Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2017 08:05:08 -0700 From: Boy Mercury X Subject: Speed of Light This story is an entirely fictional work of adult erotic fantasy, involving consensual sexual relations between related persons. Copyright me 2017. If you're under the age of majority in your jurisdiction, please come back when you're of legal age. Nifty is free service that depends on your donations to survive. Please help them to keep providing this awesome resource for all of us by giving at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html You can find my tumblr at http://boymercuryx.tumblr.com/ SPEED OF LIGHT by Boy Mercury X 1. THEN In Einstein's theory of special relativity, time passes differently for different observers, depending on the observers' motion. The Twin Paradox is a thought experiment in which one twin leaves earth on spaceship traveling at nearly the speed of light while his brother remains behind. When the traveling twin returns to earth he's only a little older, but his twin has aged decades, and is now almost unrecognizable to his own other half. When I first learned about the Twin Paradox it made me so sad I had to go to bed and cry. I couldn't be roused for dinner or anything else. I lied to our mother and said I was sick. How could I explain to her special relativity, or my grief over a pair of hypothetical twins? I did tell Berto, and he said it was stupid, which didn't help. But then he said we could just promise to never get into a spaceship without the other, and that helped me feel better. Besides, he said, it was obviously not a true story because shouldn't the twin who traveled be changed by his experience, not the one who stayed behind? I had to admit he had a point. That's how Berto outsmarted Einstein. His unerring ability to save me from myself was one reason I loved him so much. Everyone thought I was the smarter twin, but it was really Berto who figured everything out. I thought it was a betrayal of my brother to let people think I was smarter just because I liked books and school better, but Berto said he liked that our parents and teachers thought he was a dummy. They would always underestimate him. That's how smart he was. 2. NOW There was not going to be any good way to tell Lizzie that my brother Berto would be coming to town. She knew about him enough to know he was chronically in trouble. She never said even a single negative thing about him, but I suspected she was relieved that he'd been out of touch for so long that we didn't know how to even invite him. "I guess he wants to meet my fiancé," I told her. "How did he know you were getting married?" she asked. "Oh you know, the family grapevine," I explained. "He turned up in L.A. and crashed at my cousin Jimena's place and she told him." "And how was his stay?" she asked, knowing Berto's history of burning bridges. "I don't know," I said. "Jimena didn't say exactly, she just warned us he was coming." Berto was a pro at staying with someone just long enough to get what he needed before moving on to his next target. That was usually about three days, longer if he was on best behavior. He had a sixth sense for knowing when to leave, and just how long it would take before the soured feelings would take to subside and he could return. "Do you want him to come?" asked Lizzie. "Of course I do. He's my brother." "Well okay," she said, "one more guest at the wedding." She wasn't happy, but what could you do? Family is family. 3. THEN Our genes were identical, but somehow the way things played out were anything but. "Nando," he'd say to me on weekends, "you're wasting your youth, brother. Come out with me." "It's okay," I'd tell him, "I don't mind homework. I like it, kind of." Before leaving to go cruise the city with his friends, he'd give me a kiss. I don't mean a brotherly kiss, but a real kiss, tongues and all. "If I don't get lucky we can do the thing when I get home," he said. "The thing" was to blow each other, although lately we'd been getting more adventurous. We'd been intimate for as long as I could remember. Even before memory, we held each other as little piggy faced fetuses. Puberty didn't make us intimate, it just gave our intimacy greater depth. To strangers we were so identical as to be interchangeable, but to each other we couldn't be more different. We were both thin and had thick black eyebrows and good smiles. We were healthy and fit -- me from wrestling team, Berto from his job at our neighbor Mr. Bruno's construction company. (At the end of the school year our neighbor Mr. Bruno told us he needed help if we could do framing. Berto said sure, and I asked if he meant picture framing, and everyone laughed, marking the beginning and simultaneous end of my career in construction.) His skin was more golden brown than mine because he was more often shirtless in the sun because of his work. He was getting more manly too, filling out in his chest and shoulders and biceps. I loved Berto and I loved his body. I loved it more than my own. 4. NOW I didn't know when Berto would arrive, so I was surprised to find him at my door with his duffle bag containing