Date: Fri, 10 Mar 2017 13:24:24 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg 19

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/karl-and-greg/karl-and-greg-1) for warnings
and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between blood-related men. Go away if any of that is against your local
rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Skip food-related
paragraphs with (^) at the start. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

Greg was now licking, sucking, teasing -- my foreskin being nibbled, his
hands at my balls, my ass, my super-sensitive taint. His hands were
*everywhere* as he went deep, then shallow then nibbled and teased, then
back again. It took no time at all, the sensation and memory and idea and
love and awe and ego and OH MY GOD! What took it over the top was a sudden
purring that erupted through my dick like a sexual earthquake. I was afraid
that, even with my athletic background, that my lungs would burst from the
scream or my heart would explode from the rush. I... lost it -- lost my
mind, lost my load, lost my entire concept of reality, utterly lost in the
detonation orchestrated, wired, lit and fired by my brother. And I was fine
with that.

*****

Karl and Greg 19: Party Off / Party On

By Bear Pup

M/M; competition; oral; anal; athletes

Tuesday was a close-run thing. Even with Pa's 10-point-deficit leaving him
with a mere 20 points, I barely scraped by. Two passes.  I hate American
Lit and AP Geometry is genuinely difficult. I was already tense and twitchy
from the stress of testing, a feeling so unlike the stress of a game. After
seeing Greg safely home and getting a mind-blow kiss, I grabbed my workout
gear and (careful to stretch this time) ran to the gym and hit the weights
to burn off the nervous energy. There are actually two gyms closer to where
we live, but this one gave me a three-mile run largely along a greenbelt
park each way, so I never had to to waste time on cardio.

I got home just as Pa pulled up. He patted me on the shoulder as I passed
which made me smile. One of the reasons I liked to run, had always like to
run, is the way Pa greeted me when I got home. He always, no matter how bad
a day he'd had, always had a pat on the shoulder or a smack on the ass for
me, and words of genuine encouragement.

Greg was there to strip us off which (of course) put me on the rail in a
way that the thin cotton of the jock did nothing to hide. Pa smiled at
that, too, as we both went up to shower.

^ Greg had made another amazing meal, this one I knew I could get right:
Delmonicos seared hard and finished in a slow oven, with creamed spinach
and swedes (creamy mashed turnips) to the side. He'd done something magical
with the steaks. I am the ultimate carnivore, but he'd found a way to make
the steak, um, more steaky.

Pa spent most of the meal talking about our summer plans. Greg was going to
hit the books some because he planned a senior year of 100% AP
coursework. I, on the other hand, was planning my last real summer as what
a summer should be, a vacation. I'd worked last summer for a body shop to
make sure I had the money to fix up my truck, and found that my stress
levels when sports camps then school started were jacked. It made a real
difference in my field and classroom performance.

Pa, however, had already decided my summer plans. I would be working for
his buddy Jerry Black at the family-owned Black's Auto (Jer's grandpa had
started it and Jerry would inherit it soon when his own dad retired),
fixing up cars for little old ladies and pumping their gas when repair
business was slow. Yeah, so not happening. I saw Greg watching me, so I
thanked Pa but said I hadn't decided yet whether I'd be working at all. "Of
course you will, sport! Don't be dense." I was smiling so tightly I could
hear my teeth crack.

Wednesday would be two tests I dreaded, Chemistry and French. I just don't
'get' chem, and French was one that Greg couldn't really help me with; he'd
taken Latin. I pushed Greg to prep me much harder... harder! Fuck. he'd
edged me for three hours of studying and my balls were aching with the
number of answers I got wrong, one nip or bite for each one! The stress of
the day, my workout and the study session had left me drained. Greg got me
into bed and I'm afraid I wasn't going to be much of a lover.

I told him, apologetically, that all I really wanted was to cuddle. Far
from the disappointment I expected, Greg was delighted and melted into me
like I had said the most romantic and sexy thing in the world. He finished
me off with a long, explosive handjob and spooned into me, curling into my
arms like I was his shelter. I was over the moon and asleep, dreamless, in
minutes.

