Date: Tue, 11 Jul 2017 18:24:35 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Culberhouse Rules 8

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.

*****

We got to my car and my phone went off on a low alarm tone. "Why the fuck
would I have set an alarm for 10:30 at night?" I pulled it out and read the
screen, feeling my chest lock, unable to breathe and blood running with
ice. Ryan noticed and leaned over and gasped. The alarm message read,
"Betting I know what really made it better with your Brother. Let's
talk. The five of us. Text me." There was no name and nothing anyone could
use as proof. Nothing anyone could even call out as provocative. But I knew
it was Jack, and that he'd done it while he held my phone earlier. I just
kept staring at the same phrase, reading four words over and over and over
in shock. 'The five of us.'

*****

Culberhouse Rules 8: The Setup

By Bear Pup

*****

Mom had stayed up and I somehow maneuvered Ryan past her without incident
and got him into bed. He was quietly crying and sobbed when I got up to
head to my own room. I decided, 'Fuck it!' and kicked off my shoes and set
my phone next to the bed, simply crawling in behind my grieving brother and
holding him. It was only when I felt him relax into the tides of sleep that
I unlocked my own memories.

Coach Malkin was my favorite when I was nine and ten. He was a God,
really. Big, strong, masculine, rugged. Handlebar moustache, even. Gruff
and loud, a stickler for doing it 'right'. I was good, really good,
especially at football, and especially for that age. At that point, before
the puberty fairy arrived, I was an all-rounder. I could throw, catch, run
and tackle. And he used me everywhere, and often decisively in those
critical, life-and-death, legend-making, grade-school little-league games.

He praised and encouraged me no end, but his real attention was always on
the guys a couple years older. The ones who were starting to get clumsy or
lanky or awkward or shy. The ones who would one day walk up and mumble
almost-inaudibly that their cup didn't fit right any more. The ones who
were... eleven, twelve. He'd had one 'special-favorite', a kid named Dean.

Dean was a friend, and a good one. Had been for years. He was a year older
than me, but he was the quiet, stalwart buddy-type of stage and screen. It
didn't matter what you needed, Dean was there. Then one day... he
wasn't. He hit puberty early, and hit it hard.

Coach Malkin started working with him extensively, almost-exclusively. A
few weeks later, Dean went home sick after practice and was out of school
for two days. After, he was never the same. Never met my eye, never wanted
to pal around or help me out. He'd only say, "No. I've got to practice. Got
to practice." His voice was hollow and haunted. I assumed he'd simply
outgrown me, and his distraction was boredom with my childish ways. It was,
perhaps, my first real disillusionment about friendship, the first time I
realized that... friendships end.

At a remove of seven years, I now knew why. All of it fit. Coach Malkin's
sudden, intense interest. The dramatic shift in how Dean acted, in who he
was. Dean was around after Coach Malkin 'vanished'. I knew I was probably
projecting upon the memory, but I still think he looked... broken,
hunted. His dad got a job in Bentonville, which by definition meant
Walmart. They moved maybe a year later. Before High School, anyway. I sent
a silent prayer aloft that he had 'made it'. That he'd found someone
to... do more than use him. I cried myself to sleep, tears soaking my
brother's pale shoulder.

I slowly drifted awake supremely uncomfortable and not minding in the
least. I felt sweaty and grimy, and one arm had obviously been asleep and
was in the horrific pins-and-needle stage of restored blood flow. Yet one
small part of me overrode everything else -- well, not *small*.

I looked down through the forest of fur on my rippling belly and saw the
pale and beautiful face of my brother right where I so desperately wanted
him to be. Ryan was sucking my cock to beat the band and had
me... right... right... RIGHT... THERE!!! I shoved a pillow into my mouth
to prevent my scream of orgasm from waking the dead (or the rents).

