Date: Sun, 29 Oct 2017 09:20:46 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Culberhouse Rules 15

See original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/culberhouse-rules/) for
warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between related young-adult 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
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*****

We made love that night with the new exhaust fan humming. Maybe five
minutes in, I got a wicked smile and went over and cracked the door open a
few inches. We used a gag whenever we were going to get particularly loud
(we didn't need the neighbors calling CSI), but we gave 'Danny' down the
hall enough sexy sound-effects to help him along. Ryan and I nearly laughed
when we heard Dad yell then groan: "FUCK! UhnnnNnnNnnNnnNnn!" I made a
point of getting the bed to squeak in rhythm when I finally frot-fucked my
brother and he moaned and begged quietly -- but not *too* quietly -- and
I'm pretty sure Dad-Danny dropped another load shortly afterwards.

*****

Culberhouse Rules 15: Dinosaur World

By Bear Pup

*****

The devastating truth dawned on us a few short hours of sleep later: no
matter how profound a Monday night is, it will inevitably be followed by a
Tuesday fucking morning. We showered and Ryan sucked a load from me but
asked that I just jack him... and ream his ass with my fingers while doing
it. We dressed and trampled loudly down the stairs to find a
thoroughly-miserable, desiccated and PISSED-OFF ghoul sitting at the table
in Dad's old plaid robe.

"If either of you want to live another hour," his flat, quiet, pain-infused
voice informed us, "you will -- very quietly -- eat things that do not go
crunch with utensils that do not go clang and tiptoe your way out of this
fucking house. Am I making myself completely clear? Either nod or shake
your heads, because if you speak one single fucking word, I expect that I
will be very, very sad right after I murder you." We nodded, wide-eyed and
mute. Mom was not a fan of Dad drinking much, so we'd rarely seen him with
a hangover. Apparently, it had been so long since he smoked that he had a
bongover as well.

Ryan toed off his shoes and I followed suit. Instead of eating, we just
assembled our lunches and added boiled eggs and leftover bacon. Dad
whimpered and glared when the fridge went whoosh as we closed it. We made
it out of the house before cracking up. Tuesday meant weight-training, so
we decided to just take Ryan's car.

Leanna Miller, an 'adorable' little freshman, ambushed us as we came
through the school's front door. "Your Mom is AMAZING!! It's like having an
angel around who can cook!!" Leanna was definitely one of those
exclamation-point girls where you could *hear* the little heart-shapes she
used under each one. She couldn't have escaped being a cheerleader to save
her soul. I kept wanting to shove a Quaalude down her throat to temper the
offensive perkiness. On the plus side, she was painfully-cute with the
whole button-nose-and-freckles thing going.

Leanna was also the third daughter (or five) in the Miller household. We'd
found out the night before that some difficult-to-define relative's baby
had been mauled by a neighbor's dog. Since they were part of the parish and
friends, Mom was staying over there to help out so that Mrs. Miller and the
family could concentrate on healing.

"I just wanted to thank you guys!! I mean, even though I know you didn't,
like, have a choice or anything! Our mom is all ripped up about Kris and
the dog!! Anyway, I brought you these!!!" She held out baggies with some of
Mom's insanely-good Hermits. They were massive cookies stuffed with
molasses, spices, dates and walnuts, crispy on the outside and fluffy-gooey
inside. The fact that they looked, frankly, like stegosaurus turds was the
main reason they were not a bake-sale staple. They were like props from The
Flintstones, a Dino-Cookie or something. I was already drooling before the
last exclamation point clanged into place.

The girl told -- actually, well, told!! -- us that it was likely that Mom
would stay with them that night as well, but she wanted Leanna to find out
if we needed her for anything. We assured her that everything was fine,
thanked her and made our escape; I was halfway through first period before
the last of the clingy Pep!! Leanna had exuded faded off my skin.

Not surprisingly, Little Miss Perky was the talk of the lunch table. My
pack was half-jealous and half-appalled at the thought that I might go out
with her. I set them straight quickly. They knew cheerleaders were never
really on my menu. Those that weren't too slutty were, like the sweet
little Leanna, way too exhausting. Talk of dating options made me realized
that I hadn't bragged-or-bagged in nearly two weeks. That would be
noticed. I got the perfect opening when I spotted Loren brush off Devon
Jones in a way that left him slightly-humiliated. They'd dated "sorta" for
a few weeks but it was now clear that she was a free agent. I excused
myself and went over.

