For a while, nothing big happened, the OnlyFans profile settling into the app’s vast, indifferent hum like a stone skipped over a frozen pond. Ben’s video pulled in just a couple dozen views over the first few days, the counter ticking slow in the OnlyFans dashboard like a heartbeat in no hurry. Jordan checked it over coffee one morning, “Twenty-nine views,” Jordan said, tilting the laptop screen, the thumbnail frozen on Ben’s fist mid-stroke. “And... two subs already. Not bad for day three.”
Ben grunted low, hazel eyes narrowing behind his glasses, beard brushing Jordan’s shoulder as he peered closer, the faint musk of him cutting through the steam from their mugs. “Eyes on it, at least. Beats jacking into the void.”
Jordan thought this was normal, the trickle no shock in a sea of slick pros and viral hooks. He never really expected Ben to become famous, no matter how hot and hung he was. But as he scrolled the sparse comments on the tweet, @BigBenBear’s first flare hanging lone in the feed, he felt a quiet certainty click into place: in the end, he’d made the right choice. The first ones landed blunt and thirsty, @BearThirstTrap69 saying “Damn, that gut and cock combo, I’m leaking already. Subbed for the full stuff, daddy.”; @CubCrusher88 had said “bear cock like that? pump killed me slow.”; and “HairyHoleHunter was of the opinion that “we love a dad bod! those heavy balls and hairy chest... next vídeo when?”
Ben’s eyes almost shone when he read the first tweet comments, a gravel huff escaping as a laugh, his beefy hand squeezing Jordan’s thigh under the table hard, pride swelling in his chest. Jordan only grinned as Ben read the tweets to him, warmth pooling low at the sight, enough to thaw the loft’s chill for now. Ben decided he would keep shooting the videos. It was fun, he told Jordan, even if not many people would be watching. Jordan agreed, thinking that having fun was actually the point of it all. Ben shot the videos that afternoon while Jordan was upstate for a client, holed up in a misty Hudson Valley manor appraising a client’s dubious Warhol print amid creaky floors and forced chatter about provenance.
The first video was set in their bathroom, a naked Ben soaking wet and all soaped up, jerking off in the shower, the steam curling thick from the scalding spray like a half-drawn curtain over his colossus frame, water sheeting down the furred expanses of his pecs and the round swell of his gut, suds foaming white trails over massive thighs braced wide against the tile. He took care to position the phone on the shampoo holder, angled low and tight from chest down, cropping his face from the frame, no risk of hazel eyes or beard giving the game away. Just the raw power of his body owning the lens, fist wrapping that heavy length as it dangled low between his legs, stroking slow and then quick under the beat until it burst hot and heavy.
“I tried to use the sunglasses again,” Ben confessed to Jordan later that night, the two of them tangled on the sectional with the laptop open between them, the video paused mid-stroke, Ben’s massive chest rumbling with a laugh that shook the cushions. “But they kept getting wet, and I wasn’t seeing shit.”
They uploaded the video together that time, huddled close on the sectional in the loft’s low lamplight as Jordan hit publish on the dashboard. In less than a minute, the notification pinged sharp through the app
@BearThirstyTrap has liked your video. Jordan’s pulse ticked up, glancing at Ben’s phone propped beside the laptop, the alert glowing blue in the dim. Eight minutes later, another ping, the reply blooming in the comments thread. @BearThirstyTrap again: “Wanna lick every drop of water from that body, daddy.” Ben snatched his phone with a huff of a laughas he tilted it toward Jordan, hazel eyes crinkling behind his glasses. That fucker probably turned on Ben’s profile notifications, Jordan figured, the alert’s timing too quick, too hungry. For some reason, it rubbed Jordan the wrong way, but he let it go quickly, shoving the sting down with a forced chuckle, hand finding Ben’s thigh under the throw blanket, squeezing the muscle there. Whatever, Jordan thought, forcing the warmth back into his grin as Ben refreshed the feed. Let the guy enjoy the show, Ben’s was roaring again, and that was the win, thirsty fans be damned.
