by Pfantazm

Author's Note: I'm no counselor, and I don't pretend to understand the complex issues involved in what I'm taking on here completely, but I do have some experience with it, and I like to think I have common sense. This story is not real, and never was.

If you want to write me about this story, or anything else, you can send me mail at pfantazm a) gmail · com . You can also visit my website, http://www.pridesites.com/pfantazm/index.html or visit me in either of Nifty's two main chat rooms. I tend to show up there quite a lot.

Even if you are into the whole nudity and nature thing, it doesn't apply to shoes, hats, watches, jewelry, glasses, . . . Well, heck, with all that, you're practically still dressed anyway. It also doesn't apply to condoms either. Using them is safer. And remember to put sunscreen on those bits that don't usually see daylight when you're not having sex.

	So, I'm back a few days later and once again I hear the shower running. Since I lost my shorts after my encounter with Greg, I didn't bother putting anything on when I came to my "bunker". Just shoes and a towel over my shoulder. I stop in the doorway when I hear the water going, and my dick starts to plump up, thinking that it might be him again. Like I said before, the kid wasn't really my type. On the other hand, after we did what we did, there was what you'd call an emotional investment there. You don't know whether you like Brussels sprouts until you try them. For all Greg's gawkiness and lack of honesty with himself, once he got it in gear, he dove into sex with a kind of exuberance that I wished all my partners had had. I take my usual place in the doorway to wait, and sure enough, it's him again. He notices someone else in the room and he looks up. He's already wet this time, and he looks at me kinda sideways, like he's not so happy to see me. "Roger--" he says, like he's trying to figure out how to tell me he just ran over my kitten. I step into the shower room toward him. "What is it, Greg?" I ask. I hear a bare foot against tile, and my Spidey-sense starts tingling. "That's Gregory!" Suddenly there's this other guy blindsiding me and knocking us both to the floor. He must have been hiding in the restroom half of the building. I tumble to the ground on my side and bang my elbow painfully on the concrete-hard floor. My attacker is on top of me and is trying to roll me over onto my front. In one of those funny moments I notice Greg's feet have retreated into the corner of the room. At last I recover and start trying to peel this guy off me. I try to get on top of him so I can squash him into the floor until he sees the reason of not trying to hit me anymore. He looks like an older, fairer-haired version of Greg, really, and he had the same slight build, meaning that I outweighed him by fifty pounds or so. In a rasslin' match, he was not going to take me unless he had something else on me, some kind of concealed weapon. On the other hand, I could feel his unconcealed weapon, hard and hot against my leg as we grappled. In this moment, I registered that none of the three of us was wearing any clothing. It'd be a few more seconds before it would register with me that this was an unusual state of affairs, even in the showers, if the whole point was to jump me. I make the mistake of only toying with this new guy, instead of just cleaning his clock and being done with it. He'd leap at me, trying to get me under his control with some kind of hold under the spray of the water, and not having the strength to hold it. I'd grab him bodily and throw him off me onto his ass, and he'd come right back at me like it was nothing. We must have danced like that for about five or ten minutes when I found out that he had no trouble fighting dirty. His shin contacted places on my person where a gentleman simply never hits. I saw flashing lights and felt my body curl up instinctively to keep that from happening again. Next thing I know I'm on my stomach with him on top of me. "You fuckin' bastard!" he yells as he punches me (not that hard) in the side. "What the fuck did you think you were doing touching my little brother?! Throwing his underwear away?" "Arthur--" Greg says, trying to interrupt. "He's just a fuckin' kid, you sick pervert, and you are never gonna do that to him again, you understand?" "Now listen here," I begin. He punches me in the ribs again. "You pig! I'm gonna teach you a fuckin' lesson." He moves around on top of me. I'm still recovering, and while I try to figure out what in hell is going on, I feel Arthur's hard-on knocking at my back door. I have a quick decision to make. I could have simply thrown him off me and calmly asked him where he got the idea that I'd raped his kid brother as I stood on his neck, but I would rather not have to fight Arthur just because he was being stupidly wrong. He was angry right then, and he simply wasn't going to listen. It wasn't like I'd never been fucked before. I'd enjoyed it, and quite frequently. If young Arthur felt he needed to take out his aggressions on me with his cock in my ass, I could learn to adjust. And he'd pay for racking me at some later date. On the other hand, I wasn't really meant to enjoy this experience, and Artie was trying to enter me without lube or foreplay. It was going to hurt, but I was a big boy now. I grit my teeth and push out so he can push in. When he finally does break through, he thrusts home all the way in, as far as he can get at the angle he's at. I bark out a syllable of agony as he pierces through my muscles. "Arthur, stop it! This isn't right!" "You stay out of this, Gregory. I'm trying to protect you. No other guy's gonna touch you like that. We're better than that. We're not fuckin' queers, you got me?" And yet, Arthur was