Date: Mon, 2 Jan 2017 10:21:00 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 6 - We Have Liftoff

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.

*****

"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.

***** Karl & Greg 6: We Have Liftoff M/M; Incest; ball bondage; intense
edging; rimming

 "No, I'm not gonna stop teaching my so very brave and studly kid. But even
I need a break after that. I'm gonna cool off, and I'm bringing you a cold
beer. You've earned it, kid, you have fucking earned it." Sweat still
dripping from my sides, Pa threw a sheet over me (my prick looking like the
mast of a fully-rigged sailing ship) and stumbled out of the room. By the
time he got back, my breathing was in a normal rhythm (almost) and I could
sense the individual heartbeats (they had merged into one long tattoo). He
had two beers in his special-occasion frozen mugs, frost-steam pouring off
the sides. He also carried a bottle and (awkwardly) two short, heavy
glasses.

"Sit up against the headboard, stud." I wriggled up and gasped as the cold
iron bedstead touched my back, then gasped again as my bound nuts were
jostled by the movement. My eyes were wide with wonder, lust,
not-quite-pain and not-quite-fear. Pa handed me one of the small glasses,
"You earned more than a beer with that performance. Karl never did nothing
like that, and I don't know nobody who ever did." It took me a minute in my
addled state to unwind the grammar there, but I the praise underlying it
sent a flush up my chest and neck. I also noted the comparison
(favourably!!!) to my only-too-perfect younger stub-brother and literally
basked in the warmth that shone onto my soul.

"This is from a bottle that I only crack open for births, deaths and
graduations, son, and I think you damn near hit all three! It's called
Armagnac, Chateau de Laubade, and it's from the place that
my... your... ancestors come from, son. It's very special, very old, very
expensive and very, very strong." Pa could not have my attention more
riveted if he'd been doing a pole dance. I was a huge geek for all things
historic, and Pa had never even mentioned the roots of our family in my
presence.

"We're from the foothills of the Pyrenees. The Barcas moved with the
aristocrats that owned their lands (and them more or less) from the edge of
Spain high in the mountains to more-secure foothills. They brought their
skill with grapes and, oddly from the mountains, distilling their wine
(your ancestors built arbours, aging vats and distillation frames). Where
they settled became famous for the stuff they and other noble families
produced, Armagnac.

"I want you to take tiny sip first, roll it around your mouth and taste it,
then swallow. Breathe in once, then shoot the rest. You got me, sport?" I
nodded. He handed me the small, heavy-leaded glass and locked eyes with
me. I matched his movements as he brought the liquor to his lips and
tilted, gently, and took a sip. My already-over-sensitised nerves included
my palate, and my mouth leapt across an ocean to taste the essence of a
fruit at the peak of ripeness, from some year before I was born, cherished
and fermented and distilled and aged and finally bottled to explode on my
senses decades later and a continent away. My first inhalation carried that
into my lungs and into my soul. My eyes refocussed and I saw the same
journey of discovery echoed on my mentor's, my god's, my Pa's
face. Together we smiled, and together we shot the rest of the glass.

That is when my body realised several things. I don't drink. I had never
drunk before. I don't know how to drink. And, best of all, I just chugged a
glass full of nitro-glycerine. I would have choked, but I frankly couldn't
spare the oxygen. My eyes bugged and spurted tears. My nose ran and my
whole body exclaimed in shock, delight and horror as that amber napalm set
fire to my mouth, throat and gullet. From there, it acted like a California
wildfire in a dry gale and exploded through my body, setting every fibre of
my being ablaze. Something that I meant to be "Oh fuck!" came out, bit more
along the lines of "{chuff} Grrcchhugh {gurgle}." Pa laughed and had that
icy beer to my mouth before I could breathe in again. A quick swallow
extinguished the need to spontaneously combust, but the fire in my nerves
remained.

I still don't drink much (or often) to this day, but I set my benchmark for
The Perfect Buzz at what I felt that day, the Armagnac setting fires that
the beer dampened but did not extinguish. I had actually started to forget
the aching need in my bound balls when Pa finished his own beer and said,
"You up for round two, sport?"

I mutely and vigorously nodded my assent and he slowly peeled back the
covers. "We're gonna start with one of my most important rules of
lovemaking, kiddo. Man, woman, girl or boy, the rule stands. Never. Never
fuck anything that you aren't willing to eat first. Pussy, ass or
titty-fuck, you eat it before you fuck it. If it's too nasty or smelly or
hairy for your tongue, it is for your prick as well. Pull your legs up to
your chest."

I was still processing the first part whilst my body instantly obeyed the
second. Pa pushed my legs even further back and I gasped as I realized what
he meant just second before his tongue touched my taint. Pa was gonna fuck
me! Like Christmas and a dozen birthdays, that thought ran through
me. Then...

Okay, Pa had done a lot of things to me over the past few days, but nothing
prepared me for the pleasure that surged through me when his tongue made
contact. The thought of getting fucked, hell, EVERY thought evaporated when
his stubbly faced and probing tongue hit my crack.

The evil chuckle was back, laced with lust, love and dominance.  Only this
time, it vibrated directly from my twitching hole, up through my balls and
caused my prick to quiver in time. He pulled back a little and heard
somebody (apparently me) whimper like a puppy with need and frustration. "I
think you like, that, sport," he purred.

"Pa! More. More. More." That syllable, more, became a superconscious mantra
interspersed with groans, moans, squeals and whimpers as he dove back in,
no longer just licking, but tongue-fucking my virgin hole. He really went
to town on me, lapping, twirling and then brutally probing. Pulling back to
watch my expressions and see how much he could make my mind/body/voice beg
for more. And yeah, I begged. And Pa delivered.

