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Your bedroom door inches open and you know nothing good is about to come of this. The blinding glint of the sunlight bouncing off of Bro’s glasses right into your retinas is the last thing you see for a good few seconds. After the eye floaters have had a good chance to bounce around your field of vision, they settle and your gaze falls upon the crystal red tip of an all-too familiar foe. Your neural pathways burn up in an attempt to make sense of what you’re looking at. Bro, standing in your doorway, with that Dave Strider candy red dildo pointing straight at you. You can’t make top or tail of it; you thought your first run in with that thing would’ve been your last. It had been weeks since you had your midday tryst with the damn thing. You’d assumed that he’d gotten what he’d wanted and that would be that. To assume makes an ass of you and me though, so an ass you are as you sit blindsided by the sheer mindfuck of the situation. Cottonmouthed and caught with your pants down, you fumble over your words, and fail to get anything out before Bro does exactly what you’re dreading, and opens his mouth.
“Got anything to tell me about this, li’l man?” You stare at it, and words continue to elude you. Out comes one big-ass “Uh…” like you don’t know nothin’ about this here ruby red wang, no sir. But you do, obviously. Not like you could simply forget the way it felt six inches deep inside you, let alone the sight of it. Bro sticks it down to the desk with a loud thwack, and naturally you flinch like you’re about to get hit, because who the hell wouldn’t? You don’t get hit though, instead you get a further grilling now that his hands are free, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the doorframe.
“Not ringing any bells?” Damn right it’s ringing bells. An entire chorus of chipper little ding dongs alights at the accompanying visual of this not-so little ding dong. Something in your brain, however, insists that you play dumb for as long as you can. This is for a reason that you can’t even begin to decipher, considering you know without a shred of doubt that you’ve been caught red-dildo-handed and there’s no way out of this without telling the truth. You’d been caught weeks ago, it wasn’t like this was some newfound hail Mary to see if you could get off playing the innocent. Everything there was to know about your involvement in this case, Bro already knows. Still, you play dumb.
It’s all part of the fun. Not for you, obviously - in this very moment you would literally rather be dead than be living through this. For Bro, interrogating you about something you know he knows you know, and watching you squirm like a hooked fish (because you know he knows you know he knows, you know?) is yet another part of the incredibly drawn out, critically panned game that is your upbringing. He’d set up that camera for the express purpose of catching you in the act that day. He put the dildo there because he knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. There wasn’t one bit of that whole ordeal that wasn’t an elaborate setup.
You’d finally let yourself process it about it a week back. You spent the night hugging the toilet bowl when the realisation came crashing in: that this hadn’t been the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. Not the first, ‘cuz let’s be honest, you had no idea where that Galileo’s Thermometer came from, or how it found its way to your room. Same went for that electric toothbrush you’d discovered cast to the back of your closet one chilly fall afternoon. The intentionality of him putting all those props into place where he knew you’d come across them; knowing exactly what use your sick-fuck mind would put them to. That was sickening enough. It didn’t bear thinking about whether or not Big Red’s debut appearance was the only time you’d been caught on film. At the very least, you knew that you spotting the blinking camera LED hadn’t been a mistake. Eight days straight, dildo sat on your desk with no Bro interference. For that fateful day to come, when you would finally get horny-stupid enough to cave and use it. Everything, no doubt down to the very Dave Strider signature colour of your little companion, had been orchestrated meticulously with the sole intention of making sure you knew that you’d been caught in the act at that very moment.
If only you could find it in yourself to feel anything at all but bewilderment, you might find it in yourself to be angry. You can’t though, so instead you sit and wait for whatever cruel and unusual psychological torture awaits. The corners of your lips twitch downward into some kind of grimace while you’re mid rumination, and Bro scoffs a laugh. Clearly, he finds your constant anguish and shame utterly hilarious, which does nothing but worsen your condition.
“What’s that look for? Seems a lot to me like you know more than you’re letting on, dude.” You bite the inside of your cheek. You’re a cool dude. Water off a duck’s back, right? A little provocation means nothing to a Strider, not even in the face of unknown threats levied by said Strider’s main man.
