DOM Biker 🏍️
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Dominant Biker 🛞🏍️
The sauna had a black door and a bell that didn’t ring when you left. Just the suck of wet air and then the street. 2:57 on my phone. The locker room fluorescent still burned behind my eyes. My hair was damp at the collar. That smell you only get after two hours of steam and other men’s skin — chlorine trying to win and losing.
I’d danced. I’d had four drinks that were supposed to be two. I’d let a blond put his cock in my ass in the dark room and then told him I was going outside for air, which was a lie. I wanted the night. I wanted the walk. I wanted to feel twenty-two and a little ruined and still in charge of the next corner.
The main road was a long way if you followed the sidewalk. The alley was a cut-through I’d used before when the rideshare pin jumped. Brick on both sides. One dumpster. A security light that blinked like it was tired of the job.
I heard the bike before I saw it.
Not moving. Just sitting there with that fat, expensive quiet engines have when they’ve been off long enough to tick. Then the shape of it came out of the dark — black tank, black bags, chrome that threw back the blink of the light. A touring thing. Heavy. The kind of motorcycle that doesn’t ask permission from a street, a beast with two massive tires.
The man standing next to it had a rag in both hands. Wiping the tank at three in the morning like the paint had insulted him.
Thirty-something. Taller than the bike’s windshield. Beard thick enough to hide a mouth. Brown cap pulled low. He looked bald. No shirt. Chest and stomach hair still holding heat, like he’d been riding with the wind on him and hadn’t bothered with a layer when he stopped.
Jeans. Belt. A leather sheath on the hip that didn’t look decorative. Boots the color of old mud. He looked up when my shoes hit a puddle and the look lasted too long to be casual.
I kept walking.
“Hey.”
Not loud. The alley just decided the word was law.
I stopped because my body stopped. That was the first honest thing I’d done since I left the blond in the dark room.
He didn’t come toward me yet. He finished one last pass on the tank, folded the rag once, and set it on the seat.
“Cigarette.”
“I don’t have one.”
He made a sound in his chest. Not quite a laugh.
“You came out of that place.” His chin tipped toward the black door, two streets back.
“Steam on the glass. Boys going in after midnight. I been standing here an hour. I watched you come out.”
My face went hot in the cold air.
“So?”
“So I asked you for a cigarette and you said no. That’s fine. I didn’t really want a cigarette.” He took one step off the bike. The alley narrowed. “I wanted to see if you’d stop. You stopped. That tells me more than a smoke would.”
I should have moved. The rideshare was two minutes if I walked to the light. My thumb was on the phone in my pocket and I didn’t take it out.
“You always cut through here after,” he said, “or is tonight special.”
“I’m going home.”
“You’re standing in my alley answering questions. That’s not going home.” Another step. I could smell him now — metal, skin, a little gasoline, sweat, the clean sting of whatever he’d used on the chrome. “What’s your name.”
“Harry.”
“Harry.” He tasted it. “How old are you, Harry.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two and coming out of a bathhouse at three with your hair wet and your mouth already used. Don’t tell me it isn’t. I can see it.” He stopped an arm’s length away. The cap kept his eyes in shadow. The long beard made the rest of the face look carved. “You gay.”
It wasn’t a question the way people ask it in daylight.
“Yes.”
“Say the rest. Say what you are. I want it in your voice, not mine.”
I looked at the bricks over his shoulder.
“I’m gay.”
“Louder.”
“I’m gay.”
He nodded once, slow, like a teacher accepting a late answer.
“That’s better. You walk like you’re still deciding if the night belongs to you. It doesn’t. Not this street. Not this hour. You left a building where men take turns being polite about it. Out here nobody’s polite.” His voice dropped without getting quieter. “You know what I think you came looking for, Harry? I think the sauna got you wet and didn’t finish the job. I think you took the alley because part of you wanted a man who doesn’t ask. I’m that man. You already stopped walking. Don’t waste my time pretending you’re lost.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“You don’t need to know me. You also don’t know the queer boys inside the sauna, right? You need to do what I tell you.” He pointed at the wall to my left. “Turn around. Hands on the brick. High.”
I laughed and it came out thin.
“You’re serious, are you a cop or something?”
“I don’t say things twice unless I like the sound. I don’t like repeating myself. Hands. Wall. Now. I’m not a cop, but tonight I’m the law for you.”
I turned because the drunk part of me had already decided, and the scared part was only there to watch. The brick was cold and rough and wet in the mortar lines. I put my palms on it at shoulder height. Behind me I heard boots. I heard the rag get moved. I heard a belt tongue slide out of leather.
He didn’t touch me yet. He stood close enough that I felt the heat of his chest on my back.
“Look at you. Fresh out of the fairy spa. Damp collar. Cheap cologne trying to cover the steam. Hands on my wall like you were built for it.” His mouth was near my ear. Not kind. “You going to tell me to stop, Harry, or you going to stay where I put you.”
I didn’t say stop. I wanted.
