Brother Tad Took the Blame

Chapter 21 - Brother Tad Took the Blame

Author's notes: My little brother Tad was about six years younger than I was, and he could have been my twin, as I had looked at his age. Though he was slightly skinnier, there was no mistaking we were brothers. Now, today as adults, six years between brothers is nothing. But as kids this is an enormous difference in age. When I turned 16 he was just 9, and he'd always want to hang around with me and my pals, and I just hated it. I wasn't particularly nice to him, I recall with regret. But he adored me.

When I was in high school I was always horny. I'd dash home after school nearly unable to wait till I got into the house so I could jerk off. I needed the relief several times a day at this age it seemed, and being in school all day seeing all sorts of things that got me turned on was more than I could stand.

I went to high school in the late 1970s, when the style of clothes boys wore was far different than today. Watch "That 70s Show" for a taste, reruns of shows like Good Times, Three's Company, Dukes of Hazard, or look at any high school yearbook from that era and you'll see what I mean. Boys wore tight, tight straight legged blue jeans, the tighter the cooler, probably with tight-tight-white underpants underneath. Boxers were something only our dads wore in the 1970s. These Levis and Wranglers were painted on practically as close as second skins, and they had a remarkable characteristic that caused them to fade unevenly when worn and washed many times. What do I mean? Well, seats were often three shades lighter blue on the worn round spots where one sat, one spot centered low on each butt cheek. Daily carrying of keys or a pen in one's pants pocket was sure to etch a permanently lighter blue patch in that spot. But best of all, boys' cocks also burned lighter blue patches where they bulged, in the perfect almost 3-D shape of what was barely hidden underneath, right there for all to see. Looking at the baggy, droopy way boys wear their pants today, I think kids of the current generation would be horrified to have these vivid, visible outlines of their cocks and balls called out for all to see. For some reason, then, none of us seemed to mind.

The other thing that these tight pants did was cause constant, perpetual erections for their wearers, as with every movement they'd generate tingling, sensual, and glorious pressure and friction against the boy's tightly encased genitals. I remember purposefully wiggling in my seat in ninth grade science class, tipping the chair back so I could thrust forward and grind my trapped cock into the underside of the lab table where we sat. It would grow instantly stiff in my jeans and stay that way the entire time we were in class, as I rubbed it periodically through the cloth yet out of sight from my classmates (well, from all but my lab partner Vince, who laughed because he knew what I was up to and was doing the same thing during class as I. Sitting next to each other, we were strangely unembarrassed to see each other playing with our hard dicks in this way.)

There were a couple of boys who must have been hard more than they were soft in school, because their dick-prints in their blue jeans were etched clearly in the upright "boner-position"! Curly-dark-haired Mike had a huge dick and his erection-print was unmistakable. He knew I was looking at it and though we never discussed this fact, he grinned when he saw me glancing at his monster. I never saw it exposed, but it had to have been eight inches long and as thick around as an aerosol can of Pledge the way it protruded from his loins.

Unfriendly but unbelievably handsome blond Billy was my favorite as he absent-mindedly played with his boner in class. He certainly had no idea that he was being watched as he rhythmically stroked his thumb back and forth across its prominent, bulging head, because from where I sat I could watch him unseen. From the pattern of fading on his pants-front, I could literally see the shape of his cock head imprinted there from his constant fingering of his cock. I would fantasize what it would be like if I could switch places "be him" for just a day, imagining that if I could somehow be inside his skin I would strip naked, barricade myself in my bedroom and spend the day closely examining my nude body and masturbating constantly to watch myself cum.

Charlie was the third one. He was small and underdeveloped, yet the worn spot from his little erect penis was unmistakably visible to anyone looking; and I was certainly doing a lot of looking. That tiny stiffie wasn't more than four inches long at best, but through the denim's faded evidence it was clearly standing at full mast most of every day.

Short pants were another erotic story altogether. For us boys, cut-off jeans were the rule, and the cut-off's were often cut so far up that the pockets inside were sometimes visible as the ends of them stuck out the leg holes. (remember this, guys as old as me?) On girls they called these "Daisy Dukes" after the TV character who wore tiny cut-off's. On boys they were just the way it was—in current fashion. Cut-off's had an added benefit of being even more worn-out than regular jeans, since they were usually what became of a boy's pants when holes finally appeared in the knees. It was not uncommon for the crotch of these worn out cut-off's to be so threadbare and split so that an occasional glimpse of a bulging, loose testicle was possible through the resulting hole.

Since you visit this site and are reading this story, I'll bet that most of you know what I am talking about here, and will believe me when I tell you about these secrets in the private lives of teenage boys. But for those of you who never noticed, or have only ever known boys to wear baggy-three-sizes-too-big pants, let me suggest to you that even today, in any classroom of ninth or tenth graders, probably 25% of the boys are hard at any moment. It was just that in this brief window of time during the late 1970s, our clothes made it easy for others to see our arousals. I was loving it.

