Milo’s big secret

by BRK   

For small-town boy Milo the growth that came with puberty never ended. He kept growing and growing, especially in a certain area, and now at 19 he’s sure he’s too much of a freak to know any love but his own. What he hasn’t reckoned on is Jeremy, a take-charge type so beautiful there’s no way Milo can hide his secret from him for long.

The morning Milo Jones turned nineteen was just like any other morning. Like always, he woke up hugging his iron-heavy, chin-high morning wood close to his furry chest with long, corded arms, his neck and face wet with the usual hours’ and hours’ worth of precum. Like always, he felt hot all over and ready to ejaculate with great force and startling abundance, his dense, grapefruit-sized balls pulled up tight and demanding he let them explode in mind-melting release. Like always, he made himself lie still and quiet, drawing in five long, ragged breaths, taking a moment to just experience the shape of his body as he lay in the twisted, sweat-damp sheets of his too-small bed. Like always, he spent that moment wondering idly whether the decade-long puberty that had been inflicting its constant regimen of slow, relentless growth and ceaselessly intensifying masculinity on him every day, every week, every month for as long as he could remember might finally start winding down anytime soon.

He knew that the moment he sat up, the wide, warm, fragrant glans of his raging, forearm-thick erection would right there in his face, almost as though it were meant to be there. There would be no resisting its pull. Almost without conscious volition Milo’s mouth would wrap lovingly around the sensitive head, hardening his impossible cock even further and sending shivers of hot pleasure and anticipation all through his ultra-male teen body. His tongue would find the slit, then the broad expanse of the top and the rude, divided underneath. His lumberjack hands would find his ponderous, globelike balls, cupping and massaging them, reveling in their weight and potency as he slowly traced the giddy edges of his tongue-hungry cockhead, teasing his monster dick and his shamelessly sybaritic body into a state of urgent, undeniable need.

Only then would he move onto the shaft. The head just fit into his mouth, and his broad, flat shaft was actually a bit wider, but years of training with his slowly growing pillar of a cock had gotten him to the point where he could push down on his dick all the way to his throat and even a bit beyond, swallowing around his head as he sucked and lathed the upper reaches of his mammoth prick. Most mornings he could only take a few minutes of this before he felt his balls tighten up and his spine start to tingle. Usually at this point he pulled back just enough to keep the wide head in his mouth, clamping his lips around the base of the glans, ready to swallow as much as he could of his own spunk before he had to give up and let the rest of the high-pressure spray coat his face with hot, smelly cum. He wasn’t sure what it was that had got him hooked on drinking his own seed: the force of it hitting his palate and the back of his throat felt great and was addictive all by itself, but he’d also developed a strong taste for it as well from very early on, becoming as habituated to having his morning spunk as others were to coffee or orange juice. He’d thought wryly about going a morning without it, just to see if he really was so inured to it as to have a caffeine-like dependency, but his dick was there in his mouth again every morning and the experiment somehow never seemed to happen.

After all, it was right there. His body had developed in such a way that his mouth and his dick were fated partners, two pleasure-seekers undeniably meant to be together. A massive, constantly boning cock like his was certainly not going to know anything else. He knew without ever having tried to actually test it out the look of horror he’d see on any girl or guy at the prospect of his ridonkulous, neck-nuzzling dong anywhere near their precious openings. Even his own virgin anus clamped down in dismay at the very idea. There was no denying it: this was all he would ever know.

Not that there was anyone around to be appalled at the size of his dick anyway. He knew he was a freak, more and more so every year. He’d seen the fear and the distance in other kids’ eyes as far back as middle school. He’d started keeping to himself as much as possible all through his teen years. In lieu of socializing he’d channeled his anxieties (and his lust) into honing his talents as an illustrator. His first contract, secured online through an art-jobbing website at only 15, led to steady work and number of regular clients—a foundation that had stood him in good stead when his no-good single father had disappeared with the female cop who’d pulled him over for speeding and let him off with a “warning” instead, leaving Milo growing and on his own. He’d dropped out, gotten his GED online, built his business, and used the income and the coffee-can of money his dad had accidentally left behind to fix up a small, abandoned house he knew about through a cousin, two towns over on the edge of a forest and a good mile from any habitation. He set up housekeeping in his newly claimed abode, ordered in what little he needed, and started a new life, just him, his body, and his dick.

Thanks to his size, his progressively deepening voice, his constant swath of bristling red-gold stubble (when he bothered to shave) and matching dark eyebrows, and basically an obvious general masculinity communicated by muscle, silence, and musk, anyone he was forced to deal with in person assumed he was ten years older than he was; only wide hazel eyes and an untamable haystack of manga hair really seemed to match his age, and an extra-large ball cap could be used to hide both when necessary. He dressed in loose, oversized clothes when he had to go out, grateful he was a “grower” and his dick wasn’t hard all the time. No one but him and his tonsils knew just how big Milo really was, and no one would ever need to know.

Jeremy parked in a metered slot on Smith Road, the two-lane, one-stop-light blacktop that passed for a main drag in the bucolic flyspeck of a town known as Nells Corners, and got out of his red Toyota into the noontime summer serenity of the sleepy hamlet, slamming his car door a little more forcefully than he’d intended. A middle-aged woman ensconced on a bench in front of the candy store across the way gave him a reproving look before returning her attention to her Kindle, and Jeremy grimaced, annoyed and abashed. Whatever else he was dealing with, he shouldn’t be taking his frustrations out on his trusty SUV, or the locals’ eardrums.

Leaving his leather satchel with all its important papers in the passenger seat he turned and went into the friendly-looking coffee shop he’d decided was his best bet for directions. The low hurly-burly inside was welcoming, as was the familiar, heady redolence of coffee beans and steamed milk. The place was surprisingly busy for the middle of the day—maybe the folks hereabouts had a habit of dropping everything for a latte and a bit of gossip—but the line moved quickly, and soon he was standing in front of the boyish, sandy-haired mid-twenty-something manning the register.

“What can I get you, sir?” he asked. The name-tag on his sage-green apron read “Roy.”

Jeremy squinted at him. He normally didn’t rate a “sir,” especially from someone who looked to be almost exactly his own age. He must be in a mood. He made a conscious effort to relax himself and offered Roy his best smile. “I’d like a large iced coffee and some directions, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Sure thing!” Roy answered. He spared Jeremy a quick, surreptitious once-over before ringing up the drink, and Jeremy tapped his debit card on the reader without comment. He knew he looked out of place, even in dark jeans and a short-sleeved blue-and-green rugby shirt: his shoulder-length, silky black hair, piercing blue eyes, and Nureyev physique and bearing singled him out pretty much anywhere. Roy got a coworker started on the drink, then turned back to him. “Where you headed?” he asked, all ears.

Jeremy resisted an urge to consult the details his client had texted him. He had them memorized. As the fixer for his publisher’s high-end Court Street division, he was frequently out in the field hunting down reclusive or missing authors for the required old-fashioned face-to-face convos the bigwigs at his bookhouse had always prided themselves on, even now in the Zoom-cursed twenty-first century. He was good at his job, and he liked it well enough. Still… all this travel. He was just about ready to take his boss up on that transfer he’d recommended him for, one of those cushy post-contact editorial liaison roles he could do from anywhere. Someplace quiet, maybe, for a change. He just needed a push. At least this time the elusive and much-ballyhooed target religiously avoiding any and all in-person meetings relating to the imprint’s next prestige project was a monkish, highly-sought-yet-socially-nonexistent illustrator rather a cranky, hyped-up wordsmith slowly rotting away in his fifth-floor walkup or holed up in some Unabomber shack somewhere. So that was new, at least.

