Bears, page 12
“Oh, lord, love, we have another screamer.”
“Never mind that, Davy. Give me a kiss so I can taste him too.”
I watched them exchange a long deep kiss as I came to myself, struggling to get back to my feet that I might properly undress at last. The lovers watched me between kisses, laughing goodnaturedly at my euphoric disarray. Soon we were pulling off each other’s boots, stepping out of our breeches and soiled linen so our bodies might once again meet, skin to skin, but this time with no encumbrance. We shared an embrace, the three of us; their hairy bodies rubbing against mine as our lips once again joined for a tripodal kiss. I felt their beards against my smooth cheeks, tasted the salt on their skin, and wished this joy might never end. Soon we were nestled together, the three of us, in my enormous bed, my smooth skin warmed by the furry flesh that circumscribed me on either side.
“Now, come morning, Dickey, who ever wakes first gets your bum again, and you get the bum of the one still sleeping.”
“That sounds fair, but what if I wake before either of you?”
“Then you get your choice of bum, don’t you?”
“And what if both of you wake at the same time?”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to make room for us both.”
This was a proposition I dared not attempt, even as the thought of it delighted me.
Next day, after our morning sport, as they dressed themselves as best they could before heading to their own rooms, I watched them with envy, wishing I could share their easy affection for each other, their sweet endearments and gentle petting. As much as they might sport with me, as generous as they were with their fleshy pleasures, I knew I could never be a part of the intimacy at the core of their manly affection for each other.
“Tell me,” I asked, as much to distract myself from my sad train of thought as to satisfy my curiosity. “How did my Lord know about me? I had never met him in my life, and he is only a second cousin to my late Mother.”
“He told me he knew of you since your birth, and made it his mission to keep an eye on you since your mother died so sadly and so young,” answered Selwyn. “It seems they were great childhood friends, my Lord and your mother, and he swore as a lad to always look after your mother and her children.”
“I’m told,” said Davith, “that when your mother died, milord was inconsolable. Milord offered your father every assistance, which he, proud man that he naturally was, would not accept, even when it was for your benefit. Milord’s lawyers in London were watching your career at Cambridge, it seems, and then he heard of your father’s death. ”
“I had no idea.”
“None at all? Your mother never mentioned my Lord?”
“Never that I recall, but I was very small when she died. What I remember though…”
“Yes, Dickey?”
“What I remember are the stories she used to tell of a magic garden, a garden with a beautiful fountain at its center, in a far-away kingdom called… Cornwall.”
“Stories?”
“Yes, lovely Faery Stories about creatures who lived in the magic garden, first and foremost of which was a beautiful brown bear named… “
I stared at my bedmates in disbelief.
“Named what, Dickey?”
“Named Augustus.”
Selwyn and Davith looked to each other, and then back to me.
“It seems, Dickey, that your mother did tell you about my Lord.”
After this I looked at my Lord in a new light. For the first time I understood why his affectionate nature, always apparent despite his bellowing and growling, felt so familiar to me. My Lord was the model for my Mother’s inventions, the great brown bear I dreamed of after her death, the bear I wanted to hold and comfort me. I remembered my Father, so much older than my Mother, being so bereft he would hardly look at me for fear of weeping when he saw my Mother’s eyes looking up from my little face; and I remembered our cold, loveless house bereft of all affection except that which came from my imaginary friend, Augustus Bear.
I also realized that, slowly but surely, I was falling in love with my Lord, that I craved his manly touch, that I longed to see his handsome, bearded smile; and that I wanted, more than anything, else, to find myself at ease in his arms.
My sporting with Davith and Selwyn continued, sometimes with both of them, sometimes with only one. The stables, I learned, were a popular place to convene with grooms and stable boys. One need not even join in the frolic, I found, for no one minded being observed when all one wanted was to stroke oneself to one’s own satisfaction while watching. Contrary wise, I found many a young stallion in need of assistance and so sought to keep my Lord’s tenants and tenants’ sons satisfied with my Lord’s governing of the land. How many I took pleasure in, and gave pleasure to, I have no idea. There were many, and yet never enough for, except for those nights I slept between Selwyn and Davith, I was rarely held, touched, or kissed.
