The Harley

From: M. Christian

Picture: Michael Kirwan

Published in: Mach, Issue 44 (August 1999)

Pup sucks cock. He polishes, licks, kisses, swallows, and works men's tools. Some men, they say, just have a clear purpose in life.
_____

If they'd thought of B.O., Mammoth would have kicked it over and tore out of there, no problem. Hands down, the fucker had the most righteous stench--one like a rap sheet (fucking bad and sticks to your ass for life): body reek, oil, farts, old blood, dog shit--the works. But they didn't think of stink to settle the issue.

Now, Monster, he would have won an ugly contest. Not that Mammoth was a dreamboat or anything--teeth like a shook-up graveyard, skin like a back road, nose like something grown from compost, hair a dry brush fire of greasy yellow just waiting for a match. Ugly as fucking hell, man, but fucking gorgeous standing next to Monster.

Bald dome scaly like an alligator with hives, mouth crooked with zigzagged old scars, beard a moth-eaten rug of steel brushes sloppily put-together under a flat and wheezing nose. And those eyes, like two smoking sulfur matches floating in ripe piss or gasoline. Like most of them, Monster got yanked by the law a lot. Fuck, that attitude alone (which stunk as much as Mammoth's pits) got him flashed and pulled over. He rarely got booked or nothin', though--most just yanked his chain 'til they saw those two match heads get struck by some interior spark, then they swallow their last meal that'd come up on them quick-like and just let him be.

But they didn't think of ugly to settle the contest over the Harley.

It was a fair draw for raps, as it ended up. But any ol' fucker knows that ain't a way to settle this that kinda shit: bullshit walks, right? Ain't no crazy motherfucker gonna say where and how much to anyone save his brothers--and then it's mostly bullshit anyway. Did anyone fuckin' see you cave that cop's dome by the Thrifty Mart? Fuck, no. Did anyone see you blast through Tijuana with ten keys of pure shit? No, but everyone's heard you fucking did so shut the fuck up about it, all right? Yeah, we've all heard it, fucker, about how you fucked that frat boy up the ass back behind Greenie's Pool Hall with your ten-inch dick.

You can't count reps in this kinda thing. Especially with a couple of cast-iron pig fuckers like Mammoth and Monster. Two legends ain't gonna sit around no dried up waste of asphalt back by the Mosco's Speed Track throwing back and forth, "I killed this dude, fucked this many, scored this, wasted that." Ain't that kind of scene, with those kind of fuckers. Mammoth and Monster just stood and stared, scratched, flexed while Mammoth's Pup, perfect pale ass glowing in the track lights like a low, full, moon, pissed like a racehorse into the mostly dead mesquite bushes as they tried to decide who'd get Bull's damned bike.

They didn't think of size, didn't toss it out like they'd tossed the other ideas out in two or three rumbling growls. Mammoth big. Pure big. Absolute big. Very, very, very fucking big--in three dimensions. No one called him fat, but that's what some thought seeing him sitting around his hog. Mammoth was big up and down and sideways-straining and stretching his colors and chaps, filling them with muscles laid on muscles. Mammoth wasn't a mountain as much as a boulder. Hands like outfielder's gloves, feet like phone books, head like a wrecking ball.

Monster was huge. They probably weighed the same; Monster big all around, Monster a skyscraper.

Birds had a tendency to fly around Monster. They came in all peaceful and calm and then screeched, banking when they saw that something tall and ugly had violated their air-space. When folks, civilians especially, saw Monster among his club, they thought for maybe a beat, maybe a second, that he rode with fucking midgets. Maybe they'd smile, maybe they'd start to say something--but then they'd see, really see, that the rest of them were fucking big on their own, so that must mean that Monster was really, really.

Then they'd piss in their pants.

They didn't race for the bike, for Bull's prize Harley, 'cause they fucking already had. Two calls had been made when Bull had finally kicked after taking that bad spill on Interstate-5. Everyone knew Bull had this cherry Harley sitting in his garage, knew that Bull had rode with both Mammoth and Monster, knew those two fuckers hated lots of shit in this life but above all else each other, and fucking God and all His fucking angels knew that Bull just loved, fucking loved, to cause shit.

