The Surrogates

This story is a fictionalisation of a screenplay I wrote. A friend of mine wanted to shoot a 60-minute film on an erotic theme and I came up with the story of two twins who get involved with an advanced tech company that's developing an interface whereby strangers can have sex with each other over the internet, using a human-sized interface which responds to the behavior of the people using it. At my friend's urging, I made the story pretty dark and the result was the tale of Sandy and Xan, who get way in over their heads.

Well, to cut a long story short, we shot the film, and I don't know how exactly it happened but I let myself be persuaded to play the dual role of Sandy/Xan. Yes, everything Sandy Xan does in this story I did on camera, or at least we found a way to simulate it. It was pretty cheap and it looked it, but it was terrifying and exhausting and funny and exhilarating. I spent the best part of a week writhing around naked on a bed making it look like terrible things were being done to me. Editing took ages but we ended up with the film that we'd planned - and we'll never show it to anyone, because it's just too perverse. But at least we finished it.

This is my first go at writing horror. I'd love some feedback. Thanks for reading.

*****

I stirred to consciousness.

The bed was soft and welcoming. I was a bit chilled, feeling the cool air on my bare back and ass. Then, slowly, it came back to me: the rest of the evening.

I got the call from him, early evening as always: I'm gonna be in town, wanna hook up, great to see you. Him, breezing in with a bag full of different kinds of alcohol. Me doing a last-minute scurry to the shops for ingredients, kissing my own evening goodbye, and coming back with the makings of a quick dinner, and then making it while he plied me with booze and told me how cute I was looking. The result: after dinner and a few glasses of wine, I was in the mood to be charmed. He sat next to me, talking, and slowly he relaxed me to the point where I was basically putty in his hands, and that's when he charmed me into letting him strip me naked. After then, all he had to do was get me from the sofa to the bed, which wasn't hard, before he descended on me and took me like the all-too-willing ass slut that I am.

And afterwards, as always, waking up to find him gone from the bed, and me lying there thinking that it was just not very healthy for my twin brother to be so in charge of me that I would let him fuck me whenever he wanted to.

Xan was a minute older than me. That made me little brother, as far as he was concerned. He was the one who went out and had experiences, I was the one who stayed at home and heard about them. And when he found, on that biking holiday we took together when we were eighteen, that I was still a virgin, he decided that he was going to remedy that situation in the most direct way possible. He took me out to a field in the middle of the night with a few beers, and he told me all about all the sex he'd had, and described in the most enticing terms, until he had me sitting there next to him almost weeping with desire. Then he'd kissed me, and over my weak and not very sincere protests he'd undressed me completely and kissed me all over, and then he'd pulled a tube of lube from his pocket and lubed me up, and then he'd ignored my whimpers of

No, this is all wrong, we shouldn't do this, Xan, please stop

, he'd rolled me onto my belly and split me to my core.

To lose your virginity to your own brother is not something people normally do willingly. I hadn't been at all sure what I'd wanted, but I'd certainly made no effort to stop him. I'd not struggled or resisted in any way other than verbally. I think it was because, in order to enjoy it, I needed to feel that it was being wrenched from me.

And so the years went by, and Xan became a proper sexual explorer, and I his exact opposite. Xan himself was happy to admit that he'd fuck pretty much anything that moved, although in practice he confined himself to partners above the age of consent. Fuck, that is, not 'be fucked by'. "It's better to give to receive," was his maxim, and with fingers and cock and mouth he gave in abundance, to partners of every sex he could persuade to receive from him; but he would never bottom for anyone.

It was odd. I asked him why, once, and he got all haughty and said something about how a real man didn't do that, that taking it was for faggots. This was not an attitude that I guessed he expressed much around his actual male partners. I think he had some fear of it; something about the idea of being the passive partner gave him a real chill. Perhaps it was to do with me, for just as he regarded everyone out there as someone he could at least consider, so I for my part had only one partner: Xan. And, of course, with me, Xan only wanted to do one thing.

He said it was my ass that did it for him, which of course was his narcissism talking, for his looked the same as mine. Perhaps what kept him coming back was the feeling of doing it to himself in a mirror, because I was as vocal and uninhibited in my reaction to being fucked by him as he was silent and forceful in fucking me.

