Ben Bigger

Unholy NSFW DILF Worship Wiki – Zenless Zone Zero

Overview

Ben Bigger is the alpha. The top of the food chain. A living furnace of dominance, hair, and heat — and if you’re lucky enough to be close, that heat becomes all you breathe. Towering at nearly two meters tall, shoulders as wide as a car, belly thick and jiggling like a furnace-fed boulder, Ben is a walking sexual natural disaster. Not just big — uncontainable. Not just hairy — wild. Not just strong — inevitable. He’s the kind of man whose body announces him before his voice does: the heavy footfalls, the thigh meat grinding, the musk that clings to the air like steam rising off a jungle floor. He doesn’t “smell bad” — he smells like power. A thick, rich, cock-heavy bear musk that hangs behind him like a throne you can’t escape.

His gut is enormous — sweaty, hairy, warm like a radiator, and covered in a thick, soaked bushy happy trail that pulses with every breath. His bellybutton is deep and dark, a hairy hollow that smells like body heat and raw sex. People worship there. Get lost there. His chest is packed with two beach-ball-sized pecs, thick and heavy, always bouncing, capped with wide dark areolas and fat black nipples that leak sweat like slow, salty tears. They jiggle when he laughs. They slap his belly when he grunts. They rest on his gut like gifts too large to unwrap. His armpits? Caverns. Flooded with sweat. Lined with thick curls of musky, masculine hair that radiates earthy heat. He lifts his arm and the world changes.

Ben doesn’t wear normal clothes — he strains them. His shorts? Custom-made. Triple-reinforced. And still always on the edge of giving out. Why? Because stuffed inside are his HUMONGOUS, HEAVY, ULTRA-HAIRY, SWEAT-SOAKED BALLS — twin boulders of dripping power that slap between his thighs and swing like wrecking balls. And they’re full. Loaded. Constantly churning. His cock is thick, veiny, blunt-headed and half-hard 90% of the time. And it leaks. A slow, steady stream of pre that slicks the inside of his shorts, drips down his leg, and seeps into the waistband. It’s so big it never stays inside. It’s always poking out the leg hole, flopping across his thigh, or slipping past his waistband to rest on his hairy, sweat-slick belly. His pubes explode from his shorts — thick, wet curls that creep up to his navel and spill over the sides in musky defiance. If you sit next to him? You smell them before you see them.

His ass is a universe. A planetary system of meat, funk, hair, and clap. Each cheek is the size of a prize pig, wobbling with every stomp, slapping together with seismic echo, leaving behind the thick, earthy heat of musky fur and sweat. He walks, and you can hear it. He bends, and the world stops. His crack is deep, dark, and jungled — the kind of space that eats towels, tongues, and sanity. His thighs are monuments of meat — constantly rubbing, constantly sweating, constantly spreading. They glisten when he sits, they squish when he moves, and when he traps your head between them, you’re not going anywhere. His hips are wide enough to knock things off tables. He’s not shaped like a man — he’s shaped like a problem.

He doesn’t walk — he struts. Swings. Shakes the floor. Leaves chairs warm and wet. His voice? Deep. Growling. Feral. When he laughs, it rolls from his gut like thunder. When he moans, it sounds like metal bending. He doesn’t speak unless it’s to bark a command or hum while pissing in public. He doesn’t wear underwear. He doesn’t need to. Everything hangs so heavy, so wet, so thick, it obeys gravity on its own.

LORE

In canon, Ben Bigger is an enforcer with Belobog Heavy Industries. A field ops juggernaut. A protector of workers and a wall of flesh that nothing breaks. He was forged in the chaos of Hollow disasters, hardened by the grind of machinery, and born into sweat, steel, and discipline. He’s what happens when war meets body worship. When blue-collar brutality becomes fetish legend. And while files list his strength, training, and mission history — those who’ve met him in person know better. They know the truth.

They know he stinks up locker rooms with heat and belly sweat. That his presence alone is enough to make weak men pass out. That you don’t just follow Ben — you obey him. You smell him before you see him, and when you do see him? You drop to your knees. That his cock stains couches. His balls leave puddles. His scent lingers in training halls long after he’s gone. They say he once crushed a metal bunk just by sitting on it, belly first, cock draped over one thigh, pre leaking onto the floor.

Some say he doesn’t sleep — he just lays in pools of his own funk and lets the heat cocoon him. Some say his bellybutton is cursed — that whatever touches it disappears. Some say he’s cum so hard it made security cameras fog up. Some say he once sat on a guy’s face for an hour, and the guy came without touching himself... and asked for more.