No surprise at all that Bull's old lady would make two calls right after Bull got planted in his backyard. Something like, "It's yours if you haul ass down here right now."

No fucking surprise at that. Big fucking surprise that both of those mean and ugly assholes got there together.

Pup finished his Olympic piss and hiked his jeans, bored as all shit that they still couldn't decide how to see who'd get the bike.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he said, drifting all light and wispy like over to Mammoth and running his soft hands down Mammoth's jungle of scratchy chest hairs and around the peaks of his leathery nipples, "someone fucking die already, man. I wanna get out of this fucking shit-hole."

Lots of stuff said about the two of them, of Mammoth and Monster; lots even certified by law enforcement individuals. Usual and unusual--armed robbery, assault, battery, rape, possession, and possession to sell (usual); like murder, assault on a police officer, transportation of illegal animal parts, bestiality, and suspected necrophilia (unusual--cannibalism, as far as anyone really knew, was just a rumor). Both of them were like fucking storm fronts--tracked with precision by badges, rivals, and even their own clubs. There was even some bucks being shoved back and forth among riding "weathermen" to make sure the right kind of folks knew that the winds were just right or that one of the fucking hurricanes were bearing down on their vicinity.

Mammoth was an animal: he lived down deep with his wild urges, sharing space with all the old critters that other folks might have fucking left behind. Folks may have been wild once, may have gone extinct in most; but Mammoth, though, he was, like, frozen in fucking ice when the rest of us where in school. He runs wild and free, feasting on the little folks who forgot that maybe we used to feel the same way. Mammoth likes it fresh and red and hot. He likes to sleep after and laugh and howl during. He didn't fight so much as explode. He just recently stopped biting as much as he used to.

Now, Monster, he wasn't so much wild as thoughtful. The call of the wild didn't ring for him--rather, he was more of an intellectually ugly motherfucker. Rumor was--and rumors was all you could hear because no one, no one, was talking--Monster was always the real ugly sort, but was only on the outside 'til he was able to hear what folks were saying about his face, his size. Then he sort of took it to heart, started trying it on for size. Monster cultivated himself, they said. He measured, tested, and refined it 'til people never, ever said anything except for fucking "Sir!" to his face.

Lots about those two. Some about Bull's legendary prize Harley: The special one, the real good one. All original, cared for like only Bull could care for a machine. It cranked like a dream, growled like feeding time at the zoo, and could out-race a rep across the country.

But, man, there was shit little about Pup. Yeah, yeah, yeah--rumors. Always fucking rumors: the ex-cop, the ex-priest, the governor's son, the musician, and even the fucking astronaut. The best of them all, the ones not quite as big as Pup himself, said that sometime in the dim and distant past (which wasn't that far back), Pup used to live in this placed called the Castro, used to work in this little place called Fashion Flowers (decorator orchids), used to wear a fucking lot of tope sweaters, and listen to a lot of fucking ABBA--'til his little blond head got turned by a persuasive ass-fucking from a member of the Aces. From there he got passed around and around, not really a member of any club but more like a prize to be won. By twenty-one, he was the Oscar for *Most Vicious Motherfucker In Five States*. Not only worth it, he was proud to be. Or so the rumors said.

He was Pup, and the one thing that was an absolute proven fact about the kid was that he could pull gas out of a bike without a hose.

"Look, bitch," Pup said to Mammoth (the only one, only one, who could say that to him), "it's getting fucking dark and my cock's gonna fall off. Will somebody please kill somebody so we can get the fuck out of here, okay?"

"Makes a lot of noise, don't he?" Monster said, from the other side of the strip of racetrack sideway, leaning big and dark in shadows thrown from the track a hundred or so feet away. With a pop, the tall biker tipped a kitchen match off his thumbnail into brilliant flame and lit a fat cigar.

