Chapter 5: Hubby a fan too
Kevin Barker’s coffee mug froze halfway to his lips, lukewarm liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he stared, transfixed, at the monitor replaying Pete’s live feed from the chaotic locker room. Across the cluttered broadcast desk, Blair’s usually sharp analysis died mid-sentence, replaced by a choked, disbelieving laugh echoing Barker’s own stunned silence as the image of Hazel, glistening and contorted beneath Hoffman, filled the screen.
"Jesus H. Christ," Barker finally muttered, the mug hitting the desk with a sharp clack, forgotten coffee soaking into a stack of victory stats. "They’re… she’s… live? Pete’s actually goddamn broadcasting this?" He raked a hand through his hair, the raucous studio buzz around them – the clatter of keyboards, excited shouts about the win, the distant thump of music from the hall – fading into a muffled roar compared to the visceral slap of skin-on-skin and Hazel’s ragged gasps filling his headphones.
Blair leaned closer to his own monitor, adjusting his glasses, his expression caught between professional detachment and sheer, slack-jawed astonishment. "Streaming numbers just went supernova," he reported, his voice tight, almost breathless. "Comments are… well, unprintable. Mostly. Some folks think it’s CGI. Others are booking flights to Toronto." He tapped the screen where Kirk’s head was buried between Hazel’s legs. "That… that’s real dedication to immersive reporting, I guess."
Barker couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched Hazel arch violently, screaming something raw and triumphant into the camera lens Pete shoved closer. A strange cocktail of emotions churned in Barker’s gut – professional horror warring with a hot, undeniable spike of voyeuristic fascination, and beneath it all, a sharp, unexpected pang of something bitter. Jealousy? Resentment? He’d admired her sharp mind and sharper tongue, maybe imagined… things. Seeing her like this, utterly abandoned and claimed by the very players he analyzed nightly, felt like a punch.
He remembered the last locker room interview he’d done with Schneider – the guy’s easy arrogance, the way he’d looked right through Barker like he wasn’t even there. Now that same guy had painted Hazel’s face with his cum while the team roared. "Fuckin’ animals," Barker breathed, but there was no heat in it, just a hollow disbelief watching his sexy wife get gangbanged. His gaze lingered on the slick mess covering Hazel’s stomach, the champagne Vlad poured mixing obscenely with Max’s load. "They’re all completely shitfaced. She looks…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "Wrecked. But… into it. Way into it."
Blair snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "Into it? Barker, she just told millions watching live she wants every single one of them fucking her ass raw." He pointed at the screen where Hoffman was pounding into her relentlessly. "She’s not exactly playing hard to get. She’s directing." He shook his head, a faint, almost unwilling smile touching his lips. "She’s taking it like a goddamn champ. Literally."
The camera angle shifted dizzyingly as Pete moved, catching a wider shot. Champagne bottles littered the floor, players stumbled past laughing, completely ignoring the hardcore porn unfolding right beside the equipment trunks. Someone dumped beer over Hazel’s legs as Hoffman fucked her. She didn't flinch; she moaned, loud and long, her voice cutting through the studio's headphones like a physical thing. Barker shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the cheap pleather suddenly hot and restrictive. He crossed his legs, trying to ignore the insistent, unwelcome pressure building in his own groin. The sheer abandon, the raw, unfiltered power of it – her defiance mixed with utter submission – was hypnotic, terrifying, and intensely erotic.
He watched Kirk bite down hard on Hazel’s nipple, saw her body convulse, heard her desperate cry. "Christ, Kirk’s gonna draw blood," Barker muttered, his own chest tightening sympathetically. But Hazel’s eyes, when the camera found them again, weren’t pleading; they were blazing, locked onto the lens, daring the world. Pete’s voice crackled in their ears, demanding a soundbite. Barker held his breath.
"That I’m the luckiest fucking slut in Toronto getting gangbanged by World Series champs!"
The studio air crackled. Blair let out a low whistle, long and slow. "Well. There’s your post-game quote of the century. Maybe the millennium." He started typing furiously, probably drafting some sanitized version for the news ticker.
Barker just stared. The jealousy curdled into something darker, a sour taste in his mouth. The players were so lucky. Having just won the World Series that he always dreamed about and now this. His wife covered in cum, champagne, and beer, getting brutally fucked on a sticky table just like they role played at night while the world watched? His eyes traced the lines of exhaustion and ecstasy on her face, the raw vulnerability beneath the bravado. It looked less like luck and more like… consumption. A sacrifice on the altar of victory. He pictured Pete’s gleeful face behind the camera, Vlad’s possessive grin, Hoffman’s detached intensity. He thought of the millions of unseen eyes devouring her.
