Speaker 1: It's September nineteenth, and that means it's time for your
Speaker 1: daily fuck on fuck it list Friday. What's on your
Speaker 1: fucked list? The world is a screaming blur of sound
Speaker 1: and speed. I'm pressed tight against his back, my arms
Speaker 1: wrapped around his waist, my face buried in the worn
Speaker 1: leather of his jacket. The motorcycle is a living beast
Speaker 1: beneath us. It's deep guttural roar, vibrating straight through his
Speaker 1: body and into mind. Every shift of his weight as
Speaker 1: he takes a curve, every flex of his hard ass
Speaker 1: against my pelvis, is a primal invitation. We hit the
Speaker 1: on ramp and he opens the throttle. The bike leaps forward,
Speaker 1: accelerating into the wide, empty stretch of late night highway.
Speaker 1: The sheer, unrestrained power of it all is an intoxicating drug.
Speaker 1: The wind, the noise, the danger. It's a whole verging
Speaker 1: into a single sharp point of desire deep in my belly.
Speaker 1: I decide right then to add my own brand of
Speaker 1: chaos to the mix. I slide one hand from his
Speaker 1: waist down the taut muscles of his stomach. My fingers
Speaker 1: find the rough denim of his chains. Then the cold
Speaker 1: hard button. It's a clumsy, one handed struggle against the wind,
Speaker 1: but I manage to get it undone. The rasp of
Speaker 1: his zippers swallowed by the engine's roar. I slip my
Speaker 1: hand inside. He doesn't move. He's an intense statue riding
Speaker 1: the highway and leg a statue. He's rock hard. He
Speaker 1: leans back, a slight acknowledgment that he is along for
Speaker 1: the ride. As I close my fingers around his cock,
Speaker 1: the skin impossibly hot against the cold night air. He
Speaker 1: answers with a sharp intake of breath, his entire body
Speaker 1: pressing bag. Instead of leaning forward, I begin to stroke him,
Speaker 1: a steady rhythm that patches the pulse of the engine.
Speaker 1: The wind whit to my hand, but I hold on tight,
Speaker 1: my knuckles brushing against the vibrating fuel tank. He can't move,
Speaker 1: can't speak. All he can do is drive his back
Speaker 1: ramrod straight while I hold his pleasure in my hand.
Speaker 1: I feel his muscles clench, his whole body coloring into
Speaker 1: a tight spring of inlit release. I slow and rub
Speaker 1: a thumb around the head of his cock. He answers
Speaker 1: by squeezing the throttle, lurching us forward even faster. I
Speaker 1: stroke and feel hand throb. I stroke his cock faster
Speaker 1: and faster, waiting for the release. I so badly want
Speaker 1: to feel his back arches and a guttural groan is
Speaker 1: torn from his throat, a sound that just barely reaches
Speaker 1: me over the wind. I feel his cock throb violently
Speaker 1: in my hand, and a thick, hot shet of his
Speaker 1: cum shoots out a white arc that is instantly snatched
Speaker 1: by the wind and vanishes onto the black asphalt below.
Speaker 1: Another shot of com is lost to the night at
Speaker 1: that exact moment of his release his hand and still
Speaker 1: actively twists the throttle again. The engine screams, and the
Speaker 1: bike surges forward, a rocket of pure, unrestrained power, flying
Speaker 1: down the empty highway towards the distant, glittering lights of
Speaker 1: the horizon.