Rider on the Storm

Rider on the Storm

Another one
of those needful nights,
a mission
of mercy
to feel the lights,

just getting out
feels so disarming
of sorts.

Between
the pandemic
and high gas bills,

just leaving
the house
can serve
as some thrills

and here
she is
calling me.

Pull up
in the driveway,
half past
nine,

the door
opens swiftly
and closes
behind,

and no sooner in
than
she's changing.

Off goes her shirt,
and then the skirt,
panties and bra,
all of her clothes
into the back seat fall.

"Just drive,"
she says
as she paws
at her bag,

a toy
launches first,
and she lets
the seat sag

as she leans
into
her dildo
and vibrating thrust,

pushing
and diving,
each movement
a must.

Out
on the highway,
darkness
and lanes,

she's covered
the gambit
from fingers
to trains.

We were
ten miles out
and she'd now
cleared the bar,

like nothing
had happened
in not
very far.

She motioned
we stop
for a pack
of stiff smokes,

as all
she was feeling
was a card
against spokes.

"Thanks
for the ride,
I really
needed a pack,

I got
what I needed,
I'd like to
turn back."

Every week
or so,
along the same
premise,

she calls
in dilemmas,
a ride
for a smoke
and a stroke
to the limits.

I enjoy
the raw heat
of her journey,
no matter how far

as long as
she's careful
not to smoke
in the car.