Date: Thu, 18 May 2017 15:54:42 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Culberhouse Rules 1

This story and its characters are fiction and based on no one outside my
head. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS,
you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by
the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Do not
report without permission Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy. I know what it
was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow
just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've
got it.

This involves sex between related, consenting teen males; if that is
illegal for who/where you may be right now, go away! Get thee to a
monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also,
please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither
common nor deadly. Don't be an idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex
should never lead to your actual death.

Feedback from readers is important to me, but if you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into the nasty parts of my next
story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies
give.

*****

Culberhouse Rules 1: The Bust

By Bear Pup

*****

Hating one's brother is not a crime, or even a sin. It's a fucking
inalienable right. My brother especially. Ryan has been an uptight, nasty,
sanctimonious, stick-up-the-butt tattletale since I was old enough to know
up from down. And it's not that he's even, like, "more mature" or shit. He
was born less than a YEAR before I was, but he'd always been the oldest in
the class and I was always the youngest. He was born on August 8th, 1999
and I was born June 30th, 2000. He turned six the FIRST WEEK of
Kindergarten and I was five the whole year.

If that was all, I'd be fine. But it wasn't. Ryan was the ultimate Golden
Child. Mom was a math whiz when she was a kid. Ryan knew his times tables
before I knew what the fuck times meant. Dad was a HUGE basketball fan and
Ryan grew like a fucking weed as soon as he turned 12. I was a wrester and
football player and good at English, and didn't start growing until I was,
like, fourteen. Even then I never got above 5' 8" while Golden Fuckwad was
6' 1" as a goddamned Sophomore!

And it's not like he was some Neanderthal. He got good grades. Damned good
grades. Yeah, anything remotely math he owned, and anything dealing with
words was mine. We both managed A's and an occasional B in everything
else. The big problem, the real problem, was that it wasn't the rents that
made him a Golden Child. It was everyone else.

Ryan, from that first day of Kindergarten, had been surrounded by kids who
just wanted to be around him. And it wasn't even like he was CUTE... okay,
fuck, he was gorgeous. But I'm not some sort of swamp thing! Yeah, he had
that fairy tale flaxen hair shit and golden skin and blue eyes and grace
and poise and crap. And yeah, I was dark and hairy and brutish and had, you
know, a bit too much eyebrow and moved like a hippo, but come on! I had
muscles where he didn't have RYAN!

The final straw -- the last, ultimate, definitive, fucking straw -- was him
getting invited to Arkansas Student Congress. Ryan could not debate his way
out of a paper fucking BAG. He got to spend three days in Little Rock,
meeting, like, everyone and I was stuck in Highlands Hell. Fine. FUCK!!
Fine. I'll live. Mom and Dad, *of course* went with Prick-Perfect on his
big adventure. The only redeeming feature was I had the house to myself for
two nights, three days.

So, sue me, I wasted Sunday jacking off and smoking weed until my dick was
sore and my lungs were screaming. Monday, though, ooooooh, Monday. I had
forged the note to the school a week before based on (wait for it) the
permission slip they signed for Wunderkind. My target? Like there was any
doubt. I used a screwdriver wrapped in a sheet to foil the lock (so it
wouldn't leave marks) and began to carefully ransack Ryan's room.

I may have mentioned I am NOT an idiot. I watch CSI and Criminal
Minds. Frist, I took about thirty pix with my phone from every angle so I
could reassemble it perfectly. I then dove into dismantling the entire
room. Every guy has secrets, and I was gonna have Ryan's or die trying. It
was almost noon, though, and I was on the edge of despair. The worst I'd
found was his jack-pack with lube, cum-rags and condoms. Like you could
bust a guy with that? Then, suddenly, Mr Magic's mask cracked. I'll admit,
it almost outsmarted ME. In the space between the drawers of his desk was
an inch-thick portfolio. I never would have seen it if the lower drawer
hadn't caught on... nothing.

Okay, confession time before we go further. One of the 927,098,741 reasons
I hated Ryan was that he had girls dripping from him and I was... well,
gay. NO ONE knew. My best bud didn't know. I never even admitted to myself
it unless I was, you know, takin' care of bidness. I dated because I had to
if I wanted to keep any shred of cred, but I dropped loads exclusively to
images of teammates, teachers and, well, mostly my brother. But it was one
more reason I envied and hated Righteous Ryan.

The portfolio was deceptively hard to extract. You have to lift, shift,
twist and drop. So what? I had two DAYS to find out the bastard's
secrets. And DAY-amn, did the prick have secrets. First up were three paper
envelopes with pills and labels. Every fucking one mentioned a banned
substance. The prick was juicing! I nearly crowed right then until I found
the next bag.

On top was a mail order envelope labelled, 'PotAway Drug Test
Protection'. Below that, oh my sweet Lord, was a baggie and a one-hit
pipe. Thick with red hairs, you could even SEE crystals in the hairs.
BINGO! JACKPOT! EUREKA! I fantasized about all the ways to destroy His
Prickness. No one, ever, could find my own stash and I could wait until I
had it out of my piss-systems before busting him in case the rents checked.

But nothing, NOTHING, compared to the last layer. It was a stack of pages
cut from magazines. PORNO magazines! Hard core porno magazines!! FUCKING
NASTY GAY porno magazines!!! There were more dicks than a National
Guys-Named-Richard Convention. There were more asses that Donkey
Monthly. There were more assholes than the Trump Campaign Donor list!
Ka-CHING!

When I came down off the fantasy high of a dozen Christmas mornings, I
sobered. Yeah, I hated Ryan, but was I *really* evil enough to destroy him
over something I shared? Well, yeah, of course I was. Duh. But was I
*willing* to? That was a very different question. I started to wonder if
taking Ryan down wasn't too... limited a goal.

That's when I really started to *look* at the photos. To a man -- and damn
but they were all very much men -- they were everything Ryan wasn't. They
were muscular, hairy, dark. Far more football and wrestling, even weight
lifting, than basketball and track. In short, they looked a hell of a lot
like me! Even the thick, gnarly dicks were more like me than Ryan with his
milky-silky rod.

For good measure, I took apart the rest of the room as well. Tucked in the
inner pocket of his winter coat was a nasty, crusty, used jockstrap. The
name stenciled in the band read, 'Taylor'. Ryan had swiped one of my own
smelly jock straps and hidden it like a rare treasure. And it was crusty
with cum stains. Ryan had used my *jock* as a cum dump god only knew how
many times.

Using my photos, I meticulously reassembled the room down to the position
of the dirty clothes on the floor and the angle of the school notebooks on
the desk. I made only one change, and it's one he could never notice. I
dropped an additional load in that crusty jock with a parade of images of
Ryan, each nastier than the last.  Then put it back where it came from and
carefully relocked the door.

I spent the rest of the day and half the night fantasizing, planning and
dumping load after load. I was close to shooting blanks by the time I
finally fell asleep. Operation Ryan Retribution was on.

I dressed carefully the next morning and decided to run to school instead
of driving. At the start of the school year, the rents had given each of us
a choice: A high-end computer & gaming system and a beater of a car, or a
fairly nice car and a bare-bones laptop. Mr Popular, as expected, chose the
spiffy car, a 2010 Nissan Maxima. I got a beat-up 2003 Toyota Corolla that
ran fine but looked like crap... and the kickinest-ass Alienware tower,
X-box and 25" gaming monitor.

But running to school had another, more important purpose. It was clear
from his porn that Ryan like nasty. It was off-season for both of us. I did
football in the fall and wrestling in the winter. Ryan did cross country in
the fall and basketball in the winter. Neither of us did a spring
sport. Tuesday was weight-training for the football and wrestling teams off
season where Ryan (if he'd been in school) would be working out with the
in-season track and fielders.

By the time I hit the weight room, I was getting a little ripe, but it was
the last class of the day so no big. I switched up and did upper body and a
quick round of glutes. I skipped the shower (natch) and jogged home. The
timing was perfect. They had gotten home from Little Rock just minutes
before and were busily unloading. I pitched in like the dutiful son, making
sure to stretch as much as possible whenever Ryan was next to me. I
couldn't tell for sure, but he seemed to linger. I smiled.

While Ryan unpacked, I set up the system for Xbox play and broke out the
controllers and CoD. I hollered to Ryan as he passed my door, "Bro! You
wanna play Infinite Warfare?" I settled into the double-beanbag chair. It
was a strange find as a flea market Mom had dragged us to years before. It
was long enough to work as a mattress, and had for sleepovers. Set like it
was now, it fit as many as three or four players. I'd settled just a little
to the left of halfway, so there was no way Ryan could be too far from me.

The Call of Duty franchise, including the new one, Infinite Warfare, was
one I rarely volunteered to play with Ryan. His quick eyes and dexterity
put him at a major advantage. There was no way he'd say no at a chance to
show me up. I'd booted up Zombie mode which was ever more up his alley. He
flopped next to me and wrinkled his nose. "Dude, you reek. Don't you
shower, like, ever?"

"Whatever. We playing or not?" Within minutes, zombies were falling like
rain and we were both hooting and whooping. We hit a pause section and I
yanked off my shirt. It wasn't unusual for me and Ryan to play in our
undies, hence the soft cotton sheet over the vinyl of the beanbag. I tossed
the shirt in the direction of the hamper, which put my pits damn near in
Ryan's face. I watched his nose wrinkle again, but he made no comment. I
saw out of the corner of my eye as he adjusted what had to be a growing
chub. Well that was just fiiiiiiiine.

The next pause, I stripped out of my jeans. Ryan swallowed and tried
desperately not to look. Normally, I wore boxers and, under that, a
jock. Today, I wore compression shorts. They were from Tesla, black but
with red piping contours that highlighted the muscles of the legs and
nicely drew the eye to the crotch and ass. I could see Ryan's reflection
gawping at my muscular glutes and deep cleft, and I gave him a show getting
out of my jeans.

I sat even closer than before, making sure to bump an arm or leg against
the increasingly-distracted Ryan. Slowly, the scores began to
reverse. "Dude, It's warm in here. Let me hit the fan." I prowled over to
the small fan and turned it on, again making a meal of bending over to give
him a great view of my rippling ass and wide back. I'd moved it
yesterday. It now would blow over me and straight to where Ryan sat. I
again made sure to be close to him, reaching down to scratch my nuts,
releasing another blast of nasty, sweaty musk. Ryan was completely railed
now, and I started to chub as well.

As his hit rate plummeted, his breathing shortened. Finally, it became
clear that he wasn't going to get any better. "Um, uh, bro. Looks like you
beat me this time. I, uh, I need to, you know, go unpack. Good game!" He
got up in a pained crouch and sat back, trying not to show the raging wood
trapped at a very awkward angle.

"Dude, you okay? You pull something in that suck-ass attempt at a game?" I
laughed. He didn't. "Well, you unpack. I'm hitting the shower. I stood and,
without looking at him, dropped my compression shorts and kicked them
aside, almost under the bed. He got a brief glance at my chub before he
watched my ass saunter into the shared bath between our rooms.

I ran the shower for a minute before slowly opening my bedroom door. As I
hoped and suspected, my compression shorts were nowhere to be seen. I gave
it another minute, shower running, before silently jimmying the lock on his
side (a trick Righteous Ryan had never learned). I popped it open and
walked straight in, "Ryan! You seen my--?" It was perfect. It was textbook.

Ryan sat propped up on his bed. Shorts around his ankles, pumping furiously
on his milky-white cock. And just below a pair of mortified, cartoon-wide
eyes, his other hand clutched my shorts to his face where he'd been huffing
my stench like it was his own personal crack. I let myself freeze there,
and watched his do the same. He slowly started to shake like he was
freezing to death right there in his own bed.

I didn't let him say anything. "Those are my nasty shorts, dude!" I saw him
look down in mounting horror and wrench them away from his face. His mouth
started to work soundlessly. "Damn, Ryan. Next time lock the door. I don't
want to see you spanking, and sure not to my nasty shit. That's
sick. Just... just lock the fucking door, bro." I turned and slammed the
door behind me, and finally stepped into the steamy shower, smiling so
widely it actually hurt.

Dinner was nothing short of heaven... for me at least. Ryan's normal,
cocky, eat-shit attitude was gone, replaced with a sickly pallor and
shaking hands. He kept darting microsecond glances at me and back to his
plate, apparently waiting for me to crush him in front of the rents. That I
didn't say a word outside the ordinary 'how was your day' answers unnerved
him... as intended.

"Ry, you okay, son?" Oddly, dad was the one who noticed. "You look
terrible."

"I {gulp} I'm fine." He looked at me in a flat panic and I just kept
chewing dinner. "The, uh, the trip was I guess more st-stressful than I
thought and I guess it j-j-just hit me."

"Well, you go to bed. No, Ry. Taylor won't mind taking your turn at
dishes." If I'd coughed up a lung, dad would have chided me for making a
mess.

"NO! I mean, uh, no. He ca-- he shouldn't. I'm fine."

"Don't be an ass, Ryan."

"Taylor! Language!"

"Sorry, mom. Ryan, he's right. You look like sh-- um, bad. Go sleep it off,
dude. I got this." I was afraid that I had laid it on too thick when dad
frowned. I nearly crowed when he replied.

"I'm proud of that attitude, Taylor. Good to see you manning up and I mean
that. Now, Ry, bed!"

Ryan fled like a hamster with the Habitrail left open. It was everything I
could do not to laugh aloud. Anyway, dishes never bothered me. It was,
what, five minutes? Dump, scrape, rinse, rack, repeat. Drop a blue thing in
the little hopper, kick it closed and hit a button. Done. I would have done
his chores for the fucking week to see that look on his face.

Wednesday morning dawned bright with birds singing and, oh, wait. That was
in my head. Actually, it was a nasty, grey day that clearly, delightfully
matched Ryan's mood. He was already at the table when I came down and he
nearly crapped his pants when I whacked his shoulder and said, "Morning,
bro! How you doin?"

He hoovered his breakfast and ran for his car. He was so rattled that he
forgot his pack. I texted him, "Got ur pack. Will bring to ur locker. C U
Bro." I shouldered his and mine and floated out to TC -- my nickname for my
car was 'Toyota Corroded' thus TC -- and got to school pretty quick. I made
sure to park on the other end than normal so Darling Brother couldn't
intercept me. I was waiting at his locker when he slunk in. He was maybe 10
feet away when I spoke loud enough for any number of nearby jocks and
princesses to hear.

"Hey, Ryan. You forgot your pack." His eyes were wide and I could see the
sweat on him. "And about yesterday afternoon? Dude!" I let the word hang
and his eyes started to roll back. "You looked terrible! You gotta take
care of yourself, bro. Glad you feel better this morning." I gave him a
shoulder-whack and walked off, watching his reflection sag against his
locker. Oh, fuck, was this fun!

That day went without incident, and I said nothing at all that evening
other than required pleasantries. I made sure, though, that I was close
enough to him that he could smell my musk all night, and flexed my big
shoulders and arms frequently.

Thursday rolled and Ryan was looking like he had some color back. We had
two classes together, Sophomore History (Columbus to the Civil War) where
we were about evenly matched, and Geometry, where Ryan routinely made me
look like a fool. He was a whiz at math, really genius level
probably. Whenever I got asked a question that I struggled with, he'd roll
his eyes and jump in with the answer just before I figured it out. I told
you; my brother was a prick.

Geometry was sixth period, next-to-last, and he'd recovered a lot of his
confidence and swagger, apparently thinking that I either didn't realize
what I'd seen or didn't have the balls to bust him. About halfway through,
Mr Wickes inevitably asked me the one question I really never understood on
the stuff we were going through, surface area of a cylinder. "Um, it's
2-pi-r times, uh, height times diameter?" I knew I'd blown when Ryan
snorted from the next desk.

"2-pi-r times height *plus* *radius*," then he snickered just loud enough
for the students to hear but not the teacher. As per spec, I blushed purple
and looked down.

"Thank you Mr Culberhouse, but I wasn't asking you, I was asking your
brother." But the damage was done, and Ryan knew that. I scowled and
listened to the lesson flow around me. I knew Wilkes would not return to me
that period.

Like a motion picture has people designated as the Key Grip and Chief
Illustrator, schools have designated roles as well. For Highlands High,
Ryan was the Golden Boy for our year, I was the Football Tough,
etc. Earlier this year, though, Golden Boy had briefly dates Gossip Slut,
one Ms Carol-Anne Piegan. Neither had dumped the other. It just 'didn't
work out', but I knew Carol-Ann was less than pleased with Golden Boy. And
she was ruthless.

Example? Last year, Darren Lipton was performing the role of Baseball
Slugger. Carol-Ann wheedled out of his then-girlfriend, a seriously hot if
slutty cheerleader, that they'd been making out for a while, but the night
before (just the once) Darren had been, shall we say, unable to perform
likely thanks to the beer. That was mid-December. When the next semester
started in January, Darren *Limpdick* had transferred to St Paul's over in
Pocahontas. Carol-Anne had delighted in her take-down.

I thought furiously. What I was about to write had to be so subtle no one
could know what it meant but still scare the fuck out of Golden Boy. "EVER
AGAIN & C-A GETS COMPRESS & MORE." I was able to get it to him almost
invisibly and without looking, but the shuddering gasp from my left made me
smile. I glanced over and he was whiter than the scrap of notepaper he was
now chewing.

That night, Ryan had some of himself back, but was clearly wary of me. No
one noticed. Nor did they notice me making sure to reach past or across
Ryan at every opportunity.  Friday seemed to reach an equilibrium. Ryan was
careful not to do anything to annoy me and I just smiled as if nothing was
happening. We each went out with friends that night, Ryan to a party at
Mack's house (rents on a date-night and not back until 11) and I went to
Pizza Inn over in Ash Flat (pizza buffet + six jocks = bankruptcy, but
somehow they stayed open all this time).

I got home earlier than Ryan and mom reminded me as I came in that she and
dad were going to the Knights of Columbus Couples Retreat that weekend over
in Mountain Home. They'd be gone from tomorrow morning through Sunday late
afternoon and we were not to have anyone over, be home if they called, go
to mass, not make a ruckus and clean up after ourselves.

KofC Couples Retreats were a quarterly thing put together by the area
parishes. It roamed around the area resorts, never to the high end ones,
but not dumps, either. This time, it was at River Rock, maybe an hour
away. Nice place, great food.

As I got to my room, dad hollered from their bedroom that he and mom were
going to the Knights of Columbus Couples Retreat tomorrow morning through
Sunday afternoon and we were not to have anyone over, be home if... Dear
God, did they hand out scripts or what?

I finished up my homework. There was quite a bit, so it took a few hours
and I heard Ryan get home and get the double-barreled weekend
script. Sigh. He seemed to pause outside my door, but moved on and slammed
his door. I heard him showering a few minutes later. That meant two
things. First, he got lucky and smelled like perfume, pussy or
both. Second, he'd not closed the deal because he slammed the door in horny
frustration. I smiled. This week just kept getting better.

Per parental requirements, Saturday breakfast was a must-attend event. Dad
cooked this morning, so there were hoecakes, Karo, sausage links and about
fifty eggs scrambled in a giant skillet. When dad scrambled eggs, they came
out in huge, fluffy lumps that he sprinkled with grated American
cheese. Ryan and I set to and dad-in-apron dished it out and ate
standing. Ryan and I tussled briefly over the Texas Pete, but that's about
as normal as breathing.

With that, they were off. I fired up the mower and without any discussion,
Ryan had the weed whacker running. We knew better than to wait until it
gets hot. We were done around 10:00. Something we'd done since we were kids
helping dad is strip down to our undies and throw everything into the
washer in the garage before going into the house. Mom liked it so we didn't
mess up the house and smell it up even worse. Today, I made sure to stand
as close as possible without touching him as I stripped.

I swear to God I could hear my brother's eyes pop when he saw me bend over
and take down my pants. I was wearing a jock, and only a jock. I had
deliberately pulled down my pants and 'forgotten' to undo my shoes, so I
gave him a long, sweaty, hairy, nasty, pucker-flashing show. I looked
around and he was railed hard and trying to hide it behind the clothes he
held clutched in front of him. I dumped the jeans and shirt in the
tub. "What? Dump your duds, bro, so I can start it. That's if you've looked
enough."

I smirked and he flushed, tossing his clothes into the washer. Railed was
an understatement. Evidently, the show was the topper; he'd been perving on
me the whole time. NO ONE gets that much pre in their boxers from a couple
minutes of hot jock. He nonchalantly ran for the house as I started the
washer. I made it quick though, so I got to his door before he could close
it all the way.

I stood there in the doorway, smiling as he glanced around feeling
trapped. I reached down and scratched under my nuts, pushing them
forward. He tried sooooo hard not to look... and failed. He was breathing
shallowly and his hands shook.

"We need to talk, bro."

"W-W-W-What? What ab-b-bout?"

"Ryan, you're not an idiot. You're a prick, but a smart one. What do YOU
think we need to talk about?"

"Listen to me you little shit! You got nuthin. Open that trap and I'll--"
DING!

"Check your phone, dude."

With a fierce scowl, he grabbed his iPhone and opened the message. It was a
picture of the (closed) portfolio. His face drained of blood and I thought
he might pass out. DING! That was the pic of my hand pulling my nasty,
funky jock out of his winter coat pocket. He honestly looked like he was
about to puke, so I stopped.

"You were saying?"

"...!"

"Come again?"

He struggled and found his voice. "N-n-n-nothing to do w-w-with me. Y-you
planted that shit. I'll crucif--" DING!

A loud sob escaped next, and I almost -- nah, not really -- felt sorry for
the bastard. It was a close up of the label on the first of the
pill-packs. The tiny voice of a ten-year old squeaked softly, "oh god."

"We'll start there." Ryan could not pull his horrified gaze from the
phone. "Ryan, that is your RIDE you're throwing away, bro. And it's
DANGEROUS. First thing that changes is you stop juicing. Do you KNOW what
Coach Kenway would do if he found you with that shit?"

He mumbled and I pressed. "Nothing! Okay? He'd say NOTHING. Where the fuck
you think I got that shit?"

I was so shocked I felt my knees wobble. He had to be lying. No way Coach K
would... Ryan had to be lying. I looked at him as he continued to stare at
the iPhone as if he could will the image to change. He was barely
conscious; there was no way he was lying. And Coach K made no bones about
the fact that he WOULD keep the state B-Ball championship for the Rebels
next year. I shook myself.

"I don't care. We'll deal with that later. But as of this
instant. You. Stop. Juicing." He nodded and I saw tears on his face. "Pot,
too. Get it out of the house today, Ryan. Give it to some homeless pothead,
but get it out of the house. I am not going to let you destroy yourself,
bro. You're a prick and a bastard but you're also blood.

"Now, get the juice. You're gonna flush it while I watch. That shit is not
going to poison anyone else, either. MOVE!"

He nearly bounced from the bed and his hands were shaking so bad he nearly
couldn't open the drawer. A quick push-pull-pop and it was out. Oh! So
that's how the damn thing worked! He opened the portfolio and took out the
three packets, then looked at me in desperation. "Please,
Taylor. Please. He'll cut me from the team. He'll kill my ride. Please!"

"No! You can earn your right without the juice, Ryan. I hate to admit it,
but you're a fucking great Baller, and a good enough student. You don't
*need* to kill yourself to make it. BATHROOM! NOW!" With faltering steps he
made it to the commode and I took a couple quick, silent pix as he dumped
and flushed the pills. I held out my hand and ripped open the seams of each
envelope, making it clear there was nothing. I left them on the counter;
I'd take pix of them later.

"Now, get rid of the pot and the pipe. Be back here in 30 minutes, Ryan, no
kidding. Dump it, trash it, give to someone. But be back here without it in
30. And, dude, if you try and stash it and get it back later, mom and dad
get the drug picks and Carol-Anne gets all the rest. And there is a HELL of
a lot of 'rest', bro. 30 minutes starting now." I chose not to mention my
own stash. Fuck him. Let him suffer a little.

I heard him frantically dialing and whispering. It took maybe three calls
and he was dressed and out the door in ten, back in 20. He found me
sprawled on his bed in just my sweaty jock and a flash of anger lit his
features before his face crashed in resignation, fear and hopelessness.

"What {gulp} what are you going to do?" His voice was small and lost. I
realized that I'd gotten a lot of what I needed in the last hour and
sighed.

"First, I'm curious. I don't want to know who, but how'd you unload it so
fast?"

"I called, well, someone. Told him dad had 'smelled something' and was
ripping your room apart and I needed to get it out fast. Charged him less
than street, too... Why are you doing this? And what are you gonna do to
me, Taylor?" He was scared and sad and ten years younger than he'd been a
week ago.

"Nothing. Nothing at all, Ryan. You're going to do some things. Come here."
I scooted over to the side he didn't normally sleep on and he sat gingerly
and looked at me, dejected. "First, you're going to stop humiliating
me. You don't have to be nice and all. You don't have to be part of the
solution, but you're going to stop being part of the problem. No more
stirring up shit with mom and dad. No more mocking me to the guys. No more
crap. Can you handle that, bro?"

He nodded. "What else." It was a sigh, a condemned man asking how he was to
be executed.

I put my hand on his shoulder and he flinched, hard. I pulled him around
until he more-or-less faced me. "There is no else, bro. That's it. You stop
being a prick. I'll do the same. No snide whispers about missed plays and
missed lays. Nothing."

"B-b-b-b-but WHY?" It was a wail. I had him and could crush his nuts with a
word, end every dream with a text.

"Because I want a brother. After all these years, I want a brother. I want
someone to help me with the hard shit like geometry and that I can help
with the hard shit like creative writing. That can work with me on
endurance and that I can work with on power. It's really that simple." He
looked away, unreadable.

"I will admit that it's not how I planned this out. I was gonna use you
like a fucking rented mule. Every chore, every homework assignment, all of
it. My personal Golden Boy Slave. But then I'd be even worse than you'd
ever been to me. I don't have it in me, bro." I saw him brighten. "But
don't get ideas. I've already pushed a 'greatest hit' folder out on my
locked cloud. I can't bring myself to make you a slave, but I will gut you
if you fuck with me. Got it?"

He nodded and I could tell he was crying. He finally spun to me. "I am so,
so, so sorry! Taylor, I'm so sorry. I've worked so hard and everything
seems so easy for you. I've b-b-b-been a bastard because I was so scared of
being... nothing." He was wracking with sobs now and I was... stunned. The
Golden Boy was... insecure? Seriously? He sailed through the world on a
tufted blanket! I shook my head. It didn't matter. I pulled him to me.

I pulled my brother, the guy I'd hated for most of my life, into a hug,
trying to stop his tears. Who woulda thunk it? We sat like that for perhaps
half an hour. The house phone rang and I grabbed it from his nightstand
without letting go of him. "Culberhouse residence."

As expected, it was mom. They'd made it to River Rock, checked in and did
the orientation and she wanted to check on us. She asked for Ryan and I
looked down on the mess of utterly-undone man-child next to me, staring up
at me in abject fear. "He's in the shower, mom. The yard took a lot longer
today. He's here, though. You want me to have him call you when he's out?"
She told me not to bother, gave me the room number (easy enough to
remember, 234) and air-kissed me goodbye.

Ryan was quiet by the time the call was over. He'd been curled into my
sweat-matted chest fur, breathing my musky stench for perhaps half an
hour. I looked down and confirmed my suspicions.

"There's something else we have to deal with, bro," I said softly and he
looked up at me. I pointed to his raging crotch and he blushed and sunk his
head, trying to pull away in shame.

"No, come back here. That's really what started this, Ryan. We can't really
move ahead if we don't talk about it. Tell me why, Ryan, please?"

He finally met my eyes and stared, then started to speak like an automaton,
flat and breathless as if letting someone else use his voice. "You'll hate
me and it's okay. You'll never talk to me again but I can deal with that
now. I've always watched you, Taylor. You're so perfect, so manly, so
beautiful I thought I'd die for not touching you. Always. Always, always,
always, always.

"If you were close I'd get so hard so fast from your smell. If you smiled
it was like the sun came up. I hurt you because it was the only way to
survive it. So now you know. Send the pictures, Taylor. I don't mind,
really. I know that you'll never be around me again."

"Why?" My question was soft.

His brow furrowed and he kept flicking his eyes from one of mine to the
other. "You just don't get it? I'm gay, Taylor. Worse, I'm not just a
faggot, I'm queer for YOU, Taylor, for my brother. The pot? The porn? The
sports? It was the only way I could keep sane."

"You never said anything?"

He let out a sob, a shout and a laugh as one terrible, life-crushing
sound. "Said? Jesus, Taylor. I just said. And my life is over. Why do it
sooner?"

"I'm gay, Ryan. And I think you're beautiful."

He leapt up, screaming, "YOU FUCKING BASTARD! Don't you DARE mock me! Don't
say that! Hit me, scream at me, punch me, destroy me, I DON'T CARE but
DON'T YOU DARE make f-f-f-fun of m-m-m-me." The rage vanished like mist and
he crumpled on the carpet, weeping, lost. He batted away my hands when I
sat next to him, but he didn't have the strength or the will to push me
away.

"I'm not mocking you, Ryan." I said in a soft voice harsh with tears of my
own. "I never knew. I've watched you since I was a kid, longing to touch
you, be with you. When I started to, well, you know, it was you that I
thought about, that I saw as I... did that. Ryan. Ryan, look at me. Look at
my eyes. Am I lying, Ryan?"

He shook his head more in disbelief than denial. A deliciously-wicked
thought bloomed then, and I realized that I might not QUITE have forgiven
him for what he'd put me through all this time.

"But there's rules, Ryan my brother."

"What rules?" He was still shell-shocked and reeling.

"You have to ask. And ask in writing. Ask nicely. Be specific on what you
want me to do or let you do. And I pick what actually happens."

The glow in his eyes matched the heat flaring in my nuts. I knew without
asking that he liked the idea, confirmed when he launched himself to the
desk and shit went flying in a fountain as he frantically found a pen and
paper, and started writing furiously.

I couldn't resist. I was the English guy, after all. "Careful! Spelling,
grammar and composition count, bro."

<eof>

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 25 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 16 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 18 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 11 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 10 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Shark Reef: 3 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/

Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love .../incest/in-gods-love/