Special Delivery: A British Biker adventure

From an original story by Steve62Reeves(Artist-brah)- Edits by Mule, Erik Atlas and Stefan Kane, original art by Steve62Reeves


Having propped the black Kawasaki securely on its stand, he leaned back and made himself comfortable in the cool mid-morning sunshine. The leather of his suit creaked as it adjusted to his new position and rubbed against his skin. He loved the feel of the leather against his bare skin; if he let his mind dwell on it for any length of time, it was a sensation guaranteed to give him a boner.

He sipped his coffee and looked at the other bikes and riders parking in this unofficial rest stop for the City’s motor cycle couriers. They spent their days weaving in and out of the congested traffic delivering letters and packets to offices in the commercial district nearby. There were eight or ten of them taking a break currently.



Pundits had predicted that their days were numbered, given the advent of the internet, email and, most recently, 3D printing but so far there had been work enough for them to do. They underestimated the need for people to get a package from one place to another, without prying eyes and questions. In any event, for most of them it was not a career but a stop gap job which gave any man an opportunity to earn some extra money, for what? No one asks. But by looking at this lot, it was for leather gear and hair stylists. It gave a young MUSCLED man an opportunity to earn some freelance money and to indulge a passion for fast motor bikes and looking DAMN GOOD in leathers.

He scanned his fellow bikers. The usual chat:


...that bitchy lady Solicitor in Chapleton still wants everything yesterday and never wants to pay.


The coffee this morning is dreck, but what can you do?


Plus the usual banter about tits and snatch... tits and... snatch.


Lying little prats. He knew most of them by sight. They all talked about pussy but most of them were trying not to look at him. They saw him and secretly nodded, adjusting their crotches. Whenever he was in their vicinity, he couldn't help but notice the whole crew of them were popping boners. He nodded to a couple of them occasionally but other than that he kept pretty much to himself. If they only knew the very real tales he had to offer, they would worship him as a god, but he was silent on that score.


Of course, he knew he was hot, the heads that turned, when he rode up and dismounted, told him that and he sensed that one or two of the other guys here were seriously interested. He could tell that by the appraising looks and the glances which lingered just a fraction too long. But since he stood at 6’ 2” and weighed in at well over 240 muscular pounds, not many had the nerve to express their interest and, for the most part, he let them continue wondering whether they should chance an approach. He let them continue their distance. He says when its time. No one else.

At 24 he had left behind the delicate attractiveness of teenage and had broadened and thickened out to be a prime specimen of fresh male power. Short blond hair, a handsome face, large blue grey eyes fixed and unwavering, never uncertain. Broad muscular shoulders filled his favorite leather jumpsuit, his chest which was full, looming over his tight 32" waist. The suit amplified his hard V shape. But the area where the suit fitted him best and like a second skin was his legs. He prided the work he put into them, teardrop power showing through, particularly when gripping tightly against the side of his machine. Two trunks of powerful muscle surmounted by a magnificent round muscular backside.


All in all he was a man to behold, but also out of uniform for a courier. The sports bike that he rode was not exactly suited to the courier business since there was nowhere to stow packages. Also if they thought about it, although they would see him riding around town as much as they did, they never bumped into him in the lobbies of the buildings where they delivered their packages.

They all engaged in the grey areas of legality, so no one asked. Never ask about the packages. Anyway, that was the way he played it and so far it had served him well. He got coffee from the cart and went back to his ride. A sip. Then another sip of coffee and adjusted his position. The suit creaked again, protesting as is struggled to contain his big muscles. The sight of his flexing muscles was too much for one of the other bikers, and a wet stain was visible in his crotch.


It had been about a year ago when he had first had the idea. Muscle gets you sex. More muscle? More sex. Like most men, he aimed to get more sex. Leaving school and getting his first job at 16 had coincided with the start of his chiseled good looks. His mind flashed back to the furtive one-handed pleasures of leafing through girlie magazines when he was very young. Then he mused about his later, many enthusiastic couplings in the backs of cars and elsewhere, the scores of men and women that craved him. His reputation as a lover spread, and he found himself to pleasuring his many older, female (and sometimes male) co-workers in their beds at home, when their husbands (or wives) were away on business. The Biker was a very horny guy, he loved sex, and the more sex the BETTER.




The problemwith most men is that they are terrible in bed, TERRIBLE, and their problem became his opportunity. There is a reason that only 1/3 of women achieve orgasm during intercourse, it is because their lovers suck. Women didn't have ANY trouble achieving orgasm with him. He also had STAMINA, and he worked that, not out of some sense of giving, he liked being inside his lovers, and took his time, unlike the three-minute wonders most women in the city were used to.