“That’s what I thought. On your knees.”
The concrete came up fast. It bit through my jeans. He made me turn around to face him, now my back was against the brick wall and all I could see was denim, the dark trail of hair below his navel, the sag of the fly, the bulge already making a thick line down the left thigh.
“Eyes up.”
I looked up. From there he was bigger than the bike. Cap. Beard. The rag still in one fist like he’d forgotten he was holding it.
“You told me what you are when I told you to say it. You put your hands on the wall. You got on your knees. That’s a chain of yes even if you’re too shy to call it that. Last chance to stand up and walk to the light. You stay down, I use you. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Sir.”
The word sat in my mouth like a stone.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good boy. Ugly word. Fits.”
He popped the button with his thumb. Zipper. No underwear. He shoved the jeans down just enough for it to come out — heavy, thick, not all the way hard yet, a dense black bush at the base that held the musky smell of the ride and the night and him. He wrapped his fist around it once, lazy, and tapped the head against my cheek.
“Open.”
I opened.
He didn’t put it in.
He shifted his boots, took himself in hand, and pissed.
It hit my cheek first. Hot. Shocking. I jerked and his other hand landed on the top of my head and pinned me to the brick.
“Don’t you close that mouth. Don’t you turn your face. You stay in the stream. This is how I mark what’s in my alley. You walked into it. You kneel in it. It’s my territory.”
It kept coming. The smell filled the gap between the dumpster and the chrome. It ran into my hair, into my eye, down my neck under the collar. I made a noise and he laughed, low and pleased, the sound sitting in that barrel chest like an engine catching.
“There it is. That’s the look. Sauna boy finding out the street isn’t a locker room. You wanted a man. Men piss. Men mark. You take it or you shouldn’t have said yes.”
When the stream thinned he shook the last of it onto my lips on purpose and left it shining there. My whole face was dripping. My knees were dark. I could taste salt and heat and something that wasn’t water.
He was hard now. The piss had done as much as the kneeling. He slapped the wet head against my other cheek, once, twice, a third time harder, and the sound was meat on skin in the quiet.
“That’s for the cigarette. Open wider. Tongue out. I want to see it.”
I did what he said.
He put the head on my tongue and held it there, not giving me more, making me wait with my mouth full of the taste of him and the alley.
“You suck when I say. You don’t get to be eager on your own time. This is command, faggot. You follow.”
“Yes, sir.”
He fed it in.
Not all at once. An inch. Another. The girth stretched the corners of my mouth until my jaw ticked. The bush came closer. He stopped with half of it on my tongue and looked down the alley like he had all night.
“Breathe through your nose. If you gag I don’t pull out. I wait. You learn.”
He gave me the rest.
The brick caught the back of my head when he bottomed out. My nose was in the hair. I gagged and he did exactly what he said — he waited, buried, hand flat on my skull, humming something with no tune. When I stopped fighting the reflex he pulled back to the head, let me drag one breath, and went in again, slower, using the wall as the other half of his fist.
“That’s it. That’s the job. You feel that in your throat, that’s me teaching it a shape. The boys in the gay sauna don’t do this. They ask. I don’t ask. I ask permission once, after I have it, you’re officially mine to use.”
He found a rhythm that wasn’t kind and wasn’t rushed. Short strokes that kissed the brick with my hair. Longer ones when a car whispered past the mouth of the alley and didn’t slow down. He didn’t look at the car. He looked at my face.
“They don’t care. Nobody cares what a fag does on his knees at three. That’s the first grown-up thing you’re going to understand tonight. You want to be out here after the clubs, you learn who the dark belongs to.”
Spit ran off my chin onto his jeans. Piss cooled on my cheek and pulled tight. My eyes watered until the security light smeared. He wiped under my eye with his thumb, not gentle, and put the thumb in my mouth next to his cock for a second like he was checking his work.
“Hands stay behind your back. You reach for me, I take it out and I leave you here dripping. You understand.”
I made a sound that he accepted.
He pulled all the way out. A thread of spit broke on my shirt. He let me hang there with my mouth open, panting, the head shining an inch from my lip.
“Look at it. That’s what you walked toward. Thick. Dirty. Still wet with what I put on your face. You want it back, you ask proper.”
I had to swallow before I could talk.
“Please.”
“Please what.”
“Please put it back inside. Sir.”
“Please put what back. Use the word. You’re not at brunch.”
“…your cock. Please put your cock back in my mouth, sir.”
He smiled with no kindness in it.
“There he is. The honest one.”
He pushed in to the root in one go and held me there until my throat fluttered around him. I slapped his leg once without meaning to. He clicked his tongue.
“Hands. I said hands. You don’t drum on my jeans like you’re calling for help. Nobody’s coming. This is the help.”
He started using me properly after that.
Not the slow lesson anymore. A working pace. The kind of rhythm a man uses when he’s decided the thing in front of him can take it. Every thrust seated my skull against the mortar. Every pull-back dragged spit down my chin in a sheet. He talked through it the way he’d talked when he was wiping the tank — commentary, not conversation.
