Biker Mates

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ BIKER MATES PART TWENTY-ONE

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BIKER MATES PART TWENTY-ONE - On the floor [CHAPTER TWO : TEN YEARS LATER, continued]

Back at the apartment I was about to fix us both a cuppa.

"Tell me about what happened," I said.

"I don't know where to start."

We were both thirsty. It had been a long walk back through the town, worse by the fact that I lost my way. In the end Martin said, "Mike, do you know where the hell we're going?" When I told him he said, "I know the way."

I forgot that Frankfurt was his home now. After we had been walking a bit, I said, 'How long have you lived here?' and he said, simply, 'Ever since'.

Now he stood in the middle of the room, turning round slowly like something going down a plug hole, looking at the furnishings as they rotated about him.

"This is nice," he said, meaning the room, not his own spinning motion.

"Mar, you should take off your boots."

He knelt down on the carpet and started the complicated process of untying his feet.

I watched him for a moment, his mechanical form and his way of prising the knot apart as if it were a kind of insect he was pulling the wings off, and then asked if he would like tea or coffee and he said, "Let me do it," jumping to his feet in his white socks.

I pointed to the drinks stuff, left him to it, and sat down on an armchair, stretching out my legs and crossing my ankles. I folded my arms over my chest, admiring Martin, the look of him, enjoying the tentative way he filled the kettle and searched for the tea bags, and then watching him fidget whilst we waited for the kettle to boil.

"Tell me about what happened," I said.

"I don't know where to start."

"Yeh well, just fuckin' carry on from where you left off! You're in the back of the van. You're hanging off the wall. Jez is up your arse. You are in agony... Start from that point."

"Oh, yeh! Jez, well, just to go back to him on the the phone still and... 'n' all this phone call, took a long time. I couldn't hold on; I guess I must'a started to make a noise. Couldn't help it. The straps were killing and my arms and legs ... everything hurt. Every fucking thing.

"The poppers had worn off, and to cap it all... I, I realised he's taking pictures of me, all bound up and messy, cs now he's talking about sending them to this guy he's phoning."

"Y'wha?" I exclaimed.

"Cs he said, obviously, he said things like, 'I'm gonna send you a picture. This is him. This is his cock. This is another one. Stuff like that."

The kettle boiled and Martin started to fill the cups.

"Did he send any photos to you, Mike?"

"I... I wish he had!"

"Yeh. - Milk?"

"In the fridge. - So?"

"When I realised what he was doing, I di'n't know whether to laugh... or..."

"Cum?" I said, helpfully.

"Yeh 'cept I wasn't laughing or cumming. I got scared. I guess I needn't have, but I did. Yeh, so I, well I guess I got scared and I was trying to tell him, 'Don't', you know, 'post those photos'. 'Cept I couldn't say noth'n, what with the gag and anyway he wasn't bothered. He just thought I was complaining about the pain, or something, or should choose to relax. He said I was too uptight and I should relax, relax my brain. Just accept it, cs I should admit it was a turn on and, well, y'know, Jez was a bit of a psychopath. Oh, yeh... a bit of a psychopath..."

"A bit," I said.

I wanted to touch him and trace the tattoos laced across his skin. I hoped he would start to cry. I would grope his arse to comfort him, knowing that being wanted by another man was all Martin lived for.

"He told me to shut up but I think he was so enjoying it, getting off on me screaming through the gag, cs for a bit he was concentrating 'n' pumping his fucking great erection up me so hard and in any case, he was sayin', I didn't have no rights. I'd... lost all my rights, you know? cs ... I ... was a slave now. His slave. I loved that and..."

He stirred the drinks, staring at the spoon he was stirring like it was his whole life disappearing into some kind of tea-coloured void. "Sugar?"

"No thanks," I said. "And?"

"And,that was it," said Martin.

"That was what?"

"I mean, that was like the point when I knew it. I knew it was right. I knew he was right. And I've been a slave ever since."

"Oh Martin..." I said.

Then I said, "but that's fucking ... ridiculous."

"I know it is," he said, with a strange, neutral voice that managed to convey happiness and sadness at the same time.

Martin picked up a cup and walked it over to me, slowly so it didn't spill.

"I honestly haven't a clue what you are talking about, Mar. I just don't understand what you are saying to me. Do you mean that cs he'd taken these snaps he could blackmail you cs he had your sorry ass, something like that?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"So what then? I mean, you weren't literally a slave, were you?"

"Oh... Well, I was you know. I mean, he was right wasn't he? I knew it immediately. I knew he was right. I was a slave. I d'n't have a choice about the photos nor anything, cs I was a slave and that meant I didn't have any choices. I mean, that's what a slave is, i'n't it? Someone who hasn't any choices. And it wasn't cs anyone has taken or, like, stolen the choices. A slave simply doesn't have any choices. He has to do whatever and, well, like I say, he doesn't have any choices... A slave just doesn't have any choice. And that's what I'm like. I know, and you know."

