The Gay Erotic: Shared Blood

SHARED BLOOD: Parts 1 through 4-FREE

The Gay Erotic — Wed, 13 May 2026 15:59:22 GMT

Tomorrow, I will be releasing Part 5 of Shared Blood! To celebrate, I’m giving everyone access to Parts 1, 2, 3, & 4 FOR FREE! And I’ve put them all in one place. This story isn’t for everybody, I know. But I hope you’ll give it a chance. And also, just because I love and appreciate you, I’m giving everybody a huge discount, too!

Thank you for supporting my work. I’m truly grateful. Now, go read some smut…

Part One

The call came in at 7:46 a.m., one minute before my alarm. The number is unknown. I sat up straight and looked at my phone for a long moment, wondering if I was really going to pick up a call from somebody I didn’t know. But I took the risk and accepted the call.

“Adrian Kessler,” I said, purposefully making my voice sound busy and serious as if it might inoculate me against whatever sales pitch I was about to endure from the other end.

The voice was female, and she sounded so calm that I immediately kind of loathed her. She explained the situation in very precise terms. There had been an incident—my sister-in-law, Laura, was in the hospital, in critical condition. According to her, my 19-year-old nephew required immediate supervision. “And according to the documents that we have on file, you and your brother, Rafael, are named as provisional guardians.”

Rafael. Just hearing my brother’s name made my mouth taste sour. But I held the phone steady, jotting down every detail she was spewing off with my free hand.

“Thank you,” I said. I hated hearing the strain in my own voice, the cracks of old resentment creeping through. “I’m so grateful for your call. I’ll handle the arrangements from here.”

She tried giving me a list of things I might want to consider, but I wasn’t listening. The only thing I could hear was the echo of her saying my brother’s name, a name I’d spent five years and several thousand dollars in therapy training myself to forget or ignore.

I hung up the call and just sat there, sitting still—feeling almost paralyzed—wondering what I should and shouldn’t do next.

I looked around my brand new house and sighed aloud at the mess that surrounded me. I had so much to get done. But now, since I was going to be babysitting my nephew, I needed to be quick about getting this space in better shape than it looked right now.

I purchased this house by the lake because I needed my life away from work to feel like a retreat, an ongoing experience in solitude, a daily sabbatical away from my fucked-up work existence. Sadly, my need for relaxation wasn’t exactly my idea, at least, not initially. I bought this place because the board of directors at my firm insisted I “take time away” to recover from the mental breakdown I’d experienced. Yes, I’d had a mental breakdown. My OCD and anxiety took a toll on my health, causing me to have panic attacks. And one of those panic attacks happened during a staff meeting. And of course, that made nearly everyone in my office suggest I needed a vacation. They had a point, but that didn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at them and telling them to mind their own fucking business. Now, I admit, I did probably need a vacation. But I also needed a more permanent change of pace, which is why I bought a new house out in the middle of nowhere.

My reason for doing this was because I was going to really try to, as one of my therapists advised, find my fucking zen and fucking hold onto it.

The property I bought caught my eye because its Zillow listing described it as “uncompromisingly modern” and “minimalistic in its style”. Which, for me, translated to no neighbors, no unnecessary frills, and no distractions except the ones I chose. But then I saw the view from the back deck—mountains, trees, and the bluest lake I’d ever seen in my entire life.

I looked at my watch, took a deep breath, and got my ass moving. I started by arranging my furniture—I’d gone with low, modular, imported options, each item featuring perfect lines. I hated plush. I loathed curves—well, most curves. One of the reasons I’d fell in love with this house is because all of its angles were intentional, every fucking joint invisible.

And I wanted the furniture to accentuate the house’s linear appeal, not distract. So, I aligned the sofa precisely with the grid of the hardwood floor. The dining chairs were arranged around a glass table with the precision of a clockmaker. I hung the new 72-inch HD TV like it was a fucking work of art. Because goddamn it, it was a work of art. The sight lines from every seat converged perfectly, each offering a pristine view of the lake while also making the TV’s placement not feel like an afterthought.

Every twenty minutes, I washed my hands. My compulsions felt stronger today. It was normal for my urges to ebb and flow.

After the living room, I tackled the kitchen. Counters were already scrubbed to a shimmering gloss, but I cleaned them again, working the cloth in overlapping circles until I could see my reflection. The refrigerator was checked, then re-checked. The pantry was alphabetized and, in some cases, organized by color.

I bleached the guest bathroom and then did the same to my bath, laying out the linens on the stainless steel island. I rolled each towel, making every one appear indistinguishable from its neighbor, the edges flush as military graves.

At one point, I caught myself gazing out the window at the dock down by the lake’s shoreline. There was a boathouse connected to it—a rather hideous architectural afterthought that I would need to remodel at some point— but it was nice enough—a bathroom and shower included—that it might serve as another guest room if I needed one. I caught myself imagining Rafael there—walking across those splintered planks in bare feet, a bottle in one hand, and probably some kind of disaster in the other. The image was quite vivid, but I let it go with a hard blink, and then I washed my hands again.

My house had three bedrooms, two of which I never intended to use. I chose the one at the far end, the one least likely to hear footsteps or voices at night. The sheets were uncreased, the pillows fluffed to geometric consistency. I remade every bed, each corner so tight I suspect they’d give captains of the military erections.

By lunchtime, the place was ready—ready enough, at least.

My phone rang again, and I flinched. It was the hospital. Another update from the lady with the perfect delivery. According to her, Laura was in “guarded but stable” condition. She asked me if it would be okay if Leo arrived at the house by car service sometime in the morning. I told her that would be fine.

“And you and Rafael…” There’s his name again, rolling off her tongue like it was easy. “Have you two connected yet?” the nurse asked, “because he informed me that he would be reaching out to you.”

“That’s fine,” I told her, “I’m sure he will once he gets around to it.” I thanked her and hung up. I stared at the phone. And then I washed my hands again.

For the next two hours, I paced around the first floor of my house like I was searching for signs of chaos, seemingly needing something I could pretend to fix. But there was nothing broken. I opened each window, looking for dust or something to clean, then closed them. I swept the deck, not because it needed it, but because housework was sometimes like meditation for me.

I found myself rehearsing over and over what I would say when Leo finally arrived. I’d seen him only a handful of times since the divorce, always as a peripheral figure in Rafael’s story. Leo was quieter and smarter than my brother, and there was something about the way he looked at me–that kid’s gaze could strip paint off the walls if he wanted to.

I imagined him in the guest room, leaving a trail of trash and stories behind him: shoes kicked off, socks tossed, charger cords snaked across every surface, towels abandoned in wet piles. I made a note to double the cleaning supplies.

As I thought about Leo, I caught a faint shimmer of nostalgia for the brother whom I’d once known. No, not the man who’d practically become a ghost in my life, but the human I once knew and loved, the Raphael who’d shown me how to make paper planes, how to swim underwater without surfacing, how to fake a fever to stay home from school. But then I remembered how those stories always ended—with something broken, something lost, someone hurt. I sighed.

At dusk, I stood in the center of the living room and surveyed my day’s work. The space was immaculate, each surface reflecting the last rays of sunlight. For a moment, I imagined what the house would look like after a week of occupancy—fingerprints on the fridge, water spots on the mirror, crumbs in the seams of the sofa. The thought was so frightening for me that I had to clench my hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

But for now, the house was perfect—silent, orderly, and waiting—just like me.

Leo arrived almost thirty-six hours before Rafael.

I watched the black sedan pull up my gravel drive at 10:09, precisely as scheduled by the car service. Leo opened the door and slowly stepped out from the back seat, his head emerging first, followed by flip-flop-donned bare feet that met the ground with nonchalance. His luggage consisted of a single duffel bag and a nylon drawstring carrier, which he had slung over one shoulder in a way that projected attitude and discontent.

His Hawaiian shirt—yellow, green, and two shades of bright pink—was unbuttoned and flared open, exposing a lean torso mapped with a birthmark and an old scar across the left rib. He wore shorts so short I would have worried about keeping my contents contained.

The driver attempted to hand Leo the rest of his things, but Leo simply motioned for them to be left on the porch. Good lord, what an entitled little… My quiet critique was interrupted as I watched my nephew offer the driver a twenty, a gesture that seemed both dismissive and oddly gracious.

I opened the front door before he had a chance to knock.

“Hey, Uncle Adrian,” Leo said, eyes darting to the corners of the entryway before landing on me. “You gotta nice place here.”

“Leo,” I said, surprised to feel my voice crack on that second vowel. “How was the drive?”

He shrugged. “Not too bad,” he said, rolling his duffel across the threshold, “Thanks for letting me come stay with you. I really hate hotels.” His gaze took in the space as if he were an X-ray machine. “You don’t mind, right?”

“Not at all,” I said, stepping aside. I was immediately aware of how my body occupied the space: arms tucked, hands clasped, my head tilted slightly upward to project a tiny bit of authority, which I wasn’t sure I possessed. He stepped inside and tracked his flip-flops across the white oak, each flip and flop leaving a small, faint violation across my floor.

I wanted to direct him to the guest room, but instead I found myself following him as he made a slow circle around the foyer, cataloguing each detail of my home. He touched nothing, but his eyes lingered on every detail, every evidence of order. He stopped in the middle of the living room and then turned to me, hands splayed at his sides.

“This house, fuck, this is kind of amazing,” he said, lifting his chin toward the floating staircase.

“Does your mom know you talk with that mouth?”

He laughed. “Where do you think I learned it?”

I smiled.

“This house is exactly how I thought it would be, Uncle Adrian,” he said, “not a crooked line or bend anywhere.”

“It’s called ‘architectural precision’, Leo,” I said, smiling. “As you might know, I’ve always believed that geometry promotes clarity.”

He grinned, his teeth straight and white. “Oh, so that’s how what you call your OCD—a belief in geometry.” He let out another chuckle.

My jaw clicked as I swallowed the response that I wanted to give him. Instead, I pointed to the duffel. “You can put your things in the guest suite. It’s the second door on the right.”

Leo ignored my suggestion; instead, he padded across the living room to the enormous window that went from the ceiling to the floor. He pressed his forehead to the glass, leaving his greasy print.

“So, how deep is the lake, Uncle Adrian?” he asked, his voice filled with youthful curiosity.

“Just a bit more than sixty feet at the deepest point.”

He spun around, arms folded. “Have you tried swimming across it yet?”

I didn’t answer, partly because I thought his question was a waste of words considering how large the lake was, and also because I was too busy fixating on the smudge he’d left on my glass. I retrieved a microfiber cloth from the end table and buffed the spot clean.

Leo watched me with clinical interest. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“You mean clean?”

He shook his head, his curls falling in his face. “I mean, make blemishes and stains invisible again.”

“Well, you know, people leave traces of themselves everywhere they go,” I said, regretting my choice of words.

Leo smiled and widened his eyes. “That’s only true if you let it come inside.”

He let the mindless chatter die as he rolled his duffel bag down the hall toward the guest room, shoulders hunched with carelessness. I watched him, resisting the urge to check the floor for new footprints.

I decided to make coffee, calibrating the grind to perfection and making sure the water was heated to the ideal temperature of 206 degrees. Following the process soothed my brain. As the coffee dripped, I realized that the house had become silent except for the bubbled purr of the coffeemaker and the faint hum of the HVAC.

When I returned to the living room, Leo was curled up in the corner of the sectional, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around his shins. He’d closed his eyes, but he was still awake.

“How about some coffee?” I said, setting his mug down on the nearest coaster.

He reached for it without even looking, his fingers circling the handle with delicate ease. “Thank you, Uncle Ade.”

I sat down at the opposite end, my spine straight against the sofa’s back. I set my mug down, then rotated it a few degrees, so the handle aligned with the table’s edge. I felt Leo watching through half-lidded eyes.

“So, do you know what the plan is?” he asked, his voice light but definitely loaded with some shade of concern.

I outlined the schedule as it had been dictated to me: Rafael would arrive by train, we’d settle in for a bit, and then I believe we’re visiting the hospital together. Leo nodded, humming notes to a tune that I didn’t recognize. He hadn’t brought up his mom and her condition, and I was waiting to bring it up.

“And what kind of rules do I have to follow?” he asked, stretching his legs until they nearly touched the coffee table.

“There are no rules,” I said, probably too quickly.

Leo arched an eyebrow, letting his foot nudge the edge of the table, just enough to make the coaster move out of its rightful spot. I fixed it automatically.

“C’mon,” he said, “You always have rules. And, I don’t mind a few rules.”

I exhaled. “Fine. No parties, no drugs, no strangers. Respect the shared spaces. And put things back where you found them.”

Leo grinned. “Would those rules apply if we had guests, Uncle Adrian?”

The question took me off guard, and I heard the unvoiced implication, his tone carrying a hint of something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But I answered him the same way I answered my clients. “Rules apply to all occupants, Leo. Guests included.”

“Okay, that’s good to know,” he said, rolling his ankle idly. “Are there any family traditions that I should know about?”

My collar suddenly felt a little tight. “Uh, such as?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, like, is there one night where we have to eat dinner together? Do you guys do movie nights? Or do we take long walks in the woods on Saturday mornings? That sort of thing.”

I chuckled. “Ah, okay, yeah, no traditions to speak of.”

He leaned forward, closing the distance between us by a foot or two. His eyes glittered with childlike mischief, but his voice didn’t change. “I just thought I’d ask. Because, you know, I don’t want to disappoint.”

He sipped his coffee, then set the mug back on the table, two inches from the coaster. I reached out and moved it, trying to hide my urgency.

Leo saw exactly what had happened and smirked, then looked around the room as if reading a crime scene of my life. His gaze paused on the built-in shelves, the lack of books, the artfully empty vases. “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“Not long,” I said, “not long at all.”

“Well, I think Raphael is going to love this place.” At the mention of his father’s name, Leo’s face softened, and I caught the flicker of something that looked a little like vulnerability. It wasn’t quite relief, just honesty.

I stood. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

He saluted me, then collapsed further into the couch.