Mammoth snorted like he'd gotten stuck in tar or something and belched affirmative. "Does like to squeal a bit, he does."

"I'm fucking freezing my dick off here," Pup complained, hopping from one booted foot to the other, hugging himself while panting fading clouds of breath. "I want to get the fuck out of here."

"Shut the fuck up," Mammoth grumbled like rocks spilling from the top of a mountain. "I want the fucking bike, asshole."

"As do I," said Monster from the growing darkness, a toke of his cigar lighting his face like a red footlight.

"Well, I want to get the fuck out of here. I don't give a bleeding rat's ass about some motherfucking bike!"

"It's Bull's Harley," Mammoth said as if someone had questioned the color of the sun or the quality of Red Rose speed.

"It's prime," Monster said, agreeing with Mammoth for probably the first time, ever.

"It's fucking cold, you cock-suckers. It's just a fucking bike, man. Can't it wait 'til fucking morning?"

"What does it take to shut him up?" Monster said, walking with earthquake steps from the dark into the brilliance cast by one of the racetrack lights.

"The usual," Mammoth said, smiling a flash of crooked yellow teeth as he levered himself off his bike and grabbed Pup by the shoulder.

"Aw, man, leave it, will ya? I want to fucking warm up already, okay?" Pup said, with a little less nelly in his voice, a tad more reason.

"Man don't know when to fucking quit," Monster said, close enough for Pup to get a face full of cigar smoke.

Between them, caught between the stogie and Mammoth's stink, Pup gagged and coughed a sudden cloud of breath. "Christ, give a fucking guy a break--"

With a practiced move, Mammoth grabbed Pup's shoulder and jerked him around so he was facing the boulder-biker. "The trick, man, is to just keep him to fucking busy," he said, shoving Pup down to the asphalt with a creek and pop of his joints.

"You motherfucker--" Pup started, trying to get back up.

"Yeah, shit-head," Mammoth said, popping his Harley belt buckle and unzipping his fly with one skilled tug. "Me motherfucker, you cock-sucker ..."

They didn't think of cock size to settle the issue of Bull's bike. Maybe they didn't want to have it out, maybe didn't want their legends possibly ... diminished in such a manly way. Maybe they just didn't have a reason to haul them out--yet.

As tall as he was around, Mammoth's cock wasn't: for such a bear, he had a snake's cock. In the hard glare of the lights from the track his dick was like a fucking pool cue sticking out of his pants. Mammoth's dick looked like it had been cleaned, polished. White and long, uncut head making it even more like a fucking spear or something, it leapt from his jeans like it got thrown from Mammoth's crotch toward Pup's mouth, like it fucking naturally lived in the kid's throat and Mammoth just kept it on a leash in his pants. The fucking ten inches wanted man, wanted Pup's lips and throat. Wanted it hard and wanted it bad.

"Oh, Jeez ...," Pup said, putting a hand around Mammoth's mammoth and stroking it like you might polish a brass horn. "... No one fucking rides for free."

Lips to cock, with a mighty roar of one the racers on the track nearby as fucking applause, Pup got right down to it.

Now, you might expect that taking in something like Mammoth's cock would take some practice, right? Even for a righteous cock-sucker like Pup. Fact is, man, Pup is what Pup fucking does--got it? He sucks cock. He polishes, licks, kisses, swallows, and works men's tools. Some men, they say, just have a clear purpose in life. Mammoth, now, he stinks--in body and fucking attitude. Monster is the perfect bogeyman, the stuff of cop nightmares, homeowner terrors, and mothers' horrors.

Pup, like I said, sucks.

Like drinking a glass of water, Pup opened his mouth and swallowed Mammoth's cock straight down. Could swear, man, that his teeth didn't even touch his meat--just straight fucking down. Ever see a snake swallow a chicken's egg? Just like that, friend, just like that: jaws real, real far apart, Pup just tilted himself back and let it glide smooth and quick in his mouth and down his throat. Just as you'd think he'd start coughing or puking, he just gave this little swallow, like, and took it all the way down.

