Brother Bull

Warning: this story contains noncon, sex between half-brothers, bestiality with an animal fucking a man, adultery and watersports.

`Is he quiet?' asked the artist, as a young bull with a curly red coat came inquiringly towards them.

`He's playful at times,' said Tom. Clover Fairy was vigorous, shapely, and healthy, like Tom and had thick curly red hair, also like Tom.

Laurence had hair so gleaming black it looked wet, waving down to a fringe that dripped across forehead to his ear, crimped like a piecrust. His eyes were a brindled blue-green like algæ-afflicted ponds, or copper coins verdigrised by the sea. His skin was never drier than dewy and the less said about the plush pink pillows of his lips the better, especially if one was in public and did not have a tactical issue of The Farmers Weekly to hand.

All in all, wet was the word for him, and Tom had often thought so, even if he had not said it.

When he had watched his half-brother pick his way delicately up the road toward the farmhouse, swishing his arms back and forth every so often, a red flag fluttered inside his skull and he took a step forward.

But then he caught himself, and reached into his trousers and gripped his cock, hard, to calm himself.

It was the surest method to soothe him when he got agitated, as his nurse had discovered when he was six. He wasn't shy about doing it; there was no one to see him apart from the animals and they were hardly in a position to comment.

Of course, when in company of the homo sapiens, the simple reflex of taking himself in hand had a potential to get out of hand, as he'd learnt several times, to his disrepute among the neighbours.

Tilly wouldn't have noticed if he frigged himself to completion in front of her and splashed it in her tea. But on the rare occasions when they went into town or other people's houses...there had been some awkward incidents then. Several of the neighbouring farmer's wives nurtured fond fears he was a dangerous sexual maniac, feverish with lust for them and several had even taken to inducing minor ailments or injuries in their own livestock so they might have a pretext for soliciting his advice (in-person) when their husbands were away. Tom always sent a man, or ignored them, according to his whim. His wife was the only woman he had ever been able to tolerate. Which, as he had told her on their wedding night, was why he married her.

Tom found himself holding his cock pretty much continually when Laurence was about. He'd worn his corduroy plus eights with the pockets slit through for just this reason. The low-slung crutch was needed to accommodate his hand around his six soft thick inches of meat (which exactly doubled when hard), which hung heavily straight down into it, swinging about as he strode briskly over his small well-ordered domain, clobbering pleasantly against his thighs. He had never worn underpants since his fourteenth year, for he found them less than accommodating for one of his proportions. But these were just right. The head scratched against the seam as he walked, sending little shivers of pleasure up his length to pool at the root.

When his older half-brother finally reached the farmhouse (a little out of breath, Tom noted with contempt), Tom greeted him with an arming smile, of which Laurence appeared to take no notice.

He did have to take his hand out of, or rather through, his pocket to shake Laurence's. His half-brother's hand was slim and soft as a mink mitten and as Tom shook it in his much larger appendage, he found himself strangely stirred by the thought that the hand Laurence was shaking had just been cradling his sweaty cock and bollocks.

Afterwards Laurence leant up (standing on tiptoe, Tom noticed with that same queer feeling as when he'd watched him coming up the drive) stretching himself up Tom's solid unmoving bulk to speck a little moist kiss at the corner of his mouth.

A Continental affectation. Something he'd picked up (among worse things, no doubt) from his unspeakable 'artist' friends. Tom did not return it, but did not refuse it either. He made no motion at all, but when Laurence settled primly back on his feet and blinked up at him through stupidly long and thick lashes, looking as feminine and flimsy a bit of tartspume as had ever spunked out of an English university, Tom felt an irrepressible urge swelling and stiffening within him, a mounting desire to knock him down and watch him get up and knock him down again, and again and again, to do it over and over, harder and harder each time. As much as Tom disliked him, Laurence had never made him feel this way before. But he'd never been this insufferable before.

What the Beelzebub did he mean by it, looking and behaving like this? Tom was profoundly thankful, and not for the first time, that Laurence was only his half-brother, and all his queerness could be safely attributed to his departed mother, whom, Tom had been able to gather from the overheard jests of servants and the pursed-lipped insinuations of aunts, he resembled in more points than appearance.

He swivelled abruptly on his heel, knocking Laurence out of the way with the flying buttress of his broad shoulder (almost knocking him on his pert little rump, Tom observed out of the corner of his eye), but pretending not to notice.

Laurence wobbled back to his feet, brushing himself down with shapely, unblemished hands that Tom grudgingly allowed might be proper on an artist, but not on any half-brother of his. Girl's hands, their father had always called them. Whore's hands was more like it. The sort you couldn't see without picturing them wrapped around a hard, thick cock.

Tom reached reflexively into his pocket, but jerked it out again with a scarcely-suppressed oath. He looked blackly over his shoulder at Laurence, who had been forced into a kind of canter to catch up to Tom's long strides.

His shirt-collar was loose and open to the fourth or fifth button, so you could see his collarbone and several startling inches of white hairless chest, and Tom would swear you could sometimes see the little brown button of a nipple. Not that he'd been paying close attention, of course.

His clothes were of course an outrage (and Tom prayed for good cloud cover to shield their dear departed father's eyes from the parrot-coloured creature that was mincing over his land), but they also made Tom self-conscious. Not in the sense that he wanted to wear Laurence's clothes—the very thought, let alone the image, was ludicrous. But they made him want to take his own off. Or rip them off, rather. He felt hot and restless inside them. Confined, sort of. His trousers didn't feel so loose in the crotch anymore. Indeed, his tarse felt positively crammed into them, hot and pulsing as if at any moment it might burst through the sturdy material. It was inexplicable, but he knew Laurence was in some ineffable way responsible. Of that he had no doubt.

So they proceeded on their tour, Tom grunting and muttering and glowering and Laurence alternately sighing at shrubbery or the sky and fussing over his clothes and hair.

He was very careful of that crinkly crimped fringe of his, and he raised his hand automatically every minute or so to smooth at it, as if to reassure himself it hadn't come undone. And if they should encounter such an unforeseen horror as a cowpat, he picked his tight, bum-hugging trousers up by the knees, as daintily as any bustle-skirted Victorian debutante lifted the hem of her dress when sweeping downstairs.

When they came to the first fence, it emerged that Laurence was as competent with stiles as Tom was with styles, and so Tom had to bodily lift him over them, noticing as he did so, with astonishment and something like unease, how light he was. It was incredible now to remember the time when Laurence had been not only his older but his bigger brother and Tom had wondered if he'd ever be as tall as him. Now, if he had the inclination, he could fold him right over the fence like a napkin over a waiter's arm, and hold him there with one hand and...

And do what? Tom mused to himself. What had he been thinking of? His prick shifted guiltily in his trousers.

Down, old boy. Not the time or the place. Or the face, though God knows, as He made it, it's womanish enough. Christ, if I met him on a road one dark night, I wouldn't half--

Half-brother, came the chastening thought, and for the moment the double barriers of blood and sex succeeded in restraining his murderous lust.

And now they were standing side by side in the bull-pen. And Laurence had just undermined, in one frivolous sweep of his mocking tongue, the foundation of Tom's entire livelihood. It was too much.

Tom needed badly to grab his cock again, but suddenly, unaccountably it was once again quite stiff, and holding it would have only made it stiffer, as well as drawing attention.

And be damned to it. Let him see, and we'll see what he does with it.

