I ride my panhead down the abandoned streets of the warehouse district, through empty intersections metered only by blinking stoplights, heading to the city’s underbelly. The only sounds on the darkened streets are the distant barking of guard dogs and the growling echoes of my bike, bouncing back at me as I pass rows of warehouses. At this late hour, the city’s upstanding daytime workers are gone, tucked safely away, secluded in their comfortable suburban homes, quietly living their halcyon lives.
Not fuckin’ me.
I’m headed for the last bastion of rowdy rebels. It’s a rough watering hole called The Piston, a man’s man biker bar. Most people, if they even knew it existed, would call it a fag bar. But they would be wrong. The Piston is a hell of a lot more than that. Sure, the men there like to fuck other men, but they are also tough sons of bitches. No limp wrists or dicks. Many, like me, learned about the pleasures of man-sex while “guests of the state” at various correctional facilities. Others just don’t fit in with the pretty-boys clogging the priss-hole fag bars over on DeWar Avenue. The Piston is a no-bullshit, put up or shut up beer joint. It’s where hard-workin’, hard-fuckin’ guys hang out. It’s also where young punks craving real men and real man-sex come to serve.
Up front at The Piston, rough, horny men pass the night swilling cheap whisky and beer, making connections and sharing camaraderie. The real action is in the backroom. A members only, strict dress-code refuge from the gin-n-tonic crowd, it’s where bikers go to blow off steam, or blow off a load.
And if they elected a king at The Piston, I would be their ruler.
I angle my bike over the railroad tracks and turn north, paralleling the ship channel. I cruise along, passing the deserted wharves, then turn down an unmarked side street. Ahead of me, a twitching neon sign “The Piston” stands atop the bar’s low-slung brick fa�ade, lighting the way to the alley’s end. I see the long row of fifty-plus choppers parked in front of the shabby bar, and my dick goes hard in my jeans. We both know tonight will be a hot night.
I back my bike up at the end of the line, and shut her down. I leave my heavy leather jacket with the bike, knowing no one dares fucking with my shit. I walk along the line of choppers, inspecting the fine regiment of American steel and chrome, bikes waiting at parade rest for their owners, who are partying just inside. Standing embarrassed among them, a rare high-tech rice-burner stands out awkwardly, out of place, looking wimpy next to the customized, red-blooded machines preferred by the patrons of this joint. As I enter the bar, the loud, rowdy noise of the macho crowd dips slightly as the men turn and check me out, then slowly climbs back to it’s tempered roar. Heading to the bar, I feel like a god-damn politician, shaking hands and man-hugging the regulars on my way to my first cold beer already waiting for me by the time I get to the bar. Tony, the sexy Italian muscle-boy bartender, waits behind the tall draught beer, his eyes lowered and his posture submissive. “Your beer, sir!” he says, raising his smoldering brown eyes to meet my commanding gaze. “Thanks, boy,” I respond as I lift the glass, giving Tony a wry smile and a wink, obviously pleasing him.
Tony used to be a hot-shot cop, a tough hard-ass cop with an attitude. Until the night I punked him. A couple years back, he pulled me over to cite me for noise violation because of the glass packs on my chopper. When I gave him some lip, he threatened to run me in for resisting. Rising to meet his challenge of “resisting,” I focused my irresistible gift of persuasion on him. I didn’t lay a violent hand on the hunky officer, I just mindfucked him. It took a few minutes to break his resistance. Soon, I had the confused boy-cop earnestly apologizing for “his mistake.” But seeing the virile and now pliant young officer pleading my forgiveness aroused my growing lust for his tight-muscled body, so I further helped him see things my way - my special way - and Tony learned his new place. And his place was on his knees, sucking my biker cock, right there on the darkened street. After I blew a magnum-size load of manseed down his rookie throat, I invited my newly-punked cop-boy over to The Piston for a beer and more “conversation.”
Two years later, here’s Tony, working the bar, pouring out cold beer and serving up his Italian ass to horny patrons at The Piston. Nowadays, the muscled ex-patrol stud is only truly happy when he gets a regular supply of biker hog-dick shoved deep up his willing ass, plowing him hard and fast, then breeding him with full loads of man-jizz. And he knows I’m the one that helped him find his deep-hidden inner need. The longing look in his eyes each time he serves me a beer or swallows my pungent load is reward enough for helping him find his true place.
I take a quick draw from my beer, and contemplate my standing offer to fuck Tony-boy’s prime wop ass, when I hear someone calling my name. Turning to the crowd, I catch sight of my best bud Jake, pushing through the crowd of gruff, tattooed bikers toward me. “Hank, Brother, am I glad to see you here tonight,” Jake says as he grabs me tight in a man-hug and we lock forearms in a biker handshake. “What’s goin’ on, Brother Jake?” I ask, as we end our toughguy embrace. I sense immediately Jake is feeling little pain tonight with more than a few beers under his belt. His eyes are dilated, and his swagger is a bit more animated than usual. But Jake is still an imposing man. He’s taller than me, maybe 6’3, but his build isn’t as big. He has a strong lean build, hardened muscle built by years of construction work. His bulging arms are covered with tattoos, and his black t-shirt stretches tight across his broad chest, tapering down to tuck into his packed jeans. Jake’s around my age, about 45 years old, and his handsome face shows each of those years. His rugged, tanned features look fitting on him, as does his shaved head and trimmed goatee. In his big black boots and leather vest, he’s a menacing, hard-ass biker, but I know him to be a kind teddy bear at his core. He and I have stood side by side and fought some tough bar fights and street brawls over the years, and the crisp-white scar bisecting the brow above his left eye testifies to his loyalty as my friend. We owe each other our lives, and we love each other as only biker brothers can.
