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Part 1 of 3 – The Bike Ride.
For Mick – who gave me my first bike ride 😉 with love.
Carefully I dried the white plates and put them away on the shelves. I ran the tea towel over the cups and hung them on their hooks. No point putting the breakfast dishes for a family of four in the dishwasher. The quiet little café buried in the depths of the pine woods wouldn’t be attracting many more visitors today. I almost always did the washing up by hand.
I smoothed my damp hands over my hips like they do in ’50s movies. I had the look – that arsehole Tony, my manager, made me wear some crappy little black dress with a stupid white frilly apron – small enough to remind men that I must have a similar shaped black bush under my crappy black skirt.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror that hangs by the toilet doors: tall, skinny, with my dark hair pulled into a pony tail off my pale face. My face would look young, except it has that scar down one cheek. Yeah, I’ve been around. Don’t fucking try anything on with me, starshine.
Hardly anyone came to that café deep in the woods. There were days when I could make myself a proper Italian coffee, sit out in the dappled sunshine on the step and work on my studies all day long without being disturbed.
What? So fucking what, I was doing a bit of studying. I saw an advert, said you could earn and learn, study online. Graduate of the University of Life, that’s me but I thought I’d give it a go. Piss off, I’m not doing any harm, just getting myself an education. It’s my own fucking business what I do with my own time, isn’t it.
Occasionally, a family used to drive up to the café, especially if they’d been camping and it rained. More often it was lads on motorbikes. Not the wannabe one percenters, fuck, I’d had my gutful of them. They stick to the places they can hang out in their gangs. The roads near that café were a biker’s dream, so sometimes the real riders – the ones who are in it for the bike, not the chance to look like an extra for a Mad Max movie – would ride through. They would come singly or in small groups. A gal like me could handle them easy. LOL.
What! Yeah, I like something well hung on two wheels: hardtail or softail. So what. Easy pickings there at that café, I’m telling you. In fact, that day as I hung the cups on their hooks, I heard the sound of a single engine purring slowly up the track that turned off under the dark pine trees from the main swing through the hillsides. Putt-putt-putt, it pulled on up in front of the café and the rider cut the ignition. The stillness fell over the clearing in the pine woods again. A bird sang a few notes, another one replied.
I stood waiting behind the counter with the red and black Gaggia espresso machine gleaming behind me and the cups and plates and glasses neatly stacked, shining clean. To my left, some fresh buns were temptingly displayed in a glass case. I quickly put my hands to my boobs and gave them a boost. They’re not much to write home about, but a good bra will always showcase what you’ve got. Like in an essay. They don’t let you have many words to write with but with a good structure you can make a couple of points stand out.
After a while, I walked over to the door and went out to see what the fuck that fucker was playing at.
A BMW K 1600 Gran Turismo in vermillion red had pulled over to the side of the quiet clearing. Clean as a whistle, I swear that was a nearly new machine. The chrome was glistening and the paintwork was as slick as a virgin’s vagina.
The bike was steady on the main stand and the rider was lying on top of the black saddle and trim, his head and shoulders up on the fuel tank. He was on his back with his legs down so that his feet were on the ground either side of the bike. He had on nearly new leathers – you know the kind, wanted to look like a hard man but couldn’t bear to get his jacket scuffed. Fuck, I would have betted his mother fucking polished his trousers for him with handbag cream.
Oh yes. His leather trousers were pulled down around his hips and his dick was sticking straight up in the fresh woodland air.
Really? FFS. Word gets around quick, doesn’t it. Fresh slag at the Hot Buns Café.
Oh well, y’know. No point getting all stuck up about it and pretending I didn’t like a bit of fun. In those days I was a bit of a good time gal. I had been through it, I didn’t want any more trouble so I just used to take my fun where I found it – if you know what I mean. And I did find quite a lot of it in that café in the woods, LOL.
I walked slowly over to the biker lying back over the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo with his leather trousers jerked down round his hips and his dick sticking up in the air. The six cylinder engine would still be boiling hot. I wanted to wave my hand gently near the cast aluminium frame to feel the heat but instead I stood by the bike and inspected the goods on offer.
Reasonable size – and he knew it. Dirty fucker was showing himself off tire escort like he probably used to do in the changing rooms with the other lads at school. His cock was stuck up like a pole for me to dance around. The purple head was pushing at the foreskin and a bead of precum was already oozing from his slit, he was that up for it already. He had got himself all hot and bothered on the ride out, thinking about spearing hot slag with his sausage.
