A Biker's Story

[13788]

BiteSize: For a short time, many years ago, I worked way over on the other side of the city. By car the journey could easily take two hours or more; on my motor cycle I usually managed it in under an hour, and every day I tried hard to get down to my target of 45 minutes.

One cloudy morning I was moving fast to beat the clock and get to work before it began to rain. Once across the river the road emptied out and snaked across tracts of abandoned docks and industrial wasteland. I opened up the Ducati and started to enjoy the ride while the roads were still dry.

As I passed a junction I saw another bike preparing to join the road I was on, and in my rear-view mirror I saw him accelerate towards me. Now, call me immature and foolhardy if you will, but anyone who's ever enjoyed riding a bike knows how hard it is to resist a challenge: I eased off a little to allow the other bike to draw closer then, once he was a hundred yards or so behind me, accelerated again and started riding for real. It's a great feeling when everything comes right, braking hard, getting just the right line on the bends, throwing the bike over and powering through - and the guy behind me was obviously enjoying himself too. And then... he passed me. The fucker passed me! A nod and a wave and he was out in front and riding like he was on a racetrack, knees scraping on the curves, tyres at the limit, popping wheelies as he hit the straight. Man, he could ride. I was riding at ten-tenths just to keep him in view. Then we got to a red light. I drew level and we just had time for a quick appraisal of each other's bikes and a nodded greeting before the lights changed.

(Sorry if this seems irrelevant. It's essential background and, as I say, anyone who's ever done this sort of thing will recognise the feeling.)

 

[13788]

BiteSize: I got off the line first and held the lead, with my Ducati pulling like a train as his smaller Suzuki whizzed through the gears. As we entered the first bend I felt my back wheel go mushy. Fuck, a puncture. He went past and disappeared around the next curve as I pulled over and stopped. Fuck. Everything was suddenly very quiet. My back tyre had a huge rusty tack in it that had probably come out of a packing crate years ago, when the docks were still working. I heard a bike approaching. It was the Suzuki, coming back in the opposite direction.

The guy pulled over. "You OK?" "Puncture," I said. "Fuck," he said. (Sorry, we say Fuck a lot in London.) He got off his bike and lifted his visor. Apart from his black full-face helmet he wasn't really dressed to ride a motor cycle at kamikaze speeds: jeans, scuffed at the knees from those fast bends, white sneakers, and a black nylon bomber jacket.

"I reckon we can plug that," he said, looking at the tyre. "I can't," I said. "I haven't got a repair kit." "I've got one, at home," he said. He spoke with a soft but marked Northern accent. "Where's home, then?" I asked. "Manchester. But for now, it's just up the road. You may as well come with me." He got back on his bike and gestured to me to get on the seat behind him.

I kept my eyes closed for most of that short ride. He went as fast with a passenger in light rain (yes, it had finally started to rain) as I would solo on a dry road. We pulled up at a line of shops on a suburban street. He parked the bike and led me up to a flat over one of the shops.

When we got to the top of the stairs he turned towards me and I saw him for the first time without his helmet on. Now, I'd had my moments of adolescent sexual exploration with other boys but I'd come through that an average uncomplicated twenty-something heterosexual guy. No way was I gay - but I knew beauty when I saw it, and this guy was stunning. He had one of those perfectly-sculpted faces with piercing blue eyes and a mane of dark blond hair. I wouldn't see his like again until years later when Calvin Klein ran those ads for Obsession - you know the ones I mean? I must have done some kind of double-take, because he made a gesture - a sort of combination of shy smile, nod and shrug - as if to say "Yeah, I know I'm a fucking demigod. It's not my fault. Nothing to do with me."

 

[13788]

BiteSize: He rooted around in a cupboard and came out with a do-it-yourself tyre vulcanizing kit and an aerosol inflator. For a second I thought "What the fuck is he going to do with that?", then remembered why we were there.

"May as well wait till the rain stops," he said. "Do you want a beer?" It wasn't yet ten o'clock in the morning but it seemed like a good idea. He went into the kitchen and I followed. It was a nice flat, spacious and well furnished. On the walls there were posters of - huh? - James Dean, and Marlon Brando in The Wild One, and that bare-torso guy from the Depression holding a baby. Just a minute: does this guy, this guy who rides like a fucking maniac, this mad-bastard Adonis with a Suzuki Bandit, this guy who looks the way Brad Pitt might wish to look in his dreams... does this guy like guys?

In the kitchen he was hunkered down, rooting around in the bottom of the fridge. He'd taken off his nylon jacket and in the gap between his T-shirt and the waistband of his jeans I saw several inches of golden flesh and the beginning of the crack between his buttocks. I had a sudden urge to explore that flesh, to run my fingers down that crack, to explore what lay beneath his jeans - and you know what? Reader, I did. I didn't even think about it, I just reached out and slid my hand in there. He jolted like he'd touched a live wire. He turned around to face me, looking like he might be angry if he weren't so startled and puzzled; then his face softened and he did that sort of smile-shrug again. He turned back to the fridge and brought out two cans of beer, holding one out to me. I took it and we stood face to face, opening our cans and looking at each other. I felt as horny as hell. I looked down at his crotch, with the creases in his jeans vectoring in on the bulge as if to say "Here it is. Grab it." Well, it was that kind of morning: I went for it.

