Bears, page 10
Unlike Dr. Whitehead, whose face was smashed up against Dr. Blackmun, Dr. Redding didn’t seem to be the kissy type. He closed his eyes and silently willed me to work my magic. I checked out the control panel. Nipples: medium erotic. Dick: a chubby grower with a Prince Albert, fairly responsive. Butthole: bingo! Secret square! As I fingered the moist pucker hidden deep in the well of his hairy crack, moans issued forth from Dr. Redding’s furry face, and his legs flew up as if hoisted on pulleys suspended from the ceiling.
I pulled his butt up to my face and gazed at his beautiful wrinkly opening, his gate to paradise. I gave it a good sniff, licked it, and probed it with my tongue, slobbering it into a juicy mash and rubbing my stubbly chin against his perineum. He gurgled with joy. I lowered his hips and slid my stiff prick up and down his crack, getting it all wet, surfing his butt, leaning up to plant an occasional kiss on his face. “Got any lube?” I wondered. He gestured toward the bureau, still deep in his dome-Daddy trance. I stalked over to the long chest of drawers and spied his stash of rubbers and lube next to the TV. A Stephen King movie was playing with the sound off. I caught my reflection in the mirror, looking like a satyr who just wandered out of the woods, naked, covered with dark hair, with a burning red Pan-dick pointing toward heaven.
I turned back to the tumble of naked bodies on the bed. Dr. Whitehead had been straddling Dr. Blackmun’s chest, feeding him his dick, while I’d been tussling with Dr. Redding. Now both Dr. Whitehead and Dr. Blackmun were taking turns petting Dr. Redding, stroking his furry chest, nibbling at his luscious dick. I shooed them away, and they went back to merrily humping each other.
I lubed up Dr. Redding’s hungry butthole and spent some time tasting his pierced dick. I roused it to a state of maximum excitement before I rubbered up and slowly nudged my way up his ass. I teased his hole, slipping just the tip of my boner in and sliding it back out, slipping it in again, holding it there and shaking it, vibrating it, wiggling from side to side, then leaning in until his ass swallowed my dick, inch by inch. “Open up for me,” I whispered. “Give Daddy your butthole.” He was heaving and groaning the incoherent plea that is a form of international language you can’t find in any dictionary. I leaned my full weight against him, pressing our hairy chests together, burying my face in his neck, grinding my moustache against his sweaty ear and chewing on it a little bit. Then I pulled back and fucked him just the way I like to fuck, halfway out halfway in, mid-tempo, letting his tight hole tweak my raring hard dickhead. Every so often I’d speed up and bang his butt good, rocking my hips against the backs of his thighs. His throat involuntarily registered the impact: “Unh! Unh! Unh!” I got so hot watching his face spiral into ecstasy that I hit the point of no return, slid my dick out, pulled off the rubber, and sprayed my load all over his balls.
I rubbed the gigantic puddle of goo all over his shaft and his shaved globes, and then I lay down between his legs and licked it up, thoroughly devouring my own spunk and blessing his balls with my tongue at the same time. Nestling my head against his thigh, I took his stiff prick in my mouth and sucked it hard. I savored the contrast between the flesh and metal of his dick. My fingers snuck back to his slippery butthole, and I got it humming. When I’d had my fill of cock-teasing, I knelt between his legs and got down to action, plumbing his prostate with a couple of fingers and rhythmically working the head of his dick with my hot, wet tongue. His muscle-bear body strained against my hands, his prostate gave that telltale swell, and a burst of tasty man juice filled my hungry mouth.
I crawled up to the head of the bed and rolled him over onto his side so we could lie in spoon position. Our pounding hearts slowly settled down, and we held hands, nuzzling and resting from our labors. We chatted a little bit about his clinic in Montana, and every so often reached over to stroke the other two, who were still going strong. I was feeling a little protective of Dr. Blackmun, wondering if I should rescue him from the pneumatic seal of Dr. Whitehead’s kiss. I figured he was a big boy and could take care of himself. Luckily, before too long, Dr. Whitehead built up such a head of steam that he spewed all over Dr. Blackmun’s torso, and then he collapsed on the bed, momentarily spent.
