First Time in Leather Catsuit at a Motorcycle Meet

Stefan cut the engine at the edge of the crowded outdoor motorcycle meet and planted both boots in the dirt. He was twenty-two, and the black leather catsuit was brand new, paid for in overtime and never worn outside his apartment. It gripped him from throat to ankle, glossy in the hard sun, a heavy zipper down his chest and a second seam of hardware snug between his legs. The hide was already warm. Every shift made it creak.

The lot was packed with bikes and men in worn leather, every one of them grown, sunburned, and loud. He had taken three steps toward the coffee urn when the talk nearest him went thin. A knot of experienced riders turned as one.

Lorenzo, thirty-five, stood with gloved hands on his hips, jacket open over a bare chest, eyes moving without hurry from Stefan's mouth to the swell the suit could not hide. Marco, thirty-eight, thicker through the middle and gray at the temples, whistled low. Rafael, twenty-nine, lean and sharp-jawed, and Tomas, forty-one, bearded and belted in heavy metal, stepped in closer. None of them looked away.

"Fresh hide," Lorenzo said, loud enough to carry. "Boy put it on for the first time today. You can smell the new leather."

Marco's mouth curved. "We ought to turn him into our public leather slut before he learns how to walk in it."

Heat climbed Stefan's throat. His cock hardened inside the slick suit, a thick ridge the zipper strained to hold. He should have laughed and kept walking. He stood instead while their hunger settled on him like hands. They talked about his ass poured into black, about opening that zipper in the middle of the meet and showing the whole gathering what the new boy was for. His pulse beat in the head of his cock. He did not leave.

A rider at a nearby table, bearded and well into his fifties, laughed, not unkind, and the sound only made the leather feel tighter. Stefan's palms were damp inside his gloves. He had wanted to be looked at. He had not expected the look to feel like a hand already between his legs.

Lorenzo stepped out of the knot without asking the others to follow. They followed anyway. His gloves were black and broken in at the knuckles. He stopped close enough that Stefan smelled smoke, sun-warmed leather, and the clean bite of whatever he used on his bike.

"Turn around," Lorenzo said.

Stefan turned. The lot did not go quiet, but a circle of leather-clad men drew in, boots scuffing dirt, and the space around the new boy became a small stage. Lorenzo's gloved palms settled on the curve of Stefan's ass, slow, proprietary, squeezing through the hide until the suit creaked. One hand slid up his spine, over his ribs, and spread flat across his chest, thumb finding a nipple already stiff under the leather.

"Feel that," Lorenzo said to the circle, not to Stefan. "Eager already. Our new cocksleeve doesn't even know he's begging, and his cock is trying to punch through the zipper."

Marco moved in on the other side and palmed the front of the suit, grinding the heel of his hand along the trapped length. Stefan gasped. The sound was small and wrecked. Stefan's cock jerked helplessly against the leather, leaking, making a dark wet spot that Lorenzo noticed and laughed at. Around them, belts loosened. Rafael shoved a hand into his own open fly and stroked, unashamed, the head of his cock glossy in the light. Tomas did the same, thick and heavy, watching Stefan's face while he worked himself. More leather men from the meet drifted close, all of them adults with sun-creased eyes and heavy boots, forming a ring that hid nothing and offered no privacy.

"Say what you are," Marco murmured against Stefan's ear. "Or we can keep calling you a shy little thing in new clothes. Your choice, boy."

The choice was not a threat. Lorenzo's hands stayed where they were, waiting. Stefan could have stepped out of the circle. The path behind him was open. What undid him was the praise, filthy and sure, and the sight of those men stroking their bulges because of him, because of the suit, because they had already decided he was made to be used and were only waiting to hear him agree.

His knees hit the dirt in the middle of the meet.

"Please," Stefan said, and his voice cracked into something shameless. "Use me. Right here. I want to be your leather whore. I want all of you to use me in front of everybody."

A rough sound moved through the circle, approval more than surprise. Lorenzo's glove caught Stefan's jaw and tipped his face up.

"Then open your mouth, slut," he said. "And keep it open until we decide you're full."

They bent him over the tank of Lorenzo's motorcycle, black paint hot through the leather at his chest. Marco found the rear zipper and dragged it open, baring Stefan's ass and leaving the rest of him sealed in slick black. Cool air hit sweat-damp skin. Stefan moaned and pushed back without being told.

"Look at him offer it," Marco said. "Perfect public leather cum-dump, and he hasn't even taken a cock yet."

Lorenzo came around to the front of the bike, freed his cock from his leathers, and took Stefan's hair in one glove. The shaft was thick, flushed, already wet at the tip. He rubbed it across Stefan's lips.

"Open," he said.

Stefan opened. Lorenzo pushed in, not cruel beyond what Stefan had begged for, but rough, filling his mouth until the head nudged his throat and Stefan's eyes watered. He relaxed as well as he could and took it, drool spilling onto the new leather at his collar. Lorenzo fucked his throat in steady strokes, grunting, one hand braced on the handlebar.