Tom faced squarely towards Laurence so as to display his hornwork, the fat prong that was pushing out the front of his plus eights to a distension of some inches, pushing out little translucent dribbles that sprinkled the grass like dew.

Look at it, you swanking danderling.

He waited for the eyes to drop, then widen, for the satiny lips to part; waited for the girlish gasp and the feminine hand clutched to the breast, the horrified swoon. At least one of the Helsery's live stock would make him take notice. With any luck, which could be aided if needs be by some vigorous flexing action, he'd faint into a cowpat.

But Laurence was sighing limpidly at some anæmic clouds that had passed over the sun and did not look down.

Tom wanted him to look down. He could not have said why, except that he did not know, but wanted to know, wanted to see, how Laurence would look when he saw it.

But Laurence only speculatively traced the flight of a wild goose, popped his cheek (a sound that once more put Tom in mind of hard pulsing pricks and Laurence's wide wet mouth pulling off them) and said, `Well, I think, if this is all there is to see, I'll be off.'

He turned languidly on his heel, as he did so swinging in a saucy arc that taut yet ample posterior that was so suffocatingly confined in his shiny crocodile-coloured trousers. And that same red flag hoisted its maddening colours in Tom's brain.

`Like your slut of a mother.'

Laurence's shoulders went rigid. For a moment he stood still, neither moving nor speaking. Then, rather than turn around, he started to walk with swift vehement steps to the gate.

`Aye, that's it. Flounce away, just like she did. Cunt.' He did not know as he spoke whether he meant this anatomical appellation for Laurence's late unlamented mother or her living but much-lamented son. In the moment either seemed apt.

`Father was a fool for letting her go. He should have put reins on her tits and a bridle on her cunt and kept her chained naked to the kitchen table. Jism for breakfast and piss for supper. A cocking at dawn and a thrashing before bed. I would've. I always said I wouldn't make the same mistake. And I won't.' He didn't know why he was talking this way, only that it felt good, felt almost like fucking, to finally release everything he'd kept corked up all these years in one hot, copious volley. His prick hardened and pulsed with every burning epithet he ejaculated.

At last, just as he reached the gate, Laurence turned around. His cream-and-arsenic complection was crimson. He drew his insubstantial bulk up into one vibrating point of fury and said, with a dignity that surprised Tom, coming from his half-brother, but did not in the least deter him, `I shall never come here again.'

Not the ties of family, which had long been frayed, nor of friendship, which had never been formed, nor all the terrors of law or hell, which had never seemed more distant, could have deterred Tom in that moment. His mind was one vast red sea. He covered the enclosure in three swift strides while Laurence struggled futilely with the gate.

`Like hell you're leaving. Like hell. Over my stiff cock you are.'

He seized Laurence, who had just managed to master the latch, and bent him over the gate with ease, holding him with one hand in the small of his back, above his narrow waist, jamming him down on the wooden cross-bar.

Laurence's shimmery green trousers shimmied down his legs with remarkable ease, once Tom had got them over the steep rounded hills of his arse. These burst up out of their tight confines with an audible pop and a jiggle that made Tom's mouth go dry. He needed to be in there. He needed those soft meat-pillows cushioning his cock. He didn't bother pulling his older brother's trousers past the knees—the better to hobble his legs and stop him getting any funny ideas about getting away before Tom had clapped those pale cheeks purple. Christ, he'd never been so turned-on in his life.

Laurence was shivering and panting beneath his hand like some caught wild thing, and Tom was overwhelmed with a fierce mix of desires: to soothe and gentle and comfort it—with his prick, and to brutalise and punish and ruin it, also with the aforementioned organ, which was now so ferociously engorged and aroused it was jerking in his trousers and shooting out ropes of clear preseminal fluid all across Laurence's buttocks and thighs.

Laurence, having now some inkling of what fearsome shape his younger half-brother's fury had taken, cursed and kicked at him, and attempted to squirm out of his grip. All this only served to further illustrate—an illustration that was hardly required, but was certainly gratifying to the junior sibling's boiling lust—just how great was the physical disparity between artist and farmer. Tom could hold him in place with one hand and with the other reach into his plus-eights.

`You little beast, what in God's name are you doing? Let me go!' This last directive came out in a high petulant growl of frustration, like that of a child. Tom did not release his brother. Instead, he released his prick. He unbuttoned his trousers and his erection burst out, ferociously engorged and eager for action, and thwapped into Laurence's quivering bottom with a smack that resounded through the yard. Laurence made a frightened inhalation and went still. Tom grinned a tigerish grin and bent down till his mouth was at Laurence's ear and his arse-opener was grinding up his back, basting his spine with its gelatinous juices.

`Who the Devil are you trying to fool?' he said in a fierce whisper. `Did you think I never saw them, those filthy little pictures you'd scribble any place you could find? They gave me your bedroom after you left. I found all of them. "Animal painter"—pah! Even as a sprat you were chafing to be twatted, weren't you? Mad for cock. Disgusting little sodomant you were, I bet it's all you thought about, all you dreamt of.' He pulled back and took his length in hand and drubbed it smartly across Laurence's smooth buttocks, making them quiver. `But here's the real thing.'

`Oh God, you're mad. You're bloody mad. You can't mean to—'

All his breath was once again sucked up in one enormous gasp, as Tom jabbed his bell-end at Laurence's rosy ring.

Laurence attempted one last desperate ploy, the invocation of nature's oldest taboo. `Tom, I'm your brother.'

`I know', Tom breathed blissfully and shoved forward.

Tom was no hardened bunghole basher, but he was hard enough. He knew these things could be done at a pinch, if one applied plenty of spit and finger. Tom opted for brute force. It took a lot of huffing and puffing, a lot of shoving and a lot of moaning and pleading from Laurence. There was blood on his balls before he was done. But he got his cock in. All the way in, to his little red curly hairs.

It was the best thing he'd ever felt. Beer, tobacco, a hearty roast dinner, even caulking women didn't hold so much as a wan rushlight to the dry tightness, and clenching vibrations and heat. It was like Laurence's bunghole was trying to sear his twizzler clean off. But it was still there, and still as throbbing hard as ever.

And now he needed to move.

It was difficult, at first, to withdraw, his half-brother soft little man-cunny clutched him so tight. And almost as hard to plunge back in. But in time it became easier, he could move faster, fuck harder, Laurence's innards no match for the blunt weapon of his firm bruising flesh. Laurence had almost completely stopped struggling now. He hung limp off his younger brother's cock, emitting only moans so miserable and pathetic that even Tom, had he not been up to his knobblers in his arse, would have taken pity on him.

But Tom was entirely lost in the bliss of absolute erotic domination. Not even five stout men could have dragged him out of his half-brother's velveteen arsecunt in that moment. He felt he could fuck forever.

Laurence's trembling fingers still held the latch, and Tom found the open gate a convenient kind of swing, on which he could haul his brother on and off and his prinker using only his arms. Every time he thrust in it opened and every time he pulled back it slammed shut and the bell rang. The tinkling of the bell somehow enraged him further, egged him in deeper. Deep blue bruises were forming where his fingers clutched his half-brother's waist and Laurence's delicate ivory buttocks were now a feverish scarlet where they were repeatedly smacked by Tom's hips.

