When he got that look in his eyes it scared me.
It excited me, too. But, I was ashamed that it did. At least at first.
It meant he was unhappy with me. That I had disappointed him in some way: either sexually or otherwise.
It had started innocently enough. Mom was working a lot. Money was tight. We shared a room. I could hear him beating off once he got his nut. Eventually I started watching him. He knew I was. We were too young to talk much about it. Until we weren’t.
One night he said: “You like watching, huh?”
I was surprised. Scared. I just lay there, completely still.
“It’s okay. Just tell me.”
“Do you want to come closer?”
I nodded - but didn’t move.
“Here - I’ll come to you.”
And then he was at the side of my bed - standing over me. I think it might have been that moment where our identities shifted: him looming over me in the darkness, me cowering beneath him. You know how when you’re young everything seems bigger, because you’re so much smaller? Maybe it was that. But I saw him grow larger in that moment as he loomed, and I felt myself shrinking - descending into a new self.
“Now you can see up close,” he said, beating it. He wasn’t teasing exactly. In later years we talked - minimally - about our shared inexperience. He told me he wanted to rape me then, but didn’t, because he didn’t know how to do it. But the impulse was there, nonetheless.
His sperm erupted soon after. He shot a lot - always did - and this was an even larger blow than normal, according to him. It sprayed all over my face, frightening me, but also completing me. His breathing was hoarse. His cock remained rigid.
“You look pretty,” he said, eyes gleaming. I blushed with the compliment, his sperm still hot on my cheeks and lips and chest. Then he reached down and wiped off each track, gently - but insistently – and fed them to me. I just followed his lead, as I would from then on. The taste was strident: intense. I hadn’t expected this - didn’t even understand the significance of my budding cumpulsion. But when it was over - when I was cleaned up - I wanted more. I hoped he felt the same way, and believed it could be true: that every one of his orgasms for the rest of his life would be consumed by me, his little brother.
He patted my head. “Good boy, Charlie,” he said, turning away, and crawling into his bed. “What do you say, Charlie?”, he asked, using the same tone that mom used.
“Thank you,” I whispered, by rote, but the depth of my gratitude swelled as I spoke, overwhelming me. “Thank you, Bronson.”
“Good boy,” was all he said, the snores coming soon after.
The next night he’d figured things out. Figured more things out, anyway. He didn’t speak. He just rose out of bed after a few minutes and stood over me.
I looked up at him, expectantly, waiting for him to start beating but he didn’t. His cock just swayed in the dark shadows.
“You do it now,” was all he said: both a declaration and an order.
“Charlie - you do it now,” he repeated, this time more commanding. I crawled out from under the covers, shirtless, wearing only my BVD’s, and reached up, touching it. My small grasp didn’t encircled his thickness, but his response was immediate. The eyes - again - shone with harsh intensity, like a cat that had found weakened prey. “Yes. Like that.”
I pulled on it, mimicking his own motions that I’d studied for so long. I used my other hands to clutch his sack. This brought more approval.
I was under his sway now: every instruction was one to follow. I obeyed, jerking him, edging nearer to his intimacy, mouth opening. It flexed and jumped in my hand, spewing into my open gape, painting my lips, blinding my eyes, but I moaned in appreciation. Completion. I loved this so much: taking care of my big brother. Giving myself to him.
I didn’t need him to feed me his spunk. I licked it off my hands, then from my face, then instinctively, directly off his manhood, which caused him to jerk, grabbing my head.
“YES,” he grunted, encouraging my post-orgasm fellatio.
The next night there was no question what would happen. It was like that between us - with our new relationship. We had always been keyed to each other’s moods, but our sexual connection seemed fixed from the beginning. Obvious. He understood what I wanted. I certainly knew what he expected of me. All I needed to do was look in his eyes.
When he approached the bed I was ready, mouth open. He pushed into me, and I sucked, delighted, aroused. I was clumsy. Of course I was. And it was the only time in our relationship where he showed real patience and real care.
“That’s it, Charlie. Just like that,” he encouraged, and I tried harder. “You can take your time – go deeper is what I want.”
So I tried. It was difficult. The gags were consistent, but like I said, he was patient. In the end, he spread his legs, taking control. His hands gripped my head and he began to fuck, pumping his thick cock into my young mouth. His balls slapped against my chin and I entered a kind of Zen-state, one that I would achieve many times in years to come. This was my purpose, I thought to myself, and his reaction justified my discovery.
“So good, baby bro – so fucking good.” Then I scraped him and he lurched, releasing his hands and slapping me, hard, across the head. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loving, either. It was the kind of correction you give a pet in the early days: just tough enough to show who was in charge.
“Watch the teeth, Charlie,” he growled, halting his pump. “Watch your fucking teeth.”
