Resolutions: King factory

by BRK

 The manager of a small, forgotten factory gets a sudden visit from the son of the conglomerate that owns his plant. Not only is he taking over, it seems, but he’s insistent on maximizing profit—even to the point of reviving production on that one sweetener everyone knows is a joke.

Added: Mar 2022 6,615 words 3,183 views 3.5 stars (8 votes) This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.

I

I didn’t know what it would do. I mean, sure, I’d heard all the rumors, but no one on earth actually believed them. All I knew was that our slowest-selling product had become a worldwide joke, the company had packed up and vanished down the storm drain of corporate failure, and I had a crate of unwanted concentrate to pack away in the darkest corner of my factory, there to fade into the obscurity that had befallen its band and everyone associated with it.

Then, on what was already the stormiest day of my placid life as the most minor captain of industry in the whole of the Pacific Rim, I found out the truth… and it’s not much of an exaggeration to say it changed everything. Would I go back to how it was before? My life might be stranger now, but I wouldn’t change a thing.


There is a man whom they say surpasses all men in possessing beauty, charisma, and utter coldness in equal measure. A man whose stare could pierce your heart even as the most infinitesimal shift of his lips in disapproval, the subtlest sneer, stopped you dead and weakened your knees in shame. He was the son and heir of FKU Group, known for possessing all the hauteur and imperiousness their immense power and resources imbued in every chairman, scion, spouse, and in-law—and twice as much of his own besides. Bu Jin-ho, the Ice King, desired by all who saw him and feared by all who met him. And he was coming here.

“The Ice King?” I repeated with a frown. I’d been snatched by the arm coming out of the break room by my earnest and, at the moment, very distressed-looking assistant, Kwang-sun. If nothing else, I could’ve known he was upset just from the fact that his dark purple tie—chosen to complement his skinny, perfectly tailored lilac dress shirt and his deep-plum-dyed hair—was slightly askew, a sure sign that he’d been twitching at it nervously as he worked. One of the benefits of being a forgotten little middle-of-nowhere alternative sweeteners factory like us was that we could be modern enough that the management team (if you can call a harried, undersized crew of me, my trusty admin, and the three overburdened heads of production, shipping, and finance a proper management team) forsook the suits and ties of our fathers; but Kwang-sun, the lone exception, didn’t care about the protocols of business attire, either. He just liked dressing up.

By way of answer, he turned his tablet around and, gripping it one-handed by the top as he often did, pushed the screen at me.

It was my own schedule he was showing me, I saw, and, strangely enough, it looked like a new item that hadn’t been there before had suddenly appeared on it. “Meeting with Bu Jin-ho,” it said tersely. My frown deepened. No one from FKU Group had ever visited, or, as far as I was aware, even paid the slightest attention to Sun-Love Factory, the most paltry, insignificant, and frankly forgettable of their assets by any conceivable measure. My stomach twisted, mercilessly squeezing the vending machine jerk chicken wrap I’d just wolfed down while I’d scrolled through industry news. Why was he here? We were being sold? Closed? I could think of no other reason for the chaebol son to descend to our corner of the world. It would be my job to inform my workers if the owners had decided to wipe out their employment and livelihoods, and alongside my queasiness a flicker of anger kindled.

Kwang-sun pointed urgently at the little yellow block with his free hand, his anxiety palpable, and I realized the fact of the meeting itself was not the whole of the bad news. The location, according to the scheduling calendar, was my office, and the time was right fucking now.

I glanced up at him, now as alarmed as he was, and we shared a look of mutual fear and dread before we turned together and ran, hoping against hope as we pelted like maniacs down the wide store-room-lined corridors of the building’s administrative annex that fastidious punctuality was not among the many traits of the Ice King liable to lead to the anguish and discomfort of those unfortunate enough to deal with him.


It was a close thing. I had barely made it to my large but unremarkable corner office, positioning myself hurriedly in the center of the indigo-carpeted space to receive my guest with Kwang-sun beside me, when he arrived, spectacularly throwing open the double doors and sweeping into the room with all the presence and stone-faced arrogance of a newly crowned idol striding through a swarm of fawning reporters and paparazzi, ignoring them all as beneath him as they fed upon each other. It could almost have been in slow-motion, scored with some brash guitar tune designed to highlight his status and disdain, but reality was more dramatic in its own way: apart from the distant, omnipresent background thrum of the factory floor I never heard anymore, all was painfully silent, and the clattering of the wooden doors as he entered and the thumping of my heart were almost deafening as a result.

