Date: Wed, 28 Dec 2016 18:40:26 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 4

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.

*****

I came to -- yes, I really think I'd left the land of the conscious for a
bit -- to a beamingly-proud Pa laughing and saying, "Yes, you're sure a
chip of the old block. That was a cum in a million, stud. Don't move. Don't
even try. After that kinda orgasm, you'd probably kill yourself trying to
get to the can." He had to have left then and come back, but I swear the
next second he was running a warm, wet, luxurious cloth across the massive
load I'd blown all over myself, the bed and, apparently, the wall behind
me. I think he actually checked the ceiling for traces of my epochal
cumplosion. The room spun and I still hadn't caught me breath. "Sleep
tight, Prince Cumming. We'll pick up there tomorrow." My next conscious
thought was a deep and abiding loathing of my alarm clock's morning
screech.

******* Karl & Greg 4: Don't! Stop! Don't Stop!  M/M; Incest; vocal;
touching


^ Lunch: thermos of sludge (disgustingly-sweet coffee), ham-and-American
sandwich, hard-boiled egg plus salt and pepper packets, Ruffles, diet
Coke). Breakfast: three fried eggs, five slice Canadian bacon,
slightly-burnt toast, HUGE mug of sludge. All on auto-pilot.

My brain was frankly short-circuited. It would flash to Pa and his hand on
me {shudder}, my cum-of-a-lifetime {shudder}, Pa cleaning my cum
from... well, everywhere {gasp}, Pa and his hand on me {shudder}, my
cum-of-a-lifetime... etc. An endless loop. The same part of my brain that
handled heartbeat and breathing evidently doing double-duty on cooking
detail.

The flush of Pa's commode snaps the thread and reality (or something like
it) slaps me back to the present. Pa is whistling -- WHISTLING! -- as he
come down. He beams at me. I honestly think this is the first smile he's
ever had for me. During his sex training, he's grin or smirk, but this
morning there was a bright, sunny, teeth-shining smile. "You were quite the
stud last night, son." Every synapse and nerve quivers. A hundred
Christmases and thousand birthdays surged through me at once. This was what
I had unknowingly craved my entire life. That smile. That praise. That
acceptance.

"Oh, my this is great, kid. You are one hell of a cook. And you'll be one
hell of a fuck when we're done {chuckle}. You will make a fucking amazing
husband for some gal, kid." I basked in that like a cat in a sunbeam whilst
he finished his breakfast, grabbed his lunchbox and snugged his shoes. He
straightened and mussed my hair with a broad grin. "You are quite the stud,
sport. Can't wait for tonight's lesson." And with that he was gone.

Today was Saturday (Pa worked 6 days a week mostly, making what it cost to
raise two teens), so I had the next six to ten hours to fix up the house
without anyone else there. In season, Karl would be hard at work on the
lawn and flowerbed, but that fell to me with him up at the Speedway. I made
short work of the grass, the weeds, the clutter and was well through the
hoovering when I realised I had neither had breakfast myself, or even
showered. I ran a quick, hot shower which turned out to be a VERY bad
idea. First, I was already hot and sweaty from the yard work. Second,
images from last night kept making me gasp and moan under the tender
mercies of the showerhead's needles. I cranked it to ice cold, almost
screamed, but mastered all of the raging heat discussed above and went down
to find a lunch for myself.

Some of what I'd made it home with (blindly) last night made up my mind for
a truly great dinner, and the remainder (romaine salad, pepperoncini and
chicken salad) made my lunch. I finished with the housework: vacuum, change
sheets, run laundry, clean bathrooms, and (my personal most-hated thing)
dust everything. I fucking hate dust. I mean, what the fuck is it FOR? When
I get to meet Saint Peter, my first question is gonna be, "Why the FUCK did
He make dust?" (second would be why mosquitoes exist and third will concern
the lack of caffeine in the water supply -- I mean, seriously, it's not a
drug, it's a vitamin).

When Pa staggered in, tired and dusty, he looked even more beat than
normal. I don't really know why, but I knew that he needed more tonight
than normal. Luckily, I'd made a meal that didn't need a lot of tending or
timing. I met him in the hall and he stopped, nonplussed. His brow furrowed
a little as I dropped to unlace his shoes and pull them off, and took his
jacket, shirt and web-belt. I hung all but the shoes and shirt on the wall
and turned and ran for his bath where I got the shower going just right,
maybe a bit hot and tuned to massage mode first. He stumbled in behind me,
utterly confused, then smiled as he saw the steam coming from the
shower. "You are one great kid, you know that, right?"

I finally understood that old word "swooned" as he dropped his jeans,
shorts and t-shirt and let out a sort of moan-scream when the pulsing,
not-quite-too-hot water hit his sore muscles. I left him there, with a
lingering look at the most perfect man on Earth. I gathered his dropped
clothes and made a beeline for the kitchen.

^ He came in, in nothing but an overfilled jock strap, about ten minutes
later as I drizzled the balsamic over the Caprese salad with mozzarella
bufala, ripe beefsteak tomatoes and fresh basil leaves. The lemon chicken
and spiced potatoes were resting on the stovetop and fresh focaccia was
landing on the cloth-wrapped plate next to the olive oil and herb dipping
bowl.

Pa tilted his head to the side much like a Labrador trying to understand a
new toy. Still a bit bewildered, he tucked in. Moan and mmms were the
entire conversation. Unlike last night, though, I ate my share with an
appetite inspired by nothing more than the glow I got from being with him,
and knowing that I had once again pleased him. I did notice (oh, how could
I not notice when my eyes roved his face with adoration and need) that Pa
occasionally would look at me and either grin or furrow his brow as if to
say, 'who is this kid and where did he come from?'