My response touched something in him - I’m sure of it. I moaned, obsequiously, crawling out of the bed, opening my mouth as wide as possible and grinding him into my throat, ignoring the reflex to choke. I was horrified that I’d hurt him when all I wanted to do was give pleasure. I was barely able to snuffle out an ‘I’m sorry’, my mouth was so full of cock. My hands clutched his ass, encouraging more harsh treatment.
“Fuck yeah,” he grunted, but his demeanor changed. It was like he filed away the moment for the future – and his use became more focused. More male.
“Fuck – so good. Every night now, baby. Every fucking night you’re gonna get this cock off,” and I just nodded, groaning, tears running down my cheeks. His eruption was particularly intense that night and he rammed it deep, holding my head into his crotch, so much longer than I was ready for – which was precisely what I needed in that moment. As I flailed and grunted, swallowing the flow of cum that shot into my stomach, and then began to black out, I felt an internal orgasm shudder through me.
I had not had my wet dream. Yet. But what I experienced that night was better, and the beginning of a quest to replicate it. I experienced a deep longing to please – to serve. Doing so triggered a pre-pubescent arousal which was overwhelming.
At an early age, I experienced nirvana.
When he was done he pulled out, huffing and sweating, eyes blank. I could barely stay kneeling, but I did, sniffing and snotting and crying – but the tears were of meaning. He pulled up my chin to determine that – and I nodded at him, smiling even as I bawled.
“Thank you, Bronson,” I said, with even more meaning that I mustered the night before. “Thank you.”
He nodded, giving a smirk.
“Tomorrow night, right here, like this: on your knees. And take off your underwear, Charlie. I want to see all of you. Including your ass.”
You can imagine it didn’t take long for him to explore that ass. The following night, while he drove down my throat, his fingers played with my hole, exploring my depths. The thrill was life-altering. If my throat was the way to my heart, my hole was the way to my soul. I gyrated on his digits while he spurted cum into my gullet, grunting in satisfaction.
Eventually he pulled out – of both ends – and stood over me.
“Thank you, Bronson,” I whispered, worshipfully. I felt empty. My longing for the next night was overbearing, given how far away it was from this moment.
“You’re a gay-boy, Charlie. You love cock. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Bronson,” I nodded. He was right. I knew he was right. There was no denying my nature.
“I want you start practicing, baby-bro. I want you to start opening your hole up, so it can get ready to take this, okay?” he said, grabbing his still throbbing meat. “Use this,” he said, handing me a jar of Vaseline. “Every night. Mornings too. I’m gonna put my dick up your butt, soon. And then every day after that.”
“I know,” I said. I knew the minute he told me to show my ass – the minute his finger explored my depths.
“Good boy,” he said, ruffing my head. “Now work that hole before you go to sleep.”
I did, first diving under the covers, but then realizing I was proud to do what he told me to do. And I wanted to display that pride. So I spread my legs wide, pulling them up, and began to finger myself, pointing my ass in his direction. He was watching. It became a ritual after that. He would cum in my mouth and then I would get up on the bed, swinging my legs up over my head so he could see me, and he’d watch. Sometimes he would play with himself, jerking – whispering: “Gonna fuck your ass, Charlie. You’re gonna love it, too.”
A month later, mommy had a trip scheduled - to see her aunt, who was probably gonna die soon. We were all supposed to go, but two days before I got real sick. I vomited and everything.
Well … actually, I was faking. I wanted to be alone with my brother Bronson. I knew he was waiting for the right time to take my cherry, and I figured a weekend alone would be perfect. I didn’t ask him or anything: I just pretended, because I knew how mom got when I was sick. It almost back-fired, because she nearly cancelled the trip, but then Bronson took a look at me, real hard.
I looked back, betraying nothing but my need, which had grown profoundly. He turned: “Ma – you should go. You need to see Aunt Celia. I’ll stay and take care of Charlie. It’s probably just a stomach thing. But I’ll keep an eye on him – won’t leave the house or anything. And I’ve got my own car if there’s an emergency.”
My brother had his own car. I loved that he did – worshiped him because of it.
I shivered when he caught on, eyeing him. Eyeing is cock. Letting him see my hunger.
Mom saw that and believed I had a fever, so she put me straight to bed. But Bronson knew.
That night he said: “I know you’re faking, Charlie.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not really being sorry.
“Just tell me next time. I like your plan – just tell me next time. I don’t think you should be doing much thinking for yourself, okay?”
“I mean that, baby-bro. I’m in charge of you.” And then he stripped, but went to bed.
“You’ve been a bad boy, not telling me about your plans, like you’re supposed to. Think about that tonight.”
I played with my hole, but he wasn’t looking. I started crying, but when I did, I heard him snoring.
He didn’t give me his dick for the rest of the week. He barely said anything at all, except to look at me like I was this huge disappointment. It was horrible. But I kept practicing and when mom drove off on Friday night, he turned to me and said this:
“You listen to me young man. You did a good thing playing sick. So you’ll get your reward for that. Your dad is going to take your virginity this weekend.”
