Punk Bottom (Patreon)

Think, Kyle! Think!

Fuck!

I knew he was trouble. He didn't look like he belonged at a gay bar, almost too self-confident and cocky, like he wanted desperately to not get caught being a fake. Fake what though? We've all been there when we figured out our sexuality. Perhaps it was part of his coming out. He moved all the chips to the center of the board and decided to risk it all by going all in and losing his virginity as his first out act.

At least that's what I thought his game was. His attire didn't fit either. While everyone else had dressed up, he had dressed down, wearing a trucker cap, grey tank top that showed off his heavily tattooed arms, a pair of torn, grey sweatpants, and white Nike sneakers. I'd love to show the little shit who's boss.

As luck had it he scanned the room and quickly settled on approaching me. Perhaps because I was looking straight at him, sizing him up.

"You think you're big enough to handle me?" he opened with, and now I definitely wanted to fuck him over, no matter what he meant. I was clearly taller and more muscular, but I also haven't had too many problems in actual dick-measuring contests. "I fucking know it." I didn't add "punk" at the end, because I wanted this. I wanted to shove my dick into him, hearing him squeal.

"Come then," he said, shrugged towards the front door, and started walking towards it without bothering to check if I followed.

I'm not going to lie, his lifted 1978 Ford F-250 looked pretty damn sexy, though it could use a wash. We got in and spent perhaps 15 minutes in whatever noise his generation considers music, until we rolled up at his place. One of those old houses the Army built for their own way back when, where the garage is as big as the rest of the floor space, and the walls are made of essentially paper. We made our way past his living room and sad excuse for a kitchen, into his bedroom. Everything somehow looked both sparse and untidy. He had completely ignored me the entire ride here, and somehow his completely dismissive behavior made me both angrier with him and hornier. I wanted to hate-fuck him so bad.

He climbed onto the bed with his back against me, on his knees, keeping his shoes off the edge, grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and trunks, and pulled them both down to his knees. "Show me what you got, big boy. I want all of you inside," he said and jiggled his ass slightly. I had been unbuckling as I walked behind him, and my dick was already out as he said it. I did the biggest spit I could manage in my hand foamed up the precum on my cock with it a few seconds, and then stabbed the punk with my dick as forcefully as I could.

The yelp was as satisfying as I had imagined, and it wouldn't surprise me if I smiled a pretty big smirk as I held on to him and pushed my thrusts as deep as they could go. I wanted to overwhelm him, so I fucked him pretty vigorously, deep thrusts and fast pace. I could hear from the sounds, a mix of just as much moans of pleasure as small bursts of pain, that I was having the intended effect. With these walls all the neighbors would know as well. I just wished I could be looking at his face. To see the pain, regret, confusion, and pleasure all mix together. Instead I just saw his tank top, trucker cap, and messy bed sheets.

I held out as long as I could, and ideally I should have gone on for longer, but it's hard when you start out as strong as I did. I really wanted to "fuck him so hard he can't walk" as the saying goes, but that's never the case. He would feel this for a while though, for sure. I had prepared a little speech during the ride here about how to show respect and get it in return. How to approach people properly. Perhaps do some aftercare and talk about it if he was receptive. But instead as I tensed up and shot my first load into him everything went black.

I woke up with the sun hitting one side of my face as I was lying face down in his bed, sweatpants tangled around my ankles. Somehow I immediately knew I was him, before looking at my hideously tattooed arms. The hat had fallen off at some point during the night. I put it on, stood up, and pulled up the trunks and sweatpants. I could walk, but fuck me did I feel what I had done to myself. I staggered out into the living room and fell into the floral couch. Almost without thinking I grabbed the pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the table and lit a morning smoke.

Think, Kyle!

How can you get out of this mess? Why did he do it? Where did he go?

My brain came up short on answers, except a creeping suspicion that name, my real name, wasn't Kyle.

Fuck!