The Bear Obsession Novel.

Act I: The First Confession.

I call this a confession. But it’s not a confession. A confession doesn’t hold this much stimulus, this much crave. Progression in finding one’s self? Maybe. Admission? Probably. But who cares about the weight and the self inflicted guilt when you’re admitting you’re completely and utterly obsessed with men. But the right kind of men. The “right kind of men”. I use this phrase to endorse my own personal sexual obsession, with the culture within a culture, that have brought me to weakness both behind the bedroom door, on my internet galore, and out and about on my feet.

The dawning of my gay sex induced life-style began as a fourteen year old wanderer who basked the halls of a Manchester public school. Uniform and the whole deal. Too early it may be to class my addiction as a “life-style”, but too prominent to cast the impulse as an extra. My school was a newly built academy, built on an almost pointless fund of twenty six million British pounds. The uniform was a latest design, and the architecture screamed out modern influence with glass balconies, freshly layered tarmac sports areas and the latest in modern class room assistance.

The academy staff and management used this excessively over the years to boast and maybe even to persuade every day parents and possible clients. “Come to our school! It’s a proper shinning shot hole!” would of been their best policy to be honest. Nobody’s competing with Hogwarts. You can shut the fuck up now Dumbledore.

Despite the overwhelming flush of shiny things and lots of money. Most of us attending didn’t care much for the glamour. We know you can’t varnish a brick and make it appealing, so we left our opinions to ourselves, nobody gave a shit anyway. So while the school would sit proud on it’s stone foundation and reflect the shit of the world off it’s autistic middle-class reasoning, I know my own opinions were set, on the people who learned in this building.

For me, it was getting through the average day. Avoid math, avoid P.E. and we’ll be just fine. My plans were set in stone and I never questioned them. Although I now wish I had spent just a few more moments in the locker rooms. They would have definitely been my chance to go for a spin on strippers roulette, but by this time in my life, an athlete in boxers was definitely a soft-sport for the epitome of the schedule wanker I was. And everybody had their own signature appeal, trust me.

The boys had their own groups. The sport fanatics (the popular boys) the chavs, the Mosher kids (me), the underachieving nice kids (also me), the normal boys (your average Joe) The always pissing about loud mouth kids, and a handful more, witch are essentially more specific and break down as variants in the social ladder of high school. I was never personally acquainted with them all. But my impulses and imagination re-assured that my shaft and balls were greatly acquainted with each of them, on a blatantly insane, passionate and seriously homosexual level.

Is there a thin line? When your everyday place of learning becomes a psychological selective process? A sweat drunk, euphoric chocolate box of submission? And it was the change that drove me. They sat in packs, even in class they communed in their cliques. Like a sub-conscious tennis match of who could speak the loudest. But the change drives me, the change is my fuel and my almost pivotal fetish. The idea, that a man so “alpha”, so “hetero”, so dominant and even intimidating, can transition into much much less, when bent down on all fours. Pants and underwear rolled down to the school shoes. And the blazer and shirt just tilting of their back. Engulfed in euphoria and impulse, moaning under their breathe. Presenting in submissive fashion the lush, soft-cushion buttocks that gaze out at you with a shade brighter then their skin appears in the norm.

Locked in the boys toilets, the world’s time left to ourselves. The hope of a turned up stiff cock, pronounced between their legs, hanging bellow a pair of red worn, ready warm testicles. The pampered buttocks that address themselves timidly and look far past their last scheduled disciplinary spanking. The gradual build up of moaning that would ascend, as I’d slip my finger in the excessively loobed anus of my new submissive. How they’d pant in the process. How far will they pity themselves even more when I jam my stiff circumcised cock into their rectum? Will they take it like the men they claim to be or will they wither even more?

Will they survive me pounding away? Hips clapping against their cushion-like comfy buttocks. Sliding in and out of their now gaping, loobed flesh tube of an anus. I hope they will come without friction. Only the deeply seeded endorphin of their g-spot to heighten the release. Will they feel nothing but pleasure when I ejaculate in their rectum? My pulsing hard cock. My come dripping down their thigh as they blush in the reality of their service. Removing my penis to see the rectum shut tightly, my come trailing, coursing down his anus to his balls and shaft.

Or maybe they will be a softer character then we portray? Maybe they will not bend. But maybe they will kneel. Knees firm on the tile floor, their back up-straight, sat in attendance to firmly massage my bulging over excited erection. Will they use their tounge? Would they if I asked? How far down would they gulp? Would they use both their hands to keep their aim on point? I’d like to hold their head against my crotch as they allow my cock to course down their throat. Will they hesitate when I come in the mouth? Or will they milk it out of me and spray themselves with my spunk? Imagine that. A face painted with the warm fluid come from my cock, down their chin and splatters across their uniform collar and shirt.

