Chapter One.
"Don't look at me like that," Steve snapped. His words were sharp in the cold air. "This is your fault."
"Blame the lawyer," Carl hissed back. His fingers worked the buttons of his flannel, wrenching it open just enough to yank the whole thing over his head.
"I warned you about him."
"We didn't have much choice," Carl said, grabbing the hem of his undershirt and pulling it off in one quick motion.
Steve stopped dead, his hands frozen on the hem of his own thermal shirt. "Whoa."
It was a funny thing, what men kept hidden under their clothes. Steve had known Carl for years. He knew the man was broad-shouldered just by the way he filled out his clothes, but he had no idea his buddy was built like this.
Carl paused, catching the stare. "What?"
"You're, like, really jacked," Steve said.
His eyes tracked over Carl’s chest. The man’s pecs were thick, the core beneath them tight and defined, dusted with a trail of coarse, golden hair that disappeared directly into the waistband of his jeans.
The dark ink etched into the skin of his left ribcage was visible—the tattoo that had bought them so much trouble in the first place.
"I work out," Carl muttered. He reflexively flexed his exposed chest, offering a half-shrug. As his arms came down, the musculature shifted smoothly.
Steve shook his head. He never would have guessed that Carl, with his thick, gingerbread-colored lumberjack beard and gruff demeanor, was hiding a hardbody under his office khakis. Not like that, anyway.
Steve gripped the hem of his own thermal shirt, lifting it off.
Now it was Carl’s turn to look. His eyes tracked the clean, athletic taper of Steve’s shoulders down to his trim waist and the curve of his ass. Carl had noticed the build before, peripherally, but staring at it now in the moonlight was something else entirely.
"You look pretty fit yourself," Carl noted.
"CrossFit," Steve answered, his breath pluming faintly in the chill.
The things you learn, Carl thought. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down with his briefs. His cock lolled free, resting in a nest of untrimmed gingerbread colored pubes.
Steve’s eyes dropped immediately to the exposed flesh as he reached for his own zipper. He knew his own measure perfectly well—a respectable six inches—but it was immediately obvious Carl was built heavier than that. He was already swelling to a full, thick erection, the heavy hang of his balls matching the sheer density of the rest of his frame.
Steve pushed his jeans and boxers down, stepping out of them. They stood entirely naked in the clearing.
Carl closed the distance between them, stepping directly into Steve’s space. They looked each other dead in the eyes, the tension thickening.
"Come on, bro," Carl said, his voice dropping an octave. "We gotta get through this thing."
He didn't wait for an answer. He took the sides of Steve's head in his large hands, pulled him in, and shoved his tongue into his buddy's mouth.
Steve let out a muffled breath. It was completely different from kissing a woman. It was more aggressive, more sturdy. The scratch of the gingerbread beard against Steve’s jaw sent a sudden shockwave straight down to his groin.
It certainly wasn't what either of them had expected when they set up for their hunt earlier that day.
Chapter Two.
It was good to have guy time. Carl could have said it out loud, but he didn’t need to. That was the beauty of going stag. Steve didn’t need him to communicate about feelings.
Even back at the office, Steve was easy to get along with. At first, he’d looked a little too groomed, but that turned out to be his girlfriend dressing him. Poor bastard, engaged to Tiffany. A good-looking guy like Steve—young, hardworking, eager to please—pliable—must look like quite the meal ticket to a smart chick. Sure, give him a little pussy now and then, let him think he’ll get an all-you-can-eat buffet after the wedding. But when he’d been married for a few years, he’d see the trap spring shut.
You wouldn’t find Carl getting hitched anytime soon. He just kept working out so he looked good enough to get laid when he needed it. He knew how to play the game: take a date to a sweet little restaurant—nice, but not as expensive as it looked—something to help open the panties. He could pull out that shit when he had to. Do the sweet talk, wear the right jeans to show off his ass. But he resented the effort.
Most nights, jacking off was good enough if it meant he could save his salary for his real interest: He liked to travel, more than anyone knew, and he traveled alone. Last year he’d gone to Australia, but told the guys at the office he’d spent the weeks doing home repairs at his dad’s place. Fuck it, they didn’t need to know everything about him.
Keeping a comfortable distance was exactly how Carl operated. It worked at the office, and it was the whole point of being out here in the woods. Steve was good about respecting the quiet, and Carl sure as fuck wasn’t going to ruin it by talking about his feelings while they stood shoulder-to-shoulder pissing against a tree.
That would be weird.
Carl kept his gaze locked rigidly straight ahead, aimed anywhere but at Steve’s dick. Don’t look. Not even a little bit. Not even for a fraction of a second. Instead, he listened to the birds chittering in the canopy and focused on the wet, earthy odor of the forest floor.
Back at the site, they unpacked the tent. Carl crouched beside a shallow stream to chill the beers.
“Brought that stout shit?” Steve asked, looking down at the dark bottles.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Carl replied. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, it tickled him to bring a beer he knew Steve would only tolerate. “Doesn’t seem like you oughtta like it till you get through it. Then you wonder how you ever did without.”
It was dusk by the time the tent was up, and the guys decided to do a quick walk-through. It was late for a hunt, but after the long drive out, they both had restless energy to burn. Clad in orange vests with their rifles slung, they walked out, accompanied only by the soft crunch of autumn leaves underfoot.
It was Carl who saw it first.
It was unlike any animal he’d ever seen. He’d heard of leucistic or albino deer, but its coat was a haunting, pale white that shifted to an eerie blue in the fading light. It had a massive barrel chest that tapered back into a lean flank and powerful haunches. But it was the crown that held him—a perfectly symmetrical fourteen-point rack of antlers.
Carl quietly tapped Steve’s shoulder, cocking his head to the east. The stag walked slowly, confidently. It showed absolutely no fear.
“Oh,” Steve exhaled, more breath than sound.
The stag darted, and the men moved slowly, tracking it deeper into the timber. They walked and walked, the twilight bleeding into full dark. Neither Carl nor Steve had done a night hunt before. Hunting past legal shooting light was textbook poaching, the kind of violation that got your rifle confiscated and your truck impounded.
But looking at the beast through the trees, the law didn't matter. Carl felt a sudden, heavy certainty that this was the kill he’d been waiting his whole life for.
He was willing to walk several hundred yards out of the way, taking the path of least exposure to keep the animal in its natural pattern. But when it seemed certain the stag was gone, he finally turned to head back out into the open.
Standing in a small clearing, Steve spotted it the second time.
It stood between two towering mountain pines, absolutely still but for the twitch of a single ear. The men were fully exposed in the clearing, bathed in the pale light of a perfect hunter’s moon. It hung overhead like an omen. And yet, the stag didn’t react to their presence at all.
Carl raised his rifle and aimed. It wasn't the right scope for a night shot, but with the stark, silver light of the moon, it might just do. His heart hammered against his eardrums. He pulled the trigger.
CRACK.
He thought he had it. He saw the stag rear up, but then the beast’s hooves hit the dirt, and it bolted into the dark.
"Fuck! FUCK! FUCK!" Carl shouted, dropping the rifle from his shoulder. “I hit it! I hit it!”
“You got an antler,” Steve said, staring at the tree line.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN AN ANTLER?”
“You nicked an antler! I saw it!” Steve answered, his voice rising. “I saw—Carl?”
“What?”
That was when Carl noticed the wind. Only, it wasn't wind. It was too regular, and the volume was building rapidly, to a high-pitched trill. It sounded exactly like the sound the women had made during a celebration on his trip to Tanzania. What was it called? Ululation.
“Let’s get outta here,” Steve said, backing up.
Before Carl could respond, the forest floor erupted. The autumn leaves rustled violently, whipping up into the night air in a chaotic cyclone.
For a split second, Carl thought they were being shot with buckshot, but there was no blood. It was a barrage of fists hitting them—dozens of tiny, pale fists, each as dense and heavy as river rocks. The swarm pounded into their ribs, their faces, and their knees, a relentless strike that drove both men hard to the ground, leaving them flat on their backs, arms covering their faces.
Chapter Three.
When they lowered their defenses, it looked like children standing over them. Odd, silver-blue children.
But as Carl’s vision cleared, he realized they weren't kids. They had the bodies of young women—just barely more than girls. They wore slight, simple tunic skirts in muted blues, patterned with dark, woven leaves. With their wild hair and fierce expressions, Carl was instantly reminded of the punk Riot Grrrls he’d seen squatting in Berlin a decade ago.
How did their tiny fists hit like cinderblocks? Carl wondered, groaning as the swarm parted slightly, flanking the two fallen hunters in a loose crescent. Carl looked up past them. The sky was wrong. It was a deeper, bruised indigo, and the constellations were completely out of alignment.
