Work Text:
Every Friday, the second his shift ended, Whitaker walked out the door of the PTMC and headed home. He was a man on a mission. He had a routine, and it could not be disrupted.
The day shift went out for food or drinks on Friday nights. Each week, they invited Whitaker, and each week, he thanked them and declined.
“Sorry guys. I'm too tired this time. Maybe next week?”
“You say that every week,” Langdon pointed out. Whitaker shrugged.
“I guess I always underestimate how tired I'll be.”
But Whitaker did not go home to sleep. He took a long, warm shower, made himself a quick dinner, and then set up his bedroom for his stream. Every Friday, from 10-11pm, he went live on a cam site under the pseudonym Isaiah.
He had started streaming the year prior, towards the end of his surgery department rotation. He wasn't making enough money to pay rent and buy himself groceries and pay off his student loans, and he couldn’t bear asking his parents for money. They had already sacrificed so much to get him this far.
So, Whitaker registered on the cam site. College had allowed him to explore his gender and sexuality in a way he never could have dreamed of in Nebraska, and he found that he didn’t mind the idea of complete strangers watching him shove various objects up his cunt.
It took several months until he grew an audience sizable enough to make it worth the money. He thought about giving up, about getting a part time job at the cafe down the street, but he kept at it until his subscriber count finally ticked over 1,000.
It wasn't the worst thing. Sure, there were creeps. People would send him unsolicited dick pics; people would beg to see his face or know his real name, and then threaten him when he refused to share personal details. But at the end of the day, Whitaker could close his eyes, ignore the chat and messages, fuck himself stupid for hours, and still make money.
He kept up his side hustle when he moved to Pittsburgh for his emergency department rotation. He didn’t even have a place to stay at first, and had to go on hiatus, but once Santos offered him her spare bedroom, he picked it back up. After telling Santos, of course.
“You do what?”
“I, uh—”
“Damn, Huckleberry! Whoring it out online for some extra cash. Never thought you’d have it in you. I respect it, honestly.”
Whitaker blinked. The conversation had been going better than he expected. “Uh, thanks?”
Santos nodded, reclining on the couch. “So, how often do you do this? Just so I know when to vacate the premises.”
Whitaker blushed and picked at the skin around his thumb. “Uh, Friday nights. But I also record videos sometimes—”
Santos held up her hand. “Cool. Great. Friday nights, I'm gone. Any other time you’re recording, shoot me a text. I'll hightail it out of here ASAP.”
Whitaker nodded. “Uh, thanks. I mean, for not, like, thinking I'm a freak and kicking me out—”
Santos waved her hand. “No way, Huckleberry. I respect the grind. Hell, I'll even subscribe if that helps the algorithm or however the site works.” Whitaker's eyes widened, and she hastened to clarify. “I will not be watching. I’m a lesbian, Whitaker. I could not be less attracted to you if I tried.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No problem, man,” Santos grinned. “Anyway, come sit. We need to catch up on Drag Race!”
And thus, Whitaker continued his second life as Isaiah. He was making decent money. Yes, some of that was the result of fielding increasingly absurd custom video requests, but when an anonymous pervert tells you he’ll pay $500 for a video of you rubbing your feet on a dildo, and you haven’t bought groceries in two weeks, you aren’t really in any position to refuse.
Overall, things were going well. He had regulars, people who he could rely on showing up to his streams every week, leaving comments on his videos, donating a couple extra dollars here and there. It was nice. It was predictable.
Until it wasn’t.
It started with his PittFest fundraiser live stream. PittFest had been eating at him ever since the day it happened. He knew he did all he could as a doctor, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
Funnily, it was Santos who gave him the idea. Every night after their shift, they sat on her old, disintegrating couch, watched reality TV, and talked. There were usually substances involved, be it alcohol or weed. They talked about everything and nothing—their childhoods, the most interesting patient they saw that day, who at work they would sleep with if HR didn’t exist (Whitaker's choice was Robby, which Santos teased him endlessly about; Santos couldn’t talk, he argued, given her massive crush on Mel). It was during one of these late night conversations that Whitaker shared his restlessness regarding PittFest.
“Y’know,” Santos said, taking a hit of her joint and offering it to Whitaker, “I saw they made a GoFundMe. For, like, people impacted—families of victims, survivors. To pay for medical bills and stuff.”
Whitaker frowned, accepting the offer. He took a slow drag before he responded. “And what money am I going to give them? My card declined at Dunkin' last week.”
Santos rolled her eyes. “Your streaming shit, dummy. Do, like, a fundraiser. Every ten dollars and I shove another object up my cunt, or whatever it is you do on there.”
Whitaker felt his face redden. “Fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” she said. She held out her hand, beckoning for the joint. He handed it over with a sigh. “Think about it, Huckleberry.”
It was already hard for Whitaker to tell when Santos was joking when they were both sober. Regardless, her idea stuck with him, and a week later, he found himself sitting in front of his camera with a vibrator strapped to his leg, watching as money flowed in from his eager audience.
