Science Project by amyss

Science Project by amyss

Discover the steamy world of ‘Science Project’ by amyss, where passion and experimentation collide in an unforgettable adult tale. Join the characters on their thrilling journey of desire and exploration that will leave you breathless. Dive into the excitement—your next favorite erotic read awaits!

It’s a very small house. If you’re sitting on the couch watching TV, you’re in full view of someone who comes in the front door. There’s nowhere to hide.

Normally this isn’t a problem. But one day, the TV was showing porn, and I was on the couch carefully edging my cock just up to the point of release. I’d been at it so long that I could keep myself right on the edge by moving my hand only a millimeter, then holding it perfectly still. I knew from past experience: any sudden movement would push me over.

Maybe it wasn’t great planning to be in such a vulnerable pose, so visible to anyone who opened the front door. But in my defense, my mental focus wasn’t on planning just then. And furthermore, we had no idea anyone would be coming in, least of all my sister.

* * * * *

The little house is only two blocks from our state university campus. My parents bought it a few years ago, partly as an investment and partly so they could avoid paying for dorm rooms while their kids were in college. The first resident was my brother, Josh, who moved in about five years ago. He lived there for a year with a roommate, then the roommate was kicked out when it was time for my sister, Ashley, to start college.

It isn’t quite working out according to the grand plan. Even though Josh graduated a year ago with a degree in engineering, he hasn’t ever said anything about moving out of the house. Now that he’s 23, I thought he’d have been ready to move long ago. Then again, I suppose the place is convenient, the rent is cheap, and the landlords are reasonably forgiving. Whatever.

But it gets worse. Ashley, who’s 22, is supposed to get her biology degree next month, and she just told everyone she’s not planning to move either. She got a great job nearby and anyplace else would have a longer commute.

This is where the problem arises. I’m 18, just graduated from high school. I’m already accepted at the same college, and my courses for the fall are already picked out. The whole idea was for me, the college student, to stay at the house, not for the two paycheck-earning siblings to camp out for extended post-graduate housing.

The house has two tiny bedrooms, so if they both stay, I either have to share a bedroom with Josh, which isn’t ideal, or sleep on the couch, which is even worse. Our dad is taking a hands-off attitude, which is surprising because I expected him to force them to clear a room for me. So, in summary, my living situation next year is still uncertain.

One Saturday during this period of uncertainty, all three of us siblings had some time off, and Josh invited me to the house to spend the day with them. Nothing special, just hanging out. I had nothing else to do, so I went over there about 9:30 in the morning.

Josh answered the door and greeted me with a hug. He was wearing dark blue sweatpants and a T-shirt, and he had a couple days’ stubble on his cheeks. I felt practically formal in my jeans and polo.

“Yo, bro,” he said, releasing the hug but then pulling me in the room. “Glad you could make it.”

“For you, I cleared my schedule.”

“Oh really? Lots of social events to rearrange?”

“Yeah, my secretary’s been working for days clearing my calendar.”

“I’m honored, truly.” He bent at the waist and gave a fake bow.

“Yeah, well, you should be,” I said. “So where’s Ashley?”

“Oh. Change of plans. She had to work this morning. Someone else called in sick, and she said she’d go in until noon.” Ashley works at Y-Mart, a big-box store that sells mostly stuff for around the house. It cracked me up when she got a job there, because the three of us used to prowl at length around the toy aisles when we were kids. She works there after classes and on weekends, her last job before joining the “real” work force, as she called it.

I followed Josh into the kitchen, where he had a mug of coffee started. I helped myself to a Coke, and we sat at the little kitchen table with our drinks. Josh had the radio on a station he always listened to that played songs from the ’80s, ’90s, and “today.” As though “today” is just this blip of time since the 1990s ended. If so, I wasn’t even born until “today.” But whatever. At the moment “Billie Jean” was on.

When the song ended, a commercial came on for an auto body shop. With utmost emotion, a group of singers pealed, “Dents be gone” over and over, at least six times. I’m sure Josh hears the commercial constantly on this station. This would drive me crazy, but apparently it didn’t bother him.

I said, “By the way, this commercial reminds me. Did you ever get the dent in your truck fixed?”

“Nah. It was super expensive, and I got a check from the insurance whether I fixed it or not, so I’m leaving the dent. I have better things to do with that cash.”

“Yeah, good idea.” I’m admittedly and thankfully clueless about the vagaries of car insurance claims.

