The Biker ...cont

She knows it's mad, that she should stay away, but she can't help herself. She's there the next week, the same day, the same time. It's another hot day and this time she has chosen a wispy, floaty dress that reveals her bare shoulders.

He's waiting for her, sat at the table, two teas by his elbow. She takes the place next to him, only barely aware of the looks of the other bikers as they acknowledge her joining him.

"How did you know I'd come?" she asks.
He shrugs, confidently, arrogantly even.
"I knew you couldn't resist it. Moth..flame...you know the story..."

They sit silently, side by side. Her stomach is flipping, turning somersaults, waiting for him to make a move, to say something, to break the tension.

"Open your legs," he suddenly says.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, open your legs."

She leans back against the table and spreads her knees wide, desperately trying to control her breathing as she does so. She realises that she looks odd, demurely dressed and yet sitting oh so slut-like in the middle of a car park of motorbikers.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and she feels a shiver of thrill run down her spine.

"I bought something for you,"
"Muhu," she replies. She can hardly speak now. She's afraid to open her mouth and talk, anxious that only gobledegook would come out.

"Come," she follows him, slightly disappointed they're not going to his bike. He notices her expression and smiles.
"You have to earn that now."

They make their way into the forest, past swampy ponds and trees struck down by lightening or storms and left there to rot, past fetid funghi and a maze of horseshoe prints, until they find somewhere quiet.

"Kneel," he almost whispers, but she can still hear him despite the sounds of the birds, the wind, the cars in the distance. His voice is cutting into her soul.

She kneels in slow motion, aware of the comfort of the mossy ground beneath.
"Look down," he mutters, "spread your knees wide apart and sit back on your ankles."

She's starting to tremble now; she can feel herself changing; the heat rising and her mouth start to dry.

She smells it before she sees it. It smells like his jacket, of old leather, or soft leather that's been worn in. The scent of it, of him, fills her nostrils as he fastens it around her neck.

This collar is thick. Soft, but thick. It feels heavy.

And then she hears the lead. Metal chains that chink as he fixes it to the collar. For a moment he runs the cold metal along her shoulder, she can see him observing the goosebumps that suddenly spring up in its wake.

And then he steps back, rattling the chain as he goes. The chain is long and she has to crawl for a long time until she reaches him. By the time she is once again in front of him, her knees are covered in mud, leaves, twigs. Her demure floaty designer dress is unrecognisable.

Her unzips his black leather trousers and takes out his cock. It's already hard, waiting for her. He shakes the lead, and she takes the cue, moving forward to take him into her mouth. It grazes the back of her throat, neither of them need to move as it's throbbing so much, each throb taking his cock deeper and deeper. She closes her eyes, ready to take in more, but he pulls it out and comes, with a low moan, all down the front of her dress. Her breasts are covered in his spunk; it's dripping from her shoulders and down her cleavage. It trips off her own orgasm, an orgasm so powerful she has to get on all fours.

"Leave it," he growls, as she goes to wipe herself off.

He allows her to walk back, but he keeps the collar and lead on, at least until they are in sight of the car park. She feels drunk, stumbling so often that he eventually has to take her by her hand.

They stop, and he deftly spreads his cum over her bare shoulders and breasts before kissing her gently: soft featherlight kisses that calm her down and bring her back to earth.

And then he bows, motioning to the Ducati waiting for them.
"Now, tell me, where would you like to go?"