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“Your bike out there… single cylinder huh? What is it… 400ccs?”
“500. Can you handle a bike that size?”
“Handle it? I don’t need to handle anything. My bike takes care of me. A motorcycle is a girl’s best friend.”
“I thought that was diamonds.” He looked at me sidelong. “…I’d like to buy you a diamond.”
I smirked and held up the back of my hand in front of his eyes with the sharp rock protruding threateningly from my finger. “I’m already married asshole.”
He grinned and lifted his half-finished beer to his lips. My married status did not prevent the flash of an image from entering my mind: of those lips, gently parted and wetly touching my nipples.
He was exactly my type: what I liked to think of as “upscale-redneck.” Clearly from country roots, but just as clearly he had made good on his looks and intelligence. The primary piece of evidence: his mid-five-figure bike leaning in the parking lot that he had shortly before pointed out to me. Beyond his bike, he was also dressed extremely well. Like a biker for sure, but if, like me, you knew the subtle differences between the gear of some back-woods custom-piped-riding overweight grease-monkey and the subtle refinements of someone who had steeped themselves in the motorcycle pastime without being sucked in by the trappings of faux-bondage wear and un-backed claims of American bike exceptionalism, then it was plain to see this guy was not just out for an evening bar-crawl with The Snakes — or whatever other lamely fake-tough name the bike gang that was making so much noise on the other side of the bar had chosen for themselves. For one thing, he clearly favored the more traditional look of waxed cotton rather than black leather. He wore chaps — seriously and without irony — the tan color of the stiff cotton contrasting nicely with the heavy black duck jeans underneath. He had on a black button-down shirt made of a heavy wool material, and hanging on the back of his seat was a waxed-cotton motorcycle jacket that looked so heavy I wasn’t sure how long that flimsy stool he sat on would support it. It, like the chaps, was worn, cracked, and oil-blackened with use. I had something of a longing to run my hand over that material. I wanted to feel that rough, tough, filthy cloth against my soft skin.
I sipped my own beer, and blew thoughtlessly on the head. I looked up at him.
He set his beer slowly down on the bar. “Well, why am I talking to you if you are already married?”
“Wow, you really are an asshole, aren’t you? You think because I’m married I can’t make new friends in a bar? New male friends? Are you some troglodyte who thinks women are men’s property? You think I’m owned by my husband?”
“Take it easy Ms. Steinem. I’m just trying to advance the conversation.”
I smiled at him. “You mean advance it past the point where I told you that I’m married?”
“Typically in a situation like this, if a woman is making a point of the fact that she’s married, usually it is a signal to back off.” He turned from me and faced toward the bar.
“So why aren’t you backing off?”
“I don’t want to.” He said before lifting his glass and taking another sip. He still faced his own image reflected in the dirty mirror behind the bar.
I swirled the remainder of my beer in its glass and looked at the sharp line of his jaw, his Adam’s apple wafted up and down as he swallowed. “Why not?” I pressed.
Still without looking at me he said, “because you’re the most attractive woman in this dive, and I only want to talk to the most attractive woman here.”
I put my glass down and leaned toward him. My hand glided to a perch on the rough material covering his knee. It occurred to me that with the heavy gear he was wearing he might not even feel my touch. “Just talk?”
Now he swiveled to look at me. “OK, I want to fuck the most attractive woman in this dive.”
I locked my eyes on his and slid forward, slightly hiking up my short bursa escort black skirt and spreading my legs to straddle his lap. I lay my hands on either side of his face, and guided him to a wet kiss.
His big hands advanced up my thighs and came to rest on my hips. His lips were as soft as I imagined them. I left them wet, dragging his lower lip lightly between my teeth. I put my head down to nuzzle his neck, and I could feel him breathing deeply in my hair washing over his face.
I thrust my hips forward against him, and guiding me with his hands he helped me find the hard bulge in his jeans. Its presence was obvious even through the thick material. I rolled my hips back and forth, crushing my clit up against his rock. The bar was not exactly well-lit, but it was certain that many people — maybe everyone in the place — was sneaking sidelong, furtive glances in our direction, jealously wishing they were themselves the hottest couple in the bar making out in front of the dozens of dirty bikers in “The Snakes” (or whatever) and their associated hangers-on.
I fake-fucked him in that foul bar, grinding against his cock until he was so hard that I thought he might be in danger of cumming right there. My lips found his ear, and I moaned softly so that only he could hear. And I said, “this is what it would be like if I were fucking you.”