hard since before he barrelled into me. He knew what kind of revenge he had in mind for me, and the idea of fucking me obviously wasn't disgusting him the way it really ought to have been if he wasn't a fuckin' queer. Self-delusion runs deep in this family. While he's bantering back and forth with his brother Artie isn't moving around in me much and the initial sharp pain of penetration goes down to a dull throb. I'm thinking, this isn't going to be so bad. Artie starts into me. He stabs at my ass with his cock and has one arm around my neck, like he knows he has to keep me under control or I'll turn on him. He mutters in my ear, "Yeah, asshole, take my cock. You like it, don't you, fag, my dick so far up your ass . . . ." He knees my legs farther apart and this lets him enter me a little bit deeper. It feels like his cock is pretty long and thick. I could probably really be enjoying this if I thought he'd let me play too. Instead he fucks my ass in quick, darting strokes, not really in it for his own pleasure either. I'm soft, and I'm definitely not going to cum like this. Maybe he won't either. It's not the point. I'm supposed to be punished. The "humiliation" of being topped is supposed to shame me. So some other guy has been touching Greg without his being 100% behind it. When he'd first said it, I'd thought for a minute that it was Artie there, but he's too protective, I think, to be the one. Artie is pretty sure Greg was hurt by the mystery man. Artie might be hypocritical enough to prove how gay he isn't by fucking my ass, but that's carrying it a little far. Arthur, not satisfied by our performance, I guess, gets up off me a bit and onto his arms. This changes his angle and now he's thrusting deep into me. It makes me think he has done this before, 'cause now it's feeling a lot better. Both Artie and his brother have some real potential to be hot guys if only they'd take the blinders off. His nice thick prick is touching me in all the right places, and I can feel my balls tingle. He might just fuck me into being hard if he keeps that up. He's jabbing my prostate just right. I let out a moan. Greg panics. "Arthur, stop it! I told you, that wasn't what happened." "Why the hell are you defending him?" Artie pants, each stressed syllable matching one massive shove of his hips. "He's a fag and he shouldn't be touching you." "Artie, what you're doing isn't any better than what Dad did to us! It doesn't do anything but make it worse." A chill passes over my heart when I hear those words. That's that mystery solved. Arthur stops while he's all the way inside me. "You better not have said what I think you said." Gregory comes around in front of us both, and kneeled down to where I can see his face. "I wanted to be with Roger. He helped me see through the bullshit, Arthur. It wasn't like it was with Dad. He didn't force me. I didn't have to do anything, and I didn't do anything that I didn't want to do. Doing this to him . . . it isn't right." "Arthur," I say, "I don't know what your father did to you--" Arthur smacks my head. "Stay out of this. It doesn't concern you," he snarls. "You are judged by the choices you make," I go on. "What are you doing right now?" "I told you, fag, shut up!" I catch Greg's eye. I look over to where my towel fell when Arthur first levelled me. I had taken to bringing a small tube of KY with me, ever the optimist that something might happen in the showers again whether with Greg or someone else. I held out my index and middle fingers. Two. Two options. With the lull in conversation, Artie goes back to plugging my ass with angry, powerful thrusts. All my attention is on Greg, watching to see if he gets what I'm trying to tell him. I notice that his cock is hard and actually dripping. Greg goes over and retrieves the lube. He's figured it out. Artie's hands are braced on either side of me. I grab his wrists with my hands and yank them forward. He collapses onto my back with a grunt. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks. I rear up on all fours - his hands and my knees. "I'm gonna show you what being a fag is really about, seeing as how I think you are one." "Shut the hell up. And let go of me!" I keep a firm grip on him, and start moving my hips a little, moving his cock in and out of me a bit. On top of that I start milking his cock with my ass. Artie groans. He may not be sure what I'm doing, but he goes with it. He starts having sex with me, rather than just fucking me. "Ungghhh . . . Gregory, what--?" I imagine little Greg fingering his brother's hole. "Shit, Gregory . . . . I told you, I don't want us to do that anymore. We're-- ohhh! We're not fags like Dad." "I think you're wrong. I know that I like guys. I think you still do too, and I think you're going to like doing this again. And it's `Greg', not `Gregory'." I feel Greg move into position behind Arthur. His hands go to my sides. "Please, Gregory, get off me," Arthur pleads. The commanding tone in his voice is gone. "I'm not going to!" "I won't make you, Arthur. Roger will let you go. I know he will. But you have to tell me that those nights we spent together as kids, trying to make ourselves better, having sex with each other, you gotta tell me that you didn't like those either." I can feel Greg thrusting against us, and I can only guess that he's rubbing his cock against Artie's ass. I think I feel Artie crying on my back, but it might just be the shower. "It can be good again," Greg whispers. "We can make it good. We can get past him. The way I see it, we've got two options. We can let him control us for the rest of our lives, or we can say fuck him, and do what we want to do in spite of him." I smile wide, not that anyone can see it. I feel Arthur moving back. He gasps and shudders. His