I was a Teenage Sex God Ch. 05

An instant later, Lance charged towards them with the speed and force of a charging bull. He broke through the defensive wall like a bowling ball knocking over a set of pins. One of the stronger players grabbed his ankle. Lance dragged him a couple yards before shaking him off and reaching the end zone.

"Holy shit!" yelled Walker. "You just made a rushing touchdown!"

"A what?" asked a clueless Lance.

"You weren't supposed to do that," continued the coach.

"I'm sorry, coach. I won't do it again."

"No, no. I want you to do it again but you weren't supposed to do it. It is almost impossible to pull off something that difficult."

Lance scratched his head. In any case, he got the impression that practice went OK.

11pm

Lance smoked a joint in the parking lot of the truck stop. His date was late but that was cool. He already banged three chicks today so his dick was happy. Besides, the teen needed some time and space to think.

Angela, Tina, Morgan, Jeanie, Regina, Ashlee, Sasha, Natalie, Soledad... Lance tried to keep track of who he did so far. He bedded nine girls in a single week and would claim his tenth before sunrise. The sudden babe bonanza exhilarated him but also left him confused.

Powerful forces seethed inside his body. Sometimes he controlled them and sometimes they controlled him. He mostly believed in Samson but a part of him remained skeptical. Maybe all that weed gave him hallucinations. Further, the doctor his father sent him to visit had offered a reasonable scientific explanation.

According to his blood work, the young man possessed very low levels of Myostatin. Scientists theorized the protein set a limit on an individual's muscle growth. Without Myostatin, Lance experienced a rare condition known as 'muscle hypertrophy' that resulted in reduced body fat and increased muscle size. Apparently, the condition remained dormant until the recent workouts in his home gym. The weightlifting regimen triggered explosive growth, endowing him with twice the muscle mass of a typical 18-year old male.

Additionally, the doctor found unusually high testosterone levels in his blood. A normal male possessed 10 to 35 nanomoles per liter whereas Lance enjoyed an astonishing 2000 nanomoles. The number seemed so off-the-charts, the doctor performed another blood test just to confirm the lab had not made a mistake. The second result came back with a measurement of 2500 nanomoles. The doctor warned Lance his elevated levels carried risks. Though it would boost his sense of confidence and well-being, he might also become aggressive and disobedient. Neither trait would serve him well as a productive member of society.

Finally, the doctor mentioned that Lance might also be what scientists referred to as a "late superbloomer." Though evidence remained anecdotal, some doctors believed that a tiny subset of high-testosterone adolescents underwent normal sexual development until the age of 18. At that point, their bodies basically went haywire. They experienced accelerated penis growth, rapid muscular development, and a supercharged libido. After confirming that the teen "suffered" from these symptoms, the doctor recommended a vasectomy. Given his promiscuous disposition, the procedure could save him (and quite a few women) from problems down the road.

Lance was damn glad he got the big V. Otherwise, he would have bred enough kids for an orphanage by year's end. Better yet, his partners never had to fret about parenthood with a charming but dissolute rakehell. Lance wanted his lovers to enjoy his lovemaking talents without worrying that his big dick might rupture the condom.

VROOOM!

In the distance, Lance spotted the single headlight of a motorcycle turning into the far end of the parking lot. If this babe proved to be as hot as her photo on Tinder, he would be having a fun night. The Kawasaki Ninja H2R skidded right up to him and its rider hopped off. She wore a full leather motorbike riding suit that accentuated her sensual curves. In a single fluid motion, she took off her helmet and shook out her mane of strawberry blonde locks.

"So you're Lance Leo," said the jezebel with purple-glossed lips and a double-tongue piercing.

"I am," he smirked. "And that photo was real."

"We'll see about that," Harley Bolt replied with an amused but challenging look. Not even blinking, she walked right up to Lance and felt up his crotch.

"Damn," chuckled the blonde, not completely able to hide her excitement. Lance's organ suddenly lurched up in his pants. The movement startled Harley for a moment and she pulled her hand away. Realizing what just happened, she promptly returned it to his crotch and began to stroke the pulsing bulge.

