The Ride 52

Before she met the motorcycle man, Bettina Heinke would have said that she lived a life that was unusual only in that it was so completely average in practically every way.

But the motorcycle man had changed all that.

He had changed her, in fact...although sometimes Bettina mused that he had simply awakened something that had always been inside of her...the seed of some dark and intoxicating flower that she had long forgotten about, perhaps, a kernel that had been waiting her entire life for the dark and fertile loam of her motorcycle man's imagination to take root in.

His real name was Jonathan, Jonathan Franks, but when Bettina had first followed him outside of the hospital...still wearing her scrubs...on the pretext of making small talk and saw the shiny chrome bulk of his Harley-Davidson glittering in the sun, she had nicknamed him, "motorcycle man".

It was a nickname that suited him, and sometimes Bettina would whisper it aloud in their bed as she stroked the trimmed gray of his beard in the middle of the night, her body aching from the lavish excesses of pleasure, pain, and a thousand little things in between that sent her nerve endings sizzling and trembling when they were together.

He had become her motorcycle man.

Jonathan was an anesthesiologist at Saint Sebastian's Medical Center, Bettina a nurse, and their relationship had blossomed in a greenhouse of long hours and antiseptic hallways where they plotted their stolen moments and sweating indiscretions with the care and subterfuge of conspirators in an occupied city. But it was their time away from work, as rare as it was, that Bettina relished with an addict's hunger, the time when she was swept into John's...her motorcycle man's...kinky sweeps of fantasy and imagination made into a sweating, breathing reality. And Bettina did hunger for those times when she could succumb to his desire and his power...those times when the dark flower within her blossomed, and she could be swept up in a whirlwind of passion beyond her control and then be spit out again, spent and panting, until the next time.

And tonight, the next time was now.

"Get dressed for riding tonight," John had told Bettina over the phone, and she had happily complied. Standing in the brightly lit doorway of her motorcycle man's brownstone a moment, she smoothed an imperceptible wrinkle from out of the excruciatingly tight leather pants he had bought for her when they first started riding the big Harley Davidson Deuce together. Bettina then tucked a bit of the sleek black leather that had bloused out at her knees back into her high boots and took a deep breath like a supplicant before the temple of her adoration. Even after months together, Bettina wanted to look her best for him. More than that, she wanted to look perfect for him...wanted to be perfect for him.

With one gloved hand, she knocked on the door.

It opened quickly...she was expected, after all.

Without a word, he pulled her towards him and wrapped her in his arms. Her heartbeat raced at the touch of his lips and the feel of his hard body beneath his motorcycle jacket and chaps. The smell of his cologne, mixed with the leather, filled her head like poppy smoke, and she took his bottom lip gently between her teeth while his hands slid across the slick mounds of her buttocks, bound up in the leather's tight black suppleness.

He pushed away from her, and she reluctantly let him go.

She was already missing the close, hot feel of his breath on her neck.

He took her by one gloved hand and led her inside the brownstone.

Bettina's motorcycle helmet, its side tattooed with her name in small, airbrushed script, rested nearby on a stand within the foyer. The stand was normally reserved for car keys and "to do lists", but this time, however, arranged around the helmet in a neat semi-circle, the stand displayed a variety of polished leather items that Bettina had become intimately familiar with since she'd known the motorcycle man. And now, just the sight of the leather collar and restraints was enough to send a low-key thrum traveling up and down her spine.

Her motorcycle man picked up the wide collar, and Bettina moved toward him with an eagerness that surprised even her. She lifted her long hair out of the way and felt the satin lining of her leather jacket rasp across the naked rising of her nipples as she lifted her arm.

He encircled her neck with the collar, and she closed her eyes at the feel of his hot breath and the cool leather across her skin. Bettina smiled as she heard the click of the little padlock at the back of the collar...she was his now, and she loved the intensity of that feeling of being possessed by him so much that if she thought about long enough, tears would form in her eyes.

Her motorcycle man moved a hand from her throat and let his fingers slip inside her jacket to the bare skin beneath. His fingertips brushed across one of Bettina's nipples, and she buried her face against his chest, kissing the tough leather before moving the tip of her tongue gently in small whorls over his motorcycle jacket.

His hands moved again, and soon Bettina's wrists were cuffed in stiff leather...the closing of each hasped and separate band accompanied by the click of another small padlock like the one on her collar.

Soon, strong hands moved along the tight leather of Bettina's legs, expressing their enjoyment of the supple feel of her body in their deliberateness. When the hands had reached their destination, Bettina felt two more leather bands wrap around her ankles.

She placed a hand on her motorcycle man's shoulder as he locked the bands in place, and stared at her gloved hands, enjoying the sight of the little metal padlocks dangling from her wrists like jewelry.

Gliding his hands across the inside of her thighs as he stood up, her motorcycle man paused between Bettina's legs for a moment. She hoped he could feel the warm blossom of her excitement under the leather, and she held his hand there...pressed against her sex...and sighed quietly when he pulled it away.

Reaching toward the foyer's stand again, her motorcycle man took the last leather item near the helmet. Bettina took a step back in spite of herself at the sight of the gag, but her motorcycle man grabbed her firmly at the back of her neck, tilting her head back with a gentle pull of fingers that had wrapped themselves deep within her long hair.

