Bait and Tackle

By hypnofarts - laxandeer@gmail.com
published August 2, 2016
Category: Hypnosis   Tags: #incest #musk #assplay #farting
Summary

Marcel is meeting his father for the first time in twenty years. Will this fishing trip bring them closer together?

They didn’t speak to each other. Marcel wished there was at least a radio in the old truck to distract him from his father’s presence—but the old man didn’t even have that. The morning talk shows and trendy pop hits would play in the other cars they passed by, but the pickup only had the rumbles of its engine.

When he wasn’t uncomfortable with the silence, he was irritated at the black leather seats, or the shoddy paintjob. When none of the above applied, he was tired. They had woken up early to “catch all the good fish.”

Fuck fishing. Marcel didn’t even like eating the damned things.

“Nice day t’day,” his father said. Marcel grunted.

“It’s too damned hot. Hope your boat has a—ah!” As he replied, they went over a bump, going from paved road to dirt. The truck remained steady, but the ride became much rougher.

“Boy, you need to get outta that office.” His dad winked at him past his sunglasses. “We doing man stuff today.”

Marcel stared directly ahead to the approaching lakefront. It was private, off-road. No other people or cars, no trash, and as far as Marcel saw, no animals. The pines that surrounded the lake seemed to seal it off from the rest of the world, but didn’t provide any shade. He groaned.

“Bring any sunscreen?”

“Of course. But we better change, first.” His father stopped the car, providing quiet that Marcel hadn’t even noticed was missing. Slowly—both to ensure he didn’t hit his head on the roof, and to be careful on his body, his father slid out of the car. Seeing his father’s full head of thick hair, even though it was as white as snow, made him frown.

Running his hand over his bald spot, he also got out of the car, and found his father stripping.

“Wha’chu lookin’ at, boy?” He said, realizing his son was looking at him. “You better have worn some shorts under that suit.”

His father’s name was Boston. Sixty years old, with the body of a thirty-year-old Russian powerlifter. It was little wonder that he had wanted to do something sportsmanlike with Marcel, considering Boston’s arms were thick enough to put bears to shame—and every part of his father’s body was coated in salt-and-pepper, curly, overgrown hair. The body of a Russian powerlifter, the body hair of a Greek male. His upper lip was also proudly hung with a thick, powder-white horseshoe mustache.

Marcel was forty years old and fat. The only thing he inherited from his father was the body hair and dark brown skin. Everything else—from his embarrassingly jiggly gut, to his bald spot, to his dark brown eyes, nothing was like his father. Marcel had a big nose and a small chin. His father had perfect cheekbones and a jawline you could cut glass with.

Boston’s idea of swimwear was European-style black speedos.

Marcel’s idea of swimwear was board-shorts and a T-Shirt.

Before long though, they were changed, and the paddleboat was being loaded into the lake. They started fishing at about 8AM, right as the sun was beginning to fully emerge over their heads. Marcel was already half-sure that there “weren’t any damn fish” in the lake, since he couldn’t even hear any birds chirping, or insects buzzing. The whole woods seemed asleep still, except him and his father.

Boston cracked open a beer and chugged it. The gulping noises were the most obnoxious sound that Marcel had heard all week, until his father finished with a voluptuous belch.

“So nice,” he said.

“Thank ya, boy,” his father replied while cracking open his second beer. “I’ll see if I can’t top it for ya.”

Marcel shuddered, and wished he were home.

“You want a beer?”

“I don’t drink, thank you.”

Boston hadn’t actually been the one to leave, despite the assumptions some people made—especially since they were a black family. Marcel had run away himself. And it wasn’t bad for a while. He got a part-time job, then a full-time job, got his Bachelor’s Degree, and met his wife at the office.

He looked down at his hand, and felt the imprint from the missing wedding ring. He didn’t want to lose it going fishing, so that stayed behind with his suit in the truck. Marcel had tried to hide this little thing from his wife a long time.

