1.
When I was a boy, we’d take a trip every year or two to Atlanta, to visit my mom’s family. They were the Syrian side of my family, my mom’s sister and brothers, and an ever increasing number of cousins, four of which were boys, all older than me. They were a wild pack of kids, their skin bronzed by the Georgia sun, with a restless energy I rarely encountered at home, speaking — or yelling — with long drawn out vowels.
My mother, living in a state far from the rest of the rambunctious clan, cultivated a household that prized compliance above all else. She chose a kind, mannered man for a husband and had two daughters. By the time I came along the home was ruled by expectations of quiet and gentle routines. It seemed there was hardly a thing I could get into that my mother wasn’t aware of, her voice a constant caution against every potential misstep.
I was, it must be said, a good boy.
(Despite my general good behavior, you couldn’t say there was anything especially feminine about me. In fact for a couple of years I’d gotten in trouble for getting in fights with other boys, the only real problem behavior I’d ever had. I don’t remember it well. Just a blinding red rage I’d disappear into. I wasn’t a big boy, but when my fists connected, I tended to win. I remember coming to later, another boy on the ground or crying, and the hot feeling of shame intertwined with the unsettling thrill of domination.)
But in Atlanta, where I was suddenly thrown into the boisterous orbit of my boy cousins, things were different. They were their own masters from dawn until the sticky heat of summer dinners. Their parents were not only untroubled by their antics, they didn’t want to know. In fact the point, by mutual understanding, was less to not get into trouble, and more to keep news of it from reaching parental ears. If the boys got too loud or rowdy in the wood-paneled basement rec room each home seemed to have, they were simply turned outdoors, rather than being told to have indoor manners, as I would have been.
In my home, my mother expected to weigh in on every childhood dispute no matter how slight — the Court of Dolores. In Atlanta, the kids were expected to work out their conflicts by any means necessary to keep their parents out of it. I was shocked by how often the boy cousins spontaneously broke out into wrestling, a sudden tangle of sweat and grunts on the carpet, to work out a dispute, and by how satisfied everyone seemed with that raw, physical system of justice.
For my cousins, the aunts and uncles and parents were interchangeable. Any auntie might feed the pack of them a meal, any uncle might loosen his leather belt, the sharp click a warning, and even give chase to swat a few unruly behinds if things got too far out of hand.
(I’d been spanked a few times at home, but it was a sad, drawn out event, with talks from my poor father before and after about how he didn’t want to have to do this, his hand heavy with reluctance. In Atlanta a swat of a belt to the rear was spontaneous and unapologetic. There was a heat to it, and then it was done.)
The cousins often dared me to keep up with them, their eyes gleaming with challenge, doing things I’d never dream of back home. They tested the limits on how far I’d stray from what my mother would allow if her gaze were upon me. I always took them up on it, a knot of fear and excitement tightening in my stomach, and when I did, I felt a thrill beyond anything I knew in my quiet, predictable life.
It wasn’t only the headiness of the forbidden, though that was that. It was even more the unexpected pleasure I found in pleasing them. Their satisfied smirks, the almost imperceptible nod of approval when I dared to follow their lead, filled me with a kind of intoxicating pride that outstripped anything I’d ever found in my own solitary pursuits.
I was both excited and terrified by their wild boy energy, a constant hum of roughhousing and daring, struggling at the start of every visit to keep up with their quick, agile movements, and ending each trip trying to quell the unfamiliar stirrings within myself for the return to my mother’s ordered world.
In Atlanta it embarrassed my mother that I was not as wild, as effortlessly physical, as the cousins, but it vexed her when I was, when I shed my good boy skin even for a little while. She wanted me to be a good boy, but not too good a boy, a confusing and impossible balance to strike.
I had to wonder, as I lay in bed at night in one of their unfamiliar homes, if I’d grown up there with my cousins if my childhood fighting would ever have been a problem at all, or just boys being boys, a natural expression of pent-up energy.
In Atlanta, the rules were reversed. To be a good boy I had to be a little bit bad.
2.
I’d been a plump child—not obese, but soft, my belly gently curved. There was a distinct possibility, judging by how I rounded out with each passing month, I was likely headed toward becoming a butterball of a boy. I felt my mother’s worry in the tightening of her lips whenever I reached for seconds at dinner. She dreaded the thought of a plump, soft son while the other boys in her social circle, and certainly her athletic nephews, grew lean and handsome.
