From the way the guys squirmed, you could bet they had never expected a bear exorcism to be like this. I stood and began with Jack, to my left. I slowly undid the buttons that marched down his chest and over the mound of his belly, then felt my way back up through the black forest of fur that covered him. When I reached his nipples I planted my mouth on his mouth, kissing and pinching until his gamma energy was fully tuned in.
I made my way around the table. By the time I got to Dwayne, the gamma energy must have been filling the room. As I unbuttoned his shirt and started playing with his nipples, he kept whispering that he’d been such a bad bear. It doubled my pleasure to shut him up by kissing him.
That was enough to provoke Michael. He appeared, standing right behind Dwayne so I wouldn’t miss him.
“David, I thought you’d given up this Neanderthal phase you’ve been going through. I don’t know how you can kiss a man with a beard. It chaps the lips.”
I stopped kissing Dwayne to say, “Fuck you!” to Michael. Predictably, Dwayne begged me to fuck him.
I looked to Onslo for our next step. He raised a bushy white eyebrow and said, “Everyone, please stand.” They all stood.
Onslo said, “Quickly now, remove all your clothing.” We all stripped. Michael’s face registered his distaste.
“David, these butts have never seen an exercise machine. And all that hair! It’s very unattractive.”
I didn’t even raise my voice. “Michael, I find it exceedingly attractive. These men are beautiful. It makes me unbearably happy to lick their hairy bodies and bury my face in their hairy asses.” Michael shuddered. Dwayne’s response you can guess.
Onslo said, “Grasp the dick of the man to your right and stroke.” We grasped and stroked. Michael gasped and nearly had a stroke.
“David, this is disgusting. You can’t possibly be enjoying this!”
“Michael, look around. We’re enjoying ourselves very much. I like Dwayne’s dick. I like to stroke it.”
Dwayne: “Uh-huh, stroke it.”
“And I like his big, hairy belly. I like to stroke that too.”
Dwayne: “Stroke it hard!”
Michael was nearly at peak disapproval now. “I gave you the best years of my life, trying to improve your life, and this is the thanks I get. Even with the rest of eternity it may be a hopeless task. And stop doing that to his dick. It’s nauseating.”
“And Michael, I like his big, hairy ass, and I want to fuck it, too!”
Dwayne: “Oh yeah, fuck me. Fuck me now!”
I threw Dwayne onto his back on the table. “I will, Dwayne. I will fuck you now like you’ve never been fucked!” I stood, my dick poised at Dwayne’s asshole.
Dwayne shouted, “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Michael shouted, “Don’t do it, David!”
Onslo shouted, “Everyone, fuck now!”
And fuck we did. Bears on the table, bears on the floor, bears fucking everywhere. My dick, for the first time since Michael’s return, was rock hard and aching. I plunged it into Dwayne’s willing asshole and fucked him as if my life depended on it, which it did.
Michael covered his face with his hands, and started shaking and groaning. I fucked Dwayne harder. Michael started to lose his shape, as if he was melting. I fucked Dwayne harder and deeper. Michael looked at me with terror in his eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream. I fucked Dwayne harder and deeper and faster.
The end was near. Suddenly I was at the edge of coming. Dwayne yelled something like “I’m ready! Shoot now!” And I did. I shot load after load after load. As I filled Dwayne’s big hairy ass with cum, a horrible, screeching sound escaped from Michael and he burst into flames. Bright, intense flames that consumed him in seconds. Then he was gone. It was a great exit. Very Michael. Too bad no one else could see it.
I collapsed on top of Dwayne. He stroked my back and mumbled something comforting about how good it was for him. It was quiet in the room, except for the heavy breathing. It was calm, too. And peaceful. I felt relaxed.
Onslo looked at me over the shoulders of the bear sitting in his lap. “Congratulations, David. Freedom is yours.”
I couldn’t believe it. “That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he said. “He’s gone and you’ve come.”