Behind him Marco spat into his palm, worked two fingers into Stefan's hole, and found him tight and shaking and pushing back for more. "You want it," Marco said. "Say it."

Stefan pulled off Lorenzo's cock long enough to gasp, "Yes. Please. Fuck me. Thank you. I want it," and Lorenzo shoved back in before the sentence finished.

Marco lined up and pressed in, slow for one breath, then deeper, splitting Stefan open around a thick cock while the leather framed his ass like a gift. The stretch burned and then bloomed into something Stefan chased, rocking between them, throat full, ass full, the motorcycle creaking under his weight. The circle watched. Rafael stroked himself harder. Tomas muttered a curse and stepped closer, waiting his turn.

They used him until his jaw ached and his hole fluttered around every thrust, then rotated without letting him cool. Marco fed him the cock that had just been in his ass, and Stefan moaned and thanked him, tasting himself, sloppy and grateful. Lorenzo drove in from behind to the hilt. Spit-roasted over the tank, Stefan took the relentless rhythm, hips slapping his bare ass, cock sliding over his tongue, leather stuck to his sweat.

"Thank me," Lorenzo said, and pulled out just enough for Stefan to speak.

"Thank you," Stefan sobbed, voice raw. "Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for using your leather whore."

"Again."

Every thrust earned it. Thank you. Thank you. Please don't stop. The words got filthier because they liked hearing them, and Stefan liked saying them, liked the way the circle answered with low laughs and the wet sound of fists on cocks.

When Lorenzo and Marco pulled out, both of them close, they didn't finish yet. They turned Stefan and offered him onward, hands guiding, never forcing past the yes he kept giving.

Rafael and Tomas took him next. Tomas sat back on the motorcycle seat, cock standing thick and shining, and pulled Stefan down onto it, the opened catsuit spreading around the intrusion as Stefan sank, gasping, full again. Rafael stepped in behind, spat, worked a finger in alongside Tomas until Stefan was shaking and nodding, begging, "Yes, both, please, I can take it, I want to be full," and then Rafael pushed his cock in too.

The double stretch stole his breath, two cocks in his hole, leather tight everywhere else, the circle watching their new slut get opened in public. Tomas held his hips. Rafael fucked in short deep strokes until Stefan cried out and clutched the tank. He thanked them for each thrust because they told him to, and because the thanks felt like coming apart.

"Perfect public leather cum-dump," Lorenzo said, stroking himself now, watching the place where both cocks disappeared into Stefan. "Say it."

"I'm your perfect public leather cum-dump," Stefan panted. "Thank you. Thank you for filling me. Use me. Please."

The others closed in, grown riders in creased leather jerking off over his back and suited thighs, grunting his new title. The first load hit hot across his shoulder, white on black, and Stefan thanked the man in a wrecked voice. Marco came across the curve of his ass, painting leather and bare skin. Lorenzo fucked his mouth a dozen rough strokes, then spilled over his tongue, his lips, and the glossy hide at his throat.

Rafael cursed and buried himself deep beside Tomas, pulsing, flooding Stefan's hole. Tomas followed a breath later, hips jerking, adding to the mess until cum leaked around both cocks and down the inside of the opened suit. They stayed in him while he shook through it, oversensitive, cock still trapped and throbbing in the front of the catsuit, and when Rafael reached around and opened that zipper too, Stefan came the second the air hit him, striping the motorcycle tank, sobbing thank-yous into Lorenzo's glove.

They kept him there until every man who wanted a turn had given him one, some in his mouth, some adding a cock to the slick wreck of his hole, all of them calling him their leather cum-dump, all of them waiting to hear the gratitude before they let go. Stefan gave it every time. He meant it every time.

Cum dripped down the black leather in slow white trails, cooling on his chest, his thighs, the opened seat of the suit. Stefan knelt in the dirt, panting, mouth sore, hole sore, cock spent and sensitive where they had left the front zipper half down. The circle did not scatter in shame. Lorenzo crouched, gloved fingers careful now, and drew both zippers closed, tucking Stefan back into the hide with the mess sealed against his skin. Marco wiped a thumb across Stefan's lower lip, then slapped his ass, the sound sharp, fond, possessive.

"You ride with us to the next meet," Lorenzo said. It was not a question, but he waited.

Stefan looked up at them, at Rafael still tucking himself away, at Tomas grinning through his beard, at the ring of leather men who had used him in the open and liked what they had made. His grin came sore and satisfied, splitting his flushed face. He could already feel the next lot, the next circle, the next time they unzipped him in front of everybody and treated him as their shared leather slut. He wanted it. He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I'll be there."

The leather would never be new again, and neither would the man inside it, and Stefan wanted both ruined things exactly as they were.