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The Indian Biker in Diapers


Otto Van Raunchenhausen

Copyright 2016

Author's note: All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Use of an image of a model in this ebook or in advertisements for it does not suggest that the model is depicted in the work presented here, nor that the model participates in, endorses, condones or approves of the thoughts or behavior described in this ebook.

Cover photo creative Commons by Coop41 From Wikimedia Commons: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Disposablediaper.JPG

The Indian Biker in Diapers

Timmy went to sleep angry. Or to be more precise, he went to bed angry, and then tossed and turned until nearly dawn. That was because of the noise outside.

He had just moved into the Dixie Arms Trailer Park, which was a small, cheap place where he could get his heavily indebted finances in order. He had hoped it'd be a good long-term home but now Timmy wasn't so sure if that would work. He had assumed the trailer park would be inhabited by a mix of small families, but in fact it appeared to be entirely men from a local biker gang called the Blue Rose Motorcycle Club.

At dusk on his first day, his neighbors gathered outside. Timmy introduced himself to them. He was nervous but he hid it well. Timmy was a slim, gay twink with a thick lisp and limp wrist. He could act straight when he wanted to, but he decided to be bold and let it be known who he really was. If this trailer park wasn't going to be accepting, he might as well know that now, and Timmy certainly wasn't going to pretend to be straight forever.

Nice to meetcha... Timmy.

The men had all nodded politely, but coldly. Timmy went back in his trailer. The men -- who were all, it seemed, bikers -- became more and more rowdy as the night went on. They were the burly rough redneck type, wearing black leather, scars, tattoos and unkempt bodies. Timmy might have found them sexy if they weren't mostly fat and greasy. A handful seemed presentable enough, but Timmy had never been a biker fetishist.

Eventually, the noise got to be too much. Timmy figured if he didn't do something about it now, he probably never would. So he went out there again and demanded they all be quiet. They laughed at him. Someone threw a beer can at him, and someone else called him a queerboy under their breath.

Shut up and go home!

So Timmy called the cops. He said that they were definitely drunk and riding motorcycles, which was true, and that he suspected at least one of them had a gun, which was just an educated guess. Timmy hoped at least a few of them had active warrants, which seemed like a good bet.

But the cops didn't do anything. They weren't riding motorcycles at the moment the police showed up, and neither of the officers seemed too concerned. They just told the bikers to quiet down and left.

So Timmy had gone to bed furious, both at his neighbors for being loud and drunk, and at the cops for not doing anything about it. The cops must have told them who called -- not that there was any doubt, since it seemed Timmy was the only non-biker among them.

At dawn, however, Timmy was roused from his not-quite-slumber by somebody knocking on the door to his trailer. He peered through the window. There was no activity outside; everyone had gone to bed. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peek over the horizon.

The man standing in front of the door was tall, broad-shouldered and not at all greasy. He had long hair, down past his shoulder, totally straight. He had a craggy face, windswept and pockmarked with scars, with a square jaw and deep, dark eyes. Timmy had noticed him earlier because he, alone among the bikers, was quiet, taciturn and not white -- Timmy hadn't been sure, but he looked Latino. In this area of Texas, a lot of Latinos were also rednecks and bikers, so that much wasn't strange in itself, though he did stand out among the sea of lily-white men he had seen before.

A part of Timmy's mind said not to open the door, but he wanted to find out what this man was here for. Perhaps, he thought, the stranger needed a favor and Timmy could make an ally here. He didn't want the bikers to all hate him.

"Hello," Timmy said, his eyes still groggy from his brief doze.

The man nodded sagely. His body language suggested he wanted to come in, so Timmy beckoned for him to enter. He didn't look safe at all, so Timmy didn't know why he invited him in. It seemed like a clearly bad idea. There was a quite distinct aura of menace coming from him.

"I don't think we were formally introduced. My name is Timmy, Timothy Jenkins." Timmy never went by Timothy, but as he spoke he thought Timmy sounded so childlike he didn't want to use it with this man.

The man -- was he Latino? His straight hair and hawkish nose suggested not, but he was too swarthy to be white -- looked at Timmy with harsh, judgmental eyes. Timmy felt a surge of fear. He wished he had thought to have his cell phone in hand, but it was in the charger on the other side of his trailer.

"My name is John Tallbear," said the man.

Ah, an Indian! Timmy was glad to have figured that much out, at least. He had always thought Indians were kind of hot, and this guy was too, in an intense, dangerous, frightening way. Timmy giggled nervously. "Nice to meetcha. I-"

"Me and my friends are nervous about you. We do not like the police."

"Well, I don't like being kept up by your noise and-"

"Hush." His voice was not loud or especially authoritative, but it sent a chill up Timmy's spine. "We will be more quiet. But you must not call the police again. There are... things being sold in this trailer park that we do not wish the police to know about."

"Oh, well, I'm not looking to get anyone in trouble," Timmy said.

"Good. I am not looking to hurt you. I was sent here to beat you up," John said. "I was told to do nothing that leaves lasting marks, that way you can not prove that it happened. But I do not want to do that, Timothy. I do not like to commit acts of violence unless I am able to go all the way with it. If an issue is not important enough to seriously hurt someone, it is not important enough to get violent at all over."

Timmy was flustered, and terrified. "Ah, well... I, uh... that's an interesting philosophy-"

"Stop talking," he said. "I have an alternate proposal for you. You are gay, correct?"


"I am not gay. But I have peculiar sexual interests that you can fulfill. I propose that you buy some earplugs to help you sleep. In exchange, I will allow you to fulfill my sexual interests," he said. He frowned, stony face aimed straight down at Timmy, who was much shorter than him. He unzipped his leather jacket to reveal a tight t-shirt, showing off his strapping chest.

"Oh, okay," Timmy said. He was so scared that he couldn't even pretend there was some chance he wouldn't want to do whatever this was. He couldn't think of any sexual practice he wouldn't want to engage in with this terrifyingly sexy Indian. "What, uh... are your... sexual interests?" In his mind, Timmy was already sinking to his knees to suck John's dick. He assumed that was what he wanted; he probably liked violent facefucking, which Timmy loved submitting to. The idea of servicing an alpha male Indian biker made Timmy so hot he nearly came in his pants.

He caught Timmy before he fell to his knees. "Before I explain, I need to warn you that I will kill you if you ever tell anyone. I will take you out into the woods and slit your throat like a deer. I will bury you so deep and so far from civilization that your body will be found by archaeologists. Do you believe me?"

Timmy did believe him, absolutely. He nodded but was too scared to say it.

"Good. Give me your hand," he said. He guided Timmy's slim hand beneath the waist of John's dingy jeans.

Timmy shuddered with anticipation. John's crotch was hot and moist, his groin the only spot on his body where he appeared to have any body hair. His underwear was thick and plasticy, which made Timmy surprised. What was this?

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