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THE STRANGER'S RULES
A Short Story
by
Yungie Boi
2026
Copyright
The Stranger's Rules
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 STRANGER'S RULES
The sign is cardboard. Flattened from a box—Budweiser, the red logo still visible on the back—and the words are written in black marker, block letters, the kind of handwriting you learn in prison. Clean, deliberate, no flourish.
$20 MOUTH, $40 HOLE, NO TALKING.
It's taped to the brick wall with silver duct tape, right below the fire escape ladder. The man sitting beneath it is big. Not tall—average height, maybe five-ten—but wide. Shoulders like a barn door, arms folded across a chest that strains his white t-shirt. His head is shaved to stubble, and there's a scar running from his left ear to his jaw—pale, raised, thick as a pencil. His hands are folded, too, and they're enormous, knuckles scarred, fingers thick as pipe wrenches.
He's sitting on an overturned milk crate, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His boots are steel-toed, scuffed, the laces double-knotted. His jeans are dark, clean—prison-issue, maybe, or close enough. His eyes are on the alley entrance, and they don't move.
I've been watching from the bar across the street for twenty minutes. Two guys have gone in. The first one—young, nervous, hoodie up—walked past the sign, stopped, looked at the man, and kept walking. The second one—older, suit jacket, wedding ring—stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a twenty. The big man stood, unzipped his jeans, and the suit guy dropped to his knees. Three minutes later, the suit guy wiped his mouth, stood, and walked out. The big man zipped up, sat back down, and folded his hands again.