Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2017 20:05:53 -0400
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com> Subject: Karl and Greg 21

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.

*****

Pa gave one of the evillest chuckles I'd ever heard and paused. "But you
know, son, we also don't want to lose the work we've done so far." He
reached down and tied a noose of ribbon around Greg's entire package and
cinched it tight. Greg couldn't cum from the one ribbon, and wouldn't go
soft until the new one was snipped. Greg's pleas and screams and curses and
pitiful moans were largely swallowed by the drenched jock strap. It was
some of the sweetest music I'd ever heard as Pa and I went back down to the
living room, clinking our beer bottles in a quick, erotic toast.

*****

Karl and Greg 21: The Welcome Matt

By Bear Pup

M/M;

[Note: It took me a long time to track down Matt Salazar the quarterback
that the Barcas knew as Sasquatch. He is now a sports-caster under a
different, more marketable name in a Midwestern city whose best chance at a
national champion is a Russian invasion that conquers every city on both
coasts and most of the Rust Belt. It took even longer for him to agree to
tell his story; he is worried is might interfere with the budding success
of his seventh marriage. He kept switching from past-tense of 'what I
remember' to the present-tense of actual memory; just to make my editor
cray-cray, I found it charming and left it. - Orson]

Oh, fuck yeah, I remember that night. I was at the "Sosh" party with
Tiffany Chamber, twin of one of the tackles who always put such a hurt on
me in scrimmage. Funny nickname. Yeah, that's it. Billygoat. Ha! Insatiable
like a Billygoat and always boned even in the showers, right, pussy hound
extraordinaire and hung like a yak. Damned if he wasn't Tiffany's twin in
the sex thing, too, cuz that girl could fuck you senseless.

But that's the problem. Tiffany's only speed was "fuck". Foreplay was the
football game, dude, or the dance or the movie or the, I dunno, the ride
home? Get her anyplace remotely private and she wanted Tab A inserted in
Slot B *right now*! And to be honest, for a hot chick, she just wasn't that
good. I dated her basically to piss off Billygoat after one too many nasty
comments (and nasty hits).

So anyway, I'm there with a slight buzz on. I mean, it's a month before
Football Camp and coach isn't likely to crash a party hosted by Mrs Mayer
the Mayor herself (who promptly left at 6:01 after *un*locking the liquor
cabinet and kissing her 'precious' Monica goodnight). It was probably
8:30. I'm pretty sure that her 'precious' was upstairs on Mommy's bed,
conductor of her own personal train with a steady stream of 'players'
begging to be a caboose.

I was in luck for the first time in weeks. Tiffany had set her sights on
the exchange student that none of the chicks had been able to bag. He was
leaving on Monday for, fuck, some cold European place where everyone was
tall, blond, girly, pouty and named Hans and Lars and shit. From what I
could tell, she had the best shot of any of the girls... but that wasn't
much. I was pretty sure that pretty boy was musically inclined; from what
I'd heard those plump lips had played a tune or two on the skin-flute half
the guys on the marching band and the entire (all black) drum line. Don't
get me wrong, I'm not knocking it. I've had my share of guys swinging on
Big Matt, but he was too pretty even for me.

Anyway, I'm buzzed and doing my normal thing, leaning against a fireplace
or pillar or something else that would let me flex without being obvious. I
spent 90 minutes on the weights before getting ready and every vein
popped. I had a few nibbles from chicks so far, but most of the Society
types were either Monica/Tiffany types or chicks you'd need glue-solvent
and the jaws of life to pry their legs open. I mean where's the fun of the
hunt if the kill (or lack of one) was a foregone conclusion?

French Lick is not exactly Manhattan. Even if you include the West Baden
crowd (the other half of the Springs Valley High students), there is a
serious limit on the quantity and variety of available tail. I was giving
serious thought to ditching and trying Jock Beach, but I couldn't think of
a snatch that would be over there that would be much better than the slim
pickings here.

And in walks Barca's brother.

Barca is serious threat on the field. He's not a bastard like Billygoat,
but an all-around threat who is way too fucking good at being *exactly*
where I don't want him in the middle of a play. Unlike me, a true one-trick
pony, Barca was a triple threat. He lettered in football, wrestling and
baseball, and was first string in the first and last.

His brother was what I classed as a Dark Horse. He did something, maybe
diving or tennis, that kept him is serious condition. He was unquestionably
competition with a bookish, shy and quiet 'come-get-me' look that girls
loved and features that were right out of an Aeropostale ad, except
almost-painfully blond. But he never, ever poached a girl. In fact... I
couldn't recall a single chick who claimed to have bagged him. Locker room
brags are smoke and wishful thinking; girl chatter? It was fucking gospel
and no bitch ever claimed to get him further than the flirting stage.

Now, I'd be a fucking idiot if, with my looks and skills on the field, I'd
said not to *every* guy who wanted to swing from Big Matt. Gay? Straight?
Labels are for liquor bottles. I never chased, though, I always got chased
by guys who wanted a piece of what I had below the belt.

