30 Seconds That Could Have Changed Everything

[cumslutw]

Hey guys, Xmas is over - time for the real thing!

 

Part 6: The Death of Fantasy: A Sick Fuck, a Poz Breeding, and a Broken Man

 

The command from BREEDER was simple. "Downtown park. Public toilet by the lake. Midnight. Be at the urinal trough. Don't be late. Don't talk."

You arrive fifteen minutes early. The air in the blockhouse concrete building is thick with the acrid smell of stale piss, dampness, and cheap chemical cleaner. Flickering fluorescent tubes hum overhead, casting a sickly, intermittent light that makes the shadows dance. Used condoms, like sad, deflated jellyfish, litter the wet floor. You approach the long, metal urinal trough against the far wall. It's stained with years of neglect, and you see the drain at the end is clogged with a dark sludge, leaving a shallow pool of stagnant yellow urine. A couple more used condoms float in the murky water.

Your own bladder is tight with a knot of nerves. You step up to the trough and relieve yourself, the sound of your stream hitting the stagnant water echoing in the silence. Hot splashes of the old piss arc up and land on your sneakers and the cuff of your jeans. You stand there, your cock in hand, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than you have in your entire life. Every creak of the building, every distant car horn, makes you jump.

The door creaks open. Heavy footsteps. A man stands at the trough a few feet away. You risk a glance. He's young, maybe mid-20s. He's painfully thin, with a gaunt face that looks hollowed out, his cheekbones sharp as knives under the dim light. His skin has a greyish, waxy sheen, and his eyes are sunken and shadowed, dark circles pooling beneath them. He's not just skinny; he's being consumed.

Is this BREEDER? Your mind races. Why isn't he doing or saying anything? Does he expect me to act? What am I doing? Should I just run out of here right now? But your feet are rooted to the spot. He's not a dom; he looks like a ghost. He just stands there, pissing a thick, heavy stream that splashes against the urinal wall, generating foam in the piss pool. Finished, he shakes off and starts slowly stroking his cock. You glance over. On his slim, bony body, it looks massive and imposing, a weapon on a dying frame.

You have to prove you want it. You swallow your pride, the taste of it bitter in your throat. You pull down your jeans, letting them pool around your ankles, exposing your naked ass to the cold, damp air. You bend over, stabilizing yourself by planting your hands against the grimy, slick trough and push your ass out, a silent, desperate offering.

You feel him shuffle up behind you. There's a moment of stillness, and then you hear the wet sound of him hocking up phlegm from deep in his chest. A thick, warm glob of spit lands on your hole. A moment later, he shoves his raw cock into you. It's fast, rough, and impersonal. He's not trying to please you; he's just using your body to get off. His bony hips slam against your ass, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He grunts, a high, pathetic sound, and unloads inside you. He pulls out instantly, leaving you feeling empty and used.

And just as he does, the door opens again.

"Well, well. Look what we have here," a new voice, cold and amused, cuts through the silence. "Peter. What the fuck happened to you? You look like shit. You should really get back on those meds."

Your blood runs cold. You slowly turn your head. The man standing there is powerfully built, with a shaved head and a cold, dead-eyed stare. Your eyes are drawn to the side of his thick, muscular neck, where a stark black biohazard symbol is tattooed. This is BREEDER.

The young man, Peter, flinches at the voice. "I... I was just leaving," he mumbles, quickly pulling up his jeans and scurrying out without another word.

You're left bent over, dripping with his load, facing the real monster.

BREEDER laughs, a low, humorless sound. "Well, you obviously couldn't wait. But since you're now already lubed up, we don't need no foreplay." He's on you in an instant, pressing your face against the cold, metal wall. He shoves his hard cock into you. He's so much thicker than Peter that the burn is immediate and intense, a searing pain that makes you cry out. Peter’s load offers little slickness against the sheer size of him.

"Feel that?" he growls in your ear, his thrusts so heavy and forceful that you stumble, your right foot slipping off the wet floor and landing directly in the shallow pool of stale piss. You can feel the cold, disgusting liquid seep into your sneaker, soaking your sock. "That's Peter’s toxic load I'm pushing deeper into you. He's a walking petri dish. Bet you can feel his sickness swimming inside you right now. A two-for-one special. You're a lucky little pig."

He grunts as he unloads deep inside you, a long, powerful pulse that you feel in your guts. He leans in, his voice a low growl. "Enjoy my gift, you [banned word]. You're welcome."

He pulls out, but he's not done. He aims his cock at your back and a hot stream of piss suddenly soaks through your shirt and jeans. You flinch, utterly humiliated. He gives you a contemptuous slap on the ass, zips up, and leaves.

You're left alone in the disgusting, flickering room. Two probably toxic loads are dripping out of your unprotected ass. You're drenched in piss, one foot squishing in a sneaker full of stale urine. The fantasy is dead. The reality is a cold, humiliating violation.

But instead of running, you just... break.

With your jeans still tangled around your ankles, you lean your back against the grimy metal wall and slowly slide down. You feel the shock of the cold, stale piss as your naked ass makes contact with the filthy pool in the trough. You sit there for a long moment, the filth seeping into your clothes, into your skin. And then you start to cry. Not quiet tears, but wracking, gut-wrenching sobs. What did I do? The thought echoes in your head. The husband, the successful businessman... for what? Why did I take this risk? Was this experience really worth it? The shame is a physical weight, crushing you. Realizing there's nothing you can do about it today, that the damage is done, a different kind of desperation takes over.

In a final, depraved act of surrender, you reach out and grab as many of the used condoms from the floor as you can reach. You hold one after the other over your hardening cock and squeeze the cooling, anonymous contents over yourself, using it as lube. The thought of all those anonymous loads, all that potential sickness, coating your own cock makes your grief curdle into a dark, twisted arousal. You pull out your poppers, take a deep, desperate hit, a second, a third, until your head is spinning and the shame and the pleasure blur into one. You start wanking. It doesn't take long. You spray your own cum all over your chest, mixing with the filth, a final act of self-destruction in the face of the overwhelming shame.

