Date: Sat, 31 Dec 2016 18:45:31 -0500 From: Bear Pup 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.