Little Brother Sex Stories
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Little Brother Sex Stories
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LAST year my brother came into my room in the middle of the night. He didn't say a word... Then he began touching my body all over.
LAST year my brother came into my room in the middle of the night and got into bed with me. He was naked and didn't say a word... Then he began touching my body all over.
I didn't resist because it felt nice and he was very gentle. Ever since then we've been having sex.
I'm 14 now and he's 18. Our mum and dad haven't got a clue about what's going on, although Dad almost caught us a few weeks ago.
I hope they never find out as I think they won't understand the attraction we feel for each other. My brother says it's our secret and I mustn't tell anyone.
THIS is not a situation that can continue and I urge you to stop having sex immediately. This is an incestuous relationship and, even if he wasn't your brother, he would still be breaking the law as sex is illegal under the age of 16. It doesn't matter whether you consent or not.
He knows what he's doing is very wrong and that's why he's working hard to convince you to keep silent.
Your strong feelings of attachment to him are all mixed up with your burgeoning sexuality and that's why you're at his mercy. The problem isn't just that you could end up pregnant, it's also the damage there's likely to be to your emotional health and self-respect.
Sooner or later you'll come to understand this isn't normal behaviour.
You can make any excuse for him you like but what he's doing is sexual abuse - the stronger taking advantage of the weak and innocent.
It's important to understand you're not responsible for any of this. All the blame lies on your brother's shoulders.
You need to tell your parents what's been going on. If that's too difficult, tell a teacher or someone else you trust or call ChildLine, the free helpline for children and young people, on 0800 1111.
I know revealing your secret must be very scary. Once you tell what's been happening, there may be major disruption in the family.
But you're too young to protect yourself, so you must speak out. Unless you draw attention to this your brother will continue his abuse and potentially ruin your life.
Don't miss resident agony aunt Coleen Nolan's weekly newsletter
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He was slender and shy; I was stocky and talkative.
As children our mother dressed us as twins. Matching
woolen pea coats and Buster Brown lace-ups, khaki shorts and striped
T-shirts, pajamas
imprinted with pictures
of cowboys and Indians, Davy Crockett coonskin caps. For Easter, matching sailor
suits with starched white middy blouses.
Even so, the neighbors often strained
to see the resemblance between us. "You're
brothers?" they asked. "You're really brothers? Which one of you is
older?"
People imagined I was, because I was larger. But
in fact he was older, by fifteen months. The bassinet into which I was
placed was still warm from his having so
recently lain there.
Was it paradise, living like that, with someone made
of the same flesh and blood as I? When Davis and I were little, we lay
awake at night
in our bunk beds, devising
a language only the two of us could understand. "Peanut butter" meant "I'm
sorry." "Bongo bongo" meant "Go to sleep." "Applesauce" meant "Laugh!"
Sometimes when I crawled into his upper bunk to
lie beside him, my shoulder touching his, I believed we were living together
in just one body.
Not that we were identical. Not that we were even
twins. Abel was a keeper of sheep; Cain, a tiller of soil.
Was that our story, except with the roles reversed?
I was younger, like Abel. But I lived. And it wasn't as if I killed my
brother, not really, even if
it sometimes felt as if I did.
Of course, it could just as well have been I who
died, had it not been for what he once referred to—it was an accusation,
he was angry—as my "instinct
for survival." That was what my mother and I had in common, he said—no
ideals or principles; nothing, nothing, except our instincts to survive.
He meant: Why have I come out to our mother while
you continue avoiding to do so? Why am I the one who must bear her displeasure?
Why have you
left
me here
standing alone?
"It must be great," people used to say to me, "being gay and having
a gay brother. You two must feel a special closeness. Like having a twin."
Of course, if the people who said these things were
the men Davis and I met the nights we went cruising together in gay bars,
they meant something
rather
different
by their words. They meant: Do you guys ever have sex with each other?
Have you done it? Would you like to do a three-way?
"No, we don't have sex with each other," I said. "No, we're not
looking for a three-way."
I was like that in those days, even in the leather
bars Davis liked to frequent. A little prim. A little earnest.
But Davis liked to joke with the men who approached
us: "Yeah, sure, why
not?" he said. "Maybe if you buy us enough drinks. Maybe if you give
us enough money."
"Davis," I whispered when the men weren't looking. "Don't talk
that way. They might believe you."