I left the room but hovered around the corner, out of sight. I listened as Leo shifted on the sofa, exhaled a low whistle, then stood and made a slow circuit of the main floor. I imagined his eyes, cataloguing every detail of my home: the color-coding of the spice rack, the symmetrically arranged shoes in the entryway, the invisible seam between the fridge and the cabinetry.

After a few minutes, the house was silent again.

I returned to the living room to find the coffee table reset to absolute chaos: the coasters stacked, the magazines fanned out at random angles, a throw pillow tossed onto the floor. I gritted my teeth, straightened the mess, then wiped my palms on my thighs.

It was going to be a long week.

I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, feeling the hollow drum of my heart in my chest. I pressed my palms flat to the wood, counting my pulse until the beats slowed and the urge to fix, to align, to obliterate all evidence of intrusion receded to a manageable throb.

Down the hall, I heard Leo laugh, bright and unfiltered, as he talked on his phone to a friend. The sound ricocheted off the glass and steel, a reminder that the cabin was no longer mine alone.

********

The day ended, as they all did, with rituals.

I waited until the house was silent again—until the last traces of Leo’s laughter had diminished to a low hum. Then I retreated to my own bathroom, my sanctuary of mirrors and marble stone. I locked the door behind me, bolting it.

I stripped out of my clothes with methodical care, folding each garment into a precise square as I tore it off my body, stacking each item on top of the other in the hamper. I avoided my reflection in the mirror, knowing what I’d see: a face drawn up tight as a wire, chapped lips, eyes bright, alive, but full of exhaustion. I set the water temp to 108 degrees and then carefully stepped under the rain, letting the scalding spray erase the day’s stresses and concerns.

The shower was walk-in, framed by frosted glass, all right angles and brushed hardware. I watched the water bead and slide down my forearms, tracking the droplets as they formed lines and merged. I focused on the sensations—steam in my lungs, heat at the nape of my neck, the hiss that drowned out thought. But as always, the relief was fleeting.

As soon as my eyes closed, the day began replaying like a loop: I remembered Leo’s flip-flop-covered feet slapping on the wood floor, the flinch I felt when I heard Rafael’s name, the way Leo left the coffee table in ruins. I tried to shake the worry, the frustration, my need to control every goddamn detail. I tried to swap those images out for safer ones—the hard anonymous torsos I see at the gym, my trips to those poorly-lit hotel rooms to meet up with men whose names I don’t remember, that one guy I see in the gym showers almost every night at the same time, the one with the massive brown cock.

For a minute, my attempt to switch off the anxious thoughts in my brain worked. My mind painted a composite of naked strangers, their hands moving on my hips, the crotches grinding into my crotch, their fingers digging me into the space in between my ass cheeks.

I wrapped my fist around my hardening cock and stroked it, casual at first and then with more intention. I pictured a man: he was faceless but also sometimes a combo of twenty faces, his body was muscled, his sexual energy hungry, his cock big and aching to push inside of me.

The lust inside my body started to build, a wild longing growing as I touched myself, and I let the fantasy play out, focusing all of my energy on the big-dicked stranger that my mind had conjured up for me.

But then it happened. I lost control of my thoughts, and the stranger’s face flickered and was replaced by Rafael’s.

I tried to crush the thought, to steer my perversions elsewhere, but the fantasy doubled down. The hand on my throat was Rafael’s. The mouth at my ear spoke with his old, amused contempt. I gasped, my rhythm breaking, and the memory overtook me as my knees nearly buckled.

I forced my mind blank, but then the images switched again: I saw Leo, sprawled on the couch, shirtless and coy; Leo, making eye contact as he sipped my coffee, his tongue wetting his lips; Leo’s voice, calling me “Uncle Ade” like it was an inside joke or story that only he and I understood.

I came with a muffled grunt, one palm stroking the cum out of me, the other cupped to my nuts. The water drowned out the sound I made, but it certainly rang out in my own ears. And what I heard was weak, desperate, pathetic, deviant.

I stood there until the heat faded, until the water turned cold. Only then did I scrub myself clean, twice, three times, soaping every fucking surface of my skin until it started to sting. I dried off, refolded the towels, and wiped every droplet from the glass enclosure.

I pulled on my robe, cinched it tight, and opened the door.

The hallway was dark, but I swear I could feel the weight of eyes on me, a prickle at the back of my neck. I looked around, scanning the shadows, but saw nothing. Yet the feeling persisted.

I tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was in order—coasters stacked, pillows aligned, the air was still, but I still felt staged. I refilled the glass, then turned back toward my bedroom suite, each step echoing off the polished floor.

I turned around and became startled by the presence of Leo walking quietly down the hallway and into his room. I nearly gasped.

Had Leo stood outside the bathroom door, silent and barefoot, listening to my moans of pleasure? Had he pressed his ear to the wood, listening to the frantic wet slaps of my hand stroking my cock?

Had he heard everything? Anything?

Now he moved soundlessly into his guest room and lay on top of the covers, arms folded behind his head, eyes open in the dark. His mouth wore a small, satisfied smile—an expression that said everything and told me nothing.

Had he listened as the water stopped, as my footsteps resumed, as the lock clicked open? Had I murmured his name? Fuck, had I murmured his father’s name? Holy shit.

I lay in my bed, staring at the blank ceiling, my mind looping through the day. I told myself that tomorrow would be easier, that a routine would eventually reassert itself, that I’d be strong and remain immune to whatever game Leo was playing, to whatever game I wanted to play.

But even in the silence, I knew I was already losing.

Part Two

I spent the morning cleaning. I tried really hard to be nonchalant about it. But I knew that, if Leo were watching me, I’d have looked like a nutcase to him. That’s because I was fucking sanitizing what I’d already sanitized and sanitizing places that nobody ever sanitized. Leo being in my house had triggered my OCD, and it was only going to get worse when Rafael arrived. The other reason I was cleaning with a fury that bordered on ungodly was that I was almost certain that Leo had been listening at my door as I masturbated last night. I could have been wrong. But I didn’t think I was. But scrubbing and rescrubbing the lower banister, the entry mat, the light switches, toilet seats, the door handles—every fucking detail of my house—was helping me cope with all the “what ifs” running through my brain.

As I cleaned, I kept looking at the clock, watching the time tick down to Rafael’s scheduled arrival. Once I’d cleaned every knob in my house twice, I started vacuuming the rug in the entryway for the second time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leo shuffle in wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of mesh shorts and an A-frame tee that looked two sizes too large.

“You’re gonna give yourself a fucking stroke, Uncle Ade,” Leo said, not bothering to soften his tone. “The house is immaculate. Why are you cleaning?”

“Morning, Leo,” I said, “did you sleep okay?”

Leo’s face crinkled. “Are you ignoring my question, Uncle Ade? Like, are you just gonna skip over the fact that I asked you a specific question?”

“No, Leo, I’m not ignoring your interest in my health.” I unplugged the vacuum and started wrapping the cord around its handle. “I’m just making sure the place is truly presentable. Your father is very particular, at least, from what I remember.”

Leo watched me for a second, then poured himself some cereal. “Yeah, I know, he’s an asshole—and I’m pretty sure that’s still true.” He chomped his breakfast, then added, “Do you think he’s actually gonna show, or is he just gonna text us that he’s running late, and do that over and over until he’s a no-show?”

“Your guess is better than mine,” I said, shrugging, “I haven’t seen him in almost six years. But I was told he’d be here by eleven.”

Leo glanced at the wooden cuckoo clock hanging on the wall in my foyer. “Well, it’s 11:20.”

“Oh, I know what time it is,” I said with a bit too much anxiety in my tone. “But he’s been on the road all night. He’s probably—” The sound of tires on gravel interrupted my thought. I froze. Leo abandoned his cereal and went to the window, peering through the slats.

“Wow. He brought the van. I wonder if he got the tags renewed before putting it on the road.” Leo rolled his eyes and then stared out the window again.

I took a deep breath as I put the vacuum away and moved to the foyer. From there, I watched Rafael’s van. That old van was exactly as I remembered it, but the man who stepped out of it had changed. Rafael’s hair was longer, much more gray now, and his beard was wild and unkept. His plaid shirt was half-unbuttoned and flapped in the wind. His jeans were paint-stained and torn at the knees. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and pulled out a duffel bag. He kicked the door shut with his heel, so hard it bounced open again. He backed his body against it and closed it shut.

Rafael was looking at the house, at the glass and the steel and the repurposed wood beams that I’d obsessed over for months. But then, I realized, my brother was looking directly through the window at me.

For a second, I felt the life leave my body, like I lost the ability to move. My feet felt like they were cemented to the wood of my entryway.

I watched as Rafael walked up the stoned path, his boots crunching on the gravel, and then he stopped right in front of the door. He did not knock. He waited, his hands full, for me to open the door.

And so, I sent up a silent prayer to some god I didn’t believe in, and then I opened the door.

He smiled big, and that was the same smile I remembered: that innocent, lopsided, half-crooked, loaded with amusement and anticipation. He didn’t say hello. Instead, he juggled his bags in his left hand, then pulled me into a hug with his right arm. The contact was so sudden and complete that, for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

“Hello Adrian,” he said, his voice full of nervous energy, “it’s been a while.”

I hugged my brother tighter, willing my body to let go of the stress I was feeling.

“You still got that fucking stick up your ass, I see?” Rafael said, a smile flickering across his face. He pressed his cheek to mine, his beard scratching my jaw. I could smell his sweat, a hint of gasoline, and—God help me—the cologne I recognized from a decade or more ago. I became instantly aware of every place where his body pressed into mine. I felt his heartbeat, and for a brief moment, our chests rose and fell in perfect harmony.

“You never could read my moods, Rafael,” I said. I tried to pull back, but he held on a moment longer, hands wrapped at my waist. He squeezed one last time, and then he let go.

Leo, of course, was standing ten feet away, arms folded, watching our reunion like it was a reality TV show. “This is kind of gross,” he said, but there was a smirk on his lips. “Am I allowed to give the man a hug, or is this just a brother-on-brother thing?”

Rafael snorted and moved past me, ruffling Leo’s hair with his hand. Leo ducked the gesture, but only after letting Rafael’s hand go a second too long. “You’re looking good, kid,” Rafael said, warmth in his voice. “And it looks like you finally started eating like a normal human being?”

Leo stuck out his tongue and said, “I eat what I want, thank you very much.” Then Leo bent to pick up his father’s canvas tote, which immediately split at the seam and sent a cascade of dirty clothes and art supplies across the floor.

“Jesus, Rafa,” I said. “Is that the only kind of suitcase you own?”

He laughed. “I packed in a hurry, brother,” Rafael said, winking at me.

He bent down to gather his things, but instead of scooping them up, he sat cross-legged on the floor and started picking through the pile. “Damn, these are nice floors you got, brother,” he said, running his palm over the oak. “Are we allowed to walk on these floors, or are they just for show and something for you to clean?”

“Of course, you can walk on them,” I replied, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. But it was there. The years had not dulled our old rhythm, nor the old irritation. “And excuse me for liking my house to be a little bit clean.”

Rafael started sorting through his mess, holding up a pair of boxer briefs, then a sketchbook, then a can of spray paint. “Relax, Ade,” he said, catching me looking at him. “I’ll keep my mess confined to my room. You can come in and disinfect it whenever you want or need to.”

Leo watched all of this, waiting for his moment to magically manipulate the energy in the room, and was content to let the adults do the heavy lifting.

“So, where’s my room away from home?” Rafael asked, turning to me with an energy I wasn’t certain I understood.

“I put you in the guest room at the end of the hall. It’s the closest room to the perfect view of the lake.”

“Amazing,” Rafael said, then stood in a single, fluid motion that made me jealous. Rafael was always the more athletic brother. I watched him gather his clothes into a loose bundle and head down the hallway, his boots leaving tiny scuffs on the floor. He disappeared into the room, but left the door open.

As soon as he was out of sight, I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Leo stood next to me, his voice barely above a whisper. “So, Uncle Ade, are you two gonna fuck or kill each other?” he asked, eyes dead serious.

I felt my face heat up so fast I thought I might faint. “Excuse me?”

Leo shrugged. “I’m just saying, it’s not like I haven’t noticed. There’s something weird between you two. I can’t put my finger on it. But I fucking plan to.” My nephew walked back to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the entryway, overwhelmed with humiliation and something else, something I wasn’t ready to name just yet.

My hands were trembling. I flexed my fingers.

When Rafael returned, he was shirtless and barefoot, his skin tanned and marked with old scars and new tattoos. “Hey, is it cool if I grab a shower? I’ve been driving for, like, hours and hours. And I smell like shit.” He put his nose to one of his armpits and grimaced.

“Sure,” I said, trying hard not to appear distracted by the sight of him. “The towels are in the closet. Third shelf from the top. Please, can you try not to—”

He cut me off with a raised hand. “Yeah, yeah. I won’t fuck up your clean place. I know how you are. We’re brothers, remember?” He disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later, I heard the shower come on.

I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. My eyes looked tired. I was sweating out at the armpits of my shirt. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to flatten the wild mess, and then went to the kitchen.

Leo was waiting for me, perched on a barstool, spinning it in lazy circles. “Did Rafael ever talk about me when you guys were younger?” Leo asked, unblinking.

“Why do you call your father by his first name?” I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water.

Leo looked up from his cereal bowl. “Maybe because he hasn’t exactly been the most present person in my life. He’s lucky I call him anything at all.”

“That’s fair,” I said, “And to answer your question—yes, he talked about you all the time.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “That’s hard to believe, honestly. It’s not like he knew much about me. He was always so busy fucking his hoes.”

I sipped my water, swallowing hard, not wanting to respond to the accusations.

“So, Uncle Ade, are you guys gonna fight or what?” he said, almost repeating what he’d said earlier. His tone was softer this time. “Or are you gonna at least talk about what happened, discuss why you two haven’t talked to one another in years?”

I didn’t answer. I pretended not to hear.

Rafael emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low on his hips, hair still dripping. “I forgot how much I missed real fucking plumbing,” he said with a laugh, rubbing at his beard with the edge of the towel.

“Yeah, I’m kind of partial to hot showers, too,” I said, watching as a droplet of water moved from his collarbone to his navel. He caught me looking and grinned, a slow, knowing curl of the lips.

