Jordan wasted no time, sinking straight down and taking Ben’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, hungry slide. The weight of it hit his tongue first, thick, hot, pulsing, the familiar salt and skin flooding his senses like coming home. Ben let out that laugh again, cocky, confident, the deep, the sound vibrating straight through the shaft buried between Jordan’s lips. Jordan swallowed deeper. He tried not to think about the eighty people watching right now, the green light blinking, the chat scrolling filthy demands he refused to read. He focused on Ben’s cock. That was all that mattered, the throb against his tongue, the low growl rumbling above him, the way Ben’s massive hand settled heavy on the back of his balaclava like a crown, guiding but not forcing, owning the rhythm with nothing more than presence.
Once again, dread flashed cold through Jordan’s chest, the same old fear that had haunted their bed for months: what if he couldn’t get Ben hard? What if, in front of a hundred strangers watching every second, Ben stayed soft and the chat filled with pitying emojis and cruel laughter? The humiliation would be unbearable, live, permanent, a clip that would live forever in some thirsty corner of the internet.
He only worried for about ten seconds.
Because even before the spiral could take hold, Ben’s cock started growing in his mouth. Thickening, lengthening, pulsing hot against his tongue with a sudden, greedy surge, as if the last few months had never happened. More and more and more, so hard, so easily, the veiny shaft swelling to that familiar, splitting ten inches that stretched Jordan’s lips wide like a promise kept. Ben’s low, satisfied growl rolled out above him, fingers tightening in the balaclava’s fabric.
Shit, it was happening, Jordan thought, the realization slamming through him like a second heartbeat. He was just as hard in his jockstrap, the black fabric straining, a wet spot blooming dark where his cock leaked against the pouch. He pushed forward, greedy, taking more than half of Ben now, the first string of drool slipping from the corner of his stretched lips and sliding hot down his chin. He didn’t care. He kept sucking, deeper, wetter, the balaclava damp against his cheeks, the ring light turning every slick glide into a spotlight show.
Ben was completely hard. So. Fucking. Hard, the veiny monster pulsing heavy against Jordan’s tongue, filling his mouth, his whole world. Fuck, Jordan had missed this: the stretch, the weight, the way Ben’s hips flexed just enough to feed him another inch, the low, possessive growl rumbling above him like distant thunder finally breaking. He sent a silent prayer to whatever gay god was up there listening, eyes watering behind the mask, throat fluttering around the invasion. Thank you, he thought, never once stopping, never once slowing, just taking Ben deeper, worshipping the man that was his again.
Ben started growling low in his chest, the sound building rough and hungry as his breath came heavier. The tips rolled in faster now, sharp cha-ching after cha-ching slicing through the loft like slot-machine wins, mingling with the wet, filthy sounds of Jordan’s throat working Ben’s cock, suction pops and slick glides echoing off the ring light’s glow. One of Ben’s big hands lifted, settling on the back of Jordan’s balaclava at first like he was just gonna pet him, the same gentle stroke he used to give when it was only them, lazy Sundays and whispered praise. But this time the fingers curled tight, gripping the fabric hard, and Ben pushed, deliberate and deep, forcing Jordan down until that thick head punched past his gag reflex and lodged heavy in his throat.
Jordan choked, eyes watering behind the mask, the stretch brutal and sudden, cock so deep he swore he’d puke, throat spasming around the invasion, air cut short. He yanked back on instinct, the shaft slipping free with a messy, wet pop, strings of drool spilling everywhere, thick globs dripping from his chin onto Ben’s balls, his chest heaving as he coughed once, ragged. Ben’s growl deepened, dark and approving, thumb swiping a stray strand of spit from Jordan’s lip like it was a prize.
Jordan looked up at Ben, surprised, and caught that wicked, wolfish grin splitting his beard, his eyes surely blazing behind the Aviators. It was impossible not to smirk back. His gaze dropped to the cock in his hand, thick, rigid, pulsing hot against his palm like it had a heartbeat of its own. Jordan stroked it slow at first, fist gliding from root to crown, feeling every bulging vein throb under his fingers, the slick of pre-cum smearing warm over his skin. Ben’s hips flexed, a low growl rumbling out of him, the sectional creaking under the shift of all that bulk. Jordan leaned in, tongue flicking out to trace one fat vein from base to head, slow and deliberate, tasting salt and heat and Ben. Another vein, another long, wet drag of his tongue, worshiping every ridge like he’d been starving for it. He had. Ben moaned again.
