Grown Men

preamble, his cock jerked to life under the delicious flow. Fucking freak pheromones. That was going to be a problem. Runt scrubbed under his aching balls a minute and thought about dropping a quick load. Only the towering stranger outside stopped him. Ox didn’t need to slip in a puddle of Runt’s jism on his first night.
    The shower hammered the soreness from him, but the tickling flow did nothing to ease his erection. Now that he had a roommate in his one-room habitat, he was going to have to work out a way to masturbate regularly or he would go hut-nutty.
    No two ways.
    Runt groaned and scrubbed foam over his sun-baked skin, avoiding his genitals. He’d always had a voracious sexual appetite: “ Horny little fucker” was what all his women had called him. Since this planetoid was agricultural, he’d expected the company to prioritize breeding for HD10307-E, to use him as Johnny Ample-seed. Guess not.
    Over and over, he had fantasized what his wife would be like when the executives finally sent the replacement: petite, curvy ass, skin that smelled like burnt syrup. He didn’t fancy men at all. Inevitably, his size kept him on the short end. No thanks .
    Out here in Andromeda, Runt had never been short. Out here he had always been the boss. Until now. He’d have to discuss the pheromones, work out boundaries. Yeah.
    Runt knew he was stubborn and stupid enough to take himself hostage if it meant a shot at corporate citizenship and comfort. But a partner? Nah: he needed to treat this goon like a piece of enhanced equipment. Runt’s grunt. They had sent him a superhuman tool to pick up the slack and get things moving.
    He didn’t even check the label .
    Runt realized what bugged him: Ox hadn’t cared what he was eating. Who eats a mealpak without looking at the wrapper?
    Beggars, not choosers. Runt hated not knowing what to expect. Who plants a seed without knowing what’ll grow?
    Why did this specimen need to be a shareholder? He could simply take whatever he wanted. Yet Ox had stayed grateful despite Runt’s shortcomings and un-welcome . . . Like a beggar.
    Ox must’ve come from something terrible.
    But why would an enhanced employee ever beg? Unless he was an assassin . . . Unless he wanted to lull Runt into complacency . . . Unless he needed time to spy and scheme.
    Nah .
    Runt thought of the smile and smothered his paranoia.
    Abruptly the fall of heavenly water snicked off; then near-scalding steam swirled from the walls, purifying the cubicle and Runt’s body at the same time .
    Sharing the wash-space would take some careful planning. Have to add another rain-barrel for the shower, no question. At least his cofarmer was burly; the work would go faster with another pair of hands.
    Big fucking hands too. We’ll bust this out and have wives and wealth inside two years.
    The steam stopped and the cubicle’s fans whipped the air into a soft whirlwind, drying his reddened skin. His straining cock had relented a little. Now it lay arched over his high testicles. Looking down at the thick vein that ran up to his flushed foreskin, he stopped suddenly. All his clothes were outside and his cock hadn’t adjusted to the new cohabitation.
    Eesh. Problem.
    He’d grown up in a recycled spaceport, stealing his mealpaks, and he knew what bigger people expected of smaller people. He’d fought off predators, but never one this oversized. Last thing he needed was to get beaten or raped by some mute mutant thug because he couldn’t control his own boner after eighteen months of solitary.
    Runt’d lived alone for so long. What did it matter? They were both guys. It’s just he felt weird showing Ox exactly how stubby he really was . . . his body, his cock. Macho bullshit, and he knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t kill the thought. And he couldn’t very well stay hidden in the auto-privy for the next three years.
    No helping it.
    Runt paused, trying to pick the pang apart. He paused to spit-swallow two anti-allergens just to be safe.
    Ox wouldn’t care. He’d done sex work and he knew what the pheromones did to his clients. Still, the idea of some brute looking at his lesser body with contempt or pity or ownership made Runt’s stomach turn over in paranoia. He wished he had the submachete, just in case.
    Man up .
    The door hissed open and Runt swallowed his shame and fear. He strode into the living space as if he wasn’t hyperaware of Ox’s scrutiny, his judgment, his ridicule, his cockiness, his