The Legend Of Big Ben - Chapter Four

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Jordan decided he wouldn’t bring the subject up for some time, letting the OnlyFans spark flicker on its own, no nudges, no follow-ups. He didn’t want to come off desperate, or worse, make Ben feel pressured. Jordan would let him think it over for as long as he needed, giving the seed room to root or wither on Ben’s terms.

The next day, Ben didn’t mention it, and neither did Jordan, easy, the silence settling light as morning fog over the Hudson, Ben cracking a rare joke about a botched wiring diagram from his apprenticeship days over scrambled eggs, Jordan laughing genuine, the tension a ghost they both pretended not to see. The next day, the same thing: Ben pacing the hardwood and muttering about a rejection email from some upstate firm, Jordan murmuring reassurances from the couch, the words hey, about that OF thing dying unspoken on his tongue. The next day, it happened again, but this time Jordan started to feel a bit antsy, the itch building low in his gut.Still, he said nothing, swallowing it with a forced grin and a question about takeout options. It happened again two, three times: a quiet dinner where Ben’s fork paused mid-bite, eyes distant like he was chewing more than pasta; a lazy Sunday where Jordan’s hand wandered teasing under the sheets, but the question lodged in Jordan’s throat like dry toast.

At this point, Jordan was worried Ben had dropped the idea for good. He was chewing himself up inside, the what-ifs gnawing relentless: Did I push too hard? A million times, he started to talk about it with Ben, he’d open his mouth over breakfast, words forming on his tongue like remember that crazy idea..., breath catching as Ben looked up expectant; or mid-kiss in the kitchen, lips parting to spill it hot against his ear, only to clamp shut at the last second, pivoting to “pass the salt” with a smile that tasted like ash.

Just the next day, though, something happened. He’d slipped out of the consultancy on a hurried lunch break, the Midtown sidewalks slick with November’s first tentative flurries, his mind fixed on the forgotten notebook tucked in his desk drawer: scribbled notes on a client’s provenance query, the kind of detail that could unravel a deal if left behind. He expected the loft to be deserted, Ben long vanished into the city’s indifferent grind. But Ben was there, his towering frame etched against the living room window like a shadow reluctant to move. Jordan was surprised to see him there: Ben was supposed to be gone all day, out chasing the horizon of normalcy in a world that had been slamming doors in his face.

He was by the living room window, staring out at the Hudson’s gray swirl, but not really seeing, his eyes unfocused behind the glasses, his mind miles away in some trench of doubt and drift. Jordan remembered then: Ben had managed to score an interview for that morning, a really good job at a midtown firm wiring luxury condos, steady pay, union perks, the kind of step up that could rethread their frayed edges. He’d been a bit undecided about it even then, over breakfast that day, massive paw drumming the table as he muttered about being underqualified for the position, the journeyman demands outpacing his GED-forged resume. But Jordan had encouraged him to try it anyway. The worst thing that could happen was another rejection, and they’d weathered those storms before.

“Hey, Benny,” Jordan said, easing the door shut with a soft click, his voice cutting easy through the loft’s midday quiet. “Wasn’t expecting to find you here. How’d that interview go?”

Ben didn’t answer at first, back to the room, planted like a damn oak by the window, lost in his head somewhere far off. That was off; Ben wasn’t the type to zone out like that.

“Ben? You okay?” Jordan tried again.

“Yeah,” Ben grunted, finally breaking the trance with a sharp head shake. His voice came out like chewed gravel, scraped raw.

“You sure? You don’t sound so good” Jordan said, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ben ground out, flat as a slammed door, stare dropping to the floor like it owed him answers. “Tank the interview, anyway. Knew it, way over my head.”

“Shit,” Jordan muttered, gut twisting as he bridged the gap, arms locking around Ben’s waist in a solid clamp. Ben hugged back, harder than normal. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t be like that, please. You did your best.”

Ben said nothing, just leaned into the hug pulling him in with a wordless grip that crushed the air from Jordan’s lungs. Jordan was feeling guilty, the weight of it twisting sharp in his ribs. Ben hadn’t wanted that interview, not really, iit was Jordan who’d convinced him with that insistent pep talk, ignoring the doubt etched in Ben’s jaw. If he’d heard his boyfriend out, let the worry stand without his big-mouth push, that wouldn’t have happened, no stammered questions in a sterile conference room, no pitying nod from the foreman as the door clicked shut. But because of Jordan’s endless optimism, Ben had suffered another defeat, another gut-punch humiliation, the kind that left bruises no one saw but them.

