Meyers and Sons Paint and Auto Body
By Papa Werebear and Ursus Major
Ron packed his saddlebags with emergency provisions; protein bars, beef jerky, water, the usual supplies he packed. He COULD forage if he had to, but this allowed him to take care of himself if something happened without having to ditch the bike and go off into the woods to change to hunt down dinner. He made sure he had his travel humidor stocked with a dozen and a half of his favorite cigars, tins of pipe tobacco, a couple of pipes, and matches as well as his lighter. He was set to hit the road. He and Charlie were brothers by virtue of a round-about relationship of their respective daddies. Truth be told, they were more like cousins, but the brotherhood they shared couldn’t be closer if they’d actually had the same daddy.
'Uncle Olaf’, as most of the younger Bears called him, truly WAS Charlie’s brother. The two shared a sire, Haki Magnusson. The great red Bear who had invaded Charlie’s territory all those years ago when the only white men in this country were the Norse, long before Columbus. He’d made a werebear of Charlie from a four footed bear. Olaf was Charlie’s younger brother by many generations having been sired by Haki centuries after. Age differences really didn’t mean that much to werebears, given their near immortality. It was Olaf that he and Charlie were going to meet up with for a gathering of the older Bears. Neither of Charlie’s sons, and none of Ron’s, were truly old enough to attend the “Elder’s Meeting”.
It was held under the cover of being a bear smoke out gathering called 'Gars ‘n’ B’ars which was an event Olaf had started almost forty years ago. There would be plenty of human B’ars with big beards and head to toe fur at the gathering. Unbeknownst to them they would be mingling with shape-shifters, some of them far older than their great-great grandfathers. The werebears truly enjoyed their time with the human Bears and, on occasion, recruited new members for their families from events like this one, or various bike rallies and other bear gatherings.
At Gars ‘n’ B’ars, Ron knew he could count on some regular fuck buddies to attend, ones with which he would enjoy some nice condom clad, hot and rough bear fucking. They all respected his limitations, never asking why he wouldn’t bareback them, and a few had some limitations of their own. The thing Ron and the other werebears usually kept a close eye on was their alcohol consumption, because a wasted werebear might sire unwanted Cubs. Their capacity for alcohol was in the realm of heroic, so they would often outpace any of their human competition. Still, downing an entire fifth of whiskey in a few minutes WOULD make them much less responsible fuckers, as even a werebear would have impaired judgement after that… at least for the next hour or so.
One of Ron’s favorite bears, who would be in attendance at this event, was a man who’d been in the bear porn scene since the early ‘90s and thus was pretty much one of the founders of the genre. The bear world knew him by his porn name ‘Jack Potter’, but Ron knew him as Thom Martin. Ron would have LOVED to have offered Thom the chance to become his Cub, but the man was sadly not kindred, so ineligible for transformation. Cautionary tales abounded about the often disastrous results of changing someone who was not kindred. This did not preclude him from spending a lot of time between the sheets with Thom and his husband Wyatt.
Sadly, Ron resigned himself to the truth. He would watch this genuinely nice man, whom he’d seen rise in his early twenties as a bear porn icon, grow old, turn grey (as he had already become), and eventually succumb to death while Ron lived on. It was something that was just a fact of werebear life. Humans were like fields of grain that were sewn in the spring, grew and flourished, becoming mature through the summer bringing forth their seed. Then dry up and wither away by fall with nothing but the scrubby stubble half buried in snow in the winter of their lives. Their short lives did not mean they were ‘disposable’ to Ron, far from it. Ron cherished them, as they would be gone far too soon. This was all the more reason for Ron to make these meetings. He loved bears like Thom and Wyatt, and they loved him too, and as short lived and fragile as they were, he never knew when he would never again see them.
Ron had done for Thom the next best thing to making him his Cub, he’d played matchmaker and found Wyatt for him. Thom could share his life and live in love with a man who would truly be there for him through thick and thin. Wyatt returned to Thom all the love that was given. The two always told Ron how grateful they both were for pushing them together at Gars ‘n’ B’ars back in ’85, and Ron always took the pair out to a nice restaurant for their ‘first date’ anniversary.
Royce had started out a few hours earlier than Ron had that day, hauling his Harley on a trailer hitched to the back of his truck. It could accommodate two bikes, but Royce only had the one on there this time. He didn’t ride it as often as he would like, but then he didn’t have anyone to ride with, loner that he was. Royce didn’t relate to most men other than in a professional, distant way, and honestly, he didn’t want to. He was… different. It was more than just being gay; it was his hunger to be more than human, his need to be part man and part bear. He instinctively knew that none of them would ‘get’ him. Even most men in the leather community, as hot as they were and as accepting of kink as they could be, wouldn’t understand him. As friendly as a lot of them were he just didn’t feel like being ‘friends’ with them, let alone riding companions. Any interaction was role-play, not true intimacy like he shared with his boys. None of the men he found in those environments would have met the standards Royce required.
