The Purple Crown: Part 1

- Horndog D -

Fatigue spreads a pulsing ache across Eric's forehead, the glare of the monitor suddenly becoming uncomfortably bright. He blinks moisture over his eyes, the grid of faces briefly blurring into smudges of color. The details return a moment later, and he is again staring at a small selection of the hundreds of photos of young women, an assortment of species as diverse as one could imagine, yet each of the many faces appearing inexplicably similar in the way they smile. Something in their eyes feels fake to Eric, as if the whole system down to the compatibility rating displayed beside each portrait is nothing more than an elaborate lie designed to get his money.

The pig leans back in his chair and massages the pale pink skin of his temples until he spots an icon flashing on the screen. He clicks it to enlarge the chat window where the lemur has responded. She asks about his opinion of Jackson Pollock.

Eric's anxiety multiplies with every keystroke as he types a response. He initiated a conversation with the young woman on a whim, for no other reason than because she was online. Despite a 74% compatibility rating between them, art was the only remotely shared interest he spotted upon hurriedly scanning her profile. He figured the topic would make a good icebreaker, but in twenty minutes of exchanging messages they've yet to talk about anything else. "Pollock is one of my favorites! I especially like his early stuff." Satisfied with the way his message sounds when read aloud, Eric hits send. He quickly clicks open a new window and types Jackson Pollock into a search engine. The images that come up look to him like nothing but chaotic splashes of paint thrown angrily against a canvas. He winces, wondering if the lemur was setting a trap for him.

The conversation drags on for several more minutes before the woman invents a polite excuse to log off for the evening. Eric is mostly relieved, but can't quite manage to shake the sense of disappointment lurking in his subconscious.

The sight of the clock reading a quarter to midnight intensifies his displeasure. His index finger slaps the mouse button to close the profile page he spent the majority of the evening filling out. "There's a Saturday night well spent," he says to no one.

His joints stiff and sore from sitting, Eric grunts as he carries himself into the bathroom of his apartment. He strips naked at a lethargic pace, hanging each piece of clothing on the back of the door save for his briefs, which he tosses blindly into a small wicker hamper. The mirror above the sink fills with the critical gaze of his reflection. He peers closer, confirming his suspicion that he's past due for a haircut. Combing back his bangs with his fingers, Eric wrinkles the inverted heart shape of his snout. The roundness of his cheeks takes him by surprise. He's only been off his diet for less than two weeks—eleven days, to be precise.

Eric stands back to take stock of himself. He's never been the athletic type, but he at least tries to stay somewhat in shape and has thus far been successful to the extent of avoiding the portly figure so common among members of his species. Now, though, he sees the pig in the mirror with a noticeable bulge expanding across his belly. Upon closer inspection, his breasts and thighs seem to have swollen as well. All at once, he feels disgusting. Everything about him seems to droop in a way that gives the impression the glass is reflecting his emotional state more than his physical self.

No wonder she left, he thinks.

Eleven days have passed since Eric last saw Charlotte. A mere three days after their breakup, he'd had the misfortune of running into the greyhound at a coffee shop downtown, where she sat talking with her new boyfriend. Fate twisting the knife.

Eric sighs as he sits on the toilet. Despite his misery, he can't be angry with Charlotte, even after she failed to exhibit the slightest trace of remorse or sentimentality over the end of their relationship. After all, why would she feel bad? She broke things off with a chubby loser in order to pursue a strikingly handsome timber wolf who looks as though he could bench press at least as much as Eric weighs. Charlotte had no reason to be depressed for successfully making a smart trade.

No, the one deserving of his animosity is the wolf. Titus, he thinks he remembers Charlotte calling him. Eric knows with doubtless certainty the guy is bad news—a glib playboy who obviously uses his good looks to seduce innocent young women away from their adoring partners in order to claim them as another tally mark in a long series of loveless conquests. The way he had his hands all over her in the coffee shop... It was shameful.