“Hank, man, have I got a hot one for us tonight!” Jake says. I can tell by his excited tone that somewhere in this bar is a young hot boy that’s right up Jake’s alley. My eyes scan the packed bar, searching for the target of Jake’s manlust. “Brother,” he continues, “he’s perfect. Muscled, handsome, athletic, and an tight ass begging for a hard fuck.” My eyes lock onto a tall, built blonde kid, nervously sipping a beer, leaning against a post by the pool table. “Is that him, back against the post?” I ask, following Jake’s eyes as he looks back to the muscled blonde. “Yeah, Hank, that’s him. He’s totally punkable, don’t you think? I’m kinda hoping you might help me out, here. You know, work some of your voodoo-mindfuck shit on the cocky bastard and we could, you know, share him?” Reading between the lines, I know right away Jake has already struck out with the sexy jock-boy. Now he wants me to help him get his dick up the sexy punk’s ass, even if it means sharing. That doesn’t bother me at all. I’m always willing to help out my best bud, and I think Jake has good taste in punks. And after all, I owe Jake, big.
“No worries, Brother,” I reply, as we stare at the lust inspiring young dude. Sensing the attention he is receiving, the hunky blonde looks straight at us, then smugly away, cockily rejecting the blatant attention of a couple of rugged bikers. With that instant rejection, I immediately know I want to punk this fuckin’ kid. I look forward to teaching him respect for the Biker Brotherhood. Oh yeah, I think, a mindfuck lesson in humility will do this boy good. Just ask Tony. A devilish smile crosses my face and I turn my attention back to Jake. “Tell you what, Brother Jake, consider him my early birthday gift to you. I’ll make him your personal fuck-boy for tonight or forever, your choice. All I ask is that I get one blowjob from his smart-ass mouth after I work his mind over for you. Fair enough?”
“Hell, yeah, fair enough, Hank.” Jake’s eyes widened, and his face lights up as he nods in agreement, grabbing me in another man-hug.
“Jake,” I say, “Buy me and the boy another beer, and give me ten minutes alone with him. Then, meet us in the backroom. I’ll deliver his mind and ass to you as your birthday gift.”
I grab the beers and stroll over to the young jock-boy, the new object of my attention. As I approach, I’m duly impressed with Jake’s taste in boys. The kid is early twenties, tall and muscled. He obviously has spent a lot of time in a gym, because his big muscles and sculpted body don’t come from hard labor. They are intentional. Built for athletic prowess, not grunt work. His blonde hair is cut short, too collegiate for my taste, but it suits him, framing his square jaw and Abercrombie and fuckin’ Fitch face. He’s wearing tight jeans that cup his ass tight, and reveal a packed bulge in the crotch. His bright white t-shirt is untucked, only hinting at his perfectly formed jock-boy muscles beneath. Not a seasoned biker, I think, but at least the kid is wearing riding boots.
The jock-boy senses my approach and shifts nervously, unsure what trouble is coming his way. If he knew, he’d fuckin’ run home to his Momma, and fuckin’ quick.
Truth told, I tend to intimidate people, even in this tough bar. I’m 6’1 of packed biker man-muscle. My arms are covered with jail tattoos, and my thick fu manchu gives the impression that I’m one mean bastard. All pretty much true. I spent several years in jail for some stupid shit I did as a kid. I spent those years lifting weights in the yard and fighting off the predators that tried to punk me. Over the time I served, I learned the best way to avoid being food was to climb to the top of the food chain. Quickly I learned to control other inmates around me, first through muscle strength, then through mind strength. I have an unnatural skill, a way of working the minds of others, a “mindfuck” I call it. Maybe it’s hypnosis, maybe brainwashing, fuck, I don’t know, maybe it’s just sheer will. Whatever, I found out all I have to do is focus my own mind absolutely at a target. Then subtly impose my will onto them, commandeering their subconscious stream. Then, I direct their mind. I only need the slightest crack to enter their mind. Once I’ve found that small opportunity, I open up their mind and re-align their thoughts. People simply surrender their minds to me. Any small distraction of the senses opens the mind. Often the distraction is visual, but any combination of the senses works. Vision, touch, hearing, even scent or taste. It sounds fucked up, I know, but the results prove the madness. Anyway, once I’m inside their mind, the rest is easy. I simply force them to focus their thoughts, and align their will to obey mine. It sounds like mumbo-jumbo bullshit, but it works.
For example, when I first got sent to max-security, the head con running the main block decided he wanted to park his big dick up my young ass. When I got re-assigned to his cell, I thought my virgin shit-chute was popped. But instead of turning tail and giving up my cherry, I kept parading my naked ass in front of him, focusing his attention on how nice it would be to touch it, caress it, kiss it, etc. The mindfuck tease-job worked. Soon, the tough-ass mother-fucker was on his god-damn knees fuckin’ begging just to kiss my sweet ass. The tough-ass head-con actually cried, begging just to lick my sexy boy-chute. I had true power. It was a fuckin’ amazing revelation for me. Without ever putting out, I soon had the god-damn warlord of Cell-block A rimming my ass, sucking my dick, and swallowing my hot creamy load. Soon, his title as alpha-male was mine for the remainder of my incarceration. In three short months, I went from punk-of-the-day to top-cock-of-the-block. The bastard never knew what hit him. He got my dick, and I got any fuckin’ thing I wanted for the rest of my sentence. A double win, I say.