I was so nervous I didn't even notice breakfast. Greg tried to keep me calm
on the ride in to no avail. French was first, which fucked the whole
day. What little confidence Greg had given me in chemistry the night before
was drained away by all the things I couldn't recall in French. I bolted my
lunch -- Greg had made me a salad, as promised, with the leftover bad tacos
and an avocado dressing which, from what little I tasted of it, was
delicious. I hit the track hard, trying to use my muscles to get back on
track, then a quick shower before the chem test.

It was a gruelling three hours. When the bell finally rang, I found that
I'd only left one problem untouched. I met Greg back at the car and he took
possession of my French book and ran me through everything. I actually
hadn't done nearly as bad as I'd expected and Greg thought I'd passed
fairly easily. He was a lot more disappointed with my Chemistry results. I
explained how wrong-footed the French thing had left me so he eased up
some, even though some of the questions I'd blown were the precise ones
he'd coached me on the night before. Overall, another pass.

30 points. I wasn't sure what happened with a tie... Did Greg mention
overtime? I again went for a run/gym/run and nearly wept when I got
home. Pa was balancing the front door and fixing the storm-door that always
slammed. I was not eligible to earn points from anything but the test, so I
knew tonight would be Pa's.

^ I guess Greg knew it too, even before Pa had gotten home. He'd made one
of Pa's all-time favourites, pork chops smothered in a thick gravy of
onions and sage, served with buttered noodles and butter-beans. I ate and
made the obligatory small talk, and even managed to be polite when Pa kept
talking about what I'd be doing at Black's.

I was at the books before Pa even finished eating. Tomorrow would be
another rough one, Art History (I had to have a 'fine arts' credit) and
Algebra II (half geometry and half complex maths). I dove into the art crap
first, trying to put names to squiggles. Greg came up. As it happens, he
had the same class just at a different time, so we'd be taking the test
together. He had his book under my chair and he teased and tortured me
through a thousand years of paint.

Algebra was easier. For reasons Greg tried to explain to me once, geometry
was a clear to me as a transmission. Something to do with spacy visuals
[Greg: Sigh. Spatial visualisation] that I'd developed in my sports and
mechanical stuff. Except for when they put the fucking x's and y's as
powers, I tended to do okay with the maths overall. We spent the last part
of the evening back on art.

Greg didn't finish me off this time, but also made sure Pa was not as loud
in their hours-long lovemaking. I came twice, one off the 'study' edging
and then, minutes later, from the visuals of what Pa was getting right
then. I fell asleep and, far from dreamless, Pa and Greg fucked their way
across the countryside. Every vacation spot we'd been to when we were kids
floated past, Pa fucking or being sucked by Greg, one rimming the other,
would pop up from a boat or a dune or a clearing on a hike.

I got up before even Greg on Thursday, blew a load from the torturous dream
and went for a run, again in an attempt to burn off the nerves. I guess it
worked, at least a little. Algebra seemed like a cakewalk. I even had time
at the end to double-check every answer and make corrections on the 'show
your work' sections. I wasn't alone on the track that day, though; I saw a
number of my jock buds looking just as freaked as I felt, trying to outrun
their tests. We converged on the showers just in time for the second round
but, unlike any other time, not a wisecrack or butt-slap was in evidence.

Art History was a nightmare from the pits of hell. Mr Wellers used slides
to project various paintings and we were to answer on a blank paper. Put
them in order, oldest to newest. New slid; which ones were from the Dutch
Masters school? New slide; which were impressionist? New slide; into which
category does each of these Picassos fall? Stuff like that. I desperately
looked at Greg every few minutes; he seemed utterly relaxed and confident.

Then came the killer. The last hour was given over to two essay
questions. I fucking HATE essay questions of any kind, even if I have a
fucking clue about the subject. "Explain the difference between
Impressionism and Post-Impressionism." What the FUCK was
Post-Impressionism? Was that the one with the little dots? The Tahiti guy?
The other was no better. "Discuss ways that Mediaeval and Renaissance
artists used iconography in religious art." I
whimpered. Halos. Crosses. Saints carrying their heads around...

So we got to the car and Greg asked a few things about the art test, then
went quiet. "I was watching you, Karl. If you passed, it was barely. You're
not getting points for that one, baby bro, sorry." I made up for it with
the algebra, which he decided I had aced, and aced easily. Okay, 30
points. As long as Pa didn't do chores, I was fine. I skipped my run
entirely, diving straight into my books. AP Auto Mechanics would be a
gimme, but Engineering would very much not be.

