long enough for me to feel the warmth and the pressure, through the denim—and then he walked away. I watched as he walked out the back door of the drugstore and stood just outside. His head craned forward to look back in my direction. He wanted me to follow him, I knew. I couldn’t make any such decisions, though. My heart beat so loudly that I was sure everyone in the mall could hear. I wanted to follow and see what happened, but some instinct told me I shouldn’t. I could be kidnapped and murdered, I reasoned. No matter what my dick wanted, my self-preservation seemed to win out. I simply stood there and waited. It didn’t take him long to return. I froze when he approached, wanting to be touched again, but not wanting to appear to desire it. This time, however, he simply positioned himself next to me. “Please,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “Come to my car. I’ll do whatever you want. We don’t have to go anywhere. Anything you want. Please.” Once again he turned and walked out the door that led to the parking lot, and waited. This time, I moved. I walked very quickly in the opposite direction, into the mall, and down its length to the Colonial Market at the other end. I helped my father with the bagging and with the loading of groceries into the car, keeping very quiet the entire time. The moment the last head of lettuce was put away, I ran to my room, pulled down my pants, and bundled up my pillow. For the first time, that summer afternoon, I had something concrete to think about while I rubbed myself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My dad taught his classes in a large slab of brick and concrete known as the Business Building. In 1975 it was the newest building on campus, and one of the very few that had centralized air conditioning. In the middle of a muggy southern summer where the sun simultaneously blazed down from overhead and baked the insides of your legs as it reflected from the asphalt streets, the jets of cold air that would blast down as you walked into the building were a godsend. Both my parents worked, and had worked out a system for the summer. Three times a week my father would pick me up from the daytime band camp I attended in the mornings, and take me to school with him until the late afternoon. My mother would pick up my sister from her morning swimming lessons and settle her in an empty room at the campaign headquarters where she was working. Both of us were easy to keep occupied; we’d simply take a book with us and read the afternoons away. When I went with my father, I had the choice of either remaining behind in his office—not a bad option, as the converted Victorian townhouse in which his office resided had creaky floors that rang out like gunshots whenever someone would walk across them, and could easily be imagined as haunted—or accompanying him to the Business Building. Attractive as kicking back in his office might have been, I usually went with him to class, because I’d usually be guaranteed a few quarters in spending money for the vending machines, and the opportunity to read and eat candy in air-conditioned comfort in the student lounge. It was one afternoon in the Business Building that I stumbled into the men’s room on the second floor and heard the sound of door slamming, followed by the rapid sounds of multiple belt buckles slamming against the tiles. I ignored the ruckus, headed to the furthest of the four stalls, and closed the door behind me so I could do my business in private. Only I didn’t really have privacy. Not until I had my pants down did I noticed that to my left, right in the middle of the partition between my stall and the next, was a large hole, about the size of a softball. On the other side, I could see the curve of a jawline covered with beard, a flash of t-shirt, and then, as the other occupant stood to his feet, a man’s penis. It was curved and rock-hard. A globule of precum-bulged from the slit. Oddly enough, though I was surprised, I wasn’t at all shocked at the sight. In Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), Dr. Reuben had gone on at curiously-obsessed length about how whenever homosexuals wanted to meet each other, their only recourse was to visit the men’s rooms in bowling alleys and have sex in the stalls. Richmond in the mid-nineteen-seventies had but one bowling alley, and it was on the far side of town, so on some level it seemed perfectly logical for the city’s homosexuals to shift their adventures somewhere more central and (more importantly) cooler in the middle of a hot southern summer. So I watched in fascination as the man next to me turned slightly to point his dick in my direction. The backs of his fingers sported dark tufts of hair that I gazed at as they curled around his stiff meat and traveled its length, back and forth, back and forth. I managed to intuit at once that my pillow and I had gone about masturbating all wrong. The man sat back down. I saw his beard again as he leaned forward to look through the hole. I leaned back far enough that he couldn’t see my face at his angle, and covered my hands over my genitals. My dick was rock hard; it couldn’t have been any harder. As it had when the man in People’s Drugstore had touched me just a few weeks before, my heart began to thud violently—it pounded with such insistence that I worried I’d have a heart attack and that the paramedics would find me dead with my pants down and my dick hard, shaming myself and my parents forever. Again the man stood up and angled his own cock toward me, poking the round, full head through the hole so that I could see it more closely. He was dripping more, now, and the bead of his pre-cum caught on the top of the glory hole and stretched into a shiny, sticky thread. When I didn’t do anything, he retreated, and tried to catch another glimpse of me. Maybe he saw how small and slender I was, and realized I was more than half his age at the very least. He didn’t try to urge me to touch him again, though. I watched as he turned his attention to the stall on his other side. After a few seconds, he was down on the ground, his knees spread wide and his feet bound by the trousers around his ankles. He thrust his knees and dick beneath the far partition. I saw a hand from the third stall reach underneath and snake across his hairy buttocks, and the shadow of a head as it lowered itself down between the man’s legs. Then came the loud and undisguised sound of sucking. The man who’d been showing off to me looked over his shoulder squarely at me, through the hole. He winked at me, knowing I was watching, and then his mouth dropped open as he let out a loud moan. Our eyes locked—mine wide open, his slitted and glittering—as he climaxed. I watched as his hips bucked back and forth, and heard the sounds of appreciative grunting from his invisible partner. When he stood up, his dick was still wet and glistening from the attention it had received. My friend shook the last drop of semen from its tip, then peed into the toilet bowl, shook himself, and began to zip up. I had a fear that if he left the restroom first, I might emerge and find him waiting outside, and I couldn’t let that happen. I yanked up my pants over my aching erection and dashed outside, then ran down the stairwell and into the lounge chair where my father had left me. He found me there a few minutes later, after his class let out. I’d managed to stop shaking by that point. Three times a week I went to the Business Building after that, and once the school year started up again, I