Date: Tue, 7 Oct 2014 10:06:14 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES -- PART EIGHTEEN

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BIKER MATES PART EIGHTEEN

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BIKER MATES PART EIGHTEEN - Possession

CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER


Now, from out of the the toilet darkness, arms wound like thick vines,
gripping hands, my two suits emerge and march across the brittle
D.I.S.C.O., catching suddenly the full illumination of the bright street,
like space men, Earth-rise, 2001, soldered together, shining steel,
gorgeous, sweet. All this, his?n?his; how in love are they?

What's the deal? They should be back at their desks, banking.

Perhaps they just met; how would I know? On the commute, one of them
hungry, one of them malleable, they could have seen in a glimpse each
other's eyes, connected, edged closer through the crowd, grazed their
cuffs, touched, just their nails, then the short hairs on the backs of
their hands, and their knuckles, then grasped each other's fingers,
wordlessly, stood in the crush forever, pressed like flowers, quit at the
next stop and hit the bar? I guess that it is definitely possible that they
knew instinctively, lust at first sight, little signs that one would be
with the other, and that they would be together, forever horny. I
wonder. It's like, there's just no way they've only just met. Perhaps they
just met. How would I know?

They still have the outlines, I can see them clearly, of their satisfied
bloated and blood-filled dicks, large and folded, inside their trousers.

The one on the right (their left) realises he has dribbled, wipes his mouth
with his hasty thumb, and licks it off and the bit of cum still moistening
his lips. He was the one crouching down. Not kneeling: His knees are
clean. You can see the crease. I notice he went to the toilet after his
orgasm: There's a dark stain of stray piss on his trousers where he's put
away without shaking properly. In a hurry, he failed to pull the foreskin,
pinch out and shake the last little bit. He doesn't know it has
dribbled. Perhaps he does. Perhaps he felt it dribble out and didn't care.

That one on the left (their right) was serving his dick like breakfast ten
minutes ago. He's holding on to his sub like, they both know who's the sub
but nobody else knows. It's quiet possession and acquiescence, comfortable
reassurance and consent, something I know so well because I yearn for it
all the time and remember, once, finding, with Martin.

I mean, Karol's OK, but...

Hold on: Now the barman's boyfriend has come in. He cruises
self-confidently along the bar and then ducks under it near the
cash-register. He's wearing a tee-shirt under a pair of very German-looking
and loose-fitting dungarees. He slams himself astride the barman's
legs. Crotch to crotch. The barman greets him with grinning eyes, grabs him
hard and they snog like teenagers.

The barman leans back; his boyfriend is all over him. In the boyfriend's
stance there's no subtlety. He gives himself to the barman, wanting, and
his skin insistently available. In the barman there's no subtlety either in
the selfish way he takes advantage of his boyfriend's crudely captivated
desire. The boyfriend's butt squirms a kind of dance of enticement, or even
incitement, under the barman's firm hands which have been tucked quickly
into the open sides of the dungarees, grasping his smooth body. It's like
the boyfriend wants it so bad he'd do anything, anything to get it. The
barman's hands are well in, holding his buttocks and squeezing them,
stroking them and teasing them, whilst they kiss and exchange small words
of conversation.

How could I not envy that outrageous shared lascivity (real word)... wanton
shared lascivity. Why can't I have that again, like I did with Martin?

The barman draws his hands up a little, still within the dungarees, to rest
on his boyfriend's naked hips, fingertips to flesh, restraining him so as
you could hardly notice, pulling him in so that they press hard together,
rocking their waists and rolling their excited penises against each
other. His hands like that on his boyfriend's hips can feel the rocking
hilts of the thigh bones sliding in their pelvic sockets.

Standing tiptoe the boyfriend clasps the back of the barman's suede-head,
mouth to mouth, jaws agape, tongue sucking. With a guy like that there's no
need to establish control; his vulnerable obedience is irrepressible,
massively suggestible. The problem is in keeping him still, keeping his
enthusiasm within manageable boundaries, making him sure that he is safe
when you eventually take him where his own desires are pulling him, out of
the safety zone, into the consequences, into the area where he has to lose
attention on his own pleasure and focus in order to satisfy only you. It
eventually becomes a question of steering him into some form of restraint -
as much for his own good as anything. He has to be trained; it's for his
own good. He will find out too that punishment is part of it, a big part of
it, but by then he will be trapped, because, by then, his craving to be
owned by another man shall have totally replaced his natural desire for
freedom.

