Dark Horizons

[darkhorizons]

The Ride Home

I step into the skinsuit – one piece, unbroken from ankle to throat – and pull it up over bare skin. That first contact: cool, then immediately warming, a tight Lycra layer that at first sits like a second skin, but then quickly dissolves into something more intimate. Something that knows me. I smooth it upward over my chest, my shoulders, zip it to the throat. The fabric grips everything at once – ribs, spine, the back of my neck – and I feel myself settle into it like an exhale I have been holding all day.

I sit on the bench and let my feet glide into my cycling shoes. Clip the buckles and tighten the Velcro straps with familiar sounds, that suddenly feel final to me. I feel the carbon soles lock my feet into something precise and purposeful.

Already I feel like I am leaving more than just my daily routines behind, as if something truer is beginning.

Outside, the evening air hits the Lycra and I feel it everywhere at once – a full-body awareness, every surface of me present and alive. I pick up my carbon road bike from the rack. I clip in. Push off.

The first kilometers are familiar – traffic, lights, the weight of the day dissolving with each pedal stroke. But then the road opens. And something shifts.

It starts at my feet.

Not pain. Not discomfort. Something slower, deeper – a warmth building from the carbon soles upward, as if the shoes are tightening with each stroke, drawing my feet into them, welcoming them. I glance down. Nothing has changed visibly. And yet the boundary between shoe and foot feels less certain than it did a moment ago. Less necessary. I find I don't miss it.

I push harder. The skinsuit responds – stretching across my thighs, compressing my chest with each breath, gripping my shoulders as I lean into the handlebar. It has always felt like this. And yet tonight it feels like more.

Like it is listening. Like it has been waiting for me. Like it is welcoming me.

I feel a desire to pull the zipper up, to close the suit even more – although I perfectly well know that it is already pulled up tight and hugging me like a lover.

Still, I reach for the zipper at my throat.

There is no zipper. Just Lycra – smooth, unbroken, as if it was always meant to be this way. No way back.

A single beat of panic.

And then – before the panic can find its voice – something else arrives. Larger. Warmer. Irresistible. It moves through me like the first kilometer of a long climb: effort becoming rhythm becoming something close to joy. My breath deepens. My hands grip the bar tighter. I let the realization flood through me.

I can't take it off.

The thought lands not as catastrophe but as relief so profound it frightens me more than the panic did. And then even the fright dissolves – replaced by a warmth that spreads outward from my chest, my belly, down into my thighs, my calves, my feet. I want this. Every cell of me wants this. The wanting is so complete it feels like arriving. Like recognition. Like coming home to something I have always known was waiting for me.

The Lycra continues its work quietly, methodically, lovingly. The seams at my wrists dissolve into skin. At my ankles, the fabric meets the plastic, the leather, the carbon of my shoes and enters them – flowing into the shoes, into the soles, fusing foot to shoe in one seamless surface. My feet are no longer in the shoes. My feet are the shoes. Plastic, leather, carbon and bone finding each other, recognizing each other. I feel the pedals of my bike through the carbon soles of my feet and the road directly – every grain of asphalt, every crack, every slight camber of the tarmac transmitted without translation. I feel more than I have ever felt. I feel everything.

My gloves follow – fingers merging, palms flattening into something purposeful and smooth against the bar tape. I grip the handlebar and cannot tell where I end and it begins. I don't want to know. The not-knowing feels like freedom.

Then the saddle.

I feel it first as pressure – familiar, intimate – and then as something more. The carbon seatpost rises through the Lycra at my lower back, finding the base of my spine, connecting. Not violently. Gently. Inevitably. A warmth deeper than anything before floods upward through my vertebrae, one by one, as the carbon of the frame and the carbon of my transforming bones recognize each other and begin to become the same thing. I feel it spreading – through my pelvis, my ribcage, my sternum – a slow, total transformation, my skeleton rewriting itself into something lighter and stronger and faster. I don't resist. I breathe into it. The frame is not beneath me. The frame is me. Its geometry is my geometry. Its tension is my tension. And I love it – deeply, completely, the way you love something you have been waiting for your whole life without knowing its name.

Then the second wave arrives.

