Date: Sat, 9 Sep 2017 06:53:05 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Trumping Sildenafil

Trumping Sildenafil

By Bear Pup

****

This story and its characters are fictitious. Everything here exists only
in the author's imagination, as inspired by the incredible talent of
another author. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT
DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course,
copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very
negotiable. Do not re- or cross-post without permission from both the
author (orson.cadell@gmail.com) and the man who inspired him, Boy Mercury X
(boymercuryx@gmail.com). That's right, this story came (pun intended) about
because of something that amazing author wrote in a note to me.

This involves sex between consenting adult males who are father and son; if
that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, get thee GONE! I like
hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming people,
please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and
weave you and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry
like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html! This story exists because Boy Mercury X and I
met after reading each other's stories on Nifty. None of that would have
happened (and this story would never have existed) without your donations
to keep Nifty running.

*****

It gets boring is all I'm saying. Mom dumped us for a car salesman (the
only redeeming feature was he sold *new* cars... apparently a lot of them
because he had boatloads of money) and his three daughters from a previous
marriage. She had no use for a sulky, teenaged son. The reason? Dad was
"too absorbed in his work" and it had become an "unfulfilling
relationship". Now, a year later, I thoroughly understood.

I never really noticed before. I mean, Dad was... Dad. Aloof,
hyper-masculine and a bit... vague, but he was there when a Dad was
required: Track meets, scout trips, birds-n-bees embarrassment-fests. When
he was engaged in something I did, I was his whole world. With Mom gone,
though, I realized that, while Dad was always there for me when required,
it was *only* when required. He hardly noticed me at all if he was really
into something from work, and only vaguely interested in anything other
than, well, things Dads *have* to be involved with.

The last month was probably the worst ever. Dad worked for Tyazhelo Pharmo,
a Russian pharmaceutical company. Dad led one of their research teams
located on campus at the University of South Florida. He'd been so focused
over the last month, I honestly think he might have starved if I hadn't
cooked and taken his plates to his downstairs workspace each night and,
like today, pretty much all weekend. I went down to take him his lunch and
found him sprawled on the couch he kept there, more to use as a cot than
anything else.

I sighed deeply, tucked his legs onto the sofa and put the throw over
him. I took a moment before completely covering him to... well, to lust a
little. He doesn't know, but I'm queer. Worse, I'm not just queer, I'm
queer for my own father. Sick, I know, but who wouldn't be?

Dad was a six-foot-five Sicilian stud. His hair was tightly-curled and
black and thick on his chest, arms and legs. He was built and God only
knows how he kept trim, though I knew he did work out in the gym next door
to the lab pretty often. His arms were thick but without that
disgustingly-veined look, just... perfect. He had long, thick legs with the
calves covered with curly fur just like his forearms. He was, as usual,
wearing some loose workout shorts and I shuddered, almost moaning, as I saw
his thick slab twitch in his slumber.

I certainly didn't get his cock, that's for damned sure (either inherited
or to play with -- HA!). I was six inches on a good day, but still a little
thicker than most of the guys in the locker room. I got Dad's olive skin
and narrow face with a "aquiline" (aka long) nose, his heavily-lidded hazel
eyes and large, strong hands. I also got his wide, pouty-lipped mouth and
most of his height (I was six-foot-two at the time). Pretty much everything
else came from mom. I was a track-and-fielder, both distance-running and
long-jump. Where he was stacked, I was lean. Where he was strong, I was
lithe. I hated my normally-silky and boring-brown hair (also from Mom) so I
kept it buzzed tight. The other thing I'd apparently I'd gotten from her
was a lust for Sicilian stallions... like my dad.

I sighed as I tucked the throw around him. I noticed a binder open and
looked at the top page. It was a rejection letter from the FDA for human
trials of a new drug that, evidently, he and his team had developed. I read
the summary. It was a drug that was intended to attack erectile dysfunction
in two ways: a blood-flow adapter similar in effect to sildenafil and
libido-enhancing drug intended to make a man more receptive to the sexual
cues of his partner.