“I don’t know nothin’ about no ruby red wang, Bro.” Why the fuck did you say that? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you having some kind of mental lapse? Does “water off a duck’s back” mean nothing to you?
It takes some level of bullshittery for Bro to break his monotone, and oh man was that some bullshit.
“No?” He asks, and you don’t have to look at him because you can already hear the smirk on his face in his response alone. Instead you just sit there, internally running calculations to measure the distance from your desk chair to the open window, then from the window to the pavement below. Halfway through deciding whether this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back or not, you’re dragged back to earth by the resounding pop of the dildo’s suction cup. Bro grabs it from the desk, and cradles it in his hands, then against his cheek.
“Come on Dave, you’re hurting his feelings. Didn’t he mean anything to you?” You’re not gonna rise to it. You’re not even gonna dignify it with a response. Nope. You’re going to sit here and take the grilling until he gets bored and goes away. You’re gonna–
“Gonna fess up? ‘Cuz I dunno if I believe it when you say you don’t know nothing. I mean, that’s one guilty face right there, bro.”
Loudly, you swallow. It sounds more like a gulp than anything. To Bro, it sounds like further petulance from Brat of the Year, Dave Strider.
“Got one more chance to spill, Dave.” He says, putting the dildo back on the desk. It’s closer to you this time, like it’s part of the interrogation too. Good cop, bad cop sitch. You try really hard not to stare straight down the barrel of its shaft when you finally give in.
“Fine. Christ.” The game is over, thank fuck for that. Bro nods in acceptance of your clenched-jaw confession.
“Nice, good choice. Proud of you.” You think that he might be turning to leave when he straightens up against the doorway, and the tension hanging over your head splits at last. You’re somehow in the clear.
And then he leans back, his back sliding down the doorframe and his shoes drift across the metal of the threshold; wedged there so you can’t get out of your room. It’s not like feeling trapped in your house is anything new or uncommon, but it’s also not something you ever find yourself getting particularly used to. Even at the best of times it spells imminent disaster. The window is calling to you, beckoning you up and out. But, visualising the absolute melodrama of killing yourself to evade whatever Bro has planned keeps you glued to your seat in mortification. Sure, the humiliation soon to follow is a frightening prospect, but it pales in comparison to the levels of soul-destroying shame you’d feel in your last moments of leaping to your death. Hard pass.
“So. Catch me up.” He says. Your heart feels as though it’s floating weightlessly in your chest, suspended right at the peak of a particularly shitty Tower of Terror knockoff.
“Cam says you thought Mr. Strawberry Gusher over here would make one hell of a ride. That right?” Not the name you had in mind, you’ll admit, but he’s more or less on the mark. Obviously. As mortified as you may be, no point denying it. You open your mouth, teeth clicking against your dried out tongue when you go to speak.
“Yeah. Right.” He hums in understanding, nodding along in silence for a moment. Then he poses a question.
“How about you give me the play-by-play?” Your mind spirals like a herd of turbo-charged carousel horses at that mockery of a request. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. The dude has the full director’s cut edition of you debasing yourself, tucked away somewhere for safekeeping. His very own to rewind and fast-forward and pause and screencap to his shrivelled up heart’s content, and that’s not enough?
“Dude.” You can’t help but let it slip. You’ve seen a lot of audacious shit from Bro in your lifetime, but this takes the audacity cake. On top of that, you wanna say the rest of it too. The shit about the director’s cut. You want to say how fucked up it is that he’s telling you to recap on your day of debauchery like he doesn’t have an anytime pass to seeing it for himself. You don’t know if you’re supposed to know that he knows that you know he knows, so you don’t tack any of that on at the end. Besides, a simple “dude.” is succinct enough. Gets the point across, right? Bro stares at you and shrugs. Eventually, you help get your disbelief across with an additional,
“You cannot be serious.” Met immediately with,
“As a heart attack.” He’s got the same inscrutable expression, same flat, half-amused tone, but you can tell you’re on your last warning.
