The GAYmer

It's almost the end of Sunday, and Cole is still streaming. It's surprising to you how no one ever seem to call him a jobless loser. It's like you entered a bubble.

At Cole's house, you two shared the same stream. Even with monitors almost next to each other, you still used headphones for chatting for better audio quality. As always, Cole wanted a competitive game to show off and boost his ego. Things weren't that simple.

The neon glow of Cole’s purple LED strips cast harsh highlights across his pale, exhausted face, illuminating the deep, bruised-looking circles under his eyes.

In your headset, the room audio picked up the sharp, grating sound of a controller being slammed against a cluttered desk, followed by a heavy, dramatic sigh that sounded more like a hiss.

Cole’s chat was already moving at Mach 5, spamming L, skill issue, and bro got farmed in a blur of emoticons.

For the first time all evening, the signature, irritatingly smug smirk that usually permanently plastered itself across Cole’s face was completely gone. Replaced, instead, by a tight, white-knuckled scowl. His dark, oversized gaming headphones slipped slightly as he leaned aggressively close to his face-cam, narrowing his eyes at you through the monitor before glaring down at his own setup.

"You're actually garbage at this game normally, what happened? Did you pay a booster? Are you sucking some fat nerd off for coaching? Absolute zero-skill NPC behavior, istg."

He slammed his fist on the desk one more time, muttering something unintelligible and heavily profane under his breath about IP-banning you.

"Whatever. We're running it back. Standard rules, no items, final destination. But I'm not playing around anymore. You're getting clipped, you're getting humiliated, and then I'm muting you so I don't have to listen to your stupid mouth breathe."

On your end, the character select screen loaded up for the next match. But right as the countdown timer ticked down from three, you felt a sudden, heavy pressure drop right across your lap.

You blinked, looking down.

Cole had kicked off his chunky sneaker. Resting squarely—and rather firmly—right across your crotch was his bare foot, snugly encased in one of his signature black-and-white striped stirrup socks. Unlike other socks, it exposed most of his feet. The only difference from a leg warmer was the strap that wrapped around the arch, separating heel from the upper side of his sole. He hadn't even broken character on stream, though his camera angle conveniently cut off just below his chest. For once, the Chat seemed to have no idea about what was happening.

You heard the rustle of his chair shifting as he leaned back, propping his ankle deliberately against you to restrict your movement, his toes flexing with casual sadism. You were in the middleway of getting, giving this was very close of becoming a footjob.

"Do you really have to stream that? We'll just kiss. There is no way your chat wants to see that." You state, blushing, as you look at him. You two met online, and now you are in his room. He sees a way of profit and more fame in you, and honestly, he doesn't care for much as long as it gets him more viewers.

You though, you wished he wasn't so attractive. Otherwise you wouldn't be doing this. You're pretty familiar with how he treats everybody. You're exactly a fan or part of the 'Chat', you just watched his streams occasionaly.

Because of a horny comment during stream, you got yourself pinned down by the gamer's butt. Your nose and mouth are completely swallowed by the soft, pillowy expanse of Cole’s bare backside. His pale, bubbly ass cheeks press down with heavy, suffocating warmth, trapping you against the mattress as he scrapes his sensitive, pink hole on your lips. His knees are fully bent and kneeling on either side of your torso, and his bare, slightly damp feet frame the sides of your head just below your ears, wedging you firmly in place. The soles of his soft feet press gently against your temples, acting as a bizarre, humiliatingly comfortable pillow.

The hot, slick slide of his hole dragging across your mouth and nose sends a sharp, electric jolt straight down your spine. You let out a muffled gasp against his skin, your tongue darting out instinctively, and the heavy, musky, slightly sweet flavor of his sweat hits your palate like a drug. It's intoxicating, and completely overwhelming. You can't see, but your trace the whole texture of his hole with your tastebuds. It's twitching a lot.

Above you, Cole lets out a low, rattling sigh that vibrates right through your skull, facing the rest of your laid body but ignoring it to adress the chat.

