MY KID BROTHER
Copyright © 2003
By Lee Mariner
This ADULT fantasy depicts
homosexual acts and erotic situations. If you are not of legal age in
your locality to be reading this material or should you not approve of
such material, please leave.
This story is copyrighted © by the author. It is assigned to
the Nifty Archives for posting, but it may not be reproduced, copied
archived or posted on any other web site without the specific written
consent of the author.
My friend, Dean has edited and proofed this work. I am grateful
for his continued assistance.
Comments and/or suggestions may be directed to: email@example.com
A sudden feeling of apprehension
swept over me when Brett said, "When we get home". I suddenly
realized that I was in New York City about to go to who knows where
with a man whom I had only met a few hours earlier and knew very little
about other than he was sexy.
He was a charismatic, handsome, well-developed, middle-aged man with an
obviously substantial endowment; but he seemed to be a man who
expected to, and probably did, get what he wanted. My earlier ardent
feelings had subsided considerably when I considered the feeling
that it was
foregone conclusion on his part that I would accompany him. I
didn't like being taken for granted, and I was in the throes of trying
sense of the apprehensive dilemma that his authoritative
attitude had created in my mind. I was trying to think about
how I was going to
extricate myself when Kita opened the limousine trunk.
"Kita, " Brett said, glancing to his left and hesitating with one hand
on the car roof and
the other on the open car door. "Did Mrs. Hunter leave this morning for
the house in the Hamptons?"
"Mrs. Hunter," I thought, looking quizzically at Kita and than back at
Brett. I was about to ask who Mrs. Hunter was when Kita spoke,
his answer deepening the mystery.
"No, Sir, she didn't," Kita answered. "She and your son decided to
await your return so the three of you could go together."
"She did what?" Brett exploded, suddenly breathing, almost panting,
emotional passion. "I told them to leave today and that I would join
on Monday," he fumed with exasperation, the muscles of his jaw
"I am sorry, Sir, she and Master Dwayne took the Jaguar and went
shopping before lunch. I heard Mrs. Hunter tell Master Dwayne that they
would keep his appointment with his class counselor at the Larchmont
Young Men's Academy after lunch."
Turning and looking at me over his shoulder for the first time since he
had spoken with his chauffeur, Brett frowned as he said,
"Damn, Carlton, that complicates matters. I had anticipated that my
wife and son would be out of town and we would have free run of the
place. No matter though, we can use the garage entrance, and Kita will
explain that I have been delayed and will be on a different flight."
"Brett," I said, cautiously. "You didn't mention that you are
"So what if I am!" He exclaimed, his anger suddenly flaring again. "I
don't remember you
mentioning whether you
were married or not, and you damn well better not try to play the
innocent and tell me that you have never been in bed with a married
man." He said, breathing heavily. "That's a load of bull shit."
Stunned by the sudden ferocity of his arrogant and unfounded
accusations, I backed away, glancing at Kita who
was standing with his hand on the trunk lid, his face emotionless. "It
wouldn't make any difference now whether I were married or not, Brett,"
I replied, attempting to control my emotions as I responded. "Whether
you believe it or not, I try not to be involved with men who are
"Bull shit," he sneered, vehemently, the knuckles of the hand gripping
white from his anger. "I haven't met a slut who can pass up a good
fuck and the chance to make a few bucks. I don't see you as
being a damn bit different," he growled in a menacing tone, his face
flushed from anger.
I was stunned by the complete change in his persona and
the ugly epithet with the uncalled for accusation. I could see Brett's
neck muscles, his flushed face, and the fury
in his eyes. I thought he was going to do
something foolish, and quickly glancing at Kita I asked him to remove
my luggage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him place the two
bags at the edge of the curb. As he straightened up, he said,
"There is a taxi stand just past the passenger terminal exit where I
met you and
"Thanks, Kita," I replied without taking my eyes from Brett.
had the distinct impression that Brett did not take
being refused lightly; and I wasn't sure what, besides being
angry by an unexpected rejection, he might do even though we were in a
public area. What I
did know at that particular moment was that I wanted to get away from
Brett Hunter before there was any further unnecessary and embarrassing
noise of the trunk lid latches engaging, amplified by the surrounding
concrete walls and overhang, seemed to bring him back to reality.
the hell, it's your fucking loss, Bitch," Brett growled,
turning abruptly and slamming the door behind him as he ducked into the
interior of the car.
