The Secret Journey (16 page)

And fast is what it’s about. I ramp up the
speed and visualize the cop-cock impaling me, lifting my feet off
the ground with every stroke into my overstretched ass as he
punishes me for my transgression of velocity. I long to reach down
and touch my clit, but at this speed I can’t take my hands off the
handlebars. In my mind he’s getting harder, longer, thicker as his
own explosion approaches, his hands digging painfully into my hips
as he violates me over and over. I am completely trapped between
his powerful thighs and the hood of the cruiser and he smacks my
ass and makes me say, “Please fuck me, I’m a bad girl.”

“Please fuck me, I’m a bad girl.” I can feel
his cock twitch when I say it and I say it again reflexively,
because he likes it, because I want him to come inside me, to empty
his huge balls into my aching rectum, because I am a bad girl, a
very bad girl, and I do so need to be dirtied like this, knocked
off my Manolo Blahniks, torn out of my Chanel suit, and put very
thoroughly in my place. I long to be reduced to my cunt and made to
grovel for sex, and if that sounds politically incorrect to you,
well, you need a different book.

“Please fuck me, I’m a bad girl.” I say it
out loud to myself, as the bike finds my rhythm. “Please fuck me,
I’m a bad girl.” I can feel my anus clenching around his imaginary
cock, feel the heat of humiliation on my cheeks, and most of all
feel my Harley’s steady throb against my pulsing clit. I slow down
to keep control, to lose control, and focus my mind on the feel of
cold metal cuffs on my wrists. “Please fuck me, I’m a bad girl.
Please make it hard, please make it hurt, please fill me up with
cock, with cum, with degradation.” The rumble of the engine finds
my sweetspot. “Please make me feel it, make me take it, make me
dirty, make me yours.”

And I’m trembling now with the intensity and
I have to shift to the slow lane. In my mind the cop’s hands find
my tits, clamping down on my nipples to give me what I’m begging
for. Pain explodes through them and my cunt gushes in response. I
don’t know why my fantasy life is so dark, so violent, and I don’t
care. The leather of my riding pants is riding up in my crotch,
putting pressure right where I need it as I rock my hips against
the seat. He has me now, his cock is an iron bar sliding in so hard
and deep and I am bent over in ritual supplication, my ass split
and presented and penetrated. I am helpless, so open, so taken, so
completely, utterly possessed by this man and all I want is more. I
want him to destroy me with his cock and that’s exactly what he’s
doing, inch by inch by inch.

Fuck yes. I have to fight to keep my eyes
from rolling back in my head, have to slow down again, and the
engine’s screaming roar is now a steady purr, just enough to tease
me in steady rhythm.
Fuck yes.
My clit is pulsing, and every
muscle in my body is rigid as I squirm against the vibrations. And
I imagine him coming, pumping his sperm deep into my sore, punished
ass with hard, aggressive thrusts, swelling thick enough to spike
pain through my already overstretched sphincter. The head is so big
it won’t actually come out. He and I are tied together like mating
dogs, locked in sex until he is finished with me, though his
overflowing juice is already dribbling down my ass cheeks.

That last image does it and I come, hard,
convulsing on the seat, screaming in my helmet, my hands locked
rigid on the handlebars and thank god this section of road is
straight. I can feel my cunt clenching, gushing, anointing the
crotch of my riding pants with slippery sex. The orgasm goes on
forever and it seems like I’ll never stop. Finally it dies away in
a succession of ever smaller contractions, the waves of pleasure
leaving my body limp and trembling. My faceplate is fogged up and I
flip it up to feel the wind on my face. The inside of my leathers
are soaked in sweat, and on my face it cools and dries, reminding
me of my first, fast, pizza-boy fantasy.

I unzip my jacket enough to let the night air
in and the sudden chill stiffens my already erect nipples to
painful sensitivity. They rub against the rough leather, sending
aftershocks through my overstimulated system. There’s no sex like
the solo ride. My husband is a good man in every sense, a hard
worker, a provider, on his way up in his firm. I enjoy our intimacy
and he treats me like a princess, but he can’t make me feel the way
my Harley does.

