Date: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 19:41:25 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES -- PART NINETEEN

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BIKER MATES PART NINETEEN

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BIKER MATES PART NINETEEN - To feel alive
[CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER, continued]

Staring at me like I was low-res, comically flummoxed, hit by surprise, his
whole face faltered and then, broke into a broad grin of recognition, a
huge fridge door grin; and I remember the clarity of thinking that this was
a miracle. Except that I could not have been thinking, because I could not
think. I was watching his mouth moving, 'Mike?' My own mouth was
shaking. As I said his name, we were drowned by D.I.S.C.O.

I gazed at him. I stared at him. The whole of him. The whole delicious
spread of incredible guy: I.T.A.L.I.A. stretched in an arc of white
capitals across the bulk of his well worked chest, his nipples stuck
through the sky blue knitted fabric like pregnant bells, and his pecs
created deep expressive creases where they folded into his armpits. His
arms, defined and pumped, were covered with more tattoos which spread
across his wrists; he wore a rather large, rather shiny watch with a heavy
metal bracelet.

The open neck of his polo was pulling apart to expose a dark, hairy,
tattooed wall of sternum. Now I could see that his throat was locked in a
collar I recognised, a cute sluttish slave collar of worn leather.

He wasn't as I remembered him, but he hadn't changed.

I looked down: His shirt stopped sexily short of his tanned tattooed belly,
button smothered in hair. (Where he wasn't tattooed he was tanned; like he
lived on the street.) His jeans strained and folded in long ribs where they
bridged across his sexual organs; they crumpled to pass his knees; they
crumpled again around his ankles, the tops of his boots.

He twisted and slid off the stool, stood up, put his arms around my neck
and pressed himself between my outspread legs. As I felt the velvety-rough
of his Nr.1, then a soft ear, then the fixings at the back of his skull and
the lump at the base where it attached to his neck, with my right hand, my
other hand found the gap at the back of his jeans and accessed his hairy
glutes. I pushed him in, to me, against my crotch.

My arms wrapped around his solid waist in a natural way, finding some
thickness there and gripping it. His head pulled back a little. Then closed
his eyes, leaned in and opened my lips and my teeth with his tongue.

I shut my eyes as well. It was like swimming: Senses open. I caught his
powerful body in my arms like a dolphin. The familiar flexible solid shape
of him rubbing against my own strength, braced to hold him, forced itself
against my balls; held like he might escape; caught like I had dived and
found him, speeding powerfully beneath the frolic of the clear swell.

The lights from above and around penetrated my eyelids.

The mechanical churn of the D.I.S.C.O. reverberated into us.

It was marvellous.

I was sitting on my tall barstool, but he had pushed himself forward
against me so that we were rubbing together fly-on-fly, aware of
each-other's banging pricks. I pulled him harder in between my legs,
rubbing our juicy cocks increasingly, and getting crazy with the fix
flooding my bloodstream. Our chests pushed too: I could feel the mounds of
his pecs and the teasing pricks of his nipples sliding over mine. Eyes
shut, we cupped each other's heads like steamy flasks of hot broth, tasting
each other, yearned-for, drinking each other in.

When we could do no more but get a room, our faces broke apart and we
surveyed each other. We were red in the low light, and shiny smeared wet
with lick spit.

I grabbed his bulge and squeezed his thick stuff like a hand-shake. I
wanted to go into the darkroom and fuck him right there and then.

He grabbed my hand. I thought he had the same idea, but he pulled me off my
stool and led me, difficult as it was to walk, out towards a table in the
café area of the bar, where the sunshine flooded over us through the
conservatory glass, and it was quieter, and we could talk.

We sat, sipping and settled - we had brought our beers. He lay his leg
across mine and kicked my boot playfully and laughed.

"D'you mind if I sit on your lap?" He said.

These were the first words I had actually heard Martin Zagni say in ten
years. He was funny: I could not imagine how it was going to be
comfortable, two grown men balancing on one of those little café
chairs, his weight squashing my hardon, wherever it happened to be, like a
little man caught beneath a lorry... and the awkwardly embarrassingly
incongruous sight of two grown men displaying in such a childish style of
intimacy.

He never ceased to amaze me. The way he just asked, as if that were
completely natural!

Perhaps it was.

I knew it would mean I had my arms around him, supporting him, and that he
would lay his head on my shoulder, place his ear to my ear, put his arm
around me and hold me. His voice would be so close to my mouth, and his
heartbeat would be thudding against me almost as if it were in my own
ribcage.

I put my beer down, planted my feet firmly apart, braced my legs, extended
my arms to either side, and said, "Be my guest."

I might have blushed.

