Date: Thu, 13 Feb 2014 11:52:54 -0500
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: BIKER MATES PART ONE

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BIKER MATES PART ONE

THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE.

CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com IF YOU LIKE.

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BIKER MATES PART ONE

Hi. My name's Michael Shannon. People call me Mike. I'm an average
bloke. Solid. Irish blood. My jet dark eyes make me look like I'm on coke
and with my black hair, white skin, people often mistake it for an
emo-slash-punk look, but I'm not emo, slash, or punk, or on coke. I'm
tough: Average height, but fit, you know. I work out in the garage. I've
got good, built arms, shoulders, and a proper chest with big grown-up pecs,
and abs you can punch if you like! They're hard. I've strong muscular legs
that fill out my jeans, as does my big hot round backside. I've got a good
thick Irish cock too - and that fills out my jeans nicely as well, you can
bet!

He's Mar. Martin Zagni. People came over from Italy before the war to make
ice-cream. He's naturally in good, sharp Italian shape. Similar in size to
me. A bit shorter. Very good muscles, but not so built up. More
defined. Lean. His dark-brown eyes sheltered beneath thick, well-shaped
eyebrows, always look mysterious and mischievously attractive. Girls love
him. He's a dish.

His cute ass sticks out when he walks, as anyone can see.

He's hairy just about everywhere I've discovered. And I know he has a
mouthwatering dick.

He's'a-pre-t-ty-gorgeous!

We met in Manchester when we both lived there a couple-or-so years ago, and
that was through our bikes: I was just out for a ride and I was stopped at
a red with nothing on my mind, when he rolls up - on my inside, and in one
hell of a noise. Naturally I glance over. Suddenly here's this vision! He
was balanced like a bird on his screaming perch, wearing a tight leather
suit which was sticking to the sweat on his sharp Italian body in the hot
summer noon sun. Not your typical biker's gear: Very dark, brown, supple
leather (dark like his eyes), very tight, with a twin, cream-coloured
sport-stripe going from the outside of his ankles, curving round behind his
prominent calves, caressing the back of his hard thighs, and cupping his
neat buttocks - which were tucked under him like a whippet's and spread
marvellously over the saddle.

The stripes continued on the one-piece suit, gripping his slim waistline
and up, tracing the outline of his back to spread triumphantly across his
shoulders and then weave gently down the backs of his arms, round and over,
to come to rest at the sleeves' ends, just by his thumb joint. Following
that line as it drove across his body was like ... riding a tour-bike
through the glorious hills of Tuscany! He looked astounding to me: Mean and
gentle at the same time, trustworthy, dependable, but also blatantly
focused on his own bloke's needs. He sat astride his machine revving the
engine playfully so that the ripe smell of exhaust formed around in a cloud
of irresistible inflaming pheromones. His motor vibrated deep into the
tarmac, filling it, entering my body through my legs, and my nob drew to
attention, filling my jeans.

His crotch was jammed hard up against the tank of this mewling Kawasaki. He
was on his first 250, an old KLX, and in those days it always looked
beautiful to me, though, as Martin was forever complaining, it had its
problems. I was on what turned out to be my last poot-pooting tinpot
scooter.

Pulled up at the stop, growling and whining like a cat, he was just about
to take off and streak out of my life - but, still tensed in anticipation
of the lights, I had turned on my seat just enough to take in the whole
furious object, and in so doing managed to catch his eye. He thought I
wanted to say something so he un-gripped the throttle, spread his feet wide
on the ground, for stability, and removed his helmet, revealing a handsome,
unshaven face: a dark day's growth outlined his jaw and grew thicker over
his upper lip. Naturally, for an Italian, he had a big glossy head of hair
that grew over his collar. Strong black eyebrows. His almost-black eyes
were now looking straight at me with softness, severity, and dark
unselfconscious Mediterranean beauty.

"What's your problem, mate?" He demanded.

Damn, he's straight, I thought. But of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?

Furiously fumbling with my own headgear, I finally got it removed and
balanced over my lap, hiding my sudden, uncomfortable hardon.

"Oh, nothing. No problem," I mumbled back, inadequately.

