I Was Short on Cash. My Weed Dealer Said I Could Pay Him Another Way.

“How about we make a different kind of exchange?”

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

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Illustration by ri.place

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I arrive at the Sigma Alpha Kappa house, walk through the open front door, and am met by a gaggle of fraternity brothers lounging in the den, half-asleep and half-naked. The pungent odor of their sweaty skin and the faint scent of semen from the night before hit my nostrils, and I feel a stir in my pants. I am incognito, attempting to avoid human contact, so I don’t stay to enjoy their manly smell or gawk at their massive bodies.

I find the door with a weed sticker on it, and when a man opens it wearing a rugby shirt, Vineyard Vines joggers, and Calvin Klein’s CK One, my first thought is, This does not look like a Ziggy.

But my second and more pressing thought is, Holy fuck, his cock is enormous! Through his thin gray sweatpants, I can see the outline of what appears to be at least six inches of soft cock, with a mushroom tip that makes his bulge even more pronounced.

“Can I help you?” he groans, still half-asleep from the looks of it. I hope this means he hadn’t caught me meat gazing, a term I learned from my quarterback roommate when he caught me staring at him changing. He wasn’t nearly as big as this guy, though.

“Hi, um, I’m looking for Ziggy?” I ask, trying not to consider the boner that must soon be adjusted.

“Oh, word. Come on in, man!” he says, ushering me inside. “I’m Dylan, but Ziggy is my code name.” He says that last part like it’s an inside joke, but I don’t get it, so I just nod and pretend like I do, hoping for a sliver of approval.

When he turns away, I discreetly tuck my now extremely hard dick into the waistband of my shorts. As I'm doing so, I catch a glimpse of Dylan’s plump ass that is being hugged tightly by his sweats. I imagine holding both cheeks in my hands and diving head-first into him, plunging my tongue deep into his hole. Pre-cum begins to leak out of my cock as I throb even more, my cock swelling with blood. I feel the stickiness on my inner thigh and hope it doesn’t make any noticeable stains.

Dylan doesn’t seem to notice me undressing him with my eyes or my growing erection that is struggling to be contained by my waistband. He’s too focused on getting his product together. “What kind of strain are you looking for?” he asks.

“Indica. I use it to treat my anxiety.”

“Oof! I hear that, man.” He picks out a jar with a blue label. “Finals got me stressed the fuck out.”

I look him over and wonder what his major might be. The lack of posters tells me it isn’t Film or Sports. The only book on his bookshelf that isn’t a textbook is a self-help book on “grinding and hustling,” so I’m guessing neither English nor Philosophy. Probably not Psychology either, for that matter. He doesn’t seem curious about the human experience; he’s barely acknowledging me while searching through his drawers.

“Take a seat, bro. You’re making me nervous.” He gestures to his bed as he weighs the flower on his scale, carefully picking at it to get the correct weight. I sit on the bed at his command.

“Good boy,” he says half-jokingly, but I feel myself overcome with an intense desire to serve and a primal craving for cock. It’s as if I were a sleeper agent, and he just discovered my trigger word, turning me into a cock-hungry beast. It takes all my might not to fall to my knees instantly. I leak even more and have to cross my legs, hoping he doesn’t see the growing number of stains.

After weighing the flower, he rolls over to me in his desk chair, holding a freshly rolled joint. He’s close enough that I can see the blond peach fuzz on his upper lip and wonder if it would tickle my hole.

“Do you wanna suck it?” he asks, leaning in as he does.

“What?” I recoil instinctively.

“The joint.” He says slyly, knowing god damn well what he just did. I perked up at the thought of wrapping my lips around his cock but am now left with a slight pout on my face, disappointed that I might not get to taste him after all.

“I figured you’d wanna test out the product before buying. It’s good shit, but I like to offer a free sample for first-timers. One taste, and you’ll be coming back for more.” He lights up the joint. “Guaranteed.”

