After Sunday Dinner

I actually smelled him before I heard him, his presence announced by a tell-tale aroma of musk and clean sweat. That may sound a little gross, but it somehow wasn't. That distinctive scent somehow managed to be its own cologne, and it screamed 'M-A-N', like just about everything he said and did.

"Hey there, little bro, you done?" his deep voice boomed through the broad space of the basement he had converted into a gym. I managed to cover up my sigh with a loud exhale, as I pushed up and locked the bar of the bench press back into place. Breathing hard, I sat up, as Mike swaggered over, smirking. "Really, little bro. That the best you can do?" He was looking pointedly at the weight I had just exhausted myself lifting. I didn't bother replying to his frat-boy taunt.

"All yours," I mumbled, as I got up and headed for the elliptical. "I need to do some cardio."

Mike just chuckled -- an annoyingly masculine sound, confident bordering on arrogant -- as he started adding weight to the bench press, sliding each new plate into place with what seemed like an unnecessary clang.

I did my best to ignore him, as I started my cardio workout. Fortunately, the elliptical was far enough away from the bench press that his 'manly aroma' couldn't reach me here. Unfortunately, it sat in a corner, facing the weights. Whether I liked it or not, I had a full view of my step brother starting in on the bench press yet again. He had to be at least three quarters of the way through one of his 2 hour workouts. I normally did my best not to work out at the same time as him to avoid precisely those kinds of childish taunts about my alleged weakness or inadequate masculinity. Of course, he never actually called me weak or un-manly in so many words, but the taunt was implied, always there just beneath the words, the smirk, the swagger.

At 28, Mike was just four years older than me, but his confident demeanour and arrogant swagger somehow made him seem older, and so did his size. He was a good 6'4, built like a line-backer, and ripped from head to toe. His chest was broad, his torso tapered to narrow hips in an almost cartoonishly perfect V, his arms were almost the size of my thighs, and his thighs were like tree trunks. The heavy slabs of rounded muscle he called pecs bulged so hard they always looked like they were on the verge of tearing through whatever shirt he was wearing. His back and abs rippled with cords of hard muscle, and his glutes were the size of half melons, so round, hard and heavy with muscle that they always looked like they were about to tear through the seat of his pants. As if all that wasn't enough, he was also good-looking, with a square jaw, high cheekbones, ice-blue eyes, and a lush main of sandy brown hair that he intentionally kept messy, making it look like he had just rolled out of bed. "Freshly-fucked hair", the girls called it.

Worst of all, Mike was hung like a horse. The size of his package would have made a pony proud. I say 'worst of all' because his package would have been hard to hide if he had been inclined toward modesty, but, as it happened, Mike didn't really have a modest bone in his body. His workout attire was a case in point. He was barefoot, wearing only a too-thin wife-beater, with thin, too-short workout shorts that made it pretty clear he was going commando. The bulge of his huge balls was impossible not to notice, and the shape of his thick cock snaked so far down the right leg of his shorts that its fat head threatened to poke out at any moment.

I liked to think that I was reasonably good-looking, but at 5'9, with a swimmer's build on the thin side, and average in other ways, I was no match for Mike. It didn't bother me, or rather, it hadn't originally, until Mike's attitude started to get to me. Alpha-male all the way, Mike never missed a chance to remind me, anyone really, of his male superiority. He especially loved bragging about his conquests in bed, and, by all accounts, there was a lot to brag about. I often tried telling myself that this was just a manifestation of some deep-seeded insecurity, but I had come to seriously doubt that. He simply exuded an unshakable alpha-male confidence, leaving me with a distinct impression that the taunts, challenges, the bragging was all just his asshole way of entertaining himself.

The one area where I had an edge for a time was education; I had gone to college. But since graduating with a degree in English lit, I had been forced to move back home because the only job I could find wasn't especially well paid. Meanwhile, Mike had refused to even apply for college because he claimed it was a waste of his time. He became a personal trainer and motivational speaker and was so successful at it that not going to college didn't seem to have hurt him one bit. He even had his own place downtown. It was a small condo, but it was a place of his own. Why he was always over here, freeloading off our parents and tormenting me with his taunts during my workouts, was a good question. He had built this gym in our parents' basement and claimed that "it was better than any gym out there." I think he just enjoyed taking advantage of the free food, and making me feel inadequate from time to time was probably a bonus.