Only then do you stand up, pulling your piss-soaked jeans over your filthy ass. It's the middle of December. You have to walk home through the cold, empty town, your wet clothes freezing against your skin, the smell of piss, cum, and violation clinging to you. You came seeking the "real thing," and you found it. And it was nothing like you'd ever dreamed.

[onlyraw]

@cumslutw … that this is based on your own experiences explains a lot. Your descriptions of the actual sex scenes are very good…. But what is truly amazing about your writing is getting inside the head of your narrator (which makes sense as it is you).  But you are so raw and honest in how you explain, expose, share, his (your) thought process.  Your last few lines of the first section 

On 12/12/2025 at 12:41 PM, cumslutw said:

He didn't just fuck your ass—he fucked your brain. He gave you a gift that will last forever: the endless, thrilling question of what he really left behind

Damn … so well written and just so fucking HOT!

your story is one of the hottest descriptions of the “need” guys feel when they are bug chasing that I’ve read on here. That addiction they get, the hunger they feel for the darker, primal sex, where the top is using, claiming, marking the bottom rather than the tender gentle sex between lovers.

looking forward to reading more of your journey 

[onlyraw]

Oh … and by the way …. Your English is very good 

[onlyraw]

On 12/21/2025 at 5:27 AM, cumslutw said:

And in that moment, you realize the chilling, undeniable truth: the memory is not enough. The fantasy is not enough. The hunger is a demand, not a request. And a demand cannot be satisfied by watching. It has to be 

On 12/21/2025 at 5:27 AM, cumslutw said:

The forum is just a collection of words. The clip is just pixels. And you are still alone in your apartment, your pants stiffening with another load. The relief is temporary. The hunger is permanent

Great writing… and very hot in a very dark way…. Thank you for sharing your journey in such an honest way ….. definitely looking forward to your next installments 

[Tanbbottom]

Thanks for sharing these hot twisted encounters and the deep thinking and struggle that goes with the magnetic pull of 'the risk.'

I'll be watching for more!

[thescribe730]

That is an outstanding contribution - well plotted and beautifully written.  If I could give 10/10 I would!

[cumslutw]

All you fellow chasers know the cycle: one day you're consumed by the primal urge to get bred and pozzed, the next you're shattered by regret and vow to be safe forever. The chase is a constant, brutal up and down of desire and shame. And so after that shattering midnight experience in the public toilet, I went to the STD clinic the next day, seeking penance or perhaps just the next chapter in the story.

 

Part 7: The Hard-On in Scrubs: Hippocratic Oath Versus Primal Urge

The midnight experience at the public toilet was a nightmare. You're devastated. You will never do that again. The "real thing" was a cold, hollow violation that left you feeling more alone than ever. You want to stay safe.

The next day, a Friday, you go to work but leave early at noon, the shame from the night before a constant, nagging presence. You drive straight to the STD clinic. The waiting room is a purgatory of sterile, antiseptic smells and hushed, fearful silence. You sit among the other faces, each a mask of shame and regret, just another number in a system designed to manage consequences. When your name is finally called, you follow a nurse down a stark white corridor and into a small, windowless office. The doctor gestures to the hard plastic chair opposite his desk. He can't be more than thirty, with the kind of youthful, earnest face that belongs on a medical school recruitment poster. He looks up, and his expression is one of polite, professional curiosity.

He clicks his pen. "So," he begins, his voice flat. "The nurse tells me you're here for a PEP prescription. Let's go over it. Tell me about the exposure."

You swallow, your throat dry. "It was... last night. Unprotected anal sex."

He nods slowly, making a note. "Receptive or insertive?"

"Receptive," you mumble.

"Receptive." He repeats the word, and as he leans back in his leather chair, the movement stretches the thin fabric of his scrub top taut across his chest. That's when you see it: two nipple piercings. And peeking from the collar of his shirt is a dusting of thick, black chest hair, a stark, masculine contrast to his youthful face. You force your eyes back to his.

"And how many partners were involved in this... encounter?"

The word "encounter" makes it sound so clinical, so detached. "Two," you say. "And me."

He looks up, a bit surprised by the specificity. "Two. Okay. And the status of these partners? Were any of them known to be HIV-positive?"

You hesitate, the images flashing in your mind. "Not sure... probably both…"

The doctor's pen stops. He leans forward slightly, his interest suddenly piqued. "Probably both? What makes you say that? Did they tell you? Or are you guessing?"

"There were signs…."

"Signs?" His voice is a low growl now. He stands. You see the powerful, rounded bubble butt in his scrubs for a second before he moves around the desk, leaning against it right in front of you. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the unmistakable bulge—a thick shape snaking down his left pant leg. It's so defined you can almost make out the ridge of his head. He's commando, and he's either hung or getting hard right here. The thought hits you like a lightning bolt.

"What kind of signs?"

You feel your face flush. "One of them... he looked... wasted. Very thin, gaunt."

The doctor nods, his face unreadable. "Okay. That can be a sign, though it's not definitive. Anything else?"

Your voice drops to a near-whisper. "The other one... he called himself 'BREEDER'. He had a... a biohazard symbol. Tattooed."

The doctor's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He lets out a slow, heavy breath. "I see. A biohazard tattoo." He makes a note on the chart, his pen pressing hard into the paper. He looks back at you from above, his gaze now sharp, cutting through you. The bulge in his pants seems to have grown even more prominent, a thick, commanding presence right in your line of sight. "And these signs... this knowledge... this did not hold you back?"

You can only shake your head, the shame a physical weight. "No…"

He leans forward again, his voice dropping lower, more serious. "I have to ask you this, and I need you to be honest. Did they rape you? Were you tied up? Forced in any way?"

