My First Ride

It was the first time I dared riding a racing motorcycle, something I had always dreamed about.

The power of the engines, the strength of the frames, and the breathtaking speed had always thrilled me: These motorcycles had always reminded me of graceful predators, cheetahs for the racetrack.

I had spent many hours admiring those motorcycles, dreaming of what it might be like to sit on one, to race down the track myself.

The my company sent me to work in Sydney for a couple of days, and I could not believe my luck when I was offered a real racing bike for hire while I would be there.

I picked up the bike on my way to work on the first morning.

Sitting on the bike I was surprised how low the handlebar was: I was much closer to the front tire, and it felt like being closer to the bike than on any other bike I had ridden before.

It was this sudden change of perspective that surprised me most: Riding this beauty of a bike was not like sitting on a chair, detached from the machine, the engine somewhere far below me -- no, riding this machine meant hugging it, feeling its body directly below me, next to my own.

The bike also reacted more nervously than any of the other bikes, especially in Sydney's dense city traffic.

It seemed to have more of an own, individual mind, required more attention; but I was determined to like this bike, to make riding my first racing motorcycle a wonderful, unforgettable experience, to enjoy riding it, to make sure that my reflexes would adapt to what this bike needed.

Sometimes I even thought that the bike's reactions seemed to have deliberate quality, that the bike actively seemed to struggle against my movements: At times I could not help but to think that riding this bike really felt like taming a wild animal.

On the first two days I had to work and could only ride the bike before and after working hours, and even though I covered some 300 km in that time, I still felt insecure, and the machine, despite the closeness to the bike I experienced while riding, remained a separate entity, just a inanimate thing I was seated upon.

But on the third day, a Saturday, I started early to make sure that I would have the full day available for riding.

And on that day, right from the start I felt at home on the motorcycle.

It was even more than that: I had not only got used to the bike, it was more like my senses had started to extend into the motorcycle. I actually started to feel everything, could feel the tarmac under the bike's tires, the force of the spinning wheels pushing against the brakes when I slowed down.

I was not just at home on the bike, it really felt like it had become a part of me.

I loved the sound of the engine, the high frequency cry of a racing bike, those entirely different vibrations moving through my body, while I lay on the bike, riding it through the countryside of rural New South Wales, feeling the bike through the white leather of my suit.

At one point, without having noticed it before, I realized that I had a massive hard-on, and I enjoyed it, knowing perfectly well that the idea of the tight leather suit on exactly this bike had turned me on, that the vibrations and the sound and just riding had kicked my body into mating mode.

And suddenly I knew that the bike was ready for it, was waiting for me.

I turned around, heading back to the freeway to Canberra, and as I accelerated entering the freeway traffic, I just felt, just knew that my cock had pushed through the leather somehow. I looked down for a second, and saw a white leather cock protruding from my body, my leather suit, touching the bike. I pressed it down between my leather body and the bike, and accelerated some more to overtake a slow truck.

These new increased vibrations did just what I had intended, I felt them in the leather between my legs. And then the sensation in my cock was just one of heat and wetness, I felt it sliding into the bike. I looked down again and just saw my leather skin pressed against the bike, with no trace of my cock visible: It was inside the bike -- I was inside the bike.

It was the greatest feeling I had ever felt before, my love for the bike turned into something completely different, I just wanted to be part of the bike, never leave it ever again, never stop riding it, never stop fucking it. What's the difference, I wondered.

But then I realized that I could feel the engine working, I simply knew, I simply felt each ignition, and for some reason I also felt something in my body changing. And as I shot my first load into the bike, making it jump forward working with this new fuel, I understood that what I felt changing in me were my bones being replaced by a metal frame, welded to the motorbike's frame.

And at the same time the engine of the bike turned into something semi-organic, running not only on petrol, but was now dependent on my sexual excitement to create more fuel for it to run on, and I knew that the bike would take care of that...