Date: Sat, 22 Feb 2014 12:25:13 -0500
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES - PART FOUR

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BIKER MATES PART FOUR

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BIKER MATES PART FOUR

After I had cum in him again it was late. I led Martin by the hand out of
the boys' tent and across the cold damp dark silent field. He was naked,
clutching his clothes like a vagrant, cum running down his legs. There were
no witnesses.

Back at our tent we lay down and slept, his body curled up around mine. We
dreamed and dreamed beautiful dreams of what love can be.

===
===
===

We woke quite early. Martin started kissing me and fondling my nob. He put
it between his legs invitingly.

"Mar," I said, holding his sweet head in my hands and smiling, "don't we
have to get a move on? This was supposed to be a tour but we haven't toured
further than the pub!"

He groaned and started kissing me more and kneading my hardon between his
thighs. So I flipped him onto his back and fucked him again and again. My
sweat dripped on his face. He was soaked. My sweat ran between us and mixed
with his cum when he spurted, and he smoothed it out with his hand, mixing
it to a lather in the hair on his stomach and chest.

At last I clambered out of the tent in a skimpy towel which barely covered
my shlong. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was already quite high and
felt warm on my skin. The campsite was alive with activity - people cooking
breakfast, others packing to depart, some just arriving. I reached inside
the tent flap for my jeans. Martin took my hand and kissed it, dragging me
back inside and renewing my erection. I found my jeans and, pulling them
up, pushed it awkwardly to one side. I ran to the toilet block, passing the
Welsh bikers who were folding their tents and stuff, getting ready to
leave. Joe saw me and waved. Jacko turned round to look. I waved back at
them, and kept going. I had a full bladder.

Inside I let a noisy great gush of morning piss into the trough. My much
loved dick felt heavy and comfortable, tired and full and healthy in my
hand. I was flicking my foreskin a bit and bopping the head dry, when Joe
came into the block and stood next to me, deliberately putting one toe
against my foot adopting his wide-legged stance towards the wet steel
wall. He whipped his fat dick out and started to slash unselfconsciously.

"Thirsty? I love the smell of fresh piss in the morning... Don't you?" He
laughed.

"It is one of my favourites," I admitted.

"You should've got Martin to take that morning brew of yours. He'd've loved
it, I reckon. He'd do anything you told him to, in any case, and be
grateful."

I pictured Martin sliding down under the covers, nestling his head between
my legs and drinking my piss as I patiently fed it to him in manageable
loads, and him licking his lips.

I should have done that...

"You could have stayed the night, y'know," Joe said, looking at me, his
piss still pouring of him.

"We would have had much more fun. Especially with you. You're tough. We
like you. Martin's a slut but we reckon you're randier, given the
chance. Am I right? We reckon you're the better fuck. Am I right?"

"You'll never know..." I replied.

"Won't we now? There's a pity."

He stopped his piss and tugged and flicked his foreskin.

"Aren't you going our way, now, like we agreed?" He asked, loading his junk
back into his pants and zipping up.

"Well, I don't think so."

I washed my hands and started to leave. Joe put out a hand and grabbed me.

At that point some bloke with his kid came in and started giving lessons on
how to pee. His little son was finding it all too complex, but agreed, upon
prompting, that it was better to pee here than later in his pants, or, as
had possibly happened the night before, in his bed.

I slid out of Joe's hand and exited the block. He followed me.

"You should join us," he said. "It'll be fun."

"You haven't washed your hands," I said.

"Sod that," and he licked his fingers deliciously. "You go and have a word
with your boy. See what he says, but he'll do whatever you tell him to do,
I reckon."

Joe ran back to where Jacko was folding some tarpaulin. The other blokes
were dismantling an even bigger tent nearby. Arranged like a western wagon
ring about them were their bikes, a collection of machines I really wanted
to have a closer look at: A mean black KTM, a Ducati sports, a Triumph, a
Harley classic, a tour Beemer, and a tall trail bike I couldn't identify
(it didn't look comfy for long rides). I couldn't help staring. One of the
old guys waved. I didn't want to get involved so I just smiled back and
kept walking. But they were great bikes, all of them bikes I'd've liked to
have owned some day.

Back at our tent Martin was getting his belongings into order, packing
clothes and food into panniers. He was wearing only a pair of tiny white
briefs which barely contained him. God, I was thinking about fucking him
all over again, and regretting not having him drink my piss - it would have
been so horney!! What would've been really good is if I'd had him in the
shower cubicle and had him kneel and if I'd pissed all over him while he
tried to drink it.... if he'd had his hands tied behind his back... Martin
grabbed his wash gear and asked if it was ok for him to shower now, if I
continued to pack. I said, "Ok, but don't get involved with those bikers
from yesterday. They're trying to drag us along with 'em. I don't think
it's such a good idea."

