Wolves Don't Cry. Can't Write Neither.

by Wolf <Robk99@hotmail.com>

This appeared in MMSA Stories archive as WOLVES DON'T CRY in July 1998. Friends tell me I should have called it WOLVES CAN'T WRITE. Let me know how you like this version. It's all true.

Wolf -- robk99@hotmail. com

Bear was a bear TOP, stood 6'3, weighed 275, and sported curly, dark hair and beard. Cub stood 5'10, weighed 190, and wore a blond GQ. Both were better fed than trained.

Wolf was the tall dumb blond. He stood 6'2, weighed 185 (188 cm, 5 kg), had thinning blond hair and a thick but trim blond mustache, and was the compulsive athlete. He liked long events where he could zone, tune the big head into the body, especially the muscles -- especially if he could compete with another guy and perform for admirers. He ran marathons and, being Canadian, raced canoes, especially outriggers. He had the endurance athlete's legs, lungs, attitude, absence of pain response, absence of fast-twitch muscle fibres, absence of brains.

He'd answered Bear's voice ad. Think BBC announcer voice. 'In my experience, there are two kinds of submissive men: those who need something done to them, and those who need to be made to do something. If you are either of these ...' He didn't think he was really submissive. He'd never kept a job or a relationship where he had to submit -- bartending meant you could play at submitting to happy people, for tips -- but he WAS trying to learn. Maybe this would help.

He called himself Wolf after the wolf in Bill Reid's 'Spirit Canoe' sculptures at the Canadian embassy in Washington and the Vancouver airport. The Wolf was the one who straddled both sides, claws into Beaver, craftier than Bear and Man.

He treated buttbeating as another endurance sport -- no brains, remember -- tuning into the glutes and little head. For buttbeating competitions, he liked a support team and an audience, so at least one other guy to provide nice sensations to balance and reinforce the pain. Body Electric's 'Power, submission, and intimacy' had confirmed his need for a personal and _s_e_x_ual connection to make the scene work.

He tended bar at a downmarket jazz club near Bear's place, on the unfashionable east side, so that night he stopped by to pick up a thong jock he'd left there after his last session. (He preferred thongs to conventional jocks because the one central strap stayed in place when he moved, it didn't rub when he rotated in the outrigger seat, it felt racy, it defined his cheeks, and it didn't get in the way of buttbeatings -- but he did miss the feel of the straps caressing his working glutes and, for a cooperative top, defining the target and setting bounds.)

On Bear's standing orders, Wolf wore no undershorts (the thong technically passed, and it made the 501s fit better there) and let himself in without knocking. Bear greeted him from the bedroom. They chatted a minute while Wolf showed he'd followed orders and also looked for the missing thong, the one where the waistband unsnapped so it could come off even with his legs restrained.

Then Bear told someone, 'Don't be shy,' and Cub appeared from under the sheet. It turned out Cub shared Wolf's interest in the hard, buttpounding action that happens when leather meets muscle, but not the muscle-competition interests. Wolf took the big guys' invitation to get into bed.

Cub had heard about Wolf and wanted to watch what he took and how. Cub really got off on red butts -- the sight of one crop-welt in the seat of a pair of chaps at the Pride parade had converted him to the BD scene.

Wolf wanted to compete and be entertained but not just abused -- that got painful and boring -- so said he'd take everything Cub did. Cub groaned and pleaded, but Bear agreed. The one receiving lay on the other's chest, except when Cub squirmed around to see Wolf's reddening butt.

Cub had to go first. He took a dozen hard ones with the steel-loaded leather slapper, like southern deputies used when they caught GIs, about 40 cm long and 5 cm wide (16" X 2"). He was lying on Wolf and being held tightly and reassured, with his hands digging into Wolf's paddling-conditioned traps and shoulders (canoe-paddling, not the kind that conditioned his butt).

BANG! _d_a_m_n_! The slapper landed and made contact for at least half its length, thudding and stinging the cheek or hip. The impact went through the skin and protective fat layer into the muscle, jolting nerve endings all the way and disturbing capillaries. Jump. Writhe, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, bitch, get reminded he had to take it if he wanted to see anything but his own round, red butt, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, bitch, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, bitch, get hugged. Wolf held him tight, said Cub made him proud, said Cub was a very strong, very tough boy. BANG! Writhe, get hugged and reassured. BANG! Writhe, bitch, get hugged, get excited little head acknowledged by hard hand and hard thighs. BANG! Writhe, get hugged. Get assured it was okay to stop -- Wolf was dumb enough to want fun and stimulation and attention and admiration, but not just pain -- but swallow hard so he could watch Wolf next. BANG! Writhe, bitch, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, get hugged. BANG! Writhe, groan, get hugged, look in mirror, make Wolf turn over to the top (at least upper) position.

Cub wouldn't flake, so Wolf had to feel each BANG! and reflex and anticipate his own. Maybe the 'Anything you can take, I can take harder' really was dumb, but at least it meant nobody got any free thrills (except Bear). He'd have to try to think about that -- when he could concentrate on something above the shoulders that Cub held, reassured, admired.

After all the anticipation he made himself pass by remembering he needed to compete and be admired. Wolf took his dozen breathing easily and smiling at the impressed, distressed Cub. He didn't flinch, but the impact and reflex of every stroke drove his chest into Cub's. and encircling arms, his thighs into Cub's encircling thighs. Every stroke drove his manhood into Cub's crotch. Maybe his strokes were harder: Cub felt Wolf's impacts more than his own.

Until he tried lying on Cub's large though undefined chest, held by his encircling arms and legs, Wolf had always had to be bound -- leather plug between teeth, arms overhead, post in front stimulating chest, feet to the rear and sides -- so he could use every muscle and every bit of manhood to wrench his butt into place for the next dozen or hundred. He used a weightlifter's belt to protect the thin-skinned, bony sacroiliac and concentrate the force on his sensitive, muscular glutes (but he couldn't use it atop Cub). He needed to switch his big head off so his little one could concentrate on the adrenaline / endorphin rush. Besides deep nasal breathing, he used alcohol and other chemical reinforcement; Wolf and Cub disapproved of everything but the alcohol and hadn't experienced the adrenaline, endorphins, and athletic zoning. At Bear's he had to stick to alcohol and poppers, nothing more.

In his other sports, he'd get into the timing / technique and posture / stride or reach / breathing groove. In this one, there was just breathing and presenting. Love was somebody caring enough to beat him, like when he was a kid. Winning was not using a safe word.

The next sets were tougher, harder, and painfully anticipated, but maybe easier to handle because they'd both gotten into it. Maybe even Cub's civilized brain made endorphins.

25. Wolf half-wanted Cub to quit but he needed to prove -- to himself, to Cub, his fellow kinky bottom, to Bear, the amused but serious top. 50. Every stroke hit someplace already inflamed now. Wolf's reflexes seemed to slow as the big muscles tired. Neither guy was sure he wanted to continue, but Cub held on to experience Wolf, and Wolf held on because that's what tall dumb blond jocks do.

That night Cub and Wolf got past a hundred at a time with the steel-loaded slapper -- Cub's personal record.

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