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"My Sister's Boyfriend Needed A Ride (Ch. 2)"

We'd sat in silence for the rest of the ride home. The nervous energy that was radiating off him shifting into tension, and then anxiety, and finally something close to fear by the time I pulled up outside his parents' place.

Not that I could bring myself to look at him. Angry, at Brandon sure, but that frustration directed inward as well. Knowing that, as much as he'd initiated things, I could quite easily have put a stop to them.

"Look, I..." he started, voice shaking.

"Don't hurt my sister," I snapped, interrupting. Hands tight on the wheel; I forced my fingers to relax their rictus grip. "Just..." I shook my head, words failing me for a moment. "If she gets hurt..."

Brandon's swallow was audible. I knew he'd heard that as a threat, even if I'd voiced it just as much about my own regret.

"I... I won't. I wouldn't."

That'd be easier to believe, I wanted to remind him, had he not just kissed me in the park. Tried his teenage best to seduce me, regardless of the fact that I was his girlfriend's older brother. Lay there, on his back in the leaves and dirt, while I raw-fucked his hole.

I didn't say any of that, though. Just nodded, once, still unable to look at him.

"Get out the damn car, then."

I'd had ill-advised hookups before, I figured most guys had. Certainly most gay guys: my friends had enough stories to fill a whole book. Most of them, you'd swear it was the buildup to a horror story - young guy meets up with random anonymous man found on some app, hoping to get laid not slayed - and I got the feeling that, sometimes, that risk was an instrumental part of the overall charm.

Still, this was far too close to home for comfort.

Brandon would inevitably be at the house again, and so I made it my goal to be absent as much as possible. Taking advantage of the milder weather to go running, the slap of my sneakers on the sidewalk a drumbeat to force the guilt out of my head. Long sessions at the gym, pushing myself harder than I ever had before. Until my arms and legs and chest were aching, muscles howling for mercy, only for the memory of his wide-eyed expression laced with his own cum to hurl me back into one more set.

It'd been a mistake, a one-time glitch. Some kid's bad decision, and my own horniness making the timing terrible, that was all. Not like I'd been secretly lusting over him; not as if every joke I'd made, all our stupidly flirtatious banter, had been serious.

And if Brandon had taken it seriously, well, that was his problem.

My body felt like it'd been smacked about by lengths of two-by-four, when I dragged myself out of the car. Combining arm day and leg day had, even at the time, seemed like a terrible idea. All the same, compared to the mental image of my little sister's boyfriend - the look of shock and delirious pleasure on his face framed by his wavering legs, as I feasted on his hole - the focus involved in ridiculous amounts of exercise seemed preferable.

At least it was a different sort of regret, I decided, as I slowly made my way up the driveway. I'd not even bothered showering at the gym: there, I'd have to stand up while I was under the water. Whereas the idea of slumping onto the tiled floor and simply allowing the hissing spray to splash down on top of me was about the only thing keeping me moving.

I pulled open the door, making a beeline for the kitchen and - more specifically - the cupboard where my mom kept the painkillers. Only to pull up short, at finding the room full of people.

Well, not full. My parents, and my aunt and uncle, and my sister, and of course, because life wanted me to suffer, her boyfriend. Each of them turning to look at me, as I stood in the doorway.

"Let me guess, you forgot we had company for dinner tonight," my mom said, in that I'm-joking-but-also-kinda-not scolding tone that I swear they teach parents when they're in the maternity ward. Like, you know you're getting called out, but if you protest you'll only get accused of overreacting and making a scene.

Plus there was the fact that s was right, and I had forgotten.

"Traffic was bad," I said, instead of admitting that.

"Were you at the gym... again?" My sister's tone was arch.

I glanced down, pointedly, at my shorts and sneakers. I'd pulled a hoodie - an old one, with the sleeves torn off and the edges fraying - over my shirt, but it didn't take the protein shake bottle in my hand to make entirely clear what I'd been up to.

"Such powers of observation," I sneered back. Then felt guilty, not because she didn't deserve the sarcasm, but... well, for other things.

"Anton," my dad said, tone chiding, which I'd known to expect anyway, what with my sister being a real daddy's girl.

I flashed him a "I know, I know" look.