The black fog in Eric's mind begins to evaporate under the piercing heat of resentment. His cock swells above his nuts dangling over the porcelain bowl. He hasn't had sex in over a month, and here the conniving wolf is probably railing his girlfriend at the very moment. He can see with brutal clarity the image of them dancing together in a hip club, Charlotte's delicate mannerisms becoming increasingly sloppy as the prick pours drink after drink down her throat until she's asking him—practically begging him right there in public—to take her back to his place and fuck her giddy brains out. The wolf, Titus, struts with her clinging drunkenly to his arm, his face the look of predestined victory. His shirt flaps open in the night breeze to show off his chest of silver fur molded to the shape of muscles as hard as a marble sculpture. The crotch of his pants tight against his stride like a fat fist trying to punch out through the material.

"Bastard," Eric whispers. He strokes his cock with both eyes shut, imagining his Charlotte sprawled giggling across silk sheets as the wolf looms above her. The thieving canine, his dick is the size of a porn star's, the thick shaft jutting out from his abdomen at a perfect right angle. His balls hang like furry plums ripe and heavy with virile seed. Not that he'll bother to slip on a rubber; no, an alpha male like him won't sacrifice pleasure for the sake of saving his latest captivation the cost of a morning-after pill.

The thought of the wolf going bareback sends a kind of tingling itch crawling down the middle of Eric's back that whirls through his coiled tail. His breathing quickens and he masturbates more aggressively. His thoughts fill with the image of Titus grinning as he plows Charlotte deep into the mattress. Screams of feminine ecstasy provide the soundtrack to flashing visions of the wolf thrusting, his back arched and heaving, fangs dripping saliva, heavy balls swinging, fur bristling like storm clouds, his tail flicking droplets of sweat, the slick heat of his body, the earthy scent of musk as he fucks, a thunderous roar signaling climax, triumphant as he claims another young body for himself.

Eric tenses and squeezes down on the head of his cock, expecting his cum to dribble out into the bowl of water beneath him. The intensity of his orgasm snaps his shoulder blades together and shoots electricity down his legs, his load firing out in thick strands that overshoot the rim of the toilet seat to land across the linoleum. Waves of agonizing pleasure course through him, until at last he slumps forward panting heavily. "G'ah... Fuck..."

Minutes pass before Eric can summon the strength to stand. He tears off an arm length of toilet paper to clean his mess off the floor, then trudges listlessly into the shower. The spray of warm water falling over him draws out an exhausted sigh. He'd give anything to be able to sleep in tomorrow.

*  *  *

"C'mon, buddy!" Ronan calls over his shoulder. "Try and keep up!"

Eric grits his teeth and picks up the pace, trying to ignore the searing burn in his calves. Despite the pain, a part of him is glad he agreed to come out. The morning air is clean and crisp, and the faint smell of wet leaves helps clear some of the cobwebs from his head. "Just keep moving," he reminds himself in a whisper, alternating his focus between the colorful autumn scenery and the swishing black tail of the panther running half a dozen steps in front of him.

They pass another jogger, the first one Eric has spotted since they arrived at the park. The golden retriever glances in their direction, and Ronan gives him a little wave. Typical Ronan. Always making friends, even with strangers out for a morning jog.

"When's the last time you went out for a run? Man, you're in shit shape." Ronan grins as he speaks, but Eric suspects there's real concern lurking behind the innocuous jab. Nor is it completely unwarranted; if Ronan hadn't invited him out, Eric would most likely still be in his pajamas in front of the TV, waiting for noon to roll around so he could crack open a beer without feeling too guilty about it. And then he would think about Charlotte, and after the second or third beer he'd consider calling her. After the fifth, he might actually pick up the phone and scroll to her name in his contacts, briefly alternating between wanting to call the number and wanting to delete it before ultimately doing neither.

Truth be told, when Ronan showed up at his door, two steaming lattes in hand and looking ridiculously like an Abercrombie & Fitch model even in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, Eric had been tempted to make up an excuse. 'It's too cold out,' or 'I think I'm coming down with that stomach thing that's going around.' What convinced him in the end wasn't Ronan's uncanny ability to see straight through his bullshit, but the panther's obvious, unfiltered enthusiasm, as if he was genuinely excited to simply go for a run and spend some time with his buddy.

Eric realizes he hasn't answered Ronan's question, but his friend doesn't prod. In a silent display of acceptance, Ronan slows his pace until the two of them are running side by side, only the rhythmic sounds of heavy breathing and their feet slapping against the gravel disturbing the peaceful quiet.