Loren was an odd duck in several ways. She was smart, funny and cutting,
not really pretty but attractive. Her face was long and a little plain with
a wide, thin mouth, framed by not-quite-curly auburn hair that she clearly
knew was her best feature. Her wide-set, alert and lively eyes seemed to
see through people. We'd flirted occasionally but had never really gotten
the timing right; one or the other of us was attached in some way when the
other wasn't.

"Hey, Loren. Got a minute?"

Loren turned and looked up at me, her frown from the Devon encounter
vanishing but not replaced with a smile. More of a pleased calculation. She
turned and I could just make out the eyebrow-semaphore as she said, "Beth
and Rachel were just leaving." She turned back as the two quickly pretended
they'd planned that already. "Have a seat, Taylor. I hear you got
religion. You sure your rep can handle sitting with a pagan like me?"

Loren was very much not a Goth, but she had a prominent Wiccan charm on her
necklace and a wide hematite ring on her middle finger, the current rage in
the "I might be a witch" crowd. I smiled broadly.

"If anyone asks, I can just say that you put a spell on me. The whole
Hester Prynne thing?"

She snorted, obviously amused. "Sorry, I don't do the whole red-letter
thing, Tay. So, what-up?"

"I was wondering what you're doing Friday."

"Washing my hair." She said it with a challenging grin.

I purred, keeping it civil but clearly playing along. "That must be a lot
of work. Can I come over and... help?"

That got a genuine laugh, which reminded me of why she was so attractive
with such plain features. The sound was rich and glowed with genuine humor
and fun. "I think my mom would likely object to that, frankly. How about I
do it Thursday and we can meet for dinner Friday."

"Hey! I've got a car. Why meet when I can pick you up?"

"Because I don't trust your prehistoric Flintstone-mobile to make it,
Taylor." She smiled widely and I had to chuckle. "Would your manly pride
survive me driving? Maybe dinner at El Palenque over in Ash Flat?"

"I think I can handle that, Loren. Where--"

"I'll pick you up at your house. Seven sound okay?"

"Perfect. See you Friday."

"Friday." She nodded, looking satisfied and a bit curious. I smiled and
left her, catching Ryan's eye. He was contemplative. I nodded significantly
to his crew and he nodded back thoughtfully. I watched him scanning the
lunchroom for his own prospects.

Weight training was brutal It was the general consensus that Mrs. Harcourt
must have cut off Coach Harcourt's nookie supply because the man very
clearly was trying to kill us. Ryan and I weren't the only ones lingering
under the hottest water the school showers could provide. The fucking
bastard of a coach had gotten all over me for dogging on bent-arm pullovers
and double my sets *and* reps. My back felt like I'd been beaten with
chains. Ryan had come in for abuse on his rear delts, and got tagged with
seated, bent-over raises. He didn't wash his hair and I had a sneaking
suspicion that it was because he couldn't raise his arms that high.

All thought of pain vanished, though, when we opened the door to the
house. Ryan moaned as I whimpered, "Prime Rib!" It was one of Dad's real
specialties but he rarely cooked it. It took over three hours to cook and
that was after a full hour to prep! We piled into the kitchen like starved
wolves, complete with slavering jaws.

"Hey, guys. Mom is still with the Millers. I talked to her about an hour
ago. Since I was--" he gave a very significant look "--too ill to work
today, I decided to do Prime Rib since I felt much better this afternoon."
Holy shit! We'd gotten him so jacked he had to miss a day of work. He was
gonna kill us. No possible doubt. Well, I thought, at least I'd die with a
bellyful of prime rib!

"Um, about that--" Ryan started.

"No, you're not in trouble. I distinctly recall you NOT using a funnel to
pump me full of beer or forcing me to hit that pipe. That's on me. Sadly,
though, I do remember everything. Including the fact that I apparently
promised not to come down on you. We'll be 'chatting' about that in a bit."
The air-quotes dropped with the sound of a dropped barbell at each end of
'chatting'. Oh, dear.