Stepping into the center of the crescent formed by the Riot Grrrls was one more. But this one was different. She wasn't blue, but luminous—as pale as the moon itself.
Unlike the slight girls surrounding her, she was unnaturally tall. Carl was six-foot-two, and looking up from the dirt, he could calculate that if he were standing, she would look him dead in the eye—and maybe even force him to tilt his chin up.
She wore a pale, short hunting tunic, her long legs ending in heavy, knee-high laced boots. Thick, coal-black smudges were smeared beneath her eyes, and her glossy black hair was chopped into a blunt bob streaked with midnight blue. Silver stars were tattooed down the length of her bare arms, and a delicate crescent moon was inked directly into the center of her forehead.
Over her arm rested a finely sculpted bow of highly polished black wood, strung with a wire of gleaming silver.
The Queen of the Riot Grrrls.
"The bow... the moon," Steve gasped, the air rushing out of him. "Thea Artemis. Oh, shit."
“Who?” Carl grunted, tasting blood.
“This one,” the pale woman said. “I smell Delos on him.”
Carl realized with a sickening jolt that he wasn’t actually hearing her through his eardrums. Her voice bypassed the air entirely, the words emerging from his bone and DNA
“What-os?” he asked.
“Delos,” Steve whispered, his voice trembling as he put the geography together. “My grandparents are from the islands right next to it. We're completely fucked.”
“You’re Greek? Dude, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah man, on my mom’s side. My legal name’s Stefanos.”
“Dude!”
Carl was interrupted by the sharp thwack of the woman’s black bow tapping the forest floor between them.
“Pitiful men,” she said, her black eyes locking onto them. “You have damaged game of interest to my eye. By divine right, I claim a price.”
“Like a fine?” Carl asked, trying to find a rational angle to a waking nightmare.
“There is but one payment for offending the goddess of the hunt,” the woman decreed, and all around them, the blue handmaidens began to trill their tongues again—that high, vibrating ululation. “The price is blood.”
“WHAT?” Carl yelped.
“Blood is the price, from the infancy of man,” she continued, her voice dropping into an ancient, terrifying cadence. “As I did make of Aktaion a stag, to be torn apart by his own hounds. As did my twin and I slay the seven sons and seven daughters of Niobe for her arrogant boasts, forcing her to watch. As I did make of Kallisto a bear, and as I did send a great boar to plague the Kalydonians, and as I did send storms—”
“But, O great and... merciful goddess,” Steve interrupted, his voice cracking. “Didn’t you—thou—thoust—uhm, didn't you make Orion into a constellation? Because of your infinite kindness?”
Carl snapped his head to stare at his buddy.
Steve caught the look and frantically mouthed, “Greek school.”
The virgin goddess, whose blood ran both hot and cold, considered this. She pursed her violet lips. Minutes passed in agonizing silence as the wrong stars turned in the velvet sky. Finally, she looked down with bottomless black eyes and uttered a single word.
“No.”
Without warning, her handmaidens swarmed. The blue girls grabbed Carl and Steve by the wrists and ankles, pinning them with impossible strength, as if their slight fingertips had taken deep root in the soil below.
“Only blood can wash away the offense,” the goddess said.
She paced slowly around their pinned forms, her black eyes coldly evaluating them. “What beast to pull from your marrow?” she mused aloud, her voice vibrating directly through Carl's teeth. “A bear for the bearded one? Or a stag. A stag, of course. And a mountain lion for the slim-hipped one. Let the predator from Delos devour the prey. A fitting fate.”
"No! Wait, please!" Steve screamed, his voice breaking as he thrashed uselessly against the dirt.
"Get the fuck off me!" Carl roared, bucking his hips against the impossible weight of the tiny blue hands.
They didn't even blink. The handmaidens tore at their clothes, shredding the heavy canvas of their hunting coats like wet tissue paper, pulling up their shirts to expose their bare bellies, prepping the soft tissue for easy access to the entrails.
And there, on Carl’s pale left side, was the tattoo.
The handmaidens gasped. As one, they recoiled, breaking away from him as if they had touched burning iron.
The goddess looked down, her painfully beautiful face twisting in profound displeasure. “His mark,” she muttered. “His mark is on you.”
“Huh?” Carl grunted, twisting his pinned neck to look down at his own side.
He’d had the massive tattoo of the satyr on his left side for so long he barely even thought about it anymore. The goat legs wrapped snugly around his hip, while the human half stretched all the way up his oblique to his lower ribs—a grinning, lecherous satyr cackling and holding out an eager, expectant hand to exactly where Carl’s erect cock would reach, right about belly button level.
Artemis stared at the crude, lewd ink. Of all the gods, her black eyes seemed to scream, why HIM?
Chapter Four.
The elemental Riot Grrrls scattered, disgusted. Into the clearing filtered an equal number of swarthy young men with full unkempt beards, longer than Carl’s.
They were bare-chested, with nothing but animal skins slung carelessly over their shoulders, like the worst kind of Renaissance Faire cosplay. They walked strangely, almost bent double. At first, Carl’s brain tried to categorize it—he thought they were wearing matted, heavy fur chaps and some kind of hardcore steel-toed boots.
Until he realized the fur was actually them.
Below their hips, human anatomy simply ceased. Well, almost. The hairy legs were short, heavily muscled, and bowed the wrong way, ending in thick, cloven hooves of cracked and hardened keratin. But nestled right in the center of that coarse, animal fur were huge, unapologetically human dicks. They jutted out aggressively, completely exposed beneath the draped skins.
What Carl had initially taken for matted dreadlocks were, in fact, horns. Fucking goat’s horns, protruding directly from their skulls—some straight, some twisted, some curving completely around and down.
Carl and Steve glanced again at Carl’s ribs.
Satyrs.
“What’s in that fucking stout? Did you drug me?” Steve whispered, his eyes wide.
“Fuck? No!” Carl hissed back.
“This isn’t happening,” Steve said, staring blankly at the dozen or so cloven hooves intermingling with the blue, calloused toes of the nymphs. “I’m in my sleeping bag. Or I fell asleep at my desk in the office.”
“You’re not in the goddamn office,” Carl snarled, the cold air biting at his exposed belly. “Get it together, Steve.”
A musical instrument played—the bright, reedy trill of a wooden flute—and into the clearing stepped one more pair of hooves.
These were massive and attached to a satyr significantly taller than the rest. His face was more human, his long, dark beard curling and oiled. He wore a sweeping cloak, and was unabashedly naked beneath it, the fabric parted to reveal the thick, coarse fur of his goat half and a swinging, heavy package that made the other satyrs look like boys.
He brought with him a physical cloud of scent—a petting zoo mixed with a heavy hit of weed, and the sharp musk of morning-after sex sweat. The aroma enveloped the clearing, making Carl’s head swim and his back arch, stiffening in his jeans despite the looming threat.
The satyr raised an arm and casually tossed back the cloak. Extending from his head were two magnificent, curving goat horns, each as long and thick as Carl’s arm. He smiled wickedly.
“I’m summoned?” he asked.
Like the moon goddess, his voice bypassed Carl's eardrums entirely. But instead of rattling Carl's jawbone, the acoustic pressure vibrated directly at the base of his spine, dropping a resonant thrum straight into his groin like the purr of a massive cat.
He arched a dark eyebrow, his gaze dropping directly to Carl’s side. “My likeness. Fortunate.”
Carl definitely did not feel fortunate.
Artemis pursed her violet lips at the arrival, her disgust palpable. “Lover of merry noise, shepherd god, unkempt. The bird in flower-laden spring pours forth her lament amid the leaves, but not even her honey-voiced song could exceed your art with the reed.”
“Pan?” Steve asked, cringing backward.
The horned god of the forest nodded. Yes.
He turned his attention back to the moon goddess, offering a sweeping bow. “Hear me, Zeus' daughter, celebrated huntress, in darts rejoicing, on all to shine, goddess over births presiding and yet thyself a maid. These, of the last race of man, whom Zeus will return to destroy, bear my own mark and are then…” he smirked, “…mine.”
Finally, the horned god sauntered over, leaning in incredibly close to them.
“In this matter of… jurisdiction, there is a conflict,” Pan whispered. “The hunt is hers, but the forest is mine. And by my mark on you, there is an opportunity.” He seemed to savor his next words, flicking a tongue over his lips. “I may represent you, by your consent.”
Steve caught Carl's eye and gave a frantic shake of his head. No.
Carl squared his jaw. “I'll represent myself.”