He slapped me. Hard. Across the face.
“I’m your father, Charlie. For all intents and purposes. I’m only ever gonna say this once, so listen to me, good. Our dad left years ago and the reason you’re such a cock-whore is that there hasn’t been a strong male figure in your life. You need a daddy and since I’m the man of the house, that’s me. I’m your daddy now, got it?”
“Yes daddy,” I said, thrilled at the sting of my cheek.
“And no matter how good you were to think of playing sick, it was wrong to make that decision without asking me first, do you understand that?”
“So go into the living room and pull down your pants. I want you bare-ass and I want you to think about what you’ve done. In an hour I’m gonna come in and spank you. Punish you. And then I’m gonna teach you how to take my penis up your butt. But we have to wait in case mom comes back. And you have to spend some time thinking about what a bad boy you’ve been – what a naughty boy you are.”
I was crying again. He made me do that a lot. He seemed to enjoy it and I loved crying in front of him because It made me feel weak and helpless, which was my natural state.
It was more than an hour. I lost track of time, but eventually he came into the room. He was wearing his jeans and t-shirt, which made him look his hottest. He was all business, standing over me, that look in his eyes again, but gentleness, too.
“We’re alone together this weekend because of you, Charlie, and I appreciate that. You’ll learn that later, once I’m up inside you. But you didn’t ask me about your plan. That’s very bad. Who’s in charge here?”
“You are, Bronson,” I said, sniffling again, the tears coming back. I could no longer fight them. They just poured out when I disappointed Him.
“That’s right. I’m in charge. If you had asked me, we could have made it happen – and mommy wouldn’t have been so worried. Even now I just called her – she’s scared that you are really sick.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said.
“Sorry’s not enough, Charlie. You will learn that today.”
He sat on the couch. He motioned to me. I stood but he jumped off of his seat and slapped me, hard, across the face. He seemed to be getting practice at that – getting better at it. He caught me good, perfectly, right across the cheek. It was shocking.
“Crawl, Charlie. Hands and knees.”
The pain was thrilling, so I crawled to him, happily. It felt natural doing it. He pulled me up on his lap. And then he began to spank me. It was firm, at first, but not that hard. It was relentless, though. It was constant. He was strong – young, too – and had endurance. Before long the spanking was a blur. Then the pain became overwhelming. My tears were no longer tears of disappointment. They were tears of agony.
It was in that moment, I think, that we had our only divergence – one that would eventually be addressed, but one that I understood before He did. Because even though the pain was intense – even though I would remain red and my ass would be lightly bruised for the rest of the weekend – I loved it. It made me whole. It made me feel alive. It demonstrated the necessity of my desires and, feeling his urgent, rigid cock beneath me, I understood his necessity, too. Just as I was overwhelmed by the power and the passion and the pain of the pain, so, too, was he compelled by inflicting it.
I was sobbing, joyously, no longer struggling, in the midst of an out-of-body moment, when I felt his orgasm trigger, his cock explode in his pants, while his hand made the last, full-bodied swings on my ass. I cried out, happily, but also to cover the shame-filled grunts of his masculine exertion and orgasm. I could tell, instinctively, that cumming while harming his only brother – a brother that he loved and owned – was conflicting for him. All I could do was wordlessly moan that I loved his sadism as much as I loved him.
He stood, unsteady, and I fell to the floor. And then he left the living room, descending to the basement, where he remained for several hours, playing video games. I dared not move, but I took the liberty of removing my clothes. It didn’t feel right being anything but naked in the house, alone with my Daddy, available to His Will.
Finally, he emerged, heading to our bedroom silently, then the shower, where I know he washed the remnants of our shame. When he emerged, many minutes later, he was lean, pure - clean.
“Son,” he whispered, looking at my immovable frame, still on the floor. “I’m sorry I had to do that to you. But lessons must be learned,” he said.
I moved, ascending to my knees, looking at him with worshipful need: “Thank you, Bronson,” I said, with as much feeling and as much passion and as much reverie as I could muster in just those three words.
It worked. His cock rigified immediately. It went from tumescent to turgid with the sound of my whispered deviance. It dripped fluid, signifying his arousal.
He barely nodded, still unwilling to embrace his own desire to harm me.
“Today I will fuck you, Charlie. I will take your virginity. And from this day onward, I will fuck you when I want. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, daddy,” I said, nodding hungrily.
“Do you want that, Charlie?”
“Yes, daddy. I want it very much.”
“Have you been practicing?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, and he beckoned. “Follow me,” he said.
We went first to the bathroom, for instruction that I wasn’t expecting.
“You have to be clean for me, Charlie. No man wants shit on his dick, so it’s your job to stay clean.”
