Unstoppable

by Scott Hildreth

  As I felt my cock began to swell, I raised my ass from the seat of the motorcycle and forced myself deeper into her. I felt her moans of pleasure vibrating through her lungs as my chest pressed against her back. As my fingers gripped into her waist, I knew this adventure was a matter of seconds from ending. I raised my ass from the seat and pressed my hips into her butt, pushing her into a position of being bent over.

  Now standing, straddling the motorcycle, I was forcing myself into her at a steady pace. I closed my eyes and focused on my hips pounding against her ass. Bent over with her hands steadied by the controls, she began to scream.

  The muffled noise from within her mask became louder and louder as my cock began to swell. As I felt myself begin to cum, I gripped her waist tightly, closed my eyes and groaned. As if she planned it, at the instant I exploded with pleasure inside of her warm, wet pussy, she revved the throttle of the motorcycle a few times. The sound of the exhaust echoing through the garage as I came provided me a different degree of pleasure.

  Half overcome by exhaust fumes from earlier, the heat from wearing the presidential mask during sex, and the fact that I had just reached climax on a running motorcycle had me almost exhausted. I reached up and flipped the ignition switch on the motorcycle to off. As the engine stopped running, I pulled the mask from my face and took a few unobstructed breaths of fresh air.

  I gripped the back of the unicorn mask and after what seemed like a few minutes of struggle, pulled it from her head. Her hair a tangled wet mess and her face covered in sweat, she rotated her head and looked at me over her left shoulder.

  “I like you. You’re fun,” she breathed.

  I stepped over the motorcycle and stood beside it, staring at her naked body.

  “You’re fun, too,” I sighed.

  As she raised her leg over the motorcycle, I dropped the masks onto the floor beside where we stood. A quick look at my G-Shock revealed it was 3:50 pm. We had been fucking for two and a half hours. Holy shit. Shocked at the amount of time that had passed and the fact that I was supposed to meet Vee for drinks after her work day was over, I came to the realization I needed to leave quickly.

  “Are you going to be my Dom?” she asked cheerily.

  Hell, I didn’t even know her name, and she wanted me to take charge of her, sexually.

  “I believe so,” I stammered.

  Other than the fact that I know I have some serious issues with saying no to sex, I have no idea why I responded the way I did. Nervously, I looked around the garage as if there was some form of answer sitting in the corner beside the holiday boxes.

  “Awaiting your next instruction, sir,” she said as she curtsied.

  I studied her for a long moment. Still, in broad daylight, we both stood in her garage wearing nothing but our shoes. Naked and wondering just what this little nympho would be willing to do for me on my next visit, I dropped the bomb.

  “I need to leave. I have an appointment I need to get to,” I murmured.

  She stood in front of me and nodded her head.

  “Alright. Well,” I paused as I reached for my shorts.

  Hell, I still didn’t know her name or phone number.

  The weight of my shorts reminded me that my cell phone was in my pocket. It was common for me to have my phone in my pocket when I rode my motorcycle. I stepped into my shorts, buttoned them, and zipped the fly. I pulled my phone from my pocket and handed it to her.

  “Put your name and number in there while I finish getting dressed,” I said firmly as I handed her the phone.

  As she pressed her fingertips on the screen of my phone, I pulled my shirt over my head and re-tied my shoes. As I stood up and stepped to the edge of the motorcycle, she handed me the phone. A quick look at the screen, and I was in business.

  Destiny Dawn. I rolled my eyes a little bit as I read the name. I dropped the phone into my pocket and got on the motorcycle. I flipped the ignition on, shifted into neutral, and fired the engine.

  “So, is Dawn your middle or last name?” I asked over the rumbling exhaust.

  “Last,” she smiled.

  “Well, Destiny Dawn, I have to get out of here. I’ll shoot you a text later, and include instructions on my wishes. Sound good?” I asked.

  She nodded her head once, sharply.

