Bikes and Bunnies Don't Mix
(But Wieners and Buns Do)
Copyright© 2014 – Nicholas Hall
"Shit! Shit! And double Shit!"
Eyes squeezed tight shut; face grimaced in pain, clutching my right leg where it'd contacted the gravely shoulder of the county blacktop road only moments before, I rolled slowly to my side, hoping I could get some relief. Well, that was too fucking much to hope for! The move only increased the pain in my shoulder where it too thumped the hard ground just moments before. I continued to writhe in anguish, only now I concluded, I'd not done any serious damage to myself such as broken bones or twisted testicles! I was thankful I wore long pants and shirt and my safety helmet or I really would've been in a world of major hurt!
It was my own damned fault, no two ways about it! If I'd have kept my eyes on the road instead of being distracted by the scantily clad male apparition jogging toward me, I would've had the presence of mind and reaction time quick enough to avoid the collision and my current state of affairs.
Eyes still closed, a pleasant, soothing voice consoled me; a female voice and not a young one at that! I cracked my peepers open just a mite and viewed the worried face of Myrtle Krebs, the widow who lived on Deer Lake Road, not far from our house.
"Jeffie, son, are you alright? You had quite a nasty spill!"
Mrs. Krebs always called me "Jeffie" although I preferred my given name Jeffrey. She's known me my entire life and hires me to mow her grass in the summer and shovel her sidewalks in the winter - just the sidewalk, mind you, not the driveway. "Pete's Snowplowing – We're a bit Flakey, But Cleanup Nice" was contracted to clean the driveway. Pete did most of the drives and lanes in the area, including ours. I hoped, once I got my driver's license, I could plow for him part-time. During the rest of the year (spring, summer, and fall), he ran a septic service "Pete's Pumper – We Suck!" cleaning out septic tanks. No thanks; I really didn't want to pump shit, although I heard the pay is good, but the smell is bad.
Mom, Dad, my two older brothers, and I live on twenty-five acres fronting Little Hamlet Lake. It is a small farm, purchased by them when property was cheap, when they first moved up here. There's a house and several outbuildings. The outbuildings consist of a small barn, garage, chicken house, machine shed, and a small hog house. Of course we just have to have chickens and a pig or two, along with a large garden. Since my older brothers graduated from college and moved away, it falls upon me to help with taking care of the poultry and any other critters Dad felt we needed to raise, and help in the garden. I really don't mind it.
Mom and Dad settled here when they arrived to teach at CSD #31 (Rockport – Consolidated School District #31). Dad teaches Industrial Arts, mainly woodworking, and Mom teaches Business Education. Dad joked, since I came along eight years after my next oldest brother, I should've been named "Enuff" or "Whoops" since I came along so late when they thought they were done with kids. Be that as it may, Jack and Sam (my older brothers), along with Mom and Dad, spoiled me rotten, and I loved it.
Back to my current situation; not that I didn't appreciate Mrs. Kreb's concern, she's a nice lady and good neighbor, albeit some two miles away from our house, and was a year-around resident, unlike many who were snowbirds. Snowbirds live here during the summer and at the first sight of a snowflake, bail out of the northern land of lakes and forests and head south to the land of sun and sand, grazing on casino buffets. They return in the spring to spend their summers at their "cabins" on one of the myriad number of lakes in the area. Shit, most of their "cabins" were better homes than what most of the rest of us lived in year around!
"I think I'll be fine, Mrs. Krebs; a bit bruised but no broken bones."
"Thank heavens for that, Jeffie, but I think your bicycle will need some repairs."
I looked at my mountain bike, lying along the county blacktop; its front wheel bent, spokes broken, and handles bars askance. Beside my damaged mode of transportation lay a dead snowshoe hare, not resplendent in the snow white fur of winter, but brown, as benefiting its summer faze, and quite dead I must say! The damned thing probably weighed four pounds or more. They can be beastly big, for rabbits, not like the smaller cottontails. The impact of the now dead hare on my bicycle front wheel was disastrous for both wheel and rabbit. How, you might ask, did I manage to dump my ass off of my bike, wreck a wheel, and kill a rabbit in the process? Well, it wasn't easy, believe me!
I'm not an athlete, never ran track, played grab ass as a wrestler, butt slapped fellow football teammates, or adjusted my crotch erotically on the pitcher's mound. I do, however, love to ride bicycle, not competitively understand, but for recreation, enjoyment, and exercise. I ride every morning I can, when the weather is not adverse of course, during summer, fall, and spring on the county and township blacktop roads where we live.
