All right, I might have been going a bit fast, but it was 9pm, it was a quiet country road in the middle of nowhere, and there wasn’t a single other vehicle on it. I swore when I saw the flashing blue light in the mirror.
I pulled up and lifted my crash helmet off while the police bike came to a stop behind me.
“ Good evening sir. Have you any idea what speed you were doing?”
“ Eighty?”
He looked down at his notepad. “One hundred and twenty-five.”
“ Ah.” I looked along the road. “Well, there’s no traffic,” I said lamely.
“ The national speed limit is sixty miles per hour.” He produced a breathalyser. “Take a deep breath and blow steadily into this please, sir.”
I did as he asked and he checked the read-out. I knew I was clear – I hadn’t had a drink for days.
The cop took my name and address, then walked around my bike slowly looking for faulty lights, number plate. He didn’t find anything amiss. “One hundred and twenty-five in a sixty limit is going to lose you your licence, you know that?”
I nodded glumly. My driving licence was clean, so getting a few points on it and a fine would have been no problem, but losing it completely for six months or a year would be a royal pain in the arse. His eyes were no longer on my bike, they were on me. They travelled slowly up my leather-clad body from my boots to the collar of my jacket, then returned to my crotch for a moment. He seemed to be considering something.
“ Well, I can offer you a choice, if you’re interested. It would mean you don’t lose your licence.”
I tilted my head. “What choice?”
“ I can either book you now, and you’ll receive a letter in the post in the next week informing you that your driving license has been revoked for a period of time – probably six months, I should think, along with a hefty fine – or I can take you to my playroom, tie you up and teas e you in various ways for the rest of the night. That would be a lot more entertaining for both of us, and your record would be clear. Up to you.”
What the fuck? I hadn’t expected that. Tie me up? Tease me ? I looked at him. He didn’t look gay, but how can you tell? He was the same height as me, but he looked a bit more muscular under the hi-viz jacket.
I’m straight - I have no sexual interest in guys - but although I didn’t like the idea one bit, it was a chance to get off this and keep my licence. I thought for a moment. “What kind of things you planning to do? No pain. And you do not fuck me. If you wanna do that you can forget it.”
“ I don’t think you’ d really be in a position to set rules, sir.”
Given what he was planning to do to me, I thought the ‘sir’ was a bit superfluous .
“ I’ll probably make you cum, and do other things, but don’t worry, there’ll be no pain.”
Make me cum? I chuckled to myself at the idea. From this angle I couldn’t see any sign of tits or a pussy, so there was not much chance of that.
I stared at him, imagining getting the fucking bus to work every day. After a few moments I nodded reluctantly. “Ok.”
“ I see you live in Denton.” He looked at his watch. “I’m off duty at ten and it’s a quarter past nine now, so I’ll be at your house in an hour. You’ll come with me, sir.” He looked at my leathers. “And don’t change out of that gear.”
I nodded again and put my crash helmet back on.
I hadn’t been home long when he arrived - and it wasn’t on the police bike . When he got out of the dark grey Ford Transit van I noticed that the hi-viz jacket and the police insignia had gone and he was in shiny black leather from head to foot – and they weren’t biker leathers.
He held the rear door open. “In you get.”
I got in, and stared – the rear compartment was closed off from the cab, and every surface was also covered in black leather.
He made me sit down on the padded floor. From a compartment he produced some items, with which he gagged me, and strapped my booted ankles together. The he put fingerless leather mitts over my hands and fastened them together behind my back.
He closed the door and I heard him walk round to the front. He climbed into the driving seat, and although I couldn’t see him, I could hear his voice. It sounded like it was coming from a speaker. “Now, sir, you can try to get free at any time. Any time at all. You can try to escape, stop me playing with you. If you succeed, that’s fine – you can go on your way and nothing more will come of it. Understand?”
Oh. Trying to escape was Ok, was it? In that case, I might well be able to get away without his doing anything to me.
