Inside Track Pt. 01

Prologue

So I was lying there, in my small and cramped single bed, in the middle of the night, facing the wall with my right arm going numb, sweat beading my forehead and my brother Timmi’s cock drilled up my open asshole, thinking about life.

Timmi had been hammering my tube for about five minutes now, and my own cock was just about as hard as it was ever going to get, which made it uncomfortable every time he thrust into me; the movement bashing my swollen member against the cold wall I was pressed against. My left leg, held up by Timmi’s good left hand, was starting to feel the first signs of cramp, and I had the most unbelievable itch on my nose that I had no way of scratching in the position I was in. I could hear Timmi’s ragged breathing against the back of my neck where he laboured to delay his moment of orgasm. His lean body rubbed against mine when he thrust into me, and I could feel the clenching of his ass cheeks with the free arm I’d thrown behind him.

How did it come to this? With my own twin brother screwing the hell out of me in the cramped confines of my own bed? Well, like everything, it was a story of pretty ordinary life, interrupted by an Event, shaken up like a cocktail that had only barely been invented, then thrown into a spin you couldn’t possibly have imagined more than a short while ago.

Timmi pushed his cock as far as he could up my ass, bristling his recently-shaved pubis against my skin and squashing his balls beneath my ass as a low moan escaped his lips. I felt – actually felt – the first glorious pulse as he shot his cum deep up inside me.

Looking back on it (like it was some ancient historical event, or something), it all came down to one thing. And if there’s a message here for anyone who wants to read it, the answer’s simple, kids. Don’t do drugs. Yeah, that’s the main of it. Don’t do drugs.

Chapter One

Three months ago

This is the story of Timmi and Clay (that’s me; Clay). Timmi and Clay aren’t our real names, or at least that’s what mom would say. She would say that we were Timothy and Clayton. Anything else was just a silly kind of nickname.

Well, Timmi and I kind of liked our silly nicknames. It was pretty much our only rebellion against a mom who struggled – really struggled – to raise us on our own since our never-once seen father ran off to join the circus, fight a war, become an artist, or an astronaut (the destination, if you ever felt the need to ask mom, changed all the time. Timmi and I grew up thinking dad was some creature halfway between an unknown hero and a mythical boogeyman). And, after nineteen long suffering years raising two boys into an essentially feminist household, mom had done a fine job. Timmi and I, apart from being largely identical, were smart, healthy and well-mannered young men. Twins who were taught to appreciate the finer things in life, and from a very female point of view. We were a couple of young guys who had grown up in the shadow of militant feminism (and occasional lesbianism) as a backdrop to daily life.

Since we were pretty much the age of year dot, mom had hosted some kind of a women’s liberation meeting at our small house just outside of Miami once a month, on a rotation system with her friends. As young boys, Timmi and I were coo-ed over and petted; the beloved new-age boys of Maddy Jones. As we grew older, and hormones started kicking in, we began to be viewed with growing suspicion by the Liberation Circle. To be fair, the feeling was mutual. Where, once upon a time, Timmi and I saw these friends of mom as regular, if infrequent, visitors who brought candy and smiled at us, ruffled our hair and told us stories, there were now older, frumpier women who told us what we should do, who we should vote for when he grow older, and how we should treat women when we grew up.

Large doses of the R Hormone (that’s ‘Rebellion Hormone’) soured any view we had of these people, but not of mom. Never of mom.

So the only outward rebellion we ever chose was to shorten our names. Mom tutted and grumbled about it, but secretly (we’re pretty sure) she didn’t mind at all. Timmi and I were well behaved at High School; studious and well-mannered, and did our best to treat everything with a mutual, but healthy competition. Our main shared love (apart from not-too radical rock music) was athletics. In particular, middle-distance running.

