tagErotic CouplingsBig Brother's Bride

Big Brother's Bride


She was everywhere. Everywhere I turned, she was there. Now, she was standing next to me in her parents' back yard, asking whether I wanted anything to eat. At first, I thought it was cute, a just graduated high schooler with a crush on an `older' man, but, after the second day it became really annoying. It was annoying because my whole family had flown to St. Louis for my older brother's wedding and they teased me incessantly about my new `girlfriend.' I was twenty-one, had a girlfriend of sorts in college and didn't want to think about high school girls. In fact, I didn't want to think about high school at all. I hated it and this girl was like the epitome of everything I hated about high school. She was a cheerleader, lots of lipstick and eye-shadow, big hair, up to speed on the latest Brad Pitt romance and, well, pretty much a dingbat, kind of a less well developed replica of her older sister, the woman my brother was going to marry the next day.

Me? I wanted the ideal, perfect world of Plato, where artists, philosophers and sensitive people controlled things and made sure everyone was happy. A high school cheerleader simply didn't fit into that world-view. Hell. Sex, itself, was irrelevant.

"What's wrong with her, Kenny?" my older brother asked after she'd walked away blushing wildly when she saw him approaching us.

"She's just graduated high school, Steve," I replied.

"Big deal. She's three years younger than you. So what?"

"I have a girlfriend, remember?"

"You call that disaster a girlfriend, idiot?" he laughed. "Christ. She wears black lipstick. She's a loon, way out there, man."

"I don't want to talk about it," I said rolling my eyes. Steve and women? Mr. Misogynist, himself? By all means, just the guy to ask for advice.

He smiled and leaned forward. "You haven't even fucked her, have you, you little faggot?" he whispered.

"None of your God damn business," I replied, swiping my long hair out of my face.

He laughed. "Forget about it. You're hopeless," he waived me away and walked back to his beautiful bride-to-be.

That was my older brother. He was handsome. Well over six feet, maybe six-two, just a little taller than I. But that's where the resemblance ended in a crash. In white khaki shorts and light blue shirt, looking like the biggest preppy asshole, Steve and I were completely different when it came to sensibilities. Mr. Frat Boy, investment banker marrying a rich sorority girl with lots of family connections. He and his fiance's family made me want to vomit.

* * *

"You think she's pretty don't you?" Ashley snipped at me, as I stood watching the tents going up an hour later in the new bride's backyard.

I turned to Ashley, and shook my head. She had a bikini top on and tight cut-offs. Go and find a cat and strangle it, I wanted to tell her. And who the fuck names their kid Ashley? What kind of sick shit is that?

Ashley. Brittany. Brook. Housewives with way too much daytime TV on their hands. "What did you say?" I glared at her.

"You think my sister's prettier than me, don't you?" she pouted. I looked over to her sister and couldn't help but agree. Stacey was in short-shorts, too, with half her firm ass sticking out, and her big tits swayed and jiggled as she pointed this way and that, directing the lifting and lugging of lots of poles. I smiled. She looked perfect for that kind of job. And then I shook my head. What a sexist thing to say! My creepy older brother was having a bad influence on me. I shook my head once more. I wondered where Steve had gone. Since we'd arrived, he hadn't left his bride-to-be's side. Maybe he'd come to his senses and was looking for a gun to shoot himself with.

I looked at Ashley, still standing next to me, staring at me with a determined look on her face. Her and her sister? Well, they were both blond, both blue-eyed and where eighteen-year-old Ashley was tall and a little stringy, twenty-five year old Stacey was tall and curvy. Shit. Steve sure knew how to pick them. Had to give him credit on the purely physical tests. Stacey was the perfect woman if only she didn't open her big annoying trap. There! I'd done it again. More sexist crap floating in my head. I blamed the heat.

"Well," the brat persisted.

"Much," I sneered.

"What?" she gasped.

"Your sister is much prettier than you," I smiled and walked away from her, leaving her with her pretty little mouth gaping open. What a joke.

And so fucking hot, this city, I thought as I shook my shirt to give myself a little more air. Christ. Mid-June and miserable. St. Louis. Where was the crisp beauty of late spring for these people? How did they survive? 98 degrees. Arch? Gateway to the West? Turn back, idiots. Go back east to New England. If my advice had been followed 150 years ago, I would be standing in a prairie not some obscene artificially plush perfectly manicured lawn.

