Chapter 1

You don't remember if you even had a choice. You do remember hitting Main Street on the first weekend of Bike Week, out with the girls from work. You do remember drinking a shitload of Margaritas and arguing with Kerri Ann about the number of bikers in Daytona this year. You don't recall when she imposed herself in your group or when she began to take your side, but she agreed that bike week was more spread out but also more watered down than years before. What gets you are those piercing green eyes that hold your attention even while the conversation shifts to other people and things. At one point, you notice her licking her lips as if she were the cat, you the canary, and a shiver courses through you.

It is when she too quickly comes to your rescue, that you know you should tell this stranger no thanks, but you've had a bit to drink and she seems to be a friend of Kerri Ann's at least she's in your group. And Kerri Ann is at her yelling point and wanting to hang around and you want to go home and get something taken care of. The drinks, the close proximity, and you've become revved up, somehow, probably the biker bar, the excitement or it could be the breathe in your ear when she whispers hoarsely that her bike is just outside and what fun it would be, the voice cascading like a waterfall. And once more you are within those eyes as they instruct you to follow.

You follow behind taking in the woman's dimensions as you go. She looks like real biker stock: street boots with hanging chain, leather chaps which accentuate her blue jeans torn so the very tip of her right buttcheek could be seen, leather vest with rawhide laces that barely conceal how well endowed she is, a leather coat genuine, a leather and stud cap she has just swept on her head along with the fuck-me reflector shades. You are not sure if it is the overpowering scent of her leather-encased body or that the five-inch heels give her a towering presence, but you follow two steps behind outside onto the sidewalk.

You think you hear Kerri Ann's voice, "You're not leaving with Alice are ya, not Malice Alice." And you hear a snort that could be laughter but are not sure, but you hear a cheer ahead as you light out of the building and are not sure if it has anything to do with you or the stranger. She turns to look once more at you, that permanent smirk emerging from the mane of auburn hair that makes you feel she knows what is good for you. You ask her if she's wearing all leather and she says even in the places you can't see, honey and you blush as you think briefly of those places. But she takes your hand and smiles, a real smile like she means it and you smile back as she brings you to the bike parked at the curb.

It is a beautiful Harley, 750 cc with the old style grilling. It is a long bike and the interesting feature is that it has two distinctive seat wells and saddles. The one in front is plush and luxurious leather, while the back seat resembles a slice of rawhide on a metal plate. You realize now that your adventure begins that you are not dressed properly at all and try to beg your way out of the ride, but she just nods knowingly. She pushes you against a light pole and deftly rearranges your smart business suit: a button on the coat, two on the skirt, three buttons on the blouse, a little exposure and it makes you feel a little desirable, "Here this will make you look more presentable to the crowd," she says as she grabs your shirt out of your skirt and ties it in the back, begins to move your collar down your shoulders keeping the coat on. You feel confused as your arms are encased in the suit and you wished you had worn a sexier bra to flaunt your titties that (you smile) are at least as large as hers.

She stares down at you now with a hungry look, but breaks into a sweet smile as she takes in the new you and leads you over to her bike. You are still not sure how you are going to ride on that thing, but the sun is setting and it will be dark soon so you hike up your skirt (to the amusement of the crowd) and straddle the thing. The stranger comes and fixes your skirt on the back seat, but it is not a comfortable thing to ride on. For one thing you cannot completely relax your thighs unless you were to do a split practically. The tension on your thighs combined with the sharp edges of the seat digging in give you the impression that it will be a long five mile ride after all.

She kicks the bike into action and you are shocked by yours. The vibration of the seat massages your inner thighs the pain of constriction is going. You have yet to settle in when she whips the bike into the street jerking you off-balance and back on your haunches. You hear from the crowd, "Hey Alice, you gonna be sharin some a dat?" You move slowly down the street, the vibration between your legs is beginning to cover your entire region and combined with the margaritas, your inhibitions relax with them. There are catcalls from the crowd, take it off, and feeling partly embarrassed partly desirable you try to pull the silk shirt out and can't but it doesn't matter because the effort gets you a round of applause.

"Whatever you do on this bike," she turns like a giraffe to speak in my ear, "is your deal. You got it, I won't bail you out, so leave the shirt where it is." You nod then lean into her, your arms around her. You smell the combination of leather, her perfume and something else you can't place, your nipples are like pencil erasers and you blush as you point them at the crowd. But there is something else more important happening to you. Because of the vibration, your thighs have inch by inch opened enough so that now you can feel one of your pussy lips barely scrape a knob of some kind like a saddle horn but not as pronounced, but surely as effective.

You've never felt so horny in your life, never felt so alive, never felt so out of control before with this powerful leather lady horsepower between her legs, the scent of sweat and leather. The sun finally setting she makes her way back up the street. But you live in seconds of anticipation as your thighs give way one more inch, one more lip barely scraping the horn. Your entire being fixated upon minute movements, you are no longer interested in flashing titties or waving to the crowd, all your attention is on those final two inches. Sweat begins dripping from your body and you're not sure but you believe that it is you that's groaning. You begin to grab for handfuls of her jacket then reach around and grab a handful of tit. She turns back to look at you and you can see your own face mirrored in her glasses, the look of dire need (three months since a boyfriend) almost animalistic, while she portrays no eyes just that smirk.

You realize that you are passing the original bar that you started, notice the same crowd of women, you see Kerri Ann sitting at her table inside. Then like a rattlesnake she is upon you, both arms over your shoulders she plunges your clitoris onto the horn and her tongue down your throat catching the screaming orgasm as all those moments of build-up come crashing upon you in that final second. As you hear the applause cascading from the curb, you shudder as a wave of humiliation washes over you due to your public display. You know that those dykes were cheering for her, that you are just a toy, a toy to be used, by her and at that thought a little squirt seeps out of your pussy onto the seat below.

She loves it, lives for the look, that look of recognition, then the humiliation then the recognition and she creams everytime she sees the look, especially the humiliation. She holds your cheek in her one hand her smile like that of a crocodile. "Don't worry, my little slut," another shudder, "that's just the first of many. Main Street is a very long street." Then she laughs and you know you must get off this thing, but your legs are too weary from doing this split, from just cumming, from tension that you must just ride it out.