"No," you say, your voice cracking. "Nothing like that."

"Then you deliberately engaged with them?" he presses, his words precise and damning, his body radiating a tense, authoritative energy. "Knowing what you saw, you still chose to participate?"

You look down at your hands, unable to bear his stare. "Deliberately…" you confess.

He leans back against the desk, letting out a long, weary sigh. For a moment, he is silent. You risk a glance up at him, and his expression has changed. The clinical disappointment is still there, but it's now layered with something else. Something almost... knowing. Almost empathetic.

"Look," he says, his voice softer, almost conspiratorial. "I get it. On some level... I can see how the fantasy is hot. The [banned word], the risk... the idea of being corrupted. I'm not immune to that."

Your heart hammers in your chest. He understands.

And then you see it happen. As he speaks, his eyes flick down, almost involuntarily, to his own crotch. He suddenly becomes aware of it. The thick, hardening bulge straining against the fabric of his scrubs, right in your line of sight. A brief, almost imperceptible flash of panic crosses his face. He shifts his weight, turning his hips slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest—a casual, defensive move designed to obscure the very obvious evidence of his arousal.

The awkwardness hangs in the air for a split second, thick and suffocating. You both know. You both saw. He pushes himself off the desk, his movements suddenly stiff and deliberate. Without another word, he retreats, walking back around to his own chair and sinking down into it. The desk is once again a barrier between you. He picks up his pen, his knuckles white as he grips it, a physical anchor to his professionalism.

"But a fantasy," he continues, his voice now sharper, more forceful, as if to compensate for the momentary loss of control, "is not reality. And in reality, what you did was a stupid, very stupid mistake. A man your age... you lived through the worst of the AIDS crisis. You saw the ads, you knew people who died. To be this reckless now... it's almost willful—"

He stops abruptly, catching himself. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and when he opens them, the professional mask is back in place, firm and unyielding. He proceeds in a colder, more clinical tone.

"Let's stick to the medical facts..." He continues his lecture, but you barely hear the words. The brief moment of connection, his admission that he "gets it," and the raw, physical proof of his own arousal has done more damage than all his judgment combined. It confirmed that the world you crave is real, and that he, the man who embodies it, is just as susceptible to its pull. All you can see is the glint of his nipple rings, the confident set of his jaw, and the memory of his hardening cock.

You leave the pharmacy with the little paper packet, the doctor's lecture a cold, hard weight in your mind. But it's not his words that are echoing. It's his confession. "I get it." And the image of him retreating behind his desk to hide his own hard-on. You feel a sick, confused heat spreading through you. Your own cock is hard.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The shame is still there, but now it's tangled with this bizarre, humiliating arousal. The doctor, the voice of reason who understands the fantasy and gets hard from it, has become the ultimate twisted fantasy. You pass the sign for the rest stop. Your foot hovers over the brake. You think of the PEP in your pocket. Then you think of the doctor's piercing, his humiliatingly sexy authority, and the words "I… get… it."

You signal and pull off the road. You need to fuck this feeling out of your head. You need to find something so dirty, so depraved, it will erase the memory of the one man who understands the fantasy but would never, ever, be a part of it.

[kitpig]

Please tell me the Doctor is at the rest stop!

[onlyraw]

Damn this is such a HOT exploration of the “need” 

Would love to know more about the Dr. but would be too cliche to have them meet at a hook up ….. maybe your next story….. (drs in those v neck scrubs with hairy chests…… fuck )

in the meantime…. Can’t wait for the next chapters….. and looking forward to at some point meeting the husband???? Is he an angel during the week? Or what does he get into?

 

[biboy85]

Soo hottt

[cumslutw]

Next part, guys! Love to hear what you think...

 

Part 8: The Return to the Rest Stop: Breeding the Bugchasing Husband

It's winter, already pitch dark, and you see several cars parked in the lot. Your husband is supposed to be home for the weekend, but you still have an hour before expecting him to arrive. Feeling safe with the PEP prescription in your hand, you think, Why not one last time?

All the cars are from locals, no one inside. Probably all in the woods. You enter the familiar trail. You only hear muted voices deep in the back, the occasional glow of a cigarette in the dark. Like a moth, you are drawn to the light. You hear the voices more clearly. "What a slut! Been taking loads for more than an hour now! His mancunt is wider than my wife's after giving birth to our three kids!"

You see a group of six or seven middle-aged guys in work boots and Carhartt jackets, gathered around someone bent over a fallen log. Married guys on their way home to their wives. You know these men. You see them at the hardware store, at the mall. Married for years, maybe decades. They've spent twenty years fucking their wives with no thought for a condom because that was for 'other people.' Now the sex at home has dwindled to a monthly chore, and their balls are heavy with pent-up seed. A gay cumdump in the woods is an easy opportunity, a warm hole to drain their balls in on the way home. They never test. They've never heard of PrEP, or they'd rather die than ask their doctor for it, terrified their wife might find the prescription. They are walking reservoirs of every bug they've ever picked up over the decades, and they spread them carelessly, naively, into any willing hole. These are the real threat, your mind whispers. They're walking time bombs, and they don't even know it.

One of them is fucking the bent over guy furiously, the sounds of wet, excited slapping filling the cold air. And then you see HIM. The leather biker from the rest stop. He turns sideways, looking you straight in the eyes. He pulls on his cigarette, the glow revealing his majesty. This time he's wearing leather chaps instead of pants—commando. A massive metal ring stretches his balls obscenely long, his girthy rod is hard, curved upward, glistening with cum or ass-juice, the heavy circular barbell crowning its top. And—now clearly visible in the orange glow—a biohazard tattoo right above his cock.

