Date: Sat, 10 Nov 2012 00:11:59 -0800 From: chevalier.de.lyons@gmail.com Subject: How the Rest of Us Live This story is a work of fiction, involving fictional encounters between adults, as well as between adults and a 14-year old minor. It also depicts incest. Such things are illegal most places, and offensive to most. Do not read this if it is illegal to read such things where you live, or if you will be offended by the aforementioned fictional scenario. Summary: Marc, a blue-collar worker and punk in his forties, falls for Jake, a younger punk. A tumultuous and highly-sexual relationship ensues, but becomes complicated by Jake's duty to his runaway half-brother. This is the first erotic story submitted by this author, and he'd appreciate comments, though he does not guarantee response. Email: chevalier.de.lyons@gmail.com I'd known Jake for four years--I mean, hell, we'd been living together, fucking each other near daily for half a decade--but it wasn't until I came home early from work one day that I really came to know him. Look, I'm gonna tell you something about Jake, `cause I really sort of need to. Also, I'm telling you something about myself, and something about--well, a few other people--and I'm not sure why I'm doing that. Maybe I need to tell someone else about all this just to talk about it. Judging by the erection I'm getting sitting here in the middle of the night writing all this while Jake and--well, Jake and someone else--are asleep in the next room, I guess it'd be honest to say I'm quite aroused by telling you this. You're not getting any real names here, sorry. Jake isn't the name of the 24 year old stud I've been with since he was 19, and Rob isn't the name of his 14 year old kid who was moaning Jake's real name a few hours ago when I'd take my cock out his throat long enough to let him breathe a few words. Oh, and my real name isn't Marc. Okay. What do you want to know? What do I want to tell you? I'm typing this all out under a dim lamp in the spare bedroom which is where Rob usually sleeps. I'm still a little drunk, both on the beer we were drinking and the pounding I gave Rob after Jake finished with him. Didn't bother to get dressed except for a pair of black athletic shorts, but I'm still sweating. Want to know what I look like? Normal, I guess. A bit better that most other 45 year old guys. Barrel chested, dark-brown fur with patches of silver over most of my body. Shaved head, a few tattoos, mutton chop beard--think somewhere between rockabilly and skin-punk, 10 years past the age most guys lose the courage to look hot. 6'2'', 200lbs...but this isn't a personals ad. I'm taken, at least twice over. Jake's a couple of inches shorter. Skater-build, ripped as all hell. Mohawk, lots of scruff, beginnings of a furry chest. Norse runes inscribed in thick black ink down his left arm, a celtic cross covering most of his back. Jake was a poser twink skinhead when we first met, handing me his fake ID at the club I was bouncing for extra cash on weekends. I usually hated his kind--all these kids trying to get in with the hardcores before they practically had pubes. Most of `em would stride up to the door, trying too hard to act like they'd been there before, coolly handing me their ID's and then either scurrying away with their tails between their legs like beaten pups, or, even more pathetically, trying to start a fight with me. This kid, though--Jake--he looked terrified when he comes up to me, like he'd seen his own death. And something about him suddenly turns my mood a bit. That, and I'm suddenly realizing I'm getting a bit hard at the idea of frisking this kid. There were only a few people in line behind him, and there all talking to each other, so I lean up close to him, smelling fear on his sweat, and told him, "you're ID's fake, mate--you'll owe me." I remember how he seized up, breathing like a cornered animal, and just nodded, almost whimpering. And then, patting him down for weapons (you wouldn't believe the shit I used to confiscate those nights), I rub the back of my hand against what turns out to be his erect cock. "I'm off at 3," I said, and he nodded again, shaking. Don't think I'd done that all the time, by the way. Twice before, and my marks bolted within an hour of getting let in. But hell, this kid, Jake, leaves when the bar closes but lingers with the post-closing drunks just in front, trying not to look too eager. He looked damn sloshed, but could at least stand up without leaning. For my part, I'd almost forgotten about him. Had to break up three fights, and I'd actually taken a few jarring punches from the last one before I kicked the idiot white-lace