For my own amusement I dreamed up a 10,000 word story about the 'Mechanic' character in Joe T's picture, and the leather biker he has decided to have some fun with.
THE MECHANIC'S TALE
His skill soon earned him a reputation when it came to getting the most out of any bike.
‘Fierce’ was the word guys in-the-know would use to describe his abilities – but it also described his reputation for not taking any shit from anybody.
When he’d first landed up in this one-horse town six weeks ago he was in no mood to make friends. His Harley had been almost wrecked when a truck ran him off the road. The local Sheriff’s office had given him a seriously hard time, refusing to file his complaint against the three young guys in the truck. They were ‘kin’ and he was a stranger, a New Yorker and travelling in well-worn bike leathers and scuffed Engineer boots – so, somebody to be suspicious of.
Without the cash to buy necessary parts, he’d been lucky to get work of any sort.
The owner of a run-down old auto repair shop had grudgingly allowed him to store his battered bike and sleep above the office of the crumbing business. Being something of a drunk, Old Gus, as he was known, had let the garage go to seed. He was content to sit in the office with his cronies and shoot the breeze. More often than not, the ‘Gone Fishing’ sign had been on the door before the advent of this out-of-towner.
His arrival had cause a bit of a stir in the close-knit community. After his initial brush with the local law and the three town-kids in the truck, Brad, as he was now known (the name Bradzinski being too much to handle for the deputy who was first to cross his path), was given a wide birth around the town. He’d stopped going to the local bar. Not so much because he was broke and eager to pay-off the cost of new parts for his bike, but because a few young local heroes thought he was somebody they could challenge with impunity. Half the town, it seemed, was related to somebody who worked for the Sheriff’s Office.
Old Gus had put word around that his new garage hand was good with bikes, but there weren’t many bikes worthy of the name in the locality. Between the shitty auto-repair jobs which were about all that came in, Brad did get asked if he would tune or tinker with a few clapped-out dirt bikes and muddied-up off-road bikes. Glad of the cash on the side – these chores he’d done outside the hours Gus was paying for, and with a minimum of conversation.
Word was certainly getting around, and some of the locals had brought work in to him more out of curiosity than need. Content to be known as Brad – the mechanic (who back in the City was known as Pete) had deliberately refused to give out any information about himself. He was going to be out of there as soon as he could, so was not interested in the women who’d eyed him up, the young hick kids or even the humpy workers from the local gravel pits. All had tried to open conversations with ‘Brad the Hell’s Angel’ in the local diner which was the only place in town to eat. Consequently, he was generally viewed with a mix of suspicion and resentment.
As crap days go it had been the worst so far. At seven in the morning a shitty, clapped-out truck arrived to get working better for a drinking crony of the Boss. The patch-up job was a waste of time, and forget any kind of tip or even a ‘Thank you’. Then the usual back-log of clogged carburettors, leaking gas tanks and finally a disintegrating muffler almost inaccessible under a filthy chassis with a leaking sump.
His borrowed coveralls stank of oil and grease and were sticking to his butt, and he’d dribbled sump oil all over the old-fashioned canvas baseball boots he worked in. But the spares he needed to repair his wrecked Harley had arrived. In the dreary weeks he’d been trapped in this hick town he’d earned enough to cover their cost. If he pitched in tonight and all weekend, he could reassemble his bike and be back in civilisation in two or three days.
As usual around mid afternoon Old Gus, after sleeping off his lunchtime booze, had wandered off for the rest of the day. Casually, as he was leaving, the old man announced he wouldn’t be in tomorrow - because he had an important engagement down by the river. Pete was relieved – because now he could put all the effort into his own bike. He’d more than earned his keep for Gus that day and even tomorrow.
