A little more

by BRK   

A lonely barista makes friends with three sexy brothers, leading to a drunken night of fun where he gets a chance to make a few changes in his life.

Growing up I was kind of a loner with not a lot of friends. It wasn’t until I was out of high school and saving for college working as a barista that I really lucked out and got mixed up with these three guys that more or less ran the phone store their parents owned next door. 

They were in and out of the shop all the time, trading lattes and dad jokes during the day and hanging out telling crazy stories about chaotic-good uncles and kooky cousins who fought bears and flying lake dragons back home in the Jiuling Mountains, keeping me snorting with laugher as I mopped and closed up. I was in a weird place then, edgy about my prospects, so it was a real ego-boost that these guys seemed to genuinely enjoy hanging with me and spending time with me, just like I did with them. 

Of course we teased each other about it, ‘cause that was the way we operated. I wisecracked about how chuffed I was they were so into me—which was truly a joke, seeing as they were the six-foot-plus lanky clean-cut eyecatchers, with the fit late-twenties bodies, trim waists, smooth honey-brown skin, and handsome always-smiling faces—easy ringers for the next jet-setting boy band or half-salacious, winkingly-homoerotic PicThread feed. Meanwhile, on a good day I looked like a refugee from a ‘50s sock hop, down to the rail-thin frame, sweaters, unmessable brown hair, and generally bland look. They just laughed and said I was holding out for a steamy foursome fuck-party. I played along, and truth was they weren’t that far off. 

Being around these sexy, self-assured, slightly older hunk brothers did funny things to me. I started feeling hot under the collar every time they walked in the shop, and evengtually I just got used to being low-key aroused and half-boned just from being in the café and knowing that they’d be there any minute, if they weren’t already lounging at their favorite table near the cashwrap.

The brothers—they were called Andrew (28 and a bit taller and more laconic than the others); Peter (26, gregarious and always showing off with sleeveless shirts and tight, butt-hugging jeans); and Alex (25 and Peter’s biggest fan, always close to him if he could be, though he was actually the more muscular out of the three)—had been living with their parents over the store when I first got to know them. But five people plus constantly rotating relatives got to be a bit much for them even in a big flat like that. They pooled their money, borrowed some cash from a (non-bear-fighting) uncle, and bought a small slightly spooky townhouse in a nearby old residential neighborhood. There were four bedrooms, so they offered me one, as casual as a slap on the back. I was eager to get out of my own shoebox and agreed. 

It was a great place, sturdy, well-constructed and not run down, but I got a weird vibe from the first time I was there. It was like… some sort of faint primordial eldritch power was infused in the beams and plaster and old oak floorboards, waiting to fuck with the world and have a good laugh. The place had stood empty for decades over some title dispute or other, and I was convinced the old townhouse was just lonely and a bit bored.

The really unnerving part was how it related to me in particular. Maybe it was because it knew I was the one sensitive to it, or maybe it was used to hot guys and I was the odd one out, but it started to feel like the house was… curious about me. Watching me. The brothers didn’t notice anything, but to me it was almost like the old building was sizing me up for something. Then one day, about a month in, I was jogging downstairs to join the guys for our ritual pajama-bottoms-only breakfast before the four of us walked the four blocks to work (and yes, nothin’ but pj bottoms was a solemnly-agreed rule—I had to buy pjs just for these breakfasts, so naturally I got the silliest ones I could find, much to my bro-roomies’ amusement). I was sliding my hand down the banister when suddenly I felt a jab in my index finger. Pulling up short, I stared at the blood welling up on my finger-tip, no splinter in sight, then at the perfectly smooth white-painted handrail. I stuck the finger in my mouth to stanch the blood (shut up, I’m a medical savant) and when I pulled it out there was no wound, no pain, no nothing, though I did feel a kind of strange, tingly thrill making its way through my veins.

