If you shouldn't be reading this, don't. Donate to Nifty. `Nuff said.

***

WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

By

Rusty Slocum

 

** 1 **

I'm lying in bed completely naked and uncovered, my body sweaty from the heat; absolutely no breeze whatsoever wafts through my open window. Way after midnight but I can't sleep for shit. Partly from the miserable humidity, partly because I slept til noon today, but mostly I'm too horny. One thing about this fucking heat wave, it sure convinces folks (chicks) to wear as little clothing as possible. I sat outside on the porch swing all afternoon and most of the evening, pretending to read a book but really watching the passersby. Halter tops, Daisy Dukes, the occasional bikini, I committed `em all to memory, and despite examining those memories and beating to them only half an hour ago, I'm ready for another look. Imagine, cum barely dry on my belly and I'm still hard. I'm such a perv. Meh, might as well spank off again, third time today but who's gonna bitch? Certainly not me. I grab hold of my thick six and tug, shivering at the sparks but aware of a certain rawness, a chafing. No biggie. Fishing the jar from my nightstand, I jelly up and settle back for a long, comfortable stroke. Reexamine my memories of lipstick red lips, sweat trickling down cleavage, meaty asses barely covered by tight denim or blink-and-you-miss-it miniskirts. I've been around the block a time or two, enjoyed some mild perversions, even fucked a girl's pussy once, but despite my overactive fantasizing I've never had the nerve to ask for my dearest wish: to fuck one in the --

A crash from outside my window breaks my concentration, and my grip falters on my cock. Goddammit! Not even out of juvie two weeks, and the fucker's stumbled in drunk not once, not twice, but three times! Right as I add invisible tally four the stupid asshole tumbles over the sill into my bedroom, landing in a heap on the floor.

"Ssh," he hisses, "don't wake up Mom and Dad." Jeez, I can smell the beer and weed from here. Dumbass.

Snatching the sheet over my quivering nudity, I click on the nightstand lamp. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Startled, he rolls onto his back and sits up, squinting at the glare. "Ssh," he re-hisses, "don't wake up Mom and Dad!"

I snort. "I won't need to, you'll manage just fine all by yourself."

He turns his blinking, bloodshot gaze my way. "Wha' you doin' in my room, in my fuckin' bed, twerp?"

"How shitfaced are you? This is my room!"

"Good," he says, ignoring my exasperation, "I's wonderin' why I had such shit posters on my wall." He clambers to his feet, sways back and forth, rubs a hand across his stubbled cheeks and jaw. "Wha' you doin'?"

"I was asleep," I snarl, my dick throbbing at the lie, "until your drunk ass tumbled through the fucking window!"

He stumbles over to the side of my bed, towering over me. A hand taller, forty pounds heavier, he's intimidating, even when high. With his feathered, shoulder-length brown hair, strong jaw, his fleshy, powerful body stuffed into tight jeans and a sleek mesh shirt, he's everything I'm not. "Liar," he snorts. "You wasn't asleep, bet you's poundin' your pud." His blue eyes trace down the length of my covered torso, and he snickers when he notices the obvious lump. Faster than I would've believed possible he yanks the sheet away. "Thought so." He peers closer. "Damn, you got a thick dick, twerp." My shiny cock throbs as if pleased.

"Shut up!" Snatching the covers across my crotch and glossing over his grudging compliment, I growl, "You jerk off as much as I do!"

"More," he corrects with a smirk. "Ain't nobody jerks off more'n me. Especially thinkin' things they shouldn't be thinkin'." He frowns, blows a sad sigh.

I have no clue what he's babbling about, and although curious I'm also loathe to find out. "Will you please go away? Your own bedroom is one door or window to the left, if you can count so high."

"Jeez, sorry to bother ya!" He rubs his face again and toddles around the bed with stoned concentration, making it almost to the door before he sways too far and crashes into my desk. "Ssh! Don't wake up Mom and Dad!" Regaining his balance, he manages to open the door without further mishap and stumbles into the hall. I wait until I hear his door close before shaking my head and getting up to shut my own. Flipping off the light, I settle back onto my bed and listen to him banging around in his room as he undresses. He's damn lucky Mom and Dad had a few beers themselves tonight or they would've already thundered downstairs.

What the hell happened to my brother? We used to be close, bickering all the time, wrestling, fucking with each other and loving it. Then last summer he picked up with the wrong crowd, started drinking beer and smoking pot and staying out later and later, and he gradually drifted away from us, despite my whole family trying to intervene. The situation came to a head when he and his loser friends were pulled over and arrested, charged with underage drinking, possession of marijuana and attempting to bribe the cop with a forged check. His dirtbag chums got sentenced to two years in juvie but since it was his first offense my brother only served six months, lucky bastard. He still came back to us changed, almost a completely different person. You'd think he would've learned his lesson, but no, he's back on track for another term, and nothing anyone says to him seems to sink in.

After a few bumbling minutes he crashes onto his bed, the headboard slapping against our connecting wall hard enough to make me jump. Silence for a bit, and I right as I decide he's passed out his mattress springs start squeaking. I'm surprised he can stay awake long enough to jerk off, much less get his cock hard.

Wonder what he wields down there? I haven't seen him naked in years, not that I've tried, but if his dick is in any way proportionate to his body he's bound to be huge. And hairy, given his chest. Man, chicks go for the rug on his pecs and belly, so much more manly than my own pale smoothness. Chicks go for him period. He used to tell me about his hookups, brag about whichever base he'd stolen, but when he started hanging around with the losers he stopped, even though I've seen him covered in hickies and, once, with lipstick stains around his zip. Mom clocked `em too, and about blew a gasket, and Dad glowed with pride before choking it down to side with Mom over the depravity.

Wonder if he's ever fucked ass? Bet he has. Bet the drugged-out sluts his loser friends bang give him anything he wants. I picture him naked in bed with some chick, her on hands and knees with cheeks spread, him kneeling behind, greasing his sure to be gigantic dick in preparation of shoving it up her chute. My own forgotten dick throbs at the image, and I relube my fingers before grabbing hold. Stroking with the firm, gentle grip I've perfected over the last three or so years, I imagine my brother pressing his cock against the faceless girl's anus, like I'd seen done in the dirty magazine a friend loaned me; boy were those pages sticky. She moans as he stuffs it, cries out as he stretches her wide open and grinds his hairy pubes against her cheeks. I wonder how it feels to be balls deep in –

My bedroom door swings open without a knock, yanking my attention back to reality, and I smother a groan as my brother tiptoes in wearing only jockey shorts, pristine and white in the shadows. With exaggerated grace he gently presses the door shut behind him, and I snatch the sheet back to my neck.

"What now, asshole?"

"Ssh, don't wake Mom and Dad!" He steps towards the bed, pushing the jockey shorts off to reveal –

"What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here with . . . with . . ." Okay, he's nowhere near as large as I'd figured, I'm bigger than he is. But it's hard and drooling and headed my direction. I recoil as he crawls naked onto my bed. "Get off my --"

Moving with another astonishing burst of speed, he slaps a hand across my protesting lips, and though I struggle he's more muscular, heavier than me, and my heart skids up into frantic panic as he yanks the sheet off and slides a knee over my heaving belly, straddling me with his massive legs. "Ssh! Sssh! I just wanna, we're just gonna have some fun, bro, don't wake up Mom and Dad or I'll kick your fucking ass."

Shit! He's laughed about the raped "sissies" he'd seen in juvie, stopping short of admitting his own participation, but I couldn't help but wonder. Now I know. My panic ratchets into terror, and I struggle, I fight, but I can't get away.

"Calm the . . . shit, be fuckin' still . . . don't wake Mom and Dad!" He leans over, his hand pressing against my mouth, his puny hard-on pressing into my belly, his breath rank with the remnants of beer and pot, slurring, "Thish is gonna happen. Jus' relax and it'll be, uh, fun, it'll be fun. And if you wake Mom and Dad I'll kick your fuckin' ass. Got me?"

Shivering in fear, I reluctantly nod.

"Good." He pulls his hand from my mouth, but I can't scream, I can't yell. He may be drunk, he'll still kick my ass. He squirms atop me, his knob rubbing my belly, drooling all over my smooth skin, then reaches behind to grab my cock, gone half-soft from the conflict, but I groan as he squeezes me. "Good," he says again, "yer greased up. I am too." His hand gripping me tight, sliding up and down my jelly-slick cock, and I groan again, hardening to full despite my anxiety. He squirms again, moving backwards down my torso, and settles my cockhead against his hairy crack.

Wait, what?

He pushes down, hard, and I feel flesh begin to give around my glans, almost bending my shaft in two from the pressure before I pop free and slide to the side. My brother groans and tightens his fingers one by one around me and tries again, his aim better this time, and what can only be his asshole begin to give under my forced penetration. He moans –

". . . don't make me, please, shh, don't wake, please don't make me . . ."

– then gasps and holds his breath, and in the sudden silence I hear a distinct sshllipp as the entire head of my cock sinks inside, the coil of his ring snapping into place around me.

Both of us freeze. He's hot around my glans. Tight, almost pinching. I want to pull myself out and away as badly as I want to jam myself up into his guts. He breathes, long, beer-tainted pants, and right as I start wondering when he's going to jump free of my invasion he makes a funny noise way deep in his throat, a funny noise that grows into a growl –

"Fuck, twerp, you got a thick dick!"

– and then cuts off as his body slides downward, impaling him, more and more of me sliding into his squeeze and, unable to help myself, I snap my hips up to bury the last couple inches, meeting him halfway. He curses but doesn't lose momentum, pushing my ass back to the sheet, his own hairy ass settling against my pelvis. He groans, the gravelly rumble vibrating against my shaft, then he throws his head back and grinds his hips onto me, his hole clapped around the base of my shaft, my cockhead smashing around his innards.

Only seconds ago I'd been wondering how it would feel to be balls deep in ass. Well, curiosity satisfied.

Feels fucking awesome.

Okay, yeah, I'd been fantasizing about female ass, miles away from imagining any other guy, especially my big, powerful, troubled older brother, but I can't deny the sweet strength of his clutch, the volcanic heat of his body melting my misgivings. He seems to think it feels awesome too, grinding on me with his head thrown back and his fist wrapped around his own short pecker, moaning and mumbling incoherently. Unable to remain still I shift my hips, withdrawing slightly then pushing back in. He gasps, holds his breath, but when he doesn't protest I shift again, pulling out a little and screwing my way home. Out, a little further this time. In, a little harder, rougher, at a different angle. In the silence I can hear the wet squishing of my fuck; if I thought the sound of grease on flesh gross and maybe kinda hot when I jerked off, actual sex sounds grosser, hotter. Obscene, even. I love it.

Gaining confidence I snap my pelvis down and back up, pumping into this tight heat that somehow landed on my dick, because no matter whose hole I'm riding I'm gonna ride hard. He gasps again and falls forward, inches from my face, and like I'd fucked a leak in the dam words once more start spilling from his lips.

"Goddamn, twerp," he moans, his beer- and pot-soaked breath washing over me, "you got a thick dick, it fuckin' hurts, but you're a natural, you're a fuckin' natural, it fuckin' hurts but feels good, hurts but feels good, and nex' time, nex' time, twerp," he pauses and grunts and focuses his bleary eyes on my face, "nex' time jus' come into my room and make me, jus' come right in and shove your cock, your big thick cock, shove it in my face, force me to suck you." I picture it, picture sneaking into his room one night and yanking him onto my dick, fisting my hands in his hair and making him swallow me down, and I plant my heels firmly into the mattress to give me leverage to fuck faster, harder, my orgasm sizzling in my balls; if I hadn't already cum twice tonight I'd have creamed long before now. We're loud, bedsprings screeching, flesh slapping, lungs panting, and I hope we don't wake Mom and Dad, ssh! He moans and continues, "I'll fight you, but only a li'l bit, only a li'l bit, I swear, and I'll cry and I'll beg but make me, please, twerp, make me, then roll me over and fuck me oh please just spread my cheeks, I'll be slippery for you, I swear, you can fuck me however you want, on my back or my belly or bent over, don' matter." Crouched over me, supporting himself with one splayed hand on the bed while the other pounds frantically at his crotch, his fingers and occasionally his cockhead rubbing against my smooth belly, his balls bouncing in my pubes. His hips meeting my thrusts. Lost in the moment. I'm lost in the moment too, and despite the fact I've never once in my life imagined what another boy might feel like, I suddenly have to know, and I raise my own hands, rubbing his flank and his thighs, circling around to skim through the hair on his hard belly and muscular chest. The orgasm in my balls moves higher, preparing to blast out and smear my brother's innards with spunk, the white noise building in my body all but drowning out the gasped promises and disjointed pleas dripping from his lips. "However you wanna fuck me, whenever you wanna fuck me, I swear you can, twerp, I swear and maybe, maybe we can, we can be close a-a-a-AHH-HAH-hah-hahhahahaaha!" His jizz splashes onto my skin, and the heat and sticky moisture send me off, send me up and over and I holler, I know I fucking holler, no cares if Mom or Dad hear me, one long pulse of electric cum barreling up my tubes to spill out inside my brother, then shorter spurts, draining my balls and painting his walls. He loses his balance, falling forward to press his hairy, spunk- and sweat-matted torso to my smooth skin, his panting breath trickling into my ear. The movement pulls my cock free of his sure-to-be-gaped tunnel, leaving the last couple spurts of my jizz to smear his crack.