Two orgasms later, he hit his goal of $1,000. Whitaker caught his breath as he stared at the number.
“I’ll stay for a few more minutes, in case anyone else wants to donate,” he started. “Really, thank you so, so much for your generosity—I'll post my donation receipt as soon as I get off stream. And…” he leaned in so he could make out the usernames on the screen. “Right now it looks like Alex is the top donor with $300…not saying anyone should try to beat him out, but…”
He had said it in a joking tone, not expecting anyone to actually one up Alex. But within seconds, the first number of the amount of money raised flipped from 1 to 3, and all Whitaker could do for a moment was stare at it in shock.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. Someone just donated two thousand dollars. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
“Who was that? Magicmike71…Mike, you are our grand winner tonight. Wow. I don't think there’s any topping that.”
He closed out the stream soon after that, taking a moment to clean his room (and himself) before settling back into bed. He made a post documenting his donation and thanking his followers again before opening up a chat log with Mike.
Whitaker soon found that the man preferred Michael. He also soon found that he was kind of obsessed with Michael.
Whitaker expected the top donator to be a complete freak that would request him to fulfill some fucked up fantasy in their custom video. But Michael was kind. Formal. He actually chatted with Whitaker a little instead of instantly demanding to see him naked. His request was simple, but it lit a fire in Whitaker’s stomach. He almost never got requests to be a dom—people tended to put him in a box: gay trans guy equals submissive bottom. Whitaker didn’t mind bottoming (actually, he fucking loved being filled up), but he really got off on being in charge. Michael wanted that.
Whitaker filmed the video the next day but didn’t send it until Sunday. He was nervous, for some reason. He wanted the video to be perfect. He needed Michael to love it. To love him.
He smacked himself. God, I’m so lonely and horny that I’m lusting after a guy that pays to watch me fuck myself on camera because he talks to me like I’m a human being. What the fuck.
“Beating yourself up all by yourself, handsome?” He looked up to see Santos standing in his doorway.
“Fuck. Sorry. Just—getting in my head.”
“When are you not?”
He rolled his eyes, clicked send on the video, and snapped his laptop shut. “I need to smoke.”
Santos's eyes lit up. “Oh, say less, my friend.”
Michael's praise was addicting. The photos he started sending were even more addicting.
Whitaker hated getting unsolicited nudes. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it made him want to throw up and die. He found that his tune changed significantly when it came to Michael.
Sure, he loved hearing how horny his pictures and videos made him. He loved the praise, loved being called baby, loved knowing that somewhere out there, this man was jerking off to his content. Michael's words felt so genuine, like he truly, deeply appreciated the extra time and effort Whitaker put in for him. It made him feel warm all over. But Whitaker wanted more.
Their messages were frequent, almost daily. One night, he sat on the couch with Santos, slightly tipsy, and looked down at his phone as it lit up with a notification.
“Who's that?” Santos slurred. She reached for his phone, but he snatched it away. She raised her eyebrow. “Oh. It’s him.”
“Shut up,” Whitaker mumbled. He had told Santos about Michael—his “mystery man,” as she liked to call him. Earlier in the evening, Whitaker had sent a few photos to Michael showing off a new leather harness he had purchased. The notification was Michael's response, and he hurriedly opened it.
magicmike71: Fuck, baby. Unbelievably sexy. What I wouldn't give to have you fuck me, using that harness. Grips you in all the right ways.
Whitaker bit his lip, his face flushing from a combination of the alcohol and the praise. Before he could fully think it through, his fingers typed out a response.
br0kenb0w: you always say my pics and vids turn you on, but you never give proof :(
magicmike71: Proof?
Whitaker blinked. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“What? What happened?”
br0kenb0w: yeah
br0kenb0w: like, i hate when people send me dick pics out of the blue on here, but….
magicmike71: Is that something you’d like from me?
br0kenb0w: only if you're comfortable
br0kenb0w: absolutely okay if not!!! i don’t want to pressure you!!! this is my job after all not yours lol
The message went from “delivered” to “read.” For several minutes, there was no trace of the three dots at the bottom to indicate Michael was typing.
Whitaker threw his phone down. “Oh my God. Fuck my fucking life.”
Santos practically threw herself across the couch. She gripped his shoulders, shaking him back and forth. “Huckleberry! What! Happened!”
Whitaker buried his face in his hands. “I asked—oh my God—”
“Asked who? What?”
“I asked Michael. For—for dick pics.”
Santos gasped before falling into a fit of drunken giggles. “Oh my God, Huckleberry—and I thought these guys were supposed to be the pervs, not you!”
Whitaker groaned. “Fuck. I’m—I’m drunk and I wasn’t thinking and now—fuck, now he’s gonna think I’m a creep.” He scrambled to pick his phone up, shooting off several texts to Michael apologizing. He put his phone down again and buried his face in a pillow, Santos laughing all the while.
