Date: Sun, 25 Dec 2016 19:15:04 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 2 - We Need to Talk

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/karl-and-greg)
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.

*****

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.

Karl & Greg 2: We Need to Talk

When I woke the next morning, I kept my eyes shut tight as I killed the
alarm. It was a bad dream. I did NOT humiliate myself. I did NOT ruin the
first time that Pa paid me any attention. I did NOT cum all over him,
whimpering like a fucking girl. I did NOT fuck my entire life. But I could
feel a slight tug from the rinse-defying remains of the epic cum that
cemented my pubes together. I did all those things. I DID all those
things. I did a sort of sob + hiccough thing and flung my legs out of
bed. Defeated, dejected, bereft.

^ I always get up an hour before Pa so I can get his lunch ready (today was
a thermos of rock-em-sock-em-strong and sweeeeeet coffee, another of tomato
soup, a salami sandwich, some Ruffles and a diet [seriously?] Coke), and
then make a hot breakfast (always the same: three fried eggs, exactly five
slice of Canadian bacon, also fried, slightly-burnt toast and a HUGE mug of
that sugar-caffeine sludge Pa calls coffee). I do this on autopilot, not
really even aware of my actions as I assemble the meals for him. It's only
when I hear the flush of his toilet did the freight train of reality slam
into me. I was literally shaking and wide-eyed as he blundered through the
door and sat heavily on the kitchen chair. Time stood still as I awaited
the axe that would surely descend to end my existence.

Pa took his first bite, "mmm'ed" and then looked at the petrified bunny
that I had become. "What? Ya din't poison it did ya? Tastes fine. Good
breakfast, kid." He looked back to his plate, shovelling the next helping
into that already-stubbled jaw (Pa shaved and showered at night), ignoring
me completely.

Three different levels of shock washed across me. First, he didn't kill me
or throw me into the street. Second, he looked me in the eye and didn't
even give me the disgusted and repulsed look I so richly deserved. Third,
he actually praised something I did, something I did every damn day, a
first since Mom passed. At some point in there, my heart started beating
and I gasped, not realising my lungs had been empty since I heard the
flush.

I can only imagine what Pa saw as he wolfed his chow. I am certain that my
eyes were the size of baseballs, my jaw was slack and my breathing
ragged. I assume that I shook like an aspen in a strong wind and that I was
either drained-of-blood-white or lava-coloured-red. I didn't make a single
voluntary movement until Pa glanced up and grunted, "Good. See ya
tonight. Ya always make good grub, but make sumpin special tonight,
stud. We need to talk." With that last growl, Pa strode out, paw snagging
the lunch kit as he bulldozed past, and was out the door before I even
realise who I was.

I am relatively certain that I showered, dressed and made it to school. The
only evidence of this were a few brief flashes of memory where people were
conspicuously NOT looking at me like a stinking, nekkid whack job in
various classes. Other than that, the next actual thought I had occurred
when I reached the house around 4:30. What the FUCK was I gonna cook that
qualified as "special?

^ I was home about three seconds before I sprinted to the corner market,
blindly grabbing ingredients and paying for them in a breathless haze. What
I made it home with was a truly motley collection, but it did have a rib
steak, a lot of fresh parsley and ears of corn. I grilled the first and
last and made a pesto of the middle ingredient. As the steak rested, I made
a hot salad of the corn and various cheeses and veggies. I was slicing the
steak as Pa stumbled through the door, and the parsley sauce hit the steak
just as Pa's ass hit the chair.

^ Pa looked down, looked up at me, and locked gazes. I didn't know if the
look was curious, furious or querulous, but I used every nerve I had to
hold that gaze until he dropped his eyes back and sampled the steak. I
swear to god he groaned. His first taste of the corn salad came with a
moan. His first bite with all of it came with the best reward of all. An
eye-locked stare, slow, big smile, and an eventually grunt of, "Fucking
amazing, kid. Seriously."

