It was about an 15 minutes after Brody and I had collapsed onto the couch in a satisfied heap—him sitting totally relaxed and content with our earlier activities, his back leaning against the cushions, his legs spread comfortably apart, his thick thighs relaxed and slightly parted, and his broad chest highlighted under the golden glow of the late afternoon sun streaming through the window. The only thing he’d bothered to keep on were his socks, the rest of him gloriously bare, his softening cock resting against his thigh in a way that was somehow both lazy and obscene. I lay stretched out facing him, my own body still humming with warmth, watching as he fiddled with the TV remote—his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, tongue peeking between his lips as he clicked through channels with the same single-minded focus he gave to everything.
Watching Brody in the aftermath was almost better than the act itself. His contentment radiated off him in waves—shoulders loose, chest rising and falling steadily, fingers occasionally brushing over his own abs, not even knowing how hot he looked doing it. The way his lips curled into a dumb, sated grin every time he glanced at me made my stomach flip. He was so *easy* like this, so utterly pleased with himself, with us.
His gaze kept flicking back to me—slow, lazy glances that lingered on my bare thighs before dragging up to my face, like he was checking... or whater. Like he just wanted to see me there. Every time our eyes met, his grin widened—not the sharp, knowing smirk of someone plotting, but the dopey, unfiltered delight of a golden retriever who'd just been told "good boy." It made my chest tighten. Fuck, I had him. Really had him. Not just physically—though god, the way his thick fingers had trembled against my skin—but *like this*, loose-limbed and happy, like what we'd done was as natural as breathing.
For a second, I wondered if he grasped how fucked up it'd look to outsiders. Brothers shouldn't *know* each other like this—shouldn't memorize the way the other gasped when fingers curled just right. But then I remembered how fast he'd snatched that trash bag over his crotch when Derek walked in earlier, how his entire body had gone stiff with panic. Not stupid enough to get us caught, then. Just... simple. Beautifully, *usefully* simple. His thoughts probably ran in straight lines: *Mika feels good. Want more. Don't let Derek see.* No guilt, no existential crisis—just hunger and a vague awareness of secrecy. Perfect.
The remote clattered onto the coffee table, jolting me from my thoughts. My gaze snapped up just in time to see Brody heave himself upright—his thighs flexing thickly as he leveraged his weight forward, the muscles in his shoulders rolling under golden skin. The motion was effortless, fluid, like his body was built for movement even in lethargy. His side profile cut a sharp silhouette against the late afternoon light, trapezius sloping into the corded lines of his neck, the dip of his waist leading down to his hips and ass.
He bent at the knees—not the waist, because Brody had spent too many hours under barbells to forget proper form even when picking up laundry—and his thighs flexed like overstuffed sausage casings, the fabric of his socks straining around his calves. The sweatpants were inside out, one leg stubbornly twisted, and he huffed through his nose as he wrestled with them for a solid five seconds before giving up entirely. "Fuckit," he muttered, flinging the tangled fabric at my face with the casual accuracy of a man who'd spent his childhood tossing footballs through tire swings.
The waistband smacked against my cheek, smelling faintly of detergent and that unmistakable musk that clung to everything Brody owned. I peeled them off my face just in time to see him scratch idly at his package, fingers dragging through the sparse trail of hair leading south. His brow furrowed like he was solving advanced calculus when he grumbled, "Fix 'em? It's fuckin' sauna in here anyway." The complaint lacked any real heat—just a statement of fact from a man whose internal thermostat was permanently set to "blast furnace." He turned toward the bedroom door, his broad back flexing as he stretched both arms overhead with a groan that rattled his ribcage, and I caught the dimpled shadows above his ass cheeks just before he disappeared into his bedroom.
I shook out the sweatpants, turning them right-side-out took all of two seconds—one quick flip and a shake—but I lingered, running my thumb along the elastic waistband where it had stretched around his thick waist.
