Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The elevator doors were still opening as I punched Mark’s number into my mobile.
“She said yes. Elaine said yes.”
On the other end of the line, I could sense his dismay. “So you’re going ahead with it?”
“You bet I’m going ahead with it.” And feeling like one of those characters in a story, who trots out the back story so the reader is up to speed from the start, I blurted on. “Those idiots have been terrorizing the town for six months. All I want to do is get in there, find out who they are, what they want, and if there’s anything we can do to get them out of here.” Then, knowing from the last month’s worth of arguing what Mark was going to come back with, “besides, it’s not as though we’re not talking about a chapter of Hell’s Angels. It’s just a bunch of middle-aged men with big motorbikes. How tough are they going to be, really?”
Mark simply sighed. “I guess you’re going to find out.” He hung up.
How far would you go for a story?
Back in college, studying journalism, I lost count of the number of times I was asked that question. And of how many times I answered it with the same six words. As far as I need to. I was only thinking in terms of the law, then, though, or maybe a hint of deception, and that was as far as I’d ever needed to go. As local newspapers go, I guess I landed a fairly sweet deal – not quite inner city, but not the suburbs, either. So I’d pursue politicians who looked like they might have something to hide, and I chased down a cop who was a little too free with his favors. And if the law of the land got a little dented in the process, then maybe it should pay a little more attention to truth and honesty than it does.
Tonight, though… tonight, I’d gone further than I’d ever imagined. First to that store in the mall where they sell the kind of clothes that I’d only looked at before, because the cut of the cloth and the slice of the slits really didn't fit in with the places I hung out. Maybe I did get a super-sluttish thrill as I looked at myself in the mirror, all teetering heels and too short skirt, a top that ended where my ribcage began, and my tits squeezing tight against their synthetic jail. Oh, and a pair of leggings to die for. But I suppressed it with a professional shrug. I was doing it for the story. The story has to come first.
Then to the newsstand, to at least get a working knowledge of what owning a motorbike was all about. Before he stopped picking up my calls, Mark told me there’s a lot more to it than being able to read the brand name on the side, and he was right. A couple of hours with some Harley mags filled my head with so many figures that I gained a whole new respect for the people who read them. Because it felt like a foreign language to me. Biker-ese, I smiled to myself, and I knew I’d never master it all. But at least I was conversant, and that’s all that mattered.
And then last night, down to Dino’s for Ribs’n’Things Thursday, to get the lay of the land and catch a few eyes, so when I returned tonight there would at least be a few friendly faces for me to hang out with. First in one of the booths where the whole gang had taken up residence; then up in the pool room, where the wagers ran from nickels to bike keys… and then…
How far would you go for a story?
As far as I need to go
Yeah, and if I keep on telling myself that, maybe I won’t gag on the fattest cock I’ve ever seen, being jammed down my throat by a guy whose presence I'd barely even acknowledged.
We’re in the rest room. The ladies’ rest room. I’d excused myself for a pee, an excuse to get down with some note taking, when there was a knock on the door, and a voice, “will you be long?”
“Just finishing.” I tucked my notepad back in my purse, flushed and washed my hands, then opened the door to find Lars standing there, blocking my exit, and undoing his belt.
“Thought you and me should have some quality time together,” he slurred. And then, as if he worried that I might not understand what he meant, “thought you and me should get to know each other.”
He’d finished fiddling down there; I glanced down quickly and his jeans were pulled wide open, and a semi-hard cock lay on a platform of grubby underwear.
“You did, did you?” I smiled brightly back at him. “And what do you think Pete…” – the guy I’d been sitting with – “… would think about that?”
“He’s already gone. Took off right after you did. So I figured that means you’re anyone’s now.”
Shit. I’d been relying on Pete, not only because he seemed to have the loosest tongue of them all, but also because he appeared to have the highest set of morals.
My eyes darted around Lars’ bulk, wondering if maybe I could squeeze past and run. He caught them and his already massive frame seemed to grow even bigger. “You’re not thinking of running out on me, are you?”
“You kidding?” Okay, I’d tried cowardice, now it was time for some bluster. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a line for the ladies. This could take some time.” Then I fell to my knees, took his cock in one hand and, eyes closed, I popped him into my mouth.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m not one of those girls you read about who creams her jeans at the thought of sucking cock – if I’m going to do it, it’s rarely a premeditated decision; it happens in the heat of a particular moment, because I know my partner likes it, or because I need to do something special for him. Certainly the idea of cold-bloodedly kneeling on a bathroom floor and sucking a stranger’s cock for any reason had never crossed my mind, and even as I drew his thickness into my mouth, a part of me couldn’t believe that I was doing it.