It's 1957, or maybe it's 1958, certainly no later
than that, and Davis and I are walking home from Carroll Knolls Elementary—through
a small complex of garden apartments, past the First United Methodist
Church—discussing what we will do if our parents are ever killed
suddenly together in a car crash, or a plane wreck, or a bomb attack,
like at Pearl Harbor. We'll build ourselves a cabin in the woods, we
decide, where no one will ever find us. We'll light our cabin with
candles and support ourselves with newspaper routes—the Montgomery
County Sentinel , the Catholic Standard , the Washington
Star .
Was that the first time we began dreaming of a
house where we would one day live together? I thought I would have
him as my family forever, no matter what.
Wherever he was, I thought, would be my home.
On Saturday mornings, for instance, when the other
boys in our neighborhood were practicing softball, Davis and I were
riding our bicycles to new subdivisions,
touring the model homes for hours, navigating the narrow trails of plastic
runners the real estate agents lay down to protect the new wall-to-wall
carpeting, through living rooms and rumpus rooms and dining nooks and
master suites
with walk-in closets, through split-levels and Cape Cods and two-story
colonials and ranch houses with finished basements and picture windows.
We liked houses with laundry chutes and intercom
systems and carports.
We like floor plans, which we studied in photo-illustrated
magazines we swiped from drugstores— 101 Dream Houses, 101 A-Frames, 101
Modular Homes You Can Build on a Budget.
On Sundays, after Mass, we liked to visit the
mobile home lots off the more populous highways, the ones strung with
out-of-season Christmas lights
and
bright tricornered flags, where the salesmen were more likely to let
us wander unescorted through the latest 10' x 50' models: the Skyline
Diamond,
with
its frost-free jalousie windows; the Saratoga, with its tip-out room
and simulated
fireplace with artificial logs; the Space Master, with its sky roof and
circular kitchen. The Vagabond. The Ventura. The New Moon. The Crestline
Viceroy.
The Magnolia. The Starflite.
"Look at this; it's so beautiful," I said to Davis as I demonstrated
the ease of the Starflite's pocket doors, how they slid effortlessly back and
forth on their plastic tracks.
"We'll all live like this one day in the future," he
told me.
Here is a fact: My brother was arrested three
times. Twice for the possession and distribution of controlled substances,
including marijuana, amphetamines,
psilocybin, and Quaaludes. And once again—the middle arrest, when
he was twenty-six—for sodomy, public indecency, and lewd and lascivious
acts. Meaning: he was caught in a sudden police roundup in the public
toilets of a park where men went at night to have sex.
"Go fuck yourself," he told the cop who
put him in handcuffs.
But later, in lock-up, when the desk officer
told him it was time for
his one phone call, he thought he might just as well kill himself
as call our mother.
At least that's what he told me later.
(That's what it was like in the old days, in case
anyone who has tuned into this late-night broadcast has happened to
forget: sudden arrest; your name
in the papers the next morning; then, maybe, a quiet suicide. One, two, three,
just like a game of hopscotch, except you had to play barefoot, jumping on
broken glass.)
As for me: I was 1200 miles away, in graduate
school, the time he was arrested for sex. My mother told me about it
in a phone call.
"Maybe I shouldn't post his bail this time," she said. "Maybe
he keeps getting in trouble because he knows I'll come to his rescue. Maybe I
should just let him sit there."
"Mom," I said, "you have to bail him out. Just go and do it. Do
it now."
Otherwise, I said nothing further. I stayed as
far away as I could. By then, Davis and our mother had begun their
endless arguments with each
other.
Watching them argue was like looking back at a burning house I'd just
fled. Even though
I was running hard in the opposite direction, I could hear the windows
shattering from the heat and the roof beams collapsing onto the walls.
I mean: I was afraid. I hid my life from her.
My homo life, that is, which consisted then mostly of daydreams in
which men held me close and
assured
me it was all right if I was afraid.
As to my other life, I didn't mind sharing that:
diplomas, fellowships, job offers, vacation plans. "Mom, guess what!" I told her on the phone. "The
professors voted me teaching assistant of the year!" Or: "I was in
New York City, Mom, and I went to Rockefeller Plaza to watch the ice skaters,
just like you did growing up."
That is, I gave her what I had always given her:
I was the good son. I was the mirror in which she saw her own life
made more meaningful
and lustrous.
How does that story go? And in process of time
it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering
unto the Lord.
And Abel,
he also brought
of the firstlings of his flock and the fat thereof. And the Lord
had respect unto Abel and his offering. But unto Cain he had no
respect. And Cain was
very wroth, and his countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain,
Why art thou
wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen?
I mean: Davis and I each brought forth our offerings.
In our household, our mother was Lord.
Davis and I lived together as adults only once,
and only for ten months,
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