Good Vibrations Magazine

By Tara Alton

I was sitting in my car in a traffic jam on Michigan Avenue after work when I noticed the guy on the Harley. He wasn’t your usual grungy, overweight biker with a greasy ponytail from around here. This guy was truly hot with a muscular body, beefy arms, and a deep tan with no visible tattoos. In his mid thirties, he was wearing a black leather vest and pants, and he radiated an extreme sexuality that I hadn’t seen for ages. I found myself unable to look away from him.

Maybe it was because I was wearing black leather myself that made him seem so intriguing. I’d bought the designer skirt online as a lark and I had no real reason to wear it until today when I decided to freak out the dress code Nazi at work who was getting completely out of control in my ultra conservative office. There was nothing specifically about not wearing leather in the dress code, and since the skirt was no higher than three inches above my knee, she couldn’t say a word to me.

Wearing the skirt had made me feel different all day. I wasn’t normal Chelsea in her khakis or cotton skirts. I was naughty Chelsea, who was revealing a great deal more of her hips than she ever had before. Someone had once told me that the fit of a leather skirt might be tight on the first wearing, but no one had told me it would fit me like this.

As the day passed, I had noticed the boys were checking me out, and a couple of the girls had mentioned maybe it was a little too warm outside for leather, but that was what air conditioned offices were for, I replied. Too bad my car didn’t have air conditioning, too. Sitting in the traffic jam in this heavy skirt was making my girlie parts moist not to mention the effect the biker was having on me.

Suddenly, he turned his head and looked directly at me. My stomach fluttered. How could he know I was looking at him? I hadn’t even turned my head in his direction and I was wearing sunglasses. Still it was as if he could sense the intensity of my gaze.
Not taking his eyes off me, he reached into his vest and pulled out a cigarette from a pack. From another pocket, he retrieved a big fat metal lighter, and just like in a cigarette commercial, he expertly flicked back the top, fired up the flame and lit his cigarette.

I creamed my thong on the spot.

“So that’s what you want.”

I blinked, the sudden sound of a voice jarring me. I turned my head to focus on Jackson, my co-worker, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to me. For a moment, I had completely forgotten he was even there. I was doing him a favor tonight by dropping him off at the car dealership so he could pick up his car.

Jackson was good looking in a way that was completely opposite from the hot biker. He evoked a boyish charm with his brilliant white smile complete with dimples. To me, he was a smarmy office boy with a naughty penchant for flirting with anything in a skirt. Since, I had never been able to gauge his level of sincerity with me; I had been participating in a flirtation with him for the last few months.

There had even been a couple times when I thought we were going to hook up. The first time was at a wedding reception where he was the best man. In the receiving line, he had actually kissed me on the lips, and I had felt a definite spark. Too bad, a couple of minutes later I saw him do the same thing to the skanky receptionist at work. Gross. I hadn’t been able to look him in the face for days after that.

Then there was the convention we attended together. I had implied I would be alone in my room that night, waiting to go over some notes from the seminar we had attended earlier that day. He never showed up. He told me he had fallen asleep after a long hot shower, but later I found he had gone to a strip club with the guys.

So it made me wonder on a daily basis, was he actually interested in me or was I just a potential notch in his bedpost? After I saw him bite his lower lip when he saw me today in this skirt, I was more inclined to think bedpost notch.

I shook my head no to answer his question about the biker.

“I can see it in your face,” he said. “And believe me, I know your face.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

He shrugged, leaning over to get a better look at the biker, who had partly turned away, but I could still feel his awareness on me.

“It means that I have been trying to get your attention for months,” he said.

Jackson was so close to me now that I could see the flecks of blue in his eyes and the tiny ridges on the front of his teeth as he spoke.

“I’ll bet you’re wet,” he said.

“I’m not,” I insisted.

Without warning, he dropped his hand on my thigh, right where my leather skirt stopped so he was touching bare skin. The sudden heat of his skin against me caused me to suck in my breath. I know I should have brushed his hand away because this was a completely inappropriate level of intimacy between two co-workers, but I didn’t want him to think he was getting to me. Besides, he would never go all the way and find out exactly how wet I truly was.

I took off my sunglasses, shook my head as if he was only annoying me, and I looked back out the driver’s side window. Then I swallowed, hard. The biker was looking back at me. Our gazes locked. Now it was my turn to bit my lower lip as I tried to block the images in my head of him roughly kissing me, taking command of my body, and him letting me feel just how hard he was under the zipper of those leather pants. I would have sworn I could actually smell the leather on his skin from here.

