This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author.
The contents of this story
are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons
is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which
may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside.
Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters
between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose
local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions,
should not read further.
Tuesday, June 29
As we pulled off down the street, past the Fisher's, the Ripley's, the Sprach house and the rest of our neighbors, I was disappointed. Nobody was out in their front yards to see us go by in the "Maro. I had my T- shirt rolled up my sleeve just so. My hand perched casually on the top of the window pillar, gripping it just enough to show the sinews of my lower arm. My upper arm was just slightly flexed to look a little more muscular, my face resolutely aimed forward as if with disdain, but looking hard out of the corners of my eye. Where was my admiring public?
At least Billy saw me. We waved at him on his bike, and he waved back. Other than that, there was nobody. Bummer.
Oh well, we were off, and I was with Brad, and the sun was wonderful.
We took I-80 west to I-505 north, to I-5, and up that monstrous scar on the landscape for what seemed like forever, then finally off on the old state highway 199, past Burney towards Fall River and Macarthur, veering up the road leading to Radford on Big lake. Brad didn't speed too much, except on the Interstate. Everybody was doing 75, so we did too. Made good time. We talked most of the way, just the usual B. S. about the cabin, the house, Mom's bread, that sort of trash. Time flew too fast.
We never stopped, except to get gas in Burney, putting $25.00 in the 'Maro. Brad said that that shouldn't come out of the Cash Fund, because he would have spent the money anyway, so he put it on his credit card. I had to pee bad, so I read the graffiti over the urinal for a minute while my bladder drained. There was a guy looking to f___ another guy's wife while sucking off the husband, and another message from a guy that wanted to get f---ed. A crude drawing of a huge dick spurting spunge covered the inside of the door of the stall. Brad went to pee after me, and when he came back told me I couldn't draw for shit. I just called him an asshole and told him I could draw better anatomy than that in my sleep.
"Oh, is that what it was supposed to be!" he shot back. "Besides. I thought you went in there to pee."
"So what were you doing in the stall?"
"I had to blow my nose, asshole!"
"Come on, let's go!" I didn't have the quickness to accuse him of being a perve, looking at toilet art.
It was almost eight when we got to Radford. It was dead already, of course, except for Ed's Place, which closes at nine, and the liquor store/bar. There were no people about -- just a couple of cars in front of Ed's, and three or four in front of the bar. Murdoch's store closes during the week at six, except between the Fourth and Labor Day, so we couldn't get ice there. Bertha's car was still there, but the doors were locked. She was probably doing the close. We did an ice run up at Harry's Marina ice machine, putting two blocks for the fridge in the plastic bin in the back seat. I called Mom and Dad from the pay phone in front of the marina while Brad got the ice out of the vending machine. I did it the usual way, letting the 'phone ring twice, then hanging up. Then again, letting it ring three times, and hanging up. They knew we'd arrived okay. Brad paid for the ice, because I only had fives, tens, twenties and a fifty in the fund, and the machine only took quarters. Then we went right to the cabin.
The county road is really an old logging road, and the turnoff for the cabin is about six miles up from Radford. The 'Maro chugged a little on the steep incline on the Cabin road, and almost but didn't bottom out on the ruts. We'd have to fill them pretty quick, I reckoned. Brad agreed. Finally, we turned the bend and there was the cabin, snug as ever.
Brad pulled up at the path to the front porch, and we started unloading the piles of stuff from the car. Brad opened the door with a little trouble - Dad and I had installed big new locks on all the doors and shutters on Memorial Day, after we learned about the break-ins south of Radford, and Brad had never used them, so I had to show him how they worked. You had to turn the key before you entered the combination, then turn it another half turn before the lock snapped open.
I went in with the ice first, and put it into the fridge. We got all the foodstuffs into the fridge and the secure pantry right away. No sense inviting bears. Brad busied himself with lighting the propane hot water tank, so's we could shower before bed, and I laid a fire while he opened the front shutters. We flipped for KP, and I won, so while I cooked, he went to make up the beds. It only took me two matches to light the pilot on the big propane-converted AGA, and I had the small oven heating the lasagna while I threw together a salad.
"Shit!" I heard from the bedroom as I was slicing up the fruit for supper. We didn't eat it on the way, so might as well have it for supper.
