She was the kind of woman that always survives in horror films. Fearless, bold, adventurous, strong, resourceful, intelligent, and highly unconventional. Ellen Ripley with long dark hair, a slightly thicker and more toned figure, and tattoo sleeves on both her arms. She had no need of low cut shirts or tight pants that most women her size would have to squeeze into. Men would turn their heads regardless of what she wore, their curiosity peaked by the confidence of her gait and the striking outline of her face and shoulders. But most importantly, she didn't care about any of that. If the rest of the world disliked her look, they could go fuck themselves. She was the kind of woman that your father warned you about.
He watched her walking towards where he sat on the motorcycle. They had spoken online and over text for a couple days before agreeing to meet up. He was well-framed himself, with defined shoulders, an angular jaw, strong legs, and large hands, not to mention the tattoo adorning his back. From an outside view, they looked like any average Harley couple. As she approached him, he swallowed nervously.
"You like it?" she asked. "I got it used for only five grand. Restored most of it myself. Scoot back a bit."
He inched back to the passenger seat as she sat down in front of him at the handlebars. She fired up the ignition with a roar before looking over her shoulder to say, "You're gonna have to hold on to me. I promise not to bite. Yet."
He leaned forward and put his arms around her waist as the bike began to move. She could feel his heart beat faster against her body. He must be a little nervous about what the on-lookers are thinking, she thought to herself. As they picked up speed, she moved her head back against the side of his head.
"You know what they call that seat?" she said into his ear. "The bitch seat."
She felt his pulse rise a little more and a big devilish grin came across her face.
"Ha ha ha," he said sarcastically. "Maybe I have a better vantage point back here?"
Raising an eyebrow and smirking a bit, she replied, "That may be, but don't forget that this ride has an end and you don't know what that end is gonna be yet!"
He grinned and flattened his hands against her stomach. Although her pulse remained steady, he could tell she liked it by her slight tilt of the head. Off they went, down the road.
-
As they neared their destination, she let off the throttle and hit a button for the garage door. She coasted slowly inside until she could put down her black boots and bring the bike to a stop. Another push of the button and the door closed.
She got up and turned around on her seat, facing him. For a silent ten seconds her eyes examined him and then fixated on his eyes. He feared he'd done something wrong.
"I need you to be honest with me. You know why you're here, you remember all we've talked about, and you know I don't kid around. I mean what I say."
"Yes, I do."
"What seat are you sitting in?"
"What seat? The passenger seat?"
"No."
"Um. The... the bitch seat."
"That's right. So what does that make you?"
"...uh..."
"We could've taken your car. I could've let you drive. But I didn't. I told you to sit where I wanted you to sit, and you know why. Now don't make me ask again. What does it make you to sit in the
bitch seat
?"
"The bitch."
"That wasn't so hard, was it? Tell me why I had you ride in the bitch seat on
my
bike."
"Because I'm your bitch."
"And you knew that when you went and sat on my bike like I told you to, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to follow my orders from here on, like a good little bitch?"
"Yes."
"Then say, 'Yes, Mistress'."
"Yes, Mistress."
She reached out and put her hand against his cheek. Suddenly it moved down to his chest. He began to panic with this intimidating creature sitting in front of him, staring at him intensely, her hand placed firm against his heart. She could feel every fluctuation, every movement, every rhythm of his pulse and breath, as if she was soaking up every sign of embarrassment and anxiety that he had. As she smiled carnivorously at him, he felt violated in a way he'd never known possible, and he realized he would never be able to hide anything from her.
"Good bitch," she said. She stood up and walked around behind him, sliding her hands under his shirt and over his bare chest. "Let's see if you followed the other orders I gave you. Bend over the back of my bike."
As he got up, she pulled the shirt off his body and gleefully watched him obediently bend over. She pressed her lips against his back and kissed it, while her hands worked their way down his chest to his pants. Before the zipper was half way down, she stuck one hand into the top of his pants. He gasped excitedly.
The pants came off and there he was, bent over the bike in her garage, wearing nothing but bright pink lace panties. She laughed a cruel laugh through an evil smile.
"Very good! Those are definitely what I'd call bitch panties." She further showed her approval by gently clasping her right hand over his right buttock. Then she squeezed. Then her left hand ran up his left leg, under his panties, and clenched his left buttock. At last, she untangled her hands from him and planted a firm slap on his right ass cheek.
"Turn around," she commanded. "Lick my boots."
He obeyed and bent forward, licking the black leather. She looked down on him with pleasure, occasionally ordering him to switch to the other boot. He felt degraded and humiliated, yet filled with nervous excitement that she was able to lower him to such a state.
"That's enough," she said after a while. "Get back on your knees."