I take a few deep breaths to recover and as I
do, I pass a dark shape on the center median. It’s a cop, lurking
there in the night with his radar. I’m going too slowly now to
catch his interest, and I laugh that my fantasy has spared me from
the reality of a speeding stop. The pizza-boy vision replays in my
mind, this time with the radar cop in his place. This cop isn’t the
poster boy stud I was conjuring up a minute ago but a three hundred
pound donut pig, with his belly overlapping his gunbelt. In sixty
fast seconds of mind-fucking myself I make him have a heart attack
even as he comes on my face, and I leave him dead by the roadside
with his pants around his ankles. Call me sick if you want, I just
might like it.

Gear up and back to cruising speed. I’ve
noticed something about my ovulation week dreams. The sex is always
degrading, but when the degradation is because the man is a loser
its oral sex and I’m the one calling the shots. When the guy is a
stud then he takes my cunt or my ass and I have no control at all.
The first kind gets me hot, but it’s the second kind that gets me
off. You might try to dig some deep psychological meaning out of
that. Good luck to you.

I accelerate a little more as a sign flashes
overhead. I’ve chosen my route unconsciously, heading in to the sky
glow of the city. The post orgasmic bliss doesn’t last long, and I
need to find more excitement. A minute later excitement finds me.
Someone blows past on a red/black blur that might have been a
Kawasaki Ninja. Instinctively I hit the gas to race him, then I
remember the speed trap. No way this guy didn’t light up the radar
gun. I glance over my shoulder and see blue-red-blue flashing,
coming fast. I maintain speed, wait for the cop to come flying past
and then fall in behind him, winding out the revs to keep up.
Ninja-boy is running, and this cop intends to make quota
tonight.

And me? I’m getting a free ride with the
speedo up in the stupid part of the dial. My path is being cleared
by blue-red-blue, and any cop ahead of me is going to be deployed
to stop the Ninja. It’s my own private police escort and the wind
is almost lifting me right out of my seat. My adrenaline surges as
the chase eats up mileage. There’s no traffic, no nothing, it’s
fucking beautiful. Too soon brake lights flare and the cop pulls
over to the left. The Ninja has gotten away. I slow down to sanity,
pass the cop as he turns around at the crossover, going back the
way he came, then throttle up again.

The adrenaline and the speed have got me
juiced up once more, and I think about the Ninja rider chasing me
down and slicing the crotch of my leathers open with a hunting
knife so he can fuck me over the seat of my still running bike.
He’s tall and dark and strong and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Yeah, my rape imagery always involves guys who I’d fuck in a
heartbeat, so is that really rape? My clit throbs as I run the
fantasy, but traffic picks up as I come into downtown and I can’t
focus enough to make it happen. Instead I weave the traffic, grab
an offramp into the wrong side of town. Spray painted buildings,
boarded up windows, trash on the street corners, some of it wearing
gang colors.

Angry eyes follow me and I don’t stop for the
red lights that still work. The fantasy morphs into a gang bang,
anonymous young faces with hard eyes, my clothing torn off, my arm
twisted painfully behind me, my face shoved down on dirty pavement
while I’m fucked by a succession of anonymous inner-city cocks,
each eager to take class vengeance on upper-crust suburban cunt. I
squirm in my seat, feel the engine throb, but I’m not going
anywhere near fast enough with city driving, and this place carries
the very real risk of turning my fantasy into reality. All I’d have
to do to make that happen is stop, but I’m not quite that self
destructive, not tonight anyway. I need to get back on the
highway.

And then a red-black Ninja cruises past and I
lock eyes with the rider, and realize it’s not Ninja Boy but Ninja
Girl, blonde and hot in her leather and on a whim, on a compulsion,
I pull a one-eighty and follow. I’m a Harley rider and I won’t give
the time of day to someone who pilots Kawasaki scrap, but I only
know one woman who would race the cops like that, and that’s me.
Maybe it’s my competitive instinct, maybe it was the way her eyes
burned in to mine as we passed, but I follow her, not too close,
not too far back. She leads me out of the bad area into downtown
proper, still a place you could get mugged or murdered, but here it
isn’t a given. She parks in front of a trendy nightclub and walks
up a side street. I park and follow her.

