by Araddion

2015 R. Keith Peck


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"Come on, you lazy motherfucker!" The voice was deep, gruff, but jocular.

Sweat beaded Dustin's face. Huge semicircles darkened his gray tee shirt. It swam in his asscrack. His body surged with power. But it was the barbell, loaded about ten pounds heavier than anything he'd ever pushed before, which dominated his attention. It was his burden, gravity his enemy, victory his goal.


Dustin's mind had shifted from trying to fathom the size of Mike O'Hara's cock. The man, proprietor of Mike's Iron House, was a bastard. Worse than the worse Lejeune drill instructor. Mike was a sexy goddamned bastard, but a bastard nonetheless.

Dustin's pectorals blazed and his triceps quivered in the same way San Generica did when Godzilla's thorazine wore off. No surrender! He had to fight! But the fucking barbell wasn't moving.

"You need me to help, little man?" Mike's hands, ready to assist, were cupped beneath the barbell. Dustin knew his tormentor was eager to lend assistance and thus humiliate him. A growl escaped him. Fuck that! He grunted, let out a roar, and slowly, millimeter by millimeter, the barbell lifted. It took days, weeks, centuries, but at last Dustin's arms locked rigid. The barbell's chrome rod drew a line across the brown-stained ceiling.

"All right," said Mike. He guided the barbell back. Dustin let it drop into the support.

"Fuck!" Dustin thundered, panting, laying on the bench.

It was OK to holler that unholy word in Mike's Iron House. Neither Moms nor Baptists were present, so no member of America's womanish society need suffer phallic offense. Of course, Mike O'Hara couldn't ban women. Or Baptists. But he could make sure his ratty, threadbare gym reeked of sweat and male musk. That scared away all sorts of undesirable fuckwits.

Dustin had no problem with Baptists, having ridden enough of their cocks in spunk-spangled booths at innumerable seedy bookstores. He'd come to have a minor fetish for the act of prying the devout away from Jehovah and into a life of liquid, luscious sin. But women? Well, Mike hinted that lesbians sometimes showed up for a work out. Dustin hadn't seen any yet, but he imagined ferocious bull-dyke types. He hoped so. They were cool.

"You need me to help you up?"

"Shut the fuck up," muttered Dustin, but he grinned. A grin was about all he could manage.

"You're weak, little man. You can talk shit about flying kicks and punching through cinder block, but only iron makes you strong."

"Anyone ever call you an asshole?" asked Dustin.

"You're the thirty-eighth person today."

Thunder rumbled. Some dude, built like a tank, had dropped a pair of dumbbells. The dude paced, windmilling his arms.

Mike's Iron House wasn't a dojo. No ring for sparring; the place wasn't big enough. But a gym was acceptable for now, even though Dustin needed to keep his skill up.

He'd found Mike's Iron House himself. Mom had been useless. Yesterday, she'd dragged him out to her gym, a hen's den stuffed with elliptical machines and bikes and treadmills and fat middle-aged women. He watched, hiding his horror behind a bland mask, while they moved listlessly on their machines and rendered rapt obeisance to the Oprah Winfrey Network. Empowerment is great! Just don't make me break a sweat! Dustin felt pure loathing for people so empty they had to be told what to buy.

Mom meant well but ... Nothin' doin', Mom! Dustin wanted panther-like muscle and musk. It wasn't available there. Having ridden with Mom, he was trapped. But he wasn't going to stay there while Mom pedaled. He spun on his heel and unsuccessfully cruised the shopping center's bathroom.

Dustin had considered the YMCA on Hillsborough Street, a few blocks down from NC State. He had hot memories of the place. It was almost like yet entirely different from Dustin's ideal sex club. You could work out. If lucky -- the clientele was mixed -- you could hook up with a pumped-up horny guy. Once he'd met a State student who taught Dustin all the arts of pissplay. He was the first guy to anoint Dustin's rectum with the golden wine.

Disappointment. The old building, brick covered with peeling white paint, had been demolished. It its place stood a chrome-and-glass palace. Dustin sense of family-friendliness tingled a warning, and that decided it. That sense was always accurate. There was no sleaze to be had in the Y. He didn't park, simply drove down to the Belltower roundabout, turned onto Oberlin, and returned home.

Billionaire Internet nerds rode to his rescue. Dustin's Google results of course listed first all the big chain gyms. He went on to page 2, where the interesting stuff began. It was the name that attracted him. Mike's Iron House. And the address, on 401 in Garner, so not too far away.

It was tucked away in an old shopping center. When he'd walked through the door he knew he'd hit the jackpot. A couple of 'roid boys, hoisting barbells, grunted and screeched. 'Roiders weren't Dustin's type, because 'roids shrank the genitals. Nonetheless they were a positive sign. Better still ... no women! Sweaty dudes! The smell of sweat and Clorox permeated the place, and Dustin's cock had plumped in his jock.

Mike O'Hara, big and muscled but not bulked up by 'roads, was Dustin's type.