On top of that, the initial surges of testosterone brought an unexpected change: my hair began to curl. Literally. My mother, always meticulous about appearances, took me for the tidy trims I’d always had, but my hair now had a will of its own, springing up in stubborn spirals that resisted any attempts at taming. Having always battled a slight wave in her own hair, she fretted over mine as if these unruly strands sprouted directly from her own head.
Perhaps it was these changes, this slide away from her ideal of a neat and manageable son, that finally led her to relent on her characteristic thriftiness and her usual disdain for anything she deemed excessively masculine. She agreed to let my father purchase some basic, second-hand equipment for a makeshift home gym in the garage. I hadn’t even needed to deploy my secret weapon, the casual mention of how all the Atlanta boy cousins had their own weight sets (an argument I’d kept tucked away just in case).
It was a modest collection: a couple of well-worn barbells, a set of dumbbells, a creaky weight bench upholstered in cracked vinyl, a pile of mismatched free weights and a second-hand rowing machine that groaned with each pull. My dad, a kind and gentle man whose lineage traced back to the Mayflower, brought it all home piece by piece. He, the Harvard graduate who’d never quite lived up to my mother’s ambitions, quietly assembled the bench and offered a hesitant, “Should I show you how these work, Cole?”
“No, Dad,” I replied, a surprising certainty in my voice. “I know how.”
(We shared a name, a family tradition where names echoed through generations. He was a Junior, and I was the Third. To avoid confusion, I went by Cole, my middle name, at least within the familiar circle of family.)
To my own surprise, I took to the weights with an intuitive understanding. My body seemed to relish the challenge, the burn of muscle against resistance. I would never be tall, topping out at a modest 5’9”, but a different kind of power bloomed in me. I could grasp mechanical principles with a glance, my body mimicking movements with an uncanny accuracy. The garage became my sanctuary. And at school, the solid weight of the shotput in my hand felt like destiny. It was an obscure pursuit, hurling heavy metal spheres, but my body, it turned out, was built for exactly that.
When we next made the familiar drive to Atlanta, the soft edges of my childhood had melted away. The strange alchemy of puberty and the clanging iron in our garage, revealed the lines of a young athlete’s physique — though still framed by a head of unruly, curling hair, the familiar round glasses perched on my nose, a boyish cast to my face, and that persistent desire to please.
Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, flexing the growing curve of my bicep, I began to recognize the outlines of the faceless bodies I’d glimpsed on the packaging of men’s underwear when my mother dragged me along on shopping trips. It made me breathe harder.
3.
The boy cousins, each a few years a rung above me on the ladder of adolescence, were a study in youthful masculinity.
Aaron (or Aaron Jr., technically) was the eldest. He wasn’t the most strikingly handsome in a classical sense, but he moved with an easy confidence that drew others in. Even as a boy, his broad shoulders carried a mature build, and a warmth emanated from his perpetually sun-kissed skin and the honeyed timbre of his voice.
His tan, a deep bronze from summers spent under the relentless Georgia sun as a lifeguard, painted streaks of gold and wheat through his longer hair. Even the dusting of hair that had begun to spread across his broad chest was a soft, dirty blond, catching the light against his tanned skin. I’d never seen an adonis belt, that V-shaped groove above the hips, on a real person before, the way I did on Aaron in his cut-off shorts.
Baseball was his sport, and he played with a casual competence. His easygoing nature precluded any real competitive edge. He was simply good enough at everything, buoyed by a natural athleticism, self-possession and the innate charm he inherited from his parents.
Then came Tim and Tom, the twins. They were mirror images, possessing the most distinctly Syrian features among us boys. Their hair was a glossy, jet black, framing swarthy skin, straight, dark eyebrows, and eyes that seemed to absorb light.
Their mother, Aunt Ginger, had been a model briefly, and they’d inherited her sharp, angular features and sculpted lips, looks that seemed to have a potent effect on girls. Tall and lean-waisted like her, they had sinewy builds, the long, defined muscles of lacrosse players evident in their shoulders and arms, their movements fluid and quick. A light dusting of dark hair shadowed their armpits, legs, and forearms, lending them a slightly feral air, like twin satyrs.