"So how's that dating site you were going to check out?"

Even though he's been expecting it, the question still makes Eric's stomach sink. "Have you been talking to my mom?"

Ronan laughs. "What?"

"I've gotten the 'you've got to get back out there and find someone' speech twice in the last week. She's always telling me to settle down, like I'm running out of time or something. I'm only twenty-nine. Can't I just enjoy the single life for a while?" He aims a finger at his friend. "Besides, I don't give you any shit for never dating."

Deep down, Eric knows his statement is only partly true. Back in college, it often happened that girls far out of his league befriended him for the purpose of being introduced to his "handsome roommate"—only to have Ronan either dismiss or completely ignore them. Eric delivered more than a few lectures about game, but in the end he never did confirm if Ronan was extremely picky or simply oblivious to the girls' intentions.

"Whoa," Ronan says, lifting his hands protectively. "I'm just asking, here. No need to get so defensive. I hate seeing you like this, is all."

"Like what?"

Ronan slows his stride until the two of them are standing still. "Dude, seriously? You look miserable."

"I haven't been sleeping well," Eric mutters between gulps of breath.

"Uh-huh," Ronan says. His tone makes it clear he knows Eric is feeding him bullshit. "Well, you gotta take care of yourself, man. Do something to put what's-her-face out of your mind. Treat yourself!"

"Sure."

"I'm serious. I know this place, sort of like a spa—"

"Dude, no offense, but the whole beauty treatment thing was more Charlotte's cup of tea."

An impish smirk creeps onto Ronan's face. "I don't think she'd like this one. They've got Slavic beauties working there who specialize in these great, really intense massages. You know the kind I mean."

"Mh," Eric grunts, not really listening. He thinks about the last massage he got, a depressing affair that was more painful than pleasurable. Charlotte had promised to give him a good rubdown for his birthday, but she hadn't been into it at all. There was no happy ending that night—and suddenly he realizes what Ronan is hinting at. "Oh. Oh! Dude. Aren't those kinds of places... y'know, really sleazy?"

"Not this one. It's a bit off the grid, but it's more like an exclusive club. I go there all the time."

This bit of information takes Eric by surprise. "I don't know, man."

Ronan fishes out his wallet and searches through a clump of business cards stuffed between the folds. The card he hands to Eric features an overabundance of whitespace, nothing except a name and address printed in a simple font on one side. Eric's eyebrows raise as he reads the name of the business. "Purple Crown Massage."

As if reading his friend's thoughts, Ronan chuckles lightly and says, "Subtle, no?" Without waiting for a response, he puts an arm around Eric's shoulder and continues, "Don't worry so much. No one's gonna know about it. I've been going for years and you never found out, right? We can go tonight if you like."

"You're coming, too?" Somehow, the thought of Ronan joining him puts Eric at ease.

"Of course," the panther says with a grin. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, buddy."

*  *  *

The sound of cloven hooves clacking against concrete echoes through the parking garage, Eric's every step sounding to him like the faint call of some haunted specter. Although the garage is only one level below the street, the stagnant air makes the space feel deep underground, the sensation that miles of compacted earth hang between him and daylight. He takes another look back at his car parked in a shadowed corner of the lot. Even though Ronan assured him the place is exclusive and discreet, Eric would rather not park his car right out front where it might be recognized by an acquaintance or coworker—as unlikely as that sounds, even to him.

Eric exits the yawning mouth of the garage to find the sky burned an ominous shade of crimson above the city. Scattered clouds floating in the twilight glow orange like monstrous balls of fire. A cold breeze makes Eric shiver and stuff his hands down the pockets of his jacket. The streets are mostly empty, only a few people with reasons to be out and about on a chilly Sunday evening. Their stray, disinterested glances seem somehow judgmental. Eric reminds himself there's nothing wrong with what he's doing, but his own reassurance is unconvincing.

With his heart beating loudly in his throat and his stomach full of butterflies, he thinks of the time in college when Ronan convinced him to buy pot from some guy behind a gas station. The terrifying thrill of that forbidden act proved a better high than the weak buzz he got from the weed itself. He smiles as he remembers Ronan laughing while they shared a clumsily-rolled joint and nearly hacked up a lung with every overzealous toke.

