BBC Summer Surprise

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

BBC Summer Surprise

Summary: Straight guy discovers his male kin are all BBC submissives and...

Note 1: This is a summer 2019 Contest Story so please vote.

Note 2: Thanks to Tex Beethoven, goamz86 and Robert for editing this story.

*

"I still can't believe I had to wait until I was eighteen to come along on the weekend fishing trip," my son Jerry bitched as we loaded camping gear, fishing gear and other items into the truck.

"That's just the way it's always been," I replied, wishing I could tell him more, but that would not only ruin the surprise, but he might run a mile before we had a chance to lay out the full picture for him. Once we were all in the boat and started talking, he'd be a captive audience. At least he'd be unless he decided to jump ship and try swimming the two miles back to land. Which wouldn't be beyond his capabilities. Like I had been, Jerry was a top athlete, his school's star quarterback (although back in the day I'd been a star linebacker). And even if he attempted that, there'd be enough muscle in the boat to wrestle him back onboard and sit on him if necessary until we'd made our case.

In the end of course, he'd be the one deciding what he wanted to do and we would honour his decision, but only after he heard us out and witnessed what we were doing firsthand. Frankly I wasn't all that worried in the long run. Twenty years ago in the summer of 1999, soon after I'd turned eighteen and had finally been allowed to come along on these annual fishing trips, I'd put up even more of a ruckus than Jerry was pitching today.

Perhaps I should explain. For four generations it had been a family tradition that every summer all the adult males in the Martin family would go camping near our favourite Minnesota lake. It was for some male bonding, while we went fishing and did... other things. The other things were the surprise we'd be springing on him (and on you) when the time was right.

Come to think of it, instead of my telling you Jerry's story, which turned out to be eerily similar to my own coming-of-age story, why don't I just tell you my own? That way you can get the entire picture... thoughts, angst and all... from the horse's mouth, so to speak. I'm very close to my son, but I'm not a mind reader.

So like I mentioned, I was ranting and raving to my Dad back in 1999 when I'd just turned eighteen, and I was throwing just as bad a tantrum as Jerry did in 2019 to his father... me... after he'd turned eighteen. And there I was, mid-rant. Looking back, it's really embarrassing how I behaved. Anyway, welcome to the inside of my head.

***

"I still can't believe I had to wait until I was eighteen to come on the guy's weekend fishing trip," I said, as I loaded items into the truck.

"It's the way it's always been," Dad said.

"It's just so stupid," I was delivering the same rant I'd been delivering fruitlessly every summer since I was twelve. I loved fishing. I loved camping. I fished with my Dad and Grandpa lots. They both admitted I knew my way around a rod and reel. Yet this was a grown men's only trip. Which, in retrospect, I could understand their not wanting a twelve-year-old along with a bunch of adults, but by sixteen I looked like a man and acted like one (Well, mostly. I was a teenager after all).

"What does it matter now?" my Dad asked rhetorically. "You're coming along this year." It was a fair point, and if I'd been in a reasonable mood I'd have given in. But I did relent enough to stop mouthing off, and to de-escalate my tirade down to a resentful simmer.

"Yeah, quitcherbellyachin," my older brother by two years added. "Good news! You get to be bottom bitch all weekend."

"We all know who the bottom bitch is," I countered. My elder brother was half my size and a nerd, while I was a big menacing linebacker marching off to college this fall on a football scholarship (while Simon landed the more boring academic scholarships).

"We'll see," he said in a surprisingly cocky way... something I hadn't ever seen much of from him until he returned from college a couple weeks ago.

"You're both bottom bitches," my Father added, in the way only he could. That ended the battle of so-called wits between brothers.

Four hours later, we arrived at the lake.

Grandpa was already there and had a fire going. "So, we finally get to baptize the last Martin."

"Saved the best for last," I joked as I hugged Grandpa, my hero.

"We shall see," he replied ominously before adding, "your brother turned out to be a real natural."

"I can't imagine that," I sneered, Simon hating fishing and the outdoors. I was shocked when he agreed to go along with them once he turned eighteen, and even more surprised when he went again last year.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world," Simon strutted, while looking at me with a look so smug I was ready to smack it off his face.

"Yeah? Isn't there a tree for you to go sit under and read a book?" I quipped.

