Biker Auction Ch. 01

It started as these things usually start, a text message from my Mistress telling me to expect a package and to prepare myself. You think back on the previous packages and the events that followed. The pencil skirt and business attire and the business meeting that followed – actually, it was not the meeting that you think of, but being bent over the conference room table, your arms stretched across the table as you were taken from behind. And then there was the time that your Mistress sent you to a bar wearing a long coat, heels and a collar – and nothing else.

The doorbell interrupts your daydreaming. Ah, Federal Express. You often wondered whether the driver had any idea of what was in the box and always thought from the looks on their faces, sometimes they were men sometimes women, that the knew, but how could they?

You sign for the package still half daydreaming and, after shutting the door open the box, wet with anticipation. The scent of leather strikes you as you open the box and grin. Leather, you know what that means. But it's not quite what you expected.

It's not bondage gear, at least not exactly. First there is a jacket, waist length, heavy. Boots. Tall, very high boots that reach to your knees with those impossible high heels that you know your Mistress loves to see you in. You pick up the jacket first, lift it to your face, and breath deeply the smell of the leather. Leather pants with an odd assortment of zippers and snaps – you set them aside to figure out later, and finally the instructions.

As you pick up the paper you realize there are no panties or bra – and you know that all you will be wearing is in the box, nothing else. you are glad to see there are socks otherwise those boots would kill your feet.

You read the instructions which are, as expected, sparse – clear, concise and to the point. A time – you look at your watch, and note that you have two hours – and the usual instructions. Shower, shave everywhere (and carefully), dress in these items and these items alone and be ready at the appointed time.

You quickly shower and shave being very careful to get every hair. From past experience, you know that this is important to your Mistress so to be sure you shave again. Smooth and dry, you powder myself generously knowing that this will help with the leather, and pull your hair back into a pony tail. There were no instructions as to your hair, but you know what will fit with the outfit. Your long black hair is pulled back severely into a pony tail high up on your head, with the tail hanging loosely down your back.

Naked, you walk into the living room to where you had left the clothes. The pants had to be figured out first and it took some doing. There were many zippers and snaps in, what appeared to be odd places, but after you got them on, it all made sense. Looking in the mirror – you are wearing nothing but the leather pants, the purpose of the pants became very clear. The combination of zippers and snaps ensured that there would be easy access.

As you walk around the room, you realized that there was something else. You couldn't tell if it was a zipper or a snap at first, but you feel something pressing against you. Standing in front of the mirror and examining the pants, you realize that it wasn't accidental and it wasn't a zipper. There was, sewn into the pants, something that pressed against your pussy, spreading you just a bit.

The pants, of course, fit perfectly, accentuating your hips, snug, just at the edge of too tight. As you watched myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, you happened to see the clock.

Shit. You realize that you are almost out of time. Quickly you pull on the jacket, leaving it unzipped as you pull on the boots. It was a good thing that you left yourself some time as the boots took some doing. They had laces up the side so that they were very snug, and took a great deal of time to get on.

Finally, you stand–tottering a bit at first, and look at yourself in the mirror. As you zipp up the jacket, feeling the rough leather against your naked breasts, the cell phone in the jacket pocket vibrates softly. Vibrates, not ring – if you hadn't had the jacket on, you wouldn't have felt it. Quickly you picked up the phone.

A text message: Leave. Now.

You walk (gingerly) out the door expecting to see a limo waiting at the curb. As you walk down towards the street there is no one waiting – momentarily you are surprised, you know the text message was clear that you were to leave at that moment, where was your ride?

Then you hear it, softly at first – a rumbling, then a roar that you know. It was distinctive: Harley Davidson. She roared up to the curb – and I do mean roared, screeching to a halt, reaching out with her long legs to stabilize the big bike as it came to a stop.

You hesitate briefly– she isn't even looking at you, just staring straight ahead. She turns to look at you and you can see in her eyes that she's rough, she has muscle on her and the look on her face at your slender female form is an odd combination of lust and disdain. One word crosses your mind. Dyke.

