Stepbrother's Pulsing Glory Hole Craving

I’ve never told anyone this, not even my closest buddies at college, but my stepbrother Jordan has been the star of every filthy fantasy I’ve jerked off to since I was eighteen. I’m Alex, nineteen now, a skinny freshman with a tight little body that’s all lean muscle from soccer, but it’s my hole—pulsing, needy, always craving—that betrays me. Jordan’s twenty-two, a total gym rat beast with shoulders like fucking mountains, abs carved from stone, and thighs that could crush a watermelon. We became stepbros four years ago when our parents married, and yeah, we’re not blood, but that hasn’t stopped the tension from boiling over in my mind.

It started as a dumb joke back in high school. We were horny teens messing around in the backyard, high on summer boredom, and Jordan dared me to cut a hole in the old wooden fence separating our yard from the empty lot next door. “Glory hole, bro,” he laughed, his voice deep even then, flexing his budding biceps as he sawed the wood. We never used it—for real, anyway—but I’d peek through sometimes, imagining his massive cock sliding through. Then college scattered us. I went away, he joined some elite gym program, but last week, he moved back home after a falling out with his roommate. Shirtless workouts in the backyard every morning, sweat glistening on his tanned skin, those gray sweatpants hugging his thick bulge like a second skin. He’d catch me staring from the kitchen window, smirking with those piercing blue eyes, lingering just a second too long before turning away. My hole would clench, pulsing with need, fantasies of him owning me flooding my brain until I had to lock myself in the bathroom and finger myself raw.

God, it was unbearable. Every flex of his pecs, every grunt as he did push-ups, made my ass ache. I needed him. Craved his stepbro cock stretching me open.

One afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed a trowel from the shed—pure excuse—and “accidentally” dropped it right by the glory hole in the fence. Bent over to pick it up, ass high in my tight running shorts, no underwear, knowing he was out there pumping iron. “Shit,” I muttered loud enough for him to hear.

Jordan’s shadow fell over the fence. “Need help, little bro?” His voice was gravelly, teasing, and I heard the rustle of fabric. I glanced through the hole—fuck, there it was, his hand palming the massive outline in his sweats, thickening already.

“Just dropped something,” I said, voice shaky, staying bent over. My hole twitched visibly under the thin fabric, begging.