Like a bat out of Hell

The deep-throated roar of the old Indian never sounded so good and with a spray of gravel you pull out of the bar's parking lot and back onto route 47. Their was no time for helmets, so unlike your ride to the bar, the wind is blowing through your hair and you can hear Monica squeal with excitement as you open up the throttle and lean into the curves of the winding country road.

Monica's warm curves are pressed firmly against your back and as you pass by an old station-wagon eager to put as much distance between you and the crowd of locals who may or may not be following behind. Monica's reaction to the near fight and speeding away is a little different from yours. Within a minute or two, her hands have slipped under your shirt and she is groping you shamelessly even as you open up the throttle even more on one of the few straight-aways. As hard as it was to concentrate with her hands under your shirt, when she grabs your cock you almost run off the road.

"Kyle," Monica's lips are against your ear so you cannot miss a word of what she says. "If you don't pull this bike over damn soon and fuck the shit out of me, I'm never going to forgive you!"

A quick glance at the empty road behind you confirms that it might be safe enough to stop, and you turn off into a tractor path running along a stonewall between a recently mowed hayfield and a thickly wooded hillside. Killing the lights on the Indian, you coasted quietly along the path until you were well out of sight from the road. All the time Monica is tearing at your belt and buttons of your shirt with an almost animalistic disregard.

"Hey, slow down there Honey." You laugh as one of those buttons goes flying into the bushes.

"Fuck you, Kyle!" Monica bites your ear hard enough that you wonder if she drew blood. "If you want me to stop you're gonna have to do some of that Kung-Fu shit to hold me down, and if you are holding me down you'd better be fucking me silly."