The next morning, Jordan stared at the final viewer count frozen on the OnlyFans dashboard, the number glowing white against the dark interface like a brand he couldn’t look away from. Almost eight thousand people had watched them, watched Ben wreck his throat live, watched Jordan choke and drool and take it while the chat screamed for more. 7,867 strangers who now knew exactly how Ben sounded when he came. For a newcomer with no promo, no clips, no name beyond @BigBenBear, that felt obscene. He didn’t know the OnlyFans landscape inside out, but eight thousand live eyes on a Friday night debut seemed like a fucking lot—like the kind of breakout that turned quiet accounts into overnight noise.
Ben’s engagement had gone through the roof. Twitter followers had cracked five thousand before Jordan even peeled off the balaclava. The DMs were a flood now, hundreds of unread messages, a chaotic mix of worship and filth, random ass pics of hard cocks and spread cheeks that Ben scrolled past with an amused grunt, deleting the dick pics (only those) without ceremony. The collab invites rolled in too, slick and professional from accounts with blue checks and five, even six-figure followings: no big names, but all of them much bigger than Ben, guys who’d been in the game for years, with polished thumbnails and studio lighting, offering splits, studio time, even plane tickets. Ben read a couple aloud in that gravel drawl, laughing low, but every reply was the same, polite, firm and final: “Appreciate it, man, doing the solo thing for now.” Ben loved every second of it. He was glued to his phone now, thumb flicking endlessly between Twitter and OnlyFans whenever he thought Jordan wasn’t Looking, refreshing the follower count, rereading the filthiest comments with that low, satisfied chuckle, retweeting the thirstiest quotes with a simple fire.
He’d changed.
The gym became daily ritual again, always when Jordan was at the consultancy, Ben slipping out the door with a quick kiss and a “Back in a couple hours, babe.” Then the post-workout selfies would land in Jordan’s messages: Ben shirtless in the locker-room mirror, skin flushed and gleaming, pecs pumped round and heavy, veins popping over biceps that looked thicker every day. Eyes glazed with that endorphin high, beard framing a grin so wide it split his face, caption always a funny, flirty shorthand. He started dieting, too. No more late-night pizza boxes or six-packs in the fridge. The junk food vanished overnight, replaced by grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, greens Jordan didn’t even know Ben could pronounce. Alcohol disappeared entirely; the beer Ben used to nurse through cop-show marathons swapped for sparkling water with lime. The loft smelled like lemon chicken and discipline instead of takeout and hops.
It was everything Jordan had wanted to happen. Ben was taking care of himself again, getting out more, the gym a daily ritual that left him pumped and glowing, eyes bright behind his glasses when he came home. He attacked the job hunt with a renewed fire, the interviews no longer made him slump; he walked in easy, confident, voice steady as he told Jordan about nailing the technical questions, the foremen nodding instead of dismissing. He even got a call-back, the first since the firing, and though it didn’t turn into an offer, they celebrated like it was a fucking victory: Jordan pushing Ben against the shower wall, water pounding hot as they dry-humped frantic, cocks sliding slick between sweat and soap until they were both screaming, cumming hard all over each other, no cameras, no chat, no ring light. Just them, raw and breathless and finally, finally whole again.
It had the opposite effect on Jordan, though. It wasn’t even about how Ben had fucked his mouth that night, brutal, like a complete stranger. Jordan wasn’t thinking about it anymore, writing it off as Ben getting carried away in the moment; his apology had sounded sincere and that was enough to let it fade. No, it was the fucking fact that he had completely failed to deep-throat Ben. He kept thinking about it, replaying the struggle over and over in his mind. Trying so hard, pushing himself to the limit, and yet... nothing. And the fucking comments from the viewers, those assholes criticizing him, saying Ben needed a better partner, that Jordan wasn’t enough for him. Jordan had never been insecure before, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t take a hit at his confidence. He kept it locked tight inside his chest. There was no need for Ben to know, no reason to dim that new fire blazing in him. All Jordan needed was time. It had been a while, that’s all, months without practice, nerves shot from the crowd. His throat would remember. He would get it back. He just had to be patient.
One day, not long after the stream, Jordan found himself at a small bistro near H&H, picking at a late lunch around four in the afternoon. It had been a crazy day at work, a high-profile client had called in a panic over a mislabeled provenance on a rare Monet sketch, the error tracing back to a junior intern’s data entry slip-up that had cascaded into a full-blown authentication crisis. Jordan had spent hours untangling the mess: cross-referencing auction records, firing off urgent emails to Parisian archives, and fielding tense calls from Evan, who trusted him to fix it without the buyer bolting. By the time he’d smoothed things over, the adrenaline crash left him wiped, his stomach in knots.
He wasn’t even that hungry, the stress of the day killing his appetite, but he’d dragged himself to the restaurant anyway, craving the distraction of clinking silverware and ambient chatter to clear his head for a bit. Seated at a corner table with a half-eaten salad in front of him, he scrolled through his phone, mindlessly checking socials, Instagram feeds of gallery openings, Twitter threads on art market trends, when a new email notification pinged in.