  Motorcycles do not have a reverse gear. The transmission propels the bike in forward motion only. When a rider needs to back a motorcycle up, he uses his legs and pushes the motorcycle rearward until he is able to pull forward safely. As I had pulled into the garage facing forward, I needed to back the motorcycle out of the garage and pull forward in the driveway.

  As I slowly backed the motorcycle out of the garage, I admired her petite body and perky tits. Standing naked, she bent down and picked up the unicorn mask. I watched in wonder as she pulled it over her head and waved goodbye.

  I waved, shifted the bike into gear, released the clutch, and pulled out into the street. As I turned toward the house one last time, the garage door began to come down. I shook my head from side to side as the door began to obstruct the view of my submissive unicorn.

  Always be yourself. Unless you can be a unicorn. Then always be a unicorn.

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  VEE. The person within me that wished to toss my hands in the air at the end of the work day and be in charge of absolutely nothing walked through the door of the bar and scanned the booths for Mr. Ripton. After determining he had not shown up yet, I picked a seat close to the door and sat down to wait.

  Something about an alpha male made me feel weak in the knees. Contrary to what most of my girlfriends believed, an alpha male did not need to be big, muscular, or a bad boy. For me, for other reasons, it helped; and it helped a lot. I knew I was attracted to a man that not only desired to take charge, but one that was intimidating to me and anyone else who may come in contact with him. Further, I knew that I could and would submit to the right man, regardless of size, muscular structure, and/or attitude.

  If Ripp was who I hoped he might be, he would certainly fill every sexual and relationship void that was empty within me.

  “What can I get you,” the waiter asked.

  “Ultra, bottle,” I responded.

  “Be right back,” he smiled.

  I smiled and leaned into the cushion of the booth. A quick check of my watch confirmed that the dead battery was still just that, dead. Permanently stuck on 5:50, it often fooled me into thinking it was time to go home, even when it wasn’t. I had vowed to replace the battery for the last six months, and never quite found the time.

  “Ultra,” the waiter said as he slid the beer to the center of the table, “want to start a tab?”

  “Sure,” I smiled as I nodded my head.

  “Someone joining you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he’s a big bald guy. Like really big. He’s got a little bit of a don’t fuck with me look about him,” I chuckled.

  “Shorts, tee-shirt, tattoos, and a big white watch?” he asked.

  Tattoo’s? Wouldn’t that be nice.

  I raised my eyebrows and smiled, “You know him?”

  He stepped away from the booth and pointed toward the entrance. I leaned into the aisle and peered toward the door. Mr. Ripton’s quick paced walk was as difficult to disguise as was his size and smile. As self-conscious as he was the day we met, he must have smiled a dozen times - revealing his gold tooth each time he did so.

  I stood as he approached the booth and extended my hand, “Mr. Ripton.”

  “Vee. How are ya?” he asked as he shook my hand.

  “I’m great. Glad the day’s over,” I grinned.

  “What can I get ya,” the waiter asked.

  “Ultra. Bottle,” he responded as he inched his way into the booth and sat down.

  Dressed in shorts, canvas sneakers, and a tee shirt, he looked like a professional athlete - probably a professional football player. As I admired his physique and began to study his tattoos, he pressed his hand a
gainst the table and repositioned himself in the seat. As he gripped the table, his forearms flexed. They were comparable in size to my thighs. I looked up at his face to find him staring at my boobs.

  This might work out perfectly.

  I held my bottle in the air for him to see that we had similar interests in beer. As he noticed my choice of drink he smiled, revealing his gold tooth. Looking across the booth, I found it increasingly difficult not to stare at his tattoos. For being massive, muscular, and covered in tattoos, there was something about him that was just, well, attractive. Uncertain if it was his boyish smile, or the attitude that arrived five minutes before he did, I sat on my side of the booth and stared. This man brought out the little girl in me. I grazed my mouth with the back of my hand to check for drool, and attempted to start a conversation.

  “So, tough day at the office?” I chuckled.

