Tag: downlow

Lance is an accountant who just bought his first motorcycle, so he’s hanging out at a biker bar. That means when an alpha biker named Banner comes to him with an intriguing offer, Lance is ready to do what he wants.

So Lance is in for another exciting episode of Twink on Top!

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Lance was unsure about Lipsweet before he walked in. It had a reputation as a rough joint. Someone was stabbed here a couple months ago, it was in all the papers. Walking into a biker bar — the toughest biker bar in Abilene, he had heard — sounded like a bad idea. When he was a young man, Lance would have done that in a heartbeat. Did do it, and a bunch of similar things. He waltzed into a legendary yakuza bar in Tokyo once. Walked right out when the pinkie-less man with the neck tats said gaijin weren’t allowed.
But middle age was looming nearer and nearer with every passing day for Lance. He was a married man. He still looked young enough, but he was seeing and feeling the signs of his age. There were strands of hair in his sink. He woke up at night to pee sometimes. Many times. All the time. He woke up to pee many times all the time. He started getting sleepy at like nine o’clock. He felt young right up until he realized he had been feeling like an old man for months.
That was why Lance was not interested in playing it safe anymore. The rough-and-tumble biker bar didn’t phase him. He bought a motorcycle on a whim and found that he loved it — once he actually figured out how to ride it. That was why he had come to Lipsweet, the most notorious biker bar in Abilene. The rumbling of the engine beneath his body made him feel young again; it reminded him of when he had first started going to raves, before he met Juliet — his wife — and this bar felt like the perfect place for him, like he had been constructed just for it.
At some point he stopped feeling that way dancing to electronic music, but he kept going. He wasn’t a drug user, which was part of what made him not really fit in at raves. He liked the music, and he liked the dancing, but he didn’t do ny of the increasingly diverse bouquet of drugs the others did. The people he came up with became burnouts and losers, scrounging up dollars for a hit of chemicals with street names like love and ecstasy and oneness. They’re named after the things they don’t provide.
So he bought a motorcycle, and he felt young all over again. It was hot and firm, rumbling, like an extension of his cock, an industrial, gasoline-gulping manhood that sprayed speed and smog in equal measures. He felt bigger and stronger as soon as he sat on that leather seat. Nobody knew he was a mere accountant.
Going to Lipsweet seemed natural when sitting on the bike. Everyone knew it was the biker bar — or one of the major biker bars in Abilene, which was a biker town. Lipsweet was controlled by the Jagged Right. Lance didn’t have any gang connections, but he bought the motorcycle at a Jagged Right-connected dealership. Or maybe that was just a marketing trick, but it worked, and anyway, the salesman had a Jagged Right tattoo.
He felt like a real biker as he actually walked in to Lipsweet, amid a sea of sweaty biceps and tattered black leather jackets, smell of engine oil and gun grease lingering in the air. As the rumble of the motorcycles doing circuits outside faded from his ears, Lance felt weak and insecure all over again, like an old man at a rave he wasn’t invited to.
It was a good thing he didn’t go to raves any more. He’d look like an out-of-place old fool. At least bikers aged without aging out.
“Chug it! Chug it!”
“Double whissshkey, straight up.”
After some initial awkwardness, Lance began to fit in. A few drinks helped, and he gulped them down quick enough to impress anyone watching and quick enough to get tipsy right away. He liked to drink, and that was all the bikers here seemed to care about. They ignored him at first, like they thought he was an undercover cop. But when he didn’t ask anyone for drugs, they gradually warmed up to him, and the alcohol helped loosen Lance up,
Soon enough he was a chatty Cathy with all the bikers, and he started to learn everyone’s name. They were really pretty nice and welcoming once you got to know them. He learned that that salesman he bought the motorcycle from was a real Jagged Right.
Lance was good at chugging, which helped him to fit in. He downed beers like he did it regularly, which he did, years ago. Juliet — Lance’s wife — would not allow him to chug beers now. She wouldn’t even want him drinking beers you could chug. She only bought fancy white wine and occasionally, for Lance, expensive German beer or “bitters” from England. You ever had bitters? It’s like beer but disgusting, truly revolting stuff. Juliet didn’t see any point in doing anything unless it was status-raising, that was the problem.
