I sat at a small, sun-drenched table outside the cramped café, nursing an iced tea while scanning the lazy street. Brody’s apartment *was* in the so-called "center" of this place – a stretch of cracked pavement flanked by a hardware store, a dusty feed shop, and this lone spot serving decent sandwiches. Easy to find food, sure, but calling it a town felt generous. A beat-up pickup rattled past, kicking up grit.
Brody emerged from the café’s screen door, balancing two hefty paper bags. The white muscle shirt clung to his pumped chest and shoulders, the thin fabric stretched taut over every ridge. The dark jeans hugged his powerful thighs as he crossed the street, drawing slow, appreciative glances from a couple of older women nursing coffees at the next table. A flicker of satisfaction warmed me – *my* eye for style, *my* brother turning heads. He slid into the wrought-iron chair opposite me, the metal groaning under his weight. "Got it," he grunted, dropping the bags. "Smells good."
I unwrapped my half-baguette, the crust crackling. Inside, layers of thinly sliced roast beef, grainy mustard, and crisp lettuce spilled out. The first bite was perfect – salty, savory, cool. Brody had already torn into his own feast: a foot-long version of mine, overloaded with extra beef, plus a side container spilling crispy bacon and scrambled eggs onto the wax paper. He shoveled a massive forkful into his mouth, egg yolk glistening on his chin. "Starving," he mumbled around the food, flexing his bicep unconsciously as he reached for his soda. The red waistband of his boxers peeked above his jeans.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crunch of bread, the clink of ice in our drinks, and the distant hum of a tractor. I watched him devour his mountain of food, the focused intensity reminding me of his workout earlier. My own sandwich felt light, elegant compared to his fuel-station feast. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, catching my gaze. "What?" he asked, a chunk of bacon poised on his fork.
"Nothing," I said, taking another bite. "Just admiring the view. Again." I nodded towards his chest, the muscle shirt doing its job spectacularly. A slow, dopey grin spread across his face as he puffed his chest out slightly, utterly pleased. He didn’t need complex praise; the simple acknowledgment of his physique was enough. He went back to his eggs, contentment radiating off him like heat. The sun beat down, the food settled warmly, and the unspoken tension of the morning felt miles away, replaced by this easy, sticky summer afternoon.
He finished the last of his bacon, crumpling the wax paper with a satisfied sigh. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he leaned back, the wrought-iron chair creaking ominously. His gaze drifted past me, down the nearly empty street towards the feed store. A thoughtful frown, rare and slightly awkward, replaced his usual relaxed expression. "Y'know," he started, his voice lower, rougher than usual, "sometimes I wish... I had a girl." He paused, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. "Like, a real one. Not just... stuff." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the town, maybe the world. "This place? Ain't exactly crawling with 'em. Derek says the same." *Derek.* Brody’s gym buddy since forever. Solid, quiet, built like a brick shed. My interest sharpened instantly. This was new territory – Brody volunteering thoughts on his life, unprompted.
I kept my tone casual, leaning forward slightly. "So, what do you guys *do* all day? Besides lift?" I asked, swirling the ice in my glass. "You achieve anything cool lately? Besides those monster lifts you text me about?"
Brody shrugged, a massive roll of his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess. Work at the garage keeps me busy. Fixin' stuff. Pay's okay. Derek’s got his landscaping gig." He took a long pull of his soda. "But... finding someone?" He shook his head, the frown deepening. "Hard. Feels like... not much to offer here, maybe? Girls wanna go to the city, get fancy jobs. Not stick around for guys who just... work." He sounded genuinely perplexed, a hint of frustration beneath the surface. Then, his expression shifted, lightening almost imperceptibly. He met my eyes, his gaze steady, surprisingly clear. "But... with what we're doing? Right now?" He gestured loosely between us. "It kinda... helps. Don't feel that *need* so much anymore. Sex is sex, right? Even though a pussy is nice..." He trailed off, a faint blush rising on his neck. "This? With you? It’s... easy. Refreshing. Just... loosens me up." He looked down at his empty plate, a simple, almost relieved honesty in his words. "Yeah. It’s good."