“I’m… looking for County Road 15?” Jeremy explained to the freckly cashier. “It’s supposed to be here in Nells Corners, but it’s not on the map and I’ve driven around for a while without finding it.” Not that there were all that many places in this burg for it to be hiding, he added silently.

Roy blinked at him, passing him the iced coffee his barista handed him more or less automatically. Jeremy took it, bemused. Then Roy’s expression cleared. “Oh, you mean County Mile Road,” he said. “That’s what we call it, only the post office calls it County Road 15. Just take a left up here onto Maple and you’ll find it.” He frowned. “There’s not much out there, though. What’s—” He stopped, and his eyes widened a little. “You looking for the Beast?” he asked, amazed.

Jeremy stared back at him. “The… Beast?” he repeated.

Roy grinned. “That’s what I call him,” he said proudly. “Only house out that way, out by the forest there. First time I ever saw him, I was coming home from hunting and it was close to dusk, and I thought he was a damn grizzly!” He chuckled. “Then I realized he was wearing blue checked flannel, and I thought, ‘Probably not a bear.’”

“Probably not,” Jeremy agreed flatly. Where on earth were his bosses sending him? The prospect of a man big enough to be called a Beast distracted him, and curious tingles rippled through his imagination—and his balls. It didn’t seem likely the guy Roy was talking about was his quarry, though. He asked tentatively, “Does the Beast… draw? At all?”

Roy shrugged amiably. “Don’t know. Guess you can go ask him.”

Jeremy realized a short line had developed behind him. He raised his drink in salute. “Thanks for the directions,” he said.

“No problem. Tell the Beast we all said hey!”

Roy turned to the farmer in the John Deere cap behind Jeremy. Distracted, Jeremy turned and walked out of the store and back to his SUV, sipping his drink thoughtfully. Was Roy pulling his leg? Was it possible his target, the unassuming, reclusive, much-sought-after illustrator Milo Jones, was really a forest-dwelling Leviathan the locals knew only as “The Beast”?

It might be interesting finding out.

Jeremy rapped on the heavy, walnut-stained door of the little forest cottage, looking around him in bemusement. As hermitages went the place was meticulously kept up: the mint-green paint was new, the lawn was lush and mown, and the flagstone walk from the seemingly unused gravel driveway was clean with no sign of weeds. There were even hand-carved window boxes, complete with blossoming peonies in cheery pinks and yellows. Around him the warm summer air was thick with the earthy scent of the pine and oak forest beyond. The whole setup made him feel like he’d wandered into a storybook, and found himself at the door of a fairy-tale elf or exiled prince. He was half tempted to try breaking off a bit of one of the house’s corners to see if the place was really made of gingerbread.

He realized he hadn’t gotten an answer to his knocks, despite a sixth sense telling him there was definitely someone within. He adjusted the shoulder-strap on his satchel and tried again, this time a little louder. He waited.

“Just leave it on the porch,” called a stentorian voice at length from inside the house.

Jeremy felt a subatomic flutter course through his body. It was the lowest, most basso voice he’d ever heard, positively sonorous, and his junk was stirring in instinctive, carnal response. This was a voice to make pebbles skitter and small animals bolt. And publishers’ agents swoon, he thought sardonically, deriding himself for his involuntary autonomic reaction.

“I’m not a delivery,” he responded, pitching his voice to carry through the heavy door as best he could.

There was an uncertain pause, then the voice within answered, “What are you, then?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Jones,” Jeremy responded. “Milo Jones?”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

Jeremy’s stomach thrilled in happy anticipation, and his dick perked up, too. This had to be him. The Beast. He hadn’t seen him yet, but that voice could only go with the Sasquatch-like account from his barista eyewitness. He rubbed his flat belly through the thin fabric of the rugby shirt, something he always did to calm his body’s reactions. His objective, Milo Jones, really was… whatever this guy inside the little house was. “Mr. Jones,” he called through the wooden barrier between them, “I need to speak with you. Can you come to the door, please?”

There was yet another pause, longer this time. “Just a minute,” came the voice.

Jeremy fought an impulse to sneak to the nearest window and kept his feet rooted firmly on the flat stone porch, resolved to wait patiently. Remembering the barista’s initial reaction to what must have been highly visible tension, he consciously relaxed his features and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. He didn’t have anywhere else to be anytime soon. This man was his sole focus. I’m all yours, he told Milo in his head, wryly if not untruthfully.

The door opened, and Jeremy found himself looking at… chest.

It was an amazing chest. Two heavy deposits of pectoral muscle bulged with unknowable levels of natural strength and density, their striated, squared-off, fully-distributed thickness looking not so much grown as accreted, as though they had been layered little by little, season after season, like the rings in a tree. The mass of muscle stood proudly off of the chest, hard and acutely defined, the eye drawn to the graceful lines despite the wilds of thick reddish-gold hair that blanketed every inch of the heavy muscle. Hard, hairy abs loomed below in his peripheral version, but for the moment the stunning beauty of Milo’s chest took up the whole of his vision. A furry quarter-inch-wide canyon separated the two pectoral buttes, and Jeremy couldn’t help picturing objects pressed between them. Did Milo absently shove pencils down there, the way other folks put them behind their ears? Jeremy’s index finger twitched, wanting to probe the crevasse. His hardening dick wanted a shot as well. Both he and it knew it was too big to fit, but they sure wanted to try.

His eyes slid to the nipples gracing the lower slopes of the two masses, the nubs protruding from a thicket of brazen-sunset hair like stone temples secreted deep in forgotten, pathless forests. Jeremy found himself licking the insides of his lips. They were so close. He could take a step forward, and he would be right there, on top of them. He could—

What was he doing? This wasn’t like him. He was more professional than this! He flushed, shocked at his own thoughts. Looking up guiltily at the face of the man whose upper torso he’d been shamelessly ogling for several seconds now, he saw it was slightly shadowed in its position above the lintel on the other side of this ordinary-sized front door, and some part of Jeremy’s mind dutifully logged the fact that this Goliath would have to bend and turn his impressive frame simply to leave his own house. The manly yet oddly innocent face that met his gaze, however, was entirely bereft of the raging opprobrium he’d expected to see there. Instead the sharp, whisker-carpeted jaw was slack, the bright hazel eyes wide and dark under bold, bristling brows as the Beast known as Milo Jones stared down at his visitor in undisguised, unmitigated lust.

Jeremy would have looked down at himself, just to see what the man was staring at, were it possible for him to have looked away. He had a nice body, sure—he’d trained as a dancer, before an ankle injury that had derailed a promising career, and still looked like he might break into a rendition of Swan Lake or L’Après-midi d’un faune at any moment. But he had nothing on this guy, in looks, size, or anything else. Milo had him beat on every count.

Just then his mind belatedly reached a particular point of comparison on which he was suddenly extremely interested. At the same time, Milo started, his gaping admiration transmogrifying instantly into dismayed horror. Perhaps the Beast’s mind was on the same track as Jeremy’s, since he looked down quickly just then in obvious alarm, a second before Jeremy did. Jeremy had time to catch sight of dark gray sweats and something… moving…. Then the door was abruptly slammed in his face, leaving Jeremy alone on the stoop, bewitched, bothered, and very bewildered.

