Davie and Me

Davie and Me

I.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I’ve ever wanted was to be loved by my family, but it seems like I always fuck it up. I’m the youngest, and I guess I really wasn’t needed—an accident, born four years after my sister and brother came out barely ten months apart. Mom and Dad already had one boy and one girl, so who needs another boy? And a short, scrawny one with bad eyes that can’t seem to make any friends? My sister and brother told me I was adopted, told me all sorts of lies as kids all to make me feel inferior, unwanted, unloved. But for some reason though, I never hated my brother. I decided it was mostly my sister’s fault, that she—the oldest—had corrupted him. Davie, my big brother, was just too cool to hate.

He was certainly too cool for the name Davie, but that’s what I always call him. My dad is Dave, so he is David or DJ (because his middle name is James) to most people. Even though I would call him by a name that bothered him, I didn’t do it to hurt him. I wanted to be special to him, to be close to him, but I just could never get it right. When he’d say cruel things, I had to say them back. So I guess that’s why when I would say nice things back then, he never took me seriously and would never would let me play with him and his friends.

Actually everyone in the family never had time for me. Mom and dad had jobs, their stupid trips for business and fun, and their whole love/hate thing going on. My sister was an obsessive workaholic and sports freak—always at some job or playing something—basketball, volleyball, softball, field hockey, you name it. My brother and his friends played sports more for fun, took up all sorts of things and grew tired of them—fishing, dirt biking, karate, poker, whatever. And I—well—I spent time in the basement with my computer, “my” weights, and my dvd collection.

I started out as the nerd—left alone home with the internet for a friend. But the anime I watched featured loners my exact age, just like myself that struggled to prove themselves. Dad’s and Davie’s abandoned weights and exercise equipment became my friends as I watch my home-made anime cds and dvds again and again. And then somehow I started watching a lot of porn, too—gay porn. It sort of started by accident—I downloaded a lot of this gay anime, boy’s love they call it, not really knowing what it was when I was only ten. And by the time I was twelve, I was as gripped as the silly Japanese teenage girls it was made for and sure I was gay.

My life in school wasn’t as bad as it probably should or could have been—thanks in part to my family—one thing I owe them. With a super popular older sister and a brother that was definitely “cool,” I was cut a bit of slack. And given how completely nerdy I looked, the few times I’d had to fight, I’d been underestimated and had surprise in my favor. Under my baggy clothes, I’d a little bit of muscle from my working out. Also, I managed to keep the whole gay thing hidden—because I wasn’t attracted to the boys or girls my age at all. I was obsessed with Davie. I figured I find someone just like my brother some day, and that until then, well, I’d just live in my fantasies.

I didn’t really know how dangerous it was to let myself have those fantasies or how bad my obsession was until two years later. When I was 14, my brother 18, and my sister already away at college, things with Mom and Dad really went to hell, and it looked like the family was breaking up for good. The problem was which parent got my brother and which one got me. Life really didn’t seem real that crazy summer—Davie and I practically lived alone it seemed with how often Mom and Dad went away in between screaming matches. I moved into the basement because the noise didn’t filter down there, and my computer and weights were there. But all too soon, my things were being packed—and I’d had to fight for the damn weights—and this was it. I would be moving with mom to another town, another school because my brother couldn’t change schools when it was his senior year, and he had friends.

But those friends weren’t around that night. I wonder how our lives would all be different if they had just showed up. But Mom and Dad were so fucking awful at this point in the divorce that friends just tried to stay away. Mom was away at the new place that night, however, and Dad must have forgotten she’d said that because he’d gone off for a weekend of gambling and drinking—leaving my brother and I home. Technically our older sister was home too for the summer from college. But really that meant nothing. “Home” was a place for her to periodically rush into to change, dump shit, shower, or sleep, and on occasion flood with a million people. So she wasn’t around either.