His blunt admission sent a warm flush through me. He *enjoyed* it. As much as I did. It wasn't just a transaction; it was something he found satisfying, a release he valued. I felt a surge of possessiveness mixed with relief. "Glad to hear it," I said, keeping my voice light but sincere. "It’s good for me too. Takes the edge off." I paused, swirling the last dregs of my tea. "College starts soon. Gonna be busy. Honestly? Not really looking for anything complicated right now. Relationships, dating... seems like a hassle."
Brody nodded slowly, processing. "Makes sense," he rumbled. "You're smart. Gonna do big things." He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the tiny table, making it tilt. His gaze swept over me, assessing. "But... yeah. You suit guys' taste." He stated it plainly, like a fact about the weather. "Small. Handable." He gestured vaguely at my frame. "Easy to... manage. Like, flip around." He shrugged, utterly devoid of malice. "Guys like that. Derek says so too. He saw your picture once. Said you looked... compact." He grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Meant it as a compliment."
We talked a bit more about Derek – his latest deadlift PR, his perpetually broken-down truck. The afternoon sun felt heavy and warm. Then, Brody stretched, his muscles straining the thin white fabric. "Oh! Almost forgot," he said, snapping his fingers. "Me, Derek, and a couple – Pete and Olivia, you know 'em? – we're heading up to the mountains towards the end of the month. Got a cabin rented. Higher up. Still snow up there, they said."
"Snow?" I raised an eyebrow. "In spring?"
"Yeah! It's early enough," Brody explained, leaning in with earnest enthusiasm. "Here it's like, what, twenty degrees? Perfect. But higher up? Still minus degrees and colder. Some ski places stay open 'til mid-April. Derek checked." He gestured vaguely northward, towards the distant, hazy peaks visible beyond the feed store's roof. "They got snow machines too. Pete knows a guy who runs rentals up there. Cheap."
I nodded, understanding. "Sounds cool." The idea held appeal – crisp mountain air, the novelty of snow against spring warmth, and Brody in that environment. "How long?"
"Just one week," Brody said, leaning back again. "Leave Monday, back Sunday. Derek's driving his truck."
"Sounds like fun," I replied, finishing the last bite of my sandwich.
Brody grinned, a flash of genuine excitement. "Yeah! Gonna be awesome." He gathered our trash, crumpling wrappers with his big hands. "C'mon, lets go. Gotta hit the store. My fridge is empty again."
The afternoon slipped into a comfortable routine. We had walked a few blocks, been at the store, and now we were back at Brody’s apartment. The small space felt lived-in, warm with the fading sun slanting through the window. Grocery bags littered the counter – milk, bread, a mountain of cheap pasta, and the giant tub of protein powder Brody insisted was essential. "Okay," he announced, surveying the haul, "Operation: Not Starving Tonight. Go." He grabbed a box of spaghetti like it was a lifeline.
I took charge of the sauce, rummaging through his sparse cupboards. "Olive oil? Garlic?" I called out, finding both. Brody, busy wrestling a pot full of water onto the stove, grunted affirmatively. The simple act of cooking together felt surprisingly domestic, easy. I chopped garlic while he measured pasta with intense concentration, his brow furrowed. "That enough?" he asked, holding up a fistful.
"Double it," I advised, knowing his appetite. He grinned and dumped in another mountain. As the water boiled, I sautéed the garlic until it filled the small kitchen with its warm, pungent scent. Brody hovered nearby, watching me stir the sizzling pan with a look of simple fascination. "Smells good," he rumbled, leaning close, his arm brushing mine. The proximity, the domesticity, the lingering scent of his cheap body wash mixed with garlic – it was unexpectedly grounding.
We ate perched on stools at his tiny counter, bowls steaming. Brody inhaled his pasta, twirling enormous forkfuls. "Good," he declared between mouthfuls, sauce dotting his chin. I ate slower, enjoying the simplicity. The silence wasn't awkward; it was the comfortable quiet of shared exertion, of a day spent well. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum. The clock on his microwave blinked 6:15 PM. The easy rhythm of the day, the shared chores, the simple meal – it all felt strangely satisfying, a counterpoint to the morning's intensity.
Brody scraped his bowl clean, setting it down with a clatter. He stretched, the thin white muscle shirt riding up to reveal a strip of defined stomach above the red waistband of his boxers. "Full," he announced, patting his belly. He glanced at the clock, then at me, a slow, familiar warmth creeping into his eyes. The comfortable domesticity shifted, charged with the unspoken understanding that had been simmering all afternoon. The chores were done. Dinner was eaten. The apartment was quiet. Night was settling in.
