Under the Sun

Under the Sun

By: Spectrotica247

...

Summary:

Damian and Dean Dombrowski are attractive brothers involved in an incestuous relationship for months. They openly admire each other physically as their sexual urges intensify, acting on fantasies publicly. But what happens if one of their family members catches them in an act?

Main Characters:

Damian Dombrowski: 18 years old, Caucasian cis male, dark-brown fringe swept sideways like a lazy afterthought as the strands would catch gold in sunlight, leafy green eyes, his body is skinny but corded with wiry muscle, the kind built after years of climbing rocks and wrestling Dean into submission when he got too mouthy. Cock size: 7 inches and uncircumcised.

Dean Dombrowski: 13 years old, Caucasian cis male, his hair (originally light-brown) dyed jet-black and jutting in every direction like he'd just rolled out of bed and electrocution was his morning routine, his eyes the same leafy green as Damian's but brighter somehow, his body was slimmer, still caught between childhood softness and adolescent angles, but his hands were already calloused from climbing fences and gripping Damian's hips too hard during their late-night sessions. Cock size: 4.7 inches and uncircumcised.

Eric Dombrowski: 43 years old, Caucasian cis male, his darker-brown hair (mocha) slicked back and side-parted that showed his forehead, green eyes in the same sharp shade as his boys', and a faint dark stubble decorated his chin. His body was average-joe weight, slightly softer than his athletic sons but still carrying the remnants of his own youth in the breadth of his shoulders. Cock size: 8.5 inches and uncircumcised.

CONTENT WARNING!

This story is 18+ and may involve themes of incestuous, pedophilic sexual intercourse between two brothers, one underage and the other a grown adult, along with the father. If this story offends you, or if you live in an area where it is outlawed, or if you're under the legal age, then please do not read and click yourself out of this site, just to save yourself from a life of sin. This is supposed to be 100% fictional, any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. Thank you!

- Spectrotica

Chapter One - "Backyard Heat"

...

It was another wonderful, ordinary Sunday afternoon in Northern Arizona, just before the summer heat arrived. Granted, every day was hot, but the summers were unbearable. 18-year-old Damian Dombrowski had to enjoy it outside, where he could wear comfortable, loose-fitting clothing that exposed a lot of skin. His favorite outfit was always a cap, a tank top, mid-thigh shorts, medium-length socks, and some kicks.

Damian was a hot Caucasian teenager with a lean, toned body sculpted from years of casual sports and restless energy. His dark-brown hair was swept to one side in a messy fringe, the bangs casually brushing his forehead with effortless volume, giving him that effortlessly tousled look that always seemed deliberate. His leafy green eyes, sharp and playful, were the kind that could smirk without the rest of his face moving, especially when he was teasing Dean.

Speaking of Dean, on the other hand, 5 years his junior at 13, he was a walking paradox. Known as Damian's younger brother but never his carbon copy. His skin, kissed by the sun more often than Damian's, held a golden undertone that made his older brother's paler complexion seem almost delicate in comparison. The dye job was Dean's rebellion, a midnight-black explosion of spikes that defied gravity without the sticky crunch of gel. It was messy on purpose, like someone had raked their fingers through it mid-concert—voluminous, wild, the kind of hair that made teachers sigh and girls (and some boys) in his class sneak glances when they thought he wasn't looking.

He stretched out on the grass, the blades tickling the backs of his thighs where his shorts rode up: dark denim cutoffs fraying at the edges, stolen from Damian's closet two summers ago and never returned. His shirt? Oversized, swallowing him whole, the faded logo of some band Damian liked peeling at the edges. But the kicker? Nothing underneath. Not a damn thing. Just warm skin and the occasional brush of fabric when he shifted, lazy as a cat in a sunbeam.

To say the Dombrowski brothers admire each other is like describing the desert as lukewarm... an understatement that borders on insanity.

Damian cataloged Dean's existence through fleeting glances: the way his stolen cutoff shorts barely clung to his hips, the torn edges flirting with the sensitive seam where thigh met ass. The space of skin between fabric and sock was obscenely intimate, a stretch of smooth, sun-warmed body that made the taller boy's throat dry. Dean wasn't attempting to be outrageous. That was the problem. He just was, stretched like a stray cat on the lawn, shirt pulling up to reveal the dip in his waist, blissfully ignorant of Damian's fingers twitching against his own thigh.

As for Dean, it was very similar when he looked at Damian. He likes to see Damian shirtless, but when he isn't, Dean likes Damian's tank top because the brunet's muscular arms are fully exposed. No sleeves whatsoever to cover them up, and Dean can't help but admire Damian's strong arms. The loose circle around Damian's neck leaves a nice patch of bare chest, always accumulating sweat and shining under the sun. The 18-year-old's nipples poked at the thin fabric, always showing where they were underneath.

And the shorts... oh, the shorts killed the younger Dombrowski the most.

Damian's slightly tanned thighs were to die for. With every movement, they would ride up and show more and more of those legs. The crack of his ass was also always defined back there; the shorts didn't hide much, and any squat he did had a bulge at the front. A nice package just sticking out for the 7th grader to eye, he always thought about just grabbing it fully into his hand & giving it a playful squeeze.

The last detail of Damian's outfit... the socks. Mid-calf, slightly stretched from wear, riding up just enough to frame the taut muscles of his brother's calves. Dean didn't give a shit about the cap tilted lazily over Damian's forehead or the way his tank clung to his shoulders. No, it was the socks. The way they hugged skin, the way the elastic left faint indents if Damian wore them too long. Like right now.

Today was one of those days when the backyard felt like their private realm. The huge shrubs, thick enough to swallow secrets, stood watch along the fence line, their leaves rustling lazily in the wind. Beyond them, the neighborhood buzzed dimly, but here, the air was thick with something else, the kind of tension Damian felt as he watched Dean stretch, shirt riding up further, the hem catching on a blade of grass as if daring him to look.

The boys had dragged the lawn chairs onto the grass, abandoning the pool deck's concrete heat for the soft crush of green underfoot. Damian sprawled in his own chair first, legs splayed wide enough that the fabric of his shorts strained at the thighs, an unspoken challenge.

Dean, ever the opportunist, had smirked and said, "Bet you can't even sit still for five minutes," his voice dripping with casual arrogance only little brothers could pull off, fingers drumming his own bare stomach where his stolen shirt rode up.

Damian's grin was sharp, accepting the little runt's challenge. "Yeah? Watch me."

Well... he only lasted three. Of course.

The fourth minute found the young man's resolve crumbling like sun-baked clay. A smirk ghosted Dean's lips, tiny and triumphant, as his older brother abandoned the lawn chair in one fluid motion, crossing the scant distance between them with the predatory grace of a desert fox stalking prey.

Dean barely had time to blink before Damian was on him, knee bracketing either side of his thighs, palms planted beside his head on the lawn chair's plastic weave. The sudden weight made the cheap furniture groan, but neither cared. Not when Dean's fingers were already skating up Damian's inner thigh, tracing the hot outline of his erection through thin fabric.

"Christ, you're—" Damian hissed through his teeth as Dean palmed him, blunt nails scraping just right.

"Easy," Dean murmured, thumb circling the damp spot forming at the tip. His grin was all teeth. "Just existing is enough, huh?" The taunt landed exactly as intended. Damian's hips jerked forward, chasing friction, his tank riding up to expose the flex of his abdomen.

A breeze kicked up, carrying the scent of citrus from the neighbor's overripe grapefruits. Somewhere beyond the oleander hedge, a sprinkler hissed to life. Neither boy noticed. Dean's fingers traced lazy circles along the sweat-damp fabric of Damian's shorts, his grin wicked in the dappled shade. "I love seeing you like this, Damy," he murmured, thumb pressing just shy of pain against the ridge of Damian's cock. "All tense. Twitching. Even though I was only breathing."

The older boy above him rebuttals with a scoff, shifting his weight to plant one hand beside Dean's head while the other tangled roughly in his brother's dyed-black spikes. The brat didn't turn him on that much; at least he didn't think that way. "Bullshit," Damian growled, his voice drier than the Arizona dust while his blunt nails were dragging through the messy strands with deliberate roughness before swiping his thumb across Dean's forehead, smearing sweat and forcing eye contact. "It was only semi until you started palming me like a damn joystick."

Dean flashes him a toothy grin as he purposefully flexes his fingers against Damian's trapped erection, relishing the way the young man's breath stutters despite his protests. "Oh come on, Damy," he teased, rolling his hips upward just enough to make their bodies brush in a way that had Damian's thighs tensing. "You're the one who folded first."

The eldest brother smirked, slow and dangerous, fingers tightening in Dean's hair just enough to make the younger boy's breath catch. "Didn't think my little runt of a baby brother would be such a slut for his big brother's cock," he said.