After Mike finally finished his third round of bench press, he moved on to a third round of squats. Of course, he had his back to me, which gave me a perfect view of the massive globes of his glutes, as they bulged and flexed with every squat, stretching the fabric of his shorts so tight that I was afraid the seam would give way. He always seemed to be one squat away from mooning me, but, happily, he finished with his shorts still intact. He then swaggered over to the full-length wall of mirrors directly opposite my position on the elliptical. I rolled my eyes because I knew what was coming next. Mike literally pealed the wife-beater off his massive torso, and started flexing, as he admired himself in the mirror. Like a bodybuilder on stage, he flexed his arms, his pecs, his abs, his back-muscles, his glutes, his legs. At one point, he made eye-contact with me in the mirror and winked, actually winked! I rolled my eyes again, but this only made him grin, as he continued to lavish attention on his reflection.

The show finally over, he swaggered to the full bathroom and didn't bother closing the door before pealing off his shorts and taking a piss. Fuck! I quickly shifted my gaze away, but not before catching sight of the donkey dong dangling like a third arm from his groin. It was so big that, to my intense irritation, I couldn't resist taking a second look to make sure I had seen right. Holy shit! The thing was enormous and it was still flaccid! He pissed like a race-horse, the sound of his jet hitting the water so loud I could hear it on the other side of the room. He shook his long dong, flushed the toilet, and, to my relief, finally disappeared into the shower. I made sure I was done working out before he came back out again, and headed out to the mall after my own shower to clear my head of Mike's ridiculous little show.

When I got back, I was greeted with an unusual sight: Mom and Dad both in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Mom was a realtor and Dad and accountant, and both were very busy, so much so that they often worked weekends. Neither did much cooking and certainly never together, or at least not unless we were expecting company.

"Who's coming over?" I asked. Mom turned from the oven, the movement sending her impressive mane of sandy curls swaying. She was smiling, but there was something a little off about her smile. No one who didn't know her well would have noticed anything amiss, but I recognized it as her realtor's smile, the one she wore for her clients, when she was preparing to make a sale.

"No one's coming over, honey. Your father and I just thought we would enjoy a nice, family Sunday dinner all together."

Right, I thought, as I took a seat at the table. When Mom first married Mike's Dad, Mom, Dad and I tried to make family dinners a tradition, but Mom and Dad's busy schedules and me hitting my teenage years kind of got in the way. And even then, alpha douche Mike was never in the picture. Family dinners just weren't his thing, something he made crystal clear when Dad tried to get him to take part. There was obviously something more to this sudden revival of the family dinner tradition that never really was, and I wasn't sure whether I should be worried that Mom was lying about it.

"Does Mike know this is a family dinner?" I asked. Mom's smile stiffened a little, as she turned back to the stove.

It was Dad who answered. "We got a few of his favorites to entice him to take part," he said, appearing from the stairs that led down to the basement. He had a case of beer in hand, which he set down on the counter.

That's when my brain finally recognized the delicious smell filling the kitchen: Mom was making chicken wings. That was definitely not something she would have made for company, but it was probably Mike's favorite dish. If I had been curious before, I was now downright suspicious. They had gone to the trouble of trying to entice Mike into taking part? What on earth was this about?

That's when I noticed that neither Mom nor Dad were really dressed for company, at least not by their standards. They weren't exactly snappy dressers, but I knew what they wore when they were trying to impress, or at least look good in front of others, and this wasn't it.

Mom was wearing a blue tube-top with a white skirt and white open-toed shoes. Tube-tops don't really work for Mom, or at least not the ones she typically wears around the house on hot summer days like today. They always seem to emphasize her chest, which isn't great because... well... hers is already kind of enormous. I had a couple of straight male friends in college who were always happy to come over. It took me a while to figure out that it wasn't just for the free food. That skirt wasn't great on her either. She was pretty full figured, and it brought out the size of her ass, or so Mom herself had once said. She said she liked the skirt because it was light, airy and comfortable on a hot summer's day, but she wouldn't wear it in front of company if she thought it wasn't her best look.

