Date: Wed, 22 Oct 2014 20:39:52 -0500 From: Rusty Slocum Subject: Because: Part 3--A Box Of Chocolates The Usual Disclaimers. Don't read if for some reason you're not supposed to. The fictitious characters in this story are any age you want them to be, but the actors portraying them are all consenting adults. Please realize this is fantasy. Doing anything like this in real life could seriously jeopardize all parties, possibly resulting in psychiatric counseling or even legal penalties. This story belongs to me copyright 2014 and may not be reposted on any other site or situation without my express authorization. Write your own dysfunctional porn. And remember to donate to Nifty. Let's face it, without Nifty you'd be stuck with the generic porn of other sites, and who wants that shit? Thanks to everyone who wrote for their kind words and encouragement! This includes: Sid, Frank, Hammy, Robert, Sepherson, Will, Jason, Durriken, Ryan, Bill, Roberto, Joe, Daniel, Lee, Joseph, Jeremiah, Matt, and Dan. You guys rock and I hope you enjoy part 3 as well! BECAUSE by Rusty Slocum Rudy stood up, as wobbly on his feet as Chad had been earlier. "Jesus H Christ in a port-a-potty, I gotta piss! If cracker ain't done on the throne he'll just have to spread his legs and hope his nutsack don't get splashed." This last with fading volume as he strode down the hall to the bathroom. I just giggled and shook my head and tipped the last of the soda into my still-parched throat. We'd sweated so much tonight I'm sure we all verged on dehydration. I wasn't even particularly stoned anymore. I think I'd (pardon the expression) smoked myself straight. Down the hall, Rusty tapped on the bathroom door. "Cracker, you okay? I'm coming in, I gotta drain, bro." I heard the door open, then Rusty's gasp of horror. "Chad? Omigod! CHAD!" * * * * * the third orgasm—A Box of Chocolates I dropped the soda bottle and bolted off the bed and down the hall. Rudy's voice sounded panicked, and I half-believed I'd find Chad laying in a pool of blood. Surely we hadn't fucked him hard enough to provoke a hemorrhage! Chad sat on the toilet, his face white, tears flowing down his cheeks. His shoulders shook, hell, his whole body shook with sobs. Rudy knelt on the floor in front of him, his arms around his brother, holding him as he wept. "It's okay, Chad, okay, I'm here, Rudy is here, ssh ssh shh . . ." Remember the scene a half hour or so ago, when Rudy soothed and sweet-talked his way into Chad's ass? His love for his brother had been evident then, and more so now. "Rudy." Pause. "Rudy!" He turned a worried eye to me. "What, dude?" "Is he . . . Chad's not . . . I mean, is there blood in there?" His face paled even more. "I don't know." He pushed Chad back a little, made as if to part the kid's legs, but Chad interrupted. "No, Rudy, no, I'm not bleeding back . . . back there." He leaned forward to wrap his arms around his brother, and Rudy gently lifted him off the pot and pulled him closer, nodding to me to take a peek into the bowl. "Oh, Rudy, I'm so empty, I'm so very very empty." "Ssh, cracker, ssh," stroking his back, heedless of their mingled nudity. I edged around them and peered into the toilet, prepared to be shocked and dismayed at the carnage. But the only thing shocking and dismaying was the amount of semen Chad had egested; globs of it decorated the basin, little white islands in a clear blue pool. I saw no darker liquids suggesting blood or serious internal damage. While at it I turned and glanced down at Chad's asscheeks and inner thighs. They shone with sweat, jerk-gel, and more semen, but no blood. I informed Rudy by shaking my head and turning up the corners of my mouth. Some relief washed over his face, but then it tightened again. Eliminating the possibility of hemorrhaging only opened more questions. What the fuck distressed the kid so? ". . . so cold, Rudy, so cold . . ." "Dude, go wake up my dad," Rudy whispered to me, still clutching and stroking his brother, trying to warm him up. I nodded and took off down the hall at a light jog, not worried about my swingers. Mr Q had seen me all hot and bothered and in the throes of sodomy with his youngest son; what did it matter if he got an eyeful of my much less impressive flaccidity? I stopped at Rudy's parents' bedroom door, tapped at it lightly. No answer. I tapped a little harder. Again, no answer. I put my ear to the wood but heard nothing. Indecisively I grasped the knob, to turn it, and I'll admit I felt no small amount of relief when it proved to be locked. I knocked again, this time hard enough to echo off the walls, but Mr Q failed to throw open the door and rush out to save the day. I trudged back down the hall. Neither brother had moved since I left, just stayed pressed together in the middle of the bathroom. "Nada," I said to Rudy. "Your dad is either passed out cold or dead. We're on our own." ". . . so cold, Rudy, so cold and empty . . ." Shoulders shaking as if his cracker heart disintegrated more every second. Face white as if blood fueled the crumbling. "That's okay, that's fine," Rudy said to me. "He'd probably just panic and start yelling at me. He don't handle this kind of thing real good." "So what are we going to do?" "I think the first thing to do is warm Chad up. He's ice-cold." Rudy thought about it. "Do me a solid? Turn on the shower, hot as you can stand it?" When I nodded and brushed past them to reach the tub, he crooned to Chad, "We're gonna warm you up now, cracker-boy, don't worry, it's okay." After a couple minutes steam billowed out around the shower curtain. I checked the spray: almost but not quite unbearable. Perfect. Rudy edged over with Chad. "Gonna get in the shower now, cracker, gonna warm up in the shower." "So cold, Rudy, and empty, Rudy I'm empty . . ." "Ssh, let's take care of the cold first, then we'll worry about the empty." ". . . okay Rudy, thanks, I'm so sorry Rudy . . ." "Ssh, ssh." They stepped into the tub, and I grasped the curtain to shut it behind them. "Naw, dude, come on in with us. He needs the heat." "Huh? What?" Rudy scowled at me. "It's a little late for modesty, Melanie. Chad needs the heat, and I think he needs the contact too." Well, when you put it like that . . . I shrugged and stepped into the steam with Rudy and Chad. The three of us crowded together in the tub, me by the faucet, Chad in the middle, Rudy on the far end. Though the bath was large, much larger than the one at my house, it hadn't been designed to contain three mostly-growed cornfed country boys, so we huddled together in a tighter embrace than the one we'd enacted on the bed. Luckily the shower-head had been placed very high in proportion to the tub's size, so the near-scalding water poured down on all of equally, warming us and washing away the fluids of our recent coupling. Chad's shivering and muttering finally slowed to episodic, and color returned to his pallid complexion, a dark, rich red that matched the hue of his hair. Seems Rudy had called it. As usual. The kid simply needed to be held. Crisis resolved, relief beginning to turn to drowsiness under the spray, another need presented itself. I saw the same need flood into Rudy's face at the same moment. "Dude, I really have to piss," he said, grinning. "I forgot about it." I think the whites of his eyes had turned yellow. "Me too," I responded. "And all this hot water ain't helping." "I hear ya," he said. "Tell ya what, you turn around and piss into the drain. When you finish we'll change places and --" "No," Chad interrupted, his tone more decisive than it had been all night. "Do it on me." "Um, what?" Even Rudy possessed no words to answer that one. For once. "On me," Chad insisted. "We're in the shower, it'll wash away. Pee on me." He turned to look up at me over his shoulder. "You too. You on my back, Rudy down my front." His voice reverted to an echo of that wheedling, submissive tone that had gotten him into almost more than he bargained for. ". . . please . . . please, Rudy, I want to feel it . . ." Too late now. I'd never get turned around in time. What exquisite relief flowered through my entire body as I let go! A good piss that rivaled even the shattering orgasms I'd experienced tonight. Rudy's full-body sigh told me he felt the same. I pulled my hips away from the boy and pissed all over his lower back and his ass and his upper thighs and then directly into his crack; Rudy sprayed him down on the other side, all over his abdomen and crotch. It felt mighty sweet (and mighty empowering, to boot) to me, and I'm sure to Rudy as well, but I'm not sure what Chad got out of it. The urine couldn't have been any warmer than the shower, and it seemed to me that the hot water would drown away the sensation of our piss on his skin. But he stood there between us and looked up at Rudy, his eyes glazed with adoration, and as our twin streams pulsed and sputtered to a halt, so ceased Chad's intermittent shivers, and the rest of the tension from his outburst seemed to swirl away down the drain with our piss and several gallons of hot water. After we finished, Rudy asked his brother, "Okay?" Chad gave him a faint, trouble-free smile. "Okay, Rudy, okay." "Warm now?" "Yeah." "Still empty?" Chad sighed and lay his head against Rudy's furry chest. "Yeah, a little, but you filled most of it." He raised his voice. "Both of you." Rudy's face relaxed. "Good. Now," he said, suddenly all businesslike and jovial, "lets get cleaned up. I think I could sleep into next week." He grabbed the bottle of body-wash from the wall rack and, stepping back from Chad's embrace, set to work lathering the boy's front, from his face down to his feet. I used the soap on Chad's backside, paying particular attention to his asscrack and upper thighs, washing away the lube and spooge that had begun to dry there. He hissed and tensed up some when I rubbed my fingers against the swollen, bruised flesh of his hole, but he suffered me to clean it. We touched Chad as impersonally, as briskly, as possible, but we sustained a certain level of eroticism and intimacy, and between that and my thinking that this was almost a reverse parody of the beginning of our session with the kid, I boned up. Not completely, but enough to attract Chad's attention as Rudy spun him in the shower, rinsing off the body wash. The kid grabbed it, and it responded, stiffening to full when I felt his fingers wrap around it. "I can take care of this for you," Chad whispered, winking up at me. He looked drunk, or stoned, or both. "I'm a dicksucker, you know." "I know," I answered him, prying his fingers away so I could wash the sex funk off my own body. I started deflating the instant his touch departed. I was tired. "I'll talk to you about it tomorrow, okay?" "'kay." Rudy and I leaned him carefully against the tile wall and washed ourselves quickly, finishing our rinse just as the water started cooling. I shut off the spray and pushed back the curtain. Mr Q, clad only in thin pajama pants and a thick coat of graying red hair all over his torso, stood at the toilet, cock out, foreskin pinched back. He seemed tense, to me, but he also seemed to be trying to hide