Bears, page 4
You gobble like a dog, your beard and nose glazing with syrup. Ron chuckles, nudging your butt with his boot. The snow continues to fall. You can check another fantasy off.
Will’s half your age, but he’s one of the best Tops you’ve ever known. Lean, smooth-chested—not your type at all—but the guy’s supersmart, hugely hung, and he thinks a Daddy Bear with a furry man-rack, bourbon-and-biscuit belly, and graying goatee is the hottest kind of captive. What man approaching fifty can resist such blandishments, such ego-food? No one seeing the two of you knocking back pints together in local dives would imagine that, one, you both are queer; two, guys with such an age difference are fucking; and, three, the big butch bear, not the slender boy, is the bottom.
But here you are, sitting and sweating in the dark, bucked and gagged in Will’s closet on a beautiful spring afternoon. He’s told you you’ll be enduring at least an hour in here, and you’ve meekly acquiesced. You’re wearing camo pants, a camo hat, and black army boots: the guy not only has Daddy and bondage fetishes, he’s into military gear too. You’re bare-chested; a chain-and-padlock slave collar and dog tags hang around your neck, marking you as his property. The dowel tied over your elbows and under your knees cuts into your flesh, your ass aches against the hard wooden floor. You fight your bonds, you groan, you shout for help, you beg him to let you loose. But Will’s cruel—one of the things you like about him—so all your muffled complaints will do no good. He’s out there in the light, drinking bourbon and playing guitar. He’ll get to you when he feels like it.
At last the music stops, the closet door’s unlocked. You look up at him, your face furrowed with discomfort, eyes squinting in the sudden light. Old Civil War torture: this is a hard position to take for long, especially if you’re more muscular than limber, especially if you’ve got a gut. Will stands over you smiling. He wipes the sweat off your brow, then squats down and begins to flick your nipples till they stiffen.
“Hands all right? Not numb?”
Shake your head, manage a muffled, “Fine, Sir.”
“Happy?”
Grin into your gag, vigorously nod, grunt, “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.” He knows how much you love this.
“Poor private. Bet you’re hungry.”
Suddenly the bandana’s unknotted, pulled from your mouth.
“Look here, big man. Your favorite.”
Krispy Kreme. The little bastard has fetched you Krispy Kreme doughnuts. You shake your head, grinning with disbelief. Strange places our lusts lead us. Will pulls off sugary chunks and feeds you tenderly. “Thank you, Sir,” you whisper in between mouthfuls. Doughnuts will only plump you up further, but, bless him, your Sarge loves a furry belly.
“Here’s something to wash it down,” he says, lifting a glass to your lips. Bourbon. You suck down several healthy swigs. He knows how much you like to be buzzed during your captivity.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” you sheepishly mutter. “Bondage, bourbon, and doughnuts? I think I’m in heaven!” In answer, Will dips the bandana in the whiskey, gets it sodden, then stuffs it back in your mouth and knots it behind your head. When you bite down on the cloth, bourbon oozes into your beard and, dripping off your chin, moistens your belly and chest.
“Tastes good, huh? That’ll keep you quiet while you’re enjoying these.” When Will pulls alligator clamps from his pocket, your eyes widen, you shake your head and start whimpering helplessly. He eases the metal teeth onto each nipple, tightens their bite till you gasp, tugs on the chain between the clamps till the tender flesh throbs and you’re begging him to stop. Will would love to see tears roll down your cheeks, but he knows you’re too tough for today’s torture to break. He’ll have to settle for your wild eyes, your futile moans. Some other day, perhaps, he’ll have you sobbing.
Right now he’s had enough of your pained pleas. He presses one hand hard over your mouth. “Shut the fuck up,” he says.
Your eyes meet. “Take it and shut the fuck up.” Nod, grit your teeth, fall silent. He smiles, tightening the clamps yet another turn, and keeps tugging and twisting till your eyes roll back in your head. One of these days he’s going to bring blood.
“You got another half hour,” he says, dropping the chain to dangle between your agony-swollen nipples. He straightens your camo cap, pats your head, then shuts and locks the door, leaving you alone to rock and struggle, to chew your whiskey-sodden rag, to suffer and sweat, drunk and grateful in the dark.
