My Older Brother's Hung Friend Caught Me Looking (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: Guys' Dicks

I always thought guys' dicks were just something everyone notices and doesn't talk about. You notice who's bigger than you in a locker room, if you catch a peek, and you naturally look down at other guys' crotches when you first see them, just like you notice someone's height, and who fills out a shirt better than the average guy. It's comparison, that's normal, every guy does it. I had a decent enough run with girls to back up that I was straight, two girls so far that I had done more than kissed, including some under shirt action and some fingering.

The pool party was my mom's idea, which meant the grill was coming out (for someone else to cook on) and the fancy cooler was going to be used, and my dad would wear his old, seasoned shirt that he only wore during the summer. The party was a celebration of my brother, Dylan finishing college, so he would be bringing his buddies. I always missed him after he left for school, and the whole Summer since he had moved back had been awesome, and I liked his friends too. 

By the afternoon my brother had filled the backyard with his friends, guys twenty-two and twenty-three who had all been coming through our back gate since I was eleven, even sometimes without my brother after he left for college. Charlie was one of them. He had been eating dinner at our kitchen table since I could remember. He knew where everything was in the house. My mom had hugged him in the driveway and asked about his mother.

The whole yard smelled like chlorine and grease and sunscreen. I stayed on the deck, mostly.

I had a soda that had turned lukewarm in my hand. Down in the shallow end Charlie and Dylan were wrestling like they were still kids. Charlie is not a small guy. He lifts, and talks about lifting, and teaches other people to lift. Dylan got both hands on his shoulders and put him under the water without any strain at all, and Charlie came up spitting and swearing, and Dylan stood there in chest-deep water with his arms out to the sides, laughing.

Charlie never looked like he was trying hard at anything. His shoulders came out of the water wet and tan from being outside a lot all summer. Water ran off his chest hair in strings. He had a thick chest,  like his body had been built for moving heavy things. He would've made easy work out of throwing me around, and I thought about that as I watched him wrestling my brother. The water at the shallow end came up to the bottom of his ribs when it came up to Dylan's chest.

I looked at his shoulders. I looked at the border where his tan lines scattered a bit, above the bicep. I drank the warm soda.

"Yo," Charlie called across the water, a big smile across his face. "You gonna get in or you just gonna play with your pussy all day?"

"Somebody's gotta play with it," I said with a shrug, making them howl.

He shook his head and leapt forward to shove my brother's head under water again mid-sentence.

Dylan came up yelling incoherently. I laughed and looked at my phone and then looked back at the water almost immediately.

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The bench on the deck sits low. I had my elbows on my knees and my soda down between my feet, and from there the coping around the pool was maybe ten feet in front of me and just about level with my chin.

Charlie came over to the near edge and put both hands flat on the concrete and pushed. He didn't use the ladder, he didn't kick, he pressed his whole body up out of the water on his arms, and his triceps stood up in two hard slabs, and then he got a knee under himself and stood.

He was directly in front of me. Standing on the coping, dripping, and his hips were exactly at my eye level.

His trunks were navy, and they were new, I think. And they were soaked through and stuck to him from the waistband down. The fabric was darkened by the water, and thin. It held the whole shape of his package against his thigh, the full heavy length of it lying to the left, the head completely visible. I could even tell he was circumcised. The size was a bit of a shocker, well beyond mine or that of any of my friends that I had seen, especially since he was soft, fresh out of the pool. There was a wet weight to the pouch under it. Water ran down off the hem and off his knees and ticked onto the concrete. He was wringing water out of the front of his hair with one hand and his chin was up.

My whole face heated up in the shade as I found myself unable to look away, betraying my assumed habit of a quick glance at the crotch. I had gone beyond information gathering, and moved out of my control into staring, ogling, gawking. 

Then his chin came down. He looked at me looking. His eyes went from my face, to his own crotch, confirming what had enthralled me, then back to me, smirking, holding my eye contact.