it. Not noticing, continuing to have eyes only for his older brother, Chad asked, "Rudy, can I sleep with y'all tonight?" Heavy sigh, mostly exaggerated. "I suppose, cracker, but only tonight and you better not--" "Uh, guys?" I stammered as Mr Q poured out a heavy flow of bourbon and whatever else he'd drunk that night. I tried not to stare, but his thick cock appeared so gentle and harmless compared to its state in the sex vids Rudy and I had found in the attic. "Wh-- Oh, Dad, um . . . hi. We thought you were asleep." "Hi, Daddy! Oh cool, your peter looks like mine, only bigger!" Mr Q chuckled. "Yeah, son, you look like my side of the family, in all respects. Poor sucker. And I was asleep. Until the sounds of a party in my hall bath woke me up." "Oh, dang, Mr Q, I'm sorry, we didn't --" He shook me off even as he shook the last urine drops into the bowl. "Bah, don't worry about it. I had to piss anyhow." He flushed, slipped his cock back into his pajama pants and tied them up. A spot of moisture dampened in right where his head rested. Apparently he'd missed a drop or two. I grabbed one of the two fluffy towels on the rack, tossed it to Rudy, grabbed the other for myself. "You have your own bathroom, Dad," Rudy pointed out. We rubbed Chad down with our towels; when he was reasonably dry we started in on ourselves. Mr Q shrugged and turned to leave. "I felt like using this one." Even I didn't buy that, but we left it alone. He looked at me and crooked a finger. "Come with me and let me get y'all a change of sheets. You'd drown in that lake on the bed." I hurriedly finished drying and followed him, stark naked, down to the laundry room on the first floor. I watched him move, and even intoxicated, he walked with a calm, confident swagger. While he shuffled through a couple of baskets of clean clothing, I stood next to him there in the tiny room, conscious for the first time that I exceeded his height by a good five or so inches. He still outweighed me by about fifty pounds, though, and I respected the sense of power that he oh so effortlessly threw off. His hairy chest and arms and belly, though fleshy, radiated strength. "Here you go," he said, handing me an armful of unfolded sheets and blankets and pillow shams. "Thanks," I said, turning to go. "It's called sub drop," he said. I turned back to him. "What is?" "What happened with Chad. When he was cold and empty and sobbing on the toilet." "You heard all that? Sir?" "Of course I did. He's my son, isn't he? Both he and Rudy have pulled me out of a drunken stupor any number of times." Mr Q looked saddened, speaking so baldly of himself. I passed over the reference to his alcoholism. "You heard all that and you didn't do anything?" "I waited to see what you'd do. You handled it beautifully. Bundling him into the shower was a stroke of genius." "Why?" He thought for a moment. "Sub drop, basically, is what sometimes happens to a bottom or a sub after being used hard. See, while they're, uh, in the scene, every one of their senses is engaged, they are locked so completely in the here and now and in the endorphin rush from the sensations being inflicted upon them they disengage from the so-called 'real' world. They call that 'sub space'. When the scene ends, sometimes a bottom will suddenly come to, as if from a dream, and mundane reality rushes back in on him. Sometimes, that reality is magnified, and he feels as if its crushing down on him. Others times, that reality feels so pale and lifeless after the intensity of the encounter that he suddenly feels empty." "Like with Chad." "Like with Chad. Most of the time, all the sub needs is comfort. What's called aftercare. A hot shower, wrapped in the arms of the ones who'd given him such bliss, well, that would be very comforting." "I'd be good with some mac and cheese and maybe a bowl." Mr Q smiled. "I've heard of stranger comfort cravings. But anyway, that's why I'm proud of both you and Rudy. You didn't abandon the kid when he started freaking. You jumped in and gave him comfort. And I'm very grateful for that." Imagine, standing here naked, talking to the father of the kid I'd just helped screw the living shit out of, and its a dab of praise that brings on my blush. "That was Rudy," I said. "I didn't know what the hell to do." "Then Rudy has good instincts," he said. "Funny. I'd always imagined Chad as the closet dom in the family. Rudy I pegged as a bottom." I burst out laughing. "Gay or straight, a bottom all the way." "You're kidding!" He smiled again. "No. All that bluster and take charge attitude often hide a need to be controlled." "Really?" "Yeah." "How do you know all this stuff?" I asked, suddenly curious. I'd always thought of Mr Q as pretty much your generic alcoholic father, a swell guy whether drunk or not, but certainly not as someone who would know much about the, shall we say, seamier side of sex. "Oh," he answered me, "I've been around the block a few times, and I didn't always ride the bus," and that's all he would say about it. "But apparently I don't know as much as I thought I did. I assumed that you've been fucking Rudy's brains out for at least couple of years." Two hours ago a comment like that from him would have mortified me and set me to praying for the fate of Onan at the very idea, but now I took it in stride, although it still shocked me. "Uh, what?" "You know, the lube under your side of the bed." "I don't have a side of the bed here. Um. Sir." "Okay, you don't have a side of the bed." "No sir. And that bottle of gel I left there last summer just because I forgot it. Me and Rudy . . . well, we duo jerk sometimes, but that's all we've ever done." I didn't tell him about the double-fisted spank session; he already knew too much, in my opinion. "But Rudy is uncircumcised. He doesn't need lube to jerk off with." "I do. I'm bald. Sir." Mr Q glanced down at my cock. "So you are." And on that note . . . "I, uh, I need to get this stuff upstairs. Chad was about to pass out." He blinked back up at me. "Oh. Yeah. You do need to do that." He paused. "I just wanted to tell you about sub drop and thank you for handling it right." "Uh, you're welcome, Mr Q. Sir." I hurried back upstairs with my armload of linen. Did my best friends father just check me out? I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Not creeped out, oddly enough. Kind of flattered. Definitely uncomfortable. That moment when he stared so frankly at my cock had made me feel more naked in his gaze than I'd felt when I slid out of his son. "Your Dad is cool," I said to Rudy as I entered his bedroom, "but he's kinda weird too." "Tell that to my therapist," Rudy returned, "in about twenty years." While I'd been downstairs, having one decidedly surreal conversation with Mr Q, his oldest son had stripped the mattress and pillows and tossed the linens into the laundry chute in the hall. He'd opened the window to let out some of the funk, and also lit a stick of incense. Now he stood in the center of the room, spraying air freshener in a slow circle. It smelled like three boys had been fucking, using cherry scented lube, in a springtime mountain meadow. So, an improvement. Chad sat in the roller chair at Rudy's computer desk, idly spinning around. As if he wasn't drunk enough already. I dumped the sheets on the floor and, at Rudy's silent direction, stepped across the window and closed it. "Did you know the two of us have been fucking for a couple years now?" The heat kicked on, and we set about stretching a clean cover across the mattress. He nodded. "Yeah, Chad informed us earlier, remember?" "Well, did you know I'm the pitcher and you're the catcher?" Rudy stopped and looked up at me under the fringes of his bangs. "I'm the catcher?" "Yeah. Apparently all your bluff and bluster is naught but a cover for the raging bottom you are at heart." He straightened and searched my face. "Or something like that." "Or something like that," I admitted. "He's full of shit," Rudy muttered, turning away. I caught a glimpse of red cheeks. What was this? Rudy embarrassed in front of me, in front of anybody? He bent over to shake a sheet up off the floor, and I saw his hole peeking out of all that hair in his crack, as tiny and defenseless looking as Chad's had before . . . well, before. Unable to resist, I crept up behind him. "With a button as cute as this one," I whispered, stroking down his crack lightly, "you were born to be a catcher." He jumped as I jammed my thumb up against his hole, jumped at least a foot into the air, and came down two feet further away from me. He spun around to face me, his cheeks scarlet, his mouth set in a ferocious grimace. I giggled, then bit my lip. "Dude," he said, "uncool, majorly uncool!" "You're right, I'm sorry, Rudy, really," I assured him, struggling to control myself. "You don't touch another guy's asshole." "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I fucked up." Rudy didn't particularly intimidate me, but I backed down. I'd only been goofing; hell, we'd touched each other in places guys were not supposed to several times tonight; I hadn't meant to upset him. "Shit, dude, forget it, just don't do it again." He resumed making the bed, irritated but trying to get over it. Chad watched us, smiling, from his seat at the desk, but whether he completely understood what we were doing or not is open to debate. On impulse I spun around, bent over and spread my cheeks. "Here, Rudy. Touch mine and we'll be even!" "Dude, you are an idiot. I am not touching your nasty asshole." "But its clean, we just got out of the shower." Imitating Chad's tiny-whiny voice, I moaned, ". . . please Rudy touch my hole Rudy . . ." "I was right, you are an idiot," he said, but I heard amusement under the disgust. I held my position, hands parting my cheeks, winking my hole at him. After about a minute and a half he sighed and came up behind me. Hoping he couldn't see my face, I grimaced in anticipation, already regretting my insistence. With a light, quick, anti-climactic grace, he settled a finger at my ring. Then he hocked saliva and snot all down my crack. From three feet away, I spun around and glared at him. Oh, that grin. Give me two like that and I'll strangle him with them. "See, not so amusing, huh?" he asked me. "You always take it too far," I muttered, stalking past him and out into the hall. "Now we're even," he called after me, and his hearty laughter followed me all the way to the bathroom. While I cleaned myself off, I managed to calm down. Even I saw that I'd asked for that. And, really, it was funny. That's what it made it so freaking annoying. Damn, though, talk about thirsty. On the way back to the bedroom, I took an unscheduled detour to the kitchen. The room was dark except for the low-wattage bulb over the stove. Mr Q sat in the breakfast nook, an unopened bottle of bourbon and a half pack of cigarettes on the table in front of him. I hesitated before coming in, but he raised his head and saw me, and, busted, I nodded to him and padded to the fridge. "Boys in bed yet?" I pulled a bottle of water from the crisper drawer and shut the door. "Almost, sir. Rudy was putting the blankets on the bed when