You rented the cabin three weeks out, the second her period ended and you started counting. Ten days. That’s the window. That’s the window that has never missed.
The drive into the Smokies is green and steep and quiet except for her talking. She’s been wet since the interstate. She says it out loud like it’s funny, like it’s nothing, twisting in the passenger seat with her hand under her sundress. Behind you in the back seat Jax is huge and happy, window cracked, listening to the trees. He only packed the camo shorts. The ones you bought him last summer because he said regular shorts felt “wrong on his legs.” No underwear. You checked the bag. You always check the bag.
By the time you pull onto the gravel spur his dick has already fallen out twice.
The first time it’s just the head, fat and dark, nosing past the frayed hem while he leans forward to look at a hawk. You catch it in the rearview and your stomach drops the way it always does. You say his name soft.
“Jax. Buddy. Cover up, okay? We’re in the car.”
He looks down, blinks, and tucks it back with the same unbothered motion he uses to pause a game. “It keeps doing that,” he says. “The shorts are short.”
Your girlfriend laughs. It’s the first real laugh she’s given since you picked her up. She turns all the way around in her seat and looks at him like she’s seeing a new species.
“Hi Jax. I’m—”
“I know,” he says. “You’re his new girl. He told me. You smell like flowers.”
She’s been dating you fourteen days. This is the introduction you planned: quiet cabin, no crowds, nature so Jax’s nervous system stays even. You were right about that part. He’s calm. He’s smiling at the mountains. He likes her. You can tell because the shorts are losing the fight again and this time the whole heavy shaft slides out along his thigh, half-hard already, the big mushroom head shiny. His nuts sit in the open like they own the back seat. She stares. She doesn’t pretend she isn’t staring.
“Jesus,” she whispers, still smiling. “That’s… that’s the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”
You keep both hands on the wheel. Your own cock is a thin four inches even when it’s trying. It hasn’t tried in months unless this exact thing is happening. Little average balls. You know what they look like next to his. You’ve compared them in every bathroom mirror of every place you’ve taken him.
The cabin is a one-story with a wraparound porch and a view that makes Jax stop talking. He walks straight outside and sits on the steps in those shorts and listens. Cicadas. Wind in the hemlocks. A creek somewhere down the ridge. His shoulders drop. This is why you picked it. This is why you always pick somewhere he can hear the world instead of people.
You carry bags. She carries her bag and keeps looking at the porch.
His dick is out again. Full hard this time, standing up against the camo so the head peeks over the waistband like it’s trying to see the mountains too. You crouch next to him, gentle, the way you always are with him.
“Jax. The shorts, buddy. Can you tuck it for me? She’s new. I don’t want her to feel weird.”
He looks at it like he forgot it was attached. “It gets hard when I sit. Or when she talks. I don’t know. I can go inside.”
“No. Stay. You’re good. Just… cover the head at least.”
He tries. The fabric doesn’t have a chance. She comes out with two beers and sits on the other side of you and does not look at the view.
“He’s not even trying to hide it,” she says, delighted. “Does he always dress like this?”
“He likes those shorts.”
“They’re not shorts, they’re a suggestion. Look at his balls. They’re hanging out the other side now.”
They are. Heavy, furry, low. The ones that have already put twenty-seven babies into twenty-seven girls you introduced him to. She doesn’t know that number. She thinks this is a sweet autistic best-friend meet-cute in the mountains. You let her think that.