Bu Jin-ho ignored us, too, choosing first to look over the room with a keen and disapproving eye. I felt instant chagrin (and a matching annoyance) as he perused and catalogued my humble and entirely functional space, with its paneled walls covered with taped up calendars, blueprints, and workflow diagrams, the wide windows that (I now belatedly noticed) were rather grimy and in need of a wash, and the wide, battered desk with its newish workstation almost hidden by stacks of papers, binders, and brown accordion files.

On the other hand, Bu Jin-ho’s snub afforded me the opportunity to drink in the man himself, an expenditure of a few moments liable to repay extensive dividends in future solo moments of self-satisfaction, starting with the long, steamy shower I was planning on taking the moment I got home and stripped my own clothing off. Everything about him was a superlative, almost as though he had been artificially designed to be better than everyone, and me in particular. I had always been taller than all my male friends and coworkers by at least a half a head, the lanky, elegantly skinny fashion-plate Kwang-sun included; but the Ice King was a further half-head taller than me, dominating the room almost with his height alone. I was usually called handsome (and not only by my mother), at university having been distinguished from another, unrelated Cha Jae-sang by means of a blush-inducing epithet bestowed by my friends, “Handsome Cha”; but the planes of Jun-ho’s cheekbones and jawline, the curve of his red lips and the arch of his elegant brows, the lustrous frame of his surprisingly long hair—all of it was so exquisite, so compelling, that (rather to my horror) my cock responded in a shuddering jolt of interest, shifting and swelling impetuously in my briefs even before I cast my eyes down the rest of the man.

There, too, I felt short in a category in which I had always been confident. I was a gymnast at school, finding training and the physical invigoration a relief from the slog of business studies, and had determinedly kept my defined, athletic form as a gesture of self-respect; and yet… even from within the fine layers of his dark, expensive, expertly tailored three-piece suit Jin-ho’s body trumpeted its superior form. Every inch of him was muscled, perfectly proportioned, and profoundly arousing, from his wide shoulders and narrow waist to his round, hard ass and long, shapely legs.

There was another area where I was uncommonly blessed, one more intimate than the others and known only to a select few, and couldn’t decide whether I wanted to learn that the Ice King had bettered me on this score, as well, or if for once I held my own. Somehow I felt certain that no one but him knew the answer, and the fantasy of becoming party to that knowledge was already taking hold in the darker and dirtier corners of my very vivid imagination.

But my flickering visions of pulling that suit off him bit by bit and layer by layer, slowly exposing the tan skin and masculine strength beneath, came to a screeching halt when he spoke.

“This will do,” he said, still not looking at me. His voice was strangely soft, like a man who never spoke in anger. His words, in contrast, were much harder.

My brows furrowed. “‘Do’?” I repeated stupidly.

Jin-ho was moving, and to my surprise he was moving toward my wide, cluttered desk. He rounded it and, to my amazement, he sat down in the chair, casting a quick, disparaging glance over the piles and stacks before steepling his fingers and finally meeting my gaze.

I had turned on point toward him as he’d moved around me, almost automatically, and now found I was facing him across my own desk. The master instantly turned subordinate—or, worse, supplicant, I thought, heat rising up my back. “What do you mean, ‘do’?” I repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

He made no answer, having already succinctly demonstrated what he’d meant. Instead he raked his eyes over me top to bottom, giving me the same meticulous assessment he’d given the office he’d just claimed from me.

“Cha Jae-sang,” he said, meeting my eyes again. He pronounced the syllables of my name distinctly, as if names were all that mattered in his world. The barest of smirks brushed those lovely lips. “I see now why they called you ‘Handsome Cha’,” he added.

I pressed my lips together. From behind me I felt the burn of Kwang-sun’s shocked and, no doubt, engrossed stare, but I was more concerned with the import of Jin-ho’s words. I had expected to be treated dismissively, as beneath his notice, so to find out he had researched me, and wanted me to know it, left me nonplussed. I rallied myself, gathering my pride. “Bu Jin-ho,” I said, insolently mimicking his pronunciation. If I were any sassier I might have asked him if he knew what he was called when his back was turned, but I tended to leave the sarcasm to Kwang-sun—he was better at it. Instead I held my chin high. “Am I… fired?” I asked, my throat catching on the word.

