The OK Bar was called that due to its location-a lonely stretch of road in the Oklahoma panhandle. It served as a location reminder for truckers or hopelessly lost motorists-helpfully, the roadhouse’s sign had the words “OK BAR” written in red neon letters inside a yellow neon outline of Oklahoma. The other meaning of “OK” was applicable, too-this was an adequate bar, neither egregiously seedy nor too clean and sanitized (or, indeed, populated).

There was, of course, a bar, tended to by a stout old wolf named Gus who rarely spoke outside of asking for drink orders and demanding payment. There were three tables for people to sit and eat, if there were people around to sit and eat. There was a television placed in the middle of the wall for people to watch, tuned to the local news channel and put on mute (it used to be tuned to ESPN, but Gus changed it a few months ago and didn’t turn it back; when asked about it, he simply made a sour face and spat on the ground). The walls were decorated with license plates, faded beer advertisements, and old Cowboys schedules that were four or five years out of date. There was a jukebox with a decent if unremarkable range of selections. Finally, there was a bathroom, with two urinals, two stalls and a sink. There was nothing special about this bar aside from the fact that it was the only place to get a drink for fifty miles.

Jordan Halligan was not here for a drink. Scratch that-he wasn’t only here for a drink. He was here for directions, a piss, and a break from staring at a yawning expanse of black asphalt. (And, y’know, a drink.) He was going to spend spring break with a buddy of his in Denver-a Breloom who was trying to start his own line of edibles. Jordan was looking forward to the break for a number of reasons (he got very defensive if you pointed out the obvious one), but a couple of wrong turns and infuriatingly circuitous GPS instructions left him on this stretch of highway going Christ knows where. The lion wore a battered old pair of blue jeans and a Sooners jersey, and his mane was flattened into a long, smooth cascade of hair past his shoulders.

He pulled into the small parking lot next to the bar, hopping out and locking the door to his car. There were only two other vehicles parked there-Jordan guessed that one belonged to the owner and the other to another customer. There was a beat-up old pickup, colored rust red and decorated with bumper stickers that were so faded they were almost illegible. A motorcycle was parked next to it, unadorned. It clearly wasn’t new, but it was carefully maintained.

Jordan sized up the OK Bar, and nodded along with the name. This certainly was an OK bar. Sure, he felt a little uneasy approaching the entrance, but the lion usually got uneasy in rural places like this-when he was a kid camping as a Boy Scout, he used to lie awake in his sleeping bag, wondering if anything outside of his tent actually existed. He would be fiiiiiiiine.

---

Jordan entered the OK Bar slowly, almost cautiously. He didn’t know why-it was just a bar, after all, it’s not like there was a feral tiger waiting for an ambush. The lighting was dim and occasionally flickered; the jukebox played some old deep cut by Thin Lizzy (or maybe it was Rory Gallagher? No, definitely Thin Lizzy). He saw the bathroom door close and lock-that must have been the other guy parked. Gus stood behind the bar, nursing a glass of something or another.

It took a couple of seconds for Jordan to work up the gumption to clear his throat. “Um…”

Were it not for Thin Lizzy, the bar would have been consumed by painful silence. The portly wolf slowly set down his glass and gazed at Jordan, not smiling. “Well?”

Jordan stayed quiet for a moment, before rushing to correct himself. “Oh, a drink! Um, I’ll have a…” He didn’t know what sort of stuff this bar stocked, and he didn’t want to act like some spoiled college kid asking for a craft beer. “I’ll have a Miller Lite?”

Gus’ frown remained etched upon his face. “Are you asking me or telling me what you want?”

The lion briefly flushed red from embarrassment before retrying. “I’ll have a Miller Lite.”

Silently, with the sort of glare more suited for an executioner than a bartender, Gus produced a bottle of Miller Lite, placing it on the bar with a startlingly loud clack. Jordan stared at it for a moment, feeling more than a little stupid, before meekly asking “Is there a bottle opener?” As soon as those words left his lips, Gus snatched the bottle back, reached under the bar, cracked it open and handed it back to the college kid. Jordan took the bottle and drank a bit; it tasted like water. He drank more, to be polite.

“Um...hey,” Jordan said. “Would you know where we are?” A pause. “I mean, I know we’re in Oklahoma, but my GPS went fucking haywire earlier, and I don’t know exactly where in Oklahoma I am. So, uh…” If Gus kept up that stare for much longer, Jordan feared that he would be reduced to a pile of ash and a Sooners jersey. Finally, the wolf responded. “Panhandle,” he said, and started polishing beer glasses with a white cloth. The lion took that to mean the conversation was over. He took another swig from the bottle and sighed.