Whatever had happened, I was gut-sure it was on purpose—however much a strange old house could prank its people “on purpose.” It didn’t feel like an attack, though—more like… I dunno, a catalyst, like it needed something in me soul or my bloodstream or something. That house was friendly in its own way and eerie as fuck, which made me trust it and not trust it. I was sure it was up to something, but I couldn’t tell what yet.

A few more weeks passed, during which we were all working hard and covering lots of hours, so we weren’t home much. A long three-day weekend came around, and we decided to make the most of it. A previous owner had finished the basement and turned it into a rec room, which seemed like a great idea to build on for our own entertainment needs. So the four of us had pitched in and turned the downstairs into a rockin’ man cave, complete with the giantest of TV screens, the comfiest of deep-and-cozy four-man couches, and three different gaming systems in one half; the basement stairs were at the exact mid-point of the house, and the other side was slowly turning into a serious and decently equipped weight room the guys were playfully prodding me to join them in. 

I was lucky enough to be naturally defined, and I wasn’t ashamed or anything at our pj-bottoms morning kaffeeklatsches. (I was kind of proud of my small, round, not-at-all-flat-like-all-my-male-relatives butt. The guys teasingly picked up on this, of course, calling it “pert” and “spunky” whenever they got the chance.) But… I couldn’t quite imagine myself being like them, all swimmer-buff like Andrew, or show-off muscley like Peter, or actually solid and built like Alex, hard pecs, rippling abs and all.

So we were dug in down in the cave with enough snacks and beers to last the apocalypse, barefoot and relaxed in our comfiest jeans and tees, and a few hours into Friday night we were already well ensconced in that comfy man-space couch having the most fun I could remember having. Before these guys I’d never played Carpathian Death Race on the Beast66, and now I was holding my own them in mêlée after mêlée of flailing controllers, gleeful laughter, and the occasional dirty tricks—stymied at least half the time by yours truly, the Game Master. 

After one turn where I’d managed to trounce everyone in a flurry of luck and flukey skill we fell back against the couch laughing and even a little sweaty, arms and shoulders and knees brushing comfortably. I was buzzed from the beers and my usual state of semi-arousal from being surrounded by these handsy, affectionate, funloving hunkbros, very conscious of our bodies and was kind of amused by it. Leaning back against that sweet deep upholstery, guys all around me, we suddenly seemed like a tangle of bare arms and denim-clad legs erupting from our couch-space, and I snickered at the silly idea.

“Gloating, huh, Ian?” Peter needled me with a smirk. He was sitting at the end of the couch to my left, on the other side of Alex, who liked to snuggle between us, his big shoulders pleasantly overlapping us when they weren’t nuzzling underneath, which was also nice. 

“That’s right,” I said, consciously not slurring. “I am the best Carpathian Death Racer ever. And irresistible to boot.” A flush of heat washed through me as I said the words, but I put it down to being sufficiently intoxicated, like how I ignored the weird sense that the house was silently chuckling to itself. 

I started to lean forward to grab my beer off the coffee table, but Andrew on my right, sitting close with his leg against mine, thought I was reaching for the controllers again and pulled me back against the couch between him and Alex, though we were overlapping more than before. “No more,” the confident big bro ordered, chuckling. As we settled back his arm when behind me, along the back of the sofa. “If you keep whipping our asses like that we’ll have no choice but to retaliate.”

“Yeah, we’ll start twisting your sexy nips every time you win or something,” Peter chipped in.

“Each of us taking turns,” Alex added, sounding like he was more than up for it. He was looking at my chest with interest—like there was anything to see there under my plain white pocket tee. He nuzzled closer, Andrew doing the same on the other side.

I think on top of the beer and the fun I was having I was enjoying the feel of the guys’ bodies against mine so much I was kinda giddy. “You can’t do that! My nipples will leak!” I giggled, a little incoherently. Smirking, I leaned forward for my beer again, and this time Andrew and Alex both pulled me back in unison. Andrew, the bastard, started tickling me along my flank, and I burst out laughing. Peter and Alex joined in and instantly I was almost delirious.

“Yeah? What do they leak?” Andrew goaded, still viciously tickling me.