Mike O'Hara wasn't Irish. He was African, so black that obsidian itself seemed pale. Dustin's plump cock began stiffening when Mike rose from behind the desk. Dustin's sphincter tightened, because a stud like Mike deserved a tiny hole. Mike's tank top was stretched over massive pectorals, his shoulders resembled the Blue Ridge Mountains, and his belly a plateau of hard lava. His sweats frustrated Dustin. Fucking baggy, hiding everything. And, dammit, Mike wasn't into sagging.

A salesman's grin broke out on Mike's face. He was clever. His first words were: "You got a good build." He extended his hand. A gold ring glittered on a significant finger. "You're at the right place, let me tell you."

Marriage did not quench Dustin's lust. He liked married guys. All too easy to seduce to the dark side of the Force. Some booze, some weed, then a smile, two bangs, and a religion.

Dustin cleared his mind before he spoke. Because Dustin was imagining Mike's huge schlong, punch-fucking a pussy he knew had to be white and barely eighteen -- yeah, some trailer park slut, cheating on her slack jawed boyfriend with the biggest meat in town, too crazed with pleasure to worry how she'll explain to her beau why their baby looked like President Obama. Dustin just knew that was Mike's style.

Dustin tried to tug his shirttail over his crotch but there wasn't enough fabric. "I'm passing through town. Just going to be here a few months. You got any month-to-month deals?"

"You got money," boomed Mike, "I got a deal for you!"

Paperwork was signed. If it wasn't perfect, Mike's Iron House would do for now. There was still his old dojo in DC. He could keep his skill up there, meanwhile enjoying discrete whiffs of Mike's powerful armpit smell.

Lying on the bench, Dustin's short tee shirt revealed his own flat belly. Was Mike looking at it? He wished. Christ, Dustin was horny. He knew he needed to get back to DC ASAP. The big stud made him ache for drug-fueled decadence, and Dustin knew he wasn't going to find it here in Podunk.

"You need oxygen?" Mike smirked. "You want me to call 911?"

Dustin sat up, windmilling his arms to cool the burn in his pectorals. "You're the biggest asshole I've ever met."

"Who are you? My wife? You done?"


"Dude, you need yourself a partner. I can't spot for you every day. I'm the day shift here. I got shit to do. Who do you know in Raleigh?" They'd talked enough between sets so that Mike knew Dustin's general situation.

"A brother," said Dustin. "Some old friends."

"Get your damn brother in here. Let him spot you."

"We'll see," said Dustin. He stood. He didn't bother to tug his shorts up. The black waistband of his Treasure Island Media jockstrap peered over the gray fabric. If Mike had been sitting on the mat behind the bench he could've had a good view of the jock's leg straps too. Dustin wore his favorite shorts, a pair issued by the Corps in boot camp for PT. Dustin, then a scrawny eighteen year old kid, remembered theme as a bag which caught the wind. He'd grown into them. Now they were almost skin tight.

"I got chores, dude."

"Later. And thanks Mike."

Dustin watched Mike while his breathing and heart slowed. Mike grabbed a towel and a spray bottle and began wiping down benches.

The men's locker room wasn't much wider than a hallway. Lockers lined one side, a bench the other. It was empty. Dustin shucked his shirt, shorts and jock and tossed them into his locker. He walked to the shower stark naked, towel draped over his shoulder. The shower wasn't much, just a single stall and a plastic curtain. The water was hot from the get-go. He stepped in and began to rinse. No soap. He wanted to get the sweat off, and relax.

Still horny, he thought about DC. Nineteen year old black thugs. The Minotaur Club. Dozer. Fuck he needed to get laid. Nelly queens in bathrooms were all right, but they were appetizers for a pig like Dustin. He needed a meat feast.

"Oh, it's you." Mike had tugged the shower curtain partly open. "I thought you were gone."

Back to Mike, Dustin eased his legs apart, arched his back, and rinsed his face. It was artfully casual. It never hurt to advertise. "What are you trying to do? Run me out of here?"

Mike squinted. "What the hell is that?"

Heh, Dustin thought. He'd forgotten that his tattoos were gonna get some comment here. He couldn't glibly say Barebacking because Mike probably didn't know what that meant. "Tattoos," Dustin tried, hoping that would shut down any embarrassing line of questioning. Though Dustin was obviously willing to show Mike what his tattoos meant. Right here. In this shower.

Mike laughed. "On your ass?"

"Got 'em in the Corps." Dustin smiled to himself. "I kinda got to be conservative round my Mom."

"What is it? Cowboy breaking a bronco?"

"Yeah," said Dustin. "Some of my buddies in Iraq ... we called ourselves the Broncos."

"Denver's got a shitty team," said Mike. "Your ass is the right place for 'em" He was gone.

Pictures faded from Dustin's mind. Pictures of Mike shoving aside the curtain. Of climbing in the shower. Of putting his hand between Dustin's shoulder blades and shoving him against the stall. Of sinking a titanic black horsecock between Dustin's barebacking cowboys, and experiencing birth control nature's way.

Fuck! He shut off the water, toweled off, and strode to his locker. Mike was still cleaning and said nothing. Making sure his butt was aimed at Mike, just in case he was sneaking glances, Dustin slipped back into TIM jock, into shorts still soggy with sweat, and into his shirt.

Mike called as Dustin slammed the locker, "You coming in tomorrow, little guy?"