The blistering hard rock on the jukebox and the chatter filling the air meant a lot of them barely noticed him in the first place. He chugged beers alongside them, and they clapped him on the back. They fell over each other to offer help with his new bike.
But Lance was simply glad to be accepted. His bike was brand-new and didn’t really need anything right now, though he was certainly glad to have made about a dozen new mechanic-friends. Maintaining a motorcycle could get expensive.
“More beer for the new man!”
“Chug it! Chug it!”
He had no sooner finished chugging his latest beer when the bar was distracted by a fight. One leather-clad biker punched another, for reasons unclear to Lance — something to do with a girl, he suspected, which was always a good bet when bikers were fighting. Maybe disrespect, maybe something motorcycle-related. The others immediately chanted for more. Fight! Fight! Fight! Lance felt a twinge of desire at the sight of the two big guys fighting, hefty muscles shaking with each thrust of their fists.
He added his own chant to the melange of voices. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” But by the time his drunken self got into it, the fight was already over, and the two sloppy-drunk bikers were buying each other bourbons.
“Here, lemme buy you a shot,” said the one of the other bikers. His name was Banner — Lance had met him a few minutes ago — and he sported a powerful body and no belly at all, a fact that was obvious because he wore only a tattered wifebeater that had more holes than it had shirt. He was wearing a black leather jacket earlier, but he must have taken it off cuz this bar was like a furnace. Banner didn’t wait for Lance to accept the offer of a shot. The bartender was trying to break up the fight, so Banner reached behind the bar for a bottle of whiskey. He poured two shots (each of which were really doubles, and fat doubles at that). “Come on, let’s do a brüderschaft on this.”
Lance didn’t know what that meant — and the German unnerved him — but he followed along. Banner had Lance’s thin arm interlock with his softball-sized biceps, as though they were chorus line dancers facing in opposite directions. Lance felt another surge of sexual thrill at being so close to Banner’s tattooed biceps. The warmth of his body heat suffused into Lance’s flesh. Then Banner lifted his shot glass to Lance’s lips, and Lance did likewise. With their arms interlocked, they both swallowed each other’s shots, and Banner laughed as the harshness of the straight whiskey made Lance shudder and bug out. It tasted like gasoline.
When they were done, Lance took a deep breath. Tears welled in his eyes from the astringent whiskey, which was cheap — this bar didn’t stock anything fancy. He didn’t often take shots, especially doubles. Banner cleared his throat.
“So… you’re like… cool, right?” Banner had to speak loudly to be heard over the din of the crowd. The fight had died down, and the combatants were engaged in a drinking contest that attracted the attention of most of the bar’s patrons. Though Banner raised his voice, he aimed it directly for Lance, who felt the hot breath condensing on his cheek, and nobody but Lance could hear his words.
“Yeah…” Lance said. He was tantalizingly close to Banner’s heat-exuding muscles, and he couldn’t help but touch the rock-hard bulges of Banner’s biceps.
“Thought so,” he said, giving no notice to Lance’s hands feeling up his arms. “You, uh… wanna plow me?”
Lance just assumed that Banner meant ‘would you like me to plow you?’ So Lance said yes. He might have taken it as a joke, but Banner had a serious look on his tan, craggy face. It didn’t occur to Lance he might have heard the question correctly. The bar was loud, Lance’s mind was hazy with drunkenness, and a huge alpha biker like Banner would never let some accountant plow him up the ass.
Worried that Banner would back out, Lance tripped over himself to agree. He nodded like an overly enthusiastic otter.
Without another word, Banner smiled and put a finger to his lips, motioning for Lance to be discrete — he just motioned ‘down’, and somehow he and Lance were sympatic enough that Lance knew he meant keep it on the downlow.
As casually as he could muster, Lance followed Banner to the bathrooms in the back, pretending they were going to watch the drinking contest that remained the center of attention. Instead they slipped into the back of Lipsweet, and the roar of the drinking contest faded to a dull drone muffled by the wall.