Jordan clicked the notification mindlessly, his thumb swiping out of habit, and was surprised when the app opened to the email interface. It showed nothing but Twitter and OnlyFans mail, alerts from Ben’s accounts, the ones he’d set up. He frowned, confused for a moment, until he noticed the phone was logged into [email protected], the dummy email he’d created for Ben when he’d first built the OnlyFans profile. It must have stayed signed in from the last time he’d checked the stats.
Jordan was about to close the app, no patience for whatever thirsty nonsense Ben’s fans were spewing this time, when he glimpsed the subject line of the new message: Collab Opportunity with @TakenByEzra
Jordan knew that name. There probably weren’t a lot of gay men who didn’t. He opened Twitter and searched for the handle. The first result was exactly who he’d been thinking of: Ezra Johnson, OnlyFans royalty. The profile picture alone was a punch to the gut: pretty, parted like he was mid-moan, eyes half-lidded and begging. 2.87 million followers, creeping toward three. The guy was a walking legend in the gay community, a certified fuck machine who took the biggest cocks on the platform like it was his calling, back arched, hole greedy, those high, desperate whines echoing in every clip. He and Ben had watched his videos a couple of times, jerking off to Ezra taking the biggest cocks out there, his moans and whines fuel that left them both burning and more than ready to fuck each other’s brains out.
Jordan stared at the subject line again. Collab Opportunity.
His stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Jordan scrolled down Ezra’s. The latest video, uploaded just yesterday, was subtitled “Triple stuffed & loving It. Happy Thankgiving!” Ezra on all fours, eyes rolled back, mouth stretched wide around one thick Black cock while two more disappeared into his hole in a brutal DP. The clip played on mute, but Jordan didn’t need sound to hear the moans in his head, Ezra taking every inch like it was oxygen, body loose and greedy, no gag, no mercy, just pure, professional destruction. He kept scrolling. Next came “Breeding birthday party” Ezra, wearing only a birthday hat, on his back in a sling, legs spread impossibly wide, one guy railing him while another fed him from the front, cum already dripping from his used hole as a line of 4 stepped up. Then came “12-Inch challenge”, Ezra on his knees, throat bulging visibly as he swallowed the biggest cock Jordan had ever seen to the root over and over, tears streaming but hips grinding air like he was getting off on the feeling alone. Jordan’s face burned. Shit. That was a guy who could take a good deep-throating. He was a fucking amateur next to Ezra, a nervous wannabe who’d choked on half of Ben in front of thousands and still couldn’t swallow the whole thing.
He stared at the collab invtation again, the words suddenly sharp as glass. Ezra Johnson, OnlyFans king, human wrecking ball, the bottom every top wanted to break... wanted Ben.
Jordan clicked the email again, the subject line still glaring like a dare.
Hey Ben (or should I say Big Ben?),
Gideon Black here, manager/agent/occasional human shield for Ezra Jonhson.
First things first: congrats on the warehouse clip. I’ve seen a lot of dicks in my line of work (occupational hazard), but that thing you pack it’s in a league of it’s own. Ezra watched it twice, paused at the 6:42 mark, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Book him. I want that bear to rearrange my guts on camera.” So here’s the pitch, straight and professional (mostly):
-
Shoot in a Manhattan studio.
-
Full production: 4K cams, pro lighting, someone whose entire job is to keep lube warm.
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Content: one scene, you topping Ezra (he specifically requested “no mercy, make me cry pretty”).
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Split: 70/30 your favor on PPV sales (Ezra’s audience is… enthusiastic).
-
Projected earnings: conservative estimate $18–25k in the first 72 hours, probably more once the clip hits viral status.
-
Extras: travel covered if needed, NDA ironclad, and I’ll throw in a lifetime supply of whatever protein powder is making your arms look like that.
Ezra exact quote when I asked why you: “Because that man’s cock looks like it files taxes as a weapon, and I want it to audit my hole.” We’re free next Thursday–Sunday. If you’re in, reply with your availability and any hard limits (or soft limits… we’re flexible). If you’re not, no hard feelings; just know Ezra will dramatically sigh every time your clip auto-plays on his “favorites” list. Looking forward to making the internet collectively forget how to blink.
Gideon Black, manager
Ezra’s Vault | @EzraAgentPro
Jordan stared at the email until the words blurred, the bistro’s clatter fading to white noise around him. That was a real, professional proposal, slick and confident, the kind that came with contracts and NDAs and five-figure paydays. He was beyond shocked. Ezra Johnson, the Ezra Johnson wanted to collab with Ben, and he wanted it now. Not in six months when Ben had a hundred thousand followers. Now. When Ben was still a newcomer scraping five Thousand followers, when the warehouse clip was barely a week old. Ezra only collabed with guys as famous as he was: tops with million-plus audiences, verified checkmarks, brand deals, the whole machine. Not random bears who’d stumbled into the game three weeks ago because their boyfriend thought it might fix their sex life.
Jordan’s fork hovered forgotten over his salad, appetite completely gone. He paid the check in a daze and walked back to the consultancy on autopilot, the drizzle soaking his coat while his mind spun the same loop: Why Ben? Why now? And what the hell was he supposed to do with the fact that the hottest bottom on the planet had just asked his boyfriend) to wreck him on camera for the world to see?
