The next morning, I woke up before Amir and disentangled myself gently from his limp arms. He was soft and angelic in his repose, the sun from the window picking out coppery strands in his sweat-fragrant curls, his lips open a little, his heavy eyelashes resting against his cheeks. The sheets were pulled up demurely to his neck, and he lay on his side, enhancing the albeit false! impression of perfect innocence.
I gave him the gentlest possible kiss on his warm temple, then went downstairs to see about something to eat. I put two mugs of coffee and some buttered toast on a tray, found a plastic jug of mango juice in the fridge, and took everything upstairs. Amir had shifted onto his back, but still breathed steadily in sleep, one long graceful arm thrown over his forehead with unconscious drama. I woke him up with soft kisses on his lips and eyelids.
We sat and ate in relative quiet. He kept looking at me and smiling, but the smile made me more sad than anything else. On Monday, there would be the grinding trial of school. Things might still become awkward, stale--under the dusty fluorescent strip-lighting, the crude shouts of other boys, the daily shuffle. Wednesday, debate practice. And who knew what would happen then. The teacher in charge, one Mrs. Joan Hollison, took an unprofessional delight in slapping down provocative newspaper clippings on our table (Amir and I seemed always to end up at the same table) and watching the resulting carnage with a weird little tight-lipped smile on her face. I don't think she much liked either of us, but we were an asset to her team, and she used our rivalry to sharpen our skills. What would it be this time? I made a mental note to hunt up a newspaper (there are several flying around the house at any one given time) and figure out what was going on. Needless to say, I hadn't exactly kept up with current events lately.
After breakfast, we took turns showering unfortunately, the shower on the second floor of my house is a lot less private than the one in Amir's room. And we had no idea when my parents would be back. Amir went first; he came back into my room glistening and warm, his black curls tighter and shinier after being washed and finger-combed into a slipshod semblance of order. I kissed him immediately, without a word, without a wasted movement. His arms slid around me. For a few minutes, everything disappeared except him and his clean damp scent. He'd used my shampoo, but with him it was different in some undefinable way a difference that seemed, all of a sudden, indescribably erotic to me.
"Let's go to my house," he said. "Everyone's supposed to be gone today. My dad and Rahman, at least. Qasim won't even be awake. And Salim's basically oblivious these days. We can just get some of your books together and hole up in my room and pretend we're studying."
"Good idea," I said, thinking I'd give anything for a few more undisturbed hours with him.
Rahman was leaving for someplace important, from the look of him--just as we came in.
"You two aren't the only ones who were bad boys at school this past week," he said, smiling up one side of his face, smelling like a vat of cologne, and looking very well turned-out in his dark maroon suit and silk tie though still not half as good as his little brother, sweaty and tousled, in a stained T-shirt and a pair of decent jeans.
"Why? What's up?"
Rahman produced a white envelope, already slit along one side, bearing the T___ logo. Amir extracted the typed sheet and read.
"Pretty serious. Two days? What was he doing?"
"Ask him."
Qasim had appeared in the kitchen, his clear apprehension making him look even tastier than usual, reaching behind himself and massaging his own perky right buttock through a pair of disappointingly roomy khakis. He also had on an unbuttoned shirt over a sexy white wife-beater. I fancied I could see his dark nips through the cloth standing up with nervousness.
He ran an elegant hand, much like his brother's, through his crests of shiny black hair. His plump mouth worked. He shifted from one socked foot to the other.
"Well, Qas?"
"Well what?"
"Well, what were you doing those two days? You missed all your classes after lunch both days. What were you up to?"
"Nothing."
"What kind of nothing?"
Qasim shrugged and smiled a shy, almost sweet smile, totally involuntary. He didn't answer.
"Nevermind." Rahman tugged the letter out of Amir's hands. "He got his butt paddled already at school Friday. Tried to hide the note so we wouldn't find out, but Dad found it in his trash before he left this morning."
Qasim blushed, probably at his own stupidity, again shifting from foot to foot. What an adorable boy.
"So uh what's going to happen?"
"Let's just say I hope he's not still too red from what he got at school last week." Rahman favored the pair of us with another slanted grin.
"A-Are you going to do it? Dad's not home, is he?""
Rahman's eyes gleamed with naked mirth. "No, he's not he had to meet Besser or somebody. And I'm not going to do it either you are."
Amir started a little, but held his own quite well. I licked my lips.
"But he's here!" Qasim interrupted, jabbing a finger in my direction.