Anyway, back to the kid.
“Hey, boy” I say, stepping into the kid’s personal space, letting him immediately sense my power and confidence. I sense his unease. “Uh, yeah, hey, man” he replies, his chest puffed up, trying to seem tough. Nice try, I think, but the obvious routine ain’t gonna work with me. I continue, “I’m guessing that pricy rice-burning import outside is yours, and looking at you, I’m guessing it’s brand, ass-spanking new, just like you, right, boy?” I have the kid cornered, he looks ready to smart-off back at me, but wisely noting my tough biker body, he thinks better of it. Laying a deeper trap, I lighten the tone. “Relax, kid,” I offer, “I’m just playing with your mind a little. I ain’t here to give you grief. In fact, I’m here simplify things for you.” The hunky jock-boy looks at me, confused, and again I close the personal space. We’re now standing eye-to-eye, and I’m slowly tightening my control. “Here, boy, I bought you a beer.”
The kid eyes me warily, but takes the beer and turns his body square to mine, trying to maximize his personal space. “Gee, man, thanks for the beer, I’m Chad.” He holds out his hand, but I ignore his gesture. “I’m Hank, Chad-boy, and I’m here to give you the answer to why you came here tonight.”
Mistakenly assuming my statement as an offer, Chad starts in on his lame rejection speech. “Listen, uh, Hank, I really appreciate the, uh, offer, but I came here tonight because my gym pal Tony told me there were a bunch of hot young guys that hang out here. I’m here looking for some tight ass to fuck, but this crowd is too old. Tony’s misled me.”
I counter, “You haven’t been misled, boy, there are several hot young boys here right now. But by this time of night, they’re already in the backroom, on their knees, sucking off real men and getting their asses stuffed with biker cock. You’re too late to get one of them, Chad-boy, but you’re not to late to become one of them,” I focus hard and capture his stare. In the boy’s eyes, I see he doesn’t believe me, or rather, he’s afraid to believe me. I see his mind visualizing the wild, ass-banging orgy going on in the backroom. But more importantly, I feel my small, opportune crack open to his mind as the stud-boy top momentarily envisions himself as submissive boy-bottom. In this split second, I have the boy off-guard, and I’m in. I have my clear path to Chad’s primal core. Before the moment passes, I move in and work the kid’s mind.
Sliding to his side, I close the final gap between us. I take the beer from his frozen hand and set it behind us. I move into him, making full body contact. My powerful body grinds up against his athletic frame. Meeting no resistance, I plant my left hand firmly on his beefy butt and use my right hand to turn his face to the front bar, where Brother Jake is talking with a buddy. My face right next to Chad’s, I whisper directly into his ear. “You know, Chad-boy, my friend Brother Jake didn’t deserve your blunt rejection. He’s a hot guy and he’s got a huge fuckin’ dick, aching to fuck you.”
“Yeah, sir, I know,” Chad vacantly replies, trying to keep focus, but falling under my power. “I’ve never been a bottom, sir. I like to top, and, anyway, he’s old enough to be my fuckin’ dad, sir.”
As he says the word “sir” a third time, I know I have the upper hand.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree, whispering in my most seductive tone. “He is old enough to be your fuckin’ dad. But he’s also old enough to be your Fuck Daddy. Imagine it, Chad-boy. All day, you riding his hog, and all night his hog-dick riding you. Your tight, jock-ass spreading wide, mounting Daddy Jake’s manly dick. What a lucky boy you are, Chad, the envy of every other boy. You’re Daddy Jake’s boy, now. He wants it, and now you want it, too, don‘t you, boy?” Off guard and out of his element, Chad is totally prone to my suggestion; the implanted idea of Brother Jake as his Biker Daddy meets no obvious physical resistance. In fact, Chad’s chest heaves slightly; and he exhales as his mind passively envisions my proposed scenario. Keeping my lips to his ear, I slide my left hand down around Chad’s waist and I press my beefy body into his glorious backside. I gyrate my hips, grinding my rock-hard dick, still trapped in my jeans, into the firm twin mounds of his ass. I reach up with my free hand and pinch his left tit, working the stiff little nipple. I pull the sinking jock-boy back into my embrace, enveloping his body, devouring his free-will.
I pull out all the stops, using Chad’s own senses to work against his conscious will and encourage his subconscious desire. “Feels good, doesn’t it, boy, having a big macho biker-stud grinding his hard cock into your jock-boy ass?” Chad doesn’t speak, but he passively whimpers, pushing back into me, humping my swollen dick. “Yeah, baby, let it happen. Look at your Daddy Jake and feel him fucking your tight ass. Let him in, Chad-boy, take him deep inside you.”