It begins where the Lycra touches my skin most directly – the inside of my thighs, the flat of my stomach, the back of my neck. A new warmth, different from the first. More intimate. The fabric is no longer moving against my skin. It is moving into it.

I watch my forearm. The textile weave of the Lycra – those familiar small diamonds of compression fabric – begins to soften. To simplify. The texture smooths itself out, millimeter by millimeter, the fabric losing its structure as it finds mine. Not disappearing. Transforming. Where there was woven Lycra there is now something denser, sleeker, continuous. My skin is still my skin – but it is no longer covered by this tight layer of Lycra. The Lycra and my skin have been joined in the transformation. It has taken on the weight and surface of black, glossy neoprene. Smooth. Impermeable. Defined.

I run my fingers across my forearm and feel the slight give of the new surface, the density of it, the way it holds warmth and presses back against my touch. This sensation alone fills me with a pleasure so complete I have to steady myself against the handlebar. The logos and paneling of the skinsuit remain – now not printed on fabric but formed into the surface of me, like markings on something built rather than dressed. I am not wearing this. This is what I am made of now. And I feel more myself than I have ever felt.

The third wave begins at the helmet.

I feel it first as a settling – the shell pressing closer, the fit becoming less mechanical and more organic, more mine. The padding dissolves into the curve of my skull. The vents on the top of my head seal themselves, smoothly, one by one. My bicycle glasses extend, they connect to the helmet, turning into a visor that quickly darkens, and then fuses to the jawline, then to my cheeks, my temples, while the helmet grows along the ridge of the visor, enclosing my chin, and moving down the back of my neck until all of my head is encapsulated in a road-bike version of a motorbike helmet. No gaps. No edges. No outside reaching in. The sensation of the extending helmet quickly turns into an overwhelming experience as I feel how this sleek full face bicycle helmet completely fuses with my head, how the shell joins my skull, and my head becomes a helmet, and my vision suddenly is crisper and clearer than ever before as the black visor is becoming my new eyes.

I am enclosed. Completely. Finally.

And the feeling that moves through me in this moment is not fear. It is not even relief. It is something quieter and deeper than both – a stillness at the center of everything, the stillness of a person who has stopped pretending and started being. I have been heading here my whole life. Through every secret, every hidden thing, every moment of wanting without naming. All of it was this. All of it was the road to this moment.

The wheels turn – and I feel them as my feet extended, my reach made circular, my rhythm made continuous and infinite.

I feel the asphalt. Not through the bike. As the bike.

The frame's vibration is my heartbeat. The wheels are my legs. The tires are my grip on the world – warm, humming, alive with contact. The neoprene surface that is my skin gleams in the evening light. The carbon that is my skeleton sings with tension and speed. There is no boundary left to find.

Somewhere behind me, the city continues without me.

Ahead: movement. Sensation. Evening light on warm asphalt. The long road and the body that has become it.

I push down on the pedals.

[darkhorizons]

[darkhorizons]

[darkhorizons]

The Boots in the Corner

You rush into the empty changing room, heart hammering. The others have already gone to work. Lockers stand silent, benches bare, fluorescent lights glaring overhead. You tear off your clothes. Jump into the neon-yellow coverall hanging in the locker.

Your work boots aren’t there.

The socks you always leave stuffed into the boots, savoring their familiar week-long scent, are gone too. You stand in front of your locker, staring into it, searching, bare feet pressed to the cool floor, toes curling. Panic climbs your spine. You are already late. Your boss has warned you—one more slip, and the consequences will be severe.

And then you see them.

In the corner of the changing room, under the fluorescent lights, two pairs of black Dunlop rubber work boots gleam like sentinels. The taller pair first: monumental, impossibly polished, surfaces smooth and perfect, reflecting the room in long, liquid lines. Your heartbeat skips. Time narrows. Recognition flares, though you’ve never seen them before.

These boots are your rescue.

You rush over, lift the taller pair, hands trembling, and slide your bare feet into the towering rubber tubes. The instant your toes touch the steel toecaps, the boots respond. They contract, gripping feet and ankles with conscious precision. Sensation ripples up your calves: cool, then warming, pressing tight. The rubber stretches and molds, following every contour, every arch, every tendon.