He lifted his sculpted brows. “Not at all,” he said, as if surprised the thought had even occurred to me. “I need you, Handsome Cha.” The glint in his eye and that faint smirk as he said the words sent a spark of hot excitement up my spine, and my helpless cock, already awakened by this man’s excessive glamor and delicious form, jumped and swelled a little more. Fuck, I hope he didn’t see that, I thought.

To distract us both I held to my point. “You’ve taken my desk,” I reminded him. I was very curious to know why he had done so, too, but I did not ask. Not why he’d taken the desk—that was clearly an elementary power play—but why he had come here at all. My first thought had been that he’d stormed the place temporarily, either for liquidation or some kind of audit; but as I stood there facing him down across my own desk I was becoming more certain by the second that he was here to stay. He was taking over the factory. This factory, the backwateriest of backwaters in the FKU firmament.

I couldn’t help but wonder what could drive such a fiercely important and self-sure man to come here of all places. Here he was, charging dramatically into Sun-Love Factory, the pimple on the butt of FKU Group, like he was taking over the world. What would make that happen? Chaebol in-fighting? Secret debts? Something darker?

He held my gaze, shrugging deliberately. “There are other desks,” he suggested, as though offices and desks grew on trees.

I shook my head. The admin section of the factory annex was not very expansive, and all the rooms were accounted for. We didn’t even have a conference room. “There are no free offices,” I said.

The Ice King shifted his gaze behind me toward a corner of the room and nodded his chin in that direction. I glanced over my shoulder, just to make sure he was looking at what I thought he was looking at: the smallish round faux-walnut table set by the filing cabinets, four matching seats pushed in around it. The one I used for working meetings and weekly conferences with the department heads. That was where he was consigning me, as though I were a newly-conscripted intern rather than the factory administrator.

I turned slowly back to him, my gaze as steely and cold as the man himself.

“It’s convenient, right?” he said blandly. “We’ll be working closely together, after all, and I might require your attention at any time.”

My pulse fluttered, and my neck heated. Does he even know what he’s saying? I thought, as my already-chubbed cock started twitching and lengthening again against the confines of my briefs. His arctic demeanor and arrogance said he had no idea, but that constant quarter-smirk and the way he looked at me—the way he kept lingering ever so slightly over that nickname, Handsome Cha—implied that he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Either way, my lizard-brain was too busy recording every word for later for me to analyze it too deeply.

I said nothing to his proposal, letting my silence speak for me. Agreeing no response was required, Jin-ho let his piercing gaze slide off me and fix on Kwang-sun behind me. “Secretary Do,” he said.

“Y-yes,” Kwang-sun said, sounding startled. This guy really did do his research, I thought. He probably knew all the names down to the assembly line and custodial staff.

Jin-ho nodded toward the clutter on my—or, rather, his—desk. “Have this cleared away,” he said, “and prepare all the current production and inventory schedules.” To me he added, with unexpected candor, “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”


It was late, maybe eight or nine o’clock, before we got to Schedule DX—Deprecated Inventory. I had sent Kwang-sun home, and we had no overnight shifts in the factory itself, so there was no one on the grounds at all but us two, and Jin-ho was showing no signs of slowing down. It looked like I wasn’t going home to my sexy shower anytime soon.

We were clustered at my round conference-table-turned-desk-of-subordination flipping through screens and binders, a single overhead light burning patiently above us in the otherwise dark room. Jin-ho was making neat, careful notes about everything, the poshness of his high-end fountain pen a fun contrast to the mundane yellow legal pad he was using, retrieved from company stores at the start of this endless meeting.

Jin-ho had taken off his suit jacket a while back as he’d dug into the printouts, and I was distracting myself from my fatigue and hunger by pretending not to stare at the swell of his upper arms against his cornflower-blue dress shirt when he broke the silence abruptly. “What’s this?” he asked.

I glanced up at his face, my rational brain experiencing a momentary lag. His beauty made him seem strangely ageless—I hadn’t been sure when he’d arrived whether he was twenty-five or forty—but over the hours since he had relaxed enough with me that his mask had slipped a little, along with a few locks of that long, lush, well-coiffed hair of his. He looked young now, younger than my own thirty-two years, though of course our relative positions in the social strata would prevent me from ever speaking to him as a junior.

His words registered a second later, and I looked over at where his finger was tapping on a page from the hardcopy inventory schedules. “KiSweet concentrate,” I told him, not sure why he was interested. “It’s mixed 1:10 with inactive ingredients to make a sweetening powder we used to distribute. We have fifty kilos of the concentrate still, looks like.”