A drawer slammed shut down, followed by the telltale thump of Brody's size-fourteen feet stomping into what was definitely not his intended pair of shoes. When he reappeared in the doorway, he'd traded commando for black boxer briefs that might as well have been painted on—the kind with the obnoxious brand logo stretched taut across his left ass cheek. He leaned against the frame, one shoulder pressing into the woodgrain, and flexed his toes against the floorboards like he was testing their structural integrity. "Better," he announced, as if the room's temperature had personally offended him earlier.
His gaze dropped to the neatly folded sweatpants in my lap, then flicked up to meet mine with that particular blend of dopey gratitude and happiness. "Big brain," Brody announced, swatting the pants from my lap with unnecessary force—like a bear pawing at a beehive—before adding, "Like brand new." The elastic waistband snapped against my thigh as he turned on his heel, padding back toward the bedroom, his bare shoulders rolling with each stride. The boxer briefs clung shamelessly to his ass, framing the thick curves perfectly. I heard him mutter something under his breath—probably about laundry or the thermostat—but the words blurred into the hum of the ceiling fan.
When he reappeared, he had added shorts—short ones, the kind that barely grazed his thighs—and nothing else. The fabric clung to his hips, stretched taut across his ass, riding up slightly with each step. His gym pump hadn’t faded; if anything, the post-meal relaxation made his muscles look even thicker, smoother under the late afternoon light. His abs were still flat as a washboard despite the burger he’d inhaled earlier, his limbs just as big and pumped as always, veins tracing lazy rivers under golden skin.
I didn’t bother hiding my stare. Let him see me looking—let him *know*—my gaze dragging slow and deliberate from his broad shoulders down to the hem of those shorts, where his thighs flexed with every shift of his weight. But Brody didn’t catch the hunger in my eyes. Too busy scratching at his stomach, oblivious as ever, but then—his gaze snagged. Lower. Lower still. And stuck.
"Uh." His brow furrowed like he'd stumbled upon a math problem. "You're still..." He gestured vaguely toward my lap, where the jockstrap did nothing to hide the tented fabric. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and I could practically hear the dial-up tone in his head as he processed the sight. "Hard," he finished lamely, blinking at me like I'd grown a second head.
I smiled at his reaction—that slow blink, the way his eyebrows knitted together like I’d just asked him to solve a quadratic equation. *Yeah, Brody, sucking you off didn’t make me cum.* The irony wasn’t lost on me, but neither was the genuine confusion in his expression. He needed it spelled out, and part of me loved that about him—how literal everything had to be.
“Didn’t finish,” I clarified, rolling my shoulder in a lazy shrug. His forehead creased further. “But you—you were—” He gestured vaguely toward his own mouth, as if the memory of my lips around him might explain everything.
“Do girls cum from giving head?” I asked, stretching my legs out across the couch, watching his brow furrow deeper.
Brody blinked once—twice—then shook his head like a dog dislodging water. “Uh. No?” The answer came out hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if it was a trick question. His fingers flexed at his sides, knuckles brushing his thighs.
“Right,” I said, slow and deliberate, tilting my head. “So why would guys?”
Brody’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Oh.” A beat. Then, with startling sincerity: “Sorry. I’ll—uh—do better next time.”
The earnestness punched a laugh out of me. “You were great,” I assured him. *And he really had been*—all that clumsy enthusiasm, the way his fingers tangled in my hair just tight enough. “Most guys don’t cum from giving head. Not how it works.”
Brody absorbed this like it was groundbreaking intel, nodding slowly. His gaze dipped to my lap again, lingering on the tented fabric. “So you’re still…” He waved a thick hand toward my erection, frowning like it was a malfunctioning carburetor. “Want me to…?” The offer hung between us, half-shy, half-interested—so transparently eager it made my chest tighten.
I could’ve teased him—should’ve, really—but the raw sincerity in his voice disarmed me. Instead, I stretched lazily, arching my back just enough to make the jockstrap ride higher. “What do *you* want to do?” I prompted, watching his pupils dilate.
