Date: Sat, 28 Jan 2006 11:12:02 -0800 (PST)
From: D.E.Y. <ffv1624@yahoo.com>
Subject: Governor's Brother

The first chapter of this story was stolen and posted to at least one
paid-subscription website without my permission.  That site's administrator
is cooperating with an investigation into intellectual property theft, and
will be recording the sender's email and IP addresses for any story
submitted to his site if the story was posted to the Nifty Archive first.

Most Nifty readers don't need a lecture about the fact that authors who
post here do it for free, or about how digusting it is that someone would
take another author's work and submit it to a paid-subscription site in
trade for free access to that site.  I appreciate the indulgence of those
readers while I drive the point home to the thief: this story is mine, and
I will decide where it will be posted.  I expressly prohibit its
republication without my permission.

I continue to invite feedback about the story, and again thank the reader
who alerted me to the theft of the first chapter.

The Governor's Brother
Chapter Two

I awoke hard.  Jack lay curled beside me under the blankets, his head
resting on my left shoulder and his left hand draped over my right side.  I
wriggled out from under him and, as he rolled forward onto his stomach,
slipped on top of him.  He groggily began to stir and I spat in my hand and
smeared some phlegm onto my knob.  When I rammed my cock into his
still-sore hole, his eyes flew open and he cried out in pain.  Sinking
hilt-deep inside him, I grabbed his tousled hair in one fist and buried his
face in a pillow.  I moved my knees outside his thighs and pulled his legs
in tightly together, clenching his cheeks for added friction.

"Squeeze down," I hissed into his ear as his muscles clenched in pain and
surprise.  "Point your toes to the side edges of the mattress and clamp
your ass hard around my cock."  I felt his ass tighten and began pounding
into him, propping myself up on one elbow as I held his head firmly in the
pillow.  He writhed beneath me and grunted muted protests into the pillow,
but I didn't care.  I rutted inside my new bitch, my knob savoring the hot
grip of his guts as it plowed its way in and out over and over again.

I took my time fucking him.  It's not that his pain didn't matter to me.
It did.  It heightened my arousal.  I took long, slow strokes to maximize
the burning friction in his hole.  I took short, fast strokes to jab at his
prostate.  I mixed between the two to keep him guessing, to prevent him
from settling into any rhythm.  I lowered my mouth to his ear and called
him my fucktoy, my cuntboy, my slave.  I told him that I owned him now.  I
told him that I'd use his ass and mouth whenever I wanted.  And he sobbed
his agreement after each epithet.  I bit his earlobe and sucked and marked
the back of his neck.  Not just along the shoulder, but over the collar
line, too.  Where it would show.  And then I slid my arm under his throat
and pulled his head up to listen to his gaspy whimpering as I plowed him.
I ordered him to uncurl his fingers from the sheet and pinch his nipples
hard, with his fingernails.  And he did it.

I came to the edge a few times but eased off each time.  We were both
drenched with sweat.  I pulled out and ordered him to roll onto his back.
I made him watch between his own legs as I held them up and shoved my cock
down into his bright red hole.  Even as he grimaced and groaned, he began
to arch his back to meet my thrusts.  His own dick, just about the size of
mine, grew hard again and drooled shamelessly.  I wouldn't let him cum.
Not last night.  Not now.  Probably not the rest of the weekend.  He
obediently clutched his own knees and pulled them down to his chest when I
demanded he do it, which freed my hands to abuse his balls.  And I did.  I
wrapped my fist around the sack where it sprang from his crotch, forcing
his nuts into the bottom.  With the other hand, I alternatively smacked and
squeezed them, watching the sensation ripple up his abs and resonate in his
contracting ass hole each time.  I lowered my face and marked the front of
his throat as I had the back--dark, angry circular bruises spaced unevenly
apart around the whole circumference of his neck.

His agony was intensifying as the moments passed.  When I reached the edge
and slowed my tempo again, he hunched up all the more frantically, anxious
for me to cum and end his torment.  I suggested he beg me to cum in his
ass, to full him with my spunk, to declare to me how worthless and
submissive he was, to thank me for undertaking the burden of showing him
who he was.  So he did, his voice breaking as I began to twist my cock in a
corkscrew motion to ensure I scraped every bit of the surface of his abused
ass lining while now tugging and squeezing on his nuts.  And when the
perfect combination of my pleasure and his pain brought me to the edge
again, I gave in and erupted inside him, collapsing on him and thrusting
deeply as my cock blew its snot into his guts.  Each outstroke smeared some
of my slick, glistening cum on his hole, lubricating my entry and exit, so
I tried to minimize them as much as possible while maximizing my own
pleasure.  After all, his relief wasn't my concern.  At last, I drained
myself, closed my eyes, and relaxed, laying over him with his legs
sandwiched between us.

