Disclaimers
This story is a work of fiction. It contains descriptions of sexual contact between males. If you are not of legal age to read such material, or if you find this subject offensive, please leave and do not read on. Safer sex techniques (i.e., use of condoms, etc.) have not been included for the sake of storytelling technique. Real life, however, is not storytelling; and condoms should be used without fail during anal intercourse and other high-risk activities (even you boys on PrEP and you undetectable guys).
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Accepting the Petey within, part two – home life, addicted to cum, 1 of 2
Author's note: No sex in this part of the story, just background. If you're just here for the sex, come back for parts three and four. If you are still reading by parts five and six, you'll probably want to come back to this part to fully understand what's happening. If you trust me already, read on...
My mom had fraternal twin sons with her first husband, who was an abusive alcoholic. Even when not under the influence, he apparently was a strict disciplinarian. When drinking, the punishments he meted out took a turn for the corporal. My two half-brothers, Charles and Thomas, lived in constant fear. They never knew what the next day would bring. Nothing was good enough and the rules were ever changing. For four years, Mom believed every short ride on the wagon was a new beginning. It never was. It always ended the same – drinking, shouting, hitting, leaving. Finally, with the help of the local women's shelter, she and the boys disappeared. I don't think he ever really looked for them.
Charles and Thomas still wear the scars. I am the scar-bearer, once-removed.
My mom married my dad one year later. My dad gladly adopted the twins and their lives became less bumpy.
I was born the next year, making the twins six years my senior. Six years may not seem like a long time, but they were twins and had struggled together for four abusive years. They were tight and I was the outsider in my own home. A six-year difference meant we never shared the same school, never shared the same friends and had very little in common. Sure, around the house, they tolerated me; but I never felt like we connected like I imagined other brothers did.
When our parents insisted (and supplied a cash incentive), they would let me accompany them outside the house. If it was just the three of us, it wasn't so bad. Not that they ever let me choose where we went or let me pick the movie. But at least we were together.
When our outing included any of their friends, I was ignored. I can't say they did it on purpose, but none of their conversations included anything to which I could remotely contribute. It's like I wasn't even there.
Outings with Charles were a tad more cerebral. His group of friends had no real structure – no leader, no followers, no conflict. Everyone seemed to contribute ideas and it flowed from there. Charles was a comfortable kind of guy. He could make pleasant conversation with anyone, but could also hold his own in a more heated debate. He was a thinker, his arguments always based in logic. Though convincing someone else to follow your logic is not always an easy task. He was happy, after sharing his opinion, to agree to disagree.
Thomas was the leader of his group of friends. He was also the leader of any group of which he found himself a part. When Thomas entered a room, you were happy to see him because you knew you were going to have a good time. He was the center of attention, but managed to include everyone within hearing distance. He made everyone think they were the center of his attention. There was an odd, slightly self-deprecating aspect to his humor. However, it was hard to know if that was genuine, since he was better than almost anyone at everything. Sports, studies, girls – Thomas was the man.
And then there was the nickname – "Petey". At home, my mom and dad still called me "Peter". My half-brothers never used my name, preferring the more generic "buddy". Outside and among their friends, they called me "Petey". I suspect I protested a bit too much, so they realized they had hit a nerve. They were "Chuck" and "Tom". Why couldn't I be "Pete"?
One story, open to interpretation:
Where we lived, the middle school and high school shared the same campus. Starting when I was in fourth grade, the twins began the tradition of sneaking into my middle school on special occasions (my birthday, the last day of school, anytime they announced schools would be closed the next day for an impending snowstorm). They knew where the fourth-grade hallway was, as they had attended the same middle school. As they approached, they started chanting "Petey, Petey". My heart sank. Thomas put me in a headlock and rubbed his knuckles against my scalp (your classic noogie). Charles reached down the back of my pants and pulled my underwear (your classic wedgie). "Petey, Petey." And then, they were gone.
As their visits became tradition, my classmates took up joining in on the chant. Since their visits were somewhat predictable, it seemed to me that even more students just "happened" to be in my year's hallway on those days.
I suppose I could have been honored that my high-school brothers cared enough to pay me those "special" visits. But "Petey" became my nickname for the students who were not my friends. My friends call me "Pete", but even that was a constant reminder that they weren't calling me "Petey".
The real story begins when I was 10, the twins were 16.
Charles was seven minutes older than Thomas. Charles was taller, a little over 6 feet, and slender. Thomas was several inches shorter and stocky, but on his way to muscular.
We lived in a two-story, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom house. My folks had the master bedroom with bath on the first floor. The second bath was located between the twin's bedroom (a larger room than mine, which they were happy to share) and mine. You could enter the second bath from either bedroom or the hallway. We argued often about bathroom time and privacy. Out-voted two-to-one, I got used to living on their schedule.
The rules were simple. All inside bathroom doors were to be left unlocked. When you entered the bathroom, you locked the hall door and the opposite door. When you were done, you unlocked them both. When they forgot to unlock my door, I would have to knock on their bedroom door and request entry. Then, I would have to ask permission to unlock my bathroom door. It didn't happen often, but the ritual was clear.
I never forgot to unlock their door.
One otherwise unspecial summer morning between third and fourth grades, I entered the bathroom to take my morning piss. Head down, I slipped on my slippers, which I kept just inside my bathroom door, as I found the floor chilly regardless of the season. When I raised my head, there was Charles seated on the toilet, but with the lid closed. My heart sunk, as I knew I was in for some form of verbal thrashing about invading his privacy, even though he had forgotten to lock my door.
He was leaning back against the tank with his head resting on a rolled-up towel. He had no shirt on and his pajama bottom was down around his ankles. His penis was hard and he was stroking it slowly with his right hand. His left hand was massaging his ball sac. He must not have heard me open the door, because my entry did not interrupt his activity. I knew I should leave, but I was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of him pleasuring himself. I was also instantly hard, which put a little tent in my white jockies, the only thing I was wearing besides my slippers. I recovered my sanity and turned to leave, but the door squeaked, and Charles caught me. I prepared for the worst.
He seemed a little out of it and, in the nicest voice I had ever heard him use toward me, he said, "Come here."
"Sure", I whispered. And, for some reason, I was sure.
And, so, it began.
Author's note: Hope it was worth it. Again, thanks for reading to the end.
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