The Mascot Made Me Gay book cover by Aurora North

The Mascot Made Me Gay — Bonus Chapter: The Fox and the Player

An exclusive bonus scene by Aurora North

⚠️ Spoiler warning: This bonus chapter takes place after the epilogue. Read the novel first. Contains extremely explicit FF sexual content involving mascot costume elements used as consensual props. Too hot for retail.

Riley came home from the charity event carrying the fox head under one arm and a look on her face that I recognized from across the apartment.

It was the Orbit look. The confident, mischievous, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing look that had made me blush on national television two years ago. Except now it was on Riley’s actual face, without forty pounds of foam between us, and the effect was significantly more dangerous.

“Good event?” I asked from the couch, pretending I hadn’t been watching the livestream on my phone for the past two hours. Pretending my stomach hadn’t been tightening every time Orbit approached a player during the halftime show. Pretending I hadn’t noticed that Orbit’s hip-cock was sharper tonight, more deliberate, aimed at me through the camera like a message I was meant to receive.

“Great event.” She set the fox head on the kitchen counter. It sat there grinning at the ceiling with its permanent expression of maniacal optimism, and something about seeing it in our apartment — our shared space, our private world — made my pulse do something medically interesting. “The kids were incredible. Raised twice the target.”

“You were incredible. I watched.”

“I know you watched. You always watch.” She unzipped the costume bag she’d slung over her shoulder and pulled out the components: the purple Comets jersey that went over the padded torso, the bright orange tail attachment, the oversized foam paws. She laid them across the back of the kitchen chair like she was undressing a second self.

The jersey. The tail. The paws. The head grinning from the counter.

I stared at the pieces. Riley stared at me staring at the pieces.

“Cam.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re looking at the costume the way you used to look at the costume.”

“I’m not looking at anything.”

“You’re looking at the jersey like it owes you a conversation.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was looking at the jersey — the oversized purple Comets jersey with ORBIT stitched across the back — and my brain was doing something it had been doing intermittently for two years. The thing where the line between the character I’d fallen for and the woman I loved became not blurred but layered. I didn’t want the costume. I wanted Riley. But Riley wearing pieces of the costume, in our apartment, with that look on her face — that was something we’d never explored. Something we’d kept off the table because the boundaries had been necessary and right.

The boundaries had been necessary and right during a time when the costume represented professional identity and the relationship was a secret and Riley’s anonymity was at stake. That time was over. Riley performed Orbit by choice now. The costume was hers, not the team’s emotional property. The fox head on the counter was a prop, not a prison.

“We never played with it,” I said.

Riley raised an eyebrow. “Played with what.”

“The costume. We had the rule — no costume during sex. And the rule was right. It was necessary. But we’re—” I gestured at the apartment. At us. At the two years of therapy and trust and the ring on her finger that caught the light every time she moved her left hand. “We’re different now.”

“And I’ve been thinking about it.”

“About what specifically?”

“About you in the jersey.”

Riley’s mouth did the thing. The left-side pull. The knowing half-smile that still, after two years, made my chest feel like someone had opened a window.

“Just the jersey?”

“The jersey. Maybe the tail. Maybe the—” I looked at the paws. “Okay, not the paws. The paws are ridiculous.”

“The paws are extremely ridiculous.”

“But the jersey. You, in the jersey. Nothing else. In our bed.”

Riley crossed the kitchen. Stood in front of me. Looked up at me with those dark eyes that had been reading my body since before I knew my body had something to say.

“Is this a request, Carter?”

“It’s a request.”

“Then I need you to be specific. What do you want?”

“I want you to put on that jersey and come to bed and let me fuck you in it.”

Riley’s breath caught. Barely audible — the micro-hitch that I’d learned to identify as the specific sound of Riley Park being turned on and trying not to show it. She failed. She always failed. The woman who could hide inside a forty-pound costume could not hide a single thing from me in our kitchen.

“Give me five minutes,” she said.

She gathered the jersey and the tail and disappeared into the bedroom. I sat on the couch and counted my heartbeats and thought about the fact that I’d just asked my fiancée to put on a mascot jersey so I could have sex with her, and that this was my life now, and that my life was completely insane and completely perfect.

Five minutes passed. Riley’s voice came from the bedroom.

“Ready.”

I walked down the hallway. Pushed open the door.

Riley was standing in the middle of the bedroom wearing the oversized purple Comets jersey — and nothing else. The jersey hit her mid-thigh, swallowing her compact frame the way my T-shirts did, except this wasn’t my T-shirt. This was ORBIT across the back. This was the jersey I’d first seen on a fox that stole my jacket and changed my life.

