What The Hell Just Happened?

We’re lying on the twin bed, exchanging kisses and caresses in the soft late-autumn sunshine pouring in through the window.  Tongues wrestle and dance, teeth tease and nibble, fingers wander up and down bodies, dong and peanut slide, rub together through clothing.

A moan, long and low and vibrating between us.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, not now, our brothers are in the other room.”

“Ssh, pretty boy, the twerp and the chicklet know what we’re doing and they don’t care.  Ain’t you noticed they turned the tv volume up so they wouldn’t have to listen?”

Another kiss, tasting ourselves to confirm we still like the other’s flavor.

“You, you really shouldn’t call your brother chicklet, y’know.  He hates it.”

“Why do you think I do it?  I used to call him something similar but nastier as an insult, but I don’t say that word anymore.  Now I’m not trying to belittle, just annoy him.  Besides, you call your brother twerp, don’t you?”

“I’ve always called him twerp, he’s never been bothered.  He’s always known he matters to me.  Why are we talking about our brothers?”

“No idea.  I’d rather talk about getting you out of these clothes.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Why not, pretty boy?”

“Um, because –”

“You know what?  I don’t care about whys.  Take off your shirt.  Now.”

“But—”

“I gave you an order, pretty boy.”

“Yuh, yes sir.  That’s still so weird.”

“You were the one who wanted to call me ‘sir’.  I’d’ve been happy with ‘your majesty’, but –”

Lips press to lips.  “I didn’t say I didn’t like calling you ‘sir’, only that it’s weird.  I’ll get used to it.”

“I never will.  Every time you say the word butterflies flutter in my belly.”

Giggle.  “Sir.”

Another kiss.  Sweet, so sweet, but singed by fire.

Fingers stroke muscular pecs, tug on individual hairs.  “Such a sexy chest.  So hairy, so strong, so big.  Abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous nips.”

An indrawn hiss.

“You like when I nibble your titty, don’t you, pretty boy?”

“I, I love it.”  Another indrawn hiss.  “Not so hard, sir, please don’t be mean.  Sssss!”

“You like when I’m mean.”

“Not with my brother down the hall!  What, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?  I’m opening your belt.”

“Please don’t, sir.  Please.  Oh, oh oh oh.”

Fingers sliding up and down, our heat delicious friction, or is it the other way ‘round?

“You have such a pretty peanut.  Such a pretty everything.  Did I tell you yet you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen in my life?”

“You told me earlier.  You tell me every day.”

“And I mean it every day.  You’re the prettiest boy in the world to me, especially when you submit.”

“Oh, sir.  OH!  My balls, sir, you’re –”

“Yes, I’m squeezing your balls.”

“Please don’t be mean, sir, please don’t be mean!”  A groan, loud and deep, rumbling through both our bodies.

“I won’t be mean.  I promise.  At least, I won’t be mean if you take off your pants.”

“But your mom –”

“Won’t be home for an hour, and if by chance she does show up early the chicklet and the twerp will distract her until we get dressed.”

“But she’ll still guess we were back here in your room.  You know, alone.”

Shrug.  “She knows we’re together.  Doesn’t like it much, but she knows.”

“My point!”

 Another shrug.  “She’ll just figure we were back here doing exactly what we’re doing and be too embarrassed to bring the subject up.  Don’t you love how that works?”

“Still, sir, we shouldn’t.”

“Ah, pretty boy, yes we should.  Feel how hard I am for you?”

Grinding together, two hard cocks separated by one layer of denim.

“Yes, yes sir, I feel it, feel your big dong, but we, oh sir, please don’t make me do this!”

“If you really want me to stop, you’ll safeword.”

“. . .”

“I figured as much.  Damn.  So pretty.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“If I have to be naked, so do you.”

“Is that an order, pretty boy?”

“Well, maybe more of a request.”

“Good boy.”

“Ssssss.  Th-thank you, sir.”

“I thought you didn’t want to do anything, with our brothers down the hall?”

“Our who?”

“Ha.  Of course I’ll take my clothes off for you.  Like I could refuse you anything.”

“So selfless of you, sir.  Ouch!”

