gay virgin

This is the initial part of a multi-chapter GM series (though I may stick one of the chapters in Group Sex). In the original version, the first chapters were short, so I’ll submit them two at a time. This is why a chapter sometimes has two distinct parts.

I’d better warn you that most of the sex present in the first half of this chapter falls in the Non-consent category. Hope it does not scare you away, and I promise that the second half and the subsequent chapters do not have nonconsensual sex.

Thanks for reading and feedback is more than welcome.


Often the memoirs of a professional cyclist, who has participated in the Grand Tours and Classics in Europe will contain some sort of confession about doping. However, I have nothing like that to tell. You may find this hard to believe, but I’ve never been a star or won any of the big three. I’ve just been a relative successful but rather anonymous prof cyclist, with some stage wins in Le Tour, Giro and Vuelta, plus a decent number of single day race top three placements. Nevertheless I have the feeling that the confessions I do have, are a lot more controversial than if I had admitted using EPO.

Even as a boy my big dream was to become a professional road race cyclist. I admired the stars and especially the mountain specialists. Luckily my plans were not too unrealistic, because my father had actually been a promising rider before a car accident put an end to his career. Thus he was more than happy to help me, when I voiced my passion and ambition. But he never knew about the other great passion of my life. Both he and my mother are dead now, so I don’t have to stay silent for their sakes anymore.

Apart from a supportive family my other fortune was to be born in France, a country with great traditions in road bike racing. French riders were prominent in Le Tour when I chose to make this sport my future. So in school and amongst my peers I was almost respected for my abilities and dedication, and I did not suffer as much teasing as might otherwise have been the case. Considering I was small and slightly built, used all my time fiddling with bikes, reading about cycling or training. Also I did not participate much in the normal social life of children.

When I was around 15 or 16, and the other boys were into alcohol, cigarettes and girls, all my time out of school was spent achieving my goal. I had the perfect physical stature to become a very good mountain specialist, and I had already shown promise in local events and youth races. Luckily my family lived in southern France in an area with plenty of hills and mountain, so I could get lots of experience. I went to a private school and then to lycée (high school), and both places acknowledged that I needed special consideration due to my chosen career.

One of these was that I did not do sports with the other boys but was allowed to go out on my bike or do special weight training. This meant that I very rarely used the shower or changing room with them after we became teenagers. Another consequence of my dedication to cycling — or at least that’s what I thought — was that I had no time for girls, especially not a girlfriend. Barely even for thinking about sex, there was just no time or energy for such activity. So by the time I was 17 years old, I had probably only masturbated to completion a couple of times.

On the few occasions I did play with myself, I had tried to picture a girl stroking me or that I was on top of her and ‘doing it’. That was about the limit of my imagination and somehow both fantasies failed to turn me on. Sexual education wasn’t really a forte of the French school system, in spite of the self-image of Frenchmen as great lovers. Actually, I wonder how they achieve the knowledge because it certainly isn’t in school. All we were taught was the ‘normal’ position for making children and that you should be gentle and caress women on her breasts and ‘elsewhere’.

Not one word about oral sex or naughtier delights, and only the barest hints about diseases and contraception. Even though my school was not Catholic, and nor am I, thank God. No matter, I was as innocent, inexperienced and naïve as a virgin choir boy, totally unprepared for that fateful day in 1983, shortly after my 18th birthday. The day my whole world was turned upside by the event, which I think shaped my future more than any other single fact.

It was years before I told anyone about it. And only the encouragement and help of a close friend, who was the first person I confided in, has made me open the door to my secret in the past. Putting into words the event which opened the abyss of fear and concealment which I have walked along all my adult life. My shameful vice, my hidden passion, my insatiable but often unrequited need, which has run as a red thread through my career, completely entwined with my addiction to cycling.

And I have to say, in terms of the wider world both my skeleton and I will probably stay in the closet, except for this anonymous tale.

