We'd met in passing on a porn Web site and had given each other a couple of satisfying private chat cyber fucks. Without openly asking for it, he increasingly pushed our cyber play to the kinky and S&M. His site moniker was Bigboy and mine was Viper, and it didn't take me long to figure out that he turned on to bottom and domination, which was just fine with me. I could also tell that he was very curious, if a little shy and hesitant. Chances were good he'd never gone beyond the cyber but was drawn like a moth to the whole concept of what we were cybering.
His site profile was scanty—an artist in California, claiming to be bi—but the location opened up a wealth of possibilities for me.
[Viper] Located in California, bb? North, South, Central?
[Bigboy] Central.
[Viper] Ah, profile says u're an artist. frisco then?
[Bigboy] No, farther south. even more artsy. Coast.
[Viper] must be monterey then.
(Pause)
[Viper] santa cruz myself.
(Pause)
[Bigboy] Interesting.
[Viper] yes, interesting. interested, yes?
(Pause)
[Viper] u've said u wanted to see my basement room.
(Pause for three minutes, and Bigboy signed off chat)
Three days later I was cruising the chat room and he invited me for a private chat. I was beginning to think he wouldn't contact me again, but all the time the moth was fluttering around my light.
[Bigboy] Maybe. But here in Monterey. Out on the pier.
[Viper] no. must be something u want. u have to come to me in santa cruz.
He signed off again then, and I didn't enter the chat room at all the next evening. Toward midnight, he IMed me, eagerly agreeing to come to Santa Cruz that weekend. I put him off, telling him I couldn't make it until the following weekend, although I didn't really have anything else to do. Just stringing him out; giving him line to either slither away or hook himself. He agreed to meet, and I picked out a gay biker's bar in the rough part of town, telling him what the bar was, giving him plenty of room to cut and run.
On the designated night, I tricked myself out in my leathers and black net muscle shirt that stopped short of my belly button, showing off my abs real well, and biked my Harley over to the bar. Chances were that he wouldn't show, but I'd have me a fine evening anyway.
Surprise, surprise, though. He showed. I easily picked up on him when he entered. Nice looking; good, trim, muscled bod, but nervous as hell. He saw me when I waved at him, and I saw his eyes get all big. I didn't think he was dissatisfied, just hyperventilating at the whole concept.
He came over and sat, and after establishing we were who we thought we were, we tried some small talk. From time to time, he looked like he wanted to bolt for it, and each time I asked him if he wanted to leave alone, but he set his jaw and said no. He told me that his life had become just so boring in the sex department and he needed to give it a jolt start. I told him I could do that—and he had no idea how close to reality my plans were to do that—but that where we could go from here wasn't going to be for the fainthearted. He swallowed hard and asked me if I was going to show him my basement. I told him, no, not this time—and his body seemed to deflate as if he'd worked himself up for nothing. But I went on to say that I thought he might like to see my garage instead tonight. Asked him if doing it tied up and on my Harley appealed to him, and I felt his thigh tremble under my hand.
Out in the parking lot, he climbed onto the bike behind me. When we started off, he was sitting well behind me and having a hard time figuring out where to put his hands, but I upped my speed and his pelvis was soon plastered tight against mine and he had to wrap his arms around my bare, steely midsection to keep from flying off the bike. I could tell he was excited by what I could feel snaking up the small of my back and getting harder as it rubbed up against me.
We sped through the town and back out into a more disserted area in the dust- and sagebrush-covered hills and pulled up short in front of the large corrugated, isolated garage building I kept to work on my cars and bikes. I zapped the high entry door open, and then zapped it closed again when we had driven into the building. The same zapping turned on the industrial-strength lights hanging from the rafters well above our heads. I ran the cycle right up to a clearing in the middle, under some gymnastic arm rings suspended from an overhead beam. I stopped the bike there and kicked down the kick stand as I hopped off. Bigboy, who I had learned was really named Roy—or at least had chosen for me to know him by this name—sat on the cycle, scoping out the surroundings in the brightly lit garage, as I went over to the side and picked up a pile of leather material and tossed it at him.
