The Ride
We’re going out for a ride on your bike. You’ve been threatening me for weeks with a ride on your Harley. I know what a Harley is, of course, and you told me about your ’93 Wide Glide. I’ve no clue what it looks like. I’m sure it’s nice. I’ve put this off for as long as possible, given you every excuse I could think of, but the day has finally come, wrapped in sunny skies and a cool breeze.
You know I don’t like motorcycles and have been reassuring me that we won’t be on the freeways; like that alone will rid me of my fear of the machine. There is a lot more to fear than a big road; cars, for one, tractor-trailers, for another. Not to mention idiot drivers not looking in their mirrors and aggressive drivers in too much of a hurry. The idea of not having a seatbelt scares the hell out of me. Or a door. Or a roof, for that matter. But I promised. Granted, it was made in a moment of passion - up against a bathroom door, to be exact - four months ago, at Gerry’s new house. You wouldn’t let me come until I agreed, and I fucking needed that orgasm; you were on your knees with your mouth on my pussy, your tongue lapping at me, sucking on my clit, and I was begging you. I’d have agreed to almost anything to feel that mind-blowing release that only you can give me. This past Sunday you announced we’d be going out on the bike today. “The weather will be just right,” you said, “warm enough to enjoy the ride and cool enough not to mind the protective gear.”
Last night you stopped by my place. I watched from the front door as you got out then leaned in to grab a large bag from the back seat. You said nothing as you walked past me into the house, catching my hand on the way and tugging me up the stairs. You said nothing as you dragged me into the middle of my bedroom and dropped the bag on the floor next to my bed. You pulled me to you, dropping your mouth so that your lips slid over mine, nipping at my bottom lip, your tongue tangling and twisting with mine. Your mouth tasted like cigarettes and sweet tea, addictive. It was only long minutes later, when we were lying on my bed and your hand was down my panties with your thumb rubbing my clit and your fingers buried deep inside me that you whispered hello in my ear then encouraged me to come.
“Come for me, baby. Come on. That’s right.” Your voice was low and gravelly. I was grinding my pussy against your hand. Your long fingers with their wide knuckles were thrusting, rubbing that spot that makes me stutter and moan. My face was buried in your neck. “That’s a good girl. Be a good girl for me, love. Make my fingers wet and sticky.” I came then, shuddering and gasping your name. You peeled off my purple boy shorts and did little more than stand to push your jeans down your thighs before you grabbed my legs, spread them wide and sank home.
It wasn’t until later, when our skin had cooled and our breathing was normal, that you remembered the bag on the floor. When you got out of bed to retrieve it, I rolled onto my stomach to peer over the bed at what was inside. You were naked and magnificent, and my eyes raked your form; a tall, lean canvas made for needle and ink. I watched as you began pulling leather from the bag, and belatedly, I recognized the contents. I laughed, realizing then why you had grabbed me and pulled me to my room and why you had been insistent and overwhelming. It had been the leather. I giggled, knowing we’d be having more fun in the future with the riding gear.
Now, I’m standing on the curb outside my house, waiting for you. I’m too nervous to be inside where I’d be pacing the kitchen. I want to be the first thing you see when you pull up because I love this riding gear you gave me. The black, zip-up jacket is laying on the porch step, and I’m wearing the black and red Harley Davidson baby tee and the leather chaps over my low button-flies. I’m both scared and happy I’m wearing the chaps. I feel the same about the boots, even though they aren’t sexy with a pointy toe and high heel. These are designed for protection. I can tell you had a lot of fun picking these out, and I wonder, not for the first time, how you manage to find these things; but then, you’ve always been the better shopper. A breeze has picked up since I’ve been outside, chilling the air, and the short shirt has me grabbing the jacket.
A moment later, I feel the bike as much as I hear it; a deep rumbling in my chest, a thumping so intense that I put a hand on my chest, wondering if I’d feel it’s rhythm against my palm. I do. I turn to the sound, zipping my jacket as you pull up. You sit there for the longest time, not moving, and I feel your eyes inspecting me through the black visor covering your eyes. Finally you move, reaching behind you to grab the helmet that is fastened to the backrest. You toss it to me, as if I know how to don one of these things. Luckily, while it looks intimidating, it is no more complicated than a bicycle helmet. My hair is short these days, and the helmet slides on without fuss. I feel foolish, as if I’ve playing dress-up in my mom’s closet and have been caught. You pat the seat behind you, and I reluctantly climb on.
I hate motorcycles but love sitting behind you; straddling the black leather seat with the small backrest behind me, I wrap my body around you. My arms are around your chest and I’m clutching my wrists tightly, but you gently pry them apart and place them lower around your waist. I close my eyes and breath deeply in an attempt to calm myself. The engine is idling, and I feel its vibrations throughout my body. You aren’t pulling away from the curb; you are giving me a couple of minutes to calm myself, and I am grateful, once more, that I’ve found a considerate lover and amazing friend, despite insisting I should have a “Harley” experience.