down the few steps to the street. Jake likes to remind me that I had a bleeding gash on my jaw when I drove him back to my place. Stained his shirt, which he kept around unwashed for two weeks before we fucked again. Oh, right. We fucked that night. I was living in a shit two-room apartment near the section 8's (don't fucking get racist on me, whoever you are reading this--I'd still curb a white-lace anytime.) Kid was had his black army shorts undone before he was even in the car, and I pushed him kinda hard against the dashboard when he tried to suck my cock while I was driving. Got us back to my place, all but threw him through the front door into my bedroom, and came inside his scrawny ass twice before I even got his real name. I'd just turned 40 a few months before, and for few weeks had been rather down on it. Ripping apart the small ass of a 19 year wanna-be skinhead as he begs, shouting both "no" and "more" pretty much in the same breath, works real well to get over shit like that getting older. Third time we fucked that night I'd already pumped him so full that my cum was dripping down my cock and onto my chest (I was on my back, hips up, bouncing him like a toy). And I still remember watching this kid reach down, scooping it up like water and lathering on his face and shaved-head like soap. I don't remember at what point I passed out. I do remember waking with his tongue in my mouth, his sweating body on top of mine, grinding his twink chest against my matted chest hair, his ass begging for another fucking. He's never let me live down what I said to him when I woke. "Fuck off." Come on. If I were making this up, I'd tell you I fucked him for a fourth time, but whatever, mate. Live in your fantasy world. So he left, and I didn't see him for a couple of weeks. I'd gotten tired of working the club--I was just doing it to save up for a better place and some car repairs, and my boss at my day job (I worked in a warehouse) was starting to nag me about being tired on Mondays. I'd meant to put in notice at the club, but I stuck around for another month just because I wanted to see Jake again. Didn't see him at the club, though. Instead, the kid shows up at my apartment one evening, looking rough, smelling unshowered with at least a week's worth of hair on his head, and nervously acts like he was just passing by or something. I had a chick over that night--not a girlfriend, really, just someone I'd fuck whenever she was looking for it. I used to do both, yeah, and might again sometime, but Jake's kinda held my cock so well these last five years that I haven't gotten around to much cunt. So, I told him to come in, and there's this awkward silence where he looks like he's almost gonna cry or something. I'd been wanting to get inside that ass non-stop since that night after the bar, and I might be a punk but I'm not a prick, so I made up some story really quick to Savanne (that's her real name, since she doesn't matter) about how I promised to help this guy with something, so she left pretty quick. I didn't even ask him if he wanted to fuck. Savanne had gotten me going earlier, so I came really quick, like I was 12 and just figured out what my dick was for. He smelled damn good, though he'd tried to apologize about being dirty and got all rigid when I rammed by tongue into his ass. He calmed down a bit, and took all of my thick 7 without too much squealing. I remember, after he got off on my stomach, that something seemed really wrong with him, like someone had died. It took some prying, but he finally told me. He'd been living with his mother and his little brother, but she'd just arrested for dealing meth, and they took his little brother away. He didn't say it, but it wasn't hard to figure out that this meant he was probably homeless now, too. I got a good memory for some of the bigger things, especially when something damn good starts. I'd said, "Ask me, punk." And he acted like he didn't know what I was talking about. "You need a place to stay? Ask me." He did, and of course I fucking said yes. So, Jake moved in. He had almost nothing--just a duffle bag he'd left at a friend's place where he'd been staying the week before. Him and I, small 2 room apartment with a shower down the hall, my cock getting to know his insides real well, his dick streaming out pre-cum like a leaky faucet. We got in the habit of getting off almost together, the muscles below his balls tightening right before he blew, driving me to empty myself just as he shot his own in quick, long-range bursts. When he rode me, I got in the habit of opening my mouth when I came, knowing that he'd shoot hard enough to get at least some