He smiles and winks you over, guiding you into the scene. Whispering, "I knew you would be back!" One of the guys has just finished. Somebody wants to freeze the scene, pulls out his phone and takes a picture. The flash illuminates the bottom‘s heavily used ass. You see the open cunt in front of you, gaping open. You can see all the way inside, a milky puddle of cum pooling in there, leaking out and dripping from his balls. You are focused on this sight, you don't even care what kind of guy this is. The dark is hiding everything.

The leather biker steps behind you, his presence a warm wall in the cold. He opens the buttons of your jeans, pulling them down, releasing your hardening cock. He plays with your own PA, his hands moving up under your jacket and t-shirt, twisting your nipples, which are directly wired to your cock making it twitch. He’s holding you to his own body, hugging you, warming you in the cold winter evening. "In for a dive? Go for a dip!" he whispers in your ear.

You put your cock to the bottom's cunt. It's so loose, your PA and cock head enter easily without even touching flesh. You push until your balls hit his skin. You feel his asslips close around your shaft, pulling you further in. You feel the biker's cold PA at your own back entrance, leaking. You start to fuck. On every stroke out, you impale yourself inch by inch on the biker's poz cock.

The dirty poz talk is a low growl in your ear. "That's it, take my poz cock while you fuck that sloppy whore. You feel that? You're swimming in all those married men's loads right now. They have no idea what they're shooting. They think they're just draining their balls. But they're not. They're shooting decades of accumulated bugs, every chronic infection they've ever had, right into this hungry hole. And your cock... your unprotected cock is drowning in that cocktail right now. All those viruses trying to invade your system through your skin. But me... I'm different. I'm not shooting blanks. I know exactly what I'm giving you. My last lab results were... impressive. Every load those guys gave him was a gamble, a lottery ticket. But we... we're the jackpot. We're giving him a confirmed gift, the one he's been craving."

The words stimulate the bottom, who realizes he's being used by true giftgivers, and they reinforce your own role as an active participant in the poisoning. You're fucking harder and harder, your juices boiling in your balls, when the bottom moans loud, "Knock me up! Give me your gift! Please! I have been craving this for so long! Convert me! Make me one of you! I want to be toxic! I want to feel the sickness inside me, a permanent part of me! Make me a brother!"

The voice. It cuts through everything. It's not just familiar; it's the voice of your safe harbor, your shared life, your "I love you." But it's twisted into this guttural, depraved plea.

For a split second, your entire world stops. Your conscious mind screams in denial. No. It can't be.

Your world shatters. It's not an orgasm; it's an implosion. A violent, painful convulsion rips through you, and your cock erupts, pumping your betrayal deep into your cheating husband's guts, who is obviously a just as sleazy bugchaser as you. But the horror doesn't stop there. Your body betrays you further, your ass clamping down like a vise on the biker's shaft. Each spasm of your own release milks him in return, and you feel a searing heat pulse into you as he roars his victory. Through the daze, you hear the bottom's guttural moan as he's filled by a stranger. The three of you are a single, convulsing beast of pleasure and poison, and you are its broken, beating heart.

The biker pulls out, breathing heavily. He feels the shift instantly. You're not moving. You're rigid, making a choked, sobbing sound. The group starts to disperse. He has to physically pull you out of the scene, grabbing your arm and pulling you back into the darkness, just as your husband pulls up his jeans and stumbles away, oblivious.

"Whoa, you okay? That was... intense," he says, his tone shifting from dominant to curious.

You turn to him, your face a pale mask in the dark, tears or sweat or both streaming down your face. You can barely speak. You just grab his arm and whisper, the words torn from your soul: "That guy... The one we were fucking... That's my husband. I didn’t know…"

The biker processes this for a second, a slow, dark understanding dawning on his face. He doesn't recoil. He lets out a low, dark chuckle of pure astonishment. "Holy... fucking... shit."

He sees the absolute devastation on your face. He understands you've just been shattered. This is his moment. He pulls you into that comforting hug again, grounding you. His voice is a low, conspiratorial whisper in your ear. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe. It's okay. You just saw his ghost. You think that's a coincidence? You think it's an accident that you're both here, in this place, on this night? The universe brought you here. It brought you to me. Now... let me give you something real. Something to hold onto. Let me give you another one of my loads. I'm toxic as fuck right now, my VL is through the roof. So let's make sure it takes! Let me seal your fate. I know you want this. I know you need this."

You can't think right now. You just turn around and guide his cock back into your own loaded cunt, and he fucks himself to another fantastic orgasm that sends you to heaven—without any poppers. The scene is so intense, so hot on its own, that it doesn't need any chemical enhancement. This fuck isn't about risk; it's about claiming. Every thrust is a hammer blow, forging you into a new shape. His PA isn't just ripping you open; it's a chisel, carving away the old you. "That's it," he groans, his voice a sacrament. "Take my high VL. Let it rewrite you. Let it become part of you." You don't just feel the peace; you seize it. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, actively pulling the gift deeper. This isn't something happening to you anymore. It's something you are choosing. And as you feel him pulse inside you again, you know you're finally home.

 

You also get dressed and leave, drive home, your husband already there. He opens the door with a smile. "Hey honey! You're late." He has showered—he's always fastidious. He smells of your shared soap, a chilling contrast to the scent of cum and dirt you can't wash off your own skin. He gives you a quick perfunctory kiss on the cheek. As he turns to walk to the kitchen, you swear you see a faint, darker spot on the seat of his jeans, near the seam. Is it just water? Or is he already leaking? The uncertainty drives you mad.

"Yeah," you manage, your voice hoarse. "Was at the doctors and took longer than I thought. Great that you are already here! Have been missing you! Let's order something to eat!"

