The Rider

- Continues from Hard Rain, but can be read stand alone:

You flinch, a reflex running from shoulder to toe, awoken, snapped awake. The rain pelting the windows, the wind blustering, rocking the carriage of your camper van, the trees "shhhhhushing" as they sway, and the thunder still rumbling hungry, hundreds, maybe thousands of feet above.

Then you pick it out, your ears stretching into the silence where you hear a man-made rumbling, a burbling sound, an engine, growing slowly louder.

A shaft of crisp white light cuts through the black, and for a moment straight line shadows sweep the ceiling and interior.

The engine noise much clearer now, it's running slow, and not a car, it sounds raspier, throatier; rougher... it's a heavy bike.

Who the hell would be riding in this? You pull yourself up and peer at the small rear window cut into the door of the camper, the pane of glass bright lit and white, illuminated by the oncoming headlamp, but you can't see through the opaque glass, steamed on the inside, soaked in ever running rainwater on the outside.

You push your faux fox fur blanket to one side and stand in your socks, pulling your heavy sweater down to cover the tops of your thighs. You move toward the door and carefully wipe the condensation, with your sleeve bunched in your hand, all the while peering out.

And there you see the single round lamp, with silver streaks of rainwater reflecting up off the slick wet road, as the rider diligently struggles against the buffeting wind and driving rain.

Good god, you think, I would not want to be caught in that, and you prepare to duck down as you anticipate the bike approaching and passing. But no, and your heartbeat quickens as you realize the rider is slowing, pulling over and coming to a rest behind you.

You slowly rise up again to glimpse over the lip, where the window pane sits inside the door, where the cold metal stops and the glass begins, and you almost jump backwards as there at the door stands the silhouette of the rider.

Quickly you duck back down, but you're certain he's seen you. Shit, shit, shit, your mind whirls, I knew I wouldn't be safe here, I knew it, I knew it, goddamn I knew it, over and over you berate yourself, what will I do?

You hear the man's voice, "Hey, you in there?"

What the fuck? Who the hell? You say to yourself. And again he calls out, "Hey, are you there?"

Quick as a fox your mind searches your memory, rifling through an inventory of voices, looking for a match. And your eyes widen impossibly, but it can't be, it couldn't be, for crying out loud he wouldn't know where to find you!

He couldn't, he can't, he's a memory.

Again the rider calls out, and this time you're certain it's him, but that was years ago, ten at least, what the fuck?

Rising up, you look out through the rear window and the rider looks back, his black crash helmet held in his gloved hand, his long hair pulled back, tucked inside his neck gaiter.

He's hunching, ducking down, with the windswept rain lashing against his now exposed face, and you see those impossible features, his warm smile below those dark brown eyes, and while you can't begin to explain any of this, you accept that you do know this man, and somehow, unchanged with time, he is here, tonight, and at your door.

The rider, staring wantonly into your eyes, calls out again, only more gently, "Hey, thank god it's you, can you let me in?"

In a trance you reach forward and release the latch, the door swinging open and outward, the cold wet air rushing in and clenching, goose bumping at your bare legs. You recoil as the rider steps up and carefully clambers in, closing the door securely behind him.

He turns once more to face you, his dark brown eyes alive, their creases crinkling, smiling, beguiling. The brightness coming from his eyes climbing in through the opening of your own, your pupils so wide, hungry for any light in this darkness.

Never a fan of flashlights, you fumble for some matches on the counter top, and striking one you cup your hand to light a simple candle, one you had standing by and ready just in case.

"My god, you're soaked" you say, and the rider pulls his shoulders from inside his heavy black leather jacket and lets the sodden weight slump to the floor at the foot of the camper door.

"Do you have a towel I could use?" he asks, never demanding, but somehow commanding, his voice centered, deep and low, as confident and strong as you always remembered him to be.

"Yeah, sure, of course" you fluster, your mind yelling: why didn't you think of that already? You pull out the only large one you have and hand it over.

"Great, thank you" he says with a warm, genuine and deeply grateful tone.