We lay in silence and absolute stillness for at least half a minute, our chests heaving against each other, hearts knocking together, breaths harsh in our ears. As the tingles fade and the real world settles back in around me I become more and more aware of his heft atop me, his softening cock drooling on my belly and his weight pushing me into the mattress. The panic I'd gradually lost in our bizarre fuck reignites, and I squirm underneath him. "Get off, get off me," I somehow manage to grunt, and when he doesn't move the horrifying thought occurs to me maybe he's passed out, and my blood pressure again rises. I wriggle harder, pushing at him with my hands, rolling underneath trying to dislodge him, and right as tears of frustration form in the corners of my eyes he raises his head and peers into my face.

"Oh no," he says, reaching up to stroke my cheek, "don't be scared, bro, don't cry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, to hurt you, please don't tell --"

"You didn't hurt me," I snap back, my pride stinging despite my predicament, "And don't worry, I won't tell anybody, much less Mom and Dad, just move. The hell. Off!" Pushing at his shoulders.

"Oh. Oh! I'm sorry bro, I'm --" In his haste to free me he wobbles for a moment, teetering on his knees, then he suddenly tumbles over and thuds to the floor. I take a moment to draw a deep breath and try to calm my nerves, then lean up on my elbow and look over the edge of the bed.

"Are you okay?"

He groans, rolls over to his front, pushes himself up. "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm fine, just hope Mom and --"

"If they haven't heard us before now I doubt they heard that."

He winces at the censure in my tone and clambers to his feet, wavering for a moment before finding some sort of equilibrium. Reaching up to wipe a hand over his face, he mutters, "I'm, uh, I'm gonna go to, I'm gonna go lay down." He shakes his head and, leaving his underwear on my floor, takes a few rubbery, splayed steps towards the hall, appearing less drunk than extremely weary, and I sigh, my heart clenching for him despite what he'd done to me. He opens the door but before stepping through calls over his shoulder, "Thank you, twerp. Thank you." I have one last ghostly image of his greasy, hairy backside before the door swings shut behind him, leaving me leaning up on one elbow, sweating into the bed with my greasy, limp dick laying across my thigh and wondering:

What the hell just happened?

 

** 2 **

I pull myself over the sill and thump to the bedroom floor, making too much noise, and I freeze. Please don't wake Mom and Dad! When I don't hear irate footsteps clattering down the stairs I relax, then tense again, glancing around to find I am indeed in my own space; last week I counted windows wrong and fell into my brother's bedroom, and he was none too pleased, as I'd interrupted him spanking. I shiver remembering the shiny girth of the cock quivering against his smooth belly. Lucky twerp; I swear, everybody in the world's got a bigger dick than me, even my short-ass little brother. Worse, when I made it to my own bed and passed out, I had the weirdest dream, where I was sitting on the twerp, grinding on his –

Nope, not going there. I clamber to my feet, swaying a little, and adjust my twitching peanut. Although I chugged a couple beers I'm more stoned than drunk, able to walk mostly normal, and I tiptoe with exaggerated grace down the hall to the john for a piss. On the way back I stop at the twerp's closed door, lay my ear to the wood. He must not be jerking off, I don't hear the usual squeaking bedsprings or low, muffled groans. I'm oddly disappointed, but only because it might have been fun to bust in on him. To mess with him, not to get another look at his thick dick or anything. I'm not a glutton for punishment.

My balls tighten and my peanut shifts in my pants again, and I groan and rearrange as I tiptoe back to my room. Fucking figures. Slut at the park was all over me, rubbing and licking and doing everything but demand I fuck her pussy, and I couldn't be bothered. Didn't feel like it. Now, though, now I'm horny. Ugh.

Well, God gave me a right hand and a jar of slick for a reason.

I strip down, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my chest and ass with my dirty shirt (fuck, I wish Dad would invest in air conditioning) before plonking onto my bed. My dick is completely hard now, the puny thing barking like a chihuahua convinced he's a Doberman. My balls drawing up, my asshole twitching. I open the jelly, slick up my hand and grab hold, slowly stroke up and down, thinking about the chick from the park. I can't recall exactly what she looks like but she's got nice tits and a bubble ass. I replay her kisses, her kneading hands, but my dick yawns, bored, so I spice up the fantasy. I imagine spinning her around to her hands and knees, the way they'd done me so many times in juvie, spit-roasting me in the shower while the Sarge watched and photographed the abuse. There we go, my dick perks up again thinking about taking the slut doggy-style. She likes it, rutting back on me and moaning, despite the puniness of my peanut. She'd really like some of the dicks in juvie; almost every single one of them were bigger than mine, despite the boys themselves being much smaller. I wince, remembering how they forced me down to the tile. I may be physically strong and imposing, but two or three or four smaller, younger guys working together (or sometimes even just one determined little guy) are impossible to beat. I fought `em but they just kept coming, shoving their dicks in my mouth and up my ass, especially the bulky and mean dude who always seemed to take the most pleasure in –

Goddammit, stop! That shit's in the past, I don't need to think about it, about him, anymore!  Especially when I'm jerking off! It just confuses me, makes my asshole twitch for no good reason. Determined to get my spank back on track I push back the mean dude's savage grin and bring to mind a recent memory, from the night I got out of juvie, when me and a couple of friends ran a train on this girl from school, getting her drunk first with beer we five-finger-discounted from the package store uptown. The scene was hot as hell, the two of them swapping out in her pussy while I pumped her mouth cuz she wouldn't want my peanut after my friends. Yeah, they were bigger than me, what a surprise, and I heard them snicker when I dropped my pants. They weren't much bigger, though, so they really had no room to laugh. One cut, one uncut, both around six on hard and only middling thick; everybody knows girth is most important, like the twerp's cock, or, better yet, with both length and girth, like the mean dude's "dong". The drunk girl seemed impressed, though, and she wailed and screeched around my peanut as if in hysterical ecstasy while they pounded. Silly bitch; if she only knew what I had to put up with in juvie. The mean dude and the other boys in there don't care what you think of their cocks, they don't care how many have cum in you before or how many will cum after. They just hold you down and shove –

My asshole twitches again, and I groan and give in, scoop some jelly on my left forefinger and pry my cheeks apart, sliding in to the second knuckle with a welcoming ease. I scrunch my face and push my hips up, trying for a better angle to reach a certain sweet spot, one the mean dude hit every damn time. A zing thrills through me, and I stroke my cock while I fuck myself, while I bring the train girl back to mind. My friends wanted to DP her, but she refused and threatened to scream if they tried. In my mind though she agrees, sinking down onto one friend's cock while the other stands behind, jerking off and getting ready to slide his own dick inside. I picture the girl (was she pretty? I think so) throwing her head back, riding, and the image reminds me of the weird dream I had about the twerp, where he was fucking up into me with his thick dick while I begged him to make me. Or not to make me, the details are kinda hazy. My asshole twitches, and I speed up my frigging, but somehow it's not enough, so I stuff another finger inside. Better. Still not enough, but better. I remember waking up with a sore asshole the morning after, too, like I'd been clutching in my sleep or something. But why would I have such a strange dream, especially one intense enough to make my hole ache? Maybe my stoned and drunk brain confused the twerp with the mean dude in juvie. Easy enough mistake to make, I suppose, his thick fucking dick woulda fit right in with –

My bedroom door swings open with a creak, and speak of the fucking thick-dicked devil, the twerp silently slips into my room. I yank my fingers from my ass with a squelch and pull the sheet over my sweaty, horny body, not wanting him to see my activity (not to mention my peanut). He closes the door and leans against it, wearing only jockey shorts. He's a small guy, and doesn't think much of himself, but he's cute, and smart, and kind-hearted; he's everything I'm not. Lithe, limber, his smooth torso lanky as opposed to skinny, with close-cropped brown hair and a smile like an unexpected gift on a cloudy day. He's not smiling now, simply standing in the glow of the streetlamp outside and watching me with a solemn, unnerving downward tilt to his wide lips and . . .

And . . .

And a thick obvious ridge in his tighty-whities.

My heartbeat increases, my greasy asshole twitches, and a fresh sheen of sweat trickles down my brow. Not knowing what else to say, I offer a weak, "Um, hi?"

He says nothing for a long moment, just keeps watching me with that flat, hooded expression. We used to be close, before I veered irredeemably off into bad behavior, but we're not close anymore and I can't read him. His hard gaze, so like Dad's when laying out punishment, says one thing; his hard cock, so like my dream of being fucked by it, says another. Then when he actually speaks, his words are surreal. "What are you doing?"

An uneasy bell rings in my mind, but I push through the peals, hoping my own stiff peanut isn't obvious under the sheet. "Um, sleeping?"

He snorts, pushing himself off the door and stalking over to stand above me. A hand shorter, forty pounds lighter, he's intimidating, even with his innate niceness. I can't take my eyes off the thick ridge in his drawers, and my mouth waters.

"Liar," he says coolly, sparking more deja vu. "Bet you were pounding your pud." Faster than I would have believed possible he yanks the sheets back, leaving my shiny peanut to quiver in the streetlamp glow. He snickers, and I tense, expecting some insult over my lack of size, but instead he pinches and twists my nipple, hard, the pain flowing over my body to pool in the pit of my belly. I yelp, twisting away from him, and gape, so astounded it doesn't even occur to me to kick his ass. "You don't lie to me, bro. Not ever. Not anymore."

I reach up to rub my bruised titty. "What the fuck?" then "What the fuck?" again as he pushes down his jockeys, his hard, thick cock bouncing and eager in its tidy nest of brown curls. I can't take my eyes off it, off the swell of balls underneath. My asshole twitches. My peanut throbs. "What the fuck?" My voice high and screechy, on the verge of panic, and I wince, not wanting to wake Mom and Dad.

"Don't worry, the `rents aren't here," the twerp informs me with a smirk, "they're out with Dad's boss. So you can make all the noise you want." He fists his thick cock, puts a knee on my bed.

I recoil, still unable to stop staring at his rager. "What are you, what are you doing?" I'm not in juvie anymore (although it's probably coming if I keep on the way I'm going), this shouldn't be happening!

"You're gonna suck me off," he says, throwing a leg over my heaving chest and pinning me under his weight, and I want to fight, want to push him away, it'd be so easy to knock his tiny ass back to the floor but my body is heavy, lethargic, and feels like I'm struggling against myself more than him. My panic ratchets up into terror as he grabs me by the hair on my head and pushes my face into his crotch, laying the thick, thick head of his cock on my lips. "Nuh-no," I splutter, rolling and pushing weakly against his weight. "Don't make --"

Bam! Through my protesting lips, across my crying tongue, his glans popping against the back of throat, and I gag, the twerp's heavy balls bouncing against my chin, his fist knotted in my hair. Thick, so thick my jaws ache from the strain. He can't shove it all inside due to the angle, but he's got enough in there. I whimper around the hard flesh in my mouth, look up at him, my eyes pleading.

His own eyes are implacable. "Oh, but you wanted me to make you, remember?" Horror washes over me. The weird dream had been no dream! Now I distinctly remember sitting on his thick cock, jerking off and begging him to make me . . . make me . . . do things! But I was drunk that night, drunk and stoned and confused, and no matter what I said, I didn't mean it! He slides backwards across my tongue, almost all the way out of my mouth, but before I can explain he shoves back in, hard, again popping against the back of my throat, making me gag. He tastes clean, of soap and the tiniest hint of cum, unlike the dicks in juvie, which usually tasted of sweat and dirt and pee and, sometimes, my ass. I suck and lick out of habit, digging into his slit for drops of pre, while my big hands beat weakly at his hips, trying to push him away, but he's too heavy, and I don't want to hurt him. He grinds into my throat, and I gag again, but as he pulls out I'm helpless but to tickle my tongue on the seam of his undershaft. The twerp groans and starts fucking my face, his tiny, tidy patch of pubes looming in my eyes, his balls banging my chin.

"Fuck, bro," he moans, "you're better than the one girl I talked into trying this. Your mouth feels great."

Pleasure and pride zing through me at his praise, and the last of my resistance crumbles. The guys in juvie weren't like the twerp, they didn't appreciate how hard I tried to please them, even when they forced me. Maybe I owe my brother, anyhow; after all, I pretty much walked into his room and raped him, didn't I? Oh, I didn't shove my puny dick up his ass, I sat down on his thick one, but it was rape anyhow, wasn't it? And I did say I'd suck him, did tell him to make me. So, yeah, I owe him this blowjob. I stop fighting, stop tapping my hands against his hips and grab hold of his narrow ass as he drives into my mouth, as I give him my best technique, licking and tickling and digging. I'll drink his cum like I promised and when we're finished I'll politely explain how we can't do this again, I'd been drunk and confused and horny that night, but I'm straight and he's straight and we must never do this again. I hollow my cheeks and take as much of him as will fit into my mouth, his glans popping against the opening of my throat again, but I don't gag, I know I could take him all the way to the pubes if we were in a better position. He groans again, more pre drooling out to pool on my tongue. Again, he tastes clean. No rage or despair or violence. Suddenly he stops, his dick swelling, and ropy, salty threads of cum spurt into my suckling mouth. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" the twerp cries, holding me against his crotch while emptying his balls, and I don't fight him, I let the fluid build in my mouth and trickle down the back of my tongue, and only when there's danger of it leaking out my lips do I swallow. Clean, so clean.