The third video had been a complete surprise for Jordan. Ben had been gone all day, vanishing after breakfast with a gravel rumble and that rare, crooked smirk tugging his beard: “Got a surprise brewing, Jord. Hold the fort.” Jordan had nodded, stealing a kiss that tasted like coffee and promise. When Ben arrived home hours later, the sky already bruising to dusk, he was smiling so wide it split his beard clean, hazel eyes crinkling as he dropped his keys on the island with a clatter, massive frame filling the entryway like he’d conquered the city. He didn’t mention the surprise, though, just hauled Jordan into his arms for a kiss that pressed rough and hungry, beard scraping his jaw, cock half-hard against his thigh through the jeans like the day’s haul had lit him up. They tangled lazy on the sectional after, but the words stayed locked, that grin a secret humming under his skin.
It was only when Jordan was going through the OF profile later that evening, the laptop’s glow painting the kitchen in blue while Ben showered off the day’s grit, that he noticed it: a fresh upload timestamped just past noon, the thumbnail blooming unbidden in the vault: warehouse.mp4. His thumb froze on the trackpad, heart kicking uneven. Ben had done it solo, no heads-up, no “wanna direct?”. That was the surprise, but the part that actually shocked Jordan was that Ben hadn’t filmed in their loft, the familiar brick and Hudson view swapped for something rawer, more feral.
He clicked play, breath held tight, the video unspooling in low-res grit that filled the screen: Ben masturbating in some kind of abandoned warehouse, the frame echoing with the hollow drip of distant leaks and the faint creak of rusted beams overhead, concrete dust motes dancing in shafts of gray light filtering through cracked windows. He was wearing some of his electrician gear, the heavy boots laced tight over calves like oaks, the fluorescent vest slung open over his bare, furred pecs, tool belt buckled low on his hips like a loaded holster, the hard hat perched crooked on his head, casting shadows over his beard. The sunglasses were back on, mirrored lenses glinting blank in the dim, hiding his eyes but not the dirty smirk that tugged as his fist wrapped his cock.
The third video blew up in a way that caught Jordan off guard. It was the most successful yet, racking more than 500 likes in the first 24 hours, hearts tapping relentless from lurkers who’d paused mid-scroll on @BigBenBear’s feed, the counter climbing steady like a site crane hauling load. Even a couple of quotes popped, RTs with fire emojis and captions that amplified the roar: @BearThirstTrap quoting the clip of Ben’s fist twisting at the head, This cock’s my new religion pulling 12 retweets of its own; and @GutGodATL, Damn, blue-collar cock just hits different. The replies were close to 20, a thirsty thread blooming under the tweet, comments dripping explicit and raw.
Ben rumbled a laugh over dinner that night, but Jordan wasn’t sure what to think about it, the warehouse video looping relentless in his head like a glitch he couldn’t tab away. It was an undeniably hot video, the best Ben had filmed so far, rawer than the loft’s safe glow, the abandoned site’s grit framing his bulk like a site he’d claimed solo, cum arcing thick in five messy ropes to splatter the dusty floor, his roar echoing free in the abandoned site. But... wasn’t that risky? Shooting in a warehouse like that, boots scraping concrete that could’ve echoed to any passerby, the cracked windows letting in slivers of daylight that might’ve caught a flash of naked skin, that monumental cock swinging free for anyone to stumble on? What if someone had seen him, some security drone or mid-day scavenger, phone out in a heartbeat, calling the cops on the big bear jerking off in the shadows? Jordan’s gut twisted at the thought, the thrill curdling to a cold spike, fingers drumming the laptop’s edge as he refreshed the dashboard, the views cresting 800 but the what-ifs louder.
He thought that maybe he should talk about it with Ben, voice the worry low over dinner or tangled in the sheets, probe if the high was worth the edge. But he was reticent, the words sticking like damp flannel in his throat. Ben was clearly happy about the video, pride booming in his chest like smoke from a fresh-lit fire with each refresh. Jordan couldn’t dim that spark.
Despite the success of the video, it wasn’t only compliments rolling in. The warehouse vídeo had pulled those 500+ likes like a slow-building storm, but the quotes scattered sharper edges amid the thirst. One RT clipped Ben’s fist mid-pump against the rusted beam, with a caption that landed blunt: this guy’s super hot but the jerk-off videos are getting old. mix it up, big ben. Jordan’s thumb paused on the screen as he scrolled it later that night, Ben’s massive frame sprawled beside him on the sectional the loft’s lamplight glinting off his glasses. Ben wasn’t super bothered by it, the quotes’ blunt edges glancing off his pride like rain on paviment the demands for “real action” and gripes about jerk-off fatigue landing in the comments thread without dimming the rumble of his laugh when he scrolled them later that night. He replied to a couple of comments right there, Patience fellas the best’s yet to come. The fans ate it up, a fresh like pinging back in seconds, and Ben just huffed, setting the device aside to pull Jordan closer, beard scraping his temple in a nuzzle that smelled of beer and fresh-wired confidence.
