Be My Punk

By
Araddion

 

© 2017 R. Keith Peck. All rights reserved.

 

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Story Code - MM/incest/anal/rape

 

4.

The phone's glow bathes Bobby's face. "Let me show you another, Mitch."

"Yeah. I'd like that."

I've studied my cousin's face long enough. He's sprawled across the porch from me, back to the wall. The moonlight, softly filling the porch, illuminates Bobby's body. Shadows outline his pectorals, which the moonlight turns into silver shields. His Jockeys are a band of brilliant white. It's almost impossible to look at anything else. I'm in the shadows, so my looks aren't betraying what a sick, corrupt bastard I am.

"I want her back, Mitch!" Bobby sounds ready to cry. Too many Millers have made him sappy as a country song.

"We'll get her back, cuz."

I'm leaning against one of the two poles supporting the sagging roof. I'm nursing a beer. Maybe tomorrow's dope test won't pick up the booze. The porch isn't much bigger than the phone he's thumbing. If our legs weren't split so wide, our feet would be resting on each other's lap.

Bobby snorts over the phone. "Not with Heidi's Mom standing guard! Damn, Mitch, I miss her so much."

"Who? Heidi?"

A hint of a smile flutters briefly then dies. "Wouldn't mind her back in my bed. Fuck Heidi, man! I want Kathleen!" Bobby stares at the glowing phone, stony faced. That means he's trying not to cry.

I flap the hem of my boxers. Yeah, my crotch is sweaty. The night's warm and humid, so fanning my balls must seem legit to Bobby. It's not. I'm moving the fabric so my slowly engorging cock doesn't give me away.

I know Bobby's putting on that show on purpose. Don't argue with me. I just fucking know it.

I imagine myself behind him, my hands creeping from his navel ... over his chiseled body ... slow, savoring every inch of his skin ... up to his nipples. I can feel those hard, rubbery nubs under my fingertips right now. I imagine his squeal when I pinch them.

This sick picture is Bobby's fault. His musk, sweaty and rich, hangs in the air. You ever known a hippy? You know, the kind that chants spells, shakes rattles, and burns incense? That's what it's like, man, alone on the porch with my cousin. His shower was long ago. His armpits are rich.

I sigh, imagining I can feel the texture of his white cotton Jockey's sliding past my thumbs. And then, the bulge of my cousins' cock.

If I touched him down there, what would really happen? Would it get hard, swelling across his groin from crotch to thigh, looking just the way it did on those sleepovers when I lifted the sheets to inspect his pubescent body?

I swallow and shove that thought down into the darkness where it fucking came from.

Bobby's hung about as big as me. I can't imagine why these huge nuts of ours haven't sired seven or eight kids apiece. Who knows? Maybe they have. We like fucking sluts, so maybe one of our babies is the cuckoo who some deluded bastard has gotta support.

Look at that bulge.

It fills the space in the V of his thighs. Big as a motherfucking sweet potato. A long, fat ridge wanders off towards his hip. Bobby wears his briefs so tight I can see everything. Urethra. Cockhead. The seam between his nuts. That shaft is thick. Maybe thicker than mine. Betcha Heidi squirmed when he stuffed her with that. Wish I'd been there to see it --

I freeze. My gut turns to ice.

Over his phone, Bobby's sly eyes challenge me.

"You lookin' at my junk?" A grin haunts his lips.

I swig from my beer, hiding my cringe with the can. A deft recovery. I think. "Heidi ... well, she was a pretty hot fuck. You, uh, like got any vids on that phone?"

"Of what?"

"You and her doin' it." I don't mean to. It just happens. I adjust my growing cock.

Bobby doesn't miss it. His eyes twinkle. "You wantin' to wrestle?"

Thank God, the shadows hide my blush. "Nah. Just wantin' to see Heidi in action again."

"Yeah, I bet. Been a while for you, hasn't it?"

"A while since what?"

"Getting' pussy."

I can feel my blush, a tide of hot, slimy sin masking my face. "Yeah."

"Damn, cuz. Don't worry about that. I'll get ya laid." Bobby grins. "Heidi's available, if you wanna get back in there."

This picture just pops into my head out of nowhere:

Heidi's cunt, gaping the same way it did every time I pulled my schlong out of her. Heidi's face, wincing in pain. Heidi's belly, swollen and pulsating. Vulva: engorged, inflamed, petaled outward, bubbling softly. Strings of white syrup oozing out. Not mine. Bobby's jism. Gallons of it, expelled by Heidi's overinflated womb. Me, moving between her thighs. Extracting my cock. Her smile, warm as ever, as I slide home, greased by Bobby Allen's patented babymaking sauce. Spooge bubbling like warm glue as my cock slams into the slot I once ruled.

