Date: Sat, 10 Nov 2012 00:11:59 -0800
From: chevalier.de.lyons@gmail.com
Subject: How the Rest of Us Live

This story is a work of fiction, involving fictional encounters between
adults, as well as between adults and a 14-year old minor. It also depicts
incest. Such things are illegal most places, and offensive to most.  Do not
read this if it is illegal to read such things where you live, or if you
will be offended by the aforementioned fictional scenario.


Summary: Marc, a blue-collar worker and punk in his forties, falls for
Jake, a younger punk.  A tumultuous and highly-sexual relationship ensues,
but becomes complicated by Jake's duty to his runaway half-brother.


This is the first erotic story submitted by this author, and he'd
appreciate comments, though he does not guarantee response. Email:
chevalier.de.lyons@gmail.com


I'd known Jake for four years--I mean, hell, we'd been living together,
fucking each other near daily for half a decade--but it wasn't until I came
home early from work one day that I really came to know him.

Look, I'm gonna tell you something about Jake, `cause I really sort of need
to.  Also, I'm telling you something about myself, and something
about--well, a few other people--and I'm not sure why I'm doing that.  Maybe
I need to tell someone else about all this just to talk about it.  Judging
by the erection I'm getting sitting here in the middle of the night writing
all this while Jake and--well, Jake and someone else--are asleep in the next
room, I guess it'd be honest to say I'm quite aroused by telling you this.

You're not getting any real names here, sorry.  Jake isn't the name of the
24 year old stud I've been with since he was 19, and Rob isn't the name of
his 14 year old kid who was moaning Jake's real name a few hours ago when
I'd take my cock out his throat long enough to let him breathe a few words.
Oh, and my real name isn't Marc.

Okay. What do you want to know? What do I want to tell you? I'm typing this
all out under a dim lamp in the spare bedroom which is where Rob usually
sleeps.  I'm still a little drunk, both on the beer we were drinking and
the pounding I gave Rob after Jake finished with him.  Didn't bother to get
dressed except for a pair of black athletic shorts, but I'm still sweating.


Want to know what I look like? Normal, I guess.  A bit better that most
other 45 year old guys. Barrel chested, dark-brown fur with patches of
silver over most of my body.  Shaved head, a few tattoos, mutton chop
beard--think somewhere between rockabilly and skin-punk, 10 years past the
age most guys lose the courage to look hot. 6'2'', 200lbs...but this isn't a
personals ad.  I'm taken, at least twice over.

Jake's a couple of inches shorter. Skater-build, ripped as all hell.  Mohawk,
lots of scruff, beginnings of a furry chest. Norse runes inscribed in thick
black ink down his left arm, a celtic cross covering most of his back.

Jake was a poser twink skinhead when we first met, handing me his fake ID
at the club I was bouncing for extra cash on weekends. I usually hated his
kind--all these kids trying to get in with the hardcores before they
practically had pubes. Most of `em would stride up to the door, trying too
hard to act like they'd been there before, coolly handing me their ID's and
then either scurrying away with their tails between their legs like beaten
pups, or, even more pathetically, trying to start a fight with me.

This kid, though--Jake--he looked terrified when he comes up to me, like he'd
seen his own death.  And something about him suddenly turns my mood a
bit.  That,
and I'm suddenly realizing I'm getting a bit hard at the idea of frisking
this kid.  There were only a few people in line behind him, and there all
talking to each other, so I lean up close to him, smelling fear on his
sweat, and told him, "you're ID's fake, mate--you'll owe me."

I remember how he seized up, breathing like a cornered animal, and just
nodded, almost whimpering.  And then, patting him down for weapons (you
wouldn't believe the shit I used to confiscate those nights), I rub the
back of my hand against what turns out to be his erect cock.  "I'm off at
3," I said, and he nodded again, shaking.

Don't think I'd done that all the time, by the way.  Twice before, and my
marks bolted within an hour of getting let in.  But hell, this kid, Jake,
leaves when the bar closes but lingers with the post-closing drunks just in
front, trying not to look too eager. He looked damn sloshed, but could at
least stand up without leaning. For my part, I'd almost forgotten about
him. Had to break up three fights, and I'd actually taken a few jarring
punches from the last one before I kicked the idiot white-lace down the few
steps to the street.  Jake likes to remind me that I had a bleeding gash on
my jaw when I drove him back to my place.  Stained his shirt, which he kept
around unwashed for two weeks before we fucked again.

