Tommy and Jackson
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain. Tommy leaned against the counter in nothing but his boxers, the waistband sagging low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep. His coffee steamed in one hand, his phone glowed in the other, the pale blue light flickering across his tired face.
A door opened down the hall. Danny emerged, already dressed for the day: baby blue tank top stretched over his shoulders, short black gym shorts brushing the tops of his thighs, sneakers laced tight. He looked sharp, fresh, awake in a way that made Tommy feel even heavier, barefoot and unshaven in the kitchen.
Tommy looked up from his screen and smiled without thinking. “I love you in baby blue.”
Danny’s mouth tugged into a half-smile, quick and small, but he shook it off before it could take root. “Gotta run.”
Tommy lowered his phone, coffee warm in his hand. “Where you going?”
Danny swung his gym bag off the chair, slipping the strap over his shoulder. “Gym. Working out with Dalton.”
Tommy felt his face heat, the flush creeping up his neck before he could push it down. He shifted, trying to hide it, but there was nowhere to hide in boxers and bare skin.
Danny noticed, a flicker in his expression, but he didn’t say anything. Just, “Later,” tossed lightly over his shoulder as he headed out.
The hallway swallowed him, the front door clicked, and silence returned.
Tommy stayed where he was, coffee cooling in his hand, his chest knotted with something he couldn’t name, jealousy, worry, maybe both.
The quiet broke with a bang as the front door flew open. Jackson stormed in, sunlight splashing behind him, a big shopping bag crinkling in his grip.
“Sup,” he said, grinning wide before vanishing down the hall toward his room, the bag bouncing against his leg.
Tommy was left standing alone in the kitchen, bare legs catching the light, his coffee going cold, and the echo of Danny’s name still circling in his head. He sighed and headed off to his room.
The door swung open without a knock. Jackson stepped in barefoot, carrying the pieces of what looks like a cheerleader outfit like he was holding contraband. The red-and-white skirt dangled from one hand, the pom-poms from the other, the top bunched under his arm.
Tommy looked him up and down. Jackson was in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities, bright against his tan skin, his blond hair sticking up like he just woke up, clinging awkwardly as he shifted from foot to foot.
“Don’t laugh,” he said immediately.
Tommy was stretched out on the bed in his boxers, scrolling his phone. He raised his eyebrows and did exactly what Jackson told him not to. A short bark of a laugh escaped.
Jackson’s ears went red. “Coach’s idea. Pep rally hazing. They said I had to wear it.”
“Huh,” Tommy said. “Coach never made me do that.”
Jackson grimaced.
“You’re serious?” Tommy propped himself up on one elbow, grinning. “You’re actually gonna put that on?”
Jackson dropped the pile onto the bed. “I need help. Don’t make this weird.”
“Dude, it’s weird,” Tommy said, but he swung his legs off the bed anyway.
Jackson picked up the tiny cheer top, red and white bands of cloth, and yanked it down over his shoulders, chest, and when it finally snapped into place it stopped short just below his pecs, leaving his stomach bare, abs stacked hard and lean, each ridge carved so deep the shadows looked painted on.
Tommy blinked once, then let out a low whistle. “Christ,” he muttered. “I never realized how fucking jacked your abs are.”
Jackson grinned at the mirror, tilting his body to watch the lines flex under the overhead light. “Yeah, it’s not bad,” he said, running a hand across the ridges like he was tracing them for himself.
Tommy’s hands spread on the mattress as he sat up a little straighter, staring without apology. “Seriously…that’s impressive.” His voice softened a notch, then shifted, more precise. “Low body fat. Obliques razor-sharp. Rectus abdominis symmetrical, almost textbook.”
Jackson smirked, still admiring his reflection. “Textbook, huh? You gonna start grading me?”
Tommy didn’t laugh. “I’d give it a solid A. Maybe A+.” His eyes tracked the slope of Jackson’s midsection down into the waistband of his briefs.
Jackson flexed harder, twisting side to side, grinning at the mirror like he was on stage. “Damn right,” he said, proud now, half teasing but half feeding on the attention.
Tommy sat back slowly, still staring, a faint smirk curving at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Does exactly what it’s supposed to.”
Jackson tugged the cheer top down again, like maybe it would magically cover more skin if he kept at it. It didn’t. He blew out a breath and picked up the skirt.
“Alright,” he said, half to himself, “let’s just get this over with.”
He stood there a second, psyching himself up, then glanced at Tommy. “You’re not gonna, like, film this or some shit, right?”
