Chris
When I landed at Dover I had no idea where to go. The country felt more alien than any I’d been to so far – they drove on the wrong side of the road for a start – and I could understand absolutely nothing anybody said. I thought it was going to take me longer than usual to the the hang of the language. I’d heard that English is easy, but it seemed unnecessarily convoluted and illogical to me. However, I worked at it hard, and found that my Vee facility for languages enabled me to get the hang of it much more quickly than I’d thought I would. To this end I listened to the radio a lot, and a guy living in the flat upstairs from me gave me lessons, for which I rewarded him in ways you can probably guess. I practised my pronunciation carefully and within a surprisingly short time I was speaking it like a native. Before very long at all I thought it was time to venture out.
It was the days of Mods and Rockers, and, although I found many of the Mods - with their scooters, cute parkas and smart haircuts - very appealing, it was the Rockers, in their studded black leathers, tight jeans and big boots which attracted me sexually like no other boys had ever done. They fucking oozed sex. Jeans were not trousers, there was something different about them, as if someone had sat down one day with a pair of scissors and a sewing machine and had thought, ‘right, now how can I design something that is unbelievably horny?’ Whoever it had been, he’d succeeded. The first time I saw a boy in tight jeans my heart almost stopped – and the first time I saw one in tight leather jeans I nearly shot my load on the spot. It was the most sexy thing I’d ever come across. The sight sent shivers of lust down my spine; it was simply the most horny thing I’d ever set eyes on. I bought lots of jeans.
Rockers were completely outside my experience - oh I'd seen motorcyclists, sure, but in the main they’d been notably unsexy. Rockers, however, seemed to be a culture based on fetish, perversion, and sex. I was ready to swear that they dressed specifically to get boys’ cocks hard. I knew that leather is the best protection if you’re riding a motorbike - and a few of them clearly wore it solely for that reason - but a suspiciously large number of those lads took it a great deal further than this: their leather gear was studded; they turned the collars of their jackets up; their belts were far wider and heavier than was strictly necessary - and their leather or denim jeans were so obscenely tight that they left fuck-all to the imagination. It was wonderful.
I was still in Dover at this time, but London was the capital, and it was likely that there’d be much more opportunity in the city, so I gave the guy upstairs a special going-away present, got on a train and moved there forthwith. I found a little flat that I thought would do me nicely for the time being, and it had the space I’d been looking for to keep a motorbike, so I bought one and spent the rest of the summer learning to ride the thing, and trying to find a Rocker gang to join.
You have to realise that, in spite of having been around for as long as I had, I hadn’t been in England while these new cultures had been developing, and so I was extremely naive about them. I had absolutely no idea how to go about joining a Rocker gang – or even how to find one. I'd already got all the gear: I'd bought some bike boots; a pair of the horniest, shiniest black leather jeans I could find - skintight and with white stitching because I thought it looked sexy; a leather jacket, helmet; gloves - the whole works - and I spent a lot of time sitting on my bike at the side of the main road watching the bikers go past on their machines. If I was hoping that one of them would stop and invite me to join his gang, I was sadly disappointed.
Then one day, while riding around aimlessly, and just enjoying being on the bike, and the sensual feel of the tight leather against my bare skin (I’d discovered that leather felt indescribably horny without anything between it and my cock; and as it was August and hot, I had nothing on under my jacket either) I came across something I hadn’t dreamed existed: a biker cafe. It was called the ‘Ace’, and it was in an area of the city I wasn't very familiar with. The sight of about twenty motorbikes parked outside brought me up short. I carefully put my Honda 250 at the end of the line of bikes, and - with an intense feeling of self-consciousness I'd rarely experienced before, I went in.
The sight that greeted me sent a shock of sexual excitement through me: about twenty boys in their mid to late teens - some with girls, some without - every one in a black leather jacket and either leather or tight denim jeans, were lounging about, chatting, smoking, playing the jukebox and drinking coffee or coke. Normally, in a group of lads, there would be one - or perhaps two - who I wanted sexually; but here I found myself wanting practically all of them. I realised with a start that I was developing a fetish for leather and tight jeans. I carried my cup of coffee to a vacant table, sat down and took my crash helmet off. And waited.
