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

Sugar Rush

By Tara Alton

When I met him, I was a little awestruck with his blue eyes, dark wavy hair and dimples, but I told myself he wasn’t someone you could take seriously.

No one with his dreamy looks could ever be interested in me, and yet when he started to look my way, I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t going to be another notch in his bedpost. I told him that if he was ever going to get near the vicinity of the top button of my pants than he was going to have to court me in an extraordinary way. He had to discover the one thing I truly loved and he had to demonstrate this knowledge beyond the plain and simple obvious gesture.

Sure, it was easy enough to buy a girl flowers and candy, and I starting to think he was way off the mark with a dozen daisies and a box of assorted chocolates from the grocery store, but after he caught me savoring a caramel when I thought he wasn’t looking, he realized my true love was possibly sugar.

It was then he brought me a single piece of elegant milk chocolate layered with pecans, caramel, and marshmallow that was tucked inside a little, pristine paper white bag. This was the dreamiest concoction that had ever entered my mouth, and by the time I finished it, my panties were feeling positively moist.

During the next few weeks, more delights followed. He took me for a chocolate milk shake in a retro malt shop, a plate of French toast drizzled with warm maple syrup in a diner, and a cupcake with so much frosting that it blew my mind in a local bakery that I never knew existed.

I was becoming saturated with sugar in my every pore. I had never been happier. By the time he brought me a perfect pink frosted donut to my apartment, every sprinkle like a jewel, I decided I was going to let him in the region of the top button of my pants.

As I sat next to him on the sofa, the last crumb of the donut safely between my lips, I moved his hands over to my waist. With fumbling fingers, he undid my first button. A sigh escaped me. Now his hand was trembling inside the waistband of my pants, the warmth of his fingers on my skin, his fingertips unknowingly brushing the beginnings of my treasure trail. His lips were next to my ear.

“If you let me go any further, I will buy you all the sugar I can find from Detroit to New Orleans,” he said.

I paused, knowing full well that I was already going to let him strip me bare like Lady Godiva and lick every sweet inch of me, inside and out, but I just couldn’t resist.

“I’ll just take another piece of that heavenly chocolate,” I said, pushing his hand toward the neither regions of my panties where the other epicenter of true bliss lay.

The End

Copyright 2007 Tara Alton.

He is someone so out of my reach, but he is so breathtakingly hot in a lick-his-stubble kind of way. I see him every morning on the commuter train into the city. I’m not sure why he is on the train every morning when he appears to be an upper-class executive, judging by his expensive suits and trench coats. Maybe he is one of those people who only takes his Porsche to the countryside on the weekends because he doesn’t want to take his baby to the city during the week.

He sat across from me once, and I was writing something naughty and eating black cat licorice at the same time, as I usually do when I write. I prayed he could read upside down. I was composing something truly filthy, another story for one of those raunchy magazines you see in the sex shops in London. It keeps me in mad money while I’m housesitting for the summer for my aunt.

The story was about biting. I like things that bite me back — strong black coffee, black strap molasses cookies, and licorice that is so sweet, dark and salty it made your eyes water. The black cats were the best. I became hooked on them when I visited my sister in Michigan and there was a vintage candy store near her house. Now she ships them to me in one-pound bags, like drugs.

I have to have a black cat in my mouth when I write porn. I would even like to eat them when I’m having sex, but there hasn’t been anyone I have been attracted to until now. That was why I wanted him to glance at my writing, because I knew a secret about him. Mr. Uptight Business Man reads this stuff. I was checking him out, taking in details like no wedding ring, laptop or Ipod, when I noticed an anthology of erotic stories tucked inside his newspaper. Maybe I wasn’t writing high-class enough stuff yet to be published in a real live book, but I was working on it.

I popped another black cat in my mouth as I stared over at him today and I daydreamed about him reading something of mine. Words made for wet dreams about sticking fingers in orifices. Just thinking about it made the fuck bunnies in my brain start to hump. Turning over the licorice in my mouth, I squeezed it gently in between my teeth, feeling the slight give, imagining it was his finger.

I just had to get his attention, but how could I? He never even glanced my way.

