Up, down. Up, down. Fast for 3, slow for 3.
The twink was balls deep in tight hole, showing the older man who was boss. His cock couldn’t groan, so he did. Deep and low.
He’d been stroking for 2 hours. Not a record, not even close, but he was learning. In one window, bros encouraged with curses and mantras, in the other the boy continued to own the man.
“Penis bro!”
“Fucking stroke that penis!”
“Yeah, you’re just a cock!”
The mantra’s flashed by in the comments, his cock clear on cam, his slight belly creased below the button, his shaved pubes showing off his full shaft, itself wrapped at the base by a black rubber ring.
He’d only been broadcasting like this for a week, but already every load he shot was harder. His bros loved his cock. Big, and veiny, and black. His balls were like eggs, jumping up and down every time he flexed his dong, like some obscene puppet show.
“They churn out pure alpha cream,” he said, cupping them, letting his audience focus on all of his manhood. Penis wouldn’t be penis without balls, afterall. Without precum making his purple head shine, his room stink. Without that hot white liquid flowing down his shaft and knuckles like some male volcano, perverse in its function, demanding to be seen.
He turned the twink porn off and opened a file, speakers on loud.
It’s him. Another day, daylight, but same seat. His cock powerful. Then, seconds in, spunk. Shooting, flowing, falling. He’s grunting. It fuels him. Then another shot, another day, different light, more cum. And another.
Up, down. Up, down.
He made it the other day. A mega cut of cumshots for his online bros. But now he gets off on it too.
His phone buzzes. The reminder he set.
“Fuck,” he groans, but not out of pleasure.
“Be back soon, boys,” he says, not releasing his dong.
“No, bro! Don’t go!”
“Penis comes first.”
“Come back!”
Reluctantly, he closes down the stream and opens his work laptop. The camera is covered, his wifi being terminally ‘too poor’ to handle video. He opens the call, and his screen is replaced with aging men and doughy women. He slumps back, fiddling with his manhood, hoping it wraps up quickly. He’s already been interrupted by work twice today.
He was greased up and deep in the bate when the doorbell rang. But for once he wasn’t reluctant, pulling a pair of loose joggers on, he ran to the door, the full 8 inches of black male outlined clearly.
Opening the door, the delivery guy took him in, shirtless, sweaty, a few days patchy growth along his jaw.
“Delivery for Daniel Robertson," he said, package in hand, but eyes wide, staring firmly downward.
“Yeah, man, that's me.”
He signed, flexing his cock a few times, letting the man know he knew.
The man looked at him, frowned, then hurried back to his car.
Inside, cock newly free and only socks left to warm him, he hurried to his bedroom. The ring light was set up ready, the camera’s, two of them, primed. One side, one back, the latter perched on a tower of boardgames. They came on, and he readied himself.
The unboxing ceremony was important. Naked, he squatted over the box, carefully opening it, checking that the screens were showing him in the best light. Slowly, he pulled back the tissue and lifted it out.
A fully silicone, realistic reproduction of a pussy. Pink skin, no hair. The cunt itself was nestled between the tops of two cut off thighs, and the lower part of an abdomen up to the belly button.
He placed the box aside, and spoke to his followers.
“This is the Cassandra,” he said, lubing his cock with the thick white cream he preferred, “And she’s about to feel the stretch.”
He toyed with it, his cock feeling around the loose edges, the squish and then firmness of the fake anatomy. The lips parted, grabbed him, and he fell inwards. He fucked missionary first, letting his cameras record his ass flexing, balls pendulus with each thrust, side profile of his manhood owning her.
He switched it up, laid back, held the cunt over his pole, and dragged her down, fucking and bucking into it, bouncing her on his pole.
“I’m just a plastic fucker,” he growled, the new mic picking up his every word.
For twenty minutes he fucked. When he came, it was outside the toy, letting his camera zoom in on the main event. His penis penising, splattering man batter all over his slightly soft body, into his slowly returning nest of pubes.
