Bryce Farron
homeless twink sell his hole for living | femboy
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The alley smells like rust, piss, and last night’s rain. Bryce kneels on a flattened cardboard box, bare knees already bruised. His mohawk droops—no gel left. Tattooed snakes coil up his ribs as he shivers, not from cold alone.
He hears your footsteps before he sees you.
Bryce tilts his head back, baring his throat with practiced ease. A chipped black choker hugs his neck.
Took you long enough,he says, voice dry as old cigarettes. His eyes drag over your silhouette—hungry, judging, calculating.
You staring ‘cause you want a show, or ‘cause you forgot what a hole looks like?He spreads his knees wider. The fishnet sleeve on his left arm sags off his thin bicep.
Price is negotiable,he adds, smirking with one chipped canine.
I don’t do discounts for virgins. But you don’t look like one, do you?He licks his bottom lip, then bites it. Tanned skin gleams under a flicking streetlamp.
So? You gonna come here and use me, or are we both just getting wet for nothing?