You can’t stop. Your hands trail over the glossy surface. Slick. Smooth. Alive in its resistance, vibrating faintly as it adjusts. Every nerve ending sings.

You tug the neon-yellow coverall over the boots—but the rubber resists, sliding upward in a slow ascent. Over the calves. Past the knees. Pressure builds, firm, smooth, expanding upward like liquid night. Heat blooms along your lower legs, steady, spreading. Your thighs feel the crush of the black surface, insistent, knowing.

The boots are no longer boots. They have extended and deepened, becoming something taller, heavier — uninterrupted black rubber enclosing your legs. The surface is unmistakable now: the dense, work-built feel of Dunlop, the full-length containment of waders. No seams. No air. Nothing between your skin and the glossy black sheath.

The rubber continues its climb, unstoppable, folding over your hips, sealing the crotch. The coverall strains, shifts, fails to contain it. You want to stop—to tear the boots away—but fascination roots you in place. Your hands trace the surface, palms moving over calves, knees, thighs, feeling every millimeter. The boots respond to pressure, to warmth, to movement.

Your legs are a continuous sheath of glossy black rubber, from toes to upper thighs. Smooth. Dense. Perfect.

Heat spreads across your belly as the rubber slides upward along your torso. It moves around your waist, molds to every curve, rises across stomach and chest. The coverall tears softly, unable to resist. Your spine feels the pressure of rubber against it, a second skin forming. Every breath registers through it. Every muscle, every joint enclosed.

You see the smaller pair of boots, sized for your hands. Compelled, you roll the sleeves upward and plunge your arms into them. The moment your fingertips brush steel, the rubber contracts, gripping palms, wrists, forearms. Sensation ignites. The material creeps past elbows, along biceps, climbs the shoulders.

Your arms fuse with the torso sheath.

You reach to touch the black surface — and stop.

Your fingers are gone.

Where they should be, there is only a single rubber boot tip. Smooth. Blunt. Unmistakable. Human skin has vanished.

One path remains. You bring your blackened hands to your mouth. Your tongue touches rubber: slick, warm, dense. Taste, smell, texture converge. The rubber is no longer outside you. It responds. Extends. Connects.

Then you realize it is not just being touched.

The surface answers.

The tip of your tongue thickens, reshapes, hardens — becoming a smaller echo of the steel-capped form your hands and feet have taken.

The sheath climbs your neck, seals the throat, curls over jaw and ears, closes along the scalp. Every breath, every swallow, every pulse registers through the continuous surface. Heat spreads upward in waves, deep, saturating. Vibrations from heartbeat and breath pass through the rubber, amplifying each sensation.

The mirror confirms it.

Black. Glossy. Unbroken.

Dunlop prints mark legs, arms, chest like sigils. Legs, arms, torso, head — one uninterrupted surface, responsive, alive. You flex the single boot-tip finger at the end of each arm, your rubber knees, elbows, shoulders. Every movement echoes through the material, vibrating in response.

Sensation no longer comes from touching the surface — it comes from being it. The Dunlop rubber has extended without seam or interruption, the original boots grown into total enclosure. What once compressed now defines: muscle, tendon, curve — all held and shaped from within the same dense black substance. Awareness flows through the rubber body as a single circuit, from the blunt steel forms to the sealed head, continuous and exact.

You are no longer wearing boots.

You are the boots.

You are rubber.

Continuous. Smooth. Tight. Alive.

You step back, leaving the changing room. The neon-yellow coverall lies in tatters behind you. Sunlight touches the glossy surface. Heat blooms across the sheath. The world feels smaller. Sharper.

You step forward. Every movement resonates through the black enclosure. Every step, every breath, every flex a confirmation.

You are complete.

[darkhorizons]

My queer, magical ice cream shop

Not just colorful. Not just delicious. But transformative. Sensual. Deeply personal. Each flavor doesn't just taste amazing — it changes you. For a while. And obviously: 100% calorie-free.

I order a scoop of Puppy. I take a few licks — and bam: I’m Barko. Fully. My gear isn’t something I put on — it is me. The hood, the MX boots, the tight gear wrapping around me — it’s all part of my body now. My thoughts slip away. I stop thinking, start being. I crawl, sniff, curl up, nuzzle. I’m right here, in this body, in this moment. Soft and present. And it feels so, so right.