Yeah, I'll admit it, I learnt the meaning of 'swooned' and came close to
the practice. Every red corpuscle went to either to my face or my
crotch. My Pa had, had, had not only praised me but loved something I had
done. I think I might have nibbled as I basked in Pa's slavering devourment
of my "special" meal. His last grunt, last sigh, last sitting-back
signalled the end of the meal, and my trepidation mounted. What exactly
did, "We need to talk," actually MEAN?

"Okay, kid. Yeah, we really do need to talk. Finish up down here and then
go up to your room. I want ta clean up and I'll be there shortly." He
frowned slightly, his voice both serious and reflective. When I didn't move
(or, frankly, even breathe), he chuffed and stood, heading off to his
bathroom.  I am not sure how I did so, but I seemed to manage cleaning the
kitchen and putting the leftovers away without actually taking a breath or
blinking. I could hear the shower as I went to my room and stripped off the
day's clothes.

I honestly didn't realise it at the time, but I had dressed in the
Pa-mandated jock-and-boxers combo that morning. When I was down to that, it
startled me, and I think put a bit of backbone into me. I had done three
things RIGHT. He liked my breakfast, he loved my dinner, and I learned how
a man dresses underneath the outer clothes. Maybe this would be okay.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't. 'We need to talk.' The phrase should be
banned. It dripped with dread. 'We need to talk,' meant, 'We need to
explain just how badly you've fucked up,' or maybe, 'We need to decide what
to do with this worthless kid I've been saddled with,' or, 'We need to
straighten out this faggy son of mine.' The options kept getting worse and
more far-fetched as I sat on my bed and stewed. I think my heart about
stopped when I heard Pa come through the door. I popped up like some
demented jack-in-the-box.

Pa stopped and watched me for a minute, face inscrutable. I saw his brow
furrow and an almost sad look come to his lips. "You really scared
something is wrong, aren't ya champ?" Again with the hypnotised-bunny
thing, I stood breathless as he came up and so very tenderly took my
shoulders and looked through my eyes and seemingly into my soul. "We need
to talk not cuz you've done anything wrong, but because I fucked up as a
father. I need to make this shit right, and I need you to let me. Okay,
sport?"

He turned me and sat me back on the bed. I guess I was like Valentine
Michael Smith in 'Stanger in a Strange Land'; he repositioned me like a
stop-motion animation, utterly pliable to his manipulation but also utterly
immobile once moved. My eyes never left his and when he turned, they locked
on where his eyes would be when he turned again. It was only in my
peripheral vision that I noticed suddenly, Pa was naked. His hair was damp
and the few places that he wasn't furred glistened with left-over moisture
from his shower.

Pa spun the old harp-backed chair I used around. It had lost the
centrepiece of the back and was nothing more than a great wooden loop. When
he sat, his... junk flopped over the edge of the seat, framed by the wood,
thickset legs to either side and arms crossed along the chair-back. It was
without qualification the sexiest, most masculine thing I had ever seen or
imagined.

My eyes, temporarily drawn to the magnet of his crotch, snapped back to his
eyes to find that he had clearly noticed my centre of attention, and
clearly didn't mind. "I spent a lot of time teaching Karl about being a
man, you know. He always came to me, always asked. I guess cuz you were so
quiet, so composed, so damnably like your Mom, I assumed you either already
knew or didn't care what I could teach you, and I regret that."

I knew that tears had just invaded my vision but I didn't care and couldn't
control them. It was as if Pa had read my heart's desire and decided to
give me that and so very much more. I thought I'd burst. "First, we need to
talk a bit about what makes men and women different," he saw something in
my face and frowned, "not the parts, kid, but what ye are. What makes a guy
a guy. I can see the tears ye got there, so we'll start with that."

