Date: Mon, 5 Jun 2017 14:42:20 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Culberhouse Rules 4

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
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

Friday rolled around and, on script, we had another yelling match with the
rents where even Golden Boy got shouted down by Dad. We packed in a rage
and left the next morning in a huff. We made it to the cutoff by North Big
Creek before the pressure was too much. Ryan pulled into the trees and we
kissed so hard we bruised our lips. We were both painfully hard, but agreed
to wait until we were locked in the 'rustic' (read: private) cabin we'd
reserved. This is going to be one fucking hell of a Revival.

*****

Culberhouse Rules 4: The Retreat

By Bear Pup

*****

We pulled into the Country Store right before turning off AR-5 and loaded
up on ice, pop and food, knowing that anything bought at the resort would
be pricey. One quick note on the word 'resort' when applied to Arkansas
lakes: Anything with a bedroom and a parking pad was a 'resort'. Fish &
Fiddle would be called a fish camp anywhere else, and that had been its
name for years. It had a relatively-nice covered dock and a pool, as well
as a dozen or so cabins.

We'd stayed there once, years earlier and knew that one of them, Cabin 9,
was on a path that didn't really qualify as a road. Apparently, they'd
planned to expand that direction just as the economy crashed. It was small
and isolated (like Fish & Fiddle itself). We checked in and gave the sleepy
old man at the store/office the cash for the rental and got a key in return
and a mimeographed (no shit; an actual teachers-getting-stoned-blue
mimeograph) map of the resort.

I grabbed the stuff and started lugging it as Ryan booted up the laptop and
the secure thumb drive I handed him. I got the last of the cold stuff
stowed in the clunky fridge just as he sat back, eyes sparkling.

I didn't even look at The List. I'd been fantasizing about this for almost
a week. "S-S-S-S-Sixteen! NOW!"

Ryan's eyes flashed to the screen and got huge. He turned to me. "Only if I
get el-l-l-leven as well. OH! And, and, um, three!"

I glanced up the list and gasped as my stomach fluttered. "Yesssssss!"

We were 'without apparel' instantly, clothes raining everywhere. As long
and lean as Golden Boy was, I always forgot how strong he was as well. He
lifted and threw me onto the bed, which creaked alarmingly, then fell upon
my body like a slavering wolf. He started with my armpit and I nearly
howled, grabbing the back of his head and grinding it into the slimy,
reeking trench.

Ryan grabbed my wrists and pulled his head back. "Number eleven. As long as
*I* want, little brother. Which means hands off." I moaned and grabbed the
headboard. He went back into my left armpit and went to work. I moaned
piteously as he took long, slow, torturous swipes through the area, teasing
and milking the sweat glands, trying to suck more out than they'd already
pumped into the hair. He licked down my side and my moan became a whine. I
had always, always loved being stroked there; to be licked and lip-nibbled
down my side was making me crazy.

But then... then he got to my left nipple and started... started to, to,
to, to nibble! My back arched like the photos of people being electrocuted
and both hands latched onto the back of that head, demanding that the
torturous work continue. The nibbling stopped replaced with a
t-t-t-tongue. My jaws were clenched around the whine I produced. Suddenly,
all sensation stopped and my whine became a mournful groan.

"No, no, no, little brother. No hands. I'm making a command decision that
we simply *have to* add number twelve." There was a lustful smile in his
voice as I wracked what was left of my brain. Twelve? Twelve? What was
twelve? One hand was already 'twelved' before I recalled, "12: Ryan ties
Taylor's hands so he can't interfere." Oh, God.

Using cotton bandanas, Ryan had both wrists tied to the headboard before I
could really decide whether to object. A third was twirled tight into a
soft rope and tied around my head as a partial gag making any objection
moot.  I could speak after a fashion, and make all the noises that seemed
to drive Ryan wild, but yelling was definitely out. "Isolated is one thing,
Taylor, but you were getting into the 'call CSI' volume range. Sorry,
little bro, but I decided that the gag came with the twelving."

I nodded vigorously, anything to get him back to work on me. Instead of
returning to the nipple where I'd unwisely tried to lock him, Ryan went to
the right armpit. With my hands conveniently locked above my head, he had
much better access and took full advantage of it. The gag was a godsend; I
could scream and cuss and shout obscenities and it translated all of that
into emphatic, sexual noises that sent Ryan into a frenzy. Every "goddamn
you son of a bitch!" became "MOANwhimperMOAN".

He again nibbled his way down my side, but this time moved across my belly
and up my abs to my right tit. I was literally incapable of thought within
minutes as he did more than lick and nibble, he sucked and gnawed and sent
me into orbit. Then, well, then the licking started in earnest.