Tommy didn’t laugh this time. His expression had gone flat, closed.
Jackson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that face is super helpful.”
Still, he stepped into the skirt, tugging it up over his hips. Immediately the waistband jammed against the bulk of his briefs, bunching up. He swore under his breath and yanked harder, trying to smooth it out. The cotton just puffed underneath, ruining the line completely.
Tommy pushed up from the bed and crossed over. He crouched, hands on the skirt, trying to pull it flat. His fingers tugged at the fabric, smoothing the pleats, but the thick briefs underneath kept wrinkling everything.
“This is ridiculous,” Jackson said, half laughing, half frustrated.
Tommy sat back on his heels, head tilted, considering. “It’s not working.” His eyes flicked up. “The underwear’s too thick.”
Jackson groaned. “Well, sorry, I didn’t exactly plan my wardrobe for this.”
Tommy’s mouth quirked, just barely. “Easy fix. Go to Danny’s room. Top drawer.”
Jackson blinked, caught off guard. “Wait what?”
“Thong,” Tommy said simply, like it was obvious. “That’s what goes under. Skirt won’t bunch. Fits the role.”
Jackson stared at him. “You’re insane.”
Tommy just stayed crouched there, eyes steady, hands resting on his knees now like he had all the time in the world.
Jackson tugged uselessly at the skirt one more time, the cotton briefs puffing underneath like a diaper. He groaned and gave up, standing there in the middle of the room.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair.
On the bed, Tommy stretched out like a man watching a show. One arm was bent behind his head, the other lazily playing with the faint trail of hair just above his stomach.
“You’re loving this,” Jackson accused, pointing at him.
Tommy’s mouth twitched into something like a smirk. “I’m observing.”
Jackson grabbed the waistband of the skirt, hiked it up just enough so he could move his legs, and shuffled toward the door. The crop top rode higher as he stretched, flashing another set of abs. His shoulders and chest were built like armor, his legs thick and tan, every bit of athletic bulk crammed under a cheer uniform that was absolutely not made for him.
He cracked the door open an inch, listening. The hall was quiet. Still, he hesitated. “If anyone sees me like this…”
Tommy rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow now, watching him like a cat. “Then you’ll really give them something to cheer about.”
Jackson threw him a look but slipped out into the hallway anyway. He moved quick, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller even though his frame filled the narrow hallway. Every creak of the floor made him wince.
From the bed Tommy had the perfect view: Jackson’s broad back in the too-small cheer top, the hem riding high to expose the hard cut of his midriff; the skirt swishing awkwardly as he crept down the hall, trying to make his bulk move quietly.
He disappeared into Danny’s room. The door clicked shut.
A long beat passed. Then the door flew open again. Jackson bolted out, eyes wide, skirt flapping around his thighs as he jogged back down the hall. He slammed Tommy’s door behind him, chest heaving, cheeks bright.
In his fist he held up a scrap of white fabric. “This?”
The thong dangled from his hand like evidence, the thin straps ridiculous against his tan fingers.
Tommy’s voice was steady, no hesitation. “That. Put it on.”
Jackson barked a laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Put it on,” Tommy repeated.
Jackson groaned, but tugged the skirt back down his legs, stepping out of it. He hooked his thumbs into his briefs and slid them down too, letting them fall around his ankles.
For a second he just stood there, bare, and shot Tommy a crooked grin. He gave his soft cock a little shake, laughing under his breath. “You happy now?”
Tommy didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile. His eyes were fixed, his expression closed off, hands braced on the mattress.
Jackson’s grin faltered. “Fine.” He bent and stepped into the thong, tugging the white fabric up into place.
The effect was instant. From the front, it looked ridiculous, barely covering his bulge, the edges of blond hair sticking out at the sides. But when he turned around, it was flawless: the thin strip of white sat snug between the deep curve of his glutes, perfectly framing the rounded muscle. Smooth, defined, carved like marble under the bright light.
Tommy’s voice broke the silence, low. “Glute development is very impressive, Jacks. Separation sharp. That’s like a statue, bro.”
Jackson flushed, turning his head to glare. “Dude. Don’t…say it like that.”
Tommy pushed up from the bed. He crossed the room slowly, barefoot, eyes never leaving Jackson. Jackson stood still, awkward, shifting from foot to foot, the thong pulling tight across him with every move.
Tommy circled him once, gaze running from shoulders to waist, down the hard line of his torso, across the way the thong split his glutes. He came back around front, close enough that Jackson could feel the heat of his stare.