As he cleaned up the space around the bike-stand which he’d rigged for more comfortable working, he cleared back the welding gear and a pile of old truck inner tubes. In happier times these would have stirred his imagination. He’d once even cobbled together a sort of strait-jacket out of whole sections of heavy rubber inner tubes. More like a suit of armour. The smell and feel, the weight and sweat it had generated had been awesome. He and a couple of buddies in younger days had done some serious stuff with challenges that involved endurance. Even today he wondered if he should cut a couple of the tyres into a new set of broad heavy black rubber strips. Cut from the curved inerr-tubes like a spiral, these were great for mummification or for bodybands which had strength but enough give to make them interesting to fight against – or watch somebody else fight against. But the garage had a stash of heavy-duty black rubber clip-on bungee cords, the sort with ‘S’ hooks on either end. Useful for holding something firm while working on it. Also good for fixing stuff onto the back of a bike. When he left, he’d take a few with him. No knowing when and how they might be useful when he was back with his buddies in the City.
The sound of a Harley somewhere close by made him listen. He knew who it was because although new, it was badly tuned. At first he’d wanted to get his hands on it, just to make it run sweeter – but the prick who’d so recently taken delivery of it was a total tosser. Foreman of one of the gangs at the gravel pits, his father actually owned the site. So, thirty something and divorced, he thought he was God’s gift to any local female – and wasn’t above casting his eye over the young kids who hung around the local see-and-be-seen spots.
Big Dunk (Duncan, for God’s sake), was over-paid because of his family connections, and something of a bully with the guys who worked for him. As a local Romeo he also spent a lot of time at the local gym (owned by a cousin). It paid off, because he was built like a brick shit house – and he knew it. His kid brother was one of the three in the truck that started all Pete’s problems, and ‘Dunk’ had gone head-to-head with Pete during his first hours in town. In fact, yet another of Dunk’s cousins was a Deputy in his uncle the sheriff’s department. There was a time when Big Dunk might also have gone into the police, but he could earn more money and would eventually own the gravel pits.
The new Harley Classic Special had appeared on the scene shortly after Pete’s wreck. No doubt about it, it was a deliberate gesture of contempt for Pete, and the whole town knew it. Same with the new leathers; Dunk was suddenly strutting around town in immaculate, expensive leathers from Langlitz and knee-high boots which Pete recognised as Wesco ‘Boss’ 20 inch hi-leg. The top-of-the-range jacket, armoured pants, vest and even chaps if you please had been paraded deliberately when Pete was on his way to or from the diner or grocery store. Big Dunk’s cronies sniggered as openly as they dared, but Pete knew he could not win – so didn’t play their games.
The sad-sounding Harley continued to putter around nearby streets, but Pete set his mind on unpacking his newly arrived replacement parts. He would spend every waking hour fixing his own Hog and get the hell out of this hick town. He thought of the buddies back in Queens, and the satisfaction he got from the games he played with them; games which would have made some of the local studs he’d noticed in passing, piss their pants or cum in their jeans. He didn’t know which and wasn’t interested in finding out.
All set to drag the dismantled remains of his old Harley (what model???) out onto the clamp-stand, he heard the noisy bike stop outside the garage. That prick Dunk surely wouldn’t ask his help after the part he’d played in fucking him over at the Sheriff’s office? Was he just pulling a power-play, because he knew Pete was eager for extra cash to get his own bike back on the road? The mechanic waited as he heard the clump of new boots somewhere just out of sight of the big old garage doors.
When Big Dunk made his appearance, the street-wise Pete had to suppress an embarrassed smile. At home his buddies would have unleashed a chorus of cat-calls and wolf-whistles. This wanna’be Biker, in his shiny new pants and big butch boots was stripped to the waist except for the skimpiest of leather vests. Not that his well-defined torso wasn’t a sight to make some hearts flutter (both male and female), but the contrived image complete with freshly groomed short-cropped hair and pristine bike gear provoked something near to pity in the experienced biker. But, what happened next removed any sense of anything but rising anger.
This prick, this small-town big-man, this power-conscious, image-conscious jerk … smiled a not particularly believable smile and told Pete that Old Gus had said that any work that needed to be done on his new machine could be done immediately. So, would Pete take a look at the brakes which weren’t acting ‘just right’.
Pete kept his cool and behaved as employees are supposed to behave to a well-connected customer. It was close to closing time and he’d take a look at it in the morning, he said.
Still smiling the customer replied “Right now”, and after a tense silence the mechanic said ‘No’ – to which the customer did not reply immediately. He glanced around at the wreck of the old Harley waiting to be repaired and his smile, if anything, became brighter.
