. . . but the last one was just right.
Once upon a time in the wilds of Canada there lived three bears. The human type bears. There was Nathan, by far the biggest and most masculine bear of the three, with long dark hair and a brutish growl; then there was Toki, smaller but muscular and feisty, who delighted in grotesque violence; and then there was Murderface, short, plump and hairy, with an affinity for bloodplay and a gap you could slap a hockey puck through. They lived together in a remote cabin out in the woods, leveled any living thing they saw with their mighty chainsaws, and every day wore combat boots and flannel shirts with the sleeves torn off. They ate raw crow eggs for breakfast, raw rabbits and squirrels for lunch, and raw elk for dinner. They made their own vile brand of hooch—a 175 proof concoction that could turn a normal guy inside out—and drank it like water. They rolled their own cigarettes and killed local flora with their secondhand smoke. They were rugged and brutal and dirty and smelled like animals. Dead ones. (But freshly killed dead ones to put it nicely.) They were bristly and unshaven, ungroomed, had filth under their nails and were constantly covered in flecks of blood from butchering their meals alive. Timber wolves and grizzlies were terrified of them. Flowers wilted and butterflies dropped dead whenever they passed by. If trees could run, the whole forest would have packed up and gotten the hell out of dodge years ago. They upset the ecosystem, destroyed the balance of nature, and to top it all off they rarely recycled. They were an affront to the living earth; however, they kept to themselves and their own and were mostly content with their solitary lives.
But all that changed one day.
A small commuter plane was flying from Ontario when suddenly it just plummeted out of the sky and into the treetops. There was a big crunch but no explosions. Many trees were tragically killed. Only one person survived, which was a 100% survival rate, seeing as how there was only one person on board and he happened to be the pilot. His name was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, and he wasn’t actually a pilot. He was a guitarist in the Swedish metal band Fangarrok-Al-Unga-Frokk, and his bandmates back at the Ontario airport—bored while waiting for their flight out—had dared him to steal a plane and see how far he could go before the Canadian Air Patrol threatened to shoot him down.
Skwisgaar, living up to his reputation as the stereotypical gorgeous-but-dumb-as-butter guy with long wavy locks of golden hair, had always wanted to be a pilot but he didn’t know the first thing about flying, and that’s why he found himself where he was now: trekking through the forest and trying to find a place where he could get more than half a bar on his cell phone. Night was beginning to fall and he was very cold, being dressed more appropriately for environments with constant climate control. He was beginning to think that he was going to have to find a hollow log to crawl into for the night when suddenly he saw glowing yellow lights between the dark tree trunks, and hastened forward.
He soon found himself in a clearing and looking at a large log cabin; it appeared to be occupied, so he walked up the porch steps and knocked on the door. “Hello? I mights be needing some helps,” he called. “My plane’s crash in de tree and I lost, so please, coulds I comes in and please use your telly-phones?”
There was no answer so Skwisgaar, whose intellect was rivaled only by garden slugs, let himself inside the bears’ home. Pelts and skulls hung all over the walls of the cabin. There was a chandelier made of antlers hanging in the living room. The tables and chairs still had bark on them. The cushioned furniture was upholstered with crudely-sewn leather and camouflage. Strips of curing meat dangled from the rafters overhead. The bones of unfortunate creatures were strewn all over the floor. Crusty pots and pans littered the kitchen counter. Visible from out the back window was a dead oak whose limbs were hung with more gutted carcasses than Ed Gein’s wardrobe closet. Hammers and hunting knives and spare chainsaw belts were on every surface. Fur rugs were laid out on the floor here and there—a few looked pretty fresh, if the flies still buzzing around them were any indication. There was no sign of a telephone to be found. It smelled like death and blood and body odour in here, and the Swede was almost tempted to turn around and take his chances with the hollow log; however, a fire was burning on the hearth in the main room and it looked warm and inviting, so Skwisgaar walked over and defrosted his pale Scandinavian hide by it for a little while, wondering who could possibly live in a creepy place like this.
After sitting by the fire for a while he started to feel a little hungry, so he wandered into the kitchen to see if there was anything edible. To his great dismay he found a mouldy fridge filled with the remnant passengers of Noah’s Ark and mason jars of disturbingly human-sized organs. He slammed the door shut, ran out back to go throw up, and that was where he found three tapped kegs sitting, marked “N”, “T” and “M” respectively. Curious and more than a little anxious to get the taste of puke out of his mouth, Skwisgaar went back inside and got a big mug, went to the “N” keg and poured a sample. It didn’t even make it down his throat before he heaved it out. “Gyah!” he gagged. “Dis stuff’s is too strong!”
So next he tried the “T” keg, took a sip, and spit it out distastefully. “Bleh! Dis stuff’s is too sweet!”
So then he tried the “M” keg, took a tentative sip, brightened, and downed the whole mug. “Ahh! Dis stuff’s is just rights!”
So he filled the mug to the brim, took it inside and found a busted TV in the den with three recliners in front of it. Deciding to pass the time until the residents got home, Skwisgaar sat down in the first chair and slid his ass around, trying to get comfortable. “Pfft, dis chair’s is too hards!” he cried at last.