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I broke first, embarrassed and snapping out of it. I went into the cooler by my foot, and I put both hands in it and started moving cans around like I was looking for something important, ice water up to my wrists. I got one out, put it back, got the same one out again.

He didn't move off. He walked over to me and reached over my shoulder as I pretended I didn't notice his package right next to my face. He grabbed the towel off the deck rail which was right behind me, and dried his face, then his chest, then his arms, and I could hear all of it happening above and behind me and I kept my head down in the cooler, my mind racing.

"Grab me one," he said, over my head.

I handed a soda straight up without turning around. His fingers came down and took it out of my hand and his knuckles were cold and wet from the pool.

"Thanks, buddy."

Then he walked past me, close enough that his leg brushed the outside of my arm, and the water still coming off his trunks flicked across the side of my neck. Two or three drops of it. I felt every one and I stayed hunched over the cooler with my ears ringing.

For the rest of the afternoon I basically decided that nothing at all had occurred. I felt more comfortable in denial than in facing any reason for why any of that had happened. He was looking at the grill behind me. He was looking at Dylan. He had water in his eyes and he was blinking it out and I read the whole thing wrong, and anyway everybody's eyes go everywhere at a pool. I ate a burger. I talked to my aunt about her car. I did not look at the shallow end again, and not looking at the shallow end honestly took up most of my concentration for the rest of the day.

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That night Dylan opened the garage and half the same crew came back, plus a few people from his work and a couple of girls they knew. Somebody put a speaker on top of the deep freezer. My parents took the hint and went upstairs early.

I was hanging out with them even though it wasn't really my crowd. The entire time, I subconsciously followed where Charlie was with my mind. He was by the garage door talking to Dylan's coworker. Then he was at the fridge. Then he was leaning against the wall by the stairs with a soda against his hip, and I knew that even with my back turned. I wasn't looking at him. I just always knew.

A girl named Steph got stuck talking to me by the counter. She had a crush on Dylan, everybody knew that, and apparently I was the closest available version of him. 

"What're you studying?" she asked.

"AP Econ," I said flatly.

Her mouth fell open, then closed.

"Yeah," I said.

She nodded, then she said something else awkwardly, and turned away to find Dylan without really bothering to finish out whatever conversation was failing to develop between us.

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I had nothing to do, and I hadn't even seen my brother in a while, but I suddenly had to piss. The upstairs bathroom had two people waiting outside it, so I took the basement stairs. Not everyone knew about the downstairs, so it's usually a safe bet.

Dylan was down there, face-down on the couch with one arm hanging off it, and his phone on the carpet where he'd dropped it. He'd been socializing since the middle of the afternoon, so it made sense that he was tuckered out early, and needed to disappear into the basement where it was quieter than his room on the first floor. I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and laid it over him before stepping past him.

The basement bathroom is actually pretty big, but with a door that swings inward and never latches right. I did what I came down to do, and then I stood at the sink with the water running and washed my hands a bit longer than I needed to, killing time before I went back upstairs to obsess over Charlie some more and what he might be thinking or not thinking about me. The water felt good and I wasn't in a hurry to go back up and be part of anything.

I had my back to the doorway. The door was open behind me, all the way open against the wall.

Then I saw him arrive in the mirror.

His broad body filled the whole frame of it, shoulders taking up the width of the door, still in the tank top he'd changed into after the pool, both hands empty. He didn't say anything. He didn't knock on the frame or make a joke. He looked at me in the glass, and I looked at him in the glass.

I could have turned around. My hands stayed under the water anyway.

He crossed the two steps it took to get to me.

His hand came around and pressed flat on my hip, and he pushed, and my hipbone hit the front edge of the counter. I was facing the sink and I planned to keep facing the sink. His chest came up against my back and he was still warm from being outside, and he was wider than me at every point where we touched.

"Keep washing your hands," he said, quietly, right over my shoulder.

I kept washing my hands.

