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Of His Flesh the Mystery Sing

Life's most appropriate questions forever arise at life's most inappropriate times. So it is that I, about to slide my raw cock into this hot bear at an orgy--thick with muscle and fat, he has a soft, cuddly belly framed by broad, powerful shoulders, though it's his face that really turns me on: the cutest little rainbows mark his cheeks, and his eyes are open, eager, and, I notice with excitement, a little bit afraid of me--think of the Catholic saint and philosopher, Thomas Aquinas.

I'm sorry.

Now, I assure you that, despite my grey muzzle, I am not yet senile. My brain is not firing through long-forgotten connections between Aquinas and bear-fucking from my university days. And, no, I did not think about Aquinas because he's the saint known for his pillowy corpulence--don't be crude. No, no, I thought of Aquinas because Thomas Aquinas was, like me, a giant pervert who made sex a big part of his life. Though, of course, right now he would be aroused by anger instead of, well, arousal.

But this is really not the time to think of St. Tom. This sexy, beefy bear lay on his back, his legs rising into the air. His eyes gaze into mine, begging for my cock. And, before we started making out, when we cuddled naked on the mat and discussed art, politics, and video games, he told me how he wanted me to trample him like the bull I am while everyone watched him become mine.

Kinky bear. Almost as perverted as me. How often does an old, depraved exhibitionist like me get this opportunity?

I simply cannot pass it up. Besides, he told me he was just visiting from Vancouver, and flies back tomorrow. Could I really hold myself responsible for ruining the last day of his vacation by excusing myself because I need to think about philosophy? It sounds fake, even to my ears, and I'm the one who wants to do it.

I suppress a sigh. Despite it all, I do want to go to a quiet place and think about Thomas Aquinas.

Why don't himbo potions exist in real life?

If only Emily Post had written about orgies: "When one has found oneself within an orgy, it behooves oneself to demonstrate the utmost respect for the sexuality of each fur there. No matter how bizarre a neighbours' sexual practices may appear, be they placing thick steel rods within their urethra or consuming the breast milk of their partner, it is the hallmark of manners to focus on the sexual practices that bring one pleasure, and judge not the practices of others.

"Of course, etiquette must, if it is to be of more than trifling use, include ethics as well as manners; thus, a fur of good character may, when observing a scene in which consent appears in question, ensure said consent and mutual enjoyment. Beyond that, however, furs of integrity focus on the pleasure of themselves and their partners, whatever form that may take. Now, a fur of good breeding, being wide-read in philosophy, may think of St. Thomas Aquinas during the orgy, and feel a need to indulge in some navel-gazing, but he must simply suck it up and go through with fucking his bear."

I tried to think of any way I could get out of this. I could, of course, think of St. Tom enough that I go soft and then plead erectile dysfunction. That could work, actually: then he would properly blame me for the failure, and, since he is from out of town, my reputation here would be mostly intact. Though would he take that personally, as though I were repulsed by him? And who else would he be fucked by?

Let's face it: this is a furry orgy. I'm one of the only tops here, and the few other ones already have a line of eager bottoms. He would be left alone in the middle of an orgy, feeling the self-loathing of ostracization.

Such a result is unconscionable. Alas, I have no recourse.

I must fuck him.

Suppressing a sigh, I place his legs on my shoulders and then lean in to lock my lips on his. As I grab his wrists and pin them above his head, I push thoughts of St. Tom to the back of my head, and slide into him.

He gives out the sweetest sounds a fur can: the husky breath of anticipation as my cock first presses against him, the slight hiss of pain as my flat cockhead works its way inside him, and then the broad moan of pleasure as his ass opens to me and his eyes and head roll back.

His hips arch up, willing my cock to slide in deeper and deeper, all the way to one's fundamental meaning, which is what Aquinas thought generated morality. You see, Plato had demonstrated that good must be separate from God. If God created good, then it was arbitrary, but if good existed outside God, then God was not absolute.

Aquinas's solution was ingenious: good is separate from God--true--but a thing is good when it acts in accordance with its purpose. Since God created us and our world, God decides our purpose and thus what moral action is.

