Date: Sat, 7 Oct 2017 06:57:23 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Culberhouse Rules 14

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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*****

Did you know that beer can turn to ice halfway down your throat? I choked
hard as I watched my brother's eyes get bigger and bigger, or maybe it was
the fact that all the blood had drained from his face and the flesh shrank
around them. "I happened by Ned Arnhart's place over off Timberlane. He's
the brother of your friends' Dad and an old buddy of mine.  You know, just
to drop by and say hello. Not that I would have *ever* followed you boys or
anything. I really didn't mean," he sneered, "to startle you when I pounded
on the side of the RV when I was finished watching through the window. So,
boys, let's have a nice father-sons CHAT, now, shall we?"

*****

Culberhouse Rules 14: Heeeeeere's Danny!

By Bear Pup

*****

Ryan moved like a very depressed zombie as Dad herded us to my room, having
me carry a six-pack of Pliny the Elder. I frowned as we entered. There was
something... wrong, something different. It smelled like... sawdust? Dad
told us to sit on the bed and he grabbed my desk chair and spun it to face
us. He reached over and hit a button on the face of -- HEY! That hadn't
been there before!

A whir as soft as that of my computer sounded. "I added this exhaust fan,
and a ceiling-mounted one in Ryan's room. This one because I had no idea
just how much you guys are into weed, and I don't want you opening the
window and letting the AC out." Ryan made a noise halfway between a whimper
and a squeak and my jaw worked jerkily but nothing came out.

"Oh, I don't care. Your mother might, though, so I got the quietest one
Home Depot had. You need to sit pretty close to it, though. The one in
Ryan's room has much higher flow capacity so it can get rid of sex-smells
faster." I reached out quickly as Ryan started to topple over, grabbing his
arm with one hand and slapping his back with the other to get him to
breathe. Dad was beaming with delight.

"So, who wants to lie to me first?"

Since Ryan was effectively out for the count, I fielded that one. I was
very proud that my voice was (more or less) steady if higher and breathier
than normal. "Neither of us. We're so completely busted. Why lie?"

Dad looked at me thoughtfully. "Okay. First, how long?"

"Um, the weed or the..."

"You two fucking like rabbits. How long? We'll get to the marijuana
question later."  I blinked at calling it 'marijuana'. I mean, I *knew*
that's what it was called, but I'm not sure I've ever heard the word said
aloud outside mandatory Just Say No snooze-fests at school.

"T-T-T-T-T-Two weeks. The, uh, the Saturday after the Student Congress
thing?"

Dad did a slightly-exaggerated eyebrow pop. "While your mother and I were
at the Couples Retreat?"

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Yessir?"

"AH! So that's where the CYO idea came from. I know for a fact that there
was no flyer in the missalette that week. Go on. How did you, um, get
started?" There was, bizarrely, no anger in his voice, but there was a
definite tone of triumph alongside genuine curiosity. "Go on. I want
details."

"Um, started? Well, I was really pissed and found Ryan's st-- um..."

"His stash. I do know the word. You mean marijuana or drugs or what?"

"NO! Dad, we don't do drugs!" I lied smoothly. "Well, weed, but that, I
dunno, doesn't really count?" Dad snorted and scowled at me so I hurried
on. "His stash of weed and p-p-p-p-p-p-porn.

"Gay porn." It was a statement, not a question.

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Yeah. And, um, well, I planned to blackmail him but I
couldn't. I'm not proud of it but we'd been real shi-- jerks to each other
for so long. But then I really *looked* and all the guys he had in there
were, uh, well..."

"Burly, hairy jocks just like you." I just stared in open astonishment that
Dad -- OUR dad -- had just said that with such a matter-of-fact air.

"Um, yeah. Yessir. And I c-c-c-c-c-confronted him and he freaked and then I
told him I, um, had always -- GOD, Dad. I can't say it!"

He pulled out the Implacable Father voice: "Yes, you can, and yes, you
will."

I hung my head, unable to look at him. A quick glance told me that Ryan was
halfway to puking. "I'd always, well, liked g-g-g-guys who look, well, like
Ry, Dad. He didn't believe me and thought I was making fun of him, but when
he realized I was being honest, it just sorta... broke down all the walls
and," my voice had risen and softened through the speech so the next two
words sounded like they were uttered by a mouse, "stuff happened."

"What 'stuff', Taylor. Come on, give me the details. All of them. Out with
it, son."