“Hey, Leo,” he said, tossing the towel onto a chair, “There’s a canoe down at the dock. If your uncle approves, perhaps we can take it out later. I’m sure Ade here could use the alone time, you know, to work on his spreadsheets or whatever.”

“Sure,” Leo said, but his eyes flicked to me, waiting to see if I’d object.

I didn’t. They left the kitchen together, and I listened to their voices, quiet as they moved through the house.

I looked out the window at the lake, trying to forget the memory of Rafael’s hands on my waist, his beard at my neck, the heat of his body pressed against mine. Fuck.

To distract my imagination, I cleaned the kitchen… again.

******

We ate dinner that night at the long glass table. It’s a beautiful table. I’d set three places—my best plates, white porcelain with a matte finish. The napkins were folded in a triangle at twelve o’clock, utensils parallel, wine glasses untouched by fingerprints.

I made a salad and a pork roast. Rafael had brought bread from a bakery in the city. Leo, his phone in one hand, carried the bread to the table and dropped it in the center.

“Everything smells incredible,” Rafael said, dropping into his seat and immediately reaching for the bottle of Pinot. He poured three glasses, sloshing a little onto the rim of his own, then grinned at me as if he was daring me to mention it. I did not.

“Did you always know how to cook, Uncle Ade?” Leo asked, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth.

“I learned how to cook out of necessity,” I said, then caught Rafael’s eye from across the table. “He’s the reason I had to learn. I had to teach myself if I wanted to eat something besides peanut butter sandwiches, SpaghettiOs, and Pop-Tarts.”

Rafael smiled and shrugged. Then, spoke with his mouth full. “Well, you’re alive, aren’t you? And fuck, you turned into a pretty awesome cook, too.”

We started eating. Our conversation felt forced at first—chitchat about Rafa’s drive, the weather, the latest news from the hospital, the kinds of topics that seemed just to fill the space. Now and then, Rafael would glance up from his plate and hold my gaze for a second too long, and I’d have to drop my eyes to the food or the folded napkin, unable to process his stare.

We passed the food around. Rafael’s fingers grazed mine as he handed me the bowl of salad, and his palm brushed the back of my hand as he poured me more wine. I tried desperately not to react. But every fucking touch sent a sweet tremor through my body. Despite my attempts to keep my reactions under wraps, Rafael noticed; he always fucking noticed. A couple of times, he let his touch linger against me, as if he was trying to remind me who was in control.

I’m pretty certain Leo saw it too. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were going everywhere, flitting from Rafael’s face to mine, tracking our pathetic little dance of avoidance and confrontation.

At one point, Rafael tore a chunk of bread and held it out to Leo, who made a show of taking it with exaggerated care. “Don’t want to get the table dirty,” Leo said, winking at me.

“You could use the bread plate,” I said, more aggressively than I intended.

I glanced at Rafael, who grinned, then dipped his bread in the juices on his plate and ate it. Eventually, our conversation shifted to safer topics—music, movies, the lakeside, the best places to swim. But every few minutes, one of us would say something that referred back to a story or a place only Rafael and I knew. The house in Chicago where we spent one summer breaking in every fucking room; the time Rafael tried to skateboard down the stairs and cracked two ribs; the trip to our parents’ cabin in Michigan, our last real vacation before their divorce, and our lives split apart.

At each of these moments, Leo would go quiet, watching us like he was a fucking scientist observing a chemical reaction.

“You ever think about that old cabin?” Rafael asked, looking not at me but at the mostly-eaten food on his plate.

“I think about that place all the time,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

He nodded, silent, then reached for more wine. “I think that was the first time you ever let yourself fucking relax,” he said, looking up at me, waiting for my reaction.

I felt the heat of the memory crawl up the back of my neck and then flush into my face. “I think you have a conveniently selective memory, brother.”

Leo tapped the table, his fingernails making a soft ticking sound. “So, wait—what happened at the cabin?” he asked, wearing a curious smile.

Rafael smiled. “Well… what happened at the lake will stay at the lake.” He glanced up at me.

I coughed into my napkin. “I think it’s time for dessert. Would you like some dessert, Leo?”

“Not unless you have weed brownies,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table. “But you probably don’t do weed, do you, Uncle Ade?”

“I’m not a prude, Leo,” I said. My tone was full of stress, more so than I actually felt.

Rafael reached across the table and rested his hand on my wrist. He did it so suddenly, so smoothly, that I didn’t have time to pull away. He squeezed, once, then let go. I’m not sure why he did that, but the moment he touched my skin, my body calmed. I hated that my brother still had that effect on me. But I was also grateful to feel calm again.

When the meal was over, Rafael leaned back in his chair, stretching until his back cracked. “Thank you, Ade—that was the best food I’ve had in years,” he said, his voice warm. He looked at me like he was about to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it.

Leo was the first to stand, gathering his glass and plate. “I’ll do the dishes,” he announced, “since you made the food.” He looked at Rafael, then at me, then back at Rafael. “You want to help me?”

Rafael nodded. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

I started to clear the rest of the table, but Rafael waved me off. “We got this, Ade,” he said. “Go take a walk. Some fresh air will do you good.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to stay in the kitchen and supervise their cleaning skills. But instead of fighting them, I let myself be dismissed. I went out onto the deck and leaned against the railing. The night was cool, and the lake was perfectly still. The moon was out, and its reflection against the water was breathtaking.

I kept hearing laughter from inside, the clatter of dishes, the splashing of water. I tried resisting my natural urges to worry about my kitchen, their treatment of my dishes, and most importantly, what they were saying, what stories Rafael was telling, how Leo would twist every word to his advantage.

When I came back inside, the kitchen was clean, at least, cleaner than before. The counter was wiped, the dishes stacked and drying, and even the floor had been swept. But on the window above the sink, someone—Leo, almost certainly—had traced a fucking smiley face in the condensation. I laughed, but I also wiped it away quickly.

Then, I stood there, staring out into the dark, feeling the echoes of old hunger, old wounds, old love, and old longing.

It was going to be a long summer.

*******

The walls in my house were supposed to be soundproof, but I heard Rafael pacing across the floorboards in the living room long after midnight. I lay in bed, flat on my back, sheets pressed tight around my body, but my brain was in overdrive, every thought felt like a silent scream. I could picture him, alone on my sectional, probably one leg thrown over the armrest. I imagined him holding a glass of wine. Or maybe a beer. I knew the way he drank. He’d start out chugging his alcohol fast, then he’d drink in sips.

I tried pushing my thoughts somewhere else, but I couldn’t keep my mind from replaying every moment of dinner. Every touch, every glance, every expression. I knew that I shouldn’t have let him stay here, that being in the same house with him would destroy me, that even the smallest amount of contact between us could start a landslide I had spent years containing.

Down the hall, Leo’s bedroom was quiet. But then, just before one a.m., I heard the creak of his mattress, the soft thud of bare feet on the floor. A moment later, a sliver of light glowed from under his door, then vanished. He was awake.

I thought about getting up, but I didn’t. I stayed still, just listening to the sounds of the house. After a while, I heard footsteps—barefoot, so definitely Leo—moving past my room, then pausing. I could practically feel him, just outside the door, holding his breath. Then the footsteps started again, slow and careful, heading toward the living room.

I waited. I counted to sixty, and then I counted to one hundred. I heard Rafael’s voice, muffled but rising in intensity, then dropping. I couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence and rhythm were familiar.

I threw off the covers and crept to the door. I cracked it just enough to see down the hallway. Leo was there. He was crouched low, his back pressed up against the wall, his head tilted toward the living room.

I should have called out, maybe told him to go back to bed. But instead I watched. He was still and silent, as he strained to hear. For the first time, he looked really young. He looked like he was touching himself. But I didn’t have the best angle so I couldn’t be sure.

But then, I heard Rafael’s voice again. His low growl was clearer now: “You can’t pretend it didn’t happen, Ade. Not after all this time.”

What did he say? Why did he just say my name? And that’s when I realized that Leo was spying on his father. I should have spoken up and stopped this nonsense before it went any further. But I couldn’t. My own depravity wouldn’t let me. And then I heard Rafael’s voice again, even louder than before.

“You ran away because you couldn’t handle what happened between us that summer. You never fucking owned it. You just erased it, like you erase everything that doesn’t fit within your goddamn morals.”

Silence.

I heard Leo’s breath. He was breathing fast, his inhales shallow. He was biting his lip, eyes wide, every muscle in his body locked in place. I watched as his hand drifted to his lap—fuck, he was playing with himself!—his fingers pressing against the soft cotton of his pajama pants.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

There was another noise, something quieter coming from my living room. It was Rafael. He was breathing heavy. And then I heard him groan. Holy fuck, Leo was watching his own father masturbate while fantasizing about me. I almost spoke up. I swear to fucking God, I did. But Rafael’s voice interrupted my train of thought. And I needed to hear what he was going to say.

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.” In between each phrase, Rafael moaned as he pleasured himself.

“Nobody gives a shit except you.”

A whimper escaped his throat.

“I wish I had your big old cock in my hand right now.”

I heard a chair scrape. Then a long grunt. Leo’s head went back as he quietly rubbed his hand against the crotch of his pajama pants.

When Rafael spoke again, it was just a whisper. “Just say it, Ade. Just say you wanted it too.”

More silence.

Then, I heard my own voice: “What’s going on out here? Is everything okay?” I pretended like I had just walked out of my bedroom, like I hadn’t been standing there mesmerized by the sight of my nephew feeling himself while he watched my brother stroke his cock to the memory of our past.

Leo looked up at me and then looked away. His expression was one that I knew all too well. I made that same expression many years before. And seeing it materialize on my nephew’s face was not something I was prepared to process. But there I was, doing just that.

I heard the thud of glass hitting a table, then my brother’s footsteps—heavier, less controlled—retreating down the hall like a man who’d just lost something. A door closed, hard enough to shake the frame.

Leo didn’t move for a long time. I saw the curve of his neck, the tension in his jawline, the way his hand stayed pressed to his crotch. When he finally stood, he did it slowly, stretching until his shirt rode up and the pale skin of his stomach flashed.

He turned, caught me still standing there, still watching him, and for a split second we just stared at each other.

He didn’t say a word. He just raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Like you have any room to judge me”. He was right. I had no room to judge.

Then he slipped back into his room and closed the door.

I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water, and stood at the counter, listening to the house settle down around me.

I could still feel the wild need of Rafael’s voice, his accusation, and his plea tangled together. I could still see Leo, awake and listening, taking notes on every word and every sight.

I was not prepared for the consequences of allowing them to be here, in my space. I’d let the past come back to life just by breathing the same air as the people who lived it with me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Leo had looked at me in the hallway—brazen, amused, maybe even a little bit hungry. I couldn’t stop thinking about the ache in Rafael’s voice, the memory of his fingers on my skin, the echo of his words in my head, the sounds he made as he touched himself.

I spent the next day in a state of numbness. I felt like I was existing on autopilot. I spent time answering emails. I ran through my morning rituals, prepping my coffee, fixing breakfast, and then I cleaned as if my life depended on it. And maybe that was true. Maybe my life did depend on my staying distracted.

I felt haunted, but also—if I was honest—pulsing with a kind of anticipation I hadn’t experienced in years. Thankfully, Rafael and Leo spent much of the day out on the lake, canoeing and exploring. I was pretty fucking certain that Rafael didn’t know that Leo had watched him the night before. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell him. Not yet anyway. They’d spent much of their lives estranged from one another. And I certainly wasn’t going to fuck up their opportunity to reconnect, or hell, connect for the first fucking time.

By the time night fell, the house was silent again, the only light a glow from the moon and the cheap clock radio I kept on the kitchen counter. As soon as they’d finished their canoe adventure, Leo came inside and went straight to his room. He was supposedly asleep. Rafael had eaten a quick dinner and then gone back to the boathouse, claiming he needed “space to think.” That had been hours ago. But I wasn’t worried. I knew what my brother was up to in that boathouse. He was waiting for me.

I told myself not to go. I told myself that I could resist the urges to walk outside and showcase concern for his well-being, that I could live one more night without fucking giving in to my desires.

But at 1:13 a.m., I was tiptoeing out of my bedroom, down the hallway, barefoot and silent.

I reached the end of the hall and stopped outside Leo’s door. No sound. Then, I heard a soft rustle. I thought about going in to check on him, just to make sure he was okay. But I didn’t. I backed away and kept walking, out to the deck, and down the path toward my boathouse. The air was chilly and alive, the water perfectly still, a pleasant darkness everywhere I looked.

The boathouse door was ajar. Soft light spilled out. I quietly stepped inside.

Rafael was there, sitting on an old cot that the previous owners had left behind. My brother was shirtless, holding a bottle of bourbon in one hand. He looked up. And for a moment, he stared at me but didn’t say anything.

Then, I heard him sigh as he patted the space next to him, inviting me to sit down beside him.

I sat down. And the silence was thick, fully loaded, like a bomb might go off between us.

He poured some bourbon into a single glass and handed it to me. I took a sip and felt its burn all the way down.

“So, I take it you can’t sleep?” Rafael took the glass from my hand and sipped.

“No,” I said. “I’m exhausted, but I can’t fucking fall asleep.”

Rafael laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “You never could sleep, brother.”

He set the bottle on the floor, then leaned back against the cushioned cot, his arms folded behind his head. The pose seemed almost theatrical, like he was daring me not to stare at his physique, the tufts of hair under his arms. I swear to fucking God, it was like he was daring me to make the first move. I watched him, his chest rising and falling. I stared at the line of hair that went from his navel down to the waistband of his jeans. I felt my own heartbeat flutter, frantic and arrhythmic.

We didn’t touch. We didn’t speak.

Instead, after a few minutes, Rafael reached down, unzipped his jeans, pushed down his briefs, and pulled out his cock. He stroked it once, slowly, then looked at me with the same fucking expression he’d worn on the night he first kissed me.

I could have looked away. Fuck, I should have looked away. But instead, I undid the tie on my pajama pants and pushed them down, letting my hard cock hang free.