I usually wake up around five in the morning, shortly after the sun is up (we have nice long days in the summer here in the northern forests and damned short ones in the winter), drink a glass of juice, mount my bike, and go for an early ride. It's not unusual for me to ride twenty miles or more before returning home for breakfast and going to my summer job.
Breakfast finished, ass wiped and teeth brushed, I ride my bike over to Henderson's Resort on the other side of Little Hamlet Lake. I work there during the summer, mowing grass, working around the docks, helping out on "turn around day," and any other odd jobs the Henderson's would have me do. My brothers worked there while in high school, so it was a given I'd work there too. The Henderson's have owned the resort since about the same time Mom and Dad bought our place. There aren't many jobs available around here for a fifteen year old with no driver's license so I'm happy to have the one I have. The pay isn't that great, but the tips make up the difference so I really do okay, believe me!
At any rate, the past few mornings when riding to work, I've seen a jogger running the roads. He seems to be about my height and build, probably my age, and slim, with that runner type body. With the large number of summer people around, I'm assuming he's probably staying at one of the resorts or visiting someone with a lake cottage. I do know I've never seen him around before.
I usually spot him as I round the curve in the highway near Horn Lake Road. Horn Lake is a relatively large lake, with a phalanx of cottages and homes, about four miles down Horn Lake Road (hence the name – duh!). He turns off the county road down Horn Lake Road before I get there so I've not had the opportunity to see what his face looks like. So far, my impressions of him are from afar; however, I do know he wears a light colored tee-shirt and bright, red, nylon running shorts, hiked up his thighs just high enough to be really, really intriguing, but short enough to make me imagine it barely covers his, well you know, wanger! I really don't get a good look at that because by the time I'm passing Horn Lake Road, all I can really see is his ass wiggling and jiggling in his shorts as he runs away – damned fine ass at that, I might add!
This fine morning, the morning I had the disastrous encounter with that fucking rabbit, I vowed to leave a little earlier for work. I rode past Horn Lake Road and saw nothing of his backside, but rounding the next bend in the road, there he was, running toward me on my side of the road! The closer he came to me, the better I could see him – not his face, understand, his crotch!
He ran gracefully, purposefully, relaxed, torso encased only by those red nylon shorts, and barely concealing, a cock of significant proportions, at least compared to mine, wobbling, joggling, flopping, bouncing up and down with each running stride. I was mesmerized, fascinated, enthralled, and hard as a rock, drooling pre-cum in my own boxer shorts, dampening both them and my outer wear. He passed me, going in the opposite direction, and I turned my head in order to watch his bubble butt and tight ass cheeks. Rounding the corner of Horn Lake Road and the county blacktop, he looked over his shoulder and grinned; he knew damned well what I was staring at and lusting over!
Sighing deeply, thoughts still fixated on that wonderful wiener and those bodacious buns, I pedaled another twenty yards or so when it happened! I didn't see the coyote chasing the fucking rabbit! If I would've, I could've avoided the collision, but no, my dick was doing the thinking and looking for me. The rabbit, intent on escaping from the coyote, and me, intent on anticipating a great jack-off session that night with fantasies of my mystery booty-boy bouncing about in my head, came together with a resounding- WOP! The bunny hit the bike, I tumbled off, and coyote and the jogger continued on their merry way. There, now you know! Are you satisfied knowing I'm such a klutz and a wiener-wanger to boot?
"It's a good thing I was going to town, Jeffie, or you could've lain here quite a while," Mrs. Krebs continued, sympathetically.
"Yeah, thanks a bunch, Mrs. Krebs. "Do you know where the jogger went that ran by me?"
She frowned, furrowed her brow in thought, and shook her head. "I don't think I saw anyone else, Jeffie; just you lying next to your broken bike and that poor dead rabbit. Was there any need to run over it? Couldn't you just sort of missed it? I do hate to see wild things killed needlessly, don't you Jeffie?"
Oh boy, this was going to be fun trying to explain it was just an accident. If I told her I wasn't paying attention, she'd want to know why and there's no way I was going to tell her I was lusting after the jogger's junk. It'd be like jacking off in front of your grandmother for God's sake! Mrs. Krebs is a wonderfully nice lady and she's most kind to me, but I sometimes wonder what she's thinking, so rather than embarrass me and possibly her, I contritely replied, "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Krebs. I'll try to be more careful in the future." There was no way I was going to confess to hunting snowshoe rabbits in the winter and eating them.
"Do you need a ride somewhere, Jeffie? I don't think you can ride your bicycle with the front wheel all bashed in."