"I brought you an Archie," he shot back, then added since he knew I hated reading, "an Archie colouring book."

Grandpa slapped both of us on the back of the head. "Enough, you two. This weekend is about male bonding, so no more girly chatty bullshit."

"Sorry, Grandpa," we both said in unison; our Grandpa, like our Father, not being someone you messed with.

Grandpa Bill was a Korean War veteran, and not one to waste time on bullshit.

Twenty or so years later my Father had served in the Vietnam War, and he was also not someone you fucked with.

Interestingly, although our family goes back six generations of military men, my Father had never pushed us in that direction. Neither Simon nor I were headed down the military route, although it was a backup plan for me if pro football after college didn't pan out.

"Now, bottom bitches, go get us some hot dogs so we can have some lunch before we head onto the lake," Grandpa ordered.

"Yes, Grandpa," we again said in unison, this being just about the only thing on which we agreed: Don't fuck with Dad or Grandpa. Actually, there was one more thing on which we were both ironclad: we both revered our Mother, and we would never disrespect her. That wasn't a rule that would ever need enforcing, we just wouldn't, and we both knew that about each other.

"Good boys," he said, his firm tone gone and his soft-spoken one returning... he really was a man I respected. A war vet. A man of few words, but words that you should always listen to. A man who liked all the same things I did: fishing, football and women (he had crazy stories of his younger days before meeting Grandma, including orgies during R&R furloughs in Japan... then later more of them in South Korea, where he remained stationed for a couple years after the armistice. He was once a real cock hound, and I considered myself quite the cocksmith myself).

We roasted hotdogs over the fire. We chatted. We'd just finished eating when one of my Father's old war buddies, Jamal, showed up accompanied by his son Devon, whom I'd only met once before. I should probably mention that Jamal and his son were black, not that it put any kind of damper on the camaraderie between them and our family.

"Hey, Cam is finally gonna be one of us," Jamal greeted me with big smile, giving me a firm handshake and a shoulder bump.

"Finally," I agreed, looking up at someone who was actually bigger than me, at 6'8" and solid as a rock.

"We've been looking forward to having you up here for a while," Jamal said.

"I've been looking forward to this week since I was twelve," I replied.

"I just bet you have," he said, in a tone oddly ominous like the one Simon had been using... as if everyone here knew something I didn't. After a pause, Jamal said, "Well, I guess we should make up for lost time."

So, although everyone was acting weird around me, we all headed to the boat.

As we reached the boat, I was surprised to see two more black men already aboard. I didn't say anything, even though I was quite surprised. I'd known the fishing trip wasn't just family, but I never envisioned it to be with all black friends. Not that I'm racist, many of my teammates are black, I just, for whatever reason, never imagined black men fishing... which, I guess in retrospect, actually is a little racist. Oops.

I noticed Simon didn't have a fishing rod with him, the dumb fuck. I asked, shaking my head, "Where's your fishing rod?"

"I don't need one," he answered.

"Figures," I said, shaking my head. Only my nerd brother would come out on a weekend fishing trip and not fish.

"You won't need one either," my Dad said from behind me.

"What?"

Jamal explained, "You'll be using my rod."

"What? Why?" I asked, it being against my religion ever to use anyone else's rod. Kind of like you never used someone else's cue stick for billiards.

"They only allow four rods in a boat," Jamal explained.

"Really?" I asked, this sounding like a strange rule.

"They don't want anyone overfishing the lake," Dad explained.

"Plus, you'll really love my rod," Jamal said, his tone again odd.

I'd been using the same rod for four years, so I couldn't fathom my preferring Jamal's, but I was the newbie on this trip, and I wasn't going to disrespect my elders. "Alright. I'll use your rod."

Simon chuckled behind me, mumbling something like, 'Oh yeah, you will,' but that made no sense, so I assumed I'd misheard him.

I saw my Dad and Grandpa get on the boat without their rods as well, and I was even more shocked. It was weird I couldn't bring mine, very weird, but it was unfathomable that neither of them would bring theirs. I mean Grandpa had been using the same rod since before I was born; it was his most prized possession. Yet I didn't ask, as I didn't want to make an issue out of his rod after already making an issue about mine... but I couldn't help but sense something was very odd about everything today.

