The old church basement smelled like dust and candle wax, but the real heat came from the two of us standing between those carved Jesus statues. My brother Mark and I had snuck down after the service, both of us still in our Sunday shirts, ties already yanked loose. We were supposed to be moving the statues for the priest, but the second the door locked behind us the air changed.
Mark grabbed my belt first. “Fuck, I can’t wait anymore,” he growled, voice low and rough. His hand shoved straight down my pants and wrapped around my cock, squeezing hard. I was already leaking, had been since I caught him staring at my ass during the sermon. The nearest Jesus statue, life-size and wooden, stared down with that sad, knowing face while Mark dropped to his knees on the cold floor.
He yanked my pants to my thighs and swallowed me in one wet slide. No teasing, just hungry sucking, his tongue working the underside while his fingers dug into my ass cheeks. I braced one hand on the statue’s base, the carved wood cool against my palm, and fucked my brother’s mouth in short, dirty thrusts. Spit ran down his chin and dripped onto the floor between the statues’ feet.
“Turn around,” he ordered, voice thick. I spun, palms flat on the biggest statue’s robe. Mark spat on his fingers and pushed two straight into my hole, no warm-up, just the burn I needed. He worked them fast, scissoring, stretching me while his other hand stroked my cock from behind. The Jesus statues watched everything, blank eyes on our sin.
When he pulled his fingers out I heard his zipper. His cock, thick and hot, pressed against my hole and shoved in deep on the first thrust. I grunted, forehead knocking the statue’s thigh. Mark didn’t hold back; he fucked me hard, hips slapping my ass, balls swinging, the wet sound of it echoing off the stone walls. Every thrust pushed me tighter against the carved Jesus, like we were using the holy figure as a brace for our filthy incest.
“Harder,” I hissed. “Fuck your brother harder.”
He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and pounded me like he wanted to split me open. One of the smaller Jesus statues stood right beside us, arms outstretched; Mark reached out and gripped its hand for leverage while he drilled me. Sweat dripped from his chin onto my back. I reached down and jerked my own cock in time with his thrusts, the head slapping the statue’s base with every stroke.
Mark’s rhythm broke. He slammed in to the root and stayed there, pulsing, flooding my guts with thick, hot cum. The feeling pushed me over; I shot all over the Jesus statue’s foot, white streaks running down the carved wood. We stayed locked together, breathing hard, the statues silent witnesses to two brothers using their bodies and each other in the most profane way possible.
Mark pulled out slow, cum leaking down my thigh. He spun me around, kissed me rough, tongues messy, then dropped to lick his own load from my hole while I leaned back against the statue again. The night was young, and we still had a whole row of Jesus statues left to “move.”