As a result, he took his bike out on solitary rides once a month, just himself, off into the mountains or down to the beach. However, his self-imposed solitude would soon be a thing of the past. He’d buy his sons hawgs of their own, and teach them to ride, after he became the Bear Daddy… having sired his werebear sons. To that end, he’d packed the necessary artifacts from his collection, the as yet untested “Silver Bear’s Bane” potion, and some provisions for the trip.
In his mind, he had planned out a half dozen contingencies on how he was going to obtain Ron for what he needed. They were all themes and variations on a central plan. The trailer would carry the two motorcycles, and after he’d given Ron the colloidal silver, he’d get him in his pickup, put his bike on the trailer, and drive him to a location he’d secured where he could extract from the werebear what he needed. Royce knew that Ron’s ETA at the restaurant was around seven to seven thirty. If all went well he was certain Ron would be right on time.
Royce knew that his timing was everything; he knew that there’d be approximately a forty-five minute window for him to act before this ‘Olaf’ showed up at the steakhouse. He knew he could drug Ron and get him to his truck within twenty minutes of his arrival. He would even be likely to use his badge to help him obtain Ron if someone asked uncomfortable questions on his way out of the restaurant. No one would be looking at two guys in a truck with two motorcycles; one of them slumped over against the passenger window asleep. They’d just assume they were taking shifts driving on a long trip to some bike rally. In the end, he also knew that if he missed his chance this year, that he’d have a chance next year to do this as Ron attended Gars ‘n’ B’ars annually. He really didn’t want to wait a whole year though, if the stars aligned and he got his perfect chance at this now.
From what he could tell from his research, the concoction would not only act as an extreme sedative and would neutralize the werebear’s ability to shift, but moreover would act rather like rohypnol on them, leaving them without memories, or severely muddled memories, of the events that occurred after they were under the influence. This was a new piece of information he’d run across while doing research on a few dark web sites. The old medieval texts guaranteed that it would subdue a shape-shifter; the modern websites were not as time honored, but all seemed to agree, from various sources, that it would do a memory wipe as well - time would tell.
Royce’s did not intend to harm Ron; indeed, he damn near worshipped and revered him (as he would all elder werebears) as the embodiment of a physical perfection, the ultimate father figure. He had no desire to hurt him; he merely wanted to take his seed to become as he was. He had the deepest desire to be a father like Ron was - the perfect masculine being.
He had equipment for extraction in his truck; machines for milking Ron’s balls and storing his precious sperm which would be consumed and injected into Royce’s body in a couple of ways. He would take Ron to an abandoned location for this, which was far from prying eyes. When he was done, he’d make a call from Ron’s phone, playing a digital voice message from a recorder to notify Ron’s companions of his location, for retrieval. He would leave all of Ron’s possessions with him, including his Harley.
The plan would mean that the voice would be untraceable as it was electronic. The phone would be Ron’s, so the call would be traced back to its owner. He’d leave no fingerprints, wearing leather or latex gloves as he handled everything, so no trace that way either. He had collected samples from a local barbershop’s dumpster with a good mix of hair to help disguise any stray hairs he might leave. If Royce’s were one of hundreds in the samples, it would be a ‘needle in a haystack’ type of camouflage. Taking forensic countermeasures on a kidnapping, where the victim was retrieved unharmed, was probably going over the top, but Royce didn’t want to take chances that he’d be linked to the crime. He knew that Ron might remember his face, and so a police artist might render a sketch of him, but after a few months, they’d be looking for a face that no longer existed. After his transformation, he’d likely look substantially different. The final thing he would do to mask his identity from the Bear was wear sweaty clothes he’d stolen from a guy’s bag at his gym. He’d wear the pre-scented clothes under his brand new plaid shirt, jeans and a brand new leather vest. If he used a neutral scented deodorant and kept the AC cranked, as high as it could go so he wouldn’t sweat, then he would smell more like the stolen clothes than himself. All was ready, but he continued to think about his plans on the long drive to the restaurant.
