The Streamer - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 3

The message came in while I was still tasting last night.

Petrov: duo w/ Volkov. ranked.

Petrov: same deal. on ur knees. you stay quiet.

Petrov: if you make porn sounds I lose the account.

Not a question. Not quite an order. The same blunt fist as the night he lost and walked into my room.

I looked at the wall we shared. The chair hadn’t started slamming yet. The headset click hadn’t happened. He was asking before the tilt this time, which meant he’d thought about my mouth before he’d even queued.

Kay: door?

Petrov: my room. floor. not under the desk. camera stays on the screen.

Petrov: you make a noise I swear to god Kay.

Kay: ok

I shouldn’t have been hard about a set of rules. I was.

His room smelled like the stream always smelled — energy drinks, fast food, protein shakes, warm plastic, a body that hadn’t left the chair except to piss. Two monitors. Webcam on a cheap arm, aimed down at the keyboard and the yellow strap of the Lakers tank and nothing below the sternum. Good. The Nike shorts were already tented when I came in. Wireless headset around his neck, not on yet. Face still clean. No red. He hadn’t started losing.

He pointed at the floor to the left of the chair, out of the lens, in the shadow of the desk.

“There. Knees. You don’t stand up until I tap twice. You don’t use teeth. You don’t moan. Volkov hears everything. Chat hears everything. I am not getting banned because you like dick.”

“You texted me.” Petrov is so dumb for fuck’s sake.

“I know I texted you.” He rubbed his buzzed head like the thought annoyed him. “I lost last night and I slept like shit and I woke up thinking about your throat. That’s a problem. This is how I fix the problem. Sit.”

I sat.

The carpet was thin. The computer tower hummed against my shoulder. From here I could see the underside of the desk, the tangle of cables, the wet ring a Monster had left on the wood. His bare knee was an inch from my mouth. Blond hair. Heat. The shorts doing a bad job of hiding him.

He didn’t take it out yet.

He put the headset on. The little green light on the mic stem went live. His whole posture changed — shoulders up, voice brighter, the version of him two thousand people paid attention to.

“Yo.” Streamer voice. Fake-calm. “Volkov, I’m in. Don’t start without me, bro.”

A laugh leaked around the ear cup. He clicked into the queue with his left hand. His right found the back of my head and parked me against his thigh like I was a bottle he wasn’t going to open yet. His foot found my lap first. Bare. Warm. Damp along the sole from hours in the chair. He didn’t look down. He just pushed it against my shorts like he was parking a second bottle.

“Don’t start on my dick yet,” he muttered, streamer-voice still off, mouth away from the mic. “Queue’s forty seconds. You sit there with nothing to do, you make a noise later. Occupied mouth is a quiet mouth. You know what to do.”

I knew.

I lifted his foot and put my mouth on it.

Salt. Skin. The faint rubber of the chair mat. He flexed without meaning to when my tongue hit the arch, then locked the ankle so the cam wouldn’t see his knee jump. I licked from the heel up, slow, between the toes, the way you do when a man has told you to stay busy and you want him to feel it in his cock before he’s taken it out.

“That’s nasty,” he whispered, almost laughing. “Bozhe. That’s my foot… you really?”

I sucked his big toe into my mouth and his sentence died.

The queue ticked. His left hand clicked the mouse. His right stayed in my hair, heavier now. I worked the sole with my tongue and felt him swell against my cheek through the Nike shorts, thicker every time I dragged heat along the underside of his foot.

“Thirty seconds,” he told the mic, bright again, like nothing was happening under the desk. Then, without covering the stem all the way: “You stop when I tap. Not before. I didn’t say you could have the good part yet.”

I didn’t stop. I mouthed along the damp pad, then the other foot when he switched them like he was changing a gun. Both smelled like the room — jock lockers, a body that hadn’t stood up since the last piss. My own shorts were a problem. His were worse. The shape of him dragged my cheek every time I breathed.

“Ten,” he said to Volkov. “I’m good. I’m— yeah, I’m good.”

I waited there with my cheek on warm cotton and the shape of him filling out against my face while the queue ticked.

“Let’s fucking go,” he told the mic. “I got q Monster. I’m good. Don’t throw the first one.”

He did not have a Monster. He had me.

