Origins

This is a continuation of Origins Part I.

*****

I was over my annoyance at Sharon in a couple of weeks. The part at the end where she was sitting at her kitchen table with her legs spread and cum dripping unto the floor was kinky, and it had fueled a few masturbatory fantasies since then. But I was neither anticipating nor expecting a repeat performance.

I had made a decent niche for myself in our department as an instructor, and now that I was writing my dissertation, my time was much more flexible. Also, I had first pick on scheduling class times as well as first option on any extra courses that became available. My usual routine on a teaching day was to rise early and be in my study carrel by 7, teach 3 or 4 classes back to back—starting around 10 or 11, spend two hours in student consultations, head to the gym for a couple of hours, eat a high protein dinner at the Student Union. Return to my study carrel for 2 or 3 hours and be in the local pub at 9 or 10—usually just as things were starting to heat up. It was a productive routine for me, and I enjoyed it very much.

About a week later at the Pub, the first person I saw when I entered was Dorothy Monahan. As she was just returning from the restroom, she wrapped her arm around my waist and guided me over to her table. There, a group of academics that I knew in varying degrees was sharing some pitchers. I put a couple of bucks into the buy pile and sat next to her. As usual, her husband, John, was ignoring her, immersed in some arcane dispute about some dead philosopher.

"So, I hear you fucked Sharon's brains out Saturday week."

"Hardly."

"Hardly what?

"Look Dorothy, I don't like to talk about those kinds of personal things, and why is this any business of yours anyway?

She leaned into me and put her hand on the inside of my leg. "It is my business because I think you should be more respectful of people's feelings." At the touch of her hot hand on my inner thigh, my cock sprang as hard as my jeans would allow. I glanced at John who was oblivious as usual and whispered, "What the hell are you doing?"

"You know that at that last party, I wanted to finish what we had started a while ago, then you dropped me, and took my friend home, fucked her all night, and then left her without a word."

This was wrong on so many levels that I felt obligated to defend myself, but before I could get started, she laughed as if I had said something witty, drug her hand lightly over my cock, stood up and went to see her advisor who had just sat down at the bar. As her advisor moved possessively close to her, she glanced derisively over her shoulder at me, and then snuggled against him.

Crazy fucking prick teaser!! Get me out of here.

Not wanting to make a scene, I listened with divided interest as a grad student in Anthropology held forth on the possibility of bringing the WWF to a more highbrow audience. Lunatics. I needed to get to one of my blue-collar hangouts. And out I went.

Luckily, it was still warm enough for motorcycle riding. My short custom pipes screamed as I cranked through the gears. The cylinder headwork done by my brother-in-law coupled with my new high-performance carbs really increased both the revs and top end on my old tank shifting Panhead. Immediately, in the bracing autumn air my mind redirected from ridiculous, hideous academic bullshit to a concern about whether my old Panhead's bottom end could handle the extra strain.

Just a few trips through the gears, and I arrived at the High Cherokee—a total dive out by the river. Hangout for pot dealers, gamblers, crooked cops and petty criminals looking for some action. The jukebox was cranked, and some hippie voyeurs from the university were humping the legs of the lowlife clientele while their preppy escorts looked on—all in good time with the music.

"Give it a break, Ryan. We were just dancing."

Better him than me. I sat down and my favorite bartender, Louise, set me up with a PBR long neck and a shot of Old Crow back. "Pretty hot night, Louise. Good for business?"

"Damn Straight, we'll be smelling those hot tails in the woodwork tomorrow." Louise never held anything back, and she was right as usual. What I initially took for sweat and Patchouli had something else mixed in. These women were hot to trot. "Look at that one in the corner who has her eye on you. I bet she has sucked off that whole crowd, tonight. Since we just have bar service, we can ignore it, but any other place would have run them off."

My jazzy, blue-collar idyll ended abruptly as I looked across the room into Sharon's bleary eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ." There she was—lipstick smudged, wire rims askew and some tight fitted blouse undone almost to the waist. One mangy guy on one side was openly pinching her nipple while another guy must have been fingering her under the table. Then my vision was partially blocked by a guy sporting the colors of the Iron Horsemen, a local wannabee cycle gang. Hard to tell with all the people milling about, but there were at least 4-6 of them. Sharon wasn't going to cross her legs at the last moment with this crowd. It was obvious from 20 feet that these guys were locked in on a gang bang. And by all outward appearances, they had a willing participant.

At that moment, for whatever reason, Sharon made a move to disentangle herself from her two partners. Buck Morrissey, the watchful owner of The Cherokee caught her impeded movement out of the corner of his eye and moved down to that end of the bar. Buck, a hulking 6'4" former marine, had brought his retirement savings back home and bought the bar. He was generally considered a good fit for this place which was just outside the municipal limits and played the role of a down market roadhouse. Not that he was opposed to gangbangs, even gangbangs in the back room during business hours, but this looked bad for business. These slumming hippies were very good for business, and he wanted them, especially the women, to feel free to come and go safely.

Sensing more than seeing his looming presence, Sharon's two companions backed off enough to allow her to wiggle loose and head toward the rest room—buttoning her blouse as she came. Of course, this led her right by my bar stool. Seeing her breaking loose caused me to square up to the bar and focus on my PBR label, but it was hard to ignore the tap on my shoulder.

