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My Brother Q

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OK, right, Mr. Reporter, I’m here to set the record straight about Mr. Hoity-toity Quartermaster of MI6. All I see in the papers and on telly since that SPECTRE thing is, like, how wonderful he is, and how brave and honest and fucking brilliant, and man, that just makes my blood boil.

 

You know why? Because I know what he’s really like. I know where he fucking came from, and how he acts when the cameras aren’t on him. Hell, I even know what he likes. ‘Cause ya know, mate, that piece of shit is my brother, and now he’s pissed me off, and now I’m gonna tell the truth about him..

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It all started back when we was kids. Mum and Da had the two of us, I’m the older one, I was 7 or 8 when Q was born. Yeah, I’m gonna call him Q, ‘cause that’s the name they use in the papers, and I swore I’d never say his real name again. And by the way, you don’t need to know my name either. You can just call me Bruv.

 

Everything was fine and dandy, we had a normal life, we were kinda poor but things was going fine, up until Mum got cancer and died. And then it was just Da and me and the little whiny shit, and Da couldn’t do it. He got all depressed and didn’t care no more and my aunt and uncle came and took Q to live with them, on account of he was a pain in the ass, always into stuff, and crying all the time and shit. Da took the strap to him a lot and Auntie got upset and said it weren’t right, so Q went with them. Good riddance, says I. It was hard enough getting by with just me and Da. He was drinking, and I kinda ended up taking care of myself. It was OK, I got by, I’m tough. Somehow I didn’t get kicked outta school but I spent all my time with me mates and we got into all kinds of trouble. I ended up on some dumb social worker list and she kept coming to the house to check on stuff, it really pissed me off but I knew if I yelled at her I’d get an ASBO so I kept it shut and she finally left us alone.

 

I was about 15 when everything went tits up. Da lost his job ‘cause of the drink and we went on the dole and he sat around all day and did nothing but watch telly and then went to the pub at night. Then, bam, one night Auntie and Uncle got killed in a car crash and back came the kid, he was 9 or so and a right pain since Da couldn’t be arsed to take care of him so it got to be my job. Q was a skinny mama’s boy with glasses, still is, the kinda kid nobody likes - a picky eater, so yeah, I put food out and if he ate, fine, and if he didn’t, fine too, there was food and a roof. He went to the same school I had and kept bringing home notes from the teachers about how smart he was and he got all A’s and we should be proud and who the fuck cared? Not Da and not me either. All that boy did was make my life miserable, I couldn’t hang with me mates or nothing.

 

It got worse, though, when Da’s liver gave out and then he died too, ta. So now there I was, 18 years old with an 11 year old to take care of, the social service said I was old enough to be his guardian and there weren’t no one else to do it, so I was fucked.

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The boy got on my nerves. He was a right nancy, all bones and pale-like, too quiet, wouldn’t go down the pitch, always reading reading reading them bloody books, It was, like, something was wrong with him, he weren’t normal. I’d watch him sometimes when he wasn’t lookin’, he gave me the creeps.

 

Then one night I’d been down the pub and came home, needed to take a piss bad. I walked into the bath and the boy was there, I didn’t hear him, he’d just got out of the shower and was standing there starkers, bent over drying himself. The look of his arse right there in front of me, I dunno, I couldn’t stop looking, and I was drunk and I just went over and touched him. He jumped a mile, but I held him around the middle with one arm and he started squirming and then squawking. I grabbed his mouth with my other hand to shut him up and he kinda couldn’t breathe and stopped struggling and all of a sudden I realized I was hard.

Next thing I knew I had my cock up his hole and he was screaming for real and I shoved a flannel in his mouth and I just got harder and I fucked him pretty good and came in his arse. He was all crying and shit and I told him to clean up – there was a bunch of blood – and when he came out I grabbed his arms and got in his face and told him if he ever said one word I’d kill him. He looked like a goddamn animal in some kinda trap and just kept crying and I backhanded him and he quit sniggerin’ and finally shut up.

 

Now, I ain’t no faggot, I’ve shagged loads of birds in my time and I love me some cunt, but something about that boy stuck in my head. That white ass, all nice and round and firm, right there in front of me, just begging to get fucked – it kept coming up in my head, like, I dunno, a dream or something.

 

I started going in his room some nights, and I’d fuck him and make him say shit. “You’re my little bitch, ain’t ya?” and he’d say all breathy “I’m your bitch, I’m your bitch.” It drove me nuts. Then I’d watch his ass as I pounded him, and I’d call him my cock slut, and make him say it, “Yes sir, I’m your cock slut, I love your cock, please fuck me sir.” And I’d wrench his neck back and pull his hair while I was fucking him from behind and bite that white neck and leave bruises, and he’d be panting and moaning and saying “please, please, please….” and goddamn, I’d go wild. It got to be every night; I couldn’t wait to get home from work so I could slam him up against the wall or take him over the back of the couch. Or maybe he’d be standing in the kitchen fixing food, and I’d come up behind him and make him drop his pants and spread his legs, then I’d reach around and grab his cock and make him come on his belly, and then scoop it up on my fingers and make him lick ‘em. We’d be watching telly and I’d grab his face and shove it in my crotch and make him suck me until he gagged and made him keep going and swallow everything, or I’d come on his face and wouldn’t let him wash it off. Sometimes I tied him up and blindfolded him and put a gag on and he’d be hard as a rock and then I’d start wanking him and then just stop and he’d buck and cry and I’d pinch his nipples hard and he’d whine and fuck, it was so good. He knew if he told I’d kill him, so he never said nothing to nobody. He learned to keep his mouth shut.

 

So that went on for a few years and it was all fine. I screwed Q pretty much every night, found some chains and rope and stuff down at the shop I worked at, and sometimes it got kinda crazy, I tied him up and used a noose and shit and sometimes he passed out and I had to bring him back. I made him wear a butt plug to school one day and another time a cock cage, no lie. I wouldn’t let him use the toilet to piss, I made him squat in the shower and watched. Sometimes I watched him shit, too, he’d always cry when I did that, and then I’d beat the shit outta him (haha). The most fun was the night I tied him down and took my pocket knife and carved his thighs with COCK inside one leg and SLUT on the other; the scars are still there so when you’re fucking him from the front you can read it. I branded him with “I’m Bruv’s BiTcH” on his back with cigarette butts, too, it looks real good.

 

I still had a couple of girlfriends and picked up some slags once in a while and never used protection ‘cause that was for sissies. I guess I caught something, and gave it to the boy ‘cause I always rode him bareback too, and then the dumb shit went and asked the school nurse about the sore on his asshole. Well, then the social service bitch came back and wanted to know if I was letting Mr. Straight A’s wander the streets with no supervision. She didn’t even suspect. Idiot.

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A few months later I got this letter from the school that Mr. Brilliant took some stupid test and passed and now they wanted him to go to some fancy uni and they’d pay for it. Fine by me. Got him outta my hair. He was maybe 15 then, I was bored with him, somebody came and got him and I haven’t seen him or talked to him since, until I saw him on the news. I went back to my favorite sweet cunt and let her suck me, she did a better job.

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So this week I see Mr. Bigshot on telly, and I just smile to myself. Everybody thinks he’s something special and Mr. Wonderful and whatever, and oh yeah, I heard the rumor he’s shagging some big deal scary “Double Oh” assassin and I ain’t worried about that, I just laugh.

 

‘Cause I know what he likes. I know what he sounds like when he begs. I know how long it takes when you’re wanking him from the time his cock drips until he comes.

 

I know who marked him. I know who owns him.

 

He’s MY bitch and MY cock slut and always will be. And you can print that.