As I glanced between them, I could see Brandon trying to catch my eye. Clearly wanting to get my attention, to be included.

And normally, I'd have done that. Probably make some joke, about his red and white check shirt with the sleeves rolled up; ask him if he was cosplaying as a lumberjack or something. Make everyone else laugh, because everyone knew that Anton and Brandon had a fun, silly, don't-they-get-on-well relationship.

From the way his jaw was tensed, I could tell he was straining not to just blurt something out. I wasn't sure I could handle hearing that, and being expected to keep up our usual back-and-forth in front of an audience like this. Not with my stomach roiling with uneasy guilt.

"I'm gonna go shower, then," I said, instead, turning to leave. Wanting to be out of the room, away from the collective stares. It was hard not to feel that attention brushing you, without then imagining how it might change if they knew I'd hooked up with my sister's dude.

"Before you do, can you go grab a couple of cooler's worth of ice from the freezer in the basement, honey," my mom interrupted.

I grit my teeth. There was no point in arguing, I knew that.

"Sure, mom."

"I'll help." Brandon was already moving forward.

"It's fine," I snapped. Sharper than I meant to be.

My mom sighed. "Learn to accept help when it's offered, Anton. Anyway, the sooner you get done, the sooner you can shower and come join us."

I closed my eyes, and counted to five, as slowly as I could. Ten would've been better, or preferably twenty, but I wasn't exactly running on generous timescales.

"Fine," I said, practically a snarl. "Let's just get this done."

The basement was always cooler than upstairs, a noticeable drop in temperature with each step down. The skin of my bare arms prickling, as the sweat cooled on them.

"Dude, it's so cold down here," Brandon said, to my back.

I ignored him.

"What did you do at the gym today?"

I ignored him some more.

The chest freezer was in the corner, with a couple of empty coolers stacked alongside it. The lid lifted with a creak.

"How much ice did your mom want?"

I turned, sharply, to look at him. Brandon was standing next to me, closer than he needed to. Looking up from under that glossy brown fringe of hair, and suddenly all I could see was how it'd matted with cum after he'd spewed his load across his face. I chewed back my wince.

"You heard her. A couple of cooler's worth."

It came out cold, as cold as the open freezer in front of us, but I knew that was the only option. I couldn't afford heat, not with Brandon.

I leaned down, into the chest, to grab a couple of bags. Felt my arm brush him as I stood up again, turning to realize it was his cheek that I'd rubbed against.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

He'd been close, before, but there'd still been a gap. Now, his body turned to face me, his chest was against my elbow. Eyes wide, breathing those short little pants that I couldn't help but connect to what he'd been like as I plowed him.

"Y-you smell good," he stammered out. Looking almost mortified at hearing the words, as if he'd been forced to speak them.

"Don't be stupid."

I wanted to push him away, to shove him. Not to feel the heat of him against my arm, his temperature scalding against the ice and the deep freeze. Paralyzed, though, with the thought of my family one floor above us, and with the crisp memories of his body pretzeled beneath me in the dimly-lit park.

"So sweaty and musky... fuck, dude."

His voice was thick, like he needed to swallow but he couldn't. As if the words were spilling up out of him, beyond his control to hold back.

Brandon levered his crotch against my leg, and I could feel the hardness through his dark blue jeans.

"You need to stop this shit."

I sounded determined, resolute. I knew I did.

He leaned in again, cock pressing into me. Face mashed against my upper arm, Brandon's nose pushed into the crease of my armpit. Like he was trying to inhale the whole of me.

I dropped the ice, wincing at the sharp crack of a bag splitting. Necessary, though, so that I could grab his shoulders with my chill hands. Shove him back.

"Dude. Not cool. She's right upstairs."

I'd thought the reminder would cow him, leave him embarrassed. Instead, he just stared at me with those glassy eyes, his mouth fallen open.

"I'll be quiet, I promise."

I blinked at him, brain spinning like something off-balance. Not even sure what Brandon was offering, what he was thinking of right now. Unnerved enough by the way his shoulders shook in my grip, as though the overwhelming need was set to vibrate its way right out of him.

"You're crazy," I told him.