^ Greg called me down to dinner after Pa got home. Chopped sirloins with
burgundy mushrooms, baked potatoes and buttered peas. Greg made it clear to
both of us that the peas were NOT optional, earning a frowny-face from me
and Pa equally; we both hated peas.

As feared, Pa had jumped in as soon as he got home, even before showering,
and replaced the weatherstripping on all the outside doors, so he'd gotten
Greg for two straight nights. Greg helped me study until I felt as ready as
I could get, then I went for a long, long run, hoping to burn off both the
tension and the image of what was happening in the master bedroom. I got
home at nearly eleven; the fact that I could hear soft laughter from Pa's
room did nothing for my mood or my stress.

My run the next morning, though, seemed to push through everything. By the
time we got to school, I was the calm and confident athlete I was supposed
to be. Engineering was up first, and I found that I only struggled with a
couple of items. I actually ate and enjoyed my lunch, talking with friends
about year-end parties tonight and over the weekend, who'd go where and who
to expect at each. There were five options tonight, and a half-dozen
Saturday and into Sunday. I was non-committal, being lobbied heavily by the
blockheads (auto-shop types) and the jocks. I played them against each
other, praying that I'd go to neither and be bedding Greg all night.

Auto Mechanics was not just a breeze, it was a hurricane. I was done, and
done double-checking all my answers, at the two-hour mark. I was on top of
the world. There was not a single fucking thing that Pa could have done or
could do to beat what I'd accomplished. I turned in my test to a surprised
but delighted Mr Mallone and hit the school gym. This was not exercising,
this was a pumping session. I wanted every muscle to POP for Greg, to look
like a fucking GOD for him.

He was on as much of a high as I was, fairly confident that he'd aced much
of the week. He walked me through my exams and gave me the verdict that I
craved; I aced both. I was so fucking stoked I could have been stoned. A
bit of air went out of me, though, when we got home to find Pa's truck
already in the drive. A tiny voice that I couldn't squash whispered, 'Well,
this can't be good.'

It wasn't. Pa had completely rebuilt the front steps, not just replaced the
one rotted tread and riser. And he'd painted it. The porch was sanded and
stained with a sign saying to use the Kitchen door. We walked around to the
side and saw that the flowerbed had been completely replanted with summer
annuals. My feet were leaden as I tried to count points. Could he have
gotten to sixty? Wasn't it cheating to take time off work?

The last straw was waiting inside. A huge thing of flowers was on the table
and over the TV in the Living Room was a giant banner, "Congratulations
Greg & Karl!" Pa came down the stairs beaming. He hugged me then Greg,
slapping our backs and praising our hard work. For the first time since I
was, like, three, my heart didn't soar hearing him laud something I'd
done. Greg headed to the kitchen and Pa interrupted him.

^ "No, son, you get a real break today. I stopped by Miguel's and there's a
tray of enchiladas and another of tamales in the oven, with rice and beans
keeping warm. Guac is in the fridge!" Pa was, literally, beaming, delighted
with the surprise and delight on my older brother's face.

I slunk off to my room for a while, eventually changing and showering the
day away. My best fucking day EVER and Pa still managed to beat me.

I came down trying vainly to smile, or at least not grimace. Pa dished out
the food and the praise in equal measures. And I'll admit, the food was
fucking awesome. It might as well have been Taco Hell, though, for all I
cared.

The Pa dropped his next bomb. "So I talked to Jerry. He's got your uniform
and everything ready so you can start tomorrow! Great, huh?"

I looked at Pa, shaking my head. "What?"

"I worked it all out and you can start in the morning, Karl! He's got
everything laid out for you and can show you the ropes before they
open. You have a solid job for the whole summer! Just be there by 8:00 so
you can help him open at 9:00."

I just kept slowly shaking my head, staring at this man who had taught me
everything but, apparently, had no idea what I wanted. "Pa, I'm not gonna
work all summer. Especially not this weekend! This is our last summer,
like, ever! I'm going to a couple parties tomorrow, and I'll be camping
with some buds at least one week, and Charlie has invited me to go with
them to the lake house in August."