I started to reply, but the gag prevented any words, so I nodded my head. I didn’t know if he could see me, but if he had piped sound in the van he probably had CCTV as well. I looked around for the camera but I couldn’t see one. A moment later we set off.
After some struggling I managed, just, to reach the buckle of the strap around my ankles, and I could have undone it if I’d been able to use my fingers – but the leather of the mitts was too stiff to make that possible. I tried to get my wrists to the front by curling up and passing them under my boots, but my feet tied together made them too wide. I lay there fuming. There wasn’t a lot I could do at the moment, but I knew there would come a time when I could.
I’m very familiar with the layout of most of the town’s roads, and even while I’d been struggling to get free I’d been mentally following the route we were taking. But he was clearly intending to make me lose my sense of direction because he drove all over the place – circling roundabouts several times, taking alleys, doing occasional U-turns, and going around blocks more than once. I rolled about on the padded leather floor in the back, wishing like fuck there were windows. The bastard had even left the light on inside so I could stare at the featureless leather walls where they should be. Very soon I had no idea at all where we were. It felt infuriating to be cuffed, gagged and with my feet strapped together in the back of a van, not being able to see out of it, and not knowing where I was.
After a half hour or so we came to a stop. He unfastened the strap around my ankles, blindfolded me with duct tape, and led me into what I assumed was his house. My instinct was to struggle, to try to get the duct tape off, but there was nothing I could do at that moment so I didn’t try, I just stumbled blindly along with his hand on my arm.
“ Are you straight, sir?” He asked once we’d got into a room and he’d closed the door.
There he was with the ‘sir’ again. I wished he’d stop. I nodded.
“ And have you ever been restrained before?”
I shook my head.
“ Good,” he said.
I felt his hands on me. They stroked over my leather jacket, and slowly worked their way down to my leather jeans. He unzipped them. “Ah, underpants.”
The duct tape stopped me seeing what he was doing but there were noises as he prepared things.
He sat me down on a hard table of some kind, and lifted my booted feet onto the end of it.
There were hands at my back. First t hey pushed the sleeves of my leather jacket up and locked metal handcuffs round my wrists above the mitts, then they re placed those mitts with leather cuffs. This guy had clearly done this sort of thing before; he was giving me no chances to escape. He buckled another pair of leather cuffs around my boots.
The table moved as he knelt on it behind me. He pulled the duct tape off my eyes - but before I had a chance to see anything the light went out again as he quickly dropped a hood over my head. It was heavy black leather. I tried to stop him getting it on but soon he had it pulled well down and was tightening it at the back. As the hood closed in I could feel that the inside was shiny leather as well; it pressed more and more confiningly over my face, pushing the gag even harder into my mouth. I could breathe through the small holes under the nose, but I was conscious of doing it. The thing felt very controlling and smelled of freshly oiled leather.
When that was done he took the metal handcuffs off me. Immediately I brought my arms to the front and tried to struggle - the first thing was to get the hood off so that I could see to fight him - but he pushed me down flat onto the table and I realised the wrist cuffs were connected to ropes, because they began to pull my arms up towards – and then past - my head. I fought to stop them but that only made the pulleys squeak. I tried kicking my legs but he’d fixed the cuffs there to the bottom of the table and I couldn’t move them either. Soon I was lying face-up, my arms stretched beyond my head. It felt like being on a rack.
“ Go on, struggle,” he said.
I felt his hands undoing my belt, and my jeans. He pulled them down a bit, and then he cut my fucking underpants off! I yelled and fought, but I was helpless to stop him.
I’d expected him to start sucking my cock or something, but instead he worked my jeans back up, pushing my cock and balls well down – but on the opposite side to where I always had them - and then closed the zip and fastened my belt again. What the fuck was that about? Then he did the same thing to my tee shirt: he cut the fucking thing off me and zipped the jacket up again. I was buck-naked under my leathers, and my tackle felt strange being on the wrong side.