Charlie had packed his saddlebags the night before and, wanting a leisurely ride to 4B’S, had set out somewhat earlier than Ron had, before dawn. If he arrived a little early, that was fine; he’d go in and wait for Ron and Olaf to arrive. It’d been a year since he’d seen his brother. Olaf took after their father Haki to a great extent, so much so that he was damn near a twin to the huge red bear or at least a twin to him when he had sired Charlie. Haki now was as white furred as he himself was, with only a hint or two of his former ginger coloring, mostly blond touches in his beard, head, and body hair that gave his silver a very slight golden cast in the right lighting. It had been a good ten years since he’d seen his daddy, however, Olaf had just had a visit with their dad and Charlie was excited to catch up on what ol’ man Magnusson was doing. Like his brother Ron, Charlie had packed some necessities for the trip and emergency backup things. He could live off the land, but it wasn’t as pleasant as having back-up food and a good cigar if you were stranded. Frankly, he was looking forward to the solitude of a relaxing lone ride to the steakhouse.
Ron pulled into the parking lot of Bronco Bill’s Beef Bistro and looked around. It was just after dark, around 8 pm, a bit later than he planned to be here. He reflected as he began driving around the restaurant parking lot.
The afternoon had been well spent, and he’d filed his horns down a little when he’d made a pit stop at one of the public rest stops along the way. There were only a couple of cars and a single semi-truck in the lot. Initially, he’d stopped just to rub a couple of loads out in the restroom; rides like this always made him a bit horny, of course, but for some inexplicable reason he was super horny today.
Luckily, a huscular, hairy, thick bearded, middle aged trucker with a sexy patch of silver beard on his chin looked over the stall’s partition when he heard Ron cursing under his breath and asked if he might, ‘Get a little of that long, thick meat he was tenderizing’.
Ron smiled and thought, ‘It looks like help has just arrived’! Ron got up, dick in hand, and opened the door, standing aside as the trucker stepped in. The trucker growled in a low voice, “Damn but you’re a sexy silver bear, aren’t ya? Nice and furry too, from what I can see!” The trucker's jeans were tented and his eyes danced with desire, Ron pushed him up against the wall and forced his tongue into the trucker’s mouth, kneading his rock hard cock through jeans Ron could feel were damp from probably a day’s worth of leaking.
“God DAMN, I need to get fucked!” the trucker said breathlessly, “It’s been a fuckin’ week since I got plowed last!”
“Well! You're in luck then,” Ron growled, “’cause I need ta fuck an’ you look sturdy enough to take what I can give ya”.
“Damn right I am!” the trucker said.
He watched while the trucker lowered his jeans, having trouble getting them over his stubby, leaking, jutting cock. Ron reached a paw down and rubbed the trucker’s thickly furred ass. “I like me some hairy ass.”
The trucker bent over, bracing himself on the stainless steel handicapped bar. He offered his butt to Ron. Ron fished out a condom, and rolled it on over his own straining cock. He spat in his paw and massaged it into the trucker's ass, but the trucker stopped him. “Here, try this,” he said, producing a sample packet of Rifle Grease from this flannel shirt pocket.
Ron growled, but took the packet, tore it open with his teeth, and applied the thick, slick fluid to the trucker's butt and to his own, sheathed cock.
“I don't mind if ya go bare,” the trucker said, “…would be honored to have seed from a beast like you in me while I’m sitting in my rig on the way to my next stop."
“Nah... Best play safe.” Ron said as he centered on the trucker's hole. He held the trucker's waist and with a grunt, pushed in.
“Ah! Fuck me, big boy. I fuckin' love a big, thick, bear cock in my ass” his hoarse growl was in a tone low enough for discretion, “The guy last week was good, but not nearly as well hung as you."
Ron chuckled to himself, “This poor guy is starving for dick”. He began a steady fuck rhythm, hilting himself repeatedly in the trucker's warm tunnel. The trucker pushed back enthusiastically, and Ron struggled to hold off his orgasm. He was really getting into his fuck and wanted it to last when his need betrayed him and the shot a heavy load into the condom. He groaned and pushed in hard and held it in as his meat pulsed, expelling his seed. He continued to thrust with such force that the trucker’s head bumped against the wall, despite being braced.
Once his breathing had returned to normal, he pulled out, his cock still semi-rigid. The trucker turned around and gripped Ron’s sheathed cock and smiled. They shared a passionate, deep kiss, nuzzling their beards together as they did. Ron growled softly as the post orgasm massage he was receiving caused him to shoot the remains of his load into the condom.
“Your head OK?” Ron asked, touching the trucker’s forehead.
“It’s fine, I got me one thick skull."
Ron then stripped off the condom, tied it off and pocketed it to be tossed it into a trashcan outside of the stall.
Ron saw the trucker’s thick stubby cock was hard and drooling. “Your skull ain’t the only thing that’s thick. Let me take care of that for ya,” he said and got down and took the whole of the trucker's pole in his mouth and throat. It wasn't especially long but it was beer can thick.