Kita's inscrutable countenance softened into a discernible smile, and
there was a twinkle in his eyes. Opening the car door, he winked
before getting behind the steering wheel and starting the car's engine.
Inhaling deeply and exhaling as the limousine pulled away from the
curb, I felt the tension draining away, my muscles relaxing as a wave
of relief washed
car turned a corner and disappeared from view, I sighed partially from
disappointment but more from relief. Swinging my sea bag up on
my shoulder, and picking up my suitcase, I headed in the direction that
Kita had indicated. There were two taxis standing at the curb.
The driver in the lead car was leaning against the seat back smoking a
cigarette. Dropping my sea bag on the concrete beside my
suitcase, I leaned over and, looking through the open car window,
asked, "Can you take me to the Brooklyn Naval Shipyard?"
"Sure can, Bud," he replied, scraping the glowing ember from the tip of
his cigarette in the car's ashtray before placing the butt behind his
ear as he straightened
up and looked out the window at me. "Set you back twenty-five
bucks, and there is a charge of five dollars each for your bags.
"Thirty-five dollars," I mused aloud. "That's kind of steep isn't it?"
"I can put you on the meter if that's what you want." He answered
without a hint of compassion. "Either way, it still costs five bucks
apiece for the bags."
"Take the flat rate, Son," a voice whispered from behind me. "If you
don't, the meter will cost more after he finishes running you the long
"Wha...what," I replied, surprised that someone had walked up
behind me unheard.
"Cab drivers can spot non-New Yorkers, and sailors are fair game," the
tall good looking stranger said in a quiet voice. "Your sea bag is a
dead give-away, and I'm surprised he offered you a flat rate.
They don't usually give a serviceman a break."
"I guess I had better learn how to get around the city," I replied.
"If you are going to be in the Big Apple very long, you had better," he
said over his shoulder as he walked toward the other taxi.
The sharp voice of the taxi driver interrupted me as I called out,
"Thanks a lot," receiving a hand wave in return.
"Hey bud, are we going to Brooklyn or are you gonna stand there?"
"Brooklyn," I replied.
"Throw your stuff in the trunk," he said gruffly, unlocking the trunk
lid from the interior of the car.
After probably a half an hour of
driving through crowded streets, crossing a bridge and following a
chain link fence, we turned into an approach to double gates with a
guard shack situated between the lanes of entering and exiting
traffic. A huge well-lit sign formed an arch over the entrance
identifying the site as that of the U. S. Naval Shipyard, Brooklyn,
New York. As the taxi approached, a young well armed Marine in
camouflage uniform stepped from inside the guard shack. He stood
in a state of readiness to salute if necessary, but when he didn't see
any gold he relaxed and asked for my orders and identification card.
After checking my papers and comparing my face to the card, he
handed them back to me. As he leaned down at the driver's
heard him start to say, "The Receiv...," when he was abruptly cut off
by the driver. "Yeah, yeah, I know where it is; it's off of Maury
Avenue on Farragut. I've been there more times than I can count.
The driver pulled away from the guard shack mumbling, "Fuckin'
jarheads, they think no one knows anything about this base but them."
"They know more about it than I do," I said, a little piqued at his
"You'll learn if you're here long enough," he replied glancing at me in
his rear view mirror.
"I hope I'm not here very long," I replied as I handed him the
"Whatever," he said, pulling the under dash lever that
released the trunk lid.
The trunk was hardly closed before he drove away leaving me in
front of a very large three-story building. Several brick steps
to a small landing and, beyond that to a pair of half glass door
with sturdy screening over the lower door panels. Mounted under a
bright white light over the
doors was the usual black on white lettered sign that read Transit and
Permanent Personnel Receiving
Station, Bldg. 101.