The table creaked a little as he got onto it and lowered himself slowly on top of me. He sighed in pleasure as his hands stroked all over my leather s . His fingers traced over my chest, thighs, legs. I could feel his hard bulge pressing into my soft one. After a while he opened my jacket again, pushed it aside, and took my left nipple between his lips. He began to suck it and to play with it with his tongue. His fingers closed around the other one and he massaged that too.
I’d never had my tits sucked or played with before and it felt weird. It was interesting, but if he thought that this was going to get me horny he was very much mistaken.
Now he was licking my pecs. His wet tongue travelled over them for a while, and then it headed up and to the left. He pushed my leather jacket further out of the way and started to lick deep in my armpit. He was inhaling, and louder groans of pleasure were coming from him.
His tongue tickled like fuck. My reflex was to pull my arm down or to throw him off, but what with the restraining ropes and his weight on me I couldn’t fucking move. And it was becoming unbearable. I started to laugh uncontrollably. He lifted his head off for a moment. “Ah, ticklish, are we, sir?…” He resumed licking and now fingers were in my other armpit as well.
This was too much; my laughter quickly became gagged shrieks. “Mmph gmmph smph stuuuumph!” That had been “For God’s sake stop!”
He carried on for a while, ignoring my protests completely, then swapped armpits. I couldn’t keep still: my body was jerking under him but it made not the slightest difference.
Eventually he did stop. He pushed himself up and then got off. I felt him unfastening the ankle restraints , and a few seconds later the tension on my wrists lessened , although I could feel that the ropes were still attached . Was it over, I wondered? He pulled me up until I was sitting on the table, used the handcuffs to fasten my wrists behind my back again, then unbuckled the leather cuffs . “Stand up.”
He moved me away from the table, then turned me round a couple of times. I waited. Nothing happened. What was he doing? Where was he? Suddenly there was a hand between the tops of my thighs, stroking my perineum. I jerked away from it. More silence.
Fingers at my crotch. They gave my soft cock a squeeze and were gone. Again I jerked away – but this time right into another hand at my arse. It burrowed between my thighs, the thumb pressing against my arsehole, while the first one went back to my cock. I grunted, threw my body to the side to get away from them.
Silence. I listened hard, but the thick hood cut off enough sound to make locating the cop difficult.
Suddenly I yelled and collapsed on the floor as stiff fingers dug into my sides under my leather jacket. They’d only had time for one hard jab but that had been enough to make me scream – they’d been perfectly targeted. I curled into a ball of hysterical ticklishness on the hard floor, trying to protect myself as much as I could.
A gloating voice. “Just a hood and handcuffs, sir. That’s all it takes. You’re helpless. You can’t see to protect yourself and you can’t reach that fucking hood to get it off, can you…?”
I could have punched him. And I really wished he would stop calling me ‘sir’. It was humiliating.
I felt a thud on the floor as he dropped to his knees and set about me. His hands were all over my body – tickling me like fuck. They squeezed my thigh muscles and my knees through my jeans, they worked up into my armpits under my jacket, they tickled my abs and they jabbed and probed into my sides as I jerked around uncontrollably beneath him. It was so unbearable that even if I hadn’t been restrained I probably wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it – but as it was, hooded and handcuffed, I was totally at the bastard’s mercy. And mercy was apparently something he was in short supply of. He worked on me for ages as I writhed, kicked, and struggled under him, laughing like a mad thing.
At one point he got a hand onto my cock, and started working on it through my leather jeans. After the tickling, this was wonderful relief, but I soon pulled myself together and struggled to get away from it - more than anything, I was worried that it might start to get hard, and that was something I did not want to happen. But the fact that earlier he’d put it and my balls on the other side to usual made me a lot more conscious of it for some reason. And also I always wear underpants, and without them it felt very different.
Now I do not have a leather fetish, but even so, with sudden horror I realised that having my cock played with through my jeans felt horny. This realisation made me struggle harder. I turned quickly, lying face down on the floor, thinking that this would make it more difficult for him to get at me.