His face felt hot, sweat prickling at his temples and pits. He adjusted his not insubstantial hard-on, glad he’d worn his darkest jeans for this trip to the land of X-rated fables, and took a second to compose himself.

He knocked again, politely.

There was a short pause, then the deep voice returned, closer now than before. “Yeah?”

This again. “Mr. Jones?” Jeremy said. “My name is Jeremy Fleming from Court Street Press. I apologize for the… intrusion, but I do need to talk to you. Would you—can I—?”

He looked at the smooth brass knob. He wanted to turn it. He wanted to go inside, to see this man and his milieu, his context. He wanted to see everything.

He balled his hand into a fist, telling himself he had to hold back. If Milo’s reaction had meant anything, the man wasn’t willing to let Jeremy walk away, either. He buttoned his lip and waited, staring at the fine grain of the door as if he might somehow catch a glimpse past it of what was going on beyond.

A long moment passed. Finally he heard the words he was waiting for, making his pounding heart skip a beat in nervy excitement.

“Come in,” said the Beast.

Milo hadn’t seen a lot of guys, not really. Not up close, and not guys that looked like this perfect… beautiful… perfectly beautiful…

Get a hold of yourself, Milo! he reproached himself. He dithered behind his door, hand on his forehead as if he could physically collect his thoughts that way, while his ungovernable cockpillar wrenched itself free of the loose sweats he’d reluctantly pulled on to answer the door and in the space of a few head-rushing seconds had blithely assumed its usual vertical position, rubbing wetly at the little hollow under his apple-sized adam’s apple.

He couldn’t make sense of his reaction. You’ve seen good-looking men before, he told himself. Sure, but that was on TV shows. It was normal there—when he bothered with the kind of lush dramas where cheekbones and abs were a casting requirement, rather than the football and baseball he normally wound down watching. Anyway, hot guys were not normal on this side of the screen, a world that mostly involved himself, a few deer, and periodic sightings of Josie, the soccer midfielder on the local high school team who delivered most of his groceries to his porch with impersonal dispatch, or the local UPS driver, a short, balding man named Danny who looked more like a DeVito than an Amendola or a Slavin.

He didn’t watch a lot of porn, either. His sex drive had grown too powerful, too immediate, too all-consuming to need much external stimulation. Once his cock was up and his blood was hot, the pleasure of his own stimulation was all he could handle, and the ferocious orgasm he had coming was all he could think about.

Like now, for example…

The man, the visitor—he was right there, right on the other side of this door. Jeremy Fleming. Even the name was sexy! And he was real. A real physical presence of coursing blood and hot, touchable flesh and roiling hormones… inches away, right on his doorstep where he could not be denied or ignored the way he denied and ignored most of the world. And he was godly, strong, and well-proportioned, with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to look into his soul. And that rich, long hair he wanted to comb his fingers through, and those flanks he could wrap his hands around… So many things he could do with his hands, and his mouth—

His cockhead tapped stickily at the bottom of his throat, begging implacably for his attention. Fuck! This was impossible. He needed to tell this guy to go away. But that would be a mistake, right? If this guy, Jeremy Fleming, really was from Court Street, that was the advance he was counting on to replace his creaky, five-years-out-of-date iMac and upgrade his scarred, second-hand drawing tablet, too.

He just needed to get rid of this boner. Maybe he could stall him?

Fuck, it was too late for that. He’d already kept him waiting too long. There sure as fuck wasn’t time for—

He looked around frantically, searching for something to help him out somehow in the combined kitchen/dining room/living area he’d made early on by knocking a few non-loadbearing walls out to open up the front half of the cottage. He spotted the heavy wooden dining table and figured it would have to do.

Moving one of the two sturdy, wide, armless wooden chairs around to the far side of the table, Milo kicked aside his sweats, dropped into the seat, and determinedly set about the arduous and painful task of levering his proud, rigid, and entirely unwilling penis down far enough to get it under the table and out of sight. Finally managing to get it low enough, he quickly scooted forward so his fuzzy, stone-carved belly was against the table’s edge… and let go.

A second later his cock instantly smacked painfully against the underside of the table with considerable force, and the heavy oak table jumped a good inch before resettling uncertainty on the smooth, polished-wood floor, rocking a little on its new fulcrum like it was a sailor who’d ended up on land for the first time in months.

Gritting his teeth, Milo shoved down on the table with his forearms, steadying it to ensure it stayed put. He still had to endure the considerable discomfort of an erect cock shoved into a position it very much did not want to be in, but he could hold out. Raising his voice to be heard through the door, he called out for his visitor to enter, desperately pleading with all the fates to let him get away with this ruse and let his freakish secret remain somehow undiscovered by the most luscious, cum-worthy man Milo had ever seen.

Jeremy sat down at the rustic, hand-hewn oak table cautiously, keeping his satchel in front of his crotch until the last moment. His host looked like he might bolt at any second, but he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the wood Jeremy had sprung. Jeremy had never seen a man that big that tense before, all stiff posture and jangly nerves. As forest animals went, at the moment, he was a bit more reminiscent of a deer wondering whether hunting season had started again than the ferocious grizzly the freckle-faced Roy had mistaken him for—at least in affect, if not in size and sinew.

Not that he had much experience with seven-foot-plus deep-voiced man-beasts possessed of shoulders the width of railway ties and thick-furred pecs bigger than Jeremy’s head, he reminded himself ruefully as he settled into the sturdy chair, placing his satchel on the table next to him. Maybe guys like him were naturally shy. Or just Milo was. His choice of dwelling would fit with that. He wasn’t used to dealing with people, Jeremy reasoned, especially outsiders.

Hoping to put the big man more at ease, Jeremy offered Milo his most heart-melting smile, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Instead of relaxing, Milo’s eyes widened, his bulging shoulders drew back slightly, and—did the table move? Maybe Milo was nudging it with his feet. The thought made Jeremy suddenly curious about his host’s feet, which hadn’t been included in Jeremy’s first, all-too-brief inspection of the man. How big were they? Had he been wearing shoes, or was he as deliciously and provocatively barefoot as he was shirtless, exposing his extra-extra-large dogs for all to see who dared come close? He actually found himself starting to move his head downwards, like he was actually going to look under the table and ogle whatever wonders lay at the end of his client’s tree-trunk legs, but just then Milo urgently interrupted him. “What brings you here, Mr. Fleming?” he demanded stridently, eyes just a little wild.

Jeremy’s cheeks colored, and he sat up straighter in his chair, chiding himself for his lack of control. He made himself meet Milo’s gaze. He couldn’t forget the rest of what Milo looked like or how achingly hard it made him, but he could pretend he could. He folded his hands together on the table in front of them, as if to keep them from mischief. “It’s just a bit of tradition we have at Court Street,” he explained. “Our partners and executive editors insist on signing contracts in person with our creators at meetings like this. This affords us both a chance to structure the project together right at the start, face to face…”

He couldn’t help it. As soon as he said the words “face to face” his imagination filled his overheating soul with impressions of him and Milo coming close, their faces drawing near… Milo’s bearded lips brushing against Jeremy’s, even as Jeremy readied his tongue to push gently forward into its new favorite home…

Unwillingly he let his eyes drop to Milo’s sweet, smooth mouth. Though framed by virile red-gold bristles it seemed innocent and untouched, waiting for the right explorer to plunder them for the very first time. As he watched, they parted slightly, and then suddenly there was a soft thump from somewhere and the table shifted again before Milo leaned forward, as if only his considerable strength could make the recalcitrant wood-slab behave itself. “I-is that right?” Milo said, his sub-basso voice strangled.