Dad's attire wasn't great either, though for different reasons. He was wearing a navy and white striped polo shirt with beige cargo shorts and sandals. Together with his ultra-conservative haircut, hair always neatly combed and parted to the right, and his square, rimless glasses, he looked every bit the nerdy corporate drone and avid golfer that he was. Sometimes I wondered if he and Mike were truly biological father and son. Where Mike's hair was lighter, Dad's was darker. Where Mike was broad, stacked and built like a line-backer, Dad was lithe and on the skinnier side. Dad was tall, but still noticeably shorter than Mike. They looked alike in the face, with the same blue eyes, the same high, well-defined cheekbones and the same square jaw, but that was about all they had in common. Dad's conservative, no-nonsense demeanour could hardly be more different than Mike's, and the way they both dressed.... Well, that alone seemed to practically scream 'we don't get along.'

Just as I finished that thought, Mike swaggered into the kitchen, and I sighed inwardly. Speak of the devil.... Mike was wearing another undershirt, this one with string thin shoulder straps. The white fabric brought out the deep olive tone of his skin, but the shirt was about two sizes too small. It was stretched taught across the bulge of his enormous pecs, and it was damp, as if he hadn't fully dried himself off after his shower. This made it almost see-through, his big, thick nips clearly visible through the thin fabric. The undershirt was also too short. A sliver of his lower abdomen was on display for all to see between the undershirt's hem and the waist of his most tattered pair of jean cut-offs. Unfortunately, the cut-offs were not much less provocative than the undershirt. Not only were they peppered with holes, they rode low enough over his hips to expose a bit of his treasure trail and the very top of his pubes. They also made it about as clear as it could be that Mike was, once again, going commando. The bulge of his balls and the outline of his huge dick snaking down one massively muscular thigh could hardly have been more obvious. He had clearly dressed like that for no other purpose than to irk Mom and Dad. And it seemed to work, at least initially.

Dad scowled the moment he laid eyes on Mike. "Honestly, Michael," he chided. "This is dinner with your family, not one of your club nights."

Mike smirked. "What can I say, Dad. When you got it, flaunt it." He smacked a hard, meaty fist against one hard, meaty pec.

I rolled my eyes. "Someone's full of himself, as usual," I mumbled.

Mike's smirk turned into a grin, as he practically crashed down into the seat opposite me. But it wasn't my reaction he was interested in. His eyes were on Dad, clearly expecting, even hoping for, further comment. Yes, there was little Mike seemed to enjoy more than getting into it with Dad. At times, he almost seemed to crave it. And at times, it seemed like Dad craved it too.

But this was apparently not to be one of those times. Dad just gave an exasperated shake of the head. More unusual still, his scowl suddenly melted away, as if he had remembered something more important that warranted his attention. Even stranger, the scowl was replaced by, of all things, an indulgent smile, as he busied himself bringing the olive oil to the table, along with a six pack of expensive beer, which I immediately recognized as one of Mike's favs.

Mike quirked an eyebrow at me, as if to ask: 'what the hay....?' I shrugged indifferently, but my curiosity was definitely peaked. First, Mom and Dad making chicken wings -- one of Mike's all-time faves; then offering up beer that Mike loved; and now this indulgent reaction to Mike's provocations. Something was most definitely up!

"Swee-eet!" Mike drawled, on noticing the beer. He eagerly opened one and downed a good third of it in one gulp. He belched loudly, as he brought the bottle down onto the table with a thud, and fist-smacked his big chest again. I braced myself for the fireworks to begin, for a lecture about manners at the very least, but it didn't come.

"Michael, honestly," was all Mom said, as she brought the wings to the table, along with a pan of nachos, and then took the seat next to Mike, a glass of red wine in hand. She gave him the same indulgent smile as Dad had given him not a moment ago.

Dad's reaction was even more out of character. He just chuckled and said: "I'll take that as approval of my choice of beer." With that un-Dad-like pronouncement, he slid into the seat next to me and opposite Mom, opened one of the beers for himself, and, Dad being Dad, he carefully poured it out into a glass.