"I didn't anticipate this" he says, glancing toward the window where the rain continues to sacrifice its seemingly relentless droplet army. His eyes coming back to yours, then pausing, as slowly and deliberately he lowers his gaze, an effortless, approving smile forming, framed inside his rugged jaw, one that speaks openly of his total appreciation for your elegant feminine beauty, ignoring the woolen socks, and admiring your long slender legs and fabulously bare thighs.

His eyes return to yours and his smile widens with total recognition, you haven't fixed each other's gaze in over a decade, and you're not sure how any of this is possible, but you do know that if he wants you, and it seems that well he might, then...

"Would you mind?" he asks openly with a masculine tone that's strikes you as very thoughtful, yet mingled with suggestion and heavier connotation.

You follow his eyes as he glances downward again, only this time more steeply, turning to his own thighs, and while gesturing with his hands that he'd be relieved if he too could remove his jeans, stuck heavy as they are, cold, waterlogged and sodden against his own strong limbs.

"No, of course, go ahead, you'll be freezing else" you say, flustered, and you tug downward on your pullover to cover more of your thigh, then try to appear relaxed by sitting back on the furled fur throw that remains rudely warm with the potent ecstasy and energy you'd privately shared only a short while earlier.

Your thigh muscles sensitively contort to bring your knees tightly together and as they begin to grip one another you sense a tactile echo from your earlier tryst.

Is that a little residue from the luxurious juice your pussy possesses and generously provides, squeezing jubilant, exalted to shimmer on the surface of your still tingling labium, a covert but never the less confident confirmation of your re-awoken arousal?

Your gymnastic mind is bending, back-flips, somersaults and cartwheels, wondering how any of this is happening, this intimately familiar form from another chapter in your life, brought fourth and visceral in this moment.

You idly gaze as the rider pulls his t-shirt away from his lean and muscular frame, passing it over his head, his long hair now falling around his broad shoulders.

His torso lean and powerful, he stoops to pull his weathered, sodden, square toed, mid-calf length boots out from under his equally road worn and rain drenched boot-cut jeans.

Less glamorous, he peels his saturated socks away, then slip-slaps his unbuckled jeans down over his knees and calves, and steps clear of them, applying the clean dry towel to the cold skin of his calves and thighs, and slowly straightening upward, where you see he has no underwear and stands before you naked, but for the towel that he works against himself.

His eyes once again fix yours, and his expression shrieks of how well he knows you. Knows you inside out, back to front, upside down, and every which ways. And he knows that he wants you.

He won't make a move, he's not so bold, but he's not too shy either, his eyes always had a way to make it known he's yours if you want him, and fuck, you blush from within, remembering how he's built, physically built, built to give mortal satisfaction and primitive attention.

If this is a dare, you take the bait. You won't take your eyes away from his gaze and in the periphery you sense, by the undulating movement of his broad shoulders, that his equally strong forearms are moving to allow his expert hands to guide the towel around his torso.

Rainwater gathers in the matted mess of his hair and you see a single bead drop through the dark long lashes of his right eye. In reflex he pulls the towel toward his face, blinking, and in like-minded reflex you steal away for a split second and glance at the heavy cock that hangs between his legs.

Your eyes flash back to find his, feeling found out, but you both know you're equally guilty, and while you can't explain how any of this can be happening, you also give in to the undeniable truth.

You sense a change of pace in his breathing, his heart must be quickening and he needs more oxygen, "come here then" you gently command, much like you might see a parent address a shamed and naughty boy who needs to be coaxed to come forward and receive his forgiveness when it's clear he fears a punishment.

Slowly the biker steps forward, you reach your hand inside the towel and expertly your fingers furl and form a loose fist around his fantastically firming phallic cock.

You gently apply and release your grip feeling the weight, the growing girth; measuring the thickness with your palm and remembering from so far back how good this cock feels when you both take control and surrender.

Your eyes are fixed with his, glinting with ever brighter shards of lust. With your free hand you brush the towel away, and so now it hangs at his side loose gripped in his right hand, allowing you to freely inspect the phallus in you hold.

You glance downward seeing a single opalescent tear born at the tip of this beautiful thick cock. You watch as this dew drop trembles and escapes down the lip of his shining, smooth, swollen, bulbous cock-head.