"What?" I hollered back at him .
"There aren't any sheets!" he yelled.
"Look in the drawer under my bed," I said, walking towards the bedroom.
"It's locked," he said softer as I entered the bedroom.
It didn't smell stale, so I guess the roof held up under the weird rains we had had in June. "The combo's 1-2-3-4," I said to him.
"What kind of a combo is that?" he grumbled, turning back to open the lock on the linen drawer.
"It works," I said. "See any sign somebody got it open while we were gone?"
"No," he mumbled, opening the drawer. There were two sets of sheets for each bed. That plus the duvets and the quilted spreads would keep us snug and warm. It gets cold at night up here, even in summer.
We made up the beds together, laughing when the second set of sheets turned out to be twins, too small for his bed. I started to unlock the combo to get another out of the drawer, but Brad said "Ah, skip it for now - let's chow, I'm starved."
We ate like wolves and drank all the apple juice. The milk wasn't very cold yet, so we moved it to the coldest part of the fridge so it would be icy by morning. Then it was clean, clean, clean. There were cobwebs in the corners, and a thin layer of dust on about everything. It took a couple of hours to get it all ship-shape, at least until Mom came up and turned it into a sterile operating room.
"Whew!" said Brad, plomping on the big leather sofa in front of the fireplace. "That's enough for one day! Wanna light the fire?" It was dark outside by now, and we'd lit the gas lantern on the table, rather than run up the generator. No point in wasting diesel fuel for just the two of us to have light.
"Not really," I said. "I'm for a shower and the sack. We got a lot to do in the morning."
"Right - you hit it first, I'll just put the 'Maro in the barn." We call it the barn, but it's just an old shed, the old horse stable. Big enough for the old rattletrap pickup, two cars and the little tractor that could, and piles of furniture and stuff from the generations since the place was first built. A real spinning wheel, made out of maple, resided somewhere in there. I remember Gran showing it to me and telling me how her mother used to make her own linen cloth for the table at home, spinning from hemp that was grown on the farm, halfway between Sacramento and Redding. Can you imagine? Hemp is just like marijuana, I think. I wonder if they discovered the joys of smoking it? Knowing my Gran's family, they were probably selling the stuff to the hippies of their day. Along with matches, candles and rolling paper.
I took a shower by candlelight in the big bath - there wasn't that much hot water, so I made it quick. I wanted to leave some for Brad -- besides, the bathroom was cold as a witch's teat, because I'd forgot to turn on the gas radiant heater, and couldn't be bothered to wait for it to fire up. I pulled on my sleep shorts and T-shirt, and dove under the covers, as Brad pounded back in the front door and stripped off to take his shower. He'd brought the lantern from the front room, and turned it down low. His body took on a golden glow from the lamp, and I marveled at how neat he looked, like one of those cover models on Men's Health, but not so old, and infinitely more attractive. He didn't take his boxers off, of course, just put on a towel and went to the shower.
I sort of crept towards sleep, listening to the sounds of the shower, a hoot owl off in the woods somewhere, the silence of the woods only barely broken.
"You asleep?" I heard dimly, as from a distant land.
"Unh-uh," I lied.
"I need to get a sheet for my bed," Brad said softly. I opened my eyes, and looked at him leaning over me.
"S'awright," I said.
"What's the combination?"
I thought that was weird. I mean, Brad's not that bad at numbers that he wouldn't remember 1-2-3-4.
"Sleep here tonight," my mouth said without me even thinking.
"Sure?" he almost whispered.
"Sure." I snapped as awake as if I'd drunk a gallon of coffee. Brad and me hadn't slept in the same bed since I was five or six. I wondered if he tossed and turned in his sleep.
I moved over to the side of the big double bed, shivering from the cold of the sheets.
"Ummm," he said, taking the place where I'd been laying, "Nice and warm."
"Easy for you to say," I said, making my teeth chatter a little to show how I was suffering. "It's freezing over here."
"So lay over here for a minute and warm up," he said.
"I can't," I whispered. Why was I whispering?
"Why not?" he whispered back. "We're brothers."
"I . . . I have . . . I'm . . . it's hard," I blurted.
"Really?" he said. Not mocking me, not making fun of me. "Do I do that to you?"
"Uh . . . yeah."
