This is so very wrong. You know how wrong this is, but you can't help it. He's thirteen, you're seventeen. You know better, you shouldn't be letting this happen. But it does.

The first time anything like this happened, it was in a crummy motel room near Peoria, Illinois. While channel surfing, you accidently hit a porn channel. You were both under the covers in your own beds. Quietly, discreetly, you started jerking off. You were sixteen, your hormones were, and still are, crazy as hell. You kept quiet, cause that's a personal thing, or at least it should be. You didn't even realize he was too until he gasped loudly. You looked over and watched the expression on your twelve year old brother's face as he came. And like it or not, it made you come.

There were other nights like that, in different motel rooms. Both of you hiding under the covers, watching the television until one of you got close. Over time, you both became a little more vocal about it. The sound of his panting gets to you every time, even when Dad makes you spar.

You were staying in Arizona, and the air conditioning was busted in the room. There was no way anyone could even pay you to sleep with a sheet on. You swore to yourself that it would only ever happen when you were covered. Not that not seeing it happen made it right, but it made things easier. But being only twelve, and having you as an older brother meant that he had very little shame. He found the porn channel, and flung his underwear onto the side of the bed. He had his hand around his tiny prick before you could say anything. And you tried not to look, tried to tell yourself that you were getting hard from the sounds from the television. You didn't touch yourself until he looked over at you, his hazel eyes half lidded and full of lust.

Since Arizona, it's been above the covers. Ever since a cold night in Montana, it's been in the same bed. Since his thirteenth birthday spent in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, you haven't even needed the television. This is getting severely out of hand, and you do nothing to stop it. Not even Dad sleeping in the very next room, separated by paper-thin walls has stopped the two of you.

Tonight, even at Uncle Bobby's, you're lying side by side. You're not touching, but you swear that you can feel the heat of his skin on yours. There's no movie, no magazine, just the two of you. Your hands have the same rhythm, your breathing in sync. Your mind is screaming at you that this is so wrong, and this is your baby brother, but something darker in you is taking over. God, you want to feel his lips on yours, you want to take his dick in your hand and bring him to completion yourself. But you fight it with everything you have. You know that need should never overpower doing the right thing. But that thick line between right and wrong has been slowly shrinking since Peoria.

His hips buck sharply, and you hear yourself whisper "Come on Sammy. Come for me." And he does, gasping your name as he does. You follow in record time after that. You mentally kick yourself for those words. Neither of you have ever said a word while doing that before.

You know that one night you won't be able to stop yourself. You'll give in, reach over and touch, kiss, give in to every wrong desire you have. In the meantime, you keep telling yourself that brothers don't do things like that.