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.

Added: Jun 2022 5,841 words 9,533 views 4.6 stars (18 votes) This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.

T

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 parked 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, abashed. 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 teasingly, deriding himself for his 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 to be anywhere else anytime soon. This man was his sole focus. I’m all yours, he told Milo in his head, only a little sardonically.

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 broke free of the loose sweats he’d reluctantly pulled on to answer the door and 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, 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 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, ands 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.

 

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