Grow A Pair!
published September 25, 2021
A dejected young man receives a special gift from an unexpected benefactor, but will the gift bring him what he desires, or misfortune and loss?
Sid was a rather well to do Hollywood producer. His grandfather Sid Davis, for whom he was named, had made those dreadful instructional videos kids in the 50’s and 60’s had to endure in classrooms across the state. Sidney was a third generation showbiz man, after his father Tad had risen to wealth, fame and prestige, Sid stepped into a life pretty much laid out for him. His father wasn’t neglectful of him or his other siblings, but he was a very busy man, at times a very stressed out man, but a loving man too. Though his grandfather would NOT have approved of his youngest grandchild’s “evil homosexuality”, his father didn’t care as long as it did not hamper his son’s success.
Unfortunately, the life Tad led put him in an early grave at only fifty-one; the chain smoking and the cutthroat business life didn’t help. As a result, Sid, fresh out of Stanford with degrees in theater arts and arts management didn’t have much time with his father to learn from him, nor had he had enough time as a child to learn to be the decent sort of man his father was and his mother was more of a cameo appearance parent and arm candy trophy wife who cared more for Hollywood parties and interesting prescribed pharmaceuticals than caring for children. As such, the children were largely raised by nannies and house staff.
Sid had a lot going for him other than his connections. He kept himself fit, though he was not overly large he still was not a small man even at the end of his teens. He wasn’t a six footer, but he wasn’t far from it either. A strong solid build, golden hair that grew lighter in the summer sun and thick blond stubble kept short to give his face a masculine, yet business tidy look, matched his golden locks. If Sid would let it grow he could have a truly magnificent Nordic beard, the envy of Baldr himself. He had looks that might have led him down the path of acting or modeling rather than producing, but he had no desire to be in front of the camera. That was a fleeting thing at best, at worst the fame and scrutiny could destroy you and he’d seen enough of that even in his young life to know to avoid it. Still, Sid was literally a Hollywood golden boy and, frankly, was rather spoiled and with a mean streak he indulged at times.
At the beginning of a career sure to skyrocket him to stellar success, he met his husband Whit. The mammoth motorcycle cop pulled him over for a moving violation on the 405. At first glance Lieutenant Williams was a knockout, second glance revealed a masculine sexuality that drew men and women alike to him, and Sid was enthralled immediately. Whit was ‘leading man’ good looking; tall, broad, muscular with thick hair on his exposed tattooed arms and poking out over the black T-shirt he wore under his uniform. The half smoked fat stogie jutting out of his maw didn’t hurt his image as a virile icon either.
His cheeks and cleft chin, though freshly shorn not three hours before, had a blue-grey cast to them and the start of stubble, betraying the dense, heavy beard that covered his face, neck, and the area under his ears. If he so chose, Whit could grow a truly magnificent beard. His immaculately trimmed broad, ebony black, mustache (almost a perfect rectangle except for the top outer corners where it met the creases of his cheeks), framed an intimidating scowl. His furrowed brow adorned with thick, bushy eyebrows (each almost a match for his mustache), knitted together crossly as he looked down at the silver convertible and upon Sid through his mirrored motorcycle sunglasses.
Sid could not help but notice the bulge in his uniform and how the thick tube of his cock snaked down his tight pant leg to the left. What legs they were too! The muscular bulging thighs and calves under the uniform pants (so tight they looked airbrushed on), revealed that this cop never missed leg day; in fact from the looks of him, he didn’t miss any workouts. The fact that his solid, round, tight “roid gut” strained the buttons on his shirt, and the lack of any neck between his shoulders and head gave away his secret; officer Williams was on juice and had been for years. He was a brute beast, a hulking Neanderthal throwback walking among lesser men, a swaggering king of male sexuality to whom subjects paid tribute, yet still he was handsome. Not a pretty-boy model handsome, oh no! Whit was handsome because he embraced and embodied stout, rugged, primal manliness; Sid could barely contain his lust.
Sid (while Whit asked for and took his license and registration), noted certain tell-tale signs; a bear paw tattoo, the bottom quarter of which was just visible under officer William’s right sleeve cuff, a double Mars symbol tatt on the inside of his left forearm integrated into artwork that made up the full sleeve tattoo that was a mix of bears, skulls, swords, armored warriors and other biker type motifs. The ring on the third finger from his right thumb was silver, with stripes of the Bear Flag colors in an inlaid center band. No doubt about it, Whit was a Bear, and that was enough for Sid to dare to flirt, and he was rewarded for it.