The boys in my school gave me a means to imagine, deeply. All kinds of British boys. Short, tall, skinny, over weight, white, black, mixed race, you name it, at this point in my life, I’d definitely considered it. In fact i’d over-considered them. I was completely and utterly cock-drunk and I was never going to let it go. I was in love, overdosed, comatose. A new found religion in which penis was the motive. And hardcore gay pornography was my bible. When I wasn’t thinking about bumming a cute guy in maths class, I was thinking about a sixty-nine with a hot footy player on our school team. Or maybe it was chasing a chubby fella In our year. Analysing the process of zipping down his jeans, rolling down those boxers and indulging in a gorgeous, thick, five inch stiff cock, with a pair of heated soft and hairy balls to go with it.

It was after some time, that my submissive traits became more apparent to me. I am definitely a dominant when it comes to profiling, but the submissive presence that we have in all of us, was starting to unravel itself within me, and I was noticing. I wanted these boys to trap me. I wanted them to tell me what to do. Boss me around. Take me to the gym lockers after school, only for me to end up on all fours, the cock of an over enthusiastic rugby player pounding away inside my rectum. I’d want them to spank me and treat me like a tool. An accessory after the fact. It was because of this crave, this urge, this dire need. That my attention towards students became less concentrated, and appointed towards a math teacher, named Mr. McReily. Mr. McReily was a six foot, thirty four year old, under-payed, over qualified math tutor. Who taught our class maths once a week. He’d walk the halls with his stomach always slightly hanging over his belt. His tie slightly un fastened, and he always made sure his voice was heard. His shaved head would always remind me of my bedroom mirror, and his humour was warming. He wasn’t a cold person, no or was he vain. And after too much over thinking, I couldn’t help but rub off the feeling that he asserts his natural dominance for more than one purpose.

What if, it was after school. And I had stayed behind for revision in his class for at least two hours. What would I say? Probably nothing. If the fish bites, then we’re in business. I’d do anything to get his attention. I’d play music from my phone, I’d swear, I’d ask him in-appropriate questions and I’d even smoke. Anything to switch his attention from paperwork to myself. The thought of a more then annoyed Mr. McReily standing over my desk. Fists gripped. An obvious lump in his pants, just below his belt. Where he has finally given in to the thought of blowing a load in my tight, soon to be gaping asshole.

Would he lock the door and draw the classroom blinds? I’d like to see him over me, my legs spread across his chest, as he unbuckles an otherwise unnecessary leather belt. I’d like to see his beautiful tummy relax, so I can feel the warmth and weight of his body press against me, as he removes my school pants and uses his spit to lubricate my anus. His ever growing mountainous dick, gently rubbing the rim of my asshole. Lay on the class room table, I watch as he spits on his penis and uses his hands to rub the spit across his shaft. He asks me “Have you ever done this before?” I’d say no. And then he’d gently begin to insert his rock penis into the opening of my rectum, warm and large. He slips his hands beneath my shirt and responds calmly, “Don’t worry sport. I’ll look after you.” He begins to rub my nipples in a circular motion, his hard, warm cock gaining speed and thrust. The sound of the spanking begins to ignite as his hips smack against my plumbing buttocks. His clock raging inside me. I see him panting and groaning as he plummets my anus. Is this how he sounds when he’s fucking his wife? Is this him doing something he’s recited? Something he’s thought about?

He wastes no time teasing the climax. And ejaculates a good cup-full of come into my rectum. He clings onto my hips and legs to support himself while he pulls his sweaty, looby dick from my anus. He stands there in the classroom. Dick still erect and swaying. Come dripping from its tip. Work pants around his ankles with his boxer shorts included. By this point I’d say I’d gone too far, but from the numb nature of my legs and the continuous stream of spunk travelling from my anus down to my thighs. I remember that dick from such a person is the up most privilege. And if anything I should be honoured.

You can judged from this, whether I am a nymphomaniac, a sex pest, a normal gay guy or a mental patient. This in my admition, my confession. These are the fantasies of my younger self. And I only anticipated intensely who I would meet, come my first year of college in the city centre. Because these were fantasies, but what I had not anticipated, is the deliverance of something much, much greater. This is the story of my bear obsession.


Rowan McGillivray

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