We stared at the oven for a minute until Dad laughed, "No, it won't be
ready for at least an hour. Go get comfortable and I'll be up in a
bit. Your room, Taylor. Go on, now." We went. I hit my stash quick to grab
my little coil-bubbler pipe. Ryan's GRAV Sherlock was bangin' but I liked
the way the bubbler smoothed things out. You know, just in case we got a
repeat on baking off some chronic. That made me think about Dad's reaction
the night before to, well, to Ryan's ass. I decided to test it. I pulled on
a loose, open-sided muscle shirt in black that made my arms and shoulders
look massive, plus a pair of compression shorts in the school's Rebel Red.

I took a minute to adjust my package. I have a thick, ugly, gnarly dick, so
very unlike the perfect, silky-milky rod that my brother sports. We were
neither hung nor hopeless compared to the rest of the locker room crowd.  I
had more hang than Ryan soft (about four chubby inches) but he was a little
longer hard at about six and a half. I tucked my balls well forward then
lined my meat along them to create a bulge, very conscious of the fact that
I was chubbing more than a bit and that a couple of the thick veins
actually showed through the thin compression fabric.

I was checking the mirror and about to chicken out and pull on jeans when
Ryan came in the door. We each nearly burst out laughing. Apparently, my
brother had the same idea about testing the waters. He had on a
bright-yellow pair of running shorts that I knew from long, lustful review
separated and framed that incredible ass to perfection, paired with a blue
and white second-skin shirt that damned near forced you to look at his
perky tits. I looked away quickly; it was my only hope to avoid significant
leakage in the cockhead area.

When Dad came in (trailing a puff of prime rib steam that made my stomach
explode in growls), we were in the giant beanbag and had just booted up
DIRT-4, a dirt-course racing game. He hesitated at the door and blinked for
a moment before coming in and settling on the chair. He pulled out a
box-pack of Marlboro Reds and Ryan and I shared confused looks. Dad *never*
smoked and hated cigarettes as much as I did. He flipped the box-top and
there was something wooden inside. He pulled it out and I just marveled at
it.

It was a box the precise proportions of the inside of the cig-box made of
rich, reddish wood polished with age and use and inlaid with an intricate
design. I was still confused until Dad slid a panel from the top. I was
speechless. There were two compartments. The smaller held an old-fashioned,
dark-wood one-hitter and the larger was a stash-box. The slide-out lid
actually acted as a loader! It was like watching Antiques Roadshow for
stoners!

"Whatever the hell you had last night was a bit too... just 'too'
everything. So, I brought my own." He openly laughed at the looks on our
faces. "Seriously? You think old guys don't have connections? The Magic Box
is from my own teens, though. I had to really search for it. Nice, isn't
it?" He replaced the lid and handed it to Ryan who, appropriately, handled
it like a holy relic. He offered it to me, but I shook my head, unwilling
to risk touching it.

"Did you make it?" I asked, reverently.

"God no! I wouldn't know where to start! Your grandparents took all three
of us--" in addition to Dad and Dougie, we had an Aunt Dee "--to New
Orleans. I was 14, so that would make Douglas 13 and Delana 11. We did the
obligatory Voodoo Store and I snuck behind a curtain at the back and found
a headshop. I figured they'd throw me out in an instant, but the guy
couldn't care less. I blew every dollar of spending money for the whole
trip to buy that little marvel and a meerschaum pipe-bowl shaped like a
Rastafarian Lion's Head. Dougie lost that at some point when I was at
college."

He proceeded to pack the bowl of the one-hitter and burn it down, coughing
a bit. I understood why when he packed one for me and another for
Ryan. Having grown up with modern "smoking accessories," the brutal
direct-smoke slash of the little one-hitter damned near killed me. Through
my teared-up eyes, I saw Dad's smirk and I gave a serious re-think of my
amusement at his reaction to modern dank the night before.

"This is really light stuff. Guaranteed mellow." He was right, too. It had
little of the ham-fisted power of what we normally toked, but I could feel
the tendrils of calm creeping in. "So, let's talk about that whole end of
last evening, then."

