Body and Mind

by BRK   

Exasperated by college, work, and home life, Barry stumbles across an obscure app that might at least help make his insufferable, annoyingly sexy older brother Vince a tad easier to live with.

This story is a loose reimagining of an old story of mine, “Mind and Body,” with a new setup, new characters, and a plotline that will travel its own path. Hope you like.

Barry pulled up against the curb in his little gray Hyundai hatchback and yanked up the parking brake, the sharp ripping sound putting a final stop to his commute as always. He let the engine run a minute longer, letting the trepidation flicker through his belly as he stared out the passenger-side window at the house he shared with his big brother, Vince.

It was a nice little place. Two stories, white siding. Brick-red door with a small half-moon window for the door-to-door evangelists to peer through. The boxy, narrow feel of the house and the way all the neighbors were crowded a bit too close all down the street gave it a slightly squished feel, like some virtual architect had designed their out-of-the-way urban close, pondered it thoughtfully for a moment, then gone into the properties and set the horizontal scale to 90 percent.

Seeing his neighborhood this way didn’t help Barry’s feeling of overwhelming constriction in pretty much every aspect of his life. Nothing was going quite the way he wanted to. His classmates were tools. The list of required comp-sci courses he still had to complete was a joke. The part-time job he’d just left at the Grahamburgers downtown was a morass of short-sighted managers and short-tempered customers. His car needed transmission work. And somewhere in the enclosed space of that unassuming urban colonial he’d just parked in front of, very probably, lurked a glowering, grumpy, way-too-sexy brother that Barry did not feel fully equipped to deal with at the end of a long, trying day full of broken code and burger grease.

He flicked off the engine and pulled the keys free of the ignition with a sigh. That was the crux of his problem. He told himself he didn’t want to see his brother tonight, but he knew that was a lie. He wanted to see his big brother a little too much, if he were honest. Especially shirtless, which was always within a high range of probability. His surly, fractious ass of a common-ancestry cohabitor had been a classic case of looks 10, personality 3 from day one, and it had only gotten worse in middle school when Vince’d started working off his seemingly fathomless state of seething umbrage at the school gym, diligently honing his shoulders, arms, abs, and legs to a thick, cock-hardening perfection. As he laid on pound after pound, Barry could only look on in a helpless, silent agony of roiling hormones and grinding dismay.

Now 22 to Barry’s 19, Vince had matured into a 6-foot-3 Adonis of solid, sculpted muscle, sour looks, and bad behavior, leaving the smaller, twinkier, blonder, and generally more insubstantial of the brothers to fume at the untouched dishes, dirty laundry, and motorcycle parts on the kitchen table, all while nursing a constant simmering chub at the unavoidable awareness of Vince’s strong physical proximity.

As he looked down at himself in the driver’s seat, he felt his lips twisting in a kind of dejected amusement. He was fit enough. Decent-looking. He had nice hair he was kind of proud of, and at 5-foot-9 was still taller than a lot of guys he knew. Still, it was probably a blessing no one would look twice at him with his brother around, least of all his mostly straight brother. This baggy wait staff uniform is not exactly a pants-dropper, either, he thought wryly. Who thought narrow blue pinstripes were a good idea?

Whatever his troubles, delaying things sitting out here was definitely pointless. Retaining the keys in hand, he grabbed the fragrant white bag of work-heisted booty from the passenger seat (two pepperjack double Grahamburgers, two extra-large waffle fries), got out of the car, and slammed the door. The venerable Hyundai’s engine settled quickly and stilled. Barry headed up the short walk with his loot.

After a few steps, he slowed, frowning. Fuck, he could feel it. Vince was definitely in there. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

His pulse quickened, and he immediately chastised himself. He’s a jerk, he told his junk firmly for the thousandth time.

Yeah—a hot jerk, his dick replied, treacherously thickening in giddy anticipation.

Barry pressed his lips in frustration and kept walking. Whoever the fuck was responsible for giving him this stupidly high, constantly racing libido deserved a good kick in the shins. Pushing down his annoyance, he mounted the steps, unlocked the front door, and went in.

The main door opened onto a large front room, simply furnished, with a dark blue rug, a coffee table, and a plaid couch and loveseat set Vince had inherited from the buddy he’d bought the house from two years into his first gig as a licensed mechanic. Huge vintage prints of studly mechanics fixing studly cars decorated the otherwise unadorned ivory walls.

