Cunt & Leather
I saw her for the first time just outside of Chicago. Although it might be more accurate to say I heard her. I was one in a sea of cars all trying to squeeze through a northbound tollbooth on I-94. Even with all the lanes open traffic was backed up. I had my window open, change in hand, when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle. There was no mistaking it for anything else. It was so loud I figured it had to be right on top of me but when I looked in my side view mirror I saw that the bike and the biker were actually several car lengths back in the next lane.
It was the end of summer. I was heading up north for the start of my sophomore year at UW-Madison. My blue Honda was crammed full of moving boxes, suitcases, anything that I use to carry my stuff . . . even plastic drawstring garbage bags. I looked in the mirror again. The biker was a little closer now. That lane was moving, mine wasn't. Just my luck.
The growl of the motorcycle got louder, almost deafening. I looked up and the biker was right next to me. The breath caught in my throat. She was leather and denim with mirrored sunglasses, short cropped blonde shaved around the ears giving her face a harsh look. Her boots were heavy and black and marred by scuffmarks. The bike was a Harley. I only knew that because of the big Harley-Davidson logo emblazoned on the casing. The sad fact was, I couldn't tell a Harley from a Schwinn.
She straddled the Harley like it was a living, breathing thing not quite tamed. Listening to the purr of the engine rise and fall I could almost believe the bike was alive, breathing hard under the weight of her. Traffic in that lane had stopped moving so she just sat there, staring straight head, that chrome monster growling between her legs.
The car behind me beeped.
I blinked. There were at least two car lengths between me and the next car in line at the tollbooth. I'd been so busy watching the blonde biker that I hadn't even noticed that traffic in my lane had started to move. She looked at me. Or at least, looked toward me. The mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes but her head turned, almost hawk-like, so that she was facing my direction. Embarrassed heat crept through my cheeks like someone had poured hot oil over my face. I eased the car forward.
When I checked the mirror again she hadn't moved. She was still staring straight ahead, her sunglasses reflecting the sunlight. It made her look like part of the bike, as if the two of them had melted together in the summer heat.
The car behind me beeped again. Shit. I pulled forward, paid the toll, and tried not to look in the mirror.
* * * * *
When I was over the Wisconsin border I stopped for lunch at Burger King. It wasn't crowded. I had my choice of places to sit and picked a spot by the window so I could watch the traffic go by on the frontage road. I hadn't seen the blonde biker since leaving the tollbooth and just assumed she turned off not long after. But as I doused my French fries with ketchup she pulled into the parking lot. I watched her angle the bike into a parking space, nudge the kickstand into place with the toe of her black leather boot, and dismount. She did it in one single, fluid, practiced motion. It was almost elegant. A dance.
The blonde biker disappeared from view and I realized I was holding my breath as I waited for her to come into the restaurant. When she did I let go of that breath in a long sigh. Now that she was upright I could see that she was tall, at least a head taller than me, even when I took into account the boots.
I watched her step up to the counter and place an order. The high school kid working the register looked a little intimidated. I guess I couldn't blame her. My own lunch was forgotten as I watched the biker wait for hers. She found a wall to lean against and just stood there. It gave me a better look at her face. She looked like a black and white sketch made up of hard, extreme lines done in coal. Except for her lips. Her lips were thin and pinkish and even from across the restaurant looked soft. But her eyes were still a mystery, hidden behind mirrored ovals.
She got her food. My eyes followed her across the restaurant. I just could not stop staring at her. But I must have been staring at her without really looking at her because it took me a moment to realize she was staring back at me. At least I think she was. So hard to tell with those damned sunglasses on. Her expression was blank. If she remembered me from the line at the tollbooth it didn't show in her face. We stared at each other for a space of time I would have measured in heartbeats if my heart were actually beating. It started up again when she moved by me and sat down several tables away. She didn't look up. She didn't smile. She didn't wave me over to join her. She just started eating like there was no one else in the restaurant.
I tossed out my half-eaten lunch and left.
* * * * *
There is a long stretch of I-94 still untouched by commercial developers, just trees and farmland. In the middle of it, just off the interstate, is the last rest stop before Madison. Normally I could make the trip in one straight shot but it seemed like I had been in the car forever and I now regretted ordering a large Coke with lunch. When I came up on the exit for the rest stop I pulled in.