found excuses to convince my parents to take me with them to their classes. I found relatively quickly that all the upper floors of the Business Building were used for cruising. The action would begin in the second floor restroom, where I’d stumbled that afternoon. Once those stalls filled up, the men would spill up to the third floor, and then the fourth, and all the way up to the tiny two-staller on the seventh floor if it were a busy evening. The two stalls that shared the glory hole were the most coveted of all, though; men would lounge against the walls in the second-floor bathroom, waiting for a chance to take their place. Sometimes the men would check me out through the hole, realize how young I was, and drape a piece of toilet paper over the gape so that I couldn’t see what they were doing—though that happened extremely rarely. Most of them looked through the hole and licked their lips with invitation, or peered or through the gaps in the stall doors to try to get me to show them my dick. I always refused, and kept my hands over and off my own throbbing cock. I never balked to look at theirs, though, when they’d pull it out for display. Nor did I close my eyes when the men would open their doors and thrust their dicks into a willing mouth, or stop watching when one of the cruisers would prop a foot on the toilet seat, bend over, and offer their asses to the perfect stranger waiting to fuck them. For several months, from the other side of that small hole I spied, and observed, and learned. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The spouse had a flight out of town today. On the way home I hit the 275 rest stop—it’s the one benefit of having to drive out to that side of town. I pulled the car to the lot’s far end, as I always do when I cruise there. Usually I sit outside and stroke while I cruise the men in the other cars, but nobody was in their vehicle today. I thought there might be action going on indoors, but when I went into the men’s room, the only person coming out was a scary-looking custodian. I pissed, washed my hands, and got ready to leave. Then a cruiser walked in while I dried off. I could tell he was a cruiser by the way he stood at the urinals—off to the side, body askew, his core swiveled slightly to the right. His hand moved back and forth like he was shaking off the last drops, but I knew better. The guy was hot. Maybe mid-thirties, shaggy brown hair, scruff on his face. Lean body. Nice Banana Republic clothes. I stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, and hauled out my dick. We stared at each other openly. He had one of those tools with a monster helmet, an enormous head that looked like it would split holes wide open. His eyebrows rose at the size of mine. “Nice,” he whispered. “You too,” I whispered back. “Beautiful.” Then I reached out and stroked his. I had a good handful before I heard the squeak of the outside door. We separated. Another man walked in—tall, stocky, gray hair, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-one or forty-two. He looked over his shoulder at us as he headed for the stalls, then stopped once he reached the doors there. Then he fondled his package. It was safe to play. My buddy showed me his hard dick again. “You married?” he whispered, nodding at my wedding ring. I nodded back. In the mirror, I could see the gray-haired guy playing with himself as he looked at me. “You wanna . . . ?” He reached in front of himself, mimed holding someone’s head in front of his dick, and thrust back and forth into the air. He really dug in with his hips while he did it, and pursed his lips in sexual heat. “Fuck yeah,” I said, getting ready to kneel on the ground and slurp on it. The door opened again. Back to safety positions. When it was clear, the gray-haired guy came over to stand between us. When he reached for the other guy, helmet-head shied away. He only wanted me. I let the gray-haired guy play with me, though. He jerked my dick in helmet-head’s direction, showing it off to him. Helmet-head hissed in appreciation. “You want some. . . ?” The guy was a master of mime. He pretended to grab invisible hips and pull them in. His dick arced up and in, up and in, over and over. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, just in case I didn’t get it. “Or fuck me? What do you want, married stud?” “I wanna fuck you,” I whispered back. My dick was dripping now. “You wanna fuck me?” “Fuck yeah.” He turned around and began to pull down his pants, right there in the middle of the men’s room. Then we heard the door open again. The gray-haired guy scooted out as the custodian and a trucker came into the room. The custodian had a mop and bucket and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Helmet-head zipped up and washed his hands; I followed him. We stood side by side at the driers. Protected by the wall, he pulled out his still-hard curved meat one last time and let the hot air blow on it while I watched. I just grinned, laughed, and walked out of the room. I was kind of hoping he’d follow me to his car, but instead he left the restrooms and went back to his sedan. As he drove out of the parking lot, he gave me a peace sign. I wanted to hang around and cruise longer, but the custodian clocked me. Besides, I have the scruffy kid coming over tonight, and I can take out my frustration on his hole. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Scruffy stood me up last night. We’d made plans earlier in the day that he’d come to my place between eight-thirty and nine. It was somewhere between then that he texted me to say that he wasn’t feeling well and that he was going to lie down. I didn’t hear from him again. It’s okay—I’ve been fucking the kid for three months now, twice a week or more, and every single time he’s been courteous and polite and shown up exactly when he’s said he would. I mean, I just dicked him yesterday. I just like the kid, that’s all, and I’d ignored all the guys hitting me up via email all day, sniffing around with the spouse gone. I’d had that abortive rest stop sex in the morning that left me horny all day. So when Scruffy called off our planned fuck, I fired up the web browser and began seeing what I could get. Finally I got one of my regulars from barebackrt.com to invite me to his place. Dennis lives about a mile south of me. He’s thirty-eight, a sandy blond shorty who goes to lengths to show off his little jock body. He wears shirts with deep cuts that show off his biceps, the curves of his pecs, and down to his cut abs; in all his profile photos (the ones with clothes, anyway) he’s wearing a baseball cap, beat-up sneakers, and shorts that show off his muscular legs. The fucks with Dennis are always the same. I give him a heads-up when I leave my house, and five minutes later he props open the door to his apartment building. I park, walk in the building, let myself into his unlocked apartment, and make my way to the back bedroom, where he’s got the blinds drawn and the TV playing porn. Tonight it was some Treasure Island movie I didn’t recognize. He was lying on the bed, poppered up and rubbing gun oil in his hole. “Wife must be gone,” he said while I kicked off my shoes and removed my hoodie. He watched as the pants came off. I wasn’t wearing trunks underneath—just the thickest of my chrome cockrings. I was mostly hard already. The sight of all those furry muscles stretched over Dennis’ tiny frame has a tendency to do that to me. “When did you fuck her last?” “Do you really care?” I asked him. “No,” he admitted. “Put