It was a lunge; a desperate, urgent one. Breaking out of my hold by surprise alone, and then a split-second later the feel of him molded against me. Face pushing into my arm, his hands shoving at my wrist and my elbow; levering it up, so that Brandon could press his face into my pit.

"Oh, fuck..." The curse muffled by my skin, by his hunger. One of his slim arms hooking around my back, seeming more for his own balance than to hold me in place. The other dropping, hand groping at my crotch through my shorts.

I should stop him, I knew I should. Just like I knew I shouldn't be disgustingly, achingly hard in his fist.

"You little skeeze," I gasped out, but I wasn't peeling him off me. My hands moving, but to grip the back of Brandon's head - his hair silk-soft between my weights-callused fingers - and press his face harder into my armpit. Reaching down, to seize a palmful of his tight little ass through the clinging denim, feeling him grind his dick against me as I pawed at him.

He was snuffling and grunting into my pit, the noises animal and urgent. The feel of it unlike anything I'd experienced before, foreign and beguiling. Guys had admired my muscles, enjoyed stroking them and even wanted to watch me lift weights while they jerked off. But Brandon seemed intent on devouring me.

His fingers were pulling at my shorts, I realized, as if surfacing from a daze. I tightened my fist in his hair, dragging his head back.

"Come on..." Hunger there, in his thickened voice. Straining against my hand, even though I knew it must hurt to. His face wet with spit and sweat, eyes glazed over and lips flushed red.

Lips that probably had been kissing my sister, not all that long ago, some caustic part of my brain reminded me.

Suddenly nauseous, disgusted, I yanked him further back from me. Pushed him, Brandon stumbling on shaky foal legs; just catching himself in time on the edge of the freezer.

"You fuckin' pervert."

I thought he might protest at the accusation, argue it. Point out, even, that I was clearly as hard as he was, the question only coming down to whose erection was more obvious. His obscenely outlined through the clinging blue denim of his jeans; mine a fat ridge straining at the thin nylon of my workout shorts.

"Please, dude."

I didn't know what he was asking, what he was begging me for. Not to tell my sister, maybe, or to out him in general. Or - my cock throbbing at the possibility - a more specific plea, the liberty to return to what he'd been doing just moments before.

I jabbed at him, with my forefinger. "You're sick, you know that?"

Brandon grabbed my wrist; dragged my hand up to his mouth. Full lips closing around my pointing digit, his tongue swirling.

I wasn't sure why it felt so right to wrap my other hand around his throat. Why it left me so light-headed, the way his eyes widened as I squeezed, his mouth sucking harder.

Shoving him down, to his knees, was easier than unpacking all that. Just like it was easier to shove down the front of my shorts, to try to ignore his hiss of hunger and triumph as my cock sprang free to slap against his cheek. Easier, too, to allow Brandon to take that final step: to twist until he could catch the fat, precum-glossed tip between his lips and slurp me into his throat.

"Ah, fuck, you little..."

No way to end that, words fleeing me as his gullet fluttered around me. Brandon's head sandwiched between my body and the chest freezer, my hands gripping the edge - rolling waves of cold air spilling across them - as I pressed myself deeper and heard him choke and gag.

It was difficult, given the angle and the little space, but I still managed to reach down and slap him.

"Don't make a fuckin' noise, you little shit."

Big eyes staring back up at me, already watering. Lips taut around my shaft, and his cheek reddening. No protest, though. No complaint.

Maybe it was that which made me angry. Or the obvious, the expected stuff: anger that my little sister's precious, perfect boyfriend was a cheat and a pervert. Anger at myself, that I couldn't resist some eighteen-year-old's fumbling, frantic advances.

Whatever the reason, I took the anger out on his throat.

Pumping into him, feeling the friction of his lips around my shaft. Knowing there was no way for him to pull back, to escape each deep thrust, as I slammed my hips against his face. The feel of his mouth, growing wetter and sloppier, only encouraging me to be harder, rougher.

"This what you wanted, to get treated like a hole?" I hissed, looking down on him through the frame of my outstretched arms. I didn't want to admit just how turned on I was, hearing his gurgling and spluttering, and yet there was no avoiding that. The knowledge of my own complicity only adding to my fury.

He flinched when the spit hit his forehead, gooey dribbles sliding down across his nose. Not even an attempt to wipe it off, though; Brandon's hands hot around my bare legs, clinging intently. Throat spasming as I held myself in deep, testing his resolve and my own.

