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THE REGULAR
A Short Story
by
Yungie Boi
2026
Copyright
The Regular
Copyright © 2026 by Yungie Boi
All rights reserved.
Disclaimer
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for mature readers aged 18 and older only. By purchasing and reading this story, you acknowledge that you are a consenting adult of legal age, fully aware of the graphic depictions of consensual power exchange, dominance and submission, older/younger dynamics, and intense erotic acts contained herein. All characters are fictional and above 18 years old. This is adult erotic fiction.
THE REGULAR
The suit is charcoal gray. Wool. The kind that costs more than I make in a week. The shoes are black leather, polished even now, even here, even standing in a puddle of something that might be rainwater and might be runoff from the dumpster ten feet away. The tie is loosened, pulled sideways, the knot sitting crooked against a white shirt that's gone translucent with sweat at the collar.
He's right on time. Midnight. Every Friday. Like clockwork.
I watch him from the loading dock. He parks on the street—always the same silver BMW, always in the same spot beneath the dead streetlight where nobody can read the plates. He kills the engine. Sits for a moment. Sometimes he sits for five minutes, sometimes for ten. Tonight it's three. Then the door opens, the dome light clicks off, and he steps out.
He doesn't look around. Doesn't check over his shoulder. He just walks into the alley with his briefcase in one hand and his other hand in his pocket, and he comes straight toward me like he's got a GPS locked on my cock.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." His voice is steady. Controlled. The voice of a man who gives orders all day and pays to take them at night.
He sets the briefcase down beside the dumpster. It's expensive—black leather, brass clasps, monogrammed on the side with initials I've never asked about. He straightens up, pulls the cash from his jacket pocket. Two fifties. Folded once, crisp.