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When I pick her up she has on a peasant skirt and a white sleeveless blouse, buttoned high, but not too high. The blouse is sheer enough that the shadow of a purple bra shows through. I laugh and tell her she couldn’t possibly be wearing anything more unsuited to a motorcycle ride up into the mountains. I try and tell her she should change, but she doesn’t want to, even vetoing the helmet I’ve brought along for her. It’s pointless for me to argue, as I’ve only jeans and a t-shirt on myself, when by rights I should be helmeted and sleeved from stem to stern.
It turns out to be something of a chore for her to climb onto the bike in that skirt. Before I can look away, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of her pale thighs as she gathers the excess material in her lap and grips my hipbones snugly between her knees.
The road from Tucson up to Mt. Lemmon is full of steep climbs and switchbacks, gaining some seven thousand feet in altitude along the way. It’s an appealing run at any time of the year for a motorcyclist, but it takes on an even greater appeal once the summer suns come on in earnest, the temperature soaring to 107 degrees, then 110 degrees- the kinds of temperatures better suited to ovens than to human habitation.
She hasn’t been on my new bike yet and I can tell she’s a little nervous when we first start out. The bike climbs easily, but I can feel her hesitate when I lean the bike low into the corners. I drop a gear and slow down a bit, not wanting to frighten her before we’ve even begun. Before long she picks up the rhythm of the bike and relaxes her grip around my waist a little so I can give it some gas.
Soon, the big saguaros that stud the valley begin to give way, the jagged slopes inhospitable to the giant cacti, replaced now by the occasional pine tree, and after that, small forests of the things- incongruous in the desert. The drought that had spanned the course of several years, shriveling the mountain itself, has recently broken. As we ride I keep one eye on the clouds, and the other on the blossoming mountain.
At times she leans in close, her upper body flush against my back as she comments on the view or points out something off in the distance. When I brake hard, her momentum brings her closer yet, and once I notice, it becomes an effort to keep from doing it on purpose. Worse still, all the contact makes it a bit hard to concentrate on what she’s saying, and I find myself merely smiling and nodding.
At five thousand feet the air begins to turn cool, soothing at first, and then shocking our warm skin. The pine trees are thicker now; they shade the road and make the temperature drop further still- 70 degrees feeling more like 50 after so many days beneath the Tucson skies. I shiver slightly and know that she will be colder still, the clothes she is wearing no more effective than a sheet might be at keeping out the breeze. Legs splayed, she shimmies forward to shield herself from the wind, trying to take in my body heat and the warmth of the engine. I wish I’d thought to bring along a long-sleeved shirt to offer her, but all I can do is scoot back as far as I can as I try not to think about the glimpse I got of her legs.
She doesn’t complain though, leaning in instead to yell for me to go faster. I open up the throttle a bit more and she has to wrap her arms around my waist. She’s so close that there is virtually no room separating us, our bodies connected in considerably more places now than when we started out 30 minutes earlier. Her breasts rest against my back, and the whole length of her thighs lay against mine. I even imagine I can even feel the heat coming off from between her legs, but I know it’s only my mind playing tricks on me, and I push the thought away. When we pass the marker announcing six thousand feet it’s decidedly cold, at least on a motorcycle, and she grows quiet. Soon I can feel her legs begin to tremble and she has to squeeze them against me to keep them steady.
Although we’d planned on riding straight on through until we reached the little summit town of Summerhaven, I make the decision to stop off at ‘Windy Point’, a scenic rest stop for tourists with a view encompassing much of the city, and parts of the mountain we’ve already attained. But summertime is not the season for tourism in Arizona, and there’s only one car parked by the roadside belonging to an elderly couple who have taken up a safe vantage point along the concrete viewing platform.
I park the bike and hold it steady as she climbs off. She has the same difficulty with her skirt and steals a glance at me as she throws her leg up and over. This time I’m able to look away. It’s an impressive display of willpower, but one that is related more to my fear about being caught peeping, than to any feelings about how a gentleman should conduct himself in the presence of a lady.
I notice that her face is flushed, and worry that perhaps I should have stopped sooner. It isn’t a particularly easy ride, especially for those who are unaccustomed to it.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh güvenilir bahis yeah.” She laughs, one hand on the seat for balance, seeming to flush a deeper red. “Just give me a minute. My legs are a little shaky is all.”
