Solomon's chest constricts, trying desperately to even out his breathing as the slick heat engulfs his lower cock. After nearly hours of this torment their tongue was working against the underside in a way that made his thighs tense around their head. The rattling intensifies—his traitor of a tail broadcasting exactly what tú’s mouth is doing to him—and he grips the armrest harder.
Montgomery fucking Ackerman's sardonic drawl drones on through his headphones with yet another caustic rant about "watching the world burn" wrapped up in barely-concealed contempt for everyone and everything. Thirty seconds left on the video, maybe forty. Solomon's eyes flick between the progress bar and the chat scrolling past. His audience was eating up the trainwreck commentary like they always do, dropping emotes and "KEKWs" like confetti.
He risks a glance downward, and just as he expected, the sight punches the air right from his lungs. tú’s lips stretched around his shaft, saliva gleaming at the corners of their mouth. His other cock twitches against nothing, pre-cum beading at the tip and dripping onto their head. Fuck, the visual alone could finish him if he let it.
"That's it, you pathetic little cock sleeve," he hisses under his breath, his voice a low gravelly sound, barely audible over the rattling of his tail. He rolls his hips up, forcing himself deeper, feeling the resistance of throat muscles clenching around him. The wet gagging sound that follows sends electricity straight up his spine.
Only fifteen seconds left.
"Shhhh,” the sound comes out strangled, almost panicked. But without giving them a chance to even attempt to obey, he’s reaching for the mic toggle, his thumb hovering over the mute button as Montgomery's sign-off music starts playing. "Shut the fuck up."
Click. "So—" His voice cracks immediately, pitching up in a way that makes heat flood his face. Fuck. At least they couldn’t see him. He clears his throat hard, trying again while his cock pulses against the soft palate and slick tongue. "So that was... that was Montgomery Ackerman's latest IRL stream where he harasses some poor McDonald's worker for content."
The chat explodes with question marks and LULs. **AnonyMouse:** BRO YOU GOOD??
"I'm not your 'bro,' chief," he snaps with his typical condescending tone, even as it wavers from the warm suction intensifying around his shaft. "But thanks for your concern, really appreciate it." His free hand shoots out to grip the edge of his desk. "And yeah, I'm fine. Just suffering through watching this absolute mongoloid terrorize minimum wage employees for his audience of mouth-breathing fucktards."
His hips move in shallow, desperate jerks, fucking into that warm mouth while he stares at his monitors. The only thing his audience can hear is his voice, but it’s ragged and strained.
"This guy—" Yet another thrust, and this time he has to bite down on his lip to stop the groan building in his chest. His tail coils tighter, yanking tú even closer. "This guy is what happens when you take the whole 'detached ironic observer' shtick and combine it with Logan Paul's shameless clout-chasing and Andrew Tate's grift. He streams himself going into public spaces, being a complete asshole to everyone around him, and then when people get upset he acts like they're the unreasonable ones."
Someone in chat types MONTY IS FUNNY AF YOU'RE JUST MAD.
"Oh, shut the fuck up," Solomon growls, but the venom in his voice is only partially directed at the chat. The rest is pure frustration at the tongue doing absolutely sinful things to the head of his cock. "Yeah, real funny. Real fucking hilarious watching some trust fund kid with a superiority complex mock people who actually have to work for a living. Peak comedy right there."
His breathing is getting harder to control. The wet sounds from under his desk seem deafening to him, despite being practically inaudible to his mic. Pre-cum leaks from his neglected cock and every nerve ending feels like it's on fire.
"The—the thing about Montgomery," he continues, strained and breathy, "is that he thinks he's above it all. He's got this whole persona of being too cool to care, too smart to be affected by anything. But the reality is he's just as much of an attention whore as everyone he mocks. The difference is he's convinced himself—and his whole fucking audience—that his attention seeking is somehow more legitimate because it's totally ‘ironic ‘ bro.”
Another deep suck and his eyes nearly cross. He has to squint at his second monitor, pretending to pull up something on screen while his thighs shake.
"And his chat? Jesus Christ, his chat is full of the same kinds of desperate losers who worship Andrew Tate, except they think they're smarter because they get Monty's 'references' and laugh at his edgy jokes. They're all sitting there going 'based' and 'kek' while he streams himself being a public nuisance, thinking they're part of some exclusive club of people who 'get it.'"
Chat's moving way too fast for him to even attempt to read now, a blur of arguments, agreements and floods of emotes. His hand trembles against the desk as his cock throbs, and his aching balls tightening with the mounting pressure of an orgasm he absolutely cannot have right now.
"And the worst part? The absolute worst fucking part?" His voice cracks again and he covers it with a cough. "Is that Monty actually is funny sometimes. Like, when he's just doing commentary on internet drama or roasting lolcows, he's genuinely entertaining. But that's not enough anymore. He's gotta escalate. He's gotta go IRL. He's gotta start shit with random people in public to keep his audience engaged."
The suction increases and he has to physically bite his tongue to keep from groaning on mic. His tail rattles violently against the back of his chair. His words are coming out automatically, just muscle memory from dozens of similar streams, while his brain focuses entirely on not cumming.
"And now he's pivoting into the whole masculinity guru thing because that's where the money is. Streaming yourself being an asshole only gets you so far. But if you can convince lonely guys that you've got the secret to becoming a 'high value male' or whatever the fuck, then you can sell courses, supplements, all that grifter shit."
Someone donates five dollars with a text-to-speech message: "Sounds like someone's jealous of Monty's success."
"Oh fuck off," Solomon snarls, and his voice finally breaks completely as that talented tongue does something absolutely obscene to his frenulum. "I'm not—I'm not jealous of some—some nihilistic fa—"
But he has to stop before he can finish the insulting threat. He has to take a drink of water with trembling hands while his cock pulses dangerously close to the edge.
