Page 65 of Misadventures of a Biker

“We can come back and see the movie later,” I whispered. “But this is happening, boss.”

“Just remember,” he said, tossing his boxer shorts into the empty seat at his side. “You asked for it.”

I gripped his semi-flaccid cock in my hand and gave it a few strokes. “Are you going to be able to perform, or am I going to have to make do with this noodle?”

“It’s hard to focus,” he complained. “There’s a lot going on in here.” He nodded toward my purse. “You got any lotion in there?”

“I don’t need lotion,” I replied in braggadocian fashion.

I buried my face in his lap and sucked him into a rock-hard state. Satisfied that we were both prepped and ready, I raised my head and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. I surveyed the theater. All eyes appeared to be fixed on the movie.

Facing the screen, I climbed on Devin’s lap and lowered myself onto his stiff dick. Once his length was buried deep inside me, I glanced over my shoulder.

“I’m going to ride you like a stolen bike,” I bragged.

I gripped the back of the seat in front of me and braced myself. I gyrated my hips with the timing and precision of a dancer. Working my pussy up and down the full length of Devin’s rigid shaft, I took deliberate strokes. It was the first time we’d had sex that I was in charge of the operation.

It felt magnificent.

If it was the excitement of having sex in a full theater or that I was riding him in my favorite position, I didn’t know, but sixty seconds into the act, I was on the verge of a sexual meltdown. I slowed my pace, but it provided little relief from the euphoria that was building within me.

I accepted my sexual fate and continued at a predictable pace. Just this once it was going to be about me, not Devin. I didn’t care if I needed to give him a hand job when I was done, I fully intended to get what was rightfully mine without apology, explanation, or reservation.

Four carefully timed strokes later, the end was imminent. Knowing the next stroke would certainly be my last, I drew a shallow breath. I slowly lowered myself the length of his shaft. As each swollen inch of his girth penetrated me, my vaginal walls contracted a little more.

At the instant the tip of his dick pressed against my cervix, my pussy clenched his swollen cock like a vise. As I relished in the orgasm that began to take possession of my very being, Devin’s finger found its way into my ass.

I hadn’t expected it, nor was it something I would have asked for in my wildest dreams. Nevertheless, the insertion of that single digit not only took me by surprise, but it also sent me through the climactic roof like a Saturn-bound sex rocket.

Incapable of suppressing my pleasure, I wailed out my satisfaction in the form of a blood-curdling carnal scream. At the same instant, the scene on the screen changed from a hundred-decibel auto race to a quiet office setting.

If the people in attendance weren’t aware of what we were doing prior to my outburst, they were afterward. Claiming it was anything other than sexual wasn’t a remote possibility. Embarrassed, exhausted, and satisfied beyond words, I hid between Devin and the seat in front of him.

“Jesus, Teddi,” he complained. “Make it obvious.”

I withered into his lap. “Sorry.”

I took my seat and watched the remainder of the two-and-a-half-hour-long movie. When it ended, we waited for the theater to empty and then rose from our seats.

I strutted out of the theater at Devin’s side. Once in the corridor, I gestured toward the bathrooms.

“I need to use the restroom.”

He kissed me. “Me too.”

Once inside, I glanced in the mirror. I looked like one of the many drunken celebrity mugshots that often circulated through social media circles. My dress was wrinkled, my hair resembled the Bride of Frankenstein’s, and my makeup was smeared beyond repair.

After ten minutes of primping, I felt that I was presentable enough to sneak out of the theater, hopefully unnoticed. Proud of my movie theater accomplishment but frustrated with my disheveled appearance, I meandered out of the bathroom with my shoulders slumped.

Devin was in the corridor, talking to a well-dressed elderly man. A very familiar well-dressed elderly man that I didn’t want to recognize me.

I lowered my head and turned toward the exit. “Let’s go,” I murmured.

“Hold up a minute,” Devin said. “I want you to meet someone.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.

I turned to face them. As I made eye contact with the suit-wearing billionaire, I feigned surprise. “Harry Morgan?”