He didn't rush. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching me. There was a thoughtful furrow between his brows, a slight tension in his jaw as he chewed his lip. He wasn't staring blankly; he was *thinking*. Or just gathering courage. I knew that look.
Casually, I pushed my stool back and walked the few steps to the couch. The bedding from last night was still rumpled on it. I sank into the soft cushions, pulling my phone from my pocket. The screen lit up, bathing my face in cool blue light. I scrolled absently through social media – pictures of friends at parties I hadn't attended, memes that barely registered. My attention wasn't on the screen; it was tuned entirely to Brody, waiting for his move. The silence stretched, thick and anticipatory.
He didn't make me wait long. With a soft grunt, he pushed off the counter. He padded across the worn linoleum, his footsteps heavy but deliberate. Instead of sitting beside me, he lowered himself onto the couch cushion *right next to me*. Not just close – his thick thigh pressed firmly against mine, radiating heat through my jeans. His arm brushed my shoulder as he settled in, deliberately invading my space. He leaned in, peering ostentatiously at my phone screen, his face inches from mine. I could smell the faint tang of garlic sauce on his breath, mixed with his own warm, musky scent. "Whatcha lookin' at?" he rumbled, his voice deliberately casual, but pitched low. His hand, large and warm, landed heavily on my shoulder, fingers kneading lightly into the muscle.
I tilted the phone towards him slightly. "Just scrolling." My voice sounded calm, unaffected, despite the sudden spike in my pulse where his thigh met mine. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on my shoulder.
"Boring," he declared, pulling his head back slightly.
The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken intent. His hand slid down my arm, rough palm grazing my skin. His other hand dropped, landing with deliberate weight on my thigh. He squeezed, his fingers digging in possessively. "Need something better to do." His gaze now locked onto mine. The invitation was clear, the heat radiating off him undeniable. The evening didn't end boring, just like the morning after.
***
The following week, an unusual calm settled over my usual restless hunger. Watching Dad – thick-chested – pad around the living room in his worn flannel shirt only sparked a flicker of appreciation, not the usual desperate throb. Brody had taken the edge off, leaving me sated but still simmering with anticipation for our next encounter.
A week and a half crawled by. Brody texted apologetically last weekend – double shifts at the garage. Disappointment prickled, but it was manageable. My bedroom door locked securely; my own hand provided a quick, efficient release. The craving for Brody’s specific heat, his sheer physicality, was a low hum, not a scream.
Then, out of the blue on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, Mom dropped it casually while chopping vegetables. "Oh, Brody's coming for dinner later," she announced, her knife tapping rhythmically against the cutting board. "He called earlier. Said he finally got a night off from that garage." A spark ignited low in my belly. *Brody. Tonight.* Dinner with Mom and Dad meant zero chance of anything explicit, obviously. But just seeing him, maybe catching his eye across the table, watching the way his broad shoulders filled the kitchen doorway… that was its own kind of thrill. The anticipation of his presence alone sent a warm ripple through me. I could play it cool, drop a subtle innuendo when Mom wasn't looking, maybe let my foot brush his under the table – innocent enough, but loaded with promise for later. "Cool," I managed, keeping my voice level. "What're we having?"
"Meatloaf," Mom replied, already moving on. "His favorite." Of course it was. Simple, hearty, just like him.
The familiar rumble of his truck pulling into the gravel driveway came just as dusk settled. I watched from the living room window as he climbed out, stretching his back with a groan audible even through the glass. He was in his usual work gear – faded jeans and a grease-stained t-shirt that strained across his chest. He looked tired, but his face brightened as he spotted me through the window. A quick, lopsided grin flashed my way before he headed for the door. That grin alone was worth the wait. The low hum of desire flared back to life, sharp and insistent. Tonight might be tame, but the game was back on. Just seeing him walk in, smelling faintly of motor oil and sweat, was enough. I met him at the door, leaning casually against the frame. "Hey, grease monkey," I greeted, letting my gaze sweep appreciatively over him. "Hungry?"
