(NEW WRITER) Boston Bottom Gurl! By Candy Baby (Patreon)

Boston Bottom Gurl!

By Candy Baby

© 2019-2055 QoSBookclub

All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact us by sending us a DM At patreon.com/QoSBookclub

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

**DEVIN DICKIE NOTE**
All characters are OVER 18 years of AGE! This is a bullying fantasy and not real. The acts in the following written work are only consensual sexual choices and fantasy humiliation scenarios.
Bullying is NOT OKAY and If you or someone you know is being bullied, please alert the authorities.

Chapter 1

Boston in May 2025 was a shithole dressed up as a city. The air smelled of stale beer, weed, and regret, and the skyline looked like God had dropped a box of Legos and called it a day. I, Jamie, a 35-year-old spreadsheet jockey from San Francisco, was here to pitch some blockchain crap to a room of suits who’d rather be golfing. My life was a beige nightmare of PowerPoint and performance reviews, but I had one redeeming trait: I was a slut for a good hookup. And Boston, for all its faults, was a horny town.
I’d matched with Desmond on Grindr the day I landed. His profile screamed trouble—shirtless pic, gold chain, bio that read, “8 inches of chaos, you in?” I was in. We fucked twice: first in his office behind a vape shop that reeked of mango mist, then in my hotel room overlooking a dumpster fire—literally and figuratively. He was hung like a porn star and fucked like he was settling a score. I was supposed to fly to Cleveland that night, but the meeting got canned. Rather than limp back to California, I texted Desmond. His reply: “Stay. Got a friend who’ll make you see God.” My dick said yes before my brain could file a complaint. Over breakfast at a greasy diner called Sal’s Sliders, Desmond laid out his pitch. His buddy Tyrone, a six-foot-four ex-professor who’d just ditched his wife, was “curious” about banging a dude. Not just any dude—a “feminine” one. I’m not exactly a twink; I’ve got a dad bod, a patchy beard, and a personality best described as “sarcastic IT guy.” But Desmond, grinning like a shark in a suit, said, “You fuck like a chick—submissive, all about the other guy’s nut. Tyrone’s packing a fire hose, and you’re the only one who can handle it.” I should’ve run. Instead, I said, “Set it up.” Horniness is a hell of a drug.

Chapter 2

Desmond’s South Boston loft was a shrine to bad decisions: peeling wallpaper, a couch that smelled like regret, and a neon Bud Light sign flickering like it was having a seizure. He insisted I “prep” like I was starring in a low-budget drag show. Step one: an enema kit from CVS, because nothing says “sexy” like a power-wash for your colon. Step two: shaving everything below my neck, leaving a landing strip above my unimpressive junk. Desmond returned with a thrift-store haul: a lacy thong that pinched my balls, thigh-high stockings that screamed “Spirit Halloween clearance,” and a silk robe so short my ass was practically a billboard. He slapped on red nail polish and lip gloss, cackling, “You’re a solid six now, Jamie!” I looked like a drag queen’s rough draft, but the mirror didn’t lie—I felt hot. Or at least unhinged enough to pull this off.
Tyrone rolled in at 8 p.m., a hulking figure in a leather jacket, looking like he bench-pressed Buicks for fun. We sat on Desmond’s sagging couch, slugging cheap merlot while Desmond played host like a creepy matchmaker. Tyrone was shockingly articulate—dropped Foucault and Coltrane references like he wasn’t about to rearrange my intestines. I played seductress, stroking his arm, then his thigh, feeling like a discount femme fatale. He reciprocated, groping my ass through the robe, his hands big enough to palm a basketball. Desmond just watched, grinning like a perv at a peep show. The vibe was half sexy, half American Psycho.
“Bedroom?” Desmond finally said, with the subtlety of a car crash. The room was lit with dollar-store candles, smelling of wax and despair. I sprawled on the bed, watching Tyrone and Desmond