We got onboard the boat, and I was introduced to the other two black men. The large hulking man was introduced to me as Bubba, which somehow just suited him, and the slender one was Brooks. Both seemed to be a few years younger than my Father, and both were handsomely bald (I couldn't figure out why black men could pull off being bald so easily, while white guys couldn't).

I couldn't help but be amused as we took our places in the boat. My Dad was at the stern starting the boat, and Jamal was at the bow, then the other three black men were sitting on the starboard side (that means the right side for you landlubbers), and the other three members of my white family on the port side... meaning that by complete coincidence we had segregated ourselves. Whatever, we were all friends here.

We'd proceeded out onto the water for only a few minutes before Dad stopped the boat. Yet instead of anyone instantly starting to fish, which is what should always happen, Jamal asked me, "Did you know your Father was in command of all three of us back in the day?"

"I did know you served under him," I replied.

"Trust me, I was never under him," he denied, which made everyone but me laugh. I had no idea why that would be funny... must have been an inside joke.

"Did you also know your father has been using my rod ever since that time?" he continued.

That seemed weird. I mean I knew there wasn't any fishing in the military, or at least I assumed there wasn't. Either way, I didn't think they'd begun their fishing trips until I was twelve. (I was wrong, I learned later that Grandpa had been going on them with Jamal's father since before Dad was born.) "I did not," I answered his question, not knowing what else to say.

"He's also been using Bubba's and Brooks' rods since our military heyday," he informed me before adding, "although he just started using Devon's very recently."

"Cool," I said awkwardly, finding this conversation very strange and a bit uncomfortable, but trying to pretend I was okay with it, even though I still sensed something strange going on beneath the surface,

"He prefers using our rods over his own, don't you Dave?" Jamal continued, as if they were having some strange conversation where everyone was in on the joke but me.

Dad's face was beet red as he answered, oddly not looking up, which wasn't like him at all, "Yeah."

"Yeah, what?" Jamal asked as this just kept getting weirder and weirder.

"Yes, I like using your rod over mine," Dad looked up.

"I do too," Simon joined in. I gave him a 'what the fuck' look.

"Fuck all this dilly-dallying," Bubba grunted impatiently, "who wants to use my rod?"

Good, someone finally wanted to do what we came here to do: fish.

"I do," Simon said, quickly clambering from aft of me to kneel on the deck of the boat in front of Bubba.

"What the fuck?" I asked the universe, confused first by Simon of all people being so excited to start fishing, then by where he went, and then by what happened next.

Grandpa spoke for the first time since we'd boarded the boat, "Simon, you know I get first choice of rod."

"Sorry, Grandpa," Simon said, retreating back to where he'd been seated aft of me, as I watched the man I admire most in the world get down off his seat in front of me and glance at me briefly, before he crawled, yes crawled, over to Bubba, and began undoing Bubba's pants. Bubba was sitting on the other side of the same bench I was on, so I had a great view, not that I wanted one.

I was speechless.

This had to be some wicked prank.

My Grandpa was a man's man.

My Grandpa was a cocksmith.

I was completely dazed and confused.

Jamal explained, as I stared at my Grandpa pulling Bubba's pants down and extracting a huge dick into his wrinkled hand, "Cam, your grand-daddy has been using our black rods for decades. Even before I was born, he used my Daddy's."

"Grandpa, what are you doing?" I finally asked incredulously, still hoping this was some sick joke, as I glanced back to my Dad, who sat stoically in the stern, head down.

"Grandson, it's time you learned the truth about the Martin family," he replied, as he stroked the black cock, which was hardening and becoming unbelievably big. He never called me grandson... it was always Cameron.

"What truth is that?" I asked, trying to process what I was witnessing, while also in awe of the sheer size of Bubba's dick. I mean I'd seen lots of cocks of all races in the shower or change room, but never for longer than in passing, and I'd never put any thought into them... I was straight... I always had a hot girl who was willing to suck my cock whenever I wanted a blow job, or for her to take it in her pussy... and occasionally in her ass (although that tended to be more of the MILFs I occasionally banged, including twice a girlfriend's mother, once a grandmother, and twice a friend's mom... yes, I'm a bit of a male slut).

Well anyway like I said, Grandpa was a cocksmith.

"Isn't it obvious?" Simon asked.

