by Damon Suede
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 scale—
Fuck that king-sized toolbox.
—For nothing. Ox had dozed off on the curved bench that faced the holo-screen which was projecting a three-dimensional seascape. Jewel-toned fish floated in the air around the slumbering giant. Crustaceans and octopi skittered across the imaginary seabed. Ox’s enormous hand dangled toward the floor like he was reaching for a shell on the habitat floor.
Never mind.
Runt grinned, unable to stop himself. This big silent oaf wasn’t scary at all, and certainly wasn’t after his body. Poor fucker is probably dreaming of a jumbo-bimbo troll-wife with a pussy like a split melon. Surely Ox hadn’t asked to be shipped into exile. All that brawn, why didn’t the corporation want him breeding?
Whole situation has to be a scam. Or a mistake. A joke.
Runt decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; with this much muscle behind him, Runt would be a citizen in record time and wealthy to boot. They’d terraform their rough corner of the planetoid at superhuman speed and their wives would arrive soon enough as a reward for their impossible labors. It’ll be good to have a friend after all this time.
That was when Runt remembered he was still naked and standing in the common area. Treading softly, he went to the cabinets and squatted to pull out a fresh worksuit, his only clothing for the seven-year tour. He bunched the soft, sturdy canvas and stepped into the leg holes, pulling the suit over his sturdy legs. With my fucking luck, at this moment our wives are stuck together on an island on the other side of the ocean. Before he even shrugged into the sleeves, Runt gave a bark of laughter and heard the goon snort awake behind him.
Ox.
The gigantic stranger had opened his eyes and stared at Runt now through the bright denizens of the swirling undersea hologram. He’d seen Runt’s taut backside and now his semi-engorged front.
Seconds fell between them while the imaginary fish circled.
For one moment, Runt remembered being a small boy in a port with nothing of value but his skin and his wits. Still, he stood his ground. He didn’t even cover himself.
“Sorry.”
Runt was plenty built, but he could imagine Ox’s disappointment. Imagine being encumbered by a cofarmer who could only do a third of the work, who couldn’t keep his poker down.
But the dozy deep-set eyes that Ox swept over him held none of that, only blank curiosity. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth.
In the hologram, a baby shark swam around him and toward the sleep-space, making Runt feel even more like prey. He nodded a greeting to his new cohort.
Now he knows what’s what.
Runt blushed a little but stayed still. Being scanned from buzzed head to fuzzy toe-knuckles felt more like a handshake than the grilling he’d expected.
A school of glittering pinfish floating in front of Ox darted right-left and then behind the bench. He squinted and then raised his groggy gaze again.
Shrugging, Runt pushed one arm and the other into his sleeves and tucked his plump cock inside the split front. He sealed the lone strip that closed the suit over his hard torso.
Not that bad, right?
Wiggling his bare toes on the phantom reef, Runt tried to sound casual. “Plenty of work to do. Rest as you need. The small sun comes up around four.”
Ox grunted gently and nodded once, as if to say, “Good.” He grinned at Runt and rolled back into a doze, iridescent fish darting through an imaginary ocean between them.
Ox changed everything.
The morning after Ox fell from the sky, Runt snuck out of the house as part of his brilliant plan. Runt had spent the past eighteen months chiseling away at the endless corporate chores without a break, and making scant headway. His numbers couldn’t be anything but terrible. Hard enough that he was so small, but his two hands had botched the jobs that demanded four.
He knew they’d find a rhythm, but
he needed to know what to expect. Today would be an experiment with his gigantic cofarmer as lab rat.
No instructions. No help.
After waking, Runt tiptoed through the main room to the wash-space for a piss and a scrub.
Breathing evenly, Ox didn’t stir on the holo-vid bench. Maybe he wasn’t a morning mutant. What if the bastard slept all fucking day?
After transport, what did you expect?
Under the shower, Runt shaved for the first time in weeks. He rinsed the peckertracks off his belly before stepping into a fresh worksuit.
He hoped HardCell had equipped Ox with a set of suits. Nothing Runt owned would fit over one of those legs, and looking at that much naked man every day would get fucking old fast.