He told her to open her mouth, and she did as she was told as he placed the thick leather wafer of the gag in Bettina's mouth, and her teeth found the notches she had worn into the padded mouthpiece long ago. Bettina tried to relax and let her tongue nestle against the leather as he buckled the gag in place at the back of her head. She truly felt helpless now, and the feeling both scared and excited her as it always had. Bettina could feel the flat leather to which the wafer in her mouth was sewn to tighten across her face like a mask, hiding her mouth from view.

Staring at the fiberglass helmet on the stand, Bettina wondered if she would be able to bear the confines of the full-faced fiberglass shell in addition to the gag, and almost failed to notice as her motorcycle man pulled the small, egg shaped vibrators and lubricant from the small drawer of the stand.

Bettina's eyes grew just a bit wider, and she gripped the leather elbows of her motorcycle man's jacket tightly in her own gloved hands as he slowly, teasingly, unzipped her pants.

Both of the small, silver eggs of the vibrator attached to thin, separate cords, which led to a single plastic battery pack. Her motorcycle man placed a dab of the lubricant jelly on each before placing the tube back in the drawer. His fingers slick with jelly, her motorcycle man nudged down the waist of Bettina's tight leather pants, and pressed his cheek to her forehead as he worked one egg into her sex and the other gently into her anus. He tucked the small plastic box that controlled the vibrators into a pocket of her motorcycle jacket, and when he had finished, her motorcycle man bound Bettina up again in her pants and kissed her on the forehead.

Bettina knew that would b the last kiss she would receive from him, for a while at least, when her motorcycle man pulled her helmet from the stand. Brushing the hair from her temples, Bettina helped him squeeze the helmet over her head. She began to feel light-headed as he tightened the chinstrap, and her breath began to cloud the visor. She was breathing heavily now, scared at the close confines of the helmet and the gag. Her motorcycle man lifted her visor and held her tightly in his arms, reassuring her with his strength...and his desire.

After several minutes in each other's arms, her motorcycle man opened the door of the brownstone and lead Bettina out into the night to the sleeping Deuce.

The big Harley-Davidson's finish glimmered in the wash of light from nearby homes where families ate their meals, oblivious to the erotic tableau that was playing out beneath their windows. Bettina's boot heels clicked on the pavement as she was led to the bike.

"And what would these people see?" Bettina asked herself.

Would they notice the little padlocks on her wrists and ankles?

Could they tell that the leather across her mouth was not simply just a part of the helmet she wore?

Bettina didn't know, and, what was more, she wasn't sure she cared.

Her motorcycle man helped Bettina onto the passenger seat of the Deuce and she placed her boots on the foot pegs before he pulled two, slim plastic cable ties from the pocket of his leather jacket. Moving from one leg to the other, the motorcycle man zipped first one ankle hasp to the Harley's foot peg and then the next.

Bettina tested her bonds, wriggling in her leathers, and knew each foot was securely fastened to the bike.

She was a part of the big machine now, and the feeling thrilled her.

After zipping up her jacket to the neck against the cold, her motorcycle man pulled the small plastic control box from her pocket, and gingerly straddled the seat in front of his bound passenger. He guided Bettina's hands around his waist, and she pressed up against him as he snapped one last, tiny padlock to her wrists, binding her arms, each one to the other, around his waist.

Reaching into his own pocket now, her motorcycle man pulled the keys to the Deuce out in the open and put them in the bike's ignition. As he brought out the key ring, Bettina could not help but stretch forward to try and get a reassuring glimpse of the tiny key that she knew was there among the others and which opened the matching locks she was now bound with.

Her motorcycle man turned on the ignition, opened the choke, and brought the Deuce to life with an explosive rumble.

Bettina pressed up against him as the bike began to vibrate to life between her legs, and her faceplate clouded over beneath her quickening breath for a moment. Her lover kicked up the big bike's stand and the machine shook the complacency of the suburban streets as it rolled out of the brownstone's driveway.

Bettina clung to her motorcycle man, the taste of leather in her mouth, and as he meandered through the short, tree-lined streets towards the highway, she would occasionally feel the locks on her wrists between gloved fingers or try and move her legs to remind herself that she was helpless on the back of the bike because of the freedom that knowledge brought. Bound as she was, there was no responsibility and no accountability...there was only being.

As the Deuce rolled off the exit ramp and her motorcycle man turned back the throttle on the big machine, Bettina felt a chilly exhilaration that was a mix of night wind and speed without the safety of seatbelts or airbags.

Bettina felt every seam and bump on the road race below her bound body, and although she wasn't sure where her motorcycle man was headed, she thought she knew. It was Friday night, and she thought, not without a trembling hesitation, that he might just want to show off his shackled treasure to the entire city.

The big Harley downshifted onto the downtown off-ramp, and Bettina was not surprised when the nightlife of a Friday evening began to appear on either side of her in the form of well-dressed couples and loose knit packs of young party seekers. The big Deuce came to a creaking stop at the first traffic light of many that intersected the rows clubs, pubs, and restaurants, and Bettina's motorcycle man place a hand in the pocket of his jacket.

