by Paul Christian
(02/15/06)

Leather, heavy and black, zipped on like a second skin. It makes me wet just to smell it. Boots on, gloves on, hair tied back and helmet on. I mount up, start up. The vibration in my crotch is steady, insistent. Hit the gas, pop the clutch and I'm riding, Harley hot, rolling past the stop signs on my quiet suburban street, past my disapproving neighbours, past the oversized houses on undersized lots, the mass-market McMansions that crowd my executive ghetto. Every one is a unique design, exclusive, builder-customized to buyer specifications; every one is exactly the same in its manicured lawn and cathedral entrance and Internet pre-wiring.

I cruise past the grandiose clubhouse of the golf course that squiggles its way through everyone's back yard so everyone can claim a golf course lot. I cut too close to a grey-haired foursome crossing from green to tee just to make them jump. Fuck them, smug, safe, pretentious post-love-child yuppie sellouts.

I don't stop at the stop sign, but just slow enough to clear, left and right, and then punch it out onto the main drag, from near zero to way-too-fast in too few seconds to count. My heart spikes with the tach, the engine screams, and the wind roars as the speedometer races from warning to fine to vehicular homicide. I take her straight down the yellow line, away from the subdivision, away from prestige and position and status into the gathering darkness.

They'd ban me if they could, that smug foursome and my neighbours. They'd pen a covenant to deny the ownership of motorcycles in our tight-assed little might-as-well-be-gated community. Only whoever drew up the original covenants wasn't as smart as I am. I fight dirty and I always win.

As the big round moon breaks over the horizon, I become a creature of the night. It's a werewolf-worthy transformation -- power-suited lawyer to black leather biker bitch, and my blood is boiling with the change. I'm out of sync with the rest of femininity, at my most fertile while the moon is full, and fuck, I'm so horny I could rip a man's throat out for access to his cock.

I jump into the other lane to blow past a Volvo.

I'm naked under the restraining leather. The engine throbs against my clit while my nipples rub my jacket, rigid, hard. I'm as steamy as the Amazon and twice as hot. I can feel my womb pulsing in anticipation of machine-induced orgasm. Oh yes, I want it, I want it so bad I can barely see straight. I'm sure my judgment's impaired by my arousal -- and what if it is?

You might think I'd be home waiting for John to scratch that itch, but I never let him touch me when I'm ripe like this. Ovulation week belongs to my ride. It's the rhythm method, I tell him, but it's really automotive adultery. I slide around the Lakeland curve and will the traffic lights to be green. Amber flashes instead and I gun it, clear left, clear right and blast through the lights at twice the legal limit. And yes, that could get me killed; you should ask me if care. The full moon makes me crazy. For a split second I think I see blue-red-blue roof lights and adrenalin spikes for the chase, but it's just some pizza driver with a lighted logo on his car: Party Pizza for your Pizza Party. I could stand on the brakes, wave him over, flip up the faceplate and suck him off by the side of the road. He'd get a story no one would ever believe, and I'd get two minutes with some loser's cock in my mouth and then a face-full of Party Pizza special sauce. I'd get dirtied, and I'd ride with the faceplate up, to let his juice dry on my pretty-girl features, to let it mix with road grime so when I came back to John I'd be streaked with the evidence of my infidelity. The thought makes my clit throb, hard.

Oh, I want to be dirtied, I want it bad. But by the time the thought is finished, the pizza guy is a mile in my dust and I'm spinning up the on-ramp. I shift up as I hit the freeway, slide to the fast lane and wind her out.

The dashed lines flicker past in a blur, way over the speed limit. My thoughts turn to a cop -- a square-shouldered cop with handcuffs, a nightstick and a willingness to trade violation for violation. I picture myself cuffed, bent over the hood of his cruiser, engine heat burning my cheek, black leather down around my knees. He slam-fucks my ass, first with the nightstick, then with a cock that makes the stick look small. My thighs clench on the saddle and I get close to the edge, very close. My concentration is split exactly in two, half on the road, half on my clenching cunt.

I have to slow down as I get hotter or risk a wipeout, fatal for sure at this speed, but it's the speed that turns me on. The result is an excruciatingly drawn-out approach to orgasm, an advanced form of machine masturbation that guarantees a mind-wiping climax. It's torqued even tighter by the fact that even as I lose control of my body I have to keep control of the bike. One day I'm not going to do that. One day I'm going to hit the gas when the orgasm hits me, and then just let it take me away, give myself to my bike completely, and to the concrete five seconds later. Will death hurt? I don't care, so long as it's fast.

Fast. I ramp up the speed and visualize the cop-cock impaling me, lifting my feet off the ground with every stroke into my overstretched ass as he punishes me for my transgression of velocity. I long to reach down and touch my clit, but at this speed I can't take my hands off the handlebars. He's getting harder, longer, thicker as his own orgasm approaches, his hands digging into my hips as he violates me, over and over. He smacks my ass and makes me say, Please fuck me, I'm a bad girl.

Please fuck me, I'm a bad girl. I feel his cock twitch when I say it, because he likes it, because I want him to come inside me, to empty his huge balls into my aching rectum. I'm a bad girl, a very bad girl, and I need to be dirtied like this, knocked off my Manolo Blahniks, torn out of my Chanel suit, and put very thoroughly in my place.

I long to be reduced to my cunt and made to grovel for sex, and if that sounds politically incorrect, let me refer you to Ms. Magazine for something more your speed.

Please fuck me, I'm a bad girl. I say it out loud as the bike finds my rhythm. Please fuck me, I'm a bad girl. I can feel my anus clench around his imaginary cock, feel the heat of humiliation on my cheeks, and most of all feel my Harley's steady throb against my clit. I slow down to keep control, to lose control, and to focus my mind on the feel of cold metal cuffs on my wrists. Please fuck me, I'm a bad girl. Please make it hard, please make it hurt, please fill me up with cock, with cum, with degradation. The rumble of the engine finds my sweet spot. Please make me feel it, make me take it, make me dirty, make me yours.

