Justin showed up around ten. No warning. Just knocked like he always had. Dalton opened the door in mesh shorts, no shirt, a beer already cracked in his hand.
“Look who crawled back out the grave.”
Justin shrugged.
“Needed to get out.”
Dalton didn’t ask more. He stepped aside, let him in. The place looked the same: half-empty Gatorade bottles on the counter, college-era couch with permanent sweat stains, ESPN reruns on mute. Justin grabbed a water from the fridge, flopped onto the couch.
They crushed wings, passed beers. The game was background noise; neither of them really watching. It was the kind of night that didn’t ask anything from either of them. Comfortable. Flat-lined.
About an hour in, Dalton shifted. Adjusted himself.
“Fuck, man. Been walking around with this half-chub all day.”
Justin glanced over, didn’t say anything.
Dalton spat in his hand and started stroking. “You want in or what?”
Justin rolled his eyes, set his beer down, and dropped to the floor.
It was easy. They’d done this before. Dalton leaned back, head tipped against the wall, one hand resting on Justin’s shoulder, not guiding, not pressing—just there. Justin worked him slow, steady. No extra effort. No need to impress.
Dalton grunted when he finished, breathing deep through his nose. “Goddamn,” he muttered. “You still got it.”
Justin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbed a paper towel off the table. Flopped back onto the couch without a word.
Dalton zipped up, got up, grabbed another beer from the fridge. Cracked it, tossed one to Justin. Lit a joint. Passed it over.
The haze settled in. TV still muted. Some car chase flashing across the screen. Justin took a long drag, held it, let it out slow.
Dalton glanced over.
“Where you been lately? No one’s seen you around.”
Justin scratched his chest, shrugged. “Training someone.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who?”
“Joey.”
Dalton paused. “Joey Reynolds?”
Justin nodded.
Dalton smirked, almost laughed. “Big dick Joey?”
Justin coughed. “Yeah. That Joey.”
Dalton leaned back, dragged on the joint. “Alright. Joey’s cool. Kinda quiet.”
“Yeah,” Justin said.
Dalton handed him the joint. “You just lifting together?”
Justin took a hit. “Yeah. He asked me to train him.”
Dalton didn’t say anything right away. Just cracked his neck and leaned forward to grab the remote. Clicked the TV off, but didn’t put anything else on.
“You and him… do stuff like we do?”
Justin rolled the joint between his fingers. “You jealous?” he asked, smirking sideways.
Dalton huffed out a laugh. “Fuck no.”
He stood, stretched, cracked another beer.
“Joey Reynolds, though. Huh.”
Justin stayed quiet. Dalton didn’t press. Just took a sip, then dropped back down on the couch.
“He always seemed kinda locked down,” Dalton said eventually. “Tight. Serious. Thought you’d get bored.”
Justin looked straight ahead. Dalton took another long drink.
“Well. Whatever you’re doing with him…” He shrugged. “You been different.”
Justin didn’t answer.
“You gonna hit him up?”
Justin’s voice came low. “Nah.”
Dalton nodded again. Like he didn’t believe him but wasn’t gonna argue.
“Cool.”
They sat in silence for a while. The next fight started. Some featherweights in the cage, swinging wild. Justin didn’t see a second of it.
Joey was hard again. Not regular hard. Not horny hard. Not even bored-and-scrolling hard. This was hard like his body was staging a revolt.
He stood in the middle of his room, naked, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. But his dick refused control. It jutted from his body like it had somewhere to be—flushed red, veiny, thick with unspent weight. The kind of hard that made his balls ache and his thighs twitch. The kind that made it hard to think.
He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to understand what the fuck was going on.
And that’s when he saw it—not just the cock, not just the need—but the change.
His body had shifted. He wasn’t just strong. He was stacked. His pecs looked fuller than they ever had—round and high, the cleft between them deep and shadowed. His abs popped sharper now, no softness left anywhere. His shoulders flared wider, his arms hung heavy with mass, his legs looked like they could squat a truck.
