Date: Sun, 25 Dec 2016 19:15:04 -0500 From: Bear Pup Subject: Karl and Greg: Karl and Greg 2 - We Need to Talk Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/karl-and-greg) 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. ***** Tears and cum poured from me in roughly-equal proportions as I fled to my bathroom. "FUCK!" I had just enough energy left to peel away the jock and rinse off the massive load I'd pumped into it before I quite simply staggered and crumpled on the bed, crushed, humiliated, horrified that I had squandered the first and perhaps only chance I had of bonding with my Pa. He had never so much as given me the time of day before, and here he was willing to teach me "man stuff" (as I thought of it at the time), and I blew it (and my load all over him). Grief, self-rage, humiliation; the three emotions washed across me in every-rising waves, one after the next until I cried myself to sleep with the sounds of a baseball game ending leaking from the living room. The heavy footfalls of my god of a father lurching through his evening ablutions and bedtime ritual were the last thing I was conscious of before darkness lovingly took me. Karl & Greg 2: We Need to Talk When I woke the next morning, I kept my eyes shut tight as I killed the alarm. It was a bad dream. I did NOT humiliate myself. I did NOT ruin the first time that Pa paid me any attention. I did NOT cum all over him, whimpering like a fucking girl. I did NOT fuck my entire life. But I could feel a slight tug from the rinse-defying remains of the epic cum that cemented my pubes together. I did all those things. I DID all those things. I did a sort of sob + hiccough thing and flung my legs out of bed. Defeated, dejected, bereft. ^ I always get up an hour before Pa so I can get his lunch ready (today was a thermos of rock-em-sock-em-strong and sweeeeeet coffee, another of tomato soup, a salami sandwich, some Ruffles and a diet [seriously?] Coke), and then make a hot breakfast (always the same: three fried eggs, exactly five slice of Canadian bacon, also fried, slightly-burnt toast and a HUGE mug of that sugar-caffeine sludge Pa calls coffee). I do this on autopilot, not really even aware of my actions as I assemble the meals for him. It's only when I hear the flush of his toilet did the freight train of reality slam into me. I was literally shaking and wide-eyed as he blundered through the door and sat heavily on the kitchen chair. Time stood still as I awaited the axe that would surely descend to end my existence. Pa took his first bite, "mmm'ed" and then looked at the petrified bunny that I had become. "What? Ya din't poison it did ya? Tastes fine. Good breakfast, kid." He looked back to his plate, shovelling the next helping into that already-stubbled jaw (Pa shaved and showered at night), ignoring me completely. Three different levels of shock washed across me. First, he didn't kill me or throw me into the street. Second, he looked me in the eye and didn't even give me the disgusted and repulsed look I so richly deserved. Third, he actually praised something I did, something I did every damn day, a first since Mom passed. At some point in there, my heart started beating and I gasped, not realising my lungs had been empty since I heard the flush. I can only imagine what Pa saw as he wolfed his chow. I am certain that my eyes were the size of baseballs, my jaw was slack and my breathing ragged. I assume that I shook like an aspen in a strong wind and that I was either drained-of-blood-white or lava-coloured-red. I didn't make a single voluntary movement until Pa glanced up and grunted, "Good. See ya tonight. Ya always make good grub, but make sumpin special tonight, stud. We need to talk." With that last growl, Pa strode out, paw snagging the lunch kit as he bulldozed past, and was out the door before I even realise who I was. I am relatively certain that I showered, dressed and made it to school. The only evidence of this were a few brief flashes of memory where people were conspicuously NOT looking at me like a stinking, nekkid whack job in various classes. Other than that, the next actual thought I had occurred when I reached the house around 4:30. What the FUCK was I gonna cook that qualified as "special? ^ I was home about three seconds before I sprinted to the corner market, blindly grabbing ingredients and paying for them in a breathless haze. What I made it home with was a truly motley collection, but it did have a rib steak, a lot of fresh parsley and ears of corn. I grilled the first and last and made a pesto of the middle ingredient. As the steak rested, I made a hot salad