“I thought you were eager for work so you can get what’s left of your bike back on the road. I know you blame me, or at least my kid brother, for your problems. Well, I’m here to offer opportunity for you to earn some extra pennies by doing me just a little favour” .. and still Pete didn’t spring forward and crack the guy’s head open with a wrench.
“Thanks – but no thanks,” said the mechanic carefully, “There’s other jobs on the books before I can do anything for you. Sorry.”
“Do anything for me?” asked the still smiling would-be customer. He flexed his hard-to-ignore pecs and apparently unintentionally, rolled his flat abdomen which made the crotch of the tight leather pants make a noticeable thrust. “What would you like to do for me? – or to me?” An edge on the voice warned of danger and a determination to exercise his advantage. He continued:
“Word is out around town that you’ve been less than friendly to some of our more favoured females who might have liked to get to know you better. I hope you’re not one of the them Paedophiles or whatever? By whatever, I mean the sort of man who might be a danger to the younger guys in our community. But I’m sure not. I’ve heard good things about the work you’ve done for two or three of my workers. Well, now it’s time for their Boss to sample your skills”.
He held the mechanic’s eye and dared him to hold out against him. Electricity crackled in the air between the two men.
“I can be a useful person to have as a friend around this town,” Dunk smiled, “ … as you’ve already discovered. I think if you could be persuaded to co-operate on this, it could be very rewarding – in one way or another,” he added with an air of deliberate ambiguity.
“In what way?” asked the mechanic, trying to keep the grim edge out of his voice.
“Like free use and access to the gym down the street. My cousin owns it and I know he’d love to have you spend time there – working up a sweat. One or two of the other regulars have expressed an interest in your capabilities in a work-out room”. The smoothness of tone ended in an abrupt, “Fix the fucking bike!”
Instead of strangling him Pete moved towards the door grimly, saying “What’s wrong with it?” It almost choked him to walk up to this latest model Heritage Springer - classic styling, exposed-spring front suspension, fishtail mufflers, wide white-walls, twin-cam 88B engine - all the accessories including studded leather saddle-bags for fuck's sake! All shining and unscratched on it’s side-stand like it was still in the showroom.
“Brakes. Just need a little adjustment.”
“Is that all? Isn’t that something you can do?” asked Pete, genuinely surprised.
“I’m the sort of person who’d rather pay others to do things, rather than get my hands dirty – if you know what I mean.” The remark was loaded and both men knew it. Pete knelt in front of the front wheel.
“Grip the brake,” he instructed.
Slowly and smiling, Dunk walked to the bike, spread his impressive bi-and-tri-ceps outwards from his chest until the leather vest almost disappeared into his armpits. Gripping the right handlebar he leaned sideways across the bike keeping his thrusting chest towards Pete – all the time smiling down at him.
Aware of this, the mechanic kept his attention on the brake disc. “Just needs bleeding” he said, without looking up into the smug eyes above the deliberately expanded chest.
“Brad. Brad! … that is the name your known by here, isn’t it? I’d much rather you do it for me” purred the determined challenger. Releasing his grip on the bike, he stood full height and moved so that the crotch of his leather pants was directly in front of the kneeling mechanic’s face.
At this moment Pete knew he was lost. This man would push his advantage all the way – and so he yielded. He dropped his eyes and said “OK,” determined not to witness the gleam of triumph in his opponent’s eyes. “Wheel the bike into the workshop, I’ll help you guide it onto the clamp-stand.”
Walking into the garage the mechanic left the biker to collapse the foot-stand and wheel the bike into the shaded workshop. The neat little steel ramp on which a bike could be clamped firm without damaging it, stood ready.
As Pete turned to a tool rack he instructed “Front wheel comes through the stand and then the back clamp flips up to hold it steady. See the lock?”
“Got it” said Big Dunk as Pete turned with a small wrench in one hand, and knelt again before the front wheel. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind sitting astride, you can flex as I test the cable.” – and Dunk flexed.
As he approached the bike he flexed his arms and chest and abdomen. Before lifting one heavily leathered leg and boot over the bike he flexed his knees for the benefit of the kneeling mechanic. His shining crotch arched as his knee settled him astride the gleaming bike.
