Harsh spring light seeped into the room through the crack in the curtains, waking me from my dream. The same dream I'd been having off and on for the past several weeks, in fact. It featured this biker-chick who passed me on the way to work every morning—a vision of heaven in tight red leather, blonde hair flying behind her from under her equally red helmet. Although, to be honest, in the dream, she wasn't wearing the leather for long. She kept the helmet on though.
Perhaps that was because I had a good idea of how curvaceous her body was, but had no idea what her face looked like. You see, I only ever saw her in the morning as she passed me. Generally I'd be stuck in traffic and she'd weave her way through it on that jet black bike of hers.
Black bike. Red leathers. Nice combination.
She lingered in my thoughts even as the dream faded.
Unconsciously, I reached down and wrapped my hand around the erection the dream had left me with and stroked it steadily. With my free hand, I fished a tissue out of the box on the bedside cabinet. After all, I didn't really want to make a mess.
I pulled my foreskin back slowly, revealing the angry purple knob. It had been far too long since I'd sunk that fucker into a tight, warm cunt. Far, far too long.
I built up from a steady rhythm—wanking harder and faster until I could feel the orgasm building in my balls. Grunting from the sensation, I clenched my stomach muscles, tipped my head back and stopped stroking as jets of sticky white cum split my cock open and shot into the waiting tissue.
Then I relaxed, breathing hard but sated for the time being. An orgasm is simply the best way to start the day, even if it is self-induced.
But if I thought that having an early morning tug would quell my urges for the day, I was sadly mistaken. Young, horny and under-fucked, that was me.
An hour later I sat in heavy traffic on the dual carriageway when that familiar sleek, black motorbike with the red rider overtook me. It was her. My Heaven in Leather. My dream girl. Literally.
I'll admit that I'd always been fascinated with motorbikes, but never plucked up the courage to buy one. Guess that was the effect of all the scare-stories my mother filled my head with when I was younger.
But as best I could judge from the all too brief glimpses I got of it each morning, this looked like a fine machine. I have to be honest though, it was the vision in red atop it that always caught my eye. The one-piece suit hugged her curves and made my mouth water. And my cock hard.
She passed me every day, and every day I craned my neck to watch her weave in and out of the cars until she was out of sight and then images of just what I do to her if I ever got her out of that suit ran through my head for the rest of my journey to work.
Like I said, I was horny that day. Hell, I was horny most days, but I was particularly horny that day. Maybe it was my time of the month. Do men get a time of the month? I don't know. The point is, I couldn't get the image of that biker chick out of my head. Those curves. That red leather. Those curves. That blonde hair. Those curves. That bike. Those curves...
It left me with an annoying erection that I did my best to conceal by trapping it in the waistband of my boxers. But I found myself unable to concentrate on anything and knew that eventually I'd have to do something about it. Obviously, I would have preferred to satisfy my needs with one of the girls working on the checkouts, but even if I had the authority to get them a few minutes break I'd have more likely been had up on harassment charges than gotten my end away. They were just a bunch of cock-teases, all of them. Even the old ones.
So instead, I hurried off the to the gents and prayed nobody would come in and catch me when I locked myself in a cubicle, took my cock in hand and beat-off like a mad-man. I thought it might take me a while to come, having already done so once that morning, but I shot off really quickly, and powerful, healthy spurts they were, too. It seemed that my gonads had a touch of the old spring fever.
At lunchtime I had to go to the post office to send off a couple of things I'd sold on an auction website that weekend. After waiting in the damn queue for ten minutes, I was very pleasantly surprised when I was called to "Cashier Number six, please" and found myself standing in front of the very lovely looking girl indeed. Usually I ended up with the old hags. Perhaps my luck was picking up. The most noticeable feature of this sweet young thing was her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. I stared closely at her while she processed my parcels.
I wondered. Long blonde hair ... Could she possibly be... ? No, of course not. I mean, what were the chances? Slim to none, right?
Anyway, she finished up; I thanked her and bid her good day then left. Outside I surveyed the street. Nothing unusual. I don't know why I thought there would be. So, I trudged slowly back to the supermarket—a route which took me past the car park at the rear of the post office. And when I glanced up, something caught my eye.
I stopped walking had took another look. Yep, no mistaking it. There was a sleek black motorbike parking in one of the spaces reserved for staff. And not just any sleek black motorbike. It was the same one that passed me every morning. I recognised the number plate.
I rushed back around to the front of the building again and looked through the window. Cashier number six was the only one there with long blonde hair.
She was my motorbike rider. My vision in red. My dream girl. My heaven in leather.
She had to be. Had to be.
So now I had a face to go with the body. Maybe tonight she'd take the helmet off as well as the leathers.
The following lunchtime, I went back to the post office to send off a couple more auction items, the buyers having only paid the night before.
I checked as I joined the queue and sure enough, my leather clad cashier was at window six. Unfortunately, she wasn't the next available cashier when I got to the front of the queue, and I had to let three people past me before she was.
"Hello. Again," she said with a knowing smile. She had obviously seen that I had waited for her to be free.
"H ... Hi."
"How can I help you today?"
Damn, what a smile. Forget the leather. Forget the curves, even. That smile. And those eyes! Damn!
"Ca ... I have these to send please." I put the parcels on the counter.
"Having an eBay clear out?"
"Something like that."
"Don't blame you. I keep meaning to get around to it myself." Still smiling, she said, "Okay, pop the first one on the scales for me."
As she went through the process of weighing and printing postage labels for my parcels, I summoned up all my courage, steeling myself, until eventually I was able to blurt out, "Isthatyoutblackmotorbikeinthecarpark?"
She frowned slightly and said, "Sorry, didn't catch that."
A deep breath. "Is that ... Is that your bike in the car park? The black one? Suzuki, isn't it?"
She smiled again and nodded. "Yep. She's a beauty, isn't she?"
"Sure is," I said, too quickly. I wasn't referring to the bike though. "You know, you speed past me on that thing every morning while I sit in the queue. I'm thinking of getting one myself so I can beat the traffic like you do."
"That's not the main reason I ride it," she said, raising an eyebrow playfully. "But it helps."
"Any chance I could meet you when you finish tonight so you could tell me a little bit about it?" Now that was bold. For me. I think my brain had disengaged and my cock was doing the talking. She looked so very demure in a little fluffy white jumper, its short sleeves showing off her slender, pale, upper arms. She looked nothing like the leather queen I saw in each morning.
She shrugged. "Sure, why not? I knock off at six," she said with a wink and a flash of that wonderful smile.
My bloody dick gave me no rest for the whole of that afternoon. Let's face facts, checking stock levels of fish and tinned soup is hardly stimulating, so it's no real surprise that my mind kept wandering to images of my biker queen and what might happen when we met up in a few hours. It seemed like I had a permanent hard-on. When I took delivery of some ripe melons to go on special offer, all I could think of was the melons hidden inside that soft angora sweater and just what special offer she'd have on them for me.
Every spare second, and most of the not-so-spare, I dreamed of her.
I imagined a lacy bra, the same shade of red as her leathers, and inside her cleavage was as soft and white as marshmallow.
I imagined her powerful, tanned thighs with the bike's throbbing engine vibrating between them.
.... There is more of this story ...