That's Why

"I'm going to get a shower. I need to clean off what I have to do to get ahead here." Brad stood in the doorway to the living room for a minute as if maybe his statement would evoke an exchange between him and Tom that went more than a second or two in depth, but nothing came back. That was one of Brad's frustrations—standing between two worlds, the institute world, where everything was scrutinized for hidden or deep meanings and then analyzed and discussed and argued to death, and life with Tom, which was all shallow surface. Sometimes he wondered by he bothered with Tom. He turned and went upstairs to the bedroom, stripped down, and went to the shower.

Brad turned in the shower and saw Tom in the bathroom door, leaning against the frame of the door, watching him lather himself up, and pulling on his cock. That was Tom's most distinctive feature—his nearly nine-inch, thick cock and the piercing that few others ever saw, the thick Prince Albert ring in the cockhead. All of this was accentuated by the man's tan line, his midsection that usually was covered at least by the short jean cutoffs white, with his torso and legs deeply tanned. The whiteness of his pelvis focused attention on what he was swinging between his thighs.

The man was smirking. When he saw that Brad had noticed him, he strutted over to the shower, opened the door, climbed in, and pressed his hands to Brad's shoulders. Brad sank to his knees and took the monster cock in his mouth, the PA ring clicking against his teeth as he serviced the hardening shaft. When Tom was hard as hard could be, he pulled Brad back up, palmed Brad's buttocks, and lifted his body, sliding Brad's back up the slick tile wall of the shower. Brad cried out in pain-passion as Tom lowered his channel on the long, long, thick cock. Brad hooked his knees on Tom's hips and locked his fists behind Tom's neck. He groaned and moaned—deeper and more genuinely than he had ever done for Frederick—as Tom held there, his cock deep up inside Brad, waiting for Brad's channel to adjust to him. When it had, he started a long, hard pumping, while Brad writhed under him, his cries of pain-pleasure echoing around the bathroom.

Now Brad was reminded why he bothered with Tom. He closed his eyes and arched his head back, with Tom burying his face in Brad's throat, and concentrated every nerve ending in his body on that thick shaft working his passage. Tom was paying as much attention to rubbing his prostate with his cock head as Frederick had done with his finger.

When they had both ejaculated, Tom, much stronger than Brad, threw Brad over his shoulder and took him out to the bedroom to the king-sized bed—their bed—and tossed him down on the bedspread on his back. Climbing over Brad in the reverse then, the two men sixty-nined until Tom was hard again. He reversed, held Brad's legs spread and raised, and gave him all nine inches again, as Brad arched his back, groaned, and begged for both mercy and everything that Tom had to give him. Frederick had been fastidious about using condoms; Tom took him bareback.

Once again Tom held when he was in to the hilt. He whispered, "Is this better than Gates can give you?"

"Yes, oh yes," Brad exclaimed.

"They want you to get rid of me, don't they?"

"Yes, but you are here for as long as you want—as long as I'm here—as long as I can convince them you're my brother, as long as you give this cock to me. Work me. Fuck me. Fuck me now!"

"Can Gates get it up again this quick?" Tom growled.

"Shit no!"

"Can Gates fuck you this good?"

"Fuck no!"

And Tom began to plow him again, gloriously punishing his channel walls with the thick PA ring.

This. This is why I let him stay here, Brad screamed in his mind, at last answering the lingering question that he had deflected earlier in the day from Frederick Gates. I ignore everything you people say and hint about him because he has a nine-inch cock with a ring in it and knows what to do with it.

And of course Tom wasn't Brad's brother. He was just a big-cocked construction worker Brad had picked up in a bar in Baltimore. Everyone had just assumed and, in their self-anointed cleverness asserted that Tom must be his brother to tolerate the lazy redneck staying with him. Brad never had said he was; he just hadn't said he wasn't. Most of those in the Baker Institute didn't listen to anyone but themselves anyway. He didn't know how long Tom would stick with him, but as long as he did, Brad could live with the Baker Institute and Frederick Gates shit.