Date: Sat, 31 Dec 2016 18:45:31 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 5

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.

*****

My eyes were wide; my heart either stopped or went 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."

*****
Karl & Greg 5: Tied to Paradise
By Bear Pup

M/M; Incest; light piss-play; ball-bondage; cumless orgasm

At least I didn't pass out this time, a real accomplishment! Pa hunched my
oversized body into his arms and carried me (think Pieta avec Twink) to the
shower and unceremoniously dumped me on the oh-so-cold tiles of the shower
just before the fucking evil sod turned on the water. Needles of ice (okay,
just fucking cold water) cascaded down and I squealed and screeched like a
whole class of eight-year-old girls. I fought to escape the spray and Pa
just laughed. No, that ain't right. He guffawed. A full belly laugh as he
used his legs to prevent me from escaping the water. What a prick! What a
bastard! What a fucking GOD!

I was truly exhausted by the time the water came to temp and Pa roughly,
lovingly, tenderly scrubbed me clean. I was truly stunned when he
dead-lifted me back to his arms and, one handed, snagged a couple of fluffy
white towels on the way to his, HIS bedroom. He juggled me like a toy as he
tossed and towelled me (I may be slim, but I have a solid physique, making
this quite the feat). "Hope you don't mind, sport, but it will be a lot
easier if we just spend the next 24 hours here in my room. There's a lot to
teach you, and a lot for us both to learn."

Mind? MIND? I would give my left nut -- fuck, I'd give my entire package of
JUNK -- to spend a night with Pa in his bed. Screw (pun intended) any
sexual stuff. The idea of being that close to this god of a man for an
entire night was a fantasy that I didn't even know that I HAD until that
moment. I honestly think I purred.

He set me down like a glass ornament, as if I'd break, and dragged the
sheet across my body. I did not use a single voluntary muscle, just let my
god position me the way he wanted. I was in heaven, seated (well, laying)
at the right hand of the (literal) Father. He came round and crawled in
behind me, then adjusted my head on the pillow and snuggled behind me. He
had never put on a stitch of clothing, and I felt tears leaking from my
eyes. Pa somehow noticed. "What's this, sport? You okay?"

I don't know where I found my voice, but I sucked in a shuddering,
stuttering, racking breath and rasped, "Pa, I have never been this happy in
my life. I never imagined I could BE this happy. Thank you thank you thank
you..." my voice kept modulating across those two syllables over and over,
almost hypnotically, as Pa pulled me into his chest and petted my sides and
chest and leg with "shh" and "'s'okay" sounds. I passed from that to a
state of deep and dreamless sleep seamlessly.

I awoke to what I thought was a deep and forbidden dream. I was cradled in
the arms of my Pa, my father, my god. His soft snores were broken by
occasional schnorks (nobody's perfect) that rasped his fur across my back
and legs, and his thick, powerful arm held me in place, hand at the subtle
mound below my belly and above my crotch, his knuckle-hairs teasing the
topside of the iron bar jutting from just below. My dick was
morning-piss-hard (as well as dream-sex-leaking) and I had a growing
awareness of a matching pressure just above my ass. About then, some
fucking inconsiderate sunbeam hit me right across the goddam eyes. My whole
body flinched, shattering the dream and the soft snores of my Pa.

He stirred, froze as if he had no idea what the fuck was happening, then
softened into a real embrace. "Morning, sunshine. What you gonna do for
your daddy for breakfast? Maybe we should make up a little cream for you to
use in the coffee?" His hand playfully (in truth, achingly) caressed my
piss-desperate cock. "Oh, god, Pa. I need to piss. I am so, so sorry." I
leapt from the bed as he belly-laughed at my reaction and followed me to
the can. I was literally breathless as he pointed the dick that created me
into the toilet bowl next to my own. My prick was harder than I had ever
known, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip with my furry and
hot-as-fuck Pa. His stream began, tentative at first then think and
full. "AHHH! God that feels great!" he exulted.