Jeremy let his eyes crawl slowly back up to meet Milo’s, which were now round enough to show white almost all the way around the hazel. Understanding starting to dawn, and his blood seemed to heat up by at least five degrees. “Absolutely,” he said meaningfully, watching the other man closely. “It’s a time to take care of any problems that might… arise… during the course of our mutually beneficial relationship.” He leaned forward slightly, his look intense. “Can you think of any problems you and I could take care of right now, Mr. Jones? Problems we might take care of together?”

Milo looked harried. “N-no?”

Jeremy tried his smile again, this time actively hoping for the stimulating effect it had had before. “Are you sure?”

Milo gulped. He stared back at Jeremy for a long moment. Jeremy waited. Finally, in a voice so low it was almost on the edge of human hearing, he grunted, “Stand back.”

The table made an almighty clatter when it flipped over toward Jeremy, but Milo was sure his visitor barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the titanic, neck-high cock that flew into position instantly on release, spraying arcs of precum on Jeremy and everything else, and on the nearly inhuman beast-body that now bulked fully exposed beyond it. Milo stared as Jeremy drank him in, as awed as a flamen Dialis before a phantasm of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and as dangerously electrified as a bolt of white, crackling lightning. When Jeremy started moving on him, ripping off his clothes and exposing his honed, muscled, altogether perfect body, it suddenly, ridiculously, occurred to Milo for the very first time that another man might be as red-line aroused by his freakish, still-growing body as he was himself. Or more.

Then Jeremy was on him, in his lap, Milo’s gargantuan, ultra-hard erection throbbing feverishly between them, clear liquid spitting up from the coin-slot slit in little spurts like a defective drinking fountain. All Milo saw just then, though, was Jeremy’s pretty blue eyes staring hard into his. There was meaning in that stare—desire, possession, a need to claim Milo as his own—and Milo was there for it.

He lifted a shaking hand and slid it slowly through the long, lush hair that brushed Jeremy’s exquisitely defined shoulders. Jeremy leaned into the touch, still watching him.

Milo realized he wasn’t breathing. He drew in an audible breath, almost a gasp.

Jeremy’s eyes grew flinty with desire. “I need to make you cum, Milo,” he said. It was almost like a command.

Milo suppressed a whimper and nodded.

Jeremy’s eyes dropped briefly, raking over Milo’s uberprick as though trying to prioritize all the things he wanted to do. He shifted closer, pushing the taut sack of Milo’s dark, hairy testicles up onto Jeremy’s creamy thighs.

“Hands,” Jeremy rasped.

Four hands grasped the hard, precum-slicked shaft. Milo and Jeremy slivered as one, almost as though Jeremy already shared this giant cock with its once-solo owner. The hands started to slide, together, up a half a foot, then down again. Then up.

Milo moaned. “That’s it, baby,” Jeremy, his low tenor a rough coo. “That’s it.”

“I won’t last,” Milo warned him in a tight voice.

He felt Jeremy look up, and when Milo did the same, both of them still slow-stroking Milo’s impossible dick, Milo found himself impaled on that look, like he truly had been claimed. Those eyes said what Jeremy didn’t need to: If Milo thought that the orgasm they were about to make together was the only time Milo would be climaxing this morning—in the next hour, even—then he was about to learn how wrong he was.

What he said was, “Mouths.” Again, it was like a command, but the way a conductor gave orders to an orchestra, guiding the music toward the transcendence they craved.

His reason gone, Milo lowered his mouth to his own cockhead, mirroring Jeremy. Normally he would have taken the whole glans straight into his mouth; this time he mouthed the side instead, and Jeremy did the same, both of them continuing their slow pistoning of the shaft below as though providing harmony to the pleasure of their lips. The first sparks of pre-orgasm stirred in Milo’s balls and up his spine as Jeremy let his tongue loose, adding a third instrument to his performance. Almost shaking, Milo did the same, licking and mouthing around and under his own cockhead in synchronicity with Jeremy. Below, they progressively increased their four-handed stroke, building toward mutual pleasure.

Almost overcome, Milo made a helpless noise in the back of his throat that seemed to set Jeremy off, and suddenly their pace was quickening, speeding up their hands and lips and tongues. Then all at once Milo’s release burst over him, and they were cumming hard, his giant prick jetting massive spurts of cum all over them both as Milo’s mouth crashed against Jeremy. They kissed as best they could, gasping through their orgasm. Finally the eruptions slowed, and they parted to pant and catch their breath before resuming their kiss, this time in a languid, cummy make-out that lasted for some time.

A few moments later Milo found himself dazed and doped with a level of euphoric satiation he’d never experienced before, his damp forehead resting against Jeremy’s. They were breathing together, the smell of man and cum filling Milo’s nostrils in a way he should have been used to but that felt entirely new.

Jeremy was admiring the still-mostly-hard phallus pressed between their spunk-covered chests. “You do realize,” he said shakily, “this is way too much cock for one man.” He lifted his gaze to meet Milo’s, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Even a beast-man,” he added playfully.

Milo gave him a crooked smile that Jeremy seemed to like. “You offering to help me take care of it?” he asked quietly, his basso voice still seeming to fill the room.

Jeremy shivered. “More than offering,” he said. “I think I’m insisting.”

Milo’s heartbeat quickened. He realized he’d been setting his expectations, and even his dreams, a little too low all this time. Pretty funny, he thought, for a guy that a few sizes larger than he was supposed to be, and who was probably only going to keep getting bigger.

He felt his smile widen into a real grin. “Sounds good,” he said, low and soft. Then Jeremy’s mouth was on his again, and there wasn’t any more conversation for quite a while.

Jeremy broke the kiss and closed his eyes, passively basking in their gentle embrace and the homey, welcoming space that surrounded and enclosed them. His future had suddenly slotted into place, and it was here, in this remote, well-kept house on the fringes of small-town Anywhere, U.S.A., with its green lawn and window-boxes and very sturdy furniture. Not just this house but this lap, his strong hands on this cock, his face and chest covered by this cum.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the young, long-haired, furrowed-browed face that had pulled him in, expecting a queasy wave of second-guessing that simply didn’t come. He knew in his soul, locked in with an almost eerie certainty, that this was where he belonged.

Milo, his quest, his client, and his partner in release, did not look as confident. There was confusion and worry mixed with the profound relief and lingering desire in those wide, hazel eyes. As glad as he was to have found Jeremy and made this connection, the big, beautiful, lonely man had no idea what came next or, Jeremy suspected, even how to relate to another man in his space. The rippling turbulence of his emotions was so obvious and so close to the surface it made Jeremy’s insides twist.

Fuck, I can feel his heart pounding. It was a faint reverberation, but it was there, somewhere on the edge of his senses, definitely felt more than heard. He wanted to feel it more, make it the rhythm of his life. Milo’s conflicted reaction was the only ripple in the whole scenario.

That was okay, he told himself. Jeremy could be sure enough for the both of them. Maybe later they could wonder why that was, maybe figure out what was governing this life-altering conviction he was feeling; but whatever its source his truth was rock-solid, and just then that was what was important.

He offered Milo a soft, reassuring smile. “So, Milo,” he asked, “how big is your shower?”