He started it, he really did. He came down into my basement, drunk and angry, and yelled at me how it was all my fault. I yelled back, taunting him, and then he tried to beat me up. But he was drunk, it was dark down there, and I had piles of my crap, boxes, packing stuff, you name it, everywhere. It was easy to knock him down and grab those handcuffs I had been playing with—and the next thing I knew I had my older brother with his hands cuffed around the heavy leg of my desk. What I did next—ah, fuck, it was sick.

I raped him.

It started with spanking him. I had him cuffed, and I managed to secure his legs with some of the straps I was supposed to be using for packing, attaching the straps to the heaviest of the weights laying there waiting to be hauled up the stairs tomorrow. I pulled his pants down and began smacking his ass, listening to his screaming and cursing, watching his struggling. And then I positioned his legs a bit apart—to slap where it would hurt more, but the sight of his asshole excited me. I was so hard, so wet, I was going to cum in my shorts. And that when it occurred to me, that I wouldn’t see him again, that this was it. I was losing my brother who didn’t love, didn’t even like me. The brother I’d always loved, always thought was the coolest thing, the sexiest thing. And Mom and Dad would probably not believe him—if he could ever admit his little brother did this to him. Because I was little, a lot more little in just about every way. I was fourteen to his eighteen, short to his tall, thin to his just right shape. My dick was tiny in comparison, and for some reason that seemed to make it alright—come on, how could I, with my small dick, hurt him?

I knew what to do from my dvds. I used hand lotion—I moved his struggling body, putting my rolled up sleeping bag under his stomach and chest, using more weights and straps to spread his legs wide. The leg of heavy metal desk his hands were cuffed around was only about six inches, and that put him in the perfect position—head down, ass in the air, his dick hanging there for me to reach around and play with. He stopped screaming, stopped fighting, stopped cursing—I think he went into shock when I started fucking him in earnest, saying what it didn’t seem like there was any point in hiding anymore.

“I love you, fuckhead; I love you wrong and bad and sick cause I want you, I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me. When I lie down here at night and jack off, I think about you. So now you know, and you can have no regrets about our family breaking up. Tomorrow you’ll be rid of me, and all this is just another reason you want me to just fucking go away and die, just another reason to hate me.”

I started to cry, and I sobbed my heart out, my dick softening inside my brother’s ass, then hardening again when he said, “Jesus, Tommy, Jesus god, Tommy, Tommy.” He just kept repeating my name, cursing, not denying that that was the way it was, but saying my name again and again. It made my tears lessen, and I could pretend this wasn’t something horrible. And I was saying his name too, now really fucking him, giving it to him as hard as I could with my small dick, working myself up. And then when I reach around under Davie and found his cock hard in my hand, I came, crying, “Davie, Davie, I love you!”

He kept up his mantra, “Tommy, Jesus Christ, Tommy, holy fucking god, Tommy.” Collapsed over his back and jerking his hard cock, I got hard again.

This time as I fucked him, he started trying to talk me into uncuffing him, started swearing he wouldn’t beat me up, wouldn’t kill me. I noticed if I slammed into him a certain way, he wouldn’t be able to keep talking. Ah! I’d seen enough and read enough porn to know I’d found his prostate. And the thought of being inside him when he came, making him come, almost made me come right then and there. “If you come Davie, I’ll undo you, I promise,” I gasped out.

“David, dammit, David, Jesus, Tommy, fucking uncuff me. I can’t come with you fucking me, Tommy, dammit,” he said, but each time I’d hit his prostate his voice had gone up just a little.

“What will make you come? I’ll uncuff you if I can see you come, Davie.” I’d always called him Davie; I could stop it, and what was the point when I’d gone and done the unforgivable?

“You want to see me come, Tommy?”

“Yeah, Davie, I do, I do bad. I want to take that memory of my beautiful brother with me. The brother I fucked, my gorgeous brother coming.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Davie went wild beneath me, trying to lift up the damn desk, to pull his legs in, to buck me off him, and to squeeze my cock out.

I clung to him as his body rolled off the sleeping bag, falling down on the floor, feeling his wild squeezing, crying out with how good it felt—it was too much, and I came for a second time even as he finally succeeded forcing me out.