Damnation, Zack’s handsome. That black beard, that burly body, that stunning smile. At last month’s conference you were entirely mesmerized, finding it hard to speak to a man so smart, talented, and hot. You may be shy in person, yes, but you’re bold as hell online. Now, after several weeks of back-and-forth Bear 411 flirtation, Zack’s breaking up a long drive north by spending tonight with you and John.
You both know how to seduce a bear. Tonight start with chipotle salsa, guacamole and chips, then chiles rellenos and chicken enchiladas. Finally, serve homemade peach ice cream. John, knowing how infatuated you are, heads upstairs with his dessert, giving Zack and you some time alone. Your ice cream grows a little soupy as you and Zack begin to neck on the couch, as you pull his shirt off, then shrug off your own.
“Holy fuck,” you sigh, recognizing the old reverence, pulling back from a beard-to-beard kiss to take the thick flesh of his fur-dusted pecs and belly in your hands. “I have got to tie you up.”
“Fine,” says Zack casually, smiling that amazing smile. “I need tied bad. Why don’t you just feed me my dessert?”
“Hell, yes!” you growl, pulling rope from your baggy shorts pocket. In about thirty seconds, you’ve very tightly and expertly knotted Zack’s hands behind his back, then helped him step out of his jeans and briefs. He is, of course, even more beautiful naked and bound. A few dripping spoonfuls end up in his mouth. Some of the creamy melt you pass from tongue to tongue as if it were semen. Some ends up in his beard, in yours; in his chest hair, in yours; on his belly, on yours. Two bears laughing and lapping, getting hard. This is easy, this is joyful. You haven’t had a man this remarkable in a long time.
Now the ice cream’s done. Time to tie a bandana between Zack’s teeth. Time to lead him upstairs by his cock, push him belly-down on the bed. Time to eat his hairy ass for nigh onto an hour, cherish how he bucks and moans. John will join you soon, to suck Zack’s cock, tug his balls, kiss his gagged mouth.
Sticky sheets, body hair, and beards matted with peach-cream and come: here are sacraments worth celebrating.
The sausage gravy is just about ready when John trundles sleepily into the kitchen. The scents of cooking have roused him.
“Biscuits and gravy? Great!” he mumbles, never too talkative before coffee.
Things are a little staid after a decade together. The two of you used to cover one another with olive oil and wrestle naked on a plastic sheet. He used to tie you to the bed and make you lick Sambuca off his cock. You need more of that. You need barbeque sauce nuzzled off thighs, cream of coconut lapped patiently from hairy buttcracks, brandy sucked out of fuzzy navels, Key lime pie nibbled off torsos. You need to keep a little plastic honey-bear in the bedroom. Wealth and fame you do not have, but, thank the gods of lust and harvest, imagination your hungers have never lacked. You watch your husbear—the man who loves you, tries to controls you, maddens you, protects you, pisses you off—as he snarfs up his breakfast. You thank the gods of fire, cocksucking, ass-fucking, knot-tying, and the cooking cauldron for the power to satisfy appetites. You and he have years together yet, so many men and meals yet to share.
“Woof, this is delicious,” he says, taking another big bite of biscuits and gravy. You fork up a rich mouthful, chew slowly, and smile. Good god, he’s right.
CIRCULATION CUB
Shane Allison
Thought I would get away with it. Didn’t think they would give a damn about a few gay lit rags. Had to have them. Didn’t give two shits about the library’s loss. They were the good issues before the mags started publishing the soft, safe shit, when there was meat on the words. Took the best issues, the ones with all of my favorite poets in the pages. Nobody around, no cameras watching my moves as far as I knew. Sneaked off to the fifth floor shitter where horned-up college boys went to get their dicks sucked. Hot summer July afternoon. University was in the middle of the summer session. Most students were still on vacation, sunbathing on South Beach and shit.
Stalls were empty when they were usually stuffed with cruisers.
Took the issues of choice, stuffed them down the back of my pants. Walked funny as I descended down the stairs. Scared shit-less that someone would notice, blow the whistle on my ass.