He couldn’t wait for the clock to hit five and let him close shop. Yet again, he was a mess at work, fingers twitching toward his phone every ten minutes, pulling up Ezra’s profile when he thought no one was looking, the office hum fading to white noise as he scrolled. And there it was, clip after clip: Ezra on his back, legs hooked over shoulders, taking monster cock after monster cock like he was built for it, moaning high and broken, hole stretched obscene, eyes rolling back in that perfect mask of total, greedy pleasure. It was impossible not to picture Ben in their place: that thick ten inches slamming home, Ezra’s body arching under the assault, Ben’s gut flexing with every thrust, beard-shadowed jaw clenched in triumph while Ezra begged for more.
And it was fucking impossible not to get hard.
Jordan shifted in his chair, thighs pressing together under the desk, the seam of his slacks suddenly too tight, pulse thudding low and insistent. He locked the screen, shoved the phone face-down, and stared at his monitor like the provenance report could burn the image out of his head. It didn’t. All he could see was Ben and Ezra tangled together on camera, the whole internet watching his boyfriend wreck the hottest hole in the game.
When Jordan finally pushed through the loft door that evening, the frustration hit him like a slap. The place was empty, again. No Ben sprawled on the sectional, no low rumble greeting him, no massive arms pulling him in for that kiss he’d been craving all day. For the first time, Jordan was really annoyed that Ben had left , to the gym, a interview, whatever the hell it was this time. He dropped his bag with a thud, keys clattering loud in the silence. He texted Ben immediately: Home. Where are you? When you back? No reply. Of fucking course.
Jordan paced the loft like a caged thing, the drizzle outside smearing the windows into gray streaks. He took a shower that did nothing to cool the heat under his skin, standing under the spray longer than necessary, letting it drum against his shoulders while Gideon Black’s email looped in his head like a bad track. He toweled off hard, almost angry, then stalked to the kitchen to start Dinner, something that fit Ben’s new diet, because of course he did. Grilled chicken breast, quinoa with roasted broccoli and a side of sweet potato sliced thin and baked crisp, the kind of meal Ben now devoured with a satisfied grunt and a “good fuel, babe.” Jordan chopped and stirred on autopilot, the sizzle of the pan the only sound in the place.
It was only when he was plating that his phone finally vibrated on the counter. “Sorry babe, lost track of time. Will be home soon”, and a heart emoji.
Jordan was by the sofa, leg bouncing like a jackhammer, the loft’s quiet pressing in heavier than the drizzle outside, when Ben finally pushed through the door. He was wearing casual clothes so he definitely hadn’t been at the gym. He carried a couple of plastic bags that clinked faintly with groceries, the brown paper from Whole Foods peeking out the top.
“Hey, Jord,” Ben said, that wide, easy smile splitting his face as he kicked the door shut behind him. He dropped the bags on the island with a rustle, then crossed the room in three strides, pulling Jordan up into a kiss, warm, lingering, tasting faintly of coffee and cold air.
“I stopped by Whole Foods to grab some stuff and ran into Derek,” he explained, forehead resting against Jordan’s for a second. “Ended up bullshitting in the parking lot and lost track of time. You wait long?”
“No, that’s okay,” Jordan replied, trying to sound normal, casual, like his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat. “How’s Derek?”
“He’s good! Landed a foreman gig with a crew up in the Bronx Union, full benefits, the whole deal. Guy’s stoked.” Ben grinned, pride for his old buddy lighting his face as he shrugged off the jacket. “You made dinner?”
“Yeah. I’m not really hungry, though,” Jordan said, forcing a light.
Ben left him with a quick squeeze to the shoulder and wandered over to the stove, lifting the lid on the pot Jordan had simmering. The rich scent of lemon-herb chicken and quinoa filled the loft, and Ben let out a low, appreciative growl. “Damn, babe, smells like a winner.”
Jordan pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering for a second before he unlocked it. Very casually, as if he hadn’t been obsessing over this exact moment for hours, he said, “Hey, by the way, you get that email today?”
“No, what email? Something about a job?” Ben asked, distracted, still peering into the pot.
Yeah, something like that, Jordan thought, the irony bitter on his tongue. He opened Gideon Black’s message and turned the screen toward Ben. Ben’s eyes flicked down.
Jordan watched Ben’s face like a hawk, every flicker of expression under the beard and glasses catalogued in real time. Ben’s eyebrows climbed slow as he scrolled, the smirk starting small at one corner of his mouth and spreading deliberate, wicked, until it split his face wide open. When he finished, he locked eyes with Jordan and wiggled those brows in pure, cocky delight.
“Damn,” he rumbled, voice gravel and smoke. “Guess we made a good impression, huh?”
Jordan snorted at the we. He had absolutely not made a good impression that night. He’d choked, drooled, and come up short while the chat tore him apart. Every like, every sub, every dollar since had been because of Ben’s cock, Ben’s growl, Ben’s thrusts. Not him.
“What’re you gonna answer?” he asked, the words coming out quieter than he meant, throat suddenly dry.