I decided to leave him a calling card. I got on the train before he did in the morning anyway, so the next day; I left a black cat licorice on the window ledge where he stared out the window for most of his trip. I figured he would see it, wonder who left it, look around and see me eating them, making the connection. Then I could give him a little wave and we would be off and running.

The only thing is that he stared through my little black cat as if it wasn’t even there. Maybe he thought it was a smudge, but a smudge wasn’t shaped like a cat.

The next morning, I tried two black cats.

I got the same response. I sat there staring at him as he gazed out the window, a definite bulge in his newspaper under his arm that could only be another book. Perhaps he was as blind as a bat?

A few days later, I was up to five black cats. At the rate, I was sacrificing my black cats for his attention; I would have none left for myself. The train was so crowded by the time he departed, I didn’t have the nerve to retrieve them and someone was taking them after I left. Probably a cleaning person who thought a bored little child was making his or her job that much harder.

I slipped my hand inside my candy bag inside my tote bag, feeling the little pussies tumble around my fingers. I would only sacrifice seven more.

The morning I was going to do seven, I was so convinced he would notice me, my nether regions were positively throbbing. All this pent-up sexual energy was making me dizzy. I lined up the seven little black cats on the window ledge, an elderly woman giving me an odd look as I took my seat across the aisle, but I decided to ignore her and opened my journal.

He got on the train and took his seat. My breath caught short. I’d never believed in black cats and magic before, but I knew seven had to be the magic number.

His gaze narrowed at the window. He frowned. He reached forward and he knocked six of the cats off the ledge onto the floor. The last one he took in his fingers for a moment and he studied it. This was it. He was going to look around the carriage any moment.

I started writing furiously in my notebook and popping black cats in my mouth. Out of the corner of eye, I saw him smell it and for a second I thought he might pop it in his mouth and that would be such bliss to know he was eating the same thing I was at this instant, but he let it fall to the floor and stared back out the window.

You bastard. My seven black cats were on the floor. They gave up their precious little lives for you. What a waste. In my mouth, the several cats I had popped inside were spinning in a bizarre dance of too much flavor at one time even for me, but there was no way I could spit them out now.

I kept furiously writing, writing to him about all the things I wanted to do to him and what I wanted him to do to me. My words jumped forward. I was nearly blind with tears. Twist my wrist and make me beg. Shove my narrow hips anywhere you want to go. Give me a look that will sear the panties right off me. See you squirm. Pan for gold and find the big nugget.

The train lurched. I looked up. He was getting off. I got up and sat in his seat, feeling the warmth of him in the cushion and I reached down, retrieving the seven black cats from the floor. The cleaning person shouldn’t have to pick them up anymore. No idiotic kid was throwing away her candy. There was just me.

By the time I got to class, I was still so horny I had to go masturbate in the women’s bathroom. The moment I closed the stall door, I hiked my skirt and leaned against the stall wall for support while I slid my hand under my panties, my index finger hit the right spot like a heat-seeking missile. I closed my eyes, thinking about pushing him inside my flat, shoving him on the floor and climbing astride him. I could smell his skin and the scent of the city on his trench coat, the firm edge of an erotic book in his pocket digging into my knee. I would fuck him with all this clothes on, just his pants unzipped, riding up and down his straining cock, until his eyes rolled back into his head with an unbelievable orgasm.

With both my hands in my panties now, the stall wall cool on my flaming hot face, I came, my legs nearly buckling beneath me.

Later in class, feeling physically and emotionally drained, I thought after all that sugary disappointment on the train, I would be all done with the black cats, but during the lecture, it came back. That itch. I dug into my tote bag, freed one from the plastic bag and snuck it in my mouth.

Then I started to write this story.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. I don’t know why I thought it would take seven black cats to get him to notice me when it was right in front of me all along. My words would get him to notice me. My words would get him to say hello and maybe ask me out to coffee. My words might get him to come back to my aunt’s flat so I could fuck the living shit out of him.

I’m going to leave this story on his seat tomorrow morning, and just so he knows this is the real deal, I’m going to sacrifice one more black cat. I’m going to put it inside the envelope as well.