He stopped, there was a silent pause, then a hand suddenly forced its way between the tops of my thighs, under and up onto my cock bulge. I tried to hit him behind me with my cuffed hands but they met empty air. I tried to turn away from him – but now his arm went with me. I couldn’t fucking get the hand out. The fingers continued to work on my cock – and it was beginning to stiffen. I kicked, crushed his wrist between my thighs as hard as I could, then opened them wide, pushed, pulled, tried to turn myself over – anything to get away from that hand or to make it feel less horny. But nothing I did got the fingers off.
And then they found my cock head. They rolled it, squeezed it, rubbed it, teased it. His thumb was right on my frenulum. My cock was getting hard, and there was fuck-all I could do to stop it.
I’d ended up lying on my side, facing away from him, his hand still there. I’d run out of options. My cock was half-erect, and getting harder by the second - and as it stiffened, it made it easier for him to work on it more accurately and effectively. For a moment I thought the bastard was trying to make me cum in my jeans – at that point it wouldn’t have been difficult – but instead he pulled his hand out.
“ Stand up.”
I stayed exactly where I was. The hand came back – this time from the front – and gave my cock a squeeze. I jerked my body away quickly.
“ Unless you want those leather jeans swimming with your spunk…”
Reluctantly, I stood.
The bastard was cunning; he got my boots off and then my jeans, while making very sure that I was always in enough restraints to be unable to stop him. All I had on now was my heavy leather bike jacket – which he’d zipped up again – apart from that I was naked from the waist down. He got me back onto the table, face-up and with my wrists in the leather cuffs beyond my head like last time, but now he put a leather strap tight over my stomach, then fastened my ankle cuffs to longer ropes which went to pulleys above and behind my head. I struggled to stop them, but my feet were pulled back until my knees were against my chest. He strapped them tightly together, then pulled my cock and balls through to the back as far as they would go. As I wasn’t able to part my knees, my tightly-squeezed thighs kept my tackle there without any further restraint.
The position felt very strange – and I realised that my half-hard cock and my balls, sticking up and out at the back of my thighs, were excruciatingly vulnerable. I waited, cursing not being able to see because of the fucking hood. What was the bastard going to do?
I yelled – more in surprise than anything – as fingers in what felt like thin leather cop gloves encircled my cock at the base, just holding it, not moving. I groaned as I felt it beginning to harden again. The fingers still didn’t stroke it, but now, while gently holding it down, they squeezed and released slowly. It continued to grow. I don’t know what it was about that position, but my fucking cock felt amazing. It felt huge, it felt vulnerable, it felt very sensitive, and it really, really wanted to be rubbed.
The fingers released it - and then I felt something being wrapped behind my balls and over the base of my cock shaft. It went around a few times and then he tied it there. It felt like a long strip of soft leather. When he’d done it I realised with horror that it made everything feel even more vulnerable; it was as if my balls and my cock were still being held, pulled out between my thighs even further, like a sacrificial offering.
Nothing happened for a few seconds and then I yelled again as something feather-soft touched the head. It stroked lightly over and around it, and then along my whole cock. Oh fuck, whatever it was felt incredible – I’d never felt anything like that before. I’d vowed to remain silent and not give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing me re act , but I couldn’t stop myself from gasping and trying to thrust my hips into that soft thing as it stroked over my cock. And as he did that my cock grew further. It felt enormous with that leather strip squeezing the base.
After an unbearable length of time t he stroking stopped, there was a pause and a rustle, and then something cool and shiny touched me. It felt like a pair of leather jeans; I could feel the smoothness and the folds in the leather as he enclosed my entire cock and my balls with them. I could also feel them against the backs of my thighs, and something stiffer – like the end of a belt – was touching the ring of my arsehole.
As I said before, I’m not into leather – but fuck me, that felt horny. Carefully, he gripped my cock through them and wanked it infuriatingly slowly, the leather creaking with each stroke. I was groaning and humping it, but the strap over my stomach limited my movements a lot and I was totally dependent on his hand.