After all, the central fact about a slave, is that it wants to be a
slave. It wants to be owned. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Try listening to
music whilst it kneels, watching you, waiting. It wants to be teased,
tickled, tortured, touched. Its greatest fear is of indifference. It is
happiest when resigned, obligated, grovelling, earning your attention. That
is why you haven't truly broken a slaves's spirit until you have got it to
do something it is fundamentally opposed to, have you? You are only halfway
home if all that you have done is release its inhibitions enough to let it
do things it was too uptight previously to enjoy.

Am I right?

Now, watching the guys here, I'm thinking about my current life and
Karol. That's the bit I still can't get my head around: It was
unexpected. It was unreal. It was not what I wanted out of my life; or
perhaps it was exactly what I wanted and I just never knew.

You decide.

After all, life is not a jigsaw-puzzle that all fits together. It is a
jigsaw-puzzle that doesn't all fit together, and you don't have a clue what
the picture is, and, like me, you don't do jigsaws anyway, because you have
a fucking life! But say you did do the odd jigsaw-puzzle, would you start
by picking all the bits of blue out first? The sky blue? Yeh, well, because
I wouldn't do that, you see, because I just don't go looking for bits of
sky blue in my life. I just don't go looking for bits of sky blue. I don't
pick them out. I don't start with the sky, ever. Do you?

Welcome to the sleaze bar of philosophical insight, right? You didn't come
here for philosophical insight? You came here for sleaze? Don't worry; it's
on it's way. There's more guys hanging in the darker corners of the
bar. Nothing very interesting, but now that I have a drink I'm happy to
relax and wait for something to swim by. Eventually something always swims
by.

I'm glancing again in the mirror, scanning my face in search of signs of
age and signs of youth. My dark hair is short cropped, but not shaved; it's
thick and healthy. Sheltered under dark brows, my black eyes stare directly
back at me. No blinking in contests. I have a moustache nowadays - not
massive, like you could find bits of food in, but properly kept - and a
decent beard that is not bushy like it has a flabby chin to conceal. It's a
good look. Properly masculine. Not a mess. My simple Ben Sherman
short-sleeved cotton check shirt, with a button collar, is done up nearly
to the top. You can see a few chest hairs. I can feel my nipples press
against the cloth, rubbing it if I move, and rubbing with each breath. It's
constant. The buttons pull a bit, especially when I inhale deeply.

I inhale deeply, spread my legs and let myself bulge confidently forward
inside my jeans. To be frank, I look great, I think. I'm not past it. Some
kids might see me as a bit of a daddy now, but how's that not cool?

The shirt stretches at the neck, pulled apart by my chest and shoulders
which have grown ... authoritative. That's the word. That's me. Now that
I'm a fully established mature male I'm naturally authoritative, so they
tell me, the fuckers I meet. They tell me that a lot, so I fuck them a
lot. I meet them on jobs, or on the street, or in bars or at parties. They
are very appreciative, generally, though I haven't noticed anyone in this
particular neck of the woods throwing themselves in my direction - none
that appeal, anyway. Give it time. Something always swim by. Eventually
something always does.

Because I have a developed trunk, not because of spread, the crisp clean
cotton of my shirt is ot because of spread, the crisp clean cotton of my
shirt is tight on my waist. You notice that? It rubs against the hair on my
abs. I get a satisfyingly restricted feeling when I move, especially if I
twist, say to look at someone passing... like at him now, that cute bloke,
the one in blue who has just walked past.

I just saw him in the mirror. No more than a glimpse. Side view only. I'm
facing the wrong way - into the dark - but if I faced the street I'd be
unable to see much anyway, because of the brightness, and it would be
uncomfortable.

So I missed his face, but I can see he's cute because he's just pulled his
neat backside onto the stool directly in front of me, almost touching my
splayed knees. Isn't there somewhere else he could'a sit? F'chrissake.  He
must be up for something, sitting so close. I look at him in the mirror. I
can't see his face. He's staring into the flashing gloom and light of the
D.I.S.C.O., the joker, he's staring straight ahead, like he hasn't noticed
I'm here at all. As if.

Well, I don't mind; his back is actually definitely something to feast my
eyes on: Broad, strong, hard, wide, solid. The weave of his sky-blue
polo-shirt stretches across it, emphasising the ridges, the central furrow,
the blades, the structure and development from years of working out, the
deep scoops of his shoulders, his huge delts and how they blend into the
trapezius and, partially hidden beneath his turned-up collar, the nape of
his neck, curving like the prow of a vessel wrought with the artisan
precision of a shipwright, dark, hairy, and tattooed with graceful flowers,
jagged spiralling fronds that stop just short of his short black Nr.1 and
the tan of his head.

