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My ego liked that thought.

“Oh, hi, guys,” he started, breathless and positively wrecked. “That was . . . that might’ve been the most incredible orgasm—well, orgasms—of my life.” His grin was sex-drunk, and it endeared me to him even more. “Thanks for playing along, MrFox. That was fucking hot.”

The chat blew up with their assent—and several animated dollar signs showing he was getting a fuckton of tips—so I jumped in, too. Thank you for the privilege, boy. I had so much fun with you. Then, since he hadn’t responded, I added, Seriously, are you okay?

He smiled, expression clearing just a little more. “Yes, MrFox, I’m better than okay. I’ve got my aftercare routine all ready to go.” He’d explained the process he used after his more intense sessions earlier in the stream, when he was setting the scene. I was glad he had a plan, but I wished more than anything I was there to do it for him.

Jesus, I really had it bad for this man.

After sending one last small tip—if I wasn’t careful, I was going to be broke after tonight—I sent a final message: Rest up, boy. I’ll see you soon.

Substar signed off with his signature goodbye, but I was mulling over my last message to him. I’ll see you soon? What was that about?

I went into the bathroom to clean up, thankful I wasn’t as messy as Substar had been—no change of sheets required. As I pulled on my boxer briefs and gray sweatpants, my computer chimed with a notification. On any other night, I would’ve messaged Substar after his performance to congratulate him or otherwise connect, but I’d abstained tonight. I figured he’d be busy getting a bath or otherwise taking care of himself.

So I didn’t have a clue who was reaching out.

Curious, I returned to my spot and pulled my laptop over. As I suspected, I’d gotten a message on the cam site section of the Daddy’s Boy website. I assumed it was probably one of the other guys in the chat wanting to shoot the shit about my performance—my ego really was inflated today—but my eyes widened when I saw the handle.

Substar had messaged me.

Chapter six

Tristan

My ass was sore. I mean, my ass cheeks were pitifully devoid of painful color—god, I hadn’t had a proper spanking in years—but my hole was as tender as all get out. I knew aftercare would be imperative after taking Behemoth, which had been fucking fun, but I hadn’t anticipated the feelings that had cropped up as I’d begun running a warm bath.

The pervasive loneliness was hitting hard tonight.

Goddammit.

After two orgasms and that vulnerable live stream with MrFox, I was crashing hard, and I didn’t have the energy to distract myself with thoughts of sex—or anything else, for that matter.

And because I’d ignored them, they’d come back with a vengeance.

I was tired enough to admit I wanted a Daddy. Someone who would take care of me after a live stream, every live stream. Someone who would run my bath, wash me up, rub ointment on my asshole after taking such a giant toy, then spoon me in bed.

I knew fuck all about how to get that, but I did know one thing I could do right now. So after sinking gingerly into my epsom salt bath and letting the initial sting dissipate, I pulled up the Daddy’s Boy app and sent MrFox a message.

I hope I was good for you today, Daddy.

Then I closed my eyes, settling back against my contoured neck pillow to wait for a reply. I hoped it’d be soon.

And sure enough, only a minute or so later, MrFox messaged me back. You were such a good boy, Substar. Thank you for that incredible performance. I hope I helped you get a ton of tips.

I would’ve forgotten to check, but the screen that greeted me after I ended the stream gave me a rundown of my livestream stats. I’d made twice my monthly condo payment in a single half-hour show.

Yes, Daddy, thank you. I sent that then paused, considering my next move. Should I keep the conversation going? Who knew where he was from or what he did during the day on a Monday. Was he a time zone or two away and watched my stream on his lunch break? Did he sneak out of a meeting at his high-powered job just to get me off? Or maybe he was a little more blue collar and worked with his hands. Perhaps he was a creative type and set his own hours. Or possibly—

How are you, really?

Well, damn. Was it possible this guy actually gave the tiniest of shits about me? I’m okay, Daddy. You’re so sweet for asking. Sore, of course, but this salt bath is helping.

Good boy. You have some ointment as well?

This man sure lived up to his moniker. The Daddy one, anyway. The Fox part . . . I remembered my conversation with Cameron last month and figured this was the perfect time to ask. I wanted to keep him talking.

I do, MrFox43. That’s a great handle, btw—would you like to tell me what it means?