His other arm came up over my other shoulder from behind, and two of his fingers pressed against my bottom lip. I felt a twinge of shock and anticipation rush down my spine, and my cock stiffened rapidly as my heart started to race. 

Whatever the fuck was happening, he didn't force it. He put light pressure on his fingers, and my mouth opened on its own, and he probed past my teeth. They tasted like soda and like the outside of a cold can. He got them down onto my tongue and I closed my lips around them and he made a sound in his chest, one short breath out through his nose.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

I got hard so fast it hurt across the front of my shorts. His hand on my hip slid maybe two inches toward my stomach and stopped there, holding me against the counter edge, and I could feel every one of his fingers separately.

He looked past my head at the mirror. Then he reached back with the hand that had been in my mouth, wet fingers and all, past my ear to the switch inside the door, and flipped it.

The mirror went black. There was a strip of bluish grey light coming down the stairs from the kitchen and that was all, and the door was still standing wide open behind us, and up at the top of the stairs I could hear the speakers, and someone laughing in the garage. Twenty feet away Dylan was breathing loud on the couch, the slow wet snore he does when he's sleeping deeply that I knew by heart.

Charlie put his mouth against my ear.

"You were staring at my dick in front of your whole family," he said. "Like a girl."

My knees went out from under me for a second and I caught myself on the counter.

"Say it."

"I was staring."

"At what."

"At you."

"At my dick," he said, flatly, and then he put his hand back over my mouth so I couldn't answer.

He kept me there against the sink, pressing his bulge into my ass.

"I'm gonna park my cock in your throat and hold it there. I'm gonna feel you clench on it every time you try to breathe, and I'm not pulling out till your body is begging for it."

I made a noise into his palm, as my legs folded. My knees hit the cabinet door under the sink and it banged, and I got both hands onto the edge of the counter and locked my elbows, and I almost came just from my throbbing boner rubbing against the fabric of my shorts. My stomach pulled tight and my whole body seized up over the basin, all just from his body against mine, his hand on my mouth and his hips against my ass, his breath on my ear, his words in my head, my world turning upside down.

"Jesus," he said. "Look at you."

He took me by the shoulder and turned me around, and then both of his hands pressed down and I sank onto my knees on the bath mat in front of him. He reached back with one heel and pushed the door. It swung most of the way closed and drifted an inch back open, because that door has never latched right in my life, and he left it like that.

He pulled the waistband of his shorts down and hooked it under his balls. What I had gawked at through wet navy fabric that afternoon had been the soft version. Hard, it stood up at an angle away from his body, thick and cut, the fat head already shining at the tip, and it looked heavier than anything that had ever been pointed at me. I was still hard too, straining against the front of my shorts, untouched.

He put the head against my lips and I opened my mouth.

He held my skull in both hands and pushed in, slowly at first, farther than I thought I could take, and when it reached the back of my throat I gagged, my whole back seizing, and he groaned quietly through his teeth and pulled back and pushed in again. My eyes watered and I kept them up on his face the whole time. I couldn't talk with my mouth stuffed, so I begged with my eyes instead, even if he wasn't looking. I felt my body shivering with fear and hormonal overstimulation, and he gave it to me, deeper, his balls swinging up against my chin, spit stringing down onto the mat. He ran the whole show. All I did was kneel there and accept it as best as I could.

Then he pulled out of my mouth and held my jaw in one hand.

"I gotta piss," he said. "You want it?"

I didn't actually know what he was offering. I knew I wanted it anyway. I nodded inside his grip.

He pulled the tank top off over his head with one hand and dropped it. He pinched the shoulder of my shirt and tugged, and I yanked it off over my head. Then he steered me backward across the bathroom with a palm flat on top of my head, slowly, one shuffled knee-step at a time, until we were both inside the shower stall, him standing, me kneeling under him on the cold tile, sitting back on my heels.