"Okay, son, get this put away and cleaned up. If there's any more of that
salad left, send it to me for lunch Monday." I knew there wasn't, but also
knew that by fucking god, there would be by the time I made his lunch that
day. "Then get up to your bedroom, strip and wait for me on your bed. It's
time for Body Parts, Part Deux.  Gahn, git!" A lopsided smile and a twinkle
are all that I see as he round toward his own room and I rush (sorta like
you'd say that an Indy car driver "rushes" to the checkered flag) through
my last chore. I think I was stripped and sitting bolt-upright on my bed
about six seconds after he'd left the kitchen.

Pa came into my room, naked and thick (not hard), smiling like the cat that
ate the entire canary supply. His thick, rough fur scratched and scruffed
as he walked (yes, I was so turned on, so attuned to him, that my ears
could make out each hair's cricket-song as friction tore them against each
other). I was more than simply aware of his dick hair balls eyes hair balls
eyes hair dick smile breath dick hair smile as he walked like a conquering
leopard across the carpet. "Breathe, son, breathe!"

I took in a prolonged and shuddering gasp of breath as the most
sexy/evil/lustful/proud chuckle bubbled up from his gut. He then turned
around, legs spread a bit, and put his hands on the back of his neck. "What
do you see, son. I can't watch your face, so tell me." I didn't know it,
but Pa could see every part of me in the dresser mirror. I thought years
later that the crinkle I saw on the back of his neck was caused by the
widest, most lascivious smile widening even more at my expression.

"I see your bald spot, Pa. Sorry, but I'm taller and you asked. I see your
arms, your muscles, your thick, strong, vital neck strained little from the
pressure of your arms and your arms, stretched and taut and oh, go, sorry,
oh so thick. Fur, I mean hair, everywhere."

"It's okay, sport, it really is fur. Hair, fur, whatever you call em, I got
them in spades and you, sweet fucking little pup, have just the right
amount, stud. Keep going."

"My go-, um, oh, Pa, how can your shoulder be that wide? You're huge and
strong and the muscles ripple across you back. Even under the fu, um, fur,
I can see them adjust as you balance. Thick ropes like snakes under the
skin as you move. And oh my god, um, Pa"

"Hold it! Stop this goddam bullshit of correcting yourself every fucking
time you say god or fuck or hell or shit! This is sex, not some pansy
garden party! You get me, you big-dicked fucking cum-factory?" The last
said with a wicked sly smile over his shoulder.

I blushed more shades of red that Sherman Williams knows about and said,
"Um, yeah, Pa. I, um, mean, FUCK YEAH, PA!"

We both chuckled, him evilly and me embarrassedly. "Oh my god, Pa, you got
fur in places I never thought about. I heard of a treasure trail leading
from your stomach to your crotch, but you got one from your shoulder blades
to you, your, your..." I gulped and goggled, "Your fucking amazing fur
covered butt! Oh, god, I'm sorry Pa, but I ain't neve r seen anything like
that! You got a little bunny-rabbit-tail tuft {he actually snorted laughter
there} of thick fur right atop the crack of your ass. I can see the sweat
gathering there. Ready to trickle down, down, um, down into, oh fuck, Pa,
into that crack in your flexing, bucking ass. Oh, Pa, I don't know if I can
do much more of this!"

Pa turned and dropped his arms. His eyes went from mine (desperate and
probably the size of golf balls) to my dick (throbbing with my heartbeat
and, now that I look down, with a thread of pre-cum down the seam and
literally dripping from my balls to the floor). "We're gonna have to do
something about that, but for now, we'll skip the legs {I groaned} and skip
to the feet."

A bemused look must have crossed my face. "Yes, son, feet. You mentioned
when you were, well, extremely sensitive {chuckle} there. Your feet, like
mine, are a great place to get pleasure. Lay on your back on the bed."

I am unsure that I bent any joint or moved any muscle as I levitated onto
the bed. Pa reached over and grabbed the calf of my left leg. "Never short
change ANY g-spot on your lover's body, or your own." He bent my leg and
brought my foot up near his face. "Feet can be sexy for some people, and a
real turn-off for others. The same is true of balls and assholes and
taints, but a feet are either a big turn-on or turn-off for lots of
folks. For you and me and Karl and, yes, your Mom, they were definite set
in the ON position."

My eyes were wide; my heart was either stopped or going a billion beats per
minute as he brought my foot to his face. His eyes closed in obviously
anticipation and his tongue lunged between my big and first toes. "FUCK!
PA! FUCK!" I realised suddenly that it was me screaming, just before his
thick, wet tongue dragged south across the sole of my foot and he began
sucking and, oh my fucking god, NIBBLING the tender skin in the
arch. "Please, pa! Please. Don't. Please. Don't. Don't Pa. I can't. I
can't," that famous static charge ran from my foot to my nips to my balls
to my dick. "Please, Pa. I can't, can't, can't, FUUUUUUUUUCK" Cum flew
everywhere. I saw it in Pa's hair and face and my own legs and chest and
chin. I heard that trademark evil chuckle through my sex-crazed haze. "Yep,
we really got to do something about that, sport."

<eof>

Author's Note: The input from readers like you (thanks to Rob-, Sha-, Dav-
and Jam-) have already changed and improved the arc of this story. Like it
but find it doesn't punch all of your launch codes? Tell me. Your personal
kink(s) might end up in the next chapter.