Brody swallowed audibly. “Whatever you—whatever gets you off,” he rasped, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous draft horse. The honesty was almost painful.
“Try what you’re thinking,” I murmured, tilting my head. His brow furrowed.
“Eating you out?” The words came out stilted, like he was testing them for structural integrity. “Girls—I mean, that gets ‘em off, right?” Brody’s brow furrowed deeper, his nose wrinkling adorably as he processed this new equation. He scratched absently at his pec, fingers dragging through sparse armpit hair, and I bit back another laugh. His earnestness was fucking lethal.
“Sometimes,” I admitted, stretching my legs wider on the couch just to watch his gaze hitch downward. “But guys don’t usually—”
“But it could?” he interrupted, stepping closer. His knees bumped the coffee table, sending a half-empty soda can rattling. He didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at my lap like it held the secrets of the universe. “Like… if I did it right?”
The hopefulness in his voice undid me. I could’ve explained the logistics—how rimming wasn’t a direct path to orgasm for most guys—but the way his thick fingers flexed at his sides, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips… fuck it. Why not let him try? Plus, I’d spent way to long in the bathroom earlier making sure everything was *immaculate* back there, and his amateur finger play hadn’t exactly cashed that check yet.
"You can eat my ass if you want," I said, watching his eyes widen like I'd handed him the keys to a candy store. Brody blinked rapidly, his throat working as he absorbed the offer. "But full disclosure—won't make me cum on its own." I hooked a thumb under the waistband of my jockstrap, stretching it away from my hip just enough to tease the crease where thigh met ass. "Still feels amazing though. Especially if I finish myself off after."
Brody's nostrils flared. He took an unconscious step forward, legs bumping the coffee table again, his gaze locked on my fingers digging into the elastic. His tongue darted out to wet his lips—twice—like his mouth had gone dry at the thought. "So it's... like foreplay?" he rasped, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Exactly," I purred, shifting my hips to let the jockstrap ride up further. The fabric clung obscenely now, stretched thin between my cheeks. Brody's fingers twitched at his sides, knuckles brushing his own thighs as if mirroring what he wanted to do to me. "Think of it like... warming up a car before driving."
His face lit up—finally, a metaphor he understood. "Got it," he muttered, nodding sharply. He wiped his palms on his shorts before crouching awkwardly beside the couch, knees popping audibly. Up close, his shoulders blocked out the light, his pecs casting shadows across my torso. The scent of his post-shower body wash—something stupidly masculine with pine notes—mixed with the musk of our earlier activities.
I smiled at him again—couldn’t help it, not when his brow furrowed like that, all earnest concentration and unchecked hunger. Brody made smiling effortless, like breathing. So I let it stay, lips curving as I nudged his shoulder with my knee. "Try a different position," I suggested, watching his pupils dilate.
He stood immediately—no questions, just action—thick thighs flexing as he rose from his crouch. I didn’t wait for him to ask. "I’ll lean against the armrest," I said, already shifting, "pillow behind my back for support." Brody snatched the nearest cushion off the couch, passing it to me with the same seriousness he’d give a torque wrench. I wedged it between my spine and the upholstery, arching slightly to test the angle. "I’m flexible," I added, scooting down until my shoulders pressed into the pillow, my hips hovering near the mid-cushion seam. "So don’t worry."
Brody’s throat worked as he stared at the space between my legs. "Now what?" he rasped, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch without permission.
"Kneel on the couch," I directed, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. He was quick to obey—always so fucking eager—his thick thighs sinking into the cushions as he shuffled forward on his knees. The springs groaned under his weight, but I knew this couch could take it; Brody had tested its limits more than once just by sitting down too hard.
His hands hovered near my ankles, fingers twitching like he wasn't sure where to grab. I rolled my eyes playfully and lifted my right foot slightly. "Like this," I murmured, watching his brow furrow in concentration as I guided his palms to cup my heels. His grip was warm, huge—mechanic's hands that could dismantle an engine or cradle my skin with the same rough care.
