The dim glow of the ring light casts long shadows across the bare walls of the studio. The only sound is the low hum of the camera as it records.
Static stands in the center of the frame, his posture relaxed but deliberate, every movement measured. He’s dressed in his signature look—black fitted hoodie clinging to his lean frame, the fabric stretched just enough to hint at the definition beneath, dark joggers riding low on his hips, and the ever-present black baseball cap pulled snug over his forehead. His sunglasses reflect the soft light, obscuring his eyes, while the neck gaiter covers everything below them, leaving only the sharp line of his jaw visible. The anonymity is intoxicating, a shield that lets him be both seen and unseen at the same time.
He exhales slowly, the sound muffled by the fabric over his mouth, before reaching up to adjust the cap—just a small tilt, nothing that would risk exposing more than he intends. His fingers linger for a second, tracing the brim, before he drops his hand to his side. The camera is already rolling, the red recording light blinking steadily in the corner of his vision. He knows his subscribers are waiting, their anticipation thick enough to taste even through the screen. Some of them have been begging for this for months—years, even. A voice reveal. Not his real one, of course. Never that. But the illusion of it, the fantasy of hearing something from the man behind the mask.
Static taps the screen of his phone, the device propped just out of frame, and the voice-changing filter activates with a soft click. His natural voice—light, smooth, betraying his youth—warps into something deeper, rougher, the kind of tone that vibrates in the chest and makes spines tingle. He tests it with a quiet hum, nodding to himself when the distortion sounds just right. Then he lets out a satisfied chuckle. Perfect. No one will recognize him. No one will ever know him.
“Hey, boys,” he murmurs, the altered timbre of his voice filling the room, rich and velvety. “It’s me. Static.”
A pause. He lets the words hang in the air, lets the weight of them sink in for the viewers on the other side of the screen. His fingers flex at his sides, then curl into loose fists before relaxing again.
Control. Always control.
“I know plenty of you have been dying to hear my voice.”
Another beat.
He tilts his head just slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to make the light catch the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
“So here I am. Just for you.”
His free hand lifts, unzipping his hoodie. He’s chosen a hoodie with a zipper so he won’t have to remove his hat (practicality is paramount when you’re anonymous). He takes the hoodie off, and he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. His nipples are already hard, and his torso is impressively defined. There’s a trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his joggers.
He tosses the hoodie aside, the movement fluid, unhurried. The air in the room is cool against his bare torso, raising goosebumps along his arms, but he doesn’t shiver. Doesn’t react. His breathing stays even, measured, as if he’s done this a thousand times before—because he has.
The joggers are next. His fingers hook into the waistband, thumbs pressing against the fabric just above his hips. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tease, not really. But the way he pauses, the way his fingers tense before finally pushing the material down, inch by inch, is its own kind of torture.
The joggers pool at his ankles, and he steps out of them, bare feet pressing into the cool floor. He’s left in nothing but black briefs now, the fabric straining against the growing bulge between his legs. His cock is already half-hard, thickening with every second, every imagined gaze fixed on him.
Static reaches down, palming himself through the briefs, his touch firm. He squeezes, a slow roll of his wrist, and lets out a low, filtered groan. The sound is distorted, but the need in it is unmistakable.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough with the effect, with the ache building in his own body. “Seeing me like this. Listening to my voice.”
His fingers trace the outline of his cock, following the thick vein that runs along the underside, pressing just hard enough to make his hips jerk forward slightly. “I bet you’re already touching yourselves. Aren’t you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t need one. His hand slides beneath the waistband of his briefs, gripping the base of his cock, and he strokes upward once, twice, his breath hitching behind the gaiter. The fabric is damp with precum already, the tip of his cock weeping as he pulls it free, the head flushed dark, slick.
“Look at that,” he groans. “I’m so fucking hard already. Hope you boys are as horny as I am right now…”
He gives himself a slow, twisting pump, thumb swiping over the slit to gather the bead of fluid there. The camera catches the way his abs tighten, the way his thighs flex as he shifts his stance just slightly, spreading his legs a little wider.
“Go on, then,” he says, voice dropping even lower, the filter making it sound like a command wrapped in silk. “Take yours out. I know you want to.”
His own hand moves faster now, his grip tightening as his cock swells fully, thick and heavy in his palm. The cap casts a shadow over his eyes, but the sunglasses glint as he tilts his head down just enough to watch his own movements, to imagine the hundreds, thousands of men doing the same thing right now—obeying him.
“Stroke it. Just like this.” His fist twists on the upstroke, his thumb pressing into the sensitive underside, and a shiver runs through him, his cock throbbing in response.
He bites down on the inside of his cheek, the pressure a sharp contrast to the pleasure coiling in his gut. His free hand lifts, fingers splaying over his chest, tracing the dip between his pecs before sliding lower, over the ridged planes of his abs. He pinches one nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it’s hard, until the sensation arrows straight down to his cock. A quiet, needy sound escapes him, muffled by the gaiter, but the camera picks it up anyway. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t hold back.
“Faster,” he breathes, his own hand picking up speed, his cock slapping against his palm with wet, obscene sounds. “Come on. Match me.”
His balls draw up tight, the heat in his groin building, his strokes growing jerky, desperate. He can almost feel it—the way his viewers are gripping themselves, the way their breaths are coming in short, sharp gasps, the way their cocks are leaking, aching. He imagines their hands, their mouths, the filthy things they’d do if they were here with him. The thought makes his spine arch, his hips bucking into his fist as he works himself closer, closer—
But he stops.
