Date: Fri, 23 Dec 2016 22:16:16 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 1: Lose the Man Panties

Okay, everything in this story is complete fiction and has no bearing on
reality. It is a personal fantasy which I am sharing with you. If you feel
that any character or event of this story resembles you or your life or
that of someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with
(where legal) photos and video! It is, of course, copyrighted in all
respects by the author with all rights reserved (such rights being very,
very negotiable).

Keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty TODAY! I'm an old guy (>30). I know
what it was like when you had to BUY porn. 5 miles uphill both ways in the
snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good
you got it. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

This series involves sex between men (>18 years of age); if that is illegal
or even discouraged where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a
monastery (though, from all reports, you might find scenes there similar to
some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where
STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use
protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. Put "NIFTY" (all caps) at
the beginning of the subject line or I will never, ever see your mail. If
you get off on flaming people, please know that you will HATE the results
here. I will read your missive and ridicule you in the next story to the
point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

PS: This is a long story. It also has a lot of FOOD. I'm a sybarite and
food is as much a part of true pleasure for me as cock and ass. If you
don't care to read through that, look for a carat (^) at the start of
paragraphs. Very little cock, ass, taint or tongue (other than licking a
spoon) will show up there, though there may be plot development if you're
into that whole "plot" thing.

*****

Karl & Greg 1: Lose the Man Panties

My brother Karl and I had never been really close. A better way to say it
would be that we were way too close to be close emotionally. I was born in
early September; Karl in late August. We were what are often called Irish
Twins, two sons born within a year of each other. Since his birthday came
first, I always felt shortchanged in the gift competition. The timing
became doubly-damning when we reached school age. I just missed the cutoff
for the start of kindergarten, so I was always the oldest in a new class
where Karl was always the youngest.

To add insult to injury, I favoured my mother -- tall, fair, lean, bookish
and reserved. Karl favoured dad -- stocky, brash, powerful, athletic and
gregarious. Even though I was older, I always felt like I was in Karl's
shadow. He was always more popular, a better athlete, a natural leader. I
was "the smart one" without even the famously-crushing burden of "a good
personality". I wasn't shunned, or ugly, or despised, but anytime someone
mentioned "that Barca kid", there was no doubt they meant Karl and not
Greg.

Ten years into schooling, things got markedly worse. Mom had been sickly
for about a year, prone to complaints of headaches and fatigue. In the
summer of our Sophomore-to-Junior year, she was finally diagnosed by the
umpteenth doctor we saw as suffering from ovarian cancer. She died within a
couple of months, leaving a household of Pa, his unabashed favourite, Karl,
and the lost foundling, me.

I can't begin to tell you how much I envied Karl the affection that Pa
lavished on him. The fact that Mom had done the same for me was not a
conscious reflection; she was gone and Pa was here. Pa was a construction
foreman: swarthy, thick-furred, blunt-speaking (hung -- I found that out
later), profane and reeking of testosterone. I never even doubted that he
was the Perfect Man. It was impossible to imagine an encyclopaedia article
on "masculine" that did not feature his picture.

Did I forget to mention that I was gay? Yeah. Ever since I first spouted
hair "down there", cocks, balls, pecs and shoulders made me rock hard where
clits, pussies, tits and legs left me stone cold. No one knew, not even
me. Gay was an epithet that one hurled at others, not a state of being. I
figured that, per the religious literature then prevalent, that this was at
most a phase and certainly a shameful sin. I'd find "the right girl" and
settle down to punch out a few kids and grow old raising them. Boy, was I
wrong.

On Mom's passing, I had adopted (by default) all of the chores and duties
Mom had fulfilled. I had the chequebook, paid the bills, bought the
groceries, cleaned the house, did the laundry and fixed the meals. It had
nothing to do with being fem or gay or anything else; in fact, I was as
male (if not as outwardly-masculine) as the other two. It was also not a
conscious decision, simply a recognition amongst the three of us that Pa
and Karl were utterly incapable of doing any of that. Karl cooking, unless
exclusively using a blazing-hot charcoal grill and unadorned raw meat, was
something no person should every have to witness, and the results were even
worse. For Pa, cooking meant take out.

Pa, actually Patrick (thus both Pa as 'dad' and as a foreshortened
moniker), had trained as a mechanic, and was very good at it. He'd even
landed a job at the Brickyard (Indianapolis Motor Speedway) when he was a
youngster, leaving it only for the siren call of money to be made in the
construction boom. During that last semester of our Junior year, Pa used
his connexions to get Karl an apprenticeship at the Brickyard, about two
hours north of our home in (not kidding) French Lick, Indiana.

It would count toward Karl's GPA and be credited as eight credit-hours for
that last nine weeks. Karl would have to come back for a single week of
exams on standard subjects (and thus study for them in the evenings and
down-time of the Brickyard). He was a solid if uninspired student and had
already completed all but the Senior-year 3-R courses, so the school was
delighted to agree. A friend of Pa's had offered to give Karl a place to
stay. Karl wouldn't get paid, per se, but the experience would make him a
shoe-in for any mechanic school he wanted after high school; including a
shot at one of the coveted spots in the automotive or even motorsports
engineering programme at my own target school, Purdue (only 60 miles from
Karl's dream of Speedway Glory).