Brody inhaled sharply when I nudged his wrists upward, signaling for him to lift. My legs folded easily, knees bending toward my chest as he raised my feet higher—higher—until my knees rested against my chest. The position left me exposed, hips tilted up toward him, the jockstrap stretched taut over my cheeks. His nostrils flared when he got his first proper look at what he'd be working with.
"Never fucked like this before," he admitted hoarsely. The confession sent a thrill down my spine—fuck, I got to be his first for this too? His experimental grip tightened slightly as he adjusted his stance, knees digging deeper into the cushions. The raw novelty of it all made my pulse spike; I could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as he mapped out this new territory.
I bit my lip to stifle the smug remark bubbling up—*Hotshot quarterback never tried missionary?* But fuck if that realization didn’t send a jolt straight to my dick. Instead, I arched an eyebrow and asked, voice dripping with faux innocence, "So you only fuck in doggy or what?"
Brody’s hands paused where they’d been kneading the backs of my thighs. "Usually, yeah," he admitted, shrugging those massive shoulders like it was no big deal. His thumbs brushed the crease where my legs met my ass, absentminded and warm. "Easier to—uh—get leverage."
I grinned up at him, shifting just enough to make the jockstrap dig deeper between my cheeks. "Well, you’re gonna *love* this then," I purred.
His smile hit me like a sucker punch—all teeth, boyish and bright, the kind of grin that made his nose scrunch adorably. His grip tightened reflexively, palms pressing my heels higher as his fingers dug into the soft skin behind my knees. The sudden pressure forced my thighs wider, muscles straining deliciously under the stretch. I opened my mouth to tell him to adjust—*hands lower, idiot*—but before I could, his thick fingers slid inward on their own, thumbs pressing into the sensitive hollows of my knees.
I blinked. He did it all by himself out of reflex—palms sliding down to cup the backs of my knees, thumbs pressing into the hollows with practiced ease—and I didn’t have to ask how he knew. Brody answered before I could, muttering against my inner thigh like it was the most obvious thing in the world: "Same as eating pussy," he murmured, breath hot on my skin, "just gotta bend further."
I was still smiling when I said, "Exactly," but before I could elaborate—before I could tease him about his sudden confidence—my stud of a brother took over completely. His thick fingers dug into my thighs, lifting my legs back toward my head with effortless strength as he ducked down and lapped at my hole like a man starved.
The sight alone was obscene: Brody’s broad shoulders flexing as he bent me nearly in half, his tongue flat and wet against my rim, his nose brushing the taut fabric of my jockstrap. I gasped, arching into the couch as his tongue pressed inward—not tentative, not hesitant, just *hungry*—like he’d done this a thousand times before.
Instinct kicked in. I reached back, grabbing my own ankles to stabilize myself and free up his hands. Brody didn’t miss a beat. The second my grip tightened, his palms slid down to frame my ass, thumbs spreading me wider as his tongue worked in earnest—broad, messy strokes that left me shuddering.
*Fuck.* He was *good* at this.
Not technically perfect—his rhythm was sloppy, his breathing uneven—but the sheer *enthusiasm* more than made up for it. His tongue moved like he’d been waiting years for this chance, lapping at my rim like it was his last meal, occasionally pressing inside just enough to make my toes curl. The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his soft skin against my inner thighs, the way his fingers flexed against my cheeks like he was kneading dough—it all combined into a feedback loop of pleasure that short-circuited my higher brain functions.
I let my hands wander, abandoning my ankles to push the jockstrap up over my ass. Brody noticed immediately, pausing just long enough to straighten up and help me tug the fabric off completely. The elastic snapped against my thighs as he flung it aside, his gaze dropping to my exposed cock—hard and flushed against my stomach—but he didn’t linger. No teasing commentary, no awkward staring. Just a grunt of approval and dive back in, his tongue reclaiming its territory with renewed vigor.