Everything was a contest between them—a relentless drive to outdo the other, whether downing milk, sprinting across the yard, lifting weights, or, of course, the unspoken competition of conquests. Even their identical appearance felt like a contest in which they’d each tried to lay claim to one perfect set of DNA.
My cousin Jim was harder to categorize. The closest to me in age and build, though still shorter, he was the nearest I had to a reflection within this tanned, athletic group. We shared a boyish roundness to our faces, a similar unruly curl to our hair, and glasses.
An able wrestler, he always seemed well planted on his short, sturdy legs. He was the most clever of us, an only child treated almost as a peer. He had a knack for navigating the edges of the other boys’ mischief, close enough to be involved, yet somehow maintaining a plausible deniability if things went sideways.
4.
By the time we were next together, after a lapse of a couple of years, I’d begun to inhabit my new body. I was still marveling at the changes in my muscles, eager to test their limits like a new toy. At the same time, a gnawing frustration grew in me as I lacked an outlet for the mounting urges I felt, as a gay teen in the quiet suburbs.
The boy cousins, too, had visibly matured. They were bigger, their shoulders broader. Their movements carried a new weight, on the brink of adulthood. Their youthful roaming for mischief had evolved into a pursuit of girls, with varying success, judging by their knowing glances and shared stories.
The twins, Tim and Tom, in particular, preened with the self-assurance of young men who believed themselves to be irresistible. They invested time in their appearance, their clothes fitting just so, their hair carefully styled. Jim, surprisingly, the youngest and the least overtly concerned with his looks, was the only one with a steady girlfriend, a pretty girl who seemed as intelligent and grounded as Jim himself. Aaron, as always, seemed to effortlessly attract more attention than all of them combined; it wasn't just his age, there was an undeniable magnetism about him.
My holiday weekend visit, however, put a temporary halt to their pursuits. The boys were expected at the extended family dinner and, for the evening, confined to the house with me, treated like the younger cousins they once knew, rather than the testosterone-fueled young men they had become.
We were relegated to the familiar territory of the basement rec room, a space that held echoes of our childhood. The old gaming system gathered dust alongside the forgotten board games and dartboard.
Jim, ever the outlier, settled with a book, while Aaron scanned the room, looking twitchy for any form of easy amusement. The twins paced, a palpable restlessness radiating from them.
“What a waste of a weekend,” one muttered, kicking at a stray board game box. “Could be out there finding some sweet thing… you know, creamy skin, getting in the pink,” the other added with a suggestive smirk. Denied the possibility of a sexual conquest, a restless energy simmered beneath the surface. Even I could sense it.
Jim eventually unearthed the Risk game, and Tom and Tim engaged in a brief, intense arm wrestle to determine who would choose their territories first. But the initial burst of energy quickly dissipated, and the colorful pieces remained scattered in the box, the rules forgotten.
The twins, needing physical exertion, began to idly play with some free weights. Their movements were competitive even in this aimless activity, each trying to lift a little more, a little longer. Feeling a similar restlessness, I gravitated towards the weight bench.
None of the cousins had witnessed my transformation. The last time we’d been together, I was still carrying the softness of youth, my voice yet to fully deepen, the first faint sprouts of pubic hair just appearing. They had no idea what lay beneath my clothes now.
I started with some bicep curls, the familiar burn a comforting sensation, then moved to bent-over rows, feeling the pull across my back. I finished with three sets of bench presses, the weight a satisfying pressure on my chest. When I stood, my muscles felt tight and swollen, a sheen of sweat dampening the center of my t-shirt. *I was strong. I had done this.*
I straddled the bench, the cool vinyl against my thighs, and secured the wrist wraps. My fingers brushed against the knurled steel of the barbell as I considered a set of deadlifts—when Aaron’s voice cut through the quiet.
“You got fit, Cole,” he observed. His tone was casual but his gaze lingered. He was sprawled in a reclining chair, his long legs stretched out, hands laced behind his head, the dark, intriguing shadow of his armpit hair visible beneath the edge of his t-shirt sleeve.
A strange heat bloomed in my chest. How often had I longed for this – for all of them to truly see me – during those earlier visits when puberty had begun its clumsy work on me, their bodies already so much further along, hinting at a manhood that felt distant and unattainable?
“Sure did,” one of the twins, Tim, replied, his eyes circling me with a new curiosity.