Boston called at least once a week to check on him. Twice a week, on birthdays and holidays. Marcel had never answered, not for twenty years. About a year into Marcel’s marriage now, his wife discovered it and asked who the constant-caller was.

“You fished a g’d one, yourself.” His father said, seeming to read his thoughts.

“Hasn’t let me down yet.”

The older man stroked his mustache. “Well, it was nice hearing you again. I’ll haveta thank her for arrangin’ this.”

Marcel shifted in the boat. It was surprisingly steady, and didn’t shake when he moved. Seeing his son wasn’t responding, his father continued— “Why didn’tcha answer before?”

“I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”

“Not much to do yet except talk, boy.” He suddenly felt Boston’s eyes on him. “We might as well talk.”

Marcel frowned. “Well, I’m sorry. How’s about that?”

“Mm. Shitty, but it’ll do for now.” His father finished off another beer and threw the can aside. “I’m just glad to see ya. You turned out a looker, just like yer old man.”

“Urgh.”

Time passed like that for another hour. Boston would initiate, Marcel would respond, and end the conversation as soon as he could. Then there’d be a period of silence again, just like they were in the middle of now.

After Boston’s fifth beer though, Marcel finally had something to comment on. “Jesus, dad,” he said. “You drank the whole damn six-pack. You’re gonna get drunk off your stupid black ass before noon.” Boston looked over his shoulder at Marcel. “And I don’t know how to get back to your house.”

Boston grunted. “You won’t gotta worry ‘bout that. We ain’t goin’ back to my house any time soon.” Marcel heard a grumble from his father’s stomach. “No sir.”

“You hungry or somethin’? There’s some granola bars in the case, here—” Marcel said, as he started to dig through just that.

“Granola bars? Pssh. Now, see here boy, that’s the kinda shit I was talkin’ about earlier.” Behind Marcel, Boston was leaning forward, lifting one leg slightly. The stomach rumblings continued. “You spend too much time in—that—office—mhm.” Boston sighed heavily, slumping a bit. “We doin’ man stuff today. Geheheh.”

By the time Marcel found some food for them to eat at the bottom of the bag, the smell of his father’s silent fart wafted into his nose. “Oh, oh fuck, Christ—fucking asshole!” Marcel stood up, slipped, and fell back down into his seat. His father laughed. “Oh fuck, it stinks!”

“Damn right it does! This ain’t no pussyboi contest!” As Marcel turned around to give his father a few more obscenities, he was greeted by an unusual sight—a sixty year old, hairy, black ass. The dark hole in the middle practically pulsed with power.

His father was bent over with his speedo around his thighs.

“What the f—u,” Marcel said. For a split second, it seemed to Marcel like his immature father had gone from obnoxious to downright insulting.

Then Boston farted again.

The gas rippled his cheeks as the curly black taint hair parted in the man-made breeze, trumpeting loudly in Marcel’s face. “Mmmmm damn, you remember this?” Boston rubbed his farthole with two fingers, playing with his hole. “That’s your daddy’s stink right there.”

The warm air blasted Marcel in the face inescapably. It was loud and ear-numbing, and it stank even worse than the last one. If anyone was watching, they’d be sure that Marcel’s hair was curling from the smell.

Marcel inhaled deeply. “I’m gonna be—fucking sick…” He said, his face turning somewhat green.

Boston farted again and snorted. “Then why don’tcha get away from my ass, boy?”

That was a good question. Marcel suddenly realized how much time had passed, just sitting in one spot, inhaling and exhaling that fucking stench. It was musky, dirty, heady, overpowering. It stuck to his nose and seemed to coat it. Every new breath made it smell even more potent, instead of his nose adjusting to it, or getting used to it. He was huffing his estranged father’s farts, face not even a foot away from the source.

“Mmm, fucking nasty,” Boston interrupted his hazy thoughts. It seemed to Marcel that when his father spoke now, everything else just—stopped. “I wanted to do that in the fuckin truck, while we were all air-tight, ya know?” Boston rubbed his fingers all over his hairy crack. “But I couldn’t get it goin’. I’ve been eating a lot of burritos since this lil trip got planned. I’m damned glad it’s takin’ off.”