Where the pits and nipples had been sexual play, the licking was sensual
torment. His tongue was everywhere, fingers and hands, arms, face, neck,
ears-EARS-ears, shoulders, chest, stomach. Like a cat bathing himself, Ryan
took his sweet and maddening time, leaving nothing, anywhere, unlicked. He
then dropped to did my feel and legs and I found that my toes, especially
my big toe, were exquisitely-linked to my cock and balls. It was honestly
like getting a remote-control blowjob.

I froze like a rabbit, one terrified that the snake might leave before
eating him, when Ryan finished my legs and worked his way up my inner
thighs toward my crotch. I was completely baffled when I felt his hands
behind my knees and the penny dropped just as he heaved my legs up to my
chest. MY GOD! HE WASN'T! Oh, God, yes he was. He hit my taint like a
freight train of tongues and nibbling teeth, taking me places I never
imagined I could go.

But, but, but then he worked lower. Without the gag, I would have been
hyperventilating as his tongue stroked deeper and deeper into my sweaty
trench. It was a sensation I'd read about in nasty porn since I first found
out what my dick was for, but always skimmed over. Why would anyone do
that, and why would anyone care?

I am not at all ashamed to say that it drove me insane. Actually, I'm proud
to say that I was able to stay conscious! The fire his tongue lit in me
flashed through every g-spot in my body, blazing like tiny conflagrations
at every nerve cluster. I cannot tell you how long he rimmed me. Time
ceased to have meaning. I can tell you it was long enough that I was
pouring sweat when he finally pulled back. I saw his face, flushed and
coated with spit and ass slime, eyes glazed and lust-mad.

Ryan moaned when he saw the sweat and, to my horror and desperate need,
dove in to lick it all up. When he got back toward my cock, however, he
found a spot he'd missed: two actually, the twin spots at the very tips of
my Apollo's Belt, the same places that had left me screaming and begging
with need in the shower. As he worked them, his smooth jaw and shoulder
would push and caress my cock as well.

I couldn't help it. Between the pressure and the tongue-work on those
insanely-sensitive dimples, I quickly approached the point of no return and
started to hunch. Ryan noticed instantly and pulled back, locking my dick
in a death-grip right at the base. I screamed and bucked as my
almost-orgasm was denied. I was weeping and sobbing and screaming into the
gag.

Ryan's evil voice was at my ear. "Oh, no, Taylor. As long as **I** want,
little brother..." At that point, I did honestly lose it. I was flopping
and writhing like a fresh-caught bass on the dock. I stopped suddenly. Ryan
had captured both my nuts in his mouth, sending me into orbit, but then
lightly bit down, making sure I knew that part I was extremely fond of
would be chewed off it I didn't settle down.

I took every bit of control I had not to go back to the thrashing, but the
work on my sensitive nuts did the trick. I was again getting close. The
stories about balls pulling up to shoot must have been true. Just as I was
again almost there, Ryan pulled back hard with my nads his mouth,
stretching sac well down and away while simultaneously retuning the
death-grip to the base of my shaft.

Then, then after all that, then after I'd almost cum twice and couldn't
actually see through the tears of need... THEN my fucking brother *started*
the blow job. He slowly licked his way up the shaft, teased the head and
then back down the other side. Over. And Over. AND OVER. The worst, though,
was when he finally latched onto the head and started to tongue round and
round and round, then tugged my balls south and used the other hand in that
fucking death-grip as he pushed me OVER the edge and I had my first dry cum
since I was 11. I *was* the scream at that point, nearly chewing through
the bandana-gag.

That, apparently, took the edge off enough that he could go down on me for
a long, long, long-long time. I was screaming and crying non-stop by
then. After a while, I suddenly felt Ryan swallowing over and over and
suddenly the head of my cock popped past the back of this throat. Every
muscle in my body contracted full-force and I came like I'd never done
before. Hypoxia, pleasure and exhaustion vied to see which would drag me
under first.

I slowly emerged from the voice to find my wrists untied and being rubbed
energetically by Ryan. "You okay, little bro?" His voice was suffused with
worry. I grabbed him hard and pulled him into a kiss for the ages. When I
finally let him loose, he was laughing, "I guess that's a yes!"

"Can I, um, can I g-g-get you off now?" I wasn't entire sure how I would
accomplish that, but by God I'd make it happen!

Ryan laughed and sat me up. With an arm round my shoulders he pointed to
three separate puddles. "You already did Taylor." The bastard had cum three
times while he was torturing me! Fuck! But all I could do was laugh. One,
probably that last, was leaking down my leg; he'd cum humping me like a
dog.

I looked up and grunted in dismay; Ryan just chuckled evilly. The two metal
bars of the headboard to which I'd been tied were *bent outward*. Nearly a
quarter-inch of newly-exposed metal shone at the tops where I'd pulled them
partially out of their sockets. Holy fuck!