The faggot thanked me.  I lay there exhausted and sweaty from having done
the work and he began to kiss the side of my face and neck, flexing his ass
around my cock as it softened and started slipping from him.  "Thank you,
sir.  Thank you for fucking me."  I rolled off him and on his own
initiative he maneuvered to take my cock into his mouth for cleaning.  As
he caressed it with his tongue, I realized he was expecting me to piss in
him again.  But I had other ideas for this morning.

"Get up and kneel in the bathtub," I told him.  And I watched him go, his
firm ass pulsing with each step and the bright red and purple marks of his
whipping clearly visible on the back of his thighs.  But I didn't follow
him immediately.  I wasn't in a hurry.  I left him there, kneeling in the
cold acrylic as I lounged comfortably in the bed.  I dozed a bit, listening
to the drone of the hotel climate control unit.  Eventually I rose and
stepped into the bathroom where he waited, hands clasped behind him.

"You're mine now," I reminded him.

"Yes, sir," he agreed.

"And I'm going to mark you as mine right now."  I held up my dick and
pointed at him.  "Look down and open your mouth.  Stick your tongue out."
He obeyed and I aimed my piss right into his hair.  It quickly matted, and
then the hot yellow liquid began running down his face, neck, shoulders,
back, and chest.  "Look at me now, and keep your mouth open and tongue
out."  I aimed the stream right into his mouth, watching it overflow and
pour off his tongue.  When I finished, his upturned mouth remained fill of
piss.  "Close your mouth but don't swallow it yet."  He did, his cheeks
bulging a bit with its contents--my fluid waste.

I left the bathroom, collected my boxers from the bedroom floor, and pulled
them on before opening the door to the corridor to pick up the morning
paper.  I flopped down on the bed and opened it, then took the television
remote from the night table beside the bed and flicked the television on to
the morning news.  The press, with its more pedestrian understanding of
politics, was more generous in its coverage of Tyler's speech than I had
been, but even the local reporters could detect the absence of some
unidentifiable element--a slight drop in Tyler's charisma while speaking, a
slight drop in the appeal of his message.  One of the closing sentences in
the paper's article noted my presence and wondered how long it would take
Tyler to beg me to come to his rescue.  I didn't wonder, because I knew.
He'd win the primary in five months, but it would be by only a percentage
point or two.  And it would scare him.  And in the following month, I would
be occupied with his phone calls and emails asking me to come back for the
general election.  I'd play hard to get until I sat for the bar in July,
and then ride in again like the cavalry to save the day in August.

But, while my plan for securing my place in Tyler's world was in place, I
now had Jack to deal with.  I turned off the television and tossed the
paper aside.  Returning to the bathroom, I found him still kneeling, hands
still behind him, head bowed, cheeks bulging.  He looked up hopefully as
soon as I entered.  I told him to open his mouth and show me my piss.  He
did.  And I let him swallow it.

"Get up and turn on the shower," I said, and bent over to shuck off my
boxers again.  "I know you've showered with other guys before in the locker
rooms and crap like that, but have you ever washed another guy?"

"No, sir."

I stepped into the shower with him and slid the shower curtain closed.  He
may have been inexperienced, but he caught on fast.  Of course, washing
someone else isn't a quantum leap from washing yourself.  But the trick is
in the choreography--making sure he does what he needs to do without any
instruction from me.  He picked up the hints, figuring out what to do as I
raised each foot to be lathered and raised my arms to expose my pits.
After I'd been lathered, shampooed, and rinsed, I stepped to the back of
the shower to watch him clean himself.  "Turn off the hot water," I
commanded.  He hissed and grimaced, hastily smearing the soap over his body
with the washcloth.  He did a half-assed job, desperate to get out of the
frigid water, so I made him do it again.  By the time I approved of his job
and let him turn the water off, he'd taken on an attractive bluish hue and
shivered violently.  I opened the shower curtain and tossed him a towel.
Instinctively he moved to me and dried me first.