His hand stills, his cock twitching violently, the head swollen and dark with need. He lets out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his own touch.
“Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “We’re not done.”
He releases himself, his cock bobbing heavily, precome dripping down the shaft in thick, glistening strands. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the waistband of his briefs again, pushing them down just enough to free his balls, the weight of them heavy in his palm as he cups them, rolling them gently.
“You wanna cum?” he asks, his voice a low tease, his thumb pressing against his sensitive scrotum. “Then you’ll have to wait. Just like I am. I wanna draw this out.”
He squeezes his balls, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as the pressure borders on pain, on pleasure. His cock jerks, another bead of precome welling at the tip, and he smirks behind the gaiter, knowing exactly how good this must look. How filthy.
He leans back against the wall, the cool surface a contrast to the heat of his skin. His legs spread wider, his cock jutting out obscenely, the camera angled just right to catch every twitch, every drop of fluid sliding down his length. His hand finds his cock again, but this time he doesn’t stroke. He just holds it, his fingers wrapped loosely around the base, his thumb brushing over the throbbing vein.
“Keep going,” he instructs, his voice a dark purr. “Don’t you dare stop.” Then he grunts, “Moan for me, you dirty fuckers. That’s right, moan while you stroke your cocks. I want to know you’re aching for it.”
His own breath is ragged now, his control fraying at the edges. He can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in his lower belly, his balls heavy and full. But he won’t give in. Not yet. He tilts his hips forward, his cock bobbing, the tip nearly touching his stomach. He grabs the bottle of lube beside him, squeezes some out onto his palm, and wraps his hand around himself again, his grip slick as he resumes stroking. The wet squelching of the lube can be heard as he jerks his thick cock. His movements are slower now, deliberate, each twist of his wrist drawing out the pleasure, making it last.
“That’s it,” he groans, his voice breaking slightly, the filter barely containing the raw need in it. “Just like that. Fuck, you’re being such good boys for me.”
His cock throbs, his balls drawing up tight against his body, the pressure almost unbearable. He knows he’s close. Knows his viewers are too. He can practically taste their desperation, their need to obey, to please him. To cum when he tells them to.
But not yet.
Not. Yet.
Static’s fingers dig into the flesh of his thigh as his grip tightens around his throbbing cock, his thumb pressing hard against the slick, swollen head. A shudder runs through him, his breath hitching behind the gaiter as the voice filter twists his groan into something guttural, raw—a sound that rumbles through the mic like a threat wrapped in velvet.
“Fuck—”
The word breaks mid-syllable as his hips snap forward, his free hand slamming against the cold wall for leverage. His strokes turn desperate, his rhythm stuttering as his control unravels. The first thick jet of cum erupts from him, slamming against his abs with a wet slap, the heat of it searing his skin. Another follows, then yet another, each pulse dragging a filthy curse from his throat: “Shit—fucking hell—”
His cock jerking violently in his grip, his balls drawn up tight as he empties himself in messy, shuddering spurts.
His altered voice cracks as he pants into the mic, the sound rough and unsteady. “Fuck, I needed that… That was so hot.”
His chest heaves, his skin slick with sweat and cum, the sticky mess dripping between his fingers, down his wrist. He doesn’t stop touching himself, even as his cock grows oversensitive, his strokes turning slow, almost mocking. “Hope you’re all fucking satisfied,” he purrs, his voice a dark, honeyed taunt, “getting off on this. Jerking your pathetic little dicks to me like the needy sluts you are.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth beneath the gaiter, hidden but felt—because he knows they’re picturing it anyway. He can practically hear their whimpers, their desperate strokes, the way their breaths hitch when he talks to them like this.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he finally releases his cock, letting it fall heavily against his thigh with a wet thud. His fingers, still coated in cum, trace lazy circles over his chest, smearing the mess into his skin, marking himself. The camera catches every glistening streak, every twitch of his spent dick as it pulses weakly, still half-hard despite the oversensitivity.
“That’s all for now, I’m afraid,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down spines, “but just know: I’m not fucking done with you.”
He leans back against the wall, his legs spread just enough to tease, his body on full display—sweat-slicked, cum-drenched, sated. His breath evens out, his composure slipping back into place like a second skin, but the promise in his tone is unmistakable: this was just the appetizer.
He reaches for his briefs with deliberate slowness, the fabric clinging to his damp skin as he tucks himself away, the material already sticky with cum.
“Next time,” he drawls, adjusting the gaiter over his mouth with a gloved hand, “I’ll make you all beg for it.”
The camera lingers on his torso, the mess he’s made—the cum drying on his abs, the faint sheen of sweat, the way his cock still twitches like it’s not quite finished with him yet. Then, with a final, teasing glance, he steps back, his silhouette swallowing the frame.
“Bye for now, boys.”
And with that, the screen cuts to black, leaving only the sound of his breath—steady, controlled, smug—before the stream ends with a sharp click.
And just like that, Static vanishes.
The screen goes dark, but the myth lingers, heavy and intoxicating, the afterimage of his body burned into their retinas. The chat explodes—more, please, fuck, I can’t—but he’s already gone, leaving his viewers hollow and hungry, their dicks still hard, their fingers still moving, their screens slick with the evidence of what he’s done to them.
The stream is over. The craving isn’t.
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