of it into my throat. Most of it would soak my beard, and still to this day I can't get enough of him sopping it up and tonguing it back to me. I've got a lot more to say here, I'm realizing. Jake and Rob are still asleep in the bed, though Rob came out to piss and get a drink of water a little bit ago. You think I'd be spent already, with us all fucking earlier, but writing all of this has gotten me damn hard again. I need two hands to type, but I'd spit on my hand and was pulling at my foreskin when Rob came out. It took me a minute to realize he was watching me, his own prick poking through his boxers, and I almost had a go at him right then. It's happened before--Jake sleeps really soundly after fucking, and sometimes Rob and I will go at it again if I'm up for it. Usually, I'll either pull him into the shower and make him drink my piss, or bend him across the back of the living room couch, gagged with one of my work-socks, and pound his teen ass until he almost chokes on the sock. Rob seems to be as addicted to getting railed by me, a thick, hairy, tattooed mid-forties punk as his brother is. Ah--I haven't mentioned that part yet, have I? I'll wait to tell you what Rob looks like, `cause I'm gonna have to go impale him on my cock right now if I keep thinking about the kid. He went back to bed after giving me a hug and kiss, my hand still stroking my foreskin. He called me "dad," which he only does when it's just him and I. I'm not sure what Jake would think of this--mostly he'd probably just make fun of me, or maybe he'd start doing it to, and then my head would be all fucked up. So, yeah, Rob. That night Jake came over and moved in--that was a week after his cunt of a mother had been arrested not just for meth, but mail and credit fraud. You're probably middle class, reading this, so I gotta clear some stuff up for you real quick. The only difference between some of you middle-class fucks and white-laces is that you don't have the courage to wear boots. If you're thinking that this meth-and-crime thing is a trailer-trash or ghetto thing, go fuck yourself. The only difference between a fag who does meth and a welfare mom who does it is that you're throwing away a decent life, where she's got nothing to throw away because she's already in the gutter. Don't be a white-lace--she started out with nothing, just like the blacks and latins, whereas some of you start out with everything, playing the game of life on the easy setting. Alright, that's cleared up. If you couldn't get through that part, you don't deserve to read about me coming home to find my mate fucking his younger brother. So, Jake had been living with his mum and 9 year old brother at the time I met him. He'd been pretty much taking care of all three of them, working shit jobs to pay rent and buy groceries. Meanwhile, she's addicted to meth and gets it into her head to get rich by digging through the mailboxes of the middle classes. She gets arrested, Rob gets put into foster care, and a week later Jake's at my door. Back then, Jake tried really hard to make me think he had everything together and wasn't just some punk kid. It's funny to think back on all this, `cause he was (and still is), one of the strongest kids I've ever met. At 16 I was puking my stomach out on the street almost every night that I wasn't in juvie--I wasn't taking care of my addict mother and little brother. But it broke him really hard that he couldn't take care of his brother, and a few months after he moved in, he said something about how it was fate or something that his life fell apart a week after he finally got the courage to go to a punk show. He blamed himself--it was damn obvious, and kind of sad. We lived in that apartment for another year. I made him go get his G.E.D. so he could find something better than the shit jobs he'd been doing. Taught him how to drive, let him use my car. Took him to shows, introduced him to a few of my old friends who knew about my thing for guys. Even shared him in that first year with an old mate of mine, which is when Jake learned to fuck. It's a funny story, and I know I've been saying that I'm gonna write about Rob soon, so just skip this part if you don't want to hear it. Jake and I had gone to a hardcore show one night, a couple of bands we both liked. He still wasn't old enough to get into the bars, but there wasn't a single bouncer who'd question him when he was with me. Right before the headliners, this scruffy biker-punk named Steve (real name--he doesn't matter much either, and he's in jail at the moment, so he won't be reading this anytime soon) is rubbing my stomach, swearing loudly how "Marc's finally got