One thing, though: he had no patience, and he was not a generous lover, unless he was in the mood to be. Once he'd got it in me, it was all over as soon as he'd cum, whether I had or not. Most of the time I did, because Xan had a lot of stamina, but if I hadn't by the time he'd shot his load up my ass, he'd pull out, give me a perfunctory kiss and roll over and go to sleep.

Which is what had me lying there, sleepy and naked and unsatisfied, on my bed in the small hours. I rolled onto my side and, my eyes still shut, I reached down and pulled on my cock.

It felt good. I slowly, drowsily began to jerk off, and I was starting to feel like I needed to go to the bathroom to finish when a familiar voice said "Finishing without me?"

I opened my eyes. He was standing at the foot of my bed, wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else.

"I thought you'd gone," I said. I felt myself blushing as my brother stared down at my naked body, the sheet only going halfway up my thighs. Fifteen years we had been doing this, fifteen years we had been carrying on in secret, and whenever he looked at me naked I still felt the thrill of his lust, and felt like the shy virginal teenager I'd been fifteen years earlier.

"I was having a shower," he said. He looked down at my cock, still in my hand.

"Jerk off for me," he said quietly.

I looked up at him for a moment, then I went on pulling on my cock, closing my eyes to make it easier. I sighed as I felt the warmth spreading through me, my body responding, and I undulated on the bed as I jerked off, wanting to cum for him, just once; wanting to show him that I could cum without his touch.

But I didn't get a chance to. His hand landed on by bare hip and he abruptly rolled me onto my belly.

I opened my eyes and looked sulkily over my shoulder at him.

"Relax," he said, crouching over me. I knew what was coming. His fingers brushed against my still-slippery asshole, and I pushed my hips up and back, closing my eyes and moaning.

"Why do we always have to do what you want to do," I gasped.

"Because that's the way you like it," he murmured, and I felt his finger pushing at my anus and I made myself relax, and he penetrated me.

His hand lifted my cropped head and I felt the belt loop slipping around my neck. This was one of the little spicy extras he liked to induge in: making me his slave, or captive. The bed shifted as he moved up me and I knew it was coming.

"This is what you want, slave boy," he breathed in my ear, and the belt tightened around my neck and I gasped as I felt him push his cock between my smooth round ass cheeks and fit it up against the slick, puckered star of my anus.

"Oooohhhhhh," I gasped, shuddering, as he slowly eased himself inside me, his bare legs against mine, his breath on my neck, his cock slowly but insistently filling my rectum.

I whimpered as Xan began to bugger me, him half-clothed and me naked beneath him, and to my dazed surprise I felt him grasp my cock and pull on it in rhythm with his strokes.

It didn't take long. I clutched the sheet and moaned as my brother ass-fucked me, and as his strokes got harder and he pounded himself into me, I got lost in it and gave myself over to the orgasm that flowed from him, into me and then out of me again. His cum warmed my ass and mine splashed over my belly the pleasure took me to the land of sleep.

*

I was woken by a slap on my bare ass.

"Get up," he said in that nagging voice he used when he was tired of my dawdling. "You'll blame me for making you late."

I was sleepy and a little disgusted with myself for letting him use me the way he'd used me, but on the other hand, I ruefully thought, it wasn't like I hadn't wanted it.

"Why is it," I murmured, "that every time we meet up, you get me drunk and talk me into sleeping with you?"

"Because," he said, "you're so irresistible."

"It's not right," I said. "You're my brother."

"Feels right to me. And from the noises you were making last night, I think you were having a good time."

I rolled over onto my back. He'd put on my bathrobe. He looked better in it than I did.

"I was," I admitted. "I love having you in me."

"Well then."

"It seems...wrong. We should be meeting other people."

"You should," he said. "I get plenty of action. You're practically a monk. Am I the only person you sleep with?"

I had no answer. I lay there, the duvet barely covering my modesty.

"Then don't lecture me about sleeping with other people, little brother," he said.

"Okay," I said, miserable.

"Awwwww," he said, "don't look so sad."

"Do you have to go to work," I said, hoping he might stay a little longer, prolong our parody of intimacy a little bit more.