“That’s a pretty decent mouth for a back-alley blowjob. Wet. Soft. No teeth. You learned somewhere. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Some guys in that gay palace taught you to open up and you brought it out here like a gift.”
I gagged on a deeper one and he laughed, short, pleased.
“There. That’s the sound. Don’t you be embarrassed. I like the sound. Means you’re working and learning to push your limits.”
He took both hands off my head for three strokes and just used his hips, jeans around his thighs, cap still on, watching me struggle to keep the angle without him holding me. When I slipped and scraped my cheek on the brick he grabbed my hair again and put me back on it like he was correcting a tool.
“Stay on it. I didn’t tell you to decorate the wall with your face. The wall’s for your back. The mouth’s for me.”
A bottle rolled somewhere deeper in the alley. He didn’t turn. He shoved in and stayed, my nose crushed to the bush, and counted under his breath.
“Four. Five. Six. You tap my boots if you can’t. You haven’t tapped. So you can.”
I hadn’t tapped. I didn’t know if I could. I was too into serving this dom hot biker. A real man. My jaw was a live wire. Drool hung off my lower lip in a thick rope and slapped his balls when he bottomed out. He looked down at that and nodded once.
“Messy. Good. I don’t want tidy. Tidy is for gay boys who go home with each other. You’re in an alley with a man you don’t know. You like it, don’t lie to me.”
He pulled out to the head and rubbed it across my lips, smearing everything that was already there — spit, piss, the wet from his skin.
“Clean the underside. Tongue. Slow. You miss a spot I start the count over.”
I licked what he gave me. Salt. Skin. The bitter edge of the piss that had already dried. He watched like he was grading it.
“Adequate. Not pretty. Adequate’s all you need to be.”
Then he was back in my throat.
Harder. The wet sounds got louder than the distant traffic. My knees screamed and slid an inch and he followed me down half a step so he didn’t lose the depth. He hooked a thumb in the corner of my mouth to keep it wide and used that extra room.
“You hear that? That’s you. That’s your throat making room for a stranger. You still want to tell me you were just walking home?”
I couldn’t answer. He didn’t want an answer. He wanted the question sitting in me while he fucked the yes out of my mouth.
“I watched you leave that door. Wet hair. Soft mouth. Looking both ways like the night might be dangerous. Then you picked the dark anyway. Don’t rewrite it now that my dick’s in you. You picked this. You were looking for trouble, like that old Elvis song.”
He sped up. His stomach hair scratched the bridge of my nose. I could the leather on his belt, the gasoline on his hands, the heat coming off his chest. He grunted on the deep ones, not performing it, just letting the air out.
“Almost. You feel it get thicker, that’s me. You stay. You don’t pull off to be cute. You take the last of it like you took the first.”
He yanked out. I gasped so hard it scraped. He slapped my face with the wet shaft, once on each cheek, and put just the head back on my tongue.
“Hands behind your back. Now.”
I laced my fingers at the base of my spine. Without the brick my balance went. He held my hair and my head became the only thing keeping me upright.
“That’s the picture. Knees in a back alley. Face dripping. Hands where they can’t help you. If a car turns in here they see exactly what you are, a hungry faggot. You think about that while I finish.”
He fucked my mouth like that — no wall, no hands, just his fist in my hair and the weight of him. My eyes streamed. Snot ran. I didn’t care. He was close enough that his voice had gone rough.
“Open. Wider. I want to see teeth out of the way. Yeah. Stay.”
He pulled free, tipped my face up by the hair, and stripped himself in short, ugly pulls an inch from my eyes. I kept my mouth open because that was still the order. He came with a sound that was almost a laugh — hot cum stripes across my forehead, the bridge of my nose, my pink lips, one shot that ran down into the piss drying along my jaw. He milked the rest onto my tongue and held my jaw so I couldn’t close.
“Show me.”
I showed him what I had inside my mouth.
“Swallow.”
I did.
He stood over me for a long second, chest working, looking at the mess he’d made like a man looking at a clean tank.
“Stay down.”
I stayed. Hands behind my back. Knees hurting. Face dripping. He tucked himself into the jeans, buckled, picked the rag off the seat and wiped his own hands. Not my face. Never my face.
He swung a leg over the bike. No helmet. His cap was the helmet. The engine caught and the alley shook like a door had been kicked in. He looked back once, cap low, that mean almost-fond mouth.
“Sauna’s behind you. Home’s the light. Next time you cut through my alley, fag, you bring the cigarette.”
He rolled out of the dark and the motor ate the block, then the next one, then it was only the security light blinking and my own breath and the taste of him sitting in the back of my throat like a brand.
I sat against the wall until I could feel my feet. Until I could stand without my legs feeling like spaghetti. I walked to the corner with his piss in my shirt and his cum pulling tight on my skin, and I already knew I was going to take the alley again — and that I was going to buy a pack of cigarettes I didn’t smoke.