"Oh well," I mused softly to myself as I swung my sea bag on my
shoulder and, picking up my
suitcase, started to ascend the steps. Just as I was
about to reach the landing, one of the doors swung open and a young man
dressed in civilian clothes followed by another dressed the same way
came barreling through the door. "Hey," I shouted. "Watch where
"You watch where your going, Buddy," the lead sailor said as he deftly
and athletically danced his way Gene Kelly style down two steps at a
time, his buddy following him after they
avoided knocking me backwards.
Leaning forward and letting my sea bag drop onto the landing, I held
onto my suitcase for balance as I recovered from the unexpected
onslaught. Turning my head in their direction, I saw two young
obviously teenagers, trotting down the street. One was dressed in
and a red sweatshirt with the name 'Falcons' emblazoned on the
back. The other also wore Levi's, but his shirt was a
light blue. I started to bark an order for them to stop
when I realized that I was wearing civilian clothes myself and that
they would ignore
"They're probably on their way to the EM(Enlisted Men's) Club," I
thought as I pushed my way inside the building.
The interior was typical of other barracks buildings that I had been
in with dark green vinyl tiled floors that needed scrubbing and
polishing, light green walls, and two iron railed steel-tread stairways
leading up to the
other floors. In front of me was a wooden double door with a sign
designating it as the mess hall. To my right was a single wooden
with a series of numbers painted in black on it's natural, varnished
surface. To my left there was a wooden door that for some reason was
painted the same color as the walls. The upper half was open and
on the wall above the door the words, "Master-at-Arms" had been painted
in black letters. On the wall to the left of the door was another
sign, "Transits Report Here", and below that in smaller letters,
Your Orders Ready'".
Below the half door shelf, there was a bulletin board covered with a
myriad of notices, pictures and notes. Beyond the door was an
approximately twelve foot square two-window office containing two
desks, several gray four-drawer filing cabinets and assorted chairs
scattered behind and in front of the two battered desks. A
second-class petty officer in an undress blue uniform sat at the desk
further from the door reading from a manual. A seaman
apprentice, also in his undress blue uniform, was standing at an open
file cabinet drawer feigning enthusiasm while he sorted
through a stack of papers and placed them into various file
folders. Both men seemed to be totally engrossed in what they
were doing and not paying any
attention to the doorway until I asked loudly,
"Would one of you care to check me in?"
"What, oh... sure," the petty office said quickly glancing up and
rolling his chair back. Using his pen for a
bookmark, he stood closing the manual he had been reading and moved
around his desk to the door. "We didn't mean to ignore you,
but I was trying to
catch up on some past due manual changes while Glover was doing some of
"It helps pass the time while on watch, Carlson," I said, glancing at
tag pinned to the left breast of his tunic.
"Especially then," he replied as he took my orders from my hand.
After several seconds of looking over my orders, he turned away
mumbling under his breath. "Evers, Carlton Evers. I saw that name on a
transient personnel list," he said aloud. "Glover, have you finished
the Transient Personnel file?"
"Not yet, I'm still filing the 'R' stuff," the seaman replied wearily.
"That stack of papers is still on the desk."
"Is there something wrong, Carlson?" I asked, a little agitated at not
being told anything.
"No, your orders are okay, but I think your name is on a list of
transients who have been assigned for transportation on board the USNS
George W. Goethals."