As I sat there, sipping my coffee and seemingly minding my own business, I was in fact watching their reactions very carefully. One by one, as they noticed me for the first time, I saw them first stare, then abruptly go back to chatting or whatever they'd been doing, then look at me again - some open-mouthed - and so it went on. Oh I do love being a Vee - the boys couldn't keep their eyes off me. The girls, however, (most girls usually find me only averagely attractive) couldn't understand what was going on. Being used to this sort of reaction in public places, I knew that that was probably enough for the first time, and I'd better go before precipitating some sort of scene. I finished my coffee, grabbed my helmet and stood up. The best part of forty lustful eyes scanned my fit, tight leather-clad body from top to bottom as I walked out of the cafe, and as I passed them, I saw more than one of the bikers adjusting the bulge that had developed suddenly and alarmingly in his jeans. As I got onto my bike I noted the location of the cafe for future visits, and smiled, knowing that many of those boys inside were currently engaged in some very serious thinking about their own sexuality.
"Nice bike mate."
I hadn't seen the biker who'd evidently followed me out of the cafe. He was dark-haired and cock-hardeningly cute, wearing leather jeans at least as tight as mine, and a studded jacket with its belt hanging open. At the moment we were alone outside the cafe, so I decided to have some fun. I smiled - both at him and to myself - and let fly with a full dose of pheromones. He'd obviously been attracted to me before - but when he got those chemicals up his nose he didn't know what had hit him. His eyes opened wide and he quite literally went weak at the knees. He had to grab my bike for support.
"Can I give you lift anywhere?" I asked.
He glanced briefly at what was plainly his own bike parked along from mine, and then nodded. "Y-yeah. Thanks."
"Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere..." he replied, dreamily.
I laughed, and patted the rear seat. "Let's go back to mine and have a beer."
He climbed onto the pillion, and wrapped his arms around me. Something very hard was pressing between the cheeks of my bum as we set off.
We never got to the beer. Chris - that was his name - was the first biker I'd ever had, and almost before I’d got the door closed I was all over him. I ran my hands madly over his leather-clad body, licking it and feeling the studs and sucking it and almost devouring it. I couldn't get enough of his tight leather-jeaned thighs; the bulge of his hard, horny cock under the shiny black leather; the round, black smoothness of his arse, his studded leather jacket and belt; his heavy leather bike boots. Once I'd got myself under control enough to get him physically tied down on my bed, I abruptly switched off every bit of the control I was using over him. He started as if he'd just dropped back into reality from a particularly engaging dream. Now, although he was still as attracted to me as he had been when he'd followed me out to my bike, he was once again in full control of his faculties. He was a boy, I was a boy, and I'd got him tied up on my bed. I watched, amused, as he tried to get his head around this inescapable fact.
"What are you?"
It was interesting that he'd used the word 'what' rather than 'who', but I chose to ignore that. "My name is Paul," (I'd been using that name for some time now, since an embarrassing incident in Bruges a while ago involving a Belgian chef and the police), "and I'm a biker who’s got you tied up, and who’s going to fuck you, and then make you beg me to suck your cock until you shoot your hot sticky boy-spunk into my mouth."
He shook his head and struggled ineffectively (and, I thought, a bit half-heartedly) against the ropes which were holding him down. "Fuck off - I ain't queer, mate."
"No?" I did a little striptease for him: slowly, I pulled down the zip of my leather jacket and - even more slowly - I took it off. He looked at my tight, muscled body and ran his tongue briefly over his lips. I stroked my flat hand over my pecs and played gently with a nipple. He swallowed. I moved my hand down, and ran my fingers lightly and slowly over my abs, and then the hard bulge in my tight black leather jeans. His eyes followed, coming to rest longingly on the outline of my rock-hard cock lying across my left thigh. In slow-motion, I unbuckled my leather belt, unfastened the metal button, and slid the zip down to the bottom. Then, with the fly open but my jeans still fully up, I pushed my hand inside them, down my right thigh as far as it would go (which wasn't very far as they were so tight). I smiled again at him, sexily - but he wasn't looking at my face. "You want me, don't you?" I whispered.
He didn't answer for a few seconds, but just lay there breathing fast and shallowly, his gaze riveted to my crotch. Then, as if with great difficulty, he wrenched his eyes away - up my naked torso and onto my face. "Yessssss," he breathed.