everything he owned. Without a word we wrapped our arms around each other and kissed each other's cheeks and necks, and hugged each other fiercely. "So this is the future Mrs. Doctor Isabel," he said on meeting Lizzie. "So this is the twin," Lizzie said in response. "Lizzie's keeping her last name," I said, "and I don't use `doctor' anyway." "Too bad," said Berto, "you worked hard for it, might as well use it." Berto came in and we talked for hours. Lizzie ordered Thai delivery and we talked some more. I knew Lizzie was set against Berto, but he turned on all his charm, and maybe started to win her over anyway. At 30 Berto looked better than ever. Rougher, more stocky. He was really a man now. I was surprised to see tattoos on his forearms, which had grown dense with muscle. There was only a little awkwardness when he asked if he could sleep over, which hadn't occurred to us. But I said of course, and that we have a little pullout loveseat in the room we used as an office, and I'd set it up right away. 5. THEN When we were 16 The Incident happened. Berto was already in trouble because our neighbor Mr. Bruno said someone had been stealing goods from the properties they worked, construction equipment mostly, and he accused Berto. I was sure Berto was innocent. He had a reputation a reckless kid, but he was actually pretty good. But once you're accused of theft and you can't prove your innocence your reputation accelerates and precedes you. Anything that went wrong got pinned on Berto, and he went from being a reckless kid to being a bad kid in people's minds. Then The Incident happened. The police were called, and in the end Berto was sent to a reform boot camp. When he came home we did our thing. Afterwards, nestled together in my bed, I said, "You're different, Berto." He was harder. He was brooding. He was becoming as bad as people said he was. It turns out a mostly good kid at a reform camp learns from actually bad kids how to be just like them. He lied, stole, manipulated, and he took some glee in it. We still had our thing together, and that was the one place where he was still tender. 6. NOW Lizzie turned in and I said I'd show Berto where he could sleep and get him towels for the morning. As soon as the door shut behind us in the office, our mouths were on each other's, and we were tearing at each other's clothes. Berto dropped to his knees and furiously undid my pants, pulled them down around my knees and swallowed my cock in its entirety. I gasped and held my back firm against the door, just in case Lizzie tried to get in. Berto was deep throating me relentlessly, and when I tried to push his head off he took my wrists in his hands and held them firm. I could see where this was going, so I let myself relax. He was so good at this, and I was so excited to see how handsome he'd become, it didn't take long before I was cumming down his throat. He was blowing hard through his nose, but swallowing every bit of it, until I began to soften and my body shuddered at his sucking. He stood up and shoved his tongue in my mouth, his saliva thick and tasting of my own cum. "Berto," I whispered, and tried to shove my fingers down the front of his jeans. "Shhh," he whispered. "Can you take tomorrow off?" "No, well, maybe -- I don't know. I just got hired." "Call in sick," he whispered. Then we said goodnight. In bed, Lizzie stewed over our guest. She said it was bizarre meeting Berto, because he looked so much like me, but at the same time not. I asked if he was more attractive to her and she laughed it off, but I thought she had to at least have some curiosity. We talked about the rest of the week, planned how we'd accommodate Berto's stay during the wedding. Even with the lights out in the dark, she was still going on about Berto. "It's like an old sitcom where the same actor plays the lookalike cousins with a split screen," she whispered. "At least I'm marrying the good twin." 7. THEN In our twenties, Berto and my life truly diverged. I became consumed with academics, and Berto got into more and more trouble. Our parents were horrified. Dad was a pharmacist, and mom a dental hygienist, who expected their kids to exceed them in education and careers, and there was nothing in their lives to prepare them for trial courts and calls from the police. I hated to see Berto in trouble, but none of it was that serious. Petty theft, marijuana possession and things like that. When our baby sister Iris had here quinceañera, someone broke into all our cousins and aunties' houses while the extended family celebrated, taking jewelry and DVD players and anything easy to pawn. In the following days as all the aunties told each other what happened, it became clear that our family was targeted. It had to be by a family member who did it, someone who knew exactly when everyone would be out, and who knew everyone's house and where the goods were. No one publically accused Berto, but everyone knew it had to be him. He was the only one not at the quinceañera. It almost killed Mom, and Papa told Berto he was not welcome in our house anymore. He said anyone who steals from his own family is the worst kind of trash. Berto