I knew USNS meant United States Naval Ship, a designation for
ships that the Navy controlled but were not in active commissioned
status. The smoke stacks had bright blue and yellow bands indicating
they were non-commissioned naval vessels. The ones that I had seen
the Mediterranean were old World War II ships that were used for
transporting personnel, supplies and materials. I
had assumed that the Navy would fly me to my next duty station in
Panama, and it surprised me to hear that I might be going on an old
vessel that was probably close to it's final voyage to the ghost
"I surely hope that you are mistaken, Carlson," I replied, trying to
a sudden feeling of apprehension and disappointment deep in the pit of
Carlson turned around as he was leafing through a sheaf of several
papers held together by staples. "I don't think so, Evers," he
said perusing one sheet and then another. "I'm almost certain....yes,
here it is," he exclaimed, reading musingly. "Evers, Carlton,
Boatswain Mate First Class, USN assigned to the USNS George W. Goethals
for transport to US Naval Air Station, Coco Solo, Republic of Panama."
"Let me see that, Carlson," I demanded, feeling my stomach turning over
Seeing it written in black and white didn't change anything, but
around in a barracks filled with transients going to various duty
stations did. The ship was not scheduled to leave for a week, and
I surely wasn't looking forward to being in a state of limbo without
assigned duties until then.
"Damn," I exclaimed. "That sucks big time."
"The ship or hanging around here until she leaves?" Carlson asked,
glancing across the counter at me with
a hint of sympathy in his tone.
"A little of both but more here than the ship," I replied a little
board the ship, I know what follows, but here
the days drag, and who knows what kind of duty they might try to
"I know what you mean; I've been here for almost two weeks," Carlson
said as he sat down and extracted the ink pad and stamps he needed to
endorse my orders as being on board the station. He was just
about to stamp
my orders when realizing that my leave and travel time hadn't
expired, I stopped him. "Hold it Carlson. I don't have to check-in
"What?" he replied, the stamp in his hand hovering scant inches above
"It just dawned on me that, I still have another week before I'm due to
check-in," I said,
chuckling softly. "This is my first time in New York City, and I might
as well see some of the sights while I have the chance."
Placing the stamp on the inked surface of the pad, he glanced at the
orders. "Your call, Boats," he exclaimed, looking up and grinning
me. "At least that's a week that you don't have to spend here," he said
as he stood, folding my orders and returning them to the envelope.
"Maybe you will be transferred by then," I said a little
"Let's hope so."
There was a taxi sitting in a
designated area outside of the Receiving Station barracks. My
funds were not inexhaustible, and I was
hesitant to spend another thirty-five dollars to be taken to a
YMCA if there was one in Brooklyn. Leaning over to look into the
interior of the taxi, I asked
the driver, "What's the fare to the YMCA?"
"Which one, Bedford or Flushing?" he asked, turning to look at me with
a "why are you bothering me" stare.
"The closest one," I replied, ignoring his look and getting into the
back of the car.
"That'll be Bedford Avenue," he sighed, starting the engine and
fare meter's flag as he pulled away from the curb.
I couldn't help but notice the complete lack of open space along the
route; everything seemed to be dirty gray concrete, non-descript at red
bricks and dirty opaque glass. The
buildings appeared to be attached to each other because of a lack of
space between them, and there seemed to be
hardly enough room for people to breathe much less room for
grass, bushes or trees to grow. There were people sitting on
steps, leaning against metal railings or leaning against walls; some
engaged in animated conversations and others just sitting staring at
dirty glass windows were filled with banners and garish colored neon
signs proclaiming the establishment to be a bar or grill or maybe a
delicatessen or some other type of neighborhood store.
I was hard to imagine a YMCA in the area, and I was surprised when the
driver stopped in front of an ancient but clean-looking building.
you go, Buddy," he exclaimed as he disengaged the fare meter.
a night and a free breakfast after morning services."
Hunching down, I glanced out the car window. The sign "Bedford Young
Men's Christian Association" was centered over the double-wide doorway,
and several men, young and older, were lounging against the walls on
either side of the iron stairway railings. "It looks like it's
been here for awhile," I said.
"It has that, but it's clean and, if you can stomach the preaching the
food isn't half bad," he replied
followed by, "The meter reads twelve bucks."
As I was digging the money out of my wallet, I started to ask about my
luggage but then decided to keep my mouth shut. "Sleeping dogs don't
bite," I thought as I handed him the money.