strip. Desmond’s cock was impressive—eight inches, solid girth, a real crowd-pleaser. But Tyrone? His was a war crime. Eleven inches, thick as a wrist, leaking pre-cum like a broken faucet. I half-expected it to have its own zip code.
I slithered between them, sucking like my life depended on it. Desmond’s cock was a warm-up; Tyrone’s required jaw yoga and a prayer. I gagged, drooled, and worshipped the tip, tasting salt and audacity. Desmond, ever the director, tossed me a tube of lube and a bottle of poppers. “Sniff hard, Jamie. You’re about to get restructured.” I inhaled like a fiend, and the world turned to glitter and horniness. Tyrone yanked down my thong, slathered lube like he was icing a cake, and pressed his battering ram against my hole.
“Christ, your hole’s tighter than a banker’s wallet!” Tyrone growled. “Built for my monster, eh?” I wasn’t about to stroke his ego, but he wasn’t wrong. The first push was like being impaled by a telephone pole. Pain and pleasure had a cage match in my brain, and pleasure won. Tyrone inched in, muttering, “Fuck, this is better than my ex.” Desmond, not to be outdone, grabbed my nipples and twisted like he was tuning a radio. My mouth gaped, and he shoved his cock in, turning me into a human kebab. Spit-roasted by two hung lunatics, I was in heaven—or at least its sleazy cousin.
Poppers hit again, and I was a cock-hungry zombie. Tyrone’s monster breached my second sphincter, and I swear I saw God—or at least a drag queen version of him. “Nobody’s taken me balls-deep before,” Tyrone marveled, like I’d won a Nobel Prize. I wiggled my ass, milking his cock, while Desmond throat-fucked me with gusto. The three of us found a rhythm, like a pornographic metronome, grunting and groaning in a symphony of debauchery.

I was a mess—sweat, lube, and existential dread—but I was also close. Tyrone’s cock pulsed, and I knew the end was nigh. His first spurt triggered my own orgasm, a hands-free explosion that splattered the sheets. Desmond, not one to miss the party, unloaded in my throat, and I blacked out for a hot second, drowning in cum and absurdity. We collapsed, a sweaty pile of bad decisions, panting like we’d run a marathon. Desmond fetched us lukewarm PBRs, and Tyrone, still half-hard, gave my ass a fond pat before dressing. “That was... enlightening,” he said, like he’d just discovered Buddhism. He promised to call Desmond, and I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t the end. As they chatted, I lay there, leaking and wondering if I’d just signed up for the weirdest throuple in Boston.

Chapter 3:

I woke up in Desmond’s bed, my ass throbbing like I’d sat on a cactusics, my mouth a bruised plum. The room smelled of stale cum and burnt dreams. Desmond was already up, frying bacon in a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration. “Morning, princess,” he grinned, tossing me a beer. “You survived Tyrone’s anaconda. Ready for round two?” I groaned, my body a roadmap of aches. “I need a wheelchair and a therapist, not another dicking.” But my dick twitched at the memory of Tyrone’s monster. I was hooked, and Desmond knew it.
Over bacon and eggs, he dropped the next bomb. “Tyrone’s obsessed. Wants you for the weekend. I know a bar where we can take this to the next level. You in?” I should’ve said no. Instead, I met Candy, Desmond’s trans friend, who sashayed in wearing a leopard-print crop top and a smirk. “Honey, you took Tyrone’s

whole dick? You’re either a saint or a masochist.” She handed me a coffee and a Vicodin. “Stick with me, and you might survive this circus.”
Candy was a sex worker with a PhD in shade, and she became my guide to Boston’s underworld. As we sipped diner coffee, she laid out the rules: “Desmond’s a pimp in all but name. Tyrone’s got a fetish and a trust fund. You’re their new toy, but you can play them too. Just don’t fall in love.” Her laugh was sharp as a switch blade.