A dreary old bar, with watery beer and a bartender with the friendly warmth of a cinder block. Well, it was worth a shot. Jordan dug into his wallet and provided Gus with the money for the beer. He put his hands in his pockets, stepping up from the bar and heading over to the bathroom.

---

There was one particularly important thing in the bathroom, but it’s worth taking one’s time to size up the scene and go into a little more detail. There were two stalls, but one of them (the one closest to the nearly-opaque window) had an out-of-order sign taped onto the door. The side of the stall was covered in assorted graffiti-among other things, there were the requisite dick drawings, a couple of Kilroy-was-heres, and the occasional non sequitur (“hi mom!”, “all that you love will be carried away”, “here’s how Bernie can still win”). If Jordan went inside the stall as was planned (rather than being stopped by the important thing mentioned at the top of this paragraph), he’d probably see even more graffiti in there.

There was a soap dispenser next to the sink, but it was long broken; some cheap hand soap in a pump bottle was placed next to the sink faucets. There was no mirror-Gus correctly assumed that whoever visited the OK Bar wasn’t going to be fussing and primping. There was a cork bulletin board instead, with various things fastened in place with red thumbtacks. An article cut out from the sports pages showed the odds for the 2011 Preakness. An advertisement for a plumbing service proudly proclaimed “Time to lay down some pipe!” Blue text on white paper read “For every hot chick, there’s a man somewhere that’s sick of her shit!” 

None of that was the most important thing in the bathroom, though. The most important thing in the bathroom was standing in front of a urinal, unzipping and sighing as his stream began. As Jordan entered the bathroom, he could only see him from the back, but even that was enough to stop him in his tracks.

He was a Sylveon, broad and tall-Jordan, at about six foot even, was a head or so shorter than him. Starting from the feet, he wore thick, hefty combat boots, black leather scuffed and worn but still more than presentable. His legs, thick and powerful tree trunks, were covered by well-worn blue jeans-as Jordan’s eyes traveled up a little further, he could see that rough denim covering the man’s big, juicy, heavy musclebutt. He had to tear his eyes away from that sight to see the rest of the Sylveon-well, what he could see from behind anyway. 

The back of the Sylveon’s leather jacket read “PANHANDLE MOTORCYCLE CLUB”, although the familiar flag emblazoned with it suggested that this was the Texas and not the Oklahoma panhandle. His shoulders were broad, firm, and masculine. Indeed, save for his species, he was the very picture of a man.

It was always a bit of a surprise to see a Sylveon so masculine and rugged-although it really shouldn't have been. There were big Sylveons, small Sylveons, fat Sylveons, skinny Sylveons, muscled Sylveons, gay Sylveons, straight Sylveons, feminine Sylveons, masculine Sylveons-they were as varied as any other species, Pokemon or otherwise. Still, the dissonance struck Jordan, and he simply stared all the longer.

He was shaken out of it by a deep, rumbling voice. “You alright, kid?” Jordan blinked, flinching as he saw the Sylveon looking him up and down. The leather biker had a square jaw, with light pink stubble and a three-inch scar above his right eye. From the looks at him, he was in his late mid-to-late forties. Christ, he was exactly the lion’s type. Jordan bit the inside of his cheek, as though irritated that the universe was taunting him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jordan said, at last. “Sorry, I was just kinda…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m sure you get it a lot.” He didn’t even have to say it. The Sylveon, for his part, gave a smile.

“Last guy who tried to talk shit about it got his teeth kicked in,” he said, “but you seem like a nice kid. What’s your name?” The Sylveon’s voice was bassy and rough around the edges, seasoned with bourbon and cigar smoke. There was a Southern accent to his voice, though it was far from overbearing.

“Uh,” Jordan started, before faltering somewhat. That line about kicking someone’s teeth in made him nervous to say anything more, but he got a feeling that the Sylveon truly didn’t mind him. “My name’s Jordan,” he said. He didn’t ask for the Sylveon’s name-he didn’t want to be presumptuous.