“Why is it deprecated?” He made the word “deprecated” sound an offense, like any inventory a subsidiary held in such quantity and was not actively leveraging to produce profit was, from the perspective of FKU Group, a telling indicator of either incompetence or betrayal.

I held his gaze. “It’s a discontinued product,” I said. “We stopped making it—” I thought back. “—oh, eighteen months ago.”

He seemed displeased. “Were you ordered to stop making it?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I made the decision,” I said. “It was becoming a joke on the net, and sales were dropping like a rock because of it. Restaurants and cafés stopped taking it. I think it was even outlawed in the States and New Zealand because of all of the rumors on the web.” Also, it tasted terrible, I thought, though I knew that was too subjective to give as a reason to have stopped production. I’d tried a sachet of the finished product once in my coffee and hated it enough to switch to black Americanos from that moment forward. Seriously, it was like wet moss or something.

He curled his lip at me. “Rumors on the web,” he repeated flatly, as if I’d said something idiotic. “If the swell was eighteen months ago, that means now is the exact time to hit hard with a new brand identity.” You’d know that if you had any business acumen, his eyes seem to say, and suddenly I wanted to take his celebrity glamor down a notch or two with an extremely artistic punch to the face.

I struggled to remain polite, though the truth is my anger usually shows on my face no matter what I do, or so I’m told. “We couldn’t resume sales even if we wanted to,” I told him. “The supplier went out of business, for one thing, and our manufacturing and distribution license went with it.”

He tapped the page again. “Fifty kilos mixed one to ten is enough to produce a limited supply range under a new name using existing production lines,” he insisted calmly. “A little hype, a little world of mouth, and you’ll clear your inventory and make treble the revenue over existing brands.”

I gaped at him. I decided not to bring up the license again—probably he thought that an out of business company in another country couldn’t interfere, which was, admittedly, likely true, though regulators might still intervene. Perhaps FKU Group had ways of dealing with minor problems like that as well. Instead I said, “We don’t even know if the concentrate is still viable. It could be damaged, or mislaid, or—”

To my surprise he stood up, looming tall and strong over me in his vest and shirtsleeves. His crotch inches from my face, causing my brain to stall momentarily. “Then let’s go check,” he said, and without another word he strode to the doors and pulled them open, striding imperiously into the darkened, empty building beyond. I watched him go, staring longingly at his ass, so mesmerized by those firm, round glutes I could almost feel my cock sliding between them and pushing deep into the tight, thrilling heat beyond.

Then he was gone and the spell was broken. What was happening to me? I was thinking with my dick around my actual boss, who might be in the process of derailing my entire life. I wanted very much to slap myself. Instead I scrambled to my feet and, pausing only to grab the set of master keys from the top right drawer of my former desk, I hurried after him into the silent gloom.

The storage room where we kept deprecated inventory was out of the way, naturally, on the far side of the main complex and around several corners; but Jin-ho had memorized the factory plans and beat me there, so that when I hurried up he was standing motionless by the locked door, arms folded over his firm, distractingly broad chest, waiting for me.

I found the right key on the master key-ring and pushed it in, meeting some resistance from the old lock. I felt him standing close to me and I looked up at him. My heart was thumping faster, as it had already conditioned itself to do around this most erotic of men. “Why are you here?” I blurted out.

He didn’t answer. In the gloom of the back corridor the pale, muscle-hugging arms of his tailored sleeves stood out against his midnight vest and dark-gold skin, as did, strangely, the highlights of his thick-locked, almost shoulder-length hair. The contrasting tones made it feel like we were in a manhwa, one about a callous Joseon hero who’d outlived his time and his destined mate, a first love who’d died unjustly centuries before, now returned reborn to this world, unknowing and unremembering.

I wanted to touch him just to know that he was real.

Face hot, I turned away quickly and twisted the lock, opening the heavy steel door into the enclosed chill of the disused store-room, wondering what the heck was wrong with me.

We found the cache of KiSweet concentrate quickly enough, a sturdy two-hundred-gallon plastic storage crate tucked away in the back under the room’s sole window, a back rectangle high up the gray-painted cinder-block wall. Crooked lading bills from the crates long-ago journey here from New Zealand still adorned the side, scuffed and worn like the rest of the exterior from years of use.