Oh, right.  We fucked that night. I was living in a shit two-room apartment
near the section 8's (don't fucking get racist on me, whoever you are
reading this--I'd still curb a white-lace anytime.) Kid was had his black
army shorts undone before he was even in the car, and I pushed him kinda
hard against the dashboard when he tried to suck my cock while I was
driving.  Got us back to my place, all but threw him through the front door
into my bedroom, and came inside his scrawny ass twice before I even got
his real name.  I'd just turned 40 a few months before, and for few weeks
had been rather down on it.  Ripping apart the small ass of a 19 year
wanna-be skinhead as he begs, shouting both "no" and "more" pretty much in
the same breath, works real well to get over shit like that getting older.

Third time we fucked that night I'd already pumped him so full that my cum
was dripping down my cock and onto my chest (I was on my back, hips up,
bouncing him like a toy).  And I still remember watching this kid reach
down, scooping it up like water and lathering on his face and shaved-head
like soap.

I don't remember at what point I passed out. I do remember waking with his
tongue in my mouth, his sweating body on top of mine, grinding his twink
chest against my matted chest hair, his ass begging for another fucking.

He's never let me live down what I said to him when I woke. "Fuck off."
Come on. If I were making this up, I'd tell you I fucked him for a fourth
time, but whatever, mate.  Live in your fantasy world.

So he left, and I didn't see him for a couple of weeks.  I'd gotten tired
of working the club--I was just doing it to save up for a better place and
some car repairs, and my boss at my day job (I worked in a warehouse) was
starting to nag me about being tired on Mondays.  I'd meant to put in
notice at the club, but I stuck around for another month just because I
wanted to see Jake again.

Didn't see him at the club, though.  Instead, the kid shows up at my
apartment one evening, looking rough, smelling unshowered with at least a
week's worth of hair on his head, and nervously acts like he was just
passing by or something.

I had a chick over that night--not a girlfriend, really, just someone I'd
fuck whenever she was looking for it. I used to do both, yeah, and might
again sometime, but Jake's kinda held my cock so well these last five years
that I haven't gotten around to much cunt.  So, I told him to come in, and
there's this awkward silence where he looks like he's almost gonna cry or
something.  I'd been wanting to get inside that ass non-stop since that
night after the bar, and I might be a punk but I'm not a prick, so I made
up some story really quick to Savanne (that's her real name, since she
doesn't matter) about how I promised to help this guy with something, so
she left pretty quick.

I didn't even ask him if he wanted to fuck.  Savanne had gotten me going
earlier, so I came really quick, like I was 12 and just figured out what my
dick was for.  He smelled damn good, though he'd tried to apologize about
being dirty and got all rigid when I rammed by tongue into his ass.  He
calmed down a bit, and took all of my thick 7 without too much squealing.

I remember, after he got off on my stomach, that something seemed really
wrong with him, like someone had died.  It took some prying, but he finally
told me. He'd been living with his mother and his little brother, but she'd
just arrested for dealing meth, and they took his little brother away.  He
didn't say it, but it wasn't hard to figure out that this meant he was
probably homeless now, too.

I got a good memory for some of the bigger things, especially when
something damn good starts.  I'd said, "Ask me, punk." And he acted like he
didn't know what I was talking about.

"You need a place to stay? Ask me."

He did, and of course I fucking said yes.

So, Jake moved in.  He had almost nothing--just a duffle bag he'd left at a
friend's place where he'd been staying the week before.  Him and I, small 2
room apartment with a shower down the hall, my cock getting to know his
insides real well, his dick streaming out pre-cum like a leaky faucet. We
got in the habit of getting off almost together, the muscles below his
balls tightening right before he blew, driving me to empty myself just as
he shot his own in quick, long-range bursts. When he rode me, I got in the
habit of opening my mouth when I came, knowing that he'd shoot hard enough
to get at least some of it into my throat.  Most of it would soak my beard,
and still to this day I can't get enough of him sopping it up and tonguing
it back to me.

