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Flat Out

An old legend returns
The leaves overhead hung low enough to make Shaun duck. Logic told him that it made no difference as he was seated on the tattered cloth of the Thunderbird, but he did it anyway. The big car rumbled up the deserted road, twin yellow lights stabbing into the pressing darkness as he headed for home as he always did after his evening shift. He sighed and rolled his shoulders; tried to move the tension from the knotted depths.

“It was just a dream,” he told himself, but it didn't take the damp away from the air that chilled as it clung to his skin and the insides of his windshield. Cursing the broken air conditioner yet again, he swiped at the condensation with a dirt streaked t-shirt made thin by endless washings.

Vestiges of last night’s unease sat over his mind like the clouds over the moon. The exhaust growled on, echoing back off of the oaks that arched over the pavement, standing tall as sentries before the estates that lined it. Their long lanes meandered back through yet more trees, leaving the road at once populated, and yet secluded. The same path by daylight was a pleasant stretch with dapples covering the asphalt, pretty wood fences behind the stately old trees lending their age and poise to the community.

But now that the sun had gone, so had the last of the dapples, turning them into lurking shadows awaiting a fanciful, daydreaming heart. One that had seen this same runway in his dreams the past week.

“It was just a dream,” his voice filled the cabin of the car. He couldn't remember the physical characteristics of the dream except for this tree lined avenue. Still, his fingers clenched the stiff dried leather of the wheel hard enough to feel it crack.

Waking up the past three mornings, muscles cramped and tight, he had been left with the impression of someone watching, stalking him like a gazelle on the Serengeti. During daylight hours, he told himself that he was simply being crazy. No one could be watching him when he slept. Not only were the bedroom windows to his trailer covered in film to prevent such a thing, but his German Shepard had slept on unconcerned each night, curled into a ball, fluff of tail covering his nose.

During the dark of night though, that assurance fled, leaving him to drive slowly, watching for lights, and glancing into the side pocket, where his magnum dwelt in easy reach. He reached up, adjusted the mirror again, but it still showed nothing but moon lit road behind him, no matter how hard or often he peered into it. On through the night, the car rumbled, heading towards the safety and comfort of his home.

“Call it maaaagic, such a precious truth,” Coldplay sang out from the speakers in a plaintive voice that did little to settle his nerves. Shaun leaned down to adjust the channel, looking for something with a more aggressive beat. Someday, he told himself, he would have a new car, one with a radio that he didn't have to lean over to adjust. But for now, this one was paid for, and even if it was on the far side of 300, 000 miles, he couldn't afford a new car payment with his salary. Sitting back up, he once more picked up the shirt to clear his vision again.

Just as Shaun reached out for the windshield, the big car shuddered; the sudden jolt causing his arm to jump, striking the glass.


He hadn't even seen the branch in the road. Not at least, until it was too late; now it was easy to see in the rear view. His forehead tensed with his irritation, rough vibrations up his arm told the tale of a tire required changing. With thoughts of dinner, he let out a impatient sigh through pursed lips.

Shaun let the car slow, easing it off the road to the wide grassy shoulder. Hands fought the bucking wheel, muscling it over the thump, thump, thump of the flat. He braked, and sat, head resting on the steering wheel. If he hadn't been ridiculously concerned about a feeling, about a dream no less, he wouldn't be in this situation. "Should have been paying attention to the road," he lectured himself sternly, “Fantasies and dreams have no place in the real world.”

Drawing a deep breath, he filled his lungs to the base, exhaling slowly with eyes closed. Opening them, he reached for the door handle and shoved it open, stepping out, feet crunching the oak leaves that littered the ground. The driver’s front tire bulged, no long a circle.

Shaun exhaled heavily, through gritted teeth. “God damn it. Serves you right.” the sound echoed under the trees as he moved toward the back of the car to gather the items needed for the change.

Down the road, a single yellow beacon speared out of the darkness. Unease from the dream returning with a vengeance, his hands clenched, with his stomach. The solitary beam from the lamp cast long shadows, illuminating the hanging Spanish moss from the trees. His hands itched for the tire iron that lay in the trunk, something to hold, to put between himself and the isolation. 

The key ratcheted around the latch not quite making it to the hole, as Shaun attempted to calm his nerves and his jumpiness. The light increasingly grew closer and he fumbled harder to open the trunk, the high pitched growl of a motorcycle resonating in his head. The need to arm himself rising with the perceived threat.