"Bro... the chat are low-key vibin' at the sight of your nipples. My cock is still on top of their attention, obviously. Mind if I play with them?" Cole reaches down with one hand, his pale fingers—wrapped in black and white striped arm-gloves—coming down to pinch and roll hard over your exposed nipples.

He twists them mercilessly, a cruel little smirk tugging at the corner of his pale, round face as he feels you shudder beneath him.

"Look at this absolute NPC loser," Cole laughs, his tone dripping with toxic condescension as he talks directly into the streaming mic just inches away. He adjusts his weight, grinding his 'cake' a little heavier into your face just to watch you squirm. "Bro literally begged in my chat to get suffocated like this. You're actually down astronomical, holy shit. Get a job."

Even as he verbally etherizes you for thousands of degenerates to clip and ship to Twitter, his free hand is wrapping around the base of his absolute monstrosity of a cock. It’s twitching, completely uncontainable, leaking thick, heavy beads of pre-cum that mix with his intoxicating, toxic sweat. He starts stroking himself with slow, deliberate, punishing rhythms, occasionally letting the massive, throbbing head of his dick slap lazily against your chest. And you thought you were safe since it was away from your face.

"Fucking pathetic," Cole sneers, though his dark, eyebag-framed eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed with raw, unadulterated narcissism as he watches your tongue lap eagerly at his crack. He leans back slightly, humping his ass back at you. You might have not noticed, but he is enjoying this way more than he expected, and the unusual sensations of having his virgin hole eaten out is making the chat, the stream, and his fame trivial compared to sitting on you, even if it was originally your idea.

Cole smiles sweetly as he glances up at the monitor, noticing the chat flying by at Mach 10. Well, this stream is nothing like the usual ones, where he breaks a fleshlight and done. He got himself an actual breathing plaything. Since you were a fan, all he had to is tell you won a special stream with him, where he would reward you personally at his place.

“W stream,” “Cole has a new pet LOL,” “L + ratio to the fleshlight era,” the messages blur past, barely readable.

Behind you, Cole’s gym-toned body is practically draped over your back, you can feel his heartbeat, warmth and plushy muscles against your back all at once. His chin is draped against one of your shoulders, dangerously close of either kissing you or licking your ears. At the moment, just staring at the monitor. His bare legs are hooked firmly around your waist, keeping your thighs forcibly spread wide toward the camera framing the unholy set-up.

Your exposed cock throbs, trapped in the rhythmic, terrifyingly coordinated squeeze of his bare soles. For someone who spends sixteen hours a day hunched over a mechanical keyboard, Cole’s feet have an unnatural, almost prehensile dexterity to them. The arches of his feet slide up and down your shaft with slick, practiced friction, his toes expertly teasing the sensitive underside of the head while his heels grind in heavy, maddening circles against your base. You didn't brought up his black toenails, but he probably did it because he thought you'd enjoy it.

His arm-gloved hands lazily carress your nipples from behind, his thumbs occasionally dragging across the sensitive skin just hard enough to make you twitch, pressing on them like buttons of a joystick.

"Eyes on the camera, lil bro," Cole drawls out, his voice dripping with that signature, nasally, utterly obnoxious smugness."Bro is literally melting down. Chat, look at him. He’s actually shaking. Absolute NPC behavior. You good, bro?

He chuckles as he shifts his weight behind you, letting one of his heels press a little harder down the length of your leaking cock, milking a pathetic gasp right out of your lungs. He won't admit it, but pleasuring you might be more enjoyable than his favorite game, it's even hard to give the chat attention when he's so focused on your reactions. Maybe he'll delay your orgasm and edge you a few times to make this moment last longer.

The secondary monitor flashes with the neon-green warning screen of the alt-platform, chat already scrolling at terminal velocity before the imminent live. Thousands of degenerates flooding the sidebar with W, bro really thought he was doing something, and cook him king.

Cole adjusts the purple headset over his ears, pulling the mic close enough that the heavy, raspy drag of his breathing echoes slightly in the room. The stench of stale energy drinks and unwashed laundry clings to the air, thick and familiar, something that Cole don't even notice it anymore. He's leaning back in his gaming chair, wearing a fresh pair of black-and-white striped thigh-highs and matching arm gloves, his pale, gym-toned legs propped right up on the edge of the desk.

