Inside Track Pt 01

[Author's Note: If I have an apology to make about this story, it's that it pushed ahead of others waiting patiently in the queue to come out of my head. There are a lot of stories, and lots of adult material, on the internet about female-female incest (usually sisters, twins and, sometimes, moms/daughters). And thank goodness for that. But stories about love between brothers is rare, and this puzzled me. So, partly to feed that curiosity, and partly as a way of writing something out of my comfort zone (I.e. from a male perspective), 'Inside Track' jumped the queue. I hope you like it, even if two guys together aren't your usual thing.]

Prologue

So I was lying there, in my small and cramped single bed, in the middle of the night, facing the wall with my right arm going numb, sweat beading my forehead and my brother Timmi's cock drilled up my open asshole, thinking about life.

Timmi had been hammering my tube for about five minutes now, and my own cock was just about as hard as it was ever going to get, which made it uncomfortable every time he thrust into me; the movement bashing my swollen member against the cold wall I was pressed against. My left leg, held up by Timmi's good left hand, was starting to feel the first signs of cramp, and I had the most unbelievable itch on my nose that I had no way of scratching in the position I was in. I could hear Timmi's ragged breathing against the back of my neck where he laboured to delay his moment of orgasm. His lean body rubbed against mine when he thrust into me, and I could feel the clenching of his ass cheeks with the free arm I'd thrown behind him.

How did it come to this? With my own twin brother screwing the hell out of me in the cramped confines of my own bed? Well, like everything, it was a story of pretty ordinary life, interrupted by an Event, shaken up like a cocktail that had only barely been invented, then thrown into a spin you couldn't possibly have imagined more than a short while ago.

Timmi pushed his cock as far as he could up my ass, bristling his recently-shaved pubis against my skin and squashing his balls beneath my ass as a low moan escaped his lips. I felt - actually felt - the first glorious pulse as he shot his cum deep up inside me.

Looking back on it (like it was some ancient historical event, or something), it all came down to one thing. And if there's a message here for anyone who wants to read it, the answer's simple, kids. Don't do drugs. Yeah, that's the main of it. Don't do drugs.

Chapter One

Three months ago

This is the story of Timmi and Clay (that's me; Clay). Timmi and Clay aren't our real names, or at least that's what mom would say. She would say that we were Timothy and Clayton. Anything else was just a silly kind of nickname.

Well, Timmi and I kind of liked our silly nicknames. It was pretty much our only rebellion against a mom who struggled - really struggled - to raise us on our own since our never-once seen father ran off to join the circus, fight a war, become an artist, or an astronaut (the destination, if you ever felt the need to ask mom, changed all the time. Timmi and I grew up thinking dad was some creature halfway between an unknown hero and a mythical boogeyman). And, after nineteen long suffering years raising two boys into an essentially feminist household, mom had done a fine job. Timmi and I, apart from being largely identical, were smart, healthy and well-mannered young men. Twins who were taught to appreciate the finer things in life, and from a very female point of view. We were a couple of young guys who had grown up in the shadow of militant feminism (and occasional lesbianism) as a backdrop to daily life.

Since we were pretty much the age of year dot, mom had hosted some kind of a women's liberation meeting at our small house just outside of Miami once a month, on a rotation system with her friends. As young boys, Timmi and I were coo-ed over and petted; the beloved new-age boys of Maddy Jones. As we grew older, and hormones started kicking in, we began to be viewed with growing suspicion by the Liberation Circle. To be fair, the feeling was mutual. Where, once upon a time, Timmi and I saw these friends of mom as regular, if infrequent, visitors who brought candy and smiled at us, ruffled our hair and told us stories, there were now older, frumpier women who told us what we should do, who we should vote for when he grow older, and how we should treat women when we grew up.

Large doses of the R Hormone (that's 'Rebellion Hormone') soured any view we had of these people, but not of mom. Never of mom.

So the only outward rebellion we ever chose was to shorten our names. Mom tutted and grumbled about it, but secretly (we're pretty sure) she didn't mind at all. Timmi and I were well behaved at High School; studious and well-mannered, and did our best to treat everything with a mutual, but healthy competition. Our main shared love (apart from not-too radical rock music) was athletics. In particular, middle-distance running.