“Don’t sass me.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m really not.  Ouch!”  A brief pause.  “I, uh, I talked to my therapist about . . . about us today.”

“Did you tell her you loved my dong up your chute, explain how you cum all over yourself when I’m hammering your sweet spot?”

“Er, not in those words.”

“God, you’re so pretty when your cheeks heat.”

“She said as long as there was consent and respect, she saw nothing wrong in . . . in . . . what we do.”

“You mean me ordering you about, taking advantage of your willing body, using you as I see fit.”

“Yes sir.  Not in those words.”  Another indrawn hiss.  “Fuck, I’m always amazed at the size of your dong.”

“Big, huh?”

“The biggest.  So long, so thick.”

“Thicker than the twerp?”

Smirk.  “No, he’s got you by a pube or so.  What, is my master the teeniest bit envious of my little brother?”

“Watch it, pretty boy.”

“Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.”

“No, you’re not.”

A hum of neither affirmation nor denial.

“I ain’t the slightest bit jealous of the twerp.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“You know why I’m not jealous?”

“Why, sir?”

“Two reasons.  One, he may be thicker, but I’m a fuck of a lot longer.”

Another hum, this time of complete and total agreement.

“And two, I’ve got you now.  I appreciate how he held you together when you needed him, but I’m here to satisfy your needs from here on out, and I’m never gonna let you go.”

“I don’t want you to let me go.”

“You’re my pretty boy.”

“And you’re my master.”

“Damn straight.  Get up here, it’s been way too long since I tasted you, at least two minutes.”

“An eternity, sir.”

Tongues slither and shiver together, lips smack and suckle, noses cross and cross again, a minor annoyance in the grand pleasures of kissing.

“Mmmm.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Sir?”  Voice breathless.

“Yeah, pretty boy?”  Tone amused, cocky.

“Can I, may I please –”

“Please what?  Be specific.”

“Please let me suck your dong, sir?”

“What was that?  I didn’t hear you.”

“Please, sir, I need your dong in my mouth.”

“Oh, really?  How bad, pretty boy?  How bad do you want it?”

“Pretty bad, sir.  I’m drooling just imagining.”

“I don’t see any drool.”

“Er, hyperbole, sir.  It means –”

“I know what it means, don’t we use the same textbooks even though we go to different schools?”

“Yes, sir.  Of course, sir.”

“Grrr.  Nah, I don’t think you need to suck me.”

“What?  Why, sir?”

“You don’t want it bad enough.”

“I do, sir, I really do!”

“I don’t see any drool.  Don’t see any hyperboles either, unless they’re hiding under the bed.”

“Sir, please don’t be mean, don’t tease me!”

“I’m not teasing you.  You said you drooled just imagining my dong in your mouth, but I don’t see any drool.  Show me how bad you want my dong.  Drool for me.”

“Um, I don’t think I can drool on command.  Unless . . .”  A long string of precum stretching from fingertip to piss-slit.  “Does peanut drool count, sir?”

“All that pre just from thinking about my dong in your mouth?  Fuck yeah, it counts!  Get on me.”

“Yes, sir, oh thank you sir.”  Lips on dong, stretching over glans.  Warmth meets warmth, moisture runs in rivulets down shaft.  An age-old question, who gets the most pleasure, the sucker or the suckee?  Do the distinctions matter?  Are they distinctions at all?

“Fuck, pretty boy, nobody has ever ever ever loved on my dong the way you do.  Go on, try a little deeper.”

Gag.

“Try again, there ya go, there ya go, there ya go, ah, so good, pretty boy, so good.”

Panting.  “Thank you, sir.  I try.  One of these days I’ll take the whole thing.”  Still panting.

“I have faith in you.  Turn around, lay on your side with your – yeah, perfect.”  A long, appreciative sniff.  “I used to hate sucking dick, but that was before I discovered how sweet peanuts taste.”  Swallow.  To the pubes, baby, to the pubes.

“Ah ah ah . . .  Sir, your mouth, oh your mouth.”

“Shut up and suck.”

“Yes sir.  God, I love your dong.”