You eat and move to the couch, continuing the Netflix series where you left off last weekend. As you lie there, you're looking at him—totally normal from the outside—but in reality, you're picturing his cunt. You're wondering how it's probably looking right now, how a toxic cocktail of cum from who-knows-who is leaking from his ass. You wonder if he can feel it, if he's clenching to keep it desperately inside. And mixed in with all that anonymous seed, you know, is your own. Your load, pumped into him at the peak of his depraved confession, now swimming inside him without his knowledge. You're picturing the bugs, the viruses from all those married men, swarming in his guts, invading his flesh, all mingling with your own betrayal. All the while, you're watching another Netflix episode. He laughs at a joke on the show, a bright, easy sound that feels like it's coming from another planet.

In bed at night, you can't sleep. Thinking he's a slut like you—maybe even sluttier! Two perverted souls on the same path, walking separately but connected through a wedding ring.

And then, another thought hits you. A slow, dawning realization that cuts through the haze of the day. Your "don't ask, don't tell" agreement. You've always lived by it. Your freedom during the week was sacrosanct, and his was too. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you. But in all your years of careful negotiation, you never once discussed the terms of safety. It was the one, glaring omission you both silently agreed to ignore.

You realize he's been cheating bare on you. The thought should be a lightning bolt of betrayal, but it isn't. It's a key turning in a lock. You've been consumed by guilt for your own barebacking, for the risks you've taken. But he's been doing the same thing. The same risk, the same betrayal, the same secret life. You're not just in the same boat; you're sailing on identical, secret courses.

A wave of relief so powerful it almost makes you laugh washes over you. The scales are balanced. The hypocrite's guilt that has been eating you alive vanishes. You're not the only one compromising his health, his body, your shared life in the pursuit of filth. He is, too. He's just as much of a slut as you are. And in that shared, unacknowledged depravity, you find a twisted, comforting sense of peace. You're not alone in this anymore.

At least he will understand when it's time...

You make a decision. You go downstairs. The house is silent. You take the PEP packet out of your backpack. You look at the pharmacist's instructions, the warnings. You unscrew the child-proof cap. You pour the pills into your hand. They look so small, so innocent to hold so much power. You think about the doctor's words, the cold clinic, the shame. And then you think about the biker's warmth, the bottom's plea, your husband's voice. You drop the pills into the toilet bowl. You watch them float for a second before you flush. The sound of the rushing water is the sound of you letting go.

As the bowl empties, a strange warmth spreads through your groin—not arousal, but a deep, cellular hum. It feels like a switch being flipped. You think of the doctor's piercings, his hard cock, his words: 'I get it.' And now, you finally do. You are not just choosing this path. You are becoming it. You are now all-in.

 

As you get back to bed, you see your phone glowing on the nightstand. A message. You unlock the screen. It's on Romeo. It's from Mark.

"I know what you did! I am back in town next week... We need to talk!"

Your heart hammers, but you slowly fall to sleep, dreaming of the last days' experiences.

[Menbendovr]

Wow!  Fantastic moment you experienced brought so vividly to us as we read your recalling of the tale.  I was right there watching everything over your right shoulder.  That’s how it felt reading this.

[onlyraw]

What an amazingly well written fucking hot !!!! Story

i think I will need to go and reread this from the beginning.

[cumslutw]

Part 9: Reconnecting with Mark: Taming the monster to make one line two

The message hangs on your phone for a week, a dark promise: "I know what you did! I am back in town next week... We need to talk!"

When the day arrives, you don't feel fear. You feel a sense of calm, of arrival. You're going back to the scene of your greatest disappointment to maybe finally get what you originally came for.

Mark opens the hotel door. He's exactly as you remember him from that first moment: shirtless, in just a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his powerful thighs, his toned, hairy chest a canvas of masculine perfection. His bare feet are nicely manicured, a subtle sign of his fastidious nature. He looks... softer. More at peace.

It doesn't feel like meeting someone you've only been with once. It feels like coming home to a good friend with whom you share a deep, unspoken connection.

"Hey," he says, his smile genuine and warm. "Come on in."

The lighting is dim, music is playing low. The air in the room is warm and thick with the rich, earthy scent of sandalwood and leather—Mark's cologne, a smell that is both grounding and dangerously masculine. It's a scent you immediately decide you could get used to. On the table are two glasses of red wine and a pre-rolled joint, an offer waiting to be accepted.

You sit, you smoke, you drink. The wine is a rich, velvety Cabernet, its dark fruit flavors filling your mouth, a taste of blackberry and a hint of dark chocolate. The weed is high-quality, and the smoke fills your lungs, smooth and sweet, with a faint, skunky undertone that promises a potent, hazy float, melting away the last vestiges of your anxiety. The wine and weed work in tandem, a warm wave of relaxation that loosens your muscles and softens the edges of the room.

You're sitting on the couch, and the space between you feels charged. Mark takes the joint from your fingers, his knuckles brushing against yours. The touch is deliberate, a small spark in the hazy air. He takes a slow drag, his eyes never leaving yours, and then leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He exhales a plume of sweet smoke not away from you, but towards your lips, a shared breath that feels more intimate than a kiss.

That's all it takes. You close the distance. Your first kiss is slow, deep, and tastes of red wine and cannabis. It's not a frantic kiss, but a settling one, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you gently but firmly. You melt into him, your body molding against his. The world outside this couch, this room, ceases to exist.

You break for air, and he pulls you closer, guiding you to lean back against his chest. His arm wraps around you, a solid, comforting weight. You can feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your back. His other hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours, and he just holds them. There's no urgency, only a profound sense of coming home. You rest your head against his shoulder, nuzzling into the warm, crook of his neck, breathing in his scent.

You stay like that for a long time, just listening to the music and the soft sound of your breathing. His free hand begins to move, tracing slow, lazy circles on your stomach through your shirt. Each pass of his palm is a brand, a quiet claim. His touch is a question, and your body's response— the soft sigh that escapes your lips, the way you arch into his hand— is the answer.

