Night. Warm. Humid. Crickets. Moonlight.

Bobby's footfalls woke me. Laying on my back on his couch, half-covered by a sheet, I watch my cousin pad to the screen door. Bobby leans against the frame, looking out into the night.

"You awake, Mitch?"

I don't answer.

Moonlight caresses his body. His high-and-tight haircut is tinged with blue. My eyes follow the curve of his skull as it tapers into his neck, which flows on to his shoulder. He needs bulk there. Now don't think Bobby's a weakling, even though these days I got at least fifty, maybe seventy pounds of muscle on him. His body is cut, sculpted, but he's more of a runner than a brawler.

Silver light glimmers on his biceps. Beads of sweat gleam on the hair tufted in his armpits.

The soft glow of that little table lamp in his bedroom is enough to light his back. My eyes follow his spine, slightly bent now because his hip is planted on the door frame.

My cousin's hip naturally leads to his butt.

Oh yeah.

Bobby's a freak for Jockeys. I don't think he's ever worn boxers in his life. He likes 'em white. He likes 'em tight. And they always look good on him. Tonight, he wears a fresh pair, not those old, saggy ones he wore when we went rafting earlier today. They've not lodged in his crack ... or maybe, when he rolled out of bed, he dug the cotton out. That's the only disappointing thing about this sight, because my cousin's ass is the sweetest, finest thing in all Peachville.

Those buns are round. They're streamlined, perfectly proportioned to his slim body. His white Jockeys, glowing in the moonlight, show off the dimples in his asscheeks. The pure white cotton molds itself to every curve. There's a hint of cleft peering at me over the waistband right at the base of his spine. Since Bobby's crossed his ankles I can't see his big nutsack swelling the cotton.

You remember changing clothes for gym back in junior high? You remember checking out the other guys, wondering if they were developed as you? Well, Bobby -- even at twenty-five -- is still the kid you never dared look at. Because if you did, you'd give away too much of yourself.

"I know you're awake, Mitch."

I fake a yawn, stretch, wondering if he'll see my growing hardon as it thrusts against the sheet. Bobby doesn't move, staring at the yard, the road, the night.

"I'm awake. Can't sleep?"

"Nah."

I clear my throat. "Did, uh, what I say freak you out?"

"Freak out? Not really. A little, maybe. But I got so much shit on my mind." He sighs. "Kathleen. Jeez, Mitch, I want my daughter here with us!"

Us. I relax. He's not thinking of kicking me out.

"Bobby, I swear I'll help ya any way I can."

He looks over his shoulder, grinning. "Yeah, I know. We always got each other's backs, don't we, cousin?"

"Damn right."

Bobby's weight rests on one foot. This deepens the scalloped dimple in his buttock. Fuck. There's no difference between the cotton and his skin. He might as well be naked.

My cousin has got the sweetest ass I've ever seen on a man or a woman.

Bobby yawns. Stretches. His back arches.

"You checkin' out my butt, Mitch?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I guess I am."

Whoa. Whoa whoa. This is not the place I oughta be starting this story. You kind of need to know how I got into this fucked up situation. So. Let me backpedal a few days. Let me take you back to the drive.

There's this church in a town near Ogden State Penitentiary that likes to pretend its community focused. They've got this program where they drive released inmates to wherever the inmate is gonna spend his probation. My driver? The Self-Righteous Fuckhead. (Not his real name.)

What's making me antsy isn't Fuckhead's preaching. It's his hand. He's driving the Caddy with the left. His right, a big pink spider crusted with gold rings, rests on the cream-colored leather bench seat. I've been bracing myself for the last three hours for the moment when it creeps for my thigh.

"Now, honoring your father and mother -- though it's not 'hip' --" anyone could hear the finger quotes -- "it's really one of the most important commandments. Because family is the most important thing, you see? Family is what binds us all together --"

Damn right I'd love to punch that smug fat fucker. Fuck, wouldn't it be awesome to go out in a blaze of glory? A good solid hit to his jaw, and Fuckhead would lose control. Caddy spinning across two lanes of oncoming traffic, metal crumpling, glass smashing, Fuckhead screaming for mercy from Jesus, Buddha, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, me grinning, eager for the Hollywood-style blast that marks the end of all good things.

