Bikers (Part 2)


by cpboy <533@v-wave.com>

That Saturday morning, five days after my session with Reggie's strap, I peered anxiously into the mirror at my bum. I had a small bruise on my right cheek. Other than that, nothing remained of the whipping Dad had given me - nothing but the memory of it, that is. That part was still vivid, burned into my brain like the red welts he'd branded onto my ass. The welts had faded, but the memory still stung.

Surprisingly, Dad had given Reggie permission to take me with him on his ride with the Hell's Punishers. I hadn't had the nerve to ask for permission, feeling sure that the answer would be no. On Thursday, after several hesitant attempts to broach the subject with Dad, I told Reg that maybe it would be best if he asked instead, since I was probably still in the doghouse. He replied, "Rubish! You know he doesn't hold a grudge. Once your lickin' is over, it's done with, gone, forgotten...well, maybe not forgotten. You just don't have the balls to ask him." I was trapped. I had to get permission, or I couldn't go. I couldn't ask for permission because I was afraid the answer would be no. When I admitted this to my brother, he snorted, saying, "Don't be stupid, of course he'll let you go. He knows you won't get into any trouble with us."
I was incredulous. "He'll let me go with a motorcycle gang because he knows I won't get into trouble?"
"Hell yes," was Reggie's dismissive reply. "Butch Redner is one of Dad's best friends, and he's the leader of the gang. He knows Butch won't let you do anything stupid."

This had been a shocking revelation. I had never dreamed that Dad would associate with a guy like Butch Redner. When I thought of Dad, I pictured him in an expensive suit, negotiating corporate deals at a _c_o_c_k_tail party. Leather vests, chaps, and Harleys didn't come to mind at all. Now that I thought about it, though, it occured to me that Dad would look awfully good in a few chains and a little leather. I had seen him in swimming trunks every summer of my life, lounging by the pool in the back yard, diving from the high board, pulling himself easily out of the water with well-muscled arms. As he broke away from the surface, the water would seem to comb down the black hair on his chest and stomach, flattening it to a smooth, shiny coat. At times like that, it pointed like an arrow to the bulge in his trunks. When it dried afterwards in the sun, it would curl, forming a thick matt on his enormous pecs. When he wasn't by the pool, he was hidden in a suit, handsome, but not what I thought of as _s_e_x_y.

I had never seen him naked, until about a month ago. The shower in his master bedroom had sprung a leak. The pipes needed to be replaced, and the plumber said it would take several days. Dad moved his well-labelled toiletries down the hall into the bathroom that Reg and I share. The next morning, as I stumbled from my room, pyjamad and yawning, he strode from our bathroom rubbing his hair with a towel. My mouth was open for a yawn, and it stayed open as he walked past and into his bedroom. When it occured to me that I had inherited at least some of his genes, I was never so grateful for anything in my life.

I thought about this as I chose the clothes I would wear for the my first ride with the Hell's Punishers. Picking through my closet, I aimed for something that would show off my body, a smaller, younger version of Dad's brawny masculinity: black jeans that hugged my ass and crotch, leather boots, black tee shirt with the sleeves torn out. Surveying the effect in the mirror, I decided a little colour wouldn't hurt. I rummaged through my dresser until I found a light red handkerchief (dark pink, really, but there's no way I'll admit to that in public). I stuffed it into my right rear pocket and turned my ass to the mirror. The handkerchief made an unsightly lump on my right ass cheek, so I folded it carefully and slid it in so that just a corner protruded. Much better.

Reg hollered up the stairs, "Hurry up, Mike, or I'm going without you!" I ran down and followed him out to the driveway. He handed me a helmet, mounted the Harley, and revved it up. I climbed on behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, just like I'd seen it done in the movies. Turning his head to shout at me over the racket, he yelled, "Just relax and move with me." I nodded and nearly fell off the back as we squealed out of the driveway.

It took a while to get the hang of leaning into the curves. Then I didn't have to think about it any more and began to enjoy the excitement. The wind tore at my face, and the ground rushed by, and I soon forgot the soreness Dad had thrashed into my bum.

We pulled up at a doughnut shop on the outskirts of town and parked at the end of a long row of bikes. As I removed my helmet, I could see Butch Redner sitting at a table by the window. His hands were wrapped around a large coffe mug, and he was laughing with a bunch of the other guys. When we entered the shop and approached his table, he welcomed me aboard then looked around, saying, "I guess that's everyone then, is it? Let's head for the hills, boys!"