“Fits better than I thought it would,” Tommy said quietly.
Jackson swallowed hard, unsure whether to laugh it off or say nothing at all.
Jackson adjusted the waistband, turning side to side in front of the mirror. The thong string vanished between the curve of his glutes, snug in a way that made the muscle stand out even more.
Tommy stepped back. “I can’t believe I never noticed how put-together you are back there. Size, shape, honestly? Really impressive.”
Jackson grinned at his reflection, cheeks pink. “Guess all those squats paid off.” He flexed experimentally, his abs tightening, the crop top riding even higher on his torso.
Tommy stepped even closer. His boxers hung low, the fabric slack around his hips except where it stretched forward in a clear outline. He didn’t try to hide it, didn’t adjust.
Jackson’s laugh came out thinner this time. He glanced at the mirror again, catching Tommy’s stare, and shifted his weight, making the thong pull tighter. “You’re really checking me out, huh?” he said, still half-joking.
Tommy’s voice was steady, quiet. “I’m noticing what’s right in front of me.”
The silence stretched, warmer now, the room smaller for it. Jackson’s grin lingered, but so did the color in his face. He twisted again, showing off in a way he could pass off as a joke, but enjoying the attention all the same.
Tommy was right behind Jackson. The heat of him pressed close without touching. In the mirror, Jackson could see it all: Tommy’s eyes locked on him, and lower, the bulge pushing hard against the loose grey cotton of his boxers, impossible to ignore.
Jackson gave a shaky laugh. “Man, you’re seriously—”
“Hold still,” Tommy cut in.
He reached out and adjusted Jackson’s stance, nudging his hips just a fraction. “There. Cleaner line.” His hand lingered before sliding away.
Jackson flexed again. His smirk hung on, but his ears were burning.
Tommy’s fingers touched his arm next, guiding it higher, angling his torso so the crop top stretched tighter across his ribs. “Now it matches.”
Jackson let out a breath. “You’re treating me like Danny.”
Tommy’s eyes flicked up to his in the mirror. His answer was quiet but steady. “Nah. It’s different.”
The silence pressed in. Jackson adjusted his stance again, but his gaze betrayed him: it dropped to Tommy’s boxers, to the way the fabric tented forward. He froze, caught between excitement and shock. He’d seen Tommy hard before, sure, but it was always part of their games, part of the script. This was different. Just him and Tommy.
Jackson tugged at the waistband of the skirt, trying to smooth the pleats flat. The fabric swished against his thighs, riding up each time he shifted.
Tommy’s hand brushed the fabric at Jackson’s hip, tugging the waistband an inch straighter. “There. Keep it like that.”
Jackson swallowed, watching in the mirror as Tommy’s eyes tracked the line of his torso down into the skirt. Tommy crouched slightly, smoothing one pleat with his fingertips, letting the fabric fall clean against Jackson’s thigh. “Better.”
When Tommy rose again, Jackson’s gaze flicked down instinctively and froze.
The loose grey boxers hung open at the front, the slit gaping just enough. His brother’s erect cock pushed through, swollen, half-exposed. Jackson’s body went still. His breath caught, chest tight.
Tommy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His palm landed lightly on Jackson’s shoulder, straightening him in the mirror. “Better posture,” he said quietly. His tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent now, warm and undeniable.
Jackson couldn’t look away. His grin had disappeared, replaced by something tauter, caught between alarm and an electric pull. He stood locked in the mirror, skirt swishing around his thighs, unable to move.
“Don’t move,” Tommy said, voice quiet. Jackson’s eyes flicked down once more, caught the exposed shaft where the boxers split.
Without thinking, Jackson’s hand twitched at his side, then drifted lower. His fingers brushed against the pleats, grazing the hem as if to smooth it but the motion carried down, closer, until his palm hovered at the edge of Tommy’s boner.
His knuckles brushed against the shaft, just a ghost of contact. Enough to feel the weight there, the shape, the reality of it. The shock hit him a moment later, like cold water. His hand froze midair. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t decided anything, but the impulse was undeniable.
He snapped his gaze up to the mirror. Tommy hadn’t flinched. His grip on Jackson’s shoulder just tightened, a slow squeeze, as if to remind him who was holding him steady.
Jackson’s hand hung frozen at his side, hovering, the mirror reflecting his flushed face. Then Tommy shifted his stance. Just a fraction, maybe without meaning to, his hips angled forward.
