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Poor slave boy Max - He almost escaped the BreederFuckers Dungeon, but the last door was locked with no way to get out, and Dave easily caught up with him and put an end to his pleading. See more cruel gay bondage training videos at ! Pathetic Puppy Max Forced to Drink a Bowlful of Piss
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Click here to watch the full video of Adrian’s intense Bondage training game at Adrian is impressed, but still rewards the homo bondage whore with a cane lashing. It requires a deep stretch and spreading his legs very far apart, but John manages to get his cock working as a grabber. After a few light swats with the cane, John devises a new strategy, to use his cock. John flops around trying to pick up the tiny magnets with his nipples, but his awkward rope bondage configuration makes it very difficult to pick up anything successfully. And always the disciplinarian, Adrian is brandishing a cane to make sure that John is motivated and doesn’t dawdle. Now John must weave, stagger and crawl across the dungeon floor and pick up more scattered magnets using his nipples and penis. In this video, Adrian mockingly uses a game as a training tool - he’s pinched John’s nipples and foreskin tightly with nipple clamps fixed with magnets. Their Kickstarter campaign to build will remain live until Wednesday, April 16.Adrian has been working on tough straight jock John endlessly in the dungeon, and he’s nearly broken the fucker down completely so he’s behaving like a subservient little queer bondage slave. Along with Alysia Abbott, author of Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, she is launching The Recollectors, a storytelling forum and digital community for people who have lost parents to AIDS. Whitney Joiner is a senior editor at Marie Claire magazine.
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And all he would’ve had to say in return was: I am. “I asked Mom once if you were gay,” I would have said. I wish I could have known that some part of him accepted-and was proud of-who he was. I’m not angry about it I just wish it had gone differently. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he’d had in his 38 years. He sent me a starstruck postcard from London exclaiming, “Guess what? You know Jimmy Somerville from Erasure? I met him at a club here!!” (Never mind that Somerville was actually in Bronski Beat, another of Dad’s favorites.) But to actually let me in-to sit on that blue blanket, look me in the eye and tell me he was gay-was something he couldn’t do. When he went to see Truth or Dare with his hairdresser, Mickey, he told me about it. In some ways I think Dad was on the verge of coming out to me back then. “Something like that,” he answered.Įvery once in a while, my brother and I talk about the what-ifs: What if Dad had held out a little longer, if the drugs had been approved a little earlier, if time and the eventual softening of our culture would have softened him? Would he be meeting me for dinner in New York? Would I be flying to visit him in Louisville or Lexington with his middle-aged partner? “Like leukemia?” I once asked, as we drove away from the doctor’s office, thinking of the hokey Lurlene McDaniels books scattered around my middle school classrooms, in which innocent cheerleaders bravely fought some sort of cancer or another, hoping to get one kiss before they died.
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I knew he’d had some kind of “blood problem” for a while he’d explained that much when we accompanied him to get his blood drawn during our summers together. Since my brother and I spent most of our time with my mother and stepfather, two hours from Dad in a small town south of Louisville, his life seemed far away when we weren’t with him.
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Dad taught business law at Eastern Kentucky University and served as a deacon at our church. I didn’t want to know.įor the previous four months, my father had been in and out of the hospital in Lexington, Ky., half an hour from this rented duplex in Richmond, where he’d lived since he and my mother divorced three years earlier. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me. We sat on the itchy baby-blue blanket on my bed in the room I shared with my 8-year-old brother. On a Saturday afternoon in April 1992, when I was 13, my father told me we needed to talk.