Bears, page 8
Justin grabbed a can of beer, popped the top, noticed three dirty glasses in the sink, and began sipping straight from the can. Suddenly he was overcome with thirst, and downed the brew, taking a second can to the kitchen table, where he sat down on a chair that was neither too hard nor too soft, but quite comfortable, yes, just about right.
The table was piled with dirty dishes, discarded clothing, several pieces of what Justin assumed could have been a motor, and stacks of heavily thumbed-through magazines, all of it stuck together, since someone had carelessly left the top off a large bear-shaped bottle of honey that had tipped over in the middle of it. Justin could tell at a glance the magazines were gay porn rags, although not of the variety he’d usually browsed on the boulevard. He recognized the more familiar titles, of course, things like Drummer and Mandate and Honcho, some of them dating back years.
“Ugh,” said Justin, as he began to page through one such publication, at the vicious-looking, very unrefined fags he found frolicking there. There was one magazine filled with pictures of boys trussed up like hams in a Spanish deli and another full of corpulent naked Daddies in motorcycle hats. “Very not me,” said Justin, though there was one tall, dark, and handsome number who did start off a little tremor between his knees, so he snuck just an extra little glance before he yawned, and stretched, and stood to get another beer.
It was getting late now. And dark. He had no idea where he was. The storm still raged, and while it was nice and toasty in this cabin, he was alone, and more than a little nervous. He looked around the room and decided that the door to the right of the fireplace led to a bedroom or two, which it did, and into the one large bedroom he stepped. There was a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, a cot under one window, and an open-weave hammock strung between a ceiling beam and one wall. None were tidy, but Justin was getting less picky.
He walked over to the big bed in the middle of the room and decided it was just right without even bothering with the other possible sleeping arrangements. He lifted an edge of the cover, just to make sure there were no identifiable creatures lurking there, then spread out his towel and relaxed into the bed. He could barely keep his eyelids from closing.
He sighed and felt the blood rise in his groin. It must have been the porn mags, he thought, as he started to stroke himself, feeling just fine all over. He could hear his hair on the pillow as he moved his head gently back and forth, from side to side, sighing deeper and deeper, letting the feeling move up and down the tightening muscles of his body, rubbing one hand over his hard chest as he pulled and pumped faster on his neatly cut dick. He was actually making more noise than he was used to, and was having a hard time shutting the image out of his mind of that tall, dark, leather-clad hunk in Drummer as his balls tightened and pulled up into him. Justin let out a deep, and quite surprising groan, as a bigger load than usual spit up onto his rippled abdomen, one stray drop making it as high as his left nipple.
I need a towel, is the last thing Justin remembered thinking. And then he must have fallen asleep. And the sleep was deep.
Justin woke with a start, suddenly aware there were other people in the room. The room was pitch-black, but there was a light shining right in his eyes.
“See,” said a voice he thought he remembered as Teddy’s, “I told you so.”
“He’the thertainly very thweet,” a second voice lisped from the vicinity of the light.
Justin felt panic rising like the blood to his ears. He was, after all, naked—and he felt like a patient on a table.
“What gorgeouth hair,” said the new voice, as Teddy put his face nearer the light, so Justin could see him.
“Teddy,” Justin said, “what’s going on?”
“This is Ursula,” said Teddy as Justin’s eyes began to adjust. He could see another form gradually make sense out of his fog: a rather large man wearing one of those construction-worker hats with a light built into it.
“Urthula Miner,” said this new voice, moving nearer and turning his headlight down a notch. “Get it?”
“I don’t think so,” said Justin.
“More like Ursula Undressed,” said Teddy, and, indeed, Justin now realized, his eyes having grown accustomed to the high contrast of light and shadow, that Ursula and Teddy were both stark naked. There was Teddy, his brown body apparently completely shaven, his hard pointy dick aiming at Justin’s face above a pendulous pair of heavy-duty balls.
Teddy was a man out of a biker contingent from some Pride Parade Justin remembered vaguely from what seemed now many years ago, although it was, in truth, only in June.