He aimed at the middle of my chest and released a stream of liquid across me. It came out hot, hotter than I expected, splashing off my collarbone and running down my stomach and soaking into the front of my shorts. Then he raised his aim and the stream crossed my throat, my chin. I shut my eyes and it hit my face, warm, running off my nose and over my lips, and I opened my mouth. Some of it pooled on my tongue, warm and bitter and his, and I swallowed it.

"Fuck," he whispered, up above me, to nobody.

He shook the last drops off onto my thigh, stepped out of the stall, and squatted at the cabinet under the sink. He didn't have to search. He held up a bottle of baby oil that had probably lived down there for ten years.

He worked my soaked shorts and underwear down off my ass and left them bunched at my knees. Then he stood over me, fed his dick back into my mouth, and bent forward over my back. The bottle clicked. Oil dribbled cold down my ass, and his finger circled my hole, pressed, and pushed into me, the first time anything had ever been inside me there. It burned but in the moment it was good, and I moaned around the meat pressing slowly into my throat.

He hooked the finger inside me and used it like a handle to pull me onto him. His other hand pulled my head down his shaft to the same rhythm, and he fucked my throat roughly on it, the finger dragging inside me with every stroke, and the noises pouring out of me were wet, gargled, high-pitched and boyish and embarrassing. He was making his own noises too, low grunts coming from over my head, getting shorter.

Then everything pulled out of me at once, his finger, his dick, and he turned me around by the hips without a word. I caught myself on my palms, slipping momentarily on the tile before finding my balance. His hand pressed down between my shoulder blades until my face rested against the shower floor, ass up in the air, knees spread as far as the shorts around them allowed. The bottle clicked again behind me.

The head of him pressed against my oiled hole and he leaned his weight in slowly, and the stretch burned and kept burning until his hips met my ass. My whole body was basically numb, except it felt like all my organs were in different places than normal, and he stayed there for one breath, both of us shaking. Then he started pressing forward. The pressure climbed up through my guts, a blunt ache behind my belly button, deeper than his finger had ever reached, and the muscle he was buried in fluttered around him, and he settled in with a low grunt, his hip bones grinding flat against my ass. My knees slid wider on the wet tile until the shorts bunched around them stopped me. I could feel my own heartbeat where he had me stretched open. And I could feel his.

"Breathe," he said.

I hadn't been. I let it out shakily and my body unclenched around him, and he groaned through his teeth and rolled his hips in one slow circle, stirring himself inside me without pulling back at all, his thumbs pressing into my ass and spreading me so he could watch himself planted there. My dick twitched under my stomach, hard and dripping onto the tile, and nothing had touched it.

"You feel that?" he said, bent low over my back, his chest hair brushing my spine. "That's all of it."

I tried to say yes and it came out as one long "ehhh" sound against the floor. So I answered with my body instead, rocking backward into his lap, one inch of motion, all I had from that position, and then I did it again so he knew the first one wasn't an accident.

Both his hands closed on my hips as he started to bang me, roughly and loudly, no working up to it, his hips clapping off my ass cheeks in flat wet smacks that bounced around all that tile. I moaned way too loudly. Dylan was twenty feet away, hopefully still sleeping on the couch, and the door didn't latch and I moaned way too loudly anyway, into the floor, into my own forearm when I tried to muffle it, and the arm didn't help. Upstairs the speaker thumped louder.

My dick swung rigid as steel and dripping underneath me the whole time and neither of us touched it, and it didn't matter. Somewhere in the middle of the pounding my whole body clenched and I squirted onto the shower floor in pulses, no hand on it at all, and my ass clamped down around him and he groaned louder than he had all night.

That finished him. He grunted faster and faster, fingers digging into my hips, dragging me back to meet him, and then he slammed deep and held there and finished in my ass. I felt it throb. Actual pulses, his dick jumping inside me, each one a little weaker than the last.

He pulled out of my sore ass slowly and I stayed down, cheek on the tile, and felt him leak out of me, a warm trickle crossing my taint and sliding down the inside of my thigh. He stood over me catching his breath.

"You're not telling anyone about this," he said.

"No," I said. "No one."