"There," Mammoth said, "nice and quiet."

Soon, though, Mammoth wasn't. Even in the dim lights that spilled and splashed from the racetrack, you could see that were was some fancy throat-work going on there between Pup's tonsils and Mammoth's cock. Like that snake swallowing that fucking egg, Pup started to work and pump and milk Mammoth's cock from down deep in his throat.

First, Mammoth started to groan, then he started to whistle and mumble over and over, "Motherfucker--motherfucker--motherfucker ..." Soon he was grunting like a hog, howling like a wolf, and snorting like a bull.

Monster watched, at first with detached but then with sly interest, at Pup sucking Mammoth's cock. He watched quite intently, and maybe a little hungrily, 'til this kind of light bulb went off over his head and he said, grinning from ear to hideous ear, "Pull out, motherfucker--I got me a concept."

Mammoth pulled his dick out of Pup's magic mouth like a cork coming out of a bottle, the sharp "pop!" making Mammoth grin ear to ear. "Speak your mind ...," he said, adjusting his now wet and dripping dick so his balls wouldn't scrape on his zipper.

Monster dropped down to one knee, grabbed Pup by his long blond tresses and tiled his head back, back. Pup squealed with more-than-likely delight and whimpered when Monster said into his dainty ears, "You like to make noise, right?"

At first, Pup started to nod but found himself locked in the iron of Monster's grimy hand. So, instead, he swallowed, loud and liquid, and said, "Yeah, I do."

"Good," Monster said, suddenly letting go and leaving Pup to fall with a slap of denim onto the asphalt as Monster stood up. To Mammoth he said, "Man he makes the most noise for wins the bike."

Mammoth thought some time about this, working his great lantern jaw with a huge hands as he did so, as if the action somehow aided his reason. "Why the fuck not," he said with a broad smile that showed off his jumble of teeth to their worst in the hard lights of the track.

"Call it, motherfucker," Monster said, pulling a quarter out of his pocket and flipping it high and sparkling into the track lights. Just before it landed, Mammoth said, "Heads". It dropped down into Monster's great hand (looking like a dime laying there), who then slapped it on his greasy and tanned arm.

Monster lifted his arm. The tiny head of Washington blinked up at them from a jungle of tangled arm hairs. "Heads, it is."

"Right, motherfucker--eat my dust," Mammoth said with a typhoon laugh, pulling his pants down. Bobbing from his scrub of dark public hairs, his cock bobbed and swung as if it had been cored with rebar. Still wet and shining from a few minutes down Pup's throat, Mammoth's cock was a bright pink, almost a sunburned red, and it bent up and slightly to the right at steep angle. Down in the dark squiggles of his crotch, Mammoth's balls looked like hairy billiards in thick, wrinkled leather and Monster, looking on with macho indifference, could almost imagine them banging together, as Mammoth had dropped his pants, like the cue into the eight-ball.

"On your feet, hole," Mammoth said, grabbing Pup and hauling him up by the front of his T-shirt 'til Pup was standing on the scuffed tips of his boots.

"I'm on them; I'm on them--fuck!" Pup said, squeaking out from under the less-than-clean cotton fabric as Mammoth snapped his belt apart and jammed Pup's jeans down to his boots. No underwear. Not even a hard dick--yet.

"Assume the fucking position," Mammoth said, with laughter in his thundering voice, as he spun Pup around and jerked him down again, hard 'til the blond boy was on his knees again but facing away from the mountain in denim.

"What the fuck do you think you're--Jesus!" Pup said, startled into a shrill squeal by the iron of Mammoth's cock stabbing into his back. "Look, let me get fucking ready at least--Fuck!" This time it was the same brilliant, red, long, thin cock thrusting into his coccyx. "At least hit the fucking--Christ!"

In.