I walked up to my mother who was standing beside the old man, both of them grinning dumbly at the workers pounding the stakes into the thick green grass. And it struck me, everyone had been watching the poor guys working for the last two hours without lifting a hand to help them. Sure, Stacey had directed and cheered them on, and I'm sure most of them appreciated her jiggling tits and tight ass nearby, but the poor guys looked like they were dying, drenched in sweat. We were all so fucking bourgeoisie.

"Kenny," my mom smiled when she saw me.

I nodded. I hated it when my mother wore shorts. Put some clothes on, I wanted to tell her and her varicose veins. What was it with all these people and shorts? Christ, it was hot.

"Having fun? Isn't this exciting?" she continued smiling.

"A blast."

"You could at least pretend to be happy, Kenny," the old man said serenely and lit his pipe.

I shook my head. Asshole. "I'm going back to the hotel, mom."

"Why dear?"

"Too hot."

"Well, I suppose," she began--

"Put on some shorts for Christ's sake," the old man blurted, puffing away.

I extended my hand. "Please give me the keys."

The old man shook his head. "Junior took the car," he said proudly, always referring to his favorite son as `Junior'. "Went to get some ice for tonight."

"Give me the keys to the other rental, then."

"We should have one car here at all times," he puffed away.


"I'm sorry dear. I must agree with your father here," Mom smiled.

I shook my head, sweating, certain I was five minutes from a heat stroke.

"Just go inside, Kenny," Mom grinned pleasantly. "Nice and cool in there."

Nice and cool and nowhere to escape Ashley, the high-school nightmare.

"He's afraid little Ashley'll corner him and maybe give him a little kiss on the cheek," the old man guffawed.

"Steven!" Mom slapped him stupidly. The two of them were making me sick. "You're embarrassing Kenny. We shouldn't tease him about these sorts of things. Kenny might. . . ." but I heard no more as I walked away from them and headed for the big house.

* * *

Rich fuckers had a nice house, I thought as I wondered here and there. Jesus, probably three times as big as our house. Mental note. Don't become an accountant. Become a garbage man. Stacey's father ran what he called a "waste management company." I kept telling Steve he was marrying into a garbage family, but he didn't think it was funny and I shut up after he threatened to pummel my face in. I liked my face.

I walked into what was must have been some den or something, deep in the caverns of the house, sat down on an old comfortable chair and turned on the TV. I was feeling better. A little more cool. Maybe if I could hide out in here for the rest of the day, I'd survive the ordeal. God. It had to cool down a little by tomorrow. I was certain I'd pass out in the tuxedo in the heat. I smiled to myself. That would be funny. Maybe ruin the whole fuckin' wedding. Junior and the old man holding their shaking heads over my lifeless body, wondering whether mom had fooled around with the postman or something twenty-two years ago. Mom and Stacey screeching and pointing this way and that as the paramedics brought out their defibrillator. CLEAR! CHARGE! ZAP! And my torso would be flopping about like a dying fish. The video guy would get it all. I could enter it into some World's Funniest Video show or something, maybe make a few thousand. . . .

"What are you doing in here?" a woman's voice asked annoyed.

I looked over and saw Stacey bright blond face glaring at me.

I pointed to the TV, told her to go fuck herself under my breath and turned back around.

"You're an exceptionally annoying individual, do you know that?" she continued behind me.

I wasn't listening.

"Look at me when I speak to you, young man. You've been very rude to my younger sister," she said, her voice starting to strain.

I laughed. Young man. Fuck. Sweets. You're four years older than me in age and at least a dozen years younger in brains.

I heard walking and she was in front of me.

"Oh," she looked down at me, her arms crossed and squashing up marvelously her big tits. "I know your kind all right. Your sort thinks everything's a big joke. You don't take anything seriously. Do you want to know why?"

This was too funny. The problem was that I did take everything seriously and this idiot had no clue. When I took over things, when the philosophers ran the world, she and her type would have to be dealt with appropriately. I'd. . . . Christ. I stared at her smooth muscular tan legs. Fuck. Those thighs. To have those things clamped down on you, giving you the death grip. Mother of mercy.

Lucky asshole, Steve.

