It was one of those boring Sunday afternoons which can be either infinitely irritating or infinitely relaxing, depending on the nature of the week just gone. For Doyle it was a balm after many frantic sleepless nights, and at 3pm he was happily working on his Norton in the courtyard, sleeves of his overalls rolled up, hands covered in oil, pausing occasionally to sip from his can of beer.

Suddenly the quiet of the mews was broken by the sound of a motorbike with a failing engine, followed by the silence of a motorbike with a failed engine, followed by a male voice saying clearly on the other side of Doyle’s wall, “Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Doyle smiled at this free radio drama, and, feeling in a generous mood, got up and opened the door to the street.

“Having problems?” he asked, and the leather-clad figure looked up in the act of removing his helmet.

“Second time this week. Dunno why these things have got such a great reputation - must have cost them a fortune in bribes.”

Doyle moved closer and saw that it was a Harley-Davidson that was being maligned. He was impressed, and envious. Maybe if this bloke was really fed up with the machine he would let it go cheap. Doyle was sure it would respond to his care if he could get his hands on it.

“Look,” he said, “my garage is just in here. Why not let me take a look at it?”

“Are you sure?” The man was surprised. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no problem. It’ll be a pleasure to work on one of these.”

“Let’s see if you say that in three hours time.” He seemed suddenly to realise how ungracious he was being, and smiled warmly at Doyle. “Thanks. I do appreciate this. Really.”

Doyle was revising his impressions swiftly as a result of that smile, the aggressive hard- case having become ... well, a likeable hard-case, with unusual reserves of charm. Doyle smiled back, and led the way into the courtyard.

As he watched the man push the heavy machine across the cobbles, he thought that he was finally starting to see the appeal of black leather. He usually noticed the appearance of other men only in order to collect the identifying details that would be required in a report, but this one really was striking. The black leather and the short, ruffled black hair were a perfect frame for the pale, finely-moulded face and the vivid colour of the lips and eyes. He wouldn’t quite have described his interest as sexual, but he suspected that with practise it might become so, and he was surprised.

“Just here will be fine,” he said, and the other man stopped. “Oh, I’m Ray Doyle, by the way.”

“Andrew Phillips.” Mr Phillips removed his gauntlets, and they shook hands. The hand was dry, strong and callused in places, and to Doyle the feeling of the contact seemed to linger along his nerves. His body was trying to tell him something, and he wondered only why it had waited so long before feeling such attraction towards a man. Not that he’s act on it, of course, but it was interesting, and exciting, nonetheless.

They worked together on the machine, kneeling side by side. Occasionally their arms or hands would brush together and Doyle’s pulse would quicken, and he would still, concentrating on the fleeting sensations of strength, smoothness, and heat. He couldn’t tell if the other man noticed.

After half an hour they decided that a new part was needed. “I don’t suppose you’ve got one in that well-equipped garage.”

“’Fraid not. Why don’t you leave it here until you manage to buy one?”

“Thanks, Ray.”

Doyle turned to suggest they go inside to clean up and have a beer, then stopped and grinned.

“You’ve got engine oil on your nose. Looks like warpaint.”

Phillips looked at him, then reached out slowly and deliberately to run his middle finger down Doyle’s nose and out across his cheek. It was unmistakeably a caress.

“So have you, now.”

Doyle stared, heart thumping, breath quickening, and seconds later was pulled into the most passionate kiss of his life. They clutched at each other, moaning. Doyle felt, as never before, the desire to merge completely with another person’s body.

After several minutes Phillips drew away and moved to kneel behind Doyle. The instant that Doyle felt the man’s hands reach around him to the zipper of his overalls, he knew that Phillips was going to fuck him, here in the courtyard, and the blood rushed to his cock so quickly that he cried out at the ache from his surprised arteries.

Swiftly the thin overalls were pulled down to his thighs, and the hands moved to his flies. The fleeting touch on his erection caused his to judder and gasp, and by the time Phillips cupped his buttocks and slid his fingers into the crease to play with his anus he was panting rapidly and shallowly.