Then Jordan took him in again, lips stretching wide, sliding down that monster in one greedy glide until his throat fluttered around the head, nose buried in the plush heat of Ben’s gut, the world narrowing to the throb on his tongue and the growl above him. He would go all the way now, Jordan decided, fire in his gut and a reckless grin hidden under the balaclava. He’d show every last one of those fuckers online exactly what this mouth could do, how deep it could take Ben, how he’d earned every inch long before any camera ever watched. He sank down again, lips stretching wide, throat opening, pushing past the halfway mark. Almost there, nose brushing the coarse hair at Ben’s base, the scent of sweat and man flooding him, when his gag reflex hit like a brick wall.
He choked hard, eyes watering behind the mask, throat spasming again around the thick head lodged too deep. Ben’s hand was on the back of his head instantly, fingers tangled in the balaclava, holding him steady, anchoring, like he was trying to help Jordan swallow the whole damn thing. But it was no use. Another choke ripped through him, wet and desperate, and Ben let go at once, palm sliding to Jordan’s neck instead, rubbing slow circles as Jordan pulled off with a messy gasp.
He took the cock out of his mouth again. Jordan stayed on his knees, chest heaving, catching his breath in ragged pulls, the balaclava clinging to his face. Fuck, he was out of practice. It had been so long since he and Ben had sex that his throat was fighting him like it was their first month together all over again, back when ten inches felt impossible instead of inevitable. He felt like an asshole, spending weeks terrified Ben wouldn’t be able to get hard, never once stopping to wonder if he himself would still be able to take it.
Jordan eased off, taking just the head and the first few inches into his mouth this time, lips sealing tight around the swollen crown. Better to do a good job on part of that cock than a shitty one on all of it, right? He hollowed his cheeks, worked his tongue the way he used to, swirling slow under the ridge, flicking the slit, tracing every pulsing vein, relearning a language he’d once been fluent in.
Then Ben laughed, that deep, gravel rumble laced with amusement, eyes flicking to the laptop screen. “Come on, don’t be mean, guys.”
Once again, Jordan pulled off with a wet gasp, strings of drool still connecting his lips to the slick head of Ben’s cock. His head turned toward the laptop on instinct.
The viewer count hit him first. 2,567.
Holy shit.
His heart actually stuttered in his chest. He’d braced for a couple dozen, maybe a hundred if the algorithm smiled on them, not this. Not two-and-a-half thousand strangers watching him kneel masked and drooling, watching Ben’s thunder swell live. Then his eyes dropped to the scrolling comments, and the air turned colder.
@ThroatKingNYC: lmao this bottom can’t even take half, waste of a perfect cock
@hungbearfan: Ben deserves a real deepthroat, not this amateur choking bullshit
@wreckecdaddy666: pathetic, my hole could take that log easier than this guy’s mouth
@PowerBottomPro: upgrade the cocksucker pls, he’s ruining the view
@sizequeennyc: 10 inches and that’s the best you got? embarrassing
The words burned hotter than the stretch in his jaw. Jordan froze, balaclava suddenly too tight, the room too bright, the ring light exposing every stumble. Ben’s hand was still on his head, thumb stroking soothing circles, but the chat kept coming, relentless, hungry, judging. He swallowed hard, throat raw, and forced his gaze back to Ben’s cock, still rock-hard, glistening with his spit, pulsing like it didn’t give a damn about the thousands watching. Ben’s eyes were dark behind the Aviators, that wicked smirk still in place. Jordan took a shaky breath, ignored the screen, and sank down again, this time determined to shut every last one of them up.
But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t deep-throat Ben anymore. Maybe it was the months without practice, maybe it was the 2,500 strangers watching his every gag and drool, maybe it was the chat’s venom still burning behind his eyes, but something was keeping him locked at half-mast. He kept sucking Ben’s cock, still impressively hard, still thick and pulsing against his tongue, doing its part, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. The rhythm felt mechanical, the joy leached out by the weight of all those unseen eyes judging every inch he failed to swallow.
Then a different notification cut through the wet sounds and the steady rythim tips, a louder, sharper chime Jordan hadn’t heard yet. Ben’s hand left the back of his head instantly. He half-raised himself off the sectional, robe falling wide, his cock slipping from Jordan’s mouth, and reached for the laptop. One thick finger tapped the trackpad, silencing whatever it was.
“Come on, Big Ben, fuck this guy’s throat properly,” a voice suddenly boomed from the laptop speakers, clear, hungry, and way too real.
