Bike

With a roar the engine cut through the quiet of the night, I turned to see a sleek black three-wheeled motorcycle pull to a stop by the entrance of the club. From my spot guarding the door I had an excellent view of the rider as she sat up from an almost horizontal position, her clothing nothing but a skintight black latex catsuit and her head obscured under a black helmet. The lithe form rose up from her vehicle and stretched her arms, giving everyone watching a show thanks to the catsuit so tight that, from my close position, I could see the faint lines of a bra under the latex form. After a moment of stretching the figure reached up to her helmet and clicked a small indent that split the smooth form at the sides as she removed it, revealing the face underneath. A tussle of somewhat curly black hair fell to frame her face, she had pale skin, dark eyeshadow and lips colored the same black as the bike created an almost monochromatic appearance, the one source of color being the eyes that had to of been contacts or surgical modification to be such a bright golden color. 

The woman turned to look at the club, then to myself and I braced myself for the inevitable march over where she would demand to cut in line, she had that aura around her that I’d seen often enough, that she wanted something and it was just the world’s job to hand it to her. With her appearance there was no reason I should not let her in, hell, as security this was exactly the type of person we had been told to look out for to let them cut in line. Part of me was annoyed at the flashy show, and what I knew would come next and after hearing the same argument from people for going on four hours now my nerves were running thin. I was considering telling her to move to the back of the line out of principle but froze when those eyes fell on me.

 In one single moment it felt like she had stripped me bear, the eyes flashing from my shoes up my suit to my face in one swift movement as if she was appraising me. The eyes locked with my own and narrowed, as if reading the tension in my body, the  set of my jaw and she knew what I was thinking, and smiled. To my surprise she turned away from me back to the bike and, for a moment, I thought she would mount back up and ride off. But instead she reached down and pressed a button under the handlebars and something happened I completely didn’t suspect, the bike began to open up. 

The sides of the bike opened and withdrew from the central column and sear the woman had been sitting upon, the front doing the same, a series of low mechanical sounds accompanied the frame splitting and pulling back from the oddly shaped head of the bike itself. It was only as the sides then folded down that I realized what I was looking at, a second person sat up from a fully horizontal position, the black latex catsuit having formed the seat the first woman had been sitting upon in a way that I couldn’t keep the blush from flooding across my face, or my jaw from falling open in a soft ‘oh’ of surprise. 

The second figure looked nearly identical to the first, slightly shorter, but more shapely, she stood from the now much reduced bike, revealing that she herself had been straddling a casing around the engine and I felt my blush deepen as I pondered exactly how it would feel to have my legs wrapped around the roaring vibrating engine, pressed into it by the weight of the rider above, utterly trapped and unable to move, feeling every pump of the pistons below me. I waited for the figure to stagger from the ordeal, to remove her helmet and gasp for breath, but she didn’t. Instead she silently took a place next to the rider, arms at her sides head turning left, then right, to sweep across the street, club and crowd outside before locking on the rider once more. The rider smiled and reached up to caress the helmet of the figure and it was only as she did so that I realized the helmet had no separation lines as the rider’s had. No gap between the catsuit and helmet. No hint of the bra underneath. It stood, unnaturally still, the only movement to turn its head to the side, pressing into that pale hand with black nails that slid across the surface with audible clicks that were able to be heard over the utter silence that had descended upon the crowd. As one they turned, the rider slipping her hand into the drone and leading it up the stairs. They didn’t pause, they didn’t slow, they didn’t even look at me as I scrambled to unlock the rope barring the entry to the club. The drone reached forward and opened the door, holding it upon for it’s mistress, whose hand reached out to grip the latex skin of the drone’s rear as they entered the club together.