“What’re you hiding under there?” Tom asked, a playful smirk on his lips as he flicked the fabric of my t-shirt with a pointed finger. He and his brother began to move around me, a silent, predatory circling.
An unfamiliar thrill of nervous anticipation coursed through me. I recognized that tone in their voices, the same playful goading from our childhood, testing the boundaries of the ‘good boy.’ Would I still flinch away from their dares, or could I meet them on their own rough-and-tumble ground? And if I did, and if I got hurt, would I still run to my mother’s skirts, or would I finally stand my ground?
“Nothing,” I answered, my voice a little rougher than usual. With a deliberate movement, I pulled my t-shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden exposure of my chest. It was a vulnerability I hadn't embraced before, a shedding of the familiar shyness that had even plagued me at the beach. But beneath the fear was a burgeoning sense of pride in the body I had forged.
“Look at little Cole, all grown up,” Tim murmured, his gaze lingering on the curve of my shoulder, the flex of my bicep.
“Smooth too,” Tom added, reaching out a hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the line of my pectoral muscle, a casual touch that sent a surprising shiver through me. His fingers then grazed my nipple, pale against my creamy skin. “Pink.”
Unlike my cousins’ bronzed skin and the fine mat of hair that covered their chests, my own skin was pale, the expanse of my chest and stomach nearly bare. My mother’s fair complexion was a stark contrast to her siblings’ deeper hues, and my father’s side of the family was a study in blondness.
“Hey guys,” Jim interjected, his voice quiet, almost swallowed by the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere.
We’d had so many holidays, so many shared spaces, but this felt different. We were no longer just boys. There was a new, unspoken charge in the air.
“Keep going,” one of them urged, and I resumed the push presses, the weight feeling heavier now under their focused gazes, but my determination grew too. Sweat slicked my skin, tracing hot paths down my sides.
The twins counted my repetitions, their voices now holding a note of genuine admiration that resonated deep within me. No one had ever watched me like this before, their attention so intense, sizing up my potential. But for what, exactly?
Mirroring my action, Tim and Tom simultaneously pulled off their own shirts, revealing the broad, tanned planes of their shoulders and the sharp V-tapers of their backs. Their movements were perfectly synchronized as they flexed their own biceps, the muscles bunching and releasing beneath their bronzed skin.
With a playful challenge in their eyes, they slapped my pumped chest, their hands firm and coppery against the swollen muscle under my ivory skin. Something was shifting in the room, and though I didn’t know exactly what it was, at least one cousin did.
“Guys… guys,” Jim repeated, his voice rising slightly, but his plea seemed to dissipate in the charged air. He sighed, a small sound of resignation.
“Gentlemen,” Aaron drawled again from his reclining position, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips, “I think we may have our pastime figured out.”
One of the twins – in that moment, they were indistinguishable – straddled the bench behind me, his hands surprisingly warm as they wrapped around my pumped chest, his breath a sudden heat against my ear. The other twin settled onto the bench in front of me, his gaze intense, almost predatory, as he lowered his head, pressing his lips to mine.
The kiss was unexpected, a jolt of pure sensation. His tongue slipped into my mouth, a bold but welcome invasion. My eyes fluttered shut, a wave of unfamiliar feeling washing over me as I felt the snap of my shorts’ button, the rasp of the zipper. The cool air then hit the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen as my briefs were nudged down, revealing the sudden, vulnerable stiffness of my cock.
5.
Tom and Tim were a warm, insistent presence against me, their hands and mouths moving with a shared hunger. The rasp of their zippers preceded the reveal of their thick, dark dicks springing free, nestled in the groomed hair at their groins.
As their hands mapped the contours of my chest and belly, the curve and crevice of my ass, a thrill shot through me, a potent mix of vulnerability and a strange new sense I couldn’t articulate. Maybe I felt, for the first time, seen.
My own hands, tentative with inexperience, mirrored their exploration, the hard flex of their muscles under my fingertips, the surprising heat and weight of their erections a revelation. When they guided my face into the musky heat of one of their armpits, the raw, male scent filled my nostrils, igniting a hunger in me for more.
My body felt less like my own and more like an offering, willingly presented.
Then, hands — both gentle and firm — steered my head down towards the throbbing heat of one of their hardons. My mouth opened, a shy invitation that deepened into a more eager acceptance as the smooth, hot head pressed against my lips, nudging its way further until it bumped against the back of my throat.
