Bears, page 13
Thus appetized, I had let my gaze move to the top of his foot, which was decorated with a Hobbit-like swatch of hair. Moving farther up, I encountered Antaeus, whose feet were off the ground.
According to myth, Antaeus was a giant wrestler who was impossible to beat—as long as some part of his body remained in contact with his source of power, Mother Earth. Hercules defeated Antaeus simply by lifting him off the ground, thereby blessing generations of ancient artists with a motif that involved one naked man sweeping another literally off of his feet.
The sculptor whose work I was now admiring chose a pose in which Hercules had one meaty forearm tight across the small of Antaeus’s back, just above the ass, while his other hand clutched the back of Antaeus’s thigh, just below. The buttock above our hero’s hand bulged out, squeezed from above and below, while the other cheek was relatively relaxed. I spent a long time admiring how this contrast gave the whole sculpture the illusion of violent motion, as if Hercules were about half a millisecond away from body-slamming his opponent.
Herc had pulled Antaeus tight against the side of his own hip, almost like a mother cradling a baby, so I couldn’t see the giant’s cock, but I’m sure it must have been hard. I know mine would spring to attention if Hercules were grabbing my ass. Wouldn’t yours?
As for our hero’s dick, that was in plain view, flaccid but swinging out with centripetal force as he twisted his torso to one side. This was no Tom of Finland fire hose, mind you, but it was no shy nubbin cowering behind a fig leaf either.
But what I really liked about this statue were his chest and head. That’s where I found the details that made me think—
“Hercules was the original bear.”
Okay, so I didn’t really jump out of my skin, but I did flinch. I turned around and found a real bear standing behind me. About two inches shorter than me, he was a bit on the slim side for a bear, but the open collar of his shirt revealed a mass of hair as thick and wild as an unmowed lawn. The dark, luxuriant growth drew my attention so immediately that it took me half a second to realize he was totally bald. And wearing an eye patch.
A smooth, one-eyed head sticking out of a mass of hair. Hmm, where have I seen that before?
My eyes met his…eye.
He cleared his throat. I realized I was staring.
“Er…” I said.
“Don’t you think so?” he asked, perfectly calm. “Just look at that hairy chest.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, staring down. “It’s something else.”
“Not mine, his.”
“Oh.” I turned around to look back up at the statue, blushing. The stranger was behind me again.
“So many of these old Greek statues—most of which are actually Roman copies of Greek originals, by the way—are of youths,” he said. “Young, graceful, delicate, and hairless. To use a modern word, twinks.”
He made their qualities sound like flaws, but I thought some of those statues were very easy on the eyes. I wasn’t surprised the Romans had copied them. Of course, I had to admit that my own tastes were pretty wide-ranging, considering that right now I was getting turned on by a bald bear with a pirate’s eye patch and an art professor’s voice.
“But now look at Hercules.” He ran his hand up my side and then, still behind me, pointed up at the statue. “That’s a man’s torso, not a boy’s. It’s solid, chunky, muscular, and hairy.” His hand came to rest on my chest, as if to suggest that I had those qualities, too. “Where the youths have grace, he has substance and power…and also grace.” At this point he very gracefully slid his other arm around my waist.
I took a tiny step backward, pressing my back against his chest and my ass against his crotch. I couldn’t tell if he was hard yet, but I sure was.
I realized it was my turn to say something. “He’s got a full beard,” I said, hoping the stranger would notice this was another thing Hercules and I had in common.
“A sign of maturity,” the stranger murmured.
“I like the lion skin, too,” I said rather lamely. “It’s a nice touch.” Hercules had killed an especially ferocious lion early in his career and wore its hide as a cape down his back, with its front legs tied in a knot across his chest. The skin from the lion’s head was worn like a helmet, with its daggerlike fangs clamped onto Hercules’s forehead.
The stranger put his chin on my shoulder. “It wasn’t just a fashion statement, you know.”