She’d attached the tail. It hung from the back of the jersey’s waistband, bright orange, ridiculous, curving out behind her like a punctuation mark on the most absurd and arousing image I’d ever encountered.

Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare. Her hair was down, the silver streak catching the lamplight. She was wearing her glasses, which she knew I loved, and the fox tattoo on her wrist was visible beneath the jersey’s pushed-up sleeve.

She was the funniest, hottest, most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen.

“Well?” she said.

“Turn around.”

She turned. ORBIT across the shoulders. The tail swaying with the motion. The jersey riding up just enough to show the bottom curve of her ass. I made a sound I didn’t recognize from my own throat.

“Turn back.”

She turned back. Tilted her head. The Orbit head-tilt — the one that communicated mischief and invitation and the specific confidence of a character who’d never been afraid to want something publicly. Except now it was Riley’s face doing it, and Riley’s face was infinitely better than any foam expression.

“You’re overdressed,” she said.

I pulled my shirt over my head. Crossed the room in three steps. Put my hands on her waist — the jersey’s fabric bunching under my fingers, smooth and slightly slippery, the athletic material designed for movement — and I kissed her.

The kiss was immediately different from our usual kisses. Not tender, not deliberate, not the measured intimacy of two women who’d learned each other’s rhythms. This was the kiss I’d wanted to give the fox. The aggressive, I-can’t-believe-you-exist, you-stole-my-jacket-and-I-want-it-back kiss. Two years of accumulated fantasy channeled through my mouth and my hands and the specific, unbearable reality of Riley Park in a mascot jersey with a tail attached.

She kissed me back with the energy she brought to performing — physical, total, her whole body involved. She pressed against me and I felt her breasts through the jersey, her nipples hardening against the fabric, and the sensation of touching her through the costume material was different from touching her through cotton or silk. It was the specific texture of the character. The texture I’d been watching for two years from the sideline, from the stands, from the couch while I pretended not to replay clips of a fox flirting with me.

I backed her toward the bed. She went willingly. I sat on the edge and pulled her between my knees — our geometry, the configuration that equalized our height, the position where everything important happened.

“Leave the jersey on,” I said.

“You want to fuck me in it?”

“I want to worship you in it and then fuck you in it and then take it off and fuck you without it so we can compare notes.”

“That’s a thorough research methodology.”

“I learned from the best.”

I pushed the jersey up. Just enough to expose her stomach. I kissed the skin there — the ridged muscle, the tattoo on her rib, the warm expanse of flesh that was Riley underneath the character. I pushed higher. Her breasts, freed from the jersey’s hem, full and round and responsive the second my mouth found them. I sucked her nipple through the jersey fabric first — the texture creating a friction that made her gasp and grip my hair — and then I pushed the jersey above her breasts and took her bare nipple between my lips and she arched into me with a sound that vibrated through the jersey and through my mouth and through the bedroom.

“Cam—”

I slid my hand between her legs. She was bare under the jersey — no underwear, nothing between my fingers and her except her own slick, swollen heat. She was soaked. Had been, probably, since she walked through the door carrying the fox head with that look on her face.

“You planned this,” I said against her breast.

“I put on a mascot jersey and attached a tail. The planning was not subtle.”

I stroked her. Long, slow, deliberate touches that parted her and found her clit and circled with the focused precision I’d spent two years developing. She was sensitive — always sensitive, endlessly responsive — and my fingers found the rhythm that made her hips roll and her breath fracture.

“Lie back,” I said.

She lay back on the bed. The jersey rode up to her ribs. The tail splayed out beneath her on the comforter, bright orange against the dark blue, a visual so absurd and so erotic that I wanted to photograph it and frame it and also never let anyone else see it as long as I lived.

I knelt between her thighs. Pushed the jersey higher — bunched around her collarbones now, her breasts bare, her stomach bare, her body laid out for me with the character’s name across her shoulders and nothing else on earth protecting her.

I went down on her.

Not slowly. Not with the measured patience of our early encounters or the reverent attention of the reunion. Fast. Hungry. The way I’d wanted to taste the fox — the aggressive, possessive, I-know-who-you-are-under-there devouring that I’d been fantasizing about since a mascot stole my jacket and my composure in front of ten thousand people.

Riley’s reaction was immediate and violent. Her back arched off the bed. Her hands found my hair and gripped. The tail shifted beneath her as her hips rolled, and the absurdity of it — the tail, the jersey, me between her legs with ORBIT visible above her breasts — made me laugh against her skin, and the vibration of the laugh made her moan, and the moan made me press harder.

I fucked her with my tongue. Broad, flat, insistent strokes that covered her entirely, then focused, circling pressure on her clit that made her curse — actual cursing, the filthy vocabulary she deployed exclusively during sex and that never failed to send a spike of heat through my stomach.