a gut." Next thing I know, Jake's knocked him over, and I'm drunkenly trying to separate the two without pissing off my friend who's working bouncing. Show starts, and I'm trying to figure out how Jake's gonna handle finding out that I used to fuck Steve after shows at the same bar where I met Jake that night. But I'm too slow to figure something out, and suddenly Steve's wanking Jake's cock under his camo shorts while I'm staring dumbly. Jake keeps shooting pissed glances at me while shuddering as Steve jerks him, and the music's all loud. Somehow we all get back to our place. I was too drunk to drive, and I woke up in the passenger seat with no one around. I remember staggering inside, and though I must have made a lot of noise, neither of them seemed to notice me come in until I pulled Steve off of--or, really out of--Jake. I'd only been that blind-raged once before, when I watched a bunch of wanna-be white-laces knock a bag of groceries out of my Laotian neighbour's hands. I guess you can probably judge me for this, that I felt as angry watching a friend fuck my mate as I did watching an old immigrant woman get harassed by idiots. But fuck, I was angry. Steve had already loaded Jake once, was going for a second time, with me passed out in the car...fucking hell, I was pissed. Steve had been a hot fuck, clenching his hard-muscled body around my throbbing prick like a vise, but I didn't care much for him outside of that, and even less now. As well-built as he was, Steve was still not as strong as me. Also, I was so full of angry adrenalin that I probably could've taken four Steves. I can barely remember what happened, precisely. I had him from behind, wrestled him off of my boy's too-willing body, and threw him off the bed. I remember looking at Jake, staring at his stretched hole dripping with Steve's semen, and just before I completely lost my mind, I saw Jake's face staring back at me. He seemed to have neither fear nor shame, no anger or apology, like he was waiting to see what I'd do next. What I did next was brutal, and not something I'd feel okay telling you about if Steve had screamed "no." I didn't bother taking my jeans off--I had myself unbuckled and unzipped in a second and thrust every last bit of my anger and rage into him. He shouted, yeah--I made him say my name over and over again, so Jake wouldn't forget who it was who owned his ass and the ass of anyone else who tried to take what was mine. I made sure Steve couldn't reach his own cock. I knew something about him that Jake didn't--that the fit, the rhythm, the weight and the throb of me inside him could make him shoot without even touching himself. At first I held both of his arms behind him, pinning him to the floor as I pounded harder and harder. But then, as he got closer, I wrapped one arm around his chest, used the other for balance, and pulled him and myself on to our knees, all the while keeping myself inside him like a machine part, a piston unerringly punching into the tight cylinder of his cock. I held him there, my arm now covering his face, my forearm digging into his mouth just as his jaw tried to clamp down on the thick muscles gagging him. He was trying to shout, trying to breathe as I rammed him again and again, meeting Jake's calm, lusting eyes as I forced myself one more time, deeper into Steve than humanly possible and painted his innards with my angry cum, shouting a guttural, animal moan that meant both "fuck" and "mine." As I emptied my heavy balls deep into Steve, my anger and jealousy subsided and became something else, something weird. I--remember still staring into Jake's eyes, and if they could have spoken, they probably said "it's alright mate- now it's your turn." I pulled out of Steve, who gave a pained but estatic yelp, and then picked Jake in my shuddering arms and pulled him to me. He wrapped his legs around my chest, as he still reflexively does, but I turned him around, put him behind Steve, and then pressed myself behind Jake as I guided his cock into Steve's wet hole. I guided him in, urging him forward as his 6 inch cut dick pierced into Steve's cum-lubed hole. In all this time before, Jake had never fucked me, and he had told me he'd never fucked anyone before. I'd played with the idea of giving it up for my boy, but here was something just as good. It didn't take Jake long to let go, to feel the animal lust pushing himself forward into the place I'd just been. Though I was spent, I played with my boy's hole, fingering out the cum Steve had filled him with and feeding it back to him as Jake dug himself deeper and deeper into my now ex-buddy. I kicked Steve out when Jake finished inside