Dinner Out 8

What a fun dinner it was. You both laughed and teased, talked about life, about game, about everything. You wore a little dress, pretty and a little short, but not shockingly so. The dress has built in support, so your "girls" are comfy in the dress without having to wear a bra. You remember when you picked it out, checking the padding in the cups of the dress, worried about how thick the fabric was, what if it was cold?

Or what if it was hot?

Well, it fit nicely, and he told you how pretty you look in it, as he kissed you on the cheek and put one arm around your waist, making you feel a little dizzy for a moment. And you went to dinner, on that motorcycle he's always teased you with. Sort of nice, the engine thrumming under you, but you were too busy trying to keep the wind from blowing your dress all the way up around your waist. Didn't pay too much attention to the engine. Wouldn't do to have the whole highway seeing what you were wearing under there, would it?

Which reminds you, are they still snug? Can't have any panty lines while you're walking out of the restaurant. You bought these for him, after all. He should be the only one who sees them. At least at first. He might decide to show you off sometime. And that would be ok, you think. Kind of sexy, really. He told you he wanted to feel you up in public, make you stop still and feel it. Soft and lavender, satiny sheened, and low, so low. You know he likes that. Full backed, too. You were going to get a thong for tonight, but these just looked so pretty. And when you tried them on? Oh. You looked delicious, even to you. That soft satiny lavender snug up against your pouty sexy little mound. It was too nice. You had to look for a bit, and think about his face when he got to see them.

And over those, the dress. Floral, pretty, girly. Like you like. Like you know he'd like, too. And it was a fun dinner. You leaned over to get the napkin you'd dropped, and you caught him looking down your dress. That felt sort of sexy too. Just like you knew it would. You saw his eyes shine as he looked, and you knew your cleavage was luring him. You giggled at him, and with a swift move, put your foot in his lap under the table, leaving your heels behind. And yes, you could feel something in there, with your foot. And as you rub him a moment with your bare foot, he clasped your foot with his hand, and pressed it against himself, while the two of you locked eyes and just breathed together like that. You, half bent over, suddenly feeling like your breasts were about to spill out for him, and your foot on his cock, and you just looked at each other, and you knew.

All of dinner was like that. You'd drop something and show him your luscious curves. He'd say something filthy under his breath. You got up to use the bathroom, swaying past him, brushing your hip against him as you walked out. At the edge of the dining room, you looked back, and he was staring at you. Watching your ass in your short dress. You liked that. It felt sort of soft, and feminine, that he was watching, that you were on display. And everyone knew whose you were. Whose ass that was you were practically wagging as you strutted out. All of a sudden the dress that wasn't so short felt pretty short indeed, and your smooth bare legs felt very bare. You liked that. You liked it so much that while you were in the bathroom you thought about flashing him when you came back. How could you do that…as you were getting back in your chair, just flip up your dress and show him a little flash of your lavender panties? You couldn't really, not without showing everyone else behind him what panties you were wearing. And you didn't want to show them. Not unless he told you to. After that look in his eyes down your dress, you would do anything he told you, you can tell. Even if it was embarrassing, or slutty. You'd do it, cause you love to do what he says. And embarrassing, and slutty, aren't so bad to feel, sometimes.

But now you're on the way home. And you're not sitting behind him on the bike now. And the wind isn't such a big deal now, since he lives so far out in the woods, that there's no other cars. He's riding the throttle too, it sounds like, cause you can feel the engine humming. He's got you sitting in front of him, reaching around you to steer, and your feet up on the front pegs. That puts you right in his lap, basically, with his arms around you, and a low grumbling throb underneath you both.

The Yamaha Virago has a wasp waist seat. The cushioned seat meets the gas tank like the center of an hourglass. You're perched right on the front of the seat, just behind the hard metal of the gas tank. As you're riding along, he calls to you over the wind, and asks if you want to try something. You can hardly breathe in the wind and the rush, and those arms around you, leaning back against his chest, and all you can do is wordlessly nod to him. Yes, you want to try something. Anything. And all of a sudden, he takes his arms off the handlebars, and you feel him lift your dress up a little, so your panty-covered ass is right up against him, and your dress is around your waist now, and you can feel the wind all over you, like hands, like tongues licking you. Just when you're getting over the sudden rush of wind on your damp panties, he rubs against you from behind.

Oh, god. There it is. That thick cock you had your foot on for a precious moment earlier. You remember it felt like stepping on a hose, it was so firm. And even though it's still in his pants, he's rubbing it. On. Your. Ass. It feels nice, the bulge in his pants fits nicely between your curvy ass, and you have to put your hands on his knees, still around you, to steady yourself. And then he does something nice. He pushes harder, and your soft little pussy rubs on the hard vibrating metal of the gas tank, while he's got your dress up around your waist, you're nearly naked with him, naked for him, doing 60 miles an hour down a back road while he's rubbing his cock on your panty covered ass, and pushing your soaking wet panty covered pussy against that roaring engine, thrumming under you while he's behind you, pushing himself against you, and you just come, slow and gentle, by surprise almost. Like waves over you, that spill out into your silky pretties, and he knows, he knows what you did, what he made you do, and he just holds you while you practically sob with pleasure, trapped between his cock and his engine, and wanting to fuck him right there.

But that's not quite right, is it. You want him to fuck you, not fuck him. You want him to put you over that bike and stick his dick into your pussy till it clenches and sucks at him, milking it out of him.

Don't you?