I swore it would never, ever happen again with Matt. Only a truly shitty brother would sleep with his sister’s husband.
But it had already happened twice. The first time, at his bachelor party, we were both so drunk that it was a hazy memory. I was so drunk, I told myself. I really just jacked him off. My mouth was only on his dick for a few seconds.
All true. But even those few minutes and seconds, man, imprinted some stuff about Matt on my brain. He’s a gorgeous dude, a tank of a man. His furry chest and legs, they’d flash into my brain randomly while at work, and I’d have to duck into the john to tear one off.
And Matt’s dick. Matt’s big, long, veiny babymaker of a dick.
So yeah. Matt and Sara got married, thankfully, and for a few years, things were mostly cool. They bought a place in the burbs, so I saw them less often. Almost never. One time, man, ONE TIME that Sara sent Matt to my city apartment to pick up her iPad, and no biggie, man, right?
And yet thirty seconds after he was inside, his sweatpants were around his ankles, my mouth was on his cock, and his load was squirting down my throat.
Never again, I swore. No more. I couldn’t. I can’t. And didn’t. For at least a few more months.
Sara’s eight and a half months pregnant, and when Matt knocked on my door, I did everything I could to scare him away.
He opened a beer and plopped down on the couch. One beer became two, then four.
It was getting late. “Let yourself out, Matty. I gotta get ready for work.”
I got into the bathtub, lit a candle, tried to let that nervous energy dissipate. I could hear the door open, Matt’s footsteps shuffling in.
He stood above me, his handsome, bearded face smiling down at me. His hand was resting on his bulge.
“I’m not rushing, Matt. No thirty second blast off. No drunken fumbling. You want something from me, I want it all. You understand what I’m saying?”
Matt nodded. He unzipped, his pants and underwear falling to his knees as that fuckin’ majestic dick of his tumbled out.
He smiled at me again. My dick got rock hard, my hole twitched. Dude was a magician, for sure, and he had me. Again.
“Make sure you get that hole squeaky clean, baby. Make it clean so I can make it sticky.”