Made it to the first floor, the only way in, the only way out. Exit was armed with alarms. Held the periodicals in my pants. The thing I was afraid of had happened. Alarm stopped me in my tracks. Thought of stowing the magazines away in my backpack, but knew it would be the first thing they would check. Guy I had a colossal crush on was working. Called him the circulation cub with his thick beard, beer belly tight under his shirt. Tufts of sweaty brown hair slumped across his brow. Wanted to press my lips against his.
Saw him walk over. Knew I had just stepped into a quicksand of shit.
“Do you have anything on you or in your bag that could be setting off the alarm?” Watched the cub’s lips move, surrounded by thick, coarse facial fur.
“No, I ’on’ think so,” I said.
“Can you empty your book bag for me?” What he wanted felt like an electrical carving knife through my heart. Thought of campus security; men armed with guns, nightsticks, mace to spray in my face if I resisted arrest. Sat my pack on the desk.
“Can you empty it out for me,” he said.
Took out all the contents. Notebooks, floppy disk covers, Spider-Man folder filled with drafts of poems.
“Okay, walk through again for me.”
Alarm sounded.
“Check your pockets,” he said.
Spooned out a handful of change, my car keys.
“Walk through for me again,” he said, looking at me with those suspicious cinnamon-brown eyes.
Fucking alarm.
“Stay right here,” he told me.
Thought of running to the bathroom, dumping them in the trash, but that only would have made it worse.
“Come with me,” said the heavyset hunk.
He led the way past a den of reserved books. Walked steady, tried to keep the mags from sliding down my pants. Felt all those collegiate eyes on me, burning holes of shame clean through. Led me to an office that was out of the way.
“Have a seat,” he said. Sat with the mags bulky in my britches.
“You want to tell me what’s in your pants?”
“Nothin’,” I said. A dirty lie.
“Look, if you tell me what you have, I won’t call the cops, but if you keep lying…”
“I to’jhoo. ’On’ have nothin’.”
“Stand up,” he demanded.
Did what was asked. “Man, ’on’ have nothin’ I swear.”
Magazines pressed against my spine. He looked me over. Could feel him behind me, eyes on my ass. Felt him pulling out what I had attempted to get away with.
“Sit down,” he said. Flipped through one of the magazines with chubby cub fingers. My heart was beating wild. Rubbed my palms against army-green knees. Tried to think of something to say, something to explain my thievery.
“Why did you try and take these?” he asked.
“I ain’ think anyone would miss ’em,” I said. As I sat there being questioned, realized that I forgot to remove the barcodes. It was too late. Had to state my case to that big-bellied beauty.
Scolded me like he was my daddy. I wanted out of there.
“You go’n call th’ cops?” I asked.
“Let me see some ID.” He started writing down my information.
“I’ll pay fuh any damages I made,” I said, forking out my wallet, mouth dry as a desert bone, hands wet as a flooded gully.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “We close at two tonight and I’ll be the only one here, and I need someone to help me shelve. If you help me out, I’ll just forget the whole thing.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And don’t even think about not showing up.”
Grabbed my backpack, made my way from behind circulation, hauled ass through the automated doors. Hands started to dry.
I arrived five minutes late. He was sorting books. Knocked on the glass. He opened up.
“Glad you could make it.”
“I’ain’ like I had a choice.”
Couldn’t afford to have another stain on my record next to prior offenses of petty theft, indecent exposure.
“You can start by checking the floors for any stragglers. Check the bathrooms too, and the study rooms.” He threw orders around like he owned me. I started on the second floor. It was still, quiet. Not like it usually was with the mumblings of students, cell phones ringing. Was back on the floor where I’d grabbed the magazines. They hadn’t been reshelved. Damaged goods. Peeked in the bathrooms on each floor. All was clear. Made my way back down to the first floor. He was bent over the circulation desk reaching for who the hell knows what? Nice ass. Worth sinking my dick in. Such a tease.
“Di ’jhoo drop something?” I walked around the desk to retrieve whatever he was trying to reach.
“Hand me that.”
