I start off slow, I warn you, won't get into anything truly masturbatory until the second chapter. Just wanted to give you tease for the new year.
Copyrighted and all that mess. Not based on real events, people, orginizations etc. etc.
Ch. 1 The number 4 sucks.
The ends never justify the means. That’s what I keep telling myself, but I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to me if I didn’t stick my thumb out. I’d probably be a lot worse off, so in retrospect, I’m glad it all happened, just the way it did. I never would have discovered myself if not for…well you’ll see.
I had just blown the last of my inheritance in Vegas trying to get enough money for the rest of my life. It was picture perfect. I was playing Texas Hold’em at the high stakes table. $600,000 in the pot. I was all-in. Can you blame me? I had pocket aces, and the flop gave me trips. I didn’t pay attention to the measly 9 and 6 that had come with it. I pushed it all in the pot, and this asswipe in a cowboy hat and tennis shoes calls me. We flip over, and he’s got his own set. His were 6’s. I thought I was golden. There was only one card that could beat me and the other 37 would have me laughing all the way to the bank. The glimpses of champagne wishes and caviar dreams were shattered when the case 6 hit on the river. I wish I could tell you that I held my head up high and walked out, but I can’t, so I won’t.
After the subsequent fight and private property damage, I was driven to the edge of the strip and thrown out of a black SUV. “I never want to see your mug in this town again!” I heard as I was trying to regain my bearings.
The Ford Escalade sped away leaving me in a pile of dust and dirt. I just laid there for a second, unable to comprehend my predicament. No money, no car, no family, nothing. Just myself and my wits. I thought about crying, but what was the point? Self-pity doesn’t work without an audience. I picked myself up and tried to pat the dust off my 28” Wranglers. At 5’7” and 115 lbs., I didn’t have a fighting chance if some real bad-asses came my way. I was good at the sucker punch and the after jabs. But if I didn’t have surprise on my side, I was fucked. All I could do was walk away from town. I tore off my t-shirt and made a head wrap out of it, like I saw some survival guy do it on the Discovery Channel. I made it 3 miles past the Hoover Dam on Highway 93. That’s when I made the decision to stick my thumb out.
Semi after semi overtook me. I counted 3 Jeeps, 5 motorhomes, and at least one limo. My mind started to play tricks with the desert sky. Heffalumps and Woozles appeared and disintegrated before my weary eyes.
And then I heard the rumble.
In the distance four motorcycles loomed. I was shocked to shit when they slowed down and pulled off the road. Now I know nothing about motorcycles, or biker gangs, so I couldn’t help but feel uneasy in this unfamiliar territory. All 4 of them stepped off their bikes in an odd unison. Immediately, I could see that they all wore black leather in some form, which caused my cock to flinch against my jeans. Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t free-balled it that day, but mostly I’m glad I had no underwear on.
Three stayed with their bikes and lit up some smokes, as one approached me. He towered above me at 6’3 and probably 180 maybe 200 lbs, of pure Adonis muscle. His body looked like that of a line backer or possibly even a water polo player. He was wearing a white wife-beater with a black skull design, a leather vest, blue jeans and chaps. His harnessed boots kicked up the dust as he walked, which made him look like he was floating on the sands like a torrid twister towards me. He unstrapped his helmet as if he were James Dean, or Joey Ramone. I nearly died right there. He must have been 25 or 30, no older. His face was so perfectly portioned; Helen of Troy would’ve relinquished her title. His long dirty blond hair framed his face beautifully like some modern Hercules. I looked at his muscles covered in tattoos, some of thorny branches, other tribal, and still I couldn’t make out everything, with my head pounding like it was. His ears were pierced with 10’s or lower, as was his left eyebrow, causing a pseudo-gleam in his eye. “Need a ride, bro?”
“Yeah man, I’ve been down on my…”
“Don’t need your life story man, just where to?”
“Wherever dude, I just need to get to a phone.”
“Alright then hop on. You’re with me. I’m Kain.”
As I walked slightly behind him, I saw the design on the back of his vest. HELL HOUNDS, in Gothic lettering framed a red snarling dog with deviled horns, and a black spiked collar. The detail was so rich, that I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. Neither could my dick. As I got closer to the other guys, their appearances took me aback. The first that drew my eye leaned against his sportier looking bike. Crotch rocket, I think they call ‘em. He had on a full one piece black leather suit, with the same Hell Hounds insignia on the back with blood red accents. I couldn’t see his face, as it was covered by a shiny solid black helmet with tinted visor. I couldn’t even gauge his height well, because of his leaning stature.