By now the plonker was getting worried because I was just standing there by the bike not leaping onto his plonker. That thick dick must’ve been getting chilly poking up into the woodland breezes there. His stiffie was sagging. Awww, poor little thing!
He flicked his eyes anxiously at me. Oooh, blue eyes under a mop of untidy dark hair. Mummy’s boy or whatever, he was good looking. I gave in and put my hand out to wrap my fingers gently round his johnson. He made a sound somewhere between a sigh of relief and a grunt of lust. I eased my hand up and down to get him hard again.
He was warm and thick in my hand. Guys go on about length but I like girth. I like a good thick one to stick in my hole and fill me up.
I took my hand off his cock to pick out a condom from the pocket in my stupid frilly apron. He scrabbled about in the breast pocket of his jacket. I thought he had brought his own protection and was impressed at first but then he flourished a crisp note at me.
WTF! Fuck you, fucking sonofabitch. Then I saw how much he was waving at me. TBH, if it had been a measly tenner or something I would’ve kicked that BMW Gran Turismo in its cast aluminium frame and toppled the whole thing over on top of him. But he was waving a fifty pound note at me.
Well, y’know, fifty quid. That was a trip to Tenby for me and my mate Jan and the kiddo. Fish and chips, ice creams all round and a go at crabbing off the pier for the little ‘un. They didn’t used to get much of a break, Jan and Mickey, what with his special needs. Fifty quid was petrol in Jan’s car and stick the bucket and spade in the boot, and we’re off for the day.
I took the note and with a little flourish I shoved it in my bra. As a thank you I showed half the bra cup to the fucker – proper nice from a posh shop in the city. I bought it in the sales one year. La Perla ivory satin and black lace with matching brief and suspender belt. Alright, alright, I like the Italian stuff. I dunno what it is. I love Italy, me. I had never been there, of course, hahaha. Picture me swanning about Firenze or wherever like that prissy tart in A Room with a View! See, I know the proper Italians call it Firenze not Florence, I’m not as thick as you think I am.
Anyway, my Italian fashion flash was wasted on the blue-eyed boy. Talk about La Perla before swine, he just grunted some more, staring at my frilly white apron like he could see through it. He was in such a state I thought he was going to fall over without me pushing him – the BMW vermillion red Gran Turismo on top of him, squashing his pipework under the three-way catalytic convertor.
I lifted up my skirt. No worries about him not appreciating that view. I was wearing no knickers so he got a straight eyeful of my tidy trimmed black bush, white lean thighs emphasised by the tops of my black stockings and the ivory satin and black lace straps of the La Perla suspenders.
Now he was good and hard, his big thick dick sticking up in the woodland air. I fetched out one of my condoms. I thought it was going to be a quiet day, that there wouldn’t be any more fuckers fucking along the woodland roads in search of a comfort stop. I picked out one of my favourites: reusable dotted and ribbed with the pleasure enhancing bump that rubs on my clitoris. If you’re going to ride someone like I intended to ride this pony, that spur on the clit is a definite must.
I fitted the condom over the quivering column of his flesh. He looked mighty fine once he was sporting that rubber rub-a-dub, I can tell you.
I went round to the right side of the motorbike, put my hand over the handlebar – covering the brake out of habit, and then I put my other hand over to the other handlebar. My cleavage was riding above the blue-eyed boy now, and he couldn’t help but look up past my titties at me although he did keep sliding looks down to where my skirt was hitched up and he could see my black-bushed pussy and white thighs against the black stocking tops. I stepped onto the peg, swung my leg and my weight over the bike and the blue-eyed boy all in one quick go. I knew the fucker wouldn’t be fucking for long, he was leaking precum even before I fit that fucker of a condom on him. I aimed for his plonker and got it in the hole first shot.
Ooh fucking gorgeous! I slid right down on him in one move, feeling the ribs and dots of the condom ripple against my slick quim. He jerked up into my cunt – ooh that cock thrusting up! The spur of the condom was immediately rubbing on my clitoris. Oh yes, baby!
