The Mascot - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 3 

Nick didn’t say my name.

He said Nate’s.

It took the room a second to catch up. MJ still had one arm up, the smell of him hanging in the air like the dare hadn’t ended. Vincent’s load was tightening on my cheek, pulling when I blinked like a Korean face mask. Nick sat there with his knees open and the gray shorts still losing, blond beard hiding nothing, and he pointed the empty bottle at the arm of the couch like he was calling a play.

“Nate.”

Nate’s hand was still in his lap.

“No.”

“You picked contained,” Nick said. “You picked the rules. You sat there with your fist on your dick watching the mascot work. Your turn.”

“That’s not how a rotation works.”

Vincent, from the floor, glasses crooked, hoodie half zipped: “It is now. Nick has the pick. Data says you covered the bulge through two dares. That’s participation.”

Nate laughed once. It wasn’t a nice sound.

“You are children. This is a Tuesday. I have a mock on the books and a partner who already thinks I look tired. I am not taking my pants off so Troy can put his mouth on me because you two can’t handle a boner.”

MJ dropped the raised arm and whistled.

“There he is. Lawyer boy. Use your words. Use more of them.”

Omar tipped the amber bottle.

“He’s scared.”

“I am not scared. I am twenty-three years old and I am not licking the inside of a dare you invented because Vincent drinks Red Bull like it’s a personality.”

Nick leaned forward. The cut-off pulled. The outline in his shorts made the sentence worse.

“Then skip. Two shots. You wrote the rule. Or you stand up and you let the mascot do what he’s been doing since the second pizza died. You watched. Don’t pretend you watched like a referee.”

Nate looked at me.

That was the first mistake. He should have looked at the wall. He should have looked at the mute game. He looked at me instead, and I was still on my knees with another guy’s cum drying on my face and MJ’s salt on my tongue, and for a second the apartment got small. Nate had always been the one I watched in pieces so nobody caught the whole look. The most reserved. The most interesting. The smart one. The one who cracked a beer with a ring and said contained like it was a religion. He smelled like the office even here — clean cotton, something expensive and quiet on his neck, the opposite of Nick’s gym and MJ’s pits. 

When he was this close to angry his eyes went dark in a way the firm never saw.

We held it. Three seconds. Four. His jaw ticked. I didn’t look away because the mascot wasn’t supposed to flinch and because I had wanted that particular look since he’d walked out of the kitchen with plates nobody used.

Nate broke first.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Say dare,” Vincent whispered.

“I am not saying dare. I am saying you are all going to remember this when you apply for jobs.”

MJ slapped the table.

“Bro. Nobody’s putting ‘got his balls sucked on a Tuesday’ on LinkedIn. Stand up. Shirt’s already half lawyer. Finish the look.”

Peer pressure in this apartment had a sound. It was five guys not letting a sixth be the only adult. Nate stared at the pizza box like it could issue a continuance. Then he stood. Six-three made the room tilt. He undid the belt the way he undid a folder, precise, pissed, and shoved the office slacks down to mid-thigh with the boxers. He didn’t kick them off. He left them there like a protest. The shirt he opened from the throat down, two buttons, three, enough that the line of hair on his stomach showed and the clean smell came off him in a wave — detergent, skin, the ghost of the office gym he’d mentioned in the first truth.

He was already thicker than rest. Even like that. Cut. Straight. The porn-star shape the jokes had been circling all year and never landed on. Medium balls, tight to him compared to Nick’s hang, flushed from the slacks and the hour of covering them with his hand. He looked down at himself, then at me, and the look this time had heat under the contempt.

“Ten seconds,” he said. “Then I dress and we never speak of this. You do not get creative. You do not get hungry. You do not do to me what you did to Nick.”

Vincent: “No time limit. Nick didn’t give you one.”

“I am giving me one.”

“Mascot,” Nick said. “Work.”

I moved in.

Nate smelled good. That was the first thing that hit, before skin, before salt. Not locker room. Not Red Bull. A man who showered with expensive products and still had a day on him, cedar and soap and the heat of a body that had been sitting still too long. I put my hands on his hips because his thighs were hairy and warm and I needed somewhere that wasn’t a punchline, and then I leaned in and licked.

Nate’s stomach jumped.

He didn’t make Nick’s punched sound. He made almost nothing. A breath through his nose. His fingers found the back of the couch and went white.

“That’s— that’s enough to count.”

I didn’t stop. The dare was the door. His balls were smoother than Nick’s, hotter than Vincent’s, and the clean smell went filthy the second my mouth opened on him. I took one into my mouth and Nate’s cock lifted off his thigh like it had been waiting in a brief.

MJ lost it.

“He’s up. Lawyer boy’s up. Look at that thing. That’s not contained. That’s a filing.”

“Reflex,” Nick said, automatic, and then hated himself for giving Nate the word.

Omar, soft: “He thought about a mouth last week. He said it. Now he’s got one.”

Nate’s voice came out low:

“Do not narrate me.”

I looked up because I wanted to see the face that went with the smell. He was looking down. We caught again. Longer this time. His intellectual mustache didn’t hide the color in his mouth. His eyes were almost angry and almost something else. I didn’t smile. The mascot didn’t get to smile with Vincent on his cheek and Nate thickening against his lips. I just held the look and licked the seam of him, slow, and Nate’s cock jumped, a clear bead gathering at the slit and sliding down the underside in a thin bright line.

“Precum,” Vincent said, reverent. “Significant. He’s—”

“Vin. I will brick more than your Wi-Fi.”