Jordan got thinking, though, the words lingering like a faint short in the circuit. The guys weren’t wrong, people would soon get tired of watching Ben jerking off, that solo pump turning from fresh thrill to rote tease in the app’s endless scroll. It wasn’t like that was a big deal anyway; success was never part of their plans, the OnlyFans spark just a match struck to reignite Ben’s fire, not some viral blaze to chase. The goal was always to kickstart his confidence again, a quiet jolt to chase the haze and the drag. But Jordan didn’t want to see his boyfriend losing the spotlight so quick, the modest hum fading before it could really roar. It was working. Ben was getting better, the changes blooming subtle but sure in: eyes lighting sharper over morning coffee, that massive paw lingering possessive on Jordan’s hip during takeout nights instead of drifting to the remote; the gym bag by the door again, not dusty but slung ready for solo reps that left him loose-limbed and grinning, cock stirring against Jordan’s thigh in bed for the first time in ages like the drought’s dam had cracked. He laughed deeper too, gravel rumbles over dumb memes Jordan forwarded from Hale & Harrison. He didn’t want that to change.
The night after Ben uploaded the warehouse video, the loft filled with the rare, grounding scent of home-cooked confort food as Ben had took over the kitchen that afternoon, his massive frame dwarfing the island as he rumbled through a whole turkey roast, sleeves rolled up over forearms etched with ink. Jordan watched him from the stool, heart tugging at the sight. They ate. Ben dug in with a low hum of approval and Jordan forked his own plate slower, his mind wandering. He had an idea then, the thought striking mid-bite, fork pausing as it crystallized.
Jordan blurted it out of nowhere, the words tumbling over his fork mid-bite. “Why don’t I join you in the next video?”
Ben stopped chewing, a confused furrow creasing his brow as glasses slipped faint down his nose. “The next video?”
“Yeah,” Jordan pressed, setting his spoon down with a soft clink against the bowl, the loft’s lamplight catching the flush creeping up his neck. “Why don’t I join you?”
Ben swallowed slow, the confusion lingering in the set of his jaw. “You wanna join me?”
“I’ve been thinking about it the whole day,” Jordan admitted, “You read the comments, your fans want more than the jerk-off stuff. I say we give it to them.”
Ben smirked slowly then, the confusion melting from his face into something wicked. “What’s your mind?”
Jordan hesitated just a beat, heat pooling low as Ben’s gaze pinned him, the air thickening with the turkey smells and the unsaid. “I don’t know. Maybe me blowing you?”
Ben’s eyes turned dark with desire, the shift instant and electric, pupils blowing wide as a low rumble built in his chest. Jordan actually shivered at the sight, a full-body tremor that raised gooseflesh under his shirt, Ben’s stare stripping him bare right there at the table.
“Yeah...” Ben said slowly, the word dragged out slow, like he was tasting. He raised his eyebrows then, an idea of his own sparking wicked in that hungry gaze. “Hey, why don’t we do a livestream? The viewers could send some tips while you blow me.”
Jordan felt his stomach falling, a hot plummet that twisted equal parts thrill and dread. A livestream? Fuck, that sounded hot, the thought of Ben’s roaring live, his throat yielding to that veiny girth under the chat’s unblinking eyes, tips pinging like thunderclaps while the world watched the show. “You think your fans will like that?” he managed, voice husky.
Ben grabbed his phone, eyes darkening further behind his glasses, that wicked smirk pulling his beard taut like a promise of storm. “Why don’t we ask ‘em?” he ground out. Jordan watched as Ben typed the tweet, the words blooming raw on the screen: Hey boys. Who wanna see the best mouth in town blowin me?
The notifications came almost immediately, the phone buzzing sharp against the wood. Ben had almost one thousand followers now and the replies flooded in hot and fast, most enthusiastic yes, a thirsty chorus that made Ben’s chest rumble with a deep, satisfied grunt, except for sharper, jealous hook amid the frenzy: @GutGodATL: Hot, but I wanna be the one blowing your cock, Big Ben. Let me take that load.
“So... we gonna do this?” Ben asked.