Martin didn't respond. He went to leave the tent.

"Are you going like that?" I asked.

All he'd done was put something on his feet; he had a towel slung round his
neck but he was still wearing just the briefs.

"Why not?"

"S'up to you, I said, but there's loads of people about... Kids 'n' stuff."

"They won't mind," said Martin.

"Don't get raped."

He disappeared.

I put my head through the tent opening and watched him trot off to the
block, weaving between all the other tents. He looked so cute!! The way he
walked you could see his balls in his briefs, hanging down between his
legs, even from behind. Watching his sweet ass I remembered all the use his
fuck hole has seen in the past 48hours... It was a miracle he could walk at
all. He was off the scale! He was a fucking miracle...

Then he apparently had second thoughts about the pants and wrapped his
towel round his narrow waist, like a dress. I sighed and got back to
packing our things.

I started to take down the tent. If he was feeling so brazen Martin could
change into his biking gear without cover when he got back from his
shower... I wanted to get away.

Once I was packed I started to load up my bike... Where was he?

He was taking his time. The minutes passed. Finally it was like half an
hour. How long could it take him to wash?

Like it does happen, clouds built from the horizon, spread out slowly in
the sky and gradually blocked out the light and warmth of the sun. I
shivered. Still no sign. In the end I decided to stroll over to the
block. I had a feeling I knew what had gone wrong. Martin had gone
wrong. Martin had become a problem. This was a joke. Had he been caught-up
again with Jacko and Joe in some prank? What was I missing?

But as I passed what had been their place I found that the others had all
gone. Just a few patches of crushed glass marked out where their tents and
stuff had been, a few tyre tracks. I hadn't heard their engines, but they
had definitely gone. Had they taken Martin? That was stupid.

The shower block was closed. There was a "Sorry for the inconvenience
whilst cleaning is in progress" sign hooked up. I tried the door knob. It
was locked.

He wasn't in the toilets either. I thought for a minute I'd find him
chained to a cistern, gagged and dripping with all sorts.

Where was he? He didn't have any clothes, for Christ'sake. He didn't have
his bike. It was all strange. I walked over to the site office, but I
didn't look in. What was I supposed to ask them?

So I went back to the bikes and sat in wait, unable to work out what to
do. It was getting colder. Sitting by the bikes in the damp I cursed Martin
for his newly discovered flakiness. This was another side of him I hadn't
seen before. I started to wonder if Martin was completely psycho. Flipping
from het-stud to gay-slut in a twinkling surely looked more worrying
now. Was he consenting or in the grip of insanity? Was he dangerously
unstable? Was he mad? Was he safe?

Another half hour and I got up again to search. I went into the
village. This really was balmy. He had to have lost his senses. I wondered
if he was even alive.

I came back to the camp site and stood in the middle of the field near the
place where the bikers had been pitched, just totally confused. How many
hours before I ... called the police?

Then I looked up at the horizon - or rather, the brow of the nearby hill as
it rose into the sky. The peak was hidden inside a descending mist. I
wondered if Martin could have gone up there? No reason he should, but when
you have lost something and looked in all the obvious places then you have
to start looking in the less obvious places no matter how unlikely they
might seem, don't you? Haven't you ever lost your keys?

I started walking towards a point where the drystone wall surrounding the
site was a bit broken down. I just felt that if he was only wearing his
underpants, well, perhaps he wouldn't be strolling around the village, but
that you might not cause a stir on the empty, scrubby moorlands where sheep
paths wound round gorse copses and along moss-filled gullies. I couldn't
come up with a reason for him to be there except that he was lost, and
nowhere else.

Surely, now I would climb onto the sodden hillside, in search of him, and
then come back, drenched and tired out, only to find him crouching by the
bikes, scratching his balls and wondering where the hell I'd been! I'd have
to punish him, I thought. I have to punch the little cunt. I'd have him
wimpering for mercy... I could have waited by the bikes. I would have done
so were it not for the fact that his disappearance was so complete, so
total, so inexplicable, so devastatingly awful if it came to pass that some
harm had come to him. I felt stupid panic in my stomach as I put a leg over
the drystone wall and planted it in the long wet grass on the other
side. The vegetation was all still soaked with undried dew. And so I set
off up the hill.