So he got up and sat down in the second one, only to discover that, while soft, it seemed to be stuffed with guts instead of polyester filling and it stunk like hell. “Eeew, dis chair’s is too gross!”
So he got up and sat down in the third one, smiling contentedly and putting up the footrest. “Ahh! Dis chair’s is just rights!”
So Skwisgaar flicked on the tube and watched Twilight Zone reruns and spilled booze all over the recliner. When he ran out of booze he’d go out back and refill, back and forth, inside and outside, and he drank and drank and pissed and drank and barfed and drank and drank and pissed and drank some more (Skwisgaar is Swedish, mind you) until the keg was bone dry. Quite possibly it was the best booze he’d ever tasted. Now, comfortably loaded, the blond was tired of watching TV and decided to go find a place to sleep. The couch was out of the question—he’d sooner sleep on a bloated dead cow. He found a rough staircase that led upstairs, and there he found three separate beds.
The first bed he laid down in had an “N” carved on the headboard, but Skwisgaar didn’t stay in it for very long on account of it being similar to the first chair he’d sat in. “Ugh! Dis bed’s is too hards!”
So he got up and laid down in the second bed that had a “T” carved on the headboard, but he didn’t stay in it for very long on account of the fact that there was a stuffed skunk in it that totally freaked (and stunk) him out. “Augh! Dis bed’s is too creepy!”
So he got up and laid down in the third bed that had an “M” carved on the headboard, and it was perfectly soft and warm and dry. “Ahh! Dis bed’s is just rights!” And, drunk as a motherfucker, he snuggled down under the fur covers and fell fast asleep.
It wasn’t long after Skwisgaar had fallen into a drunken slumber that the three bears, covered in blood, returned home from a night hunt in their beat up old Studebaker pickup. Once they had gutted and hung their catches from the dead oak tree, they began to make their way up the back porch steps when suddenly Nathan stopped, sniffing the air. “I smell something,” he growled.
“Probably yours upper lip,” snapped Toki, but the big man followed his nose to the kegs just outside the door.
“Someone’s been drinkin’ my booze,” he glowered, his long black hair shadowing his face.
Toki picked up on the scent by his own keg and snarled, “Hey! Someone been drinkings my booze too!”
Murderface walked over to his own keg and kicked it ferociously. “Shumbody’sh been jrinkin’ my boozshe too, an’ zshey fuckin’ emptied it!”
On edge and alert now, the three bears quietly entered their house where the scent only grew stronger. “It’s human,” Nathan muttered, inhaling deeply and leading his posse into the den. “A guy. Young. Clean.” Sniiifffff. “Foreign. Maybe Finnish or Danish.” He stopped at his big hard recliner and took a deep whiff. “And he was sittin’ in my chair.”
Toki followed suit, noticing the smell in his own recliner. “Hey! Somebody been sittings in my chair too!”
Murderface crossed his arms and glared down at the booze soaking into his recliner. “Shumbody shat in my tchair too . . . and zshey fuckin’—”
“Quiet!” Nathan hissed, cocking his head to the side. “Did you hear that?”
“It sounded like it came from upstairs.”
Murderface cracked his knuckles and drew his still-bloody hunting knife. “Let’sh inveshtigate,” he murmured.
The three brutes crept up the stairs as quietly as they could, hoping to catch the intruder by surprise. They came to Nathan’s bed first, and the big man sniffed the covers. “Somebody was sleepin’ in my bed,” he growled quietly.
Toki went over to his own bed and picked up his stuffed skunk that had been tossed to the floor. “Somebody been sleepings in my bed too, and dey upset Mr Stunkalot!”
The three looked at each other, and then at the last bed. Murderface stealthily approached his own bed with knife raised, gleaming in the dark, reached down . . . and drew away the fur covers, revealing the peacefully sleeping face of an incredibly handsome young man whose golden hair was spread out on the pillow beneath him in amber waves.
“Rmm,” Nathan grumbled, peering over Murderface’s hairy shoulder. “Looks like we caught ourselves a pretty little buck, fellahs.”
“He look . . . del-ishi-us,” Toki said faintly with a hungry gleam in his eye.
Murderface was so stunned that he accidentally dropped his knife on the floor; Skwisgaar heard the noise and his eyes flitted open, and he beheld the three hulking shadows staring down at him carnivorously. At first he was too drunk to realise that this wasn’t a dream, but when he blinked a few times and tried to sit up, he was suddenly slammed into the mattress and overpowered faster than you can say “trespassing”.
The next morning Skwisgaar awoke hogtied like a steer and hanging between the gutted remains of a wild boar and a stag from the tree out back. He began to struggle and swing in a desperate attempt to free himself, but his captors were better than most sailors when it came to tying knots, especially since all three shared an appreciation for the fine art of bondage. The Swede’s thrashing attracted the attention of the three bears, who came outside to inspect their quarry. Needless to say, Skwisgaar was even more frightened of them in the daylight than he was during the night, because now he could see what he was dealing with. And he was much better off not knowing.