Martin breathed in and stared hard at the cup as he held it out to me.

"No, I don't know," I said, taking the cup from his hands, but I don't know why I said that, because I guess I did know. I'd known all along, since the first time I'd fucked it, and he'd wanted it, and it had hurt him like hell, and he had wanted it.

"Yeh, you know," he said. "Just look at me."

I looked at him, "Stand straight."

He took a step back and stood up straight in front of me with his hands behind his back. He rested the backs of his hands on the upper curve of his bum - so cute. He placed his legs apart, gear exposed, pushed forward. It was the alert 'at ease' pose of the soldier or sailor, orderly, or valet, fag slave. He cast his eyes down to where I sat holding my teacup. I cast my mind back. I thought of how we'd met. I thought of how we'd first made love him begging me to stop and the way I didn't stop. I thought of the events of the next few days until he had gone, when he went away and left me.

"But Mar," I said quietly, "you always did what you wanted to do. You were enjoying yourself. You wanted it to happen. Like the first time I fucked you, I fucked you cs you wanted it to happen. You came on to me. Then when it hurt and you were screaming and I had to shut you up, yeah I remember all that; did you expect it not to hurt, the first time?"

"I didn't know you were like this massive sadist," he said.

"I knew," I said. "You never complained afterwards, Mar. You enjoy pain, you cunt. I could tell that. You loved the humiliation of begging me to stop when I didn't stop. And you certainly loved having me cream and shoot up all my cum up inside you... Admit that."

He nodded.

"I didn't know I was like this massive masochist," he said.

"I knew," I said. "You were so turned on, Mar. You were like... ...you were incredible. Don't tell me you didn't want it!"

"I'm not talking about that," he said. "Not exactly."

"Well what then?"

"I hope it's how you like it," he said. "The tea, I mean."

"What if it's not?"

He grinned, "You'll have to punish me."

I took a sip.

"It's fine. Go and get yours."

He fetched his tea and brought it back. He stood in the middle of the room, like it was his official position holding his cup and sipping from it. "Take a seat," I said, like it was an interview.

He edged past the coffee table and sat on the sofa gripping his cup with both hands, staring at it.

"You were there," he said at last. "You were there. You saw me. You... searched me out."

"Ye wha'?"

"You searched me out, y'know. You knew when you saw me, that I was a slave in my heart. You knew that."

A slave in your heart, I thought. "Mar," I said, "you were a slave in MY heart! But now Mar I'll tell you what I did know," I said. "I knew you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And yeh, I wanted that, but I never thought I'd get it. I thought you were straight."

"As if..."

"In retrospect, it does seem a little unlikely. But it was weeks before you came on to me."

"It was day one! What about FastBikes, in the changing room, I was soooooo in your face."

"You were not! You never gave a sign."

"So I was stripped to me kecks and you was there with this great big hard on and that's not an indication of anything!"

Take a re-look at Part One, dear reader, and see what you think.

"It's not an indication that you, Mar, are a poof, Mar. That's ridiculous!"

Had he been coming on to me and I'd never even noticed?

"Well I am a fucking poof, aren't I?"

"You are that, Mar!" I shouted.

I felt stupidly angry, with him, with the past, with myself. The usual kind of angry you get when you can't change anything but you want to change everything.

I put down my cup and leaned back in my chair, planting my legs apart on the floor so that my feet shaped a little area on the carpet in front of me. Then I said, "Mar, knock back that tea and come here."

I indicated the area in front of my feet.

He started sipping his tea; it was too hot.

"Look, put your fucking tea down on that table and get down there on the floor in front of me where you belong!"

For an instant, Martin looked at me like I was joking. Then he leaned forward and placed his cup carefully on the coffee table, on a coaster. Supporting himself with his hands, he slid his bum forward and over the edge of the sofa and onto the floor. From there he rolled into a position cross-legged and close to my shoes.

"Does that feel better?"

He nodded stupidly. He was still tense.

"Look, Mar," I said, "relax." I sat up, reached forward and rubbed his head. "You're too uptight."

I just wanted to fuck him.

He stared at the carpet.

After a moment I said, "feeling better?"

He nodded. "Yeh, Mike, thanks."

"Good. Now, take off your shirt. I want to see what you look like."

He did so immediately, sat up, crossing his arms in front, gripped the pale blue shirt by its neatly stitched hem and peeled it quickly up. Straightening his back and arching his sternum he exposed more of the flowery tattoos I could already see on his arms, neck and at the small of his back. They swirled over his hard flat stomach. Prominent feather-like muscles raised up on either side of his ribcage as he lifted his arms with even more tattoos; on his arms, near his tits, over the meat slabs of his chest, across his collarbone and shoulders and delts, up his neck as far as his locked leather collar. Only where his skin was pale and surrounded his armpits, dark wells filled a thick growth of fine black bush like two sandy shore-lined Arabian Islands, did the tattoos desist.