He went on at ramming speed, eternity compressed into one glorious minute, until his climax came over him in a rush of stomach-clenching, leg-loosening pleasure, and of hot frothy sperm, up through his dilated pisshole into his brother's passage. Tom drove his cock in to the hilt, till his balls were crammed into the slick canyon of Laurence's arse, leaning over him, covering him with his thickset frame, emptying himself deep, deep, as deep as he could get, in Laurence's guts. It was like pissing molten silver, like shooting his liquefied innards out through his prick; he was left light-headed and breathless. Laurence was left very sore and very, very full.

Tom's prick popped out like a cork from a bottle, chased by a burst of come that washed over the bell-end in a milky wave that was, he thought, rather artistic. It was like Laurence's arse just puked up come all over his cock. It was without doubt the most erotically filthy thing he'd seen since he found Laurence's book of sketches under the mattress—until he raised his gaze by an inch and saw the red obliterated ruin of his half-brother's anus.

A sanguine Saturnine ring of swollen puckered flesh, helplessly weeping oozy blood-stained sperm as it flexed in and out, trying to close, to restore itself, but unable to swallow up the vast space Tom's lordly prick had gouged out inside him.

He rested his knob, while it spat out the last wads of his milk, in the small divot above Laurence's bumcheeks, which looked, now he'd fucked it, almost like an abortive second arse the Great Designer had forgotten to follow through with. Good thing He hadn't, or Tom would have needed two cocks just to properly stuff the bitch. As his orgasm faded, Tom's vision slowly opened out to take in the whole picture: the slender, pale body, blushing delectably with bruises and flaming fingermarks, which could have been a marble of some God-ravished Grecian maid, except, Tom realised, now the roaring in his ears had faded, it was shaking with silent sobs.

Without putting his still semi-erect organ away, he picked Laurence up. For a moment he felt the sniffling form stiffen, then, rather than lash out or shrink away, it curled into his arms and clung to his chest, seeking comfort from the cruel deity that had just destroyed it. And was about to destroy it again. He felt a rush of satisfaction from cradling his big brother in his arms like this, feeling him helpless and vulnerable, instinctively turning to him for safety even as his ravaged arse bled from the violent intrusion of Tom's masterful cock. He even felt a twinge of what might have been remorse. But his lust for vengeance was very far from sated. He let his brother relax for one moment, let his sleek thighs stroke ruddy flesh of his prong. Then he tossed him onto the hay-covered dirt of the yard, at the cloven feet of the bull.

Clover Fairy had been standing quite patiently, watching the novel scene, and apparently enjoying it, if the long bovine penis that was bobbing under this belly was any yardstick.

Laurence raised himself on a weak arm, swiped at his tear-tracked cheeks and sadly disarrayed fringe, and looked fearfully up at his big little brother.

`Now go do him', Tom ordered, still slightly breathless from what had been the most thunderous climax of his narrow but vigorous sexual career. `He deserves it; after all, he's the one you insulted.'

`You want me to—'

`Touch his cock, you bleeding nancy. Make him spunk. Don't dare tell me you don't know how.'

`I don't believe this. You can't mean—'

`Touch it, or I'll knock your head in', Tom grunted, hefting his cudgel—that is, the one he carried at his belt, not under it, though from its size and firmness the latter might have served just as well.

Laurence's red mouth formed into a trembling pout. It just made Tom want to fuck it.

Seeing from Tom's gloating eyes and still rampant member that it was not sympathy that would be coming from that quarter, Laurence shuddered and resigned himself to being no longer an animal painter, but an animal prostitute. He crawled on his hands and knees across the yard, dripping hot tears and occasionally lukewarm sperm onto the straw.

The mounds of his arse gently wobbled together, making little moist smacks like kisses, releasing driblets of come from the inflamed pink eye that now and then blinked out from between them. Tom followed, prick in hand, and gave him a helpful kick between the buttocks whenever he stopped.

He made Tom crawl all the way under the bull. Clover Fairy stood quite still, puffing a little from excitement, until he was looking the bull's cock straight in its single weeping eye.

`Put your mouth on it', Tom said, his breath coming out in an eager rush. He felt almost dizzy. Not even in Laurence's dirty schoolboy sketchbook had there been anything as wicked as this. He felt about to spend from the sight alone, even without touching himself.

And Laurence, after one miserable look at him, and the cudgel he hefted, obeyed.

Contrary to what most townies would have expected, at least those of them who had given some thought to the dimensions of a bull's penis, the weapon Clover Fairy had slung beneath his undercarriage was relatively thin (at least compared to the rest of him) but very, very long. But Tom would be damned to a cuntless heaven before he'd let Laurence get away without taking it all down to the root.

Laurence did his best. Snuffling up hot tears of humiliation, he took Clover Fairy's belly-wiper between those rose-petal lips which had only minutes before dripped condescension, and swallowed it. Or as much of it as he could. Tom could see his throat working, trying not to gag; could see how Fairy's inhumanly-long pole made, just above his Adam's apple, an obvious bulge, big enough to be called Adam's peach. Tom grasped himself by the balls, and with effort held back another spermatic eruption.

Laurence attempted to swallow Clover Fairy's sword for a minute or so, with the incentive of Tom's cudgel tapping at his arse. Then he was forced to pull away, coughing and spluttering in a manner that under ordinary circumstances hailed the imminent arrival of death. But, spurred on by Tom's hand tightly fisted in his black locks, which were now quite beyond retrieval, he bent down to the bull's cock once more, and in-between little squeals of mortified but impotent rage, gummed the narrow shaft with all the ardour of a senile pensioner presented with his third daily plate of prunes.

Impatient, Tom dropped his cudgel and squatted down beside his half-brother, taking him in his arms once more and turning him arse-about, so his tail was presented to Clover Fairy's twacker.

Now the bull took the initiative, rutting forward and prodding Laurence—not quite in the arse, but too close, for at least his comfort. This renewed and more terrible assault surprised the poor artist into a surprisingly vigorous struggle, emitting at the same time a veritable aria of screams and expletives, dropping occasionally into moaning pleas, soaring now and then into hoarse squeaks. `You mad bloody fool, it won't wor—ahh-hahh! Oh, God, get him away from me, please. Christ, it hurts. I can't take it; he'll split me in two, he'll kill me. Tom, darling, I'll do anything else, please, I—hoourrhhghh.'

Tom pulled Laurence into his lap, incidentally, and enjoyably, plugging his mouth with his prick, clutching his head between his stout thighs to hold him still while he reached up over his body to direct the beast's tizzle to its intended harbour.

The strange tapering tip touched home between the hills of Laurence's rump, and sank in. Tom felt Laurence's whole body tremble under his, felt frantic, moaning breaths wash over his dibble, his throat twitch paroxseismically around his shaft. Tom dropped a wad of spit onto his brother's back in lieu of a kiss and said, `Come on, Fairy. In you get. Don't be shy, now. He's a queer shape for a heifer, I know, and a deal smaller than you're used to, but I've wet his cunt for you, and even so it's snugger than any you've had, I'll wager. He'll squirm and scream a bit, but don't let that spook you. I've got him well in hand.' He slid his other hand down to give one of Laurence's nipples a sharp twist.

The bull needed no further invitation.

Consent, care, caution—all these were alien concepts to the bull's animal mind. He plunged in as deep as he could get, and with all the force he could muster, which, given his size and weight, was considerable.

Laurence's poor human hole didn't stand a chance.

