Bear Virus: Chapter 3 - Bruce Heads to Work

Bruce took off down the street on his bike. The coffee shop where he worked was about fifteen minutes away, but his shift was scheduled to start almost half an hour ago already. He’d checked his phone, and saw two messages from his manager asking him where he was, and he pumped his legs harder--but with his more substantial frame, he got a bit winded, much to his surprise, and needed to take a break or two along the way, making it twenty minutes before he got there, almost an hour after his shift was scheduled.

But as he was locking up his bike, grumbling about how much he hated working at that little shop, a thought occurred to him. He didn’t have to work there. He’d only picked up the job so he could have some extra spending money, and to tuck a little away for college, but after everything that had just happened with Tony, none of that really mattered anymore. He wasn’t even in high school anymore. In fact, he could remember graduating a few years ago now that he thought of it, but he’d decided to skip college, and just worked here instead. That was a terrible direction though, that wasn’t the sort of life he wanted, and it seemed like with Tony’s new power, there was no reason for him to settle for it, if he didn’t want it. So instead of hanging his head and walking into the coffee shop, he balled up his shirt, tossed it in the trash next to the bike lock, and set off in the opposite direction. He was an adult now, after all, and it was time he started making his own decisions--you know, like adults do.

Bruce walked down the moderately busy sidewalk. Half the time he’d be checking out the shops and restaurants he’d never really paid much attention to when he was on his bike, and the other half he would be cruising the men he passed by, almost without thinking about it. His eyes would go from a handsome face to the bulge, wondering how big they might be and what it would feel like in his hole. They would pass by, and he’d look over his shoulder at the guy’s ass as well. One or two times they looked back at him as well, one even catching his eye with a smile, but Bruce just hastily turned and kept walking, even though his own cock was rock hard at the prospect of getting fucked again.

He’d never felt this horny before. He’d never felt horny like this before. Even as a teenager, when it seemed like every other thought was about sex, this was different. It was a craving, more than a desire, almost like an addiction or a constant itch at the back of his mind. He thought about calling Tony, or just going back to his house to see if he’d found out anything else about what had happened to them both earlier that day, but didn’t. He passed a wine bar tucked in between two other shops, and paused, looking inside. It seemed to be rather deserted, aside from a bartender polishing glasses. Bruce had had a few sips of alcohol when he was younger, but had generally been a good kid about drinking and drugs. He wasn’t a kid anymore though, and maybe getting off the street would help cool him off a little bit. He’d never had wine before either, so...why not?

He stepped inside the door and headed for the bar. He sat down, and was met with a rather snide expression from the bartender, who just kept cleaning glasses. Bruce looked around at the place, and sort of understood why--the place was clearly meant for an upscale clientele, probably from all the offices around this part of the city. Bruce was clearly not that sort of fellow, and he felt a little embarrassed to be so obviously out of place. The fellow carded him, Bruce passed him his ID. He studied it top to bottom, even the back, and then returned it to him. “So, what would you like?”

Bruce cleared his throat, picked up the menu in front of him, and the thing was the size of a small book, with page after page of indecipherable wine names, and rather astronomical prices after each, even for just a glass. It didn’t help that Bruce knew absolutely nothing about wine in the first place. The bartender just stared down his nose at him the entire time, clearly aware that Bruce had no idea what he was doing here, and eventually Bruce just set the menu down and said, “I’ll have the mer-lot,” with a hard “T”. That was a wine, right? He’d seen it on bottles before.

The bartender cleared his throat, unimpressed. “And which, merlot, would you like, Sir?” being sure to emphasize the correct pronunciation. 

Bruce felt his face heat up a bit. “Look, I’m not much of a wine drinker, do you have something you’d recommend?”

“I’m not sure you’d be able to afford many of my recommendations, sir,” he said. Bruce glowered up at him. The bartender was a bit older than he was now, probably 27 or 28. He had a handlebar mustache held in place with copious amounts of wax, and a slicked back haircut that seemed to pull his forehead too far back. He was dressed in a sharp white shirt with a burgundy vest and tie tucked in, with slacks of the same color. He was tall, too, and wasn’t shy about using that advantage to loom more effectively over Bruce. “I suppose what I’d recommend is that you head for the tavern on the next block--I’m sure you’ll find something closer to your speed, and your budget, there.”

A different Bruce might have done just that. Stood up, tail between his legs, and hustled off to the bartender’s suggestion. But something kept him sitting there for a moment longer, staring up at the bartender. Bruce didn’t like being disrespected, and he certainly didn’t like being talked down to, and the horniness he was feeling, the need he was feeling had only gotten stronger. Without really knowing why, he reached out, grabbed the bartender by his tie, dragged him down to where he was sitting and kissed him, shoving his tongue into the man’s mouth, and receiving a rather garbled grunt of surprise from him in return. He pulled away after a moment, wiping the spit from his mouth onto his sleeve, breath quickening, and when Bruce looked down over the bar at the man’s crotch, he saw that he had popped quite a tent in his slacks.

“What...the...” the bartender stammered, “Get out of here, right this instant.”

