She tests what’s left of that wall when the bike hits a seam in the asphalt. Her whole body jolts forward, her breasts flatten on my back, and the pressure travels through my spine and lands square in my balls.
My vision narrows to the road. My grip tightens. This woman is going to be the end of me.
When we reach her rental finally, she slides off the bike and fumbles with the helmet. I watch her struggle for a second before she finally gets it loose and holds the helmet out to me.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something stupid, before my control breaks completely, and I do something I can’t walk away from.
I rev the engine once, twice.
“Stay away,” I say.
I don’t wait for her to respond. I kick off and tear down the road, and I ride until her cottage disappears from my mirrors.
I need to go home.
To drown this with whiskey and a cold shower and whatever else it takes to scrub the last ten minutes from my memory.
I accelerate harder.
Damn it,I can’t get rid of her. The wind should be stripping it away at this speed, but the apple scent is stuck in my jacket. I turn my head and it follows. I breathe through my mouth and it’s there too.
My body aches with every mile the tires eat up, and the pressure keeps building.
I accelerate more, trying to outrun it, but my mind throws a slow-motion replay. Her breasts flattening against my back when the bike hit that bump, her full weight squishing her tits before she pulled away and they bounced back into the heavy and round and perfect shape.
I’m not going to make it home.
A curse leaves my mouth. I swerve the bike onto the gravel shoulder, the rear tire skidding before I kick the stand down and kill the engine. I’m off the bike and into the tree line before I’ve even removed my helmet, and I don’t remove it. I leave it on, visor up, because the act of unbuckling it would require patience I don’t have now.
My hands are shaking.
I’m a mess. It’s not even dark yet. Anyone could drive past and see my bike parked on the shoulder. I can’t even be bothered to protect my own fucking dignity.
My head drops forward behind the tree while my hands go for my belt buckle.
When I close my eyes, she’s there.
Her weight against my back. Her breasts pressed flat. The sound of her breathing, her mouth close to my neck. Her trembling fingers on my stomach traveling down, unbuckling, unzipping, pulling me free.
I hear the first stroke. It’s already wet from the precum that’s been leaking out of me.
“Fuck,” I grunt, my voice rough in the quiet woods. My hips start to move, pushing into her fist. “That’s it… feel what you do to me?”
Her hand tightens, thumb circling, feeling the ridges. Learning my shape. Then moving. Up and down. Up and down.
The pressure at the base of my spine is a fist, squeezing, and my balls are tight and heavy and I’m done. I’m losing it. I’m not going to last. A few more strokes, that’s all I’ve got before I blow.
As if she could read my mind, she goes faster.
A few more-strokes. It-will only take a few more-strokes now—
“Ahh—fuck—”
My back bows. My teeth lock together, and the sound that tears out of me is barely human. I come so hard my vision turnsblurry, the spend hits the dead leaves below in thick, heavy ropes.
I buck hard. Then again and again until my fingers claw into the tree bark just to stay standing. My release thin to drips, but her hand is still working, still wringing out every last tremor, every last drop, milking until I’m empty.
