Date: Tue, 30 Sep 2014 19:09:16 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES -- PART SEVENTEEN

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BIKER MATES PART SEVENTEEN

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BIKER MATES PART SEVENTEEN - Bankers and Barmen

CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER

You're probably not much interested in what happened to me once Martin
fucked off, are you? I suppose, you're just wondering how long this
pathetic self-pity can drone on for, aren't you? I know, you're wondering
how I get to fuck Martin again, I bet. You'd like me to just skip past the
next ten years, wouldn't you? Ok. So I am just going to skip the next ten
years, and start again, ten years later.

===

Ten years later.

===

It's ten years later, and I can confidently state that I have definitely
improved. Definitely. I guess you could say I'm in my prime. I mean, look
at me physically, for instance: I'm a much much stronger guy, not that I
was ever easily beat. I have bulked in the form of muscle mass, and my
posture has changed to accommodate; I was once much more of a lean-muscled
guy. I didn't used to think I was all that lean, but compared to now I
was. Well, I've got access to a world-class gym thanks to Karol's job. As
his partner I can go in whenever I like, train athletically and meet
professionals. I'm very lucky, aren't I? and you can bet I make use of that
gym a lot, though I'm trying not to look too much like a guy who spends all
his time at the gym working out. It's tough though, when all you have to do
is going to the gym and working out!

Yeah, my life is tough. I don't even have a job any more, as such. Not a
proper job. Well, I am writing this, what you are reading, but that's not
for money, and I go to the gym, but that's not for money either, not
exactly. And that's about it... Oh, and I keep house, our flat in
London. I'm like a domestic. I cook if we don't eat out. Karol helps when
he gets in.

I do odd jobs now and then; cash in hand so it's no problem. Karol has his
contacts at the club, all the players and their wives-and-girlfriends
(wags) with all the money and all the 'change this, change that; do this,
do that', where they live. They are constantly spending on one thing or
another. That's developed, because I'm well strong, like a horse (as well
as well-hung!) and it has become this thing where I get to do jobs like
building jobs: lifting, shifting, and installing things like new
super-massive TVs, manual labour. Basically, it's what I'm good at, I
suppose. I do some waitering and serving drinks at some of these fancy
deals they throw, as well, because with my masculinity and physique I look
great in formal attire. Keeps me out of mischief... mostly. Not all the
time though; the wags know I'm gay but that only seems to make them bold
some of them, and I have to make sure it's understood I'm there on a
strictly 'eye-candy-only' basis. No touching! Well, not much... Sometimes
they have these 'girl night' parties and I give them a strip. I do!
Squeezed into a thong, and, presto! They love that. You would think they
get enough with their super-fit partners. You'd think.

Good money though, and a laugh. I don't mind; why should I? I'm proud of my
body. I like showing it off. I like giving it some. I like getting my dick
out. Though it's not how I expected my life to end up, I don't know what I
expected; not this though. Certainly not this.

Has your life turned out as you expected it?

You want to know if any of the players are gay and which ones, I bet. All
I'm gonna say is, the wags aren't the only ones pay me to strip: I get
asked along to these parties, called 'Jockstrap parties', and Karol doesn't
get invited. And I make a lot of my money that way as well...

Oh, Karol...

Karol is the type of guy who (picture this), when you are making coffee
first thing and you are there in the nud trying to operate the espresso
machine (yeh, we got an espresso machine, natch. I bought one for my Dad
but he prefers instant so now it just stands there in his kitchen like an
abandoned chemicals-factory) and your a.m. prick hasn't gone down cs you
need a slash, he comes up behind you quietly and slips his arms around you
and feels you everywhere and presses his body against the bits of you that
stick out, I mean my buttocks and the curved top half of my back, and my
calves (his skin finds all the points of contact with my skin), puts one
arm across your chest and spreads his hand over the balloon of your pec and
squeezes it like a softball and puts his other hand around the bulge of
your cock, tickling and cupping your balls with his fingers, and squeezes
it like a handshake, and lays his cheek on the sloping back of your
shoulder and lifts it again to give you a little kiss and then lays it down
again and says, 'I love you,' and you are still trying to make a fucking
coffee.

"Do you love me?"

"Fuck off."

I have to put up with it. Well, what would you do? Fuck it? Well, don't
worry, I do that. I fuck it from here to next week and then some. We like
that.

===

Fucking barman still ignoring me.

===

Well, this story starts when Karol had to attend some UEFA beano - in
Frankfurt-am-Maine, of-all-places, Germany. I tagged along; not for the
first time HIS wag, his plus-one; and when he was brain-dead in the
conference centre, stiffing-out football-related functions, wearing his
suit, I was free to cruise the city, the glass-and-concrete Centre of
European Finance (Centre des Finances européen), wearing no
underpants.

Actually he wasn't wearing any underpants either. We like that.