"Me too,' said Brad. His voice sounded muffled, like he was talking through cotton.
I looked over to him, his face outlined by the pale moonlight creeping through the shutters.
"I do that to you?" my mouth said.
"Yeah," he whispered. And I could see the mound under the covers where his thing was lifting them from below. My nerves were jangling like telegraph wires in an old Western.
"Can I . . . ?" I sidled ever so slightly towards him, trembling, afraid of touching him, wanting to be close to him, afraid he'd mock me for being cold, for wanting to . . . touch him.
As if in superslow motion, his arm lifted around my shoulders, and he drew me into his warmth, a moth to its flame, and my heart leapt like a stag in heat. My head went without bidding to the crook of his shoulder, and my left arm went across his warm chest, down to his right waist, and I felt the waistband of his sleep shorts on my wrist. I was in heaven.
"Ummmm." One of us said. The other echoed.
His smell was so good, the smell of clean soap, a little musky, his heartbeat strong, his breath like vanilla under the toothpaste smell. My breathing was ragged.
"Better?" he whispered over my ear.
"Yeah. Lots." I turned my head up to him, and he was looking right into my eyes. He kissed my forehead in a very brotherly but intimate sort of way, and moved his right hand to hold my left shoulder.
I didn't know how to say it. I wanted to tell him how my heart was pounding, how much I admired him, how I never wanted him to stop holding me like that, how I wanted to touch him all over. But the words wouldn't come off the tip of my tongue.
So I did the next best thing. I tilted my head up farther, and leaned even closer, and kissed him. On the mouth. It never crossed my mind that he might object, might push away from me with disgust, might not want my kiss.
I was right. He returned my kiss and more. From a tender goodnight buss, our kiss became more than brotherly, more than friendly, more than family. I don't know where I learned it, but my mouth opened a little, just as his did, and our tongues introduced themselves to one another, tentatively at first, then probing deeper, touching teeth, gums, the roofs of out mouths.
His arm went farther around me, and my hand went of its own volition to the mound of his private parts, just resting there, absorbing his warmth.
He broke away for a second and looked into my eyes, and said just "Okay?"
I was less restrained. "Don't stop."
My mouth sought his again, and I pushed my raging erection against his hip in answer, squeezing his amazing, hard lovetool in my hand. We kissed the kiss of lovers, not brothers, and my heart took flight, never again to land on the hard ground of alone.
He pulled away again, just enough to whisper "Here." My T-shirt moved upwards under his hands, and over my head cutting him from my sight for a moment. Then I was free of the barrier, and I felt the heat of his body against mine as his lips, his soft lips, came back to mine, and our mouths tried to devour each other in tenderness.
I moved my hand away from his sex, and pushed on the waistband of his shorts, and he took his hand from my shoulder and lifted his body, helping me move them down to his knees. I shagged them with my left foot, and they quickly disappeared to the bottom of the bed, freeing him from all unnatural cover.
My left hand now began an almost imperceptible journey to his yoke, moving first on the knee, then the inside of his thigh. Somehow, I don't really recall, my dick was against his flesh and my sleep shorts were gone, and he stroked my hip in ever closer proximity to my sex. My fingertips found his sac, and I explored it, gently kneading it, feeling the power leashed inside, feeling the knots and the fine hairs, working ever upwards towards his dick.
He gradually wrapped my dick in his hand, and I moaned in pleasure. Nobody had ever touched me there since I was little, since I got my first hairs, since I learned to make the Feeling, and it was as if I had been fooling myself into thinking that was good. It was nothing compared to having Brad's hand caressing me, not jerking me, just touching, holding, loving.
My hand found the bottom of his shaft, hard as bone, but with that softness as well, the tube on the underside full, not quite as hard as the rest of him. It felt like mine, but a little bigger, a little longer, a little warmer, a lot better. My fingers wrapped around the base, and I kept moving towards the end of it, marveling at the strength, the length, the heat of it. He moaned into my mouth, so I knew I was doing the right thing. My hand reached the end, and there was a slipperiness all over the crown where he was leaking. I wanted to see it, touch it to my lips, kiss it, taste him. But I was afraid I'd gross him out.
He pulled away from my lips and rolled us so that I was more on my back, and his lips explored my chin, my neck, my Adam's apple, his tongue moving all over, sending agonizing tingles of pleasure to my toes and back, the electricity just building up, inexorably increasing, filling my heart with a pressure I never knew.
