For ten days every spring, Daytona Beach morphs from a paradise for surfers and sun worshippers to a parade of thousands of leather-clad motorcyclists, arriving from all over for booze, bikes, and babes.

Colorful tents hawking biker regalia line beachfront sidewalks, rock and country music blares, Harleys rumble up Main Street, and scents of barbecue, seafood, ocean air, and bike exhaust all mix together.

I look forward to Bike Week all winter. Back home in Morgantown, I’m a lawyer with a pretty settled life. But once a year, I ride down to Daytona, check into a hotel, and have some fun in the sun. I’ve been doing this for a decade now. The last three years, after my marriage broke up, I’ve travelled down solo, and had a great time. It’s not hard to. But I think last year’s Bike Week was the best. A big part of that was meeting Cristine.

After a dozen hours on the road, I needed a beer and headed to my favorite bar after I’d gotten settled. I think I was three steps inside the place when I noticed a brunette firecracker in a black “Bike Week” tank top, tight jeans, and assless leather chaps.

If you’ve never seen a getup like this in a bar or on a boardwalk at sunset, I recommend Bike Week. Guys were checking her out, of course, especially because she was standing at the bar counter alone, sipping from a beer bottle, steady eyes gazing around the joint. Her heart-shaped ass looked incredible and her mounded tits, lightly tanned, swelled up out of her top’s scoop-neck.

My last few trips to Daytona, I’ve tried to practice a “Nothing ventured, nothing gained” approach. A woman like that would let me know real fast if she didn’t feel like talking, and that would be fine. Bike Week was full of gorgeous women.

As I walked toward her, I noticed she wore a studded leather belt with a buckle reading “Bitch” to keep the chaps in place. But when I introduced myself, she didn’t send me packing. My face was windburned and I had a bit of a tan line across my forehead from my helmet. She quickly took note of this.

“Been riding, huh?” she said.

“Just got here. West Virginia. Feels good to be back. How about you?”

“I’m local. It’s a crazy week, but I love it.” She took a sip of beer. I told her the last few years I’d come down on my own.

“I like it,” I said. “You meet people, you’re on your own schedule, etcetera.”

“I know what you mean. I went to L.A. last year, just myself. Had a blast.” She offered her hand. “I’m Cristine.”

We talked through another couple of beers. She worked at a hair salon. She grew up in Atlanta. She had a dog called Dexter. She started riding motorcycles in high school.

I’ve always been attracted to women with a bit of fire in them. Cristine definitely had that. When a drunk dude was a little too vocal in his appreciation of her outfit, she gave him a quick, cutting look. But then two seconds later she was showing me photos of Dexter, a black lab, on her phone.

We took our beers outside, ending up under a huge tent on the beach listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd, both of us with a pretty good buzz by then. It was a beautiful night to be out: warm and still, the Atlantic almost glassy, picking up the moonlight.

After the show, Cristine said, “I live five minutes away. Wanna have a drink on the balcony?” She added, “You can meet Dexter, too.”

“I look forward to it,” I said.

She lived on the second floor of a two-story apartment building on a palm-lined side street. Dexter needed a walk so Cristine changed into a pair of Daisy Dukes and we walked him around the block, then took some drinks out onto her little balcony. Corona for me, vodka tonic for her.

After I finished my beer, she said, “Stand up.” I stood up. She knocked back the last of her drink, stood up herself, took my hand, and led me into her bedroom.

She had a four-poster canopy bed. I liked it. A sexy badass with a regal touch.

Cristine stripped off my T-shirt, trailing her ruby-painted fingernails across my torso. My cock throbbed. As if reading my mind, she put a hand to my crotch and briefly massaged it. “Ummmmm,” she purred.

“You’re something else,” I told her.

“No,” she said. “Just someone who knows what she wants.”

I stripped her top off. Above her tanned, flat stomach she had rounded, D-cup breasts with small, pert nipples. I couldn’t help openly appreciating. She didn’t mind. And then she moved to show me more.

She unbuttoned her denim cutoffs, sliding the Daisy Dukes off her lean legs. She wore a purple thong and had a honeybee tattoo just above her trimmed pussy. Off went the thong. Then she said, “You know what would be fun?”

“What?”

“Leather. Turn around.”

I turned around. I wasn’t sure what was happening — a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I heard her take a few steps, then a rustling. “Stay there,” she said.

A minute later, she said, “Okay, turn around.”

She took the whole thing into her mouth, deep-throating me like a porn star.

I turned. Cristine was back in the black leather chaps. And nothing else. She was stunning.

She got on her knees, unbuttoned my jeans, and began teasing my cock with her full lips. Looking up at me, she trailed her tongue up and down my shaft. Then she took the whole thing into her mouth, deep-throating me like a porn star. Her mouth was a vacuum, sucking me right to the base. Then she rose to her feet.

We deep-kissed for a moment, beside her bed. My hands cupped that round ass I’d been fantasizing about all night. Then I lowered her onto the canopied bed and put my face to her warm lady lips, the tip of my tongue nuzzling her clit. She began to moan.

Spreading these silky lips with my fingers, I went to town, licking and sucking, getting hungrier the more I tasted of her pussy. When she grabbed a pillow to muffle her moans, I knew I was doing something right.

Cristine came, wailing into the pillow. When she’d finished, she turned me onto my back, got on all fours, and put her ass in my face, hands reaching back to spread her pussy and asshole. Her hips swayed back and forth as I alternated darting my tongue into both, until she finally cried, “Fuck me!”

While Cristine remained on all fours, I slammed into her from behind, my hands gripping the cool leather

While Cristine remained on all fours, I slammed into her from behind, my hands gripping the cool leather encasing her thighs, then grabbed her tits, cupping them, while thrusting my shaft as deep as it could go.

We went at it like that for several minutes until she said huskily, “In my ass.”

I slid my cock into her warm, tight asshole. I held onto the chaps again and buttfucked her as she moaned loudly.

I got to the edge of orgasm quickly — her ass was so tight and she was moving it in such a delicious way along the length of my cock. Sensing how close I was, Cristine whispered, “Come inside me,” and after a few last ecstatic thrusts, I blew my load into her goddess ass, roaring.

We collapsed onto the bedsheets. After a dreamy minute or two, Cristine in my arms, my hands still appreciating the perfect curves of her body, she removed the chaps and we got ready for bed. Beyond her windows, I could still hear the distant music, and the occasional rumble of a Harley. We fell asleep.

Bike Week is coming up again. On my ride down to Daytona, I know I’ll be thinking of a certain woman, dressed a certain way, the entire time. I’ll have to watch my speed.

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