The other Barca, Greg? He was so fucking smooth and cool. He didn't drink a
drop of the booze that was free-flowing; he drank 7-Up with a wedge
of... yeah, a wedge of lime. Every dude and chick there thought he was
downing vodka-sodas or something that he was sipping soda-pop.

I watched as he floated through the party. He was fucking Teflon, dude,
girls and the occasional guy just slid off like... I don't know. He moved
like a cat on the prowl. He looked at me exactly twice. Once when blowing
off a girl named Jennifer who loved to play the virgin but had more notches
on her belt than Snoopy & the Red Baron combined. Another when
Lars/Hans/Fucktard tried to draw him into the discussion over Tiffany's
blazing objections.

Okay, so how did I know *exactly* how many times he looked at me? From the
time he came in, he was the only thing I saw. Did other people know? Nah,
it was no different than the field when no one (other than the fucking
Barca kid) knew which receiver I had pegged. Now, I'd seen 'the other
Barca' for years, but somehow the brother just, I dunno, *glowed* that
night. As is required at parties, I lost sight of him as he circulated
through the rooms. Damn but this was a boring party except for him. I
looked down at my dry ice cubes and considered which insanely expensive
booze to try next.

"You seem bored." The soft, velvet voice sounded someplace around my
shoulder. I casually and seductively turned... yeah, fuck that. I jumped
like a fucking rabbit. I was a head taller than him (about and foot taller
than the 'other' Barca kid, no good it did me on the field).

I looked down and realised I'd never before seen someone with green
eyes. Had I? Hadn't that chick...? Fuck it, certainly not eyes like those!
Greg's eyes, well, they flashed and sparked like a fire the time we camped
on the beach and burned driftwood. There was fire, sure, but the sudden BAM
of green sparks made everything else... boring.

Worse, Greg was smiling. It was a lazy, slow, confident smile. It made me,
the big football jock, tremble like a freshman cheerleader. I shifted and
tried even harder to flex and pose. He just laughed.

"Matt, you don't need that. You are the most gorgeous man here and you know
it. Why primp and preen when all you need to do is smile?"

Before I could summon a smile, he's gone. FUCK! Where did he go? I'm
looking frantically like it was a fourth-down pass play with everyone
covered. I got my breathing under control and pretended I was just looking
around. I fooled everyone except, if he was looking, Greg Barca (or, if he
were here, his fucking, overly-perceptive brother).  I hate feeling this
exposed!

I settled back to my generic pose and acknowledged a few guys and a number
of girls (all sluts or lock-knees), usually with a nod and, when they
thought they were important, a smile as well. I'd finally got back to
normal when I heard, "It's not working you know..."

I spun like a fucking ballerina. Greg was leaning casually against the wall
next to the fireplace I'd staked out as my flex-pose home. "Wuh?"

"You're trying to look casual and a little bored, but you're nervous as a
cat. Calm down, Matt. You are still the hottest guy here," he purred.

I looked around to see (a) who might be looking, (b) who might look better
and (c) who I might move in on Greg. No one. No one. Everyone. I turned
back to Greg and he was gone again. I suddenly realised that I was
rock-hard and made a beeline for any bathroom that was not already occupied
by some bimbo with a blow job fetish. It took so long to go soft enough to
piss that people were banging the door before I finally let loose my
stream.

It suddenly dawned on me as I left the john, and not in a happy way: I'd
gone from predator to prey. Hmm, or had I? Maybe Greg was just trying to
get my attention. Well, mission accomplished. Fine. Game on.

I found an empty bedroom and spent a couple minutes putting the polish on
my look, especially rearranging the package. In fact... I made a quick
change. I laughed as I thought of the maid finding my boxers next to the
dresser, then thought that she'd likely have a large collection of undies
from both sexes after this party. I coiled my snake around my heavy,
churning nuts, then tucked the tail of my tee along either side to make
sure the display was perfect alongside the buttons of my faded and
skin-tight 501s. I used my boxers and spit to scrub off any trace of my
antiperspirant; I wanted to sweat for this one.  Quick look in the
mirror. Damn! I'd fuck me!

And the hunt began. I danced for a while to make sure I had a bit of whiff
going then started the chase. I made sure to casually rub or bump against
him, always in passing, never stopping to chat or even smile. Greg was
starting to look a little nervous himself and something crowed inside me. I
finally got the perfect shot.

Greg was at the bar getting another soda and I moved in behind him. I
reached across him, making sure my pit ended up just a few inches from his
nose and watched in the mirror as his nostrils flared and eyes widened. I
subtly made sure to press every inch of my body against him as I snagged
another beer and felt him quiver. FUCK! Another second or two and I'd be
boning.

I turned and walked off with even a glance, but a close eye on the mirror
over the mantle. He noticed; oh, man, did Greg notice! Chasing a guy was so
very different than a chick, and I hadn't done it often. But I knew that
the big thing was that every guy, even prey like Greg, wanted to think of
himself as the predator. I let him stalk me, using mirrors and quick
glances to make sure that he stayed on the trail but could never get too
close.