He reached up and flexed one bicep. The peak bulged tight, a fat vein running across the top. He hadn’t seen it like this before—not really. But this wasn’t just his doing.
It was Justin’s.
The way he trained him. Pushed him. Measured him. Adjusted his form with big hands and little smirks. The way he said things like “You look stupid good today, bro.” Or “This pump is fucking insane on you.”
Joey ran his hands down his chest. It felt different. Bigger. Slicker. Hotter.
He looked down. His cock… was ridiculous. Thick in a way it hadn’t been six months ago. The veins stood out like a roadmap, the shaft dark and taut with pressure. His balls hung heavy, full, tight to his body like they were clinging to his frame for support.
He wrapped a hand around it. His fingers didn’t close all the way. It felt grown. Like everything about him had evolved under Justin’s gaze.
He swallowed. Watched his own reflection jerk slightly with every pulse.
Justin had trained him. Fed him. Pushed him. Touched him. Worshiped him. And his body had responded. It had become what Justin saw in it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, his cock resting heavy against his thigh. He didn’t stroke. Didn’t move. Just let the weight of it settle into his palm.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He wasn’t mad at Justin. Not even close. He knew what happened. Justin got scared. Not of sex. Not of him. But of meaning. Joey was scared, too. He just didn’t leave.
His cock throbbed again.
He thought back to that party. To the basement. To Dalton, laid out on the couch, arms spread like he’d seen this movie before. Justin between his legs, laughing, confident, easy. Dalton hadn’t blinked.
Joey stared at his own reflection. The bulk of his chest. The slope of his traps. The hard cut of his waist into the deep root of his cock. He looked like a man someone should want. But no girl had ever lasted. And the only person who ever looked at him like he meant something had walked away.
He reached for his phone without thinking.
hey you around?
He hesitated.
Added another line.
need to ask you something
He stared at it for a beat. Then hit send.
Threw on some sweats. No underwear. He couldn’t bear the pressure. His dick was still hard when he zipped up.
Still demanding answers. Maybe Dalton had one.
The joint was almost down to the filter. The ashtray was full. The TV was still running, but neither of them were watching it anymore.
Justin had gone quiet. Not weird quiet, just… settled. His legs were kicked out in front of him, head tipped back against the couch cushion, beer loose in one hand. Dalton was on his second wind, flipping his lighter open and closed without lighting anything.
Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He glanced down.
Big Dick Joey:
hey you around?
Dalton blinked. Smirked.
Another buzz.
need to ask you something
Dalton scratched the back of his neck. Didn’t answer right away.
Justin didn’t move.
Dalton dropped the lighter, grabbed the phone, stood up.
“Gonna take a leak.”
Justin grunted, didn’t even open his eyes. Dalton walked into the hallway, thumbed a quick reply.
yeah swing by
He didn’t ask what Joey needed. Didn’t need to. He glanced back toward the living room. Justin was still slouched, absently adjusting the waistband of his shorts like his dick still hadn’t quite calmed down either.
Joey pulled up and didn’t turn off the truck right away. His heart was beating hard, not fast. Just deep. Like his body already knew this was gonna be weird.
He stepped out. Still half-hard. Still aching. He adjusted himself through the thick cotton of his sweats, then walked up to the door and knocked once.
Dalton answered in a white tank and gym shorts, same as always. Chill. Calm. Like nothing unusual was happening.
“Reynolds.”
Joey nodded. “Hey.”
Dalton stepped back to let him in. “You said you had a question.”
Joey stepped inside, shut the door, rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
He looked up. Froze.
Justin’s shoes were by the door. Dalton didn’t say anything. Just watched him.
Joey’s voice dropped.
“Is he still here?”
Dalton leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
“Yeah.”
Beat.
Joey swallowed. “He know I’m coming?”