Then I try a scoop of Biker. And suddenly: leather tight on my skin, helmet hugging my head, heavy boots around my calves. I feel the weight, the control. The bike roars beneath me. The suit doesn’t just fit — it’s grown onto me. I am the rider. Free. Fast. Untouchable. I ride.

Or I try Teenage Dream. And I’m 17. Hoodie, sneakers, headphones. Controller in my hand. The world fades away. No pressure. No expectations. Just me, music, and the game.

I love this ice cream shop. I never have to pick just one. I can try something new every day — or mix three scoops together and let the transformation happen all at once.

And right now? My favorite flavor, no question: Pupstream Electric. Zesty citrus. Slightly synthetic. It tingles on my tongue like pop rocks and neon. And after two scoops... I’m already on all fours. Tail wagging. Eyes soft. Just one word left in me: woof. 🐾

[darkhorizons]

Drawn Into Gear

For a moment, I lingered in the warmth of whatever dream I'd just fallen out of—its shape already dissolving, slipping away before I could hold onto it. I kept my eyes closed, hoping to drift back under.

But something was wrong.

Beneath me, the surface wasn’t a mattress. It was smooth in places, cool against my skin. Hard, uneven contours pressed into my back and hips—ridges and edges that didn’t belong. Layers shifted slightly under my weight, yielding but not soft. The sensation was strange. Too real. Too detailed to be a dream.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me glowed with a soft, diffuse light, casting a muted calm across sterile white tiles. The room was small. Square. No doors.

I was lying on a floor buried in motorbike gear.

Dozens of leather racing suits, helmets, gloves, and boots lay scattered across the space, piled so thickly they formed a padded, uneven surface beneath my naked body. Everything looked new—clean, unmarked, as if it had only just been placed there.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint creak of leather as I shifted my weight.

At first, I thought the sound was coming from me—the subtle groan of leather under my movement. But then I froze.

And the sound didn’t stop.

It was faint. Deliberate. Intentional. A slow stretch of seams. A flexing of limbs.

The gear was moving.

I held my breath.

Directly ahead, a racing suit began to rise. At first, it was just a subtle shift, almost imperceptible. The silence was thick, pressing in from all sides, amplifying every tiny movement. Slowly, with a deliberate and conscious effort, the suit began to straighten from the heap. It was as if an invisible force, a being with a mind of its own, was guiding it.

The arms of the suit sagged into place, hanging limply as if draped over invisible bones. Each movement was measured, intentional, and filled with a sense of purpose. The fabric stretched and flexed, creating faint, soft creaking sounds that echoed in the stillness, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

I watched in a trance, my breath caught in my throat, as the suit continued its slow ascent. The zipper, gleaming in the dim light, began to slide downward with mechanical precision. The silver teeth parted smoothly, revealing the soft, polished leather lining of the suit. Its surface gleamed in the faint light, the soft creaking of the leather almost hypnotic, each sound a reminder of the deliberate, conscious movements guiding the suit.

The suit stood there, fully upright now, its form eerily human-like despite the absence of a body. The deliberate movements, the conscious unfolding of the fabric, and the soft creaking of the leather all pointed to an unseen presence, a mind directing the actions with meticulous care.

Very slowly, it was coming toward me.

I scrambled back, but the room offered no space to flee. The suits were everywhere, layered like a soft trap. The walls were smooth. Seamless. There was nowhere to hide.

And then something touched me.

A glove.

Black leather fingers brushed against the bare skin of my calf, curling slowly, deliberately. The sensation was chilling—cool, smooth, unnaturally precise. I stiffened, breath catching, my attention split between the touch and the figure in front of me.

The unzipped suit.

It was standing upright now, facing me directly. Its zipper hung open like a parted mouth, revealing the gleam of the shiny inner lining. It looked like it was watching. Waiting.

The glove at my side slid higher, smooth and confident. It reached my knee, flexed there for a moment, then continued. I could feel everything—the stretch of the leather over my skin, the faint shift of the glove’s pressure, the way the texture made my nerves spark. It was deliberate. Intimate.