Freedom. For the first time in weeks—no, make that years—I felt happy. Deep down happy. Happy at last to be who I was, happy to be what I was, and free to love the men I loved. I had finally arrived.
The Strange Château of Dr. Kruge
Drew Gummerson
It is almost dark when we cycle up to the old hotel. Morgan chains our bikes together and we step through double doors that stand half open. It is colder within than without.
“Helloa!” shouts Morgan in a sunnily fake-Hawaiian voice. There is no answer and Morgan is about to shout again, making a cone of his hands around his mouth, when a cadaverous-looking woman appears from the shadows at the side of a loudly ticking grandfather clock. She takes a step toward us, and then recoils. Perhaps it is our smell or perhaps something else. I am not sure.
“We have a room booked,” says Morgan. “Name of Gonad. Mr. and Mrs. Gonad.”
The woman looks at us as if we are both equally guilty of Morgan’s poor joke and huffs over to a large reception desk. There is a book open there. She wipes dust from it with the outer edge of her sleeve and runs a finger down to the single entry.
“A double room?” she says, fixing us with a milky gaze. The words sound more like a threat than a question.
“Is there a problem?” says Morgan.
“I don’t want any trouble,” says the woman. She reaches behind her and pushes a large key across the desk. “This is a family hotel.”
“Then think of us as family,” says Morgan. And he takes the key.
The room has a large four-poster bed in it, a carpet worn almost through to the boards, and a window that looks out onto the night sky and a gibbous moon.
Morgan takes a shower first and then me. After, as is our ritual, we compare our underpants.
We have been doing this for ten years, ever since we were fourteen. The first year it was an act of rebellion, an abnegation of parental authority: No, Mum, I will not wear clean underpants. Now it is something else, more than that. For me at least.
“I think I’m the winner,” says Morgan. He traces a large yellow stain with the stubby end of his forefinger. “Look at the size of that.”
“I’m sure you’re cheating,” I say.
“In what way?”
“It has to be incidental staining,” I say. “That’s the rules. That stain looks like you’ve wee’d deliberately.”
“Sour grapes,” says Morgan. “Anyway, three days to go. I’m going to wear mine backward tomorrow.”
“Now that is cheating,” I say.
“All’s fair in love and war.” Suddenly Morgan strides over to the window and looks out. He has a towel hung low around his waist, a back the shape of a triangle on a point. “Do you think there’s any action here? I need a shag.”
I look down at Morgan’s underpants where he has left them on the bed. I’d read once of Japanese men buying used panties from teenage girls and placing them over their heads while they masturbated. Once, that had seemed disgusting. Things always do when they are not you.
“Well?” says Morgan.
“I doubt it,” I say and I cast my arms about. “We’re in the middle of nowhere here.”
Just then there is a knock at the door. It opens and a young woman enters.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Ma sent me up with these.” The woman holds up a pile of pillowcases. She looks at Morgan. “And if there is anything else I can do…?”
“There is one thing,” says Morgan and he juts out that chin of his like some 1940s movie star. “If you would be so kind as to help a young man out with a pressing problem under his towel.”
The woman lets out a peal of laughter. It sounds like live lemons being slaughtered by a fru
it shop owner. I know what that means. It is time for me to make myself scarce. Morgan has found his shag. He always does.
I find myself in a cavernous dining area and, being at a loss about what to do, I take a seat.
Like the rest of the hotel this room is cast in darkness and it is ten minutes before I notice another presence. It is a man. He is at a circular table set magnificently for eight and yet he sits alone.
As I am looking he catches my eye. He holds up his wine glass and nods slightly. My table being empty and therefore having nothing for me to hold up, I merely nod.
Suddenly there is a small explosion of noise to my left, like that of a vacuum emptying involuntarily. I twist my eyes from the man and see now that in the center of my table is a glass tube with a door in it. In the center of the tube is a bobbing Ping-Pong ball.