Fresh lust sparked in those big, bright, green-brown eyes, and the big man gave Jeremy another of those ravishing, bristle-lined grins that made him feel all the feels all over again. When he spoke, his postcoital voice was even lower than before—it was so deep it seemed to enter Jeremy through his balls and fill him completely.

“Big enough,” Milo growled in assurance. That grin the big man had was twisting now with imagination and pure carnal intent, and Jeremy was startled to realize how easily those two words and that guilelessly smutty grin had almost got him spurting a second round of hot, messy cum into his new, expensive, unequivocally spunk-squelchy jeans. That was okay, too, actually. Clothes, he felt sure, were now a feature of his other life, before this place and this beast of a man. In recognition of the change, he peeled off his rugby shirt and tossed it behind him. It landed across the edge of the overturned table.

A recurrence of chagrin washed over Milo’s big face on seeing the dining table he’d overturned with his steel pillar of a cock. Jeremy patted him on the cheek, drawing his rapt attention back to him. “Let’s get us cleaned up,” he said, “then we’ll take things from there, okay?”

Milo stared hotly at him for a second before diving down for a very athletically tongued kiss, one that continued as he grabbed Jeremy under the ass and stood to his full seven-foot-plus height. Almost reflexively, Jeremy wrapped his legs around Milo’s hips and his arms around his neck as they kissed their way down the wide hall and into the appropriately Milo-sized shower.

“Yeah, the Milo Jones contract is squared away,” a very nude Jeremy was saying into his phone as he perused the spines on Milo’s text-laden, heavy-oak handmade bookshelves with interest. He’d seemed interested by everything in the simply decorated, hand-furnished house, like there were more rooms and more of a sense of openness in it than was to be expected from the quaint exterior that hid most of its dimensions, or from the presence of its lone, space-filling occupant.

Jeremy was turning his head to read spines as he talked, in a way Milo found stupidly endearing. “You should have the pics in your email,” he said distractedly, “and I’ll courier the hardcopies this afternoon.” Milo, occupying close to half of the well-worn (and very washable) brown microfiber extra-large sofa, watched him keenly, perplexed at how a visitor could find Milo’s ponderous technique references, brightly colored Shonen Jump anthologies, and out-of-print Alan Moore graphic novels at all interesting, more so than the job he’d been sent here to do. He does work in publishing, he reminded himself. Books probably do draw his attention.

Milo was distracted as well, mostly by the fact that a naked, preoccupied Jeremy, damp and warm from the shower with every curve on display, was even more delectable than a dusty, quirky-smiling Jeremy appearing on his doorstep in tight, well-tailored clothes. Particularly that ass, which, Milo couldn’t help thinking, had to be the most perfect male ass this side of Giambologna’s Samson Slaying a Philistine.

It wasn’t just the ass. Everything about Jeremy’s body was fine-tuned into sleek, circulation-stirring perfection. He felt like Goya’s Colossus by comparison. As he sat there taking in Jeremy’s textbook classical proportions and exquisitely realized muscle tone and delineation and the stored motion ingrained in every inch of his dancer-like form, Milo wasn’t sure what he wanted more: to draw him or to fuck him.

Jeremy being on the phone furnished at least a temporary answer to this particular dilemma. He reached for his lap desk from beside the couch, placing it firmly across his legs as if to caution his partially swollen dick not to get any untoward ideas. His mind might be able to focus on Jeremy as art, at least for a time, but his body resented denial. Things like going into town and keeping himself from getting worked up only resulted in unusually intense explosions of arousal and need the moment he got home—and that had always been in the abstract, dealing with his constant high libido at the level of just needing to cum and cum and cum because that was what his body did. Now that he needed to cum about Jeremy, with Jeremy beautiful and naked right in front of him churning his balls from four feet away, the orgasms were more potent for being focused, and denial, he was sure, would only cost him double.

No. They’d cum, they’d showered, Jeremy had tasted Milo’s ass, they’d cum again. He should be sated. He could act like a human being instead of the beast he looked and felt like. Deliberately grabbing his full-sized drawing tablet and stylus from the side table and setting it in front of him with a thunk, Milo gritted his jaw and got to work, resolutely ignoring the press of his thrumming, half-chubbed dick against his thighs and the padded underside of the lap desk as he cleared the canvas and started drawing.

I should be sculpting him, he told himself as he sketched the raw lines of Jeremy’s fluid form, glancing between man and tablet. I should be taking a six-foot block of marble and finding him in it. Milo had never tried sculpting anything more involved than clay figurines, but as he added rough work-layer lines to his sketch he felt certain that a model like Jeremy might drive him to learn.

“Actually, no,” Jeremy was saying, crouching to peruse a lower shelf where Milo’s complete set of Sandman books rubbed shoulders with some old Marvel annuals. “I was thinking, maybe a couple weeks’ PTO, and then—remember that liaison job we talked about, the one I could do from anywhere?” He stood, catching Milo’s eye, and Milo’s hand slowed as he stared back at him. “Yeah, I think I’m ready for a change.”

Milo’s stylus stilled, the tip of the white plastic pencil poised over the cleft of sketch-Jeremy’s museum-quality ass. Jeremy was holding Milo’s gaze now. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, his eyes locked on Milo’s.

“Jeremy—!” Milo whispered, aghast.

Jeremy winked. “Sounds good. Send me the offer and I’ll get back to you.” He hung up, dropping the phone to his side and waiting.

“Jeremy, what are you doing?” Milo said.

Jeremy smiled at him, the picture of confidence. “Tell me you’re not feeling this,” he said.

Fuck, even his cockiness is magnificent, Milo thought. His cock pushed up against the lap desk in agreement. He swallowed. “But—but—”

Jeremy moved closer and crouched in front of him. “Milo, do you want me here?”

“Yes,” Milo said instantly. For one word there was considerable passion behind it, and Jeremy smiled wider.

“Good. Me too.” He stood, as if that settled things, and set his phone on the previously righted dining table. His gaze strayed to the kitchen cupboards and Milo’s industrial-sized fridge, which he’d gotten a deal on from a failed restaurant his cousin had owned. “I feel like cooking for you. What are you in the mood for?”

Milo stood, setting aside his tablet and lap desk on the sofa. Quickly, as if granted permission by the removal of the barrier and the presence of Jeremy’s naked back and ass, his cock rose to full hardness between his pecs. He tried to ignore it. “Jeremy,” he pleaded, drawn closer to stand behind the smaller man. “You can’t just change everything like that?”

“Maybe I needed to,” Jeremy said. He turned, his lips twisting in a sly smile as he saw Milo’s state of extreme arousal. He reached up, wrapping both hands lightly around Milo’s colossus. “Maybe I just needed a reason,” he added, meeting Milo’s gaze.

Milo flushed, so embarrassed he felt almost angry. “You mean, my dick?” he demanded. He wanted to step back, but he couldn’t, not while Jeremy was there, not while he was touching him like that.

“I mean, you,” Jeremy said. “All of you.”

“All of me? Have you seen me?” Milo said, feeling like his bearings were off-center. “How can your ‘reason’ be me? I’m a freak! My hormones are making me bigger and bigger every year like my puberty never ended! I’m not normal!”

Jeremy’s beautiful blue eyes flickered with deep, awed desire. “No,” he agreed, gripping Milo’s giant dick and stroking it firmly enough that it spattered arcing gouts of precum onto his thickly furred chest. “You’re not normal,” he repeated. “You’re better.”

