Epilogue

"What are we doing, Noah?! We"re going to get caught!"

As is our usual dynamic, Lane protests, but he doesn"t resist. He can"t deny me, or he doesn"t want to. I say sit and he sits, no matter how much it pisses him off. I say open and that surly mouth of his shuts up and wraps around my cock. I say bend over, and he not only does it, but he pulls his ass cheeks apart because he knows that"s what I want to see. He"s programmed to please me.

"Everyone"s still busy at the orientation," I assure him, hurrying him through the locker room doors before I start ripping open his pants.

Lane locks the door, because he always does, still. I didn"t know until his deposition how much of a privilege it is that he allows me in the room when he showers. It"s one of the places he feels most vulnerable, and can be a trigger for panic attacks. But since I know all the cheat codes for helping redirect his thoughts, he likes it when I"m around. He still doesn"t shower with the team, but we"ve come in here a time or two over the last year. Dr. Fenton suggested some gentle pushing of some of his boundaries to help break cycles of things he knows trigger him. And I"m the king of pushing boundaries, so I take my self-appointed job very seriously.

Right now, I"m not thinking about helping him, though. This is just the closest place we can go for me to fuck his brains out. The big, grouchy bastard huffed and whined over having to help man two tables at the campus club fair, but then showed up wearing one of Danny"s stupid fucking rainbow soccer shirts. Considering the stupid things are tight on Danny, and Lane is quite a bit bigger than he is, the shirt is stretched to capacity. It"s practically painted on his body, his tight little nipples on display with every line and curve of muscle. While he did get a few confused or disapproving looks from people at the Christian Athletes table, he also got more than his fair share of appreciative stares from men and women alike. The Blackbird Pride table has never gotten so much attention. We sold out of bumper stickers and everything.

Danny, of course, thinks it"s hilarious. So does Katy, and their boyfriend Rune, who Lane secretly hates because he smells like patchouli and has zero regard for personal space. I like that I get to growl at him whenever he tries to hug Lane, who is scary enough on his own, but is too much of a nice guy to tell the dude to fuck off. He"s happy that Danny is happy, though. They"ve become close friends, even deciding to join the Christian Athletes club together. Junior Pastor Ken, also known as Blaine Fairington—could there be a more pretentious name?—isn't a fan. I know the douchey name isn't his fault, but living up to the name certainly is, and so is his open disregard of their club"s two new openly gay members. I have no fucks to give when it comes to letting that douchebag know how much I dislike him, and haven"t been shy about reminding him what I did to his frat brother"s face last year. Because, of course, those two douchebags know each other.

It"s important to Lane and Danny both to give representation to LGBTQ+ Christians, and apparently I have to give him space to have his own friends and do his own things. Miah"s been too busy with his on-again-off-again girlfriend on weekends, so we have a standing weekly zombie killing spree on Thursday evenings. Although I might have to cancel on him this week, because I"ll be too busy burying him alive for pinching Lane"s nipple at the club fair. It was the last straw before I had to get out of there.

I bite one of the offending nipples through his stupid shirt, making him hiss before dropping to my knees. Whipping his athletic pants and underwear down in one go, I spit on my fingers and swallow his cock, getting him primed for a quick release. It takes a little longer than usual, probably because we both came less than two hours ago, before he left early to help set up tables. But my cheat code never fails me, and he"s busting in my mouth in minutes.

With a mouthful of his load, I grip the neckline of Danny"s stupidly tight shirt and rip it right down the middle before spitting his cum all over his chest and abs.

Lane looks alarmed. "You smell like him," I growl, tearing the last pieces of the offending shirt down his arms.

"Noah! I borrowed this! You can"t go ripping other people"s things!"

"If you"re going to walk around looking like a slut in someone else"s clothes, then you damn well better expect that I"m going to tear them off you."

His mouth gapes, but instead of waiting for him to come up with something sassy to say, I turn around and push him against some lockers. "Take it all off," I growl. "Now."