and I saw each other less and less. Sometimes we would not see each other for months, and then years, at a time. By the time I was thinking about pursuing a PhD in astrophysics, he was in and out of jail, travelling up and down the west coast, taking advantage of the kindness of family. But whenever I did see him, regardless of who else might be in our lives at the time, we consumed each other, making love with whatever time was allotted to us. 8. NOW Lizzie went to work and I called the research lab to say I was sick. Berto and I wasted no time getting into bed. He truly looked better than ever before. I traced my fingers over the blue veins in his arms, running through the tattoos random and chaotic on his forearms and biceps. Over his heart, on his thick pec, was tattooed in simple script, my name, Fernando. I kissed it, and rested me head against his chest, sucking at his chocolate brown nipple. I sucked his cock as eagerly as he sucked mine the night before, but stopped short of him cumming, because we had so much more to do. We explored every part of each other. I noted that there was a sexy patch of dark fur at the small of his back, and he said I had the same. "You're more muscular," I told him. "You're thinner," he said in response. I ate his dark furry hole, and then he flipped me onto my stomach, lubed his cock and slid into me. We turned to watch ourselves in the mirrored closet door, while he thrust into me. "Look at me fucking you," he said. "You're so beautiful." "Did you come here for this?" I asked, knowing the answer was yes. His strokes were slow and steady, and he spoke between each. "I sure didn't come all this way to see you marry that bitch," he replied. Stroke. "Berto, please, she's my fiancé. Don't..." Hard stroke. "Shhh," he said. "I know. You do what you have to do. Make Mom and Papa happy. But I want to hear you say it." Stroke. "What?" Hard stroke again. "Say it, Nando. You know what." Long stroke. "I love you," I said, almost weeping with pleasure, "I love you more than Lizzie. She's nothing to me." Then I said it again. "I love you more than Lizzie. She's nothing to me." His strokes picked up speed and he was truly fucking me, and we were slamming against each other when he came, his semen filling me up and making me whole. Then he kissed me while I jerked off, holding one of my legs open with one hand while he fingered my ass with the other. Lying entangled together afterwards I said, "You feel so good." "You too, Nando. Fuck me now." And I did. 9. THEN
 When I met Lizzie, we seemed like the perfect match. We were both homebodies who loved geeking out to the same shows on Netflix. We both wanted to see the Pyramids. We both grew up Catholic. We had a compatible sex life. We truly enjoyed each other's company. I asked Lizzie to marry me, because marriage seemed like the inevitable conclusion. I don't mean I settled, I loved Lizzie and I was thinking already of a child, maybe even two. Lizzie's well-off indulgent parents accepted me, and knowing my lifelong education left me cash poor, they offered to pay for the whole wedding, giving us $20,000 in a bank account in our name. I didn't know where Berto was at the time, but I thought of him daily. Sometimes I thought of him when I jerked off, and sometimes I thought of him even when my cock was buried in Lizzie. 10. NOW The second day of Berto's stay was even better than the first. I ran errands in the morning, we fucked in the afternoon, and in the evening, Lizzie was positively charmed by him. The third day things started to go off the rails. Lizzie came home with an undisguised mad-on. She was pissy with Berto at dinner, peppering him with questions. How long would he stay, where was he going next. "You don't like me very much, do you?" he asked. "I don't know you," she answered, "but I don't like people who take advantage of my husband." "What are you talking about?" I asked. "No one is taking advantage of me." "I talked to your sister Iris today," she said. "I found out why Gilberto was sent away when you were kids." "Fuck," I said, "Lizzie, that's old shit. It's nothing. Iris should mind her own damn business." "See?" she said, her voice rising. "This is what I mean. It isn't `nothing', Fernando. He sexually assaulted you. He sexually assaulted you. He's lucky he didn't go to jail." Then she turned to Berto and said, "You're a monster." Berto just laughed. "You can marry Nando," he said, "but he'll always be mine." Then he excused himself and went to bed. Lizzie and had never felt so distant from each other. We cleaned up from dinner in silence, and went to bed the same way. 11. THEN This was The Incident. When we were 16, Berto dated a girl, Jen Marshall. I was a little jealous, but as long as we still did our thing, it was okay. But one day he came to meet me after wrestling practice. He followed me into the locker room, and it seemed we were alone and I was naked, so I told him I wanted to do the thing. It was thrilling to think of blowing each other or maybe even fucking in the locker room. But he told me he didn't want to, not because of fear getting caught, but because he was with Jen