Date: Mon, 27 Jun 2016 10:41:25 +0000 (UTC)
From: a4f101@yahoo.com
Subject: Strike Three

Here's a story taken from my Tumblr, at a4f101.tumblr.com/storytime. You
can find this one, and the pic that inspired it, here:
http://a4f101.tumblr.com/post/121312455269/

This story is purely a work of adult erotic fantasy, copyright me 2016. I
own it and all legal rights to it. If you're under the age of majority in
your jursdiction, please come back when you're of legal age.

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*****

Brooks wasn't ready. Nowhere near it. I'd called him before I left, and
again an hour out from his place, three hours of driving on freeways choked
with summer traffic, going a good hundred or more miles out of my way to
pick his ass up. Doing him a huge favor, giving him a ride to the Shore and
the beach house the folks had rented, since he'd crashed his Civic early in
the semester, and now he could only spend a week down there because his
stupid jock ass was failing math, and he had to spend the rest of the break
in summer school to avoid getting cut from the squad, and I'd wind up
having to drive him back, too.

So maybe I wasn't in the best of moods when I pulled up to the ramshackle
off-campus house him and three of his teammates were renting. The place was
a dump, and the inside wasn't any better. Looking around as one of his
roommates let me in, I wondered how they even got women back here, but I
guess they kept the lights off or something. Not that it mattered - they
were all square-jawed, big-chested wrestler jocks, so I was betting they
didn't have any trouble in that area. Brooks never had, despite his punkish
attitude. I sure hadn't, back in my own college days. But then, me and my
buds kept our place pretty squared away. And we weren't always too worried
about getting girls back to the house to play, when we still had plenty of
available tail right under our own roof...

I stood in the doorway to his room, which was like his old disaster-area
bedroom back when he lived at home, only doubly disgusting. Clothes strewn
everywhere, the funk of unwashed laundry, jock sweat, and what was probably
a semester's worth of old cum socks under the bed. Brooks barely looked up
at me. He was sitting in his second-hand recliner, not even dressed - just
an old wifebeater, socks, his ballcap, old boxer shorts. I mean, the kid
looked good - he'd gotten bigger, and the diamond ear stud was a slightly
douchey, but still kinda-hot touch. Big, smooth muscles. He was even making
his wispy, unshaven beard growth work. But he also looked sloppy as
fuck. My coach would've kicked my ass for that, not to mention what Dad
would have done. But I guess without Dad around, my asshole little bro felt
like he could do as he pleased. I don't know why that was getting to me
right now, but I could feel the steam rising under my collar, like one of
those old cartoons or something.

"'Sup," is all he said, not looking away from the video game. Strike One.

"You were supposed to be ready to go, dude," I said tightly. His bag was
tossed on the bed, not even packed. Brooks just shrugged. Strike Two.

"Seriously, Brooks," I simmered. "We still got three hours - more like
five, with traffic - to go, and I'd like to get there sometime before the
Fourth of fucking July. So can you just get your shit together, like I
asked?"

The kid shot me a scowl, turned back to the screen.

"Chill, asshole, jesus," he muttered. "Just gotta finish this level."

Strike Fucking Three. I'm a pretty even-tempered dude, especially for a big
guy, but I am not somebody to be fucked with. Especially not by my teenage
punk little brother. Kid had been a pain in the ass, all cocky and
self-possessed and arrogant since he hit puberty and started growing. He
had that whole alpha-wrestler-jock thing going on, and he thought that his
shit didn't stink. That that was good enough to set him up for life. Me,
I'd been there, been a champion athlete, got good grades, and now I was out
in the real world, fighting to make it. I knew what was up. And right now,
it was my blood pressure. It was 95 degrees outside, the rest of my day was
going to be burned up sitting in hundreds of miles of traffic, and here
this fucking punk-ass kid was, giving me attitude and calling me the
asshole. No sir. Not this guy.

I guess Beast Mode kicked in, or something, because I was moving before I
knew what I was doing. I strode forward, hooked one foot under the cable
from his game system to his flat-screen, and kicked up, yanking the cable
out and upending the system on the dirty carpet as the TV gave out a
staticky bark and the screen cut to standby mode.

"Dude, the fuck?!" Brooks yelled, making to get up from his chair and
square off against me, which would have been dumb, since I've got 20 pounds
of solid, bulky post-jock muscle on him. I shoved my big hands into the
plates of his pecs and pushed him bodily back into his old chair, which
rocked back and forth with the impact of his solid jock body.

