Chapter 1
When I was a kid, they called me a tomboy. Then when I got a little older, they got very fancy and intellectual and said I had penis envy, the idea being that I was ashamed of only having a little clit instead of a great big cock, and that's why I would do sort of strange things like always dressing up in leather and ass-kicker boots and talking like a drunken sergeant out on a binge. They thought I was trying to compensate for something. And then when I started riding a motorcycle-well, there was no chance that my family or even my oldest friends would be able to handle that-no, they just kept analyzing and labeling and refusing to see what was really going on. They just couldn't get it through their heads that a woman might want to drive a motorcycle for the exact same reasons as a man might want to--to move fast, to attract potential fucks, and to have something shiny and powerful vibrating between their legs.
And that's why I'm writing this book, to explain as straightforwardly as I can my reasons for loving motorcycles, and to tell you about some of the adventures I've had.
First of all, I guess I should explain that motorcycles have always been closely linked with my erotic life. As I mentioned, I was sort of a tomboy when I was a kid, and so of course I was really turned on to those motorcycle "born to be wild" type pictures they made in the fifties. Any time there was going to be a biking movie on TV, I'd be sure to be in front of the set, equipped with a bag of popcorn, some M&M's and a jar of vaseline to help me masturbate.
I really can't explain why, but as soon as I saw those big fast bikes shooting across the screen, I would begin to get excited. It didn't even matter to me who was on the bike-it was just the machinery that turned me on, the metal, the heat, the vibration, the speed.
Now you have to remember that I was only a teenager at the time, and, coming from a very conservative family in the Midwest, I was still a virgin. So for me masturbating was both a very naughty and a very exciting thing to do-I'd been brought up to think that it was wicked to touch myself at all, let alone to linger over my private parts for hours at a time, stroking and feeling the soft skin, matting down the soft sparse hair with huge gooey globs of vaseline. And of course you have to remember that masturbation was my only release.
So I would build up these tremendous reserves of adolescent horniness, just waiting for a chance to sit home alone in front of the TV watching a motorcycle movie. That was the biggest treat of my life.
Then came a night that I will never forget as long as I live: There were two motorcycle movies on back-to-back-four solid hours of excitement! My parents were out for the evening, and so I' had the whole house to myself. Like a naughty child, I began planning out my tactics before my parents even left. I was thinking about the bikes and the pleasure I would treat myself to, and I got myself so worked up that when my mother went to kiss me goodbye, she thought I had a fever and they almost decided to stay home. Oh no, I said, I'm just fine. You two run along and have a nice time.
Anyway, as soon as they were out the door, I started setting up shop. I arranged the pillows on the couch so that I'd be nice and cozy-so that I could boost my hips up nice and high, or casually throw a leg over the side of the sofa if I wanted to get a different angle on myself. Then I got the popcorn and the candy and the trusty old bottle of vaseline, and then I switched on the TV and settled in.
I was wearing a short little skirt that I didn't even bother to remove. I just bunched it up around-my waist and slipped out of the chaste little cotton panties I wore. Then I got myself nice and comfy on top of the pillows, and, letting my legs dangle lazily apart, I watched the beginning of the movie and casually diddled myself.
Now that I think of it, there was an incredible luxury about that whole set-up that makes me horny all over again as I retell it-just picture it, a sweet young virgin body, a pouty mouth that had never even been properly kissed, small solid breasts that had never been touched by mortal hands, small white thighs that had the softness of baby's skin and the firmness of a naughty tomboy's muscles, a blushing little pubic mound that was just beginning to be covered with soft, barely curling honey hair, hair that was so fine and downy, so different from the coarse knotted bush of a mature woman. And the cunt itself was so special-tight, compressed, ignorant of its own workings and structure-to me there's something perversely exciting about realizing that a young girl knows nothing about her own genitals, she doesn't know how they're put together, doesn't know how they work, and yet she feels the urge-the need-to masturbate. She knows absolutely nothing about sex, and yet she needs sex. That's pure animal instinct. It's beautiful and natural and yet somehow unutterably perverse....
