At the Mercy of My Big Brother

At the Mercy of My Big Brother

Author: Unforgiven
Beta: None (and not likely to get one. I post way too spontaneously to torture anyone with my mood swings)
Warnings: Brotherly love
Possibility: This might become a twoshot. Want more? Let me know.




Let's see what the Acosta boys are up to shall we?





There is nothing worse than a charming asshole. Okay, okay, maybe a handsome and charming asshole. If that’s the case, you can sign my brother up. Martin is one of the luckiest guys I know, and trust me I know much more about him than I ever wished. For one, he’s like some legendary God at Kaynor Lewis High. And for once I’m not exaggerating. Really he’s like the most popular guy at school. Ask anybody if they’ve heard of Martin Acosta and they’ll sing his praises. He’s a six foot one, dark haired, gray eyed snarky sonofabitch with a smile that brightens up the room wherever he goes. Not only has he been blessed with the face and the body of a young Adonis, but he’s got charisma. He’s funny, athletic, and even nice, when he wishes to be.

I’ve seen this phenomenon happen a few times; he’s nice to everyone except me. I’m his little brother. We’re two years apart; he’s sixteen and I’m fourteen going on thirty five. I dwell on the other end of the spectrum, entirely by choice of course. I’m not ugly, I’m not slender or effeminate, and I don’t hang out with a band of geeks. I’m a regular Joe. I don’t want to be popular, and the thought of becoming a jock makes me gag. Besides, hanging around with the cool kids means I’d have to be around my brother.

I’ve been told that I’m slightly better looking than average, but with the mess I keep of my hair and my devil may care attitude—my mom’s words not mine—about what I’m wearing I don’t have the same magnetism as Martin. My name’s Tran, and before you laugh let me tell you I was named after my grandfather. Yeah, thanks Grandpa! No, but seriously, I like my name. It’s easy to pronounce and I never run into anyone else with the same name. Go figure?

Anyway, back to my annoying big brother. He’s an asshole. Have I said that already? Alright, too bad, I’m going to probably say it several more times. He’s only that way to me though. It’s like he reserves the noogies, Indian burns, and all around kicking my ass attitude for me. He can charm the socks off of anyone. He’s gotten more pussy than the musical, but he reserves this ‘attitude’ for me. I never did get what his grudge was. At first I thought it was because I jacked up his only child status. Mom and Dad often seem more concerned about my future than his. Not all golden boys get the attention, contrary to popular belief. It’s the troubled kids like me, the ones you order back up stairs to change their t-shirt because it says ‘Fuck Bush’ and the one who jumps his skateboard off the biggest ramp in Eckard Park and breaks their arm in three different places. Ouch! That one left me with a permanent surgery tat.

My parents have been riding my back since I learned to climb out my window at midnight and head to my friend Bernard’s house. Bernard is the epitome of everything parents fear. He’s a delinquent pothead with a ticket straight to juvie sticking out of his back pocket. Yes, Bernard smokes weed. No, I don’t smoke with him. I know it’s hard to believe. I’m stupid enough to break my arm in three places and yet I say no to drugs. Sorry, but I want to have a life when I grow up. I guess D.A.R.E really made an impression on me.

Bernard's also proud to be an idiot. He's about three years older than me but still in the same grade. So why hang out with him? I go to Bernard’s for one reason and one reason only: porn. He’s got very specific porn mind you. Not the type a boy like me can sneak from my dad’s secret stash—which is under some shoe boxes in his side of the closet—thank you very much. I highly doubt my dad gets his rocks off watching two men suck each other off. When I was ten I discovered that just this type of thing did it for me. I won’t go into long drawn out details. Suffice it to say Kyle Jennings still hates my guts for sneaking a peek of his ‘willie’ in the boy’s bathroom.

So, back to Bernard-- I found out he was bi quite by accident. I was over his house playing his Xbox when I got overexcited by getting the highest score on a game I was playing. I jumped up and did the legendary victory dance and accidentally knocked a stack of DVD’s onto the floor. Rushing to pick them up before Bernard returned from getting his soda, I kneeled down and started to collect them, only to come across a black case with the words Boys on Boys. I sprang an instant boner thinking of all the forbidden goodies that could be housed on such a DVD. Bernard came back in before I could collect myself and spewed Sprite all over his carpet. “What the fuck?!? He came over and snatched the DVD out of my hand. “Don’t be going through my shit, Tran!”