I lay there in awkward heap as he struggled to push the desk up, but a cry of genuine pain from him as the desk made a loud bang, made me leap up. His one wrist was bleeding. I screamed for him to stop and got the keys. He went still and quiet. I undid the cuffs, suddenly terrified.

“Undo my legs,” he ordered.

I did, hands shaking.

“Get me a fucking Coke,” was the next order.

I watched as he drank it, dazed, noting his huge cock was still hard.

“You’re fucking idiot and a total asshole, Tommy, and I don’t like you, but I don’t hate you. You’re my little brother, you stupid shit. I’m only going to say this once, so stop crying and listen to me.”

I tried, but didn’t really succeed.

Cursing he got another Coke for himself and a water for me out of the fridge. “Drink it,” he ordered. “Sit on your bed and get a grip.”

Somehow I managed to do that. I think the main reason I stopped crying was my head was now at the level of his cock—which was erect. I was on my bed, and my brother was in front of me, hard, with something to say to me. He didn’t like me, but he didn’t hate me. And this was the best view I’d ever had of his dick, and I needed my eyes clear to see it.

“I’m your big brother,” he finally said. “I love you. And I’m so going to punish your stupid ass, Tommy.”

And then he sat on the bed and pulled me over his lap, hitting my ass. It hurt, oh, god, it hurt. I cried. But I got so hard, so unbelievably hard, and I could feel he was hard too. And then he put his finger in my ass to hold me down, to hold me still, and I bucked and moaned and thrashed as he smacked me with that finger inside me, until I came again. That was when he fucked me. I didn’t get hard again, and it hurt, oh, god, it hurt. I sobbed, partly from pain, but mostly from happiness. If I hadn’t cum three times already, I would have been hard despite the pain. I kept crying out his name, “Davie, Davie, Davie,” and I wondered if this had been what it had been like for him too, just saying my name. Inside I just was clinging to the fact he loved me, Tommy, his little brother. This was my going away present, my memory to cling to, something to make things bearable.

He came inside me and left me there. I lay there face down, and I think I feel asleep a bit. But when I rolled over, the feeling of the sheets on my sore ass from his spanking made me cry out and jerk my body up. And then his cum started coming out of my ass, shocking me. I stumbled to the bathroom, even more shocked at the cum spilling into the toilet. My brother’s cum, my brother’s cum in my ass—he’d fucked me without a condom and filled my ass—as I had him. When I wiped myself, I was even more shocked to find blood there. Oh, god, what if he has a disease, AIDs?

I ran upstairs with the bloody toilet paper in my hand, finding my brother sitting on the couch in his shorts watching TV and drinking another of dad’s beers. And somehow the result of the shouting match was that I was drinking the damn beer, laying on his bed on my belly, propped up on my elbows so I could drink with his pillow under my groin, ass in the air as he massaged my sore asshole with antiseptic cream, then baby oil. Then somehow it was all ridiculous as he found my prostate, and I begged him to do me again, facing him. But he wouldn’t—which made sense—he just rolled me over, jerking me and fingering me, looking down at me like I was something he couldn’t quite comprehend. This time when I came, I feel asleep immediately.

When I awoke, it was morning, I was still in his bed, and mom was on the phone saying she’d be there in twenty minutes with the movers. The rest of the day was a blur. Mom spent the first half hour after getting there fighting with dad over the phone. He managed to get back by afternoon when they continued the fight. By dinner time, when Mom and I finally said good-bye to Dad and Davie, well, the events of the night before seemed like a dream. I was almost convinced they were, but my asshole told me otherwise. But a few days later, that evidence was gone too.

It was two months later when I saw my brother again. Mom had one of her business trips—a week long one, from Wed. to Wed. I still didn’t have any friends close enough for mom to ditch me with for a week. I managed to convince her I could keep up with my school work, and so there I was back at my old childhood home. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t what did: for a week, my older brother fucked me like crazy.