At this point, his own erection strained against his shorts, the damp spot at the front growing darker, but he seemed content to ignore it entirely in favor of devouring me. I wasn’t complaining. The longer he worked, the more his technique improved—his initial sloppy licks giving way to deliberate flicks and sucks, his lips sealing around my rim to pull a groan from my throat.
When I finally let my legs drop, he didn’t hesitate—just hooked his arms under my knees and dragged me closer to him, his tongue plunging deeper like he was determined to *win* at this. His nose pressed against my perineum, his stubble scraping sensitive skin, and I hissed through my teeth as pleasure spiked hot and sharp.
Brody misinterpreted the sound immediately. "Too much?" he rasped, pulling back just enough to peer up at me, his lips glistening.
I shook my head, grinning despite the tremble in my thighs. "Not even close," I breathed. His answering smirk was all the warning I got before he redoubled his efforts, his tongue fucking into me with a rhythm that left me gripping the couch cushions for dear life.
The man might’ve been clueless about sarcasm, but *this*? He was a natural.
I let my hand drift down my stomach, fingers curling loosely around my cock—not stroking yet, just resting there, feeling the weight of my arousal heavy against my palm. The wet slide of Brody’s tongue between my cheeks had me twitching in my own grip, pre-cum smearing over my knuckles as I gave myself a lazy tug. My balls tightened, lifting slightly with the motion, and I wondered if Brody would notice—if he’d glance up, see them hovering above his face, and react?
He didn’t.
Too focused, too lost in the rhythm of his tongue fucking into me, his nose buried deep in my ass. His enthusiasm was intoxicating, his mouth relentless, and for one perfect, dizzying moment, I let myself sink into the sensation: the wet heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth when he nipped too hard, the way his breath hitched every time I clenched around him.
Perfect.
Then Brody decided to prove me wrong.
Without warning, he straightened his upper body—muscles in his torso snapping taut—and my legs slid down instinctively, knees losing purchase on his hold. But Brody caught them effortlessly, fingers digging into the backs of my thighs before I could drop more than an inch. His grip shifted fluidly, his right hand dragging my left leg outward while his left took both ankles in one broad palm. The sudden maneuver made me gasp—not from pain, but from the sheer *ease* of it. His hands were so fucking big he could pin both my ankles together with room to spare, his fingers overlapping where they clamped above my tendons.
The angle forced my legs toward my right side, hips twisting slightly as Brody pushed them further—not cruelly, just firmly—until the natural resistance of my muscles gave him leverage. My thighs strained against his grip, my body instinctively fighting the bend, but Brody didn’t relent.
I didn’t mind the adjustment—as at first, I thought he was just repositioning—but then his right hand drifted forward with surprising intent.
His left hand, now free, hovered for a breathless second before diving between my cheeks with the confidence of a man who’d found his rhythm. His fingers—dry but no longer a concern, not with how slick his tongue had left me—pressed inward without hesitation, and my hole yielded easily, still a little loose from his earlier stretching.
Brody’s left hand moved with surprising confidence—thick fingers slick from his spit, pressing against my hole without hesitation. The first knuckle slipped in easily, his grip on my ankles tightening reflexively as he watched his own fingers disappear into me. His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out between his lips like he was solving a particularly tricky oil change. Then he crooked his finger, and my hips jerked off the couch as pleasure lanced up my spine.
"Fuck—*yes*," I hissed. My own hand landed on my cock—awkwardly, at first, with my legs still bent and twisted to the side—but I made it work, curling my fingers around my shaft and jerking myself in rough, uneven strokes. The angle wasn't perfect, but it didn't matter. Not when Brody's thick fingers were pistoning into me with single-minded focus, his mouth slightly open, eyes glazed with lust as he watched his digits disappear inside me.
For a dizzying moment, I just stared—proud, possessive, *drunk* on the sight of him using me like this. Then my brain short-circuited completely as I took in the rest of him.