That left me and Pa alone. I had turned 18 at the dawn of my Junior
year. Whilst Karl spent his last weeks before Junior- Senior Summer at the
Brickyard, I studied and honed the skills that I hoped would earn me (in
fact, that did earn me) a full ride at Purdue. I planned to spend my summer
on a set of college-prep courses with a focus on History and English, with
an eye to teaching at an international secondary school.

Pa was restless without his favourite around to tease, coach, praise and
mentor. He looked at me when forced to, gave me the paycheques and his list
of clothing needs and did his best to pretend that I was something less
than an utter disappointment to him whilst his mini-me was off at the
Speedway. About two weeks before Karl returned from the Brickyard, the
tension reached a breaking point.

^ I had fixed a hearty dinner for the two of us, a meaty and wine-based
sauce over pasta with cheese-slathered garlic bread. Pa grunted through the
meal, not a word of praise or criticism, then sunk into his dilapidate and
beloved Barcalounger to watch "the game" in a pair of stained boxers and, I
assumed, the inevitable jock underneath. The Cincinnati Reds (Indiana
hadn't had a home team in decades) were hosting their upstate rival, the
Cleveland Indians for an early-season double-header. His attention was
transfixed, and I was at my limit.

"Why the FUCK can't you occasionally pay attention to ME instead of that
damn, losing baseball team?!?" I practically screamed, tears rolling
freely. "I bust my butt every single day to make you happy, proud or at
least just satisfied and I get NOTHING! Karl goes up to Indy and you have
me send him a cheque for pocket money each week, but I get nothing but a
grunt every day? What the FUCK do I have to do?" I collapsed in a
tear-drenched, needy pile.

Pa said nothing for a minute and just stared. He muted the game and
regarded me steadily, passionlessly. My racking (and deeply pathetic) sobs
subsided and he responded, "First off, You. Never. Asked. Second, you never
acted like you gave a fucking shit what I thought. Third, you sit back like
a virgin saint or something that I'd despoil [Pa knew the word despoiled?
WTF?] if'n I even touched ya. Lastly, when was the last time you said
something nice to ME?" He turned back to the TV and brought back the sound.

I laid stunned. He was right. What had I ever done to suggest that I
needed/wanted/craved his approval? Um, nothing. I sobbed some more in
self-pity then realised that I alone had the power to make this right. "Pa,
what can I do to make you understand how much I need your love and your
interest? I know I'm not Karl, but can't I be SOMETHING?"

He muted the game again (no a big sacrifice; it was an 'erectile
dysfunction' commercial, something neither needed; gay as it might be, I
sure noticed Pa's club bulging his undies) and stared at me for
days/hours/minutes/seconds (who the fuck knows; it seemed like eternity to
me). "Let's start with you acting and dressing like a guy for a
change. Lose the man-panties (I was wearing blue Calvins right then) and
get yourself a jock strap on under a real man's boxers. Next, come in here
and at least pretend to care about the biggest game of the early season."
With that, he hit the sound and once again ignored me.

I ran for my room, literally ripping the offending undies away from me as I
grabbed a jock strap that I used for tennis (team spots being outside my
comfort zone; being surrounded by hot sweaty guys and their
testosterone-laced fumes daunted me. Sports were essential to the Barcas,
so I picked Tennis; it just barely made the definition of a 'sport' to Pa
-- I guess that at least the slight potential for a torn ACL or sprained
hamstring made the tipping difference from 'fag sports' like golf and
swimming). My single, old pair of boxers bought on a lark came next, too
tight but what the fuck did I care? PA was gonna hang out with ME! Suitably
attired, I ran back to the living room and stood awkwardly at "attention"
whilst Pa stared, waiting to find out what I should do next.

His eyes raked me up and down, with a pause at my crotch and,
interestingly, at my gigantic feet. For reasons I can't even imagine, that
made me blush. "Cop a squat, stud. Reds are ahead one in the fifth, and
Sabo is up." I quickly arranged myself on the couch, catty-corner to the
arm-rest so I had a clear view of Pa in case he paid any more attention to
me. Yeah, I really was that needy and pitiful; any hint of approval or even
interest would give me a real emotional high. I had always noticed that Pa
would constantly rearrange, grope or tug on his package, but never before
did it really dawn on me how fucking sexy that was.

Throughout the Fifth and Sixth, he would glance at me, sometimes even
lingering on an arm, my crotch, or (renewing my blush each time) my feet. I
noticed that he had shed his boxers and left nothing on but the packed jock
strap, which he regularly scratched or tugged or moved. At the changeover
in the middle of the Sixth, he grunted, "Get comfortable, sport. Lose the
boxers." I hastened to comply, inadvertently (maybe?) giving Pa a great
show of my ass as I did so. I watched mesmerised as he kept teasing and
fingering the overstuffed pouch of his jock then sighing and giving it a
few minutes' rest, over and over.