Whit smiled broadly through perfect, if slightly yellowed, teeth as he puffed on his cigar. He called Sid out for hitting on him to try to get out of a traffic ticket; not that Whit wasn’t equally attracted to this blond, cubbish younger man. His short honey-gold stubble beard and tuft of blond chest hair poking out of the opening of his polo shirt was tasty eye candy. It hinted at more, and made the officer want to explore him further in detail, but it sure as HELL wasn’t going to get him out of the ticket; Whit didn’t play that game.
After giving him his ticket, and warning him about his speed and inattention to traffic, Whit scrawled out his phone number on a piece of note paper and handed it to Sid saying, “I’d like to see more of you”.
“How much more, officer - SIR?” Sid said coyly.
Whit’s cock twitched at “Sir”, he liked that subservience and that this man knew how to show him proper respect. He took a deep drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out toward Sid as he leaned down getting his face closer to Sid’s and said, “Oh, I want to see it all; every freckle, every square inch of skin, and every hair! I get off shift at ten tonight. Call me. I’ll tell you where to meet me, don’t be late, I hate it when people are late. I know a little place that serves the best surf and turf in town; fat lobsters drenched in drawn garlic butter and steaks big enough to sate even my appetite” and then he smiled broadly, in a predatory way around his smouldering stogie and continued, “for food”.
Sid smiled and squirmed just a little as his cock ached now for touch at the handsome cop’s flirting.
Whit continued, “I’m sure you know how to sate my other appetites” he said, running a finger over the outline of his own turgid cock with a gloved hand, and grinned wickedly as he took the cigar from his mouth and blew on the ash end.
“Drive safely now”, he said. Whit straightened up, then turned his back, returning to his motorcycle. Sid watched Whit walk away, taking in the view of Whit’s broad muscular back and perfect ass, the smoke from his cigar trailing behind him. That evening was Sid’s first date with the bear cop.
The couple fit each other’s temperament in many ways, and sometimes those ways were a little cruel. Whit enjoyed his dominance, his sheer size, his power, his scent and the authority his profession commanded. He reveled in his physical, overt, sheer manhood and bent that toward his interactions with men; occasionally it was somewhat sadistic. Sid actually enjoyed being submissive to him, though not completely so, and shared Whit’s sadistic tendencies. Whit, inducted Sid into the world of leather, pain play, bondage, mild torture and of course, pipes and cigars. Sid took to it immediately, it satisfied an itch he never knew he had and the sessions, working over a masochistic sub riled him up for hours of sex with Whit after they’d mutually punished the sub and made him serve them.
So for both of them, a lifestyle began to emerge, with more and more members of the leather community coming to their home. Eventually, the pair began hosting events where all manner of itches could be scratched for those willing.
It was into this relationship that Whit had brought Jimmy Barns, six months ago. The couple had been looking for a sub/boy/bottom they could both enjoy fucking, punishing, and dominating. Whit was primarily a top and rarely bottomed for Sid (and Sid only), and though Sid did bottom with Whit most nights, he preferred to top and so there was a need for a bottom for them both.
Jimmy was hired by the Inglewood PD, right out of the academy. He was twenty-three, and had some college credits in criminal justice studies, but didn’t have a degree. He wasn’t really patrol material, not being as physically imposing as most of the guys, and worked instead in records and evidence maintenance. Sure he had time on the gun range and knew the basics. He met the minimum physical requirements and was physically fitter than average as he spent time in the gym. However, his talents definitely were more suited to the operations side of things.
When he moved in with the senior officer, Whit began training him and the workouts were showing progress, but time in the home gym became a practice in not only bodybuilding, but it had also become a vehicle of sadistic pleasure for Whit. He would work Jimmy like a demon taskmaster, pushing him almost to the breaking point, taunting him, berating him, questioning his masculinity; and then before he’d push Jimmy too far he’d pull back and throw him a small bone of encouragement.