Rahman gave another dark smile, just for me this time, then turned back to his second-youngest brother. "So he'll see your ass. I'm sure he's seen a boy's naked ass before."
Qasim flinched. All the blood seemed to shoot into his handsome face and fine forehead, making him almost glow. His large black eyes went to his feet and stayed there. He looked like all he wanted was to crumple up and die.
"Now go get the hairbrush for Amir."
Qasim looked at Amir, as if he could save him.
Amir shrugged. "Better go on, Qas."
Qasim shuffled away without a word, probably glad just to be away from our gaze.
Rahman set the letter on the coffee table, tugged his suit jacket to make sure it was straight. "OK, I'm taking off. I've got a meeting. Remember, be very firm with him, or there is going to be more than one sore butt in this house tonight."
Amir swallowed, producing a dry click, and nodded hard. His dusky eyes bright and his face glowing to rival Qasim's--an affecting preview of the color the boy's ass would soon be. I felt a hard, sudden surge of feeling for my beautiful, perverse, delightfully wicked Amir--desire, tenderness, even pity. The poor boy was overwhelmed. I glanced down at his crotch, and discerned the slight bulge of his eagerness through the fabric.
"You better. And I recommend you park his red little ass right in the corner for a good long time when you're done so he can think about it."
As we backed deeper into the living room, both of us awkward as hell and just about tripping over each other, the senior Khalili boy gave us a long stern look first me, with a tiny sneer of distaste, then Amir--and shut the front door with deadly softness.
After a moment of silent waiting, Qasim reappeared in the lighted kitchen entryway. Though he was facing us, I knew his soft butt was trembling in his khakis. The yellow light from the kitchen made a sheen over one side of his face, and I was able to admire the pouty lushness of the lower lip, the soft abject beauty of the worried dark eyes.
When Amir sat in the middle of the couch, legs spread a bit, the bulge in his jeans became rudely obvious. If Qasim noticed, he gave no detectable indication. "Come on," Amir said gently, resignedly, "Let's get this done."
Regaining my gross motor skills, I fell into an armchair opposite. Amir favored me with a closed, unreadable glance, then turned all his attention back to his brother, eyeing him and patting his own firm thigh once, twice, the sound seeming very loud in the silence.
"I'm sorry, Qas "
Oh, I'm sure you are.
"--You know I can't avoid it. Come on."
Qasim came slowly, a condemned man, and assumed the appropriate position for miscreants and bad boys whom one authority figure or another has decided must be taken in hand. Toes touching the floor; bottom up and ready to be smacked though still protected by a layer of khaki, two if you count the pockets that rested over each half of his butt, and a layer of cotton or nylon beneath, whichever he'd put on over that storied silken flesh this morning. As he lowered himself over his brother's thighs, I saw Amir's face twist gently with bald, unrequited want.
After a heartbeat of nothing, Amir rested his hand against the seam that lay along Qasim's crack. Qasim tensed his butt-cheeks under those awful baggy khakis, then relaxed them.
"Lift your butt up so I can unzip you," Amir told him, very quietly, sounding already out of breath. He gave him a tap across the seat of his pants. Qasim instantly raised his body, as if Amir's touch, especially when sharp instead of gentle, electrified him. Amir reached under and unsnapped his fly. I had to swallow a full, liquidy groan as he pulled his zipper down. I heard a small, futile gasp of humiliation from Qasim, his boxer-covered half-erection now protruding from his open pants.
Amir peeled the too-baggy khakis to just below the steeply-sloping convergence of butt and thighs, the better to concentrate hard spanks where Qasim sat. Qasim lowered his round little rump, maybe thinking he'd get off with just a spanking on his boxers, but then Amir again patted the middle of his brother's backside precisely where the fabric strained most tautly over the firm swell of boy-butt.
"Up, Qasim. Those shorts need to come down too."
Over his brother's back, Amir looked directly at me for the second time and smiled wide.
"C'mon, pleeease," came Qasim's final, valiant effort to preserve some scrap of dignity and a layer of protection for his poor doomed tail. I expected Amir to smack him, but instead he only admonished him softly, one hand always on his behind:
"You lift that ass up or I'll pull you up and take them off while you're standing. Then we'll all see your front as well. Maybe I'll take your shirt off too, and we can do your spanking naked."
I would have paid anything to see Qasim's face, but he kept his head lowered. Amir's words had deflated, for the time being, what was left of his pride. He could only lift himself and wait for his bottom to be bared.