"Starving," he grunted, stepping past me into the warm, meatloaf-scented air. His arm brushed mine, deliberate and heavy. He paused just inside, turning slightly so his chest was angled towards me. "Worked straight through lunch." He didn't elaborate, just held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment passing between us before he called out, "Hey Ma! Smells amazing in here!" He moved towards the kitchen, leaving me standing there, the spot where his arm touched mine still tingling.
Mom emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She beamed at him, genuine warmth in her eyes. "Brody! Good to see you, sweetheart." But her smile tightened slightly as she took in his grease-streaked shirt and the faint smudges on his arms. "Now, go wash up properly before you even think about sitting down at my table. And grab one of your father's clean shirts from upstairs. You can't eat looking like you crawled out from under an engine." Her tone was affectionate but firm, the unspoken 'country woman who won't tolerate grime at dinner' rule in full effect.
Brody just smirked, a flash of amusement in his tired eyes. He gave a lazy, half-mocking salute. "Yes, Chef. Yes, Ma'am." He turned back to me, jerking his head towards the stairs. "Dad upstairs?"
"Yeah," I confirmed, falling into step beside him as he headed for the staircase. "Long day?" I asked, keeping my voice casual as we climbed.
"Exhausting," he sighed, the word heavy. "Two busted transmissions. But," his expression softened, "real happy about that meatloaf. Some good kitchen food is exactly what I need today." He sounded genuinely relieved.
At the top of the landing, Brody didn't head for his parents' room. He just raised his voice towards the closed door. "Dad! Ma says I need a shirt!"
Dad's deep, calm voice boomed back instantly, thick with amusement. "Well, Brody, you might have to take one of Mika's!" The door clicked open, revealing Dad holding a folded black shirt. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked past Brody, straight at me. "Though I doubt even your little brother's got anything that'd stretch over those shoulders of yours."
Brody just grinned, leaning against the doorframe, his bulk blocking most of the doorway. He didn't even glance my way. "Nah, Dad, I ain't gonna ask him. Mika's stuff? Wouldn't cover one bicep." He flexed the arm closest to Dad for emphasis. "Kid's practically pocket-sized."
Dad chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound, and thrust the oversized black shirt towards Brody. "Here. Try not to rip the seams, Hercules."
"Thanks, old man," Brody winked, taking the shirt. Dad huffed out a mock-offended breath, puffing his chest out slightly – a playful imitation of a grumpy elder, though the pride in his still-solid frame was obvious. The little tease done, Brody turned towards the bathroom down the hall. Dad and I fell into step behind him as he padded towards the big bathroom on the main floor.
"Garage busy?" Dad asked, keeping pace easily.
"Swamped," Brody grunted. "Old Johnson's pickup finally gave up the ghost."
"About time," Dad replied. They exchanged a few more words about the truck's ailments as we reached the bathroom door. Brody pushed it open, already pulling his stained t-shirt off over his head, revealing the expanse of his sweat-slicked back and the waistband of his boxers riding low. Dad paused at the threshold. "Alright, get cleaned up. Don't keep your mother waiting." With a final nod, he turned and headed back downstairs towards the kitchen and the scent of meatloaf. I lingered in the hallway, leaning against the wall just outside the open bathroom door, watching Brody. He tossed Dad's black shirt onto the closed toilet lid and turned on the faucet, splashing water on his face and neck, the muscles in his shoulders and arms working under his skin as he scrubbed at the grime. The water ran in rivulets down his torso, catching the light. He straightened, catching my eye in the mirror above the sink. A slow, puzzled frown creased his brow. "What?" he asked, his voice muffled by the towel he was using to dry his face. "You starin' at somethin'?"
I pushed off the wall, stepping into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. My gaze traced the powerful lines of his shoulders, the thick curve of his biceps, the smooth, clean-shaven expanse of his chest and stomach. The damp, clean scent of soap mixed with his underlying musk, sharp and masculine. "Just admiring the view," I said, my voice light but holding an edge. "Again. You really are built like a damn tank, Brody."
He grinned, puffing his chest out slightly, utterly oblivious to the heat behind my words. "Yeah? Thanks." He ran the towel over his armpits, the damp hair there dark against his skin. He seemed completely unaware of the effect his sheer physicality had on me, the way his presence filled the small room.
I tilted my head, a teasing smirk playing on my lips. "You really think I'm too small?" I asked, referencing his earlier comment.