Most of the bikers just pissed outside, so the bathroom was empty when they walked in. Bikers walked back and forth from the bar to the alley using this back corridor though, so they all saw Banner and Lance go into the men’s room. Banner locked the door behind them, stripped off his wifebeater and threw it on the filthy floor.
“Hey, Banner, whatchoo doin’ in there?”
“You know it!”
Banner wasn’t in the least embarrassed about this, it seemed. He opened the door again, stuck his head out and said, “Y’all said I’d never have the balls to do it, but I am gonna plow this sissy into next week! You gonna hear him begging for mercy back here, but don’t none of you try to stop me! You know what my dick’s like — once it gets moving, it’s an uncontrollable freight train!” Banner relocked the door amid the boisterous laughs of his friends.
“You really gonna plow that sissy? Wreck his ass!”
“Relax, man, he ain’t gonna take it in the ass. We know you was in prison too, don’t pretend you never plowed a bitch.”
“If you ain’t in prison, that’s nasty.”
“It ain’t nasty if you’s on top.”
“It ain’t nasty if yo’ balls don’t touch.”
“It ain’t nasty if you don’t make eye contact!”
Lance’s eyes bugged out, as his ears filled with the raspy-voiced boasting of the bikers. This was all happening so fast, it was dizzying.
“I ain’t hear ‘im beggin’ you to take it easy on him.”
“That’s cuz I’m goin’ slow, hoss, relax yo’ shit. You listenin’ at the door? You that turned on by a man gettin’ plowed you gotta jack off and listen?” Banner asked. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You the perverted one then, man. I ain’t touchin’ this man’s dick, and I ain’t gonna listen to his cries… unlike you, apparently.”
Lance was shocked and terrified. Was Banner threatening to ram him? Lance wanted to go through with this, but what if he took it too far? When Lance was younger, he would have loved the idea of being held down and used by the sterling manhoods of any number of bikers. Now he was a little more hesitant.
What would Juliet say?! That thought made Lance bite back a laugh of derision. Juliet wouldn’t go anywhere near a biker bar.
“Don’t worry, I’s just playin’ for the crowd,” Banner said softly. He looked suddenly bashful, and the muscles on his bare chest and belly rippled. He stroked one of Lance’s cheeks, then pulled him closer. “I… ain’t gonna treat you wrong.” He kissed Lance on the lips, and he rammed his tongue into Lance’s mouth.
Lance was so shocked to be kissed that he nearly fell over. He swooned into Banner’s powerful arms. His biceps were hard, inked, ropy like a statue of a man, lined with scars and imperfections that made him feel so very real and much more arousing than all those smooth-bodied, perfect-faced twinks that Lance had been messing with when Juliet was out of town. Banner felt like a motorcycle, brimming with power and uncontrollable heat, rough-edged and hard to manage. But his mere presence and the smell of his unkempt body made Lance hard. Banner’s words from earlier ricocheted within Lance’s head — ‘You wanna plow me?’ — now that they were outside of the roaring crowded bar, Lance knew he hadn’t misheard and that Banner hadn’t misspoken. He wanted to get plowed.
This biker was ready to bottom, and he wanted Lance on top.
“I want you inside me,” Banner said, whispering in that raspy baritone, though there was no chance anyone outside the bathroom would hear unless he yelled as he had before — the bathroom door was thick and muffled all the sounds from outside, except for those men yelling at the wall. His whispers were desperate and plaintive. “Please? Plow me in the ass. I want ya dick, man…”
“Really? You wanna bottom?” Lance asked. He still thought maybe he had misheard, maybe Banner was just testing him, though for what purpose Lance couldn’t imagine. He certainly didn’t want to try to make Banner bend over and take it unless he was sure that’s what Banner wanted.
Banner nodded. “I gotta put on a show for them out there though, I’m gonna make it sound like I’m ramroddin’ you, and you can’t ever tell anyone I’m bottomin’ for you. If you do, I’ll fuck you up for real,” he said, forming a fist with one hand and punching it hard into the palm of the other. His smile vanished, and his menace was so authentic it dripped off his face. Lance shuddered and nodded. He had no problem keeping it a secret.