His hardening cock was visible for a brief instant, as the shorts came down. Amir took obvious care embarrassingly obvious, for Qasim--not to catch the elastic waistband on the rapidly growing bone.
"OK, down again." Amir pushed gently on Qasim's butt. Now his brother's erection and the one I was certain strained against his own fly were separated only by a few layers of cloth.
Amir laid his hand against the rounded tops of Qasim's butt-cheeks, barely resting his palm on what I knew would be resilient, creamy-smooth sixteen-year-old flesh. Qasim's backside tightened--more a reflex than anything else, but it was quickly met with two sharp warning taps.
Ready to slap in earnest, Amir was visibly drooling, running his palm gently over the backs of Qasim's thighs. His brother's leg hair, like his own, appeared soft and shiny. There wasn't a great deal of it, and it stopped below the sudden, rounded rise of his buttocks. Feeling bold, Amir slid his hand down Qasim's thigh and took a little of it between his fingertips and tugged. Qasim gasped but didn't say a word.
Amir then made his palm flat like the back of the brush and slammed it down with a wettish SMACK on the waiting butt. The bit of residual baby fat in the otherwise firm bottom jiggled. Amir spanked a second time, a third. Again. Again. So loud, it seemed. The sound of the smacks made my cock tingle and long to be free of the confines of my stiff, not-yet-broken-in jeans.
Qasim was wiggling even before the pink started to come up. I doubt the spanks hurt him that much hard and loud though they were, Amir was merely warming his rump up; I'm sure he'd had worse. And I understood the true cause of his discomfort. The half-hard-on I'd glimpsed as Amir was baring him must have grown, and now the oversensitive flesh chafed against Amir's jeans. Briefly, I questioned the wisdom of placing an erect boy over a pair of nice jeans for a punishment that was only going to stimulate him further.
After a number of hand-slaps, Amir stopped. He reached for the brush, lifted it, and instead of smacking him with it he gave his brother's rump another soft pat.
"Qasim. Now, you don't clench your butt."
"I won't."
"And you think about why I'm smacking it. Think about your ass, how much it hurts. Think about how embarrassed you are having to be bare over someone's lap because of something you did."
The brush was laid again across the golden-brown swell of the ass, pressing into the flesh just slightly, only to be pushed back just a bit as Qasim raised himself to accept the first brush- smack. Then it came, quick and sharp, and Qasim's butt bounced. Other than the little wobble of that bit of fat in the otherwise muscular mounds, and the surprised jerk, forgivably minute, of the boy himself, he stayed in prime position, his back arched, his rear-end presented. I remembered from when Amir had disciplined me with that brush, the sleek shock of the first smack.
I watched Amir use the hairbrush to turn his brother's velvety caramel backside a florid pink, the smack-bounce of the brush-back on the two springy mounds as it fell over and over again stirred deep, shuddery pleasure. I was hazily aware of my quickening breath. Qasim's exquisite behind, like Salim's and certainly Amir's seemed to perk up at each spank as if eager, begging, for another. He started to cry after around two-dozen slaps, his butt bucking and his shoulders hitching with quiet sobs. He kept his head down, so unfortunately I saw no wide wet eyes, no full Arab-boy mouth grimacing in pain.
The little sculpted hollows in the sides of his shapely, muscular rear end would deepen as he clenched his rosy cheeks together. Amir had been smacking the crowns of his cheeks, the part where the butt is fleshiest. When he suddenly angled the brush to the side and popped Qasim on his sit-spot, the boy nearly jumped off his brother's lap. His legs spread and the deep dark sweaty crack widened, and I could see the dark inner flesh Amir had described. There were a few more shots to his sit-spot on each sore bun, then a few in the middle, til the whole handsome butt was as red as the ripest apple.
Once the lad was sobbing out loud and wiggling his butt in Amir's lap grinding his swollen crotch into his brother's in the process Amir sat rubbing and petting Qasim's fiery ass, first running his hand lightly over the place where the cheeks split from the lean back, then giving each bun a rough circular rub, which made Qasim let out small pained moans. Amir looked up at me with another devilish smile, before giving him another couple of swats at which he howled and telling him to stand up.
Qasim rose unsteadily, the soft golden skin of his beautiful face streaked with tears, his eyes big, and wet, pained and contrite, his lush lips moistened by spit and tears. Further down, his shirt failed to hide a now-robust erection. I imagined I could even see the clear spots on the shirt where drops of pre-cum had soaked through. His boxers and slacks were still pooled around his ankles, making it difficult for him to get his balance, as his hands flew to his mouth-wateringly crimson buttocks, and he rubbed the glowing flesh vigorously.