Then lubricating, beneath the folds of your fingers, as they rhythmically massage the thick shaft, until finally the glistening clear pre-seminal fluid disappears into the darkness.

You know what he wants; archaeological muscle-memory digs up the covenant of lust from the desert dust and burial chambers of the distant past. He wants you. He wants your legs spread, your pullover pushed up above your waistline. He wants you to guide his swollen member deep inside the wet wrung interior of your heat.

He wants your thighs trembling; your labia pushed open, swollen, sodden, compromised, quivering, helpless, and wanting. He wants the venal crystallization of your fantasy, your soft curves, lusting lush fruits, flooded canals, high tides of desire, breathless, ravening, and ravenous.

You look up, with his total erection pulsing within the undulating grip of your ever so gently squeezing hand, your eyes survey this marble-like statue carved of all there is to being a man, his masculinity immutable, so hard and strong nothing could harm him, not with you, never.

Your pupils dilate further, like obsidian mirrors formed of volcanic glass, a gateway to your innermost intimate channels, and you return to the earlier chaos of your neural storm, gazing deeply into the warm molten abyss of his brown eyes until you are at one with his soul.

You fix one another; your right hand rhythmically milking the length of his phenomenally gorged and rigid cock. Has any man wanted you as much? Could any man?

Reaching out with your free hand, you curl your guiding fingers in beneath his long hair, to circle around the back of his thick neck and gently ease his obedient torso to come closer.

He places one arm forward to steady himself, and you sense his hidden strength revealed, summoning a softening inside you, sympathetic to how engorged his veins, they pulse as they snake across the surface of his muscular forearm.

Your excitement and anticipation accelerates as you feel his free hand pushing bravely at the rim of your sweater. You alternate your weight, shifting your pelvis to allow the knitwear to slip free and ride up easily above your waist line.

Pulling his lion-mane like head within inches of you, his broad open chest and powerful shoulders loom over you. Your mouths hover, hungry for one another, yet overridden by the desire of your eyes, who cannot, will not, compromise your interlocked gaze.

From the powerful light you breaking through from his deep brown eyes you sense his desire inside you long before the promise of his cock has even reached you.

Submission overwhelms you and you begin to allow your head to tip back and your upper body falls away offering by extension your beautifully gorged breasts arching upward beneath their knitted covering.

Your bullet-hard dark nipples, erect and longing for the attention they wantonly deserve. Your knees draw up towards you as if searching for sight of your shoulders, while your hips relax allowing your supple thighs to yield and spread, yawning slowly open.

His hands now pull at your sweater and rag doll you're overwhelmed body cooperates, you close your eyes and release your right hands grip as effortlessly he pulls the garment away and over your head.

Opening your eyes to see the raw excitement flashing across his face as he fixes on the revealed magnificence of your screaming firm breasts. Your brazen nipples waving their distress, begging and urging him to rescue them from their stranded islands.

To feel his hot lips snog their firm surface, and reunite with the French kiss of his tongue hungrily feeding on each quivering nipple, neglecting one only to attend to the other.

He doesn't hesitate. His lusting tongue flicking them gloriously, his hot lips sucking hard, starving and wanting. You groan loud on first contact, your left hand pulling harder on his neck, your fingers splaying out through his long hair to gain greater pressure against the base of his skull, where you cradle this man/boy.

Nursing him now at your breast, feeding him the nurturing love that swells behind the walls of your chest, where your heart pounds and pounds, gasping and groaning to keep pace with your lungs, pushing the blood, stripping the air of oxygen and heating the moans of dioxide you push away with every longing groan.

Your occupied hand, guided by memory, confidently resumes the tugging grip on his now rock hard shaft. His breathing has become erratic, his caress at your breast too intense to allow him time to draw the air he needs.

You feel him pulling his head away, his body straightening, his eyes staring directly into your own then working their way over the surface of your collar bones, the phenomenal firmness of your breasts and nipples, the feline curve of your chest, rising and falling.