"The name's Dustin motherfucking Mayes -- " he slammed his fist into his palm " -- and yeah, I'll be here tomorrow."

"Fuck you later, then," Mike laughed.

The afternoon was warm and a little on the humid side. Dustin felt sweat birthing again on his skin. He liked it. It felt sleazy and natural. He liked it when his exterior matched his interior. He slipped into his Mustang and started it. For a moment he sat there. What next?

He needed cock. But where could he get it? Search online? Nah. He liked getting fucked up, blasted out of his mind, and that meant holing up in a hotel room, and that might freak Mom out. There was no Minotaur Club in Raleigh, no place where pigs could find quick, cheap, easy, depraved sex. The adult bookstores here were ripe with queens who were there to talk and kvetch but not to fuck. Worse, they were quite happy to disturb those who were there to fuck.

Then a very strange thing happened.

Dustin noticed out of the corner of his eye a tiny gray figure, one of those weird dwarfs that capered in his dreams. He knew it wasn't really there because, just like in a Star Wars prequel, it looked like an image from a cheap video game. Too shiny, too smooth, too stiff. He didn't jump, not even when the dwarf reached over and took Dustin's hand off the wheel. He felt nothing from the touch -- no pressure, no heat, no coldness. It was as if his hand moved on its own. The fabrication move Dustin's hand to the dashboard GPS, and he watched the figure manipulate his fingers. An address came up, and he heard the GPS say, "Computing route ... drive 300 feet west. Turn right onto 401 and drive north."

Then Dustin was, as he'd always been, alone with himself. It was a peculiar thing to happen, but it was not unique. Typically he had to be fucked up on ice or weed. Seeing the gray dwarf wasn't an experience Dustin feared. The little gray man always signified an adventure.

He backed out and drove. The GPS intoned its commands. Up 401 onto westbound I-40. Take the off-ramp onto highway 64. Then into Cary. Cary, the Platonic ideal of suburban sprawl.

A sharp intake of breath, and there was a moment, briefer than a lightning strike, when he could've turned around. But he didn't. He obeyed the figure's commands, encoded as they were in the monotonous voice of his GPS.

He turned into a housing estate. Factory-fresh modern homes with sparse yards. There were kids on bicycles, mostly very young. A new neighborhood, filled with young couples just staring out in life. But well-off couples. Technocrats from RTP.

He made the final turn into the cul-de-sac and parked his Mustang beside a mailbox some three houses above the target address.

Dustin didn't think it was very smart to think about why he'd been guided here. Even when he wasn't fucked up it often felt like someone else sat in the control center in his brain, fingering the touchscreens that controlled his course through reality.

If the why remained mysterious, Dustin at least knew where he had driven.

He lowered the window. Warm sunlight bathed his arm. It was mid-afternoon. In the distance he heard kids at play. A distant lawnmower. There was no one in sight on the lawns facing the cul-de-sac. Saplings struggled toward maturity in every lawn. Minivans and small SUVs sat in broad driveways. The garages were as large as some of the old houses you could find in south Raleigh.

Dustin wished he was stoned. Iced up. Fucked up. Something. He needed to kick part of his mind out of his head. He seethed with unspent energy, with needs he'd never forgotten but had fought to conceal.

But who will know? Mom's ten miles away.

The cul-de-sac sloped down to the turnaround. Behind the houses down there grew a wood, not old growth but the scrub that had sprouted after some farmer abandoned his fields fifty years ago.

He stared at the house, taking pains to appear casual. Arm on the door, hand on the wheel, legs spread, seat back. No one appeared to be watching him. But Dustin felt eyes. Felt eyes roaming his body, a creepy gaze that reminded him too much of creepy dreams.

Dustin recognized the house from the pictures Mom had shown him. Nothing special about it. It was painted an innocuous tan and beige. No neighbor need suffer the bane of the American middle class, the heartbreak of decreased property value caused by exuberant colors. The house's front yard was a dark, lush green. But Spartan. Not a flower bed or a water feature in sight. Two vehicles sat parked in the driveway in front of the two-car garage.

Two? Dustin's fingers tightened on the wheel. What the hell did that mean?

Parked nearest to the walk leading to the porch was a sporty new-model Saab. Dustin had grunted when he saw that. Why not a Porsche? That was more his style. Beside it was a Chevy Colorado pickup truck, sporting shiny new rims, fart boxes beneath the rear fender, and a custom paint job that Dustin wouldn't have minded on his Mustang.

The Saab was David's. But who belonged to the Colorado? Clearly it was a dude's truck, a guy who juiced up on testosterone, who hooted and fist pumped at football games, who guzzled beer, who yelled "Llllladies!" to chicks as he drove past.

Why was it here at David's?

At Dad's funeral, a year ago, David's eyes had been ... well, normal. Dustin remembered them blazing with maniacal ... well, a creepy, proprietary, predatory radiance. At Dad's funeral, however, there had been emptiness in David's eyes. You could project all sorts of things on a screen like that. Sadness. Benign normality. Banal all-American wholesomeness. No one -- Mom, cop, God -- could look at David and suspect what he'd done. It was the Act. David had to perform the act since Mom had been present, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she sat in the front pew.

