Holeshot Heathen, page 1
Copyright © 2024 Harley Raige
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, and incidents are either products of the author's slightly deranged, mildly twisted imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Authors Note
The author is British. This story does contain British spellings and phrases. This book also contains possible triggers, including but not limited to homophobia, gay slurs, gay hate crime, dirty, aggressive sex, mild violence, a shit ton of offensive language and mature topics.
M/M
18+
Dedication
For those of you who love dirt bikes and dirty boys as much as I do.
Grab those dicks and dildos, it’s about to get dirty! This one’s for you.
Terminology
Holeshot = The holeshot is a term used in motocross to describe or reference the first racer to get through the apex of the first turn. Getting the holeshot gives the rider a huge competitive advantage and some level of control in the race. In most cases, the rider who gets the holeshot also wins the race.
Heathen = A heathen is an old-fashioned and offensive term used to describe someone who has no religion. It can also be used to refer to someone who behaves as if they are not educated or cultured.
Apex = In motocross, the apex refers to the point within a corner where the rider is closest to the inside of the turn. It is also commonly known as the clipping point.
Berm = Large banked corner on a track. Designed to help a rider turn much faster.
Bottleneck = A bottleneck on a racetrack refers to a localized point of congestion or restriction that affects the flow of motorbikes during a race.
Bowling fingers = Middle finger and ring finger, the fingers you would use in a bowling ball.
Braaap = A noise that comes from the sound a 2-stroke engine makes at high speeds. Brraaaap!
Clapped-out = Used to describe a bike that is a couple of years old and not well maintained.
Come a cropper = If you say that someone has come a cropper, you mean that they have had an unexpected and embarrassing failure.
Double jump = Two separate jumps with a gap between them, and the rider flies over the gap: jump, gap, land.
Endo/Crashing endo = Used to describe when a rider goes over the handlebars. In this instance, the bike is pitched forward, end over end.
Loop out = If you give your dirt bike more power right at take-off you run the risk of you and the bike over rotating backward or ‘looping out’.
Moto = In motocross racing, a moto refers to one of the heats or races within a competition.
Nosedive = A nosedive is when the motorbike can no longer maintain the ability to level the rider. This is due to excessive power requested by the rider. The result is the front-end drops (‘dive’) thereby abruptly stopping and ejecting the rider.
Tabletop = A tabletop is a flat, raised jump that is performed from the top to the down side.
Tank slapper = A tank slapper is when a motorbike’s front wheel rotates in an unbalanced way, causing instability in the front region of the motorbike. This causes the handlebars to twitch violently from one side to the other, slapping the side of the tank.
Twink = "Twink" is gay slang for a man who is usually (but not always) in his late teens to twenties whose traits may include a slim to average physique, a youthful appearance, little or no body hair, flamboyancy, and general physical attractiveness.
Whoops = Whoops are a large group of speed bumps, and a part of the track riders will try to get across at a high rate of speed to prevent themselves from getting stuck. If they navigate the whoops correctly, it will help them pick up some momentum.
Contents
Authors Note
Dedication
Terminology
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Books by Harley Raige
Ryder
Chapter 1
I pull up to the starting gate. I take a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling deeper than ever before. This is it, my chance to make it. The white flag goes up, and we start the engines. The smell hits me first: the overpowering tang of fuel filling the air, followed by a hint of oil laced with testosterone and a side of aggression. Add to that the sound that overpowers it, the revving of the engines. I can feel the rumbles through my chest, spreading to my whole body, people screaming and cheering. It’s like electricity flowing through my veins, pricking at my skin alive in my nerve endings. The adrenaline starts to peak as the two-minute board is held up… turning to the one-minute board… fifteen seconds… the gate drops.
I lunge away from the line, ripping the throttle back as far as humanly possible, surging my way forward, trying to get ahead of the pack. Everyone aiming to get holeshot. I need to get as far in front before we reach the first corner. I hurtle into it in eighth place.
“Fuck!” I yell over all the noise.
Disappointed is a fucking understatement, but I don’t have time to berate myself. I need to push that aside and focus. Screwing the throttle back, the bike roars underneath me, and I power into the corner. Lifting my leg high and forward but digging my heel into the floor as I bank hard, I manage to hit the first rut and dig in. It’s clean, turning on a six-pence, tight, precise, and I pull forward two places. The ruts are deep and unforgiving already.
“Yes! Go, go, go!” I yell to myself, taking the next corner tighter still, a few hitting the wide rut and having to ride it out through the berm. I manage to claim another place. “Fuck yeah!” The fucking rush has me pulsing forward. Running on the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins, relying on pure determination, I grit my teeth and power through.