The next commercial was for a carpet cleaning service. To fill the conversation void, I said, “Mom just had the carpet cleaned at home.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, they had to move all the furniture and then move it all back again. A royal pain.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve never had the carpet cleaned here and probably never will.”

“One of the advantages of not living under Mom’s roof, I guess.”

“Hey Alex, are we just gonna talk about commercials today?”

I smiled. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“OK,” he said, “what’s the next commercial gonna be for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe the lottery. I could stand to win a few bucks. Or maybe the Chevy dealer.” He paused. “Of course, I can only go to the Chevy dealer if I win the lottery.”

After the carpet cleaner gave the phone number for the seventh time, we were both piqued for who the next radio peddler would be. The mystery was solved when a deep voice intoned, “Men all across the state are learning how Ejacucenter can help them in bed.”

Josh and I turned to look at each other, breaking out in laughter as the ad continued. “Do you have erectile dysfunction? Premature ejaculation? Ejacuenter can solve your problems! Bring your penis in today!”

Josh was practically rolling on the floor, he was laughing so hard. Once he calmed down enough to speak, he said, “So, Alex, we still gonna talk about the commercials? How’s your dick been?”

Through a waning chuckle, I said, “Oh, it’s fine.”

“Fine? Just fine? I was expecting more than fine. Strong, powerful, active?”

I laughed again. “Not so active.”

The commercials were over and the radio was back to music. This time it was “Manic Monday.”

He continued, “Well of course it isn’t going to be so active if it’s just fine.”

I didn’t respond, and I must have had a strange look on my face.

“What? What is it, Alex?”

“Nothing.”

Now he started being all concerned. “Jesus, is something really wrong with your dick?”

“No, not wrong exactly, just . . .” I paused, trying to decide whether this is something brothers talk about. “I mean, I don’t want to bother you with it.”

He leaned in over the table and lowered his voice, even though it was only the two of us there. “You can tell me. I’ll keep it quiet.”

With some trepidation, I said, “OK, I guess. So the thing is, when I’m . . . you know, turned on? I make a huge amount of, um . . . precum.”

Josh’s eyebrows lifted through the top of his forehead. “Well, that is not what I expected you to say, bro.”

“Yeah, so, I mean, it’s not exactly a problem, but sometimes it’s a little embarrassing.”

“So, how much precum are we talking about?” he asked.

I should have guessed there would be follow-up questions, and my discomfort was increasing as we continued. “I mean, it depends on the situation, you know? A quick jerk is no problem, but if things stretch on, that’s when I start to turn into a fountain.”

“Jesus, a fountain? Really?”

“OK, you got me. It’s not as much as a fountain.”

“So how much is it? Less than a fountain, but how much less?”

“I mean, I’ve never measured exactly how much there is. What do you want me to do, borrow mom’s measuring spoons?”

“Yeah, great idea. Be sure to tell her exactly why you need them.”

“Ha ha,” I said, dripping sarcasm.

“Listen, Alex, you’re not giving me anything to work with here. I’m trying to figure out if what’s happening to you is like what happens to me. But so far all I know is that you make less than a fountain’s worth.”

“Yeah, that’s about all I know for sure.”

He said, “Well let me ask you this: What makes you think it’s more than most guys?”

“I’m not giving you any more details, Josh. I’m just not.”

“No, you have to, Alex. How else am I supposed to know if I should take you to the ER?”

“That’s easy. You shouldn’t.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds until Josh continued, “Let’s try this another way. I’ll tell you about myself, and you tell me if it sounds like what happens to you. Deal?”

I said, “Yeah, I guess.”

“OK, so let’s say I’m in a hurry. I stroke my rod, it hardens up, and I blow my load, the whole thing in less than five minutes. Know what I’m talking about?”

“Of course.” I smiled. “This is one thing I know about.”

“OK, so when I’m in a hurry, there might not be any precum. Not even a drop.”

“Yeah, same for me,” I said.

“OK, so far no problem then. Now let’s talk about when I’m making out with a girl, we’re going at it hot and heavy, I’m giving her some decent foreplay. Maybe it’s, I don’t know, fifteen or twenty minutes before I’m ready to go inside her. By then there’s almost always precum, enough to drizzle down my shaft, unless she’s licking it off or something.”

I paused. “So here’s the thing. I mean, I can relate to the amount of time you’re talking about, but the rest of it, not so much. I’m not exactly fighting off the women.”

“OK, well, it’s more fun with someone else, but the plumbing works about the same either way.”

“Yeah, so, after twenty minutes, I would have a lot more than just a drizzle down my shaft.”