Jin-ho flipped open the sawtooth lid and examined the contents. Inside the crate was half-filled a jumble of oblong white-paper packages the size of small throw pillows, all marked KISWEET CONCENTRATE, with smaller lettering underneath warning that it was not to be ingested in concentrate form or resold. The packages looked overstuffed, like they might burst open all over you if mishandled.

“There,” he said, as if some point had been proven. He picked up one of the packages, turning it over in his hands before holding it up to me. “Potential profit, needing only a bit of ingenuity to realize.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, picking up easily on his insinuation that ingenuity was something I woefully lacked. “As I already said, Bu Jin-ho—” I began. I didn’t get a chance to finish telling him what I had already told him, however, because at that moment the steel door slammed shut, throwing us into sudden, inky darkness. My stomach turned as I heard the lock turn loudly before heavy footsteps sped away down the corridor.

With difficulty I found my way past all the stacks and shelves and pallets to the door, cursing myself for leaving my phone behind in the office. I grabbed the knob and shook it, but the door was securely locked. I banged on it with my fist, the noise of my blows filling the room. “Hey! Hey!” I yelled out, already knowing there was no one to hear. The plant was empty. Even the night guard would have finished his rounds by now and taken his post at the gates—assuming he wasn’t the one who had, incompetently or treacherously, locked us both in here. The master key had to have come from somewhere, and my keys were still in my pocket.

Jin-ho was beside me. “Can you unlock it?” he asked, all business.

I shook my head, not that he could see it in the dark. “It doesn’t unlock from this side,” I said. “Do you have your phone?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

I turned toward him, back to the door. My vision had adjusted enough already I could almost make his features out in the blackness. I huffed a little laugh, pushing up on tiptoes to bring our faces closer. “Looks like we’re stuck—”

The fire alarm sounded. The sound was so jarring that I started badly—I’ve never been good with loud noises—and with the cacophony of the alarm klaxon in my ears I felt like I was losing my balance. Instinctively I reached forward to grab onto something, my fingers wrapping tightly onto the top hem of his upscale vest. The act of grabbing onto it so hard had the effect of jerking him down and toward me, and with me looking up at him in alarm our faces smashed together, our lips meeting in a sudden, hard-impact, accidental kiss—just as the sprinklers started pouring a heavy, soaking deluge of lukewarm water over us.

If this were a drama the credits would rolling right now, I thought wryly, but I cast that thought aside and fell fully into the moment, closing my eyes and letting myself feel nothing but Jin-ho’s lips pressed firmly against my own.


Jin-ho grabbed my shoulders and pushed us roughly apart, though he did not let go once he had done so, holding tightly onto me as the endless water sluiced onto us from above. His eyes drilled into mine. “We have to get out of here,” he said urgently, raising his voice to be heard over the klaxon. “Now.”

I must have looked like I didn’t believe him, though the truth was I was still processing the implication of his words—that we were in real danger—and, honestly, my now-raging erection was not helping. He was squeezing my shoulders, hard. “The sprinklers are localized,” he said pointedly. “They would respond only to heat or smoke in this sector of the plant.”

I nodded. He was right. If there was an actual fire, it was probably close. “The system will immediately alert the police and fire services…” I said.

His lips tightened as the water streamed over his face. “We can’t count on that,” he said.

I held his gaze. His concern would only make sense if the system had been sabotaged. I remembered the closing and locking of the door behind me. “You think this was deliberate,” I said.

He was still holding my shoulders. “My cousin wants control of FKU Group,” he said. “I am his only rival, and he has no scruples.”

“So, what, you decided to buy time by… looking like you were slinking off to a backwater subsidiary, until everything was in place to make your move?” I wondered how much the coldness was an act, too. He didn’t seem very cold now.

His eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “Something like that,” he said, impressed. “It appears,” he added with chagrin, as if a carefully built sand castle had been leveled by the crush of an unanticipated wave, “that my cousin did not believe I had been humiliated and demoted after all.”

So he decided to remove the threat entirely while Jin-ho was away from center stage, I finished silently. Why are would-be tycoons always so dramatic? I tried to focus, despite the water and the noise, and the pleasure I felt at Jin-ho gripping tightly onto my traps. “There’s only the one door,” I said. My eyes widened. “And—”

“The window,” Jin-ho said with me.

