He grabbed a fistful of my hair. I had obviously aroused the alpha male side of him I so desperately desired. As he tugged against my hair, I stood from my position at the table, kicked my shorts and panties to the side, and followed him as he shuffled toward the glass wall, restrained from taking large steps by the jeans still wrapped around his ankles.
As he came to a stop at the glass window, I looked upward and through the glass. The man and woman had stopped their workout, and stood talking beside the machines as they stared into the glass.
“Knees,” he demanded as he released my hair.
I eagerly dropped to my knees.
“Open,” he said.
I opened my mouth and raised my hands to my chest. As I massaged my boobs in my hands, he guided his cock past my waiting lips. He methodically began to work his manhood in and out of my mouth, allowing me to fantasize about the people on the other side of the wall actually witnessing me suck his dick. As I closed my eyes and drifted into la-la land, he slowly pulled his cock from deep inside my throat.
“Watch me,” he demanded.
I opened my eyes and anxiously watched as he stroked his cock vigorously. His swollen forearm and bicep were as much of a turn-on as him stroking his cock in my face. After roughly thirty seconds, he arched his back, began to moan, and pressed his free hand against my forehead, tilting my head slightly back. As I moaned in anticipation and continued to squeeze my boobs, he released my head and pounded his fist against the glass.
Kneeling in front of him squeezing my boobs like the sexually deprived woman I undoubtedly was, my eyes remained locked on his throbbing cock as his clenched fist worked to milk it of the special gift he reserved for me. I moaned in a combination of excitement and relief as I watched cum spurt from the tip and onto my face, lips, and into my mouth. As he groaned in pleasure, he continued to beat against the glass and grin like a mad man.
When he finally stopped plastering me with his warm wet sentiment, he shuffled to the side and grabbed a folded towel from the table behind him.
“Holy shit Otis, that was a lot of cum,” I said as I dragged my fingers across my face like little squeegees.
“Here, wipe off,” he said as he handed me the towel.
As I cleaned my face I noticed he glanced up at the glass and smiled.
Knowing the people in the gym had no earthly idea of what we were really doing, I wanted to play along, hoping to prolong Otis’ wonder of their voyeuristic nature.
“What?” I asked as I glanced up at him.
He shrugged his shoulders as he reached down to pull up his jeans. “They left after the show was over, but they got to see me jack it on your pretty little mug.”
“Well, at least they stuck around until the grand finale,” I said as I tossed the wadded up towel onto the top of the glass table.
After I found my shorts and panties, I got dressed. Otis was good for me in a really, really bad way. Saying no to him was impossible, and I liked that about him. He fully realized he was my Kryptonite, rendering me powerless in his presence, but although he might press right up against a few boundaries, he never took advantage of me. Knowing when to stop was a strength he seemed to naturally possess.
As we walked out of the room and into the hallway, he turned toward the gym and grinned.
“They got a hell of a show at the end,” he said with a nod.
I stopped and shook my head, laughing inside at the fact the glass was a one-way mirror.
“It’s one-way glass,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not when the lights are off in the pool room and dimmed in the gym. It reduces the reflective nature of the glass. They saw us, believe me.”
I considered what he said, realizing my eyes were closed at the end while he pounded against the glass. After a short consideration, I decided he was simply toying with me. I’d worked out in the gym on several nights of my week long stay, and all I had ever seen was my reflection.
“You’re full of shit,” I said.
He reached toward the door handle and pulled the door open.
“Go inside and look at the glass, smart ass,” he said as he tossed his head toward the door.
“Fine,” I huffed as I stepped through the open door and into the gym.
Although the lights were on, they were dimmed to a very low level of light, no different than they were when the couple was working out. I glanced around the room, and after a few seconds of my eyes adjusting to the lighting, I glanced at the mirrored wall.
The mirrored wall was no longer a mirror, but only a darkened sheet of glass. I gazed into the adjoining room and focused on the cum-covered towel I had wadded up on the glass table. As my mind filled with shock, my body and spirit filled with an eerie sense of sexual satisfaction knowing the couple had watched him fuck me and jack off on my face.
As I reached for the door handle I realized my life was going to be turned upside down in a very short period of time. Having Otis as a lover was something I knew very few women on this earth could handle, and I was one of the select few who were able.
Hell, I was probably the only one.
I opened the door, turned toward him and grinned. “What are we going to do when we get back to the room?”
“Could you see through the glass? See the pool?” he asked over his shoulder as he turned away.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded his head.
“So what are we going to do when we get back to the room? Sleep?” I asked again.
“Back to the room? We aren’t going to the room,” he said as he turned down the hallway which led to the parking lot.
“Where are we going, back to the bar?” I asked.
“Nope, going out to the bike,” he said. “I want to lick your pussy while you’re sitting on my bike.”
Somewhat shocked by his statement, but excited at the thought, I spun in his direction.
“In the parking lot?” I asked excitedly.
“Yep,” he responded as he opened the door.