So, day in question, I left the safety of our fancy-priced boutique
apartment, and, in the dry warmth of summer, strolled through the modern
bit of town where we were staying, towards the Altstadt - that's the old
bit.

And I was thinking, 'These German towns are not the sort I'd live in: They
are too clean. The streets are clean; the houses are clean; the bars are
clean; the people are clean; the dogs are clean. Hell, even the dirty is
clean; and everything is new.'

In any case, I wasn't looking at any of that; I was looking for a freedom
rainbow flag, and eventually I spied one. It was flapping grandly above a
glass fronted building which looked like a greenhouse for the propagation
of homosexuals, full-on queer in the heat of the beating sun. The flag
signalled one of those all-hours joints you get on the continent, serving
coffee, beer, dancing, and sleaze, 24 hour. Through the conservatory wall I
could see a smart steel bar with all the stuff of the continental breakfast
arrayed along it under stylishly sharp-edged vitrines. Apparently someone
still wanted their breakfast. Behind it, bottles of crazy colourful liquors
were arrayed in stylishly carefree order against of a wall of glass
mirrors.

It was about mid-morning.

I am being approximate.

The bar wasn't empty. It was populated by a mixture of sociable and
friendly-looking types of various ages hanging out with each other. Ah, the
Germans! Nibbling at toast, smoking and smirking, sipping large coffees,
dewy lagers or micro shots, good-humoured, easy-going, mild-natured,
ignoring the noise of the techno-house that burbled like a well-spring from
the cave-dark club within and bathed in the light of the midday sun,
cruising, chatting, idle and enviably effortless.

Ahh, the Germans!

A couple of them clocked me as I approached: A young thin tanned skinhead
in distressingly 80s ripped jeans held his bottle to his lips and watched
me, not like he was interested; like he had nothing better to do, like he
would follow any moving object. An older guy dropped his wrist across his
thigh, shifting on his seat as if to indicate that his junk might have
suddenly become uncomfortable and needed to be repositioned. He was
grey-bearded and jowly. I felt caught in the eyes of surveillance. I was
eager for the shelter of darkness, and I needed a slash, so I steered
quickly round them and entered into a much darker interior where the bar
bent sharply round like a goose neck and continued, running the length of a
wall that lead into a D.I.S.C.O. area, jumping with sounds, beaten by
strobes, whipped by lasers and completely deserted.

Across the empty floor a sleazy looking gap in the wall opposite looked to
be the toilet. I was trying not to rush. Wall mirrors reflected my progress
back at me from every angle. I marched across, underneath a glitter ball
which hung precariously from the low ceiling, rotating wearily on its tiny
little chain, bathing the area in eyeballs of coloured light. The toilet
door was a pitch gaping blank through which I entered and couldn't see a
thing. I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust, thinking that my
silhouette must be outlined against the lights and striking to anyone
already inside.

So how big was this place? Gradually, I could see there were cubicles for
shit, and beyond that an area of what appeared to be, nothing: It was too
dark. Then I saw a row of basins, and a large mirror. They love with the
mirrors!

Now, in the partial and flickering light, I saw the steel sheet of a urinal
dribbling with the aftermath of a flush. I took a few steps forwards,
towards the gully, and stepped onto a foot or so of metal grill, wide
enough for a fag to crouch and beg for piss. I gripped my dick and hooked
it out. My bladder was full pressure; it started first time. My
satisfyingly powerful urine like a glass rod hit the shining metal, broke,
and spread into a large gull wing of surf and that was great. That's such a
great feeling. I love my dick. I love urinating. Don't you?

Jet Boys. We are The Jets.

Now I could see. Letting my piss rattle onto the grill at my feet, I looked
about: The place was completely fucking empty. No one to admire me. Have
you ever been the only person in a dark room with nothing doing but the
sorry piss on your own boots? Sad.

But then I noticed a couple of figures embracing in the darkest far
corner. They were office blokes. Their smart, robust suits reflected pale
illumination in stiff metallic folds which altered electrically as they
groped beneath each other's jackets, hungrily. Reflected light bled up
their legs from the floor.

What is it about men in suits? It's the carapace, I mean, excuse me, long
word, I mean, the shell they all go around in, hiding their soft parts,
like lusty, sex-crazy beetles. Always on the prowl and thinking about their
dicks; interior and watching; and when the opportunity arises, bang-bong,
out they pop! Everything hidden becomes unhidden. It's that moment of
discovery; it's like wildlife; it's the patient camera waiting to discover
them whilst they stall and pose, and I had discovered them. I'm like David
Attenborough! They were mimicking the natural behaviour of the homosexual
in the night-streets of yore: Surreptitious and wild. They were kissing
like it was illegal.