The hands left him, though he could feel their trail, still, on his body. Behind him there was the rasp of a zip being undone, and the slide of clothing on flesh. He did not turn round, but imagined what the cock must look like, rosy as those pink sculpted lips, arching above pale, smooth thighs, framed by the black jacket above and the bunched trousers below. He groaned as his cock felt another impossible surge, and his anus and rectum seemed to gape, begging for this experience as if he had been wilfully depriving them of it all his life.

He heard a clatter of metal on cobblestones, and realised that Phillips was reaching for the small can of oil. Seconds later, firm hands grasped his hips and gently pushed him so that he was kneeling up. He braced himself against the saddle of the motorbike, staring unseeing at a patch of grass growing between the stones.

The hands left him, there was the sound of squirting oil, and then a slick finger pressed slowly through his anus and deep inside him. The contrast between the roughness of the calluses on the fingerpad, and the smooth glide of the knuckles seemed suddenly more beautiful than any painting he had seen or could imagine, and he thought crazily, “It’s for me. He worked to get his hands like this so that it would feel like this for me.” He closed his eyes. Phillips twisted his finger, apparently testing the readiness and openness of the hole, and, apparently satisfied, withdrew and moved into position. The penetration was completely painless, which did not occur to Doyle as miraculous until much, much later. He felt stretched to his limits, certainly, but that had always been his definition of excitement. He was in a state well beyond excitement now.

When the cock was fully inserted it stilled, enabling Doyle to savour the quick, strong beat of the pulse inside it, and the pressure of hipbones against his buttocks. His breathing had slowed and deepened until it was a continuous moan of wonder, which acquired a warmer note as an arm reached around to gather him back against a heaving chest.

There were a few moments of rest, ended when Phillips’ free hand grasped Doyle’s erection, and his cock began to move in long, strong thrusts. Immediately Doyle started to shake violently and to emit frantic gasps. Seconds later he came, throwing his head back with a hoarse, almost-agonized moan, and then slumping forward, mindless, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth in time with the thrusts still shaking his body.

Afterwards he was glad he came first, so that he could experience Phillips’ build towards orgasm without the urgent distraction of his own. This way he had relatively clear memories of the feel of the accelerating thrusts, with their slippery sound, and the slap of the hipbones against his oily buttocks, and he was able to treasure them later, to tide him over the times when they could not be together. Utterly clear was the surge of joy and pride that came over him when the man inside him whimpered helplessly, tightened his arms convulsively, and came.

They sat in silence, propping each other up, until the softened cock slipped out with a sucking noise, and Doyle gave a low “Oh” of regret. Then Phillips released his grip on Doyle’s waist in order to take his hand and stroke it. He kissed the back of Doyle’s neck, and slowly worked his way round to the earlobe, which he kissed and nibbled gently.

“I want you to hold me,” he breathed, and added ruefully, “but I don’t want to move.”

Doyle smiled, and bent his head back so they could kiss, but the position was awkward, and the strain soon showed, so Phillips drew his head back, “And I want to be able to kiss you for hours.”

“For days.”

“For weeks.”

They both laughed.

Doyle said, “Let’s go indoors,” and felt the other man nod and then reach around to help him haul up his trousers. Doyle stood up, kicking off his overalls, and when he turned around the other man was dressed again. They looked at each other for long seconds, smiling in satisfaction and anticipation, then Doyle took him by the hand and started to lead him to the house.

They had moved only a few paced when Phillips stopped, and knelt by the motorbike, still holding Doyle’s hand. As Doyle watched, he bent his head to the machine and slowly licked the cold drops of the other man’s semen from the chrome and leather. The action seemed completely unselfconscious, as if he would have done the same even if Doyle had not been watching.

By the time Phillips got to his feet again, Doyle knew that he would do anything for this man; he would die for him, willingly. The worshipful stupefaction showed clearly on his face. Phillips smiled serenely, squeezed his hand, and guided him towards the front door.