The goat god frowned, a shadow crossing his features. “As you wish, though her anger is great. She is known to me, and I know her ways as well as I know each stream in the forest, and can sway it to my will. But if it is your preference to face her wrath alone…”
Carl looked past the goat to the pale, furious goddess holding a black bow. He thought sourly about a little trouble he’d had with the law as a teenager, and how he’d believed in the absolute necessity of legal representation ever since. Despite Steve’s warning, turning down a lawyer in a literal death-penalty case was a terrible idea. He didn't trust the goat, but he liked his odds better with him than the man-hating bitch.
“Actually,” Carl interrupted, his voice tight. “Do it. Just get us off.”
Pan grinned, clearly amused by Carl’s blunt pivot. He nodded. “With your consent.”
He turned, sauntering back to converse with the goddess in low, ancient tones.
“This is a bad deal,” Steve muttered. “Don’t fuck with them.”
“Well, this is our best bet,” Carl answered. “How else are you gonna lawyer up in the middle of the woods?”
Behind the negotiating deities, the lesser satyrs relentlessly harassed the Riot Grrrl nymphs, making lewd, bleating sounds. They stood there fully and aggressively erect, gripping, groping, and scratching at their fist-sized balls without an ounce of shame. Their bushy, animal tails flicked constantly, revealing muscled, hairy asscheeks.
Steve tore his eyes away from the feral frat party, desperate to talk about something grounded in normal human reality. “Where’d you get the tattoo?”
“Berlin,” Carl grunted.
“Germany? No fucking way, dude. When’d you go there?”
“Junior year. Study abroad.”
“That’s cool,” Steve said, blinking in surprise.
Carl ignored him, thinking back to the drunken, hazy night in a German underground club when he’d gotten the ink. It was a foolish, expensive indiscretion that—in the moment—seemed badass. And right now, it was the only thing standing between him and getting gutted like a fish.
The gods finished their quiet, intense conversation and turned back. Carl and Steve were allowed to stagger to their feet to hear the verdict.
Chapter Five.
“The goddess has kindly consented,” the horned god announced, his tone shifting into the smooth cadence of a seasoned mediator, “to accept a substitute… fluid. With head and forehead Artemis overtops the rest of her companions, and though all are lovely, there is no mistaking which is she. Her mercy is as great as her majesty.”
Artemis looked entirely too satisfied with the flattery. She raised her polished black bow, letting one curved end drift menacingly over each of their crotches.
“But as blood must pour from pain, this must pour from pleasure,” the goddess declared. She reached to her belt, drawing a sickle-shaped bronze blade. She flashed her white teeth in the moonlight. “If it does not, I will take what I originally claimed.”
“Wait. You want us to nut?” Steve asked, his voice cracking.
Pan was visibly delighted by the translation. “I take your meaning,” he purred, “and yes. Exactly this. Cast your seed, but in pleasure only.” The goat god paused, his dark eyes glinting. “With one another.”
Steve backed up a step. “That’s bullshit.”
“It will serve over bloodshed,” Pan countered, his face hardening into something deadly serious. “But only if the pleasure is true.”
“So we can’t just stand here and jerk off,” Carl muttered, running a heavy hand over his face. “Yeah. I got it. Hell of a plea bargain.”
It was ridiculous, sure. But as far as Carl was concerned, having a dozen guys with goat legs show up out of nowhere really shifts the baseline of what kind of bullshit you’re willing to accept.
“How can you even tell if it’s true?” Steve demanded.
The gods exchanged a look, indicating that they and their retinues would vote. Carl quickly ran the math. Twelve feral nymphs. Twelve horny satyrs. Two gods.
“What if it’s a tie?” he asked.
“If the jury is deadlocked, we may invite another,” Pan offered carefully. “But there are rules, and rules within rules. To judge an act of lust would, by divine province, require… Eros, winged, impetuous fierce desire, with Gods and mortals playing, wandering fire.”
Artemis visibly shuddered at the mention of the winged brat-god whose chaotic arrows spared absolutely no one. Even Pan looked uncertain about the prospect.
“Fuck it,” Carl snapped. “I’ll take my chances. We don’t need another one of these assholes showing up.”
Faster than the human eye could track, the goddess crossed the distance.
Crack. Her open palm connected with Carl’s jaw with the force of a full-swing baseball bat. He folded instantly, dropping hard onto one knee in the dirt, his head ringing.
“Be glad for your temporary protection,” she growled, her voice a low, panther-like hiss directly in his skull. “Oh, child of the last race of man.”
“Dude,” Steve hissed, grabbing Carl by the arm and hauling him back to his feet. “Watch what you're saying. You'll get us both killed with your trash talk!”
“He speaks true,” Pan agreed, offering a single, slow nod. “Boasting and bravado are very much to the tastes of one such as myself. But others—” he cast a sidelong glance toward the moon goddess “—are far less forgiving.”
“Proceed,” Artemis instructed coldly.
The satyrs and the nymphs backed away, forming a widening ring in the clearing. Carl and Steve were left standing entirely alone in the center, bathed in the pale moonlight, with Pan watching eagerly from one end and Artemis glaring from the other.
Under the gaze of the ancient world, driven by the grim reality of the moment, the two men turned to face each other.
"Should we… strip?" Steve asked, gesturing to the shredded rags of their coats hanging off their shoulders.
"Yeah," Carl grunted.
He shrugged off the destroyed canvas of his coat, letting the rags drop to the moss. He watched Steve do the same. He usually followed Carl's lead out in the woods, and technically, this was still a hunting trip.
"How do we do this?" Steve whispered, dropping the remains of his jacket. "I guess... one of us just gives the other a handjob?"
Pan clicked his tongue in clear disappointment. A few of the feral nymphs hissed, and Artemis let out an audible sneer.
"They’re gonna need more of a show," Carl muttered, keeping his voice low. "Y’know. To convince them it's real."
“Right,” Steve breathed.
“Well,” Steve breathed, his breath pluming in the cold night air. “They say men know better how to make a man feel good. Same equipment.”
“Yeah,” Carl said, exhaling a long breath. “They do.”
As Carl bent down to unlace his hiking boots, he stole a glance up. It wasn't exactly news that Steve was fit. Any guy with eyes could see the broad chest and tight core he carried under his office clothes. But Carl had never actually studied him before. Not like this.
Stripped of their normal, casual boundaries, Carl found his gaze lingering, deliberately tracing the athletic V-taper down to Steve's waist, assessing the physical mechanics of the man standing in front of him.
Carl had heard of straight guys in college who did gay porn for quick cash. Gay-for-pay. This wasn’t so different, he rationalized. You just put your head down, use what you've got to work with, and get paid with your life.
He kicked his boots off.
For a fleeting second, an image flashed into Carl's brain: his own weight pinned directly over Steve's athletic body in the dirt. If he had to do this to survive—if he had to fuck another man—he could have done a lot worse.
Steve caught the lingering stare and immediately went on the defensive, completely misreading the vibe.
"Don't look at me like that," Steve snapped. His words were sharp in the cold air. "This is your fault."
Chapter Six.
After stepping out of the last of their shredded clothes and sharing that rough first kiss, they broke apart to get their bearings.
They stood completely naked in the center of the clearing. Carl shifted his weight. His bare feet felt hyper-alert, the soles pressing flush against the damp earth and freezing moss. His hand drifted down, absentmindedly cupping his own balls to protect them from the biting chill as his brain tried to work out the mechanics of keeping them alive.
"So what do we do?" Steve asked, his voice tight in the cold.
"Well—we could start by telling each other what we actually like," Carl proposed. He was used to coaching Steve through tough spots at the office or out on the trail, but this was a completely different beast. "Y’know. Like that way."
"Like... I like getting my dick sucked," Steve offered.
"Yeah, everyone likes that," Carl sighed, rubbing the bridge of his bruised nose. "But bottom line, what’s your go-to? The thing that for sure gets you off."
"Like whips and shit? I’m pretty vanilla, bro."
"Okay. Now what’s the thing that gets you off that you didn't just say?" Carl pushed, his tone dropping into a flat, no-bullshit register. "Look, neither of us is a chick. We don't have to pretend or do the whole song and dance. Every guy has that one guaranteed, break-glass-in-case-of-emergency thing he doesn't say out loud. Come on, man, give me something real to work with here. Our lives are literally on the line."
Steve flushed. He glanced nervously at the audience of leering satyrs and stone-faced nymphs, lowered his voice, and sheepishly confessed. "Like, Tiffany sometimes—jeez, I can’t believe this—when I’m right about to nut, she puts, like, the tip of a finger up there. There."
"Okay, that’s good," Carl said quickly. Perfect, he thought. If the kid goes for that, maybe I don’t have to. "What else? We need material here. What else gets you off?"
Steve dragged a hand down his face, looking miserable. "I dunno, bro. Like... dirty talk, I guess? And... just being told I look good." Steve cringed, his voice dropping to a mortified whisper. "Tiffany says 'words of affirmation' are my love language."
