It's September nineteenth, and that means it's time for your daily fuck on fuck it list Friday. What's on your fucked list? The world is a screaming blur of sound and speed. I'm pressed tight against his back, my arms wrapped around his waist, my face buried in the worn leather of his jacket. The motorcycle is a living beast beneath us. It's deep guttural roar, vibrating straight through his body and into mind. Every shift of his weight as he takes a curve, every flex of his hard ass
against my pelvis, is a primal invitation. We hit the on ramp and he opens the throttle. The bike leaps forward, accelerating into the wide, empty stretch of late night highway. The sheer, unrestrained power of it all is an intoxicating drug. The wind, the noise, the danger. It's a whole verging into a single sharp point of desire deep in my belly. I decide right then to add my own brand of chaos to the mix. I slide one hand from his waist down the taut muscles of his stomach. My fingers
find the rough denim of his chains. Then the cold hard button. It's a clumsy, one handed struggle against the wind, but I manage to get it undone. The rasp of his zippers swallowed by the engine's roar. I slip my hand inside. He doesn't move. He's an intense statue riding the highway and leg a statue. He's rock hard. He leans back, a slight acknowledgment that he is along for the ride. As I close my fingers around his cock,
the skin impossibly hot against the cold night air. He answers with a sharp intake of breath, his entire body pressing bag. Instead of leaning forward, I begin to stroke him, a steady rhythm that patches the pulse of the engine. The wind whit to my hand, but I hold on tight, my knuckles brushing against the vibrating fuel tank. He can't move, can't speak. All he can do is drive his back ramrod straight while I hold his pleasure in my hand. I feel his muscles clench, his whole body coloring into
a tight spring of inlit release. I slow and rub a thumb around the head of his cock. He answers by squeezing the throttle, lurching us forward even faster. I stroke and feel hand throb. I stroke his cock faster and faster, waiting for the release. I so badly want to feel his back arches and a guttural groan is torn from his throat, a sound that just barely reaches
me over the wind. I feel his cock throb violently in my hand, and a thick, hot shet of his cum shoots out a white arc that is instantly snatched by the wind and vanishes onto the black asphalt below. Another shot of com is lost to the night at that exact moment of his release his hand and still
actively twists the throttle again. The engine screams, and the bike surges forward, a rocket of pure, unrestrained power, flying down the empty highway towards the distant, glittering lights of the horizon.