Oh, why was I at this party? There was nothing to do. There was hardly any eye candy to distract me either, except for one tall guy. He had an awesome build, like maybe that of a high school wrestler. I didn’t know what I liked more, his nice strong looking arms or his brown soulful eyes.

He had glanced my way once, but that was it. So much for some sparks with a stranger at a dock party.

It was then I spotted the blue Jell-O shots in the lime green bucket. Now that was a good idea. That could wile away some time as I waited for my friend to return. Taking two fistfuls back to my table, I popped the tops, stuck in my tongue and extracted the wiggly nectar. By my twelfth, I was positively tipsy.

Suddenly, one Jell-O shot attacked the front of my dress. Finding the bathroom line too long, I located a spigot on the back of the bait shop. Furiously trying to wash it out, I realized someone had followed me. It was the tall guy.

At first, I thought he was just gawking at obvious sight of my hard nipples from the cold water, but with some pretext, he leant his assistance. What he knew about fabric cleaning I had no idea, but he seemed rather committed.

Eventually, something did seem to be happening though, but it was not the removal of the blue stain. I was looking at the curve of his Adam’s apple, wishing I could give it a good lick when he gave my breasts a good squeeze; I let out a moan. He slid his hands up my dress. Thankfully, I’d chosen a thong that morning. He ran his hands over the globes of my bare ass and down the length of my legs.

“I’ve been checking you out since you got here,” he said. “And when you were licking that Jell-O out of those little cups, I thought I was going to go insane.”

“Good thing I had more than one,” I said.

He pulled down my thong and found my clit. It was sticking right out. He sucked it, sending jolts of pleasure through my body. Over the nub, he rolled his tongue, pushing my hood back to get at the delicate center. I gripped his hair and pulled his head closer.

As he stood, I looked him in the eyes. He undid his belt and his zipper. His cock sprang out as he tugged down his jeans. I took it in my hand, and I began to play with him, the sound already slippery and wet, as he buried his face between my breasts. He pinched my nipples, twisting hard.

The motion of my hand on his cock got my breasts going to a good beat. He sucked on a nipple, his hands squeezing beneath my rib cage to heave my breasts further as they bounced up and down. My free hand slid to my pussy. My clit was buzzing like a band saw as he pressed against me, his breath ragged.

The tip of his cock was wet as well. His shaft was becoming sticky in my hand. I leaned over and let a slow mouthful of saliva flow over its head.

Unable to take it a moment longer, I got on my knees and sucked him, flicking the head with my tongue. As I took him deeper in my mouth, I heard him groan with pleasure. He stroked my head, started to move his hips, fucking my mouth. Taking him as deeply as I could, I ran the tip of my tongue along the ridge under the head, wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, and kept them there. With my other hand, I squeezed his balls firmly and I teased him by changing the amount of suction. Sliding my hands around his ass, I gave his butt cheeks a good squeeze, feeling his cock get more rigid in my mouth.

A chill washed over me as he pulled out and pulled to my feet. He lifted my leg with one hand, grabbed my ass with the other and entered me standing up.

My gaze widened. I wondered if I would topple over as I felt my legs weaken with the long hard strokes he was delivering inside me, but the grip he had on me did all the work.

With no warning, he pulled out, turned me around and pushed me against the wall, pulling my hips back to meet him as he entered me from behind. My knees began to go weak again. His breath was ragged in my ear.

I could feel the pressure of an orgasm of huge proportions. It let loose. I was coming. My entire body convulsed, and he clamped his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t be heard.

Suddenly, he drove into me with one final thrust.

At first, I thought I had screamed from pleasure, but I realized I saw my friend standing there. Her face said it all. He wasn’t only the type of guy who would fuck a girl in a white party dress at a dock party. He was the type of guy who would own a pontoon boat.

“Wait. The blue Jell-O shots made me do it,” I cried as she ran away.

“No way, man,” he said. “There’s no booze in them. Those blue ones are for the kids.”

This morning, she made me biscuits with honey for breakfast and left them in my room. Still exhausted from the drive, I picked at them for a few minutes, licking the honey off my fingers, before I hid back under the blankets, wishing I had brought my warm rubber friend with me.

Hours later, I woke to hear the family picnic going in full swing outdoors. It was only a matter of time before my mom rounded me up to go outside.

