FreeWhat happens when a slave grasps control? Sex Pics

or how I became an exhibitionist.

"Y-Yeah, you know, I could use a whiskey," I said and wiped relief from my brow.

"You a comedian or somethin'?" he asked.

"No, just fearing for my life."

"You scare?" he asked and placed both hands to his chest. "Of me?" he asked further and searched the bar for rationale.

"Frank, you should brush up on your first impression. No offense," I said, hands up, so he could see my palms.

"None taken. Hell, I've been told that," he said and sighed, "but what can I do?" he asked and lowered his head.

"Well, you could-"

"A joke," he said and threw back his whiskey. After grimacing, he explained, "I don't really give a shit what anyone thinks of me, you know. I'm too old, been through too much, and I just don't have the time or patience."

"How old is old? You can't be over fifty," I said.

"Well, thanks, but I passed that off-ramp twelve miles back. I'm 62," he said and stood over me like a jungle canopy with arms outstretch. Compared to my 5-6/145-pound frame, Frank looked like a man of 40.

"Frank, you look great," I said.

"Thanks, really," he said in a softer tone before turning gruff. "Like I said, I don't give a shit."

As soon as Frank removed the mirrored glasses to reveal hazel eyes, my balls crawled against me. His meaty, dimpled face with the military buzzcut sent teletyped messages to my cock. Yet, he intermixed a somber smile with a fierce expression, as if hinting to an internal struggle. Will the real Frank please come to the mic? I thought but quickly pushed it from my mind.

"Yeah, I used to be a beach bum when Big Sur was a hippie hangout, but I can't party like I did and take on killer waves. Oh, I paddle over a few good ones but I leave the killers to the young guns."

"Don't think I haven't noticed, Frank; you're sporting a body guys half your age wished they had," I said, which didn't begin to describe Frank's body. Even wearing leather from head to toe, Frank looked like an ad for California tourism. He looked like a blonde Arnold Schwarzenegger but more ruggedly handsome. A few scars in his face marked his dances with death but they only added to his masculinity. And he had a way of looking at me that made me look away momentarily, as if I didn't want him to discover my secrets. That gaze, that let-me-fuck-you gaze, affected me much the way a dog is cowarded by a gaze. It was about dominance, it was about intention.

"Say, I was just about to go get something to eat. You wanna take a ride with me?" he asked. Did I actually see Frank lick his lips? I was definitely in lust but was I hallucinating?

Even in my suspicion, I only managed, "Sure."

It was my fantasy to speed down the highway on the back of gruff biker's hog. With hands holding on to Frank's massive torso, I imagined laying my head on his back while my cock raged at his ass.

I know that most bikes have seat that separate the driver from the passenger, but a boy can dream. I imagined Frank as a real flipper like me who felt my hard cock press against his ass. I imagined he was hard, thinking of how great my cock felt, sliding in and out of his hole. I imagined he had many fantasies dancing behind his blacked-out wrap-around glasses.

Once we were outside, I said, "Wow, Frank, that's a big bike," while thinking: a big bike for a big man who probably had a big dick. But I calmed down and took it all in.

"Yeah, I like her. I call her Sidewinder," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Got your helmet on? Well, hold on to me," he warned.

"Okay, but why-"

I grabbed the side of Frank's asscheeks to keep from falling off the Harley and heard Frank say, "Funny guy," before the wind rushed past my ears. We rode until I saw fewer and fewer cars. The outskirts of the city cleared of smog. Fresh cut grass and the occasional rush of manure, mixed with honey suckle to bring back childhood memories.

From a single asphalt road, we turned onto a dirt road that split two large gnarled trees, where a small farm house sat peeling in unforgiving sun