him, and I never talked to him again. I held Jake after that, rubbing my jaw against his shoulder as he slept, seeing no reason to speak about the matter for a few days later. He'd been jealous, he said, when Steve told him I used to rail him. Why hadn't I told him? I was only a little angry, then--why had you left me in the car? What made you think I'd be okay with you taking another cock? And then he said something that sticks with me still--he told me he didn't know what love was, but he thought he loved me, and it scared the hell out of him. Before that, I'd never used the word love, except to tell some woman what she wanted to hear, and that was when I was much younger and realized I wasn't doing them any favors by telling them that. But I used it again, suddenly. "Yeah, I know. I love you too, Jake. Scares me a bit too. Guess that's settled." Okay. Rob. Fast forward a few years, yeah? Jake's mother gets out, but isn't allowed to see her youngest son. Rob's in some abusive foster home which some middle-class family who's got four kids of their own already. Jake tells me one day that Rob ran away and can he stay here for a bit? Maybe I should back up a little. Jake and I'd been living together now for about 4 years. About a year after I started fucking him, my place really started getting too small. Cheap rent, close enough to shit that I didn't need my car all that much, but too cramped for two guys. I'd been saving up money for a better place anyway, and Jake was working as a house-painter and finisher, so together we had enough money to move into something a bit better. Found us a 2-bedroom apartment in a pretty-run down area near all the rusting factories for pretty cheap. My mates, who'd been mostly quiet on the Jake-and-Marc thing, joked around a bit too much `bout us getting married or some other shit, but fuck `em. Four damn good years, three of `em in this new place with enough room for the both of us and then some. Got out of warehouse picking, found a job scrapping metal with an old mate of mine. Have to deal with the occasional meth-head trying to sell me what he thinks is copper piping but is usually just old iron turned all red with rust. It's kinda funny, even though its real sad. Couple of `em are pretty far gone, and the worst ones are all the fags wearing stained aberzombie shirts and scratching their faces off. Feel real bad for `em, and can tell they were probably a decent fuck before they started losing their teeth. So, four years of Jake and I. Not gonna say "boyfriends" or shit like that, though yeah, I started saying that love word a lot. Truth is, he's been my best mate, the best ass I've ever had, and something like a little brother, too. So, now we're at Rob. Last year, he shows up at our place and Jake's all not wanting to make him go back. Kid's thirteen, almost 14 now. By that age, I'd already been staying out all night, trying to stick my adolescent cock into any kind of hole that would let me. Hit juvie a few times that year, too, and though I'm not gonna say I knew what the hell I was doing, I wasn't no idiot, either. Jake had talked up his little bro a lot. Felt guilty he couldn't take care of him, and punched a hole through one of our walls one night when he was drunk and got to thinking about how they'd taken Rob away from him. I knew what Rob meant to Jake, and though I'm not the best at dealing with kids, I said, sure, why the fuck not. So Rob moves in to the side room, the one I'm writing all this down in. Jake had been using it for art shit, or just a place to hang. Also, Jake started bringing a few guys home, which pissed me off at first before I realized that I could get rid of all that anger real quick by pounding it into Jake (or, a few times, one of his buddies). Rob's 14 now, and looks a lot like his older brother though they're from different men. When I met the kid, I liked him a lot. An inch or two shorter than Jake, a slightly thicker build, red-brown hair. He'd just started to grow a bit of hair on his nuts (oi, yeah--I saw the kid naked pretty quickly after that, but it's not what you think. He showed up with no clothes except what he was wearing and stank like the street, so I made him take a shower a few hours after he showed up). Jake was pretty happy about it. I found Jake laying on our bed, his head hanging off the edge and a collar on his neck, waiting to thank me for helping his little bro by giving me his throat to fuck for an hour. And Rob seemed pretty happy, too. I don't know the whole story about what happened with that foster family, but I know it didn't take too long to figure out the desk jockey father of the family had been