The bead stretched. Another pulse. Nate’s cock was a clean, mean line now, flushed, heavier than the slacks had admitted, the kind of shape that made the word preppy feel like a lie the whole school had agreed to tell. It jumped again when I breathed on him. The precum hung and then dripped toward my dirty cheek.

Nick leaned so far forward the couch complained.

“Bro. He’s leaking on the mascot. That’s nasty. That’s your word, Nate. Nasty.”

“I am going to kill this friend group.”

“You’re going to last eight like Vin,” MJ said.

“I am not Vincent, I’m not a fucking nerdy virgin.”

He wasn’t. He was shaking in a quieter way. His hairy thighs were stone. The open shirt stuck to his ribs where the heat had found him. I stayed on his balls because that was the dare Nick had named, and I worked him with my tongue until the precum was a string from the head of him toward my face, mixing with what Vincent had already left there.

Vincent stood up on skinny legs, eyes bright, the bracket brain fully back.

“New constraint. Nate slaps him. With that. Ten. Face. Standing. Mascot doesn’t wipe. Mascot doesn’t flinch. If Nate wusses out he drinks the bottle.”

Nate stared at him.

“You want me to hit him with my dick?”

“I want data,” Vincent said. “Also I want to see it. Those are not the same sentence and they are both true.”

Nate looked at me again. The look this time asked a question he would not say out loud. I could have shaken my head. I could have skipped. I stayed on my knees with my face already wrecked and my mouth wet and I heard the official funny friend somewhere far away saying don’t you dare, and I didn’t say it.

“Ten,” I said. It came out thin. “Don’t make it weird.”

Nick barked a laugh that had no joke in it.

“He keeps saying that. It keeps getting weirder.”

Nate stepped in. He took himself in his right hand. Up close he was bigger than the slacks had promised, the precum making the head shine, the shaft jumping in his fist. He looked at my face — Vincent’s load drying in streaks, my mouth open because there was nowhere else for it to go — and for one second I thought he would dress and leave and take the bottle with him.

He didn’t.

The first slap was careful. A wet sound. Heat across my cheek. The precum smeared what was already there.

“One,” MJ counted, delighted.

Two landed on the other side. My skin went hot. Nate’s jaw was a locked door.

Three caught the corner of my mouth. I tasted him. Cleaner than Vincent. Thinner.

Four was harder. The room made a noise. My face was going red under the white of Vincent’s mess, slick now, shining.

“That’s so gay,” Nate said through his teeth, and hit me five. “You guys are insane.”

Six. My eyes watered. Not from pain. From the smell of him this close, cedar and skin and the salt of what was coming off his cock onto my cheek. My face was an official mess. 

Seven. Nick wasn’t laughing anymore. He was watching with his mouth open.

Eight. Nate’s hips had started to help. He didn’t seem to notice.

Nine smeared a thick line of precum across the bridge of my nose.

Ten cracked against my mouth and stayed there a second too long, the head of him painting my lower lip, jumping, leaking.

Nate’s voice broke.

“Fuck this shit.”

He didn’t go for eleven. He stroked himself twice, hard, ugly, the kind of stroke a man uses when he has decided the night already owns him, and he came.

It was not Vincent’s heavy ropes. It was liquid and mean and a lot, a hard pulse that hit my forehead and ran into my eye before I could shut it, then my cheek, then my open mouth. Strong. It kept coming. Nate made a sound he would deny until he died, hips kicking, the open shirt shaking, and Nick shouted from the couch, actually shouted:

“Fuck— you’re gonna blind the dude. Careful, bro. Careful—”

Nate didn’t hear it in time. Another pulse striped my lashes. I felt it hot in the corner of my eye and tasted it at the same time, thin and bitter, and I stayed there because the mascot didn’t get to fall backward on the tenth slap.

The living room didn’t detonate the way it had for Vincent. It went quiet first. Then MJ whispered, “Holy shit.” Then Omar put the bottle down without drinking. Then Vincent said, very small, “Data.”

Nate stood over me with his cock still jumping in his fist, slacks at his thighs, shirt open, chest going hard. His face was red under the intellectual mustache. He looked at what he’d done — my white face gone red and shining, two loads on me now, his watery one running into Vincent’s, my eye watering — and something in him slammed shut.

He tucked himself away like a verdict. Belt. Buttons. The smell of him stayed in the air anyway.

“Was that what you wanted to see?”

Nobody answered fast enough.

“Are you happy now, freaks? Here’s your entertainment.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. He looked at Nick. Then at Vincent. Then at the last man on the couch who hadn’t been named.

“Omar. It’s your turn, prince. You’re the last one.”

The mute game put up another replay. My eye stung. I didn’t wipe. The dare was still on my skin.

Omar’s green eyes went from my face to Nate’s belt to Nick’s shorts and back. The trimmed dark hair at his collar didn’t move. He smiled with one side of his mouth, and for the first time all night the smile didn’t reach anywhere.

“I can’t.”

MJ: “Bro.”

“I’m seeing a girl,” Omar said. “I told you last week. I’m not putting that on a Tuesday because you turned Troy into a mascot. Find another bracket.”

Vincent started to argue. Nick started to laugh. Nate picked up his beer with a hand that was not quite steady.

Omar looked at me one more time. The Prince of Persia look. The one that had always felt like a secret he still wanted people to notice.

“I’m the last one,” he said. “That doesn’t mean tonight.”

He didn’t leave.

He also didn’t stand up.

That was the problem.

That was the next door.