“Oh no, of course not,” I hurriedly said, afraid that I was about to lose his interest. “That was the Nemean lion, with skin like steel and claws like diamonds. Spears and arrows couldn’t kill it, so Hercules wound up wrestling it and strangling it to death with his bare hands.”
“He was such a brute,” the man said admiringly. Later, I would wonder whether he was referring to Hercules or to the lion.
I got out of his grip and turned to face him. “This is becoming a really fascinating conversation. Shall we continue it somewhere else?”
He grinned, then looked at his watch. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a few things to do in the next couple of hours. There’s a pub just around the corner called the Brick and Bell. Shall we meet up there at, say, eight?”
We shook hands as if we had just made a business deal—and maybe we had—and he walked out of the gallery at a brisk pace.
At eight fifteen, he still hadn’t shown up, and I was near the bottom of my first pint of Guinness. I was beginning to worry that my friend in the eye patch, whose name I still didn’t know, had ditched me. But so what if he had? He’d left me with an excellent bar suggestion, as the crowd at the Brick and Bell was butch in the extreme. If he didn’t come, there were plenty of other men to choose from.
In particular, there was a guy standing a few feet to my left dressed in black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a ribbed white tank top stretched tight across a barrel chest. He had legs like tree trunks and a powerful-looking ass. He had thick lips, a lantern jaw, and heavy black stubble. A leather biker’s cap with a chain across the brim was pulled low over his sloping, almost Neanderthal forehead. On the bar in front of him, a big glass of pale golden liquid looked small when he put his hand around it to take a drink. Even his hand was butch—thick, sausagelike fingers; nails cut straight across like shovels; cracked, prominent knuckles; and a forking vein that ran through a broad, black brushstroke of hair across the back of his hand.
The guy gave no indication that he had noticed me at all. Just looking at that hand, thinking of what it could do to me, made my mouth go dry. I finished my Guinness and licked the foam out of my moustache.
“You like that,” a deep voice said. “Yeaaah.”
I looked around to see who was talking.
“Lick that moustache. You like it, donchoo?”
I suddenly realized it was the big man I had been staring at. He still wasn’t looking in my direction, but he was talking to me out of the corner of his mouth. His ridiculous porno-style speech immediately led me to assume he must be a complete moron. Not my usual type. Even so, I sensed the exciting possibility that the night could end in some rough, uncomplicated, meaningless sex.
I had hoped that my new friend from the art gallery might provide me with a few hours of stimulating intellectual conversation—followed by rough and possibly meaningful sex—but it looked like he wasn’t going to show. Luckily, Plan B had just presented himself.
“Well,” I said. “I hate to let good beer go to waste.” I admit that my own lines may not always be brilliant, but so far they were at least slightly better than his. I licked my moustache again and asked, “What’s that you’re drinking?”
He turned toward me, and I caught my breath. One of his eyes was a deep brown, and the other was a piercing, almost glowing blue. It was like being stared at by an alpha-male husky in the middle of a windswept tundra with no place to hide, wondering if he was going to attack. My scrotum curdled.
Suddenly he was in my face, having covered the short distance between us in a blink. He was at least four inches taller than I was, and I could feel his hot, moist breath as he looked down at me and rumbled: “Honey.”
He picked up the glass, which appeared to be full of piss, and held it up to my eye for a second. “Mead,” he said, taking a slug. Then: “Want some?”
It tasted strong but overpoweringly sweet. So far, it was the only sweet thing about him. “I like it.”
He grinned, gigantically.
“Wow,” I couldn’t help saying. “You have gorgeous teeth.”
“The better to eat you with.”
Before long we were hurrying back to my hotel by the light of the full moon. I turned to kiss him in the vestibule of my suite, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me against the wall. He nuzzled his rough cheek against mine and growled: “Bed.”
He wasn’t very articulate, this fellow, but he expressed his objectives more clearly than many business executives I know.