He shifts, turning you both to face each other. His eyes are heavy-lidded, shining with a gentle, uncomplicated lust. He reaches for the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head in one smooth, deliberate motion. Your hands explore each other's torsos—mapping the solid muscle, the sensitive skin. Your chests press together, skin on skin, a friction that is both comforting and electrifying.

Soon, your jeans and his are the only barriers left. He stands, taking your hand and pulling you up with him. He undoes his belt and lets his jeans fall, kicking them aside. He's commando, and his magnificent cock hangs thick and heavy between his legs, a promise of what's to come. You follow his lead, shedding your own pants until you are both standing in the dim light, wearing nothing but your vulnerability and your desire.

It's in this state of raw, relaxed honesty that he finally speaks, his voice a low murmur that vibrates through you. "You took it," he says softly.

You meet his gaze, your own voice raw with the memory. "I was so disappointed," you confess. "You were perfect. You were everything I thought I wanted because you were safe. But when you pulled out that condom... I realized that's not what I wanted anymore. And then when you told me you were poz... and you wouldn't... I was so desperate to have what you were denying me that I had to take a piece of it."

As you speak, you see it. His cock, which had been hanging thick and heavy between his legs, begins to stir. It slowly lifts, hardening with every word you say, until it's standing fully erect, a thick, rigid column of flesh pointing directly at you. A hard cock never lies. Your confession is arousing him deeply.

Mark's smile fades, replaced by a look of profound vulnerability. "You think I wasn't tempted?" he says, his voice low. "You have no idea how much I wanted to breed you. To see you walk out of here carrying my load. But I couldn't. It was too new for me. My diagnosis... my viral load... it was a monster I was still terrified of. I wasn't ready to be that monster for someone else. I was afraid of what it would turn me into." He looks at you, his eyes clear. "You were braver than I was. You ran towards the fire. I was still running from it."

He reaches into his nightstand drawer and pulls out two small, flat boxes. "But things are different now," he says. "For both of us. And I need to know that you're sure about what you want. For my own conscience... for my own peace. I need us both to be clear-eyed about what we're doing here." He opens one box, revealing a quick HIV test. "I need us to both know where we stand. Right now."

He does his first. You watch, your heart pounding, as the drop of his blood travels down the test strip. A dark, forbidden impulse flashes through you. As he's about to wipe his finger, you gently take his hand. Before he can react, you lean in and lick the tiny smear of residual blood from his fingertip. It's coppery, metallic, primal. He lets out a sharp, shuddering breath, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and arousal. His hard cock bobs in response, a thick bead of precum welling up at its slit. It's a promise. A taste of things to come.

You both watch the two lines appear, dark and immediate. Positive. He looks at it, not with fear, but with a sense of confirmation. A proud, immutable fact. He places it on the desk, a physical testament. There is no ambiguity here, no room to ignore what is at stake. It's a definitive statement of his body.

Then it's your turn. Your fingers tremble as you prick your own finger. You squeeze the drop onto the test strip. The minutes feel like an eternity. This is it. The first tangible proof of your journey. A single line appears. Negative. Still negative. A wave of something washes over you—not relief, but a strange, hollow disappointment. You're still on the outside looking in. And yet, your own cock is as hard as his, a rigid, aching testament to the fact that your body knows exactly what it wants, regardless of the test result.

Mark looks from your solitary, stark line to his own pair of lines, sitting side-by-side on the desk like a grim, undeniable prophecy. The contrast is a physical thing. Your lone mark of clean health next to his double-line signature of the virus. He looks from the tests back to your face, his expression unreadable for a moment. His gaze drops down, taking in the sight of both your hard cocks, standing at attention like two soldiers ready for battle.

"Now that we see it, laid out so clearly... are you still sure?" he asks, his voice low and serious. "Do you want to cross that line with me, as much as I want to take you there?"

You nod, your voice firm. "More than anything."

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his lips. It's not a smile of pity; it's a smile of pure, predatory delight. "Good," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "That means I get to be the one. I get to be your ground zero. I get to be the one who changes you. Thank you for choosing me."

He stands and holds out his hand. "Let's not have any more disappointments," he says. "Let's do what we both wanted to do that night."

He leads you to the bed. The atmosphere is reverent, almost sacred. You sit on the edge, and he kneels before you. He looks up at you, his eyes full of adoration, and then leans in, pressing his face against your chest. You feel his hot breath against your skin a moment before his tongue makes a slow, wet trail up your sternum. It's an act of worship.

You pull him up onto the bed with you, your hands finally free to explore the body you've only dreamed of. Your fingers slide over the solid muscle of his shoulders and down his arms. And then, you feel it. His chest hair. It's softer than it looks, a dense, wiry thicket that you run your fingers through, a living carpet of masculinity that tickles and teases with every shift of his weight. You bury your face in it, breathing in his clean, musky scent mixed with the sandalwood of his cologne. It's even better than you remembered.

He moans, his hands roaming your back as you explore him. He pushes you onto your back, his body covering yours, and that soft, wiry hair becomes a delicious friction against your own smooth skin, a constant, tantalizing reminder of his raw, masculine power.

You're both hard, your cocks trapped between your bodies, kissing deeply, your tongues exploring. He reaches down, his fingers gathering the slick fluid. He finds your PA, the heavy steel ring you wear, and he moans his appreciation. "So beautiful," he murmurs.

He uses his precum as lube, coating your piercing, his fingers rolling the heavy steel, tugging gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He pushes more of his fluid onto the ring, using his slickness to coat your own slit, the sensitive, thin skin tingling with the intimate violation. You're leaking now, too, your fluids mixing with his.

He takes his cock in his hand and slides it up and down your crack again, coating you. His cockhead, slick and insistent, knocks at your backdoor. He pauses, letting it throb against you, and you feel another pulse of his hot precum ooze directly into your opening, getting your asslips slick, making them swell with anticipation. You can't help it. You push back slightly, extending your lips, a silent, physical invitation for him to enter.

