Biker Babe by Penelope Rivers
Lynette had always had an attraction to motorcycles. They were sleek, they were sexy, and they were powerful. Once, when she was walking by a black Ducati, she swore that she came straight into her pants despite the fact that the rider was a fifty-something man with a beer gut and a tattoo. If a man had a bike, then to her, he was instantly more attractive.
It was unfortunate, then, that everyone had always classified her as the resident good girl. Ever since she was small, she was known as naïve and innocent. It was as if she had some sort of magical “innocent” power. She walked into the locker room, and the girls stopped talking about their “good times.” She went on a date, and she had three hours of arm’s length walking to enjoy.
But little did the world know that Lynette was a bad girl, a very, very bad girl.
At the age of thirteen, she had read through, every single sex book in the library. She had hid them underneath her bed when her mother wasn’t looking; that way, her parents who were actually naïve and innocent and didn’t know. She didn’t have a problem with sex, but it seemed that sex just had a problem with her.
That was why, as she walked home from her shift at a local restaurant at the age of twenty, she practically started salivating as she caught sight of the man in the parking lot. He had a night-black motorcycle that she would be writing into her dirty diary about later, and how he had dark black hair and day growth on his chin. When he smiled, his eyes glowed a bright green and sparkled. He was like what he rode: sleek, sexy, and powerful. She wanted him. She wanted him bad.
Immediately she imagined herself shaking out her brunette hair, which was long and curly, as she straddled the man before her. She would do all of the sexy dance moves that she knew, working out her long, lean body in a way that no one else thought that she could. Oh yes, Lynette was ready.
As she ogled the bike and the man riding it, he swung his leg expertly over the side of it and headed inside to the restaurant. Damn, she thought. I wonder if my boss would let me wait on him, just him. I would give him a meal that he wouldn’t forget. She looked behind her, making sure that he was out of the perimeter. She really wanted to touch that bike, so when she broke out her special toys tonight she would know exactly what to imagine.
She went to the bike, straddling it like the man had done, and looked both ways. I shouldn’t do this, she thought, but no one is around. She shut her eyes, imagining running her fingers up the fine muscles of the man that had been astride the bike. He was so sexy, so hard, and was all man, just like she had always wanted. It would be sweaty, sexy, and...
Her eyes shot open and a blush filled her face. The biker man was back. Maybe she had made a mistake and he had only gone inside to use the bathroom. Mouth dropping open, she stumbled off the black motorcycle and almost fell over. He was still staring at her, not even a trace of a smile on his lips as he took her in. As much as she had imagined being with him, she knew that it wasn’t a possibility now. He obviously thought that she was a complete moron.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flushing.
“Yeah,” the man said, walking over to the bike and putting a possessive hand on it as if she had transferred her goody-goody germs. “Well...”
Before she had time to say anything else, he took off toward the road with an expert click of the heel. She watched him leave, still blushing, while feeling sick to her stomach. Maybe tonight she wouldn’t be giving her special instrument a test, after all.
As she looked down at the oil splotch on the floor, she felt her stomach curl at the idea of public humiliation and a tingle electrified her clitoris as well. She was due for a public spanking, a very public one.
She hopped over the splotch and went
Lynette had always had an attraction to motorcycles. They were sleek, they were sexy, and they were powerful. Once, when she was walking by a black Ducati, she swore that she came straight into her pants despite the fact that the rider was a fifty-something man with a beer gut and a tattoo. If a man had a bike, then to her, he was instantly more attractive.
It was unfortunate, then, that everyone had always classified her as the resident good girl. Ever since she was small, she was known as naïve and innocent. It was as if she had some sort of magical “innocent” power. She walked into the locker room, and the girls stopped talking about their “good times.” She went on a date, and she had three hours of arm’s length walking to enjoy.
But little did the world know that Lynette was a bad girl, a very, very bad girl.
At the age of thirteen, she had read through, every single sex book in the library. She had hid them underneath her bed when her mother wasn’t looking; that way, her parents who were actually naïve and innocent and didn’t know. She didn’t have a problem with sex, but it seemed that sex just had a problem with her.
That was why, as she walked home from her shift at a local restaurant at the age of twenty, she practically started salivating as she caught sight of the man in the parking lot. He had a night-black motorcycle that she would be writing into her dirty diary about later, and how he had dark black hair and day growth on his chin. When he smiled, his eyes glowed a bright green and sparkled. He was like what he rode: sleek, sexy, and powerful. She wanted him. She wanted him bad.
Immediately she imagined herself shaking out her brunette hair, which was long and curly, as she straddled the man before her. She would do all of the sexy dance moves that she knew, working out her long, lean body in a way that no one else thought that she could. Oh yes, Lynette was ready.
As she ogled the bike and the man riding it, he swung his leg expertly over the side of it and headed inside to the restaurant. Damn, she thought. I wonder if my boss would let me wait on him, just him. I would give him a meal that he wouldn’t forget. She looked behind her, making sure that he was out of the perimeter. She really wanted to touch that bike, so when she broke out her special toys tonight she would know exactly what to imagine.
She went to the bike, straddling it like the man had done, and looked both ways. I shouldn’t do this, she thought, but no one is around. She shut her eyes, imagining running her fingers up the fine muscles of the man that had been astride the bike. He was so sexy, so hard, and was all man, just like she had always wanted. It would be sweaty, sexy, and...
Her eyes shot open and a blush filled her face. The biker man was back. Maybe she had made a mistake and he had only gone inside to use the bathroom. Mouth dropping open, she stumbled off the black motorcycle and almost fell over. He was still staring at her, not even a trace of a smile on his lips as he took her in. As much as she had imagined being with him, she knew that it wasn’t a possibility now. He obviously thought that she was a complete moron.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flushing.
“Yeah,” the man said, walking over to the bike and putting a possessive hand on it as if she had transferred her goody-goody germs. “Well...”
Before she had time to say anything else, he took off toward the road with an expert click of the heel. She watched him leave, still blushing, while feeling sick to her stomach. Maybe tonight she wouldn’t be giving her special instrument a test, after all.
As she looked down at the oil splotch on the floor, she felt her stomach curl at the idea of public humiliation and a tingle electrified her clitoris as well. She was due for a public spanking, a very public one.
She hopped over the splotch and went
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