My Older Brother's Hung Friend Caught Me Looking 02: Fragile Ass (Patreon)

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My Older Brother's Hung Friend Caught Me Looking

Chapter 2: Fragile Ass

I woke up past ten with the sun already all the way across my bed, an ache low in my gut, behind my belly button, right where Charlie's pressure had climbed to the night before. 

Further down there was a burn, stretched and raw in my ass, and it flared when I got my weight onto my hip. I sat on the edge of the mattress and put my feet on the carpet, and the sitting itself hurt, a pressure exactly where he had been inside me, so I shifted onto one cheek and sat there breathing like an old man.

My shorts from last night were balled up in the corner of my closet where I had shoved them, still damp, and I could smell them from the bed. Oil and chlorine and piss.

I got hard immediately from thinking about it. Sitting there on the edge of my bed with my ass throbbing, my dick pushed straight up out of the leg of my boxers, and I sat with both hands on my knees and ran the whole night back in my head. The way his voice tickled my ears when he told me what he was going to do to my throat. And then when he did that to my ass as well. And when he pissed on me, cementing my feelings of inferiority to him, in such a strange, explicitly concrete way.

Guys are supposed to feel weird the morning after sex, right? That's the standard issue, at least as far as I had heard, the regret, the shame spiral. I sat there and my body hurt in six places, but I wanted to do it all again.

I dug out loose gym shorts, the gray ones with the drawstring blown out, because anything with a real waistband dug into me exactly where I couldn't take it. A plain white t-shirt. In the shower I ran the water hot and stood with my forehead on the tile and reached back with two soapy fingers and touched myself, tender and swollen and different than it had been the morning before, and I heard myself hiss into the tile and had to stop.

I dried off. I brushed my teeth. I stood at the top of the stairs in my bare feet listening to my mom's voice say something to my brother in the kitchen, and a spoon hitting a bowl, and then a lower voice that I recognized before I could make out a single word of it. He was down there too.

I went down.

Mom was at the counter with the coffee pot, still in her robe, going through the recycling from the party. Charlie was standing at the counter in yesterday's tank top eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. Dylan was at the table with his phone face-down, and there was an empty chair across from him, so I took it.

I lowered myself into it with both hands on the table edge, easing my weight down like the chair was hot. Then I sat very still.

"Morning," Mom said.

"Morning."

Dylan looked up. "Hey. Somebody threw a blanket on me last night."

I got busy with the cereal box. "That was me."

"Yeah?" He nodded. "Thanks, man. I was out cold. I don't even remember getting down there."

"You were snoring."

"I was destroyed." He picked his phone up and turned it over, but didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on me for an extra second, and then he moved on to something toward the kitchen about his car.

I poured cereal. In my head I wondered what Dylan knew, and my heart raced as I tried not to worry about it.

Charlie chewed. He was watching my mom stack cans.

Then he leaned back and reached past my shoulder for the milk, which was sitting on the table by my elbow, and the inside of his forearm dragged slowly across the back of my neck on the way.

I jerked. My knee slammed the underside of the table and the spoons rattled.

"Whoa," Mom said. "Are you okay?"

"This cereal's stale, Deb," Charlie said, taking the focus off me as his body still leaned against me, pouring milk into his bowl. "You've had this box since I was in high school."

"Then don't eat it."

He paused for a moment.

"I'm still eating it."

I sat there with both hands flat on the table and my dick pressing hard against the front of loose gym shorts, four feet from my mother, and the only thing between it and the room was a table edge. Dylan was directly across from me with a clear view of my face, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me again.

I looked down into my cereal, and ate it.

Cleanup was Mom's price for the party. She stayed inside with the dishwasher and sent the three of us out back where the yard still had cans in the grass and chairs on their sides and one of the folding tables collapsed on the grass.

Dylan handed me a trash bag and started walking the perimeter, flipping chairs upright with one hand. I held the bag open by myself for a while and got about eight cans into it before he came back across the yard with the second roll.

"Charlie." He tossed it. Charlie caught it against his chest. "Go hold for him. He's not gonna get through the whole side by himself."

So then it was the two of us working the fence line with a bag between us, Charlie holding the plastic open with both hands, me bending and dropping cans in. Every single time I reached in, my knuckles hit his knuckles on the rim of the bag. He didn't move his hands out of the way. He didn't grab at me either. He stood there holding it while I fed it, our chests a foot apart around a garbage bag, in full sun, with my brother forty feet away.

I bent to pick up a cup that had blown under the hedge, and the bending pulled at me, and I straightened up too fast with my jaw tight.

Dylan saw it from across the yard.

"Charlie," he called out. "Trade jobs with him. He's weirdly fragile today."

He said it with a certain lilt that made me pause. He was implying something, whether he really knew it all or not. My whole body went cold standing there in the sun.

Charlie didn't look up from the bag. He shifted his grip on the plastic and said, "He'll get there."

Dylan went back to the chairs, and Charlie held the bag open a little wider for me, and I put the cup in it, and his knuckles hit mine again.

We filled two more bags. He didn't say another word to me for a long stretch, and I could feel him watching me from where I stood.

The wet stuff from the pool went to the basement, towels and trunks that had been sitting in a pile by the back door overnight and were starting to turn.

"Take those down," Charlie said, dropping the last towel on the pile. "I got the umbrella."

I picked up the basket and held it against my stomach, which was useful, and went down the basement stairs first. He came behind me with the deck umbrella over his shoulder, and I could hear the pole knocking the wall on the turn.