making his fostered boys suck him off. Some sort of deal, Rob let on--if you choked down Mr.'s smelly white-collar cum, he treated you like a real son for a few days, rather than some shit off the street. Sick. We were worried for a few weeks that someone from CPS would come looking for him, that I might get stuck in prison for a bit for child endangerment. Even put away a little extra cash for Jake just in case I got thrown in for awhile, so he could hold our apartment `till I was back and wouldn't have to worry about shit. But no one came for Rob. The system didn't give a shit about the delinquent son of a nobody mother. I mean, come on--they should have nailed that foster dad hard, let him see what it was like to have to suck off smelly prison dick while blood's running down your mouth and ass from the last three rapes. Don't get me wrong--I wasn't disappointed some underpaid social worker never showed up at my door looking for Rob. Too much to explain, and I got really attached to the kid. And Rob seemed to like me, not getting all bitter and sullen `cause I was an adult. And he figured out real quick that I was railing his older brother, and just said "it's cool, man, whatever." He changed quite a bit living with Jake and I. When he first showed up, he'd looked somewhere between an emo-girl and a soccer-jock. It didn't take long for him to want a pair of boots (which Jake bought for him a few weeks later) and cut all that long girl hair off into a mohawk. My mates'll all tell you that I can be a prick when I see someone trying to be someone else, so I rode Rob a little too hard about trying to be Jake one night. He kinda lost it on me, saying shit about me not thinking he was good enough and some other shit that made me think he was getting a bit jealous of what Jake and I were. And then, a few weeks later, he comes home wearing white laces. I fucking lost it on him--I pushed the kid into the bathroom and held him down while I shaved his head. Then, him still crying, I grabbed him, forced him into the car, and drove him into the middle of the section 8's near where I used to live, and made him walk home looking like a fucking fascist. Jake came home drunk from a bar, and actually fucking almost broke my jaw with his fist. I didn't fight back. I left, hit up the railyard that night where I used to go for extra cash 30 years ago, and pounded some twink's ass into next week against the wall of old ties. Even double-wrapped, I tore the rubbers straight through and, though the kid was begging to take all my cum deep in his bowels, I finished off on his face instead and tossed him a fifty. The kid even tried to give it back to me, telling me shit about how he'd take it for free anytime I was in a giving mood. I was still pissed from the fight with Jake, so I let loose on the kid, telling him he was better than all this shit and should go home to his mom. I'm a prick sometimes. It took a few days for Jake to say anything beyond "fuck off" to me. Rob was okay--he recovered pretty quick from the whole thing. He'd returned without incident (of course), and actually listened to me when I gave him a speech about how those guys should've ripped him apart for being a racist, but they're better than any white will be. He got the point, and though he wouldn't stay in the same room with me for too long, he didn't act like a little prick. Jake got over it all a few weeks later. Probably helped that I eventually apologized, sort of. The kid was only 13, after all, so maybe I was a bit harsh. The thing is, and I can admit this now, I was feeling something for Rob that pissed me off. I'd watch him watch me when we were around the house alone, or Jake and I when we were wrestling in the kitchen drunk. I'd meet Rob's eyes and see something that scared the hell out me. He looked more than just interested--he looked both jealous and aroused. Not good to watch the 13 year old brother of your 24 year old fuck-mate get hard looking at you. That's when I should've figured something was going to happen. But hey, you can't know everything, even what's going on in your own bed. So, fuck--here's what happened. A few months ago, I was working with a cutter at the scrap yard and got some metal splinters in my eye. Goggles had slipped off, and I was in a hurry, so I didn't re-adjust them. Nothing too bad, really--just a little blood, and I couldn't see out of that eye for a week afterwards. So boss sends me to the ER with all the worker's comp papers, and I'm there for only about an hour before they clear me to go home and tell me to take the week off. I didn't bother calling Jake, `cause I didn't want him to worry if it was