The guy was clearly into cold leather, as he kept moving it so that fresh surfaces came into contact with me. I was getting a lot hornier, very quickly. My cock was rock hard now and I was beginning to feel the need to cum. That leather felt strangely sexy around my cock and if he’d gripped me a bit harder and wanked me faster I knew I’d have shot my load in seconds.
But he didn’t. He removed the leather, and went back to tickling my cock head with the feather or whatever it was for a few minutes. He worked on my balls as well, with another one – and that just made everything worse: it both tickled like fuck and made me want to cum like crazy, but as I was gagged, I couldn’t let the fucker know. The strip held my balls away from my thighs and made it easy for him to get to every square inch, including the backs of them. I writhed in the helpless blackness of the hood, biting down on the gag; my cock felt like it was ready to explode and I could feel precum oozing out of the end.
The feathers stopped . Again I waited, every muscle tensed and my nervous system vibrating like a guitar string. Then warm, wet lips took my cock and began to suck. Up and down the whole length, but far, far too slowly. I yelled and begged him to do it faster, but the gag and the hood stifled my cries. His tongue found my frenulum and worked on it. I used every ounce of my strength to fuck his mouth every time he did that, but because of the tight strap holding me down, my cock hardly moved at all.
“ If you can cum in the next two minutes, sir, I’ll let you go. If not I’m going to put a dildo into your arse and tease your cock again for another half hour.”
The thought of that was horrendous. I would not let him put anything up my arse. What I would do is make myself fucking cum. I’d make the bastard swallow gallons of my fucking spunk.
The tickling of my balls resumed, as did the slow sucking and the tongue-work. I could feel myself getting closer and closer, and I strained to make myself cum. I was right on the edge now. Another few seconds…
“ Times up.”
“ NO!” I swore into the gag. That was never two minutes. The fucker.
A pause, and then I felt something cold and slippery on my unprotected arsehole. I clamped my sphincter shut, shook my head, yelled and cursed, fought the restraints and did everything I could to avoid it, but the lubed dildo went in all the way. Then the feather was back on my cock head.
The dildo probably wasn’t very big, but I’d never had so much as the tip of a matchstick up my arse before, and the feeling was intense. At first it was like wanting to have a shit, but then it became something very different indeed. I don’t know if it was that strange position I was in, or because I was so close to cumming at that moment, but it felt fucking horny. It felt like something I’d been missing every time I’d had a wank – that it would have made them ten times better. It was like I was being got from the front and the back at the same time – and it made me need to fucking cum. Oh GOD it made me need to fucking cum!
But of course the bastard was making very sure that I couldn’t. All I could do was lie there and endure it as he moved the dildo up and down slowly and the feather tickled and teased my desperate cock. Every now and again he’d grip the base of the shaft and pull it back towards him . This seemed to make the whole thing even more sensitive.
The feather was gone now, and his mouth was on my cock again . Slowly he sucked me, driving me even more insane.
“ Do you want to cum, sir?” He asked at one point when he’d let go of my cock.
The cock-head teasing, the slow sucking, and the feel of the plug filling my arse had got me to the edge ages ago. I nodded my head violently and yelled into the gag.
He carried on sucking me, every bit as slowly.
Twenty minutes later he asked me again. I screamed “FUCK! YES!” into the gag and almost nodded my head off my shoulders - I’d never been more desperate in my life.
He stopped everything he was doing to me. I moaned as I felt the beautiful feelings of impending orgasm receding.
For a full three minutes nothing happened, and I lay there wondering what the fuck he was doing. I couldn’t hear him moving. I still needed to cum very badly indeed, but the urgency was growing less.
Still nothing happened. He was waiting for some reason. I had no idea why.