At the bottom he leaned the umbrella into the corner. Then he took the basket out of my hands, both of us holding it for a second, and set it down on the dryer beside him, his eyes on my face the whole time.

My hands were empty.

The laundry nook is a folding counter and two machines and a bare bulb, and the concrete down there stays cold, even in August.

He reached a hand up and touched my chest, walking me backward into the counter with one hand flat on my sternum, and the front edge of it caught me across the ass, and I hissed from the lingering soreness from the night before. He put both hands down on the counter on either side of my hips and stepped his hips in between my knees so I had to open them for him, face to face.

"You sore?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Where."

"You know where."

He brought his mouth down almost onto mine and stopped there, not kissing me, close enough that I felt his lips move when he talked.

"Good. I'm keeping you like that. I'm gonna have you again tonight or tomorrow or whenever I decide, and I'm gonna go slower and longer, and you're gonna be walking funny for a week, and you're gonna sit at that table with your family and feel where I've been, inside you."

I heard myself groan lightly, staring into his eyes, and my hips came off the counter in a gentle, involuntary thrust. My gym shorts tented straight up between us and the fabric brushed the front of his shorts, and he pressed his thigh against mine so I could feel that he was hard too, heavy along the inside of his leg through cotton.

"Down," he said.

I got down. The concrete on my knees was cold enough to make my whole body flinch, and my shorts were tented up below me.

He turned and sat back on the counter himself, hands behind him, and lifted one bare foot and put it up on my shoulder. Then he slid it across and held it in front of my mouth.

I looked at it. I looked up at him.

"Lick," he said.

I put my mouth on the ball of his foot and pressed my tongue against the skin there, tasting salt and the yard and pool concrete. I ran my tongue up the arch and he let out a breath through his nose. I did it again, more slowly, working the side of it, and got my lips around his big toe and sucked it, and my own dick was aching in my shorts, untouched, drooling into the fabric.

His hand came into my hair. He held on, watching me do it, my tongue working between his toes while I looked up at him.

"That's it," he said. "Look at you down there."

Then he took the foot away and put it on the floor and leaned forward, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of my gym shorts, both hands, and started working them down over my hips. The elastic dragged over my dick and it slapped up against my stomach, and I lifted one knee to help him.

Just as his other hand reached for his own waistband, a creak from the top of the basement stairs. One step, the fourth one down, the one that has creaked my whole life.

Charlie's hands stopped.

Then he let go of my waistband, stood up off the counter, stepped back, and walked away from me toward the stairs, wiping his palms down the front of his shorts.

"Later," he said.

I stayed on my knees on the concrete with my shorts halfway down my thighs and my dick sticking straight out into the cold air of my own basement, listening to his feet go up all fourteen steps, unhurried as he greeted my Mom, asking her what she wanted him to do next.

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I pulled my shorts up and I stayed at the bottom of the stairs for a long time.

Footsteps crossed the kitchen over my head, and then my mom's voice came down muffled but close.

“Where did he disappear to?”

“Basement,” Charlie said. “I put him on laundry. Told him his body doesn't come back up till all the loads are running.”

“You're a good influence.”

“That's what I keep telling you, Deb.”

Then the faucet ran in the sink above me and their voices flattened out underneath it. The dryer ticked as it cooled. A pipe knocked somewhere over my head.

····[]····

Charlie left around four. He did the whole routine he had been doing in our house since I was eleven, the one-armed hug for my mom in the front hall, chin over her shoulder, asking about her sister in Ohio, promising to bring back the cooler he had borrowed.

"Later, buddy," he said to me on his way past, ruffling my hair like I was a little boy. He didn't look at me any longer than he looked at the coat rack.

Dylan walked him out.

I went into the living room and stood at the window with my hands jammed in my pockets, pretending like I wasn't watching anything.

They got to Charlie's car and they didn't get in it. They stood there. Charlie had one hand up on the roof, leaning, and he was laughing about something with his head tipped back, and Dylan was standing square to him with his arms folded, not laughing. Not angry either. Just standing there.

I couldn't hear it through the glass.

Dylan said something short. Four or five words, maybe. Charlie's laugh dried up in the middle of itself, and his hand came down off the roof, and he said something back that was shorter than that. Then he got in.

Dylan stood in the driveway with his arms still folded and watched the car all the way down the street and around the corner, and then he stood there a few seconds more after it was gone before he came back inside.

I sat down on the couch and picked up the remote before the screen door hit the frame.

····[]····

Dinner was ordinary. Dad had opinions about the grill grates and Dylan had different opinions about the grill grates and for a few minutes it felt like a very important conversation they were having, and I felt a little relief as no one was looking at me weirdly, feeling the soreness in my body and feeling like I had gotten away with something. Dylan passed me the potatoes without being asked. He told a story about a guy at his work who backed a truck into a dumpster. He laughed at my mom's joke about the dumpster. He didn't look at me once. I sat there with a burning ass on a hard kitchen chair.

At eleven I came out of the bathroom with my towel around my waist and Dylan was coming the other way down the hall with a glass of water.

He stopped when we were shoulder to shoulder. He didn't turn his head.

"That bathroom door in the basement has never latched right," he said flatly. "I keep meaning to fix it."

Then he kept walking, and his door shut behind him.

In bed I lay flat on my back in the dark, which was the only position that didn't hurt, or hurt the least, and my phone lit up my face.

Charlie: You walking normal yet

Me: No

Charlie: Good

I put the phone face-down on my chest and lay there in the dark knowing he wasn't done with me. I fell asleep, sore and hard, hearing that creak of the basement bathroom door in my head.