For those who are not familiar with bicycle racing I should probably explain a bit about the practical preparations needed before spending hours in the saddle. The special padded cycling shorts are essential, but even more so is the cream for your butt. If you don’t slather your bum in petroleum jelly or the modern equivalents, you’ll soon be plagued by saddle sores. Having to use this greasy stuff several times a week makes it easier to shower if you keep the hair between your legs very short.

So my father had advised me, when I started puberty, and since then I have kept myself fairly well trimmed and occasionally totally smooth. In addition I shave my legs, because this is also the norm for professional road race cyclists. Not that I ever got much hair anywhere on my body, so it’s not much of a chore. No one considers these things in an even remotely sexual way, or at least I didn’t at that time. It was just part of a career as a cyclist.

On the fateful day I had gone on a long training ride and got caught in an unexpected rain storm. One of the consequences was that I became so soaked that my protective layer of butt cream was washed away. I was only half way home, when I began to get sore, and though I kept riding, I tried to find a solution to my dilemma. As a shy teenager I did not have the courage to knock on the door of some of the few houses I passed and ask to use their bathroom.

On the other hand too many cars passed by to just stop, pull down my shorts and apply some more cream to my naked bum. A little while later I knew that I would have to do something, or my skin would become so irritated that I risked not being able to go bicycling for days. Just then I saw a large lay-by along the motorway. I was on a path by the hind side and when I came closer, I saw that it was meant for long term parking for trucks. Facilities were on the other side of the motorway across a pedestrian bridge.

At that moment the rain began pouring down even harder, and there were no people to be seen anywhere, so I drove into the lay-by and stopped between two trucks. I got off the bike and looked around carefully, but could not see anyone. Taking off my helmet and my gloves I hung them on the bike and leaned it against the wheel of the truck. I found the small tin of cream, pulled my shorts down to my knees and dug out a large blob from the tin.

As the cool air and cream hit my sore butt, I couldn’t help moan in pain and relief. It felt so nice to smear the thick cream all over my irritated skin, I spread my legs and made sure to cover every inch of exposed skin. The rain was running down my back and I thought that I had better put on an extra layer, just to be sure. I got another handful of cream, reached behind me and rubbed my hand all over my naked bum. Suddenly I got a strange feeling of being watched!

I looked behind me and froze when I saw three faces behind the wet, fogged window on the driver side of one of the trucks. The people in the truck had their noses pressed against the glass, and their mouths were open in shock as they stared at me. I blanched then flushed crimson, Mon Dieu how embarrassing — they had seen me rubbing my hand all over my intimate parts. I quickly turned my head, tried to wipe my hand and pull my shorts up as fast as possible, so I could get away.

The door of the truck opened, and I cringed when I heard a gruff, laughing voice: “Why don’t you get in here, then we’ll help you with that.” He spoke Spanish, but I could understand him, because my father worked for a Spanish owned company. This meant we’d had a summer vacation in Spain every year, since I was a kid, in cottages owned by the company. Also I had chosen to study Spanish at lycée. I tried to ignore the guy, but before I could grab my bike, he stood next to me.

He took hold of my arm and began pulling me towards the front of the truck. When I resisted, he simply picked me up and carried me to the truck. He was large and muscular, and I had no chance of escape, even though I struggled and objected as best I could. When we reached the open door, he lifted me up and one of the other guys reached down and pulled me into the cabin. The man behind me jumped in and shut the door.

“Nah, then, your clothes are all wet, let’s get them off you. Then they can dry a bit, while we take care of you.” The nasty laugh that followed this statement, had me squirm and cry out in desperation, but I was helpless. I lay across the legs of the third man, while my captor and his friend stripped me. As soon as I was completely naked, the two men unzipped their pants. No matter how inexperienced and clueless I was, I had no doubt what they meant to do. My whole body shook with sobs of fear and despair. Suddenly I felt the warm hands of the third man stroke my hair and my back, and he mumbled something in Spanish.

My captor spread my legs and his hand moved around on my cream covered butt. Two slick fingers found my anus and pushed. A scream erupted from me as the thick digits breached me and entered my virginal hole, and the man grunted: “Shut his mouth, he squeals worse than a pig.” A hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head up, and something hard was shoved between my lips. Before I knew it, I had an erect penis deep in my mouth, making me gag. The man in front of me tugged my hair sharply.