I’ve always been a bit self-conscious about my dick. Even when I was a teenager, I’d always felt like my cock didn’t match the rest of me—the rest of me being scrawny, hyper-controlled, clenched like a fist, precise. However, my cock was a monster I kept locked up behind the doors of professionalism and discipline, and even in the privacy of my own home, I could never look at it in the mirror without feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride that I wasn’t comfortable with.

So, when I pulled down my pajama pants and let my cock hang free, it didn’t shock me that Rafael’s eyes landed there and stayed glued to it, as if he’d just rediscovered a lost artifact. My long cock was hard as a rock, the head fat, like it was swollen, my slit wet with a spot of precum. My dick’s shaft was straight, maybe a little upward curve, and thick enough that my own hand had to work a little to get a grip around it. My balls, by contrast, were perfectly round and tight to the body. I remembered a guy in grad school telling me once, with something like reverence, that my “cock was like a fucking weapon.” He said it like it was some kind of compliment that made me want to hit him and fuck him at the same time.

Rafael watched as I wrapped my hand around my cock and gave it a few strokes. His own cock was darker than mine, uncut, ridged with blue-green veins and set in a thick nest of dark curls. Rafael’s cock wasn’t quite as long as mine, but it was fatter than mine—heavy and thick. When it was erect, Rafa’s dick looked like something carved out of stone during the Renaissance Era.

The sight of my brother stroking his cock punched every cell in my body awake. My brother was jerking himself slowly, as if giving me a demonstration, savoring the tension of the moment instead of pushing forward too quickly.

He stared at me the whole time, daring me to say something, challenging me to stop this madness. His eyes were a little glassy but impossibly clear, seeing exactly how the sight of his cock, the movement of his hand, still made me ache.

“Fuck,” Rafael whispered, his voice half a moan, “I swear to fucking God, yours got bigger.”

I shook my head at his crazy exaggeration, and my fist kept working my shaft. I let myself look at his chest, the sweat line forming down his stomach, the hard length of his dick moving in the raw grip of his hand. I wanted to say something. But I didn’t have to. He read it on my face. I watched his left hand drift down to his balls, palming them, tugging them as he pleasured himself.

We jerked off in parallel, not touching, not speaking, just watching each other. I could hear every movement, every exhale and sigh, every involuntary moan or grunt.

At first, I tried to pace myself, to keep things slow, but the sight of my brother—his cock, so thick and glistening in the light—pushed me toward an edge. I watched his fist pump, watched the way his balls bounce and then tighten, watched the way his eyes never left mine except to look at my cock on occasion.

“Jesus, Ade,” he said, voice rough, “You still drive me crazy in all of the same ways.”

I bit my lip, hard enough that I wondered if I’d drawn blood. But I was too horny to care.

I felt the pleasure spike, my lust turning wild and desperate. And then I did something I assumed I’d eventually regret. But I couldn’t help it. It just happened. As I stroked my cock, I reached my other hand down between my legs, letting a finger or two play around the ridge of my asshole, and as soon as I touched myself there, I moaned his name—oh, Rafael—just once, barely audible.

But he heard me. I knew he had because he grinned widely. Then he came, the creamy white spatter hitting his stomach, his chest, and my thigh. He didn’t look away from me, not even for a second.

I finished a few moments later, my hand filling up with my wet, hot jizz. My whole body was shaking as the orgasm worked itself through my whole system. I wiped myself on the hem of my shirt, not caring about the stain, not caring about anything except the aftershocks rippling through my nerves.

We sat there, panting, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, not quite able to break the spell.

That’s when I heard the creak.

At first, I thought it was the wind or the dock settling, but then I saw a flash of movement at the door—a thin shape in the shadows.

Leo.

Fuck.

He was standing just outside the boathouse, the door open a few inches, his whole body haloed in moonlight. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just watched.

Fucking Leo.

Rafael noticed at the same instant I did. We both froze. The silence stretched so long that it became almost unbearable.

Finally, I spoke up, “I think we might have a problem.”

Rafael’s response was a low, exhausted laugh. “Yeah,” he said, “but maybe not the kind we think.”

Leo lingered for another second, then he turned and left.

I should have felt shame, or dread, or maybe fear. But instead, I felt alive, riding the high of what I’d just experienced. In many ways, as fucked up as this sounds, I felt like I’d found home again.

I looked at Rafael. He looked at me. He reached over and grabbed my hand. And at the same time, we both squeezed.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

Part Three

I spent the night staring at the ceiling, my sheets all bundled up around my legs. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Leo in the shadows of the boathouse, his gaze curious and maybe even a little deviant. When sleep finally came, it happened with nightmares: Leo at the breakfast table, his voice louder than the blender, saying, “Did you know that I saw you fucking around with my father last night?” Another one featured Rafael, pouring me coffee, then he was stroking his cock, his cum shooting into my mug. I woke with my mouth dry and my heart beating like a conga in my chest, every muscle knotted up with tension.

The sun cracked over the lake, throwing shimmers of gold across everything it touched. I pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, but didn’t bother with underwear. I felt filthy—fuck, I was filthy.

I stood at the sink and lathered my hands with a bar of soap that smelled like thyme and lemons. I watched the foam build between my knuckles, and then I scrubbed them furiously until my palms turned red.

My mind raced the whole time: What does Leo want? Is he going to tell his mother? Is he going to hold it over our heads? Is he going to use it against us, to blackmail me, or demand some sick kind of repayment from his father? The anxiety I felt overwhelmed me.

I dried my hands on the towel, and then I almost started washing them again. But somehow I managed to break the cycle, but the anxious thoughts still raged.

I moved to the bookshelf and started reorganizing all the books by height. Then by color. Then I arranged the colors in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. It was a pointless task—nobody gave a shit about my books except me—but the act of putting them in order calmed me. Or it did, until I heard a soft thump on the other side of my bedroom door.

I checked the deadbolt for the third time that morning. I was not going crazy. That’s what I told myself. This was just simple discipline. This was how I controlled my emotions.

But eventually, I had to come out of my bedroom.

The hallway was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock that hung over the entryway. The living room was empty. Nobody was in the bathroom. But when I rounded the corner and walked into the kitchen, my nephew Leo was already there.

He stood at the island, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy briefs. The underwear looked painted onto his body. They were dark blue, and they were stretched so tight that I could see the full outline of what lay beneath: the soft shape of his cock, the muscular roundness of his ass, the beginning hairs of his pubes. His torso was mostly smooth, his abs defined, his chest chiseled and bare except for a scattering of freckles. Leo’s hair was damp and messy from the shower. There was no expression on his face.

He reached up, stretching for a canister of granola on the top shelf. The movement elongated his body, accentuating the lines of his waist. I caught myself staring at him, my mouth open. When I realized what I was doing, I turned to the counter and reached for the coffee pot, pretending to be busy and uninterested.

But I had noticed. I’d noticed every fucking detail.

Leo saw me and smiled. “Good morning, Uncle Ade,” he said, his voice smooth, “How’d you sleep?”

Fuck him.

Leo placed the granola on the counter, then reached into the fridge for milk. He poured the milk, and it splashed onto the counter.

“Sorry about that,” he said, reaching for a paper towel.

I tried to say something, anything, but my words wouldn’t come out. My throat was dry, and so I busied myself with the coffee. I needed to not look at him, not think about the fact that just hours ago, I’d been in the boathouse with his father, stroking my cock like a goddamn teenager, cumming alongside my brother, only to realize that my nephew had seen the whole thing.

Leo leaned back against the counter, his hip resting against the island. “So, is there a plan for today?” he asked, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

I cleared my throat. “I have a call at nine, then I’ll probably do some work in the office. You and your dad can take the canoe out again, if you want.”

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes dancing like he was thinking about something. “You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“I have to work,” I said.

He shrugged and turned his attention back to his granola, digging his hand into the canister and shoving a handful into his mouth. He chewed slowly, watching me as I poured coffee into a mug.

Leo moved closer, so close that I could smell the scent of the body wash he’d used that morning. “Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

My hand froze on the coffee pot. “Talk about what, Leo?”

He smirked. “Uncle Ade, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

My face went hot, a wild jolt of embarrassment ebbed through my body. I grabbed the mug.

“Leo, I’m not sure what you think you saw—” I said.

He interrupted me with a short dismissive laugh. “I saw everything, Uncle Ade. You don’t have to play dumb.”

I turned and looked at him. He was such a handsome kid. He was annoying as fuck. But he was most definitely easy on the eyes, just like his father.

Leo leaned in, his mouth so close I started counting the freckles that were dotted across his nose. “Relax, Uncle Ade,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m not going to tell anybody. Is that what you’re worried about? But don’t fucking gaslight me. I’m young, yes, but I’m not naive.”

I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders loosening just a tiny bit.

“You’re right,” I said, being careful with every fucking word, “I shouldn’t gaslight you. And I’m sorry. But I don’t want to discuss it with you, at least, not right now.”

“That’s fair,” Leo said, resting his hand on my wrist, his touch deliberate, “But I do think we should figure out what happens next.”

My pulse pounded in my ears, in my head, and fuck, it didn’t go to my crotch.

Leo squeezed my wrist, then let it go, stepping back as if nothing awkward had just happened.

“Maybe we just start with breakfast and go from there,” he said, his voice brighter now, the casualness of somebody who’d manipulated situations his entire life.

I watched him move around the kitchen half naked, every single gesture unhurried and so fucking purposeful. And he was good at it, so good that I realized that I felt aroused. And I immediately shook the thought from my brain. But it was still there, and it was true. I wanted him to touch me again. As much as it worried me, I also wanted to play whatever game he was putting out in front of me. But fuck, playing along was nonsense—stupid—for many reasons, not the least of which was the uncertainty I felt about whether or not I would be able to stop the game if it went too far.

I sipped my coffee, the hot, bitter taste almost burning my tongue. As I sat down at the table across from him, I had to force myself to meet his eyes.

“Were you about to say something, Uncle Adrian?” he asked, his words coated in a sweetness that I knew I shouldn’t trust.

I wanted to scream, to run, to mop the floors of every fucking room. Instead, I just shook my head.

He smirked again, then picked up his spoon and ate, the silence between us so thick it could have drowned somebody.

I sipped my coffee, feeling my hands tremble against the hot mug.

******

I spent most of the morning in my office pretending to work, but really I was just staring out the window at the lake. My body was a live wire of adrenaline and now caffeine. My mind was busy running through all of the scenarios: How long would it take for Leo to bring up what happened last night to his father? Five minutes? Five hours? Or would he wait for the most perfect moment, when the sky was clear, and the world was quiet, and drop the bomb in a single, casual phrase?

At 11:02, I heard the shower in the guest room turn on—Rafael was awake and getting ready for whatever the day would bring. I imagined him standing under the spray, water running down his back, his face turned up toward the ceiling, and his eyes closed shut. I thought about how I’d once known every inch of his body by memory. His chest is chiseled and strong. His nipples are almost always hard and suckable. His thick bush—I shook the thoughts from my brain. At least, I tried to.

A few minutes later, there was a distant knock. Two taps on what I assumed was the guest bathroom door. I put my coffee down and moved quickly to the hallway. Once I creaked open my office door, I stopped and listened.

“Hey, Dad?” said Leo, “You almost done in there?”

The shower kept running.

A moment passed, then I heard Rafael, his voice muffled: “Just finishing up.”

I heard the handle turn and the bathroom door creak open. Leo slipped inside. I should have said something, maybe intervened, but I felt paralyzed, my pulse going fast again, feeling both curiosity and maybe a tiny bit of dread.

I watched as steam billowed out around the door’s frame, carrying with it the faint sweetness of soap. What the hell was Leo up to? Then I heard Rafael turn off the water. The shower’s glass door slid open, and for a brief moment, silence—then, my brother’s voice: “What the fuck are you doing in the bathroom, Leo? I told you I was almost done.”

And then I saw my brother dart from the bathroom in a hurry. As he moved toward the guest room, he was naked. And his body was wet, steam still coming off of him in spots, a tiny bit of soap sliding down his chest and collecting in the hair on his stomach. His cock was full and swinging heavily between his legs as he walked. My brother had always been very comfortable in his own skin. Being naked was nothing to him. And so, it didn’t surprise me that he’d come out in the hallways naked, making no effort to cover himself.

“Dad!” said Leo, “I just wanted to ask you a question.”

Rafael turned around, standing naked at the door to his room. “Son,” he said, wearing a smile, “Can I get dressed first?”

I watched Leo’s eyes. His gaze traveled from Rafael’s face down across his chest, lingering for a moment on his father’s big cock. He didn’t even try to hit it. He let his eyes take their time, taking in his dad’s body like it was the most natural thing.

“I thought you were finished with your shower,” Leo said, his voice laced with fake remorse.

Rafael grinned again. “It doesn’t sound like you’re all that sorry, son.”

Leo shrugged. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you before.”

Rafael laughed. “Yeah, back when you were a damn toddler.”

They stared at each other for a moment. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.

Leo looked down again between his father’s legs. “Well, at least now I know that it runs in the family.”

Rafael shook his head. “I’m pretty fucking sure you knew that last night after your little spying session.”

Leo looked back up at his dad’s face. ”Actually, I wasn’t able to see you. I could only see Uncle Ade’s fat ass cock.”

Rafael pulled the towel from around his neck and started drying his junk. “I’m gonna get dressed, and then we can chat about whatever it is you want to chat about. Okay?” Rafael wrapped the towel around his waist. “But son, you’re right.”

“Right about what?” asked Leo.

“Right about the men in our family. We’re all hung like fucking horses.”

Rafael closed the door to his bedroom. And Leo turned to see me standing there, listening. “Hey Uncle Ade,” he said, his voice sweet as syrup, “Have you gotten a lot of work done this morning?”

I just smiled and shook my head, thinking to myself, this kid was trouble.

******

After that, the days started to blur together. Leo’s mother was now at home with a full-time nurse watching over her recovery. Doctors still expected her to get back to normal eventually, but it was going to take longer than they’d expected. As the summer sun became warmer, so did the house, the environment filling up around me with heat, innuendo, and old hunger. Rafael and Leo spent hours on the lake in the canoe, sometimes returning with laughter about things that they didn’t share. The only place I felt safe was outside, and that was only after the sun went down, when most of the mosquitoes retreated to the surface of the lake.