"Hands off," Amir said. A hard slap to Qasim's upper thigh brought swift obedience.
Amir placed a hand on Qasim's smooth young neck--as Edgy had done to each of us before striping our butts and steered him to the corner of the room, to reflect on his spanking and to display his lovely red bottom. He stuck him there with his nose and erection against the plaster.
His skin was probably a shade lighter than Amir's, so the spanked glow in his buns was a brighter, more vivid red, with less of the dusk-rose color I loved so well in Amir's chastised skin.
"You'll" SMACK "stay" SMACK "there!" SMACK Qasim leapt onto his adorable toes at the biting swats, his yummy little ass springing back energetically after each shot. The red glow deepened just a little, and at the other end tears ran. I'm sure his cock was dripping too. I could see it bouncing as Qasim's butt was slapped.
Once satisfied Qasim would stay put, Amir returned to his seat. I moved onto the sofa next to him to get a better view, and we sat, mostly motionless, watching. I was fascinated to see what Qasim would do, how he'd handle this.
For long, sweet minutes, Amir and I sat transfixed on the spanked buttocks before us. Qasim kept his arms at his sides, but every so often, the boy's slim shoulders would hitch as he cried out his pain. Then, after a few minutes, he only sniffled. His behind radiated red heat in our direction; with a glance down I saw that both our fronts were appropriately filled-out. There was no pretending, now, that our bulges were an accident of the way the jeans folded as we sat. I wanted to reach over and stroke the hard rod in Amir's jeans for him, but when he saw my approaching hand he shook his head. If only I could take him right there, bent over the couch, watching his brother's delicious squirming scarlet butt. Then we could both do Qasim, the little brat, who for all his sniffling was, after all, getting off on what was supposed to be his punishment. I lay my hand on my own bulge and rubbed a bit, but through the jeans I couldn't feel much, and when Amir saw me, he moved my hand and held it in his on the sofa cushion between us.
Qasim squirmed in his corner, shifted from foot to foot. He had been merely sore after ten minutes he was both bored and sore. He clenched his butt muscles and kind of wiggled the buns against each other, in an effort to diffuse the burn Amir had put there. My palms itched to stroke the fire from his flesh.
It seemed we were thinking along similar lines: he simply could not resist slipping a gentle palm back there, running it over his lower left cheek. Perhaps he too only wanted to feel his hot, soft skin.
Amir saw it and was up like a shot, letting go of my hand, reaching the wall, taking his brother by the arm and half-dragging the hobbled, humbled boy over to the sofa, his erection bouncing with almost comical vigor. He sat down all but fell back into his seat dragging Qasim once again over his thighs. The boy was strangely acquiescent; he allowed himself to be upturned and repositioned with no struggle at all.
Now that burning, beautiful, red ass was so close I could lean over and lick it if I wanted to.
Amir administered sharp quick slaps exclusively to his sit-spot, talking to him the whole time.
"You don't go in the corner and rub. You go in the corner and you keep still and think about how bad you've been while your butt reminds you what happens when you behave that way. When I spank you, I spank you for a reason. You don't think I've got things I'd rather do than warm your little ass?"
Not very many, I'd imagine and I knew what all of them were. I also knew from his face, or in some deeper way how much saying those humiliating words to his brother aroused him.
Suddenly, Qasim began wriggling in Amir's lap, wild to get away. "Stop!" After his compliance only a few moments ago, it was hard to believe my eyes.
Amir slapped him harder. His tongue had edged over the corner of his mouth, and his eyes had taken on a dim ecstatic glaze, as he watched his brother's deep-crimson ass and struggling body. Qasim bucked and nearly fell off his lap, but Amir pinned him down just in time. Another round of biting swats.
"Keep still! You're lucky I don't take that brush and give you the bristle side!"
"Amir! Please!" Qasim was frantic, sobbing, twisting. Amir grabbed one of his arms and held it against his back. Qasim screamed, really screamed, more than a boy should just from a spanking even a hard one. There were more loud smacks. Qasim's body grinding against Amir's. His screechy, throaty cries.
Then he stopped his whole beautiful brown body seized up as if a slow bolt of electricity had passed through him, and he groaned long and loud. Amir had stopped spanking him he once again had to grab him to keep him from tumbling off his lap.