He paused, towel halfway down his chest, genuine confusion flickering in his eyes. "Huh? Why you askin' that?"
I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. "Just wanna look good too, you know? For whoever." I let the implication hang, watching him closely.
Brody blinked, processing. Then, with his typical lack of filter, he shrugged his massive shoulders. "You *do* look good," he stated plainly. "Real different from me or Dad, but... yeah. Cute." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Actually... yeah. Real cute. Like... the kinda cute that'd turn a guy on, y'know?" He stopped drying himself completely, turning fully to face me in the doorway. He planted his hands on his hips, deliberately flexing his chest and biceps, showcasing the thick slabs of muscle. "That's what you want, right? Since you're gay?" He met my gaze directly, a simple, earnest question in his eyes. "Right, little bro?"
The bluntness, the casual flexing, the sheer lack of awareness – it was pure Brody. A wave of heat washed over me, settling low in my belly. He was offering himself as a visual feast, utterly unselfconscious. "Right," I confirmed, my voice a bit rougher than intended. My eyes traced the deep V-lines cutting down his hips, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.
He grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Good." Still dripping slightly, he reached for the clean black shirt on the toilet lid. As he bent to grab it, the powerful muscles of his back flexed, the damp skin catching the light. The sight was irresistible.
"Hey, Brody?" I stepped fully into the bathroom, the door wide open behind me. He straightened, shirt in hand, turning slightly with a questioning grunt. "Huh?"
"Just stay like that for a sec," I murmured, moving behind him before he could react. My smaller frame was almost swallowed by his broad back. I pressed close, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. My hands slid around his waist, palms flat against the hard planes of his lower abdomen, fingers tracing the deep grooves of his obliques just above the waistband of his boxers. He froze, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.
"Whoa," he rumbled, his voice thick. My hands drifted lower, skimming the dense muscle of his thick thighs, feeling the hair and the incredible power coiled beneath. "Mika... what're you...?"
"Just trying something," I whispered against his shoulder blade, my thumbs digging into the meat of his muscly thighs. I let my hands slide higher, tracing the defined ridges of his abs, feeling the muscles jump under my touch. "For research..."
Brody shuddered, a low groan escaping him. He hadn't moved, frozen like a statue under my exploration. "Uh... okay," he managed, his voice rough.
My hands roamed freely over the incredible landscape of his body. His skin was surprisingly soft, almost silky, stretched taut over the dense, chiseled ridges of muscle beneath. I could trace every defined ab, feel the deep grooves separating his obliques, the powerful swell of his chest. He stood awkwardly, his massive arms dangling uselessly at his sides, unsure where to put them as my smaller hands mapped his torso, effectively blocking his usual stance. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as my thumbs dug into the sensitive dip. I could *feel* the heat radiating off him, the subtle tremble running through his frame.
After a few lingering moments, savoring the feel of his warm, smooth skin and the hard muscle beneath, I reluctantly pulled my hands back, stepping slightly away. A teasing smirk played on my lips as I looked up at his flushed face. "So," I murmured, my voice low and suggestive, "you liked that?"
Brody blinked, snapping back to reality. He shook his head slightly, a dazed look in his eyes. "Yeah," he breathed, his voice thick. "Was... awesome." He turned fully to face me, his expression earnest. The prominent bulge straining against his jeans was impossible to ignore now, tenting the denim obscenely. I grinned up at him, my own pulse quickening at the sight. My mind was already racing ahead, picturing what awaited later.
"*Boys!*" Mom's voice, sharp and clear, echoed up the stairs. "Food's on the table! Get down here before it gets cold!"
The interruption was jarring, but I just grinned wider, seeing it as delicious foreplay. I met Brody's slightly glazed eyes. "Guess we better go," I teased, nodding towards the stairs. "Wouldn't want to keep Mom waiting."
Brody looked down at his obvious predicament, then back at me, a flicker of frustration and something like helplessness crossing his face. He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but even his simple, jock brain seemed to grasp the impossibility of staying. He let out a frustrated huff, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. "Yeah... okay," he muttered, grabbing the clean black shirt and yanking it on with jerky movements, trying to adjust himself discreetly as he did. The fabric stretched tight across his chest, doing nothing to hide his lingering state.
