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Confession time. You’re addicted to blurry nights out spent attached to your baby brother like a tumor. You forcefeed him shots and slap a hand over his mouth when his body starts trying to reject them. You don’t hate a public puker, but you hate when he does it. That’s for you, and you alone. No stranger in a shitty club could ever come close to being as worthy as you are of seeing him so vulnerable. So stripped of control, baring his entirety in spilling liquid liquor-vomit.
You wish you could feel for yourself the way it burns his esophagus coming back up, catch it as it pours from him like a faucet and baby-bird it back down his throat. He’d never stop puking if you did that, an ouroboros of exchanging sour fluid.
It’s home time. You hate to call it quits, but he’s a fucking mess and a half. He can’t stand upright on his own, can’t form a cohesive thought, much less a coherent sentence. It’s cute when he’s this fucked up, but again, that’s private. For your eyes only. So it’s time to go.
You grab him by the wrist and drag him through a hot tangle of twisting bodies. He winces with every step, tripping after you and flinching at every beam of colorful light that hits his face. Poor thing.
With more ease than you’d expected, you escape the crowd, your overly-inebriated and due-to-be-sick brother in tow. You push through heavy double doors and step out into the biting cold of the night. You’ve got a jacket, Mikey doesn’t. You’d offer him yours, but you’d rather watch his nails turn blue, listen to his teeth click together as he shivers.
He looks infinitesimally better without the violating stimulus of pounding bass and flashing lights. He still looks awful though. Under the glow of flickering street lights, his pallor is more green than white, and that’s somehow ghastlier. You pick up your pace, practically pulling him along with you.
It’s never a long walk home, but it feels treacherous, watching every step of the way for signs that you need to pull him into an alley and shield him from passing faces. You’re not trying to protect his dignity or anything, just preserving the sanctity of him spilling his guts strictly for yourself.
He makes it to the front door first, and, miraculously, manages to shove his key in the hole and push the door open. He stumbles ahead of you, and before you’re halfway inside, he’s doubled over and dry-heaving.
You make a face. “Oh, Jesus, Mikes. Not on the fucking carpet.”
He doesn’t say anything. His retches get wetter, spit and bile spilling from his open mouth and pooling in the carpet’s fibers. His little body bows forward with the force of each gag.
It’s a bit fucked, that the sound of your brother on the precipice of puking is enough on its own to get you hot and bothered. It’s a pavlovian response, drooling from your dick instead of your mouth when you hear his tortured heaving.
Your mind flickers to vignettes of puke spewing out from his lips as they halo your cock. Warm vomit cascading down your dick and pooling between your open legs, some of it spilling from his nose, snot and stomach acid gracing his chin. If you weren’t holding the writhing boy down on your length and spearing his throat with it, you’d have licked clean that decadent trail he’d left on himself.
Your lips twitch into a grin. You train your expression to radiate sympathy instead, but it wouldn’t really matter if he saw you smiling. He isn’t able to focus on anything beyond the violent upheaval of everything you made him drink. He won’t remember any of it. Even if he did, your elation at his misfortune would be the least of his concerns.
You shut the door and rush to kneel down next to him. His shirt’s ridden up from how he’s bent, his lower back on full display. You slide a hand under the thin fabric and push it up further, exposing the notches of his spine. You trace over each pushed-out knob and he shakes under your touch. He’s really struggling with this, salivating and coughing incessantly, but nothing else is coming up. You’ve seen it countless times. He just needs some motivation. Some help. You’re well trained in helping him, your fingertips have felt the back of his throat more times than your cockhead has.
It’s honestly impressive how hard his body resists expelling what you’d forced into it, given the fact he never eats before you get him drunk. Maybe that makes it harder, his insides scorched from having nothing of substance to push up alongside the alcohol. At least you won’t have to pick chunks of undigested food out of the carpet.
He turns his head to look at you, teary-eyed with spit-slick lips, pleading, and that’s your cue. He’s begging for your help, you’d be cruel to deny him relief.
You crawl behind him, feeling like a buzzard circling a carcass all the while. Mikey reminds you of roadkill. You reach one arm over his midsection and pull him flush to your body, his back to your chest. He groans at the change in position, but goes limp in your hold. He knows he’s safe now, he knows he’s in good hands.