After the workouts, fueled by his own pumped up body and the musk of his sweat, he’d light up a cigar and demand that the smaller man clean his sweaty body with his tongue. Whit would rub Jimmy’s growing mustache (something Whit had insisted on, though Jimmy couldn’t grow one nearly as lush and full as Whit’s) in his stink to mark him with his ‘Daddy’s’ scent. It always started with cleaning his densely furred pits. Whit would push and grind Jimmy’s face in the thick, soaking fur of his deep pit and rub his face around in there, smearing the sweat all over his mouth, nose and cheeks. He’d pull Jimmy’s head out and force feed Jimmy a deep lung full of cigar smoke, hold his mouth open and drool cigar spit into it, then he’d push his face into his wet furry chest. Stopping at the nipples he allowed the boy to suckle them, and then continue to move him across his broad, furry chest to the other pit. He would then feed Jimmy more smoke before he was permitted to lick his way down Whit’s chest, over his ball belly, through his pubes and to his inner thighs. Once the sweat had been cleaned from his chest to knees, the boy was ordered to move to his well used jock that covered his generous package. There to taste the powerful, salty, musk laden fabric and suck the sweat and precum out of the dingy pouch. Whit would then pull the jock off and Jimmy was expected to clean his balls and cock before the suckling of the precum out of his raging hard dick could begin.
This never failed to get Whit worked up. With both of them still drenched in sweat from the workout, Whit would bend Jimmy over the weight bench, put the rank jockstrap over his nose and mouth, squeeze a heavy load of precum into Jimmy’s hole and brutally fuck it, loading him up with his seed sometimes, twice in a session. When the younger man was limp from exhaustion, being brought to a trembling orgasm from being fucked by the beast, Whit would pull out, squeeze the last of his thick load out on Jimmy’s back, rub it into the skin to mark him, and throw him a towel. Whit would then tell him what a ‘good fag’ he was and how he had done well pleasing a ‘real man’, as was right and proper for a lesser man, and then order him to clean up the equipment and tidy up the gym.
Whit never considered the smoldering anger that might be growing within Jimmy at his humiliating words, and why should he? The boy was at his mercy privately and professionally, he didn’t care if he was angry. Jimmy lived with them now, he was Whit and Sid’s cum dump and virtually their body slave. Sure he could move out, but he’d have to try to find a place pronto and Jimmy didn’t have many friends he could impose upon, nor the balls to ask the ones he might. At work, all it would take would be for Whit to say a few things to certain people in the department, and Jimmy would be professionally screwed too. But Whit wouldn’t get him fired, oh no! That would be a chance for Jimmy to start over in another department! No, if the kid ever decided to get up the nerve to actually be a man, Whit would sink his chances, and then gloat and enjoy as he watched Jimmy’s misery. Jimmy knew it too, Sid and Whit had him by the balls.
The leather party this year was somewhat on the lavish side, but then it had grown gradually more so with each iteration. Held in their Inglewood home it was an annual event for the last five years that was becoming somewhat of a tradition.
Sid could easily afford the decadently catered event, though he contributed half at Whit’s insistence. Whit’s salary wasn’t anything to sneeze at either, so he could afford his end of the festivities and party favors. In addition to his pay, the investments Whit’s father had gotten him into had built up quite a portfolio of rather profitable stocks as well as some real estate investments that paid handsome dividends. Sid handled the food and staffing and Whit handled obtaining the alcohol, the open bar and bartender, and the other pleasures. There were fine cigars, well aged whiskey and wine, fine beer and of course all the tools and equipment their well furnished basement dungeon could want.
The party was quite the Bacchanalia and everyone seemed to be having a fantastic time, including Jimmy. This was his first and it was quite an eye opener for him. Some of Sid’s guests were people who were big ‘behind the scenes’ people in movies and television and there were one or two actors on their rise to stardom as well, if they played their cards right. Whit’s guests included guys he knew from his gym, many from his leather community, and one other police officer from another precinct there with his husband. Whit and Sid seemed to be in really good spirits, especially with all the subs, lavishing attention on the hosts. The Sirs had also lent them out to help clean up after the party, which pleased the couple greatly.
It was just after Whit had finished ploughing a new boy, Bobby Markley, in the sling that it happened. While Sid was still fucking his throat, a small crowed of Sirs had gathered to watch. Jimmy, out of sheer admiration for the power and prowess Whit had just demonstrated said, “Oh Daddy, I wanna be a bear like you someday!”
His words were filled with sincere admiration for the bear clad in skin tight leather, huffing on his cigar as he beckoned the next top to step in and fill Bobby’s hungry hole.
But instead of an encouraging assurance that one day Whit would see to it that Jimmy indeed would become a bear, Whit sneered and laughed.