Ursula, as he called himself, was close to six feet tall, and at least three hundred pounds of pale porcine flesh covered both by a fuzz of tightly curled reddish hair and a tapestry of tattoos that rose from his knees and traveled up his legs, covering his torso and spilling up his neck and down his shoulders and arms. Despite his clearly unmilitary physique, he was wearing his hair in a tight crew cut of the kind only U.S. Marines, homosexuals, and German racists now wore. The studded collar around his neck was clearly not government issue.
Through each of his nipples he had inch-long steel bars, from which tiny chains hung. His navel was lost somewhere in his girth, below which dangled one of the thickest slabs of uncut meat Justin had ever seen. It may not have been that long, but it was ten inches around if it was there at all, and soft as a baby’s arm—or leg. The head, the size of an apple, was poking just far enough out of its wrapper that Justin could see that it, too, was pierced, though not tattooed. If Ursula had any balls, Justin couldn’t see them from where he lay, propped up now on his elbows.
“Well, well, well,” said Ursula, “I think little Goldie hath been a naughty boy. Have you been doing nathty thingth, little boy?” Ursula growled.
“What do you mean?” choked Justin and looked down the length of his own body, where Ursula had now focused his lamp, surprised to see that his own dick was as hard and angry as it ever got—quite crimson at the tip, in fact.
“And what do you suppothe thith ith?” asked Ursula, “thpun thugar?” And he put one stubby finger down onto the dried cum on Justin’s belly, and then put it into his mouth. “Hmmmm…yummy,” said Ursula, so ominously, but so intriguingly, in fact with almost humorous good will, that Justin didn’t notice Teddy bending over him until the smaller man’s tongue hit his left nipple.
“Yow!” said Justin involuntarily (but not, you may notice, “Stop”).
“It’s not sugar,” said Teddy, speaking with his mouth rudely full. “It’s more salty than sweet.”
“I’ll bet I know where I can find thome thugar,” said Ursula, and lifted Justin’s knees high enough that his ass came off the mattress, revealing a perfect little pucker ringed by hair as fine as a kitten’s eyelashes, and glowing golden in the light of Ursula’s admiration.
Justin was wondering why it was he had not bothered to protest, when an overhead light was switched on. Teddy and Ursula bounded back from the bed as if it were on fire.
“Oh, hi, Orson,” said Teddy. “This is my new friend, uh, Justin.”
Orson towered over them all. He was, Justin guessed, about six foot six. He seemed to be one swollen muscle from the ground to his black hair, which was dripping rain onto his shoulders. He held a wet shirt in one hand, as the others admired him in the now adequate light. He was wearing leather pants and boots, and nothing more. No rings through anything. No tattoos. His extraordinary body was lightly dusted by dark hair, his skin was as dark as a Mediterranean fisherman’s.
The crinkle around his intense blue eyes and the touch of gray beginning to show in his moustache gave Orson’s age away as “neighborhood of forty.” Justin was mesmerized, as Orson began walking toward the bed, his eyes drilling Justin’s eyes, the muscles of his huge jaw working silently, his thick eyebrows demanding answers Justin didn’t have. Justin looked to the left, and saw Teddy’s hard pointy dick and shaved balls, and to the right, where he saw Ursula’s flaccid hose dangling from a thicket of red hair.
Straight ahead of him loomed Orson, who threw his wet shirt aside and pushed his hips forward, displaying a huge bulge trapped in his leather pants. Teddy and Ursula kept backing off as Orson approached, and, when he was in reach, he grabbed Justin’s ankles, pulled him forward until his ass was at the edge of the mattress, then put his hands under Justin’s armpits—sending shock waves of sensation down to Justin’s now-curled toes—and sat him upright.
Justin’s lips were even with Orson’s belt buckle. His eyes looked up, asking, What do you want me to do?
Orson looked down, his eyes saying, You already know.
Justin kept his eyes glued to Orson’s face, though they didn’t miss the man’s pectoral muscles, a pair of mountains topped by hard dark forestry towers. He reached up and opened Orson’s buckle. Then he opened the button at the waist of his pants. Then he pulled down the zipper until a brush of black hair appeared. Orson’s tool stiffened inside one thigh of his leather pants.