He pulls away and I swab one last swipe around his glans, causing him to hiss. He sits back on my heaving chest, his weight slight, inconsequential, and we take a minute to calm our breathing, for me to rub my aching jaw and savor the last of his clean taste. We're done, despite the rigidity of my peanut, the twisting in my belly, the twitching of my asshole, all of which I try to ignore in favor of figuring out how to tell my brother we can't –

"Now I'm gonna fuck you."

Wait, what?

"Wait, what?" I whisper, my throat dry despite the load just splashed across it.

The twerp smirks, his cock hard as it was before he came. "I said I'm gonna fuck you."

"But," I lick my swollen lips, "but I just sucked you off!"

"Yeah, you did, so now I'll be able to go for awhile. The second nut always takes longer than the first."

My asshole twitches. "No, no you can't!"

"Bro, you begged me to. Remember?" He slides backwards down my hairy, sweaty torso, the head of my raging peanut catching on his balls and twanging through my nerves, and settles his weight on my thighs.

"But, but I was drunk and stoned," I protest. "I didn't mean what I, what I said!"

He smirks again. "Tough. You promised. You swore." He brings one small knee between my massive thighs, preparatory to spreading them.

My asshole twitches again. "Nuh-no," I say, struggling underneath him, trying to knock him off balance without hurting him. I don't want to hurt the twerp. I never want to hurt the twerp. "I won't!"

He leans over me, lays one hand on my chest. The grace of his touch, the implacable resolve in his eyes still my struggles. "This is gonna happen," he said, "so just relax and it'll be fun." I recognize the words, and I sag as he pushes my legs apart, settles between them. Our cocks cross in my vision for a moment, his thicker, longer than mine, then he grabs my thighs and pushes them up and out. Tears of frustration form in my eyes, overflow to run down my cheeks as my peanut throbs on my belly, as air flows over my greasy, suddenly exposed and twitching asshole. I attempt to roll away one more time, try to push him off, and he growls, "Dammit, bro, stop! Put your hands behind your head."

"No, please," I beg, tears dripping into my ears even as I put my hands behind my neck, even as he pushes my knees back to almost brush the sheet. "Please!"

He ignores me, says only, "Hmm, all slicked up like you promised. Good boy."

Pleasure zings through me, but muted by the panic and despair. "Please, twerp, please don't make me do this!"

"I'm not making you," he says, propping my thighs on his upper arms as he bends over me. "You wanted it, and I don't know how else to reach you."

He's so short and thin, so tiny between my massive legs, I could squeeze him until his skull pops like a pimple, but I can't find the strength. Except for my quivering, greasy asshole and quivering, greasy peanut my entire body is weak, helpless to move. My voice whiny and pitiful. "You can't fuck me! You're not like the, like the guys in juvie! You're not!"

His expression goes stony. "No, I'm not like the guys in juvie." I feel a great, blunt pressure on my anus, and I squeeze tight, desperate to keep him out. "But I'm gonna fuck you anyway." He pushes harder, and my sphincter begins to give, stretching burning tearing, and I gasp at the pain, cry at the force, almost not hearing his murmured, "I just hope I'm doing the right thing." And the fat glans of his cock pops inside.

"Fuck," we both moan at the same time, and I add, unable to keep the words in my mouth, "You got a thick dick, twerp."

He grins, looking like he used to look at me when we were close, when we could keep each other entertained for hours with nothing but stupid jokes. "So I been told." The humor and the, yes, guarded affection on his face prompt me to relax, to let him sink slowly into my heat. My body opens for him, the burning stretching tearing a familiar sensation, one I thought I'd never feel again, at least until I go back to juvie, or, God forbid, prison. I don't want to go to prison! The twerp bottoms out, his narrow pelvis pressing against my muscular glutes, and he sighs, a long, guttural sound of satisfaction. So full, I'm so full, he's so thick, a single pube from shattering me into pieces. He starts to move, his weight against the sweet spot sending whipsnaps of electricity through me, and I can't fight anymore, I can't pretend, so I close my eyes, revel in the feeling, my nerves coming alive under his penetration, telling me I might as well get used to it, taking cock and being raped is all I'm good for, and the twerp is no different than the mean –

An explosion of pinching pain in my nipple wrenches me from inside my head, and my eyes pop open into the twerp's fury. "Look at me while I fuck you!" he snarls, stuffing his entire thick dick inside, rounding me out and wrenching a cascade of groans from my throat. "Look at me, because you obviously need reminding who I am!" He pulls out, jabs back in, my hole clutching and caressing every inch. "I am NOT one of the kids in juvie!" Out, in, hitting the sweet spot each stroke. Grind. "I don't know what happened in there, although I got a pretty good idea." Out, in, grind. Oh God, he's a natural, he's a fucking natural, building a fire in my guts. "But that's in the past, those assholes are in the past." Out, in, grind. Stop, oh please stop gazing at me, let me close my eyes, I can't bear the scrutiny. "I'm the one fucking you now. Me, the twerp. And I am NOT one of those assholes in juvie!" Out, in, grind. "Who am I?" Grind grind grind. "I asked you, who am I?  Dammit, answer me!"

"The, the twerp," I gasp, fire blazing in my belly, peanut leaking on my belly. "You're the twerp, you're not the guys in juvie, you're not the mean dude!" And he isn't. There's still guarded affection in his eyes, as if he can't quite trust himself to trust me not to disappoint him, but behind it there's honest love. Not hatred. Dominance, but not contempt. "You're the twerp, you're my, my brother!"

"Damn right I'm your brother," he says grimly, still grinding, and dear God, it feels like he's popping into my throat, as if he's penetrated through both guts and heart. "Now tell me why I'm fucking you."

"Huh? What?" It's hard to think with his thick flesh churning inside me.

"Why. Am. I. Fucking. You?"

"Uh, because . . . because . . . you know you can, because I swore--"

Another twist of the nipple, and I wail. "Wrong answer. I'm fucking you because you like it. Not because you swore, but because you asked."

"I don't . . . I don't like . . ." I gasp, unable to form a complete sentence, and then I holler when he twists yet again, both nipples at once this time.

"I told you, don't lie to me! Never lie to me! You like being fucked, don't you? Don't you? Admit it!"

"I . . . I . . ." He's pounding me now, hitting the sweet spot with each pass, lighting me up from the inside, and I'm sobbing, tears rolling from my eyes, and he won't stop looking into me. I don't like this, I can't like this, I'm a big stupid straight hunk of a guy, I'm not a weak sissy, but I can't deny the fire, can't deny the pre dripping out on my six-pack, can't deny the twitching of my body, not just my asshole, but the twitching of my whole entire sweaty body. "I . . . I . . ."

"Admit it!" More nipple twisting, more pounding, more sensation in my overloaded, overwhelmed nerves. "Goddamn you, bro, admit you like being fucked!"

"YES!" I scream, so loud the neighbors must hear, but I don't care. "YES! I like being fucked, I love it!" The words burst through my lips with a fresh bout of sobs, of relief and not denial this time. "Yes, I like this, I like the fire, I like how it hurts but feels good, hurts but feels good!" My head rolling back and forth in my hands, our gaze never breaking, I'm open to him in more ways than just between my legs.

"And you like to suck dick, too, don't you? Admit it!"

"Your dick, I love to suck your dick," I babble. "So clean, you taste so clean!"

"You like my cock then."

"Oh God yes I like your cock I love your thick cock!" Can't stop the honesty, can't stop the flames whipping through me, can't stop, won't stop. "I love it, fucking love it!"

"Awesome," he spits, glaring down into me, his eyes digging deep as his screw. He's got me bent in half, balancing himself on my thighs, sweat dripping into my face. "I like it too, I like your mouth and your hole, I wasn't sure I would but I do. So I'm willing to do this every day. Are you? Do you want to do this every day?"

"Yes, please, every day, every night, whenever you want it!" He's pumping into me at a steady, inexorable pace, slamming my sweet spot with every thrust, driving the flames higher and hotter. If I thought it felt shamefully good when the boys in juvie used me, uncaring of my comfort, I'm undone by the pleasure of my brother fucking me because I like it, because I'd asked, he's loving me with steady and focused determination because he knows I like it and he's willing to give it to me! He's gonna make me cum, I need to cum, and he won't laugh when I do, he won't sneer and rub my nose in it like the mean dude did, the twerp will smile and be happy for me, I know he will! I disobey and reach down, blindly grasping for my peanut, but the twerp growls and knocks my hand away, just like the guys in juvie. Nooo!

"I said, hands behind your fucking head!" Then, unlike the mean dude and the other guys in juvie, he grabs my peanut his own self, not tightly but enough to feel his heat. If he squeezes I'll cum. Please squeeze! "Now, do you want my thick dick every day?"

"Yes, God yes!" I groan, I sob. "Do you want me to beg? I'll beg you, please give me your cock every day, please fuck my mouth and ass, please let me cum!"

"I like when you beg," he concedes, his dick pounding, his fist loose and warm, his sweat raining down on me. "So yeah, I'll give it to you every day, more than once maybe. Probably. But it all depends on you."

"What, what do you mean? I, I'll do anything." Imploring him with my eyes, with my mouth, with the rhythmic clutching of my hole. "Anything!"

"Will you be a good boy for me?"

"So good, I'll be so good for you, twerp," I gasp, unsure exactly what he wants but perfectly willing to agree to his terms, to any terms at all if it means he'll throw me his thick cock every day.

"If you want me to fuck you ever again, then from here on out the drinking and drugging stops. No more beer, no more pot."

"I swear it!" Who needs beer or pot? I'm higher now than I've ever been before.

"No more hanging out with the dirtbag losers. They're history."

"I won't, I'll never see them again!" Nothing but a bunch of assholes who think peanuts are funny, anyway. "I swear!"

"Until further notice you're on house arrest. You hang with me or nobody. We'll play games or listen to music or go to the movies, like we used to do."

"Can we be, can we please be close again?" I pant, searching his red face, his iris-less eyes for conviction, and finding it. "Please?"

"That's the whole point of what I'm doing." Hammering on my sweet spot, the ghost of his heat around my straining peanut. "I want to be close to you again, and fucking you might be the best way to get there, for the both of us."

"Please fuck me, twerp," I babble, rolling my head and clutching his pistoning thickness with my walls, clapping my hole around him as if to never let him go. "I'll be good for you, I'll be so so good!"

"You better be," he warns, leaning down until he's in my face, his eyes holding onto mine to illustrate his sincerity. "Because the first time you sneak out at night, the first time you show up drunk or stoned, the very first goddamn time you disobey me, the fucking stops. Understand?"

"I . . . I understand," I gasp. "I get it, twerp, I understand, I'll be good, just please please squeeze my peanut!"

"I'll squeeze your peanut," he promises, and his grip tightens, but not enough, nowhere near enough. "Swear to me you'll be good and I'll squeeze your peanut every damn day."

"I swear!" I holler. If he pounds any harder, if he speaks any truer, my brains are gonna leak out my ears. "I swear I'll be your good boy!"

"Good boy," he echoes like I already am, sending prickly pleasure from the top of my head and through my heart to meet the rising fiery pressure building in my guts. "Now cum for me," he orders, and squeezes.

His tiny hand is the right size for my peanut, wrapping around me snugly, and I have one brief second to glimpse how perfectly I matter to the twerp before the white floods over me, through me, calling it an orgasm is like calling a storm a gentle spring rain. I scream, I holler, I thrash on the bed, spewing what feels like years of built-up jizz with each shove of his wide glans on my sweet spot. At last, at long last his eyes roll up in his head, releasing me, and his howls join my screams as he throbs impossibly thicker in my destroyed tunnel and fills me full of his spunk, thrusting haphazardly in and out, coaxing more cum to spill from my own raining balls, more lightning to sizzle through me, more thunder, but distant this time, as if the storm is moving on, leaving a newly clean world in its wake.

For a minute only the sound of our breathing, and I thank God the `rents aren't home tonight, no way they wouldn't have heard. But holy shit, that was the best orgasm of my life, bar none. And when the twerp meets my eye again, it appears he feels the same, he's wearing a sated expression I'll treasure as a golden memory all the rest of my days. He tilts his head, grinds into me one more time, and lays a hand on my sweaty and heaving chest. "Swear?"

"I swear," I say softly, meaning it.

He smiles, a gorgeous and unexpected gift on this cloudy day, and says it again. "Good boy." Something bright and shiny unfurls inside me, a rusty sort of light I thought I'd never feel again. He lowers my knees, and both of us wince as his softening cock slides free of my sure-to-be-gaping hole. For once I relish the sensation, knowing I'll feel cock inside me again without having to go back to juvie and the mean dude because I'm gonna be good, I'm gonna be so, so good, and me and my brother are gonna be close again. The twerp groans and rolls off the bed, wobbling a little as he stands. Heh, I understand, I don't think I'll be able to walk right for a week. He swipes up and into his jockey shorts and opens the door. Just before he steps through he calls over his shoulder, "Thank you, bro. Thank you," and steps out into the hallway, leaving me with my stretched asshole leaking his jizz, my heaving belly and chest saturated with my own, and wondering:

What the hell just happened?