"Well, you'll just have to tell him you've got something more important."

"Pa, are you even listening? I'm not working this summer, at least not
anything more than odd jobs and such. It's my last summer, Pa, and I'm
going to relax some."

"No, you're not. You're a man now and you'll work like one." Pa's voice was
low and final. And wrong.

"No, Pa, I'm a man making decisions for myself about his very last summer
of freedom. It's not happening, Pa. I'm not gonna work for the Blacks. I'm
just not."

"The FUCK you're not! Don't you DARE throw this away. I worked hard to get
you this!"

"No, Pa, you worked hard to get YOU this. YOU decided and never even asked
me. Did you get Greg a job? No."

"Greg doesn't NEED a job. He's got the brains to get a ride at Purdue. YOU
need a job cuz YOU need to help pay for your fucking college in a year." He
was up and in my face now.

And I was done. This week had been a rollercoaster and today was the
worst. From the highest high to the lowest low, and now Pa was deciding to
throw away the only reward I got for a gruelling year, my last free summer?

I got up in his face, too. "No, Pa, I'll pay for college but not by working
this summer. I know you might be too old to remember freedom, but I'm
not. It's not happening, Pa."

"Like FUCK it's not."

"Go. To. Hell. Old. Man."

We both froze, snorting and staring, at a delicate cough from the other
side of the kitchen.

Greg stood with arms crossed, foot tapping. "I just wanted to make sure you
knew where the Tupperware was so you can pack up whatever you don't eat."

"What?" Identical echoes from both of us.

"Karl, you did better than I ever expected today, and this week. Pa, you
did amazing stuff and really made me feel special today. I was gonna give
you both the night of your life. Maybe even the night of MY life. Then you
both fuck it up." He was crying now with rage. "Screaming at each other,
insulting each other. I'm done. Clean up the mess and I'll see you tonight
at some point. I'm headed out, and will be sleeping in my room, my LOCKED
room, tonight. Congratulations, Pa. Congratulations, Karl. Enjoy your nice
cold beds."

With that he spun and ran upstairs, crying. He was back, dressed for a
party and out the door before either of us got our jaws off the floor. I
didn't even look at Pa. I just set about cleaning the kitchen, putting away
edibles and dumping the rest. Pa finished his plate, washed it what else
was in the sink then stalked off to the living room and I listened as a
game came on.

I went upstairs, sorta dazed, and dressed in hot, tight clothes that I knew
would be a hit on the body I'd pumped for Greg's enjoyment. I decided
literally as I was driving that the jock bash was more my speed and headed
down to "the beach", an open area on French Lick Creek across from the
movie theatre, the start of a mudding track for ATVers. The party was in
full swing around a bonfire in a ring of cinderblocks. One of the reasons
that Jock parties were better was that every coach at the school had made
it clear that a single toke, a single drunken act in public, and you would
never see the inside of the locker rooms again. So, the upshot is no cops
and no (or very little) drinking or fucking off.

Now, fucking itself, though, was definitely on the menu. Every girl who
loved hunks and their junk was there, teasing and oh-so-willing to slip off
across the culvert to the woods for a little sumpin-sumpin. I joked around
and flirted, taking a hit or two off the inevitable bottle of Jack making
its way around, but not even getting a buzz on. Plenty of couples wandered
off, but I just couldn't get into it.

Pretty much all the jocks were there, but there was enough overlap (like me
and the blockheads) that there were some notable exceptions. Matt was the
big one. He was Quarterback on the varsity squad, but he was also dating
Tiffany, so she's probably roped him into the Sosh (society-type)
soiree. David (no one, NO ONE, used his first name, Wilfred, unless they
were acutely suicidal) from Wrestling, but he was in with Becky with the
band crowd. A couple others. Two, David and Dan, both knew they never make
varsity so I was pretty sure they were at the super-secret Stoner's Ball as
coach's wrath didn't mean anything any longer.