“What do you mean?” Ben asked, eyebrows furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand the question. “Gonna tell him ‘thanks but no thanks.’” He set the phone down on the island with a soft clack. “What else would I say? We’re monogamous.”
Jordan’s mouth went dry. “I mean… are we?”
Ben’s frown deepened, the easy warmth draining from his face in a heartbeat. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” His voice dropped, low and serious, the kind of tone that made the loft feel suddenly smaller. He wasn’t angry yet, but Jordan could see the edge creeping in, the way Ben’s shoulders squared like he was bracing for a hit.
Jordan knew he should drop it, knew it with every fiber of his body, but the words were already out, tumbling before he could stop them.
“It’s just… we never actually discussed it, right?”
Ben stared at him, beard twitching as his jaw worked. “I didn’t know there was something to discuss.”
Jordan swallowed, the air thick between them. He said nothing.
“What? You wanna open the relationship? Or...” Ben’s eyes narrowed, voice going quieter, harder. “Wait. No. You wanna fuck other guys?”
“No, Ben, of course I…” Jordan started, the words tangling in his throat, his hands lifting in a placating gesture he hadn’t planned.
“Then what, Jord?” Ben cut in, voice dropping lower, rougher, the confusion hardening into something sharper. “You want me to fuck that guy?”
“I’m not saying I want that,” Jordan rushed out, “I’m just saying we should think about the offer before shutting it down. I mean, Ben… I have no interest in other guys. Come on, you know that, babe.”
Ben stared at him for a long moment, hazel eyes searching Jordan’s face like he was hunting for a lie hidden in the lines around his mouth. Whatever he saw there must have reassured him, because the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction, the defensive wall cracking just enough. He sighed, heavy and slow, the fight bleeding out of him as he rubbed a massive hand over his beard.
“Okay,” Ben said finally, voice softer now, almost resigned. “Alright. Let’s talk about it.” He motioned with one hand, a tired flick that told Jordan to keep going, the kitchen island suddenly feeling like a negotiation table between them.
“I-I don’t know, Ben,” Jordan lied, the words catching rough in his throat, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “It’s not like I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed a fraction, that gravel stare pinning him in place, but he didn’t catch the lie. He just waited, arms crossed over his chest.
Jordan’s mind raced anyway, painting the picture in brutal, high-definition strokes he couldn’t unsee: Ben lost in passion over another man’s body, hips snapping deep, sweat rolling down that furred gut, beard scraping unfamiliar skin while cameras caught every thrust, every growl, every second Ezra took him better, deeper, easier than Jordan ever could. The whole world watching Ben roar for someone else, for a hole that swallowed him whole without a single choke or tear.
He thought about what it would do to them, to the quiet mornings and the way Ben’s hand used to find his in the dark without looking. He thought about his own self-esteem, already cracked from the livestream, from the comments that called him pathetic, from the memory of his throat spasming uselessly while Ben’s eyes stayed glued to the chat. He had completely failed to pleasure Ben the other night, gagging and drooling and coming up short in front of thousands. Could he bear to watch another man do it much, much better? To see Ezra take every inch like it was nothing, moan like it was everything, while Jordan sat on the sidelines knowing he never quite measured up?
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, Ben still waiting, patient as stone,
“Look, I don’t know,” Jordan said. Jordan swallowed, the lie tasting like ash. “Maybe I’ll get jealous, maybe I’ll hate every second of it… but it could be hot too, right? Couples do this all the time for a reason.”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck, the motion making his bicep bulge under the sleeve. “I don’t know, Jord…”
“Hey,” Jordan pushed, softer now, “if it wasn’t for me… would you fuck him?”
“Jord, come on,” Ben muttered, cheeks flushing dark under the beard, eyes sliding away like he’d been caught stealing.
“Would you?” Jordan insisted, voice low, almost pleading.
Ben exhaled through his nose, looked Jordan dead in the eye, and gave a short, embarrassed nod.
“Fuck, Jord… yeah. Of course I would. The guy’s fucking gorgeous.”
The admission hung between them, blunt and heavy, no growl to hide behind this time, just Ben, honest and a little sheepish, owning the. Jordan felt it land somewhere between his ribs and his cock, sharp and electric. He swallowed.
“Why don’t we just go see that agent of his?” Jordan said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. “See what he has to say, let him buy us some expensive drinks. We don’t have to commit to anything. We just hear him out and then decide, together.”
Ben hesitated, the easy confidence draining from his face in a heartbeat. His gaze dropped to the floor, beard shadowing his jaw, massive shoulders hunching just a fraction. Jordan saw it instantly, the struggle, the discomfort flickering behind his eyes. Shit. He should shut it down. He didn’t want to make Ben uncomfortable, never, not even for a second. He didn’t even know why he was pushing so hard. He had never once thought about Ben fucking other guys. Not seriously. Not until that email landed like a grenade in his lap. He opened his mouth to take it all back ,forget it, he was being crazy, let’s just delet the damn email and eat, when Ben sighed again, long and defeated, the sound scraping out of him like surrender.
“Yeah… okay,” Ben muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you think we should do that. Let’s meet the guy.”