Now, for obvious reasons, you typically try to avoid ticking Bro off enough to warrant his abuse– more than he feels that your mere existence already “warrants” it - so you don’t exactly know what lies on the other side of this final warning. Waiting around to find out doesn’t interest you either, so you tell yourself not to be a hero; to suck it up Buttercup, and prepare to recite your debut bodice-ripper to this grand audience of two. Your face burns as you look down from Bro’s face. Not intentionally to the dildo, but the cards fall where they may and now you’re staring right at the silicone scepter. The opening you’ve carefully wordsmithed to perfection in your mind gets instantly pushed to the wayside when Bro cuts you off. Before he’s even gotten two words of his interruption out, your stomach’s already twisting in anxiety so great you might just up and keel over where you’re sat.
“Much as I appreciate the no-doubt literary wizardry you’re about to unleash, I’m more of a visual learner.”
You’re pretty sure this breaks you. Yeah, there’s been plenty of times throughout your life where you’ve been sure that something has completely and utterly shattered your mind and body, but you’re actually sure of it this time. Your ancient ape DNA has you contemplating for a hot second whether you’d do well to play dead until Bro goes away. You stare at him, like you’re waiting for the punchline to a really bad joke. He stares back at you, like he’s the one waiting for the punchline. You push yourself back from your desk and get to your feet, wanting so fucking badly for Bro to stop you in your tracks. To look at you like you’re an alien with a dozen eyes, because what the hell do you think you’re doing, obviously that isn’t what he meant at all. But he doesn’t. Nah. He just stands there pinned between the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you wrestle the stiff zipper on your jeans down.
“What the actual fuck.” Huffs out from between your lips in an exasperated whisper, lost beneath the sound of your pants and boxers both dropping to the floor. You step out of your freshly shed clothes and return to the desk to retrieve Big Red, not once looking up until you’re in front of your bed.
Bro continues to watch you from the same vantage point the whole time you’re getting up onto the bed, twisting and turning into position. When you dare to look right at his face, whatever look he’s giving you is totally obscured by his shades. So you drop your head back against your pillow, and lie there like a stranded tortoise, unable to control the look of misery and shame creeping across your face. At the very least you try getting your breathing under control, if for nothing else than to buy some time before you totally give in to the evil whims of this evil douchebag.
You get your hand to stop shaking long enough to bring the dildo to your lips and give it a good lick. You’re pretty sure that’s where you started last time, that would make sense. Bro’s not called to cut cameras and fix your pose yet, so you’ve clearly done right by him as far as that’s concerned. Your head is spinning, you’re high on oxygen deprivation, and you slick your tongue with spit to keep on drawing wet streaks up the shaft. You don’t even shut your eyes to enjoy the moment a little more, you just stare at the ceiling and try to switch off. It doesn’t work, and God, you wish you had any modicum of fight in you to protest. Arguing won’t make a blind bit of difference though, so you go back to stalling; labouring over each long lick until drool starts to spill over onto your hands.
You almost expect Bro to interrupt again, but he doesn’t. You can’t see him when you’re staring at the ceiling like this, thank fuck, but you assume he’s starting to get sick of your beating-around-the-bushes, so to speak.
Your palms are wet around Big Red’s impressive length. You wipe one hand on the bedsheet while the other takes hold of the dildo, and navigates downward to the very bush you’re beating around. Your arm is dead weight, so numb and heavy that it hardly registers as your own doing when the tip prods against your vagina. Adding to your horror, you push the head in to find that all the makeshift lubrication had been for naught, since you’ve already made a great slip and slide all your own. The head slides in with ease. Your stupid, dumb-fuck nervous system has decided that this is the opportune time to get the waterworks going. Thanks, you think to yourself, because being ordered to masturbate in front of your mentally deranged dad bro is definitely the ideal time to pop a proverbial stiffy. And thanks a bunch even more, because the dildo meets the same painful resistance inside you the last time you’d used it. For all its defiant and untimely arousal, your body still wants to check out as soon as you’re at the widest point of the toy. The head is almost all in, but at your current level of gentle easing and pressing, the other five inches go unspoken for.