And what had been in Dustin's eyes that day? Well, the image others see of one's self is always life's greatest mystery.

Dustin and David pulled off their show quite well. Distant brothers come together to mourn the loss of a beloved father.

You're not in town much, are you? David had murmured to him, while they stood s beside Dad's casket, receiving well-wishers with muted words of thanks and consolation.

Don't get back much.

Why not?

Dustin had said, Just busy, even though the real answer had been Christ, dude, I live in fuckin DC. I can get fucked up, I can go to the goddamned Minotaur Club and have three hot guys stuff their cocks up my ass, or I can get on-line and get fucked by godknows how many studs, or I can shove my ass up to a glory hole in some bookstore off I-95 and I can walk out two hours later with half a gallon of strange jism up my guts.

Mom misses you.

He slammed the wheel. Motherfucker! What the hell was going on in there?

Dustin felt the sweat trickling from his armpits down his flanks. Sweat was the best. It was maybe his favorite drug. Back in high school, scrawny and gangly and small, he lingered in the boy's locker room, breathing sweat and musk. His habit got him bawled out by Mr. Frank, the PE teacher, because he was always late for lining up with his schoolmates at the start of PE. And Mrs. Auchinleck, his algebra teacher, because he lollygagged, looking at all his buddies' boxers, wondering if that motion in the crotch signified the huge cock he those little gray dwarfs whispered about.

And, of course, he smelled sweat in those secret moments just before those feet began to make his bedroom floor creak

He shook himself. Why am I here?

The sound of laughing kids, two streets away, was like the tinkling of fairy bells in a tree-shaded mountain glen.

Dustin was about to start the engine and head home when the front door of David's house flew open.

He sank back in the seat. Reflex. He was pretty sure he couldn't be seen, and he convinced himself David wouldn't recognize the blue Mustang.

The front door didn't frame David. It was a teen who emerged, pulling the door shut behind him. A slim, lanky boy, with short wavy blond hair. An athletic shirt with a school logo and slit down the sides revealed taut skin. Decent build for a kid. Basketball shorts showed developed legs. Not much hair on his calves. Sixteen? Seventeen?

He teaches wrestling! Can you believe it?

Mom, you don't want to know what I can believe.

The blond teen paused on the porch, shrugged off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder. He strutted down the steps. Halfway down the walk he stopped, grabbed the waistband of his shorts and tugged them up.

Suddenly Dustin couldn't breathe. It felt like a python coiled round his chest.

The blond teen climbed into the Colorado. He spent a few moments staring into the rear-view mirror, finger-combing his hair. He leaned back and, like Dustin had been doing a few seconds ago, stared at nothing in particular. Then he tilted his head back and Dustin knew the teen let out a shout. A whoop of triumph. He started the truck, backed out and turned around, tires squealing.

As the truck shot past Dustin saw the kid's red eyes and his goofy grin and he knew the kid was stoned. Dustin's head swiveled to follow the pickup. The kid drove OK. Not swerving but way too fast. The Colorado turned and roared away through the development.

Holy fucking shit. My brother's not just a pervert. He's a goddamned pedophile.

Rage boiled up. Red rage like blood. Dustin beat the steering wheel, hammering it. Goddamn it, goddamn it, you'll fuck us all up!

He was out of the car and halfway up David's walk before he realized it. He felt like a bull and the kid was a red cape. His fists were tightly bunched.

He pounded on the door. Fuck the goddamned doorbell. He waited, grinding a balled-up fist into a palm. He shifted from foot to foot. I'll plaster that motherfucker and he'll never touch another kid again!

Dustin heard noise on the other side of the door. He froze, ready for action. But nothing happened. What the hell? The peephole. Son of a bitch. The door had a damn peephole in it. He'd lost the advantage of surprise.

David hadn't.

David was just as tall as he'd always been. Just as broad shouldered. Hi chest, on full display because he was shirtless, was now maybe as powerful as Mike O'Hara's. David's skin, stretched tight over swollen biceps and pectorals, was creamy smooth, almost milk white. The small tufts of hair that used to cluster round his nipples were gone. David wore navy athletic pants, decorated with three stripes down the side. They rode low in the front. His six-pack was still there, maybe even more deeply carved.

"Dusty," David chuckled. "I'm up here."

Dustin's eyes rose.

David still had Viking hair, something the wind might have tossed over his shoulder when the longships grounded and the sword-swinging plunderers leaped the gunwale, nothing on their minds but rape and pillage and then more rape. David's hair was disheveled, wavy locks floating round his face like a golden fog. His blue eyes were icy and his smiles perilously close to a sneer.

"Mom said you were in town --" David began.

"What did you do to that kid?" Dustin snarled.

The sneer metamorphosed into a bow of benign contempt. "Spying on me?" David glanced over Dustin's shoulder. "Mustang. Yours? Must be doing well for yourself. Dad's money? Come on in." He grinned, showing canines. "Don't say no. I can't stand here. One of my neighbors got a fourteen year old daughter. And she looks." He scratched his crotch. "And I'd guess you don't want me to knock her up." He whispered: "You know how much I spooge."

