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 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.