'Cool,' I thought, 'just what the world needs; another boner-pill for old
farts.' I scanned through the pages to get to the reason they'd rejected
it. Apparently, the animal trials had -- ah, here was the euphemism --
"unexpected results"; test animals not only became aroused as intended by
the libido-enhancer, but (I'm paraphrasing here) they would basically fuck
anything in front of them.

Basically, they were saying that the pill was supposed to make a man into
an attentive and capable sexual partner, not an insatiable pussy-hound on a
cunt-bender. The death knell was, "... the societal and sociological
effects of these tests contraindicate continued development or human
trails," with a rather snarky suggestion that Tyazhelo Pharmo go instead to
the livestock industry to "enhance breeding opportunities." Damn, that's
harsh!

I closed the binder and sat the plate with Dad's sandwich and chips on top
of it. Hopefully, he'd see it and eat. I'd check again when I heard him
moving around and make him eat it necessary. At the very least, if the FDA
had really-really killed the project, he would be coming out of his
work-coma for a few months. Silver lining, dark cloud kind of thing.

About three hours later, I heard him moving around and went down to find
him alert and perceptive. The work-coma had broken! He was smiling, sitting
at a workbench (one cleared of everything; no one in pharma would eat near
materials) and devouring the sandwich with a will he never showed when he
was absorbed in a task. "Hey, Connor! How you doin', buddy?"

I walked over and hugged him. He seemed a bit sweaty from his nap. "I'm
good Dad. I'm sorry about the FDA thing."

His eyes sparkled merrily, "So, you know about that, huh?" I nodded. "Not
to worry. It's a political decision, not a medical one. You can read that
between the lines. Cattle indeed! All we have to do is show that those
effects are absent in higher mammals. We never got past rhesus." He meant
the monkey even though it always brought to mind experiments on
peanut-butter cups. My suddenly-elevated mood at his break from the trance
was just as quickly snuffed when I realized that it meant he was still
dedicated to the current project.

"How, though? They already denied human drug trials. And, like you've
complained before, chimps and other close-human analogues--" yeah; you pick
up the jargon when it's all your father talks about "--are politically
impossible. You think maybe Russia? No, wait, they're EU now. So... what's
next?"

"I decided to prove it myself. There's no actual law against a researcher
using himself for a pre-trial test! And, since the drug is experimental,
there's no ban on personal use. That way I can measure the effects and also
disprove the 'sexual maniac' bullshit from the FDA."

I blinked a number of times. "Uh, Dad? You, uh, don't have a girlfriend." I
spoke slowly and distinctly. "How do you plan on testing a boner-drug?"

"Hey! That is a very inappropriate term, young man. Enhancing male
sexuality is a viable and important field for men with a wide array of
problems. Anyway, I took a half-dose and set the cameras running. I'll be
taking various measurements at fifteen-minute increments. You want to
help?"

"Um... what?"

"Well, it's hard to take your own blood pressure, son, or any other
measurements actually."

"Oh. Okay. Sure. What do you want?"

"When the timer goes off," there was a loud DING, "--oh, it just did. Grab
the sphygmomanometer." I can't pronounce it, but I know what it is. Dad was
rolling his sleeve up as I returned. I put it on his left bicep, trying
desperately not to bone up at the feel of those pythons. 'Mangled puppies,'
I thought desperately, 'bombed-out villages, vaginas.' Ahhhhh, the last one
did it.

After I wrote down the measurement, 172/72, high-ish but not lethal. He
told me to grab the cloth tape measure. When I turned back, my heart nearly
stopped then went into bunny-rabbit mode. Dad was standing there with his
shorts at his knees, his huge cock pointing at me. I'd never seen it hard
before and I nearly fainted. "What are you waiting for, buddy? I need penis
length, girth at the base, girth at the midpoint, girth behind the glans
and then at the widest spot of the glans. Finally, I need length and girth
of the scrotum. I was instantly shaking like a leaf. "You okay, Connor?
You're terribly flushed."

I nodded spastically and grunted, blinking like a signal lamp. I knelt and
I reached out, trying to touch nothing but the tape as I measured
length. What was killing me was the intense blast of jock sweat, the musk
setting my whole body on fire. Dad smelled.... like a feast. Spicy, meaty,
salty, delicious. My nostrils were wide to try and grab just one more
molecule of that tortuous scent.