Jordan froze, Ben’s cock still halfway down his tongue. For a split second he thought someone had hacked the stream, then it clicked: for the right price, fans could send voice messages, not just text. The regular cha-ching tips exploded after that, a frantic storm of agreement he didn’t even need to read to feel.
Another voice message pinged. Ben tapped play without breaking rhythm, his fist still tangled in the balaclava. “Yeah, choke that bitch”, it snarled, nasty, followed by a chorus of digital wolf-whistles and more pings.
“You hear that?” Ben rumbled, voice gravel-rough for the camera and for Jordan all at once. “They want the real show.”
Jordan’s heart hammered.
“You guys want me to fuck him good?” Ben asked the camera, voice a low, dangerous growl that rolled straight into the mic.
The notifications came like a deluge, cha-ching after cha-ching hammering so fast the sound blurred into one long roar. The chat bar scrolled upward in a white-water rush Jordan couldn’t even read, just a blur of caps-lock YES and fire emojis and dollar signs. Ben’s smirk sharpened, wicked and slow. He dipped his head, beard brushing Jordan’s ear, breath hot against the mask. “What you think, babe? Should I show those freaks what I can do?”
There was a part of Jordan that wanted to say no.
No, turn this off, kill the stream. Wanted Ben to carry him their bedroom and finish it the way they always had, just the two of them, kisses and whispers and no one else’s eyes. But then he looked up. Ben towered over him, robe hanging open like a curtain on a storm, Aviators hiding nothing of the hunger blazing behind them. That cock, super hard, jutting proud and thick, veins standing out like cables, head flushed dark and slick with Jordan’s spit, curving up toward the ring light like it was daring the world to look away. Look at him. This was what Jordan had wanted, what he’d begged the universe for when Ben couldn’t even stay half-hard in the dark of their bed. This was the man he’d fallen for in the lobby three years ago, the fire that had gone quiet and was roaring back to life right in front of him. Do you really want to take it away from him now?
Jordan’s throat worked around nothing, the balaclava suddenly too hot, too tight. He felt the chat’s eyes on his back, the pings hammering like a second heartbeat, but Ben was waiting, patient and massive and alive. Jordan exhaled, shaky, and leaned forward again. No. He wasn’t going to stop it.
Jordan just nodded, a small, sharp dip of his head that felt like surrender and victory at once. Ben smirked at him, and shifted his hips to give the camera the best possible angle, the ring light catching every ridge of muscle and the soft spill of his gut. He shrugged the robe off his shoulders in one fluid motion, letting it pool on the sectional behind him. There wasn’t a single drop of shame coming from Ben now; he stood there naked and unbothered, gut proud and round in the glow, cock jutting thick and rigid like he’d never doubted it for a second. Jordan readied himself, knees spreading wider on the hardwood, hands braced on Ben’s thighs, breath shallow behind the balaclava.
Ben started slow, the way he always did when he wanted Jordan to feel every inch, feeding his monster cock past his lips and down his throat in one controlled push. He didn’t go all the way yet, just deep enough for Jordan’s throat to flutter around the head before easing back until only the swollen crown rested on his tongue, slick and pulsing. Then forward again, a fraction deeper, letting Jordan adjust, letting the stretch burn sweet. He did it two more times, slow, deliberate, the wet glide filling the loft along with the frantic sound of tips, each thrust claiming a little more territory.
On the third, he didn’t stop.
Ben’s hips rolled forward in one smooth, relentless surge, pushing his cock down Jordan’s throat until there was nothing left to swallow, until Jordan’s nose was buried in the warm, musky hair at Ben’s base, throat spasming helplessly around the full, splitting length, tears streaking the inside of the balaclava as he fought for air that wouldn’t come. Ben held him there, a low, satisfied growl rumbling out for the camera and for Jordan and the whole world to hear, the chat exploding in a storm of pings Jordan could feel in his bones. Jordan felt the choke rising in his gut like a wave he could usually ride, but when Ben pulled back and slammed in again, the thick head punching past his gag reflex, a horrible, wet choking sound tore out of him, raw, ugly, impossible to hide. The balaclava muffled it only a little; the mic caught everything.
And that didn’t stop Ben.