Ben passed the phone to Jordan with a raised brow, the email still open on the screen.
“What you wanna say to him?”
Jordan took the phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second, then started typing. He got a couple of words in, Hi Gideon, this is Ben, before an idea hit him. He deleted the whole thing, thumb swiping clean, and started again.
Hey Gideon,
This is Jordan Cartwright, Ben’s partner and manager. We’re definitely interested in hearing more. Maybe over drinks? We’d like to meet in person, talk details and see if the vibe’s right. Name the time and place. We’re both free this week. Looking forward to it.
Jordan & Ben
@BigBenBear
He hit send before he could second-guess it, the little whoosh sound louder than it had any right to be in the quiet loft. Later that night, with the loft dark and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the steady drizzle against the windows, Ben was already wrapped around Jordan like a furnace, one massive arm slung heavy over his waist, beard tickling the back of Jordan’s neck, snoring lightly in that familiar, rumbling rhythm that usually lulled him straight to sleep. Jordan’s phone buzzed on the nightstand and he reached for it blindly, squinting at the glow.
Hey Jordan! Manager, huh? Didn’t know Ben had already locked down representation. Your boy moves fast, lol.
Love the energy. Let’s do drinks and details. Tomorrow (Wednesday) 8 PM at Le Bain, rooftop at the Standard High Line. Private booth, killer view, and obviously I’m picking up the tab. Bring Ben, bring questions, bring whatever vibe you’re feeling. No pressure, just drinks and real talk. See you boys tomorrow.
Jordan stared at the screen until it dimmed, Ben’s snores steady against his ear, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like Ben’s arm across his chest. 6 PM, the Standard. He set the phone face down, heart thuding slow and hard. Tomorrow, everything would change. Or nothing at all. He closed his eyes, pressed back into Ben’s warmth, and tried to sleep.
The Standard High Line is one of those love-it-or-hate-it Manhattan landmarks: a brutalist-concrete-and-glass slab that straddles the old elevated rail line in the Meatpacking District, opened in 2009, eighteen stories of cantilevered swagger. It looks like a giant concrete book opened face-down on the tracks, floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, and it’s been a scene magnet since day one: boutique hotel rooms with views that cost more per night than most people’s rent, a ground-floor Biergarten that spills onto the park, and, of course, the rooftop bar, Le Bain, that’s been Instagram catnip for fifteen years running.
Jordan arrived late, still tasting yesterday’s fuck-ups at consultancy on his tongue, sprinting the last two blocks from the subway in a half-jog that left him sweaty and gasping. He burst through the revolving doors into the lobby: low-slung, mid-century sexy, all blond wood, black leather, and neon art that glowed like it was judging your life choices. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and weed from the rooftop drifting down the elevator shaft.
Ben was already there, leaning against a column looking unfairly calm and collected, the new vintage leather jacket he had bought open over a black tee that clung to meaty chest, beard trimmed sharp. He raised an eyebrow at Jordan’s disheveled state, the corner of his mouth twitching, always Jordan mumbled explanations about traffic and incompentent interns. The elevator ride was mercifully long enough so Jordan could catch his breath again, cheesy lounge-jazz piping in overhead. The doors slid open straight onto the rooftop: Le Bain in all its glory. Jordan had never been there before. The rooftop hit him like a velvet punch: low amber lighting, thumping bass that vibrated through the AstroTurf floor, heat lamps glowing orange against the November night, panoramic views of the Hudson and a crowd that looked curated for Instagram, beautiful people in designer minimalism, champagne flutes catching the city lights, laughter sharp and moneyed. A pretty brunette hostess wearing tight black dress welcomed them, eye-fucking Jordan so openly that Ben’s low chuckle rumbled beside him the whole way across the room. She guided them past the main bar, hips swaying, to a secluded corner booth curtained off by sheer drapes and overlooking the Hudson’s black glitter.
Gideon Black wasn’t anything like Jordan had pictured.
He’d imagined some silver-fox daddy type: tall, lean, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back in a perfect cut, million-dollar smile flashing veneers, the kind of guy who looked like he owned half the clubs in the Meatpacking District and the other half owed him favors. Gideon Black was the opposite of that. He was just… normal. Shorter than Jordan, way shorter than Bem,in expensive shoes, carrying a soft layer of extra weight around the tailored charcoal suit couldn’t quite hide. Late-forties, dark hair a little messy like he’d run his hands through it on the elevator, five-o’clock shadow that said he shaved this morning but time had already won. Nothing about him screamed “porn industry power broker” except the clothes: the suit was clearly cost more than Jordan’s monthly rent, the watch on his wrist a chunky Patek Philippe that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the arm of Jordan’s biggest consultancy clients.
He stood when they approached, easy smile, no sleaze, just a quick, assessing glance that took them both in without lingering too long.
“Jordan. Ben.” His voice was smooth, city-sharp, the kind of New York accent that had been sanded down by money and microphones. “Gideon Black. Thanks for coming.”
He went to Ben first, offering his hand with an easy, practiced grin. “You have to be the one and only Big Ben,” he said, having to tilt his head back a little to meet Ben’s eyes.