I drop my right hand down and adjust my dick. I dig my hand into my crotch and caress my aching balls, coating my hand with man-scent sweat. I straighten my dick upwards. Fully erect, the head of my nine-inch cock is exposed, a full four inches rising out of my jeans. I wipe a drop of precum from the head of my dick onto my thumb, and raise my hand to my nose. Yeah, it smells fucking good. Warm, sweaty and laden with sex-scent. I move my hand under Chad’s nose. “Smell that, boy? Can you smell hot biker-musk?” Chad inhales and his whole body flushes. Yeah, he’s aroused, drawing the fragrant scent of man-sex deep into his lungs. He exhales slowly, and his warm breath gently surrounds my hand. I anchor my fingers on his strong jaw and move my thumb to his lips. The clear pearl of precum touches his lower lip. “Open up, Chad-boy, open your mouth and taste biker cock. Taste a real man, boy.”
His eyes focused on Jake, Chad obediently opens his mouth. His tongue licks my precum from his lip then licks my thumb. I move my thumb into his warm mouth, and Chad begins to suck my thumb, his tongue and throat working together to pull it deep inside. Like a baby with a pacifier, Chad nurses my thumb contentedly.
Using my hand, I turn Chad to face me. The only resistance he mounts are his eyes, which try to remain on Brother Jake, his newly implanted focus of desire. They finally tear from Jake and his eyes come around and lock to my gaze. I lead the mindfucked jock-boy with a question. “Chad, why did you come here tonight?” There’s a brief pause. Then that familiar sensation of victory comes over me as I witness Chad’s will bend, then break in surrender. “I came here,” he hesitantly responds, “to serve, sir.” Encouraging the boy’s desire, I prod him on. “Who did you come here to serve, Chad?” Sudden clarity comes to the boy’s expression as his new reality emerges from deep within his subconscious mind. “I came here to serve Daddy Jake, sir.”
“Good, boy, Chad,” I affirm. “Don’t worry, boy,” I assure him, “I’ll deliver you to Daddy Jake. Soon. He’ll be waiting for you in the backroom. You want to see the backroom, don’t you, baby?” As Chad nods his head in the affirmative, I extract my thumb from his mouth. “Yeah, I thought so,” I say. “I’ll take you to the backroom, and you can meet all the other happy young fuck-boys there. All the happy boys sucking mancock and getting fucked. But unfortunately, Chad-boy, we have a strict dress-code back there, and you don’t have any leather on. But I can help you out with that.” Holding his gaze, I dig my hand into my back pocket, and pull out the black leather dog collar I always carry with me. I hold it up to Chad’s face and show the mindfucked jock the physical item representing his mental enslavement. A perfect symbol, the collar is the physical embodiment Chad’s capture. Without questioning it’s power over him, Chad leans forward and sniffs the worn leather collar, then obediently kisses it. He pulls his t-shirt over his head. Bare-chested, he lowers his head and adopts a submissive stance. I secure the collar around his neck.
I have one final test for Chad. I want to know I am firmly in command of his mind. “Chad-boy,” I say, drawing his eyes up to again meet mine. “You want to be a good, obedient boy. Daddy Jake wants his boy to be obedient. Not just to him, but to the Biker Brotherhood. Prove your obedience, Chad.” The submissive boy nods his head, accepting his new role. “Very good, boy.” I further prompt him, “Chad-boy, prove your obedience to the Brotherhood. Lick my biker dick, boy,” I command. His eyes follow mine to my crotch. He sees my hard cock rising up out of my jeans. This is his perfect test. And Chad doesn’t fail me. His eyes return to mine, and I confirm his abject submission. Without hesitation, or concern for the spectacle he’s going to perform in front of the entire barroom, Chad lowers himself to his knees. He braces his hands on my strong thighs, then leans in. His lips move to my engorged dick. He kisses the swollen head, then extends his tongue to lick a large bead of glistening precum from my cock-slit. He reaches up and opens my fly, popping each button deliberately, until my fuck-monster cock is freed from it’s confinement. He holds the head between his punk-boy lips and reaches in to extract my heavy, musk-laden balls.
A conspiratorial hush spreads through the raucous bar as other bikers notice the hot, collared boy on his knees worshipping my fully erect cock. I know he can feel their horny gazes as he submits and surrenders to new-found desire. Unashamed, the captured jock-boy puts on a brilliant show. In one fail swoop, he engulfs my cock to the root. I gasp as he deep-throats the entire nine inches of my stiff biker dick. In automatic response, I grab the boy’s head and begin thrusting my dick into him, rutting his eager face with primal ferocity. I plow my man-tool deep into Chad’s throat, ramming him again and again. Tears form at the corners of the his eyes as he fights for breath, his body reacting against my unforgiving onslaught. My balls tighten and I know I’m gonna unload. I shove my weapon deep into the kid a few last times, then pull my dick clear. I grab Chad by the back of the head with one hand and grab my cum-loaded balls with the other. I guide my nuts into Chad’s open mouth. His wet tongue swirls lovingly over the rippled skin of my tight ball sack, and his warm breath exhales around my rigid rod. His head tilted back, the beefy length of my man-tool lies across his face, pressed upward against his nose and eyes, the pulsing head extending past his forehead. I grunt in agony as his tongue job opens a floodgate in my balls, and cum rapidly surges up through my shaft. I scream in orgasm as my man-seed fires from the tip of my spasming cock. The first few shots arc over the boy’s head, landing on the floor, wasted sperm that will never serve a worthy purpose. The next several shots of cock-snot, however, have less power, but more pungent man-seed. Thick ribbons of cum gush from my dick, falling heavy on Chad’s face, coating the boy’s hair and brow, oozing back along my shaft into his nose and mouth. As the last drops spill from my dick, I rub my hot seed into Chad’s skin and hair with my cock. I feel his tongue working my nuts, licking the jizz that drips into his mouth. Shuddering and shaking off the rapture, I regain composure and remember tonight’s goal. I pull the jock-boy to his feet and steady him. In his sex-drunk condition, he needs a few minutes to sober up.