 

[13788]

BiteSize: I reached out and cupped my hand around the bulge in his jeans. It felt big, hot and alive - I could feel his pulse through the denim. By now my own cock felt like a caged animal, straining to reach erection against the constraints of my underpants and jeans. Then I did something that I had never done before, and never thought I'd do: I kissed him. It was weird to kiss someone with stubble but it felt good. We kissed hard and deep, with me still holding his crotch with one hand and a beer can with the other. We drew apart and put down our beers.

I reached down and unbuttoned his jeans at the waist. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, exposing a lean, finely-muscled body. His underarms had a thick growth of dark hair, but his torso was smooth as far down as his navel, where a little track of silky pubic hair pointed the way down towards his groin. I unbuttoned his fly and eased down his jeans and underpants. A handsome penis sprang out, vibrant and erect, with the foreskin retracted to expose a large glans, the rim as sharply defined as if it were made of cut glass. I can still feel and taste it now as I remember how I went down on that beautiful cock.

That was something I had done once before, in the context of those adolescent explorations when it was done out of a complex mix of curiosity, horniness and perhaps reluctance. This time it was very different. There it was, in front of me, and all I wanted to do was to take it inside me, to consume it, to gorge myself on it. This gorgeous guy's gorgeous cock had become the focus of my entire being. Suddenly it was all I wanted, all I had ever wanted. He kicked off his sneakers and stepped out of his jeans and all the while I was sucking him, taking him as deep into my mouth as I could. My own cock was still trapped inside my jeans and desperate to get out. I could feel the pre-cum oozing out of it. I stood up and pulled off my shirt.

He undid my fly and took out my cock. It was as hard as I'd ever seen it, and the glans was shiny with pre-cum. Now it was his turn to take me into his mouth, gently working it with his teeth. I've had more expert blowjobs but I've never had one performed with more enthusiasm - and I've never wanted one more than I did then. I was ready to come but wanted to make it last, so I eased his head away. I kicked off my pants and we stood facing each other, naked except for our socks.

He took my cock in one hand and his in the other and held them side by side. His had a bigger head but mine had the edge on thickness: they were pretty much the same length.

"So it's true, they are all the same size", he said.

"Well, these two are the same size," I said. "But I don't think we're a very representative sample. What do you mean, 'it's true'?"

"Oh, that's what my girlfriend says. Or actually it's what my girlfriend's mum says."

He had a girlfriend? And he shows his penis to her mother? Fucking hell, this guy's life is complicated.

"Well, it's what my girlfriend says her mum says." Life became slightly less complicated. But only slightly.

"I think her mum might be wrong. How many cocks have you seen?" I asked.

"Well, only mine, with a hard-on, and now yours. And some in videos."

"Well I've seen a couple more than that, but I can tell you they say mine is big. In fact 'Hung like a fucking horse' is what they usually say. I've only ever seen one bigger than mine, and that's when I was thirteen."

"Well," he said, "Aren't we a pair of lucky lads?"

 

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BiteSize: Still holding my dick, he led me into the bedroom. We fell on the bed in a sort of yin and yang configuration, sucking each other's cock. I wanted every inch of this guy. Before we came I moved on top of him, rubbing my dick under his scrotum and between his hard, smooth buttocks, burying my face in his armpit and taking deep breaths of the smell of his sweat, feeling his cock sandwiched between our bellies, skin on skin, counting the seconds until I couldn't hold it any longer.

I don't think I've ever shot such a load in my life. We came at the same time, pulsing long spurts of hot spunk between our bodies. Fuck, that stuff was everywhere.

We rolled over and laughed. This felt so good.

"You know, " I said after a few minutes, looking around at the furnishings and the artwork on the walls, "Somehow, I wouldn't have expected a guy like you to have a place like this. It's a nice flat, but it's... it's so..."

"So... what?"

"Well, it's so... you know, so stereotypical."

"So stereotypical what?"

"Well, you know, so stereotypically gay."

He laughed so much I thought he was going to piss himself.

"This isn't my place. It belongs to my sister. She came down here three years ago. She's a radiologist up at the hospital. I'm just down from university for the vacation."

Confused, all I said was "Oh. what are you doing at university?"

"Drumming. And mechanical engineering. With a special interest in hydraulics," he added, playing with my cock. "And I'm not gay. Mind you, they told me it was full of shirtlifters down South. I was wondering how long it would take me to meet one."

Before I could come up with a reply that struck the right balance between denial and political correctness, he moved up the bed, straddled my shoulders with his thighs and stuck his cock in my mouth. I took it in hungrily.

"Weren't you on your way somewhere?" he asked. "What about your bike?"

I'd forgotten about all that. Reluctantly taking his cock out of my mouth, I said "Fuck the bike. Fuck work. Fuck the world." And then, after a short pause: "Fuck me.' And believe me, there was nothing I wented more at that morment, even though even as I said the words I wondered how that dick was going to get through my tiny little virgin hole.

He got up, went to the window and drew closed the curtains. And, with the rain hammering against the glass, we settled in for the day.

 

[Ralexx]

Uuuh !!! This is HOT, damn it, vous avez ravagé mes désirs !! Go on, tell us more !!!!!

 

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BiteSize: Oh, you don't want any more. But that's why, to this day, I can get a hard-on just hearing a Manchester accent.