He closed the door and stopped. As expected, Vince was there, seated on the loveseat in front of the window. He was shirtless and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, as if to show off his wingspan and manly two-inch shoulderblade merman tattoo to anyone coming through the door.

Barry immediately felt his blood heating up. I want to touch, he thought miserably.

Vince looked up, allowing him to stare into bright blue eyes, and Barry almost spoke aloud his thoughts.

Let me touch. You want me to touch.

Vince’s thick, perfectly shaped, handsomeness-enhancing brows lifted infinitesimally, as though he’d almost heard or sensed what Barry was thinking. His full, red lips parted, and Barry drew in a silent breath.

“And?” Vince growled, eyes flicking down to the bag of food in his hand. “I hope you brought enough for both of us.”

Confused, Barry started to answer something like “Of course I did, why would I not bring food for you and me both?” At the last minute, however, he registered belatedly that Vince was not alone. Next to him, on the near end of the couch, was Vince’s bestie, Brad—a man who (in Barry’s opinion) was even more of a piece of work than Vince. He was not quite as big or as tall as Vince but was incredibly ripped, as though the burning intensity of his assholery had seared away every milligram of body fat and sharpened his definition as far as it could go. He liked to wear tight tank tops that showed off the cut of his delts, his impossible intercostals, and his freakish lack of body hair. Between them on the coffee table was Vince’s tablet, currently displaying a tech specs screen for a red Ducati Panigale. Was one of them buying a new bike?

Brad’s looking especially yummy today, too, his dick purred, plumping even thicker against his snug boxer-briefs. It didn’t care about the bike, apart from how sexy they’d both look riding one. Especially together, Brad riding all stubbly and leather-jacketed behind Vince like a power bottom eloping with his steel-bodied top.

Oh my god shut up, he shouted inwardly, his cheeks reddening despite himself. Thank god for ill-fitting work uniforms.

Fortunately, Brad’s m.o. around his bestie’s pesky kid brother had always been to ignore him completely and pretend he didn’t exist. Sure enough, he was staring resolutely at the motorcycle specs on the tablet as though they contained the secrets of undying happiness. Maybe they did, for him.

That left him with Vince, who was now glaring at him.

“Well?” he said calmly. It wasn’t demanding or aggressive, just expectant.

Barry’s shoulders slumped fractionally. Giving up, he laid the bag on the table in front of them, barely stopping himself from dropping it on the all-important iPad and setting it just next to the device instead. “Enjoy,” he mumbled resignedly, trudging to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

He felt Vince’s eyes boring into his back as he left the living room. It was almost like all of that had been deliberate, to see what he would do. Manipulative fuckwad. He was relieved to turn the corner into the kitchen, finally out of sight of his brooding bro. Finding the fridge he opened the door and peered inside, hoping the familiar action would shove all thoughts of his brother aside, though he was too distracted to see any of its sparse contents for a good minute or two.

Go ahead, jerk me around, he thought. See how you like it someday.

“Grahamburgers, nice,” he heard Brad gush from the living room as they started unpacking the bag. “These are great. You can’t even taste the graham crackers.”

“What?”

“Aren’t the buns made with—?”

“Of course, they aren’t.”

“Yeah? Then—”

“It was his name, dumbass.”

“Huh?”

“Ezekiel Graham. Ex-alderman. He was the one who founded the chain back in the ‘60s, yeah? Don’t you remember the local history segment in social studies senior year?”

“Pfft. I don’t even remember what our high school looked like inside, man.”

Vince huffed. After that they got to work on the hot, savory food he’d brought home, their various chewing and smacking sounds interspersed with little moans of approval Barry tried not to imagine sexually.

“These are good though,” Brad mumbled eventually around a mouthful of beefy goodness.

“Yeah, Bar’s useful to have around sometimes,” Vince agreed, his tone flat and disinterested.

Barry shook his head. What the heck did that mean?

Finally focusing on his task, he got out the boysenberry jam, then retrieved a couple slices of thick white bread and a jar of superchunk peanut butter from the cupboard. He wasn’t too hungry anyway. Once he’d constructed the sandwich and put everything away, he took the plate and a can of Coke Zero up to his room, intended to closet himself as far away from his hot affliction of a housemate and his equally hot bro-bud as possible.