You know what you have to do but you don’t think you’re strong enough to do it. In defiance to your own better judgment, you lie inert on the bed, your arm growing tired while you hold the dildo loosely so you don’t lose your progress. Your ribs feel closed in against your guts, aching with every breath. The reality of the situation is weighing on you more and more, crushing your already vice-gripped lungs. The pain is hot, heavy. The kind you get when you’re about to cry. Which is something you absolutely, unequivocally cannot do right now. Under no circumstances can you let the pain rising up through your chest settle in your throat. No fucking way. You breathe in harshly through your nose, and with the resolve of a soldier going off to battle, stab it in.
All you can do for a moment is leave it there. Pain shoots up your arms and through your spine like electric, and every sound caught in your throat comes out as one restrained choke. Smooth. Still, for all your efforts, one solitary tear pricks at your eye. Not smooth. If Bro notices it, he doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t say anything at all, and for a second you think he might have left. Then you hear his shoe scuff against the door threshold, and you’re filled with relief in the knowledge that he’s still there, watching you. Like that’s something that should put you at ease and not viscerally horrify you. Let’s be real though, you’ve gotten more attention today alone than you’ve had in the last month. Given all that, is it really all that surprising that you’re actually pleased to know that Bro’s still reaping the benefits of his front row seat. You’re not gonna sit (-- lie) here and pretend that you don’t care at all what kind of attention you’re getting, but it beats being haunted through the house without so much as a “hello”, “fuck you”, or “kiss my ass” for weeks on end.
It hurts, maybe more than it did the first time. You can’t really help but be tense, given the less than stellar hand you’ve been dealt. Part of you wants to think Bro sympathises with that, but if he did, he might leave. And then you’d simply be alone with a rubber dick hanging out of you, which would majorly suck. So instead it’s three cheers to his unflinching stoicism when enacting the incomprehensibly evil. You grab the base of the dildo and start pulling it back out of you. For all the rigor mortis you’re sure you must be undergoing, you’re a lot more wet than you were that first time around. You draw the dildo back out, then inch by inch you start to push it in, until you’re right where you started again. Those tears threaten again, pricking the corners of your eyes, and you just try to keep your breathing under control. Through the whole reenactment so far, you’ve been dead silent. Something tells you you’re supposed to be vocal here, like how you automatically laugh more out loud when you’re watching something funny with another person in the room. Can’t be sitting there straight-faced like you don’t know good comedy. It’s completely not the same thing, but it feels the same, and you’re dying here trying to ignore that voice telling you to pipe up.
Your teeth are clenched tight behind your pursed lips, breaths steadily trained to fall as quietly as possible. With each short stroke in and out, the pain is starting to dissipate and give way to what you regret to say is the familiar pleasure of fucking yourself. The unmistakable twinging of every nerve in your body urging you to give it more, moving the goalposts so you’re just a little too far behind to feel satisfied. Being self-conscious is starting to prove difficult despite your best efforts. Sure, the fact that you can even think about getting all hot and bothered given the circumstances probably makes you the world’s biggest most unabashed whore, you’ll accept that. If it were up to you, your for-realsies last rendezvous with this silicone-cast cock would have fallen under far less voyeuristic terms of service. But if the world ran on what made you most comfortable, you wouldn’t be in pseudo-possession of a seven inch dildo to begin with, so swings and roundabouts. You have to take what you get in this life of yours, even if that does mean giving in to the insatiable grips of carnal pleasure in front of Bro’s very eyes. It’s not ideal, but again, if you’re looking for ideal you might as well kill yourself and give the wheel of Samsara a hearty spin.
For the great lengths your aching cunt has gone to so far in convincing you that you actually enjoy the totality of this depraved bullshit, the generous webs of slick you’d started out with aren’t getting you very far anymore. Like Excalibur from the stone, you unsheathe your weapon with one salaciously SFX’d pull. Up into your mouth the head of the dildo goes once more, where you give it yet another gracious coat of spit. You get it dripping, beads of saliva rolling down the shaft as you steady it in your hand again for the second coming of Cock. It strikes you how uniquely mortifying this will be in tonight’s instant replay of the day’s happenings, but what do you care at this point? You’re in too deep to concern yourself with such asinine matters as “lasting trauma” now. Buckle up and get ready to get real uncomfortable for the rest of forever, because it’s not gonna get any better from here on out.