The timer ran. His fingers drummed the mouse. The cock under the shorts twitched when I breathed on it through the fabric. He pressed my face harder into his thigh without looking down, a silent don’t you start.

“Okay we’re in. I’m mid. Volkov you take long, I swear to God I am not peeking for you this time.”

The map loaded. Gun sounds. His hands moved like they always moved. I stayed on my knees with my mouth shut and my own shorts getting tighter because the wait was worse than being used.

A full minute of actual playing. Callouts that sounded like callouts.

“He’s palace. I heard him. Don’t rotate yet— Volkov I said don’t. I have the angle.”

Another minute. He won a gunfight and laughed for the stream, that barked laugh, and the laugh pushed his hips a half inch toward my face. He froze. Remembered I was there. Swallowed.

His right hand left the mouse, hooked the waistband of the Nike shorts, and shoved them down just far enough to release the Russian beast.

Same cock. Thick. That downward curve. Already wet at the slit from sitting next to my mouth and pretending he was alone. He put my hand on his thigh so I would stay put, then put his own hand back on the mouse like nothing had changed.

“Your drop is trash,” he told Volkov. “Play the site.”

I waited with the head of him shining an inch from my lip.

He tapped my skull once. Not the double tap that meant I could leave. The other one. The now.

I opened.

He didn’t look down. He fed me the head while he was talking about a rotate and his voice did the first small thing — not a break. A catch. The kind you swallow if you’re good.

He wasn’t going to stay good.

I took him in slow, the way you do when the mic is live and the man above you has an audience that thinks he’s alone. Spit I didn’t let get loud. Hands on my own thighs. He tasted like last night musky as fuck and the nervous salt of a guy who knew he was doing something stupid on purpose.

“Yeah I’m rotating— hh— I’m rotating, bro, calm down.”

There. The first crack. He covered it with a cough that fooled nobody who lived in this apartment.

His hand tightened in my hair. Not a stroke. A warning. I eased off to the head and just held him on my tongue so he could talk. He tried. He called a buy. He cursed a teammate in Russian. The Russian came out rougher than the English, like his mouth had two jobs and both were failing.

I sank again.

The curve of him dragged the roof of my mouth. His hips wanted to lift and he locked them to the chair so the cam wouldn’t see the movement. The effort made the next sentence thin.

“I have the angle— I have— wait, wait, don’t peek, I said don’t—fuck.”

It wasn’t a game fuck. It was a throat fuck. He knew it. I felt him swell. He yanked my head up by the hair and glared at the monitor like the glare was for Volkov.

“Lag,” he said into the mic, too fast. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Play the site.”

Chat would be typing. I couldn’t see it. I could feel it in the way his shoulders went rigid.

I waited with my lips wet against him until his fingers pushed me back down. Then he started using me for real — short, shallow strokes he could hide if he kept his shoulders still. The wet stayed quiet if I was careful. I was careful. He was not.

“Volkov I need you on— on the— nngh—”

He bit it off. Turned it into a growl at the game. The growl was worse. It had my mouth in it.

“Dude you good?” Volkov, tinny through the headset, close enough that I heard the grin. “Your breathing is nasty, bro. You running a marathon?”

“I’m good. Monster. Heartburn. Play, bitch.”

He slammed my head down to the base to shut himself up and held me there. My nose in the damp blond pubes. I couldn’t breathe. The mic picked up the smallest wet click when my throat worked around him. He froze. The whole chair froze.

Silence on his end for two seconds too long.

“Petrov.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing weird.”

“I am playing, asshole. Watch your own lane.”

He let me up. I dragged air through my nose as quiet as I could. Spit wanted to drop. I swallowed it so it wouldn’t hit the floor. He looked down at me for the first time since the match started. Pupils blown. Mouth open. The yellow tank dark at the pits. He mouthed quiet like I was the problem.

I took him again.

The next ninety seconds were the meanest thing he’d done to me. He tried to commentate. He tried to be PetrovTheKillah. Every time I hollowed my cheeks the brand cracked.

“He’s one-shot he’s one—ah— he’s one-shot, I have him, I have—shit, shit—”

Not a death. Not a clutch. Just my tongue on the spot under the head that made his knees open in the chair.

“Bro your mic is disgusting right now,” Volkov said, laughing. “You eating? You jacking off? Be honest for the people.”