I light a cigarette to give her a chance to thaw out. Once stopped and off the bike, I’m immediately comfortable, the chill in the air effectively negated by the sun’s rays, as if we’re balanced at the precise point between the chill of the summit, and the heat of the valley below. It’s a pleasant sensation, yet odd at the same time- like stepping into a shower set to your precise body temperature.
It surprises me when she reaches out for a drag of my cigarette. I’ve never seen her smoke before, but I hand it over just the same. I watch as she finishes it off, expertly exhaling a big cloud from her nose and flicking the butt away, before announcing that she’s fine now.
Rocks jut out far from roadway. Baked all day long beneath the sun, I know they’ll be warm enough to take the chill from our bodies, the real life inspiration for those electric versions they sell at pet stores for reptiles to bask on. We pick our way along the big rocks carefully. A fall from here would most likely result in merely a painful (but not fatal) 12-foot drop. But if you were the unlucky sort and landed wrong, you might begin to tumble, picking up speed until you fell far enough to do yourself some real damage.
We work our way out to the very edge to take in the view. Neither of us speaks, feeling a natural reverence somehow for this place. Although she’s naturally long and graceful, after awhile I begin to worry about her wobbly legs. Taking her arm, I steer her back several feet from the edge.
We spot a mostly flattish rock and sit side by side, watching dragonflies, birds, and even the occasional squirrel bound up, pegging us for a light-touch with a pocketful of nuts, or perhaps popcorn.
The heat comes up off the rocks as effectively as if they were coals. It feels fine, and we lay down to absorb it up into our backs and our arms too. At this time of day the sky is mostly clear, only a couple of puffy white clouds lingering- harmless enough now, but sure to find others later on, pairing up and colliding until they’ve built up into the walls of thunder and lightning that came rolling down from the Santa Catalinas almost nightly in July.
It’s peaceful there by her side, and I can’t think of any place I’d rather be. I ask her how her legs feel, and in response she takes my right hand and lays it on top of her thigh. I’m surprised to feel the muscles jumping slightly. I squeeze her leg a moment to try and still the tremor before pulling my hand away.
“I’m sorry.” I tell her.” I didn’t realize it was going to be this chilly.”
She laughs in the same way she had back by the bike. The sound of it makes me think I’ve missed something, some secret that she isn’t sharing. “I don’t think it’s exactly the chill that did it.”
I stare back blankly, unable to connect the dots. “No?”
She’s quiet for several seconds, her eyes closed. And then: “It’s something about the vibration of the bike. It can affect women in a certain way. I’ve heard of it, but it’s never happened to me before. I thought it was just something that teenage girls giggled about at sleepovers…”
The lightbulb over my head comes on, a hundred-fifty watts strong. I too have heard of this particular phenomenon, but her confession catches me completely off guard. I would have never even suspected, and I can feel myself begin to blush. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“My God, no.” This time when she laughs it’s to cover up her embarrassment. ” I was even a little annoyed when we stopped.”
My mouth hangs open, and my tongue has gone dry. I wish I’d brought along a water bottle, and suddenly there are vibrations making themselves felt in certain parts of my own anatomy.
“I’ll be damned.” I say when I’m able to speak again. “I had no idea. You didn’t…you know?”
I can’t bring myself to finish the question.
“No…But I was close.”
Neither of us speaks for a time. Her admission floats over us like a balloon and makes for the kind of awkward silence that we’ve never experienced before. Eventually it becomes too much for her to endure.
“It’s probably good that you stopped when you did. Five more minutes and I might’ve slid right off the back of the bike,” She says, trying her hand at levity. “I’m completely soaked. I was worried I was leaving a wet spot on your seat.”
I’m past the point of laughing it all of though. The vibrations below have graduated to a full-fledged rushing in of blood. My penis begins to stir in earnest, pushing aside fabric to get more room, like water finding lower ground. I sit up quickly to hide its treachery.
Her eyes are still closed, but I glance down just the same to see if my erection shows. It’s noticeable, but not that noticeable.
“At least it doesn’t show.” I say with a nervous laugh of my own, nodding towards her lap. She catches the direction türkçe bahis of my gaze and laughs right along with me, the tension still there, but transformed in some fashion.