“Who ares yous? What ares yous!? Why yous tied me ups like dis!?” he cried.
“Uh, we’ll ashk the queshtionzsh, Goldie,” the hairy brown bear with the gap growled.
“Ah, who’s care about question? I says we go ahead and eats him,” the brown bear with the Fu Manchu said impishly, walking over to where Skwisgaar hung and giving one long lick to the blond’s bare arm. “Mm. Better dan beefs. I could right now takes a bites outta him.”
When it finally dawned on Skwisgaar that he was dealing with three cannibals, the shit hit the fan and he started to scream his lungs out. The beasts stood by and watched complacently. They weren’t worried at all. No one was around to hear anyway.
After Skwisgaar tired of screaming, the bear with the black hair approached and said to him in a grizzly voice, “Looks like you decided to shack up in the wrong fuckin’ house, Goldie. But seein’ as how me and my boys are pretty taken by you, we’re givin’ you a choice. We can either let you stay with us in exchange for bein’ our new Baby Bear, or we can slice you open from belly to balls and you can watch your intestines spill out on the ground. Your choice.”
“I stay wis yous!” sobbed the unfortunate Swede. “I do anythings! Just don’ts kill mes!”
Skwisgaar had no idea what the job description of being Baby Bear was, but it sure sounded a hell of a lot better than being disemboweled alive. Murderface cut the sniveling blond down from the tree and they took him inside, liquored him up nice and good, stripped him naked, and then took turns sodomizing him.
That’s what they meant by being Baby Bear.
Nathan went first, and from the moment he first unzipped his massive blood-engorged cock, Skwisgaar knew he was in for a world of hurt. He was wrong. It was much, much worse. The black bear wasn’t very rough with him, but his grossly oversized erection was as painful as it was impressive. At least the broad shouldered brute was kind enough to use lube. Still, it didn’t stop Skwisgaar from screaming, “Gyah! You’s is too big!”
By noon Nathan had finished with the Swede, and Toki came in to take his place. This one was even worse than the last one, not that his cock was gigantic, but the method in which he used it was excruciating. Skwisgaar shrieked and squealed worse than a groupie as Toki fucked him roughly, pulling his hair and bending him into positions that made the blond’s joints and muscles echo with pain. “Augh! You’s is too rough!” he shouted, but his words were paid no concern; the small brown bear took him violently and fiercely, and by the time the assault had ended late that afternoon, Skwisgaar was bruised and bleeding.
He was beginning to wish that he had agreed to being gutted by the time Murderface came in to have his way with him, but the traumatized young man couldn’t have been more surprised. True, this last bear was as un-gorgeous as they get—fat and flabby and hairy and dirty and all kinds of rank—but he wiped the blood and come off of Skwisgaar’s face, caressed his golden locks with his grubby fingers, and didn’t shove his cock down Skwisgaar’s throat without due warning. It was actually a very nice cock—not too big but not too small, not too thick and not too thin, and it could do all sorts of neat tricks. Skwisgaar found himself suddenly enjoying sucking dick, but that was nothing compared to the enjoyment he received when Murderface put it inside him. Not too long, not too short. Not too rough, not too gentle. “Ahh,” Skwisgaar moaned, wrapping his pale, clean arms and legs around this filthy, revolting beast. “You’s is just rights.”
By the time evening rolled around they’d done it five times and Skwisgaar had achieved multiple orgasms, which was positively astounding considering the piece of work that had been nailing him all afternoon. Maybe being Baby Bear wasn’t as bad as it was cut out to be.
That night he ate raw elk with his new family, who commended him for not letting himself be fucked to death, as such was the fate of most people who wandered into their neck of the woods and who didn’t opt for the disemboweling. Truly he was brutal bear material, and they meant to teach him well. Skwisgaar soon grew accustomed to his new life, learned to skin animals and eat raw things and not bathe quite as often as he was used to. He kept the house in a tolerable state of filth when his boys were away, helped them brew their near-fatal hooch (even introducing his old home-grown-Swedish recipe to the enjoyment of all) and kept the chainsaws polished and shiny. Though his contract as Baby Bear meant that from time to time he would be forced to endure the painful affections of Daddy Bear and Macho Bear, he slept in Murder Bear’s bed almost exclusively and even developed an appreciation for his hideous foot odor.
They lived happily ever after, but it doesn’t end there just yet; about three years later a redheaded hiker from Wisconsin got lost up in the Canadian wilderness and wandered into the Bears’ clearing. Skwisgaar was out back, sharpening the chainsaw belts when he smelled an unfamiliar smell and went up front to investigate.
“Ey!” called the stranger. “How ya doin’? Th’ name’s Pickles. I’m kinda lost n’ I was jest wond’rin’ if I ked use yer phone.”
Baby Bear smiled and wiped his greasy hands on his flannel shirt. “We don’t gots no phones,” he said charmingly, “but if yous come insides, dere’s a couples guys dat coulds fix yous up just rights . . .”