"Whu? I mean, what?" I couldn't have been more puzzled if he had said that
in Ojibwa. "Why? We're already busted. I j-j-j-j-j-just admitted that we
had, you know, SEX! With my brother! And we already did the detail thing in
Confession -- twice! Why, Dad?"

He sighed deeply then popped the tops on three more of the beers, handing
them out. I lifted Ryan's beer-hand up until he started to drink, then
guzzle. A little color was coming back to his face at least. "I'm not sure
I'm ready to answer that, Taylor." He got a wicked grin. "Actually, here's
a better idea that will, you know, loosen things up a bit. Let's try out
the new fan." I just blinked at him. "Come on. I know you've got some and
it's been easily twenty, twenty-five years since I had a doobie."

I was in sort of a combined shock. Dad -- like, MY father -- had just said
he knew I had stash, that he'd smoked as a kid, and that he wanted some,
like, now. What fried the last brain-fuse was trying to back-translate
"doobie" into modern English. I mean, to anyone under the age of... death,
that word was something uttered by a guy named Shaggy in reference to an
animated Great Dane with no external genitalia, coming directly between
"Scooby" and "Doo".

Ryan had come back to his senses -- more than me, at least -- and
zombie-walked to his room. I looked to Dad and he seemed to be, um, well,
checking out Ryan's ass? No. That made no sense! Ryan came back with a
*really* nice, new, blue-glass GRAV mini-Sherlock and some cleaned herb --
quality shit, too; you could see tiny shards -- in a small baggie.

Dad's face fell. "That's all you have? Really?"

"Um, Dad." My voice fell for the next part, "I can't fucking believe I'm
having this conversation... That's enough to keep the three of us baked for
a weekend. Dank is a lot stronger than way ba-- I mean, than when you
were-- fuck it. Than whenever you last partook."

Ryan's hands were still shaking a bit so I packed the bowl. The Sherlock
was basically a very generous one-hitter or a stingy two-hitter, and handed
it to Dad with a lighter. "Um, Dad? You do know..."

He just snorted at me, put the Sherlock to his lips and started to draw as
he fired the bowl. About a half-second later his eyes went wide. I saved
the pipe as Dad's eyes slowly crossed and he did the ain't-gonna-cough
hiccough-dance, eventually losing the battle in spectacular fashion,
hacking up a lung into the vent then chasing the aborted toke with about
half his beer. Ryan and I swiveled gazes to each other, using
eyeball-semaphore to basically reassure each other, "Yeah, that just
happened."

I finished the abortive hit and blasted the carburetor, then refilled the
bowl for Ryan who took his hit and handed me the dregs. Basically fair. I
got two halves and Ry got one whole hit. We looked back to Dad who had the
goofiest smile. "WWWooowww. Damn, I forgot how good this feels!"

I had to agree; this was primo shit. I had a flash of panic that it was
Hex-Mex and I spun to face Ryan. The last thing I could take would be our
father on a Hex-Mex insatiable-horn for the evening. My brother caught the
impending freakification in my eyes. "No, Tay. It's new. Something called
Slow-Glow. Haven't even had time to try it yet."

Dad rolled his neck on his shoulders and muttered to himself. "Damn, it's
been years since my neck muscles really relaxed. Why the fuck did I ever
stop visiting Mary Jane?" This could get... interesting. Dad was one of
those for whom chronic turned his inner monologue into an outer one. "And
my boys smoke even more than me and Dougie. How in the hell do they even
walk, much less do sports?" His attention snapped back to us at that
point. Even though I could still see pot-smoke swirling inside his
eyeballs, he was alert and dangerously cogent. "So, let's skip ahead to the
priest who runs CYO. Explain that."

"He's actually a monk, Brother Andrew. Really HUGE African man. He was nice
but also scary-smart. He was really, um, 'not impressed' with how we got
the idea for the retreat, but he liked the concept. He even got with other
CYO heads and they used almost all our ideas." Ryan and I bounced the
conversation back and forth for a while, explaining how the retreats would
work. That's when I realized why the shit was called Slow-Glow. It was
sneak-weed, the high building slowly like a deep-trough wave about to
deliver a great white shark to an unsuspecting surfer. Within a few
minutes, I could feel each puff of air on my fingers. It was obviously
getting to Dad as well, now on his third Pliny the Elder.

