Sunday night at the bear bar

by Tym Greene

When four fellows driving home from a fishing trip run out of gas in the little town of Arkadios, they find that the local tavern is a bit...unusual.

The sun had set over the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas, the fading fire of the purple sky reflected in the still waters of Lake Tahoe. An hour’s drive from the cliff-perched houses of its north shore, a car sputtered to a stop. It was in the middle of a small town, tucked deep in the pine woods where everyone already seemed to be abed and fast asleep: the few lights that were still on in the buildings were in upper floors and back bedrooms, and they too soon went out. 

Not long after the car ground to a halt, the only light left on was a solitary street lamp that flickered ominously as night bugs batted against it. “Damn gauge,” the car’s driver cursed as he unfolded himself from the seat. “I knew I should have brought extra gas.” 

The man in the passenger seat also stood, appreciating the cold night air after the overwarm vehicle. “How long has it been busted, Dad?” 

“A few weeks,” Greggory replied, tugging his beard as if he could pull a solution into being through his follicles. The two men in the car’s cramped back seat looked at each other, as though afraid that a row would break out between Orson and his father. 

Arthur, the largest of the quartet, hefted his belly around and exited the car as well, glad of a chance to stretch his back. His seatmate Barnard also rose, piping up: “I did see a gas station a block or two behind us.” 

“Well, there you go.” Orson quickly took charge. “Dad, you drive and the three of us will push. With luck we’ll be back on the road and headed home before too much longer.” 

Tempers were already frayed from a long and fruitless day of fishing on the lake, sunburnt noses just starting to ache, and it was clear that each man was doing his best to not lose his temper in one way or another. There was nothing do but try. So Greggory resumed his seat behind the wheel, and Orson, Barnard, and Arthur each gripped the door frame beside where they’d so recently been sitting, pushing the car and thankful it wasn’t as hot and sunny as it had been on the water. 

The gas station was of the local variety, its sign stating simply “Arkadios Gas”, as though the town were too small and out of the way to justify one or another chain setting up shop. As the men approached, their spirits fell: the lights were all off, and the sole pump seemed powered down. According to the sign on the door, it had closed two hours earlier. They managed to push the car into one of the pine needle littered parking spots that lined the back of the property. “At least we’ll be here when they open in the morning,” Art offered weakly, panting from the exertion. 

Hoping against hope, they still investigated the building and surrounding area. There was no attendant just closing up for the night, nor a AAA truck waiting around the corner to assist wayward travelers, nor even a helpful village policeman. Greggory stood in the middle of the intersection, holding his phone to his chin, as though the “skull antenna” trick could work against miles of forest. “No service. Can you believe there’s still places this primitive?” 

Orson looked up from the little memorial—a bronze California bear guarding over a list of names and the dates 1914-1918—to Arkadios’ fallen soldiers. “Yeah, dad. Some people like not being leashed to their phones.” 

The other two returned from their excursion down a side street. “There’s a bar that looks open. We could at least get something to drink,” Barnard said, adjusting his glasses. 

Arther panted, adding, “And go to the bathroom, and not be stuck out here in the cold all night. And maybe get some food.” 

“Good idea, guys. I wouldn’t mind being able to sit down myself. These forest roads really take it out of you,” Gregg said, following after his friends. 

“Not to mention the stress of running out of gas,” Orson added under his breath. He’d only come on the trip because his father had practically begged him—he’d something about spending so much time away at college, and Orson suspected Greggory was having trouble adjusting to his empty nest. He’s got his own friends, the younger man thought sourly as he watched the trio ahead of him, I could be home, working on my calculus homework, or studying for my Baroque art final. He’d left the text at home, to avoid any dad-joke teasing; he knew his father meant well, but lately it seemed he was trying hard to put on a braver face than he truly felt. 

The bar, like the gas station, was named after the town. It was a low-slung building, with a second floor nestled under overhanging eaves and bottle-bottom leaded windows on the lower floor. Like several of the other buildings around it looked like it had been plucked straight from the Black Forest; it could just as easily have been built in the 1920s or the 1820s. Arkadios Tavern was the only source of sound, the only sign of life, that the quartet of visitors could spy as they looked up and down the intersection it lorded over. 