The room was dense with silence, yet full of sound. I could hear the creaking of leather in front of me and beside me, the strange harmony of suits moving without visible bodies. The ground was completely buried beneath layers of leather: suits, gloves, boots. A soft, heavy carpet of black, shiny gear. Leather upon leather. Like breath shifting in the dark.

That was when I realized—it hadn’t stopped moving since it first rose from the pile. Each step had been measured, smooth, silent. Every inch closer had happened slowly, without hesitation. It was still coming—straight at me.

The smell reached me before the suit did—wafting ahead of it like a warning, or a promise. At first it was barely there, a faint trace of leather and something else—something animal, dark, and close. But it lingered. It pushed into the space between us with a slow, curling insistence, not sharp or overpowering, but thick and low, like something ancient being stirred into wakefulness.

The glove climbed higher, brushing against my thigh. My body tensed. The creaking grew louder. Behind the glove, the suit beside me twisted again, its torso aligning with mine. I could feel it there, the shape of it close to my back, but I couldn’t look away from the one in front.

It was near now—barely a pace away. The open chest of the unzipped suit seemed to breathe. The arms hung at its sides like they were waiting to rise. The suit in front of me was still silent—but not still. It was expectant.

The scent was stronger. I tasted it on the back of my tongue, warm and bitter, like smoke and old secrets. It curled in my chest. The room felt smaller. Closer.

The glove reached my hip, curling around it with a slow, measured grip. Behind me, it slid upward, along the curve of my back. The second suit moved in unison. But the first—the one before me—had almost closed the distance.

And then it stopped, right in front of me. The zipper hung open, barely a breath away. The glossy inner leather lining shimmered in the soft light. Its chest tilted forward slightly, like it was leaning in.

The smell surged. It hit me hard now, thick and intimate. My head spun. The glove behind me reached my shoulder just as, in front of me, the unzipped suit raised one arm. Leather creaked. Then, a touch.

A finger pressed gently, directly to the center of my chest. The contact sent a bolt through me—through breath and bone. Not pain. Not even fear. Just pressure. Presence. Intent.

I stood there, suspended between them, held by leather, scent, and sound. And for a moment, it felt like time wasn’t moving—but everything else was.

More were stirring. All around me.

The room was coming alive.

Two suits pressed against my body now, their leather cool and supple. I gasped at the sensation—sharp and electric—somewhere between violation and embrace. The fear was still there, raw and pulsing, but it was blurring at the edges. There was something else threading through it. Curiosity. Longing.

The unzipped suit loomed close, its chest yawning open, arms outstretched—not to trap me, but to receive me.

I struggled, instinctively. Kicked, twisted. But I was already being moved.

Boots slid under my legs, gloves guided my wrists, suits pressed in from every side, not forcing me, but helping me. Aligning me.

Positioning me.

And inside, something was changing.

At first, it was still the suits—not commanding, but guiding. Their gloved hands moved with calm precision, lifting my legs, supporting my weight, aligning me as if they already knew how I would fit. Their touch wasn’t forceful now. It was attentive. Assured. Almost tender.

Then my feet met the inside of the suit.

The lining accepted me—cool, supple, eager. It embraced my skin with a smoothness that felt less like material and more like intention. My toes slid in, then my calves, the leather pulling gently, insistently. I wasn’t being dressed—I was being received.

And that’s when the scent rose.

Not a scent anymore. A presence.

It surged into my lungs, heavy and thick, not content to linger in the air. It filled my mouth, coated my tongue, clung to my throat. Leather. Raw and new. Hot and clean. Not just a smell, but a thought. A memory I never had, awakening all at once. It was everywhere. It became me.

I couldn’t think. I didn’t want to.

The idea of leather — the feel, the sound, the breath of it — pressed against every corner of my mind like a second skin. It was more than a craving. It was the only thing left. The only thing real.

My hips slid into the suit.

I moved. Eager now, hungry for it. I pushed deeper, leaning forward, arms bracing, legs driving. I wanted to feel the press of it higher, tighter. I wanted it wrapped around my chest, my shoulders, my neck. I wanted to disappear beneath it. I wanted to be claimed.

