Crowning the Rooster

Andrew had joined The Rooster Riders for the thrill of the open road - or so he claimed. At first, it was the men who hooked him: brawny, rugged figures draped in leather, their thick frames and calloused hands radiating a primal, cocksure energy. They tore through the streets on gleaming bikes, a flock of proud roosters ruling the asphalt, and Andrew, wiry but eager, felt the pull. He wanted in, to strut among them. But week by week, something shifted - slow, sly, and irresistible.

It began with the weights. He’d always been toned, but now he chased their bulk, sculpting his arms, his chest, his thighs until the mirror showed a man he barely knew. The Riders noticed - grunts turned to wicked grins - and Andrew preened under their gaze. Then his wardrobe tightened. Loose shirts and faded denim morphed into snug cuts, clinging to his new curves. One dusk, after a dusty ride, a Rider tossed him a pair of gloves - glossy, black rubber - and the way they hugged his hands sent a jolt through him. He kept them on, fingers flexing, all night.

The rubber spread like a fever. A jacket one week, pants the next, each piece slick and taut, wrapping him in a glossy embrace that felt alive. He’d trace its sheen, breathe its sharp scent, and feel a itch he couldn’t name - a craving, deep and restless. His bike, once just steel and chrome, caught the same fever. He spotted it first on a fellow Rider’s machine: a sleek, rubber-sheathed attachment jutting from the seat, bold as a rooster’s strut. His pulse raced, but by the next ride, his own bike sported one - a club signature, they smirked. A test of stamina.

Riding turned into foreplay. The engine’s growl, the rubber’s grip, that teasing ridge beneath him - it stoked a heat that spread slow and sure. He’d rock against it, subtle at first, then bolder, his breaths shallow as the pack thundered around him. The Riders all did it, he saw - their sly winks, their throaty laughs proving it was no secret. The itch grew, hungry and wild, until the bike alone wasn’t enough.

Then came the night they crowed their claim. After a hard ride, The Rooster Riders rolled into a shadowed hangar, bikes glinting under flickering bulbs. The air buzzed with fuel and something thicker - a promise. A grizzled Rider, all muscle and swagger, gripped Andrew’s shoulder, his rubber glove lingering. “You’re a Rooster now,” he rasped, voice low and dirty. The pack closed in, suits creaking, and Andrew felt the shift - no escape, no want for one. Hands guided him, rubber pressed close, and the night blurred into a tangle of heat and pulse, every sensation sharper in their glossy grip. The tension that had simmered for weeks broke, leaving him gasping, spent, reborn.

When the dust settled, Andrew leaned against his bike, the attachment still warm, his body humming. The Rooster Riders revved up, engines crowing, and he knew he’d been plucked and preened into their fold. The rubber, the men, the ride - they’d seduced him, strut by slick strut, and he’d crow with them forever.