Meyers
and Sons Paint and Auto Body
By
Papa Werebear and Ursus Major
Chapter
10
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.
Ron smiled as he started up his Harley and headed down the road.
He’d meet up with Charlie and Uncle Olaf at a steakhouse on the
state border called Bronco Bill’s Beef Bistro, (or 4B’s as they
all called it) for dinner. It was a tradition to tank up on some
good solid red meat before riding another 300 miles to the hotel that
hosted the event.
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.
I was half expecting some random person to join in on Royce and Charlie's conversation about bikes which would've annoyed Royce.
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