The place she turns into is a blank
storefront. Above the door is a number, twenty-three-seventeen. The
windows are frosted white glass, and one of them bears the etched
black outline of an old fashioned key. There’s no other marking, no
indication of what might lie behind the door. I hesitate, then try
the handle. It opens. Inside is a vestibule, a set of stairs
leading down, the faint pulse of music. It’s a club of some kind.
The woman from the Ninja has taken off her leather jacket, is
handing it to a coat check girl whose look is too hardcore to be
simply affected goth. She takes something in exchange, a snaky
riding crop. She looks up, our eyes meet, my knees go weak. Fantasy
is becoming reality. My life is about to change.

Part Seven

Yeah you know the Club,
don’t you,
honey? That’s the Club where Julie went to start her advanced
classes. That’s the Club where the trainer polished his skills,
where cage-girl is displayed, where the traveller comes when he
comes home. You know what bike-girl is going to find there, don’t
you? You know what’s behind that door she’s just stepped through,
because it’s your door, my door, our door, and every time you see a
door you’re reminded of me, reminded of the desire I ignite in you.
Every time you see a door you can’t help knowing that I’m just on
the other side of it, just that close to you.

Bike-girl’s highway is our road, her journey
is our connection and in a very real way, she is you. Believe it,
honey. You’re both united in your need for that burning
consummation, so lacking in your normal life. You know it because
you can feel it out there, waiting for you, and you desire it, you
need it, you want it. That’s why you come to me, isn’t it, honey?
You want it hard, you want it dirty. I know you don’t want to ask
for it that way. That would be so much harder, wouldn’t it, honey?
It would be so embarrassing, so humiliating to come right out and
say what it is you’ve been craving for so very long. So I’m going
to make it easy on you, honey, and I’m just going to give it to
you. You don’t have to ask for it, beg for it, plead for it. You
can even protest if you want, you can struggle, you can fight. You
can do anything you want, just so long as when you’re done you do
what I want you to do. And you know you’re going to honey, just
like I know you’re going to, because deep down we both know what
you need.

So what I want you to do, honey, is go and
get your favourite midnight friend, you know the one I mean, that
firm, phallic shaft that does it for you when no-one else is going
to, the one that violated your open holes while you did your
homework like Julie. You’re going to get fucked soon honey, you’re
going to get fucked hard and deep and there’s nothing you can do
about it, nothing you can say. This won’t be a fantasy, this is
going to be as real as it gets, and we both know how your belly
tightens up when I say that.

And I just want to say, while you remember
where it is you put your favourite masturbation tool, that I love
doing this to you, I love reaching out and touching you like this,
I love the fact that you’ll do everything I want you to do, even
when you can’t admit you want it. Even when you really don’t want
it. Ooops, did I say that, honey? How very politically incorrect of
me. A post-millenium man who prefers smart, accomplished,
independent women shouldn’t ever think of making them do things
they don’t want to do, should he? He most certainly shouldn’t like
it.

But I do like it, honey, and so do you, and
that’s not a contradiction because there are different ways of
wanting it
and even though you might not like what’s
happening, you like the fact that it’s happening anyway. You want
that, you need that, because it means you’re not in control. And
you do need to be out of control, don’t you, honey? Say “Yes,” for
me. You know enough to say that by now.

“Yes, I want to be out of control.”

“Yes, I’m going to do whatever you want me
to.”

And so you can start by stopping, honey, stop
right here and go get your cock substitute, because I don’t want to
wait any longer. Just do it, do it now.

Oh yes, honey, feel it in your hand, long and
thick and firm. You know where it’s going, don’t you? Or at least
you think you do. I’ll tell you right now you’ve got part of the
answer. Does your heart race when you read that, honey? Do you get
a little hotter, breathe a little faster when you think about what
the other part might be?

Yes, you do, I know you do. So what I want
you to do is kiss it honey, kiss the very tip of that rigid shaft.
Run your tongue around it; lick it like ice-cream. Lick it like it
was my cock. You want more now, you want to feel it sliding into
your mouth, parting your lips, opening you, putting you into that
sexually receptive position, that sexually receptive state. I want
you to know something, honey, and that is that my cock is rigid for
you right now. It’s as hard as that shaft in your hand, as the one
that your soft, supple lips are making love to right now. I want
you to picture that now, picture my cock with just a drop of fluid
glistening at its tip. Realize how warm it is, how hard and how
soft at the same time. Take in the swollen, purple head and realize
how it’s going to make you feel to be down on your knees in front
of it, looking up at me looking down as you go to work to earn a
face full of sperm. Yeah, work it honey, work it hard for me.