But within a week or two, a new ritual started: each night Leo and I would sit side by side on the weathered bench swing, staring out across the lake. Yes, Leo was always dressed in almost nothing. And he usually brought something to drink with him—most of the time, despite him not being twenty-one, he’d have a beer or a glass of wine, sometimes his dad would make him something stronger. I mostly stuck with decaf coffee, but once in a while, I’d partake in something stronger. But the best part of our new habit was that Leo and I talked a whole lot, more so than we’d ever had before. I tried to let him choose the topics, and to my surprise, Leo knew a little bit about architecture and design. So, we talked a good bit about my work.

“Why’d you move out here in the middle of nowhere, Uncle Ade?” he asked one night, his voice seemingly full of real curiosity. “Were you escaping something? Hiding?”

“For lots of reasons,” I said, “And certainly escaping and hiding were a part of that, but not in the way you are probably thinking. I needed a space where I could control my environment—well, control it as much as we humans are capable of. But I needed more order. And less busyness.”

Leo nodded, pulling his knees up to his chest and giving me a full view of that evening’s underwear color—white briefs with a very full and rounded pouch. “That makes sense,” he said, “I’ve actually heard that some people believe that the layout of a house can affect the way a person dreams.”

“Oh, I know—I’ve read those studies,” I said, and he laughed.

“Of course you have.”

The silence between us was almost friendly, and I found myself relaxing, if only just a tiny bit. The sound of the frogs in the marsh, the taste of the night air, the faint glow of stars—all of it made the world seem less sharp.

Leo stretched his arms overhead and groaned a deep and maybe exaggerated sound. “My shoulders are still sore from yesterday,” he said, “I guess I forgot how much rowing fucks up your shoulders.”

“You should put some ice on that,” I said. “And maybe take some Advil.”

Leo grinned. “Or you could maybe give me a massage, Uncle Ade. Perhaps just rub my shoulders.”

My entire body tensed up, but I tried my best to play it off with a laugh. “Leo, I’m pretty sure I’ve never given a massage in my entire life.”

Instead of taking my hint, my nephew slid closer, the chains on the swing creaking under his shift in weight. “I’ll be your first, then,” he said, as he turned his bare muscular back to me.

I hesitated again.

“You just need to rub me right here,” he said, fingers tracing over one area of his shoulder. “There’s this one spot that’s killing me.”

I took a breath and then placed my hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm, his muscular form hard yet soft and smooth. I pressed my fingers into him. I did it softly at first, afraid that I might hurt him, but he only slouched forward, moaning in approval.

“Harder,” Leo said, and so I did. I kneaded the knot, rolling it under my thumb, and he moaned again, not a performative sound but one of true relief.

“You’re actually good at this,” he said, and tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his neck.

I worked on his shoulders in silence, my mind blank except for the focus on my hands. Rubbing him helped to calm my anxiety. It gave me something to focus on, something to fix or make better. It wasn’t exactly like cleaning or reorganizing. But it was a kind of order. And I quite enjoyed helping him feel less pain.

He twisted around suddenly, looking at me. “Why are you blushing?” he said, seemingly amused.

“Oh, it must be the heat,” I said, lying.

He held my gaze for a second longer than he should have. Then he let go and said, “Thanks, Uncle Ade.” And then I watched as he vanished into the house.

That should have been the end of it. But the next night, after Rafael had gone to bed, Leo appeared on the porch again.

“Can you work on my shoulders again?” he asked, just as casual as before. “I think I overdid it today.”

This time he didn’t wait for an answer—he just pulled his shirt off and sat down, as if we’d done this every day for years. I tried to keep my touch detached. I tried to focus on the methodical nature of rubbing my fingers into his shoulders and back. But the feel of his muscles under my hands, the way his back arched under my touch. It turned me on. I felt the rush of blood move into my groin.

At one point, he leaned back so his head was almost in my lap. His hair brushed my thigh. He smelled like sweat and lake water, with a faint note of coconut, likely his sunscreen. I felt a surge of something I didn’t want to name wash through me. It was a deviant sensation, and yet, bright at the same time—a hunger maybe, something filling my gut with thoughts I didn’t want to engage.

I wanted to pull away. But also, I didn’t want to pull away. I tried to. But I couldn’t. Instead, my hands moved from his shoulders to his arms, rubbing them all the way down, then they moved over his chest.

“Does it ever scare you?” he asked, his voice so low that I almost didn’t hear him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the way you sometimes want things that you’re not supposed to want.”

I instantly froze. His head was still in my lap, and he looked up at me, his eyes shining with something that I didn’t want to think about. I glanced down toward his crotch, noticing that the bulge in his briefs was bigger, more filled out, than before.

“Don’t answer that,” he said, and pulled himself upright. “You don’t have to.”

But the next night, and the one after that, Leo came back for more back rubs.

Each time, the massages lasted a little longer. His moans grew softer, more intimate. He’d press his hand over mine, guiding my touch toward the lower places on his back, lingering at the edge of something that I didn’t want to think about. And yet, I did think about it.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to stop him, or if he wanted me to.

I just knew I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to touch him, to make him feel good.

After he left, I’d sit alone on the porch, my whole body wired with the need to touch something, anything, but unable to move.

Then one day, a delivery van arrived just after lunch. I was rearranging my spice rack—in alphabetical order this time—when the doorbell rang. I moved to open the front door, and there, on the front step, was a bearded man with a clipboard and a dolly.

“I have a package for Leo Kessler,” he said.

I signed, and as the man wheeled in the enormous box stamped with the words “PRO MASSAGE TABLE,” I became bewildered. I stared at the box as if it might detonate right in my foyer.

Leo appeared out of nowhere, and as soon as he saw the large box, he ripped it open with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. He fished out the folded table, set it up on its side, and then flipped open the legs with a click.

“What is this, Leo?” I asked, even though the answer was fucking obvious.

He grinned. “I bought you a massage table! I thought that it might help to make things more comfortable. And that you’d have an easier time working on my back.”

I wanted to ask how he’d ordered it and whether or not he’d used my credit card—but my words died in my throat. I just rolled my eyes and wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into. And yet, rather than becoming angry, I watched as Leo positioned the table in front of the sliding glass doors, right where the light came in. He fetched towels, candles, and even a small collection of massage oils from his room.

He laid the towels out in a perfect order, setting the oils in neat rows. He lit two candles, which filled the air with a scent of wood smoke and vanilla. The flames flickered, casting shadows that danced along the floor and against the walls.

I hovered at the edge of the room, my arms folded and my head shaking slowly, trying my hardest to project the authority of the actual homeowner. But it was laughable. Leo was in total control. And I was letting him have control.

He turned to face me, holding a bottle of oil in one hand. “Do you want to do this now, or after dinner?”

I stared at him, uncertain whether or not he was joking.

“Dad’s out on the lake for at least another couple of hours,” he said, shrugging, then pulling his shirt off, dropping it on a nearby chair. I just stared, noticing that his physique was even more striking in the daylight. He looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry.

“I’m good with just doing it now,” he said, and without waiting for me to react, he peeled off his shorts and underwear, not in one motion, but two, as if he was giving me just a moment more to object. I looked away, but then I looked back at him, then away again. I couldn’t stop myself. Holy fuck. My nephew was definitely a member of the family. His cock was thick and long and perfect, even while still soft.

Leo draped the smallest towel he could find and, after lying face down on the table, he attempted to place that towel across his bare ass. He failed. So, he tried again. And that time, he did manage to cover at least a part of his ass with the towel. He shifted his body, adjusting himself, making it quite clear that he really didn’t care how much his body I saw.

I stepped toward the massage table, wishing my spirit were putting up more of a fight.

“Pour a little massage oil in your hands before you begin,” Leo said, adding, “I might need to get a warmer for my oil collection—that would feel really fantastic, wouldn’t it, Uncle Ade?”

I didn’t respond. I was busy uncapping one of the bottles of oil and dribbling some of it into my hand. It was cold and greasy, and it smelled like imitation eucalyptus. As I rubbed my hands together, my heart was beating so hard in my chest, I wondered if it was visible. But like magic, the moment I set my fingers down on his back, my heart calmed.

I started moving my hands across Leo’s shoulders, kneading my fingers into his skin and deeper into the muscle beneath the skin. From his neck and shoulders, I let my hands slide down along his spine and across his lower back. Leo’s skin felt like velvet beneath my hands; every movement of my fingers caused him to subtly shift his position, sometimes bringing out an involuntary sound of relief from his lips.

“You can go harder, Uncle Ade,” he said, “Trust me, I can take it.”

Oh, I bet you love it hard, I almost said out loud. Thankfully, I caught myself before letting those words slip out.

I pressed deeper, rolling my thumb into a knot just below his shoulder blade. He gasped, then groaned, and the sound he made sent all sorts of thoughts into my brain. I lost myself in the rhythm of rubbing my nephew’s body. The feel of his muscles under my hands, how easy the oil allows my fingers to graze across his back, down his neck, and over his shoulders. For a moment, I became so enthralled by massaging him that everything else seemed to disappear; it was as if we were the only two humans in the world.

Then, at one point, he moved, which caused his towel to slip down low, offering me a wild view of almost his entire ass. Jesus. I gave in to my desire to stare at Leo’s round, perky butt. It was pale and smooth and fuck, so perfect. I felt a rush of shameful heat go through me.

Leo didn’t move the towel back over his ass. He let it hang there, just like it was. And I knew he was teasing me, pushing me to the edge of something that I suspected both of us were very much thinking about.

“Can you do work on my legs some, Uncle Ade?” Le asked, his voice breathier than before.

“Are you sure you want me putting my hands all over your legs, Leo?”

“I’m very sure. You have no idea how good you are.”

I moved around the massage table to where his legs lay. I skimmed my fingers over his calves, moving up to his hamstrings, then back to his knees. As my hands kneaded and rubbed, I just kept thinking about how good his body felt to touch, how every inch of him felt impossibly smooth, the hair on his legs fine and almost invisible.

I kneaded up his leg again, this time, getting closer and closer to where the towel covered his body. When my fingers reached the crease just below his glutes, I hesitated for a moment. My fingers hovered there, uncertain where I should let them go.

“It’s okay, Uncle Ade,” Leo said. “I trust you. Completely.”

I pressed my thumbs in, massaging the area of his body where the thigh and ass converge, and I heard him exhale, a slow and needy sound of desire. I quickly moved back down to the lower parts of his legs, then up to his shoulders. My brain was gone. I had lost all ability to think. And I needed to stop. So, I patted his back three times and stepped back, signaling that I was finished.

Leo lay there for a moment, then turned his head to look at me. “That felt incredible. Thank you.”

I nodded at him with a small smile on my face.

“No, seriously, Uncle Ade, you’re a natural,” he said. “Next time, maybe you can give me a full-body rubdown.”

I didn’t answer. I just stood there, my hands slippery with oil, my cock hard in my pants.

That night, I barely slept again. As I tossed and turned, I made a mental note to contact my doctor to see if there was anything I should do or take to help me sleep better. I could still feel the oil on my hands. I rolled them together, trying to rub the oil into my skin. My brain was still working overtime, replaying the way Leo had moaned softly as I used my hands to relax and soothe his muscles. I got out of bed and decided just to get ready for the day. But even after a hot shower, my mind was still engrossed with thinking about that massage—how good his skin felt, how his hips tensed up when I slid my hands too close to his ass.

I kept telling myself I’d done nothing wrong—that he was a grown ass adult and I was just giving him a massage, nothing more. But I also suspected that I was gaslighting myself.

When I finally came out of my room that morning, Rafael was already awake, his laptop open on the kitchen table. He sat in his shirt, fully unbuttoned, typing with one hand while absentmindedly holding his mug of coffee in the other. He barely looked up when I entered, just gave me a quiet “Mornin’,” and nodded at the coffee maker. For a minute, he didn’t say anything, only watched as I poured myself a cup.

Then, as I sat down at the table across from him, he cleared his throat and said, “So, I think I’m going to drive down to see Leo’s mom today.”

“Why?” I asked, “You two have been divorced longer than you were married.”

“Because I’m a good guy, Adrian,” he said with a grin, “And because she owes me money.”

I shook my head and laughed. “You’re a real asshole sometimes.” I was kidding. But also, not exactly lying. Rafael didn’t seem to care what I thought. “Did something change regarding her prognosis?”

He nodded, closing the laptop. “Well, I talked to her nurse yesterday, and she seems to think that Laura is struggling with a good bit of memory loss. And so, I thought maybe if she saw me, or—” He broke off, not finishing the thought.

“You know very well, if she’s struggling to remember things, you are the last thing she wants to remember.”

We both laughed. And then I added, “Did you want us to come along?”

Rafael shook his head. “Nah, I’ll go alone this time. Leo’s cool with it—told him last night. He said he’d just hang here if that was okay with you.”

I felt relief that he didn’t want me to go with him, and then immediately felt like a piece of shit for it. “Sure. Yeah, of course—Leo can hang here.”

Rafael glanced at me, and for a second I thought I saw a hint of suspicion in his eyes—or maybe just the kind of melancholy nobody else noticed unless they were looking. “Anyway, is all of that okay with you?”

“Of course,” I said. “You should absolutely go.”

He stood, stretched, and walked to the fridge, grabbing a can of that disgusting coconut water he liked. He popped it open, took a swig, then he leaned against the counter, the waistband of the shorts he was wearing dipping dangerously low. “Maybe you and Leo can do some uncle and nephew bonding,” he said, but his words sounded forced.

I tried to smile. “Maybe I’ll teach him how to alphabetize the pantry properly.”

Rafael laughed out loud, a flash of his old swagger. “Good luck with that.”

He checked his phone, then started for the hall. “Hey, I should get myself on the road.” He hesitated, one of his fingers still hovering over his phone’s screen. “You need anything from the city?”

I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

When Rafael left, the house fell back silent. I did my regular cleaning routine: I ran the dishwasher, washed the kitchen windows, scrubbed the stove, and deep-cleaned the fridge. By the time I heard Leo wake up and dart into the shower, the house was in perfect order. As he got ready for the day, I sat down at my desk and pretended to work. I responded to a few emails, completed a couple of tasks for a client in Berlin, and sent out a couple of invoices. All of this busywork did nothing to mute the desire I kept feeling.