From the shadows of the tree line, they heard the clicking of tongues and a few feral, girlish giggles.
Carl stared at him. A love language. Under the threat of getting torn apart by mythical beasts.
"Alright," Carl grunted, filing the information away like a foreman reading a blueprint. "Words of affirmation. Got it."
"Yeah, well, what about you?" Steve asked.
Carl cleared his throat, his beard hiding the sudden heat in his cheeks. "I like kissing."
"That’s it? Kissing?"
"Not a peck. Like real kissing. A lot of tongue. Deep," Carl admitted, his voice dropping a register. "Fuck, I love that."
He reached out, grabbing Steve by the bare shoulders, and pulled him flush against his chest. The first kiss had been a panicked experiment. This time, he took Steve’s face in his large, calloused hands and plunged his tongue deep into the younger man’s receptive mouth. They breathed heavily through their noses, their hips grinding together in the freezing air, cock to cock.
A few more clicks and feral giggles echoed from the darkness of the tree line, a stark reminder of the audience waiting for the show.
“Don’t think about them, bro,” Carl whispered against Steve’s lips, holding his head secure. “Fuck them. It’s just us.”
He slid a hand up to cup Steve’s pec while he kissed the side of his jaw, deliberately letting his coarse beard bristle against the kid's smooth skin. Steve let out a sharp, stuttering gasp. When Carl's rough, calloused fingers scraped over the dense chest muscle and pinched a nipple, he felt a sudden, unmistakable shiver rack his buddy's frame.
Carl’s hands clinically assessed the man. Steve was dense, fit—but incredibly supple. The skin over his ribs was smooth, completely devoid of the coarse hair that covered Carl's own chest. Carl ran one hand over Steve's taut belly and slipped his fingers lower, grazing the trim bush, while his other hand aggressively worked the nipple.
The guy was so smooth that if Carl closed his eyes and ran his hands down that flat belly, he could trick his brain into thinking he was reaching down to a snatch. He didn't, but the thought was there, a mental safety net.
Carl rolled the hard bud of flesh between his thumb and forefinger and breathed a hot, shuddering breath against Steve's ear, teasing the shell of it with his tongue.
Steve’s knees involuntarily buckled, his hands coming up to grip Carl's thick forearms just to stay standing.
Ah, Carl thought with a surge of satisfaction. Gotcha.
“You sexy fucker,” Carl growled directly into Steve’s ear, darting his tongue against the cartilage to evoke another breathy, helpless sigh.
With his eyes squeezed shut, Steve chuckled nervously. Words of affirmation, Carl noted. Carl squeezed the nipple harder, and Steve reflexively ground his cock against Carl's thigh.
Carl raised a hand to Steve’s smooth face. He traced two thick fingers over the younger man's full lips, parting them, and slid his digits inside. To his surprise, Steve opened up instantly, taking the rough fingers in and sucking on them with wet, rhythmic heat.
That feels good. Like a cousin to a blowjob, Carl thought, feeling his own cock throb in the tight space between their bodies. Carl knew his hands were unusually massive—matching his size-fourteen boots—but Steve was taking them effortlessly.
“You take that so good,” Carl whispered, his voice a low rumble. “You have an amazing body,” he added, his hands mapping the contours of Steve's chest. “Who knew?”
In truth, Carl had actually noticed the guy's ass before—standing next to him at the urinal in the office restroom, catching the line of the tailored pants Tiffany made him wear.
He trailed his wet fingers out of Steve’s mouth, dragging the spit down his long throat, over his pecs, and across his taut belly. This was usually the exact sequence Carl used to slide his fingers down into a date’s panties for some clit play, to prime the pump before sliding inside.
But this wasn’t a chick.
He traced his damp fingers lower, letting his hand close around Steve’s erection. Carl’s breath caught at the unexpected heat of it. He’d handled his own equipment a million times, but wrapping his fist around another guy's dick sent a completely foreign jolt straight up his arm.
It was rigid, the smooth skin pulled drum-tight over a stubbornly pulsing vein. It felt solid and undeniably male in his grip—and the sudden, visceral realization that his buddy was throbbing this hard right in the palm of his hand made Carl’s own balls tighten in response.
Around them, the leaves shuddered violently and then went dead silent, as if the divine audience had simply faded into the ether.
Chapter Seven.
Carl’s massive fist gripped Steve's erection, his thumb sliding over the piss slit at the head. Steve let out a ragged exhale, and a second later, Carl felt the younger man's hand wrap hesitantly, then firmly, around his own thick cock.
They stood chest to chest in the freezing clearing, their breath mingling, hands working in a steady, mirrored rhythm.
"You ever do this with another guy?" Steve whispered, his voice tight, his eyes locked nervously on Carl's collarbone.
"Nah," Carl grunted. His hips twitched involuntarily at the surprisingly electric friction of Steve's grip. "You?"
"Nah." Steve swallowed hard, his stroke gaining steady, rhythmic confidence. He let his face drop forward against Carl's shoulder, hiding his flushed cheeks from the moonlight. Carl felt the sudden, hot press of Steve's open mouth against his skin, the teeth lightly, instinctively grazing his skin as he let out a shuddering breath. "But... not so bad."
"Yeah," Carl breathed, his own grip tightening at the sharp, unexpected flare of heat from the bite. "Not bad at all."
A sharp, impatient click of a tongue echoed from the dark tree line, followed by the heavy, restless rustle of cloven hooves. Pan and the nymphs were getting bored. The illusion of a private moment shattered.
Carl sighed, looking down at their working hands. "I don’t think hands aren't gonna cut it, bro," Carl muttered, letting go of Steve’s cock and taking a half-step back to clear some space. "We gotta do more. Give 'em a real show."
Before his brain could talk him out of it, Carl dropped straight down onto his bruised knees in the damp dirt.
Steve’s cock bobbed just inches from Carl's face. It stood erect from a neatly trimmed dark bush—the manscaping shit Tiffany probably mandated.
It’s just skin, Carl told himself, staring at the exposed flesh. Just a body part.
On the trip to Australia, Carl had once eaten kangaroo meat cooked so rare it was purple, chewing through the iron-heavy game until he almost barfed, just to prove he could. This had to be better than that. And the stakes were a hell of a lot higher.
Carl opened wide and let the head of Steve’s cock slide past his lips. His brain immediately registered the salt of dried sweat, the musk of the groin, and the faint tang of their last piss in the woods. You can do this.
The other man’s cock was was warm, and the sheer firmness of it was disorienting. He had abstractly imagined it would just feel like a thick thumb, but the mechanics were completely different. Unlike a finger, there was no hard core of bone underlying the skin—it was just dense, blood-filled muscle, turned completely solid by sheer hydraulic pressure.
A gush of clear precum pumped directly onto Carl’s tongue, coating it with a sudden, salty slickness. Carl recognized it on a biological level; every guy had been curious enough to swipe a finger and taste his own at least once, he figured, even if they'd take that secret to the grave. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Carl found himself almost smiling around the shaft.
Okay, he thought, true pleasure.
Carl reached out with his heavy left hand and gripped Steve’s muscular thigh, squeezing the dense flesh to anchor them both in place. He took a deep breath through his nose and pushed down until the blunt tip tickled the back of his throat. He heard Steve gasp above him. He held it there for as long as his gag reflex allowed, then slowly slid back up.
Okay. Got the technique. Now perfect it. Dropping his free right hand to firmly stroke his own erection, he slid his wet lips down Steve's shaft again, dropping his jaw to take it a little deeper, pushing past the tickle, and held the depth before releasing.
He heard a louder, more free gasp from Steve.
Carl pulled his head back, the wet cock standing near his face. “You like that, bro?” Carl asked, his right hand still pumping his own cock while he kept his eyes locked on Steve’s thighs, deliberately refusing to glance sideways at the divine audience. “It’s okay if you do. I want you to like it.”
“Yeah,” Steve breathed softly.
“Good. When’s the last time Tiff gave you head?”
Steve actually scoffed, his hips twitching forward slightly. “A while.”
“Let’s get you current then,” Carl said, flashing a confident, wet smile. He opened his mouth and plunged down on the erection, simultaneously bringing his heavy hand up to deliver a resounding slap to Steve’s muscular ass.
Steve’s hips seized up at the impact. Carl plunged down again and again, slathering the shaft with spit, working it all the way to the tip. He knew exactly how he liked getting head—not that he got it the way he liked very often. There had been one seasoned prostitute in Amsterdam who had absolutely spoiled him, and right now, Carl was determined to do the exact same thing for Steve.
A sudden, thick wave of Pan’s scent—that heavy mix of weed, petting zoo, and morning-after sex sweat—rolled through the freezing clearing, settling directly at the base of Carl's spine.