“Not on the front anyhow.” She says, playing along and rolling over onto her stomach. “How about on the back?”
Already I can tell there’s nothing to be seen, but I make a show of leaning in real close to inspect the area. Close up I can feel her body heat, and I think for a moment that I can smell the very core of her before a breeze comes up and takes the scent along with it down into the valley.
“Nothing.” I try not to sound disappointed.
She seems satisfied by my thoroughness and rolls once more onto her back. My dick is fully hard now, pushing obscenely against my jeans. Even so, I’m having trouble caring as I settle in next to her, our arms touching slightly.
“That’s a relief.” She tells me, raising herself up on her elbows and pulling up on the waistband of her skirt to peek inside. “I really am quite drenched.”
This time I’m unable to keep myself from looking. I tell her that I like her underwear, but truthfully I can’t really see much more than shadows because of the angle.
“They’re my favorite pair,” she says, pulling the skirt down slightly and giving me a quick, tantalizing flash. “Plus, they match my bra…”
She lets go of the skirt before thumbing a bra strap off of her shoulder and showing it to me. I merely nod, not trusting myself to speak.
For a while we’re silent. I try to focus on the clouds moving lazily across the sky, and the feel of the sun against my skin. It’s no good; my thoughts keep returning to all that wetness- only inches from my hand, inches from my…
“It’s probably just sweat, you know. The air’s so dry you never can tell how much fluid you’re losing.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth I regret it. But my mind is racing; I’m desperate to keep the conversation going. If she’s repulsed by my comment, it doesn’t show. I watch as she takes my hand again. I think she’s going to place it on her thigh like before.
Instead she directs it beneath the waistband of her skirt, down into the shadows, until it lays flat against her mound. Her underwear is miniscule- hardly there at all and purely decorative- nothing more than a couple square inches of lace connected by a silken string. In the space of a split second they’ve become my favorite pair as well.
They are also completely saturated with her wetness.
The boldness of her move puts me into a state of mild shock. When I look down at my arm, it seems as if it stops at the wrist; my brain flat-out refuses to accept that I’ve got my hand in her crotch. I try to picture the missing hand in my mind, even squinting, as if doing so will suddenly afford me the gift of x-ray vision. It’s no use.
While my brain seems to have shut down temporarily, my hand remembers all to well what to do. And before I can stop it, it’s pressing against her slightly, coating the fingertips in her moisture.
“My lord…” It comes out of me as a moan.
“You still think its sweat?” Her eyes are closed, and her voice has gone husky, as if she’d smoked too many cigarettes the night before. The words come slow. It’s like she has to concentrate hard to get them past her lips.
My dick has become somewhat uncomfortable trapped inside my jeans. With my left hand I reach down to adjust it so it’s pointing upwards towards my waist.
“It’s hard to say,” I answer, continuing to knead her with my right hand all the while. “There’s really only one way to tell for sure.”
I run my middle finger along the outer edge of her underwear, feeling wet slippery skin where she’s shaved, before sliding it underneath the fabric and inside her body a fraction of an inch. I’m encouraged by the way she groans, and I run my finger up over her clit, making her jump slightly before pulling my hand away. Her hips come up off the rock to try and keep my hand in place. I wait until she opens her eyes before bringing my finger to my lips so that I can taste her.
Her eyes roll back as I take my time licking the wet from my fingers. I watch as she lays her hands on her stomach, stroking the flat expanse of exposed skin there, her fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of her skirt before reemerging.
“Well, it doesn’t taste like sweat,” I tell her. “But I better check again just to be safe. It’d be dangerous for you to get dehydrated way out here in the middle of nowhere.”
She makes no protest, and now that I have the green light I waste no time getting my hand back down inside her panties. Again I enter her slightly before bringing my fingers back to my mouth. She’s become so wet that I know by now she has soaked not only her underwear and skirt, but may even be leaving something of a puddle on the rock beneath us. I repeat the process several times, my middle finger entering her a bit more each time before withdrawing, until I lose all self-control and insert it forcefully to the hilt. When I do so, she calls out, arching güvenilir bahis siteleri her back and grabbing onto my wrist to keep me exactly where I am. I move my finger around in little circles inside her. Her pussy is shockingly hot and clutches at my finger, as nearly as strong as the hand latched onto my wrist.