Leo emerged just after one o’clock, his hair still wet and looking a bit wilder than usual. I watched him go to the fridge and warm up a half-eaten container of pasta. He ate his lunch standing at the counter. He was wearing only gym shorts, which were barely big enough to qualify as such. As he lifted a forkful of pasta to his mouth, our eyes met for a second. He smiled, then finished the bite.

I returned to my work, pretending not to notice how absolutely perfect he looked. My mind was like a landfill of fantasy and guilt, and every time I remembered the feel of his skin under my hands, how his breath stopped when I pressed into just the right spot, the guilt ebbed, and yet, my desire still flowed.

“Uncle Ade,” he said, “what are you up to?”

“Just working,” I said. “Got a bunch of invoices to sort and a call with my clients in Berlin in an hour.”

He nodded, then wandered into the living room and collapsed on the couch. He spent the next couple of hours in silence, playing games on his phone, napping in odd positions, flopping about like a cat. At one point, I heard him open the sliding glass doors and wander out onto the deck, and sigh as if the sun on his body felt better than usual.

I caught a reflection of him in the window: legs sprawled, his phone held at arm’s length, taking a selfie against the backdrop of the lake. When he came back inside, he launched himself face-first onto the sofa again and remained there, legs dangling over the arm. He sat like that scrolling for a full hour.

The longer he went without speaking, the more nervous I became. So I called out, “Hey Leo, you’re alive, right?”

“Oh, I’m awake,” he said, popping his head up and looking at me over the back of the sofa, “After dinner, I’m gonna set the massage table up.”

I didn’t respond. I just looked at him with my eyebrows raised.

“Would that be okay with you?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.

“Yeah, sure,” I finally said.

“Would you be okay if I set it up in one of the bedrooms this time?”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“Oh, so that it’s not out in the middle of your living area.”

“You can set it up in my room. That’ll be fine.” I took a deep breath and tried to wield my body to agree with my words. But it only kinda worked. Leo hopped off the couch and darted into my room to check out where he was going to set everything up. I didn’t see him again until I called him for dinner. We ate hamburgers and homemade fries. As I cleaned up the kitchen, Leo showered for the second time. He didn’t tell me why. He just did it. And even after I heard the water turn off, he didn’t come out to the kitchen. After a while, I got curious and walked into my room to make sure he was okay.

And as soon as I got to my bedroom door, I heard music playing—soothing tribal melodies playing over the quiet sounds of birds singing and rainfall. I turned the knob and cracked the door open slowly, immediately noticing the flickering glow of candles burning, all the shades drawn shut. And then, I found Leo. My nephew was naked, already lying flat on his stomach on the massage table. My breath caught, staring at his pure sexiness.

I don’t know how long I stood there, eyes fixed on the sweep of Leo’s body, but it was minutes. The room looked beautiful and almost bright with candlelight. Something in my brain said turn around, Adrian, but I didn’t do that. Instead, I shut the door.

I stepped close to the massage table. And for a moment, I just looked. Leo didn’t move, except for the slow in-and-out of his breath. Every smooth line of his body was presented to me like a fucking offering, waiting, wanting me to touch it.

“Whenever you’re ready, Uncle Ade,” he finally said, not looking up at me. God, he was a cocky son of a bitch. But I wasn’t going anywhere. He knew that.

I approached the table and let my hands hover over his skin, barely an inch away. I could almost feel the heat radiating off his skin. I picked up a bottle of oil and poured some out onto his body. And then I put my hands on him.

I started at the top—shoulders, neck, that knot he’d complained about before. My hands shook some—nerves, of course—and I could occasionally feel the slight tremors move down my fingers. But if Leo noticed, he didn’t say anything.

He just exhaled, letting his body sink deeper into the padding of the table, letting his joints and tendons surrender to my touch. He moaned, only a little at first, then I heard him moan his affirmation more. Each time I dug in, his body responded, not flinching but letting go and leaning into the touch. I moved lower, tracing the groove down his spine, then even lower.

“This feels so good, Uncle Ade,” he murmured.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I said, voice rough. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing, not really.”

“Well, maybe you’re a natural talent.”

Rather than responding, I worked my fingers down, letting them brush over the top of his pale, round glute. Leo didn’t move. The second time, I touched his ass cheeks, I let my hands knead into them. Leo shifted his hips, even raising them ever so slightly.

My heartbeat kicked up a notch at the sight of him squirming. I wanted to stop, perhaps just to gather myself, but I didn’t. Fuck, I couldn’t. I pressed my palm into the muscle of his ass, and in the process of doing so, a finger slipped and swiped through the crack of my nephew’s ass.

I froze.

“You’re fine, Uncle Ade,” said Leo, “Just do what feels right.”

I massaged the backs of his thighs, the hard curves of each hamstring, the dips behind his knees. The more I touched him, the more I forgot what part of his body was forbidden. I was lost in the processes—the sensations, the warmth, the pressure, the smoothness of pale skin.

After a while, Leo pushed up on his elbows and peered at me over his shoulder. His hair was in his eyes, his face flushed from being in his arms for so long.

“I’m gonna flip over,” he said, “so you can rub my front.”

I swear, the moment he said that, the air left my lungs. I nodded, just once, and stepped back as he rolled onto his back, arms at his sides. I had, without even thinking, shut my eyes.

“You can look at me,” he said, laughing, “it’s not like I have anything that you don’t have.”

I opened my eyes, and my mouth went dry as I stared at the glorious sight in front of me. Leo was, quite simply, stunning. Every inch of his body, every muscle, every tendon, every freckle. Fucking perfect. His chest was smooth. His nipples were pink and his tits hard, begging to be sucked. And his belly—a flat ripple of abs. He was a masterpiece.

And then there was his cock.

Jesus fucking Christ. His cock was… magnificent. Leo’s cock was rock hard. Not a hesitant, adolescent thing, but a full, towering, almost pornographic hard cock. It lay flat against his stomach, curving just slightly toward his navel, and was so thick I doubted my fingers could close around it. I stared at it, almost not believing my eyes. Leo’s cock was bigger than his father’s cock. Fuck, it may have been bigger than my cock.

I oiled my hands again, watching them shake slightly as I did. I started at his pecs, working on his chest in slow circles, moving to his shoulders and biceps. I swear, every muscle felt like it was jumping under my touch.

I drifted down, rubbing the edges of his abs, feeling the small movements of his body as he sucked in a breath.

As I moved back to his chest, Leo’s hand reached up and caught mine. He brought it to the right side of his chest. He pressed my palm flat against his heart, and I felt his heart beating inside his body. He moved my hand just a few more inches, to where it slipped across his nipple. He let go.

“You can touch me, Uncle Ade,” he said. “It’s okay.”

I let out a breath and let my fingers slide over his nipples, flicking them, pinching them gently. The sounds he made were almost a gasp. His hips jerked, and his cock bounced. I lingered there at his nips, circling the oil around his areolas. A bead of precum started to leak from the tip of his cock, and my once dry mouth began to water. I watched as his desire spilled off his cock and into his belly button.

Our eyes met. And we held each other’s stare. I felt him grab my hand again, carrying it lower, over his abs. He didn’t ask. He didn’t invite. He just pulled, steady and insistent. And he didn’t let go until my fingers were curled around the shaft of his cock.

The smooth skin of his uncut hard dick was hotter than the rest of his body. For a moment, neither of us moved. My hand wrapped around his cock. His hand pulled away and rested at his side. The only sounds were my breathing.

I started to stroke my hand up and down his shaft. I moved slowly at first, then a bit faster. The oil on my palm allowed my hand to practically glide over the skin of his cock. My work was frictionless. And the heat I felt coming off my nephew was unreal. As I stroked his cock, Leo moaned. It was a low, throaty moan. I watched as his hips bucked up, aching to be in rhythm with my hand.

I looked into his eyes. They closed, completely surrendered to the pleasure. I watched, utterly transfixed on how his body responded to my touch, every part of it arching and twisting beneath me.

I moved my other hand to his thigh, slowly inching it up. As it became closer and closer to his balls, he opened his eyes. And his expression was one of lust and need. With my fingers, I gently touched his nuts, rolling them in between my fingers. His scrotum was smooth. And I swear it was naturally so. As I jerked his cock with one hand and massaged his balls with the other, I watched the pleasure build in his body. He grunted more. His precum oozed more. His limbs, as well as his core, contorted more. Every glimpse of enjoyment that his body presented me was beautiful and perfect.

I don’t know how long I worked on his cock. Time was meaningless. Right then, there was only the movement and the sounds of his breath becoming quicker, more intense. As I watched, I felt my own cock pressing against my briefs, hard as steel in my pants.

When Leo finally ejaculated, his orgasm was massive, full of youthful virility. The pleasure he felt looked almost violent and came over him suddenly, without any warning. I watched as ropes of white jizz splattered across his chest and belly, one rope hitting his chin. He cried out, grunting loudly and freely as his orgasm bolted through his body. Cum dripped over my fist as I watched his body jerk and come down slowly from its high. God, it was beautiful, watching him experience such a powerful and long orgasm.

Leo sat up, his hair wild, and he looked at me with an expression that may have been gratitude or perhaps something dark. I wasn’t sure. He handed me the towel, and I wiped my hands. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. Maybe I just wanted...

“That was fucking incredible,” he said, looking at me. “Thank you.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer. My hands were shaking so badly that I had to hold them together. And that’s when I heard the noise behind me—the scrape of my bedroom door, the quiet thump of bare feet on hardwood.

I turned, and there was Rafael, standing at the door.

I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry. I waited for him to scream. My heart started beating fast.

“Hey, Dad,” said Leo.

Rafael’s eyes glanced at Leo, then at me. “Looks like y’all had some uncle and nephew bonding time.”

Part Four

I woke up just before dawn to the kind of thunder that rattles a whole fucking house. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was or what I’d heard—my mind was scrambling to put together that, for once, the meteorologists were right: the storm they forecasted was brutal. I got out of bed and peered outside, watching the lightning and the wind and the pools of rainwater form. The lake was also a sight to see—no longer projecting the calm and serenity it normally presented as I sat back down on the edge of my bed, the memories from the night before began flooding my mind. The thoughts rushed into my brain like a deluge of shame and lust: the soft candlelight, the heat of my nephew’s skin under my hands, the expression on his face as I stroked him to orgasm. Then, I thought about the mixture of panic and thrill that pushed through my body when I realized that Rafael had been standing at the door, watching me jerk off his son. My brother wasn’t judging; he wasn’t even looking away.

I sat there and blinked, feeling the beginnings of a headache start to beat behind my eyes. I lay back in my bed, the storm outside still booming loudly. As I pulled the sheet up over my body, I felt anxiety move through me and, at the same time, my cock stiffened inside my briefs. I lay there for a long while, quiet, listening to the rain pound against the window glass, the echo of last night’s events still vibrating in my chest.

I tried to think about the things I always thought about to get rid of my morning wood: client calls, reorganizing bookshelves, that time I’d witnessed a grown-ass man pissing on the public bus. None of that was working. The more I tried to think of something else, the more my mind looped back to the mental images of Leo—his smooth, perfect body lying on the massage table, the heavy thickness of his enormous cock, the way he’d said: “You can touch me, Uncle Ade.” Oh, my God.

And then, my mind went back to Rafael—his strong presence standing in the doorway, that look on his face when he finally entered the room and saw me milking Leo and his cum shooting from his cock and spilling around my fist. Jesus, what is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with all of us? A normal family doesn’t behave like this. They don’t walk around feeling unrestrained sexual hunger for each other. And yet, even as I shamed myself with a question, I felt a pulse of desire in my groin, my shaft thickening and pushing against the pouch of my briefs. I wanted to reach for it. I wanted to pleasure myself. Which is when I decided that I might need to call my therapist and request an emergency appointment. But then the thought of finally confessing to her why I was truly fucked up only made me feel more nervous. I was so fucking tired of being nervous.

I wrapped my arms across my chest, squeezing myself hard, and tried to think about my body being a safe place. But the thunder clapped again, and my urge to perform self-care dissipated. It occurred to me that maybe this storm was a blessing in disguise. It meant that nobody would be going out on the lake and that nobody would be expecting anything from me except maybe breakfast, and if I stayed in my room long enough, maybe I could process whatever the fuck was wrong with me. I heard a door slam from somewhere in my house, then a muffled voice, then footsteps. Somebody was awake. Hell, maybe both of them were awake.

I got out of bed, headed to the bathroom, and started my morning routine—brush teeth, wash hands, put on some goddamn moisturizer, wipe down the sink. I tried doing all the things to rid myself of the shame I was carrying. But just as I was starting to feel a glimmer of light burst inside, the memory of Leo moaning hit me like fucking train. That was the kind of shit that I was incapable of scrubbing away. Because fuck, I could still smell him—his sweat, his skin, and the aroma of his sex.

I came back to my bedroom and decided to make the bed. Then I made myself get dressed. I slipped off my briefs. And then I bent down to pick them up, but just as I did, another crash of thunder startled me so hard I nearly tripped. I let the briefs drop, and for a moment, I just let myself be naked in my own bedroom, my cock still half-hard.

There was a soft knock at the door, and I almost jumped.

“Hey Adrian,” said Rafael in a stage whisper, sounding almost apologetic. “Are you awake?”

I scrambled for my underwear, and I pulled on a t-shirt. “Yeah, I’m up,” I said. “Come on in.”

He pushed the door open and stood under the frame, his hair still wet from a shower. He was wearing only a towel, one that was wrapped low around his hips, barely hanging on, the beginning strands of his bush quite visible above the knot he’d tied. I stared at my brother, at his broad chest, the hair-doused muscles of his pecs—less defined than the last time we’d hung out for any length of time, but also thicker. There was a scar right above his hip from the summer we’d spent at our grandparents’ cabin as teenagers, when he’d wiped out trying to impress some girl and hit a rock instead. That summer had ended with stitches and painkillers, and a night in the basement where—

“Can we talk?” Rafael said. His voice sounded steady but also serious. He kept his eyes turned toward the floor, like he was searching for something that didn’t exist.