We followed him out and mounted our bikes. I counted ten drivers on ten Harleys. Six of them, including my brother, carried a passenger latched like a knapsack onto their backs. We tore off in a great roar of muscle-engine and headed down the highway into the country. The men rode in paired formation behind their leader. Reg and I brought up the rear. After an hour or so, Butch swerved off onto a gravel road, and the others eased into single file and followed. My brother had never told me just what it was the gang did on their weekend jaunts. From some comments he had made to Dad at the dinner table, I knew they sometimes raised money for charity. Orphanages, hospital foundations, the SPCA, and the Wild Goose Bird Sanctuary had all apparently benefitted from their functions. I had never asked what they did to raise the money, although it had occured to me, once, to ask why they bothered. On that occasion, Dad had given me such a glare that I had never dared mention it again. Now I was curious. I yelled at Reg, "Where are we going?"
He hollered back, "You'll see."

We slowed and pulled into a narrow lane, a long driveway lined with tall trees. At the end was an old farmhouse, and we dismounted beside its long verandah. As Butch strode past me toward the steps, he clapped me on the back and said, "Welcome to our little clubhouse, Mike."
I smiled, said "Thanks," and followed Reg into the house behind the leader.

Butch told me to follow him to the kitchen and give him a hand. With what, I wasn't sure. He pulled a couple of cases of beer from the refrigerator and told me to pass them around to the guys. I carried the cases to the living room and handed out bottles to the men, then took some to the guys lounging on the verandah. The conversation seemed to be centered around some sort of event scheduled for that evening. I wanted to ask Reg about it, but he was nowhere in sight, so I went back to the kitchen and asked Butch. He looked at me for a moment then replied, "Reg didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Well," he said, "it's a monthly event we organize, sort of like a walk-a-thon. We get people to sponsor us. Reg is our best money-maker. He's never pulled in less than a hundred dollars yet."
"I see." Of course I didn't see at all. But I didn't want to sound naive, so I changed the topic and asked him about his bike. He was making sandwiches, and I helped him while we chatted.

Later on, when all the sandwiches had been consumed, and the men sat around the living room, Butch looked at his watch and announced, "The sponsors should start arriving in another hour. Time to start the warmups."
Reg and I were sitting crossed-legged on the floor with four other younger guys. They all stood up and began stripping off their clothes. Paying no attention to me at all, Reg bared himself and walked over to one of the men. To my utter amazement, he draped himself across the man's lap and said, "Ready." The man rubbed his bum for a while then brought his hand down with a firm smack onto his right cheek. I heard another smack behind me and turned to see another boy bared for spanking across a lap. All five boys were getting their asses tanned.

A man near me said, "Mike. Don't you want to get warmed up?"
Butch replied for me, "He doesn't have a sponsor."
"Hell!" exclaimed the man. "I'll sponsor him!"
"So will I," said another from across the room. The rush for sponsorship spread through the room, and before I had a chance to even think about what they were saying, I had eight sponsors.

Butch said, "That's the same number as your brother, Mike. You think you can take him on?"
Reg looked up from the floor and said, "Ha! That'll be the day!"
I didn't know how this worked, but there was no way in hell I was going to let Reg get the better of me. "Sure," I said. "What do I do?"
"First of all," replied Butch, "you take off your clothes and get over my lap. I'll explain the rules to you while I'm warming you up."

Butch was a big man. I had always thought he was a little on the overweight side, but when I lay over his lap he was as hard as rock. His hand felt heavy on my ass as he rubbed my cheeks, slapping every now and then, lightly, not hurting. It felt good, actually - not at all like what I was used to from Dad. He explained to me that what they had planned for the evening was a spank-a-thon. Every sponsor I had would pay a penny for every smack I took from a hand. To emphasise his point, he brought his hand down with a resounding crack on my right cheek. I stifled a yelp.
"Every smack with a leather paddle," he said, whipping his hand down onto my left cheek, "earns five cents."
"Aaaii... see."
The spanking grew harder and faster as he continued, "You get ten cents," *crack* "per lick," *crack* "with a wooden paddle," *crack* "or hairbrush." *crack* "Got that so far?" *crack*
"Oooooh, yes."
"Good." *crack* "Fifteen for belt or," *crack* "razor strap."
He lit into my butt with a flurry of hard spanks. I moaned as the sting grew. "Tweny-five,' he said, "for a heavy punishment strap." Then he rubbed my cheeks, saying, "Fifty cents for every stroke with a cane, crop, or whip." He started spanking me again, spreading my cheeks to make sure he had covered every bit of skin. Then he spanked the back of my legs, told me to spread them wide, and covered the inside of the thigh nearest him with stinging, hard slaps. Another man walked over and did the same with my other thigh. The burning between my legs was almost unbearable, and I started to whimper. "We're almost done, boy," said Butch. "A few more minutes and you'll be warm as toast."

When I stood up again, I looked around at a room of smiling faces. Six boys now stood in front of the ten men. Our asses glowed bright pink from the waist to the back of the knee. Butch reached out and ran his fingers over my tingling backside, saying, "Yep. You should be able to take a lot now. If I know your Dad as well as I think I do, you'll be ready to take quite a lot indeed! Maybe tonight he'll sponsor you, himself."
"What?"


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