"Babe," he whispered gleefully. "Have you ever fantasized about getting fucked by a ten-inch cock? Because I'm going to make it come true for you tonight."

Suddenly, Harley pulled back, cooling him off as quickly as she had turned him on.

Lance's jaw hit the ground. Was this chick bailing on their playdate?

"Relax, we're on," Harley reassured him. "But I'm not making it that easy. Here's the deal. I'm heading up Interstate 40, towards the motel where I'm staying. If your dumb-ass bike manages to keep up with mine, you'll know which motel."

"Seriously?" smirked the speed demon. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Harley put on her helmet, hopped on her bike, and sped off. Lance even gave her a head start of 30 seconds before he took off onto Interstate 40. He caught up to her fast. She was only going 85. However, when she saw him in her rearview mirror, she hit the gas and blasted off. The vehicle had a turbocharged engine that allowed it to go up to 180 MPH. Lance's classier but heavier motorcycle could barely break 120.

Just before her cycle entered the vanishing point, he saw its turn signal flash. She hung a right at Exit 42. Lance reached the Gas Lite Motel about two minutes later. Harley waited for him in the parking lot. She leaned against her Kawasaki Ninja with crossed arms and a smile.

"Your bike sucks," she teased him. "You didn't stand a chance of winning."

"So how come your name is Harley but you ride a Kawasaki?" Lance inquired, trying to change the subject.

"I guess that's one of those mysteries of life," she told him while pulling the keys to Room #14 from her pocket. "Sort of like 'How come I fall for well-hung playboys on Tinder?'"

"Let's get into your room and I'll show you," he smirked.

TWO HOURS LATER

Unlike a lot of the chicks at his high school, Harley proved more of a partner in crime than another notch on his impressive bedpost. The badass biker babe had a je ne sais quoi that got his dick hard. Their motel room mating progressed at a torrid, leisurely pace but the final destination between her legs remained certain.

Harley lay in bed, sweaty and naked, watching him tear open the gold foil wrapper of the Magnum XL. Carefully but skillfully, he unrolled it down his shaft, the turgid cockflesh smeared with her purple lipstick. Then, in a smooth, lithe movement of bicep muscles and upper body strength, he swung between her legs, positioned his knob at the juicy crease of her pussy, and pushed inside.

She was tight. He was massive. Both gasped audibly from the sheer pleasure of their perfect fit.

Lance glided into her lush heat slowly, deliberately, her body yielding by exquisite degrees. Halfway immersed, he slid his hands under her ass, pulled her hard against his groin, and felt a shudder slide up her spine.

"Open your legs wider," he told her in a commanding voice. "Wider!"

She readily complied. Flexing his powerful thighs, the cocksman plunged forward. Hilt deep and firmly lodged, the ladykiller murmured to her in a velvety and low tone: "Feel that?"

Harley answered in a long and low moan as pleasure flooded her pussy, curled her toes, set every nerve in her body alight. Lance felt no small satisfaction at her highly aroused condition. She had proven an elusive but thrilling conquest.

The blonde temptress clutched the bedsheets in a white-knuckled death grip, trying not to blow her cool. Harley's instinct told her not to concede so easily to the seductive charms of this smug Casanova. However, the slow, compelling pressure of that wrist-thick shaft rasping against her G-spot left her breathless. So when he began to withdraw, she audibly whimpered, desperate to preserve the bliss his manroot stirred within her womanhood. Her hands grabbed his butt to hold him in place.

"Don't move," she hissed. "Don't...Hey!"

"Chill, babe," he grinned reassuringly, knowing he now had gained the upper hand. "I ain't going nowhere."

Easily breaking her grasp, Lance began moving inside her slowly, smooth as silk, penetrating her steaming hotbox in long, satisfying strokes.

"You feel that, babe?" he goaded her. "Feel that big dick?"