Eventually he spoke. “Now listen carefully. It turns me on to see helpless victims struggling to control themselves. I’m going to try to make you cum - but if you let me make you cum, you are going to lose your fucking licence. You’ve had a while to cool down, so it shouldn’t be too hard. Do you understand me, sir? ”
I swore into the hood. The fucker. That was unfair. I was still far too horny. But I had no choice. I shook my head desperately .
“ I’ll take that as a yes.” The bastard suddenly enclosed everything in the leather jeans again. Carefully he pushed them down around my balls and cock, leaving it sticking up naked out of the middle. Then he must have put his hand in side one of the legs, because I gasped when he gripped my cock firmly and I could feel that it was through a single thickness of the leather. He enclosed it completely, and then he started to wank it fast, his thumb right on the fucking frenulum. With his other hand he fucked me slowly with the dildo.
My arms were restrained, I couldn’t kick, all I could see was that fucking blindfolding leather hood pressing over my eyes , and the position he’d got me in had been concentrating every bit of my consciousness on my cock and balls – it was almost as if they were separate from the rest of my body: held there exquisitely accessible to him, exposed, vulnerable, and beyond any control I could possibly have over them. That – and a ll the fucking teasing he’d subjected me to - had sensitised me until t he slightest, lightest touch was intensely horny. And that bastard dildo was filling my arse, making my need to cum even worse. So when he gripped my cock properly and really started using the jeans to milk me hard, fast, and irresistibly – with the leather sliding over my desperate, precum-slippery cock head, my balls and my thighs - all I could do was fight in the restraints, try to force my mind to concentrate, to think of the most unsexy things possible - do every fucking thing I could to stop myself from cumming and losing my driving licence - but the fucker had carefully made damn sure that I stood no chance. He shattered my self-control instantly and with excruciating ease . I came in seconds, my spunk shooting out madly into the cold, milking leather , my body bouncing on the table and, with each spurt, the dildo deep in my arse making sure I couldn’t control the next one. The contractions of my ejaculation were faster than I’d ever had before.
I collapsed, utterly exhausted and panting into the hood. Immediately, now that I’d cum, I felt acute humiliation. I’d been tied up, gagged, hooded, I’d had a dildo up my arse and I’d loved it, and I’d been forced to cum against my will – all without having been able to do a fucking thing to stop it.
After he’d removed the dildo he released my feet and knees, straightened my legs, re-fastened the boot cuffs so I couldn’t kick, and then he got onto the table, kneeling over me. He pushed my leather jacket open , I heard the sound of a zip, and seconds later the bastard was wanking himself over me. I tried to buck him off me with my knees, but the restraints on my boots wouldn’t let my legs bend far enough. His spunk landed on my chest. That was the only time I was grateful for the hood – because I’m sure my face had gone bright red with humiliation under it.
He got off and released my restraints. My hands shot up to the back of the hood. He didn’t try to stop me, but just chuckled quietly – because I found out there was a tiny little padlock at the back. A screwdriver would have levered it off in seconds, but I didn’t have one, and it was stronger than my fingers were. For all I knew I could have been surrounded by things that would have got it off, but I couldn’t fucking see. I tore at the leather, fuming because the fucking bastard was going to make me lose my licence after all, and because I felt so totally fucking powerless to do anything about it.
When he told me to put my gear back on again it just made that feeling worse – I didn’t know where he’d put my jeans and boots and trying to find them and then get them on without being able to fucking see, while he just stood there watching me and chuckling quietly, was itself humiliating – and all the time I could feel the guy’s spunk running down my stomach.
In sulking silence I eventually found them and got everything on – minus the tee shirt and underpants – and again I was conscious of how different my leather jacket and jeans felt with nothing on under them.
The cop restrained my hands behind my back with the leather cuffs. I could have tried to fight him before he did that, but I still couldn’t see, and so it wouldn’t have done any good. He led me out of the house and back into the van. This time when he strapped my feet together he pulled them up behind me and connected the restraints tightly to my wrist cuffs so that I was hog-tied. And I was still gagged and hooded. We both knew I wouldn’t have been able to see out of the van anyway, so if he’d intentionally been trying to make my humiliation worse he couldn’t have done a better job.
