Riding Cape Cod

You have to admit the beauty of the architecture - thin like a spindle, hard like graphene to the extreme so that the slightest vibration wave would run its entire length; only a faint pad on top, not for comfort, just enough to mold itself to the shape of the groin on top so that the vibration would sing along every square inch of the groin and send the shivers into the rider on top. The black pillion protruded out of the back of the bike at a high angle above the blacktop slick tire. An utterly clean bike and body lines of luxury invited her to sit down.

His back was to her, covered in a leather jacket, pants, and a helmet - all black. How anonymous! A hulking 6' 5" figure without a shred of personal identity. Yet she knew her boyfriend intimately to recognize him in any obfuscation. Slight, meaningless details in the way how he was holding himself arranged in her intuition to unmistaken recognition. A single letter of his handwriting, the way how he paused, and the time of day he'd glance up, any slightest iota was a clear indication to her. She knew him that intimately. This had been their truce. She paused, or was she hesitating?

When he had wanted the bike, it was against every rule of her life: Wasteful of money, unmitigated danger, and a male activity that only shut off feeling. However, she had discovered that she could orgasm from the vibrations. They hadn't had sex in a year. She had needs. And that one need made her open up to his need. They drew up an unspoken pact. He got to ride. She got to orgasm. Cape Cod was their playground.

Her boot stepped up onto the passenger pedal, high above the ground for performance reasons, especially for her small 5' 3" frame. She stood high, leaning against his back. With hardened lips pressing against each other, she let herself slide down. Bracing for the pain, she let her knees bend until she was almost squatting. At first, she felt the blood-dried crust on her knees rubbing inside her leather pants, then the pain of the already healing crust being stretched started, and finally a pop of the crust breaking and the slight wetness of a few drops of blood happened.

A couple weeks ago, he had thrown her to the ground in a fit of rage because he decided that he hated going to the Guggenheim Museum after they had left. He hated trying to change himself to fit into her fantasy of a boyfriend. Her biggest shock was the coal-black despise in his eyes right before his big hand pushed onto her back with force to throw her down. Hands and knees hit the ground in an instant. Red blood, blue bruises, and scraped skin were there instantly. Before his fist could land a blow, two young tourist women had thrown their bodies over hers to protect her. They screamed him off and took her home in a cab.

She tilted her pelvis forward so that her clit would rest against the pillion. Before she had reached into her pants to fold open her labia and lift the clitoral hood up. Then carefully, she had pulled back her hand so that the tight grip of the leather pants would take over the hold on her anatomy to keep the needle-head-sized clit exposed. Her underwear was the barest and silkiest thread to directly couple her clit through the leather pants, the paddling, and the pillion to the bike engine. Crouching on the sport bike and tilting her hips, her butt swell to bulbous proportions. Her Latina blood - born in Miami and originated in Peru - enhanced the curvy sass of her figure.

He pushed off and hit the road - a quaint countryside road, taking them out of Sandwich, a little hamlet of peaceful New-England-Coast-style cottages. The engine was running easy. She felt the vibration on her pussy, seeping through the pelvic bone into her trunk, nothing particularly strong. They made it onto the winding road along the coast through winding hills and back to the coast under a blue sky. The engine started speaking more seriously at 65 mph, but nothing erotic. When they shot past Cobie's Clam Shack, she felt the heat of the engine warming the inside of her thighs. Lulled into relaxing into the warmth like a warm spa towel makes one do, she let go off tension. Her clit sank a little lower and that was enough to start to feel the erotic tingle. She knew that she had to be patient for she knew the bike vibration would arouse her very slowly and surprise her at some point by how far she had gotten aroused without realizing it.

She set her mood for a long ride with a delicious payoff by snuggling against his body and delighting in the beautiful white sand beaches, marshes, lighthouses, and seagulls passing by. The blur of the zooming landscape and the rhythmic lean of the bike into the turns lulled her into a trance where time stopped and no longer existed. Only the physical joy of leaning into the next turn and feeling the power of rotational forces lifting her upright again like a fatherly arm swaying a child in its arms.