The contact was unmistakable: the hard press of Tommy’s cock pushing against the palm of Jackson’s hand. Jackson’s breath caught sharp in his throat. His body went rigid, eyes wide in the glass.
Tommy didn’t pull back. Jackson’s chest lifted and fell. He couldn’t move, couldn’t joke, couldn’t even smirk this time.
Tommy’s hand tightened on Jackson’s shoulder, while the other hand caught the hem of the skirt. Slowly, he peeled it upward, pleat by pleat, until the fabric cleared Jackson’s hips. The white thong came into full view, the thin strap slicing high and snug between the carved swell of his glutes.
Jackson sucked in a breath, the sound sharp in the silence. He couldn’t not look, the mirror showed him everything.
As the fabric settled in Tommy’s fist, he shifted his stance again. This time there was no accident in the movement. His hips pressed forward into place, hard against the back of the skirtless thong, his body fitting into the space as if he belonged there.
Jackson froze, eyes wide in the reflection. His stomach tightened, abs cutting sharp as he tried not to move, not to react. He could feel everything, though.
Tommy’s voice came low, calm, almost detached. “There. That’s it. Hold it.”
Jackson’s eyes locked on the mirror, on Tommy behind him, then on the front of the skirt lifting as his own bulge swelled against the thin pleats. The white thong strained in front, no longer ridiculous but indecent, the fabric pulled tight against him. In the mirror he saw it clearly: himself exposed from both sides now, the strap vanishing between his glutes and his cock pushing hard at the front, the two of them framed together.
His mouth opened but nothing came out. He wasn’t just on display anymore; he was part of it. His thighs flexed, his hips shifted, the thong biting deeper. His eyes flicked up to Tommy’s reflection. The look there wasn’t a smirk. It was hunger.
Tommy’s fingers squeezed his shoulder once, then he let the skirt fall back down. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s what I thought.”
And then, without ceremony, Tommy hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grey boxers and pushed them down. They fell at his feet in one smooth motion, heavy cock freed at last. He just stood there, close enough that Jackson could feel the heat of his body.
Jackson couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh, to run, or to lean back into him. The mirror held them both frozen: one in a thong and skirt, bulge pressing forward, the other stripped now, towering behind him, steady and calm.
Tommy’s hand squeezed Jackson’s shoulder, his voice low, calm, like he was still talking about training. “You see why this works? The thong keeps you in. Without it, you’d be spilling everywhere. But like this…”
His eyes dropped deliberately to the mirror, to the hard bulge straining forward. “Like this, it looks…right.”
Jackson’s laugh was shaky, almost a groan. “Yeah… yeah, I get it.”
Tommy leaned in closer, his mouth near Jackson’s ear. “You know what cheerleaders do, right?” His tone was flat but edged with something heavier, daring.
Jackson froze, pulse hammering. He felt the words sink in, heard the suggestion beneath them. His own cock throbbed inside the thong, straining harder, and for a second he thought about it, about actually doing what Tommy had implied.
Jackson’s body reacted before his head caught up. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted. Slowly, deliberately, he reached back. His fingers hovered first, uncertain, brushing against the air between them. Then they made contact: the bare heat of Tommy’s erection heavy in his palm.
Jackson froze at the feeling, eyes wide in the mirror, his own reflection staring back at him in shock. But he didn’t let go. His grip tightened just a little, enough to feel the weight, the shape, the reality of it.
Tommy’s hand on his shoulder didn’t move, didn’t guide. His voice was low, steady. “Yeah. That’s it.”
The silence between them was electric, not a joke anymore, not hazing, but something else entirely.
Jackson’s palm stayed where it was, fingers splayed over the heat of Tommy’s cock. It was heavier and hotter than he expected, the skin smooth.
Tommy didn’t move, didn’t push. His hand stayed light on Jackson’s shoulder, thumb rubbing a small circle there. “Easy,” he murmured, voice low, almost like he was coaxing him through a lift. “You’re alright. Just like that.”
Jackson let out a shaky breath. His grip adjusted slightly, testing the weight, the firmness. Tommy leaned a little closer, his mouth near Jackson’s ear but his tone still gentle. “Yeah. That’s it. Just feel it. Nothing you have to do. Just…hold it.”
Jackson’s fingers tightened a little more, his chest rising and falling.
“Good,” Tommy said softly. “You’re doing fine.”
Jackson’s breath came faster. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or moan. But he didn’t stop.