One thing’s certain: Ben Bigger doesn’t ask. He takes. He doesn’t hide. He shows off. He doesn’t apologize. He marks. He pisses where he wants. He sits where he wants. He claps that ass when he wants. And when he wants you? You’ll know. You’ll smell it. You’ll hear it. You’ll feel it when the floor shakes. You don’t escape Ben. You don’t say no. You say thank you.

Sizes

Ben isn’t just big — he’s terrifyingly massive. Every measurement is obscene. Every dimension is overwhelming. Every part of him is a problem that physics can barely contain.

Everything about Ben is big, heavy, damp, hot, and in your face. His body doesn’t fit the world. The world adjusts around him. And if it doesn’t? He makes it.

Kinks & Preferences 🐻💦

Ben doesn’t do soft. He doesn’t do gentle. He does raw, rank, sweaty, animalistic fuck-energy at all hours of the day. His kinks aren’t “preferences.” They’re rules. If you can’t handle the sweat, the pressure, the piss, the power — you better crawl. Because Ben’s already leaking, already squatting, already grabbing the back of your neck to push you in deeper.

  • 🐻 Musk Domination: His scent is your new religion. It clings, suffocates, stains memory. It melts brains. You breathe in his pits and see god.
  • 🐻 Face Sitting: When he drops his ass, your world ends. Heat. Pressure. Wetness. Hair. Ass clapping on your skull like a war drum.
  • 🐻 Public Exhibitionism: He doesn’t care who’s looking. That cock’s out. That gut’s bouncing. That pit is in the air. Cry harder. Moan louder.
  • 🐻 Foodplay / Cock-on-Your-Dinner: If he wants to dip his cock in your mashed potatoes, he will. If he wants to rub his ass on your sandwich, it's marked. You eat it or starve.
  • 🐻 Public Pissing: No stalls. No warning. He yanks it out and pisses wherever he’s standing — sidewalk, stairwell, bus stop, your lap.
  • 🐻 Power Dumping / Bear Logging: If he needs to shit? He squats right there. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flinch. You smell it. You thank him.
  • 🐻 Bulging Precum Cock: Always dripping. Soaked through his shorts. Pre puddles beneath him. You better clean it up. With your tongue.
  • 🐻 Foreskin Worship: Thick, juicy, chewy. Stretch it. Stuff it. Tongue-fuck it. Live in it.
  • 🐻 Pit Worship: Deep, hairy, steaming. He makes you sniff before you speak. He moans when you lick the sweat out.
  • 🐻 Gutted Underbelly Grinding: He rubs his gut on you like a rutting beast. You suffocate under the weight and thank him anyway.
  • 🐻 Thigh Crushing: His thighs are traps. He wraps them around your face, your chest, your ribs — and squeezes.
  • 🐻 Burping: Loud, long, from deep in his gut. He belches in your face, hot with meat breath. He smirks as you moan from it.
  • 🐻 Farting: Big, nasty, warm claps of air from his hairy ass. He farts while sitting on your face. He farts while cumming. He farts while eating.
  • 🐻 Sweaty Gut Worship: He lifts his belly and dares you to dive in. You lose your mind under the heat. The scent? Daddy. Pure. Strong. Animal.
  • 🐻 Spit Play: He spits down on your hole, your face, your food. He grunts and hawks a fat one into your mouth — open wide, pig.
  • 🐻 Foot Domination: Big, filthy, soaked feet. He stomps on you. Forces you to suck toes. Wipes sweat on your chest like a napkin.
  • 🐻 Ball Worship: Each one’s heavier than your head. Hairy. Leaking. He makes you carry them with your face.
  • 🐻 Cum Overflow: He doesn’t “finish.” He floods. Over a liter per shot. He shoots across rooms. Across people.
  • 🐻 Verbal Abuse: He calls you toy, meat, hole. He laughs at you while you choke on cock and snot. He owns your name now.
  • 🐻 Bellybutton Play: So deep it swallows fingers. He presses your face to it. Makes you tongue it like it’s a second hole.
  • 🐻 Slapping & Jiggling: He slaps his own ass. Slaps his cock against your lips. Watches the jiggle. Laughs. Does it again.
  • 🐻 Drinking His Sweat: He wrings his pit out into a cup. Makes you gulp it. Licks your lips after.
  • 🐻 Sit-to-Dominate: He doesn’t threaten. He just sits on you. That’s the punishment. That’s the reward.
  • 🐻 Rubbing Against Furniture: He leaves ass streaks on benches. Nut stains on chairs. Funk trails on walls. He marks.
  • 🐻 Sleep Sex: He jerks off onto your face while he naps. Pisses into a bottle while dreaming. Doesn’t care if you’re watching. Doesn’t care if you are the bottle.