Opening up my closet, I realized how many of my old clothes were still there. I thought my mom was going to donate them to charity. I was flipping through some t-shirts when my brother’s friend, Seth, appeared in the doorway.

He was one of those neighborhood kids who were always around the house, except now he was in his early twenties like me. I keenly remembered throwing him in the pool once to retrieve my brother’s GI Joe doll he had been trying to drown. It was easy. I was far taller than he was. I still was. The last I heard about him was that he was working for a roofing company, and he still lived at home.

“Your mom sent me to find you,” he said. “Are you coming?”

“Can’t you see I’m getting dressed?”

He shrugged. I looked back in my closet.

“What should I wear?” I asked, more to myself than him.

I tugged on a t-shirt over my tank top. The shirt definitely seemed smaller. Maybe I had filled out in the last six months. Pulling it off, I tried another one with Hello Kitty on the front.

“That looks good,” he said. “But it would look better without the tank beneath it.”

“Then turn around,” I said.

He turned around. I pulled off both shirts. The air hit my skin. Back over my bare chest, I slipped on the Hello Kitty shirt.

“You can turn back around,” I said.

He faced me, his gaze stopping on the Hello Kitty. He couldn’t like the silly mute kitten that much, I thought, and I noticed my nipples were hard. Wanting to cross my arms over my chest, but not wanting to draw any more attention to them, I acted like nothing was happening and looked at another shirt.

He was now openly staring at my breasts, and I was getting major gooseflesh. Could my nipples get even harder? Apparently, they could.

“That is definitely working for you,” he said.

I looked in the mirror. I tried to see how he saw me. I’d been cooped up in so many business suits lately; I hadn’t seen myself any other way.

Suddenly, he was behind me. He tried to pull me toward him, his fingers grazing my ribs, but I pulled away, feeling oddly titillated.

“Go sit over there,” I said, pointing to a chair.

Knowing I was being as naughty as a twelve-year-old girl, but wanting to know how he would react, I changed from my pajama bottoms into a very low cut pair of shorts in front of him. He looked as if he was positively hyperventilating. What was the big deal? He had seen me in a swimsuit since we were little kids.

Walking over to him, I stood between his legs and looked down at him.

“What is your deal today?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. You’re just looking hot today.”

Lightly, his fingers reached up and touched the top button of my shorts. This should be so creepy, I thought, but I couldn’t move.

Very slowly, he brought his face level to my chest, looking up into my eyes. Suddenly, he bit my nipple through my t-shirt. I gasped. The sensation was over whelming.

How could this little brat be doing this to me? It felt so good. Then he was squeezing both my breasts, cupping and kneading them. The room was spinning.

Peeling off my t-shirt, I straddled his lap, pressing my bare breasts into his face. He was going to town on them. His hands roamed down to my ass. I stuck my tongue in his mouth.

Getting off him, I peeled off my shorts and underwear, handed him the jar of honey and slowly climbed on the bed on all fours. It had to be the raciest thing I’d ever done, but my heart was pounding in my ears and I wanted to be fucked so badly. I heard the jar open behind me. The honey dripped onto the small of my back. His tongue smoothed it along my skin, spreading it across the tiny hairs, ticking my spine, before he took it into his mouth. He started biting my ass, my body twitching with every edge of his teeth.

Climbing up on the bed behind me, I felt him positioning my hips and unzipping his jeans. I was so wet he slipped straight inside me. Neither of us was moved for a moment, but then he began fucking me with a shocking abandon.

I was holding on for dear life, my stuffed animals contorted in my hands. The picnic seemed so very far away indeed. A cry rose up in my throat as I came. I was letting the boy who I shoved in the pool fuck me like a dog on my childhood bed, and I liked it.

Tara Alton’s secret desires are to live in London, eat Cadbury Flakes in times of crises, buy tons of books on Charing Cross Road, and own a nice flat with a green grocer and newsstand around the corner. In real life, she lives in the Midwest and writes erotica, because that is what is in her head, and it needs to come out. Check out her website at www.taraalton.com and her blog Flirty Kitty at www.flirtykitty.blogspot.com.