Introductions

 The phone rang just as Andrew Clarke-Samuel’s hand closed around the last can of Monster in the mini fridge. He grimaced, checked the label for a best-by date, and decided whatever new flavor had melted the can’s blue ink into his palm probably counted as a serving of antioxidants. He pressed the can against his forehead, the cold biting through his short-cropped hair, and let the vibration from the phone rattle against his thigh before answering.

"Yeah?"

On the other end, Steve Zolware’s voice carried the precise, colorless cadence of an undertaker at a Nobel ceremony. "Mr. Clarke-Samuel. I trust you’re still running S.A.C. West Coast operations."

Andrew snorted, wedged the can between his biceps and his jaw, and spun his office chair to face the city’s night skyline. "Depends if there’s a next payment, Zolware. Last check bounced." He enjoyed the way Zolware’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, but there if you were listening for weakness.

Zolware recalibrated. "This one’s cash. Or... equivalent. I need an immediate sweep at Phatbuldge Manor. You know it?"

Andrew nearly dropped the can. "That’s the one up in Calabasas?" He thumbed his laptop awake, the S.A.C. map already queued up. "Old gay bathhouse, shut down in ’97 after some guy’s nuts ended up in the hot tub filter." He grinned, already tasting the story. "Urban legend says they still haven’t unclogged the jets."

The line crackled, then Steve said, "I’ll text you the real file. Police reports. Owner’s name was Christopher, "

"Chris something," Andrew cut in, brain already running the numbers. "Chris Spender? Planter? No, Spaniard? Spananana? Miklos?"

"Splinter," Steve corrected. "You’ll see. Former bodybuilder, self-identified ‘adventure dom.’ Brutally murdered, postmortem revealed... physical sexual aggression beforehand. Some hornball college students got themselves castrated up there a month ago, and since then, there's been sightings." A pause. "And attacks."

Andrew rolled the Monster can under his palm, savoring the sharp cold. "What’s the angle, Steve? You never cared about the small-time haunts."

Another pause, this one longer, dangerous. "I’m consolidating assets. Certain entities, once... neutralized, can be harvested for their energy. You handle it right, there’s a bonus. Maybe you get to keep a souvenir."

Andrew shivered, and not just from the blast of fridge air. "How dangerous are we talking? And what kind of team do we need?"

"Big. Big and, if necessary, disposable. Ten men, probably. We're sensing the possibility of massive energy conversion potential with this ghost."

Andrew scoffed, scrolling through the list of available men. Martin, Colt, Bruno and Evangelo were already on different missions, as were Sam, Jobe, Damien and Luke. Duke and Alvin might be free... . Josh should be free... that was three. Plus himself. He paused, looking at the newest entry, a transfer which only had the name "xxx". He would have to check them out later.

"How dangerous are we talking about? And why ten men? No hunting mission needs more than four."

"This ghost seems to be able to feed directly on the latent sexual energy of men specifically. A possible succubus, for lack of a better term. I need as much male meat on your team as possible, at least ten men's worth."

"Yeah, okay, I can make that work.. but how dangerous is this mission?"

There was a pause, before Steve's voice continued smoothly, "Assuredly non-fatal. The ghost's wrath is limited specifically, and exclusively, towards... testicles."

"Testicles?" Andrew repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"The balls. Specifically, attempting to.. extract energy from them. I can provide specific guides for protecting your genitals, if you need, Andrew, but the offer extends specifically to you, and you alone."

"That sounds like..." Andrew realized what Steve was suggesting, and his heart began to race. "It could be quite expensive."

"You keep the important equipment safe, and your cut is twenty percent."

He set the can down, fingers unconsciously cupping the bulge in his own jeans. Today’s pair was tailored to handle both his overachieving ass, but they still struggled with Andrew's massive, precious nuts. He kneaded the firm bulk of his eggs, enjoying the weighted solidness of the fat nugs against his hand. "Alright. Send the files. I’ll bring a team."