Maybe there’d be something on the code web to improve his situation, he thought jokingly. Keywords: fix my brother.

Snorting, he headed upstairs, grudgingly conceding he would first need to give precedence to his increasingly swollen cock over trolling the internet for nonexistent apps, though at least he was becoming a pro at beating off and scarfing down food at the same time. Being this horny required certain efficiencies, and Barry was nothing if not methodical, even when it came to his easily boned, constantly troublesome cock.

Eerily, his wise-ass idea of a search phrase had turned out to be more useful than expected. Browsing one of the more obscure app dev sites as he slowly finished his sandwich, his spent cock lolling contentedly in the cummy puddle it had made for itself along the crease of his left hip, Barry unearthed a disowned and undocumented app on one of the buried archive pages, listed under the nondescript, but for him attention-getting, name of “bro-fixer.”

Curious, Barry opened the listing, finishing the sandwich and licking his fingers as he read. The uploader, who called himself “sockboner” (do tell, Barry thought), had provided only the briefest description: “This helped us, it might help you.” Oo, cryptic. As noted in the archive directory it was sans documentation and without support or contact information. There were no other tags or any further indication of what it did or how it worked. Despite the listing having been up for almost two years, the number of downloads, very unusually, had remained stubbornly at absolute zero.

Barry drummed his fingers on the desk, intrigued despite the obvious warning signs. No doubt the very few devs errant who’d randomly stumbled across this page at all had shrugged at its opacity of use and written it off as junk or malware—though those behind the dissemination of malicious apps usually tried to be more enticing than this. Barry wasn’t worried about any of that; he’d devised his own walled-off sandbox to examine other people’s code in without danger to the main hard drive or the home network.

His gut told him this wasn’t that sort of app, anyway. The lack of information was to him more suggestive of someone other than the dev having uploaded this thing on the downlow, hoping to instigate a bit more sneaky, chaotic change in the world after his own experience had turned out better than expected.

He drummed indecisively a few more seconds, then moved the mouse over the download button and clicked.

Within his virtual isolation chamber he unpackaged the app as best he could, but he didn’t glean much. Apparently there was something about the interface that unlocked something in the user. By staring at the flashes on the screen and listening to the low undertow sound files, something was supposed to be freed in the observer that might not have been possible before.

Barry hummed to himself as he explored, intrigued. Some sort of induced trace? A kind of highly focused hypnosuggestion? Or was there more, something this app accessed that went beyond what most people knew about the workings of body and mind?

Interestingly, though there wasn’t any documentation or how-tos, he did find a brief set of extremely terse change notes. These were mostly inscrutable, referring cryptically to sections of the code inaccessible to Barry in its current compiled state. But the last entry noted a modification to allow a self-change mode for the admin-user, in addition to the original two-or-more-subject admin-guided mode. Apparently the latter method was designed to change others using the screen, the subliminal soundfiles, and accompanying voice commands supplied in real time by the admin; but the former needed only Barry himself and a typed-in instruction as seed for the process.

Barry smiled. His theory that the app simulated hypnosuggestion, and the way him staring deep into Vince’s eyes before had almost felt like they were connecting in some sort of extrasensory link, gave him an idea. He typed a brief command into a text file, saved it in the appropriate place, and launched the app.

Instantly the iMac screen filled with a rich dark blue solid field that seemed unconsciously in motion, somehow, at a level below visual perception. Barry found this both promising and a little eerie, all things considered. At the center of the screen appeared a button with the word “Start.”

Barry clicked.

Without compulsion or volition, Barry fell, leaving the weight of reality and self behind. The blue field swallowed him up, wrapping around him and his endless soul-universe as though swaddling him in the embrace of warm, strong arms. Many arms. Many men. He was hard, and panting, and full of excitement. So many faces, so much arousal. Vince was there, and Paul from school and Joey from work and that guy who always jogged in the park with his dog. Brad was there too, and more of Vince’s friends, and they all were blurring together, naked and horny and hard as fuck.

Barry moaned loudly, like he was releasing something trapped inside him. The words he’d typed in the command file formed in the blue space, flickering across shadowed and muscular bodies like a projection from nowhere, before they suddenly gathered in a rush and plowed into him, driving straight into his heart. He shouted, cumming without even knowing he’d been close to orgasm. He fell back, euphoric and used, into the nothingness of the nowhere. His heart was pumping slowly now, one beat per age of humanity. He was alone now, his back arched and limbs splayed, drifting insubstantially through the infinite blue. Nothing was to be seen, only a faint echo of Vince’s face, almost visible in the shifting color.