Among the men
leaning against the wall there were one or two young men of obvious
Latin heritage dressed in tight jeans that displayed their
equipment and skin tight t-shirts revealing leanly muscled but well
physiques. One dark haired boy who was probably in his late teens or
early twenties reminded me of Lyle Coleman. As I passed, he turned
toward me smiling as his hand drifted suggestively over his well
I was still feeling horny after the unexpected encounter with Brett
Hunter, and the memory of Lyle and the last night at the cottage
flashed in my head as I ascended the steps toward the buildings
entrance. "Too bad, he's probably hustling," I mused as we caught
each others eye in a brief but knowing glance.
The aroma of unwashed bodies and disinfectant assailed my nostrils the
moment I stepped through the doors into a vaulted ceiling room.
Several men occupied a variety of chairs scattered around an
un-carpeted marble floor, and there were some almost antique writing
tables underneath the mezzanine overhang. To the left two steps
led downward to a narrow landing before descending further into what an
overhead sign proclaimed to be the locker and men's rest rooms.
On the right several wide steps led upward to a mezzanine.
Standup signs at the foot indicated where the dining room was located;
along with times it was open and when services were held.
There were several half wooden and half opaque glassed doors off of
the mezzanine and a number of benches.
The reception counter was empty except for a bell with a handwritten
sign that said, "ring bell for service." When I tapped the
button with the palm of my hand, the clang of the bell seemed to
resound around the room, and I could almost feel several pairs of eyes
looking my way.
A middle-aged drably but neatly dressed man entered the area behind the
counter from an inner
office, asking, "May I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like a room," I answered, eyeing the large key box mounted on
the wall behind the clerk.
"How long will you be staying?"
"Hopefully, if things work out, just for tonight," I replied
eyeing a bank of not totally unoccupied telephone booths against a back
wall. Two men looked like they were sitting and sleeping in two of the
booths with their elbows on the small change shelf holding their heads
"The room is ten dollars plus a two dollar state room tax, and checkout
is at eleven o'clock. If you stay more than a day, you'll have to let
us know in the morning before checkout time so the maids can skip
cleaning it. We only change linens twice a week," the counter
clerk said, handing me a key to
room two twenty but not releasing it as he said, "Please, leave the
towels in the room except when you are using the showers or wash room.
Be careful even then; they do disappear, and there will be a charge."
"That sounds fair enough," I groused cheerfully as I handed him the
money; my attempt at levity resulting in a blank stare.
"The elevator is to your left in the hallway or you can use the stairs
also in the hall at the end," he said over his shoulder as he
through the door he had entered.
"Thanks," I called out behind him thinking, "not much of a Christian
be working for a Christian organization."
I thought about leaving my sea bag and suitcase sitting in
of the check-in counter but looking around the room decided that
prudence was the better part of stupidity. As I slung the bag
over my shoulder, and leaned down to pick up the suitcase, I saw the
Lyle look-a-like watching me as he casually walked toward the
hallway where the clerk had said the elevator and stairway were
located. Hesitating for a moment, he licked his lips and groped
the bulge in his jeans. Nodding his head in the direction of the
hallway, he moved slowly in the "follow me" mode that I had used years
earlier. I felt the tingling feeling in my groin and my cock
stirring. Breathing in deeply to calm the building passion, I
moved on to the telephone booths entering the last one.
Setting my suitcase on end, I stuffed my sea bag into the booth leaving
barely enough room for me. Extracting the small personal phone
number book from my wallet, I found Jerry's number. Rather than
squeezing in with my luggage, I stood facing the booth doorway.
Dropping several coins in the telephone, I dialed Jerry's number and
listening for the ring.
A smooth well-modulated voice filled the telephone earpiece, "Hawes
I recognized Harold's voice, Jerry's chauffer-butler. Glancing
quickly around me, I sat on my sea bag as I said, "Harold, it's Carlton
Evers, is Jerry home?"
There was a slight hesitation and then, "Mr. Evers, so good to hear
your voice. Mr. Hawes is in the library at the moment. I know he will
be delighted that you are calling. Please wait a moment while I
transfer your call."
