Letters Around Midnight (8 page)

“Great bike.” He grunted, like, what do you know.

Now, I know bikes. My Dad, bless him, was a mechanic. He had me stripping down engines before I could dress myself. This bike was a classic, like the one Steve McQueen rode in the Great Escape. It was 650 cc, twin carbs, 44 horse power of deep throated sex. I told him the timing was out on one of valves. He grunted again like I'd told him his dick was cockeyed. He revved the engine. You could see it in his face. He knew I was right. He checked it and the inlet valve was opening at 32 instead of 34 degrees. There was this respect. Grudging; but respect.

He let me closer in. I could smell the oil and grease on him and the bike. It always gets me going. Bikes have always made me horny. There is nothing better than having something big and throbbing between your legs to get you going. My first boyfriend had a bike. It was nothing massive, not even 250cc but the first time I went on it, I had to have him. I got this buzz, it went straight from the engine through my panties. I reckon the resonant frequency of my clit is set to bike engines. From then on, a guy could have been the ugliest sod in the world with two heads but if he had a bike and he let me straddle it, I was his. I went out with so many guys with bikes. All kinds, I didn't care, just had to be a bike. It's a huge vibrator on wheels. You can ride it in public, get horny and go anywhere. Until you've had a proper bike between your legs, you haven't lived. The power of a bike on me is phenomenal and this bike was bringing us closer.

Tone let me right up to the bike: he was in the middle of stripping her down. The exhaust was hooked up to a machine to sniff the exhaust to analyse it and take the fumes out the garage. I'd never seen one before. My old man taught me to assess an engine the old fashioned way. Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Each oil, grease and lubricant smells unique. Put the same oils and lubes through different engines, give em a few days and they'll taste different. Give me two bikes and drain the fluids and God if I can't tell you which came from which. I've got this great sense of taste and smell. My Dad used to say if you want to be a good mechanic, ride English bikes, there's always something needs doing.

The smell of this bike was all over this guy. He must have ridden her to hell and back and there she was in all her glory, waiting for him to put her back together again and ride her some more.

I got between him and the bike. He didn't take to that at first. Men don't, bike first, girl second; but I didn't care. She was a beauty. I ran my fingers over the tank. She was so beautifully put together it was a shame to see her naked. Boy, she had some pipes. He still had his hand on her throttle and I asked if I could sound her out. He was reluctant, men don't like a girl touching their bike. They can straddle it if they let them but they can't touch the controls. I reckon he knew what I was doing, so he let me. I gave the throttle a gentle twitch. I could see him flinch. It was like I had my hand round his dick. The grip of the throttle was real thick and ribbed for extra riding pleasure. It was so sensitive, the smallest tweak and she responded. It was the same with Tone. Any small movement of his throttle and you could see it on his face.

I squeezed closer into the space between his arm and the bike. I was horny as hell. The smell of oil and grease was working its old magic. I tell you, I was getting all greased up myself. I was wearing this short denim skirt and boots. As I squeezed between him and the bike I had to rub my ass against him. He didn't back off. Not many men would. There I was, between him and this she-monster, revving the fuck out of her. I leant over to rest my forearm on the tank to listen better and to touch her. You can get a better feeling if you can feel the vibe of her. Listen, feel, taste. Just like a woman. The more senses you have on her, the better. Except, men don't listen too good.

I asked him if he was okay with it. He shrugged. We hadn't spoken much to each other. We were talking to the bike and through her, to each other. Any biking relationship is a threesome. You, your man and the bike, and not in that order. The bike comes first always. I tell you she can give you the best ride you've ever had. She is clean, powerful, never argues, never tries to two-time you. It's the man does that. The bike is always faithful.