I did get a smile, though, when I saw Trevor head to the woods alone,
presumably to take a leak (even though most guys used the line of tree this
side of the canal). Trevor was a star wrester, a pocket Hercules, small and
immensely powerful. Cute as all fuck, too, with girls dripping off
him. About two minutes later, Bill Chamber headed across as well. Unlike
Trevor, Bill (a huge, burly defensive tackle with SERIOUS 'tackle' and an
insatiable need for pussy; he'd more than earned the nickname of Billygoat)
looked like his was about to shit himself with nerves, looking around so
guiltily that you'd have to be blind not to realise he was up to no good.

I gave him a few minutes, then sauntered over and pissed against one of
trees like the other guys, then casually strolled across and into the
woods. It was a near-moonless night, so I was navigating by ear. I knew I
could avoid the high-pitched squeals, one of which was unmistakably that of
Candy Mills; she must have found a jock she hadn't screwed cuz you'd have
to be pretty horny to go for seconds. I caught a whiff of Sherry's perfume
-- she went for the scents designed to stun the unwary guy at a distance
long enough she could get into his pants. Since they were all to the left,
I headed right, staying just inside the treeline, guessing that the same
fuck-noises I was hearing would have driven the sneaky ones in the opposite
direction.

And damned if I wasn't right. I'd gone at least fifty yards when I heard a
moan, quickly stifled, deeper in the brushy woods. I found a vantage point
and watched, spellbound. Trevor was on his knees with the Billygoat's pants
not only undone but all the way off, giving what appeared to be an expert
blow job. Bill was massive, with shoulders and legs you couldn't get in any
gym, but only as a gift from God, and then only if you kept the hard work
for a lifetime. The fur on his lower legs was shiny and red even in the
moonlight.

Trevor would deepthroat the massive dick then pop up to work the head. I
watched for a few minutes, giving him an 8 for 10 on his
technique. Billygoat got increasingly vocal and Trevor stood and shoved
something into his mouth, turning the cries into subtle moans as Trev went
back to work. From the hip motions and pitch of Billygoat's moans, he was
getting close.

He was so lust-drunk I'm not even sure Billygoat noticed when Trev spun him
around and leaned his chest against the tree. Billygoat hugged it like a
lover and nearly screamed through the muffle when Trev dove into his
crack. The big guy was bucking and squirming like a madman. I could tell
when Trevor scored his goal; Billygoat went so rigid it was like he'd been
electrocuted and I knew that an epic rim had kicked off.

And damn if Trev didn't have game! Within a couple minutes, Billygoat was
in full rut. Trev had his own jeans open and a tiny tube of something in
one hand. I saw one finger go up and enter Billygoat and I could clearly
hear his moan even muffled and at this distance. Trevor was sill riming
him, reaching around on occasion to make certain that Billy's goat was
still completely interested, then adding the second finger. I could tell
again when Trev got to Billygoat's joy button, again he had that
electrocuted look and a high, needy keening.

When the third finger entered though, Bill ripped the gag out and whined,
"Oh, GOD, Trevor. I'm sorry. I just can't. Please!"

For a little guy, Trevor's voice was a deep, rumbling bass, even deeper
than Pa's. He never pulled his fingers out of Bill, but his time was thick
with serious intent.

"You listen to me and listen close. You chicken out this time, and I
guarantee you the worst case of blue balls in your life, William Chamber."

Bill groaned.

"The first time you begged me to fuck you and you freaked, I felt bad for
you and finished you with a long, slow blow job which you fucking
loved. Last time -- remember last time? -- I let you take care of your own
pussy-assed self. Tonight, tonight will be different.

"You have fucking begged me for two solid weeks. BEGGED me, Bill. Let me
lay out exactly what will happen if you back out right now. First, I will
get you right to the edge, pull up your pants and drag you by the belt back
to the fireside. I will then proceed to tease your cock every time I walk
by AND cock-block you with every chick and every guy there. You won't even
get to PISS before dawn. I will be on you like white on rice.

"And I won't stop. I know you have to be at work tomorrow at 9:00, and I am
going to fucking make sure you barely have time to shower, and I'm going to
sit down and chat all fucking day with your dad at the store, and I will
make sure you never get 30 seconds alone. You will hurt so bad by lunch
you'll want to cut your fucking balls off. YOU GET ME, WILLIAM CHAMBER?"