"Shut... the fuck... UP," I growled, in a voice I didn't quite
recognize. Reached behind me to slam his bedroom door closed. Then advanced
on him. Finally, I was getting a reaction from him, and the scared face he
was giving me was weirdly satisfying. Like I said, I'm a pretty
even-tempered dude... but you really don't want to fuck with me. Just
because I spend more time behind a desk than under the barbells nowadays,
doesn't mean I can't still put the fear of God into somebody when I want
to. And right now, I really wanted to put that fear into Brooks.

I grabbed him by the straps of his wifebeater, hearing the stitches at the
shoulders give a little, and hauled him up, got into his face.

"This place is a fucking pig sty," I seethed. "You're a sloppy,
undisciplined mess. You crashed your car and fucked off all semester, and
you expect everybody else to carry your ass. And now, you've disrespected
me when I'm doing you a favor. A huge one. So we're going to start a new
program, kid. Right fucking now. Do you hear me, asshole?"

Brooks looked shocked, stunned, scared. I doubt anybody had spoken to him
like this in some time. I'd always gotten the blunter end of the
disciplinary stick from the folks, like I was expected to set an example
for the kid. Clearly it didn't take, looking at him and the way he lived,
the way he acted. So, time to set a new example, and make sure he followed
through, this time.

"If you can even find clean clothes in this fucking pit, pack your god damn
bag, right now," I spat. When he hesitated, I pushed him, making him nearly
trip over the crap on the floor and his own big feet. But he just nodded,
and started looking. I watched him feebly dig around for a few minutes,
then strode out into the kitchen, kicked a bunch of crap around until I
found the right cabinet, and picked up a box of trash bags.

"All your clothes, in here, right now," I said, tossing the bags at
him. "Dirty, clean, I don't give a fuck. There's a laundry at the
house. You're gonna use it."

I don't know, I really expected some pushback, a whole lot of mouthing off
- that was Brooks' usual style. But he just nodded and began stuffing
clothes into bags at random, casting me sullen looks that didn't mask his
nervousness. I just folded my arms - my forearms look really big when I do
that, it's useful - and stared him down, and he kept packing. Since it
wasn't finesse work, just grabbing and stuffing, it didn't take long, and
soon there were two full black trash bags and one flush-faced jock, staring
back at me. Like he was waiting for his next instructions. Interesting.

Somehow, the vibe had shifted again, and while I was still charged up and
ready to kick some ass - literally, if I had to - there was something else
going on here. His phone buzzed, and he went to reach for it, but I
snatched it up first.

"Dude, my girl -" he started to whine, but I shook my head, and he shut up.

"Forget her, bro," I growled. "Right now, it's you and me. And we're not
done."

He hung his head a little, nodded meekly. Fuck... where had this kid come
from? Was this all it took - just some pushing-around? Maybe this was how
his coaches had always got such consistently strong performances out of
him. Maybe under his jock-stud bravado, this was what he really
needed. Somebody to take charge. Set him straight. Make him do what he
needed to do.

That weird electricity was in the air between us, and I swore I could smell
his fear. That, and his sweat. He hadn't showered today, by the smell of
him, and he had that early-summer jock-teen gaminess to him. Sweat, and
musk. Maybe he'd jerked off this morning - well of course he had, I did -
and hadn't cleaned himself up afterwards. Most people would recoil from the
smell, but I grew up in locker rooms, and I was a kid like him once. Hell,
I could feel my dick getting interested. Because I remembered that smell
well from my own lazy college days, when me and my buds would play-wrestle
on the grass out back, or in the living room, sweaty skin on skin... and
inevitably, wrestle our way out of our clothes, down to our underwear,
winding up sweat-dripping, hard-cocked, sliding harder, deeper against each
other, until it almost seamlessly transitioned from a fight to a fuck,
winner taking all. Grunts of effort turning to grunts of lust, the slap of
hands on sweaty skin turning into the slap of hips against glutes. I
wondered if that ever happened here, with his buds. I wondered what the
fuck I was doing, thinking like that. Where the fuck this was going. Why I
wasn't stopping.

"You smell, bro," I said, my voice low, insistent. Stepping a little
closer. "You shower today?"

He shook his head, blushing. I pushed his arm up, exposing his pit, the
tuft of dark fur there moist with sweat. Sniffed it. Felt his funk invade
my nostrils, and travel all the way down to my
cock. Yeah... memories. Brooks gasped, blushed, but didn't pull away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, kid," I muttered. "You cum today?"

He blushed harder, but nodded. Like he was under my spell or
something. This sense of power within me, and whatever was lurking under
that, couldn't be good for me. But I was going with it, almost
instinctively.