A sign projected out above the door, proclaiming the tavern’s name in gold old-fashioned letters, surmounted by a stylized image of a polar bear, reminding Orson of the Nelvana logo. The door itself was wide open, despite the evening’s increasing chill, and smells and light rolled out, along with music that seemed to range from polka to yodel to country to classic rock. As the men drew closer, they could also hear the rumbles of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional low-rolling belch, followed by hearty laughter. 

The front door was also wide and squat, forcing taller Barnard to bend his head. “Any bigger and I’d have to go on all fours,” he grumbled. The several steps down, just inside the threshold, caught them by surprise, sending the group of men stumbling into the main room. One or two patrons looked up, but for the most part their entrance was ignored: the other men were too busy hunching broad shoulders against the cold air blowing in, hunkering down beneath thick coats and thick beards the better to enjoy their beer and snacks. 

Yellowish plaster and dark half-timbers marked the walls into semi-regular sections, decorated as one might expect: a dart board with its constellation of missed throws hung in one back corner, and prints of Tyrolean scenes and long-forgotten famous race horses lurked beneath heavy wood frames. An old and unlit Schlitz sign peeked out behind a dusty deer head, and tarnished horse brasses filled out the remaining wall space. The only concession to modernity was the wide rectangle of a Wurlitzer Zodiac 3500 jukebox from the seventies, from which came the esoteric blend of music. 

Gregg took the lead, stepping up to the bar and pasting his best winning smile on top of miles’ worth of frustration and fatigue. A lumbering figure emerged from the shadows: he was tall and stately, and his impressive white beard contrasted with his slick bald head and dark skin. A navy blue apron with subtle pinstripes highlighted the muscles of his chest and the solidity of his beer gut; clearly a man who took his job seriously. 

The other travelers crowded up around Gregg. Art spoke up first, looking around at the entirely masculine crowd of patrons. “Guys’ night?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, as though he really meant to say “where’s the dames at?” 

The bartender grinned lopsidedly, revealing a sharp canine. “Yeah,” he rumbled, “somethin’ like that.” He huffed through his mustache. “What’ll it be, fellas? You’re not from around here, so how about tryin’ the local specialty?” 

“Yeah, our car...ran out of gas,” Gregg admitted sheepishly. “We just need somewhere to wait until the station opens and we can be on our way.” 

“Well, then, let me welcome ya to Arkadios. First round’s on the house, fellas.” Moving in a blur, he grabbed four glass steins in one hand, passed them under a tapped keg, and placed the fullsloshing mugs on the counter before the men. The barrel was branded with a gothic-lettered logo: Bären Bräu. 

“Thanks!” said Art, grabbing his glass. “I feel more welcome already.” 

Barn picked his up too, visibly trying to keep it from dripping on him. “I saw an empty booth in the back corner. At least we can sit and be out of the way.” 

Orson lingered, stein in hand. Something about the bartender had tickled his sixth sense and he was trying to figure out what exactly had his hackles up. “Great place you have here,” he said, playing for time. 

“Thanks, it’s rare a young’n appreciates old stuff like this.” 

“Oh, I love old things,” Orson admitted with more eagerness than he intended, not realizing that his gaze lingered on the older man. 

“Sometimes,” he added with half a laugh, “I feel like I was born in the wrong decade, you know?” 

The toothy smile again poked through the bartender’s mustache, and there seemed to be a warmth in his eyes. “Only too well. Still, it might not bother ya for much longer,” he added cryptically. 

Orson found himself staring into the black man’s emerald eyes, his pulse already quickening. He finally blinked and cleared his throat. “H-how long are y’all open?” 

The emerald eyes fixed him with a piercing stare, as though reading his meters. “Oh, we’re open all night, lad.” 

“T-thanks,” Orson stuttered, taking mouthful from his mug; the way his hand was shaking, he’d probably spill half of it on the way back to the table if he hadn’t. He gave the bartender one last glance—had he gotten even more impressive in the past few minutes? It looked like the beard had grown thicker and sleeker, and his apron seemed to be pulled snug across a slightly more muscular chest—and snatched a handful of paper napkins from the bar to justify his delay. 

“We’ve got napkins already,” Gregg mentioned when Orson approached the table. He pointed at the holder in the middle with its stack of white squares. Art and Barn were already well into their beer, as though racing to the bottom of their glasses, and Gregg had made a significant dent in the amber liquid himself. 

