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Mates	By : TellingRiddles Category: M through R > Mad Max Views: 1343 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Mad Max or any of the charactors from it. I make no money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Mates
- 1
There was no cross-wind, and the road dust had been swept away by semi-wheels. It was a good day for riding hard. The bike, the burly Z1000, roared over the gray tarmac along the white line. Engine sounds and road-feel dominated the rider's mind. Then a horn blared behind him; the chase truck was bleating for his attention.
The rider stroked his palm forward on the throttle, braked with right hand and foot, and downshifted three times, to let the chase truck slide up on his right. With his other hand he signaled, and the gang slowed with him. As the arrow slipped to the left of his speedo, Toecutter heard the sound of his breath for the first time in four hours. Rolling casually in second gear, he edged close to the chase truck.
Toecutter leaned back on his seat, bringing his head above the windscreen. As the Z1000 coasted fast, he pulled off his goggles, and tucked them in his open lap. He tugged his chinstrap loose, and rolled the black helmet off his head. He gripped it between his muscular thighs. On the helmet's chin-guard, his idol of Kali stared up at him. She was supine in her seduction, smiling dreamily, offering her embrace.
Toecutter grinned back. Gravel popped up from his tires to peck at his unshaven jaw and his teeth. His jacket's fur trim was slicked back over his broad shoulders. So was his mane of white-and-brown hair. It was damp from the roots to the ends; a bracing chill swept over his scalp as the sweat dried. He felt like the wind was firmly and approvingly petting his whole body.

“What news from Bubba,” he demanded, without looking in the truck cab. The man in the cage was not worth his eyes, but he should have something good for his ears.
“Bubba found a spotter. Not far. Fifty miles out from Still-town, he says.” The support man shouted in his old, thin voice.
Toecutter lifted Kali, turned her over, and slipped himself up inside her. He wiped his steel-framed goggles on his pants, and settled them over his narrowed eyes. The bikie waved to his men and rolled the throttle open, dipping his foot below the shifter and tugging firmly. On the speedo, the arrow pulsed from two to three digits and trembled ever higher. The air pressed and whistled to him, the bike growled and throbbed. The world shot toward Toecutter and he thrust into it.
He was racing out from the center of the continent, the bikies' zone. He was riding hellbent toward the crust of old-order civilization on the coast. Closer and closer he must go to the Bronze and their chattal, the civilians in their pens and coops. These tame folk glorified their crumbly nests as towns and cities. But then, they were all sickly stock: their souls were given over to sour sins of complacency, and bitter sins of complicity. A free man couldn't help but feel low and mean and defiant as he thought of them.
Ah, but the cities also stank of women, so the cities were the Bronze's honeypots. They had drawn in many free men- among them, Toecutter's good man, the Night Rider. He'd taken up with a blond female there. She was a scrubber: her blood was half-chemical, and her flesh was barely-clothed and wobbling. She wouldn't hold a free man for long. But for now, the Night Rider was happily fucking her slippery cunt. As a consequence of his poor taste, the Night Rider was now missing: late for both the rendezvous and the hijacking. This needed fixing!
They were going to fetch him, Toecutter and all his mates: Bubba, Diabando, Starbuck, Cundalini, and Clunk. They rode out alone, severed from the Armalite forces on the Transcon One highway. If this was a Bronze trap, they wouldn't return, but many Bronze would bleed, and many more would have burned. Sly and sinister, Bubba Zanetti had packed the chase truck full of hell: plastic explosives. And Bubba always delivered.
Here was Bubba now: flashing light from a mirror. He stood in the shadows of some large rocks, to the right of the highway. Toecutter's heart bounced like tires on a rough road. He signaled, slowed, and all his mates rolled together into the damp shade. Yes, all of them together, all but one. They must find the Night Rider soon.
Bubba stood waiting, very still, just as Bubba generally was. His hooded eyes were even darker in the shade. He looked like a pale manikin in black leather. Bubba's thin body was slack, with the shoulders rolled forward. His hair was white and flat, like the molded texture on a doll-head. This was Bubba at his coldest, bored and coiled inside himself. Toecutter loved him, but he loved him better when Bubba was killing.
Bubba often seemed disconnected, as if a mental clutch were engaged. But when he moved his hand toward a gun, you could see his mind accelerating. It was lovely to watch him hitting his mental power-band. It was a glorious and contradictory thing. There would be a show of machine-smooth murder, but in those moments, Bubba looked animal, full of hot blood. With his thin lips parting, finally a touch of color would show in the pallid face: the pink tip of that snaky tongue.
“Bubba!” Toecutter cried cheerfully as he braked, tugged the shifter up to neutral, and turned the key. He slipped his black boots from the foot pegs and knocked the kickstand down. Bubba's eyes, shallow and shiny as a gray glaze, stared without blinking at Toecutter. Then the pale man bowed his head and gazed downward. Toecutter folded his arms, and traced Bubba's gaze.
At the slender man's feet, there was a lovely gift on the hard ground: a youth with his hands tied behind the small of his back, forcing the flat belly up, and the hips high, so that the legs naturally fell open. The shirt and boots were stripped off, and the feet were dirty and bruised from scrabbling against the rocks. Ribbons of red, very delicate, ran from the notched nipples. Bubba had even remembered not to mark the face!
“Very nice, Bubba, you've outdone yourself.” Toecutter said. He unfastened his chin-strap and rubbed at his stubble, then slid the helmet off and set it on the gas tank. He swung his leg over the bike and walked toward the two figures. Toecutter heard the rest of the men dismount and prowl behind him: hissing, tongue-clicking, and sniggering. “Such a nice party, on such short notice!”