"Make sure they're packing heat, Andrew. Don’t want a repeat of the Paris incident."

Andrew grinned, recalling a night of fire, sirens, and two French security guards who’d woken up missing with bloody holes where their mounding groins had been and no memories of the last forty-eight hours. "They always are, Steve."

The line went dead. Andrew let the silence swell, his mind racing with hurried thoughts. He paced once, twice, boots thumping hollow over the hardwood. He ran his hand through his short cropped hair and felt around his hips for the bulge of his cigarettes. They weren't there, of course, because Andrew had quit smoking last week. That was fine. This was fine.

His laptop pinged with the dossier. He opened it, reading over the file. It was dense. The Phatbuldge Bathhouse had a sordid history of its own, even ignoring the ignoble death of the beloved owner. He scrolled to the attached photos. The first, Chris in life: a slab of a man, twenty-three-inch biceps, chest like a whiskey barrel, face half obscured by a handlebar mustache and a pair of aviators. The second, Chris in death: pale, shrunken, twisted. The man's crotch had been removed, and by the looks of it, not nicely. 

Andrew felt his scrotum tightening the muscular sack constricting around his nuts until they ached, the way it always did when his supernatural intuition hit a bullseye. This was going to be a big one. The kind that made you famous, or ruined you. 

He took a swig from the monster, savoring the chemical burn, and stuffed a hand down the front of his pants to cup himself. He stroked his fingers over his sack, softly kneading it to help it relax. Andrew's testicles were massive, the size of baseballs on a bad day, larger when he was pent up. He was pent up now. He’d won a few bar bets with the sheer mass of them. He loved the look on the wanna-be alpha male when his chicken eggs were absolutely dwarfed by Andrew's.

Ten men? Nah. Andrew's nuts were definitely enough to count for two men. And he knew exactly who he needed to call to reduce the cast list down to five. He leaned forward and started bringing up contact details, the glow from the laptop screen strobing across the stubble on his jaw and the tight shelf of his pecs beneath the open leather jacket. He poured whiskey into his Monster, downed it in one go, and started dialing.

First up: Josh Markel. The biggest of the big, with the highest balls-to-brain ratio of anyone on the list. Andrew dialed and let the phone ring while checking the S.A.C. Discord for evidence of life. Sure enough, a new message pinged in the "Shitposters Only" channel: a selfie of Josh in a crop-top muscle tee, sweat gleaming off his shoulders, and his dick print stretching the length of his shorts like a frozen bratwurst.

"Hey, Boss," Josh answered, voice thick with amusement. "I was about to DM you. Got a new toy." In the background, the dull clatter of gym weights and the shriek of rubber against old wood.

"New toy?" Andrew glanced down at his own junk and suppressed a laugh. "I'm gonna guess this is a sex toy of some sort?"

Josh let out a deep, tanned chuckle. Andrew could feel the grin in the man's voice, and it made Andrew’s nuts tingle. "No way, man. Shotgun. Eight-gauge. You gotta see it. It's built to launch rock salt through even the meanest demon."

Andrew could almost smell the guy’s sweat through the line. "You ready to break it in? Got a job in Calabasas. Phatbuldge Manor."

Silence, then a low whistle. "Wait, isn't that the place with the...?"

"Yep."

Josh’s exhale came out as a low, happy growl. "Fuck yeah. Heard the stories, dude. I’m in."

"Be at my place by eight. Pack light, and wear something you can burn." Andrew hung up and stared at the phone, absently rolling the edge of his zipper against the palm of his hand. Josh would show up in nothing but mesh and a smile, ready to fuck or fight anything on two legs. It was a liability, but also the reason he’d survived so long.

Next: Alvin Hardwick. Andrew found him in Contacts as "DADDIXXX." He hesitated, then dialed.

The pickup was instant. "Yo, Boss," Alvin said, voice syrupy and low, punctuated by the faint sound of a bed creaking and a wet slurp from a second party. "You got something for me, or you just want to watch?"

Andrew grinned. "Both, maybe. You busy?"