So Dustin went inside.

Air conditioning enfolded Dustin as David shut the door behind them. Dustin took in the bit of the house he could see. Nice furnishings, new and clean. But he wasn't here for the tour. Dustin trembled and his fingers clenched spasmodically.

"You like my house?" David stood before the front door, folding his arms and taking a wide stance.

"Answer my question, fucker!"

David bent down. "Dusty. Don't be jealous."

Dustin almost went for his brother's throat. "So you did. Shit, David, he's sixteen!"

"Travis is eighteen," rumbled David. "He looks damn fine in a wrestling singlet, Dusty. That butt. Man, you oughta come over some time and watch one of his matches. I got some on video." David's voice dropped so it was almost inaudible. "Sweet buns. Travis might even make a top out of you."

"He's one of your students?"

"Yeah." David's eyes blazed with challenge.

"You're fucking one of your own students?"

"I never said I was fucking him. That's what's on your mind, Dusty."

"Don't play games!" Dustin roared. "I'm sick of your mind-fucks!"

"Wanna joint?"

The gale that had filled Dustin's sails died. But not the roiling, seething hunger. Resentment still lived, but it was now chained. David knew his weakness too well.

"Come on," said David. "I keep my stash in the garage."

Dustin followed his brother through the interior door to the garage. David's butt was still round and hard as ever. David's spine was a deep valley shadowed by the high plateaus of his deltoids. No fat on the waist.

The air in the garage was thick with marijuana smoke and there was a distinct tang that reminded Dustin of the pungency of Mike's Iron House. Sweat. Testosterone. Swollen nuts. Dustin's heart pounded faster, but with something that wasn't rage. Something that was much sweeter.

A sub-sized wrestling mat sat on the concrete. Since it lay flat, without curling edges, it didn't spend much time rolled up. Arranged along either side of the garage was a disarray of metal shelves, cheap plastic cabinets, cardboard boxes, and folding tables brimming with stuff. Near the garage door sat a rack of dumbbells and a weight bench holding a barbell. The same set had once sat in a damp corner in Mom's basement.

"You gonna rob me?" asked David over his shoulder.

"What the fuck you talking about?"

David rotated a finger in the air. "Turn around. I don't want you seeing where I keep my stash."

"Bastard, I don't --"

Once again the finger circled.

David turned, folded his arm, and clenched his jaw. He wasn't a goddamned kid any more.

The wolf whistle David emitted was just as sinister as those creaking floorboards. Dustin's cock swelled.

"You were those shorts just for me?"

"I don't do shit for you!"

"You've always done a lot for me, Dusty. You know that. OK. You can turn back round."

David knelt in front of what looked like a kitchen cabinet that had been pulled out of an old home. The door stood open. The shelf inside was stacked with baggie after baggie, rolled tight, full of dark green weed. The motherfucker never stopped playing mind games.

Destin's mouth watered. He swallowed. "You deal?"

"Fuck yeah," grunted David, packing a pipe. "You ever try to live on a teacher's salary?"

"You deal to your students?"

There was a heartbeat long pause before David answered. "Select students."

"How do you select them?"

"Well, it takes just a bit more than a pretty butt." David grinned a wide shit-eating grin. "I got a talent at picking 'em. It's gotten easy over the years. There's not that many uptight self-righteous Southerner fuckheads left in Cary. Civilized people have moved in! Northerners. Californians, even. Smart people. Sane people. Like DC. Or San Francisco." David passed the pipe to Dustin.

"Lighter?" Dustin asked.

"Heh. Guess you ain't going to get a lighter in that back pocket, are you?" David fished a lighter from his pocket. "You take the whole damn hit. I'm toasted." He grinned. "Spread jelly on me."

It wasn't merely good stuff. It was fucking awesome stuff. One toke and Dustin felt like the pilot of an SR-71. The whole goddamned world spread out beneath him in all its hazy glory. His exhalations thickened the smoky atmosphere. Dustin was a pro. He didn't cough once.

"You know some kid's gonna rat you out," Dustin said, looking down at the embers smoldering in the pipe bowl.

"No chance of that," said David. "I pick 'em right. You know that."

"They're kids. They can't keep their mouth shut."

David smirked. "Travis sure as hell can't. Not when I got my meat stuffed down his throat." He palmed his groin. Something swayed behind the nylon covering his thigh.

"He looks sixteen," repeated Dustin, his eyes watching that movement.

"I know. I know! Hot damn! But he's legal, man. One hundred percept hot-assed and horny legal."

"You're asking for trouble, man. Buttfucking your eighteen year old student? Shit, man if his Mom finds out and goes howling to the fucking TV stations ..."

David laughed. "You were always such a gullible little shit. Scared of the boogeyman." He snickered. "Or Mom."

Even through the effect of the weed the flash of resentment felt like a hot cloth had been pressed against Dustin's face.

"Since you're so goddamned curious --"

"I'm not curious --"

"-- I'll tell you what really happened." David's eyes took on the cold look of a predator. "Travis drove here with me after school. Travis thinks he's going to get a scholarship, but he's not that good. But he likes to practice, so I've been training him. I like feeling his tight young butt against my crotch. We sparred. I pinned him. Showed him how to get free. Then we broke up and I sold him a dime bag. Travis left, stoned and happy. You buy that?"