I had to, uh, use the john." "How is Chad?" "Stoned. And he hasn't smoked anything." I popped the cap on the water and poured half of it down my throat. A faint laugh. "He'll be fine in the morning." A brooding pause. "I always was." Another pause, during which I finished the rest of the lovely cool water. Because I understood what he said, and because I didn't know what, if anything, one might possibly reply. I tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin and pulled a fresh one from the fridge. "You're still naked." His saying so only made me feel even more naked. I shut the fridge door, mercifully killing the light, and very non-nonchalantly shielded my crotch with the water bottle. "I . . . uh, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't think . . . um, I guess I was comfortable." When he didn't answer, I cleared my throat. "I meant no disrespect." "I know." As I started out of the kitchen, he stopped me. "But, son? When my wife is home, please make sure you're dressed before you come downstairs to rummage in my icebox." "Yes, sir. Again, sir, I --" "And understand something else. If Mrs Q had been with me tonight and caught you three in that scene, you wouldn't be standing there bare-assed sucking down my water. Chad would be in therapy, Rudy in the hospital, and you in the jail infirmary. And that would be with me holding that hurricane harridan back." "Yes, sir." "Me, now, I was a young man once. Y-h-f-o-c. I know how blue balls can drive you near suicide, I know how the scent of a promising hole can lure you on to death and destruction. I've got brothers, and uncles, and one low-down bastard of a father, and sometimes I was willing and sometimes I wasn't, so let me tell you this, dude, if I ever get a whiff that anybody hurt my boys, or forced them to do what they didn't want to do, well, he'll be going somewhere and it won't be to jail, and it won't be my sainted wife who put him there." "Yes, sir." "Like I said, I was young once, a long time ago. I don't have a problem with what you fellows did. Did it myself, once upon a time. I don't even mind the pot. No drinking, though, have y'all been drinking?" He stared me to ground, daring me to lie. Thankfully, alcohol never required me to prevaricate. "No, sir. Not tonight, sir, and not ever. Sir, Rudy and me, we . . . we don't like it." "Well, good," he said. "I don't want my boys . . . none of my boys" (and here he raised his eyebrows at me) "to like booze." Despite myself, my heart swelled. He could never remember my name, but he cared enough about me as Rudy's friend to count this poor fatherless boy as one of his own. "No, Mr Q." "So y'all have a free weekend to get stoned and buttfuck your black little souls out," Mr Q said. "I'm not stupid enough to imagine you'll quit that shit when Mrs Q makes bail, but, do us all a favor, and don't get caught?" "We'll be careful, sir," I promised, meaning it. "I know you will, son," he said. "Now bop on up to bed. Thanks for the chat. I'll talk to Rudy and Chad in the morning. And I'm sorry I was so rough on you," he said, and I paused in the doorway of the kitchen to look back at him. He lighted a cigarette and gloomily contemplated the unopened bourbon in front of him. "Its all the this damn not drinking." "Yes, sir," I said. I hesitated for a minute, wondering if I should say anything else, but a couple of my mother's cliches floated through my mind. Let sleeping dogs lie, was one. And, discretion is the better part of valor. So I merely said, "Good night, Mr Q." Mom would be proud. "Good night, son." I returned to find soft trance music playing and the bedroom lit only by the flash of random images on the tv screen; Rudy had tuned it to one of the cable music channels, one conducive to quick slides into slumber. He and the kid stretched out on the bed. They'd pushed the cover sheet and blanket to the foot of the mattress and lay there in boxers (Chad sporting a pair of Rudy's; even I pause to consider why or even how I should recognize them), propped against the headboard. Chad had the pipe and lighter in his hands, and, as I walked through and closed the door behind me, he said, "Dang it, Rudy, this thing is still cashed!" "Hang on, bro, we'll get you a hit yet," Rudy said, smiling down at his brother. He paused in the act of reaching for the baggie on the table, watched me stumble across the floor and plop down on the kid's other side. My side of the bed. I put the bottle of water on Chad's belly, and he gasped and giggled at the cold and snatched it up, opened it and guzzled on it, as greedily as he'd guzzled on our semen. Rudy continued to watch me even as he loaded the pipe. "I know that look." "What look?" "The one that says my dad just chewed you a new asshole and made you appreciate it." "Oh." Rudy passed the pipe to Chad, giving him the first hit. Kid attacked it like a pot pinata. I watched him inhale, right proud he finally got his toke. "What was Dad on about?" I sighed. "You'll hear it yourself in the morning." I didn't want to go into it, especially the part about uncles and brothers and one low-down bastard of a father. "Crap. One of those." "Yeah. One of those." Rudy let it go, took the pipe from Chad, hit it, offered it to me. I shook my head. He shrugged and hit it again, passed it back to Chad. "Dude, um . . . I think your boxers are on the floor over there somewhere. You know. If you want them." "Screw it," I said, too damn tired to haul my ass out of bed and search for them. "Your dad said we could be naked until Monday." "Oh, that's what he said." "Part of it, yeah." Chad suddenly sat up, dropped the pipe on his brother's stomach, and skinned out of his own - well, Rudy's own - underwear. "See, Rudy, I told you he wouldn't care!" "Yo! Cracker! You spill that water bottle and you'll sleep in the wet spot. And watch the pipe, you almost burned me!" "Sorry, Rudy," the kid said, instantly contrite. He tossed the drawers overboard and settled back between us. "But its nice being naked. I might stay naked the rest of my life." "Dude, you know how long it took me to talk him into putting those on?" "Not half as long as it took you to talk him out of them." "Oh, funny, ha-ha, you got me there." He hit and passed, then sighed and shucked off his own underwear. "Fuck it, if we got till Monday." "Now, see, that's my philosophy." ". . . Rudy . . ." Voice relaxed, as if the removal of his boxers had removed all tension too. Sleep foreshadowed itself in the undertones. "Yeah, Chad?" ". . . Rudy sometime I wanna go to sleep with your . . ." and then the kid faded out, leaving us all to wonder exactly how that sentence was supposed to end. Rudy chuckled, watching his brother fall out so quickly, then gasped. "Dude, the --" but I'd already rescued from Chad's suddenly slack hand the opened water bottle, preventing it from tippling over. I deposited it safely on the nightstand. On the other side of the passed out kid, Rudy pried away the pipe, patted around for the lighter, finally found it tucked securely into Chad's armpit. He lifted the bowl and struck a flame, but then sighed and put it on the nightstand on his side of the bed. "Rudy, maybe we better reposition the kid," I said, nodded at Chad's head propped up on the headboard, "or he'll have such a crick in his neck he won't be able to blow you for a week." "I don't think a broken neck and jaw could keep that cracker off my cock," Rudy boasted, "but I think he'd suck better undamaged. Give me a hand?" We shifted Chad down until he rested more comfortably between us. He opened his eyes and muttered something incomprehensible (kid couldn't shut up even in his sleep) then drifted away again. We pulled the blankets and sheet up over us, and Rudy settled on his side, arm propping up his head, facing me across the top of his brother's head. I mirrored him, and we gazed at each other, not talking, for a long while. Trance music, mindlessly sensual, traced through the atmosphere like schools of invisible fish darting through an aural ocean; colored pixels burst and spun on the television screen and dappled the air around us like psychedelic sea anemones. "What a strange, strange night," Rudy said at last. "I think I can honestly say this qualifies as probably the strangest night of my short, strange life." "Remind me to buy you a thesaurus." Rudy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at me. I continued, "But, yeah, I get you. It hasn't been exactly ordinary for me either." "Hey, dude," he said, and the catch in his voice told he'd switched into serious mode, "I never did say thanks for, you know, earlier. When Chad went mental." I blushed again, wishing everyone would drop the grateful thing. I only did what Rudy told me to do. I said as much to him. "But you didn't lose it, you stayed right there with us, with me, and you acted without hesitation. So . . . thanks." Grin. "Plus you washed the crackers asshole so I didn't have to." "Um, okay, you're welcome. I guess." "That was so weird. I thought maybe we'd fucked poor Chad crazy." "We kind of did, or fucked him into temporary insanity anyhow." I explained to Rudy what his father had said about sub space and sub drop and aftercare. He listened closely, nodding his head as he connected my words to Chad's condition. "It all makes sense now," he said when I'd finished. "Especially since we found my father waiting for us when we finished showering. After he had 'slept' through you pounding on the door." "What do you mean?" "It's classic Daddy Q. He tries to stand back and let us fix our own problems, when possible, but he can't help loitering around to make sure we solve them properly. When he taught me to ride my two-wheeler, he let go the frame and ran along behind me, hand hovering over my shoulder, ready to snatch me away the instant I started to fall." Speaking as someone with no father, nothing but a single lesbian mother who tried (God knows she tried) but who could never replace a paternal influence, I said, "That's kind of sweet, Rudy." "Sometimes," Rudy said. "Sometimes it's just annoying. Wow. He knows the damnedest stuff. I wonder where he got this particular knowledge." "He mumbled something about not riding a bus around the block." Rudy nodded. "His usual response when he doesn't want to answer you." He hesitated. "Sometimes, based on what he hasn't said, more than what he has, if you know what I mean --" "Word." "I think he was abused as a kid. You know, sexually." I felt both relief that he already knew, or guessed, what his father had told me earlier, and sympathy for having to bear his family's under-history. "Yeah, he, um, kinda hinted that he had been." "No shit? What did he say?" You'd think knowing he already guessed the worst would make it more comfortable to discuss. It did not. "He . . . he said sometimes he was willing and sometimes he wasn't." Rudy brooded over that, then sighed. "Well, at least sometimes he liked it." He brooded some more. "Dude, do you think what we did to Chad was abusive and perverted?" "No," I said, vetoing that bill before it came up for debate. "Some people might say it was --" "Our mothers, for instance." "Our