Not that I put up much of a fight, and once I was astride him, his grunts spurred me on. Big as I am, I couldn’t go deep enough; frenzied as I was, I couldn’t hit it hard enough—he yowled for more, more, more! until I lost track of how many loads I put inside him. It was surely no wonder to anyone who had had the pleasure of fucking this insatiable tiger that he had set European and World Records in his distance events—the kid had stamina like I’d never seen, and I bounced on him like he was a pogo stick until I collapsed in a heap, spent. I didn’t so much pass out as offer myself up as a human sacrifice to the gods of sleep. And a poor one, at that, as I doubt I had much life force left in me, all of my insides having been sucked into Peder’s glorious, gluttonous hole.
Whether I was fast asleep or still dead was something of a grey area when there came two quick raps at the door. “Café au lit,” sang Marcel, turning the handle of my bedroom door.
“Um, just a second!” I croaked, struggling to unearth at least part of my body from beneath 230 pounds of drooling Norwegian. I had gotten as far as falling out of the bed when Marcel sailed into the room.
“Good morning,” he chirped, setting his course for the lump in the sheets on the bed, before he clocked me sprawled on the floor and stopped so short that my cup clattered in its contrasting saucer. “Oh,” he said, and the stony grimace that chased the smile off of his mug knocked the wind out of me, so that all I could do was squirm on the floor and stammer unintelligibly, wishing with fervor that I didn’t have such grandstanding morning wood. “I see…” he muttered.
He turned to go, but not before Peder managed to wrench one eye open. He lit up. “Oh yum,” he slurred. “Is he gonna fuck me, too?”
“No,” I said, a declaration confirmed by Marcel when he pulled the door shut behind him with an emphatic thud.
Peder turned his attention to me, and shortly to the fact that I was quite erect. “That’s okay,” he said, turning to present himself to me. “You fuck me good.”
I begged him to leave, and he begged me to fuck him first, and my cock again led the charge. By the time Peder was in a taxi heading back to town, Marcel was nowhere to be found.
* * * *
When Marcel did come home, he was not trailing sunshine and lollipops. The charming, attentive, flirty Marcel had elected to stay in town, and had sent a rather grim and surly replacement. One who was wholly unfamiliar with the phrase café au lit; one who frequently used my name as a swear word on the shooting range, but who often forgot to praise or even watch for what skills I could muster; one who retired to his office the second practice was over without saying so much in Luxembourgish as “Fuck off.” I couldn’t stand it, but I didn’t know what to do. I certainly hadn’t brought Peder home to hurt Marcel in any way, but nor had I presented myself as anything less than the jock slut I was. Marcel even teased me about it. So why was he so put out?
“I’m not,” he snarked one night when I couldn’t take it anymore. We hadn’t spoken to each other in two days, and if he broke one more dish in ill-concealed frustration, we’d be reduced to eating in shifts off of the same plate.
“The hell you’re not,” I said. We were walking across the garden back to the house after a tense and unproductive practice. “Marcel, you won’t even look at me, much less talk to me, and I hate it.” I struggled to control my volume, essentially whispering, “I miss you.”
“You don’t ‘miss’ me,” he growled. “You can’t. We’re together every day.”
“Okay, well, I don’t miss this guy, you’re right,” I said. “But I miss the old Marcel. My Marcel.”
“Your Marcel?” He stopped walking and turned on me. “That’s a laugh. Do you tell your fuck buddies that you have a Marcel at home?”
I’d known it was about Peder, but now with it between us on the grass, I didn’t know what to say. Did I correct his use of the plural? It seemed beside the point. Did I defend myself? I’d done nothing wrong. His face was clouded with fury, but his eyes were welling up, and I didn’t want to trigger either range of emotions. But when he smeared a tear angrily away with the back of his hand and turned to march away from me, I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Marcel,” I gently reminded him, “we’re cousins.”
Still hoping to steer clear of rage and anguish, I was nevertheless caught off guard by what appeared to be mirth. Sharp laughter, anyway, followed by another swipe at a wayward tear. He looked at me the way he might have looked at a dull child who just couldn’t quite piece together into which hole to hammer the triangle peg and laughed again, this time more robustly. He muttered a few choice words in Luxembourgish, then said in English, “You know our moms aren’t really sisters, right?”
The look on my face, no doubt similar to that of someone who has just taken a large, cold fish upside the head, clearly