“You?! You’ll never be a bear! To be a bear, you have to grow a pair” Whit chucked evilly at the unintended rhyme, “I’ve been working you like a mule in the gym for what, six months now? You haven’t put on more than five pounds. Your nads just don’t have what it takes and worse still, I could pump you FULL of testosterone or any other steroid and you wouldn’t grow two hairs on your chest. Face it Jimmy, you’ll always be a smooth bottom boy! It’s what you ARE. So stick to what you’re good at, servicing real men! You should know your place - and don’t worry you’ll always have a place - underneath a bear like me, though it might not exactly be me for much longer” he said while patting him on the head, then placing the cigar back in his mouth, puffing on it and leering at the boy in the sling, “See, Bobby here? He’s got the makings of a bear” Whit said and stroked the cub’s hairy chest and patted his bearded cheek.
Sid then chimed in, still positioning in and out of Bobby’s throat, “To make a bear, you have to start with someone who at least has the potential. Hate to break it to you Jimmy, but as they say in the biz, ‘you just don’t have it’. It’s not something you can obtain, you either have it or you don’t and, honey trust me, you just don’t. Bobby - I think we can work with what he’s got, can’t we Whit?”
Whit pulled in a lung full of smoke and then exhaled, nodding appreciatively at the eager cub, “Damn straight Sid, he’s a damn good fuck and suck, and just look at all that fur and beef on him! He’s got a body worth training”.
Another muscular, furry, Daddy Sir stepped in and put his huge cock at, and then thrust into Bobby’s hole and the young cub moaned around Sid’s cock in raptured pleasure.
Jimmy looked down at Bobby, only two years younger than himself. It was true, Bobby Markley was a furball, with a full beard and chest hair that had showed up in his mid teens and only continued to thicken and spread all over him like a blessing from the God of Bears. So much testosterone coursed through him from his oversized balls that it was already making him bald, and damn if it didn’t make the redneck country boy look even hotter when he took off his Stetson while in his western duds or his ball cap when he was in his flannel, leather vest, boots, and jeans.
His body clearly showed the promise of natural bulk to come, too. He was built like the high school defensive lineman and tackle he was back in his podunk home town in the fly-over state he came from. He was one of the lucky ones that could gain weight and if trained properly, excessive burliness would come ridiculously easily to him. His genes had blessed him with the ability to stack on powerful brawn and generous padding without even trying hard. Bobby would grow from promising cub to full-on gorgeous, barrel chested, round bellied, leather muscle bear in less than ten years, and after that, he would mature into a hot, hirsute muscle daddy bear any cub would be glad to worship; but only if he put in gym hours. Even so, if Bobby just went to seed, he’d still be a hot chubby bear.
As he gazed down at the young man in the sling, caressing his sweat matted pit with the back of his furry paw, bringing it up to his nose to take in the cub’s manly scent, Whit said, “You know, I’ve decided; I’m wasting my time with you, Barnes. You’ll never live up to my expectations, you’ll never be half the man, and never the bear, Bobby is. It’s true what they say, ‘you can’t polish a turd’. So I think I’m going to start mentoring Bobby here. He’s going to grow into the kind of bear I’d be proud to have call me ‘daddy’. He shows all the potential you don’t”.
At that moment Sid came and he came big! “FUCK YEAH! I fucking want this bitch in my stable tonight Whit! He fucking sucked all my load down and wants more! And look at him, he’s STILL sucking. Greedy little fucker!”
Jimmy stood, completely demoralized, dejected, and devastated. The two men who had promised him a life of love, pleasure and companionship for the rest of his life had just replaced him with a more ‘ideal’ model.
Jimmy had every right to feel jealous of Bobby, but he didn’t. It wasn’t Bobby’s fault, either, he was a genuinely nice guy who happened to catch Whit’s eye. It wasn’t even Whit and Sid’s fault - cruel as they were, they were right, he wasn’t a bear. So they’d cast him aside like a piece of trash, because that’s what he was. He felt like trash. He felt worthless. He felt that his life was pointless. If he’d had his gun with him, he would have gone into the back yard and ended it. He was nothing, a zero, a poor excuse for a man.
But by GOD, trash or not, he was NOT going to cry. He was NOT going to give them the satisfaction of breaking down in front of them and fueling their post denigration arousal further. As the top began climbing to the apex of orgasm in Bobby’s ass, and all attention was on the scene, while Sid and Whit made out, Jimmy slipped out of the basement dungeon and made his way to the back yard.
Unbeknownst to Jimmy, a beefy, grey furred figure followed him at a discrete distance. He saw the young man go and sit on a bench in a dark corner beneath a weeping willow. He stroked his grey beard, contemplating what he wanted to say to the cub, and then he approached quietly, hearing the boy sob. It tore his heart in two and he knew, THIS young man needed his gift. He needed it more than any other he’d ever met.