The Telemachus Story Archive

By Hooder

Crouching, Paul looked with a glazed expression at the metal bits, wires and pipes. It was no good - he hadn't got the vaguest idea what any of it did. He stood up, brushed the knees of his faded jeans, and kicked the Honda 125's engine. "Fucking thing." He switched on the ignition again and pressed the starter. "GO, YOU BASTARD!" He yelled. The engine turned over twice very sluggishly, and finally gave out with a wheeze. The battery was now completely flat. "Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" He switched it off again and looked helplessly up and down the quiet country road. Knowing nothing at all about engines, he'd got a dreadful sinking feeling when it had first begun to lose power, and then had ground to a stop under a large Oak tree. Twenty miles from a town in either direction and not on a bus route, he was, in fact just about as far away from civilisation as it was possible to get in Lincolnshire these days. Even the nearest village was over ten miles away. He was just thinking there was nothing else for it but to walk, when a car appeared around the bend behind him. He waved his arms madly and shouted, "Stop! Please stop!" at the top of his voice.

The driver, an elderly man in a cloth cap, glanced in alarm at the obviously dangerous, leather-jacketed yob and steered the battered grey Volvo onto the side of the road furthest away from him, clattering past in a cloud of oily smoke, leaving Paul staring unbelievingly after him. "Bastard! Bastard! BASTARD!" He jumped up and down with frustration and lashed out a milestone with his foot.

Fifteen minutes later, and limping slightly, Paul set off to walk to Longfield - it was marginally nearer than Wragby, which was where he'd come from. There was no other traffic along the deserted road, and the afternoon was wearing on. Then Paul heard the sounds of a motorbike approaching at high speed from behind him. He turned and waved at the rapidly-nearing bike. The squeal of brakes being applied with great enthusiasm echoed down the lane, and the machine skidded to a stop in a spray of gravel. Paul was impressed - partly at the machine, a gleaming Honda Fireblade; partly at the speed it had been doing and at the creative way it had been brought to a stop - but mostly at the rider. Paul's eyes travelled slowly and hungrily down the muscular body - which appeared to be shrink-wrapped in a black leather jacket with the zip open to the level of the nipples, revealing well-formed pecs, skin-tight leather jeans - and down to the chunky black-and-steel bike boots. The jacket was covered with chrome studs - some with chains between them; the boots had studded straps on them; and round the rider's hips was the heaviest studded leather belt Paul had ever seen. His face was completely hidden behind a black-visored Simpson helmet.

Paul shut his mouth, which had been hanging open since the bike had arrived, and was very conscious of the bulge that was growing rapidly between his legs. Surely the biker must be able to see it - the tight jeans with nothing on underneath (he loved the feeling of raw denim against his skin) did nothing to hide an erection.

The rider pushed up the visor with a gloved hand and smiling blue eyes below a fringe of blond hair beamed through the opening. "Hi. Problems? Is that your bike back there?"

Paul wasn't sure he trusted himself to speak. "Y-yeah. Fucking thing's broken down."

"What's up with it?" "No idea. Don't know a lot about bikes."

"Hang on a tick..." He put the front brake on hard, leaned the Fireblade, let out the clutch and threw the bike around in a circle, the engine screaming and the skidding rear wheel churning up dust and gravel and leaving a black rubber circle behind it until the bike was facing the direction it had come from. "Hop on," he shouted, "let's have a look."

Paul hesitated as he realised he'd left his helmet with the bike, but it was only a short distance and he doubted there'd be any cops around - so he jumped onto the pillion and grabbed the rail behind his back. The next thing he knew he was gripping the boy's shoulders with his feet as the acceleration almost pushed him off the back. When the front wheel and Paul's legs came down again he shook his head. This biker was mad. The scenery was passing at an alarmingly high speed and seconds later they were back where Paul had left his bike. He closed his eyes and was thrown against the biker's back as he dropped six gears in two seconds, slammed on the brakes and executed the fastest U-turn that Paul had ever experienced - or ever hoped to again. When they'd stopped, Paul slid off the seat onto the grass verge. "Do you always ride like that?"

The biker laughed and kicked the side stand down. He got off the bike, removed his helmet and popped it over a mirror. "Now, let's have a look."

Paul's mouth was open again. The biker was fucking BEAUTIFUL. He watched him as he bent down to examine the engine, his chest and shoulders stretching the tight black leather, and his thighs - oh fuck, his thighs! Paul couldn't take his eyes off those thighs. The boy's jeans were having great difficulty containing those hard, muscular thighs, and were stretching to bursting point. His golden blond hair, mussed and spiky from the helmet, caught the sunlight as he shook his head. "Have you got a spark?"


"A spark. Have you got one?"

Paul began to search his pockets. "I -"

The biker looked up at him and laughed. "No - no, in the engine. You're right, you don't know too much about bikes, do you?" This boy seemed to have a permanent smile on his face, and it was doing unsettling things to Paul.