I followed him downstairs, my eyes fixed on the way the shirt clung to the powerful muscles of his back. He moved with a new stiffness, a self-consciousness that was almost endearing. At the dinner table, he sat opposite me, avoiding eye contact at first. Mom bustled around, serving generous slabs of meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans. Dad dug in immediately, praising Mom’s cooking between bites.
The conversation flowed easily. I chimed in with a few dry observations, making Brody snort milk out of his nose, which earned a hearty laugh from Dad and a mock-scolding from Mom. The food was delicious, warm, and comforting. Time slipped by unnoticed, the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of the TV in the background creating a cozy bubble. I watched Brody relax gradually, his shoulders loosening, his easy grin returning. He ate with his usual focused enthusiasm, polishing off two helpings of meatloaf and half the mashed potatoes.
As plates were cleared and stomachs were full, Dad pushed back his chair. "Alright, couch time before the news," he announced, already reaching for the remote. Mom started gathering dishes. Brody stood up abruptly, stretching his arms overhead. "Gotta hit the head," he mumbled, already heading towards the hallway bathroom upstairs. It was utterly mundane, just a biological necessity. But the sight of him walking away, sent a jolt through me.
"These jeans are murder after that feast," I announced casually, pushing my own chair back. "Gonna grab some sweats." Mom chuckled, stacking plates. "Good idea, sweetie. Comfort is key." Dad just waved a distracted hand, eyes already glued to the flickering screen. Perfect. I moved quickly, my footsteps light on the worn carpet. I reached the short hallway just as Brody’s hand closed on the bathroom doorknob. He was about to push it open.
"Brody," I called softly, stepping close. "Hold up a sec. Follow me."
He turned, confusion knitting his brow. "Huh? But Mika, I really gotta piss, like, *now*." He shifted his weight, a slight urgency in his stance.
"You can piss *after*," I insisted, my voice low but firm. I jerked my head towards my bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway. "Come on."
He hesitated only a heartbeat, his simple mind processing the command. The need to obey, ingrained from years of following my lead, overrode the immediate physical demand. "Okay...?" he mumbled, letting go of the knob. He trailed after me, his heavy boots thudding softly.
I pushed my bedroom door open, stepping inside. Brody followed, filling the space with his presence. I didn't close the door all the way, leaving it open just a crack – enough to see the hallway shadows and hear anyone approaching the stairs. It looked perfectly innocent: two brothers ducking into a room for a moment. I walked over to my neatly made bed, sitting down on the edge facing Brody. He stood awkwardly near the footboard, his brow furrowed in that familiar, confused puppy expression. He shifted his weight, clearly still needing to pee.
"So," I began, keeping my voice casual, leaning back on my hands. "Just wanted a moment. How've you been holding up?"I tilted my head, feigning mild curiosity. "Been a while."
Brody blinked, shifting his weight again. The confusion cleared slightly as memories surfaced – warm skin, shared breaths, tangled limbs. A slow grin spread across his face. "Yeah," he rumbled, voice thick. "Been okay." He paused, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Though... uh... mighta jerked off once or twice." He looked almost sheepish, like he'd broken some unspoken rule. "Couldn't hold it anymore."
I couldn't suppress a small, pleased smile. The idea that he'd been trying to 'hold it' for our time together was absurdly endearing. "Brody," I chuckled, shaking my head. "You're a young stud. You *need* that release. You don't gotta hold it for me." I met his eyes, letting my gaze drop meaningfully to the front of his jeans. "Though... I'd definitely welcome it. Big loads are kinda my thing."
His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "You... you like a big load?" he asked, genuine curiosity mixing with a hint of pride.
"I like *all* kinds of things," I murmured, leaning forward slightly, lowering my voice conspiratorially. My eyes locked onto his. "Things you probably don't even know about yet." I let the implication hang heavy in the small space between us, watching him process the information. Brody’s brow furrowed deeper, but a spark of intrigued excitement lit his eyes. He took a step closer to the bed.
Brody: "Like... what kinda things?" He shifted his weight again, the bulge in his jeans straining visibly against the denim. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "Stuff we ain't done?"
I grinned, leaning back on my hands. "Yeah. Stuff." I kept it deliberately vague, watching the confusion and intrigue war on his face. My gaze flicked pointedly down to his crotch. "You're getting hard again, Brody. Already." It wasn't a question.