“Good to meet ya, Jordan. I’m Butch.” The Sylveon leaned against the wall. “You go to OU, or are you just a Sooners fan?” Jordan looked down at his jersey before giving a sheepish smile. “I go to OU,” he said, eliciting a nod from Butch. “My nephew went there,” he said. “Good kid. Works in the state agriculture department nowadays.” He reached into a pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a box of cigarettes. “Want one?”
Jordan shook his head and said “No, I don’t smoke.” The lion paused for a split second before adding “Cigarettes, I mean.” Butch shrugged his broad shoulders and flicked a lighter, lighting the cigarette before bringing it to his mouth. “Cigars are better,” the big Sylveon said, “but I smoked my last one just ‘fore crossing the Oklahoma border. So these’ll do.”

Jordan made his way over to the urinal to use it quick, trying not to stare at Butch. He had never been one for fly-by-night hookups-if he wanted quick sex he could just use Grindr instead of stalking the bars and bathrooms of the area like a weirdo. And yet, there was something about this man’s rugged masculinity, his seasoned charm, his-ah, no sense beating around the bush, his daddylike tendencies. Jordan tried to push memories of his father’s smoke-scented leather jacket out of his mind as he shook off any remnants of piss, zipping back up.

“Maybe it’s the dad in me,” Butch said, not helping Jordan’s efforts in the slightest, “but I ought to ask what a kid from OU’s doing up here. We’re pretty far from Norman, y’know.” The lion turned back to face Butch, trying valiantly to suppress his blush as the Sylveon smiled. “That’s right! It’s spring break, ain’t it? You going someplace?”

Jordan nodded. “Yeah. I made plans with a friend of mine in Denver, but I got a little lost.” That made Butch perk to attention. “Denver? Y’wanna know something funny? The way I’m going takes me past Denver. I could show ya the way if you’re really lost.” Jordan didn’t know if he was imagining it or not, but he could have sworn he saw something flirtatious in the way Butch grinned at him after saying that.

“That’s really nice of you, sir, but I wouldn’t wanna make you go to any trouble,” Jordan said, the lion swallowing a nervous lump in his throat that he wasn’t aware that he had until then. Butch gave an affable chuckle, deep and low-it felt like a pleasant vibration in Jordan’s ears. “No trouble at all!” the Sylveon insisted. “‘Sides, I don’t mind doing it for a cute kid like you.”

If Jordan suspected that Butch was flirting with him earlier, he was almost certain of it now. He didn’t want to make a mistake, though-most big burly biker men weren’t so keen on being mistaken for gay. “So I know,” the lion said, “when you say ‘cute’, you mean…?”

Butch nodded. “If you’re not into me, just say so, and that’ll be that.” This made Jordan give a long, relieved exhale, an odd shudder-laugh rolling out of him. “No no no, I am! I was just worried that, y’know…” He trailed off, before taking a deep breath. “So, are we gonna do this here?” This prompted a shrug of Butch’s mighty shoulders. “Don’t think Gus would appreciate you choking on my dick in the bar,” he said. Jordan bit his lip at that, feeling a little stupid, and stepped forward.

“There we go, kiddo,” Butch said, his voice taking on a warm, somewhat fatherly quality. “Just get on your knees, alright?” Jordan blinked. “In front of you?” he asked, and immediately felt stupid again. The Sylveon just gave a patient smile. “That’s right,” he said. “Like that.”

Jordan lowered himself to his knees in front of Butch, finding himself face-to-face with the bulge in the Sylveon’s jeans. The lion looked up as though awaiting direction, before Butch lowered his hands down to his belt. “Not like anyone else’ll come in,” he said. “Might as well take ‘em off.”

He undid the belt buckle and hooked his fingers into the waist of both his jeans and underwear, tugging downwards and stepping out of the denim legs. Once that was done, he stood back over the lion, presenting to him a sight that made Jordan’s mouth water.

Butch had a big, fat, heavy dick. It was seven inches flaccid, and though Jordan didn’t know what that equated to when it was erect he knew that it would be a hell of a mouthful. It hung proudly, swaying slightly along with the hefty, pendulous pair of white-furred nuts the biker Sylveon had. He was easily the biggest guy Jordan had hooked up with, which both excited him and reinvigorated the butterflies in his stomach.

Butch lit another cigarette. “It won’t get hard as quick as it used to,” he said, “so you’d better get sucking.” He offered one more bit of advice before the lion set to work. “Play with my balls, too, that gets me going quicker.” Jordan, keeping that in mind, leaned his head forward and opened his mouth.

“Mmmmf…” Jordan shut his eyes, taking in a deep, pleasured breath as he filled his mouth up with Butch’s cock. He ran his tongue along the underside, licking it up and down the shaft, his hand reaching up to gently fondle those thick, hairy balls. Butch took a drag from his cigarette and gave a low, growling sigh from the sensation. “Doin’ good so far, kid,” he said.