On cue, Boston farted again. This one squeaked out, but it tickled Marcel’s senses. “Oh, oh fuck—stop—dad? Dad—dad, dad, dad…” Marcel droned on. Whatever words he was trying to form, nothing substantial came out. “Holy, fuck, my mouth was open—my eyes,” Marcel rubbed his watering eyes.

“Aw, no. No no.” Boston crawled backwards, causing Marcel to jump. “No resistin’ yer daddy, now. I remember how much ya fuckin’ lived for this shit back in the day.”

Meekly, Marcel held his hands up to stop the assault, but his father’s bare ass came. He pressed his hands into the hairy flesh, finding a solid amount of muscle and “give” to it. Instead of pushing it away, the two frozen hands seemed to help spread his father’s asscheeks apart, making the twitchy black hole even more outlined in Marcel’s vision.

“Stop,” Marcel was angry and frightened, even though he was having a hard time remembering exactly why. “’s so—gross—fucking disgusting, fuck, I,” he groaned.

Boston tilted his head back and clenched deep, unleashing a booming fart inches from Marcel’s face before sitting on it. With such unbelievably slowed reaction time, it was unclear for Marcel how long it was before he found himself face-deep in his father’s sweaty crack.

Boston was sitting directly on his son’s face, grinding on it, and stroking himself off. The black leather seats he’d installed in the truck had given the old man a great case of swamp-ass that helped amplify the smell overpowering his son.

It was an intense stench. It wasn’t a stink, or a smell, it was a stench. It was rank, and it was all over Marcel’s face and especially his nose. There were a lot of muffled protests—moans, and groans, coming from beneath the black grandfather’s hairy bubble butt. Boston bounced on his son’s face and farted again, making Marcel pop a stiffy for the first time.

“Oh yeah nigga, we’re gettin’ there now,” Boston said. He reached down and stopped playing with his own cock, to play with his son’s. Without effort, he pulled Marcel’s shorts down, revealing his son’s hairy dick—bigger than Boston’s, but a smaller nutsack.

Not that it mattered much for his son, now. He wasn’t going to be thinking about his dick ever again.

A guttural groan vibrated up Boston’s taint, and he responded with as big of a fart as he could manage before sitting up. Marcel’s face was wet with sweat and musk.

That big nose of Marcel’s must’ve been right on Boston’s farthole, because he already had a heavily glazed over look to his eyes and a wide, slobbery grin on his face. Boston hadn’t even felt his son rimming him. “Fuckin hell, you might just be the easiest subject I ever had.” Boston smacked his lips and howled. “Go figure! Boy’s got a weakness for his daddy’s funk!”

Marcel didn’t move, nor respond. He laid in the boat spread-eagle, facing the sky. He was staring past the sky, really. There was no intelligence to those eyes, let alone willpower. But it was hard to blame Marcel. He’d just spent a solid twenty minutes, breathing nothing but his father’s brainwashing butt-musk and stupidifying gas. There were lots of men who didn’t even last five minutes before becoming the same kind of dopey-grinned drone that Marcel currently was—one of Boston’s favorite memories was the fat Italian guy who tried to seduce him at the gay bar.

One fart, and the man was Boston’s dog. But now what for his son? This was a special occasion.

“Mmm. Better reinforce this, yeah,” he decided. “Hey, brownnoser. Gitcher fucking eyes on me.”

Marcel’s gaze slowly shifted to focus on daddy. He didn’t say anything, so Boston spoke up. “You feel good. You feel real good, real relaxed-like. Horny. Aroused. Relaxed.” The old man spread his ass wide, letting Marcel get a good view of the hole. It twitched and squelched, in and out, on the timing of a metronome. In and out, as Boston spoke.

“Have ya ever felt better?”

Marcel slowly shook his head. “…No…”

“Fuck no you haven’t. Never been so horny and relaxed in ya life. Well don’t worry nigga, there’s plenty more where that came from. Y’all gonna be happy, now. This is man stuff.”