“Fuck yeah,” Jordan said, the words bursting hot and sure.
They decided to shoot the video the following night, the plan snapping into place over the sink as they did the dishes: Friday, when the apps would hum with weekend hunger, a flood of eyes scrolling for something hot to chase the week’s drag, and Jordan would have all the time he needed to take it slow, lips wrapping that girth inch by inch, throat loosing and widening without the rush of a nine-to-five dawn. That same night, they bought a black balaclava to hide Jordan’s face, and thank god for Amazon’s overworked delivery guys, because the package came the next morning, brown box thudding on the stoop amid the drizzle’s haze.
Work was torture that day for Jordan, each tick of the consultancy’s sleek wall clock dragging like a chain through mud, the Midtown office a cage of glass and polished oak that held him captive while the loft pulled like a magnet in his blood. He never wanted to go home so badly, the hours stretching thin and brittle, every glance at his phone a jolt of. It was a slow day at the H&H, the kind that turned ambition to sludge: shuffling provenance reports on a client’s half-forgotten Impressionist sketch, cross-referencing auction catalogs for a minor forgery flag that could’ve waited till Monday, answering Horace Hale’s insistent check-ins on the Matisse follow-up with answers that landed clipped and vague. The lack of things to make the time pass made it even slower, the open-plan hum reduced to the faint clack of keyboards from the interns and the distant whir of the espresso machine, no urgent bids or donor lunches to blunt the edge, just endless white space on his screen where ideas should’ve sparked but fizzled instead.
All day he did stupid, little mistakes: typo-riddled emails that needed hasty recalls, a misfiled JPEG in the shared drive that had the archivist sighing over her coffee, a provenance note swapped on two sketches that forced a five-minute scramble to fix. Nothing really major, no deal-busters or boss-barks, but enough that even his co-workers mentioned Jordan was off that day, the junior curator shooting him a sideways grin during lunch: “Rough morning, Cartwright? You look like you left half your brain home.” They couldn’t be more correct. Jordan was a hard-working guy who took his job extremely seriously, nose-deep in dusty tomes and auction ledgers since his master’s, the thrill of unmasking a fake or sealing a seven-figure flip the pulse that kept his world steady. But that day, he couldn’t care less about the consultancy, his mind miles away in Chelsea.
All he wanted was to go home and suck Ben’s cock. It would be the first time in god knows how long, those endless nights of wilted tries and whispered apologies fading to ghosts, and this time, he knew Ben wouldn’t fail him. Maybe it wasn’t how he expected, he never thought their first time would be in front of dozens, maybe hundreds of strangers online, chat pinging tips while Ben’s fist fisted his hair for the viewers’ feast. But it didn’t matter. It was working. Ben was getting back to the man he used to be. That was all that mattered.
When Jordan finally pushed through the loft door that evening, the city’s cold drizzle clinging to his coat like static, the anxiety hit him harder than he expected, a tight, buzzing coil low in his gut that made his keys rattle against the bowl. He’d spent the entire train ride home trying to play it cool, rehearsing the smirk he’d flash when Ben greeted him, but the second the familiar scent of the loft wrapped around him, the mask cracked. If everything worked as planned, in less than two hours he’d be on his knees, balaclava snug over his face, throat stretched around Ben as strangers watched and tipped and roared for more. Of course he was nervous. Anyone would be.
It had absolutely nothing to do with that fleeting, poisonous thought that had flickered through his head while watching Ben’s solo videos, the one that whispered maybe Jordan wasn’t enough anymore, maybe Ben only rose rigid for the lens and the faceless hunger behind it, maybe the drought had carved a canyon Jordan couldn’t bridge alone. He shoved it down hard, the way he’d shoved it down a dozen times already. Bullshit. Ben had chosen him tonight, chosen them, chosen the livestream because Jordan had offered his mouth first. That meant something. He was sure Ben was nervous too, even if he never showed it the same way.
But Ben… wasn’t nervous at all.
Jordan stepped into the living room and felt the air shift, thick with that familiar energy, only sharper tonight, like someone had turned the voltage up. Ben was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, legs spread wide, one foot hooked on the rung, the other planted solid on the floor. The same white robe from his first video hung open, barely clinging to those massive shoulders, to reveal his wearing nothing but tight black underwear. He was scrolling his phone with a lazy thumb, lips curled in that crooked, easy grin Jordan hadn’t seen in months but he was starting to use all the time again, the one that used to greet him after a twelve-hour shift with a beer and a “c’mere, pretty boy.”