Too much. My cockhead charges out of my boxers and down my thigh. I grope after it.

Bobby cracks up. "Oh, you horndog!" Bobby topples to his side, laughing and rolling. "Still hot for Heidi!"

I try and stuff my untamed cock back behind cotton. It doesn't work. My cock keeps bursting through the fly. Thrusting back down my leg. Finally, I just cover what I can with my palm. "Um. Um. You got any porn? Anything?"

Bobby rolls upright and snatches his dropped phone to his chest. "Yeah, but you ain't watchin' any. You want porn, get your own fuckin' phone!" He giggles. "I don't wanna have to scrape off your spooge so I can look at Kathleen!"

I feel better. Yeah, my dumb cousin is missing what's really going on here. It's like high school -- nah, more like junior high -- again. We're guys and our cocks get hard and it doesn't mean shit.

Out on the dark road two or three sets of headlights move past. Bobby resumes gazing at his phone. His thumb swipes and swipes. He's got, like all proud papas do, a megafuckload of pics on his phone.

"Dammit!"

"What?"

His eyes blaze at me. "Help me get her back!"

I scratch my chin. "Ain't gonna be easy. Not if Heidi fingered you as a pothead --"

"Heidi ain't the problem! It's her fuckin' Mom!" Disgusted, Bobby slaps the phone down. "She thinks I was the one who got Heidi 'hooked.'" He fingerquotes. We both know it was me who gave Heidi her first joint. We both know weed ain't addicted. But Mrs. Bolton, who learned everything she needed to know back in the, like, 1970s, is still living in that decade in her mind, seeing no reason to amble on into the Twenty-First century.

"Well, they listen to shits like her, not us. So if ya want Kathleen back, ya gotta stop smokin' weed, and you gotta convince the judge you've cleaned up. You take the gun outta Mrs. Bolton's hands and she can't shoot you no more."

"I ain't givin' up weed for shit." Bobby's voice is serious and quiet. "I ain't given' up weed. Weed makes me love her even more!"

"That ain't the way they see it."

"You. You could tell 'em. Come on. After we see your probation officer, we'll go over to the court. You tell 'em I've cleaned up --"

"Bobby. 'Cause it's you, I'll do it. But. I dealt dope. They ain't stupid. They ain't gonna buy my bullshit."

Bobby pulls his knees up to his chest, staring at me. He is quiet for a long, long time. "Mitch?"

"Yeah what?"

"I think Heidi's still got a thing for you."

I swig from the beer and say nothing.

"She asked about you. While you were in Ogden."

"Did she?"

"You know, if you worked on her ... maybe she'd work on her Mom."

I fold my forearms over my boxers, which can barely restrain my jumping shaft. "Yeah, well, I'd like to work on her, if you know what I mean."

"Do it, Mitch. Heidi's got a job out at the credit union. Ya know, the one out on 355. Why don't you pay her a visit? Like after you see your probation officer?"

"I'll think about it. You want Kathleen back bad, don't ya?"

"She's family, and I love my family."

I nod. "Know what you mean." I scratch my chin. "Old Mrs. Bolton hates me too, you know. Heidi was all set to get hitched up to the right people."

Bobby grins. "Till the prom!"

"Mrs. Bolton. Thought the last time I'd seen her was way, way back. God, I ain't lookin' forward to this, Bobby.".

"She scares the shit out of me."

"Dude," I say, "I'll help you. I'll do everything I can. I know you love Kathleen. But we gotta think this through."

Bobby sighs. "Ain't that what we're doin'?"

"Yeah. Guess it is."

He stares at his phone a while longer. Crickets chirp. My boner throbs on and on.

"What time you gotta see your probation officer?"

"Nine thirty. Sharp."

"Lucky for you I got tomorrow off, huh?" Bobby stands and stretches like a cat. Muscles ripple and flow. He adjusts his bulge. "I'm gonna smoke a bowl then crash. You comin'?"

"Nah." I grin. "I'm gonna jack off."

He snickers and pads into the shack.

I haul my prong out the leg of my boxers. I cough up a huge gob of spit and start jacking. Sighing, I lean against the post, eyes closed. As I stroke, a few tendrils of pot smoke tickle my nostrils. There is a private show going on behind my eyelids you won't believe. Dancing girls, dancing boys, cocks, butts, tits and cunts. My squirming balls are electric. The mercury rises --

The screen door bangs open. I freeze mid-stroke.