“Dude, we need to get you laid, like, yesterday. You can’t seriously be this worked up over a complete strang—”
Whitaker's phone buzzed where it sat on the coffee table. They both sat up and peered at the notification.
magicmike71: [1 image]
Santos's jaw dropped. “No way. No fucking way—”
She reached for the phone, but Whitaker snatched it and bolted to his room. He just barely heard Santos yell “Keep it down in there, freak!” before he slammed the door shut and locked it.
It wasn’t a completely nude photo—just a picture of Michael’s hard cock in his underwear—but it was more than enough to allow Whitaker to start conjuring up fantasies. He dug through his toy collection to find a dildo and stripped naked, barely giving himself any prep before sliding it inside of himself. He bit down hard on his hand, stifling his moans as he fucked himself, imagining Michael was here with him. Would he want to fuck Whitaker raw? Would he let Whitaker tie him up and use him like he was using a toy? Would he hold Whitaker down into the bed and plow him until he couldn’t speak? He wanted it all.
His orgasm hit him like a truck, and he was left sweaty and sticky and panting. He turned to look at the photo again, heat still simmering in his gut, when he realized he never responded.
“Shit,” he muttered, typing out a hasty response.
br0kenb0w: holy fuck
br0kenb0w: sorry i had to go jack off
br0kenb0w: and i came so hard that i blacked out for a minute
br0kenb0w: im sorry if this is forward. but i would do anything for you to fuck me
magicmike71: Well, I'm glad you liked it. I'm sure you know I feel similarly towards you, given my subscription to your account.
Whitaker groaned, flopping back onto the bed. He was so fucking nice. He wanted to eat Michael alive. Or, he wanted Michael to eat him alive. Maybe both.
He left off with a message letting Michael know that further photos would be more than welcome. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the man, but he prayed to every God imaginable that he would bless him with more.
Things didn’t only change in Whitaker’s personal life after the PittFest fundraising stream. They changed at work, too.
Dr. Robby had been handsy with him since his very first day—a hand clapped on his shoulder, rubbing his back, pulling and pushing him this way and that. He had become accustomed to the older man’s warm touch; hell, he had started to crave it. It didn't help that he had developed a schoolgirl crush on Dr. Robby on that fateful first day, all pretty eyes and warm smiles. The fact that the man touched him so much really sent Whitaker's lustful thoughts over the edge.
The touches had been getting more and more frequent. Not only that, but there was something different about them. The air between them felt charged, tense. Robby would let his hand linger for just a second too long, then blink like he just remembered something and quickly turn and walk away. Whitaker knew he wasn’t much better, as Santos informed him he turned varying shades of pink depending on where and how long Robby touched him.
The first incident was the thigh touch. He had sat next to Robby to ask him about a patient, and Robby had placed his hand on his left thigh, rather high up. His touch practically burned through Whitaker’s thin scrubs. And, just when he thought that he must be having a wet dream and that any second he’d wake up a soaking mess in his bed, Robby squeezed—squeezed—his thigh. Whitaker watched his fingers flex as he palmed his leg.
Luckily, it was toward the end of their shift, and Whitaker was able to avoid Robby for the next hour until he was able to go home and lock himself away in his room. It was a livestream night, and he couldn’t help but start early. As he fucked himself stupid on the biggest dildo he had, he ignored the chat. He was lost in his imagination, in his fantasy world where it wasn’t a dildo he was riding, but his attending’s thick cock instead.
At first, the touches were just more frequent and slightly more inappropriate. Then, they became more deliberate.
Whitaker liked the idea of doing risqué things in public. He could admit that he was a bit of an exhibitionist—hell, he kind of had to be to have a side job as a camboy. At the encouragement of his chat (but mostly Michael—God, he was so pathetic, he would probably jump off a roof if Michael asked), Whitaker woke up early on Monday, fingered himself open, and slipped a plug into his ass. He snapped some photos and sent them to Michael before heading out the door.
Having the plug in at work gave Whitaker a thrill. Every time he sat down, he felt it push deep inside him, and he had to bite his lip to stifle a moan. It wasn't so much that it interfered with his work, but enough to make the heat in his stomach simmer consistently all day. Occasionally, he dipped into the bathroom to snap a picture for Michael, showing how he unraveled slowly throughout the day.
It was on that day that Robby, for lack of a better phrase, slapped his ass. They were standing in a patient room together when Whitaker noticed that Robby had zoned out. He called the man’s name three times before he acknowledged him. Robby assured him he was fine, and then as a way of shepherding Whitaker out of the room, his palm swung a bit lower than usual and collided with his ass.
Whitaker went stock still, and Robby's eyes widened comically. It was an accident, surely, but before Robby could say anything, Whitaker bolted for the bathroom. He slipped down his scrubs and sure enough, there was a slight red tinge to his left ass cheek. He let out a soft moan and set up his camera to record as he fucked the plug in and out of his ass. He could’ve come like that, just from the ghost of Robby's hand on him, but he knew bringing himself to climax in the bathroom at his job would be a step too far. He turned off his phone, slipped his scrubs back on, and headed onto the floor like nothing happened.