 

** 3 **

I ease open the front door, poke my head inside, and blow a sigh of relief at my favorite sight, which is about what I expected anyway: Mom passed out at one end of the couch, my stepfather at the other, coffee table piled high with beer cans and cigarette butts and weed bags, tv locked on the lame sad-faced "Sorry! We're Off The Air!" sign. Stepping out of the frigid winter night and into the lukewarm, draft-laced living room, I ease the door shut, wincing at the inevitable whine; Mom's most likely out for the night, you can never tell with the old man. He doesn't wake up, though, thank fuck, just snorts and rubs his fat hand across his fat mouth. I tilt my head back and chug the rest of my own beer, then tiptoe across the floor and drop the can on the overloaded table with the rest; the old man'll never notice, and it'll probably be my ass volunteered to clean up in here tomorrow anyway. A half-smoked roach sits stubbed out in the overflowing ashtray, so I snag it; he'll never notice that either. As I turn to head to the room I share with my pricklet kid brother, I spot the old man's crooked cock hanging out the leg of his boxers, and for a minute I'm tempted to grab on, to yank like I did to the tall, muscular pretty boy in juvie, but I stopped when the pretty boy begged enough, and I'd never stop yanking on the old man's, not 'til I held the bleeding stub in my fist.

I tiptoe down the hall, avoiding the creaky runner, and strip off my jacket, wavering only slightly at the complicated maneuver. I didn't drink but four beers, so I'm not fucked up or anything, unfortunately. Stopping at our closed bedroom door, I put my ear to the wood and listen. Yup, the pricklet's beating off, the squeaking springs and panting breath surefire signals. Careful not to make too much noise, I fling the door open and flip up the light switch. "Busted!" I stage-whisper, and the pricklet gasps and twists in his twin bed, blanket squirreling around his raised knees and his right hand sliding under his pillow, like he's got a gun under there and I'm an intruder. I cock my finger at him and go, "Bang!" He jumps, and I all but bellow laughter. Small, skinny, timid, he's everything I'm not. Thank Christ.

"Ssh, you'll wake him," the pricklet warns nervously, relaxing slightly when I head to my own side of the room to start stripping instead of heading for his.

"Nah, he's out," I say, but quietly, because you can never tell with the old man. "If you didn't wake him up moaning and groaning and thumping your headboard against the wall, then he's out cold." Handing the pricklet hell over his spanking, not because I care but because it's fun to watch his cheeks heat.

"Shut up," he mutters, cheeks heating. "I wasn't making too much noise, and besides, you beat off as much as I do."

I don't even need to stop and cogitate. "True." Me and the pricklet know all about each other's self-pollution; hell, we share a room. I slide out of my jeans while he watches warily; aware of what he's thinking I flip out my half-hard dong to waggle at him. He recoils while I snicker and order, "So don't use all the slick or I'll kick your ass."

"Why? Didn't my big bad bro get any pussy tonight? The world is shocked and humbled."

Fucking pricklet. "I got plenty of pussy tonight." I jump across the floor and stick my middle finger under his nose, demanding, "Wanna smell?" He recoils again, sliding his hand towards his pillow like he's gonna grab and smack me with it, and I bust out laughing. "I gotta piss," I proclaim, grabbing the half-joint and my lighter as I head out of the room. "I wasn't kidding about the slick, pricklet."

"I hate when you call me that," he complains.

"Why do think I do it?" Leaving the light on so he'll have to climb out of bed to shut it off, I close the door on his muttered cursing and, avoiding the creaky runner, tiptoe to the end of the hall. The old man's still snoring. Relieved, I head to the john and drop my drawers. Might as well cop a squat while I'm here, if I smoke in the bedroom the pricklet'll want some, and fuck that. Besides, although he might be snoring, you can never tell with the old man, and I'd prefer not to have to shower and change my sheets if he decides to visit.

While I poop and catch a buzz I contemplate the finger I'd shoved under my brother's nose; it had indeed been deep in pussy earlier tonight. Me and the owner of said pussy had been parked in her car on a random side street, and I'd been this close to finally losing my virgin status in the backseat when I happened to glance out the window.

Two guys, walking down the sidewalk, laughing and joking and cutting up between themselves, paying absolutely no attention to the junker idling at the curb. One tall, muscular, with feathered hair, the other small, lean, wearing a purple beanie, but obviously brothers, you could tell by their easy touches and bright, almost precious smiles. I couldn't take my eyes off them, and only when my glance crossed with the bigger teen did I recognize him; the tall, muscular pretty boy from juvie. Last time I saw him he'd been bent over his bunk, taking cock and crying into his pillow. Miserable. He didn't seem to recognize me though, his gaze sliding off mine like our eyes were oiled, and I watched them stroll away, the pretty boy sliding his arm around his brother's shoulders, the two of them sharing some intimate and amusing secret. A blackness welled within me, an empty yearning for . . . for . . . something, I had no clue what. The slut I'd been about to fuck snapped her fingers in my face, asked why I was watching the boys so hard, was I a fag? I smacked her and commented her pussy stank and she got pissed and shoved me out on the sidewalk, her pathetic junker squealing off before I so much as buttoned my pants.

Fuck it, I didn't feel like getting laid anymore anyhow, so I headed for the package store. The fugly bitch at the counter eyed me like I was some kind of thug when I came in, so I stopped and counted nonexistent money in my wallet and headed for the soft drinks. She turned away to help some old dude and I made for the beer, shoving a sixer one can at a time into my coat pockets. "Hey!" the fugly bitch yelled, heading around the counter, so I turned to run and shit started spilling out of my pockets: beers, wallet, keys, coins, unopened rubber. I scrambled to gather everything up, but I was forced to leave two cans, the change and the rubber behind. The fugly bitch was yelling something about calling the cops as I busted out the door and onto the street.

So, four beers and one half-joint later, I'm feeling pretty fine. Not fubar, but fine. Could stand to get laid, but I don't mind spanking; I do it often enough. So I sanitize and tiptoe back to the bedroom. The pricklet's still awake, his knees bent under the covers and his mattress shaking, but I don't comment other than to demand, "Gimme the slick." He grumbles but passes it over and I shuck my shorts, fall naked into bed. Knowing what's on my mind, my dong's already half-hard as I grease up and start to stroke.

I think about the slut in the backseat. Tig ol' bitties, meaty ass, hairy, wet vadge clutching on my fingers. Her fist squeezing my dong while she whispers about how big I am and how bad she needs me up inside her but I better be careful I don't split her in two. So close, I was so fucking close to breaking off my first piece of pussy, but I just had to glance out the window, didn't I? And the muscular pretty boy from juvie just had to be walking down the street with his twerp brother, didn't he? The pricklet gasps in the bed across from me and, finally losing his nerves, shoves the blanket down so he can wank in the open, like me. Ignoring him, I remember how me and my buds turned the pretty boy into the fag of the block. The first time, in the showers, was only because the guard ordered us to rape while he took pictures, under threat of becoming victims ourselves, but anybody with eyes could see the pretty boy liked it. He'd beg and he'd cry and pretend to fight back, but you can't hide a hard-on when you're spread-eagle on the tile, can you? Everybody knew he was a fag, and everybody took advantage, me included. We'd fuck his throat or his ass and listen to him whine and snuffle, and sometimes, if he'd behaved pretty enough or I was feeling generous I'd let him fist his tiny dick while I fucked him, would let him spooge all over his belly or the floor, then I'd rub it in his face or force him to scoop and swallow while I blasted his innards or his pretty face. My dong throbs at the memory, and I groan and slide my thumb across the glans, spread the dribbles of pre into almost-too-sensitive skin. Man, what I wouldn't give for a taste of the pretty boy now, or really any tight, hot ass. I consider the pricklet, but the struggle would probably wake up the old man, and nobody wants that. For a brief second I suffer a bright if dark sense of longing for juvie. Regular meals, daily routines, and a piece of ass whenever I –

Heavy, don't-give-a-crap-about-the-creaky-runner footsteps in the hall shatter my wry amusement. The old man's awake. Shit. Beside me, the pricklet sits straight up in bed, clutching the sheet to his chest. "Oh no, please, not tonight, please don't make me do it tonight!"

"Shut the fuck up, pricklet," I hiss. "I get it worse than you ever do."

The door creaking open stifles any reply, and I try to swallow my heart and my nausea. The old man steps inside, wearing only a wife-beater on his chubby frame, his crooked cock sticking out at a downward angle from his nest of gray pubes. He shuts the door behind himself and clomps over to the side of my bed. "Climb the fuck up here, suck my dick."

Anybody else I'd, heh, go down swinging, but this is the old man, and last time I resisted he beat the snot out of Mom; I don't like the alcoholic bitch much but even she doesn't deserve another broken arm. So I climb the fuck up there, suck the old man's crooked cock into my mouth and, impatient, he grabs a hank of my hair and yanks me into his pubes, forcing the twisted glans into my throat and making me almost puke all over the saggy balls bouncing off my chin. Trust me, I know better than to puke.

Another whimper from the next bed, and the old man growls, "Pipe the fuck down, boy, or it'll be your turn tonight." The pricklet pipes the fuck down, unfortunately, and the old man grunts and intensifies his throat-rape. Once, just goddam once I wish our asshole stepfather would decide to molest the pricklet instead of me; when I got out of juvie I asked if the old man visited him in the night while I was gone, and he smirked and said nope, he wasn't sweet like me; little pricklet wasn't smirking five minutes later, but that's another story.

A whap upside the noggin refocuses my wandering mind, and I reapply myself to sucking dick. I fucking hate it, there's nothing in it for me. The muscular pretty boy seemed to love doing it, losing himself in suckling like he was drinking the finest wine even as we raped, but the old man's dick doesn't taste like fine wine at all, but instead like cheap rotgut flesh, like sweat and piss and cigarettes with some sharp piquancy I hope isn't my mother's pussy. Still, I'd rather he spurt in my mouth as up my ass, so I give him my best technique, slithering my tongue against his underseam, licking my way into his rancid foreskin, swirling and sucking and drooling down his glans and shaft. Pre rolls out of his slit with oozy regularity along with the whispered curses, insults, and commands from his lips, but the old man doesn't cum. Goddammit.

All too soon he pushes me away. "On your belly." Another whimper from the pricklet's bed, but we ignore him, me because I'm propping a pillow under my hips to raise my ass higher and the old man because he's slicking up his crooked cock. I spread my legs and he crawls between, I bury my face in my crossed arms and he shoves two fingers inside, not giving a damn about my comfort, only his own. The penetration burns, and I bite back a hiss as he scissors his fingers, knuckling the fuck out of my innards, and I bitterly wish I'd forgone pooping earlier so he'd have to squish through my turds. The digits withdraw, and I draw in a breath, hold it, determined not to give the old man the satisfaction of a scream. A blunt pressure at my anus, and I clench my teeth and push out, allowing entrance down below. Stretch and burn, stretch and burn, and "OOF!" I exhale as the old man's crooked cock barrels into me, stretchburnstretchburnstretchburn, his twisted glans gouging one side of my tunnel. Sparks burn through me as he pushes past my sweet spot, and my dong, having gone soft while I sucked crooked cock, stirs against the pillow. He's all the way inside now, grinding his pubes into my glutes, rounding me out, and I can't help it, I bite into my wrist and scream, not loud and agonized but a scream all the same, and the old man chuckles. He enjoys my misery, says he likes to pretend I'm my father, who died before the old man could murder; I don't know the whole story and I don't want to know. All I know is I'm a revenge fuck because I look like my real dad, and that's all I need to know. The old man chuckles again and starts moving, taking care to avoid a direct hit on my sweet stroke with each stroke, but he can't prevent the tiny zings of his crooked cock's passage, and despite my hatred my dong hardens to full. The old man screws me hard, and it hurts, it fucking hurts, but the tiny zings whisper this could feel good if I wanted it to feel good. I don't want it to feel good. The pretty boy loved it, even as he wailed and begged and cried he fucking loved it, and I swear when he saw it was my turn he smiled, a tiny one but a smile nonetheless because he knew I'd aim for his sweet spot, I'd take care to give him what pleasure I could without looking like a fag myself, because if you're being raped it's only fair to get some joy out of the act, ain't it? There's a lesson I learned hard from the old man's never learning it at all.

Slap. Slap. Slap. His fleshy belly smacking my asscheeks, his crooked cock digging deep, aiming away from the sweet spot. He stops and grinds and I groan, groan louder when he grabs me by the hair on my head, stretching my neck as if for sacrifice. He grinds and I groan and he grinds and I clutch, trying to hurry him along, and he slides out, rams back in, grinds –

--and moans, low in his throat, and at last, at fucking last his crooked cock swells inside me, spewing his poison deep into my guts while he grunts and grinds and finally, finally slides out of my sure-to-be-gaping hole, his exit at least half as painful as his entrance. Without so much as a `thanks for the nut, cunt' he stalks out of the room and down the hall, again clomping on the creaky runner. I lay here where he left me for a long minute, trying to catch my breath, trying to squeeze my asshole back into some semblance of tightness, the old man's poison leaking out to drip on my taint. How could the pretty boy like this? How could he look like boneless ecstasy with cum leaking from his anus, how could his own cum drip and drool from his small cock, his, what did he call it, his peanut? To each his own, I guess, but I hate being fucked, and the main thing I hate about it, more than the bruising and the pounding and the humiliation, the main thing I hate is the way it leaves my dong hard, leaves my balls feeling like if they don't spew they'll explode. If I was horny earlier, when I was jerking off, I'm double horny now, maybe even triple, and the friction sizzles as I rub my dong into the rough sheets.