Chapter 3

I woke up in Desmond’s bed, my ass throbbing like I’d been used as a piñata at a frat party. My mouth felt like a bruised plum, and my body was a roadmap of bad decisions. The room reeked of stale cum, burnt candles, and existential dread. Desmond was already up, frying bacon in a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration. “Morning, princess,” he grinned, tossing me a lukewarm PBR. “You survived Tyrone’s anaconda. Ready for round two?”
I groaned, collapsing onto a chair that wobbled like my life choices. “I need a wheelchair, a therapist, and a time machine, not another dicking.” But my dick twitched at the memory of Tyrone’s eleven-inch war crime. I was hooked, and Desmond knew it, his shark-like grin widening.
Over bacon and eggs that tasted suspiciously like regret, he dropped the next bomb. “Tyrone’s obsessed. Wants you for the whole weekend. I know a bar where we can take this to the next level—real freaky shit. You in?” My brain screamed, “Run, you idiot!” My libido whispered, “One more ride.” Guess which won.

Before I could answer, the door swung open, and in sashayed Candy, Desmond’s trans friend, rocking a leopard-print crop top, ripped fishnets, and a smirk sharper than a switchblade. “Well, well, if it ain’t the cock whisperer,” she purred, tossing her neon-pink hair. “Honey, you took Tyrone’s whole dick? You’re either a saint or a masochist.” She handed me a coffee and a Vicodin, sliding into the chair opposite me. “Drink. Pop. You’re gonna need both to survive this circus.”
Candy was a sex worker with a PhD in shade and a rap sheet longer than my Grindr history. She was Desmond’s confidante, his fixer, and now, apparently, my guide to Boston’s sleazy underbelly. As we sipped diner coffee—mine spiked with whiskey—she laid out the rules like a drill sergeant. “Listen up, Jamie. Desmond’s a pimp in all but name. Tyrone’s got a fetish and a trust fund. You’re their new toy, but you can play them too. Just don’t fall in love—or think you’re special. They’ll chew you up and spit you out faster than a bad Tinder date.”
Her laugh was a cackle, and I liked her immediately. “So, what’s this bar Desmond’s on about?” I asked, popping the Vicodin and praying it’d numb more than my ass.
Candy leaned in, her fake lashes fluttering like warning flags. “The Black Velvet. Dive bar in Southie, looks like a crime scene but runs the kink scene. That’s where Vince hangs out—sleazy promoter, loves throwing orgies for rich weirdos. If Desmond’s taking you there, you’re about to graduate from threesomes to some next-level debauchery. Buckle up, bitch.”
I should’ve bolted for the airport. Instead, I said, “I’m in.” Candy sighed, muttering, “God help you,” and handed me her card. “Text me when you’re in over your head. Which, let’s be real, is gonna be in about six hours.”

Chapter 4

The Black Velvet was a neon-lit shithole wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat that doubled as a meth lab. The sign flickered like it was on life support, and the air inside was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and desperation. Desmond led the way, wearing a velvet blazer that screamed “midlife crisis,” while I trailed behind in jeans and a hoodie, feeling like a lamb at a slaughterhouse. Tyrone was meeting us there, fresh from a lecture on post-colonial theory—because apparently, he moonlighted as an adjunct professor when he wasn’t wrecking assholes.
The bar was a freak show. A leather daddy in a harness nursed a whiskey, flirting with a twink in a dog collar. A woman in a latex catsuit played pool with a guy who looked like he’d escaped a Renaissance fair. And in the corner, Candy held court, sipping a martini and roasting a yuppie in a Patagonia vest. She spotted us and waved, her grin saying, “You’re so fucked.” Desmond steered me to a booth where Vince waited, a wiry guy in his 40s with a fake tan and a smile like a used car salesman. His gold pinky ring glinted as he shook my hand, his grip clammy. “Jamie, my man! Desmond says you’re the real deal—a bottom who can handle the big leagues.” His eyes raked over me, and I felt like a steak at a butcher shop. “Ever been to a proper kink party? No? You’re in for a treat.”
I sipped my beer, trying to play it cool. “What’s the vibe? Like, whips and chains, or...?” Vince laughed, a hyena cackle. “Oh, it’s a buffet, baby. Whips, chains, poppers, glory holes—you name it. My girl Mistress Raven runs the show. She’s got a warehouse in Dorchester, turns it into Sodom and Gomorrah every weekend. You and Tyrone are gonna be the main course.”

