The First Timer

THE FIRST TIMER

A Short Story

by

Yungie Boi

2026

Copyright

The First Timer

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 FIRST TIMER

The alley smells like piss and wet asphalt. Two flickering streetlights cast yellow patches on the cracked pavement, but the middle stays dark, a tunnel of brick and shadow between the backs of buildings nobody wants to look at. A dumpster overflows. A shopping cart sits on its side, one wheel still spinning in the breeze. The rain stopped an hour ago, but water drips from every fire escape, every ledge, every rusted pipe jutting from the walls. The puddles reflect the distant orange glow of a traffic light on the main road.

I count the bills in my pocket for the sixth time. Forty dollars. Two twenties, folded tight, pressed against my thigh. My hand shakes when I touch them.

Three men stand further down the alley, near the loading dock of the shuttered warehouse. One leans against the wall smoking. One sits on an overturned crate, scrolling through his phone. The third pisses against the brick, his back to me, shoulders broad under a denim jacket.

I don't know which one to approach. I don't know how this works.

I read about this place on a forum. Anonymous posts, crude directions—behind the old meatpacking plant, look for the guys near the loading dock, cash only, no questions. I drove forty minutes from campus. Parked three blocks away because I didn't want anyone to see my car. Walked the rest with my hood up, hands in my jacket, pretending I belonged.

I don't belong.

The smoker looks up. He's maybe fifty, gray beard, beer gut hanging over his belt. He watches me for a second, then goes back to his cigarette. Not interested. Or waiting to see what I'm here for.

The one on the crate doesn't look up at all.

The one pissing against the wall shakes off, zips up, turns around.

He's the one.

Not because he's handsome. He isn't, exactly—face too sharp, nose bent like it's been broken more than once, jaw rough with stubble that's gone past designer into something feral. But he's big. Taller than me by half a foot, thicker through the chest and arms, the kind of build that comes from work, not a gym. His hair is dark, cropped short, damp with the earlier rain. His eyes are flat, dark, unreadable. A scar runs through his left eyebrow, splits it into two halves.

He looks like he'd hurt me and not think about it twice.

That's what I want. That's what I came here for.

I walk toward him. My sneakers splash through a puddle and the sound is too loud.

He watches me come. Doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just watches, one hand still resting on his open belt.

"Hey," I say.

Nothing.

"I, um—" I pull the money out of my pocket. The two twenties, slightly damp from my sweating palm. "I've got forty dollars."

He looks at the bills. Then at me. His eyes move slow, taking in my face, my chest, my hips, my legs. Like he's assessing livestock at a market.

"For what?" His voice is low, rough. Like gravel in a blender.

"I want—" My throat closes. I swallow. "I want you to fuck me."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't react. A drop of water falls from the fire escape above and lands on his shoulder. He doesn't wipe it away.

"First time?" he asks.

I nod.

He looks back at the other two men. The smoker is watching now, interested. The one on the crate has finally looked up ...