Debbie, my girlfriend in college was nothing like this. Her body was never exposed other than in the bedroom and then it was only for a silent, quick fuck before she went off again with her talk about some injustice here and a great cause there. We'd lost our cherries to one another last semester (yeah, I know!) and since then, throughout the school year, although I'd struggled not to, I couldn't help wondering whether that was all there was to fucking. There had to be more. I mean, Debbie didn't have tits like this biscuit's and . . . . "Are you listening?" her voice asked, sounding a thousand miles away. I was fixed at the beautiful tightly compressed "V" between her thighs. Christ. Under there, what did she have on. Debbie liked to wear torn old grandma undies--very functional she said-- and. . . . This chick must be wearing a thong. Oh God, and what would her cunt. . . .

I heard a slight gasp as she finally realized where I was gazing. I looked up to the now reddening face.

"I can't believe you," she said. "You're disgusting." She huffed out the room.

I laughed. I'd found the secret of getting rid of these annoying people from St. Louis. Gawk at them. Stare at their tits and cunts. That would do the trick. I loved it. Junior? Fuck him. I would tell him, I was getting over heat flashes and could barely speak when Stacey'd walked into the room. She'd confused the empty dumb stares of a half-dead man for something pure innocent me didn't even want to think about. The wedding might be fun, I thought. After all, what could be more entertaining than annoying plastic fake people, making them uncomfortable? That would keep them away. Still . . . mental note. Try to get out a little this semester. Check out some big- haired bimbo and fuck yourself dry for a few weeks. Debbie was too good a friend to be fucking, anyway. What are you babbling about you idiot? Christ, I needed some fresh air.

Sex is a purely reproductive act, which should be strictly regulated by the state to ensure the betterment of man.

* * *

And, like clockwork, good old Steve (Junior, that is) threatened me with extreme and immediate violence until I gave him my story, telling him he was a sick fuck for thinking that I'd been lusting after his lovely soon-to-be wife. Dumbass bought it, of course, and I smiled at Stacey the rest of the evening, over the soup, the huge slab of beef, which I barely touched, and even the ice cream. My future sister-in-law tried to avoid my smile this way and that, but by the end of the meal, her face looked flush and she was anything but her cheery self. Ashley I noticed was becoming more and more upset. I couldn't ask for more. Everything was wonderful.

After dinner, everyone decided they were going to go to an old hotel downtown for drinks and a little relaxation before the special day. I told them I was a tired and stayed at the big house. I noticed, not with a little pleasure, that everyone, but most especially Stacey, seemed relieved that I wasn't coming along.

I went into the old den (I was now thinking of it as my personal little sanctuary in the miserable house), plopped down on a couch and turned on the TV. Christ. TV sucked. David Kelley should be shot, drawn and quartered. I started switching the channels. Nothing. I closed my eyes.

Debbie. She was cool, so fun to hang out with, so similar in her political views, but. . . She just didn't like sex. At least with me. I think she thought it was some kind of betrayal of her identity. I was a white guy, after all. Where was the justice in fucking me? And I'd tried so I couldn't blame myself, entirely. She had an okay body. Kind of plump. Small tits. None of that bothered me. She wouldn't let me lick her. She wouldn't suck on me. It was a straight missionary, her thighs barely open. Christ. Sometimes, I couldn't even get it all the way in because her thighs were so rigid. I would come into the condom and then she would, with a trembling voice, tell me to pull out and make sure nothing spilled. I doubted Steve used a rubber with Stacey. Stacey probably did anything you wanted. She probably fucked you like a wild animal. Christ, she probably took it up the ass. Ahhh. Fuck it.

Why was I saw fixed on sex these days? I had to get back to school, back to some protests. I yawned and stretched. It was just sex. There were a lot more important things in this world. Fuck it.

And then I must have taken a nap because the next thing I knew my hand was in my baggy pants and grabbing my erect cock, the image of Stacey's thighs emblazoned in my mind. Fuck. I squeezed myself. I looked at the TV. Shit. I stretched my arms out and yawned trying to come to my senses. I must have been napping for about an hour. Fuck. I quickly jerked my hand out of my pants. That would be nice. Stacey's mom coming into the room and my hand down my pants. Really nice. No. They had about an hour or so to go. Oh. Shit. I was still hard. I looked around, listened intently and determined after about two or three seconds no one was around.

What would she be like in bed, the jiggling, bouncing blond Stacey? What harm was there in fantasizing? She and Steve would be in New York after a week-long honeymoon somewhere in the Caribbean. I'd probably see them once or twice a year after that for a few years before their divorce. I started unbuckling my pants. I smiled. How cool would it be to beat off and spew everything on this old couch? It would be a good thing, kind of a thank you gift to the kind hosts.