“He is just what I expected; and prepared for.”
“Of course, Bubba, of course, you were prepared. As for me, I planned that we would keep to ourselves. And I hoped that the Bronze would return the courtesy. But you were right, Bubba. It's just as you expected.”
“He is younger than the usual, though.”
“It's a Children's Crusade now. That's what the Bronze have done. You remember, Bubba, I told you about those sad events, from long ago.”
“In one of your books. History.”
“History comes again. That's what we see here. A child was promised he would be a warrior, but was made into a slave. A Slave of the Bronze! His mind is in chains.”
Toecutter crouched over the boy's hips and grabbed his smooth jaw. Two wide eyes stared at him, bright hazel, with long, black lashes. The boy was barely over the cusp of physical manhood. By his face, though, he was a pure, frightened child.
“They armed him.” Bubba pointed to the spotter's things. Most were ratty: the dirt bike, the worn boots, the faded shirt and jacket. However, the shotgun was clean and in good order. It was not the boy's property. It glared of Bronze. Bubba snapped, “Drongo Boy, tell him what you were hunting.”
Toecutter frowned. “Rabbits? Cats? No, something bigger. Something mean. Bikies, was that it? What were you going to do after you shot a few of us? Would you have run then? On that little bike?”
The boy was panting rapidly. “I was only suppose to call back, that's all. They gave me a radio to use. I didn't want the gun. They said... If I couldn't get away... While they were coming... Just to hold... just to...”
“Hold us off?” Toecutter put on a look of sorrow, and dropped his muscular weight onto the boy's hips. “It doesn't seem to have worked.”
He looked over his shoulder. “How about you mates? Cundalini, Mudguts- any fear?”
Cundalini stroked his mustache and smirked. Mudguts half-crouched next to him and whistled at the boy. But the boy only stared at Toecutter and began to shake.
“He was easy.” Bubba remarked coldly. “He heard me, but never thought to radio in. He waited to see me first. I rolled up slow, among the rocks, and watched him. Drongo Boy couldn't tell where the bike was. He thought it was just a bushie out fossicking for water. He kept his eyes on the road.”
“What did he tell you?” Toecutter let go of the fine jaw, and grazed his finger-tips down the chest, lean and firm, and rough near the nipples with dry blood and soft hair. The boy whimpered, and Toecutter made soothing sounds, “Ahhh, now, shh, boy.”
“The Bronze told him to watch for bikies. They have the Night Rider. His scrubber has dobbed him in for assault. And they've connected him to you. They told the boy some tales about you. Described your work to him.”
The boy gasped, “Don't hurt me. I'm not Bronze. I'm nobody. Don't cut.. don't.”
“That scrubber...” Toecutter hissed and widened his eyes. The boy tensed in fear. Toecutter responded by dragging his crotch slowly forward, pulling his hips back, and grinding again. He felt his cock pulse in his trousers. He looked down absently and stroked his hard dick, then began to undo his zipper. “We'll find her.” Toecutter murmured.
“She's in custody too.”
“Then, we'll find her people: her parents, her children. She'll grow forgetful. Forgiving.” Toecutter paused to lock eyes with the captive. “We all need forgiveness, don't we, boy? Do you know how to ask for it?”
The boy shivered and nodded. Toecutter eased back and stood up, and the boy knelt. He was quick to open his soft lips and wrap them over the curved and thick cock that the bikie presented. The boy was very capable, and Toecutter moaned theatrically, laughed, and rested his hands on the soft hair.
The blowjob was a sloppy suck, from a hot, dripping mouth. Toecutter's balls swung against the boy's chin again and again. Saliva shone on the pink lips, and hung on the cheeks, slipping down as the boy worked. He grunted and went long minutes before he took a breath. It seemed that he hoped to end things quickly. The trouble was, he had a lesson to learn, and that would take time.
Toecutter said, “You've been out here in the bush for a long time, hmm? Making do with the blokes. Taking turns. And thinking of that one sheila, a sweet one you saw in town. Well, not today, boy. You'll think only of me now.”
Bubba dropped next to the boy and began to whisper instructions. Toecutter gave a gasp, and lifted his hands to stroke his hair back. The boy began to twist his face on the hard cock, sucking it back to his throat, swallowing. Bubba pressed a hand against the boy's back. He snapped orders urgently, and the boy struggled to obey. His tongue squirmed under Toecutter's cock.
There was a wrestling sound to the left. Toecutter glanced over, and saw Cundalini and Mudguts grinding together. Each was pulling at the other's clothes, in such a hasty manner that they had trouble with the buttons and zippers. Starbuck had his uncut cock out and was stroking. Diamonte was sitting on his bike, a fanny magazine in hand. Clunk was looking over his shoulder.
Those two men were stuck on sheilas; they'd probably turn the boy over, and lay the open centerfold on his back. Sweat would soften the paper over the hot skin. It would seem as if the photo was part of that flesh, quivering before the bikies' eyes.
Clunk would have the last ride, when the boy was sloppy and wet, his arsehole as loose as a fanny. That thought made Toecutter's cock jump. He loved the final fuck, the boy beaten down, rocking with the thrusts, eyes shut. And that was many, lovely hours away.
Bubba palmed the back of the boy’s head, and began to push, with that rhythm Toecutter needed, that rhythm Bubba knew. Eventually Toecutter plowed in and down. He felt the muscles try to force him out, and the vibes of the protesting grunts. He saw the tears running and the eyes imploring. Toecutter shouted and he cummed hard. He was sure his cock was shooting massively into this hot, wet, bitch-mouth. It was, indeed, quite a load that spilled as the Toecutter pulled out to the cheers and whistles of his mates.
- 1
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