Inevitably, a husband returned home unexpectedly to find his wife panting noisily beneath the bulky, handsome young stud, the jaded pussy stretched to the limit by his thick and rigid dick, and he had had to FIGHT OR FLEE. He chose to fight...well if you could call it that, the cuckold landed two rather ineffectual punches, but the Biker needed only one punch to send the husband off into a slumber. Then he trussed him up and when he came too, the Biker fucked his wife again in front of him, bringing her into an ecstatic state of multiple orgasms, while with her husband she had not been able to achieve even one. He figured this might sober the cuckold into stepping up his game, but instead the peevish husband just got the Biker terminated from his job.

The hot wife was embarrassed that her cuckold husband had got him fired, and she bought him his first scooter. She owed him that for sure and he took it. His first gigs delivering packages (and his dick) got more sterling in wages and tips, and the ability to afford the powerful, sexy machine he now rode. He also eventually he made it official with an actual driver's license.

His business cards now said “Special Delivery”, but as word of mouth spread among his clients of his unique services, package delivery became a smaller and smaller part of his business. His clients spread the word to their equally unsatisfied-in-bed friends (who then became satisfied clients) - He came to be known as the MESSENGER OF LOVE.


He took another sip of coffee and smiled as he remembered the particular encounter which had sparked the idea. Looking back, it was the also the occasion which had definitively propelled him into manhood.


He had been (very) happily screwing since he was 14 and, as he had got bigger and become more adept, he had never had a problem enticing girls, and then women, into his bed. Those experiences had been his education but this was the point at which he had graduated - and it had been a graduation summa cum laude.

He had just turned 20 and had delivered a package to an up market hotel in the city center. It was late afternoon and he was, as usual, horny and keen to finish work and find his lay for the night. But he had to hang around as the bombshell receptionist gave priority to guests arriving to stay. As the hot clerk checked them in, he had had the opportunity to check her out.

She appeared to be in her mid-30s and, in addition to a fantastic pair of tits, had every other attribute required to make a man go weak at the knees. He had known immediately that he wanted her but was not sure whether he was in her league or not. She was not in any sense slutty but she definitely had the look of someone who knew what to do in bed. Then he was nowhere near as big as he was now but, having even at that stage packed on nearly 200 pounds of muscle through heavy sessions at the gym, he was still an imposing young stud with a talented cock and boundless enthusiasm.


So, taking a deep breath and taking the ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ approach, he had flexed his muscles and turned on the charm, flashing one of his devastating smiles whenever she glanced across at him - something she seemed to be doing more frequently as the minutes rolled by.


It had all gone to plan. Like him, she was at the end of her shift; handily, she had arranged for a room in the hotel always to be at her disposal because of the hours she sometimes worked, and today, like most days, she had needed desperately to be fucked. Despite the apparent coyness of her glances, it had taken her only a few seconds to decide that he was the perfect young stallion to mount her this particular evening and give her a satisfying pounding.

What neither of them expected was that with the odd break they would fuck solidly for the rest of the night. She taught him things that would make him so good at pleasuring other clients. She showed him the various erogenous zones, and how sex was best when one employed the five senses: sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste. She called them the five senses of Eros, and demonstrated how to employ each one, how to use his tongue, his fingertips, how to blow and whisper in a lover’s ear, how to savor a partner with lips as well as tongue. He learned how to use every muscle in the body, not just those of the pelvis and the dong. She was an excellent teacher, and he was an apt pupil. He learned that such pleasuring not only stimulated the partner, but stimulated the most erotic and sensual organ in his own body—his brain. Once he changed the mindset of sex, from just being mindless humping, he discovered a realm of infinite pleasure for both himself and his partners. This is what made him sought after by his clients. This is what made him an artist…a performance artist.

Towards the end as light began to seep around the curtains, they had become one fused mass of tits, muscle and ass. They were energetically humping each other without pause in her big double bed which by that stage had become a mess of pillows and shredded sheets. Finally, wondering whether his heart or dick would give out first, he had forced her over onto her back one more time and used his muscled bulk to pin her down. He was by then snorting like a bull and the sweat was pouring off him.

He had renewed his assault, giving it everything he had until eventually her previously indomitable cunt could take no more; the sensory circuits connecting it with her brain blew and she passed out; soon afterwards, he had emptied himself into her in one glorious, mind-bending climax.

What he hadn’t known at the time was that she had a reputation as a man-eater who regularly drained the pick of the hotel guests and staff. What he did know, after their encounter, was that he NOW had the skill and endurance to match his natural appetites. There had been no more marathon sessions but they still met from to time to fuck for old times’ sake and he could still make her scream IN DELIGHT.

Anyway, that had led him to place a discreet ad in a commercial journal which was ambiguously worded and enabled him to play it either way. If his client wanted sex, he obliged; if they merely wanted something delivered, so be it.