"If it's not too much to ask and since it's on your way to town, could you drop me off at Henderson's? I have to work today. I can call my Dad from there and he can pick me up after work and we can get my bike fixed."
She smiled her sweet smile and agreed. I lifted my bike, with the intention of putting in her sedan, but she stopped me.
"I really don't want that in my car, so please don't try!"
What the fuck am I supposed to with it, I thought to myself! Shrugging with resignation and acknowledgement of my defeat, I picked it up and carried it back into the woods, well out of sight I thought.
Once we arrived at Henderson's and I'd dutifully thanked Mrs. Krebs for the ride and medical attention, I called Dad and told him what happened. I assured him I'd suffered no permanent damage, but requested he pick me up after work and, if he brought the pickup truck, we could retrieve my busted bike on the way home. My larger concern, however, was repairing my damaged, sole means of transportation. Rockport didn't have a bicycle repair shop or anyone who could make repairs. The hardware store sold bikes and pieces parts for them such as inner tubes, tires, spokes, and other items but they didn't do any repairs. The nearest town which might have a repair shop was Clearfield, the county seat. It had a couple of big box stores and several athletic or sport shops, so it was a distinct possibility. I'd have to sweet talk Dad into taking me over there, a distance of some thirty miles.
In the meantime, I'd either have to take the boat across the lake to work or persuade my parents to drive me over. Fortunately, there're only three weeks left before school starts, so I'd only be working weekends after that until the resort season ended.
After work, on the way home, as Dad and I puttered down the county road, I pointed to the spot where I'd hidden my damaged bike and Dad pulled over so I might retrieve it and load it in the back. Alighting from the truck, I scrambled across the highway to where I'd stashed it in the woods. No bike! Well, shit! I poked around in the brush, but couldn't locate it. Dad, seeing my frantic meandering and hearing my muttered epitaphs, joined me in my search.
"Maybe this isn't the spot, Jeffrey," he offered when he couldn't find the damned thing either.
I walked over to the side of the road, kicked some loose rabbit fur still remaining on the gravel shoulder. "There's still some fur left here where I thumped the bunny, but I think either a coyote or ravens carried off the rest of the critter. No, Dad, this is definitely where it happened."
We spent the better half of an hour scouring the roadside and ditches, but to no avail.
"I think, Jeffrey," Dad concluded, "someone absconded with it."
"Dad," I moaned, "who in the hell would want a busted up bike?"
"Perhaps someone who needed it more than you," he conjectured sympathetically.
I just shook my head in disgust, thinking that some asshole stole my bike!
"Why don't we put up some notices in town at the bank, grocery stores, and a couple of other places offering a reward and see if anyone replies. If not, then we'll call the County Sheriff and report it stolen. How does that sound Jeff?"
I reluctantly agreed. Dejected, I climbed back into the truck. Damn, I really liked that bike and loved to ride it! It was the first bike I ever bought myself after I started work at Henderson's. I silently vowed revenge on the son-of-a-bitch who stole my bike if I ever caught him or her and if he or she was smaller than me.
The third day after we posted the notices, I resigned myself to having to report the theft of my bicycle. Mom picked me up after work that afternoon and as we were going from the garage to the house, she stopped me by touching my arm lightly.
"Jeffrey, honey, look down the lane. There's a boy riding toward us on a bike that looks very much like yours."
Bike and rider came closer and I could see it was my bike and riding it, grinning and waving with one free hand, was my morning jogger in his red nylon shorts. Boy and bike came to a stop next to me and as he slid forward on the seat, one foot on the ground and the other on a pedal, he stuck out his hand, "Chad Cossman."
"Jeff Le Fleur," I replied, grasping his hand in return.
"I know," he responded, continuing to hold my hand, weakening my resolve to pummel the person who'd stolen my bike and stiffening my teenage prick, slowly bringing it to a tingly, twitching level of excitement. "I saw your notice in the hardware store. That's how I knew where to return it." He still continued to hold my hand and I made no effort to pull away.
"Boys," Mom interjected, "you too can stand here and visit all you want, but I've got to get supper started," and left to go inside.
"But," I sputtered, "it was all busted up!"
"Yep," he replied, continuing to grin at me, "but my Grandpa fixed it up good as new. What do you think?"
My eyes wandered down to his crotch, where just barely I could see the tip of a nice, fat, uncircumcised cock tucked up under one leg of his shorts and, if I wasn't mistaken, starting to extend itself.
"Nice," I sputtered, eyes glued to his crotch and the wiggly, jiggley, wobbly, wand slowly slithering down his leg.
