Chapter 5: The Bro Talk
The after-silence was a physical thing. It pressed against my eardrums, a vacuum where the donation pings and frantic chat scroll used to live. Evan’s weight was gone, replaced by the cool sting of air on damp skin and a deeper, internal ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. He stood there, his back to me, zipping his jeans with a finality that sounded like a period at the end of a rotten sentence.I didn’t move from the chair. The cheap pleather was cold and sticky under my thighs.I could feel him, still.A phantom fullness. A slick trickle escaping. The reality of it—what he’d done, what I’d allowed, what my body had shamelessly embraced—congealed in the pit of my stomach.Evan cleared his throat, the sound jagged in the quiet. “I’ll… pull the highlights.Edit the VOD.” He still wouldn’t look at me. He was talking about content.Always the content. The metal tripod legs scraped as he folded the camera away, a retreat into his role as manager, producer, ghost.
“Yeah.” My voice was hollow.“Do that.”
From the hallway, a faucet ran.Drew, cleaning up. The mundane sound was an absurd counterpoint. I finally shifted, wincing at the tender pull of muscles.I reached for the discarded latex suit, a limp black skin on the floor. The symbolism was so blunt it was laughable.Evan finished securing the equipment. He paused at the edge of the living room, his profile etched in the dying glow of the ring lights. “The numbers were historic,” he said, not proudly, but like a doctor stating a terminal diagnosis.
“I saw.”
He finally met my eyes.His were shadowed, unreadable. “It changes things.”
“No shit.” I stood, my legs shaky. The movement made more of him leak out of me.A hot, embarrassing spill. I clenched, trying to stop it, a useless reflex. “It changes everything.”
He just nodded, once, and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.The apartment settled into a false normalcy. The hum of the refrigerator.The distant bass of a car stereo passing outside. I wrapped the velvet throw from the couch around my shoulders, a thin shield. Drew emerged from the bathroom, his face pale, eyes avoiding the dark stain on the laminate floor.He’d changed into clean shorts.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice small.A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat.Was I okay? I had a uterus that was probably staging a riot. My best friend had just fucked me raw to appease a crowd of anonymous paypigs. And this guy was asking if I was okay.“Peachy.” I walked to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the tile. I needed a drink.Something that burned. I grabbed a bottle of cheap bourbon, poured three fingers into a cloudy glass, and knocked it back.The fire was a clean, welcome pain. It scoured the taste of sweat and sex from my tongue.Drew hovered in the doorway. “That was… intense.”
“You blew your load in two minutes, Drew.” The words came out flat, merciless.“You left thousands on the table. You lost the momentum.” I poured another drink. The liquor was making the room tilt, but it was solidifying something inside me—a cold, sharp clarity.“Chat was screaming for more.They got it from Evan. Because you couldn’t fucking last.”
His face crumpled, a mix of shame and defensive anger. “I was excited, man! You know what it’s like, with everyone watching, and you looking like… that.” He gestured at me, a vague sweep of his hand that took in the mess of hair, the bare legs under the throw.
“It’s a performance.” I slammed the glass down.“It’s not a goddamn freebie for your dick. It’s a product.You failed the quality test.” I let the words hang, watching them land. This was language he understood.Metrics.Performance.Failure.He flinched. “What do you want me to do, Taylor? I can’t help it.”
I looked at him—his slumped shoulders, his hangdog expression. The old Drew, my buddy, was in there somewhere, buried under layers of hormonal confusion and viewer-pressure.But the old Taylor was gone, too. We were both ghosts piloting strange, treacherous flesh.
A plan, ugly and practical, formed in the bourbon-hazed silence.The bank balance glowed in my mind.The $5,000 superchat. The trajectory.We needed sustainability.We needed a draw beyond novelty. We needed Drew to be more than a punchline.“We fix it,” I said.He blinked. “How?”
“You think endurance is just for gamers? It’s for this, too.” I pushed off the counter.The throw slipped, revealing my shoulder. I saw his eyes flicker down, then quickly away, guiltily. “As your bro,” I said, emphasizing the word, a anchor to what we were supposed to be, “I’m gonna help you.Train you.No audience. No pressure. Just you, me, and not coming like a teenager the second you get touched.”
His mouth opened, closed. A flicker of hope, twisted and prurient, lit his face. “Train… how?”