The sounds of fellatio, murmurs and moans and squelches.  Electricity cycles through us, volts of lightning from mouth to dick to mouth to dick, sizzling circuits.  Fingers stroke through feathered hair and crewcut.  Caresses dissipate into steam and settle on our skin.  The bed creaks.

Groan.  “When you touch me there, sir . . .”

“Where?  Here?”

“Ahhh.  Sir, when you touch me there it makes me . . . makes me . . .”

“Makes you what, pretty boy?”

“Makes me want you to fuck me, sir, but we can’t, your mother will be home soon.”

“We’ve been through this.  We’ll be fine.”

Penetration, and a long, low hiss.  “Easy, sir, please be easy, don’t be mean.”

“Maybe you’re just not slick enough.”

“What are you . . . oh fuck, oh fuck, this is . . . this is new, sir!”

Tongue swirling around hole.  Licking.  Digging.  Intimacy unimagined.

Bliss.

“Fuck . . . sir . . . your tongue . . .”

“Mmmmm.”

“You . . . I never dreamed . . . I . . . we . . . you . . .”  Reduced to babbles.  “Need you . . . need you, sir . . . I NEED!”

“Fuck, the way you taste, pretty boy.  You know what you taste like?  Here!”

Mouths mash, tongue intrudes, the flavor of pretty boy washing between us.

A moan, long and low and, this time, pulsating with desire.  “Your dong, your long thick dong in me, sir.  Please!”

“Gonna give it to you, pretty boy.”  Panting with lust.  “Gonna fuck you so hard, so good, gonna make you wail with ecstasy.”  Lube in hand, slickening fingers, dripping across spasming anus, eager dong.  “Raise your knees, spread your cheeks.  Damn, such a pretty hole.”

“Hurry, sir, hurry.  Sssss, oh my god.”

“That’s it, baby, that’s it, pretty boy.  Let me in.”

“Easy, sir, be easy, please don’t be mean.”

“Fuck, you’re tight.  That’s it, that’s it, relax for me, baby.”

Stretching.  More moans.  “Please, sir, ple—sssss.  Ah-AH-AH-AH!”

“Ssh, pretty boy.  Relax.  Breathe.  Let me in.”

“Fuck, sir, so thick!”

“Not as thick as the twerp, I thought?”

“Don’t be – OW!  Sssss, easy!”

Heavy, don’t-give-a-crap-about-the-creaky-runner footsteps in the hall, then BAM BAM BAM on the door.

“Will you two please keep it down to a dull roar?  We’re trying to watch a movie out here!”

“Fuck off, twerp.”

“Only my bro gets to call me twerp, jerk.”  Indistinct words from the living room.  “And your brother says you better not be screwing on his bed.”

“Tell the chicklet we’re not using his bed but we’re gonna skeet on his pillow.”

A heavy kick rattles the door.  “So gross, jerk.”  The footsteps retreat, along with a grumbling twerp.

“Your brother doesn’t like me.”

“Well, you did tell him to fuck off.  Ssss, easy . . . easy . . . He still doesn’t forgive you.”

“I don’t blame him.  I hurt you.  All I can do to earn his trust is to keep on keeping on, prove with my actions my commitment to never hurting you again.”

“I . . . shit, you’re big . . . I believe you.  He’ll come around.  Ssssssssss. In time.”

Distraction accomplished, dong rests fully in ass.  Immensity sheathed.  A survival grip over a long fall.  Pleasure and slight discomfort, for both, but passion radiates.  Arms wrap around shoulders, faces bend together in a tight but necessary kiss.

Words dribble like starvation spittle between our lips.  “Sir, please move, sir, so full, please move.”

Mouths break apart, hands steady themselves on mattress, legs fold back to frame pretty face.  Stability for a lever to move the world.

“Gonna fuck you now, pretty boy, fuck you hard and fast and dirty.”

Whimper.  “Please!”

“You ready for me?”

“Ready,” panting, “ready for you, sir.”

“Hold on, pretty boy, cuz here we go.”

One thrust, long and strong.  Another.  All the way out, slam back in.  Lust-slick walls grasping flesh as lust-riddled claws grasp shoulders, hanging on for dear life.  Breathless whimpers growing into unbridled wails, sweat flinging like flashdance rain, headboard banging, bed screaming.