I've got a lot more to say here, I'm realizing.  Jake and Rob are still
asleep in the bed, though Rob came out to piss and get a drink of water a
little bit ago. You think I'd be spent already, with us all fucking
earlier, but writing all of this has gotten me damn hard again.  I need two
hands to type, but I'd spit on my hand and was pulling at my foreskin when
Rob came out.  It took me a minute to realize he was watching me, his own
prick poking through his boxers, and I almost had a go at him right then.  It's
happened before--Jake sleeps really soundly after fucking, and sometimes Rob
and I will go at it again if I'm up for it.  Usually, I'll either pull him
into the shower and make him drink my piss, or bend him across the back of
the living room couch, gagged with one of my work-socks, and pound his teen
ass until he almost chokes on the sock. Rob seems to be as addicted to
getting railed by me, a thick, hairy, tattooed mid-forties punk as his
brother is.

Ah--I haven't mentioned that part yet, have I?

I'll wait to tell you what Rob looks like, `cause I'm gonna have to go
impale him on my cock right now if I keep thinking about the kid.  He went
back to bed after giving me a hug and kiss, my hand still stroking my
foreskin.  He called me "dad," which he only does when it's just him and I.
I'm not sure what Jake would think of this--mostly he'd probably just make
fun of me, or maybe he'd start doing it to, and then my head would be all
fucked up.

So, yeah, Rob.  That night Jake came over and moved in--that was a week
after his cunt of a mother had been arrested not just for meth, but mail
and credit fraud.  You're probably middle class, reading this, so I gotta
clear some stuff up for you real quick.  The only difference between some
of you middle-class fucks and white-laces is that you don't have the
courage to wear boots.  If you're thinking that this meth-and-crime thing
is a trailer-trash or ghetto thing, go fuck yourself.  The only difference
between a fag who does meth and a welfare mom who does it is that you're
throwing away a decent life, where she's got nothing to throw away because
she's already in the gutter.  Don't be a white-lace--she started out with
nothing, just like the blacks and latins, whereas some of you start out
with everything, playing the game of life on the easy setting.

Alright, that's cleared up.  If you couldn't get through that part, you
don't deserve to read about me coming home to find my mate fucking his
younger brother.

So, Jake had been living with his mum and 9 year old brother at the time I
met him.  He'd been pretty much taking care of all three of them, working
shit jobs to pay rent and buy groceries.  Meanwhile, she's addicted to meth
and gets it into her head to get rich by digging through the mailboxes of
the middle classes. She gets arrested, Rob gets put into foster care, and a
week later Jake's at my door.

Back then, Jake tried really hard to make me think he had everything
together and wasn't just some punk kid.  It's funny to think back on all
this, `cause he was (and still is), one of the strongest kids I've ever met.
At 16 I was puking my stomach out on the street almost every night that I
wasn't in juvie--I wasn't taking care of my addict mother and little brother.

But it broke him really hard that he couldn't take care of his brother, and
a few months after he moved in, he said something about how it was fate or
something that his life fell apart a week after he finally got the courage
to go to a punk show.  He blamed himself--it was damn obvious, and kind of
sad.

We lived in that apartment for another year. I made him go get his G.E.D.
so he could find something better than the shit jobs he'd been doing.
Taught him how to drive, let him use my car. Took him to shows, introduced
him to a few of my old friends who knew about my thing for guys.  Even
shared him in that first year with an old mate of mine, which is when Jake
learned to fuck.

It's a funny story, and I know I've been saying that I'm gonna write about
Rob soon, so just skip this part if you don't want to hear it.  Jake and I
had gone to a hardcore show one night, a couple of bands we both liked.  He
still wasn't old enough to get into the bars, but there wasn't a single
bouncer who'd question him when he was with me.  Right before the
headliners, this scruffy biker-punk named Steve (real name--he doesn't
matter much either, and he's in jail at the moment, so he won't be reading
this anytime soon) is rubbing my stomach, swearing loudly how "Marc's
finally got a gut." Next thing I know, Jake's knocked him over, and I'm
drunkenly trying to separate the two without pissing off my friend who's
working bouncing.