“Sit on the couch.”
He obeyed, moving slowly, as if in a dream.He sat on the edge of the cushions, knees wide. The living room lights were low now, just one softbox casting long, dramatic shadows.It felt like a confessional.
“Drop the shorts.”
He hesitated for only a second. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his athletic shorts and pushed them down to his ankles. His cock lay soft against his thigh, a vulnerable, innocent thing. The reality of what I was proposing—what I was about to do—crashed over me.This was Drew. We used to shotgun beers and argue about Star Wars canon.My stomach revolted.The bourbon threatened to come back up.
But the memory of the digital cash register sound was louder. The phantom ache between my legs, a traitorous pulse, was louder.I knelt on the floor between his knees. The hardwood was unforgiving on my knees.The perspective was dizzying.I was looking up at him.Subservient. The throw pooled around my waist. I saw his eyes widen, taking in the bare curve of my breasts, the shadow between them.
“Look at me, not them,” I commanded, my voice rough.His gaze snapped to my face.I reached out. My hand—smaller, paler, with neat oval nails I still hadn’t gotten used to—hovered in the space between us.I watched it move as if it belonged to someone else. Then I wrapped my fingers around him.The feeling was a sickening jolt of familiarity.The skin was soft, warm. The weight and shape in my palm were a memory made flesh. My own grip—the way I used to hold myself—was the template.I started to move, a slow, dry upstroke. He was soft, but thickening rapidly. The sensation of him growing, hardening under my ministrations, was a perverse power.“Breathe,” I instructed, my tone clinical. “In through your nose.Out through your mouth.Think about anything else.The quadratic equation. The fucking Kessel Run.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a shaky exhale. He was fully hard now, standing thick and eager in my fist. I adjusted my grip, firming my fingers, establishing a rhythm. The slide was smooth, then slick as a bead of precum welled from his tip. I smeared it down his shaft with my thumb, using it as lubricant.The obscene, wet sound filled the quiet room.My own body was betraying me utterly. A deep, responding throb awakened between my legs.Heat flooded me. I could feel myself getting wet, a slow, insidious seepage that had nothing to do with my mind. The disgust was a cold shell, but inside it, this new, female circuitry was lighting up, responding to the primal script of a hand on a cock.My cock.His cock. The lines blurred into a single, shameful feedback loop.“See?” I whispered, my voice tight.“You can last. Focus on the feeling, not the finish. Separate them.” I pumped him, a steady, metronomic beat.My wrist began to ache. His breathing hitched, but he held on, his thighs tense, his knuckles white where they gripped the couch cushions. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip.I watched his face contort in the struggle.The intent, desperate focus. This was a different kind of intimacy than what happened with Evan.This was control, manipulation, a twisted mentorship. It was almost worse.Ten minutes crawled by.His control was fraying. “Tay… I’m close,” he grunted, a warning.
“Not yet.” I sped up my hand, twisting on the upstroke, my thumb pressing firmly into the soft ridge beneath his head. His hips bucked upwards, fucking into my fist.“There.Ride it. Don’t let go.”
He groaned, a strangled, agonized sound.His balls drew up tight. I saw the moment he tipped over the edge, the tension snapping.“Now,” I ordered.
His release was a violent, spurting cascade. Thick, hot ropes shot across my wrist, my forearm, splattering onto the floor between us with soft, wet patters. He cried out, his body shuddering through the convulsions, his cock jerking in my relentless grip until he was spent, soft, and dripping.
Silence descended, broken only by his gasping breaths. The smell—musky, salty, profoundly sexual—hung thick in the air.I slowly released him. My hand was painted with him, glossy white streaks on my skin.I stared at it.The evidence. My own arousal was a soaking, insistent presence, a maddening counterpoint to the revulsion churning in my gut.I had done this.I had made him last. I had won this vile little game.
And as I looked from my soiled hand to his blissful, emptied face, and felt the slippery heat pooling at my own core, I understood the horrifying truth. The training wasn’t for him.It was for me. Every stroke was a lesson in a new kind of power, one that lived in the surrender, in the giving of pleasure, in the terrifying, profitable alchemy of my male mind trapped in this ruthlessly responsive female flesh.I was learning my new weapon. And the tuition was being paid in cum and self-respect.