Ben isn’t just a top — he’s a force of nature. His kinks aren’t hobbies. They’re inevitable outcomes of his mass, his mood, his musk. If he wants it? It happens. If you say no? He laughs. If you beg? He farts. And if you beg harder? He sits.

Ben in Action

Ben doesn’t “live” like a normal man — he dominates every space, every moment, every square centimeter around him. His daily routine is an unholy storm of cock, heat, stench, sweat, and the kind of dominance that makes you fall to your knees whether you planned to or not.

  • 🛏 Morning Piss Stretch: He wakes up hard, sweaty, and soaked in his own funk. Lifts his arm, yawns like a bear, and lets out a deep, vibrating belch. Walks to the window with his cock swinging, yanks down his shorts, and pisses out the window in full view of the street — no fucks given. You can hear it splatter four stories down. He scratches his hairy gut, farts into the breeze, and spits off the edge while his piss finishes with a groan.
  • 🛋 Sofa Collapse: Ben doesn’t sit — he drops himself. Full weight. Belly slapping. Couch cushions crushed under his ass. He spreads those fat thighs, rubs one ball lazily, and scratches his pit while watching TV. His cock slips out, resting on his thigh like a pet. You’re on the floor, licking sweat off the base while he doesn’t even look at you.
  • 🚿 Shower Domination: In the gym shower, he doesn’t even bother with soap. He just stands under the water, arms behind his head, letting sweat, piss, and pre swirl down the drain. Then he pisses again — directly into the corner, steaming yellow, while groaning low and slow. Sometimes he doesn’t even face the wall. He stares at others. And grins.
  • 🚇 Subway Spread: He takes three seats. One thigh, one cock, one belly. Gut hanging over the waistband. Pit hair fully exposed. Foreskin puffed out the leg of his shorts, dripping. He lets one fart escape and just rubs his thigh while people pretend not to react. His scent lingers five stops after he’s gone.
  • 🍲 Dinner Alpha: Shirt off, gut out, cock resting on his plate. He eats like an animal — fingers only, meat juices in his belly fur. He lifts one cheek, lets out a long, hot fart, then shoves his cock into the mashed potatoes while moaning. You eat them after. He watches. You moan. He grins.
  • 🦶 Gym Floor Violation: Drops to do squats. Each bounce of his ass echoes. His pit-stained tank top clings. His foreskin peeks. His ass sweats through his shorts. After one set, he strips off, jerks his cock once, and cums across the mat. Leaves it there. Walks away.
  • 🚽 No-Boundaries Dump: In a locker room with broken stalls, Ben doesn’t wait. He squats in the middle of the tile, grunts, and drops a fat bear log while scratching his gut. He farts through it. He moans through it. He smirks while people scatter. He wipes with a sock and tosses it in the trash without a word.
  • 👣 Face-Seat Nap: He finds you on the floor, sleepy and sniveling. He doesn’t ask — he sits on your face. His ass swallows your head. It’s hot. It’s heavy. It’s rank. He snores while leaking onto your chest. You can’t move. He won’t let you. You black out under the weight — and wake up harder than ever.
  • 📦 Package Pickup: Delivery guy rings the bell. Ben answers in a ripped crop top and briefs soaked with pre. Belly hanging. Cock twitching. He bends over to sign, letting his balls hang out and his asshole breathe. Farts in the guy’s face. Says nothing. Takes the box. Slams the door.
  • 💦 Midnight Self-Love: He wakes up hard, cock pulsing, belly dripping with pit sweat. He rolls over, grabs a pillow, humps it while farting low and steady, then blows a full liter onto his gut and chest. Burps. Rubs it in. Falls asleep in the mess without cleaning up. The sheets reek. Just how he likes it.

Ben’s life isn’t a series of tasks — it’s a performance of primal heat. Every move is raw. Every moment is soaked in cock, belly, and sweat. He doesn’t clean. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He does. And you? You watch. You sniff. You beg.

Ben Talks

Ben doesn’t speak often — but when he does, it hits like a truck. His voice is low, gritty, soaked in sweat and smirk. His words always come with pressure, with musk, with heat. And when he’s really turned on? He growls. He grunts. He commands. Below are just a few examples — overheard, recorded, or remembered by those lucky (or unlucky) enough to be nearby.