Quickly we raced back to the back corner of the storeroom. My dress shoes slipped a few times on the wet concrete floor (at least these storerooms all have drains into the sewer system, I thought), and by the time I got there Jin-ho was already clambering up on the big plastic crate that held the KiSweet. I pulled up short. This did not seem like a good idea. “Jin-ho—” I began respectfully, though I don’t think he heard me.

He straightened, balancing his weight as close to the sides of the crate lid as he could, and reached for the latch. “It’s stuck,” he called back to me without turning. “Hand me your shirt!”

“What?!” I balked. Was he really going to try smashing through the glass? Wasn’t that only in the movies?

He glanced back at me, but when I did not respond immediately he impatiently whipped off his vest and cast it aside, then stripped off his dress shirt in record time. I could not help but imagine him doing this in my bedroom—or, perhaps sexier still, in the office we now shared between us, the wide desk providentially cleared for action. Then his torso was bare, already a landscape of rivers as the sprinkler water pelted down on us, and I gaped, overcome with awe and lust at his long, flared back, his broad, bare shoulders, the long, wet hair clinging to his neck—

He was wrapping the shirt around his hand, either for leverage on the slippery latch or to actually try to break the glass, when the lid of the plastic crate suddenly and dramatically gave way—and all at once Jin-ho was plummeting down into it with a loud, gloopy splash.

I hurried close and peered in, clutching the sides. A magnificently shirtless Jin-ho was flailing about inside, mostly immersed in a thick, greenish-brown slurry that now filled the container. Spatters of the goo were flying everywhere as he struggled unsuccessfully to find his feet amidst all the broken and waterlogged packets still lining the bottom of the thing. I felt several cold drops smack my face and arms. One hit my upper lip and the still-falling sprinkler water streamed it right into my mouth. I instantly spat it out. Processed KiSweet in its retail packets, all ready to pour into your tea or over a glistening grapefruit half, might just be the least appetizing alternative sweetener ever devised; but the concentrated form genuinely tasted like actual ass.

“Help me!” Jin-ho shouted, still struggling. He’d managed to raise himself up enough that I could grab clumsily onto his naked torso and try hauling him out bodily out of the container, which I proceeded to do with considerable expenditure of effort. Just as I got him almost free of the thing, however, I lost balance and fell backward against the wall behind me with an oof!, Jin-ho smashing awkwardly onto me a second later. As he fell on me his feet caught the top of the container and sent it toppling over, causing a massive deluge of thick, ugly slime to gush out onto the floor—fortunately away from us, not that Jin-ho wasn’t already drenched in the stuff from head to toe.

We stayed like that, Jin-ho collapsed against me, my arms around his goo-coated back, and just let our hearts pound for a while, eyes locked on each other. My lips twisted as I thought of suggesting a repeat of our earlier accidental kiss, and to my shock his did, too. “Later,” the Ice King said softly, as if he’d read my mind.

“Later,” I confirmed.

The goo had already started washing slowly down the storeroom drain, presumably to find its ultimate fate in the local water system. There went Jin-ho’s deprecated inventory, I thought, watching it go. We were just starting to work on upending the container, having decided it would make a more viable escape platform upside-down, when we heard banging on the door and the delightful klunking sound of a key turning in the old lock. “Anyone in there?” someone yelled as the door opened.

Jin-ho and I looked at each other and grinned. As we walked out of that dark, wet Armageddon side by side, both of us looking like drowned rats and him shirtless and covered in sweetener slime, I noticed Jin-ho oddly adjusting his crotch. More than once. Come to think of it, my own junk felt a little funny, too.


Jin-ho strode out of the boardroom with a blank expression that concealed, to everyone but me, the smug satisfaction of victory he was clearly exulting in. “How did I go?” I asked him anyway with a grin, joining him at his side as he headed for the elevators. Our faithful assistant, Kwang-sun, trailed close behind us, today in a subdued (for him) ensemble of cerulean and electric blue. He always talked about how he had the best job in all the company thanks to the view he got to enjoy walking behind us, though most people would have guessed it wasn’t our asses that would get all the attention.

Jin-ho gave me a look. “Don’t ask needless things, Handsome Cha,” he chastised me, though his lips quirked slightly as he said it. I smiled back at him. Today’s executive meeting was the final vote to settle the company’s inheritance entirely on Jin-ho, to the total exclusion of his scheming cousin and his even more unscrupulous father. The cousin was already in jail thanks to the testimony of the security guard, whose conscience had not been bought after all despite the shocking size of the bribe he’d been given to hand over copies of the plant keys and the fire system passwords. He was the one who’d saved us, calling the authorities from his shack by the gates the moment he saw the fire and realized what he’d done.

