Jingle Balls (Deeper) – Part 8 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

Tate waited until the room was completely empty.

The second Carter and Braden disappeared downstairs — supposedly to look at ring lights, but we all knew Chloe was calling again — Tate locked the door and turned toward me with that dangerous little smile he’d been perfecting since Christmas.

I was still sitting on my bed, pretending to scroll through my phone like I wasn’t already half-hard just from the way he was looking at me. He didn’t waste time with words. He climbed straight onto my lap, knees bracketing my hips, and settled his weight down so his ass pressed right against my crotch.

“Jesus, Tate—”

“Shhh.” He rolled his hips in one slow, filthy circle, grinding the warm cleft of his ass along my quickly thickening cock. The thin lace of his briefs dragged against my sweats, teasing. “We need to talk about tomorrow night.”

I grabbed his waist, meaning to push him off. Instead my fingers dug in harder, holding him exactly where he was. “There’s nothing to talk about. I already said no.”

Tate leaned in closer, lips brushing my ear as he started a slow, seductive grind — ass rolling in tight circles, pressing my growing hardness deeper between his cheeks. “The pot’s sitting at twenty-two thousand right now. The whales keep throwing more money at the ‘straight frat jock rails twinks’ idea. They want it raw. They want it messy.” He rocked his hips again, slower this time, letting me feel every inch of heat. “They want you.”

My breath caught. “I told you not to post that on that fucking site.”

But despite myself, my cock was already fully hard, throbbing against the heat of his ass, leaking steadily into my sweats. Tate felt it immediately and smiled against my neck, slow and knowing.

“You’d wear a balaclava,” he whispered, voice low and filthy. “Face completely hidden. No one would know it’s you… except us.” His hand slid down between us, palming my aching dick through the fabric, stroking slow. “Ten grand in your pocket for one night, Brad. You get to fuck me and Braden however you want. No pretending. No holding back. Just you wrecking two eager twinks while thousands watch and pay.”

He ground down harder, ass clenching like he was already imagining taking every inch. I groaned, hips twitching up to meet him despite myself. The pressure was insane — his heat, his hand, the mental image burning behind my eyes.

“I’m not doing it,” I rasped, even as my hands slid down to grip his ass, spreading him wider so I could feel more of that warmth.

Tate let out a soft, amused giggle and rolled his hips again, dragging my leaking cock up and down the valley of his cheeks. “Liar. Your dick is begging for it.” He kissed the corner of my mouth, soft and teasing. “Straight frat fucks twinks. Live. You on top. Us begging underneath you. You know you want to see what that looks like on screen.”

He gave one last slow, filthy grind, then started to climb off my lap.

“Wait,” I heard myself say before I could stop it.

Tate paused, one eyebrow raised, looking far too pleased. “Yeah?”

I swallowed hard, throat dry. My cock was aching, leaking badly, and the number twenty-two thousand kept echoing in my head. “If… if I do it. Mask stays on the whole time. No face. No voice that can be recognized. And it’s one time only.”

Tate’s smile turned slow and victorious. “One time. Mask on. Whatever you want.” He dropped back down onto my lap, grinding once more for good measure. “Good boy.”

Before I could second-guess myself, he slid off my lap, knelt between my legs, and yanked my sweats and boxers down in one smooth motion. My cock flop out, flushed dark, and already dripping. Tate didn’t tease this time. He wrapped his lips around the head and took the whole thing straight down in one wet glide, throat opening around me like it was nothing.

“Fuck—” I hissed, hand flying to his hair.

He sucked hard and fast, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the head while his hand stroked what his mouth couldn’t take. Spit ran down my balls, wet sounds filling the room as he bobbed relentlessly. I was already so wound up from the grinding that it only took maybe a minute. My hips jerked up, balls tightening, and I came hard down his throat, heavy surges pumping out in rapid waves while Tate swallowed around me, milking every drop with soft, greedy pulls.

He pulled off slowly, licking his lips, a thin string of spit and cum still connecting his mouth to my tip. “There. Sealed the deal.”

I sat there panting, legs shaky, trying to catch my breath as reality started to sink in.

He walked out like he hadn’t just made me agree to the craziest thing I’d ever done in my life.

◆◆◆

The next evening the room looked completely different.

Carter had gone full production nerd, being weirdly comfortable with the whole set-up. Two ring lights stood on tripods, softboxes diffused the harsh overhead lighting, a second phone was mounted on a small tripod for close-ups, and black sheets had been taped over the ugly cinderblock walls to hide the dorm vibe. The two beds had been pushed together into one big surface and covered with fresh dark sheets that would hide any mess.

I stood in the middle of it all wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs and a thick black balaclava that covered everything except my eyes and mouth. Tate had spent twenty minutes in the bathroom “priming and pruning” me — trimming my happy trail, oiling my chest and abs until they gleamed under the lights, even making me do a few push-ups so the veins in my arms and shoulders popped.

My cock was completely soft from nerves and pure adrenaline.

Carter was buzzing with anxious energy, adjusting one of the lights for the third time. “Audio levels are good. Both cameras are rolling when we hit go. The balaclava looks sick, dude — no one’s gonna recognize you. We go live in thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes, holy shit…

I stared at the setup — the lights, the cameras, the big bed that suddenly looked way too exposed — and reality hit me like a truck.

This was actually insane.

I was about to fuck these guys on camera, live, for strangers who had paid thousands of dollars to watch a “straight frat jock” wreck two twinks. No cuts. No take-backs. No hiding behind excuses.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My mouth went dry. And my cock — the fucking traitor — gave a heavy throb and leaked another fat drop of pre into my briefs.

“Is this too far?” I muttered under my breath, barely loud enough for myself to hear. “This is crazy. What the fuck am I doing?”

Tate walked over, already dressed for the show — a slutty black skirt, sheer white thigh-highs with little red bows, cropped top riding high on his stomach. He placed a hand on my oiled chest, thumb brushing over my nipple, and looked up at me with that calm, knowing smile.

“Thirty minutes, Braddie,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear. “You can still back out.”

He gave my still soft bulge one slow, teasing squeeze, then stepped back like nothing had happened.

Carter glanced between us, eyes wide and excited. “You good, man? Need anything before we go live?”

I swallowed hard, staring at the blinking red light on the main camera.

Twenty-nine minutes.

This was really happening.