"Well, can you blame me?" Dean lightly giggled, his hips lifting just enough to grind against Damian's thigh: deliberate, calculated friction that had them both exhaling sharply through their teeth. The scent of sun-warmed skin and laundry detergent mixed with something muskier beneath, thick between their bodies. "You're practically a walking 'fuckboy' stereotype, Damy." His fingers traced the waistband of Damian's shorts, catching on the damp fabric where pre-cum had already begun to seep through.

The 13-year-old's shorts were chubbing up nicely as well, fabric straining against the growing hardness beneath, a fact that didn't escape Damian's sharp green eyes. Dean licked his lips, fingers still teasing the damp fabric over Damian's cock as he tilted his head back against the lawn chair. "C'mon, Damy," he voiced with the weight of want, his eyes half-lidded. "Let me take it out already. It's probably hungry for some more of my... brotherly love." The last word curled into a smirk, loaded and dangerous despite his youth.

Damian flexed again, deliberately pressing his trapped erection into Dean's palm, letting the younger boy feel every inch of him through the thin cotton shorts. The afternoon sun painted golden streaks across his smirk, his fingers still tangled possessively in Dean's messy black spikes. "Tell me first," he demanded in a low tone, not a question, not a tease, but an order. "Tell me why I'm such a 'fuckboy stereotype,' runt." His hips rolled forward slightly, emphasizing his point with another pulse of heat against Dean's fingers.

Dean was quick with his answer, wanting to jerk Damian's bare cock above his own body. "First off," he began, fingers already working the waistband of Damian's shorts, "you never wear underwear. Like ever. You just let your big dick and balls swing around in these stupid little shorts like you own the place. Second, you're always bulging. Like, purposefully. Like the time you 'accidentally' squatted right in front of me when grabbing your dumb skateboard or stretching after basketball practice in the living room, all slow and dramatic so your shorts ride up your thighs. And third," his fingers dipped beneath fabric now, brushing wiry curls, "you think you're subtle, but you're not. Not when you 'adjust' yourself every five seconds in public, or when you take forever in the shower just so I can hear you jerking off."

Damian snorted, but the sound caught in his throat when Dean's fingertips traced the base of his cock, feather-light. "And this fucking tank top?" Dean continued, plucking at the damp fabric clinging to Damian's chest. "Black? Like, come on. It's practically transparent when you sweat, which is always, and the neckline's so loose I can see your fucking collarbones." His thumb swiped over a nipple, hard beneath the thin material. "And don't even get me started on the flamingo shorts. Seriously, Damy? Flamingos? Pink birds on your dumb thighs? They're so fucking short; I swear if you bent over, your ass would be out. Gawd, you're basically asking for it."

The 18-year-old Dombrowski teen's smirk didn't die, even as Dean's fingertips discovered his exposed skin beneath the shorts. "Comfy," he countered, thrusting his pelvis just enough to have Dean's knuckles rub across his cockhead. "That's the whole fucking point, runt. It's not my fault you're fucking obsessed with how much armpit, ankle, or thigh I show. Whatever your fetish is, it isn't my problem."

He rolled his shoulders, making the tank ride up further, exposing the sweaty hollows beneath his arms. "And yeah, I'll wear whatever shorts I want. You gonna bitch off about it? Call the fashion police? Arizona's a goddamn furnace. Maybe I should just go naked," he joked at the end but kept a hint of seriousness, because the heat problem was real. "Besides, you'd fucking love that, wouldn't you, runt? Me strutting around the house bare as the day I was born, letting you drool over every inch. A slut like you would be on your knees the second I walked by, trying to get your hands... or mouth, on me before I even got hard."

"Hey, I'm not a slut," Dean shot back. "I just like your dick. A lot. And... fine, yeah, the rest of you too." He shrugged, as if admitting this was no big deal, even as his cheeks flushed darker than the Arizona sunset. "But that's just biology, right? You're built like a fucking Calvin Klein ad. Can you blame me for looking? Also, I think you should go naked. Fuck what anyone thinks. I think they'd just stare, then pretend they weren't staring. At least I'm honest about wanting to see you wrecked and sweaty."

Damian thought about it, really thought about it, for half a second. Walking around the house bare, letting the AC prickle his skin, not giving a damn who saw. It wouldn't be that unusual, right? His mother had seen him masturbate on his bed when she walked in on him a few times before. She didn't freak out though, just rolled her eyes or teased him for being 'such a boy.' Alicia, their 15-year-old sister, just ignores him while looking at her phone on the living room couch when Damian strokes his cock in front of her. She would sigh and mutter something about boys being gross when he came on her bare feet but never stopped him or snitched on him. Their dad wasn't around most days. He always has to leave for construction work in the mornings, so Damian often gets away with being shameless.

If his mom and sister can handle his masturbation, then... maybe they wouldn't care about more? It's not like he'll be walking around with a raging boner all day. Nudists did it frequently, and they were not perverts. Simply... comfy. Free. He could already feel the phantom brush of air across his bare skin, the way his thighs would stick to the leather couch. And Dean would—

He was snapped back to reality when Dean's fingers twitched against the waistband of his shorts. Oh, you sneaky little shit!

The spiked-haired bastard was already tugging, his bitten-down nails scraping skin as he tried to yank Damian's shorts down past his hips.

Damian caught Dean's wrist mid-motion, pinning it to the lawn chair with enough force to make the plastic creak. "Oh no you don't," he growled, voice rough with something that wasn't entirely disapproval. "You don't get to undress me like some damn present, runt."

Dean whined, "What do you mean? You said I can take it out!"

"Well, I changed my mind; I don't want to be too underdressed. So how about we get your silly shirt off?" Damian proposed. Dean nodded his head, and Damian leaned back to free his hands from support to help his little brother peel it off over his head, tossing it aside.

With the exception of a tiny bit of dark hair that trailed down from his navel, Dean's skin was flawless, and his chest was golden from spending long afternoons in the backyard without a shirt. As he shifted under Damian's weight, his collarbones stood sharp against the sun-warmed skin, still slightly damp with sweat that caught the light. His nipples were slightly darker than the rest of him, a sign of how frequently he had allowed the sun to kiss his bare skin. They were pink and already contracting in the dry heat.

"Now we're talking." Damian nods with approval. "It's crazy how your chest is already darker than mine." His fingers trace Dean's collarbone, feeling the warmth of sunbaked skin against his fingertips. He lingers at the hollow of his throat, pressing just hard enough to make Dean swallow thickly. "I still remember when you were pale as fuck."

Dean arches under the touch, fingers flexing where they're still pinned. "Yeah, well, some of us actually go outside." His breath hitches as Damian's thumb brushes a nipple, circling the pebbled flesh. "Jesus, are you going to lecture me about sunscreen next?"

Damian leans down, close enough for Dean to feel his exhale against his chest. "Nah. I like you like this. All golden."

"So you do think I'm hot," the smaller Dombrowski laughs, his grin sizzling across his face all victorious as if he'd received a signed confession from his brother. "Pay up, Damy. You owe me one for that comment."

Fucking brat, Damian rolled his eyes with exaggerated drama before pushing himself off Dean, standing beside the lawn chair with the languid grace of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. He turned his back to Dean, letting the younger boy drink in the sight of his ass straining against the flamingo-print fabric before hooking his thumbs in the waistband. The shorts slid down his thighs inch by torturous inch, revealing the tight curve of his cheeks, still faintly pink from sitting in the heat, until they piled around his sneakers.

Dean's throat constricted sharply; Damian didn't need to see his face to know his brother was staring at the way his ass bounced slightly when he kicked the shorts aside.

Damian turned back around, letting his cock swing free. It was long and thick for his age, a solid seven inches of flushed, uncut teenage arousal. His foreskin had rolled back slightly from the swelling, exposing the slick, ruddy head, already beading pre-cum at the slit. He hooked two fingers lazily beneath the shaft, giving it a slow, mocking wag just to tease his cock-hungry little brother.

"See something you like, runt?" he taunted, thumb smearing the wetness across the crown as his hips gave an idle roll. "Or are you just going to sit there gaping like a fish?"

Dean, without a word, reaches his hand toward Damian's cock like a starving man reaching for bread, but the older boy takes a deliberate step back, shaking his head. "Ah-ah," Damian tutted as he wrapped a fist lazily around his own shaft. "You don't get to touch yet, runt. Strip. Everything. Then lie there for me like a good boy." His thumb pressed hard into the leaking slit, smearing a wet streak down his length while Dean whined in frustration. "Prove you deserve it first. Little sluts don't just get dick whenever they want. They fucking EARN it."

Dean's face twisted in outrage, fingers digging into the lawn chair. "That's not fucking fair! I'm your brother—"

Damian cut him off with a sharp laugh, gripping himself harder. "Brother or not, you're still a slut. And sluts don't get freebies." He tilted his head, voice dropping to a taunt. "You know that, Dean. Or should I just go inside and call my pal Neil over? Let you listen through the door while I fuck his throat?"

