The Cup That Runneth Over

[aussieamylpig]

Greg's pulse raced as he stepped into the sprawling backyard of the older man's house, the scent of sizzling sausages and beer mingling with the sharp tang of chlorine from the nearby pool. He'd met the host Victor just hours earlier in a dingy public toilet stall off the main drag, where Victor's thick fingers had pinned him against the graffiti-scratched wall while his cock plunged deep into Greg's eager hole. 'Come to my Melbourne Cup BBQ,' Victor had grunted mid-thrust, breath hot against Greg's neck. 'Bring that tight ass.' Greg, always up for more, had nodded, cum still leaking down his thighs as he pulled up his jeans.

Now, under the Australian sun, the party buzzed with about a dozen men milling around, laughter booming over the clink of glasses. Greg didn't recognize a soul, his stomach twisting with that mix of nerves and excitement. He grabbed a scotch and coke from the cooler, the burn of liquor steadying him as he sipped, eyes darting over the crowd. Victor clapped him on the shoulder, haded him a shot and introducing him vaguely before vanishing into his guests.

Another drink in, Greg felt the warmth spread, loosening his limbs. He wandered toward the edge of the yard, where a sturdy metal frame caught his eye—a sex swing, suspended from a reinforced beam on the patio, its leather straps swaying gently in the breeze. Leaning against the frame was a massive bear of a man: broad-chested, hairy as fuck, with a gut that strained his tank top and thighs like tree trunks in cargo shorts. His beard was thick and salt-and-pepper, eyes locking onto Greg with a predatory gleam.

'First time here?' the bear rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate through Greg's chest. He extended a meaty hand. 'Name's Hank. You look like you could use some company.'

Greg shook it, the grip firm and lingering. 'Greg. Yeah, just got invited by Victor. Don't know anyone else.' They chatted easily—about the race, the drinks, the heat—Hank's gaze dropping pointedly to Greg's crotch more than once. The scotch flowed, Greg's third now, blurring the edges of his caution. Hank's hand brushed his arm, then rested on his lower back, thumb circling teasingly.

Suddenly, Victor's voice boomed over the speakers. 'Lads! Race is starting in five! Get ready!' A flurry erupted—shirts yanked off, shorts dropping to ankles. Men stripped down to nothing or jockstraps that framed bulging packages and furry asses. Cocks swung free, half-hard already, the air thick with musk and anticipation. Greg blinked, arousal hitting him like a freight train as naked bodies pressed close, hands groping freely.

Hank grinned, stripping off his tank to reveal a forest of dark hair across his pecs and belly. 'Your turn, boy.' Before Greg could process, hands—Hank's and others—tugged at his clothes. Shirt gone, jeans shoved down, his own cock springing out, already leaking. They left him in his briefs, but Hank ripped those off too, leaving Greg bare and exposed.

'Into the sling,' Victor ordered, appearing with a wink. Greg's heart hammered as strong arms lifted him, settling his back against the padded support. Straps buckled around his thighs, spreading his legs wide, ankles hooked high. His ass hung open, hole twitching in the cool air, balls dangling vulnerably. The position arched his back, cock pointing skyward, pre-cum dribbling down the shaft.

Hank dropped to his knees between Greg's splayed legs, face diving in without preamble. His beard scraped Greg's inner thighs as his tongue lapped broad and flat over Greg's hole, circling the rim before spearing inside. Greg gasped, head falling back, the wet heat of Hank's mouth devouring him. The bear ate ass like a starving man—sucking, probing, tongue-fucking deep while the TV blared the pre-race hype. Guests gathered, stroking themselves, murmurs of approval as Hank's saliva slicked Greg's crack, dripping down to his taint.

The announcer's voice crackled: 'And they're into the gates!' Tension built, the crowd hushing. Hank pulled back, wiping his mouth, his own cock now free— a fat, uncut monster, veined and throbbing, at least nine inches of girth. He spat into his palm, slicking the head, eyes locked on Greg's.

Gates clanged shut on screen. 'They're off!' the commentator yelled.

Hank surged up, gripping Greg's hips, and rammed forward. No warning, no tease—his raw cock breached Greg's rim in one brutal shove, sinking balls-deep into the spit-lubed heat. Greg's cry echoed, the stretch burning fierce as Hank's girth split him open, pubes grinding against his ass. The bear didn't ease in; he pounded immediately, hips pistoning with ferocious speed, each thrust slamming home like a jackhammer.

