Page 24 of Ghost

9

Abby

Iwas in desperate need of some dick, and had been for a long, long time. I wanted Porter to be the guy to take me out of my sexless slump, but I needed to make sure I was stepping out of the single life for all the right reasons. Sexually frustrated to the point of a meltdown, I exercised restraint and settled for devouring a pecan pie.

It seemed like a responsible decision.

We decided to ride to Julian, California. My first ride with Porter was an awakening, of sorts. The ride to Julian Pie Company was different. After the sexual innuendos, blowjob banter, and the glimpse of Porter’s massive manhood, I was a horny mess.

When I got on the motorcycle, I was already soaking wet. One hour into the ride, the motorcycle’s vibration had me on the verge of an orgasm. I spent the next thirty minutes with my eyes cinched closed, my mind adrift, and my soaking wet pussy at the mercy of an eight-hundred-pound vibrator. During that half-hour ride, my sexual tension increased to an all-time high.

In my daydream, Porter’s face was buried between my legs. He ate me while I ate slice after slice of pie. I was truly in heaven – both in my dream, and in reality.

The last fifteen minutes of the trip were in stop and go traffic, during which time I couldn’t find my happy place. Frustrated, I opened my eyes and tried to regain my composure.

Much to my surprise, we’d arrived in the small town. I fidgeted in my seat. Nothing seemed to relieve the tension that had built within me. I was soaking wet and my pussy was begging for attention.

“What the fuck are you doing back there?” Porter snarled.

“Trying to get comfortable,” I whined.

“With you thrashing around like that, it’s not easy to keep this son-of-a-bitch on the road,” he growled. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Sit. Still.”

I lifted my weight from the seat, stuffed my dress under my thighs, and sat down. “Sorry,” I huffed.

For the first time since we’d exited the highway, I surveyed my surroundings. Short of the cars that lined the narrow streets, the town looked like something from the turn of the nineteenth century.

Wooden buildings with porches that hung over the entrance, homes that had been converted to craft shops, and residences that doubled as restaurants lined the streets. We came to rest at a pie shop that looked like a century old New England cottage. He turned off the engine and lowered the kickstand.

I was excited to get to know Porter, but I was mentally exhausted. I’d been daydreaming about him eating my pussy for the entire two-hour ride. Sexually frustrated and still soaking wet, I climbed off the motorcycle and brushed the wrinkles from my dress.

He hung his helmet on the handlebars, looked at the pie shop’s small covered patio, and then at me. “You ready?”

Before I could answer, his eyes darted to the motorcycle seat. “What the fuck is that?”

He reached toward the seat.

I shifted my gaze to the area in question. Upon seeing it, embarrassment balled up in my throat. The leather was slathered in what appeared to be proof of my joyous ride. He dragged his finger across the slippery surface, wiping a clean path through the six-inch wide wet spot I’d left there.

A prickly feeling crept up my neck. My face flashed hot. With his focus on his finger, and mine on him, I held my breath as he moved his hand toward his mouth.

Oh. My God. Please. Lick it. I’m begging you.

With my mouth agape and my mind in the gutter, I followed the movement of his hand as it moved closer and closer to his face. He straightened his finger. His lips parted. The instant the tip of his tongue touched the juice covered digit, my legs went weak.

His eyes thinned. He licked it again and then looked at me. “Enjoy the ride?”

I nodded. A full-on blush enveloped me. Instead of playing the embarrassed innocent, I decided to simply own it.

“I had a good time,” I said, cocking my hip as I spoke. “Is that a crime?”

“I’ll tell you what the crime is.” He wiped the palm of his hand over the remnants of my sexual daydream-infused ride. “Letting this go to waste.”

Just when I thought my degree of sexual agony couldn’t worsen, it did. In an overly dramatic fashion, he licked his hand clean. As if it were a daily occurrence, he then turned toward the sidewalk that led to the pie shop.

“You ready to eat that pie?” he asked.

“I’m ready for you to eat my pie,” I responded, saying what was on my mind before I could get my brain to stop my mouth from spewing out the words.