Free Grown Men by Damon Suede Page B

moth’s furry mauve body paced in jerky steps on the back of the giant hand like a curious mutt scenting prey. HardCell’s redesign showed clearly. The insect seemed sturdier up close, its back broader, its wingspan wider, its phosphorescence brighter.
    Ox lifted his cut knuckles carefully for a better look, his lips just barely twitching in involuntary pleasure. This critter featured the intricate Greek markings of the newest brood, the sharp black letters identifying its batch and lab of origin. The date of Ox’s arrival.
    How did I ever think he was a murderer?
    Slowly, slowly, Ox rolled his hand so it could investigate the cuts and the sweet grease there. Its head bobbed along Ox’s lifeline, tapped the mound of his enormous thumb. The lettered wings pumped the air experimentally, but it didn’t lift off. Ox’s face glowed with protective pride; these new bee-moths worked as hard as he did. They would change this world.
    We will.
    It took wing, floating on the hot air above the bamboo fire and then hooking back toward the orchards to busy itself.
    They both turned to watch it, but only Ox made a sound then: a low happy rumble like his night-singing.
    The little blaze had died to papery embers, the wood too soft to burn long. The sand felt hard against Runt’s rear, and Ox soft beside him.
    Ox turned to ask a silent question by raising his eyebrows.
    Runt shook his head. “Nah. It’s nice out here.”
    Just a little longer now .
    Eventually they did extinguish the little fire and trek back home, where they fell into overfed sleep in under twenty seconds.
    In the small hours, after the smallest of three moons rose high and violet outside, Runt jerked awake. Stealthy movement had woken him: a tremor or a noise. At the door? No. A childhood spent on the street had taught him to track disturbances.
    Then something shook the bed again.
    At first he thought Ox was rubbing his head on the pillow in his sleep as he sometimes did, but then he recognized the furtive motion and smiled . . . Cracking one eye open and shifting his head slightly, Runt got confirmation in the indigo glow from the ceiling clock.
    Someone’s having a tug . . .
    Sure enough, Ox gripped his fat club in one meaty fist, quietly but steadily polishing his knob with the other palm. The foreskin had pulled back from the engorged head and the veins stood out along its length. He didn’t stroke the shaft or jerk his loose skin quickly, just continued a slow silent rub of the glans. His plump, tan scrotum was so tight that his nuts barely moved. He was obviously trying not to move too much or breathe too loudly. The musky seawater scent and whisper of friction filled the air. His heavy testes hugged the base as he strained patiently toward climax.
    Pretending to shift in his sleep, Runt rolled his head a little further so he could watch more easily. Natural curiosity and all.
    In the faint lights of the habitat instruments, Ox froze with a look at his bedmate. He opened his mouth to keep even his breath silent. The big man almost stopped moving, just tickling the small sensitive fold of foreskin under the moist crown, reflexively petting the nerves there with one calloused finger.
    He’s too close to stop.
    Runt stayed very still, waiting, waiting . . . Staring through his squint and keeping his breathing deep and slow as if dreaming still. He tried to feel offended or nervous that Ox was having a wank in their bed, but couldn’t manage it. He was happy mainly that Ox felt safe enough to find his pleasure this close.
    We’re guys. It’s natural.
    Ox’s towering stalk flexed in his fist and he held his breath, still watching Runt for any sign of waking.
    That thing . . . is a fucking fencepost.
    Runt tried to imagine the holo-porn career a guy could build lugging around that kind of meat. He wasn’t into men, but some part of him wanted to touch it, just once. To know how it felt to milk pleasure out of something that gigantic. Runt’s mouth filled