"Hey Stranger." She was a mess, but she was hot. Her snap button denim skirt was open to right below her crotch, and her breath smelled of Tequila and cum. I could see that my uneasy peace of many years with the Iron Horsemen was about to end.

But what the hell! "Buy you a drink?"

"Sure, Tequila."

My section of the bar was too crowded for her to sit, so after her drink came, I swiveled around to face her as she stood between my legs. Something about her easy familiarity caused my cock to twitch painfully hard in my Levi's. "So why didn't you call me?"

"A lot going on."

"Dorothy said you were a hard one to read." Even now, that fucking Dorothy was leading me deeper into this mess.

"Look, forget about Dorothy for a minute. You're playing with fire hanging out with those guys. What are you trying to accomplish?

"We're just having a little fun."

"Well two of them have done hard, felony time, and they probably would define 'fun' a little differently than you do." This little fact seemed to pierce her pseudo-hipster façade, and I saw a trace of fear cross her eyes. "I hope they don't know where you live". Fear. Front and center.

I was trying to keep my eyes away from their end of the room, but I could sense their intensity. Interfering with their squeeze for the night was a major turf infraction. And then, of course, then it came, "Can you give me a ride home?"

A frustrated speech came to my mind, "listen you silly, bourgeois nitwit, do you even have a clue as to the mess you, we, are in. These guys like to hurt people just for kicks. Giving them a reason to do so could be deadly." But what was the use? I wasn't going to abandon her, and she probably had some Disney notion of how to handle bullies. "Just stand up to them, and they will back down."

I had to get tactical, and immediately. Mainly, we couldn't just make a run for it because my Panhead, although well-tuned, was still a kick start. So, I called Louise over to settle-up and asked her to help me.

We needed to move quickly. She signaled to Buck to cover her station and escorted Sharon to the head while I quickly left to crank my ride. Since all the motorcycles were parked near the front door, it was easy for me to pop a few plug wires on the likely Iron Horsemen scoots. Being still warm, my bike fired up on the second crank, and my modified pipes left no doubt inside the bar that a custom motorcycle engine was idling near the front door. Louise blocked the exit of a couple of the Iron Horsemen while Sharon slipped past her unto the back of the Panhead. As soon as I felt her slender arms tight around me, I started slamming through the gears and fishtailing out of the gravel lot.

Behind me I heard a few curses and frustrated cries of exertion as they cranked their bikes fruitlessly.

This was not the end of this.

But for now, where to go? Leaving Sharon at her loft was probably unwise but returning to my relatively respectable working-class enclave could be a way to hide in plain sight. My neighbors weren't trash, and they would probably respond to the appearance of an Iron Horseman with an outraged vigilantism. My next-door neighbor had survived the mining wars in Southwestern West Virginia and was no stranger to violence.

I took a roundabout way without revving the engine too much, but it was still a thundering, vibrating machine. Sharon was hunched as close to me as she could get. The side of her head flat between my shoulder blades, her bare pussy locked on my tailbone—had she been comparing notes with Dorothy? Her hand was kneading my cock through my jeans. We rode this way until I pulled into my small, dank garage workshop where I stored my bike. I locked the heavy wooden doors behind us as the anti-crime streetlamp from the corner dimly lit the interior.

I heard a brief shuffle behind me, and as I turned, Sharon was up on my workbench holding her dripping pussy wide open. "Come on, Fuck it—pound that pussy!" The adrenaline of the getaway had already transitioned to lust, and my rock-hard cock slammed her loose, sopping pussy for just a few strokes before I felt a hot steaming load vibrate through the end of my cock. She met me thrust for thrust and screamed out a convulsive orgasm as she clung to my body. I barely missed a stroke as I moved up to plunge my glistening cock to the hilt into her mouth. "Suck it."

She needed no encouragement, and just a few strokes later, I had my unfaltering cock back in her cum-filled pussy as I stuck my tongue as deep down her throat as possible. The taste of tequila and our mixed juices caused me to briefly ponder how many cocks had been there this evening, but I quickly shifted my attention to slam fucking her as hard as I could barely moving my tongue enough to let her breathe. This time took a little longer, and as fit as I was, the awkward position was taxing. Soon, I came again with only half as many squirts, and pulled her off the bench with her still humping me like the sex-crazed she-devil she was.

My Jeans weren't coming off easy with my cowboy boots, so I grabbed my belt with my left hand swept her up in my right arm like a small child and carried her into the house while our juices drained over my forearm. Going straight to the bedroom, I had to push her away to pull my boots off before she pushed me back on the bed and lowered her sopping pussy over my head as she started working to get my cock back up.

I stuck my tongue as far up her pussy as I could and sucked our juices while maximizing the pressure of my lips on her clit. This drove her crazy, and she humped my face in a frenzy while she slobbered over my cock while she was slam fucking with her mouth. I couldn't believe that I was ready to fire another round so soon, but the urge was rising. In order to delay a bit, I flipped her off me, grabbed her ankles in one hand, and folded her heels around her ears. With my feet on the floor, and her tongue deep in her mouth. I pounded her as my burning hamstrings leveraged my thrusts. My cock is not huge, but it is longer than average, and my deep thrusts were eliciting a grunt from her at the bottom of each cycle. I could tell she was close, and as her pussy started to contract around my cock, I didn't fight it and let her pull another load from me.

She didn't complain as I threw open the window, pulled her to me in a spoon under an old quilted comforter and fell fast asleep.

To be continued. . .