But where, I wondered, did my Lord plant his seed?
A party was suggested in mid-May, a trip to a nearby tor, for what my Lord called “a picnic for the lads.” The tor itself was called Bear’s Tor, and was said to be both beautiful and awe-some. Many a local legend resounded about Fantastic Creatures that congregated there on nights of the Full Moon, and of the Fair Folk’s Wrath on unwary mortals who accidentally happened upon them in their revelry.
Mrs. Bannon and Mrs. Brinker prepared us baskets to take with us, large and heavy baskets they were, too, for they had not only to feed six hungry men, but provide also the necessities of table linens, kettle, and crockery. These were packed onto two of my Lord’s ponies, and we set out on our adventure right after breakfast.
While we raced with each other from time to time, we kept to a constant but unhurried pace on the whole, so that our ponies and the victuals they carried should not be lost to us. My Lord provided each of us with bottles of his cider to refresh us on our journey; and Cornish cider, should you not already know this, Dear Reader, is potent indeed. Accordingly we arrived at the Bear’s Tor feeling none the worse for the wear. We made our camp at the foot of the tor, not far from a weir where our horses and ponies might rest, feed, and water, for it was in a lovely, open, green vale hidden among the bracken, verdant and lush, that we found ourselves. Since there were no women about, we stripped to the waist to better enjoy the late spring sun pouring down on us with such brilliant abundance; and I had my first opportunity to see how much of a bear my Lord was: so hairy and magnificent that my own want of fur I thought uncomely, and myself unworthy of his affection.
Mr. Bottom took it upon himself to make a fire for our kettle and lay our “table” on the cool grass. My Lord sat back and smiled all around, pleased to be surrounded by his “lads” on a holiday. Selwyn, Colin, Davith, and I went to explore the tor with much good-natured teasing and pleasing rough play. We climbed as high as we could up the mysterious rocky outcropping, looking for whatever Other Worldly Folk might dwell in this solid stone castle, but we were only halfway up when we were called down to eat, for my Lord did not like to be kept waiting at meals.
Later, after we were sated with much cold beef and poultry, bread, butter and honey, salads from my Lord’s gardens, and more of my Lord’s cider, it occurred to me to once again climb Bear’s Tor, this time to its jagged peak, for it was said that Dartmoor could be seen in one direction, wide and wonderfully bleak, and the sea in the other. Leaving my companions nodding off, I commenced my ascent.
Once past the point where we had been forced to turn back before, there was a sharper rise to the tor; had not my companions spoken of the view from its peak, I would never have thought the apex attainable, and would have given up my quest. As it was, I persevered, and with much backtracking, finally made my way to the jagged zenith where the expanse of the Cornish countryside was spread before me. Wales lay in the northern distance; the sea lay to the south of me; to the west was the wondrous landscape of the Cornish Peninsula; and to the east, Dartmoor rolled away toward my old life in London. Never had I seen such variety in landscape, nor even thought the natural world could be so inspiring; and what it inspired was Awe and Reverence, Terror and Serenity, Dread and Wonder. I was so enthralled by the seeming Faery World surrounding me that, at first, I did not hear my Lord, and the others, climbing the tor below me. It was only when I heard my Lord call my name that I turned to see them approaching me. I called back and waved to them. It was then that I lost my footing and fell….
I recall little after the fall. Voices cried out in panic, another stronger, steadier voice took command. My body was wracked with pain that was blinding me; but then what visions I saw! Was it some Gentle Giant, or Oberon himself, who carried me in such strong arms, laying me down gently among the bracken? Couched on a bed of the softest moss, sheltered in the loveliest of glades, I found myself surrounded by Fauns, Centaurs, and Satyrs, by Green Men who reached down from the canopy to brush my lips with leafy kisses, by a retinue of beautiful brown bears, and handsome manly sprites. And then I heard the sound of Faeries singing, of the trees themselves in conversation….