"Yeah," he said. "Got a full day."

"We need to talk about that," I said.

"We will," he said, smirking, then he climbed onto the bed. "But someone needs a pick-me-up."

He pulled the duvet down, exposing my nakedness, and unceremoniously rolled me onto my belly.

"Don't get any ideas," I panted. "We have to get up."

But he was already fingering my ass, touching me where he knew I needed his touch, and then without much ceremony he had mounted my hips and was pushing inside me once more, making me gasp at his touch, his robed body on my naked body, his hands roving over me, stroking my cock, and I was gratefully submitting to him taking me once again, his cock pushing deep into my ass, ruling me, dominating me, focusing me into someone who lived only for his pleasure. And as he lovingly came inside me, I knew that Xan alone knew what I lived for.

______

An hour later we sat fully dressed at the table, having breakfast.

"You worry too much, sweetie," he said, sipping his coffee.

"This thing that you're doing," I said, "how is it not prostitution?"

"You're sweet to be concerned," he said, "but it's just a deal. You put on the interface, you get a little bit...up close and personal with people, and...it's just a deal."

"You going to keep doing it?"

"Umm...maybe one or two." He grinned. "It's not like I'm in the room with them! Special clients, who I trust. I'm not doing anything weird. I'm not gonna be doing this for very long, anyway." He rubbed his face and rolled his eyes. "It's tiring, though, I'll give you that. It's really...overwhelming, when you're doing it right. When you get into it, it's...it's not like being with a person."

"I'm just worried about you, that's all," I said. "I wouldn't want to think of you doing anything that might be dangerous."

I paused and looked at him, all happy and confident, while I sat hunched over my coffee mug.

"What's it like?" I asked.

"It's...intense." He smiled. "You should try it."

"I'm not doing it," I said.

"I know you never will," he said, fondly, and then glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Gotta go. Got a client at three."

"Well," I said, "be careful, that's all."

"I'll be careful," Xan said in his snootiest voice. "I always am. Okay? Be good."

He kissed his finger, touched it to my nose and sauntered out of the kitchen.

"Bye," I said to his departing back.

And that was the last time we were together.

______

Full of foreboding, I turned on the video.

Xan, on a strange bed in a strange room, was kneeling by the clothed figure of a mannequin. He was smiling and whispering to it.

This, I realised, was him with the surrogate. He picked up a white cloth hood and pulled it over his head, so that it completely covered his face. He'd told me about this; the hood let the person on the other hand feel and touch something with the contours and textures of the agent's face.

There was a dissolve and Xan was lying with the mannequin, he and it entwined with each other. Xan was fully dressed too, wearing a t-shirt and cargo pants. The kissing went on for some time; there were many dissolves to Xan with his hand down in the crotch of the mannequin; Xan smiling (you could see the smile around the edge of his hood) as he and the mannequin moved together.

It was a shock to see my twin engaged in the kind of affectionate lovemaking he never showed me. He had his face buried in the mannequin's own interface, kissing passionately as he stroked and caressed the thing.

Then there was a dissolve to where Xan was on top of the mannequin, and somehow it got hold of the hem of his shirt, and dragged it up his back and over his head. Xan was finding it difficult to disentangle himself from the thing and he protested weakly, but then he got the hood off his head and took a deep breath. He looked nervous, staring down at the mannequin as it moved beneath him.

Then the mannequin flipped him onto his back and got on top of him.

Xan began to moan "No...please...no...no, no, stop," gasping as the mannequin held him down and...did something to him, I couldn't tell what.

Then he got the thing off him, and I saw that it had succeeded in stripping him of his cargo pants. He panted for breath and knelt up, looking down at the thing. He was wearing only his dark trunks. He was breathless and clearly annoyed, but he kept himself patient and calm.

"Okay," he said, "you're gonna behave."

He rearranged the temporarily inert mannequin on the bed, fixing it so he was on top of it again, in the missionary position.

"Let's get comfortable," he murmured.

Oh no, I thought, cold chills on my skin. You're not going to go again, brother. Please don't. Please don't do it.

But he did. There was another dissolve to Xan on his back, mannequin lying on him as he put the hood on again, and then they were at it again.