"Come on, Connor. It won't bite you. This is science! You need to start all
the way against the mons pubis." I did and as I stretched the tape out, it
almost seemed like Dad moaned a little. I looked up quickly, but apparently
I'd either imagined it or (horror of horrors) made the noise myself.

"Um, eight and an eighth?"

"Use centimeters, please. We have to keep units uniform."

"Um, a smidge over 20.6?"

He chuckled and my hand come in contact with his hot, throbbing flesh when
he moved."

Sorry, buddy, 'smidge' is not a metric term. Use 20.6. That's
excellent. Excellent. 0.7 cm more in just the last fifteen minutes."

"W-W-W-W-W-When, uh, when did you take it?"

"Thirty minutes ago, and the fifteen-minute measurements was a bitch to
get. So, girth at the base is next."

"Um, not sure how to, uh... can you, you know, hold it out of the way?" He
chuckled and pulled his erect (and now leaking -- NOT HELPING) prong
halfway toward his belly. "Um, it sorta depends on where you mean base." We
both looked down.

"Put the metric side as flush against the scrotum as possible and measure
there." I trembled, dick now completely fucking out of control as I had to
move my Dad's nads out of the way. "W-W-W-W-W-W-W... um, 14.7."

"Really? Fascinating. Please put a star next to that. That's a lot of
difference quickly. That makes sense, but it is still anomalous."

"The middle is 14.0. Behind the glans..." Okay, this time I know damn good
and well that he made a hissing noise. "...is, uh, call it 13.2?"

"And the g-glans?" I looked to Dad's face to see if I could detect where
that catch had come from, but he showed no expression. Which, in itself,
was an expression since he'd been smiling before.

Dad huffed out a breath and I couldn't help myself for whispering,
"Damn... Sorry! It's, uh, 14.8, Dad."

"Th-Th-Th-That's an-n-n-n-omalous as well." Dad was definitely stuttering
now. "S-S-S-S-Scrotum?"

He hissed in another breath when I touched his sack. I knew my balls were
incredibly-sensitive and a big turn-on when I played with them. Apparently,
another thing to chalk up to Dad-genes. Length from the
c-c-c-c-c-c-c-corpus spongiosum to the lowest spot is, uh, visually 7.7
cm." Dad tried and failed to stifle a moan when I wrapped the tape around
the balls themselves. "Holy fuck!" I whispered then read aloud, "Um, 18.5
cm?"

"Ok-k-k-k-kay. G-G-G-G-G-God. You can let g-g-g-g-go now, Connor. Oh thank
God!" The last was almost an exclamation as I pulled both my hands and the
tape away. Dad sagged back onto his chair.

"Um, Dad? And what about the, um, the other effects?"

He was breathing in deep and blowing out each breath. "Dad?"

"Huh?"

"The other side effects? The libido-stuff?"

Dad's voice has risen a bit and he was sweating profusely. "Um... uh... I'd
{gulp} say we have work to do on that before we're read-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dy
for trials."

"Um, Dad? You gonna pull your pants up?"

"Oh... No, no. I d-d-d-d-don't think that's g-g-g-good idea, Connor. I, uh,
might not be able to take the sensation, to be honest."

"So, um, you need me right now?"

"No. uh, no. Just come back when the timer goes off." I left, Dad whistling
tunelessly to himself.

I heard the time go off and went down the stairs a little nervously. The
sexual god of my dreams was down there, naked and rampant, and I would
again have to actually touch exactly the parts I'd fantasized about since
puberty. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

I rounded the corner and Dad was sitting on the edge of the office chair,
rocking slightly. He'd thrown off his shirt and his back was
sunburn-red. He turned when he heard me.

"Dad! DAD! You're pouring sweat. What's going on. Do we need to get you to
the ER?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no." His voice was singsong and artificially cheery. "It's
not a fever, just, well, um, a side effect of, uh, er... Remember when we
had that last talk about the b-b-b-b-bird and the bees? That sexual
thoughts and frustration make males, especially, sweat to produce
pheromones to attract females? Well, uh, l-l-l-l-l-like I said, we have
work to do on the libido effects and, well, um, I'm experiencing..." he let
out a near-hysterical giggle "...significant sexual frustration. Nothing to
worry about. Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh-Should we do the measurements?"