Ryan was worried, and his voice showed it. "I knew you were pretty, um..."

"Wasted." Dad's voice was flat and a bit snippy. "Go on."

"Yeah, uh, anyway. So, I played a hunch that what we, you know, that it
wasn't something that would... freak you out."

"How?"

I decided to jump in before Ryan could blow it. "You said something about
your brother, Dougie, in a voice that sounded a lot, well, a lot like how
Ryan and I say each other's names. I didn't catch it at first, but Ryan
did. And when he called you Danny, it seemed to loosen you up completely
and we could see how much you really loved him, like Ryan and I love each
other." It was critical that Dad not know about his whole
inner-becoming-outer-monologue thing when he got stoned. That was just
waaaaay too valuable to let go.

"You asked me a very personal question, Ryan."  His voice was sharp.

"Yes, Dad, he did. And you answered." I was not about to let him hang Ryan
out to dry without making damned sure Dad knew there was plenty of rope to
go around. "And we didn't judge you and it's not fair for you to judge us,
right? I mean, I know you're the Dad and all, and it's important. We still
respect you and you *know* that what you and Uncle Doug had was really
special to you, I could hear it in your voice. So, you know this is just as
good for us, right?"

Dad sucked in a deep breath and blew it out in a long, slow
sigh. Reluctance oozing from every pore, he sighed out, "Yeah. Yeah, I
know. It's just really, really hard when you're a father to watch your own
sons make the same mistakes."

Ryan spoke up with a lot more fire than I expected. "Mistakes? Dad?
Seriously? You can see what we have, Dad, and you want to call it a
mistake!?!"

No matter how mellow, Dad didn't like being fussed at. "Now you just calm
down and don't you take that tone with me. I didn't say THIS--" he waved
vaguely at the two of us, clumsily trying to indicate without acknowledging
the sex part "--is a mistake. But between it and the marijuana, I put both
myself and my brother at real risk. There were times that it was sheer luck
that one or both of us didn't end up in jail, son. That worries me, and
it's supposed to. In ten years, the what-ifs are going to eat you alive."
He sighed deeply again and stared at us, a shadow of resignation in his
eyes.

"I don't want to see you hurt, guys. I really don't. I was pretty sure you
were both smoking marijuana." There was that word again. Jeez, is there an
age when you suddenly start using schoolmarm terms? If he used 'penis' or
'ejaculatory material' I really would lose it. "I made sure that your
mother never suspected. But the, um, the intimate acts--" I was so not
expecting that! I really did start to giggle. Dad blushed deeply, starting
with the ears, which made Ryan lose it too.

My brother chortled, "If he-he-he-he-he says 'testes', I may
b-b-b-b-b-break a rib!" With that, it was off to the races. Even Dad
chuckled.

When I finally recovered enough to breathe, I looked up. "Dad, we love
you. We respect you. We really, really do. But you're sitting there with a
one-hit-wonder that you shared with us and using terms like marijuana and,
heeHEEhee, 'intimate acts'. Can you please, I beg you, at least use terms
from this century?"

"Fine. It worries me that it sounds like MY SONS are making a gay fuck film
all goddamned night long down the hall from the fucking bedroom where you
were both conceived. Is that slang current enough for you?"

Shaa-BAM! Ryan and I sobered mid-chortle. "Good. Apparently, that got your
attention. Did it never occur to you that someone might be walking their
dog by the house at night? Or a neighbor might be on the back-porch smoking
a joint in the wee hours? No. I didn't think so. And, yes, that worries the
fuck out of me. As for 'testes', the word might not seem so funny in the
mouth of the ER doctor after you've had your nuts kicked in by some
hillbilly redneck fuckwad who heard from the friend of a friend, etc., that
you two were fucking around."

The silence that greeted that pronouncement was profound enough that the
whirring of the exhaust fan seemed to echo. A distant DING sounded and Dad
stood up. "Think on that for a minute while I go pull the roast and get the
rest started." Dad was out the door before his words really started to sink
in.