The adrenaline takes over, hyper-focusing on every rut, every crevice of the track in front of me, letting instinct kick in, and I can’t help but grin, the feeling of my bike vibrating through my knees to my thighs, shockwaves pulsing through my forearms. A grin spreads over my face as I take the jump, holding the throttle steady so I don’t loop out or nosedive into a crashing endo, weightless for what feels like an eternity, before slamming back down to the ground absorbing the shock through my wrists, my arms and eventually my shoulders.
I tear the accelerator back, but the dick at the side of me hits me and pushes me offline. I land hard, skidding in the dirt and losing four places.
“Fucking bastard!” I yell as I push harder and set off after the cunt.
I’m sure I hear the twat laugh. Number sixty-nine, fucking Archibald Bartholomew III, posh jumped-up prick. His reputation as an arsehole precedes him. I’ve been fucking warned, and I won’t be making the same mistake again.
I set off again, keeping my eyes trained on him. I can’t focus on anything but getting to him, getting closer to him, getting past him, and fucking crucifying him, leaving him in the dirt behind me.
Slamming up through the gears, I accelerate and head for the tabletop, hitting that sweet spot perfectly, soaring a good fifteen feet into the air before landing and sliding into the next bend. Hitting the whoops hard but accurate, I sail over the top, picking up speed and taking three places.
Taking the next turn, I sail wide, getting stuck in a rut and having to ride it out, losing a place, but I’m on the throttle quicker than the guy who took me. I scream past him, then the guy in front of him, past the pits. Derek hangs out the board with ‘FNIB’ on it, and I smirk. (Fucking nailing it, breathe).
Each moto is about thirty minutes, plus two laps. We have a way to go, and I need to
We reach the starting straight, and I have one circuit left to make it count. Reaching the corner, I cut it tight, digging it to the rut and using it like a mini berm to fire me out of it, shoving two guys wider and undercutting them. One hits a rut and endos over the handlebars as his bike digs into the softer dirt.
I accelerate harder this time. I give it everything I’ve got, powering into the next bend. I rip the accelerator back, full throttle, and pull behind the guy in second place, and the cunt Archi-fucking-bald is in first.
“Motherfucker!” I try and take second place, but the fuckers holding me off. I push harder, clipping wheels and causing the bike to jolt, almost losing a place, but I manage to hold my ground. We’re coming up to the last turn twat-face has already crossed the line. I come in third place, half a wheel behind the guy in front.
I pull off the track and into the pits, pulling up next to our van and dragging the bike onto the stand. I kick it. “Fucking clapped-out piece of shit!”
Derek places his hand on my shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
“I’m not a fucking kid, Derek!”
“Well, right now, buddy, you’re acting like one. Hose it down, and let’s check it over. We need to be ready for the next heat.”
Sighing, I say, “Yes, sir.”
I shake my head. I know he’s right. Derek is the nearest thing to a dad I’ve ever had. My bio dad was abusive and skipped out on us when Mum got pregnant with me. Derek is Mum’s ex-boyfriend—three boyfriends ago.
He met my mum when I was two, and they were together till I was nine when they split. He continued to show up for Mum and me, even after she moved on a few more times before deciding guys just weren’t for her and staying single.
He got me into bikes, motocross, and racing. He has a bike garage I’ve been hanging around in since I could walk. I’m sure my first word was sprocket. I now work there during the day fixing bikes, and I work nights at the local supermarket, stocking shelves, cleaning aisles, and doing whatever they need. I work my two jobs and spend every penny on my bike, my mum and my tattoos. My best mate Jay has a shop and gives me ‘mate’s rates’. He’s so fucking talented, and I’m his walking canvas, he’s done all of my tattoos, and I love every single one.
I’m sure if Derek hadn’t been around while I was growing up, I would have ended up in prison or worse. I have a temper. Unfortunately, I must get that from the sperm donor, and it doesn’t always serve me well. But I’ve been working on it over the years, and I’m… less likely to blow up—most of the time.
I never knew my real dad, and I have never even seen him, but Derek chose me, and he keeps showing up. I owe him everything. So, I do as he says and wash the bike down.
I hear a snigger behind me. “Ahh, Poundland pauper. Don’t wash it too hard. The piece of crap might fall apart. As if a heathen like you will ever get holeshot on that pile of junk. Keep dreaming, peasant.”
He kicks up some dirt as he walks past with his track slut groupies, a gang of jailbait girls barely legal, cooing all over him like he’s some fucking god, in skirts so short if they bent over, I could read their lips. I shudder. Gross.