Stacey. Those thighs, those silky smooth thighs. So tanned and firm. I pulled down my pants and struggled a little, but finally got my boxers off. I looked down. Shit. I was so hard. I grabbed myself, trying to imagine her naked. I couldn't. Debbie's pale face kept entering my thoughts. Could I beat off to Debbie? Kind of ruin the whole point of doing it in Stacey's house. Try to think about her earlier in the day, standing over you, her tits pressed against her crossed arms, those shorts, creeping up into her. What! I jerked my hand off my cock. Fuck!

"Thinking about Stacey?" a bratty voice sneered.

jumped and fell off the couch, with a thud, my poor hard cock crushed underneath me.

The idiot was standing at the doorway laughing.

I tried to pull up my pants, but it wasn't going well. I didn't want to stand up, obviously, and she continued looking down at my crumbled body, grinning.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered up at her, my pants halfway on.

"I decided I didn't want to go, you know?"

Decided you didn't want to go? What the fuck was that? Shit. I continued trying to pull up my pants.

"How long were you watching?"

"Long enough," she giggled.

"Look," I sighed. "I'm really sorry." There. The pants were on. I started standing up, feverishly trying to button and zip up. "Can we just keep this a secret between the two of us?"

She looked wonderful, smiling smugly straight at me. She'd changed into a short summer dress for dinner and still had it on. The thing hung well on her. Get your mind out of the gutter, dumbass. You're screwed. She was crossing her arms, like her sister had done, and her tits were squashed just like her sister's had been. Must run in the family, this squashing of the tits business. And then she slowly, confidently, shook her head.

"Why not?" I pleaded buckling my belt.

"Because you've been a real creep," she said.

"Come on," I moaned. "Have a heart." Good one, I thought. Miller's Crossing. Coen brothers. I would plead and beg like John Turturro in Miller's Crossing.

"I don't think so," she grinned.

"You're going to get me in a lot of trouble and that wouldn't--"

"I don't care," she interrupted. "You've been nothing but a real asshole since you got here and I think you deserve whatever you get."

"What do you want me to do? We're friends, aren't we?" I begged.

"It's too late," she said sharply.

"For what?" Too late for what. Fuck. It would have been better to have had my mom catch me playing with myself . . . maybe not my mom, but just about anyone other than this idiot.

"You don't even like me anyway," she said sounding very sad, but I could see in her eyes she was anything but.

"Look. I'm sorry about everything. You're right. I've been an idiot. I just was trying to play a little hard to get. That's all. I really like you." You're on a roll, Kenny. Keep it up.

"You're lying," she said after thinking it over for five seconds. I wasn't doing well at all. "Besides, you think Stacey's prettier than me."

I forced some weak laughter out, trying to make her see it was all a big misunderstanding. "Are you crazy?" I grinned. "You're a lot more attractive than Stacey. Stacey looks like. . . ." Come on. Something good. I could see her waiting, pleased we were on the attack Stacey mode. "She looks like a fat slob compared to you." Maybe a 2.3 for effort. God. I was fucked. I held my breath.

She smiled. I sighed, relieved. And then the smile left her and I held my breath again. "You're not lying?" she asked, after a moment.

"No. No. God. If you were a little older, I'd. . . ." You'd what idiot? What would you do? "I'd ask you out in a second." 1.7 for just trying under somewhat difficult conditions. Otherwise, a clear crash and burn. But I'd overestimated the brat.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Oh brother," she smirked. "I don't want to go out with you. I have a boyfriend. He's a football player and a lot better looking than you."

My head was spinning. No. I'd underestimated her. What the fuck is this garbage from the garbage man's younger daughter? "Why have you been, you know, following me around, then?" I asked, a little annoyed. Little wench had been leading me on.

She shrugged. "I don't know. You know, wedding and everything. I thought it would be kind of romantic to fool around with you."

"Fool around with me?"



"Because you're Steve's brother."

I nodded. Now I understood everything. She could not care less about me. It was Steve she wanted to hang out with, but, well, he was getting married in less than twenty-forty hours. Me? I was a really weak replica, a cheap and really bad quality imitation. And then I laughed. She was fantasizing about my older brother. I was doing the same with her older sister. Good clean stuff. I was beginning to like this kid.

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