We ended chapter 5 with Brandon naked on the hood of Anton's car, positively begging to get fucked. You'll be relieved to hear that, sometimes, wicked little cheating holes get just what they ask for.

Sneaking in before the end of the year, I just released "Sloppy": an erotic romance where a shy twink meets a cunning muscle jock, as they battle a huge, messy (and convenient) lube spill... https://alexpendragon.com/sloppy/

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Happy reading!

-Alex

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My Sister's Boyfriend Needed A Ride (Ch. 6)

Even after four fingers, and a car ride of playing with himself, Brandon's hole was still dangerously tight.

A vice grip around my precum-slicked shaft, threatening to drag the orgasm out of me before I'd even got started fucking him. I grit my teeth, squeezing the tender meat of his thighs until the flesh dimpled white, and willed myself to calm down.

"God, you feel good."

Approval forced from me, impossible not to spit out as I fed his squeezing ass with more of my dick. Looking up, I could see an expression of near-delirious satisfaction on his face. If he could speak, and if I could spare the brain cells to ask, I had a feeling it was the praise as much as the sensation of being spread around me that had generated that dazed glee.

I'd promised him rough, unflinching; warned him, very nearly, to expect a no-holds barred reaming. Only suddenly, my cock more than halfway inside him and sweat already soaking through my shirt, I was fighting the urge to drop down atop Brandon's body and wrap him up in my arms. Envelop him, inside and out.

Angry at myself, and confused, I yanked him closer. Ignoring his yelp as I bottomed out; forsaking that usual moment of savoring how it felt, being so deep in another human being, and instead tugging my hips back until his muscle was straining at the fat, flared head of my dick.

He'd howl, I knew, if I jerked it all the way out. At the eruption of sensations from his stretched hole. Part of me wanted to hear it; wanted to see his fuckboy face twist in slack-jawed shock. Only the idea of being buried in him again overruled that.

It wasn't like he made a bad noise when I slammed into him, either.

Liberating, to be able to just fuck him how I wanted. To know - instinctively, and from his look of glazed pleasure - that Brandon wanted it too, could take it. That something in him was wired this way, programmed to see each brutal stroke as a compliment, a reward. Emotions expressed through the pliancy of his hole and the desperate hardness that he provoked in me.

Each time I buried myself, it was easier to pull back. His ass softening, instinctive resistance subdued and his hips rising to meet me each time. Contorting his naked body on the car's dusty hood, the sound of his insides growing sloppier.

"H-harder," he gasped out.

I grunted with the effort of it, then leaned down and - my arms wrapping his narrow torso - lifted him. Brandon's legs coiling around my hips, and then I could use his own bodyweight to better plow him. Turning us, so I could rest my bare ass on the bumper and focus on bouncing him on my dick as he clung to my neck and whimpered.

It felt like I could dig deeper, further into him, with his legs twisted up, and yet I was greedy, wanted more. Reaching underneath him, fingers pulling at his already-stretched entrance. Brandon's groan of disbelief close to my ear, as I chased that extra quarter-inch and felt his muscles flutter against my fingertips.

"Please don't stop."

It was a breathless, frantic demand. His cock sandwiched between us, straining as it rubbed against my shirt. Suddenly, I wished I could lean down and engulf him; that I had the flexibility to suck his swollen, drooling tip into my mouth, and swirl each bubble of precum I fucked out of him around that over-sensitive flesh. Almost as though I was feeding myself from my own pumping dick, Brandon's body a mere conduit.

I couldn't do that, though, and so I pushed my finger into his helpless ass instead.

A wail, of gurgling disbelief, as he stretched even further. Hips shuddering as - my forefinger sandwiched against my cock - his body was forced to spread wider. The gibbering "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck" almost unintelligible, as his nails dug into my back.

"Tapping out?" I teased, as I slammed him down harder.

"N-no!" Disbelief in his voice, as though his brain couldn't quite comprehend what his body was agreeing to.

"What are you?" I demanded.

It was an animal noise, thick and urgent, from the depths of Brandon's throat. "H-hole," he stuttered out, "ch-cheating hole!"

I grinned, even as I bit down on his bare shoulder. Savoring the heat of him, and the tightness, and the compliance. No, more than that: we were conspirators, collaborators. Working together to find the extremes of his body, the limits we could push him to. An idea that was as addictive as it was terrifying.

"Cum in me," Brandon begged, three words no top could resist.

My cock flexed, pulsed, as I burst inside him: my finger still squeezed alongside it, feeling the shift in texture as I bred Brandon's hole. Gooey and increasingly slick, as I shuddered from an orgasm that felt like it was twisting me inside-out with its intensity.