Ben took the hand in his massive paw, grip firm but neutral. “Ben Morgan,” he grunted, polite enough, but the tone carried that gravel edge that said keep it moving.
Gideon wasn’t fazed. He laughed, bright and quick. “Damn, you’re huge. That nickname suits you perfect.”
Ben gave the tiniest of snorts, the kind you force out just to not look like an asshole, nothing more. Then Gideon turned to Jordan, smile still wide, hand extended.
“And you must be Jordan, right? The agent.”
“Partner,” Ben corrected instantly, voice low and flat, arm sliding possessively around Jordan’s waist like he was staking territory in front of the whole rooftop.
Gideon’s eyebrows shot up, amused rather than offended.
“Partner and agent. Keeping it in the family. I like it.”
Jordan looked at Ben for a second before shaking Gideon’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Gideon. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Hey, I should be the one thanking you guys,” Gideon said, sliding back into the booth and motioning them to sit. They did, Ben dropping onto the leather like he owned it, one heavy arm stretching along the backrest behind Jordan’s shoulders, fingers brushing his neck in a casual claim.
“Ezra’s been busting my balls about you for a week,” Gideon laughed, leaning forward on his elbows, the Patek catching the light. “Kept sending me clips of that warehouse vid on loop. ‘Get me that bear, Gideon. I need that bear.’ So when you answered, I moved heaven and earth to make tonight happen.” He flashed a grin that was equal parts salesman and fanboy. “Drinks first. Then we talk business.”
They ordered their drinks, Jordan a neat bourbon to steady his nerves, Gideon a craft cocktail with some artisanal twist, and Ben, after a lazy scan of the menu, pointing at the top-shelf Macallan 25 with a gravel grunt: “That one. Neat.” The most expensive thing on the list, naturally, because Ben knew the tab wasn’t his tonight.
While they waited, Gideon leaned back, elbows on the booth, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Congrats on the stream, by the way. You’re a natural, Ben. The way you owned that poor guy’s mouth… fuck, I almost got hard watching it, and I’m straight as they come.” He laughed, loud and easy, raising his glass the second the server set them down. “To good business.”
Jordan felt his face burning, the heat crawling up his neck and ears like wildfire. Gideon gave no sign he knew the “poor guy’s mouth” from the stream was sitting right across from him, balaclava or no balaclava. At least the disguise had worked.
“So, like I said in the email,” Gideon continued, leaning in with an easy grin, “we really wanna work with you, Ben.”
“Why me?” Ben asked, voice flat and direct, cutting straight through the small talk. “Ezra never collabs with newcomers.”
“You’re right, he hasn’t,” Gideon admitted, spreading his hands like he was laying cards on the table. “Thing is, Ezra’s bored. Same ripped abs, same pretty faces, same predictable poundings. He’s been itching to shake thinks up for a while. Older guys, disabled creators, dudes who don’t look like they stepped off a GQ cover.” He nodded at Ben with a knowing smile. “Bears.”
Jordan chimed in, voice steadier than he felt. “He wants to diversify.”
“Exactly,” Gideon said, snapping his fingers. “Real bodies, real heat. As long as the guy’s packing serious heat downstairs, Ezra’s game.” He laughed loud then, the sound bright and unapologetic, eyes flicking down to Ben’s lap for half a second before meeting his gaze again. “And we both know you’re more than covered in that department, right?”
Jordan glanced around the rooftop, pulse ticking up as he scanned the nearby tables, half-expecting someone to overhear Gideon talking so casually about Ben’s cock in the middle of Le Bain. But no one was looking their way; the crowd was locked in their own glittering conversations, laughter and clinking glasses swallowing everything else. Gideon noticed the nervous sweep of Jordan’s eyes, his gaze sharpening for a fraction of a second, amused, before he leaned in with that easy salesman smile.
“So, this is our offer,” he said, ticking points off on his fingers like he was closing a boardroom deal. “One scene, you topping Ezra, full production in our dime. Next Thursday or Friday, whatever works for your schedule. PPV split 70/30 our favor on everything over the first 24 hours. Travel covered if you need it, full STD panel on us the day before, NDA ironclad, and you keep 100% rights to your solo brand, no exclusivity. Ezra’s cool with raw if you both test clean, or wrapped if you prefer. We handle all promo, cross-post to his audience, your audience, the works. One day’s work, life-changing numbers. What do you say?”
He sat back, sipping his drink, eyes flicking between them like he already knew the answer was yes. It was a very generous offer; Ezra Johnson must really want to fuck Ben, because Jordan doubted newcomers like Ben usually got terms this sweet. He opened his mouth to answer, something polite and non-committal forming on his tongue, but Ben beat him to it.
“50/50,” Ben grunted, voice flat, eyes locked on Gideon like a challenge.
Gideon didn’t skip a beat. “65/35.”
“50/50,” Ben repeated/
“60/40. How’s that sound?”
“This isn’t a negotiation, man,” Ben said, tone serious now, almost cold. He wasn’t bunding an inch. “50/50 or I walk.”
Gideon gave a chuckle, spreading his hands. “Come on, Big Ben, we’ll be doing all the work.”
