Little Brother’s Takeover
Copyright© 2026 by Eros Alban
Prologue
Erotica Sex Story: Prologue - Trigger warning: there is a very bigoted character who uses racist language. Wrongfully convicted Malik is out on probation rebuilding his life. Into the neighborhood moves a racist bigot who has fallen from society. However his family takes a strong interest in their kind giving neighbor Malik. His generosity transforms the family in New sexy ways. Old friends from past stories do appear.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Consensual Interracial Black Male White Female
Marcus hadn’t had a free night in months.
Every off-shift had come with something attached to it—training new recruits, covering for someone who had called out, paperwork that somehow followed him home, or one of the countless obligations that seemed to multiply the moment he thought he might have a quiet evening.
Tonight was different.
No obligations. No phone calls he was expected to answer. No one waiting for him to show up somewhere.
Just a slow Tuesday evening and the quiet pull of the one place in the city that still felt like it belonged to him.
The Iron Peg.
He pushed through the door, and the familiar smell greeted him before anything else. Old wood. Spilled beer soaked into floorboards that had probably needed replacing twenty years ago. The faint metallic tang of the ancient pipes behind the bar, which never quite sealed properly no matter how many times Corby swore he’d fixed them.
Some things never changed.
The neon wolf mounted above the entrance buzzed faintly, its red glow spilling across the front windows. Inside, the lights were still turned low. The jukebox sat dark in its corner. Half the stools were still flipped up on the bar, and the tables were empty except for a few freshly wiped surfaces catching the dim light.
It was early—too early for the late happy-hour crowd and hours before the regular evening rush.
Marcus liked it that way.
He let the door swing shut behind him and stood there for a moment, breathing in the familiar quiet.
Then Corby looked up.
He was behind the bar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, stacking clean glasses with the methodical concentration of a man who had performed the same ritual so many times that he could probably do it blindfolded.
At the far end of the bar sat Galen, nursing a short glass of something amber. He turned at the sound of the door, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to recognition.
Both men stared for half a second.
Then Corby’s face split into a genuine grin.
“Well, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Marcus laughed.
Galen pushed himself off the stool without hurry. There was still that same easy authority in his posture, even after all these years. “Marcus Daylon. We were starting to think you’d forgotten where this place was.”
“Been busy.” Marcus crossed the room, shaking his head. “Captain’s been riding my ass about the detective exam again, and the new batch of rookies are somehow dumber than the last ones.”
Corby snorted.
“Impossible.”
“I said the same thing.”
“Apparently you were wrong.”
Corby came around the bar and pulled him into a firm, familiar hug, then kissed him quick and sure on the mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Galen did the same a second later — longer, slower, a hand resting briefly at the small of Marcus’s back. The three of them had been doing this dance ever since Jake introduced them a few years back. No drama. No claims. Just the comfortable knowledge that when Marcus walked through that door, he was welcome in more ways than one.
These two had been part of Marcus’s life ever since Jake had introduced them a few years back. Since then, the Iron Peg had become something of a second home—a place where Marcus could show up without an invitation, sit down without explaining himself, and know that somebody would notice if he looked like hell.
Corby gestured toward the stools.
“Sit. Beer or something stronger?”
“Bit of both.”
“Really?”
“I’m actually off tonight.”
Corby paused.
“Actually off?”
“Actually off.”
Galen raised his glass. “Mark the calendar.”
Marcus dropped onto a stool and shook his head. “No plans. Thought I’d come see if you two still remembered my name.”
“Oh, we remember it,” Corby said, reaching into the cooler.
“That sounded ominous.”
“It was meant to.”
“Then you might need to remind us.” Flirted Galen.
A bottle landed in front of Marcus with a soft thunk.
He wrapped his hand around it, enjoying the cold glass against his palm.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, there was nowhere else he needed to be.
The three of them settled into an easy rhythm as the evening slowly gathered outside.
They talked about work first, because work was impossible to escape in Wolferton. Marcus complained about the captain. Corby complained about his supplier, who had once again managed to short his whiskey order and somehow insisted the mistake was on Corby’s end.
Galen mostly listened, occasionally dropping in a dry comment that made the other two laugh.
Eventually the conversation wandered to Galen’s latest project: a rental property on the south side that had apparently turned out to need considerably more work than he’d expected.
“You said it needed cosmetic repairs,” Marcus said.
“It did.”
“You sent me a picture of the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“There was no ceiling.”
Galen took a drink.
“There was a ceiling when I bought the place.”
Corby laughed so hard he had to put down the glass he was polishing.
From there they drifted into sports, local gossip, complaints about the weather, and the latest questionable decision from the city council.
Nothing important.
Nothing dramatic.
And that was precisely what Marcus needed.
They asked about his health. He asked about theirs. They traded stories and insults and the sort of small observations that accumulated over years of knowing someone.
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