"Hell no. You're fucking him."

David chuckled. "Yeah. You know I like fucking 'em when they're fresh out of the oven." He shivered. "Ain't nothing better than tight young butt." He gestured. "Take a look at that mat. Get a sniff of his sweat. You'll know why he gets me so damn hot."

Sweat. Yeah. Dustin could never get enough of that. He walked onto the mat. Sweat aplenty. It looked like it had rained. Why hadn't he seen it before? Droplets spattered the blue. Sometimes isolated drops, almost perfectly circular, at other places clustered together.

"Kneel down," David crooned. "Smell 'em. It'll knock your socks off."

Dustin dropped to his knees. He glanced over his shoulder at David. Feeling loopy, he grinned. "Man, you wanna drill him bad, don't you?"

"All the damn time." David's palm cupped his junk through his pants.

Dustin bent close and sniffed. David's wrestling mat was soaked with fuck knows how much sweat. The background odor was more powerful than Mike's Iron House. Fuck yeah! Dustin was a bloodhound after quarry. He sniffed again and savored it. A tendril of sensation tickled Dustin's brain. And he knew this odor came from the blond teen's downy armpits. Man, Travis smelled hot. Like a panther, or a lion. Wow. Hot damn. Travis reeked of fresh-baked testosterone. Dustin crouch almost turned into a faceplant. A mat kiss.

Suddenly there was heat. David knelt behind Dustin. He shivered when David ran his hand up and down his spine.

"See what I mean?" whispered David.

"Yeah," Dustin purred.

"Not an ounce of fat. When he's in his singlet," said David, his fingers light as a gnat on the back of Dustin's neck, "all you can see is bulge. Yeah, Dusty, he's got bulge, but I like looking at his butt. Goddamn I love looking at his butt. Shit, Dusty, that boy could make you happy too." David leaned forward and spoke into Dustin's ear. "He got a fucking huge bulge 'tween his legs."

"Yeah?" A picture was forming in Dustin's head, a picture he liked very much.

"Yeah," said David. "Big balls on that kid. You want me to prove it?"


David's hand gently fastened to Dustin's neck. He guided his brother's head down and to the right.

It felt good to let David take charge. To be passive. Butterflies fluttered in Dustin's stomach. He watched the mat pass beneath his face. David kept guiding. They both had to crawl towards the circular border. Droplets of sweat winked at Dustin.

Suddenly he was staring down into a thick cluster of grape-sized droplets. White tendrils floated in a clear sea. The whole mess was the size of a pair of dinner plates.

"See that, Dusty?"


David forced Dustin's head lower. The milky substance swam before Dustin's eyes. Not four inches from the puddles Dustin got his wife. Yeah. It smelled of chlorine. He flashed back to all those times as a kid, lying in his bed, lifting his fingers to his nose, smelling what he just got his young balls to spill.

"Don't do anything," ordered David. "Don't say a fucking word."

Dustin shuddered. Resurrection? Yeah. It was just like being young again.

David's fingers walked off Dustin's neck and crept down his spine. A soft whimper escaped Dustin. The smell of spunk made his mouth water.

"Don't tell, and no one will find out." David's fingers slipped under Dustin's shirt, caressing Dustin's skin. "You're not as young as you used to be," murmured David. "But you're still fucking make your brother horny as hell."

Dustin had never sworn this would never happen again. He had pictured himself fighting off David, rising from his bed, wrapping his arms round David's shoulders in an attempt to throw the bastard to the ground. That was as far as he'd gone. If their cocks crossed in these fantasies ... well, that was just reality leaking in.

There was no rage. No resentment. He felt like a kitten being stroked. He shifted his knees apart.

"Yeah," murmured David. His hand slipped down and cupped Dustin's buttcheek. "Round. Tight round ass." His breath was hot in Dustin's ear. "Wanna wrestle? The way we used to?"

Silence means assent.

Dustin stared at the cooling puddle of spunk. His breathed rapidly, as if he'd just finished a workout. David seized the elastic of his brother's shorts. Dustin, knowing what came next, pulled his knees together. He shimmied a bit, helping David draw the damn fabric down, and he lifted his knees so David could tug his shorts free.

"Jockstrap," said David. "I like. Better than your boxers." His hot fingers caressed his brother's naked asscheeks. "Still smooth. I like 'em smooth." Fingers crept towards the crack. "Even here." One touched Dustin's pucker.

Dustin jumped a little. Damn he needed this. "Put it in me."

David's finger teased him, moving in long, languorous circles. He chuckled. "It's wanting a kiss, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Dustin.

"Open wide." The finger sank to the hilt. "Damn. You used to be tight as a gnat's ass. How many cocks you get stuffed up here?"

"Dunno," said Dustin, his back arched and his thighs parted. "Hundreds." He recalled gangbangs at the Minotaur Club, parties at his apartment, back rooms at bars, showers in Iraq. "Maybe millions."