Marshall. He was in love. I was enraged. I told him he had to break up with her, and he refused, saying he loved us both. How could he insult me by putting her on the same level? I was his brother. I was his twin. Before there was a world, there was just the two of us. You made me love you, I yelled at him, you fucked me and I fucked you. You belong to me and I belong to you, I shouted, shoving him almost off his feat. He responded by throwing a punch at me. Even though he was stronger, I was fueled by jealousy, and I hit back hard, punching and biting him. We were on each other hard then, rolling on the locker room floor where I pinned him. I was a lousy wrestler but I knew some moves. Berto said to get the fuck off him, buy I didn't. I pulled his shorts down and spit on my dick. He wriggled and bucked, but I had him in just the right position, the only time I ever beat someone. He was screaming to get off him when I slid my cock up into him. "Tell me you love me not her," I said, "tell me she's nothing." He was in tears as he said the words. "I love you. I love you more than Jen. She's nothing to me." 
Hearing him say that I came hard, and I dropped on him. I was horrified at what I'd done. I wanted to vomit. I told him I was sorry, but Berto said to shut up. He flipped onto his back and with one hand furiously jerked off, and with the other pulled my hand to his hole, sliding my fingers into him, provoking him to cum. What we didn't know then was that we had been spied by the school custodian who called the police. One of the Isabel twins was sexually assaulting the other. As we were dressing to go home, the police arrived. Berto quickly told me to not say anything, and no matter what to not admit anything. We were taken in, and our parents were called in. But it turns out if both parties refuse to cooperate in any way, there's not a lot anyone can do. Even abundant physical evidence can't be gathered without consent. They even separated us and told us each the other had admitted what happened, but we both knew that was as lie. We knew neither of us would betray the other, ever. At home Papa insisted we tell him what happened. He knew one of us had done something vile to the other, and he knew who it was. He said the police knew it too, but they could only act within the law, but he was not limited by the law and he would not rest until one of confessed in the sight of him and of God. I looked at Berto with tears in my eyes, weighing the possibility of confessing. I could see my whole future melting in my hands just as I was about to grasp it. But before I could say a word, Berto announced that he attacked me. He said he hated me because I was a goody two shoes pussy, and a faggot so I deserved it. He said he always hated me and always would. And he said Papa could do whatever the fuck he wanted. I understood everything he said and what it meant. When he said he hated me, he meant he loved me. When he said I was a goody two shoes pussy he meant everyone already thought he was the bad twin, so why ruin my reputation when his was already smeared. When he said I was a faggot, he meant our thing was ours and he wasn't giving it up. And when he said Papa could do whatever he wanted to him, he meant I'm giving you a gift, don't fuck it up. Papa was devastated. He wouldn't tell Mom, because it would destroy her. But he decided to send Berto away to a reform camp. It was described as "tough love" and the best last chance to turn him around. Instead it was his launch on a journey into a world as dark and dangerous as space that would take him further away from me, beginning slow but gaining speed every day, until it would someday approach the speed of light. 12. NOW The next morning, Berto was gone. He left in the night with his duffel, as if he'd never been there. Lizzie was satisfied that she's correctly assessed the situation, and had protected me from the greatest villain of my life. She was less than satisfied when she discovered her father's gift of $20,000 for the wedding was gone. The account was wiped out, the cash withdrawn on Berto's second day with us, according to the bank taken out by me. "He must have used your ID," she said. "Did he ever have access to your wallet?" I told her he must have. Lizzie wanted to call the police, but I told her I would never do that. He was probably on parole for something or other, and I couldn't be responsible for him going to jail. When she argued I told her if she called the police I'd cancel the wedding. That was jarring for her, but she reconciled it by taking it as evidence of my saintly nature. In the end I agreed to Lizzie telling just her father, with his promise to keep our secret. He was wrapped around her little finger and could be trusted. He doubled his gift, and paid for the wedding a second time. "You're too good," she said, curled up in bed, "That's your problem. You're too trusting." That night we watched Master of None on Netflix. I stared at the TV, but I was thinking of Berto. I wondered where he was, and where he was going, and if he had yet discovered the $20,000 I'd stuffed into his duffel the night before he left. THE END