There was a click, silence and then another click followed by,
"Carlton, where are you, in town?" Jerry asked, excitement in his
"Not very far really, Jerry, I'm in Brooklyn," I replied a sudden surge
of warmth washing over me at the sound of his voice.
"Brooklyn, New York," he said inquisitively. "Why are you there, I
thought you were going to Panama."
"Jerry," I replied. "Don't you remember that I told you that I was
going home of leave first and then I would be here for transportation
to my next duty station in Panama."
The line went dead, but I didn't panic; I knew Jerry. I could
hear him breathing as he was thinking, and then he said, "My fault,
I confused the locations and the dates. How long are you going to
be in Brooklyn?"
"I'll be here for at least the next week or so, but I don't have to
report in for a few days yet," I answered. "At the moment, I'm in
a rather old YMCA."
I could hear the pace of his breathing increasing, and then I heard,
would you like to spend that week in Boston with me, Carl, Harold can
be there by noon tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, would be great, Jerry," I replied, a warm elated feeling
spreading over me. "It'll give me a chance
to rest after the flight from Indiana."
"Indiana, that's your home if I remember correctly," he replied softly.
"I'm anxious to hear all about it, Carlton. Right now though what
YMCA are you staying at?"
"The one on Bedford Avenue."
There was a muted repetition of "Bedford Avenue," and then "Harold
knows where you
are, Carl. I wish it could be sooner, but noon tomorrow is
better. Both you and Harold can get a good night's rest.
"I'll send the Forest Green Cadillac; you remember it don't you?" He
asked in a covertly erotic tone, the not very subtle innuendo bringing
back pleasant memories.
"I should," I whispered. "If our phones had phonavision, you would see
"And probably with an erection," he responded in a seductively
"You can find that out tomorrow," I replied, my cock hardening as I
recalled when he had taken me in the back seat of the Cadillac.
Just as he was about to speak, a metallic voice interrupted saying,
"Deposit twenty-five cents for five minutes, please."
I was fumbling for a quarter coin when Jerry said, "Be out front at
noon, Carl and I'll see you tomor..." The phone went dead before
he finished talking.
"Things will be all right tomorrow," I mused, remembering the song by
that name as I heaved myself up from my sea bag.
I should have known better than sit on top of the clothes-filled canvas
bag with my one
hundred seventy pounds. It was thoroughly jammed inside between the
seat and window. I was tugging on it cursing under my breath when
a soft baritone voice asked from behind me, "Need some help?"
"What?" I exclaimed, startled by the unexpected offer.
The good looking Lyle look alike had come up behind me while I was
struggling with the sea bag; and, not expecting it, I snapped upwards
then fell forward against the telephone booth, my head striking the
wooden door jamb.
He grabbed me with one arm around my waist, his hand on my stomach and
the other hand gripping my left bicep. I felt the pressure as he
squeezed holding me and helping me to stand upright. "I'm sorry,
Fella," he said, his voice filled with concern. "I didn't mean to
scare you, but you looked like you needed some help getting that bag
out of there."
"I'm all right; I wasn't expecting anyone to be behind me," I
glancing at him
rubbed the sore spot on my forehead. "I kind of jammed it
inside while I was making a call," I explained lamely, my cock
suddenly surging at my seeing just how good looking he was and the
swelling of his muscles as he easily pulled the stuck bag free.
"I can't blame you for trying to secure your gear," he said,
straightening up and thrusting his pelvis forward as he did.
"It's easy to
get ripped off if you're not on the lookout."
"I appreciate your help," I said, deliberately glancing down at the
bulge in his groin.
"No problem." he said, grinning as he returned my glance by lowering
his eyes to my hardening cock. " I was headed for my room, and to
be on the safe side maybe I had better carry the sea bag up to your
room," he suggested. "That was a pretty nasty bump you took on your
"Thanks, that'd be a big help," I said swallowing, my throat feeling