The race blurred on the TV—horses thundering, crowd roaring—but Greg's world was Hank's relentless fuck. The sling rocked with the force, chains rattling, Greg's body jolting forward on every plunge. Hank's balls slapped wetly against his cheeks, the raw friction dragging over his prostate, sparks exploding behind his eyes. 'Take it, you slut,' Hank growled, sweat beading on his hairy chest, one hand pinning Greg's thigh wider.

The pace was merciless, Hank's grunts syncing with the announcer's calls—'He's out in front, by a mile, leading the pack!'—but Greg could only moan, hole clenching around the invading shaft, milking it greedily. His cock bounced untouched, leaking steadily, the public display heightening every sensation as eyes watched, cocks jerked.

'Photo finish!' The horses crossed the line, cheers erupting.

Hank roared, burying deep and unloading—hot jets of cum flooding Greg's guts, pulsing thick and endless. The warmth spread, Hank grinding to wring out every drop before pulling out with a obscene squelch, seed oozing from Greg's gaping hole.

No pause. A second man—lean, tattooed, jockstrap discarded—stepped up, cock rigid and dripping. He thrust in raw, using Hank's load as lube, fucking fast and shallow, hips blurring. Greg whimpered, overstimulated, ass slurping around the new intrusion. The man lasted barely a minute, groaning as he added his load, cum mixing and bubbling out.

Third was quicker—a stocky guy with a pierced dick, shoving in without a word. He hammered erratically, the metal barbell scraping Greg's walls, before stiffening and pumping his release deep, grunting satisfaction.

Panting, spent, Greg hung limp in the sling, hole wrecked and leaking a creamy trail down his crack. Victor helped lower his legs and climb out gently, helping him to his feet on wobbly legs. 'Welcome to the annual raw BBQ,' Victor said with a grin, clapping his shoulder. 'We are all POZ, fuck bare, share our DNA, keep the fun going. No loads wasted here.' Laughter rippled through the group, hands patting Greg's ass as invitations for more lingered in their eyes.

Greg looked confused for a few moments as if trying to understand what Victor said.

Greg's legs trembled as Victor steadied him, the slick mess from his ass trickling down his thighs, mixing with sweat under the relentless sun. The party's energy hadn't dimmed; naked bodies roamed freely, cocks still twitching from the race's excitement, the air heavy with the scent of cum and grilled meat. A few guys shot Greg appreciative nods, their eyes lingering on his reddened bum where the slings leather had pressed.

One of them—a wiry guy in his forties with a shaved head and a tribal tattoo snaking down his arm—sidled up, bottle of beer in one hand and a small brown vial in the other. 'Hey' he said, voice gravelly from years of smokes. 'You look like you could use a hit .' He popped the cap, the sharp, chemical whiff hitting Greg's nose before he could react. Amyl nitrate—poppers. Nick pressed it under Greg's nostril. 'Inhale deep, mate. It'll make that ass sing.'

Greg hesitated, but the post-fuck haze and the scotch buzzing in his veins won out. He sniffed hard, the fumes rushing up like fire, exploding in his brain. Heat bloomed in his chest, then lower, his hole clenching involuntarily around the emptiness, craving more. His vision sharpened, colors vivid, every nerve ending igniting. Suddenly, the world felt electric—cocks everywhere looked thicker, asses rounder, the need to get filled overwhelming. His resolve was crumbling under the rush, body arching toward anyone who glanced his way.

Nick grinned, handing the vial away. 'That's it. Now, let's get you wet.' He grabbed Greg's wrist, pulling him toward the pool's edge where a cluster of men lounged on towels, stroking lazily. Without warning, Nick spun Greg around, shoving him to his knees on the warm concrete. 'Open up,' he was already bare, his semi-hard dick flopping out, foreskin peeled back to reveal a glistening head.