The bike isn’t uncomfortable; in fact, it’s just the opposite. The black leather is warm under my bottom, and as we sit here, I begin to take in other things; how it feels to be pressed against your back, how your ass feels snug between my thighs. I loosen my arms around your waist and feel the leather jacket you’re wearing; it’s warm and supple. I rub your stomach then slide my hands to your ribs and down to your hips. I love how your hips feel in my hands. You are slim, and although I tease you about your skinniness, you move like a cat, graceful and confident. My hands find their place low on your abdomen; I rest my palms on your belly just above the fly of your jeans while my little fingers slip under the denim, and you nod. I take a deep breath, and you slowly move the bike into the street.
I’m too scared to take in the scenery. I’ve my eyes closed, and all I can do is concentrate on not moving, not breathing too much, not doing anything that’s going to cause me to fall off this fucking machine.
“Relax, love.” I flinch at the sound of your voice inside the helmet, but immediately, I feel my shoulders drop and my legs unclench.
“Can you hear me?” I ask and you nod. You chuckle lightly, the way you do when we’re lying in bed and you’re watching television while I’m reading, and something you’re watching amuses you.
“I knew you’d feel better if we could talk.” You explain the intercom system built into the full-face helmet; it cuts the noise considerably, allowing us to speak almost normally to each other. A regular helmet would not allow us to do more than shout.
“Thank you,” I say in a whoosh of breath, happy that you would do this for me.
I open my eyes and look around. We’re heading away from the subdivisions and shopping district and into the mountains. You wouldn’t tell me last night where we’re going; only that it’s an easy ride. There are few cars out; the roads are wide and open. You are talking in my ear about nothing in particular, but your voice is hypnotic, reminding me our late night talks in bed, between soft caresses and kisses, encouraging me to respond.
I feel myself growing wet, and for the first time, I feel the vibrations of the bike localized in one area, my now-sensitive pussy. I wiggle slightly, not enough to upset the balance of the bike, but to get closer, to push myself into your tight ass and create some friction to go along with the vibration. My hands dip lower, to your cock, and you chuckle that sexy laugh that tells me you know something has changed. You neither encourage me nor stop me, and I decide that if I have to be on this bike, I’m going to enjoy it. My way.
I cup you and squeeze gently with one hand, while the other slides under your jacket and shirt to your chest. I love smoothing my hand over your chest, feeling your nipples pebble under my fingertips. You groan the way you do when I rub them just right, and I smile. I shift in the seat, tilting my hips slightly to press closer to you, and a shock of vibration is directed at my clit. I gasp and squeeze a bit firmer.
“Baby?” you say slowly.
“Ooohhh…” I moan, concentrating on positioning my body just so for maximum pleasure. “The vibration,” I whimper, and suddenly, they are all consuming. The vibrations are intense, and I lean into your back, holding on. If you are talking to me, I cannot hear you over the waves of pleasure. I push down against the seat, and my toes curl. My pussy is hot and wet, and I am so close to coming. And then the waves begin to crash around me, and I am shaking, my legs are trembling and I hear you in my ear, telling me how much you love the feel me holding you as I come, my legs squeezing you, hearing me panting in your ear. The vibrations are too intense now, and I have to shift again. I ease back so that there is no part of my pussy touching the seat. I reach behind me to the backrest and hold on as I lean back. Though my jeans are tight and pressed against my clit, it is just enough for me to recover.
I feel the bike slowing, and opening my eyes and looking around, I see why; a minivan with a flat tire is pulled over, and a woman holding a baby is on her cell phone. “She won’t have cell service out here,” I say as you swing the bike onto the shoulder of the road. I am shaking with want; desire is still coursing through me, slow to wane.
“Soon, baby,” you say softly in my ear before we climb off the bike and remove the helmets.
Together, we approach the woman who is near tears.
“I’ve no service out here,” she near wails. The baby in her arms looks as if she’s just woken from sleep.
You tell her not to worry, we’ll help, and I smile at the small, shocked look gives way to relief as the woman realizes the situation is unexpectedly under control. She turns to me and asks if I will check on her other child still in the van while she shows you where the spare is. I round the vehicle, trying desperately to rein in this wild need running through my veins. I open the door and see a small child desperately trying to climb out of his booster seat. He stops struggling for a moment, thinking perhaps I am his mother and he might get yelled at, but gets back to work soon enough.