your ass up.” “I’m all greased up already,” he said, though he turned over. “Don’t care.” I shoved him down on the bed and put my face against his hole until my mouth and beard were covered with the sweet-smelling gun oil. His pucker blossomed out against my tongue, and he grunted as I sucked at it. Then, after a few minutes of that, I got up on the bed and flipped him over, my hand still working at his butt. We made out some, but he was weird. Distracted. Usually Dennis is a deep kisser who goes helpless when I’ve got my mouth over his. Last night he tongue kept darting in and out like a cuckoo clock. When I lifted his legs and got my cockhead in, he started giggling to himself. But I was wound up enough that I didn’t care if he’d been tweaking. When I finally drove all the way in he gasped and his toes curled tight around my ears. Then he relaxed and accepted it. I’d been at a simmer all day, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long, my first load. When I told him so, he said, “I don’t care . . . just get off on you . . . getting off. I was thinking . . . nah, you don’t care, just . . . stuff going through my head, doesn’t really . . . have to do with you.” He had been tweaking, or something. The bed was covered with his shit. The giant pump bottle of gun oil was banging between our legs while I fucked him. He kept losing his popper bottle and having to roll around to retrieve it. Towels were everywhere, and the two remotes for the DVD player and the TV were digging into my back when I finally flipped us both onto our sides. He’s so tiny that fucking him with my arms around him always gets me off; I pulled him down hard on my dick while it spat its first load into his guts. “God, you’re still hard,” he said, after a minute. “Yup.” “I got the impression it was a big load.” “Your impression is right,” I said. Then I grabbed his hand and put it at the base of my dick, where his hole was stretched around me. When he held it up and looked at it in the television’s light, it was slick with sperm. “Fuck,” he said, slathering it onto his own dick and rubbing furiously. I fucked him again right after, ignoring the fact that he was talking to himself most of the time. By the time I bred him a second time, he was telling me all about how he’d comparison-shopped for his television and thought it was supposed to be among the best, but he hated how the porn looked on it. I didn’t really give a shit what kind of substance-addled rant he was on; I’d just wanted his hole for an hour. I pulled on my clothes and shoes, got the hell out, and went home to sleep in my empty bed. I would’ve much rather have been with Scruffy. At least he’s present when I fuck him. Then again, I’ve never known Dennis to be anything less than horned up and eager for it—maybe it’s just an off day for everyone. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thursday morning I logged into Manhunt and almost immediately got an email there from an out-of-towner. I hear you’re a great top, he wrote. Oh yeah? I asked back. Who’s been blabbing? He named the profile of a top buddy I’ve teamed up with at a couple of bareback parties. The two of us are pretty open about sharing names of good prospects, not to mention holes together, so I wasn’t really surprised it was him. Scarcely had I read the note when the guy started instant messaging me: mascdiscreet: i loved your bone shots mascdiscreet: and cum ones mascdiscreet: woof mascdiscreet: what you up to today? >> sounds like I might be fucking you >> I only fuck bareback though mascdiscreet: god i hope so stud mascdiscreet: you host or looking to travel? free time today? mascdiscreet: can make it worth your time $ir This is where my interest really perked up. >> oh yeah? mascdiscreet: yes for sure >> what're we talking about mascdiscreet: i really REALLY need a fuck mascdiscreet: $100 mascdiscreet: ? If there’s anything I learned in my teens about negotiating cash for sex, it’s never to go with the first offer. I waited about fifteen seconds, and he came back with another price: mascdiscreet: $125 >> I don’t know, man, I’m kind of busy today. . . . mascdiscreet: $200 >> that’ll work. we've got a deal. mascdiscreet: you still bearded now? >> yep mascdiscreet: hot mascdiscreet: is that really your body in the pics? you look so thin >> that’s me mascdiscreet: love that mascdiscreet: you verbal or not so much? >> depends on the vibe mascdiscreet: i am all about pleasing the guy’s dick >> what hotel are you in? mascdiscreet: i dont have one, was just coming down for a meeting.....and was thinking about asking if you'd be into doing it in my van. its a cargo van, we can fuck in the back. but i think there is a red roof in right by my meeting, if thats cool? >> if we do the van, I’m only dropping the pants >> but you'll be stripping all the way. got it? mascdiscreet: hot >> and you're paying up front. I negotiated to meet him in the parking lot of a mall out in Novi, about a half hour away. I got there first, and found myself a spot in a quieter area of the parking lot, right near an aisle marker so he could find me easily. He arrived about ten minutes after me, circling my car with his gray cargo van a couple of times before pulling to a stop right beside me. Through the rainy window I could see him nod, gesture to his unlocked door, and disappear in the back. I joined him in the van’s rear, where he’d covered the windows with towels and laid a thick rug on the floor. The guy looked just like his Manhunt pictures, so there weren’t any nasty surprises. Handsome face—very masculine and clean, strong features. Younger than me by two years, according to his profile. A seven-inch, fat dick surrounded by pubes that had never seen a clipper. His body was big and ungainly; he had to weigh about two-thirty-five or two-fifty, but his frame was broad enough that he carried it well enough. And like I said, the face was handsome, so when it dipped down next to mine, wanting to give me a kiss, I welcomed it. And man, could he kiss well. Beautiful soft lips, long, lingering sucking action—just perfect. I grabbed his hand and put it on my dick, which was hard and snaking down my left pants leg. “You got something for me?” “In my jacket.” When I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head, he murmured, “Oh. Yeah. Okay,” and went to get it. He counted out the twenty dollar bills and waited. I nodded, stuffed the cash in my pocket, and we went back to making out. “Get out of your clothes,” I told him. I rubbed my dick through the denim while he scrambled out of his plaid shirt and khakis. The guy had a furry chest and huge, eraser-sized nipples. “Now get out your poppers.” His eyes barely left mine as he grabbed at a little black satchel that he unzipped. “Take a hit.” He unscrewed the little brown bottle and breathed in deeply through his right nostril. I shook my head when he tried to put the cap back on. “Now the other one,” I told him. “It’s going to drive me crazy if I do that,” he said. I shrugged. I can be a bit of a dick when I’m being paid. He obeyed, though. When he moved in to kiss me again, the fumes reeked out of his nose and mouth into my own. I reached down and felt between his legs—he’d already greased up his hole for me. “All right,” I said, struggling to a half-leaning, half-sitting position. “Sit back and see what you bought.” I’d already removed my hoodie. I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and pulled them down around my ankles. I was wearing a tight blue T-shirt with a deep V-neck, no