A couple of ads had been all it had taken. After that, there had been no doubt about the service he provided and word of mouth had resulted in an impressive client list of all types. Just as the question of the need to advertise or not had sorted itself out, so had the question of the gender of his clients. Occasionally, he got enquiries from men wanting to experience a muscleman biker fantasy (and he was not above obliging them) but mostly it was among the female community that his renown spread. Most days he had three or four female clients. It was now 11 am and he had performed once already.

Over time, he had finessed the service so that it was clear that all he provided was sexual satisfaction for a fee with no complications or emotional entanglements. He didn’t care what other attachments they had - he had more than enough size and muscle to get himself out of any tight corners. He was to all intents and purposes anonymous. He was their fantasy man, the guy they saw in their dreams, and whom they wished was in their bed every night instead of their boyfriends and husbands. The man that could satisfy them, electrify them, bring color to their drab, gray worlds. He was not a man-whore, it was not prostitution he offered, but a sensual experience beyond mere intercourse, a fantasy, a performance art. His clients were thus effectively patrons of the arts, rather than “janes” and “johns".

The only means of contacting him was via a mobile number which was used only for this purpose so that he knew that if it rang (or more usually vibrated discreetly) he was being summoned to perform.



He did not discriminate and was happy to fuck anyone from big breasted college girls to older women keen to relive their lost youth by being comprehensively seen to by a vigorous young stud.

Business had gone from strength to strength. As well as being hugely turned on by his looks and his physique, his clients loved that he was available more or less at their whim and never failed to deliver the best of sexual experiences. He could shoot six or seven loads a day, sometimes more, so he was able to meet the growing demand.

They were aroused by the whole biker thing, particularly the sound of the leather enclosing his muscular thighs rubbing together as he walked into their house or flat. They loved his confident demeanor and the fact that, apart from the noises produced by their passionate coupling, he arrived and left without saying much, he was taciturn with respect to transactional details, and would not engage in any chit chat that would change the relationship from professional to personal. He would save his words for the performance, when they rolled off his tongue like honey. Sweet, sensually erotic messages he whispered in their ears during the various acts of carnal pleasure, designed to heighten the pleasure and the fantasy. His true self, they would never know, that part of him remained anonymous. Even the name they all knew him by was a pseudonym.

But, above all, they were turned on by the way he would take his time unzipping, loosening and then removing his suit. Without taking his eyes off them, slowly and gradually he would ease his big muscles out of it, making the most of displaying his impressive body and finishing with some stretching and flexing. It was enough to give some of them an orgasm before he had even touched them.

Generally speaking he was happy to do whatever they wanted but, much of the time, being missionary fucked by a leather-clad muscle God who responded to your call on a powerful motor bike was more than enough for them to handle (although no missionary would recognize the things the Biker was able to do in that position)….at least it was enough for many of them on the first session…but in later sessions with additional financial incentives, invariably he was able to take them on sexual adventures that would never in a thousand years be described as vanilla, and would change their views of sex forever…and for the better.

Initially they would be in awe of his physique and almost frightened to explore his muscles with their comparatively tiny hands. However, whether by look or feel he had innumerable ways of causing them to lose any sense of inhibition and usually within a very short space of time they were on their backs looking up at him with a combined sense of longing and lust.

Lying down alongside them, he would explore the curves and recesses of their bodies, causing them to moan, and occasionally gasp, with the pleasure of the touch of his fingers, tongue and lips. When he thought they were ready, and he never skimped on the foreplay, always making sure his clients had plenty of time for the full experience—he didn’t do “quickies” as that would “dilute the brand.” So after thirty to forty minutes of exquisite foreplay… he would mount them in one deft movement, ease their legs apart with his own massive thighs and begin the slow, gentle introduction of his by now fully erect 11 inches. By the time he firmly pushed his monstrous cock all the way into them with a grunt of satisfaction, they would be gripping him tightly and clawing ineffectually at his broad, "armor-plated" muscular back.

Then, with his massive upper torso completely smothering them and with them almost buried them alive under its vast expanse, he would dip one mighty shoulder and begin pleasuring them with his massive cock in earnest.


The encounters took as long as they took. His service was one of complete satisfaction which, in this context, meant that he did not leave until his client had taken from him as much as she wanted or was able to take. His powerful, heavily muscled body was built to fuck all day but it very rarely came to that.


He never tired of his work and he never allowed himself to become fixated with any particular client, even though not surprisingly he got a lot of repeat business. The range of women wanting uncomplicated fucks fascinated him. Like any man, he was turned on by the obvious attributes of a nice pair of tits and a tight, rounded ass but he had also learned that the still waters of the less prepossessing in appearance could run deep, very deep indeed, when it came to a tumble in the sack. In any event, his dick did not discriminate and responded unfailingly every time.