Whitaker didn’t tell Michael about what Robby did. He didn’t see the point. He just sent the pictures and the videos, and basked in the praise he received in response. Feeling bold, he asked for Michael to send another picture. Michael had alluded to the fact that he was older than him, which turned Whitaker on to no end. He expected a selfie, maybe a man with gray hair and glasses, someone’s closeted dad or grandpa. What he got instead was a full shot of Michael's cock, salt and pepper pubes included.
After a few orgasms, courtesy of Michael’s photo, Whitaker stepped out of his room to find Santos curled up on the couch. “Sup,” she said. “I made dinner if you want any. Chicken, rice and beans.”
Whitaker nodded. “Michael's old.”
Santos frowned before a look of understanding dawned on her face. She nodded sagely. “Makes sense. Since he texts like he’s fucking Shakespeare. ‘Oh, my most ethereal beloved, let me see thine pussy!’”
Whitaker rolled his eyes. “Well, I know you’re so hell bent on finding out who he is for some reason. So. Figured that would help.”
Santos tilted her head. “When you say old, are we talking, like, 80 years old, or—”
“No, God, no. He's probably in his 50s, maybe 60s.”
Santos smiled. “That does help, my friend. I have a hypothesis.” Whitaker just shook his head and headed for the kitchen.
Whitaker tried to put the ass-slapping incident behind him. Robby never brought it up again, so neither did he. He tried to focus more on Michael. If he couldn’t fuck his attending, he could occupy himself with this anonymous man who salivated over everything he did. So, using some of the money Michael gave him, Whitaker bought a set of white lacy lingerie and wore it to work under his scrubs.
Like the plug, the lingerie was something that wasn’t too distracting but still made his skin tingle and cunt throb ever so slightly as the lace rubbed against his nipples and thighs. He snuck photos every once in a while, pulling up his top in the bathroom to reveal the bralette underneath.
Things were going fine until he ran into Robby. Like, literally ran into him. He had been rushing to a patient’s room when the older man put a hand on his shoulder to slow him down.
Whitaker's heart thumped erratically. What if Robby felt the bra strap under his shirt? Would he say something? Robby was talking, but Whitaker was zeroed in on his hand, how it was moving from his shoulder to his back—
—and he could have sworn his heart stopped as Robby's fingers found the clasp of the bra and ran over it, pushing it slightly so the plastic hooks dug into his skin. He gasped, eyes wide, staring back at Robby's hand and then at his face. His expression was neutral, but the placement of his hand was undeniable.
Before Whitaker could say anything—and what could he even say? Hey, Dr. Robby, are you feeling me up right now?—Robby patted his back and walked off. Whitaker was left frozen and blushing in the middle of the hallway.
That night, Santos commented on how touchy Robby was. Whitaker shrugged it off.
She smiled. “I think I know the identity of your mystery man.”
Whitaker rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that before.”
“Mhm. And I'm even more sure of it now.”
“Are you going to share, or…?”
Santos grinned, turning fully to face Whitaker on the couch. “Okay. So. Let’s go over what we know about him. His name is Michael—”
“—you know that’s definitely not his real name—”
“Shut it, ‘Isaiah.’” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe it’s a middle name. Either way, there’s no way he chose it randomly. Judging by the numbers in his username, and him confirming that he’s old as fuck, he was probably born in 1971. He was impacted by PittFest. He's got disposable income to spend on you, so he probably doesn’t have kids or a partner.”
Whitaker nodded. “Okay. I don't see where this is going—”
“Hmmm,” Santos said, tapping her chin dramatically. “Who do we know that’s old, has ‘Michael’ somewhere in their name, has no kids and is single, and was impacted by PittFest?”
Whitaker shook his head. “No. you’re not—”
Santos grinned. “Oh yes. Yes I am.”
“It can't be Robby."
It could be Robby.
To prove her point, Santos had interrogated Robby at work about his name, his age, trying to support her argument that magicmike71 was, in fact, Dr. Robinavitch.
Whitaker wanted to not believe her, but things lined up. The names. The birth years and ages. The fact that Robby kept looking at him like he knew something Whitaker didn’t. The fact that he was so touchy, more now than ever.
In the end, he chose to ignore Santos. They were all coincidences, surely. Besides, even if it really was Robby, how would he even go about confronting him? “Hey, are you the guy that sends me a lot of money for pictures of my pussy?” What would he do in the event that Robby said no?
He woke up a few days later to the sound of his alarm and about 15 texts from his parents and siblings and friends back home. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. It was his birthday once again.
He never much enjoyed celebrating his birthday, but when he offhandedly mentioned it to Santos, she busied herself with planning, in her words, “the biggest best birthday bash ever.” And what that looked like was hitting the same bar she and the rest of the day shift always did after work on Fridays.