I maneuvered my position in the bed so that I was spooning with Dr. Blackmun, leaving Dr. Redding in the care of Dr. Whitehead. Dr. Blackmun and I had been dallying with each other on and off for a few hours now, so the time seemed ripe for us to, well, get it on. We took our time, beginning with tasty little kisses. We turned out to be compatible kissers, reciprocal givers and takers, in contrast to the kissing styles of our other playmates. I’d noticed that Dr. Blackmun had spent a considerable amount of time blowing Dr. Whitehead, while his own impressive prong went unattended. I considered it only my civic duty to make up the deficit. His dick was as fat and hard as Dr. Redding’s but longer and uncut, so I played with his foreskin as I sucked him. But eventually we went back to making out. I pulled him onto my lap so we were sitting face-to-face, heart to heart, rocking gently as I stroked his big hard cock faster and faster till he finally shot his pent-up load. Our bodies shivered and shuddered together, the earthquake and then the aftershock, then one more, and eventually peace.
The four of us lay like puppies in a row, peacefully cuddling and giggling, recalling how we got to be sharing a bed in the wee small hours of the morning at the end of a long day of high-powered conferencing. After a while, we guests discreetly gathered our discarded clothing and bid goodnight to our sleepy, sated host.
The hallway of the hotel was deserted at that time of night. I had a friendly parting of the ways with Dr. Whitehead and Dr. Blackmun and made my way down the hall to my own room. I was beat and looking forward to landing in my own bed. But who knew what was happening back at my shared quarters? For all I knew, Dr. Blau’s tryst hadn’t happened at all. At any rate, if it did, they got together around ten and it was now almost two-thirty. Surely they’d be done by now.
Oops. DO NOT DISTURB.
If it were earlier in the night, I would have gone back downstairs and had a drink or struck up a conversation to let those two play out their scene in peace. However, it was a little late for that kind of roommately discretion. As quietly as I could, I opened the door with my cardkey, sending that little tweedledee-dee electronic signal of my arrival.
I hadn’t really thought about what scene might greet me in the room, so I had no way of anticipating what I did encounter. Just inside the door, in the hallway to the bathroom, were Dr. Blau and Dr. Greenberg. Both of them were naked. The first thing I noticed was that Dr. Blau was blindfolded and tightly bound up in a beautifully tied black rope harness. The bondage was so exquisitely constructed, he could have been a centerfold in Bound and Gagged. The second thing I noticed was Dr. Greenberg’s crotch. However he’d altered the rest of his appearance with the butch haircut, the hormones, the goatee, the breast reduction, and so on, he hadn’t undergone genital surgery (“lower work,” as they say in the trans world), so there was a pubic bush on this leather bear expertly topping Dr. Blau, but no dick.
I caught Dr. Greenberg’s eye and smiled, then went straight into the bedroom, leaving them to continue whatever they were doing, which seemed to involve the full-length mirror in the hallway. I undressed and stretched out on my bed, content to doze off. Before long, though, Dr. Greenberg herded Dr. Blau into the room, as if to show off his handiwork. It was quite amusing and impressive to watch big, strapping Dr. Blau standing at the foot of my bed immobilized in Dr. Greenberg’s expert rope bondage.
Something about having a new witness seemed to excite Dr. Blau, because his fat dangly cock started to stiffen and rise away from his body. As you have probably guessed by now, my code of honor forbids me to allow a hard cock to go unworshipped in my presence, so I slithered on my belly to the end of the bed and applied my lips to Dr. Blau’s now fully erect phallus. He gasped with pleasure, which emboldened me to proceed with a delectable, slow, teasing blow job. When I tickled his balls ever so lightly, he responded so favorably that I rolled over onto my back, so I could nuzzle and lick the underside of them.
This gave Dr. Greenberg a prime view of my own stirring package. Being better trained than I in sexual etiquette, he asked permission to play with my cock and balls. I grunted my assent. He seemed especially interested in my balls and handled them as if fingering expensive merchandise in a fancy shop. Meanwhile, I was actively engaged in pleasuring Dr. Blau’s balls and stroking his big hard cock with a spit-lubed hand. I got him good and well-stoked until he was rising up on his tiptoes. I stroked him faster, tickling his balls with my tongue and moustache, and as his body started to shake Dr. Blau bellowed loud enough to be heard across the lake. Several healthy streams of jizz jetted across my chest. I slowed down but didn’t stop stroking his cock until every last drop had parachuted out. I rubbed his spooge all over my belly and turned the captive over to his master.