Dean's jaw clenched, shaking his head violently. Sure, Dean may find Neil Sanderson, Damian's fluffy-haired best friend with benefits who provides for his basketball team, honestly cute, especially when he's a bit timid. But listening to Damian fuck Neil's throat (or worse, his ass) while he isn't allowed to watch or join in... DEFINITELY not something Dean could stomach. Ugh, fine! Whatever, you dickhead, fuck you! He angrily thought as he twisted his lips into a pout.

Damian's smirk deepened, his dimples carving shadows as he lazily worked his foreskin back and forth, his thumb catching on the swollen ridge every few strokes. Dean kicked the leopard-print shorts off his ankles with a huff, leaving himself sprawled in those absurd lime-green briefs. The fabric straining over his obvious erection, the waistband digging into his hipbones.

"What the fuck even are these?" Damian snorted, giving his cock a slow twist. "You raid a neon sign's closet?"

Dean's face burned hotter than the Arizona sun. "Shut up, they were on sale."

The younger green-eyed boy shoved down his shorts with both hands, elastic waistband snapping before releasing his straining erection. The second his cock was free, it sprang upward, only to smack back down against his stomach, making a nice slap noise. Dean didn't even try to hide his groan, knees bending sharply to kick the shorts the rest of the way off his ankles, sending them flying somewhere toward the oleander hedge.

Damian's smirk curled higher as his eyes shifted downward. His little brother's dick was smaller than his own, but thicker for his age. 4 inches, well actually 4.7 inches, when completely hard, uncut, and flushed pink against his golden skin. His foreskin was pushed halfway back from arousal, showing a smooth, crimson head that beaded in the same way Damian's did. The shaft tapered somewhat toward the tip, with veins sticking out beneath the smooth skin. Darker golden curls framed the base, which remained sparse but thickened during adolescence.

Damian still had his black tank and an equally black hat on, but those socks of his... they were all white. Now that he thought about it, a ton of his wardrobe was all colorless clothes. Blacks, whites, and grays: simple, no-nonsense, just like him. No patterns, no pastels, nothing that screamed "look at me," unless it was skin-tight fabric outlining his muscles. Hell, even his sheets were charcoal, the same as his bedspread. Christ, when did I turn into a fucking grayscale poster boy?

Dean, meanwhile, was practically a fucking rainbow: neon greens, electric blues, and leopard print like some kind of stripper-in-training. It was almost embarrassing. Just... almost.

The high school senior dropped back onto Dean with the lazy confidence of a predator who knew his prey wasn't going anywhere. His knees bracketed the younger boy's hips, pinning him to the lawn chair with nothing but the weight of expectation. Dean's fingers twitched toward Damian's cock instantly... only for the older brother to smack his wrist away hard enough to leave a stinging pink mark.

"Hands up," Damian ordered. "Cross 'em. Wrists together."

Dean's groan was half protest, half surrender, but he obeyed, locking his arms above his head in an X. Damian didn't bother restraining him further. He didn't need to. The second his fingers wrapped around the base of his own cock, angling it downward, Dean went still as desert stone. With deliberate slowness, Damian dragged the slick head of his long erection across Dean's sternum. The younger boy's skin pebbled instantly, his breath hitching when the hot, wet tip traced a slow circle around one nipple, then the other.

The contrast was electrifying. The moment Damian's pre-cum painted Dean's left nipple, the little brother's entire body jerked, a full-body shiver that started in his shoulders and rippled all the way down to his toes. The breeze caught the wetness almost instantly, cooling it against Dean's overheated skin. His cock twitched violently in response, the sudden temperature shift sending pleasure crackling up his spine like a live wire. Damian smirked as he felt the tip of Dean's erection jerk upward, grazing the underside of his own ass before falling back against Dean's stomach with a wet slap.

Damian then shifted higher, knees pressing deeper into the lawn chair as he lifted himself just enough to drag the full length of his cock up Dean's torso. The tip caught on the hollow of Dean's throat, leaving a glistening trail behind like he was signing his name in sweat and spit. Dean's breath came in shallow pants, his lips parted just enough to show the pink flash of his tongue when Damian's foreskin caught on his collarbone.

Dean's lips parted wider, tongue darting out instinctively as Damian's cock hovered inches from his mouth. He leaned up with a whine, only for Damian to abruptly pull back, bringing the thick head down hard across his open mouth instead. The slap echoed, leaving Dean's lips stinging and his tongue tingling with the phantom taste of salt.

"Uh-uh," Damian taunted, dragging his cockhead back up Dean's chin, smearing pre-cum like warpaint. "Close that greedy little mouth, runt. I want to see your face when I make you beg for it."

Dean obeyed with a bitten-off groan, lips pressing tight together, but Damian didn't miss the way his tongue flicked against the inside of his teeth, desperate for a taste. The older brother dragged the swollen head of his cock in slow circles around Dean's mouth, smearing pre-cum like chapstick. The kid's lips were chapped from Arizona's dry heat, slightly cracked at the center, and Damian relished the way they caught on his sensitive skin with every pass.

God, was he fine as fuck to be doing this, leaning back in the lawn chair with his arms obediently crossed above his head, lips parted just enough for Damian to tease the leaking tip of his cock against them. The way Dean's eyelashes fluttered when the wet heat of his brother's erection dragged over his cupid's bow was downright sinful. Damian squeezed at the base of his shaft, angling it downward to trace the seam of Dean's lips with deliberate, torturous precision.

The kid had learned fast, too fast, how to take dick like a pornstar, all hollowed cheeks and fluttering tongue, but right now? Damian wanted him desperately.

Dean's jaw ached from how hard he was clenching his teeth; every muscle in his body coiled tight as a spring. The weight of the athletic teen's cock against his lips was warm and insistent, the salt-slick head catching on the chapped skin every time he exhaled through his nose. The scent of him: sweat, laundry soap, the musky tang of precum, flooded Dean's senses, making his own dick twitch against his stomach.

He wanted to bite... wanted to suck until Damian's knees gave out.

But last time he'd been impatient, Damian had edged himself for an hour while Dean watched, his hands tied behind his back with the older boy's sweaty tank top, until he finally came across Dean's flushed chest, then walked away without letting him touch. He knew Damian got off to his desperation and needs.

... Absolutely fucking cruel.

Damian began to stroke his cock right there at Dean's face, the tip pushing gently on his lips. "Mm, feel that? You've got me oozing again," Damian tells him, thumb swiping over the leaking slit just to smear it across Dean's bottom lip. The younger boy's tongue darted out instinctively, lapping at the bitter salt, but Damian pulled back just enough to deny him a proper taste.

"I was just thinking about how your slut ass can deepthroat it all." The brunet brother gave himself a slow, taunting pump. "Well, after a little choking, you can handle it. Like last Tuesday when you cried halfway through but still swallowed every drop. Pathetic."

Dean squirmed, moving his head a tiny bit as he felt the pre-cum leak onto his lips, wetting them. His natural instinct was to lick it clean right away and savor the taste. But just as expected, the older boy pressed a thumb against his mouth, smearing the slickness wider instead.

"Uh-uh," tutted the 18-year-old, dragging his thumb sideways to paint Dean's lips with the sticky gloss of his arousal. "You'll lick it off in a bit. Right now, I'm enjoying putting on your lip gloss." He chuckled darkly to himself, admiring his handiwork as Dean's lips shone under the afternoon sun.

The slick glide of his cockhead against those parted lips was definitely a scene that would make any porn director weep. Damian dragged the swollen tip sideways, painting Dean's mouth with another thick stripe of pre-cum, watching as it pooled in the divot of his lower lip before spilling over. Dean's tongue flicked out instinctively—just a quick, desperate dart—but Damian pulled back with a dark laugh, leaving his brother's mouth glistening like some cheap hooker's.

"Man, already ruined and I haven't even fucked your throat yet." Damian thumbed away a bead of moisture that dripped toward Dean's chin. He allowed the underside of his 7-incher drag wetly across the boy's lips, smearing them wider with a slight roll of his hips. "And you're fucking dripping. Can't ever say you're not a slut again with this much cock juice on your lips, bro."

Dean groaned, frustrated and defeated, before flicking his tongue out in quick, greedy laps at Damian's leaking slit. The taste was electric: salty and chlorine-like, just as good as he remembered. On days like these out in the blazing Arizona sun, his older brother always seemed harder, heavier, and leakier than usual. Like his body knew they'd be reckless long before their brains caught up.

"Fine," Dean huffed as Damian pressed his cockhead firmer against his lips, smearing another wet stripe. "I'm a slut. A huge fucking slut. Happy?" He arched his neck, trying to chase the taste as Damian pulled back again, denying him. "Your slut," he corrected, softer this time, eyes dark and locked on Damian's cock like it was the only thing worth looking at in the whole damn desert.

A predatory grin appeared on Damian's face. "Yes, you are, but one tiny correction... you're a little slut, not a huge one." He punctuated the word with a sharp thrust that bumped the tip against Dean's teeth, making him gasp.