He just kept going, hips snapping faster, harder, until he was fucking Jordan’s mouth and throat with real force, each thrust driving deeper, stretching Jordan’s lips to their limit, the corners burning where they split against the relentless girth. Jordan took it. He struggled the whole time, throat spasming, sore and raw, drool pouring out of him in thick ropes like a bulldog in heat, soaking the balaclava, dripping off his chin onto Ben’s balls onto the floor bellow. He could barely see through the tears, Ben’s massive frame above him just a blur. Jordan couldn’t see the viewer count climbing past 3,000. He couldn’t read the chat screaming for more.
He could only feel Ben using his throat like it belonged to the camera now, and somehow, through the burn and the blur and the fight for air, he still wanted it, still wanted every brutal inch, because it meant Ben was finally, fully back. A couple of new voice messages came through but Ben ignored them all, hips snapping steady, fist locked in the balaclava like nothing in the world could make him stop fucking Jordan’s mouth right then. The chat roared on, tips pinging frantic, the viewer count climbing past 3,200, but Ben’s focus was a tunnel, only that wet, choking heat wrapped around his cock.
After one particularly ugly choke, Jordan’s body jerking, a strangled gag ripping out of him wet and desperate, Ben finally eased off, pulling free with a slick, filthy pop. Drool poured from Jordan’s swollen lips in thick ropes, splattering Ben’s shaft and dripping off his chin onto the floor. Jordan thought it was over, but then Ben slapped Jordan’s masked face with his cock, once, twice, three heavy, wet smacks, the length thudding against the balaclava, smearing spit and pre-cum across the fabric like he was marking territory. The sound cracked sharp in the loft, louder than the tips, louder than the chat’s frenzy. Jordan hated it. Ben had done it before, back when it was just them, playful taps with a grin and a “good boy” rumble, affectionate and teasing. But these weren’t playful. These felt dirty, nasty, like Jordan was some alley whore getting used for a quick load, not the man Ben had kissed soft an hour ago over turkey sandwich. The sting bloomed hot on his cheek even through the mask, shame and heat tangling tight in his gut.
Jordan took the brief pause to wipe the wetness from his eyes, dragging the back of his hand across the soaked balaclava, trying to clear the blur of tears and spit. When Ben resumed the assault on his throat with no mercy, Jordan could finally see. And what he saw made his stomach drop like a stone in deep water.
Ben wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were locked on the laptop screen the whole time, Aviators reflecting the scrolling chat and the climbing viewer count, lips curled in that same wicked, triumphant smirk he gave the camera. Every brutal thrust, every growl that rolled out of him, every flex of his gut as he drove deeper. None of it was for Jordan. It was for them. For the subscribers. The tips. The thousands of strangers cheering him on. Jordan was just a mouth. Just a hole. He could have been anyone else in the world and the result would be exactly the same. Fuck, he could have been an inflatable doll and it would’ve been the same to Ben right now.
The realization hit harder than any thrust, cold and sharp in the middle of all that heat, shame and heartbreak twisting tight behind his ribs even as his throat spasmed around the cock wrecking it. Ben’s hand stayed fisted in the balaclava, guiding the rhythm like a puppeteer, eyes never once dropping to the man on his knees who loved him more than breathing.
Jordan was choking on more than just cock now.
“You fuckers like that?” Ben growled to the camera, voice ragged and thick, never once slowing the brutal rhythm of his hips. “You like watching me use this bitch, huh? Make him choke on my big cock?”
The notifications came in droves, a frantic storm of money and digital roars, the chat exploding in a blur Jordan refused to look at. He didn’t want to know how many people were watching now, thousands, surely, strangers jerking off to the sight of his masked face stretched obscene around Ben’s girth, tears and drool soaking the balaclava in a mess he couldn’t hide.
Ben was becoming more forceful, thrusts turning erratic, hips snapping harder, deeper, the head of his cock punching the back of Jordan’s throat with every slam. Jordan could feel Ben’s orgasm building in his bones, the way his thighs tensed under his gripping hands, the pulse throbbing wild against his tongue, Ben’s growls turning animal, breath heaving hot and desperate above him. No more words for the subscribers now, just raw, guttural sounds ripped from his chest. Would he cum down Jordan’s throat, flooding him hot and thick until it spilled from his nose? Or pull out at the last second, paint Jordan’s masked face with rope after rope, marking him for the camera like territory claimed?
Neither. Ben was right there, on the brink, hips stuttering, cock buried to the root in Jordan’s throat, the growl in his chest turning feral. Then, without warning, he yanked out so hard Jordan lost his balance and crashed back onto his hands, palms slapping the hardwood, balaclava askew, throat raw and gaping. Ben didn’t look at him twice. Didn’t looked not even once. His eyes were locked on the laptop screen, pupils blown wide behind the Aviators, beard split in a savage grin as he wrapped his own fist around that slick, throbbing monster. One stroke. Two. Three. The growl climbed louder, deeper, a roar ripping free as his whole body locked up.