Show starts, and I'm trying to figure out how Jake's gonna handle finding
out that I used to fuck Steve after shows at the same bar where I met Jake
that night.  But I'm too slow to figure something out, and suddenly Steve's
wanking Jake's cock under his camo shorts while I'm staring dumbly.  Jake
keeps shooting pissed glances at me while shuddering as Steve jerks him,
and the music's all loud.

Somehow we all get back to our place.  I was too drunk to drive, and I woke
up in the passenger seat with no one around.  I remember staggering inside,
and though I must have made a lot of noise, neither of them seemed to
notice me come in until I pulled Steve off of--or, really out of--Jake.

I'd only been that blind-raged once before, when I watched a bunch of
wanna-be white-laces knock a bag of groceries out of my Laotian neighbour's
hands.  I guess you can probably judge me for this, that I felt as angry
watching a friend fuck my mate as I did watching an old immigrant woman get
harassed by idiots.  But fuck, I was angry.

Steve had already loaded Jake once, was going for a second time, with me
passed out in the car...fucking hell, I was pissed.  Steve had been a hot
fuck, clenching his hard-muscled body around my throbbing prick like a
vise, but I didn't care much for him outside of that, and even less now.

As well-built as he was, Steve was still not as strong as me.  Also, I was
so full of angry adrenalin that I probably could've taken four Steves.

I can barely remember what happened, precisely.  I had him from behind,
wrestled him off of my boy's too-willing body, and threw him off the bed.  I
remember looking at Jake, staring at his stretched hole dripping with
Steve's semen, and just before I completely lost my mind, I saw Jake's face
staring back at me.  He seemed to have neither fear nor shame, no anger or
apology, like he was waiting to see what I'd do next.

What I did next was brutal, and not something I'd feel okay telling you
about if Steve had screamed "no."  I didn't bother taking my jeans off--I
had myself unbuckled and unzipped in a second and thrust every last bit of
my anger and rage into him.  He shouted, yeah--I made him say my name over
and over again, so Jake wouldn't forget who it was who owned his ass and
the ass of anyone else who tried to take what was mine.

I made sure Steve couldn't reach his own cock.  I knew something about him
that Jake didn't--that the fit, the rhythm, the weight and the throb of me
inside him could make him shoot without even touching himself.  At first I
held both of his arms behind him, pinning him to the floor as I pounded
harder and harder.  But then, as he got closer, I wrapped one arm around
his chest, used the other for balance, and pulled him and myself on to our
knees, all the while keeping myself inside him like a machine part, a
piston unerringly punching into the tight cylinder of his cock.  I held him
there, my arm now covering his face, my forearm digging into his mouth just
as his jaw tried to clamp down on the thick muscles gagging him.  He was
trying to shout, trying to breathe as I rammed him again and again, meeting
Jake's calm, lusting eyes as I forced myself one more time, deeper into
Steve than humanly possible and painted his innards with my angry cum,
shouting a guttural, animal moan that meant both "fuck" and "mine."

As I emptied my heavy balls deep into Steve, my anger and jealousy subsided
and became something else, something weird.  I--remember still staring into
Jake's eyes, and if they could have spoken, they probably said "it's
alright mate- now it's your turn."  I pulled out of Steve, who gave a
pained but estatic yelp, and then picked Jake in my shuddering arms and
pulled him to me.  He wrapped his legs around my chest, as he still
reflexively does, but I turned him around, put him behind Steve, and then
pressed myself behind Jake as I guided his cock into Steve's wet hole.  I
guided him in, urging him forward as his 6 inch cut dick pierced into
Steve's cum-lubed hole.

In all this time before, Jake had never fucked me, and he had told me he'd
never fucked anyone before.  I'd played with the idea of giving it up for
my boy, but here was something just as good.  It didn't take Jake long to
let go, to feel the animal lust pushing himself forward into the place I'd
just been. Though I was spent, I played with my boy's hole, fingering out
the cum Steve had filled him with and feeding it back to him as Jake dug
himself deeper and deeper into my now ex-buddy.

I kicked Steve out when Jake finished inside him, and I never talked to him
again.  I held Jake after that, rubbing my jaw against his shoulder as he
slept, seeing no reason to speak about the matter for a few days later.  He'd
been jealous, he said, when Steve told him I used to rail him.  Why hadn't
I told him?