But another part was wondering why I’d waited so long to try. Lars wasn’t going to last long, I could tell that from his movements, and from the way his cock was swelling in my mouth, growing hotter and harder as his balls tensed and… for a moment, I wondered if I should try and slow him down, but only for a moment because that’s all the time I had before he came with a cry that must have been heard throughout the building, and I braced myself for the flood of fluid – that never came.
There was cum, but … what? Maybe a tablespoon full? Not enough to think about, that’s for sure, so I held it in my mouth while I sucked on his softening cock and, as I released him, I let his emission go as well, then wiped my mouth as lasciviously as I could, and gave him a breathy “wow.” The door to the bathroom was still wide open, and I could see a few of his friends watching us. But I stood up and kissed Lars’ bearded cheek, then squeezed past his bulk and went back to my table. Fuck, I needed a drink and, when Lars made his own way back to the booth, so did he. He didn’t say a word to me, though; didn’t even try and catch my eye, just kept his head down all evening, and sinking his brews. Was he the weak link I’d been hoping to find? Because if he was, then I’d just found his weakest point.
I don’t know if I’d describe it as a new respect, but when I turned up at Dino’s the following evening, there was definitely a sense that I’d earned something last night. I made my way to the same booth I’d occupied last night, and instead of the surly boots that reluctantly shifted to let me pass by their owners, they moved like lightning out of my path. And the guy whose jacket lay on my seat? He snatched it up before I even made to sit down.
I took out a cigarette, wondering how far this newfound chivalry might stretch… not that far, obviously. I lit it myself, then signaled to the waitress to bring me a drink. A few seats away, Lars was deep in conversation with a few other men, and didn’t even seem aware that I’d entered.
I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I’d already come to the conclusion that “steady” girlfriends were not a commodity this crowd were familiar with – that the biker babes who ran with them, and there were three or four, seemed to be passed around between whoever needed their company. Thanks, Pete, for that little nugget. At the same time, though, I was hoping there’d be at least a hint of acknowledgement of what happened last night.
Pete wasn’t here either, so I smiled at the guy who’d swept his jacket off my seat and asked which of the bikes outside was his. He told me; I nodded. “You like it?” I did.
“Come on, then.”
Now this I could handle. I said earlier that I didn’t know much about bikes. That’s true. But I grew up around them anyway, my three brothers had Harleys (at least until one of them crashed and almost wound up dead in a ditch), and I’d spent most of my childhood on one pillion or another. Maybe if they’d run with a gang, I’d have found other things to do as well, but that’s another fantasy.
Vic kicked her into life; held out his hand to haul me on board behind him, then grunted happily as I wrapped my arms round his waist – and we were away.
She was loud, she was fast, and Vic handled her well. I squealed the first time we took a sharp corner, convinced that my shoulders were just inches off the road, and I felt his frame shudder as he laughed at me. I clung on a little tighter, loving the feel of his bare arms against mine, the strength of his back as my breasts pressed against it. I wondered if he could feel how hard my nipples were – he was wearing an even skimpier top than I was, and as his shoulder-length hair flashed back into my face, I realized how wet my pussy was too.
If you've never ridden pillion, you should. Think of the best sex toy you've ever got off to, then add the hottest guy you've ever had inside. Then think of them again and again and again, because a bike just doesn't quit, not even when it stops. We halted and my insides were still in absolute turmoil, ecstatic turmoil, don't-ever-stop turmoil. But I blinked my eyes an cleared my head, then looked around, wondering how anybody ever thought this was a good place for a diner, out in the absolute middle of nowhere, with nothing but flat prairie for miles around. A broken-down pick-up sat outside, its natural color indistinguishable from the rust that coated it. But as we rounded the building, a real, old fifties style chrome creation, half a dozen gleaming motorbikes were gathered round the railings, and Vic slipped in alongside them with a throaty purr.
“Thought you’d like to meet some real riders,” he said. “They’ll probably be more your speed, as well.”
I wasn’t thinking about speed, though. I was thinking about what I’d done with Lars last night... and what it would be like to times that by... half a dozen bikes, half a dozen bikers, add Vic and maybe a passenger or three. I had a feeling I was going to be busy tonight.
How far would you go for a story?
All the way.
TO BE CONTINUED
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Posted by Jenny Swallows at 5:33 PM