"I love you," he whispered on my left nipple. How did he know that was the one that was the most sensitive? How did he know to say the only thing I ever wanted to hear from him, but never had until then?
"I love you, Brad. I do."
Then his lips left my nipple, and moved over my stomach, tracing my emerging "six-pack" to my navel, ever building the charge of power in my body. I was on the verge of exploding from the tension.
Then came the first touch of his tongue on my dick, ever so light, right on the tip, and I started to feel the tingling building inside me, and I knew I was going to cum like I never had, not ever before.
"Brad, I'm gonna . . ."
My dick was suddenly engulfed in his warmth, his tongue moving ever so fast on the edges, not moving up and down, just holding me and massaging me with that tongue and the roof of his mouth. The Feeling started to build - not just in my butt or my tits or my stomach like usual, but everywhere, from my soles to my nose, the backs of my ears, the insides of them tickling, roaring towards the sea.
"Brad, it's . . . "
The Feeling took me, like a great wave, tumbling my insides into Jell-O, rushing everything in my soul towards the warmth of my brother's love, and I cried out, bellowed, I don't know what, and the bolt of lightening went from my groin to the tip of my dick.
"Aaahhhhh!" I rumbled. "I'm cummmmm . . ."
I went into spasms as my body pumped my seed into the first receptacle other than my sock in my hand that I had ever known. I grabbed at Brad's head as I shuddered in ecstasy, trying to hold him still, to give him all my love, at the same time trying to stop the overload of all my circuits, and then I was gone. I guess I sort of short-circuited or something for a second, but I came back, and Brad was still on me, pulling out the last drops of my essence, moaning in concert with me.
"Oh, God, Brad!" I whispered incoherently. "Oh, God!"
He came up to my face, kissing me all the way, until his lips reached mine and kissed me with a tenderness I'd never thought possible until then.
"All right?" he asked, as if Perfection might not be.
"I love you," I said by way of response.
"Me too," he said. "I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember."
I kissed him hard on the lips, and rolled him back to his former position, my desire for him becoming irresistible, pressing, wanting him, wanting his pleasure to be greater than even mine. My hand was on his tool, warm, inviting, signaling me its readiness for me with lubricant for my lips.
I traced the line from his magnificent mouth, down his chin, the hollow of his neck, the line between his pectorals, down over his navel, my chin hitting the tip of his Perfect tool, the lube he was secreting making it slip down, under my chin, to my lips and tongue, the taste of him . . .
The taste! It was at once sweet and salt, like glycerin but with the flavor of his body, the musk making me dizzy, my heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, my ears roaring with anticipation of his pleasure.
"Tim, you don't . . . " he said softly, gently, letting me know he cared even more.
"Shut up. Love me," I said, still tasting him with my tongue, my lips brushing the tip of his huge erection as I spoke. His hands caressed me, warm and loving, his moaned reply giving me permission, and I took the head into my mouth, marveling at the smoothness, the smell of yeast and musk, the slight smell of his soap, the feel of his tool in my hands. His tool now mine, his pleasure, my joy. I sucked it gently further into my mouth, feeling the flare of his corona, the slight fold of skin behind it, the long tube underneath it, the veins on the sides.
"Tim, I'm gonna shoot!" he said softly, warning me, letting me know I didn't have to take him, I could stop. But I couldn't, no way could I not taste my man, receive his offering, make his seed part of my being. I stopped moving and let my tongue play over the bottom of his marvelous appendage, trying to draw his soul into mine.
There was a shuddering in his legs, and the head of his Perfect dick expanded, got even harder than before, and I greedily awaited what I knew he was about to give me, praying that I would be able to take him all, not gag or lose any.
He erupted with a force that startled me. His first shot went all the way to the back of my throat even before I knew it. Before I could taste it, it was in my throat and down, making me swallow reflexively, still sucking like a baby on its bottle, but getting milk no human had ever savored before. He shouted something or other. Another massive shot, but this time I was ready, and held it on my tongue a second before swallowing, rolling it just once and smelling it more than tasting it, all musk and sex and Perfect. His whole body trembled with the force of his cumming, and then another volley and another followed, not so violent, but still copious, barely swallowable before the succeeding shot. Then his cumming turned to a steady flowing, filling my greedy mouth between swallows, the taste indescribably Perfect, the knowing that he was part of me forever making everything else insignificant.