David's finger slipped out of Dustin's cunt. David's palm weighed his brother's bag. "Full balls, huh?" He sniffed his palm. "Ripe jock. Wow, Dusty. My first pupil was my best pupil." He chuckled. "Slow learner. You were always second." David rose and stepped in front of Dustin. "Quit looking at that spunk. Look at me."

Dustin's eyes travelled up his brother's body. The nylon athletic pants. Flat belly like a prairie, the great mounts of his pectorals rising on the horizon. Fingernail-long nipples like the spire of ice-carved peaks. The contemptuous curve of David's natural sneer. Dustin's butthole pulsed. It had been so long since Dustin had looked at his brother from this perspective.

Hearts thudded in the marijuana fogbank.

David shucked his pants. Eagerly. They piled round his feet, a wrinkled blue pool. There it was, hanging down his left thigh. Dustin's old friend. Moist and powerful, engorged, limp yet heavy with blood.

"Don't tell me I gotta tell you what to do." David said. "I spent a lot of time training you, Dusty. Big brother wants to see results."

That training was still there, lurking behind the stunned realization that it was happening again.

David gaped wide, fastened his lips to his brother's swaying cock, and inhaled the meat. He tasted sweat, ass, and lube. These flavors dissolved away, and he was back in the old days. His brother's cock was in his mouth. The taste of David's cock blotted everything else from his mind. Worries about what Mom would think. Worries about what his buddies would think. Worries about what the neighbors would think.

There was nothing more important in Dustin's life than servicing his brother's big cock.

Following the dictates of ancestral memory, Dustin's lips and tongue, like an orgy of snails, worshipped David's breeder. The organ lengthened. Dustin did not choke when the thing passed under his uvula and entered his throat. But, as it approached his lungs, he worfed up a thick god of mucous. Not his brother's cock. That remained lodged in his gulley, growing thicker and stiffer. Soon ropes of mucous hung from Dustin's tightly stretched lips.

When David withdrew his cock from his little brother's throat, it felt to Dustin as if some lost toy had been rediscovered.

"Good job, Dusty."

David's cock was the biggest Dustin had ever seen. Eleven inches? A foot? It was, without exaggeration, almost as long and thick as Dustin's forearm. It was perfectly logical in Dustin's mind that, after being the slave to his brother's giant meat that his life was fated to be a quest to find this meat again. If it took hundreds, or thousands, or millions, he would enjoy a cock just as supreme as David's. None had ever filled the aching void as well as the one throbbing in front of Dustin's face right now.

Its only flaw was that it was cut. Perhaps it was the only humanized thing about David's shaft. Otherwise, David's meet would have been Gad Incarnate, the Messiah, the Second and Third and Fourth Coming.

"Been wantin' this," murmured David, "ever since Mom told me you were coming back into town. But I didn't think you were going to come here and beg me for it."

Dustin almost said, I'm not begging, but then he moved his weight from his palms to his forearms.

David strutted around Dustin. He opened the door to a short half-pint refrigerator, the kind you kept in dorm rooms. He tossed Dustin a bottle, which skidded across the mat and came to a stop in the pool of jism. Jungle Juice. Fuck yeah. Since spunk slimed it, it was a trick getting the seal off. Never underestimate the hunger of a junky. He loosened the cap. He folded his arms in the jism, clutching the bottle.

"I'm not taking your jock off --" David began.

"-- then don't," said Dustin.

David turned, smearing Wet on his cock. His fearsome weapon shone. "Ass high. That's your motto, Dusty."

"You don't use goddamned rubbers, do you?"

David snorted with derisive laughter.

There wasn't much ceremony. Yeah, it was a reunion, but they were both addicts. Why celebrate the melting of crystals in the spoon or the discovery of a forgotten needle? Just indulge in the drug.

David knelt. His bulk shadowed his younger brother's form. He nudged his meat between Dustin's asscheeks. Cockhead nestled into pucker. The two squirmed.

"Been a while," grunted David. His face was flushed.

"Fuck me, goddammit." Dustin huffed Jungle Juice and rode a pillar of fire towards heaven.

Not even a powerful blast of Jungle Juice could stifle the ring of pain that Dustin's asshole became as David's arm-thick cock sank inside. Dustin stretched and stretched and, like he had when he was a kid, wondered if he had enough skin to stretch enough to take his brother's monstrous instrument. What the Jungle Juice really did was intensify the hunger. Make Dustin need his brother's giant cock so much that the pain simply became the entry fee to a club where the town's best party was going on.

Long centuries passed during David's entry. At least two more blasts of Jungle Juice kept Dustin's hunger at fever pitch. Dustin remembered the old days, those nocturnal moments of terror when he feared that David's organ was an endless serpent of flesh, advancing and advancing and advancing, never seeming to have an end.

"You're not even grunting," muttered David. He popped his brother's ass. "Fucking slut."

"I'm the biggest slut you'll ever have," groaned Dustin. He thrust back.

And then David's groin was plastered to Dustin's curved butt. David emitted a quiet sigh and a contented smile spread on his lips. David's naked balls, big as lemons, rested against the swollen pouch of Dustin's jockstrap.

"Like the old days, huh?" David grunted, pulling back. His watched his gleaming shaft pull Dustin's ring back like putty.