Jordan nodded, bobbing his head up and down as he carefully sucked Butch’s dick. He wasn’t exactly new at this, and he knew the basics of giving good head-no teeth, give the balls attention, use your tongue. Speaking of, he popped his lips off the head of the Sylveon’s cock, slowly dragging his tongue up and down the shaft before focusing on the head, flickering his tongue to tease the pisshole. Butch’s breathing quickened, his firm musclegut rising and falling. “Yeah, you’re doin’ real good.”

Jordan gave his mouth a break for a moment, swallowing his gathered spit as he jerked off the Sylveon’s cock, savoring the lewd shlkshlkshlk it made. As though being gently awakened from a nap, Butch’s dick twitched, stirred, and fully hardened from its semi-hard state. It was then that Jordan could appreciate the size of the thing-fully hard, it was about ten or eleven inches. The lion wasn’t exactly a size queen, but he could appreciate a real man’s dick when he was faced with it.

He set back to work, the corners of his mouth turning into a grin as he opened wide. Size was important enough, in his opinion, but what he really liked was a nice girthy cock to stretch his jaw. He bobbed his head, working his lips up and down the shaft, giving needy little moans. “Nnnf...mmgh...mhf~”

Butch breathed heavily, the Sylveon biker rumbling with the pleasure of a nice, wet, eager blowjob. “That’s it, that’s it,” he encouraged, broad hand resting on the back of Jordan’s head as the lion’s pace increased. “Keep workin’ that-nnnghk-pretty little mouth of yours.” His hips began to twitch, the Sylveon guiding Jordan along, working him down to the base. 

Finally, Jordan got there, wrapping his lips around the base of Butch’s cock, eyes fluttering, breathing in and out through his nose in order to keep his gag reflex from rearing its head…

“Mmmf?”

He had gone to move his head backwards, but Butch kept his hand pressed firm. Thick fingers curled themselves into Jordan’s long brown hair, holding him still, keeping the head of that fat dick pressed against the back of Jordan’s throat.

“Mmmf? MGH!” He grabbed on to Butch’s hard thighs, trying to push back, but that grip held firm. The Sylveon looked down at Jordan’s wide brown eyes and spoke.

“Listen to me.” His voice was a commanding, lusty growl. “Keep sucking ‘til I come. I’m not letting you off ‘til I do.” Jordan’s eyes squinched shut, and his stomach spasmed as he gave a gargling gag around the Sylveon’s dick. Butch’s hand caressed Jordan’s hair while still pressing down firm on the back of his head. “It’s OK if you gag. Matter of fact, I like it.” In a gentler tone, he said: “I know you can handle it, boy. Wouldn’t do it if you couldn’t.”

Jordan’s breath quickened. Air rushed in and out of his nostrils, eyes widened and watery, jaw stretched and tired. Butch was a real mouthful, and any shift in balance would result in the head of that cock jabbing into the lion’s throat. He slurped and sucked lewdly, body shaking with a loud cough or a wet choke. “HRKH! GHKKKKH!” He slapped at Butch’s thighs again, barely making them jiggle.

Spit drooled from the corner of his lips, dripping onto his Sooners jersey. He looked up with pleading eyes at the Sylveon, every gag getting a little louder and more desperate. And yet, despite all this, the firm outline of a hard cock was visible in Jordan’s jeans. Even as he choked on a biker daddy’s dick in the bathroom of an abandoned bar in the Oklahoma panhandle, he had never been so fucking hard in his life.

The only warning that Jordan got was a low, pleasured moan that vibrated up from Butch’s belly. The lion jolted, a hot, sudden jet of spunk hitting the back of his throat, followed by three more spurts more intense than the last. He thrashed about, coughing and choking from the sudden intrusion, but Butch held him in place, basking in afterglow while Jordan did his best to work down as much cum as he could. His face twisted and cringed with each gulp-but, gradually, he swallowed every last drop.

Jordan’s head was released from the iron grip of Butch’s hand, and he slid his lips off of that fat cock. He picked himself up off the bathroom floor, watching somewhat awkwardly as Butch slid on his underwear and jeans. “So, um…” Jordan wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but the smile on Butch’s face let him know that he didn’t need to say much.

“There’s a motel right past the Colorado border,” Butch said, putting his belt back on. “How would you wanna stop there for the night?”

Jordan thought for a second, but only a second. “Sounds good.”

With that, the two of them stepped out of the bathroom, out of the OK Bar, and into the cool night air.