“Now why would I do that, when you clearly have something that needs to be taken care of?” Bruce said, standing up, leaning over the bar and groping the bartender’s cock. “I think you could use a little attitude adjustment too.”

The bartender was frozen, but didn’t pull away from Bruce’s hand. His eyes were rather confused and panicked, but slowly he could see the lust rising as well. He pulled him into another kiss, and this time the bartender didn’t resist. “Fuck...” he said when Bruce pulled away, all resistance gone from his eyes now.

“Why don’t you come around here and give me a good rough fuck, punk,” Bruce said, the last word slipping out without much thought, and when it did, he noticed something pop into existence, a gauge piercing in the bartender’s ear.

“Right...here? But anyone could see--”

“You stupid, punkass, piece of shit, we both know that dick of yours does the thinking, and it sure as hell doesn’t care if anyone sees.”

Another gauge. The wax on his mustache weakened, the slicked back hair started to shift into...something else. The white shirt was no longer pressed, the vest not quite burgundy. The bartender gave a grunt, came around to the other side of the bar where Bruce was bent over, and tugged down the back of Bruce’s jeans. He stared at it for a moment, not quite able to believe that what was happening to him was actually real. He opened up the fly of his pants, discovered his underwear had mysteriously vanished, and pushed the thick head of his cock against Bruce’s hole. It popped inside with a grunt from them both, and then he was fucking, harder and rougher at Bruce’s urging.

Bruce was having a hard time understand it as well. It felt like reality was just...twisting around him, but almost out of sight, like it didn’t quite want him to know it was happening. He thought back, remembered what Tony had said before he’d left his house, and realized what was happening--he was contagious too! This was the virus. The knowledge of that made the shifting feel more obvious, like he could see the strings being pulled as the bartender kept fucking him.

Like most bars, there was a long mirror behind it, giving Bruce a nice view of both the bartender, and the bar. The man’s handlebar mustache slumped down, becoming a sleazy looking horseshoe instead, the buzzed sides of his slicked back haircut gaining ground until all that remained of his previous coif was a buzzed down mohawk, colored bright red. Both of his ears were pierced, as was his tongue, when it hung out of his mouth. His physique was bulking up, packing on a bit of muscle as he fucked, his sharp clothes becoming something else now. The dress shirt was reduced to a dirty, stained undershirt, his vest now the remains of a denim shirt, covered with patches, his slacks down a grungy pair of jeans that didn’t look to have been washed in several weeks, if that. Something hard mashed up against Bruce’s prostate, making him groan in delight, his own cock exploding all over the front of the bar, the bartender shooting his own load a few moments later, and both of them were disoriented, the room shifting around them.

When everything settled back down, Bruce looked up into the now grimy mirror, and saw that the upscale wine bar was gone, replaced by a rundown pub with some sleazy looking gay porn playing on the TV in the corner. It was then that Bruce noticed his own changes as well. He looked to be older than before, even, closer to thirty or so. His hair had receded even further, and his clothes were looking rather shabby himself, in a faded flannel shirt, suspenders, and some old jeans and work boots. The bartender, or Mikey as Bruce knew him now, pulled out and stumbled back a bit, not quite used to his own body anymore, looking down at himself, at the massive PA hanging off his cock, his grimy clothes, first in horror, but increasingly in delight, as the virus now pumping through his veins adjusted the last bits of his new persona into place. Bruce stood up as well, and saw his gut had grown as well, pushing over his pants like a basketball now. He gave it a rub, and found he enjoyed the sensation quite a bit.

“Fuck, I feel kinda...sick...” Mikey said, looking over at him.

“I’m sure it’ll pass--you sure fucked around like you’re healthy enough. Get me a beer, would ya?”

“Yeah,” Mikey said, went back behind the bar, the wine replaced by some taps the bar hadn’t bothered to change in years, and put a big mug down in front of Bruce, who downed most of it in a single chug. 

“Fuck, that’s what I fuckin’ needed--a good fuck, and a good beer.”

“Bruce, did...something happen a second ago? My head feels fuzzy, and...” Mikey asked again.

Bruce looked at the punkish cub across the bar, and realized he didn’t actually remember what had happened to him, or at least not well. He supposed that he could try and explain it to him, but he thought better of it. He didn’t really want him knowing what was going on--Bruce was content keeping that information to himself, for now. He told Mikey there was nothing to worry about, and within a few minutes, Mikey confessed that he was feeling much better, and they were shooting the shit like usual. Bruce kept looking at himself in the mirror, and he knew that the old version of him would have been horrified at what he’d turned into, but he couldn’t seem to muster that sort of disgust at all. He liked it, actually. He liked it a whole lot. He’d also liked what he’d done to Mikey even more, and found himself thinking about what he could do to other guys too.

Their conversation was interrupted by an older businessman stepping through the door and into the pub, before looking around the place in confusion, and then immediately stepping back out onto the sidewalk. 

“Heh, guess this isn’t his kinda bar,” Mikey said with a chuckle.

Bruce chuckled, “Don’t sweat it. Let me do a little...sales and marketing for you at the door. I have a feeling we’ll have just the sort of customers we want, soon enough.”