Jackson’s strokes grew steadier, his palm sliding up and down slowly, the slick heat undeniable. His chest rose and fell, the thong stretched so tight it looked painted on. Tommy was calm and steady behind him, bare and hard, letting it happen.
Tommy’s hand on his shoulder tightened a little. His voice stayed low, measured. “Alright,” he murmured. “Both hands. On me. Grip. Feel the weight.”
Jackson blinked at the mirror, his mouth parting. He swallowed hard but didn’t pull away. Slowly, deliberately, he turned towards Tommy, reached with his other hand, finding the heavy shaft and wrapping his fingers around it too.
The difference was immediate. He could feel the full thickness, the heat, the pulse under his palms. In the mirror it looked surreal: himself in a crop top, bunched up skirt and thong, abs tight, arms drawn back, both hands now wrapped around his brother’s cock.
“Good,” Tommy said softly, his tone almost like a coach giving cues. “Now hold it. Slow. Don’t squeeze, just…feel it.”
Jackson’s cheeks burned. His fingers flexed, not squeezing, just holding, the weight filling his palms. His own cock throbbed hard in the thong but he didn’t touch it. His eyes flicked up to the mirror, caught Tommy’s stare, and stayed there.
Tommy’s thumb stroked another slow circle over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Like that. Steady. You’re doing fine.”
Jackson’s palms stayed on him, both hands wrapped around the heavy shaft, the heat of it searing against his skin. His own breath came in short bursts.
Tommy’s thumb gave one last slow circle on Jackson’s shoulder. Then, without a word, he stepped back.
Jackson’s hands dropped, empty. He turned his head just enough to watch as Tommy crossed to the bed. The taller man sat on the edge slowly, deliberately. His thighs spread, his posture loose but unshakably confident. He leaned back slightly on his hands, letting his chest open.
His erection stood out heavy and full, pointing up between his legs, a slick bead of pre-cum hanging at the tip. He just sat there, watching Jackson.
Jackson stood there for a beat that felt like forever, the skirt swishing softly against his thighs, the thong cutting high between his glutes, his own pulse pounding.
He knew what the look meant. He knew what was being asked, without a word.
Jackson’s chest rose and fell fast under the crop top. His feet carried him forward before he’d made the decision. One slow step, then another, his eyes never leaving Tommy’s. The closer he got, the bigger Tommy looked: six-three of muscle spread out on the mattress, bare, relaxed, massive erection glistening at the tip.
Jackson stopped just in front of him. The air felt hot, thick. His knees trembled before he bent them, lowering himself down until he was on the floor. The skirt rode up around his thighs, the thong strap pulling high between the carved swell of his glutes.
He knelt there between Tommy’s legs, his face level with the heavy shaft, close enough to see the bead of fluid sliding down its length. His mouth went dry. His heart hammered.
In the mirror to the side, the picture was complete: Jackson on his knees in a cheer skirt and crop top, staring at his brother’s cock; Tommy above him, calm, steady, massive and dripping, saying nothing, just watching.
Jackson’s chest heaved. His grin was gone now. All that was left was the choice he had just made. The urge to reach out pulsed through his hands like a current.
Before the movement could become action, Tommy’s voice cut through the silence. Low. Calm. “Hands behind your back.”
Jackson’s head snapped up. Their eyes locked. For a moment he didn’t move. The words hung in the air, heavy, unmistakable.
His fingers curled slowly, then slid back until both hands were clasped at the small of his back. The position lifted his chest, tightened his abs, exposed more of him.
Tommy didn’t move, didn’t touch him. He just watched, the slow drip of pre-cum sliding down his cock, his eyes locked on Jackson’s.
ThenTommy leaned forward. One broad hand lifted from the mattress and reached down, fingers wrapping around the base of his own cock. He angled it toward Jackson’s face, holding it steady, pointing it at him like a test.
“Look at it,” he said, voice steady, almost soft.
Jackson’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped, caught the movement, then flicked up again to meet Tommy’s stare.
Tommy’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Good,” he murmured. His hand slid up the shaft once, slow, deliberate, until his thumb caught the slick bead at the tip. He let it smear across the head, then held it there, inches from Jackson’s mouth.
The only sound was Jackson’s breathing, hard and uneven. His hands were tight at the small of his back, but his body leaned forward without meaning to, drawn by the heat, the closeness, the inevitability.
Tommy’s hand held it there, heavy, slick at the tip, waiting. His voice was low, even. “Go on.”