I finally recovered and tried to reciprocate. I licked down that long,
lean, luscious torso sucking in lungsful of his intoxicating musk. Ryan
smiled and pushed me away, whispering, "Later," just as my phone alarm went
off. Time to start the day

School was... school. We were rapidly approaching the end of the year and
half the talk was about job and camps over the summer. I told John Stubble
(inevitably 'Stubby' even though he was tall and hung like a fucking yak)
that I'd be working with the CYO under a
swear-to-god-you'll-not-tell-anybody oath which guaranteed that he'd spread
it across the school and, if he could, the state within hours.

Jack Arnhart gave me a bro-friendly shoulder-bump in the hall and smiled. I
later saw Billy, the middle Arnhart brother, chatting up Ryan. Over lunch I
had a whispered convo before we went in to meet our respective packs. "So,
what do we do?"

"Taylor, don't ask me, please!? I am so confused. I mean, do you think it's
safe? What happens if it's a fake-out?"

"Ryan, I saw you and Billy talking. Did you see his eyes? Did he look
devious or just like he wanted to fucking eat you alive?"

"Okay, okay! I get it. But you, you'll, you're always the risk-taker. I'm
the one who turns on the charm after the win is in the bag. You know that!
Do... do what you think it best, Taylor. I, I trust you Taylor. Whatever
you think is... best?" So, yeah, my dick spurted dogwater into my jock (I
had one on under the compression shorts as insurance). Wouldn't you? The
sexiest thing in your world had just done everything but call you sir?
Deferred to you? Swoon was close. I leaned against the wall as he went in
and tried to think of roadkill puppies and lesbian nuns.

I got into lunch and let the conversation swirl around me. My pack was made
up of big-sport type jocks (Football, B-Ball, Wrestling, Baseball -- things
big, bulky guys played), so an occasional grunt was considered
conversational. I pulled out my phone and found the entry Arnhart had put
in my contacts. He'd been incredibly careful with the whole alarm-thing. I
knew I have to be even more circumspect with a text.

'Can't say we'll stay, but we'll drop by the party. When/where?'

The response came in mere seconds. 'Tmrw. Loc not up yt. Meet back Rat? 7?

Tmrw: Tomorrow was Friday. Loc not up yt: Final or real location not set
for sure. Meet back Rat: That part was genius. Nobody could get
it. Kentucky Fried Chicken. A debunked and stupid urban legend from, like,
the eighties said that a customer (the buddy of a cousin's fiancé's
friend's uncle or some shit) got a rat instead of a thigh. But starting
this year, as if by some universal decree, everyone at Highland High
suddenly started calling the KFC on the Highway, 'Kentucky Fried Rat', or
just, 'The Rat'.

I texted Ryan. 'k. tmrw 7 @rat'. I tucked in my phone and tucked into my
lunch, finishing just as the bell rang.

That night we were treated to a luscious meal of 'fajita tacos' which had
little to do with fajitas or tacos, really. Mom stir-fried little strips of
steak in Mexican spices, then did the same to onions, peppers and
mushrooms. She'd chopped onions, tomatoes, jalapenos, cilantro and lime
into a passable pico de gallo. A tub of store-bought white cheese dip, some
amped-up refritos (refried beans with cumin and jalapenos added) and
various green and red salsas plus lettuce and sour cream completed the
spread.

There were a couple dozen soft tortillas heated and we dove in like
starving wolves. She knew we loved this meal more than life itself. At some
point, the beef ran out (always first) and Ryan fixed a few bedraggled
'veggie fajitas' with whatever remained of the other ingredients, usually
cheese, refritos and pico. Today, he shared one of the cheesiest with me
which left Mom and Dad in slack-jawed shock.

"So, um..." Dad started. "You guy really have, you know, decided to be
friends and all?"

Since I'd just swallowed and Ryan had just taken a bite, I responded,
"Yeah, Dad. I mean we're not gonna be best buds, but I get him and he gets
me. I guess, I dunno, we're brothers now?" Ryan nodded around his food and
I took a big bite.

"And this is all from an overnight at CYO? Like, sixteen hours?" Ah!
Parental Doubt Mode had finally surfaced.