Thus, gay sex is evil because our genitals are made for procreation and gay sex is not procreation (as much as I wish it were), and therefore the Catholic Church's odd position on homosexuality: you can be gay, but not have gay sex. Only when you act against your purpose are you evil, like me slamming my cock inside this bear....

Shit. I had forgotten.

I look down at the bear. Thankfully, my many years of fucking seem to have allowed me to do it on autopilot--age does have its advantages--though I've begun to go a bit soft. I start fucking him harder, driving my hips against his ass. I lean forward and bite his neck; the fur parts, and my flat teeth sink deep into his tender flesh. He yelps with pain, fear--and arousal. Then I moo into his ear, telling him that he's mine, that, tonight, I own his ass, that if right action is action in accordance with one's purpose, then in serving and obeying me, he is acting morally, whatever Aquinas thinks.

I am not thinking of Aquinas from some latent homophobia; my conservative upbringing has been fully quashed, thank you, and I have been indulging without guilt for many years now. To me, St. Tom's condemnation is as quaint as flat Earth preachers are to an astronaut.

And yet St. Tom, for all his silly conflation of is and ought, had something we do not.

No, I don't mean faith; I'm no Matthew Arnold, who experienced a taste of freedom and recoiled into a despairing, reified nihilism. I recognise that the absence of heaven means that this amazing world is no longer a mere testing-ground for an afterlife, but a beautiful, vibrant, living planet with boundless pleasures and meanings.

Still, for Saint Thomas Aquinas, sex was something magical. It brought us closer to what is good in the universe (provided it was for procreation). We were using our bodies the way they were intended to be used, and there was nothing more important than that. Fucking was a sacred act.

Of course the very idea is absurd, and remains an embarrassment to the Catholic Church, which still endorses it. Under Aquinas's theory, using a golf club to save a person who is about to fall off a cliff would be horribly immoral, as a golf club's purpose is hitting a ball. How dare you use it to save someone's life! That's as bad as me using my cock to fuck a cute beefy bear, and of course I would never do--DAMMIT!

Look, brain. I get that you're excited by Aquinas. But you can be excited by him tomorrow. Or even tonight! Right now, I just need you to get onboard with me fucking this bear. Everyone else is having fun; they fuck and watch others fuck while they listen to the symphony of sighs, suction, and flesh against flesh. And this bear's sweet moans turn into a hot grunt every time thrust. He's arching his back more and more. His hands, still pinned by mine, grab my wrists.

"Take me," he growls. "I'm your little slut, big bull."

Fuck. He knows how to get me hard.

But there is something about St. Tom's wacky ideas that just won't let me focus on this bear.

Sure, St. Tom was an idiot, but is this it for me now? After this, will I simply go home with drained balls, a fond memory, and a twitter handle as though this has no affect on who I am?

Have I discarded St. Tom's ethics to embrace mere hedonism?

Some part of my brain notices that the lust is starting to go out of his eyes. I've been too wrapped up in my thoughts to be a good top--I've just been mechanically thrusting like some fucking machine--and now I'm letting him down.

Is there some other top I can pass him off to, claiming--not untruthfully--to have a cuck fetish? No, the only other furs around me are other bottoms, watching and stroking themselves, hoping for some bullcock once this bear's done.

I must redeem myself.

I bring his arms together above his head and pin him with one hand. My other hand grabs him by the neck; my keratinous fingers dig into his skin. I squeeze, and watch the pain, excitement, and fear come together in his eyes. He's struggling to breathe; he knows he's mine to use.

"Your life is mine now, cub," I low, but I force it and it comes out affected. I sound like one of those insecure leather Daddies who don't have the confidence that they will be obeyed, and so they shout every order like a child having a tantrum.

"Yes, Daddy," He breathes, and that voice is so sexy: all husky because he can barely speak through my grip.

Well, I guess it wasn't overacted that badly, then.

I squeeze his neck harder; he tries to gasp, but almost nothing comes out. His eyes begin to glaze over as his world blackens and is reduced to my cock slamming into him. Then I let go and the blood flows back into his brain as my hand slides down his body and rests on his balls. His eyes begin to refocus, and just as he's about to come to, I crush his balls. He yelps, and I see a few heads turn to us.

"Everyone knows you're my bitch," I say with a leer.