Whitaker had to cancel his stream. sorry guys, i have to go out for some mandatory coworker fun tonight. promise to make it up with two videos next week and a longer livestream. don't miss me too much xx.
He thought about texting Michael. He'd probably be drunk and horny by the time he got home from the bar, and could send Michael some pictures, maybe a video of him giving a sloppy blowjob to one of his toys and telling him how much he wished it was his cock. He stored the idea away in the back of his mind.
Their shift was blessedly quiet (or, at least as quiet as a shift can get in the ED) and they all headed out for the bar. Santos had convinced Robby to come, too. Whitaker never went because of his streaming schedule, so he didn’t know Robby never went either. Another coincidence, he reasoned.
Once at the bar, Santos asked everyone to sing happy birthday to him (and by ‘asked,’ what she really said to the crowded bar was: “Sing happy birthday to my best friend or I’ll kill myself”). Robby bought the first round and clinked his glass of whiskey with Whitaker’s cocktail, giving him a small nod.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
Whitaker felt his face grow red, and he hadn’t even had a sip of his drink yet. “Uh, thanks.”
They drifted apart after that, each mingling with their coworkers. Whitaker found himself engrossed in a conversation with Mel and Santos—or, rather, he found himself witness to Santos’s poor attempt at flirting with an increasingly tipsy and extremely oblivious Mel.
As they talked, Whitaker let his gaze wander until it fell on Robby, leaning against the wall, half empty glass in hand. He was alone, nodding his head to the music that pumped through the bar's shitty speakers.
It’s Robby, Santos's voice whispered in his mind. He bit his lip and pulled out his phone.
br0kenb0w: sorry for not streaming tonight. i can send you pics later to make up for it?
He hit send and watched carefully as Robby slipped his phone out of his pocket, the screen lighting up his face.
magicmike71: No need to apologize, darling. You should enjoy your night off. I would never say no to your photos, though.
Whitaker slammed his empty glass on the table, startling Santos and Mel. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Gonna go get another.”
He walked over to the bar and flagged down a bartender, ordering a second cocktail. As he waited, fingers tapping on the sticky bar top, he felt a body settle in the seat beside him.
“Enjoy your birthday, Whitaker?”
He shrugged. “Trying to.”
Robby nodded. “I get it. Never was a huge fan of celebrating my own birthdays.”
Whitaker nodded, wrapping his hands around his new drink as the bartender placed it in front of him. He took a sip and snuck a glance at Robby, who had pulled his phone out of his pocket when he had turned away. Whitaker saw the opportunity and took it.
He slipped his own phone into his hand and opened up his chat with Michael. His fingers flew across the keyboard.
br0kenb0w: how long have you known?
He glanced up and watched with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety as Robby's eyes widened, his face going completely ashen. Robby looked up at him. Whitaker took a slow sip of his drink.
“I—bathroom. Be right back.”
And Robby was gone, hurtling towards the back of the bar, pushing past coworkers and strangers alike. Whitaker downed the rest of his drink and followed.
When he made it to the bathroom, he jiggled the handle. It was locked. He rapped his fist against the door, hard. “Dr. Robby.”
“Occupied!” Robby's voice shook as he responded.
“Dr. Robby, it’s Whitaker. If you don’t let me in, I am going to stand outside this door for the rest of the fucking night until you come out.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, ever so quietly, so quiet he could barely hear it over the noise of the bar, the lock clicked. Whitaker let himself in.
Robby looked like he was going to be sick. He had backed away from the door and into the corner of the room, shrinking in on himself like if he got small enough he’d disappear. Whitaker clicked the lock back into place and strode across the small room, coming face to face with him.
“It's kind of rude to run off without answering my question.”
Robby closed his eyes. “I—you have no idea how sorry—”
Whitaker clicked his tongue. “Did I ask you to apologize?”
Robby groaned. “No, but—fuck, I’ll, I’ll quit, I’ll transfer hospitals, hell, you should report me to HR, because fuck—”
Whitaker grabbed the front of Robby's shirt, shaking him slightly. “Answer my fucking question.”
He could feel Robby trembling. Robby took a deep breath.
“Since…since the fundraiser. The PittFest fundraiser. After that, the…the video you sent me. I put the pieces together.”
Whitaker let out a breath. That answered one question, but raised so many more.
“You had been watching me before and didn’t know?”
Robby nodded. “Maybe…ah, maybe a month or so? Two months?”
“Fuck,” Whitaker muttered. His mind was racing. He had so many questions, so many emotions battling in his brain—
And they were all wiped away as he watched Robby sink to his knees, arms wrapping around his calves.
“I’m so sorry, Whitaker, please—”
The sight of this man—Robby, Michael—that he had been lusting over, fantasizing about, for months, begging on his knees, set something off in Whitaker's brain.
“You want to fuck me?”
Robby paused his groveling. “W—What?”