Have been to several things at the Mayer's, including a couple of daytime
barbeques, I knew the layout of the place pretty well. When I could see
that the hook was set, I stepped out past the smokers then past the
pot-pipe being passed and stepped onto the path to the left. Most couple
would head right or straight since that's where the benches were,
strategically placed to provide semi-private fuck-nooks. It was just after
senior year, maybe 13 months later, that we found out why. Damn, but Mayor
Meyer was a twisted bitch!

I laid in wait for only a minute as Greg rounded the cedars at speed,
obviously afraid he'd lost me. He squeaked in a way that put me instantly
on the rail as I grabbed him and spun him against the side of the house,
trapping him with arms braced against the wall, legs wide and body blocking
any escape. Even I could smell my musk as it enveloped Greg, and I could
see him revel in it.

"Looking for someone, Mr Barca?"

"Um, no." He was breathy which turned me on even more. I leant in, making
sure that he could feel my manhood as I pressed into his long, lean body.

"Sure about that, Greg?"

"..." It was not a whimper, but something close enough that my ego crowed
in triumph and lust.

I leaned in closer. His lips parted and I knew I had him. I moved past the
pouting, luscious mouth and nuzzled into his neck and behind the ear. I
could feel him squirm, his hard and leaking cock unconsciously thrusting
against me as he failed to stifle a low moan. I brought my hands off the
wall, one to the back of his neck and one to that bubble-like ass, then
moved in for a kiss.

I smiled as I felt his mouth open instantly, begging for a tongue
fuck. Denied. I kissed him long, hard, closed-mouth until he was writhing,
then opened up and duelled with his tongue. I cracked open one eye and saw
the desperation in his face. This was not a girl on a mission to bed the
football stud, it was a guy desperate to be touched, taken, made love to.

I pulled out of the kiss and lost myself in those startling green eyes as
his head moved forward trying to recapture my lips. I put on my best
bedroom voice, that low growl that inevitably got girls wet and panting for
me, "What now, Greg? Your call, baby."

Greg's voice was about two octaves higher than normal as he panted, "Your
truck. Oh, God! My house. Now."

I kept him locked beside me with an arm around his waist and the other
stroking his side and chest as I walked him to the side gate and out. We
were in my truck in seconds and away. My arm never left Greg, but moved
from waist to shoulder. Greg curled into me, all twelves of his hands on my
legs, chest, abs, hair, shoulders... everywhere but my cock. I could have
screamed from the need he was driving me to. Okay, so the boy got game!

I knew generally where Karl lived, and Greg refined it with a few words,
the heat of his breath on my ear causing me to shudder and gasp. We pulled
up and I didn't even notice the two trucks in the drive. I was panting with
need and telling him how much I wanted him. He pulled me into an intense
kiss in the shadow of the porch, hands down my jeans for the first time,
teasing and stroking me with feather-light touches before he suddenly spun
and pulled me through the door.

FUUUUCK! Barca and his Pa were watching a baseball game. Right fucking
*there*, dude, now both staring at us. For the first time since I was,
like, seven, I froze, completely lost as to what to do next. Pa Barca's
face was murder with a side of a slow and painful death. Karl, though, had
the same look he had on the field... just before he busted my perfect
play. Face set and unreadable, eyes bright and alert, body poised to
seriously fuck up whatever plans I might have.

Karl unfolded and moved toward me in nothing but a fucking jock strap and a
grin. Damn, fuck, was he hot as hell, and his fuzzy, muscled body was boned
to boot. I blinked like I was in an epileptic seizure, awaiting the
hit. Instead, he stuck out his hand and gave me a grin. I grabbed his hand
and he pulled me into a bro hug. His scent hit me like a defensive end,
unexpected and unstoppable. Two hard-as-hell back pats, my body returning
the gesture on autopilot as I realised that sudden death was not,
apparently, on the menu this evening. I glanced at Greg and saw a look of
intense concentration.  This reaction was as surprising to him as to me,
but apparently for different reasons.

"Sasquatch, dude! Great to see you tonight." Karl moved off giving me a
shot of that furry butt and I felt a surge of dogwater in my pants. Greg
was sex on a stick, sure, but Karl was no slouch! "Greg? Matt? Anyone for a
brew?"

Before I could find my voice, Karl was back with four longnecks, one for Pa
Barca, one each for me and Greg and then his own. He settled in his own
armchair facing the game. I finally realised that Greg had been tugging at
me and I moved forward, beer in one hand, Greg in the other. I mumbled some
lame hello to still-murderous Pa Barca as I was dragged up the stairs.

Now, I'm a quarterback. I'm used to bouncing back from hard hits with my
wits about me. But I was still on the Karl & Pa show when I found myself
slammed into the just-closed door of Greg's room, mouth locked in a
soul-penetrating tongue-fest. Fuck, could that boy kiss! It's, like, six
seconds and a couple of hours and I'm suddenly wrapped around a slick,
smooth, naked bundle of sex with his tongue so far down my throat he's
Frenching my belly button.