"I'm your bitch, Daddy," he says, his voice hoarse with pain and pleasure because of course it is true that pleasure is an important part of life. I'm no ascetic: they renounce pleasure and take pride instead. There are enough real evils to resist that I need not wear a hair shirt to make more.

But have I really devoted so much of my life to mere pleasure? The slings, the dildoes, the harnesses, the restraints, the grunting workouts, the hours spent on apps... all for a few thrusts in half-light?

Aristotle said that to exert ourselves and work for amusement is silly; instead, we amuse ourselves and relax so that we may exert ourselves. And yet I exert myself for sex. Masturbation is relaxing; I lie back after a long day to reward myself with an explosion of pleasure. Sex feels more like finishing a project: it fulfills me.

Am I just shallow? Despite my grey fur, am I just a sex-crazed bull who can't separate his hormones from his goals and dreams? Though I must confess, the grey fur has helped my sex life. All the cute cubs call me Daddy now, just like that sexy bear did while I was fucking him at that orgy. That had been fun, despite the fact that I had gone on some weird philosophical tangent during it. My brain, sometimes. It just won't shut up!

Something about that orgy reverberates in the back of my mind. I try to let it pass--this is my time to philosophise. I finished the orgy and left to.... I can't remember, so I open my eyes, and there is the bear, looking up at me, eyes pleading.

Well, fuck.

"I want to carry your calves inside me, Daddy," he says, and damn if he doesn't seem to know all my fetishes. Why do I have to be fucking him now?

I lean into him, my hips still rhythmically fucking. I lick his cheek, then moo into his ear, "Daddy's gonna fill your belly with his calves, cub. You're gonna go home knowing Daddy's calves are growing inside you."

His ass clenches around my cock, and damn, that feels good. But it's more than just feeling good: I feelalive.

I really, really wish I was fucking him almost any time but now. Tomorrow! Two hours from now! Yesterday! Every day for the rest of my life!

Let's be honest, though. If I told my friends that I got distracted by a Catholic philosopher during an orgy, they would simply say I reached peak me: "You've heard of distracted driving, but now there's something even more insidious: distracted fucking. Symptoms include unfulfilled bottoms, an inability to finish, and a pompous, boring personality that thinks homophobic, 800 year-old Catholic philosophers are fascinating."

I can't help it. Aquinas is fascinating! He brought natural philosophy--the precursor to science--back into favour after it had been condemned as irreligious. A hundred years before Aquinas, Al-Ghazali had turned the world's most advanced civilization in the world into a scientific backwater, and here Aqunias was dragging the backwards Europeans into the modern age.

I feel alive thinking about Aquinas. Just like I feel alive writing. Just like I felt alive flirting with that cute bear, my cockhead pressing against his ass--before I had the misfortune of thinking of St. Tom. My whole body quivers from brain to toe, and I feel complete. Like I am accomplishing my purpose in this world.

How can I explain that? St. Tom's answer is crazy, and yet here I am with none. Can I just pull a Socrates? "The only true knowledge is knowing you know nothing." There we go. Case closed. I know nothing, and thus have true knowledge. So I can fuck this bear now.

Please, brain? I'll let you read philosophy later!

And yet, even as I push my body to fuck this bear deeper and harder, as my tongue hangs out of my mouth trying desperately to cool me, I feel the answer struggling to come out. My vocal cords vibrate with every hot pant of breath. Half-formed syllables ooze out of my sweat glands. The slap of my balls on his ass hits my ears like the sudden start before the eureka moment. My body and mind are primed for the euphoria of discovery.

And yet I find myself unsatisfied, as though I were so close to cumming inside a gorgeous bear but couldn't finish because I was too busy thinking about St. Tom.

But that would never happen.

Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. What would I miss, if I were to stop having sex? if I devoted all that energy and money to my writing, to learning, to making the world a better place? I would certainly have a lot more time to put into my other goals. Yet I feel that I just wouldn't be as good somehow, that my judgement would be compromised and my energy diminished. But how?

I must consider the possibility that my feelings are misguided, and all this effort really is just for a few moments of hedonistic pleasure. Perhaps the only real downside to sublimating sex is the danger of our bottled-up desires exploding in immoral or unhealthy ways.