I look back at the man, there being no one else to blame for this phenomenon, and he smiles slightly and mimes for me to retrieve the ball from the glass tube. I do and, holding the ball up close to my eyes, I see some words scrawled haphazardly across it. “Come and join me,” they say. Under the words I can just make out a signature. “Dr. Kruge,” I think it reads.
I look at the ball and then the man. I have to make a decision.
I stand up from the table.
Dr. Kruge and I are pleasantly drunk, like two oysters left to soak in vermouth. We have eaten only cold toast with dripping but drunk glass after glass of fine champagne. Dr. Kruge has a small moustache that curls up at the end and he wears a cravat and a fine purple waistcoat made of worsted wool. He seems to be a man of the world.
I am at the point of telling him about Morgan and his underpants when he takes the lighted cigarette out of his mouth and says through a cloud of smoke, “I wonder if you might be able to help me. You see, I am building a collection of arses.”
For a second I believe that I have heard wrong. Dr. Kruge perhaps said, “a collection of vases,” and I imagine large, bulbous ones set peacefully around a manmade lake in the center of an ornamental garden.
“Male arses, for the most part,” says Dr. Kruge. “I take plaster of paris casts. It doesn’t involve any pain and would take an hour and a half max.”
I put my hands flat on the tabletop as if I am about to push myself up.
“Of course, I would pay handsomely,” says Dr. Kruge.
I hover, halfway off my seat.
“Two hundred and fifty pounds a pop. Look.” Dr. Kruge reaches into a pocket in his waistcoat and pulls out a gold-edged card. “If you are interested, call me at this number. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“We’ll see,” I say. I gather up the card and make my way out of the dining area.
The room is full of the smell of cum but there is no sign of the woman. Morgan’s bare torso sticks out from under the duvet and his breathing indicates that he is asleep. I put out the light, take off my clothes, and climb into bed next to him. After a number of hours in which I imagine what Morgan’s bum would look like in plaster of paris, I fall asleep, my erection jerking spasmodically in the anticipation of use that doesn’t come.
In the morning I am woken by a strong, bitter smell under my nose. I cough sharply and curse Morgan. This is one of his favorite tricks. He wets his forefinger with saliva, inserts it up his arse, wiggles it about, and then holds it in front of my nose.
“You’re awake, then,” says Morgan.
“Fuck off!” I say, only half angrily. I never know how Morgan expects me to take his games.
“I’m going for a dump,” says Morgan and gets out of bed and walks naked across the floor.
I stand outside the toilet door and shout through it about my meeting with Dr. Kruge.
“He SOUnds like a WEIrdo,” grunts back Morgan and then I mention the money. Money has always been a desirable beast for Morgan. When we were fourteen he used to let Mr. Richards, the one-eyed art teacher, suck his cock for five pounds inside the Romanesque gazebo on the perimeter of the school grounds. I sometimes wonder if I am the only person in Middle England who has not had sex with Morgan. This perhaps is an exaggeration but that is how I feel.
One time on the Starship Enterprise ride at Margate’s World of Adventure, Morgan sat between my legs five times in a row as we looped the loop at a terminal velocity. I thought my balls were going to explode and after we came off I had to masturbate surreptitiously in an oversized bucket of popcorn I had placed on my lap.
Sex, Morgan had said, would ruin our intimacy. I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but like everything else that Morgan said it sounded true.
“Two HUNdred and FIFty pounds!” explodes Morgan from the toilet. “Does he want me to wash it first?”
Dr. Kruge’s house is more of a château than a house. It stands on the top of a precipice like a playing card tossed languorously from a hustler’s hand.
I knock on the door and it is answered immediately by a teenager wearing nothing but a cock ring. The cock ring has caused his penis to enlarge dramatically.
“Dr. Kruge,” I say.
“I’m not,” says the teenager and appears to be on the point of closing the door.
“No, we are here to see him,” I say and then I see Dr. Kruge appearing at the end of a long corridor rather like a magician does at the beginning of a magic show.
“You’ve met Helmut,” says Dr. Kruge. “Large penis but no brain, I am afraid. It is often the way in the male of the species.” Dr. Kruge holds out his hand toward Morgan. “You must be Morgan,” he says.