The trucker placed his furry paw behind Ron’s head and gently skull fucked the bear. It didn’t take but a few deep strokes before he approached the point of no return. “Aw, shit... I can't hold it!” the trucker growled. “I'm gonna fuckin' shoot!”
Ron nodded with the thick meat still in his mouth and pushed the cock as far as he could down his throat. Ron could feel the bones of his face pressing as far as they could into the trucker’s pelvis. He’d gripped the furry ass cheeks in both of his paws, digging his blunt nails into the trucker’s flesh, sucking until he brought the trucker to growling orgasmic bliss.
“God DAMN! GOD DAMN! … FUCK!” The trucker panted as he continued to unload down Ron’s throat, “Oh fuck, buddy, you’re good!” He said softly, petting the big bear's head and beard as Ron sucked the last of the trucker’s three-day load out of his softening cock. Ron stood; squeezed out a last glob onto his meaty index finger, put it to the trucker’s lips where it was sucked off with a moan of pleasure. They kissed again and then began pulling clothes back into positon and buckling and zipping things up.
If anyone heard anything, no one said boo about it when the pair exited the stall, and who would dare? Both men were well over six foot and not to be messed with.
Outside, Ron quickly jotted down contact information on the back of one of his auto body shop’s cards and handed it to the trucker. Taking a cigar from his vest pocket to light it, he growled around the cigar, puffs of smoke swirling in the wind as he spoke, “If you find yourself in town, you’re welcome to stay at my place. I can promise you a warm bed, a good meal, and some hot playtime and you don’t have to be gone by the next morning either. I like to take a couple of days fuckin’ a hot ass like yours.”
The trucker looked at the card; his cock had already started tenting out his jeans again. He took out the wallet chained to his belt from his back pocket, and put the card in one of the front credit card pockets for easy access. “Oh, I think I’ll be finding myself in your town soon enough and I’d love to have dinner with you… and maybe, you’d feed me your load for dessert?” He smiled lustfully, taking the cigar from Ron, drawing on it deeply, and returning it to its owner as he exhaled.
Ron grinned around his stogie, “Maybe I will… just maybe”.
The trucker patted Ron on the shoulder, “I’ll bring the beer,” he said and turned to walk to his truck. Ron turned back towards his bike and looked at his watch. Even with the hour-long fuck break he’d just taken, he’d make it to the restaurant on time.
4B’S was not a twenty-four hour establishment, but it opened for breakfast at 8 am and stayed open until midnight because hungry truckers, bikers, and other bearish men liked meat any time of the day. Being just off the freeway in a town where two interstate highways and two busy major state highways met, there was a lot of demand for what they had to offer.
Ron looked around for Olaf and Charlie’s scoots. He rode around the parking lot and saw a short line of six hawgs parked on the west side of the restaurant. He immediately recognized Olaf’s oversized beast parked over by a line of semi-trucks. It was hard bike to miss.
The highly customized Harley was made to fit a very large framed man. Above the headlight, between the handlebars a synthetic resin bear skull had been mounted in such a way as to incorporate it into the light fixture, as if the skull was devouring the light. Parts of the frame, and other pieces of the body of the bike looked like they were made of Bear bones. The gas tank was encased by what was made to look like a rib cage, which extended down either side of the front portion of the bike. This enclosed the engine and radiator as well. The oversized tank itself looked like it could have been a set of large metallic blood red lungs. The spinal column ran from the back of the skull down the back of the tank and under the front part of the seat down to where the skeletal hipbones touched the back of longer than usual, well-padded seat ending in a stubby, bony tail. The Bear’s front skeletal forelegs extended out from the body to give the bike the typical chopper profile with the front paws griping the wheel. The femur and other leg bones came out as the twin exhaust pipes on either side of the bike. There was no chrome on this bike. That which was not painted deep metallic red, was painted matte black so that at night everything would vanish beneath the contrasting bone white skeleton.
There was no overlooking this bike... it was huge, macabre, and a completely one of a kind piece of rolling art. The helmet was hanging from the handlebars and looked like a Bear’s skull. Etched into the back were the Elder Futhark runes that spelled out Olaf Bjørnen. The whole thing had been done in metal and resins, and whoever had done the job was a master of those materials. The completed effect was to make it look as if Death, himself were riding the back of skeletal Bear, crouched and ready to pounce. The backrest of the blood red leather seat had “Døds Bjørn” stitched into it and where the rider’s ass cheeks would rest, two huge Bear paws had been stitched.
Ron looked over toward the semis as he parked by Olaf’s monster ride and, just like his bike; Olaf himself was hard to miss. The Bear was simply gigantic, at least two heads taller than Ron, as wide as one and a half big men and probably close to four hundred pounds, mostly muscle, but with a good layer of fat over that, and a nice round bear belly.