I think I was so scared I could have shit bricks, not of Bernard beating the shit out of me, because I knew I could hold my own, but of him looking down and seeing how hard I was. I needn’t have worried. He was scared shitless too. An hour went by while we both pretended to be into the game, and then he just paused it while I was in the middle of kicking his ass and said, “You have to promise not to tell, Tran.”

To this day I have no idea what possessed me to blurt out, “I won’t tell if you let me see it.” Shit! I could have happily chewed off my tongue and swallowed it.

Bernard got this big shit-eating grin on his face. He looked me over from head to toe for a moment. I think I mumbled something like. “Fuck off fucktard, don’t even think about it.”

He laughed, and got up off the bed to shut his door and lock it. He lived with his mother and she worked two jobs so he was pretty much home by himself all the time, him being the only child and all. That being said, when a guy is watching gay porn and he knows it will get his ass fried, a guy tends to be a little paranoid.

And thus begin my education into gay sex. We didn’t pull out our dicks and stroke off to the porno that day but there were plenty of times afterward that we did.

In the ninth grade I started to realize I might have to give up my friendship with Bernard. For one thing I was spending WAY too much time at his house. For another his advances were becoming more aggressive. I’d pretty much figured out I was gay by the sixth grade. In the same year I’d reached the decision that I didn’t want to figure out how to do things with Bernard the Fucktard. No way was I giving my cherry to that pothead. Besides, the way he shot off when we did our ‘wank sessions’ let me know that anything between us would be one bumpy, sixty second ride.

You can imagine my dismay—okay, probably not—when a certain dark haired God started entering my dreams. I mean at first it was like a nightmare. I’d wake up in cold sweats with cum down my legs and stuck to my sheets and stay up the rest of the night trying to convince myself that this was a phase. But the phase just wouldn’t go away, especially when I had constant eye candy. That’s when I really started to become a pain in Martin’s ass. It was the only way to put distance between us. We hardly ever got along my freshmen year in high school. Mom and Dad thought about sending us to counseling because we fought like cats and dogs. He’d go in my room without permission and touch my shit. Then I’d wear his t-shirt and deliberately get stains on it to make him mad. He opened my autographed CD from Jinx, my favorite rock band at the time. I went in his room and wrote Fucktard on his walls in permanent marker. He held my head in the toilet while he flushed, I’d use his tooth brush to clean the lime buildup in the bathtub.

It might sound like an even Steven, like I got back at my brother just as he got me, but the truth of the matter is he almost always won. Inevitably he would hold me down and use me like pretzel until I begged for him to stop. Oh, he never did any serious damage, just enough that I had to recognize who was my superior.

Now you might be wondering a few things right now. Did these tussling sessions bring on fantasies? Hell, yes! How could I not think about what else Martin could do to me when his favorite position was to sit on my ass, bend my arms behind my back and whisper in my ear? “Say Uncle. Say Uncle.”

I’d usually end up saying, “Kiss my ass! Or Blow it out your asshole!” Then he’d twist my arm and I’d scream “Uncle! Fuckin’ Uncle! You bastard!” Then every time he let me up he’d swat my ass, making it sting, as if to say, “Good job, Lassie.” See? Grade A asshole.

So it is perfectly understandable why I panicked March 10, 2008. I mean, come on, it isn’t everyday your parents go on a seven day cruise for their honeymoon and leave you home with your brother in charge. I’d like it to be noted that I protested this motion with the dedication of a young politician. But apparently fourteen and sixteen was too damn old for them to shell out the money for a babysitter. No, I could not go stay at my friend Stacey's house, and no Uncle Ronnie had a drinking problem and he COULD NOT stay at our house for any length of time without Mom and Dad being there. Perhaps the biggest argument of all came from Dad. He was sick and tired of us two fighting. “Kill each other if you want,” he said, which I HOPED was only jokingly. You’re brothers. Each of you is the only one the other has. “Deal with it!”

And those were his parting words. Mom and Dad couldn’t hit the gas fast enough, and when I walked through the house with my ear buds in place I saw Martin standing at the living room window watching our parents back out. He turned around after a minute and caught me staring. A shit-eating grin spread across his handsome face, and I inhaled rather loudly. I dare say it was a gasp.

