It´s not her, it´s her brother PART 2

“Nothing. Go.” I mutter. I don’t want him to hear what my guilty conscience wants me to say. I look away because he’s too condescending. His eyes know. They see right through me, as if I was ever hard to read. I just don’t want to face their knowing. So I run. I hide my eyes. And then re-evaluate the kind of person I’ve become because of Gaby’s brother. A fucking coward.

I close my eyes for a second. Composure doesn’t come. Frank keeps looking at me. Grabs my face and turns it up. Forcing me to look. Hurting me. I’m giving up. I don’t know why he’s doing this to me. But he takes my hand and practically pulls me into the park. Nearest bench. Hands under my shirt. And I’m done. I’m gone. Everything sane is too far for me to bother thinking about because he begins touching me. Kissing me everywhere. No one ever kissed me like that. Not the way he does. Not every square inch of visible skin. I moan. My hand fists into his hair. It’s coarse. I close my eyes so that I don’t have to realize things.

My mouth makes moans that I don’t register ever consenting to. It’s one in the morning. A dark, cold outside place. Him. His lips and hands. Feverishly, expertly undoing my pants. Pulling on my boxers just enough to make contact. And then the relentless strokes. Slow and hard and so good. He’s breathing against my skin. It feels like heaven. A heaven I never imagined to look like this, on a park bench with my girlfriend’s older brother. Fuck angels, clouds and happiness, or what ever the hell the popular stereotype is. This is it. This is what I wanted. It’s what I’ve been subconsciously missing. Something wrong. So incredibly wrong. An intrinsically bad thing to do. Something normal people don’t engage in. Something society wouldn’t pat me on the back for. An action that isn’t driven by morals or principles. Things I start horribly lacking every time he touches me.

The concept of morality seems so distant. I don’t know it anymore. I’m no longer someone that has a normal set of values. What’s ‘good’ isn’t quite as satisfying as it used to be. I no longer rely on logic to act. I rely on what ever seems right at the time. And really none of it is right, so all that really directs me is Frank. All this is, is a series of whims, based on what ever seeing him makes me want to do.

Currently, seeing him makes me want physical contact.

I feel oddly light-headed for the amount of guilt I’m experiencing per every unit of time. Everything is so surreal. This seems like such a theoretically terrible idea. A fucking park. How cliché. But it’s getting me off, because I’m letting him bite and suck my neck until I feel like he’ll draw blood. But pain feels so good with him. I’m only vaguely aware that this will leave a mark. Quite frankly, at this point, I’m beyond caring. Guilt no longer chokes, but becomes an undertone to everything else I feel. Barely. His lips pull away from my neck and he looks at me. Just looks. And continues the strokes. And I look back because his eyes are mesmerizing. Then I kiss him. In that terrible, starving way that makes him shudder and bite my lip and deepen the kiss. When It comes down to it, he isn’t so controlled. Not quite as cool, calm and collected as he wants to look. He is only human. Deliciously so. With long, thin, talented hands that make my back arch and my head fall back.

It’s alarming how the multiple tracks of my mind instantly channel into one. Him. And nothing else. Because nothing else matters. Not right now.

I forget to be alarmed at how different I’ve become. A few days – and I’m not a coldly logical adult that I thought I was supposed to be. I’m a babbling mess of hormones and impulses and stupid things that I promised myself I’d never do. I skipped being an idiot teenager. And that’s what he reduced me to. A pining, pathetic little boy with a raging hard-on.

Pressure builds, his pace quickens, and I’m finished. I’m coming and seeing white and moaning his name. He gently kisses the side of my neck, and I slump against him. Because I can. Because there’s no one to tell me not to. And I do what I didn’t get a chance to do before. I’m sliding down is body, pulling his pants down along with his boxers and he doesn’t get a chance to realize what’s happening, but he’s already in my mouth.

“Oh-GOD!” he is half surprised, half beginning to slowly fuck my lips because he knows he can’t hide that he needs this. So much for cool and calm. I revel in the way he feels and tastes, methodically tightening and releasing my lips as I swallow, the flex of my throat pushing against his throbbing length and making him clutch the edge of the bench for dear life. I see his weakness. I watch the way he tries to fight physical need and fails, and moans and bites his lip and pulls my hair. I don’t tease. I’m not that cruel. I haven’t done this much. There had only been two other men in my life. Both my age, fairly recent, and kept under strictest secrecy. They were merely boys. Experiments with my transient, adolescent sexuality. But he wasn’t an experiment. There wasn’t anything experimental about what we did. It was raw, needy and impatient. A feeling that became jarringly familiar.

It’s over as quickly as it begun. Suddenly, Frank leans over and sharply pushes me back. I’m flung backwards by the staggering blow, completely stunned, before realizing that he’s already running in the opposite direction.

“Frank!” my voice breaks. I’m lost. It’s a terrible feeling. I don’t know what I did wrong. He doesn’t turn back.