Then, inspired by the desperation of my dick growing already painfully
stiff in my pants, and feeling that the ice was, in any case, broken, I
said, "I was looking at your wheels. Cool bike. I wanna get one like that,
get rid of this thing. What sort is it?"

I could see the letters KLX on the frame.

He reeled off the stats, patting her gently, like a horse, caressing her
curvaceous fuel tank, at the same time as he was crushing his fly against
it. He eyed my transport with pity, as if he could X-ray vision that I had
sadly lacking genitalia - and that would've been an unfair judgement
considering the huge hardon pushing along my trouser.

"You need a proper bike," he said.

"No joking!" I gulped, "I'm saving up for it. Is yours you'd recommend?"

He rocked his hips in the saddle a few times, to express his pleasure in
the ride, and like he would fuck it slowly like that, and like his motor
was his bitch, and he leaned forward to give it some thundering revs on the
grip.

"It's ok," he said, before listing its inadequacies.

I wanted to have proper biker mates like him. I introduced myself and
reached over to shake his hand; but I couldn't quite reach and lurched
comically.

He said his name with a laugh and effortlessly slapped my hand with his
gauntleted fingertips.

"Say I wanted to get a bike like that one, where did you buy it?"

He told me he'd take me there. He said he had nothing better to do and if
it helped me off my sewing-machine and onto a harder bike, well, he'd do
all he could to help a mate follow the right path, wouldn't he?

"I think you're a biker at heart," he said. "I can see it in your face, and
you look pathetic on that thing. So unhappy."

Well, he couldn't see my prick so he couldn't see how happy I was.

He tried to demonstrate the weediness of my transportation by leaning right
over and shaking me by the arm so that the whole thing started to jigger -
my arm, me, the scooter. My pants got to be even more uncomfortable and my
sack tightened: His touch created some kind of electric circuit that made
me shiver outrageously.

"You cold?" He said as he pulled his bike back upwards.

"You're making me nervous," I said truthfully. "It's embarrassing to be on
this thing, looking at yours..." I blushed.

He didn't suspect anything else. He took me at my word, apparently glad to
share his biker expertise with a sympathetic novice. I couldn't believe my
luck.

"We'd better get you along to the shop asap for some biker medicine," he
said. "Before it's too late!"

It was already too late! With me gazing at him he steadied himself, lifted
his big black helmet onto his head, flipped down the visor and indicated
with a fat gloved finger, as the lights changed, that the way was
forward. I had to quickly grab my cock and manhandle it to one side just
enough to sit properly before I could take off, and as a result I had a
false start. He roared off, flipped gears, steering into the traffic, while
I still had a foot down and was restarting the motor with my tiny
key... Talk about embarrassing. It was minutes before I caught up and he
gave me one of those hand signals reserved for the truly helpless. From
then on he guided me like a mother cat through the streets and turnings til
we eventually arrived at "FastBikes" - a place I'd passed a lot before but
never been inside.

=== === ===

That was a great day: We looked at all the bikes they had on display -
every single one. I tried to find one I thought I could afford, that would
still look and feel good between my legs, and one I was licenced for. I
tried them all, throttling their grips and hunkering down behind their
mini-windscreens like I was powering up the M62 in a race with Martin past
the near stationary vehicles of weak and expendable car-people!

Martin grabbed a Ninja ZX, swinging his leg nimbly over its tail.

"This is the bike," he said confidently, sliding his pretty bottom about on
its tiny seat as if he was cornering in the TT, grunting the gear changes.

"When I get my next bike it's gonna be one of these," (it wasn't,
incidentally). "What do you think? Sweet!"

I had been coming round to something more like a HondaRX so we could go
off-roading together. Martin was always about speed. He was a maniac. He
wanted me to drive one off there and then. I felt guilty when I said I
didn't carry that kind of cash. Well, it was a laugh.

There was a while load of stuff to sort out apart from the bike: Helmet and
gear, insurance and paperwork, and the money!