"Oh God... Oh God... OH GOD..." she blurted out in a half-cry, half-sigh.

Suddenly, a cool wind breezed through the open window. The air became damp. Lance heard thunder in the distance. Images of Samson flashed through his mind. He saw the barbarian stud making love and fighting wars. Lance felt at one with him. The raging manbeast sped up his thrusts until the headboard slammed against the wall.

"Come on my cock, babe!" he roared, his yell accompanied by a loud peal of thunder outside.

The feel of him over her, in her, filling her, the exquisite tension coiling in her stomach, impossibly tight, then bursting into a maelstrom of bliss, rocking her world like a Black Sabbath riff through a 50,000 Watt amplifier.

"FEEL THE THUNDER, WENCH!!!" he boomed, fixing his stare upon her. She would never forget his eyes at that moment. The irises had turned a vivid shade of blue, almost glowing in the dark. His gaze seemed almost otherworldly. An instant later, a ball of lightning lit up the whole sky as if it were high noon. It might have lasted a few seconds or a few minutes. She could not recall. Either way, a deafening explosion followed, as great as if a hundred cannons had been fired at the same time. That was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

As Harley came back to her senses, she could smell sulfur lingering in the air. Lance had gotten out of bed. He still wore his used condom. The tip of his rubber had bloated to the size of a softball with the contents of his massive load. With a practiced hand, he unrolled the Magnum XL and tied it off so as not to make a mess. Lance then tossed the spunk balloon into a wastebasket. It landed with a loud thud.

"Not bad, pussycat," he smiled at her.

"Holy shit!" she panted, trying to catch her breath. "What the fuck just happened?"

"Glad you swiped right?" he teased, ignoring her question. Lance honestly did not know what the fuck just happened either. The intensity of this encounter clearly had awakened Samson. Crazy things came out of his mouth. And then there was that thunderbolt. His lovemaking seemed to trigger unexplainable phenomena. It happened on the night he lost virginity and just now.

"So what's your deal?" persisted Harley. Even though she was just as stoned as he was, the woman knew something unusual just occurred.

"What do you mean?" asked Lance guardedly.

"Hey, I don't want to pry but I'm just curious. Like what do you do for a living?"

Lance definitely didn't want to talk about being an 18-year old junior at Peoria Tech. Not cool. So he just stayed quiet and flashed her a Cheshire grin.

"I got it," she nodded with a sly grin of her own. "It takes a 1%'er to know a 1%'er."

"Babe, I don't have a lot of money. If you're looking for a sugar daddy..."

His answer cracked her up. Harley wasn't referring to "one-percenter" as in a member of the wealthy elite. She was referring to 1%'er as in a member of an outlaw biker gang. Lance later learned that motorcycle clubs such as the Hells Angels, the Bandidos or the Pagans, called themselves 1%'ers. The name was a response to a famous quote by the American Motorcyclist Association "that 99% of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens," implying the last one percent were outlaws.

At the present moment, however, he was too stoned and baffled to answer. His silence led her to believe he must be a 1%'er.

"So who are you affiliated with?" she asked.

"You're asking a lot of questions, babe."

"C'mon, you can tell me who you ride with."

"I ride alone," he finally told her, still not understanding her lingo.

"So you're a lone wolf," she concluded. "Because a guy like you could ride with just about any club he wanted."

"But I don't want to," he improvised. "And that's that."

Harley ended her interrogation. The gears in her head began to turn. Lance noted she had something on her mind.

"Listen," she told him. "I got a little business proposition for you."

Harley took a half-pound brick of hashish out of her purse. Its delicious fragrance immediately filled the motel room.

"This came from Afghanistan. Don't ask me how. Anyway, this merch is hot. I can't unload it on the street. But an unaffiliated guy could. How would you like to sell it on consignment?"

Lance loved the hash they smoked tonight but never fancied himself a dealer. That meant heat from the local cops. However, Officer Sanchez might provide some cover. If Peoria's Finest had any plans to bust him, she could tip him off.

"You're on," he finally told her.