Ryan, Golden Boy with the golden voice, took over. "No," Mom's eyes went
wide, "not at all. CYO kinda.... broke down the wall and let us start to,
you know, talk about stuff. I guess the difference is that we figured out,
well, we might have been jerks but we didn't *mean* to be." He smirked at
me. "Or at least HE didn't ALWAYS mean to be a jerk. I mean, now I'm
willing to consider that he's growing out of his toddler fit-throwing
stage." I threw a tortilla at him.

"Hey! None of that at the table!"

"But that's just it. Before I would have gone all nuclear on him," I said,
"but now I can actually consider that his innate and lifelong
buttheadedness MIGHT not be the reason for any particular insult. He might
-- you know, in his emotionally-stunted, juvenile and clumsy way -- be
trying to joke around." We fired off matching smirks and Mom actually
laughed.

"Dear Lord above, that is *exactly* like my brothers would have acted all
those years ago! Don't you think so, Charles?"

I was likely the only one close enough to hear him mumble, "All those years
ago my lily-white ass," before speaking up. "Yes, dear. Very much like your
brothers." He pulled on a stern and appraising look, firing it in Ryan's
direction. "And you're both, what, delighted to give up a lot of your
summer?"

Ryan actually laughed and Mom looked furious. "No, Dad. We're not gonna
suddenly sprout stigmata and halos."

"Ryan! Don't you DARE--"

"Oh, hush, Mary."

"But it really is kinda important, you know. A lot of kids are real
excited, and since I'm going to be Student Council President and Homecoming
King, it's pretty important to--"

"Um, excuse me?" I didn't even *try* to keep the scorn out of my
voice. "Sure, Student Council President because Maureen with the buck teeth
and halitosis is the only other one running! Homecoming King? You?" I
started laughing delightedly as six eyes scowled at me.

"Anyway, while my infant brother chortles, it's important for me to show
that faith and family are important to a leader--" I roared and literally
fell to the floor. "--like me." Ryan kicked me for the whole overacting
thing and I took the hint. I crawled back up and faced the
horrified/disapproving/amused stares of Mom/Dad/Ryan.

I coughed apologetically, "I'm sorry. Halo or no, there's only so much
bullsh-- um, hyperbole I can take in one speech. I humbly apologize. Mom,
that was one of the best meals in forever. I am so full and happy but I
still have to ask: Is there, um, dessert?" I let a note of pleading wheedle
in there.

Even Dad laughed. Mom purred, "Wellllll, actually, I did do a little
something. Since you're both," her voice went slightly brittle, "or at
least you *appeared* to be doing so well." She went to the cake-stand that
I spotted earlier and lifted the lid. Even Dad's jaw dropped.

"Mary? Is? Is that? Is that... salt-caramel cake??"

Mom beamed in pride as her three 'boys' fixated on the cake pedestal she
brought over. She even went, "OOPS!" and pretended to drop it to the vocal
and lungingly-physical reaction of her men. "Why, that's a very good
guess. Two slices apiece, all of you! No thirds!"

That cake was one of the greatest mistakes ever made. When we were kids and
couldn't get enough sweets (and it didn't matter for growing bodies), she
baked all sorts of stuff. One afternoon, she was planning to make Monkey
Bread, a type of cinnamon-caramel pull-apart bread shaped like an
angel-food cake. She got the caramel goo into the pan then found that,
apparently, the yeast she'd used in the bread part was dead; the dough
hadn't risen at all.

Not to be stytmied, she started to assemble a classic pound cake, then
realized she had only brown sugar left, so used that, then fussed with some
spices until she liked the taste. Into the pan the batter went on top of
the thick caramel goo. She fretted that it would still be 'boring', so she
made some more of the caramel sauce and ran a thick ribbon in the wide
ring, on top of the pound cake batter.

When she upended it after baking and cooling, the results nearly had her in
tears. Rising monkey bread sort of wicks up the caramel; the pound cake
batter had just let it congeal in a sticky mess that drooled down the sides
of the upended cake. Worse, the caramel ribbon she'd added was nowhere to
be seen... until she cut a slice. Perhaps a half-inch into the cake was a
thick river of undercooked, dark gooeyness. It looked absolutely
disgusting.