Dean was smaller... thinner wrists, narrower shoulders, and a waist Damian could practically span with both hands. And Damian loved reminding him of it.

"A huge slut takes what they want," the older teen continued, rolling his hips just enough to drag his shaft along Dean's cheek, leaving a shiny trail. "But a little slut like you? He listens to his boss. You don't suck my dick when you want. You suck it when I tell you to. That's the difference."

"It's more fun when you tell me what to do," Dean said quietly, finishing up with his tongue on his own lips, lapping up the last traces of Damian's pre-cum like it was melted ice cream. His wrists flexed against the imaginary restraint of his crossed arms (not that he needed real ones).

"Exactly, because you're a little slut," Damian reminded. "Even getting your hands held up by me, not being able to do anything with them."

Dean groaned, rolling his eyes, but his fingers flexed eagerly when Damian released his wrists. He reached for Damian's cock with both hands, fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the rock-hard shaft. The foreskin slid back effortlessly, revealing the flushed head, glinting under the sun like some obscene jewel.

With his hips straining forward into the touch, Damian hissed. "Yeah, you're a hot little shit," he acknowledged. "Go ahead, jerk me off... just like that." He curled into Dean's hold, enjoying the way his brother's fingers fumbled a little out of pure want.

Already damp, the kid's fingers sped up, jerking Damian's cock with eager strokes while his other hand cradled the heavy weight of his brother's balls, rolling them gently in his palm. The heat and fullness fascinated him. How could something feel so dense yet so soft?

The older Dombrowski shifted, knees pressing into the lawn chair as he lifted higher, tilting his hips until his cock bobbed just above Dean's face, the flushed tip glistening inches from his nose. His pre-drip dripped lazily downward, a single bead splattering between Dean's parted lips as he craned his neck, tongue darting out to catch the next drop.

"Mmmm... fuck," Damian groaned, watching the string of saliva stretch and snap. "Greedy as hell."

He soon relaxed himself with a sharp exhale, allowing Dean to have fun with his uncut 7-inch manhood. The little shit wasted no time. He spat a glob of spit directly onto his index finger and then dragged it up Damian's shaft in a slow, wet glide. He circled his finger around the swollen ridge, dragging sticky trails of pre-cum in lazy spirals with the kind of fascinated focus a kid would use picking their nose for boogers.

The kid's nail scraped just right, not too sharp or soft, as it caught the sensitive frenulum beneath Damian's cockhead. "Hngh... haahhh... fuck, keep doing that," Damian growled through clenched teeth, his hips jerking forward instinctively. Dean smirked; he knew exactly how to twist his fingers just right, how to press his finger into that sweet spot below the crown until Damian's thighs trembled.

Dean giggled, wet fingers glistening as he scooped another glossy strand of pre-cum, deliberately smearing it across Damian's toned thigh like some crude art project. "You're fuckin' nasty," he teased, tongue poking between his teeth before returning to torturously circling the swollen mushroom head with his fingertip. The sensitive feeling the boy triggered from feeling the glands made Damian shake visibly as his hands, no longer gripping his hair, now rested at his sides, fingers splayed against the sun-warmed plastic of the lawn chair. The 13-year-old caught flashes of his brother's blunt, squared-off thumbnails, so unlike his own bitten-down ones, as they flexed with every controlled roll of Damian's hips.

Something about that detail made Dean's stomach tighten. The way Damian's hands were already rough from years of wrestling and weightlifting, his nails broad and blunt like they belonged to some construction worker twice his age. The lunula... those pale half-moons at the base of each nail, stood out starkly against his light-tan skin, and Dean couldn't stop staring. He imagined those hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, imagined those thick fingers shoving into his mouth to silence him while Damian fucked him raw. The thought alone sent a pulse of heat straight to his dick, his own cock twitching against his thigh, already leaking just from the visual.

But it came to a halt when Damian suddenly gripped Dean's wrist, halting him mid-stroke. "I want to switch places, bro," he tells him. "Get your ass up now."

Dean whined at the loss of contact but obeyed instantly, scrambling off the lawn chair with the desperate eagerness of a dog anticipating dinner. Damian didn't miss how his brother's cock bobbed heavily between his thighs as he moved, already leaking fresh beads onto the sun-warmed plastic.

The older brother grabbed the neckline of his sweat-coated tank top, peeling it upward. The fabric clung stubbornly to his torso for a heartbeat before surrendering, revealing the sculpted plane of his abdomen inch by tantalizing inch.

His chest was unreasonably flawless; his skin, fairer compared to Dean's golden glow, stretched tight over well-defined pectorals that rippled when he inhaled too deeply. From his collarbones, a thin trickle of dark brown hair descended, growing into a tidy treasure trail that vanished under his waistband. Pink and slightly swollen from the heat, his nipples stood rigidly against the sporadic air. The contrast was striking: pale skin crimsoned in patches, damp with perspiration, muscles flexing visibly as he tossed the shirt aside without ceremony. Dean's mouth watered at the sight.

Damian stretched across the lawn chair with a deliberate languor, the plastic still warm from Dean's bare skin beneath him. He hooked an arm behind the chair's backrest, wrenching it upward with a metallic groan until the angle forced him into a near-seated position. Legs spread wide, cock bobbing against his stomach, the new incline putting every taut muscle of his torso on salacious display.

Dean's green eyes were locked onto the way the high school junior's abs flexed as he settled in, the sharp V of his hips pointing like an arrow to where his foreskin had drawn back just enough to reveal the shiny tip beneath.

"Better view for you, runt," Damian drawled, spreading his thighs wider.

His balls hung heavy between his legs, the loose sac swaying slightly with the movement. His cock curved elegantly toward his abdomen - a natural arch that made the flushed tip tilt skyward, pointing at the sky. He gripped himself lazily at the base, giving Dean a slow, mocking pump that made the foreskin glide silkily over the swollen head.

Dean was aware of what to do. The boy with spiky hair could not recall a single instance in which Damian did not fuck his throat first. Even though Damian's ass was tight and avaricious, he always wanted it lubricated with spit directly from Dean's mouth. The kid didn't mind at all. He enjoyed getting a mouthful, the way Damian's big, sexy cock stretched his lips wide, and his brother's husky, shuddering sounds when Dean swallowed around him as if his life depended on it.

He got right to business, getting his face down there in front of Damian's cock. He kissed up on the sides of it, taking a hold with his hand as Damian let go, allowing him.

"Only a cock-hungry whore kisses a dick before sucking on it," the teen noted to him.

At the remark, Dean's smile went downright devilish as he gave the tip a slow, moist kiss that was purposeful and taunting. Then, he parted his lips just enough for Damian's cockhead to snag on the seam. With a single, fluid motion, Dean closed his mouth around the older lad, making room with his tongue as he swallowed him further with ease. The youngster tried to breathe.

The delicious, familiar pressure of his brother's neck welcomed him home, and Damian's groin surged higher. Without delay, his fingers gripped Dean's spikes, more grabbing than pushing. "Ooaahh fuck... exactly like that," he groaned, tensing his thighs as Dean hollowed out his cheeks. "Ahhww... hahh... OOHH!" With every bob of that disheveled black head, the suction pulled him in closer.

Damn, big guy, always making it difficult with his size. Still, Dean braced himself and continued to slide down Damian's cock with seasoned resolve.

The ridge of the head caught sweetly against his soft palate as his lips extended crudely around the girth, the first resistance giving way as he took another inch, then another. Before sliding down once more, he pulled back just enough to allow spit to collect around the shaft, each bob becoming slicker than the last as the friction subsided into a moist, rhythmic glide. With each drop, the little roughness of skin against his tongue vanished and was replaced by the smooth pull of saliva-coated flesh.

The truth dawned on Dean as he shoved his nose into the brown curls at the base of Damian's cock, which were perfumed with sweat. He didn't want this fast and sloppy today. Not when Damian tasted and smelled like this, all summer heat and salt with a hint of chlorine clinging to his skin from last night's swim in their neighbor's pool. No, today demanded something slower, something that would cause Damian's fingers to clench in Dean's hair and his thighs to shake as if he were worried the smaller teen may stop.

"Yeah, little bro, get it deep in there," Damian groaned, his fingers flexing against the plastic arms of the lawn chair.

The restraint was new; usually he'd be wrenching Dean's head down by now, fucking his throat raw, but something about the way Dean was taking his time today made him hesitate. Then the hunger won out. The 18-year-old Dombrowski teen bucked upward sharply, his cock ramming into the back of Dean's throat with a wet choke. The younger boy gagged instantly, shoulders jerking, but kept his lips sealed around the tip as saliva dripped down Damian's shaft in glossy strands.

"Just... aaafffuck… hold your head steady, let me do the work," he grunted, palms pressed flat against the plastic arms of the lawn chair as he pushed his hips upward in one fluid, slow thrust. The movement arched his back beautifully, corded muscles flexing from shoulders to abdomen, as his cock sank deeper into Dean's mouth, inch by inch, until the tip nudged against the back of his throat.

