I’m Skylar the Twink
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
My name is Skylar.
I’m 20 years old, hella gay, and one of the most dominant mother fuckers you’ve ever met.
I’m 6 feet tall, have green eyes and copper brown hair that is the envy of boys and girls alike, and a slim but defined twinkish build that has never failed to secure me an endless parade of boys, not to mention non-stop attention on all the apps.
I did light workouts daily. Nothing serious. I needed to stay in shape, but I didn’t want to get bulky. I liked my lean, sensual body and the things it did to men and I was going to ride my good looks for as long as genetics, cosmetics and, if necessary down the line, prosthetics would let me.
One part of me that would never need enhancement though was my huge, jaw-stretching dick. At nearly nine and a half inches it had been the key to unlocking so many different holes for me, even some that had initially been uninterested. Once they saw what I was packing, boys got weak in the knees and, well, usually dropped down onto them, just to get a taste of what was hiding in my pants.
Once I fully blossomed in college and outgrew my teenage awkwardness, getting dudes to go down on my dick just became that much easier. Convincing them to risk their tiny assholes on my massive meat though… that was another thing. So many of them thought it would never fit.
I always showed them otherwise.
Or sent them home with a very, very sore throat, and probably a bright red ass too.
I’d had my share of girls too, when I was younger, but it became clear quickly that they weren’t what I was interested in, no matter how much they were interested in me and my enormous cock. I think I’d tried it just to see, maybe for my parents, or for god, I don’t know, but it never felt right.
I figured girls came on to me because I didn’t give off ‘gay vibes’. I played sports with the guys and I didn’t exactly advertise that I liked the way it sounded when my balls were slapping against another dude’s ass, so I guess there was room to wonder. By the time I was off to college though, I’d long since realized that women didn’t do it for me, even if they wanted me to do things to them.
Men just felt better.
They had stronger bodies, bigger muscles, deeper voices.
But what really turned my crank was the way they let me get rough with them.
Not just a few, but most of the guys I fucked.
They wanted me to ‘use’ them, not fuck them gently like in some fantasy romance novel they’d purchased for $3.99 at the end of the Wal-Mart checkout. They wanted sex like you saw in porn. They wanted me to fuck their throats until they were raw, spin them around, slap their asses and shove my big dick in hard and fast until I unloaded my hot filth in them like the dirty sluts they were.
Nothing got me harder than thinking about that, and there was no shortage of boys looking to slide down my mammoth pole in whatever fashion I pleased. Even though so many chickened out once they saw it in person.
In truth, I loved that too.
I loved the sounds those boys made when they eventually took it in their mouths, then felt my hand on the back of their heads, forcing them down a little further. Their minds would say no, but their cocks would tell them, “Yes, bitch,” and they’d slide down beyond what their gag reflexes could take. It was like listening to my favorite podcast as they choked and slurped and glopped, their minds, fighting their bodies and their cocks all at the same time.
Of course, nothing compared to the noises they’d make when they finally agreed to let me shove it in their tight little puckers.
To me, they’re all snug little holes, unless the boy’s a fisting bottom or some shit, in which case I wouldn’t use him anyways. My cock isn’t only long, it’s girthy as fuck and I love feeling a boy’s hole struggle to keep me out as I drive in relentlessly. The way the skin just grabs my cock and starts to pull me in, even though the rest of him is trying so hard to push my big invader out. Then there’s that delightful, soft fleshy feeling on the tip of my dick as I start to probe deeper. It’s almost all I can think about, except for the inevitable yelps and groans coming from the mouth of the hole I’m destroying below me.
Can a boy have too much of a good thing?
I grew up in a small town. Not too many opportunities if you stayed, not much opportunity for you to leave. I didn’t have amazing grades in school so when I started college, I figured I’d join the reserves too for the heck of it. It was one of the only things to do while you were studying in my town, and I’d already torn through all of the local ass and I figured maybe I’d find something new and interesting in the army.
Things didn’t pan out exactly as I’d planned.
Firstly, the base was way smaller than I’d imagined. It was not the huge complex with hundreds of smoking hot dudes running around I’d thought it would be. Instead, it was a relatively small place, with about a hundred guys total.
And not all of them were even guys.
I found two worthy twinks to sink my stick into but it wasn’t the bonanza I was hoping for and I was regretting my decision to enlist until I saw him:
Private Brady Vance.
He was there to assist the supply section during the spring training rotation, which meant he spent more time on our postage-stamp base than any other full-timer. Technically, he wasn’t assigned to us. He was attached from a bigger logistics unit at a regional armoury two hours away, the kind of place with an actual motor pool and soldiers who got their own mail slots. But someone higher up had decided we needed help processing intake for the new recruits, and Brady was the help.
He manned the inventory cage and handled sign-outs. Rifles, radios, rucksacks. You’d show up with a checklist and get the once-over, like he was trying to decide how much gear you could be trusted not to break. Then he’d hand over the goods, scribble your name on a clipboard, and wave you off without looking up again.