“These are new,” he said “but the guy at Langlitz advised buying them tight so they can wear in.” He hitched the heavy belt at the low waist. “Tight!” he said as he thrust a hand down inside the pants and adjusted his tackle, smiling down knowingly at Pete as he did it.
This time Pete didn’t look away. “I bet the leather feels good” he conceded.
“It all feels good,” glowed the man in the saddle, running his hands over shiny thighs and stretching the heavy cleated boots forward because the bike stand now held everything rigid. “These are great, aren’t they. Lot of lustful looks when these are out on Main Street, I can tell you.”
A boot edged it’s way in the direction of Pete’s knee. “Just feel the quality of those soles – and those buckles. Go on – feel them?”
Embarrassed, Pete reached out with one hand and laid it on the toecap of a boot. The wearer shifted the other boot forward until both were stretched either side of the front wheel. He had to lean back to push the boots forward. He gripped the pillion and lifted his hips slightly, the leather creaking against the saddle and the leathered legs and boots reached towards the kneeling mechanic. Pete deliberately put down the wrench, and his other hand reached for the other boot. His two grimy hands now felt around the feet and sole of the unscuffed boots.
“Don’t they feet great!” insisted Dunk as he brought his hands forward and slid them down his leather legs to his knees. Pete’s hands moved from the ankles of the boots up their long, tough leather length to where two pairs of buckles held them tight above the calves. Dunk’s hands moved towards the boots and Pete, seemingly without intention, kept his hands just out of reach of the seated biker.
“When I first saw you and your bike, I realised that was something I wanted to have. A bike and leathers. Never given it any serious thought before; a bike and biking buddies. Not that there’s many likely candidates in this sad town. I guess you hang out with some weird characters where you live. New York is it?”
“Queens” said Pete, seeming to accept this questioning.
“Yes. Bradzinski, was it? Bradzinski – Queens. Yes. My cousin showed me the file. Police always run a check on anybody involved in a local ‘accident’. He was quite impressed by your record. Not that it matters to me, of course – but it’s not something to get noised around the town. Your secret’s safe with me,” he smiled.
The mechanic considered his options – and his hands stayed on the boots as he raised his gaze directly into the eyes of the other man.
“You like the idea of Big City bikers – taking no shit from anybody – getting into fights with other bike gangs and spick punks. Hell’s Angels – but not angels at all, right. You like the idea of ruthless hard-men who obey no rules – welcome a no holds barred rough and tumble?
The thick boot ankles squirmed at the thought, and the shirtless man leaned forward across the handlebars, seeming to consider how to continue. “Tough – streetwise - ex-con” he said, eyes locked with those of the kneeling man. “I like to know who I’m dealing with – and I’m used to bringing the best out in the men around me. Demanding the best effort. The gang who work the gravel with me know how to knuckle under, believe me. If you play your cards right, Bradzinski, I could make the rest of your stay in this township … shall we say, interesting.”
Pete slowly removed his hands from the other man’s boots – and rubbed them on his own oil-stained thighs, thoughtfully. “I’m sure you could,” he said quietly. Then, he licked his lips and seemed to reach a decision about the possibilities on offer. He nodded, and repeated “I’m sure you could … ” but his sentence seemed to be left hanging in the air, somehow incomplete - and the other man picked up the hint.
“On you’re first day here in the Sheriff’s Office, you were calling my cousin Jake, sir. You kept your cool very well. I would think you’re not used to calling people, sir ... except in jail.”
“That took a great effort, calling that dip-shit deputy, sir.” Pete’s eyes held those of the man towering above him. And after a pause Dunk allowed himself a smile.
“Yes, Jake is something of a dip-shit – but more likely to get his shit-dipped into – if you follow me. When we were kids I was always the one making the running. Play your cards right … Brad … and we might have some high-old times together. Strictly on my terms, you understand. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how I like it. Are you gonna fix that fucking brake?”
“Yes, sir!” said Pete with sudden resolution, “I’m going to fix everything.”
Big Dunk sat back, satisfied and Pete, after a brief pause, turned his attention back to the brake disc. “This operation might put a bit of strain on that vest,” he said suddenly, looking up – “ … being so tight . Might be better without it?” The upward inflection made it a respectful question.
Holding the mechanic’s eyes, the seated figure eased his way out of the skimpy vest; not an easy move as brawny arms both strained back to drag the vest off square shoulders. Big Dunk knew the full expanse of chest viewed from the worm’s eye view must look impressive. He took his time – while the kneeling man maintained his subservient attitude. Pete then reached up, offering to take the vest.
As it was passed down to him he took it, almost reverently. Folding the silk lining inside until only leather showed, then folding it smaller – he slowly pressed the leather to his face to smell it as the seated figure looked down on him.
“Smells good – leather” said the mechanic, putting the vest aside before getting down to the real business at hand.
“Now … sir … ” he began, “I need you to grip the two grips … please.”
The naked torso spread wide to take firm grips on the two rubber sheaths. The mechanic watched with what seemed to be appreciation.
“Now flex the front brake trigger - please.” Pete’s eyes went down to the brake disc. “Flex it again – now stop – now – firmer grip on both grips - really lock your palms round them – like you were giving somebody a really good time.” The kneeling man smiled up, and the seated man enjoyed the sensation at his fingertips. “Now, can you see this bleed cap?” asked the mechanic? … and Dunk leaned his naked chest flat down across the tank to peer over the handlebars. “Keep your hands on both grips” instructed Pete, “and keep an eye down here,” he insisted, pointing between the front calliper. “Shit, I need a smaller wrench – don’t let go - and keep your eye on that bleed valve.”
Dunk did precisely as told, and so he didn’t see the thick bungee strap with hooks on either end on until the tough rubber was down across the back of his neck, under the headlamp and back up again, dragging his chest tight against the bike; his thick neck pulled down by the industrial strength rubber and steel hooks.
His hands, still gripping the handlebars were now higher than his chest, elbows even higher and well bent. In his shock, it took time to release his grip and start to feel for the hooks that held the bungee cord in place. This delay allowed just enough time for Pete to start wrapping another bungee cord around elbows, as hands groped blindly for the hooks holding the neck. Elbows were soon forced together and being dragged down behind the naked back. Three wraps, and still the rubber strip was long enough to hook the two hooks low on the bike frame, one on one side and the other on the opposite side. A third strip of rubber soon held the waist tight to the saddle and Big Dunk was belly down, ass up and legs too disoriented to do any damage. The clamp-stand held the bike firm and three simple bungee straps held the powerful wanna’be biker strapped to his own machine.
His yelling and cursing went unnoticed by the mechanic, who was busy hauling first one and then the other high-legged boot forward to anchor them to the fork over the front wheel. Rising from his knees, he was now in a position to survey his handiwork. He was turned on,.watching the writhing form, the flexing straps which promise hope of escape but always draged the naked body back down against the bike. The uncomfortable position of legs forward and chest forward and arms pinioned backwards, inescapable even without the wrists fixed was all great to watch. Pete took time to savour the situation – and speculate on how he would respond if it were happening to him. There had been times …
But the mechanic dragged his mind back to the present, and walked calmly away to the workbench. Dunk strained his head upwards against the rubber to yell “What the fuck you think … ” but he stopped at the sight of the roll of wide duct tape in Pete’s hands. Desperately he struggled as he felt one wrist being circled. But strain as he might, he could not see to evade the winding of the tape. With elbows tightly pinioned it was no contest, however much he tried to resist. Wrists were soon solidly bound together by the unbreakable tape.
Dunk’s mouth had not been as busy during this battle of the wrists, but now he was ready to open his mouth wide and recommence his yelling … when the crotch of Pete’s greasy coveralls loomed close to his face. A hand lifted his chin painfully against the tug of the double rubber strap which dragged his neck downwards. The crotch pressed closer to the angry face, which was then slowly and deliberately embedded into the fabric and whatever lay beneath. After a couple of provocative thrusts, the crotch drew back and a voice from on high said quietly:
“Now is the time to keep quiet, Duncan.”
But Big Dunk was in no mood to keep quiet. He opened his mouth to speak and it was immediately filled with a small ball of some kind and tape was circling his jaw and chin and around the back of his head.
“Oh, Duncan, Duncan, you pushed your luck and your luck ran out.”
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