Together we study the powerful Harley, gleaming midnight blue and chrome in
the afternoon sunlight; balanced solidly on its center stand. You grin slyly
at me. Your eyes issue the challenge before you speak.
“Get on.”
Though motorbikes frighten me, I toss my leg over and straddle the machine.
I sense its power and speed as I try to adjust to the saddle. I lean forward
to grab the handlebars. The stretch is not particularly comfortable, but I relax
into it. I feel you watching me. I let go of the handles and straighten up.
Your hand presses firmly between my shoulder blades. You push me back down and
mount the saddle behind me. I smell the rosemary and mint of the shampoo you
used that morning, and the leather jacket you wear when you ride.
“On the handlebars,” you command quietly, and I lean forward again.
Strong, hard hands knead my back through the material of my shirt – up
the center, now to the shoulders, then downward, traveling stealthily to the
front, rubbing my midsection in small circles. Then back up my sides, skirting
the edges of my breasts.
I let out a small gasp. Again, your hands move down my spine to where my shirt
tucks into my jeans. With a firm tug, you free the shirttail. The sun-warmed
breeze caresses my lower back as you pull the blouse higher. Your fingertips
emblazon random patterns on the bare skin.
Emitting a restrained growl, you dismount. The loss of contact leaves me surprised,
empty. I straighten up and manage to get off the bike. My knees tremble.
I turn to face you and note the hunger in your expression; the danger emanating
from your body. Your smile is predatory. I take a quick breath, feeling like
someone's dinner.
“Now, get on facing the rear.”
I obey -- my movements awkward with expectation.
“Lay back.”
Never looking away from the eyes that hold me, I do as I am told, hoping that
I don't accidentally lean on something vital and set this beast in motion.
“Hands and arms on the handlebars.”
I comply, ignoring the slight discomfort when my shoulders stretch back and
down. I wrap my hands around the handlegrips.
You reach into a saddlebag and withdraw two nylon straps, with velcro tabs at
the ends.
I remain silent as you wrap one strap around my right wrist, just below the
cuff of my shirt, binding me to the handlebar. You do the same with the left
wrist. In effect, you have tied me to 500 pounds of metal and thrust. Part of
my brain registers panic, but I fight it off.
My breathing is deeper, faster. I can count heartbeats – mine. My mouth
goes dry.
“Water,” I ask.
You smile and pull a large bottle of clear liquid from another saddlebag. Slowly,
you unscrew the cap. I lick my lips and tilt my head in anticipation. You bring
the bottle to my mouth and pour a generous amount of cool fluid down my parched
throat. I swallow gratefully.
I watch you take a massive, contented gulp.
Then, you begin to trickle the remaining contents on my chin and neck, and down
the open collar of my shirt.
“You're getting wet,” you whisper suggestively.
“You have no idea,” I respond, failing to stifle a moan.
You replace the bottle in its carrier, then reach up with a rough thumb and
wipe the moisture from my chin. Your thumb trails down the center of my throat,
all the way to the first button of my shirt, which you proceed to unbutton,
followed by the second, then the third.
In slow motion, the front of my blouse is undone. You pull the remaining material
from the waistband of my jeans and open the shirt all the way. Your warm hand
rests on my abdomen. You gaze at me with desire and amusement, then lean down.
I feel the leather against my skin.
“Never imagined this, did you?” Your whisper tickles my left ear.
“God, no.”
You laugh softly. I summon a weak smile.
You straighten up and your expression hardens. The Conqueror emerges.
Deft fingers find the hook at the front of my bra and with a slight pop, it
parts, freeing my breasts. You brush the undergarment back and in the same motion,
push the shirt off my shoulders as far as it will go. I try to flex my wrists
and arms, but the straps do their job.
Again, you straddle the bike, taking one end of the saddle, facing me. Your
fingers play over my belly and graze the sensitive skin up to my breasts. You
pinch a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, gently at first,
but with increasing pressure until I whimper and try to writhe away.
“Good, girl. You can take it.”
I ponder the meaning of that statement, but your next move interrupts my musings.
You massage my abdomen with your right hand in ever-widening circles until your
hand pauses at the fly of my jeans. Buttons pop there as you tug on them, opening
the front.
Again, you break contact and slip out of view. I feel my shoes and socks being
removed.
“Put your feet here,” you instruct, guiding them to the bars of the
rear footrests.
This elevates my hips, allowing you to pull off my jeans, which join my shoes
and socks on the grass.
My breath comes in rapid gasps now. Fearing detection, I try to raise my head
and look about to check the road. You recognize my concern.
“Don't worry. This area is pretty isolated. If someone comes by, though,
I'll just tell them that I'm a warlord disciplining an errant slave.“
I nod feebly, beyond words at this moment
“Relax,” you purr as you stroke my stomach and lean in to kiss the
sensitive area around my navel. Your fingers move downward, across my underpants,
to my thighs. Your stroking continues there and drives my arousal to the next
level.
I pull at the bonds and lift my head. Everything holds as it should. Small beads
of sweat glisten on my chest.
Skilled hands find their way back to the waistband of my practical, cotton briefs.
“Wear something sexy the next time we do this. Maybe a black silk thong.”
“Sorry,” I gasp.
Your grin widens. I hear the ripping sound when you tear away the briefs.
“You're lucky those weren't the expensive, sexy ones,” I quip as you
toss the newly-destroyed underpants on the pile with my other clothing.
I am now stripped almost naked, and strapped to a powerful machine. A leather-clad
modern day warrior stares down at me – no mercy in her eyes. For the first
time, I feel the coolness of the metal beneath my back, yet a trickle of sweat
runs off the side of my left breast.
“Just in case you get any ideas…”
You reach into the saddlebag for two more straps. In seconds, both my ankles
are bound to the footrests.
“You are going to get the fucking of this lifetime,” you promise,
one hand kneading my right breast; the other playing with the curls between
my thighs.
Your fingers glide from the curls, wandering lower at a leisurely pace, slipping
in and out. I groan and you probe deeper. My legs and arms quiver with anticipation.
I have no doubt you plan to take me here and now. I shift my weight to prepare.
“Gabrielle.” You whisper my name as incantation.
“I'm all yours, Warrior,” I respond, giving you permission to enter
my heart, soul, and body once again.
Some things never change.
Finis.