“You send me a lot of money. You like my videos and pictures. You watch all my livestreams. Is it because you’re attracted to me?”
Robby's grip on his legs tightened. He nodded.
“But you were too much of a coward to make a move on me in real life, hm? Had to flirt with me from behind a screen? Pathetic.”
Robby gasped, his eyes widening, and Whitaker knew he had him exactly where he wanted him. He hauled Robby to his feet and pinned him against the wall, pressing a leg between his thighs. He smirked as he felt the bulge in the front of his pants.
“You want me to forgive you?”
Robby nodded. “Please, I'll do anything—”
Whitaker snaked a hand into Robby's hair and pulled until his ear was level with his mouth. “Call an Uber and wait outside. I'll be there in ten minutes.”
They staggered their exits from the bathroom. Whitaker left second, paid his tab, and said goodbye to his coworkers on his way out. Right before he left, he pulled Santos to the side.
“Don't wait up for me.”
Her eyes widened. “Who? Who!? Oh my God, please don’t tell me it’s someone from the Pitt—”
“I'll tell you tomorrow. Maybe. Thanks for,” he waved his hand around, “all of this. Really. I appreciate it.”
Santos smiled and pulled him in for a hug. “Of course, Huckleberry. Now go get 'em, tiger!” She ruffled his hair and ushered him out the door.
The drive to Robby's place was silent. Whitaker didn’t talk partly, because he wanted to wind Robby up, to make him nervous. But another part of Whitaker was trying to parse out all of the thoughts raging in his head.
On one hand, it was fucked up that his boss had been watching his porn and communicating with him under an alias without telling him. It was fucked up that he had been seemingly purposefully teasing Whitaker at work, knowing that he had a crush on him.
On the other hand, Whitaker had spent the past several months lusting after both Robby and Michael, and finding out they were the same person was kind of a dream come true. Plus, he knew some of Robby’s sexual preferences based on their text exchanges, and he knew exactly what he was going to do to him when they were alone.
When they reached Robby’s apartment, Whitaker let Robby take the lead temporarily. They trudged into the building, and Robby's hand shook as he took his keys out of his pocket. As he went to put them in the door, he dropped them, muttering something that sounded like a cross between “fuck” and “sorry.” Whitaker smiled to himself, a warmth pooling in his stomach. His silent treatment in the car had worked.
Once inside, Whitaker removed his shoes and set down his bag. He turned to Robby and grabbed him by the shirt, pressing him against the wall. Robby gasped, pupils blown wide as he stared down at him.
“You are going to go to your bedroom, strip, and lie on the bed. You are not going to touch yourself. Got it?”
Robby swallowed and nodded. Whitaker let go of his shirt and watched as the man hurried down the hall and entered the last door on the right.
Whitaker took his time before ending the bedroom. He got a glass of water from the sink, used the bathroom, glanced over Robby's DVD collection in the living room. He rooted through his own bag, in search of a few items he would need for the rest of the evening.
When he finally made it to the bedroom, Robby was laying on the bed with his back against the headboard, his hands curled into tight fists at his side. His cock was bright red and leaking; there was a small puddle of precum where it rested against his stomach. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his eyes were closed.
They flew open as Whitaker made his presence known, approaching the bed and placing a hand on Robby's face. He flinched slightly, glancing up at Whitaker, a mixture of anxiety and lust in his eyes.
“Roll over, hands behind your back.” Robby complied easily. Once on his front, Whitaker took his belt and wrapped it around Robby's wrists. He felt Robby gasp as the leather tightened around his limbs, hips rocking ever so slightly against the bed. He smacked Robby's ass, clicking his tongue. “Of course you’re into this. Slut. Turn back over.”
Sure enough, when he turned over, Robby's face was bright red, and there was a large wet stain on the sheets. He squirmed, struggling to position himself comfortably on his bound wrists.
Whitaker held up a t-shirt he had grabbed from his bag. “I’m going to blindfold you. You've seen enough of me these past few months, hm?”
Robby's eyes widened, but he made no effort to move away from Whitaker as he approached and wrapped the shirt around his head. He tied it and slipped a finger beneath the fabric, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. He waved a hand in front of Robby's face—nothing. He grinned.
Whitaker climbed onto the bed, spreading Robby's legs and sitting between them. He let his eyes rake up and down Robby's body. His fantasies from the past few months were pretty accurate—hairy, big, a little bit of pudge in his stomach. Whitaker licked his lips and rubbed his hands up and down Robby's thighs, watching him shiver.
Without a word, he reached forward and took Robby's cock in his hand. Robby gasped, his hips instantly bucking up into Whitaker’s first as he gave him long, languid strokes.
“Fuck—please, please—”
Whitaker's eyes widened. Was Robby really so wound up that he was already about to come? He let go of his cock, and Robby groaned and thrashed on the bed, thrusting up into the empty air.
“You really think I'd let you get off that easily? Oh, Robby. Or should I call you Michael?"