Was a copy of Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying bound in an ugly green book jacket. Circulation cub stood up, face red after pressing his belly into the desk, stacked the book with others on a rolling cart. Took the elevator to the fifth floor. Pushed the cart off into a corner next to a water fountain.
“Grab as much as you can carry and follow me.”
Watched his ass as he walked between shelved literature.
“How long you been workin’ here?”
“Nine months.”
“I’s so quiet up here. You neva get sked?”
“I’m used to it.”
“You like it?”
“It’s a job. I only live two blocks away from campus.”
Told him I had been trying to get a job at the library. Applied four times.
“Do you have a record?”
Was surprised he knew about my arrests. “What did you do, a background check?”
“I remember coming across your name on a couple applications. We were interested in you until it came back that you’d been arrested.”
Took five to ten stacks of books at a time. Noticed a tiny, red spot on his shirt.
“Your ches’ bleedin’,” I said.
He looked down. Lifted his shirt over his hairy belly, right nipple was pierced and bleeding.
“Not again,” he said. “Fucking second time today.”
“Here.” Pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. Pressed the cloth gently against his nip. Stretch marks across his love handles of tanned flesh.
“You should go t’ th’ bathroom an’ splash some col’ wata on it,” I said.
Followed him to the infamous toilet. Turned on the faucet, ran the hanky under the tongue of cold water. We stood close, my fingers grazed delicately across his pink, pert nipple. Wanted to press him against the sink, kiss pink nips, pink lips hard, hot.
“The bleeding stopped,” he said.
Ran a finger along the other piercing, other nipple. He didn’t fuss. Licked it, sucked it. Soft black hairs on my tongue. His hand pressed behind my head. Kissed his belly. Got to his belt, undid the strap of leather, copper clasp. Hooked fingers in boxers, pulled them down around his ass. Hard dick, purple head engorged, beautiful. Licked the shaft, took him into my mouth. Low-hanging balls.
“Can I eatcha ass?” I asked.
He turned, bent over the sink. Big bubble bear butt. Finger traced along his furry trench. Pried cheeks apart. Blew on pink, puckered hole. Ate him out. Bitter, ripe. Slid a finger in to loosen him up. Pressed some liquid soap onto my hand. Slathered my dick with the stuff. Cock tip pointed. Held on to his shoulders.
“I’m tight,” he told me.
He was right. Oh, the effort it took, but I got my dick in. Ass was warm. Mmm! Reached around. Tugged at his dick. Precum sticky fingers. Pinched fat, hairy back. Sweet hot cub. Spat spit into my soapy palm. Applied it to his dick. All the noise he made. All the moaning. Put my hand over his mouth. Hush boy. Good ass. My dick in and out. Raw. Skin to skin. I love fucking men’s butts. Felt myself close. Pulled out slowly. Easy. Shit on my prick, but I didn’t give a fuck. Jacked it. Jerked off squirt of cum on his back. Thick white spooge. Hadn’t gotten off in days. Turned him over to get him off. Back up against the porcelain sink. Put him in my mouth. So much dick. More than I knew what to do with. He held my head down hard on it. Spit in his crotch fur. He came. Never did warn me. Took it all. Spat it out on the floor. Sticky jism fingers. Took some paper towels and wiped his back, the shit from my dick.
“You didn’t come in me, did you?” he asked as we got dressed.
“No, jus’ on yuh back.”
We finished stacking books. “I think that’s it for tonight,” he said.
“Good. I’s so fuckin’ hot up here.” Pressed the button on the elevator.
“You did a good job. How would you like to get paid doing it?” he asked. “We have a part-time position open.”
“What about my arres’ record?”
“I’ll talk to my boss about you and put in a good word.”
“Thank you, yeah, I’ll take it.”
“You can start Monday.”
“What’s your name?”
“Robert.” His handshake, delicate.
Laughed, thinking that it was fate for me to lift those magazines and get busted for it. Who knew it would lead to a job. And the chance to fuck Robert.
WHITE MEAT
Daniel W. Kelly
Here it was, Emile’s birthday, and he was—as usual—spending it alone with his best friend, Morgan.