"I got it for my eighteenth birthday. Last week," he muttered almost inaudibly, feeling himself going bright red. "It's the first one I've ever had."

The biker retrieved the tool kit from his own bike and set about removing the spark plug."Ok. Is there a kick-start on it? Never mind," he sighed, and looked over at the other side of the bike. "Yes, there is. Good. Now when I tell you, kick it down hard. Got that?" He held the body of the plug against the metal of the engine

A few minutes later the biker stood up and, still grinning, delivered the bad news. "You've got a blocked carburettor. Never mind what that is - but you're probably gonna have to get the bike picked up. It's not something you're gonna be able to do yourself. Where d'ya live?"

Paul told him he lived in Wragby - the town in the direction where the biker had been coming from.

"Ok. Well I'm off to Longfield to see me girlfriend so I can drop you off there if that's any use."

Paul's brother lived in Longfield so he could persuade him to get the bike picked up - but in any case he would have accepted a lift from this beautiful boy if he'd been going to the Outer Hebrides. "Yeah - great! Thanks!"

"Get your lid then, and take the bike keys with you." He threw his leg over the Fireblade and gunned the engine to life. Paul climbed aboard the pillion once more. This time Paul held onto the biker's waist - which was just as well as their departure was every bit as dramatic as the last one. The initial surge of acceleration made Paul grip the boy's waist hard - and when it was over, his hands slipped down until they were resting on the tops of his thighs. The leather felt cool and sexy beneath Paul's hands. He wanted more than anything to put his arms right round this gorgeous boy and hug him, but he just moved slightly closer on the pillion until his fully-erect, denim-covered cock was pressed hard up against the biker's shiny leather arse. Paul stared at the smooth black leather of the boy's back (there was a crest of some kind marked out in silver studs), and his helmet with wisps of blond hair showing below it, and wanted to lick him all over.

Just then they went over a pothole, and Paul's hands were jogged up and down. Without thinking about it, Paul made use of this, and his hands ended up slightly further forwards than they had been. They were now resting in the curve of the boy's groin, the palms flat against his thighs. Experimentally, he moved his thumbs inwards, and his heart thumped in his chest as he felt them brush against the sides of the bulge between the biker's legs. Paul's pulse rate had been increasing by the second as his hands got closer to this boy's crotch, and his own cock - rubbing against the biker's arse through the rough denim of his jeans - was desperate for release. He was so horny he thought he would explode. His fingers, with a life of their own, were tracing out little circles of lust over the boy's leather-clad thighs, getting right into the folds of the leather at his groin. He didn't know whether the biker could feel it or not - his touch was very light - but at any moment he half-expected the boy to wrench his hands away, stop the bike and beat him up. But, after a couple of minutes there'd been no reaction, and Paul grew bolder. He slid his index fingers along the sides of the boy's bulge and traced it upwards - and upwards - and upwards - until the realisation hit him that the biker had a rock-hard erection.

Because of his crouching position on the Fireblade, his leather jeans were looser around the crotch and his cock was stretching the front of them up and out like a tent pole. Paul didn't know what to make of this: by his own admission the biker was straight - at least he had a girlfriend - but here he was with a hard-on the size of a cucumber. As nonchalantly as possible under the circumstances, Paul let his fingers stroke lightly up and down the sides of the boy's shaft. Each time he got near the top, he felt the imprisoned cock jerk under his fingers. The desperation of Paul's own cock had bypassed his brain totally and was now in complete control of his actions. Throwing caution to the wind, he pushed his left hand between the boy's legs and stroked gently, scratching lightly with his fingernails. The smooth, supple leather felt warmer here. It enclosed his hand as his fingertips explored deep into the nooks and crannies there. He left his hand there, tickling the biker's balls gently, and ran a single finger of the other hand over the smooth, rounded, leather-covered tip of the boy's cock. He could feel the shape of the helmet and even the piss-slit through the leather, stretching it tight from underneath.

It was by now obvious to Paul that the biker must be aware of what he was doing to him, but apart from getting a hard-on and the jerking of his cock, there had still been no reaction. Paul was getting close to cumming - it was almost like having this beautiful boy in bondage: he couldn't close his legs together, or take his hands off the bars for any length of time, or get away from Paul's hands - and he could do anything he liked to him. His thighs, balls, cock were there - vulnerable and unprotected, for Paul to tease and to play with as much as he liked... Paul told himself to stop thinking things like that, or he'd shoot his load right there and then.