Ben leaned forward. “My cock will be doing all the word, Gideon.”
Jordan’s hand found Ben’s thigh under the table, a soft squeeze and a low “Ben…” rising in his throat, but Ben ignored it completely, stare unyielding, the booth suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter. For a second Jordan was sure Gideon would tell them to fuck off and storm out, but then the agent’s face split into that easygoing smile again, like the whole standoff was just foreplay. He pushed up from the table, snatching his iPhone from his pocket. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.” And just like that he was gone, weaving through the rooftop crowd toward the quieter edge by the railing, already dialing.
“Jesus, what are you doing, Ben?” Jordan hissed the second Gideon was out of earshot, leaning in close enough that his shoulder bumped Ben’s chest.
“If that Ezra bitch wants my cock, then he can pay for it,” Ben grumbled, jaw tight, eyes still fixed on the spot where Gideon had disappeared into the crowd.
“Ok, but you don’t have to be so hard on Gideon,” Jordan said, voice low. “He’s just doing his job.”
“His job,” Ben snorted, dismissive, the word dripping contempt. “That guy’s a fucking pimp, Jord. I’m gonna show him I’m not some whore he can push around.”
Jordan opened his mouth ready to snap that Ben wasn’t a whore, what the hell was he even talking about, but before a single word could leave his lips, Gideon was back, sliding into the booth with that same easy grin, phone already extended toward Ben.
“Boss wants to talk to you,” he said, wiggling the screen.
Oh shit.
That meant Ezra.
Ezra himself wanted to talk to Ben.
Jordan thought Ben would take the call right there, maybe even slap it on speaker so he could hear every word, but Ben snatched the phone from Gideon’s hand and stood up in one fluid motion, already walking toward the quieter edge of the rooftop, shoulders squared like he was heading into a negotiation on a job site.
“You man is a hard-ass,” Gideon said with a laugh, shaking his head, clearly more amused than annoyed. “I like him.”
“I’m sorry,” Jordan muttered, cheeks burning. “I don’t know what got into him.”
“Hey, it’s fine,” Gideon waved it off, sipping his drink. “He’s new to this. Needs to feel like he’s the one holding the hammer. Totally normal.”
Jordan just nodded, eyes glued to Ben twenty feet away, backlit by the city glow, one massive hand rubbing his beard while the other held the phone tight to his ear. His face gave away nothing, no smile, no frown, just that unreadable Ben-stare he used when he was wiring something complicated and didn’t want distractions.
“Ezra’s game, by the way,” Gideom added casually, leaning in like he was sharing gossip instead of closing a six-figure deal. “50/50, straight down the middle. Honestly, I’m surprised. I’ve never seen him fold that fast.” He chuckled, low and knowing. “Guess he really, really wants to fuck your man.”
Jordan’s stomach flipped, a cold twist right under the bourbon’s warmth.
“You okay with that, right?” Gideon asked, way too casually for Jordan’s liking, swirling his drink like they were chatting about the weather. “Ben fucking other guys. You two must be open or something, right?”
“Um, no, not really,” Jordan managed, the words sticking in his throat. “But yeah, sure, I don’t mind it. It’s just sex, you know.”
Gideon barked a laugh, leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how you gay guys do that. My wife would skin me alive if I even suggested fucking other women.”
“Well, it’s not like this is a permanent thing,” Jordan said, forcing a shrug he didn’t feel. “Just temporary.”
Gideon’s grin turned knowing, almost pitying. “I’ve heard that one before. Nobody starts in porn thinking it’ll be forever. It’s always ‘just until I get a better job, just until I have a safety net.’ Then boom, they never stop. I’ve seen it a million times. It gets to them. The fame. The glamour. Fucking a different guy every week. The rush of the fans going wild, the money rolling in, the DMs blowing up. Ezra’s by far the most successful guy I’ve ever repped. Hell, he pulls more in a month than half my old Hollywood clients did in a year back when I was slinging actors instead of asses.”
Jordan swallowed, the bourbon suddenly sour on his tongue. Gideon’s words landed like little seeds in already fertile ground: temporary, sure… until it wasn’t. Until Ben woke up one day craving the roar more than the quiet mornings, the strangers’ worship more than Jordan’s familiar mouth.
No, don’t be ridículous. That will never happen.
“It’s not like that for us,” Jordan said, the words coming out steadier than he felt, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Gideon or himself. “We’re not in it for the money. It’s… complicated. But we got it under control.” He forced a laugh, thin and brittle, the sound scraping his throat raw. Jesus, he felt pathetic, like some desperate loser, a little bitch letting his boyfriend fuck other men for the whole world to see just so he wouldn’t lose him.
Gideon leaned back, swirling his drink, that easy smile still in place but his eyes sharp, knowing. “Sure, I get that. The fuck do I know, right?” he said, tone light, almost gentle. “Hey, maybe you guys will beat the odds.”
Jordan saw it in the man’s face he didn’t believe that for a second. Not even a flicker. Gideon had seen this story play out a hundred times, and Jordan was just the latest footnote. He swallowed hard, the bourbon sour on his tongue. He forced a smile that felt like plastic cracking across his cheeks.