Dr. Greenberg took over and went about bringing Dr. Blau in for a landing, unwrapping him from the elaborate harness, carefully inviting him to experience every level of the removal. I turned out the lights in the room and lit a candle, hoping to signal that I was ready to call it a night.
As I rested my head on my pillow, lying on my back with the covers kicked off, I heard Dr. Greenberg say, “Let’s wait till Dr. Gold goes to sleep and then lick his furry body from head to toe.” Playing along, I started fake-snoring. They both laughed. Dr. Greenberg was serious, though. Once he’d finished with Dr. Blau, he came and sat on my bed and tentatively stroked my ankle. I guess he was starved for permission to play uninhibitedly with anatomically correct guys. What the hell, I thought. Go to town.
I shifted my body slightly to invite him farther into my bed. He took the invitation and began exploring my body, touching and kissing and sniffing and licking. His touch was light and feathery. Even though I’d spurted not too long ago, my cock sprang to action again, and Dr. Greenberg wasted no time going down on me. I stroked the back of his head, feeling the soft bristle of his buzz cut. “Sweet boy,” I murmured. “You’re such a good cocksucker.” This was clearly music to his ears. He snuggled up closer to me. I slid my leg between Dr. Greenberg’s, to give him something to hump while he sucked my dick. I could feel the wet hair between his legs. And I noticed he’d reached down with his other hand and was quite urgently masturbating. Funny to use these words together: his clit? His cunt? Dr. Greenberg was definitely stoking himself, moaning with his mouth full of my cock and getting a little frenzied now. “Go ahead,” I urged. “Suck my dick. Get yourself off.” I had my foot jammed up against his buttcrack, twiddling the hole with my big toe. He built himself up to a crescendo and went into a convulsive, sweaty, back-arching climax, bucking forcefully against my leg for several seconds.
A dutiful cocksucker and orgasmic egalitarian, he never gave up on my dick and seemed intent on making me squirt. But I didn’t require any further attention, so I pulled him up into my arms and held him tightly, uttering quiet loving words into his ear. I felt his racing pulse, his chest rising and falling, the sweat cooling on his back.
Dr. Blau had been kneeling by the side of the bed observing all this at close range. Can you say “best show in town”? He had one hand lightly resting on each of us, including himself in the energy without intruding. Now he walked around the bed and lay down on the other side of Dr. Greenberg, who mewed contently as he snuggled in between two big hairy men. And there we drifted off to sleep in our own new-world fairy tale of Papa Bear, Baby Bear, and Tranny Bear.
BEAR’S HEAD HALL: A SEMI-GOTHIC ROMANCE
David May
The Celts abandon themselves to a strange passion for other men. They sleep on the ground on the skins of animals, and tumble about with a bedfellow on either side. What is strangest of all is that, without any thought of modesty, a man will carelessly surrender their virginity to other men. Far from finding anything shameful in this, he is insulted should anyone refuse his favors.
—Diodorus Siculus, 50 BCE
The glossy black Bear and the great brown Bear enjoy vegetables, berries, fruit, and honey, as well as more carnal entrées, and Bear’s flesh is rich, sweet, and delicious.
—The Gourmet Magazine Cookbook, 1950
On finding myself, after Cambridge, a gentleman of little fortune and no immediate family, I faced my life with trepidation. My years at University had proven to me how poorly suited I was for the profession of the clergyman, as had originally been intended for me, and so I sought a position more suitable to my talents in the Great Metropolis, where I intended to spend the rest of my life as a Confirmed Bachelor with a keen taste for pleasure. Then, out of nowhere, arrived a missive from a distant cousin on my Mother’s, that is to say the Celtic, side of my family: one Lord Augustus Bearington of Bear’s Head Hall, Cornwall. He offered me not only a position as his secretary at far greater a salary than I might expect from any employer sans the same sanguinity, but he also offered to pay me the full year’s salary should I find the situation not to my liking after six months in his employment. I carefully calculated the amount of money offered, and compared it with what my few expenses would be. If nothing else, I would have a small nest egg to help me on my return to London, and my busy life in the environs of Soho, that part of London where a man was most likely to find sympathetic companionship. I wrote at once to my cousin, offering him my humble thanks, and told him when I would arrive at Bearington Station the following week.