Dean gagged instantly, his nose wrinkling as his eyes watered, but Damian didn't pull back this time. Instead, he held himself there, suspended, the veins along his shaft pulsing against Dean's tongue while pre-cum leaked in thick, salty strands down his brother's throat.

"Come on, you filthy slut," Damian panted. "You've taken it before."

Dean gagged as Damian pushed deeper, his cock hitting the back of the youngster's throat in a way that made his eyes water. "Maybe you liked being choked by my dick, huh?" the tall brunet smirked, not letting up, his hips lifting just enough to keep Dean's nose buried in his crotch. He could feel the tight flutter of Dean's throat around him, the way his little brother swallowed reflexively, even as tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

"Haaahhh yes... fucking perfect," he huskily muttered with an exhale, grinding upward until his balls pressed against Dean's chin. "It's a miracle your throat can even fit this."

His pace soon decreased to slower thrusts, but deeper, each one still sank all the way than the previous, balls deep, into the 7th grader's throat. The choking swallows that vibrated pleasantly along his girth had replaced the initial gagging, the angle practiced after years of trial and error.

Just as Dean was starting to get used to this technique, Damian's calloused palm suddenly cradled his cheek, thumb pressing the tear tracks with unexpected gentleness. Eyes shut tight, his head fell back on the lawn chair with a groan, his sweat-glistened chest rising sharply, inhaling the desert air through gritted teeth, exhaling in ragged bursts that made his abs ripple. The lad watched through blurred vision, drunk on the weight of his brother's cock taking over his throat, the possessive grip on his face.

This was everything: being Damian's perfect little cocksleeve, his living fleshlight, soon to be bent over and stuffed full. The thought sends pleasure ricocheting through his body in dizzying waves, even though his dick isn't being touched. Most middle school boys his age would probably either be disgusted, intimidated by Damian's size, or still figuring out what they liked. But Dean was already ruined beyond repair. He knew exactly what he wanted, who he wanted, and how much he could take before tapping out.

Dean did think it would be better if a group of boys from his middle school mingling with Damian's high school teammates, some shirtless, others still in damp swim trunks, were not circling them in the backyard, their eyes wide and lips parted as they watched Dean swallow their captain's cock whole.

Damn, how hot would it be if that happened? The entire backyard was filled with tween and teenage boys from grades 6-12, all standing on the grass while watching the two brothers go at it, their nail plates glinting in the sun as they unconsciously rubbed their hands on their crotches—some already slipping fingers under waistbands to stroke themselves or pull down their trousers to fully expose their stiff members. A few of Dean's classmates, barely past puberty with high-pitched voices still cracking, would be pressing against each other, their skinny hips grinding together as their tongues clumsily met, spit-slick and inexperienced. One of Damian's teammates, a broad-shouldered junior with peach fuzz above his lip, would fist another boy's cock through his soccer shorts while having him pinned against the fence, the fabric darkening with pre-cum as his thumb circled the leaking tip.

Dean could practically taste the musky scent of adolescent sweat thickening in the air, feel the pressure of eyes burning into his skin as he choked on Damian's cock. His own neglected dick twitched against his thigh, drooling pre-cum onto the grass as he imagined the first hot spurt hitting his cheek, maybe from that shy 8th grader with the dimples, the one who always blushed when Dean smiled at him in the locker room. Then another, thicker load would splatter across his collarbone, courtesy of the soccer team's goalkeeper, whose thighs were already trembling as he jerked himself off with rough, impatient tugs. More would follow, ropes of cum arcing through the air to paint his stomach, his chest, and his lips—some dripping down to mix with Damian's pre-cum on his tongue, salty-sweet and forbidden.

Would that be a hot dream come true for Dean? Absolutely! But every single porn video he secretly searched up at 2 AM on incognito mode showed only buff guys with deep voices and thick beards. Adults... always adults. Because society deemed it better that way, and rightly so. The illegality of child porn had never stopped Dean from fantasizing about boys his own age, though, their skinny limbs and high-pitched moans echoing in his head as he jerked off under the covers. Real life, however, was different, safer, with Damian's broad shoulders shielding him from anything too risky.

Soon, his fantasy came to an abrupt end when Damian's relentless thrusting stilled abruptly, his cock sliding wetly from Dean's throat. The older boy collapsed back onto the lawn chair with a groan, his chest heaving, fingers twitching where they'd been gripping the plastic armrests. "Get that filthy mouth on the side of my dick," he ordered. "Lick it like a fucking lollipop."

As soon as Dean removed the 18-year-old's cock from his mouth, a large glob of saliva dropped from his lips onto the side of Damian's tip. His lips and cock are connected by a small trace that is still hanging. Dean immediately moved down his shaft to grab the glob that had emerged with his mouth. He uses his tongue to lick all over his cock while pushing it around with his lips. As they explored his enormous length, Damian relished the mix of two lips and a tongue. The young teen made sure to cover his dong with that extra spit.

"Good work; you can get up there and show me what that ass can do anytime you'd like now," the eldest Dombrowski informed him.

Dean hovered just above Damian's cock, his thighs trembling with anticipation as he felt the slick head nudge against his entrance—that first electric brush of heat making his breath hitch. Damian's hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave crescent-moon indents, guiding him down with agonizing slowness. The stretch burned deliciously, the young lad's body resisting then yielding all at once as the thick crown breached him, forcing a punched-out gasp from his lungs.

Damian's groan was raw, fingers digging deeper into flesh as he arched up, sheathing himself inch by torturous inch inside his little brother's tight heat. "Fuck," he gritted out, feeling Dean's walls flutter around him, "you take it so fucking good."

Dean bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, his hands pressing harder against Damian's pecs as he sank lower. "Grk! A-ack...~" was all he could muster up while shaking his thighs with effort, sweat dripping down his spine. The next thing he knew would happen after taking in all 7 inches would be Damian ripping it off like a band-aid and sitting him all the way back down in his lap. But pride flared hot in Dean's chest. He can take it. No matter how much it hurt or burned his tunnel, the boy never complained about it. He adjusted quickly and took it like a champ. Sure, his facial expressions and little whimpers suggested that he wasn't okay, but his desire and lust to do it always kept him going. His fingertips found the stiffened peaks of his nipples, rolling them roughly between thumb and forefinger just to hear Damian's sharp inhale.

The young man's abs tensed; his huge 7-inch member was twitching inside his underage brother as if responding to the touch, like every part of him was wired straight to his dick. "Christ, you're tight," he hissed, rolling his hips experimentally. "Like you never took it before." His hands slid up to grip Dean's waist. "But we both know that's not true. Look how fucking deep you got me."

Damian could feel the flex of his little brother's asshole around his cock, that same clench he's felt last week when he, fully naked from head to toe, had held the equally naked Dean mid-air against the weight room mirror, his legs hooked over Damian's forearms. The memory burned fresh: the slick slap of their skin echoing off the gym walls, Dean's whines pitching higher when the taller brother pinned his prostate with brutal precision, watching tears streak his brother's reddened cheeks in the reflection before they both came untouched, Dean's cum painting the glass with pearly ropes of his spunk while Damian's release flooded his ass so deep it leaked down his thighs by the time they reached the showers when carrying him in his arms. Good thing their parents and sister weren't home at the time.

Now, under the desert sun, Damian relished the way the body of the boy with spiked hair remembered him, how his hole clenched instinctively around Damian's cock, as if trying to pull him deeper even when he was already buried to the hilt.

"Maybe I... hahh... just clench extra hard for you." Dean grinned, all pearly whites and reckless defiance.

When Dean gasped, Damian snorted and rolled his hips upward, first slowly and then more forcefully. "Bullshit." Observing his younger brother's fluttering lashes, he said, "Your asshole has muscle memory. Knows exactly how to milk me dry."

Dean attempted to raise himself just an inch, but gravity pulled him back down with a smooth slap, causing his thighs to shake. Damian's lungs were punched by the deeper spear of his cock. "F-fuck! Damian~" His voice cracked as he tried to say, "Feels... hngh... bigger today."

"Same dick, runt. Just your greedy hole forgetting how to behave." Damian plastered a smirk on his handsome face and ran his calloused hands over Dean's hipbones, enjoying the stretch, the burn, and the way Dean's body struggled before giving up. "Gonna ride me proper or just sit there like a fucking fleshlight?" he asked.

Dean's answering glare was half-hearted at best, his hips already rocking tentatively. The angle shifted just enough for Damian's cockhead to brush that sweet spot inside him. His back arched violently, toes curling against the lawn chair. "O-oh fuck, right there—"

Damian seized Dean's waist, hauling him down harder with each upward thrust. The slap of skin grew louder, syncopated by Dean's punched-out little "uh-uh-uh" sounds. Sweat dripped down Damian's sternum, pooling in the dip between his pecs. He watched, mesmerized, as Dean's cock bounced between them—leaking steadily onto his abs with each jolt forward.

