Chapter 6 - Paja / Straw #2
Flopping face first onto his bed with a grunt, Dylan gave himself exactly four more minutes to indulge in his private little pity party, before telling himself he didn't have time to mope — not when he had a channel to manage and videos to make.
Soon enough he was lost in the near-endless loop of editing, queuing, and promotion that'd been such an eye-opening lesson when he'd first started his channel a few months ago. He finally felt as if he was getting a handle on all of it — or at least finding a routine, which was almost as good.
He hadn't been doing this long enough to feel anything like stable, and his numbers still weren't phenomenal.
Better than they used to be, though. Sucks that the payout delay is a whole sixty days. If they’d shorten it by even a couple of weeks, maybe I would’ve been able to go out tonight after all.
What he really needed was a hook, a gimmick that'd set him apart from all the other performers out there.
A partner wouldn't hurt either, someone to help him spice it up; keep his videos from feeling too routine.
Means he'd have to split the earnings, but it also meant there'd be more earnings to split.
Not to mention, just plain more fun than jacking off to the camera alone. It's like they always say: two butts are better than one.
But that'd mean letting another person in on his secret, and that was just too dangerous. If they let it slip, if word got back to the university or caseworker assigned to Dylan's visa application…
“Byeeeeeeee, Dylan!” Vince yelled from the other side of his door so loud and ill-timed that Dylan dropped his phone. “Don't miss us too terribly!”
“I won't!” Dylan lied, checking the time and cursing to realize how late it'd gotten.
Oof. Forgot to eat.
He could fix that later. When the sound of the apartment door closing hadn't just signaled he'd been presented with a golden opportunity for privacy.
With a quick glance around his room to ensure Dylan hadn't left out anything identifiable or incriminating, he headed down the hall for an equally hasty shower.
His hair was still wet when he returned, pulling a particular box out from among the clutter shoved under his bed. It wouldn't cause a damp patch the camera might pick up on the green luchador mask he kept in his toy box, but it still felt weird once he'd pulled it on.
The camera stand and DIY lighting rig were hidden under his bed as well, and soon Dylan had everything set up to record.
Record what, though, is the question…
Eyeing the contents of the box, Dylan considered his options. Not that he had a ton of toys. The opposite, actually. But to be honest? He just wasn't all that horny.
Start with something simple. They'll be gone for a couple of hours. Maybe you can squeeze a few videos out of tonight.
Sure, that sounded like a plan. He could get the easy one out of the way, then follow up with some toys or something. If he edited them right, it'd build himself a decent cushion covering at least a week or two's worth of content.
Finals are coming up. Be nice to have one less problem to stress about.
Settling himself comfortably on the bed, Dylan checked his framing on his phone’s screen.
If I ever start making real traction with my channel, the first thing I'll do is get a decent setup.
First things first, though.
Feeling indulgent, Dylan didn't immediately reach for his dick.
He let his hand trail over his chest instead, pinching each nipple, before wandering down over his belly until he was skimming his palm along the top of his thigh; warming himself up.
Like a rolling wave, his body woke to the teasing, his semi-hard cock perking up with interest. With a low sigh, he cupped his balls, shifting his leg as he massaged and played.
It took longer than usual for his body to get with the program, while a strange edge of dissatisfaction hovered just out of reach.
When he finally slid his palm up the side of his shaft, he was still only about half-hard — but he was running out of time.
If Dylan wanted more than only a stroke video out of tonight before his roommates came back, then he'd simply have to buckle down and grind it out, wouldn’t he?
Clicking the record button on the wireless remote he'd gotten for his phone for this very purpose, Dylan leered into the camera.
"Hey, Papi," he said to the camera, and to the imaginary viewer he'd found helped make all this feel less strange. "Been thinking about you. You been thinking about me?"
Long, firm strokes; up and down. Dylan bit his bottom lip, tipping his hips and letting his thighs fall open more.
"Miss that big, thick cock of yours," he told the camera, trying not to feel silly. Trying to stay in the mood no matter how odd it felt, talking to himself like this. "Wish you were here right now. Wanna choke myself on you, then ride you all night. Oh, Papi — I know you'd feel so good."