Finally, the Stretch came in the middle of the Seventh and the familiar
strains of Take Me Out to the Ballgame floated from the speakers. I'd love
to give you a paly-by-play of those two-and-a-half innings, but frankly I
only saw the brief snatches when I glanced up and saw he'd caught me
looking. He had a slightly mean leer each time as if to say, "gotcha, you
fucking little perv."

Pa again muted the game mid-song. "Come sit with me." Pa was in his
recliner, which left precious few options for co-sitting. I gingerly
approached and he spread his knees, pointing with his chin at his left
haunch. I settled myself against his leg and he roughly manhandled me into
position, my back half-against the thick fur of his arm and chest, my legs
tucked between his crotch (on my right) and his hair-covered knee (to my
left).

"I seen you watching, boy, and that's fine. I know I ain't really given you
the teaching that I gave Karl. Frankly cuz I never thought you'd be
interested." Pa's voice was husky, but his eyes never left mine. "Here's
what baseball is all about, and why there's "Ball" right there in the
name." He smirked at his joke. "The key is to keep watching, with one hand
feeling, scratching, brushing your junk as long as possible. You want to
keep that high, that not-quite-nutting going for all nine innings. And
don't doubt it, stud," he growled, "those extra innings is worth every
fucking stroke."

With that, his middle finger stroked up my cock. Only the fact that I'd
just inhaled prevented a gasp. Trapped in its mesh prison, my dick screamed
for freedom... denied. He flicked his callused fingers along the length,
the scratched the rough nails across the ridge below the head. I tensed,
desperately trying to suppress the scream of lust that surged through my
body.

That magic hand, the centre of my universe, fell away to repeat the actions
on Pa's own rock-hard pouch. I tried, oh fucking god I tried, to rip my
eyes away and look at the game. I failed. Every twitch of his basket, every
throb along the shaft, every teasing caress of his work-hardened hands
obsessed me. His hand came back to me and I melted, luxuriating in more
than the lustful intimacy -- far more, the desperate void needing his
attention, his touch, his (so-yearned-for) love.

He seemed to sense every time I would get close to ecstasy and move back to
his own manhood. This went on and on... and ON! The game wound down to a
1-run lead in the bottom of the Ninth. The Reds were at bat, with a runner
on second (I looked it up later; god knows I couldn't have told you a
runner from a fire hydrant at the time). The phone rang, shattering the
mood.

"Barca," was Pa's gruff utterance. At the time, he had just switched from
his own crotch to teasing my package. His fingers tortured my taint, my
balls, my dick and, at the end of each cycle, the ridge of my
glans. "Yeah. I know that. Whaddaya want me to do about it?" The call was
not at all to Pa's liking, and it didn't take a genius to figure it
out. "Why the fuck cain't Davies fix it? Ain't he the lead on that job?"
His finger had stopped its rounds, stuck in the cylcle of twirling round
and round the head of my dick. "Why the fuck does that make it a problem
for me, Jack?"

His vehemence on the phone was matched with increasingly-assertive pressure
on my cock, desperate for release -- either from the confinement of the
jock strap or from the increasingly-urgent need to CUM. That thick finger
-- round, and round and round and ROUND! I bit my lip, then my tongue in an
increasingly-urgent effort to prevent the cum for gushing forth. "Fine. I
can be there tomorrow. You OWE me Jack! What or who do I ned to bring with
me?" One last touch, one last stroke, one last scratch on the underside of
my cockhead sent me into orbit. Cum exploded as my balls tried in vain to
burrow into my body and every atom of my being screamed with release and
relief.

"FUCK! What the fuck didja have to do that for? No Jack, not you, I just
spilled something everywhere. I gotta go. Yeah. Got it. I'll call ya
tomorrow." He violently hung up as I continued to spam in the throes of
ecstatic release. His tone brought me back. "Why the FUCK did you have to
go and ruin it, Greg. Jeezus Keerist! Just go and get yaself cleaned
up. Just... I dunno, gahn! Git!" He turned away from me in disgust and
slouched the leg on which I'd perched, dumping me unceremoniously to the
carpet. He didn't look up. "Crap. The whole game shot to shit."

Tears and cum poured from me in roughly-equal proportions as I fled to my
bathroom. "FUCK!" I had just enough energy left to peel away the jock and
rinse off the massive load I'd pumped into it before I quite simply
staggered and crumpled on the bed, crushed, humiliated, horrified that I
had squandered the first and perhaps only chance I had of bonding with my
Pa. He had never so much as given me the time of day before, and here he
was willing to teach me "man stuff" (as I thought of it at the time), and I
blew it (and my load all over him). Grief, self-rage, humiliation; the
three emotions washed across me in every-rising waves, one after the next
until I cried myself to sleep with the sounds of a baseball game ending
leaking from the living room. The heavy footfalls of my god of a father
lurching through his evening ablutions and bedtime ritual were the last
thing I was conscious of before darkness lovingly took me.

<eof>
Chapter 2: We Need to Talk