I just grin. And nod. Play the reformed convict. And Self-Satisfied Fuckhead gobbles it as if he were node three of a human centipede.

No one redeems Mitch Grant! I'm not a goddamned coupon, asshole!

The sermon keeps on rolling as we enter my old hometown. The message is pretty much that I shouldn't stick my dick into a hole unless I co-own property with said hole. That I should neither swallow, inject, or smoke any substance that doesn't wear a corporate brand.

Wow. Home. Peachville. Man, the town's founders put a lot of effort into coming up with that name, didn't they?

"Yeah," I say, pretending to be interested in Fuckhead while I scan the passing strip malls for landmarks I once haunted. "That makes so much sense. Yeah. I think I'm gonna do just what you say."

Since Self-Righteous Fuckhead shoots a frown at me I don't think I kept all the sarcasm out of my voice.

You'd think your home town would look different -- I don't know ... spiffier, maybe -- after two years in the state pen. But Peachville 's unchanged. Walmart's just where I left her, just dingier. Look at that! The Thyme and Sage Shopping Center. Looks like only Crazy Pedro's, one of Peachville's two Mexican restaurants, is the only business still open. I smile. We used to haunt T & S's back parking lot. Cops couldn't see us from the main drag, so we could smoke whatever we wanted in the open. Me and Bobby spent one night in our junior year, stoned off our asses, picking up chicks. The girls used to come to us for cock, me for dope. Bobby was the perfect wingman.

"You are listening, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't miss this for the world, man. God, my soul needs savin' like you wouldn't believe! I'm a bucket full of slimy sin, you know?"

Here's the turnoff to Choctaw Point. What the hell? There's a fucking Zaxby's squatting where that payday loan joint stood. Choctaw Point's where us young guys go to settle our differences. One on one. Mano-a-mano. I can't tell you how many times me and Bobby drove that lonely, snaking road. Fuck, I can still smell the river. Remember the shouting. Still see blood streaming down some jackass's face.

I did most of the fighting. That's because I'm an asshole and Bobby's a good-natured runt. But Bobby always had my back. Damn right I backed my cousin those few times he had to fight.

"I don't think you're listening."

"Oh, I'm listening. Can we get to the Sermon on the Mount?"

El Ranchero. Back then -- year after high school -- Bobby and I, well, we were peas in a pod. We were nineteen and hell, every chance we got, we filched beer from dad's refrigerator. Handing out free beer in a restaurant parking lot on Friday night is the way to pick up girls in Peachville. You ever watch a guy flirt with a girl? Man, that's his moment of glory, and Bobby was a fucking master. That grin, man. It just lights up his face. The cocky way Bobby struts ... just like a tight end after spiking a ball in the end zone. Though his lean, wiry build is more like a sprinter's build than a football player's. Bobby, going after a chick, always flicks up his shirt tail to show off that smooth belly of his. Or casually scratches his nuts to draw attention to his bulge. It's a trick e picked up from me.

"You said you knew this fellow. This Mr. Allen at ..."

"Mac's Garage," I say. "Up ahead. I'll tell ya where to turn."

Well, looky there. Self-Righteous Fuckhead's pudgy palm has crept two inches towards my thigh. I knew he was queer. Well. Can't punch him like I used to. Guess I'll fuck with his mind.

"I gotta say, you know, this drive really taught me some things. You know, about the Lord. And how far it is between Ogden and here. So, I wanna say -- and I mean it! -- thanks. You're a peach." I wink at him. "If this was the slammer, I'd be sweet as hell for you."

It works. Fuckhead splutters. A blush colors his face. His hand slinks away in defeat. Never tell a Christian you know he's a fag. They can't stand to have their cover blown.

"Here. Hang a right. Mac's is on the right."

Mac's Garage is almost hidden behind an Everest of used tires. Mac's has been a Peachville staple since the auto came to town. Which, given how backcountry this part of the state is, was probably in the '60s. Hell, I once found a Model T hood buried beneath the kudzu in Mac's back lot. Not kidding you. Me and Bobby liberated the hood one (really) stoned night. I sold it for a decent chunk of change. Too bad I blew it, investing in a bale of grass that turned out to be -- wait for it -- grass.

Fuckhead nudges into Mac's front lot.

"Well, Fuckhead," I say, climbing out, "you've been swell."

"What'd you call me?"