The dick-sucking matinee is over for now, but the excited crowd knows there will be second, better show soon in the backroom. They start a deliberate move toward the sex chamber, hoping to get a prime seat for the next event. I don’t see Jake in the crowd, but I know he’s already in there, bursting in anticipation of the best birthday gift he’s ever gotten.
I stuff my satisfied cock back into my jeans, not bothering to button up. I look at the hot boy, standing submissive before me. I remove a short leather dog-lead from the belt loop of my jeans and attach it to the boy’s collar. Chad’s face is flushed, his lips puffy and swollen from riding my hog-dick. I use the lead to pull him roughly into me. I lick my spunk from his face and neck, it’s flavor now mixed with boy scent. Kissing him hard on the lips, I push my tongue forcefully into his receptive mouth, delivering the recovered jizz to his eager throat. Breaking the firm kiss, I see confusion in his eyes. He wants me, but he knows he needs Brother Jake. Seeing his concern, I reinforce his programming. “Let me show you the backroom, your new home. Your Daddy’s waiting for you there, boy. Follow me.”
I enter the dark backroom of The Piston, my mindfucked charge in tow. The warm, moist, testosterone-heavy air engulfs us. I smell man-sex and feel the heady electric current of men rutting in the air. I hear deep primal groans of men being pleasured and the content whimpers of punks in dutiful cock-sucking servitude. The random, sharp-smack sound open hand on bare ass perforates the throaty moaning and the sound of cocksucking that otherwise fills the room. My eyes adjust to the dim light, and visual images matching the sex-driven sounds sharpen. I see several clusters of burly bikers standing around the periphery of the backroom. Numbering over fifty, these men compose the Tribe of the Biker Brotherhood. Mixed between and among them are the tribal slaves, the boy punks, numbering about twenty. Hand-chosen by the Brotherhood, the punks have one purpose. To serve. They are common property. Upon demand, they obey and serve the Tribe. Cock-whores to their very core, they crave biker dick. And as my eyes adapt to the meager light, I see these diligent cock-sluts ardently at work. Most are kneeling on hands and knees. Some are sucking biker dick, some are groveling, humbly licking biker boots, and some are shoving their faces deep between sweaty cheeks, rimming biker ass. The luckier boys are being used by several bikers at once, bent over getting gang-fucked, sucking off a circle-jerk of horny men. Some are suspended between two bikers, getting double-dicked.
Yeah, the backroom of The Piston is a fuckin’ awesome sight.
Resisting the visual distractions of the Tribe, I refocus on the five leather-topped benches forming a circle at the center of the room. Three of the reserved sex-benches are occupied. Two remain vacant, Jake’s and mine. Brother Pete, Brother Jackson, and Brother Zak are already at their places, working over their selected punks. The five of us are the elite members of the Biker Brotherhood. Not kings or warlords, we are simply the alpha-males of the Brotherhood. Like a pack of wolves, leadership of the Brotherhood is determined by strength, not politics. Following the primal code of challenge and dominance, the five of us have risen to authority because of our fierce natures. We want power, and we take it.
In accordance with pack law, as alpha males of the Brotherhood, we have the right to feed first. We have first and absolute choice of the hottest punks in the bar. We even have the right to punk another biker, if we want. After all, a hot looking man can be turned into an even hotter punk. It’s Tribal Law. Eat or be eaten.
Testament to the code is Brother Pete. At 5’5 and less than 180 pounds, Pete is not the iconic image of a hard-core biker dude. He’s good looking in a corporate world sort of way, polished and well-kempt. He’s often mistaken for a sugar-daddy wannabe by new patrons. But first impressions deceive. Brother Pete is a powerful Leather Master. Always controlled and composed, he is calculating and precise in every aspect, using tact to enslave his conquests. Never bowing to brute force, just mind power, he punks out the toughest bikers. He especially likes big, heavy-muscled bodybuilders. I’ve seen him take down men physically twice his size. He doesn’t have my mindfucking skill, but he can read other men’s thoughts. If there is even the slightest submissive desire in a man, he senses it , and uses it to his advantage.
Seated at his bench, clad in full leather, Master Pete holds three leashes in his hand. Each chain is attached to a collared muscle man. The enslaved bodybuilders are steroid behemoths. Combined, they’re six hundred plus pounds of pumped up muscle. But Brother Pete controls them like innocent little puppies. Naked, except for their collars, Pete’s three slave-pups romp playfully in front of him, whimpering, pawing and sniffing at his crotch, craving his attention. Seemingly unaware of their awesome size, Pete commands their complete devotion, their pumped muscles and smooth shaved bodies flex and writhe obediently before him, their tight muscled asses wagging joyfully as they push and shove against each other, begging to feed at Master’s crotch. The sight of Brother Pete in firm control of three enormous guys simultaneously reminds me that pure strength comes from the mind as well as the muscle.