They stood like that for a while, locked in the quiet of the living room, Jordan pouring every ounce of his love into the hug, breathing in the faint musk of him like it could chase the shadows from his eyes. Ben’s beefy grip didn’t loosen, his arms coiling possessive, holding Jordan close with a raw strength that said more than words ever could.

“Sorry, Benny,” Jordan murmured finally, pulling back just enough to search those hazel depths, thumb brushing Ben’s beard. “I have to get back to the office. You’ll be okay?”

“Sure,” Ben grunted, easing his hold but not fully letting go. “Don’t worry about me.”

Jordan nodded, reluctant, and released him fully, the chill of the loft seeping back in without that heat. He crossed to his bedroom in quick strides, rifling the drawer for the forgotten notebook, then turned back to the living room. He hugged Ben again, fierce and quick, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “Fuck those guys. It’s their loss.”

Ben barked a laugh but Jordan knew he was forcing it. Still, Ben dipped his head, capturing Jordan’s mouth in a kiss before he pulled away, the moment hanging heavy in the flurried light.

Jordan was by the door, notebook secured in his bag, when Ben called “Jord?”

“Hm?”

Ben was staring out the glass again, brow furrowed deep under. “That OnlyFans shit. You weren’t just yanking my chain, right?”

That caught Jordan by surprise, the words landing like a rogue spark in dry tinder, the last thing he expected Ben to dredge up now, not after the interview’s fresh bruise, the hug’s tight desperation still echoing in his ribs. “Oh, don’t worry about that right now, Benny,” he answered, the deflection automatic, even as irony twisted in his gut, as if not worrying about it wasn’t the quiet obsession that had chewed his last few days raw.

“But you meant that? For real?” Ben insisted.

Jordan hesitated for a moment, keys jingling faint in his free hand. What the hell happened in that interview? Why was Ben dragging the OnlyFans stuff back up now, like a lifeline tossed into the rejection’s wake? “I sure did,” he answered finally, stepping closer despite the clock ticking in his head, voice steady with the truth he’d buried under patience. “I think it could be good for you.”

Ben nodded, the motion slow and heavy, his eyes drifting back to the window’s flurried haze without really landing, his jaw set in that distant lock. Jordan waited by the door, waited to see if Ben would say something else But he didn’t, the loft’s quiet swallowing the moment whole, Ben seeming completely lost in thought. Jordan really wanted to sit down with him right there on the sectional and ask what the hell was going on. But fuck, he really needed to get back to work, the consultancy’s afternoon pitch looming like a guillotine, clients waiting on his polished spin of Matisse provenance. He hesitated again, thumb hovering on the knob, scanning Ben’s profile for any sign he should stay, but his boyfriend seemed lost in a different universe, the flurries outside mirroring the storm nobody else could see.

With a sigh that scraped his chest raw, Jordan said, “Love you, Benny,” one last time before turning the knob and stepping into the hall’s chill.

He hustled back to the consultancy, Midtown’s flurries lashing sharper now as he weaved through the lunch-hour crush of suits and street vendors, Ben’s distant stare clinging to him like frost on glass. He managed to avert the crisis caused by his forgetting easily, slipping into the conference room with seconds to spare, the Matisse notes deploying like a well-oiled trap, his pitch unspooling smooth and sharp to hook the clients’ doubts one by one. He sealed the deal with a firm round of handshakes, the lead bidder’s nod sealing the quarter’s haul, leaving his boss, Evan, really happy with the close, Evan’s keen gaze lighting up as he gripped Jordan’s shoulder, voice low and approving: “Nailed it, son. I’m proud of you.

The mood in the entire firm was really celebratory, a wave of backslaps and grins rippling through the open-plan sprawl: interns uncorking budget bubbly in the break room, the air electric with win-lap emails and inside jokes about the bidder’s “Matisse mustache,” the usual grind forgotten in the glow of commissions padding. Evan caught him by the espresso station, steam hissing like applause from the machine, “Cut out early, Jordan, you earned it fair and square.”

When Jordan was in the building lobby almost two hours later, threading through the marble hush of clocking-out colleagues, he ran into his boss yet again. Evan paused by the revolving doors, coat over one arm, mid-chuckle with a tall, muscular, and very handsome man in an expensive suit, the charcoal wool cut razor-sharp to hug broad shoulders and a tapered frame that moved with effortless power. Michael Hargrove, Evan’s husband.