nothing, so I drive home, a full two hours before I'm usually back. I'm all figuring I'm just gonna head straight to my room, lay down for a few hours because my head's killing me. Even before I'm in the house, I hear really loud music pouring out of the speakers in the bedroom, so I guess that Jake's home still. Once I get inside, I see Rob's door closed, so I assume he's not home. I stumble through the rest of the apartment, expecting nothing of the sight I was about to see with my one good eye. The bedroom door was open, music blaring (you wouldn't know the band), and I see Jake's got young punk bouncing on his cock. I'm fucking pissed, of course--my head hurts, my eye is fucking killing me, and my boy's railing some stranger. `Course, I can't see worth shit, so it takes me a few seconds to see who he's got, and I fucking freeze. Jake's fucking his brother. There's Rob, wailing like a little faggot on my boy's tool, and next thing I know I'm hard and even more pissed than I was before. I should've stopped it right there, huh? Fuck, probably mate. I--damn, I still think I should've listened to that voice telling me to rip Rob off of Jake's cock, knock their heads together kinda hard and give `em a lecture `bout how it's wrong to fuck your little brother. But I didn't. I stood there, watching. Neither of `em saw me pull my slab of meat out, spit on my hand and fuck my fist as I watched Rob's leaking pre-cum drool out on his brother's stomach. I edged myself, standing there in that doorway, `cause it was taking Jake a long time to dump into his little bro. Go figure--Rob told me later he'd already pumped him twice that morning. But I'm ahead of myself here. Rob came first, whelping like a little pup, moaning "yeah, bro" as if he were some douche-bag frat-kid. Then Jake let out this primal yell I'd never heard from the boy's throat, almost fucks the last of his seed into Rob so hard his little brother was about to fall off the bed. And then I come, going blind in my other eye for about a minute with the intensity. There I am, mid-forty year old hairy metal-worker, cum in my fist, and all I hear is, "oh fuck, Marc." Next thing I know, Jake's run out past me, doesn't even bother slamming the front door, jumps in my car and doesn't come back for two days. Oh, and then Rob starts crying and begging me not to kick him out. I can't think worth shit. The pain in my head and my eye is back, there's a naked 14 year-old still dripping his brother's cum from his ass standing before me, and I think all I managed to say was, "I'm going to bed." My whole world's fucking reeling, I want to break something. Still, my hand's wet with warm cum, Rob's in front of me, and though maybe I thought I was going to wipe off his tears, I end up smearing my cum all over the punk's face before crashing out. Woke up a few hours later, and I hear Rob's still crying, or crying again, and he's next to me in the bed, huddled up all fetus-like, naked. He reeks of sweat, of Jake. "Where's Jake?" I said. "He hasn't come back. He said he's not coming back, Marc." My head was a little bit better `till I heard this. "What? He fucks his little brother and decides to leave him here with me?" And then I'm all angry again, and I add "you repay me for letting you stay with us by hanging with white-laces and then figure, hey, why not get into incest along with fascism?" Rob seized up. "I stopped hanging with them, Marc. You were right. But--I...I've been wanting you and Jake since I've been here. You don't want me, but at least Jake does. Did, anyway. I guess he's fucking gone." I shouldn't have said all this shit: "Didn't fucking want you, boy? You want to feel my cock? You want to know what a real man feels like ripping you apart from the inside?" Rob suddenly cheers up. "Yes, Dad." I grabbed the back of his neck. "You don't get to call me Dad yet, boy. You're gonna have to prove yourself. If Jake's gone, I'm gonna need a new cockslut. Since you chased him away, you better be at least half as good or you're out." And fuck was the boy good. He was on me before I could even spit on my cock, but it turned out it didn't matter. All three loads from Jake were still in there. Good thing, I guess--Rob was still really tight, and I was pretty certain I would've broken him bad if Jake hadn't already loosened him up first. Even still, Rob screamed a bit when I was in. Though I was still pretty pissed, I suddenly found myself calming down. On my back, knees up, Rob leaning his own back against them with his ass tightly clenched around my rod like a vise, I'm suddenly feeling something I didn't want to feel. I like the kid. I mean, of course, mate, I'd