I was only a little angry, then--why had you left me in the car? What made
you think I'd be okay with you taking another cock?  And then he said
something that sticks with me still--he told me he didn't know what love
was, but he thought he loved me, and it scared the hell out of him.

Before that, I'd never used the word love, except to tell some woman what
she wanted to hear, and that was when I was much younger and realized I
wasn't doing them any favors by telling them that.  But I used it again,
suddenly.  "Yeah, I know.  I love you too, Jake.  Scares me a bit too.  Guess
that's settled."

Okay.

Rob.

Fast forward a few years, yeah? Jake's mother gets out, but isn't allowed
to see her youngest son. Rob's in some abusive foster home which some
middle-class family who's got four kids of their own already.  Jake tells
me one day that Rob ran away and can he stay here for a bit?


Maybe I should back up a little.  Jake and I'd been living together now for
about 4 years.  About a year after I started fucking him, my place really
started getting too small. Cheap rent, close enough to shit that I didn't
need my car all that much, but too cramped for two guys.  I'd been saving
up money for a better place anyway, and Jake was working as a house-painter
and finisher, so together we had enough money to move into something a bit
better.

Found us a 2-bedroom apartment in a pretty-run down area near all the
rusting factories for pretty cheap. My mates, who'd been mostly quiet on
the Jake-and-Marc thing, joked around a bit too much `bout us getting
married or some other shit, but fuck `em.

Four damn good years, three of `em in this new place with enough room for
the both of us and then some. Got out of warehouse picking, found a job
scrapping metal with an old mate of mine. Have to deal with the occasional
meth-head trying to sell me what he thinks is copper piping but is usually
just old iron turned all red with rust. It's kinda funny, even though its
real sad. Couple of `em are pretty far gone, and the worst ones are all the
fags wearing stained aberzombie shirts and scratching their faces off. Feel
real bad for `em, and can tell they were probably a decent fuck before they
started losing their teeth.

So, four years of Jake and I. Not gonna say "boyfriends" or shit like that,
though yeah, I started saying that love word a lot. Truth is, he's been my
best mate, the best ass I've ever had, and something like a little brother,
too.

So, now we're at Rob. Last year, he shows up at our place and Jake's all
not wanting to make him go back. Kid's thirteen, almost 14 now. By that
age, I'd already been staying out all night, trying to stick my adolescent
cock into any kind of hole that would let me. Hit juvie a few times that
year, too, and though I'm not gonna say I knew what the hell I was doing, I
wasn't no idiot, either.

Jake had talked up his little bro a lot. Felt guilty he couldn't take care
of him, and punched a hole through one of our walls one night when he was
drunk and got to thinking about how they'd taken Rob away from him.  I knew
what Rob meant to Jake, and though I'm not the best at dealing with kids, I
said, sure, why the fuck not.

So Rob moves in to the side room, the one I'm writing all this down in.  Jake
had been using it for art shit, or just a place to hang.  Also, Jake
started bringing a few guys home, which pissed me off at first before I
realized that I could get rid of all that anger real quick by pounding it
into Jake (or, a few times, one of his buddies).

Rob's 14 now, and looks a lot like his older brother though they're from
different men.  When I met the kid, I liked him a lot. An inch or two
shorter than Jake, a slightly thicker build, red-brown hair. He'd just
started to grow a bit of hair on his nuts (oi, yeah--I saw the kid naked
pretty quickly after that, but it's not what you think. He showed up with
no clothes except what he was wearing and stank like the street, so I made
him take a shower a few hours after he showed up).

Jake was pretty happy about it. I found Jake laying on our bed, his head
hanging off the edge and a collar on his neck, waiting to thank me for
helping his little bro by giving me his throat to fuck for an hour.

And Rob seemed pretty happy, too. I don't know the whole story about what
happened with that foster family, but I know it didn't take too long to
figure out the desk jockey father of the family had been making his
fostered boys suck him off. Some sort of deal, Rob let on--if you choked
down Mr.'s smelly white-collar cum, he treated you like a real son for a
few days, rather than some shit off the street.  Sick.

