Twunk for Hire

"Just have him come inside. I'll leave the door unlocked, and I'll be ready when he gets here."

Peyton thumbed through the promos after hanging up the phone. He'd already anticipated leaving a five-star review, and the more he saw Willy X, twunk, otter with deep brown eyes and a deep inguinal crease, the more he realized he'd be in for the night of his life.

Quick glances in the mirror evolved into a small fashion show, swapping underwear and socks to find whatever the right look is. "I want it to feel like a random roommate hookup in college," he muttered through biting his lip, "Spontaneous. An accident."

Jock strap was too premeditated. He'd never have worn one back in his actual undergrad years. Gildan briefs were too--basic? What a suppressed sexuality heteronormative college guy would wear that would still be suggestive if his roommate saw is, "Calvin Klein. Modal. White with the red waistband."

He didn't really know what the material was, but he liked that it looked thin. His package in the mirror looked massive but not off-putting for the "straight" guy trope he'd ordered. His glutes had gained fat and lost tone since he retired from soccer, but they poured into the back of the modal briefs like two round bags of fine sand.

A knock on the door disturbed him. Willy X was supposed to just come in. Worse than that, the half hour Peyton spent searching for underwear killed the time he was supposed to be using to finish unpacking his boxes.

Nerves rushed beneath his skin. A familiar sensation taking him back to when he'd see his roommates undressing in college. His penis softened, and hid away in this briefs, leaving a slow-to-shrink bulge in the fabric. Before he could talk himself out of putting his clothes on and conversing with Willy X like a garden variety customer, he gripped the doorknob and flung the door open in one breath.

Better than imagined. Black Chuck Taylors with smeared white toe caps. Thin ankles shown off through mismatched socks--one solid turquoise and the other gray with a geeky, cartoon pattern. Jeans too short, and tight enough to let on bulky calf muscles on skinny legs. Quads round, but docile, smothered in blue denim. Crotch permanently puckered and wrestled downward by a brown belt with its pleather chipping away. A black shirt, too short for his long frame, featured a narrow, yet somehow beefy chest with broad shoulders and thin arms.

Peyton kissed his neck before speaking a single word. He failed to acknowledge the neighbor peeking out the window of the apartment balcony. The twunky dream pressed his thumb webbing into Peyton's neck and kissed him like he wanted to drink the breath from his throat. Gasping, and flailing Peyton finally kicked the door shut. Calloused palms snagged the fibers of the Calvin Kleins, and a single finger, time and time again, flicked and poked Peyton's hole as he lifted his knee under the grip of his dreamy rent boy.

Back against the wall, the portrait of his championship soccer team pinned behind his head, Peyton suffocating in wet, airy, incessant kisses. Already a five-star experience.

A full, rugged palm snaking up the leg of the briefs had cupped the fat of Payton's ass before, "Take these off," huffed into his face. The twunk's words smelled like untreated breath. No spearmint, cinnamon, or alcohol like Peyton was accustomed to. Just the scent of a man.

Like a caught criminal, he submitted. He'd only began pulling down his briefs when he heard the barking--felt the vibrations in his neck like a vampire seeking out a pipeline of blood, "No! These," he commanded, thrusting Peyton's leg high enough to curl under his elbow. He ignored Peyton's whimper--he either assumed Peyton to be more flexible, or really didn't care if he'd dislocate the hip. In clumsy, forceful motions, he shook a free hand onto his belt loops, "Take these off."

Staring into his frosty eyes, Peyton felt his own body submit. "I'm yours," he whispered, to which the dreamy twunk barked, "Take them off."

Like digging for treasure in the dark, Peyton fondled the waistline being extra careful to seemingly accidentally grab the bulge growing up the pocket of the jeans. He felt a rush of nerves again, "It's--too big," he panted. The advertisement said six-to-seven inches. This was much more, and it pained Peyton to realize how good he was at feeling out the size of other men's dicks. He didn't think he had much practice, but he'd clearly fondled his fair share over time.