I had my right hand at the base of his cock, feeling the contractions as he pumped his love into my mouth, and my left hand was kneading his balls, coaxing more of his love forth, trying to drain him completely, take all of him at once, inhale him forever. He was moaning, crying out, making an "Unnhhh, unnhhh! Sound with each contraction. The flow continued, stopped. There was a weak contraction, and another spurt into my mouth, and then another flow, which too soon stopped. He was shivering, not violently, but like you do when you get out of the icy air into the warmth of the car up at Tahoe.
"Stop!" he almost begged. "I can't . . . " he panted. "Oh, God, Tim, oh God! Stop, it feels . . "
I let his dick move out of my mouth, not wanting to, but not wanting to hurt him, not him, not ever. I moved up on top of him, swallowing as much of him as I could find left in my mouth, running my tongue around my gums seeking a last vestige of his joy to ingest, finding none, just my own saliva, but full of his taste, his musk. I didn't want to kiss him, not yet, he might be grossed out about tasting his own juice, but he grabbed my head between his hands and held my lips against his, staring into my eyes as I drowned willingly in his. There was no way I could have moved my head, his grip was incredibly powerful, but he held me as you would hold an egg, not putting any pressure on it as he drew my lips to his softly, oh so softly.
"God, how I love you!" he whispered on my lips just before we were lip-locked, our tongues finding their way back into their new lairs, our breaths, still heavy with passion, mingling. I breathed in as he exhaled, and felt I took more of him into me, and he took my breath back into his lungs. His body writhed under me, and I felt his not-quite-hard dick pressing against mine, suddenly becoming hard as a crowbar once more, out of love, not horniness. We were both shivering like leaves, but it wasn't the cold. It was nerves going into aftershock, tension draining out of us.
He let go of my head, knowing I couldn't move away from his Perfect mouth, had to keep tasting him, had to have his tongue inside my lips, mine inside his. He drew the covers over us, and I slipped to his left side, my shoulder under his armpit, my head tilted to his to keep our mouths together. I snuggled into him, lay my left leg over his right, moved my hand back to his sex, holding it, not quite hard, not soft. Feeling in it the power to please me, to love me. His right hand drifted down my side to my waist , then to my still-turgid dick, holding it in a tender but powerful way, as if to say, 'this is mine!' and I knew it was true. That it would be his for as long as he wanted, until my last breath was a forgotten wisp in the cold atmosphere of Death.
Our lips finally parted, and we groped with little success for words to say what we felt.
"I never thought you . . ."
"God, how I wanted . . ."
"I hope you don't hate . . . "
"You taste so . . ."
"I want you . . . "
"I love you more than . . ."
"You won't leave . . . "
"When did you . . . "
"I didn't think you liked me," I said at one point.
"You never even hugged me, but that once at the City game."
"I got a hard-on. I was scared you knew."
"That I wanted you. Wanted to kiss you, wanted to make love to you." He said, caressing my left nipple as he spoke. "You were so good, so . . . sexy on the field, your body made me so horny I couldn't stand it, and I knew you'd think I was a real perve for wanting my own brother that way."
"You are a pervert!" I said in mock seriousness.
He backed away as if slapped, his eyes wide with not-quite-fear of rejection.
"My pervert," I said as lovingly as I knew how, reaching for him, pulling him back to me. "I love you," I said as openly and honestly as I knew how.
His eyes teared up a little -- I saw -- and he nuzzled me, and said "I love you more than anyone, Skeet, more than anything."
"Even the 'Maro?" I teased.
"It's just a thing," he lightened up.
"Even yourself?" I got nasty.
"Especially that," he said seriously.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
And he told me. How he admired me, my kaleidoscope eyes, my easy way with people, my mathematic skill and logic, my grace in athletics, my sense of honor. How he was afraid he wasn't good enough for me, how he wanted to be the best there could be for me, but knew he could never measure up . . .
It felt weird to have him say that, Mr. Perfect. I was so inferior compared to him. I told him that, and he made my ego swell a million times, saying he thought I was too perfect to want him. Love is the greatest thing there is, isn't it?