I knelt astride his head and pulled it up towards my crotch. He buried his face in the leather and sucked my cock through my jeans. He licked it, bit it, chewed it like a starving animal gorging on a kill. I let his head drop back onto the bed, then leaned over and untied his hands and feet. He grabbed me, rolled me over and lay on top of me, kissing me passionately, running his hands all over my body, biting my nipples, licking my pecs, my abs and my navel. This time it was he who wanted every inch of me all at once - it was impossible for him to get enough of me. His leather jeans and boots slid over me, creaking as we moved about, the metal zips and studs of his jacket scratching me wonderfully. I lay there with this cute, leather-clad boy all over me - hornier than I had been for a long time. I was in heaven.
I reached into his mind gently - not with the intention of exerting any kind of control, but just to sense more accurately what he was feeling - and realised with a start that he was about to cum in his jeans. That would never do. I hadn't quite decided whether I was going to use much control with him or not - but now that decision was taken from me: I acted instinctively and made it impossible for him to ejaculate. He'd been quite close, and he was, in effect, now held suspended not far from the edge of orgasm. As I’d learned with Guido, that is not a viable condition for a human male - at least not for long - and so I knew I would have to do something more very soon. His hands were now doing two separate things: one was continuing to maul me while the other, having unzipped his jeans and got his cock out, was about to grip it to wank himself off. I noticed that he hadn’t got any underwear on. That was interesting, I thought. I took advantage of this distraction to roll him half off me and climb out from under him - removing his hand from his cock as I did so.
He lay there, staring up at me and thrusting his hips with gradually diminishing intensity, the hand that had been on his cock hanging in mid-air, frozen by my command. Now that he was no longer in physical contact with me, his imminent orgasm was receding, and when I judged that it was at a safe level once again, I removed my mental hold on him. His arm dropped down onto the bed. I stood and gazed at him - a sexy young Rocker boy, lying on his back, with his hard cock protruding through the fly of his tight leather jeans.
"What happened?" He said. "I nearly shot my load just then - but I couldn't. And I couldn’t move my arm. You did something, didn't you." It was a statement, not a question. I smiled gently down at him, and watched as a small frown crossed his boyish face.
"What are you doing to me? I'm not queer - at least I didn't think I was – but…"
"Just enjoy it," I whispered.
He wouldn't let it go. "You hypnotise people?"
"Something like that."
He considered this for a moment, then the frown was replaced with a smile that lit his face up - and almost melted me. "Show me," he said.
Now it was my turn to consider. I frowned, regarding him speculatively for a few seconds, as if weighing him up as a potential subject for hypnosis, and then asked him, "You sure you want this?"
"Oh yeah."
I nodded. "You got it." It occurred to me at that point that the sound I most wanted to hear was the slap of my belt on his leather-clad arse.
"Do your jeans up and turn over. Get onto your hands and knees." With difficulty he put his hard cock away and did as I told him. "You can't move your arms or legs," I said. "Go on, try."
He tried, but found he was fixed in place as firmly as if he'd been set in concrete. "Oh shit..." He laughed nervously. "Hey, you're good."
"You’re not wearing anything under those jeans, are you?" I said.
"Nope."
"Pervert," I said, smiling. I moved around to his side so he could see me, and slowly pulled my black leather belt out of its loops. I doubled it in my right hand, and slapped it gently against my left palm a couple of times.
"Hey, I'm not into that kinky stuff. I don't like being hit."
I gazed at his upturned face. "Yes you do," I smiled. Then I pulled my right arm back and delivered a good strong blow across his shiny, black leather arse.
As he saw me prepare for it, he scrunched his face up in anticipation of the pain, and drew in a big breath, ready to yell. But I'd adjusted his endorphin mix to deliver a lot more pleasure than usual along with the pain. The yell came - but it ended with a surprised sort of rising intonation which almost made me burst out laughing.
"Aaaaah...yeeaaah!"
"Tell me when you're ready for the next one."
After a couple of seconds to recover, he grinned. "Yeah, do it to me, man." I landed another whack in exactly the same place, but harder. His head dropped down and his breath hissed through his clenched teeth. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Yeah...... yeah!"
I reached under him and played with the warm leather bulge of his hard cock for a few moments, all the while monitoring how close to orgasm he was.
