A Closeted Twink Got Throat-F*cked During Basic Training While His Entire Platoon Watched Naked

"The fear. The humiliation...Trevor loved all of it."

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here. I’m very excited to share my first short fiction story (ever)!

Heads up: This piece contains depictions of graphic, non-consensual sex. Please skip if you find this type of content triggering.

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Illustration by Jason Leviere (@mister_dashing)

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July 2005, MCRD (Marine Corps Recruit Depot), Parris Island, South Carolina

Trevor sat uncomfortably in his seat, uncrossing his legs. He had to break the habit immediately. Marines didn’t sit with their legs crossed. They sat with both feet firmly planted on the ground, if they sat at all. Most of the time, Trevor found himself in a line, listening to Sargent Boscow bark orders. The 50-year-old man, with the body of a juiced-up Hell’s Kitchen gay, over-annunciated every syllable and had an endless supply of saliva that spewed from his mouth when he ordered, “Atten-SHON!”

If his chicken legs weren’t a big enough issue, the Marine Corps combat uniform was. It wasn’t just an affront to fashion—bulky cargo that ironically seemed impractical for combat—it was itchy. When washing them, they must add extra starch to keep the uniforms looking taut, making the collar pop. (Again, why was a collar necessary for active combat?)

At nineteen, Trevor still had a baby face—cherubic with chub. He couldn’t grow a beard if his life depended on it, and for every zit he popped, three more appeared. His chest, so bare you could safely eat sushi off, dipped inward due to a condition called “pectus excavatum.” While it may sound like a spell from Harry Potter, it’s actually a chest deformity that caused his breastbone to sink into his chest, creating a concave appearance. It’s not all that uncommon. Roughly one in five hundred, but in a land filled with hairy chests so large and firm, you could bounce quarters off them, it didn’t do Trevor any favors in his platoon.

Within hours of arriving, he had already earned himself the nickname “Bowl Boy,” which, as far as nicknames go, wasn’t all that bad. Though one marine, Jax, two years Trevor’s senior and roughly double his weight, threatened to “hold you down and piss in your disgusting bowl.” Trevor wasn’t sure how he felt about the comment.

But he was sure how he felt about being here against his will: betrayed. While cleaning his room, Trevor’s mother found multiple copies of the short-lived gay porn magazine “Daddies” under his bed. Clearly, she didn’t look through the spreads closely because one copy had an entire theme of “men in uniforms” depicting mustachioed gay men shirtless in cargo pants, with their erect cocks, all ten inches plus, poking through the fly.

“Please don’t tell Dad,” Trevor begged, but later that evening, his father, a marine veteran, entered his room eerily calm.

“I made a call. You’ve been enlisted in the Marines. You’ll be shipped out to basic training in two weeks.”

Trevor didn’t think that was possible. He was legally an adult. How could his father make this decision for him? Then again, he depended on his parents financially and for housing, so he didn’t seem to have a choice.

“Hit the showers,” Boscow ordered. Four days had passed since Trevor joined the Marines. Basic training was brutal. Every muscle ached, and he suspected he may have an undiagnosed case of asthma. Never an athlete (but always a mathlete), Trevor hadn’t ever pushed his body physically. Doing so for the first time, he consistently felt out of breath, wheezing like a leaky balloon, slowly losing oxygen.

Despite smelling like the byproduct of rotten eggs having sex with day-old vomit, he hadn’t yet showered. It would simply be too much for him. They’d tease him further for his pectus excavatum and, well, the rest of his body. Erect, his penis was four inches. Flaccid, it was a half-inch stub at best.

But his BO was out of control, and he feared getting a far worse nickname than Bowl Boy if he didn’t clean off.

There weren’t any private shower stalls—no opaque dividers for privacy. The showers were in one large square room—seven to each wall, totaling twenty-eight showers, the total number of men in his platoon.

Looking straight ahead, Trevor stripped next to the other men in the locker room. No one commented on him being there for the first time. No one focused on him at all.

“Fucking Boscow is trying to kill us,” Jax half-joked. He was folding his uniform meticulously into a tight square. The only thing left on his body was his tighty-whities, revealing a bulge so prominent, you could see it from outer space. The man was circumcised, and his head was the size of a plum.

Trevor felt a stir underneath his cargo shorts and quickly averted his gaze.

Think of nine-eleven; think of the towers collapsing, he repeated to himself. Eventually, his penis, much like the towers, fell.

“The good news is that we’ll all be jacked after basic training,” Jax said, stripping off his underwear. “I mean, for the love of God, look at my abs,” he said. He quickly turned his body from the lockers to the center of the room, his massive cock swinging around with him, slapping his inner thigh, making a loud wallop.

“They’re more cut than they’ve ever been, and it’s only been four days,” he continued.