“Ram ‘im, Banner! Make ‘im squeal like a piggie!”
“Oink, oink!”
“You seen Banner’s cock, right? He gonna mess that accountant up!”
Banner had to get on all fours and drop his jeans because he was so much taller than Lance — if they both stood, Lance’s face was in his torso and his dick in Banner’s thighs. Banner didn’t seem to mind touching the disgusting bathroom floor, which was grimy and stank of feet and homeless men.
The smell was intriguing, even desirable to Lance, who did appreciate the physiques of men, especially men like Banner. Alphas. Masculine, dominant men with pecs and neck tats, bullet-wound scars on their bellies. Banner smelled so funky it got Lance’s dick hard before they even got started.
Lance knelt down, lining his crotch up with Banner’s ass, and pulled his dick out. It was already throbbing hard, ready to go, and the slightest touch sent a twinge of pleasure up his body. He pushed his dicktip between Banner’s thick, hairy asscheeks, which spread open for him like the Red Sea. He sighed, a part of him worried still that Banner would call it off and start bashing him. His heart raced.
“Take it, bitch!” Banner called out. “You gonna take every inch whether you like it or not! I don’t let my bitches take just inches one through eleven, slut! You gonna take all twelve inches, got it? You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of my dick get up in ya!”
Lance forced out a pained cry, and men outside the bathroom laughed. Lance laughed too. They hooted and hollered; it sounded like a bunch of them were clustered near the door. Then Banner cried out for real, biting his lip to avoid making too much noise, that was because Lance’s cocktip finally entered his ass. Lance didn’t mean to stick it in so suddenly, he was just hovering the tip at Banner’s butthole when he let out that performative cry, and the motion made his dicktip slide in.
So Lance leaned into it, and he forced the whole shaft in — Banner took every inch, strongly suggesting this was not his first time. His ass was tight and warm, and instantly Lance had to bite back a howl of ecstasy. He didn’t want the men outside to know who was on top and who was in pain. He turned his cry of pleasure into a grunt of pain, while Banner’s face turned red and taut beneath him.
When he realized that Banner was stroking himself off and having trouble maintaining a rhythm as he submitted to Lance’s plowing back and forth, Lance reached around him, grabbed his cock and began stroking. Banner jerked and spasmed in a combination of pleasure and pain. The sound of him sucking on his clenched teeth seemed plausibly to come from Lance, so the men outside accepted that it was Banner on top.
“Hey, you doin’ some nasty-ass shit in there, Banner!”
“Wreck him! Wreck him! That accountant won’t be able to walk in a straight line ever again!”
“You gonna ramrod him hard enough he’ll forget his numbers!”
Slamming his cock in and out with all his might, Lance felt his orgasm coming only moments before it hit him. He moaned and grunted as he filled Banner with his seed. He gulped, wondering if it was obvious to the men outside that Lance’s moan was a top’s orgasm, not a bottom’s prostate climax. But they cheered as though assuming it was Banner filling Lance with his juice.
He shot so much it dripped out of Banner’s ass, onto that bathroom floor that was already coated with fluids of various kinds. The smell of funk in here was ripe and thick, and Lance inhaled deeply of it as the climax rolled through his body. A huge flood of jizz seeped into Banner’s body, and Banner let out an intense howl. The men outside must have accepted that it was a howl of pleasure — which it was, in a sense.
A whole series of grunts escaped from Banner’s lips, despite his best efforts to muzzle it. His dick spasmed in Lance’s fingers, signifying that his orgasm was imminent as well.
“Take it all, bitch! You gonna swallow every drop! I know my dick is covered in yo’ ass, but you know you love it! You want that filthy nasty in ya mouth, bitch, I can see it in yo’ slutty bitch eyes!”
“Aw, gross!”
“He really doin’ ass-to-mouth, Banner?”
“Ain’t nevuh got a girl to do that, not countin’ whores.”
“Make ‘im gag on his own ass, man!”