"Oh God!" Dustin pounded the mat. Jism splattered. It felt like his guts were being pulled out. Like he was giving birth to Moby Dick. He whined, feeling David's cockhead lodged in his anus like a magma bubble.

David stabbed deep, grinning when he heard Dustin's oompf. "Don't worry. Nobody can see us."

"Shit, that's a big motherfucker!" Dustin huffed more Jungle Juice and ground his hips against his brother's crotch. "Now fuck me!"

For a few minutes in that garage there were no voices. The only sound was a grunt or a moan or maybe the drip-drip-drip of sweat falling from Dustin's nose into the pooled jism. Two brothers fucked, alive to the feeling of the other's flesh, their crime screened from suburbia's innocent eyes. Two brothers enjoyed the forbidden taste of the other's flesh.

David sawed away. "Don't you ever forget, Dusty, I made you who you are." His pubic hair scoured Dustin's ass. "You remember? You used to date girls. You remember that chick, that Helen?"

Shit yeah Dustin did. Embarrassment flooded him. He hunched harder and faster against David's thrusts.

"She was foxy." David clamped his hands to Dustin's hips, thrusting faster and faster. Sweat dripped from his giant balls.

Helen. Wow. He'd forgotten her utterly. Flash of Helen, the first time he'd seen her. It was at a football game his sophomore year. She had been laughing, drinking a Coke, talking to her girlfriends. Her eyes had flashed at Dustin, and Dustin's teenaged cock had saluted her in his jeans.

"You ever fuck her?"

Flash of her thighs, spread, and Dustin's cock, wearing the only condom it ever wore, churning amidst the froth of lust bubbling from stretched cunt lips. "Hell yeah."

"You gave her up," David grunted. "For my cock, didn't you?"

Dustin said nothing.

"She had a tight cunt, didn't she?" David rabbitfucked his brothers. "Not as tight as yours, Dusty. Not as tight as yours."

Dustin's mind focused on the best cock he'd ever had. The thing that made him feel most alive, like a heart throbbing. The best cock and the biggest. His rectum felt like a bruised sack. Each stroke made him yearn for those moments of dread and fear when footsteps crept towards him in the dark. His cock leaked snot into his jock.

"You like getting fucked, don't you, Dusty?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Pussyboy, eh? I can feel it. You got a used cunt." He growled: "I'd like to fuck you and watch some dude's cum run down my cock!"

"You wanna do it, man?" Dustin gasped. "You wanna do it?"

David sneered. "Bitchboy. Take you down to Central Prison and watch you get gangbanged in the showers!"

"That kid?" asked Dustin.

David sheathed himself. His crotch fur curled between Dustin's cheeks. "He's OK. I told you."

"You think he'd fuck me?"

David grinned. "Got you hot for him, didn't I?"

"I want his spunk. In my cunt. You wanna see it rolling down your cock?"

David grinned. His fingers closed on Dustin's head. "You want spunk?" He guided his brother's face down so his lips hovered just millimeters above the cool jelly. "Lick it up. Tell me if you like it."

Dustin licked. It was no different from licking up strange semen from the floor of a sex club or a porn bookstore. The only thing it lacked was freshness. The cum had been cooling for a while, and jism wasn't good unless it was served fresh from the tap.

"Won't say anything, huh?" David thrust hard and deep. "I know you like it. Fucking whore."

It went on and on, in a way that they'd never been able to enjoy. It had always been quick and surreptitious. Now they could prolong it. Neither were kids anymore. The fun part wasn't the nut. The fun part was getting there.

This incestuous coupling wasn't sensuous and loving. It was two brothers, hot for flesh, drugged by the perverted fire crackling along their nerves, drunk or how wrong and evil and perverted it all was.

Two strong men, they could fuck for hours. But, when the pressure in his nuts grew too great, Dustin had to beg for relief.

"You gonna give me a reacharound?" panted Dustin. His pouch dripped precum.

"Hell no! This ain't love," snarled David, "this is incest, you hot little fuck!"

Dustin finished himself off, pulling out his cock and painting the mat with streaks of his own jism. This was enough to set David off. His brother let out a roar, impaled Dustin fully with his giant fuckshaft, and poured a cataract of nutjuice into Dustin's howling void.

Dustin, panting, bred by his brother's cock, squeezed his ring to milk more of his favorite drug from the source.

"Shit! Damn!" David fell back onto his ass, his cock pulling free with an obscene slurp.

Dustin remained where he was, ass high, ready for more. Teardrops of cum burbled slowly from his half-closed asshole.

David said, "Pretty good for an old guy, huh? Three wads up Travis' ass, and one in yours."

"Come on," said Dustin. "There's more in those big balls." He rolled over. His own jism sizzled hot and slimy against his back. He lifted his legs, grabbed his thighs. He strained and extruded a finger-long droplet of David's spunk. "Come on, motherfucker, I'm empty!"

"In a damn minute," said David, laughing and panting and staring intently at Dustin's oozing hole.

"Fuck me," Dustin said, "or get that damn kid over here."

"You want him, don't you?"

"I want cock, bro. I want lots of cock!"

continued in part 4