Something told me that the shit was about to hit the proverbial fan. And I had a sick feeling that no amount of shouting, “Uncle”, was going to stop what was coming.

***
The peace lasted until the late noon on our second day. Up until then Martin had been pretty much absent. As I said he was a popular guy and a bunch of his friends picked him up to go to the beach. Martin never asked me if I wanted to go, and to be fair I would have said no. I don’t do sand, and I wasn’t looking forward to an evening of getting my head shoved underneath murky saltwater.

When he did come home, which was way past his curfew, I made myself scarce. Who was I to say when he could come home? Technically he was in charge and I wasn’t looking forward to another round of ‘face meets the carpet’. And no I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. We might have fought all the time but there was one general rule we both stuck by: neither one of us ran and told our parents anything. If they found out it was because of first hand knowledge.

On the second night he decided to stay home. I don’t know why he didn’t call up a couple of friends. It was Saturday, and it was nice out. Earlier in the day I’d set up a makeshift ramp and done a few runs with my skateboard in the middle of the street. Our house is set on a one way street so traffic is usually slim to none.

I was watching TV with my legs cocked up on the coffee table. I’ll admit the living room was a mess. There was popcorn, empty soda cans, and spilled chips on the table where my feet were propped. I could just see Mom coming home and having a spazzing fit. I was enjoying the freedom and had decided I’d clean up before I went to bed. There was nothing on TV: Spongebob, Who Wants to be a Millionaire, I Love the Eighties. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to watch and I was flipping the channels aimlessly.

Then a shadow blocked out the screen and I looked up to find Martin glaring down at me. He was wearing a pair of basketball trunks and nothing else. I think he’d just gotten out of the shower because his short, spiky brown hair was damp looking. He had a t-shirt slung over his arm but all I kept staring at was his chest. He was chiseled—he worked out four times a week and played ball year round. If the season was over he still shot hoops. I couldn’t pull my gaze away from the sight of the bronze perfection of his chest. The sun had done him good.

“Clean up this place!” Martin ordered, leaning down he knocked my feet off the table. “Bring this shit in the kitchen, bro!”

At that point I had two options: attack or acquiesce. Judging by the curl of his lip I’d be wise to do as he said. There were no parents anywhere around to run interference. So I got up, saying nothing, I collected the popcorn bag and started scooping the popcorn off the table into it.

Martin flopped down on the couch, lying on his side. He snatched up the remote and turned to the Discovery Channel. I had no idea what show it was; all I remember seeing is two Pride males going at it for the right to mate a lioness. I hardly gave a rat’s ass at that moment and I picked up the soda cans and prepared to take all the crap to the kitchen.

I got all the way behind the couch before I had the stupid idea to make Martin pay for ousting me from my sanctuary. I can only blame my lack of self-preservation on years of conditioning to strike back at my opponent. I took two steps toward the couch and dumped what little soda and a half bag of popcorn right on Martin’s head. Then I dropped all the evidence and dashed toward the stairs. My room! It had a lock on the door! God, let me make it!

I didn’t even make it to the stairs before Martin plowed into me with a roar. “You little shit!” Fuck, I’d forgotten how fast he was. No time to think now! I was struggling to turn over. I needed leverage to kick. The hit had knocked the breath out of me, and the floor hadn’t done me any favors, but at least the floor was covered in plushy carpet. I fought like a wild thing trying not to let Martin get my arms pinned. Curses and growls flew through the air, and I was briefly reminded of those lions on TV. Then Martin made the mistake of shifting his weight onto his knees so he could pin my thigh down with his leg, and I struggled to my side and flipped over. I plugged my fists into his chest and he snarled and grabbed my wrists. His entire weight dropped down on me and now we were chest to chest, groin to groin. His face was right above mine and we were both breathing hard as he struggled to subdue me.

“Martin, no!” I yelled, feeling him overpowering me, stretching my arms above my head.

“Oh, you are going to scream so fuckin’ bad, Tran,” he hissed at me and I could see the sticky syrup from the sodas drying on his forehead, it had trickled over his face and gotten into his mouth. Suddenly my eyes landed on his lips, and stayed there, noticing how they were parted, how his teeth were bared. If I’ve never said it before I’ll say it now. Martin had Dad’s full lips, hell, he had the dark Latino looks from his side of the family while I got the Irish genes from Mom:Reddish-brown hair,small mouth,big green eyes. I’d always thought Martin had nice lips but now something perfectly horrible and insane flitted through my mind.