Desmond chimed in, his grin predatory. “Tyrone’s already RSVP’d. Says he wants you in drag, full femme, taking his cock in front of an audience. You down?” My stomach lurched, but my dick was throwing a parade. Public sex? Drag? An audience? This was either my fantasy or my funeral.
Candy slid into the booth, overhearing. “Drag? Oh, honey, you’re gonna need more than Desmond’s thrift-store panties for that. Raven’s parties are high camp—think Rocky Horror meets a gangbang. I’ll help you prep, but you gotta promise not to cry when Tyrone splits you in half.” She winked, but her eyes said, “Last chance to bail.”
I didn’t bail. Instead, I let Vince buy me a shot of tequila and listened as he painted a picture of the party: a labyrinth of rooms, each with a theme—bondage, voyeurism, “fluid exchange.” Mistress Raven, he said, was a dominatrix with a cult following, known for her whip skills and her ability to make grown men beg. “She’ll love you,” Vince said. “Fresh meat’s her favorite.” Tyrone arrived, towering over the bar like a sexy Godzilla. He slid in next to me, his thigh pressing against mine, and whispered, “You ready to be my girl again?” His breath was warm, his cologne expensive, and I was already half-hard. Candy rolled her eyes. “Jesus, get a room—or at least a glory hole.”
By midnight, I was drunk, horny, and committed to the party. Candy dragged me to the bathroom, shoving a makeup bag into my hands. “If you’re doing this, do it right. Smokey eyes, red lips, and fake lashes. I’m not letting you embarrass me.” She coached me through a crash course in drag, turning my face into a passable femme fantasy. I looked like a B-list porn star, and I loved it. As we left the bar, Desmond clapped me on the back. “You’re gonna be a star, Jamie. Just don’t forget who brought you here.”

His tone was half proud, half possessive, and I wondered if I’d just sold my soul for a weekend of dick.

Chapter 5

Mistress Raven’s warehouse in Dorchester was a fortress of sin, a sprawling concrete box with blacked-out windows and a bouncer who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. The line outside was a circus: leather daddies, drag queens, tech bros in fetish gear, and a couple who looked like they’d wandered in from a PTA meeting. Candy, now in a latex corset and stilettos, led our crew—me, Desmond, Tyrone, and Vince—past the velvet rope. “VIPs,” she purred to the bouncer, who grunted and waved us in. Inside, the warehouse was a fever dream. Strobe lights pulsed to industrial techno, and the air was thick with sweat, lube, and amyl nitrate. Rooms branched off the main hall, each with a sign: “Bondage Bay,” “Glory Hole Galleria,” “Cum Dump Corner.” A central stage held a St. Andrew’s cross, where a twink in a jockstrap was being flogged by a dominatrix in a nun’s habit. The crowd cheered, sipping cocktails from penis-shaped straws. It was Eyes Wide Shut on a budget.
Candy had worked miracles. I was in full drag: a red wig, fishnet stockings, a sequined mini-dress that barely covered my ass, and heels I could barely walk in. My makeup was slutty perfection, thanks to her, and the poppers she’d slipped me made me feel like a porn star. “You’re Jasmine tonight,” she said, pinning a name tag to my dress. “Own it.”
Mistress Raven appeared like a leather-clad deity, six feet tall in boots, her black corset gleaming. Her whip cracked the air, silencing the room. “Welcome, you filthy animals!” she roared, her voice a mix of camp and menace. “Tonight’s main event:

Jasmine, our virgin sacrifice, takes on the Beast!” She pointed to Tyrone, who stood shirtless, his cock straining against his leather pants. The crowd whooped, and I realized I was the “virgin.” Fuck my life.
Vince, buzzing with coke-fueled energy, ushered us to the stage. Desmond handed me a fresh bottle of poppers, whispering, “You’re gonna need these.” I took a hit, and the world turned to glitter and lust. Tyrone grabbed my hand, pulling me to the center of the stage, where a padded bench awaited. The crowd formed a circle, their eyes hungry, phones out despite the “no recording” rule.
“Ready to be my girl?” Tyrone growled, unzipping his pants. His cock sprang free, a monstrous eleven inches that drew gasps from the crowd. I nodded, too high on poppers and adrenaline to back out. Candy, stationed nearby with a smirk, tossed me a tube of lube. “Godspeed, Jasmine.”
I dropped to my knees, the sequins of my dress scratching my thighs, and took Tyrone’s cock in my mouth. The crowd cheered as I gagged, drooling like a broken faucet. His taste—salt, musk, audacity—drove me wild. Desmond joined in, stripping naked and stroking himself, his eight inches a mere appetizer compared to Tyrone’s main course. Raven cracked her whip, barking, “Worship that dick, slut!” The crowd roared, and I felt like the star of a very niche Oscars.
After a sloppy blowjob that left my mascara running, Tyrone lifted me onto the bench, bending me over. The crowd chanted, “Fuck her! Fuck her!”—because apparently, I was “her” now. Desmond handed Tyrone the lube, and he slathered it like he was basting a turkey. The first push was a supernova of pain and pleasure, his cock stretching me to the brink. I screamed, half ecstasy, half “I’m

gonna need surgery.” Poppers hit again, and I was a cock-hungry void, begging for more.
Raven circled us, her whip snapping. “Take it, Jasmine! Show these perverts how a real slut does it!” Tyrone pounded me, his hands gripping my hips, his cock hitting depths I didn’t know existed. Desmond, not one to be sidelined, climbed onto the bench and shoved his cock in my mouth. Spit-roasted in front of a hundred strangers, I was a pornographic piñata, and the candy was my dignity.
The crowd was a blur—leather, latex, naked flesh. A tech bro in a harness jerked off, shouting, “This is better than Burning Man!” A drag queen threw glitter, screaming, “Yas, queen!” Candy, sipping a martini, gave me a thumbs-up, her expression saying, “You’re insane, but I respect it.” Raven, ever the showwoman, grabbed a mic and narrated: “Look at Jasmine, taking that monster like a champ! Who’s next?”
Who’s next? My brain short-circuited, but my body was on autopilot. Tyrone’s thrusts grew erratic, his cock pulsing. “Gonna fill you up, girl,” he grunted, and I clamped down, milking him. His first spurt triggered my orgasm, a hands-free explosion that soaked my dress. Desmond, cued by the chaos, unloaded in my throat, and I blacked out for a split second, drowning in cum and applause. The crowd went wild, throwing condoms like confetti. Tyrone collapsed onto me, his cock still lodged deep, while Desmond wiped himself off and high-fived Vince. Raven took a bow, shouting, “Give it up for Jasmine, the slut of the century!” I lay there, leaking, glittering, and wondering if I’d just peaked or hit rock bottom.