Silently, Lane steps out of his shoes and pulls his legs from his pants and underwear. He keeps his eyes locked on mine, a mixture of arousal and delicious indignation, watching me undress at the same time. When he sits down to take his socks off, I crowd him, putting a foot on the bench next to him and grabbing his head. He opens willingly, and I push my cock against the back of his throat, holding it there until he looks up at me.

"Goddamn, I"ll never get tired of seeing your mouth stretched around my cock. I"m going to punish this pretty mouth, and then I"m going to fuck you so hard you"ll be sore for days." He groans, eyes rolling back as he fondles himself. "No hands," I say, and his eyes go hard. Good, I want him mad at me. I love it when I can fuck all the anger out of him. "You"ll come from my cock in your ass alone, or you won"t come at all," I tell him. "And you better be quick about it, because there"s a tour of the athletic facilities happening in less than an hour."

Shocking him will never get old. It"s an even bigger thrill than pissing him off, because it"s getting harder to do. But I"ve got him now. The horrified look of sheer disbelief has me thrusting wildly into his mouth, bringing myself to the edge before pulling out. Lane sucks in breaths and wipes drool and snot away from his face, but his expression has morphed from pissed off and afraid, to a lust drunk shark.

I walk away from him to my locker, pulling out my shower kit. I rarely use it anymore, choosing to walk or jog home with Lane and shower with him. Our dorm apartment this year has a normal sized shower instead of the tiny phone booth, so we shower together most days.

"Come on, little brother. I want to wash away any sign that anyone else has so much as looked at you." He gives me a half-hearted eye roll, but follows his dick, which always follows me.

He stops when I turn on a shower head in the middle of the room, rather than one of the stalls. Giving him a moment to process, I stick my head under the hot spray before reaching into my shower kit for a small bottle of lube that I keep there. I pour some in my hand, turning around to lean against the wall and lazily stroke my cock.

Not using a stall will be a big step. And yeah, it should probably be his choice. But if he wants my cock, he"ll do things my way and come and get it. He takes a few steps, but his movements get slower and a little jerky. His eyelids flutter.

"Eyes on me, Lane," I tell him, waiting for his grey-green orbs to focus on me.

The moment our eyes lock, his shoulders relax, and he continues forward until he"s standing under the spray with me. He breaks eye contact to put his face under the water, but it"s a good thing. Multiple sensations, especially shocks to the system like hot water, are good for working around oncoming panic. It"s why Hannah"s trick with the sour candy works, and both of us always have a few pieces handy just in case we aren"t somewhere that I can force an orgasm out of him.

When his eyes open again, they"re hazy with lust. His mouth meets mine, and we wrestle for dominance with our tongues and bodies, pushing each other against the tile wall as I wash him everywhere except his dick. I always win, though, and I"ve got him pinned to the wall with one leg hiked high around my waist, fingering his asshole open. He grows impossibly hard as I finger and stretch him until he"s begging, and then I flip him around to face the wall, holding his hands against the tile. My hands and mouth are everywhere except where he wants them most, touching, kneading, caressing. I lick along his spine and trail open-mouthed kisses across the back of his shoulder. Taking my cock in hand, I rub it up and down his crack while I kiss, nip, and lick every inch of exposed skin that I can reach.

I line myself up, pressing just the tip through his tight hole. My cock pulses an inch or two inside him, rubbing the inside of his rim with my crown while I adjust our stance. His back curves when I kick his feet wider and pull his hips backwards, sinking into him deeper. His groan echoes off the walls as I bottom out, holding our bodies flush. He turns his head to kiss me over his shoulder, but pushes his ass back, silently asking me to get on with it.

I wish I"d thought of recording the music we make in this open space. Every moan, cry, and slap of our bodies coming together echoes off the walls, merging into a perfect harmony of erotic sound to match the pleasure building up inside me. He feels so good, pushing back on my cock with every thrust.