“Hey, thought you had already left,” Evan said, turning from the revolving doors with that easy grin.

Jordan paused mid-stride across the marble lobby, “Yeah, just wrapping up loose ends,” he replied, falling into step as Evan waved him over.

“You remember Mike, right? My husband?” Evan added, nodding toward the tall figure beside him, the expensive suit hugging that powerful frame like it was tailored for sin.

“Sure,” Jordan answered, the word smooth on his tongue, even as his mind flashed as if I could possibly forget. The man was a total snack, handsome in that rugged, executive way, jaw sharp as a blueprint, eyes a piercing brown that cut through small talk like a laser level. And accomplished too: just that year, Michael Hargrove had been promoted to Vice-President of something at Steel Vanguard Construction, one of the biggest construction firms in the country. Evan had invited Jordan and Ben to the dinner party they’d thrown in celebration, a sleek rooftop affair with skyline toasts and caterers in black tie, but Jordan had declined, polite but firm over the phone: Ben had just been fired and Jordan wouldn’t drag him out to celebrate another man’s professional success.

“How are you, Mr. Hargrove?” Jordan asked, extending a hand, his grip steady despite the faint heat creeping up his neck, Michael’s clasp firm and warm.

“Just Michael, please,” he answered, the baritone warm and easy as he smiled down at Jordan, that piercing gaze crinkling at the edges. “Evan said you nailed some deal today? Congrats!”

“Yup, Jordan was brilliant,” Evan chimed in, beaming like a proud father, his arm slipping around Michael’s waist in that casual claim, fingers splaying possessive over the wool at his hip. The pride in his voice hit Jordan square, warming his cheeks in a flush he couldn’t quite tamp down. He actually blushed, the heat creeping up his neck as he ducked his head with a laugh.

He really liked his boss, the kind of admiration that bordered on aspiration. Evan, another gay man, who’d carved out the perfect life: a great career steering million-dollar auctions with the precision of a scalpel, and an even greater family, this towering specimen at his side a testament to it all, their easy rhythm screaming sorted, solid, seen. When Jordan thought of himself in 10 years, that was exactly how he wanted to be.

“Please, I almost blew the whole damn thing with that fucking notebook,” Jordan answered, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, the flush still warming his cheeks under the lobby’s marble gleam.

Evan waved it off, chuckling low as he adjusted his coat, that paternal glint sharpening in his eyes. “Take the compliment, son. A win like that’s calling for champagne! Drinks on me. You should invite Ben too!”

Jordan wanted to go, he really did, but he didn’t think Ben would be in the mood after today’s rejection, the window-stare and tight hug replaying like a loop of gut-twist. He took too long to answer, words sticking on his tongue, and Michael noticed that.

“I reckon the last thing he wants is to hoist glasses with a couple of old warhorses like us, Ev,” Michael rumbled, his massive hand clapping Evan’s shoulder with a firm, easy squeeze, but he cracked a wolfish grin at Jordan.

“What? We’re not old!” Evan protested, feigning outrage with a mock-shove to Michael’s chest. To Jordan, Evan added, still grinning wide, “We’re very cool, Jordan,I promise you!”

“You are the coolest old warhorse in the world, Evan,” Jordan joked.

Evan burst out laughing at that, a full, barking guffaw that crinkled his eyes, head thrown back like Jordan had nailed the punchline of the century. Even Michael let out a sexy, low laugh. Fuck, Jordan thought, the sound hitting him like a gut punch of want. He really loved Ben, more than anything, but Evan Hargrove had won big in the husband lottery.

“But today it’s not a good day,” Jordan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rain check?”

“Sure, son,” Evan replied, clapping his shoulder with that paternal warmth, the laugh fading to a genuine nod. “Whatever you want. Go celebrate with your boyfriend. Give Ben a squeeze from me.”

Evan held Jordan shoulder, a quick, firm goodbye grip that lingered just a beat, and Michael nodded at him, sharp, approving, that baritone hum of “Catch you soon” rumbling low as the couple turned, arms slipping around each other in an easy hug that spoke volumes, Evan’s head tucking against Michael’s shoulder like it belonged there. They stepped out into the flurried chill, weaving to the curb where a ridiculously expensive Porsche waited, sleek black curves gleaming under the streetlights. Jordan watched them slide in, Michael’s hand low on Evan’s back, guiding him with possessive grace, and the slight jealousy hit him square: that easy sync, that unshakeable win. That really was all he wanted for himself and Ben.