I shivered from toes to hair. Greg was as smooth and soft-skinned as any
chick in French Lick, but the taut muscles writhing and twitching beneath
were rock-solid and powerful. His hands are everywhere, stroking, teasing
and his mouth just swallows my moans. Dude, I'll tell ya, in all the years
before and since, I ain't never had a kiss like that. Not a single touch on
my cock and I was damn close to popping off in my pants.

Suddenly his tongue is gone and I'm gasping for breath, and the gasp turns
into a whine when that magic tongue is at my ear, then neck, then collar. I
jump when his warm breath is at my ear again, "You're overdressed, Mr
Chamber."

I move to pull my shirt up and I find my hands locked above me. I had six
inches on Greg, easy, and probably 80 pound of muscle. Didn't matter, he
had me pinned. I felt his other hand moving up under my shirt and I made a
noise that I hadn't heard from my mouth in at least a decade. His soft,
strong hands were coming up my side and torturously *not* touching me. I
fucking giggled.

The warm breath was back in my ear, "I think someone is ticklish." I froze
again. Ticklish? Me? No fucking way! His hand released my wrists and for
some reason I didn't move them at all. Greg pulled up my shirt and my
giggle turned to a squeak as his hands found my nipples and his mouth was
back on mine.

Okay, I'm really pretty good at tit play on chicks. Just the right touch
and pressure to get the motor running without turning her off. Nobody, but
nobody had ever turned the tables. I'm a guy. We don't have tits! Fuck
that; I'd never felt anything like what Greg did. It was like a wire
running straight from his fingers to my nuts.

I groaned as I again lost those incredible lips, then moaned like a whore
when those same lips got to my right nipple. Lips, sure, but also tongue,
sucking mouth, even teeth. He was driving me insane. My too-tight shirt was
now over my head and off. I heard noises from behind the door and suddenly
realised that Karl and Pa were walking past and had to have heard me. If I
could hear their footsteps, there was no way they could miss my
moannnnnnnnnn OH FUCK!

Greg has switched nipples and was teasing and pinching the wet and
overexcited right one with his fingers while he went to work on my left. I
found my hands behind his head, pushing my chest into him and cramming his
face onto my near-orgasmic tit. I was making little eh eh eh noises when
without the slightest warning he stepped back.

Swear to God, I had to throw a foot forward to keep from face-planting. I
was heaving breaths and looked down at myself. I'd never seen myself so
pumped, or so RED. I had a sex-flush on my upper chest that shocked me to
the core. That was how I got a few seconds before shooting into a needy
pussy, never from foreplay. Then my eyes hit my pecs. My nipples looked
like red and throbbing little clits, rock-hard nubs desperate for more.

Greg, I fucking swear, had the sexiest bedroom voice I'd heard before or
since. It was this soft, tenor purr, like bright velvet, "If I didn't know
better, Mr Chamber, I'd think you liked that." I followed his smirk and
looked at my crotch. HOLY FUCK! I'd leaked so much it looked like I'd
pissed my 501s! I was still staring when those long, thin hands came into
view and started to pet and stroke the length of Big Matt.

A note about Big Matt. I am not a mutant with a pony's equipment grafted
on, but I was pretty good sized. A solid eight incher! What? Yeah, I'm
sure; Why? What do you mean? Well, yeah, I fucking measured. Fine, it said
7-1/4 but I know I'm bigger when I'm really excited. With a ruler, why?
Damn, dude, yeah, I pushed the ruler so hard in I got a cut in my
pubes. So? Fine! 6-3/4; happy now? Why be such a dick about it? Hey, that's
funny, you being a dick about my dick!

Anyway, back to Big Matt. I'm what they call a shower not a grower. So the
Big Matt name came early. Most guys, you know, show maybe 3 inches soft and
I show at least 6 limp as a noodle. Since they were getting up to 6 when
hard, they thought I must have been fucking huge! Like I was gonna tell em
different? Fuck that!

Well, soft wasn't an option at this point anyway. I'd been hard since Greg
first talked as I posed next to that fireplace. Suddenly I hear this
high-pitched whine coming from me as the knuckles of his long fingers brush
-- pop-pop-pop-pop -- across my hardon and it throbs and I can see the gush
as it make a ripple in my jeans and spreads the wet spot.

I'm actually trembling as I see Greg
pop... Each. Button. So. Fucking. Slowly. Even then, Big Matt is trapped,
you know, running down the leg and wallowing in dogwater. The whine? It
goes up another notch as Greg's thin hands go in, one along my rampant
shaft and the other to circle and caress my very low-slung balls. "No
undies, Matt? You were ready, weren't you, player?" All I can do is huff
and chuff.

He doesn't pull my goods out, oh no. He slips the balls hand back to my
caress my ass and pushes the palm of the other along the whole length of my
cock. He then uses his wrists to shimmy the jeans off my ass. I've never
been so close to cumming that quick in my life and if Big Matt had been
pointing up and free instead of pinched down and to the side, I probably
would have blown.

