I was about to jump onto the bike when he spoke again. “Wait,” he said. “You’d better put these on two, or you’ll burn your legs …”
He unbuckled the black leather chaps that he was currently wearing over a dirty pair of blue Levi’s and handed them to me. I pulled them on, for a moment thankful that I’d finally be covering more of my exposed flesh, when I realized with another pang of embarrassment that of course they were assless chaps: my arse still completely exposed, the thong doing nothing whatsoever to preserve my modesty.
He jumped back on the bike and I straddled it, sitting behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, only just able to lock my hands around his rock-hard, muscular torso. I could feel the rigidity of his chest beneath my grip, the clear definition of his abs, and I could smell the heady musk of his sweat. I breathed it in like expensive perfume, savoring the smell, glad to be the hell out of that place.
Then he revved the engine, sending a strange flutter of excitement through me as the leather of the seat shuddered and buzzed, right against my pussy, and like that we were off: speeding out of the parking lot and away down the highway, zooming off through the night.
I’d never been on a motorbike before and I felt a heady thrill, the wind whipping my ponytail behind me, my arms wrapped tightly round this mysterious biker, the leather of the seat sending fluttery sensations to my stomach as the motions of the bike caused me to grind myself back and forth against the seat. I could feel myself becoming wet as we drove, my clit swelling, my pussy lips tingling as they brushed back and forth against the seat, only the flimsy gusset of my thong between them and the warm vibrating leather, and instead of fighting the sensation I instead threw myself into it. The noise of the road was so loud that I was able to gasp and whimper, safe in the knowledge that my anonymous biker wouldn’t be able to hear me as I hugged him tighter and tighter, working my yearning pussy and clit back and forth against the hot buzzing leather of the seat, the pleasure in me growing and growing in me until with a final cry I came, hard, squeezing this stranger tight, my moans lost to the whizzing, whirring night around us.
Chapter Five
We pulled off the highway and down a dirt track, and the biker slowed down his machine down a little and then came to a stop, over by some kind of large wooden shack. It was an old, single story house, from what I could make out in the moonlight, the walls constructed from rotting, flaking wooden panels, and all kinds of old motorcycle debris — parts and tires and things — strewn about the front yard, everywhere you looked.
“Watch your step,” he said, as he led me through the rubble and over towards the entrance to the shack.
“What’s your name?” I blurted out, again feeling embarrassed of my stupidly posh English accent.
He stopped and turned to face me. For the first time I was able to see his face properly. With a flash of surprise, I realized that he was handsome. In fact, he was really, really fucking handsome.
He furrowed his brow, his thick dark eyebrows knitting together for a moment and his stubble-flecked mouth flickering into a wry smile for just the briefest of moments.
“Well, my real name’s Danny,” he said, a surprising softness entering his voice, then disappearing again just as soon as it had arrived, “but everyone round here calls me D.”
He turned to head in through the screen door.
“I’m Rose,” I offered, speaking to his broad back.
He stopped again and turned to face me.
“No shit. Really?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you some other time,” he said with an enigmatic smile.
Before I could ask him anything else, the stillness of the night was broken by the distant revving of motorbikes; what sounded like a whole fleet of them, headed this way. D looked past me, in the direction of the noise, and nodded to himself, then turned and dashed in through the screen door, holding it open for me, his eyes urging me to come inside, and quick.
I did as he wanted, following him into the darkness of the shack. He turned on a battered old lamp, and the chaos of the place became fully visible. Everywhere you looked was strewn with take out containers, crushed cans of beer, smashed bottles, stubbed out cigar and cigarette ends, over flowing ashtrays, and, of course, more motorcycle parts.
“Nice place,” I murmured to myself.
“You’d better sleep in there,” D said, nodding towards the door at the very far end of the large room. “That’s my room. You can sleep in my bed tonight, and I’ll take the floor …”
He could see my eye had strayed to the beaten up couch in the corner.
“You’d better not stay out here,” he said sternly. “You don’t want to know what those other guys might do to you, if I leave you alone with them …”
“I think I can guess,” I said, thinking once again about that trucker back at the roadhouse.
“Yeah,” I guess you’ve already had a taste of that this evening,” he said. “Oh … sorry … I didn’t mean it quite like that …” he stammered, when he realized what he’d said might have been a little blunt.
“No, it’s okay. Thanks again,” I smiled. “For everything.”
Before we went into his room, he found me a dirty glass and filled it with cold water from the sink. I swilled out my mouth, glad to finally be free of the horrible bloody taste, spitting and swilling over and over again, and then gulping down great mouthfuls of water.
“Come on, you’d better get inside now,” he said, softly.
He held open the door to his room and I followed him in. It was a little cleaner than the main living quarters, but still kind of a dump. It smelled sweaty and musty and what he referred to as his ‘bed’ was in fact just a dirty old mattress with a sleeping bag strewn on it. I noted the scattering of coffee cups and empty bottles of Jack and the overflowing ashtray and, poking out from underneath the corner of the mattress, a well-thumbed porno magazine.