"You haven't changed," he said, laughing.

"Oh haven't I? Well, neither have you," I replied defensively.

"Ohhh," he said seriously, "I've changed... I've changed." He shook his
head.

He shook his head and laughed.

He hadn't changed at all.

He leaned forward to pat my right arm and gripped my deltoid
admiringly. Then he lifted himself out of his chair and slid over. He sat
so that his left side was leaning on me.

The sun was behind him, but high. The whole place was flooded with
light. People from the street could easily see in. I mean, no one was
bothered... but still...

I squinted at him and concentrated so that I would not be distracted by the
glances of the other bar flies. I thought about his weight, as I'd guessed,
pressing down on my thick dick trapped beneath. My left arm curled around
his waist so he could not slide off.

"Are you comfortable like this?" I asked, uncomfortably. (I felt
ridiculous: Two grown men... )

"Kein problem!" said Martin, nonchalantly smoothing the stiff cotton of my
Sherman. "I like it on a man's lap. Feels natural." He touched my pecs and
patted my abs, like a cat pawing its favourite cardigan, inspecting me like
I was a carpet he might purchase.

"You're huge!" he said, nuzzling my ear and licking it. "You've been
working out... suppose... course! You've kept yourself in shape, like."

"So have you!" I said.

His weight and the way his body filled my arms.

His gooey tongue explored my ear. "We both have," he whispered.

He played with my shirt, slipping two fingers between the small plastic
buttons to play with the hairs on my chest.

Our eyes met.

He kissed me.

"Where have you been?" he said.

"Where have you been?"

"Here."

"Yeh, but how come?"

"It's a long story."

"I'll bet," I said. "You've got some explaining to do."

"So have you!"

I took his right arm, gripped it and laid it across his fly so that he
could feel his own penis.

We were both engorged.

That was about right.

Some of the men sitting at the bar, looked at us. One older guy twisted on
his seat to stare and said something, in German, loud enough so that we
both could hear it.

"What did he just say?" I asked.

"He said that this what it looks like when love-birds are eagles."

I didn't reply. I let go of his arm to grip my other hand as it came round
his waist, holding him, it felt to me, flagrantly like that.

"Are we love birds?" I said.

He stroked my beard and lips with the back of his finger.

"No. We are eagles."

"Martin."

It was so lovely.

"Nice beard," he said, admiringly. "I like."

"Martin, what the hell are you doing here? What happened?"

His finger touched the edge of my two upper front teeth as I spoke. He
grinned and sighed, "Well short story is, Gunther. G.U.N.T.H.E.R."

"Oh yes?" I felt cold with envy and apprehension, which his fingers
flirting with my mouth did little to alter.

"Yeh, Gunther. He wanted me to come to live with him here. So I did."

I grabbed his playful hand again and pushed back on his lap and held it
there.

"When was that?" I asked.

"Oh..." I watched him do some calculations in his head. Sums. Counting
back. "...about ten...?"

I loosened my grip: He belonged to someone else; that was to be
expected. Ten years. That would have been an impossibly long time for him
to be owned. This conversation was going to hurt.

"Ten years ago? But that's when..."

"Yeh. Then." He paused. "Do you remember that bloke Jez?"

"You went off with him. Course I fucking remember."

"Yeh, well, through him. Yeh. He was funny wasn't he?"

"How 'funny'? Funny bonkers you mean?"

"He was alright." Martin laughed, "You should meet Gunther. Now, he's a
cunt!!"

"Your Gunther."

"Yeh. He's a total bastard. Selfish. Makes Jez look like a girl."

He was smiling, smiling and looking at me, looking at me as if what he'd
just said was, 'Gunther is a cupcake, with sprinkles!'

"You like that though," I said, "men who are cunts."

He didn't reply. He kissed my ear again. I didn't know what else to say. I
had too many questions. I didn't know where to start. Eventually I said,
"Tell me about Jez. What happened with that?"

He perked up. "Oh christ... Well that's a long story right. Cs..."

Martin took a deep breath and glazed over for a moment and then said,
"...you remember the van?"

"Yeh."

"Yeh. The van."

"Last thing I saw you was inside it all strapped..."

"Yeh..." He looked a little confused.

"You remember that?"

"Just about."

"You don't remember?"

"No... I do, I do. I remember. It's just," he said, "Jez had all this stuff
in the back of his van, didn't he, like a mobile dungeon? ...yeh, he had me
strapped to the inside of the van, blindfolded, wasn't I? N. Naked
too. Yeh. Cs I remember that he kept hurting me when I didn't expect, like
flicking my dick cs I had a hardon and, well, cs I was asking for it, I
think. Ha ha."

"Were you?"