I had not been to Cornwall before; in fact, other than my years at Cambridge, in my whole life, I’d hardly left the environs of our Nation’s Capital. I’d only rarely been to the seaside, and never farther west than Chiswick. Cornwall, even with all its natural beauty, seemed a wild place to my imagination, a place where men spoke a dialect nearly unintelligible to outsiders; a hilly country spiked with tors that my ancient Celt ancestors once believed to be the domiciles of the Fair Folk, ancient gods now lost to history. But it was this wild country that was to be my new home. After my long train journey, a handsome, strapping, young man met me at Bearington Station. He took my bags from the porter while greeting me with an upward nod.
“Hello, Mr. Inwood. I’m your cousin Selwyn Hirsute, nephew of my Lord Bearington. I’m here to take you to Bear’s Head Hall.”
He was dressed in fine riding boots, trim-fitting blue breeches, and matching waistcoat over a fine linen shirt opened at the neck, displaying his broad, hairy chest. His fair hair was curly, and his beard full. That he was bearded surprised me since most young men were beardless in London, a fashion that suited me well since, other than the ginger moustaches I cultivated and took special pride in, I had little to shave.
“How do you do, Mr. Hirsute,” I said, offering my hand, uncertain of his status in the household, or even of mine, and scrupled to offend anyone who might be a friend to me in my new home.
“How do,” he responded, shaking my hand with more vigor than seemed necessary. “Firm handshake for a townie,” he added with a wink and broad smile that made me shiver somewhere deep in my solar plexus, causing my manhood to leap to attention in the hope of some carnal delight. Leading me to the gig that would take us to Bear’s Head Hall, he nodded to his many acquaintances loitering about the station, all young men with no apparent occupation.
Two bears’ heads carved from the local stone greeted us as we passed through the gate and made our final approach to what I hoped would be a splendid manor. Though it was only March, the air was already warmer, and the landscape greener, than what I had left behind me. Having passed by the Dartmoor on the train, I expected only desolation as we moved into the hillsides, but found instead a verdant splendor so appealing that one might feel compelled to believe in the many legends about the local Faeries and their many Kith. Bear’s Head Manor revealed itself as we made our final turn onto the drive, the trees parting before us, as if out of respect for our arrival, and we found ourselves at the entry to the Tudor manor’s courtyard. Only two or three stories in height but formed of four structures that constituted a square, it was a fine home, though not the grandest in these Isles. This was such a well-loved and looked-after home, and so well suited to its situation, that I could hardly contain my pleasure in what I saw.
We disembarked and were immediately surrounded by a pack of dogs of no determinate breed, all of them politely sniffing my coat or licking my proffered hand. The dogs obeyed my cousin’s gentle commands, placated with the promise of their dinner after those of us on two feet had had our tea. Still surrounding us, the dogs followed us into the manor house, acting as our escorts into the great hall.
“Mustn’t mind them, Mr. Inwood. My Lord loves his beasts and they have free reign through the house. You can always shut the door if you want to keep them out of your rooms, though.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hirsute. I’m very fond of dogs.”
“And cats, too, I hope? Lots of them around Bear’s Head, too. And my Lord has a name for each one.”
“How pleasant,” was all I was able to say before a voice boomed from somewhere within the house.
“Selwyn, you scallywag! Are you back at last?”
And my Lord Bearington strode into the hall.
“Here’s your new man, my Lord, Mr. Richard Inwood. Shall I ask Mrs. Bannon and Mrs. Brinker for tea now?”
Selwyn left us as I bowed before my new employer.
“My Lord.”
He was, like Selwyn, bearded; his hairline was somewhat receded. His beard was a sable pelt that spread across a broad, handsome, face; touched, here and there, with silver. His smile was brilliant, and his eyes a deep green. He wore the same breeches and waistcoat as my cousin Selwyn, though my Lord’s were drab instead of blue, fine riding boots, and a linen shirt opened at the neck.