The rider slowed as he approached. The yellow hazard lights of Shaun’s car reflected off the sheen of the waxed and polished bike. The tank of the bike matched the full face helmet and leathers, black as the night, stenciled on the each side of the tank with a fanciful eye, flaming loops and swirls circling a circle around violet pupils.

Braking, the rider popped his toe quickly several times in succession, stopping the bike parallel to him on the road, boot clad foot on the pavement.

The mirrored visor of his helmet glowed, returning moonlight back to him, with no glimpse of the person underneath. Shaun got the impression the rider was talking to him, but he couldn't make out the words over the gentle pfft of a breeze blowing. His gestures made it easy to understand. He was offering his help with the flat.

Shaun released his held breath and gave a short nod of his head. The muscles in the rider’s thigh flexed under their leather casing when he swung his leg over and kicked the stand down. Studded boots clunked across the pavement, as the dull black leather wrinkled with the movement.

Shaun watched, relief mesmerizing him, taking in the purposeful strides and the way the jacket shifted across his shoulders. Frozen, he watched, key dangling loosely in his hand as the biker crossed.

The man closed the distance between the two, and placed cold gauntlets around Shaun's wrist, firmly guiding the key into the slot. The key slid home with a click, and turned effortlessly under the grip around his wrist. Earthy scents of grass mingled with sandalwood, overlain with the acidic bite of wood smoke.

The rider was a consuming presence behind him, slightly taller, not as wide, but solid, as if he worked out, fit. The hand that held his wrist felt like iron, and the arm was as movable as a girder. He let go suddenly, and moved past, pushing the clutter aside in the trunk, pulling up the floor and grabbing the spare. Shaun moved to close the lid; following in the wake of the rider, rudderless, and suddenly without direction, letting the other man take the lead.

Quick, practiced movements pushed the jack under the car and pushed the thin wire handle of the cheaply made thing into Shaun’s hand. He twisted it, slowly raising the car, making the handle circle, over and over, not thinking just following. The biker hunkered there before him, working the lugs holding the dead tire to the rim. Scarred leather chaps stretched over taut thighs, pockmarks and scratches evidence of miles and time, experience. His knees were spread, pulling the seat of his jeans tight across his ass. Shaun looked down, casting his eyes away before the rider caught him staring.

Hands turning over and over, cranking the jack, inching the car up off of the ruined tire, turn by turn. He focused on his task, trying not to stare at the movements of those black gauntlets: quick, controlled movements of caged energy, like a stalking tiger. The biker lifted the dead wheel from the hub with ease and manhandled the spare onto the posts, spinning the nuts on with a few twists of his fingers.

Shaun twisted the crank the other way lowering the old car back down to the ground, turn by turn. Tanned hands on the handle, calluses on the palm, he turned it. The biker torqued the last of the nuts in place, arms flexing, straining the shoulders of his jacket.

Shaun knelt, hand down in the sparse grass, stretching to reach the jack under the axle, fingers hooking the edge and dragging it back. Black leather gloves reached down and offered a hand; hauled him to his feet, pulling hard enough the Shaun stumbled, hands catching on the jacket. Stalling, suspended movement, he held to the lapels, seeing his own short hair reflected in the lens of the helmet.

He flicked a quick tongue over dry lips, “Th, thanks.”

Black fingers still entangled in his, not moving to disengage. Shaun looked up into his own reflected eyes; saw the gleam of white teeth behind parted lips. Saw his shoulders rise with his involuntary gasp, and felt the buzz at his center, twinges radiating out. He let go of the gauntlet with a shock and started to move back, but the other armored arm was around his back propelling him forward, crushing him against that granite chest.

Palms flat against the leather, soft and fragrant, cold to the touch; the cotton of his shorts rubbed against his sensitive skin, pouring gas on the flame. Shaun ran his hands down the smooth jacket, dropping them to the buckle of the chaps, started to fumble, and then dropped them guiltily. The cold gauntlet caught his withdrawn hand and pressed it back to the clasp.

Belt tab in hand he pulled, springing the tongue from the belt and pushing so the chaps fell slightly to hang on hips, over the heavy denim. His fingers worked the button and zipper, showing a faint trail of black curling hair running from the bottom edge of the jacket to disappear under the line of the jeans. Stiff, short bristles under his fingers, he followed the trail; pushed under the jeans, sliding them down to meet the chaps hanging off the hips.