mothers, aye, probably, and most of the town, most anybody who wasn't here tonight to see and hear and smell it with their own senses. But we know better. Chad knows better." "Kid certainly wasn't complaining. Or, rather, not really complaining." "I know you, Rudy. The whole time you carried on and tormented the kid, you worried about crossing some invisible line and accidentally hurting him." "I kept a pretty sharp eye on him," Rudy said. "He's a game little fucker, and I figured he could take anything I dished out, but I watched him close. If it looked like we approached a danger zone, I slowed down and proceeded with caution. Not that I let on." "I know that," I said. "What we did, to my mind, and even to your father's mind, springs as far from abuse as bobbing for apples does from deep-sea diving. And, well, to be honest, seeing how you were with him, it made me . . . uh . . . jealous." I referred, of course, to the moment when Rudy penetrated Chad, not to the time before that, when he lubed the kid up. No way in this fucking world I'd ever let Rudy cotton to how angry and abandoned I felt then. (So, Rudy, if you ever read this, do us both a solid and forget you ever saw that part. Please.) "Jealous? Why? Was that when you spazzed out and torpedoed the pillow at me?" Yeah, he's a sharp one. Sometimes too sharp. "Um, yeah, that's the time," I replied, hoping my cheeks didn't glow in the dark. "You both spilled so much love for each other it would take thirty angels thirty years to sweep it all up." "Thirty angels, huh?" he asked, grinning at me. "Piss off," I grinned back. "One of my Grandma's sayings." "No, no, I like it," he assured me. "It's cute, in a Hallmark kind of way." I nodded. "So is my Grandma." Rudy said, "I do love Chad. He annoys the hell out of me, and I have to beat on him some so's to keep him in his place (and it looks like I have a new way to do that, praise jay-zus!), but I love him anyway." "Yeah, NASA satellites picked that up." He grinned. "And see, that's what made me jealous." "Why?" "You guys had a bond that almost shimmered between you," I answered. "And I was jealous because I've never had any sort of bonding moment with Sam. Not like that." "So, what, you want to make some kind of sex deal with him, too?" Told you how he sharp he could be. "No. Maybe. I don't know," I said, considerably frustrated. "But I know he wouldn't fall for a scam like you and me ran on Chad. He's too smart." "Are you calling my brother stupid?" Lazy amusement on his face, but it was the sort of lazy amusement a lion might display while he considered whether or not to pounce on the clumsy zebra who'd blundered into his path. "No, no, no," I said, "that's not what I meant and you know it. Chad wasn't stupid, or if he was, it was brilliantly so. He got where he wanted to go, albeit indirectly. The problem with Sam is going to be convincing him to make the trip at all." Guess I'd already decided to do it, subconsciously at least. My choice of verbs proved it. Rudy gave me his best almost asleep Brando. "Make him an offer he can't refuse." I laid my head on the pillow, and I heard him say, "And who uses albeit in a spoken sentence?" "Me," I answered, "Da--" but before I could speak my name, he leaned over Chad and kissed me full on the mouth, nibbling my tongue and running his own across my lips, making me crazy. I opened up as wide as I could, mutely begging for more, but he pulled away and whispered to me, "Sometimes I'm willing." I felt a wetness at my crotch, and peering down there, saw Mr Q kneeling between my spread legs, licking on my cock like a dog licks its balls, and he winked at me and said, "Sometimes I'm not." Chad sat cross-legged on the bed beside me, wanking so hard the whole mattress shook. "I'm always willing," he told me. "And Sam is too, but he don't know it yet." He pulled his fist out his ass and pointed across my torso. My little brother, fully dressed, held his glasses in one hand and a Scrabble dictionary in the other. He addressed me earnestly, saying, "Did you know it is theoretically possible to score one hundred and forty nine points if you bingo 'fellatio' across two triples?" Rudy had moved from the bed, now sat at his desk in the rolling chair. He wore an old-fashioned tuxedo and stroked the white cat in his lap. "Make him an offer he can't refuse, dude." The wet strokes on my rod intensified, and I looked down to find Mr Q, Chad, and Sam (now naked, with his glasses firmly set on his skinny nose) all crowded together between my knees and fighting between themselves as to who best pleasured my cock. The white cat jumped down from Rudy's lap, revealing a rock-hard erection rising from the tux pants' open zipper. "See, I get so much sex that I can afford to turn down good pussy." Rudy stood up and crossed to the bed, his tux shattering off as he knelt beside my head. His dick beat on my lips, and I saw that it wasn't six and half (almost) by four and a quarter inches, rather it had to be twelve by ten, at least, way too big to ever fit through my lips. The moisture at my crotch swelled up into an ocean of heat. All three of them, Mr Q, Chad, and Sam, all three of them boasted my cock in their mouth. I tried to warn them that my kidneys bumped close to bursting, and that if they kept up their actions, I'd surely piss down at least one throat, maybe two, but I couldn't speak properly, and before I could force my tang to untoungle, I opened my eyes and swam up out of my dream. Late morning sunlight, wintry weak, dribbled through the curtains covering the bedroom window. Trance music still pulsed through the tranquility, quiet and low, like a heartbeat you'd only note if it stopped. At least one part of my dream proved true. I did have a mouth on my cock, sucking on it slowly and sensuously, taking the time to love on it. Whose lips lingered so sweetly upon my skin? Need you ask? Chad knelt sideways on the bed beside me, his mouth ovaling down on my piss-hard, his ass raised in the air. Rudy stood behind him, fucking the kid doggy fashion. Rudy's thrusts rang soft and gentle into the kid, in tune with the slow, steady beat of Chad's mouth on my cock. The kid used one hand to roll and tease my balls; the other, being under none of Rudy's rude and restrictive whims, wanked languidly at his peter. Seeing that I'd awakened, Rudy grinned at me and said, "Good morning, dude of my heart. Rise and shine." I yawned and nodded down at Chad's bobbing head. "I've risen, and if the kid keeps that up, I might even shine." Rudy laughed, and Chad giggled, deep in his throat, and I shuddered at the contractions. I let my eyes flutter closed again, playing a variation of a game I played with myself in the morning sometimes, namely, can I squeeze in a nut before the pressure on my bladder forces surrender? Most times I lose, and this time was no exception. Chad's mouth felt like heaven on a stick, but the water I'd drank before bed underlay it like hell in a bottle. "Not to seem ungrateful, and you're developing a really swell technique there, kid –" "Mmmph mm." "You're welcome, truly, but I need to piss. Badly. Awfully horrifically badly. And I don't think you wanna swallow it." Chad popped up off my rager so fast he almost head-butted Rudy on the chin. "You don't drink morning urine," he informed me. "Its too full of minerals and stuff. Wait til later, after you've drank a lot of water." Rudy stopped thrusting and, cocking his head, peered down at his brother quizzically. I didn't bother, just slid out of bed. "What, Rudy? There's such a thing as the internet. Ever heard of it? It tells you all sorts of stuff." "Cracker, shut the fuck up and --" I stopped at the door, even though my bladder and angry boner protested. "Hey, Rudy?" "Yeah, dude?" "Do you think its possible to score a hundred and forty-nine points in Scrabble by playing 'fellatio'?" "Theoretically?" I shrugged. "I suppose." "Maybe if you played it across two triples and got the bingo bonus. Ask Sam, he'd know. Duh." "Duh." My piss-hard informed me, in no uncertain terms, that unless I moved very quickly, it could not be held liable for any consequences such as urinating all over the carpet, so I heeded that advice and stepped out into the hall. My penis led the way to the bathroom, like an irascible and thirsty camel scenting that one oasis in the desert. I was relieved to see that Mr Q's bedroom door remained closed. He'd given me permission (tacit, at least) to be naked in his house, but I still didn't want to run into him sporting the piss-hard from hell. At last, at last, I reached my destination, and I almost banged the door shut behind me. I lifted the toilet ring (and somebody please explain to me why, in a house of three males and only one female, the seat must be perennially kept down?) and let go. One nice thing about the curve in my pecker, it helps me to avoid pissing on walls or the ceiling in the morning. As I went (and went and went and went) my mind pondered a crackpot theory some crazy sixties humorist slash philosopher named Tom Robbins once proposed: namely, that water created human beings as a means of transporting itself from place to place. Every morning, I wonder if Robbins didn't have the right idea. I tapped the last drops of my creator into the toilet, flushed, and carefully lowered the seat. Mrs Q would not return until Monday; still, her unseen presence and deeply ingrained tradition forced me to comply. I stepped over to the mirror, examined my face in the mirror. Couple new zits, nothing major. I'd have to shave at some point next week, for sure; my wispy chin whiskers were almost visible to the naked eye. I rolled on some of Rudy's deodorant. He'd never know. If he did know he wouldn't care. Probably. Then I cleaned my teeth with his brush. Feeling refreshed, my penis swiftly reverting to its unimpressive flaccid state, I trotted back down the hall to Rudy's room. Again, I lucked out. Mr Q's door didn't open. Rudy and Chad had changed positions while I'd been gone. Now, Rudy lay on his back, the kid straddling his crotch, rocking slowly back and forth on it, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. A stray beam of sunlight piercing between the curtains illuminated Rudy's slick cock and Chad's swollen, gleaming ring. My own pecker twitched, taking a professional interest in the proceedings, but I fought off temptation and picked through the clothing scattered across the floor, looking for my own. "Hey, dude, come on up here and let's tag team this pudding pie. It's mighty tasty this morning." ". . . yeah, take turns in me, I wanna feel the difference in your cocks . . ." "No thanks," I said, pulling up my boxers. "I appreciate the offer, but I have some pressing business at home." I found my jeans and rummaged in the pockets for my cell phone; finding it, I pulled it out and squinted at the time. "Yikes, almost noon. Mom's gonna nail me when I get in. I'm surprised she hasn't blown up my phone." "Nah, your Mom is cooler than that. She'll just ambush you when you walk through the door." ". . . Rudy I like it when you stir it around like that, yeah yeah yeah, just like that . . .:" "That's