A fleeting gag reflex seized me, a momentary rebellion against the invading flesh. But their hands were firm, their silent encouragement palpable. I consciously relaxed, pushing past the initial awkwardness, a strange heat beginning to unfurl low in my belly. The wet slide was still foreign, a sensation that made my eyes water slightly, but beneath the initial surprise, a different kind of awareness began to bloom. Like everything physical I’d attempted, I could do this.
The intensity at my rear shifted, the probing becoming more insistent, and a different voice cut through the humid air. “Hold up,” Aaron said, rising from his seat
“Hold up,” he said, rising from his seat, the bulge in his shorts straining with his arousal. He ducked into the bathroom and emerged moments later with a plastic bottle. It was almost comical — Southern ladies lived and died by their moisturizer, and there was scarcely a bathroom in the region without at least a utilitarian dispenser of the stuff, even in this wood-paneled basement rec room.
“Guys,” Jim said again, his voice a thin thread of protest, but Aaron’s attention was elsewhere. He told Jim if he wasn’t going to join in he could sit on the stairs and keep guard.
Aaron tossed the bottle to the twin behind me. I could hear the soft squelch as the lotion was dispensed, and then felt the cold, slick wetness against my hole, fingers roughly working it in. Though I’d never been with another person like this, I’d engaged in my own clumsy explorations, using whatever approximations of a cock I could find in my parents’ house. And yes, moisturizer had often been involved.
Fingers then spread me open, the cool slickness of lotion a stark contrast to the sudden invasion that followed. A sharp intake of breath escaped my lips as the smooth, blunt head of a cock breached my virgin tightness. There was a moment of sharp discomfort, a stretching sensation that made my inner muscles clench instinctively.
My breath caught and my heart raced, but as the pressure continued, a strange yielding began, a reluctant acceptance. A deep sigh, not mine, followed as it pushed further, stretching me in a way I hadn't imagined. Twin pairs of hands gripped my hips, anchoring me, while other hands tangled in my hair, pulling my head more firmly onto the thick vein throbbing against my tongue. The initial discomfort began to recede, replaced by a comforting ache, a strange fullness that hinted at a profound satisfaction.
Aaron came over to inspect the situation from all angles. “Jesus Christ, you took that easy, Coley,” Aaron’s voice murmured, a low note of impressed surprise.
My own erection, heavy with a slick sheen of precum, pulsed, dripping a stream of precum onto the weight bench below. He reached out to give it a stroke with his own hand, sending tremors of pleasure through my body. “That’s a stud cock.”
He smoothly swapped places with the twin I was servicing, his presence suddenly looming over me. I felt the twins’ hands on my hips, the hardon sliding out of me, and another taking it’s place before I could even fully feel the absence of the first. From behind me, a low, guttural, “Fuck yeah.” The thrusting into me was immediately harder, a raw, insistent rhythm as some unseen competition seemed to ignite between them.
Then, Aaron was there, his own shorts dropping to reveal a thick, heavy cock, noticeably larger than the brothers’, the smooth head gleaming. My mouth opened almost instinctively, drawn by its sheer presence. “Oh yeah, Coley,” he breathed, his hand resting on the back of my head, guiding me gently, firmly, until the head of his cock pressed against the back of my throat, triggering another, milder gag. I consciously swallowed past it, a desperate need to please overriding the lingering discomfort. “Oh fuuuuck.”
The twins’ rhythm intensified, their thrusts becoming deeper, faster, the pounding resonating through my entire body. A heavy slickness surged from my own cock, an embarrassing testament to their touch.
The twins swapped in and out, their thrusting into me growing harder. The relentless dual assault, the stretching and fullness both in my mouth and my ass, began to test the very limits of what I could physically manage, a strange, breathless endurance test.
Aaron, sensing a flicker of distress in my twitching muscles, pulled my head up to rest against his shoulder, his hand stroking my hair in a surprisingly tender gesture. “Coley, look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You’re a fucking stud, taking both of those pricks like a champ.”
“I… I…” I gasped, the twins’ forceful thrusts rocking my body, stealing my breath. The words *I can’t* hovered on my lips, but Aaron’s solid presence held me grounded.
“Shhh,” he whispered, the rough stubble of his jaw brushing against my cheek. “You’ve got this. You’re our good boy.”