Jackson slowly leaned in. The first brush was tentative, his lips parting, the head of Tommy’s cock grazing across them, slick and hot. The taste hit him sharp and salty. His breath hitched.
He pulled back a fraction, wide-eyed. Then he leaned forward again. This time his lips closed around the head, warm and wet. He held it there, just the tip, eyes locked on Tommy’s.
Tommy exhaled slowly, his hand steadying at the base. His expression didn’t change much, but his voice softened. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Jackson’s pulse hammered. He was past pretending. His lips stayed around the head, the warmth of it filling his mouth, the slick salt on his tongue. He could feel the weight of it just past his lips, the pulse against them. His own breath blew hot out of his nose, shaky and loud in the small room.
Tommy’s hand stayed at the base, fingers wrapped around the thick shaft, thumb rubbing slow circles over the skin. His eyes never left Jackson’s. “Breathe through your nose,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “Slow. Don’t rush.”
Jackson nodded as best he could, mouth still full, and eased forward another inch. The shaft slid past his lips, heavier now, thicker, the skin warm and slick. His tongue flattened instinctively, tasting every ridge as he moved.
His own cock strained inside the thong, the front damp now, the strap biting into his hips. He shifted his knees for balance, the skirt riding up higher on his thighs, but kept his hands locked at the small of his back like Tommy had told him.
Tommy’s other hand came up, big palm cupping the back of Jackson’s head gently, not pushing, just holding. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s it. Slow. Find a rhythm.”
Jackson’s cheeks hollowed as he adjusted, his own pulse hammering, the reality of what he was doing crashing against the heat of wanting to do it. He drew back, lips glistening, then leaned forward again, a little deeper, the slick weight filling his mouth.
Tommy exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound, but didn’t say more. He just held him there, steady, watching the mirror as Jackson moved.
“Open a little wider,” Tommy murmured, voice low and calm. “Yeah… there. Perfect.”
Jackson obeyed without thinking, jaw relaxing, lips parting further. The head slipped deeper past his lips, slick and heavy. He gagged once, softly, then adjusted, breathing through his nose like Tommy had told him. His own cock jerked inside the thong, the front wet now.
Tommy’s thumb rubbed a slow stroke across his chin, steadying him. “That’s it,” he murmured, soft as a coach giving cues. “Breathe. Slow. Use your tongue.”
Jackson exhaled, then drew back a little and pushed forward again, finding a rhythm now: lips sliding, tongue pressing, Tommy’s cock slick and heavy against the roof of his mouth. He could feel the pre-cum smear across his tongue, salty and hot.
Tommy’s hand at his jaw moved just enough to angle him, to guide him to the depth he could take. “Perfect,” he said quietly. “Right there. Keep it.”
Jackson’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to stare at the mirror. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, his thighs trembling under the skirt. Tommy’s cock pulsed against his tongue, bigger and harder in his mouth with every stroke.
“Good,” Tommy murmured, almost a whisper. “Good cheerleader.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked up at him, a flash of something, surprise, a spark of heat, before they dropped back to the task. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked a little harder. The skirt swished against his thighs as he shifted on his knees.
Tommy’s fingers at his jaw moved in a slow circle, coaxing him. His voice stayed low, soft but clear. “Pretty cheerleader,” he said, testing the words.
Jackson’s breath hitched. He made a small sound around the shaft, not quite a moan but not a protest either. His eyes met Tommy’s again, holding for a beat before he slid down a little deeper.
Tommy exhaled through his nose, steady. “Yeah… knows how to do her job,” he murmured, still in that calm, coach’s tone.
Jackson shivered at that one, a tremor running through his shoulders under the crop top. He drew back, tongue circling the head instinctively, then went forward again, a little deeper, a little slower, as though answering.
Tommy’s thumb stroked across his cheekbone, a soft check-in. “You good?” he asked quietly.
Jackson nodded as best he could, eyes wide, mouth still working. Tommy stroked his cheek with his thumb, tilting him slightly. “Are you a pretty cheerleader?”
Jackson froze for a second, lips stretched around the head, throat tight. Then, still holding the shaft in his mouth, he nodded.
Tommy’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Do you like that? Being pretty for a jock like me?”
Jackson’s breath came rough through his nose. His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, locking on Tommy’s. He nodded once more, slower this time, deliberate, his face flushed deep red.
Tommy exhaled through his nose, steady but heavier than before. His hand stayed at Jackson’s jaw, thumb stroking the flushed skin as if taking a reading, measuring the response. His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Yeah. You like it. Pretty cheerleader on her knees.”
