So you, like everyone, hold this image in your head and pull him out when you need him. You measure every man you ever meet by his standards -- no one ever lives up. No one ever can. Perfection is too high a qualifier.

But then, let's say one day the impossible happens. Let's say one day you're at the park, just about to start your run -- stretching in your tight spandex shorts and baggy t-shirt -- and you hear the carbureted growl of a motorcycle. You have one leg on the guard rail, one on the ground, stretching your hamstrings -- your ass a showplace -- when someone pulls into the parking space behind you. You know they're getting a good view of your bubbled butt, and you secretly enjoy being a tease.

When you turn around, you see him. The Ultimate. Your Fantasy Man. Imagine, the life and breath of every fantasy you've ever had is before you on his Harley, clearly checking you out while you stretch. Six feet, two hundred-twenty pounds of rock solid muscle, favored in the chest and thighs, he sits astride his bike. Mid-forties, blonde, thinning hair cut into a spikey buzz, his maturity is as sexy as his masculanity, which he emits in waves. He wears a leather jacket, open to reveal his impossible torso, jeans, and black leather boots. Beyond adjectives like "handsome" or "rugged," he's the test of superlative limits. He's everything you've ever wanted, and he's before you.

What do you do? What do you do when faced with this moment? Do you stare? Do you speak? Are you brave? Are you weak? What do you do?

This is what you do -- this is your Fantasy Man, after all -- your once in a lifetime moment -- you approach the bike, eyes cast down, and you say, "May I serve?"

You hear his gruff voice grunt as he shifts his weight, as he lowers the motorcycle's stand. "Worship, boy," he says. His words sweep you away -- there's no denying his command -- there's no thought of resistance, you do what you must. You fall to your knees before him.

His boot is there, right in front of your face, inches from you, perched on the foot-rest. He is above you, over you, like an idol, or a magnificent god, so commanding is his presence. Showing him your supplication, showing him that you recognize his superiority becomes paramount. When you kiss his boot, it's out of respect. When you lick it, it's submission.

His mighty hand grabs you by the scruff of the neck and pulls you up. You can see his god cock there, growing in his jeans, but he doesn't allow much more than a glance. Suddenly there before you is his torso, his pec bulging beneath his open leather jacket. His abs are so tight, skin so tan. When he pulls his jacket open with his free hand, and for the first time you're seeing his big nipple, round and erect, perched on the very edge of his spectacular pec, you know what you need. And you know what you're ready to give up to get it.

He holds you inches from it, almost within reach, his chest dominating your vision, his nipple hypnotizing you. You want it so badly that you're almost ready to fight for it. But you could never fight this man, this god. You'd never win. He's too powerful. And that power is centered before you in his massive pec. You ache for it.

When he speaks, his tones are so authoritative, so rich, so obey-able, that you can't even imagine resisting. He says, "suckle, boy." and pushes your head into the firm pillow of his pec. You open your mouth wide and take in a mouthful of muscle, including the entire nipple, and press the tip of your tongue into it like a target. You hear your Fantasy Man inhale deeply, and his chest swells in your mouth.

You slowly close your jaw until you have just the nipple in your mouth, and you gingerly close your teeth on the tip. He gasps sharply and you know you've pleased him. Lord, how badly you want to please him. How wonderful it feels to be here, at his teat. And if you ever want to be here again, you'd better please him. You suckle gently.

He supports your head with one hand, and runs his other hand over your back, settling on your ass. His thick fingers press the spandex into your ass crack, and you open your legs, to allow him access to your hole. Your ass is so firm, round, that you'll know he'll approve. Maybe even take. The very thought spurs you to work his pec harder. "Very good, boy," he murmurs, fingering your hole.

It's then that you realize, because you taste it, as you suckle on his big nipple, that he's leaking. You've drawn so hard on his big pec, that you've drawn his milk. This massive pec, this thickly muscled paragon is producing milk. For you. And the taste? Him. It tastes like him. It tastes like the essence of the god who produces it. You smell the leather of the jacket, the musk of his sweat, and taste the god in his milk.

You draw more, and more. You drink in the god. You know he loves it by the way he gasps, by the increased aggressiveness with which he handles you, by the unconcious bucking of his hips on the seat of his bike, by the heat of his growing cock against your torso. With his milk in you, drinking more, it's difficult for you to think of anything but him. Pleasing him. Submitting to him. Soon, he's going to have to fuck something. You know that. A god like this HAS to fuck. And you want it to be the best fuck he's ever had. You want to him to have the fuck of a lifetime. With YOUR ass. How badly you want him to have the best.

You NEED him inside you. It's the only way to please him. Armed with that, you slide your mouth down his torso, underneath the huge mound of his pec, down his rippled stomach. As you lick, as you kiss, your hands unbutton his jeans, nimbly slide down the zipper. His cock is long, plump. Perfect. It's the cock of your dreams, the cock you fell in love with. It's the god-cock, and it's as much your Master as the One who owns it. You worship it. You gently lean forward at kiss its base, where it meets the balls -- you smother yourself in the scent of your fantasy.

