Getting My Hole Bred for the First Time Was the Ride of My Life

"That magical bussy pounder was my personal Space Mountain."

Original illustration by Eduardo

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By Leo Seales

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve jacked off to a man getting bred. A thousand times? Ten thousand? Still, breeding was a sex act I was always hesitant to try. Analytical by nature, my mind was quick to consider the risks of unprotected sex. “But it’s time,” I thought to myself as I drove to meet a man who would cum inside my hairy hole twice. 

I lost my virginity 18 months prior, on Memorial Day 2022, at age 30. Then I didn’t fuck for a year. But I took a cold plunge into sex in the summer of ‘23. I started PrEP, got my monkeypox jabs, and headed to the apps. My first bathhouse experience followed in July, and my first sex party came in December.

This explosion of sexual longing spilled into January 2024, a month I can only describe as “Leo In Heat.”

I was preparing to top someone new that morning, but they flaked. Instead, a suitor I’ve DM’d back and forth with for months finally fit me into his afternoon. In this new arrangement, I would bottom, and he would cum inside me two times, as per our Grindr agreement (a.k.a Grindment). 

At that point, I was a horny man on a mission. In no less than an hour, I douched, naired my crotch, took a Horny Goat Root pill (because why not?), and hit the road. I parked in front of an upper-middle-class, two-story, suburban home. My hook-up, a tan, small-framed gentleman about my age, greeted me from the back fence. 

He rented an apartment underneath the house. (It was hardly an “apartment.” Even calling it a shoebox would be generous.) The entrance was in the kitchen, a bathroom connected to the left, and the bedroom connected to the right. 

While the apartment was minuscule, my anticipation felt so huge it could fill the whole neighborhood. Every breath I took weighed more than the last, and my heart surged with jolts of electricity. My body jittered as I awkwardly hung my backpack on a nearby coat hook.

It didn’t take long for us to move into the bedroom. (It was feet away, after all.) Reggaeton played on his TV, likely to set the mood (and cover the sounds of our fucking from his neighbors).

Like most of my rendezvous, the star of the show was my supple ass. In minutes, I was on my host’s bed, in the buff, legs in the air, while his lips acquainted themselves with my bussy. I sighed in delight while feeling the light bristles of his stubble rub against me. 

His Latin accent rumbled like a rattle as he admired me: “I love your asssssss,” he said repeatedly over the next two hours. Between all our fucking and sucking, he would whisper this sweet affirmation, and I would tingle every time his words hit my ears.

My tunnel of love relaxed to the point that it could take a passenger. He asked if I wanted a hit of poppers, but I declined. I didn’t need them (or so I thought).

Any bottom can tell you that the first few minutes require adjustment. My tight hole stung as its inner walls began to stretch. “Remember to breathe,” I thought to myself. I resisted the urge to squeeze as the prick traveled deeper and deeper inside. 

He paused a moment. It was in. My stomach leaped into my chest like I was ascending a rollercoaster’s peak. The skin of his meaty dick pulsed against the membrane of my rectum. No barrier between us.