Carter and the Biker Boy Austin Charles
The following story is purely fiction involving fictional individuals of different ages being engaged in sexual acts. Please do not read any further if you believe that this topic may offend you. If you are under the age of 18 or reside in a location where it is not legal to read these stories, then please hit the back button and leave now.
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Carter and the biker boy
In this story, we meet Carter Angel Michaels, a fifteen year old boy who recently has come to terms with his sexuality. Soon to enter high school in the fall, his story starts in early summer. An accident has left him on crutches for most of the summer so you can well imagine what type of summer he's going to have. Perhaps after meeting the boy of his dreams, will all of that change?
Chapter One
Hi guys, my name is Carter. I'm fifteen years old. I live in Loves Park, Illinois, which is a small suburban town just north of Rockford, Illinois. My mom and I live in a small two bedroom house only about a block away from the Rock River, the main waterway that flows from north to south through town. In my short life, I've always looked forward to summer vacation from school and all, but this year it's really going to suck. But more about that later. I'm going to be a freshman at Harlem High School in the fall and am not looking forward to being in high school at all. I've heard that the school is rough, and kids like me usually don't fit in for various reasons.
So a little more about me. First off, I'm short for my age. I've been that way all of my life. Mom said it's probably something due to being born earlier than normal, but I'm thinking it's just bad genetics. Anyway, I'm barely five-foot two inches, and on a lucky day I might weigh ninety-five pounds. It's not like I don't eat -- I pretty much eat everything in sight. Let's see, what else do you need to know? Oh yeah, my mom is a nurse and also is a first generation American born Mexican woman. My grandparents came to this country two years before she was born. My dad, wherever he is, is basically white trash. He left us when I was about six months old. Looking at a faded picture my mom has of him, I can see some resemblance to him, the blond hair, light complexion, thin body, and lack of muscles. Only thing is I have my mom's deep brown eyes. Unlike most of my cousins, I don't like sports, especially soccer. I'm not at all athletically inclined. I'd much rather spend my time playing Minecraft on my new Nintendo Switch or find a good book to read. I hope to become a nurse when I get older. Helping people would be cool. But for now, I'm just trying to deal with being the shortest kid in my 8th grade graduating class that just also happens to be gay. How do I know, you ask? I just know.
The reason the summer is really going to suck goes back to a few weeks ago. We had a family fiesta with all of my cousins, aunts, and uncles over at my abuelito's house. For those of you who don't speak Spanish, that's my grandparent's house. Another thing about me, since my mom is Mexican, I speak pretty good Spanish since my abuelitos only speak Spanish. After the meal of carne asada, refried beans, rice, guacamole and other traditional Mexican foods, my boy cousins -- nine in total ranging from ten to eighteen, wanted to play soccer. Since there are soccer fields not too far from my abuelitos' home, they all decided to go play. They get really competitive and all of them are playing or have played soccer in school. All except me. I don't like soccer, but of course on this beautiful spring day in May, with two weeks left to go until the end of the school year, my cousins dragged me out to the soccer field so they could have five players on each team. They put me in the middle of the field and instructed me on how a midfielder would play. Okay, great, I think I got it. Yeah, right.
The game went on fairly well and was a battle back and forth between the teams. My closest cousin who is only four months older than me, Javier was on the opposite team and kept giving me crap the entire game. The game was scoreless up until there was only about five minutes left, according to my Tio Carlos. I got a pass from my cousin Nico and was heading toward the goal, running as fast as I could. I saw my other cousin Luis, the goalie getting ready for me to kick the ball in. Everyone was yelling at me to kick it from about ten yards out, but I wanted to come in from the left side of the goal. I was just about to kick the ball as hard as I could with my left leg when out of nowhere Javier ran into me as hard as he could to keep me from scoring. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. What Javier did not know is that he hit me so hard (he's like five foot nine inches and weighs 150 pounds) that as my body was slammed into the goal post, my left leg crashed into the goal post first, breaking my left femur about six inches above my knee. The last thing I remember was writhing on the ground in pain while Javier was celebrating preventing my goal from giving my team a 1-0 lead. He then ran all the way to the opposite end of the field and scored the game's only goal. The pain in my leg was unbearable, and I broke down and cried like crazy and then must have passed out. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital with a cast on my leg.