He was jovially talking with one of the truckers, a rather large, big bearded man who was never the less dwarfed by the Nordic ginger giant standing next to him. Ron immediately thought about the trucker back at the rest stop that afternoon and his cock twitched. Both men were chuffing on the stubs of large gauge cigars, laughing and gesticulating. The huge red bearded bear, with a braided beard down the front and thick braid of hair down the back that reached down to his waist, waived his huge, furry paw at Ron as soon as he noticed him pull up.
Ron dismounted, took off his helmet, hung it from his handlebars, and walked over to the pair. He immediately recognized the man to whom Olaf was talking.
“Quinn Naughtan!” Ron said greeting the trucker as he approached, “I haven’t seen you in… what, five years?” They shook hands clasping each others right arms, palm to arm just above the wrist and then pulled into a tight, strong Bear hug.
“Six, actually,” Quinn said, “this big red oaf and I were just talking about that.” He reached over and smacked Olaf on his furry forearm.
“Ow!” Olaf said in a register a couple of octaves above his usual rumbling bass, and then grinned like a child.
“Are you headed to B’ars ‘n’ Gars too?” Ron asked as he smacked Olaf hard as he could on the ass and then craned his neck up, pursing his lips for a kiss, which Olaf bent down slightly to complete with a huge kiss ending in a ‘SMACK’ sound.
“Sure as hell am!” Quinn said and stuffed the stub of his cigar in his mouth and drew deeply on it. He growled around the stogie, “And I’m this hairy fucker’s roomie, seein’ as how I waited too late and missed not only pre-registration, but any chance of getting any room at all.”
“You still with that handsome hunk of beef, Halden?” Ron asked.
Quinn looked away, down and to the side for a moment, obviously trying to maintain his composure. Olaf gave Ron a wide-eyed look that immediately said, 'Oh crap, wrong topic!'
Quinn then looked up meeting Ron’s eyes and said quietly, “Uh… Halden, is the reason I haven’t been around for the last six years, Ron. He passed away; it was a brain aneurysm. It was quick, which I know he’d have been thankful for. I rode in the back of the ambulance while they worked on him, but he was dead by the time the EMTs got to the hospital. After that, I guess I kind of shut myself off from everyone, holding the grief in, burying myself in work.”
Olaf moved close to Quinn, pulled him into a side hug, took the cigar out of his mouth, bent slightly, and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. Ron moved to Quinn as Olaf released him and pulled him into a full hug, and gave him a kiss. “You know, we love you like family.”
“I know. Better than family, actually,” he said with a lustful grin.
“We all loved Hal too. I’m sorry I didn’t hear about it until now.”
“No reason you should have, I haven’t told anyone until now and I was the one that sort of disappeared. I needed to sort myself out. I really miss him, but it’s time for me to get on with my life and that’s why I’m back and associating with biker trash like you guys again,” Quinn said with a wry smile.
“So, when was the last time you were on a scoot, Quinn?” Ron asked.
“It’s been a couple of years. I was riding round after Hal passed quite a bit when I wasn’t in the truck; just needed to get away. I had the electricity and water turned off on me one summer because I wasn’t around enough to pay the bills, grass in the front yard died. I guess I was paying too much attention to death and not enough to life,” he said with a shrug, “It’s why I need some time with you bad examples,” Quin smiled and rubbed Ron’s shoulder.
“And… Speaking of biker trash riff raff… where the hell is Charlie? I texted him a couple of hours ago, before I hit the dead zone going through the canyon on the way up here. He was ahead of me getting here by about two hours, said he’d be waitin',” Ron said.
“Oh, you know my big brother, probably stopped at a liquor store to fill his saddle bags for the party or stopped off to fuck a trucker,” Olaf said.
“No, that was me. I stopped to fuck a trucker: nice furry ass and back I ran my paws up under his flannel. He had a big, thick stub of a cock too. Don’t know why, but I’m damn horny today, well, hornier than usual,” Ron said as casually as if he were repeating something he read from a newspaper article.
Olaf grinned, “Didja give him your number?”
Ron nodded, “After a fuck like that, I wanna meet up with him again.”
Olaf chuckled. “But back to Charlie, even if he’s banging three truckers, I wouldn’t be too concerned... he’ll show up soon enough. Besides, if we send out a search party, he’ll be back here gloating over his dessert that we were nervous ol’ nannies when we get back,” Olaf said, taking a last draw on his cigar nub and dropping it, grinding it out under his heel. “I mean, Charlie can take care of himself in much the same way you and I can Ron.”
“True enough”, Ron said.
“So, hey, I’m starved! Let’s go in and at least get some appetizers while we wait for him to show up… and I suppose you guys might want something too, huh?” Olaf grinned.