"Where'd you cum, Brooks?" He blushed, and I repeated the question, looking
into his eyes, still holding his arm. Squeezing the thick muscle for
emphasis.

"My stomach," he muttered in a small voice. I squeezed his arm tighter. "My
stomach!" he said, louder.

"Show me, kid," I growled, and he looked even more shocked... but he
did. Lifted the hem of his wifebeater. Revealed the strong, defined muscles
of his stomach. A true wrestler's core. Creamy smooth skin, stretched tight
over the large squares of his abs, dusted lightly with dark fur that
trawled down into his loose old boxers. A different faint musk rising in
the air. One I knew very well. The smell of a load of cum, and sweat, that
had dried into his skin. My little brother was kind of a pig. And it was
hot as fuck.

He was a little shy with the show, and I grabbed hold of his wifebeater and
yanked. The straps were already giving a little, and when I flexed my arms
and pulled hard, they separated with a grunt from us both. A grunt of power
from me. A grunt of surprise and... something else from him. Something
deeper. And there he stood, face flushed, big chest heaving, a perfectly
sculpted wrestler jock body, ripe and rich with young scent... and a tent
in his boxers. Not the accidental tent of a big dick, which I knew he had,
we both did - but a big, hard young dick. A hard dick like mine. I looked
at him with something like a grin, and he blushed and looked down... then
back at me. Something submissive in his eyes, but acknowledging the deeper
truth of what was going on here. This was turning him on. This was turning
us both on.

"Lose your shorts, kid," I said, coming out of nowhere. I didn't seem to
have as much control of myself as I thought I did. I didn't seem to
care. Especially when he flushed, but reached down, and pushed the old
loose cotton boxers down his hips, his strong thighs, and that big, hard
dick of his snapped out. Fuck, he was even leaking a little. And hell... he
was beautiful. Those smooth, creamy, thickening muscles - a man's body,
transitioning from a teen athlete's hardness into a man's fullness. Those
big pink nips. Those strong, muscle-packed thighs. That dark, manly hair
coming in all over his stomach, his legs, his arms. And that big, hard
dick, red-tipped and jutting angrily from the musky thickness of his dark
bush. He reminded me a lot of my good bud Carson, from my State
days. Reminded me of a lot of fun, sweaty adventures me and my bud
had. `Experimenting,' we'd both called it. Shit, sometimes still, Carson
hopped the shuttle down from Boston for work, and we met for a few drinks,
and he wound up at my place in Midtown, and we experimented some more.

I leaned in and audibly sniffed Brooks now. Smelled my brother's heady,
musky funk. Saw his muscles tense as he presented himself for
inspection. Thought about how he'd looked, over the years, packed into his
singlets. The time a video of his championship senior-year bout popped up
on our hometown's news site, and I'd watched it on repeat while I jacked my
cock, admiring the power and flex of his big young lycra-clad muscles, his
finesse and technique and determination. The way his sweat had darkened the
baby-blue of his singlet. How hard I'd cum, and how bad I'd felt about
it. Especially when I'd reloaded the clip a week later and done it all over
again.

I didn't feel bad now - I felt horny. Powerful. In control, finally, of my
punk-ass jock little brother. And so I reached down and took hold of that
big cock of his, felt it throb in my hand, felt him stiffen all over, heard
a low moan escape his lips. Felt the subtle thrust of his hips as he pushed
his bigness a little more deeply into my big, sweaty palm, instinctively.

"You liking this, kid?"

"Y-yeah," he stuttered out in a small, almost boyish voice.

"Yes what?" I growled, giving his big, strong dick a squeeze. Not a painful
one... but an assertive one. A controlling one.

"Yes bro," he said, more forcefully, His eyes met mine. Something in them
I'd never seen. The words he said next sent a shiver through my core, made
the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"Yes... Daddy," he almost whimpered, eyes getting wet, and I had him. And
he had me.

I growled lustily, pulled him in close by the heft of his cock, slammed my
lips against his, and just like that, we were grunting into an intense,
sloppy, tongue-thrusting kiss. His cock immediately began to leak more
strongly, slicking up my palm, and I felt his hands come up after a minute
to clutch my sides. I fed him some more tongue, savoring the hungry way he
sucked on it, just like my buddy Carson did so well, then grunted with
effort and pushed his arms away, breaking his grip on my sides, breaking
our intense kiss. He stood there, flush-faced, big young chest heaving,
cock on the verge of dripping all over his dusty floor, and stared at
me. Like he didn't understand where this had come from either. It had set
upon us with the suddenness of a brushfire. But like a fire, it was an
undeniable force now. Something to be reckoned with.