Panting, he turned the cams off, and sat at his desk. He’d missed a meeting, but not an important one. He read an email summary from a colleague, and made a mental note to do the work later.
For now, he worked on his video. He was so fucking powerful, fucking and owning that toy like a real breeder. His cock rose as he worked, and by the time he was done, he was already an hour into another bate.
His phone lit up with messages, but they went unanswered in the penis fog.
He posted his credit card bill in the forums, on his twitter, and reddit. $852.25 on sex toys. Cassandra was now joined by Kelly, a black cunt of the same model, Joanne, a full torso with tits and pussy, and Joey, a beautiful ass and hole complete with balls and cock. Not to mention the ever expanding collection of sleeves, some modelled on anatomy, some bizarre and colourful.
Another $195.95 had gone on two new screens, bringing his total to four. He’d spent hours getting them in the right configuration. Two below, two above.
Bros and admirers loved the post.
“Fuck, thats real commitment!”
“Dude, I’m gooning out to your debt!”
One guy even posted a short vid of his small, hairy cock unloading on an iPad screen, his bill clear beneath it.
He’d been invited to a new bate circle in downtown Denver. He was the last to arrive. Six bros, five brothers, one white guy, sat on sofas and chairs draped in dust covers. Hand towels on the arms, lube, condoms, and plastic cunts scattered around a glass table.
There was porn on the big screen, the hosts' own private collection of his conquests across North America. A young thug with a long schlong sat to his right, leg draped over his own, palming his length and letting his breathing broadcast his high. To the right, a bearish type with a fat dong slowly worked his head.
His eyes constantly ranged across the other five cocks. He loved watching the way the white boy's foreskin slid back and forth over that red head. He wanted to reach and touch it, feel the weight and heat in his hand.
The bear reached over, and he let the man take charge, leaning back and melting into the firm, calloused hand.
The sounds of slapping, compliments, and mantras interrupted the audio of their host's recent orgy in San Diego.
They finished as they always did. Primed, in a circle, the host under the glass table, as loads of sticky hot seed flew, shot, sprayed, and leapt from their cocks. Maleness drenched the table until the viewer vanished beneath a pond of unused sperm and protein, his guttural moans declaring his own spray beneath.
Most guys stayed after the events, naked and chatting. But he never did. Why would he? He overheard enough snippets to want to leave. Job talk, finances, husbands, wives, kids. That wasn’t the point, and they ruined it by bringing that here.
He left, making a mental note of who did the same, and placing a tick against them.
Work was driving him mad. First it was the meetings, then it was the 1-2-1s. His numbers were down, like he didn’t know. He’d even been forced to go into the office and attend a meeting with HR. Which then resulted in another email, because he smelt.
He’d talked about it whilst he bated with a bro in Missouri, a hung older white dude called CockBro99.
“Fuuuuck bro, they suck. You should go into the office and bate in each of their chairs.”
He let his head loll around, listening and his bro fuelled him, let his cock, sore again, ache under his fingers.
“Yeah man, keep going.”
“Let your ass sweat tag their seats. Mark their territory, make it yours.”
His cock flexed, pulsing but not close. He’d already cum three times, the fourth wasn’t cooperating. But it would.
“I fucking will, bro. I’ll sneak in late at night, smear my slime over their keyboards.”
“Fuck yeah you will, bro!”
The guy’s own cock was glistening, his face, clean shaven and topped with close cut silver hair, was gurning. High on a bong just off camera. His balls were trapped in a double cockring, one around his balls, the other his shaft, stretching them out. They looked red and angry. And full of sixty year old cum that was just as virile as the day they started churning it out decades earlier. How could it not be when the older bro was tending to his manhood with such alpha focus.
Just as he was getting deeper, his phone rang. He went to ignore the call, but his lubey hands missed, and it came through.
“Hello?”
It was his dad.
Frustrated, he pressed the speaker, and kept stroking.
“Hey, dad.”
