Friday, 27 September 2013
A Little Extra Seasoning
Liberally splashed with autumn’s fiery palette, the forest brooded, silent and watchful. A foraging squirrel, drab pale reflection of his usurped red cousin, paused his industry for a moment, listening intently. Barely audible, it was the faintest murmur, like the babble of a distant brook or the mutter of insanity. But if it was a brook, it grew stronger without rain, if it were muttering, the lunatic approached at speed.
Trailing discarded leaves in its path like a wake of cold swirling flame, the Triumph Bonneville sped unerringly through the trees, straight as an arrow. Flashes of dazzling light burst from the lovingly polished chrome; reflections of the radiant fingers poking through the autumn canopy. The engine bellowed like a charging bull, shouting out a challenge to the trees to dare to obstruct the missile’s course. Clinging to the beast’s back, the leather clad rider was as much a part of the machine as the gleaming black hump of its sixteen litre fuel tank. Behind the anonymity of a mirrored visor crash helmet, her teeth were bared in a rictus grin. Fingers of black leather wrapped around the twist grip throttle, firmly but gently squeezing out power from the meagre two cylinder engine like a whore drains cum from her John's heaving cock. She felt the surge of its thrust swell between firmly clamped thighs and knew the black lace scrap of her tiny thong would now be soaked with her arousal. Crushing her thighs ever tighter against the worn cracked leather seat, her rhythmically thrusting hips throbbed with the beat of the thundering power house. At one with the machine, the slightest twitch of thigh or wrist would unbalance its equilibrium, sending flesh and metal careering to a wild doom; the possibility fuelled the rush she craved. She squeezed and twisted harder at that thought.
Perhaps it was the extra twist that caused the abrupt demise of the engine, perhaps a hidden weakness lurking in its build, waiting for an opportunity to pounce, or perhaps a combination of the two. Regardless of its root, the consequence was fatal. One of the pair of pistons thrust itself through the cylinder wall in an explosion of shattered metal, spewed twisted white hot fragments and burning gas in a fiery fan across the tinder dry carpet of the forest floor. Instinctively, she snatched at the shining chrome brake levers, the horns of the bull. The rear of the beast leapt into the air, the front wheel driven down, machine and rider spinning front over rear, leaving behind a tail of burning leaves like an earth bound comet. Flesh and machine separated an instant before the motorcycle smashed heavily into the trunk of a mighty oak. The tree shuddered from root to branch and added a flurry of brittle leaves to the forest floor.
She awoke to a gentle tugging at her collar, her left shoulder, then right shoulder, refreshing cool air gently stroking her breasts, stiffening her nipples with its caress. Reflexively lifting her thighs, she allowed the leather to peel from her buttocks, roll from her legs. Stripped of the hot tight skin, she stretched out her limbs, testing their integrity. She felt no pain, no lost capability. Incredibly, she had escaped injury. Her eyes snapped open at the sharp drag of her thong being torn from her thighs, abruptly remembering her flight through the trees and the violent and unexpected end to her escape. With her shapeless leather suit hanging like lost dignity from the fisted fingers of his gloved left hand, her pursuer held the scrap of her thong to flared nostrils, closing ice blue eyes to focus his senses on the aroma of her sex. The act was a violation.
She shuddered, thrusting herself to her feet with an agility that belied the potential of some injury from the crash. Poised for flight or to fight, her eyes swiftly scanned the clearing to determine her predicament, settling on his machine. It sat growling like a predator waiting to pounce, all three tyres plastered with red and orange, picked up from a visible trail left on the forest floor. If she could get past his hulking leather clad frame somehow.
He opened his eyes, flicking a glance after her gaze and then back at her, perfect ivory white teeth bared in obvious humour.
“Thinking you might like a ride? The only thing you are going to get between your legs is this.” He grabbed the not insignificant bulge in the front of his leather pants. Her thong hanging from his fingers emphasised his lascivious intent.
Suddenly acutely aware of her nudity, she shivered. Not wishing to give him any satisfaction, she made no attempt to cover herself. To her dismay, she recognised the nature of her response, her body was betraying her. Responding to the intense scrutiny of his gaze, her nipples had hardened, her body leaked warm wetness. She was thankful that feminine arousal was not quite as explicit as that of the male.
“Come near me with that and I’ll show you a bite that’s worse than a bark,” she snarled, but they both knew it was an empty threat. Still scanning her body with lust filled eyes, he stripped off his jacket baring a broad and hairless chest, shining as if oiled. Despite herself, she could not hold on to her anger, something else was nudging it aside. She recognised it as lust. Counting ribs and muscles to the buckle, she recalled a memory of cool smooth metal on her fingertips. Before she could stop herself, she was on her knees in the leaves, scrabbling with his belt, dragging down his leathers and the hidden pouch. Holding his shaft, two hands easily fitting its length, she licked the swollen head and enveloped it with bright red lips…
“Honey,” he whispered later, her head resting on his chest as he gazed up at the canopy of autumn leaves, “next time you think we need to inject a little spice, would you please try not to wreck the bike?”
Dan Cocker ... now go read some of the work of my chums!