Nothing looked disturbed. I found a track heading up the hill and took
it. The track worked straight up without much wavering - it had been drawn
by generations of hiking tourists determined on making the fastest ascent
to the cairn at the top and its view of the surroundings. A few minutes
later and I was standing at the top of that first crest. The grass had
soaked my jeans to the groin and my feet were full of water. Behind me I
could just about see the campsite and the village. I peered into the
landscape to see if he was wandering somewhere. Nope. Nothing.

Up in front of me a further peak was visible; a tall, forbidding triangle
of grey in the mist.

It was starting to rain.

Then I spied a small white shape hanging from a hedge a little way off. I
marched towards it. Martin's tiny white briefs clung to the sharp twigs
like a piece of fleece. What the fuck! I knew they were his. I unpicked
them from the branches and inspected them: The brown fleck of his shit in
the back, a cum-yellow patch on the front, worn waistband, over-washed
label. His shit. His cum.

"Mar-tin!!" I shouted. He was here...

"Marrr-tin!!"

Silence.

The rain patted quietly on the vegetation around. Sheep bells clunked
randomly. The mist grew thicker. Rainwater soaked my clothes sticking them
to my stone-cold skin.

Where the fuck was he? He would be freezing up here, somewhere. And what
was he doing? What was he thinking? What the fuck was he playing at?

I rolled up his briefs and put them in my pocket. Then I saw his towel
lying in the muddy path. A little further on and I saw his washbag sitting
on a stone. I picked it all up. I was following a breadcrumb trail of
bathroom kit!

I continued on.

Rounding a large boulder and some trees, I came across a broken-down stone
building overgrown by gorse. I got to it quickly. It sat in an area of
cattle-mashed mud and shit. No windows, no doors. Just openings. Flecks of
wool clung to the empty frames. It had a roof of sorts, made of rusty
corrugated iron pinned to some broken, aged rafters. The inside was gloomy
but I could clearly see him inside. Martin! Tucked into a corner, folded
and foetal, like an exposed iron-age corpse burial.

I threw his stuff on the ground and rushed towards him and stooped and
grabbed him as if he had just fallen from the sky. It was like he was
asleep, dreamily murmuring my name.

"What happened, Mar?"

"Mike... I..."

I hugged my arms around him. We were both cold and wet but he really was
freezing. Feeble and pliable in my arms, he wrapped himself around me like
a skein of wind-blown fabric. His wet frozen face pressed against my
chest. We crumpled together in the corner of the ruined hut, two lost
souls.

"What the hell happened to you?"

He did not reply.

He was frozen as a pea. I tried to pick him up, but he wasn't a girl; he
was almost as heavy as me. No way could I lift him and carry him all the
way back.

But wasn't he fine? He'd been gone for a couple of hours, but was it long
enough for a strong fit man like him to get hypothermia - even if he had no
togs? Gripping him hard in my hands his skin felt ripe like fresh meat, his
muscles felt tough and strong. He looked gallantly Mediterranean, like a
dispossessed Florentine prince; sexy, louche, with his hair wet and
plastered to his head and a rough day-old beard and moustache - he hadn't
even shaved, after all that! I gave his soft quivering lips a kiss and he
groaned like he had been woken from a fairy-tale curse. He opened his eyes
and licked the rain and sweat from my neck, like a lamb suckling. But he
crushed himself on to me as only a strong man could and I found myself
examining the landscape of his broad back and shoulders, pushing my hands
down his back and holding onto his muscular buttocks. Stroking them, I let
my fingertips run along the hairy cleft of his asscrack.

He raised his legs and winced when I touched his moist, swollen anus. I
felt the pulsing curve of his perineum, and, reaching further, the raised
seam of his sack, the tight frozen scrotum pressing his balls tightly
against his cock root. I rubbed my palm against his bollocks, and pulled
them as the wrinkled skin loosened til I could hold them in my grip. I
started to squeeze. Martin dug his fingertips into my back, holding on to
me as the pain grew. His weakness drained as he tightened his whole body to
contain the pain I was giving him. I was getting my revenge, sort of. It
was beautiful. He was panting gently, totally concentrating on the
sensation of his bollocks in the vice grip of my fist. There's nothing like
having a man's full attention. His cock grew to its full purple size,
rubbing itself off against me and he was nuzzling his face in my neck and
then gasping and then and putting his tongue in my mouth and then giving it
whole to me and letting me bite it. I tortured his balls relentlessly. His
eyes were locked and concentrated utterly on mine.

"Jesus," he said, "I... I..."

"Don't cum," I told him.

"Are you going to fuck me?" He said.

"Yeh."

As I let go of his bollocks he kind of screeched, then he was whining like
a dog and whimpering desperately while I quickly rubbed some spit on my
dick head and pushed it up him. I came quickly, another load of my sperm
shooting into his gut.

