Date: Tue, 7 Oct 2014 10:06:14 +0200 From: sharp Harper Subject: STORY : BIKER MATES -- PART EIGHTEEN +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ BIKER MATES PART EIGHTEEN 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 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. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++ END OF PART EIGHTEEN