what I'm afraid of." "So what's the pressing business you have there, besides the early bird slash worm lecture?" Rudy watched me slyly, dividing his attention between me and his brother's tight asshole. When I didn't answer, the corners of his lips turned up. "I bet I know what you're gonna do." Sigh. "You probably do. Where's my other shoe?" "Behind you, dude, by the closet. How you going to go about this? Gonna charm him?" His mouth twitched. "Thanks. If I have to resort to charm I'm sunk. Maybe I'll try bribery," I said. "Good call." "Piss off. I don't know how to play it yet. I'll improvise. You seen my cap?" ". . . oh Rudy put it all up in me, I like how it fills me up . . ." "By the computer, there on the floor. Be careful. Sam is a canny bastard." "Don't I know it. Do you mind if I bring him over here later? If this works, I mean?" "I don't mind, more the merrier and shit. Cracker?" ". . . oh Rudy don't tease me like that, you don't just pull out and not give it back, it ain't fair . . .:" Grin. "I don't think the cracker has any objections either." "Cool. I'll be back later with either Sam or my luggage. If I, pardon the expression, queer this up, I'll never be able to face him again." "Think positive, dude." He winked. "I hired sixty angels and sixty brooms with my birthday money." "Hah. I'll try. Laters." Fully dressed, finally, I turned to leave. "Wait, dude?" When I turned back, Rudy asked me, "You seen the pipe? I thought I put it on the nightstand." I shook my head. "Maybe it fell off or something, rolled under the bed. You want me to look for you?" "Naw, it's cool. I'll look later. You go talk to Sam. Be firm and forthright. You'd be surprised how far a little confidence will get you." "Um, okay." "And if you need any help wooing Roxane, shoot a text to your bruddah Cyrano here. I got all da lines and all da rhymes." "I'll keep that in mind." Not. "Have fun." "Good luck." As I stepped out into the hall, Chad asked Rudy, ". . . if Sam comes over, will he see me like this, with your big cock all shoved up in me? He will? Oh, Ruuuu-deee, he's a year younger than me, I don't want him to see me like this!" His voice all happy to have something new to be humiliated about. I closed the door before I could hear Rudy's reply; something rude and sarcastic, to be sure. Downstairs, in the kitchen, I discovered the coffeemaker to be on and ready to brew, so I fished out a single from the jar and a cup from the dishwasher, punched a few buttons on the ultra-modern convenience. A nearly-new pack of cigarettes rested on the counter near the sink, and while I waited for the coffee to finish, I hooked it and snagged one. "I didn't know you smoked. It's bad for you, you know." Shit. I turned around and saw Mr Q, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in jeans and a wife-beater, leaning against the archway into the formal dining room. He appeared to be bright-tailed and bushy-eyed, especially considering the state he'd been in when I went to bed. In one hand, he held a cup of steaming coffee; in the other he clutched Rudy's missing pot pipe. "Oh, good morning, Mr Q, I didn't see you." I looked down at the cigarette; I'd been caught Marlboro Red-handed. I tried out a joke I'd used on my mom awhile back when she found a half-pack in my jacket. "I only smoke after sex, and I don't think twice a year is gonna kill me." He rewarded me with a thin, unamused smile. Yeah, Mom's reaction, exactly. "Maybe," he said. "But after what you stumbled across last night, namely my willing young son, you might be smoking a pack a day soon." Ouch. Not much I could say to that. I slid the cigarette back into the pack. Mr Q burst out laughing, almost spilling his coffee. "No, no, go ahead, I was just funning with you. But seriously," as I pulled the cigarette back out, "make it a special occasion type thing. You're an athlete, smoking can fuck that up." He padded over to me on bare feet, stopped a little closer to me than I felt strictly necessary. I recognized a faint tang of bourbon, but it seemed old, to me, like some of last night's party still sweated from his pores. No fresh booze odor, at least. Instead, he smelled mostly of mouthwash and soap and cigarettes. And pot. He put the pipe down on the counter, pulled a lighter from the back pocket of his jeans, fired my cigarette. "Yes, sir," I said, nervously drawing in that amazing first puff. That initial drag carries the buzz; all the rest is just chasing the dragon. "Thanks for the light, sir." He winked at me, snatched up the pipe, ambled over to the breakfast nook. "You're welcome, son. And I think your coffee is ready." Whipping a chair out from the table, he spun it around and sat down in it backwards. "Uh, yeah, about that . . ." He set his cup down and waved my attempted apology away. "Have some coffee. Please. I can't begrudge my son's best friend a little coffee or a bottle of water. There are some breakfast burritos in the icebox. Have one. I would like you to." He paused. "I shouldn't have bitched about the water last night. I'm sorry. I want my kids' friends to feel at home here." I finished stirring my coffee, took that first creamy, sugary sip. Coffee, cigarette, nice ache in the balls from a night of great sex. It doesn't get any better than that. Well, maybe it could get a touch better. "Thanks, Mr Q." My stomach rumbled as my cup and I pulled a burrito from the freezer and popped it in the microwave. I smiled at him. "At least I have clothes on this morning." Mr Q hit the pipe. "Shame, that. You must be uncomfortable." He held out the pipe and lighter over the back of his chair, beckoning me closer. What the hell? Was Mr Q flirting with me? Intrigued despite myself, me and my coffee and my smoke sidled over to the table and half-filled ashtray. I set the my companions down and took the pipe, toked up, closed my eyes. I do relish a good wake and bake. We passed back and forth in silence for a few rounds, until, from behind me, the microwave beeped, indicating my burrito had attained edible texture. I ignored it, for the moment. Get stoned first, munch out after. Why mess with a winning combination? "Boys awake?" I nodded as I passed. "What were they doing?" "Holding hands and singing campfire songs." He liked that answer. His fleshy, clown-wide mouth split open into a grin. "So why aren't you up there with them, joining in the Cum-ba-yas?" You know how he pronounced it. I saw where Rudy got his warped sense of humor. I laughed. "Don't think I wasn't tempted," I said. "I need to get home though, Mom's got a list of chores a mile long. But," I added, reminded of my intentions for the evening, "do you mind if I come back later, maybe crash again? If you're going to be home, of course." "You want to take advantage of the weed and sex amnesty I've handed out for the weekend, don't you?" He chuckled at my blush. Encouraged by his amusement, I blurted out, "Yes sir, I want to get stoned and buttfuck my black little soul out." He blinked at me owlishly, blinked a few times while I waited for him to swat me down for my temerity, then burst out into such a roar of laughter my almost-dead cigarette rolled out of the ashtray. "Well, can't say as I blame you." He laughed some more. "The boys have their own chores to do this afternoon, but, hell, come on over after sundown if you want. I'm not going anywhere." His mouth quirked. "Neither is Rudy." "Thanks, Mr Q," thanking him more for letting me get away with vulgarity than for permission for the sleepover. I hesitated before spilling the rest, but, I thought, all he can say is no. "Mr Q, would it be okay if I brought my brother Sam with me?" He stopped laughing on the instant, froze in the act of lifting the bowl to his lips, stared at me intently. Behind me, the microwave beeped again. "Does he know about . . ." "No sir." I paused. "I'm not going to tell him, unless . . . unless, you know, I can talk him into joining." "Have you two ever . . ." "No sir. Never even thought of it until last night." "Do you think you can? Talk him into it?" I shrugged, embarrassed but meeting his eye. "I don't know, sir. I have to try, though." Mr Q put the bowl on the table, lighted a cigarette, rested his arms on the back on the chair, rested his chin on his arms. Looked at me. "I'm guessing Rudy and Chad made some brotherly magic between themselves last night, then, and you want to see if that spell will work for you and Sam." My cheeks pinkened. "Yes, sir." Only my buzz kept me from bolting blindly out the door. "Can you trust him?" The t-word held such a weight. He meant: Can you trust him to keep your secrets? To not blab about what might go on here this weekend? To go along willingly, to play fairly, to not freak out? Can you trust him to trust you? And us? Beep. "Yes, sir," I answered, glad I could hold his gaze on that one. "Sam is sturdy and resilient, smart as a whip, no imagination whatsoever. He commits to something, he gives it all." And stopped, surprised that I thought of him that way. But it was, after all, true. Mr Q watched me closely. Apparently satisfied with what he saw there, he said, after much too long, "If Sam comes of his own free will, and with full understanding what he's getting into, then he can come over tonight too. And don't think I won't ask him." Relieved, I said, "Thanks, Mr Q. We'll play by the rules, I promise." "Yeah, you will," he said wryly. "Because I'll be here to make sure of it." He chuckled. "Four youngsters on the cusp of stud-hood, fucking their brains out on a small town Saturday night. Brings back memories." A certain huskiness in his voice caught my attention. I'd been thinking about that burrito, but something in the way Mr Q talked pushed my hunger from my stomach to a spot a little further down. "We used to fuck all weekend. Come Monday morning I could barely walk or sit in those abominable plastic desks at school." Standing there stoned, listening to him reminisce, hearing the echo of orgasms past in his voice, I fell under his spell. To this day I'm not sure if he cast it intentionally or not. "Sir?" I asked, and my tone matched his, low and guttural, "You were the bottom?" Even though he'd inferred as much last night, I had trouble imaging this burly, vital man submitting to penetration. He laughed. "You ever heard the joke about if somebody had as many poking out of them as they'd had poking into them--" "--they'd look like a porcupine," I finished, smiling. "I was the youngest," Mr Q said, "so yeah, I got to play the porcupine." He didn't sound particularly dismayed or regretful. "I'd lay there and they'd take turns with me, screwing me until I resembled nothing more than a lump of shivering, quivering fuckflesh." His voice actually wistful. "So you liked it, sir?" My cock had taken note of the conversation and listened closely, extending out so as not to miss a single word. Mr Q sighed, long and lonely and full of an anguish that I can only describe as sexual. "I liked it when they would let me like it," he said. "It was when they forced me that I didn't like it." "No sir." "But when it was fun and spontaneous, yeah, I liked it, I liked it a lot. Especially