The three headed into the restaurant. When they were being shown to their table, they passed a large table with the owners of the six bikes parked outside seated around it. Each of them were burly, bearded men, covered in fur and tats. Four of them who could see him coming viewed Olaf with awe and as he passed, the red bear gave them a leering smile.
One of the bikers returned the smile, nodded, and said, “Hey brother,” as he adjusted his crotch. Olaf paused to return the greeting, shook his hand as a way to pass a card he’d discreetly taken from his vest pocket into the biker’s palm. The biker just as discreetly pocketed Olaf’s card. Olaf said, “Catch ya later, bro!” and then walked on.
“You’ll get to take care of that hunger later, Uncle, as will I," Ron said and Quinn chuckled.
“Well, it’s his hunger I’d like to take care of,” Olaf said, “and I suspect I might at some point in the very near future. You already had a snack from that trucker at the pit stop, so you’re not as hungry as I am."
“Don’t suppose I can help feed you two; if he shows up at the hotel, that is?” Quinn asked.
“Rest assured, Quinn, you’re on the menu.” Olaf said and gave him a pat on the shoulder as they reached their table, “And maybe Mr. Tasty with my card in his right butt cheek pocket over there might become a regular dish as well.”
“You’re insatiable,” Ron said with a chuckle.
“And you’re not?” Olaf retorted.
Royce pulled into the parking lot of 4B’s just after six o’clock. The sun had gone down behind the mountains but it was still light out. He pulled around to a parking lot where he had view of both the lot entrances. He’d await for Ron here. He looked around for cameras and found that the place had them. He got out of his truck and inspected them from a discreet distance. Having a look at them, he determined that one was a scarecrow, a dummy camera put out in plain sight in the lot to keep people from getting up to mischief. The other two were a bit better hidden and trained on the entrance and rear exit of the building. He suspected there’d be a few more inside, probably around the cash registers, and perhaps at the bar. Knowing where they were was important so he could take measures to be out of the camera’s view.
Royce got out and went inside, being careful of how the camera caught him. Sure enough, there was a camera trained on the area around the front registers. When greeted by the host, he asked directions to the bathroom after being seated. He ordered a burger and made his way to the bathroom after the server had left. Passing the bar on the way, he noted a camera there and one in the general dining area.
Returning to his seat, he waited ten minutes, looking out at the entrance he could see from his window seat. His burger arrived and he consumed it and the fries quickly. He was just about finished with his drink and the last bites of his meal when he saw a bike pull into the lot. It was... no, not Ron, Royce realized as watched the man approach on his motorcycle. The man looked very similar, enough so that he could be Ron’s brother, ‘almost twins’ he thought. Same white beard, same build, same… indefinable aura. As he passed by Royce’s window, he noticed the same motorcycle club emblem on the back of his vest; whoever he was, he was likely a werebear and, most importantly, he was alone! If Royce could do this quickly, it avoided the need for many of his contingency plans and involving Ron altogether.
The server came back as the biker entered the restaurant. Royce paid the bill and offered a decent tip, but not one that would draw attention to him and make him memorable, telling the server to “keep the extra” handing her the money as he got up from the table. He scratched at his short beard and ran his finger and thumb over his thick, longer than usual moustache, looking in the direction the biker had gone. He noted that the biker had headed toward the bar, rather than being seated at a table. Royce headed toward the bathroom. He needed to prepare.
In the bathroom, he took out the flask he had in his vest pocket. There was more of the substance in the truck; but he hoped that what was in the flask was enough to get the werebear out to the parking lot. The colloidal silver, if it did the trick, would start working within fifteen to twenty minutes, thirty at the most.
As Royce came out of the bathroom, he headed to the bar and noted that the biker had a half glass of beer in front of him and was watching whatever football game was on the screen. Royce noted that the biker was likely just at the edge of the camera’s view, and beyond that, the end of the bar was not covered, and that is where he’d sit. Royce headed for those unmonitored seats and as he passed the biker, he dropped a fifty-dollar bill behind the biker’s stool on the floor. This went unnoticed by the biker who watched the game and sipped his beer. Royce stood by the seat next to the biker and asked, “Mind if I sit here?” Royce, for the first time tonight put his hand into his pants pocket and palmed the item there. He felt a tingle from the small quartzite bear fetish and realized that it not only detected items of interest concerning werebears… it detected werebears too!
Charlie walked into the restaurant after determining that he was the first of the group to arrive. Not surprising really, he expected he would be and that gave him time to sit for a bit, enjoy a few beers, maybe order an appetizer or two. He’d hit the liquor store before getting to the restaurant and stocked up, filling the room he’d left in his saddle bags with some high quality, well-aged spirits to go along with the cigars he and his buddies would be enjoying later at the event.