The sensations became so overwhelming his mind could only understand them as images. Across the canvas of his brain were splattered the most grisly scenes: bones cracking, sinews splitting, tissue tearing, his heart stopping as the bull pulped his organs with its prick and his brother loaded his lungs with his tarlike spunk. Tom, for his part, felt his older brother as a foot or so of moist rippling flesh, clamped around his cock as he ought to have been from the moment of Tom's birth, worshipping and caressing his member with the softness of a kiss and the rawness of a wound. Sobbing and bleeding around him, penetrated and violated and half-destroyed, and yet still wordlessly begging for more. He saw throbbing pink stars as his brother shrieked and spasmed on his length and he suffered the kind of pre-climax that brought the involuntary emission of seed, but not the satiation of his desire or the softening of his steel-hard tool.

Even as Laurence choked on the volume of his disgorgement, and spewed white froth out around his girth, Tom kept his fingers wrapped around the base of Clover Fairy's tupping-tool to keep it all from going in, justly afraid, with how slight a slip Laurence was, and how frisky the bull was, that something would puncture. After all, he didn't quite want to kill his brother. If only because he planned to fuck him at least a hundred more times.

The bull bashed in, rending Laurence apart on his immense dominating length. As violent as his lunges were, he only got in a few—but that was enough for Clover Fairy, and more than enough for Laurence who by this stage was unspeaking, nearly catatonic.

And it was enough for Tom who found, for the time being, his lust for vengeance was sated.

He carried Laurence away from the immediate vicinity of the bull, who was snorting and spunking in the straw. Tom cradled Laurence in his arms, soothing him and kissing at his hair even as his own cock jerked and sprayed pungent slime all over the both of them.

`Haven't you had a quimful?' he observed admiringly, giving one cheek a rough slap, which made it quaver like blancmange while Laurence moaned and his hole winked and released a thick freshet of cream, still a little tinged with red.

`I wish I could paint that. How much, I wonder, would you fetch at auction? In London they'd pay more for you than for one of your pictures, I'd wager.'

He stretched his pucker wide with his two thumbs, and a pearly bubble of come swelled and popped. He laughed.

`But I wouldn't take you to London. I'd put you in the judging-ring at a cattle show and let the bulls prove their potency on you.'

He pulled back to look at his brother (at some point in the ordeal he found the equivocating `half' had been dropped in his mind). Laurence looked back through bleary eyes, running with tears, blinking through lashes clogged with come.

God, he was wrecked. Nobody who saw him could have doubted for an instant exactly what had happened to him, could have kept from picturing it, down to the last depraved detail. Could have kept from wanting to do the same. Laurence's face told the whole story. It was a sight more obscene than the most pornographic painting.

Tom hawked and spat squarely between Laurence's eyes and watched his foamy silver spittle, in many ways not unlike watery sperm, or the sticky clear fluid that came before, drip down over his nose and pool on his sadly un-stiff upper lip. Tom, however, was more than stiff enough. He shifted his brother closer so he could feel it.

`Now, that is a pretty picture. Gorgeous little sow. I wish I had a horse for you, you prize slut. Next time you come, I will. I'll buy a big randy stallion, just for you. Just for this.' He pinched into his older brother's hole, kneading the hot inflamed rim, making Laurence groan and bite the crook of his elbow.

'And after you've ridden him and he's painted you from head to toe with his jism, you can paint him, paint his horse-cock all shining and dripping with your cunt-wet. I'll make you paint him. Make you sit on my prick while you're doing it.'

It appeared to be the invoking of his artistic calling that finally made Laurence, whose modest length had been at least semi-stiff throughout the majority of the proceedings, come. A puddle of the purest cumuline white spattered the straw.

As if his last reserves of strength had departed him with his sperm, Laurence collapsed against his brother, nerveless and panting. He was completely spent, in all senses; Tom, who had spent all his life handling live things, could tell.

`There, darling.' It was not a word he had used in many, many years, and it tasted rusty in his mouth, yet at the same time it sounded absolutely right, not forced, or peevish or desperate, as it when it came from Tilly.

Tom forced a kiss on him, and force was the word; if Laurence had tried to kiss him, Tom would have slapped him. As it was he pressed his lips and his tongue into Laurence's wet yielding mouth, methodically marking every corner of it with his spittle, tasting the salt leavings of his own spend as he did so, and the strong rank taste of the bull, both of which disgusted him, but also gave him a dirty thrill.

When Tom finished and withdrew, Laurence's mouth hung open, like he wanted more. Tom jabbed his tongue in between his teeth again, then flicked it up over the tip of his nose. `Let's get you inside.'

It was then that Laurence, perhaps roused by his own climax, or stung by the humiliation of having climaxed at all after such an ordeal, made his greatest mistake yet.

He tried to get away.

Dealing Tom an underhanded elbow in the stomach with all the vixen strength he could muster, Laurence staggered to his feet and stumbled (trying overambitiously to pull up his trousers at the same time) across the yard toward the gate, which now stood open.

Tom, wincing, also stumbled upright, casting about for his cudgel. But on this second of Laurence's attempted flights, Clover Fairy was also engaged in his pursuit, and he was faster than Tom.

He moved past Tom in a flurry of snorting speed, like some fleshy locomotive, and barrelled Laurence to the ground before he had made it even halfway to the beckoning aperture of escape.

Before Tom could get to him and bring his cudgel to bear, Fairy had tossed him gaily over his shoulder, jabbed him joyfully in the ribs, and attempted to drop his hindquarters on his face, in what Tom could only suppose was an attempt to resume their earlier intimate connexion.

By the time Tom retrieved the wibbling prostrate jelly of his half-brother, all fight had been finally and lastingly stamped out of him. Only the merest dregs of consciousness flickered behind his peacock eyes as Tom gathered him once more into his arms. `That was foolish, love', Tom said regretfully. `I was going to let you go after that.'

Clover Fairy, sensing that the opportunity for carnage had passed, stood placidly again, only his cock still roused. Tom hoisted Laurence over his shoulder, disregarding the dislocation that his brother's shoulder had suffered at the horn of the bull, and his one or two snapped ribs, as the just penalty for his folly, and stood. Finding that with both hands full of his brother, he had no place to stow his cudgel, he flipped it round easily in one hand and in a smooth relentless motion sheathed the rough handle in his brother's arse up to the bulbous head. Laurence let out a shriek which wavered off into a distraught hiccup.

Tom smacked him cheerfully across the buttocks, jostling the cudgel's length in his guts, making him shrill again, a high note like a piper. And with his brother thus soundly-stuffed, he carried the moaning male bundle back toward the farmhouse.

He'd made it into the back garden before he was overpowered by the need to bull his brother again. It was not in any wise a matter of choice. He had Laurence right there for the mounting, and since he could, he must. He simply had to. His soppy cum-filled arse was right beside his face, for Christ's cunt! Wild horses, probably, could not have stopped him.

He dropped Laurence ungently on the grass, planted his boot on a bumcheek and grasped the head of the cudgel.

`Tom, no—' Laurence gasped, then howled fit to wake the dead, or Tom's wife, who had been dozing in an armchair in the morning-room, just by the window through which she could see her husband hunching over something, seeming to raise and lower himself on top of it with rhythmic, aggressive motions.