You quickly walk to the bike, swing your left leg over the bike, and settle into the seat and as you wrap your arms around her waist, she roars off forcing you to hold on for dear life as she races down the street.

The distinctive vibrations of the Harley shake you to the core – what is it they say in the advertisements? Put something powerful between your legs? As she roars – and that is the only way to describe her driving – through town, taking turns at impossible angles and speeds, you feel the genius of the design of the pants. And I do mean feel.

It is more than a seam at the crotch, there is an insert that, with each vibration of the bike, presses deeper inside of you, opening you. The leather pants seem to tighten (although you know that can't be true) squeezing you tighter and tighter. As your pussy gets wetter and wetter, the leather rubs against your pussy lips increasing the sensation from the bikes vibrations. And then there is the sensation of your bare nipples on the leather jacket.

You ride for you don't know how long, the wind whipping your long hair, your pussy getting wetter and wetter. You pull onto the freeway and head out of town. By watching the signs you see you are headed for the shore – perhaps Ocean City or Dewey Beach, you can't be sure. You end up in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, cruising in off of the highway and down the main drag towards the beach.

The long throbbing drive – those Harley's do throb – had taken it's toll on you. You are sweating, despite the cool air flowing across me, and can feel that your pussy juice had soaked the crotch of your pants. As she turns into town the road is filled with bikes, almost all Harleys and none of those crotch rockets that the boys liked. The riders were almost exclusively women, many large muscular women. A phrase came into your head. Dykes on Bikes.

And that's when you saw the sign – and that's what it said. Dykes on Bikes. Raising funds for breast cancer research at the beach. Well, you think, this is for a good cause wondering what is in store for you. As you think back over what your Mistress has arranged in the past, you hope that you can help raise a lot of money for the cause and a smile comes, unbidden, to your face.

She pulls over and parks. As you gingerly get off the bike, you realize that she hasn't said a word to you the entire drive, and barely looked at you. Now she turns to you, and says one word.

"Follow."

There is something in the tone. Menacing isn't quite right, although she is that. But there was something else. Commanding – not in the sense of her giving me a command, although she clearly did that, but her tone and delivery carried unmistakable command and power and you find yourself following instinctively.

As she threads her way through the crowd you follow as best you can – after the hours on the bike your legs are shaky and the boots aren't making it any easier. The lobby is filled with biker chicks – and not the ones who ride on the back of a man's bike. At first all you notice are the biker chicks who are clearly the drivers – the exude power and authority. Shortly you begin to notice the chicks who ride on back – often slightly built, with a more gentle air about them. As you walk through the crowd you also notice that the drivers are all taking to each other and the passengers are largely standing quietly a step behind their drivers. It is clear who is the Mistress and who is the slave, or at least subservient.

It is all the more interesting in that this all is happening in the lobby of a hotel on the beach. A hotel, not a private residence, so that there is a smattering of others, clearly not in the biker group, warily walking through the lobby.

You reach the check in desk and are handed a key – how they knew which key to give you, you don't know but you have come to expect these things. Your Mistress always has the details planned out well. You are given an envelope with instructions which you open and read. You are directed to a particular conference room and, looking at the map on the wall, wind your way through the crowd, down a long hallway to the main conference room for the fundraiser.

As you enter there is a table for people to sign in and, before you can tell anyone your name, a large woman walks up to you.

"There you are. Come now, it's time to get started."

Again there is something about the tone, commanding, powerful. Not domineering, well perhaps a bit, but not the brusk way a male Dom might talk, but very effective – you obey without thinking, and follow her. As you reach the front of the room the lights start to dim. While it's mid-afternoon, there are no windows in the conference room and, with the doors closed, the effect is of twilight. As the lights go down you hear a soft hum from the speakers in the ceiling, white noise to drown out the sound of the room.

You are lead up four stairs onto a small stage in the front of the room and all eyes turn to you. There is a tall woman standing in the center of the stage with a wireless microphone in her hands. She is large – not fat or overly muscled, but defined. She is wearing bike leathers, tailored to her figure and exudes power and command.

As you reach the center of the stage you feel all eyes in the room on you as the woman with the microphone says: "The bidding will start at $1,000."