Greg's mouth watered from the poppers' high, and he parted his lips instinctively. But Nick aimed lower, gripping his shaft and unleashing a hot stream of piss right onto Greg's chest. The acrid warmth splashed over his pecs, running in rivulets down his abs, soaking his pubes and dripping off his balls. Greg gasped, the humiliation twisting into thrill, his cock hardening fully as the urine hit his skin. Nick adjusted, pissing directly into Greg's open mouth—salty, bitter fluid flooding his tongue, forcing him to swallow or choke. Some spilled out, streaking his chin, while others at the party cheered, a couple joining in to add their streams, drenching Greg from head to toe in a golden shower.

Soaked and reeking, Greg knelt there, the poppers keeping him pliant, eager. His hand wrapped around his own dick, jerking slowly as the piss pooled around his knees. Nick shook off the last drops onto Greg's face, then hauled him up by the armpits. 'Good boy. Now to the sling—more loads waiting.'

They maneuvered Greg back to the sex swing, he climbed in willingly this time, legs spreading wide as straps secured him again, ass presented like an offering. The first of the two—a burly redhead with a beer gut and a thick, curved cock—didn't waste time. He hawked a glob of spit onto Greg's piss-slick hole and drove in raw, the slide easy from the cum already coating his insides. The redhead gripped the swing's chains for leverage, pulling Greg onto his dick with each thrust, balls slapping wetly. Greg moaned loud, the poppers amplifying every ridge and vein dragging inside him, his prostate throbbing under the assault.

The redhead fucked steady, grunting with effort, sweat flying as he bottomed out repeatedly. Greg's body rocked, piss drying crusty on his skin, the degradation fueling his slutty haze. After a dozen deep pumps, the man tensed, slamming home and flooding Greg's guts with another hot load, cum churning with the previous deposits, leaking out in frothy white drops.

Barely catching his breath, the second bloke stepped up—a lean guy with a trimmed beard and a long, straight cock that curved upward. He rubbed the head along Greg's crack, smearing the mess, then plunged in with a slick pop. This one went slower at first, savoring the sloppy heat, hips rolling to grind deep. More amyl and greg's hole sucked him in greedily, muscles fluttering from the overload. The bloke picked up speed, hands on Greg's thighs, nails digging in as he hammered away, the swing creaking under the rhythm.

Greg's mind floated, lost in the sensation, until the man buried himself and erupted—pulse after pulse of seed painting his walls, the warmth seeping deeper. As the guy pulled out, a gush of mixed cum poured from Greg's ass, splattering the ground below.

Victor helped Greg down again, but this time, whispers rippled through the crowd. Someone had overheard Greg's earlier chat with Hank—'Don't know anyone else'—and pieced it together. 'Wait, he's neg?' a voice muttered. Heads turned, eyes widening, then narrowing with wicked intent.

Victor paused, brow furrowing. 'You serious, mate? Thought you were one of us.' The group closed in, cocks stirring back to life, a mix of surprise and opportunity lighting their faces. 'Well, fuck it,' Victor said, clapping Greg on the back. 'Looks like we've started your conversion party. No backing out now—you've already got four loads of poz cum swimming in that hole.'

Greg's eyes widened, the poppers' fog parting just enough for reality to crash in. Poz? The word hit like a gut punch. He'd taken raw loads from strangers, bareback in the sling, and now... his ass clenched, feeling the fullness, the risk sinking in. Panic flickered, but the fumes lingered, dulling the fear, stirring a dark curiosity instead. These men, all carrying the virus, had marked him inside, their DNA mixing in his guts.

The guests didn't give him time to dwell. 'Resolve's fading already,' Hank rumbled, stepping forward with his cock half-hard again. 'You're turning into our cum slut, boy. Embrace it.' Hands guided Greg to a table, bending him over the edge, ass up. His protests died unspoken as the first volunteer—a silver-haired daddy type—mounted him from behind, sliding into the cum-lubed channel with ease. He fucked deliberate and deep, whispering encouragements: 'Take our gift, convert for the party.'

One by one, they lined up, each thrusting home raw, adding their loads to the breeding pool. Greg's body betrayed him, hips pushing back, moans escaping as pleasure overrode dread. Cum sloshed inside with every new cock, overflowing down his legs, marking him thoroughly. By the fifth or sixth, his resolve shattered completely—he begged for more, hole gaping and hungry, fully surrendered to becoming their poz cum dump.

The BBQ stretched into the afternoon, Greg at the center, passed around like the main course, his transformation sealed in sweat, piss, and seed.

 

Hope you all like it.