“Would you like to get out, little man?” I ask soothingly. This child does not know me and should be afraid of me, so my voice is soft and gentle; but just then, the back of the van opens, and the mother calls in that everything is alright, I was here to help. I catch your eye, and you give me a knowing smile. Distraction is what I need at the moment, and a three-year-old boy is just the thing to do it.
I quickly unfasten him and he is off like a shot, tumbling out of the doorway before I can get a word out. I turn and follow him into the small field lining the road. He is amused for a total of five minutes before heading back to the van where you’ve made short work of the tire; already the van is in the air, and you are removing the flat. The young mother is standing back a ways, presumably to give you room to work, but hovering, nonetheless. As you remove the old tire and put on the spare, the boy runs up to the grimy black thing, intent on performing his own inspection. I am not quick enough, and his hands are on the tire, almost tipping it over. I catch him and swing him close and out of the way.
His black hands land on my tee. I’d taken the jacket off only a minute before, and now I’ve small black handprints. On my breasts. I am amazed at the kid’s aim, but it seems they all have some built-in radar for women’s breasts, gravitating towards them even if they are only remotely accessible. I look up and see you laughing.
Five more minutes and more dirty handprints later, we are on our way. A half-mile or so down the road, you drop your hand from the handlebars and place it on the side of my knee.
“You okay?” you ask, caressing my leg lightly. In response, I snuggle into your back.
‘I’m okay,” I answer.
“Want me to pick up some speed?” You’re laughing, and in retaliation I slip my hands down to your thighs, placing them high and inside. I curl my fingers between the seat and your legs, and give a gentle squeeze. “No,” I say after a moment, and you chuckle in my ear. I’d taken you literally, and you’d been teasing. I sigh then start giggling. I still don’t like motorcycles, but I do like this, snuggling against you as we fly down the road; it is dangerous and it is sexy and I feel alive. And the vibrations still tickle.
Two hours later, we’re at your place. My legs are wobbly from sitting and the torment of the past twenty minutes, speeding up, slowing down, speeding up, slowing down... You were evil, and I tell you so, but you just laugh. I need help off the bike, and your arm is snug around my waist, holding me tight while I take off the helmet.
We’re making dinner; you’re outside doing the manly grilling stuff and I’m finishing up and fixing the salad. My legs still feel a little weak, and when I think on how the bike felt between my legs, I feel myself getting wet. My panties are a mess. I need something to calm me down so I head over to the bar to grab your bottle of whiskey. Normally, drinking is not something I do, but today calls for it, I think. I pour a shot and throw it back as I head back into the kitchen. I set the bottle on the table then brace myself as the fire trails down my throat.
Ten minutes later you walk in the door. The whiskey has kicked in, but instead of calming me down, it has fired me up. I walk towards you, take the plate from your hands and place it on the table then push you down onto the chair.
“Stay,” I order, and I feel a grin spreading across my face. I open the fastenings of the chaps and then my low cut button flies. It’s doesn’t take much to shimmy them down my legs and step out of them. Wearing only the dirty black and red Harley baby T and my pink lace boy shorts, I straddle you and begin rocking back and forth on your cock. I feel you begin to get hard. I lean in for a kiss, swiping my tongue across your lips until they part and you draw me in. You’re hard. And hot. Your hands skim up my back to hook on my shoulders, pulling me down hard so that you can thrust against me. I throw my head back, and your mouth is on my neck, licking and biting and growling. I reach behind me and grab the whiskey, take a drink from the bottle, then put my mouth to yours. As your mouth opens, I let the whiskey dribble onto your tongue. You’re licking my lips and your tongue is swirling around mine, and we’re sharing the fiery liquid. I’m grinding with abandon, rubbing my clit over your cock again and again. I come apart, shuddering and moaning. Your hands are on my hips, pushing down as you move and twist in the chair.
I move to slide down your lap, and the look in your eyes pierces me with their wild desire. I smile as I sink down onto my knees. Immediately, your hands are at your fly and pulling yourself free as I lower my mouth to you, taking you in, past my lips and over my tongue. Your hands are in my hair, holding my head steady as you slowly begin fucking my face. Sliding in and out, your hot, smooth length gathers saliva as you thrust, wet as if you were buried deep inside me. You thrust deep then halt, and I feel your body tense. My hands slide under your ass, pulling you to me. You come; I feel your thick liquid hit the back of my throat, and I swallow, not wanting to miss a drop, not wanting to let any part of you go. You slowly begin to soften and I release you, tucking you back into your jeans, looking into your eyes as I slowly zip you up.
I slowly stand, and you take my hand, pulling me down onto your lap. Your arms come around my waist, and I wrap my arms around you and lay my head on your shoulder. Mindless of the food on the table.
“What did you think, love?” You ask in my hair.
I lift my head and smile, kiss you lightly and say, “Best ride of the day.”
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