I bend my knees and roll my hips to drive into him at just the right angle, and Lane cries out.

"Oh God, Noah! Right there!"

"Right here, baby?" I repeat, snapping my hips at the same angle.

"Fuck! Yes!"

"Is my dirty little slut of a stepbrother going to come for me without so much as touching your dick?"

"Yes! Yes! Right there! Noah!"

"God. Fuck. Lane. I can feel it. You"re so close. Fucking come for me, baby!"

"Gaahhhhhhh!"His choked cry bounces off the wall as his cock sprays wildly, cum splattering all over the tile. I reach around him and grip his cock, jerking him hard while pegging his prostate to prolong his orgasm. He"s a trembling, whimpering mess when I"ve finally wrung the last drop out of him, still moving my hard cock inside. I"m so close to my own release, and considering whether I want to fill his ass with my cum or mark him, when someone jiggles the door handle.

"Oh God!" Lane whispers, trying to pull away and hide. But I wrap my arm around his waist and hold him still.

"Someone"s in here!" I shout. "I"ll be out in a minute!"

"Are you fucking nuts?!"

"I"m about to nut in you if you don"t calm down," I say, holding my breath as his body tenses. "The door is locked. It"s fine."

"They"re going to know we were in here together."

"So?"

"They"re probably going to guess what we were doing in here together."

"And?"

"We could get in trouble."

"Not if they can"t prove it."

"It"s obvious!"

"Tell them I made you do it," I whisper in his ear before pressing a hand to the middle of his back, pushing his chest to the tile wall and spearing his ass again. "It doesn"t count if I make you."

She"s standing at the end of the corridor, wearing a cardigan over her ankle length dress. I didn"t expect her to be so tiny. I"ve seen pictures of her, of course, and the interviews she did for the documentary, but in person she seems smaller. She looks more like him than she does in her pictures. Maybe it"s the expressiveness of her eyes. She looks like she has stories to tell, things to say. I wonder if she sings—it"s not something I ever thought to ask her during our phone briefs with the lawyers.

"Lane." Ms. Blakely smiles when she says my name, like meeting me in person is a relief somehow.

We were supposed to get together for dinner before the witnesses were called to trial yesterday, but her flight was delayed by a snowstorm where she lives in Missouri. She nearly didn"t make it in time to testify, but walked through the doors this morning, pulling her carry-on luggage behind her. Ms. Clarke was able to get the court to focus on other aspects of the case before pulling me to the stand. She had her reasons for wanting my testimony to come right before Ms. Blakely's.

The moment I"m within arm"s reach, she pulls me down into a hug. And I do mean down, because the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. But she wraps her arms around my waist, and when I bend down to hug her back, she wraps them around my shoulders. When her body shakes with sobs, I move her over to a nearby bench so I can hold her more comfortably while she lets it all out. I gave my testimony earlier today, and I saw how hard that was on her. My first-hand experiences aside, she had to listen to me recount all the horrors I witnessed her son go through. And then, to drive it all home, she had to take the stand and talk about the outcome of the torture he experienced, and her own guilt over sending him there in the first place.

As expected, this trial is far worse than the deposition. Ms. Clarke was right that the defense saw they were facing a losing battle, and every member of Deliverance Summit facing charges decided to plead guilty. Their sentences were less harsh, but most of them are old enough that they"ll die in prison well before their sentences run out. The outcome of this trial won"t change the fact that he"s in prison for the rest of his life, but it"s not even about him. It"s about getting justice for Chris, and setting a precedent in the fight to shut down places like Deliverance Camp.

Not all conversion therapy is as intensive or abusive as what happened at Deliverance, but there are plenty more just like it and some places that are worse. Over half the states in the United States do not have laws against conversion therapy for minors, and that needs to be changed. It"s been eighteen months since the ACLU and Ms. Blakely announced their intentions to hold Gideon Larsen, James Andrews, and five other church officials that were involved in the Deliverance Summit conversion therapy operation accountable for the death of Christian Blakely.