At the next bench, Brother Jackson is occupied with a couple muscle boys of his own. A study in contrast to Brother Pete, Brother Jackson is just as successful at punking, but he’s sweet and seductive, not calm and calculating. See, Brother Jackson is a Brother, and a brotha. A big, dark-skinned black dude, at 6’3 and 280 pounds, he’s an amazing sight in his leather harness. Smooth ebony skin covers his defined muscular body. Chrome arm cuffs barely restrain his beefy biceps. His studded jockstrap fights a losing battle to contain his enormous black cock, the leather pouch bulging outwards, creating a sizable gap, formed by too much dick and not enough material. Brother Jackson is as sultry smooth as his look. Charm and seduction are his strengths. I swear he could talk a nun out of her panties, if he wanted. But Brother Jackson likes innocent little white boys. And his attention is currently focused on a pair of twin brothers, cute hunky redheads. Not as muscled as Pete’s pups, they are still magnificent in their own right.
I first met the twins while working at an autoshop over by the interstate. I thought immediately of Brother Jackson. I didn’t know if they were into men immediately, but when I dropped in to the garage once after hours to borrow a tool, I found the pair naked on the floor, sixty-nining, oblivious to the world. Forgetting about borrowing a tool, I decided to offer them a tool. Mine. At first startled, then embarrassed getting caught, I quickly put the boy’s minds at ease. A simple mindfuck. Then I put their bodies to work on my dick. They gave me a memorable double-blowjob for a while, then I alternated fucking their tight, pale asses as they again sucked on each others’ matching cocks. After that wild night, I brought the pair over to The Piston, where they met Brother Jackson. The rest is history.
Tonight, Brother Jackson has his cute twin boys dressed in matching leather harnesses. Straddling the bench, standing, Brother Jackson has one boy on each side of him. Up front, one cute red head is on hands and knees atop the bench, and Jackson is using his slick dark fingers to work spit up into the boy’s hole, prepping the hottie for a fuck. The matching twin is laying on his back behind Brother Jackson, his freckled face planted deep between his big black Masters ass-cheeks. The wide, white toothed grin on Jackson’s face confirms the boy’s rimming skill. This fuck will be a sight to see.
Over at the third bench, as usual, things are far more aggressive than at the first two benches.
Brother Zak is no way near as controlled as Brother Pete, or as smoothly seductive as Brother Jackson. He’s a wild-card. He lives for the struggle and a rough fight. At 6’6 and maybe 220 pounds, he’s a huge, hairy gorilla of a man. And his temperament is just as wild. He likes his men and his sex untamed. He culls the crowd of men at The Piston, looking for weakness. If he sees something or someone he wants, he takes it, preferably by force. Willing punk-boy or defiant hard-core biker, if he lusts for your ass, you’d better be willing to fight to protect it.
At his bench, he’s busy pounding his raging dick mercilessly up the ass of a former Tribe member. Demoted from biker to punk, no doubt in a violent scuffle, the plundered object of Zak’s anal assault cries out in pain, but makes no attempt to escape his tormentor. Bruised and bloodied from a beating, Zak’s new punk-boy must have put up a hard fight. Now he begs for more punishment, in forced surrender to the conquering Zak. As tears flow from his eyes, he pleads for Zak to pummel his biker ass. Zak spanks his bright red upturned cheeks between each deep-stroking dick-jab. Despite his torment, I see that the new punk’s dick is fully erect, a strand of clear precum trailing from his engorged penis down onto the leather bench. I wonder if Zak’s fuck-boy “doth protest too much,” as that Shakespeare guy says. Maybe he’s getting what he wants, after all. My suspicion is confirmed as the biker begins not to complain, but to beg. “Please, sir, please, just do it. Fuck me, fuck me hard. Breed my fucking hole, sir.”
A few more violent thrusts up the biker’s hole are all it takes. A crazed look covers Zak’s face as he yanks his pulsing dick from the plundered ass. He grabs his eight inch weapon with his left hand and uses his right to knock the biker-punk off the bench onto the floor. Letting out an inhuman scream, Zak unloads, and cum fires from his dick in wild arcs, splattering across the leather bench. On his knees beside the bench, Zak’s fuck-slave whimpers helplessly as he also cums, his punk-jizz squirting out on to the floor below.
Coming back to a human mind, Zak releases his spent cock and reaches over to grab his punk’s hairy head. Roughly, he shoves the guy’s face down onto the bench and rubs his face into his steaming spunk. “Lick up my jizz, whore,” Zak yells, and the obedient biker greedily laps at the cooling pools of man-cum. When the seat is clean of sperm, Zak sits across the bench and pulls his punk’s face to his crotch, stuffing his angry semi-flaccid cock into the punk’s mouth. Muffled cries slowly transform into nursing whimpers as the former biker yields willingly to become Zak’s hungry cocksucker.
As if on cue, just as Zak’s fuck show ends, a single bright pin-light sparks, spotlighting the very center of the chamber. Directly beneath the light, I see Brother Jake. He is seated at the ceremonial throne, a leather-clad chair circled by the five benches. He is completely naked, his big arms, sexy fur-covered chest and long sinewy legs exposed. Standing up from his crotch, Jake’s erect cock looks even bigger than it’s actual ten inches. A dribble of precum leaks out of his piss-hole and flows down the length onto his hairy nuts. The crowd is silent at the sight of this alpha male biker waiting for his boy-punk. I turn to Chad and begin stripping off his jeans and boots. He offers no resistance, but he is no help either. He’s transfixed by the sight of his naked Daddy. This will be a hot fuckin’ ritual, I think as I prep the boy.