We were both had our dark hair to about shoulder length, adopting that indie/goth style that slipped and out of fashion. And we had identical dark eyes to go with the same olive complexion mom had got from some Native American heritage. We both maxed out, at about the age of fifteen, at about five feet, nine inches (mom strictly adhered to the imperial system of measurement. Everywhere was miles, not kilometers; inches, not centimeters; gallons, not liters. Maybe she didn’t like the way metric words ended). We both worked out, of course, and had healthy appetites, which meant that we had lean and well-toned physiques. Nothing too muscular, but lean and good for running. We pretty much shared every major running accolade in, first, High School, and then college. We congratulated each other when the other twin came first, and never crowed on about it when we beat the other. It was the Inside Track, we used to say. Whoever got that, would come out on top. And we would never fight dirty on the running track.

Oh, but we were very good boys.

And, clearly, that was going to change, or you wouldn’t have read about how it got to the point where we fucked each other up the poop-chute on a regular basis.

It was an advert on the wall at college, hidden among the leaflets promoting dances, parties and – occasionally – academic notices. Parties were something pretty alien to me and my brother, so we had what you might call a fairly thin appreciation of social activities of most guys and girls of our age. We’d both had girlfriends, but had never gone past first base (first base was kissing, mom told us. Occasionally with tongues, but not necessarily. Anything after that should wait until marriage. Timmi once remonstrated with mom that first base was supposed to be touching a woman’s breast, but mum had reacted so hotly, I had intervened on her behalf, and made it up to my brother later in our room).

But anyway, it was this one small notice on the board that caught my eye. I can still remember the detail clearly:

Wanted. Individuals for muscle-tone experimentation study. Subjects must be healthy, and prepared to undergo strenuous exercise. All expenses paid.

There was a number printed on the bottom, and I copied it down. I spoke to Timmi about it, and we agreed to call the number. It was the ‘expenses’ part that clinched it, you see. Ever since we were old enough to understand, Timmi and I had done our best to generate a little extra income for mom, who worked herself to the bone to raise us in a good house with good food. We took jobs as paperboys, car washers and, even, baby-sitters. But during college term, finding even this kind was work was difficult. So when I saw the advert, and spoke to my brother about it, we decided to make the call. There was the risk, of course, that the number was crank, or some kind of frat joke to play on dweebs like us, but it turned out it wasn’t. It was from a university team working out of a college wing doing a study sponsored by a major sports supplement company.

A nice-sounding lady took our call and took our details. When I told her that my brother and I were identical twins, she got (and this is the only word I can describe for it) excited. Excited like someone important had suddenly revealed themselves to her. She quickly passed us on to a well-spoken English gentleman who took further details, then agreed to call us back. He did so, within a few minutes, and asked if we could come for a meeting at their offices the next day. Sure, I’d said. All expenses paid, right?

We decided not to tell mom about it, just I case it was a crock after all. So we lay in bed that night, staring at each other across our small room as we huddled into our thick duvets. We made plans to go straight after college, as we both finished mid-afternoon. It would mean missing athletics training, but we could skip a turn. Coach Nieberson would allow that of his two star athletes, surely?

The next day went by incredibly slowly, at least for me. I found myself clock-watching all morning, and had no appetite at lunch. So, when class finished at 1515, I hooked up with Timmi at out pre-arranged meeting point near the main college gates. Timmi was dressed, like me, in loose jeans, t-shirt and shirt, with overly-smart sneakers. We tried to dress differently but, like most identical twins I suppose, ended up choosing the same kind of clothes anyway. It was that kind of empathic/telepathic link I’d read about so much.

So, anyway, we caught the bus to the other side of town where the science team were conducting their muscle-tone experimentation study. We rang the bell at the main door, and were met at the door by a striking young blonde woman, whose looks were only marred by a slightly large nose, and strong jaw-line. She shook our hands and asked us to follow her in. Timmi and I shared a grin as we walked behind the woman, the two of us staring at the thin ass and slim hips she had squeezed into her beige skirt. She had damn fine legs, that woman, who we only ever met three times, and only ever knew as “Janice”. Athletic legs, like mine and Timmi’s, but shapely. I bet me and my twin brother had the same thoughts about them too.