  “A jet-wash got into the right engine as I lowered her to eight thousand feet,” he raised his hand over his head, palm flat, and steadied it.

  “I had concerns if I could still land it without passing the runway and making a second go at it,” he slowly lowered his hand toward the table in a sweeping motion, focusing his gaze on it as he did.

  “Luckily I pulled it out. Landed with three minutes to spare, and all the passengers were safe and sound. Another great day at Continental Airlines,” he touched his hand to the table lightly and sighed as if relieved.

  He looked up as the waiter handed him a bottle beer. He smiled, raised his beer in the air, and took a slow sip.

  “Pilot?” I asked, surprised and somewhat disappointed.

  “No. I’m not a pilot. I’m a professional boxer,” he grinned, “how about you?”

  “So, you’re a pilot or a boxer?” I asked as I tipped my bottle to my lips.

  In an absolutely impossible to follow blur, his hands threw a dozen or so punches in the air. As he lowered them to rest on the table, he grinned.

  He’s a boxer. He beats on other men in a small confined space. And he’s so good at it they pay him to do it.

  My entire body went numb. I crossed my legs.

  Squish.

  Five years. My husband and I had been apart for five years, and the best that I can recall, short of a date or two immediately after the divorce, I haven’t been with a single man. I told myself I wouldn’t settle, at least initially. After that, I never quite found the time to date. Too many disappointments followed each successive date. To be brutally honest, I saw very little value in continuing.

  I lowered my chin between my thumb and index finger of my right hand as I rested my elbow on the table. After what was probably several minutes of silent staring, Ripp broke the silence.

  “So, you gonna answer?” he chuckled.

  “Excuse me?” his question brought me back to earth.

  “I asked you what you do. It’s kind of customary. You ask me, I ask you,” he rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll tell you my life story, how’s that?” I blinked my eyes and admired his strong jaw.

  “I’ll make mental notes,” he leaned closer to the center of the table and studied my face.

  “Well, let’s see,” I looked up as if I were extracting facts from the air.

  I looked down from the ceiling, focused on his Adam’s apple, and began.

  “Born and raised in Austin, Texas. After high school, I attended college - two years pre-law, and two years criminal justice. I obtained my Juris Doctor in three and my Masters of Law in two. During my JD, I got married to a man I felt I was or at least could be in love with. But, I was in love with the concept of love,” I took a breath as he stared blankly at my face.

  “I went to work for my overworked father, who my mother divorced for just that reason. I, not unlike my father, worked my respective fingers to the bone in hopes of finding some sort of answer or answers to my lack of satisfaction at home. My civil law practicing pushover of a husband never felt a desire or need to take charge of me or anything else for that matter, leaving me no other alternative but to leave him, which I did five or so years ago. I have, for all practical purposes, been single since. I now practice at my dying father’s law office, Simon, Simon, And Simone. I’m the second Simon; Vivian to be more specific. I never took my former husband’s name,” I paused and blinked as my unfocused eyes looked over his shoulder at nothingness.

  “Oh, and it was a little bit of blind luck that we happened onto each other in here the other day. I came in with Tonia to celebrate her divorce being final. I haven’t been out in years. I work and I work out. That’s it,” I exhaled, interlocked my fingers, and smiled as I focused on his face.

  “You’re an attorney? So you put people in prison?” he asked without an ounce of expression.

  “No, actually I keep them out. I am a Federal Defense Attorney. I primarily practice Federal Law. And I defend clients, I don’t prosecute them,” I raised my eyebrows and rocked my head from side to side.

  In my mind, comparing a defense attorney to a prosecuting attorney was comparing black to white. To me, and I am not certain everyone shared my views, prosecuting attorneys were, more often than not, utter garbage. I sat nervously and waited for him to speak.

  “So, in a nutshell, you’re overworked. You don’t get out much, and you’re interested in me because you think I’m a take charge type of individual. Oh, and listening to you talk is…” he paused, looked down at the table and narrowed his gaze.