He sat at the bar and ordered a beer, asking if Jack, the guy who’d been bartending in the evenings at 4B’S for the last decade or two was around, or if he would be in later. The young, thin, clean-shorn, bartender told him that Jack had the night off, handing Charlie his beer and turning his attention back to the game. 'That’s a pity'. Charlie thought as he took a sip, 'Jack is one fine piece of sweet bear eye candy'. The bar was somewhat deserted, most folk were having dinner, not drinks. There was a twenty something woman at the far end of the bar busily texting as she nursed what looked like a ‘girly drink’ he guessed was a cosmopolitan.
Charlie wasn’t afraid to order girly drinks; in fact, he rather liked them. He loved Sex on the Beach (both the drink and the activity) and in recent years, he’d tried a Mojito and a Blue Hawaiian and liked them both. He’d tried the various ‘in style’ drinks through the years and found he enjoyed the fruit and herbal flavors with the various alcohols. He took some good natured ribbing from some of his human biker friends who seemed to think the only drink fit for a man was beer or Jack Daniels, but Charlie liked what he liked and everyone else could get fucked… or not fucked… if they were asses about it. However, at the moment, he wanted a beer… a nice, tall glass of it.
Charlie had lived long enough to see many things in his life, this televised sporting thing was relatively new and relatively trivial, but it had some appeal and so drew his attention. He settled in and watched some football, not so much for the sport which he didn’t care about, but for the nice male forms in motion and, of late, a lot of those men in those tight uniform bottoms, shoulder pads, and helmets were sporting thick beards, which was a nice trend he hoped would continue for some time.
He was about halfway through his beer when a voice behind him asked, “Mind if I sit here?”
Charlie turned and saw one hell of a handsome man in some new biker gear, with some sweatshirt material clothes underneath, obviously for the chilly ride up here. Such things didn’t bother Charlie so much, but he understood why it would be a problem for humans. His nose twitched as he caught his scent, well, his scent, another man’s scent and some very good cigars and pipe tobacco. The man smelled rather nervous, but then Charlie was used to that, with the way he looked. Even larger confident men, like this fine beefy, handsome fellow were sometimes a bit on edge around him. It was as if they sensed the predatory creature Charlie became when not in human form. Charlie decided to affect his more ‘down home’ accent, it tended to put authoritative guys like this more at ease, made him appear more ‘folksy’ and so less threatening. Not that he didn’t speak like this normally, particularly around family, but he’d exaggerate the accent a bit and lay the ‘southern charm’ on a little bit heavier.
“Not ‘t all!” Charlie said with a broad smile and the man took a seat. The skinny bartender came over and the guy ordered a beer, domestic, but not cheap lizard piss.
The guy was a looker, not pretty though. Handsome with strong, manly features and Charlie could smell arousal all over him, and the nervousness, which didn’t disappear now that Charlie had not objected to him taking a seat within the three to five foot circle that was his personal space. Charlie was rather confident that he knew why: the guy with the thick, longer ‘stache (which told him he’d let it grow out well before the young salt and pepper beard), was attracted and a bit afraid too, which also happened even with big confident men. After all, the more ego you have about yourself and your looks, the harder the hammer of rejection fell, if it fell; and that could lead to jangled nerves in a possible hook-up situation. Those nerves didn’t show physically, which meant the guy was used to being in control and had learned to mask his nerves. So, possibly ex-military or ex-cop, but Charlie had the advantage of a Bear’s sense of smell. Even if it was somewhat muted by his human form, it told him things that body language alone didn’t.
He looked to see if the guy was looking at the rather attractive woman at the end of the bar, engrossed in her cell phone, and as if to confirm his suspicions, he was acting as if she didn’t even exist. Most straight guys, even if they weren’t interested in a particular woman, would at least do a quick glance over for the sake of evaluation, once or twice. Their eyes would wander over at least every couple of minutes, but it seemed his focus was solely directed at Charlie and to a lesser extent, the bartender. He’d catch side-glances and surreptitious scans of things beyond his seat on Charlie’s left side or in the bar’s liquor bottle occluded mirrored back wall, making eye contact with Charlie then looking as though he were interested in the bottles.
Charlie was sure this hot fucker wanted a little private time with a furry badass biker, and the old Bear wasn’t above a quick fuck in a gas station bathroom or no-tell motel. It was why he always kept a supply of fresh Maximus condoms on him when he was away from the homestead.
“You ride?” Charlie asked in a friendly way to break the ice, his deep voice having the effect of a rush of arousal scent to come from the man.
“Hell yeah, but not as often as I’d like to.” the man said and took a sip from his beer.