It's difficult to explain how we can tell how close to cumming a guy is. The nearest I can get is to say that we feel a sort of echo of what's happening to a guy's sex system - we actually experience what's going on down there, but at an attenuated level. It’s a very useful thing. Each time I belted his arse I felt both the pain and the pleasure that coursed through him, like waves battering me through a velvet curtain. I allowed each wave to affect my own sexual state, in turn getting me more and more horny, and making me want to do it to him harder and harder…
I put the belt down, knelt on the bed behind him, put my arms around his waist and slowly began to unfasten his jeans. He shook his head and made small whimpering noises, unsure that he'd be able to take what I clearly intended to do to his arse again, this time unprotected by the thick leather.
But there was no way he could stop me. I silently reinforced this thought in his mind as I slid his jeans down his thighs. The almost hairless, firm cheeks of his arse waited there, unprotected and vulnerable, and contrasting very appealingly with the black leather of his jacket and jeans. I enjoyed the sight for a moment, caressing his skin gently with my hands, then returned to my previous position by his side and picked up the belt.
I looked into his eyes, then bent down and gave him a long, gentle kiss on the lips, which he returned passionately. Straightening up again, I hefted the heavy belt and brought it down with medium force across his bare arse.
He threw his head back and yelled. I knew he was getting as much pleasure as pain, but the intensity of it was far greater now, and the two blurred into one single rush of experience. He didn't know how to handle it – and so he yelled.
I closed my eyes as the exquisite, reflected sensations washed over me. My cock jerked in my jeans and my arm went up again - and landed the belt harder across his reddening cheeks. Again, and again, and again - harder each time.
He was screaming continuously now, and I registered that he was once more very close to cumming. I stood back, panting, then threw down the belt and stroked the tears away from his eyes with my fingers. I smiled. "You can move again now."
He fell over onto his side and closed his eyes, whispering, "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck..." over and over.
I removed his bike boots and pulled his jeans completely off, but he looked so sexy in his leather jacket that I left that on him. I unzipped my jeans and stood with my legs apart, stroking my cock very slowly. He stared at it, transfixed.
Understandably, perhaps, one of the most wonderful things about my type of Vee is our sex equipment: it's about as perfect as these things get. My cock is big but not impossible, it's well-proportioned, and beautifully shaped with a large, bulbous head and a thick, silky shaft; and my balls are a very good, low-hanging handful. The whole effect is quite impressive - even to a connoisseur of such things. To the sexually naive Rocker who lay there on the bed looking longingly at it, and whose own cock - although still perfectly respectable - was much smaller, it must have seemed like everything he'd ever wanted to own. But he was trembling. "What's wrong?" I asked - knowing full well, of course.
"You're not gonna fuck me - with that...?"
"Oh yes I am, boy. And you're going to love it." I dropped on top of him and for a while did the sort of things he'd been doing to me earlier: I kissed him, licked his face, his jacket, his legs, his balls... and, with no 'special' help from me, he responded in kind.
It developed into an orgy of arms, legs, and leather. He had only his jacket on, I only my jeans - which meant that we could each feel the sexy caress of the other’s smooth, shiny leather on our bare skin. Eventually we ended up in a sixty-nine position, and I was sorely tempted to feed there and then: his cock was oozing precum inches from my face, but I didn't touch it - at least not with my mouth - although as he sucked mine (he could only manage to deal with half of it without gagging) I gave him a stunning hand job. While being careful never to let him get irretrievably close to ejaculation, I worked on his perineum, balls, shaft and cock-head as only one of my kind can - and it drove him to ever more frenzied efforts with my cock. Of course he was not experienced at it, but what he lacked in expertise he more than made up for with enthusiasm and I had to exercise a great deal of self-control to stop myself from cumming in his mouth.
Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rolled him onto his back, put his legs over my shoulders, activated the lubricant glands in my mouth and spat onto my cock, spreading the slippery saliva over the length of it. Then, locking his eyes with mine, I slowly drove my cock deep into him. I was ready to exercise any of several different kinds of control on him - to restrain him if he tried to move away from me; to change the pleasure/pain mix if it was too painful for him; to make him feel more helpless and dominated if I felt that's what he needed - but I didn't have to use any of them. His eyes opened wide in surprise at the pure intensity of the feeling as my cock went deeper and deeper into him, and when the head contacted and rubbed against his prostate he moaned in renewed lust. I fell forward onto his chest, forcing his knees up by his ears, and kissed him hard as I began to fuck him.