"Is this what you really want?" he whispers, his voice a low growl. "You want me to breed you? To make you poz? Once you have those two lines, you can never go back to one. Are you sure?"

"Yes," you breathe, the word a prayer. "I'm sure. Please, Mark. Convert me."

He begins to push. The entry is a slow, deliberate sinking, a moment of mutual surrender. The feeling is radically different from last time. There's no condom, no sterile barrier preventing you from fully connecting. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock, the thick, prominent lines protruding from his shaft, a topographical map of his desire. You feel the distinct, flared edge of his head as it rubs against your prostate, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. You feel his cock pulling on your asslips with each backstroke, a possessive, intimate tug. He pushes deeper, and you feel him press against your inner sphincter. A sharp, sudden pain makes you gasp.

"Easy... easy now," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Breathe. I'm there. Not going anywhere. Let it drool... slick you up. Push back... let me in."

You do as he says, and with a final, deliberate push, he's through—moaning deep in your ear. He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated, his heavy balls resting against yours. He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the weight and the heat of him, a perfect, living presence inside you.

The first fuck is slow and emotional, a correction of the past. He moves in you with a gentle, rhythmic grace, his eyes locked on yours, his hands stroking your face. It's about healing the disappointment, about replacing the memory of the condom with the reality of his flesh. But the climax is what truly matters. He begins to move faster, his breathing becoming ragged. You can feel his cock swelling inside you, getting even harder as his thrusts become more urgent, more demanding.

He slows his thrusts to a maddening, teasing rhythm, his eyes boring into yours, searching. "Are you... sure?" he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me now. Pull out? Once this... it's done. You're mine. Forever."

"Don't..." The refusal is instant, fierce. "Don't you dare." You grip his arms. "Breed me. Mark. Give me..." You swallow hard. "...that toxic load."

"God. God, I want to," he moans, his forehead resting against yours. "But... wanna enjoy this. Savor it. Okay? Slow down... just for a minute? Relish it?"

You can only nod, your breath caught in your throat.

"Good," he whispers, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He begins to move again, but not with the rhythmic thrusts of before. Now he's grinding, circling his hips, stretching you from the inside. "Let me stretch you... little longer," he murmurs, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "Open you up. Tear you... just a little. Make you perfect. Warm home... for my babies... so they can enter... even better." His voice drops even lower, a possessive growl against your ear. "Remember? The monster? I was so afraid? Not anymore. And now... gonna set him free. Inside you."

His words are a litany of beautiful filth, driving you both to a higher plane of arousal. "Can feel it," he continues, his voice thick with lust. "My toxic seed... it’s boiling up. Spilling into your guts… Not just cum… Everything… Every viral particle… Will paint your insides... mark you. Inside out. Soon... every drop... poz. Your own load... turns toxic for me."

The idea is so intoxicating, so real, that your body arches against him, a silent plea for more. "Please, Mark," you beg. "Please… Give it to me."

He pulls back almost all the way, leaving just the tip of his cockhead inside you, teasing your swollen rim. "Tell me," he commands, his voice dominant. "What do you want? Tell me… you want my poz seed."

"I want it," you repeat, your voice a desperate chant. "I want it so bad… All inside me. Want you to convert me… Be yours."

That's all it takes. With a guttural roar that seems to come from the depths of his soul, he slams back into you, hilt-deep. "That's what I wanted...  wanted to hear," he growls. "What I wanted to do... last time... only didn't dare."

And now, it happens.

His cock pulses, a powerful, rhythmic throb deep inside your guts. A searing, wet heat floods you as he roars his release. It's not just cum; it's a transfer. A gift. A sacrament. You feel every spurt. "Feel it... Feel my high-viral-load... invading you," he gasps. "Million toxic particles... spreading... connect us... forever."

It's the most intimate, profound moment of your life. Your own cock erupts without being touched, spraying your chest as your ass milks him for every last drop. It's equally special for him; you see it in his eyes, a look of awe and possessive love.

You relax, coming down from the intensity of your pozzing high. He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and solid, his heart hammering against your chest. For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat. Then he shifts, rolling to the side but keeping an arm draped heavily over you. You collapse back against the bed, your skin slick with sweat, and feel the cool, crisp percale of the hotel sheets against your back. The high thread count is a luxurious, stark contrast to the raw, filthy act that just transpired, a small island of civilization in the sea of depravity you've willingly drowned in.

The room is quiet except for your soft, shared breaths. But Mark isn't done. He moves down the bed, his movements purposeful. He gently pushes your legs apart, and you feel his hot breath on your still-sensitive hole. You're swollen, puffy, and well-used, a warm, slick trickle of his precious load slowly oozing out of you. He doesn't just wipe it away. He lowers his head and you feel a hot, wet shock as his tongue laps against your swollen rim. It's not a hungry, devouring act, but a slow, reverent one. He's giving you a well-deserved, cooling massage with his tongue, lapping at your stretched, tender flesh. He's careful, taking his time, using the tip of his tongue to gently push every stray drop of his cum back inside you, as if not a single drop is allowed to be wasted. It's a possessive, tender act of worship that makes you feel cherished and claimed in equal measure.

After he's satisfied that you're clean and full, he moves back up your body. He leans in and kisses you, and you immediately taste it—the salty, musky flavor of his own cum. But there's something else. A new, underlying note. A faint, distinct metallic taste that you instantly recognize. The taste of blood. Not from him, but from you. A tiny, intimate tear. The microscopic proof that he's done enough damage, that the final barrier has been breached. It's not proof of conversion, but the proof of opportunity. The gateway is open, and now his potent seed can do its work.

You both freeze for a fraction of a second, the realization passing between you in that shared, intimate moment. His eyes lock with yours, and they are blazing with a triumphant, possessive fire. He knows you've tasted it. He knows you know. The damage is done. The seed is planted, and now it will grow inside you.

