The Cream King - Part 4 (Patreon)

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Benji settled deeper into the bed in his private viewing room, absurdly pleased with himself. Even stretched out, he looked like too much man for the furniture built to contain him. The milking machine continued its work, drawing from his impossibly overfull chest into large sealed containers lined neatly beside the bed for a surprise reveal later.

He looked down at himself and laughed. Even after everything he had already pumped earlier that morning, his chest still looked outrageously full. The sensation had long stopped being strange, so he reached to massage the outer curves of his pecs, watching them respond to his touch while his attention drifted back to the screens.

The room outside had erupted with activity as the challenge started. Cabinet doors flew open, metal bowls clattered against counters, and contestants lunged for ingredients with a combination of panic and determination.

Meanwhile, Milo slipped into host mode so naturally that it was almost ridiculous. His whole posture changed the moment cameras focused on him. His broad chest lifted, his shoulders relaxed, and every movement suddenly seemed practiced. He prowled between stations as if the set were his, smiling at contestants and cameras alike.

“Alright, gentlemen, no pressure,” Milo said into one of the cameras with a grin, flexing his pecs. “You’ve only got one hour; the King himself is watching every move, and millions of people are absolutely ready to judge your life choices. So breathe.” He paused. “Or panic. Panic will get us a lot of engagement.”

A few contestants laughed nervously.

Milo winked toward another lens. “Remember: dairy is the star, we expect chaos, and if anybody sets something on fire, please try to do it in frame,” he said, winking playfully.

Benji laughed out loud from the bed. “Damn, he’s good.”

The King watched Milo move between stations, openly admiring his friend. Milo wasn’t even trying to look attractive, but it was impossible not to notice how hot he was. Every angle, movement, and facial expression looked stunning.

Benji tapped the intercom to talk into Milo’s in-ears. “Look at you, dude,” he said, slowly and playfully. “All handsome and competent. A really dangerous combination,” he added, lowering the tone of his voice. “You definitely deserve a reward later,” he said, moving his hands lower to caress his massive bulge, imagining what he would do with his friend later.

Out on the floor, Milo was mid-step when Benji’s voice came directly into his ear, making him tense up a bit and blush. It was barely there, but Benji noticed on the monitor—the brief hesitation in Milo’s stride, his jaw tightening for half a second, and the visible heat spreading into his face before he got himself under control. Milo recovered fast, but the blush was there.

“Unbelievable,” Milo whispered, keeping his smile for the cameras. “Dude, behave.”

“Make me.” Benji laughed harder, pleased by the reaction.

Milo chuckled and headed to check on Dante first. The firefighter looked like he’d been preparing for this exact kind of pressure his whole life. He didn’t waste movement; there was no hesitation and no visible stress. Even in the apron, his whole build stood out—thick arms, a powerful chest, and a broad back.

Milo leaned against the counter edge. “Well, this feels unfair,” he said. “Did we accidentally recruit an actual professional?”

Dante looked up, smiling without slowing down. “Professional firefighter. Not a chef.”

“Close enough. What’re you making?” Milo asked.

“Ultra-rich baked four-cheese macaroni,” Dante replied, measuring cream. “Cream reduction, crispy top, full comfort-food weaponization.”

Milo lifted a brow. “Bringing firehouse energy into a dairy death match?”

Dante looked up fully, looking proud, even a bit cocky. “Yeah! You know, at least somebody here has to know how to handle heat.”

Milo laughed.

From the monitors, Benji grinned widely. “Oh, I love a hot firefighter.”

Then, Milo moved to Caleb’s station and found a disaster. The young man had already dropped a whisk, forgotten sugar in one mixture, corrected himself, apologized to absolutely nobody in particular, and nearly collided with another station while trying to retrieve ingredients. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, and his hands moved too fast for his own coordination.

“What are we making over here?” Milo asked, trying not to laugh.

Caleb startled as he’d just been personally inspected by royalty. “Cream puffs! I mean—hopefully cream puffs. Vanilla pastry cream and whipped filling, and I practiced these recipes, but not under cameras and not with—” He gestured helplessly at the set and Milo.

“With functioning nerves?” Milo offered.

“Yes!” Caleb said.

Milo laughed. “You’re doing fine.”

“I am absolutely not doing fine,” Caleb replied, trying to calm down as he stared at Milo far too long before remembering his saucepan existed.

Even Milo noticed the guy was overwhelmed by more than cooking—by Milo himself.

Benji practically melted laughing. “Oh, buddy,” he said at the monitor. “If Milo does this to you, wait until you meet me.”