"What the fuck?"

Grinning, Bobby plants a mop beside the door.

"Clean up when you're done. You always leave a fuckin' mess behind."

He turns and fades into the dark shack. My eyes track him.

His briefs. Those fucking briefs. My cousin's ass. Something slugs the back of my head. I gag and spurt. Everywhere. My cock blasts like a goddamned volcano. I cum so hard I almost topple off the porch.

"I'm serious, Mitch!" Bobby's voice is faint because he's calling from the bedroom. "Clean up."

I shake half a pint of spunk off my hand and reach for the mop.

 

We were in Ogden's dingy showers when Johnson made his play for my ass. He wasn't subtle about it. Neither was he forceful. His gigantic schlong simply grew and grew, then stood. I didn't notice it until everyone started snickering. Then I turned.

"What the fuck -- holy shit!"

The chuckling erupted into laughter. One or two other cocks had spiked. Johnson just grinned at me.

"You got a hot one," Johnson said. "Everyone's seen it. Word's out. Now, pretty boy, why don't you come here and let me do you first?"

"Hell no!"

"Man, I like you," Johnson said, jerking his shaft. "You got a hot bod and you ain't shitty like most crackers. But I ain't gonna make you do nothin' you don't want." A warning look settled on his face. "Other folk ain't so considerate."

Damn right it was a warning.

I got detailed to work Ogden's laundry. The day it happened I was alone, which was stupid as hell. Night after night, I'd heard the howling and the screaming echoing through the cell block but I figured, you know, given how well I'd handled myself down at Choctaw, I could take down anyone in Ogden.

I was emptying an industrial-sized dryer into a cart. The still-running dryers hummed and clinked. I didn't hear the door shut. But Bailey's voice? I'll never forget that.

"Mon, get out of that fuckin' orange rag!"

Bailey and his two cronies brandished shanks. Nasty things -- razor blades glued in slits cut into toothbrush shafts. The big door slammed shut behind them. I was cut off. The weakest gazelle separated by the hyenas from the heard.

Yeah, my fists bunched. Yeah, my body tensed. But I didn't do shit. I'm not fucking stupid. I mean, make a break for the door? They'd slice me to ribbons. I shot a desperate look at the surveillance camera.

"Don't worry, mon!" grinned Bailey. "They're recordin'! They's always recordin' when Frank Bailey hunts bee-yatches."

So. No guardian angel.

Bailey advanced, flanked by his two goons. He put away his shank, then started groping himself. Not that he needed to -- that giant nigger dong was already rock hard. He just wanted to draw my eyes too it. Fuck, I couldn't look at anything else! Cold sweat broke out on my back. I was rooted, frozen, panicked. Deer in the headlights.

I whimpered, just like a whipped dog. When you see a look like they had in their eyes you know you're one hundred percent fucked.

"Don't piss yourself, mon. I hate that! You do that, I cut off your cock!"

Bailey's goons grabbed my arms, whirled me round, and slammed me against the dryer cabinet. I twisted but, fuck, trying to escape those bastards was like trying to twist out of leather cuffs.

"Can't see nothin' of that fine white ass, can we, boys? Well, fix dat right now!"

Shanks sliced through my jumpsuit's waist. I felt Bailey's eyes brand my naked ass. The goons hurled me to the floor. They planted their knees on my back, pinned down my arms, and hauled open my legs. One of them pawed my butt, opening my crevice.

"Stop dat squirmin'! I wanna see dat hole -- fuck, Boots, kick him!"

One goon's foot crashed against my head. Stars whirled round me.

"Such a pretty little thing, mon! So tiny! So dainty. So sweet! Like a eight-year-old girl's pussy!" Bailey roared with laughter. "Yes, you clench dat hole! Dat's the only way you're gonna keep Frank Bailey out!"

Fists clenched, nostrils flared, Bailey unzipped his orange jumpsuit. His dong was long and thick as a baseball bat. I almost shit myself.

"You motherfucker!"

"Pretty little thing, why you gotta be so hateful? Frank Bailey ain't gonna do nothin' to you that you don't need." His eyes glinted. "Maybe it was done to you. You got dat look, mon. Like a man did things to you when you was, like, twelve."

"Fuck you!"

"Ha, man, it's you dat's gonna get fucked and it's you dat's gonna have Frank Bailey's babies!"

