Getting Even
#5 of Richmond
Richmond stops at a diner in the middle of nowhere and tries to win the attentions of a polar bear on the staff. The bear puts up a good fight, but will it be enough to save him from the stego's power?
The story from December's FA poll.
There's an old saying, 'don't get mad, get even.'
Sure, it sounds nice on paper, but who wants to stop at getting even? Why go to all the trouble of holding a grudge and plotting revenge and carrying out your clever and glorious retaliation when your goal is ending the game in a tie?
Don't get mad. Win utterly. I do.
In part because of this policy, I don't spend a lot of time staying in one place. You can only take so long being 'of interest' to the authorities before they start making your life more hassle than it's worth.
This week I'd spent on the road, exploring the vast empty spaces of middle America and looking for a suitably quiet town to set up a new home in. I'll admit I can't get far in a day down the Interstate; much as I'd like to spend my time down the open roads, the shape of every modern car is hostile to someone like me who can't comfortably sit in a chair with a back--one of the few drawbacks to being a stegosaurus.
Today it'd only been a couple of hours since leaving the last motel that I felt the discomfort building all down my backplates and knew I needed to get out and stretch. I pulled off at the next exit, whose only features were a truck stop with a diner and a sign saying the town whose name was printed on the exit signs was thirty miles up the county road to the north.
I figured I may as well get breakfast while I was here.
The diner was a perfect example of a 'greasy spoon'--fatty American food on chipped plates surrounded by run-down décor that was a little grimy around the edges--but at least it had a bar counter, so I could sit at a stool like a civilized person instead of trying to wedge my backplates into a booth.
From my seat I could look into the kitchen, where a polar bear was expediting the orders. Even he managed to be a bit on the dingy side, his fur somewhat yellowed--probably from the kind of nicotine habit one often picks up at jobs that don't let you have other kinds of breaks.
It was only ten a.m. but already everyone looked tired.
I ordered the Trucker's Breakfast and dug in, shrugging off the attempts at friendly conversation from the waitress, a wolf in a ratty apron with a name tag reading 'Sylvia'; the polar bear had far more of my attention.
It wasn't just the shape of him--though he did have that sturdy country-boy look that's so appealing--it was something about the mere way he moved that was compelling. Just to watch his rump swing back and forth as he worked the dishes coming out from the kitchen was enough to up the appetite.
When there was a lull in the orders he called back to the kitchen that he was taking a break, and I took the opportunity to pay my bill and follow him around to the back of the building.
He was leaning against the back wall, cigarette in paw as he stared down the highway.
I more wanted to watch him than interrupt him right away, but when he noticed me--with 'Sir' and a nod--I went up and leaned on the wall alongside him. Given that I had to lean on my side, facing him, the gesture was much less casual than I would've liked.
The awkwardness levels rose further as he laid out the next step in the conversation: "You're after my ass, aren't you."
There was an empty space at the end of that sentence where a slur went unspoken, and I realized I didn't have the favorable circumstances to make a move. If a big fellow like him were inclined to hurt me generally, well, I'll just say he could introduce me to the North Dakota hospital system real quick.
"Fuck no," I said, grumbling inwardly.
"Whatever," he said, giving me a skeptical scowl, but went back to watching the highway as he worked through his cigarette. "Why don't you look over there," he said, after a moment or two of silence, and indicated the few cars that passed for traffic. "Watch the people drive away from here as fast as possible, just watch them receding forever away to the horizon. Relaxing, isn't it?"
I watched the cars. As they shrank from view in the distance I thought about just how soothing the polar bear's voice could be.
"Just watch and relax." Exhalation of smoke.
With the flatness of the plains, one could watch the cars for a good long time before they were lost from sight. The ache from the drive faded fully away.
"Relax and think about how they're driving away from here as fast as possible. Think about how nice and relaxing it must be to get away--to just get in your car and drive away from here as fast as possible."
Somehow that sounded perfectly reasonable.
"How relaxing it must be to obey--how soothing to get in your nice comfortable car and drive down that nice comfortable road and find a nice comfortable new home far, far away from here."
I tried to imagine riding in a nice comfortable car; the thought was a bit fuzzy, though I couldn't remember why.
"You want to get moving, don't you, stranger?"
"I think I do," I said. It would be so relaxing to obey.
He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt in the trash, and headed back inside.
I got all the way back to my car without noticing what had happened, but the spell broke as soon as I failed to get anything like comfortable in my seat.
Fucker couldn't just say 'no' gracefully, could he.
Oh well. Don't get mad...
"You don't belong back here," he said, scowling at me as I accosted him in a back corner of the kitchen where boxes of supplies were piled up.
"Neither do you," I said, pinning him against the wall of cardboard. "I think you belong in my toybox."
"The fuck?" He squirmed to break free, but I was stronger--I took the opportunity to swing my tail and puncture his leg with my spikes.
It only takes a bit of the venom in them to subdue a guy; given my haste, I gave him the full whammy. The fight went out of him immediately, and I leaned in, rumbling in his ear. "You're a cute boy," I said. "Not cute enough to go free, but cute enough to choose your poison.
"I own you now. When I leave this place, there'll be nothing left of you but a bit of sex gear. Maybe a dildo. Maybe a rubber hood. Maybe a cock ring. What do you think you want to be?"
The polar bear swayed a little, not fully able to respond while under my influence, but with slow, deliberate motions he sank to his knees and began to open up my pants.
"Mmm...find where you belong?" I pulled out my dick and rested its still-soft girth on his nose; after a moment, he took it into his muzzle and slowly ran his tongue along its length.
I was pleasantly surprised at what passed for such enthusiasm under the heavy drugging; he must have been an eager cocksucker behind closed doors in life.
Shame that's coming to an end, I thought, leaning forward against the wall to enjoy him. At least he'll be well used from here on out.
I ground firmly against him, letting my plumping cock press against his tongue, but found it unyielding.
I tried to pull back and looked down, but with a twisting sort of motion the bear took my balls into his muzzle as well--and the grip kept me from pulling away.
He snorted with self-satisfaction and I found my genitals encased in his muzzle, which had taken on the texture of inflexible plastic.
The fucker.
I tried to reverse the change, to stop him from getting his way, but apparently he had a strength I couldn't reach--I could only watch as his body shrank into its new form, a small white receptacle trapping my dick and balls in chastity.
The fucker.
I tried to pull him off, but he was secured in place in a way that only a device that was created around your cock can be: too tight around the scrotum to let the balls through, too firmly gripping the shaft to pull it out--and judging by the pain that came when I tried, he probably had severe-tire-damage spikes ringed around the inside.
The fucker.
I was going to need to get him off me the hard way, and soon. A bit more inspection showed that he'd not even granted me the decency of a slit to piss out of--just a sort of gutter along the underside that'd run the fluids back over my balls.
If I hadn't just killed him, I'd kill him.
I pulled my pants back on and went hunting for the nearest hardware store.
Thirty miles up the country road to the north I sat in a parking lot with a pair of shears, working apart what remained of the polar bear and hoping he felt every cut. It was probably the first time I'd ever cared if my victims felt anything--it wasn't satisfying to beat up an inanimate object.
I threw the scraps into a nearby dumpster and started driving back to the highway, both my back and my pride hurting.
I hate it when they get even.