Not fast. Sure as shit not easy, and fucking not fun--for Pup. Watching from the other side, all Monster could see was Mammoth's straining, muscular bulk moving with very precise twitches as he stuck his cock around Pup's ass then--as he sighted down his shaft with the nerves in his cock-head--he jerked himself forward with perhaps (near as Monster could tell) half of his cock length.

Pup screamed, drowning out for a second the revving engines of the nearby race cars. The sound was sharp and high, the pain of Mammoth's iron jamming into his dry and pert asshole squealed out of him like toothpaste from a tube.

Mammoth pulled out and went in harder. Pup's cry cut like a sudden draft of freezing air around them, chilling Monster for a moment despite his size and sweating interest in Pup's getting fucked. After, though-after the scream was fading into the now-dark night, Pup's sounds became more guttural, more visceral: with another pump from Mammoth, his scream faded into a throbbing grunt and didn't match Mammoth's thrusts with his huge hips. Pup's face also went from wide and contorted to a softening mask of forced, closed eyes, bitten lips and puffed cheeks. As Monster watched, his own cock hardening in his tight jeans, Pup started to moan and cry in a tempo that then slowly started to approach the bucking of Mammoth behind him. His arms started to shake, now, and he started to droop and drop with each slamming blow of Mammoth's hips from behind him.

Pup's lips started to blow and hiss, but alternately smiled and gasped in swells and surges of butt-fucked pleasure. Despite an image and rep far more immense and powerful than he was, Monster was enraptured by Pup's face as he got fucked by the stroking engine of Mammoth's cock. Before he could think the usual, automatic biker "if I do this, will I still be cool?" Monster knelt down to stare into Pup's playing, rippling face: pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure.

Carefully, Monster put a cigar-sized finger in front of Pup's mouth and groaned himself, earthquake and passing train, as Pup's eyes snapped open and he gently wrapped lips as smooth as fine silk around his walnut-sized knuckles and began to carefully suck.

This obviously was something that Mammoth didn't care for, because once he figured out that his rival for Bull's Harley was getting his finger worked, he really started to buck: he wasn't just fucking Pup, he was slamming, colliding with his ass. Butt-fuck? No. Butt-fucking? Damned straight.

And damned straight that Pup screamed again-high and shrieking, like Mammoth's cock had grown ten times and barbed as well. He fucking screamed like his asshole was getting cored. His mouth opened so wide and full that Monster was surprised that he didn't chomp down on his thick and callused finger.

But Pup didn't bite him. Didn't once. In fact, after the pain seemed to fade into merely unbearable, Pup started to work Monster's finger again: gentle.

Behind them, a train with its brakes burned off, Mammoth chugged and pistoned faster and faster down. Then he fucking did, jerking and snapping this way and that like his own dick had that highway that led to "I'm fucking cumming!"

Then he fucking did, jerking and snapping this way and that like his own dick had gotten wrapped in barbed wire somewhere inside Pup's velvety asshole. Watching Mammoth twist, grunt and even cry out himself (in a macho kind of pig-grunt way) Monster felt sympathy for the recipient of his pool- cue dick: hate to have that thing whipped and jerking on top of me, he thought, watching.

Then, when Mammoth was done with his seizure, he said, "Fuck. Fuck. *Fuck!* Whew!" Panting like a bike on cheap gas that simply refused to die: "Okay, asshole--Your turn."

Monster didn't say a word. He just kissed Pup on the forehead (feeling of wire bristles and lips surprisingly soft) and went over to his bike. When he walked back into the hard light spilling from the track, he was carrying a pint of oil and sporting an unreadable expression.

"Fucker ain't yours yet, man," Mammoth said, hitching up his belt and laughing, low and mean, "and I don't think she needs any oil."

"Not for the fucking bike--asshole," Monster said, unbuckling his pants and dropping them to the asphalt.

If Mammoth's cock was a pool cue than Monster's was--what? Big? Damned sure it was fucking big. I mean, think about it, do you think a mean-ass motherfucker with the handle of Monster would have, like, an ordinary cock? No fucking way-he would have a monster cock, right? A weird cock, a twisted, patched-up, piebald, bent, and swollen thing-that's what would be hanging between Monster's legs, right?