My sphincter cinched up tight as a bank vault. The goons felt me squirm. They twisted my arm up my back. I hollered so loud dust fell from one of the old shelves in the back. No one came.

"Be cool, mon. Be cool. Ain't but one or two cracker's dat's bled to death after I fucked 'em. " Bailey loomed over me. "Get me wet, boys! Do it good, 'cause dat cunt look tight!"

Bailey's goons, drooling, slobbered the length of that horsecock, coughing up huge globs of mucous. Their tongues and their lips squeegeed their combined goo everywhere. Bailey's night black weapon gleamed, trembling with power. Mucous ropes swayed. Bailey, face like an Easter Island carving, kicked my legs open, then knelt between my knees. I shivered when spit dripped onto my butt.

"Big balls on dis cracker. Betcha he a daddy."

"I'll kill you, you nigger!" I spat over my shoulder.

"Nah, you not do somethin' like dat. Once Frank Bailey get you pregnant, you one of us forever. Right, boys?"

The goons laughed.

I screamed with rage as the fucker lined up. Bailey's cockhead, prodding my shitter, felt as big as a bowling ball.

"No kissy-kissy, you hear? You look like the kind of guy who likes dat. No kissy-kissy from Frank Bailey."

He stabbed. But Mitch Grant won the first round. My hole didn't budge. He rammed so hard I'd say his cock bent double. Bailey backed up and muttered to his goons. Two globs of spit, hot as blood, splatted in my crack. I stiffened when Bailey jabbed a finger in me. It blazed. He sawed it back and forth. I felt the saliva trickle into me. I was screwed.

"You motherfucker! You son of a bitch! "

"Yeah, you purr. You purr like dat. Frank Bailey like his girls to purr!"

He grunted, thrust, and I passed out from the pain.

I came too with grit on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks, and an eighteen wheeler halfway up my ass.

"See? You live." Bailey spit and it streaked the back of my neck. "You feel good. Maybe you more boy than girl. You lucky you not twelve when I do this to you."

Baileys ginormous dong sawed away in my guts. I felt it. It was a flaming spike splitting me in two. I felt my pelvis splintering when he rammed it deep. Something hot ran down the backside of my balls. I knew it was blood.

My fists beat the cement floor. Ogden had won. Mitch Grant had lost. I was a faggot. You can't ever go back after a dude's fucked you up the ass.

The freak thrust steadily. Bailey's dreadlocks cascaded over me. I shot a look over my shoulder. I wanted to meet his hate with my own. Fuck. What did that expression mean? Sure as fuck, it wasn't hate. His eyes were cold. Dead as a fish's. He didn't look like a man happily fucking his new ho. Bailey was a robot intent on a task.

I gave up. I collapsed. I let the fucker do what he was going to do anyway.

The worst thing about getting raped by giant nigger cock? When they pull back, it feels like someone's yanking a bathroom plunger out of you, sucking out your intestines with it. When it's gone -- when it's just prying your sphincter open -- all you have is hollowness. And searing pain.

"You ain't never gonna forget having Frank Bailey's kid!"

Bailey grunted. Suddenly my guts were sloppy. Blood. More blood. He'd ripped me open. My colon was hamburger. Yeah, a stupid thing to think, but Christ, you're not exactly right in the head the first time you feel a man's spunk splashing in your rectum. It was kind of out of my playbook, you know?

I howled when Bailey's cock slipped free. It felt like it must've felt for that chick in The Fly when she birthed that giant maggot.

Bailey high-fived one of his goons. "Have at him, mon."

The nightmare went on and on. When they were done -- Bailey went again -- the left me on the floor, curled up and crying like a baby.

Only after the trio sauntered away, joking and talking, did the guards finally show. I didn't move -- I just moaned -- when the door banged open.

"Yeah, he made it through all right," said the guard who found me, calling into his mike.

Chuckling, cooing like I were a prom girl just back from her first date, he hauled me up. Something gurgled in my guts. He heard it, too.

"You keep that stuff up there," the guard said. "Otherwise you're gonna have a hell of a mess to clean up."

"You fucks! You sick fucks. You just watched!"

"Nah, inmate. We recorded!" He laughed.

"Why?"

"'Cause niggers raping a cracker is the hottest thing ever, dumbass!"

When another guard showed, both dragged me down the cell block. My limp dong swayed. Everyone knew what had happened. Inmates grinned, gaped, pointed, hooted, whistled, promised to show me what a real man could do to a punk like me.

"Man," I croaked. "I gotta shit."

"Not on my floor, you ain't!"