In moments like these, their relationship felt whole. She remembered the day she had met him in a basement bar in the East Village. Her friends had dragged her out of Soho for some wild, punk side trip to the East Village, where everyone wears Doc Martins, black eyeliner, and any color hair as long as it's not natural. Titties hang loose without bras. The three of them (her and her two friends) had been dressed in designer dresses so fashion forward that hardly anyone knew them and prom-perfect makeup. He had slobbed down the stairs and into the bar, having to bend because of his tall height and the low ceiling of the ramshackle dive punk bar.

Despite her protest, he had bought her a drink. Only because her girlfriends liked him, she hadn't told him to fuck off. He was gruffy. He wasn't sophisticated. He didn't work out. His jokes were stupid. But he kept talking and drinking. She suddenly had found herself in his arms, resting her head against his chest. Maybe, it was the third drink, but she had felt comfort on that big chest, those big arms, and the slow breath of those voluminous lungs. Not that she had started to care about what he was saying, but the low rumble of his voice was comforting to her and peaceful like something to surrender to.

On his shoulders - feeling altitude sickness due to his height and her being familiar with a much lower height, she had ridden him home. She told him where to walk and how to walk. He obeyed her. When she had him naked on her bed, she enjoyed his size - the large head, the big eyes, the way how she could climb up on him in so many ways, and the enormous weight of his body on hers when he lay on top of her. The contrast of her small body and his large body - the sense of power how she could control someone so much larger with the slightest of her expressions. She had wondered if she had a giant fetish.

When he had come for the first proper date, she had laid out an outfit for him on her bed: a white sports jacket, white slacks, a brown belt with a Havana-style buckle, and a dapper hat with a black ribbon. She had attended to details like a blue-and-white checkered handkerchief, Italian cuff links, and a Y-thong. The thong was her special touch. The balls and penis were collected into a small pouch that shaped the genitals into a pretty pouch that made a prominent outline in the pants. "Wear this!" she had told him and closed the bedroom door behind her. Without hesitation or a word of reluctance, he obeyed her and came thus dressed for dinner.

She became attached to him. When she was scrolling through her Instagram feed, her eyes were always open to discover new clothes to dress him in. When she was folding the laundry, she was scheming on how to introduce him to a more nutritious diet. When she was talking with her girlfriends, they were discussing how to make a loved one emotionally open up. There was comfort and joy in the intense inner engagement that she had with him. At all times, she was looking forward to something new and fun.

Silently, the disease had infiltrated their relationship. He obeyed her 100% in the start out of eagerness to win her over. Then he still obeyed her 100%, but when he was upset he held it in. When she prodded him to open up emotionally, he was scared to let her see the upset. So he started drinking with friends. Being large, he could drink a whole six-pack to only get a slight buzz. But the huge volume of alcohol started catching up to where he wanted to stay permanently in the stupor of being drunk to not feel.

He made a right away from the coast and kicked the bike hard. They entered Marston Mills, a small park with old sand dunes covered by grass. The cops stayed at the coast with the tourist. The backroads were unpatrolled. The bike spun up to 100 mph. The angrier vibration stimulated her clit erotically. If you are a guy, imagine a girl softly licking your penis. That's about the sensation. It's definitely very pleasurable and definitely won't get you off. It creates the irritating sensation of just wanting to whack hard to get off because you are aroused but can't get off. However, she knew that patience was needed. Like a very special dish, this orgasm can't be rushed. It has to be allowed to build slowly.

The arousal in her clit changed her solemn mood to something more positive and active. She thought about the fight-and-make-up sex. There was something so raw about tears still fresh in the eyes - an emotional feeling like the world had just ended, sometimes blood still running - and then his cock riding her hard. In those moments, his soul was laid so bare. When she had provoked him and he had exploded, it had felt like the real him had come out. When he broke things, she felt like he also broke his facade. And when she yelled and spit in his face, she felt like she could bear her frustration, angst, and desire in its rawest form. Finally, when he pressed his lips on her, ripped off just enough of her clothes to ram his hardened cock inside of her soaking wet pussy, every moment felt so real. The best sex of her life was not kind, pleasing, gentle, but raw soul-to-soul.