"Swell." I wink at him, and grin, and adjust myself as if I believed he was straight.

"Um. You need a place to stay. I can get a motel --"

"I got that arranged." I think.

Bag on my shoulder, I turn my back on the Caddy. I know Fuckhead's checking out my ass. I don't blame him. I got a nice ass. When he's ogled his fill, Fuckhead clicks the transmission into drive, the engine thrums, and I thank God for ridding me of his mincing minion.

I stretch. I tug my jeans out of my crack and shake loose my balls. Wearing prison jumpsuits all day, I'd never felt the result of lifting all that iron. Tons of it, man, these last two years. Wow. I've really filled out.

This morning the only way I could get back into my civvies was to stuff myself into them. The reason? Shit, my quads are about to burst the seams. The waist is loose. Loose enough that the only reason these jeans stay in place is because they're hanging desperately off my hips. My butt is high, round, a pair of pale bowling balls carved out of marble. Based on the feathery way it feels when the breeze tugs on my shirt hem, I'm showing an inch of asscrack and hard buttcheek. My shirt feels like it's going to rip at the shoulders. I got tits, man. Tits you can drive nails with! And deltoids wide and hard as the Great Wall of Fucking China. I went into Ogden a scrawny runt -- have I told you me and Bobby are peas from the same pod? -- but I came out like a thoroughbred.

So. I'm free. But am I home?

Oh, shit, Bobby, whatever you do, don't turn your back on me.

I check out Mac's service bays. Two cars are up on jacks. I don't recognize any of the mechanics. There's a pickup perched over the oil change pit. I see lanky oil-daubed arms reaching up from the pit into the engine.

Well. There he is: Bobby Allen, cousin and best bud. A shudder passes through me.

I trudge towards the office. The afternoon heat feels awesome. It's a deep, baking, sleepy kind of heat. On days like today, you want to drift on an inner tube down the Tanner River, listening to the bees, smelling the ripening peaches in the orchards, your legs splayed wide to coax stray wisps of breeze up your shorts. You got your cap pulled low because the Sun's doubled: blazing up in the sky, and glinting off the gray-green water. You watch dragonflies skim the water, and watch the bass leap after them.

The bell over the office door tinkles. Ed Carruthers still rules Mac's garage. The only change I notice is that his pot belly has grown into a cauldron. He's perched on a stool, rocking against the wall, the bill on his cap turned up. He eyes me like I'm going to shank him or something.

"I saw you get out, so I know you ain't got a car," says Carruthers. "If you ain't lookin' for work, you'd best GTFO."

"You gone blind, Ed? Or just got more stupid?"

Carruthers' jaw sets. "You wanna rephrase that, punk?"

"Don't play me, man. I've only been gone two years."

I grin at Carruthers. But it's not a make-nice grin. It's a head-tilted-back, eyes-slitted, jaw-jutting come-at-me-bro grin. I 'd kill for a tussle with Carruthers. He's a walking advert for retroactive abortion.

Colt steel glints in Carruthers' eyes. He doesn't say a word.

"Shit, Carruthers, the oughta take you up to Hillview and hook a drool pan under your chin"

If this had been a Looney Toon, and Carruthers had even half a brain, a lightbulb should've sizzled on above his head. Who could not fail to recognize Peachville's champion smartass?

"You don't get the fuck outta here right now, I'll call the cops."

I sigh. Fine; let the stupid fuck win. "Ed, I'm Mitch Grant. Bobby Allen still work here?"

Stool legs plunk to the linoleum.

"Mitch. Motherfuckin' Mitch Grant. Huh. Damn, boy." Carruthers snorts. "You growed up! You still got the smart mouth. You still got that temper? Go ahead, boy, show me!" He jabs an oil-stained finger at his jaw. "Right here. Come on. Good swing. I know you wanna."

"In good time, Ed."

"Fuck, Mitch. You were born a punkassed kid and you'll die a punkassed old fart." Carruthers' head rocks back. I feel like a Cub Scout being appraised by Michael Jackson. "Ogden, huh? You get that big to keep them queers off you?" He sniggers. "Or were you looking for a fag hubby?"

"You and me, Ed. You and me. Let's take a trip down to Choctaw --"

Carruthers laughs hard, slapping his thighs. "You stupid punk! You'll fall for any kind of bullshit! You just got outta the pokey, so you're on probation! Yeah, if you're wantin' to get back to your fag hubby, well, sure, I'll fight you!"