“Of course,” I said, nodding, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed. He stayed in the doorway for a long moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to come in. Then, slowly, he stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

Neither of us spoke. And that’s when I started getting nervous, wondering if I was about to get blasted for the sins I’d committed against Leo.

For a long time, the only sound was the white noise of rain pattering on the house, then another rumble of distant thunder.

Rafael finally broke the silence: “So, last night, when I walked in on you and Leo—”

My entire body became tense, like I was about to be hit. I panicked. I thought about making excuses. I thought about going into some grandiose apology. But for some reason, despite all that I was thinking, I just said, “I know what you saw, Rafael.” My voice was quiet, barely even a whisper.

He shook his head. “That’s obvious, Adrian. But I just need you to know something. I didn’t—” Rafael sighed, then tightened the towel around his waist and started again. “I mean, I didn’t walk in there expecting anything—I just wanted to check on him.” He paused, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Actually, that’s not true. I walked in to check on you. And then I saw the candles and massage table, and I— I thought maybe you were… Christ, I don’t know what the fuck I thought.”

For a moment, I wanted to laugh, to make a poorly-timed joke, but my brain and my mouth weren’t cooperating. Instead, I said, “I fucked up, Rafael. I fucked up.”

He moved from the door and sat down next to me on the bed. Our bodies were close enough that our knees were touching, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body. I didn’t look up at him because I thought for sure that he was going to punch me. And then I wondered if maybe he would hug me. But he did neither. He just sat there, breathing hard.

“Did you?” he asked.

His question confused me. “Did I what?” I asked, finally looking up at him.

“Did you fuck up? Or did you just—you know, do what you wanted to do?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, I just stared at my own hands, noticing that my cuticles needed trimming. I suddenly felt like a little kid again, getting caught red-handed with my hand in the fucking cookie jar.

Rafael seemed to be struggling with his words, too, because he kept letting long silences just hang. He had always been better at this than I—waiting the silence out, letting discomfort fester until the other person either confessed or exploded. I remembered the way he used to do this with our mom, the way he could force her to admit to things she hadn’t even done. Now it was my turn to break.

“I, uh—” I said, and then I started over. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Rafael.

He looked at me, and his gaze became so intense I could almost feel it. “Nothing is wrong with you,” he said, his voice sounding almost gentle. “Or if there is, then it’s the same thing that’s wrong with me.” He let out a laugh. “Fuck, Adrian, do you want to know how fucked up I am?”

I just looked at him, trying to soften my stare.

“I fucking felt jealous when I saw you stroking his cock. Now that’s fucked up.”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at the towel around his waist. I noticed how his thigh was pressed against mine. I stared at his foot, watching him flex his toes, digging them into the rug.

He turned toward me, putting his knees against the side of my body. “Do you remember that night in Michigan?” he asked. “You know, the last night before I left for college.”

Of course, I remembered that fucking night. I remembered every second of it. I’d replayed that night in my brain so many fucking times, I could practically travel back in time if I’d let myself. I remembered the taste of bourbon on his lips, the heat of his hands on my body, how his mouth felt sucking my nipples, the way we’d both pretended to be way more drunk than we were. And I remembered how we both acted as though we were naive and didn’t really know what we were doing until it was too late to stop. I remembered jerking him off on the balcony, both of us trying really hard not to laugh and not panic, then the way he’d sucked me off in the dark, so needy, so hungry. The next morning, we never talked about it. It was just gone, like both of us had deleted that file, and then tried to overwrite it again and again with silence.

I nodded. “Yes, I fucking remember that night. I remember it like it happened yesterday.”

“You wanna know something? That was one of the best nights of my whole life,” Rafael said. “And also the fucking worst—because after that night, you shut me out of your life, Ade. Like I didn’t exist.”

I flinched, but I didn’t deny it. He was right about that; I’d spent years building up walls to keep that memory out of my life, which meant I needed to keep Rafael out, too.

“I guess I believed you hated me,” I said. “Or that you should have hated me.”

He gave a half-smile, sad and vulnerable. “I did hate you, at least, I did sometimes. But mostly I just missed you.”

We sat in silence again for what felt like an eternity. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to tell him the whole truth, that I’d spent years hating him. But that was true. I resented him. I blamed him for waking this desire in me, in us. And though it certainly wasn’t all of his to own. I felt like it should have been.

Finally, Rafael reached out and put his hand on my knee. It was innocent, nothing suggestive. His hand was warm.

“It’s not your fault, Ade,” he said. “Whatever happens, none of this is your fault.”

I wanted to cry, but for some reason, I couldn’t. So, I just closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing in, then out, then in again.

“Can we start over?” he asked, his voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. “Is that even possible? Do you even want that?”

I looked up, and his face was so close to mine that I could see every line around his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard.

“Oh, Rafael—” I said, but he didn’t let me finish; he leaned in and kissed me.

The kiss was soft at first, just lips against mine. I felt the stubble of his beard scratch my jaw, the warmth of his breath on my mouth. I didn’t kiss back, not at first. He kissed me again, harder this time, and I felt myself open up, my mouth surrendering to his. I gripped the edge of the bed as he pressed closer, his hand moving to my neck, his thumb tracing my jawline. His towel slipped open some, and I felt the presence of his thick cock slap between, even as my own hardened in my briefs.

I kissed him back, hungrily, and for a moment, all the years and the silence between us disappeared. It was like we were teenagers again, hiding from our parents in the empty garage, passing a cigarette between us and daring each other to confess our darkest secrets.

His tongue was in my mouth, and I let him have it, let him take whatever he wanted, needed. My hands went to his chest, feeling his pecs beneath my palms, my fingers rolling over his nipples.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, and I felt his tear run down my cheek.

I closed my eyes, letting my body lean into his, and for the first time in years, I felt like I was home, like I belonged. Then, just as my hand slid between our bodies and wrapped around his cock, another loud clap of thunder exploded over us. The lights in my room flickered, then went out. The house went dark.

Fuck.

After the electricity went out, the moment between Rafael and me was stifled as well. Neither of us said anything about what had just happened. He just gave me a peck on my lips and then picked up his towel and left the room. I listened to him walk down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The only thing left of him in my room was his taste—mint, salt, maybe some hope. We would have to talk again about our relationship, but the power outage was distracting me from focusing on anything important.

For a little while, I just sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for my breathing to settle back into normal. Sure, there was a part of me that wanted to follow him down that hall, to pick up where we’d left off, but something—perhaps fear, or maybe just the old patterns of self-denial—kept me glued to my bed.

Instead, I called the power company and reported my outage to an automated system. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one without electricity; thousands of people up and down the plateau were in the dark. After hanging up, I found my way to the closet, rummaged for a flashlight just in case the electricity was out for a while. And while I was hoping against that concern, I live out in the boonies, and I was most definitely not on the power company’s list of priorities.

By the time I made it to the living room, Rafael was already there. He’d gotten dressed—a pair of old sweats and a faded hoodie. He was thumbing through one of the books he’d found on my shelf, a collection of architectural photographs from around the world.

“The power’s going to be out for at least a couple of hours,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe longer.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he said, not looking up at me.

I wanted to ask him about the kiss, about what he wanted, but I kept quiet. I looked out the front window and, for a moment, just watched the rain hammer against everything in its path, a steady percussion that grew louder with every flash of lightning. The house was warm enough, but the lack of light made it feel smaller, the walls pushing us together.

Leo stammered out of the bathroom, shirtless, his hair still damp from a shower. He, too, was dressed in sweatpants, gray ones, slouched far too low around his hips. He looked at us, then out the window at the storm brewing, and grinned. He flopped onto the couch, sprawling out so that his feet almost touched the coffee table.

“This storm is wild,” he said. “Did you hear that last boom of thunder? I swear it shook the whole house.” His eyes darted toward Rafael, then at me, then back at his father. “Did I miss something? You guys seem really quiet.”

“Nah,” Rafael said, probably a bit too fast. “We’re just trying to make do.”

Leo smirked, then reached for the bottle of bourbon on the side table. “I realize it’s not even noon, but I need a drink.”

Rafael and I both looked at him, our eyebrows raised with concern. But our expressions didn’t stop him. He poured the bourbon into three mismatched glasses and slid one across the coffee table to me, then handed the other to Rafael, who took it but didn’t drink.

“I think we should play a game,” Leo said, his voice playful but also loaded with mischief. “You know, to pass the time.”

I should have said no. I should have just gone back to my room and cleaned something, but I stayed put, far too curious about whatever game Leo wanted to play.

“What sort of game did you have in mind?” I asked, trying to sound bored and less interested than I felt.

He sat up, crossed his legs, and I watched the muscles on his bare torso flex hard. “We could do truth or dare, but of course, that’s a little childish. How about ‘never have I ever’? A classic. Or maybe something with higher stakes, like, ‘spin the bottle but with questions’?”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “Never have I ever? Are you being serious right now?”

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Leo said, “Don’t shit on my idea. Think of it as a way to make up for all of the family game nights you fucking missed when I was little.”

That choked a laugh out of all of us.

Rafael took a long sip of the bourbon, almost emptying his glass. “Fine,” he said. “But you’re going first.”

Leo’s grin widened. “Sweet. I’m happy to go first.”

I went to the kitchen, grabbed one of the empty liquor bottles from the recycling bin, and handed it to Leo. He perched himself at the end of the couch and, with far too much delight, spun the bottle. However, instead of letting the bottle choose his victim, he stopped it mid-spin and pointed it at me.

“What? You’re already playing dirty,” I said to him.

He just gave one of his dirty little smiles. “Okay, never have I ever… eaten something off the floor after the five-second rule expired.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you serious—that’s your first claim? You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a warm-up round, Uncle Ade.”

I took a sip of my bourbon. Rafael took the last sip of his, too, and then poured himself some more.

Leo leaned back, quite satisfied with himself. “It’s your turn, Uncle Ade.”

I hesitated, not wanting to play this fucking game, not wanting to be part of this little confession session at all, but rolled my eyes and spun the bottle. “Okay, never have I ever… shoplifted.”

Leo didn’t drink. He put his eyes on his father, waiting for him to drink or not drink.

Rafael raised his glass and took a sip. “And I must say, I think you’re both fucking liars,” he said, looking at his son. “What about that time your mom caught you stuffing that Snickers bar into your pocket at the grocery store?”

Leo laughed. “Oh, and if you remember correctly, it was Mom who’d put me up to it.”

Those early rounds went fast. All of the questions were innocent at first—never have I ever skipped school, never have I ever been in a car accident, never have I ever been cheated on my taxes. But as the alcohol flowed, the questions became braver, more intentional.

“Never have I ever jerked off in public,” Leo said, aiming the statement at both of us. I felt my face go warm, remembering the time that I’d ducked into a public bathroom at a work conference and jerked my cock in one of the stalls.

I sipped. So did Rafael.

Leo laughed out loud, his eyes wide like saucers. “Whoa, you guys are way kinkier than I expected.”

“Oh, fuck off with your shock and awe,” Rafael said, smiling wildly, his spirit loose in a way that signaled he was starting to get a buzz.

Leo poured all of us another round, then decided it was time to move on to a new game. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s play truth or dare, but let’s put a twist on it. If you refuse to answer or do the dare, you have to take a shot.”

“You are absolutely trying to get us drunk, aren’t you?” I asked.

He grinned. “I am not, but if it happens, it’ll make things more interesting, that’s for sure.”

I tried to keep my answers as safe as possible, but the longer we played, the more dangerous the dares got. Because of course they did. That was the whole point.

“Truth,” Rafael said.

Leo grinned. “Okay, Dad. If you had to fuck one person in this room, who would that person be?”

Rafael didn’t even blink. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

Leo looked at me, then back to his dad, then laughed. “Yeah, you’re right, I do know the answer. Okay, Uncle Ade, you’re up.”

I was much drunker than I realized, the edges of my vision becoming slightly blurred with bourbon. “I’ll do truth,” I said, bracing myself.

Leo’s gaze turned sharp. “Okay, so what’s your type?”

I glared at him. “What do you mean by ‘what’s my type’?”

“You know, your type,” Leo repeated. “What kind of man do you go for?”

I wanted to fucking lie, to say something that was altogether safe, but the alcohol had erased my filter. “Someone who knows what they want,” I said. “Someone who won’t let me run the show.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “That’s bullshit. I bet, if you had your way, and there weren’t any consequences, you would want to be in control.”

I wanted to argue with him, but instead I just shrugged and said, “Maybe.”

Rafael leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe my ass. You know very well that you have always been in control. That you are more or less a goddamn alpha.”

“Whoa, really?” Leo said, forcing a grin. “Is that true, Uncle Ade? Are you a control freak in bed, too?”

I could feel my pulse beating in my neck and moving toward my cock. I opened my mouth to answer, but Leo interjected again.

“I bet you like to make men beg for it,” he said, his tone both teasing and deadly serious. “I bet you want them on their knees in front of you, worshiping you, surrendering to your every fucking desire.”

My words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding matter-of-fact. “I do like that.”

Leo looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first fucking time. “That’s hot,” he said, and I felt a bolt of something shoot through my body—fear, desire, maybe both.

Rafael watched the two of us, his gaze going dark, completely unreadable.

The next round of truth and dare was even worse than the last. Leo dared Rafael to take off his shirt. He did, of course, without even hesitating. Rafael would bare his chest at a funeral if dared. Then Leo dared me to show him my abs, and I did, tugging my t-shirt up to expose my six pack. I caught Rafael gazing at my stomach, his eyes lingering even longer than his son’s.

Then, Leo dared me to kiss Rafael on the cheek. I did, and Rafael turned his head at the last second, so our lips brushed instead. It was quick, almost accidental, but it happened. Leo clapped, delighted.

“Your turn, Uncle Ade,” Leo said. “Truth or dare?”

I was sweating now, the effects of the bourbon burning through me. “Dare,” I said.

Leo’s smile turned playfully evil. “I dare you to give me a massage. Without your shirt on.”

