Shay Sheridan

For the "Kink" challenge. Duh.

Soft. Supple. Smooth. Black. Feels like black. Feels like. . . feels like sex.

Metal. Burning. Sharp. Cold. Smells like. . . like no other smell.

It’s a kink. Thinks he might know when it started, but he knows for sure when it ended.

Started with a movie. A Steve McQueen movie. Loved them. Loved the guy. Wished he knew him. Wished he was him, not this gangly mess of nerve endings with a head full of cowlicks and hands too big for his skinny body. Steve McQueen had cool hair, blond like his, but it stayed put.

Steve McQueen, reform school grad, King of Cool, race-car driver. Existed larger than life on the screen, so he lived in the movies, too. Saw all of Steve’s movies he could get his hands on, in TV reruns, in theaters, on betamax, on VHS. The good ones, the great ones, the truly bad ones. Nevada Smith, Sand Pebbles, Magnificent Seven, The Getaway. Never So Few. Hell is For Heroes. Thomas Crown. Cincinnati Kid. Shit -- even The Blob. And Bullitt. Oh, yeah. Bullitt.

But always, always, he came back to the one that started it for him. The Great Escape.

It wasn’t the movie or the role that was so great. Well, the movie was great, but it wasn’t McQueen’s best. It was the motorcycle. That was it. That was the start of the kink.

Wanted one. Had to have one. Wanted in. Wanted to be Steve on the motorcycle. Fuck helmets. Fuck barbed wire, fuck Nazis, fuck his real life.

His rich friend Terence had one, a Honda. Not a Harley, but damn good anyway. Terry let him ride with him, on the back, the engine prickling the inside of his legs, driving a sweetness into his groin, driving him crazy with desire. His dick came to life on the
supple, smooth, black leather
of the seat, rose and thickened with the smell of

until he was erect and pressed into the crack of Terry’s denim-covered ass. The vibration was everywhere; the motion masked him rubbing against Terry’s ass, and then he was coming, coming in his pants, almost losing his grip, almost falling off onto the pavement as it whizzed by underneath them.

If Terry noticed, he didn’t say a thing.

So he pulled his shirttail out to cover the wet fly and said an awkward “Thanks man, gotta go,” and went home and lay on his bed and jerked off trying to recapture the vibrations, the feel of the black leather seat, wishing he was Steve McQueen, even though he was sure McQueen never rubbed up against a guy and got off, not with Ali MacGraw around.

But mostly he thought about the motorcycle.

Had to have one, but no way could he afford one. Thought about it, thought about Terry’s bike, thought about how to get at it, take it, borrow it, steal it. He’d do anything to get that feeling back.

Wasn’t that hard, in the end. Terry’s family went away for the week, and he just walked in to the garage, well, jimmied the window and slithered in, getting a long splinter in his thumb while he was at it. There it was, sitting there, waiting for him, ready for him.

Fuck. No key.

He thought about how he might hot-wire it, Steve McQueen could have, but he wasn’t a reform school grad, he didn’t have those skills at his disposal. But it didn’t matter, not really, because just the sight of the machine excited him, so he kicked up the stand, straddled the black leather seat, felt the tightness start in the crotch of his jeans, closed his eyes and damn, if he couldn’t feel the vibrations anyway. His hand came off the grip and unzipped his fly, and his rigid flesh was sliding along the leather, the cold, sharp smell of metal and oil in his nose and the vibrations crawling up inside him. Felt the black, smooth, soft, supple seat up close and personal. No need to take it on the road. No need to steal it, no need to fly through roads and barbed wire and Nazi pursuers. It was enough to smell it and feel it and rub against it. A matter of moments and he was coming hard, moaning, spilling himself all over the leather.

Every night for a week, he came back.

The last night he brought her with him.

Stella on the back, behind him. The supple leather seat, the vibrations only he could feel, her heat against him. But close as she was, she wasn’t close enough, he wanted to feel her closer, feel someone, maybe Terry, more likely Steve McQueen, poking something hard as a gearshift in the crack of his ass while the vibrations and the smells and the leather drove him to a frenzy. Just thinking that made him shoot off.

Which made her mad, because she didn’t feel the vibrations and she wanted him to fuck her. Which he tried to, then, on the old mattress in the corner of the garage, but he couldn’t. He who had been eternally aroused whenever Stella came near, couldn’t get it up without the metal, without the leather, without the vibrations, real or imaginary. Look at me! she pouted, but he couldn’t -- his eyes kept straying to the motorcycle. Pissed royally, she stalked off. He couldn’t leave the garage, leave the metal and the leather, to walk her home.

Scared shitless. He watched the motorcycle and was scared shitless, because he could still hear it roar, still feel it between his legs.

He ran home, heart pounding, sweating bullets. Didn’t touch himself for weeks.

It was just a kink. Thinks he might know when it started, but he knows for sure when it ended. Right there, in that garage, that night.

But still, sometimes. . .

redchance @
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