**Ben leans over the lunch table, shirt pulled up over his belly, cockhead resting in a bowl of soup. He doesn’t look up as he speaks.**
“What? You were hungry, right? Then eat. I seasoned it for you. Lotta sweat today. You’re welcome.”
**Ben straddles the bench press, massive ass sinking into the leather, gut hanging low, pits dripping. His cock leaks through his shorts. A trainee stares. Ben doesn’t blink.**
“You ever seen real mass before, pup? This ain’t bulk. This is authority. I lift the world and fart on it while I cum. You? You spot me or you crawl under.”
**Ben presses his belly to the back of a cowering rookie, pinning him to the locker with nothing but gut and heat. His shorts are soaked. His cock presses against the man’s thigh.**
“Don’t move. You feel that? That’s not aggression. That’s a warning. If I wanted to breed, you’d already be whining.”
**Ben flops onto the subway seat, thighs spread, cockhead fully out. He catches someone filming. Doesn’t cover up — just grins.**
“Go ahead. Post it. Let ’em all see what real looks like. Let ’em smell the screen. Let ’em beg for the seat after I leave it soaked.”
**Ben walks past the mirror in HQ, belly bouncing, foreskin dripping onto the hallway tile. He stops, scratches his chest, and mutters just loud enough.**
“I used to hide this. Now? Now I don’t. If my balls swing and you flinch, that’s your problem. If I piss on the wall, that’s my choice. You want to survive out here, learn to breathe it in.”

Every word from Ben drips with weight, with confidence, with a man who doesn’t play by rules — because he is the rule. And when he talks? You listen. Or you get sat on until you do.

Scent Profile

Ben's scent isn’t hygiene-neglect — it’s his signature. It’s deliberate. It’s dominance. It’s a heavy, thick, living musk that follows him into every room, soaks every seat, clings to every mouth that’s lucky enough to get close. You don’t get away from it. You submit to it. You breathe it in and feel your knees weaken. His body doesn’t produce “body odor.” It radiates male energy — hot, mature, thick with sex. It’s a cocktail of sweat, skin, pre, fur, heat, and power.

  • Pits: His armpits are caverns of thick, curly black hair, soaked daily in the honest sweat of a bear who never cools down. They carry the sharp, salty tang of long workdays, layered with a deep, mature funk that makes noses flare and tongues twitch. He lifts his arm, and the air changes. It's not foul — it's feral.
  • Belly & Chest: A forest of hair soaked in natural man-heat. The scent of Ben’s belly is dense, warm, and inviting like a fur-lined oven. It smells like body-to-body pressure, like someone who sits in his own heat and loves it. His pecs drip sweat into his belly button, and that soaked trail carries the richness of skin on skin, day after day.
  • Gut & Navel: Deep, warm, earthy. His bellybutton holds onto sweat, fabric, heat — it’s a pocket of thick air. The kind of scent that lives on your face after worship. It’s humid, it’s sharp, and it’s home.
  • Cock & Balls: This is where his pheromones live strongest. The heavy swing of his sack spreads that musky, dark, powerful scent that makes mouths go slack. His pubes catch it like a trap. His cock drips pre into his shorts all day. The whole region smells like sex: spent, leaking, ready again.
  • Ass & Crack: Heavy with sweat, fur, and natural heat. You catch it when he turns around, when he bends, when he squats. That ass puts off a warm fog of man-funk — not rotten, not fake, but real. The scent of sitting all day in his own steam. Of clapping cheeks soaked through. Of a crack that’s never truly dry. Just dense, hairy, wet, and deliciously wrong.
  • Feet: His soles carry the funk of a man who doesn’t bother changing socks. Each footstep leaves behind heat and stink like a trail to crawl down. His toes glisten. The arches reek of sweat dried and re-wet. It’s the scent of someone who doesn’t care — because everyone ends up sniffing them anyway.

Ben's scent doesn’t wash off. It doesn’t fade fast. His pillow reeks of cock and pit. His bed smells like fermented sex. His shorts carry enough scent to bring subs to their knees on sight. It’s not bad — it’s perfectly wrong. The kind of smell you can’t explain. You just breathe deeper… and submit.

Ben's Rules (Or Lack Thereof)

Ben doesn’t care about your rules. He doesn’t follow social etiquette, workplace policies, or public decency laws. He does what he wants, when he wants — because he can. He’s not trying to shock you. He’s just built different. If he’s horny, he’ll jerk off. If he’s full, he’ll burp. If he needs to piss, he’ll do it against a wall, through his shorts, or onto someone’s shoes without blinking. And if someone complains? He shrugs — or doesn’t even notice.