“It’s called a douche – or an enema. Today it will be an enema, but in time I’ll teach you quicker ways. For now, since I will be fucking you all weekend, I need you cleaned deeply. Bend over.”
The bag was hanging from the shower. He’d prepared this. Had readied it for us. His preparation filled me with love. Overwhelming love.
I won’t go into the details because I know some guys get sicked-out by stuff like this, but you need to know it wasn’t gross when Bronson did it to me. It was one of the most intimate and passionate of our interactions. He treated me with care, massaged my stomach, rubbed my now bruising and throbbing cheeks, whispered to me while I over-came the discomfort. He lit incense to mask the smell and he even stood over me, letting me mouth his drooling cock while I expelled water, repeatedly, until it ran clean.
“You will do this yourself from now on – but you can always come to me for help if you are having trouble. You need to be clean at all times. Before you go to bed. In the morning – “
“Wake up early, Charlie. Think, son. It’s your duty to serve me. So get up early and clean out so I can fuck you in the morning, like I need to.”
“Yes sir,” I nodded, appreciating his guidance. Sometimes I felt so stupid in his presence. I admired his frustration with my stupidity. It only reinforced his need to control me completely.
And then we got dressed and went for a walk about the neighborhood. This surprised me, too, but he explained that I needed to make sure all the water was out before he took my virginity. The walk would make sure of that.
Mr. Dawson from across the street stopped us and chatted. I was in a daze, still flying from the prior pain and the repetitive filling of my anus. I couldn’t help but gaze at his shirtless chest, his stuffed pants, and his glaring eyes. I could tell he smelled my availability. Like an animal on the hunt, he sensed he could feed on my flesh. His crotch expanded. Bronson saw it – became possessive.
“Nice to chat with you, Mr. Dawson,” Bronson said, grabbing my neck with strength. “But I have to go back home now – Charlie hasn’t been feeling well so I have to … I have to put him to bed,” he said, but the last line was suggestive. His own cock had hardened. Two bulls were snorting over their young cow and Charlie was asserting his dominance. I was breathless.
“Nice to talk to you, boys,” Mr. Dawson said. “You know – you can stop by anytime. Anytime,” he whispered, knowingly.
On the way back to the house, Bronson said, “Don’t you go over to his house without me, Charlie. You’re Mine. You belong to Me. No other man touches you without My permission.”
“I know,” was all I said, imagining both Bronson and Mr. Dawson using me for Their Needs.
“How do you feel, Charlie?” He asked as we approached the door to our row-house.
“Empty, Daddy,” I said, honestly.
“Well,” he said, revealing his arousal: “You won’t be empty for long.”
When we got inside Bronson stopped me. “Strip naked. For the rest of the weekend you will be naked. I want you available to me at all times. Do you understand?”
“Yes daddy.” I stripped. I was excited to be naked for him. It felt natural.
“If you get cold, tell me. I don’t want you uncomfortable. I just want you to be ready to service me. Also, when I am not using you, you will clean the house for your mother, and you will fix me dinner tonight. Tonight you will serve the man of the house.”
I was so excited. So happy.
“Now go up to mommy’s room and wait for me. I’ll be up soon.”
I didn’t know why I had to go to mom’s room, but I did what I was told. I was good at doing what I was told. When I got there I kneeled on the floor. I wanted to get on the bed but wasn’t sure – so I just stayed on the floor. I was comfortable on the floor.
Bronson came up about ten minutes later. He had his shirt on, but no pants. His cock was hard. He was carrying a beer. He wasn’t supposed to drink beer but that made it even more exciting. He had that look in his eyes again. “Get on the bed,” he said, and I did, not sure how to be, so I just laid down on my back. “On your hands and knees, son,” he said, and it thrilled me when he said that. It thrilled me more when I got in position and I heard a deep quiet groan emerge from his chest.
“Bronson,” I whispered, scared to speak up, but unable to stop myself.
“What baby,” he said, drinking the beer, caressing my ass.
“Why are we in Mommy’s room?”
“Because – I’m the man of the house,” he replied, stepping more naturally into his new role. Each time he stated that he was “the man of the house” it came out more comfortably. It was like he had been rehearsing the part, and now was ready to fully commit to it. Then I felt his cock against my hole. “Have you been practicing like I told you?”
“Yes, Bronson,” I said, eagerly. I know I was supposed to be scared, but I wasn’t. I’d been thinking of this for over a year now. More, probably, if you count the times I dreamed of him – count the times I spied him beating off.
I felt him open a jar of something and begin to lube me up. Then his fingers were inside of me and I was humping back on them. Then more than a few fingers were in me and I loved that even more. He growled. I knew he wanted this just as much as I did.
“Once I claim your ass it will be mine forever,” he said. It was a whisper – a declaration – a chant.
I nodded, arching my back, wanting to be claimed.
