Chapter 5: Alistair rides Reggie hard down the midnight highway, their connection deepening as the sorcerer forces the transformed dancer to experience unnatural pleasure - his engine roaring in time with Alistair's thrusts, the road vibrations becoming relentless stimulation against his exposed undercarriage until Reggie's entire metallic form shakes with violent, unwilling climax.
The world was a roar of wind and a smear of darkness. The town’s last streetlight vanished behind them, eaten by the night. Alistair guided them onto the old bypass, a stretch of cracked asphalt that had been forgotten when the new interstate went in. Here, there were no lights at all. Just the moon, a bone-white scythe in the sky, and the single, unwavering beam of the headlight cutting a path through the invading weeds.
The silence of the place was immense, a tangible thing that their engine ripped apart with pleasure. It was here, in this derelict space, that Alistair truly let go.
He opened the throttle.
The bike—Reggie—surged forward, the engine’s scream a pure expression of unleashed fury. The speedometer in Reggie’s perception climbed, numbers blurring. 90. 110. 130. The wind became a solid wall trying to peel Alistair off the seat, but he clung lower, his body a streamlined weight fused to the machine. He wasn’t just riding. He was claiming.
“Feel that power?” Alistair’s voice was in his head, a vibration in the very frame. “It’s yours. And it’s mine. I’m inside every piston, every spark. I’m in your transmission.”
His hands, locked on the handlebars, began to move. Not steering—they were steady, holding the line dead straight on the empty highway. But his hips began a relentless, grinding rhythm against the leather seat. Each forward thrust was deliberate, brutal, mimicking the act of fucking. The seat, which was somehow also a part of Reggie’s consciousness, pressed against a nexus of sensitive, wire-like nerves that had no human analogue.
A sensation like supercharged pleasure, shot through with sparks of pain, detonated in Reggie’s core. It echoed through his exhaust system as a stuttered, guttural backfire.
“Yeah,” Alistair grunted, driving his cock harder against the unyielding seat with each downward push of his hips. The bike’s suspension, taking the impact, began to groan in time with his thrusts. Ker-thunk. Ker-thunk. “That’s it. You’re not a person right now. You’re a vessel. A perfect, engineered vessel for speed… and for this.”
He shifted his weight, one hand leaving the bar to fist in his own hair for a moment, a raw gesture of ecstasy. The bike—Reggie—wavered for a nanosecond, a shiver through the chassis, before Alistair’s control snapped back.
“You want to come, don’t you?” Alistair’s mental voice was a sneer of delight. “You want to spurt oil all over this highway? You can’t, not until I say. You hold it. You fucking rev.”
The torment was exquisite. The mechanical ecstasy built in his crankcase, a pressure that had no release. His human mind, drowning in a sea of steel and sensation, clung to fragments. Edward’s disgusted face. The smell of rosin and stale studio air. The liberating ache of a perfect grand jeté. They were ghosts, smeared away by the now, by the feeling of Alistair’s denim-clad balls slapping against the seat’s edge with every brutal pump of his hips.
Alistair’s free hand slid forward, caressing the fuel tank—the smooth, cold plate that was Reggie’s chest. “Such a good machine. Taking every fucking inch. You’re gonna remember this when you’re back on two legs. You’re gonna feel my ghost in your knees every time you plié.”
He leaned forward, his lips near the handlebar’s riser, where warm metal met his breath. “Come on, baby. Show me. Let those pretty lights flicker for me.”
The command unlocked something. The building pressure, denied an outlet, surged into Reggie’s optical systems. The single headlight began to strobe, flickering wildly—on, off, on, off—casting jerky, nightmare snapshots of the decaying road. It was an orgasm, but not a release. A seizure of light. The engine’s roar hit a fever pitch, a sustained scream of RPMs pushed into the red.
Alistair laughed, the sound lost in the wind but felt in the marrow of the frame. He was close. Reggie could feel it, a gathering tension in the man above him, a heat that seeped through denim and leather and into his very essence.
“Now,” Alistair snarled, his final thrust a hard, jarring slam that compressed the front forks. “Now you come with me.”
His body stiffened, his grip on the bars turning the chrome to creaking protest. A hot, wet flood soaked through his jeans, past the seat, a violation that somehow connected on a circuit-deep level. At the same instant, he twisted the throttle to its absolute stop.
The surge of final, impossible speed was Reggie’s undoing. The controlled explosion in his cylinders became a full-system overload. His headlight flared blindingly white once, then died. Dark smoke mixed with something that smelled like ozone and sex burst from the exhaust. The engine seized with a final, catastrophic shudder.
They coasted in sudden, utter silence, the only sound the whine of tires on asphalt and Alistair’s ragged breathing. The bike rolled to a stop halfway onto the weedy shoulder.
For long moments, there was nothing. Just the cooling tick of metal and the distant cry of a night bird.
Then, the change began. It was less a conscious reversal than a collapse. The plates retracted like melting black ice. The frame softened, buckled, reformed into the architecture of bone and sinew. Reggie found himself on his hands and knees on the cold, gritty asphalt, naked, vomitting a thin stream of dark, viscous fluid that steamed in the moonlight. His body trembled violently, wracked with aftershocks that felt like broken gears grinding in his soul.
Alistair stood beside him, already composed, zipping his jeans. He looked down, his expression one of profound satisfaction.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice quiet in the vast stillness. “All that grace, puddled on the road. You ever come that hard in your life, dancer?”
Reggie couldn’t speak. He spat the last of the bitter fluid, his muscles feeling both alien and intensely, painfully his own.
Alistair crouched, his finger under Reggie’s chin, forcing his head up. “You’re changing. Faster than I expected. The old man’s fear… it fed you. Tasted good, didn’t it?”
“What… what am I becoming?” Reggie rasped, the human words strange on his tongue.
“Something that doesn’t belong to them,” Alistair said, gesturing vaguely back toward the sleeping town. “Their world is a painted set. Flimsy. The real world, the one underneath, is all about appetite. Hunger. Power. You’ve got a hunger in you they could never understand.” He stood, offering a hand. “Come on. We’re not done. The night’s still young, and you’re not nearly broken in.”
Reggie looked at the offered hand. Every cell in his body, every ingrained instinct of self-preservation, screamed to refuse. To crawl into the weeds and hide. But a deeper hunger, newly awakened and glutted on speed and submission, thrummed in agreement with Alistair.
He took the hand. It was warm, strong, and pulled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing.
“Good boy,” Alistair murmured, leading him toward the shadows at the edge of the road, where the darkness was absolute. “There are others in this town, you know. Not just sheep. There’s a coven of kitchen witches who think they protect the perimeter. A lone werewolf who works as a mechanic and hates what he is. They’ll smell you soon. The change on you. They’ll come sniffing.”
He stopped, turning Reggie to face him. The moon caught the arcane knowledge in his eyes. “When they do, you need to know what you are. Not what you were. Let’s go find a mirror. I want you to see.”
From far down the forgotten highway, carried on a wind that had nothing to do with the weather, came a long, low howl. It wasn’t an animal. It was a question.
Alistair smiled. “See? They’re already waking up.”