Anyway, I was bent over between this guy and the bike, listening to her. I felt this huge hand come around my waist. The feeling of the engine and the noise of her was right inside me, buzzing my pussy. She was purring to me, this is my feller, he's a great guy, how's about we do it. She had the voice of a siren tempting, seductive, it was like she was mesmerising me. I let his hand wander over me as I stroked the faring. She had these great lines and I let my fingers play over the chrome work as his hands played over my ass. I could just fit my hand around the forks. I felt my jean skirt being pulled up and these big hands on my thighs and then between my legs. All the time I was revving her slowly, gently, I could feel her on the road and between my legs. I felt his zip go down and his leathers being pulled open. I squirmed my arse against the bulge in his groin. My God, it felt huge. I revved the engine again and felt the vibe going through me. I was all lubed up and needed him inside me. I let him push into me as I continued to rev the engine slowly at first, listening to the throb of the engine. He pushed himself further into me and started to get the rhythm going. He had his hand on the throttle over mine and as he moved into me he revved the engine again. The engine was giving us the rhythm, urging us on. I bent right over the tank and let him take me deeper, surrendering the throttle to him. He thrust into me harder and faster. It was fantastic. I could feel the vibration in me as he fucked me. It was hot down by the engine and the noise was deafening. I couldn't hear or sense anything else. It felt like I was this big engine and was being revved between my thighs. My pussy was clenching as I matched the rhythm of him and bike. I flicked my hair out of my eyes with one hand and looked back. I could see this huge guy in leathers fucking me hard with my skirt up over my arse, it was brilliant. He slipped out of me and straddled the bike and then made me sit on his cock facing away from him with my feet on the pegs. I took over throttle and pumped up and down on his cock, revving the engine faster and faster in shorter bursts. He sped up so I matched the throttle to his thrusts. I could feel his dick rubbing inside me and then he came and I revved the engine in one long burst as he held my hips with one hand and thrust himself deep inside me. The smell of our sex mingled with the oil and the grease. His rough hands scratching my skin were fantastic.

I turned around and sat on his lap, face to face and worked his dick inside me again. I rubbed myself off, leaning back over the handlebars. I felt his great big rough hands on my stomach and over my breasts as he forced them up under my T-shirt. The smell of the oil and the grease was fantastic. He leant forward right over me, revving the engine, my knees right up by my chest and his arms holding the handle bars. I was in the centre of this vibration inside this cocoon of noise. I worked my fingers on myself until I came. I tell you it was the hardest I've come in years.

I've had sex after a good ride before but never on a bike. It was amazing. I think I cried. He looks down at me and says

“We going to get married or what?”

Well, what can a girl say to a proposal like that except yes.

 

***

 

“Well, what do you reckon, worth it?”

It's not often I am rendered speechless but Cass had managed it. Despite my initial reservations and the look of Tone, I have to say I had found the story thrilling in a peculiar way. I'm a secret petroholic, I love the smell of petrol. I have been known to hang around on garage forecourts to get a good whiff of the stuff. I often find smell is the sense which affects me most deeply. It can bring back memories faster than any other. So I had connected to Cass' story.

“Yeah,” I said slowly,

“Absolutely worth it,”

“Cheers” said Cass.

“Bottoms up.”

All I had to do now was get through a bottle of Asti Spumanti.

 

I met Karen at our local coffee house one lunchtime. She had contacted me through a mutual friend to say she had a story for me that I might appreciate. So how could I refuse?

When I arrived, she was sitting at a booth in a corner at the back of the shop, as far away from everyone else as she could get. Empty cups and stained sugar bags littered the table.

“I needed some caffeine courage,” she admitted sheepishly before we made our introductions. It is often a problem. Even girls who know me well sometimes dry up when it comes to the crunch. Talking intimately to me makes them clam up when it is for my stories; but, give them a glass of wine and an Anne Summers party and you can't stop them.

“Just talk,” I suggested, sliding into the booth and perching my handbag on the seat next to me,

“Pretend I'm not here.”

I rummaged for my notebook and sat patiently letting her start in her own time, sipping my coffee.

“Well, my boyfriend loves to watch porn on the net” she began. Subconsciously she was biting her lip, eyeing me scribbling on my pad.

“And I feel left out at times.”

The ice was broken, so all I had to do was listen. I lay my pen down; she relaxed.

 

***

 

All porn looks much the same old, same old to me after a while. To be honest, it's boring; but, if it gets Nick, my man, in the mood to pay attention to me, who cares?

I went out with the girls one night and came back early. The place we went to was lousy and we weren't enjoying it so we called it a night. I got back home after midnight and let myself in quietly to see if I could surprise Nick; and boy did I ever.

I crept upstairs and could see him lying on the bed through the half-open door. He was obviously watching porn on his laptop. I could see his hand inside his boxers by the light of the bedside lamp. He was massaging himself slowly. I could see the bulge of him under the fabric and the movements of his hand as he absentmindedly rolled himself between his fingers and thumb, as he usually does to get himself going. He was totally focused on what he was watching. I had never seen him so intent. Whatever it was, it had to be good. As he hadn't heard me come in, I decided to watch him for a few more moments. Watching him from the dark of the hallway was turning me on. I have to admit I do have some voyeuristic tendencies but had never played them out before. I was enjoying myself no end. I know his sex so well. I could sense him in my mind. I could smell his warm aroma as I continued to watch him fondle himself. I found myself breathing harder and deeper, matching his rhythm. I know the heat of him so well against my skin; I ran the tip of my tongue over my lips and found myself caressing the space between my thighs and squeezed my hand between them. I was getting nicely warmed up myself.