His voice was supremely mellow, but still had a little edge. "So that
bullshit about the 'worst thing' stories was on the level?"

"Yeah. And it was really important." Ryan's voice was also showing the
effects, but nowhere near as much as Dad. I mean, we were used to the 420,
but that was probably the number of years since Dad had last smoked
any. Ryan and I bounced the story back and forth again and shared the
occasional glance.

Yep. Dad was fucking baked. I mean, if he'd been a cookie, he'd'a been
crispy. He'd mutter occasionally, usually with a teen-locker-room innuendo,
completely unaware that he'd spoken. We talked about fishing and, "Learning
to wiggle the worm, hehehe," would sneak out. The volleyball and flag
football got, "Boys love to play with *balls*, hurhurhur." The best,
though, and the one that nearly made us both burst out laughing was when we
talked about canoe-fishing where the guys had to switch off using the
fishing pole and the paddle. "Hehe. Both get the paddle and they're both
gonna have a 'rod'... heeHEE!" Ryan and I were smiling wider and wider as
it became increasingly-obvious that Dad was perving on this. Perhaps not as
much as us, but still perving.

The doorbell rang and all three of us jumped so hard we nearly crapped
ourselves. Ryan leapt up, yelled, "Chinese!!" as if announcing a People's
Liberation Army invasion and sprinted down the stairs. Dad and I looked at
each other and he actually giggled, which floored me. We followed Ryan
downstairs. I put my hand on Dad's shoulder in a bro-friendly way as he
seemed to be having a "bit of trouble" with the whole
next-step-lower-than-the-last problem. Ryan had already paid the guy and
was setting out the containers (and chewing a piece of Mongolian beef he'd
snagged; he always sequestered the roughly twelve-pound container of that
dish so the rest of us could only get a taste).

The egg rolls were amazing. Fresh-made, bubbly-crisp and, unlike a certain
competing place that shall remain China Star, stuffed with more than just a
handful of cabbage. You could taste the pork and the shrimp in there with
all the veggies. I nipped the searing-hot, crispy end off of one and poured
in the soy through the blast of steam, rotating the little tube to coat the
innards perfectly before my first bite burned away all of the skin on the
roof of my mouth and dribbled oil-n-soy down my shirt. Gawd, that was good!
I had three as did Ryan. Dad preferred the soup (half hot-n-sour and half
egg-drop), but I heard him stonily mutter after glancing at the egg rolls,
"Same size. Same color. Same shape. Just as hot but crispy, too -- hehehe."

I knew I was going to pay for the carbs the rest of the week in the gym,
but just couldn't care. The beef lo mien was the perfect complement to the
buzz, and the sticky-chicky was killer. Sticky-chicky was, apparently, a
local thing. The succulent cubes of chicken had honey sorta stir-fried onto
them until the bee-goo was a thick, crispy coating with sweet chili, sesame
and soy in there someplace. Put sticky-chicky over the veggie fried rice
and it was incredible. It became truly divine once you doused it in the
'Suzee's Super-Secret Sauce' (say that six times fast... and stoned). We
knew there was hot mustard, chili paste, soy and mirin in there, and
suspected something like heroin to up the addiction factor.  Dad had
ordered enough food for six, so there were *almost* some leftovers.

We were just reaching the fight-over-the-last-noodle phase when we all
jumped again, wide-eyed and adrenaline-pumped. The phone was ringing. I
answered it since I was closest.

"Culberhouse resid-- Hey, Mom! Yep. Just finished. Of course it was
Chinese. Oh? Oh, no! That's terrible. She gonna be alright? Really?
Good. Good. Yeah. No, of course it's no trouble. We'll take care of the
house. Sure. G'night, Mom."

I turned to my brother and father. Dad was staring at me, giving Ryan an
opening to poach Dad's last piece of sticky-chicky. "Um, that was Mom,
obviously. Mrs. Miller's... um, husband's niece's baby (I think; something
like that) was mauled by a dog. She's stable but Mom is staying over to
help out, I guess. Cook and stuff so Mrs. Miller can go back and forth to
the hospital. We're on our own tonight, maybe even tomorrow."

Due to the quantity of food, we got six fortune cookies. We went around the
table, starting with Ryan who intoned, "Good things take time." I snorted a
laugh as did Ryan while Dad looked on, bemused. We had been told by a
friend several years earlier that fortune-cookie makers always leave off
the most-important last two words and you have to add them mentally (or out
loud if the parents aren't around). Ergo, Ryan's first fortune read, "Good
things take time *in bed*." His second gave us both a thoughtful
pause. "Change is happening in your life, so go with the flow {in bed}."