At the next station, Jamal looked like he had been waiting his whole life for someone to hand him a spotlight and tell him to be as extra as possible. His grin kept appearing at the exact right moments, and every time a camera drifted near him, he somehow seemed to notice.

Milo walked up as Jamal was cracking eggs—one-handed, with a little unnecessary flair. “Well, somebody’s enjoying himself,” he said.

Jamal looked up with a bright grin. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“What’s the plan?” Milo asked.

“Luxury tres leches layer cake,” Jamal said, gesturing toward his ingredients as if introducing a legend. He pointed directly at one of the cameras with perfect timing. “Confidence is half the recipe,” he said, with a smug smile.

Milo shook his head, laughing as he moved on.

From the viewing room, Benji laughed right along with him, with his hands still moving over his swollen chest. “Oh, he knows what he’s doing for the camera,” he said.

Oliver’s station felt like walking into an entirely different competition. There was no chaos or loud performance. Even his station looked aesthetically organized, as if he had arranged the ingredients for a magazine shoot instead of a timed competition.

Milo slowed when he approached, smiling. “And over here we have someone who looks like he accidentally walked into a reality show while on the way to a private tasting in Milan.”

Oliver barely looked up from what he was doing. “Mascarpone panna cotta. Caramelized milk glaze. Fresh fruit garnish.”

“Do you plan to survive interacting with actual human beings for the next hour?” Milo said, trying to contain his laughter.

Oliver’s jaw tightened just enough to be funny. “I’m surviving just fine,” he said smoothly. “Though I admit this environment is somewhat less controlled than I’d hoped.”

“Translation?” Milo said, raising a brow.

Oliver exhaled through his nose. “I’d prefer fewer people throwing ingredients around while I attempt to impress the King.”

Milo pointed at him, smirking. “There it is.”

From the private room, Benji laughed, entertained by the crack in Oliver’s carefully polished image. “Oh, you care,” he said. “We’ll see if you really impress me.”

Then, Milo reached Theo, and Benji lost his cool. Theo had been quieter than everyone else. While others lunged for ingredients or committed to big movements, Theo had taken longer, scanning what was in front of him and considering his options before starting.

Milo approached him differently, without even seeming to realize it, noticing the young man had a charming appeal. “What are we making over here?”

Theo looked up and smiled. Benji gasped backstage. It wasn’t a flirtatious smile, but for the King, it was weirdly devastating.

“Fresh ricotta gnocchi,” Theo said. “Creamy herb sauce and browned butter.”

Milo lifted a brow. “Confident choice.”

Theo ducked his head a little, almost shy. “My grandma used to make something similar when I was younger,” he said, gesturing toward the ingredients. “Different version, obviously. But I figured if I had to cook for someone, I’d make something comforting. Something that actually means something to the King.”

Milo was surprised. “That’s actually really sweet.”

Theo smiled again, blushing a bit. “I thought comfort might stand out more than trying too hard to impress. I hope it works.”

Back in the viewing room, Benji was stunned. His hands moved slowly, absentmindedly rubbing his chest as he watched Theo on the screen. Everything the young man had said landed harder on Benji than any flexing, flirting, or showing off had.

The King’s usual cocky grin softened as he stared at Theo. “Well, damn,” he whispered.

For the first time since this whole ridiculous challenge had started, Benji was not only entertained but also interested in the aftermath.

The next contestant, Ryan, had a different approach. He attacked the challenge with competitive intensity that seemed built into his bones. His broad chest stretched the apron hard enough to make it obvious how thickly built he was, something that Milo and Benji noticed and enjoyed. Milo barely got close before Ryan was moving fast through the ingredients.

“Alright,” Milo said. “What exactly are we building over here?”

Ryan looked up with a cockiness that seemed permanently attached to his face. “Loaded smoked Gouda cream burger. Homemade dairy brioche buns. Ridiculous cheese sauce. Crispy onions. Full commitment.”

Milo laughed. “Subtlety died before you got here.”

“Subtlety doesn’t win,” Ryan shot back.

Benji laughed from the viewing room. Ryan was almost aggressively exactly what he looked like. There was something hilarious about how honest the guy was about it. Milo and Benji noticed how Ryan reached for one of the jugs of milk, except instead of adding it to his recipe, he lifted it to his mouth and drank it.

They let it slide, enjoying the eagerness, and then Ryan did it again. This time, Milo was close enough to see the entire thing unfold, and Ryan clearly knew it. He poured another cup, lifted it, and looked directly at Milo while drinking, holding the eye contact long enough to make his intention obvious.

Milo’s mouth curved into a smile. “Well,” he said, folding his arms as he leaned closer to the station. “Somebody’s really enjoying the ingredients.”