He leaned forward and dragged a finger from the tip of his cock to the base, his touch light as a feather. When Robby lifted his hips, chasing more friction, Whitaker retreated.
“I have some questions for you, Robby. It would be in your best interest to answer them truthfully.”
Robby bit his lips and nodded, his hips still rocking against nothing.
“Have you ever touched yourself while thinking about me?”
Whitaker knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Robby say it.
Robby groaned, shoulders turning in on themselves. “Y—yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Fuck,” robby muttered. Whitaker pinched his thigh, causing him to yelp. “Fuck, yes, I have—I have jerked off while thinking about you.”
“Mm. Good boy.” Whitaker leaned forward and rewarded Robby with his tongue, wrapping his mouth around the tip of his cock and sucking lightly. Robby practically screamed, and a fresh spurt of precum spread across Whitaker's tongue.
He pulled off, stroking Robby's dick as he posed his next question. “Why did you keep watching me after you realized?”
“Because I—I, shit, I was already attracted to you, I wanted to fuck you even before I knew—”
“Dr. Robby wanted to fuck his med student? What a sick pervert.”
He squeezed Robby's cock, relishing in his whimpers. “Is that accurate? Are you a pervert, Dr. Robby? Having wet dreams about your med student? Jerking off to his photos?”
Robby shook his head, and Whitaker squeezed his cock again. “I bet you’ve thought about bending me over and fucking me in the bathroom at work. Or slipping your hand under my scrubs and feeling me up in an empty patient room.”
“No,” Robby cried, “I’m—I’m a professional, I wouldn't—”
“Professional?” Whitaker laughed. “Says the man who slapped my ass at work, knowing I had a butt plug in. Says the man that gripped my thigh and felt me up when I was wearing lingerie.”
“I’m—I’m sorry—”
Whitaker dug his nails into Robby's thigh. “Oh, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it. You already know that, though. You saw what a mess your touches made me.”
He leaned down again and took Robby's whole length in his mouth, humming as the tip hit the back of his throat. God, it felt so good on his tongue. He so desperately wanted to stay there, to lick and suck until Robby came in his mouth, but he was on a mission. Getting face fucked could wait for another day.
He pulled off, using the slickness of his saliva to quickly pump Robby's cock. “You wanna know what I think you are? A pervert.”
Robby moaned, his legs trembling. Whitaker removed his hand and climbed into Robby's lap. He leaned in and let his lips brush against Robby's as he spoke.
“Say it, Dr. Robby. Say you’re a pervert.”
“I’m not—”
Whitaker snaked a hand into his hair and pulled, cutting him off. “Twice my age. My boss. Paying me money for dirty photos and videos, sending me pictures of your cock. Toying with me at work, keeping everything a secret. That doesn’t sound professional to me, Dr. Robby. It sounds perverted.”
Robby groaned, trying to lean in for a kiss, but Whitaker pulled away.
“Say it.”
Robby thrashed helplessly. His cock was still hard, laying red and neglected against his stomach.
“I—I'm a p—pervert.”
“Again.”
“Fuck,” Robby cried. “I'm a—I'm a pervert.”
Whitaker grinned and pressed his lips to Robby's cheek. “Good boy.”
Robby shuddered, absolutely melting at Whitaker's praise. Whitaker stood to undress himself, and Robby whimpered at the loss.
“I’m going to open myself up now. You've seen me do this before, so I'm sure you can just use your imagination.”
He climbed back onto Robby's lap, relishing in the sensation of their bare skin rubbing together. “No, wanna see you—” Robby pleaded. Whitaker pressed a hand over his mouth.
“Shh.” He took his other hand and brought it down to his cunt, already thoroughly soaked. He easily slipped in two fingers, moaning as he fucked himself open. The wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room.
“Gonna use you,” Whitaker murmured. He slipped a third finger in and gasped. “Gonna use your cock to pleasure myself, the same way you’ve used me.”
He slipped his fingers out of his cunt and brought them to Robby's lips, shoving them in his mouth. Robby moaned as he lapped eagerly at his soaked digits. The sight made Whitaker dizzy with lust.
“Fuck, good boy.” He grabbed Robby's cock and positioned himself over it. “But if you cum before I do, you’ll be sorry.”
“I won’t—”
Whitaker sunk down, letting just the tip slip past his entrance, and he and Robby moaned simultaneously. He slowly took more of the Robby in him, hissing at the slight stretch.
“Fuck, baby,” Whitaker sighed when he was fully seated. He ran his hands across Robby's torso, tweaking his nipples. “Feels so fucking good, better than my toys. Gonna fucking use you, have my fill of you.”
His rhythm was slow to start, knowing that Robby was already teetering on the edge of an orgasm. Robby tried desperately to buck his hips up to meet Whitaker’s bounces, but he placed a hand firmly on his stomach, and Robby melted into the bed, completely limp.