He looked, fuck, like the old Ben. The version Jordan had met in that elevator three years ago: relaxed, cocky, owning every inch of space without trying. Except tonight there was an edge to it, a quiet, dangerous confidence that made Jordan’s pulse stutter. Ben’s hair was freshly cut, shorter on the sides, the top tousled just enough to look deliberate. The beard was trimmed neat and full, framing that square jaw like it had been sculpted for close-ups. He looked handsome in a way that punched the air out of Jordan’s lungs.
Ben glanced up, hazel eyes catching the light behind his glasses, and the grin widened, slow, wicked, knowing.
“Evening, Jord,” he rumbled, voice gravel and smoke. “The kids are losin’ their damn minds out there. Already got three hundred pre-tips for that mouth of yours.”
He turned the phone so Jordan could see the screen: a flood of tweets, winking emojis, fire and drooling faces, dirty one-liners Ben was firing back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
No nerves. Ready to roll.
“Three hundred?” Jordan asked, the words cracking out higher than he meant, the anxiousness plain as day in his voice.
Ben didn’t catch it, or didn’t care. He just hooked one massive arm around Jordan’s waist, reeled him in like he weighed nothing, and planted a quick, rough hello kiss that tasted like bourbon and heat. Then he angled the phone so Jordan could see the screen.
“Yup. Three hundred pre-tips already.” Ben’s thumb flicked through the flood of messages. “They keep askin’ who’s gonna be on his knees for me tonight.”
“And what’d you tell them?”
“That it’s a surprise,” Ben rumbled, finally tossing the phone aside with a clatter. Both beefy hands settled on Jordan’s hips, pulling him in until Jordan was standing between those spread thighs, the open robe brushing his legs. “You ready? Fuck, I’ve been goin’ crazy all day. Couldn’t think about anything but this mouth. Even forgot I had a damn interview, can you believe that?
Jordan’s pulse spiked. “Oh no, really?” he asked, genuinely shocked. Ben was usually religious about interviews, always early, always prepared.
“Yeah,” Ben snorted, rolling his eyes at himself. “I’m a fucking moron. Completely spaced. But I called ’em, fed ’em some bullshit about a family emergency, rescheduled for tomorrow.” His face split into a wicked, lopsided grin. One thick finger rose, tracing Jordan’s bottom lip slow and deliberate. “All your fault. You and this mouth of yours.”
“Honestly, I was a mess at work today too,” Jordan confessed, the words spilling out softer now, the anxious edge easing under Ben’s steady grip.
“Fucking work, huh?” Ben rumbled, voice thick with amusement. “Always keepin’ us from the good stuff.” The line cracked Jordan open; he laughed, the sound bright and surprised in the loft’s hush.
Jordan bent in, kissing Ben again, slower this time, letting it linger, tasting the heat and the promise on Ben’s tongue. When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he asked, “How are we gonna do this?”
Ben shrugged those mountain shoulders, robe slipping wider like he didn’t give a damn. “Scheduled the stream for ten. We got time. Take a shower, eat something. No rush.”
“I’m gonna take a bath then,” Jordan said, already feeling the day’s tension start to untangle.
“Go ahead,” Ben growled low, thumb brushing Jordan’s lip one last time. “Get all pretty and cheiroso for me. I’ll whip somethin’ up for us to eat.”
Jordan’s bath took longer than he expected. He sank into the deep tub, water scalding at first, then perfect, mounds of cedar-scented bubbles piling high enough to hide everything but his nose. The steam curled thick, the loft’s low light flickering off the tiles, and the heat soaked straight into his bones. For a while he just floated, eyes half-closed, city noise muffled, the day’s static dissolving. He thinks he actually drifted off at some point, lulled by the quiet slosh and the faint thump of Ben moving around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure. Out of nowhere he snapped out of the haze, heart kicking as he grabbed his phone from the tub’s edge. Almost an hour gone. Shit. He yanked the plug, water gurgling away, and stepped out onto the mat, skin pink and loose. Toweling off quick, he caught his reflection: relaxed shoulders, eyes brighter, the anxious knot finally untied. The bath had worked wonders. He felt ready, loose, almost hungry.