Heh, the answer to my aroused problem lays in the bed across from me. He's stopped whimpering, but I can feel his unease from here. He knows what I'm thinking.

"Don't make me do it, not tonight, not ever, but please don't make me do it tonight." Whimpering under his breath like the pricklet he is.

I groan, push myself to my feet, feel moisture dripping from my abused hole and pooling on the glans of my dong. I stumble bowlegged across the floor between us, and he gasps and makes as if to scoot up to the head of his bed, but I'm too fast. Lightning quick I grab his arm and pull him up to sit on the edge of the mattress. Grasping his jaw, I lay the head of my dong on his lips. "Open," I order, and he shakes his head, presses his lips tighter, pleads up at me with his eyes. "Open!" I command again, and he shakes his head again, and I chuckle. Alright then. I pinch his nose between my fingers.

Five seconds.

Ten.

His eyes plead.

Fifteen.

He twists his head, trying to shake free of my suffocation.

He fails.

Twenty.

Unable to hold it any longer, he parts his lips for the briefest breath he can survive on, and I take advantage, shoving my dong in his mouth to bounce off the back of his throat, wincing at the scrape of his teeth. He whimpers again, pleads some more, and I grin. I pull out and, knowing what's best for himself, he sheathes his teeth as I drive back in. His eyes closed, his face resigned, his mouth slack, and I remember, I yearn for the pretty boy's eyes staring up at me as he takes what I have to give. As he loves what I have to give, even if he won't admit it. I fuck the pricklet's mouth, enjoying the wet warmth, and I grin again, almost chuckle when he suddenly surrenders, starts sucking in earnest on my hard dong. He's not as good as the pretty boy, not even close, but could be, all it takes is practice and desire. Licking up the underseam, swirling across the head, giving tight hollow-cheeked suction. I'm aware of the pricklet's intention, of course – I invented the game. He goes deep, hums around my shaft, sending delicious shivers through me, trying to make me cum so I don't fuck him. Heh, he can try. To encourage him I moan, fist my fingers in his hair, bounce my balls off his smooth chin, and he falls for the feint, working harder and sucking his cheeks hollower. More of the old man's spunk trickles from my achy, abused hole, drips down my inner thigh, and I wonder how it would feel for somebody to lick and kiss and swallow the poison from inside me. Not the pricklet, of course, he'd let me kill him before sticking his tongue in my ass, but I bet the pretty boy would be all in. Pretty boy would probably even be willing to finger my sweet spot while he sucked me off, and –

I catch my breath and push the moist warmth off my dong. "Nice try, pricklet," I taunt as my threatened orgasm fades and he whimpers and sags. "Lay down on your – oh fuck no!" I grabs his upper arm as he tries to spring away, tighten my grip as he wrestles against me, doing his best to make good his escape, and my dong throbs. Nothing I like more than a good struggle. I sling him prone onto the bed and crawl up beside him.

"Don't make me do this, or I'll, I'll --"

"You'll what?" I demand, sliding one leg between his knees. He tries again to twist away, his limp wiener rolling in its thin patch of pubes, and I'm struck with a sudden flash of the pretty boy's peanut; bet it wouldn't be limp. Suddenly the pricklet stops struggling, allowing me to spread his knees and crawl between.

"You're making me," he says in voice so broken-hearted it almost makes me stop. "Making me do this."

"Shut the fuck up," I order the pricklet crossly, pissed at both of us for my almost-change of heart. "You're luckier than me, the old man likes to hurt, likes to abuse, and I always make sure you cum, don' t I?"

"That's not the point," he answers, sliding his hands up behind his head, underneath his pillow, giving me his true surrender.

"That's always the point," I reply, brusque and rough and distracted. Where's the –? Oh, yeah, on my bed, where the old man left it after he raped me. I lean over the space between our beds, feel the tube sliding from under my fingers, and I lean further, groping, grasping –

CLANG!

A huge sound, a ringing vibration in my bones, in my eyes, in my ears. Darkness and light change places, change places again, and is that . . . birds shrilling in circles above my head like a halo of twittery madness?

I shake my head, and pain roars through my skull. What the fuck? Why am I laying in the floor, my head pounding and my vision blurry? I shake my head again, taking some sort of clarity from the pain, more clarity from the trickle of moisture running down my cheek. I shake my head a third time, and darkness and light change places yet again, and I glance up. The pricklet's kneeling on his bed, wary and glowering, tears streaming down his cheeks, and . . .

And . . .

One of Mom's cast-iron skillets clutched in the fist above his head.

"You made me," he whispers. "I tried, I'm sorry, but you made me."

The cacophony in my head settles into symphonic pulsing, tendrils of pain flowing outward like wardrums calling for battle. Did I mention I like a struggle? The pricklet's eyes widen as I push myself to my feet, my dong raging, my lips stretched in a grin so fierce I'm glad I can't see it myself. I wobble a sec before stabilizing, and the frying pan trembles in the pricklet's hand.

"You just bit off more than you can chew," I promise, and he jumps off the bed facing me, skillet raised above his head, his little `nads drawn up in terror. He's right to be scared. I'm gonna do things to my brother even the pretty boy would've hated. "Come here, pricklet."

He shakes his head, backing towards the door. "Don't make me do it again!"

I lunge forward, and he brings the pan down hard, aiming for my head, but I catch it mid-swing, twist the iron bitch out of his hand, toss it to the side. I don't need no stinkin' skillet to kick pricklet ass. I lunge again and he breaks, twisting and bending and avoiding my arms, and before I can stop him he throws open the door and darts into the hall, still naked, the creaky runner complaining under his tread.

Oh fuck no! I pound after him, throwing one hand on his shoulder before he twists again and takes off. The pricklet jets into the living room but suddenly stops as if surprised. He glances back to me, but I'm too close, and even as I raise my fist to swing he jumps forward again, screaming at the top of his lungs:

"RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!"

Murder wells within me, and I exit the hallway with my fists clenched for battle, my head ringing and face bleeding, my dong swinging in low excitement from my pubes, and I register several things at once:

Mom, sitting up on the couch, her gaze blurry, concerned but confused.

The old man, standing at the open front door, once again clad in boxers, with a look of guilty dread on his face.

The pricklet, still screaming "RAPE" and throwing himself face-first to the floor in the open doorway.

A cop, holding what looks like my wallet in his hand, with the fugly bitch from the package store downtown standing behind.

The cop dropping my wallet and reaching for his belt, coming back up with a forked metal instrument.

"NO!" I scream, try to scream, but suddenly I can't talk, can't control, my body dancing and jigging and twitching, fire and electricity racing through my nerves, dropping me to writhe on the floor. The dance goes on and on and on, but as the fire dies away I become aware of the cop kneeling beside me, cuffs already open in his hand, and I glance toward a stupefied Mom, prostrate pricklet, horrified old man, my body still complaining about being tased, my hole still bitching about being raped, my limp dong spurting drops of piss on my thigh, and wondering:

What the hell just happened?

 

** 4 **

I peer through the one-way window into the darkened dorm; all the lambs, done with the showers and the john and the general milling about before lights out, are tucked snug into their bunks, some already shaking with either unnatural lust or natural homesickness. Stupid-heads. Their daddies should have taken them In Hand long ago, taught them the evils of self-pollution would only lead them where are they are right now: sleeping in a room with forty-nine others in the confines of the Department of Juvenile Corrections – juvie, as they call it with forced bravado and gutless contempt. My daddy and I pray for them sometimes because Daddy says they deserve it and he used to be a Preacher so he knows.

"Okay, lambs are bedded down," I remark to my partner in the booth. "We're clear if you want to break now."

Regs require two guards be present on the floor at all times but my partner doesn't bat an eyelash; rank has its perks, and one of those perks is the ability to dismiss inconvenient underlings with no questions asked. "Gotcha, Sarge," he drawls, dropping his feet off the desk and lumbering out of the chair. "Be back in thirty."

I pull a bill out of my wallet. "Take an hour. Drinks on me."

He pockets the cash without looking. "Yer the best, Sarge." And he's gone.

I glance back into the dorm. None of the lambs have moved from their beds yet, but they will soon. They're slaves to their lusts, because they've never been taken In Hand, they were never taught to ignore their sin-sticks; daddies should be the ones to decide when a lamb has been good enough for pleasuring. It's not really their fault they're wild and ignorant, of course; all blame lies with their daddies for not teaching them, like my daddy taught me. I'm everything they're not. "Thank you, Daddy," I whisper aloud.

My own sin-stick shifts in my pants, but I ignore the pulse and pull out my new camera. Sleek, modern, bulky, with tons of buttons and shutters, nothing like the tiny spy model Daddy gave me when I started as a night guard here in juvie twenty-six-and-three-quarter years ago. He commanded me to take pictures of all the lost lambs doing their nasty, sinful acts so he could look at them and pray for their souls while he pleasured my mouth, and that camera has lasted `til now. I wish I could still use it, because it's like an old friend after all this time, but Daddy is mad at me and he won't say why and I figure maybe the pictures are grainy or bad in other ways so maybe a new camera will take better pictures and Daddy won't be mad anymore.

Holding the camera tight in my hand, I let myself into the dorm, the creaky metal door announcing my presence like a royal herald's horn. Instant silence in the room. Instant tension. My sin-stick throbs in my underwear, but if I touch myself Daddy will know and he'll be even more mad at me and he won't ever give me permission to pleasure myself again. Daddy is very stubborn; the last few months of his angry silence and my lack of pleasuring are proof.

Wait, I'm sorry, Daddy! Wrong of me to call you stubborn! I smack the back of my hand in penance, almost fumbling the camera to the floor like a clumsy stupid-head. I set a slow, measured pace through the dorm, my heels clicking sharply on the cement floor. The lambs lay quiet and still in their bunks as I pass. They want me to hurry up and leave so they can crawl into each other's bunks. Consensual, non-consensual, nothing truly matters to them so long as they can pleasure their sin-sticks. We're supposed to prevent them, to punish them for their nasty deeds, but their hormones are like a raging river and our disapproval nothing more than a dam of popsicle sticks, so we let them do as they please. Some of the guards laugh when they stumble across rutting lambs, some roll their eyes in lazy disgust, some watch with their own sin-sticks throbbing in their uniform pants, though they know better than to touch. Me, I just take pictures for my daddy.

And sometimes, like tonight, I like to give the lambs a surprise.

The latest boy to arrive lies in a bunk at the very end of the room, almost in the corner. He's a repeat, very likely even a chronic who'll spend his life incarcerated for one bad thing or another. A real stupid-head, and the most lost of lambs anywhere. He had a chance to straighten up his life when his stepDaddy tried to take him In Hand, but was he grateful? Did he accept his pleasuring, knowing his stepDaddy was only trying to make his life better? Oh no he did not. Instead he waited until his stepDaddy left the room then tried to rape his own brother! Disgusting! Luckily for the poor brother a Uniform was at the front door because the stupid-head lamb had stolen some beer and then dropped his wallet on the floor when he fled the scene. Talk about your dumb criminals; if the boy wasn't a juvenile the story would've sold lots of newspapers. The most awful part was he snitched out his stepDaddy, and now that righteous, misunderstood man is locked up downtown, awaiting his own trial for rape, sexual abuse and sodomy. All first-degree felonies, meaning he's going away for a long, long time. The whole disgusting business is a travesty of justice, honestly, and really piddles me off to consider. But the stupid-head's gonna pay for his low-down ways tonight, I guarantee you, and Daddy's gonna love the pictures so much he'll pleasure my mouth and bottom while we pray for the lambs and not be mad at me anymore.

Please, God, let him pleasure my mouth and bottom and not be mad at me anymore!

The lamb watches me approach, his carefully controlled unease making my sin-stick shift in my pants again. He's been in custody for two weeks, though they had him upstairs in solitary until today. Scuttlebutt says he's been popular with lawyers and Detectives and Uniforms, and why not? They all love a snitch while he's snitching, but when the bird is all sung out what do they do? They drop them back into gen-pop, that's what they do, and pretend they don't know what fate awaits snitches in there. The stupid-head lamb knows too, I could see it in his eyes when they brought him down, though he was all swagger and "I'm back, Sarge, did ya miss me?" He even had the nerve to wink! When he was here before he was always a ringleader, always the first one to roll over a new boy. He claimed he was only having sex with guys because of the lack of – um, you know the word, starts with P and ends with Y but isn't PersonalitY! – but he was a liar liar pants on fire, anybody with eyes could tell! He was obsessed over the tall, muscular pretty boy with the tiny peanut, Daddy said his clear and deplorable lust oozed out of the pictures, and he always prayed extra hard for both their souls afterward, prayed so hard I couldn't walk right for a week! But Daddy also said the stupid-head lamb's cockiness would get him into real trouble someday, and, as usual, Daddy was right. He'll be tickled pink to bear witness through my pictures.