And if Tilly FitzBacon-Yorkfield wondered why her husband was apparently doing calisthenics among the daffodils, she made no remark on it when he pushed open the French doors of the morning-room and hauled his brother inside (preceded by a little spurt of sperm across the carpet from Tom's prick, which she also gave no sign of noticing. He trod it in well, just to be sure).

He didn't bother to pull Laurence's trousers up (or even button his own), trusting in the gruffly ejaculated charm words of `Bull—accident—hurt', to cover a multitude of dishevelled habiliments. Likewise the wet grey stains his brother carelessly left on the cream carpet. He had half a whim to drop him on the floor and make him suck them out, but thought that might be straining even Tilly's myopic equanimity a little too far to be safe.

Tom's exposed prick, hanging down to a depth of several substantial inches, though by now, at last, it was almost completely soft, knocked against Laurence's cold bare legs as he carried him hastily across the room. Laurence was quite chilled through, poor wretch, and the sensation was almost as delicious against Tom's cockflesh as the clutching furnace of his arse.

Once Laurence was safely stowed in bed, and Tom's over-exercised organ was finally stowed back in his trousers, he was sorry, both for the injuries, and how rough he'd been using Laurence with them, and would continue to use him. It must have been agony to be fucked with two broken ribs, in particular. Laurence had borne it rather well, considering his delicate constitution. Which was good, since he'd have to bear it a lot more in the days and weeks and God willing months to come.

But at the same time Tom was moderately cheerful; he'd dealt with much worse in his beasts, and needed no veterinary surgeon. There was no danger of any permanent harm, but the injuries were bad enough Laurence would be with them—with Tom— for several months, at least, and for most of them he'd be confined to bed. To be specific, to the guestroom, which was far enough from their bedroom there was no danger of Tilly hearing anything that might disturb her, should Laurence require some nocturnal tending, as, Tom expected, massaging his reawakening cock, he well might.

The shoulder was quick, if for Laurence agonising, work. The ribs would mend on their own, provided Laurence was well cared for, and didn't try to do something foolish, like run away. He'd just have to make sure he put him in the right position­—on his side would probably be best, since the broken ribs were both on the same side, and also Tom could watch how his prick poked out Laurence's flat tummy.

Once the immediate danger of being trampled and/or buggered by a raging bull was past, and his nerves had somewhat recuperated, Laurence mumbled something about a doctor.

`You'll get no doctor', Tom said, firm but gentle, stroking his cheek. `Or do you want to explain the state of your back-end to our good old Doctor Rudgeton?' Laurence moaned and tried to turn away, but Tom held his jaw. `Don't fuss, now. I'll take good care of you, sweet. Ent I your brother?'

And he did take care of him. He brought him all his meals, and administered all necessary medicines. There was also the sponge bath, which he gave Laurence twice, sometimes three times daily. Tom enjoyed the sponge baths. Although after a few weeks Laurence insisted he was able to wash himself and Tom let him use the lavatory on his own, he insisted on still doing this himself. It was the least he could do, he said, after what had happened.

At first he'd kept Laurence in one of Tilly's old nightgowns, taking a positively brutal delight in selecting the laciest and frilliest and pinkest, but now he just let him be naked between the sheets since, as he told his wife when she'd noticed after a week that Laurence wasn't wearing anything, it made less trouble.

Unless, he had suggested savagely when he saw a confused gleam spark in the dim lamps of her eyes, she wished to undress and wash and re-dress him each time herself. Tilly bolted in fright at the thought of undressing a strange man, which, relation by marriage aside, her half-brother-in-law certainly was.

It did make him easier to wash. But mostly easier to fuck. And the idea of Laurence's smooth girlish body lying there bare, shielded only by an inch or so of linen and goosefeathers, completely vulnerable, completely exposed, completely in his power­—just thinking of it made him want to.

He took his time bathing his brother, passing the sponge in slow but firm motions over his pale skin, now deliciously dappled with bruises, bending down now and then to kiss the parts he had just washed, as if to taste whether they were clean.

Between his legs and buttocks naturally required the most attention. Particularly the puffy puckered ring of his arsehole, which always blushed to see him. He naturally spent a long time washing that, stroking it, prodding and pinching it, observing how Laurence went crimson and stiff whenever he went near it (observing with amused delight now his little pricklet went crimson and stiff as well).

Sometimes Tom wondered idly whether he could shove his whole hand in there with the sponge clenched inside it. He was sure he could if he tried. You needed a strong arm to wrangle cattle, and he'd been a champion bowler at school. He was sure, from the way Laurence's lovely little hole fluttered in panic against his fist, that his brother was wondering the same thing, wondering what Tom's arm would feel like punching into its innermost depths, splitting him open till he'd never be right again.

Not that he ever would. Laurence's encounter with the bull (and with the bull between Tom's thighs) had wrought a permanent change in his character, Tom observed, a mild regret mingling with a secret delight. The up-and-coming artist who had once swanked his damnably fuckable arse so cockishly over Tom's fields was now a shy, timid, nerve-wracked thing; a caged starling fluttering away from the cat's rough tongue and spiny member.

Tom moved to scrub behind the smooth bantam eggs of his balls, and Laurence made a fussy noise like a baby and turned a grumpy shoulder and that did it.

Tom let the sponge and his trousers drop to the floor, and lifted up one of Laurence's arse-cheeks, hairless and bouncy and rather sponge-like itself, taking pleasure in seeing how the white flesh dimpled and reddened under his thick, blunt fingers, how his arse-ring dimpled and reddened under the thick, blunt head of his cock. He could hold himself there for minutes, just feeling Laurence warm and whimpering and rippling on him. Sometimes he'd come just from that alone. Of course, that never stopped him from fucking into Laurence and giving him at least two more loads, shoving them deep into his tender core.

He'd waited to start raping Laurence again until the fourth day of his recovery (on the second and third day he'd contented himself with merely rubbing himself off on any part of Laurence he could get at and spunking all over him, and shoving his face down on Tom's cock and clacking his head back and forth between Tom's balls and the headboard, until he was excruciatingly coming into that sopping yet airy, tight yet mobile heat of clenching throat and fluttering tongue and scraping teeth). But when it came down, or rather up, to sodomy, the first week Laurence had screamed, and Tom had been obliged to gag him with whatever was nearest to hand, preferably several of his calloused fingers, since that felt almost like a second penetration. The second week he'd cried when Tom bulled him, and the third he only yelped like puppy and occasionally mewled like a kitten, until Tom smacked him to shut him up, for that was annoying. And now he made no sound at all, except for some moans of the sort that are generally, and accurately, termed 'low and breathy'.

He now, every time without fail (for Tom always checked), came-- sometimes several times over, when Tom had already disburdened his bollocks and could go for a good half-hour. Sometimes it happened without any manual stimulation, just from Tom bashing clumsily at the little nub in his backside which he'd discovered in the second week, and sometimes Laurence frigged his small pizzle furtively but furiously under the sheets. Even when he did this, at the moment of climax he invariably looked over his shoulder at Tom, soft lips quivering, eyes swimming with tears, wearing an outraged accusatory expression as if to say, 'You have done this!' (which of course Tom had). Tom answered these looks with a smirk or a sneer, a slap to the face or a wad of spittle to the eyes, as he felt like it. And it was the damnedest thing, but these—the last two especially—could serve to set Laurence off as well, as if that was what he had needed to get over the edge.

A queer bitch, Tom thought, kneading a taut over-tender nipple between thumb and forefinger until Laurence was sobbing and soaking the pillow. If he'd known how queer, he would have done this a long, long time ago.