In spite of your laissez faire, “fuck-it, we-get-traumatised” attitude, you continue making a concerted effort to keep the visible enthusiasm to a minimum. If it was proving difficult two minutes ago, it’s proving damn near impossible now. All the extra spit gives it just that much more slip and slide, permitting you the full six inches to fuck in and out of yourself with increasing ferocity. Considering that a short time ago you broke your personal record for “pain endured during masturbation”, additionally breaking your record for “pleasure derived from masturbation” hadn’t seemed likely. Not to mention the present circumstances– if nothing else, you’d assumed (hoped) they’d kill your boner. But no, were you to say that this wasn’t rapidly becoming the most mind-shatteringly enjoyable jack-it sesh you’ve committed to memory, your pants would be hot black ash on the floor of your bedroom by now. What exactly it means to be so worked up with Bro actively watching you get your rocks off, you don’t know. Nothing good.
Onward you power through, ‘cuz you’re a real trouper. It’s good. It’s really fucking good. It’s kind of spiritual almost, the way you stop properly perceiving anything around you and melt away purely into the way your body responds to being used. It’s not lost on you how disgusting thinking like this makes you feel, but it’s not like there’s much left inside your head at this point.
What little conscious thought you have left clues you into a little memory of yours. How exactly you got so worked up towards the end of your first fling with your all-cherry rocket pop. It reminds you of the key element you’re missing here to accurately paint the picture Bro’s insisting on. The happy little clouds that will, with any luck, keep him from coming back with some cryptic bullshit about how you didn’t quite hit the mark. That two hand action, that’s what you’re missing.
You arch your back up in the air, granting yourself full access and range of motion for your next feat. You won’t act like you’re doing this wholly for the noble cause of keeping Bro off your back for the foreseeable. Is that the leading reason behind your valiant effort to maintain historical accuracy? Yes. But again, your wannabe JNCO jeans won’t run the risk of cremation just yet. Full disclosure, you hadn’t gotten a chance to double check if that whole squirting business from last time was a fluke. It hadn’t occurred to you to try it out for a while after, what with all the sex repulsion and paranoid self-insistence that you were under surveillance. There was more to life than trying in vain to give yourself a newfound type of orgasm. Now, though? Is there ever a more prime opportunity to say “fuck it” and get all amateur gynecologist up in here, given that you’re under the most direct possible surveillance there is? What more proof do you need? Your free hand makes a fast descent and you slide your fingers up through your labia to get to the real action.
A symphony of tiny angels sing a chorus in a halo around your head. Indiscernible parts of your body ache under the strain of keeping your hips raised. All your pains debuffed and buried beneath the mountain of heavenly clouds around you. Both your wrists twinge, begging you to give them a break just for a second before carrying on with all your feverish fuckings. The smarter parts of your brain are trying to convince you of how embarrassing it’s going to be when you inevitably get tennis elbow or carpal tunnel syndrome or whatever. Unfortunately for future Dave, this is the present, and presently you can’t find it in you to care what your wrists or your brain are saying. Of course, your core eventually gives out and you’re flat on your back again– not that this matters. You keep at it, ramming the dildo into your cunt again and again while you jerk off. Every second longer, it feels like the finishing line is right there, just out of reach, no matter how long or how hard you try to hit that sweet spot.
It’s not easy keeping your mind from drifting when you’re juggling so much. Inevitably something has to give. And what better to give, than your ability to not start fantasising about the absolute worst thing possible? You don’t wanna think about it– it’s not like you woke up this morning praying to God that your brain would short circuit enough to board this particular train of thought. And yet, here you are, on this crazy train to Nowhere Good with a busted emergency brake. The second you let go and drop the proverbial ball, you start to daydream. In an instant you’re even closer to the edge than ever before.
You imagine it’s Bro pounding you instead of a dildo and your own hand. He’s got you pinned under him, with you laying on your back like in real life. The heat of his body sinks into you, every part of you aches. You’re trapped. He fucks into you hard and deep, slower than you usually opted to do it yourself. You change your pace to match how you think he’d do it. God, you’re pathetic.