Only once had there been a problem, if you could call it that. He got a text from one of his regulars, and showed up to find not the hot cougar he was expecting, but her husband, armed with a cricket bat, apparently thinking he was going to give the Biker a good paddling as a lesson.

The hotwife had gone out without her phone, and she apparently had neglected to delete some of her last few texts to the young messenger, and they were very incriminating not only in their explicit sexual overtures, but also in their demeaning reference to her husband's lack of sexual prowess.

The cuckold was only about 5'9" and perhaps 170 lbs. so when he got a glimpse of the taller and formidably muscled younger hunk, the cuckold's jaw nearly hit the ground. The Biker, in deference to his clients preferences, was dressed in a t-shirt so tight that the rippling curves of his traps, delts, pecs and 8-pack abs were outlined by the stretched fabric. His pants were tight leather pants molded like a second skin over his ample glutes, quads and calves. His prodigious endowment, impressive even in a flaccid state, was also well defined beneath the black leathers. The Biker flexed his massive biceps to show off his power, and that he was not intimidated by the cuck's bat.

The Biker noticed movement in the cuckold's pants and bounced his pecs to confirm, and sure enough the husband was now sporting serious wood.

It was clear now why the gentleman could not perform adequately with his wife, he was batting for the other team. Poor guy probably didn't consciously realize his own predilections. Time for the cuck to learn a lesson about who he was. The Biker effortlessly pulled the bat out of the cuckold's hand with his left hand and shoved the cuck forcibly back with his right. He advanced, and closed the front door behind him. He dropped the bat and palmed the cuck's engorged cock and palms in one large powerful hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.



"What are you doing?" squeaked the cuck.




With his free arm, the Biker pulled the cuck in close and whispered. "I am going to show you why you have so much trouble satisfying your wife...." He then gave the heavily perspiring husband, a long hard open mouth kiss. When he finally pulled back his lips to let the cuck breathe, the dazed cuck managed to whisper breathlessly. "But I am not gay." but he did not push away from the Biker.



The Biker smiled: "You sure about that?" and pulled the hapless older man closer into another long, wet, open mouth kiss, replete with tongue. The cuck was not passive long, and was soon actively kissing the Biker back. The cuck had never before kissed another with such depth of passion and desire as he now kissed the Biker, all that had been repressed for decades, spilled out into the open. The cuck had totally fallen under the Biker's spell and ventured down a new path from which there was no return.

He led the Biker up the stairs to the master bedroom, and both stripped naked, and began to erotically wrestle in the bed, exploring each other's contours with fingertips, lips, and tongue. Biker gave the cuck the full five senses experience as the foreplay built into a crescendo. Then the Biker flipped the older man over and gently probed his anus with his large moistened cockhead. Gently at first and then more forcefully he penetrated the anal cavity of the ass-virgin with first his cockhead, and then his entire shaft, until he had the older man's prostate vibrating and his brain humming the 1812 Overture. The Biker gave the cuck the fucking of his lifetime, snatching his anal cherry in a hurricane of pain and delight, that filled the cuck's head with endorphins. His sphincter stretched to its limit by the long, thick cock of the Biker, the cuck bottomed like a champ, considering that he was a novice.


The wife came home unexpectedly to find her husband smoking a cigar in bed, a rapturous smile on his face, lost in a state of euphoria, oblivious to the fact that his ass was still throbbing in pain. All he could think of was when he could arrange to have sex with the Biker again. All the while the Biker was pulling on his clothes, his passion switched off like a switch into a state of detachment.

"So how long has THIS been going on?" she inquired. "It was my first time" the husband confessed sheepishly. The wife quickly got over her initial shock, and now seemed RELIEVED.


"Do you do couples as clients?" she asked.


"Individually or together?" the Biker replied in his professional voice.


"Together" she said.


"Never done couples together before, or with each other's knowledge, but why not?"


"I am sure glad the sneaking around is over." she confessed.



"Most of my clients find the sneaking around erotic."



"Not me, It makes me anxious." Turning to her husband she said: "Now that we know what will satisfy each of us, our marriage will be on a better footing, it was only in the sexual department that I was dissatisfied. Otherwise you are a perfect husband."


"and you a perfect wife" replied the cuck.


The wife reached into her purse, and pulled out her checkbook. "Far cheaper and more productive than couples therapy." she said with a smile as she wrote out a check. "I assume my husband gets the same rate as I do?" The Biker nodded in the affirmative.

At last finished with the transaction,the phone in the Biker's thigh pocket began to vibrate again. Retrieving it and glancing at the screen, he was glad the next Special Delivery was close by.. He hurried out the door to his waiting bike. Mounting up, he kicked the machine into life, flicked back the stand, gunned the powerful engine and began weaving his way towards the exit and his next appointment.