culberhouse-rules-14

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Subject: Culberhouse Rules 14 See original story (fty//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./donate.html to keep the cum coming. You can also set up AMAZON SMILE so that your purchases on Amazon earn contributions to NIFTY! It’s a great, zero-cost way to enhance the support you already give them. ***** 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 izmit rus escort 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 izmit escort 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,” kocaeli escort 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. Thank you to beta-readers Steve, Kevin, Jack and Jeff. Their suggestions made many parts of thei chapter much easier to read and understand. If you want news on new stories and chapters, please join my Google Group at https://groups.google/d/forum/bear-pup-news If you want to give me ANY feedback that could make me a better author, e-mail me at [email protected] Now on Tumblr: Bear Pup — Beyond Nifty blr/ Active storelines, all at fty//gay… Canvas Hell: 36 chapters …/camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 27 chapters …/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 29 chapters …/historical/the-heathens/ Culberhouse Rules: 14 chapters …/incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven’s Claw: 11 chapters …/authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 7 chapters …/rural/ashes-and-dust/ Maybe Next Time: 7 chapters …/authoritarian/maybe-next-time/ Irma’s Boys: 1 chapter …/adult-friends/irmas-boys/

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