You sense a change of pace in his breathing, his heart must be quickening and he needs more oxygen, “come here then” you gently command, much like you might see a parent address a shamed and naughty boy who needs to be coaxed to come forward and receive his forgiveness when it’s clear he fears a punishment.

Slowly the biker steps forward, you reach your hand inside the towel and expertly your fingers furl and form a loose fist around his fantastically firming phallic cock.

You gently apply and release your grip feeling the weight, the growing girth; measuring the thickness with your palm and remembering from so far back how good this cock feels when you both take control and surrender.

Your eyes are fixed with his, glinting with ever brighter shards of lust. With your free hand you brush the towel away, and so now it hangs at his side loose gripped in his right hand, allowing you to freely inspect the phallus in you hold.

You glance downward seeing a single opalescent tear born at the tip of this beautiful thick cock. You watch as this dew drop trembles and escapes down the lip of his shining, smooth, swollen, bulbous cock-head.

Then lubricating, beneath the folds of your fingers, as they rhythmically massage the thick shaft, until finally the glistening clear pre-seminal fluid disappears into the darkness.

You know what he wants; archaeological muscle-memory digs up the covenant of lust from the desert dust and burial chambers of the distant past. He wants you. He wants your legs spread, your pullover pushed up above your waistline. He wants you to guide his swollen member deep inside the wet wrung interior of your heat.

He wants your thighs trembling; your labia pushed open, swollen, sodden, compromised, quivering, helpless, and wanting. He wants the venal crystallization of your fantasy, your soft curves, lusting lush fruits, flooded canals, high tides of desire, breathless, ravening, and ravenous.

You look up, with his total erection pulsing within the undulating grip of your ever so gently squeezing hand, your eyes survey this marble-like statue carved of all there is to being a man, his masculinity immutable, so hard and strong nothing could harm him, not with you, never.

Your pupils dilate further, like obsidian mirrors formed of volcanic glass, a gateway to your innermost intimate channels, and you return to the earlier chaos of your neural storm, gazing deeply into the warm molten abyss of his brown eyes until you are at one with his soul.

You fix one another; your right hand rhythmically milking the length of his phenomenally gorged and rigid cock. Has any man wanted you as much? Could any man?

Reaching out with your free hand, you curl your guiding fingers in beneath his long hair, to circle around the back of his thick neck and gently ease his obedient torso to come closer.