When Ryan and I got home she reluctantly let us try a piece. It could best
be described as a heretofore undiscovered brown-sugar-based crystal
methamphetamine. Over the years, she adjusted stuff (like adding plenty of
salt to the caramel-goo to offset some of the jaw-aching sweetness, and
refining the spice mixture) and ended up with this, this, this
masterpiece. She normally only made it for some sort of major occasion or
for church raffles, where she was certain a bidding war (always including
her own family) was sure to ensue.

I decided to rack up some brownie points and got up and poured the milk
that was the essential accompaniment to BrownSugarCrystalMeth and Mom
portioned out the BSCM slices. Dad literally growled at her when she
pretended to cut him a sliver instead of a wedge. She blushed and
giggled. It was kinda cute if it weren't so utterly disgusting seeing
parents act like, you know, sexual beings.

Seized in dual cheese- and sugar-comas, Ryan and I staggered to our
rooms. I stripped down to my rather leakage-drenched jock and just melted
into my chair. Maybe twenty minutes later, I got a DING on my phone: 'sneak
over'. Oooookay. I locked my door and went through the bath. Ryan was
sitting in his briefs looking really worried.

Using my ultimate inside voice so's not to let the rents know we were where
they expected, I asked quietly, "What's up? You look really upset."

He looked up at me and there was something close to fear
there. "Sanctuary?"

I actually laughed. "Dude? Seriously? I thought we were so far past that!
What, did you murder someone? Let me get the bleach and the shovels..." I
trailed off as his lip trembled. I moved quickly to the bed and pulled him
into me. "Of course, Sanctuary! What's gotten into you?"

"I..." He swallowed convulsively. "Okay, this is really, really hard for me
to say."

"Ryan, you are really scaring me. You should like you're twelve and
terrified! Get to the point before I go into freak-out mode too!"

"{Idwnnaslplon}!"

"Oh. Um. Well, okay. Um. No probl--" I frantically tried to parse that into
any known language and failed. "Fuck it. I give up. Seriously, Ryan, I got
nuthin. What did you say?"

A shaky, young voice replied, "I don't want to sleep alone anymore." He
looked at his hands and literally sniffled. His voice rarely rose above a
hoarse whisper, like this was being dragged from his soul. "You don't
understand what it felt like last night. You heard what M-M-M-Malkin did to
me and you still held me, Taylor! I don't think I ever felt safe before,
not *ever*. Taylor, you just don't understand. I. Am. Always. Scared!
Always. And I tell the worst fucking thing that ever happened to me and you
HELD me. You CARED! You made me feel GOOD, Taylor. I can't. I can't.... I
don't think I can give that up." He was openly crying now.

I pulled him into me hard enough to get an 'oof' out of him. "And you'll
never have to, Bro. Never. And it doesn't matter if I'm a million miles
away, Ryan, I'm still holding you. I'll sleep here if you want. I'd sleep
here every fucking night of my life if I could. But it still doesn't
matter. I got your back. Forever. Always. You are safe, Ryan, swear to God,
and I'll tear down heaven itself to keep you that way."

It was the strangest, most-intense and fucked-up mix of emotions I'd ever
felt. The sheer ego-rush of his turning to me for protection and comfort
had my cock so hard I was afraid it might break off. At the same time, a
fierce, radiant rage boiled through me at anyone who might hurt him, but a
deep, aching tenderness fought all of that as I felt him cry silently into
my chest.

So, I was torn between the ultimate sexual thrill, the ferocity of
protection and the tenderness of love. Dude, I was fucking seventeen years
old; what the fuck do *you * think won? I pulled his face to mine in a deep
and penetrating kiss and had one hand down each side of his shorts before
he could say a word. He didn't need to, though, his moan cracked to the
rhythm of his crying before the tears vanished and a needy purr replaced
them.

