Froggy

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 every time 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.

Now that your clit has found the horn it is impossible to get off it, your arms still hung up in your coat give you no relief, your legs not strong enough to lift, your skirt has risen up and floats upward showing your panties to the crowd, your breasts are still in the bra but have shaken a bit loose after the first orgasm. And now another one is coming stronger than the first, you lean forward immersing yourself into the scent of leather, and sweat and now a scent you do recognize. You clutch onto her as the second one hits you gritting your teeth against the onslaught. By moving forward you have laid your little man flat on the rawhide riding out the bump and vibration spewing juices like you have never done before.

Hell, just four hours ago, you were a sweet young girl who worked in an office somewhere in Daytona and now just another slut grinding away in public, in front of people you might know, the humiliation sends another jet of lubricant soaking your dirty panties and as that jet comes down you find yourself humping the seat like a bitch in heat your arms now torn from the silk to cling to the woman taking you on the hell ride. Who shudders to herself whether from pleasure or just an evil chuckle is hard to tell.

Now you have made your way to the bridge and are stuck on the skyway. She humps the bike along, as you hump away yourself grinding your cunt into the rawhide, your clitoris pulsating. She raises your head to direct you towards the smiling, some laughing faces of the bikers alongside, some pointing as the humiliation seizes you once more sending more juice dribbling into your panties. Then the bottleneck through, she jerks the bike forward and an electric shock jolts through your pussy, past your nipples to your back teeth, even your anus winks involuntarily. And as the vibrations increase on 92 you find you match the wail of the engine with one of your own as, once again, you flood the seat.

You are on the open road, but nothing matters anymore except that steady hum of the vibrations continuing forever. You are well past your own apartment complex, but have no sense of direction. Your only concern is to straddle that hellish seat and hang on to this woman for dear life as she guns the motor once again. Then you realize you are crying whether from the past ordeal or because of the intensity of the orgasms you can no longer tell and really they merge as one as you travel forward. Your face gathers in the folds of the leather sniffing in the intoxicating aromas as you weep your way to another gut wrenching orgasm.

Finally, the woman slows the bike down and takes a turn onto a lonely dirt road. Your sigh of relief is now drastically contorted as the dirt road transforms the bike into a bucking bronco, each rib and pothole bouncing you up and back upon the seat mashing your lips against the rawhide. You can feel your pussy lips begin to swell from the pounding, your clit must look like raw meat, the pain even shoots to your anus. After a particularly hard patch, your tears return but this time they are tears of pain. Blindly you attempt to crawl up the back of this woman to avoid the pain, ripping the silk shirt in the process. "Enjoying yourself, my little slut," the juice again, "How many cums does that make now?" You try to answer but are cut off as you lose your breath once more over a tortuous depression. "Don't worry, only a little ways farther, "she purrs, "and then we can get to know each other a little bit better."

Mercifully, she pulls into a driveway and shuts down the beast between your legs. You try to roll off the bike but she is there holding you up by your shirt ravenously licking the tears from your face, intensely lapping your face like a dog and a thought comes to you from somewhere marking you as her bitch. Then she begins kissing all around your neck, she grabs your hand and forces it between her legs, "See how wet you've made me, my little slut." And proceeds to kiss you forcefully sticking her tongue down your throat, while all you can do is whimper pitifully.

Finally you are able to break her grasp. You plead with her to stop, that you didn't want this that you don't want it, to please take you home and with a disgusted look on her face she lets go of the shirt and you tumble into the dirt. Because of your ordeal you just lay on your back, your legs obscenely open, crying for some reason the look on her face hurts. Then towering over you she begins laughing, a cruel laughter, "That's it I have your new name. The way you're lying there I guess we'll just have to call you froggy."

She leaps off the bike and stands between your legs, the toe of her boot touching your opening. You try to close your legs but the muscles just won't allow it and you find yourself humping the hard leather. "Well," she seems amused now, "it appears your nasty cunt is giving you away, humping my shoe like a bitch in heat." She leans forward placing her knee on your chest, her mouth next to your ear, her entire boot now jammed in the folds of your lips. "My god," she licks your ear while you hump the shoe, trying to muffle your tears as your body betrays you, "you are the nastiest little slut."

And with a groan you squirt all over the boot. She seems surprised at first then moving back she looks at her boot and grins, "I guess I'll call you froggy whenever I want something, but if I want you to cum for me, then I'll just use slut." You groan again but fight back on the embarrassing ejaculation. "There are just a few problems, tho, froggy, you only cum when I tell you to cum and I didn't tell you," she stands fully up as you lay there helplessly open and obscene. "It's time to begin to learn discipline." She rears back and kicks you right in the groin, your breath stopped, you try to rise but fall back. "Get over here and lick this shit off my boot, she kicks again and you scramble to get out of the way as the toe hits your inner thigh. She grabs a handful of hair and thrusts your face into the laces of the boot.

"Lick it up, lick your slime off you fucking bitch," she holds your face down, but you won't open your mouth, "Come on froggy lets see if you have a froggy tongue, start lapping your nasty cunt juice off of my beautiful boots. "Come on cunt I said lick," she jams your face harder against the laces. "Come on do it for me, you little slut, She sees some pink, "oh, so that's the way it is. Lick it up, slut, that's it you pathetic little slut." You notice to your horror that every time she calls you slut your tongue darts out and she begins laughing and chanting 'slut' to the rhythm of your tongue as it licks up your vile secretions mixed with the tears that begin once again.

You feel the grip of her fist in your hair as she lifts you to your hands and knees. You try to rise but the pressure in your hair tells you to remain in position, "That's it, froggy, you're my little bitch now." She leads, using your hair like a leash, you up the three cement steps. You must look a mess by now: your face streaked with mascara, silk shirt torn, skirt ridden up your ass exposing your dripping panties, walking on all fours; defeated. She opens the door and throws you inside, the pain from your hair roots excruciating. "Froggy position" and the tears again as you lie on your back and spread your legs exposing your pussy for her pleasure.