When she begged him not to come inside of her without a condom because she was off the pill, she wanted him to give her the thrill of live-dangerous semen inside of her. She had to feel the draft of standing at the edge of the cliff, perhaps even diving down it. The sense of something irrevocable and life-changing happening was necessary to her desire. She wanted the slutty embarrassment of sitting on the waiting chair the next morning for her dose of Plan B with all the other girls who sat there in silence with slightly red faces. Being faced with force and pushing back with force made her feel like she came alive like she threw herself into a maelstrom. And the sensation of being in the center of a maelstrom is what she craved.

The arousal in her clit had spread to her pussy along ethereal energy lines. Her entire pelvis began to fill with pulsating red, warm energy. At this point, she couldn't move anymore. She could only hold her body fixed in the precise position where she got the most stimulation from the pillion vibrating her pussy. Her posture was fixed all the way up her spine to let the vibrations travel in the most perfect way. Again if you are a cock owner, imagine a woman licking your cock gently. It would take a million licks to come, but each lick would be more delicious than the next... if you only had the patience to hold out...

They were back in slower tourist travel on the other side of the peninsula. In Osterville, the light turned red. It was a long light. He seemed to have almost planned the stop because he wasn't weaving through traffic but had been trudging in line with the cars through the tourist-shop-filled main street. When the bike stopped, she knew why. A curly-haired blond woman with sparkling blue eyes and freckles around her nose was standing on the edge of the road, waiting. Her makeup was bright and full of energy. Her lips were bright, sexy red. Her breasts were so ample that they almost turned into a mono-rack. A white vest pressed them together to make them pronounced against the rest of her tightly dressed body.

He knew the secret joy that she got from being sexually aroused and making eye contact with a stranger in public. She pressed the button to let her black visor slip up into her helmet. Her smile was so lush from her arousal that the stranger was touched by the friendliness and smiled back. The stranger's cheeks lifted and balled up to a happy, perky expression. She kept focusing on the arousal on her clit and staring straight into the stranger's eyes. The sexual tension of eye gazing while horny was intense. The stranger didn't know but felt enveloped by the warm, friendly connection and held the gaze back. The stranger started feeling the feelings she was feeling through mirror neurons, not really knowing that they were sex feelings but simply warm pleasure like a hot bus tub that evokes a guttural sigh.

She bit her lip to hold onto the thought of her brushing her naked body against the stranger. The stranger, shocked to realize the sexual come-on, felt scandalized at first, but then strangely intrigued by the opportunity, and on second thought eager to brave the challenge of that sexy, daring lady, clad in black leather neck to toe. The stranger lowered her eyes sultry to send her a come-on look back. Then the stranger licked her lips like a tigress before she devours a meal. The intensity of their locked stare enveloped them into their own secret world while families strolled around them for tacky cups and artisan ice cream. He clicked the first gear in and drove off with the light turning green.

After Osterville, was a long road, slowed down by tourists, but they had discovered a single-track dirt road parallel to it going through the hills. Even though, they were close to a traffic jam of tourists and a million cars parked along the road to step down to the beach, maneuvering through the bushes gave privacy and boredom. There wasn't much to see but bushes and the narrow dirt road carved its way in between the bushes. The initial anticipation of an orgasm had flickered out as well. (The sensation was still here between her thighs, but the vibration was also numbing in that she couldn't feel anything but was minutely getting wetter and wetter.) All of that left her to sink deeper into her thoughts.

This might be her last ride with him. This was the last chance to draw the scent of honey flowers and salty ocean air into her nostrils. She had signed the lease for her own apartment. She hadn't set the date for the movers yet. She hadn't told him. Their relationship was at an irrevocable dead end. A girlfriend had warned her while inspecting the injuries on her knees and hands, "Next time, you wake up in the hospital, girl!"

She wanted to soak in the sensation of being cuddled against his giant body one more time so that she could store the memory with the most clarity possible. She wanted to carry the moments that she had had with him with her. They were too precious to leave behind. No other man had stayed with her this long. Over the years, there were so many moments of closeness, holding each other, listening to each other, confiding in each other, and feeling whole. Having a constant companion - day and night, feeling him around her, always having him to turn to, she was going to miss that a lot. She sensed that without him, she'd be out and alone in the howling wind of life.