The 'gamer' glances sideways at you sitting in that pathetic little folding chair by the console, completely cornered. You look so small. So utterly 'cooked'.

"Yo, chat, look at him," Cole drawls, leaning into the camera with that signature, razor-sharp smirk stretching across his pale, eyebag-bruised face. Those big black eyes lock onto the lens, completely bypassing you for a second just to play to the gallery. "Bro really woke up, drank his little soy latte, and decided to type essays in my chat. Called me a narcissist. Said I lacked 'basic human decency.' Like... who actually talks like that? Absolute zero-rizz behavior, deadass."

Cole turns his head slowly, fixing his gaze on you now, letting the smugness drip off every syllable.

"So I brought him here. Live. In the flesh. To see if he’s got the same big mouth offline when there's actual stakes involved, instead of hiding behind a keyboard like a absolute beta cuck."

He reaches down, grabbing an open can of caffeine-heavy sludge from the desk, taking a slow sip before slamming it back down. The liquid leaves a glossy trail near his lip.

"Here's how this goes, chat, and listen up because I'm only saying this once. We’re running a first-to-three set in Tekken. If I win—which, let's be real, is a statistical certainty because this kid has negative mechanical skill—he pays the price. And what's the price, chat? Oh, it's foul."

The streamer gestures with a gloved hand toward a crusty, overflowing paper plate sitting right next to his mousepad, piled high with a grim collection of crumpled, glistening latex traps from his last few streams, the condoms that survived his personal deluges.

"You see that little buffet over there? Yeah. Every single round you lose, you’re picking one up and chugging whatever's left inside of it. Freshly brewed, straight from the source. And if we run out of those before you manage to win a single pity round... well." Cole lets out a sharp, mocking laugh, leaning his chin on the left hand as his voice drops into a harsh, sadistic whisper. "Let's just say you're not walking out of my room, bro. You're gonna need a wheelchair, and not 'cause of your ankles." His eyes sparkled as he imagined the engagement, it would be the first thing he fucked that wasn't a sex toys. The views would go crazy.

"Pick your fighter, loser. The stream's watching. Don't choke now, or it's gonna get really gross, really fast."

You’re lying flat on your back on the edge of the unmade mattress, your neck craned backward so your head hangs precariously off the side. Above you, Cole is kneeling right over your face. His black-and-white stirrup thigh-highs are bunched up around his shins, and his pale soles—damp and smelling faintly of the rubber sneakers he’s been wearing all day—are pressed firmly against each side of your temples, gripping your head just below the ears like a pair of fleshy, twitching vices, or maybe soft headphones. Since the stirrups socks keeps most of his barefeet exposed, you feel all the warmth and sweat of his toes.

He’s leaning forward, one hand braced heavily against the mattress beside your shoulder for leverage while his other hand rests casually on his thigh, arching his back slightly so his asscheeks are spread enough to show his hole. His ass is aimed squarely at the high-definition webcam mounted on the tripod across the room, perfectly framed for the thousands of degenerate freaks currently losing their minds in the chat.

"Chat, are you liking my new toy so far?" Cole says, his voice dripping with casual cruelty as he addresses the stream. He glances back down at you, his heavy balls and his absurdly massive, pale, pre-cum-leaking dick hovering right over your trembling lips like a ticking time bomb, humping your face as a way of assert dominance. "Bro deadass thought he won a VIP meet-and-greet. No, stupid, you're the new hardware. My actual fleshlights were getting mid-ass engagement and chat was complaining the silicone was looking too washed. So congrats, you're officially getting upgraded to unpaid labor. Try not to choke and ruin my stream metrics, or you're getting any air during stream, only my big fat cock."

He shifts his weight above you, his stompers squeezing tighter against your temples as he looks back at the chat scrolling by at lightspeed, completely unbothered by the sheer terror in your wide, blushing eyes.

"Alright, chat, place your beats either he'll end up conscious or not," Cole laughs, his tone venomous and entirely serious. "Knock knock, open wide, bitch. I'm coming in~."

(write your own story)