“This will hurt,” he said.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, driving his fingers in harder.
“I like it when you hurt me,” I replied, looking back, knowing that I’d perhaps crossed a line. His eye narrowed. I felt a shiver move through him, from his core to the tips of his fingers – felt them flex inside of me. I felt him try to shake it off – try to be a gentle lover, a responsible kidnapper of my virginity.
I felt him deny his nature.
This was not him, I knew, deep down. But no matter my youth, I also knew this was not the time to help him confront his most powerful, hidden urges. Instead, I needed to welcome his fornication.
“Please, daddy, I want you in me so bad,” I said, and he shook off his darker desires, smiling at me with the light that was also there. He touched me, lovingly, on my back.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, but it was a formality. We both knew it was time. His cock lodged against my opening and I gurgled, longingly, waiting for my destiny.
I have read so many stories of so much pain – pain of youthful violation. But there was none for me. I wanted there to be. I did. I wanted to feel raped – abused. Instead, I was given a better, more enduring gift: Perfection.
He slid in and went to the hilt. I jerked and twisted, delirious with lust. He filled me perfectly, pushing into my depths, his balls surging against my stretched smooth lips, and I cried out, joyous in fulfillment.
“Yes. Daddy,” I groaned, completely and entirely filled – knowledgeable that I would always be most happy with his cock in my guts, his need filling my hole.
“Yesssssss,” I moaned, loudly, finally voicing a full-throated declaration in our own home, where we had only ever whispered our lust.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned, his control slipping away from him – control he always kept so tightly reined.
“Fuck me, dad,” I said, pushing back into him.
“You – you alright,” he croaked, trying to maintain responsibility – to ease this moment that we both thought would take longer to achieve.
I arched my back, deepened my voice as low as it could go – which was not very low – and repeated, “Fuck me, dad.” My tone was insistent. And he let go, grinding into me, grabbing my hips and fucking into my guts, trying to open my depths, beginning to mine his claim.
He started slowly but picked up steam, huffing and sweating. Soon mom’s room was filled with our moans and groans. I’d never felt so pure – so complete. I’d never achieved a higher purpose than to be a receptacle for his cock and his thumping fuck. I felt grace: a pinnacle that I immediately understood some human beings search a lifetime to find. And I knew, instinctively, that having achieved that grace, my only job was to maintain it. I ground back into him, urging him on, communicating my dedication to his passion.
“God – Charlie –“, he grunted, cock enlarging, balls pumping, spraying me full of his still teen cum, creating a bond that would never be broken between us. But I knew this was not enough – would never be enough for me. I loved his filling of me, but only wanted more.
“Yes – oh, Bronson – yes,” I growled, clutching at the sheets, learning the moves off a too-young slut at a too-young age, and he responded in kind. He kept fucking, lunging his slightly less-hard cock into my slimy slot, manhandling me now, learning the lengths of my lasciviousness.
He didn’t stop. He slowed, eventually, talking dirty, penetrating my psyche, owning more and more of my acreage, then plowing it with his tools. “I’ll need this a lot, Charlie,” he said, simply, communicating his pleasure.
“It makes me feel so good, this does,” he said, sawing into and out of me. “You are hot and tight and wet for me – like I want.”
“This is how you fuck a man,” he said, grabbing my hips and pumping me, rabbit-fucking me, bringing himself close to a second orgasm, but pulling back. Then he flipped me over, spreading my legs wide, pushing them over my head, sticking his face into mine and driving as deep as he could go.
“And this is how you fuck a woman,” he said, still taking on the role of teacher – instructor. Older brother. Father. He drove hard, pumping his cock in my deepest self, making me feel all of him.
“What am I, Bronson?,” I asked, curious, and uncertain.
“You are mine,” he said, never skipping a beat. “That is all you ever need to know. You are neither man or woman. You are only mine.”
And then he pumped me full of his second load. I felt it bloat me. I wanted it to drown me. I wanted it to shoot so hard that it would gush through my empty body and surge out of my throat – so that I could savor it and demonstrate my purpose as his seed-hole.
Instead, I just opened my mouth, moaning, “Yours, daddy.”
He covered mine with his – kissing me deeply for the first time. He was not a demonstrative young man, and kisses would be rare between us, but each touch of our lips I would cherish eternally, write about in my diary, describe in the greatest detail. I hungrily clamped on his tongue, sucking it like a baby, clawing at his back, urging ever more from the Man that would be my King.
I had never been more happy in my entire life.
He did not stop fucking me for several hours. In the end, we were worn out, but held each other with loving tenderness. Eventually I stirred.
“Why – where are you going?” he demanded, severely.
“I am to make dinner,” I said, obediently. I had heard my orders. No matter how much I wanted to stay like this – forever – my greater purpose was service to Him. I had no choice but to demonstrate that. Even now.