“Two hundred and fifty pounds for my arse,” says Morgan.
“There may have been a slight misunderstanding,” says Dr. Kruge.
“What do you mean?” says Morgan.
Dr. Kruge’s left hand drifts nervously up to the right-hand side of his pointed moustache. He begins to twist the hairs around and around his index finger.
We have repaired to Dr. Kruge’s study. “Repaired” is Dr. Kruge’s word. Dr. Kruge is sitting on one side of a large mahogany table, Morgan and I on the other.
“I used to be a quite brilliant scientist in the Transvaal,” says Dr. Kruge, continuing a story that began somewhere halfway up the stairs. “I was funded by the highest echelons of governmental bodies to do research into the reproductive nature of the common bumblebee.” Dr. Kruge pauses and holds up his hand as if fearing interruption by either Morgan or me. “My studies were going well, spectacularly well I should say, when one day quite unexpectedly as a by-product of my research I discovered something quite remarkable.” Dr. Kruge stops here. He stands and places his hand on a large ebony phallus. He turns to us and I know he is going to say something incredible. “The instrument I had developed to look into the sex lives of bees could, I found with a little tweaking, be used to look into a human and see their deepest, darkest sexual fantasies.”
At this point Morgan makes a loud farting sound with his lips.
“My government, too, found the idea extraordinary,” says Dr. Kruge. “Until I proved myself to be correct beyond the most intrusive cross-examination.” Dr. Kruge raises his hands to the air like a conductor pointing out a firework display on a cloudy night in Johannesburg. “Imagine a country being run by a prime minister whose population knows he wants to clean a whore’s buttocks with his tongue after she has evacuated into a bucket. Of course, I was made to flee. And now I carry out my experiments on a smaller scale.”
“What exactly do these experiments involve?” says Morgan.
“You are a very hasty and presumptuous young man,” says Dr. Kruge. “One should never interrupt a scientist.”
“Just tell us,” says Morgan.
Dr. Kruge sighs like a knight chased from a field by a lusty dragon. He starts at the beginning and tells us the course of the experiment from start to finish.
“I’ll do it,” says Morgan, “but on two conditions.”
“Which are…?” says Dr. Kruge.
“That you pay up front in cash and that it is my friend who carries out the
procedure.”
“It’s a deal,” says Dr. Kruge.
Morgan and I are in a black-walled room lit brightly by a strip of spotlights. In the center of the room is an awkwardly designed chair with leather straps fastened to its four extremities.
Morgan turns to face me and then piece by piece he removes his clothes. I have seen Morgan naked many times but for some reason this feels like the first time. He has strong shoulders, a wide chest, hairy legs. His cock is large and hangs to the left of big balls in a drooping sac. Morgan always said he had his father’s balls. I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t seen them. For a second Morgan’s eyes lock on mine and then he turns and bends over the chair.
There are straps for each of his arms and legs. I fasten them tightly, pulling the leather through the buckle and fixing the metal prong securely in its hole. The design of the chair is such that Morgan is bent forward and his arse is sticking up in the air, roughly on a level with my waist.
There is a rubber tube on the floor at the center of the chair. I pick it up with one hand and with the other I take hold of Morgan’s penis. It is the first time I have ever touched it. Gently I pull back the foreskin and I place the head of the tube, which opens like the mouth of a viper, over the end of the cock. Dr. Kruge said that sometimes the experiment causes the patient to pee. My own cock is hard in my underpants. Neither Morgan nor I say anything.
As Dr. Kruge has said, I find hot water in a porcelain bowl and next to it a men’s razor. I take the bowl and the razor and place them behind Morgan and then I part the cheeks of his arse.
It seems strange to be looking so closely at those most intimate of places. The hair is thick on both sides and then there is a clearing around the sphincter. The skin here swirls like a frozen whirlpool. It seems to both prohibit and welcome entry at the same time. I take up the razor and start to shave.
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