The Double Booking

THE DOUBLE BOOKING

A Short Story

by

Yungie Boi

2026

Copyright

The Double Booking

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 DOUBLE BOOKING

The alley behind Halsted Auto Body smells like motor oil, piss, and the ghost of last week's garbage. The dumpster is overflowing. The streetlight at the entrance flickers—orange, dark, orange—and the van parked halfway down the alley is a white work van, dented, muddy, the kind of van that doesn't belong to anyone and belongs to everyone. Its hood is warm. I felt it when I leaned against it ten minutes ago, waiting.

I'm early. I'm always early. The kid said midnight. It's 11:48.

I smoke. Marlboro Red. The ember glows orange in the dark, and the smoke curls up, disappears into the damp air. My cock is half-hard in my jeans. Has been since I left the bar. The kid—twenty, maybe twenty-one, skinny, dark hair, tight jeans, the kind of mouth that looks like it was built for sucking cock—told me to meet him here. Forty for his mouth. Sixty for his ass. I brought eighty because I've been thinking about his ass since last Friday, when I fucked his mouth behind the dumpster and he looked up at me with those dark eyes and I thought, next time.

Footsteps. I hear them before I see them—heavy, deliberate, boots on wet concrete—and a shape appears at the mouth of the alley. Big. Broad. A leather jacket, jeans, a shaved head that catches the flicker of the streetlight.

He stops when he sees me.

* * *

There's a guy already there. Lean, tall, smoking against the van, his face lit orange by the cigarette. He's wearing ...