Thoughts of the panther's shenanigans both during and after their college days ease the tightness in Eric's chest, if only slightly. Turning his gaze up from the sidewalk to the surrounding downtown landscape makes him shrink with loneliness. He regrets agreeing to Ronan's plan that the two of them meet in the spa area after his massage. Eric thought nothing of it at the time, but walking against the current of cold wind by himself, he can't help but wonder if this is a test of his resolve. He imagines Ronan sitting in some back room studying a clock up on the wall, eager to find out whether or not his friend will chicken out at the last moment, hoping to offer his congratulations but very aware that he may end up calling him the next day to berate him for his cowardice.

Eric mentally rehearses what he might say upon receiving such a call until the sidewalk under him abruptly changes to asphalt. He looks up at the crosswalk leading to a sheer wall of old brick buildings. A pulsating rush of nausea flares in his stomach as he realizes the nearest building marks his destination.

It requires no small amount of effort to make his legs carry him across the street to the stairwell leading down to the entrance. The door is nondescript, a simple rectangle of tinted glass printed with the symbol of a violet crown and the words Purple Crown Massage in lettering too small to read from any further than a few feet away.

That the business maintains such a low profile both comforts and alarms Eric. Even if someone was watching his every move as his paranoia suggests, they wouldn't have a clue he was entering a seedy massage parlor unless they followed him inside. At the same time, the fact that the place hides itself so well in plain sight makes the whole situation feel vaguely sinister. Subconsciously, the secrecy of it excites Eric more than he wants to admit.

The darkened pane of glass holds the image of a fidgeting pig for some time before Eric swallows a deep breath and rings the doorbell. In the few seconds it takes before he's buzzed in, he considers turning tail and running; only the thought of having to face a disappointed Ronan keeps Eric in place. His palm is clammy when he grasps the handle to push the door open.

Crossing the threshold elicits the bizarre sensation of walking through a portal to a dramatically different location in time and space. The grimy, decaying exterior of the building is entirely unlike the room in which Eric finds himself standing. The office is clean, well-lit. The floor appears to be marble, potted plants sit atop tables in the corners, and tasteful paintings decorate the royal blue walls. A large reception desk stretches across the far wall, a young ferret with frosted blonde hair smiling warmly from behind a polished slab of black granite.

Eric inhales the faint aroma of incense and blinks. His expectations thoroughly shattered, he again considers leaving. He could mutter something about having the wrong address and no one would stop him if he tried to leave. The words stall in his throat. Beneath the fear and doubt, he's intrigued. To think that such a classy establishment would offer such lascivious services... At that, Eric feels the first tingles of excitement down in his pants, a stirring of his dick, and all his misgivings start to melt away.

The receptionist softly clears his throat, bringing Eric back to himself.

"Uh, yes, hi," Eric starts, then falters. The proper way to state his intentions eludes him. "I'd, uh, like to get a m-massage, please," he mumbles, inwardly cursing himself for sounding like a complete tool.

The ferret smiles. "Certainly, sir."

The following few minutes pass in a blur. Eric endures yet another shock to the system when he pays for the massage, thankful he decided to bring more cash that he thought he'd need. Dazed from a mixture of terror and elation, he robotically follows a hallway according to the receptionist's instructions and enters a locker room, all without ever seeing another living soul. He undresses quickly, mashing his clothes into a locker before donning a towel that covers less of him than he'd like. A corridor extending from the rear entrance to the locker room leads him to another large hallway. Eric follows the signs on the wall to the massage rooms, passing three closed doors before entering the only one left open.

A rich blend of fragrances wafts above a shelf lined with bottles of scented oils, the combination of lavender and eucalyptus and vanilla making Eric's head swim. A massage table sits in the center of the room. Unable to decide whether to lie face-down or face-up, he opts for sitting on the edge, keeping an eye on the open door, hands crossed in his lap to cover his budding erection. The nerves remain, but they are gradually dissolving into excitement. Eric's face cracks unwillingly into a smile as he realizes he's actually going through with this.