I was three or four feet away when the wall of pheromones and crotch-musk
hit me like a wall. It felt like I was walking through a sexual syrup. I
grabbed the sphygmomanometer and wrapped it around Dad's arm. I
hesitated. His python-like arm seemed larger, almost like he'd just
finished and upper-body set in weight training. I confirmed that when I
wrapped the cuff around. The velcro barely held.  "Um, Dad? It up quite a
bit. Not, like, dangerously but definitely up. 186/80."

The giggle was back. "Um, uh, yeah {giggle}. I'd expect it would be. This
is a little more int-t-t-t-t-t-tense than I expected. Let's d-d-d-do the
others."

I knelt down and my eyes popped like a Warner Brother's cartoon. His
erection was bright red almost along the entire length, and clear,
pre-seminal fluid coated the entire underside. I measured the girth of the
base and Dad whimpered piteously as I gave a glancing touch to his
balls. "15.3," I whispered reverently, "and the middle is 14.5, behind the
glans," he was latterly biting his lip and had his eyes squeezed shut,
"also 14.5 and..." Dad let out a strangled cry that he couldn't stop when I
touched him there. "Sweet Jesus, Dad, 16.0?"

"Yeah, yep, yepper, yepper-doodle-doo!" It's really, really flared and
really, really sensitive!"

"Okay, now for length." I pushed the tape to the very base of the pubis
mons and measured all the way to the (gaping and streaming dogwater)
meatus. "D-D-D-Dad? It's at 22.8. You've gained almost a full inch in
fifteen minutes!"

"Yeah. Okay. Last two. I can do this." I could tell he was talking to
himself and not me. His purse was pulled up so tight I had trouble deciding
what to call it.

"Um, length, maybe 3.1 cm? And girth? Let's see..." My hands went to wrap
the tape around those huge balls that, even thought they'd pulled up,
seemed to have grown significantly.

I got behind and was about at the midpoint, right at the legs, when Dad
howled, "OH, GOD! I can't take it! I'm s-s-s-s-sorry, C-C-C-C-C-C-Connor!"
At that, a dream came true in a seriously crazy way. Dad's cock was
suddenly in my mouth.

Okay, freeze-frame. I was ecstatic and terrified at once. The silky-wetness
of his glans carried with it his pre-cum, the flavor of his jock-scent
magnified but with salt and sweetness overlaid. It was like my mouth was
made for his cock... In a strange, genetic way, maybe it was. The texture
was both smooth and bumpy, hard as steel but wrapped in gel-foam.

I instinctively suckled the glorious cock and Dad started to cuss,
something he rarely did. I looked up and saw his head thrown back, every
muscle and sinew exposed. In between words, he sobbed and apologized and
begged forgiveness.

'Forgiveness? Fuck forgiveness, give me more COCK,' I silently wailed. I
simply let my high human-mind go off and play while the reptilian and
primate part gloried in the taste, the smell, the feel, the POWER of making
my Dad scream in pleasure as my tongue went freaking insane. I watched his
face as I reached up with both hands and began to diddle his nuts. His
entire body shook and my mouth was suddenly flooded with his sperm, little
swimmers exactly like the one that made me all the years ago.

Freeze-frame again. The taste was unexpected. Very different from
mine. Like the different between Beaujolais Nouveau and a claret (yes, even
then I knew my wines). My cum tasted energetic, youthful, sweet. His was
powerful, with a deep and indefinable essence reminiscent of pears and
parmesan and beef. It was the most masculine taste I ever had. While it was
admittedly slimy, I sucked it in like a starving man with a milkshake.

Above me, Dad was going bat-shit crazy, his whole body spasming in time
with his ejaculations. Each was paired with an equally-powerful sound of
need fulfilled, of appetite... whetted but not sated. Somehow, I knew this
was just a Round One kind of thing. When I consumed the last dribbles, I
found myself lifted bodily in those incredibly-powerful arms.

"God, Connor! Can you ever forgive me?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm
so, so sorry about all this!" With that, he dropped me onto the couch face
first and I felt my shorts and undies literally ripped apart at the
seams. I screamed in exultation when my Dad dove into my trench and started
eating my hole like a madman. I whine in joy as he dug in with lips,
tongue, and even lightly-nipping teeth, making pig noises that even
overwhelmed my own cries.