trunks, the jeans, and a pair of beat-up old Converse, as well as two rubber cock rings. I did look pretty hot, for me. Hell, I would've done me. Anyway, I was hard and already precumming, so when I started stroking for him, my hand made slick noises up and down the shaft. The van was quiet save for rain on the rooftop and the sound of my stroking. “Fuck,” he said at last. “Your body is even better than your photos. What’s your waist size?” “Twenty-nine, thirty,” I said. He looked at my wedding ring. “How long have you been married?” “Twenty years.” “To a woman?” I nodded. “I’m gay. Partnered. Fifteen years. He doesn’t like sex. Especially anal sex. He thinks it’s dirty. Have you been paid for this before?” “Are you paying me to talk?” I asked. “Because I’m still waiting for you to please my cock.” Like I said, I’m apparently a little bit of a dick when I’m getting paid. That was his cue to start sucking. The guy was good, but I could’ve told he didn’t had much sex with that partner of his, because he could only suck for about ten seconds at a time before getting overexcited and having to pull back. He was a choker, too. He’d try to take me to the base, and then figure out too late that he wasn’t experienced enough to handle it. “Oh god,” he said, after gagging for the third time. “I need that in me.” “Then let’s do it.” I got him onto his knees and bent him over while I rubbed some lube from his satchel on my dick. After instructing him to take another hit of the poppers, I let my dick nose around his hole until it found its way in. He kept saying he hadn’t been fucked in six months, but it didn’t matter. After a few hits of poppers, he was loose and hungry for it. And also way, way overexcited. He was going to shoot any second. “Oh fuck,” he grunted once I was in. “I’m going to want to see more of you. I want to get a hotel room and fuck all day with you. Would you do it?” “If you’re paying,” I told him, fucking away. “You take real good care of a guy who takes care of you,” he gasped out, a couple of words at a time. “I can tell.” “You take care of me.” I could tell that he was getting closer and closer to the edge, because his big body was jerking and spasming as he grabbed at his cock more and more furiously. “I take care of. . . .” I didn’t even finish my sentence before he started shooting. The first rope sprayed out and hit the wall above the wheel well. The rest splatted on the rug. His ass squeezed my cock out before his groans had stopped. I was surprised when he winched himself around and began cleaning my dick with his mouth. “Oh my god,” he said a minute later, when he was holding me in his arms and making out with me. “Fucking incredible.” I’d zipped back up by then, but he was still naked. We made out for a little bit. Since he was still clearly horny, I sucked on his enormous nipples and talked dirty about how hungry his hole had been for my raw dick until he was hard again. It didn't take long. He grabbed a hand towel, spread it across his belly, and furiously jacked out another load while I bit and squeezed. Then I gave him a final kiss, grabbed my sweatshirt, and left. I hadn’t even gotten out of the parking lot before he texted me. Wow and thanks!!!, he said. That was awesome. How much would it take to get you alone in a hotel room for an afternoon? We can negotiate it when the time comes, I texted back. Set it up. I could swing 300 in cash and 200 in gas cards, he messaged, if you take care of me real good. That’s a start, I told him, and let him begin thinking about that all-important second offer. What can I say? I make my living as an artist. We artists can always use the money. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thursday night I had a speaking engagement at the august local institution I always think of as the University of the Mall Parking Lot. It was the second speech there in as many weeks. Last week my talk was in front of an all-female class. Thursday, though, I had guys in the audience. Some actual cute ones, too. There are always a couple of kids at these things who take a hard focus on me when I give my speech about making a living in the creative arts. I think they see me as an experienced success in my field, god bless ‘em, and during the Q&A period these particular students will inevitably ask a lot of complicated questions--they're trying to impress me, generally. There was one in the audience that night, sitting in the front row, scribbling notes. He’d pause when I’d pause, and when I’d begin speaking again his hand would furiously dash across the page while he squinted at me through his wide, heavy-framed geek glasses. The kid was no more than nineteen or twenty and totally adorkable—he had a close-cropped blond head, a pointy chin, bright blue eyes, and was struggling to grow a beard but only coming up with a patchy crop of peach fuzz. His ratty plaid shirt was open three buttons to expose a pale white chest and the tiniest patch of hair. I’d smile at him from time to time and make eye contact, but I couldn’t shake the conviction that he was transcribing every damned word I said. When it was time to open the floor to questions, his hand shot up immediately. He asked something so convoluted and intellectual that I wasn’t sure he understood it himself—something about how our brand of creative artists were the last bastion of . . . whatever. It was the kind of thing that kids think about when they’re young and noble and full of abstract ideals. I answered him as best as I could, but the entire time I was looking at his fuzzy face and thinking, Damn, kid. You are so fuckable. I wasn’t at all surprised when he approached the table afterward. He lingered after the more casual questioners left, then approached and gave me his name. “I think it’s really, really great of someone of your stature and professionalism to take an entire evening out to come talk to aspiring artists like us when you have nothing to gain by it whatsoever, I mean, it’s like, really great of you.” I couldn’t pay much attention to his hyperbole. I have no stature. Professionalism, maybe. Basically, I make a living doing what I love, and that’s about as far as it goes. But mostly I didn't respond to his overblown fawning because his backpack was pinning down one shoulder of his plaid shirt. With those buttons he'd left opened, when he leaned forward, I could see the edge of a flat, pink nipple. “Yes,” I said, nodding, deadpan. “It is really, really great of me.” He didn’t realize I was joking until I cracked a grin. He pinkened. “Oh! You’re joking.” “I’m a verbal person,” I assured him. “I like getting out and meeting people. And I like talking about myself. Opportunities like this are the perfect combo.” “And I guess you get to find some new groupies when you do, huh?” “Sometimes.” I don’t think he knew what he was opening himself up to. I cocked my head and asked, “Why, are you volunteering?” The kid turned a shade of beet red, all over. I swear I could watch the flush start in his pale, white cheeks and spread to his ears and forehead, and then rush all out once down his neck and exposed chest. He looked stricken and afraid to move, rooted to the spot. It almost made me hard in my jeans. Christ, if that embarrassment was almost so tangible, I could’ve scooped it up and slapped it on my dick as lube to bang him—which I very badly wanted to do. When he could finally move, he opened his mouth and stammered, “Hah-hah, you’re joking again.” I smiled and gave him a card, but not before I scribbled my cell number on the back. “Call or email me sometime if you have more questions. Or if you want to talk,” I said innocently enough, but with meaning. He turned the card over in his hands and stared at it for a few seconds, then nodded, mumbled out thanks, and scurried off. Cute little fucker. I doubt he’ll call, but enough adorkable and eager-to-impress college kids have followed through in the past and ended up with their legs over my shoulders. It could happen. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He and I usually share the same sorts of obsessions, but one particular entry in Mr. Gloryholejunkie's blog recently spoke to me when he talked about how in days of yore, wankers would leave 'courtesy' copies of gay porn rags in restrooms for lucky guys to use as jerking material. The very first printed porn I ever saw was such a magazine. It was a copy of Honcho, left in the second floor men's room of the college I attended. It was the cruisiest of the several cruisy restrooms in the small rural town. Back in the early nineteen-eighties, one of the easiest places to get sex no matter where you traveled was to hit the men's rooms in a university library; one of them was sure to be hopping. (It's not a bad rule of thumb now, either.) The one I haunted back then attracted a steady stream of students, staff, out-of-towners, tourists, and faculty. Especially faculty. One day I went in, dropped my jeans around my ankles, and found a magazine tucked away in the corner. The pages were already stiff from use and the cover and many of the inside pages were sticking together from dried cum. I had to blink several times to make sure it was real. I'd been having sex for almost a decade at that point, and lots of it, but I'd never, ever seen it in glossy, full-color print. Where would I, in that sleepy little southern town? I can't even imagine where anyone bought it. I'm guessing that some poor kid had managed to get his hands on a copy in one of the cities and couldn't bring himself to keep it in his dorm room for fear of discovery. Then a few others had used it in the men's room and left it behind for similar reasons. I remember looking at the pics and keeping my hand stroking constantly over my wet dick. I shot one load, ate it (I still do, when I jack), and was working on another when someone came into the tiny restroom. Was it the person who'd left the magazine, coming back to reclaim it? A cruiser? Nope, it was some guy who proceeded to ruin the mood by taking over the other stall and unloosing the smelliest, loudest dump imaginable. I rolled up the Honcho tightly, pulled up my pants, and snuck back to my dorm room. I was a Honcho purchaser after that, through much of the eighties. I got rid of the collection long, long ago, but I did keep one copy--the original one I'd discovered in the restroom. I still have it, too. The cover has disintegrated, and a lot of the pages are rigid as cardboard, but damn, it brings back a lot of memories of those days I spent with my knees on the tiles, playing with dicks I couldn't see beneath a marble partition. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the nice things about what I do for a living is that if I decide to take the day off and sleaze, I can. I don’t have to call in sick to anyone, or do what I did when I had a day job, which was to pretend to have ‘a meeting on the other campus’ and go do whatever the fuck I wanted. Today I decided to give myself the day off and spend it at the baths. I arrived exactly at 12:05. “The lunchtime crowd’s going to love you,” said the deep-voiced, goateed guy behind the desk, who’s bottomed for me more than a few times. “When they arrive, that is,” he added. He wasn’t kidding. For an hour I wandered around the place wondering if there’d been some kind of bomb scare in the city of which I wasn’t aware. I eventually sat in my room and played games on my phone until in walked. . . #1: Rick was 59 years old, bald, handsome, and fairly fit. He stepped into my room like he owned it, and shut the door. “You look lonely,” he said, and put a hand on each of my knees so he could wrench my legs apart. He sucked well, and I loved it when he flipped me over, slapped my ass, and announced, “You are so damned fuckable, boy.” To my ears, that’s a huge compliment. Even though I consider myself a top guy, and even though I haven't been fucked in over half a decade, hearing someone say those words makes me blush like a pleased schoolboy. I almost never get to hear it, though. For one thing, I have no ass. For another, the vast majority of guys I play with don’t want me to be fuckable. They want me to find them fuckable. Since I rapidly discovered that Rick didn’t get hard and that therefore I wouldn't be accused of leading him on if I enjoyed a little assplay, I didn’t mind letting him manhandle me like his little bitch for a few minutes until I took a break. #2: The Banker is a guy I’ve played with several times before. I have no actual proof he’s a banker, but he dresses like one. When this distinguished, gray-haired gentleman walks into the baths he’s always wearing the finest and most flexible of wire-rimmed spectacles, an obviously expensive, tailored shirt, fine slate-colored woolen slacks, a conservative tie in a pastel color, and the inevitable shiny penny loafers. Then he takes all that shit off and reveals a chest covered with a carpet of fur and a short, curved dick that gets hard, stays hard, and blasts hard. I saw him walk in and immediately thought to myself, hot damn! when I saw him enter the room next to mine. I gave him a few minutes to undress and shower, but when I heard him return, I opened my door, walked into his room, knelt down on the floor, and was immediately rewarded with a mouthful of banker cock. He knows by now I can take a pretty hard face-fucking, so my head was banging against the drywall before he let loose and gave me a juicy mouthful. #3: Mark I met in the steamroom. I was sitting on the top shelf when in walked a stocky gent with a policeman’s build and an enormous handlebar mustache. He’d trailed me in, obviously hoping to find me there, and when he saw me playing with my hard dick, he sat down on the ledge before me and stared at me. The guy had the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever noticed through the steam. While a crowd of four or five guys watched, Mark expertly deep-throated me without choking or gagging, while simultaneously yanking on my nipples and somehow wetting his third finger and jamming it up my ass. When I writhed and squirmed away from the unexpected invasion, he shoved me roughly against the wall, surrounded his mouth with mine, and kissed me so deeply that suddenly I didn’t even mind the digit prodding my prostate. “I wanna suck that dick to the root,” he growled. “Let’s go back to my room,” I managed to pant. Inside the room he twisted and chewed on my nipples so hard that they’re still sore now—which I kind of like, to be honest. “Looks like the boy can stand some pain!” he said, applying the pressure even more. He slapped my balls experimentally, sucked me, and then continued talking about how he was gonna bend me over and fuck my boyass like the little bitch I was. (I don’t know why I was giving off such a bottomy vibe to those guys, that afternoon. Highly unusual.) “I wanna do anything for you,” he said. “Just name it. Name it and I’ll do it right now.” "Anything?" I asked. "Seriously, anything?" "I said anything and I meant it! Name it, boy!" “Could you eat my ass,” this boy said, after a