"Yeah," Barker finally said, his voice rough. He picked up his cold, spilled coffee mug, stared into its dregs, then slammed it back down, harder this time. The sound startled Blair. "Lucky." He forced a tight, bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Real fucking lucky." He leaned back, the cheap office chair groaning under his weight, his gaze still locked on the monitor where the chaotic, sloppy orgy continued. "Guess the victory celebration’s just getting started down there. Makes our analysis seem kinda… tame." He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "Beats talking about batting averages, huh, Blair?"
Blair glanced at him, then back at the screen, where another player was lining up, his intentions clear. "Tame?" Blair echoed, a strange mix of revulsion and fascination in his own tone. "Yeah. You could say that." He paused, watching the new assault begin. "They’re gonna ruin her."
Barker didn’t answer immediately. He watched Hazel open her mouth willingly for the next cock, her eyes glazed but still somehow defiantly meeting Pete’s lens. "Or," he murmured, the word barely audible over the wet sounds and the studio’s hum, "she’s ruining them." He finally tore his eyes away, looking out at the bustling newsroom where oblivious producers scrambled to cover the celebration. The scent of cheap coffee suddenly seemed pathetic. He felt strangely detached, adrift, the roar of the fake crowd on the studio monitors a dull counterpoint to the real, visceral roar still echoing in his headphones. His hand unconsciously rubbed his thigh, the phantom pressure refusing to fade. The image of Hazel’s sticky, triumphant smile burned behind his eyelids. He took a deep, shaky breath, the air tasting stale. "Someone should probably… I dunno… turn that feed off," he said, but made no move towards the controls, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests. Down in the locker room, unseen on the feed he couldn’t stop watching, a discarded champagne bottle rolled slowly across the slick floor, coming to rest against Hazel’s discarded microphone, her declaration of being Toronto’s "luckiest fucking slut" still buzzing in the humid air like a dirty joke only half the world heard.
Beside Barker in the suddenly stifling studio, Blair’s right hand, resting near his thigh under the broadcast desk, twitched once, then slowly slid into the fabric of his slacks, his knuckles whitening as he gripped himself through the material, his breath catching audibly in his throat.
Barker’s gaze snapped away from Hazel’s ecstatic scream on the monitor, the raw sound still vibrating in his headphones, landing instead on the subtle, frantic movement of Blair’s forearm hidden beneath the desk’s ledge. The rhythmic bulge and tense knuckles straining against the thin wool of Blair’s slacks confirmed it – his colleague was furiously jerking off right beside him, eyes glued to the live gangbang feed, breath shallow and sharp.
Barker recoiled, the lukewarm coffee suddenly tasting like bile in his mouth as he took in Blair’s flushed face and the frantic, hidden motion. "Jesus Christ, Blair!" he snapped, shoving his own chair back hard enough to scrape the floor. "That's enough!" He stood, knocking his forgotten mug over completely, ignoring the dark pool spreading across the desk as he turned towards the control booth, eyes scanning the frantic studio for a producer. "I'm shutting that goddamn feed down now!"
Barker shoved through the crowded studio floor, ignoring startled producers and spilling coffee, heading straight for the dimly lit control room door marked 'Broadcast Ops'. Inside, a lone, balding producer named Gary was practically hyperventilating, jabbing a finger at a monitor showing viewer counts exploding upward – "Over a million new viewers every minute, Kev!" Gary yelled, eyes wide with panic and manic glee, "We can't pull it now – at this rate, more people are watching Hazel get railed than watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon!"
Barker’s hand froze on the soundboard as Springer shoved into frame, grinning wildly beside Hazel’s glistening, contorted form, shoving the mic towards the lens and shouting, "We're going back leg city on this bitch, Barker!" Barker felt the studio spin, his own catchphrase thrown back like acid while Hazel moaned beneath Springer’s thrusts.
Springer shoved the microphone against Hazel’s wet, gasping mouth, his hips hammering into her as he bellowed into the lens, "Getting it down and getting it singing, Barker! Isn't that what you fucking told me?" Barker choked, the familiar phrase – his own damn catchphrase from a thousand post-game interviews – a serrated blade twisting in his gut, his hand spasming away from the kill switch as if burned.
Without another word, disgust warring with a sick compulsion he couldn't name, Barker shoved away from the control panel, turned his back on Gary’s frantic pleas and Blair’s hidden desperation, and strode out of the buzzing studio into the cool Toronto night air, the distant roar of the stadium pulling him like a magnet down the rain-slicked street with a heavy heart and a hardon in his pants.