Damned right: one ball bigger than the other (marble next to bowling ball), circumcised head swollen and lopsided like it had been patched from some unlucky loser in a crap game (so the rumors said), a corkscrewed shaft like maybe he'd been hard-up and wasted and tried to fuck the transmission of a hog (rumor said), long puckered scar from halfway to the base of his groin, like Monster's cock had been stuck in some asshole or cunt and had to have been bled, maybe, to make it small enough to get it out (rumor again).

Of course Monster had a fucking scary cock. What else would you think? And it was hard and throbbing.

Maybe something small and sweet took over Mammoth, 'cuz he took Pup's head in his hands and turned him so he couldn't look back and see that warped length of steel-hard pork that was about to take a trip up his ass. Maybe Mammoth had something like a burst of conscience and, maybe, he was worried about what Pup might do if he saw Monster's cock.

Just maybe--'cause he knelt down and whispered in Pup's ear: "Whatever you thought it would be ... it's worse."

Pup whimpered even more after Monster popped the oil like a Bud and pooped it's thick gold onto his cock and positioned himself so that he was right up against Pup's throbbing and quaking asshole.

Then in.

Pup made a noise. No, not like you'd think. Nothing to war against the racetrack nearby and win, nothing hard and shrill and painful to hear. Pup made a noise, for sure--a simple, little kind of noise.

A good kind of noise: Part groan, part grunt, part moan, and part sigh. It slipped out of his lips because the slow, pleasant progression of Monster's twisted and fat cock into Pup's asshole was done gentle and smooth, lubed with 10W-40 and a glacial patience.

Pup started to buck a bit as that good noise seeped out of him, trying to force the fuck that Monster didn't seem willing to do by forcing himself back against him and then pulling away. Between them, the sound of their fucking was a wet slurping, a sucking chest wound kind of noise.

Mammoth was laughing and rocking back and forth: "Come on, you fucker; let's hear it!"

Monster smiled wide and sharp, gave Pup a hard slap against his pale, hard ass and started to return the buck-slapping his iron thighs against Pup with a steady and building rhythm. As he did, as he humped against Pup's asshole, he started to leak out a good series of grunts, too--a kind of cycling engine noise like a motor perfectly tuned and then slowly revved up to speed. On the receiving end, Pup, too, started his own revving grunts. He bucked and slammed against the escalating thrusts of Monster's huge, cock. Slap, slap, *slap!*

Suddenly, Pup dropped down to the asphalt so his face was panting and heaving into the hard, black surface and his ass was high in the air. Behind him, Monster could feel one of Pup's hands fumble with Monster's tight and aching balls and then vanish to, Monster guessed, stroke his own aching cock.

"I can't fucking hear you!" screamed Mammoth, rocking back and forth and laughing.

Pup screamed, then, low and growling like he'd reached down through his own cock and pulled a gritty, brilliant load of cum out of himself. He jerked like Mammoth, but a Mammoth impaled on a hot rod of corkscrewed meat: he flailed and thumped the hard road with his free hand and drooled a warm pool of spit onto the black surface.

Behind him, Monster echoed and amplified: he bellowed like a great fucking beast with his cock caught in some kind of wild suction trap. He howled like a wolf getting one bitchin' fucking blow-job, like a lion getting it from an elephant.

Then he pulled himself out with a slurping "pop," stood up with a sudden stagger and wiped his huge brow with a denim sleeve.

Mammoth was grinning and laughing and smiling and said, "Well, motherfucker, that was damned fucking quiet. Very fucking quiet. Hope you don't plan on riding it out of here."

"Nope; didn't plan on it at all," Monster said, after hitching his belt and helping a grinning and laughing and smiling Pup to his wobbling feet. "Not at all," he added, putting a gnarled hand on Pup's shoulder.

The bike went to Mammoth ... And Pup? Pup went with Monster, of course.