"No bitching." That's all he got to hear before the leg of his briefs ripped between the twunk's rough hands. He'd spit on his fingers multiple times, and aggressively massaged his saliva into Peyton, but Peyton still felt the calloused finger pads prickling the walls of his anus. It didn't feel good physically, but a sexual spirit went wild with each scrape. His head tossed back and cracked the picture frame when two knuckles fought their way into him. An exahle gave him more of the scent of man breath.

It was already leaking. Like a hose, Peyton felt the wetness from the twunk pooling on his shirt. He watched him spit downward, gaze clearly fixed on his stiffened dick. He didn't want to look. He was afraid it was really as big as it felt. Closing his eyes was the best he could do to pretend the dick head didn't reach above his own belly button. "Is there a safe word," he wondered silently to himself. Fear paralyzed him to the jackhammering of the rugged knuckles. Three of them, wet, scratchy, and powerful speeding in and out of his hole. After fifteen sustained, gloriously agonizing seconds of jabs, Peyton's hole literally gave up and held itself open. A splattering of saliva kissed the kitchen floor and Peyton could swear the open air ran right up into him through what now felt more like a tunnel than his cute, furry, pink ass hole.

Eyes squeezed shut he counted to five in his head. The first time he chickened out, so he started over, assuring himself silently, "If he doesn't touch my hole again for the next five seconds, I'm going to tell him I can't do this." He was in pain. The horny sensation had passed, and now he just wanted his hole to close back up so he can clean up and maybe just blow this guy, leave the review, and go back to months of sexual suppression before trying this again.

He reached three seconds before the inevitable happened. Grunting, huffing, and fussing, the twunk pressed his head into the open hole. Somehow Peyton gagged as if he could already feel it in his throat. Gyrating, and alternating angles like a locksmith, the pipe worked its way passed the part of Peyton's hole he had any control over. He'd tried to whimper, "Wait", feeling amazed at how he must look, leg hoisted up, back against the wall, and a nine-inch dick snaking up through his briefs and into his colon. The salty, calloused fingers muffled Peyton's voice and pushed his head futher into the picture frame. He'd moaned to no avail. This wasn't about him. His pleasure, pain, and words were futile to the dreamy twunk.

Deep enough to feel pain, but shallow enough to be relieved if he should pull out quickly, the lining of Peyton's hole fought a losing battle. Centimeter by centimeter, the twunk's dick reached up into Peyton like a snake swallowed by another, smaller snake. A new pain. A stomach pain, like when you get punched in the gut by a bully in grade school. "Ah!"

Answered only by sweaty, determined grunts, Peyton deeply yearned to know if he could take it all. He must be close. One, numbed hand reached down to assess the situation. "Impossible," he thought, "It feels like half of it's still waiting to go in."

Another bark, "Don't touch!"

He pushed harder, as if time were a factor. "Isn't he going to actually fuck me," Peyton pondered, "How long before he actually pumps into me. This is agony!"

Spitting, he pushed so hard it must have hurt himself, but he refused to give up. He applied constant upward pressure until they each felt a small pop. Peyton screamed like he'd never sounded off before.

"It's too far!"

"Almost," the twunk grunted.

Peyton couldn't peel his should from the wall. He'd somehow trusted that not moving would help. As if any minor movements would give up more control of those involuntary anal sphincter muscles already losing to keep this massive cock out of the depths of his colon.

He sighed, mostly relief but also fascination when he felt the wiry pubic hairs prickling at his inner thigh. "It's almost all the way in," he whimpered, thinking, "then he'll pull out and I can breath again. Almost there. Just a little longer before I--"

The door flung open and ruined his train of thought. A sexy brown-haired muscle twink in a backward cap and a tank top sang on his way in, "Willy X is here, and I'm ready to rock your world!"

Like ripping an arm out a sleeve, faster than anyone could register feeling, the twunk voided Peyton of the nine-inch cock. Peyton actually shivered for several seconds reconcling with the gaping hole, likely a small, still-puckered sort of rosebud.

Pushing past Willy X, the stranger sprinted out the door, down the stairs, and was never seen again. Willy X, confused, asked if he should come back another time.