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Subject: {ASS} 'Auto-Erotic / Harley' by SR (MF cons manual)
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This is an original work of fiction which contains some adult sexual
situations. If that sort of thing squicks you, trash now. Free to
archive with attribution. Comments welcome: parasol_60@yahoo.com 

  -- SR

{ASS} 'Auto-Erotic / Harley' by SR (MF cons manual)















Auto-Erotic / Harley
  by SR


Vicki. Vicki on the sidewalk. Vicki on the sidewalk with her red satin
hotpants and black leather jacket. Platform heels -- two-fucking-inch
thick platforms with five-fucking-inch heels. Her calves flexed like
steel tendons with each step; her tight thighs shone like molten gold.
Those legs went on forever. Pulled every guy-eye in each place she
passed, from the pasty-faced storekeeps to the pimple-faced shop-boys,
tracking her down the street past their pleated glass storefronts.

Convertible motorboys cruised on down, fresh from the garages or a day
on the lake. Slowed down for an eyeful.

Eyes done up. Lips glistening like the shine on a Chevy's tailfin.
Cheekbones high as some Injun warrior's. Hair piled high in a silver
pin, shining and black against the pale skin of her neck. The wide
shoulders of her high-gloss leathers couldn't hide the slip and slide
of her shoulder blades, the sway and bounce of her chest. 

She walked like she owned the street -- like she owned the fucking
street. Corner-girls and gum-chewing tramps scuttled out of the way,
side-stepping or feigning blah-zay against the lampposts but aware,
aware. Vicki's quick glance at her outstretched nails provoked spasms
of jealousy, fists balled in pockets, frantic plans to visit to the
Revlon counter at Walmart.

Vicki on the corner. Pursed lips. 

Redlights changed. The convertibles didn't move. Half-hearted honks
from some displaced suburban yipsters out of place, out of time.
Across the sidewalk, down the hill, out of an alley, down the one-way
cross-street the wrong way, with a purr like a wildcat in heat.
Flaming chrome and black jet, a throb in its heart for each pent-up
horsepower in this one-horse town. The city center held its breath as
he gunned it, one gloved finger twirling -- slowly, carefully -- the
knurled knobs on the right-hand handlebar, slid to a stop.  Inches
from her toes.

A quick nod, impassive and unfeeling behind those jet shades. Her
fingertips on his hip, she slid on behind. Her legs spread, her heels
came to rest on the footrests, her knees clamped on behind him and her
hair pulled free, flowing suddenly behind as he jumped the curb,
looped once in the still-empty crosswalk, shifted, and throttled up
Main toward the distant mountains.

The city let out its breath.

- - - -

Her fingertips, cool on the slick leather. Her own jacket fell open
between them, her naked nipples teased maddeningly by the rough
rivets, the stitching of his colors, the chrome chains draped across
his back. Her nipples ached. Her breasts, surprisingly small and
soft... almost a little girl's tits... except for those long, thin,
protruding nipples. She pressed herself to him, sinuously rubbing,
insistent and demanding. From the hard bony knobs of her collarbones,
down across the tennis-ball swell of her boobs, to the tight skin over
her ribs where it pressed into the small of his back. At her waist,
her navel tickled with the droop of a cold silver-chrome chain. A
trickle of moisture seeped the soft satin of her pants. 

Throbbing out of town, an easy pace; riding the yellow line. Her legs
started to feel chill in the air, she flexed them, rubbing slowly
against the back of his chaps. Leather on skin is sooooo... sweet.
Hot, smooth. Leather on skin that screams out its vulnerability,
screams "take me, hurt me."

Her fingertips snaked slowly into the front of his jacket, at the
level of his chest. He wore a tank-top, underneath. Thick, warm fur
matted on his chest. Her fingertips twined in his chest hair, tugging
at the straps of his tank top, pulling, insistently, tugging the
neckline out of shape, twining into the hair up around his throat.
Pulling the jacket open, the zipper sliding down, down, down, while
her fingers sought his underarms, a hot trickle of sweat she could
smell -- dark, sweet -- even through the pads of her fingers.

Nails. Nails digging tighter and tighter into the heat of his flesh.
Twisting the fabric of his shirt, ripping it. Just a little rip at
first, then a larger, more insistent tear... then a wholehearted
scream, her mouth opened, bared teeth in his back as she ripped the
fabric from top to bottom and raked her fingers exploratively to the
matted fur of his belly. Tickling? No way... this man was steel...
leather... she could feel the ripple of his muscles, but she knew
somehow, inside, these muscles would never feel her. Not even her
nails, twined, tight, coiled, digging in to the taut hard flesh,
pulling at his hair, digging into the tight hot skin over his ribs. 

Seeking the tiny buds of his nipples now, one at a time. Slippery and
elusive in the slipstream. Nothing more than cold nubs, stretched and
taut in the leather skin over his pects. Fingers strumming them, hard
nubs just begging for her palms, warming and soft. For a second her
palm in her own mouth, wet with warm spittle. Back to the apple-pit of
his nipple, wet for less than a second until the cold breeze of their
passage dried on his skin, leaving her hands chill agains the molten
heat of his chest.

