Page 59 of Misadventures of a Biker

“I’ll take that bet,” I said with a nod of reassurance.

He playfully wagged his cock at me. “Get to work. Let me know when your arm’s too tired to continue. I’ll finish it off.”

I looked at him and smirked. “Just relax. This will be over before you know it.”

I stroked his shaft from the tip to the base a few times and then paused. “Are you opposed to standing?”

“Whatever you think might give you the edge,” he said with a light laugh. “But it’s not going to work.”

I inched away from the couch and removed my shirt and bra. I cupped my boobs in my hand and gave him an innocent look. “When you come, would you do it on my boobs?”

He stood. “You’re not going to have to worry about that.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, mister.” I gestured to his shirt. “Toss the shirt too, boss.”

He removed his shirt and added it to the pile. His midsection was chiseled to perfection. The washboard of muscles covered in tattooed skin tapered to a prominent V. Beneath it, a gorgeous cock that was arrow straight and as thick as my dainty wrist.

His body, in its entirety, demanded admiration. It begged to be touched. I knelt in front of him and traced my fingers over the ripples of muscle that separated his chest from the object of my current desires.

I reached for his cock. “Prepare to be defeated.”

He crossed his arms over his tattooed chest and glared.

I fixed my eyes on the prize and stroked his entire length with a firm—but gentle—grip. Hoping for reassurance that my efforts were pleasing him, I glanced up.

He peered at me with disbelieving eyes. “I don’t think being jacked off is my thing.”

I wasn’t about to forfeit my crown. I cupped his balls in my left hand and shortened my stroke. Paying special attention to the rim of the head, I stroked his stiff dick like I was jackhammering through construction rubble—all the while holding his doubtful gaze.

I parted my lips slightly. “Come in my mouth,” I cooed. “Or on my face.” I tossed my hair over my shoulders and gave him my best sultry look. “Just cover me in it. Please.”

The doubt in his eyes faded to nothing. Eager to win the bet, I continued my firm-gripped onslaught, maintaining a methodical pace. I daydreamed of the places that I might command him to have sex with me. The sound of his irregular breathing brought me from my dreamlike state.

His eyes widened. His back arched. The worried look on his face gave indication that he was seconds away from losing his composure—and the bet. A few strokes later, his cock swelled in my hand.

With my mouth agape and tits at the ready, I stroked his thick shaft vigorously. Hoping nothing came between me and success, I mentally prepared for him to release his pleasure, wondering just how much a man like him would discharge.

If masculinity had anything to do with it, he’d unload a quart. If sexiness were involved, it’d be a gallon. If the size of his cock or balls came into play, it would take me an hour to clean up.

He didn’t make me wonder for long. The only forewarning to his climactic finish was the long, guttural groan that escaped from deep within his being.

His eyes cinched closed.

Come blasted from the tip of his cock like a geyser. In a nanosecond, my face and tits were covered in my successes.

Many women would perceive the event as tasteless.

Gross.

Nasty.

I saw it as nothing short of a sexy-as-absolute-fuck success. Devin was a man’s man. He’d never received a hand job and doubted I’d be able to succeed in pleasing him. So certain of my inability, he’d made a bet against me bringing him to climax.

Despite his disbeliefs, I’d accomplished my goal. The depth of his pleasure was plastered all over my face and tits.

With an elevated sense of self-worth, I cupped my come-drenched breasts in my hands and stood. Devin’s eyes were now open and wider than I’d ever seen them.

“I’m going to clean this off,” I said.