On an impulse, Paul took his hands away from the rider's crotch, and ran his fingers all over his body - he caressed the broad, smooth back, ran his hands along his arms, then back underneath them right up into his armpits (the biker reflexively pulled his elbows tight to his sides as he did this, and Paul's cock gave a jerk as he had a momentary evil fantasy of getting this blond boy tied up and tickling him all over...) He pulled his hands free and ran his fingers down the rider's sides, along the big metal studs of his belt, over the folds of leather at his hips, and along the outsides of those shiny, tight black leather-clad, muscular thighs and calves. He spent a few seconds feeling the boy's boots then, moving to the tops of his legs, returned slowly upwards, caressing the leather with his fingertips, until his hands were once again hovering over that wonderful, sexy cock-bulge. Then, gripping the boy with his arms, he plunged his hands deep into the biker's crotch, cupping his balls with one hand and enclosing his cock lightly with the other.

Because of the riding position, with the blond biker's body leaning forward and his knees relatively high on either side of the tank, his cock was able to stand straight up, away from his body, forming a pyramid in his leather jeans that was extremely grippable. With his palm over the end of the straining knob, Paul reached down with his fingers and thumb and gripped the shaft. A shudder ran through the biker's body. Paul felt him squeezing the tank hard with his powerful thighs, and he made a couple of thrusts with his pelvis. Very slowly and gently, Paul began to move his hand up and down the shaft of the boy's cock.

After a few moments the biker raised his arse a few inches off the seat and stayed there, his weight on the foot pegs. It didn't take Paul long to get the idea. He brought his left hand back and pushed it through between the biker's thighs from behind, palm up (he had to move back on the pillion seat slightly to do this). Immediately the biker sat down on it, putting his balls directly into Paul's hand. His fingers began to play with the round bulge of the leather-covered balls and the insides of his thighs, stroking and teasing them, while at the same time working slowly on the boy's increasingly desperate-cock.

The biker began to thrust with his pelvis again, grinding Paul's hand into the seat between his legs. Then he turned his head as far as he could and shouted against the rushing wind, "Faster, you little bastard - FASTER!"

Paul grinned to himself - he had no intention of making him cum yet: they were still ten miles from town. He teased the boy mercilessly - he gripped his cock and wanked it firmly for a few seconds, then went back to tickling his balls and teasing the tip of the throbbing cock lightly with just a single fingertip through the supple black leather - over and over again. He pushed the erect cock forward inside the leather jeans as far as it would go, and well over to the side away from the zip flap so that only one layer of thin, flexible, well-worn leather was between his fingers and the throbbing cock underneath. This pushed-forward position made the biker's cock much more sensitive and vulnerable to the merciless teasing Paul was giving it. He scratched his fingernails over the shaft; he squeezed it; he stroked the tip gently, and rubbed his fingers over the ridges. All the time his other hand was working on the biker's balls and inner thighs from underneath: tickling, caressing, and teasing - his fingertips probing deeply into the creases in the worn, stretchy leather at the sides of his spunk-filled balls.

From time to time the biker kept on shouting over his shoulder increasingly desperate orders for Paul to finish him off - but Paul was enjoying the feeling of power over this beautiful, muscular blond boy so much that he had no intention of ending it until he had to. The biker's riding was becoming more erratic than ever, but neither of them cared. The Fireblade flashed through the Lincolnshire countryside taking bends at surprising angles and frightening the wildlife.

Eventually the outskirts of the town appeared in the distance, and Paul knew that the ride was almost over. He'd been having just as much difficulty in stopping himself from cumming as the biker had been having getting Paul to make him cum. His cock was rubbing against the precum-soaked denim of his jeans and every bump in the road was heaven. He knew that he couldn't last any longer. Taking a firm grip on the boy's cock and playing with his balls like mad, he wanked the biker off fast and hard. At the same time he rubbed his own cock against his arm going between the boy's legs. Simultaneously they both came: the biker's cock erupted under Paul's fingers, pumping hot spunk into the tight black leather, and he came in his own jeans at the same time. It seemed to go on for miles.

They narrowly missed a parked car, and found themselves heading towards the open doorway of an Oxfam shop before a last-second correction put them back on route. Paul retrieved his slightly flattened hand, and held onto the biker's waist as if nothing had happened, as they rode - at a more sensible speed now - through the streets.

They pulled up at the Town Bridge, and Paul got off, ready to make a run for it. Would the biker be hostile? He was straight after all - and now that he'd cum, he might easily feel like beating the smaller boy to pulp.

When he pushed the black visor up, he was not smiling - in fact he was frowning. Paul didn't know what to do or what to say. He wanted so much to be with this biker. "I think..." began the biker, very slowly and ominously.

Paul tensed - he felt like crying.

"... that it might not be the carburettor. It could be the fuel pipe's blocked." He watched Paul's wretched expression hold for a second and then begin to clear. The biker smiled - then his face lit up and he laughed.

Relief flooded through Paul and he started to laugh too. "Th-thanks for the lift." He wanted to ask the biker if he could see him again, but didn't know how to do it.

"Don't you mean 'thanks for both lifts'?"

"Eh? Why?"

"Well you'll be wanting a lift back to Wragby, won't ya?"