It bypassed Carl’s rational brain and made his back arch instinctively.
He pulled back for a moment. His eyes were watering from the depth, but he thrust his jaw forward, a feral grin breaking through his beard.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Carl growled around the thick shaft, the words vibrating straight into Steve’s balls. “Fuck my face. She ever let you do this? No, huh? Too fucking delicate.”
He felt Steve’s hands wrap around the back of his skull. With surprising, athletic strength, Steve pulled Carl’s face hard into his groin as the cock stiffened in Carl's mouth. Carl gagged hard, snorting through his nose as the passed hit his tonsils, but a dark thrill shot through his chest. Kid means business. Good.
Carl growled in deep disapproval around the shaft and slapped his buddy’s ass as hard as he dared. It felt incredible to slap that dense muscle—harder than he would ever swat a woman. He wondered exactly how much force Steve could take.
Taking the cue, Steve’s grip tightened in Carl’s messy hair, and he pushed his hips forward, till Carl’s nose hit his pubes.
Steve started to aggressively pump his hips. It was clearly something he’d always wanted, but Carl guessed Tiff wasn’t the kind of girl who was going to tolerate getting face-fucked. Carl, however, could take it. It made anatomical sense; he was a guy, a big one, significantly larger than a woman, which meant his throat could accommodate the punishment.
It wasn’t a walk in the park. Carl was gagging, his eyes streaming, coughing up thick strands of saliva and mucus that coated Steve’s base. Tiff would have tapped out in seconds, but Carl didn’t give a shit. Every time he gagged, he just flared his nostrils, took a burning breath, and went down on Steve again.
He channeled all the violent fight in his throat directly into his hands, squeezing Steve’s ass with the exact same ruthless vigor that Steve was forcing down his throat.
And from the choked, eager noises Steve was making, the kid loved it. The friction, combined with Carl's huge hands manhandling his meaty glutes, seemed to push Steve right to the edge.
Time to finish this, Carl thought. He remembered the blueprint Steve had confessed to earlier. The fingertip. Tiff might just use the tip, but Carl was fully prepared to sink his thick, calloused digit knuckle-deep to guarantee Steve went over the edge.
He shifted his grip, sliding one heavy hand down the sweaty cleft of Steve's ass, his thumb finding the tight, shivering ring. Carl braced his jaw, prepared to take the hot gush of Steve's cum straight down his throat. Just like that cod sperm sushi on the trip to Tokyo, his brain rationalized. Just swallow. Don't think about it.
But the second Carl applied an ounce of pressure to the bud, Steve let out a ragged, panicked breath. He abruptly dislodged his hips, frantically pulling his slick, spit-shined cock from Carl’s throat with a wet pop.
“Wait. Wait, my turn,” Steve panted, his chest heaving in the cold air, clearly shocked by how close he had just come to blowing his load. “Let me suck you.”
Chapter Eight.
Carl wiped the thick strings from his beard, ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.
For a split second, he considered just grabbing the kid by the hips and finishing the job himself. If he just got Steve to shoot his load, maybe that would be enough to satisfy the plea bargain. Maybe they could just grab their shredded clothes and get the hell out of these freezing woods.
But the gods were judging them on true pleasure, not just a quick release. Better to be absolutely sure and go all the way. Besides, Carl had just put in some serious effort. He’d earned some reciprocation.
And knowing it was Steve—the way the kid kept himself, how much he clearly liked looking good... yeah, Carl realized with a sudden hot rush, he really wouldn't mind a piece of that. He loved the idea of his buddy dropping to his knees for him.
Carl pushed himself up off his bruised knees, shifting backward to sit bare-assed on a moss-covered log. He spread his thick thighs, opening up the space between them.
“Do it, bro,” Carl rasped.
Carl watched the dark eyes widen slightly. Next to his own massive mitts, his dick looked standard, but wrapped in Steve’s smaller hand, the proportions were suddenly obvious. It was sturdy, dense, and thicker than Steve's, jutting straight out with just a slight, pale curve. Steve stared at the pink, veiny reality of it for a second, looking a little intimidated.
He leaned in, tentatively kissing and licking the blunt head. Carl let out a rumbling moan of encouragement.
Steve opened his mouth and took it in. He couldn't take it nearly as deep as Carl had taken his, but Carl felt him trying his damnedest. Steve buried his nose directly into Carl's groin, right into the untamed dirty-blond bush. Carl smirked, knowing Steve had probably never gone down on anything this hairy in his life. Tiff clearly mandated strict manscaping, but Carl didn't give a shit.
Pulling back, Steve looked up. “Why’re you so hairy, bro? Never heard of grooming?”
“I’m a man, bro,” Carl said, his tone dead serious, though his hips twitched, already missing the hot glide of Steve’s tongue. “Taste my balls."
Steve swallowed hard, looking up at the authoritative set of Carl's bearded jaw, then opened wide, taking one of the large, pale, hairy balls into his mouth. Carl groaned, feeling Steve's tongue roll slowly against the weight of it before switching to the other. The kid was leaning into it now, his initial hesitation burning off. He was getting genuinely hungry, his breath hitching as he worked the vulnerable spot.
Steve opened his mouth around Carl’s meat again, sliding his lips down the thick shaft. When Carl felt the oversized knob hit the back of Steve's throat, he didn't gag; he just swallowed hard and pushed further, sealing his lips as close to the hairy base as he could manage.
As Carl’s cock filled his throat, Steve’s nose buried deep in the pubes, Carl almost chuckled. He knew he had to smell like man musk—a far cry from whatever cocoa butter or floral spray Tiff used—but Steve was devouring it.
Looking down, Carl had a perfect view—kneeling in the dirt, the moonlight caught the broad curve of Steve’s back, highlighting the smooth, white marble skin that tapered down into a tight, narrow V. And right there, perfectly angled for Carl’s reach, were those two firm, muscular mounds.
Carl reached out with one hand and gripped Steve’s right ass cheek. Steve froze for a fraction of a second, his mouth still full of cock. Carl squeezed the muscle. The tensile strength was incredible. It didn’t even jiggle.
He lifted his heavy palm and delivered a sharp, echoing slap to the flesh.
Steve let out a muffled, choked gasp around the thick shaft, but he didn't pull away; instead, his hips twitched against the forest floor.
Carl bounced his palm against the firm cheek again, giving it a rough, affectionate squeeze. “Sorry, bro,” Carl groaned, his voice thick with genuine appreciation as he hit that blueprint of praise once again. “Had to. It's just... fucking beautiful. You got a perfect ass.”
Encouraged by the validation, Steve’s hand crept down to his own swaying dick. He began to jerk himself off in a slow, hypnotic rhythm as he worked his wet lips and tongue over Carl.
Steve pulled back with a wet gasp. “Honestly... I kinda dig it,” he mumbled, his voice thick and gurgling with the buildup of saliva and Carl's leaking precum.
A wide, genuine grin spread slowly across Carl’s face. “Yeah?“
For the first time in fifteen minutes, Steve looked up and Carl met his teary, dilated eyes. “Yeah.“
Carl leaned forward, grabbed the back of Steve's neck, and planted a sloppy, aggressive kiss directly onto his mouth. He rammed his tongue inside, tasting his own precum on his buddy's breath. Steve took every tongue thrust eagerly, wrapping his tongue against Carl’s, practically begging for the contact.
Fuck, Carl thought. He really did love kissing—almost more than fucking, in a way. And kissing a man’s mouth, especially one slick with his own spit, turned out to be a revelation. He didn’t have to worry about crushing Steve.
He wondered what it would be like to kiss him while he was... but that was getting ahead of himself.
“Well, you weren’t doing a bad job there, buddy,“ Carl smiled, punctuating the words with hard, wet smacks. “Fuck it, honestly, it feels amazing.”
From the shadows just beyond the log, Carl heard a sharp clicking of a tongue, followed by a low growl.
“He’s into it too,” Steve panted, tilting his head back slightly to indicate Pan. A few throaty, bleating cat-calls echoed from the tree line, proving Pan wasn’t the only one enjoying the show—and not all the voices were male.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” Steve whispered, his eyes blown wide. “But I’m so fucking into it right now.”
“I think so too, buddy,” Carl rumbled, his thumbs tracing Steve's jawline. “A little more and the lawyer’s gonna get us off.”
Steve let out a breathy laugh. “Heh. In more ways than one.”
Carl looked down at him. He'd already hit the 'words of affirmation' requirement, but he hadn't forgotten the rest of the sheepish confession. The dirty talk. And the finale. It was time to push it.
“Just one thing,” Carl said, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding register as he leaned fully into the bit. “Get your throat on my cock again, you sexy fucker. And while you suck it... I’m gonna slide a finger up your tight little hole.” He paused. “If that’s cool.”