“Come on, suck it properly, you dirty little fag.” I didn’t know the last Spanish word, but I found out later. I hadn’t had much time to look closely at the three men in the truck, but I’d soon gotten the impression that the third guy was younger and not as aggressive as his companions. He had not helped them hold me down or undress me. And though he’d touched my hair, back and butt, once I was lying naked across his lap, it wasn’t rough like them.

As the man behind me pulled me up on my knees and really started to shove his greasy fingers up my asshole, the young guy started caressing the front of my body. He pinched my nipples, stroked my stomach and then his warm hands gently enclosed my manhood and my balls. To my horror and shame I became erect, immediately and explosively as it only happens to sexually deprived teenagers. He stroked my shaft and pushed my foreskin back and forth over the head, fondled my smooth, slick balls.

I had never had another person’s hands on my intimate parts, and I felt lust and need course through my naked body. And though I didn’t want to admit it, the fingers that were now deeply embedded in my tight butt, also contributed to me becoming extremely excited in a sexual way for the first time ever in my life. Even the hard piece of meat in my mouth was not wholly unwanted anymore. Involuntarily I began sucking actively and one of my hands came up to cup the hairy balls and squeeze the base of the thick but rather short rod impaling my face.

This made the man in front groan and start moving his pelvis in small stabs, as he clearly appreciated my efforts. But then I suddenly felt the fingers disappear from my butt only to be replaced with something smooth, round and hard against my back entrance. No, oh no, my initial fear returned with a vengeance and I automatically tightened my sphincter and tried to twist away. A hard slap on my ass made me gasp with pain. “Stand still, boy, and let me into your little faggot pussy, or you’ll regret it!”

Two strong hands pulled me into position and spread my buttocks, exposing me mercilessly. I was helpless as the head of his manhood found my slick anus and entered me with a hard thrust. He wasn’t very big, but he slammed into me all the way at once, taking my virginity and making me scream from pain and humiliation. Because no matter how much I hated him and what he did to me, it somehow felt absolutely fantastic to have a man impale me from behind. Especially when another man was touching my own manhood so skillfully.

The man behind me grunted in pleasure as he took me. “Ah, he’s wonderfully tight, such a nice man-pussy, almost better than yours, Miguel.” My hips were held in a vise-like grip, as he thrust rhythmically into me, pushing me forward onto the cock in front of me. Both men began to use their helpless victim without any consideration for my young, slight, defenseless body. There was no pleasure for me anymore, the third man stopped touching me except to hold me upright, as his companions fucked me while I whimpered and wept.

Fortunately, it did not last very long, almost at the same time they pulled out and came all over me. The sperm of the man in front hit my face and shoulders as the other rapist spilled hot drops all over my chilled, sore butt. I collapsed on the lap of the third man, shivering all over, and the two guys calmly zipped up, said ‘au revoir’ and left the truck. I heard an engine start up further away, and then everything was quiet. Except for the rain hitting the windscreen, my miserable sobbing and the irregular breath of the third guy.

I was unable to get past the thought that my ass hurt in a completely unfamiliar way, so different from cycling soreness. The man at my side somehow got hold of tissues and a wet cloth and wiped my face and buttocks. He caressed my hair and my back, murmuring soothing sounds. After a bit he got me to sit up and gave me a bottle of water. I drank greedily, but kept my eyes closed or looking down, unable to face the shame. I did not resist or object when he took my hand and drew me through a curtain to the back part of the truck’s cabin.

He made me lie down on the bed which took up most of the space there, and then he lay down next to me. Again his warm, soothing hands roamed over my naked body, it felt so good, and I felt completely safe and cared for. How could this be, I kept my eyes shut while I tried to figure out, why my body and mind were reacting so unexpectedly. Though I was devastated over the brutal rape I had just suffered, the physical and mental memories were somehow being obliterated by the gentle touches of this man and the unexpected wave of lust that swamped me.