I must have stood there in the dark watching for a good five minutes. Nick was bringing himself to the brink and then letting his orgasm slide away. He was obviously trying to keep himself on the boil for when I got back. I could see a dark stain of pre-cum on his boxers. If I waited any longer he may not be able to stop himself coming. I had this overwhelming urge for him. He was lying there all pent-up, constrained with his hard-on in his hand. I wanted to be the one to release all his constricted energy, to let it flood out. So, I decided the time was right. I pushed open the door and walked in on him.

He startled a

“Hi Babe,” or something and pretended to stretch and removed his hand from his boxers, supposedly, so he thought, without me noticing.

I asked him what he was doing, feigning ignorance and enjoying playing innocent. I purposely kept my eyes off his hard-on and took off my top and stepped out of my skirt and heels, standing in front of him in my thong and bra.

“Oh, just surfing,” he said. Yeah right, I thought. He took his eyes off the screen to look me up and down as I undressed, which pleased me. I looked at his crotch. He hadn't gone soft from being disturbed, which pleased me more. I slipped over to him and spun the laptop around.

“You enjoying yourself?” I asked, patting his bulge, claiming it back for me, feeling him twitch under my hand.

“You got to watch this, K,” he said so I laid down on the bed with my knees on the pillow and my body lying snug against his. I could smell his arousal. He hugged me closer to him.

“This girl is great” he said

“You gotta watch.” He pressed play.

“Better than me?” I asked, teasing him. He smacked my bum. I pushed myself up to kneel next him, my thigh still in contact with his body. He put the laptop on the other side of him so we could both watch, giving me more access to his crotch.

Some hot redhead was giving this guy a blow job. I have to admit she was damn good. The video was quality, much better than anything he had watched before. I doodled lightly with my fingers along the inside of his thighs as we watched, brushing the hairs. His boxers were straining under his growing pressure. I decided he had waited long enough. This was as much for me as him. Well, to be honest, it was more for me.

I peeled down his boxers to let him out. The heat and aroma of him was beautifully strong. It was like walking into a sexual spice shop. He leant back against the bedhead but kept watching the screen, stroking my back and slipping his fingers inside the back of my thong. He does that when I go down on him. I love it, it makes me feel real sexy.

I have always found oral so much more intimate than full sex. I couldn't wait to get him in my mouth and leant forward and slowly ran the tip of my tongue along his length. Then an idea struck me, instead of doing my normal thing I matched my “moves” to the girl on the screen. It didn't take long for Nick to realise what was going on and he gave a long deep sigh as I pulled on him with my mouth. The girl was doing all sorts of things I had never thought of. Pulling, twisting, one hand, two hands, no hands; hell, it was an education!

I don't want to say too much, but well, Nick isn't so “big”. But, as we enjoy oral more than full sex, I am not too bothered. The great thing is, I can press my face tight up against his body and have all of his beautiful, hard, heat in my mouth before I gag. He has a great flat stomach with light hair and he is always clean but he still has a great musky smell at the end of the day; especially when he has been teasing himself. It's all such a turn-on for me and as he was playing with me at the same time, we both got really hot, really quick.

I soon tasted little drops of cum oozing from his tip and I knew he was close, so I used my mouth on him without my hands as the girl was doing. I feel like a cheat using my hands too much whilst giving a blow job. It's only a hand job then, with the tip of him in your mouth. I feel I am short-changing him. I love to get as much of him as I can in my mouth and work the whole length of him with my lips, mouth, tongue and throat. The girl on the video was doing the same and I matched my speed and movement to her. I was learning some neat moves. I had thought I was good at giving head until then. Nick's head swelled, a sure sign he was going to cum. So I went right down on him burying him in my mouth and felt his piquant flood gushing up into my throat as he pushed his hips up to meet me. I had his full length inside my mouth and I swept my face from side to side across the hair and skin on his stomach. He shuddered once, twice and a final time. I didn't let him off though. I kept him in my mouth savouring the taste and heat of him and the taut bulb of him against my tongue. He gave a final shudder so I released him, letting him slide out of my mouth.

I found it such a turn-on. I am sure he was imagining the redhead going down on him, and to be honest I was fantasising about the guy in the video. He was a touch larger than Nick and I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have something bigger in my mouth.