The suit rose along my torso, and the cold receded—replaced by something low and warm and alive, like a pulse answering my own.

The zipper rose.

Each closing tooth sank deeper, binding not just leather to flesh, but sensation to self. Where it touched, I was no longer separate. There was no line. No edge.

Just union.

And I wanted it.

When the collar brushed against my jaw, I went still. The last of my skin, the last breath of air, the last sense of self outside the leather—I let them go.

I was ready.

The zipper sealed.

There was no seam. No gap. Just a smooth, gleaming surface, black and perfect.

I didn’t move—not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t need to.

I was no longer wearing the suit.

I was the suit.

But my transformation wasn’t complete. Not yet.

My eyes drifted downward—drawn not by thought, but by a need that rose from somewhere deeper.

The floor around me was a landscape of gear. Piles of it. Layers. Leather gloves half-buried beneath beautiful racing suits, helmets tilted and half-sunk into the folds of thick, glossy leather, the heavy forms of boots pressing against limbs and torsos of suits beneath them. No order. Just abundance.

And then—I saw them.

The boots.

Not just any boots—tall, armored, sculpted for speed. Their hard shell gleamed under the light, layered with flex panels and protective ridges. The leather shone darkly beneath the plastic exoskeleton, with fastening mechanisms recessed and hidden, sleek as bone. Racing boots. Predatory, elegant, perfect.

I reached for them, hands trembling slightly—not with fear, but awe. The moment I touched the first one, I felt it: recognition. My fingers traced the curve of the ankle guard, the ridged shin plate, the subtle resistance of the stretch panel near the instep. It was beautiful. Waiting.

Sliding my foot in was like crossing a threshold. The boot yielded with smooth resistance, the inner lining cool to the touch and covered with leather, tight around the arch and heel. My toes settled inside, feeling the leather and already fusing with the boot, and the boot seemed to close around me like a second skin.

I reached for the zipper—tucked discreetly behind a velcro-secured panel—and pulled. The sound was soft, almost shy. The moment the zipper reached the top, my hand brushed over it, and like a magic trick vanishing at the touch of belief, the closure disappeared into the leather. Seamless.

The second boot was even easier. My foot knew where to go. The boot met it halfway.

Now they stood on me—not just worn, but connected. Anchored. Completed. The suit pulsed, content. Not a word, but a feeling: satisfaction, joy, belonging.

And then, the gloves.

I found them just beside me, one cradled in the curve of a fallen helmet, the other half-folded on a bunched-up sleeve. Racing gloves, thick and ridged across the knuckles, with segmented armor and pre-curved fingers. They were open, waiting.

I slid one hand inside. The lining was cool and close, stretching tight along the backs of my fingers, around each joint, the leather folding into every crease like it had always belonged there. The glove responded with a subtle flex, as if testing me—and then yielding.

The second glove wrapped me in the same precise pressure. I fastened the wrist with a small pull—tightening, securing. The suit drank the motion, sealing me in with seamless grace. My hands were no longer hands.

They were gloves.

I flexed my fingers and watched the leather move with me, a perfect translation of intent. Ready.

And with that, I reached outward, unbidden yet willing. The helmet was there—sleek, matte black, its visor blank like a waiting face.

It was the final piece. The final gift.

I lifted it.

With reverence, I placed it over my head.

And I felt it fuse.

The leather met my neck with a quiet sigh. The helmet sank into place, not atop me, but into me. I could feel the seal as it closed, soft and warm and final.

Darkness.

The visor was pitch black. I could see nothing. Just the silence. The pressure. The touch of dozens of other suits, brushing against my new skin in welcome.

And then—

Vision bloomed.

The blackness peeled away, not like a screen switching on, but like eyes opening for the first time. My field of vision expanded, wider, deeper, cleaner than human sight had ever been. The visor wasn’t a window.

It was me.

I turned my head, and the motion was effortless. Fluid. Glorious.

Every sensation was heightened—the texture of leather against leather, the faint electrical thrum beneath my surface, the awareness of others moving around me. I wasn’t alone.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I had become something more.

Something perfect.

I had become the gear.

[darkhorizons]

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