Brody knelt between my legs like some kind of muscle-bound altar boy, his torso bathed in the golden evening light filtering through the blinds. His pecs were flat and sculpted, the shadows between them deepening with every breath, the faint sheen of sweat making them gleam like oiled bronze. His abs—fuck, his abs—looked like they'd been chiseled by someone who only knew the word "hard," each ridge standing stark even at rest. The dip of his navel drew my gaze downward, following the trail of sparse hair that vanished beneath the waistband of his shorts, still tented obscenely where his neglected cock strained.
But it was his arms that wrecked me. His left arm—the one hooked under my knee—was outstretched, triceps flaring with the effort of holding my leg up, the muscle so thick it cast a shadow along his elbow. His right arm flexed with every thrust of his fingers, biceps swelling like overripe fruit, veins snaking down to his forearm where tendons stood taut under golden skin. His shoulders framed it all, broad enough to block out the light, the curve of his delts sloping into the thick column of his neck.
The view alone could have tipped me over—the way Brody’s fingers worked me with rough enthusiasm, his tongue occasionally darting out to lick his lips, his gaze locked on where his knuckles disappeared inside me. I must’ve looked wrecked to him: thighs trembling against his grip, my shirt rucked up under my armpits, my cock twitching against my stomach with each twist of his fingers. A moaning mess by now, vocalizing every two seconds like some porn parody, his little brother at his mercy.
Another flick of his fingers—just the right angle—and my eyes slammed shut as pleasure crested violently. I came hard, barely managing a choked gasp before my orgasm ripped through me, my hips bucking off the couch as cum striped my stomach and chest in thin, erratic spurts. Brody didn’t stop for a second, his fingers still working inside me through the aftershocks.
Eventually his fingers slipped out with a wet sound, his palm pressing briefly against my ass like he was reluctant to let go entirely. Slowly—so slowly—he released my legs, letting them unfold from their twisted position, my knees dropping gracelessly. The movement dragged my ruined shirt higher, revealing the mess I’d made of myself: The orgasm had been earth-shattering, but the physical evidence was underwhelming—barely enough to coat my fingers if I’d bothered to swipe them through it. Probably from how little I’d actually stroked myself, too caught up in the way Brody’s fingers had curled inside me. Not that it mattered; my thighs were still trembling, my pulse thundering in my ears like I’d just sprinted a mile.
Brody’s brow furrowed as he took in the meager results, his lips parting like he wanted to say something. I beat him to it. “Don’t start,” I warned, voice rough as I splayed a hand over my sticky stomach. “Quality over quantity, big guy.” My fingers dragged lazily through the mess, smearing it wider just to watch his nostrils flare.
His response was immediate, while his fingers were still smeared with me—his thick palm drifting unconsciously to his own shorts, gripping himself through the fabric with some light squeezes. "I—uh," he rasped, blinking up at my face.
It was a reflex—an instinctive comparison—and the way his hand lingered there, kneading himself absently, told me everything. The moment had clearly gotten him hard again, despite finishing not even half an hour ago. His cock strained visibly against his shorts, the damp spot at the front spreading wider as his fingers flexed around it.
I could’ve teased him—should’ve, really—but the way his brow furrowed, like he might spiral into self-doubt over my smaller mess, made me cut straight to the point. "Wanna add a second load?" I asked, nodding toward his tented shorts. My voice came out rougher than I meant, still wrecked from his fingers.
Brody’s grip stuttered. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, before answering in a voice thick with want: "If—if you’d like that." His fingers twitched against his cock, betraying his eagerness. "The whole… fingering thing kinda got me going again."
"More than happy to," I assured him, stretching my legs out lazily—letting him see the mess he’d already made of me.
That was all the encouragement he needed. Brody shoved his shorts down in one rough motion, his boxers catching just under his balls so his cock sprang free—already slick at the tip, foreskin glistening with pre-cum. The sight alone was obscene: his thick shaft jutting upward, veins prominent, the head flushed where it peeked from his foreskin. His balls hung heavy beneath, shifting as he adjusted his stance, knees sinking deeper into the couch cushions.