Petrov’s laugh came out wrong. Too high. Then too low. A sound that had no business on a ranked call.

“I’m eating. Shut up.”

“Eating what? I don’t see shit. Say it.”

“A sandwich. I will unfriend you. Play.”

He shoved me down and kept me there through the next rotation so he wouldn’t have to form words. His stomach jumped against my forehead. I could feel the pulse of him getting closer and I eased off on purpose, cruel, because if he came on stream the sound would not be lag and it would not be a sandwich.

He hissed through his teeth. Tapped my skull once, hard.

I didn’t stop. I went slower. The kind of slow that makes a man forget there is a camera. I used my tongue the way I had under the desk during our first time, the way that had turned his war cries into coughs, except this time there was no desk to hide the way his thighs shook.

“Okay we plant we plant we— hhgod— we plant. Volkov stop talking. I can’t— I can’t hear the steps.”

He could hear the steps. He couldn’t hear anything except the wet of my mouth.

“Petrov I swear to God you are jerking off,” Volkov said. “Your voice is doing the thing. The thing. Chat is going to clip this.”

“Nobody clips. I will sue. I am—fuck— I am holding B. I am holding. Don’t you come here.”

Don’t you come here. He heard himself. His ears went red. His cock kicked on my tongue.

I pulled off just enough to breathe and the air on him made him twitch toward my face like his body had stopped taking orders from the brand.

He mashed mute.

The green light died.

“You fucking—” He was whispering and it was still too loud. Both hands in my hair now, no performance, no mid, no site. “You do that when I am live? You do that when Volkov is in my ear and chat is watching my mouth? I am going to come. I am going to come on a ranked match because you can’t suck dick like a person, you’re a fucking vacuum, you suck it like you want me banned.”

I looked up at him. Spit on my chin. His cock shining in the desk light, the cam still pointed at a keyboard two feet away.

“You texted.”

“I know I texted.” He pushed back in to the root and held. His voice dropped to the ugly register he used when he broke a headset. 

“Mute is on. You have thirty seconds. Finish it. If I unmute with my dick in your throat I will kill you. If you make me grunt I will kill you. If Volkov hears me come I will throw you out of this apartment. Finish.”

Thirty seconds of honest face-fucking. Chair whispering on the mat. His breath in the dead mic. The downward curve punching the back of my throat. He counted under his breath like it was a clutch. Ten. Nine. His stomach went tight. Eight. He bit his own wrist. I took him to the base and stayed there and he came with a sound he poured into his own skin — thick pulses straight down my throat, a lot of it, his hips fighting the chair so the cam wouldn’t bounce.

I swallowed because the floor was two feet from a live lens that was about to hear him again.

He stayed buried until it was over. Pulled out. Tucked himself into the Nike shorts with a wince that almost made him laugh. Wiped his mouth like he was the one who’d been used. Sat up straight. Put the bright face back on like a skin.

Unmute.

Green light.

“I’m back,” he said.

Almost normal. Almost. The edge was gone. The voice was wrecked in a way Monster does not wreck you. Lower. Scraped. Wet around the edges if you knew what you were hearing.

“You went off to jerk off?” Volkov, delighted. “Say yes. For the clip.”

“I mute to not throw my monitor. We still have the site or you talked the whole time like a woman?”

They played. He won the round because Volkov had carried the mute. He did not look at me. His hand found the side of my head and tapped twice.

I stood on legs that didn’t want to. My jaw ached. My shorts were a problem I was not going to solve in his room. His eyes stayed on the killfeed.

When I got to the door he spoke without turning, mic off, voice pitched for the game and meant for me.

“Same thing next queue. You wait for the text. You don’t come in here and start without it. I almost said your name on stream, Kay. I almost said it. You’re driving me crazy, dude.”

He heard himself say it that time too.

“Lag,” he told Volkov, too quick. “I’m fine. Buy.”

I left his door open the way he liked it.

This game was starting to get dangerous. My gamer friends would notice. The fans would notice. And that fucking turned me on.

In my room I sat on the bed and listened to PetrovTheKillah explain a hold in a voice that still had my throat in it, and two thousand people who thought it was the Monster, and one guy in his headset who was never going to let him live down the mute. I jerked off listening to him gaming like a maniac and came like I was dying.