Page 58 of Misadventures of a Biker

“Earlier, you said a hand job should be worth two hundred bucks. Were yours worth two hundred?”

“I never had any complaints,” I replied, reflecting more pride in my response than I probably should have.

“I’ve never had a hand job.”

There was no way he’d gone a lifetime without being jacked off a few times by nervous high school girls who were saving their virginity for marriage. I suspected what he meant was that he never had a hand job worth mentioning. I wanted to hear the sordid details surrounding his haphazard hand jobs.

“You’ve never had a good one?” I asked.

“I’ve never had one, period.” He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I alternated eager glances between his dick and his eyes. “You’ve never had a hand job? Not even a bad one?”

“No.” He calmly stroked his cock. “I haven’t.”

I pried my eyes away from his cock-filled hand. “Why?”

“Hand jobs are stupid,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even come.”

“Can I try?” I asked excitedly.

“Well,” he said with a laugh, “I didn’t get it out so I could play with it.”

A tinge of anxiety tickled my senses. Enthusiasm promptly replaced it. I sprang from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran to my bathroom and grabbed my lotion from the vanity. I had no doubt that I’d be a little rusty after two decades of hand job inactivity, but a bone-dry tug job would place me in a category where I clearly didn’t belong.

Nina Hartman might have been the homecoming queen of Gulf Coast High, but I was the unnamed hand job queen. I fully intended to prove it to a man who appeared to doubt my worth.

Lotion in hand, I returned to the living room. Hoping to dispel the myth that hand jobs were stupid, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “Jeans and boxers off, mister.”

“Oh. Wow. You’re serious.”

“That’s right.”

He rid himself of his boots, jeans, and boxers. As if it were an everyday occurrence, he took his seat and continued stroking himself.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

With his thick shaft clenched in his fist, he gazed at me with eyes of uncertainty. “Are you?”

I pumped a few squirts of lotion into my palm and met his doubtful gaze. I reached for his cock. “I am now.”

“Want to make a bet?” he asked.

I stroked his shaft once. “What kind of bet?”

“Whether or not you can make me come.”

“What’s the wager?”

“The winner gets sex on command from the loser.”

He had my full attention. I swallowed heavily. “On command?”

“Yep.”

If he won, he’d probably demand that I fuck him in my office or in the front seat of my Range Rover at some busy intersection. If I won, I’d come up with something far more interesting.