He glanced down, then back at me, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Yeah," he stated simply, no shame, no boast. Just fact. Like noting the weather. "I am."
"Want me to help you out?" I offered casually, nodding towards his straining jeans.
Brody blinked, then shrugged, that familiar mix of confusion and compliance settling over his features. "Uh here... sure?" He fumbled with the button, his thick fingers clumsy. "Yeah, okay." The first button popped open, then the next. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free his half-hard cock, before pulling out his thick shaft. He didn't strip further, just letting his jeans sag low on his hips. The sight was instantly erotic: his heavy cock hanging against his thigh, framed by the deep V-cut of his hips and the powerful swell of his lower abs. But something felt incomplete.
"Your shirt," I murmured, nodding towards the black fabric stretched tight over his abs. "It's in the way." He didn't question the lie. With a grunt, he grabbed the hem, pulling it up behind his head, bunching it around his neck. Not off, just high enough to expose the carved ridges of his chiseled torso. The sight hit me instantly: His big pecs, the deep grooves of his abs, the powerful V-lines cutting down to where his jeans hung low. Perfect. I stayed seated on the bed's edge, reaching out to wrap my fingers around the base of his thickening cock. Brody let out a low groan, his hips pushing forward instinctively into my grip. He kept his hands at his sides, obediently still, just watching me stroke him with rapt fascination.
"So," I began, my thumb tracing the prominent vein along his shaft. "Keep it down, Brody. Walls are thin. Mom hears anything... game over." He nodded instantly, jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed on my hand working him. The thick pre-cum leaking onto my fingers made each stroke slicker, smoother. After a few seconds, his brow furrowed again. "You said... other stuff?" he whispered, hips twitching forward. "What kinda... stuff?"
I kept my strokes slow, deliberate. "You know," I murmured, leaning closer. "Where gay guys take it." His eyes widened slightly. "Not the ass," I clarified, watching his confusion deepen. "Think of it like... a man's pussy." The crude simplification landed perfectly. Brody blinked, intrigued. "Yeah?" he breathed. "You... you like stuff goin' in there?"
"Mmm," I hummed, twisting my wrist slightly on the upstroke. He gasped, abs flexing hard. "Feels incredible. Tight. Hot." I kept my voice low, hypnotic. "Better than any mouth."
Brody shuddered, his cock pulsing thickly in my grip. "Like... fuckin'?" he rasped, leaning forward slightly, captivated. "Or... fingers?"
"Both," I confirmed, speeding up my strokes just a fraction. "Fingers first... stretching it open." I saw the image click behind his eyes – *him* doing the stretching, *him* pushing in. "Then cock. Deep." His breath hitched. "Feels like heaven sinking into wet, tight heat." I painted the picture vividly, exaggerating the bliss, the surrender. "Makes a guy lose his damn mind."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Does it... hurt?" Genuine concern mixed with fascination.
"Only if you rush," I lied smoothly, my thumb swirling over his slick head. "Do it right... slow... lots of lube..." I watched his gaze grow distant, picturing it. "Pure pleasure. Makes me *beg* for more." His cock jerked in my hand, a fresh surge of pre-cum spilling over my knuckles. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a deep, ragged sound, his biceps flexing unconsciously as he fought to stay quiet. Every question he asked – about depth, about angle, about the sounds – I answered with lurid, enticing detail, weaving a fantasy designed to hook him deep. All the while, my hand never stopped, working his thick length with practiced ease, keeping him teetering on the edge without pushing him over. He was putty in my hands, utterly absorbed, letting me guide him deeper into this new territory.
I leaned in closer, my breath hot against his ear. "I can prepare myself," I murmured, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Make it smooth... clean... perfect for you." I felt his cock pulse thickly against my palm. "If you'd like to try... see what *you'd* like to do?" I pulled back slightly, watching his face. Confusion warred with the raw arousal tightening his features. He blinked slowly, processing. "Try...?" he echoed thickly. Then, the predictable, anxious question spilled out: "Would... would that make me gay?"