He was almost in tears but he held my head in his hands and kissed me
saying thank you.

"Thank you, Mike."

Then, with me still inside his anus, I let him wank himself. He came in
multiple thick squirts. He was grunting like a forest hog as his body
convulsed in my arms, pressing his backside down firmly on my still hard
prick. I could feel his spasms as they rocked him from within.

When he had finished cumming, he held on to me, tightly as a baby, gripping
my waist with his legs. I cuddled him gently and felt the shaft of my dick
slowly withdraw from his body.

"You're a good'n," I said.

Martin smiled like a schoolboy given a good star.

I had his briefs in my pocket. I took them out.

"Here," I said, "put these back on fercris'sake."

He did as he was told, fitting his big trainers deftly through the leg
holes, snapping the elastic over his bottom and folding his enlarged prick
inside, across the waist.

"What were you thinking?" I asked, easing my zip up over my cock. "What are
you playing at?"

He picked up his towel and his wash kit. He slung the towel over his
shoulders and stepped out of the shed. He stood before me in his bulging
pants, his bollocks half in and half out, his hands on his hips in a kind
of desultory pose, his fat trainers squashing the undergrowth and rain
falling on his shoulders. The bright cloudy sky behind turned him into a
kind of mythic silhouette.

"I don't know what I was doing, Mike."

"You don't know?"

"I don't. Just fancied a walk."

"You are an enigma, Mar. Eversince the night before last... you've
completely changed and... I'm not complaining, understand, but you're
acting like a kind of wild, feral kid. You engage in crazy sex with
complete strangers at the drop of a hat, you wander off on the moors in
your underpants... I mean, I've never seen anything like it!"

It turned me on to criticise him.

"You're an idiot!"

I started to laugh. So did he.

"You're right," he said, laughing. "I'm completely mad!"

I stood up and adjusted my crotch. Martin's cock pushed against his briefs
like a banana. He grabbed and rearranged his stuff. I stepped out into the
light and the drizzle. We laughed and kissed and pressed together.

The rain was pretty light now but we were soaked. We marched hand in hand
through the moorland vegetation back towards the camp site. Martin was
frozen but didn't seem that bothered. He didn't say much. I didn't want him
to explain in any case. I was constantly thinking about his body, his
passive fuckable body, about fucking him and holding him and having him
over and over again. My feeling of power and control banished my
concerns. I held his hand tight and led him back to where our bikes
stood. I had stowed our biking leathers in the panniers. We geared up
quickly.

At last we could resume our bike trip and enjoy the excitement of the open
road. After all, we were bikers. Above all, we were men. We owned the road
and made a noise. That was who we were. That was what mattered. And we were
fucking bikers!

Now back on the road, we raced along the tangled lanes, stopping to take in
a view or a snack. The curves had us hanging our knees like TT heroes. We
chopped gears, breaking hard at junctions and the sudden appearance of
other road users, or sheep. Stooping behind the bars to accelerate on
wooded straights or crossing clear-sighted sweeps across bare, sunny
hilltops, we were like released birds shooting in utter freedom through the
empty, gargantuan sky. It was brilliant!

About lunchtime we pulled up on an empty hillside. I'd been watching Martin
ride his horny bike for long enough. I sat back on mine and told Martin, "I
want to cum on your face."

Martin immediately knelt down in front of me. I got my nob out and held it,
rock hard in my hand. He opened his mouth and put his lips around it. It
felt good slipping over his agile tongue. Pretty soon I was fucking his
throat, but when I came I pulled out to watch it spurt all over him,
gobbing over his lips, his neck, his chin, his cheek, his eyes and in his
hair. He was wanking hard and came soon, shooting into the dirt.

This was one of the best days of my life: Watching Martin on his saddle;
holding his mouth onto my dick; stroking his hair whilst he hugged me;
holding his hand and touching his bottom; telling him I loved him. I'll
treasure those memories forever. Do you understand what I'm saying? I was
intoxicated with him. He had become the perfect sex toy. He humiliated
himself eagerly for me with perfect strangers; he let himself be constantly
available for pleasure at my whim, constantly aroused; he was happy and
sexy and desirable and he was docile, obedient and cooperative and it was
like he was made of super-durable plastic: His asshol never stopped
gripping, and he never said No, because it hurts; he always said Yes,
because it hurts. He wanted everything I wanted.

When the sun went down we drove into another little village with a campsite
and we went to the local pub there for some food and to drink the night
away. We ate and drank and talked about bikes and men and fucking.


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END OF PART FOUR