"Heya, Sarge," the stupid-head lamb says, all bluff and bluster. "Got your camera? You want me to break in a new boy tonight?"

"You reek," I grunt. "Need a shower. Let's go."

"As many showers as you've made me take it's a wonder I ain't shriveled down into a prune," he gripes, but I can hear the tremble in his voice. As he stands I notice his sin-stick (he calls it his "dong" – so childish!) isn't pooching out his drawers in anticipation like before, in fact there's almost no lump there at all, but I'm sure he's just nervy. He can't possibly be imagining himself to be the sacrificial lamb tonight, not a fake-alpha he-man like him. He's a real stupid-head, and I can't wait to document his surprise.

The soles of his cheap flip-flops shuffling along the floor in front of me, he aims for showers, a rictus grin on his face. As we pass through the orderly row of stilled bunks I point to other lambs at random. "You. And you. You."

"So who's it gonna be tonight, Sarge?" he whispers over his shoulder. "The butterball blond in 10-B looks ripe, huh?"

"You. And you."

"Jeez," the stupid-head lamb exhales, so I pop him on the back of the skull with my knuckles. He yelps and mutters another expletive, a non-blasphemous one this time. "You goin' for a cast of thousands, Sarge?"

"However many we need," I snap, then regret opening my mouth; never let `em truck past your stoic professionalism, juvie-guard lesson 101. Pointing at the butterball blond, who does indeed appear ripe (for shame, Sarge!), "You. Let's go."

I herd my young charges down the hall, everybody (except possibly the butterball blond, who only arrived into custody yesterday) wondering who's going to be sacrificed to the mob and hoping not themselves. No whispers, no moans, only the occasional whimper making my sin-stick throb. When we reach the locker-room the lambs strip down without my needing to command them, and I'm amused to notice almost half already float some state of arousal. Not the stupid-head brother-raper lamb though. Too bad, I wanted to take pictures of his deflation when he realized my plan.

"The inmate who talks about what happens here," I say in a clear, firm voice, "either to another inmate or especially to anybody outside this room, can count on being in the middle themselves one night very soon. Affirmative?"

"Affirmative, Sarge." "Yes, Sarge." "I won't snitch, Sarge, I swear."

"Who'd believe us anyway, Sarge?" the brother-raper comments. "The whole department crows about what a fine, upstanding and decorated officer you are."

Breathe, Sarge. Don't let him truck past your stoic professionalism. So I inhale and raise the camera, take the first shot of his cocky grin and flaccid "dong".

"Cheese!" he sasses, but through clenched teeth.

I take another shot. Daddy's gonna love these pictures, they're sure to wake him up. "Inside, boys. And don't splash my camera."

Six showerheads, thirteen lambs. Lucky number for all but one of them. They crowd together under the lukewarm sprays, soaping themselves and splashing each other like normal, but in dead silence; all you can hear is hissing water. My sin-stick twitches into full-on tumescence, and only the niggling and unworthy wish that Daddy would wake up from his long nap and take a shower himself keeps my sinful libido under control; he stinks, and though I've washed him and washed him the funk is getting worse and he's looking awful nasty.

"So who's it gonna be, Sarge?" the brother-raper lamb inquires, standing by himself in the center of room. "Who you want me to break in?" I don't know how he thinks he'll break anyone in with the limp state of his stupid-head "dong". Not that it matters.

I can't help the smile on my lips. "On your knees, punk."

"Wait, what?" A click of my finger documents the shock on his face, and for a minute I wish I had a movie camera to film the slow drain of color. "What?"

"You heard me. You're gonna show all your peers what happens to brother-rapers in punitive institutions." And another click as the other lambs begin closing in. This is awesome! Daddy's gonna love me again, hooray!

An expression akin to despair weighs down the lamb's soon-to-be-busy mouth. "Only for a minute," he says, almost pleads. To who? Himself? God doesn't listen to the prayers of boys who refuse to be taken In Hand, Daddy taught me as much my very first lesson. "Only for a minute," he repeats, sinking to his knees on the wet tile.

Click! Click! Click! as the other lambs surround him, and I wonder who'll go first. Likely the butterball blond, he's way too excited to wait. Although I'd never tell the brother-raper, he'd been correct when he said the blond looks ripe, maybe next time I'll put him in the middle, Daddy would pray for him so –

"Stop!" a voice bellows, and my head spins around in shock, wondering who would dare rebel against me. People are pouring into the shower room, Uniforms and Suits, my trusted coworkers and friends, but I've never seen them like this, all grim and gray and heedless of the wet spray. "Back off, Sarge, back the fuck off!"

A man I recognize at The Lieutenant himself, the Director of our facility, smacks me in the chest and yanks the camera from my hands while the other intruders throw towels and sheets over my gobsmacked lambs. "I didn't wanna believe this shit, Sarge," the looey growls, shoving me to the floor and not caring about my perfectly-pressed uniform pants. "But the boy was right. You're disgusting and you're going away for a long, long time. You have the right to --" He rolls me over and slaps cuffs on my stunned wrists while I throw back my head and wail:

"Daddy! Oh Daddy! What the aytch-eee-double-hockey-sticks just happened?"

 

** 5 **

I'm laying in bed completely naked and uncovered, my body sweaty in the late-morning sunshine pouring through the window, while my older brother sucks my wiener. He's not bad – loving on the glans then going deep, licking up the seam of my undershaft, spilling warm rivulets of saliva to pool in my thin pubes and tickle/trickle across my scrote; whatever else, years of being raped by our stepfather taught him how to give head – but, honestly, I'm not really into it, not least because he sees blowing me as a form of apology. Of penance. Not the hottest reason to have sex with somebody, huh?

He buries his nose in my pubes, shivers his tongue along the bottom of my wiener, and comes off to take a breath. "Wanna fuck me?"

I hesitate, shake my head. "Maybe next time."

He nods like he's both relieved and disappointed at once and swallows me whole again. I can't help the moan dripping through my lips, can't stop my eyes from rolling back in my head. I'm gonna cream his throat pretty soon, there's no doubt, but like I said I'm not into it, not deep down. Any other self-respecting gay kid my age would be all over my brother; he's big, bulky, and sexy as hell, with a long, thick dong he damn sure knows how use – even when you don't want him to use it. Every time he screwed me he blew bombs off in my body, he made sure. Said it was only fair to get some pleasure when you're being forced to put out. I think he finally understands the important word in his motto wasn't `pleasure' but instead `forced', and I haven't heard him repeat the phrase once since he came home from juvie.

I push my brother out of my head so I can make myself cum in his mouth, get this over for now. As always, I settle on my go-to: the cute bagboy down to the grocery store. Maybe sixteen, with a bright metallic smile from his braces and unruly blond hair falling into his cornflower blue eyes. Whenever I go through the line (sometimes a couple times a day) he grins and winks at me and doesn't seem to notice my fiery cheeks and trembly hands. He's way older than me, and way out of my league even if he weren't, but there's no harm in fantasy, is there? I imagine him pulling me close, tracing my lips with his finger and smiling like I'm the only boy in the world for him. I feel the first tinglings of approaching orgasm, and, noticing my tightening sack, my brother ups his suction, amplifying the chills throughout my body. The bagboy (Chris) places one of my hands on his muscular arm, settles the other on the curve of his naked hip. He leans in to kiss me, and –

And –

I shoot into my brother's gulping mouth, groaning so hard at the intensity of my orgasm the windowpanes feed the rumble back. He swallows every drop like a champ, nursing for the last dribbles even as my wiener starts deflating. Glancing up at my face, he nips on my glans, not hard enough to hurt but enough to shock, what with the post-nut over-sensitivity, and he chuckles as I hiss and try to roll away.

"So," he drawls, wiping his lips, "how was it, sticklet?"

I huff. "Head was alright, but please stop trying to find a replacement for your favorite insult. Here's an idea, use people's actual names instead of relying on crass nicknames for body parts as identifiers, otherwise you're gonna run into some fugly issues with clarity someday."

As usual, he ignores my sound advice and focuses firmly on my critique of his performance. "Alright?" he gripes, twisting his face into mournful despair. "Only alright? You wound me!" He pushes himself off the bed, his flaccid dong swaying between his legs, proof he didn't find blowing me at all arousing. "When I consider all the practice I've put in just for –"

I blow a raspberry, amused despite myself.

He laughs, then sobers. "That was thirteen, right? So two more to go." He'd been the one to come up with the idea of servicing me for every time he'd forced me to service him, and, tiring of his profuse apologies and feeling guilty myself for skillet-whacking him upside the head, I finally gave in and agreed to his insane reparations. He figured he'd raped me twenty times, I figured more like ten, and he settled on fifteen as a reasonable compromise. I still feel a little raped when he sucks me, to be honest, but every load he swallows seems to inflate some of the old confidence and swagger back into his shoulders and spine, so after all the darkness he's waded through I'm willing to sacrifice as he finds his way back to the light.

"Yeah, thirteen," I agree. "Two more to go."

He smiles and winks at me and returns to his side of our room. Pulling on a pair of jeans, he orders, "Don't just lay there wallowing in the afterglow. Get your ass up so we can head out."

"Wallowing in the afterglow?" I blow another raspberry and he laughs again. Dragging my butt out of bed and rummaging for a pair of shorts, I ask, "Why are you in such a hurry? Mom's meeting won't be out for another half hour, and then she'll have to drink coffee and smoke cigs with the other folks in recovery before she's ready to leave."

He waits until his head pops through the neckhole in his tee-shirt before he answers, and he doesn't look me in the eye. "I just, uh, wanna make a stop on the way to the church."

"Where?" I demand crossly. He's not supposed to be drinking or smoking or hanging out with `undesirables' according to the terms of his –

"Chill out, wicklet," he teases, snickering while I shake my head and glare, "where I need to go ain't no den of iniquity, I promise. I, uh, I need to apologize to somebody."

"Who?"

"Somebody I hurt as badly as I hurt you, if not worse," he replies. "C'mon, let's go."

He's quiet as we set off up the street, hands shoved in his pockets, scowling face a mixture of determination and trepidation. Although he's not in AA or any support group like Mom, his therapist says confronting and making amends with people he's hurt in the past can help him come to terms with his own trauma – hence the blowjobs and offers to let me to fuck him. Which, no. I wonder how he plans to compensate this latest victim.

Around the halfway mark to the church he veers into a neighborhood dang near as dilapidated as our own, his step faltering to a halt in front of a two-story clapboard house set well back from the curb. No cars in the gravel drive, but indistinct voices drift from the open windows.

"Well, someone's home anyway," I comment, giving my brother a light tap on the shoulder. "Go on."

He draws a deep breath and starts up the walk. As we climb the porch-steps the voices become clear. Both male, and obviously in the throes of . . . something.

"Please, twerp, please!"

"No, bro. No. I warned you this would happen, didn't I? You disobey me, you suffer the consequences."

Strong, hard words and tones, but playful somehow, from both participants.

"I didn't mean to disobey you, twerp, I promise I didn't, it just happened!"

"Just happened, huh? And you couldn't warn me you were getting close, couldn't gasp out how your peanut was gonna spew? I might've allowed you, had you asked."

"Well, hell," my brother chuckles, "maybe I was wrong about the den of iniquity."

"Your cock, your big thick cock was hitting my sweet spot, twerp, I tried to hold back like you ordered but I couldn't help blowing!"

"You're still not understanding me, bro. You didn't ask, is my point."

"But I'm asking now, twerp, I'm asking now, please please please, I need your cock in my mouth, in my butt, anywhere and anyway you're willing to give me!"

My wiener stirs in my pants despite the explosive orgasm not even half an hour ago, and I hiss to my grinning brother, "Will you just knock on the door so you can do whatever you have to do and we can leave?"

"Nah, let `em finish," he replies, his grin smearing into a leer. "Wouldn't be polite to bust in now."

"Please let me suck your cock, twerp, please!"

"Nuh-uh. I'm gonna jerk off right here in front of you –"

A strangled moan.

"– and you're gonna watch, not touching me or even yourself."

Another strangled moan.

"If you're a good boy for me, if you take what I give or do not give you, then later on tonight I'll fuck your brains out and squeeze your peanut so good you'll be shooting peanut butter."

I snort. Lame.

"Getting close, bro. C'mere, lean back, yeah, like that. I'm gonna cum all over your hairy chest –"

A third strangled moan.

"– and you're gonna wear it all afternoon."

"Please, twerp, shoot it all over me, I don't care, I wanna smell like you all day long!"

"Getting . . . here it . . . urng! Urng! Urng!"

"Yeah, twerp, yeah, all over me!"

"Rub it in, just like . . . urng!"

The grunts and groans die away into silence.

"Finally," I mutter.

"I don't know, I think it was kinda hot, chicklet." My brother repeats the stupid word. "Chicklet. Yeah, I like."

"I don't," I complain through gritted teeth. "Will you please knock on the door? If we're not there when Mom's meeting lets out she'll be worried."