He was still shaking as I turned us both, dumping him unceremoniously on the car's hood. Tugging myself from him, so that I could bend to slurp the sticky head of his prick between my lips. Pinning him in place, fingers of one hand pushed deep into Brandon's mouth, the other into the creamy mess of his hole, as he writhed bonelessly beneath me.

There was something incredible about owning him so completely. Dominating him, being responsible for the torrent of overwhelming sensations that left him mewling for mercy, or release, or both. Brandon's hips trying to shove himself further into my mouth, chasing the friction that'd become his sole reason for existence; I pushed my fingers deeper, his muffled whines taking on a whimpering, breathless edge.

I felt him swell, a moment before he flooded me.

Textures shifting, the slop of his cum turning my mouth into a churning, torturous syrup bath around his tip; Brandon tried in vain to pull away from me, to rescue himself from my devious tongue.

I released him, when the incoherent pleading escaping from around my fingers degenerated into mindless gurgles. Lifting my head to his, feeling his heaving breath against my face for a split-second, before I pressed our lips together.

It was a messy, ill-aimed kiss. Disrupted by his panting and mine, as my heart thundered in my chest and we swapped his load between us. Brandon clinging to me, arms tight around my neck, as his heat and musk overwhelmed my senses.

Pushing back, from his grip, I stumbled and almost fell. Blinking at his naked, sweaty sprawl; his glazed eyes and flushed skin. He looked animal and lithe, the remains of something I'd hunted.

I snorted, entertained at the idea, when it'd been Brandon who had chased me in the first place.

"Holy fuck." His voice was hoarse, cracking at the curse. "I think you broke me."

Maybe it was the lingering mood, but I didn't think he sounded especially disappointed at that.

I wiped my mouth across the back of my hand. Lips still tingling from the intensity of our kiss; the taste of him strong. Wondering how long that would last, how quickly Brandon's memory would fade.

Guilt was like a rumbling storm cloud, shadowing the horizon.

"We should get going," I told him, curtly. Watched, as he let his head flop to the side, to stare back at me.

"We could..."

"Stop." The interruption came out sharper than I intended, but I wasn't going to apologize for it. I tossed the fallen briefs back at him. "Put those back on, I don't want you leaking all over my car."

Brandon frowned as he sat up, shakily. He still dragged the underwear up, though.

I waited until he was done, then picked him up and practically dumped him into the rear seat. Not wanting to look at him, to think any more about what we'd done or how I'd felt as it happened. Afraid, even, of the intensity of my reaction to him: to his body, his obedience. Angry at myself: for ever giving in, and for not saying no again and again.

He was pulling on his clothes, hair disheveled, when I glanced in the rearview mirror. I looked away, just before he could make eye-contact, and put the car in gear.

He was a hookup, a fuckboy. Hardly rare, hardly special. Hell, I could linger a little at the gym, spend a couple minutes more drying off after the showers, and have twice as much sex as I'd had with Brandon.

Easy, simple, no-strings sex. The type that didn't come with the knowledge you were helping screw up your little sister's relationship.

"Maybe we could..." he tried again, as I pulled to a stop outside his house.

I shook my head. "Get out, Brandon."

Waves of resentment from the back seat. I fixed my stare at some vague point in the middle-distance, refusing to engage.

He sighed, and for a moment I thought he was going to try anyway. Make some appeal, to my ego perhaps, or my libido. And then I heard the door opening, and a moment later he was walking up the driveway.

My family had figured out my moods early on. Teenage surliness growing into irritation and zero patience; quick to anger, quick to snap. They knew, with the accuracy of a barometer, when it was best to stay out of my way. Let the angry firework splutter out on its own.

Well, my parents did, anyway. My sister presumably knew the score, but reacted differently.

"What's the matter, big baby? Someone using your favorite weights set today?"

She grinned at me, from the stool at the breakfast bar, as I stomped around the kitchen.

I was hungry. From the gym, sure, but after fucking Brandon, too. And it seemed like, with my brain constantly churning, I burned energy at double the rate.

The sandwich I was piecing together wasn't exactly pretty, but it didn't lack protein. I slapped on another two slices of ham, ignoring her.

"What did you do with Brandon?"

No way to help it, the way my head snapped up. Fearful, for a split-second, that somehow Kirsten had read my mind: X-ray eyes seeing through my frown and plucking the guilty thoughts straight out of my brain. A no-detail-left-out slideshow of the way I'd manhandled her cheating boyfriend onto the hood of my car, and proceeded to punish-fuck his twink hole until he was a limp noodle mess.