He and Ben ate a couple of turkey sandwiches from the leftovers Ben had roasted, thick slices piled high on crusty bread, mustard sharp on the tongue. They sat at the island in comfortable silence, the only sounds the low hum of the fridge and the occasional crunch. It was almost 9:45pm when Ben wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushed his plate away, and rumbled, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Jordan left him to set up the lights and camera while he slipped into the bedroom. He already knew exactly what he was wearing: the black balaclava, a black jockstrap that framed his ass perfectly, and that old see-through black mesh shirt from his clubbing days, once loose, now tight enough after a couple years of gym discipline to cling to every inche of his chest and arms like a second skin. He dropped to the bedroom floor and banged out twenty quick push-ups, blood rushing hot, pecs and shoulders swelling just enough to stretch the mesh a little tighter. When he stood and checked the mirror, the shirt gleamed under the low light, every cut and line on display, the balaclava waiting on the bed like a final dare.
He rolled his shoulders once, took a slow breath. Put the balaclava on and walked out to meet his man.
Ben was already sprawled on the sectional where they’d do the deed, phone locked into the stand, ring light glowing soft and white, laptop open on the coffee table ready to pull the stream live. The robe hung wide open, no underwear now, just that heavy cock draped thick, balls low and full in the lamplight. When Jordan stepped into the glow, Ben’s eyes went black with raw want behind his glasses, the kind of look that used to wreck Jordan against brick walls without a word. Hen rose slow, the sectional creaking under the shift of all that bulk, and extended one massive arm, palm open, fingers thick and waiting. The invitation was quiet, unmistakable, and absolute.
“Fucking look at you, Jord,” Ben murmured, voice low and rough, circling one thick finger so Jordan spun slow under the ring light. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that? I haven’t said it enough lately.”
“Well, say it now,” Jordan teased, grateful the balaclava hid the heat flooding his cheeks.
“You are,” Ben said, stepping in close, the robe slipping wider, that heavy cock brushing Jordan’s thigh as he closed the distance. “Gorgeous. So fuckin’ gorgeous.” His voice dropped, gravel turning soft, serious. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate the way you had my back these past couple months. I do. I really fuckin’ do, Jord.”
The words hit harder than Jordan expected, raw and unguarded. He reached up, cupped Ben’s bearded jaw with both hands, thumbs tracing the trimmed edges. “We’re in this together, Benny. Never forget that, okay?”
Ben nodded once, slow, eyes locked behind the glasses, and leaned down to kiss him, deep, deliberate, the kind that tasted like promise and thunder both.
Jordan kept kissing Ben, hungry and slow, one hand sliding down to wrap around that heavy cock, fingers barely meeting around the girth. Ben huffed a rough laugh into his mouth, the sound vibrating straight through Jordan’s chest. Ben broke the kiss, slid his black Aviators on with a practiced flick, and dropped back onto the sectional, robe falling open, legs spread wide like he owned the whole damn world. “You ready?” he rumbled, voice thick with gravel and promise.
Jordan answered by sinking straight to his knees. He couldn’t help himself; both hands went for Ben’s cock again, massaging the soft, thick length, feeling it hot and heavy against his palms. Ben leaned forward just long enough to smack the touchpad on the laptop. The green light blinked on. They were live.
The ring light flared, the chat counter started climbing, and Ben’s low, wicked chuckle rolled out into the void.
“Hey boys,” Ben rumbled to the camera, voice thick and low rolling out like he was already halfway to wrecking someone. “You ready for some action?”
Jordan was too focused on Ben’s cock, to give a damn what the fans were saying. His world had narrowed to the heat of it against his palm, the pulse beneath the skin, the faint salty scent rising as he stroked slow and reverent. But the notifications started hammering in, sharp little cha-ching pings that cut through the haze. One. Two. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty in about ten seconds flat. The sound dragged Jordan’s gaze up to the laptop screen.
80 people already watching. Eighty sets of eyes on them, on Ben’s open robe and spread thighs, on Jordan kneeling masked like some anonymous offering.
He skimmed the chat as it exploded:
@BearThirstTrap: Holy fuck, that mouth is about to get wrecked
@Sampai873948734: jealous af of balaclava guy rn... want that cock down MY throat
@PowerBottomPro: big ben bear feeding live?? fuuuuck yeah
Jordan’s stomach flipped, heat and ice at once, but Ben just chuckled low, one massive hand settling on the back of his neck, thumb pressing possessive. “Looks like they’re ready. Let’s give ’em what they paid for.”