Fingertips in the leather waistband of his chaps. His abdomen flexed
for just a moment and her left hand snaked its way down. Into those
warm, dark recesses of heat and vibration. The dull throbbing ache of
his meat, coiled and animal-soft against the back of her knuckles.
Twining her fingertips into the long kinky hairs, seeking the root.
Two fingers split, the first and middle fingers slid around the root
of his shaft, seeking the soft crinkly flesh of his balls, warm hard
knots like textured golf-balls under her fingertips. Amazed at them,
hard, round and solid under her fingerpads. His shaft slowly uncoiled,
alive against the back of her hand, pressing its warm wet kiss into
the skin of her wrist.

Her right hand, stroking him through the leather, coaxing him to life.
"Come out and play... come out and play..." a fingertip stroked the
coiled bulge in the leather along the shaft from tip to root,
stroking. Then two fingertips, then her palm, feeling his warmth
through the leather, seeking the buttons and twisting, twisting them
one at a time from top slowly to bottom, freeing the hungry animal at
last from his throbbing prison.

Her nipples rubbed, rough and insistent, her mouth open, drooling
slick patterns in the glossy textures of his leather jacket, her
sopping panties a mess of slick juices puddling the leather seat, and
his cock at last free...

Stroking the thick veined shaft, warm, blood-hot in her hands. The
fingertips of her left hand could close around the shaft at the root,
but with her right hand she could only cup the bulbous head in her
palm. The cock-head's drool of slick juice coated her hand, letting
her palm slide side to side, back and forth, circling it wet and
sliding over the edges, back and forth. The soft web of skin between
her thumb and first finger slid insistently over the throbbing knob of
the head. Her splayed fingers rubbed it insistently, stroking back and
forth warm and teasing and rough. The skin throbbed under her fingers,
seemed to pulse in time to her stroking. A continuous drizzle of his
juices seeped from the head, spit-thick. Her mouth open on his back,
she imagined the feel of his cock in her mouth, her lips stretched
wide to suckle him. Insistently she stroked him, hot in the cold air.
With one gloved hand on hers he quieted her hands, positioned them
subtly so that the left hand tightened over the root while the right
circled the shaft just beneath his bulbous head.

She started to stroke him slowly, noticing that with her hands in that
position his prick was still so massive that there was a good eight
inches of throbbing flesh between her hands. She slowly stroked them
together once... a second time... a third, developing an insistent
rhythm, stroking the hard, knobbed pulsing shaft in her hands...
together, apart, together, apart. Skip a beat... together, apart. Once
again with his gloved hands he bade her stop the stroking, to simply
hold on tight, right where she was. With a sigh she tightened her
fingers, denting the flesh.

The clutch screamed; he down-shifted into a turn then throttled up.
The cornering force slipped her back along the seat, her hands
tightening further on his shaft they slid downward toward the root. A
touch on the brake, dropping from seventy down to fifty, momentum
pressing her body forward, her chest bouncing into his back, her hands
sliding up along the pole, the head throbbing insistently in her grasp
 until he again touched the throttle and the bike sped up. She was
pulled back away from him and again her fingers stroked downward along
his prick to the root... then again with the brake, forcing her hands
up along his length. 

She kicked the platform heels aside, they clattered forgotten to the
roadbed as she lifted her legs up, surrounding him, straddling his
back, her ankles crossed in front of his waist as she pulled herself
tighter and tighter against him, pressing her sopping cunt into the
small of his back as he insistently jacked himself with her hands. A
tight right hairpin turn, her fingers slid on his cock, pointed nails
raking against the velvet-coated, steel-hard flesh. Another
deceleration, stroking up across the throbbing veins. Rubbing the
juicy head again with her palm, making her hands slide slicker and
hotter than before. Feeling the throbbing heat of the engine in the
small of her back, the roar of the exhaust just inches from her ears

Her nipples were hard, throbbing pinpoints in the cold air, her cunt
ached with emptiness, longing and raw vibration, her hair streamed
behind them, her mouth a screaming red welt as her hands stroked his
throbbing fuck pole and the roaring heat and vibration and flames of
the iron beast beneath them soared over the top of a hill, cresting.
And into the air, silent and smooth for twenty glorious flying feet
until they slipped gently to the ground and with a guttural groan he
climaxed. Slippery gobs of cum shot forward over the gas cowling, only
to be caught in the slipstream and sloshed back onto her hands, making
her grasp even slicker than before. Her spunk-slick hands slipped and
slid and she lost her hold and slid, her hands slick and slimy with
his seed, unable to hold on to his glistening tool and she fell
sliding back, only her clasped ankles and taut thighs holding her to
his body as he negotiated a tight left turn and she clasped her hands
over her breasts, rubbing the slick cum into the raw, wind-whipped
flesh, breathless with anticipation as the chopper skidded to a stop
amid a hail of gravel.





















- - - - - - - - - -
[Afterward]

1) There will be other stories in this "Auto Erotic" series. The
series was originally inspired by a comment from an otherwise
brilliant ASSD contributor who said that she knew squat about makes
and models of cars, and cared even less. IMO there has been no more
erotic development in the last century than the motorized vehicle.
This series attempts to highlight the erotic character of various
vehicles. Sue me for starting on a motorcycle... it's the first one
that got me off. <grin>

2) Here's a stupid newbie question on story codes. If you have to
indicate when a story contains "oral" and "anal" do you also have to
indicate when a story contains "manual"? <grin>

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