Heat and shame blazes in my face. But I keep it together. "Come on, Ed. Give Bobby five minutes with me. I wanna talk to him."

"Anything to get a faggot ex con off the property. Five minutes. No more. Then GTFO. Dig?"

"Dug."

Two years ago, I knew every piece of equipment in the service bay. Every toolbox. Every mechanic. But Carruthers' must've re-equipped the place, and there's been a lot of turnover. Curious faces watch me as I pass. Every guy I used to work with -- used to get stoned with -- used to sell to -- has moved on.

Bobby stretches on his stomach on the grimy concrete. I don't need to see his face. I know his wiry body. Hell, I could recognize him just from the way his shoulder blades move when he reaches for that wrench at his waist.

Bobby's not much changed. When he finds clothes, he likes, it's like those clothes and Bobby hitched up the way the Catholics hitch up. No divorce possible. Look at those jeans. God knows I am. Bobby's jeans, stained with oil and ripped on the back of the thighs, are well worn, supple, and loose. Because he's now handing the kid who replaced him in the pit the wrench, they've ridden low.

Bobby is still slim. That tank top should've been trashed when he was seventeen. He's bulked up a bit, but not like me. My eyes trace his spine all the way from his shoulder blades to his -- well, let's not go that far.

Bobby takes back that wrench. His deltoids play like frisky colts. Bobby's not about power. Bobby's about speed and unconscious grace. That's my cousin in a nutshell. Only one thing is missing. Because the service bay reeks of oil and gas, I can't smell his musk. Bobby's armpits always smell like fine weed.

My heart thuds like a galloping stallion.

I can't hide this from you. My cousin's got the finest country boy ass I've ever laid eyes on. I want to kneel and worship Bobby Allen's sweet butt. Give thanks for this slim, low-fat dude. Pay homage to the finest thing God ever made.

North of the faded denim waistband, half of Bobby's Jockey-clad butt is on show. It's a hard, fine, taut, cup-it-in-the-palm-of-your-hands, round-as-peaches sweet ass. Because Bobby always wears skin-tight white Jockeys, nothing's hidden. That tight fold in the cotton marks his cleft. An undulation hints at dimpled cheeks. Bobby's buttocks have that sleek, sculpted look you see on track stars when they're changing into running shorts during PE.

It's that hint of buttcrack -- flirting with me over the Jockey's waistband -- that's making my blood boil.

"Sir? Sir? Hey, sir? Can I help you, sir?"

Bobby's head begins to turn, and my eyes snap north just in time.

The mechanic panting beside me wipes his hand on a dirty rag. "Uh, sir, I--"

Bobby leaps to his feet. "Mitch!"

Bobby doesn't tug down his tank top. I flash on his flat, chiseled belly. Beneath his navel, a hula-hoop of tantalizing white Jockey glows. If I yanked down on an empty belt loop, his jeans would fall to his feet.

God. Make it the way it always was! We're cousins. That's all.

I clear my throat. "Hey, Bobby."

Bobby's face glows. Blue eyes are wide open with delight. The high-and-tight jarhead-style haircut looks good with his strong jaw. The stripe of bristles crowning his skull is the color of wet beach sand. A grin stretches from ear to ear. Hints of stubble frame his lips.

"You motherfucker!" Bobby scrubs his palm on his oil-stained tank top, then thrusts it at me. "Why didn't you call me'? If I'd known you was getting' out, I'd have picked you up!"

The mechanic, seeing that Bobby and I know each other, shrugs, throws away his rag, and retreats.

"Bobby." I croak his name. Feeling weird, like I'm about to cry, I take his hand. His palm is sweaty and greasy against mine. I feel his throbbing heart. Wow. I'm touching a real, living Bobby Allen again. "Fuck, man. Bobby."

"When did you get out?" He's eager and breathless, like he wants to get the fuck out of here and go watch the drag racing at the track in Briarton.

"Bobby. Bobby. Bobby."

He laughs. "Mitch, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

I shake my head. "Damn. I don't' know. Just feels weird seeing ... " I venture this next carefully " ... a friendly face."

Bobby claps my shoulder, marking my shirt with oil. "Well, your home, so get used to seein' friends!"