As Barry spun slowly in the void, he sensed the words of the impulsive, typed-up command he’d so violently subsumed into himself deliberately etching themselves into the very curves and recesses of his cosmic mind. With a few words and simple instructions, the incisions read, so silly and yet, thus chiseled, so seemingly momentous.

He read them again, tracing the cuts with his mind as though running fingers over a stone monument. With a few words and simple instructions, they said, I can make people do anything I want them to do…

A strong hand jostled his shoulder, wrenching him from the void. “Geez, if you’re passing out from it you’re doing it way too much, bro.”

Barry collected his scattered senses. He was naked in his desk chair, half-hard and spattered all across his tight belly with his own cum. Lots of his own cum—more than before. Two rounds of it, at least, he remembered with chagrin, maybe more.

He looked up at his scowling brother, gorgeous even with mussed hair and a mighty frown of umbrage. Humiliation burned through him, but he sensed something else, too, something new but intrinsically him.

He rose, feeling suddenly defiant, until he was standing in front of Vince face to face, staring hard into those blazing blue eyes the whole way up. “You don’t mind. Do you, Vince?”

Vince was glaring down at him, aggressive but oddly unmoving. Another time he might have sneered and stalked off, Barry thought, maybe tossing a final jab over his shoulder, but Vince just stood there and said mildly, “Is that right.” Was he… inviting escalation? Elaboration?

Barry felt around that new part of himself. It was steel-hard and subtly rippling with what felt like some kind of raw, embedded potential. He felt a little intoxicated, as though he’d got metaphysically buzzed off of what this new core of power was offering him. His inhibitions had eroded, too, falling away like track and field hurdles knocked over by clumsy runners, and Barry stood straighter, straining to reach his full 5-foot-9. “Listen to me, Vince. Are you listening?”

Vince said nothing, but he didn’t move a muscle, not even to glower harder at him. Barry pressed on. “I’m going to hypnotize you now,” he said. Vince’s eyes narrowed, then visibly seemed to lose focus. Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Barry told himself to remain focused. “You’re going to enter a trance, and then you’re going to accept everything I say.”

Vince’s eyes closed. Everything about him was utterly tense and, at the same time, completely and totally passive. Waiting for instructions. His lips parted, not to speak but to respond as necessary.

“V-Vince, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Vince said emptily, his voice without tone or inflection.

Barry was hard. He didn’t know how he could be hard—he’d just blasted two loads, maybe three—but it didn’t matter. In that moment, about to command Vince and maybe change both their lives, Barry was as achingly, unbendingly, shaft-strainingly hard as he had ever been in his life.

His hardon, unfortunately, was skewing his thoughts, as always. He remembered what they had been talking about. “You don’t mind,” Barry repeated, and somehow he could feel the resonance of his hypnotic command in his voice, not in the sound but in something that lay beneath or alongside the words. “You like me feeling good, Vince. You like being good to me. Making me feel good. Letting me make you feel good. Letting me be into you.”

Wait where were these words coming from? The plan was just for Vince to be nice to him, not to be, well, nice to him…

Vince spoke, his words sounding like simple autonomic repetition. “Feel good.”

Thrilled and scared by the effect he was having, Barry made himself push harder. Vince was a pain, and here was his chance to do something about it. He needed to file down that tough-guy hostility toward him. He was never happy to see him. What was up with that? “You like seeing me… my face, and… my hair. You like my hair. You think it’s… sexy.”

Fuck, he was too horny. Just looking at his handsome, mussed, half-naked brother was making him all feverish and confused. Where was he going with this?

“Sexy.”

“And my cock,” he blurted, freeing the word like it had been trying to get out this whole time. The words seem to take over, and Barry let them. “You like that I get hard for you,” he pressed. “You like guys getting big and hard over you. You get off on that. You’re turned on by guys getting all big and crazy hard over you.”

“Big and hard.”

Barry wallowed in the moment for a second, then shook himself. This was all too out of hand. Instructions this extreme would create dissonance and confusion. He had to ratchet this back to calmness and acceptance—he needed to make this no big deal. Vince treating Barry well from now on would be casual, normal, everyday. No second thoughts. “Everything I’ve just said is going to seem ordinary and unremarkable to you. Completely mundane. Nothing to worry or think twice about. Okay?”

