Gasping for breath you sink your mouth around the Troopers full thick cock, loving the feeling, the tingling in your lips, as you stretch them over his sex, feeling the rub of his rigid, rugged cock riding inside your mouth, while my own manhood strokes you from behind and reaches so deep inside you can’t help but quiver with the stretching tightness aching all the way inside your cunt.
Broad daylight. An open and abandoned highway road. Two biker studs, claiming you, owning you, riding you, filling you with cock, and Lemmy screaming: “Please, don’t touch, I ache so much!”
~ XXI ~
Finally, I reach the cross-roads. On one side, a sun-bleached and ramshackle garage, looking almost as worn on the outside as I’m feeling on the inside after so many hours of hard walking.
I’m taken in by the nostalgia of old timber frames and peeling paint, and the vintage signage: tin metal adverts for Marlboro, Esso and Shell, it’s certainly a throwback to the romance and heyday of America’s 1950’s.
I love the rounded, free standing retro art deco style of the once white old school gas pumps, and the pillar box red of an old Coca-Cola fridge, still running and humming, out on the forecourt.
I clock the Motel on the opposite side of the crossroads, and I catch myself smiling as I realize that’s her car parked in the motel lot. And with a nod of just knowing I head into the garage, confident I’ll find she’s handed in my bike jacket.
As I walk in, the old man behind the counter looks at me quizzically, almost as if he’s knows me.
“D’you forget something?” he asks.
I tilt my head, I’m clearly puzzled, and I can tell he’s confused by my expression.
“Err, did a woman happen to drop my bike jacket in with you?”
“S’cuse me?” The old man replies, and yet I know he heard me, he’s just totally confused.
“I ran out of gas about 12 miles back that-a-way, and a woman, I think it’s that woman” I say, pointing out through the window, across the forecourt to the Motel and the car parked out front.
I watch his brow furrow and his lip curl, as if I’m asking him to smell something unpleasant, but he obliges my gesturing hand and follows the line of my sight to look out across the forecourt.
“That car belongs to a woman who pulled over for me and offered to leave my jacket here, you know to save me walking with it, or having to leave it out there, with my bike.”
Silence. My eyes search his for some evidence of recollection, convinced he’ll suddenly have a moment, and everything will click with a “oh, that woman, yeah, I’ve got your jacket right here”
“That woman’s with a fella, fella” the old man insists, and with a quizzical, suspicious look, like I’m pulling a prank or something.