We were worried for a few weeks that someone from CPS would come looking
for him, that I might get stuck in prison for a bit for child endangerment.
Even put away a little extra cash for Jake just in case I got thrown in for
awhile, so he could hold our apartment `till I was back and wouldn't have
to worry about shit.

But no one came for Rob. The system didn't give a shit about the delinquent
son of a nobody mother.  I mean, come on--they should have nailed that
foster dad hard, let him see what it was like to have to suck off smelly
prison dick while blood's running down your mouth and ass from the last
three rapes.

Don't get me wrong--I wasn't disappointed some underpaid social worker never
showed up at my door looking for Rob.  Too much to explain, and I got
really attached to the kid.  And Rob seemed to like me, not getting all
bitter and sullen `cause I was an adult.  And he figured out real quick
that I was railing his older brother, and just said "it's cool, man,
whatever."

He changed quite a bit living with Jake and I. When he first showed up,
he'd looked somewhere between an emo-girl and a soccer-jock.  It didn't
take long for him to want a pair of boots (which Jake bought for him a few
weeks later) and cut all that long girl hair off into a mohawk. My mates'll
all tell you that I can be a prick when I see someone trying to be someone
else, so I rode Rob a little too hard about trying to be Jake one night.  He
kinda lost it on me, saying shit about me not thinking he was good enough
and some other shit that made me think he was getting a bit jealous of what
Jake and I were.

And then, a few weeks later, he comes home wearing white laces. I fucking
lost it on him--I pushed the kid into the bathroom and held him down while I
shaved his head.  Then, him still crying, I grabbed him, forced him into
the car, and drove him into the middle of the section 8's near where I used
to live, and made him walk home looking like a fucking fascist.

Jake came home drunk from a bar, and actually fucking almost broke my jaw
with his fist.

I didn't fight back. I left, hit up the railyard that night where I used to
go for extra cash 30 years ago, and pounded some twink's ass into next week
against the wall of old ties. Even double-wrapped, I tore the rubbers
straight through and, though the kid was begging to take all my cum deep in
his bowels, I finished off on his face instead and tossed him a fifty.  The
kid even tried to give it back to me, telling me shit about how he'd take
it for free anytime I was in a giving mood. I was still pissed from the
fight with Jake, so I let loose on the kid, telling him he was better than
all this shit and should go home to his mom.

I'm a prick sometimes.

It took a few days for Jake to say anything beyond "fuck off" to me.  Rob
was okay--he recovered pretty quick from the whole thing.  He'd returned
without incident (of course), and actually listened to me when I gave him a
speech about how those guys should've ripped him apart for being a racist,
but they're better than any white will be.  He got the point, and though he
wouldn't stay in the same room with me for too long, he didn't act like a
little prick.

Jake got over it all a few weeks later. Probably helped that I eventually
apologized, sort of.  The kid was only 13, after all, so maybe I was a bit
harsh. The thing is, and I can admit this now, I was feeling something for
Rob that pissed me off.  I'd watch him watch me when we were around the
house alone, or Jake and I when we were wrestling in the kitchen drunk. I'd
meet Rob's eyes and see something that scared the hell out me.  He looked
more than just interested--he looked both jealous and aroused.  Not good to
watch the 13 year old brother of your 24 year old fuck-mate get hard
looking at you.

That's when I should've figured something was going to happen.  But hey,
you can't know everything, even what's going on in your own bed.

So, fuck--here's what happened.

A few months ago, I was working with a cutter at the scrap yard and got
some metal splinters in my eye. Goggles had slipped off, and I was in a
hurry, so I didn't re-adjust them.  Nothing too bad, really--just a little
blood, and I couldn't see out of that eye for a week afterwards.

So boss sends me to the ER with all the worker's comp papers, and I'm there
for only about an hour before they clear me to go home and tell me to take
the week off.  I didn't bother calling Jake, `cause I didn't want him to
worry if it was nothing, so I drive home, a full two hours before I'm
usually back.

I'm all figuring I'm just gonna head straight to my room, lay down for a
few hours because my head's killing me.  Even before I'm in the house, I
hear really loud music pouring out of the speakers in the bedroom, so I
guess that Jake's home still.  Once I get inside, I see Rob's door closed,
so I assume he's not home. I stumble through the rest of the apartment,
expecting nothing of the sight I was about to see with my one good eye.