The first time he did it to me, I stood there longer than I needed to. Just long enough to watch his forearm flex when he wrote, the way the veins rose under the skin like cords. He had that kind of build that made you think of action movies, but quieter. Six feet, lean, tight where it counted. Not gym bulk, real muscle, all trained and useful. His combat shirt clung a little across the shoulders, the sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that meant business. His pants sat just right on thick legs and a perfect ass that deserved better than government-issued fabric.
His face didn’t help. Short blond hair buzzed but still a little uneven like he’d done it himself in the mirror. A jaw that could’ve been carved, sharp nose and a mouth some softness to round it all out. Then there were his eyes: grey-blue, quiet, always studying the air around them.
Every time I saw him, I wanted to ruin him.
Not gently. Not romantically. I wanted to get my hands on him, get him on his knees, make him look up and see what it meant to be owned. I wasn’t sure if he was gay or not, but he was so fucking hot, at this point, I wasn’t sure I cared...
Lucky for him, I’m the adventurous type.
And I was determined to find out if Brady was the type of boy that liked dicks — or at least the type that did once they saw a really big one.
The first thing I needed was a schedule.
It wasn’t like Brady came with one posted on his forehead, and full-timers didn’t exactly make announcements when they were going to be around. But I’d already learned that if I wanted something on the base, all I had to do was find the right angle and keep pushing. Brady was no different.
Reservists had to check in with Admin before every drill weekend. There was a form, a signature, and usually a lot of grumbling. If anything was missing, the clerk would call around to chase it down. That was my in. I started “misplacing” things on purpose. Left a signature line blank, claimed I forgot to scan a piece. Every time, the same guy at the desk would sigh and dial Supply. Brady always picked up. I never spoke, just stood nearby, listening. It didn’t take long to figure out his pattern.
Fridays, late shift. Saturdays, full day. Sundays, clean-up and turnover. Chow at eleven-thirty sharp, gym after the equipment cage closed. He would sometimes linger. You rarely saw him at the vending machines but he liked catching sun outside the barracks. Most of the time though, it was just duty, food, workout, gone. Which only made me want him more.
Once I had the timing, I started finding reasons to be where he was. I volunteered for gear runs, last-minute turn-ins, anything that gave me an excuse to hover near the supply cage. I started asking dumb questions about sizing. Pretended my boots were too tight. Held out my arm when he passed me gloves, flexed just enough to show the veins. I leaned against the counter when I talked to him, shifted my hips forward, let my cargo pants do the rest. You didn’t need to whip your dick out to get someone’s attention. You just had to fill out the space in front of them and watch what happened.
Brady didn’t bite. Not openly. His voice stayed even, his posture locked in place. He signed things quickly, passed gear like he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. But once, just once, I saw his eyes drop. Not far. A flick, maybe a second long. But it was enough to tell me I’d rattled something.
He covered it well. Went right back to straight lines and squared shoulders. I would’ve respected the discipline if it didn’t make me want to wreck it so badly.
Still, I didn’t have confirmation. He could’ve looked by accident. He could’ve been checking the stitching. He could’ve just had a moment.
I needed more than that.
Three ideas started forming in my head. First, the gym showers. He always hit the weights after duty, and if I happened to show up just as he finished, I could strip down nearby and see where his eyes went when he thought no one was watching. Second, I could drop a casual feel on him. Nothing too overt, maybe just a quick pass on his ass and see how he reacts. Maybe say I slipped. See how he reacts. Third, I could sneak a gay short story collection into the stack of training manuals he was cataloguing. If it disappeared and didn’t come back, I’d have my answer.
I didn’t pick one yet. I liked having options.
And Brady? He still thought he was safe. Still thought he could stand there all stone-faced and professional, pretending he didn’t feel the way the air shifted when I got too close.
That was fine. Let him think that. For now.
It was Sunday. The sun was out for once, and the base felt weirdly quiet, like everyone had already mentally clocked out. I spotted Brady by the rear supply door, a clipboard tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looked like he was waiting for someone or killing time before someone found him something worse to do.
I wandered over, slow and loose.
“Busy day?”
He glanced at me, not surprised. “Not really.”
“Damn. Guess they’re slacking. You’re supposed to be buried in gear and grit, right?”
Brady gave a dry sort of half-smile. “I think they forgot I was here.”
“Tragic,” I said, like I meant it. “Want me to make a scene so they remember?”
He didn’t laugh, exactly, but something passed across his face that wasn’t no. His stance softened by half an inch.
We stood there for a few seconds. Just air and sun and two uniforms in the same square of shade.
He shifted the clipboard to his other arm.
I watched his mouth move before he spoke. “You sticking around this afternoon?”
I nodded, but didn’t answer. Instead I looked him over, not subtle, and waited for him to either break eye contact or meet it. He didn’t do either. Just stood there, still and professional, like he thought that would protect him.
I smiled a little. “Might be.”
I didn’t say anything else. I just held the moment. Drew it out. Then, like I’d remembered something, I stepped back.
“Anyway,” I said, “I’ve got something to take care of.”
And I did. Just hadn’t decided yet whether it was in the locker room, the supply shelf, or my hand on his ass.
Either way, Brady was about to get the kind of attention nobody forgot.
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