Chad's engine roared, as Rico gunned it. The motorcycle shot across the field house leaving a huge cloud of dust in its wake. Chad was sure that Rico would ram into the wall or the pallet of tackle dummies stored in the corner of the field house. But Rico had this all planned out. He swerved the bike around the pallet, and drove it straight toward a door he had propped open earlier. This part of the field house was built into a slope, so there were steps onot the other side of the door, but Rico had laid a plank across them as a makeshift ramp.
Rico and Chad were airborne then they landed hard in the grassy field behind the field house. Chad felt the outline of Rico's manhood buried in his button cheeks, which were now the motorcycle seat cushion. The wheels tore up the turf as Rico raced across the field to an opening in the fence. Chad struggled to stay upright on the muddy field. His mind screamed over the blaring mariachi music, "I am a motorcycle, not a dirt bike!"
Only after Rico skidded across the gravel, and on to the blacktop did Chad realize that he was now identifying himself as Rico's motorcycle instead of as a human being.
On the smooth highway, Rico really opened Chad up. It was exhilarating. The wind racing across Rico's back, his hair blowing in the wind. Chad was exhilarated too. He felt the heat of the highway on his rumber limbs, the wind coursing by, but the bugs splattering in his eyes and teeth, he could have done without. His engine and heart were racing as he sped passed a billboard for a new housing development. The cop holding the radar gun behind the billboard clocked him at over 120mph.
A feweek minutes later, flashing red and blue lights appeared behind Rico, and the blare of a police siren hot closers.
Rico bit his lips, he really should have registered Chad and gotten a license plate before taking him out on the highway. Too late now.