I stepped out to the sink where he'd laid his toiletry bag when he'd
unpacked sometime the day before.  I opened it and explored its contents.
Too complicated, I decided.  Too many hair products.  Too many shaving
products.  Who the fuck needs three moisturizers?  He may have been a jock
twink, but he was still a twink.  I began separating them out,
discriminating between acceptable and unacceptable, lining them up on
opposite sides of the wash basin.  I filled the sink with water and shaved
using his cream, razor, and balm.  My own hair is pretty
uncomplicated--medium brown, average length on the sides, parted on the
right and combed to the left.  I could go without product for a day after
my spontaneous sleep over.

Jack had stood in the tub, watching me as I groomed.  When I was finished,
after brushing my teeth with his toothbrush, I left the bathroom, casually
telling him it was his turn but not to use anything I'd put on the
unacceptable side of the sink.  I returned to the bed and looked for
anything else of interest in the paper.  Jack emerged ten minutes later,
looking beautiful--just as he had in the ball room the night before, except
he was naked now.  Wordlessly, he walked to the bed and knelt beside it,
and I idly reached over and stroked his back as I read.

Jack's appearance was not irrelevant to my decision to claim him.  I had
been able to tell from our first encounter in the ballroom that under the
thin shell of ego and arrogance lay the submissive, uncertain, indecisive
core.  The core that needed discipline and molding.  But I certainly
wouldn't have wasted my time undertaking to provide that discipline and
molding if he hadn't looked as good as he did.  I would make some minor
changes, some to accentuate his new status and remind him of his place,
some just to tweak his look more to my liking.  But I valued the role his
vanity had played in keeping him fit and attractive because now that
fitness and attractiveness was devoted to my pleasure.

When I threw the paper down for the second time, I could see he was hard.
Gently stroking his back had revealed my fondness for him.  And I was fond
of him.  He was proving to be smart enough to know what I wanted,
submissive enough to want to please, and attractive enough to make me want
to keep him.  So I would.  I stood and pulled him to his feet, wrapping my
arms around him and kissing him.  With some trepidation, he raised his
hands to my hips and kissed back.  His cock throbbed between us, drooling
its prefuck.  He could feel him tensing as I began fucking his mouth with
my tongue--he wanted to grind against me, to hump up against my torso, but
somehow suspected it would be a mistake and resisted the urge.  Kissing him
turned me on, too, and my cock began to fill.  But hungry though I was for
him to service me again, I was hungry for breakfast, too.  And I wanted to
take him downstairs for the first time as my bitch.  So I broke the kiss
and stepped back to turn away.

His speed took me aback as he quickly dropped to his knees and licked his
prefuck from my crotch.  His eyes turned up to me as his mouth hovered over
my now swollen cock, his hot breath escaping onto it from his parted lips.
The eyes begged.  He wanted to blow me.  And I rethought my plan and let
him, giving permission with a shallow nod.  He took my ass in his hands and
engulfed me in one slow, smooth motion.  I closed my eyes and rested my
hands on the sides of his head but left him free to please me.  There's
nothing wrong with a slave taking initiative, so long as his purpose is to
please his master.  What matters is his motivation.  And Jack was motivated
to get me off, so I let him.  He impaled his face all the way down to my
pubes over and over again, and his tongue never stopped moving along the
underside of my cock.  It alternated between pressing firmly against my cum
tube and swirling its way over my knob and digging into my slit.  While his
development as a slave needed more cultivation, his oral performance needed
none.

He brought me to the edge once, then turned his head and feasted on my
nuts, laving them with his tongue, slurping on them, sucking them into his
mouth, as my prefuck and his spit drooled down and smeared onto his face
from my cock.  Finally, I had to take control.  The morning buffet would be
closing soon and, while he inevitably would be getting his protein in
liquid form, I wanted mine from eggs and sausage.  I yanked his head back
to my cock and began to fuck him on my pace.  A pace that very quickly
brought me to climax again.  And I exploded in his mouth as he greedily
sucked my spunk down.  My upper body glistened with a sheen of perspiration
again as I caught my breath, my cock softening on his tongue.  He sucked a
bit, caressing with his tongue.  My nuts yielded the last of their load to
him, and I stroked his face.  Looking down, I saw that his eyes still
pleaded.  I realized what he wanted.  I flexed my ass, encouraging my
prostate to shift gears, and then released a light trickle of piss.  My
bladder was all but empty, though.  When there was nothing more to give, I
slipped free of his mouth, eliciting a slurpy plop.

"Thank you, sir," he murmured, then prostrated himself and kissed my feet.
I smirked.  He was learning fast.

"Time to get dressed," I announced.  My stomach rumbled.