The Office Christmas Party Plus One

This is my entry to the winter holiday 2020 contest, I hope you enjoy this story enough to vote and read my other stories. If you follow me you will also get notifications of any new stories as they are published.

This story is based in the 1980s, within the sub-culture of motorcyclists or bikers, so the vernacular may be a little courser than is usual in my stories.

Biker humour may not be as perceived as such, we are a funny lot, abusing and ridiculing our friends, as they know we love them, really. Maybe it is just a British thing, I don't know, I can see friends from 30 years ago and we still drag up long forgotten insults, but we love each other all the same.

Please note that in the 80s we weren't as gender aware as we are now, I have tried to reflect this but please note that I don't intend any insult or injury to anyone based on the terminology held within this story.

So let's jump in our time machines and go back to 1984.

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"Hey up, wanker." I greeted Chris `the unsmiling' as I wheeled my big Suzuki GSX 750 backwards out of the garden gate. I'd brought the bike to cheer me up after I separated from a long term girlfriend, 6 months ago. She wanted to get engaged, and buy a house and I wanted a new motorbike, and go see places. I fell in love with the big Suzuki as soon as I walked into the local Kawasaki Centre. It was a part exchange for the latest whizz bang rocket ship kwaker. But this Suzuki was something else, first of the 16 valve, double overhead cam engines, with a large rectangular headlight and a huge instrument panel, plus I could afford it.

"Oi, oi tosser." Chris replied, sat on his bike, not even bothering to switch off the engine or take his helmet off. He was sat on an identical model, although his was red and mine black. He'd brought his after his old single overhead cam, 8 valve Honda blew up a few weeks back. It was up for sale in the local paper, cheaper than mine and less millage, it was a gift he couldn't refuse.

"What do you recon? Along the A371 and drop down the valley to Bennie's Burger van? Then we can do either the A3447 `death valley' or B2754 `stinky river' runs?" I asked as I pulled on my old black AGV helmet (we had nicknames for everything, but we knew exactly what we meant).

After a morning's overtime I was keen to get to the burger van, about a 50 mile scratch (meaning a fast run, insinuating we would scratch our footrests on the road when cornering) then we would have the options of about 4 different loops, giving us options of anything from a one to a 3 hour ride, before going to our favourite pub for an evening pint. Both of us rode similarly in speed and ride style, fast & furious, taking no prisoners.

It was a Saturday in early summer, and we were keen to get some miles under our belts. We often rode together, we knew each other well and would ride close together, knowing exactly when and where to give the other room. Other riders either couldn't keep up or we were outside of their abilities and we would have to warn them off. So despite having several social groups we hung out with, we would often end up riding alone with the other 5 to 8 riders hanging well back or just left behind.

I fired the bike up, choke out, warming it up as I pulled gloves on and zipped up my leather jacket. Looked across with a confirmatory nod and we were off. We dodged through the usual Saturday happy shopper traffic through town and once out of the city limits we were upping the speed as we headed to the hills. As I rode, I would imagine being a fighter pilot as I zipped past various cages (cars), often at double their speed, always exceeding the speed limits, ticking cages off one by one, with the odd glance in my mirror knowing Chris would be there grinning underneath his tash.

We arrived at the burger van in great spirits. The sun was out and there was an excellent collection of bikes parked outside the van. We squeezed into a slot, kicked our side stands out and stepped off our bikes. Nodding at each other, smiling, pleased with our performances. At the van we ordered, paid and waited, not knowing anyone stood around we just nodded politely confirming our inclusion in the brotherhood of bikers. Knowing the freedom that a bike brought, unlike cagers (our term for a car driver).

Burgers in one hand and polystyrene cups of tea in the other, we walked along the row of bikes, appreciating each one with grunts of approval with mouths full of burger.

"Ere, you two boyfriends or something?" Came a shout from two scruffier than normal guys sat further along on a fence.

"Fuck off, wankers," Chris replied laughing. "Left your scooters at home?"

"I suppose you two girls have consecutive number plates?" Laughed the one with shoulder-length blond hair, "So, which one of you goes on top?"

"Ha bloody ha, nothing wrong with owning decent bikes, unlike your scooters, left them at home?"

"Fuck off, sissy slow suzooks, you need a kwaker to go quick," said the dark, curly-haired one. As they both stood up and walked towards us to talk.