"What?" My voice sounded like spilled gravel.

She rolled her eyes. "At the gym. Could he keep up with you?"

He'd worked hard, that was the thing. The surprising part. I'd expected Brandon to goof off, spend the whole time flirting, or just trying to pretend that we were buddies or whatever. Instead, he'd actually concentrated on what I was telling him.

Problem was, all those memories were stained with everything else in my treacherous brain. How he'd looked in the shower, water coursing down his lean body. The way his hard cock had pressed into me as I pinned him to the lockers, my arm against his throat.

"He tried his best," I grunted, wishing Kirsten would just get the message and leave me and my calorie deficit in peace.

She chuckled, instead. "He's been wanting to go with you, like, forever. I told him you weren't interested in being a personal trainer.

Impossible not to think about Ally, then, and the way he'd stared at Brandon with undisguised hunger. No qualms or second-guessing. It was a liberation that simultaneously left me envious and terrified.

"He didn't get in the way," I told her, noncommittal.

Kirsten raised an eyebrow. "High praise. I'd say you should tell him, but I don't know if he could handle it."

You'd be surprised, I thought to myself, just what your boyfriend can handle. Even at the times when I was sure he'd have to tap out.

I didn't tell her that, of course. Cut my sandwich in half instead, and grabbed a fistful of paper towels.

"Did you drop him off at home?"

Pausing, at the door, I glanced back. "Yeah. Did you want me to bring him back here?"

Kirsten shrugged, looking back at her mug. "No. That's fine."

Sandwich demolished, my body was complaining less, but the headache remained. Laying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling, it was difficult not to replay what'd happened that morning. How Brandon arched his back, making it so abundantly clear that he was mine for the taking. If I wanted it, anyway.

I shook my head, angry at myself.

Problem was, dislodging the thought of how he'd goaded me at the gym, and the way I'd pounded him later on, only left room for other memories to slip through. Like how we'd fucked on the very bed I was slumped on, on the sheets I'd not yet changed.

If I buried my nose in them, I'd probably be able to smell Brandon on them still. That pleasure-fear musk, heady and intoxicating, from when I treated him roughly.

Guilt was meant to stop you from doing wrong, fucked-up stuff, at least that's what I'd thought. Stepping in when self-restraint proved lacking: the fear of consequences, even if bad behavior was tempting.

Somehow, though, that mechanism had been perverted. No longer chastening, capable of tempering baser instincts. I knew full well that what Brandon and I were doing together was wrong, only that knowledge seemed unimportant when faced with the reality of his pliant obedience.

My hand was in my sweatpants before I even realized it was moving. Unsure, too, when I'd got hard, only there was no denying the eager erection my fingers were now stroking.

There was a world of possibility on the phone by my side. Every video, photo, kink, and pairing I might want to see; porn to suit every taste and temperament. Absolutely no reason, then, for my brain to conjure that image of my girlfriend's devious, conniving fuckboy of a boyfriend standing in the gym shower.

Facing the wall, his back to my hungry gaze. Hair flattened by the water streaming down him, spraying off his shoulders and coursing along the narrow taper of his smooth back. Across the jut of his ass, and a shiver of thrilled shame because I knew how that dense muscle and flesh felt when your hips slammed into it. How it shook, how Brandon gasped and whimpered, as you pounded him.

The head of my cock was already slick; I kicked my sweats down, the elastic waistband clinging across my thighs.

With Ally stood by my side, that morning, I'd only watched him. Stared along the corridor to the showers, Brandon's body framed almost perfectly. In my imagination, though, I could follow those cold tiles down. Stand behind him, close enough that the water would fleck my bare skin.

He'd stiffen, as I touched him. Body tensing, as my fingers eased up his spine to cradle the back of his neck. Less a grip than a reminder, the message unmistakable. I could picture exactly how he'd soften again; the pressure of him leaning back into my hand.

Easy, then, to push him forward. Press his cheek against the wall, the shower water pounding against my arm. Brandon's legs spreading on instinct, hips tilting back. An invitation, albeit a laughable one: we both know I'd simply take what I wanted, regardless.

The exquisite softness between his cheeks, my fingertips skating across the wet skin until I reached his hole.

My cock throbbed in my fist, as I imagined digging two fingers into that clinging heat. Precum spilling down my hand, as I stroked myself slowly.

A whimper, as I worked his tightness. One I could hear so clearly; my imagination not short on examples it could conjure. Brandon leaning into my spreading, twisting fingers, his noises instinctive, not complaints. A willingness that bordered on infuriating, leaving me hungry to test the limits of that yielding.