He bunched his shirt up in his fist.

He was covered in swirly twirly flowers that seemed to race around his body like butterflies fighting.

"Do those tats go all over your legs as well?"

"M'more or less."

"Show me," I said. "Stand up," I said. "Drop your trews."

Martin got onto his knees and then got to his feet. He was a beautiful man who stood before me, nervous like someone younger, someone he reminded me of... ten years younger. Chest rising. Chest falling.

He rolled up his shirt and tossed it onto the sofa.

"Wow. Hold on, Mar. Just stand still a second. Let me take a look."

From my position in my armchair I surveyed the amazing inked spread of his torso. With his breathing and his heartbeat the hair on his skin had a gentle tremor and the the dark blue lines of the petals and vegetation seemed to writhe like they were growing and in a forest and breeze blown and alive.

"Mar, turn round. Slowly..." I told him.

The tattoos covered his back as well, flowing like they were caught in a current, vines and blooms and seeds and leaves and stalks. He was a fucking garden!

"Fuck me, Mar, you look like a fuckin' garden!" I said, taking it in, mildly distracted by the shape of his bum in his jeans.

"I am a garden!" he said. He gave a short laugh as he turned. Now he was facing me again. He glanced at his watch, a masculine steel thing which hung from his wrist like a slave clamp.

"Worried about the time?" I said.

"I'm worried about ... him."

"Who Karol or your Master?"

"He expects me to be back."

"When?"

"Ohh, not til later. What about this Karol? When are you expecting him?"

"Oh, who cares?" I said.

Martin grinned, "Who cares?" Then he said, "Would you like me to take my trousers off, Mike?"

I saw the swelling where his stuff was packed.

I nodded and watched as he unbuttoned his fly. He was hard. He opened up, pulling the buttons apart, exposing a black vee of muff from which his dick popped, helplessly stiff and vulnerably pink, taut foreskin drawn back.

Well, at least his dick had not been tattooed. Nor had his balls!

He paused and looked at me.

"Go on, Mar," I said, "keep going, but turn back round," I said with an indicative spin of my fingers, "so that I can enjoy lookin' at your back side."

He swivelled on a foot, balanced, and stretched his jeans over his bottom, its stunningly beautiful, invitingly graceful curves were covered with even more blue flowers, fruit and blue vegetation drawn with engineer-precise delicacy beneath a lacy veneer of black hair. As he concertina'd each leg down to the ankle and lifted each foot and tugged each leg from its heel, removing each sock in the process, his arse crack opened up wide and I could gaze into the black-fuzzed darkness crowding his hole.

He finished undressing.

"Ok, you can turn back round," I said.

He turned on one heel to face me, folding the jeans in half as he did so and flattening them against his belly, obscuring my view of his crotch. Then he rolled the jeans up, raising the flat legs, with unconscious drama, like a theatre curtain, revealing his grand finale, his standing prick, a fissile alert device. He tossed the roll onto the sofa where it landed like a food parcel on the blue patch of crumpled shirt. He bent forward at the waist, feet apart, knees unbent, to pick up his white socks, one, two, which he tucked inside each other, and he tossed that ball as well onto the sofa. Still facing me, he let his hands drop to either side of his strong straight dark legs. His vulnerable nudity was somehow suddenly shocking. I took a deep breath.

"Mar, ma-an, you look great," I said, "tats ... incredible. I mean, beautiful!"

"You don't think I look like a sofa cushion? Someone said I look like one of those stretch sofa cushions," he said.

"Chintz."

"Yeah, like chintz."

He smiled nervously.

"Mar," I said, you certainly don't look like chintz! You look..." I struggled for the word as if it were trying to run away, like it was just about to take off, "... man... awesome, man, truly awesome."

He beamed, his teeth in a broad breaking grin and his eyes alight. He lifted a hand and stroked his furry chest, his prominent nipples, his flat strong tummy. He poked belly button and scratched the fuller growth of pubic hair beneath. I just watched him, moving my legs further apart to let my cock rise up more comfortably. I felt its rising head rub across my thigh, with a shiver.

The tendrils drawn across his muscles quivered with their own life.

"Let me take a closer look," I said, lifting myself out of the armchair and shaking my prick with my leg.

I approached and stood next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, using it to steady him whilst I stroked him with my other hand. I let my fingers enjoy the texture, the hollows and rounded shapes of his skin, dark with tan, blue with flowers, black and soft with hair.

I touched his prick and held his hairy balls.

"Yeh," I said, gripping them. "That's good."

Martin's breathing grew shallower.

"You know how hard it makes me to touch you like this," I said.

Martin looked down at a distant point on the floor.

"I know," he said.

"And how much I want to fuck you."

"I know."

Stroking him and feeling him, exploring him, I said, "Tell me what happened next, with Jez, Mar: What happened next?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++ END OF PART TWENTY-ONE