Bettina had almost forgotten the vibrators when they suddenly sprang to life inside her, causing her to press herself tightly against her motorcycle man and bite down slightly on the thick leather wafer in her mouth.

Bettina was afraid just then...afraid that these people milling all around them might see her...afraid that they might know just exactly what was going on with the couple dressed in leather on the Harley-Davidson.

But still, the big Deuce rolled on.

As they rode through the bustling night, Bettina saw a young woman in a white tank top glance at her and, shortly after that, a group of young men pointed at the Deuce and mouthed their appreciation to one another. Bettina thought that any one of hundred people might notice the erotic tableau playing out before them if they looked hard enough...if they looked long enough.

The Deuce reached another traffic light, and her motorcycle man's hand went back into his pocket as the light flicked red.

Bettina's legs clenched against the Harley's seat as the vibrators found increased energy on the next of the little control box's settings. Her hands involuntarily pulled back, but she was trapped...her arms wrapped around the waist of her lover as long as he wished them locked there.

People milled and flowed around the riding couple in rivers of shop light and bar neon, and then there was another red traffic light...and then another.

And with each stop, her motorcycle man turned up the vibrators until Bettina felt like a live wire caught between two poles of thrumming, sizzling energy that lit up her insides in arousing waves.

Bettina closed her eyes, and rocked back and forth just a little to intensify the feeling of the vibrators, knowing that to move too much was to risk discovery by strangers. She was breathing heavily and could feel the sweat bead on her forehead with each tiny push of her leather against the leather of his seat when the Deuce came to a stop again.

She opened her eyes just a little, and saw the police cruiser stopped in the lane next to them.

Bettina clutched her motorcycle man, eyes wide.

"Oh god, please don't let them see!" she thought.

Bettina forced herself to remain calm and focused her attention on the back of her lover's head as the vibrators trembled between her legs. He was reaching into the pocket of his jacket again, and Bettina caught the turn of a head in the police cruiser out of the corner of her eye.

He wouldn't, not now! Bettina shrieked to herself.

But he was bold...she knew that...her motorcycle man was bold indeed.

Bettina bit down on the gag hard as the pitch of the vibrators rose inside of her, higher and higher. She clung to her motorcycle man, squeezing her eyes closed in the hope that the light would change. She hoped she could bear the tension rising inside of her in spite of the chill of being discovered...a tension that she knew, deep down, was also part the thrill of being discovered.

Her motorcycle man gave the cruiser a little wave, and the patrolman inside nodded in return.

And when the Deuce started rolling away from the light, and Bettina watched the police cruiser veer off onto the side street to her left, she slumped against her lover's leather covered back in relief, her bones feeling like gelatin as she took several deep breaths.

She wondered what was going on in the head of her motorcycle man now.

Had he been as afraid of being discovered by the police as she had been?

Had he also been as excited as she had been?

He must have felt something, because at the next light, her motorcycle man guided the big Harley into a U-turn that took them back the way they had come.

And still the faces of strangers...laughing, drinking, eating, and loving strangers...swam by Bettina on the sidewalks as the Deuce searched for the highway and the vibrators began their work once more.

By the time the seams of the blacktop raced below them again, and the curious faces became the anonymous speed and rush of nighttime traffic, Bettina had renewed her gentle rocking in saddle of Deuce. She had fallen under the spell of the vibrators, which sang inside of her as the wind seeped through her leather in cold rivulets across the naked points of her nipples. Her eyes closed, the gag in her mouth slick with saliva, she pressed and pushed herself back and forth across the seat of the motorcycle, feeling the creak of leather against leather as she sought to fulfill the promise of satisfaction that the vibrators held out to her.

Her eyes were closed tightly, traffic forgotten, as she reached her shackled hands down between the powerful legs of her motorcycle man to stroke the eagerness there with her gloved fingers. With quick, furtive pushes, Bettina moved across the seat of the Deuce, humping the padded leather like an animal. The song of the vibrators buried within her was all she could her now, and Bettina was beyond caring about anything else whether it be the rush of curious drivers or the promise of death if the big Deuce were to swerve out of control. Bettina's whole world now existed between two poles of intense trembling that swept through the lower half of her body, and when her orgasm finally came, she clutched at her motorcycle man like a rigid vice of bound arms and knees, tilting her head back toward the sliver moon in the night sky, her moans stifled by the leather gag.

Unprepared for her intensity, the bike wobbled...just a little...and Bettina was jolted from her trance, clinging to her motorcycle man in the horror that they might both be thrown down in a twisted heap against the speeding asphalt.

But the Deuce found its equilibrium quickly and so did Bettina.

As usual, her motorcycle man had control of everything, she mused, including her.

Within minutes, the Duece had pulled back into the brownstone's tiny driveway, and Bettina found herself impatiently waiting to being released from her shackles so that she could reach under her motorcycle man's leathers with her freshly liberated fingers and mouth.

And as the Harley cooled between her legs, Bettina knew that when she was finally lying in their bed once more, her body spent and aching, that she would begin counting the moments...until the next ride.