Cum shot out like bullets, five thick, heavy ropes that arced across the coffee table and splattered the laptop screen in messy white streaks, as if Ben was coming straight on every single subscriber watching. The green light caught it all in perfect, filthy detail, the chat exploding in a frenzy Jordan couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.
Jordan palmed himself through the jockstrap, fingers pressing hard against the soaked pouch. Fuck, he was granite-hard, aching like he’d been edged for hours. That had to mean he liked it, right? Being used like a prop in Ben’s little show, throat wrecked for strangers’ tips while Ben stared at the chat instead of him. The heaviness in his stomach had to be something else, because the cock straining in his jock was proof he was turned on, proof he’d wanted this, proof he’d asked for it.
Without even a goodbye to the camera, Ben reached forward and slammed the laptop shut. The green light died. Stream over. He collapsed back onto the sofa, legs spread wide, robe hanging open, chest heaving. He looked like a god like that, spread, satiated, absolutely alluring, the ring light catching the sweat on his furred pecs, Aviators hiding whatever was behind his eyes. Only then did he finally look at Jordan. He watched his boyfriend for a long time and, suddenly, it was like something snapped in him, eyes coming into focus as if he was seeing Jordan for the first time that night.
“C’mere, babe,” Ben growled, voice still rough from the roar, one massive arm hooking around Jordan’s waist and hauling him up like he weighed nothing.
Jordan went easily, legs shaky as he straddled Ben’s lap, the balaclava still clinging damp to his face. Their mouths crashed together in a savage kiss, claiming, Ben’s beard scraping raw against the fabric, tongue forcing past Jordan’s swollen lips like he needed to taste himself there. One hand clamped hard on Jordan’s waist, fingers digging into muscle and bone, anchoring him almost desperately. The other slid down the back of the jockstrap, thick finger finding his hole and rubbing slow, deliberate circles, no breach, just pressure, teasing the rim until Jordan was trembling. Jordan cried out into the kiss, the sound muffled and desperate, hips bucking on instinct. He ground his trapped cock against the plush heat of Ben’s gut, the mesh shirt riding up, skin on sweat-slick skin, sweat from Ben’s body sticky between them. Ben’s finger kept that maddening massage, pressing, circling, owning, while his mouth devoured every moan Jordan fed him.
In less than five minutes Jordan was coming hard, hips stuttering as he spilled into the jockstrap, thick pulses soaking the pouch and leaking through the fabric in warm streaks that painted Ben’s hairy gut messy-white. He shuddered through it, clinging to Ben’s shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck, the balaclava finally yanked off sometime in the haze so Ben could bite at his real skin, marking him where no camera would ever see. They stayed like that, tangled and spent, Ben’s arms locked tight around him, the loft quiet except for their ragged breathing. Jordan’s cum cooled between them, sticky and real, and for the first time that night Ben’s eyes were only on him.
They were fine, Jordan thought, that ugly heaviness in his gut finally lifting, dissolving like smoke in the loft’s warm hush. Whatever demon had possessed Ben just a few moments ago, the one that had turned his eyes to the screen and his thrusts into something brutal, animal, was exorcised, gone with the closed laptop and the dead green light.
“Shit,” Ben murmured after a while, voice softer now, almost sheepish, his big hand stroking slow up Jordan’s back. “Was I too rough on you?”
“A little,” Jordan answered, and laughed... because he could laugh about it, right? The sound came out hoarse, scraped raw. “Got carried away, huh?”
“Sorry, Jord,” Ben said, the apology rumbling genuine against Jordan’s ear, beard tickling his temple as he pressed a kiss there. “Lost my head for a minute.”
Jordan only nodded against Ben’s neck, the fight gone out of him, bones suddenly heavy with exhaustion. A yawn cracked his jaw wide, surprising even him.
“Shower?” Ben suggested, thumb tracing idle circles on Jordan’s spine.
Jordan shook his head, burrowing closer into the warm, hairy cradle of Ben’s chest. “Just to the bed, please.”
Ben didn’t argue. He just scooped Jordan up easy, like he weighed nothing, and carried him down the hall, the loft dark and quiet again, the ring light cold, the laptop shut like nothing had happened.
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