Your other arm reaches up, raising your hand to his mouth. It’s glistening, soaked with bile-laced drool. You stroke over his parted lips with your fingers, spreading the mess he’s made, like you’re applying lipstick. Cute. He’d look good with lipstick on, especially once he’s choking on your fingers and sequentially, his vomit. Cherry-red smears on his face and your knuckles that you can pretend are blood.
It’s ritualistic, innate and holy, sliding your fingers past his chattering teeth and down his throat. You prod at the tissue you’re met with, surprised that it feels so smooth. You’re sure if you felt around enough, you’d find hole-riddled expanses, burnt-through pinpricks formed from his purging habit. Maybe you’d find crescent-shaped carvings too, nailmarks. You’ve seen the way he has to claw at his gag reflex to trigger it.
It’s amazing how he got so good at making himself puke so quickly, that he’s almost incapable of it now. When you first taught him, he’d always pull his fingers away at the last second and beg you to do it for him, sick with panic that his body’s absorbing the calories he’d regretfully consumed, horrified that he won’t be able to get it out quick enough. You’d oblige, feeling like the worst guy ever for the way he’d smile at you when he got it all back up, for how your dick throbbed hearing his vomit splatter against the toilet bowl. How intimate it all felt.
He doesn’t ask for your help with purging anymore, he hardly still does it. He just doesn’t eat instead. There’d be no point in it, nothing to bring up. That’s what you love about getting him drunk. It’s the only chance you get to do this for him. It’s nostalgic.
It’s familiar, the muscles of his throat flexing and constricting around your intrusion. He gags, hard and dry, retching to no avail. He squirms fitfully and whines, the sound vibrates in your bones. You smile again. He’s always been impatient. Good things take time, and he’ll have to learn that one way or another. Still, you take pity on him and curl your fingers the way you always have, like you’re fingering his throat, and that does something.
He gags harder, pulling an awful, wet noise from him. You’re shoved so deep that you can feel the vomit as it rises and splashes up into his mouth, wet and hot and sick on your knuckles. He lurches forward, warm liquid emesis water-falls down his chin, down your wrist and forearm. Marking you with his divine ill, stamping you with his stomach’s contents .
The best thing about Mikey is that when he starts puking, he doesn’t stop. Not until there’s nothing left in his awful, ruined guts. The first spill is immaculate, and the following spews are violent. Messy. The room reeks of bile and ethanol, saccharine like rot and tooth enamel. You wish you could solely breathe his purge-air, be baptized in his spit-up.
Your arm is soaked, his fluids pooled in the crevice of your elbow. It overflows and drips onto his clothes, eagerly adding to the filth he’s covered himself in. The ground in front of him is worse off than he is, housing a puddle of puke that’ll be left to crust over and stain. A reminder.
He gags, weak and pained, expelling one final cupful of burning sick. The scent violates your senses in the holiest way, it seeps into your sinuses and stays there. He grasps at you with useless limbs, silently begging you to unsheathe yourself from his throat. You curl your fingers again, just to be sure. He retches, nothing else comes up. It’s always tragic when it’s over. You pray he’ll wake up hungover and nauseous so you can take care of him just like this, do it all again. Your knuckles feel right at home bumping the roof of his mouth, they belong there.
Reluctantly, you pull your fingers free with a slick sound. Your hand is dripping in spit, drowned in acid. You don’t wipe it off. You bring it to your own mouth, and lick a stripe over your palm. Your head swims with pleasure, but your body betrays your thrill, contorting your face into a grimace. Such an ugly face, not one you’d ever choose to make in response to tasting Mikey on yourself.
You free him from the grip you’ve had around his trembling stomach and he collapses instantly, his body hits the floor with a dull thud. Corpselike. Exhausted from the exertion of violent expulsion.
He’s limp, though you can’t call him boneless when he’s anything but. His hips and joints stick out like severe, sharp points. Serrated edges. A deathly thin stalk of flesh stretched tight over calcium and marrow that you’ve hollowed out and carved to fit around your dick, eroded internal pathways by shoving yourself inside him when you feel so inclined.