"There's plenty of time, chicklet," he emphasizes, but raises his hand to knock. Hesitates.

A voice presumably belonging to "the twerp" drifts through the window, calmer this time, less breathless. "Look, bro, we need to talk. Me and this girl from school have been hanging out some lately, and –"

My brother's knock on the door cuts into whatever the twerp had been about to say, and silence reigns for a good thirty seconds. My brother knocks again.

"Who the hell could that be?"

"Get dressed, bro, I'll go find out. Don't clean your chest."

"Okay, twerp."

Agonizing aeons pass before the door swings open to reveal a kid maybe a year older than me, with curly brown hair and a wide mouth built for smiling. Looks like a twerp, but in a good way, if you know what I mean, like he could be a lot of fun if he were so inclined. Not as cute as Chris, my bagboy crush, but not ugly either. His gaze swings back and forth between us. "Can I help you?" No indication of his recent lustful activities, only a polite wariness.

"This is his circus," I say, indicating my tongue-tied big brother. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I encourage, "Go on."

My big brother finally finds his voice, sounding unsure at first but gradually strengthening. "I, uh, is your brother around? I mean, can I see him? Please?"

The twerp tenses. "Who are you? I've never seen you before. What do you want with my brother?"

"I, uh, I just need to talk to him for a minute."

"Who is it, twerp?" A tall, muscular older teen with feathered hair and what can only be described as a pretty face appears in the doorway. He's wearing saggy blue jean shorts and a long baggy wifebeater, but they do little to hide the dark droplets of moisture on his hairy chest or the short but prominent protrusion at his crotch. He turns to face us. "Can I –" His voice drains off, along with the color in his cheeks. He and my brother stare at each for a long moment, neither of them speaking, before the pretty boy whispers, "You're him. You're the mean dude from juvie."

"What the fuck?" the twerp snarls. Stepping in front of his flummoxed older brother, he spits, "My brother told me all about what you did to him, asshole –"

"Hey!" I protest, but the twerp rolls over me.

"– and I don't know what you're thinking, showing up out of the blue like this, but if you don't leave right fucking now I'll call the cops and they'll make –"

"Wait," my brother pleads. "I'm not here to cause trouble, I swear."

The twerp glares but before he can start spitting threats again the pretty boy asks, "How did you find me?"

"I, uh," my brother glances at the ground, then squares his shoulders and looks up again, right into the pretty boy's eyes. "I've seen the two of you walking home a couple times and I, uh, I followed you." The twerp draws another breath and my brother hurries on. "Not in a stalker-ish way, I swear . . . well, I was being kind of a stalker, but not because I want to hurt you or, or cause trouble or anything like that."

Their gazes are beyond dubious.

"My brother's telling the truth," I say to them, and their dubious gazes transfer to me, but only for a split second. "He wants to make amends for his mistakes."

"Ssh, chicklet, let me do this, it's my mess." Another deep breath. "I came here today to apologize to you."

"Wait, what?"

"For what I did to you in juvie. I could blame the Sarge for everything, and the first time really was only because he threatened me and made me go along, but the truth of the matter of is I did what I did because I wanted to do it. I own my actions. They were never about sex, not really. They were about power."

"Power," the pretty boy repeats. "How?"

"Because my own power was stripped from me, first by my stepfather and then by crazy, evil ol' Sarge, I hurt others to regain it. To save face from myself, prove I wasn't a victim."

"That's no excuse for rape," the twerp snarls, raising his chin as if to proclaim yeah, I said the word, you gonna deny?

"You're right," my brother agrees. "There is no excuse for what I did to your brother and, well," cutting his gaze to me, "to others, some in juvie, some not. There's only an explanation, sad and wanting as it is, and . . . and . . ." His words trail off, then my cocky big brother lowers himself to his knees on the front porch, startling everyone; the pretty boy even draws in a breath and widens his eyes. "And apologies, sad and wanting as they may be too. I'm sorry for taking advantage of your body, no matter who threatened me, and for assaulting you and trying to replace my stolen power with yours. For raping you in more ways than simply the physical."

Pretty boy just stares at him, mouth opening and closing in a soundless gape, like a big ol' trout.

"I've been working hard on myself, on my anger and self-hatred and internalized homophobia," my big brother continues from his place at our feet, still staring earnestly into pretty boy's eyes, still making himself emotionally naked for the sake of . . . not absolution, maybe, but justice. "I turned in my stepfather for raping me, and I helped bring Sarge down. The cops let me out of juvie on the condition I stay clean, continue in therapy, and make an effort to turn my life around, to manage my trauma and ensure it doesn't overtake me again in the future. None of these things mean shit to you, I know, but part of my effort to grow out of my past involves apologizing to you and hoping you'll accept, so both of us can move on from my abuse. So, I'm sorry.  More sorry than I can ever express."

The twerp opens his mouth but, after a glance at his big brother, shuts it again, crosses his arms over his chest. Nobody says anything for a long moment, waiting for the pretty boy to speak, but when he does his words surprise everybody, not least himself.

"You didn't apologize for calling me pretty boy. It, uh, you hurt my feelings."

"See, I told you," I side-whisper. "Call people by their names."

"I, uh," another glance to the ground, another determined look up. "I can't apologize for that, because I meant the words. I am sorry if it hurt your feelings, but . . . but . . . I wasn't being sarcastic. You are the prettiest boy . . . person I've ever seen in my life. Especially when you submit." He bites his lip, as if chastising himself, but doesn't take the phrase back.

Stunned does not begin to cover pretty boy's expression. Eyes wide, mouth dropped open, cheeks pink. "Oh."

"My attraction to you was no excuse for what I put you through, I realize that now, and I know I have no right to ask, but do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me?"

"I . . . I . . ." Pretty boy fumbles for a minute. "I . . . I'll try?" The words tentative, as if he can't believe he's saying them.

My big brother gives a ghost of a smile. "Fair enough."

"It'll take more than a well-crafted apology for me to forgive you," the twerp says fiercely. "You hurt my brother. Terrorized him."

"Hey!" I interrupt. "He's admitting his mistakes, so give him a chance to –"

"Chicklet, I can fight my own battles."

"And stop calling me chicklet!"

"I can fight my own battles too," the pretty boy suddenly injects, adding with a small glimmer of amusement, "twerp."

Both us younger brothers exchange exasperated glances. Twerp and chicklet forever, apparently.

"So I'll quit harping on my regrets now," my big brother says, pulling himself to his feet, "let you make up your own mind. But there's something else we need to discuss. Somebody else."

"The sarge," pretty boy whispers, slumping his shoulders while the twerp again tenses his own, ready to jump in at any moment.

"The sarge," my brother confirms. "So you heard about what happened to him."

"Who didn't?" the twerp snaps. "The story was only all over the news for months after."

"I helped set him up," my big brother repeats. "Let the cops use me as bait, and it worked. Luckily before the party got started. When they raided his house they found –"

"His father dead in the bed with photographs of naked boys scattered all over the corpse," the twerp interjects. "Hundreds of photographs, they claimed on the news. Was my brother –"

"Hey, twerp, I said I can fight my own battles," the pretty boy interjects, gently, before turning his attention back to my brother. "Were any of the pictures of me?"

"Probably, yeah."

The pretty boy sags. "Great."

"But . . . has anyone contacted you or your parents, police or lawyers or anybody?"

"No."

"Then I wouldn't worry," my big brother reassures. "From what I understand, he used an ancient and worn-out miniature spy cam for all but the last time, and the pictures were too grainy and blurry to identify the majority of victims."

The pretty boy takes a breath of at least partial relief. "Well, there's some welcome news, anyway."

"Did your parents ask if anything happened to you during your incarceration?"

"They asked," pretty boy admits. "I lied, told `em I never saw anything like what they were claiming on the news. I . . . I couldn't bear for them to know."

"I still don't think they believed you," the twerp says. "I'm sorry, but I don't."

"Yeah, me either." The other brothers share a melancholy moment. "But I'm not going to bring the subject up again if they don't."

"I'm not trying to stir the shit to pass the time of day," my big brother says, "or to offer empty reassurances that, frankly, aren't credible in light of how I treated you. I'm not sure I would believe me either. My point here is there's a class-action lawsuit against the city and juvenile corrections, plus a fund set aside to provide therapy for the victims. If you want to talk to your parents and opt in . . . well," he reaches into his pocket, "here's a number you can call, they'll be happy to help."

Pretty boy takes the slip of paper, stares as if not quite comprehending the digits scrawled thereupon. "I'll, uh . . . I'll think about it." He pauses. "Th-thanks."

"Sure. Thank you for listening." My big brother pauses. "Look, pretty . . . I mean, look, we've got to head out. We're meeting our mother, and she, uh, she'll be worried if we're late." He glances to the ground again, not in shame this time but, to my amazement, shyness. "I, uh, I was wondering if you would, uh, if you'd like to walk part of the way with us, maybe give me a chance to show you I really have changed?" Peering up from beneath his lashes at the pretty boy. Oh my god, he's flirting!

"I don't think that's a good idea. Thank you for, for your information, but my brother –"

"Ssh, twerp," pretty boy interjects, again gently. "I can fight my own battles, remember? I should've been fighting them myself all along instead of using you." His cheeks heat, and I recall the sounds coming out the window as we walked up. "Besides, weren't you saying you had a girlfriend now?" Pretty boy looks back to my brother, somehow from under his own lashes despite being taller than anyone else here, and twirls a strand of feathered hair on his finger. Gag! "Sure, I'll walk with you. For a minute."

"Excellent," my big brother says, smiling wider than I've seen him smile since . . . well, ever. Since before our father died and the old man wrecked us, for sure. A spark of mischief burns in his gaze as he leans in and says, oh-so-softly, "By the way, pretty boy, I love the way you smell today." He draws in a deep and appreciative breath. "Especially your hairy chest. The aroma suits you."

Pretty boy's mouth drops open yet again, and his cheeks heat to flaming. For a minute I'm sure he's about to explode all over my brother, about to finally and absolutely state his opposition to being treated as a sexual object, especially after everything said today, but instead he suddenly giggles. Fucking giggles. "Thanks. I think." He brushes past to join my brother, and the two of them walk off down the path, heads bent together, leaving us, their younger brothers, to gape after them. The twerp and I share incredulous glances, each of us demanding of the other:

"What the hell just happened?"

 

** 6 **

We're lying on the twin bed, exchanging kisses and caresses in the soft late-autumn sunshine pouring through the window.  Tongues wrestle and dance, teeth tease and nibble, fingers wander up and down bodies, dong and peanut slide, rub together through clothing.

A moan, long and low and vibrating between us.

"We shouldn't be doing this, not now, our brothers are in the other room."

"Ssh, pretty boy, the twerp and the chicklet know what we're doing and they don't care.  Ain't you noticed they turned the tv volume up so they wouldn't have to listen?"

Another kiss, tasting to confirm we still like the other's flavor.

"You, you really shouldn't call your brother chicklet.  He hates the nickname."

"Why do you think I do it?  I used to call him something similar but nastier as an insult, but I don't say that word anymore.  Now I'm not trying to belittle, just annoy him.  Besides, you call your brother twerp, don't you?"

"I've always called him twerp, he's never been bothered.  He knows he matters to me.  Why are we talking about our brothers?"

"No idea.  I'd rather talk about getting you out of these clothes."

"We shouldn't."

"Why not, pretty boy?"

"Um, because –"

"You know what?  I don't care about whys.  Take off your shirt.  Now."

"But—"

"I gave you an order, pretty boy."

"Yuh, yes sir.  That's still so weird."

"You were the one who wanted to call me `sir'.  I'd've been happy with `your majesty', but –"

Lips press to lips.  "I didn't say I didn't like calling you `sir', only that it's weird.  I'll get used to it."

"I never will.  Every time you say the word butterflies flutter in my belly."

Giggle.  "Sir."

Another kiss.  Sweet, so sweet, but singed by fire.

Fingers stroke muscular pecs, tug on individual hairs.  "Such a sexy chest.  So hairy, so strong, so big.  Abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous nips."

An indrawn hiss.

"You like when I nibble your titty, don't you, pretty boy?"

"I, I love it."  Another indrawn hiss.  "Not so hard, sir, please don't be mean.  Sssss!"

"You like when I'm mean."

"Not with my brother down the hall!  What, what are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?  I'm opening your belt."

"Please don't, sir.  Please.  Oh, oh oh oh."

Fingers sliding up and down, our heat delicious friction, or is it the other way `round?

"You have such a pretty peanut.  Such a pretty everything.  Did I tell you yet you're the prettiest boy I've ever seen in my life?"

"You told me earlier.  You tell me every day."

"And I mean it every day.  You're the prettiest boy in the world to me, especially when you submit."

"Oh, sir.  OH!  My balls, sir, you're –"

"Yes, I'm squeezing your balls."

"Please don't be mean, sir, please don't be mean!"  A groan, loud and deep, rumbling through both our bodies.

"I won't be mean.  I promise.  At least, I won't be mean if you take off your pants."

"But your mom –"

"Won't be home for an hour, and if by chance she does show up early the chicklet and the twerp will distract her until we get dressed."

"But she'll still guess we were back here in your room.  You know, alone."

Shrug.  "She knows we're together.  Doesn't like it much, but she knows."

