My husband was the most beautiful man in my eyes, still was, after all these years. Koreans had a saying that there were glasses in your eyes that made everything in your beloved look beautiful. He had the most beautiful brown hair, the blue eyes that still haunted my dreams, and dimples in his cheeks that made him look like a mischievous chipmunk. I loved that he only came up to my shoulder in height, this compact guy that I could pester and hug all day and night long.
I also loved that after ten years together the sex was still as hot as it was when we first meet, during the mixer in my premed. I was resolutely nursing my drink, certain that as a gay man no one would be available, when he came bounding in, singing My Way off-key, before falling into his blue eyes like any man would. He said later that he thought I was stand-offish that first night, but the fact was I had been so fearful of falling in love at first sight to what appearances suggested was a straight guy. When he contacted me later and told me he wanted to have drinks with me, the truth dawned on me. We made love that second date, me just grateful to be together with a man after years repressing myself, and got together thereafter.
I thought when he accepted my proposal I was the happiest man in the world. Finally I was going to be together with the man I loved, in spite of all my father had said before I left for college. As things were my parents did not come to our wedding as they were too old to make the journey, and we married in the city hall, with friends and his brother as his best man. That was the first time I saw my husband's brother.
The blue eyes that had looked friendly and inviting in my husband looked cold and slightly unsympathetic on his brother's arch face. Not to say he looked ugly, far from it: he looked like a younger version of my husband, with more pronounced cheekbones that made him look like one of those models in those Northern European car commercials. His hair, the same mustard-brown color, was cropped close to his head, like a Graeco-Roman statue, which looked old-fashioned and modern at the same time. But what intrigued me were his lips: they were thick, Cupid's bow lips which looked strangely provocative on a thin face.
Standing there in my suit, waiting for the clerk to call the session for my marriage, watching my husband's brother fuss over him, a thought came unbidden to me of how those lips, those Cupid's bow lips, would feel wrapped around my cock.
***
We led a contented life, my husband and I, him writing for a local newspaper, me a partner in a dental practice downtown with my friends. Every Saturday we'd go out to dinner, him and me, sometimes in the Korean place at southside, sometimes his favorite Italian pizzeria. After dinner we would go to the clubs, meet friends, dance the dinner off, and came back to our house - our home - to make love. A round, or two, maybe three if we were ambitious about it. Life was good.
Out of the blue came news about his brother flunking graduate school. He was studying pharmacy, and we had planned for him to come work with me after he completed his studies. Apparently he had money problems, was working two jobs, which sounded like a nightmare for a student especially in a STEM course like pharmacy. My husband took him in, set him up in the guest room, paid for a year's tuition, and made him quit one of his part-time jobs. Money was never a problem for us, and family was family, after all.
I had not realized it then but we had fallen into a... a what? A trap signified that we did not want it to happen, but everything that came to pass later we brought it on ourselves.
My husband decided that we were going to cut our sex while his brother was there in our home. He said because I tend to be vocal while we were making love he'd rather not his brother listen in our bedroom. I muttered something about how all of us were adults, it should not had been a matter, but I reluctantly agreed. This was the week before his brother was going to move in. He was not even in our house yet, but already he was causing this much trouble.
I was not even half-prepared for the chaos that his brother brought with him when he arrived, with clothes lying on every nook and cranny, tote bags - he had a thing for tote bags - of every color imaginable hanging on the hooks and the panels and the doorknob, cluttered books lying on the bed and on the shelves - it was like living with a puberty-stricken teenager, a teenager who had no awareness of tidiness in his hormone-addled mind.
There was nothing puberty-stricken about his body though, the body that he seemed very proud to display at breakfast, dressed in the tiniest bikini briefs I had seen on a man. The fabric looked painted onto his hips, displaying rather than hiding the white-pale pillows of his ass. I especially enjoyed a glance or two on his tiny nipples, which looked like plum-colored pebblets. My husband berated him for his choice, or lack thereof, in attire, but surreptitiously I found the sight welcome. Who wouldn't want to eat breakfast with a near-naked sylph-like model accompanying you? But I kept my mouth shut.
One day, a few months after his brother came into our house, I entered the washroom for a piss. The curtain was drawn, I thought my husband was having his usual pre-dinner soak. I had the shock of my life when I withdrew the curtain, cock still out and about, and saw my husband's brother looking up at me - or rather, looking down at my cock - with a suggestive leer. At that same time my husband decided to call in, looking for me. I was going to answer but my husband's brother signaled for silence.
"No, haven't seen him in here, he must have stepped out of the house," he called out, while at the same time his hand began grasping onto my cock. My poor cock which had wilted from the piss treacherously grew hard again in his soft hands, his soft tiny hands that felt slippery from the shower suds. It was as if his skin was secreting lube on its own.