He pushed against the shattered rose-window of Laurence's sphincter, which now welcomed him quite readily, and sank into that warm brotherly embrace. From there, on this occasion, he moved but little; barely pulling out at all, keeping his full length embedded in Laurence's moist innards; rocking it back and forth slightly, just enough to produce the stimulating vibrations; using his finger to rub the outline of his todger through Laurence's thin belly, Laurence's own boyish erection chafing against his knuckles as he did so. It took longer to come this way, for both of them, but when they did it was deeper and longer and more satisfying for it.

They lay together, arse to crotch, back to belly while outside the window, under the eaves of the house's thatched roof, birds twittered and flittered among the flowers in the sunlit garden and probably fucked as well and Tom was simply lying there, hard cock buried in his brother's silky bumhole, not a care in the world or a thought in his head except how good it felt to finally be spending time with his dear older brother.

Tom was enjoying this, too. The life of a small farmer was not one overfilled with leisure. But since he had devoted himself to nursing his elder brother, his existence had assumed more languid dimensions. He had time for some of life's rarer pleasures--and indulging in as fine a bit of silken arsecunny as ever a todger had tasted on a quiet Saturday morning certainly counted as that. He felt quite at peace with the world, not only with his own place in it, but, for the first time, with Laurence's. It may have taken a few broken bones and a broken, or at least bruised mind and spirit to accomplish it, but something he had felt was wrong in the world ever since Laurence left had at last been set to rights.

However, even the most languorous of lovers must sooner or later come in his end, and eventually—possibly when he heard his wife's timorous tread through the hallway outside--Tom spilled himself in Laurence's guts with a thunderous groan, while Laurence twitched himself to his own more modest summit.

When he was done, Tom didn't change the sheets, but let him lie in it. He didn't sponge it off his belly, either, but frequently flipped Laurence over to add his own last shots into the gooey mess.

So it happened that Laurence frequently ended his baths dirtier than he had begun them.

'Now, love, give me a kiss.'

Laurence pouted, but didn't refuse. He struggled to raise himself on shaky arms. Tom didn't help him. Finally, effortfully, he was able to press his lips to Tom's. Tom caught his tongue between his teeth, and tickled the tip with his own tongue, then finally released him.

Tom nodded down toward his dangling todger. `Give him a kiss, too.' He chuckled, but he meant it.

For a long moment Laurence stared at him. His eyes and pupils were wide; he looked half-delirious or drunk. Tom might have thought it was just from the pain, had he not felt the same mad headlong passion roaring through his own head and chest.

Then he bent his head, bright liquid eyes never breaking off from his, and pressed a slow wet smooch to the broad sticky head, a kiss that become more when his lips slowly parted to envelop it, almost to the flared corona, the tip of his tongue tickling Tom's pisshole. Then he drew back, pulling off with an audible pop.

It was such an arousing sight that his prick lifted itself up, catching briefly on Laurence's narrow, shapely nose, then sliding up his face to poke at his eye.

Tom exhaled heavily.

`Not again, Tom, please', Laurence murmured, though he did not move away.

They really didn't have time for another full-on fuck, certainly not one as leisurely. But Tom felt he had another quick come-off in him. He brought himself efficiently to his peak, partly with his hand, partly with the smooth skin of Laurence's face, mashing his stalk against it, his spongy lips and slippery tongue.

There was an almost painful pressure and then he was grunting out a load so fierce and thick it burnt his prick coming through. Most men's expenditure declined precipitously through the course of lovemaking, yet this was his largest yet.

That's how much you turn me on, sweet.

A fat glutinous glob drooped over Laurence's eyebrow, making him squint. Christ on a cock, did everything his brother did turn him on?

`Don't—' Tom huffed, `wipe that off. I want to see it still on you when I come back tonight. Or you'll get such a tanning as you'll wish you were back with Fairy. And I'll piss in your tea.'

Laurence's tongue darted up to lap experimentally under his nose. Tom abruptly swivelled on his heel, scattering a spray of semi-solid pearls over his grandmother's Axminster. He couldn't stay to watch that, or he really would be buggering his brother all day.

The only downside to it all was that he spent so much time in the spare bedroom bulling his brother, he quite neglected the farm. But that was all right; he had good lads at the Helsery and a good man over them. For now, this was what was important.

His wife now spoke admiringly of him to the neighbours, and the neighbours, obligingly, spoke in turn to more distant neighbours, of Tom as an unusually devoted younger half-brother. They had, Tom reflected with satisfaction, no fucking idea how right they were.

He reflected with uneasy resignation that Laurence must mend eventually, at least in body. And then he would leave, probably forever.

In the meantime, Tom was going to enjoy having his beloved brother home again at last.

One day, just as he was pego in ano and riding up the rippling hills of Laurence's rump to his peak, the door opened, and Tilly poked her head in.

Ordinarily she avoided the sickroom with the mild valetudinarian's aversion even to diseases, such as broken ribs, which were not usually communicable (at least not without some improbable exertion on the part of the invalid). And what little she had seen and heard of Laurence meant that any ailment from which he suffered had to her mind a tinge of the venereal (as indeed did the atmosphere in the room, particularly on this occasion).

But today she had come, and she came bearing tea and cakes.

Both her husband and her brother-in-law were somewhat rubicund of face and puffing, as if they had been grappling with—well, she observed with some confusion, noting the queer and not obviously therapeutic position they were in--with each other. For some reason Tom was in the bed with his brother, or rather behind and partially on top of him. He must have been helping him up or over something.

`I'm giving him a rectoseminal constupration', Tom explained gruffly. `It helps the ribs.'

Tilly looked vague at 'rectoseminal constupration', but brightened when there was a fortifying waft from below her nostrils and she remembered she was carrying a tray of mint tea and muffins. She understood muffins, and provided she did not eat too many of them before supper, they understood her. She proffered them at Laurence's panting face. `You will take milk and sugar, I suppose? How many lumps?' She hoped strongly that he would, as she liked several lumps herself, but was too shy to take them when her guests declined.

`No--thank you--I couldn't possibly—take--any more,' Laurence coughed out.

`You mean to say you've taken tea already', she asked, bewildered and a trifle hurt, wondering where the rouge refreshments could have materialised from.

`No! Well, I mean, just that Tom—that I was fu—fed before. Oh!'

Tom had started to thrust in again, slowly at first but picking up speed, the coverlet riding dangerously low down their coupled forms as he drove his meatstalk into that luscious aperture that now welcomed all its randy length with such practiced ease.

Laurence, lying on his side, held firmly against his younger and bigger brother's body, could only stare at Tilly's attentive, slightly puzzled face in embarrassment and horror as he felt his brother's humid breath on his neck, the chafe of his stocky muscled torso up his back; felt his deepest recesses invaded again and again by that stupefying, maddening monster of an organ. And only a few scant inches of cotton and candlewick shielded his sister-in-law's delicate, if undiscerning, eyes from the biggest bloody hard-on he'd ever had. God, if the randy fool didn't let up, he'd paint the whole room and her with it.

`Oh, my dear brother-in-law', Tilly cooed, bending low and extending a limp hand to stroke the feverish brow, `Are your wounds troubling you?'

`No!' he gasped weakly. `Not in the least. It's only that I'm quite, quite full—erhurrg.'

