Pete knew this man would push his advantage all the way - and so he
controlled his feelings. "OK," he said as he walked back into
the garage, determined not to witness the gleam of triumph in his opponent's
eyes. "Wheel the bike in. I'll help you guide it onto the clamp-stand."
Left to collapse the side-stand and wheel the bike into the shaded workshop,
Dunk followed to where the neat little steel ramp on which a bike could
be clamped firm without damaging it, stood ready.
Pete instructed "Front wheel comes through the stand and then the
back clamp flips up to hold it all steady. See the lock?"
"Got it" said Big Dunk as Pete knelt before the front wheel
to firm the second clamp.
"Now," said the mechanic with careful politeness, "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 naked chest and abdomen
under the leather vest.
Then 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 he settled 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, thrusting 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"
"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 toe-cap
of a boot. The wearer shifted the other boot forward until both were
stretched along the ramp, either side of the clamped 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 scooped saddle,
and the leathered legs and boots reaching towards the kneeling mechanic.
Pete deliberately put down the wrench he was holding, 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 strapped 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 slid down his legs towards the boots and Pete, seemingly
without intention, kept his hands just out of reach of the seated biker.
Dunks voice was silky smooth. "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. Leokazowski, was it? Leokazowski - 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 and said
carefully,"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 Dunk leaned forward
across the handlebars, and the voice was deliberately challenging. "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, Leo-whatever-your-fucking-name-is, 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.
and repeated thoughtfully, "I'm sure you could
his sentence seemed to be deliberately left hanging in the air, somehow
incomplete - and the other man picked up the hint and nodded.
"Yes. On your 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."
Pete's eyes held those of the man towering above him as he risked ...
"Yes, that took a great effort, calling that dip-shit deputy, sir."
After a pause Dunk allowed himself a smile. "Cousin 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
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
"Yes, sir!" said Pete with sudden resolution, "I'm going
to fix everything."
sat back, satisfied and Pete, after a thoughtful pause, turned his attention
back to the brake disc ... before looking back up into the expectant
" he began tentatively, "What
I need is for you to grip the two grips
The brawny arms 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 real 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?
leaned his 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
"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 until the tough rubber was down across the
back of his neck, around under the headlamps 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 leather-covered 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 deep-scoop 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 dragged the powerful 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
head. 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 by 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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