Jordan shouldered through the lobby doors into the late-afternoon flurries, the Porsche’s taillights long vanished into traffic. The walk home blurred in a haze of slush-slick sidewalks and coffee-cart steam.When he arrived home, he was surprised for the second time that day: if earlier he’d been shocked to find Ben home early, adrift by the glass like a ghost in his own skin, this time the loft hit him with its emptiness, a hollow quiet that swallowed the door’s click whole. No rumble of the TV’s cop-show dronel, no faint clink of a beer bottle or the low mutter of Ben pacing hardwood trenches. The air hung still, laced with the stale bite of morning coffee gone cold on the island, the window where Ben had stood now smudged with faint fingerprints. Jordan worried for a while: Ben barely left their place these days, the loft his bunker against the world’s rejection. The only thing that could drag him out lately were the job interviews and Jordan knew he only had that one scheduled for the morning. He toed off his shoes, padding through the space like a thief in his own home. Kitchen empty, bedroom door ajar to rumpled sheets and Ben’s glasses fogged on the nightstand, the full-length mirror staring back blank, no colossus reckoning his reflection this time.

Maybe Ben had gone for a walk? To clear his head after the interview’s gut-punch. That was good... right? Fresh air, a step out of the burrow without Jordan’s hand dragging him. Autonomy. He toed off his shoes,a nd headed straight for the bathroom, stripping out of his button-down and slacks in a trail that led to the shower, the hot spray hitting like a reset.

After that, towel raked rough over his flushed body, he remembered to check his phone. In the screen a text from Ben, timestamped mid-afternoon: Went to gym. Check your mail.

Now Jordan was downright shocked, the words searing his retinas as he stared. Ben going to the gym? By himself? Without Jordan needing to all but drag him? He leaned against the sink, heart thudding uneven, a disbelieving huff escaping as water dripped from his hair onto the tile. Now, that was something he wasn’t expecting... but again, that was a good sign, right?

Jordan thumbed open the email app on his phone. Sure enough, a new message from bmorgan12@gmail.com waited in the inbox, timestamped just twenty minutes prior, the subject line blank as a dare. His thumb hovered, pulse kicking uneven in his throat, before tapping it open: no body text, no preamble, just a couple of attachments staring back—three photos and a video, thumbnails blurred but unmistakable in their intimacy, file names cryptic as code: 1.jpg, 2.jpg, 3.jpg, tease.mp4.

Jordan’s stomach did a somersault, dropping hard and hot to his toe. Shit. Were they...? No way, not after the rejection’s bruise, the window’s lost stare. But the files mocked him, pixels pulsing with possibility, and with a breath that scraped his ribs, he opened the first photo. He actually gasped, the sound punching out raw in the empty loft, hand flying to his mouth as the image filled the screen: he recognized Ben’s body easy enough, that 6’7 giant standing somewhere in their bedroom, the full-length mirror’s frame edging the shot like a frame on forbidden art. He was wearing nothing but the tightest white boxers, the cotton stretched obscene over tree-trunk thighs and the meaty swell of his gut, every curve and vein mapped in the soft lamplight… but it was the cock, completely hard and hidden beneath the fabric, that stole the air from his lungs: a monumental ridge tenting the front like a beast at bay.

Quickly, Jordan swiped the first photo closed, his thumb smudging the screen as if to erase the heat blooming low in his gut. He opened the second, the thumbnail blooming full: Ben again, still in their bedroom, the full-length mirror framing him like a private exhibit, still wearing those tight white boxers that clung like a second skin to him. Still hard as a rock, the fabric tented obscene, ten inches of rigid meat straining the cotton. This time, Ben was flexing, a double bicep pose that made Jordan’s pulse slam, those beefy arms curling thick and peaked. He smirked at the camera, beard splitting around that cocky half-grin, hazel eyes locked on the lens behind fogged glasses, challenging, owning every inch.

Shit. Jordan felt his mouth go wet, saliva pooling hot and unbidden, his free hand drifting south to palm his own stirring length through the damp towel. Jordan swiped to the third photo with fingers that trembled just a fraction, his breath already ragged. It showed only Ben’s body this time, no face in the frame, just that huge body captured in their bedroom, completely naked, no underwear hiding from the world. His cock hung free and proud, like a goddamn monument, thick as a wrist, veined ridges mapping the length like rivers on a rugged map, the head flushed heavy, balls low and full swaying between tree-trunk thighs that could crush or cradle with equal ease.

