I have one brother, Dave, who is seven years younger than me. He had a gaggle of friends who have stuck together since pre school. I loved joking around with the "little boys," as I called them. And who wouldn't? All these ten year old boys ran around the back yard, playing cops and robbers and sat around the kitchen table drinking juice and talking Transformers? Too cute! I even babysat for some of them. Brandon was my most frequent sittee. His mom was a single mom, working long hours to make ends meet. I felt bad charging her my regular rate, and spending time with Brandon was a joy. He was always polite and didn't argue. He loved the stories I told, and that I always added my own endings if it was a story from a book.
Then the boys got too old to need a babysitter, and I went off to college. For my twenty-seventh birthday I decided to take a week off and visit my family, have all my favorite meals cooked, for me, that kind of deal. My younger brother bought me a concert ticket for my birthday, too, one for me and one for him, to see the latest male vocalist who made the teenage girls' hearts swoon.
When I pulled up to my mom's house, I was surprised to find so many cars in the driveway. Was she having a party for me? That couldn't be. All the license plates were in-state, and I barely talked to anyone from that state anymore. But I opened the door and saw young men chomping on chips and pizza in the kitchen. It was the gaggle, all grown up at 20.
And my, my, my, what men they had become! These were my brother's friends! I babysat most of them! I couldn't help but notice how nicely they filled out their t-shirts. I bet they were workhorses in bed and could just keep going and going with that young, pent-up energy.
As I scanned their faces, my eyes rested on Brandon. Could this be the same Brandon? He smiled and came over and gave me a hug, but this was no ten-year-old boy. He topped six feet. I could feel the muscles on his chest as he gave me a hug, and I had to resist the urge to hold him close. He was gorgeous, and I knew that I was feeling something very grown up like for this barely man, so I made excuses about jet lag and hurried up to bed. I couldn't help it, but I had to masturbate that night. I tried not to think of Brandon and dug out my trust-worthy fantasies – about being raped by cops, about being gangbanged in a strip club – but all I could see was Brandon's face and think of him pumping his dick into me. My pussy was already wet when I reached down – I had been holding out so long, and when I ran my fingers over the wet slits, I imagined that it was Brandon's dick, teasing me. And when I slid my fingers inside, it was Brandon's cock that slid into me. And as I pumped my hand in and out, it was Brandon's rod working me. So I pumped harder, banging myself full hilt, until I came all over my hand. And I kept going. I came over and over again until I fell asleep with a dripping pussy, fingers still held tight inside.
The concert was the next night, and as I had a faint hope of going backstage, I dolled myself up in tight jean skirt, platform heels, and a white halter top that dipped low in the front. I was surprised, and a bit mortified, that Brandon would be meeting us in the parking lot to tailgate since he was going with another group of friends. By the time we actually went inside for the concert, I was more than half lit from two hours of tailgating, spending most of the time staring at my feet and avoiding watching Brandon. The concert hall was one of those "we'll jam in as many as we can" places where there are no seats but plenty of floor space. And this concert was packed. Dave, Brandon and I slipped through the crowd, trying to get as close to the stage as we could. We were about half way there when the main act started, and the crowd instantly surged forward. Brandon was pushed ahead and right into the back of me. I didn't want to move because maybe he would feel like it was an invitation, like I was grinding on him, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn't want to work him up since I already was myself, and, as much as I'd like to doubt it, I don't think a 20 year old stud would have been able to resist at least popping some wood. And I didn't want to embarrass him.
It was tough for us not to run into each other, though, since it was such a good show and so very crowded. A few times he rested his hands on my shoulders, and apologized each time, bending his head down to breathe in my ear that he was sorry. I laughed, saying it was okay, though each him his body was pushed against mine, I ached for more. I almost forgot about my brother until I saw that he had drifted over to the side of the arena and was sucking face with some high school girl. She must have been 15. Maybe it runs in the family.