He noticed that his was the only splash in the bowl and turned that wicked,
evil grin to me. "Hard to piss when you're on the rail, isn't it, champ? I
got a trick for you." I made a sound like a mouse being trodden on as he
grabbed my dick. "A few quick strokes in JUST the right place..." His
thick, callused finger stroked ever-so-gently, ever-so-roughly just below
my dickhead, helmet-edge to shaft, helmet-edge to
shaft. Once. Twice. Thrice. My piss-load began to arc above the commode and
Pa laughed and aimed.  Three feet up, five feet down, right into the
bowl. I made noise appropriate to either a sad little kitten, a two-dollar
whore or a wounded bull as my morning piss flew up and into the toilet. Pa
just laughed and hugged me, never releasing his grip or his aim and never
letting his own stream slacken.

"Okay, sport." I was still luxuriating in an epochal piss. "But you still
got the core problem." He was right; my piss-hard had become a twitching,
leaking vortex of teen hormonal need. He repeated the under-helmet
rough/gentle stroke and I moaned like a hooker in a porn film. His rough
hand then crossed up and over my glans and muscles that I didn't know I had
shivered and quaked. Back-fisting my erection, using the last of my own
piss for lube, Pa stroked me. Every third stroke or so, Pa's paw would
reverse the journey over my cockhead and front-fist me, before returning
over the pole (pun intended). I think I lasted about four such cycles
before my nuts did their best to crawl back into my body and his hand
ripped my orgasm from my dick and a screech from my lungs.

"We got that solved, and today we're gonna solve another problem in your
training. You are cumming way to fast and way too often. I got the cure for
that, and we'll deal with it after breakfast. Today is a major training
day, and we've got to get you ready for a marathon session. Make something
special, sport." I had no fucking clue what he was on about, and didn't
really care. My Pa, my father, my god had his hand on my cock and was
telling me that he was gonna teach (and take care of) me for the day. He
could honestly have told me to get the thumbscrews and blow-torch and I
would not have batted an eye. But he asked for "something special" for
breakfast?

^ Suddenly, I was a bit nervous. No, I was panicked. For years, Pa's
breakfast never varied. Eggs, Canadian bacon, toast, sludge-like coffee. I
can't honestly explain why, but when I'd made the focaccia last night,
though, I'd set aside a half-batch made into a kind of pseudo-Italian pecan
sticky-buns. When I had accomplished the clean-up from dinner, I'd set the
oven timer so they'd rise tehn bake in time for breakfast. They'd be out in
fifteen minutes. I flew down to the kitchen and started a frittata with
ham, fontina and basil that went into the oven as the buns came
out. Instead of the normal sludge of American-style coffee with more sugar
than should be legal, I'd created an espresso-powder-based mocha thing. A
quick toast on the sliced and perfectly-stale focaccia from last night
completed the meal. I had held my breath so long that I was seeing stars
when Pa finally emerged into the kitchen.

^ His eyes narrowed dangerously as he, with transparent suspicion, glared
at the very-not-fried-egg meal in front of him. He skewered a forkful of
the frittata as if it has personally insulted him and followed it with a
bite of the focaccia toast. He chewed once and stopped. His dark eyes flew
to me and locked his glare to my probably-rolling-back eyeballs. My legs
started to shake a bit and I could feel my bowels turn to water. He chewed
again and literally, honestly moaned in delight. He swallowed. "FUCK me,
stud. Where has this breakfast been all my life?"

I melted into my own chair, my first inhalation in hours power-washing
oxygen to every cell. I shakily made my own plate. My first bite told me,
yeah, I had really outdone even what I'd hoped for. Pa's grunts, moans and
OMGs were all I needed to tell me that he agreed.

The mocha and pecan buns finally demolished, Pa sat back. "You've been
making me the same breakfast every day since Mom died." There was no real
expression in his face or voice. "I never even asked if you could do
better. I just told you want I wanted and you did it." I began to
flush/blush in fear/thrill. "You are one fucking hell of a kid; you know
that, right? From now on, parta your job is to tell me when you CAN do
better. When you got something I never knew or asked about. Yeah, if'n I
tell ya X you do ¡X!, but you also tell me about options for Y and Z
when you think of 'em, got me, champ?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Pa. I will. I will do that. I know I can make things
better. I just never had the, the, the balls to suggest anything. You are
so, so amazing and such a, a, MAN that I just... didn't feel..." I saw the
frown crease his chin and brow. "I'm sorry, Pa. I know I was too sissy to
risk it. I'll do better. Promise!"