In accordance with tribal code, the chair Jake triumphantly reclines in usually remains empty, a symbol that biker’s never bow to authority, either king or god. There’s only one exception when the throne is used. The Man-boy bonding ritual.
This throne is the absolute epicenter of man-lust at The Piston. It’s the sacred spot where the ultimate male-bonding ritual is performed. When a boy is brought to this place and his ass is punked, he’s considered the sole property of the Biker Brother that fucks him. It’s not some fag-wedding, parodying weepy hetero customs. This is a rough, virile ritual. The absolute decree of the Man-boy bond. If a Brother fucks a boy at this place, the boy is property of the Brother, his ass off-limits to every other member of the Brotherhood. The ritual is performed, not spoken. No declarations of union, just physical bonding.
I sense the ritual time begins now. I give a quick tug on Chad’s lead and he follows me to the center of the room into the bright light. Naked, he is beautiful. A perfect counter-balance to Jake, Chad is almost hairless, except for a few light wisps of chest hair that swirl across his muscled torso and sweep downward over his defined six-pack abs to his crotch. The pale white skin covering the ripe melons of his ass make it glow, defining it from his tanned chest and legs.
It’s a good thing I love Brother Jake. He is the only man alive I wouldn’t fight to hell and back to fuck an ass like Chad’s.
I remove the boy’s collar, and push him to his knees before Brother Jake. I withdraw from the throne and take my spot at my bench, standing , my arms folded across my chest. I’m ready, and the crowd is ready. We want to see some hard fucking.
Brother Jake looks down at his jock-boy punk. His grin widens and his nostrils flare. “Boy, are you ready to be my ass-punk?” Chad’s face lights up, deep lust burns in his eyes. “Yes, sir, yes, Daddy. I offer you my cherry hole, sir. Please. Make me your punk.”
“Get up here, boy. Daddy’s gonna fuck you.”
Chad crawls to his Daddy. He lowers his head and kisses the big biker’s foot. His lips and tongue never leaving Jake’s body as he works up his Daddy’s calf and thick thigh, climbing the chair to his man. Reaching Jake’s crotch, Chad licks his big balls and works his way up the shaft to the flared cock head. He hesitates longingly at the crown of the big dick. He desperately wants to suck the rigid tool deep into his mouth. But his eyes look up into Jake’s, and he realizes he doesn’t have permission. Daddy Jake wants a fuck, not a blowjob, and Chad’s need is to obey. “That’s right, boy, you’ll have lots of time to suck that big cock later. Right now, I want your tight ass. Get up here and sit on Daddy’s dick.”
Assured this is just his first chance of many to serve, Chad scrambles up the chair and straddles the macho biker. Chad’s erect cock and fleshy balls grind into Jake’s furry belly, his butt cheeks spread wide, Jake’s fuck-slick biker rod riding the length of his ass-crack. Jake grabs his jock-punk by at the scruff of the neck, pulling him down to his chest. They kiss. As they swap spit, probing each others’ mouths with their tongues, Chad’s ass slides up and down the length of Jake’s ramrod, his tight pink boyhole kissing the top of the rigid tool each time it rises. Jake draws spit from their wet kissing, reaching around to moisten the boy’s hole. As he inserts his first finger into the boy, he meets resistance. He pushes the boy upright, and his eyes lock with Chad’s, questioning the boy. “Don’t you want Daddy’s dick up your punk-chute, boy?” Almost crying, Chad confesses, “Daddy, sir, yes, more than anything. But I’ve never been fucked, sir, and your cock is too big. I want you inside me but I don’t think it will fit, sir.”
Jake smiles, then laughs. Looking to me, Jake asks my help for the second time tonight. “Brother Hank, my punk needs help taking his Daddy’s big dick. Can you help him?”
I look around the room. There’s always lube and grease somewhere. Then, I see Tony, my favorite fuck-boy, kneeling behind my bench. I have a better idea. I lean over and pull Tony to his feet by his left arm. Dragging him under the spotlight, I respond to the question. “Yes, Brother Jake, I’ll help lube up your boy’s hole.” I push Tony to his knees, shoving his face into Jake’s crotch. Tony’s nose buried in Chad’s hole, his lips land against the crown of Jake’s cock. Obediently, Tony licks Jake’s cock and Chad’s ass, running his tongue around the engorged dick head, probing his salivating tongue into the virgin hole. Chad squirms in rapture as Tony’s tongue works Jake’s precum and his own spit into Chad, driving the sweet mixture deeper and deeper with each thrust.
Watching Tony on his knees, rimming Chad, gets me hot. Tony’s ass wags back and forth as he eagerly rims Chad’s jock-boys ass, his jeans stretched tight across his firm butt. This vision is too much for me. I walk over and bring my face down near Tony’s. “Would you like a reward for your hard work, cop-punk?” Tony responds yes by moaning loud and ramming his face even harder into Jake’s crotch and Chad’s ass, his ass wagging manically. I grab Tony by his dark hair, pulling his face back. His mouth is gaping open, and I lower my face just above his. He stares deep into my eyes, I smile, then spit a huge wad of biker spit into his eager mouth. I shove his face back to it’s task and walk around to my Italian punk’s backside.