Then Lance dropped to his knees in the filthy bathroom, just in time to taste Banner’s dick. He had to stretch his neck to reach Banner’s crotch, opening his mouth wide. Banner’s dick was thick, pulsating, dripping precum so copiously it flowed down Lance’s throat.
Banner pounded on his chest and did a Tarzan yell, causing everyone in the main room to cheer him on. Banner’s tatted chest undulated as he orgasmed in Lance’s mouth, shooting jet after jet of cream to coat Lance’s gullet. He bucked as though the orgasm was painful, and he shot such a big, sour-tasting load that Lance didn’t need to pretend to gag. It hit the back of his throat, making Lance’s stomach gurgle and roil despite his love for hot cum in his mouth.
“Yeah, I can tell, that’s the sound of ass-to-mouth.”
“Bet that pervert is regrettin’ goin’ in there!”
“Banner can make any bitch regret touchin’ him.”
“I can make you regret insultin’ me, man!” Banner called out. “You know I can treat you like a prison bitch. You seen me do it before!” He paused and gasped as he shot another wad right down Lance’s throat. “I don’t even care whose hole I stick it in next — if this sissy ain’t available, I just might take you.” It sounded like Banner wanted to keep shouting through the door, but a wave of orgasmic energy rocketed through him then. His knees buckled and his body writhed. His voice trailed off as he sighed, draining his nuts into Lance’s waiting throat. He chuckled, hollered and banged his fists against the door like he was trying to knock it down.
Hot cum overflowed and dripped down Lance’s lips. He swallowed what was in his mouth, then licked up the rest. It had a wonderfully salty-sweet flavor that made him drool, wishing he could swallow even more — Banner’s load somehow tasted like a motorcycle, Lance thought, reminding him of the smell of gasoline and chrome and leather seats; it vibrated in his mouth like an engine. He traced the veins that ran along the side of Banner’s shaft as he jerked up every drop of cum he could find.
Much to his surprise, Banner knelt down and kissed Lance on the lips. His tongue penetrated Lance’s mouth, then licked up and down the breadth of Lance’s face. Lance was so shocked he just sat there, submitting to it, not even kissing him back, just focusing on the scratchy sensation of Banner’s scruffy chin rubbing against Lance’s skin. Banner let out a long, slow sigh of relief. He smeared the remaining cum over Lance’s cheeks, and smiled.
“Alright…” he said, breathlessly, pulling his pants up. His kind, impassioned face disappeared, replaced by that menacing visage he had briefly flashed before. He know looked more like the biker-thug Lance had expected to meet rather than the easygoing stud he had met earlier. This was the Banner that made Lance’s blood run cold. Banner narrowed his eyebrows and sneered at Lance. “I’m gonna tell them I left you in here covered in cum and crying, wit’ a bloody asshole. I told you to sit there covered in my nut for five minutes, then you could clean yourself off. Alright?”
“Okay.”
“You should come see me at my garage sometime,” he said. “I got a garage on East Street. Tell Sally at the desk that you’s a friend of mine, and she’ll tell me you’re there. I’ll help you with your bike, and you can plow me senseless.”
“… Okay.”
“My other mechanics are gonna want dome, and they’re gonna call you a pervert. That okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Lance said, too tired to pretend he needed to be talked into it. He loved the idea of jerking off an entire garage of dirty blue-collar mechanics.
Leaving his raggedy wifebeater on the piss-covered floor, Banner walked out to the cheers of his friends, who clasped him on his sweaty back. He flexed his biceps and closed the door right behind him, so no one saw Lance, who stayed in a corner — he thought for sure if they saw his face they’d realize he hadn’t been plowed at all. A few men tried to poke their head in but Banner stopped them with a shut door. The last thing he said was, “Lock the door behind me. Five minutes. Pretend ya ass hurts.”
“Okay,” Lance said, glad to have a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Thinking of how to pretend his ass hurt made him realize that Banner clearly was not in pain — he must have been plowed before, probably quite often considering how easily he had take it. He sighed as he began counting down his five minutes to wait.
He was sure happy he had taken a risk, he thought, and he wished he had become a biker a long time ago. He couldn’t wait to check out Banner’s mechanic shop.