Mine were similarly hysterical and thought-provoking: The first was "Share
your happiness with others today {in bed}." Both funny and profound
considering how we'd been completely fucking busted but Dad seemed more
curious than furious, and absolutely bent on getting the gory details. The
second caused both Ryan and I to share a long, wry smile. "A pleasant
surprise is awaiting you {in bed}."

Dad's fortunes, to him, were just funny and he mock-raged that we'd somehow
stacked the cookie-deck to give him geezer quotes. "A person is never too
old to learn." was followed by "It's a good time to start something new." I
thought Ryan was going to swallow his tongue when we silently added "in
bed" to each of those! I watched an idea physically cross in front of
Ryan. It was like he was reading a banner in the air that only he could see
and he got a seriously-wicked gleam in his eye to match his half smile.

We all pitched in to clean up even though Dad was a teensy bit
unsteady. His buzz had faded but the beers hadn't. We retired again to my
room and Dad sat a bit heavily. I'd pointedly brought him a large tumbler
of ice water, as well as ones for me and Ryan. "Pack that pipe again, son."

I cocked an eyebrow but Dad was clearly not interested in being denied. I
loaded a bowl and handed it to him. He pulled more cautiously this time,
including popping the carb, and held it impressively. I killed the rest of
it, repacked it, took a pony-hit and passed it to Ryan to finish.

"Okay, now tell me how you found out about Jake Arnhart's boys, and does
Jake know?"

"Actually," I said, "they figured us out, not the other way around. I'm
pretty sure their dad has no idea. When we came back after the, uh, retreat
weekend, Jack made a very pointed hint that he knew why we were *really*
getting along so well, which freaked us out. He said he and his brothers
wanted to 'chat'. We were frankly scared shitl-- oops. Sorry, Dad! I
mean--"

"I'm sitting here smoking dope with you. I think it's safe to assume you
can cuss. Fuck it!" he hollered. His smile was lopsided and even goofier
than earlier. I blushed hard and giggled too, but plowed on.

"Anyway, so he sent me an invite, you know, for the both of us. We were
gonna meet at the KFC but found just Billy there and he took us... well,
you know where. Their uncle's place off Timberlane and... well... and..."

"And? And what? And you just decided to have a jock orgy?"

Ryan saved my bacon on that one since I was doing my stranded-goldfish
impression. "No, Dad. They, uh, we exchanged stories bit by bit. None of us
wanted to the others to have, well, you know, dirt to spread around, so it
went slow. And we didn't really d-d-d-d-do much."

"You told sexy stories with five horned-up, stoned teen jocks and you're
trying to tell me... Nothing? Happened?"  Even stoned, Dad's bullshit meter
was still finely-tuned.

"No, Ryan's saying nothing major happened. Jack came in his pants once and
I jacked him off later. Dave and Billy both jerked themselves and, well,
um, Ryan and I got into a kiss that turned... kinda personal and, er,
wriggly and we came from that."

"Fuuuuuuck." Dad's eyes had glazed over a bit and he reached down without
thinking about it, trying and failing to massage his impressive bulge into
a better position. He was staring at the wall above us, completely
unfocused, and the Slow-Glow made itself known. "Five fucking jock studs
shooting everywhere," he muttered softly. "Jack getting a hand-job from my
Taylor. My boys squirming around like snakes and blasting all over each
other. I can't take this. It's Dougie all ov-- Shit!" He *almost* realized
that he'd said something out loud when he glanced down and saw us watching
in fascinated thrall but couldn't seem to put two and two together... yet

Ryan licked his lips. He pitched his voice in that seductive range and pace
that hypnotists used. "You said that you needed details, Dad? Why are you
asking for details?"

"Yeah," Dad's voice was breathless, "details." He snapped back into focus
and said, "I asked earlier for details and you evaded me. Come on. " I was
shocked when Ryan smiled, but nothing like when he started talking!

"That first Saturday, Dad, we'd mowed the lawn and were all sweaty and rank
and nasty. Taylor smelled like sex, Dad. Taylor let me dive into that
sopping-wet crotch and suck all that smell out, Dad. Can't you just taste
it, Danny?" I jumped and got a harsh glare from my brother. Why'd he
switched to Dad's nickname? "All that jock-musk just sitting there. It got
him so hot he came, Danny. I had one hand on his nipple, Danny, and the
other on his cock. And it made me so hot, I came a bucket all over him. And
then, Danny? I... Licked... It all... Offfffffff."