We're cousins. We're best buddies. We're hell-raising country boys. We've fucked chicks on the same lonely back road, him draping his woman over my car's hood, mine whimpering face down on the trunk. But nothing cemented us together more than that one sentence.

"Thanks. Thanks. I mean it. I needed to hear that, Bobby. Man. Wow."

Bobby's eyes trace out the line of my shoulders then focus on my pectorals,. Something about his gaze -- the way a kid might eye a linebacker -- makes my chest swell even bigger. Grinning, Bobby shakes his head.

"We got to catch up! Mitch, I got so many stories to tell you." Bobby beams. "I'm a dad!"

"You're kidding."

"Hell, no! Got me the sweetest little baby girl ever. I named her Kathleen 'cause I liked your mom better'n mine! Can't wait for you to see her! So. You back for good?"

"Yeah. I got probation. Can't go on like I was, you know." I glance at the clock. Time's almost up. "Listen. I can't yak --"

"You need anythin'?"

"Yeah. A place to crash. Can I --

"Hell yeah you can!" Bobby looks pleased as punch. "It'll be like the old days. Fuckin' party central!"

"You're, uh, woman won't mind?"

"Huh? Oh, hell no! No babymama drama. None of that! Hell, Heidi moved out months ago!" He grins slyly at me.

"Heidi? You talkin' 'bout --"

"Yeah, Heidi! I know you been in there before but, Mitch, she's a fox! She's back with her mom. I got the whole shack to myself -- wrong! We got the whole shack to ourselves! Welcome home, brother!" Bobby's eyes flick towards the office. "Aw, hell, old man's lookin' at me. Tell ya what. Meet me up at the BK. Get a bite to eat. I get off in two hours. You got cash?"

"No, I --"

Bobby whips out his wallet and lays a twenty on me. "There ya go."

"Thanks, man," I say. "You're the best."

He grins. "No shit. Now get out of here, you big fucking ape!"

The sensation of tears, boiling behind my eyes, accompanies me as I trudge towards the road.

Flashback: twelve summers ago.

Locale: The Grant home in Cinnabar Acres, a cheap subdivision on the wrong side of the tracks. The driveway holds a battered Chevy pickup, a sparkling new Toyota Corolla, and a muddy old Nissan half-eaten by rust. On cinderblocks in the garage is an old Fierro, hood up, towels spread, one axle still in place, the other pushed against the garage wall. A serious man, puffing on a Marlboro, stares at it. In the living room, a woman watches Fox News, an irritated look on her face.

Time: early evening. Houselights pour golden radiance through windows. Cool streetlights bathe asphalt in blueberry glow. A twelve-year-old Bobby Allen peddles his bicycle furiously, streaking towards the Grant house

Scene: thirteen-year-old Mitch Grant's bedroom. More clothes than carpet is visible on the floor. Unmade bed. Dresser is piled high with boxes; one overflows with used Playstations and Nintendos; the rest hold discarded automobile computers, hub caps, gas caps, a radiator, piston rods. Bedsheets splotched with yellowed, dried jism. A pungent pubescent funk thickens the air.

Young Mitch sits in a chair. No shirt. His basketball shorts coil round his bare feet. On his desk is a laptop. In a small window on it screen, a man and a woman fuck. The sound is turned very low but isn't inaudible. The man cannot be heard but the woman is shrieking in full porno mode. It sounds fake as hell, unless you're thirteen.

Hand moving on teenaged cock, Mitch stares at the laptop, slack-jawed and fully absorbed as only young teens can be. Jism, fresh and dry, streaks his scrawny chest. He loves this movie! He likes it especially when they cut to a shot filmed from between the man's legs. Up at the top of the screen the man's balls sway. Muscles ripple powerfully in his thighs. What fascinates Mitch, naturally, is that giant shaft pistoning in her vulva. The woman has shaved her pussy so there's no mystery. Mitch watches those lips suckle on the man's withdrawing shaft. The sight clues Mitch in to the depth of her hunger. Her need for cock. It's not merely fascinating. It's awesomely beautiful.

What makes Mitch's taut young balls quaver are those shots when the man yanks his cock out of the woman. Every time he does this, a gush of oil dribbles from her cunt. Sometimes -- though Mitch isn't quite certain if he's imagining this or not -- it seems like a ping-pong ball of spooge rolls out of her. Every time he imagines this, Mitch shudders with the same tingle he feels when he diddles the backside of his balls with his free hand.