When I turned on the light in the bedroom, he smacked the wall switch with a massive paw, returning the room to semi-darkness. The only light was the full moon outside the window and the faint vestibule light outside the door.
When I turned to kiss him again, he planted a hand in the middle of my chest and sent me sprawling backward onto the bed. I rolled off the opposite side and bounced to my feet. This was getting exciting, but a little scary, too. It occurred to me the guy might have achieved his massive size through steroids. The last thing I wanted was some ’roid-raging maniac beating me up in my own hotel room the night before I flew back to my home office. Fuck that idea in a big way.
“Listen!” I shouted. “This is my goddamn hotel room and you are my guest. We are going to do things my way or we’re not going to do them at all. Got it?”
He cringed in the shadows, which gave me enormous satisfaction. I rarely yell, and it was a rush to have it actually work.
“Sorry,” he said, deep and low. “I got excited.”
“That’s okay.” I started walking toward him. “You can be excited, but you’re going to be excited my way.” I grabbed him by the belt and bumped my chest against his. “And my way is a way I think you’re going to like.” I began unbuckling his belt and then dropped to my knees to unzip his jeans and release his—
Jesus, it was huge.
He was uncircumcised, and there was a large, glistening pearl of precum framed in the mouth of his foreskin like a jewel displayed on a nest of rumpled canvas. I touched it with the tip of my tongue and found it sweet, like honeysuckle nectar. I sucked on his foreskin, ran my tongue around inside it, and then pushed it back with my lips as his cock began to harden and rise.
He purred like a contented lion.
Sucking steadily, I pulled down his pants and ran my hands over the hard, hairy contours of his statuesque legs. He gripped my shoulders hard, which was fine until his nails began digging into me.
I let his cock slip out of my mouth. “Ease up on the grip,” I said. “My way, remember?”
He grunted and let go. I stood up, gave him a quick peck on the lips, and helped him out of his jacket. Something heavy fell out of a pocket, and he swiftly bent over to pick up a large plastic squeeze bottle.
“Lube?” I wondered.
“Honey.”
“Really?” That sounded interesting, but I didn’t ask him what it was for. Instead, I pulled his tank top over his head and began kissing his hairy chest. I lifted one of his arms and gnawed at the sweaty fur of his pit for a while. Then I kissed my way down his ribs to his pelvis and then to the side of his ass, where I found a set of initials tattooed on one muscular cheek.
“V.R.? What does that stand for—Very Rough?”
He grunted what I took to be a yes.
“We’ll see about that. Come to bed and do what I say.”
The big man nodded obediently. We lay down together in the moonlight from the window. I tried to think of some really harsh, exciting command to give my barely-trained bear, but the best I could come up with was, “Suck my dick.”
And did he ever. After going up and down the shaft a few times, he took my entire length into his mouth and kept it there, but managed to vary the suction in ways that sent exquisite waves of pleasure coursing through my entire body. When I looked down at him, all I saw were the humped shapes of his enormous shoulder muscles, with their coating of fur—not just hair, it seemed, but actual fur—glowing around the edges, back-lit from the light beyond the bedroom door.
Then I had to stop looking as I threw my head back in ecstasy when he began rimming me. Incredibly, he never stopped sucking my cock—he was fellating me and rimming me at the same time. Either he had the longest tongue in the world, or he knew some amazing technique that I simply had to learn.
After a few moments of this heaven, it became clear that he was gifted with a monstrous tongue. Not only was it long enough to cradle my balls and caress my hungry, quivering anus even with my cock still in his mouth, but it was wide, too. Incredibly wide. With his tongue between my legs I felt like I was riding a saddle made of warm, wet, undulating meat.
Time lost its meaning for a while, but eventually he pulled back, grabbed me by the hips and flipped me onto my stomach. Originally I had hoped that I would fuck him, but after the treatment he’d given me so far, I was up for anything. I spread my legs across the mattress to open my ass to him. I heard a spluttering sound from the squeeze bottle and felt something thick and heavy running slowly over my buttcheeks and down my crack.