Next to me, I could feel Jackson’s warm breath. His finger was slipping under the hem of my skirt. I glanced down for a second to see it inching up under the leather before I looked back out at the biker.

Jackson lowered all his fingers down. I was surprised to feel how rough his hand actually was. For an office boy, he had very masculine hands. I had never imagined he would have his hand up my skirt like this, but I still didn’t think he had the balls to go all the way. He would chicken out and he would never know for sure if I was wet or not.

I wasn’t going to let him know he was getting to me by my expression either. I was going to keep it cooler than cool, but to be honest, I was throbbing so badly down there, I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know what was getting me hotter, maintaining the eye contact with the biker or Jackson’s hand up my skirt or the combination of both in some bizarre traffic jam three way.

Taking a last puff on his cigarette, the biker flicked the butt aside and he rubbed his jaw as he studied me.

Jackson leaned in closer to me, his mouth near my ear.

“He’s looking at you like that because you’re gorgeous,” he said. “And if he knew what you looked like in this skirt, he’d go crazy. It’s been driving me mad all day.”

His hand slid up toward my inner thigh. My legs gave an involuntary squeeze.
Suddenly, the biker was angling his head to see better in my car. I could see it in his eyes that he had noticed Jackson. For a moment, I thought he might look away, but he didn’t. He looked back at me.

Right at that moment, Jackson’s fingers hit the fabric of my thong between my legs. Not only could he feel how wet I was, he was in the epicenter of my throbbing.

“O.K.,” I said. “You know.”

For a moment, I thought he might pull out, happy with his victory, but without warning, he pushed my thong aside and sought out my clit. At first, I thought he was going to be one of those men who frantically rubbed it like they were trying to erase it off my body, but he gently rubbed it using two fingers, going slowly at first, then quicker as I became wetter.

I gasped; surprised at the amount of pleasure he was giving me so quickly. I considered someone fingering me to be intensely personal, something that the opposite sex took a while to understand, but it was as if Jackson already knew me.

Suddenly, he turned more toward me. His fingers were pressing deeper inside me. Was he actually going to try to finger fuck me? I hadn’t let a boy do this since making out in a car in high school.

As he slowly moved his fingers in and out, I closed my eyes, but it wasn’t Jackson I saw in my mind’s eye. It was the biker. I was getting off on the idea of him watching Jackson have his hand up my skirt. I’d always sensed that maybe I was a bit of a kinky girl, and this skirt was definitely releasing all sorts of sex demons in my brain.

Jackson suddenly changed the position of his fingers. He arched them inside me as if he was trying to stroke the inside of me. It was if he had tripped a light switch of pleasure. An overwhelming heat jolted up through me.

Suddenly, I felt as if my heart was pounding in my ears, not to mention the frantic buzz saw throbbing in my clit. My pussy was squeezing tight on his fingers. I felt my toes curling in my black pumps. My whole body tensed as an orgasm ripped through me.

“Hey,” a voice said on the outside of my car window.

I jumped, my eyes flying open. To my surprise, I saw the biker was standing right outside my window. Jackson immediately pulled away his hand, like a kid caught in the candy jar. I felt the heat of an orgasm blush on my neck and cheeks as I looked into the biker’s baby blue eyes.

Taking a gulp of air, I tried to focus on what he was handing me. It was a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it. Hands trembling, I took it. He smiled at me and strolled back to his bike.

Jackson leaned over to see what was on the paper. He frowned as he saw the phone number.

“You’re not going to call him,” he said.

I was going to answer him when suddenly I noticed he was looking for something to wipe his fingers off on. He was acting as if my love juices were battery acid. To my disbelief, he grabbed my grandmother’s silk scarf, which was hanging out of the glove compartment.

Traffic started to move. The biker took off with a roar. He would never do that to my grandmother’s silk scarf, I thought as smoothed my leather skirt back around my thighs. It was odd, but my orgasm seemed to have totally cleared my head like a strong shot of hot sauce. I knew exactly what I wanted, and it involved a lot more leather.

***

Tara Alton’s erotica has appeared in Best Women=s Erotica, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Clean Sheets and Scarlet Letters. She lives in the Midwest where she works as a travel consultant. When she is not working or writing, she collects tattoos and worships Bettie Page. Check out her website at www.taraalton.com