But even better than this was gym class. This seems to have fallen from fashion all over the world, but back then in the 1970s, twice-weekly public stripping, changing and after-gym showers were required for all boys. We had lockers lined up in long rows separated by backless-wooden benches between, and from any position you could be sure of getting an up close look at a dozen or more boys undressing totally to the buff and then seeing them scamper nakedly off for a quick shower. I loved this more than anything else in the world, watching other boys undress right in front of me, and I would proudly do the same for them, gladly exposing myself to the rest of the group as we tumbled into the steaming showers yelping and laughing.

By far, my favorite sight was to see a small guy with gigantically-proportioned apparatus, seemingly weighing him down and tipping him forward with its cartoonishly outsized proportions. Next, I looked for boys who were my favorites because they were so handsome or athletic, as I loved to see all their muscles on their bare chests, stomachs and backs. Their cocks were usually normal sized, but I imagined how they'd look hard, how they'd look masturbating themselves, or how they'd taste if they were in my mouth. Another amusing but exciting sight to see was the few tall boys who had grown but still had underdeveloped anatomies, those poor fellows with no pubic hair and tiny rosebud penises and tightly pulled-up testicles barely visible from a distance. Through ninth grade there were still a few of them around. I wonder how they felt, undressing with the rest of us?

I liked them all actually. A cute boy named Mark dressed beside me one year, and I lusted after him because he was so handsome and especially because he was so popular and cool. He had an older brother who was a jock, and this seemingly gave Mark unlimited confidence and bravado. He had tight little bulgy muscles on his arms and chest, but he was developmentally behind the rest of us with puberty, so his penis was still rather child-sized and his body devoid of pubic hair. One day returning from my shower I pushed past him to my spot on the bench, deliberately brushing the back of my hand against his cock and balls. I still recall seeing his angry, shocked face out of the corner of my eye as he glared at me—trying to decide if he should call me out and make a scene, or wondering if my touch was accidental. His mouth formed curse words but no sound came out. My heart raced because I knew I was busted, though the illicit grope of that little perky soft gherkin I had stolen seemed almost worth the risk. He decided not to make a public issue of the event, though I knew he had mentally filed the incident away for future use, ready to use against me if he saw even a tiny further sign of aberrant behavior on my part. I carefully kept my hands away from him from then on. One grope would have to be enough.

Events like these kept me constantly stimulated at school. I was always so aroused and distracted I am amazed today that I actually got good grades and never got in any trouble either.

When I came home from school I had a very small window of opportunity to jerk off on my bed. I had less than a half hour before someone else came home, and I had a habit of dozing off while pulling; waking with a start, finding my wilting penis still clasped in my fist. I was certain I never wanted to be caught in this compromising position, and besides that, I hated rushing my fun just to get done and clean up before someone walked in the front door.

So, often times I would barricade myself in the hall bathroom when I came home from school. I'd lay a towel on the floor at the base of the door so no one coming up the stairs could have any chance of seeing underneath and guessing what I was up to. Sometimes I'd lay on the fluffy rug on the floor and take my good old time, other times I'd lube up with hand lotion and examine my technique in the mirror from close range, shooting all over the glass in a naughty, highly erotic climax. I'd sit on the edge of the tub some days, standing up as I got ready to cum, perched on tiptoes holding my throbbing penis out over the bathroom sink, then pushing it to point down so that when I came my goo shot violently into the sink bowl in long, thick, parallel stripes of liquid lust.

I was practicing this latest technique one day when I heard commotion downstairs with slamming doors and loud voices. My mother had arrived home after picking up my younger brother Tad at elementary school, and I heard them arguing as they come into the house. I was determined not to let them spoil my erotic fun, so I closed my eyes and turned off my ears and rubbed myself firmly and purposefully, standing up from the tub edge where I had been sitting, wiggling my bare toes on the soft plush bathmat with my pants and underwear tangled around my ankles.

I felt the first tickle and tingle, and the amazing rush of pressure that meant that I was coming to my climax, and tipping my head back and moaning a little I rubbed harder, stood on my tiptoes and leaned in towards the sink.

Just at that exact moment Tad began banging on the bathroom door, rattling the knob, half scaring me out of my wits. It was too late for me to stop what I was doing, and gritting my teeth and swearing, my heart pounded inside my chest as, I jerked my head around to keep an eye on the door. In an oddly detached way I half-watched my explosion of sperm jet into the sink in one gluey pump-shot after another. But I barely felt the sensation of it happening, as the usual mind-numbing, toe curling ecstatic pleasure of the moment of orgasm was eclipsed this time by the horrible spine chilling vision of being caught, standing there with spurting dick in hand; my little brother would stand saucer-eyed staring at the lewd and unexplainable sight for any nine-year-old, his bare-assed older brother jerking his giant swollen dick, balls bobbing and swinging just above the counter top, the thick cum flying in slow-motion arcs into the sink, one after the other. The blood would drain from Tad's face and his mouth would gape open in pale-faced mute horror staring at me, watching me lean forward on tiptoes, my school pants pushed down around my knees, huge purple-headed dick erupting, emptying its enormous load of creamy thick semen into the sink right in front of me.