“Just like that, baby,” Whitaker cooed, “Let me use you—ah, fuck—”
Robby's cock hit all the right spots inside him, and within minutes he was dangerously close to his own orgasm. The sound of the bed creaking and his and Robby’s moans filled the room as he sped up, his thighs burning.
“Dennis—I’m gonna—”
“Don't you dare,” Whitaker gasped. “Fuck, Robby—!”
He gasped as his climax overtook him, spasming and trembling in Robby's lap, hands curled in his chest hair. Robby's hips thrusted up desperately, and he whined.
“Use your words,” Whitaker prompted.
“Can I—please, please can I cum in you—”
Whitaker lifted a hand and shoved a thumb in Robby's mouth, rubbing the pad over his tongue. “Cum for me, Robby.”
It was like a switch had been flipped. Robby cried out, muscles twitching, and Whitaker couldn’t help but gasp as he felt his warm seed filling his cunt. He rocked back and forth on Robby's cock, squeezing around him. He reached up to pet Robby's face, slipping the makeshift blindfold off.
Robby's eyes were wet with tears. Whitaker felt his dick twitch inside him as he finally got to see the scene—Whitaker, naked, perched on his lap with his cum leaking out of him. “Oh my God—”
Whitaker captured his lips in a kiss, and Robby responded eagerly, opening his mouth to let Whitaker explore the inside with his tongue. When he pulled away, Robby tried to chase his lips. He laughed.
“So,” he whispered. “Michael?”
Robby closed his eyes. “I know. It's stupid.”
Whitaker shrugged. “I mean, Isaiah is just my middle name, so. I can't really talk.”
“When did you—”
“—know it was you?” Robby slowly opened his eyes and nodded. Whitaker laughed. “Would you believe me if I told you Santos figured it out first?”
Robby looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “Santos knows about—?”
“Yes, she knows. She was actually the one who suggested the whole PittFest fundraiser thing, funny enough. I mean, she doesn’t know she was right," Whitaker smiled. “Unless you want me to tell her.”
Robby looked nervous suddenly, and he winced and he shifted on the bed.
“Oh, shit. Sorry." Whitaker climbed off of Robby, biting back a groan as his cock slipped from his cunt, and rolled him over, undoing the belt around his wrists. He rubbed them carefully, secretly thrilled that there were bruises.
“Listen,” Robby said when he turned back to face Whitaker. “I’m serious—I fucked up. I'm sorry for—”
Whitaker held up a hand. “Oh, I know it’s fucked up. But finding out my work crush and my online crush are the same person is like killing two birds with one stone.”
Robby's eyes widened. “You—”
Whitaker reached out and pinched him again. “Don’t act like you didn’t know, Mr.-Watches-All-My-Streams. Yes, you are my work crush. Yes, I have been thinking about climbing you like a tree since my first day at the Pitt. And clearly, you are just as charming over text.”
Robby had the audacity to blush, like his cum wasn’t actively leaking from whitakers cunt. “So…are we—”
“It'll be a weird get-together story, for sure. We'll have to make something up. Maybe you can say you confessed your love to me over a romantic, candle-lit dinner.”
Robby groaned and pulled Whitaker in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Fuck. I feel like I'm dreaming. This couldn’t get any better.”
Whitaker raised an eyebrow and pulled back, spreading his legs to reveal the wet, sticky mess between his thighs. Robby's eyes went wide, his pupils dilating until they overtook the iris.
“Are you sure about that, baby?”
On Tuesday, br0kenb0w posted two new videos. Both of them featured an anonymous man.
The first video started with Isaiah spreading his cunt for the camera, wet and dripping with cum. He then beckoned someone into frame, and the mystery man appeared. He ate Isaiah out, loud and sloppy, as the smaller man writhed and moaned beneath him.
The second video featured Isaiah being bent over a kitchen counter, shorts just barely pulled down over his ass, with presumably the same man railing into him over and over. He had one hand holding the waistband of Isaiah’s shorts, using them as leverage as he fucked into him. The other gripped Isaiah's ass, leaving red marks in the shape of finger prints. After he came, he pulled out and picked up the camera, capturing his cum leaking out of Isaiah's hole.
The two videos had the same caption.
everyone say hi to mike!
Pages Navigation
sharkingmyit Thu 09 Oct 2025 11:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
charliekellyfanatic Thu 09 Oct 2025 11:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
L2theOG Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
cowboynperil Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
solarrbeam Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
mousyminion Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
RaindropsandSucculents Fri 10 Oct 2025 12:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuckt0mat0juiceant Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
littlewagers Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
mangobby Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
werewolfmlm Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
fifteen_step Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
max_wrights Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
itsbeeagain Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
bjgender Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Scribbled_with_love13 Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
clearly_charlie Fri 10 Oct 2025 01:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
z_es Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
Piano_is_percussion Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:37AM UTC
Comment Actions
Piano_is_percussion Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Fishing_For_Sqiuds Fri 10 Oct 2025 02:37AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation