Wallflowers

The days passed neither fast nor slow, but in perfect time. The wind blew wild, or wilder, and you could hardly see the world for rain. Kathyn cared nothing, and wanted nothing, for all his world was with him in his house, with no distractions from outside to divide his attention. When they weren't talking, or fucking, or both at once, Kathyn kept up with housework and needlework, while Willym maundered about the place. Unlike other sailors he had no brothels or bethels to visit (for Kathyn ministered both services), and nobody stirred out of doors in this sort of weather without very good cause anyhow. The whole of Highmouth would be hunkering down till it blew over. He worked at his tusk or tugged at the one between his legs, and when he'd had enough of both he looked over the furnishings, muttered about repairing the odd cupboard door that wouldn't shut or end-table that wobbled, when he could get the tools (which would be never, but it was a nice thought). Now and then he glanced through some of Kathyn's books, curious but uncomprehending. Mostly he sat Turk-fashion in the open door, watching the rain sluice off the eaves and batter down the smoke rising from his pipe. Watching it wash away the pearly gouts of sperm he deposited on the step.

`You're not bored are you, lad', Kathyn asked.

Willym answered with a smile and slow shake of the head. `For the last three years I've had hardly a minute to meself. It's always work aboardship, night and day, especially during a storm. This...this is nice.'

`You don't miss your mates?' Kathyn asked, more anxiously. `I mean, I know you see them all the time when you're at sea and all, but I thought, well...'

He trailed off as Willym laughed, before diving on him with a look of fondest exasperation and scooping him up in a sinewy hold that was like being hugged by an iron-welder.

`Now you're just bein silly, me duck. I think not being tilted for so long has tilted yer head. But we'll soon mend that, won't we? Now, off with all these layers. Don't know why y'bother, with me home. I'll make ye warm enow and don't ye doubt it.'

`Will ye, Will-ye?' Kathyn said, mispronouncing his brother's nickname the way he used to tease him as a child.

`Oh! I'll have you fer that, kittlin', Willym said, and so he did. He dumped Kathyn onto the floor, gathered his hair up by the roots and fucked his throat so brutally he couldn't talk for the rest of the day.

 

⎈

 

In-between sewing doilies and tea cosies for the fashionable housewives of Highmouth, Kathyn did nalebinding for his own needs, as Grandam taught him. On this day he was using oilyarn to make waterproof mittens and socks for Willym. His loops were quick and economical. There wasn't time for fancywork, not if Willym was to get them before he sailed again.

He was in the second of the two main rooms on the upper storey, which was meant to be a second bedroom. He used it to store things that had nowhere better to be, but mainly it was his sewing room.

About half past twelve Willym came in, looking for food or a fuck, no doubt. He started to say something, but then stopped. When Kathyn looked round, he was staring at the walls.

When Willym left they had been naked planks of a pale grey wood, the only walls in the house that were unpapered and unpainted. Now they were threaded with twisting stems of silver-limned green, studded with bright stars of colour— cheerful dayleaf and spotless snowbalm, blushing emendine and hallowly maryllium. Here and there he'd even been adventurous enough to attempt some of the birds of an Island garden—polark, wattledove, cornbill and barbler. There were no seabirds.

Kathyn was no expert with the brush, but he had approached it as a kind of embroidery on a larger scale and the overall effect, if he did say so himself, was not altogether unpleasing.

Willym turned and gave him a look of such painful love Kathyn stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped being conscious of anything but Willym and the destroying blueness of his eyes. `You painted flowers on the walls', he said.

`Well,' Kathyn said, trying to gather himself, `I thought they looked a bit bare, with no pictures or anything. And, I don't know, it makes it feel a little bit like home.'

Willym's look was puzzled then, but crystal-clear to Kathyn. Isn't this home?

`You know, our real home. Inland. The women would paint flowers on the walls in winter. To remind them of spring.'

Willym's chin jutted out, the way it did when he'd been given some hard gristle to chew on. `We en't never going back there, Kath.'

`I know that. But—'

`We en't never going back there, so the sooner you forget about it, the better--right?' With that he stalked off, muttering something Kathyn couldn't hear.

Kathyn wasn't sure what it was that brassed Willym off this time. And more than that, hurt him. He could always tell when Willym was hurt. He could only guess that he didn't like being reminded that there was a whole part of Kathyn's life he had missed out on, and hence a part of Kathyn he had no share in. If that was what it was, there couldn't be any helping it. At least he knew how Kathyn felt.

 

⎈

 

When Kathyn moved, he did so almost silently, less by design than from habit. It hadn't paid to be noticed by Mam, even in the brief times when she wasn't `with a guest' or in a drink-induced stupor. He padded from room to room on soft bare feet, a kind of corporeal ghost, and the sensation of his silence, a feeling almost that he wasn't really there, pleased him.

Nobody could mistake Willym for a ghost, except maybe a poltergeist. He was loud. He didn't mean to be, but he was. He slammed doors, cupboards and drawers; he bounded up stairs, bounced on couches and knocked over chairs and he had hardly to do more than look at one of Kathyn's ornaments to break it. All the accoutrements of a house seemed such a novelty he just had to fiddle with them, and he fiddled them as roughly as he fiddled Kathyn. Nor did it help that he regarded every flat surface, vertical or horizontal, as a potential place to fuck on. No doubt if he could he'd be swinging from the rafters like a monkey, with Kathyn hanging off his prick. So much energy—at sea it all went into the ship. Now it all went into Kathyn--and into his house.

One grey morning in the parlour Willym mooched around the back corner of the room where the cocklestove loomed like a multi-tiered porcelain tower, or a vast sugarpaste wedding cake that had calcified with age. His trousers were airing in front of the fire and his swaying prick brushed along the scalloped upper edge of the stove's base as he picked up ornaments one by one and turned them over.

Watching him, Kathyn felt his breaths come heavy, his mouth start to tremble and his groin heat. It was ridiculous and confounding, how something so simple as Willym standing in Kathyn's prim little parlour with his cock out, leaving tiny sticky spots of pre-come on the warm tiling which Kathyn would have to wipe off (or lick off), was so damnably erotic. It almost made him resent his brother for how his mere presence turned Kathyn into a pervert.

From one of the upper shelves, crenelated like battlements, Willym took down a kind of vase with a tapering conical stem, made from the translucent shell of some creature so rare Kathyn had forgotten its name, whisperthin and coloured on the outside like seafoam that had curdled yellow on a beach, but a pale rosewater pink within. The shell was said to be as delicate as bone china (which was probably why the creatures that lived in them were so rare). A lady for whom he had stitched a crewelwork Jacobean tablecloth had given it to him (fortunately in addition to, rather than in lieu of, payment, for he had worked on the cloth for the better part of a year) and Kathyn had weighed its prettiness against its ocean-ness and decided it could stay. It had been a gift, after all.

Willym made a considering noise and slid his dick into the vase's asymmetric arum lily mouth while Kathyn cocked a wry eye. `You're not going to wee in there, I hope.'

`No.' Willym jerked his head around, cheeks bronzing to a deep maroon. `Just... wanted to see if it would fit.' He pursed his lips at the vase, considering it seriously as more and more of him vanished into it. `It looks like a cunt.'

Kathyn's response to this obscene observation was an extravagant eye-roll­–head-shake–deep-sigh combination. He turned back to his mittens.

`Wuh-oh.'

Kathyn looked up again and watched in open-mouthed incredulity as Willym bent his knees and moved the vase over his crotch in a most indecent manner. He was pulling at it as hard as he dared, but it wasn't coming off.

`Are you violating my vase, Willye?' Kathyn said.

`I didn't mean to!' Willye protested, squinting and puffing and tugging with increased desperation. `I got hard and it won't—ah, dammit!' His cock, the vase ensconced on the end like an over-ornate thimble, thwacked against the blue-glazed tiles of the stove and the vase cracked in two, pink shell revealing red shaft, a throbbing tube of flesh not unlike something one might find crawling along the bottom of the sea. Or the bottom of Kathyn. The rarest shellfish of them all...

Kathyn threw down his yarn in exasperation. `For goodness' sake, Willye, just come over here and do me. I'd rather that than you break me house.'

Willym carelessly stacked the broken pieces on the shelf and rather more carefully inspected his cock for shards. He dusted off his hands, then his prick, which was still standing proudly to attention, and turned around.

`You'd rather I break yer cunt then, eh? Aye, aye, madam.' He gave a jaunty salute, picked Kathyn up and started to do just that.

At first he held him in a sort of bridal carry, legs draped over one arm while the other curled around his middle and Willym's prick assaulted his arse at a side-on (or rather, side-in) angle. He did him like this for a few minutes, jamming him down on his prong, over and over. As much as Kathyn enjoyed this, he had two worries—one, that Willym's ridiculously long dick was actually going to pop through his tummy, and two, that Willym was going to mash his own plums into paste with how furiously he was banging Kathyn into his crotch.

Maybe because Willym shared these concerns, or maybe just because his arms were tired, after a few minutes he put him down in his chair again. Kathyn clung to him, kissing any part of Willye he could get at while his brother summarily stripped off his dress and apron. He heard something tear but couldn't give less of a toss. He whined urgently, and Willym took him up again, this time turning him out, away from him.

Willym held him almost parallel with the floor, his brother's arms threaded under his knees, which were up against his shoulders, hands clenched around his neck, forcing him to look down between his dangling feet to where Willym's huge free-swinging nutsack was bashing against his small tight one and his stupidly fat dick was blurring into him. Willym pummelled his boy-cunny at an inhuman pace, dropping kiss after slick, burning kiss onto his spine as he bucked in and out of Kathyn's flaming depths, piercing him to the core, then slicing down and out, then piercing him again. Kathyn's own arms were pinned to his sides by Willym's thick biceps; each time Willym brought him in his flailing hands hit his thighs, but no sooner had he grabbed hold of them than Willym was lifting him off again.

It was the most extraordinary position to be in. Unable to move anything but his hands and feet, he was completely powerless, wretchedly uncomfortable and outrageously turned on. It couldn't have even been half a minute before a painful load blurted out of his half-limp organ to make a puddle on the floor.

Willym, however, was not to be finished off so quickly. In Kathyn's mind it was hours he spent suspended in mid-air with Willym hunched over his back, humping up into the heart of him, sometimes fast and sharp, sometimes slow and smooth, but always deep, deep, deep as drowning. He found himself skimming on the edge of unconsciousness, unable to speak or even make sounds anymore, unable to see or hear or take in anything but Willym's endless, annihilating cock.

Finally, his brother let go, pitching him face-first into the seat of the armchair he'd been sitting on and leaning his weight on his arse till he was half-suffocated in embossed lime velvet. He'd swear he felt Willym's prickhead pulsing under his heart as he started to spend.

`Willym!' he gasped, and just as he felt the first surge of wetness, his brother withdrew, laying his rod on Kathyn's back and coming in one long, continuous flow. He felt it oozing down toward his head, so he quickly raised it. Then he felt his brother's seed, viscous and thick, but too copious to stick in place, cascade down the curve of his spine like a trough. It poured between his arsecheeks, dripped over his balls and splattered on the velvet cushion, and Kathyn mourned for his upholstery.

 

⎈

 

The problem was, Willym was bored, whatever he said. And Kathyn just didn't know what to do with him, except for the one thing, and even he needed a break from that. Willym's libido, however, appeared limitless.

After a blessedly sex-free supper Kathyn was lying on the chaise, head propped against one arm and his feet up on the other and a book balanced on his chest. He was sore all over, and though it was a good ache, it was still an ache. Just got to get back in condition, he thought vaguely. You have to be some sort of super-slut to take Willye's loving.

Willym came up behind him and leant over the back of the chair, hands roaming over his neck and shoulders. Ordinarily it would be nice, but at that moment it was only distracting and irritating.

`What you reading?'

Kathyn held up the spine for him to see.

'La penissery—honour de ballsack.'

`No, you tit', Kathyn said, snorting. `La Pénissière by Honoré de Balzac.'

`What tongue is it?' Willym asked humbly.

Kathyn twisted around to stare at his brother. `Willym! You don't mean—it's French! Surely you must—I tried to teach it you; don't you remember?'