Staring at their absorbed intensity, groping, snogging, tightly fastened, I
suddenly had this idea of what it would be like to go up to them and hold
it out and piss all over that pristine material of theirs, darkening it
with a massive stain, soaking their passion, and send them back to their
cool glass-walled offices in sodden, disgraceful array. Ha ha.

Just then my piss ran out.

Another bladder wasted. I turned to face the guys, pulling my foreskin as I
did so to shake out the last drops of my precious urine. They were ignoring
me. One of them, leaning his side against the wall, hugged the other who
stood in front of him. This second guy now leaning his back against the
wall, slid down, opened his partner's zip and started to blow him. I
couldn't see any action because the one standing up was protectively
obscuring everything. He wouldn't want me muscling in, would he? his sub
had all his attention now. He put one hand against the wall in front to
support himself and leaned his buttocks forward, rocking his pelvis into
the other guy's face. The light from the D.I.S.C.O. slid up and down the
back of his jacket as he pumped it in and I could see the elbow of the man
crouching; he was holding onto his partner's cock and serving it juicily (I
bet); his other hand slid round, gripped his dom's buttock, pulling and
then letting go and then pulling on him so he was getting it well in. The
top's hand was curled round his sub's neck, stroking, holding, pulling into
his head, and then releasing him, stroking him, and then forcing him back
onto it once more, squeezing his buttocks to drive his penis forward as
deeply as it would go. Mainly he looked down, but then he raised his face
and stared at the ceiling - like, yeh, yeh - and then round and saw me at
the urinal, staring. He looked at me with the contented, vacant eyes of a
man about to orgasm.

Man, I was tempted to join them. My cock was out and hardening and I wanted
it sucked as well. After the dom had cum I could move in. That crouching
suit was obviously a great cocksucker. That was just what I needed to
freshen me up: A fuckface. Then I'd be on my way: A tourist round all the
sights. Did you know Goethe's house is in Frankfurt? It's certainly worth
visiting.

The top suit groaned and lurched forward as he ejaculated deep into the
sub's throat. Struggling a bit at the last, the sub choked, and had to
touch the ground; he almost lost his balance. The top wasn't going to let
that happen though; he grabbed the sub's head with both hands and held it
still til his spurting had subsided, and he continued to hold the sub's
head with his cock buried inside it whilst the sub hastily reached down,
opened his own zip, plucked it out and jerked himself off quickly.

Some of it must have gone on the top's nice shoes because when they had
finished he lifted one up and the sub bent forward without hesitation,
licked them clean, and finished with a kiss to toes.

So that's what those euro-bankers get up to, I thought.

Once the sub had cum, I lost interest, tucked myself in, left them to it,
and headed back through the D.I.S.C.O..

Everything's much brighter now, to my accustomed eyes. Now, I can see
everything. Ah yes, I can see everything.

I stroll past a few figures to get to the nearest spot on the bar to buy a
drink.

I pull myself onto a stool.

The barman is cute.

He's playing with his phone! I'm leaning on the bar; I'm waving my
fingertips: He does not see me. I'm invisible. How come he is paid to do a
job, a job of work, perfectly simple, and he just ignores me? Does he think
he's too good? I guess cute barmen are paid to think they are too
good. Perhaps they are too good; too good to be true, perhaps.

Look at him: His bronze hair is clipped an even two millimetres right
across his head with the edges cut laser-sharp into organic curves that
respond to the contours of his skull, and baroque turns that follow a line
around his ears, down and round and undulating, across the tendons at the
back of his neck: Beautiful. Beautiful lips, pouting as he concentrates on
his phone. About my age.

Ok, younger than me, but I could have him. Why not anyway?

Finally! He sees me like I've only just come in and strolls over. He's
built as well as cute. The usual stuff, the gay identikit box set: Pecs
lurching beneath a tight tee; nipples prominent as per; sleeves rolled
carefully across shop-bought biceps; raised veins.

The D.I.S.C.O. is too loud so I have to shout, "Ein bier bitte!" And now I
have exhausted my entire German vocabulary.

He has friendly eyes. He's paid to be nice. He nods. Barmen are the object
of so much casual lust, but they always act as if sex is just a rumour they
don't much take to. There's a PhD dissertation waiting to be written about
the intractable allure of barmen... Well, you know that already, don't you,
dear reader!

He cracks off the cap and hands me the bottle. I pay. End of transaction.
He walks away. Instantaneously fishing out his mobile, he starts tapping.
Arse on the beer fridge, he crosses his ankles. His jeans fold into an
enticingly filled triangular cushion. His forearms support his phone in the
excessively powerful way a man would hold his own baby; he looks into it's
pretty screen and smiles: He has a boyfriend; or he turns tricks; or he has
his own friends and a life... Either way, he ignores me. I'm just a
customer.

Well, fuck you...

I nod to my face in the mirror: That's maturity, honey! Yeh, I'm in my
prime and everybody wants me...


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END OF PART SEVENTEEN