“I bet it’s muscle milk,” Peter snarked playfully, teasing me as usual for my stick-figure physique. 

“Ironically,” Alex agreed as he worked at his torture, his tickle-fingers already under my shirt and heading for my very vulnerable pits.

“Hey, no fair!” I gasped, laughing and overstimulated. “You’re just jealous I leak muscle milk! From my muscle pecs! Cause I have Captain America muscle pecs!” The last came out came out as an ecstatic screech, and all at once the tickling stopped and I fell back, limp and hot, my body churning with half-orgasmic pleasure. Somehow I ended up leaning against Andrew’s firm torso, his arms loose around me with his hands on my torso, though Alex was still nuzzled close on the other side, Peter close beside him, unconsciously emulating his oldest brother as he casually felt up Alex from behind.

“And Captain America nothing else, apparently,” Peter said mockingly, looking me over. “Honestly, how did you manage to build up just your pecs and not the rest of you?”

I blinked at him and then looked down, just as Andrew, as if to demonstrate Peter’s assessment of my disproportionate construction, slipped his left palm up to cup my very hefty First Avenger-sized left teat, even giving the thick dense muscle there a little illustrative wiggle through my suddenly straining tee. Meanwhile, the rest of me was still the Steve Rogers “before” version, as unremarkable and malt-shop mundane as you could get. Except… I noticed there were now two damp spots in the soft cotton fabric under my anomalously huge pecs. I could feel and see the wet fabric against my sensitive, damp-tipped nips.

Intoxicated, aroused, and brain-scrambled from the exhilaration of being tickled, I could not make sense of this—until something in the back of my brain caught another whiff of the old house’s pleased satisfaction running faintly through its studs and bricks. Of course, I thought. The spooky old pile just wanted to squander its latent primeval powers by conjuring up yet more ways for the guys to make fun of me, making it so whatever I said that the guys implicitly believed got woven into the humdrum, unremarkable fabric of reality. Like a dick. Well, I wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction. 

“Hey,” I protested woozily at Peter as I tried to lean forward for my beer a third time, only for Andrew to pull me back against him. “I’ll have you know I’m plenty mussular. Muscular.” Peter, finally figuring out what I wanted, reached over and grabbed my longneck off the table and handed it to me. “Like Superman,” I added, taking a long pull of the potent brew and emptying the bottle. I giggled again, realizing I’d made my inexplicable body-morphs a Marvel/DC thing. The others didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah? Which one?” asked Andrew indulgently, still minutely stroking my bulky pecs with one hand and my flat belly with the other.

Alex gave me an assessing look. “I bet it’s Dean Cain,” he said. 

I looked at him and grinned. Alex knew my tastes, it seemed, no doubt from his own awareness of how much I scoped out his perfect muscle-bod, especially during half-naked breakfast. “It is Dean Cain,” I confirmed happily. Christopher Reeve was sexy as hell, and I’d totally go for a lost weekend with Tyler Hoechlin, but the fact was that none of the Supes beat the 1993 model for beautiful, sculpted musclisciousness in every category. Knowing what was about to happen I closed my eyes, enjoying the instantaneous feel of the expansion of my body from top to bottom, my shirt and jeans abruptly straining in a comical fashion against broad shoulders and firm, strong thighs and everything else. My pecs seemed to stay the separate, interestingly, so that they were now proportionately a bit bigger… and still leaky.

“I don’t remember Superman making such a mess in his shirt,” Andrew remarked smugly. “C’mon, let’s get this off you.” He turned me a little so I was more on his lap, and Alex and Peter pulled my legs up so I was laying across them. “Arms up.” I compiled, and Andrew slid the damp shirt off me. There was a moment of chill from the cool air of the basement of my goo-smeared skin, but Andrew’s warm hands were on me again a moment later, and I hummed contentedly.

“There you go,” I said drowsily, eyes still closed. “Each of you gets a part of me to play with.”