The pig's imagination runs wild with mental pictures of Ronan's Slavic beauties. He imagines svelte arctic foxes with eyes the color of ice and breasts the size of melons. His cock swells even more, becoming rock hard under the towel. Exactly how long it's been since someone else touched his dick, Eric tries to remember but can't zero in a particular date. Secretly, he's always liked getting handjobs, though the very mention of them offended Charlotte. He shakes his head, first realizing he's thinking of Charlotte again—and then, surprisingly, that he'd rather not think of her right now.

A shape appears in the doorway.

As Eric looks up, his jaw drops. There's no big-breasted ice queen; only a hulking brown bear. The man has to be north of six feet tall with a frame so wide that Eric wonders if he'd fit through the doorway without having to shift his shoulders.

Panic sends Eric's pulse skyrocketing. He knows he's done something wrong—violated some obscure rule of etiquette no one bothered to warn him about—and is now staring up at a bouncer sent in to throw him out on his naked ass. "I j-just— I'm just here for a massage."

The bear's broad face pulls up into a toothy smile. "Massage, yes!" His voice is full, hearty, with more than a trace of an accent—Russian, it sounds like. "I'm here to give you massage. Please, lie down."

Eric tries to swallow, but his mouth and throat have gone dry. His vision darkens around the edges, and all of a sudden he's cold all over. It's a misunderstanding, he thinks as his dick shrivels in his lap. That's all! A misunderstanding.

The large bear enters the room and strides toward the massage table. His jet black hair is styled in a buzz cut that blends almost seamlessly into the dense brown fur covering his entire body. When he steps closer, Eric can see the male's massive chest straining against his tight-fitting shirt. He seems to be made almost entirely of muscle with only enough fat to fill the in-between spaces like mortar in a brick wall. The physique of a pro wrestler or a circus strongman. Eric notes all of this with an odd kind of detachment. Clearly this isn't happening. This can't be happening.

The giant puts a meaty palm on Eric's shoulder, and the sheer weight of it jolts Eric back to reality. Shit, this really is happening. He struggles to find words. "Look, uh..."

"Mikhail," the bear offers, his hand still firmly in place on Eric's shoulder.

Eric bites the inside of his lip and stares at the hand. Like everything about the bear, it's huge and muscular, each finger tipped with a scary-looking black claw. The thought occurs to him that this guy, Mikhail, could probably quite literally tear him in half. Not that he necessarily would, but he could, and that strikes Eric as something he should maybe consider while thinking about how to proceed.

"Shy guy, eh?" Mikhail says. "Don't worry so much! Lie down, relax!"

Eric clears his throat, wants to protest again, explain why he shouldn't be here. All that comes out of his mouth is a sort of deflating hiss. He questions whether the feeling of increasing weight on his spine is all in his head or if Mikhail is in fact pressing down harder on his shoulder. If he doesn't lie down of his own accord, will this walking tower of muscle force him down? Eric decides he doesn't want to risk it. A massage is a massage, after all. When they arrive at the handjob part, he'll simply tell Mikhail there's been a mistake and he's not into that, no hard feelings. Easy.

Eric pivots his body over the table and lies back, a slight tremor in his limbs as he tries to calm himself.

"Turn around, please. On your stomach."

Eric does as he's told. He shuts his eyes, sighs, and hopes for the ordeal to be over soon. In the back of his mind, he files a mental note to kill Ronan. His body jerks involuntarily when he feels a hand touching his back.

"Shh, shh," Mikhail says, and Eric isn't sure how he feels about being talked to like a skittish feral horse. "Relax."

Mikhail's strong hands, warm and slick with massage oil, gently but firmly stroke and knead Eric's shoulders. The sensation saps the strength from the pig's neck, making his face settle into the cushioned hole at the head of the table. After a while, despite himself, Eric starts to relax. Before too long he's even letting out small, involuntary moans. He never realized a massage could feel so good, especially when administered by another male. Even when that other male just happens to be a huge Russian bear weighing in the vicinity of two hundred and fifty pounds.