Dalton shook his head. “Nope.”
Joey stood there, hands in his pockets, dick still half-pressed against the inside of his thigh. Dalton eyed it, then looked back up at Joey’s face. Said nothing.
Joey let out a long breath.
“I don’t wanna blow anything up. I just—” He shifted, looked down. “I’ve had a fucking boner for two days.”
Dalton lifted his eyebrows. Joey looked up again.
“I thought maybe… you’d know what to do with it.”
Dalton didn’t smirk. Didn’t laugh. He just tilted his head.
“Why me?”
Joey rubbed his face. “Because you don’t seem… rattled. By him. You’ve done this before. You were fine with it.”
Dalton considered that.
“You think you’re the first guy to catch feelings for someone who sucked you off?”
Joey flinched. Dalton didn’t say it cruel. Just matter of fact. Joey exhaled, the words falling out.
“I didn’t mean to. I just—he’s the only person who didn’t act like I was too much.”
Dalton nodded once. Then, just before stepping out of the way to let him deeper into the room, he said—
“Well. You’re definitely too much right now, bro.”
Joey followed him in. Dalton stepped aside, and Joey crossed the threshold like he was stepping into a fight.
The place smelled like weed and beer and sweat. The couch was wrecked—blanket kicked off, empty bottles stacked on the coffee table, the TV frozen on some paused UFC replay.
He saw Justin immediately, still on the couch. Shirtless now. One arm thrown over the backrest, legs wide, beer in his lap. His eyes cut toward the door but he didn’t sit up.
Joey stopped. Everything in him tightened. Justin blinked once. His voice came low.
“Hey.”
Joey didn’t answer. Not right away.
He looked at Dalton, then back at Justin. His chest was tight, cock still half-hard under his sweats, aching in that full, dumb way that felt like it had nothing to do with pleasure anymore.
Justin sat up slowly. Elbows to knees. Didn’t smile.
Dalton walked past them both, back to the kitchen. Opened the fridge, cracked a Gatorade, drank like nothing was happening.
“You two want anything?”
No one answered. Justin finally spoke again, this time quieter. More guarded.
“You okay?”
Joey nodded once. Swallowed.
“I got your name stuck in my dick.”
Justin blinked. Joey rubbed his jaw, stepped forward just a little. His voice was rough.
“I thought it’d go away.”
Justin stood. Slowly. Still keeping distance.
He looked good. Tired, flushed, leaner than Joey remembered from just a few days ago. There was a tightness in his face that Joey hadn’t seen before.
“Didn’t mean to fuck you up.”
Joey shook his head.
“You didn’t. I just… wasn’t done.”
Silence.
Dalton leaned against the counter now, sipping Gatorade, watching but not watching. Joey’s voice dropped.
“I didn’t come here to fight.”
Justin nodded. “I didn’t think you did.”
“I didn’t come here to beg, either.”
“Okay.”
A tense beat passes.
“I just—” Joey paused. “I needed to see if this was real.”
Justin’s expression shifted. Like that hit somewhere he wasn’t ready for. Dalton cleared his throat, finally breaking the tension just enough.
Joey let out a breath. Dalton looked at both of them. He turned. Walked down the hall.
And then it was just the two of them again. Joey walked slowly over to Justin. Stood about a foot away from him. Slowly unbutton his jeans and pulled them down. His big fat penis bulged obscenely out of his boxer briefs.
“Look at it, Justin.”
“Joey-”
“Seriously, look at it, Justin!” Joey pulled down his boxer briefs and his giant cock bounced out, almost smacking Justin in the stomach.
Justin looked down and saw how hard Joey was, red and stiff and straining, his big balls so full of sperm, the musk from his bush almost knocked Justin out. Without really thinking, Justin reached out to touch it, but Joey took a step back, his giant penis bouncing in front of him.
Justin looked at Joey. Joey just stared at him.
“You need to be a girl for me.”
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