I looked at Ryan. His lower lip was trembling like he was ten I could see
tears threatening in the corners of his eyes. I pulled him roughly into a
tight, protective embrace and kissed him firmly. "Stop that. I have your
back, Ryan. I made sure that no one could hear us, and you know that. I
love you and will NOT allow Dad to make you paranoid. And if Mr. Hillbilly
Redneck Fucktard -- or whatever he said -- comes near you, I will take him
apart, Ryan." I was silenced with a vehement return-kiss from my brother
who, though still shaking, was obviously coming back around.

A "significant cough" brought us back to the present. We turned to find a
very-uncomfortable father, left hand seemingly undecided on whether it was
supposed to be hiding or stroking the very obvious erection. "It would help
a lot," Dad said in a somewhat-strangled voice, "if you two didn't look
like eels mating when I walk into a room. Please? And, yes, I noticed that
you BOTH dressed like porno models. Whose idea was that, by the way?"

"Mine." The word came from both of us as if rehearsed and I dissolved in
giggles. Ryan took up the explanation. "We didn't talk or anything. I just,
well, thought it looked good?"

"It looks fucking incredible, actually. I really, really want to tell you
never to dress like that around me again, but I have a hunch that my nuts
will try to strangle me in my sleep if I suggest it. Damn. I don't care how
sick it is, but I have two fucking gorgeous sex-jocks for sons."

"So, um... Dad?"

"DO NOT suggest what I think you're about to, Taylor. First, it would be
monstrously-wrong. Shut up, Ryan. It's not because of the whole incest
thing. We're already past that. But there just isn't any way for a father
(or a coach or teacher or a priest or whatever) to know if a teen is really
consenting or just trying to please Dad. I said, hush! That's the whole
point. If a young man constantly reassures his father that he really,
really wants... sex stuff, he sounds exactly like a young man who will do
anything to please Dad and really hates the sex stuff." Ryan scowled,
looking for a flaw in the logic. He found none.

"Second: It puts all of us at an insane amount of risk. I would be
guaranteed prison and that would be after your mother cut off all the parts
of my body that I like most and put them in the garbage disposal. Lastly,
it would destroy your mother and I love her very much. I might *like* sex
but I *love* Mary with all my soul. Doing something to hurt her would kill
me, guys. It's why I worked to hide the pot thing the last few years."

Dad went to pack his one-hitter, but I shoved my hand out quickly before he
started. "Um, Dad? Can we, um, use something from this century? You know,
so you can see the difference?" I pulled my bubbler and Ryan chuckled. No,
the intricate glass pipe wasn't some GRAV or PURR thing that cost more than
the dank you put in it, but it was nice and smooth. Dad handed me the stash
and I packed the bowl for three good hits and showed him how the carb
worked. He pulled slowly (and thoroughly) and his eyes bugged at how cool
and smooth the smoke was. Ryan burned the bowl off and gave me a nod of
approval as Dad released slowly, luxuriantly.

"You're right. It's better. But your mother would never understand that you
have the same opinion of Just Say No as we did at your age. I mean, for us,
First Lady Nancy the Nightmare was real-time!" I snorted out the tail end
of my hit at that.

"And I've run plenty of interference to the point that I *think* your
mother still believes you are both virgins and just 'date socially,'
whatever the fuck that means. It's a weird gift that mothers have, this
ability to completely forget her own school days and pretend that HER sons
would NEVER do what every guy in high school did when she was that age. I
mean, we grew up in the 90s. If there was anyone -- other than your mother,
of course, and we solved that when we got married -- who left High School a
virgin, it was because the kid was beyond the help of plastic surgery."

That set off Gigglefest II, and even Dad joined in that. Ryan and I sobered
quickly, which set Dad into a complete fit of laughter. He could see that
it had just dawned on us that he was talking about sex between *our
parents*. I mean, we *knew* that they'd... you know... at least twice since
Ryan and I were the proof. But, still, ICK! That was total "Brillo the
eyeballs to get rid of the mental image" territory. ICK! Did I
mention... ICK!?

"You know, as a parent, I find it fascinating that every generation thinks
they invented sex. Short of one notable exception, it's been going on since
the dawn of time, guys. Oh, and just to be a complete prick about it? All
four of your grandparents had sex, too!"