Milo gaped at him. How could Jeremy—almost the literal definition of elegant, masculine allure, the kind of man Renaissance sculptors dreamed of evoking in statue, frieze, and relief—link himself to such a hairy, oversized brute like him? He was so accepting of Milo, when Milo couldn’t fully accept himself. What sense did that make?

Jeremy had kept up stroking him, and now that he was picking up up speed with his two-handed caresses Milo realized he was getting close. He whimpered a little in the back of his throat as he stared into Jeremy’s bright, steady gaze, confused and hopeful and desperately aroused.

Jeremy bit his lip, his blue eyes darkening. “Wow, even your whimpers are like super subwoofer low,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly the way you do when you’re impressed. He was still stroking, firm and constant, like he might do it forever.

An idea seemed to strike him, a bit of mischief curving his wine-red, perfectly kissable lips. “Hey, do you have a picnic basket?” he asked.

Milo blinked at him. He was having a little trouble concentrating. “I have a basket,” he rasped.

“Is your basket a… big basket?”

Milo was panting lightly. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a big basket.” He wasn’t sure why Jeremy grinned at that, being too focused on the rush of full-body arousal he was getting just from them standing there naked and face-to-face with that little extra frisson of slow hard-cock stimulation. “Wh-why?” Milo got out.

“Because,” Jeremy said, moving closer so that the pec-hugging monster tool he was stroking was almost filling the space between them, “I think my better-than-normal reclusive ultraman should reclaim his presence in the real world. That would be hot, right?”

Milo stared at him, surprised to feel stirrings of agreement. Simmering embers of resentment he’d barely been aware of at having to hide himself away were starting to glow, stoked by this angel/satyr that had literally walked into his life. Jeremy saw something of what he was feeling in his eyes and kept going. “And I feel like maybe a first step toward making that happen,” he suggested, his grin sliding into a smirk as he steadily but ruthlessly drove Milo closer and closer to release, “might be for us to start… eating out.”

His deliberate enunciation of those last two words had Milo’s anus twisting, and suddenly he was blasting out cum like he hadn’t spectacularly orgasmed four times that day already. Before he could get his mouth around the head Jeremy pounced greedily, rising up on his toes and gulping down Milo’s spend. The whole time he was looking up at him with an expression that seemed to say he was proud to be swallowing all of Milo’s jizz and would do it forever, no matter how much Milo was cumming as his body intensification continued. Even as Milo took this in he felt Jeremy’s high-pressure cum smacking against his abs and chest like the strafing of buckshot. Feeling Jeremy cumming again without touching himself just from the Milo-ness of Milo, his already inhuman orgasm seemed to ratchet up a notch, like a tornado getting a level-boost past F5 to a tier no one had ever heard of before.

Unexpectedly weak-kneed, he realized he was grabbing onto Jeremy’s shoulder. That should have worried him. And yet, despite being proportionately smaller than Milo’s beast-sized form in almost every dimension, Jeremy was solid and unmoving, as strong and stalwart as the marble he had wanted to sculpt him from. Something in Milo let go then, and he smiled and shuddered, giving into his ultimate climax as Jeremy tried to chug all the hot, gooey release Milo had in him.

After some quizzing as they gathered their wares for a mini-expedition, Milo admitted to knowing a good picnic spot, one they could get to on foot. In his teen years, Milo explained, he had tried to cure his loneliness with long walks through the wilderness, back before he’d gotten Leviathan-sized. He’d had a few favorite spots, one of which was a sunny meadow you could lie in and not be bothered by anyone. It was technically a part of a sprawling state park that separated the cozy woodlands north of Nells Corners from the prairie highlands beyond. The state road and water features were away toward the west end of the park, meaning hardly anyone visited the forested upper neck nearest Milo’s cottage.

“So why’d you stop going?” Jeremy asked, scanning the shelves of the well-stocked walk-in pantry with interest, a loaf of fresh bread and a jar of brown mustard already in hand. Milo sure kept himself fed, he thought, and mostly on stuff that wasn’t junk. There wasn’t a single bag of potato chips or Doritos in the whole place, which was more than Jeremy could say; though there was a large oblong Tupperware filled with slabs of what looked and smelled suspiciously like homemade chocolate chip fudge brownies.

Milo was chopping a cucumber for sandwiches, a pleasant, rhythmic sound Jeremy found comfortingly domestic. At Jeremy’s question he paused a second, then continued. “I ran into this couple,” he said.

Jeremy spotted a few bottles of wine, and his eyebrows lifted. He knew from the papers he’d had Milo sign that his new friend was not exactly of age for the purchase of alcohol. Then again, who was going to ask him for ID? Jeremy himself had been sure Milo was at least 28 when he’d first met him, though a look into his big eyes had made him second-guess that reckoning. He grabbed a dry white and returned to the kitchen with his prizes. “Yeah?” he prompted, setting his goods on the table with the other stuff they’d assembled.

Milo shrugged his bulky shoulders. “It was a regular afternoon. Sunny, so the shadows were dark under the trees. Anyway I was walking through the forest, heading home on the main path, and there was this couple. A girl and a guy smooching and petting as they walked, you know, not really paying attention. I guess I surprised them. They saw me, and there was… screaming.”

“The girl screamed at you?” Jeremy asked as he moved to the fridge, frowning at Milo as he opened the heavy door.

Milo gave him a dead stare, his mouth a hard line. “The guy screamed,” he said. “He screamed and ran away.”

Jeremy couldn’t help laughing. “Leaving the girl standing there? What was she doing?”

“She was, like, making a fish face,” Milo said, very seriously, as he mimicked someone opening and closing their mouth in shock.

“You’re kidding,” Jeremy chuckled. He stood in the open fridge door, arrested by the story. “What happened then?”

“The guy came back and grabbed her while she stared at me, pulling her away. They scampered off like rabbits and a second later they were gone.”

“Hilarious,” Jeremy said, grinning.

“Traumatic,” Milo corrected in his deep voice, though his smiling eyes belied his stern expression.

Jeremy huffed. “Wait—was this a freckle-faced kid? Sandy hair, kind of horny boy-next-door vibes?”

Milo returned to his chopping. “No, that wasn’t him. Why?”

Jeremy turned to the fridge and started pulling out the heavy Ziplocs of sliced turkey and provolone he’d seen earlier. “I met him in town, at the coffee shop. Said he’d bumped into you at dusk one night and nearly shit himself thinking you were a grizzly bear in blue flannel.”

Milo hmphed. “I miss that shirt,” he said quietly as he pushed the cucumber slices into a small plastic tub.

Jeremy lightly hip-checked the fridge door closed and started setting out the cold cuts on the table. “What happened to it.”

“I still have it.” He shrugged his mountainous shoulders again, moving to the sink to rinse up. “It’s too small for me now.”

Jeremy stilled, looking up at the other man. Ridiculously, his cock pulsed eagerly, somehow ready for more after the morning’s many exertions, and his hot blood raced as though he were a tireless sex machine. He wanted to remonstrate with his hormones for getting him all super-horny again, but the truth was that the “again” was a total lie. He’d been in a constant state of normalized ultra-arousal since the moment he’d walked into this cottage, and it wasn’t going away.