"Look at you," Damian growled, palming Dean's ass roughly. "Dripping everywhere like some cheap... ahh... whore." His fingers dug into pliant flesh, spreading Dean wider, dragging him onto his cock with bruising force.

Dean's moan pitched higher, his fingers scrabbling at Damian's chest for balance. "Shut up... nngh~... Just shut up and let me... AAHH... r-ride you!" His thighs burned with the effort, sweat dripping down his spine as he forced himself to move faster, bouncing on Damian's cock with reckless abandon. The wet slap of skin filled the backyard, obscene and perfect, each descent sending sparks up his spine.

Damian grinned, teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Little whore's got stamina," he mused, watching Dean's flushed face contort with pleasure. "Tomorrow you'll be limping to school, asshole, throbbing every time you sit down in class." He punctuated the taunt with a sharp upward thrust, wrenching a gasp from Dean's throat. "And then you'll still beg me to fuck you raw again."

The tanned Caucasian boy clenched around him, nails biting into the brunet teen's pecs. "Fuck yes!" The admission burst out, raw and unfiltered. The pain was there, yes, but it melted under the pleasure, his body learning to twist discomfort into ecstasy. His hole pulsed greedily, milking Damian's cock with every bounce, saliva-coated friction turning into a dizzying glide.

The distant, frightening hum of wasps is drowned out by their combined moans. The rhythm faltered as pleasure tightened in Dean's stomach as his thighs smacked against Damian's lap. Each frenzied bounce was guided by Damian's hands, which supported him and left crescent-shaped indentations in Dean's hips.

"That's it, baby bro," Damian groaned, the words rough with affection beneath their usual taunting edge. His hands, those broad, calloused hands that could pin Dean effortlessly, shifted suddenly, sliding up to cradle his face with unexpected gentleness. Dean blinked through sweat-stung eyes, stunned by the rare tenderness as Damian's thumbs wiped away the drool smeared across his chin. "Proud to see you take me on like a fucking champ." The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through Dean's body, his hole clenching reflexively around Damian's cock.

Dean leaned into the touch, his lips curling into a messy grin. "I... Aahhh... F-fuckin' love... fah... this dick," he admitted breathlessly, rocking his hips in slow, filthy circles. "Love how it splits me open... nggh—" His voice hitched as Damian's tip dragged over his prostate. "... love how it makes you groan." He pressed his palms flat against Damian's chest, fingers tracing the sweat-slicked contours of his pecs. "And... ooh god... I especially love how you... h-how you look when you're wrecked from my tight ass... I love you, Damy...~" His words dissolved into a moan as Damian bucked up sharply, filling him to the hilt.

Damian's usual smirk softened, something raw flickering in his dark eyes. "Yeah?" His tone was lowered, almost wondering, as he brushed Dean's damp hair off his forehead. "I love you too, runt. Even when you're a brat."

For a millisecond, the uncommon and unguarded confession lingered between them before Dean collapsed onto Damian's chest and kissed him. Wet and urgent, the incestuous kiss tasted of salt and boyish heat as teeth and tongues clashed. As their lips moved, Dean sank further onto Damian's cock, his thighs shaking from the strain of continuing to ride him through the kiss. Their bodies moved in a rhythm as natural as breathing as Damian's hands slid down to grasp his ass, harshly massaging the flesh as he led Dean's pace.

Dean broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against Damian's as he panted. His hole ached, stretched wide around Damian's cock, the burning fullness making his thighs shake. He wondered, deliriously, what it must look like from behind: Damian's thick cock disappearing into him, his rim stretched around the girth. If there's footage of Damian's dick going into his hole one day, he'd probably watch it on loop, admiring the lewd way his body opened up for his brother.

Damian groaned, "F-fuck, runt... aaahh—" Dean clenched around him deliberately, dragging a ragged moan from Damian's throat. The older boy's head thudded back against the lawn chair, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure rolled through him. "Gonna cum if you keep... Aahh... doing that."

Dean grinned, drunk on power. "Doing what?" He rolled his hips slowly, savoring the stretch, the burn, and the way Damian's cock twitched inside him.

"HA-AAAaaoohhh... fuck! L-like THAT—" The lawn chair groaned under their combined weight, so neither boy noticed the sharp scrape of the sliding glass door behind them.

Their 43-year-old father, Eric Dombrowski, steps out of the doorway but freezes after 3 steps when he looks up from his glass of iced tea he'd brought out for himself.

Eric is tall. Not just tall... statuesque! The kind of man who ducks through doorways without thinking, who looms without trying. His mocha-brown hair, darker than Damian's by several shades, is slicked back with military precision, a side part revealing the sharp widow's peak that makes him look like some noir detective. His eyes held leafy green orbs, which his boys had inherited. The faint stubble was trimmed neat enough to avoid looking sloppy. Without it? He'd look like Damian's older brother, smooth-faced and boyish, even in his early 40s. But with it, he exuded this rough, untouchable masculinity that made women glance twice at PTA meetings. His body? Not gym-rat ripped like Damian's, but solid. Broad shoulders from years of hauling lumber and fixing roofs. A chest thick enough to make button-downs strain. Thick thighs that strained against his shorts when he knelt to fix the sink pipes. Average-Joe weight, sure, but with a quiet strength that made his wife bite her lip when he rolled up his sleeves.

The boys had expected the familiar growl of Eric's F-150 rumbling into the garage: their usual five-minute warning to disentangle limbs and wipe evidence from their skin. But the truck sputtered out before sunrise, and since he can't use his wife's van (she drives to work every day), Eric hitched a ride with his coworker to their workplace and back. The Dombrowski brothers didn't hear the front door's hinges sighing open 15 minutes prior, never caught the heavy clatter of Eric's tool belt hitting the kitchen counter, or the fridge yawning wide as ice cubes clinked into his tall glass, all thanks to the vent generator exhaust system rattling near the backyard fence. By the time his steel-toe boots hit the patio tiles, he'd already shrugged off his white flannel shirt, his sweat-damp armpits staining against his sleeveless undershirt... only to see two out of three of his own children fucking each other under the afternoon sun like feral cats in heat.

Eric could hear more and more of it with each step he took: wet, rhythmic slaps interspersed with breathy whimpers from Dean and the groan of plastic as Damian's fingers dented the armrests of the lawn chair. Damian's spread girth dwarfed Dean's slender form as the sun glinted off his perspiring back. With condensation falling over his calloused knuckles, the older man's grasp tightened on the perspiring glass as he saw the immoral scene: Dean, naked as the day he was born, riding his brother with the laser-like focus of a child learning a new video game. And Damian, with his hat crooked and shoes still on, like he'd just tossed them on before this, was staring at Dean with possessive intensity.

Damian honestly swore he'd seen his dad approaching... if he'd been looking. But his attention was locked onto Dean's body, the way his cock bobbed stiffly with each bounce, smacking against his stomach before veering sideways to tap his thighs. The way Dean's ass swallowed him whole every time he slammed back down. Damian's tongue darted out to wet his lips as Dean's tight heat milked him mercilessly, the sight hypnotic.

Eric's fingers went slack around the sweating glass, the ice cubes clinking violently as he stared, paralyzed. This can't be me seeing my boys... MY boys... f-fucking each other outside in broad daylight!?

While shocked upon witnessing this violation of nature and decency, the patriarch couldn't tear his eyes away, not from the way Dean's lean body arched, his spine a graceful curve as he impaled himself over and over on Damian's cock, nor from the glistening stretch of his asshole struggling to accommodate his older brother's thickness. The sinful slickness of their joining was audible even from where Eric stood frozen, tea forgotten in his numb fingers. Dean's choked moans sent an unwelcome pulse of heat straight to his groin, his own neglected cock twitching against his zipper in response. He palms his own bulge instinctively, shielding it from view as if that could erase his traitorous arousal.

The truth is, Eric had always found male adolescents, no matter how bratty, enticing. With their half-formed muscles and their mid-deep voices cracking into manhood, boys on the cusp of adulthood held an undeniable allure, their bodies not yet hardened but still soft in places, the curve of their hips, the swell of their thighs, while their budding masculinity shone through in flashes of defiance or dominance. He made sure no one knew, especially not his wife, Colleen. She'd divorce him faster than he could blink.

His brief involvement with NAMBLA in his late twenties had been a mistake, one he'd buried under layers of shame and denial. He'd stumbled upon their forums during a late-night internet binge, curiosity morphing into something darker when he realized he wasn't alone in his desires. He'd lurked, occasionally posted under a burner email, and even met up with a few like-minded men in dimly lit diners where they exchanged hushed confessions and cautious glances. But paranoia gnawed at him until he scrubbed his digital footprint clean, changed his phone number, and moved across state lines when the FBI started cracking down on the group. He told himself it was just a morbid fascination, that he wasn't really one of them.