of the corn and various cheeses and veggies. I was slicing the steak as Pa stumbled through the door, and the parsley sauce hit the steak just as Pa's ass hit the chair. ^ Pa looked down, looked up at me, and locked gazes. I didn't know if the look was curious, furious or querulous, but I used every nerve I had to hold that gaze until he dropped his eyes back and sampled the steak. I swear to god he groaned. His first taste of the corn salad came with a moan. His first bite with all of it came with the best reward of all. An eye-locked stare, slow, big smile, and an eventually grunt of, "Fucking amazing, kid. Seriously." Yeah, I'll admit it, I learnt the meaning of 'swooned' and came close to the practice. Every red corpuscle went to either to my face or my crotch. My Pa had, had, had not only praised me but loved something I had done. I think I might have nibbled as I basked in Pa's slavering devourment of my "special" meal. His last grunt, last sigh, last sitting-back signalled the end of the meal, and my trepidation mounted. What exactly did, "We need to talk," actually MEAN? "Okay, kid. Yeah, we really do need to talk. Finish up down here and then go up to your room. I want ta clean up and I'll be there shortly." He frowned slightly, his voice both serious and reflective. When I didn't move (or, frankly, even breathe), he chuffed and stood, heading off to his bathroom. I am not sure how I did so, but I seemed to manage cleaning the kitchen and putting the leftovers away without actually taking a breath or blinking. I could hear the shower as I went to my room and stripped off the day's clothes. I honestly didn't realise it at the time, but I had dressed in the Pa-mandated jock-and-boxers combo that morning. When I was down to that, it startled me, and I think put a bit of backbone into me. I had done three things RIGHT. He liked my breakfast, he loved my dinner, and I learned how a man dresses underneath the outer clothes. Maybe this would be okay. Then again, maybe it wouldn't. 'We need to talk.' The phrase should be banned. It dripped with dread. 'We need to talk,' meant, 'We need to explain just how badly you've fucked up,' or maybe, 'We need to decide what to do with this worthless kid I've been saddled with,' or, 'We need to straighten out this faggy son of mine.' The options kept getting worse and more far-fetched as I sat on my bed and stewed. I think my heart about stopped when I heard Pa come through the door. I popped up like some demented jack-in-the-box. Pa stopped and watched me for a minute, face inscrutable. I saw his brow furrow and an almost sad look come to his lips. "You really scared something is wrong, aren't ya champ?" Again with the hypnotised-bunny thing, I stood breathless as he came up and so very tenderly took my shoulders and looked through my eyes and seemingly into my soul. "We need to talk not cuz you've done anything wrong, but because I fucked up as a father. I need to make this shit right, and I need you to let me. Okay, sport?" He turned me and sat me back on the bed. I guess I was like Valentine Michael Smith in 'Stanger in a Strange Land'; he repositioned me like a stop-motion animation, utterly pliable to his manipulation but also utterly immobile once moved. My eyes never left his and when he turned, they locked on where his eyes would be when he turned again. It was only in my peripheral vision that I noticed suddenly, Pa was naked. His hair was damp and the few places that he wasn't furred glistened with left-over moisture from his shower. Pa spun the old harp-backed chair I used around. It had lost the centrepiece of the back and was nothing more than a great wooden loop. When he sat, his... junk flopped over the edge of the seat, framed by the wood, thickset legs to either side and arms crossed along the chair-back. It was without qualification the sexiest, most masculine thing I had ever seen or imagined. My eyes, temporarily drawn to the magnet of his crotch, snapped back to his eyes to find that he had clearly noticed my centre of attention, and clearly didn't mind. "I spent a lot of time teaching Karl about being a man, you know. He always came to me, always asked. I guess cuz you were so quiet, so composed, so damnably like your Mom, I assumed you either already knew or didn't care what I could teach you, and I regret that." I knew that tears had just invaded my vision but I didn't care and couldn't control them. It was as if Pa had read my heart's desire and decided to give me that and so very much more. I thought I'd burst. "First, we need to talk a bit about what makes men and women different," he saw something