Without being aware of it, Jeremy found he had crossed the kitchen and plastered himself against Milo. His chest and cheek were pressed against Milo’s broad back, the big man’s granite glutes pushing against his abs as Jeremy’s hands slid over Milo’s heavy traps and delts, the big man’s messy, thick red-gold manga-hair tickling the backs of his hands. Milo’s muscley back wasn’t as hairy as his front, but there was more than enough fur scattered across his thick shoulders and upper back for Milo to live up to being the man-beast a part of Jeremy needed him to be.

Milo froze at the sink, turning off the water and just standing there letting Jeremy feel him. “Is it true, what you said?” Jeremy asked, his face pressed against the warm, bare skin of Milo’s back. “You’re still growing?”

Milo swallowed and nodded. “I could… I might get too big for you,” he stammered, low and nervous.

Jeremy tugged on his shoulders to turn him around. To his surprise, the gentle beast-man moved easily in response to his pull, facing him with a worried expression on his rust-stubbled face. Jeremy stared heatedly up into those big hazel eyes. “What I just heard you say,” he said with a smile, “was that you might get ‘too sexy for me,’ which…” He licked his lips. “You realize that’s not possible, don’t you?”

Milo shuddered, the movement subtle but tectonic, as though something he’d thought impossible had just been gifted to him by a benevolent genie. “My libido’s growing too,” he said with a quaver in his low, rumbly voice. “I’m only going to get hornier.” He swallowed. “For you.”

Jeremy’s smile was as lewd as it was possessive. With the agile strength of an accomplished dancer he grabbed onto Milo and climbed up him until he was looking the hairy, astonished seven-foot-plus muscle giant in the face. “You know what I say to that, Milo?” he asked, their mouths inches apart.

Milo shook his head.

Jeremy grinned, licking silkily along Milo’s raspy jawline before pulling back and facing him again with a leer. “Lucky…” he said, brushing his lips teasingly against Milo’s, “…me.”

All at once Milo claimed Jeremy’s mouth, all inhibitions gone, and Jeremy moaned as he kissed him right back, both of them not caring the slightest bit as their picnicking plans were thus delayed pending the eruption of one more mutually euphoric orgasm.

The sun was hiding behind gauzy clouds at the start of their walk, following a clear, clay-red path through the verdant forest, but after a while the clouds burned off and the the mild afternoon grew warmer and brighter even under the leafy deciduous canopy. Milo was dressed much as he had been when Jeremy had first met him, in very baggy charcoal sweats and nothing else, the bigger of the two baskets they had with them gripped firmly in his meaty fist. Jeremy had elected to follow suit, retrieving a pair of beat-up jeans from the suitcase in his red SUV to replace the trousers that were currently getting the spunk agitated out of them in Milo’s washing machine along with the rest of his duds. He had the smaller basket, having insisted Milo wasn’t going to be allowed to carry everything unless he was carrying Jeremy, too. Milo had seemed tempted.

Shirtlessness felt good in the breezy forest, as it turned out. Proud as he was of his own physique, though, he still felt small next to Milo. And his smooth body was almost ridiculously hairless by comparison. Only his signature shoulder-length head hair was anything like as extra as the other man’s, and even there his elegant locks seemed tame compared to Milo’s wavy mass. They’d both shaved, as if for a date of some sort, though seeing him and smelling his smooth cheek Jeremy had to think Milo hadn’t done it for appearances’s sake. He’d bared his smooth, sharp Apollo-like jawline for Jeremy to nuzzle and for no other reason, and Jeremy was there for it.

Unlike Milo, in addition to the old jeans Jeremy had also nabbed ankle socks and a pair of old sneakers, and was as footshod as Milo was barefooted. Glancing up at the towering, furry-chested man next to him, Jeremy thought he could understand most of Milo’s approach to clothes: after hearing about the blue buffalo-checked shirt he’d outgrown, Jeremy could imagine he didn’t see the point in well-fitting togs that didn’t stay well-fitting for long. Plus, as much as Milo came these days, shirts were probably a liability. He had to ask about the shoes, though.

Milo shrugged, pushing aside a heavy branch that was in his way. Jeremy could have walked right under it. “I’m used to it,” was all he said in his low, sub-basso voice. “Shoes are expensive, and so’s digital drawing gear. Hand tools. Home improvement materials. Food.”

“Uh huh,” Jeremy said. “You’re not worried it might give off a sort of Li’l Abner vibe?” he teased.

Milo was looking straight ahead, but Jeremy could tell he was smiling, his chin held high. “I’m way bigger than Li’l Abner,” he said calmly.

Shit, me being into him and his unstoppable growth is giving Meek Boy here a bit of a confidence makeover, Jeremy thought approvingly. “Is that right?” he shot back with a grin.

Milo nodded. “Hairier, too,” he added, stealing a furtive glance down at Jeremy.

Jeremy tsked, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “How can someone be that shy and that cocky at the same time?”

Milo was back to looking ahead. “Oh, I’m definitely ‘cockier,’” he said airily. Jeremy laughed.

They walked a while in comfortable silence. After a time they came to a massive tree that was partly uprooted from a storm and listing at an angle over the curving path.

They stopped to look at it, Milo walking around one side and then the other of the mighty oak. “That’s not good,” he muttered.

“If that thing falls all the way it could block the path,” Jeremy said.

“Or fall on someone,” Milo agreed. Setting down his basket, Milo approached the bole of the tree—Jeremy estimated it was at least half again as big around as he was—and gripped it on either side, positioning himself to exert all of his force on the listing oak.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Jeremy thought. He let the basket he was carrying with the condiments, cheeses, plates, and utensils slip from his limp fingers and drop gently to the ground, watching transfixed as Milo, seemingly with the ease of someone righting a listing mailbox, pushed the tree back to its accustomed vertical and then kept going, progressively extending his bulging arms with the force of a hydraulic press until it was lying at a steep angle in the other direction, into the forest, the ground at Milo’s bare feet bulging with displaced roots that might tear free of the soil at any moment and send the upended oak crashing down the rest of the way.

Milo, dusting off his hands, turned in time to see Jeremy adjusting the very obvious iron-bar erection he had in his jeans. The big man blushed and looked away, the massive flesh-tube pushed down one of the legs of his sweats visibly twitching. “Don’t get me started,” he warned in an extra-low rumble. He moved over to pick up the big basket he’d set down, comically keeping his back to Jeremy as much as he could. “I have to exert a lot of control not to get hard every time I look at you.”

Jeremy let out a breath and resisted the urge to climb Milo like a jungle gym. “Ditto,” he said, picking up his own basket instead. They started walking, Milo staying next to him but resolutely looking ahead, as though one more peep at Jeremy might send his cock tearing through the seams of his sweats. Jeremy thought he could almost feel the heat radiating from Milo’s face and chest. “So what do you think about to, uh, keep control?” he asked conversationally as they walked.

“Mastodons,” Milo said shortly.

Jeremy looked up at him, confused. “Mastodons?”

Milo grunted in confirmation. “They’re big and hairy and strong, like me,” he said. “And not at all sexy.”

Jeremy huffed in amusement. “You’re right,” he said, “Mastodons aren’t nearly as sexy as you are.”

Milo growled in an urgent, “don’t do it” sort of way, and Jeremy laughed. There would be plenty of time to play with Milo’s libido control later.

The meadow was secluded but high up a little hill, so the view and the big sky above made it feel open. They spread the blanket out over the long grass and for a while simply sat there, shirtless and barefoot (Jeremy had removed his shoes and socks before joining Milo on the blanket), leaning back on their hands as they watched stray tufts of frayed cirrus cotton skud rapidly across the deep, featureless azure sea above them. The food and wine could wait a little longer.