The second was in the same leather vest and jeans as Kain but without the chaps and wife-beater. His chest was covered in tatts and his face had multiple piercings, ears, labret, lip, nips, and God only knew what else. I didn’t wasn’t to be rude and stare, so I couldn’t tell ya what style of tatts or what the words on his chest and arms said. I wish I had now, but c’est la vie. His black and red hair spiked up and out.
The last guy was the most intriguing of all. He was smaller than the rest, including me. Must’ve been about 5’3. He was skinny too, almost like a sick puppy dog on his way to the vet. His jet black mohawk stood at about two inches tall. His septum ring must have been at least a 2 gauge, which dropped below his thick lips, quite menacingly. He was the human embodiment of a scrappy young bulldog. The thick leather collar around his neck bore 4 rows of quarter-inch spikes. A black bone with small lettering that I couldn’t make out due to the hot sun dangled in the arid wind from the collar’s center O-ring. He had 4 lip piercings at about a 14 gauge, two right in front of each incisor on the top lip and two on the bottom on the inside of his top two piercings. The effect of which made his piercings look like metal teeth protruding from his mouth.
Tight black leather pants showed off his massive bulge. My tongue watered just at the sight of him. He was also wearing the classic, and sexy I might add, black leather motorcycle jacket. While taking a drag off his cigarette, he stared me down even though I was taller than him. Scared the shit of me, I’ll tell ya.
“Here” their leader said breaking the silence and tossing me a black helmet. “Hey dude, you want something to wear on the way? Might get cold for a scrawny guy like yourself.”
“No man, I’m good.” I squawked trying to sound as chill as possible.
“Hey Cerberus, give this hitch hiker your jacket, you can handle it. Can’t you?”
The collared hunk spoke up as he un-donned his apparel, “Sure Kain.”
The supple leather was tight, and felt incredibly good on my bare skin. I tossed my head wrap to the ground as I strapped on my helmet. The aroma was intoxicating, leather and the sweat of a man who smelled like a man should smell. I climbed on Kain’s ride and heard him say, “Hold on tight now.”
I did, feeling the leather touch his. “Tighter.”
I obeyed trying not to rub my dick against his ass as best I could, in fear of being knocked off if I did, but he kept pushing back against me.
Then we were off in a flash, buzzing down the highway like a pack on the hunt. The vibrations aroused me unexpectedly. I couldn’t help my feel his butt and my thigh walling my penis inside my jeans. I grew to my full 7” faster than ever.
An hour later after taking several turns off the highway and on to several smaller state roads, we pulled up to a rustic wooden tavern in the middle of nowhere. “Scruffy’s” was painted red across the building, in some sort of Old West style. We hopped off the bikes and strode to the front door. “Hey pay phone’s down around the corner.” He said pointing down the patio. “Come inside for a beer when you’re done.”
I rounded the building as the Hell Hounds entered it. I spotted the phone, and ran like a school girl to it. I was dying of thirst and hoping to make a quick call to one of my buds, to drive 500 miles and pick my ass up. Knowing the absurdity of my hopes, I was half relieved yet half annoyed to realize the phone’s line had been cut leaving a frayed mess of wires in its stead.
I trudged through the dirt and sand and opened the front door. My eyes tried to adjust to the dimness of my new surroundings, but they never got a chance to. Everything went black.
An hour later….
I awoke slowly, mostly cause my head was throbbing like a troll with angina, and partly cause even though my eyes began to open, black was still all I could see. I did a mental check of my body. I was on all fours, with some sort of padding on my stomach between my head and my balls. Everything felt odd and new. My hands were in fists, and enclosed in something soft and padded. They in turn were attached to whatever device I was strapped into. I tried to picture myself, like an out of body experience, but couldn’t grasp it. All I could tell was that I was fastened to some device that was designed to keep me in a canine position and that I was somewhat naked. I felt a few odd things clothing me especially around my groin, but could barely make out what they were. I couldn’t move any of my appendages no matter how hard I tried, including both of my heads. I thought about crying, about screaming, about dying, but what was the point. They had me. I gave up before I even began. Millions of thoughts rebounded across the synapses of my blindfolded mind. Mainly having to do with the number 4. 4 six’s and the 4 hot studs that had now kidnapped me. A voice broke my silly concentration on a meaningless number. “Looks like the boy is up. Let’s get him started.”
To be continued…
Any ideas, comments, critiques, rants and raves?
thtrghst@yahoo.com