He would see what Ox did on his own. There wasn’t much Ox could fuck up irreparably, and even doing nothing, he wouldn’t get in Runt’s way. Would he clean or clear or walk the fields or sit on his butt? Runt didn’t want to coddle this goon, and plenty of work waited.
Besides, no employee became a corporate shareholder without paying for it in scars and sweat: HardCell means business.
Runt rinsed his mouth and spat.
The wash-space door swished open and anxiety flickered over Runt at the sight of the bare holo-vid bench. No Ox. His hand twitched, wanting the truncheon he’d carried as a street kid. He forced himself to relax his grip.
The giant was probably having a piss or a wank outside. Lazy fucker.
Runt scrambled what he hoped would be enough tofu and seaweed for both of them, and ate quickly. As he wolfed down the nutrients, Ox’s pile of breakfast steamed on the counter, but the big lump didn’t reappear.
With a grunt of irritation, Runt went to the front door and took a step outside.
Outside, the first dawn shone dim peach and the air hung already thick. The planetoid’s second sun emitted heat, but almost no ultraviolet . . . a red dwarf which rose early, sank late, and kept the ocean and air warm and soupy year-round.
Oh! There he is.
Ox stood in the shallow waves facing the horizon, his broad back and pale ass slick with water and sliding bubbles as he scrubbed himself with a bottle of disinfectant lotion.
As if the giant sensed eyes on him, he twisted to raise a hand in greeting, then flashed five fingers to say, “Five minutes.” He tried to keep his erection out of sight, at least.
Morning mutant after all.
Runt nodded and waved back, irritated for some reason, then headed up the slope to check the orchard.
Ox’s next move that first day, first thing, would tell Runt plenty; did he need orders, babying, a kick in the ass, no input at all? Would he clear the dishes? Would he rummage through Runt’s kit? Runt decided to give him a half hour or so before checking back.
We’ll see.
By the time the larger sun peeked over the horizon and brightened the daylight to tropical gold, Runt had finished fertilizing the bamboo orchard and ambled back down and ducked into the habitat. At some point, Ox had eaten his breakfast and washed up after.
Huh.
Outside, a motor whirred into angry life. Runt trotted down to the beach to investigate.
Ox knelt in the sand using the submachete and the hammergun to carve the cargo container into salvage. He sliced with patience and surgical precision, not wasting anything.
Smart.
As Runt’s steps slowed, Ox’s craggy face glanced up and then bent close to eyeball the snapping blade centimeters from his massive fist. The hammergun lay heating up on the ground nearby.
Runt left his giant cofarmer doing grunt work and headed to the cove to inspect the eelbeds. About twenty meters below the waves, he found two gashes in the sub-marine mesh fencing that kept his herd from escaping into the open sea in search of plankton or krill. HardCell biodesigners had erased the conger eel’s remote spawning instinct so their lifecycle could play out in a square kilometer. They gnawed their enclosure relentlessly, and repairing the damage in the cloudy water ate up hours of Runt’s workdays.
In the greenish water, small eels bumped against his legs in greeting. The pups were curious, but stupid, and they were drawn to the heat of fused metal. At the reef, he did have to fend off one horror with a row of teeth longer than his foot, but it didn’t snap at him.
HardCell engineered these conger hybrids to be more ranch-friendly, but couldn’t de-venom their blood. It caused anaphylaxis, shutting down respiration completely. Cooking and digestion broke the neurotoxins down, but when the nearest clinic was on a coral island a thousand kilometers away, it paid to be careful.
Soldering quickly, oxygen hissing in his mask, Runt wondered how many adult eels had slipped through in the past month. Each fugitive put his breakeven farther off. Somewhere out in the manmade ocean, the escapees would probably grow up to five meters if they didn’t starve. Maybe they’ll get hungry and come home. He laughed and the sound echoed in his bubble of oxygen. Then again, every ocean needed a couple monsters.
What a waste of protein.
When Runt swam back from the eelbeds that afternoon, Ox sat waiting for him on the beach, stripped to the waist, studying the caterpillar trays in his lap. Of all things, Ox wanted to take over the bee-moths?
Runt jogged closer, expecting a mess. “What did you do?”