Admiring eyes followed us as we passed through the halls, all of them immediately dropping from our faces to below the waist in a downward flick I was becoming very familiar with. Walking with anyone else I might have basked in the attention, knowing how easily the fat, obvious bulge of my shin-length cock attracted lustful stares and whispered comments, but… well, if I was with Jin-ho I knew it wasn’t my equipment causing all those licked lips and tightened pants.

Not that anyone ever saw his junk but me. True, it was hard to miss, elegantly sheathed in specially tailored suit pants designed to accommodate his “third leg”—though the truth was, Jin-ho’s wang was considerably thicker around than either of his strong, sculpted legs, and came close to matching both of them together. And only his perpetual state of half-arousal (and the hefty bulk of his balls, which were the size of small pumpkins) kept his partly-chubbed cock from dragging on the floor everywhere he went. Only for me, though, and only in the privacy of our home did Jin-ho relax, peeling off his clothes and letting his truly monolithic tool rise hard and sensitive between us, ready to cum any time and blast for hours and hours if he wished, covering me and everything around us in his sharp, savory spunk.

It had all happened so fast—it hadn’t even taken a couple of hours before Jin-ho, driving us home after we’d promised to give our statements later to the police, had pulled over in a panic and started tearing off his pants, exposing a cock already bigger than an arm and growing as we watched. The whole process was done right before our eyes as we stared at it on the side of the road. It was then I understood that the jokes about KiSweet were not only true but fell far short of reality—though Jin-ho had to have been the first to bathe in a vat of the stuff, and in concentrated form, too!

We didn’t really talk about it but I was pretty sure he was still growing, millimeter by millimeter, like the growth-factor was in his blood now or something. Maybe it was in his cum as well; that would explain the inch or so I’d gained in my own monster in the weeks since the incident. And that wasn’t even getting into how I felt like I was just a bit buffer than I’d thought I was, or how my pants seemed to be exposing a sliver of ankle lately that they hadn’t been before.

At first I’d worried that our transformations would cause pandemonium and every kind of negative consequence—us being called freaks, Jin-ho chased out of FKU Group, that kind of thing. Strangely enough, though, our giant dicks seemed… not to be a big deal. I’d even been caught in public a few times with a sudden hard-on—I got them a lot, now, not surprising given who I get to spend all my time with, and I don’t have his perfect control over erections and orgasms. But even with a face-high boner shoving up out of my pants and exposed for all to see, all I got was grins and wanton stares. The press coverage of me accepting a managing directorship at FKU had run on dozens of websites and newscasts, and all the photos and videos showed me uncontrollably and embarrassingly erect, my exposed, towering dick seemingly lapping up the adulation while I cringed behind it with a frozen smile.

We got to the elevator, and Jin-ho and I found ourselves exchanging a long look that had me mentally clearing my schedule for the rest of the afternoon. Kwang-sun, like the stellar assistant he was, immediately picked up on this. “You two heading home to celebrate?” he asked with a knowing smile, already noodling on his tablet.

“Absolutely,” I said reverently, still staring up at Jin-ho’s surreally handsome face. Just his steady gaze kindled an unquenchable fire in me, one I saw reflected in his own dark eyes. How had I ever thought him an Ice King?

“Uh-huh. Do you need any… help?” Kwang-sun offered, his smile widening as he looked up at us suggestively.

“Absolutely not,” we both said in unison, though I could hear a hidden fondness matching my own in Jin-ho’s tone. Kwang-sun kept trying to wear us down so we’d let him come home with us, and maybe someday he’d succeed—but not today. Though I had to admit, both of us did enjoy the kind of passionate attention we tended to get these days from admirers of huge cocks, and Kwang-sun was sure to provide exactly that…

Glancing down, I noticed that Kwang-sun had a rather hefty bulge himself in his bright-blue pants. Was he packing more than he had been? Even as I thought this, I remembered that he lived fairly close to the plant. Was it possible that all of that concentrated goo had washed down the drain, and—?

The elevator dinged, and I shook my head. The idea was absurd, the stuff of urban legends and B movies. As the three of us got on the elevator I was already thinking ahead to getting home and pulling off Jin-ho’s specially-made pants and—huh. Actually, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Kwang-sun got to watch after all.

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