“Oh, good,” Orson replied, taking another swig before sitting down. “It sounds like they’re open late, so we’ve got time...to sit.” Almost as one, the other three had drained their steins while he was talking, and now stared hungrily at the mostly-full pint in his hand. He took a last sip then set it on the table. Gathering up their empty mugs, he said hesitantly. “How about I get you another round?” 

Arthur belched, then Barnard let loose a long rumbling burp that required him to adjust his glasses afterward. Not to be outdone, Greggory unleashed his own eructation that rattled the empty mugs, as though asserting his dominance. “Excuse me,” he muttered, wiping his lower lip with a napkin. “Go ahead and use my card, son: it’s my fault we’re stuck here, so I might as well make my boys comfortable.” 

“Thanks G,” and “Yeah, thanks Gregg,” said the other two as Greggory handed the credit card to his son, who made his way back to the bar, empties in hand. Orson could hear the slosh of the rest of his first glass emptying into his father’s maw. 

“Another round, sir,” He said once he reached the counter. “Um, the same...Bären Bräu? I guess they really liked it.” 

“Glad to hear. You know, I was watchin’ and it looked like ya didn’t have more’n a few sips of yours. Why don’t you hold up a sec, take some time to yourself?” He slid a brimming mug across the boards. “On the house,” he added, with a look beneath his bushy white eyebrows that seemed to add: “And I expect you to drink at least half of it before another word comes out of your mouth.” 

Obediently, Orson lifted the heavy glass and took a first mouthful. The bright bloom of grapefruit tartness added an entirely new dimension to the beer’s flavor, and woke both his tastebuds and his thirst. He listened with half an ear to what the bartender was saying; the rest of his focus was trained intently on finishing the rest of the mug. 

“It seems to me that a young fella like you doesn’t have much in common with the other men in your group. Your dad an’ his friends, right?” At Orson’s nod, the bartender continued. “Stand behind this counter long enough an’ you see all sorts. What you need is someone your own age.” He rubbed his nose, which seemed even broader and darker than it had been a moment ago. “Here’s the round for your table—an’ make sure ya drink yours this time.” 

Orson set down his freshly-emptied stein and panted for breath, his tongue rolling out longer than it ought: “Yessir, thank you sir,” he managed to huff out. 

“Attaboy,” the bartender said, grinning with glossy lips and too-sharp teeth. “Call me Espen,” he added. 

Orson shook the proffered hand, not noticing the dusting of white hair across the back of it and running up into his sleeve. He did notice the power in the fingers, the way the dark nails seemed pointed into round, blunt claws, the palm like smooth velvet. He wanted to touch more of this man, wanted to feel the solid belly and muscular chest that hid behind his striped apron, wanted to run a hand from his close-cropped scalp down his neck and lower...a momentary thought tried to compare the man’s current snowy stubble with the shiny baldness he’d seen when the quartet had entered the bar, as though Espen’s hair had grown out in a matter of minutes. There also hadn’t been tufts of white bodyhair peeking out from behind his collar and sleeves. 

But then Orson burped and grinned sheepishly at the other man. “Thank you, Espen,” he said, feeling a blush suffuse his whole being. The pint of grapefruit-flavored hefeweizen was weighing heavily in his otherwise-empty belly, and the foam had tickled his nose (which seemed to be filling more of his field of vision, but he ignored that). Indeed, his whole head felt like it was sloshing, squashing and stretching like some old cartoon, and his arms were heavy as he reached to heft the four filled glasses—but there was a strength there too, and he easily carried his load back to the table. “There you are, son,” Gregg grumbled as the brimming stein was placed before him, “I just about thought you’d decided to walk home, with how long you were up there.” 

“I was talking to the bartender. It never hurts to be friendly...” 

Orson’s grumpiness faded when he caught sight of Barnard and Arthur on the other side of the booth: they were leaning against one another, Barn with his glasses askew and his hand on Art’s belly. They looked for all the world like a couple who’d just finished a long makeout session. Gregg had turned his attention to his new mug and was too busy lowering its volume to answer any questions, so Orson glanced over his shoulder and across the room. Espen winked broadly and gave him a thumbs-up. Apparently the two had indeed been showing a bit more than friendship. Now that’s something I’d like to see, Orson thought as he sat beside his father and began making inroads on his own beer. 