Everything, apparently.
Ox jerked his chin toward the slope leading up to their fields and the sheds.
They walked upslope where a new hive waited.
Ox had welded the plastic-alloy panels from his container onto the shattered hive. The new enclosure was three times larger and already stocked with chopped bamboo leaves from the orchard. Plus, he’d rewired the nectar feed and divided the nest into small hutches around the digital queen for easier caterpillar count. How had he done that with those clumsy paws?
There is Luck’s fuckery for you: nothing is fair.
Runt goggled at work he knew he couldn’t have done as beautifully. A soft twep-tep made him turn toward the outside again.
The silhouette filled the entire doorway. Ox stood tapping the trays with a thick digit and raised hopeful eyebrows.
Oh.
Cocoons. Runt realized the caterpillars’s morning had been busy as well; they’d spun ivory sacks around themselves. Warmth had speeded their cycle.
Runt just nodded back, almost irritated that the bigger man hadn’t botched it or killed something or set his carcass on fire just so Runt could boss him around.
Just an experiment.
Runt stood at the hive entrance watching Ox’s bare back. His torso shone with sweat; it soaked the knotted sleeves at his waist that held his worksuit up.
With deft fingers, Ox slid each cocoon into the new enclosure. In two days they’d hatch and get to work tending the fields.
“This is a good bit of work y’done.” Runt gave Ox a thumbs-up and a thump on the shoulder by way of grudging appreciation. His hand barely reached.
Ox winced, and they both looked down. A few raw streaks on the large man’s skin showed where the hammergun had scorched him.
“Oi. See? Those burns’ll scar if you don’t watch. We’ll have to amputate something.”
Ox chuckled and shook his head, examining a livid stripe on his forearm with disinterest.
“Hang on a tick.” Runt jogged back to the habitat and returned with a tube of ointment. “Gotta be mindful about these.” Squeezing a blob onto his finger, he smeared at a rosy scorch on the oversized ribs.
Ox shivered at the touch and nodded once, watching Runt’s blunt fingers as they traced the burns with antibacterial goo. The slicked skin felt very hot, either from the sun or his freakish metabolism.
Runt pursed his lips as he worked, chewing on his mustache. “We got limited medical out here.” Kneeling, he squeezed the tube and daubed at a nasty burn on one meaty shoulder blade.
Ox winced and hissed and twisted around to face the racks. His nipple tightened on the furry pec in front of Runt’s face.
“
Yeah. Tough shit.” Runt wiped the extra ointment on the front of his worksuit. “Now on, just be careful with the tools. Something serious and I have to put you in stasis and ship your fat ass back to HardCell for employee surgery.”
His large partner nodded once.
As he watched the biotic goo seal the welts on Ox’s tan skin, Runt’s pelvis tightened and invisible feathery strokes ghosted over his nerve endings . . . a tickling madness that made his arm hair bristle.
Pheromones.
In closed spaces, Ox‘s starchy scent destroyed his concentration, and he couldn’t exactly ask his cofarmer to go rinse off his sexiness so Runt could trot outdoors to blow his jam again.
Or can I?
Ox twisted to inspect the burns and nodded thanks, but didn’t step back.
Runt did, feeling his double-crossing cock plump in his drawers.
“See here.” Runt cracked his knuckles and addressed Ox like a professor at the employee crèche. “I know they did a hormone splice on you. You’re gonna be getting an eyeful of my peg if you don’t rinse off regular. Yeah?” Runt squeezed his erection through his suit.
He has to know.
Ox nodded, grimacing.
“No. We can’t neither of us help it, and there’s work to do. So you needta be having a proper wank now and then in the sea. That should help lower your levels.”
Ox backed up further.
“Nah. We’re both grown-ups. We’ll live. You go have a rinse. And then let’s have some grub.”
Ox bobbed his head and jogged down to the water.
Runt squatted inside the new hive, checking Ox’s work. He had tipped the panels from his shipping container inward, rounding the structure against the elements. HardCell’s digital queen chirped and purred in the center. Ox had remounted the device so it sat about a meter higher in the dead center of the expanded building, calming the drones and issuing instructions.