"Well, you know..." He buried his face. "I do like it. Submission. Just,
just makes me... more, you know. More, like, compliant, and ... it just
turns me on... cs... I like when a man wants to do that to me and makes me
more submissive to him cs I can feel him getting excited by it, and Jez
definitely was like that. He definitely did. He liked that. He had a whale
of a time. It was painful, what he was doing. He was very demanding, like
he was always angry and ... He was very hard and ... He liked being cruel I
think."

"You think?"

"Well, he must'a cs he was quite a cunt. He was really cool, really
natural."

"What else did he do?"

"Ohh, y'know..."

"No. Tell me. Tell me."

"Oh? Oh, well, he drove the van somewhere. No idea where. All I know's
there's lots'a corners and the straps are really cutting up. One under my
armpits and across my chest held me in place but really cut. Christ. I
think he knew that. He didn't go slow or anything, and on corners it was
agony.

"We parked an'he got in the back. I mean, I heard it open and he jumped in
and the van shook. An' he was walking about for something. Then he came
over to me. It ws fantastic cs I could hear him breathing, it was cooler
where I felt his breath, touching me and, and he was fiddling at where the
straps were tight and cutting into me and adjustinm, but generally makinm
more tight. I could feel him tightenm. Really tight.

"I could feel myself... I was so hard!

"I like being naked like that.

"An' like he was adjusting them, he grabbed me bollocks an'jerked them,
which was so... and he called me a fag. It was a game. Kept trotting out
that stupid song. You know."

I remembered that stupid song. I quite liked it.

Martin tried to hum the tune but got it completely wrong. He tried to
remember the little verse. I had to help.

"Umm, a little bit a'.."

"..pressure," I helped.

"Yeh. And a little bit a' praise... g"

"Goes a long way," I continued, "...with ...a"

"with a fresh slave!" He completed it with a grin, like a schoolboy
remembering his 7-times-table.

"Yeh, that's right. 'A fresh slave'. I suppose I was a fresh slave then
alright!" He laughed, "but like I didn't get to be a fresh slave for too
long, did I?

"Next...Oh yeh, well he was brill' cs, he was playing with, my nipples and,
stroking me with, the gentlest points of, his fingertips..."

I nodded, smoothing the ITALIA on his chest with my hand, and glanced at
his nipples and stroked the tips where they pointed enticingly through his
sky blue polo shirt.

"You know, drivin'me, mad all the time," He continued. "I knew all he
wanted, and all he was thinking about, was how to hurt me and ... how I was
very nice to slave, only... I couldn't get rid of me fucking hardon man
and, he kept hitting it. Bastard. Fact. He seemed to keep stroking my body
like that which was s'nice cs it made me so hard and he could keep on
making it like that. Under control like that and I was ... gagging ... I
mean, I was literally gagging, cs I was gagged! And I wanted him to, oh I
don't know do, stuff."

Martin squirmed a bit on my lap and kissed my nose.

"I can feel your hardon," he said. "Is this making you excited?"

"I'm only human," I said.

He put his right hand on my cheek and kissed me, mouth open, his tongue
quickly finding mine. His hand couched my face as I reached across and felt
his pants where he was growing and growing. "Seems like you're human
yourself," I said, stealing a breath.

I wondered if we could really carry on like this in public. Well, it was
Germany. We were foreigners. This gave us a certain carelessness.

He put his hand on my hand and pushed it firmly down on himself and sighed,
inhaling my air directly out of me, sharing my lung's breath.

It was good because it was like we had taken up from where we had left off,
like we had never been parted, and, for once, I wasn't thinking about the
waste of years.

His mouth came away from my mouth and he continued, "But Jez was always
happy. Happy in his mad sadistic way. Happy like he was ... well, like he
was just happy. And insane. He was always happy... cs I was always
submissive in mindset. He loved fucking me."

I looked up.

"Though it only happened once... I'm coming to that bit."

I nodded.

"Course I knew that he wouldn't let me cum any time soon cs you told him
not to let me. Remember?"

I nodded.

"And cs I had to stay for stuff... You wouldn't'a let me cum til you was
ready. Gunther too. You know, that's usual. You know, turned on.
Fuckable'n'useful, you know... so... Yeah, well I don't know much cs
either, well mostly, I either was blindfold, hooded, or in darkness, or,
like, I just didn't understand what they were fuckin' on about. So I don't
much know what was happening, 'cept that it usually hurt and if I got too
hard I got punished and if I got too soft I got punished. That how I like
it: 'To feel alive is to feel submissive in mindset,' Gunther says."

I nodded.

He said, "I'm not boring you am I?"


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END OF PART NINETEEN