He pulled his head back and caught my eye. “I want to put my cock inside you.”
I leaned back. I put my hand on his chest and pushed back. I stepped back. “I told you. I’m married.” I looked at my watch. “And I have to go back to my husband right now, actually.”
The face he made at that point — it was a look deeper than just disappointment. In some ways I savored it. I think we ladies like to believe that teasing men with sex is just good fun; that leading a man on and then denying him is just a game. I think many of us can’t let go of the idea that men should be tough, and if they don’t get laid tonight, well tough-titties; get over it you big hard emotionless man. After all it’s just sex.
But if you had seen this guy’s face; he wasn’t sad, upset, angry, or laughing it off… he was heartbroken.
“Look,” I said pulling a pen from my jacket and writing on a square napkin, “here’s my number. Give me a call sometime, and maybe we can make another dive bar insane with lusty jealousy.”
The prospect of possible future-sex with me was apparently enough to instantly repair his cracked heart, and his face brightened. I decided I liked that. It showed a mature patience on his part. I kissed him with parted lips one last time and scooched my skirt down my legs before picking up my helmet and jacket and walking out the door.
In the parking lot, I stopped for a moment to leer at my machine. The glint of the sodium lights reflected off the oily black curve of the fuel tank.
I love my bike.
It’s an older model — soon to move from ‘classic’ status to ‘vintage’ — but I had rebuilt most of it at some point. I had stripped it down, cafe racer style, with the fenders removed and a thin padded plank of a seat. All the unnecessary bits of trim, decoration, and logos had been removed, and the engine had been left exposed in a way that one could almost understand it as a model that showed the basics of how an internal combustion engine works. The one cylinder stood up rigidly in the middle of the bike. For some reason it always reminded me of the bicep of some body builder under tension in a flex position.
I threw my leg over the seat, thus undoing the gains of the scooching maneuver I had executed moments before. Mostly, I didn’t ride in skirts, because mostly it was way too cold. Even an otherwise mild night could get chilly on a motorcycle quickly, and the breeze blowing over nylons and up my skirt was something that was only comfortable on downright warm nights. Fortunately, this was one of those nights.
I did love the way my skirt looked when bursa escort paired with my vintage brown leather motorcycle boots. It was nighttime, so there wasn’t anyone around to appreciate it, but I looked fucking amazing on my motorcycle. I have this tough but shapely yellow-and-black plaid jacket with a high collar that collaborated nicely with the short black skirt. And a 3/4s helmet with a amber-tinted full-face shield. There’s no helmet law in my state, but I’m a mother for fuck’s sake, so I always wear it.
I pulled my gloves on before I hooked the heel of my boot onto the right-side peg. I turned on the fuel and turned the key in its slot to engage the electrical system. My bike has a kick-start as an alternate starting option, but… not in a skirt. I pushed the starter button. Succumbing to the electrical jolt, the engine shook to life like Frankenstein’s monster back from the icy dead.
Up with the side-stand, twist of the throttle, and I ripped out of the parking lot, down the street through the quiet, run-down residential neighborhood — a bit faster than was really appropriate. The machine shook between my legs like an excited puppy, one big cylinder thumping away. I found the on-ramp to the highway and twisted the throttle all the way to the stop, popping through the gears until I was spinning down the empty four-lane with the wind pressing hard up against my whole body.
Maintaining a steady pace and wrapped in the surreal sensory white-wash that came with riding a motorcycle at speed, my mind began to wander. I couldn’t help but think about the guy in the bar. I wasn’t just teasing him. I swear I really did want to fuck him. I’m sure it was not long after I left that he discovered the damp spot on his jeans where my pussy had been. But I also didn’t really want to cheat on my husband.
Or maybe I did.
But if I did, I was sure I wanted it to be something more than just a quick fling; more than just some hot guy I picked up in a shitty bar.
Still, I doubted my own approach. Maybe I should have gone for it. I thought about what could have happened. I could have led him to the parking lot to show him my bike. And out in those cross-lit shadows I could have stepped over the bike and offered to take him for a quick spin — to show him what that little thumper engine could do. And then when he was up on the pegs behind me, I could have hesitated, balancing the bike between my legs, stretching my shoulders back, pressing my body against him.