Justin leaned in with his lips to kiss it, but Orson snapped his fingers vigorously, and Teddy and Ursula ran to his side. Orson put one hand on Teddy’s shoulder and one on Ursula’s and lifted his left foot, putting his boot down between Justin’s legs, the toe of it brushing the underside of Justin’s balls, causing a small earthquake of tingling.
Justin intuitively reached for the boot and pulled it off. Then he took off the sock. Orson’s foot was chiseled, sculptural, the toes long and beautiful. Orson shifted his weight, bringing the bare foot down to the rug and putting the booted right one onto Justin’s left thigh, never letting his gaze off Justin’s widening eyes. Justin reached for the boot and took it off, and the second sock, then grabbed Orson’s foot and put it into his mouth, tentatively at first, but more greedily, until he was sucking, and Orson, despite the appearance of control, was breathing deeper and deeper.
Finally, Orson pulled his foot away. Teddy and Ursula stepped back. Justin stood in front of the towering Orson and put his hand on Orson’s hips, spreading the leather open as he pulled the pants down until Orson’s huge hard dick and perfect balls came loose from the tanned hide that bound them. Orson’s dick bounced up to his stomach, the uncut head hitting well above the tough little knot of his navel.
It was neither sharp and pointy, like Teddy’s, nor soft and bulbous, like Ursula’s. It was just exactly, edibly, appetizingly, overwhelmingly, desirably right.
A breath of air escaped from Justin’s mouth, as he sank down onto his knees, letting Orson slip his feet out of his pants. He could smell the sweet acrid smell of Orson’s dick, already slick at its single wide eye as Justin moved his mouth toward it, touching the underside of it with his tongue, then taking the glans into his mouth.
Orson raked his fingers through Justin’s long blond hair and pushed his cock gradually farther and farther in. Justin felt his mouth fill and overfill as Orson grew and hardened even more, pushing against his opening throat and past it. Justin slid his hands up and down Orson’s thighs, which bulged so with muscle they felt like a horse’s flanks.
Teddy and Ursula moved closer. Ursula began lapping at one of Orson’s nipples. Teddy knelt next to Justin, and Orson pulled his dick out of Justin’s mouth, running it up and down against Teddy’s mouth, and between his lips and Justin’s, so that Justin couldn’t tell when he was sucking Orson’s dick or kissing Teddy or both, but he could feel his own cock harden and poke him nearly in the nipple.
“Get up,” Orson commanded, and Justin did, moving back toward the bed. He fell onto it, exposing his asshole with as welcoming a gesture as he could muster.
“No,” Justin said, as Teddy made a beeline for it with his tongue, but Orson gave him such a look that the golden boy let Teddy set to rimming him like he hadn’t been rimmed in his lifetime. Teddy worked the hole with his tongue, pausing only long enough to take Justin’s balls into this mouth. Orson watched the scene, while Ursula licked his balls and Orson kept smacking him in the face with his bloated tool.
On the bed, Justin was now groaning out loud with pleasure, something that had never happened before. And that’s when he heard Orson snap his fingers again. Teddy and Ursula stopped their sucking as Orson walked toward Justin’s open, spit-dripping asshole. Justin just lay there, his stomach rising and falling, every nerve ending tied to the one open place he had to offer, waiting for Orson to take the plunge.
But Orson just kept staring.
“Fuck me,” Justin said.
Orson stared.
“Please…fuck me?” Was he being impolite?
“I want you to fuck me,” said Justin, more urgently, his mouth seeming to dry even though it had never flowed so with saliva.
“I need it, please,” he groaned between clenched teeth. “I need you to fuck me. Please…sir?”
And Orson, believing him, was moved. In fact, he moved closer, his dick aimed at the bull’s-eye between Justin’s spread cheeks. Then he put his hand in Ursula’s mouth until it was as slippery as a pomegranate and then he stuck three fingers up Justin’s ass until he could feel the throb of the thick vein across the prostate, and Justin thought he’d black out with pleasure.