  “Interesting. It’s like you had the entire speech prepared and read it off of a chalkboard in your head or something. And you talk too damned fast,” he looked up and smiled.

  “We have time limits on speaking. Opening. Closing. Anyway. So, your thoughts?” I took a delicate girlish sip of my beer.

  “So far, I like you. I want to know five things,” he waved his right index finger in my direction as he spoke.

  “Anything,” I responded without hesitation.

  “Age, percentage of body fat, height barefoot, your go-to meat, and what you hope to get from me,” he rubbed his hands together as he finished speaking.

  I looked up toward the ceiling and scanned the perimeter of the bar as I thought. He asked an interesting list of question, no doubt. I looked down at the table as he rubbed his massive hands together.

  I bet he has a big cock.

  “Thirty-three on September 26th. Ten percent. Five foot two, but I’ll claim three. You’ll have to expand on the meat question, I have no idea what that means. And let’s see, I’m a no nonsense lady. I have no time or patience for bullshit. I don’t play games, I don’t sleep around, and I don’t want someone to fuck me over or lead me down some strange time consuming path,” I inhaled and waited for his response.

  “Meat, Vee. If you had to pick a perfect meat, what would it be? If you had to choose one? Your go-to meat. And you didn’t answer my question. You dodged it. What do you hope to get from me? Don’t tell me what you hope not to get. What do you want this meeting lead to?” he finished speaking and calmly raised his beer bottle to his lips.

  “Oh, sorry. Chicken,” I laughed.

  I hesitated and thought of how to respond to the last question. There was no value for either of us in wasting any time or effort if we did not have similar interests. He was an extremely attractive man and it appeared that he possessed a great personality. Additionally, something about him intrigued me. Looks and personality alone, however, wouldn’t satisfy me and I knew this. I could look at pictures on the internet, and my ex-husband was proof that a personality, in itself, wasn’t sufficient. I decided to tell him exactly what I was hoping for; I just needed to make it sound attractive to him.

  “I am a loving, caring, and fairly compassionate woman. I am a competitor. I work hard, and I make a fabulous living doing so. In a relationship, for almost everyone, it gets down to sex. A couple either has sex or they don’t. Inevitably, if there’s no sex, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and
the relationship dissolves. If there is sex, the sex needs to be satisfying to both parties. If the sex is not satisfying, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and the relationship dissolves. The bottom line is this: If one or both parties in a relationship desire and enjoy sex, the sex must be satisfying to both parties. It must be,” I raised my beer bottle to my mouth, drank the remaining portion, and waved the bottle toward the passing waiter.

  “Keep going,” he nodded and waved his finger in the air as the waiter passed.

  “We can get into the details later if need be. The bottom line, as I say, is this; sexually, I am submissive. I am not a weak woman and I am not a pushover. I am not, by my own diagnosis, codependent. But sexually, I need a man to take charge, and I do mean take charge. I desire, and more importantly, I need to be put in my respective sexual place. In the absence of having a dominant male partner, I will have nothing,” I waited as the waiter slid two beers across the table, and continued.

  “Bottom line? First, you must be that person. You must be dominant, and be willing to take control of me. Moreover, you must desire it as much as I. I want to live under a man’s thumb that is firmly placed on top of me, smashing me into the submissive sexual being that he so desires. If you’re potentially that person, I want to get to know you. If you’re not that person, if you can be satisfied by mundane, ho-hum vanilla sex, we should finish our beers, shake hands and go our separate ways. Are you Dominant, Mr. Ripton?” I crossed my legs and waited anxiously for his reply.

  “I am a dominant male, and I prefer to be in a relationship where I am a Dom to a submissive female. Actually, I require it,” he said flatly, his beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers as he spoke.

  Thank. Fucking. God.

  “So,” he rubbed his fingers across the scruff of hair on his chin, “you don’t fuck around sexually? You’re not sexually promiscuous?”