To affirm exactly how cool it was, Steve leaned forward and swallowed his buddy’s stiff cock, taking it as close to the root as his anatomy would allow. Carl felt the fat head hit Steve's tonsils, expecting him to gag and pull back, but Steve simply bypassed the reflex and pushed further, treating the punishment like a brutal CrossFit rep where quitting wasn't an option.
Above him, Carl let out a ragged breath. He brought his right hand up to his face and slid two thick, calloused fingers past his own lips. He coated the rough skin in a thick layer of spit to grease the gears, readying himself to give the kid exactly what he asked for.
Chapter Nine.
Carl pumped his two spit-slicked fingers deep into Steve’s tight heat, feeling the throat reflexively swallow harder around his cock with every thrust. The wet friction was incredible. Carl was getting dangerously close to the edge.
"Fuck, yes, buddy," Carl groaned, his hips automatically picking up the pace. "Just like that. You take it so fucking good."
His thighs trembled. He stopped his hips, threw his head back, and stared past the canopy into the impossibly starry sky.
"Is this it?" Carl roared into the freezing woods, his voice echoing off the ancient trees. "Is this what you want? Are we good?"
He waited, chest heaving. Silence answered him. Not a rustle of leaves, not a word from Pan.
God damn it. It figured. He almost never got off from just getting head—he usually needed the friction of actually being inside someone to finally push him over the edge. But Steve was working a goddamn miracle down there, and Carl had been three seconds away from a massive, earth-shattering release. Having to hit the brakes now was a genuine, physical tragedy.
Carl reached down, tangling his heavy fingers into the sweat-damp hair, and firmly pulled Steve's head off his crotch. His slick, veiny cock released from Steve's throat with a slick trail of spit following it.
Steve let out a frustrated, breathy whine, his head dropping forward, trying to dive right back in. But Carl caught him firmly by the jaw.
He tilted the younger man's face up, forcing Steve to stop. Carl held him there, waiting until Steve's glazed, blown-out eyes blinked through the haze and finally locked onto his own.
"That was insane, buddy," Carl rasped, casting a wary glance at the expectant, glowing eyes waiting in the tree line. "But they're waiting for the main event. We have to go all the way."
The biological math was blunt and undeniable. Carl was a bigger guy, and his dick was thick and unforgiving. Steve was incredibly fit, sure, but he was shorter—tighter and more compact. If Carl tried to force himself into the younger man, he figured he'd practically split the kid in two.
Figuring it was the only manly, sacrificial thing to do, Carl got down on all fours in the dirt. He figured he would just take it—grit his teeth, endure the pain, and power through it like any other miserable, grueling job to get them out of there alive. He hiked his hairy ass up in the cold air, presenting it to Steve.
"Alright, buddy. Spit on it and stick it in," Carl grunted over his shoulder, his hands gripping the freezing moss. "Give me a count of three so I can brace myself."
Steve obediently knelt behind him. Carl felt a hesitant, cold hand rest on his hip, and then Steve leaned his face in close to inspect the logistics of the hairy terrain.
Steve froze.
"Whoa, bro... wait," Steve stammered. "You want me to... fuck you? Like, actually put it in your ass?"
"Yeah, sorry this is such a massive burden for you, bro," Carl shot back over his shoulder, his noble sacrifice instantly souring into defensiveness. "I’ll just be here on my goddamn knees getting my guts rearranged while you suffer through the profound trauma of doing the fucking."
"Hey, fuck you," Steve barked. "This wasn’t my idea! You’re the one who shot the fucking deer—"
"Stag! It’s a STAG!"
"What the fuck ever, Carl. You shot it, you lawyered up with a goat, it’s your tattoo!"
"They’re YOUR gods, Steve! Stefanos!"
"Fuck you, Carl. I’m only half Greek anyway."
"That’s it." Carl dropped out of the all-fours position, spinning around on his knees to face Steve fully. "Just fuck my fucking ass so we can fucking go home. You Greeks invented ass-fucking too, right? Then forget this ever happened, and do me a huge favor—don’t talk to me at the fucking office."
"Yeah, no problem, bro," Steve sneered. "I really was looking forward to another weekend with your shitty beer and your shitty tent and your giant fucking feet that smell like rotten eggs!"
"SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP," Carl growled. "You goddamn, pussy-whipped boy-child."
"No, you fuck ME if you’re going to be so pissy about it," Steve snapped, his chest heaving. "I don’t even care."
Carl scoffed, looking Steve up and down. "You can’t take my dick. This is about pleasure, asshole. I'll break you."
"Oh, I can take your dick," Steve said, his chin jutting out defensively. "You’re not as big as you think. Tiff has dildos as big as that."
"Yeah, well, she’s not here, is she?"
"I didn't mean we use them on HER, dumbass."
The argument died instantly. The woods went completely, awkwardly silent as the reality of what Steve just said slowly settled into Carl’s brain.
So much for just the fingertip. Steve had clearly been holding out on him earlier, feeding him a watered-down version of his bedroom habits to save face. Tiffany’s finger wasn't the only thing he liked taking up there.
"Oh," Carl said smoothly, his anger evaporating into sudden, mechanical clarity. "Well. That’s a different story."
"Yeah, well, so now you know." Steve looked away, his ears burning red in the cold.
"That’s cool. That’s cool, bro. No judgment."
"It’s cool of you to offer to take it," Steve said, shivering slightly in the moonlight. "Honestly, when you got down on your knees, I panicked. I thought... well, I kind of hoped you were going to do it to me."
Carl blinked. Steve hadn't been grossed out; he'd been disappointed.
"I'm going to marry Tiffany," Steve continued, staring down at the moss. "So if I don’t do this now, I never will. And I just, y’know, want to know. To really know what it’s like." Steve leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And no offense, dude, but I’m a lot cleaner down there."
Carl couldn't argue with the logistics. He pushed himself up taller on his knees, towering directly over his buddy. "Alright then," Carl grunted.
He gripped Steve by the hips, hauling the younger man up slightly to turn him around and steer him toward the mossy log. Steve obediently leaned forward, bracing his hands on the rotting wood to hike his ass up into the cold air.
Carl shifted forward, kneeling directly behind him. He gazed down at the man's incredibly smooth, athletic ass. Reaching out with his massive hands, Carl gripped the firm glutes and plied the cheeks open to expose a perfectly tight, pink hole.
"Looks like you could eat right off it," Carl noted, thoroughly impressed.
"Chow down, man," Steve breathed.
How much different can it be than eating snatch? Carl rationalized.
In truth, he’d occasionally let his tongue make a sweeping pass or two over the extra hole while going down on women in the past. And man, Steve really did have a spectacular ass, regardless of gender. Kudos to Tiffany for whatever she does to get and keep him this way. I’ll have to buy her roses, Carl thought.
He spread Steve’s cheeks wider, leaned in, and confidently pressed his wet tongue directly into the tight, shivering bud.
From the shadows of the forest canopy, the feral nymphs enthusiastically ululated their approval.
Chapter Ten.
Carl had always made it a strict practice to eat pussy vigorously and for a long time before fucking. Not that he loved doing it. But you do what you have to do to get the job done, and he never wanted to owe anyone anything. The last thing he ever wanted to hear from a chick was that he didn’t pay enough attention to her orgasm. Fuck that shit. So he always paid his dues, and then threw in a little extra just to be safe.
Here in Pan’s forest, with a dozen feral nymphs, a pack of horny satyrs, and two Greek gods watching in judgment, he applied that exact same work ethic to Steve’s hole.
He licked and prodded, moving on to aggressively tongue-fuck his bro until Steve’s fingers dug into the moss, his breath hitching, perfectly willing to accept the friction of beard burn if it meant Carl never stopped.
Carl could have gone on a lot longer. He genuinely got off on Steve’s vocal appreciation, the heavy musky taste, and the surprising, buttery skin on those firm mounds. But he also needed to impress the judges, and he couldn’t risk a misfire.
He pulled back, getting up on his bruised knees in the dirt. He spat into his massive palm three times and smeared the heavy saliva over his own cock. He’d been oozing for so long that there was a thick, slick coat of precum mixed in, far more than he’d ever noticed himself produce before.
“I’m gonna fuck your hole,” Carl groaned, dropping his weight down over Steve’s back so his chest hair scraped roughly against his buddy’s smooth skin. “If you still want it.”
Steve arched his spine, tipping his ass up higher into the cold air. “Give me something Greek,” he whispered into the dirt, “to satisfy the Greek gods.”
Carl felt almost giddy when he finally pressed the blunt, swollen head of his cock against Steve’s spit-glistening hole. He didn’t know how, but the sheer mechanics of it felt undeniably right. Like a heavy, physical lock finally clicking into place. Sliding the thick cock into his bro, knowing the guy wanted it—really wanted it—fired off a primitive circuit in Carl's brain.