I eased into it, Aaron’s voice and touch stilling my uncertainty. I did have it. Like my weight training, I knew how to use my body, how to hold and where. My resistance tempered and I felt the cock sliding into me more easily, taking it deeper. The reward was new waves of pleasure, stars flicking under my eyelids.
Aaron nodded to one of the twins, a silent communication passing between them, and then gently guided my head towards the newly offered cock, the smooth head pressing against my lips, and I swallowed it down, the stretch more familiar, almost welcoming now. The weight bench groaned beneath me, a soundtrack to the intense rhythm of the twins fucking me, ass and mouth. I heard Aaron’s low command. “Alright, wrap it up. I want my turn.”
The twin at my rear suddenly lunged deeper, a primal surge that made me cry out, a raw, guttural sound. “Fuck! FUCK YEAH!” he roared, his body tensing as he shot his load deep inside me, a hot, thick pulse. I felt my own cum churning, tracing the very edge of my own release.
The twin at my head interrupted it, his cock in my mouth growing even harder, a thick, throbbing pressure, and then a hot gush filled my mouth, coating my tongue, flooding my throat. I gagged, reflexively trying to break free, to breathe. But a hand clamped behind my head, holding me firmly in place, forcing me to swallow again and again, as my body again eased, enough. “There you go,” he whispered, his breath hot against my face. “Take it all, Coley.”
As the last shuddering pulses wracked their bodies, a sharp, insistent rap echoed from the basement door.
6.
The sharp knock at the basement door echoed the abrupt halt in the room's charged atmosphere. “You boys making trouble down there?” a voice boomed down the stairs, Tom and Tim’s dad.
The twins froze mid-motion, their taut bodies suddenly still. Even my own mounting climax subsided.. Only Aaron seemed at ease, putting a finger to his lips. *Shhhhh*
“Just wrestling around,” Jim called back, his voice surprisingly calm from his perch on the stairs.
He turned to us and shrugged.
I lay sprawled on the weight bench, exposed and strangely raw. Time stretched, fear of the door opening mingled with the thrill of what we were doing. Aaron’s hand settled on my back, a warm, grounding presence in the sudden shift of energy.
A long, held breath drifted down from upstairs. Then, my uncle’s grudging reply finally came: “Well, see there’s no damage.”
A collective exhale filled the basement. Aaron chuckled softly, his fingers tracing a path down my sweaty spine before slipping into me with a knowing ease. “Maybe just a little.”
Flipped onto my back, I watched as he entered me, slow but steady, his substantial cock sliding into the slick warmth that the twin had left behind. He found a slightly different angle, a deeper purchase, filling me with a more profound sense of fullness than his brothers.
As he settled inside me, a subtle softening came over his features, a settling in of pure pleasure that mirrored the spreading warmth within my own body. His gaze was locked on mine, a small, encouraging smile playing on his lips as he sank deeper.
“When’d you get to be a hot lay, Coley?” he murmured, bracing his meaty forearms on the barbell rack, his muscular frame looming over me in a way that felt intensely personal. The contrast of his tanned skin against the pale of my legs was suddenly, acutely erotic.
He began to move, a slow, deliberate grind that resonated deep within my core. He would almost withdraw completely, then slide back in with a possessive glide, leaving my insides aching for his return. My own hand instinctively wrapped around my slick cock, coaxing more precum as he continued to fuck me with a steady rhythm.
“That’s a sweet cock,” Aaron observed, his gaze flicking down to my hand. “But I don’t think that’s really your thing, is it, buddy?” I shook my head, a quiet acknowledgment of a truth that had only just begun to take form within me.
“You’re too good a hole. Made for getting fucked,” he grinned, his free hand now cupping my chest, his thumb stroking my nipple with a casual possessiveness. “And those tits are world class.” The way he lingered on the word *tits*, his voice a low murmur, sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through me.
I didn’t have words to reply, but a fierce thrill shot through me at the way he so casually reduced my body parts to simply objects of his desire, objects to get other men off — which felt like their truest purpose. Pecs were manly, yes — I lifted and threw shot put, for fuck’s sake. But tits… tits were there for men’s mouths and hands. For men’s pleasure. And Aaron loved grabbing at mine. His blatant appreciation was a potent turn-on for me. The thought alone made my inner muscles clench around his invading hardon, drawing guttural groans out of him. “Ohhhhh.”