Tom resumed pounding into the tight socket of Laurence's arse at full throttle, abandoning even his previous perfunctory attempts to not look like he was giving his brother's bum the shagging of a lifetime. The room redounded with the sound and scent of sodomy. Tilly only sniffed and looked with mournful accusation at the open window, through which, as they lived on a farm, the most unnerving noises and aromas were wont at times to intrude. She really was the most charmingly innocent creature. He was sure even if the blankets slipped off entirely, as they nearly had, and she could see his thick fleshy tool ramming slickly into Laurence's backside, he could come up with some explanation she would be entirely willing to find convincing. Once he had stopped coming.

`Just leave the tray there, old thing', Tom growled, feeling an apocalypse descending upon him which could not this time be forestalled. `I'll take mine after I've given Laurence his.'

As a matter of fact, he was giving it to him even as he spoke. He felt his veiny barque swell and toss amid the constricting walls of Laurence's rectum as it rapidly and confidently disembarked it's spermescent passengers, quite heedless of the more fertile feminine harbour less than a foot away which ought, by convention, to have been their harbour.

Tom's breath came in deep dragging huffs, while Laurence's burst out in high throttled whimpers, and a lace doily disintegrates under his whitely-clenched fingers.

Tilly noticed this and frowned. Novel medical procedures were one thing, but the wanton destruction of good needlework was something she could not countenance under any circumstances, especially when it was hers. But she decided to be charitable and allow sickness to cover a multitude of sins.

`Poor dear', she said, and patted her brother-in-law's flushed cheek one final time. She put the tray on the bed, raised her eyebrows at how the teaspoons and teacups rattled as the whole bed jolted from Tom's forceful thrusts, and departed in a cloud of lilac and mothballs.

Laurence sighed, collapsing against the goose-down pillows in a nerveless heap of sweat-dewed alabaster limbs and trembling ruby lips. But though his ordeal had reached its climax (as had he, and it had happened just as she touched him, which was probably the most disturbing development yet. Farm animals were one thing, but to have the sexual act brought in such close proximity to a female struck him as scandalously indecent), it was not over.

Tom's bollocks may have been, for the moment, empty, but his bladder was very full.

Once the door had shut, but before Tilly was definitely out of earshot, Tom said, in a quite normal speaking voice, `I've got to go to the loo.'

Laurence's whole body went tense, like a spooked animal. `Tom—'

`Shhh, it won't kill you. Just this once. Just take it.'

And without waiting for a reply, he nestled in till Laurence's smooth globes were scratched by his hairy balls, and started, as Tilly always called it, to relieve nature. He could feel Laurence seizing up with the degradation and disgust of it. He attempted to mollify him with peppered kisses along his spine and up his neck, but he'd have been lying to himself if he denied that most of the enjoyment cane from how little Laurence liked this, but how he had not one whit of choice but to take it anyway, take all of Tom's hot piss, and hold it inside him for as long as Tom decreed, for the love of his little brother, and the fear of his little brother's overmastering strength.

He felt Laurence instinctively trying to pull away, and clamped his thighs around Laurence's haunches, holding him completely in his power, like a mere fuckdoll, a rapetoy attached between his legs, to take whatever came out of his cock; a portable, wearable sperm bank and urinal.

`Stay still, love', he warned. `Remember if you spill any, it's you who'll have to sleep in it, not me.'

He gave a lustful grunt, thrusting his swollen girth in and out a bit, turning up the pressure on his bladder to increase the flow, pissing and pissing and pissing into Laurence as forcefully as he could. It gave him such a thrill of domination and power, of ownership and love, that it was almost like coming, almost better, even.

When he was finally done (he had in fact drunk cups of tea by the dozens before coming to Laurence's bedside, and deliberately avoided the water closet. After all, what was the point of a lavatory, when one had such a damnably pretty substitute?) he kept his cock in Laurence till it finally started to wilt.

After he pulled out he rolled Laurence onto his belly, lifting his arse in the air to lessen the chance of leakages. Tom gave it a jovial smack, and stood up, wiping the last dribbles off in his brother's lush hair, which had grown long in the months of his confined convalescence, and now hung in loose midnight waves down to his speckled shoulders. `You know where the old backhouse is—down the passage, to the left, out the side door and across the yard. Better keep that little rose puckered up tight, because any stains I find in the carpet will be coming out of your arse—and I mean with my belt, not my pillock. I shan't give you anything in the way of kit, in case you get it into your little spunk-addled head to run off, so pray you don't meet the old girl on the way.'

Notwithstanding all these exciting and energetic proceedings, in time, Laurence mended. It had to happen, Tom reflected ruefully; there was not anything legal he could have done to prevent it. He had tried not to think about it, tried to pour all his worries and frustrations into giving his brother's arse such a battering as it would never forget in a lifetime of soothing antiseptic ointments. He was glad to see his brother getting better. But he could not be glad to see him go. The indifferent dislike with which he had previously regarded him was so far receded it was difficult even to remember. Before he could not have imagined a life with Laurence; now he could not imagine one without him.

At last, however, the dreaded day arrived, as days are wont to, and Laurence stood before him in the dim hallways in hat and coat, hair tied behind his neck with a ribbon (Laurence had wanted to cut it, but Tom had told him how beautiful it was and begged him not to), ready for the train that would carry him back to London and away from Tom, forever.

Tom stood between him and the door, facing him, riding crop in hand, one last, desperate cockstand thrusting out between them.

Laurence didn't say a word, but simply sank compliantly to his knees. He even took off his hat so Tom could pull his fingers through those satiny black strands as he worked Tom's shaft down his throat in large, swift increments. He took him down to the root and shook his head a little from side to side, nuzzling at Tom's belly, making a noise in his throat like a dog worrying a rat.

Tom tried to hold back his orgasm, to draw it out just that little bit longer, but by now Laurence knew him too well, knew how to unwind him with the fretwork of his tongue under the shaft, the controlled gagging of his throat on the tip, the light clench of teeth about the base, his soft lips pushing countless kisses into Tom's crotch even as his throat muscles milked his bull's tit.

'You're going to come back', Tom said, suddenly frantic. His prick slipped out between Laurence's lips to layer several thick coats of tallow over his flaming cheek.

Laurence coughed into his mouth, and swallowed something, some little chunk of Tom's pungent semen. Good whore, Tom thought, suddenly on the verge of tears. Don't even need to be told, now.

`I don't know...' Laurence said.

`You're going to come back', Tom growled. `Or I'll come up to London with my hunting rifle and carry you away, arse over tit.'

He grasped Laurence roughly by the hair, meaning to mess it up, and pulled his mouth back down on his prick, which had only dropped slightly, and rapidly firmed up again when engulfed in the slick convulsing cavern of Laurence's throat.

`You must come. At least at Christmas. And I'll—I'll visit you. I want to see your studio', he said, envisioning himself fucking Laurence over an easel, on top of the ruined wet canvas of his latest masterpiece, seeing him stagger up weeping with fury, all smeared with come and paint, telling him he could sell it as an abstract symbolist piece, and if he carried on he'd piss on every picture in the place.

This happy scene was enough to bring him off again. He fired a dozen convulsive shots direct down Laurence's throat, his cock jumping up to tap the walls of his gullet each time. Laurence swallowed them all without complaint and slid his pink-velvet lips up and down the full length of Tom's shaft a few times, leaving it clean and shining with spit. And still achingly rigid.