when they got a little rough." Pause. "I watched you boys for awhile last night. I felt like I had stumbled back in time somehow, like I looked in on a scene from my own past." He gazed at me, a slight smile on his lips and in his eyes. Big blue eyes. Rudy's eyes. "That could have been me laying there, taking cock fore and aft. At that age I looked just like Chad. You and Rudy could have been my brothers taking advantage of what I freely offered." Okay, yeah, I could see it then. I pulled up from my memory an image of me and Rudy thrusting into the kid in double-four time. Only instead of Chad I imagined a younger, more submissive Mr Q in the middle. I boned up to full at the image, tenting my pants. Mr Q saw it, and he let his gaze linger. Beep. "You want to know something else, son? When I walked in on you guys, and you pulled your cock out of Chad's ass, I had a hard time keeping my eyes off of it." "Is that so, sir?" I breathed. "It is most assuredly so, son," he breathed back. "You see, I never got to sample one shaped like that." His gaze slid up from my crotch to look me in the eye. His fingers drummed against the wooden braces of the chair. "Never, sir?" "Not once," he said. "That's a shame, sir," I said, tingling as the words slipped, of their own accord, from my lips. "I would imagine being shaped like that does have its advantages." Almost as if he didn't notice himself doing it, he straightened, leaned forward against the back of the chair, reached a hand over to trace the outline of my cock in my pants. He did it slowly enough that I had plenty of time to draw away. I didn't draw away. "Such as, sir?" "Oh, I'd think it would slide right down somebody's throat like cream into coffee." Fingers drifting up and down my jean-clad hard-on. Lips smiling that light, tight smile and speaking those words. Eyes drilling into mine, reading what I'd written on my retinas, scrying what I'd hidden from myself. For the first time I understood the appeal, yeah, the sex appeal Rudy exerted on skirts. "So is it like that, son? Does it fit smooth and sweet down somebody's throat?" "It can, sir," I said. "It can if somebody loves on it enough." "Oh, I imagine a cock like yours gets plenty of loving on it." I chuckled, but it was low and breathless. "Only self-love, mostly, sir." "That's a shame, son." Beep. "I think your burrito is ready," he said. Not dismissing me out of hand, haha; his fingers kept sliding up and down on my cock at a maddeningly slow pace. No, he merely gave me an out, if I so chose. I did not so choose. I knew I could back away at any moment, and that freedom only made me more willing to surrender further to his strange power. "Sir," I said, grinding my crotch against his touch, "sir, I think my other burrito is ready too." Mr Q growled a throaty laugh. His other hand reached out and grabbed my by belt loop, yanked me forward until only the wooden chair back separated us. "I've a mind," he said, leaving off tracing my cock outline and unzipping my jeans, "to see if that burrito fits down my throat." He slid his hand inside my fly and boxers and wrapped his fingers around me. "Would it be an imposition on you, son, if I were to do a field test?" "Anything for science, sir," I moaned. He pulled me out through my zip; my rager drooled on his fingers. "Well, I'd like to make sure you don't mind." His touch on my rod played light and gentle. "I think you should ask me to slide it down my throat. Ask me nicely." "Yes, yes sir," I said. "Please, sir, would you please see if my burrito slides easy down your throat? Please, sir?" I sounded, to my disgust, like a cracker. But I couldn't seem to get that tiny-whiny timbre out of my voice. "Please?" Mr Q smiled, said, "Clear enough." He let go my rager, and in a sudden, savage burst of movement, stood up and kicked the chair behind him; it bounced off the wall hard enough to leave a black mark. He shoved me back against the table and knelt in front of me and gripped my flanks, one in each hand, and pulled me forward until my cock, my burrito, rested at his lips. Then Mr Q opened his mouth, and sucked me in. "Oh, sir," I breathed, all stoned and tingly. "Oh, Mr Q." Contrary to the violence of his foreplay, his mouth flowed around me with the irresistible gentleness of a late-summer ocean eddy, pulling me inexorably down into the spiral. He lapped at me as he drank me in, slithering his tongue against my undershaft as I passed through. A slight gag as I slid past his gag reflex marred the smooth entry, but he adjusted quickly, and he swallowed the rest of me with ease. I felt his nose pressing into my jeans with enough force I wonder he didn't scratch it on my zipper. ". . . oh please, sir, please, Mr Q . . ." He came up off it just as slow and tender, with the same back and forth swipe of his tongue, until only the head remained between his lips. His fingers gripped my flank, tightly, enough to leave marks through the denim, and he tickled his tongue in my piss-slit, drinking down the pre-cum he'd persuaded to drip out. Then he sucked me in again, at that same unhurried pace. I reached out to grab his head and force him to move faster, but he shook me off and, removing a hand from my flank, he closed his fingers firmly around my wrist and pushed me away, then resettled his grip upon my ass. Thus reprimanded, I gripped the smooth, rounded edge of the wooden table and tried to rip a chunk free. ". . . oh god Mr Q that's, that's . . . oh god . . ." He ovaled up and down on me, so slowly, wrapping his tongue around my shaft and lapping at the head, sometimes cocking his head this way or that and redirecting the ricochets throughout my body. Chad's mouth had been tight, and hot, but Mr Q's felt like a lava pool, wide and welcoming and all a-fire to please. I'd no idea that mouths could feel that different, that a cock could be sucked in more than just one way. Mr Q kept at me with that same relentless slow burn, the flame of his tongue licking me hotter, and higher. I should feel powerful at this moment, I remember thinking, I should exult in the fact that my best friends fathers had my cock in his mouth, but in truth, I felt humbled. Controlled. Mr Q held sway over me, he teased and tickled my orgasm but held it at bay, bringing it on an inch at a time, in his own good time. He liked me to beg, so I begged for him, I crackered for him, my voice hoarse. ". . . please sir please sir your mouth sir . . ." He allowed me to advance a little further. I shivered against the table, and the table shivered with me; my forgotten cup rocked around and sloshed cool coffee on the polished wood. He pushed all the way down on me, buried my cock in his throat, pulsed around it, sighed around it, and in that sigh I recognized his assent. Cum, that electric breath whispered across my shaft, cum now. Because you want it. Because I demand it. ". . . oh god sir oh god Dad oh god . . ." Too caught up in the throes of my watershed moment to wonder where the hell that came from. ". . . cumming now sir cumming . . ." My head thrown back, shoving harder and meaner against the table, my feet drumming on the floor. ". . . cumming . . ." Beep. The first shot spent straight down his gullet. He pulled back up, bringing more jolts of pleasure with the glide, until only the head and an inch or so of shaft remained submerged in that pool of lava, and the next concussive spurts of spooge spilled across his tongue and coated the insides of his cheeks and the back of his throat. I don't know where all the jizz came from, you'd think it all spent from last night's sessions, but no, my balls otapped the reserve tank and cannonballed more blasts into his unhurriedly swallowing throat. ". . . sir . . ." But at last I ran dry, and the shivers reluctantly slowed and then slouched off, taking the quivers along. Mr Q resumed his unhurried, clockwork rotation, coaxing all the jizz he could from me, while I watched, enjoying the sight of his clown mouth loving on my cock. When he figured he'd sucked loose every possible drop he finally set me free, releasing my flank and tucking me back into my jeans. I looked down at him, and he looked up at me, and everything changed, everything and nothing. "Thanks, uh, Mr Q," I said. "Sir." "You're welcome, Damien. And thanks for letting me test my theory. Turns out I was right, it slid right down my throat like it lived there. And son?" He winked up at me. "It's okay to call me Dad sometimes," he said softly, his eyes crinkling up in amusement at my blush, "but it might not be a good idea to do it in front of Rudy and Chad." "I don't care if he calls you Humbert Humbert," Rudy's voice cut through the sphere we'd spun, "or anything else." He stood in the doorway, bare-chested and in jeans. Beside him stood Chad, butt-ass naked and sporting yet another woody, like the poster-child for the wikipedia entry on priapism. "I swear, by all the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin," I said, "I'm gonna stop at the pet store on my way home and purchase y'all a family-size box of belled collars." "I'll just hang them all on the cracker here," Rudy returned. He didn't seem upset. Or, oddly enough, particularly surprised. I did notice a slight swelling in his crotch, though. "It's okay with me if you call my Dad your Dad," Chad said to me. "Since you don't have one." I flinched. "And I don't mind if he sucks you, either," he added. "That was kind of hot." I noticed that though his hands hovered in the vicinity of his erection, he refrained from touching it. I had an idea who'd suggested that. Mr Q recovered from his shock and rose smoothly to his feet. I think all three of us youngsters clocked the tent in his jeans, and I know the kid's eyes widened. "Thanks for the kind words, Chad," he said to his youngest son. "Your brother needs to screw you into oblivion more often, if it makes you this sweet in the morning." Turning it back around on them, but nicely. "And, Rudy, don't think the Humbert Humbert reference flew over my head." He winked and chuckled. "Nice one." I finally regained the strength to move. I pushed off from the table and fetched a damp cloth, cleaned up the spilled coffee. "Rudy," Chad said to his brother, his voice thrilled with apprehension, "Rudy, you won't make me wear belled collars on my balls or anything like that, will you?" Beep. Rudy ignored his brother, zeroed in on me. "Dude," he said softly, his voice decidedly neutral, "I'm pretty sure your burrito is ready." Drilling me with those blue eyes. Surely the two of them hadn't been standing there that long. Had they? I could not read it in the enigmatic runes of his face. "I was just letting my burrito cool," I told him, and he snorted. On the way to the microwave I started another cup of coffee. "Boys, make I ask you a question?" Mr Q addressed his sons. "Forgive me, but I'm intrigued to notice Chad's complete nudity and, er, stance. Is there a particular reason for this?" I grinned as I finally rescued the poor abandoned burrito from the microwave. Mr Q's method of mild-mannered, reason-infused ass-chewing differed from my mom's sweet sarcasm, but it achieved the same result, as