You were at the Paris Pride festival, and although you are a single gay male, you were bored out of your mind. You walk around the festival in your rainbow tee shirt & shorts, taking pictures to show your friends back home. As you walk down one of the streets, you stop to catch an adorable moment. You snap a picture of some nasty gutterpunk letting a little boy touch his spiky jacket. They were muttering something in French, as the punk seemed to notice you snapping the picture. You awkwardly wave at him, trying to show that you weren’t some creeper.
His response caught you off guard. He ruffled the kid’s hair a bit before approaching you with a pretty hardcore glare. Shoving you into the wall, he pins you down while angrily shouting in French. You don’t even speak French! You’re an American! However, telling him this seems to make him even more flustered. He drags you into a long alleyway nearby, and throws you against a dumpster.
Your head spinning, you fall to the ground. He strides over to you. All you can see is his dingy yellow boots before a grimy hand grabs your neck. You look up at the punk, and stare into his eyes. You nearly wet yourself realizing they’re a deep scarlet. The punk hocks a loogie on your face, and it lands square in the middle of your mouth. He holds your jaw shut, while you do your best to get the slimy loogie out of your mouth. You taste the smoke of the cigarettes he’d been smoking, and a little hint of the weed even earlier. You eventually suck it down your throat, and he lets you take a breath. You collapse onto the ground, hacking and coughing.
“You understand me now, fucker?” You look at him, confused. He had been able to speak English all along? “No, you fucking idiot. You’re speaking French. Come to my country and don’t know how to talk? Fuckin’ dumbass.” You are shocked, as you realize it is French you’re hearing! How can you understand? “Alright, you fuckin’ shit. Follow me.” Before you can respond, your body betrays you, and gets up. You have no control! He takes you to the dark side of Paris, to an abandoned building in a dark alleyway.
Rancid and The Ramones posters cover the walls, while string lights illuminate dingy furniture and a king sized bed with shiny rubber sheets. “Come over here.” He demands. You walk over to him, as he rips your shirt from your body, and pulls down your pants and boxers. “Damn, fucker. We got a lot of work to do.” He shuffles through various clothes strung about the room. When he’s finished his plucking, he returns to you. He pulls ripped up and cum-stained red underwear up on you. His grimy hands aggressively grope you, until your cock falls out of a hole in the fabric. Wait… What? Your cock isn’t that big… Or pierced! He hocks a loogie on it, and begins to stroke it. “Been looking for a top for a while now. I guess you’ll do.”
He commands you to keep stroking your cock, as he pulls up a pair of shredded black skinny jeans onto your legs. Through the holes, you see smooth skin and several tattoos where hair used to be. Your cock’s sensitivity increases with every stroke, making you moan like you’ve never moaned before. He slides two stinky and sweaty socks, formerly white and now yellowed and brown, onto your feet. They now emit a funk of epic proportions, of years of cum, sweat, and piss. Your size 15 feet now completely fit in their gigantic spiked boots. Your lower body smells like you’ve been on the streets for years without so much as a shower. Your fingers caress your Prince Albert piercing, the smegma smell now barreling out of your newly formed foreskin.
Finding a Circle Jerks sweatshirt, he tosses it over you, while simultaneously running his hands all over your pierced nipples and rock hard abs. “I bet you like this deep down, you kinky fuck.” He throws on a sleeveless studded denim jacket, and rolls your sleeves up to reveal tattoos on your fingers and forearm. You feel the dirt under your fingernails as your arms pull the punk close to you. “Pucker up, boy.” He sticks out a pierced tongue and shoves it into your mouth, kissing you aggressively. His hand replaces yours on your cock as you pump his. The kiss is intense. It is broken only for a minute, to show you a black barbell adorning your tongue, and to spit once again into your welcoming mouth. After a good long while, your entire memory, personality, wants, likes, dislikes… Everything is gone.
He shoves your head down to his smelly crotch, and you take his cock in your mouth. The taste of sweat, old cum, and dick cheese overwhelms your taste buds. You come to love the taste… The smell… The feeling. That punk feeling. Being a punk is so sexy. Rebellion is sexy. It’s that bad boy persona no one can resist. You eagerly suck your boyfriend’s cock until he shoots his gigantic load down your throat. He pulls you back to his face by your lip piercings, and into another kiss. You push some of his seed back into his mouth, just how he likes it. He strokes your neon green mohawk with a devious grin. “You’re perfect, you sexy fucker.
Now, you spend most of your time smoking weed, sellin’ coke and fuckin’ your boy. But, the place is feeling a little empty for you two. Maybe you’ll bring in another boy as your “son.”
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