But even through mortgage payments and fatherhood, the cracks showed flickers ever since Damian reached puberty. The man would catch himself lingering when his eldest exposed his first armpit hair at 13 before focusing back on the road during a basketball carpool. He'd blamed it on paternal pride first, the way fathers marvel at their sons growing into men. But then Dean hit 12, and damn, did his looks hit back: sun-browned skin from reckless summers spent shirtless, that shock of black-dyed hair (despite Eric's protests) sticking up in defiant spikes. Worse were the stolen glances when Dean stretched after outdoor swim practice, the way Eric's throat dried when droplets of water slid down his smooth chest, and the faint trail of dark pubic hair (which he also dyed) vanishing into his waistband.

The other night, after waiting for his wife to fall asleep, Eric crept into the bathroom connected to their master bedroom then locks the door. He pulled Dean's damp towel from the hidden compartment behind the vanity, stolen that afternoon after the boy's weight session, still faintly ripe with adolescent sweat. Pressing it to his face, he inhaled greedily, imagining Dean's shinny arms straining under the barbell, his smooth chest heaving, trying to be as broad as Damian. The fabric stuck to his tongue when he licked along the salt-stained edge, shuddering at the bitter must flooding his senses while replaying the sounds of Dean's cracked voice in hisses and grunts in the weight room: "Fuck, fuck... ahaahh... almost there..."

Shit, he'd imagined his sexy baby boy lying on top of him instead of the bench press, their hips locked together, Dean's sweat dripping onto his chest... God, he isn't sure WHY he agreed to be a father if he can't resist those thoughts. He'd carved his shame into early morning runs until his knees gave out, but no matter what, nothing could erase the way his cock swelled as long as his sons' developing bodies matured.

Now here they were: his darkest fantasies given skin and teeth. Dean bouncing shamelessly on Damian's lap with lips parted around moans that punched straight through Eric's ribs.

Enthralled by the illicit heat of their connection, Eric merely stood there feeling his growing dick through his work clothes. As he listed every unholy detail, including how Dean's ass easily swallowed Damian's cock to the root and how Dean's thighs trembled out of intense ecstasy rather than agony, the glass in his other hand tipped dangerously, condensation falling into his steel-toe boots. Unconsciously, he palmed himself through denim with his left hand, using harsh, rhythmic strokes that mirrored Dean's upbeat cadence. God help him, he'd fantasized about this, but he never thought the reality would be hotter.

Then suddenly... CRACK!

Tea splashed his steel toes, cold seeping through his sock. The sound snapped his spine straight and jerked his hand away from his groin like he'd been burned. This, of course, caught Damian's attention. The older boy's head snapped up, eyes locking onto Eric's frozen silhouette.

SHIT!

Damian's body went rigid beneath Dean mid-thrust, frozen like a deer in headlights. His hands, which had been gripping Dean's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, suddenly loosened as Eric's sharp green eyes locked onto his with something raw and unreadable. But the younger brother, blissfully unaware, kept bouncing with his eyes squeezed shut, lips parted around breathy moans. Damian's cock was still buried deep inside the 13-year-old as his thighs slapped against his lap with wet smacks, the rhythm unbroken.

"Aaahh... Damy... uagh... quit stalling," Dean slurred, rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles, his brow furrowed in frustration when Damian's cock didn't move inside him. How is it possible that he cannot hear the shatter of glass? Maybe he was just too high on endorphins to notice?

Shit, we're so busted... SHIT! Damian's mind panicked. Dad's fucking home already, and it's too late to run because he's caught our asses!

Literally.

What is he going to do now? Punish them senseless? Disown them? Because any parent who finds their kids doing this would have already exploded into rage-filled shouting. Yet Eric just... stood there. Watching.

Not only that, but there's an unmistakable outline straining against the Dombrowski patriarch's belted work pants, the way his rough carpenter fingers had curled possessively around his own bulge mid-stroke, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened unconsciously. The realization hit Damian like a sucker punch: Dad's touching himself while watching us? The fuck!?

Eric followed Damian's eyes downward, realizing with gut-churning horror that his left hand was still cupping the unmistakable bulge tenting his jeans. He immediately withdrew his hand away, not believing he just jerked himself off to his sons fucking each other. He has to pretend it didn't happen, pretend he didn't just edge himself to the slick sounds of Dean taking Damian's cock like a goddamn porn star.

"Hey! Hnngh... Why'd you stop!?" Dean's complaint snapped his big brother's focus back.

The 17-year-old brunet barely had time to rasp "Dad's—" before Eric's shadow loomed over them. A carpenter's big hands clamped under his youngest son's armpits mid-bounce, hauling him upward with an audible wet 'pop' that made all three men hiss simultaneously: Damian from the sudden loss of heat, Dean from interrupted ecstasy, and Eric from the obscene sight of his youngest son's gaping hole struggling to clench around nothing.

Despite Dean being 13 and already nearly as tall as his brother, Eric's grip was iron, lifting him clean off Damian's lap with one brutal yank. The spiked-haired boy yelped, legs flailing mid-air like a pissed-off kitten scooped mid-meal, just as his asshole clenched around nothing, twitching hungrily for the cock it'd just lost.

"H-hey, what the fu—" the youngest Dombrowski's protest died in his throat when his bare feet hit the grass, feeling a bit weak in the legs. He collapsed sideways onto the lawn chair with a whimper, thighs still slick with sweat and pre-cum, his own 5.5-inch erection bobbing angrily against his stomach.

Damian barely had time to process his fat dong popping free, glossy with Dean's spit, twitching in the humid air, before Eric's shadow swallowed them both. The patriarch loomed, looking clearly displeased, his sweat-stained undershirt clinging to a chest broader than Damian remembered. That bulge in his work pants? Still there. Still straining.

Dean, dazed and dick-drunk, blinked up at their father with zero survival instincts. "D-Daaad?"

"What..." Eric began, his voice eerily calm as his hand still gripped Dean's shoulder. "in the name of heaven... are you two DOING OUT HERE..." his volume spiked, and a vein bulged near his temple. "Like goddamn ANIMALS IN BROAD DAYLIGHT?!" The lawn chair rattled under Dean as Eric shook him. "ON THE LAWN FURNITURE?! WHERE ANYONE COULD—" He paused his thunderous roar as his green eyes flicked to the neighbor's second-story window. "Christ, if Mrs. McCormick were home, she'd probably be filming this on her goddamn iPad right now!"

Damian, still shirtless and half-hard, opened his mouth. "Sir, I—"

"DON'T!" Eric jabbed a finger at the teenage jock without looking, his other hand pinning Dean in place. "You think THIS... is acceptable behavior?" His face darkened dangerously, his glare shifting between the brothers. "This area is NOT private! You're having sex in the middle of our suburban backyard, not some freaking back alley! Anyone trimming the hedges around here would be able to see you. And you guys weren't being very quiet about it either! Seriously? Were you just trying to get CAUGHT!?"

Damian gulped, his throat suddenly dry as Eric's grip tightened on Dean's shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the younger boy whimper. The older brother could see the conflicted storm in his father's eyes. Anger was warring with something else entirely, and it made his cock twitch traitorously against his thigh. He instinctively shielded his erection with both hands... as if that would make it any better.

The youngest of the trio finally registered the situation. His entire body flushed crimson from navel to hairline. "I... we—"

"Did I ask you to speak!?" Eric snapped, jabbing a finger at the black-dyed-haired boy's chest. "How long?" Eric groaned, jaw clenched. "How long has... this..." he wouldn't dare specify what he saw them commit just minutes ago, just not yet. "been going on between you two?"

Damian hesitated, his mind racing. But lying now would only make it worse. "Since... since May... when I told Dean about what happened between me and Neil," he admitted quietly, watching his father's reaction closely. "... and it escalated from there. I didn't want to, really... but he kept teasing me... a-and I was feeling really tired and horny..." His voice trailed off into silence. He doesn't know what to say next, not that anything would defend him.

Since May? So they've been intimate with each other for the past FOUR MONTHS!? Eric swore he felt like the earth tilted beneath his steel toes as Damian's confession smacked him harder in the head than any punch could have.

Dean, his youngest son, his baby, just turned thirteen this past January, had been letting his older brother, the same boy who used to push him on the swings and help him with his math homework, fuck him raw for months? And Damian, oh Lord have mercy... he's eighteen! FUCKING EIGHTEEN! A legal adult in the eyes of the law, about to turn 19 in October, and he's been plowing his barely-teenaged brother with zero hesitation!

Damian is old enough to know that not only this is incest, this is legally considered statutory rape... just like Eric himself knew that touching himself to this sight was criminal in every sense. Just like he knew his brief stint with NAMBLA back in '98 had been wrong, too, those hushed meetings in motel rooms with men twice his age, their clammy hands patting his shoulder as they murmured, "You're doing the right thing, son," when he confessed his attraction to the neighborhood boys. The way they'd assured him it was natural, encouraged him to "guide" them into manhood, until a few weeks later when the FBI raids started splashing across the evening news and he burned his membership card in the backyard grill, watching the plastic curl into blackened wisps, and moved states shortly after.

