By Pisslurper

I ride a Suzuki GSX-R600.  Sportbikes and sportbike riders turn me on.  I love nothing more than a hot guy clad in sportbike leathers, especially on a hot day when you know sweat is running down his body, pits and crotch—ripe and ready for licking.

A few years ago I had planned on a summer weekend overnight at buddy’s house in a city about 110 miles from the small town where I lived.  This buddy used to be sort of a master for me, but by now our relationship had evolved to more of friends with bondage benefits.

My motorcycle allows no space for gear, just a tiny spot under the seat large enough for a wallet and maybe a toothbrush.  So, the plan was for me to wear my leathers with nothing but a jockstrap on underneath, my racing gloves, boots, and full face helmet.  I would carry nothing but a wallet in the space under the seat.  If needed I could wear some of my buddy’s clothes when I got to his house, but usually I spend all the indoor time either naked or in my jockstrap, and we was planning on going out to the Eagle in our racing leathers.  The two hour ride to the city wound through some pretty scenic countryside, so I was looking forward to the day.  I planned the route out all on backroads, ’cause interstates pretty much suck, especially on a bike.

Luckily the weather was unseasonably warm.  My leathers are perforated to allow air flow, and they can get pretty damn cold riding without under layers when the temps are less than 80 or so.  I started out from home in the morning, stopping about 20 minutes away at a small roadside rest stop.  I often cruised this spot looking for action in the skanky bathroom, but, to be honest, never had any luck.  Today however, my buddy had arranged for someone to meet me.  There was a lone pickup in the gravel parking lot, so I pulled up next to it and got off my bike, leaving my helmet on the bike.  The guy was nice looking, solid, wearing levis, construction boots, and a t-shirt. He motioned for me to proceed ahead of him into the men’s room.  I turned to face him, and he forced me down on my knees and pulled out his cock.  He reached down and unzipped the front of my leathers exposing my chest.  With his hand on my head, he held his cock and aimed his piss stream first on my chest, then up to my face.  I gulped a mouthful of his strong yellow piss, and felt the warmth of it washing down my chest and inside the front of my leathers.  He held my head down and soaked my crew cut, then finished off again over my face.  He never spoke a word, and he never let me touch his cock with my lips.  After he was through, he buttoned up, and walked out of the bathroom without speaking.  And of course, I knew better than to speak.

I had to piss too, so still kneeling in the puddle of his piss next to the dirty urinal, I just let loose and pissed through my jock into my leathers.  Then I stood up, piss dripping dowm my legs, and walked out to my bike.  I put my helmet on over my piss soaked hair, started up the bike and headed south towards the river road to the city.

The warm sun and wind soon started to dry me off.  I was taking it pretty easy, going around 70 or so because I have gotten more than my share of tickets on the bike.  I never really figured that a cop would stop me for doing 70.  But sure enough, not 20 minutes down the road I crested a hill and saw a State Patrol cruiser stalking on the other side.  “Dammit,” I thought as his blue lights flashed behind me and I pulled over.  The piss was much dry now, or I guess maybe damp, and I hoped it wasn’t noticeable.  The trooper got out of his cruiser and walked toward me.  Oh shit!  It was the same one who had pulled me over about 6 weeks earlier.  This guy was hot, pretty much like a porn video depiction of a State Trooper, but more real looking.  Unfortunately, he recognized me also.  I had pornographic fantasies flashing through my head, but the most I got was a disgusted look along with a stern lecture and a ticket for 72 in a 55.  I felt a bit foolish in my racing leathers—even though I think they are sexy, I feel like a poser when I’m wearing them on the street instead of reserving them for the race track.  I was also certain he could smell the piss on me, although of course he never let on.

The ticket was a bit of a buzz kill, as was riding along at a sedately pace of 60 mph.  But the day was beautiful, I was riding a sportbike through the bucolic rolling hills wearing nothing but a jockstrap underneath my leathers, and I was covered in dried piss.  I guess that’s a pretty good start to any weekend.

When I finally got my buddy’s house, I parked beside his garage behind the house and let myself in.  He had told me that I could use any of his gear and put myself into whatever kind of self bondage I would like while I waited for him to come home from work.

I stripped out of my boots and leathers and jock as soon as I was inside.  As I looked around his house trying to figure out what predicament I would get into, I spied his dog cage downstairs.  His dog was in the back yard, so I grabbed the cage and carried it upstairs.  I put on a metal chastity belt with an ass strap holding in a butt plug.  I got out the hiatt handcuffs and leg irons and my favorite rubber butterfly hood.  The rubber hood zips up the front and back, so it lets in plenty of air though the zippers but is completely dark.  I put a towel down on the floor of the cage, locked myself in, put on the leg irons, zipped up the hood, and then cuffed my hands behind my back.  I guess the cage is large enough for a dog, but pretty cramped for an adult person.  Still, I was in hog heaven and I started to sweat in the hood, enjoy the cuffs and leg irons, and settle in for my buddy to get home from work.

I don’t know how long I was in there — maybe a couple of hours.  I heard his truck pull into the driveway and heard the door open and his boots climbing up the stairs.  I knew he was wondering how he would find me, and he started laughing when he saw me in his dog’s cage.  He let me out eventually, and we kicked back a bit — me still naked except for the chastity belt — before it was time to head out the Eagle.  He rides a Ducati, so we both got on our leathers, me with only my piss stained jock and a heavy metal ball stretcher underneath, and rode out to the Eagle.

The Eagle was pretty much packed.  I think it was the Saturday of Pride weekend.  We saw a few people we knew and spent an hour or so socializing.  I felt awesome in my racing leathers, knowing there was nothing but a jock and ball stretcher underneath.  As luck would have it, I saw these two guys who I had been eying for several months.  One was lean, heavily tattooed and pierced, with a mohawk, and his boyfriend was sort of rough looking also in a tough way.

I’m usually not very good at small talk with strangers, but soon enough I was chatting with these guys.  They were both drinking beer.  I had a big glass of soda water (I never drink and ride . )   Mohawk guy says he has to take a mean piss, and I hand him my empty soda glass.  It’s pretty crowded in the Eagle, and we are standing out on the patio surrounded by guys.  He looks at me like I’m crazy, and says, “Are you serious?”  I convince him that I am, and he pulls out his ample and pierced cock and fills up my glass with his piss.  I nonchalantly take the glass back from him and start to guzzle his warm piss—I guess that sort of sealed the deal, because before long I was saying goodbye to my bondage buddy and following mohawk guy and his bf out of the bar.

I rode my bike behind them to their house.  They had me strip off my leathers and kneel on their back porch as they both showered me with their piss streams.  Before I knew it, my hands were cuffed behind my back, I was bent over the picnic table, Mohawk boy was fucking my ass while his bf was fucking my throat.  After they finished using me—and by this time I was pretty skanky with dried piss and cum all over me—they locked a heavy chain around my neck and chained me in the garage next to my motorcycle.  They cuffed my hands in front of me, threw down some blankets and a pillow for me to sleep on, and left me to sleep the rest of the night in the garage.

Early the next morning, they graciously unchained me, gave me a cup of coffee, and sent me on my way.  I rode through the leafy neighborhoods to my buddy’s house, said goodbye to him, and headed on my bike, in my still skanky jock and ball stretcher and rank smelling leathers, along the river valley back home.  I was tired and happy with sore balls when I got home, and collapsed into bed, without taking a shower, for a very sweet feeling nap.

The End

Metal would like to thank Pisslurper for this story and pictures.