Hiding Under The Bed
by Paul Penn
A TRUE TALE OF ENGLISH BROTHERS THAT TOOK PLACE IN 1974
I was 16 when I finally plucked up courage to spy on my naked brother. He was 18 and was my absolute hero since my Dad was a hopeless drunk. My teenage hormones were at their most volatile and my young, growing dick was raw from all the pumping and spurting I’d been doing, morning and night. I hadn’t given a name to ‘being gay’ at the time of the incident I am relating, but I knew I fancied myself as Robin in the ‘Batman and Robin’ TV series and a favourite daydream, guaranteed to give me a hard-on in school, was to imagine sleeping with Batman (with costumes on, of course!)
Chris, my brother, was the Batman to my Robin; I was his loyal follower and I felt that, if necessary, I would die for him. I used to watch him play rugby at the local club and every crunching tackle was another victory for the forces of good against evil. Every time he was brought crashing to the ground was a chance for me (in my fantasy, naturally) to tend to his wounds and nurse him back to full strength. Every time he pounded the turf anywhere near me I stared, like a madman, at the shifting shapes in his shorts, trying to clarify exactly where his ‘meat and two veg’ were. I admired his hairy legs, his manly arms, his big, rough hands.
When we were little we would share a bath but, at the first sight of a single curly pubic hair, the joint baths stopped and all my attempts to get into Chris’s bedroom were met by cries of “Stay out! It’s MY room! KEEP OUT!”
I started the inevitable forays into my brother’s room when he was out of the house, rifling through his kit bag, sniffing his jockstrap and breathing the air through his grungy underpants. I smelt and touched dried semen in tissues, cotton handkerchiefs, towels and t-shirts long before I knew what it was. When I had started to spurt myself, I then made it a mission to discover freshly-laid globs that I could lick and swallow. Chris was older though, himself, by then, so he was more adept at clearing his emissions away. But once in a while, when he left for rugby training, I would strike lucky and find a good spattering to slurp and sniff.
His routine for a Saturday teatime was to have a long bath and gradually it dawned on me that, if I could hide in his room, I’d get a proper look at his beefy body. I had always had penis envy of him following the occasional glimpses when we shared a room on holiday; his long, plump, uncut dick swung like a massive sausage, the end larger and more bulbous than the fat cylinder shaft, the foreskin loose and tantalising. My own average penis desperately wanted to be like my brother’s.
My hiding place under Chris’s bed was not exactly comfortable but one November evening in 1974, that’s where I was, hidden from view and unlikely to be caught unless he deliberately looked down or looked under. Of course, the angles meant I would have to partially emerge depending on where he stood. I suppose it was lust that obscured my sanity and made me think I would not be caught peeping.
I got the idea when he first entered with his towel wrapped round him that he had seen me but I wasn’t sure. He did face me, though, and pulled off the towel and started to rub down the front of his body with the towel obscuring his whole front. He steamed in the cold of the room and his skin glowed pink. He had a light dusting of hair across his pecs and round his nipples and a treasure trail down his abs to his thick bush which I could now see as he started to dry his legs. Glimpses of his magnificent cock flashed behind the towel and, as he reached round to wipe the backs of his legs and pull the towel to and fro across his back, his schlong positively hypnotised me as it swayed from side to side like a pendulum across his big hairy ball sac. I was not disappointed.
Chris then started to tug his foreskin backwards and forwards, peeling the thick soft skin off the shiny helmet. He moaned quietly and then dropped his towel and gave me a proper show of wanking to erection. His love-tube reared up like a pink, fleshy courgette (zucchini) and the piss-hole glistened with liquid as he continued to masturbate. He leaned back against the chest of drawers and gently stroked his veiny pole. I could hear grunting sounds and as I dared to move out a little further to look at his handsome face, I realised his eyes were closed in some fantasy.
His jacking continued and he moved his legs wider and his spare hand alternated between tweaking his nipples and caressing his balls. Chris bent his knees slightly as he got closer to his standing orgasm; I could see his abs pulsing like anything and his knees start to tremble. The inevitable happened Ð he grunted a few times and a spew of jizz spurted out the end onto the carpet and then the after-spews oozed down his fingers. I worshipped the sight. He sighed.