You’d love to do as much right now. You’d love to force him open and draw wretched screeches from his mangled throat, but you’re too amped up for that. Too overexcited, you wouldn’t last a minute, and it’d take so long to maneuver him out of his glued-on jeans that you’d barely have a semi by the time he’s bare and hauled into a presenting pose.
That’s fine. The muted pleasure of fucking him through your clothes is like denial, in a way. It could almost be restraint. You’d argue that it is, that choosing to not tear his hole up like you mauled his soft palate is a display of self control rather than laziness. Rather than mercy. You’re not sparing him of anything, besides an ache and a limp. It’s still defiling. It’s worse than fucking him, because rutting against him to get off just means he isn’t worth the extra effort. He’s loose and easy when he’s half-conscious, you like him tight and fighting you every step of the way. Easy’s good though, when you need to cum quick and mindless.
You drape yourself over him, pressing your clothed cock up against his flat ass. You push your hips forward narrowly, quick, testing the waters. It feels much better than it should, the initial friction sends hot, dizzy flashes through you. Mikey doesn’t react. You’d bet he doesn’t even feel it, he’s floating between his reality and unreality, too messed up to feel much of anything at all. Nowhere near present.
You slide your hands under his hips, groping at hard, protruding bone, and hitch his lower half up to meet yours. He keens at his displacement, an unhappy noise. You rut against him harder, rubbing yourself in circles and pulling him back to meet your thrusts. His head shakes side to side on his loose-socketed neck.
He’s muttering something into the floor, and when you realize it’s a mantra of ‘no, no, no’, you feel like you could cum right then. It’s intoxicating. It’s better than most highs you’ve had. Your face burns, your whole body aflame with brutalized arousal.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Mikes. Just- just stay still, yeah? Just close your eyes.” You murmur into where you’ve pressed your mouth to his back, hot breath dusting over his shaking form.
He shakes his head harder. “Stop, Gee, fucking- stop, I don’t-”
You cut him off with a high, girlish moan. Entirely unintentional, but it works in your favor. Hearing him beg you to stop in his broken little voice will send you over the edge far faster than you need to be taking that dive. You’ve hardly had your fun yet.
He pleads harder, he sounds horrified. He’s rarely this openly distraught when you fuck him, he thinks hiding his terror will spurr you into leaving him be. He thinks if he denies you a reaction, you’ll get bored and move on to someone else. A different object of your attraction. He has to know better, deep down somewhere. He has to know that he’s the only object that matters to you. The only one you need.
You slow your thrusts down, riding his ass in languid strokes. Your jeans are chafing your bare dick, and you’re too turned on to care about how red and raw it’ll be by the time you’re finished. You used to jerk off so frequently and aggressively that you’d skin your dick picturing the curve of Mikey’s spine. The arch of his foot, the part of his hair, the bridge of his nose. You’ve orgasmed to every inch of his tragic body. You’ll live.
He sniffles, keying you into his crying. You hadn’t noticed his labored, shuddering breaths, too caught up in how fucking good it feels to hump him, to use him. He’s stopped begging, likely too choked up to try without full-on sobbing. You wish he’d let it all out for you, let his emotions run rampant and showcase just how bad you’ve fucked him up, how bad you continue to do so like it’s a passtime.
He’s shaking. He’s shaking like a leaf, like ripe fruit hanging from a branch, like a swaying body hung from the rafters.
You reach between his legs, grabbing a handful of his limp dick. He very seldom gets hard for you, you doubt he gets hard for himself when he’s alone and humping his mattress, praying for it to come to life and fuck him like you do. You’re certain he can’t associate sex with anything and anyone other than you.
You made every possible effort to guarantee it. You’ve conditioned him to associate his pleasure with yours. You’ve drilled into his skull the fact his body belongs to you, and that it means nothing if not in relation to you and, in turn, pleasing you. Trepanned him by forcing your dick into his orifices and patched the hole with bitter reassurances, wiping the blood from his thighs and the vomit from his mouth and whispering that you love him.