“I will grant you permission to order out. Mom left me some cash. What would you like?”
“The question should only ever be, what would you like?” I said, bowing gratefully to his instruction and the gift he had just given, slathering his wet and perfectly tasting cock into my mouth, lathing it with sincere devotion.
“You are perfect,” he said, as if it was a revelation.
“No – You are,” I responded. I wasn’t challenging him. I was only stating my truth.
“Pizza. You know what I like. And order a salad. You will need to eat light. I will be fucking you all night.”
And he did. He fucked me all night - he fucked me all weekend. Nearly all. I barely had time to clean the house but he ordered me to work double time. By the time mom came home I was gaping open – or felt that way. It seemed like cum leaked constantly from my new womb.
Mom was concerned. She insisted I was still flushed – and hot – but both were just symptoms of my desire and nothing more. Still, she and Bronson agreed I should stay home from school on Monday, at least. That morning, after he had filled me with his semen again, he handed me a comforting ointment, brushing my sweaty bangs aside.
“Apply this. All day. And rest. All day. I have used you completely. You must recover so I can use you again.”
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. There was discomfort, but there was no pain. And I understood and appreciated the difference.
“Yes. But I will miss you. And I will want you to use me like this again,” I said, honestly, knowing he was asking for that kind of communication from me in this moment.
“I will want that for the rest of my life,” I said, courageously.
“I know that, too,” he said, kissing me lightly on my lips.
“Thank you, Bronson,” I whispered, content.
“Good boy,” was all he said, leaving me alone in my grace.
After that weekend, our roles were secure. Bronson took greater control of my life, and of the household. He made chore lists for me, so that Mom would have less to do. He insisted I take Home Economics courses, so I could become a better cook for the family. And with some persistence, he took over the household finances, because my Mom was terrible at it. She had two jobs so we were often alone and when we were alone, he used me aggressively. Eventually, though, he figured out that Mom’s credit card debt was so bad that he would have to earn money, too. So, he cut up her cards and got part-time jobs.
They had a huge argument about that, but he’d grown into himself. He was able to demonstrate that if she continued her undisciplined spending, we would lose the house, which was the only asset she received from the divorce. And he was able to assert his authority with a degree of love and manipulation: “Do you want me and Charlie to be on the streets? Is that where you want your only sons to end up?”
Her breakdown was complete. Her sobs signaled his victory over the family finances. On Monday he gave her an envelope with her weekly allowance. By Friday she had spent it – and she begged, somewhat drunkenly – for more. He refused and did so stoically, without give. His strength grew, even as she became petulant for the entire weekend, closing herself in her room when she wasn’t working.
But, on Monday, she approached him, obsequious, and he handed over her allowance.
I know – deep down – he wanted her to be as compliant as I was, but she resisted his strength, where she could. Instead, he switched tactics, playing a long-game.
Much of his power was assumptive. Rules changed gradually. He was growing larger and stronger, too, because more and more of his time was spent at the gym. His size became intimidating and he used it to his advantage. It had always been intimidating to me, but I realized it was intimidating to her, now. She became more meek. But in the process, she became more maternal, which was nice - which was what we needed.
Again, Bronson was right.
And now, here we were. With his part-time job, his household responsibilities, his own classwork and his time at the gym, he had less and less time to monitor and direct me. More than that, I had grown frustrated that he ignored his basest instincts – had not fully understood the depths of my longing, or his own.
He stood over me, naked, enraged.
Well – not enraged, actually – but I understood his looks now. His eyes. This was his ‘coldness’ – the stark psychopathy that he rarely unleashed, but that I always knew lurked beneath the surface. With all his responsibility – all his fights with mom – all that he had taken on his shoulders – his disdain for me was pure. I was in violation. I would pay.
Which, to be clear, was exactly what I wanted.
“Do you know where mom is, Charlie?” he asked, barely able to control himself.
“She’s at school – meeting with Mrs. Leopold. And the Principal. Do you know why?”
“No,” I lied again. He slapped me. Hard. It was a perfect hit. It stunned me.
“Thank you, Bronson,” I said, appreciative of his touch.
The words electrified me. He had never used a belt on me. And I knew which one he wanted – his wide one. With the motorcycle buckle. It was his pride and joy. I turned, standing, and he kicked me back down, my face planting on the carpet. “Crawl,” he growled, so I did, retrieving his belt with my teeth.
“On the bed,” he said. I jumped up, not understanding how he wanted me to be positioned.
He began unlacing my shoes. His face was red. “When mom gets called to a meeting, she has to miss work. When she misses work, she doesn’t get paid. When she doesn’t get paid, we can’t pay our bills. Don’t you care about our family, Charlie?”
“I do,” I said, watching him. Waiting.
“Then why – why do you act out in class?”
“I don’t know,” I lied again. I was erect. So was he. It was coming. I couldn’t wait.