It was late afternoon. The sun was warm on my face and it felt good to just walk around and stretch my legs a bit. There were a few other cars parked at the rest stop, a man in a business suit talked on a cell phone, a couple of kids ran around giggling and enjoying the last days of summer before school started.
I was about to get in my car and leave when I heard the low rumble of the bike. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I looked up just in time to see her pull into the parking space next to my car. She killed the engine and looked at me without getting off the bike. We stared each down, like it was a contest. Then she snorted up a laugh and took off her sunglasses.
I might have gasped. Her eyes were the most stunning color of blue I had ever seen. Somewhere between ocean blue and sky blue. When her eyes met mine we had a moment of perfect understanding.
"We seem to keep running into each other," I said.
"Yeah. You wanna take a walk?"
We ended up in the little wooded area behind the rest stop. She had me pushed up against a tree and was squeezing my breast through my Badgers T-shirt. Her lips were fierce against mine, hot, hungry, kissing me, thrusting her tongue down my throat. There was nothing subtle about it, about her. She wanted, she took. Simple. I wanted to be taken. Even simpler. I slid my hands over her body, caressing denim and leather as if it were skin. The leather was rough, hard, scratchy. The denim was downy soft. I wanted to feel them both against my naked skin. I got my chance when she pushed my T-shirt up. Leather brushed my bare stomach. I groaned into the kiss. Hands moved under my shirt, over my breasts, inside my bra. Her hands were like the clothes she wore, rough and smooth, one extreme or the other. She kneaded my breast with the butt of her palm, making me grunt, but her fingers danced lightly over my nipples as if they were ripened fruit and she was afraid of the squashing them. Her touch left me panting for more.
She slipped a hand between my legs, cupping my mound as if she were claiming it. I moaned and arched against her, wanting a firmer touch, wordlessly begging her to take me, fuck me, own me. She pressed her fingers into me, through my sweats, through my panties, pushing into me. I gasped. Oh yes. That's what I wanted. But more, damn it, more! I moved against her, impatient, desperate, whimpering. I felt her lips curve into a smile against mine. She shoved her hand down the front of my sweats and pulled aside the crotch of my panties. Her fingers plunged into me. Oh God. Yes. She pumped her fingers in and out of me, fucking me. I humped against her hand, my back against the tree, the bark scratching me, my fingers clawing at the back of her head as she thrust deeper and deeper. The burn started low in my belly and fanned out until I was consumed by heat. My gut tightened. She had her fingers in me and used her thumb to stroke my clit. I came with my face crushed into her shoulder, breathing in the small of leather as my pussy tightened around her hand. She pulled out of me, and stepped back. I sagged to the ground, used, drained. Her body cast a shadow over me and I looked up.
Fingers slick with my juices hovered over the fly of her jeans. I drew myself up to my knees and got her pants open. Nothing underneath. The smell of her was thick and rich with arousal. I breathed in the musky scent then leaned into her, pressing my mouth against her warm, damp flesh. She moaned above me, fingers tangled in my hair as I fucked her with my tongue. I licked up and down the length of her cleft then dipped inside, lapping at her thick, meaty folds. She moved her hips against me, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. I could feel her cunt spasm around me. She was close. I felt around with my tongue until I found the hard little pebble hidden in her folds then took a swipe at it, lashing her clit until she grunted, her hips jerking once, twice.
I looked up at her. She smiled back at me, breathing hard, her eyes a little glassy but still that amazing shade of blue. With one last, heaving sigh, she zipped up her jeans, pulled the sunglasses out of her pocket, put them on, and left me kneeling in the grass feeling like a cheap whore. To my surprise I liked the feeling.
When I got to my car, the bike was gone. Part of me was hoping to find a scrap of paper under the windshield wiper, flapping in the wind, with her phone number scrawled across it. But there was nothing. Just an empty parking spot. Only the few drops of oil on the pavement told me I hadn't imagined her. That, and the stickiness on my inner thighs.
I got in my car and drove off, the taste of cunt and leather still on my lips.