I wanted to kiss him.

Yes, I wanted to know what his mouth felt like. Was it warm like the sweet breath he was blowing into my face? Were his lips as soft as they looked? Martin went perfectly still, his eyes showed shock? It took me precious few minutes to realize why. I was hard enough to chip a fuckin’ ice sculpture and my cock was pressing against his pelvis. Change of plans. I’d take death instead.

My only defense was anger. It’d worked for me all my life. Whenever Martin lashed out at me I’d hit back. If he punched me I bit. If he gave me noogies I’d kick him in the balls. Now that he knew my deepest, darkest secret, now that I’d be shamed more than anything else in life had accomplished, I fought too. I never fought that hard in my life. I tried to punch and kick him. I even tried to bite him. I moved like a wild thing under his grasp, straining to throw him off. And through it all Martin held on, held me down, made me be still again.

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at me with those deep gray eyes. I couldn’t escape that look. I was so ashamed. When I finally lost all the will to fight I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. I had been crying the entire time and I hadn’t even noticed. I bit my lip, and then let it go with a shaky sigh. “Let me up,” I pleaded.

Martin shook his head, “No.” Then he leaned over and… kissed me. First off, I’d never been kissed before. Bernard had tried to do it once but after the ball bruising I gave him once was quite enough. I never tried to fool myself into thinking I was straight so the times girls had made it more than clear they were down for anything I’d played the ignorant card. Whatever I had been expecting: some sloppy, nasty tongue orgy, with a guy who smoked menthol cigarettes-- this wasn’t it.

Martin’s big hands released my wrists to cup my face. I remember him framing my head like he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t move. His thumb feathered against my cheek as his lips gently trailed across my own. I heard myself moan and I didn’t care. His thumb tucked into the corner of my mouth, pressing gently but insistently for me to open. The moment his tongue delved inside I almost came. It was like a jolt to my system. I can’t explain what it’s like to have this ball of energy and need growing inside you and then to have the right person come along and shake you up like the fake snow flakes in one of the glass domes.

At this time Martin groaned with me, sliding our tongues together. He angled his head so he could press deeper. His fingers played across my cheeks, sank into my hair as if he were absorbing me through his fingertips.

My own hands were gripping his shoulders, trembling as I pulled him closer. My legs fell open, allowing for fuller contact between his groin and mine. Martin surged against me. The moment I felt the hard column of his dick alongside my own I lost it. My orgasm always feels like being caught in a vise, a sweet fist clenches in my middle, and the heat explodes in my body, finding ease as seed flows out my cock.

Martin continued to kiss me as I came down from orgasm. He seemed content to swallow my whimpers, and nibble my lips. One of my first thoughts were ‘Who in the hell was this sensual guy and what had he done with my brother?!’ My second thought after the bliss of orgasm had faded and I was still swapping DNA with Martin was. “What the fuck?!” I expected the fiery flames of hell to surge out of the living room carpet and burn me alive any moment. It was I who broke the kiss, looking shocked and no doubt pale. I could literally feel all the blood draining away from my face. I think I tried to speak. Something like, “Didwe! Didju! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Martin grinned. The fucker actually grinned at me. “You’ve got the sweetest mouth little bro. Too bad such foul shit comes out of it half the time.” As if prove what he’d just said he leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. Then he sat back, as if we were about to discuss our preference for jam or jelly on our toast and he asked, “How long?”

I pretended not to know what he was talking about. I frowned.

He pinched me. I writhed, which unfortunately reinforced the knowledge that I had sticky cum rapidly cooling in my boxers.

Martin caught my hips. “Stay still. How long?”

I glared, hoping I adequately conveyed my message. This sucks, big time! Martin was always a stubborn bastard. “Since sixth grade.” I could have punched him, he grinned so big. “You?”

“Too fuckin’ long, bro!” he said, honestly. And was that a blush I detected? Hah! I was never going to let him live this down. Of course at the moment my itty bitty brain hadn’t even started to conceive how much things had changed between us.