You take it in your mouth, this god-cock, and you slather it with your drool -- you soak it in your spit -- to make it wet enough to fuck you. His precum gently mixes with the taste of his milk, and you could keep this cock in your mouth for hours -- forever -- if not for how badly you know he wants to fuck you. And how badly you want him to.

"Enough, boy," he says, though you knew before he said it. He's ready, therefore you're ready. That simple. By the scruff of the neck, he pulls you from his cock -- ready or not to have him in your ass, it's still tough to let it from your mouth -- and he dismounts. Moving behind you, he bends you over the seat, massages the globes of your fine ass, slipping his hands inside the waistband of your spandex shorts.

When he slides them down your firm thighs, you can feel the seat leather against your rock-hard cock -- funny, because as pleasurable as this is, you're not thinking of your pleasure. You're thinking of his. You want this to be the best fuck he's ever had. You want him to have the most pleasure he's ever known. Knowing you're his tool cures you of your own selfish need. All that matters is him.

His cock is incredible, although maybe a little bigger than perfect -- the way it fills you. You relax and allow him deeper penetration. You want to be full of him. More.

"Submit, boy," he commands, and thrusts.

What do you say? It feels so good.

"Submit, boy," he commands, and thrusts again. Deeper this time.

"Yes," you say, panting. "Yes."

He slaps your ass. Hard. You almost cry out from the sting. "Yes, WHAT?" he barks.

And you know. Immediately. You recognize your mistake -- and all you want is the thrusting to continue -- so you say it. "MASTER," you say, surprised at how natural it feels. "Yes, MASTER."

Each time he plunges inside of you, he repeats himself. Each time, you respond the same way, easier and easier to say. You'd never thought to ask his name, when he pulled up behind you on his motorcycle, but you knew even then that you'd only ever need to know him as what he is now: the MASTER. Your MASTER.

Submission is glorious. A revelation. When want becomes need, and need is fulfilled, you're complete. You're an extension of Him.

"You want my seed, boy?" he asks -- or does he command? -- so hard to tell. Not that it matters. Of course you want it, more than anything in the world.

You scream out, begging for it.

He leans down into your ear, and hoarsely whispers, "Gonna impregnate you, boy," thrusts himself deeper into your ass than any man has ever gone before, right up into your guts, pressing you down forcefully into the padded leather of his motorcycle seat, and shoots his load.

Heaven. Glorious. The ultimate one-ness. The MASTER is leaving his seed inside of you -- the honor, to be full of him. His milk, and now his seed.

When he pulls out of you, you almost slide off the seat from exhaustion, physical and emotional, but you know that you still have responsibilities. You turn to face him, to clean off his softening cock, as is your duty, and you take long, full, flat-tongued licks down the length of his shaft, a bit of his salty cum still clinging to him. It feels so good to have him inside you. Your ass is so warm. And that warmth is spreading.

When his cock is clean, you still lick it, like a dog-treat. With a smirk, he pushes your head away, and tucks himself back into his jeans. Pinned as you are between him and the bike, looking up at him, you're again overwhelmed by his musculature, and his stature. And he's inside you.

He speaks. "And the seat, boy?" he says, indicating the motorcycle. You spin around and see what he's talking about. The seat is covered in your cum. Somewhere along the line, you came. You hadn't even noticed your own climax, so involved you were with his. And now, his motorcycle is stained with you. Look what you've done!

"Sorry, MASTER," you say sincerely, and immediately begin to lap it up, your tongue your only tool.

"Good boy."

As you lick along the leather seat, across the molds made by your MASTER'S powerful ass, tasting the leather, yourself, you remember him saying he'll impregnate you, and you fantasize while you lick his seat clean that you actually could carry something of him inside you. You feel his seed there, deep in your loins, like a warm ball. And you can feel it growing.

It's then you realize that you ARE pregnant. With him. HE'S inside of you, growing. Not his progeny -- HIM. The MASTER. The MASTER is inside of you. With a fiery burn, he spreads through your torso, a glorious domination. Your guts are his. Now your heart.

He spreads out your limbs, until your body radiates his heat and energy. Your body is his. Him. Your body no longer belongs to you. It doesn't matter. Feels so good to submit.

When he comes into your head, and you can feel his presence over-lapping you, like you both exist as one, together, you feel joy. Ecstasy. You are him. No. He is you.

Ultimate submission. Acceptance. Destiny. You look up at him, this god above you, and nothing else exists. He is all. "MASTER," you say, as you cry for joy. You bend forward and kiss his boots, wetting them with your tears.

When he straddles his bike and stomps the kick start, he settles it into a throaty idle before you dutifully climb onto the seat behind him, wrap yourself up as close as you can -- because that's your place -- and the two of you -- ONE of you -- drive off into the day. •