Part 1:
All characters are 18+
I never wanted a stepbrother. Especially not him.
Mom met Richard less than a year ago. They met through a coworker, hit it off over some overpriced wine and mutual midlife loneliness, and just like that, she was head over heels. He was nice enough—clean-cut, well-spoken, and weirdly obsessed with vintage cars—but he treated Mom well. He made her laugh. I wanted to be happy for her, so I kept my thoughts to myself when she told me they were getting married.
What I didn’t keep to myself was how I felt about his son.
Max and I went to the same school, though we didn’t really travel in the same circles. He was one of those guys who hovered somewhere just outside the popular crowd—not quite a golden boy, but confident, attractive, and impossible to ignore. People liked him. I didn’t. There was just something about him—his swagger, the way he carried himself like the world owed him something—that rubbed me the wrong way. He never bullied me or anything like that. In fact, we had hardly ever spoken, but we’d shared a few too many passive-aggressive moments in crowded hallways to pretend we didn’t know each other.
The first time the four of us got together was a dinner at some steakhouse Richard liked. Mom wore too much perfume and kept touching his arm like a teenager. Max was dressed too casually for such a nice place, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds in. He barely acknowledged me. I remember sitting across from him, watching him tear into a burger while his dad tried to make polite conversation.
“So, Ben,” Richard had said, smiling at me from across the booth. “You and Max go to the same school, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but we don’t really hang out.”
Max didn’t even look up. “He’s not really my scene.”
“Max,” his dad warned, but I just smiled tightly.
“It’s fine, he’s not really MY scene either.” I said with a mocking tone. A glare from mom told me to dial back the sarcasm.
I thought maybe the whole marriage thing would stay in the background. That Richard and Max would keep living in their own house for a while and we’d all just play nice on weekends. But no—Mom and Richard went straight from courthouse vows to full-on blending families like they were starring in a Hallmark movie.
They moved in the same weekend.
Mom had been cleaning like a maniac all week, buzzing with that anxious energy she got when she wanted things to be perfect. Saturday morning, the moving truck showed up, and with it - Richard and Max, hauling boxes and bags and acting like they’d always belonged here.
As they brought all their shit in, I pulled Mom aside.
“Wait—where’s Max gonna sleep?” I asked her in a low voice, watching as he dumped a duffel bag on our living room floor and made himself comfortable on the couch.
She gave me a sheepish smile. “Richard bought two twin beds that will fit nicely in your room, honey. It’s temporary.”
“There’s not enough room,” I said, already picturing the clutter, the chaos.
“We’ll make it work,” she said gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like that would soften the blow. “Come on, Ben. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Just until we figure something out, okay?”
I wanted to push back, to tell her no, that I needed space, that this was my room and my life being rearranged without asking. But the way she looked at me—hopeful, tired, trying so hard to keep the peace—I just nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”
So, just like that, Max moved into my room. Now…our room I guess.
We took down my queen sized bed to make room for the two twin beds, rearranged my desk, and tried to make it feel “cozy.” It didn’t. It felt like a violation. My room had been my one place to breathe, to think, to be myself—and now it smelled like Max and looked nothing like the space I had made my own.
He took over fast. Clothes on MY floor. His Xbox plugged into MY TV. His backpack dumped on MY chair. He claimed the top drawer of MY dresser like it was a given, and when I said something, he just grinned.
“You don’t even use it,” he said, tossing in a pile of t-shirts. “Don’t be so stingy, Benji.”
I flinched at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.” I spat back.
“Why not? It suits you. Benji. Kinda cute.”
He winked like he was joking, but I could tell he liked getting under my skin.
The first few days were a nightmare. He stayed up late playing games, laughing with his headset on while I tried to sleep. He set his alarm way earlier than he needed to and let it ring while he continued to sleep. He left wet towels on the floor, empty wrappers on the nightstand, and somehow managed to always be shirtless.
I hated how comfortable he was. I hated how his presence made everything feel smaller, tighter, more claustrophobic. And I hated, more than anything, that I kept noticing him—his bare chest, the way his boxers hung low on his hips and his trimmed pubic hair poked out, the lazy way he sprawled across his bed with his hand casually down in his underwear like he was completely unaware of how he looked.
He wasn’t unaware.
And I wasn’t unaffected.
At night, we both slept in just underwear. Not something we discussed—it just happened. It was hot, the room was small, and neither of us cared enough to change our habits. Still, I found myself turning my back to him in bed, pulling the covers up higher than I needed, trying to ignore the subtle sounds of his breathing across the room. Trying to ignore him.
It took a few days of Max being in my room for me to come to a realization - how was I going to jerk off? With all the commotion and newness, I hadn’t even had time to think about my former nightly sessions. We were so busy setting Max & Richard’s shit up, that by the time I was ready for bed those first few nights, I was so tired that I just went to sleep.
But before this, I always would say goodnight to mom, close my door, load up my favorite porn, and jerk off until I came on my chest. I’m quite the shooter, so I always kept an old tshirt nearby to clean up the mess. Now that things were settling down, the idea struck me for the first time. I can’t do that with Max just a few feet away from me.