Luckily the door had been locked, or Tad would have barged right in and caught me in the act just as I described it. "I have to come in there!" Shouted Tad. "Hurry up Brad! I have to go!" he cried in his little high-pitched voice, rattling the door violently

I was royally pissed. Tad had destroyed the lustful ecstasy of my orgasm with his inconsiderateness. I had worked really, really hard this afternoon to edge for that blissful moment, and now he had flat out ruined it for me. No matter that I'd certainly be having my next orgasm only a couple of hours later (taking my usual break while I did my homework), for me every orgasm was important to be the best.

"Hold your horses you brat!" I swore loudly at him through the closed door, quickly covering up and pulling my pants up to cover the evidence on my wet cock. "Give me a minute for chrissake!" I hurriedly wiped my hands off with toilet tissue and flushed it away, checking my zipper for evidence that it had been yawning open moments before, but it looked OK.

I turned and unlocked the door and my small brother rushed into the room and in one swift motion had dashed to the toilet, unzipped, pushed his pants down, grabbed his small stiff penis, pointed it in the general direction of the toilet and peed a torrent into the water. He didn't care that I was there watching, his face was flushed and red, and I could tell that he made it with only a second to spare. The flow finally slowed, and the final few drops of pee dripped off his little thing as he shook it between two of his fingers. "Sorry Brad" he said, smiling and looking up at me his face full of relief, his tiny but now soft pecker still in his hand.

I was annoyed but a little amused as well. Tad was a good egg, but at six years younger than me he was too young to be a pal and I generally regarded him with annoyance. "Yeah, whatever", I said, turning to leave the room while Tad pulled his jeans up and zipped the front.

I met my Mom in the downstairs hall. "Your brother...!", she said with some annoyance in her voice. "He should have gone to the toilet before he left school but he wouldn't. I don't know what his problem is. Ohhhh no- he needed to wait till he got home. He almost didn't make it." I sort of understood Tad's dilemma. I hated going into the school bathrooms, and avoided them whenever I could. They smelled bad and one never knew what kind of characters one would meet in there.

I was back in my bedroom when I heard my mother's shriek. "Tad!" she yelled. I wondered what he had done now, as she seemingly was always yelling at him about something. "What have I told you about this? This is disgusting!" she shouted down the hall from the bathroom doorway.

I was curious and amused. I sort-of liked to see her get angry at my little brother then watch them argue about things that to me seemed very unimportant.

"What???" replied Tad in his piping-high voice, sticking his head out the door of his bedroom down the hall. "What did I do now?"

"What have I told you about spitting in the sink?" she scolded in a very angry tone of voice.

My heart stopped momentarily. In a microsecond I reviewed the last ten minutes in my mind. I remembered what I had done, and what Tad had done, and what I said and what he said.... And there was something important missing. Yes, I had shot my cum before he had burst into the bathroom. Yes, I had covered up my cock and zipped my trousers so as not to be caught in the act... but the sink... THE SINK—- did I take care of that too? I couldn't recall...

But suddenly in my mind's eye I remembered what I had done and I could see it there as plain as day... one big blob of thick cloudy, creamy white cum on the edge of the sink basin and on the counter top, complemented by three thick nearly parallel stripes of my creamy, viscous splooge squirted directly into the bowl. I had not remembered to wash it away, and my mother had just discovered it there—just as I had left it behind.

I suddenly felt like I was going to hurl.... My throat closed up and I heard Tad running towards the bathroom. It was clearly obvious to me what that sticky, gluey mess was all over the sink and counter top, and it wasn't Tad's fault, and he'd be sure to tell my mother that.

How could I have been so careless? I never left evidence like this behind before, but I had screwed up for sure this time.

"I didn't spit in the sink, Mom" yelped little Tad, "Honest I didn't"

"You do it so much you don't even remember when you do it" she said with annoyance, running the water and using the side of her hand to push the load of my gluey sticky seed down the drain. "This is disgusting. And if you have this much mucus in your throat there is something wrong with you and I need to take you to the doctor."

She must have washed all my spunk down the drain before he saw it, because he could only squeak and sputter, "I don't know what you are talking about, I didn't do it! Honest!"

I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a slight cold sweat break out all over my body. Tad had taken the blame and I was safe to live another day. I made a mental resolution top never let this happen again; to be much more careful in the future. I heard them arguing, but that for all practical purposes I knew the issue was closed.

"Honest, I didn't spit in the sink Mom" he cried in his shrill voice, but my Mom didn't reply. She knew that he had, and "that was that" as far as she was concerned.

"Just don't do it again", she answered crossly, ignoring his pleas.

I had dodged the bullet, this time. I owed Tad one, even though he didn't know it.