“And when mom gets called to school, she gets emotional. She doubts herself. That makes her harder to handle – more difficult. Who’s job is it to control mom, Charlie?” he asked.
“So you want me to have a more difficult time with her – have even more to do?”
“No,” I said. I was sincere.
“Then why? Why are you such a bad boy?” he asked.
Now he was using the laces to tie me to my bed. The fear rose – but I loved the fear. Still, he’d never tied me down.
“I don’t know,” I said, beginning to cry.
“You make me angry. All I do for you. So much cock I give you. Do you like my cock, Charlie? My cum?”
“What if I took it away?” he asked.
I was speechless. I never considered that as an option. Suddenly my fear was real – overwhelming. “No – please – “
“I could. I will. I promise you I will.”
“Soon I’ll be fucking mom. You know I will. Then what will happen to you? Maybe I’ll never come back to this room again, once I move into her room – which will become my room. Would you like that?”
The unspoken was now spoken. I’d known for some time he had set his sights for complete domination of the household. But I didn’t know how fully formed his plan was. Having stated it, the panic rose within me. He couldn’t discard me for her – he wouldn’t. Would he? I started hyperventilating. This was not going to plan.
“No – please no – I’m sorry, Sir. I’m sorry.”
“Then why, Charlie?” he said, standing over me, body quivering. Cock raging. Breath ragged. I was immobilized. In future years he would learn greater technique. For now, the thin laces cut into my skin. I could barely move – the bindings were cutting. Painful.
“I don’t know,” I said, sweating now, this close to revealing my truth, but unable to.
“Unacceptable. That is an unacceptable answer.” And the first blow sliced through the air, striping me. I cried out – real cries of real pain and real fear – “Why?”
Again, he painted me. The pain was blinding. The moment was real. So real – but it was what I wanted.
“Because,” I said, crying out again, flinching, pushing my ass up for more.
He whipped me again, and again: “Because why?” Slash. Crack. His swings were methodical now. I felt like he was cutting through my flesh. But I also caught him in my periphery, saw what I had seen before when he spanked me – smelled his passion rising, his desires boiling over.
“Because,” I cried again, sobbing now, flexing and flailing to the extent that I could, hyperventilating.
“TELL ME,” he roared, striking me harder, across my back, then my thighs, the pain from which nearly exploded my brain. A new sensation arose within me – one I’d never experienced. I hunched up, trying to ride it. My balls were boiling and roiling in a way I didn’t understand. I pushed back, presenting them to him in the moment of his upswing.
“Because I love you,” I groaned just as the leather slapped the underside of my urgent testicles. “I love you,” I moaned, body shaking with my first ever orgasm, which was simultaneous the greatest pain I had ever experienced in my life.
“I love you,” I cried, slinging out thin wet sperm from my young, late-blooming cock, balls throbbing in agony and ecstasy. “I love you Bronson,” I said as the blows streamed down on me, as my balls shook with pain and pumping life, as my body convulsed in exploding manhood.
“I love you,” I groaned, shuddering, as he realized my transition, saw my satiation, experienced my expulsion. One last blow striped through the air, landing on my ass with vicious authority. My cry was definitive and joyous. I loved this. I needed him to know it.
“Thank you Bronson. Thank you Sir,” I sobbed, ass wracked with pleasure, cock throbbing, balls enlarging in injury as they kept pumping my first seed.
In time, my head and heart poudning, I sensed his gasping breath. Through mist-covered-eyes I saw his sweaty, heaving frame and drooling cock. I smelled his animalism. Felt his embrace of his true self. Then he slowly but certainly mounted me, placing his cock on my quivering hole and driving in, raping me without lube, hurting me with his love-tool. I cried out again, pushing back my angry, bleeding ass, encouraging his violence.
“This is why,” he said, understading. “You do it to get this,” he said, and I just nodded, sobbing, unashamed of my need for pain and beyond pain. He thrust deeply, spearing, rutting hard, without care of me – only him.
“And because,” I sobbed, no longer afraid of our secret or his avoidance of it, “You want it, too.”
He slammed into me when I said that, bursting out a massive load, crying in male conquest as he owned my pain-wracked body. Again I thought I’d gone too far but I had no choice: as the result of my grace, I had to speak my truth. I could no longer cover our unique bond with lies. I could only speak truths.
“I do,” he said, when he was done pumping, prodding and penetrating my pain.
“I do,” he admitted, running his fingers along my welts, kissing the scars he’d inflicted.
Then he fell on my wounds, grinding into them, owning them. Just as he owned me.
Our divergence had ended. We were together again. We had converged.
Mom texted later, back on shift. Bronson called her and told her that he had everything under control.