Ryan swallowed, still looking at him. “Quality control.”

“Second round of quality control?” Milo asked, and Ryan shrugged slightly.

From the viewing room, Benji grinned wider, very entertained. Ryan seemed interested in provoking reactions and then winning them. The milk had already gotten into his head. He had no idea yet, but the effects were already making him want more.

At the next station was Evan, the opposite of Ryan. Everything there had a clear purpose. Every movement meant something. His lean frame was steady and composed amid the surrounding noise.

Milo approached with a grin. “And here we have someone who appears to be taking this way too seriously.”

Evan barely looked up. “I thought that was the point. I didn’t come to mess up.”

“Oh, he has jokes,” Milo said, smiling wider. “So, what are we making?”

Evan gestured toward the station. “Savory mushroom gratin. Balanced texture. Cream reduction layered for depth instead of just heaviness.”

Milo blinked. “You say things like ‘layered for depth’ in normal conversation, don’t you?”

Those words made Evan chuckle a bit, showing there was more personality under the calm surface than first impressions suggested. “Only when I want to sound impressive,” he said.

Milo laughed. “Okay, I underestimated you.”

From the monitors, Benji leaned forward, intrigued. “Oh, dry ones always crack harder.”

Then, Lewis somehow became an emotional support for the entire competition within what felt like ten minutes. While most contestants were panicking to some degree, Lewis looked delighted to be there.

Milo wandered over. “What’re we doing?”

Lewis smiled while layering an amount of cheese that suggested he feared absolutely nothing. “Loaded baked potato casserole.”

Milo stared at the station. “That sounds aggressively comforting and heavy.”

“It is,” Lewis said proudly. “Food should hug you from the inside. Like a bear hug.”

Milo laughed so hard he actually stepped backward. “That might be the best sentence anyone’s said today.”

Lewis only grinned wider and immediately went right back to building his dairy-heavy comfort bomb, like he was personally responsible for curing sadness.

Benji laughed from the bed. “Oh, I love him. Sounds cute.”

Max, meanwhile, was absolute chaos in a human body—pure, cheerful disaster energy. He looked like someone whose body occasionally surprised him with its own existence as his long limbs moved. His chosen dish involved cheesecake-stuffed fried dough with cream glaze, at least according to his original plan, though the actual execution suggested the plan itself had only ever existed in rough draft form.

Milo arrived just in time to watch Max nearly lose control of a mixing bowl. “Talk me through this,” he said, already smiling.

Max caught the bowl in an awkward scramble, stared at his ingredients, and then looked back at Milo with startling honesty. “Okay, so basically—” He stopped, blinking. “Honestly?”

Milo folded his arms. “That usually means something excellent.”

“I had this way clearer in my head,” Max said.

Milo laughed hard, leaning against the counter.

Somehow, Max only got more chaotic after that. He forgot the measurements halfway through mixing, restarted components because he lost confidence in what he had already done, and improvised badly. Still, he somehow saved things accidentally. At one point, he stared at a measuring cup as if trying to understand how to use it.

“You still with us?” Milo asked.

“No. I mean, yeah, yeah,” Max replied, sighing.

Benji watched with a smirk, massaging his massive pecs. “Cute face,” he said, watching Max recover from another avoidable mistake. “I could give him a hand to put some real mass on that frame.” He squeezed his chest absently, feeling the impossible fullness shift under his touch. “That’d be a whole different story.”

The King knew what his milk would do to someone like Max, so he couldn’t help but imagine the guy with the frat vibe getting more muscle into his clumsy body. Considering how much milk Benji had pumped so far, many things could happen once the challenge was over. He had pumped gallons that morning, and his chest still felt as absurdly full as ever.

Kieran’s station was the last one, and the man treated the challenge like an interactive theater. He moved through the kitchen like he was halfway between contestant and commentator. He was working on several things at a time, but half his effort seemed to go into maintaining a constant conversation.

“Milo,” Kieran said, “if I win, I expect this level of personal attention all evening.”

“Bold assumption,” Milo shot back.

Kieran bounced between flirting, commentary, narration, teasing other contestants, and speaking directly to passing cameras, somehow cooking effectively through it all.

By that point, Benji was having the time of his life. His nipples were still delivering thick streams of milk into the milking machine’s cups. Every so often, he flexed only because he liked the visual of his massive body shifting, and his hand wandered lower again to caress his overpacked bulge, which looked ready to burst now.

Outside, the ridiculous competition he had created was unfolding even better than he’d hoped. Contestants were flirting, panicking, showing off, charming Milo, and slowly revealing exactly who they were under pressure.

