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“Your bike out there… What is it… 1000ccs?”

I scoffed. “Try 1400.”

“1400!” He whistled low. “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 boy’s best friend.”

He looked at me sidelong. “Sure you wouldn’t rather have me as a best friend?”

I smirked and held up the back of my hand in front of his eyes with the gold ring bound round my finger. “Careful. I’m a married man you know.”

He grinned and lifted his half-finished beer to his lips. My marriage status did not prevent the flash of an image from entering my mind: of those lips, gently parted and wetly rounding the end of my cock.

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 Scorpions (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. Like the chaps, it 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 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?”

“What, you think marriage is about property or something? You think I’m owned by my husband?”

“Take it easy. 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, someone making a point of the fact that they’re married is usually 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 guy in this dive, and I only want to talk to the most attractive person 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 guy in Bayan Eskort this dive.”

I locked my eyes on his and slid forward, spreading my legs so my knees interlocked with his. I lay one hand on the back of his head, and guided him to a wet kiss.

One of his big hands advanced up my thigh and came to rest on my hip. 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 his neck, and I could feel him breathing deeply against my own neck.

I moved my hand up the inside of his muscled leg and found the hard bulge in his jeans. Its presence was obvious even through the thick material. My fingers slid up and down, finding the edges of the thing hidden there. 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, probably jealously wishing they were themselves the hottest couple in the bar making out in front of the dozens of dirty leatherboys in “The Scorpions” (or whatever) and their associated hangers-on.

I undid his fly, and slid my hand inside. I took his cock and felt the warmth and throbbing hardness of it against my palm. I kissed him while I hand-fucked his hot dick in that foul bar 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, “I’d make you cum if we were alone right now.”

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. But if you had seen this guy’s face; he wasn’t sad, upset, angry, or laughing it off… he was heartbroken.

I relented.

“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 zipped up my vest before lifting my helmet and walking out the door.

In the parking lot, I stopped for a moment to admire at my machine. The glint of the sodium lights reflected off the oily black curve of the fuel tank.

I love my bike.

The very best of this golden age of sport motorcycles we live in. If performance metrics were your thing, my motorcycle could beat the pants off any supercar costing half a million dollars or more on any stat you cared to name: acceleration, braking, cornering. Cars are for people who understand nothing but status. Bikes are for people who want actual experiences. But putting aside its performance, my bike had a long and lithe muscular look that gave me goosebumps every time I saw it. Like all modern bikes, the power was hidden away in the guts deep down inside. The exterior was dressed up with a sleek skin that was designed to split the atmosphere. The shape of it melded with the rider’s body so man and machine became one object. There’s nothing like a motorcycle.

I threw my leg over the seat, admittedly with a touch of vanity I suspected I must have looked good doing that — if anyone had been there to see me. I was wearing tight black leather pants with a white button down shirt and a leather vest over that. I have a black full-face Anadolu Yakası Escort helmet with a pitch black shield. There’s no helmet law in my state, and most of the “loud pipes save lives” folks don’t wear them, but I always thought it was insanity to not wear a full-face helmet on a sport bike. If for nothing else than to keep the bug-slaughtering element from being your face.

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. I pushed the starter button. The engine succumbed to the electrical jolt and 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, but hardly out of second gear. The machine shook between my legs like a racing hound waiting on the gate. I found the on-ramp to the highway and twisted the throttle only part way open, 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 really did want to fuck him. He must have know that, I mean I was holding his cock in my hand for chrissake. 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 powerful 1400cc 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 ass 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, up until his thumbs hooked over the waist of my leather pants, and then slid around, like a tire lever undoing the bead from a rim, until he was undoing my pants from behind with both hands. I would have leaned forward, my chest down against the hump of the fuel tank, my ass rising up. His hand would take my cock, and he would feel how hard he had made me. Out would come his own cock, his feet would return to the ground, and I would have felt his hard cock, wet with saliva, slipping into me from behind. He would have fucked 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 cock getting warm and hard. I shifted my weight, bringing my chest forward and letting my balls rest 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 Pendik Escort often not only for the pure unimpeachable pleasure of motorcycling that every rider knows — “the most fun you can have as an adult” I had often said with a wink — but also for the more explicit pleasure that my motorcycle is a stimulation like no other. I cum harder after a motorcycle ride than any other time.

And the thing is that the image in my head of that guy from the bar fucking me while we stood over my bike — an image that was unquestionably making me hard — 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 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 popped up my face shield and took my left hand from the grip, and I pulled the glove off that hand with my teeth before stashing it in my my vest. I patted the tank softly and then unzipped my pants and passed my hand inside, executing that familiar but always awkward move of releasing a hard cock from tight pants. The night air forced its way in, following the path opened by my hand and dancing around my warm balls with its cooling touch.

I had to hold my right hand steady on the throttle to maintain speed — and to maintain the frequency of the bike’s vibrations — so I was forced to stroke my cock with my left hand, which is always awkward for me. But I was so turned on after the bar that I could immediately feel an orgasm rising. I jacked it with the tip bouncing up against the humped steel body of my bike. My dick was throbbing in my hand, hot like the engine burning below me, and pumped up hard by the buzz rising from the motor and passing up into my body. I gripped my knees against the side of the fuel tank. I’m not afraid to tell you: I imagined my machine lover fucking me 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 my orgasm began to slip away and hide somewhere. I needed a change.

I sat upright, taking the blast of air full on my torso, and shifted forward. I pressed my cock up against the warm metal of the fuel tank, grinding between the leather vest drawn across my abs and the curve of the bike’s body. 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 up into 5-digit territory, and the bike screamed like it was experiencing its own orgasm. The speedo crept up past the 120 mark — a range that this bike was totally comfortable with — and the shaking vibrations at the lower speeds smoothed out into a hot buzz pressing between my legs and against my ass.

That did it.

I ground 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 buzz that rose up from the molten roll of cylinders buried deep in the engine slid up my spine and along my cock. 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. Cum shot from the end of my cock and was blasted back by the wind all over the leather across my stomach, white cream splattered across black leather.

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 few more motorcycles.

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