I felt him lean over me, his face just above mine, and before I realized what he was going to do, his lips touched mine. It was my very first kiss, and my heart went wild in my breast, I dared not move. He kissed me again, then soft kisses rained all over my face, before his warm lips came back to my mouth. This time I returned his kiss, and he gave a small, satisfied sound. In the next kiss the tip of his tongue touched my lips, and when they parted, it entered just enough to tease the edge of my own shy tongue.

All by themselves my arms came up around his neck and I pushed my hungry mouth against his warm lips. Soon we were French kissing deeply and moaning into each other’s eager mouths. When we finally let go, I opened my eyes to look at the man who was seducing me. He was probably ten years older than me, but still seemed a handsome young man to me. Black curls, beautiful brown eyes, which regarded me with a mixture of worry and expectation, a sensual mouth which smiled hesitantly. When I returned the smile, his full lips parted in a wider grin, showing nice, white teeth.

My gaze wandered down to his muscular shoulders and chest which filled out the tight T-shirt in a way that made my gut clench with lust. He asked my name, and the deep voice sent a shiver through me, not from fear but anticipation. I stammered my first name, and he said (not surprisingly) that he was called Miguel. He leant down to nuzzle my ear and murmur that he was very sorry that his colleagues had been so rough. “I promise I’ll be kind to you, and I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

Miguel kept kissing and touching me, and before long I had forgotten anything but this new unexpected passion. His hands on my naked skin gave me frissons of delight and I longed to return his caresses. He told me with words and actions that he desired my body, that he wanted to make love to me. Miguel was very much aware that he should not expect any such thing from me, but he obviously couldn’t help hoping and expressing this desire. And in truth my reactions to him had to be fuelling his hope.

I certainly did not push him away or refuse him on purpose, but I still almost lost the chance of being in his arms. When I confessed my complete ignorance and lack of experience with sex, he was visibly shaken, and when he heard my age (only just 18) he blanched and withdrew. “Merde, Jean, you are barely of age for this, and a virgin too. I do not deserve the gift of being your first lover.” Neither of us were aware that the age of consent for male sex had recently been lowered from 18 to 15 in France, and I willingly accepted his implicit pretense of me still having my innocence to bestow.

So now I clung to him and begged him to make love to me. “I want you to give me what I need, show me how enjoyable lovemaking is. Please, Miguel. I’ve never had anyone touch me before. Not even a kiss. I don’t know anything about sex, but I know I want to be with you Miguel. Please, please.” Of course he couldn’t resist my pleas. He swore that he would make my first time wonderful, that he would give me everything I wanted, make me enjoy this to the best of his ability. Mon Dieu, little did I know what he was able to!

First I asked him to fetch my expensive bike inside, so that it would not come to harm. He did so and then locked the doors, and drew the curtains in the back part of the truck. Before he returned to my arms, he stripped, and I watched him avidly, my breath almost coming in small gasps as his awesome body was revealed. Miguel was a man in every way, muscular, with a hairy chest, and the dark curls continued in a trail down to his furry stomach. I moaned in delight when he dropped his pants to reveal a nest of dense black pubic hair around his erect manhood. There was no doubt he desired me, and I found him utterly irresistible.

His foreskin had retracted, and the head at the end of the throbbing shaft shone wetly. His size wasn’t scary, maybe slightly smaller than me, and I’m only just six inches even on a good day. But to me Miguel’s cock was still an impressive and mouthwatering sight. My own cock was just as hard and leaking against my stomach, as I panted with longing and slowly faced the self-awareness that his body initiated in me. And before Miguel had finished with me a couple of hours later, there was absolutely no doubt:

I was gay and destined to crave men as much as cycling.

The next stage

As his name and looks indicated, Miguel was Spanish. He understood and spoke French quite well, as he had done truck driving from Spain to Paris for several years, so I did not have drag out my still limited vocabulary in his language. It’s probably just a silly rumor that Spanish men are ardent lovers and eminent seducers, but in this case it was certainly true. When Miguel had shed his clothes, he took me in his arms and laid siege to my virtue in a way Don Juan could not have surpassed.

July 2018
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