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Subject: Title story: "The Motorcyclist" Author: Anonimous 96593740
From: TheXfan <ryzij@poczta.fm>
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Date: Thu, 18 Jan 2007 03:21:43 +0000
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THE MOTORCYCLIST
The day was warm the sun high. The sleek black machine sped along the macadam,
hugging the tight curves and cruising over the long straight-a-ways. My
destination? Nowhere. Everywhere! I was on my own free. No questions to answer
no explanations to make up no strings attached. Traveling light -- that's me!
All I had was packed in the saddle bags. There were no regrets. A few happy
moments to remember. A whole world out there to explore.
The bike felt good under me. The rhythmic vibrations of the motor, the constant
movement of the two wheels over the rough surface -- all these gave me a
sensuous feeling. Leather encased thighs tingled as they wrapped themselves
around the steadily oscillating gas tank. Warm air rushed though my denim
covered crotch, cooling it. My balls savored every motion of the bike, sending
sensations upwards to an ever responsive cock.
Yeah. It was a warm one. And I knew it was going to get hotter. That morning I
had decided not to wear full leather: I had put on chaps. Besides, I liked the
way they looked. The sleek black leather reaching from my boots to where they
rode low on my hips underneath, the faded blue Levis showing off my tight firm
ass, and good sized basket always ready and willing! Last piss stop I had stowed
my shirt in the saddle bag. The leather vest was cooler and protected my back
from the sun. It would catch the wind. Flap against the well developed pecs
softly beating the nipples to a state of tantalizing attention. I felt good.
Next to sex this was the greatest feeling going. Opening the throttle I really
began burning rubber.
Caught up in my own fantasy, the real world slipped by. A wailing sound jolted
me back to earth! "Shit! Where the hell did they come from?" I asked myself,
looking down the business end of a siren screeching police car in my rear vision
mirror. "Too late to try to outrun it," I thought, as I eased back on the
throttle and drew to a stop.
"Well, what do we have here, Hank?" the driver said as he slid from behind the
wheel and walked towards me, hand on holster.
"Better play it cool. These local yokels look like they mean business," I mused
as I waited for them to reach me. "No sudden movements, not the way that guy is
fingering that rod!" I tried to smile.
The driver was a big bruiser well built. If a good body in a glued on uniform
were the qualifications, this guy was a real hunk. Hank, the other guy, was no
slouch, either. A little less muscular, but lean -- and hung! These boys did
mean business. "Hit the ...
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