Of course, that would be a danger for me. My sex drive is strong, and it's hard to imagine I could give up fucking such a gorgeous bear. I watch his belly swell as his legs squeeze my shoulders. How could I give that up? And his face--unf. His eyes gorge themselves on my big strong body, his admiration of me only interrupted by spasms of pleasure and pain that make his spine and neck arch. I notice a spurt of precum soak the soft fur of his belly; I bring my hand up from his balls and rub it into that strong, wide torso.

I smile to myself; this bear is perfect. And he's mine now. He's gonna go back to Vancouver filled with my calves. But, no, I'm supposed to be thinking of Aquinas and the meaning of life, not this bear! Just let yourself fuck mechanically until--wait, no, didn't I want to forget about Aquinas until later and enjoy the moment? What do I even want anymore?!

I low in frustration and anger, and let go of his hands and belly. I grab his left leg and swing it over my head and horns; for a moment, he pirouettes on my cock before I pop out and his knee comes down on the mat. Suddenly finding himself on all fours, he shrieks in shock and arousal.

But I'm not done yet.

I seize him by the back of his neck and force his muzzle into the pillow. It envelops his head, and he struggles to breathe through the cotton and polyester. I grab his hip with my other hand and hold his ass in the air.

I go to one knee, and try to fix my previous overacting by being calm and confident as I say, "Ready for Daddy to really pound that ass, cub?" But, dammit, I fucked up again. Trying to be more calm, I ended up sounding like I was asking for the time.

But his ass twitches, and he moans so sweetly that I think he's too far gone to notice. He just needs my cock.

I slam my cock deep into him. My hand pulls his ass against me even as I thrust with all my might.

For it is with all my might. I want him to know he's mine. That I am using him for my pleasure.

What an odd sentence.

When I was a shy and awkward young bull, I always bottomed because I was an idiot. Not that bottoms are idiots! Simply me. I bottomed because I wanted to top.

As I said, I was an idiot.

I foolishly assumed everyone wanted to top simply because I did.

Therefore, the proper and moral thing to do was to abnegate my desires and let the other person meet theirs--to do otherwise would be selfish.

I thought of morality as a zero-sum game. For me to make the world better, I must give up things that I want. And, logically, that is what morality looks like. A person who sacrifices for the world and others is a good person. The epitome of logical morality is the hero who charges into the burning orphanage and saves a few more children.

Yes, there are times when sacrifice is called for. But life isn't a zero-sum game; it is a game of matching desire to desire. Try to fuck another top, and we'll both end up miserable. But I want this bear to be my obedient slut, and he wants to be my obedient slut.

Taking my pleasure from him, I enhance his.

Morality is not about restraining our desires for our goals and our morals--we do that and our feelings become a thing of evil, and we lead empty, joyless lives. How can we make the world a better place if we don't bring our joy, our passion, and our love into it?

Morality is about finding what we want--and then finding a way to make the world a better place doing it.

And this crazy world of passions opposing passions, of species and tribes and subcultures, of Doms and subs, gives us the chance to find our purpose. For the diversity of the world means that for every thing that I want, someone else wants me to take it.

And take it I will.

"Daddy's gonna breed you, cub" I growl, for I feel it building in my balls now. Each thrust, the pressure increases, and my cockhead tingles. I pant and pull him into me by his neck and his hip.

Then, with a loud moo that turns the heads of most furs there, I cum, my keratinous fingers digging deep into the bear, slamming his muzzle into the mat, and he growls and squeezes his sphincter, roaring with me. Pleasure--and fulfillment--roll through my body, bucking my hips as the last spurts of cum fill him.

Slowly, my bucking stops, and I collapse on top of him. His hips sink to the floor, and my belly presses into the curve of his back.

There, we rest.

I whisper in his ear--loud enough for our onlookers to hear--"You were such a good cub for Daddy. Made Daddy cum so hard. And you're gonna have so many of Daddy's calves growing inside you as your reward, cub."

"Thank you, Daddy," he whispers. He wags his little stub of a tail, and I feel my oversensitive cockhead, still buried deep inside him, twitch.

I stroke his head softly. "Good cub," I whisper.

I smile. It's an odd smile, and I can't decide if it's selfless and loving or selfish and sadistic. And then I realise.

It's both.