I didn’t have to wonder where and when he jerked off. Like clockwork every night, he would finish gaming, say goodnight to his friends in his headset, then whisper “Ben, you awake?” The first night I was, but I ignored him since my general disdain meant I wasn’t up for a conversation. But Max wasn’t wanting to talk. Upon my silence, I heard him shuffle around briefly. Then a snap that sounded almost like the waistband of boxers being pulled down. Then the unmistakable sound of a penis being stroked. Every guy knows how the friction of a hand on a dick sounds. But it couldn’t be that I thought to myself. He wouldn’t jerk off with me still in the room would he? I squinted my eyes open and as it turns out, yes he would. The room was too dark to make out any details, but the light shining in his face from his phone showed a couple fucking on his screen and then I knew the sounds I was hearing were of him pleasuring himself beside me. This continued in the same fashion every single night.
I started going on bike rides just to get away. Long ones, after dinner, when the house was quiet and I couldn’t take being in the same four walls as him anymore. It gave me space to think, to breathe. Sometimes I’d ride until it was almost dark, until my legs were burning and the wind cleared my head.
It was one of those nights when it happened.
I was riding a little too fast, mind somewhere else—on Max, on the way he’d looked at me after the incident this morning in the bathroom.
Since I no longer had privacy in my room, I had resorted quick jerk sessions in the shower. Some days I took two showers lately. I hadn’t realized he’d come into the bathroom. He must have heard everything. The sound of my wrist slapping against my thigh with each tug. The sloshing of the conditioner I was using as lube. The moans and groans that escaped me as the pleasure built. The hitch in my breath as my cum started spraying. Thinking I was alone, I didn’t try to mask any of the noise. After soaking in the bliss of my orgasm for a few seconds, I directed the stream of water to my load on the tile wall so the evidence would wash down the drain.
When i finish a shower, I always cut the water off, reach out for my towel, dry off in the shower, then step out so I don’t get the floor wet - a habit he clearly didn’t have since the floor was always soaked after his showers. But today, I opened the curtain and began to step out, but was startled at his presence. “Max, what the fuck?” I shouted.
He stood there brushing his teeth, clad in his normal apparel of raggedy plaid boxers and no shirt. A smirk on his face after clearly being there long enough to hear what I just did. In the commotion, my towel slipped, falling towards the ground. I tried to catch it, but was unsuccessful and now my still semi-hard dick was fully exposed to him.
He stared for a second, his face smirking slightly but giving very little — as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Nice balls Benji,” he mocked, “let me know when they finally drop and you get a real set” he said grabbing his bulge cockily. My eyes betrayed me and were forced to look at where he was grabbing. Even though we lived in such close quarters, I hadn’t seen him naked yet. The limited vision during his nightly jerk sessions didn’t offer me much insight to what he was working with. And his baggy boxers he basically lived in hadn’t given me much a view up to this point, but with his hand tightening the fabric around him, I could tell he was definitely packing more than I thought.
“That was quite the performance you put on in there.” He said while still laughing. My whole body flushed with embarrassment. “Fuck off” I said as I picked the towel back up and tucked it tightly around my waist. I quickly slid past him, the limited space between where he stood at the sink and the door causing me to briefly make contact with him. Walking into our room, I couldn’t help but realize that my dick had started filling back up and was almost fully hard again. I forced it into a pair of pants and dressed as quickly as I could.
I hated to admit that i found the moment wildly erotic. The entire scene played in my head all day long. Even now on my bike ride, I was reliving the experience down to every last lusty detail. I didn’t see the curb until it was too late.
My front tire clipped it. The handlebars jerked, and I was airborne for several seconds. It felt slow motion until it wasn’t. I hit the ground hard—hands first. The pain was instant, blinding, and it radiated through both arms with a sickening crack that turned my stomach.
I don’t remember how I got to the hospital. Someone must have called an ambulance because I vaguely remember hearing a siren and seeing a paramedic over me. On top of the pain in my arms, I think I hit my head as well because my memory of the accident was vague. I remember my mom’s voice in the ER, panicked and tight. And I remember the doctor explaining calmly that I had a minor concussion and, like it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, I’d broken both arms.
Both. As in, completely useless. As in, I couldn’t even pull up my own pants.
They casted me up, loaded me with pain meds, and sent me home to recover. I was humiliated. I couldn’t do anything without help. I had the use of my fingers which poked out of the cast, so with some finesse, I was able to still use my phone. But anything else was hopeless. Mom helped at first—feeding me, dressing me, even helping me in and out of the bathroom. But every time she did, everything inside me cringed. I felt like a child. A burden.
So one night, after she helped me into bed and kissed my forehead like I was six years old again, I stared up at the ceiling for a long time after she left the room before finally saying it.
“Max,” I mumbled into the dark.
He was quiet for a second. “Yeah?”
“…I need to pee...”
Silence again. Then a sigh.
“You serious?”
“Yeah...”
Another pause.
“Call your mom then”
“I can’t. It’s so uncomfortable when she helps me in the bathroom. Please Max, can you do it?” I pleaded.
There was no response. I looked over to see Max. He was thinking about the situation a little too sternly. His arrogant ass probably thought this was beneath him. I didn’t want this either. But a choice between Max seeing my dick again or my mom, it was simple.
“Alright, Benji,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice as he loaded up his taunt. “But if you piss on my feet, I’m pushing you in the tub.”
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