Jordan actually moaned, hand flying to grip the sink’s edge as heat flooded south, his own length twitching insistent in his sweats. Fuck, it was such a beautiful cock! the biggest he’d ever seen, so thick it beggared belief, so hard, unashamed, splitting the air like it owned every inch of space. Jordan could barely remember the last time he’d seen Ben’s cock hard like that and fuck, he missed the sight, the ache of it twisting sweet and sharp in his gut, arousal crashing hard against the drought’s bitter edge.

Jordan left the bathroom in a haze of lingering steam, towel slung low on his hips, the damp chill of the loft raising gooseflesh on his skin as he padded down the hall to the bedroom. He sank onto the desk chair by the window, and flipped open his laptop with hands that shook just enough to fumble the lid. If the video was what he thought it was, and he was pretty sure that it was, then he didn’t want to watch it on his phone’s tiny screen, the spectacle crammed small and stolen. No, he needed a proper screen for that, the full bloom of pixels to swallow him whole, to let Ben’s heat fill the room like he was right there. He opened it in a speedlight blur, browser firing up, email tabbed over, cursor hovering a beat on the attachment before clicking the video, the file unspooling with a soft digital whir that filled the speaker.

The video unspooled on the laptop screen in a low-res glow that filled the bedroom’s hush, the file buffering just a beat before Ben’s frame dominated the frame. He was sitting back on the sofa in their living room, the same worn sectional where he’d spent his days sunk deep into cushions. He was wearing a white bathrobe, plush and oversized, but it hung completely open like an afterthought. His still-soft cock hung heavy between thighs splayed wide, that monumental length draped unashamed sideway one beefy leg, the camera angled low to catch every inch in the lamplight’s warm spill.

Jordan laughed out loud when he spotted the Aviators perched on Ben’s nose, sleek black shades he’d bought on a whim last summer for a beach trip they never took. He had actually gone through with it, the disguise a half-assed nod to their late-night what-ifs, Ben’s hazel eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses, full beard shadowing his jaw into something almost anonymous. Jordan still recognized him easy enough, the set of his massive shoulders, the way his gut curved just so, the cheap anchor tattoo peeking on his forearm, but he knew he’d recognize his Benny anywhere... but between the Aviators and the full beard, yeah, he could pass for anyone else in the world.

“Hey, fellas,” Ben started, and Jordan stopped breathing, chest seizing as the sound filled the speakers. “So, uh...” He was nervous, Jordan could tell. Of course he was nervous... but somehow, that only made him more endearing. “New to this game. Hope you like the show.”

Ben started to stroke his cock then, the video’s low-res hum filling the bedroom like a pulse Jordan could feel in his teeth. First, just running a thick finger along the length, tracing the soft, heavy shaft from base to tip with a deliberate drag, the veined skin shifting under his touch like it was waking slow from hibernation, balls drawing up faint as his thumb brushed the seam. Soon enough, he took the whole thing in his fist, that massive paw engulfing the girth, knuckles whitening as he gave a lazy pump, the head flaring darker under the foreskin’s glide, a low grunt rumbling from his chest that vibrated the speakers, raw, unfiltered, the kind of sound Ben made when he was owning a room, or a body. His eyes were hidden behind the Aviators, mirrored lenses catching the lamplight in a blank stare, but Jordan knew he was staring directly at the camera, locked on the lens like a challenge. Ben stroked his cock for a while, fist gliding steady now, the rhythm building unhurried, up slow to twist at the head, down firm to squeeze the base, the soft length shifting in his grip with each pass. Jordan was nervous for a moment, worried that, once again, he wouldn’t be able to get it hard. But slowly, his cock started to grow... it thickened, filling inch by inch, the veins bulging like live wires under the skin, girth splitting Ben’s fist, length uncoiling to eight, nine, that full, splitting ten inches rising proud, head flushing deep purple as precum beaded slick at the slit, dripping slow over Ben’s thumb in a trail that made Jordan’s mouth flood.