We tried out some of the bike-wear out on in the shop, til I enviously
said, "Why can't I have the same gear as you've got?" and he said, "It
wouldn't suit you," but there and then he started to strip it off for me to
try it out. (We were in the changing room, natch.) Hey, he wasn't wearing
much underneath, just a skimpy tee and small white briefs - there was a
dark inviting hairy gap between the white elasticated edge of the leg-hole
and his tawny inner thigh, I noticed at once; a tiny gap of a window that
my focus homed in on, hungry for a sight of his bollocks. His narrow brown
frame emerged from the dark fusty suit, moist and ripe with the smells of
sweat and cow.

He stood now before me in his undies, dark hair stuck with damp to his legs
and arms which, extended, held his leathers out towards me to try on, like
the skin of a hunted kill.

"Here, try," he said grinning. He had lovely teeth I wanted to lick.

But putting on his biker suit was, in effect, to enter him, like my
fuckboy, slipping gently and quietly into his soft body, deep into his soft
interior and fucking him, with the utmost care and pleasure, to tears, like
I so much wanted to do for real one day. I started shaking once more as I
tentatively began to undress ... But what about my hardon? I couldn't just
carry on with it hoping he wouldn't see what I had. I'd been erect for so
long now it was aching bad and my balls were hurting they were so full of
sperm. There's no way all that was just going to disappear in an
instant. Well... there was one way...

He dropped the leather suit on the floor and turned his back.

"I won't look," he said, and then he turned on me with a laugh just as I
was zipping myself, the clammy sweat from his bollocks, and my bollocks,
locking them up together around my shaved groin. His eyes caught a glimpse
as it all disappeared inside.

"Jesus mate," he cried, "you've got no kecks! Christalive!" He grabbed his
head with his hands.

"Yeh, I never bother."

"What'r'you like?"

I pulled the zipper up to my neck quickly and stood before him
awkwardly. The leather was warm and damp and smelt good.  "Hope you didn't
get anything in the zip," he said, looking me up and down. And then he
punched me gently in the stomach, catching me by surprise.

"Hey!" I said.

"Hey you; queer," he replied.

"What if I am?" I said, without thinking.

"I'm joking... oh... you're not are you?" He groaned. But he didn't seem
that bothered and started to laugh and covered his smile with his
hand. "Are you?"

"Well, actually, I am, yeah."

"Fuck me!" He said, and laughed again.

"Don't worry," I said. "You're safe."

"Too old for you, am I?"

"No! Just ..." I drew to a halt in embarrassment.

Martin's eyes widened in amazement.

"Oh my god, you fancy me!"

He cupped his hands over the front of his little white kecks in mock
defence.

"No I don't! No I don't!" I earnestly lied.

"Look mate," he said, "it's neither here nor there; Just don't get cum all
over my skins, there, mate, cs I don't need it, y'know." He pointed at my
groin.

He laughed and then sort of patted me down and pulled on the sleeves to get
it to fit straight. I looked straight ahead, trying not to think about his
sexy body but mainly looking right into his masculine eyes, the thick dark
texture of his long hair and the caves of his delicate translucent ears
where they poked through. He concentrated on getting the leather to lie
right. If he noticed my cock pressing against the fly he didn't say so.

At that moment the shop assistant put his head round the partition. He had
a Mohican, a massive nose ring and a heavily tattooed forearm which looked
like he'd done it himself with a bent paperclip.

"Are we having fun in here, girls?" he said when he saw Martin in his
vest'n'kecks kneeling to adjust the ankles, so cute kneeling before me like
that; I liked the sight of Martin at my feet, but he quickly stood up,
stepped back and regarded me critically, trying to look like he hadn't
noticed any intrusion. The shop assistant watched all of this with raised
eyebrows and then disappeared again with a camp sigh.

"Did that guy know you?" asked Martin at once.

"No. Why should he?"

"Well he's obviously your sort."

"I'm not like that," I complained. "Am I?"

"I don't know, do I?" He replied.

I felt a bit crestfallen and even more worried he'd spy my hardon and
decide I'm just some rampant poofter. But he never did.

"How does that feel?" He said at last. His mood had changed.

"Good. How does it look?"

"Looks alright. See for yourself."