"GOD, Connor, I'm SORRY!" I didn't have a moment to ponder that outburst
before I felt that impossibly-wide glans against my puckering asslips. "NO!
No, Pop! You need lube! You neeeeeeeeeeed!!!"

He didn't need anything. I needed either a bigger asshole or a case of
Oxycodone. I screamed in real pain as he rammed past my outer sphincter,
paused, then thrust again through the inner one. In fairness, his cock was
spurting 'organic lube' in plentiful quantities, but nothing close to that
size had investigated the dark recesses he now spelunked.  I'd practiced
with carrots and cucumbers and was suddenly getting fucked by a zucchini
with a head the size of a tomato! I howled, writhed and screamed. "DAD"

Dad was fucking in and out and... it was strange, almost inexplicable. As
soon as that the word 'Dad' erupted from me, the pain was... gone. I felt
him plundering my ass, but my mind simply refused to accept that my sexual
god, my dream man, my ultimate fantasy could ever cause me
pain. Intellectually, I know I was being ripped to shred. Experientially,
all I felt was his shaft's friction at my increasingly-open hole.

That changed completely in an instant. Dad shifted his angle of attack and
punched my prostate hard and fast. There is a magic place just past that
love-nut where angels had gathered, awaiting the arrival of the Almighty --
in this case, my father's battering ram. I squealed in joy and started
thrusting harder and hard back on Dad's enormous prong, screaming in
exultation.

I don't know how, but I could actually feel it exploding, gushing spooge
against my battered prostate. I exploded as well, weeping in ecstasy. I
yelped when I realized that... well, Dad wasn't close to done. Over the
course of the next four hours, Dad pumped seven loads into my ass and
throat (yep, I managed to deep-throat that fucking monster as its size
abated) and he fucked three more out of me, each better than the last.

When the drug finally released my father, he simply collapsed like a puppet
with cut strings. I managed, somehow, to get him onto the couch and cover
his snoring, exhausted body. I went to the bathroom and got rid of what
felt like several gallons of his cum, then douched for good measure... I
wanted to be ready when he woke up.

That happened near midnight. I went downstairs to find him weeping
inconsolably. He started to apologize and -- I still don't know where this
came from -- I slapped him sharply, the crack loud in the echoing room. He
pulled back, shocked to silence.

"Listen you bastard. The only way I'll be upset is if you don't do that
again, and often. You are my fantasy, my dream lover, and always have
been!"

"But it's--"

"Fuck what it is or isn't! I craved this since puberty Dad! I have jacked
off every night imagining what you just did, only the reality was a
thousand times better than any fantasy I ever had."

"Connor, you don't understand. I can't--"

"FUCK CAN'T!" He jumped a little at the volume. "Just to be completely
fucking sure, I've stockpiled three-quarters of what you had and I -- by
fucking God himself -- will spike your food with it when you're not
looking! You WILL fuck me again. You WILL let me suck you again. You WILL
use me as your whore, or I'll damned well MAKE you!"

Which, more or less, is how the past thirteen years have gone. I graduated
with honors from high school, went to USF, just like Dad, got my biochem
doctorate and now work alongside him at Tyazhelo Pharmo. We've developed
and patented six drugs (so far) out of the blood-flow/libido work,
including a variant on original formula with less-intense effects for which
our sole customer is Homeland Security (we didn't ask... would you?). Each
of them have made Tyazhelo a large number of millions of dollars.

We've been well-reward by Tyazhelo, with a very secluded home on Lake
Thonotosassa and, surprisingly, a steady stream of remarkably-hunky grad
students wanting to apprentice "under" Dad. The original sixteen doses that
I secreted where Dad could never find them, are down to twelve doses,
depleted by a half-dose (and, only once, a whole one -- fucking sweet baby
Jesus! Never trying that again) any time Dad got too involved in his work
or got The Guilts and decided what we had was wrong and evil. "Wrong and
evil" would have been taking all this away from me, a fact I've explained
to Dad for years.

<eof>

Thanks to Jeff, Zach and Jack who made it immeasurably better with their
Beta Reading suggestions.

*****

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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