cock twitches inside me. Slowly at first, they start to move together, Greg making love to his brother. This moment is for Arthur. I let go of his wrists and put my weight onto my own hands. Artie clutches my torso to rest his hands, holding on for dear life. By now, Greg and Arthur are up to speed. I let the slow, undulating motion of Greg's baton conduct our trio, and I build up to the tempo of the piece. I rock gently back against Artie's hips. All of the violent anger was gone now. Things are quieter. I wish that I can get some kind of a read on how the brothers are doing, but until then, I just do my job on the bottom. Arthur isn't having to do very much. Greg and I are doing all the work, giving him all the pleasure, and taking whatever we can get for ourselves at the same time. Our centre, our focus, just vocalizes his feelings as we love his body. He claws my furry chest with his fingertips, occasionally brushing against what will soon be bruises. I wince, but I don't really mind. His breathing is heavy in my ear. I turn my head to face him as much as possible. I draw his cock into my body and hope that it will help him somehow. This beautiful thing that we're doing, this sharing, this giving, has been made ugly for him. I can't even see his face. His body changes. He grips me tighter in his arms, pulling himself closer against me, and he releases his cum into me. He gasps, like he's been holding his breath and needs air. His voice sounds strangled as he grunts, and his seed jets into me again and again. I balance myself on one hand and hug his arms to me with mine. At that moment, Greg collapses onto our stack. My hand loses all traction and we drop to the floor. Arthur's arms are trapped under me, and he pulls them free. He wants up. By the time I've got it together, Artie is dressed enough to leave the bunker and Greg is calling for him to come back. When he comes back, I'm soaping up. I'm not staring at him. He has my position in the doorway, his arms crossed in front of him. "It started when Arthur was six," he tells me. "Mom worked nights--" "You don't have to tell me anything, you know. He's right. It isn't any of my business, no matter what you two have done with me." "I know. I just need to tell someone." He comes over and joins me under the water. "He didn't want to marry Mom. He blamed Arthur for trapping him there." He paused for a long time. "He . . . started with me when I was five. Arthur reported him at school and he was arrested. After that, Mom couldn't make enough money to keep us, and we were put into foster care." I made a face, I guess. I'd heard stories about what could go on in foster homes. "No, not like that. Pretty much the opposite. It was a very strict home. Religious. They caught us one night together, you know, having sex. They threatened to separate us." I nodded. Now Greg looks like he's on the verge of tears. He seems small, like anything could break him. I don't know whether to touch him now, knowing what I know. "Roger, please don't back away from me." Greg puts his arm around me. "Do you have any idea what it's like, wanting to do all this, and being made to feel like it's something bad? Something to feel guilty about? What our father did to us was terrible, and it messed us up, but I think what our foster parents did to us was worse." I think about it. This is a kid who's going to have questions about things he'd already done. You couldn't really tell him that the stork brought babies or anything. There was no protecting him now. His innocence was already gone. How do you handle it if he finds that he wants to do those things again? I put my arms around him. He lays his head against my chest. "Where is your father now?" "Died in prison. Child molesters aren't the most popular convicts." "Don't know if I should be, but I'm sorry about that." "It's fine. He was still my dad." "Do you think Arthur's going to be alright?" "I think so. I'm sure he's just gone back to our camp. He gets so angry sometimes." Greg looks up at me. "You're really a nice guy to be concerned for him after what he did to you." I half-shrug. "He still needs something. I know that he didn't attack me because he hates me or anything. He did it because he's hurt and scared." "I tried telling him what happened, but he wouldn't listen." I look down at him, wondering about the one piece of all of this that didn't quite fit, still. "Why did you decide to tell him anything at all?" "Arthur noticed that I came back to camp without my underwear. He wanted to know what happened to it." "Of course," I say, grinning. "I haven't worn any since." Greg reaches back and grips my ass. "You haven't cum yet!" "Enh," says I. "I don't need to right now. You, on the other hand, should go see about your brother. I think he needs you right now." Greg hugs me close one last time, then steps back from the shower. "You're probably right. I should go." If I'm not mistaken, he looks disappointed. "I'll see you around, I hope." He starts to leave. "One last thing, Greg. You okay?" He pauses in the doorway. "Yeah. Why?" "I don't mean right now," I say. "I mean, are you okay?" He smiles faintly. "Yeah, I think so. Pretty much. Thanks." And like that, he's gone. I turn back to my shower and wonder what the hell I've got myself into with these two kids. I try not to think about the implications. Something else is bothering me. Finally, it hits me. Greg's underwear, if it was thin enough, like cotton boxers, just might be carried away on the wind if it was strong enough and it caught them just right. My cutoffs were heavy denim and weighed, what, half a pound? If they didn't tumble off the bunker roof and onto the antlers of a passing deer, where did they go?

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