For a year now, she had been saying emotionally goodbye to him over and over yet couldn't leave. Nobody understood what it meant to her that at night, she no longer worried about someone breaking in because he made her feel safe. Nobody valued that every night when she came home, he'd ask her, "How was your day?" And he wanted to hear everything about her day. They didn't know how it felt to fight, struggle, and brave the day and for it to matter to no one. In his attentive listening, the events of her day gained meaning and value. He was often quiet, but she could feel his attention. And a year later at a random moment, he'd bring up any random thing she had told him because it had new context.

The relationship had perhaps died because he never put himself out. He never said what he wanted to say. He never asked for what he wanted. He was always nice instead of going after what he wanted. The exception was when he boiled over and everything rushed out of him in destructive ways. In a way, it was her fault. He had said that he had never felt safe with her. He had said that he felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells to not upset her. But what could she do? Her emotions were real and strong.

They reached the last stretch of their secret dirt road. The last stretch went uphill. Because the water ran downhill, it had formed a washboard of little mounds. With the speed of the bike, the tires bounced from mound to mound creating a strong vibration - not like the 5,000 RPM of the engine but more like the low frequency of a massage wand. That vibration was like a vibrator. She was accelerating by paces to her orgasm. Everything down there was vibrating, clit, vulva, inner thighs, pubic bone, and butt hole. The low-frequency vibration moved her pelvis slightly as well, which made her feel how wet the slow built-up of stimulation for half hour had made her.

She really wanted to come now. She grabbed him tighter. She tried to press her pubic bone down harder against the pillion. She tried to crush any skin she had between her pubic bone and the hard padding. She could feel the rattling all the way up to her skull. She tried rubbing her vagina against the saddle. He felt her squirming behind her.

When they hit the top of the hill and turned back on a paved road, he let the clutch drop in so that a lower gear would suck a lot of air to make the engine stutter hard. Oh, that slow hard bucking was getting her closer to orgasm. Having slowed, he'd drop in another gear and accelerate hard. The sudden whine sang in her ears. The rapid RPM gave her clit a buzz. The struggling of the engine to accelerate hard made the piston firing incomplete and translated into a rough and shaking vibration that really triggered her. He knew how to play with her pussy by coaxing all kinds of vibrations out of the Yamaha.

By now, she was panting and moaning to beg that orgasm that had teased her for so long to finally come. The exhaust crackled as he wrought another concoction on the engine to elicit another kind of vibration. He had her right at the edge of coming. She so wanted to touch her pussy and finger it out, but she couldn't. Your pussy was packed away in tight leather pants and her arms had to hold onto him. She was at complete and utter mercy of him to make her cum. She was so mad to come that she would have done anything.

Then he opened the Yamaha up. He knew that she would have complained at the risk of the huge ticket and danger to life, but he also knew that she was willing to go along with anything now. They quickly escalated to 120 mph in the 55 mph zone. Finally, she could feel the struggle of the engine and speed causing enough fluctuations in the vibrations to move her to the edge of orgasm. He torqued it up to 150 mph. The heat between her thighs was like that of a blow dryer that's held too close. It's painful and delicious at the same time. He hesitated before going up to 160 mph because his reflexes had to be trigger fast with any sudden slow trucks in his way or a kid running from the beach onto the road. But when he heard her grunting, he knew that it had been the right thing.

Her entire pussy and vulva had turned into a partially numb, passionately inflamed, and overwhelmingly sexual intense sensation. The first throe of orgasm, she couldn't detect at first, but at the peak, she realized that the stream of orgasm throes had started. She got that gooey feeling. Her eyes rolled back. Her vision got blurry. Her body went slack. Tingles ran up her legs and up her spine. Her boobies pulled together with goosebumps. Screaming out the sensation over the roar of the draft wind felt exhilarating. She was screaming her orgasm out to the entire Cape Cod Coast. The landscape shooting past her distorted by the speed provided an otherworldy visual.