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New slave learns the reality of his situation.

I reached out, touched at the handlebars. His hand met mine there.

You don't know why, when it happens. It just does. A hand, touching yours, strong. His was like that, and I felt myself respond, felt my body, felt my nipples tingle suddenly underneath my bra. I looked from his bike to his body to his eyes. They were deep, and they were still watching me.

"You want to have a seat?" he asked.

I tried to find a word to answer, couldn't, finally settled for another nod. He took my hand, guided me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jan and Sally, just standing there watching, like they couldn't believe I'd done what I'd done.

I reached out; the leather was smooth, polished from long use. I felt myself shiver as I ran my fingers over it. He had sat here, all those hours on the road, the engine vibrating beneath him.

"Go on," he said.

I reached one leg over, settled. My skirt rose up, just past the knee, and his gaze went to the bit of exposed thigh. I reached out to support myself by gripping the handlebars.

The Harley was big beneath me, quiet now, but I could imagine the thunder of the engine, the strength, the power of it. And suddenly I was aware, not for any reason really, of my closeness to the thing, of the way the crotch of my panties was pressed against the smooth leather he had ridden. And there was the breadth of it, too, of the bike and the leather seat, pushing my thighs apart.

My mouth was suddenly dry and I gasped softly.

He pretended not to hear.

"Purrs like a kitten," he said. "A loud kitten. You have to hang on when you open the throttle or it'll knock you right off. A lot of horses in there, and they don't like slowing down."

He patted the tank, his fingers inches from my groin. I shifted a bit, suddenly moist. My thighs clenched around the firm leather and hard metal. I wanted to stay there, wanted him to kick the engine to life, wanted to feel it roar between my legs, to press hard against it, rub it and caress it and squirm...

Oh, God.

I almost came right there, swallowing and shuddering and hoping he wouldn't notice. I could feel that the crotch of my panties was wet now, and beneath them the smooth leather of his seat. Would he notice when I got up?

"You like that, don't you?" he said, and I looked into his eyes.

They betrayed nothing.

I nodded.

He chuckled. Then, without a word, he took my waist in his hands and guided me back a bit, the motion against my moist crotch making me gasp. Before I knew it he had climbed on in front of me.

"Hold on to my waist," he said.

I did. I think I moaned when he kicked the engine to life.


You want to know how it felt? You have to try it. You have to press yourself intimately up against the power and feel it rumble against that most secret part of yourself. You have to feel the unyielding metal holding you open, exposing you. You aren't you anymore, not when this happens.

Something more and something less, maybe. I don't know.

But I held tight to him, to the stranger, pressing my face against the leather of his jacket as he pulled out of the station. The jacket had a rich, deep smell, alive, and without thinking I pressed my hips forward against his butt and groaned.

Because I was coming. My thin panties were soaked now, pressing myself hard against the leather seat and his hips. I was coming in that inexorable, certain way that you know you can't stop and that you never want to stop.

Thank God for the noise of the engine, or he would have heard me cry out.

Maybe he did anyway.

But it didn't stop. The bike wasn't alive but it was. And he was there, turning a corner, accelerating, the engine a low rumble and then a song. I live! it cried. You live!

Feel me, Ellie. Feel what I am. Feel what I make you.

I cried out again, shivering, squirming, wet. I wanted it to never end as I climaxed again, clenching the machine and its rider tight.

Take me. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.


In time we did, pulling up to the five-and-dime, the motor still running beneath me.

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