Icy fingers left goose bumps on his heated surface as they brushed across the soft skin of his belly, released his pants and felt underneath. The tingle had grown to a throb that tightened his balls; put a knotted fist in his core. Butter soft leather wrapped around his erection, making him moan, biting his lips. The ache goaded him, demanding he push his hips forward. Rocking, restive, straining to stroke and touch; to soothe that need.

His hands pushed the jeans farther down, let the biker’s cock spring out at him, bobbing there, veined and dusky, demanding to be touched. His fingers surrounded the chilled skin, stroking it, wrinkles pushed towards the head then pulled tight as the silky skin moved. The rider held Shaun’s hips, pulling him close, their cocks touching. Shaun wrapped a hand around each, stroking himself with the rider, core tightening, throbbing as he humped his hips, intent on relieving the ache.

Gloved hands on his stopped him too soon, holding him in a grip that broached no argument. Pushed back to his knees, the biker stood over him legs spread, one hand still gripping his cock, dome of his head showing above the black gloves. The other glove grabbed Shaun’s short hair, yanked his mouth towards the shiny tip.

With thoughts of scrambling up, and fleeing, Shaun heaved back from the bobbing penis, hesitant to taste, to put it his lips to it; afraid to acknowledge his desire. But the heavy hand in his hair held him, prevented him from bolting, overpowering his fear. The vice in his hair jerked him forward, pressing smooth slick skin against his lips, pushing past teeth, sliding across his tongue, filled his mouth.

Leaning forward, Shaun pushed suddenly eager lips down, moving them along the shaft. The cock in his mouth jumped, thumped against his tongue and pressed against his palate. He backed off, little trails of spit glistening in the moonlight. The ridge of the head teased, rubbing as it slipped from his lips and he pushed forward again, this time sucking, his lips pursing around the cock that filled his mouth.

Memories of blow jobs received from past girlfriends ghosted through his mind. Tongue caressing under the knob of the corona, Shaun sucked harder, using his hand to surround the cool skin of the biker, twisting and gripping as he worked it. The hands in his hair pushed him farther down the shaft, till the cock was again battering at his throat.

His stomach heaved, threatened to empty, throat constricting as he struggled to catch his breath. Sucking in air, he opened his jaw, relaxing it to allow the cock to slide past, down deep in to his throat. The brush of public hair against his lips filled him with an elation that bordered on hilarity.

Dropping a hand to his own aching erection, Shaun slipped fingers through the slick precum that drained from the tip of his penis. Encircling it with lubricated fingers, he gripped it firmly, and stroked slowly, so sensitive it left starbursts under the surface with every touch.

The hands gripping his head controlled his movements demanding that he take more, and yet more again; shoved him down the shaft with a purpose and with a relentless that left his throat raw from the battering. Still the hands moved his head harder on the shaft with a fury that verged on rage.

Unable to suck, or use his lips and tongue, Shaun just focused on his breathing while the balls struck his chin. Gasped deeply, gulping in air when he could and held his breath, gagging, when he couldn't; focused on maintaining the open jaw that allowed the cock to pass into the back of his throat. His heartbeat roared, pounded in his ears, while his lungs burned as he tried to catch enough air. With each hammering assault, water spilled from his eyes to run down his face and mingle with the spittle dripping from his chin.

Unable to continue, his stomach surging, Shaun launched back from those leather legs gasping, chest heaving. The biker hauled him to his feet, running a cool finger down his cheek, through the spit that clung there, scooping it from his lips. Shaun slid his hand along his pounding, tight cock easing the throb; twinge aching deep, beyond his balls.

The hand on the back of his head forced him down, until his chest touched the heated metal of the car’s hood. His shirt, too thin to act as insulation, offered no barrier. Brushed against the paint, his nipples sent sparks along nerve endings, racing down into his very core. A boot kicked his feet apart, spreading them, and opening him up.

Cold fingers spread wetness, his own spit, on the entry to his anus; shocking through his system, awakening him to the reality of his actions.

He scrambled to stand up again, but the hand gripping his hair left him submitting to the aggression in a way he never imagined would, turning his cock to the pulsing, surging drum it was, sparking electricity through him with each brush of his hand.