I well knew. "Dad, I tried to get him to put some shorts or something on, I tried!" Rudy said, crossing his arms and staring at his brother belligerently. "But Dad said we could be naked until Monday," Chad protested. "Damien told us, remember?" I choked on the warm, soggy mouthful of burrito. It was still half-frozen in the middle and felt like lukewarm ice in my gullet as I hastily swallowed. "That's not what . . ." I sputtered, knowing that, yes, that was exactly what. Before I made a complete fool of myself I stuffed the last of the burrito in my trouble-making mouth. "I said you could be nekkid," Mr Q said patiently, "not naked." Chad crossed his own arms, unconsciously mirroring his brother's pose, only his erection breaking the lines of the imitation. "What's the difference?" he demanded. "Naked is when you have no clothes on," Mr Q said, but before he could finish I swallowed the last lump and chanted along with Rudy, "Nekkid is when you have no clothes on for a reason!" Rudy and I both guffawed, and we knuckled up as I passed on my way to the coffeemaker. Mr Q laughed along with us, and even Chad giggled, once he got the joke. "Well, if you want to stay naked today," Mr Q said to Chad, "go right ahead. It might get a little chilly and wet when you're hosing out the garage, but it's your choice." We all laughed some more, ho ho ho, at Chad's crestfallen face, and I mixed my coffee and headed out the back door, grabbing my jacket on the way. "See y'all later." Mr Q's voice stopped me. "Damien!" When I turned around he tossed me a cigarette and a shit-eating grin. "I think you earned that." I grinned back at him. "Thanks, Dad," I replied, and Rudy shot me the finger, but he smiled when he did it. "Damien, you bring that cup back later!" Mr Q called after me. "Dad, you gave Damien a cigarette, can I have one?" "I will, Mr Q," I called out as I closed the door behind me and shrugged into my jacket. I don't know why he worried about the cup. I mean, yeah, we have a bunch of his glassware at my house, but I'm sure he's got an equal amount of ours. Mrs Q and my mom get together every once in awhile to exchange misplaced dishes and glasses. He'll get the cup back. Eventually. A nice, cold midwinter afternoon. Sky full of clouds; maybe snow later, more likely just rain or sleet. But just now it felt brisk and heartening. I strolled along the sidewalk, lighted my smoke with the spare lighter I carry in my jacket, and pulled out my phone just as it started chanting, in Rudy's voice, "Dude! Dude! Dude!" I pushed send and said, "Fuck if I know, Rudy. We were just talking and he got off on this strange sexual memory lane tangent, and before I knew it my cock was in his mouth." "I saw you cracker out," Rudy replied pointedly. J'accuse! That meant he had witnessed more of the encounter than I was completely comfortable with, but whatcha gonna do? "I don't know, Rudy. He just led me into it. I coulda backed out anytime I wanted but I didn't want to. It's hard to explain. It just . . ." I floundered for words, failed to find them. "It just happened." "Yeah, I guess I could see that," Rudy said, his voice thoughtful. "He can be . . . persuasive." "Busting us like that made him nostalgic," I said. "Maybe he was acting out, trying to recapture his lost youth or something." "Yeah, that's what worries me," Rudy said, but before I could double-click that hyperlink for more information, he jumped to the next page. "And what was up with your calling him 'Dad'?" He didn't sound upset, merely curious, but you can never be sure with Rudy. "Rudy, after having given that much thought," which I had, while trying not to think about it, "I can but conclude that it just seemed the thing to do at the time. I have no clue where it came it from." "It just seemed the thing to do at the time," he repeated, and I heard genuine amusement in his voice. "So, uh, are you pissed?" "Hang on, dude," he said, and though he pulled the phone away from his mouth, his words came through loud and clear. "What in the hell are you doing, Chad?" Muffled cracker noises in the background. "Da fuck? Over by the bed, in that mess of clothes somewhere. Why, you gonna wash 'em?" More cracker noise; I took the final drag from my cigarette and flicked the butt away. "What? You're a sick little pervo boy, you know that? Go ahead, I guess." Back into the phone. "Little freak wants to put on the boxers I wore yesterday." I laughed dutifully. "Pissed? Naw, dude, I ain't pissed. I'm so not pissed about it I'm kinda pissed at myself for not being pissed." "Well, that clears things up." "It's just weird. It's like he's getting this charge out of us." "I wouldn't worry about it," I soothed, smiling a little at the irony. Last night Rudy had been the one calming my fret over his father. "Just be glad he's being so cool about all this." "And that's the main thing I'm worrying about, dude! What if he's so cool with it he wants to, you know, join in?" He didn't say 'gross!' but he intimated it. Before I could stop myself, I said, "Let him. He gives great head." Beep. Rudy hung up. I chuckled. I'd call him later and smooth over his ruffled feathers. Good time to end the conversation, anyway. My own driveway lay just ahead, and my Mom had backed out the Saturn and awaited me, engine idling, at the curb. Sigh. Here we go. I hastily shoved a piece of gum in my mouth. She rolled down the window as I approached. The stiff, chilled breeze blew the blond curls so artfully arranged on her forehead into mere punctuation marks. "Good afternoon, stranger. Have you seen my son in your travels?" "I'm sorry I'm so late, Mom," I said, leaning in through the window and pecking her cheek. Her nostrils flared, but if she smelled any smoke through all the spearmint she didn't say anything about it. "It's okay, Damien," she smiled. "I knew where you were. Mr Q called me this morning." Boy am I bad at fake nonchalance. "Oh?" "Don't worry," she said. "I covered for you." "You did?" Covered for me? What did she mean? "Of course I did. I told him that we had a huge fight and you stormed out, screaming that you'd spend the night at Rudy's." Oh! That's right! I'd told Mr Q that very thing when he grounded Rudy for having company while the 'rents were out. "What did he say?" Trying to mask my relief lest she read it as excessive. "Not much. Just said you boys were still awake when he got in and that you'd probably sleep late but he'd have you heading home by noon." Mom gazed up at me, eyes twinkling innocently. I braced myself. "He did ask me what the fight was about. Just in passing." Apprehensively, "What did you tell him?" "That you were angry because I cut your allowance for the week." I sighed. "For lying." "Oh, you can read me like a book," she exclaimed, transported with joy at the notion. "But I bet you can't guess what I didn't tell him." "I bet I can't either." "I didn't tell him that I cut your allowance for next week as well. Have you any idea why?" Sigh. So predictable. So irritating. So . . . right. "For making you lie for me." Mom golf-clapped at my glum perspicacity. "I understand that you were just trying to keep Rudy out of trouble," she said, "but you need to understand that kind of thing can cost you." "I get it," I said, nettled. "No, you don't," she replied. "But you will . . . someday. Anyhow, I left a list of chores for you on the counter. And tonight, I want you and Sam to make yourselves scarce." She smiled at me. "Diana is coming over for a quiet -" she emphasized 'quiet' "- dinner for two." "Good on you, Mom," I said, meaning it. "I like Diana. You're much easier to get along with these days." Mom swatted at my arm, but I could tell I'd pleased her. "I'll give you boys some pizza and movie money later." "Hey, uh, Mom," I said, hesitating, but I figured I might as well ask now. "How about if me and Sam spend the night at Rudy's? Chad will be there, and we can, um," get stoned and buttfuck our black little souls out, I thought but didn't say, "we can watch movies and stuff over there. Mr Q already said it would be okay. If it's okay with you," I added. "Besides, with us gone all night you got all night to -" and I bumped my hips and sang (sort of) a "boom-chick a-wow-wow" cheap porn tune. She ignored my sage advice on improving her love life. Typical. "Will Mr Q be there?" she asked, looking at me shrewdly. "Yes, Mother," I said with long-practiced teenage lack of grace. "He'll be there." "It's fine if you boys go," she said, "provided Mr Q calls me when you get there." "Mah-ahm!" "I'll take that as a yes, I'll ask him to do that, thank you Mom," she said, and started to roll up her window, but stopped halfway and rolled it back down. "And what happened with Mrs Q? Why is she in jail?" I shrugged, and she swatted me again. "Dang, Mom, I don't know," I said resentfully. There'd been too much other stuff going on at Rudy's for that to come up in conversation. "Something about fighting with a cop at the club." Mom's face took on a complacent superiority. She likes Mr Q (everybody does) but Mrs Q? Not so much. "See what boozing can do to you?" she asked me, exactly as if I had not told her well over a thousand times that I don't like alcohol. Oh well. Better that than a pot lecture, I guess. Or, God forbid, sex. "Yes, Mother. Remind me not to have any of Grandma's eggnog at Christmas. I'd hate to punch out poor Uncle George." "I'll do that," she returned, "not that poor Uncle George couldn't use a black eye or two. Oh, and son?" she called as I turned to head into the house. I stopped and looked back at her. "I think your gum if off, Damien," she said, her voice all gooey and concerned, "there seems to be the tiniest tang of smoke layered under all that strong spearmint." She cocked her head and regarded me gravely. "I do hope it doesn't make you ill." Sigh. "Don't worry, Mom, I don't have any more of that gum." "That gladdens a mother's heart, boyo," she said in some kind of accent I've never been able to identify; I think she aimed for it to come out as Irish; she missed. "Because you'd hate if I smelled it again." "Don't you have to go give mouth-to-mouth to a show poodle, or something?" I asked. She's a veterinarian. "Isn't that why you were rushing off, to save a life?" She laughed. She's a good sport, mostly, my mom. "Actually I was going to the mall to buy something sleek and -" I held up a hand, said, "Save it for Diana," and laughed. She winked and blew me a kiss (which I caught and held with a big, smartass grin on my face) and rolled up the window and backed on out into the street. Soon as she wasn't looking I dropped the palmed kiss into the back of my pants. Then I hurried on into the house. That cup (and a half) of coffee had performed its magic once again. Bursting into my room, I tossed my jacket on the bed and riffed through the stack of magazines for the latest Game Informer. I rifled through them again. Still not there. "Sam," I muttered, steam leaking from my ears. "I told the fucker to wait until I was done with it." I hurried from the room and down the hall. Sam's door was closed but I didn't care. The doors in our house have no locks, and thieves