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming more urgent, his cockhead finding a sensitive spot deep within that sent unexpected shivers through me. “Oh yeah, Coley,” he breathed, seeing the flicker of pleasure on my face. “We’re gonna get you off so good.”
He pinned me to the bench with the weight of his hand on my chest, his long fingers splayed against my skin as he pounded into me with a more insistent rhythm. His long hair, escaping its loose restraint, fell across his face in streaks of sun-kissed blond. “Do it, Coley,” he urged, his eyes dropping to my hand on my cock, a slow lick of his lips adding to the charged atmosphere. “Give me your load.”
I was close, the edge a tantalizing nearness, but still he continued to fuck me, his big, insistent cock drawing out my climax in long, shuddering pulses. Hot spurts of cum shot across my belly, spraying my tits, his hand pressing me down, a visible testament to his dominance. The contractions in my ass tightened around him, milking him as he gasped, thrusting even deeper.
“Oh fuck yeah,” he groaned, pumping his release into me. “Holy FUCK – take it in your fucking hole.”
His movements gradually slowed, his breathing becoming ragged. He slid out, leaving a sense of emptiness in his wake.
A soft press of his lips to mine came first—a fleeting touch, less a full kiss and more a lingering trace of the intimacy we'd shared, the briefest flicker of his tongue between my parted lips. Then, a final, almost brotherly pat on my rear. “You’re a good boy.”
A deep rumble resonated within me, a lingering echo of Aaron in me.
“A good hole,” one of the twins chuckled, the tension in the room beginning to dissipate like smoke. “Cole the Hole,” his brother echoed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
William. Will. Those were the names I answered to in the world outside this basement. Cole at home. But here, in the sweaty aftermath of the encounter, I heard the twins call me by my most true and secret name, Cole the Hole.
7.
Jim always shared his bed with me on these Atlanta trips. We were the youngest of the cousins, our mothers the only sisters, and before my body changed, we even looked somewhat alike with our glasses and curly hair.
This trip was no exception. We climbed into his twin bed as had dozens of times before, a routine we’d followed since earliest childhood. But this time I felt like anything but a child.
I should have been exhausted, but my insides still felt restless, a deep thrumming echoing from the intense fucking. I rose and went to the bathroom where I let my body purge whatever remained in me of my older, more masculine cousins. It was a long-held fantasy made real. My ass throbbed with a dull ache, a physical testament to the night. It had been worth it. So worth it.
Standing before the mirror, I studied the contours of my shoulders, the defined curve of my chest, the flatness of my belly. There were finger-shaped bruises blooming on my hips. A thrill, both unsettling and satisfying, ran through me. My body inspired the attention, the lust, of my handsome older cousins. The chubby boy I once was would have remained invisible. Now, I was something to be desired, a body to be used.
I should have resisted the reduction, the objectification. Instead I felt giddy. I had made my body, through sweat and effort, for their pleasure. And in their pleasure, I found my own. I could imagine the assumptions of girls, of women, seeing this newfound muscle as a sign of dominance, or to be put in their service. But men…other men would understand the unspoken offering. I was their vessel.
I crawled back into bed, turning onto my side. Almost instinctively, Jim spooned behind me, a familiar warmth against my back, a closeness that had always been a silent comfort.
But this time, there was a difference. I felt the unmistakable pressure of his erection against my ass.
There was a slight wetness from his spit, then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cockhead probing my still-raw entrance. There was a sharp, involuntary clench as he thrust into me. It stung, but as it had earlier, the discomfort was replaced by a strange, almost bruised receptivity. No words were exchanged. None were needed. He knew.
He held me close in his wrestler’s grip. His hips began to pump against me, a steady beat pushing his erection deeper with each thrust. His breathing grew more rapid, each exhalation a gasp. His other hand clamped onto my chest, kneading the plush in a possessive squeeze that made me arch slightly. “Those fucking tits,” he groaned, the words hot against my neck, his breathing a series of quick, shallow gasps. A shudder ran through his body, a visible tremor that vibrated against my back, and then he came, his load pulsing deep inside me with a series of intense contractions
Fuck. Even Jim. The finality of it settled over me.
He remained there, a heavy warmth against my back, letting his release ebb within me. His lips brushed the nape of my neck, claiming my body for his own.
I was a good boy. I was the best boy.
END