He'd reach back for me, I knew he would. Hands searching for my dick, for the stiff evidence of my desire for him. Complicity in the form of an erection.

"Hands on the wall." I could hear his grunt of frustration, too; the way it would shift into a yelp as I punctuated my order with a sharp tug on his hole.

Reaching between his legs would feel inevitable. Sacrificing my grip on his neck - knowing Brandon would stay where I'd put him, cheek against tile, mouth open and panting - to heft his cock in my fist and then pull back. Amuse myself as he rose on tiptoes in desperation, hips tilting further, body contorting: anything to escape the stretching, straining discomfort. Well, anything bar asking me to stop.

Pity would feel like the wrong sort of cheating, after all.

"Not bad, for a fuckboy." Punctuating my grudging praise with firm, milking strokes along his rigid shaft. The heel of my hand hitting the fat flare of his swollen head each time, as I pictured the drool of precum he'd be leaking.

Thumb pressed at the base of my cock - holding it upright, veins fat and straining - I paused my stroking to lift the other hand to my mouth. Dragging my tongue through the syrupy glaze I'd leaked, salt-sweet and gooey.

"You put this in a pussy yet, cheater?"

Awkward, shaking your head when you're pressed against the wall, but I could see him trying that anyway.

"I asked you a fucking question."

"N-no!" Desperation in Brandon's tone, as his most sensitive parts were mauled by rough fingers.

My sweatpants fought against me, as I spread my legs a little on the bed. One hand stroking, while the other tugged on the tight clench of my balls.

He'd squirm, as I muscled a third finger in alongside the first two. Movements limited by my tight grip on his teen prick.

I'd not showered, when I got home. Still had the funk of our sex on me; the musk of it rising to fill my nostrils as I stretched my thighs wider still. Fingers digging deeper, pushing under my balls until I could feel the sweaty clench of my hole pulsing against my fingertips.

He'd given up his ass cherry to me, on his back in the park that night. Barely stripped, staring up at me with a shocked sort of hunger. Almost surprised, it felt like, that his cheating manipulations had worked; that I'd not simply punched him, for being such a lowlife skeeze to my sister. Reamed him open, instead of telling her what a shitty little liar she was dating.

I could take the rest of Brandon's virginity just as easily, I knew. Pushing at myself as I pictured it, the tightness of my hole resisting my finger. I could ruin him for anyone else; squash any misguided preconception that the cheating little fuckboy might have about being dominant, simply because you happened to be inside another person.

It wasn't usually my thing, to bottom. That didn't mean I couldn't show him that - whether as a hole, or as a hard dick - his only value was as a route to pleasure for someone else. That Brandon had sacrificed any greater consideration than that, any say in the matter, when he chose to treat my little sister as a joke.

The version of him in my mind's eye groaned, as I swapped my fingers for my cock.

Pulling him to me, gripping his narrow waist, to squeeze in deeper. Ignoring the water sheeting down his back, splashing off and around me as I buried myself, chasing that fluttering acquiescence as his twink body gave up on resisting. That tipping point, when Brandon stopped being a person and instead became mewling meat.

Sweat and precum between my cheeks, as I pushed my forefinger through the tight muscle. Jerking myself urgently, now, the sound of it sloppy and wet. Jaw clenched, toes curling.

"I think you broke me," he'd panted, sprawled boneless, ruined, and dripping on the hood of my car. Said with a sort of reverence.

The first spray of cum hit me in the face, the strength of it making me flinch in surprise. Dripping into my suddenly open mouth, as the second shot splashed my chin and the third marked a bright, white stripe across my shirt. The taste of myself fierce, overwhelming, and no way not to recall how Brandon had tasted as we'd swapped his sloppy, spit-swirled load in our kiss.

My belly clenched, the painful equal of any ab crunch, as the final dregs of my orgasm spilled down my loosely-stroking fingers.

Gingerly, already feeling the goo begin to dribble down my cheeks, I reached for something to wipe myself with. Realizing a moment later that Brandon had stolen the briefs I'd been using as a cumrag. That, when I'd dumped him at the end of his driveway, he'd still been wearing them. One further load of mine presumably oozing from his well-fucked hole, soaking into the cotton.

I slumped back, breathing hard. Angry at him again, resenting him for stealing into my fantasies, and then of course angry at myself for something so nonsensical.

He was a fuckboy.

A stupid, cheating little fuckboy.

The best thing I could do was forget Brandon even existed.

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