minute. “Please, eat my fuckin’ ass?” “Except that,” he announced, abruptly standing up and putting on his towel. He opened the door and stalked out, but not before saying, “I’m a doctor. You don’t want to know what comes out of that hole.” Fail. #4, 5, 6, and 7: Craig pounced on me the minute I stepped back in the steamroom after the aborted encounter with Mark. He was lankier and thinner than I, and younger as well. When I sat down on a lower ledge, he immediately got down on his knees and began going to town on my dick. Good head, too. The best I’d had that day. While he was sucking, a sexy muscular guy in his twenties sat down next to me and began kissing me and playing with my nipples. He was joined by two guys I’d seen in the showers earlier, both also in their twenties, both with beards and long, shoulder-length hair. They looked like brothers. Both of the long-haired fellows also reached down to play with my dick and to rub their hands over my chest. One of them pulled my head forward to suck his average-sized meat—and I discovered that both of the long-haired guys were wearing rubbers for oral sex. A mouthful of latex isn’t really my thing. I let the muscular guy suck them both while Craig continued to suck me. Then I reached down between Craig’s legs, my middle finger discovered a wet and slippery hole, lubed and ready to go. Finally I was going to get some ass. “Want to go back to my room?” he asked. I agreed. The minute the door closed, Craig instantly assumed the position, butt up, knees spread, hands clutching at his butt cheeks to pull them apart for me. I spat on my dick, worked in the head, and began to fuck. The kid had a great, great hole. Tight, wet, and greedy. “Oh fuck,” he said. “I’m so glad you didn’t want a rubber.” “You don’t have to worry about rubbers with me,” I whispered. “Are you going to stay in or pull out when you shoot?” I didn’t answer. He'd find out soon enough I don't pull out. I kept fucking. By that time I was so horny and frustrated that I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer. I pounded the skinny little fucker so hard I thought he might snap. When it came time, I thrust all the way in and let loose. “Breed me!” His breath was hoarse as he played with himself. A moment later, he shook and quivered, spraying his load onto the cheap sheets. We exchanged numbers. The kid only lives about a mile from me, which could be a plus. #8: Another muscled guy came into my room when I was resting. Like Rick, he didn’t wait for permission. He simply walked in, shut the door, and stood there with his hands on his hips. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, and had wavy long hair with a single gray streak on one side. “Did you fuck that guy?” he asked. “I saw him sucking you in the steam room. Did you fuck him?” “Yeah,” I said. “Damn, you’ve got a big dick.” He lifted my hand away from my crotch. I’d started to get hard again at the sight of him. He looked at me speculatively. “Did you suck that guy?” I shook my head. “You want to suck me?” “Let me see it,” I said. He dropped the towel. His cock had a downward curve, and was hard and respectably-sized. He made it twitch. “Yeah,” I told him. “I’ll suck you.” I stayed on my knees for a good ten minutes, giving him a good wet hand-and-mouth job. He kept his hands on the back of my head the entire time, and occasionally would lean down to plant a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “Good boy,” he’d say. “Very good boy.” The closer he got to shooting, the more aggressive he got; he put his hands on top of his head as if to show off his body, looked into my eyes where I gazed up at him with a mouthful of meat, and made short, hard thrusts. When he shot, it was almost silently. He forced my head down on his dick and held it there, letting out three bursts of fluid. I waited until he was done and had withdrawn, and swallowed. “Your wife let you fuck her with that thing?” he said, gesturing to my dick as he put on his towel. The guys think they're all clever for noticing my wedding ring. Little do they know I've learned it's like a cocksucker magnet. Guys in the baths love giving a married guy what they think he lacks. “Yessir, she does,” I replied. “Lucky bitch.” #9: The porn star occupied the room directly behind mine. He wasn’t an actual porn star, as far as I know. He merely looked like one. Killer body. Beautiful rugged face. Shaved head. Vivid, colorful ink running from his beautiful biceps down his back, and curving around his luscious butt to end on the fronts of his thighs. Not random tatts—a solid work of art. His dick was thick, vacuum-pumped, and sported a zero-gauge p.a. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain and a rusted lock that looked as if it’d been there for a long, long while. Big heavy black boots weighed down his enormous feet. His hands were meaty and ape-like—almost paws. He lay in his room on his back, legs in the air, eyes staring at the ceiling, fingering his greased-up, slimy hole and playing with his thick meat. The overhead light was on full bright. He was just waiting for someone to come in. When I went in, Craig, the guy I’d bred, was already in there, feeding the porn star dick. The porn star gulped at it greedily, his eyes mere slits of fucklust. I stood next to him stroking and showing off my meat, while Craig reached behind to play with me and tug at my balls. Finally Craig stepped aside and let me assume my place over the guy’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” said the porn star to me. When he spoke, it was with an over-enunciated, lightweight effeminate voice that really belied the tough-fuckmeat image he was going for. “I simply cannot suck a dick that someone else has touched.” I raised my eyebrows. I can see not sucking a dick that’s been in some stranger’s ass. (I’m not a doctor, and I can figure out why I might not want to. Even though I’ve done it.) I can maybe see not wanting to suck a dick that someone else has been sucking. But not sucking a dick that someone (whose dick you've just eaten like a red Twizzler) has squeezed with his hand? Is crazy. “I just got out of the shower,” I assured him. “If you rinse it off, I’ll suck it then.” I wrapped my towel around my waist and stomped off to the showers again, growling all the way. Craig was still in the porn star's room when I returned. I made sure not to let him accidentally graze me in case the disinfectant queen had a fit. “Do you have poppers?” he asked. When I said I didn’t, he asked Craig the same thing. “How about the people in the hallway?” he said. “Do they have poppers?” I wasn’t planning to ask random strangers in the hallway for their poppers, so I put my dick in his mouth to shut him up. He sucked for a while—and looked good doing it—but after about two minutes he stopped. “Are you planning to cum soon?” he said in that voice. “Because I don’t want to have to be doing this all day.” What a rude fucker he was, I thought to myself. “Then let me use your hole instead,” was what I said. He acted like I’d suggested I pour chili-infused honey on his testicles and let loose the bucket of fire ants. “Oh my god no!” he squealed, and actually held a hand to his chest. “I don’t get fucked!” Then here's my seasoned advice: don’t lay there with your legs in the air fingering your greased hole and giving drill-me glances to every man passing your doorway, asswad. "Sorry to inconvenience you," I said, and walked out. I left after that, and got home at exactly 4:02, three minutes before the boy got home from school, and a half hour before we left to pick up the spouse at the airport. Somehow I managed to squeeze another load out before the trip across town. Not exactly a terrible day at the baths, but definitely not a good one, either. My load count: Took two orally, delivered one in the rear, jacked one at home. Number of times I was called 'boy': More times than in the previous five years. Dim bathhouse lighting and men not wearing their glasses, my monstrous ego thanks you. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've known and fucked Jason for two years. I've never seen his face. Oh, I've caught glimpses of it from time to time. I've seen his sharp chin as it settles against my nuts. Sometimes it's softened by a crop of fuzz. Sometimes it's bony and clean-shaven. I've observed many times the curve of his pink little lips nuzzling around my meat. Once in a while the tips of his long brown hair will bob below the restroom stall partition and brush against my thighs. I know well the leanness of his hands, and the taut strength of his hairy legs. Scrolling thorn-studded vines of plump roses decorate the insides of both his arms, decidedly retro in appearance but somehow perfectly modern. They look like the kind of ink you might see on Popeye's biceps, re-imagined and forced into full bloom by a real artist. It's the tattoos I'd recognize immediately if I saw Jason out in public—but like I said, I never have. I've only seen them as he's reached beneath the stalls to grasp at my dick, or when his hand has darted underneath my balls to tease around my hole or to grab my ass and pull me closer. Jason first met me when he was eighteen, and cruising Squirt for older dick. He was young and lean and horny and lived with a pop who was always home; I was old and jizz-filled and ready to get inside him and didn't have a place to play that day. "How about somewhere public?" he messaged me. "A toilet? I'll do you anywhere, dude. I need that dick." I named a local mall. "Sears," I told him. "First floor men's room, men's department." I told him what shoes I'd be wearing, and he told me he'd be in black sneakers. We agreed to meet in twenty minutes' time. I half-expected him not to show. When I arrived at the Sears, I went to the bathroom, chose a stall, dropped my pants, and started stroking. I'd fucked and sucked in there many, many times in the past. I was in the very stall where I'd once met a businessman who was into humiliation; I'd roped him to the toilet hardware with his necktie, fucked him, pissed on him, pulled up my pants, and left him scrambling to extricate himself before he was discovered. (He loved it. Emailed me about it for years, though I never met him again.) The thought of that long-distant afternoon alone was enough to keep me rock hard. I'd only been there a couple of minutes when first the outer door creaked open, followed by the gunshot snap of the inner door's hinge. Through the crack in the stall I could see an impossibly skinny kid dash by. A pair of black sneakers shuffled into the next toilet. I heard the sound of a belt unfastening, followed by the heavy clunk of the kid's jeans as his huge belt buckle dragged to the tiles. He sat down, and tapped his foot. I tapped mine back. Then his hand snaked under the metal partition, palm up, anxious to hold something. For the first time, I saw the thorny vines that decorated him. I knelt down and put my purple-red dick in his hand, and let him prove himself. The first time he only sucked me. Sometimes that's all we do together. I don't shoot very easily from blowjobs alone, and even warn most guys up front that mere head is unlikely to get me off. Jason's never had an issue getting me to unload, though. Even the first time he knew exactly how much pressure to keep around the base of my dick as he greedily slurped up and down its length. He knew, as if I'd directed him, when to stroke my nuts on their sides, coaxing the sperm upward. And when I shot a very few minutes later, he impaled his throat on the shaft and took every drop, just the way I prefer. Yet I'd said nothing at all in that quiet men's room. The only thing that could have been heard were the soft sounds of sucking, our heavy breathing, and the very gentlest of my moans. He took his mouth off my dick, and then I felt something wet land on my cock and stomach. When I leaned backward and craned to look beneath the stall, I saw that he'd shot his own load on my meat. I watched his fuzz-tipped peaky chin graze my skin as he licked off his sperm. Then I withdrew back into my own stall, pulled up my pants, flushed, washed my hands, and walked back to my car on trembling legs. After that first day we started meeting in other restrooms, every month or so. The local Home Depot is one of his favorites—the floors there are grimy but we're rarely interrupted. We've done several local colleges, one of the rest stops, a park restroom in the summers, and a building in the downtown area. We attempted a casino one time, but the foot traffic was too steady. The only time we've met face to face is once at my house, late at night. My family was actually away for a few days and I was there alone, but when we were chatting online I told him they were upstairs asleep, and that he should be a good boy and come taste my dick while being very, very quiet. To my surprise, he was all for it. My neighborhood is pitch black and unlit by street lights, and there was no moon that night. It was easy for me to meet him at the side door, guide him up the kitchen steps, and take him into the family den, where he knelt between my legs and lapped at my cock and balls like a good little boy. Right before he came, I put my hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear. Sshh. I cupped his ass as he convulsed and squirted out ropes of semen. It was the only time we've kissed. Still I didn't see his face that night, nor he mine. We were nothing more than silhouettes in the darkness. We'll always have Sears. That's where I met him Saturday morning. He recognized my shoes instantly when he sat down in the same stall next to mine. I dropped to my knees and spread my legs beneath the partition as his mouth rushed to greet me. "Hi, daddy," he whispered, before taking my dick between his lips. Saturday we fucked. His hole was lightly greased. My torso was pressed tightly against the clammy, cold partition while my waist and legs were fully underneath. I felt the pressure as gripped my meat with one hand while he lowered himself onto it. From his feet I could tell that he faced away from me as he squatted down and accommodated my girth. Inch by inch, he started to take it. Not until he'd taken most of my eight inches did he rise up again. When he did, it was with a gentle rocking motions. Every bob up and down started to bring me closer and closer to orgasm. We know when we meet in the public spots that our time is limited. It didn't take him long to settle into a more aggressive rhythm. "Fuck me, daddy!" I heard him whisper. The partition thudded a little with every rise and fall. Closer and closer I got until I was on the edge, willing myself to shoot while simultaneously wanting not to. Then I felt a splatter on my nuts and thighs, accompanied by the sensation of his hole clenching. He'd shot his load on me. Knowing that was enough to push me over the edge. Still clutching onto the underside of the stall, I blasted inside him, shooting harder than I had all week. Once my breathing had subsided, we both withdrew and started mopping at the floor with toilet paper, until the evidence was gone. A middle-aged chubby guy walked into the restroom while I washed my hands. He looked me up and down with speculation while I ignored him. I watched as he darted into the stall I'd just vacated. Jason was still in the next john, waiting for me to leave so that we wouldn't see each other. I didn't stick around to see if there was any action or not. I had to get home. I think we both know that neither of us is ugly. I used to have an avid curiosity to see what he looked like, and even tried sticking around afterwards to catch a glimpse. Now, though, I accept that the anonymous aspect of our coupling somehow makes it hotter . . . especially as it's been going on for two years. One day, somewhere unexpected—along some street or outside a Gap in a mall—I'm certain I'm going to walk by a good-looking kid who'll have thorn-studded vines climbing the insides of his arms, abloom with plump red roses. I'll look at his face, and he'll look at mine. There'll be a moment of recognition and surprise, and we'll know all we need to know. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I first met Jim when I was on cam4.com. I was broadcasting in my office, legs spread wide, a thin layer of lube on my dick as I pointed it at my laptop and stroked. Occasionally I’d dig my fingertips in the slit and pull out a pearl of precum that would leave a long and glistening trail as I raised it to my lips. (The photo currently at the top of my blog was a random shot from one of my cam shows.) I’d been answering the standard questions I always get whenever I go into cam4—no I wouldn’t show my feet, yes I could self-suck but I really don’t like it, no I wasn’t going to do it on cam, and no I wasn’t a prerecorded porn tape—when one guy suddenly said in chat, Hey, I recognize that zip code. You’re just up the street from me. I sent him a private message and found out that in a room full of people from New York City, Turkey, and Germany (I always seem to get a lot of Germans), this guy lived about a mile and a half away. Want to come over? I asked. I fully expected a no. Fuck yes, he said. Stay on cam until I get there, then shut it off. I want you just as hard and ready when I come through the door. So that’s how I met Jim. He’s partnered and sexless at home, like many of the men I fuck. It’s a pity, because he’s a good-looking guy. What's really the pity is that he disguises it so well. The spouse used to watch one of those television shows about clothing—I don’t think it was the Tim Gunn one, but it might have been the one with that Carson guy from Queer Eye—in which the host would take the poor woman getting the style makeover for the week to a lineup of women dressed minimally. They’d range from big-boned at one end to more petite at the other, with four or five graduated body types in between. The host would ask that week’s guest to stand between the two women she felt best represented her own body type. Inevitably, the woman would stand between two of the larger-breasted and larger-hipped models, only to be told by the host that no, based on her actual weight and measurements, she really should have stood next to the smallest. Jim’s got the same kind of body dysmorphia. He’s muscular and stocky, but in a good way. Still, he seems to think he’s a much, much larger and heavier man than he really is. Monday morning he arrived to my place wearing a sweatshirt from a Catholic boys’ school sized XXXL (yes, I looked at the label when he was in the bathroom afterward), a super-baggy T-shirt, cargo pants with enormous floppy pockets, and droopy drawers. I’m no Tim Gunn, but I want to sit him down and tell him, Listen, you’re a sexy man with a muscular football player’s build. Don’t dress like you’re trying to conceal a family of clowns. He’s got a beautiful ass. It’s the kind of ass you see in porn—perfectly round, smooth, with handfuls to grab onto. Once I got his saggy clothing off, I bent him over, knelt down, separated his cheeks with my hands, and buried my face in the crack. Almost immediately I tasted the sweet and gummy fluid he’d liberally spread around and in his pucker. His ass hairs were wet from the stuff. After I wiped off my nose, I used my middle finger to prod at his hole. “Oh god,” he said. “It’s been so long.” “You won’t have to wait much longer.” I stood up and unzipped my pants and let my dick flop out. I wore one of my metal cock rings; his hands immediately reached out to grab and tug at it. Now it was his turn to fall to his knees and suck at my dick. Jim has a good mouth. I told him so, over and over again, in a soft whisper. Finally, driven half-crazy by the sensations he was producing, I hopped up onto my bed and beckoned for him to follow. Like a dog still hungry for a bowl of food being taken away from him, he lunged and followed, still trying to keep his mouth on my dick. I pulled him up on top of me and kissed him. Jim’s a great kisser. Making out with someone is my favorite activity, bar none, and when I find a man who knows what he’s doing, it makes my dick swell to twice the size. I loved the weight of him on me as we expressed our passion, the gentle grunts of satisfaction as we mashed our mouths together, the swelling of his dick against mine. “Fuck me,” he said at last, when he pulled away. “Just slam the fuck out of me.” He rolled over and onto his knees at the bed’s edge. I stood between his legs, positioned myself behind him, spat in my palm, and spread it over the head of my dick. “When’s the last time the boyfriend fucked you?” I asked, teasing it against his hole. “God, I can’t even remember.” I could barely hear his voice, so muffled it was against the blanket. “Too fucking long. Fuck me.” I continued to graze the tip of my dick across the wrinkled indentation that pulsed in front of me. “Is his dick as big as mine?” “No!” I leaned down and blew a stream of air over his slick ass. The sensation made him twitch. “Whose dick do you like better?” “Yours!” he said without hesitation. “Whose dick do you want more?” “Yours!” “Do you want it now?” He was almost choking with frustration when he gasped out, “So bad!” I slid in with almost no resistant, then held still when I reached the base. His back arched down. His head jerked into the air. “Oh god,” he yelled, his mouth open as wide as it could go. Then, a moment later, much more softly and passionate, “Oh god.” I fucked him slowly at first, pulling out to just beneath the ridge under my head and then sliding slowly back to the base. He’d used so much lube before he’d arrived that it was leaking out onto my balls. My hands were so goopy that I had to wipe them on the blanket. Gradually, naturally, I increased my pace. Jim’s ass is full enough that it can take a real pounding, so after a few minutes of sweet talk and grinding, the room was full of the sound of our flash slapping “Do it, do it, do it,” was his mantra by then, and he kept repeating it over and over in time to my thrusting. He came the same time I did, groaning and depositing his small load atop the bed. I let out mine with a mighty whoosh of air and then collapsed on top of him. He turned his head, craned his neck over his shoulder, and kissed me again. While he was dressing I asked about his sweatshirt. “Did you go to that school?” I asked. “Nah,” he said. “My nephew does.” I began imagining that perhaps the nephew misjudged his sweatshirt size and gave it to him as a gift, when he added, “I bought it during a booster event. Thank god they had one in my size.” More...