Needless to say, receiving a broken leg with only two weeks left until my 8th grade graduation left me in the hospital for ten days out of those fourteen and it really sucked. Due to the severity of the break, I had to have surgery to set the break with screws in my femur bone. It was not fun! Although a lot of my friends from school came to visit, I had to miss graduation ceremony, not to mention the fact that my mom was very upset at my cousin. Speaking of Javier, he never really apologized. In fact, I remembered a few days later after running through the events that took place right before he ran into me. He was trash talking to me the entire game, calling me a bad soccer player, and that I'd never been as good as him. And then just before he gave me that body block and shoved me into the goal post, he yelled directly at me in Spanish "You're not going to score on my team, you `fucking faggot'!" Those words hurt me almost more than breaking my leg. Okay, well maybe not THAT much, but they hurt me bad. You see, Javier and I used to be the best of friends. Growing up we spent a lot of time together and would spend a lot of nights sleeping over at each other's houses, me mostly staying the night at their house since my mom used to work the overnight hours at hospital. But something that started between us last summer that abruptly ended in this March changed all of that. I'll talk about that in my next chapter. But what is on my mind is happening right now as I spend my summer days reading on our front porch waiting for the day to come when I can get this darn cast off my leg.
The cool thing about our house is that it is located right next to a bike path. We live on the corner of a busy street and a dead end. The end of the street actually turns into the bike path that passes through Martin Park. So, every day I get to see bikers riding from Martin Park on to my street before they turn right to head south onto the street that runs along the east side of my house as they continue south on the street until it goes back on the bike path about a mile south, and vice versa. Since one thing I do love to do is ride my bike, I love to watch the guys on bikes go by and wish that I could be riding with them. I've seen a few of my friends from school go by, and some just wave, but some do stop to see me. It's really cool because a lot times they'll text me to let me know they are coming by. Lately, just like clockwork I have been seeing this same guy who looks to be about seventeen. I will call him biker boy for now. He always rides past my house at the same time every day. At 2:30 pm he rides south, then at 3:30 pm he rides back north. He is so hot! He usually wears black Lycra biking shorts (tight) with a neon green and black sleeveless biking shirt that is also tight, showing off his tanned arms. His biceps appear to be the size of my legs! He wears a matching helmet that covers most of his thick jet black hair that flows down to his collar. He always wears cool shades that must be Oakley's and black finger-less gloves. He appears to be about six foot and is ALL muscle! His arms and legs are tanned, his chiseled face flawless. I want so badly for him to at least look at me so I can wave or something. I've even thought about just walking on my crutches to the side of the curb when I know he's going to go by just to say hi to him. But I'm too chicken to do that.
Today changed everything, though. As usual I was reading on the front porch. Today I was reaching the halfway point of a Stephen King novel while listening to Spotify on my phone, when I glanced at the time and saw it was almost 2:30. Just like clockwork, he appeared at the end of the street and went flying by the house before turning right and going south. For some reason, I waved, and he just so happened to look and see me! Wow! I am mostly certain that he did nod his head as he headed south. Now to wait for his 3:30 return. I was excited to think that maybe he would wave again as he went by. Maybe if he was thirsty, he would stop and ask for a glass of water. Just maybe he would stop and talk to me...
Finally, it was almost 3:30. Even though I was reaching a good part of my book and I didn't want to put it down, I did and waited for the biker boy to ride by. My eyes were transfixed on the corner, scanning down the right side of the yard to catch him as he approached the corner. At 3:28 a car came through the intersection and quickly drove down to the dead end. They hastily turned around, looked at their phone, and quickly headed back to the intersection. Suddenly I saw biker boy come riding up to the intersection from the south, as fast as he usually pedals, which is fast. The driver of the car was looking down at his phone and as he arrived at the intersection, biker boy arrived at the same time, hitting the front of the car head on. Biker boy flew up on top of the hood of the car, somersaulting over the hood and onto the grass near the curb of my yard! His bike kept going and landed in the neighbor's yard across the street from mine. The guy driving the car took off! I grabbed my crutches and hobbled out to him as quick as I could.