Chad slid a bit more forward on the bicycle seat, scrunching his shorts up an inch or so more as he did, bringing the one-eyed wonder into closer focus.
"Really, really, really, nice!" I sighed.
"Thought you'd like it," he responded enthusiastically.
I just had to change the subject of our conversation before I blew a load in my shorts.
"I haven't seen you around before," I began.
"You do now," he interjected as I looked again, watching the foreskin of his fabulous phallus beginning to really skin back and a clear drop of sticky liquid form at the piss slit.
"Where do you live?" I asked softly.
"With my grandparents on Horn Lake Road where they have a place on the lake. I got here about a month ago. Been kind of keeping to myself; not a lot to do for a fifteen year-old new to the area to do. I like to run and do some personal exercises, but that's about it."
I'd bet they were personal; I wouldn't mind exercising that marvelous meat of his for a bit myself.
Chad's dad, divorced from his mother, remarried a woman with four daughters. She decided Chad needed to live somewhere else when his dad was being transferred to South Carolina after Chad objected to the move.
"Besides, my step-mother is a real bitch. She doesn't quite understand or accept who or what I am. When Grandma and Grandpa Cossman offered me a place to live and go to school, I jumped at the chance."
"Okay, but how did you end up with my bike?"
Chad had rounded the corner and was running down Horn Lake Road when he heard me shout, "Shit! Shit, double Shit!"
"By the time I ran back to the corner, some old lady in a sedan was already helping you. Then I watched you put your bike in the woods and ride away with her. I ran back home, told my Grandpa what happened and the two of us went out and picked up your bike."
"How did it get fixed?"
Chad nodded toward my bike. "Where does this go?"
"In the garage," jerking my head in that direction. After he climbed off, adjusted his shorts to cover up his growing man-meat, he wheeled it toward the garage as I traipsed alongside of him, my shoulder gently brushing his as he answered my question.
Chad's grandfather owned a hardware store in a small city south of the Cities. A bike trail ran through the town and, noting a need for bicycle repair as well as sales, he started added that to the hardware business. When he retired up here five years ago, he brought all of his tools and parts with him, although he never bothered to reopen a bike repair business. He did, however, purchase old bikes, accept donated ones, or scrounge salvage yards for those junked bikes, repaired them, gave them a new paint job, and donated the refurbished bicycles to several charities so other boys and girls could have a bike of their own.
I parked the bike and leaned over to inspect the front fork and Chad leaned with me, over my back, his breath catching softly in my ear, wafting down my neck, and bringing shivers down my spine.
"Was it hard – to fix, I mean?"
"Not then, but it is now!" he sighed, leaning heavier on me, allowing a very hard, warm part of his body to caress my shorts-covered ass crack. He slid hid his warm, soft hands down my thighs and in doing so, slipped my shorts down, and began tickling my ear with his tongue. Kissing my neck, he wrapped a hand around my turgid rod and began fisting me. I met each down stroke with an upward thrust of my hips. I was getting so close, when he let go, turned me around, dropped to his knees, and sucked me in clear to the pubes. That was all it took! My knees weakened, my ass clenched tight, my cock erupted in his mouth, shooting my essence into that warm, moist orifice.
Instead of swallowing, he stood and slowly dribbled it from his lips into his hand. Turning me around again, he slathered up my rear portal and his throbbing thickness with my spunk, gently bent me over, and, placing the hot tip at my pulsing portal, slid the slick head in, hesitating just a moment to allow my anal ring to accept him, and began that wonderful ride for both of us. I arched my back and raised my butt to give him better access and felt the unsheathed head push in and out and in and out in a gentle, stimulating, satisfying fuck!
"Nice, really, really nice," he sighed as my stomach, bowels, and anal muscles contracted squeezed, and sucked him forward until he was buried balls deep and rocking in contentment and ecstasy!
It didn't take more than five minutes of his ministrations until I felt his massaging, penile protuberance, planted deep inside me as far as he could possibly insert it, his back pressed up against mine, arms around me and clenched me in the grip of sexual ecstasy, began to thump and pulse semen filled with little swimmers into my very depths. When he quit spurting, he lay in quiet satisfaction and release on my back, kissing me, his cock slowly, softening, finally pulling free, cum slipping drop by drop from my willing receptacle.
I looked over my shoulder, twisted my head to kiss him, and as I nibbled on his lower lip, asked coyly, "I'm going for another ride in the morning; you going for a run?"
"Yep; meet you at Horn Lake Road. I'll bring a blanket."
Thank you for reading "Bikes and Bunnies Don't Mix (But Wieners and Buns Do)"
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