Willym flushed, his face taking on a mulish cast. `It's all just foreign to me', he said.

Kathyn tutted and shook his head, and turned back to his book. Now Willym's hands were on Kathyn's neck, tip-toing along his jaw, tapping at his mouth, which he kept stubbornly closed. `La Penis-hair... It's a dirty book, eh?'

He twitched his brows and said, `No, Willye, it is not.'

Willym lightly tickled the back of his neck, and a shiver ran down his spine to sparkle through his pelvis. `What's a penissery, anydo? A collection of cocks? A manufactory of members? A place where todgers grow on trees?'

His tone was light and suggestive, but just now Kathyn wasn't in the mood. Reading was serious business. `It's a place.'

`In France.' Willym's hands smoothed down Kathyn's chest, kneading flesh through fabric, ceaselessly moving, as if trying to find a point of entry.

`Mmm.'

Kathyn tried to focus on the words on the page and pretend Willym wasn't there. His body couldn't help but answer his brother's touch, but he wasn't going to be drawn, not this time.

After a bit this tactic seemed to work, for Willym's hands withdrew. But then there was a rustling behind him, and something sat on his head. It might have been the rat, but it felt more like a serpent. A fiery serpent. He rolled his eyes as far up in their sockets as they would go, and there was the tip of Willym's penis, poking out at the point where his eyes crossed.

`Willye—what?'

Willym slid one hand over his mouth to stop his questions and sank the other into his hair. Kathyn had his hair down, drying in the crisp fireside air after his evening wash, and Willym brought a fistful to his face, inhaling the aroma of the rosemary tea Kathyn used to wash it. It was the scent he smelt in his dreams and though some might have called it overpowering, Willym couldn't get enough of it. He couldn't get enough of his darling brother-bride, of whom every part was beautiful beyond description.

And so fucking soft. He took another fistful and pulled it over his prick. Like sliding his cock through silk. It wouldn't take long. He wrapped handfuls of fragrant red hair around his stalk and used it stroke himself, biting his lip at the exquisitely erotic sensation. He knew it was an odd thing to do, and he didn't give a finnicking fuck. What business of it was anyone's how he used his own bitch? What was really odd was that he hadn't thought to do this before. And really, what the Devil was old God thinking of, giving him a brother so sexy there wasn't a piece of him he couldn't get off with, if he didn't mean Willym to tup him?

He hitched one knee up onto the back of the chaise to get a better vantage, but it wasn't enough. He needed more. He piled slightly damp but satiny-soft strands on top of Kath's head in a kind of loose nest and fucked into it. It was like Kath's down pillow (which he'd secretly used as a cunny substitute before he gave up substitutes and just started using his brother) but so much better because it was Kath.

He sawed his dick across his brother's scalp like a bow over a fiddle, feeling Kath's head nod a little with each thrust. But he didn't say a word. Was his sweeting really still trying to read? He'd show him, and his fancy French penis-book.

He drove his hips forward faster and faster, though he took care not to pull Kath's hair too hard. It was really an embarrassingly short time before he felt his orgasm pounding down the length of his shaft, like spider-shot through a cannon-bore, enormous and unstoppable. Everything in him wanted to bury his cock deep in Kathyn's slippery coils and empty his bollocks till his flaming locks turned white. But he knew how annoyed his beloved would be if he did that, especially since he'd just washed them. He could think of something almost as good, though...

It was one of the strangest feelings Kathyn had known, having someone fuck the top of his head. He was staring straight into the fire, not moving, book still open in his lap at the same page as when Willym started. But he could feel the stiff-soft rod of Willym's cock grinding over his scalp, tugging on his hair, could feel his balls slapping into the back of his skull. Then the violent rhythm of his thrusts came to an abrupt stop, and Kathyn strained his eyes upward, wondering what his brother was doing now.

There was a soft groan from above, and then a light thud from below. He looked down just as something fell on the open pages. Dark puddles spread over them, wrinkling the paper and swallowing up the neat lines of ink. Kathyn stared at the book in baffled dismay.

`There,' Willym said. `Told yer it was a dirty book.' And he walked away whistling.