“Yeah? I get the feet, huh?” Peter teased. He was already caressing them appreciatively, so I knew he didn’t mind.

“I got awesome feet,” I murmured defensively. The guys all had great feet already, which I got to see a lot, so I felt the need to go for superlatives. “Four big handsome feet, count ‘em! Plus lots of extra toes to play with, or—” 

I’d been about to say “suck,” but Peter beat me to it, drawing the big toe of one of my left feet into his warm, welcoming mouth. I moaned as he slid his tongue around it. “Fuck, you have the best tongue,” I slurred in approval. “All long and stretchy…”

“That he does,” Andrew concurred, as if he’d experienced said tongue in action. He was still stroking my bare torso, and just then his finger and thumb found my left nip and gave it a soft twist. I grunted in pleasure, and a small spurt of thick muscle milk doused the warm, newly-tan skin below.

I didn’t want Andrew and Alex to be left out, so I said, “You all have the sexy-stretchy tongue thing, too. So hot.” And the tongue thing was hot, if Peter’s toe-worship was at all indicative. Okay, they were being really good to me. I wanted to give them a gift too, from pure mindless gratitude. “Like your ten-pack abs. You all—you all have those rippling, chiseled twelve-pack abs, so hot.” 

“Just like you,” Andrew teased.

“Like me. We all got ‘em. Hot fourteen-pack abs….” Fuck, I was so hard, in front and back—shit, I had two groins now. I felt twice as aroused, maybe more, my nonfunctional brain oversaturated with raw, irrational lust.

Even as I was thinking this, I felt a hand on my rigid cock through the denim. “Does that mean this part of you is mine?” Alex said, his tone playful and sultry. Behind me, Andrew chuckled. He was bending close, so that I could feel the warm gists of his breath as he worshipped my Super-ified torso. The three of them giving me stimulation like this was almost as overstimulating as the intense joint tickling a few minutes before, though of course I much preferred this kind of three-brother attack.

“Unnnnhh,” I moaned. What had Alex asked? “Sure, you can have dibs on my big thick ultra-yummy footlong cocks. And my big sweaty balls,” I said giggling, wanting to melt as Alex stroked my suddenly more immense hardness through the fabric. Maybe Alex having them wasn’t fair though? “You should share, though,” I added blearily. “With Peter.” I thought about how Alex and Peter were always so close and thought it would be hot if they even closer. “You and Peter share everything,” I muttered muzzily. “Kisses… a bed… your bodies…” I’d meant this as them making love, sharing their bodies in bed, but an arresting image of them actually sharing a body hit me and sent a hot thrill through me, and my hips actually bucked slightly. 

“Yeah, that’s it, you share a body—same long beautiful legs, separate torsos… Peter behind so he can feel your hot muscles up all the time and make you happy…. oh, yeah…” 

I registered dimly that something had happened, because I only felt two sets of legs under me now; but all I could deal with was the three of them making every part of me want to cum and at the same time keep this going and never cum, just building and building….

Alex unbuttoned my four-legged jeans and started to slide my straining zipper down, and just that act was enough to drive me close to the edge. My giant front dick leapt free in and bounded up into Alex’s hot mouth—and that was at exactly the same time as Andrew’s sweet lips met mine in sultry, smoldering kiss. I opened for the kiss, groaning into him even before I felt the brothers’ abnormally talented tongues slide into my mouth and around my eager, delicious cock, as Peter continued to work my many, many toes. 

They didn’t have to work hard to get me to cum, not that time or all the millions of times afterward. After that Andrew and his merged brothers could barely keep their hands off me, even at work, and everyone in my life just accepted that I had three snarky, super-hot, always devoted and crazy-attentive boyfriends. They made me feel like the luckiest Supe-muscled boytaur ever, though I never got to leverage my brilliance at Carpathian Death Race much after that night. 

So, was the house happy? Absolutely. It loved us and took care of us, contented at last. Were we happy? Impossibly happy. Did I change anything else after that night? That… would be telling, wouldn’t it?

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