His eyes opened to look at me. I kissed him for a while, drew my face back so we could see one another better, and then repeated the cycle: kiss – slow fuck - kiss – slow fuck... Each time I pulled back I would smile at him sexily, sometimes running the tip of my tongue slowly over the edges of my upper teeth. He responded by straining his head forward desperately to meet me for the next kiss.
I continued to fuck him slowly, massaging his prostate with the bulbous head of my cock on every stroke, and very soon he began to groan and plead, "oh shit, Paul, I need to cum. Make me cum." His cock was sandwiched between us - sliding gently in a pool of precum on his stomach with each stroke of my hips - and his balls and his thighs felt the smooth leather of my jeans pressing against them on each push. But apart from that his cock hadn’t been touched since I'd started to fuck the boy.
I didn't need any special powers to know that he was achingly horny and needed to cum, but of course I'd been monitoring him closely anyway, and I'd kept him hovering fairly close to the point of no return for a long time.
I have to confess that what I did next was pure sadism on my part: I reached into his mind and for a second time placed a mental stop on his ability to cum. Now, whatever I did to him, or whatever he did to himself, he would be able to get only to that point and no further. Until I released that hold, he would not - quite - be able to cum. Then I straightened up a little, took his cock in my hand, and began very slowly to wank him off as I fucked him.
Within seconds he had reached the mental stop, and began to writhe and thrust his hips in an increasingly desperate effort to bring himself off.
Sadistically, I speeded up my hand on his cock, making sure that on each stroke my fingers rubbed the sensitive glans. Were it not for that mental stop, his spunk would by now have been fountaining over both of us - but he could not cum. I knew I was gripping his cock and wanking him in exactly the way he would have done it himself, and I could feel his need to ejaculate was so acute that it was unbearable. He had been making unintelligible sounds, but now his moans became louder and more urgent until they were almost screams. He started to grab for his cock, to push mine out of the way and finish himself off - but I restrained him so that he couldn't. His eyes were locked onto mine, saliva was running out of the corners of his wide-open mouth, and there was a pitiful look of urgent need on his face that made my cock jerk inside him.
His blood pressure was rising quickly, adrenaline and endorphins were flooding his body, and his heart rate was soaring. I knew that I mustn’t keep him in this state for much longer.
My cock was now pistoning into him like some fucking machine - scrubbing his prostate mercilessly with each stroke - and with a silent yell of ecstasy I rammed it home one more time and shot my load inside him, in five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven pulsating jets of battering, hot spunk.
Immediately I pulled out of him, buried my face in his crotch, and took the entire length of his cock into my hot, wet, sucking mouth. He howled as I ran my mobile tongue around his naked glans - and then I released the cum-block...... and I fed.
As the dam burst and his spunk pumped out I used my teeth, my tongue and the muscles of my throat to milk him violently. My lips formed an airtight seal around him, and I applied intense suction. My head was almost stationary - but what was going on inside my mouth and throat as he thrust his cock in and out of me was not. He was trapped in a mechanism which had evolved over tens of thousands of years specifically for the purpose of extracting spunk from human males in the most excruciatingly and intensely pleasurable ways possible. And it was a lot better at it than any female’s vagina. The boy was, at that moment, experiencing a degree of ecstasy he would never know again - no matter how long he lived.
The rocker lay trembling, his body rigid, breathing erratically, shallowly - his brain bombarded with impulses and chemicals which delivered pure pleasure - as I carefully milked every last drop out of his madly jerking cock.
Eventually it was over. Gradually his breathing slowed, became deeper; his tensed muscled relaxed; and his eyes focussed on me again. I gently released his cock and balls, and gave the head a final soft kiss before lying at his side and embracing him.
He closed his eyes for long second, and swallowed hard. "Oh Jesus," he whispered, "what the fuck was that?"
"That," I replied, smiling, "was probably the best orgasm you will ever have."
"Shhhhit. I can believe it. Fuck. Can you do that to anyone? Every time?"
My smile broadened and I nodded.
"You could make a fucking fortune."
"I know. I have." I kissed him gently to stop any more questions, and before very long he was snoring quietly.