I turned and met the new image of the new me: Mike the Biker. Hey, I looked
the business! Forcing my slightly larger frame into Martin's worn leathers
accentuated my build: with my pecs, my waist, and my packet, I had turned
into one of those super-dudes I'd admired so much since wanking off in bed
as a kid. I don't know what I fancied more, Martin's naked Latin God-like
beauty or my own beefy Celtic Warrior image... or perhaps it was the idea
growing in my head of us grappling each-other's bodies like two
work-hardened slave gladiator wrestlers in the Roman Colosseum!

"It looks ok," Martin said after a pause of serious consideration.

"I like that," I agreed, admiring myself shamelessly.

"Fancy yourself, do you?"

"What's not to? I look fantastic!"

Martin gripped his nose and shook his head, smiling.

"You're so gay," he said.

And I felt rather pleased with that!  "Duh," I said.

Our eyes met momentarily and then Martin clapped his hands.

"Better get out of it now," he said. "I need to get a move on."

I started to pull the zip down and then turned away from him - as if
thoughtlessly turning to find my jeans - just enough so that I could get
out without him seeing me. He tugged down on the collar from behind so that
it all came away easily to my waist - I felt his breathing on my neck - and
then I eased my arse out and the legs off by myself, still being careful
not to let him catch a glimpse of my rigid cock.

I jumped back into my jeans and handed the suit back to him.

As is the way with blokes, he didn't say anything. He just pulled himself
into his skin whilst I quickly buttoned my jeans and whipped on my tee.

He was standing behind me and slapped my backside to get a move on. My
body, confused at the contact, shuddered and my cock jerked hard and
painfully in my trouser leg.

"You're all nerves," he said. "Relax!"

I trailed out of the shop after him, exchanging a dark look with the
assistant - who I'd seen many times before in Canal Street - and his face
seemed to say to me, "That one's a keeper!" And I smiled sheepishly...

Outside in the road, Martin was quickly astride his KLX and holding his
helmet to put it on. I trotted up to him in my trainers.

"You going through with it then?" He said.

I nodded. I told him I'd get the money somehow. Obviously I had no
down-payment. I'd scrounge that off Dad later and Dad thought what he
wanted to believe as usual: That it was for a car; that's after I'd joked
it was for a girl I'd got pregnant. It was funny.

=== === ===

Martin agreed it would all take time, and it did. Meanwhile we would meet
at this pub of his where I tried to fit in with his straight mates, like
'Hud', Gary Hudson, or Wayne Station - he was West Indian. Hud was a local
lad, supported City. Wayne was United.

Martin had taken me under his wing, a rare form of species that had to be
protected and, obviously, would never breed in captivity - this despite the
fact that I looked like a brick shit house compared to him. His was a lean,
fit frame, tight and horney.

Well, I never wanted him to know that I fancied him: I valued his
company. He was totally cool, kind - and well developed! I wanted to hang
around him so much and be his friend, and I craved having a cool straight
friend. I liked the idea that I might be the same as him, in my own
ironclad gay fashion. I never hid that I was gay; I just never admitted
that he turned me on. But what must he have thought really?

Boy, I used to imagine how I'd rub my face in his face and slobber over his
soggy hole, fuck my thick nob to the hilt in his dark hairy ass-crack,
slapping my bollocks against his. He'd beg me not to cum; I'd hold him down
by the neck ploughing him hard, face down into the mattress...

...but I never let it get to be anything more than just in my dreams. Well
I was pretty successful at deception, I think, because we used to hang out
all the time, enjoying the same things, just like two regular guys: We went
drinking and I'd say I think that guy's hot or something, he'd laugh and
say "Oi, that's a mate of mine!" and he'd see some skirt he liked and tell
me, and I'd say "That's my sister!" Perhaps we found it awkward, I'd say in
retrospect, but we both conspired because that was the nature of our
friendship; We were friends and friends aren't exactly alike and they don't
always do exactly what the other is into, but when they are out doing their
thing, it's magic.

We talked a lot about bikes.

You're wondering how we get to fuck, I bet.

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END OF PART ONE