"My point!"

 Another shrug.  "She'll just figure we were back here doing exactly what we're doing and be too embarrassed to bring the subject up.  Don't you love how that works?"

"Still, sir, we shouldn't."

"Ah, pretty boy, yes we should.  Feel how hard I am for you?"

Grinding together, two hard cocks separated by one layer of denim.

"Yes, yes sir, I feel it, feel your big dong, but we, oh sir, please don't make me do this!"

"If you really want me to stop, you'll safeword."

". . ."

"I figured as much.  Damn.  So pretty."

"Uh, sir?"

"Hmm?"

"If I have to be naked, so do you."

"Is that an order, pretty boy?"

"Well, maybe more of a request."

"Good boy."

"Ssssss.  Th-thank you, sir."

"I thought you didn't want to do anything, with our brothers down the hall?"

"Our who?"

"Ha.  Of course I'll take my clothes off for you.  Like I could refuse you anything."

"So selfless of you, sir.  Ouch!"

"Don't sass me."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm really not.  Ouch!"  A brief pause.  "I, uh, I talked to my therapist about . . . about us today."

"Did you tell her you loved my dong up your chute, explain how you cum all over yourself when I'm hammering your sweet spot?"

"Er, not in those words."

"God, you're so pretty when your cheeks heat."

"She said as long as there was consent and respect, she saw nothing wrong in . . . in . . . what we do."

"You mean me ordering you about, taking advantage of your willing body, using you as I see fit."

"Yes sir.  Not in those words."  Another indrawn hiss.  "Fuck, I'm always amazed at the size of your dong."

"Big, huh?"

"The biggest.  So long, so thick."

"Thicker than the twerp?"

Smirk.  "No, he's got you by a pube or so.  What, is my master the teeniest bit envious of my little brother?"

"Watch it, pretty boy."

"Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir."

"No, you're not."

A hum of neither affirmation nor denial.

"I ain't the slightest bit jealous of the twerp."

"Of course not, sir."

"You know why I'm not jealous?"

"Why, sir?"

"Two reasons.  One, he may be thicker, but I'm a fuck of a lot longer."

Another hum, this time of complete and total agreement.

"And two, I've got you now.  I appreciate how he held you together when you needed him, but I'm here to satisfy your needs from here on out, and I'm never gonna let you go."

"I don't want you to let me go."

"You're my pretty boy."

"And you're my master."

"Damn straight.  Get up here, it's been way too long since I tasted you, at least two minutes."

"An eternity, sir."

Tongues slither and shiver together, lips smack and suckle, noses cross and cross again, a minor annoyance in the grand pleasures of kissing.

"Mmmm."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Sir?"  Voice breathless.

"Yeah, pretty boy?"  Tone amused, cocky.

"Can I, may I please –"

"Please what?  Be specific."

"Please let me suck your dong, sir?"

"What was that?  I didn't hear you."

"Please, sir, I need your dong in my mouth."

"Oh, really?  How bad, pretty boy?  How bad do you want it?"

"Pretty bad, sir.  I'm drooling just imagining."

"I don't see any drool."

"Er, hyperbole, sir.  It means –"

"I know what it means, don't we use the same textbooks even though we go to different schools?"

"Yes, sir.  Of course, sir."

"Grrr.  Nah, I don't think you need to suck me."

"What?  Why, sir?"

"You don't want it bad enough."

"I do, sir, I really do!"

"I don't see any drool.  Don't see any hyperboles either, unless they're hiding under the bed."

"Sir, please don't be mean, don't tease me!"

"I'm not teasing you.  You said you drooled just imagining my dong in your mouth, but I don't see any drool.  Show me how bad you want my dong.  Drool for me."

"Um, I don't think I can drool on command.  Unless . . ."  A long string of precum stretching from fingertip to piss-slit.  "Does peanut drool count, sir?"

"All that pre just from thinking about my dong in your mouth?  Fuck yeah, it counts!  Get on me."

"Yes, sir, oh thank you sir."  Lips on dong, stretching over glans.  Warmth meets warmth, moisture runs in rivulets down shaft.  An age-old question, who gets the most pleasure, the sucker or the suckee?  Do the distinctions matter?  Are they distinctions at all?

"Fuck, pretty boy, nobody has ever ever ever loved on my dong the way you do.  Go on, try a little deeper."

Gag.

"Try again, there ya go, there ya go, there ya go, ah, so good, pretty boy, so good."

Panting.  "Thank you, sir.  I try.  One of these days I'll take the whole thing."  Still panting.

"I have faith in you.  Turn around, lay on your side with your – yeah, perfect."  A long, appreciative sniff.  "I used to hate sucking dick, but that was before I discovered how sweet peanuts taste."  Swallow.  To the pubes, baby, to the pubes.

"Ah ah ah . . .  Sir, your mouth, oh your mouth."

"Shut up and suck."

"Yes sir.  God, I love your dong."

The sounds of sixty-nine, murmurs and moans and squelches.  Electricity cycles through us, volts of lightning from mouth to dick to mouth to dick, sizzling circuits.  Fingers stroke through feathered hair and crewcut.  Caresses dissipate into steam and settle on our skin.  The bed creaks.

Groan.  "When you touch me there, sir . . ."

"Where?  Here?"

"Ahhh.  Sir, when you touch me there it makes me . . . makes me . . ."

"Makes you what, pretty boy?"

"Makes me want you to fuck me, sir, but we can't, your mother will be home soon."

"We've been through this.  We'll be fine."

Penetration, and a long, low hiss.  "Easy, sir, please be easy, don't be mean."

"Maybe you're just not slick enough."

"What are you . . . oh fuck, oh fuck, this is . . . this is new, sir!"

Tongue swirling around hole.  Licking.  Digging.  Intimacy unimagined.

Bliss.

"Fuck . . . sir . . . your tongue . . ."

"Mmmmm."

"You . . . I never dreamed . . . I . . . we . . . you . . ."  Reduced to babbles.  "Need you . . . need you, sir . . . I NEED!"

"Fuck, the way you taste, pretty boy.  You know what you taste like?  Here!"

Mouths mash, tongue intrudes, the flavor of pretty boy washing between us.

A moan, long and low and, this time, pulsating with desire.  "Your dong, your long thick dong in me, sir.  Please!"

"Gonna give it to you, pretty boy."  Panting with lust.  "Gonna fuck you so hard, so good, gonna make you wail with ecstasy."  Lube in hand, slickening fingers, dripping across spasming anus, eager dong.  "Raise your knees, spread your cheeks.  Damn, such a pretty hole."

"Hurry, sir, hurry.  Sssss, oh my god."

"That's it, baby, that's it, pretty boy.  Let me in."

"Easy, sir, be easy, please don't be mean."

"Fuck, you're tight.  That's it, that's it, relax for me, baby."

Stretching.  More moans.  "Please, sir, ple—sssss.  Ah-AH-AH-AH!"

"Ssh, pretty boy.  Relax.  Breathe.  Let me in."

"Fuck, sir, so thick!"

"Not as thick as the twerp, I thought?"

"Don't be – OW!  Sssss, easy!"

Heavy, don't-give-a-crap-about-the-creaky-runner footsteps in the hall, then BAM BAM BAM on the door.

"Will you two please flatten the noise to a dull roar?  We're trying to watch a movie out here!"

"Fuck off, twerp."

"Only my bro gets to call me twerp, jerk."  Indistinct words from the living room.  "And your brother says you better not be screwing on his bed."

"Tell the chicklet we're not using his bed but we're gonna skeet on his pillow."

A heavy kick rattles the door.  "So gross, jerk."  The footsteps retreat, along with a grumbling twerp.

"Your brother doesn't like me."

"Well, you did tell him to fuck off.  Ssss, easy . . . easy . . . He still doesn't forgive you."

"I don't blame him.  I hurt you.  All I can do to earn his trust is to keep on keeping on, prove with my actions my commitment to never hurting you again."

"I . . . shit, you're big . . . I believe you.  He'll come around.  Ssssssssss. In time."

Distraction accomplished, dong rests fully in ass.  Immensity sheathed, a survival grip over a long fall.  Pleasure and slight discomfort, for both, but passion radiates.  Arms wrap around shoulders, faces bend together in a tight but necessary kiss.

Words dribble like starvation spittle between our lips.  "Sir, please move, sir, so full, please move."

Mouths break apart, hands steady themselves on mattress, legs fold back to frame pretty face.  Stability for a lever to move the world.

"Gonna fuck you now, pretty boy, fuck you hard and fast and dirty."

Whimper.  "Please!"

"You ready for me?"

"Ready," panting, "ready for you, sir."

"Hold on, pretty boy, cuz here we go."

One thrust, long and strong.  Another.  All the way out, slam back in.  Lust-slick walls grasping flesh as lust-riddled claws grasp shoulders, hanging on for dear life.  Breathless whimpers growing into unbridled wails, sweat flinging like flashdance rain, headboard banging, bed screaming.

Two voices echo down the hall.  "Holy crap, will you two pipe the hell down?" and "Don't make me come in there with a bucket of ice water!"  The tv volume cranks to full, a second-rate symphonic paean for some second-rate action movie, all horns and strings and stirring, amplified drums.

"Next time, next time, sir," pant pant pant, "let's give `em soda money, or at least send them out to play."

"Ignore them, pretty boy, they don't matter right now, they're just jealous.  We're everything, they're not."

Yes, ignore them, ignore the soundtrack, our disgruntled and jealous brothers, focus on us, on the moment, on the sex and the sweat and the pounding pounding pounding where we're joined.

"Fuck sir your big thick long dong sir hitting my sweet spot sir over and over, hurts but feels so good, so good, sir, gonna make me gonna make me . . ."

"So tight, pretty boy, the way you grip and twist, you are gonna make me!"

"Tell you a secret, sir, gotta tell you . . ." A long, guttural moan " . . . a secret sir, about back in juvie, when I hated you."

"That . . . ah so tight . . . that was no secret, pretty boy, I knew it then."

"But . . . but . . . I hated you because, oh my god, because you hit my sweet spot every time –"

"Like I'm hitting it now, pretty boy?"

"Like that, sir, oh my god just like that, you made me feel so good and I hated that I loved it."

"I knew that back then too.  When you saw it was my turn you'd smile, just a tiny one but you'd smile, yeah, that's the one, smile it for me now, pretty boy."

"I'm . . . I'm getting close, sir, gonna cum soon."

"Nuh-uh, pretty boy, hold back for me."

"I . . . I don't think I can sir . . . the pressure . . . your big thick long dong hitting my sweet spot, filling me up, hurts but feels so good!"

"Hold it back for me, baby, hold on, pretty boy."

"I . . . I . . . I'll try, sir, but OH! When you play with my peanut, not fair, don't be mean, don't tease me sir!"

"You're so pretty when you're trying not to cum, when you're focused on pleasing me.  So pretty all the time."  Fist squeezing peanut, thrust-timed precum oozing from the slit to stream over and between fingers.  The tinny orchestra down the hall rumbles impossibly louder, the stirring drums fading while the horns and strings swell, a second-rate love theme for a second-rate love scene.  Bad movie.  Awesome reality.

"Sir," voice warning, "I'm about to, about to OW fuck fuck fuck my balls!"

"Keep holding for me, pretty boy, just a few seconds longer."

"Don't know if I . . . please sir!"

"I'm peaking too, pretty boy, I'm reaching, gonna make me, your tight sweet ass is making me, do it, pretty boy, cum for me!"

"Master!"  A primal yell, a scream for the sun and moon and stars.  "I love you, master!"

"I love you back, pretty boy, I do!"

The earth spins, the air crackles, the second-rate symphony sings.  Balls draw and loosen, draw and loosen, semen spatters chests and bellies outside, splatters walls inside, fluid to fill and to paint, to shower life even in null procreation.  Lips and teeth smash together in ragged, breathless kisses.  The sun shines, the moon beams, the stars twinkle for us.  Atomic pleasure, fission made flesh, white-flash melting lust into romance, power exchanges into an equity of intimate dimension.  Fire, burning hot on inexhaustible fuel, dwindling at last into a tiny but shiny pilot light, ready to flame again upon demand.

Dong slides from sure-to-be-gaping hole, but touch doesn't end.  We crash together, crewcut to feathered hair, furry heaving chest and belly to smooth, greasy dong to leaky peanut.  Fingers caress, ripple across skin.  Down the hall the drums reclaim their stirring amplification, but peace lives between us.

Sudden tension.  "Wait, what?"

"Mmm, pretty boy.  What what?"

"Um, what did we just say, sir?  What the hell just happened?"

"What the hell just happened?"  A lazy, rumbling chuckle.  "Love, pretty boy.  Love is what the hell just happened."

So we come, finally, to this:  the end of our beginning.  Ain't life grand?

 

Copyright 2020-2021 by Rusty Slocum. All rights reserved.

***

Thanks for reading my story, hope you enjoyed! We Nifty writers don't earn a dime for our work, and while we'd never ask you for money for ourselves (please donate to Nifty!) comments are always welcome and eagerly anticipated. So if you liked my story, or even if you didn't, or if you'd like an updated list of my work on Nifty, shoot an email to rustyslocumerotica@gmail.com and let me know. Hope to hear from you soon!