And as though in response to his unspoken request, Art leaned up and pressed his lips to Barnard’s. The kiss was slow, almost languid. Their eyes were hooded, and they looked half-drunk already...or at least tired after the long day. Orson felt tired too, and stretched out his arm across the back of the booth, now easily hefting the pint with one hand as he sipped. He didn’t notice his dad’s head resting on his arm, didn’t notice the warmth and pleasure the contact gave him; instead he watched Art and Barn continuing their kiss, their foreheads pushed further apart as their faces grew longer, the better to accommodate the long tongues that seemed forever slurping across darkening floppy lips. 

Orson licked his own nose instinctively, and found that he could smell so much better: the old wood and plaster of the tavern around them; the must of decades’ worth of spilled beer; the the beer itself, in dozens of varieties and types; and the men who came to drink it, with as many different flavors as the beers they chose. Most powerful, however, was the scent of Bären Bräu, and with it an aroma subtle and fine, like the breeze off the ocean or the nearby lake on a blustery winter day: Espen. He licked his nose again, feeling the changed shape and expanded nostrils, letting them drink in the scents all the better—the soft smell of the bartender was nearly as intoxicating as the beer he served. 

A heavy head nuzzling under his armpit drew his attention back to the table. Art and Barn were still kissing, wet slurps and noisy breath showing how much more into it they’d become, even as their bodies strained against the seams of their shirts. The thick brown hair that pressed up between his ribs and humerus belonged to his father. Gregg was actually nuzzling him, as though releasing a secret and long-held hunger for affection. 

“I…can smell her in you,” Gregg mumbled. They both missed Orson’s mother, but he’d felt like they’d moved on from their grief a long while ago. He hadn’t even thought that his smell would remind Gregg of his wife; of course Orson knew about genetics, so it stood to reason...it just wasn’t something the normal human senses should have been able to detect. Still, he found himself bending his head his darkened nose stretching out, as though trying to reach Gregg’s sooner. With a huff of breath he opened his mouth and kissed the other man, taking example from the two across the table. 

He could taste the honey-flavored beer on Gregg’s long tongue, of course, and the traces of their lunch—so long ago—but there was also the familiar taste of the man himself, the distilled chemicals of essence that Orson had unconsciously encountered growing up: in old laundry, on sweaty lawnmower days, on the couch and his father’s favorite napping chair. From the increased intensity of the kiss and the hot breath against his cheek, he could tell that Gregg was sensing the same, and wanted nothing more in that moment than to drink it down. 

He ran a hand down the back of Gregg’s neck, feeling the thick pelt of hair that seemed to have sprouted in the past few minutes, taking him from average to Mediterranean levels. The hair coating his arms and thatching out from the hem of his cargo shorts—brushing against Orson’s own newly-shaggy limbs—seemed intent on pushing the mark up to Sasquatchian hirsuteness. Across the table, Barn and Art were still entwined, apparently only taking breaks from their mutual appreciation for breath and to re-wet lips and tongue; their mugs were half empty, and their clothes were puffed up with hair. 

Not hair, Orson thought, looking at their dark noses and pushed-out faces, fur. He glanced over his shoulder at the bartender. Espen seemed to be even taller than he’d been, his head almost brushing the ceiling beams and his thick body taking up enough space behind the bar for two men. Glossy white fur had grown up across his exposed skin, merging with the beard and mustache that had been his bald head’s only adornment; even the smooth dark skin atop his crown was dusted with white, a thatch that was growing thicker by the minute. It may not be a permanent cure for baldness, but boy what a side effect, he moaned as his own body stretched taller. 

Around them, the regulars had already begun unzipping jackets and unbuttoning shirts, some neatly folding their clothes as they shed layers, others dropping them wherever. Even as he watched, they removed shoes, socks, pants, and underwear. In a twinkling, the entire bar was nude, but only a few patches of bare skin remained, and these soon were covered too in thick fur in different shades. The quartet of travelers were now the only men wearing anything, and it was clear that their shifting bodies would soon burst buttons and pop seams. “Dad, Art, Barn, take your clothes off,” he commanded, his voice sounding two octaves deeper than it ought, and crackling with an undercurrent of confidence. Fingers flew to unfasten clothes, before their owners’ minds had a chance to process what they were doing; even then, there was only a moment’s hesitation before they joined the townsfolk au naturale. 

Now with nothing impeding their exploratory intent, the four men (like the others around them) put their hands to use, each feeling up his partner’s body, feeling flab and muscle where there had been the opposite, exploring joints and bones that were slightly off from what they would be on a normal human frame, and of course the changes wrought between their legs. 