in my face and frowned, "not the parts, kid, but what ye are. What makes a guy a guy. I can see the tears ye got there, so we'll start with that." My hands flew to my face trying to eliminate the evidence of that girlish emotion, and Pa grabbed my hand. "Men cry, son; we cry. That don't make you less a man. The difference is what real men cry over. Tears of pain, of rage, of love, of joy, of release. Those are just as manly as screams of pain, rage, love, joy or release. It's the man in you so full of energy, force and power that the tears either erupt, or you do. Women cry for some of that, but they more cry *from* something, from some need. They cry from longing, from regret, from shame (which is just the need for self-respect) and from guilt. If the tears I see in you are what I think, tears *of* either joy or love or release, cry away. If they're *from* shame or guilt, though, I need to know right now." I dropped my eyes to my feet and shook my head, then said the first words that I'd spoken to him since my outburst last night. "No, Pa," not unexpectedly, my voice croaked with disuse and emotion. "No, it's joy or... maybe release? Relief? I've wanted you to teach me for so long, soooo long, and I guess I never had the guts - the balls - to ask. Maybe there's some shame in there, and maybe some regret. I'm sorry. I don't want to disappoint you ever again." My voice trailed off from croaking through mumbling to murmuring. By the final sentence, I doubt a mouse could have heard me, so his next words made me jump a bit. "Did I hear you say 'disappoint' me? You have never disappointed me! You hear me? You are a good kid. More important, a good son; MY good son," he growled, sounding genuinely like a bear, "and don't you ever fucking forget that!" He gripped my chin and forced me to look at him. What I saw was a mix of things I never considered together: He was ferocious and compassionate, demanding and begging, protective and in some way needing protection in return. I nodded and he strengthened his grip and raised his bushy eyebrows. "Yes, Pa. I get it. I know it. I should have always known it." "That's the next thing we gotta work on, son. The whole 'strong, silent type' bullshit is for movies. Men say what they mean. They communicate. Yeah, something that is without words, but real men never, ever bottle it up or hide it. That's what caught me off guard last night." My heart, just a moment ago soaring, sunk so fast I literally thought I would blow the nibbles of dinner I'd had all over the room. Here it was. We had gotten to the deepest pit of humiliation and shame. I fought, though, fought the tears because I really did want to learn from Pa. Men did NOT cry over shame. Real men didn't NEED to cry over humiliation because a real man could not be humiliated. I took a deep, shuddering breath and met his eyes. "I fucked up. I'm sorry. I want to do better." "SHIT!" I nearly pissed myself at his vehemence. "What the FUCK do I have to say to get you to figure out you ain't in trouble! You. Did. Nothing. Wrong. I had expected you to act like I'd taught Karl to act. You didn't cuz I fucked up and never taught you!" His voice was deep, urgent, hammering at me. "Once I'd cleaned up your completely unexpected cum explosion - amazing load, by the way, stud - I realised that I never thought you were close cuz you never said nuthin. I was pissed cuz I expected moans, groans, filthy shouts and dirty fucking screams long before you reached your trigger. You sat there like a complete fucking stone, like nothing I did even got close to your buttons, much less pushed them. Then KABOOM!" His hand came down on my desk, making me jump again. "Some sorta cum volcano blew its lid right in my lap. I hollered and you dissolved in tears and ran. And. I. Was. Wrong." My head snapped up and I gaped at him. "I was wrong and I need you to forgive me so I can make up for lost time. So I can teach you what I shoulda taught you years ago. Teach you to be a man. More, teach you to be your own man. Teach you to be Greg, my son, my Greg. Whatya say, sport?" "Yes!" I held enough control not to start leaking snot and tears, but it was a close run thing. "Yes. I don't have to forgive you cuz I was the... the one who never... who never asked, never came close, never... never had the g-guts to... never let you be my PA! I need what you g-got, and I need it real b-bad, Pa!" He reached forward and grabbed my shoulder. I saw his face change. Pride, love, anticipation were there for sure. But underneath was a shadow of what looked like lust, like triumph and wicked grin as well. "Good then. Let's start."