We were both had our dark hair to about shoulder length, adopting that indie/goth style that slipped and out of fashion. And we had identical dark eyes to go with the same olive complexion mom had got from some Native American heritage. We both maxed out, at about the age of fifteen, at about five feet, nine inches (mom strictly adhered to the imperial system of measurement. Everywhere was miles, not kilometers; inches, not centimeters; gallons, not liters. Maybe she didn't like the way metric words ended). We both worked out, of course, and had healthy appetites, which meant that we had lean and well-toned physiques. Nothing too muscular, but lean and good for running. We pretty much shared every major running accolade in, first, High School, and then college. We congratulated each other when the other twin came first, and never crowed on about it when we beat the other. It was the Inside Track, we used to say. Whoever got that, would come out on top. And we would never fight dirty on the running track.

Oh, but we were very good boys.

And, clearly, that was going to change, or you wouldn't have read about how it got to the point where we fucked each other up the poop-chute on a regular basis.

It was an advert on the wall at college, hidden among the leaflets promoting dances, parties and - occasionally - academic notices. Parties were something pretty alien to me and my brother, so we had what you might call a fairly thin appreciation of social activities of most guys and girls of our age. We'd both had girlfriends, but had never gone past first base (first base was kissing, mom told us. Occasionally with tongues, but not necessarily. Anything after that should wait until marriage. Timmi once remonstrated with mom that first base was supposed to be touching a woman's breast, but mum had reacted so hotly, I had intervened on her behalf, and made it up to my brother later in our room).

But anyway, it was this one small notice on the board that caught my eye. I can still remember the detail clearly:

Wanted. Individuals for muscle-tone experimentation study. Subjects must be healthy, and prepared to undergo strenuous exercise. All expenses paid.

There was a number printed on the bottom, and I copied it down. I spoke to Timmi about it, and we agreed to call the number. It was the 'expenses' part that clinched it, you see. Ever since we were old enough to understand, Timmi and I had done our best to generate a little extra income for mom, who worked herself to the bone to raise us in a good house with good food. We took jobs as paperboys, car washers and, even, baby-sitters. But during college term, finding even this kind was work was difficult. So when I saw the advert, and spoke to my brother about it, we decided to make the call. There was the risk, of course, that the number was crank, or some kind of frat joke to play on dweebs like us, but it turned out it wasn't. It was from a university team working out of a college wing doing a study sponsored by a major sports supplement company.

A nice-sounding lady took our call and took our details. When I told her that my brother and I were identical twins, she got (and this is the only word I can describe for it) excited. Excited like someone important had suddenly revealed themselves to her. She quickly passed us on to a well-spoken English gentleman who took further details, then agreed to call us back. He did so, within a few minutes, and asked if we could come for a meeting at their offices the next day. Sure, I'd said. All expenses paid, right?

We decided not to tell mom about it, just I case it was a crock after all. So we lay in bed that night, staring at each other across our small room as we huddled into our thick duvets. We made plans to go straight after college, as we both finished mid-afternoon. It would mean missing athletics training, but we could skip a turn. Coach Nieberson would allow that of his two star athletes, surely?

The next day went by incredibly slowly, at least for me. I found myself clock-watching all morning, and had no appetite at lunch. So, when class finished at 1515, I hooked up with Timmi at out pre-arranged meeting point near the main college gates. Timmi was dressed, like me, in loose jeans, t-shirt and shirt, with overly-smart sneakers. We tried to dress differently but, like most identical twins I suppose, ended up choosing the same kind of clothes anyway. It was that kind of empathic/telepathic link I'd read about so much.

So, anyway, we caught the bus to the other side of town where the science team were conducting their muscle-tone experimentation study. We rang the bell at the main door, and were met at the door by a striking young blonde woman, whose looks were only marred by a slightly large nose, and strong jaw-line. She shook our hands and asked us to follow her in. Timmi and I shared a grin as we walked behind the woman, the two of us staring at the thin ass and slim hips she had squeezed into her beige skirt. She had damn fine legs, that woman, who we only ever met three times, and only ever knew as "Janice". Athletic legs, like mine and Timmi's, but shapely. I bet me and my twin brother had the same thoughts about them too.