Orson felt himself up first: logically, since he’d never seen the other three naked, he wouldn’t know how their bits had changed. With mingled curiosity and arousal, he used his increasingly pawlike hand to fondle himself. His balls had grown, and the heavy orbs were now covered in almost glossy skin, like he’d seen on some dogs, dark and pulled in close to his body. Like plums, or berries...bearries, he thought with a rumbling chuckle. His cock at first seemed to have vanished, but then he felt the heat from a hairy patch above his “bearries.” His sheath plumped up, disgorging the first few inches of sensitive pink, his cock now a slender taper, and so much longer than before, if the feelings within his crotch were anything to go by. 

One of the locals had bent double, his flexible spine and long neck allowing his black and white body to curl up while his blunt muzzle lapped at his groin. Others were continuing how they’d begun, 69ing or (literally) pawing one another off; the quiet tavern had turned into an ursine orgy. Even Espen was partaking, having plopped his thick and white-furred ass on the bar while one of the patrons went to town between his legs. 

The smell of honeyed brew mingled with the scent of a dozen men and a dozen bears, and Orson couldn’t help but wonder if the polar bear bartender literally made the Bären Bräu himself. It would certainly explain their changes, and why there was a polar bear as part of the tavern’s logo. He made a mental note to go take a taste himself, if the night continued the way he suspected. 

But first, he had to get out of the booth. It had been comfortable enough for four humans—though Art’s belly had been a bit of a squeeze—but now that they’d shed most of their humanity in favor of bearhood there was hardly any space at all. They tumbled out like clowns leaving a car, stepping on paws and bumping into rumps; Arthur and Barnard rolled onto the floor to continue their passionate embrace, Barn’s glasses somehow managing to stay perched on his snout, which gave him a delicious father bear look. 

And speaking of father bears... Orson turned and looked down at his father: they were both standing now, but where Gregg had become a brown bear, Orson now towered over him. The newlyminted grizzly grinned toothfully at the smaller man, feeling an ache in his joints that seemed to speak of increased age as well as size. A small part of his mind wondered if he’d really grown older, if he was now his father’s peer; the thought was like fire in his loins, and he pressed his advantage, backing Gregg up against the Wurlitzer’s frame. 

The blocky jukebox had obviously been well-reinforced, because the rock and roll rendition of the “Beer Barrel Polka” continued playing without a single skip, even as the grizzly lifted the brown bear’s legs and used his tongue to slather sweet drool beneath the twitching fluffy tail. “Fuck me, Orson,” the brown bear managed to growl, struggling against unfamiliar mouth and unfamiliar lust alike. 

“Gregggg,” Orson replied, his breath hot on the other man’s tail, delighting in his momentary inarticulateness; being a big and burly brute was such a contrast to his normal collegiate self, and he wanted to enjoy each beastly moment. The smell of masculinity in the tavern seemed to have doubled and grown more pungent, with a thousand different subtleties that only a sensitive ursine nose could detect, and Orson drank it in like the beer that had caused it all. 

He stood, towering as tall as Espen. Looking across the sea of undulating fur, could see the polar bear, could see the hunger in those eyes, the nod of equal acknowledging equal. A wild thought sprang up in Orson’s mind: perhaps the other man wanted someone to help, to share the tavern’s magic with, to eventually take charge when age finally took its toll, someone to be just as much a fixture in Arkadios as Espen clearly was. The grizzly smiled at the polar bear, who returned the grin. 

The nebulous thoughts of sharing his bed, his body, his life with the polar bear—as well as the white-bearded human form—had Orson’s mind racing. It was just a fantasy, a heady pipe dream, but there was a solid thread running through it all that made him wonder if perhaps it had a tinge of prophecy to it. His shaft meanwhile had unfurled its length, and was now bobbing against his belly, the shaggy fur tickling it and making his pulse quicken. Gregg’s cock was hard too, already leaking into his chestfur as he whimpered. Orson used one massive paw to hold up Gregg’s leg, giving him all the access he needed. 

The slender shaft slipped in easily, almost anticlimactically, and several inches followed it before Orson felt the hole beginning to clench around him. He leaned forward and kissed Gregg, spreading his jaws with his powerful tongue, and making the smaller bear’s eyes roll back; the muscular ring relaxed and the grizzly was able to easily hilt himself. The brown bear’s cock twitched between their fluffy chests, dribbling spurts of honeysweet precum and adding more of Gregg’s scent to the already redolent air. 