“Get some rest,” he said, then turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
A moment later, I heard the main door to the shack burst open and then then loud hum of many different voices; shouting, cursing, even some laughter. After a while the hubbub died down to a general low hum, and I figured that D’s shack must double as some kind of unofficial club-house for their motorcycle gang; for all those biker dudes with the flowers painted on their jackets and tattooed emblazoned on their forearms.
I slipped off D’s jacket, unlaced my trainers, and stepped out of the leather chaps. Shivering in the cold night air, I quickly padded over to the mattress, stepping around a few empty beer cans, and quickly wriggled myself snug inside the sleeping bag.
Wow, never had I been so thankful for a dirty old sleeping bag as I was right there and then!
My head was still buzzing and swirling with the excitement and unreality of what had just happened to me — it was like something from a movie — and I just couldn’t quite take it all in, no matter how much I thought about it.
As I curled myself up into a ball, savoring the warmth and the manly musk of D’s sleeping bag, I listened to the deep murmur of voices emanating from the other room and before I knew it, I’d slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six
I was woken a few hours later, and for a moment didn’t know where I was. Then it all came back to me in a flash; the argument with James, the humiliating scene at the roadhouse, the cold air on my skin, the flower of blood spreading in that filthy trucker’s groin, and then this: sleeping here on this dirty mattress in a complete stranger’s shack.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found I could make out D as he padded carefully into the room, obviously trying not to wake me. The heady scent of cigarettes and booze clung to him in a fog as he made his way past me and through another small door at the other side of the room; one I hadn’t noticed before.
After a few seconds, I heard the rattle and hiss of an old shower.
It se
emed weird to me then, that someone like him — a lawless, dirty biker — would want to bother cleaning his body before sleeping.
I feigned sleep as I heard the shower cutting out a few moments later and the door opening once more. I peeked into the room. From between my squinted eyes, I was just able to make out D’s body, side on, as he began clearing a space on the floor for him to sleep, a threadbare old towel wrapped around his waist, his upper body glistening, the taught musculature of him as sculpted as any statue. I could make out the beads of sweat already prickling on his clean skin; it was such a muggy, sweaty night, totally unlike anything I’d known back in England.
I found I couldn’t take my eyes off his body: it was like nothing I’d seen in real life before. So thick and strong, so manly, nothing at all like James’s scrawny pale frame. Then D turned, so his back was to me, and the shock of what I saw hit me with an electric shiver: no wonder he reacted the way he did when he found out my name. There was a huge, blood-red rose, tattooed right across his whole back, and beneath it were two or three words. I squinted to make them out but I couldn’t quite manage to.
As he carried on clearing a sleeping space for himself, bending forwards to lift up a few empty beer cans, the towel slipped free from his waist, falling down around his ankles. I felt a pang of excitement, at the sudden view of his tight, sculpted buttocks and his meaty upper thighs, and right there, between them, the delicious enticing vision of his surprisingly thick cock and low-slung balls, swinging loose and heavy, as long flaccid as James’s cock was fully erect.
I waited for D to pull the towel up around himself again, but he didn’t, obviously assuming I was fast asleep and that no one was watching him.
Finally he threw himself down onto the dusty floorboards and pulled the threadbare towel loosely over his mid-section, covering just his groin and a little of his abs as he stretched out on his back.
I too shifted onto my back, forcing myself to tear my hungry eyes off his body, willing myself to go back to sleep, trying to ignore my pounding heart and the fluttering, electric feeling swarming in my tummy whenever I thought about the fact that this man, this hot, sexy, naked man was lying there just a few feet from me, only a towel covering his long, thick cock.
The darkness and stillness of the night felt like it was alive now, buzzing between us, the silence becoming utterly unbearable. And then, from out of it, I heard a soft groan. Had I imagined it? I held my breath and waited. Then it came again, a soft, low, manly groan along with the slight sound of something shifting and moving, rhythmically, in the dark.
Very gently so as not to make a sound, I turned onto my side and looked over at D: sure enough, he was lying on his back, his hand shifting underneath the thin towel, obviously working his cock, his leg and chest muscles tensed and his eyes closed as he sensuously pumped his tool.
My eyes had adjusted fully to the darkness now; I could see absolutely everything: the beads of sweat standing out on his tattooed skin like little droplets of glass, the fine hairs on his body, the slick tenseness of his muscles, and, beneath the thin cloth, the sheer size of his now-hard manhood.
I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I made the decision, slipping out of the sleeping bag, the warm night air touching against my bare, pinpricked flesh.
I got onto all fours and crawled, slowly, off the mattress and over towards him in the dark.
The floorboards felt so hard and rough beneath my hands and knees as I approached him.
I was able to position myself above him, my hands either side of his waist and my head just inches from his pumping hand beneath the towel, before he noticed me.
“What the fuck?” he gasped in surprise, his movements stopping, his hand still clutched around his cock beneath that flimsy scrap of material.
“I just want to say thank you,” I whispered back, hearing the nerves trembling in my voice.
