The Streamer - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 2

I was in my room with the door half open and a guy from Grindr already typing on my way when the message came through.

Not from the guy.

From Petrov.

Petrov: lost ranked. tilted as fuck.

Petrov: can i use your mouth?

That was the whole message. No emoji. No please. Just the request, blunt as a fist.

I stared at it for a few seconds. The Grindr chat was still open on the other screen. Some gym guy with a torso pic and a location two miles away. I could have said no. I could have told Petrov to jerk off like a normal person and left the door locked.

I didn’t.

Kay: yeah

Kay: door’s open

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Petrov: 2 min. Ending the streaming.

I closed Grindr. Told the gym guy something came up. Petrov came up… he’s way hotter. Put the phone face down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed in just a pair of old shorts. My mouth was already watering a little. Stupid. I should have still been annoyed about the three days of noise. Instead I was sitting there getting hard because the straight half Russian himbo across the hall had lost a video game and decided my throat was the solution for his frustration.

I heard him before I saw him.

The chair in his room slammed. A Monster can hit the floor. Footsteps, heavy, bare. He didn’t knock. He just pushed my door the rest of the way open with the flat of his hand and stood there in a Lakers yellow tank and the blue usual Nike shorts, wireless headset still around his neck like he’d forgotten it. His face was red. Not the cute flush. The ugly, pissed-off red of a guy who just got farmed in front of two thousand people.

He looked at me on the bed.

“You said that I can use your mouth to unwind from the stress.”

“I said yes…”

“Good.” He stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him with his heel. “Because I am so fucking tilted I could break the monitor. And you—” he pointed at my mouth with two fingers “—are going to fix it.”

He didn’t ask how I wanted it. He didn’t check if I was ready. He crossed the room in three steps, grabbed me by the neck, and pulled me up off the bed like I weighed nothing. My knees hit the floor. The side of my face hit the wall. He planted his free hand next to my head and used the grip in my hair to turn my face toward him.

“Open.”

I opened for his Russian rocket.

He shoved the shorts down just far enough. Same thick, downward-curving cock as last time, already half hard from anger or leftover adrenaline or both. He rubbed the head across my lips once, smearing the little bead of wet, and then pushed in without waiting for me to adjust.

“Fuck—” The word came out of him low and mean. “That’s it. Take it. You wanted dick all week, here’s dome dick for you.”

He didn’t start slow. He fucked my throat the way he played when he was losing — aggressive, a little sloppy, all power and no patience. The back of my head knocked the wall. Spit ran down my chin almost immediately. I braced my hands on his thighs; the muscle under the blond hair was locked tight. He smelled like the stream — Monster, sweat, the sour edge of a guy who’d been sitting in the same clothes for hours screaming at teammates.

“You see that last round?” he said, still thrusting, voice tight. “No? Good. You didn’t have to watch me get shit on. I did. Now you get to clean it up.”

I tried to pull back for air. His hand in my hair stopped me. He held me there with his cock buried and his balls against my chin until my eyes watered, then pulled out just enough for me to drag in a breath and shoved back in.

“I asked,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I fucking asked this time. You said yes. So you take it how I give it to you.”

He was right. I had said yes. That was the part that made my cock throb in my shorts while he used my mouth like a stress toy. Consent didn’t make it gentle. It just made it allowed. I love being used by men, it’s my purpose. Suck cock and please them.

Petrov shifted his stance, both hands in my hair now, and really started going. The wet sounds filled my little room. My nose kept pressing into the damp blond thatch at the base of him. Every time he bottomed out I tasted the salt of his skin and the leftover bitterness of the energy drinks. He was talking the whole time — not dirty talk exactly, just angry commentary that had nowhere else to go.

“Useless teammates. Useless callouts. I carry and they still feed. And then I have to come in here and face-fuck my roommate just to feel like I won something today. You get that, Kay? You’re the only win I get tonight.”

I moaned around him. Couldn’t help it. The vibration made his hips stutter.

“Oh, you like that?” He laughed once, short and mean. “Of course you like that. Pidor likes being useful. Tell me you like it. Open wider.”

“I fucking love your cock, Petrov. You’re annoying as fuck but your cock is actually good to suck.”

“That’s what I like to hear. PetrovTheKillah is a fucking champion. Open for Petrov, pidor.”

I did. He took advantage, pushing deeper, using my throat until I was gagging in earnest and spit was dripping onto the floor between my knees. Tears ran. My jaw ached. He didn’t ease up. If anything the sounds I made only made him harder. I could feel it — the way he swelled, the way the downward curve dragged against the roof of my mouth on every stroke.

“I’m close,” he warned, breath harsh. “Fucking swallow it, like last time. Don’t you fucking make a mess on the floor. I still have to walk back to my room.”

I nodded as much as his hands would let me. He took that as permission to stop holding back.

The last thirty seconds were pure face-fucking. Short, brutal strokes, both fists in my hair, his stomach tight against my forehead. He was grunting with every thrust now, the same low animal sounds he’d tried so hard to hide on stream. No audience this time. No need to turn them into coughs or war cries. Just a straight boy emptying a bad night into the nearest willing mouth.

“Fuck, dude, fuck, bro! Just fucking take it—”

He buried himself and came hard.

Thick pulses straight down my throat. I swallowed on instinct, once, twice, while he held me there and rode it out with his head dropped and his breath punching out of him. His cock kept twitching. He kept me locked until the last of it was gone, then pulled out slow. I was officially fed.

I stayed on my knees, panting, wet, eyes streaming. Petrov stood over me with his shorts still shoved under his balls, chest heaving, the Lakers tank dark at the pits. He looked down at me the same way he had under the desk — like he couldn’t decide whether to be disgusted or impressed.

He tucked himself away. Winced a little when the fabric dragged over sensitive skin.

“Better,” he said. Just that. Then: “You good, dude?”

It was the closest thing to aftercare I was going to get.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He rubbed a hand over his buzzed head, headset still hanging around his neck like a forgotten collar. “I have another match in ten. If I lose again I’m coming back. You gonna say yes again?”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist and looked up at him.

“Message me first.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll message.”

He left the door open when he went. I sat on the floor of my room with the taste of him thick on my tongue and my own cock aching in my shorts, listening to the chair scrape and the headset click back on and PetrovTheKillah’s voice start up again through the wall — a little calmer this time, a little less ready to break something.

I didn’t open Grindr again that night, I didn’t felt the urge. Petrov was more than enough and I was afraid to become addicted to a dumb loud bro like him, but already knew where the next load was coming from.