Anyway, I was laid out there, watching the movie, playing with my clit with one hand and eating popcorn with the other. On the screen were a bunch of beautiful Harleys and men who talked tough. The bikes moved powerfully through the landscape, and-how can I explain it?-it seemed that they were traveling through my body! I felt as though the awesome power of those machines was finding some secret pathway through me-only later did I learn that the only pathway through me was my cunt, and that all my experience of power and awe and speed would ultimately travel through that wonderful tunnel-and moving me to the very core of my being.
Well, it wasn't long before I was good and excited, and I started working on myself with both hands. My juices were coming thick and heavy-I had felt them before, those viscous, strong-smelling fluids, and of course I had wondered about them, but they felt somehow different tonight. They felt somehow thicker, more rich, more visceral-the juices seemed to be more a direct outpouring of my innards, as if my body were turning itself inside out because of my excitement.
I found myself squirming on the pillows as I watched the movie and worked on myself. At times I would get so engrossed in the film that I would stop realizing that I was masturbating, and then suddenly I would catch myself tugging at my tight little cunt lips with unaccustomed violence-really pulling the skin hard, bringing it just to the point of actually hurting. I would watch the bikes and listen to the engines-the engines provided background music for my masturbation-a perfect sexual sound, a groan, a roar-a kind of jazz music if you think about it. I lay there among the images and the engine purr and the purr of my own young cunt. Looking down, I could see my soft hair glistening with cunt-sap, and if I lifted my ass extra high, I could just barely catch a glimpse of the sweet pink tissue that was being so vigorously worked.
After awhile it occurred to me that a different kind of slipperiness might make my pleasure even more perfect, ,and so I opened up the jar of vaseline and helped myself to a generous dose. The jelly felt delightfully cool on my hot Little box, and a chill wracked my whole body when I first dabbed it on. My clit responded very nicely to this new bit of fun, throbbing and tingling, growing puffy and tender, and as I worked the jelly down over the full length of my crack, I could feel the lips relaxing slightly of their own free will-as if my pussy were a flower that opened by instinct, that somehow knew the exact moment when its petals were mature and ready to unfold.
This slight opening of my cunt lips-and it Was slight, at least compared to the stretching my cunt has undergone since-excited my curiosity and added to my titillation. What secrets were hiding up there? Where did that hole end, where did it lead? Growing bolder as I grew more curious, I began to poke at myself with my fingertips. It hurt, and yet I kept poking. I was so tight that even one narrow fingertip hurt me, made me feel as if I were being split open, as if there were too much there for me ever to take into my own body. But the humming of the engines continued, and the images of the big hot bikes kept racing across the screen, and I, lost in a sort of motor-sexual trance, kept poking at myself and testing my limits, kept exploring that tiny crack that dripped liquid and heat.
By the end of the first movie I was more excited than I had ever been before. The other times I had masturbated, I had reached a certain peak and then relaxed-I've since decided that it had been a sort of proto-orgasm type thing. The peak lasted a little while and then subsided into a warm glow that was very restful and served as a natural ending to the evening's activities. But this was much different-the peak lasted much longer, and rather than subsiding, it kept getting more and more intense! Far from being relaxed, I could feel myself getting more and more wound up, more and more needful. I could tell that my clit and the skin around it was getting irritated and hypersensitive, but I couldn't stop. I could tell that the only way I would be able to relax was to make myself even more excited first.
Well, in the break between movies I was almost out of my mind. Without even thinking about it, I ran into the bathroom and came back with my hairbrush. I really did not have anything consciously in mind-it was just that perverse animal instinct at work. I really did not know why I grabbed the brush or what I would do with it....
I settled back down on the couch as the second movie was beginning. I thought that maybe my little run through the house would calm me down a little, but it did just the opposite. Now I felt the tension throughout my entire body, as if my cunt were radiating outward and taking over my whole body-isn't that what happens when a girl becomes a woman?
I again began grabbing at myself, letting folds of skin and globs of jelly intermingle between my eager fingers. It felt wonderful, but my smooth fingers were now no longer enough. I needed more friction, more stimulation. I reached for the brush, and, holding it by its long slender plastic handle, I began running the bristles gently over my pussy. The vaseline made the brush slide easily, but I still could vividly feel the mischief of the bristles-they clawed at me, scratched at me, nibbled at me. It was like nothing I'd ever felt, and I lay there with my legs spread wider apart, my ass high up on the stacked pillows, my eyes glued to the set, where those magic motorcycles were again racing, vibrating, roaring. I gradually increased the pressure of the brush, bringing the pleasure to the brink of pain, and then naughtily overstepping the brink ever so slightly, bringing myself tingles of satisfaction. I could feel the bristles tracing out the groove between my swollen cunt flaps, and my curiosity returned to that tiny hole that led I knew not where....