Dad made a strangled whimper and tried to get up. I stared in awe as Ryan
stood, blocking him. "That's what you wanted to hear, right, Danny? Or do
you want to know about the shower, Danny, and how he edged me and teased me
and then left me hanging? Or maybe you want to hear about how it felt to
wash that hairy body, Danny. All those muscles. All that hair, Danny. Just
like you did for Dougie when you were teen jocks, right?"

"Dougie..." I'm not sure Dad was really conscious at that point. "Washing
Dougie in the shower..."

"That's right, Danny. Ryan and Taylor in the shower just like Danny and
Dougie." He leaned forward until he was speaking in Dad's ear. "And then we
went to the cabin at Fish & Fiddle and... We. Did. Ev. Ry. Thing, Danny."

"Oh, God!" It was a nearly-insensate whine, a prayer, a desperate plea.

"So, Danny, which did you like best, when you sucked Dougie or when he did
you?"

"Oh, God," Dad whimpered, "I loved sucking his big dick. And the smell. The
sssssmell. That raunchy Dougie smell. But the best was when he begged me to
fuc--" Dad jumped like he'd been electrocuted. "What the hell? Ryan, what
did I say? What did you hear?" He was panicking which, I finally realized,
was exactly what Ryan had been shooting for. I could imagine Dad's
stoner-mutter on that one: 'shooting, hurhurhur.' I spoke up as Ryan stood
there, still blocking Dad's escape.

"We heard you say that you weren't going to judge us, Dad, or yell at us,
or anything else. Because you understand just what we're going
through. That's all you heard Dad say, right, Ryan?"

Ryan stepped back. "Yep, Taylor. Dad heard what we told him, what had
happened and he said, 'I understand, boys, I do. It's okay as long as Mom
doesn't know.' And I think that's really cool of him. Now, Danny said some
other stuff, but what Dad said is what counts."

Dad's eyes flicked between us, with hints of befuddled confusion, fear,
rage and the stone-hornies all mixed together. His breathing quickened,
then slowed as he visibly relaxed. He coughed and said, "You forgot that I
said you would tell me everything any time I ask. You'll tell me because I
want, um, uh..."

"Sure, Dad -- and Danny--" Golden Boy Ryan purred, "we'll make sure you
have all the 'um' and all the 'uh' you want. And whenever you want to get a
little high, you just let one of us know. Come on, Taylor, let's help Dad
to bed. Danny needs some serious 'um-uh' time, I think."

We supported our fairly-drunk, thoroughly-stoned, completely-baffled and
achingly-horny father to his bedroom. I had snagged a bottle of lube and
left it on his nightstand. "Just in case of emergencies, Danny. You relax
and let off some... steam, huh?" He sat on the side of the bed and just
looked at us, face flushed and pants stuffed, a wet spot spreading quickly
from his self-evident need. I am not sure I'd ever seen anyone over the age
of nineteen look that desperate to blow a load. It was like his eyeballs
were leaking pre-cum. We backed out of the room and closed the door behind
us.

We went to Ryan's room with a short detour to mine so we could shut off the
fan and lights and retrieve the Sherlock and the Slow-Glow herbage. We got
into Ryan's room and I leaned against the door. Our wide eyes met. "Holy
crap, Ry. That really just happened, didn't it?" He nodded and the
self-assured hypnotist vanished under a pall of wonder and more than a
little fear.

"Fuck, Ryan! How did you figure out the whole Danny-Dougie thing? Where'd
that even come from?"

"I, I, I don't know! I just heard something in the way Dad said Dougie's
name that made me..." He stopped suddenly, staring from one of my eyes to
the other as if looking for something. I moved forward and pulled him to
me, his stiff form melting a little as I sat us both on the bed. "He said
Dougie's name the same way I say yours, in my head at least," he mumbled
into my shoulder. I pulled his chin up and led him into a long, passionate,
loving kiss. It quickly turned to something else as the pot and the story
we'd told Dad (and Danny) got to us.

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 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.

<eof>

Thank you to beta-readers Steve, Kevin, Jack and Jeff. Their suggestions
made many parts of thei chapter much easier to read and understand.

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