Trevor couldn’t help but look. Besides, it would have been weird not to look since everyone else was. Jax was indeed ripped, each ab pronounced. His happy trail, luscious like a forest after a rainstorm, led straight to his dick. He was a man that didn’t need to shave his bush. His dick still looked so huge; he didn’t need to use little cheats to enhance the optics. And his testicles… like a bull: low-hanging fruits that only dads in their sixties have.

Trevor gulped and turned away. But the view to his other side was no better. John, a beefy giant, towering at 6’5, was naked with two hands pushed against the locker, one foot in front of the other. He was doing a calf stretch, his testicles hanging between his legs, his furry ass, a force of goddamn nature, on full display.

Trevor wasn’t even an ass man. He always focused on cocks when he masturbated. But there there something arousing about the idea of a hung man with a big ass topping. Like, the fact that he was “wasting” his ass—not getting fucked—was a turn-on. Or the fact that his dick was so glorious it outshone a beautiful ass.

Trevor was now the only one wearing his underwear. Everyone else was undressed. Jax turned to him.

“Shy, Bowl Boy?”

“No, I’m just—”

“I don’t know where you’ve been the last four days. But we get five minutes in there before they shut off the water. I recommend you hurry up.”

Trevor, with a half-chub, took off his underwear. It was perfect. He didn’t seem erect, even though he sorta was, and so his cock appeared to be an average flaccid penis.

Boscow opened the locker door. “Your five minutes start now!” he shouted to the open room before slamming the door behind him.

The naked marines quickly shut their lockers and rushed to the showers, their penises flopping around without a care in the world.

Trevor was the last man to enter the showers, and of course, the only free slot was between Jax and John.

“Do you think we’ll have that same meatloaf again for dinner?” Jax asked mindlessly. He was lathering up his body with bar soap, the suds soaking his chest hair, pits, and bush.

“Is it even meatloaf?” John asked as he furiously washed his crotch. One hand was massaging his testicles; the other was scrubbing the base of his cock, which was growing larger in his hand.

Who the fuck washes their dick like that? Trevor thought.

“I heard they shoot it up with some extra protein or an immunity booster. It’s why it has that chalky aftertaste,” Jax said. He was working on his chest now, scrubbing it ferociously. Trevor had to look away. He turned around, his body now exposed to the center of the room, and that was a mistake. So many cocks: cut, uncut, large, small, hairy, shaven, veiny, and smooth.

And many of them weren’t flaccid. They weren't hard hard, but somewhere in the middle. It was too much for Trevor to handle. He turned back towards the wall, but out of the corner of his eye, he could make out John, who was now fully erect.

Was this always what went down?

Trevor closed his eyes and thought of the Twin Towers falling, but it didn’t help. He was growing to full mast.

“Holy fuck!” Jax said. “Bowl Boy, are you hard? What a fucking faggot!” Everyone turned to stare at Trevor. It was a nightmare come to life.

“So is John!” Trevor said. In the past four seconds, John’s dick had gotten soft.

“No, it’s just you. What, you like this shit, Bowl Boy?”

Jax started to swing his dick back and forth, his mighty cock slapping against the inside of his thighs.

“No, I don’t. What the fuck?” Trevor said. His cock was somehow even harder now. Any more blood, and it would have burst.

“Yeah, you do. Look how hard your tiny cock is getting. Jesus, I knew you were a fucking fruit.” Jax said.

“I’m not gay,” Trevor responded, his voice cracking.

“I’M nOt GaY,” Jax mocked. “Yeah, you are,” he replied, using his forearm to push Trevor against the tiled wall by his neck. Every marine stopped applying soap to their skin, staring at the scene anxiously.

Trevor’s windpipe was blocked, and he couldn’t breathe. “Get on your knees,” Jax said, releasing him. Trevor coughed while catching his breath.

“Did you not hear me?” Jax asked. “Get on your knees now.”

Trevor was shaking. There was no option. Jax, a pitbull of a man, could snap his neck like a twig if he wanted. Trevor dropped to his knees, the tiles painful underneath him. Shower water splashed onto his back.

Jax approached Trevor—his dick, at eye level, mere inches from his face.

“I bet you fucking love the view,” Jax said, looking down at Trevor. Love was an understatement.

“Fuck you,” Trevor said, surprised by his own words.

“Someone’s feeling bold,” Jax said with a Cheshirian grin. His cock was ballooning, growing bigger by the second. Seven inches. Eight.

How much bigger could it grow?

Then, without warning, Jax, with his erect ten-inch cock, slapped the side of Trevor’s face. It landed with a heavy thud.

“Fucking faggot,” Jax said, giving him another whack. “Open your mouth.” Jax was making aggressive eye contact. Trevor opened his mouth, and Jax shot a wad of spit onto Trevor’s tongue.