You’re shocked to be met with wetness when you squeeze him. Odd. He’s never been a leaker, and he’s not hard to begin with. You’re confused, until the wetness spreads. Until it doesn’t stop, seeping through his jeans and pouring hot and wet into your cupped palm. Then it makes sense. The grin that splits across your face hurts. You hump him faster, subconscious. You’re losing your control, your grip on the encounter, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Holy shit,” You whisper, awed. “Holy shit, you’re fucking pissing yourself. Oh my god.”
You laugh, incredulous, as the stream spilling into your hand picks up speed and force, the lingering scent of his sick overlaid with the acridity of his urine. He presses his thighs together, a weak attempt to mitigate his bladder’s failure. It’s weak, because you reach your free hand under him and press down hard on his abdomen, unrelenting and cruel. He chokes on a pitiful noise and his legs fall open again. Piss jets out of him like a firehose, soaking himself and you and the carpet under your collective bodies.
“Holy shit.”
You’re still stunned, tacking your words onto the tail end of your laughter. He quivers in your hold. He’s crying audibly now, and you wish you could see his face. You want to see his cheeks flushed ruddy, teartracks down his face and fresh ones falling from his unfocused eyes. But you like that he’s facedown, and making no move to lift himself up. You like that he can’t. He couldn’t get away if he wanted to, and you can just smell on him that he wants more than anything to push you off and bolt to anywhere that you aren’t.
And yet, he doesn’t. He lays there, limp like a ragdoll. Like a sex doll, lifeless and fuckably pliant.
“What happened? Are you just that fucked?” You ask, not really looking for an answer. You just want him to hear your voice. “Were you scared? Are you scared of me, Mikey?”
He doesn’t say anything. He shakes, and he sobs, but his words die on his tongue and seep out like pus in the form of pathetic, half-aborted noises.
His stream trails off into a sad dribble. The air around you hangs heavy with ammonia, thick with your arousal and his misery. He’s heaving in breaths like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, you’re panting like a dog in heat.
You squeeze his dick again, painfully hard, then you pull your damp hand away from his dripping crotch. You wipe the wetness off on his bare back and admire how the slick trail glistens, shining his pale skin.
“It’s okay,” You coo at him. “You don’t have to be scared, okay? Just let me finish, then you’ll be done. Then you can sleep. You can sleep now if you want, but I’m still gonna do this.”
No response. He sniffles again. You take that as permission. You don’t need his permission, but it can be nice to pretend he wants this as bad as you do.
You put more effort into the rolling of your hips now, pacing yourself much faster than you’d allowed before. Your dick throbs in time with your beating heart, with the pounding in your head and the rushing in your ears. You feel like you’re underwater, each inhale filling your lungs with fluid. With Mikey’s spilled fluids, you’re breathing so heavily that all you can smell and taste is his mess.
Your thrusts grow frantic. Frenzied, gripping Mikey tight and nailing your cock to his ass like a saint to a cross.
It’s hot, it’s panicked and it’s not enough, it’s not enough right up until it is, until it’s too much and you’re shaking with oversensitivity as you spill into your jeans, painting the inside of your fly with your release. You drag Mikey along your softening cock, smearing your cum all over yourself and pretending it’s staining him instead.
You drop his hips, and his legs hit the floor gracelessly. You slide off of him, and the second he’s free of your body on top of his, he turns to his side, facing away from you, and curls in on himself as tight as he can. Still shaking. Crumpled up in a heap, caked in his humiliation. Drowned in what you call love. Suffocating in your misplaced admiration, misused affection.
You sidle up next to him. He flinches. You wrap an arm over his frail, shivering body, and for the final time tonight, pull him close to you. You can feel his heart pounding, yours beats nearly as fast, riding on adrenaline and oxytocin. He’s braced against his own adrenaline tides, fear-based rather than thrill-born.
You tuck your face into the dip of his shoulder and neck. You whisper that you love him, and finally, he relaxes into you.
His breathing evens out before yours does. He passes out in mere minutes. You aren’t as lucky. Your rest is fitful, plagued with echoes of his mercy-mantra on an indefinite loop.
And yet, you don’t regret it. You never do.