For a second, I froze, thoughts about the events from the night before building in my brain. But then I saw Rafael’s face, the tightness in his jaw, and I realized: Leo was doing all of this on purpose, a game within a game. He was pushing every boundary he could find.

“Fine,” I said.

I pulled off my shirt. Leo pulled off his sweatpants, leaving him wearing only a tight pair of briefs. He lay face down on the rug in front of the coffee table. God, his skin was smooth, perfect, his ass round and perky, the muscles in his back shifting with every breath he took. I knelt beside him and started rubbing his shoulders, digging my thumbs into his muscular form.

Leo moaned, arching his back a little. “God, that feels good, Uncle Ade,” he said. “But you can go harder if you want.”

I worked his back, trying to ignore the way his hips pressed into the rug. As I rubbed him, I imagined the way his cock was probably hard and tenting the front of his briefs. The whole time, I could see—hell, even feel—Rafael watching me, his body clenching.

After a minute, Leo rolled over onto his back, putting his arms above his head, exposing his armpits and chest. “The front of my body is sore, too.”

I hesitated, but then placed my hands on his chest, working the muscle there, letting my fingers brush over his nipples. They turned hard under my touch. He closed his eyes, taking breaths deeply, his lips parted in a silent moan.

“Don’t stop,” Leo whispered, and I didn’t. My hands slid lower, over his abs, to the waistband of his briefs. He made no effort to cover himself.

I looked up and watched as Rafael stood up. He was staring at us. I watched as he grabbed his own erection, his size and shape fully outlined against the thin fabric of his sweats. The sight made me fucking dizzy.

Leo sat up, so close our faces nearly touched. “Truth or dare?” he said, looking at me.

“It’s not my turn.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” I said, “truth.”

“Do you want to kiss me, Uncle Ade?” he asked, his voice filled with something I can’t begin to name.

I shook my head and then said, “No.” But I was lying. I wanted to kiss him more than I wanted to fucking breathe.

He leaned in toward my mouth anyway, brushing his lips against mine. It was quick, barely even a kiss, but it happened. And I felt the heat of it move through my fucking bones.

Rafael made a deep sound. It was a growl—or maybe a needy grunt. Whatever the sound, it was something hungry. Something animal-like. He crossed the room to where we were in exactly three strides. He yanked Leo up to his feet by the arm and spun him around, and I watched as my brother kissed the mouth of his son, hard. It was not fatherly, not one fucking bit. It was wild, claiming, and when I saw Leo kiss his father back, their tongues tangling, their hands reaching around each other’s backs and pulling themselves into each other, my cock grew hard with a deviant desire I’d never felt before in my life.

Maybe I should have stopped them. Perhaps I should have done anything except for what I actually did—because I moved to the couch, sat back and watched them, reaching for my own cock and feeling it throb inside my pants.

Rafael broke the kiss, holding Leo by the shoulders, staring at him with a look of pure desire. Then he turned to me.

“Is this what you want to see?” he asked.

I looked at him. Then I looked at Leo. But I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, once.

Adrian reached for me, pulling me up to my feet. He kissed me, his mouth and tongue moving deeper into me than before. I could taste his son on his mouth. I could feel Leo’s gaze on us, the scene turning him on, making his young mind go crazy with thoughts of possibilities.

When we finally let go of each other, all of us stood in a fucked-up triangle, every one of us panting, unsure what to do next.

Leo grinned. “I think we should take our game to some place more comfortable.

By evening, the rain had dwindled to just a mist, the world outside washed clean, but the air inside the cabin was still thick with what we’d almost done. The three of us had made it as far as my bedroom. We’ve taken some of our clothes off, and we’d allowed our hands to wander to places on each other’s bodies where hands shouldn’t go. But that was it—nothing more had happened—not yet.

In the end, it was too much too soon for me: the game, the bourbon, the way Leo lay naked between us. It was too fucking much. Yes, I wanted it. And yes, my conscience had kicked in far too late. But it had kicked in; I’d been the one who pulled away first, using my own exhaustion as an excuse. Now, I stood outside on the porch, wrapped up in a blanket, sucking in the much cooler air that the storm had left behind.

I could see my own breath now. The storm had taken the heat with it, leaving our little corner of the world chilly and new. Somewhere across the lake, a loon called, its cry echoing across the water. I liked the sound. It somehow made me feel small, something that I needed to feel at times.

My hands shook a little, not from cold but from my own adrenaline. Every fucking nerve ending hummed with worry. I felt anxious and, at the same time, a part of me felt numb. I tried to resist replaying the events of the day, not wanting to try to make sense of them. There was no fucking sense in any of it. And yet, I couldn’t push them out of my brain. Not completely. Not how I wanted to. I thought about the way Rafael had kissed me, and as soon as the memory pressed in, I could practically feel the pressure of his tongue in my mouth, the heat of his body embracing me, the way Leo had moaned watching his father and his uncle kiss only inches from his gaze.

Fuck. I tried closing my eyes, letting the cool breeze blow against my cheeks. I thought about going back inside, about climbing into my bed, getting under the covers, and pretending to sleep, but the idea made my skin crawl.

That’s when I heard the door to the deck slide open behind me, the soft footsteps of bare feet against treated wood. I knew it was Leo even before he sat down next to me, his hip bumping my thigh under the blanket.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Yeah, what about you?”

He shrugged, pulling some of the blanket away from me and wrapping it around us both. “I just kept tossing and turning.”

“I haven’t slept well in years. I have too many thoughts thumping through my brain.”

“Yeah, me too, Uncle Ade,” he said, “Me too.”

I made a noncommittal sound, trying to force my focus on the darkness or the wind or anything other than the way his body felt pressed up against mine.

He was just in his briefs, and I could feel the heat of his skin under the blanket, the lines of his muscles moving against my own. He didn’t say anything for a while. And neither did I. We just sat there in the silence, both of us breathing slowly.

After a few minutes, Leo said, “I really liked today.”

My heartbeat spiked. “You did?”

“Yeah, I loved the storm, being forced to stay inside, the games we played—all of it.

I let out a sigh. “It was intense, that’s for sure.”

Leo laughed, then said, “I’m sorry it became too much for you. I mean, I’m not surprised that you freaked out. But can I ask why?”

I just looked at him.

“I, just,” he said, then he stopped and thought for a moment, “I just want to know why you chickened out at the last minute.”

I admit, his words jarred me some, but they didn’t silence me. “I didn’t chicken out, Leo,” I said, sounding far more defensive than I intended to. “I just—” I stopped, my excuse fell dead on my tongue.

Leo turned, looking at me in the dark. “You just needed it to feel real? Not like a game?”

My nephew was much smarter than I sometimes believed. Because goddamn, he was right, at least, I think he was right.

“Can I ask you something?” Leo said, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

I nodded. “Sure.”

He leaned in, his voice low, almost a whisper. “When we were playing truth or dare, you said that you liked being in control. Was that just you talking, or is it—you know—really your thing?”

I felt a chill run up my spine as my face blushed with embarrassment. “I don’t know, Leo. It’s just a lot more complicated than that.” As soon as those words fell out, I instantly regretted them because of how cliché they sounded.

Leo didn’t move away; in fact, he snuggled up closer. “I don’t think it’s complicated, Uncle Ade. I think you’ve spent way too long doubting and shaming yourself for what you want. And now, you struggle to ask for it.

I shook my head, a slight smile forming on my face. “What are you really saying, Leo? I feel like you’re taking the long way around to get to your point.”

He smirked at me. “Are you suggesting that I’m a manipulator, Uncle Ade?”

I laughed out loud. “We both fucking know you’re a manipulator, Leo,” I said, nudging him playfully. Then I looked at him, my eyes probably saying more than I wanted them to. “And I say that because I feel like all day long, you’ve been using what you think are my desires to get what you want.”

He lifted his head and looked at me more intently. “What is it that you think I want?”

“To be controlled. Am I right? Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped a hand under the blanket, resting it against my inner thigh. His touch was light, almost graceful, and it sent a bolt of desire straight to my cock.

“Please, don’t do that,” I said, but I didn’t move his hand.

He looked down at the blanket, letting his fingers trace circles and other shapes on my skin, slow, angelic, and so very deliberate. I felt him working his hand higher, inching up until I felt it graze the edge of my underwear. My cock twitched, tenting hard and thick against the white cotton. I told myself to push him away. I told myself to speak up. To say something. To get up and leave. But I said nothing.

I felt him shift his body, leaning in closer to me, his breath hot on my ear. “I want to stroke your cock, Uncle Ade,” he said, his whisper tickling my eardrum.

My whole body felt those words. I opened up my mouth to say no, but instead I just exhaled, my sigh shaky, but the desire I felt loud. I knew he could see it.

Leo’s fingers moved higher. I felt them slide across the ridges of my briefs and grab onto and cup the bulge that was pushing against my underwear’s pouch. He rubbed his hand over me, just once, testing me. Then, he pulled back just a little, waiting for me to react. I looked at him, trying hard to read his face. But it was blank, patient. As stupid as this may sound, I actually believed that he wouldn’t push any harder unless I told him that I wanted to.

“I can stop if you want me to,” he said, his voice sounding calmer than what I believed he felt.

I didn’t want him to stop. But I also didn’t want to say that out loud. I wanted him to do whatever he wanted. I wanted to let go, but I didn’t want to be the one who chose for me to. But I did. I went there. I asked for it. I told my nephew exactly what I wanted.

“Stroke my cock,” I said, my voice so quiet I could barely hear myself.

Leo’s eyes got wide, his gaze glued to mine.

“You heard me. Stroking my fucking cock, Leo.”

I felt his hand move fast, his fingers hooking into my briefs’s waistband, pulling it up and over my cock, letting my massive manhood bounce free. He pushed the blanket off of us, and the cold air hit my junk hard. He pulled my underwear down to my knees, then to my ankles, then off of me completely. As soon as my briefs hit the deck below, I felt the heat of his hand against my thick shaft. He wrapped his fingers around my cock and started to slowly stroke his hand up and down, using my foreskin as friction. His effort was slow at first, seemingly enjoying the feeling of having my cock in his grip. Then, I felt his stroke pick up some, pleasuring my shaft more intently. He let go, and I felt his thumb rub my cock’s head, smearing my precum over the tip. I shivered, my hips almost jerking up into his hand.

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered, “Stroke that cock, nephew. Make your uncle feel good.”

Leo looked up at me, his eyes once again glued to mine.

“You like that, don’t you? You like how your uncle’s fat cock feels in your hand. Am I right?”

Leo didn’t say anything, not at first. He just stroked me, eyes still on my gaze. And then I saw it, him nodding at me. “I love it,” he said, his hand moving with perfect confidence, “I love making you feel good, Uncle Ade.”

Then, I heard the porch door open again. And I panicked, trying to pull away from his stroke. But Leo held me in place, one hand still working my cock, the other taking hold of my ballsack, pulling on my fat nuts. Rafael stepped out onto the porch, his shadow moving over us as he moved around to a seat with the best view. He stared at us, saw exactly what was happening, and he didn’t blink. He sat down.

“You can stop, Leo,” I said, but my voice obviously didn’t mean the words coming out of my mouth.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” Rafael said, looking at Leo, his voice calm. My brother looked at me, his gaze burning into mine. “You’re gonna let my boy fucking pleasure his uncle. Because that’s exactly what he wants to do.”

Leo smiled, looking up at me. He kept stroking, his movements faster now, and Rafael moved closer, his hand massaging his own crotch. He watched, his eyes never leaving my cock.

I wanted to feel embarrassed, but instead I felt a rush of power course through me. I let my legs fall open, giving Leo better access. “Fucking stroke that dick, boy. Make your uncle proud.”

I felt my breath go ragged, every muscle in my body going tense. I looked up at Rafael, saw pride in his eyes watching his son pleasure me, and there was a hunger in his face as he watched my cock get stroked. I was so overwhelmed with lust that something in me snapped.

With a hand, I reached for Rafael, pulling him by his shirt. I looked at him, seriousness in my eyes, and said, “I’m about to cum, and I want your fucking mouth sucking my nuts.”

Rafael knelt between my legs, pushing his face against the hairy, wrinkled skin of my nuts, and took them into his mouth. He lapped his tongue against them, making them dangle against his face. He kissed my sack, then moved his tongue to my sack’s underside. He made a sound of delight as he tapped my taint with the tip of his tongue. I moaned as I let myself enjoy my brother’s wet mouth on my nuts and my nephew’s firm hold on my cock.

Leo’s hand was moving so fast that it was almost a blur. He worked my shaft hard, and at the same time, his father took one of my nuts into his mouth, rolling it over his tongue.

I felt my orgasm building, growing with every stroke and every lick, the wild pleasure beginning to move through my body and make its way into my crotch. I tried to hold on a bit longer, only because I wanted to feel this feeling for as long as I could. But it was too much, the pleasure was too fucking much.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” I gasped, moaning loudly into the cold, crisp air.

“Do it,” Leo said.

“Shoot that fucking load,” said Rafael, his words vibrating against my taint.

I came hard, shaking into Leo’s fist and my brother’s face, cum shot onto Rafael’s forehead and spilled over my nephew’s hand. He kept stroking, milking every last drop out of me. Then, as the last shivers of my orgasm moved through, I watched as Leo fed the cum on his hand to his dad. In that moment, I was unable to process that, so I sagged back against the bench, my body limp and shaking, my chest heaving.

With a finger, Rafael cleaned the cum off his forehead, pushing it into his mouth. He brought his face close and kissed me deeply, his tongue feeding me my own cum and giving me a taste of my own nutsack. Leo rested his head on my shoulder, watching his father and me make out in front of him. Then, both of them held me as if I were fragile.

We sat there for a long time, the three of us tangled together.

I had no idea what would happen next, and for once, I fucking let myself not care.

Part 4-SHARED BLOOD: Uncle Adrian Gets What He Wants...

The Gay Erotic — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 17:45:38 GMT

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Part 3-SHARED BLOOD:

The Gay Erotic — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 17:54:17 GMT

Read part 1 here.

Read part 2 here.

The sun cracked over the lake, throwing shimmers of gold across everything it touched. I pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, but didn’t bother with underwear. I felt filthy—fuck, I was filthy.