The groans of horrified disgust send Dad off again. I took his distraction
to restoke the bowl (from his stash, naturally; I'm not completely stupid)
for a much-needed brain-cell-realignment after the image of Grandma Beth
(complete with moustache) and Grandpa Andy (with the moobs) doing the nasty
in some, I dunno, the back seat of a Buick Brontosaurus? One of the main
reasons that prescription pot gets on the ballot is to control nausea,
right?

Dad finished it off just as a timer sounded. "Don't hurry, boys. It will be
at least five minutes or so to carve and all." The tail end of that was
hard to hear over the stampeding feet of Ryan and me heading for the
kitchen. We got the plates and silverware and such. I burned my fingers
pulling the twice-baked potatoes straight from the oven and Ryan burned his
getting the bread into a basket.

We then sat as Dad tormented us with his very careful ritual of carving. He
snipped each of the strings that held the roast is a sort of beef-bondage,
then surgically sliced the bone away (guaranteeing stew on Sunday). With
agonizing care, he cut the heel off (Mom loved the end) exposing the
brilliant crimson flesh beneath. The blasts of aromas from each stage meant
that we were leaking drool at a pace equal to the roast's drippage of
juice. He lovingly moved each slice onto a second board before taking the
original, deeply-grooved cutting board and tipping it, whisking the
drippings into the bubbling au jus.

Ryan was literally whimpering by this point. Dad moved the serving board to
the table and, as per usual, prolonged the torture by saying grace at a
pace you'd expect at a poorly-attended funeral. When he finally let us at
the food, it was hysterical. I can say that now, even though at the time I
was appalled. Dad had decided that it would be really funny to record it on
his phone. The video of Ryan and me trying to inhale an entire cow with
side dishes, in hindsight, really is hilarious. At the time, when I looked
up feeling vaguely like a cannibalistic chipmunk and saw the video light
on, I could have screamed. Well, no, I couldn't. Not until I swallowed
about six times. But STILL!

After the meal, we retired to my room. I was thick around the middle
anyways, but I swear to God that Ryan looked pregnant. We settled in and
Dad reloaded (thankfully using my bubbler). We were draped over the beanbag
and, frankly, a little over each other.

"So, from what you said last night, it seems that you two went from, well,
zero to infinity in like a week. That just blows me away."

Between the beef, sides and very mellow (if soft) dank, I was chatty. "Why?
I mean, it's not like we had to feel-- ahem, figure out if the other were
interested. I mean, we made a li.... oops." Ryan's very sharp elbow had
come one syllable too late.

"A li--? Wait, you made a LIST? A list of WHAT?"

"Don't look at me, Taylor. You stuck your foot in this one. You fucking
figure it out." Ryan, hissed, understandably pissed.

"Um, well. Um. It's like this. I told you that I busted Ryan? And then that
I admitted, well, liking guys, too?  Well, I really wasn't sure, like
really sure, that Ryan wasn't going to turn the tables on me. So I
t-t-t-t-told him that he had to ask for what he wanted, in writing."

"And I did, and we ended up making a bigger list with what we each wanted,
and then we combined them."

"Excellent. Let's see it, then."

I swiveled my eyeballs toward Ryan and saw him looking at me the same
way. We both turned back to Dad. I managed, "Um... what?"

"The list. Let's see this magic list."

Ryan tried the Golden Boy bit. "Dad, I mean, that's really not--"

Dad's voice was absolutely stone-hard. "This is not a discussion or a
negotiation. Me, Dad. You, sons. My house. My food. My
internet. List. Now." I watched a dust mote in the air slow and
stop. Silence reigned. Time ceased to have meaning. I am told that this is
a survival behavior from our early evolution. Time doesn't *really* slow,
the brain simply goes into turbo-boost mode to give lizard-you a chance to
figure out how to outrun the T-Rex. Sadly, all it really accomplished was
to give me a short eternity in which to contemplate the conjunction of our
Dad and our insanely-kinky brother-lust list. I desperately wanted to opt
for the ravenous Tyrannosaur. At least that beast could only eviscerate you
once.

<eof>

Thank you to beta-readers Zach, Jack, Steve and Jeff. Their suggestions
made many parts of this chapter much easier to read and understand, and
they consistently improve the entire story but spotting the places it fails
to live up to what you, the reader, expect.

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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