Benji grinned at the monitors, delighted. “This was such a stupidly good idea,” he said.

Meanwhile, Milo’s early introductions and playful station check-ins had evolved into sharper confidence. “Thirty minutes left, gentlemen,” he announced as he moved between stations. “Plenty of time if you know what you’re doing. Deeply concerning if you don’t.”

Milo loved how each contestant was doing, but he kept going back to Ryan’s station, as the guy had become a weird little subplot. At first, the extra drinking had been funny—a competitive meathead helping himself to the ingredients as self-control seemed optional. But as the minutes kept passing, it became harder not to notice that something was changing.

Ryan left enough milk for his recipe, but anything beyond that somehow kept ending up in him. Every single time, there was a justification, increasingly ridiculous excuses. “I needed another taste.” “Checking consistency.” “Making sure it pairs right.”

He didn’t notice how his chest looked fuller beneath the shirt he’d arrived in. His arms looked thicker as the sleeves hugged harder than they had earlier. He stood bigger and more physically present. The physical changes were still subtle enough that nobody would have noticed at first glance, but under constant observation, they were obvious. But Milo noticed, well aware of what was happening to Ryan.

“Quick question,” Milo said casually. “Are you planning to cook with any milk, or are you personally drinking the entire challenge inventory?”

Ryan grinned without missing a beat. “Maybe both.”

Milo laughed, and the expression that crossed his face was devilish, as Benji noticed from the monitors. Something was going on in Milo’s head, and Benji found it hysterical.

“Buddy,” he said on the intercom. “Calm down. Wait for later.”

Then Theo had a moment that left Benji frozen again. One component in his dish went slightly wrong—nothing that would destroy the dish, but enough that the disappointment showed in his face. Still, he recovered quickly and kept working. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but Benji realized that Theo was leaving a bigger impact on him than he expected.

“Be fair,” he said to himself, while very obviously continuing to watch Theo. “You can’t judge their dishes while staring at the guy like this,” he added, sighing.

As the clock kept going, the chaos intensified, and even the contestants who had looked comfortable before started moving faster. By the 45-minute mark, everyone felt the pressure.

“Fifteen minutes, gentlemen!” Milo shouted.

Ryan looked borderline electric. His shirt was visibly tighter across the chest, and he adjusted it more than once with visible irritation, though he still didn’t seem fully aware of why it felt different. And somehow, despite the pressure, he drank the last of the milk from his station.

Milo stared openly. “Well, that’s fascinating.”

By the time the final five minutes hit, the entire room had fallen into beautiful chaos. Contestants started moving faster than they could think, rushing for finishing touches as plates moved across counters. Someone almost collided with someone else carrying sauce, and the noise grew louder by the second.

Milo was almost jumping with excitement at this point, moving rapidly between stations like pure host adrenaline in human form. “Five minutes! If your dish still exists only in your imagination, this is terrible news!”

Benji was practically bouncing against the oversized mattress by then, laughing openly. He had long since stopped pretending he was equally invested in everybody. His eyes kept finding Theo, and occasionally Ryan—for extremely different reasons.

Then came the final countdown, and unlike the earlier time calls, this one sent the entire room into full survival mode. At ten seconds, hands were everywhere at once. At nine and eight, the room somehow got even more frantic, which shouldn’t have been possible.

Benji watched from the bed with a grin so wide his face actually hurt.

At seven and six, people were clearly running on adrenaline instead of actual thoughts. Ryan slammed pieces of his dish into place, still looking absurdly energized. Theo was visibly nervous, but his moves remained calm. Max looked as if he were improvising reality itself. Caleb seemed one bad breath away from collapsing. Oliver was fighting for his life to put everything in place. Dante was still trying to look cool while visibly sweating.

By the time Milo hit five, the entire thing had become glorious chaos.

When Milo finally shouted the last number and called time, movement stopped, and hands dropped. The strange, dazed feeling that comes after intense pressure settled over the whole kitchen. And Milo stood in the middle of it all, smiling and looking excited. He had been having fun through it all, but he knew that what was coming was even better.

Benji stared at the monitor with a delighted grin. Unable to wait any longer, he reached up and removed the suction cups, loose from his chest, with a wet pop. The sudden release made his still overfilled pecs bounce slightly. His nipples were still throbbing after over an hour of intense and nonstop milking. The amount of milk Benji had pumped was ridiculous; the massive containers were full, almost overflowing, but it was perfect for what he had in mind.

“Now,” he said, slowly getting out of bed, “comes the fun part! Time for you guys to meet your King,” he said, looking at the screens one last time.

...

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