Bronson and I celebrated my ejaculation with a stolen beer. Then he pissed on my open whip-wounds, another first for us. Thereafter he pulled me back to our bedroom, checking the time, and beginning an exploration of his sadism and my masochism. He whipped my balls, while I cried. He tortured my nipples, while I came. He played with a kitchen knife, eyes glazed. I saw his thoughts, though, and understood our future would be complex and coarse.
In the end, before mom got home, he pulled me over his knees and spoke to me.
“I’ve been doing some reading. A lot of reading.” His hand stroked my bruised and swollen cheeks. He spit on my scabs, playing with my flesh-openings.
Then he began to spank me, gently at first, but with greater command and determination over time.
“Yessir,” I moaned, hard again, urgent.
“I’m not your daddy anymore, Charlie.”
The strikes came harder now. There was no holding back in him. He was relishing it – in the way that I had known that he could. The way I wanted him to.
“I’m your Master, Charlie. I’m your Owner. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” I cried, hunching into his thigh, my orgasm rising.
“I’m your God,” he groaned, slamming his hand into me as I came, painting his thick thighs with my spew.
“Yes Master,” I groaned, reveling in our debauchery.
He pushed me off his legs. I cleaned my mess with my tongue. Then he rose, gripping my hair, stabbing his cock down my throat, grunting like an animal. A mythic beast.
“I’m your God,” he groaned, pouring himself into my abused body. “I’m your God.”
That weekend, at dinner, quiet reined, as it had since my transgression. Bronson’s punishment had been complete and had chastened me. (More than that, it had elevated me. The endorphins and adrenaline kept me floating for several days.) When Bronson finished his plate he rose, clearing my own and my mom’s even though neither of us had finished. Mom objected.
“But – I’m not done –“ she said, annoyed.
“We’re having a family meeting,” Bronson announced. He used his “threat” voice, which silenced me, but she continued –
“Quiet,” he barked, slapping the table. She nearly wet herself. I remained calm. I knew when to obey.
“Charlie has something to say.”
I rose. He had instructed me in this part.
“I have been a bad boy. I have received my punishment and will receive more – and I will pay our family back in chores. I will do better at school, and will not act out at school. I am sorry. Mommy – I am very sorry you had to be called off work. It won’t happen again.”
She was speechless – but still angry – and her doubts were always present.
“We’ve heard this before,” she snickered, but Bronson turned, looming over her. I saw it then: his penis, tracking down his thigh. His dominance was intoxicating and it was a manifested in his cock. They fed off one another, I had learned. It still thrilled me utterly. I gasped, in spite of myself, deciding to open the door to my passion, just as he was opening the door to his.
“He will not transgress again. Do you know why?”
She just looked up at him, flushed – intimidated, but perhaps more.
“Corporal punishment. Charlie needs it. Frequently. And I will administer it. He and I have come to an agreement.”
“You will not lay a hand on him,” she said, rising, but I rose first.
“Mommy-“ I said, interjecting. “He’s right. I need it. I consent to it.”
More silence filled the space. Then Bronson sat at the head of the table, waiting for a challenge that did not come. And in that moment, in my love for him, I made my decision about our future.
“Mom,” I said, coming around, helping her back in her seat. “It’s for the best. It really is. I need it. I mean – “ I said, whispering, lovingly, “You probably need it, too. Maybe that’s why you have – you know – so many …challenges.”
She shook her head, resisting, but somewhere I had found her string and plucked it. We were of the same ilk, I realized, in that moment. If only she had been as lucky in her youth as I was lucky in my own.
“You’ll see, mommy,” I said, taking her hand, holding it, showing her my true self. “Bronson knows best. He always does.”
He left the room then – left us to clean the mess. Mom was vacant – muttering to herself. Shaken.
In the weeks that followed she fought back – fought him. But it was a trap and she entered it blindly. She applied for more credit cards but he had tracked her identity. He knew what she was doing and when she was doing it – and he stayed home from school, waiting for the mail, receiving the cards first. The following weekend he confronted her with a bowl full of cut up credit cards, and a pile of paper - online purchases he had cancelled. His seething rage (largely a show, given his control) broke her down. Eventually she sobbed, seeking his forgiveness.
I sat in my room, listening, knowing what would come next.
Finally, there was silence. Then murmurings. Catches of words:
“This is my house. Mine. Not yours.”
Finally, more cries, then I heard him lead her down the hall. Then I heard her crying even louder. Then I heard her stifling moans as his hand spanked her ass, punishing her. Then I heard the blows increase in intensity. Then I heard her passionate, full-throated release.
Hours later, still waiting for him – still alert – still on my knees - he crept in our room.
“I will not be sleeping here tonight.”
“I love you, too, Bronson.”
“It’s for the best, baby.”
“I have to get back. She’s fragile.”
I nodded. At the door I said, with all the love I could muster: “Thank you, Bronson.”
“Good boy,” was all he whispered, closing our door.
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