But now... oh god... now his oldest son is following in his footsteps. But worse... Damian's preying on his own flesh and blood! He felt as if the universe was mocking him for ever thinking he could escape his own perversions.

The father of three pressed his face into his hand as his own arousal strained against denim. "Jesus Christ," he hissed through clenched teeth, cracking with the weight of paternal failure. "You two are BROTHERS, for fuck's sake!" His voice pitched higher than intended, betraying something raw beneath the outrage. He wheeled on Dean, who flinched. "You, young man, you're thirteen freaking years old! THIRTEEN! You shouldn't even KNOW what a cock feels like inside of you, let alone your BROTHER'S!"

Eric's grip convulsed on Dean's shoulder tightly before releasing abruptly as if burned. His pulse throbbed visibly beneath the stubble of his jaw. Damian watched a bead of sweat carve a path down his father's throat before vanishing beneath the damp collar of his work shirt. The carpenter then shifted his attention to his eldest son. "And YOU! You're damn near a grown-ass man! You're supposed to be the RESPONSIBLE one! His PROTECTOR! What kind of older brother takes advantage of his kid sibling like that!?"

Says the one who minutes ago was gripping himself at his pants while watching his own youngest son riding his big brother's cock. Damian wanted to spit back, but bit his tongue. He straightened his posture, glancing between his father's clenched fists and the conspicuous tent in his jeans. "Dad," he tried again, voice steadier than he felt, "you're right. It's wrong. But Dean started it, kept teasing me, saying I wouldn't dare. And..." His throat bobbed, the truth bitter on his tongue. "I liked it."

"Liked it enough to risk having the police being called on you for fucking your brother butt naked in an area where half the neighborhood could've seen you?" Eric snarled, though his voice wavered halfway through. "You think I don't know what statutory rape is, Damian? You're eighteen! They can lock you up for it and you will be saying goodbye to your goddamn future!"

Dean stirred beneath his father's grip. "Dad," the smaller teen croaked, "it's not, it wasn't like that. I wanted it. I liked it too."

Eric shook his head. "You're thirteen, Dean! You don't know what the hell you're saying. You think you wanted this? You think you understood what you were agreeing to when your brother—" He couldn't finish the sentence and turned his face away for a moment, but the rest of his body still faced them. "Goddammit! I didn't think I would be dropped home from work after experiencing vehicle trouble this morning to witness my sons... my OWN sons... being incestuous, exhibitionist, fucking each other in broad daylight."

The mention of their father's 'vehicle trouble' explained enough to the boys as their stomachs plummeted. No warning rumble of the F-150's engine. No garage door squealing open. Just the silent arrival of a man who now stood over them like a storm cloud made flesh, his erection still bulging against his jeans even as he scolded them. The vent generator's persistent rattle near the fence had masked all other sounds, leaving them exposed like idiots. How could they forget so easily?

Dean shook in Eric's hands, and so did his black-dyed spikes as he gulped hard. "I-I'm... I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered, eyes glassy with fear, but then his jaw clenched, that stubborn Dombrowski set Damian knew too well. "But... but we weren't hurting anyone. He didn't make me do anything I didn't want." His voice cracked on the final syllable, and the dark-haired man's scowl faltered briefly at the sheer honesty in his baby boy's tone he hadn't used since he was nine. Dean's cock was still drooling onto his stomach, asshole twitching from being so abruptly emptied.

Damian, ever observant, didn't miss the flicker of hesitation in his father's glare. Without a word, he slid his hand up Dean's arm, fingers wrapping firmly around his bicep in silent reassurance. I'm here for you, baby bro. Whatever happens. He squeezed once, just enough to ground him. Some tension left the green-eyed 7th grader's spine as he leaned subtly into the older teen's touch, their bare thighs still pressed together despite the space Eric had forced between them. The older brother's thumb traced idle circles against Dean's skin, a silent promise that he'd take whatever punishment came their way first.

"You don't get to decide what's okay for you at thirteen, Dean," Eric sternly replied, but the heat had bled from his voice. His fingers flexed against Dean's skin, not gripping anymore, just... resting. Like he couldn't bring himself to let go either. "For God's sake, you're just a kid."

Dean lifted his chin, defiance sparking in his leaf-green eyes. "Then why are you hard?" He pointed his finger at the visible tent that's still straining the front of Eric's denim pants.

The backyard went dead silent except for the generator's rattle. Damian's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened to what the fuck levels. Even now: cornered, exposed, sweat cooling on their skin, his little brother had the audacity to ask the one question Damian was too terrified to voice. He knew how reckless that little shit can be, but this? Point-blank calling out their father's erection like it was some fucking math problem on the whiteboard? This is like spitting at a grenade.

Eric stares down at his own crotch, aghast by the obvious evidence tenting beneath his belt. His breath pauses... of course Dean will notice. That little punk had always been sharp-eyed, noticing every flaw in his father's armor since he was old enough to speak back. The kid had a talent for twisting situations, turning punishments into discussions, and forcing Eric to defend himself when he was meant to be in control.

Damian squeezes Dean's arm, not just a warning, but a silent plea. Have you lost your mind!? Shut up, you idiot! We're in deep shit enough, so shut up!

But Dean never shut up. That was the problem. The kid grinned like he'd already won, chin tilted up, fingers tapping against his own bare thigh like he was counting the seconds until Eric snapped.

The closeted hypocrite's throat worked soundlessly. What can he say? He was torn between covering himself and grabbing Dean by the scruff. Damian watched his father's Adam's apple bounce, the sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. The carpenter's voice, when it finally came, was sandpaper rough. "That's... that's not the point, Dean."

Damian could have groaned. Weak, Dad. Weak.

Even Dean's smirk widened, scenting blood in the water. The younger green-eyed boy placed his elbows behind his head with a half-lidded flirtatious look, stretching deliberately to make his ribs press against golden skin. His hips swung side to side in a lazy waggle, his 4.7-inch uncut boyhood bouncing against his stomach, still flushed pink and glossy with pre-cum. "Seems like it's exactly the point," he purred, toeing the grass with one bare foot. "You're not mad we were fucking. You're mad you weren't invited."

Are you fucking for real, Dean!? Now the jock really wants to strangle that annoying prick until his face is all purple. WHY out of all situations must you provoke Dad NOW when we're already fucked!?

Eric didn't know it, but prior to this day Dean had a hunch about his father's attraction. Like the time when they were play-wrestling on the living room rug, Dean got on top of him in a victory pose, and Eric was starting to get hard underneath him. He pretended to adjust himself quickly, but Dean had already felt the swelling press against his thigh through their shorts. Or when Dean would "forget" towels after showers, strutting naked down the hallway, Eric would always pause just a beat too long before gruffly telling him to cover up, eyes lingering on the smooth curve of his ass, the soft jut of his hips. The boy noticed, always noticed, and filed these moments away like a secret collection, waiting for the right time to tease them out into the open.

Eric could now see every feature of his boys' arousal in the harsh sunlight: Damian's broad, uncut length curling slightly against his stomach, the red head gleaming; Dean's smaller but no less hungry cock bouncing with every confident swing of his hips. The carpenter has no idea what to do now. How could he lecture them on morals when his own erection was louder than his words? His throat feels like sandpaper right now.

Dean was loving this, his dad is fighting a losing battle as he tries to defend himself against his youngest son's accusations. The mask that held paternal authority was slipping, sliding down his face like sweat beneath the Arizona sun, leaving only the raw, ugly truth beneath: he was just as depraved as his sons. Worse even... because he was the adult here, the one who was supposed to stop this, and yet his cock was throbbing against his zipped-up fly like it had a mind of its own, begging to be freed. "You gonna keep pretending, Dad?" he taunted, rolling his hips forward just enough to make his own erection bounce, droplets of his leaking semen splattering onto his stomach. "Or are you gonna admit you liked watching us?"

NO! This is wrong, you are their FATHER! Eric's internal monologue screamed. You gave them baths when they were infants, you wiped their noses when they were sick, you held them when they cried! Are you really gonna risk throwing all of that away just because your youngest son looks so fucking shameless right now?

He should be dragging both their naked asses inside, calling their mother, ground them until they were old and gray. But no words would form other than the ones stuck behind his clenched teeth, words that tasted like gasoline and gunpowder, ready to ignite the tinderbox of this backyard confrontation.

Dean, ever the reckless provocateur, reached out and palmed his father's erection through jeans before Damian could grab his wrist back. The boy's fingers curled carefully around the swelled hump, his thumb pushing the moist region where cum had seeped through the cloth. Eric's breath left him like he'd been hit in the solar plexus. Damian's shocked "What the fuck is wrong with you!?" ripped the air, but Dean only cocked his head, green eyes glinting with the same insolent challenge he'd worn as a child caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

You know what? Fuck it!

...

To Be Continued!