The tattoos reappear out of his sleeves, flowing down his furry brown arms,
I can just see, they trail as far as his left hand which is resting on his
thigh. He is tap-tap-tapping his fingers. Is that nervousness or boredom?
He is resting his right arm on the bar, elbow pointing towards me. Another
swirl of tattoos decorates the pop of his tricep.

As I watch, he lifts a couple of fingers to order a beer, pointing at the
glass-fronted fridge nearby. The barman sees him at once; instantaneous
service. What's that all about? I guess I made the fatal mistake of not
being German. Search me. Perhaps blue's known here; he looks at home in
this bar; he looks like he's well known!

To serve him, the barman has to stop making out. He releases his boyfriend
- who adopts a forlorn pose like a dropped doll - he opens a fridge, bends,
grabs a beer, and plants it on the bar in one flowing athletic movement,
like a discus or shot-put thrower spins round in a single strategic curve
of thrust. He takes some money and cashes it. Blue takes a minute swig and
waits for the change. The barman returns with a little tray of coins and
then immediately reattaches himself to his boyfriend. Their bodies and lips
join like nothing interrupted, and my eyes are drawn back to the sky blue
attraction seated in front of me.

Narrow waist.

His shirt stops just short. From where I'm sitting that lets me inspect the
muscles supporting his lower spine, more black hair down below the shirt
line, it flows into his buttock gap, and the way these tattoos curl into
the crack with a flourish.

The jeans are too loose, but they are also too tight: The waistband's agap
and doesn't come near of the small of the back, but that's because the
buttocks, and what else is in front, are pressing and filling the material,
holding it up and holding it out, so that there's a clear channel into the
place where the sluts dark hairy skin folds into its raven-dark cleft. I
could whistle down the gap in the small of the back and blue-boy would feel
the cool wind of my breath on its balls. That opening seems to glow with
darkness, it seems to reek with attraction, it seems to taunt inaccessibly
and...

He lifts a buttock to squeeze his change into his jeans and now he is
playing with his drink, a bottle, twisting it by the neck, leaning it over
on the unreflective steel bar surface like a dancing partner, tapping
gently and noiselessly in time with the techno. He lets his head nod
backwards and forwards in time with the beat, creasing the shaved brown
skin. Lifting the bottle, he pushes it back against his mouth, leaning his
face up to sip. I can't tell if he's really drinking or just pretending;
the level of beer doesn't seem to be any lower when he places the bottle
back each time, gently and deliberately, on the metal top, but in the
darkness it's very hard to tell.

In any case, what do I care? Why am I even wondering?

There's a better question. Not so much a question, as... Man he looks good;
he looks real good! He looks... what? 'unpretentiously sexual',
'authentically' sexual, fantastically gay. I'd like it to suck my cock.
There's definitely something about it that's so definitely cheap, though
definitely something to look at. Definitely
cute. Fuckable. Definitely. What a back! I can imagine holding those
shoulders in a fuck-grip. I'm gazing at the little bitch's luscious bottom,
spread and pressing down on the steel bar stool; I'd like to bury my cock
in that.

I can see his strong legs spread out in front of him, widely separated as
if held apart by some awkward obstruction, like mine. The jeans gather and
crease on his knees and then fill out again, tight around his calves. He is
wearing boots like a biker. What a peach.

I can't resist: I put a foot on the back rung of his stool and nudge it.

=== === ===

He immediately turned and looked at me.

But, before he could focus on my face, I knew.

With a shuddering realisation, despite the years, despite the changes, I
knew. Immediately.

It was like we were looking at each other from across opposite sides of
some ravine of time: He was older, of course, but his eyes retained their
softness and that body I had been admiring for the past few minutes - all
tense and relaxed at the same time - I realised that that was the same body
I had been admiring so much, so many years before, perched on his mewling
Kawasaki.

We stared, unable to speak, both now throbbing with the techno growl
emanated by the sound system and the effect was the same as it was before:
I wanted him.

I wanted to fuck his face.

I wanted him.

I wanted him kneeling in front of me.

I wanted him.

I wanted him securely held in my arms, flexing my biceps to immobilise him,
flexing my buttocks and my abs and my thighs to shove my swollen lump of
dickhead into his guts again and again and again and again and again,
pressing my feet against whatever I could for leverage.

I wanted him.

I wanted him to be in my ownership.

I wanted to fuck him and hurt him and hold him and, suddenly I knew what I
wanted and what I had wanted before and what I had always wanted, ever
since I had met him:

I wanted him as my pleasure possession once more.

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END OF PART EIGHTEEN