I darted down my free hand and felt that strange, unexplored spot. Responding to the action of the brush, the lips were lying wider open, and the hole itself, though still tight and quivering with tension, now seemed able to admit one finger painlessly. I was fantastically turned on by the progress I was making, and by the animal heat that I felt pouring out of me. The hole and its mystery now began to usurp the attention so long bestowed on my clit-it was now the interior of my pussy that I most wanted to play with. But how?
All at once, without any participation of my conscious mind, a filthy and irresistible thought occurred to me: I could explore my insides with the handle of my brush!
The idea was unbelievable, but totally irresistible. To this day, I do not know how I thought of it. I was a virgin, and before I had ever even seen a cock, I was out to fuck myself with a self-styled dildo! It was the animal instinct that always seems to be running my life....
Frantically, I turned the brush over in my hand, so that I was now holding on to the bristles, pointing the plastic shaft down at my cunt. I probed very tentatively at "first, pushing a little and then recoiling as the cool unyielding plastic began to push itself between my un-stretched lips, hurting them and making them hungry to be stretched further. And always, as I played, I watched the motorcycles, saw them sway sexily on curves, saw them drive ahead aggressively on the straight-aways....
I began to press more decisively. I squeezed the brush so hard that the bristles hurt my palm, and I pushed it with increasing force against the aching numbness of my twat. It seemed as if it couldn't possibly get in, and the more certain I was that it was impossible, the more determined I was to get it in. I knew it would hurt, and I knew it was a dirty and unnatural thing to do, and I knew I would end up doing it...
How can I describe the sensation of my cunt letting go, of finally giving up the struggle to keep out the unnatural intruder? I felt as if the bones that shaped my pelvis had instantly changed shape-not without pain, but also not without an immense feeling of relief. Yes, the tip of the brush handle was now inside me, and though my cunt continued to throb spasmodically because of the pressure, I knew I had achieved the initial victory.
But now that the handle was inside me, the urge to explore the depths returned with renewed force. I would not let myself alone until I had found out everything there was to know about that mysterious place I had so long ignored. I wanted everything at once.
My ignorance about my body was so total that I didn't even know what a hymen was, and so I had no idea why I felt a sudden sharp pain as I worked the brush deeper into myself. I pushed straight in, and it felt exquisite until it seemed to run into some sort of wall....
The animal instinct soon had me fucking myself slowly and rhythmically, working the brush handle in only until the pain grew sharp, and then withdrawing it again to the outer verge of my pussy, then repeating the motion in gentle but insistent oscillations. I found myself rolling my hips lasciviously, the sound of motorcycle engines in my ears now mingling with the purr of my own moans....
I packed up the pace of my self-fucking. Rolling my hips wildly, lifting my ass high above its already steep mound of pillows, I fucked myself faster and a little bit harder, growing more and more excited, but still enough in control to retreat from the hurt at the end of the road.
But the animal instinct told me to go beyond , that hurt, to press it to its maximum and then to press clear past it into a sort of ecstasy I had never before known. And so, with a cruelty and a lust aimed exclusively at myself, exclusively at my own young horniness, I brought the brush down into myself harder and harder, till finally I felt a horrible sharp pain, till I felt the wall tearing, opening up the full extent of the cavern, and then, fucking my way through the pain I continued to drive the brush downward, the bristles stinging my hand, the handle bruising my insides. I continued until I felt the swelling of my first orgasm, a swelling that made my previous peaks seem like the merest ripples. ... It came and wracked me, made me jerk my hips spastically, covered my entire with goose-bumps, made my stomach jump and my breasts quiver, and made my cunt feel that it had been initiated into the strangest and most wonderful ritual on earth....
Later, I tried to wash the blood from the pillows. The blood smelled like iron-like the iron that makes the steel that makes motorcycles....