Orson was fighting a war in himself, the bearish part wanting to finish breeding his conquest as quickly as possible, the better to move on to another and another, while the human part wanted to draw the pleasure out as long as he could, savoring every weird and unexpected detail as though to impress them firmly on his memory. Either way, he knew he would be revisiting this night in future jerk-off sessions. A heavy footfall distracted him from this inner struggle. 

Espen stepped closer, his body heat making Orson pant, which only drew in more of the polar bear’s sea-salt scent. The green eyes were the same as before, with the same world-wise twinkle and tenderness as they gazed into Orson’s. He blinked, realized he’d been staring—barely breathing, hips thrusting into Gregg like some mindless machine, his thoughts once more swirling around the bartender’s forms. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, Espen leaned forward and pressed his rubbery black lips against Orson’s, using his thick tongue to forestall any further discussion. Gregg’s tongue lolled out as he was used by his son as a fucktoy to burn off the passions kindled in the kiss with the polar bear. 

Around them swirled musk and music, bearmen enjoying one another’s pure physicality, slaking lusts and soaking fur, some switching partners frequently and others—like Art and Barn—content to share themselves with only one other. There were no words, only low rumbling growls and the occasional squeak of unexpected pleasure. The night continued; at some point Orson and Espen had set up a half-barrel trough in the middle of the room, filling it with more Bären Bräu to slake the thirst of the crowd; bear paws were dextrous enough to handle steins, but that was little more than a mouthful for the larger creatures in the tavern. Plus, the sight of one bear on all fours drinking from the trough while another made use of his thus-exposed hind end was enough to rekindle the embers of passion and set off another round of orgiastic enjoyment. 

Bear cum and sweaty fur mingled with the scents of beer and old wood as the dawn light peeked through the pines walling in the town. Speech returned as did patches of skin, though some of the men changed back quicker than others. One bear held his folded clothes between his teeth while his friend stood on his hind legs and showed off his increasingly hairless belly, wearing just his hat and boots. Espen waved a paw at each as they left: Barry the self-sucking panda, Larry the sun bear, Harold the black bear, Mitch the kodiak. Orson’s nose twitched as the big bear passed by, noticing the similarity in scent to Gregg; hadn’t he read somewhere that kodiaks and brown bears were related? Grizzlies too, if he remembered right. He’d have to look it up once he was back in range of the Internet...and had hands delicate enough to handle a smartphone. 

Art and Barn were still entwined with one another, groggily returning to their senses. Barnard twitched his fluffy ears and licked his long muzzle, staring at Arthur through his glasses. “You look like me,” he laughed, pointing at the orange fur that arced over the other bearman’s eyebrows, “someone’s got a serious case of bear goggles—” he hiccuped, correcting himself, “beer goggles.” 

The spectacled bear waggled one of those orange eyebrows at his sloth bear friend. “It’s a good look, fuzzface,” he said, tapping Barn on the chest where a creamy mark like a child’s drawing of bird wings spread wide. They kissed again. 

Gregg had shifted back more than the others, and was pulling underwear up over his well-used and still-tailed ass. “Come on, fellas, let’s grrrrrr-get drrressed. Maybe the gas station is open. Wrrrrrhat time is it?” His ursine tongue made speech difficult, and his fogged brain couldn’t figure out why. Orson helped his father dress, oversized paw-hands tender and precise as they held up his shirt while the older man struggled with his sleeves. Gregg leaned close and kissed the grizzly by way of thanks, his nose still dark and wet but mostly human-shaped. 

Orson picked up the rest of the clothes—neither he nor Art nor Barn were ready to fit into jeans and shirts yet—as the quartet lumbered out of the tavern. He watched the other two bears lumbering on all fours out the wide front door and felt a heavy paw on his shoulder. 

Espen had begun changing back as well, his head already bald and his beard reasserting itself amid the sea of white chest fur. The other paw held a business card between the claws of thumb and forefinger. “I hope yuh’ll give me a call, Orson.” 