Then he said “Come out, you little bender” and I did, blushing like mad. “Lick it up,” he said and made me lick his spunk off the carpet. “Now, clean me,” he ordered and he offered me his fingers. I spent a long time licking his knuckles and fingers and swallowing his salty load. All the time my 14 yr old knob pulsed in my jeans, pushing against my underpants onto the denim, soaking through the fabrics.
Chris then scooped up some freshly squirted stuff out of his foreskin and placed his finger in my mouth for me to suck. I did, gulping tenderly and then he pulled my head onto his groin for me to suck and swallow any remaining remnants of sticky stuff. I spent about three minutes sliding my lips up and down about half of his swollen cock, licking inside the foreskin and sliding my lips over the bell-end until I was sure it was clean of semen.
He then said something like “now fuck off you little bastard and don’t let me catch you doing that again.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“You will be sorry if you tell anybody,” he said.
“I won’t,” I said. “I’ll do it again if you ever want me to.”
“You queer, then?” he asked.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “I wouldn’t do it for anybody else. Just you.”
“Well don’t,” he said. “You’ll get a bad name for yourself. I don’t want you getting beat up.”
I was still on my knees in front of him and he remained with his back to the drawers, his tackle splayed and soft and beautiful. He had told me to fuck off but then he had started talking to me so I waited for further instruction.
“Did you know I was there?” I asked.
“What do you think?” he returned, and then he looked thoughtful. And smiled at me.
Finally, after what seemed minutes but was probably only a few seconds his said gently “stand up, Paul.” I did and he pulled me towards him, wrapping his big arms around me and squeezing me. I put my face sideways onto his chest and hugged him back, loving the feel of his manly body through my jeans and t-shirt. My own cock was raging like mad and pressing into the top of his thigh. “Turn round,” he whispered.
I turned round and felt his hands pull my t-shirt up and he started rubbing his hands over my stomach and chest, stopping to tug at my nipples till they were pert and tingling. I think I managed an “oh god,” before I then realised he was flicking open my jeans button, pulling the zip down, sliding the denim and underpants over my arse and flipping out my throbbing dick and balls.
“Just don’t say a word,” he warned, as he gripped my cock and started wanking me off. I was in all-over-body-orgasm mode and squirmed back against him, feeling his dick rising again as he pumped my pole up and down. I leaned my head back onto his shoulders and, just as I’d hoped, he mashed his mouth over mine and filled my face with his tongue. We kissed deeply as he pulled on my prick and I gyrated my backside on his semi- swollen tackle, but he was determined to give me an orgasm so I settled into a still position so he could achieve just that. Up, down, faster and faster Ð he stopped once to spit into his hand for lubrication – and the rising sap in me meant I was wobbling and trembling in under three minutes.
“I’m coming, Chris,” I said, and then the most astonishing thing of all happened. Keeping a grip on my cock, he pushed me forward, swung me round, continued jerking me, fell to his knees and put his mouth near my bell-end as I approached the point of no return. “I’m really coming,” I said, disbelieving that he wanted my load in his face.
“Go for it, bro!” he ordered and his slick hand flew faster and faster as my spunk loaded the firing mechanism and so I went for it. My knees buckled but I stayed upright, partly because Chris’s spare hand jammed under my arse-cheeks, his palm pressing against my hole. He pulled my cock back into my body and I pressed my stomach forward as my spunk let rip, spurting onto Chris’s eyebrows and then left cheek and then lips. He opened his lips then and suckled me as the next few smaller squirts filled his mouth. He then used my length of blood-muscle to smear the white stuff into a face-mask from his eyebrows to his chin. The room reeked of boy juice.
I was gasping and almost crying with joy. “Fucking hell,” I said. “Fucking hell. God, Chris. Fuck me!”
“Another time, maybe,” he said as he stood up, spunk clearly on his lips and teeth. “Come here.” And he kissed me again, his full lips soft and spunky, his face drying with a white crust of my jizz, his tongue licking into my mouth with the flavour of me.
We embraced for a good five minutes, him naked, me with trainers on, jeans and underpants round my knees and t-shirt rucked up my chest. Our hands caressed each other’s back and bottoms, our lips met and we loved each other as only brothers can.
“Thanks, Chris,” I said quietly. “Thanks a lot.”
“No problem, Paul. Just don’t breathe a word to anybody. We can get each other’s rocks off every now and again, if you want, but if you tell anybody then it’s over. Understand?”
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