All the pain from before leaves you entirely, melting against him. It’s replaced by a heat, burning deep inside you like your soul itself is on fire. Are you about to spontaneously combust? God, please no. The embarrassment of that might kill you before the all-consuming fire can finish you off. Your cheeks are hot. You bite the inside of your mouth, clenching your teeth to try and keep a single sound from coming out. There are a lot of things about this that might be the death of you if you’re not careful– you’ve already lost the battle of wits against your own brain, you can’t lose this too.
Brain Ghost Bro keeps a lid on it. Of course he does. Every noise he makes is by choice. He’s the embodiment of self control and willpower even when he’s driving his cock into you like nobody’s business. You’re not so strong. Imagining the barely-there, controlled stream of huffs hot against your ear as Bro rails you is the cherry on top, really starting to send you over the edge. You try to stop yourself, but you can’t just unopen Pandora’s box. The closer you get to orgasm, the louder you get. The measured, shaking breaths you’d been taking are all gasps and choked up sounds now. Where it had been all but silent a few minutes ago, now the room is full of noise. If you’d felt like a pornstar a few weeks back, you really feel like a cheap whore now. You try shutting the hell up, but you end up sounding even sluttier. Your voice catches in your throat and instead of those hella salacious moans, what comes out instead are these long, needy whines that fizzle and die behind your lips. Not really in keeping with the whole nonchalant coolguy shtick.
You try to tell yourself that maybe someday you’ll look back on this and think: huh, maybe that wasn’t really so bad. You feel the heat burn trails up your neck and jaw, and for a second wonder if you’ve finally lied to yourself enough to set your pants ablaze once and for all. But no. What’s getting you all hot and bothered in actuality is the fast approaching, frenzying spasm of an encroaching orgasm.
Imaginary Bro sticks you one last time as your fingers grind against your clit, and the resulting sensation strikes you blind. All the fantasising and all those humiliating cries and whines have led you up to this moment. The monkey paw curls and you get your wish of wanting to double check the whole squirting thing. It seems like every muscle in your body contracts, tensing up in a crushing grip where you can’t do anything but struggle. You fight for air in and around an involuntary spew of porno-style cussing and moaning, and as you cum, you keep on fucking yourself. A spray of fluid drenches one of your hands, the other narrowingly missing the splashzone in its position mashing up against your dick. You don’t even register that it’s you hooting and hollering at first. Initially you’re far too busy to notice - let alone care - about all the noise you’re making, and then after that you’re so spent from your climax that you instantly feel like you’re dreaming. Off in some faraway fantasyland where you didn’t just cum your brains out on a dildo in front of your big brother.
Reality sets in pretty quick though. Kind of has to in this household, whether you’ve been knocked on your ass mid-battle or woken up mid-sleep by some unseen imposing threat. Lying there inert with your thumb up your ass (close, but not quite) isn’t safe, even when you’re hankering for some quick R&R in the afterglow of a traumatic, albeit blissful, forced masturbation session. Not to mention, reality will always hit you pretty hard when you remember that you’re on your bed laying in a growing-cold puddle of your own cum.
It takes a while for you to dare open your eyes and look around. When you finally do, Bro’s gone. You’re here alone, soaked in cum, lungs damn-near collapsing from your desperate attempts to catch your breath. You don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, being alone. Whatever it is, it isn’t a surprise.
Following your totally accidental discovery of the not-so hidden camera those few weeks back, it’s become habit to check for cameras. Now more than ever, you fully expect to see a carefully - but not too carefully - positioned blinking dot on the bookshelf or something. When you get up to change your sheets and get your clothes back on - as with every other day since the initial incident - you find nothing. Granted, does it get any more surveilly than being straight up watched while you jack it? Still, you can’t shake the feeling of being spied on, despite Bro’s obvious (and emotionally conflicting) absence.
Whatever, you think to yourself as you pull up your thankfully un-cremated pants with a sigh. The line between your shared life and private life had never been all that defined to begin with, maybe it being totally rubbed out is a good thing. At least then you’re not looking over your shoulder every five seconds to figure out whether or not you’re under observation. Simply assuming you are, because you definitely are, is fantastic actually. You’re being watched, forever and always, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Fine by you.
You toss the dildo into the back of the closet, and try to go back to whatever you were doing before the interruption.