Even in the scant light and from a way off, I could see the whites all the
way round Billygoat's eyes as he looked down at the crouching Trevor. This
mountain of a young man, looking with abject horror as the pint-sized
wrestler at his feet. A real live David with three fingers up Goliath's
ass. Finally, Billygoat just nodded once, stuffed the gag (I think it was
his own undies) back in his mouth and grabbed the tree like a life
preserver. Trevor went back to work on that massive jock ass.

It took maybe five minutes before the massive footballer's whines and
squeaks turned to moans and muffled begging. Trevor took another minute and
lubed up his own nice-sized dick. He had a long, slender shaft with a
bullet-shaped head and way too much foreskin. He was boned to the max and
his pink head barely peeked out. Trevor lubed his glans and under the
foreskin before pulling it as far forward as the skin would stretch, making
a huge pucker of skin. He stood and moved forward slowly. Billygoat tensed
like he was about to take a huge hit on the field and I could just hear
Trevor's deep voice soothing the big guy.

Without any real warning, he gave a short, sharp thrust forward and
Billygoat's head snapped back in real pain. Trevor didn't move a muscle,
and Billygoat had nowhere to go. Gradually, Bill's whole body relaxed and
Trev let Billygoat's own weight push him back. With all that skin, the
probably wasn't even the slightest friction on Bill's ass until he was
nearly a third of the way in.

When they reached that point, Trev started to slowly saw back and forth,
with a gentleness that matched Pa's. With a sudden roar into the gag,
Billygoat lunged his ass back, taking Trev down to the short and
curlies. Trev took that as a pretty clear sign and began to throw Billygoat
the fuck of a lifetime. I couldn't have turned away if I'd tried.

Trev took Billygoat on long and fantastic ride. I know Billygoat shot
twice, once without touching himself and once as Trevor approached his own
climax, both times painting the tree he clung to with blast after blast of
thick jock-butter, chunkily dripping down the smooth bark. The last cum was
pretty impressive, with Trevor uttering a near-silent scream through
clenched jaws and Billygoat writhing and panting and trying to fuck himself
just *that* much deeper with Trev's erupting cock.

I slipped off after rearranging myself and smiling at my own slime dripping
from the thick leaves of the bush I'd hidden behind. I was in a truly
mellow mood back at the fire, and watched Billygoat and Trevor saunter back
separately and quite deliciously together even across the fire. Billygoat
flirted and groped a wide array of girls and Trevor set to his normal
chick-magnet brooding stare, but I was pretty sure that not one of those
babes would be getting what Trevor was saving up for his big ole Billygoat.

I left with the first cut, those with early jobs or who'd promised to hit
another party, so I made it home just shy of 11:00. Pa was still in front
of the TV, clearly not watching the post-game talking heads. He looked at
me for a long time as I sat down, then turned off the TV.

"Karl, I'm sorry. I've been so used to teaching you, coaching you, that I
forgot to let you be Karl. I was wrong. I already called Jer, and told him
I'd screwed up and forgot you had other plans. I made sure he's not going
to be pissed at you, and you can pick up work from him at your pace."

"Pa, I gave a lot of thought. You were really just trying to take care of
me. I blew up cuz, I don't know, this week had just been murder. Up and
down over and over, and this competition thing is killing me. I don't want
to 'win' Greg and I don't want to 'beat' you."

"So you forgive me, sport?"

"If you do me, Pa." I stood and walked over and shook with him and he
pulled me into a long hug. I snuggled into him like I had since I was a
kid. I knew I was too big to curl up in his lap, but did it anyways, sort
of, sitting on the arm of the chair more than his lap and putting my head
in the crook of his neck.

We were sitting like that when Greg got home. Pa and I froze when we heard
another voice. A voice that was unmistakable to both me and Pa, as we heard
it at every football game where I played and he watched -- Matt Salazar,
Sasquatch, Prom King, Homecoming King, Quarterback of the football team in
his Junior year and destined for some serious scouting in his Senior
one. Pa and I looked at each other, then up at the two of them standing
there. Matt was blushing furiously and looking at anyplace but us. Greg
just smiled.

<eof>

I wonder if Greg realises just how restless the natives are under the new
regime. I guess we'll find out. Let me know your thoughts, likes and
dislikes; they make this and other stories better every chapter:
orson.cadell@gmail.com

*****

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