This was all typical pleasantries, and banter, and nothing unusual. They both had Kawasaki's, one a nice dark green Z650 and the other a silver Z750. All four of our bikes were a little dated, even by 1984, and looked a little out of place with some of the newer and far more expensive machines in the layby. All of our machines had relatively high mileages and were tatty work horses, certainly not in show room condition like others in the row. Soon the male testosterone was out of the way and we were discussing the best ways to oil a drive chain or what was naff about the latest rocket machines nearby. All being way outside of our price ranges.

After a brief discussion of routes and best roads, Chris had a new road he wanted to try, our new friends joined us and off we set. Chris set a blistering pace, just to see if our new companions could run with the bulls, so to speak. At every glance in my mirror the blond-haired guy was hot on my heels, not bad for a 650.

An hour later and we were in North Wales, running through some great scenery and came across a lake, so Chris pulled in to a layby. We all dismounted and sat on a stone wall admiring the view and discussing who had done what to upset various cagers, or who didn't slow down at whatever / slow moving lorry, or how fast we went round a bend. All good typical biker banter.

Sam, the blond-haired guy with shoulder length hair, looked quite young and was built like a stick, being as thin as a rake. Wore a scruffy and obligatory scuffed leather jacket (as we all did), with a Black Sabbath cross on the back. He wore a large thick baggy jumper and tight leather jeans with Doc Martin laced boots. His mate Alex, who looked a lot older, with a chin full of stubble, wearing his scuffed leather jacket, with a denim cut (a denim jacket with sleeves cut off, emblazoned with badges and band badges with a large Thin Lizzy motif on the back). They lit up cigarettes and enjoyed a puff.

"Hey why don't you come down our club one night, we do rally's and stuff?" came the invite from Sam.

Without Google Maps, the description was simple, "You know Merryhill? As you ride through, turn left at The Globe and the lane narrows and goes down a steep hill with high hedgerows, as it levels out take the right fork and you will end up at The Bear."

"Every Sunday night we're there, come on down, don't worry there're no subs or chairman, we don't do prospects, we just do whatever we want, when and how we want." Came the invite.

That Sunday we went down. It was a great ride, about 25 miles, way out of town. We found the pub ok, the car park full of an assortment of older bikes and as soon as we walked in the bar, we knew we would fit in. The bar was full of long-haired bedraggled bikers, a few tats on shoulders and arms, some with cuts, some in thick jumpers. Alex was there and introduced us to one and all. It was perfect mayhem to us, a darts game in one corner, a pool table in the other and in between various loud, extravert bikers all chatting at once, with loud music playing, all in a haze of thick smoke. Helmets cluttered the entire bar, left in any vacant space, on shelves, tables and bar stools.

"Hey up wankers!" Came the shout, as Sam walked in lifting his helmet off with everyone groaning and shouting abuse back. He came over and slapped us on the back. "Those slow suzooks made it then?" Soon we were involved in plans for the following weekend's rally and thus started my `bromance' with Sam, as we got on so well.

Unlike a car rally, a bike rally is something quite different. One bike club hosts a weekend of beer and camping. You ride up on Friday, put your tent up, drink, eat and make merry. Then on Saturday repeat the same, maybe with a ride out to a local attraction and some rally games (just an excuse to drink more beer), drink more beer. Sober up and then to ride home on Sunday.

Summer rallies were ok, but often held in large marquees with bands and anything upwards of 800 bikers. Lots of fun, but attracted local idiots, that normally wouldn't travel outside of city limits and can't hold their beer.

Winter rallies are the best, with 200 odd bikers, typically in a pub out in the middle of nowhere. Often with a band or just a singer on the Saturday night, so you can sing along with rugby or biker style songs, often with vulgar lyrics.

So this began a summer and autumn of rallying with the club. Sam and I were inseparable, I had no idea what he did for a job but after work on a Friday we would meet up, tents and sleeping bags strapped to the back of our bikes and off we would go. Both of us drinking 'Newky' (Newcastle Brown) from bottles (our favourite thick brown ale that kills more brain cells than Alzheimer's, gives you a hangover that lasts for days and farts that can kill at 20 paces). Often the two of us sharing a tent and going to the loo together, although Sam would always use the traps and insisted I stay until he was finished, so we would walk back together.