Shit, Jordan was almost breathless, his own hand fisting his towel without thought, arousal crashing hard and hot. A smile spread through Ben’s lips, a smirk Jordan hadn’t seen in a while: slow and cocky, tugging his mouth into that promise of trouble. He looked too damn proud, even behind those Aviators, the lenses hiding his eyes but not the tilt of his chin, the way his free hand splayed possessive over the gut’s plush curve like he was daring the world to look away, fist pumping steady now on that thickening shaft as it swelled to full, splitting glory. Jordan laughed out loud, the sound bursting raw from his chest into the bedroom’s hush, head tipping back against the chair as relief crashed hot and sweet through him. Shit, maybe his plan would work. Maybe things would be okay.

Ben’s cock was completely hard now, thick and proud, so fucking huge it was almost unbelievable, he full, splitting ten inches rising rigid like a goddamn pillar, the head flaring deep purple and slick with precum that beaded thick at the slit, dripping in lazy ropes over his knuckles with each twist at the crown. He was jerking off for real, no half-measures or camera feints, breath hitching rough in his chest like a busted engine, meaty pecs heaving under the open robe as a low growl rumbled from his throat, deep and primal, the kind that vibrated through Jordan’s bones even through the speakers. Fuck, it was mesmerizing.

But as Ben’s strokes quickened, Jordan wondered what was going on through Ben’s mind in that moment, what thought he’d conjured that got him so horny, so unyieldingly hard after weeks of wilted defeat. Was it the camera? That propped phone lens staring back like an unblinking eye, turning vulnerability to power, the red record light a silent roar that coaxed the blood south where Jordan’s touches had faltered? Or the fact that strangers would be watching him do that, faceless subs from across the apps, thirsting in DMs and tips, devouring every veined inch, every low growl. Maybe because he was doing it for those strangers... and not for Jordan.

The dark thought passed through his mind then, coiling cold and sharp in his gut. Ben’s fist was pumping faster now, his growl edging toward a grunt of release. Because Jordan wasn’t there? Maybe, Jordan thought, unable to stop himself, the fault wasn’t with Ben after all. Maybe the reason Ben couldn’t get hard those endless nights… was Jordan. His worry too thick, his love too laced with pity, turning their bed from fire to obligation, Ben’s body rebelling not against the slump or the sleaze, but against the man.

Jordan banished those thoughts from his head, actually shaking it hard enough to rattle the desk chair. No, don’t be ridiculous. It had nothing to do with him. Ben loved him. He was attracted to him, showed it hundreds, maybe thousands of times. The ED wasn’t rejection; it was the slump’s poison, the jobless haze not Jordan’s touch. In the video, Ben kept jerking off, up rough to twist at the swollen head, down hard to squeeze the base where girth met gut, precum slicking his knuckles in glossy trails that dripped hot onto the robe’s rumpled folds. His breath came in scraped huffs now, chest heaving his meaty pecs, thighs tensing wide like they were bracing for impact, the Aviators still perched but slipping faint down his nose as sweat beaded his brow.

His orgasm hit him ferociously, back arching off the cushions, gut clenching tight under his splayed palm, the growl starting low in his gut and building, louder, a primal rumble that vibrated the speakers until it crested into a roar.. He bit down on his own hand to silence himself, massive paw muffling the bellow into a choked snarl. Cum erupted from his cock in thick ropes, one slamming hot across his pecs in a white arc that matted the dark hair, two streaking lower to pool in the gut’s plush crease, three and four splattering messy over the robe’s edge and his thigh, god, he kept going, five, six, seven shots pulsing endless, making a goddamn mess on his hairy body. Ben’s roar muffled to a final, wrecked grunt against his bitten palm, fist milking the last drops with a shudder that bucked his hips.

He dropped his cock then, the spent length slapping heavy and slick against his gut with a wet smack, still twitching faint in the aftershocks. Breathless, he recomposed himself, one beefy hand raking through sweat-damp hair, the other wiping his bitten palm on the robe’s rumpled edge. He smiled at the camera, tired but sated, a lazy, satisfied quirk, a look Jordan had started to think he’d never see on his boyfriend’s face again. On the screen, Ben got up to pause the video, the frame wobbling as his bulk rose, cock swinging soft but heavy between his legs, and the screen faded to black.

Show’s over.

Jordan stayed there, unmoving, his cock almost exploding under the towel. He wanted to cum desperately, every nerve lit from Ben’s roar echoing in his skull. For a moment, he was tempted to do just that, thumb hovering over the timeline to rewind the video to the beginning, to follow Ben in his masturbation stroke for stroke. But he stopped himself.