I glanced out into the parking lot at his motorcycle. As I gazed at the silhouette in the glow of the parking lot lights, I began to itch all over. Within a second or so, my pussy began to tingle. I glanced up at him and grinned as I stepped through the door.
“Sounds good to me,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders and walked past him.
Having Otis in my life again was not only going to be a challenge, but would require some significant adjustments.
Adjustments I was more than willing to make.
OTIS
When I was eight years old, I wanted a B.B. gun for Christmas. After what seemed to be a lifetime of wait, Christmas morning came. I realized the elongated box Santa Claus had left by the tree could have contained anything, but as I tore the wrapping paper from the box, I hoped it was what I desperately felt I needed to move forward into manhood. Living in the Mid-west, a boy’s receipt of a B.B. gun was not only confirmation he was becoming a man, but proof he was a responsible young man worthy of the power the weapon possessed.
Much to my surprise and complete satisfaction, the box was clearly marked Daisy, the manufacturer of the undisputed king of B.B. guns. With my heart racing, I cautiously opened the box, being careful not to rip the precious cardboard.
As I hefted the gun from the box my heart swelled with pride. Fighting back tears of joy, I stood in my pajamas with the gun in my arms.
“He knew, Pop. He knew I was ready,” I exclaimed.
My father nodded his head. “Did he get you the right one?”
“Pop, it’s a Daisy,” I said with a grin. “The Red Ryder.”
He narrowed his gaze as he shifted his eyes toward the weapon. “Is that a good one?”
I grinned and nodded my head. “The best, Pop. It’s the best one on the entire planet.”
He grinned as he turned toward my mother. “Well, sounds like Santa Claus has got his shit together.”
And so began my love and respect for guns. I cherished
the weapon, and at least initially I took it with me everywhere I went. It sickened me to go to school without it, certain I just might need it for something Axton and I encountered in our walk to school or on our way home. The excitement didn’t soon fade, and on a typical morning I’d immediately check the wooden rack on the wall of my bedroom as soon as I woke to make sure it remained where I had left it the night before.
At the time, the thought of separating myself from my cherished gift left me feeling empty and exposed. Although I didn’t necessarily need it, being without it caused me to feel as if I didn’t appreciate it for everything it provided me.
With it in my presence, I felt a sense of self-worth and purpose I didn’t feel in its absence.
Separating myself from things I cherished for even a moment’s time had always been a difficult thing for me to do. The MC was a prime example of my inability to spend time away from something I truly held dear to my heart.
I glanced at my gun safe and grinned, knowing it still contained the B.B gun I had received twenty-eight years prior. Being at home while Sam continued to inventory her mother’s house was driving me insane. Similar to going to school without my B.B. gun while I knew it was at my disposal, being at home without Sam at my side left me feeling empty and alone.
I looked at my two motorcycles for a moment and eventually shifted my gaze to the car. Covered with a custom cover to preserve the perfectly restored condition, the car beneath the cover was an absolute pleasure to drive and a high-horsepower beast. I had purchased the car as a basket case when I was sixteen years old. In shambles, incomplete, and without a motor, transmission, or rear axle, my father had trailered the car home in piles and boxes. Together, over an almost two-year long time frame, we pieced the car together, and he loaned me the money for a driveline.
One of my father’s police force friends painted cars and did bodywork on the side for spare cash. After some negotiation and a little persuasive nature, my father convinced him to repair the car and paint it with a show quality paint job for my return of yard work. Halfway through my senior year in school, we completed the car.
Just in time for my senior prom and graduation.
Now, no differently than most other bikers, the thought of riding in a cage was repulsive to me. I reserved trips in the car for special occasions, often driving it once a month on a Sunday evening or taking it to local car shows. From time to time I’d remove the cover, drive it to Wichita, and street race some unsuspecting Corvette or a local teen with a Subaru WRX turbo he’d tricked out.
My special occasion 1969 Camaro Z-28.
I glanced at my Harley bagger. I shifted my eyes to my Heritage Softail. After a few moments of staring blankly at the bikes, I sighed, took a sip from my cup of coffee, and stared at the Camaro. I raised the coffee cup to my lips, finished the coffee, and placed the cup on the shelf beside the door.
I slowly walked toward the car, carefully removed the cover, and opened the door.
Fuck it.
If this isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.
SAM
Squatted in the corner of the back bedroom, I began to dig through a box I had found in the closet marked Samantha School. As I pulled each item from the box carefully, I realized just how much my participation in school activities meant to my mother. Report cards, photographs of me, and various newspaper articles announcing my successes in track, basketball, and debate were amongst the items I was surprised to find.
As much as I enjoyed the memories the newfound items brought to the surface, I realized I could spend nothing short of forever digging through the boxes in my mother’s home. Although she was a very neat woman, it was apparent she was somewhat of a pack rat, boxing up everything her life produced, keeping it for future reference or simply for the joy it brought her.
I glanced around the room as I dropped my 4th grade report card into the box. My mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotion, I tried to comprehend not only the work which was in front of me at my mother’s house, but the fact Otis was now back in my life.