Pressure at the exit made him strain forward on toe tips, forehead down on the car. Stretching, a burn that left him breathless, struggling to pull away, escape from the pain, searing through him. The tearing hurt made his eyes water anew. Then the cold knot pushed past, into him with a rush as the pain faded into a stretched full feeling.

The first descent was slow, easing in till the cold balls were snug against his ass. Pulling back, the invading cock slid smoothly, leaving him bereft, the emptiness as hard to bear as the initial breach. The next thrust gliding easier, the burn as his hole stretched easing, leaving just the tightness, the friction against his tight ring, the magnified fullness. Each stroke leaving him aching for a little more. Intensity quickly built again, plunging harder and deeper, till the biker again had resumed the fierce trusts, burying his length deep into Shaun’s ass.

Brutal fingers bit into his hips as the rider pulled him hard and fast, savagely propelling his body against the Thunderbird’s. Free hand braced against the fender, Shaun continued to beat his tingling dick, fist gripping, twisting, and sliding over the pulsing tenderness; his balls boiling.

Bites of pain emanating from the cruel fingers gripping his hips surged through his body to join the buzz that fizzled through every fiber of his being, a tingle from toes to the hair on his head. He moaned, breath hitching in his chest. Hips bucked against his fist, seeking to satisfy the relentless pulse, vaguely aware the biker was behind him pounding deeply, pumping deep into his ass.

Eyes closing, head lolling, Shaun surrendered to his own apex, feeling the weakness take his knees. Warmth ran down his hand, the pounding receded in his ears as his breath condensed on the hood. Chest rising and falling, he caught his breath, holding it, letting the pleasure course through his body.

The biker pummeled deep into his over sensitized anus, flooding his senses. Those fingers that had felt so good moments earlier, dug in painfully, pinning him, held him tight as the pummeling changed its timbre. The biker’s cock battered deep, smashing against him, hips rolling, spilling ice deep into his bowels.

Released from the grip of those harsh fingers, Shaun collapsed against the car’s bonnet, aware of his heart thudding in his chest, gasping, filling his air starved lungs. The night sounds slowly grew around him again, as his awareness spread; crickets chirping, leaves crunching.

Shaun reached through the open window to retrieve the worn tee-shirt to clean his now slack appendage. Old cotton so smooth to touch, was harsh as sandpaper on his anus. Pulled abandoned pants over aching hips and fastened the fly. Stomach knotted, he turned to his lover, aching for him to reassure, through face, expression, or words.

But the boots were already sounding loudly on the pavement in the quiet.

“Hey!” Ignoring the sharp pains that heated his ass, Shaun hurried to catch the retreating back.

“Hey, don’t leave yet.” Yet the boot clad swung back and over the bike, the helmet never turning.

“Hey! Stop!” He grabbed the soft leather of the jacket, pulled on it, tried to spin the man his way, with the same effect the breeze has on a mountain face. Reached for the chinstrap of the helmet, realizing a second too late that there was none. Nothing but fingers passing through frigid air where there should have been chin, neck, head, anything, besides the empty black helmet that crashed to ground.

Bright pain exploded in his face from his jaw snapping shut catching his tongue. His shoes remained rooted to the spot, unable to flee the terror in front of him. The wind crashed through him, leaving his name on the breeze, sung like a lament. Darkness swirled up and all was mist.


The thud as he shut the tome sounded loud enough in the library to make Thomas wince as he shoved a dogeared legal pad covered with notes into the frayed bookbag.

The Dullahan rides a headless black horse with flaming eyes, carrying his head under one arm. When he stops riding, a human dies. MacCulloch, J. A., & Machal, J. (1918). Celtic mythology,. Boston: Marshall

Fingers on the knobs of his spine, he leaned back, relieving the tension of a restless dream filled night followed by a day bent over a table studying. Gathering the bookbag over his shoulder, he crossed the parking lot to his tired Honda. The door protested as he opened it and tossed the bag behind the seat, slid behind the wheel and started the drive home.

Only available on Lush Stories. If found elsewhere please change all the radios of the thieving bastards to "soft reproduction for your elevator" music.

All my appreciation to some people who helped me explore my inner man: Milik and Lupus, also to Madame Molly for all her encouragement. <3

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © ©2011 All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in any manner, without the express permission of the author.

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