He had work to do.

Jordan opened the browser, thumb tapping quick into the Google search bar: only fans. The results spilled instant, top hit the official site, white-blue banner screaming Join OnlyFans like a siren’s call, thumbnails of oiled torsos and arched backs blurring in the sidebar ads that made his pulse tick unbidden. Jordan clicked it without pause, the page loading smooth in a haze of testimonials and creator stats, the join button pulsing insistent at the top: Create an Account.

First, the basics. Email: Ben would need a new one, the old, bmorgan12@gmail.com, from electrician days, still tied to union alerts and spam filters. Username: he chewed his lip, the mirror-moment smirk flashing, typing BigBen with a huff of a laugh, the handle free in a blink, no bears claiming it yet. He uploaded the profile pic quick from the email attachments, the second photo’s double-bicep flex cropped tight to torso only, no face, just those beefy arms peaked thick, the white boxers’ tent a shadow promise lower. Bio: he paused, cursor blinking, then hammered it out raw: Blue-collar bear cutting loose. Real deal, no scripts. Tips unlock the log.; and then a bunch of hashtags: Pricing: $9.99/month for the vault, free teasers to hook the thirst, pay-per-view for the heavy stuff like that video waiting in his downloads. He dragged the attachments over, photos one through three and video. Hashtags auto-tagged, categories checked: gay, bear, solo male, big dick, dadbod, each click sending a fresh jolt south, his denied cock twitching like it knew the spotlight too.

Then, Jordan went to Twitter, or X, as it was branded now, the rebrand a half-forgotten blip in his feed. He had an old account there, dusted from his teenage years when he’d post blurry museum selfies and pretentious quotes from Foucault, but it had been years since he’d visited. He created a profile for Ben next. @BigBen was taken, of course, by some schlub with not even 150 followers, a feed of sad gym selfies and crypto scams that barely scraped likes, a shame in Jordan’s opinion, the handle wasted on mediocrity when Ben’s thunder deserved it whole. @BigBenBear it was, clean and available, the bear nod landing perfect. The profile pic was that third email photo cropped tight, Ben’s naked torso filling the frame from pecs to thighs. The bio was the same from the OF profile and the header image was a quick crop from the second photo, Ben’s double-bicep flex , the smirk cropped out but the power radiating. He hit create profile, the @BigBenBear handle blooming live in a blink, follower count at zero but the potential humming.

Jordan scrubbed a hand over his face. He went to the video again, thumbing the timeline back to zero, the 8-minute runtime staring back like a dare. He used the editing tool then, the laptop’s built-in clipper firing up quick, dragging the sliders with a precision born from gallery crops, snipping 45 seconds tight from the meat: just Ben jerking off, fist gliding steady on that thickening monster as the buildup crested but cut short before the money shot. Just a teaser, he thought as he exported the file, the preview thumbnail locking on Ben’s smirking flex mid-pump, Aviators hiding the eyes but not the pride. Then, he tweeted the video, abbing over to @BigBenBear’s fresh feed. He struggled with what he was gonna write in the tweet for a moment, cursor blinking insistent, trying to emulate Ben’s persona. First pump. Full load on OnlyFans if you can handle it. Yeah, that landed heavy, like Ben growling it over a beer. He hit twee.

Jordan took a deep breath. The whole thing had taken him less than 15 minutes. It was done. Whatever happened next was up to the internet.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, a wild thud against his ribs. It was a good idea, right? Maybe he should’ve waited for Ben to... no, stop, that was not the time to second-guess himself. He needed to be resolute,projecting the win before the first like landed. If Ben suspected that Jordan was doubting, even a flicker in his eyes, he’d drop the idea in a heartbeat. It was fine. Everything was gonna be fine. Jordan snapped the laptop shut and shoved it aside, flopping back onto the chair with a groan that tangled relief and ache. Fine. Yeah. He believed it, damn it. He had to.

Jordan snatched his phone from the desk. He thumbed open the app store, downloading the Twitter app in a blur of progress bars and permissions, the icon blooming black on his home screen. Logged in as @BigBenBear with the temp password he’d slapped together. There, in the notifications tab symbolized by the small bell at the bottom, was the number 2 in a small blue circle.

Two notifications.

Holy shit, already?

Jordan’s thumb hovered, pulse slamming hot in his throat, before he clicked and read.

@BearThirstTrap has followed you.