Lucky for women that Mitch has what they need in such abundance.

Mitch's cock is ginormous. Over the last nine months, it's swollen from a dinky boy dick into a full-blown soul-dominating cock. When the endocrine dam burst, flooding his stripling body with testosterone, Mitch's cock burgeoned to nearly the size it would have as a twenty-five-year-old ex-con. On Mitch's scrawny thirteen-year-old frame, his cock looks big as his arm. It's freakish. A mutant.

Dried jism flakes from his nipples, his shoulders, even the underside of his chin. Fresher ropes paint his torso from crisp pubic bush to his cheeks. There's a dollop of goo oozing down his brow.

Yeah. Mitch is the kind of thirteen-year-old boy that hot substitute teachers ask over for special afterschool instruction. Nah, Mitch doesn't have a jock's body, but his dong sways in his sweat pants. No self-respecting, foxy substitute teacher is gonna miss that. Sure, he's only worth twenty, thirty seconds of fucking before spurting, but thirteen-year-old boys can go off like 300 times in a row. Now if only Peachville had these kind of substitute junior high teachers, Mitch wouldn't need to dirty his mind with porn.

One reason the powers that be frown on underage sexuality is because, if you fully unleashed the innate sexual energy of pubescence, the planet would be ass-deep with squealing babies within a year. That same exuberant fertility the powers that be find irresistible; hence, all those pedophilia scandals.

On the laptop, the man flips the woman round so he's doing her doggy style. Mitch's hand moves in a blur. His mouth parts. He's getting ready --

Footsteps in the hallway.

On the verge, he pauses. Relaxes. It's not his Mom. Moms do not scamper.

The bedroom door bursts open. Slams shut. A breathless Bobby Allen leans against it. Mitch doesn't turn. Doesn't make a move to snatch up his shorts.

"Wow! I thought you was bullshittin' me! Where'd ya find it?"

Not turning, resuming jacking, Mitch hisses, "Not so loud!"

Bobby, with more enthusiasm than common sense, hooks his thumbs into his short's waistband and charges across the bedroom. He entered wearing his Little League baseball shirt and a pair of gray PE shorts he lifted from the junior high. The shorts fly off his feet halfway across the room. By the time he arrives at Mitch's shoulder his Jockeys are tugged down to his smooth thighs, hooked under his nuts, exposing his hairless groin. little boy dick spikes up beneath the shirt hem. Bobby's ninety-nine percent puberty free. His dick's no bigger than a pinky. His testicles are the size of marbles. The supple buckskin sack holding them is pale pink.

Bobby frigs himself. "Oh, she's hot!"

"Yeah."

"Seriously, where'd ya get this?"

"Library. Some kid left it on the table when he went to pee."

Bobby guffaws. "Oh fuck! Old lady Pence is gonna tan your ass!"

"She didn't catch me."

Bobby does not check out his cousin's mutant equipment. He's seen it before. Over the past year, every time the cousins had a sleep over, Bobby got a clear impression of what was happening to Mitch's junk. At first, Bobby had said nothing. It just seemed odd to ask another boy why the bulge in his underwear kept getting bigger. And what was that stiff thing tenting Mitch's boxers Bobby saw sometimes when Mitch dreamed? Why was Mitch peeing in his underwear at night?

Finally, the bulge in Mitch's underwear was simply too big to just ignore. It was freakish. It looked like Mitch had stuffed a sweet potato in his boxers. On a sleepover, Bobby asked what was the deal. Mitch just shrugged and muttered, embarrassed. Bobby demanded a show. Red faced, Mitch dropped his drawers. His big cock flopped out, hanging in an arc over his swollen balls. But not for long. As the moon frosted the boys' burgeoning bodies in silver sorcery, Mitch's cock had quavered, bounced, then suddenly reared up like a striking snake. Bobby, awestruck, stared at it, mesmerized as if by a magic wand. Then both boys keeled over, laughing hysterically until Bobby's Mom yelled for them to shut up.

"You think this porno will make me squirt?"

Fap-fap. Fap-fap. Fap-fap.

"Fuck yeah, cuz, I've been squirtin' to this since dinner!"