Anyhoo, She took us to a very un-scientific lounge area and invited us to sit down. Out of instinct, we took the small two-seater couch, rather than the other, single chairs in the room. Within a minute, Janice introduced to the guy we'd spoken to yesterday; Dr Kevin Daniels who turned out to be English, just like I suspected. He had got a grant to conduct this study (he told us), and was thrilled to meet us.

"Do you know why?" he said, his well spoken tones giving the air of both professionalism with their soft, soothing quality.

"'Cuz we're, like, athletes?" Timmi ventured. Dr Daniels smiled and nodded.

"Yes. Although that's only the half of it. To be honest, the reason I'm so excited is that you are identical twins. You are identical, aren't you?" He added, as though checking a fact he was suddenly unsure of. I nodded.

"Uh-huh. Right down to the DNA."

"Excellent! Excellent. Well, let me explain what we're hoping to achieve, what we'd like to involve you with, and, of course, how much compensation you can expect to receive."

We sat forward on the couch, and listened.

I won't get all the details right, so I won't try to remember it the way Dr Daniels said it. I'd get the words wrong, or something messed up and you say to yourself 'Hey, Clay's talking a load of old horse here. That word Cyto-fyto-mono-whatsititis has nothing to do with muscle stimulation or cell regeneration! He's making the whole Goddamn thing up!'

So, what it boiled down to were the layman's headlines. Dr Daniels and his team were trying to figure out a way of muscle stimulation for athletes and sports enthusiasts without falling foul of the incredibly strict drugs controls within most sports. They reckon they had a bead on it, and needed test subject. The experiments involved a series of six injections, administered first by Dr Daniels or his team, or by each other when we had been trained how to do it. The project was likely to last six weeks, with a few further weeks of observation and check-up. Our main concern was, not surprisingly, that we would be labelled as drugs cheats if we took part in any athletics meets during or after the test.

"There may be side effects, that's true." said Dr Daniels in his oh-so-soft English voice. "To be honest, we're breaking new ground here, and that's why the compensation is so generous."

And, boy, was it generous all right! Timmi and I were getting three thousand dollars each for the ten week trial, and all it involved was a few injections, and about two hours' a week monitored exercise, some tests and 'personal feedback', whatever that was. Anyway, I was interrupting my own story. Dr Daniels was trying to ease our fears about the prospect of being labelled drugs cheats.

"I can't see the side-effects, if there are any, lasting much longer than the duration of the project" he said. "Do you have any important trials or competitions during the next month?"

I looked at Timmi and he shrugged. "There's the season trials," he said "for selection at the end-of-academic-year games, but Clay and I already have our places on that."

Dr Daniels sat back, finger on his chin in an almost effeminate pose.

"Hmm. Well, I should steer clear of college meets for the duration of the test, if I were you." He said. "I'll speak to your coach this evening, if you leave me his number, and explain what's happening. He should be able to field any criticism."

Timmi looked at me and, this time, it was my turn to shrug. "When do we start?"

Dr Daniels smiled broadly, showing a gold tooth on the left hand set of his jaw. "How about now?"

*****

Janice took us into a much more experimental station and asked us to change into running shorts and vests. A male assistant in a lab coat (who, I swear to all things holy, looked to be about twelve years old) attached electrode pads to our heads, chests, stomachs and thighs. Then we got up onto a pair of running machines and started to jog. Dr Daniels talked to us through a loud speaker, telling us this was just an exercise to get a 'base-line' for his study. After ten minutes' gentle jogging - just over a mile in fact, the machines stopped and we got off. We'd barely broken a sweat.

Dr Daniels came in with a small trolley and some medical implements on it. He asked us if we were ready for the injections and we said yes. He took a syringe for each of us and injected the electric blue cyto-fyto-whats-it into our arms. It stung a little, but wasn't too painful. Dr Daniels asked us if we were okay and we both said yes. Then he asked us to rest for twenty minutes and run the distance again. We did so, only this time we did sweat. A lot more than either I or Timmi would have expected.

After we finished, and showered, he took some test measurements, spoke to us again about the project, and about talking to Coach Nieberson, and warned us once again that If we should feel any side-effects, we should call him, or Janice once again. We smiled, nodded and met Janice for the last time as she showed us out. Once again, Timmi and I grinned at each other as we stared at her tight ass as she walked us out.