“Fuck — Cam — right there — don’t you dare stop—”

I didn’t stop. I added two fingers — inside her, curving forward, the angle that I knew from two years of study made her lose the ability to form words. My mouth on her clit. My fingers inside her. The jersey bunched above her breasts. The tail beneath her. Everything I’d wanted and everything I’d earned and the line between fantasy and reality dissolved completely because the fantasy was the reality and the reality was my fiancée in a mascot jersey coming apart under my mouth.

She came hard. Her thighs clamped around my head and her hips lifted off the bed and the sound she made was the sound she’d been making since our first time — broken, shocked, genuine — except amplified by the context, by the costume, by the specific thrill of having finally done the thing we’d been circling for two years.

I kissed her thigh. Rested my face there. Breathed her in.

“Phase one complete,” I said.

“There are phases?”

“Research methodology, remember? We need the comparison data.”

She laughed — breathless, wrecked, the laugh of a woman who’d just orgasmed in a mascot jersey and was already calculating what came next.

“Your turn,” she said. She sat up. Pulled the jersey down over her breasts — not removing it, straightening it. She was still in costume. Still in character, almost. The Orbit confidence radiating through Riley’s face.

“Lie down, Carter.”

I lay down. Riley climbed over me — compact, strong, the athletic body that had spent a decade tumbling and lifting and performing feats of physical comedy, now performing on me. She straddled my hips. The jersey draped over both of us, creating a curtain of purple fabric that enclosed our bodies in a private space.

She kissed down my chest. Pulled my sports bra off with her teeth — a move she’d been perfecting for months, the show-off — and took my nipple in her mouth. I arched into her. Her hand slid down my stomach, into my shorts, past my underwear. Her fingers found me wet and swollen and ready, and she groaned against my breast.

“You’re this turned on from going down on me in a jersey?”

“I’m this turned on from everything. The jersey. The tail. Your face when you saw the tail. The fact that I just made you come while you were wearing a costume that ten thousand people cheer for and only I get to take off.”

She slid down my body. Pulled my shorts off. Settled between my thighs with the jersey pooling around her shoulders, and I looked down at her — Riley Park, the woman inside the fox, wearing ORBIT on her back and looking up at me from between my legs with the expression of a person who intended to destroy me.

She destroyed me.

Her mouth was devastating. Two years of knowledge applied with maximum precision — she knew my body the way she knew a crowd, instinctively, through the micro-signals of breath and tension and sound. She licked me and I gripped the sheets. She sucked my clit into her mouth and I lifted off the bed. She slid two fingers inside me and curled forward and I said her name in a voice I barely recognized — low, desperate, the voice of a woman being taken apart by the person she loved most in the world.

She brought me to the edge and held me there. Extended. Devastating. Her tongue working in slow, focused circles while her fingers maintained a steady rhythm inside me, and I was shaking, trembling, my thighs tight around her head, and she looked up at me through her lashes with the jersey slipping off one shoulder and said:

“Come for me, Carter.”

I came. The orgasm ripped through me with the force of something structural giving way — not gentle, not measured, a full-body convulsion that arched my spine and pulled a sound from my throat that I was grateful our neighbors couldn’t identify. She stayed with me through it, her mouth gentle now, easing me through the aftershocks while I pulsed against her tongue.

She climbed up my body. Kissed me. I tasted myself on her lips and the combination of the taste and the jersey and the tail still attached and the fox head grinning from the kitchen counter made me start laughing, and she started laughing too, and we lay on the bed in the lamplight laughing because sex was funny and life was absurd and love was the most ridiculous, wonderful, impossible thing either of us had ever experienced.

“Phase two complete,” she said against my mouth.

“Phase three.”

“There’s a phase three?”

I reached for the nightstand. The drawer. The harness.

“Phase three is the jersey comes off.”

“You said you wanted to fuck me in it.”

“I did fuck you in it. Phase three is the comparison data. Jersey off. Just you. Just me. The strap.”

Riley sat up. Pulled the jersey over her head slowly — slowly on purpose, the performer’s instinct, the striptease she’d been trained to deliver through movement and timing. The jersey came off and she tossed it toward the chair and it missed and landed on the fox head on the counter, which was now wearing a jersey like a hat, and the visual was so absurd that we both lost it again.

“The fox is judging us,” Riley said.

“The fox can look away.”

She detached the tail. Set it on the nightstand. Sat in front of me naked — fully, completely, ordinarily naked. No jersey. No tail. No character. Just Riley Park, five foot five, silver streak, fox tattoo, the woman I’d asked to marry me who’d said yes before I finished the speech.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true. More true without the jersey.”

“That’s the comparison data talking.”

“That’s me talking.”