The jeans pool around my ankles and Greg comes back in for another
mind-blowing kiss. His hands come up to my head and hold me, my cock
springing straight up like a jack-in-the-box when he releases me. I can
actually hear the splat as the pre-cum-dripping head hits my abs. My eyes
are fluttering when he pulls back and drops. I come up on my toes waiting
for those amazing lips to slip around Big Matt, but instead his fingers
trace without actually touching down my sides, starting with my sensitive
pits and then all the way down to hips and legs. I come Un Fucking Glued
and start to shake and moan.

He loosens my Nikes and spins me, like twice his size, as if I'm a toy and
my ass hits his bed. My jeans are off with my shoes and I throw back my
head in ecstasy when he nuzzles into the impossibly-sensitive fold of skin
to the side of my ball-sack and rampant cock.  As quick as that, he's
laying full on top of me, forcing my arms again over my head and his face
dives into my armpits. The thought of his face in there, licking and
sucking up my powerful musk almost puts me over the edge yet again. Then
the feeling hits. The sensation is too... everything! Too intense, too
sexy, too raunchy, too wonderful but most of all too ticklish and I start
to giggle again.

He jumps to the other pit and repeats the process, then back to my
nipples. I squeak and moan and whimper and giggle as he goes from pit to
nipple to nipple to pit and back and forth. I pound on his back; his sweaty
body and raging hard dick has been rubbing sensuously over my
ready-to-explode cock. "Gerg! Dude! You. You gotta. Fuck, Greg!!"

It's as if he's inside my head. My nuts have already pulled up into launch
position when every sensation stops and I make these little e! e! e! e!
noises as I come down off the very tip of my orgasm.

"When do you have to be home, big dog?"

"Wuh?"

"Curfew? When do you have to go?"

"What?" Dude, I'm still trying to learn how to breathe again. Greg dives in
for a full-throat kiss and then -- THUMP -- flicks my nuts *hard*. I'd
thought the kiss was foreplay, but it was just so he can swallow the
full-body scream that the rack-shot rips from me.

Greg pulls back again. "I asked when you have to be home, stud."

"Midnight. I can stretch to one. Oh, fuck, Greg."

"Well, that just won't do. We have a lot more than two or three hours'
worth of work here." He moves off for no more than a second and I hear a
strange noise. Greg is holding one Nike in his hand and has pulled out the
lace and smiles at me. That smile promises... paradise and brimstone in one
neat package. I feel him grab my nuts and pull south, then watch in amazed
fascination as he wraps the lace round and round and round my throbbers.

Now, I have real low-hangers, lots of skin before you get to some
respectable but average-sized nuts. When he steps back, though, they're
stretched further than I'd ever seen (well, other than a couple of very
private and serious self-edging session last summer).  What I end up with
is maybe an inch or more of cord pushing my nuts into a small and very,
very tight balloon at the bottom. I throw my head back, no idea what this
portends.

I sense more than see Greg extract the other shoelace and feel him thread
it into one of the coils. "I think you need to make a call, Matt."

I look at him in utter and complete confusion. A call? To whom? He stands
and pulls me up by the arm; I stand there like a bewildered puppy. Greg
turns to the door and I start to freak.

"Greg," I whisper-shout, "are you out of your mind? I can't go out there
like THIS!"

"Ya think? Watch." He walks forward and the shoelace lengthens, then
tightens then tugs as my entrapped tenders. He's right. Unless I want to
transition from stallion to gelding quick, I really *can* go out there like
this.

I want to run to the kitchen phone, but Greg is on the stairs in front of
me, moving at a snail's pace just to freak me out even more. Who the FUCK
am I supposed to call? At the bottom of the stairs, just feet from the wall
phone, Greg turns and I try desperately to stifle a whine. "You're too
drunk to drive. Karl is letting you crash at his house. Pa said it was okay
before he went to bed."

"Huh?"

Greg emphasises each major element with a tug that would have pulled me out
of my shoes if I'd had any on. "YOU are a little too DRUNK to DRIVE. KARL
is letting you CRASH and you'll pick up the TRUCK tomorrow. PA is OKAY with
THAT. Now fucking dial the phone."

I dial my home number like a robot on speed. Dad picks up. Thank God! Greg
has reached down and one hand is playing with my super-sensitive nuts and
the other is lightly stroking the globes of my ass. I guess this is, um,
incentive?

"Dad? It's M-M-M-Matt!" Greg has brushed against my cockhead right
then. "I'm um, a bit loaded and Barca said I could crash at his
placcccccccce," I finger had traced my crack. "His Pa, you know, Mr
Barrrrrrrca," the evil fuck had just twiddled my taint, "said it was okay?"

Dad's gruff voice. "Barca? The defensive back? Good kid and his dad is a
real straight arrow. I didn't know you two were buds."

"Yeah, we're, you know, pretty t-t-t-t-ight!" The squeak at the end was
Greg's finger actually touching dead centre on my hole. No one, NO ONE had
touched me there, like, ever.

"Son, you sound really fucked up. Do I need to come get you?" Greg can hear
this pretty well and eases back on the torment.

"No, dad, just enough too much that I don't want to drive and blow my
ride. Okay?"

"Hmm. You didn't smoke reefer or anything, right?"