“This is so comforting that I’m a little scared,” Milo admitted, not looking at Jeremy. The timid words sounded strange in his ultra-deep voice.

Jeremy nodded, eyes on a dark speck that seemed to be soaring over another hill to the east. He thought it might be a hawk, but he wasn’t sure any were native to the area. He’d have to read up on the local fauna. “Get to know me,” he said as he tracked the hawk into a copse of trees. “Get used to having me around.”

Milo hmphed. “I mean, I know what you do,” he said. “Or at least what you were doing until you apparently quit over the phone?” he added, glancing at Jeremy curiously.

“I’m still a senior talent liaison,” Jeremy said. “I just swapped to the version of my job that doesn’t require 45 weeks of travel a year.” He glanced at Milo, letting his gaze drop to Milo’s lap. “Now I can work from anywhere.”

Milo’s cheeks warmed, and he tore his gaze away, staring fixedly into the distance at nothing in particular. “We’re in public,” Milo warned in an undertone. Jeremy laughed.

“The thing is,” Milo went on, clearing his throat, “you say you’re a publishing house rep, but you don’t look like a publishing house rep.”

“Yeah? What do I look like?”

“I dunno, like one of those movies from the 80s where the really hot dancer guy is trying to defect from the Bolshoi ballet or something.”

Jeremy laughed. “Spot on! Not the Soviet defector part, but, yeah.”

“Really?” Milo said. “I should have known. There’s something about ballet that—I mean, every single muscle in your body just gets… enhanced…” He trailed off, and Jeremy looked over to see Milo all but ogling Jeremy’s ultradefined flanks, his attention focused in like his eyes were in high magnification mode as his gaze slid down Jeremy’s sides to his jeans-clad legs. When he got to his bare feet, Milo looked away, the monster between his own legs twitching in his sweats like a landed carp. Instead he stared tensely into the forest, clearing his throat again.

“I don’t mind you looking,” Jeremy purred. “I’m sure doing my fill.”

Milo kept his eyes on the trees, though he seemed to consciously loosen his shoulders. “I knew I recognized something in you when I was trying to draw you before. I’ve sketched so many dancers, honing my sense of anatomy and motion, trying to capture that combination of utter strength and sheer fluidity.”

Jeremy nodded. His own reasons for going into dancing were not dissimilar. Strength as motion, motion as strength. On the walk out here Jeremy had been watching Milo, and there was nothing of the lumbering giant about him. He could move. Jeremy wanted to see him run, flat out, like he was making for the ends of the earth and his big feet would eat the ground until he got there.

“All the famous ones make it look so easy,” Milo was saying. “Like they were born to it.”

“Just don’t call me ‘Misha,’” Jeremy said. He snorted. “Or ‘Billy.’”

Milo looked over at him again, amused. “I dunno, it might suit you. Easier to say than ‘Jeremy.’”

“I got it all through middle school. That and, ‘Oi! Dancing boy!’”

Milo hummed. “I might have occasion to call you that, too.”

“Stop.” He glanced up at Milo. “Fuck, Mie, you’re adorable when you’re shy and you’re adorable when you’re confident. I might very well be smitten.”

Milo chuckled. “‘Smitten’?!”

Jeremy pretended to be hurt, though a smirk wavered on the edge of his pout. “Don’t make fun of my word choice! I’m a literary guy.”

Milo was close, his smile crooked and his eyes alight. “And a dancing boi.”

Jeremy was trapped in those big, alluring eyes. There was so much back there from the unusual life he’d led; and yet, to him, Milo felt like the most uncomplicated man he’d ever met.

“Not to mention a guy who takes encountering hermit giants completely in stride,” Milo added, looking between Jeremy’s eyes. That edge of curiosity was back in his low voice, making it sound almost like a question.

“Hermit giants with giant dicks,” Jeremy amended, lips quirking. A rush of arousal flooded through him, and he knew his hot-blooded partner must be feeling the same. He guessed there was a lot of context on both sides to this serendipitous twist that had brought them together. They both had stories, but as his eyes dropped to Milo’s lips, he was sure they could wait.

They were starting to move closer when they heard an awed voice say, “Whoa!” and another add “Holy shit.”

They looked up to see two hikers rooted in the grass about ten feet away, staring at them like they’d encountered a purple elephant calmly lounging in the meadow-grass. They were twenty-somethings, probably local as they were dressed in tee shirts and shorts with small knapsacks rather than full hiking gear, and evidently easily gobsmacked.

Jeremy felt Milo tense, as though his lifelong urge to hide were kicking in. He gave the pair an unfriendly look, though they appeared not to have really noticed him yet.

“Dude,” the blonder of them said, “you’re so big.” The other one’s jaw was literally hanging open.

Jeremy was about to spring to his feet and cave to his protective instincts, maybe give these yahoos a reason to scamper off posthaste, but unexpectedly Milo intervened. Sitting up, Milo said, “Yeah?”

When they nodded, Milo palpably shifted into the confident version of himself Jeremy had only just seen awakening. “C’mere a second, okay?” he said.

They nodded again, and, as though entranced—and really, Jeremy had to think anyone coming close to Milo probably fell under his spell a little—the two hikers took a few steps closer, until they were near the edge of the blanket. They were staring at Milo like he was a pagan god who’d come to earth, and not one of the nice ones but one of the ones who craved the asses of innocent mortals. Jeremy wasn’t sure if these guys were gay, but from the looks on their faces they were considering their options.

“Hi,” Milo said. “I’m Milo, and this is my boyfriend, Misha.” He leaned toward Jeremy, and Jeremy lightly slapped his enormous chest with the back of his hand in protest at the use of the nickname.

The two hikers seemed to fully register Jeremy for the first time, and the not-blond one muttered, “Shit.” Jeremy beamed at them, pleased to have been noticed in the company of the pagan fuck-god next to him. Normally he stood out, as he had at the coffee shop the day before, so this dynamic was a welcome change for him.

“We were about to have a little lunch together,” Milo told the two men in a low, hypnotically steady voice. “Just us, you know?”

The blond, who seemed to be quicker on the uptake, jolted slightly and took a step back again, dragging his buddy back with him. “Right, sorry to disturb you,” he said, though he was still more awed than abashed, as if he were trying to drink in as much of Milo as he could before exiting stage left.

“But it was really nice meeting you two,” Milo added, and for all that the purport of his words was essentially “off you go,” he sounded like he meant it.

The two hikers nodded, then the brunet asked, “Hey, do you have an Insta, or—or an Only—”

“Enjoy your day!” the blond said hurriedly, bundling his buddy off with him with one hand and adjusting his crotch with the other.

Milo watched them go, then slumped onto his back in amused relief. “That was weird,” he said. “Better than screaming, I guess!”

“So polite,” Jeremy said, rubbing Milo’s chest with a smirk. “You’re such a small-town goody-two-shoes. I would have been like, ‘Dream of me and weep, buckos!’”

Milo chuckled. “I want to be the one dreaming of you, not them,” he said, sitting up. “Come on, let’s eat. I am very hungry and very horny, and we can only take care of one of those out here.”

“Back at you,” Jeremy said, turning to help Milo unpack the baskets for a pre-fuck picnic Jeremy hoped would be the first of many.

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