Fears of an iron grip wringing a trail of bruises across his body leave Eric's mind as Mikhail works. The bear's technique is a perfect compromise between power and precision, the pressure of his hands always strong but never painful. Fingers pull the tension from his muscles with impeccable dexterity, those sharp claws never so much as grazing his skin.

Eric flinches again when Mikhail's hands move over his rear to start working on his legs, but he slides back into a state of bliss as soon as a pair of thumbs set to massaging out knots in the back of his thighs. Mikhail's hands work their magic up and down one leg, lingering briefly on the towel covering Eric's ass before moving to the other.

After a few more minutes, Eric feels as though he's melting into the massage table. He can still register what's being done to his body, and he remembers it's a man doing these things, but that fact becomes more abstract and irrelevant by the second. There's only his body and the rippling sensations of his muscles turning into liquid. Everything feels so good, so right. It's no surprise when his erection returns full force, throbbing under him even harder than when he was expecting a female masseuse.

During Eric's retreat into a euphoric haze, Mikhail manages to stealthily remove the towel to allow his hands access to the pig's bare behind. Another moan trickles out of Eric's parted lips as hands rhythmically knead his ass cheeks, and another each time giant thumbs gently graze his balls. After some time of this, Mikhail expands the range of his movements to trace his thumbs over Eric's perineum, applying pressure while cupping Eric's buttocks in his strong, warm palms.

Eric moans louder, his embarrassment rapidly dwindling. He's never been touched like this before, even by a woman. But it feels so good, and that's all that matters. His contentment grants the sense of privacy. No one needs to know another man was massaging his ass—although, if more guys knew how amazing it felt, there might not be an issue.

Mikhail lifts his hands and says, "Turn over for me, please."

Again, Eric does as he's told, this time with an observable eagerness. Despite his earlier nervousness, the back massage has convinced him that he's in capable hands. The extent of how much he's enjoying the experience horrifies him on some level, but the fear is small and insignificant. It shrinks smaller still when Eric feels Mikhail's freshly oiled hands pressing down on his chest.

Without the towel covering him, Eric is very aware of his dick standing at attention. Mikhail doesn't acknowledge it, his focus aimed squarely under his hands as he rubs over Eric's chest, shoulders, arms, and wrists. Eric ascends to fresh heights of physical awareness, a newfound appreciation for inhabiting a body made of flesh and blood and nerve endings capable of delivering such marvelous euphoria. All thoughts of making excuses to leave early vanish from his mind. Only mild shock accompanies the realization that he's actually looking forward to the moment his cock receives the same kind of attention as the rest of his body.

After what feels like hours, Mikhail's industrious hands descend from Eric's chest, traveling slowly over his stomach and down his hips. The bear's thumbs trace the inside of Eric's thighs, sending tingles down his spine and through his hard cock. Once again, he feels furry, oil-soaked fingers grazing his plump balls. He squirms in place, his breathing quickening. He can't take it anymore.

"Please," Eric moans as he looks up to Mikhail's face. "Can you... you know..." He glances down at his erection in what he hopes is a meaningful way.

Mikhail smiles. "Oh-ho! Not so shy anymore, I see."

Eric can feel his cheeks burn, but knows it's too late to backpedal. He averts his gaze elsewhere in the room, watching from the corner of his eye as Mikhail turns away from the massage table. A loud snap jerks his attention back to the bear, who squeezes a glob of massage oil into a latex glove on his right hand. Eric figures it's a matter of hygiene, saving Mikhail from having to touch his bare genitals. His cock twitches.

Mikhail moves back to the table and resumes the massage roughly where he left off, pressing both hands down on Eric's abdomen before gradually moving to his hips and thighs. Eric suspects he's being coaxed to relax again, and it works. He closes his eyes, allows himself to drift.

The press of a gloved finger against his anus pulls him back to earth at the speed of a lightning bolt. "Whoa!" His back arches above the table as a whistling rush of air sucks into his nostrils.

Again Mikhail makes a sound better reserved for calming down skittish horses. Eric is about to protest when Mikhail grabs the shaft of his cock and starts gently stroking it. The combination of having his dick massaged and something blunt drawing circles against his asshole is like nothing Eric has ever felt before. The sensation is utterly alien—and, once he progresses past the initial shock of being touched there, pleasurable beyond anything he's ever experienced.