That had - up to that point in my life, anyway - been one of the sexiest encounters I'd ever had - but, wonderful as it had been, it hadn't actually accomplished anything from a nutritional point of view, as I'd lost just about as much spunk when I’d cum, as I'd got from him. And I was hungry - so I had work to do.
As he slept, I played with his balls, and with his mind as well. By massaging his testicles and by adjusting things that I had no name for in his mind, I stimulated his horniness and his production of spunk until he was soon fully erect again and moaning quietly in his sleep. I felt him wake up, and when I looked at his boyish face he was gazing at me. "Close your eyes, and enjoy it. I'm going to make you cum again." Without waiting for any response, I took his cock into my mouth and began a long, slow and very gentle blow job. His hand came to rest on my head, the fingers running gently through my black hair as I worked on him. I teased and tickled his balls with my hands, massaging them in the same way I'd been doing earlier, and used my lips and tongue to work just on the head of his cock. For a few moments I held him on the edge again, then I wrapped my tongue completely around his cock head, positioned so that the tip of it was right on his frenulum, and rubbed it.
I allowed him to reach orgasm this time without hindrance of any kind. He stopped breathing, arched his back and shot into my mouth a load of creamy, delicious spunk. I gently miked him dry, but I didn't stop - I continued to suck and lick his cock head and play with his balls. His cock stiffened again, and within a couple of minutes he was delivering another load of life-giving spunk to me. But again I didn't stop.
"Hey, man - I can't give you any more.…"
I snapped mental fingers - and heard him gasp. He was strapped down tightly to a leather-covered table, gagged, and being stroked gently all over his body by half a dozen hunky bikers in black leather jeans, jackets, boots and skintight leather gloves – and every one of those bikers looked exactly like me.
Instantly his cock became steel-hard again. I massaged his balls, reached under him and inserted a finger gently to rub his prostate, and applied my talented mouth to the full length of his cock. His body convulsed as he silently shot his fourth load into my milking mouth. There wasn’t as much this time, but I swallowed the boy-nectar, licked the last drops from the tip of his cock, and then I released him completely.
He blinked in confusion as - for him – all the bikers had disappeared and he was once again lying on the bed with just one of me smiling down at him.
"Oh shit,” he could hardly speak, he was panting so hard. “That was spooky. Fuck - that was amazing!"
We kissed and cuddled for a while and then, very regretfully, I made him forget most of what had happened. I allowed him to remember that I'd done some sort of hypnosis on him, and that he'd had an amazing time - although he wouldn't be able to remember any details, I made sure he could remember the pleasure he’d had. In spite of his reactions to me he was basically straight - and had a well-developing fetish for leather - and I didn't want to fuck him up too much by making him question his sexuality too deeply.
I dropped him back at the cafe, but declined his offer to join him inside for coffee. Before we parted, though, he invited me to come on the next run with his bike gang - they were going to Torquay for the day on Sunday.
A Rocker gang. At last. I smiled as I rode away - lots and lots of young, leather-clad bikers, every one full of sweet, sweet spunk.
I couldn’t wait.
*
My flat was feeling small, and I thought somewhere more spacious would be good. I found a detached house I liked. It was ridiculously expensive, but money was no problem, so I bought it. Moving in was very quick – I had little yet in the way of belongings – and I spent a pleasant week buying stuff and arranging it in the various rooms. I’d decided that the playroom would be on the second floor: there was one large space there that would be ideal. Above that there was a small attic too. I didn’t have much to store in it at the moment, but I placed the little mahogany ‘tea caddy’ box there for safety. Dominic had given that to me. I ran my fingers over it and remembered how he’d chuckled watching me trying – and failing - to open it, until he’d shown me the secret little lever in one of the sides. The box hadn’t had tea in it for a long, long time - it now contained the letter Dominic had written to me after he’d transformed me in Venice, and the sketch I’d done of him back then. They lay flat on the bottom, underneath the removable compartments. There was also the piece of paper with David’s address on it (I must remember to visit him, I thought). Those were the most precious things I owned.
My motorbike – a Honda 250 – lived in a small garage at the side. The whole thing was ideal.
Having done that I decided it was time to start going out with the Rocker gang a bit more. They went on runs to various places most weekends, and it was Saturday today, so I changed into my sexiest, unlined bike leathers and, smiling to myself at the feeling of my cock pressing against my tight jeans, I set off.
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