He might have asked if we were going to go, and I would have responded by moving my hips towards him. His hands would have come forward and lay on top of my thighs, and he would have slid his palms upward, his hands moving up under the hem of my skirt, up until he was lifting it over my ass. And at that point his doubts would have dissipated because I would have leaned forward until my breasts were nearly resting on the curve of the fuel tank, and my hips would have come up. His hand between my legs would feel me wet and waiting. Out with his cock, his feet return to the ground, and he would have slipped into me from behind, fucking me hard while I was splayed out over my sweet motorcycle.
This is the image going through my mind while my bike hummed between my legs. I could feel my pussy getting wet, my soaked panties cooled by the breeze rushing up my skirt. I shifted my weight, bringing my chest forward and grinding my clit down on the shaking vinyl of the seat. A wave of electric-driven pleasure passed up my spine.
Now, what I haven’t told you yet is that my bike is special. I mentioned earlier that it takes care of me. Maybe you read the intended double-meaning in that. But I don’t just ride my bike, I work on it too. And I had spent some time carefully tuning it to vibrate at exactly the frequencies I liked. Nobody knew this, not even my husband, but I rode my motorcycle so often not for only for the pure unimpeachable pleasure of bursa eskort motorcycling that every rider knows — “the most fun you can have as an adult” I had often said, and do honestly believe — but also for the more explicit pleasure that my motorcycle makes me cum. It makes me cum in a way that no man (or woman) ever did.
This was an undoubtedly dangerous activity. Motorcycling is deadly enough as it is. Additional ‘distractions’ were extremely unwise. But, honestly, the danger just makes it even better. In many ways, my motorcycle was my favorite lover. And it’s not just me, by the way, basically any time you see a woman riding a motorcycle, what you are really seeing is a woman pleasuring herself in public.
And the image in my head of that guy from the bar fucking me while we stood over my bike — while it was making me wet — kind of also felt wrong. Like I was cheating on my bike; teasing my most precious lover by getting fucked by someone else while it was right under me, under my spread legs but not being included in the action. Like the victim of some cuckold fetish, unable to voice the safe word.
I resolved to correct that wrong immediately. I took my gloved left hand from the grip and patted the tank softly before unzipping my jacket and moving my hand inside, up under my blouse and bra, over my breast. The night air forced its way into the jacket following the path opened by my hand, seeking out my nipple to dance around it. The touch of the rough cracked leather of my glove was the other partner in that dance.
I had to hold my right hand steady on the throttle to maintain speed — and to maintain the frequency of the bike’s vibrations — but I started moving the whole of the rest of my body. I rolled my hips back and forth, pressing my clit hard down against the tense, humming seat. I leaned forward slightly and the forced air of the night wind found a new slit to drive itself down, spreading cool and damp into the space between my warm breasts.
I started softly moaning, then louder and louder as my orgasm built. I let it all out — no matter how loud I was, the world on my bike belonged to me and I could shout my orgasm to the clear stars across the black dome above me if I liked to. I gripped my knees against the side of the fuel tank. I’m not afraid to tell you: I fucked my machine lover hard.
But anyone who rides motorcycles knows that they can both deliver a rush of feeling unlike anything else, and also overwhelm your senses after a while and leave you in a sort of sensory-deprived state of numbness. I think I had waited too long, because while my bike was doing nice work on my clit, my orgasm was slipping off away and hiding somewhere. I needed a bit of a change.
I sat upright, taking the blast of air full on my torso, and shifted my hips forward. I pressed my clit — protected only by the nylons and the thin cotton of my panties — up against the cold steel of the fuel tank. Here the vibrations were far more intense. But I needed a change in frequency too. With the tip of my toe I popped the gear down to fourth and opened the throttle. The tachometer needle leaped, and the bike screamed like it was experiencing its own orgasm. The speedo crept up past the 90 mark — something that bike could only do with the slight weight of a smaller person like a female rider. A big burly man would hold this bike down.
That did it.
I rolled my hips forward and held them hard against the powerful quaking of the fuel tank as I started to cum. My breath was knocked out of me, and the edges of my vision glowed dangerously white. The frequency of the shaking in my body seemed to match that of the big pounding cylinder buried deep in the engine. I melded with the machine and I transitioned to something super-human. Or maybe pseudo-human. A greasy, churning, exploding orgasm shook upwards from the cylinder shaft, through the steel of the bike, into my body, and up my spine.
I gasped in a long draft of the night air, and my vision cleared. And my mind cleared too, finally freed from the low-land fog of unconsidered lust. In that clarity I knew I didn’t need some hot guy from a bar. I didn’t need my husband either.
What I needed was a more powerful motorcycle.
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