"Jesus, dad, NO! I'm drunk not stupid."

He chuckles, agrees and lets me got.

I barely have the phone hung back up before Greg has me against the wall in
a lip-lock, his hands everywhere and all I can do is moan and whine. Either
much too late or way too soon, he's leading me by my ball-leash back
upstairs.

Greg has me back on my ass and is again on the pit-nip-nip-pit parade
driving me out of my fucking mind. Suddenly he's on my cock. Not even
pausing, he's got Big Matt all the way to the fucking pubes down his
throat. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! YES! I practically scream as I start to cu----
Huh?

Dude, you don't understand. I was THERE. I was READY. Every muscle
clenching in preparation of shooting a major load and... nothing.

Greg was looking at me with the most-evil fucking smile I've ever
seen. "Oh, no, stallion. You've got a lot of miles in you before you get
stabled for the night." His tongue is now everywhere. Belly button,
earlobes, neck, toes, TOES!!! When the FUCK did toes became ten miniature
cocks begging to be sucked?

He's back on my dick and I'm absolutely ape-shit. Suddenly, he's kissing me
again and I wrap my arms round him so tight I might kill him. Both hands
are now on that fucking bubble-butt, pulling those globes apart but pulling
ever bit of Greg onto my body as it is possible to get. He lips are gone
and I shiver at his breath in my ear. "Now you've got the idea, Matt. Let's
saddle you up and ride."

I feel the tip of Big Matt being kissed and caressed, but realise Greg's
mouth is back on mine. My eyes pop like fucking Donald Duck as Greg
corkscrews his own fucking ass down onto my rigid pole. I scream into his
mouth as I also swallow his own moans.

He's right. I'm a player. I've been in plenty of pussies (and, truth be
told, two guy's asses at that point). Absol Fucking Lutely Nothing compares
to the tight velvet tunnel and is grabbing me in a hot, wet, strangling
grip. His hands got to my pecs and Greg pushed himself up and twisted my
nipples. With a final grunt, Greg throws his head back and I look down. His
nuts are nestled in my pubes. The entire length and girth of Big Matt is
now balls deep in the best pussy I've ever had (and, honestly, would ever
have to date). I could have died happy right there.

Then that fucking bastard starts to ride. When I fuck a pussy, there's a
nice sensation at the top and a heavy fullness at the bottom of each
thrust. With Greg, fuck, I don't even know how to say it. Every nerve
ending was being touched and stroked and teased every fucking second. Every
new angle was better. Every wiggle drove me mad. My hands were on his
sides, hips, chest, shoulders. I was trying to drive and thrust in time to
him and he just fucking ignored me, man! It was like I'd suddenly become
his fuck toy. And it was awesome!

Now, remember, he'd already had me RIGHT THERE before he even started. By
this point I was sex-blasted. I needed to cum so bad I could die from
it. And then I, um, well, fuck it! I started to beg like a fucking whore,
man. I sounded like Monica! Begged him to go faster, slower, harder,
deeper, do THAT again! But through it all, begging to CUM.

Bam! Greg plants all the way deep and starts to, fuck, I don't know. Twist
around somehow making my cock churn around in there and making it
impossible to even think.

"You want to cum?"

"Oh God Greg. You gotta. You Gotta. I'm going nuts, man. You gotta finish
me."

"Really? Ask me nicely."

"FUCK! Please! PLEASE! Pretty please with sugar on it! Anything,
Greg. Anything you want. If I got it, it's yours. Whistle and I'll come
running. Anything. Just let me shoot, man, PLEASE!"

"Anything, my big football stallion?"

"GOD YES! Anything, Greg. Anything." He sped up the corkscrew twists and I
started to actually cry. "Anything, Anything! PLEEEEASE!"

"Does anything include your ass, football hero?"

"Ass?"

"If you cum in mine do I get to take your virgin quarterback cherry?"

"Ass?!?" Greg added a back and forth jiggle to the movement. My nuts were
screaming for release, as was every other part of me... including my ass.

"Yes! Yes! You can pop me, Greg! Just let me blow, man!"

Greg reached around and I felt something move against my tortured,
rock-hard, churning orbs. Then it was like a zipper as the cord
uncoiled. At the same time, Greg started to bounce like a fucking bunny and
then leaned down and tongue-fucked me and grabbed both tits and torqued!

You know that breakdancing thing? The worm or something? Where the guy is
on his belly and rolls along. I was doing that upside. The centre of my
fucking universe was Greg's ass as every nerve, muscle and sinew in my body
exploded into orgasm. Greg captured every shout of rapture and every scream
of fulfilment with his kiss. I've never, before or since, had an orgasm
that lasted that long. I just kept shooting like a never-ending roman
candle.

I was in full aftershock mode (another first for me) when Greg flipped
round and started suckling my increasingly-sensitive dick. "Eat your load
out of my ass, stud. Really get in there. Don't worry; there's nothing in
there but your cum, stallion, your baby batter." I didn't hear the words or
I probably would have puked, but here right in front of me was a
smooth-as-fuck cream pie oozing sweet custard. If there was a brain cell
online, it was one that could only thing something like "!!!" I dove in
like I was starving and this was the last puddin-cup on Earth.