I barely suppressed an exasperated sigh. Straight guys and their fucking labels. I kept my expression neutral, my hand still moving slowly, deliberately. "Brody," I said, my tone firm but patient. "It's just... stuff. What you make out of it." I held his gaze. "One, maybe you're bi. Cool." I shrugged casually. "Two..." I leaned in again, emphasizing the crucial point. "*You* would be the one giving it. Not taking it." I paused, letting it sink in. "The guy taking it... *that's* the gay guy." I saw the flicker of relief in his eyes, the simple logic clicking into place. He wasn't the receiver; he was the powerful giver. That distinction mattered deeply to him.
His brow smoothed slightly. A hesitant, almost hopeful look replaced the confusion. "So... it wouldn't... make me...?" He trailed off, unable to say the word.
"Nope," I confirmed, squeezing his shaft gently. "Just makes you adventurous." I saw the spark ignite – adventure, dominance, exploring a new kind of power. "Wanna try?" I pressed softly. "See how good it feels?" The crude words, paired with my relentless stroking, were too much. His control snapped. A choked groan ripped from his throat as his hips slammed forward, his thick cock pulsing violently in my fist. Hot ropes of cum splattered across my fingers, my wrist, dripping onto the worn carpet between my feet. His entire body shuddered, muscles locking tight, head thrown back as the climax tore through him, silent except for ragged gasps. He stood frozen for a long moment, trembling, before slumping slightly, utterly spent. Below, the muffhered sounds of the TV and Dad's low chuckle drifted up the stairs. Safe for now.
"Yeah..." He then said, still in his stupor, breathing heavily as he leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. "Yeah, okay. Sounds... adventurous." His eyes, glazed with satisfaction, flicked down to where his softening cock rested against his thigh, glistening with remnants of cum. "So... when?"
I grinned, pulling my sticky hand back slowly. "Soon," I promised, savoring the anticipation already coiling in my gut. "But first..." I nodded pointedly towards the hallway. "You still gotta piss, remember? And Mom'll be yelling if we're gone too long."
Brody blinked, reality crashing back. "Oh. Right." He straightened up with a grunt, hastily tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans, fumbling with the buttons. He didn't bother pulling his bunched-up shirt down yet, leaving his sculpted torso exposed. He shot me a quick, almost shy glance before turning towards the door. "
"Thanks," he mumbled, a genuine, lopsided smile spreading across his face. "For... y'know." He gestured vaguely towards my still-sticky hand. "Was awesome."
"You're welcome," I replied smoothly, wiping my palm discreetly on the edge of my bedsheet. The simple gratitude, paired with that earnest smile, sent a warm thrill through me. It was pure Brody – uncomplicated appreciation for physical pleasure. He pushed the bedroom door open wider, stepping back into the hallway, before pausing just outside, glancing towards the closed bathroom door across the way. "Gotta..." he jerked his thumb towards it, urgency returning to his movements. He finally tugged his shirt down, hiding that glorious chest, and shuffled quickly into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. I heard the distinct click of the lock. Smart move, for once.
I stayed seated on the bed for a moment longer, listening to the muffled sound of his stream hitting the water. The scent of his release still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the familiar smell of my room – old books and dust. My own arousal hummed beneath the surface, a low thrum of anticipation. *Soon*, I thought again, the promise heavy and sweet. The image of him looming over me... it was almost overwhelming.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up. Time to rejoin the facade. I grabbed the grey sweatpants I'd pretended to need earlier, pulling them on quickly. As I stepped out into the hallway, Brody emerged from the bathroom, looking significantly more relaxed. He ran a hand through his damp hair, flashing me another quick, easy grin. "Ready?" he asked, nodding towards the stairs. The charged tension from moments ago had dissipated, replaced by his usual casual demeanor. Only the slight flush high on his cheekbones hinted at what had just transpired.
We descended the stairs together. Mom was wiping down the kitchen counter, humming softly. Dad was sprawled on the couch, eyes half-closed as the evening news droned on. "Took you boys long enough," Mom remarked without turning around. "Thought you got lost up there."
"Just changing," I said, dropping onto the armchair beside the couch. Brody sank heavily onto the other end of the couch, letting out a contented sigh as he stretched his long legs out. He grabbed the remote, flicking channels past the news until he landed on a rerun of some old sitcom. The familiar laugh track filled the room. Brody chuckled along at a dumb joke, completely at ease. I watched him, a slow smile curving my lips. The beast was sated, for now. Content. Oblivious. And utterly mine to unravel.
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