been wanking off to his little half-man, half-boy body since he moved in, but it's kinda like how I felt the fifth or sixth time with Jake. I didn't just want to rail him, I wanted him around. So I went slow. Not what I think he'd been expecting or necessary wanting, but it was what I wanted. I don't know--some of you might call it "making love" or some shit, but fuck you. I pulled him down onto my chest, wrapped both of my hairy arms around his hairless back, and fucked him like he meant something to me. His head was next to mine, his mouth near my ear, and I could hear every thrust in his breathing, listen to his quiet moans and his gasps. There was enough sweat between us that his small prick, grinding against the fur of my stomach, got wetter and harder until I could feel hot streams of his boy-seed between us, and I could feel every muscle in this body tense up, enough to practically pull the cum out of me. Jake came back a few days later, which was good, since I missed my car. Well, whatever--I missed him, too. Or was worried. Or something. He told me he'd come to get his stuff, and he and Rob were going to find somewhere else to live. Rob was sitting on the couch when Jake came in, and when Jake said this, the little punk said, "why?" Jake had looked like a wet dog when he came in. It'd been raining, he'd probably been sleeping in the car, and now he looked like a beaten wet dog. I hadn't said a thing yet. Besides, Jake hadn't even really looked at me when he said announced he was leaving. It was, I gotta admit, kinda funny. "What do you mean, why?" Jake said to Rob. "You know why." "No I don't. Marc said I can stay here." I'm sure I was smiling when Jake finally looked at me. "What--whoa. What the fuck did you do to your eye?" I was trying to be angry, but couldn't. "Cute you noticed, punk. So--you gonna take away my new fuck-toy, or you gonna stick around and help me chew on him?" Jake looked like he'd been slapped. "You've been fucking Rob?" I'm pretty sure I laughed. "Oi--it's not incest when I do it, even though he's been calling me dad the last few days." Jake got really pissed at this. I wouldn't let him call me dad--never liked it, really, `cause it made me feel old or something. "Fuck you, Marc." "Nah," I said. "But I'd fuck you while you fuck your little bro. Where the fuck have you been?" I was pretty certain Jake was gonna bolt out the door again after that, but, ballsy punk that he is, he goes to the fridge, grabs a beer, and sits down on the couch next to Rob and just stared into nothing. Rob put his arm around his older brother, but Jake pushed it off after downing half the beer and said, "so--it was okay I was fucking Rob?" "Not at all, mate. It's fucking perverted, Jake." I grabbed my own beer, and got one for Rob, too. "But fuck. You already did it, and he wanted it, and we're all kind of fucked up here. But I'm more pissed off you left and took my car. So--you gonna stick around, or what?" Jake didn't say anything, though I could tell he was about to say sorry or some shit. Thing is, Rob interrupted him. We'd worked out this whole thing already, actually--if Jake ever came back, Rob was gonna strip and grovel at my prodigal punk's boots, and there he was in five seconds, licking the leather on Jake's Doc's. Jake figured it out real quick. "You're an asshole, Marc." "I know," I laughed, pulling out my cock and getting down on one knee behind Rob. "And we both missed you." I'm not gonna tell you much more. That was a few weeks ago, now. Jake stayed, of course. It took him a good few minutes of watching me fuck Rob while he licked Jake's muddy boots before he finally pulled out his own tool and started pulling. Rob was on his brother's cock in a second, enjoying being spit between the two of us. And though I'd always rather shoot in what I fucked, I pulled out of Rob just before, stood and painted Jake's scruffy face with my seed, and then kissed the brother-fucker and said, "welcome back, mate." And here we are now. We're at each other every day, at least once. I don't know where it's gonna go. I don't much care to know whether what we're doing is right or wrong--right and wrong is for white-laces and white-collars, not us. Right and wrong is what makes idiots think it's cool to be pricks to people with darker skin than them, or to harass people who speak five languages but none of `em English. Right and wrong is probably what makes some of you reading this think you can make stupid amounts of money while the rest of us scrabble in the run-down areas of your cities, trying to make a living out of old metal and stone. Know what? Fuck your right and wrong. And fuck you.