It has been recorded that time passes differently in Faery, and so what I dreamt of, which seemed no more than a few hours, passed in days. I awoke with a start to see my Lord looking down at me, his handsome face disfigured with worry. I glanced about and found myself in my own bed, surrounded by the household, having their tea and listening to Davith sing in his native Welsh, his voice as perfect and true as one would expect from one of his Race.
“Lad, can you hear me?”
“Yes, my Lord. I can both see and hear you.”
“Good, my lad.”
My kin and kith crowded around me, tears on their faces, tears I found puzzling.
“Now, my lad, give me your hands. Can you feel my hands? Yes? Now pull on them. Good lad.”
His great hands moved under the covers to see if my legs and feet could feel the touch of his warm, strong hands. So recovered was I that I began to squirm lest my Lord see the tent I was making before him.
“Colin, go get the surgeon. Oh, my lad, you gave us a great scare, and I thought I might lose you.”
“But we wouldn’t give up, Dickey,” injected Davith. “My ma always said that the best way to bring someone around is to surround him with life. So we’ve been having our tea here every day since your fall. Selwyn’s been reading to you, and I’ve been singing. Between us, milord, and the ladies, Dickey, we’ve not left you alone for a minute!”
Then I learned that I had been unconscious for almost a week, occasionally crying out, sometimes laughing, and now and then emerging from my slumber long enough to take a sip of broth. I had no recollection of any of this except what I could recall from my feverish dreams. My fall had landed me down the steepest side of the tor and into the bracken that provided enough of a cushion to assure my survival. Colin was sent to get a wagon to transport me home, and Selwyn sent for the surgeon. There were many contusions over my upper body, a few broken ribs, and a gash on my chin, which would, my Lord assured me, leave a becoming scar.
I was all aches and pains, of course, my body covered with bandages, but was glad enough to accept the tea Mrs. Brinker brought me, relishing the cup as I had never relished anything before.
When the surgeon arrived, he examined me, and in due course pronounced me out of danger. I would have to rest, however, and eat a healthy diet, but under no circumstances was I to be allowed any of my Lord’s cider until I was on my feet again. I groaned at the injustice of this sentence, but the surgeon would not be prevailed upon to alter his prescription for my recovery. Milk, he said, was what I needed to regain my strength.
“Then milk is what he shall have, and from my finest Jerseys, too!”
Milk was procured, warm and comforting, and after drinking it I found myself drifting off to sleep once more. I awoke once in the night, my mouth dry as dust, to find my Lord waiting on me, dozing in one of the chairs from my sitting room, now at my bedside.
“My Lord?”
He started, fully awake at once.
“Yes, Dickey. What is it you need, lad?”
“Just some water, my Lord.”
He raised my head with one hand as he held the glass to my lips with the other. I drank the water from my Lord’s hand, and he gently laid my head down on the pillow. I fell off to sleep again, but not before I felt my Lord’s lips on mine, and felt his lush beard brush against my cheek.
Time abed seems an eternity, no matter how short it is, if one is ill; and so was my time abed while healing from my ordeal. But in a few weeks the bruises had faded, the abrasions had healed, and my ribs stopped hurting. My Lord spent much of his time with me, but only at my insistence would he allow me to return to my normal duties as his secretary. During my recovery, Davith and Selwyn, ever eager to provide whatever comfort I might need, made a point of visiting me every evening; while Selwyn held me in a kiss, Davith performed that service which only he could do so well. Would such complete, and intimate, nursing be found anywhere else in the world, I wondered?
As the weather had grown warmer, we men discontinued wearing our waistcoats during the day, walking about with our shirts undone; daily was I then treated to the display of my Lord’s massive, hairy chest. And it was my Lord’s wondrous animal beauty that I was contemplating while walking through the orchards when I heard a step behind me. I turned to see my Lord Bearington.