I was torn. There was nothing that I wanted more than to fuck Ryan, unless
it was to never again break that kiss. I let my fingers play around and
through the twitching warmth and wetness of his asshole as my other hand
became a hot, tight, velvet sleeve custom-built to cradle and caress his
rampant cock. Ryan had sucked me off to explosive results that morning, but
I knew he'd neither gotten off then nor, of course, the night before. The
last time my brother had come was 36 hours or more ago. Ryan was screaming
his orgasmic joy around my tongue in his throat in under three minutes.

And I was sooooooo not done. I (literally) ripped away his undies and
dragged my ass-hand through his still-spooging mess. I never did break the
kiss. My former cock-hand now pried open his crack and my cum-covered
digits began to work his throbbing, twitching hole. He tried to pull away
from the kiss and I locked him tight, eating the whimpers and squeaks that
my sudden penetrating fingers wrenched from him. When his voice went from
whimpers to moans and his body from twitching to writhing back onto my hand
in a desperate attempt at getting more, I knew we were both ready.

Another quick run through his rapidly-liquifying load lubed my fuck-stick
and he ululated a howl into my lungs as I breached his breech. At the first
instant that he loosened in acceptance, I slammed another inch, then two,
into the velvet heat of his perfect, luscious, craving ass. In about five
minutes, I was pubes-deep into my brother and he was whinnying like a mare
every time I tripped my glans across his prostate.

I knew that, so quick after unloading, a hands-free wasn't in the cards. As
I felt myself get closer, I sent one hand to his nipples and the other to
his cock and dragged him over the cliff with me as we screamed in turn into
each other's lungs, finally pulling apart in desperation as we used the
last trace of oxygen in that orgasmic breath. If anything, the
rapidly-depleted O2 so intensified our shared eruption that it was like an
entirely new plane of get-off-edness.

Ryan laid, whimpering in delight and I gasped for breath. Finally, Ryan
pushed me off him forcefully, whispering, "Shower. Now. You fucking reek!"
And I did. I ran a quick one and was back in time to take over remaking the
stripped bed from him. Ryan retreated for his own wash. When he came back,
everything was ready and he simply crawled in and I enfolded his taller,
leaner body in my bearish embrace. We were asleep before we really knew it.

We woke early, well before the alarm, both piss-hard but not as
insanely-horny as either expected. Instead, we talked. Really
talked. School, CYO, the Arnharts. Where we were and are and might
be. Sleeping arrangements, studying plans, helping each other. Everything,
really. We dressed early and surprised Mom. We told her that we had
practice and had showered the night before. The fact that we were
approaching finals and that no sport in the school actually was active
right then was, thankfully, lost on her.

We separately explained that we had plans for the evening and would leave
from school. Ryan would be 'at Mike Miller's' working on
{mumble-mumble}. Mike and his dad would back up *any* story a without hint
of question if Mom or Dad called. Ryan, with my help, had gotten both of
them out of some serious -- like go-to-prison serious -- trouble last
year. Long story, but one that meant Ryan was never tapped out for weed no
matter how dry every dealer in the Ozarks might otherwise be. That reminded
me to let Ryan off the 'no weed' wagon. I just gave a typical grunt of 'the
guys' and 'pizza, maybe, or Sonic for the hot-rods' which was always
accepted.

On the way to school, I let him know about my own stash and my regret over
making him waste his own. He laughed and said not to worry; he extracted a
dozen markers for future favors that were worth more than the ganga
itself. We also, haltingly, talked about the evening.

I talked Ryan down off the ledge a few times and then finally said, "Ryan,
shut it. I got this. I got *YOU*, bro. Just breathe and let me deal, okay?"
Ryan practically melted at the words and was still smiling and blushing
when we got to campus. We agreed to meet in the weight room after last
class and pump the upper body a little, then shower and dress (we both
brought night-out clothes). I was actually more worried than Ryan at what
the night might hold; he had my rock-like confidence to fall back on
whereas I had... abso-fucking-lutely nuthin. I was a wreck. Ooo, boy!

<eof>

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