A gasp, rasping and raw, when I pulled out again. Echoed by my own sharp hiss, like I'd been holding my breath in sympathy as I plugged his gullet. My cock slimy with his throat goo, glistening in the light of the bare bulb overhead. Sounding sticky and lewd as I slapped his face with it, while Brandon hiccuped and panted, and drool ran down his chin to soak dark patches into his shirt.

I stared down, hungrily, as he blinked away tears. Silently daring him to tap out.

No comment, though, not even a taunt. Just his mouth wide open, tongue extended. As clear an invitation as any slut had ever made.

I sank back into him in one, smooth stroke. Brandon's fingers gripping my thighs as I plugged him; a tight grip getting tighter as I stayed buried, my crotch mashed against his nose and lips. Holding there still, even as his legs kicked out uselessly between my own. Socked feet scuffing the dirty basement floor, as I silently waited for him to admit defeat and surfed the incredible massage of his shuddering throat.

I caved first.

Realizing, even through the haze of pleasure and anger-stoked lust, that he was more stubborn. A submissive, pliable sort of mulishness: the sort which would see him pass out still speared on my cock, rather than shove me away.

Brandon slumped to the side, sucking down great chestfuls of air with lungs that sounded clotted.

I crouched down, erection still dangling between my thighs. Grabbed a fistful of his soaked shirt, to tilt his head up to meet my gaze.

"You're a fucking idiot," I hissed at him. Even angrier, now, at how he'd forced me to care about him. To feel, not sympathy, but some sort of responsibility all the same. The consideration you'd give a pet, or a well-honed tool.

His smile was lopsided, drunken. "Why'd you stop?"

I stared at him, at his swollen lips. Remembering, despite my mood and the ridiculousness of it all, how it'd felt to kiss him. The needy, plaintive noises he'd made as he lunged at me, and the moment in-between my initial shock and when I'd pushed him away. I'd tried - and failed - not to think about that moment so many times since then.

Brandon grunted in surprise as I yanked him into me. Pushing my cock between his lips again, his head sandwiched in the spread of my legs. Both hands gripping him tight, the perfect leverage to mercilessly fuck his throat as he twisted and squirmed. Knowing, too, that every second longer this went on, we were tempting fate to come crashing down around us. Bring my mom, or my dad, or anybody downstairs to see what was keeping us both.

The idea of them finding me skull-fucking my little sister's boyfriend should've been the ultimate boner-killer, but instead it just made me more determined to blow in him.

Even so, I could've paced myself, held off, if it wasn't for his hand between my legs.

Fingers squeezing my balls, as they bulged over the elastic waistband of my shorts. Tugging on them just enough to make me hiss through clenched teeth, Brandon's soft hand seemingly intent on coaxing out my load and right down his sucking, clenching throat.

"You little fuck," I spat, near-breathless, as the orgasm ripped through me.

Borderline painful in its intensity, my swollen nuts bobbing in the cage of Brandon's fingers as he desperately swallowed to avoid choking. A noise like a boot pulled from wet mud as I jerked my hips, unplugging his gullet to spray the last of my cum across his tongue. Wincing as he lapped and suckled on me, until I had to scramble back and out of his hungry clutches.

I stared down at him, my lungs heaving. Sweating more than I had at the gym, it felt like, heart thundering in my chest. Usually I struggled to get off from head alone, hadn't met any guy with a mouth that could change that; I wasn't ready to think through the implications of that now.

"Get up, you little shit."

Brandon's face was wet, a ruin of spit and sweat. Cum glazing his lips, shirt soggy with the slimy mess that'd drooled down from his chin. And yet, when he grinned up at me, it was a smirk of triumph.

I narrowed my eyes, fists clenched. "Get the fuck up, unless you want my sister to find out what a skeezy little cheat you are."

Brandon pushed himself upright, awkwardly. Leaning back against the still-open freezer, panting as he stared at me.

"Takes two to tango, Anton." His voice was cracked, gravel-edged.

I was in his face in a second, jamming his slight, toned body against the cold metal. Enjoying, even amid my fury, the wide-eyed shock with which he looked up at me, all of the cockiness of a moment before gone.