It took this long just to get to trial. But during this time, I"ve learned a lot about how things work and the lack of protections for LGBTQ+ youth in this country. It"s shaped a new passion and future for me. I changed my major to sociology and intend to enroll in law school. Ms. Clarke even got me set up with an internship at a law firm that focuses on social justice cases.

"Oh, dear. I"m sorry," Ms. Blakely says, using her sleeve to swipe at a wet spot on my suit jacket.

"It"s okay," I tell her, pushing a clean tissue into her hand. "This suit has seen worse. I believe you were sitting near my mother?"

She lets out a watery chuckle and blots her nose with the tissue I gave her.

"I had so much I wanted to say to you," she laughs. "But I don"t have the words anymore… Thank you. I can"t imagine the strength it took to get up on that stand." She sighs. "You"re so strong, Lane Blakely, and you"re going to do amazing things. Chris would be so proud to share his name with you." I blush a little, because it was certainly awkward having to explain that I basically stole her son"s last name. "He always wanted a little brother," she"d told me.

Speaking of brothers.

"Lane! There you are—" Noah says, coming around the corner. "They"re calling everyone back in."

"So soon?" Ms. Blakely exclaims, looking worried.

"It"s a good thing," Noah says confidently as ever. "They"re about to call this a W."

Ms. Blakely blinks up at the strange boy with his long hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing ripped jeans and converse sneakers with his suit jacket and tie. Because of course he is. And of course, he looks completely natural and perfect, like a model showing how suits are actually supposed to be worn.

"My goodness, your parents certainly made some tall boys, didn"t they?" Ms. Blakely says, a little flustered.

"I"m so sorry. Noah, this is Colleen Blakely, Chris" mom." He smiles kindly at her, which I"m thankful for, because he"s had some moments over the years where he felt a lot of anger towards her for knowingly sending her son away to be ‘cured'. I"ve been working with her remotely, though, and he"s heard how much she regrets her actions, and how much she blames herself. In her mind, she should also be facing charges. But I imagine losing her son is punishment enough. "Ms. Blakely, this is my boyfriend, Noah."

"Oh! I"m sorry. I saw you sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Milner and I thought you were their son."

"I am," he says bluntly, a sweet and yet wicked smile curving his lips. He loves telling people we"re stepbrothers and watching them squirm.

Ms. Blakely is so red, I"m concerned she might faint. "He is not my brother," I say firmly, glaring daggers at Noah. "Our parents are married, but we don"t share blood and didn"t live in the same house until Pastor Warren died and I moved in with my mother, when I was fourteen."

"Oh, well, okay then. It"s nice to meet you," she says kindly to Noah. She"s clearly confused, flustered, and unsure if she approves of the dynamic. But she keeps it to herself and even accepts Noah"s arm when he offers to escort her back to the courtroom. He looks back and winks. He always wins them over in the end. They"ll be best friends by the end of the day.

We file back into our seats, Ms. Blakely and I up front behind Ms. Clarke and the other prosecutor working with her. We"re told that the jury has deliberated and come to a unanimous decision. This could be very good or it could be very bad. After eighteen months of buildup, no one expected a quick trial. It"s been two long days, and testifying was grueling. I hated having to sit up there and look at the men that violated my trust, tainted my childhood, and nearly broke me. I avoided looking Gideon in the eyes as much as possible, but I felt his gaze like heat on the side of my head. I ate several really strong mints, and kept my eyes on Noah whenever I wasn"t answering a direct question. I was only on the stand for just over thirty minutes, but it felt like hours. The defense seemed in a hurry to get me off the stand, and barely cross-examined me, but Ms. Clarke made sure the jury heard what needed to be heard.

Hopefully, it was enough. Everyone stands, and the judge and jury come back into the room.

My heart is fighting its way out of my rib cage. It"s a fight to force myself to breathe. Ms. Blakely reaches for my hand and squeezes.

Guilty.