This wasn't like fucking a chick. With a woman, things naturally opened up, got slicker, yielded to the rhythm. But this? Steve's hole was designed to stay strictly shut, and every fraction of an inch Carl pushed inward was met with resistance. His hole was a vacuum-tight grip wrapping, opening inside to an internal temperature degrees hotter than any pussy he’d ever been inside.
Fuck the gods, Carl thought, feeling the tight ring of muscle yield as his meat plowed into Steve. I’d fucking do this for nothing.
Steve rose to the occasion, his chute stretching around the girth with each steady push, opening up and giving Carl the absolute access he needed to bury himself to the hilt.
“Unhhhh... you taking all of this, bro?” Carl asked, his voice a low rumble as he established a deep, regular stroke.
“Ohmygod,” Steve groaned, his fingers tearing up the soil and dead leaves beneath him. “Yeah, bro. Fuck, it's huge.”
“Fills you up better than your dildos?” Carl grunted, leaning down to press a heavy kiss to Steve’s shoulder blade, his coarse beard scraping the smooth, shifting muscle of his back.
“It’s different,” Steve muttered between sharp gasps. “Hotter.”
Made sense, Carl rationalized. No silicone toy was ever going to be as perfectly flexible or heated as a living cock. And no plastic toy strapped to a woman was ever going to give the kid what Carl was giving him right now.
“Oh, yeah?” Carl chuckled darkly. He suddenly popped one incredibly hard, fast thrust into the steady rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out before driving his hips forcefully back in.
“Oh, FUCK!” Steve gasped, his hips bucking upward against the impact.
“It is different, bro,” Carl said with a smug smile, masterfully shifting back to a slower, more grinding stroke. “Your fucking hole is so tight…”
Below him, Steve squeezed his sphincter, catching the thickest part of the shaft in a vice grip that made Carl see stars.
“…unf, buddy, milking my dick,” Carl gritted out. “…sucking me right in.”
Carl wrapped his heavy, furry arms all the way around Steve’s torso, feeling the shifting muscles of his ribs and cupping the firm pecs. He didn’t know how to articulate the rest of it. The stuff that wasn’t just about sphincters and friction, but about how seamlessly their entirely different bodies fit together.
After years of standing an arm's length apart around campfires, drinking cheap beer and avoiding closer, to suddenly being literally anchored in Steve. Feeling the frantic thud of his buddy's heart right against his own forearms, feeling Steve completely surrender his body to him... it hit Carl like a freight like nothing he’d ever known
“I want to shoot my load deep in you, buddy,” Carl moaned, meaning every single syllable as he ground his pelvis flush against Steve’s glutes. “You take my dick so fucking good.”
“On my back,” Steve choked out.
Cum on your back? Carl thought, confused. Then, he got it.
They worked together to roll Steve over. It was a clumsy, tricky maneuver on the uneven forest floor, requiring Steve to basically rotate on the axis of Carl’s cock. They both let out breathless, gritty laughs as they shifted, but Carl braced his arms, hovering just enough to let Steve twist onto his back without slipping out once.
To fix the angle, Steve reached down, grabbed his own thighs, and hiked his ass up off the freezing moss to meet Carl's hips. He tossed his athletic legs up, hooking his calves high over Carl’s broad shoulders. The shift in leverage opened the kid up completely, sinking Carl impossibly deep.
“Bro, I wouldn’t have picked this whole thing to happen,” Carl panted, filling Steve. “But if I gotta fuck a guy... I’m glad it’s you.”
“Just fuck my ass,” Steve answered, clearly shocked by the raw hunger in his own voice. He dragged his fingers aggressively through Carl’s sweaty hair, unintentionally leaving two matted, spiked peaks sticking up on either side of his head like horns.
Carl pressed his weight down, crushing his hairy chest against Steve's smooth pecs. They were both smeared with gritty dirt, crushed pine needles, and a slick coating of each other’s sweat. Carl kissed Steve, tasting the salt on his lips, before the kiss turned punishing and aggressive. Steve reached up, grabbing the back of Carl's thick neck.
“Feel that?” he growled against Steve’s ear, voice low and rough. “That’s me. Not some fucking toy.”
From the absolute darkness just beyond the tree line, Pan let out a low, vibrating chuckle.
Carl was so used to holding back. With women, he always had to temper his size, carefully monitoring his weight and strength so he didn't overwhelm them. But Steve was a guy. A fit, athletic guy whose hips were eagerly thrusting up to take the impact, fist working his own cock between their sweating bodies.
Being able to cut loose made Carl feel more like himself than he had in years. He gulped down a lungful of cold air and unleashed a punishing, rolling, heavy-impact fuck. On his pale ribs, the tattooed satyr gleefully danced and warped with every violent flex of his obliques.
The physical friction of being balls-deep in Steve was incredible, but seeing the sheer, unfiltered pleasure on his buddy's face was pushing Carl right to the edge.
Carl braced his massive arms on either side of Steve’s head. "Bro, right here, guy to guy," Carl grunted, his hips slapping rhythmically against Steve's thighs. "You know you look fucking incredible, don't you?"
Steve's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering as his fist pumped faster. "I... I stay fit," he gasped out, his hips rising to meet the deep thrusts.
"That's right, you do. You do a damn good job," Carl praised, his voice a thick, commanding rumble. "Fucking perfect body on you, buddy. You look so good taking my dick."
Steve let out a ragged, choked moan at the words, the blunt validation hitting him just as hard as the physical impact. It was intoxicating.
But Carl wasn't going to pop first. Not till you go, buddy, his stubborn brain insisted. Not till you go.
“I’m gonna fuck the cum right out of you,” Carl grunted, his jaw locked tight as he fought his own churning balls.
Steve nodded frantically, his eyes rolling back. "Right there," he gasped out, his hips rising desperately to meet every punishing thrust. "Right there—oh my god, your dick is in me, bro. Your fucking dick is in me!"
Hearing the Steve actually say it out loud sent a fresh, visceral jolt straight to Carl's groin. He pounded into him with absolutely everything he had. Their breathing shifted into a frantic, hyperventilating rhythm. Carl became a snorting, relentless machine, biting down hard on his own bottom lip to keep his climax at bay, driving his swollen cockhead directly into the kid's prostate with the force of a battering ram.
The strike triggered a violent reaction. A heavy, roping volley of hot, white cum erupted from Steve's fist, painting his own chest and abs in thick, chaotic splatters. Steve let out a high, broken gasp, his entire body going rigid against the forest floor.
“FUCK!” Carl roared.
Steve’s spasming hole clamped down, ruthlessly milking the shaft. Carl finally let his control shatter. He took in the visceral sight of his buddy, totally wrecked and spewing his nut.
Carl seized up. Every muscle in his body contracted at once, forcefully, violently pumping his own thick load deep into Steve’s core. He couldn’t believe the sheer, biological reality of it—breeding his bro, flooding another man.
Fuck, you're beautiful, Carl thought, completely overwhelmed by the reality of the collision. This is what it's supposed to feel like.
He stayed buried to the hilt, crushing Steve into the moss with his heavy, spent weight, waiting until his body finally stopped quaking. Only then did he slowly, reluctantly slide out into the freezing air.
He pushed himself back onto his bruised knees, his broad chest heaving, and looked down. He hadn't lost an ounce of his erection. His thick cock was still rock-hard, jutting out proudly and twitching with the fading aftershocks of his climax. It glistened wetly in the pale moonlight, slick with friction and sweat, a thick drop of his own spent seed dripping lazily from the blunt tip.
Steve was staring up at the sky, his chest heaving, covered in sweat, dirt, and their combined mess.
"You alive, buddy?" Carl rasped, his voice hoarse.
Chapter Eleven.
Pan and Artemis stepped forward into the bruised moonlight. Behind them, the tree line rustled with the heavy, frantic breathing of the satyrs, their shifting silhouettes making it incredibly obvious just how closely they'd been watching.
Artemis tried to look completely unimpressed, her violet lips twisted in forced disgust as she assessed the slick, naked bodies sprawled in the dirt. But the silvery moonlight betrayed her; a deep, unmistakable flush burned high on her pale, virginal cheeks, and her chest rose and fell with a ragged, uneven rhythm.
Looking at the fucking pissy Riot Grrrl, Carl was instantly reminded of the fragile B-list celebrities he’d dealt with during the miserable six months he’d worked on a talk show down in LA. Every single day had been an exhausting, tedious guessing game of which massive ego felt disrespected or needed endless flattering. It had been the worst six months of his life. He’d come scurrying back home to Kentucky as soon as he financially could, deciding he’d rather dig ditches for a living than put up with that Hollywood horseshit.