Two voices echo down the hall.  “Holy crap, will you two pipe the hell down?” and “Don’t make me come in there with a bucket of ice water!”  The tv volume cranks to full, a second-rate symphonic paean for some second-rate action movie, all horns and strings and stirring, amplified drums.

“Next time, next time, sir,” pant pant pant, “let’s give ‘em soda money, or at least send them out to play.”

“Ignore them, pretty boy, they don’t matter right now, they’re just jealous.  We’re everything, they’re not.”

Yes, ignore them, ignore the soundtrack, our disgruntled and jealous brothers, focus on us, on the moment, on the sex and the sweat and the pounding pounding pounding where we’re joined.

“Fuck sir your big thick long dong sir hitting my sweet spot sir over and over, hurts but feels so good, so good, sir, gonna make me gonna make me . . .”

“So tight, pretty boy, the way you grip and hold, you are gonna make me!”

“Tell you a secret, sir, gotta tell you . . .” A long, guttural moan “ . . . a secret sir, about back in juvie, when I hated you.”

“That . . . ah so tight . . . that was no secret, pretty boy, I knew it then.”

“But . . . but . . . I hated you because, oh my god, because you hit my sweet spot every time –”

“Like I’m hitting it now, pretty boy?”

“Like that, sir, oh my god just like that, you made me feel so good and I hated that I loved it.”

“I knew that back then too.  When you saw it was my turn you’d smile, just a tiny one but you’d smile, yeah, that’s the one, smile it for me now, pretty boy.”

“I’m . . . I’m getting close, sir, gonna cum soon.”

“Nuh-uh, pretty boy, hold back for me.”

“I . . . I don’t think I can sir . . . the pressure . . . your big thick long dong hitting my sweet spot, filling me up, hurts but feels so good!”

“Hold it back for me, baby, hold on, pretty boy.”

“I . . . I . . . I’ll try, sir, but OH! When you play with my peanut, not fair, don’t be mean, don’t tease me sir!”

“You’re so pretty when you’re trying not to cum, when you’re focused on pleasing me.  So pretty all the time.”  Fist squeezing peanut, thrust-timed precum oozing from the slit to stream over and between fingers.  The tinny orchestra down the hall rumbles impossibly louder, the stirring drums fading while the horns and strings swell, a second-rate love theme for a second-rate love scene.  Bad movie.  Awesome reality.

“Sir,” voice warning, “I’m about to, about to OW fuck fuck fuck my balls!”

“Keep holding for me, pretty boy, just a few seconds longer.”

“Don’t know if I . . . please sir!”

“I’m peaking too, pretty boy, I’m reaching, gonna make me, your tight sweet is making me, do it, pretty boy, cum for me!”

“Master!”  A primal yell, a scream for the sun and moon and stars.  “I love you, master!”

“I love you back, pretty boy, I do!”

The earth spins, the air crackles, the second-rate symphony sings.  Balls draw and loosen, draw and loosen, semen spatters chests and bellies outside, splatters walls inside, fluid to fill and to paint, to shower life even in null procreation.  Lips and teeth smash together in ragged, breathless kisses.  The sun shines, the moon beams, the stars twinkle for us.  Atomic pleasure, nuclear fission made flesh, white-flash melting lust into romance, power exchanges into an equity of intimate dimension.  Fire, burning hot on inexhaustible fuel, dwindling at last into a tiny but shiny pilot light, ready to flame again upon demand.

Dong slides from hole, but touch doesn’t end.  We crash together, crewcut to feathered hair, furry heaving chest and belly to smooth, greasy dong to leaky peanut.  Fingers caress, ripple across skin.  Down the hall the drums reclaim their stirring amplification, but peace lives between us.

Sudden tension.  “Wait, what?”

“Mmm, pretty boy.  What what?”

“Um, what did we just say, sir?  What the hell just happened?”

“What the hell just happened?”  A lazy, rumbling chuckle.  “Love, pretty boy.  Love is what the hell just happened.”

So we come, at last, to this:  our beginning.  Ain’t love grand?