`God, I'm still hard', Tom muttered.

Laurence rose smoothly to his feet and picked up his hat. Tom slipped two fingers into the waistband of Laurence's trousers, keeping him from going too far. He brushed and prodded the wet head of his prick against belly, making sticky blotches on his canary-coloured shirt, already feeling wistful. `I can't let you go.'

Laurence brushed down his hair so it looked a little less like he'd just had his face fucked in. `You must, Tom', he said in a soft voice that almost, but not quite, trembled.

Tom took a lapel in each hand and smashed his mouth against Laurence's, into his cheek, his forehead, neck, hair, as his gut-sticker poked into his just-healed ribs, making Laurence hiss against Tom's throat, and leaving a shiny residue on his carnelian waistcoat.

`You have to let me go', he said, though he was clutching Tom's arms as he said it.

Since he couldn't fuck him again, he did the next best thing. Tom let himself go.

Laurence made a querulous noise, then gasped into Tom's mouth as he felt his younger brother's scalding piss bubble against his middle and soak through his shirt and the flaps of his jacket, and all down his trousers to collect in his shoes.

He tried to jerk away, but Tom held him fast, deepening the kiss, not letting him move an inch until his bladder was thoroughly emptied, and the whole lower half of Laurence's body was thoroughly soaked.

Then he stood back to survey his handiwork. Laurence stood wooden as a shop dummy, his arms held slightly out to the sides, hat in one hand, eyes wide and bright and blank, mouth hanging open just wide enough to slip a cock in as his brain chugged and churned and tried to comprehend for what had just happened.

`You haven't got time to change', Ton grunted. `You've got to go straight to the station or you'll miss your train. You can tell your fellow passengers it was the rain; they won't know. But you'll know. You'll stay like that the whole trip. It'll dry, but you'll still stink of me.' He sighed. `I wish I was coming with you. I'd make you go into the water closet at every station, just to soak you again. Make them all think you wet yourself. Stupid, dirty little boy.'

Laurence gulped at being called `dirty little boy' by his own dirty—nay, filthy—little brother. There was a pronounced nub, smaller than Tom's, of course, but still quite obvious, in the front of his trousers.

Tom flicked his riding crop across the damp tip. `And you may not touch that either, till you get home.'

Laurence knelt and carefully, reverently kissed Tom's cock, one last time. He rested his face against it and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if trying to commit its hot musky scent to memory. When he felt it start to lift against his cheek, however, he forced himself to pull away. Then he bent lower and kissed Tom's boots, and gave a sigh. If he felt a few wet droplets sprinkle over his hair, he did not inquire as to their source.

Tom watched his brother struggle up the muddy path through the rain, hunched over with one hand raised futilely over his head, clothes clinging to the counters of his body, particularly to his buttocks, which were unconsciously presented to Tom's wistful view, outlined so clearly by the thin drenched silk (especially sans his underpants, which Tom had retained for his own private use).

Tom held his trunk as long as he could see him, urgently trying to pretend it was still inside him. It was only when the slight figure finally slipped out of sight that he came, one last time, streaking his essence across the pane of the window in a sorrowful farewell.

About a week after Laurence left, Tom had an unusually artistic dream. He was riding naked on the back of an immense golden bull, and Laurence was in his lap, riding him, with bells in his nipples and a ring in his cock and WHORE OF BABYLON written across his forehead in come, and they were trampling the world beneath them. It was as real as anything; he was right there, feeling it, feeling Laurence jump and shift in his arms and his bumlips clench wetly on his shaft.

But just when he was preparing to spend gloriously into that close, grinding chasm, he woke up. And when he turned, elephantine erection in tow, to the other side of the bed, there was only Tilly. He stumped down the hallway to what was now permanently designated in his mind as Laurence's room, and threw off his pyjamas and lay on the sheets, which he still hadn't washed, and breathed in their mingled scents and stroked his prick with Laurence's lavender silk necktie, which he'd kept without asking when Laurence left.

In London, meanwhile, Laurence was having dreams and sleepless nights of his own. In them he was back at the Helsery, in the bull-pen, caught between the twin beasts of Clover Fairy and his brother, and they were in him. One uneasy night he found himself tossed back and forth between them—like a rugby football, except he was being buggered, which was not something even rugbymen did (at least on the field). He landed arse-first on Tom's hard-on, then the bull's, each one filling him in turn, and they tossed him faster and faster and faster, and filled him deeper and deeper, and they faster they fucked him the more they merged into one creature, and he was riding Tom with the cock of a bull, or the bull with the cock of Tom, and at the end of the dream he bounced from man to bull and from bull to man and could not tell which finally made him come.

Laurence was awoken by the agonising stiffness of his plonk and the frantic clenching of his arsehole, squeezing tight like a ravenous stomach—around nothing, for it was empty. This might not have been such a catastrophe, except his bed was empty as well, as it always was since his sojourn to the country. Undiddled and disconsolate, he made his way to his studio, where he sat on the floor with his dressing gown open, tears in his eyes as he wanked himself with almost Tommish ferocity.

In front of him was his latest painting. It was a bull, like the one he'd exhibited at Taunton, only this one was red, with curly hair. And, arcing under its belly from between its hind legs, a long erect penis. He tried to imagine stern, sinewy arms about his shoulders, tried to feel his half-brother's terrifying animal bulk pressing against him, pressing into him, beating him down into the floor. But it was no good. It was like Tom had said. He needed the real thing, not a picture of it.

His conduct began to draw more than the usual quantity of comment from the circles in which he moved, and even those in which he did not. Among the other unfashionable peculiarities he had acquired since his return from the country (and which had almost entirely supplanted the intensely fashionable ones he had cultivated before his departure) was his tendency to erupt into shivers whenever someone mentioned a 'cock and bull story' and explode into passionate crimson blushes whenever he encountered the more lavatorial of build and rubiose of hair among his acquaintances (although, to the disappointment of many of these acquaintances, nothing more passionate than blushes ever came of it).

The next year Laurence, in a move that scandalised and bewildered even or especially his most scandalous and bewildering friends, sold his mansion flat in Highgate and moved back to the country, to the farm he had left almost twenty years before.

At first it had been generally presumed that Laurence had given up the glittering world of art for a life of ascetic retreat in deepest Derbyshire. But in fact, he started to churn out fresh paintings very soon after moving, and at a faster rate than before. These new pieces of his occasioned some comment, however.

The change in residence from town to country had accompanied a rather counterintuitive switch in subject matter, from the generally safe domain of animals to the far more controversial (and therefore lucrative) portraits of rather animalistic young men, usually unclothed and in postures and wearing expressions that had been known to reduce unaccompanied maiden aunts to fits.

None of the people who viewed them with embarrassment and bought them with alacrity had seen Tom, but if they had they would required his wife's knack for obliviousness not to have been struck by the resemblance.

Laurence now gave the cheques he received for each painting to Tom. Tom sat at his desk (with Laurence watching over his shoulder, or sitting on the desk, kissing him) and opened his trousers and wrapped the thin crinkly paper around his prick and frigged himself with them. Sometimes they tore and often they stained but Tom just tossed them to his wife to fret over (and attempt to sew the torn cheques back together with her thinnest white thread. He did not explain the grey sticky stains). Sometimes they could not be retrieved, but Tom didn't mind, for now he was happy he understood it was never really the money he had been angry about.

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