“Me neither, brother! Could be on muh scoot five outta seven an’ still wouldn’t git enough.” Charlie said and lifted his glass and it was returned with a clink.
“That’ll change soon enough. I just retired and I plan do to a lot more of the things I haven’t been able to,” the man said and took a pull on his beer.
“What’d ya do?” Charlie asked.
“Career law enforcement,” the man said, and took another sip.
Charlie smiled at the guy and to himself and thought, 'Damn if I can’t call it! I knew he was police or military.' “So, ready ta go wild, with more time on yer hands? Grow th’ beard out, hit th’ rallies? Sturgis?”
“Oh fuck yeah! Couldn’t grow my beard while I was on the force and now that I can want to get a lot more hairy and a lot wilder; let the beast out, if you know what I mean,” and the man smiled broadly with a gleam in his eye.
“Oh ah do, brother! Need ta let muh beast out pretty regular,” Charlie said and laughed, raising his glass said, “Ta furry critters like us!” clinking it with the stranger’s again who shared the laugh.
The man casually looked down at the floor, behind Charlie’s stool and asked, “Is that yours?”
Charlie looked down and saw a fifty-dollar bill on the floor. Wide-eyed, he got off his stool and bent to pick it up, and while he was doing that Royce took a quick scan of the bar; the bartender was talking with the woman and her boyfriend who’d just arrived. Royce knew he was out of range of the camera, the werebear was picking up the money, so the opportunity to empty the contents of the flask into the bear’s beer was now, and he took it.
Charlie stood up, with his back to the bar and examined the paper in the light overhead. After a few seconds he said, “Looks real ‘nuff” just as Royce had finished spiking the beer and slipped the flask back into the breast pocket of his leather vest.
“Well, it ain’t mine, so I’m gonna ta put it ta good use!” Charlie said and stuffed it in the bartender’s tip jar.
“You’re a pretty giving sort, aren’t you? Not sure I’d pass up fifty bucks.” Royce laughed, and raised his glass, “To sincere generosity!”
“I’ll drink ta that!” Charlie said, clinked his glass and downed his beer. “It’s jest money. Old as I am, I seen fortunes come an’ go. It’s good ta pass a lil’ fortune on ta them that’s werkin’ hard. Tendin’ bar is a lot a standin’ an’ puttin’ up with people’s horseshit, jes like waiting tables... Now… I think I’m in th’ mood for ‘nother beer!” He got the skinny young bartender’s attention and ordered another, and one for Royce who accepted graciously after a few polite refusals.
The two sat awhile, drank, and talked, Royce checking his watch occasionally. Fifteen, then twenty minutes passed and, Charlie, as they had introduced themselves by now, still seemed unfazed by the silver compound that had laced his previous beer.
Royce was about to excuse himself to go to the bathroom when Charlie leaned in, and in a conspiratorial whisper asked, “If it’s not too forwerd, I’d like ta ask...” There was a pause and Charlie looked to see if anyone was listening. Satisfied that no one was he continued, “I know it’s pers’n’l an’ all, but… you gay?”
Royce was taken aback. He’d never really tried to hide his sexuality, but most people had no idea. He usually didn’t project his sexuality and even those who knew him before finding out he was gay had often commented that he didn’t seem to ping their gaydar.
Charlie continued, “’cause if ya ain’t or not out the closit, then pard’n muh question, I just kinda felt…”
Royce smiled broadly and quickly interrupted, “Oh, no, I’m gay… A Bear, actually… AND I’m interested. What did you have in mind? Because honestly… you’re about as a sexy a fuckin' Bear as they come!”
Charlie returned the smile and said quietly, “You up for a lil’ bear ta bear action? I got me some pertection in muh pocket for special uhkayshins. Know a nearby motel too; it’s clean, they don’t git in yer business ‘bout who ya take back to yer room, an’ it’s out a ways. You a top‘r a bottom?”
“I’m usually a top, but for a hot Daddy Biker like you?” Royce smiled, “I’d catch what you’re pitching. So, Hell yeah I’m interested. Lead the way, fucker!” Royce downed his beer and put a twenty on the bar under his glass. Charlie did the same and they headed out the door, Charlie adjusting his crotch as he walked out of the restaurant.
Royce couldn’t believe his luck; this beautiful creature was playing right into his hand. This would be so much easier than he’d thought! It was as if fortune had lined everything up for this. He reached into his jeans pocket and felt the quartzite bear fetish. It was tingling with what seemed to be a greater intensity; almost as if Charlie’s heightened, arousal was bringing more of his bear out, making the fetish more active. Royce wondered if it would tingle more in the presence of a fully transformed bear. He would have to see.