Ryan pulled me into him and curled behind me, pulling the cover over us
both. "You need some sleep, little brother. That was one hell of a ride you
gave me!" I started to protest until I felt as much as heard his snore
ruffling across my hairy back. I went to chuckle and found myself asleep in
moments, utterly at peace.

We woke perhaps early afternoon and took turns cleaning up in the tiny
bathroom. A sexy shower was out of the question unless one of us wanted to
stand on the commode during it. While I cleaned up, Ryan prepped lunch
which I cooked while he showered. Nothing special, a half-dozen hamburgers
with loads of toppings to nearly turn it into a salad. As per preference, I
didn't use buns, just lettuce as a wrap. I didn't need the carbs and didn't
really like the buns anyway.

When we finished, we found ourselves just smiling stupidly at each other,
both happier than we ever imagined. I finally broke the silence. "Oh! I
forgot. I need to add stuff to the list." Ryan's gasp turned into a groan
of need as he read over my shoulder, 'Ryan rims Taylor until he cums (no
hands)' and 'Ryan finger-fucks Taylor'. I hesitated a long time and looked
up and reminded my brother: "Sanctuary?" He nodded and I typed, 'Ryan
long-dicks Taylor'.  Ryan was actually breathing hard, like he'd just ended
a run, before he turned away to compose himself.

We chatted a bit and admitted we both needed a little time to recharge, so
decided on a run and some fishing. We gathered our tackle. I got ice into
Ziplocks and filled the cooler-backpack with those, pop and some Sargento
cheese/nut snacks. Ryan put the tackle and kit into a fishing pack designed
for it. We sprayed each other to death with SPF-85 WetSkin and Deep-Woods
Off, then dressed in swim trunks under jeans and t-shirts.

We jogged down the path to the dock until we came to the "beach", an oasis
of trucked-in sand along the rocky, rubble-strewn shoreline. We then
settled into a nice running pace south around the headlands and then back,
just starting to get a sweat. We passed the beach and kept going, knowing
that there was a sharp, steep inlet just downhill from our isolated cabin,
making the return much easier.

We settled next to each other on a long log, God's own fishing bench, and
started to cast and reel. I looked over at Ryan's concentration and smiled
widely. We were hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder on a wide seat where we
could easily have had a dozen feet between us. Ryan caught me with the
corner of his eye, questioningly, then realized what I was smiling
about. This was likely the first time since we were preschoolers that we
chose to sit close, and did so completely without thinking, just naturally
like you see brothers do in 50s sitcoms. Over the next hour, we each
brought in two nice size stripers. We released the smaller ones and that
settled our dinner for the evening.

By that time, the heat was really getting to me, so I stripped down to my
trunks and dove in. It was instantly and shockingly apparent why we'd had
such luck. The angle of the light and the steep bank meant that the water
for about the first four feet was nearing bathwater temps; below that, it
was fucking freezing! Stripers loved to stay in the cooler waters below and
strike upwards for shad and minnows enjoying the warmer water above.

I emerged huffing only to be unceremoniously dunked back down. Ryan had
joined the fun while I was underwater. A typical lake-battle
ensured. Ryan's only hope was speed and mine was power. If I let him sneak
around or under me, I was doomed, but if he surfaced too close, he was
history. One thing that kept the balance was that neither of us liked
opening our eyes underwater (who knows why; dad did as well). He had kicked
to the bank to try for a shallow dive. As he braced to hit the water, I did
what I called a submarine. I kicked straight up, then used my arms to push
me deep in the lake water. I forced my eyes open and waited a moment.

Just as Ryan passed my former position and started to look around, I had
his trunks down and off in an instant. Even under the water, I could hear
his squawk of protest. I swam hard at a diagonal and made shore while my
brother was still floundering about. Ryan was red with outrage and I just
stood and laughed. He demanded his trunks back and I got a wicked idea. I
pulled them on over my own (a tight fit; Ryan was lots thinner than
me). And walked back into the shade of the trees.

"You gotta get 'em first, big brother." He started to growl then got a
gleam in his eye. Yep; he knew where I was headed with this.

I made sure there were no hidden patches of poison ivy nearby and settled
myself onto a stump. I watched as Ryan, pale and railed to the painful max,
sprinted out of the water and into the trees where I sat. His eyes adjusted
quickly to the shade and he was on his knees in front of me in seconds. I
lifted my ass and he tugged both pairs of trunks around my ankles and dove
onto my rampant prick.

I bit my hand to stifle a moan that would have echoed over the still waters
as my brother started to bob energetically up and down my shaft, pausing
frequently to lick and tease the head before assaulting the shaft again. I
was getting closer and closer until I felt an unexpected and unwelcome
coolness. I looked down and found a grinning Ryan now wearing BOTH pairs of
trunks pulled just above his knees, cock proud and ready.