"What the fuck do you know about this?" I asked, pissed if he knew about whatever this was and had never told me.

"Let your father explain," Jamal said calmly, as Grandpa stroked Bubba's big cock, which was very hard by now.

"Yeah, and now that your grand-daddy has his chosen rod, you can come over here and get the treat you've been craving all day," Brooks said, looking at my brother.

"Thank you, Sir," Simon said very excitedly, before quickly crawling over to the other side of his bench and going for his cock like many of my sluts did to me. I had a decent sized six-plus-inch cock, and until today I'd considered myself well endowed.

"Son, it's a long story," Dad began, looking at me as I glanced over to see that my Grandpa now had Bubba's cock in his... his fucking mouth!

"Grandpa!" I gasped, as this was obviously no sick joke, it was something worse. My hero was sucking a cock, a black cock, and doing it right in front of me. Everything I thought I knew was being shattered before my eyes.

"Sorry if you find this upsetting, Cam," Grandpa said before adding, only making this surreal, fucked up situation even more confounding, "But in the Martin family we throw you in the deep end when you're old enough. What I'm doing with Bubba here is our family's purpose. Sink or swim."

"Our purpose?" I asked, those two words being as ridiculous as this entire situation

"Son, we're a family of cock suckers," Dad told me bluntly.

"But only for black cock," Simon added, before he started bobbing on a cock I couldn't see with his head in the way. Now Simon coming out as a faggot didn't surprise me. That actually explained a lot... but Grandpa? Dad? Unfathomable.

"Yes, for black cock," Dad confirmed.

"This is ridiculous," I said as I looked around. Grandpa and Simon were both bobbing on black cocks, which made our family's alleged purpose less ridiculous as a theory, but still extremely ridiculous in terms of how I'd always viewed Grandpa, Dad and myself (but not Simon).

"It's just the natural hierarchy of life," Jamal said, piling on even more ridiculousness.

"What?" I asked, still bewildered by everything I was seeing and hearing.

"Beg, cock sucker," Bubba ordered, as he pushed my Grandpa's head away from his cock, making me turn to see what my fierce Grandpa would do about that! I couldn't fathom anyone calling my Grandpa a cock sucker... but of course I couldn't fathom any of the rest of this either.

The surprises kept piling on as my Grandpa begged, "Please, Sir, allow me to suck your big, black, fat cock in front of my son and my grandsons. Please help me demonstrate to Cameron the truth about me and my family."

"And just what are you and your family?" Bubba asked him, looking at me with a slight smirk on his face.

"I'm a cock sucker for BBC," Grandpa declared with no shame in his tone, then added, my jaw feeling like it had dropped open a couple of feet like a cartoon characters, "all Martin men are cock suckers for BBC."

"Tell your grandson that," Bubba ordered.

Grandpa turned to me to say, with no look of shame (I had never seen shame on him and didn't even see it now... he was a proud man of few words), "Cameron, I'm a cock sucker for big black cock. And so are your father and your brother. And so were my Father and his Father."

"But why?" I asked, that question uppermost in my mind. Truth be told, twice I'd been sucked off by guys, and they were the best two blow jobs of my pretty experienced life, but I sure as fuck didn't reciprocate. I didn't think it was gay to get my cock sucked by another guy... a mouth is a mouth, and guys who wanted to do it seemed to be better at it than girls... but sucking cock yourself?... that was undoubtedly gay.

"It's our natural purpose in the hierarchy of life," he answered, referencing an earlier statement, doing so just as the sun came out from behind the clouds... and the hot day... just got hotter.

"What does that even mean?" I asked, still unable to process all I was witnessing, all I was hearing.

"It's pretty simple," Jamal repeated, as Bubba snapped his fingers and my very manly Grandpa turned around and resumed sucking his very big cock. "It's natural."

"Everyone keeps saying it's fucking natural," I exploded, getting more than a little exasperated at both what was happening and the lack of an explicable reason. "That makes no sense at all!"

"Hungry, cock sucker?" Jamal's son Devon asked, looking at my Dad.

"Starving," my Dad responded eagerly, as he clambered forward past me to the guy my age, and pulled out his cock. Like my Grandpa, he wasn't at all fazed by the insulting name calling, or that I was right here witnessing him doing this.