"I can always multitask," Alvin replied, a muffled moan cutting through the background. "Where we going?"

"Phatbuldge Manor," Andrew said, casually. "S.A.C. wants the ghost handled before the next blood moon." Andrew tried to imagine Alvin’s face, probably buried in a pillow or someone’s ass. "You up for it?"

"Shit, Boss, you know I’ve always wanted to get my cock sucked by a ghost." A muffled grunt. "And I’ll bring the new GoPro. Night vision."

"Good. I need you in one piece. And, uh, I hate to ask this but... I need you fully loaded." Andrew could hear the hitch in Alvin’s breathing, a pause in the action.

"Boss, I'm ten seconds from nutting," Alvin said, his voice deepening and much more serious.

"I'll give you an extra two grand if you pull out right now." Andrew smirked at the groan of resentment, followed by an agitated moan from further away. "Don't even bother complaining, I love you know edging." 

Alvin let out a deep, satisfied rumble that reminded Andrew of the way steam billowed off a man’s body after a punishing Turkish bath. "You have impeccable timing, as always." The phone made a whuffled thump as it hit the bed, and Alvin heard fresh sounds; slurping and moaning starting anew. Andrew hung up, then took a long breath, savoring the mix of sweat, sex, and danger already thick in the air. 

Duke Mason answered on the third ring, his greeting punctuated by a wet, meaty *thwack* as something dense hit a cutting board. "Andrew. You calling for work, or to get another grope of my big-ass bull nuts?"

Andrew smirked, remembering the feel of the Southerner's fattened nuts in his hands during their last mission. "Hey, I'm the reason you have balls, remember. But to answer your question, yes, I have work for you." He paused, listening for the tell-tale sound of dip hitting the ground, but heard nothing. That was a good sign. "Your nuts still hanging fat and full?"

Duke grunted, unimpressed. "They’re twice the size of yours. Come up to the holler and I’ll show you." Another *thwack*. "What’s the job?"

"Ghost in a former bathhouse. Big, mean, likes to rip the nuts off anyone packing more than four inches."

Duke let the silence stretch, then said, "Sounds like a threat." The steel in his voice was unmistakable. "I’ll bring the traps. Oh, yeah, and I got some fresh ground sausage for you."

Andrew made a note to double-check the first aid kit, then ended the call.

Andrew needed one more. He skimmed through the list, but while almost everyone available would serve his purposes, he needed someone fresh. Someone who could get the balls rolling, as it were. A canary in the coal mine, who would help Andrew understand the threat that this ghost could posit. He reached the end of the list, and smiled. Of course. Brock Santos. The newest member, with no real specialties, yet. Perfect.

Andrew wasn’t sure Brock would answer; as far as Andrew knew, the college dropout spent most of his days livestreaming shirtless home repairs for a fan base that mostly wanted to see him drop a wrench and flash his balls, but the call was picked up on the first ring.

"Yo, is this for content or for real?" Brock’s voice was high, anxious, but eager. In the background, Andrew could hear a baby whining. "I can bring both cameras. And the gym shorts. You want me to do a promo?"

Andrew could hear the need in Brock's voice. "Nah, no promo. This is a ghost hunt. You in?"

Brock hesitated, then dropped the bravado. "Yeah, I’m in. Are we... like, getting paid?"

"Standard S.A.C. cut." Andrew paused, waiting for Brock to confirm, but realized that Brock might not know what that means. "One thousand dollars, and if you get footage of the ghost, there’s a bonus." Andrew let the silence work for a second, then added, "You’ll want to keep your junk out of sight. This one’s... aggressive."

Brock laughed, nervous and a little excited. "A thousand bucks? Ha, suck it ghost, I'm in."

Andrew closed his eyes and let the names settle in his head. Josh, Alvin, Duke, Brock. Each a freak in his own way, each with a monster between his legs and a desperate need to prove something. If he were the type to get sentimental, he’d call it a family.

He cracked another Monster, chugged it, and let the sugars and stimulants shiver through his system.

The phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was from Steve Zolware.

REMEMBER, read the scene for evidence and document everything. Get a sample if possible. Ghost is a class three, may escalate. You have my number.

There was a second message, less formal.

He’s going to want to meet you. All of you.

Andrew looked down at the bulge in his jeans, and wondered how safe he was going to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Josh Markel’s idea of packing light involved a gym bag, a towel, and enough protein powder to choke a crossfit instructor. He arrived at Andrew’s apartment just before eight, looking every bit the monster that Zolware’s case files had warned about. Seven foot six, shoulders like a loading dock, legs that flexed against the constraints of even the largest sweatpants, and a neck so thick his head looked like it was being bench-pressed by his own traps.

He didn’t bother knocking; he just shouldered the door open and shouted, "Hope you got more than Monster and meth in your fridge, Boss. I’m starving."

Andrew offered him a shake, literally, the one he’d been holding, already half-empty. Josh took it, killed it, and then set to work emptying the fridge, the counter, and then his own bladder in the hall bathroom. The sounds that followed were seismic.

Alvin arrived next, smelling of sandalwood and clean sheets. His clothes were just barely legal, tight, black, see-through mesh, and a pair of tight gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the prodigious ridge of his cock or the grapefruit-sized testicles swinging between his thighs. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like he hadn’t slept, but his walk was springy and alive.

"Gentlemen," he said, dropping his bag next to the couch as he entered.

"You shaved your dreads," Andrew commented, and Alvin flopped onto the couch, settling into the couch cushion. He reached up, stroking finger tips along his gleaming skull.

"Yup." He folded his hands in his lap, his head dipping forward, and immediately fell asleep, his soft snore rising and falling like a metronome.

Duke Mason showed up just before nine, driving a battered Ram pickup with a cooler full of deer jerky. He wore the same stained flannel tanktop from the last S.A.C. mission, stretched across that same meaty, hairy chest. His ginger bear was a crime against grooming, but his hazel eyes missed nothing as he scoped out the room.

He shook Andrew’s hand hard enough to hurt, then nodded at Josh. "Didn’t know you’d be here," he said.

Josh shrugged, the muscles rolling across his shoulders like morning surf. "I go where the action is."

Brock Santos rolled in last, riding a battered Lime scooter and balancing three camera bags against his own thick thighs. He was wearing overalls, a backward cap, and not much else. His brown skin glowed in the hallway lights, and the curve of his calves looked sculpted by a team of obsessive-compulsive cherubs.

"Sorry I’m late," Brock said. "Traffic. I'm Brock."

"Sup," Josh said, offering a fist bump. 

"Gentlemen, we'll have enough time to talk on the way there," Andrew said. The five of them gathered in Andrew’s living room, the scent of sweat, cheap energy drink, and ball musk swirling together into something that was almost comforting. Andrew took in the sight of his team, half-naked, over-endowed, and almost completely oblivious to the danger that might be awaiting them at Phatbuldge.

He explained the mission in quick, clipped sentences. The ghost. The danger. The payout.

Josh stroked a hand along the ridge of his massive dick along the inside of his shorts. "Eh, that sounds like a Tuesday." Duke spat into a red Solo cup, then nodded once, the way men did before a gunfight. Brock just grinned, more focused on the men around him then listening to the things Andrew was saying. Alvin just smirked. Andrew felt his own sack contract again, the strange cocktail of fear and excitement spiking through his system. He caught each man’s eye, one by one, and saw in every face the same thing:

Hunger.

He gathered the men, and gave Josh his phone, letting him take a group selfie. Andrew saved it to the S.A.C. drive, and then stood up.

"Alright, men, let's go show this fucking ghost what it means to have balls," he said.

A final ping from Steve Zolware buzzed just as the team stepped out into the corridor.

One more thing: The ghost can smell confidence. The more you show off, the bigger target you become.

Andrew grinned, thumbed the message, and looked back at his team, each of them, in their own way, a walking dare.