Sketch #3: On the Road (Something a bit different)

It was a long way in both directions from any gas station, and Max been in the guy’s position, his bike out of fuel, waving down at anyone who might stop and help. He needed to meet his buddies for their annual hunting trip, but they weren’t doing anything until the evening–plenty of time to pull over, give the biker a ride back to town for a five gallon tank, and get back on the road. He hauled the his truck and trailer off to the side of the road and started up his warning lights. The biker, relieved that someone had finally stopped, came around the passenger side where Max rolled down the window.

“You out of gas?”

“Yes sir,” the biker said, “Should’a stopped back there when I had the chance.” He took a puff off his cigar. Max had always liked pipes better, but something about he cigar looked right on the man’s face.

“You want a ride back to town?”

“I could just siphon some off, that would be faster.”

“Too much effort–just climb in.”

The biker looked back at his bike on the side of the road, “I really don’t want to just leave my hog out here where someone could jack it.”

“Without any gas?”

“State Patrol could tow it.”

“We’ll be back here in an hour.”

“I only need a couple of gallons–just let me syphon some. I’ll even suck, if you’re afraid of tasting some gas.”

Max rolled his eyes, but parked the truck, popped open the gas tank and climbed out to help him rig something up. They found some hose in the trailer and managed to wedge it down into the tank. Then, one second the biker was sucking on the hose, pulling out some gas, and the next, without Max really recalling how it had happened, the biker had his fly unzipped and he was sucking his cock.

Then, the biker had him slammed up against the truck, a cigar in his mouth, Max’s pants around his ankles, the biker working to find his tight hole with his spit lubed head.

“What’s…what’s your name?” Max asked.

“Why do you care?” The biker kept searching. His head caught for a sec then slipped out. He grunted in annoyance.

“I like to know a guy’s name before he fucks my hole.”


“That your real name?”


The biker got it and slid it in, Max pushing down to open up, having a harder time than usual.

“No one ever wants to give their real name.”


They were in the trailer. The syphon hadn’t worked, the biker was balls deep in Max’s ass again. It was dark out. His cell was off, he’d gotten tired of his friends calling to ask where he was.

“Done yet?”


The biker gave a few more thrusts and shot his third load into Max’s ass. He slid out quick, and then rolled Max over on to his back and wrapped his hand around his cock.


“You haven’t cum once.”

“Don’t want to.”

“You sure?”

Max pushed the biker’s hand away and sat up on the bed, and pulled his pants on. It was hard–how had he managed to get them off over his shoes in the first place?

“Let’s drive to down and get you some gas. I have places to be.”

The biker shrugged, but they got into the cab, turned around on the highway and headed back down the road, the bike hidden down in a ditch, covered by some ripped up tall grass.


They met again years later.

San Francisco. Max had come out and divorced his wife, disowned his children, followed his slutty heart, leathered up and working a booth at pride.

The biker recognized him through the tattoos–he had the same pipe in his mouth, an old relic.

They fucked again in an alley. Max let himself cum this time. It was a work in progress.

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