"Whoa," Eric says again, the word coming as more of a sigh this time. He leans back, and as his body relaxes, Mikhail's finger probes his anus. Eric's breath halts in his chest, but Mikhail is clearly experienced. For all his imposing strength, the bear doesn't push; instead, he keeps moving his finger in gentle circular motions while his other hand squeezes up and down his client's oil-slick shaft.

Small tears form in the corners of Eric's eyes as he fights to keep them open. "Fuuuck. That feels so good..."

"Deep breath," Mikhail tells him.

Almost before Eric can comply, Mikhail slides his lubricated finger knuckle-deep into the pig's puckered hole. Eric gasps aloud and writhes against the table, not in discomfort but in sheer ecstasy. The thick ursine finger inside him moves in a "come hither" motion, raking across his prostate. Instinctively, his legs pull up to allow Mikhail better access.

A lump of pressure builds steadily in the base of Eric's cock. The feeling reminds him of being close to cumming, but it lacks the urgency he expects. The sumptuous waves of pleasure arrive one after another, seemingly unending. Eric looks down and is surprised to see his dick leaking cum into a small puddle collected in the dip of his belly. He glances at Mikhail, sees his concentrating expression and how the muscles in his enormous arm shift as he milks the fleshy pink cock in his hand. Eric throws his head back. The image of the bear jerking him off is achingly erotic.

The orgasm-like feeling in the base of his dick swells and expands across his abdomen. Eric's heart punches against the wall of his chest, he can't lie still, and he fears his balls are about to pull up into his throat. Still the glorious pressure builds. He groans loudly, his hooves shake in midair as his hands grab at the massage table—and just like that, rope after rope of cum surges out of his cock. He shoots further than he's ever ejaculated before, strings of jizm falling across his chest to his forehead. Eric barely notices as the force of his orgasm throws him back against the table. He can't think, can't speak, can't even breathe. His every muscle clenches and unclenches like a gigantic invisible fist squeezing the life out of him.

Mikhail continues lightly jerking Eric's cock long after its final spurt, not ceasing to apply stimulation until he's certain the orgasmic spasms have subsided. Even as the pig's limbs fall limp, parts of him still twitch sporadically.

"Aah! Ah-haaaaa..." Eric's mouth falls open when his jaw finally unclenches. Fat drops of warm cum trickle down his face and neck. "F-Fuck. That was... Oh my god."

"Very good!" Mikhail announces. He peels off the glove and deposits it in a waste basket, then washes his hands at the sink in the corner while Eric attempts to catch his breath. After a moment, the large bear walks back to the massage table and reassuringly pats Eric on the shoulder, pointing at a door to his right. "You can take shower now." Eric tries to reply, but he's still spent and out of breath. Mikhail flashes a wide grin. "Whenever you are ready, of course." He pats Eric on the shoulder once more before making his way out, closing the door gently behind him.

For several minutes Eric lies still, staring up at the ceiling without really seeing anything. He wipes at his face, and his hand comes back sticky with cum. He looks down at his body to see more cum mingled with massage oil. "Maybe a shower isn't a bad idea," he thinks aloud.

Climbing off the massage table proves a challenge, his limbs feeling like tubes of gelatin. He leans against the table for a few moments before he trusts his unsteady legs enough to make his way to the door Mikhail pointed out. A small tiled room lies on the other side, a shower positioned between the door to the massage room and another labeled as an entrance to the spa area. He appreciates all the more the way the building is designed, grateful that no one has to see him staggering through the hallways plastered in his own spunk.

Eric turns the knob and closes his eyes to let the hot water run over his body. A shiver of pleasure rips through him like a kind of aftershock. Thinking about his present circumstances, the entire situation feels utterly surreal. The orgasm he just had was more intense than anything he ever experienced with any of his girlfriends, Charlotte included.

He groans. Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. Why does she keep popping into his head!? Because he keeps letting her, of course. Eric nods his head under the running water, his resolve absolute. No longer will he allow her memory to make him miserable. Ronan was right.

Ronan.

Eric grins as water cascades down his face, washing away strands of cum. He's going to need to have a little talk with his friend.