Living in St. Louis wasn’t an option now, and although I knew after receiving my inheritance I didn’t need to work any longer, I felt I should to keep my sanity. Moving back to Wichita was going to take a little time, and thoughts of where I’d live and when I’d be able to move began to swirl in circles in my head.
I stood, stretched my aching legs, and gazed at the doorway.
“Meow…”
You disgusting furball.
Realizing my only way out of the room was blocked by the fuzzy varmint, I stomped my foot on the floor in an effort to scare her away. Although it appeared to initially startle her, she immediately settled into her sphinx-like posture again and stared at me with her golden glassy orbs.
As she stared at me, she blinked her eyes slowly a few times.
You nasty cretin.
I glanced around the room for something soft I could throw in her direction, and eventually decided it didn’t necessarily need to be soft. After some thought, I reached into the box, removed one of my brass medals from playing basketball, and slid it across the wooden floor, past her, and into the hallway.
Being the utter idiot she was, she quickly turned and ran toward the medallion, assuming it was alive.
While she attempted to bat the medal across the floor with her disgusting paw, I escaped the room, stepped past her, and down the hallway toward the living room. Feeling as if I needed to try and assemble a plan for my near future, what I was going to do about moving, and where I intended to live, my mind instead began to think of Otis and what little precious time we had spent together. As I sat on the loveseat recalled my best version of our pool room sex, a loud rumbling sound from outside caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.
It sounded like the world was coming to an end.
Curious as to what the noise might be, I stood and walked across the room. As I got closer to the window, the level of the sound increased and seemed to become closer and closer to the house. As the noise reached an all-time high, I pulled the curtains to the side and peered outside.
Immediately, my stomach filled with butterflies.
Is this even possible?
You still have it?
I ran to the front door and yanked it open. In the driveway, grinning from ear to ear, Otis was seated in what appeared to be a very nice likeness of the 1969 Camaro he drove throughout the latter years of our relationship. There was no doubt he had the ability to excite me sexually, but his car absolutely drove me into an entirely different type of sexual frenzy.
His car made me wet.
“Looks just like your old car,” I shouted over the sound of the exhaust.
He turned off the car and stepped into the driveway. Standing beside the car in a tee shirt, jeans, and his sneakers, he looked just like he did when we were in high school. As I stood on the porch admiring him and the car it seemed as if we had never been apart.
“It is my old car,” he said.
“You still have it? Seriously, is it?” I screeched.
He nodded his head proudly.
I jumped from the porch, ran to the passenger side of the car, and carefully opened the door. A quick glance of the glove box provided all the confirmation I needed to see. The Sublime sticker I had affixed to the center of the glove box door remained right where I had stuck it in 1996.
The lead singer of the band had died of a heroin overdose the day before we graduated high school. Paying tribute to him and my love of the band, I had stuck the sticker on Otis’ glove box while I waited in the car as he and Axton discussed our after graduation plans.
I glanced over the top of the car.
“It’s still there,” I said.
“Right where you left it,” he said. “I wanted to kill you for sticking that fucker on there, but I could never bring myself to remove it.”
“The memories this thing brings back,” I said as I glanced up and down the side of the car. r />
“Good ones,” he said as he walked around the front of the car.
“Take me for a ride,” I said as I reached for the door handle.
He turned around and walked back to the side of the car.
“Get in,” he said as he opened the door.
As the engine started, it startled me. The sound of the rumbling exhaust, thoughts of all the times I had sucked his cock while we’d driven to the movies, and the sheer excitement of seeing the car again caused me to begin to shake. I held my arm to the side and flattened my hand as he backed out of the driveway.
“Look,” I said as he shifted the car into gear.
“What?”
“I’m shaking,” I said as I nodded my head toward my hand.
“Why?” he said as he released the clutch.
I shook my head. “This car, you. Memories. Jesus, Otis. This is just crazy. I can’t believe…”
“Well, believe it. I’m not letting you get away this time,” he said over his shoulder as the car inched along the street.
“Promise?” I asked.
He released the gear shift, held his right hand at his side, and extended his pinkie finger from his otherwise clenched fist.
“Pinkie promise,” he said.
A chill ran down my spine. He remembered. We had made dozens of pinkie promises as kids, but he would never pinkie promise we would be together forever because he said he couldn’t guarantee it. According to Otis, and to his father, breaking a pinkie promise was punishable by cutting off the pinkie of the one who broke the promise.
I pointed my extended pinkie finger at him. “If you break a pinkie promise…”
“I’ll let you cut the fucker off with my dad’s pocket knife,” he said before I finished speaking.
“You sure you want to do this,” I asked.
With lightning-like speed, he reached for the gearshift, shifted gears, and thrust his hand into the air, locking my pinkie with his. Now with our hands in the center of the car with our pinkies intertwined, everything I had sat in the room and worried about no longer mattered. Now, I had Otis right where I wanted him.