A deep and frustrated sigh exploded into the kitchen air. "I honestly don't
know how the FUCK to get it into your god damned skull that you ain't done
nothing wrong, son. I told ya, and you did what I told ya. It's my problem
that I never asked ya if better was on the offer! Then next time you beat
yaself up over something that I shoulda done, I swear to god you're gonna
have trouble sitting down for a week. Don't you dare apologise to me for
what I did wrong. You got that, sport? You get me?!?"

"Yes, Pa! Yes! I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. I'm so sorr... oh
fuck," I ended lamely and with an audible gasp. Pa went from stern-faced to
gut-busting laugh in a nanosecond. There were actual tears of mirth in his
eyes as he watched me try and come up with a way to apologise for
apologising without, you know, apologising. Even I began to chuckle, then
laugh at my own predicament. When we pulled ourselves together, he tried to
be serious through a series of false starts abruptly aborted with fresh
eruptions of mirth.

"Now, I told ya that we've got something to work on. Get cleaned up. Get
dressed. We need to shop."  We ended up at the corner grocery, the Safeway
in the suburbs, Ace Hardware and (bizarrely) Michaels before we got home
with a bewildering array of purchases. I had basically contributed by
driving the shopping carts and paying for the result (I had a debit card
normally use for stables and food; Pa didn't seem interested in the details
of, like, paying for thing he wanted).

When we got home a bit before noon, we both divested ourselves of
everything but the jock straps and I flung myself about to capture and hang
the clothes that Pa dropped. Pa announced that he had 'some preparing to
do' and that I should 'rustle up a quick lunch' before disappearing into
his study/den/office.

^ I'd bought the fixins for brats-in-a-bun and hot potato salad and set
about fixing that. I could hear cutting, ripping and occasionally cursing
from Pa's domain and paid no attention. The brats were getting a tight,
crisp skin and I was tucking them into the buns with spicy mustard and
sport peppers when I next saw Pa. He had a bag and a grin that belonged to
the Cheshire Cat right after a canary-eating contest.

^ We tucked into the snapping-crisp brats and luxurious, creamy potatoes
with the occasional "mmm" or "damn that's good" coming from one or both of
us. We'd reached the "satisfied belch" stage when Pa's eyes caught mine in
a penetrating, serious and almost-hungry stare. "You ready for the next set
of lessons, stud?"

One of the great (if underappreciated) facets of a brat meal is that the
clean-up was non-existent. I leapt over to Pa and, realising that he was
still seated and I towered over him, couched down. "Yes, Pa. What do I do
next?" There was an undeniable pleading (and probably disgustingly-needy)
whine in my voice and I. Just. Didn't. Care. "Set a timer for 10
minutes. When it goes off, not a minute early, you come into my bedroom,
sport. You got that?"

"YES!" was my instant, gut-felt and desperate reply. That lopsided,
slightly-evil grin appeared ion Pa's face as he turned and walked to his
bedroom. I watched his furry ass grind the no-man's-land of his crack,
drinking in the sight of each hair displaced. I literally had to wipe drool
from my lip as I set the timer.

I fussed about doing nothing of value of consequence as the timer slowly,
oh-so-torturously-slowly ticked down the minutes. At 0:90 seconds, I was
quivering outside the door, listening to vague rustlings and moving-about
from the other side. By 0:30, I was frantic. By 0:05, I was probably
hyperventilating. The first bleat of the kitchen timer had barely reached
my ears when I turned the knob and opened the door to paradise.

Pa was still in his jock strap and nothing was obviously different in the
room. I stood, modelling for Still Life with Horny Twink, in the doorway
waiting for any indication of my next move. Pa stared for a minute. No
smile. No frown. No nothing. One hand came up fractionally and a finger
beckoned. Like a puppet with knotted strings, I lurched in, moving to just
outside his personal space, my eyes never leaving his.

Pa pointed to the bed I and I flew there but hesitated. How did he want me?
Bend, sitting, laying? Face up, down, on my side? I breathlessly looked to
him and still, with no expression at all, indicated that I should lay on my
back. I did, but then he frowned, and I knew I'd missed a signal. His gaze
dropped fractionally to my crotch, and I sprang back up like a wind-up toy,
divested myself of the jock strap and returned to my supine pose. To this
day, I am not sure that any part of me bend during that manoeuvre. At no
point did my eyes leave those of my Pa, my god.