"Are you okay?" I nervously inquired to him as he laid on his back trying to grasp a hold of what had just happened. He looked to be in shock of sorts; his right arm and elbow was bleeding, as well as a pretty decent sized cut on his right thigh that was just below the bottom of his shorts.
"I'm, okay, I, I think. Fuck! What the hell happened? Where's my bike? Is it okay? That's like a $700 bike! My dad will kill me!" he began to speak quickly. "Oh crap my arm hurts, damnit!" He obviously was in pain and as he tried to sit up, he noticeably felt dizzy. "Can you get me my water bottle or get me some water?" he said as he took off his Oakley's and the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen stared back at me.
"Sure, um, well, uh, why don't you come up to the porch and I'll get you some water and we'll take a look at those cuts." I stammered trying to make sense and remain calm.
"Oh, Okay, sure. I'm going to get my bike first and then I'll come over. Can you give me a hand -- oh wait, you've got crutches. Dang dude, you're not in good shape either!"
"It's okay, here." I offered my hand and he nearly pulled me over and as he finally got to his feet. "I'm Carter, by the way." I said with a nervous, squeaking voice.
"Hey Carter, I'm Dylan. Thanks for helping me." He clearly towered over me by at least a foot. I couldn't help but drink in the view of my biker boy standing right next to me. When he grabbed my hand, I could tell his hand was much bigger than my small hand. As he walked across the street to get his bike, which appeared to be okay, I couldn't help but admire his strong muscular back, tight butt, and strong legs. He had some blades of grass on his back that I desperately wanted to brush off.
I walked back to the house, went in to quickly grab Mom's first aid kit that she keeps in the living room. At least as a nurse, Mom was always prepared. Just as I got back to the door, he was standing waiting for me. "Come in, please. Oh, you want some water, right? Or coke? Pepsi or ...? He cut me off and said that water would be just fine. I invited him to sit down on the rocking chair in the corner of the room right by the door in the living room. I opened up the bag and was going to offer the bandages to him, but first I tried to clean the wounds for him and he let me! I first did his arm by using antiseptic on a paper towel, then applied some Neosporin to protect the wound from infection before applying a two inch by two inch bandage. He was still sweating, and his scent was definitely intoxicating as I applied the bandage on his hairless arm.
"Okay, now let's do the one on your leg. You're okay with that, right?" I asked first before just going ahead and cleaning it.
"Yeah, sure, why wouldn't it be? Just do it, please."
I proceeded repeating the same way I'd done the cut on his arm. His thighs were huge. They must have been twice the size of my puny thighs. As I touched his thigh, I immediately felt something deep inside, and it caused a reaction in my shorts. Despite feeling a bit embarrassed, I continued to clean the wound, applied the Neosporin, and reached for the three inch square bandage. I peeled the backing off and placed it over the wound as my heart rate increased, and the feeling of total excitement came over me. Luckily, I had loose fitting basketball shorts on, so it was not noticeable. As I placed the bandage on his leg, I smoothed and pressed it on with both hands and quickly stole a glance at the front of his shorts. I must have looked too long because as I raised my head from looking at the front of his tight Lycra shorts - that showed everything that was very pleasing to see by the way -- he looked me in the eye with a half disgusted yet puzzled look on his face.
"Wait, what are you looking? Like what you see? What are you...?" and his voice trailed off as he figured me out. "Well, okay dude, um, I really gotta go. Um, thanks for the water and the bandages. Hope your leg gets better." With that, he got up from the chair, grabbed his helmet and his water, walked out the door, and started walking his bike to the street.
I was so mad at myself. I couldn't believe he busted me for looking at him like that. Now my chances of him coming back here to even talk to me were close to zero. He knew the truth about me. Now I felt like crying. First Javier, now Dylan, the biker boy. Once again, I blew it. Worst part was that I didn't get a chance to get to know Dylan. I locked the screen door, hobbled to my room, threw the crutches on the floor, did the best I could to crawl into my bed with my damn broken leg in a cast, threw the covers over my head and cried and cried.