Date: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 19:41:25 +0200 From: sharp Harper Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES -- PART NINETEEN +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ BIKER MATES PART NINETEEN THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE. THANKS FOR THE POSITIVE RESPONSES I HAVE RECEIVED -- KEEP WOOD! CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com IF YOU LIKE. SEARCH NIFTY FOR sharper@inorbit.com TO READ OTHER TALES BY ME. REMEMBER TO MAKE YOUR DONATION TO WWW.NIFTY.ORG !! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 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?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++ END OF PART NINETEEN