Orson withdrew his fingers, wiping them on Ursula’s tits, then lifted Justin’s legs, and Teddy rushed over to spit on Orson’s cock and give Justin one more lick.
With the momentous precision of a ritual, Orson began to push his way slowly into Justin: first the head in, then out. Then the head a bit farther and out, then farther and farther in with each thrust, until Justin felt that dick against his solar plexus and wanted to take more of it, to pull himself onto it farther, until there was no difference between inside and outside, between being full and being the filler.
Orson reached down and took Justin’s nipples between the vise grip of his fingers and began to squeeze until the flesh reddened, and charges of pain hit Justin’s mind like one more piece of information that put him over the top, and tears were running down Justin’s face and he kept saying “Yes, yes, yes,” over and over again. Then Ursula appeared out of nowhere, shook up a can of Dos Equis and sprayed the beer over them all with a self-satisfied yelp. Teddy and Ursula started lapping the beer off Justin’s body while Orson pumped.
Suddenly Teddy’s asshole was in front of Justin’s mouth and he felt the stubble of Teddy’s shaved ass against his face, and Justin plunged his tongue into Teddy’s dark asshole and felt the weight of Ursula arrange itself over his hips and push onto his dick so he thought he’d split from the downward pressure of Ursula’s asshole against the thrusting, thrusting, thrusting of Orson’s cock, cock, cock.
When Teddy turned around, Justin grabbed him by the ass and took his hard pointy dick into his mouth. And Teddy fucked his head while Orson fucked his ass, and Ursula rode Justin’s dick using one hand to jerk off his own rotund pierced tube and the other to crawl half an arm into Teddy.
And that’s when the loudest thunderclap any of them had ever heard cracked through the woods and the brightest shaft of lightning any of them had ever seen ripped through the night, and all the lights went out and they started to shoot. First Ursula, then Teddy, sending spasm after spasm of hot sweet juice down Justin’s throat.
“Ooof,” grunted Ursula.
“Off,” barked Orson, as the two scrambled for safety, and he raked his fingers up and down Justin’s body from his shoulders to his groin, digging his fingernails into the flesh, until Justin screamed, and his balls pulled up tight.
“I’m going to come,” Justin managed to say, and Orson pulled out of him and sent juice flying, and Justin let loose, too, and the sperm flew in the air and landed on Justin’s body, slick with sweat and beer and semen, and his own jizz flew into his hair while Orson was still coming onto his neck and face and onto the wall behind him, and all of them were groaning so loud they could barely hear the wind.
“God,” someone said, but no one could tell who.
“Well,” said Bryant Gumbo over her cellular to Ms. Harlotta Thing, who was taking the cure in Palm Springs, “I have finally heard from the Princess of Pico Boulevard!”
“Miss Goldenlox?” screamed Carlotta (with a long O) and adjusted her ice-packed eye mask. “Where has she got her narrow behind?”
“Can you believe it? She is staying in a place called Guerneville.”
“Gurney-ville? Sounds antiseptic.”
“It’s up near where we went for vacation, on the Russian River.”
“Black or White?”
“Will you listen?”
“I’m all ears, Anita Bryant, so cut the juice commercial.”
“He sent me a postcard of a grizzly bear wandering down the main street of some pioneer burg called Guerneville, and all it said on the back was: ‘I’m staying on to do a little exploring. How do you think I’d look with a large tattoo?’”
“Well, ain’t that just the fairy’s tail?” said Harlotta.
“And I’m sure that’s exactly where she’ll have it,” said Harlotta’s new Very Best Girlfriend in the Whole World, now that the far cuter Justin was out of the picture.
And they never heard from Justin again.
Which was just exactly right.
LIONS AND TIGERS AND BEARS, OH YEAH!
Rob Rosen
Cleaning up lion and tiger shit isn’t as bad as it sounds. Well, okay, maybe it is as bad as it sounds. There are some distinct advantages to the job, however. First off, the large cats don’t throw their shit at you like monkeys do. Second, lion and tiger shit is smaller than, say, elephant shit. And last, and most importantly…drumroll please…their pens are adjacent to the bear pen.
