You pull the heavy helmet over your head, bending your ears in directions they werent meant to go in the process. He turns to you and mouths something but you can't hear a thing from beneath the brain bucket. He lifts your visor with a wry smile harboring a hint of condescension.
"I said....are you comfortable?" He asks again, this time audible to your sheltered ears.
"Good!" and he flips the visor back down and faces forward. He reaches around behind him and grabs your hips, pulling you tight against him. Your skirt rides up even higher and your bare thighs rub against him. You wrap your arms around his leather clad shoulders and hold on tight as he speeds off across the parking lot. The wind tears at your blouse as you weave in and out of traffic, filling it with air and ballooning it out behind you like some immaculately dressed hunchback. You bury your helmet encased head into his back. Every so often you catch a hint of leather and his musky cologne in the air. He races through traffic until you arrive at a small out-of-the-way county restaurant.
He turns off the key and glances over his shoulder at you. You pull the helmet over your head and desperately try to smooth out your staticky, helmet-head hair. You climb carefully off the machine, concious of the fact that you may very well give away all your secrets as the skirt continues to creep up your hips. You tug at the badly wrinkled pencil skirt and try to straighten it out against your buzzing thighs. Your legs feel like you are still on the bike, vibrating madly and adrenaline is still coursing through your veins from the exciting ride. He holds the door for you and the two of you go inside. All you can think about, after having been pressed up against him with untold horsepower between your legs, is pulling him into the nearest corner booth and having your way with him.