I'm trembling so much I have to slow down again and get in the right-hand lane. In my mind the cop's hands find my tits, clamping on my nipples to give me what I'm begging for. Pain explodes through them and my cunt gushes in response.

I don't know why my fantasy life is so dark, and I don't care. The leather of my riding pants rides up in my crotch, putting pressure right where I need it. I rock against the seat. He has me now, the cop, his cock an iron bar sliding in hard and deep. I'm bent over in ritual supplication, my ass split and presented and penetrated. I'm helpless, open, so utterly possessed by this man...and all I want is more. I want him to destroy me with his cock and that's exactly what he's doing, inch by inch by inch.

Fuck. I have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head, have to slow down again so that the engine's scream is now a steady purr, just enough to tease me. Fuck. My clit is pulsing and every muscle in my body is rigid as I squirm against the vibrations. I imagine him coming, his cock pumping sperm deep into my sore, punished ass, swelling enough to spike pain through my overstretched sphincter. The head is so big it won't actually come out. We're tied together like mating dogs, locked in sex until he's finished with me, though his juice is already dribbling down my ass.

That last image does it. I come hard, convulsing on the seat, screaming in my helmet, hands locked on the handlebars. Thank God the road is straight. I feel my cunt clenching, gushing, anointing the crotch of my riding pants with slippery sex. The orgasm goes on forever. Finally it dies away in a succession of ever-smaller contractions, the waves of pleasure leaving my body limp and trembling.

My faceplate is fogged up; I flip it up to feel the wind on my face. The insides of my leathers are soaked in sweat. I unzip my jacket enough to let the night air in and the chill stiffens my already erect nipples to painful sensitivity. They rub against the rough leather, sending aftershocks through my overstimulated system. There's no sex like the solo ride. John is a good man in every sense, a hard worker, a provider, on his way up in his firm. I enjoy our intimacy and he treats me like a princess...but he can't make me feel the way my Harley does.

Gear up and back to cruising speed.

Something about my ovulation-week fantasies: the sex is always degrading, but when the degradation is because the man is undesirable it's oral sex and I'm the one calling the shots. When the guy is a stud then he takes my cunt or my ass and I have no control at all. The first kind gets me hot, but the second kind gets me off.

The post-orgasmic bliss doesn't last long; I need to find more excitement.

A minute later excitement finds me. Someone blows past on a red/black blur that might have been a Kawasaki Ninja. Instinctively I hit the gas to race him, then I remember the speed trap. No way this guy didn't light up the radar gun. I glance over my shoulder and see blue-red-blue flashing, coming fast. I maintain speed, wait for the cop to coming flying past and then fall in behind him, winding out the revs to keep up. Ninja-boy is running, and this cop intends to make quota tonight.

And me? I'm getting a free ride with the speedo needle up in the stupid part of the dial. My path is being cleared by a blue-red-blue, and any cop ahead of me is going to be deployed to stop the Ninja. It's my own private police escort and the wind is almost lifting me right out of my seat. My adrenalin surges as the chase eats up mileage. There's no traffic, no nothing, it's fucking beautiful.

Too soon brake lights flare and the cop pulls over to the left. The Ninja has gotten away. I slow down to sanity, pass the cop as he turns around at the crossover to go back the way he came, then throttle up again.

The adrenaline and the speed have got me juiced up once more, and I think about the Ninja rider chasing me down and slicing the crotch of my leathers open with a hunting knife so he can fuck me over the seat of my still-running bike. He's tall and dark and strong and he knows exactly what he's doing.

My clit throbs as I run the fantasy, but traffic picks up as I come into downtown and I can't focus enough to make it happen. Instead I weave the traffic and grab an offramp into the wrong side of town. Spray-painted buildings, boarded-up windows, and trash on the street corners, some of it wearing gang colors. Angry eyes follow me and I don't stop for the red lights that still work. The fantasy morphs into a gangbang, anonymous young faces with hard eyes, my clothing torn off, my arm twisted painfully behind me, my face shoved down on dirty pavement while I'm fucked by a succession of anonymous cocks, each eager to take class vengeance on upper-crust suburban cunt. I squirm in my seat, feel the engine throb, but I'm not going anywhere near fast enough -- and this place carries the very real risk of turning my fantasy into reality. I need to get back on the highway.

And then a black and red Ninja cruises past and I lock eyes with the rider.

It's not Ninja boy. It's Ninja girl, blonde and hot.

On a whim -- a compulsion -- I pull a one-eighty and follow. I'm a Harley girl and I won't give the time of day to someone who pilots Kawasaki scrap, but I only know one woman who would race the cops like that, and that's me. Maybe it's my competitive instinct, maybe it was the way her eyes burned into mine as we passed, but I follow her, not too close, not too far back. She leads me out of the bad area into downtown proper, and then a little farther.

She parks in front of a trendy nightclub and walks up a side street. I park and follow her.

The place she turns in is a blank storefront. The windows are frosted glass. One of the windows has the black outline of an old-fashioned key on it, but there's no other marking, no indication of what might lie behind the door.

I hesitate, then try the handle. It opens. Inside is a vestibule, a set of stairs leading down, the faint pulse of music. It's a club of some kind. The woman from the Ninja is wearing leathers like me, handing her backpack to a coat-check girl whose look is too hardcore to be merely Goth.

The Ninja girl takes something from the pack as she hands it over -- a long, snaky riding crop. She looks up, our eyes meet, my knees go weak.

Fantasy? It's becoming reality.

My life is about to change.

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