"Turnabout's fair play. You up to the challenge, baby brother?" I growled
and, for the first time in my life, tasted another guy's cock. It
was... nice. I'd always read about guys going ape-shit over the incredible
taste. Okay, I get that. But Ryan basically tasted like Lake Norfolk with a
little added saltiness. His silky-smooth skin was delightful in my mouth as
I started to suckle and he started to moan.

I didn't even try to deep-throat him, but gave his cock a working-over that
I was determined he would long remember. I still felt he'd cheated by
grabbing my balls and pinching my cock to prevent my own, earlier orgasms,
so I set about to repay him in kind. Only I did it using his body's
cues. Whenever I got him to the point his breathing started to go UH-he-he,
UH-he-he, UH! I'd pull back and just lick his balls. I got him to that edge
three times before his strong hands locked me in place and basically
face-fucked my until he unloaded, keening high and desperately trying for
silence.

Now this, this I liked. The taste was nothing like my own (Hey, fuck
you. Of course I tasted my own. Tell me you ain't tied it!), but was
smoother, like cream, where mine was thicker and almost chunky. It also had
a strange flavor like... Okay, it's stupid, but I LIKE grilled pork chops!
And he tasted like grill pork-chop juice. It was wonderful and I kept
sucking until Ryan was trying (unsuccessfully) to pry me off and his voice
was increasingly desperate to end the overstimulation. I only stopped
because I heard a dog start to bark in the distance; apparently Ryan's
voice had reached 'dog whistle' pitch.

I sat back and smiled at Ryan's huge, round, amazed eyes. "My God, Taylor!
Was it l-l-l-like th-that for you?"

"I can't say, big bro, but I'm guessing from your reaction that... it was
even better when you did me!"

"W-w-w-w-wow." We untangled the trunks but didn't put them back
on. Instead, we threw them into the pack with the scant remaining
snacks. The two very unhappy fish each got its own little Ziplock coffin
and they went on the ice as well. We hiked straight uphill (no mean feat as
the undergrowth was thick and you had to be extremely careful of poison
ivy).

We froze instantly when we heard the sound. A rustling rattle behind a
fallen sapling. We moved slightly closer and I nearly screamed as an
interminable length of snake erupted, moving to our left faster than any
natural thing should be allowed to do. It was easily longer than either of
us were tall and its thin tail twhipped the groundcover about as it moved
away at speed. When we could breathe again, Ryan whispered reverently,
"Eastern Coachwhip. Beautiful!"

I turned to him appalled and said, "Snake, Ryan! I was a SNAKE! A fucking
huge, hissing snake!"

"Yeah, but did you see the glow on the scales? And the colors?
Just... wow. How beautiful." I gave him a long look of pitying disgust and
shuddered in revulsion before finally continuing uphill, leaving Ryan to
his perverted (and, God, please let it stay -- unrequited) love affair with
the Serpent From Hell.

We got back to the cabin in the late afternoon light. Up here, the cool
breeze was more noticeable and the sweat quickly cooled me. I built a fire
in the box-on-a-pole grill that was absolutely perfect for cooking no known
foodstuff. I mean, seriously, it was either too cool or too drafty or too
hot for every single grillable item. I cleaned the fish, knowing full well
that Golden Boy would never, ever handle icky fish guts. I went in and
washed up, then left the fish to soak in some salty water while I showered.

When I got out, Ryan already had the corn-on-the-cob on the grill and was
prepping the bass with an herb-and-butter wash. He got them on and basted
them exactly as he did the corn, but only turning them once while the corn
was moved constantly. This was something I was happy to leave with Big
Bro. I don't know why, buy I ended up with charred fish-shreds when I
grilled the damned things. Ryan, Golden Boy, had them plated and perfect
even down to the fucking diamond-pattern grill marks. And you wonder why I
hate (well, hated) the bastard?

He poured the melted butter into a long bowl into which we dipped and
rolled the grilled ears of corn, salting afterwards. Lemon was all the bass
needed. It was a perfect meal, and eating it at the picnic table beside the
cabin made it even better for some reason.

We both, sensibly, had chosen not to wear shirts (butter doesn't stain bare
skin) and we got a long and wistful look from the resort-wife making her
daily rounds just as we finished. We did make quite the pair. No matter
what type of young jock you preferred, one of us would fit the bill. We had
started sharing sultry, lustful looks not long after we sat down and had
worked each other into a quiet frenzy by the time we smothered the coals
and cleaned up the dinner. Darkness was approaching, and I was already
running through numbers. The List was going to get a workout tonight!

<eof>

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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Beaux Thibodaux: 19 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 20 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Lake Desolation: 13 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Shark Reef: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/
Culberhouse Rules: 4 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/

Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love (5 installments)
.../incest/in-gods-love/