Chapter 6:

I woke up in Candy’s apartment, a cramped studio above a Chinese takeout joint. My body was a crime scene—bruises, glitter, and a soreness that screamed “you’re not 25 anymore.” Candy, in a silk kimono, handed me a coffee and a bagel. “You’re alive. Barely. Congrats on stealing the show, Jasmine.”
I groaned, my head pounding. “Did I really let Tyrone fuck me in front of a hundred people?” Candy nodded, smirking. “And you loved it. Don’t lie.” She wasn’t wrong. The memory of that stage, the crowd, Tyrone’s cock—it was a drug, and I was jonesing for another hit.
My phone buzzed. Texts from Desmond: “You’re a legend. Party tonight?” Tyrone: “Need you again, girl. Name the time.” Vince: “Raven wants you back. Paid gig. Call me.” I stared at the screen, my corporate life in San Francisco feeling like a fever dream. Who was I now? Jamie, the blockchain bro? Or Jasmine, the kink party queen?
Candy sat next to me, her tone serious for once. “Listen, Jamie. This life’s fun till it isn’t. Desmond’s using you, Tyrone’s obsessed, and Vince’ll pimp you out till you’re a husk. You gotta decide: stay in this circus or go back to your boring-ass life.” Her eyes softened. “I like you. Don’t let these fuckers break you.”
I nodded, but my heart wasn’t in it. The thrill, the validation—it was heroin, and I was an addict. I texted Desmond: “One more party.” Candy sighed, muttering, “Dumbass.”
That afternoon, Tyrone showed up at Candy’s, all puppy-dog eyes and bulging jeans. “Last night was... life-changing,” he said, sitting too close. “I want you, Jamie. Like, exclusive.” I laughed, thinking he was joking, but his face was dead serious. “You’re not like the women I’ve dated. You get me.”
I panicked. Exclusive? With a guy whose cock could double as a battering ram? Before I could respond, Desmond called, his voice

gleeful. “Vince got you a slot at Raven’s VIP party tonight. Big money, big dicks. You’re the star again.” My dick said yes; my brain said, “You’re fucked.”

Chapter 7:

The VIP party was in a penthouse overlooking the Charles River, a stark contrast to Raven’s warehouse. The crowd was richer—hedge fund bros, tech moguls, a state senator in a leather mask—but no less depraved. Raven greeted me in a velvet cape, her whip replaced by a riding crop. “Jasmine, my muse! Tonight, you’re servicing the elite. Don’t disappoint.”
I was back in drag, this time in a corset and thigh-high boots, my makeup flawless thanks to Candy. Tyrone was there, possessive, his hand on my ass. Desmond hovered, whispering about “opportunities” with Vince’s clients. I felt like a prized cow at a livestock auction.
The main event was a “group worship” scene. I was led to a velvet-draped altar, surrounded by six guys, including Tyrone and a tech bro named Chad who kept shouting, “This is so meta!” Raven directed, her crop snapping. “Jasmine, take them all. Show these pigs what a real slut can do.”
I was a machine, sucking, stroking, and taking Tyrone’s cock while the others waited their turn. The poppers kept me loose, the crowd’s cheers kept me hard, but something cracked inside. Was this me? A corporate drone turned cum-dump? As Tyrone fucked me, his eyes soft with something like love, I felt trapped. Desmond’s grin was predatory, Vince’s was calculating. Even Raven, for all her camp, was just another cog in this machine. Chad’s orgasm—on my face, naturally—snapped me out of it. I pushed Tyrone off, stumbled to my feet, and grabbed my phone.

“I’m out,” I croaked, my voice raw. Raven laughed, thinking it was part of the show, but Candy, in the crowd, nodded. She knew.
I fled to the bathroom, wiping cum and glitter from my face. My reflection was a stranger—Jasmine, not Jamie. I texted Candy: “Airport. Now.” She replied: “Car’s outside. Run.”
The Uber ride to Logan was a blur. Tyrone texted: “Where are you? We need to talk.” Desmond: “You’re throwing away a gold mine!” Vince: “Raven’s pissed. Call me.” I blocked them all. At the terminal, I bought a one-way ticket to San Francisco, my hands shaking. As I boarded, a final text from Candy popped up: “Vegas next month. You in? ”
I laughed, deleted the message, and powered off my phone. Boston had chewed me up, spit me out, and left me glittering with regret. But as the plane took off, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jasmine wasn’t gone—just waiting for the next circus.