Derek taps me on the shoulder, making me jump and glare after him. “Keep your head down, son. Eyes on the prize. Don’t let him rile you up and suck you in.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just frustrating… he’s handed everything he wants; he has no fucking talent, he just has a better bike, better equipment, a team who wipe his fucking arse for him, and he just needs a… a… fuck. I just wanna punch the cunt, in the fucking face with a shovel. He’s a smug, pompous twat, and I fucking hate him.”
He chuckles. “Ya done? You met him for the first time two minutes ago.”
“Yeah, and look at the impression he left. Fucking bellend!”
He scrubs his hand into my hair. “Come on, son, you’ve got talent, but that temper of yours ain’t gonna help the situation. So keep your mouth shut and your head down, and don’t let him wind you up. You have the talent and a real shot at this. They will see that.”
“Thanks… ya know… for everything.” He grins and pulls me in for a hug.
“Yeah, love you too, now you’ve missed a bit. I wanna see my face in her before the next heats.” He winks at me and walks away.
“Dick.”
“Heard that.” He laughs without looking back.
I finish up and grab my stuff heading for the shower block, still pissed from my interaction with the dick Archi-fucking-bald. I push into the shower block and head to the lockers. Undressing, I wrap the towel around my waist, grabbing my wash bag.
The door clicks open, and a guy dressed in shorts and a vest walks in. He’s non-descript, looking like every other hang-around. I think he has dark hair. Who knows? “Hey, you’re new here.”
No fucking shit, Sherlock, I think snarkily as he grins and leans against the wall. Smiling at me, he winks. “You want some company?”
I smirk at him. “Sure.” I nod towards the shower cubicle, and he walks towards me, slowly taking the vest top off like some kind of stripper. He’s not my type, not by a long shot, but he’s here for a blow job, or a fuck, or both, and I ain’t looking for a wife. He slides his shorts down and kicks off his sliders. I shudder behind his back thinking, you’re not gonna fuck his choice of footwear, so man up.
I step back as he drops his shorts on the floor and heads into the stall. I slide in behind him, locking the door and tossing my bag on the shelf. Before I can turn around, he rips my towel away and tosses it on the hook. I turn, and our eyes meet, scanning each and every inch of each other. He steps forward, pushing me back against the door and takes my dick in his hand, crashing his lips against mine. He’s smaller than me, but most people are. I’m six-foot-two. I slide my hand up behind his neck and grip his hair, making him wince before I shove him down. Maybe he should have waited till I got out of the shower, but it sucks to be him—literally!
I force him to his knees, and I glare down at him, grinning like the fucker that I am. “It ain’t gonna suck itself, sweetheart.” I wink. He takes my dick in his hand and strokes me a few times before sliding his tongue up the back of my shaft and curling it around the head. He opens his mouth slightly, and I grip tighter in his hair, pushing in past his lips. I tilt my head back as he groans around my length. I push him deeper till he gags before releasing him slightly. I smile down at him. “You look fucking delicious on your knees for me. I wanna fuck your mouth so hard.”
His eyes glaze over as he stares up at me, and I grin down at him. “You dirty fucker. You want that too, don’t you?”
He nods, and I groan, withdrawing my hips before slamming back in. When he gags around my length, I hold him there as he tries to swallow around me.
“That’s it, you dirty fucker. Gag on my dick.”
I pull back, and he gasps for air, saliva running down his chin, and I slam back in, picking up my pace. His eyes start to water, and I groan.
“Fuck, making you cry like this is so fucking perfect. Now, do I keep fucking your mouth, or do you want me to fuck you like the dirty fucking boy you are?”
“Fuck me,” he mumbles around my dick. Well, that’s what I think I hear, anyway, so I’m running with it.
I pull out with a pop, and I reach over to my toiletry bag and grab the condom. “Turn and part.”
“What?” He pants.
“Turn around, and part your motherfucking cheeks.”
His eyes widen for a split second before he turns slowly, eyeing me like he’s unsure, but then bites his lip. Leaning slightly forward and parting his cheeks, I suck my ‘bowling fingers’ into my mouth as he glances back over his shoulder at me. I step closer, pushing my hand down onto his back and slide my two fingers against his hole. “Ready, you little track slut?”
He gasps, nodding. “Yeah, I’m ready, so fucking ready.”
I start to slide my fingers in, pushing past the tight ring of muscle, and he clenches, so I smack his arse.
“Relax, let me in.”
He lets out a breath, and I feel him relax, so I push straight in, causing him to grunt at the intrusion. “Fuck, that’s tight.” I pull my fingers out and push them back in, massaging him gently as I do. “You gonna clench around my dick like a filthy whore for me?”