Still wanting to taste him and figuring this might be the only way I’d get to, I surrender and accept his offer.

As we smoke, my body, perpetually tense from—looks around—everything, starts to melt. I lean back onto the bed and let my arms support me. Dylan leans back into his chair, occasionally closing his eyes as if in deep thought, and I take the unseen moments to scan more of his body. His smooth skin and strong jawline. His gigantic hands that could palm my entire face. But more than anything, I gawk at the growing bulge in his sweatpants that looks like a python trapped in a net, trying to slither its way to freedom.

At some point, he reaches into his sweatpants, and I think he’s merely adjusting himself but then leaves his hand there. I watch him gently stroke his cock with his thumb, rolling it over his head over and over again. When he starts to tug at it, fluffing himself up, his size nearly that of my forearm, drool dribbles down my mouth. I salivate at the idea of him filling up my mouth and throat. I would do anything to taste him, no matter the cost. I am so focused on his growing semi, I do not notice his eyes open. He catches me staring.

“You a faggot or something?” he asks plainly.

Shit.

“It’s okay if you’re a fag. My friend back home sucks cock, and he’s my ride-or-die. Sometimes you just need to get off, ya know? I get it.”

“I’m not gay! It’s just—never mind.” I quickly realize my mistake. I should’ve just told the truth.

“Oh, now I gotta know!” He rolls over and gets in my face, closer than he was before, and presses his fat bulge against my knee, and I begin to wonder what it would feel like pressed up against one of my cheeks.

“Come on, tell me what’s got you obsessed with my cock. Be a good boy.”

Good boy. There it is again. I don’t know what it is about those two words that make me utterly docile, yearning to submit, but whatever spell he has cast on me is undoubtedly working. And Ziggy, mother fucking Ziggy, knows it.

“Your cock. It’s fucking huge, and you wear those sweatpants to show it off because you know it!” I blurt out. I regret the words the moment they escape my lips. I should have just played it cool or, at the very least, doubled down on my straightness, insisting I wasn’t stealing a glance.

“You caught me,” he chuckles and throws his hands up in mock defeat as if his cock is anything less than a divine gift. “So is that it? You got a shrimp dick and wish you were hung like me?”

It isn’t entirely untrue. Part of me wishes my cock is monstrous, bordering on too big, rather than the skinny, finger-lengthed size it is, but that isn’t the whole truth.

I don’t want his cock to be mine; I want his cock (to be mine).

I want him inside my mouth, forcing his way down my throat so hard my eyes water, and I can’t breathe. I want him inside my ass, thrusting deeper with each pump and turning me into his personal sex toy. I want to stroke and feel him throb as he shoots a fat, hot load all over my face and into my mouth. I don’t care about my cock because, for him, all I am is a hole.

“I’m just fucking with you, man!” He throws me a small bag of weed. “That’ll be thirty.”

“Oh,” I pause. “Shit, I only have twenty. Could I maybe just buy a gram? I just need a little bit to get me through this week.”

Dylan looks me up and down, truly considering me for the first time since I arrived. I become aroused at the idea that he might be thinking about my fuckability, and I feel honored that he would even think about putting his dick in me. I can tell he is straight, or at least straighter than not, but when it gets down to the wire, and your dick is hard, guys tend to do things (and people) they might not otherwise. A mouth is a mouth, after all.

“How about we make a different kind of exchange?” He leans back in his chair, looking like a mobster who wouldn't hesitate to take you out if you owed him money. But in this case, his weapon was the massive piece between his legs, loaded and ready to fire. “I need a blowjob, and you’ve got a nice pair of lips for a guy. Suck my dick, and we’ll call it even.”

I should say something. Protest or put up a fight, even a small one. Do anything to not come across like a needy, little, cock-hungry faggot. But that's precisely what I am, so I crawl over to him and wait for his cock, mouth agape with pleading eyes.

He grins and grabs a fistful of hair, pulling my head into his crotch.