Then he understood, nodding slightly, removing his hand from beneath the towel, leaving it draped there in his lap, the shape of his hot, thick, throbbing cock crystal clear beneath it. He shifted backwards a little, so that he was sort of half-lying and half sitting up, his head resting against the dirty wall of the room, and he moved his hands behind his head, his thick tattooed biceps glistening and his nipples small and hard, standing out from his pecs like little brown bullets.
“Be my guest,” he replied, parting his legs a little, the dirty towel now the only thing between his cock and me, the very edge of his thickly-curled pubic hair peeking out from beneath one corner of it.
I took my time, positioning myself exactly how I wanted between his legs, feeling the anticipation building in great waves in my stomach, feeling my own nakedness, my pussy throbbing and my nipples tightening in the dark room, this time not from the cold, as — very slowly — I pulled back the towel from his cock, savoring the sight of it.
God, it was so thick, and it was shiny with his sweat, the veins on it standing out prominently, his balls now swollen, all large and tight and hairless beneath it. I took his shaft in my hand, my small fingers unable to close fully around it, and I masturbated it a couple of times, licking my lips as I watched my fingers moving over its silky smooth shaft, the shiny purple head swelling as a clear bead of pre-come oozed from its tip.
D sighed and parted his legs even further and I could hold myself back no longer.
I lowered my head towards his lap, feeling the heat come up from his groin in a wave, savoring the slight musky smell of his sex as I touched his silky cock head gently against my tongue.
I let out a muffled sigh as I began to suck him, working my lips back and forth over his meaty cock, feeling him grow ever more in my mouth, pulsing out salty drops of pre-cum onto my lapping tongue as I worked it in circles around his thick mushroom head, which filled my mouth completely, both with its size and its taste.
Very slowly, D began to shift his hips, too, and after a while I moved my hands away from his shaft, just keeping my lips clamped around his dick, kneeling there in the dark before him, letting him fuck my mouth. I moved my hands now to my own body, first to my breasts, savoring the hardness of my own nipples, then slipping my fingers into my thong, touching against my gooey wetness of my pussy lips. I slipped two fingers easily inside myself, finger fucking my tight cunt in the same slow, steady rhythm that D was using to fuck my mouth.
I could feel him increase his thrusts, his breathing becoming shallow and fast now.
As his cock swelled and pulsed in my mouth — right on the brink of orgasm — I felt my own pleasure hit, cresting inside me, catching me off guard. I came suddenly, my fingers buried right to the knuckle in my spasming cunt, my lips clamped firmly round D’s cock head, my orgasm sending electric waves of pleasure around my trembling body and my cries muffled by his cock which, just then, began to spurt, hard, the cum squirting in powerful hot jets against the roof of my mouth, quickly filling it. I gulped down as much as I was able, savoring the taste of him, lapping him up, wanting nothing more right then than to be his filthy little cum slut, to do with as he wanted.
We fell asleep again like that, right where we lay, my head resting in D’s lap, his salty juices smeared around my satisfied mouth and his soft breathing lulling me once more into a deep, delicious sleep.
Chapter Seven
“Rose? Rose?”
I opened my eyes with a start. It was morning now, the room flooded with sunlight, and D was leaning in above me, his tanned face softened in a gentle smile, the stubble dark around his sculpted, chiseled jawline. I noticed for the first time the large neck tattoo that curled up from his collarbone and behind his left ear: it was a name, I realized, written in gothic script … Roxanne.
Reading it, I felt a weird pang of jealousy, deep down in my stomach, even though I knew I had absolutely no right to feel anything for him, whatsoever.
“Morning,” I mumbled, stretching and yawning.
I was back in the sleeping bag on the mattress, I realized. D must have carried me ove
r in the night, while I was asleep, and I liked the image of that, imagining myself draped in his meaty arms.
I had a flashback to our early morning episode; remembering the feel of his thick cock pulsing in my mouth, and it seemed now to exist in that hazy unreality that dreams always have. I wondered for a moment if it had even happened.
But then I noted that D was naked, his back to me as he scavenged some clothes from a tangled pile in the corner of the room … This time I was able to read the words beneath his rose tattoo clearly: FLOWERS OF HELL.
“Listen, Rose,” he said, turning to me and stepping into a pair of tight white cotton briefs, his thick cock creating a meaty bulge as he pulled them up tightly around his hips, “I’ve gotta go out for a little while, there’s something important I need to do, so you’d better stay in here till I get back, okay? I don’t want anyone to know you’re here for now. Those guys out there … They’re not exactly friendly. Okay? You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded.
“Whats the Flowers of Hell?” I asked.
“The Flowers of Hell,” D said, raising one eyebrow. “Well, if you must know, it’s the name of our club.”
Once he’d pulled on a stained vest and jeans, he moved over to a battered cupboard, the door hanging off its hinges, and retrieved a small pink suitcase from the top shelf of it.
“Here,” he said, placing the cheap, gaudy case down by the edge of the mattress. “There might be something in there that’ll fit you. I’ll be back in an hour.”
And then, before I could say anything else, he’d gone, leaving me huddled there in the dirty sleeping bag, listening to the silence for a moment, before it was broke by the vicious snarl of his bike’s engine as he sped away, down the dirt track, leaving me alone in the messy, sunlit bedroom.
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