I don't know how long that epic rim went. I do know that by the time he
moved to Act III, my ass lips were more out than in, and exquisitely
sensitive to every touch, tease or even breath of air. I also know it had
gone on long enough that I was hoarse from my unending grunts and
pleas. When he finally pulled off me, he pulled far back and watched me
squirm for a minute. "You ready for the finale, sport? You ready to finally
blast that desperate nut you've been nursing all day? You ready, son?"

I'm not sure how one 'groans' a sibilant word, but I managed with a
gut-wrenching cry of "YESSSSS, Pa, YESSSS! Fuck me. Fuck me, Pa."

In a surprised tone, Pa responded, "You ain't nearly ready for that kind of
action, son" I sobbed and started to beg. "Don't worry, sport, you're gonna
get all the stimulation you need, just not from my daddy-dick." I almost
leapt from the bed when I felt something wet and slick and COLD brush my
hole, then shrieked when Pa's mighty middle finger punched past the point
his tongue could never have reached. No pain, no discomfort. Pa has worked
me into such a frenzy and such a relaxed state with his tender/brutal
tongue-fuck that I was far more than merely ready.

"This is the payoff, kid. This is the time for you to lose it," his voice
crooned, soothed and excited. "This is where you get your first REAL
nut-buster. Yeah, son, yeah," His finger was all the way inside me and
slowly, fucking unbearably slowly, it rotated until his palm was against my
taint. "This is the centre of your universe, kid, I'm taking you into
orbit. You ready?" He didn't wait for a response, and I was unable to give
any. "You ready for the cum of a lifetime? Yeah, stud, yeah you are. And
Here. It. Comes!" With that last word, his callused finger scraped across
what I later learned was my prostate. What I thought then, if any coherent
thought even existed, was that he'd hit the launch button on my personal
rocket.

I had paid no attention to his other hand. Pa had expertly manoeuvred a
pair of surgical scissors, the kind with the wide, blunt tip used to probe
under bandages and sutures, between my churning nuts and the ribbon that
incarcerated then. After that first, amazing, mind-blowing scrrrrrrrape
across my butt nut, Pa simultaneously snipped the ribbon, punched my launch
button and nibbled my lace-curtain foreskin right at the base of my highly
over-excited prick.

Far from the passing-out or zoning-out that had accompanied earlier
explosive orgasms, something about this one brought me to
hyperawareness. Time slowed and I felt each surge, maybe each individual
spermatozoon, detonate upwards. I felt each one in my prostate, my urethra,
the walls of my hard-on as it climbing the shaft, as it burned the
prick-lips at the very tip and launched like a missile up, up, up and over
my head, streaks of which landed like jellyfish tentacles, stinging and
burning my face and chest. Then again. Again. Again. Throughout it all,
what I saw was one and only one thing -- a look of parental pride, joy and
lust on the face of Pa, my lover and my god. Every seismic contraction of
my body widened his smile. Every volcanic fountain erupting from my dick
creased his eyes in amused lust. Every inchoate and exultant shout that
started from my balls and rushed through my lungs and mouth brought a tiny
flush of pride to the ultimate manly face above me.

Pa was panting a bit himself, watching his oldest (and basically estranged)
son experience the greatest sensations of his young life, and at the
father's own hands. My cum volcano was winding down when he groaned, deep,
low, the sound from the back of a primordial cave. Finger still lodged deep
in my ass, each stroke rocketing cum after cum after cum out of my prick,
Pa trembled then gave in to his own need. His free hand scraped across my
belly and chest as he stood, changing the angle of entry for that magical
middle digit, only increasing my need and my pleasure. I finally noticed
just how aroused this perfect god of a man was.

Pa's dick was harder than I could have imagined. The shiny, almost-purple
head straining and leaking dogwater like a faucet, coating the shaft and
his leg. Light dawned suddenly, even through my orgasmic haze. Pa had been
teasing himself every bit as much as he'd been teasing me for much of this
amazing day. He had reached the end of his tether. Pa's cum-filled paw
grabbed the shaft behind that flaring ridge and drew down, down to the
balls clenched against his root, then up to the tip, then fiercely,
forcefully, almost brutally back down. The fact that he was using my cum
for his lube shuddered through my body and intensified the dregs of my
orgasm. Two more strokes were all it took for this bull of a man to erupt,
vocally and sexually.

I had shot to the wall behind me easily, over and over, a blown oil-well
gushing into the sky. My continuing higher-pitched squeals and whine and
gasps were a mere tenor top note compared to my father's garbled mix of
guttural moans and deep-chested, filthy monologue. Pa's thicker, juicier
tool blew so very differently as well, with massive cum loads rushing
forth, not spurting but hosing my belly and chest with that precious
fluid. With the constant, prolonged, flushing pulses of cum from his
black-haired and dark slab of meat, it was almost like watching my Pa take
a long, pearly-white piss across my heaving chest and rippling abs. Like
me, though, there was a lot of load, and a LOT of noise as he cursed and
growled through his intense and very thorough orgasm.

When we finally both stopped and Pa's finger slipped back out of my rear
entrance, we could do little more than grunt at each other as we fought for
breath. My pale, Scandinavian skin peeked through in some very small areas
that were not coated with our combined, opalescent load. I looked like a
Nickelodeon guest covered in slime, except white and quickly liquefying as
it flowed across and down my left side. Pa and I both stared at the lake on
my belly, slack-jawed and heaving for oxygen, then locked eyes. At the same
instant, we both barked a laugh, the core essence of joy pouring from both
of us in loud, gasping, sobbing gut-wrenched laughter. "Fuck, son, look at
ya! Look at yer BED! We'll have to drain the swamp fore we can even change
the sheets!"

<eof>

For those of you who've been asking when poor old Pa gets his own nut, I
hope you enjoyed as much as he did.