We felt okay. Really. We felt like there was nothing wrong.

We caught the bus home, and I kept checking on Timmi from the corners of my eyes as we travelled, making sure he was okay; not sweating too hard, or grimacing in some inner pain. If there was some inner pain, he didn't show it. And I suspect he was checking me out just as much as I was checking him. It was a funny thing, come to think of it; watching my brother like that. I guess that maybe it started as early as that bus ride home. I can remember looking at the way Timmi blinked; how those long, fat eyelashes we shared dipped over his eyes and rose back up again; almost lazily, sensuously. I stared at the soft jaw line, tracking a smooth cheek down to a finely pointed chin. I looked at his lips, seeing if there was any mumbling evidence there of pain being battened down, but noticing how full and plump they were, how red they looked in the late afternoon glow. I looked at the only other thing that was visible from the clothes he was wearing; his hands. I knew that Timmi and I shared the same, long, slim fingers attached to a small-palmed hand. But, on that bus journey home, they looked graceful somehow. Delicate, rather than skinny. None of that mattered at the time. My twin brother looked okay, and that was that.

We got home, storing the first instalment of the money from Dr Daniels into a shared pot we kept in our room.

"You feeling okay?" I asked Timmi, as we got changed into some suitable lounge wear to hang about the house.

"Yeah. I'm okay. In fact, I feel pretty good."

"I feel sweaty."

"So take a shower."

"Yeah, I might."

And there, dear readers, is a snapshot of the scintillating world of dialogue between the Jones brothers as was three months ago. Yep; talking to each other was about as dull as mustard. Functional, restricted to sports, house chores, homework, sports, food, girls and sports, it would have bored the ass off a prairie dog. Seems almost quaint now.

So I'd taken a shower and, when I closed my eyes to the hot cascade of water over my head and down my shoulders, became aware of a rising sense of erotica within me. With some surprise, I looked down and saw that my cock was jutting quite proudly from my body; a full 90 degrees from the dark, wet tufts of my pubis. I felt like touching it; taking hold of it in an instinctive way, but held back. There was something even more erotic in not jerking off. I picked up the soap instead and started soaping myself down, feeling the suds glide over my lean body. I rubbed the smooth bar across my nipples and got a satisfying ripple/thrill as it brushed over my nipples. I did it again; rubbed the soap bar over my nipples, and marvelled at the thrill. But I didn't expect the next part.

Soaping up my fingers, I reached behind me and started to rub the crack between my ass cheeks, with no other thought than to clean myself 'down there below' as mom used to say. But when my middle- and index-fingers brushed up against my anus, I felt another one of those weird erotic thrills. I stopped, did it again, and shuddered. On impulse, I bent my back within the shower cubicle, parted my legs a little, and reached behind me. This time, I rubbed at the soft skin around my hairless asshole, and pushed in with my finger. My middle finger slid up to the first knuckle inside me, and it felt good. It felt damn good, so I just pushed it in a little more. I got it up as far as I could and held it there inside me. I could feel my breath coming quick, and didn't even need to look to see that my cock was straining at my foreskin. I slid my middle finger out slowly and teased my anus again. This time with my middle and index fingers.

And when I pushed two fingers up inside my asshole, it didn't surprise me that the feeling was even more intense. A little uncomfortable, sure. But intensely erotic. I slid my fingers in and out, using the soap and hot water as the lubricant. And, after I held my finger up inside myself as long as I could, waggling them within me, I surprised myself even more by cumming involuntarily on the shower cubicle floor. I hadn't even touched my cock!

I finished my shower, then got out, determined not to tell Timmi anything about it. I even succeeded in forgetting about it completely until bed time, when, feeling the cooler air on my nipples as I undressed, I felt my cock start to rise once more. Timmi was still in the bathroom, and thank God for that. Imagine my twin brother walking in to see me with a seven incher stabbing the bedroom air? I hurried into bed wearing only my boxer shorts, and tried to stop myself from jerking off. I couldn't. My cock was like this elemental thing attached to me that craved to be touched, held. I was laying on my side, waking furiously, when Timmi walked in.