I assembled the harness. She watched me — the dark, focused attention of a woman who found competence attractive, who’d once told me that watching me put on the harness with practiced efficiency was one of the top five most arousing things she’d experienced. I put it on. Adjusted the straps. Applied lubricant with the clinical attention that she found, for reasons I would never fully understand, intensely sexy.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

“In my lap.”

She straddled me. Knees on either side of my hips, her body hovering above mine, the angle that put us face to face — our geometry, the configuration where every important thing happened. I held her waist. She reached between us and guided the toy to her entrance.

“Slow,” I said.

“Slow.”

She lowered herself onto me. Inch by inch. Her face changing with each increment — the parted lips, the flutter of eyelids, the specific expression of a woman being filled by someone she trusted completely. I watched her take me in. Watched the toy disappear inside her. Watched her settle into my lap with her full weight, her body seated on mine, the connection between us total.

“Okay?” I asked.

“More than okay. Move.”

I gripped her hips. She gripped my shoulders. We found the rhythm together — slow at first, the steady roll of her hips against mine, the friction of the toy inside her matched by the pressure of the harness against my clit. She rode me with the focused, athletic precision of a woman whose body was her primary instrument, and the sight of her — above me, around me, moving with me — was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

“Faster,” she breathed.

I thrust upward. Met her rhythm. The bed protested — the familiar creak of a frame being tested by two bodies working hard — and she matched my pace, her hips rolling faster, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that I felt against my face.

I reached between us. Found her clit with my thumb. Pressed and circled while she rode me, and her rhythm stuttered, and her grip on my shoulders tightened, and her mouth fell open.

“Cam — I’m close — don’t stop —”

I didn’t stop. Hips and hand working in synchronization, the dual stimulation building her toward an edge I could feel in her body — the tightening of her thighs, the tremor in her stomach, the specific way her breath caught and held before the release.

“Look at me,” I said.

She looked at me. Our eyes locked. No blindfold. No jersey. No costume. Just Riley’s face six inches from mine, contorting with pleasure, the most honest expression a human face could produce.

She came looking into my eyes. Her body clenched around the toy and her back arched and she said my name — Cam, just Cam, the simplest version of me — and I held her through it, my hand steady on her clit, my hips still, letting her ride the aftershocks against me until her body stopped shaking.

She collapsed against my chest. I held her. The strap still inside her, the harness pressing against my own swollen, aching clit, and I was close — had been close since she put on the jersey, since before that, since she walked through the door with the fox head and the look.

“I need —” I managed.

“I know.” She lifted off me. Eased the toy out. Pushed me back against the pillows and pulled the harness off and settled between my legs with the efficiency of a woman who knew exactly what I needed and how fast I needed it.

Her mouth. Her fingers. Both at once, because she knew I was wound too tight for a slow build, because two years of studying my body had given her a PhD-level understanding of Cameron Carter’s orgasm mechanics. She fucked me with her fingers and licked my clit and I came in under a minute — fast, intense, my hands in her hair and my hips off the bed and a sound in my throat that was her name and a prayer and a thank-you all compressed into a single syllable.

She crawled up beside me. We lay tangled and breathing and the bedroom was warm and quiet and the amber lamp was on and the fox head was wearing a jersey on the kitchen counter and the tail was on the nightstand and our lives were completely, perfectly, beautifully absurd.

“So,” Riley said. “Comparison data.”

“Results?”

“The jersey was hot. The jersey was extremely hot. The jersey is going to make periodic appearances.”

“Agreed.”

“But the better data point is this.” She pressed her palm against my chest. Felt my heartbeat. “The hottest part wasn’t the jersey. It was taking it off. It was you seeing me without it and saying I was more beautiful without it. It was the same thing it’s always been — you choosing the real version over the performance.”

“The real version is the only version I want.”

“I know.” She kissed my shoulder. “But the jersey can visit.”

“The jersey has an open invitation.”

“And the tail?”

“The tail is welcome on a case-by-case basis.”

“And the paws?”

“The paws are never invited.”

“Agreed. The paws are a bridge too far.”

She laughed. I held her. The ring on her finger caught the amber lamplight the way it always did — a small, constant reminder that the woman who’d hidden inside a costume and the woman who’d hidden inside composure had both stopped hiding and found each other in the open.

The fox head grinned from the counter, wearing its jersey hat, presiding over an apartment that contained two women, one harness, a detached orange tail, and the accumulated evidence of a love story that had started with a stolen jacket and ended — or continued, or kept beginning — in a bed that creaked.

No mascot made anyone anything.

But the woman who’d worn the costume and the woman who’d fallen for it had made each other brave enough to be ridiculous and honest and naked and known.

That was worth every minute inside the head.

And every minute outside it.

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