If we weren't rallying, we would fix and service each other's bikes or go to various club's parties. The club was great fun to be with and we gained a great reputation for bringing a wild party with us when we arrived anywhere, which meant we got more rally invites than you could physically attend. So we could pick the best. We soon made friends from lots of other clubs and received a lot of verbal invites to other rallies and private parties.

In November, at one rally Baz, Sam's brother Barry, joined us and he noticed mine and Sam's bromance. Whilst I went to the bar to buy another round of Newky bottles, Baz joined me at the bar that was now 10 deep with sweaty bikers, all elbowing their way to the front to be served.

"I notice you and Sam do a lot together, has no one warned you about my little bro?"

"Fuck off, Sam's okay."

"Ha ha, you don't know, do you?"

"Fuck off." I knew Sam was ok, he may smoke, but no drugs as such and he knew his bikes and could ride with the best of us.

"No, you know?" Baz made that `wiener' sign with his little finger.

"No, I don't know what you mean." I mimicked the sign back to him.

"Ok, maybe no one has said, and that is so no one upsets him, you know how easily he gets punchy?"

Well yes, when it came to tempers, Sam had a hair trigger, several times throwing a punch before anyone knew what was happening or what had upset him. But growing up with 5 brothers can't help.

Baz continued, "Well, that's why no one has said, just in case Sam gets punchy. So keep this under your hat. He's turning into a she."

"Aw fuck off, you're yanking my chain, Sam? Never."

"Yes, trust me, I am his bro. He's taking pills to give him boobs and saving up to lose his wiener. He even wears girl's clothes at home. I caught him a while back, you know, lady boy style."

"Fuck off, you're talking shite." I said as I paid and picked up as many bottles as I could carry, leaving the rest to Baz to carry back with him.

I let it rest at that, but slowly it played on me in my drunken stupor and in my hangover the next day.

It all added up. He always wore baggy jumpers, even in summer. He always came with me to the loo, never pissed in the trough, always in the trap. We'd been sharing tents for months, especially to keep warm in autumn. Fuck, we had even spooned in the tent a few times in sub-zero temperatures, to keep warm. He always wore tight jeans, and I never saw him with stubble, no tash either. But then, no one else was as close to him as I was. He knew lots of girls as friends, but no girlfriends (neither had I, but I forgot to factor that in). Maybe they did all know something I didn't.

I found I began to feel uncomfortable in Sam's company, not sure how it worked anymore. He had soft features and looking closely I now noticed remains of makeup, just a faint whisper here and there. Is he not coming clean with me? I didn't know, and it looked as if I wouldn't have to wait to find out.

The following week, on my way to work, I was trailing a cage, not too close, it turned left into a driveway, then as I continued on my way, unknown to me the driver did a `U' turn and ran into me on her way back out. To me it felt as if a wall had hit me on my left side and I was on the floor, I could see my bike flying through the air above me, to land on my legs. Bikes in the 80s weren't the lightweights they are now, not much plastic, mainly steel. Pain wasn't the word as we slid down the tarmac. I managed to kick my legs free from under the bike, so they couldn't be that bad. But as I leant on my arm to get up, I collapsed back down onto the floor, wracked by pain, and passed out.

I came around in an ambulance with banging headache and a paramedic looking at me. They thought I have a broken collarbone, a possibly dislocated shoulder, some broken fingers and lacerations on my legs. I ached all over and on the stretcher I couldn't move. A policeman came into view and asked the usual name and address, phone number and if I had been speeding. Luckily a dustbin lorry and accompanying crew had witnessed the accident. They confirmed my story, and the policeman was happy and said he would see me in a few days for a full statement.

In hospital, the head nurse gave me a lecture on the evils of riding motorcycles. Then my mum arrived. The policeman knew her and let her know. So I had stereo lectures, in the end I agreed to buy my brother's car that he was selling. But I already had plans for my bike. I just needed to work out how badly it had been damaged.

Throughout the day various doctors checked me out, and I had numerous x-rays. But without the scanners of today, they had to rely on fingers and probing. Every time a doctor's fingers got close to my kidneys it was like being hit by a baseball bat and I would pass out with the pain. They wouldn't let me drink until I had passed a urine sample. So we waited and waited, but I just couldn't. So the doctors decided I had to stay in for observation, just for the night.