This time, almost immediately, whoever was operating the mannequin had clearly decided that Xan had been played with far too nice.

I could see him starting to try to fend the thing off. "No," he gasped, "no. Not there. No, excuse me! No! NO!"

His protests became increasingly panicked whimpers and I realised with horror why he was so scared: the mannequin had trapped his arms. He could no longer free himself.

He was writhing on the bed, but the camera was in the headboard, so mostly all I could see was his hooded head, bare shoulders and the mannequin on top of him. But as he squirmed more desperately, I saw down his bare back and realised that the mannequin had got his trunks off; they were halfway down his bare legs.

"No!" Xan gasped. "What are you doing! You can't..."

Then the upper half of the mannequin forced itself up and covered his head, and he cried out in distress. I could hardly see what it was doing, but I saw him slowly rolled over onto his belly as he gasped and whimpered and panted for breath.

Then there was another dissolve to Xan on his belly, the lower half of the mannequin mounted on his bare legs, and he was trying to fend it off, moaning "No!" and whimpering in horror. He begged the operator to stop, to not do it, please, you can't, but I could see what the thing had in mind for him.

I was aroused, despite myself. Xan had used me, so many times, and never allowed me to have the same pleasure from him, and to see him being forced like this was a dark and disturbing thrill.

Xan on the screen writhed, reached up and pulled his hood off, and the camera cut to a different angle.

It was of his lower torso and the tops of his legs and, above all, his smooth, creamy round ass, squirming desperately as the lower half of the mannequin moved itself up him, the dark prong of the dildo sticking out of its zipper. Xan's body strained to keep it out, arching, but then the camera cut again to the headboard and there was my twin's red, panicked face as he gasped "NO!", trying to evade it, his naked body held down by the mannequin, his breathing growing faster - and then I saw the moment the thing penetrated him, because he let out an agonised whimper, his eyes tight shut, and the mannequin's plastic cock had clearly pushed itself between Xan's tight ass cheeks and into his - as he had always boasted - virgin asshole.

Xan sobbed desperately as the mannequin fucked him, and the camera cut to its dark lower half mounted on his hips, pumping into him.

The camera cut again; he was hooded once more, gasping and shaking as the thing brutally sodomised him. His naked body twitched and jerked as it pumped him, but it seemed to be determined to make him stop resisting, because the longer it went on, the more Xan's whimpers and protests became ritualistic, gestures of submission rather than a real desire for his degradation to cease.

I watched my brother squirming naked on the bed as the mannequin buggered him, and I took out my own cock and pulled on it. I knew what he was feeling. That sensation of being nothing but the sleeve for someone else's pleasure; that humiliating, thrilling pleasure of giving up your body to someone else for them to use as they wanted to. The ultimate, unmanly sweetness of giving your ass to someone else's cock, of letting them use that most private part of you as something that they could fuck, so that they could look down at you, squirming nude beneath them, incoherent and helpless, and revel in how you'd abandoned all your supposedly masculine dignity and pride and were nothing but a moaning, naked ass slut. I had been that person for Xan, for years. (And, truth be told, I had been it for a couple of other people.) Now it was his turn. And because it was a part of him he'd long denied, he was finding it shattering to realise that he, too, wanted it, more than he'd ever been willing to admit.

More than once it stopped, and he pulled the hood off and looked back at it, visibly relieved that he was no longer being made to feel the way it wanted him to feel - and then it would assault him again, and he would shut his eyes and gasp and moan thickly and then squirm helplessly as the feel of the cock up his ass made him lose himself in pure sensation.

I watched the black dildo push itself over and over again between Xan's pale, firm buttocks. I saw him take it: moaning, abject, eager to be the helpless bitch of whomever at the other end was doing this to him. I saw Xan's naked body writhe with desire and helpless abandon. I was more and more turned on.

And then, as he grew weaker and weaker, it slowed, until at last he was on his belly, moaning softly, and it stopped, and he seemed to pass out.

There was a long sequence of Xan's unconscious, hooded, naked body on the bed, the mannequin atop him. It dissolved to where he had clearly rolled over in his sleep; his body lay stretched out, the white hood covering his face, his cock lying on his thigh, one arm outflung.