Too late. I couldn't handle the pressure. I had to let go, or that heavy bowling ball I was carrying in my guts was going to burst my hole.

I swear they heard my fart over in Kentucky.

"Oh man! Bailey did a number on him!"

The runny slime oozing down my legs was shame. Pure liquid shame. When I started shitting myself, I still clung to the hope that it was blood. That with this shit I'd bought myself a ticket to the infirmary.

It was when everyone -- guards, inmates -- started guffawing that I knew I really wasn't right.

"Yep. Frank Bailey rides 'em hard and puts 'em away wet! Never seen anyone drop as big a baby as that!"

I looked down. What looked like a tide of glue oozed down my legs. A long worm of nigger spunk gurgled out of my asshole.

"We'll get you a mop. First, we gotta get you dressed. Can't have the whole cell block pining after that sloppy butthole!"

I painted a long, slimy trail on the cell block floor with Frank Bailey's unborn kids. All the way to my cell.

My cellmate got him a piece that night. I let him do it. What did it fucking matter? When he climbed into my bunk and cupped my buttcheeks, I buried my face in the cot. He was white so I barely felt him.

It was the start of a long, long nightmare. I'm still not sure if I've woken from it.

 

Flashback: thirteen summers ago.

Locale: The Allen home, tucked in the middle of one of Peachville's older neighborhoods. It's seen better days. The white paint on the eastern side has bubbled up and cracked. The hedge separating the front lawn from the sidewalk should've been trimmed about three weeks ago. Two bikes lay discarded in the yard. In the living room, a husband and wife watch MSNBC. Both look irritated.

Time: Night. Cicadas throb. If, like the two cousins who've been riding those bikes, you'd been over at the Kiwanis Baseball Park a few blocks away, you'd have seen many of the brighter stars. Mitch and Bobby arrived there at sunset. What held their attention was an enormously bright UFO that, to them, seemed to be chasing the Sun towards the horizon, driving it from the sky. A kindly soul convinced the boys, after much skepticism, the UFO was the planet Venus. Mitch will never forget the sight. This weekend, he'll slip free of his meathead bonds and learn something about the Universe. In a few months, after the planets have moseyed their way around the Solar System, Mitch will watch Venus precede the Sun as it ascends. The morning star will seem a portentous thing, and he'll stare, mesmerized. His soul will capture a spark from that bright luminary. Mitch will never know the ancient Romans named the morning star Lucifer.

Scene: the Allen basement. Junk everywhere, except in the corner by the stairs. There, an old scrap of carpet has been unrolled over the concrete. An early '00s TV sits atop a three-shelf bookcase crammed with discarded VCR tapes. An abandoned Xbox sits next to it.

The wrestling match, a tradition on these Grant-Allen sleepovers, began in the traditional way.

Mitch had cocked an eyebrow. "Wanna wrestle?"

Bobby, squealing, had dropped his controller, charged his cousin, and got thrown to the carpet. Except for brief, irritating instances when Bobby's Mom or Dad yelled at them to keep it down, they've been locked in combat ever since.

Both cousins are equally matched; neither is in the ascendant for very long. They grunt. They strain. They holler. They thud when a good throw knocks them down.

Bobby wears the team shirt, but Mitch has stripped his off, leaving him in just a T shirt. Both wear their Little League baseball trousers. These days, those trousers are a little snug in the butt. Testosterone has begun trickling into these boys' bloodstreams. Soon enough it'll become a flood that dominates and shapes their lives. Neither knows upon what shores that flood will deposit them.

Footsteps thump from the living room to the kitchen.

Bobby, straddling Mitch's waist, sits up. Sweat plasters his bangs to his forehead. "Mom! Turn on the air conditioning! Mom! Hey Mom!"

Mitch, panting, joins in. "Yeah, Mrs. Allen, it stinks down here!" He giggles at Bobby.

Footsteps pad to the closed basement door. The door creaks open. "Bobby, sweetie, there's not been any air conditioning in that basement. Ever. So, if you boys are hot, come upstairs and watch TV."

"Can we wrestle?"

"No!"

Both sigh. Parents are stupid.

"Well, Mrs. Allen," says Mitch, grinning at Bobby. "Thanks!"

They lunge at each other. Neither hear Mom's footsteps as she returns to the TV. The boys whirl this way and that over the carpet. As sweat stains grow, though, the action slows. Finally, it's Mitch's turn to be on top. His butt rests on his cousin's groin. Brimming with energy, he rocks slightly.

Mitch looks down. "Wanna wrestle? In our underwear?"

Bobby suspects Mitch is up to shenanigans, so he doesn't say anything. He pants, hoping his cousin won't move his butt off his wee-wee. When Mitch's serious, intent expression doesn't change, Bobby's eyes flit to that part of the basement ceiling under the living room. His eyes lock with Mitch's.

"We'd get in trouble again."

"Come on. Do it."

"I don't think so. Dad was pretty mad --"

"Chicken!" Mitch clucks. "I'm not. I'm gonna take my clothes off."

He stands, straddling Bobby. Bobby, eyes cool, watches everything. Watches Mitch's t shirt fly away, landing on the cooler. Watches his cousin undo the fly. Watch's Mitch's legs, smooth as satin, emerge from the britches. Watches his cousin's underwear. Boxers. Always boxers. He sighs.

"Fine!"

Bobby jumps up. He unbuttons his Little League shirt and flings it so it hangs off the flat screen. His tank top follows. Absorbed in getting out of his too-tight britches, Bobby doesn't notice the hawkish way Mitch eyeballs him. Nor does Mitch.

"Let's wrestle!"

Mitch tackles Bobby by the midriff. Down the go. The house shudders. The boys tumble over and over, arms and legs intertwined. Their lithe bodies strain. If there seems to be an affinity between snow-white briefs and plaid boxers ... well, that's just the way wrestling is. After Bobby reverses out of a half-nelson, Mitch ends up on his back, panting, sweat trickling over his temples. Bobby's eyes gleam with mischief.

"Come on! Let's wrestle nekkid!"

For whatever reason, this is the funniest thing Mitch has ever heard. He begins to guffaw. Bobby, about to join in, is surprised when Mitch lunges up, catches him, and flips him on his back.

"Cheater!"

Mitch dives. The house shudders. Bobby yelps. The boys whirl across the carpet. Onto the cool, gritty concrete. They yowl like tomcats in heat.

The door at the head of the basement stairs creaks open.

"Anyone dead?" A masculine voice calls.

"I'm gonna kill your boy, Mr. Allen!"

"Does he deserve it?"

"Yep!"

"That's OK, then. We've got cannibals for neighbors. Listen. We're going to church tomorrow. So get your butts to bed on time. Hear?"

Mitch starts to reply. Bobby pops him on the mouth. Mitch clamps one of Bobby's arms to the floor. Bobby can't twist out of it, so he results to a tactic that always works. He grabs the crotch of Mitch's boxers and squeezes.

"Honk! Honk!" Bobby giggles.

"God damn it, Bobby --"

"Hear me?" booms the voice from the head of the stairs.

"We hear ya, Dad! Stop it, Mitch, that fu-- uh, hurts."

"Get all your cussing done tonight. I don't want to have to explain to the pastor again why you guys keep swearing in the middle of the sermon --"

"'Cause he's fucking boring, Mr. Allen!"

"I know. Have fun. Don't break anything." The door squeaks shut. Footsteps thump across the basement's ceiling towards the living room.

The wrestling returns to full intensity. A writhing knot of legs and arms rolls around the basement. Bobby's hips crash into a shelf, toppling two ancient cans of corn. Mitch's foot strikes Mr. Allen's old toolbox, eliciting a yelp, and cursing, and a renewed effort to get the bout back onto the carpet. Once that happens, though, the fighting cousins are confronted with the problem of rug burn. And, of course, without the cool concrete, the sweating begins again.

Mitch bucks up, spins, catches Bobby, and slams him into the carpet. Now Mitch is on top. His but rests on Bobby's groin. He plants his palms on Bobby's shoulders, pinning him. Bobby twists fiercely for a moment, then subsides. The boys pant, staring into each other's eyes.

"Give?" Mitch asks.

Bobby's eyes sparkle. "Wanna wrestle naked?"

Mitch's jaw sets. His eyes rake north and south over Bobby's torso. His eyes partake of Bobby's twinkling. Smirking, he leaps back and whips Bobby's briefs down and off. Bobby, caught by surprised, covers his groin. Then his eyes flash to Mitch's midsection. He dives, leading with his arms. His fingers tangle in the loose cotton. In a flash Mitch, too, is naked.

"You little bitch! You ripped my shorts!"

The match resumes. Burgeoning muscles strain. They tumble. Neither is master. One, briefly, is yang then, after deftly twining thigh and calf around the other's leg, he's yin. The sweating doesn't end. If anything, it intensifies, stinging their eyes, distorting their vision. Their sweaty bodies stick together. When they pull apart, a crude farting sound results. Naturally the match must pause for a round of laughter. But the match never ends. Groin to groin, the cousins struggle on.

The sweet musk of boys at play addicts one to the other, but neither realize it.

Bobby pins Mitch. A good, firm pin. He sits up, planting his high, proud buttocks on his cousin. Mitch's smooth thighs, parted and sweat-streaked, cradle Bobby's slender hips. Bobby's brow furrows.

"You hard, too?"

"Yeah." Mitch looks smug.

"I've been getting' hard a lot," Bobby confesses.

"Yeah?"

"Wonder why?"

"'Cause you want a girl. You know, you wanna do it with her."

"Huh?"

Mitch sighs. "Sex, cuz. You're thinkin' 'bout sex."

Squirming, Bobby smirks back. "So are you, cuz."

"Yeah," Mitch says, folding arms behind his head, exposing hairless armpits. His hips twist, sawing his hardon against Bobby's as if they were duelists who'd just crossed razors. "I'm getting' hair down there."

"Really? Hair?"

"Yeah." Mitch's voice is throaty. "Take a look."

Bobby pulls back. He squints down Mitch's torso.

"There ain't nothin' there!"

"It's there. I check every time I take a bath. It's growin'. Get down there and take a look."

Bobby guffaws. "I ain't lookin' at your dick, cuz! Not for anything!"

The twinkle flickering in Mitch's eyes fades to a steady, intense glare. "Well, then, I guess I gotta make ya!"

The wrestling resumes. Tumbling. Crashing. Kicking. But the intensity is sharp. If you were watching, you'd notice a subtle change in the boys' strategies. No longer are they going for a pin. Now they're trying to shove the other's face into their groins.

The door squeaks open. The boys have plenty of time to roll behind a tackle box. Both stare at each other, grinning. They were this close to being caught naked!

"All right, guys, That's enough. Come on. Time for bed."

"Um. Um. Dad. We'll be right up. We, uh, spilled some popcorn."

"If I gotta come down here a second time, Bobby, Mitch won't be spending the night for the next two weeks."

"We got it, Dad!"

The naked boys scramble for their underwear. Bobby's briefs are the hardest to find, since Mitch's heart throbbed with adolescent energy when he tore them off. Mitch, tugging on his Little League trousers, smirks, watching his cousin's naked butt fly here and dart there.

"Got 'em!" Bobby calls triumphantly, holding them up.

"Dare ya to go upstairs nekkid!"

Giggling, Bobby slips into his clothes. The boys scamper up the stairs. The door slams shut. Footsteps thump. A deep masculine voice remonstrates. Then one set of feet charges back to the door; it opens, and a hand reaches in and turns off the light. The door shuts. The footsteps charge away. The basement is dark. It smells of mold, and mildew, and the sweat of active young boys.

 

Fucking Christ! Why won't this goddamned hardon go away?

It's hot as hell in the shack. Front and back doors stand open to snatch a scrap of any breeze. Useless. There isn't any. The air's heavy as lead. The couch is lumpy. Sweat plasters my boxers to my skin. I'm desperate to cool off so I pull my hardon out of my boxers.

I wait. Maybe I'll get tired enough to fall asleep.

Bobby snores, light and raspy, in the bedroom.

Damn.

Every time he snores, my cock throbs.

I roll onto my back. I can tell it's a long, long time after midnight. No cars on the road. Even the cicadas have shut up. It's like the world's dead. It's like being in a horror movie right before the thing bursts out of your chest.

Birds. I don't want to hear the fucking birds. That goddamned chirping means the sky is tinged with dawn.

We're alone, me and Bobby, walled off from everything by dark iron walls.

I could do it, you know.

But what, exactly, do I want to do?

The knothole. I can't forget staggering out of the room where Bobby's sleeping right now, Heidi's scent rising from my groin, to see gouts of sperm streaking that wall. His embarrassed smirk.

Yeah, we're sex-obsessed bastards, me and Bobby. These days, me more than him. Should I feel embarrassed by it? Ashamed that I've deposited my seed in chicks whose name, even as I pumped, I couldn't remember? Nah. When I cum, I'm as close to God as I can ever be.

I sigh.

So why just not ... give in?

I roll upright and sit on the couch's edge, face buried in my hands. My eyes sting. Sweat. Yeah, sweat. Trust me on this. Mitch Grant doesn't cry. I'm more than a man, you know? I'm a fucking predator! Shit, I was Peachville's drug lord. Scarface. Al Pacino. I want, I stalk, I win! Ogden was just a blip.

Get your life back, Mitch. Make it the way it was before.

How??

Just. Fucking. Do It!

Swaying, I lurch to my feet. No turning back now, is there? Fuck it! I shuck my boxers. My ramrod smacks my belly. My eyes lock on the gaping black door to his bedroom. Fire blazes in me. Steam curls from my nostrils. I'm a fucking bull in rut. A goddamned minotaur: human body, animal mind.

I swagger towards the door, cockhead slapping my sternum. Yeah. I like this.

Man, the last time I felt like this was my senior year, when my victory got the team a berth in the state wrestling finals. The instant the ref slapped the mat and called a pin, I was airborne, whooping, fist-pumping, shouting, screaming. Wrestling singlets make it impossible for us horsehung guys to hide our glory, and I wasn't being shy. I was strutting and I knew every female in the bleachers -- young, old, black, white -- was wet. Two hundred and fifty cunts in those bleachers, and every single one would need to twirl a mop in their cooze to clean up what they were oozing. The gym reeked of estrogen. For me. Mitch Grant, the conquering stud.

I lean against the door frame.

I smell him. I know his sweat. I slept beside him after Little League games. Blood thunders in my ears. Minotaur? Nah. I'm a fucking werewolf, ready to breed.

Too hot for sheets. Bobby sleeps on his side, folded hands wedged under his cheek. Pure innocence. Except for those goddamned briefs. Snowy-white. Tight. Covering his butt, yeah, but they give everything away. The shape of his buttocks. His crack. The size of his balls. His rod. They turn that chiseled body into the devil's playground.

He's a fucking slut. He's always been a fucking slut. Teasing me.

I shiver. I level my rod at my cousin. Yeah. Time.

Man, those bedsprings will squeak like hell when I climb aboard. The bed will smell of him. Maybe a whiff of Heidi, but mostly him. That elastic waistband will be taut, but there will be one perfect moment when my fingers are wedged between his moist skin and that goddamned cotton. One moment, soon gone, as I rip them down and off.

Playtime, Bobby.

I don't manage to finish my first step when it flashes in my brain.

His eyes. Peering over his shoulder at me. Shock. Puzzlement. Wh-- what the fuck, Mitch? His warmth melting as my derangement, my insane lust crisps his sleepy-eyed smile.

Is this vision gonna stop me? Fuck no! Another step towards doomsday. A floorboard creaks.

It'll go like this.

I'll give in. I'll caress those briefs. That'll be all it'll take to put me into pure Frank Bailey mode. Then I'll rip 'em off. I'll pin him face down. I'll mount up. I'll stab deep. And the fuckathon will start. Howl, Bobby. Scream, punk. Every time you do, I'll cum. Every dose of jism I give you will make you stronger. Frank Bailey's own promise, whispered in my ear in the laundry room. And, like Frank Bailey did me, I'm gonna fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you. When you've gone through the same ordeal, you'll be a man like me.

I thump my chest. By the time I'm done with him, I'll have fired so much jism up his succulent ass his plasma will teem with sperm cells, their tails flagellating his, and every bit of him will know Mitch Grant is, was, and forever shall be the King.

Freeze. Flash of Bobby's eyes again. This time scrunched up in fear and agony.

No! That hot fucker's not getting away that easily! I replay my fantasy. Stalking to his bed. Bedsprings squeaking. Moist musk. Yeah, like a high school locker room, overstuffed with teen males brimming with testosterone. Fingers sliding up smooth thighs, cupping those buttocks --

Wounded eyes again, peering at me over his shoulder.

I feel like someone's slugged me in the gut.

Breath whistling through my nostrils, I stare at him.

Flash of Bobby's eyes again. This time a soft grin dawns. He sighs, and he shudders, and he rolls onto his back, and his legs part, and they lift, and his calves settle into place on my shoulders, and then ... something sweet sucks my cock into it.

No! It can't ever be like that. He's unchanged. He doesn't know Frank Bailey. Bobby's still the way I used to be.

I stumble out. If I don't get rid of this hardon, I'm gonna fuck myself royally. I stagger onto the porch. I spit on my palm. Three strokes later I fire my load into the night's sticky womb.

After mopping up with my soaked boxers, I check on him. Just to make sure that moment when Frank Bailey possessed me didn't wound him. Bobby's fine. He's just rolled onto his back. The snoring's worse. But he's fine. Unharmed. A slight smile plays on his face. He dreams of Kathleen. Sweet guy. Pure-hearted, and light. You don't find many like him.

Thank God.