He crushes his mouth to yours, the kiss no longer just tender, but fierce and celebratory. His tongue pushes into your mouth, sharing the taste of his successful load with you in a deep, filthy, perfect kiss.

As you're still tangled in that kiss, you feel his fingers drift down, tracing the curve of your ass until they find your hole. He gently circles your sensitive rim, gathering the last of the fluid. Then, with a tender, deliberate pressure, he begins to massage it back into you. His fingers push his own seed against your skin, massaging it deeper, into your gut. The pad of his finger finds your prostate, still swollen and sensitive, and he presses against it, sending a deep, resonant wave of pleasure through you. You gasp, your body arching slightly as a smaller, but just as profound, orgasm shudders through you, a slow, deep pulse that leaves you trembling. He's breathing deeply in your ear, a low, satisfied rumble.

Finally, Mark reaches for the joint and the lighter, sparking it up. He takes a long, slow drag, his chest expanding. Instead of passing it to you, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. He exhales a thick plume of sweet smoke directly into your waiting mouth. You breathe it in, a shared, hazy breath that feels more intimate than words. You take the joint from his fingers, take your own drag, and return the favor, leaning up to blow the smoke back into his mouth. You pass the joint and the smoke back and forth this way, your lips meeting in soft, lingering kisses, the haze wrapping you both in a warm, peaceful blanket.

You both need to piss. Last time, this was the moment you were in the bathroom, alone, stealing his filled condom from the wastebin and inserting it up your ass in a desperate, shameful act of longing. No need for it this time. You have all you ever wanted inside of you, spreading freely—no rubber barrier in sight—to take you over. This time, the act wasn't one of theft, but of gift. And the feeling is not of shame, but of profound, peaceful completion.

An hour later, you're at it again. This time it's a celebration of shared pleasure, a joyful contrast to the intense, ritualistic first fuck. The energy is lighter, more playful. You're on top, riding him, your hands splayed across his powerful, hairy chest. You can feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat against your palms as you bounce on his magnificent cock, the weight of your PA ring making your own cock swing up and down. He's looking up at you, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy and lust. He's laughing, moaning, calling you his "beautiful convert," his "perfect creation," each word a benediction.

The sight of him so happy, so lost in the pleasure of you, sends you over the edge. Your own cock erupts, spraying thick, white ropes of your cum all over his chest, matting the dark fur of his pecs and abs. The sight triggers his own release. With a loud, happy groan, he grips your hips and thrusts up deep one last time, and you feel another warm, toxic flood coating your insides, a second gift to seal the deal.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily, slick with sweat and cum. You're not done. You begin to nuzzle and lick his chest, tasting the salty, bitter tang of your own release. He moans, his hands stroking your back as you rub your own cum into his thick fur, marking him as thoroughly as he has marked you. It's a messy, intimate, perfect exchange. You stay like that, tangled together, his softening cock still inside you, your head on his chest, and you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

In the dead of night, you wake to him rolling on top of you. It's a sleepy, primal act of possession. He enters you again with a sleepy groan. This fuck isn't about emotion; it's about ownership. It's quiet, just the sound of skin on skin and soft moans in the dark. "Even when you go home tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the dark, "you'll still be full of me. You'll go back to your husband with my poz load swimming inside you. He'll be kissing your mouth, but I have been poz-kissing your ass all night. You're mine now. Everywhere." It's Mark staking his claim, reinforcing the transformation while you are both half-asleep, in a state of pure instinct. Your hole is soft, puffy, and completely open to him now, accepting him with no resistance. It's a natural, perfect fit. With each encounter, you become softer, more vulnerable, more perfectly his.

You wake up in the morning tangled together, the sun streaming into the room. There's no shame, no regret. Just a profound sense of peace and rightness. He makes coffee. The rich, bitter aroma fills the small kitchen area, a domestic, comforting smell that feels more intimate and real than anything that happened the night before. You act like a couple. You are finally at peace with yourself.

When it's time to leave, you share a final, deep kiss. "I have to go," you say. "My husband will be home this evening."

Mark understands. He doesn't push. He just holds you. "I know," he says. "But you know where to find me, you have my number. You know where you belong. This isn't a one-time thing," he says. "We're in this together now. This connection we have... it's separate. It doesn't challenge anything else. But it's real. I'll be here. And I'll breed you again and again, if that's what you want, until it takes. And when it does... we'll be brothers in arms. There's a whole world out there we can explore together. Others we can share this with. I told you I wanted to see you walk out of here carrying my load. Now I want to watch you walk through the world with it. The window is usually two to four weeks. Call me if you get the flu. I want to be the first person you tell when your body starts to change. Think about it."

You leave the hotel and go home. Your house is empty, quiet. Your husband won't be back for hours. Everything is as usual, except for the warm, secret presence of another man's toxic load deep inside you.

That evening, your husband arrives. He's happy to see you. He asks about your night. You smile and play the part perfectly.

That night, you lie in bed next to your sleeping husband. Your cunt is still swollen and puffy, a tender, constant reminder of the night's raw pleasure. Even now, if you move your head just right against the pillow, you can catch the faintest trace of sandalwood and leather on your own skin, a ghost of his possession. And although you know Mark's babies have already been absorbed and are doing their job deep inside you, you still have the distinct, filthy feeling of being loaded, of being permanently claimed. You feel the phantom weight of your husband's secret life from the rest stop. And you feel the phantom echo of the leather biker's rough, primal claim in the woods, the one who first showed you the way. You are a man living a perfect lie, holding all the secrets. You are the bridge between their worlds, and the power is intoxicating.

You haven't chosen a new life. You have simply become the master of your old one, who will be—sooner or later—armed with a power no one can ever know about.

[sleazebugga]

Such good writing and so incredibly horny