Gripping the escort tire handlebars and straddling him and the bike with my feet on the pegs, I started to rise and fall, clenching my cunt muscles around his cock, thrusting down on him and against the spur on my clitoris. Ooh fuck! ooh fuck! it was good! The fucker was spread out under me with his feet braced on the ground to make sure the bike stayed upright. He couldn’t move like he wanted to. His body was racked out over the black saddle and trim, straining to keep still enough that the bike wouldn’t fall over. I was hoping this would delay the fucking enormous orgasm that fucker was going to blow into the ribbed and dotted condom inside me long enough that I could get my jollies off too.
In frustrated excitement, the fucker reached round and grabbed my arse cheeks. He sure wasn’t a tit man, he was focussing on my butt, gripping the cheeks so he could pull me up and down on him. Hi ho, Silver away! I was doing my best, going up and down his pole like a carousel horse, my ponytail tossing in the woodland breezes. Ooh yes! those nobbles on the condom on his knob were really doing it for me. I could feel the sensations rippling out in my vagina and yes! yes! yes! the rubbing of the rubber spur on my love button.
The fucker gripping my arse cheeks was pulling them apart as he tried to lift me and pull me down to his rhythm not mine. That allowed a fresh breeze to whisper over my arsehole – oooh yes! ooooh yes! I may not have big tits but I have a great arse with a lean meaty curve to it. My skirt had got caught up in the fucker’s hands at the back so my whole curving arse was being shown off to the squirrels and bunnies: white and semi-circular like two half moons rising and dropping in the grip of his fingers above my lean white thighs with the black stocking tops ringing them.
I heard the sound of vehicles approaching. Not a car, thank God, which might have meant kids. It was the distinctive rumble of a V-twin motor – a Harley Davidson, and there was the whining stutter of a Triumph and the clockwork spluttering of a Ducati. OMG, those fucking biker boys were going to get a fucking show as they came round the bend in the track into the clearing. I imagined what they would see: the leather-clad lad sprawled on his back on the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. My black-stockinged long legs against the cast aluminium. My bare white arse cheeks above the black stocking tops, with the ivory silk and black lace suspender straps taut down over my thighs. The whole moonscape bobbing up and down, thrusting my secret hole in its black bush up and down on the ribbed and dotted condom sporting cock of the leather-clad lad. His thick fingers gripping my meaty white arse cheeks to pull them open and show off my puckered plum arsehole.
Fuck fuck, I got so excited that I screamed and my cunt muscles suddenly all bunched up and clenched on the fucker’s plonker. He started shouting and swearing and cumming. I swear I felt the spurt of an eruption of cum thrust the top of the condom up inside of me. I was gripping the handle bars of the bike with my hands, the bike with my knees and his cock with my cunt and cumming like a fucking steam train – all whistles and bells.
I came down off that fucking orgasm trembling and sweating. Behind me it was silent – apart from the birds and bees – so the Harley, the Triumph and the Ducati must just have been sitting with their ignitions switched off.
I swung my leg off over the blue-eyed boy, who was lying back with his blue eyes shut and a huge grin on his face. My knees were trembling and I could barely stand, I had cum so hard. Sticky strings of pussy juice dangled against the tops of my thighs. I couldn’t even move to turn round and face the lucky spectators of the show young blue eyes and I had put on.
Strong hands took me gently by the arms and helped me into the café. I sat heavily in a chair, panting, and looked speechless at the three fuckers who had fucked up on their motorbikes.
They were proper biker lads in weatherproofs. One had twinkling pale blue eyes and sandy hair, he was stockily built. I would have laid my La Perla knickers on it that he was Harley Owner Guy – the HOG. The taller thinner one who was still staring, and had not wiped the dribble off his chin yet, was probably the Triumph. Ducati was the bronzed bloke with what looked like a hired jacket over jeans – he probably hired the Ducati to come out with his mates ‘n all.
“Come on, lads, let’s get tea on the go,” the HOG said solicitously. “The lady’s in need of some … ah, liquid refreshment.”
Ducati went and bustled about behind the counter, mucking up my clean cups in search of teabags and some sugar and milk. Triumph was still looking hopefully at me.
I found my breath at last. “Fuck off,” I panted. I was sitting sprawled back in the chair with my legs spread so my soaking wet pussy could get some air. “I’m not giving out any more after that. Fuck off into the woods and tire escort bayan have a wank.”
Triumph blushed deeply but the HOG laughed. Ducati came round with the cups of tea.
“Sugar?” HOG asked. I held up two fingers, then turned them round politely. He put two spoonfuls in my cup and stirred it thoroughly.