I didn’t hide my stare—couldn’t, not when he looked like that—muscles flexing with every movement. His arms were the main attraction: biceps swelling like overripe fruit as he began stroking himself, triceps tightening with each upward tug. A singlw vein threaded through his forearms, standing out in stark relief as his grip tightened, his strokes growing more confident. His pecs tensed with each breath, the shadow between them deepening, and his abs—fuck, his abs—rippled faintly as his hips jerked into his own fist.
Brody didn’t look at me much at first—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted around ragged breaths—but when he did, it was with a breathless laugh. "Man, this is great," he muttered, almost to himself, his thumb swiping over his leaking tip. The words were clumsy, too honest, and the way his cock twitched in his grip told me the taboo of it all was turning him on even more.
I played along, grinning up at him. "Yeah? Tell me what's great about it," I teased, watching his brow furrow as he struggled to articulate mid-stroke. His cock pulsed in his grip, foreskin gliding back to reveal the slick head—already dripping fresh pre-cum onto my thigh.
"Just... easy," he grunted, his thick fingers tightening around his shaft with a wet sound. His biceps flexed obscenely with each upward tug, veins popping along his forearm like cables under golden skin. "Feels good. Like—" He huffed, tongue poking between his lips as he angled his hips forward, his abs clenching. "Like how soft you are."
The admission shouldn't have hit me like it did—shouldn't have made my spent cock twitch against my stomach—but fuck if the raw honesty didn't curl heat low in my gut. Brody didn't mean it as some poetic contrast; he just stated facts. My lean frame against his bulk, my thighs parting easily under his hands, the way my body yielded to his thicker fingers. He liked feeling huge with me, same as he did with girls—only now, he didn't have to hold back.
"Didn't wanna offend you," he added clumsily, thumb smearing pre-cum over his flushed tip. His pecs tightened as he shuddered, his strokes growing more erratic. "But you're so small—fuck—I can lift you with one arm."
I arched an eyebrow, deliberately flexing my toes against his huge thigh. "And that gets you off?"
His hips jerked forward, his cock slapping wetly against his stomach. "Yeah," he admitted, voice rough. His gaze dropped to where his fist worked his length, mesmerized by the slide of foreskin over swollen flesh. "Kinda strange we're doing it, huh?"
The words shouldn't have been hot—should've been awkward, maybe—but the way his cock twitched at his own confession betrayed him. Taboo thickened the air between us, his strokes turning frantic, balls drawing up tight against his shaft.
I let my fingers drag through the mess on my stomach, swirling our combined release just to watch his nostrils flare. "Strange doesn't mean bad," I murmured, nodding toward his trembling thighs. "Judging by that, you're into strange."
Brody groaned, his entire body tensing—shoulders rounding, traps flexing as his head dropped back. Sunlight caught the sweat sheening his throat, the clean shaved skin along his jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His rhythm stuttered, his grip tightening around his base as his hips gave a few final, aborted thrusts.
He came—harder than before, ropes of cum striping my stomach in thick, uneven spurts. The first shot landed high, painting my sternum; the next hit my ribs, warm and sticky as it slid downward. His hips jerked wildly, his cock pulsing in his grip as he milked himself through it, his release mixing with mine in a glistening mess.
One last spurt caught the hem of my shirt, the fabric soaking it up greedily. Brody blinked down at the damage, his chest heaving, lips parted around ragged breaths. "Man," he panted, grinning dopily at the wreckage of me, "this is *great*."
I laughed—couldn't help it—watching his blissed-out expression as he finally released his softening cock. His biceps relaxed slowly, the definition softening but no less impressive, his skin flushed pink from exertion.
"I’d do anything for my big bro," I murmured, watching his cum drip lazily down my ribs, as I started to wonder—for the first time—if he liked this more than I did. The thought shouldn't have surprised me. Brody was built for indulgence, for gluttony—muscles swollen from years of feeding them, hands broad from gripping more than he could carry. Of course he'd devour this too, hungry in ways I hadn't anticipated.
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