Jackson’s nod lingered in the air, his lips still wrapped around the head of Tommy’s cock. He hadn’t meant to agree so openly, but the moment it happened something in him loosened; the fight drained out, replaced by a raw, buzzing heat. His throat flexed, his cheeks hollowed, and he sucked harder, the rhythm smoother now, not tentative anymore.
Tommy’s hand stayed steady at his jaw, thumb pressing lightly under his cheekbone. He felt the change immediately, the difference in pressure, in intent. His eyes narrowed in the mirror, watching Jackson’s body shift, hips tilting slightly, cock straining harder in the thong.
“There it is,” Tommy murmured, voice low but warm. “You gave in.”
Jackson moaned around the shaft, the sound vibrating in his throat. His eyes darted up, wide and glassy, but he didn’t pull back.
Tommy stroked his cheek slowly with his thumb, testing the response. “Pretty cheerleader,” he said again, firmer this time. “That’s what you are.”
Jackson’s thighs tensed under the skirt, the fabric swishing as he rocked slightly on his knees.
Tommy’s voice dropped, coaxing but certain. “Yeah… you like it. Being my pretty cheerleader. You look it, you act it.” His hand guided Jackson’s chin just enough to ease him down another inch. “That’s right. Take it. That’s perfect.”
Jackson’s moan spilled out louder, muffled against the thick shaft, his body shivering under the praise.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” Tommy whispered, watching the way Jackson nodded, desperate and proud at once.
Jackson’s head bobbed in a steady rhythm now, mouth sliding up and down Tommy’s cock with practiced pulls, tongue flattening against the underside. His breath was ragged through his nose, his own cock swelling and dripping inside the thong, the skirt swishing with each shift of his knees.
Tommy felt the change under his hand, the way Jackson’s jaw relaxed, the suction deeper, less hesitant. He cupped his chin a little firmer, guiding him to the right angle. “Say it,” he murmured, low and calm. “Are you my pretty cheerleader?”
Jackson’s eyes flicked up, wide and glassy. His cheeks hollowed. The sound that came out was muffled against the shaft, garbled but unmistakable: “Yesh…”
The vibration of the word hummed up Tommy’s cock. His thumb stroked across Jackson’s cheek, reading the heat there. “Again,” he coaxed softly. “Say it.”
Jackson pulled back just enough to gasp a breath, then slid forward again, lips closing around the head. “Yesh…” he mumbled, the word lost against the thickness but clear enough.
Tommy exhaled through his nose, a deep, controlled sound. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good, pretty cheerleader. Just like that.”
Jackson’s moan came louder this time, his eyes closing, his body rocking slightly on his knees. In the mirror it was all there: him kneeling in a skirt and thong, mouth stretched, hands behind his back, muttering “yes” around the cock; Tommy seated, huge and calm, one hand at the base, the other guiding Jackson’s chin, eyes fixed on his brother’s face.
Tommy’s thumb stroked another slow circle. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice still measured. “Keep going. Just like that.”
Jackson’s mouth worked steadily, his rhythm smoother now, lips sliding farther down with each stroke. His muffled “yes” still echoed in the space, the word vibrating against Tommy’s cock, making his breath drag heavier through his nose.
Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, heat flashing across his face. His fingers cupped Jackson’s chin more firmly, thumb pressing at the hinge of his jaw. “Take it. Show me you like it.”
He pressed him lower, guiding his head down the thick shaft inch by inch. Jackson gagged softly, throat fluttering, but Tommy held him steady. “Breathe,” he coaxed. “All the way. Nose in it. Show me.”
With one smooth press of his hand at Jackson’s chin, he eased him down until his lips kissed the base, his nose buried in the thick hair of Tommy’s bush. Jackson choked, gagging, but stayed there, eyes blown wide in the mirror.
Tommy’s breath left him rougher than before, his hips holding steady. “Yeah,” he whispered, watching the reflection. “That’s it. My pretty cheerleader. Right where you belong.”
Tommy’s breathing had gone ragged, no longer the even, coaching tone he’d been using. His thighs flexed where he sat at the edge of the bed, knees spread wide, the muscles under his skin tightening like drawn cables. Jackson felt the shift before he saw it: the way Tommy’s hands stopped guiding and simply held him, one at the base of his skull, one cupping his jaw, his thumbs trembling against his cheeks.
“Stay there,” Tommy managed, his voice a low rasp. “Just…stay right there.”