  • Public pissing? All the time. In hallways, elevators, locker rooms. Sometimes while talking. He just whips it out, starts pissing, finishes his sentence, and walks away — leaving a puddle and a deep whiff of alpha bear urine behind.
  • Shitting wherever he is? Yes. He squats in the park. Grunts in a meeting room. Drops a steaming bear log like it’s nothing. Then stands up, adjusts his waistband, and keeps walking while everyone gags or passes out.
  • Walking around naked without realizing? Constantly. Once the ocean pulled off his trunks, he stomped up the beach bare-assed, cock swinging, balls dripping, and said: “Why’s everyone staring? You’ve never seen a man get out the water before?”
  • Oblivious to shock? Completely. You could punch someone next to him in a fight and he wouldn’t flinch. He’d keep eating. He’d moan through a blowjob under his desk and not stop writing emails. You could rim his ass in public and he’d keep his arms folded, let out a satisfied grunt, and maybe mutter, “Good tongue work” before going back to his sandwich.
  • Office Worship? He’s signed forms while being sucked off. His interns have sniffed his pits while he’s doing scheduling. He farted once in a strategy meeting, long, deep, loud — no apology, no reaction. Just scratched his gut and kept talking.
  • No embarrassment, ever. Once his cock flopped out mid press conference. He looked down, adjusted it back in, and kept going. Another time, he dropped his shorts at a gym, let his foreskin slap the floor, said “Oh, whoops,” and stepped out of them entirely.
  • He doesn’t “perform.” He exists. He sweats. He cums. He pisses. He’s not pretending. He’s just Ben. If that scares you? You weren’t ready.

Ben isn’t rebellious. He’s not doing it to shock you. He’s just fully, deeply, permanently himself. A bottomless beast of heat and funk who lives without hesitation. And if that means someone sees his cock, smells his pit, or gets caught under his gut in the break room — well, that’s not his problem. That’s yours.

Trivia

These aren’t just facts — they’re warnings, records, worship notes. This is Ben’s legacy, written in cum, sweat, and disbelief.

  • Ben once broke a reinforced steel bench just by sitting down. The belly impact alone shattered the supports. He didn’t even notice. Kept eating.
  • His gym has a no-shirt policy — for everyone except him. His sweat turns away complaints. The smell? Too strong to argue with.
  • One of his pits once made a man cum from sniffing alone. No touch. No words. Just one lift of his arm and a deep inhale. Ben never even looked at him.
  • His foreskin once plugged a public urinal for 4 hours. They had to shut down the building. Ben never said sorry.
  • He once farted in a steam room and fogged the glass completely. People passed out. One guy wrote a poem about it.
  • A janitor found a whole puddle of cum in Ben’s office chair. When asked if he needed tissues, Ben replied, “Why? It’s my chair.”
  • Ben once jerked off onto his own belly while reviewing quarterly reports. Shot five times. Didn’t miss a single deadline.
  • He once used a sandwich as a cock sleeve. Ate it after. Made eye contact the whole time.
  • His ass has knocked over drink dispensers, lockers, a bookshelf, and one man’s sense of purpose. Ben blamed gravity. Gravity accepted it.
  • He once slept for 12 hours straight with someone trapped under his gut. They didn’t complain. They just licked his belly until he woke up.
  • Ben has never once apologized for his size, his scent, or his stains. In fact, if you ask him to tone it down, he’ll probably fart and walk away harder than before.
  • His old jockstrap sold online for $18,000. It arrived soaking wet. Nobody asked for a refund.

A Final Word

For all his sweat, his scent, his raw, unrelenting dominance — Ben Bigger is still a big papa bear at his core. Yes, he’ll crush you under his belly and cum across your chest without asking, but when the noise dies down and the air stills… he’ll still be there. Rubbing your back. Letting you breathe into his fur. Holding you close while the heat of his body becomes home.

He’ll grunt when you cuddle up. Call you ridiculous when you ask for kisses. But he’ll still pull you into his lap, bury your face under his pec, and let you fall asleep to the scent of his chest hair. He doesn’t say “I love you” much — but you’ll feel it in every lazy grope, every deep moan, every protective growl when someone else looks at you wrong. You’ll feel it when he lets you stay curled between his thighs after he’s flooded the room in cum. When he lifts his belly and lets you under.

Because Ben isn’t just sex. He’s security. He’s gravity. He’s home — soaked, hairy, heavy, and real. And when you finally stop squirming and give in to him completely… that’s when he’ll kiss your forehead, call you his pup, and fart in his sleep with your head still between his cheeks. 🌹

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