"Are you fucking threatening me?" I leaned down, glare sharpening. Up close, I could smell him. A sharp musk, something animal. My hand was around his neck before I realized my arm was even moving.

Brandon gasped, mouth falling open. I expected to hear an apology, pleading even, only to feel him grinding himself against my thigh instead. Trying desperately to work his cock through his jeans, as he grabbed hold of my bicep.

"You're so big..." He looked delirious, throat flexing against my palm with a heat that was astonishing. "Keep... squeezing..."

I shoved him, sending him to his knees again. Stepping back, and then back again; watching as he stroked himself, the outline of his teen prick unmistakable.

"Please..." A wheedling, hopeful plea for permission.

I couldn't keep the disgust out of my voice. "Fine. Just do it, then."

The fumble of his hands at his pants, tugging down the fly and hauling out his cock. Flesh an almost angry red, the plump head swollen and already slopping precum across the basement floor.

"Anton!"

I knew what he wanted. Or something close to it, the shape of the sick desire I could see in him so clearly now. Hating, too, that my recognizing it had left me infected as well, as I lifted my arm and tensed my bicep.

"Oh fuck, dude!"

His hand was flailing now, a stroking blur.

It was wrong, I knew it was, but I still leaned closer to the watermelon swell of my arm to take a loud, deep sniff. Remembering how he'd nuzzled into my pit, the ferocity that had ignited. Turned back, to see Brandon watching me with his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide.

"Don't mess up the floor," I warned him, bicep still flexing.

At first I thought he hadn't heard me, that the words hadn't registered. The fog of lust and arousal too thick in his brain for anything not directly involved in getting off to sink through.

And then he was holding his dick down, pointing it at his outstretched hand even as he kept stroking, and as I watched - and as Brandon gasped, a tangled wail locked in near-silence behind his gritted teeth - he sprayed his palm with cum. The force of it sending creamy waves across his fingers to hang in frothy spiderwebs between each digit, as he milked out the final dregs.

The movement was jerky, as he looked up at me again. As though his neck had rusted tight.

I shook my head, grimacing. "You're fucking nasty. Clean yourself up, okay?"

Brandon stared at the drooping mess across his hand with barely-disguised confusion. Then back up at me.

"Lick it up, you dumb little shit," I snapped. Knowing we'd been too long down here, that we'd gone past borrowed time and straight into outright danger. That it didn't matter how well I'd straightened my clothes and settled my heart rate, not if my parents, or my sister, or any of my damn family walked in here and found me staring at an eighteen-year-old with cum all across his fingers, and his cock still hanging out of his jeans.

He whimpered, as he lifted his hand to his mouth. Tongue probing slyly, movements uncoordinated as if in some sort of daze.

"For fuck's sake," I cursed, then crouched down to grab his wrist. Pushed his hand against his mouth, forcing his fingers between his lips to wipe them against his tongue. Then using that grip to haul him to his feet once there was nothing remaining but a sheen of fresh spit. "Put your fucking dick away, idiot."

Brandon obeyed, as I hauled bags of ice out of the freezer and dumped them into the coolers. When I turned again, he was gingerly holding his soaked shirt out from his chest between two fingers.

"There was water in the cooler, and you spilled it on yourself," I told him. Knowing that I sounded stern, but also that I needed to break through the reverie that he seemed caught up in.

"The... cooler?"

I stabbed a finger at the open crate, then at his wet chest. "Someone left water in it, and you got it on your shirt. Okay?"

He blinked a couple of times, before nodding. "Okay." Pushed a hand through his hair, then grimaced as if remembering what that hand was still probably smeared with. "Maybe I could borrow a shirt of yours?"

I flashed him an unimpressed look, as I dumped ice into the second cooler. "I don't think you could fill one."

"As opposed to how you filled my throat?"

I flashed a warning glare at him. Clearly, whatever trance Brandon had been in, it'd now cleared.

The cooler made a loud scraping noise, as I shoved it over toward him.

"Think you can manage it?"

He reached down, weighing the handle, then smirked. "I thought you'd be clear by now: I'll take whatever you give me."

I was still shaking my head in disgust as I climbed the stairs.

You really can't trust a horny little fuckboy twink.

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