deserve no privacy anyhow. I threw one peremptory knock on the wood and, grasping the knob, bumbled right in, bellowing, "Where's my Game Informer, shithead?" Would it surprise you if I told you I found my little brother stark naked on his bed, surrounded by several porn magazines, with a porn movie playing on his computer monitor? It surprised me, I don't know why. Because you'd figure that by now I'd be used to this sort of thing. At this point, according to ancient brotherly traditions, I should have apologized profusely and backed out of the room. But I didn't. I just stared at him, stupefied. He stared back, stupefied and angry. His black locks needed a trim, and stray curls of hair twined around the arms of his glasses. His pale, skinny body, almost a miniature replica of mine, appeared to be mostly knees and elbows. And balls. Huge balls. He didn't sport much body hair at all that I could see; if he had pubes they were hidden under the fist wrapped around his shaft. His cock, to my surprise, mirrored mine, but turned it round; his shaft curved up instead of down. "Your stupid game magazine is downstairs on the kitchen counter where you left it," he informed me coolly. "So how about running along to fetch it?" He waggled his cock at me, not in the least discomfited that I'd busted him. "I'm a little busy here." As God is my witness, I had no idea what to say. But I had to say something. And I had better say it quick. "Tell ya what," I blurted out. "I'll make a deal with you. I won't blab to anybody that I caught you wanking and --" Apparently the God who witnessed me making an ass of myself feels sorry for fools. Before I could finish the damning half of that sentence, Sam broke in and asked indignantly, "Have you been smoking weed with Rudy this morning? You think you can blackmail me into doing your chores, or something?" "Um, yeah!" I replied with as much heat as I could muster, being mortified at what I'd almost said and all. "You do my chores too and I won't tell --" "You say a word," Sam said equably, still clutching that undying erection, "to anybody about anything, and I'll tell everybody you know whose name you moan when you jerk off before going to sleep." I had no clue then, nor do I have one now, the name to which he alluded, but as I said earlier, he never lies and has absolutely no imagination. So maybe you can understand why my blood ran cold at his words. "You wouldn't." His eyes glittered back at me. "I do have Rudy's cell number in my contacts." "Fuck!" I snarled. I wanted to stay and fight this out, even though I'd given up any idea of forging a sex deal with the snotty bastard, but my body required a tactical withdrawal. I snarled at him again, and he flipped me off, and, since my urgency had advanced to the point that a trip downstairs for a Game Informer magazine (and the latest issue, at that) seemed imprudent, I grabbed one of the porn mags off his bed. "Hey!" he called, but I'd already slammed the door behind me and took off at a jog for the bathroom, unbuttoning my pants as I ran. You will all be thrilled to be informed that I made it to the toilet in the nick of time, but you will never be as thrilled as I. While I sat there on the throne I pulled my phone out and texted Rudy. Damien: "blew it, luckily b4 I said something stoopid" Rudy failed to answer immediately, so I figured chores consumed him. Trying to keep my mind off what a complete and utter ass I had almost made of myself, I looked at the porn mag I'd snatched from Sam's bed. 'Bound to Serve" the title said. The cover showed a naked woman tied spread-eagle on a bed while three mostly-dressed European business men pissed on her. From the jungle of pubes and leg hair the woman sprouted, I'd judge the mag to spring from the late seventies. Interesting. I would never have pegged Sam to get off on that kind of thing. I would've said he'd be a vanilla kind of guy, missionary position, maybe some ass if things got kinky. Boy would I have been wrong. I thumbed through the pages, intrigued. Rudy and I had traversed some of this territory last night with Chad. We'd tied him down, fingered him, teased him, even pissed on him. But the three mostly-dressed European businessmen performed more extreme acts on the middle-aged blond bimbo than we, or at least I, could have dreamed. They clipped clothespins to her nipples and clit and yanked them off. They stuffed her mouth, cunt, and ass with dildos and rotated them between orifices. Double- and triple-teamed her, pulling her hair and paddling her with a huge, holed wooden spoon. Fascinated, and more that a little titillated, I sent an exploratory finger down the length of my cock, but it responded with an abc message. Due to the (a) strenuous exertions of last night and this morning, and to the (b) strenuous exertions expected to take place tonight, I should (c) go and not fuck myself, for once. "Dude!" chirped my phone. I grabbed it and opened the text. Rudy: "shit u tried charm?" Damien: "lol no busted s wanking and tried deal" Rudy: "yeah stoopid. ok well try harder next time" Damien: "not gonna b next time. may not even make it myself tonight. mom has date and i gotta babysit" Rudy: "don't give up hope dude life is like a box of chocolates" Damien: "yeah half-full of jumbled candies with bites missing because nobody knows how to read the diagram" Rudy: "ROFLMAOPIP" Rudy: "was gonna say u buy mostly air and a few sweet moments so eat all u can and damn tomoro am's shit but urs is funnier" Damien: "been waiting to pull that out for awhile" Rudy: "good one. but don't give up hope on s, try again, me and the cracker have faith in u" Damien: "k i'll let you know" I put my phone in my pocket, feeling a little better, then cleaned up. Sam's bedroom door stood open, and he sat at his desk, fully dressed, playing GTA or something equally obnoxious on the computer. Rather more politely than necessary, I tapped at his door, and, when he turned, I raised the magazine and tossed it back on the bed. "Thanks," I muttered. "Yeah," he muttered back, returning his gaze to the monitor, but I noticed the way he froze at the keyboard, as if he waited for me to mention the porn's subject matter. He waited in vain. "Gonna, uh, start in on chores," I said awkwardly. "Okay," he replied laconically. "I'll be down to help in a minute." "Okay," I said, and started to say something else, I don't know what, but common sense tackled and pummeled me into silence, and I went downstairs and started in on my chores. After a few minutes Sam joined me, and we worked together for a couple hours, cleaning and dusting and wiping things down, getting the house ready for Mom's date. We didn't say much. I kept thinking about the porn mag I'd 'borrowed' from him earlier, and about how there must surely be an opening for what I wished to discuss in his choice of wank material, but I couldn't find one to exploit. As for Sam, he worked assiduously and industriously at his assigned tasks, but every once in awhile I'd catch him watching me with a bright interest and smoldering amusement that, truthfully, had me a little worried. His cell phone beeped regularly, indicating new, unread texts, and some of them he answered, but not all. The ratio of incoming versus outgoing messages should have alerted me to his communicant, but I had other things on my mind. At last, as afternoon ran on into evening and we ran out of things to clean, we put up our housework supplies and put on sunglasses against the laser-like glare of spotless appliances. I still hadn't figured out a way to broach the topic of a Saturday night orgy, so I decided to shelve the discussion for now. Maybe I could figure out a way to talk about it over dinner, and we could hit Rudy's house after the show. "I'm gonna go shower in Mom's bathroom," I told Sam. "You decide if you want to pick the movie or the pizza." "Damien?" I turned back at the bottom of the stairs, looked at him quizzically. My forthright younger brother looked back at me with a shy, suddenly intimidated smile on his face. "Nothing." "Nothing?" From the expression on his face, I could tell what he wanted to say was a whole lot more something than nothing. "Yeah, I, uh, was just gonna say that I'll pick the pizza and you can choose the movie." Yeah, right. When one makes it a habit not to lie, one usually fails miserably at it. "Oh-kay," I said, shaking my head, letting it go. "It's a deal." Upstairs, in Mom's bathroom, I thought about what he hadn't said as I doffed my clothes and waited for the shower to heat. I cautioned myself not to get my hopes up. Because he may not be wanting to discuss with you what you want to discuss with him. Because even if he did want to discuss that with you it doesn't mean he'd be interested in performing those acts with you and your posse. Because he's Sam, and ultimately predictable, and you should know by now that he'll be unimaginative enough to turn down a new experience for no other reason than cussed bloody-mindedness. Mom's shower is huge. Literally. Room enough for four at least, maybe five. The spigot, directly overhead, sprays water down liberally over the whole area. I stood there under the stream, eyes closed, trying to relax. Whatever happened with Sam, I had an open invitation to Chad's hole tonight, and if I had to do pizza and movie with my brother, I could easily go over later. My cock stirred as I imagined the delights we'd surely share. So lost in the tranquility and heat and lustful imaginings was I that I did not hear the shower door click open and then closed. I did not sense the presence of another body until I felt a touch on my arm. Startled, I let out a Janet Leigh-like squawk of surprise and blasted open my eyes. Sam, my little brother, his glasses missing and making him appear even younger than his tender years, stood next to me there under the spray. He was, needless to say, naked. "Is this what you wanted to see when you stared me down, Damien?" he asked, his hands sweeping up and down his skinny, completely hairless body. As I stared at him, quite possibly more astounded than I have ever been in my life, even counting the surprises of last night and this morning, Sam dropped to his knees and looked up at me, heedless of the water showering down upon his upturned face, and then he leaned forward and lightly kissed the head of my cock. "And is this what you wanted me to do, sir?" He bent his head, staring at the tiled floor, and waited for my answer. Guess what I replied? "Yes," I said. "Oh, yes." * * * * * Thanks for reading part three of my story. I know it doesn't have as much sex in it as the previous two chapters, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. The last four sections will be as heavily sexed as parts one and two, I promise, but I needed this chapter to set it all up. Thanks for your indulgence. Coming up in "Because—the fourth orgasm—Primary Colors": Damien gains a temporary slave, and Rudy learns the proper way to fuck a cracker. If you like this serial please shoot an email to rustyslocumerotica@gmail.com and tell me. If you didn't like it, you can let me know that too, but I won't be as interested.