You follow his gaze downward and acknowledge the beauty of the woman you see stretched out before this man. You look beyond the center-line of your taught body, your green eyes hooking into the threat and primal promise of the magnificent cock gripped confidently in your hand.

His eyes wait for your return, and you groan with anticipation as you gently tug him nearer, and your labia excitedly reports the pressure of his thick cock-head nudging at your luxuriantly soaked and separating lips.

Hurting, hollow and fighting with a fear that he won't fit, you scramble to regain confidence and relax your tightening, insides exploding, insecure, despite the sensations of copious lubrication pouring through you.

You stroke the smooth fat head between your now soaking labial lips. You spasm as the guiding, gliding head of this massive cock pushes through.

And with seemingly glacial pressure and strength, a wave of surety and certainty pushes through you, slowly sliding aside the imaginary pillars of your lush, plush, perfectly tight, wet pussy, making safe harbor for his Herculean cock.

You breathe in and abandon your control, allowing your eyes to roll back into your head as you visualize the very proof of your possession. Losing yourself inside your fertile mind, where you choose to project the sight of his incredible cock glistening with your wetness, an image of your own conquest, now seared into your brain like a brand.

You lower any remaining defenses and surrender to the visualization you privately project behind your closed eyelids, the looping, thrusting, fluid movement, seeing his thick shaft disappearing inside you, over and over and over again.

Your free arm rests, bent, elbow at your side, palm up beside your shoulder, you feel his weight shifting as he retracts his arm, the firm grip of his strong hand anchoring around your bicep and his muscular motion pushing your arm out straight, exposing your bare flank, the ribs that swell with every gasp and groan.

You glimpse him eyeing you hungrily. He sees into your now open eyes and gently tips his head back, swelling his chest, breathing deeply, controlled, powerfully stroking every inch along the inside of your beautiful snug.

Gently gripping and releasing the miniature muscles along your pelvic floor, you squeeze and tease his throbbing cock, amplifying the sensations of every long deep stroke.

His open left hand now begins to press more firmly, palm down, fingers spreading over the back of your right thigh, pushing your long limb forward; your right knee stretching toward your right shoulder.

Tenderly opening you wider to receive more as this cock keeps growing and finding ever deeper passage. The tired muscle of your calf resting gently on his solid shoulder, slipping occasionally and sensing the solid physicality of his whole upper body.

You listen to his sounds, basking in the glow of his radiant affection. You visualize the deep, deeper, deepest, sliding motion and you feel so confident in the pleasure, feeling his masculinity complete you.

Deep inside you, both physically and metaphysically: body, mind and soul, you're bound together in a corporeal copulation that transcends any and all meaning, together you connect as one, tied inside the eye of this storm, and defying the tempest that rages all around you. An intertwining of souls that has a history of consummate connection tethered to the foundations of time.

He's begging, gasping, sounding like a man drowning, fighting to hold on, to keep going, you sense he needs your permission; some part of him can never sink peacefully into the limbic abyss of his bursting orgasm without your blessing. He needs your acceptance, your approval, only you can bestow this honor on him.

His truth exposed, he's coming for you; your prince, your knight, your protector, your warrior, your rider in the storm. You, who'd been trapped chaste and alone in a metaphoric castle, and finally he's here, way below, pushing, wanting and working his way toward you.

And he will come, you want him to come, you will him to come, and when he does you beg yourself to find the courage to surrender and allow your very core to crumble, your walls, flesh and blood, to shake with his releasing and free you to embrace the eternity of his longing, so good and deep inside you.

You place your free hand on the face of his thigh and with equestrian control his reigned motion stops, his shaft fully unsheathing, leaving only the spear tip of his heavy velvet un-hooded cock-head, immersed, nudging and moaning at the gates of your exotic, erotic citadel.

Your eyes open and he looks at you with hope, and seeking affirmation that he is pleasing and not failing you, he smiles and as if to convey the warmth of his confidence, with a deep dry voice he softly says, "you're beautiful, you are so utterly beautiful".

You look at him, expressing an apology, and softly you confess, "I can't come, honey, I want to, god I want to, but I need..." he breaks in, "I know... I know... do you have anything here that can help?"