And you know, cum tastes better coming out of a cleaned-up ass? I'd tasted
my own; I mean, who hasn't? But lapping it out of Greg's squeaky-clean and
leaking ass? Nothing like it.

I was also high on the sensations coming from my abused cockhead. It's
reached that post-cum scream-at-a-touch stage. About that time, a few words
floated in. Ass. A Guy. I'm. Cum. Sucking. Own. Outta. My. It took a minute
to get them lined up properly and when they did, I nearly screamed in
horror. "I'm eating my own cum outta a guy's ass."

In that moment, though, Greg had me back in a kiss-to-the-death and all I
could do was run my hands over his hard, lean, smooth and sweat-drenched
body. I was over the shock (or in a different one) as Greg licked his way
down my body and started to make love to my recently-tied bollocks. My head
was spinning. He puts his hands behind my knees and lifts me, and now he's
tonguing and nibbling my taint.

Now I've known forever that my taint was a major g-spot for me. It was my
go-to-stroke when I had time for a really mind-blowing jack-off
session. But no one, ever, had touched it and now Greg was making love to
it. Big Matt was back to full rail in record time. I'd hardly gone soft and
the little bugger was begging for round two.

The image of Greg riding me, my cock plunging in and out of that tight
white hole filled my mind as I relived those amazing, life-rocking
sensations. Suddenly, Greg licked further and POW, he was lapping at my
nasty, funky, sweaty ass-lips. I'd have been disgusted if every brain cell
had not just screamed, "YES!" at once.

Greg's sweaty and ass-drenched face came up. "You lived here all your life,
right?"

"What?"

"French Lick. You've lived here all your life?"

"Yeah. Born here. Why?"

"Let me show you." The leer vanished and the tongue was back, except this
time it did more than lick, Greg did something to make his tongue sharp and
hard and BAM, his tongue was all the way up my shit-chute. I shoved most of
my fist into my mouth and howled around it. I could cum like this, I
thought, really truly cum from just this.

Then it was gone and Greg's evil smile was back. "That, stallion, was a
REAL French Lick..."

He was back at in moments and I kept my fist in my mouth. Whimpering harder
and harder as his hands left my legs and started to roam, pricking,
tickling, teasing, tormenting every g-spot I knew of and several I'd never
even considered.

His tongue kept fucking in and out; my ass was like heaven. Man, was that
wondrous. Man, it was like he was getting me ready to....

Eek.

'Anything, Greg. Anything you want.'

'... do I get to take your virgin quarterback cherry?'

'Yes! Yes! You can pop me, Greg!'

Yes, yes? Fuck no, NO! Then again, damn that feels good. Every lick made me
shiver. Every tongue-thrust made me moan or whimper. NO! No, not
happening. Greg pulled back and I could feel the flesh of my ass-lips
wriggling, kissing out to try to recapture that wondrous, terrible, teasing
tongue. No no no no.

No-no-no became yes-yes-YES! as Greg's lips finally returned to my leaking
and throbbing dick. He was not... FUCK! he was! he was Frenching my
piss-slit. I could feel him taunting the untouched nerves just inside as I
pumped pulse after pulse of dogwater into his suckling mouth. My hands
found their way into his silky, sopping blond hair. I didn't push or drive,
just luxuriated in the best blow job of my life. I almost didn't notice
(almost) as my twitchy and needy asshole finally got stimulation
back. Warm, harm, firm, insistent, slick. YIKES -- INSIDE!

I tried to launch myself off the bed and only succeeded in driving my prick
into the convulsively-swallowing throat of Greg as he took my dick on the
ride of its life. I landed back and felt that finger jammed way the fuck
farther than anything should ever go in that direction. He pulled back and
did the deep-dive-throat-massage thing again and I realised that a second
finger had joined the first, and was stretching me to the knife's edge of
pain.

I was seconds away from pulling Greg off me and welching on the promise
when the most-fucked-up thing in history happened. One of those long, thin
fingers his something *up there* and I would have screamed if I could
have. All I could actually do was suck in a breath against a clamped-shut
throat, making a noise like bad brakes. He thrummed and thumped, stroked
and poked whatever-it-was and had me right on the fucking the edge of
paradise.

I really did yelp a little when the third finger got up in there, but the
idea of giving up the one finger that had his that button
was... unthinkable. Greg pulled off my dick and said, "You man enough for
this, Mr Quarterback Stud?"

I made that squeaky-brakes noise again with the rattle of a bad
transmission thrown in for good measure, which apparently he took to mean,
'Pop my cherry, sir!'

A quick flip round and I was staring wide-eyes at Greg's face as I felt the
blunt tip of that flesh-missile knock at my back door. I was barely
breathing, torn between the need to scream and run, and the need to scream
and drag him inside me. Greg reached down into his crotch and came back
with his hand dripping with his crotch-snot. That hand was under my nose
and it was like the stoners talk about huffing -- my whole body became my
nose, snuffling and sucking in that amazing scent and feeling the sex-high
as it hit me hard.