Pa moved toward me and was quickly beside the bed even with my
midsection. He reached over, still mute, and closed my eyes with his
massive palm. A superhero battle could have erupted and it would not have
persuaded me to open them. I heard him ease open the bedside drawer, then
felt his hand hover over my manhood. Need I say that it was both achingly
hard and so sensitised that I could feel the heat of his fingers?

Pa's hand descended and touched the base of my cock. I didn't actually
scream, except within my head, but I did squeak like a small mammal being
skooshed by a jackboot. Pa's fingers flowed across my junk, smoothly
gathering separating my balls (between thumb and forefinger) and shaft
(against the heel of his hand). He then pulled and stretched -- accompanied
by an orchestra of moans, groans and squeals from me -- my nut sac away for
the rest of my junk. It wasn't an easy task, but he gradually got about 3/4
of an inch of ball-sac clear. A flurry of motion and I felt something, a
silky, sinuous something, snake around that stretch of sac. It went around
three, four times, each requiring an adjustment of my otherwise-secure
junk, before I felt a sharp tug and Pa's hands left my nuts. I had been a
Boy Scout and thought I detected the rhythm and form of a knot being
expertly tied.

"Open." One word. One gruff, imperious, commanding word. My eyes sprung
open like a furby on crack and I looked down. My straining prick jutted,
not from a set of balls alone, but from a ribbon-wrapped, straining,
purplish, slick and tight set of trapped balls. That ribbon held my nuts
well away from my shaft. I didn't know why. I didn't care why. Pa wanted me
like this. If he'd painted my balls with Mercurochrome and written, "Please
kick my nuts" with a Sharpie, I would not have objected. This minor (so I
thought) decoration was an inconsequential (so I thought) detail.

"Okay, sport, now we can start again."

Pa's hands caressed my nuts, my prick, my chest. Teasing me to
ever-increasing heights of desperation. But I could not get 'there'. "You
get it now, don't ya stud. You ain't gonna cum with that strap. Not
ever. No matter what. You are in for the long haul." That evil,
wonderfully-evil chuckle.

That's when he started. I would love to give you the play-by-play. Which
nerves he stroked, which sensations he engendered, which microscopic hairs
he teased with whisper-soft strokes that never *quite* reached the skin. I
know that dick and balls and thighs and feet (FEET!) were involved, but I
can't tell you how or when. There was tongue in there, oh, fuck was there
tongue. Behind my ears (I do remember, that gave me goosebumps on my
goosebumps and that my nips seemed to grow to the size of strawberries) and
in my armpits (I think I probably looked like I had an underarm afro, with
every hair straight out and straining for just a tiny bit more
stimulation).

Pa then did something I neither expected nor prepared for; he nibbled on my
foreskin, his stubbled face rasping against my shaft and my crotch. I lost
it, in one of the most blissful and painful pseudo-orgasms I have ever had
or imagined. Remember, my nuts were still tied securely with a wide ribbon,
far from the shaft-side position required to cum. The teasing, touching and
now teeth-marks on my dick were too much by far and I erupted in my first
dry orgasm since I was 11 years old. I actually did think that my nut-sack
was going to split open from the pressure and that my cockhead might
burst. Neither happened, but the pain was screamingly intense -- literally,
since I was at that point screaming. But it was also as if I'd been plugged
into a sexual power outlet: Every. Single. Cell of my body came at the same
time, *except my nuts*.

When I came back to what were left of my senses, Pa had a look on his face
that could only be described as lust-infused terror. "Holy crap, kid. You
scared the fuck outta me. I didn't know a body could do that! I thought you
were having a seizure until I saw your rod pulsing and kicking and your
balls surging back and forth trying to climb your shaft. I swear to god I
never knew that could happen. You okay? Talk to me, son. Say SOMETHING!"

"Oh, Pa, don't ever do that again but that was the most incredible and
wonderful and painful and... and... just don't do that. Or do it lots more,
but don't do that but..." I was babbling, panting, smiling and crying at
once. "Pa, I love you and everything you're doing, but please have some
mercy and let me rest a minute, okay? I'm sorry, Pa. I'm so sorry but I
need to... to... to wait. Is that okay, Pa? You aren't gonna stop are you?"
I could hear the pleading and desperate tone in my voice, hating it and
glad of it at once.

<eof>