“Mundane,” the entranced hunk said.

Now that he’d steadied himself, suddenly what he was doing felt weird and borderline wrong. Wrap it up, Bar, he thought anxiously. “Okay. When I… uh…” He was about to say “snap my fingers,” but he couldn’t help succumbing to years-old fantasies. “…when I touch your chest, you’ll snap out of this trace and not remember anything from after you walked in the room and shook my shoulder. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Barry considered the tanned, well-developed chest in front of him, almost face-to-face with him. It was thick and firm, swelling outward a little more at the bottom end but still thick and heavy all the way up to the collarbones. He’d heard Vince talking to his buddies about the importance of doing all the chest exercises, building each stratum of pectoral muscle for the full and aesthetic effect, and he clearly knew from what he spoke, as Barry had been noticing with increasing awe over the last seven years of slow, steady, carefully guided growth. It was a vision of perfection: two slabs of sun-browned, symmetrical muscle sculpted into heavy, idealized form. That the surface was scattered with soft, dark chest hair furnished the final proof that these pecs were meant for tactile as well as visual enjoyment.

There was a little smudge of engine grease just along the side wall of his left pec, too, because of course there was. It was hot as fuck, just like the rest of him.

Reaching up, Barry splayed his hand across the center of the enthralling chest, arranging his hand so that his thumb, forefinger, and the heel of his palm embraced the left side, the rest of his hand the right. The feel of it made him shiver with long-suppressed need.

Vince blinked, then looked down at Barry with clear, blue eyes.

“Hey,” Barry said.

Vince blinked. “Hey,” he repeated, frowning slightly. “What—what were we talking about?”

Barry shook his head slightly. “Nothing important.”

Vince nodded. He looked down at Barry’s hand spread brazenly across his ponderous pecs, and Barry’s stomach did a nervous flip.

Then Vince popped his pecs playfully, the muscles pulsing under Barry’s hand. Barry held back a gasp, but he couldn’t stop the grin.

He met Barry’s eyes and looked happy and untroubled—no glower in sight, not for him. “How you feeling, bro?” he asked with a slightly fond, slightly mischievous half-smile.

Barry let out a breath. “I’m good,” he admitted.

Vince nodded, eyes still glinting. He lifted a hand and unselfconsciously slid his fingers through Barry’s thick, silky blond hair. Barry shuddered slightly with pleasure at the touch, and a pearl of precum formed on the slit of his ranging, never-harder cock.

Vince seemed to expect this. He glanced down knowingly at Barry’s cock and then up again. “I thought so,” he said, smirking impishly.

Barry stared at him. Vince was as cocky as Barry had ever seen him, but before now it had been a joyless, brutal arrogance. This Vince was having fun with Barry, and for the very first time it occurred to him to worry what that might entail that he hadn’t even tried to foresee.

Vince patted his cheek and took a few steps back from Barry, nodding down at Barry’s big, hard, turtlenecked boner. “Don’t jerk it too much,” he teased. Fuck, there was a lump in his jeans. Was he half-hard? Was he getting off on this? Of course he was. Fuck, he had told Vince to get off on this.

Vince spread his arms, putting his amazing body on display. “You want to take a picture?” he offered, smirk still firmly in place. “For your spank bank?”

Barry narrowed his eyes, gathering what pride a naked guy with a boner still had. “No need,” he said firmly. He’d meant it as a rejection, but it hadn’t quite come out that way.

Vince grinned. “Understood,” he said. “I’ll just leave you to your…” He gestured at himself. “…fondest memories.”

“Okay, get out,” Barry said.

Vince laughed and left, calling “Night bro” over his brawny, well-chiseled shoulder as he disappeared into his own room, just across the upstairs hallway and until now pretty much the other side of creation.

“Night bro,” Barry repeated back softly. He went and closed the door to his bedroom, then leaned against it, staring down accusingly at his tireless, straining cock as the sounds of Vince starting up the shower in his bathroom filtered through the cheap pine. “You get me into so much trouble,” he told his hard, unrepentant peen, before resting his skull back against the door and closing his eyes. He really, really hoped that in attempting to vanquish one monster, he hadn’t just created another.

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