Tony’s rim job works. Chad’s ass flower blooms more with each pass of Tony’s tongue, and Jake’s bloated cockhead sinks slowly into Chad’s hole, parting his punk’s ass lips, driving deliberately up and in to Chad’s fuck chute. As I watch from behind, I reach down around Tony’s waist, unbuttoning his jeans. In one quick yank, I shove them to the floor, gathering them at his knees. Tony’s upturned ass, smooth and tan, wags obediently for me, his firm fleshy cheeks parted, his dark boy hole winking at me expectantly. I shove my jeans to my ankles and drop down behind him, spreading his thighs with mine. My nine inch dick pokes out straight, and the head lodges at the entrance to Tony’s hole. I hawk a gob of spit on my cock head and massage the boy’s hole. I lean forward, my hands gliding around the Tony‘s torso. My fingers find his tits. I roughly twist his nipples. Tony makes a muffled cry, his face still buried in Chad’s butt. As Tony yelps, his sphincter twitches, then opens, and I ram the entire length of my big biker cock into him.
I give the boy a split second to adjust, then start grinding into Tony, my dick sunk to it’s full depth. His ass responds willingly. His warm moist ass walls vibrate gently surrounding my cock, and his assring milks the base of my dick.
By now, Tony’s juicy rim job has Chad’s hole lubed perfectly. Tony pulls back, and Tony and I watch as Chad’s slick hole opens fully, and Jake’s huge dick slides in, like a snake entering a burrow. Chad throws his head back moanig wildly as Jake’s tool invades him. Chad’s butt sinks down to the root of Daddy Jake’s cock, his relaxed hole stopping it’s descent at Jake’s plump balls. Jake looks up at the writhing boy mounted on his dick. He tweaks the impaled jock-boys nipples and instructs his boy. “Yeah, baby, feel my full manhood deep inside you. Fuck your Daddy’s dick, Chad-boy. Chad’s face flushes and his eyes meet Jake’s. A sense of true purpose fills the boy. Chad raises his ass up the length of the big ten inch dick, until the head almost exits, then he slides it back down, bottoming out in Jake’s crotch.
Taking this cue, I set my own rhythm fucking Tony. I buck deep into him, pile-driving up his ass. Each thrust shoves Tony into the Man-boy fuck immediately in front of him. I twist Tony’s meaty tits and pull him back hard onto my cock . Over and over, I repeat this drill. Each time Tony’s face grinds into Jake’s crotch, and he delivers an eager swipe of tongue, applying more saliva to the rutting.
The four of us synchronize our fucking. I plow into Tony, Tony licks Jake’s nuts. Jake drives up into Chad, and Chad drives down hard. Our pace increases, becoming more urgently focused. My second load of the night churns in my balls, and Tony’s sphincter shifts into overdrive. Jake is bucking furiously, raising his ass of the throne, delivering every inch of his manhood into Chad, and Chad grabs his own raging cock , jacking himself as Jake watches.
Jake blows first. Giving two rapid thrusts, he sinks his dick deep into Chad and cums. His balls climb up his shaft with each cumshot, delivering his potent manseed into Chad’s ass.
Tony climaxes watching the Man-boy fuck in front of him. As some of Jake’s jizz seeps out from Chad’s hole, the pungent smell and taste of man-cum and boy-ass hits his senses. He whimpers in agony and he shoots his load, his boy-shot spraying wildly from his dangling cock.
As he fires, Tony’s sphincter clamps hard around my cock, then contracts in crazed spasms, working my fuck-tool. The frenzy is too much. My head rolls back and I let out a madman’s wail. I erupt, my fuck-cum barreling down and out of my raging cock, tunneling deep up Tony’s ass.
Chad, now fully punked, surrenders last. He begins to exhale a cum-throw yell as the final tension builds. Sensing this, Jake grabs Chad by his butt cheeks and pulls him off his spent dick. Chad’s eyes flare open, surprised by the flash evacuation of his Daddy’s cock. Jake moves the boy’s crotch to his mouth and deep-throats his punk-cock. Chad’s dick embedded deep in Jake’s warm mouth is the final torture. Chad shouts out, “Yes, Daddy, take me. Oh, Daddy, take my punk-load.”
Except for our post-fuck groans and whimpers, the room is silent. Never before has this crowd witnessed such an amazing bonding. As the four of us begin to withdraw, the crowd surges forward and embraces us, shouting encouragements and congratulations. I look down at Tony, collapsed on the floor. I reach down and pull him up to me. He smiles sheepishly. Pure love pours out of his deep-brown eyes.
The crowd swarms past us to Brother Jake, and his new boy Chad, and I pull Tony over to my bench and pull him into me. “Tony-boy, I’ve never had a hotter fuck than that. You are, indeed, my perfect punk. I won’t share your ass with anyone, ever again.” Tony’s eyes fill with tears and I make my decision. “Tony, I claim you as my punk, my boy, my little man. If you’ll have me, that is.”
No word pass my cop-punk’s lips. He leans into me and our lips meet. As our tongues lock, I taste the sex-juices from our wild scene. Tony’s surrender to me is absolute. And with his submission, my surrender to him is absolute, as well. Two years ago, I mindfucked this punk. Now, my sexy cop-punk has mindfucked me. Ah, well, I guess there’s just no use resisting.