But despite his words, Dylan’s cock refused to get with the program. For a moment, he considered reaching for some lotion, make the job nice and slick. But no — Dylan liked it a little rough, Liked the friction of a warm hand, just… not his own tonight, apparently.
God, Ashton's hand job had been a piss-poor attempt, but it'd been thrilling that he'd tried at all. His hand had been broad and firm, his mouth so curious and needy…
Dylan moaned, drawing his knee up until his heel was just brushing under the swell of his ass. That was fine. Good even. Give the viewer a bit of cheesecake, a flash of what was to come.
"Keep imagining all the things I want to do with you, Papi. Have you do to me,” he told them. “Been jerking off to it every night."
And oh, what would Ashton's mouth feel like? Those strawberry lips wrapped shiny and spit-slick around Dylan's cock?
Eyes fluttering shut, he was breathing fast now, his rhythm swift and greedy; swallowing up the rock-hard cock in his hand.
"You've got such a great cock, Papi," Dylan panted. "Can't wait to bounce on it. To feel you slide inside me, pound my poor little hole until I'm ruined for any man but you."
Ashton was big enough to make Dylan feel it too, wasn't he? Nice and thick, just like he liked 'em.
Dylan bit his lip hard, no longer having to pretend, shifting and flexing on his bed as he chased his peak.
Ashton had been so hesitant, but eager too. His kisses so charmingly ferocious, his body so willing.
"Wanna shove you down on this bed and suck you hard," he told camera-Ashton. "Lick my way up your entire body, and then just sink right down on your cock."
He could feel it coming now, his orgasm glimmering like the first blush of sunrise on the dawning horizon.
"Can you feel me, Papi? My ass so slick and sweet as I take your massive cock? You're gonna give it to me so good, aren't you? Gonna fuck us both stupid, leave me feeling you for days."
That strawberry mouth had made the cutest little 'O' as Ashton got close, his brow furrowing, his body clenching so hot and tight around Dylan's finger.
He felt alive with it, his own panting filling the room enough that he could pretend it was two. That it was Ashton's fist on his cock again, that he was here, kissing Dylan with that stupid, strawberry-sweet mouth —
"Ash—"
No!
"A-Ahhhhh— " Dylan barely caught himself, lost in the surge leaping through his spine, his cock, his fist and flooding his hand with a shower of sparkling light and thick, wet cum.
Blinking dazedly, his thoughts were wonderfully blank for the span of a thundering heartbeat or two.
Awareness tickled at the edge of his mind, just enough that he lifted his hand, looking right into the camera as he licked away his own cum.
Some viewers liked it — really, really liked it, in the case of one supporter that’d sent the $200 he’d paid Ian with — and some wouldn't. Most were quiet either way.
But it bought him time while his brain rebooted, coming back online with the full knowledge that he might be the most pathetic guy on the planet, saying that foolish strawberry's name as he came.
On camera, too. Great. Gonna have to edit that out before uploading.
Orgasm over, and without even the regular patterns of the day to distract him, now it all crashed back in; post-nut clarity happily rushing to fill the hole left by Dylan's recent release.
This. This right here is why you don't get mixed up with straight boys.
Idiota.
Dylan had flown too high, maybe. Taking Ashton to the roof, pushing and pushing; he'd soared too close to the sun, and only gotten burned for it.
Snarling, he grabbed up the remote, slamming the Stop button and throwing it onto the bed hard enough to bounce twice before skittering off the edge.
He heaved himself up, grabbing his phone out of the dinky plastic camera mount and thumbing it open to the texting app; typing out a 'FUCK YOU!
' into the little bar of his and Ashton's convo faster than self preservation could fly.
It swooped in just as his finger hovered over the Send button; held rigid by the torrent of mixed emotions swirling through his chest so hard it ached.
Jabbing at the off switch, hollowness filled him at the sight of his reflection in the darkened screen.
He was still wearing the luchador mask he recorded in, verdant green with gold trim; Rey Verde, the Green King.
He sneered at his alter ego, yanking the mask off without caring that it yanked sharply at one of his piercings.
Dropping both it and his phone to the floor, he flopped onto his bed with a huff and a bounce, throwing his arm over his eyes.
Oh. My. God.
What the fuck was he even doing?