Across the bar, Ben and Ezra were still talking, the phone pressed tight to Ben’s ear, his massive frame angled away from the crowd like he was guarding a secret. From Jordan’s booth, the distance blurred the words, but Ben’s face still gave nothing away just that neutral, listening nod. Then he said something low, waited, said something else. And then Jordan saw it: that smirk, slow and filthy, carving across Ben’s beard like a blade. The same smirk that had owned the livestream. Even from twenty feet away, Jordan caught Ben’s eyes darkening behind his glasses, pupils blown wide with raw want. Whatever Ezra was pouring into his ear, Ben was drinking it down like top-shelf whiskey.
Jordan’s stomach dropped clean through the floor when he saw it: Ben’s big paw drifting casual to his lap, palming the thick bulge straining the front of his jeans, adjusting himself with a slow squeeze that wasn’t subtle at all. He turned his back to the bar a second later, shielding the growing ridge from prying eyes, but it was too late. And, as if Ben’s desire was contagious, wired straight into his bloodstream, Jordan felt himself harden instantly, cock swelling fast against his thigh, trapped and aching in his briefs, the sudden rush of blood leaving him dizzy. He shifted in the booth, thighs pressing together, but the heat only climbed higher, shame and want tangling so tight he couldn’t tell which was winning.
Jordan made a point of not looking at Gideon. The last thing he wanted right now, hard as a rock while his boyfriend talked to another man on the phone, was to see that smug, shit-eating grin he knew was plastered across the agent’s face. Fuck him, Jordan thought, the words bitter and hot in his head. What did Gideon know about him and Ben? What did he know about their love, about the nights Ben had held him through the dark, about the way Jordan had rebuilt him piece by piece when the world tried to tear him down? Nothing. Gideon didn’t know shit. He just saw a cock he could sell and a hole that would take it.
Jordan stared fixedly at the city lights instead, night falling heavy over the skyline, the Hudson a black void swallowing the last of the daylight, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, hands curled into fists on the table, nails digging crescents into his palms like punishment for thoughts he couldn’t voice. He waited for what felt like forever, Ben and Ezra talking, going on and on and on, the phone pressed to Ben’s ear, his back turned like the conversation was private property Jordan wasn’t invited to.
Finally, fucking finally, Ben ended the call and started back toward the booth, stride loose and unhurried, that wicked smirk still carved deep in his beard.
Jordan saw it clear as day, even in the low rooftop glow: Ben’s cock completely hard in his jeans, the thick length outlined shameless against the denim, impossible to hide, straining the zipper like it was daring the world to look. Ben adjusted himself with a casual palm, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary, but he didn’t look like a man too worried someone would notice the hard-on tenting his pants. If anything, the smirk said he didn’t give a damn who saw.
He slid back into the booth beside Jordan, arm draping heavy along the backrest again, fingers brushing Jordan’s neck like nothing had changed. Jordan’s heart.
“It’s on.”, said Ben.
Jordan felt his stomach fall straight through the floor.
“Wait, what?” he said, voice cracking sharp in the rooftop hush, the words louder than he meant.
Gideon was already rising, smile splitting wide like he’d just closed the deal of the year. “Fantastic!” He extended his hand across the table, palm open, eyes gleaming.
Ben took it without hesitation, grip firm, that wicked smirk still carved deep in his Beard. No hostility now, just pure, satisfied smugness as their hands locked.
Jordan shot to his feet, hand clamping Ben’s arm hard enough to bruise. “Ben, can we talk for a moment?”
Gideon’s brow lifted, polite mask perfectly in place, but Jordan caught the venom threading beneath the smile, the subtle tilt of his head that said Got it under control, right?
“I can give you guys some privacy,” Gideon offered smoothly, already half-turning.
Gideon looked at Jordan, and Ben did too.
Jordan’s pulse hammered so loud he was sure they could hear it over the rooftop bass. What are you doing, he wanted to ask Ben, the words burning on his tongue. I thought we were going to talk about it. No commitment. Not yet. He studied Ben’s hazel eyes, searching for answers he didn’t dare voice out loud, not right there in front of Gideon, but found nothing: no hesitation, no question, just that same dark, hungry certainty that had been there since the phone call ended. Ben didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The decision was already made.
Why the fuck would he agree like that? Shouldn’t they talk about it? It was a big decision, one that demanded communication between them, not a horny five-minute call with some bottom Jordan had never even met. But then again… talk about what? Jordan wanted it. He fucking knew it. He could lie to himself, lie to Ben, say he wasn’t sure, that he needed time, that they should think it through, but the truth sat heavy and undeniable in his gut, throbbing in time with the cock straining against his slacks. From the second he’d read that email, from the moment he’d scrolled Ezra’s profile and watched those men wreck him and pictured Ben in their place, he’d wanted it.
He had pushed for this.
He was the one who opened the door.
“We good, Jord?” Ben asked.
Jordan swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper, the words scraping out before he could second-guess them for the hundredth time.
“We good.”
He turned to Gideon and extended a hand, the gesture automatic, professional, even as his pulse hammered in his ears.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