He went back to the door and picked up a bit of paper off the floor. Fuck me! it was the fucking BMW Gran Turismo fucker’s fucking fifty pound note. It must have got jerked up in my bra cup with all the bouncing up and down and had slid out onto the floor. I would have been willing to fight the three of them off not to be raped, but I wasn’t going to break my fingernails over a measly fifty quid.
But the HOG just brought it over and put it down on the table beside me. We sat peacefully drinking our cups of tea. Triumph slurped at his but the HOG was a nice tidy drinker and Ducati seemed unsure if he really wanted his cup.
“Buns?” I managed to ask.
“Oh yeah, bung a couple in the toaster, Joe,” the HOG said to Ducati. “I’m quite … peckish,” and he looked at me and sniggered, his eyes twinkling as if to tell me how much I’d turned him on. “Put a tenner on the counter,” he added. “The lady can sort out our change in a minute.”
I was wondering if he was being sarky, calling me a ‘lady’ when he’d just seen my arse going up and down on a ribbed and dotted condom on the cock of a BMW rider in leathers. But I knew he meant it. I was touched by him paying up for the drinks and buns, too. Right little gentleman, LOL.
As Ducati put the money under the saucer laid optimistically out for tips, we heard the bellied roar of the BMW kicking into life. Cwoar, that fucker. Never even came for a cup of tea, never mind a bacon sarnie. Tony would be going on again about the cash flow and saying senior management would come and shut the café down. Oh, but thanks to the HOG, Triumph and Ducati – and the family breakfast earlier, I’d have something to show for the day. Other than my trembling knees and the cum trails drying against my thighs and stocking tops that is. I was hoping the fucking BMW fucker had at least left my ribbed and dotted condom behind. It was supposed to be good for fifty uses so I had another thirty-eight to get out of it.
“Well, thank you for the … cuppa,” the HOG said, with that naughty twinkle that told me he meant thank you for the whole show. He got to his feet and his friends followed suit. They all put their cups and plates tidily on the counter for me.
“What about your change,” I said, starting to try to get to my feet.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Ducati said in a beautiful Italian accent that made my knees start trembling again. “Grazie mille for … everything.”
I almost regretted telling the three fuckers to fuck off, but I was in no state to accommodate even one of them. Even a windswept blond bronzed Italian one.
“You could come back next weekend,” I suggested. My brain wasn’t in top gear, I meant for the change.
They sort of didn’t look but they did look at each other out of the corners of their eyes. Triumph said huskily: “You’d do … all three of us? Together?”
I blushed furiously. I mean, of course I fantasised while playing about with a couple of toys but I’m not a slag who does gang bangs. TBH, even with all that stuff I’d had to do before, I had never had the chance to pop my anal cherry.
“Oh yeah sure,” I said crossly. “Multi-hole orgy, why not.”
The HOG blushed but sniggered too. He knew I was joking. I was hoping he knew I was joking.
“Is fifty quid the going rate?” asked Triumph rudely.
I got very indignant at that. “I just took the money so I can help my friend with her kid!” I blurted out angrily. “His dad ran off when he was six months old and she’s never managed to get a penny from him to help her. The kid has cerebral palsy.”
Why did I bother. They wouldn’t believe me. They thought I stashed it and bought La Perla knickknacks. But WTF. Who cares. I felt very cross and got up to go and sling the plates in the washing up bowl. But not too hard. Tony would take it out of my wages if any got chipped.
“I should think seventy-five at least would be the going rate for a multi-hole orgy,” the HOG said. I could tell he was trying to make me laugh but I was pissed off.
“Yeah, seventy-five quid. Each,” I said. “Ta ta.”
I started to run the hot water and squish the washing up liquid into the bowl. I heard their heavy boots tramp out and the door shut behind them.
My hands were still trembling with the adrenaline surge of the enormous orgasm I got off the fucking BMW Gran Turismo fucker. I knew I would be fantasising for a while about going up and down on his condom-covered pole while he held my arse cheeks open for the three bikers to stare at my arsehole. I wished I’d been able to see the HOG’s face while he watched. Did his eyes twinkle? Or did they narrow up and get serious in lust. He had a nice voice – well posh. That one they called Joe – must be Giovanni. His accent was to die for. I gave a sigh and a smirk, put the last cup on the draining board and went to see if I could retrieve my ribbed and dotted condom with the pleasure enhancing bump from the pine-needle strewn floor of the clearing.
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