Karen was smiling and sat back in the booth, her story over. She involuntarily used her finger and thumb to pinch moisture from the sides of her mouth as if she had only this moment finished on Nick. Her other hand, I noticed, was firmly between her thighs. She was smiling wistfully off into the distance. I let her daydream for a while, letting her come down from her story as Nick was probably still coming down in her mind's eye.

 

***

 

“I hope he reciprocated”, I asked eventually.

“Oh God no, he was out for the count, poor guy,” we laughed.

“I had to bring myself off, so I watched the video again and bookmarked it. I got him a subscription to the site for his birthday and we often play the game of me dressing up the same way as the girl and using my mouth on him in the same way as she does. It's exciting stuff. I am so much better at oral than I was. Nick appreciates it so much he has started to experiment with different moves on me. It's a win, win!”

“It sounds like it” I said,

“Thanks for sharing.”

 

 

Paula loves jazz. She spends most of her spare time in various jazz clubs around the capital. She often calls me up late and badgers me to go with her to out-of-the way clubs because someone or other, from some place or other, is in the city playing a set. Although I'm not such a great fan, I enjoy the evenings. It's something different, and gets me out of the house. The jazz fans who Paula mixes with take their music seriously. Whereas you may go out on a regular night with the girls and it's all talk, talk, talk, you can get shushed at if you dare whisper at a jazz club. I can therefore indulge my passions of writing and people watching. It's odd; when I write, I prefer to have complete silence, but when the jazz is in free flow, it sharpens my literary observation and the audience gives me an endless variety of characters to draw on. So as a writer, I get two benefits for the price of one entry ticket. When it comes down to it, I suppose I love jazz as well.

I once asked Paula why she loved jazz so much.

“Easy,” she said as if it was a dumb question,

“It's been with me all my life. My parents loved jazz. My mum went to jazz clubs when she was pregnant with me, so I've always been surrounded by it. It relaxes and energises me at the same time; it resonates with my soul. If there was a lift up to heaven, the background music would be jazz.” It may have been a dumb question, but it was a great answer and his given me enough literary material to compose a number of stories.

It was one of those weird coincidences. I was in the office one day thinking why Paula hadn't called in a while and the next minute Paula called me on my private line.

“Okay, who, when and where is it this time?” I wedged my phone into the crook of my neck reaching over for my mobile to set up a date on my calendar. It had been a hard week and I decided that some jazz in my soul was the best remedy.

“It's not a who this time, it's me” she replied cryptically.

“You're the who? You're the who, who's going to do what?” My grammar was as fuddled as my brain.

“I took part.”

“You took part in a what? A jazz session?” I asked shaking my head to try to get it straight.

“Better than that,” she replied going all cryptic again. For Paula to say something was better than jazz meant it had to be Good, with a capital “G”. The penny dropped

“You mean you...”

“Yes,”

“Oh: and you want to...”

“Absolutely.”

“When and where?” I grabbed my things, this was better than jazz. This was a story.

“Last week, my local hotel,”

“No silly, when and where do you want to meet? I say now,”

“Err, okay” I didn't let her hesitation put me off. I was out of my chair, grabbing my coat, leaning forwards over the desk, the telephone cord at full stretch.

“I need to know everything,” I warned her.

“You'd better make it a long lunch then,” she sniggered.

We made plans and I hung up. The tube couldn't go fast enough for me as I fought my way through the lunchtime crowds to Tower Bridge. I practically ran to her usual lunchtime haunt at St Katherine's Docks. Paula leaned forward across the table, picking at her napkin as I sat down.

“I'm still so excited.” She trilled off her story at top speed; it was difficult to get her to slow down enough for me to pick up what she was saying.

“Calm down, girl,” I said. She took a deep breath.

“Okay.” She made a show of calming herself down by placing both hands firmly and slowly down on the table in front of her. She began again. I was all ears.

 

***

 

I went in to my local hotel last week. It had a jazz weekend on. You were working and I couldn't find anyone else to go with, so I went by myself. On the Friday night, there was an open mike session in the hotel bar to get the weekend started. All the bands were there to do short gigs, to give people a flavour of what was to come.

You know me, I adore getting dressed up so I wore a black knee-length dress and shoes; made myself look respectable. I grabbed a seat by the bar. The bartender knows me as I go in often so he put out some bar snacks for me. The place was filling up quick. I was glad I had got there early. All the regulars were there and a few people I didn't recognise, presumably from out of town. The management turned down the lights to enhance the atmosphere. You can't have it too bright or it spoils the mood.