"Say it again, kid," I said. "Say it... son." He gulped, nodded.

"Daddy," he said. Hesitated. Then: "Big bro... Daddy..."

I growled, pulled him back for another short, yet intense makeout, then
pushed him away. He looked confused, scared, ashamed, and incredibly turned
on. I'd found Brooks' secret core. The lever to get him to do what I
wanted. To do what he needed to do. I'd never been harder in my entire
fucking life. I pointed down to my incredibly strained crotch, my cargo
shorts hard-tented, and beginning to darken where the bulbous head of my
cock was trying to break through. Beginning to leak through. He nodded
again - no words, no instruction necessary, where the fuck had this Brooks
been all along? - then squatted down, fumbling with the zip and the button,
until he had my shorts open and falling down around my feet, and was
staring at the big mound in my boxer briefs.

I'm a big guy, all over, and my dick is proportional. Tall, thick,
solid. Strong. Brooks stared at it with a worshipfulness I'd never seen on
anyone else, then leaned in and began mauling the strained, dampening
fabric with his mouth. I grunted, put one hand to the back of his head,
knocking his ballcap off, and pushed him against it. He moaned back, almost
happily, and lapped and sucked and licked and kissed it more
fervently. Then he reached up for the waistband, looked up at me with a
needy question in his eyes. I just nodded, folded my big arms across my
chest, and watched him set to work.

The kid was eager, enthusiastic, hungry, if not super-experienced. But he
had some talent. And he didn't really feel like a rookie at this. I knew
the sensation of a rookie mouth on your cock, especially one my size -
you'd be surprised, or maybe not, at how many cock-hungry freshman
wrestlers come rolling out of little towns all over the country for an
eager taste of the forbidden pleasures of college life. Brooks was no
rookie. My little bro had experience swinging on another dude's dick. I
grinned at the idea, filing away my questions for later - maybe for that
long car ride down to the Shore - and pushed his sweaty, tousled head down
harder on it. Almost to the choke point. And all he did was huff and
sniffle and grunt almost gratefully, one hand on the base, the other
feeling up my big, thick thigh worshipfully, and suck me close to the
brink.

"You really want this, kid... Son?" I growled, warming even more to the
role. To the power. Pushing him back off my piece, thick strands of his
spit connecting his lips to my head. He nodded eagerly at me, stroking my
thighs, leaning in to lick the blunt tip, coaxing a big pearl of precum
from it.

"You gonna do as you're told, kid?" He nodded. "You gonna keep fuckin'
around, being a little punk asshole?" He shook his head. "You gonna
straighten the fuck up, get your grades back up, start living right?" He
nodded even harder. I could smell his need, rolling off him with the fresh
sweat and musk emanating from him. The need and sweat and musk on us
both. Maybe I needed this as much as he did. Maybe I should quit thinking
so hard about it and just go with it. Yeah. That sounded like a plan.

"You want me to keep being your Daddy, Brooks?" I said, leaning down,
looking into his eyes, tilting his chin up. He nodded, tears in his
eyes. So I kissed him. A little slower, deeper this time. Showing him how
things could be. If he behaved himself. If he was a good boy. A good Son.

"Then show Daddy just how willing you are, jock boy. How good a boy you can
be for your Dad," I growled. And he did. Brooks showed me on the messy
wreck of his bed, and again in the shower, as I made him clean us both up,
clean the sweat and spit and cum and funk off our bodies, while I fingered
the cum-sticky puffiness of his tight jock hole. Sticky with my cum.

Christ knows what his roomies were thinking as I led him out the door,
cleaned up, clean-shaven, neatly dressed in fresh clothes, lugging his
trash bags of dirty clothes behind him, his backpack on his shoulder. He
wouldn't look at them. They blushed, and tried not to stare as we passed
them by... but at least one of them had a decent-sized tent in his mesh
shorts. All that mattered was the way Brooks looked at me now, the way he
smiled, the way he leaned over across the console of the Mazda as we made
our way down the interstate to the Shore and fumbled for my fly. The way he
slowly sucked another load out of my cock in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.
The way he murmured, "Thank you... Dad," in a voice thick with my cum.

Like I said earlier - I'm an easygoing guy. But sometimes I can be a
hardass too, when I need to. Or when somebody needs me. I guess I can be
all kinds of things... even a Daddy, when somebody needs me to be. I guess
Brooks was ready for that, and I guess I was too. Ready for that, and a lot
more.