Marcel watched his daddy’s stinky asshole pulse in and out. He inhaled, it pulsed in, he exhaled, it pulsed out. Deeper and deeper, relaxing with each breath of the tainted air.

“You’re a good man, Marcel. You were raised right. That’s why you know when to be thankful, don’tcha?”

Marcel…Nodded. “No… Daddy… Please, Daddy…”

“You better be fuckin thankful now. Guy makes ya feel like this, you’d do anythin’ for him.” Marcel’s eyes widened, gaze glued to every crevice of daddy’s asshole. “You obey anything I say. Do anything I want. Your brain’s mine, ya fuckin hear me?”

Marcel tried to turn his head away.

Slowly. He tilted his chin to his chest, and managed to get one eye closed—though one eye seemed adamantly stuck to seeing his daddy’s hole.

It practically pulsed when that asshole did. “D—daddy—” Already though, there was a wide, confused grin on Marcel’s face.

Boston shook his head. “You look at your daddy’s fucking hole, you piece of shit nigga.”

“Nn—nngh,” Marcel’s mouth flopped open like a fish.

“That’s better. Stare long and hard. He’s gon’ be your new boyfriend,” there was a loud rumbling. “And you’re gonna fuckin’ love him.” He was done playing around. Boston squeezed his eyes shut and tensed his whole body, just in time for his loudest fart yet. He gassed Marcel’s face with enough force to blow his son’s hair back, sounding like a long-held note on the tuba. The fart lasted a solid four-five seconds. Not long overall, but an eternity to the man who had been face-to-ass with what produced it.

His mouth was completely agape, gulping in the air. His nostrils were flaring, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Marcel was done like dinner. You could practically hear the cartoonish “ding” noise as his body stiffened up to sniff more of that ass gas.

“Oooh…”

“Yeah, ya like that?”

Marcel was led by the nose to daddy’s farthole and began munching on it. It was like he was flossing with the hair from Boston’s buttcrack, he was so entrenched in it. “Ohh fuck yeahh daddy—”

Boston grinned and shook his ass a bit in Marcel’s face. The man kept rimming diligently, and when Boston felt good—or, more truthfully, whenever Boston felt like it—he’d reward Marcel with another hot fart. Marcel didn’t stop kissing or sniffing no matter what Boston did.

Boston only noticed his son had ejaculated twice already when he felt a warm splash hit his thigh. Marcel wasn’t even touching himself, and hadn’t his whole time. He was too focused.

“Gon’ be a lot of changes to ya, mmhf.”

Peering over his shoulder, Boston could see a pair of glazed over eyes and an ear-splitting smile worshipping every inch of his ass. There were touches, brushes, squeezes, fingers running through his ass hair. Marcel’s nose would rub up and down the crack, or go to the taint, or press right up against the saliva-wet hole for another fart.

He was staring at it, kissing it. He was puckering for the pucker. “Oooh baby… Treat me right…” He was singing sweet praises to his father’s fat ass. “Blow me a kiss, sugarlips…”

Boston obliged, and kept obliging his son’s obsessive requests for more farts. Beads of sweat started trickling down from the crack, to drip onto Marcel’s face. The body contact under the sun getting to be intense.

“Biker…? Hmmm. Pig?” Boston stroked his mustache and took another cold beer. The boy was going to work himself to death, eating out his daddy’s hole. Before Marcel was even aware, he was slurping cheap beer from between Boston’s crack. Daddy was kind enough to pour slowly, so Marcel didn’t miss a single drop.

“Redneck, butler…” Boston continued weighing his options. Whatever he decided on, would be his son’s new lot in life. It was good to give it careful consideration. “Leather drone, diaperfaggot…”

Suddenly, he jumped—a loud belch echoed from his asshole.

Marcel had finished, and enjoyed, his beer.

Boston smiled. Like father, like son.

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Category: Hypnosis   Tags: #incest #musk #assplay #farting
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