“Dread guardian Goddess,” Pan purred, his voice a resonant hum in Carl’s spine. “With benign mind, auspicious come, to mystic rites inclined... what say you to this pairing? My terrain is greatly reduced from olden days, but I found such raw pleasures here as I would gladly see again. I am most… inspired. Will you accept the sacrifice, to wash away the past transgressions committed so grievously against your divine grace?”
Carl scanned the dark tree line, reading the jury box. Pan’s satyrs were stroking their own horns in the shadows—that was a guaranteed block of votes for the defense.
He glanced over at Artemis's handmaidens. The feral Riot Grrrls looked flushed and breathless, their glowing eyes darting over Carl and Steve’s slick bodies. Every sign was screaming in favor of true pleasure.
But Carl wasn't an idiot. They were a pack. They were going to cast their votes exactly however their alpha commanded.
It all came down to the pale bitch in the center. She was the only vote that actually mattered.
“There is more passion here than in the boars and mountain lions,” the goddess admitted coldly, a sneer tugging at her mouth as she actively avoided looking directly at Carl's groin. “But as for true pleasure… I remain undecided.”
Carl pushed himself up, still breathing hard in the freezing air. “You’re unsure?” he rasped. “Lady, and I do say this with all due respect, but do you know anything about sex at all? Look around. There isn't a soft cock in this entire forest right now. Including mine. I'm ready to go again.”
The goddess stood silent, her black eyes narrowing as she weighed his words. She was still on the fence. You look like an asexual bitch to me, he wanted to snap, but his survival instinct barely managed to keep his mouth shut.
Even after all that, Carl still needed to tip the scales.
He glanced down at Steve, sprawled flat on his back against the freezing moss. His eyes were half-closed and his smooth chest slowly rising and falling. His torso tapered from his shoulders to his smooth, narrow hips. He was smeared with dirt, flushed with the cold, and completely, beautifully fucked. The sight of him, totally spent and open to the night air, sent a heavy, possessive jolt straight through Carl's chest.
He made a blunt, calculated play.
He reached down, dragging two fingers across Steve’s cum-slicked abdomen—the exact same fingers he’d used to work his buddy open just moments before. He held his hand up in the moonlight, letting Artemis clearly see the thick, white fluid coating his rough skin. Then, maintaining absolute, dead-eyed contact with the goddess of the hunt, Carl shoved the fingers into his own mouth and slurped the load off his skin.
He had meant it as a vulgar power play to shock the prude goddess. But the second the fluid hit his tongue, the performative defiance vanished. It tasted musky, sour, and complex—not the cloying, perfumed sweetness he was used to chasing. His brain finally caught up to his body, recognizing the taste for exactly what it was—true pleasure.
The survival excuse was officially dead. That was the best fuck of my goddamn life, he realized.
He swallowed hard, savoring the truth of it. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just stared up at Artemis, letting the goddess read the raw, undeniable realization written plainly across his face.
“There is Eros,” Pan advised smoothly, his velvet voice gliding right over their unspoken exchange. “To settle the score.”
Her expression hardened. The matter was already decided in the silence between them; she had seen the truth, and there was no denying it anymore. No need for the winged brat who respected no man, no god, and no vow.
The goddess’s black eyes burned as they locked back onto Carl.
“Stay out of my hunting grounds,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a terrifying, panther-like purr. “If you are wise.”
Without another word, she turned and vanished into the timber. The fierce blue handmaidens melted silently into the shadows behind her, and the satyrs immediately scrambled into the brush after them, their bleating laughter chased by the shrill, scandalized squeals of the nymphs.
Pan lingered. The horned god sauntered over to Carl, reaching out with one long, rough finger to trace the lewd satyr tattoo inked into the lumberjack's ribs.
“You who bear my mark,” Pan whispered, the heavy, intoxicating musk of his animal arousal thick in the cold air. “For my advocacy, payment is required.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Carl grunted, shivering as the adrenaline finally began to wear off.
The god of the forest leaned in, his goat eyes glinting in the dark, and whispered the precise terms directly into Carl’s ear.
“Okay,” Carl said, his mind surprisingly clear despite the overwhelming, heady odor of the deity. “I pay my debts. You’ll get your fee.”
Pan stepped back, a deeply satisfied smirk spreading beneath his oiled goatee. “By my mark, where you go, so go I. As you do, so do I.” He reached up, pulling the heavy wolf pelt back over his horned brow. “But tell me, child of the last race of man… is it truly a heavy debt to do for the fee that which you would gladly do anyway?”
Carl didn’t answer. He clamped his jaw shut. He wasn't about to add another billable minute to this ancient shyster’s account.
The horned god smiled his wicked smile and turned away. He faded silently back into the darkness of the pines, but the high, reedy trill of a wooden flute echoed through the clearing long after he was gone.
Chapter Twelve.
Carl pulled up to a stool at the Stumbling Goat. It was an isolated pub situated on the rugged outskirts of Killorglin, a decent drive from the populated tourist traps of Killarney.
He’d purposely picked this specific town to hole up in. Every year, the locals threw some massive, ancient festival where they actually went up into the mountains, caught a wild goat, and crowned him king of the town for a few days.
When Carl had first read about it online back in Kentucky, the satyr inked into his ribs had practically burned through his shirt. It figured the old god would steer him here, dragging his new fee on a pilgrimage to one of the only places left on earth that still knew how to properly worship a horned beast.
Andy, the bartender, recognized him from his stop-in a few days ago.
“Guinness stout?” he asked, the rolling Irish lilt thick in his voice.
Carl nodded. A good bartender remembers what a man likes.
“Deer hunting?” Andy asked, taking note of Carl’s heavy canvas coat and faded hoodie.
“Nah. Don’t hunt much anymore,” Carl answered. It had been a long time since he’d been out in the woods with Steve from the office. Since they’d tracked that silver stag under the hunter's moon. “Not for deer, anyway.”
Steve had recently announced his engagement. Or, more accurately, Tiffany had announced it and instructed Steve to repeat it.
He was having some lame stag party back home this week, which gave Carl a perfect, built-in excuse not to go. He hadn’t told anyone at the office where he was actually traveling, just packed his bags and left.
By Carl’s estimation, Steve wouldn’t be taking any guy weekends for a very, very long time. It was a disappointment, sure, knowing the kid had folded up the tent so easily. But if he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting bossed around by the wife like a chump, what were you gonna do?
Carl watched Andy hit the tap. The guy looked like a stand-up dude. A man’s man. He had a good, broad V-taper to his back beneath his shirt. Nice, strong haunches on him, too. Real nice.
The heavy pub door opened as the only other patron left, and a chill evening breeze swept inside. Carl could instantly feel the telltale draft hit the hairy crack of his ass, right beneath the thick waistband of his jockstrap.
He’d wondered if the strap would show above his low-slung denim when he sat down on the stool. The sudden chill on his bare skin answered with a definitive: Yes, dude. It shows.
He looked down at his phone, his thick thumb swiping idly over his apps. Grindr. Scruff. Definitely not the kind of scopes he was used to hunting with. He’d need to set up a profile handle soon.
SatyrCarl? Andy placed an embossed, twenty-ounce glass down on the scarred wood of the bar. Reaching for it, Carl noted the bartender's forearms. Thick, strong, and well-shaped. He’d noticed them the last time he was in, too. Wondered what kind of grip they had, and how they'd feel wrapped tightly around his hips.
Carl let his eyes drift higher, casually tracking the shift of Andy’s shoulders under his shirt as he wiped down the counter. The guy had a sturdy, working-class build—built for taking a hit, which meant he was probably built to take a serious pounding, too.
Carl took a slow sip of the cold stout. He pictured waiting around until last call, locking that heavy pub door, and pinning the guy right up against the scarred wood of the bar. He wondered if Andy would try to wrestle for control first, or if he’d just let Carl haul those strong haunches up and bend him over the tap. He wanted to know what that rolling Irish lilt sounded like broken down into ragged gasps when Carl finally shoved inside him.
Beneath his faded hoodie, the tattooed satyr on his ribs gave a sudden, phantom pulse of heat. As you do, so do I.
“From the States?” Andy asked.
Carl nodded, raising the dark glass to his lips.
“Could tell by the accent,” Andy said, wiping down the bar with a rag. “Not that many blokes from the US go for them. The stouts.”
“Yeah,” Carl replied. He lowered the glass, casually flicking the thick foam off his mustache with his tongue, his eyes dropping briefly back down to Andy's forearms. “It’s an acquired taste.”
END
Thanks for reading Stag. This was a collaboration with the artists Graham Groans for a series of interconnected stories, Modern Greek Myths—A Wonder Book for Boys & Men. Some stories were published, some were not.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