So there I was, wheeled up to the dreaded broken bones ward 15. The ward I had previously visited so many friends, but never as a patient. I was in a 6 bed bay all on my own. Finally, I could pass a sample and they gave my kidneys the all clear. But I couldn't do anything, shoulder and collar strapped up, and both hands had fingers strapped up. Legs were under a table so the blanket wouldn't touch the wounds on my legs, as the lacerations hadn't really healed. Thankfully, I was finally allowed cups of tea and a light meal.

Visiting time finished and lights were dimming, I was just drifting off in a bored, painful sleep to hear a familiar voice in the distance, way down at the entrance to the ward. There was no mistaking his country bumpkin accent. I hoped they will never let him in as visiting time is over. Then a whisper echoed from the hallway outside...

"Waaannnnnkeeer... Waaaannnnkkkeeeer."

I looked at the open entrance and Sam's grinning face popped around the frame, with that big grin that just made you smile, and I was actually pleased to see him.

"How's the bike?"

"No idea, I'm shredded though. How did you know?"

"I rang your house and your mum told me. You were acting funny on Sunday and I wanted to know why. But this is serious, eh?"

"Yeah. It fucking hurts, they've given me some painkillers but I don't think they work. Visiting time is over. How did you get in?"

"Gift of the gab, I know the one nurse, she used to go out with my brother Paul. So you are strapped up, collarbone?"

"Yeah, and fingers, they think my shoulder popped out when I landed and popped back in, sliding down the road. My legs are cut to ribbons, gravel rash."

Sam lifted the blanket to look under the table.

"Dick ok?"

"Yes, I kept both hands on it, got to keep the family jewels protected I laughed."

"Shit, your legs are a mess, but they still look better that your dick, it's smaller than you claim, where's the grolly's?"

"They cut them off. My back and kidneys are badly bruised internally. With the cuts on my legs, it was easier for them to cut them and my jeans off. They were my Sunday best too, no skid marks as yet."

"There are a few skid marks on your legs, jeez." Sam said, taking another look under the blanket. His attention reminded me of his brother's comments the previous weekend.

"Do you mind, there's a draft, the old meat and two veg are small enough already." I said, but regretted it immediately as a hand crept over my thigh and played with my limp dick.

"What the fuck Sam, what are you doing?"

"A little light relief, we can't leave poor little John Thomas feeling unwanted." Sam said. It mortified me. This was my mate.

"Sam, for fuck's sake, I'm not gay!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to shout in a hospital ward.

"Nope, never said you were." Sam said, as I could feel John Thomas growing. I tried to will him down, to think of my mum, my gran, anything to stop his growth. But Sam's hand was working magic. It was a long time since I last had a girlfriend and to have someone else's hands encouraging growth, whilst I was strapped up, was way too exciting. None of my ex's could masturbate me like this, I was soon rock hard and there was no way I was coming down soon.

My mind was racing, not knowing what to do. This was my best buddy, my mate, I'm not supposed to be enjoying this, but neither could I stop it. Every time I moved, I would jar a broken bone or my bruised back. So I was caught in a quandary. Do I lean back and soak up the free wank, or make a scene and hurt myself. Then Sam upped his game. He moved the table down and his head ducked under the blanket and I felt his lips wrap around my dick and he sucked like a vacuum cleaner.

"Fuck Sam, what are you doing?" I asked through gritted teeth. All it took was a nurse to walk by to be discovered.

"Ummph, grumph, sluuuurp, slooosh, slurp."

I gave up and leant back on the pillows and enjoyed the best blow job ever. Jeez, he knew how to give a blow job. His mouth and his hand, alternating between playing with my balls and wanking me, whilst his lips and tongue worked up and down my shaft. Then I felt that familiar build up and another quandary. Do I warn him or not?

Like fuck, if he is going to do that, then he suffers the consequences. But he felt the surge and enveloped his mouth deeply over me, as I erupted into his mouth, spurt after spurt, swallow after swallow until I was sated.

"Mmmm, I never thought you had it in you." Sam said grinning as he licked his lips, replacing the table and blanket.

I was dumbfounded. My mate has just given me the best blow job ever, and I didn't know how to respond.

"Don't you fucking dare try to kiss me." Was all I could think of.