Sitting up, I take a quick look around. The old couple seems to have gone. There is only my motorcycle parked by the roadside.
Before she can protest, I’m down on my knees in front of her, gathering her skirt up around her waist. Sure enough her panties are purple, almost the same shade as her bra, but slightly darker now than when she put them on, the whole of the material one big wet spot. I want to tear them from her body and suck the moisture out, like a hiker might do to a bandana dipped in a stream. But I know that some women are sentimental about their underwear and regret seeing them destroyed, even at times such as these.
Instead, I run my hands up the outsides of her legs, reaching for the little string in order to pull them safely down. She stops me though, worried suddenly that we’ll be seen. But she isn’t quick enough to keep me from pressing my face up against her crotch. I breathe in deeply, taking her scent way down inside me, and then out again through my mouth, using her underwear like a filter, hot air against her clit, making it stiffen and poke out, the little bud easy to locate now, to nibble and latch onto.
And then my tongue is down a bit lower, pushing against the wet silk as I strain to rip through her panties and up into her pussy. But the material holds, and I curse it before turning my attention to her clit. I suck at it for a while, taking it gently in my mouth.
She’s becoming frantic now. Her head rolls from side to side, and she lifts her hips up to my face, a silent invitation for me to drink from her.
Eventually it all becomes too much. My cock is painfully hard, desperate for friction, and I have to get down on my belly so I can press it against the rock beneath me. With my index finger I hook the edge of her panties and pull them way over to one side. Her pussy is shaved except for a small tuft of blond fur along the top, as soft as a cotton ball against my cheek. The little lips are distended and almost bubble-gum pink. It’s too lovely to just stare at though, and I dive back in, lapping up her moisture and probing inside her with my tongue, going up and over her clit again and again, which is sensitive now and hard to get close to without making her ass jump high up off the rock.
While I’m busy below, her hands find their way beneath her blouse and bra. She pushes the material up and out of the way. When I look up, she’s tugging at her nipples, twisting them harder than I would’ve guessed she’d like, going from one to the other. They stand up tall like little erasers, pink like her pussy. It’s so pretty that I almost abandon my feast to join her. But in the end, it’s like trying to get myself interested in an appetizer that arrives long after the main course, and I can’t pull myself away from her crotch.
Suddenly, before she even knows what’s hit her, all the stimulation overwhelms her. “Ohhhh,” she groans, trying not to call out. “Oh God… Please eat me. Eat my pussy.”
I move my mouth over her quicker. She comes biting on her bottom lip, and grabbing onto my head. She pulls me firmly against her as I suck hard at her hole, her moisture coating my face, little droplets in my beard.
As soon as she relaxes her hold on me a bit, I insert two fingers inside her, and then go to work on the side of her clit with my tongue. “No,” She pants. “No more.”
I ignore her and her pussy seems even hotter now. I know that she’s become helpless to stop this and I can take my time. I use my fingers and my tongue together to bring her within seconds of coming again before backing off and slowing. She makes little sounds of frustration as I repeat the process three or four times, taking her all the way to the brink before easing her back again. Before long she’s forgotten entirely where she’s at and is begging me to eat her again. I sense that if I don’t let her come this time, she’ll be obliged to try and reach down and finish the job without me.
Grudgingly I relent, attaching my mouth to her clit like a suction cup, as my fingers piston in and out of her body harder and harder, as fast as I can move my arm. This time when she begins to come, she’s unable to control her cries.
“Oh… oh God…oh God…Oh fuck I’m coming! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
Quickly, I push my tongue inside her as far as it will go, my nose brushing against her clit. Her hips are bucking hard, almost throwing me aside. As her orgasm starts to trail off, I go back to the slow steady suction and hold on until she’s done, my arms hooked around her thighs.
All at once her pussy becomes hypersensitive and she pushes me away forcefully, her breath coming fast, wincing when she reaches down to pull her underwear back into place. Even that tiny bit of lace is almost too much contact for her clit to handle. For several minutes she just lays there not moving. She looks exhausted, like a runner collapsed just past the finish line, a little smile of satisfaction on her lips.
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