“Dickey, love, I’m glad to see you looking so well and taking a turn on the grounds.”
“Thank you, my Lord. It is hard not to be well in such beautiful surroundings.”
“Do you not think of your old life in London?”
“Hardly at all, my Lord; in fact, almost never. My life is here, sir, as is my happiness.”
“I’m glad to hear that, lad,” he said taking my hand, and navigating us around my Lord’s beehives. It felt natural to stroll hand in hand with my Lord, to be by his side on a midsummer day.
“When I offered you the position, Dickey, I was only thinking of helping the only child of my favorite cousin, your blessed mother. I never dared hope that you would take so quickly to our life here, or that you would be happy so far away from London. And I never imagined…”
He turned to face me.
“Yes, my Lord?” I asked, a tremor in my voice that I was sure betrayed my longing, the desire I had held in check so long, for his love.
“I never dared imagine…”
And then he took my face into his hands, and kissed me, with more tenderness than I had known since I was a small child. My body trembled; my hands reached up to his face that I might stroke his beard.
“Then it is the same with you my boy? Dare I imagine you feel as I do?”
“You may dare imagine, my Lord, for I have felt for you from our very first meeting.”
“My love.”
And he kissed me again.
Before long we were rolling about on the long grass, pulling at each other’s clothing, pulling off our boots and breeches, under the glorious summer sun. Our naked embrace led to more kisses, and finally to My Lord’s manhood finding its way deep inside that now much-exercised pink rose. I winced as his muscle of love opened my nearly hairless rose; I cried out in pain, but would not let my Lord withdraw. I grabbed his hairy buttocks and pulled him toward, and into, my body, to that warm sheath that longed for his fleshy dagger. Finally, he was completely inside me, all of him, as I sought to make him welcome, to give him as much joy as he was giving me. He moved slowly at first, finding the secret spot that made me squirm beneath him, that made me reach up to his mouth for more kisses. Pushing harder with every stroke, he moved continually deeper, and deeper, inside me, impaling me on his hardened manroot, until I cried out beneath him, my seed spilling all over us, though I had not touched myself for the whole duration of joining. My Lord kissed me once again, and held me in that kiss, as he bucked even harder than before, holding me down by my shoulders, making my eyes water; until he roared, like a wild, untamed animal claiming his territory, or, perhaps, his mate.
Later, as we lay naked in the long grass, he gently caressed my smooth, almost hairless body, murmuring endearments, kissing every part of it, until we were ready to begin again. I wrapped my arms around his great, hairy bulk, rubbed my face in the pelt on his chest, and nearly wept for joy. What ecstasy was this? I wondered, and how had it come to be mine?
That evening, after supper, he took my hand again, and led me to his bedchamber. There, naked beneath the sheets, did he declare, again, his love for me.
“But dare I ask you, Dickey, if you’ve decided yet that you will stay with us here at Bear’s Head? And will you always make my bed yours?”
“Dare to ask, my Lord, for the answer will be the one you hope to hear, even as I had feared to hope for the proposition!”
And, Dear Reader, I stayed with my Lord Bearington at Bear’s Head Hall, and made his bed my own, and will continue to do so until we both leave this Earth.
AOOOOO
Ken Panadero
Hercules was the original bear.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Those words were exactly what I had been thinking—but it wasn’t me who said them. The voice came from about two inches behind me. I felt the stranger’s breath on my ear.
I was in a glass-roofed atrium in a vast and venerable London art museum on a free day at the end of a business trip, gazing up at a marble statue of Hercules wrestling Antaeus in the nude. The two figures were on a massive pedestal that put Hercules’s feet just below my eye level. The hero had been caught in a dynamic, pivoting pose, with one foot forward and one foot back. The forward foot was right under my nose—and yet as odorless as any other marble object. The big toe looked like a slightly flattened jumbo egg, with the little toes lined up next to it like a neat row of olives on an appetizer tray.