The bedroom door was open, music blaring (you wouldn't know the band), and
I see Jake's got young punk bouncing on his cock. I'm fucking pissed, of
course--my head hurts, my eye is fucking killing me, and my boy's railing
some stranger. `Course, I can't see worth shit, so it takes me a few
seconds to see who he's got, and I fucking freeze.

Jake's fucking his brother. There's Rob, wailing like a little faggot on my
boy's tool, and next thing I know I'm hard and even more pissed than I was
before.

I should've stopped it right there, huh? Fuck, probably mate.  I--damn, I
still think I should've listened to that voice telling me to rip Rob off of
Jake's cock, knock their heads together kinda hard and give `em a lecture
`bout how it's wrong to fuck your little brother.

But I didn't.  I stood there, watching.  Neither of `em saw me pull my slab
of meat out, spit on my hand and fuck my fist as I watched Rob's leaking
pre-cum drool out on his brother's stomach. I edged myself, standing there
in that doorway, `cause it was taking Jake a long time to dump into his
little bro. Go figure--Rob told me later he'd already pumped him twice that
morning.

But I'm ahead of myself here.  Rob came first, whelping like a little pup,
moaning "yeah, bro" as if he were some douche-bag frat-kid. Then Jake let
out this primal yell I'd never heard from the boy's throat, almost fucks
the last of his seed into Rob so hard his little brother was about to fall
off the bed.

And then I come, going blind in my other eye for about a minute with the
intensity. There I am, mid-forty year old hairy metal-worker, cum in my
fist, and all I hear is, "oh fuck, Marc."

Next thing I know, Jake's run out past me, doesn't even bother slamming the
front door, jumps in my car and doesn't come back for two days.

Oh, and then Rob starts crying and begging me not to kick him out.

I can't think worth shit. The pain in my head and my eye is back, there's a
naked 14 year-old still dripping his brother's cum from his ass standing
before me, and I think all I managed to say was, "I'm going to bed."  My
whole world's fucking reeling, I want to break something.  Still, my hand's
wet with warm cum, Rob's in front of me, and though maybe I thought I was
going to wipe off his tears, I end up smearing my cum all over the punk's
face before crashing out.

Woke up a few hours later, and I hear Rob's still crying, or crying again,
and he's next to me in the bed, huddled up all fetus-like, naked.  He reeks
of sweat, of Jake.

"Where's Jake?" I said.

"He hasn't come back. He said he's not coming back, Marc."

My head was a little bit better `till I heard this.  "What? He fucks his
little brother and decides to leave him here with me?"  And then I'm all
angry again, and I add "you repay me for letting you stay with us by
hanging with white-laces and then figure, hey, why not get into incest
along with fascism?"

Rob seized up. "I stopped hanging with them, Marc. You were right.
But--I...I've been wanting you and Jake since I've been here. You don't want
me, but at least Jake does. Did, anyway. I guess he's fucking gone."

I shouldn't have said all this shit: "Didn't fucking want you, boy? You
want to feel my cock? You want to know what a real man feels like ripping
you apart from the inside?"

Rob suddenly cheers up.  "Yes, Dad."

I grabbed the back of his neck. "You don't get to call me Dad yet, boy.  You're
gonna have to prove yourself.  If Jake's gone, I'm gonna need a new
cockslut. Since you chased him away, you better be at least half as good or
you're out."

And fuck was the boy good.  He was on me before I could even spit on my
cock, but it turned out it didn't matter. All three loads from Jake were
still in there.  Good thing, I guess--Rob was still really tight, and I was
pretty certain I would've broken him bad if Jake hadn't already loosened
him up first.  Even still, Rob screamed a bit when I was in.

Though I was still pretty pissed, I suddenly found myself calming down. On
my back, knees up, Rob leaning his own back against them with his ass
tightly clenched around my rod like a vise, I'm suddenly feeling something
I didn't want to feel.

I like the kid.  I mean, of course, mate, I'd been wanking off to his
little half-man, half-boy body since he moved in, but it's kinda like how I
felt the fifth or sixth time with Jake. I didn't just want to rail him, I
wanted him around.