The route back to my house was every bit as circuitous as had been the outward journey, and I knew that I didn’t have the vaguest idea where the guy lived. But the trip was a lot shorter – or so I thought when the van stopped. He got into the back with me, closing the door behind him. Then the bastard made me cum in my fucking jeans. When I realised what he was doing I fought and struggled like fuck, but there was no way I could stop him. I couldn’t fucking see, and his hands were wherever I thought they wouldn’t be. This time, he really made it slow , as if he were enjoying my desperate but helpless struggling, silently challenging me again to try to stop myself from cumming – but, bit by bit, I felt myself losing it. And then, as his fingers leisurely worked on my cock head through my leather jeans, I came for the second time that night. When I started to cum he clamped one hand hard over my hooded mouth and nose, cutting off most of my air. Helplessly I shot my load as his infuriatingly gentle, teasing, milking fingers slid irresistibly over my stiff cock, following it wherever I moved so that I couldn’t get away from them. My spunk erupted in uncontrollable squirts into my leather jeans. He carried on working on it, his hand gradually slowing even more, sliding my cock around under the cum-slippery leather until he’d milked the very last drop of spunk out of me. Even then, when he’d extracted everything, and I lay there panting into the hood, his fingers continued to caress my cock for a while, as if to underline his absolute control over me. My humiliation was complete.
With nothing more than a quiet, gloating laugh, he left me there, got back into the cab and we continued the journey.
At last we came to a final stop. He opened the back door, released my restraints, and then paused, his hand on the padlock of the hood. “ Perhaps you’ll keep a closer eye on your speed in future, sir. ” He unlocked the hood and lifted it off my head, then removed the gag. I felt so embarrassed and ashamed that I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“ Off you go,” he said.
I climbed out of the van, feeling the cold spunk that hadn’t already soaked into my jeans running down my thighs inside them. Without saying anything else he got into the van and drove off. I watched it go, noticing that the number plate had been carefully caked with mud so that it was unreadable. I turned and went into my house.
A week later I was in the shower when the post arrived. Drying myself off with a towel I collected it and padded into the bedroom, throwing the two letters onto the bed. I took some socks, a new tee-shirt and a pair of underpants out of the drawer, then noticed the brown envelope with a police coat of arms on it, lying on the duvet by the side of the electricity bill. I tore it open. It was a speeding ticket. At first I didn’t understand what I was reading, but after my brain cleared I saw that it was for the road and the time that I’d been stopped by that fucking police biker. ‘70 mph in a 60 mph limit’, it said. Not 125 mph. Three points and a fine, but no loss of my licence.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to swear. “The bastard,” I said finally. Memories of that night came back to me.
Oh well, I’d intended to go out for a spin on the bike, and there was still no reason not to. I picked up my underpants, looked at them for a moment, then put them back in the drawer, along with the tee-shirt. My gaze moved to my brand-new little butt-plug on the bedside table. What would that feel like on the bike? I lubed it and very carefully inserted it, then pulled on my leathers and smiled. Oh fuck yes.
Whether it was the leathers, the dildo or the bike engine I have no idea, but by the time I was halfway down the 3-mile straight my cock was as hard as a rock. I groaned in disbelief when the flashing blue light appeared in my mirror. I checked my speed. 90. Oh fuck. I sighed - at least he wouldn’t have to cut anything off me this time, and I already had the plug in.
But it was a different cop. I thought I was fucked, but he must have noticed the flagpole of my cock trying to fight its way through my leather jeans, because he took me into the bushes and sucked me off, then he let me go with a warning.
I shook my head in amazement, got back on the bike and did the rest of the straight a lot more slowly.
By the time I’d got to the end of it , my cock was hard again. I went around the roundabout, coasted to a stop, and sat looking down the road for a moment.
Then I smiled, gunned the engine, dropped the clutch, and rode back at 140.