Qasim lay limp for several seconds, breathing hard. Then he wrenched himself from Amir's grip with a cry of horror. I saw that Amir's thighs were streaked with thick and glistening cream. Qasim took a step back, his mouth and eyes huge, pulling his shirt down as much as he could over his withering penis. It would have been funny if he weren't so clearly panicked. And I couldn't help though I wondered what it said about me thinking how sexy it was, the delicious golden-fleshed boy humiliated and frightened, his expansive smoky black eyes and stunned luscious mouth. His lean developing body trembling. The thin track of pearly jizz dribbling down the dark silken hair on his left thigh. Bliss.
Amir looked down at himself and back up at Qasim. He blushed a bit high on his cheekbones, but his eyes gradually softened with concern, all but losing their lustful glaze. I saw his mouth shake a bit, as if he might cry too.
Then he stood and took the shaking Qasim in his arms before the boy could take another step back and probably topple over with the pants still tangled around his feet--and slipped his fingers through his shiny thick black hair. Qasim's pretty eyes were shimmering with tears, and Amir kissed each one lightly, then the corner of his trembling mouth. Qasim rested his head on Amir's shoulder, his eyes leaking, and Amir held him like that for a long time, rocking him.
"It's OK, Qas. Really it is," finally he spoke, petting his brother's glossy head with one hand. "We don't ever have to mention it again but there's nothing wrong with you. This just happens sometimes. At our age, it's just the way we work."
Qasim pulled back from his brother, swiped a hand across his nose. "Really? What about you?"
Amir stood with his hands on Qasim's shoulders, his thumbs stroking rhythmically. There was a long pause before he admitted. "Yeah."
Qasim's eyes got giant again, this time with pure surprise. I don't know if he was surprised at the revelation itself, or just surprised Amir had made it. He really had heartbreaker's eyes; you could see each long black blade of lash against the liquid-smooth golden skin. "Really?"
"It's true."
"It's the same with me," I said. Qasim glanced at me, then back at Amir.
"But have you ever just ?" he made an outspilling gesture from below his waist with both fine hands.
"Well, no," Amir said, his hands still clasping his brother's shoulders. "Usually not till afterwards. In my room."
Liar, I thought, remembering.
"What about you, Aaron?" The first time Qasim Khalili ever addressed me in a civil tone.
"I've only gotten it at school. Usually have to visit the bathroom after."
Usually I made my three in-school experiences with physical discipline sound like a regular thing for me.
Qasim's breathing calmed for a moment as Amir wrapped him in another hug, still stroking his sweaty hair and, now reaching under the shirt to touch his smooth golden lower back, just above the soft cleft of the round red buttocks. As I drank in this picture-perfect moment of brotherly understanding, I mused how it might feel to slowly slide the hand southward and let the fingers disappear into the dark mystery of that tender crack. I wondered if Amir felt the same longing. .
Suddenly, Qasim's lean body started with new fear, and he looked up. "You won't tell Rahman?"
"Rahman? No. God. What made you ask?"
"He always When he He always says I'm "
"What, Qas?"
"Dirty. He says I'm dirty. Perverted, he means. Nasty. 'Nasty little fucker', he says."
"Don't worry. He says the same to me. He's just being asshole Rahman, and there's nothing else to say. He probably was the same way at sixteen. In any case, you're not a pervert." "I feel like I am."
"No." Amir squeezed Qasim. "You're fine. You're great."
They held their embrace for another full minute. Amir kissed Qasim's neck in a way not exactly erotic, but not entirely chaste either and Qasim whispered something in his ear. Amir whispered back. Another kiss on the lips close-mouthed, not yet beyond the pale of family affection--and they separated.
"Why don't you go and have a long shower?" Amir said. "Then lie down in your room till Dad comes back. Read something interesting try and feel better."
Qasim looked hesitant for a moment, then asked, "Will you come in and talk to me later if I ask you?"
"Of course. Anything you want. But remember--we don't need to say anything about this ever again. Don't feel like you need to explain yourself. Everything is perfectly normal. Really."
He helped Qasim pull up his pants and boxers, moving them gingerly over the blazing red ass. Qasim whimpered a bit, but was otherwise quiet. A little glum and a lot sore, but no longer crying. Amir squeezed his hand once more, and sent him down the hall.
Then, as soon as the boy was out of sight, Amir turned to me, took my hand softly in his. I could feel Qasim's young sweat on his palm.
"Come on," he said.
And led me into his bedroom.