Mitch groans. A torrent of white milk erupts from his shaft, spattering his thin chest like rain. Bobby winces, for a fine mist of hot goo spots his right arm. The arm that's flailing away at his rod.

Mitch sags in his chair. "Whew."

"I wish I could do that!"

"Yeah, well, ya gotta try." He stands. Sperm oozes over his slim frame as he reaches for the slimy pair of underwear he uses as a cumrag. "Spooge is what girls want from a guy."

Mitch tries to sponge himself off, but it's a futile exercise. All he's doing is squeegeeing spunk over his satiny skin. Those boxers can't soak up more than a gallon of boyspunk, and, hell, a gallon is what Mitch has been putting out each time he spurts. There's probably enough unused sperm in those sloppy boxers to sire ten, twenty billion kids, if you could find enough spare wombs. Mitch has already resolve to spend his life finding spare wombs.

Bobby's eyes remain fixated on the laptop. His hand moves faster and faster. He emits a high keening sound.

"It's comin! It's comin!"

But, once again, whatever was supposed to come doesn't bother showing up. Bobby flails around, squealing like a herd of pigs, but his cockhead remains unfertile as the Gobi Desert. By the time Bobby sags with temporary satiation, Mitch has flung his boxers atop his hamper, tugged up his shorts, and sprawled on his bed. Mitch's big teen cock still raises one hell of an impressive mound in the nylon.

Bobby stamps a foot. "Dammit!".

"You still got that joint I gave you?"

"Nah. Smoked it."

Mitch rolls his eyes. Bobby was supposed to hold that joint. But Mitch, feeling a warm afterglow, doesn't rip Bobby a new one. In fact, he feels like being a mentor. "That porno's still playin'. Keep on tryin', cuz."

Bobby hawks up spit. Coats himself. Frigs. His pace is slower this time. For a few seconds, at least, then he's sprinting for glory.

Something weird happens to Mitch.

Bobby, intent on the porno, leans forward. This makes his shirt tails split open, revealing his tender boy butt, squirming in those white Jockeys. Mitch almost laughs at the sight. Both the cousins like making butt jokes, and this seems like the perfect time. But the weird thing seizes Mitch by the balls, and the joke dies before getting born.

Bobby's twelve-year-old butt mesmerizes Mitch.

"Oh, Mitch, I wish I was in there! I betcha that's the best feelin' in the world!"

"Uh. Yeah. I betcha you're right."

The most amazing thing is what happens to Mitch's dong. The thirteen-year-old had got up from the chair just knowing his slugger was going to be sleepy all night long. Nooooooope. The bulge extends in the nylons, worming towards Mitch's slim hip. When it gets there, it lifts, and Mitch's shorts tent, stretching the waistband away from his tan belly.

The lad rolls out of bed and shucks his shorts. He turns towards his desk. Watching Bobby's ass flex makes his cock bob.

"Gotta get me some more, cuz."

"Man, I'm gonna do it this time! I swear I am! I swear!"

Mitch, hardon bobbing, sidles towards the desk. The moment his naked buttcheek touches his cousin's cotton-clad one, Bobby groans.

"Oh, Gawd! Oh, Gawd -- argh!"

Bobby emits a tortured, gargling sound. He also emits a long stream of drool from his dick. Eyes rolled up, he sinks to his knees.

"Holy shit! Holy freakin' shit! I did it!"

Bobby holds it up, showing off his first adult emission to Mitch. The gooey worm hangs like a strand of egg white. It's mostly transparent ... but a few white fibers stretch within it.

Mitch pauses masturbating just long enough to high-five his cousin. Then it's back to the most important thing in his young life. He blasts a few dollops onto his bedroom wall. Bobby jerks off in the desk chair, far more interested in the porno than his cousin. Mitch retreats to the bed, still hard. He folds his arms behind his head, exposing a swampy down of straggling teenaged pitfur. The room grows musky with his boyish, ruttish scent.

"I think it's better if ya stand up, Bobby."

"OK. I will."

Mitch enjoys the show.

Three loads later, Mitch's belly button brims with boy jism. Bobby's managed two more dry orgasm and one gloriously wet one that spackled Mitch's desk. The boys scramble for their shorts when Mom bangs on the bedroom door and demands a bath from each of them.

You checkin' out my ass, Mitch?

Been checkin' you out since you were twelve, Bobby.