So I went slow. Not what I think he'd been expecting or necessary wanting,
but it was what I wanted.  I don't know--some of you might call it "making
love" or some shit, but fuck you.

I pulled him down onto my chest, wrapped both of my hairy arms around his
hairless back, and fucked him like he meant something to me. His head was
next to mine, his mouth near my ear, and I could hear every thrust in his
breathing, listen to his quiet moans and his gasps.

There was enough sweat between us that his small prick, grinding against
the fur of my stomach, got wetter and harder until I could feel hot streams
of his boy-seed between us, and I could feel every muscle in this body
tense up, enough to practically pull the cum out of me.



Jake came back a few days later, which was good, since I missed my car.  Well,
whatever--I missed him, too.  Or was worried. Or something.

He told me he'd come to get his stuff, and he and Rob were going to find
somewhere else to live.  Rob was sitting on the couch when Jake came in,
and when Jake said this, the little punk said, "why?"

Jake had looked like a wet dog when he came in. It'd been raining, he'd
probably been sleeping in the car, and now he looked like a beaten wet dog.

I hadn't said a thing yet. Besides, Jake hadn't even really looked at me
when he said announced he was leaving.  It was, I gotta admit, kinda funny.

"What do you mean, why?" Jake said to Rob.  "You know why."

"No I don't. Marc said I can stay here."

I'm sure I was smiling when Jake finally looked at me. "What--whoa. What the
fuck did you do to your eye?"

I  was trying to be angry, but couldn't.  "Cute you noticed, punk.  So--you
gonna take away my new fuck-toy, or you gonna stick around and help me chew
on him?"

Jake looked like he'd been slapped. "You've been fucking Rob?"

I'm pretty sure I laughed. "Oi--it's not incest when I do it, even though
he's been calling me dad the last few days."

Jake got really pissed at this.  I wouldn't let him call me dad--never liked
it, really, `cause it made me feel old or something.  "Fuck you, Marc."

"Nah," I said. "But I'd fuck you while you fuck your little bro.  Where the
fuck have you been?"

I was pretty certain Jake was gonna bolt out the door again after that,
but, ballsy punk that he is, he goes to the fridge, grabs a beer, and sits
down on the couch next to Rob and just stared into nothing.  Rob put his
arm around his older brother, but Jake pushed it off after downing half the
beer and said, "so--it was okay I was fucking Rob?"

"Not at all, mate.  It's fucking perverted, Jake." I grabbed my own beer,
and got one for Rob, too.  "But fuck. You already did it, and he wanted it,
and we're all kind of fucked up here.  But I'm more pissed off you left and
took my car.  So--you gonna stick around, or what?"

Jake didn't say anything, though I could tell he was about to say sorry or
some shit.  Thing is, Rob interrupted him. We'd worked out this whole thing
already, actually--if Jake ever came back, Rob was gonna strip and grovel at
my prodigal punk's boots, and there he was in five seconds, licking the
leather on Jake's Doc's.

Jake figured it out real quick. "You're an asshole, Marc."

"I know," I laughed, pulling out my cock and getting down on one knee
behind Rob.  "And we both missed you."

I'm not gonna tell you much more.  That was a few weeks ago, now. Jake
stayed, of course. It took him a good few minutes of watching me fuck Rob
while he licked Jake's muddy boots before he finally pulled out his own
tool and started pulling.  Rob was on his brother's cock in a second,
enjoying being spit between the two of us. And though I'd always rather
shoot in what I fucked, I pulled out of Rob just before, stood and painted
Jake's scruffy face with my seed, and then kissed the brother-fucker and
said, "welcome back, mate."

And here we are now. We're at each other every day, at least once. I don't
know where it's gonna go. I don't much care to know whether what we're
doing is right or wrong--right and wrong is for white-laces and
white-collars, not us.  Right and wrong is what makes idiots think it's
cool to be pricks to people with darker skin than them, or to harass people
who speak five languages but none of `em English. Right and wrong is
probably what makes some of you reading this think you can make stupid
amounts of money while the rest of us scrabble in the run-down areas of
your cities, trying to make a living out of old metal and stone.

Know what? Fuck your right and wrong.

And fuck you.