My hands flew to my face trying to eliminate the evidence of that girlish
emotion, and Pa grabbed my hand. "Men cry, son; we cry. That don't make you
less a man. The difference is what real men cry over. Tears of pain, of
rage, of love, of joy, of release. Those are just as manly as screams of
pain, rage, love, joy or release. It's the man in you so full of energy,
force and power that the tears either erupt, or you do. Women cry for some
of that, but they more cry *from* something, from some need. They cry from
longing, from regret, from shame (which is just the need for self-respect)
and from guilt. If the tears I see in you are what I think, tears *of*
either joy or love or release, cry away. If they're *from* shame or guilt,
though, I need to know right now."

I dropped my eyes to my feet and shook my head, then said the first words
that I'd spoken to him since my outburst last night. "No, Pa," not
unexpectedly, my voice croaked with disuse and emotion. "No, it's joy
or... maybe release? Relief? I've wanted you to teach me for so long, soooo
long, and I guess I never had the guts - the balls - to ask. Maybe there's
some shame in there, and maybe some regret. I'm sorry. I don't want to
disappoint you ever again." My voice trailed off from croaking through
mumbling to murmuring. By the final sentence, I doubt a mouse could have
heard me, so his next words made me jump a bit.

"Did I hear you say 'disappoint' me? You have never disappointed me! You
hear me? You are a good kid. More important, a good son; MY good son," he
growled, sounding genuinely like a bear, "and don't you ever fucking forget
that!" He gripped my chin and forced me to look at him. What I saw was a
mix of things I never considered together: He was ferocious and
compassionate, demanding and begging, protective and in some way needing
protection in return. I nodded and he strengthened his grip and raised his
bushy eyebrows. "Yes, Pa. I get it. I know it. I should have always known
it."

"That's the next thing we gotta work on, son. The whole 'strong, silent
type' bullshit is for movies. Men say what they mean. They
communicate. Yeah, something that is without words, but real men never,
ever bottle it up or hide it. That's what caught me off guard last night."

My heart, just a moment ago soaring, sunk so fast I literally thought I
would blow the nibbles of dinner I'd had all over the room. Here it was. We
had gotten to the deepest pit of humiliation and shame. I fought, though,
fought the tears because I really did want to learn from Pa. Men did NOT
cry over shame. Real men didn't NEED to cry over humiliation because a real
man could not be humiliated. I took a deep, shuddering breath and met his
eyes. "I fucked up. I'm sorry. I want to do better."

"SHIT!" I nearly pissed myself at his vehemence. "What the FUCK do I have
to say to get you to figure out you ain't in trouble!
You. Did. Nothing. Wrong. I had expected you to act like I'd taught Karl to
act. You didn't cuz I fucked up and never taught you!" His voice was deep,
urgent, hammering at me.

"Once I'd cleaned up your completely unexpected cum explosion - amazing
load, by the way, stud - I realised that I never thought you were close cuz
you never said nuthin. I was pissed cuz I expected moans, groans, filthy
shouts and dirty fucking screams long before you reached your trigger. You
sat there like a complete fucking stone, like nothing I did even got close
to your buttons, much less pushed them. Then KABOOM!" His hand came down on
my desk, making me jump again.

"Some sorta cum volcano blew its lid right in my lap. I hollered and you
dissolved in tears and ran. And. I. Was. Wrong." My head snapped up and I
gaped at him. "I was wrong and I need you to forgive me so I can make up
for lost time. So I can teach you what I shoulda taught you years
ago. Teach you to be a man. More, teach you to be your own man. Teach you
to be Greg, my son, my Greg. Whatya say, sport?"

"Yes!" I held enough control not to start leaking snot and tears, but it
was a close run thing. "Yes. I don't have to forgive you cuz I was
the... the one who never... who never asked, never came close,
never... never had the g-guts to... never let you be my PA! I need what you
g-got, and I need it real b-bad, Pa!" He reached forward and grabbed my
shoulder. I saw his face change. Pride, love, anticipation were there for
sure. But underneath was a shadow of what looked like lust, like triumph
and wicked grin as well. "Good then. Let's start."

<eof>