Okay, so maybe not my *whole* body, cuz at that moment, Greg punched in
just an inch and, were it not for the stench-rich hand under my nose that
conveniently placed it also over my mouth, rescue crews would have been
converging on the house. I'd just relaxed from that invasion when he pushed
again, past a second something that really, really objected.

Dude, I'd been an athlete my whole life. That means a world of hurt and
getting hit by everything, everywhere, all the fucking time. But DAY-AMN
did that second push get my full attention. Greg sat there, utterly
immobile, only his hands on the move. He was stroking my pecs, my abs, my
hips, my thighs and finally my cock. The last was what it took and I fell
myself sigh deeper than I knew I had lungs and another several feet of cock
plunged in.

I looked down expecting to see, I dunno, me bleeding out around his pubes
or some shit and almost passed out from what I actually saw. He wasn't even
a quarter of the way in. Like magic, though, I flipped into injury mode. A
quarterback on the field is gonna get pounded, and you have to play through
it. I started taking huge breaths, blowing them out as hard as I could
while in my mind's eye I 'walked it off' or 'rubbed some dirt on it'.

Like a fucking pro, Greg fed me increments of that thick slab of warm
iron. He froze each time and let me breathe through it. He was perhaps 3/4
in when the fireworks started. That whatever-the-fuck he hit with his
fingers? His battering ram just found it. With each new thrust, I literally
saw stars flashing on and off, not from pain but from sensations I could
not, cannot, describe.

I hear my name called from a few light-years off and finally focus on
Greg's smiling face.

"You with me, stallion?"

All I could do was nod feebly. Every movement twitched his dick across that
spot.

"That thing you just felt?"

Nod.

"That was your cherry popping, stud. Now that the cherry is gone, it's your
launch button. Prepare for orbit, Mr Sasquatch the Football God..."

Greg started sawing in and out. The pain was... AWOL. Gone. Kaput. Every
time his angle changed and he hit that thing again, one more memory of AGH!
was erased. Soon, I couldn't even remember it hurting. To be fair, I
couldn't even remember my fucking name.

It was like he knew where every thrust went and made sure that I'd never
know if I was getting that full-and-loving-it feeling or priming the pump a
little more on my pocket rocket.

Then I froze, every muscle tense and my eyes wide and breathing shallow. I
needed to cum, NOW!

I reached down to grab my dick and Greg was there to seize my wrist. An
end-around with the other hand left me pinned, fucked and arms locked above
me as my head flew from side to side, flinging sweat. I felt my cock
flopping around (as much as a railroad spike can be said to flop) as Greg
fucked me. I think he saw it in my eyes. He plunged deep and lunged forward
to capture another kiss just as my world exploded. My vision went white as
I felt my prick swell to a size I'd never known and... erupted like a
chunky-cream volcano.

Greg hunched once, twice more and froze, eating my scream and trading in a
growl for the deposit. I've heard since of guys saying that they could feel
me, I mean, some other dude's baby-butter gushing in. All I felt were
Greg's shudders that rippled across my own cumplosion. I realised that my
legs were wrapped around Greg's lower back exactly, I mean *exactly* like
Sally Mason did when I dated her in 9th grade and took her cherry (over and
over and over for about three blissful months before she said she was
preggers. She wasn't, but it was about three weeks before I could get hard
again).

Greg finally shot his last and sagged. I could feel him smearing my copious
load between our bellies. How fucking gross, disgusting... yeah, fuck
that. How HOT. I moaned as he pulled out and peeled himself away. He laid
beside me and I just couldn't help myself. I was on him like white on rice,
kissing and slurping everything I could find. Sucking my own load off his
chest and abs and pubes and then attacking his nipples. Kissing his mouth
and ears and neck and stomach and even, for the first and last time, a
guy's junk -- dick, balls and taint. I was a wild man.

I came three more times that night. Once again in his ass, once (I don't
care what it makes me) while he deep-throated me as I licked and sucked my
load from his ass, and once while Greg fingered me hard and deep while
blowing my dick and my mind. Dude, it was [omitted] years ago and I have to
tell ya, that was the best fucking night of my life. Six, um, I mean seven
wives and hundreds of chicks (and a few guys, I'm not too proud to tell ya)
later and nobody, NOBODY punched my clock the way Greg Barca did that
night.

So, um, you mentioned that you might be able to, you know, spare a few? I
wanna buy flowers for the missus since I'm late again. At least this time
she can't accuse me of fucking around... um, can she? You'll, like, back me
up, right bro? Bro? DUDE?

<eof>

PS: Yes, Greg is still strapped to the bed, hard and dripping and desperate
to cum whilst Pa and Karl are watching a game. I just thought that a stroll
through Matt-land, which several of you asked about, would be a good
idea. So, back to Greg next time or, I dunno, maybe I can hunt up
Billygoat? Or Trevor? Your call {insert evil bwuhahaha laugh here}.

***** If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings, e-mail me at
orson.cadell@gmail.com

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 21 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 18 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 10 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 10 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 4 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 3 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/