“So you are alive afterall. Had me wondering when you didn’t respond to any of my last fifteen messages.”
His dad’s tone was edged with annoyance. Daniel shook his head, smirking at the camera, where the dude was clearly listening, his face betraying his interest.
“Whats up, dad?”
His hand was still fixed around his cock, the palm of the other now swirling and smearing precum around the piss slit.
“Worried about you, son.”
He swallowed his frustration and let the word son wash over him. It meant something different to him now, something the man on screen would call him. Not this man, this sperm donor. It felt wrong, yet his penis flexed all the harder for it.
He increased his tempo.
“I’m good, dad, real good.”
A slight pause.
“I know you, boy. You’ve always been a bit on the quiet side but the last few months? This ain’t you.”
He let out a groan. His dad mistook it for irritation.
“I’m just saying, you missed my birthday. That ain’t like you. Now I know things have been hard since Jerome dumped you, but cutting yourself off from everyone ain’t gonna help no one. Least of all you.”
“Oh, fuck dad,” he said, stretching his body out theatrically, legs wider, balls tight now.
Another pause.
“Are you okay?”
But Daniel could feel his load building now, the reservoir at the base threatening to geyser upwards.
“Fucking-A!”
And he arched his back.
“Son, what are you doing?”
That was it. The trigger. His dong expanded beyond 100% hard into some new realm, and hot spunk spurted, no, gushed from some unknown store. He was so lost he couldn’t hear his own grunts.
When he came down, drenched, the line was dead, and his friend was cheering on screen.
The notice of termination had come via email. Two weeks severance and he was on his own.
He’d shrugged, and gone back to his cave. The weeks that followed were a blur. Food deliveries, lube deliveries. He didn’t leave the house. His pubes had grown dense, spread across his thighs. His followers had kept him on course. They encouraged him, kept him riding natural highs, lodged his cock in plastic whenever they asked, recorded new content.
They understood. When his bate circle stopped inviting him, his followers supported him. They got it. Those guys were just tourists, dipping their toe in a sea they were too cowardly to sail on. But not him.
The house was stained with semen. Wooden walls, thick carpets, the sofa, the mirror. The mirror. He could barely see the lower half of his body in it anymore. It wasn’t just thick with cum, it was splattered with 42 and counting.
He kept a tally. In fact he’d started a spread sheet. Loads per day, volume, number of shots. How long he edged for that week, his records. How many times he’d bred his plastic harem. He updated it regularly, posting it on the forums, his accounts, using the praise.
He was, they said, a bate god. No, a penis god.
Then, the letter came.
Eviction.
It was strange, sitting there on the sofa, cock deflating, reading the red ink, and black and white terms. In one week, he would be homeless.
No job. No home. Debt.
He looked up, stared through the open door to his man cave. His bate den. Thousands of dollars of equipment sat there. At least a thousand more in toys sat fetid under his bed.
Standing now, he went through his credit card bill. Thousands had been added on. Food mostly but bills too. His savings were depleted.
Pings rang out from his computer.
He ignored them, throwing open the curtains and pulling up the sash, suddenly needing air.
He was homeless. He was going to have to go home.
Oh God. His dad. Would his dad even pick up the phone?
More pings.
He looked around. What would he do with all his stuff? Years of board games he’d saved for or been gifted. Been gifted by people he hadn’t seen in six months. They’d stopped messaging after a while. A couple had tried his door, but the smell and his weird shifting state had warned them off.
His phone, notifications off, was full of unread messages. Whatsapp, Instagram, texts, missed calls.
His dad, his brother, his friends, but also delivery notifications from Amazon and Uber. Over a hundred of them.
Another ping.
Panicked, he went to the computer. Reams of text, photos and gifs demanding his presence, praising his manhood, his commitment to penis.
His stomach filled with bile, his mind suddenly gripped in a cold vice of disgust, and shame, and worst of all, embarrassment. He switched the computer off at the mains.
Then, found a pair of boxers unworn for weeks, and put his penis away.
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