Jackson stilled but kept his lips around him, tongue pressed to the thick underside, his own pulse hammering in his ears. Tommy’s hips rolled once, slow and helpless, a tremor running through the big frame above him. His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again to stare down at Jackson, something raw flickering across his face. “Good,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Just like that…”
Jackson’s hands were still locked behind his back. He couldn’t touch, couldn’t steady himself. All he could do was stay there and feel it happen, the weight, the heat, the low growl building in Tommy’s chest as every muscle in his abdomen locked.
The growl broke into a sharp, guttural sound. Tommy’s thighs jerked once against the edge of the mattress. His fingers tightened at the back of Jackson’s head, not pushing but holding, anchoring. The pulse under Jackson’s tongue surged, and then the heat came, spilling against his mouth, sharp and hot, more than he’d expected. He flinched, swallowed, tasted it again, salt and warmth spreading across his lips.
Tommy’s whole body shuddered. His head dropped forward, a strangled exhale spilling out of him as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. He sagged back on his palms, eyes still on Jackson, chest rising and falling hard.
Jackson stayed where he was for a heartbeat, mouth still around him, swallowing instinctively. The room was silent except for their breathing and the faint rustle of the cheer skirt against Jackson’s thighs. His own cock throbbed against the thong, the front damp, his breath loud in the quiet.
When Tommy finally let go, his big hand slid from Jackson’s hair down to the back of his neck, a slow, almost absent stroke. “Good…” he muttered, still hoarse, not even sure what he was praising anymore.
Jackson drew back at last, lips slick, eyes bright. He stayed on his knees between Tommy’s spread legs, hands still clasped at the small of his back. In the mirror he could see them both: himself flushed and trembling in the cheer uniform, and Tommy above him, huge, bare, spent, still watching him with something unreadable in his face.
The air between them buzzed. Nothing about it felt like a prank anymore. They’d crossed the line, and now they were both standing in the quiet after.
Tommy’s orgasm left his thighs taut, his chest rising in controlled, even breaths. He stayed there for a long beat, steadying himself, before letting his hands drift away from Jackson’s head. Blond hair stuck damp to Jackson’s forehead, his lips swollen and wet. He swallowed audibly, throat flexing, and then stayed still, chest heaving under the too-tight crop top.
Tommy leaned forward, his expression composed, almost cool. “Mouth,” he said, quiet but unmistakable. “Open. Let me see.”
Jackson blinked, unsure, but his hands stayed locked obediently at the small of his back. Slowly, he parted his lips. His tongue was wet and glistening, a thin film catching the light. The faint salt of Tommy’s release lingered there.
Tommy’s thumb pressed gently under Jackson’s chin, angling him upward toward the light. His other hand braced on his knee as he peered closer. “Hold it open,” he murmured. His tone wasn’t heated; it was evaluative, like he was checking form in the gym. “Don’t close.”
Jackson exhaled shakily through his nose but obeyed, jaw slack, chest tight.
Tommy shifted, studying him. His thumb drew at the corner of Jackson’s mouth, spreading the lips wider. “Sperm distribution’s consistent,” he said quietly, almost clinical. “Tongue coated… palatal arch shows contact.” His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing. “You swallowed most. But not all.”
Jackson flushed hotly, his ears burning. His tongue twitched under the weight of Tommy’s gaze. He didn’t dare move.
Tommy dragged his thumb along the slick edge of Jackson’s lip, collecting the residue, then pressed it flat across his tongue. “Hold. Don’t swallow yet.”
Jackson made a muffled sound in his throat, humiliated and electrified at once. His chest rose hard against the crop top, abs cutting deep as he struggled to keep perfectly still.
Tommy watched for another long moment, his eyes unreadable, his thumb holding the tongue down. Then he slid his hand back, watching Jackson’s mouth close just slightly. “Now,” he instructed.
Jackson swallowed with an audible click, throat flexing under the strain.
Tommy’s eyes tracked the movement down his neck. He nodded faintly, voice still low and detached. “Good swallow reflex. Full intake this time.”
He leaned back at last, bracing his palms against the mattress, his posture casual again, though his gaze never left Jackson’s face. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
Jackson stayed on his knees, trembling faintly, thighs taut under the skirt, the white thong cutting deep between the carved swell of his glutes. His own erection pressed sharp and damp at the front, untouched. The mirror showed him everything: himself displayed, mouth inspected, still waiting in position like a specimen being studied.
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