The grizzly’s head hadn’t yet reverted enough to permit speech, so instead he simply nodded and kissed the bartender. He knew he hadn’t told Espen his name, which only leant further credence to the feeling that there was some magic afoot. Or a-paw, Orson thought with a rubber-lipped grin. Even as they strolled through the dawn-quiet town, he could taste the polar bear’s kiss, and he wanted more. He wanted to taste that every day, and there was no doubt in his mind that he had found a place where he could fit in, even if it meant standing out like the grizzly he’d become. 

By the time they reached the car, they’d all changed back sufficiently to don their clothes and resume some semblance of human decorum. But Orson still maintained a few inches of height over his father, and Art and Barn hadn’t stopped looking at one another, exchanging subtle touches and brushing of shoulders or bellies. As they waited for the gas station to open, they each used the nearby payphone to call in sick to their respective jobs. One benefit of a night guzzling Bären Bräu (as well as engaging in various other ursine endeavors) was a lingering huskiness in their voices. “At least,” Orson growled at his friends, “we sound like we’re sick. I bet we could take the long way home, Gregg, maybe call in ‘sick’ tomorrow too.” 

It was a long drive home, but they enjoyed every mile.

Vote on this story

Tim and his body by Atokamematoke A gym accident victim gives an interview on how he copes with a body he can no longer control. 826 words Added Mar 2016 11k views 5.0 stars (7 votes) No comments yet •Self-suck•Detachable

Shaming the boastful centaur by DracumSum Bill makes a joke, and a Greek goddess makes it real. 7 parts 41k words Added Oct 2022 Updated 21 Oct 2023 14k views 5.0 stars (13 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Cut to Uncut•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Cum Milking•Always Cumming•Hyper Cum•Four Legs•Hyper Muscle•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Public Nudity•Increased Libido•Breast Expansion•Getting Handsomer•Gradual Change•Transformation•Voice Deepening•Giants•Forced Growth•Human to Animal/Anthro•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Hairless•Retcon•First Time/Virgin•Bisexual•Nonconsensual change•Restraints•Hyper Pheromones•Time Travel•Centaurs•Pagan gods•Supernatural•Complete •M/M•M/M/F

My selfsuck obsession by Alex G A college selfer heads to the woods for a selfsuck session full of heat, feet, and sweat.  2,267 words Added Oct 2023 2,765 views 5.0 stars (5 votes) No comments yet •Self-suck •M

Three giant guys by MegaMaker Three short vignettes taking place in three separate universes, with three very hot growing guys.  3 parts 5,926 words Added Mar 2024 8,506 views 5.0 stars (5 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Ball Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Always Cumming•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Multi-abs•Addiction•Getting Dumber•Hyper Muscle•Hyper Strength•Immobility•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Muscle Worship•Public Nudity•Man Scent•Butt Growth•Increased Libido•Gradual Change•Voice Deepening•Getting Taller•Giants•Forced Growth•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Destruction/Violence•Hyper Pheromones•Shapeshifting •M

Miracle Grow Boys (Revised) by Bulklore Aiden and Jack are two new soccer recruits desperate to fit into a team of hung studs at their college. They resort to mysterious pills promising growth, but in ignoring the warnings they accidentally trigger more than they can handle. An old story revised by the author under a new name. 2 parts 11k words Added Jan 2024 Updated 13 Jan 2024 12k views 5.0 stars (36 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Self-suck•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido •M/M

Coming of age by Also Known As Jerry’s nephew comes to visit him in San Francisco, and turns out to be very huge, very beautiful and very uninhibited. 4 parts 13k words Added Feb 2019 28k views 5.0 stars (20 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Self-suck•Hyper Cum•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Getting Taller•Size Increase•Hairless•Incest •M/t

Click bate by Dream Big Andy didn’t remember ordering this weird butt and cock pleasuring equipment, but, hey, it looked like it might be fun to play with… 26 parts 23k words Added Nov 2020 Updated 5 Mar 2022 32k views 4.9 stars (37 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Self-suck•Other Mental Changes•Increased Libido•Transformation•A.I.-Controlled Change•Dildos/Toys•Merging•Set during the Pandemic •M/M•M/M/M/...

The four jocks: College buddies by NBCK99 NBCK99 tries his hand at a "Four Jocks" story, involving four insanely hot jocks growing and changing each other as they feed each others’ attraction and arousal. 4,873 words Added Aug 2015 22k views 4.9 stars (21 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Self-suck•Multicock•Multilimb•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Retcon•Incest•Brothers •M/M•M/M/M