He was covering my ass with honey. It tickled as it flowed.
The tickling was just a fraction of what I was feeling. His intensity had heightened every one of my senses. My nerve endings were so alive that as he resumed rimming me from the rear, the stubble on the cheeks of his face began to feel like a full beard as it rubbed against the cheeks of my ass.
He stopped and pulled his face away, and I thought I knew what would happen next. I raised my butt to signal I was ready to get fucked. I lifted my head, too, and looked out the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling window at a moonlit view of Hyde Park.
I wished the window were a mirror so I could see this wonderful bear fucking me from behind. But I was going to enjoy the experience no matter what, so I put my head down on the pillow, raised my ass a little higher, and waited.
Two seconds later, his hands smacked the mattress on either side of my head. Something was horribly wrong with them. They were much hairier than I had noticed in the bar, and the nails were long and pointed, like claws. They hadn’t been that way before. I would never have invited him up.
“Hey—” I started to say, but he dropped at full length onto my back, knocking the wind out of me. I was rendered speechless for a moment as I felt the tip of his dick at my asshole, pressing for entrance. I liked the feeling, but it was mixed with fear that something was going wrong.
Then my thoughts were washed away, like words written on sand, by the sudden intensity of him being inside me. He was gentle at first, but then thrust harder and deeper and more wildly. He panted like a wild animal, hoarse and loud. I thought he was about to come but he didn’t. I asked him to slow down, but he growled and kept right on going. He bit my shoulders, just hard enough to hurt.
I managed to raise myself up on my arms. He put his claws on my shoulders and began biting at the hair on the back of my head, tugging at clumps of it with his mouth.
Just then, the full moon vanished behind a thick cloud, and the world outside turned black. With no light behind it, the floor-to-ceiling window suddenly really did turn into a mirror. What is showed was unbelievable.
An actual bear—an honest-to-god grizzly with shaggy brown fur and a large black snout and fuzzy ears shaped like mittens—was on top of me in the bed of a five-star London hotel, fucking my brains out.
The creature’s ivory fangs gleamed as it chewed on my hair, and I had a flashback to the museum image of Hercules wearing a lion on his back. Identifying with the mythical hero gave me sudden and unexpected strength. I felt that I was equal to any challenge, even the challenge of being fucked by a bear.
With an effort that quickly became natural, I relaxed my ass on the bear’s inward strokes and clamped down on the outward ones. The bear roared in surprise and kept pumping. I matched him stroke for stroke, rocking back and forth on my hands and knees and snarling in counterpoint to the beast’s panting.
I was filled with power. I had an erection like a steel bar, my muscles were condensed fire, my skin tingled, my nipples were dipped in ice, and every hair on my body stood on end. Never had I felt so alive.
Suddenly the bear threw back its head and came with a mighty howl. “Aooooo!”
I came, too, long and explosively, gushing gouts of sperm onto the expensive sheets.
Then I passed out.
When I awoke the next morning, I lay still for a while in the sunlight that streamed through the window, recalling a night of intense erotic dreams. Then I tried to get up and discovered that I was stuck to the sheets by a thick layer of crusty semen and sticky honey.
I slowly and somewhat painfully tore myself off of the bed, losing a few chest, leg, and pubic hairs in the process. I noticed that there was a lot more hair on the bed than I could account for from myself.
Could what I remembered really have happened?
I heard the shower running, and tiptoed naked to the bathroom. I fully expected to find a bear inside, but hoped it would be the two-legged bear I had picked up at the Brick and Bell, and not the four-legged bear I remembered from later.
The guy I found in my shower did have two legs, but instead of being a towering muscleman, he was a bit shorter than me and of medium build. He was facing away from me with soap running down his somewhat hairy back as I stepped into the bathroom. He was totally bald.