That drew another quirked eyebrow from Mike, and another shrug from me, though I was now having a harder time feigning indifference. This indulgent behaviour on the part of both Mom and Dad could not have been more unusual, particularly when it came to manifestations of Mike's overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

The conversation was light -- about Mom's next garden party, Dad's next golfing trip, and Mom and Dad's vacation plans for the fall. Throughout, Mike chewed with his mouth open, and belched repeatedly, as he put away half the wings, finished his first beer, downed a second and started in on a third. Not only did none of this elicit comment from the parental unit, but Mom and Dad kind of joined him, at least in the alcohol department. After finishing his first beer, Dad started in on a second, and after emptying her glass of wine, Mom poured herself an even larger glass. This was not completely unheard of, but it was definitely not the norm.

By the time dinner drew to an end, I could tell that Mom and Dad were both a bit tipsy. I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen either of them imbibe to a point where they were noticeably affected. The result wasn't bad, though, not at all. It mellowed them out nicely. And by now on his fourth beer, Mike too was mellowing, as he enjoyed the sight of Mom and Dad indulging a little, clearly wondering as I was what might be coming next. Flying pigs maybe? What came next was not quite so uncanny as all that, but it still followed the evening's pattern of uncharacteristic parental behaviour.

"Ben," Dad said, turning to me after the conversation had lapsed for the third time. "If you're done eating.... Would you excuse us please? Your mother and I have something we'd like to discuss with your brother." Just like that, the eagerness for a fight with Dad was back in Mike's eyes, as he sat up from his slouch. But Dad still looked pleasant, as did Mom. Both were looking at me, and neither showed any sign of getting ready to give Mike what he seemed to be expecting. A little tipsy myself, it took me a moment to realize that I was being asked to leave in no uncertain terms.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sure... sure...," I mumbled, a little uncertain how to react at being dismissed like a child when the adults in the room have something important to discuss. What could they possibly want to talk to Mike about that I couldn't be allowed to overhear? Something personal to Mike, probably. That thought only heightened my curiosity, but I wasn't being given much of a choice. I glanced at the clock on the oven. My buddy Kenny was having a get-together tonight at his place, and it would be starting soon. I had thought of going.

"Kenny's having a thing at his place," I said. "I was thinking of dropping by." At 24, I was of course more than old enough that Mom and Dad couldn't tell me not to go, but neither liked Kenny and rarely missed a chance to say so. To my surprise, miss a chance they did. Instead of expressing their concerns about Kenny's pot use, a favourite refrain, Mom and Dad both nodded eagerly.

"Sure, sure," Dad said. "Why don't you do that, and say hi to Kenny for me." Say hi to Kenny for him!? It was all I could do not to let my surprise show.

"Uh... ok, sure, yeah, great.... Great... I'll do that then." I stammered stupidly, as I gathered my plate, brought it to the sink, washed it off and loaded it into the dishwasher. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I did, and I expected, at the very least, a "Don't drive if you drink" as I left the kitchen. But none came.

I still expected something of the kind as I walked down the hall, heading for the front door, but still nothing. Silence. I had exchanged my flip-flops for shoes and had my hand on the knob to the front door, when overwhelming curiosity got the better of me. What on earth were Mom and Dad up to? And what did they want with Mike?

I opened the front door, yelled "later!", and closed it again with a thud sure to carry all the way back to the kitchen, but I didn't leave. Instead, I stepped out of my shoes and padded back to the kitchen barefoot.

"Ok, he's gone," I heard Mike say, just as I pushed the kitchen door open a crack and peered inside. "What's up? What's all this about?"

Mom took another sip -- actually it was more of a gulp -- of wine, as if steeling herself to say something, but it was Dad who spoke. "Well, son, there is something your mother and I want to talk to you about."

Mike down the rest of his fourth beer and belched again, as he casually flung one arm, the one closest to Mom, over the back of his chair and leaned back a little. "Yeah -- so ya said," he drawled, amused gaze shifting back and forth between Dad across the table and Mom beside him.

"As you know," Dad started, completely ignoring Mike's belching and the sarcastic bite in his tone, "your mother and I have been trying to have children, but we've... well, we've been... unsuccessful, and, last week, we found out why. Apparently, the problem is me."