Mask Rider Bike Novels & Stories

"Stop begging! I said I'll think about it....now go change your clothes, and we will go grab some dinner." ❤️Maria's POV❤️ I ran and got changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and threw my hair up in a pony tail. When I went back downstairs, Carlos was holding a leather jacket and a hot pink helmet. "We are going riding tonight." He told me and tossed me the helmet. We met Marco in the garage. Marco climbed on his Kawasaki Ninja H2R bike, and Carlos and I rode his MTT Turbine Street fighter bike.

Chris mumbled between the noise around us. “Absolutely!” Tara agreed to make my head turn in her direction. I couldn’t help myself but smile when I saw it on her face. Her happiness is contagious. We kept ourselves in the show, cheering and shouting because of the stunts made by the riders. Until someone on the participants caught my attention. A man suddenly circled his motorbike in the air as he kept his elbows up and stood up on the bike before it landed in the rough terrains. It sped off its motorbike, but he suddenly turned his head to me when he was on my location. Even the rider was wearing a red helmet protecting and covering his face; I could feel his stares. Those intense glares we

A new and limited edition Harley Davidson motorcycle, shiny black with red stripes on the sides, stops with a soft thud halfway through the driveway. The driver, a tall and athletic man, wearing a full-face helmet with glasses, a leather jacket, and knee-high boots, got off his motorcycle quietly. Everyone who saw him was deeply impressed by his dramatic appearance. The men admired the big motorbikes which were extraordinarily expensive and the women were curious about the face of the Harley Davidson rider.

After finally spotting her helmet and grabbing it with one hand, it was time to push her way out the front door. Unable to hide her smile, she walked toward her bike, which was her pride and joy. She took a second to properly admire the sleek black and Barbie pink Suzuki GSXR 1000 RR. Trixie loved her Gixxer more than she should. After climbing onto the seat, strapping her helmet on, and sliding the key in the ignition, she pushed the start button. The smooth growling immediately calmed her nerves.

They were all black, lined up neatly with the riders already sitting on them as though they were waiting for something or rather someone, every bike had an owner. Jax walked straight to the middle, they were all there, dressed in the same leather jackets, black gloves, black pants, I couldn't help feeling a little out of place. My eyes found one of the riders and instantly I knew who it was, his bike stood out differently, where the others were smaller it stood tall and proud just like him. The matte-black motorcycle rumbled beneath him, its powerful engine growling like a caged beast. Sleek, fast, and intimidating, like it was a machine built for dominance and control, something that scream

"You have been cooped up inside this concrete compound for days now. I thought you might really need some fresh air to clear your head." He led me out through the back door and into the bright sunlight of the yard, walking toward the long line of shiny motorcycles parked against the wall. His bike was completely unmistakable—it was a massive, heavy black Harley-Davidson motorcycle with bright chrome details that caught the sunlight and a large Iron Reapers skull painted right onto the fuel tank. He reached over, grabbed a black helmet from the handlebars, and handed it to me. Then, he stepped closer and helped me strap it tightly under my chin, his large, tattooed fingers moving with careful

As the car drifting event comes to a close, the focus shifts to the next thrilling spectacle - a high-energy bike race. Handsome boys, their faces hidden by helmets, rev up their powerful superbikes, their sleek machines gleaming under the moonlit sky. Among them stands a figure cloaked in mystery - a rider in a black balaclava, his aura of enigmatic allure capturing my attention. The race begins, the bikers tearing through the twisting track with speed and precision, their bikes weaving through the night like streaks of lightning. The balaclava-clad rider steers the course with unparalleled skill, his movements fluid and calculated as he gains ground on his competitors.

The rider soon pulled up into the neighbourhood with a cloud of dust behind him, flashing a powerful luminous headlight that outdid the street lamppost. The final destination was a wall covered with graffiti made with coal, cheap paints, blood and other human matter, that still smell through the arts, most likely the work of juveniles and junkies. The rider dismounted gracefully, clad head to toe in an all-black leather outfit, with every detail—from the reinforced boots to the armoured gloves, dark blackout Kala Carbon helmet and … a rubber duck keychain? Whoever, the unidentified rider was, they definitely had a weird taste.

The figure gradually materialized, clad in desert attire, their face hidden beneath goggles and a scarf. As the dirt bike drew nearer, the rider skillfully navigated the uneven terrain, eventually coming to a stop a short distance from Lin and Hunter. The engine's growl diminished, leaving behind an uneasy silence. The mysterious rider removed their goggles, revealing a face marked by determination. "Lin, Hunter, I've been tracking your journey," the rider spoke, their voice tinged with urgency.

There are only two things in this fucked up world I give a damn about, motorcycles and women. ​I ride them both the same way with a heavy hand and zero mercy. I like easing into the stroke, feeling the machine warm up beneath me, then manhandling them around tight corners until the metal screams. I want them redlining, vibrating through my bones until they’re begging me to let off the gas. I don't do gentle. I do control. ​Sup, Boss.