by Carla Croft
“That’s travelling inn’ it?” she cackled as she left. I was genuinely sorry to see her go. The rest of the office was relived she was going.
Not long ago, I got a text from Cass. She was back. My “ass” was ordered over for a drink at her local in the East End. So that is how at 9:30 one evening, I came to be standing on a pavement outside an East End pub in heels and designer jeans looking down at the text and up at the shabby building in front of me. With a sigh, I noted they matched.
“You gonna be all right luv?” asked the taxi driver. I was concerned he looked concerned.
“Er, yes, I’m meeting a friend.” He looked around on all sides like a fighter pilot watching out for bandits.
“Okay, your call” he said, gunned his engine and left me standing there.
“You in the right place luv?” I turned around slap bang into the chest of Hagrid out of Harry Potter. I looked up past the ZZ top beard into a pair of startlingly black eyes. I’m five foot eleven in flats so, to my Hermione, this chap had to be, well, much taller, maths was never my strong point.
“Er, yes.” I hesitated,
“I’m meeting a friend”
“You sure?”
“Er, Yes” I was having doubts but had no taxi and nowhere to go except in there. The door of the pub looked ominous. It was the doorway to every bad dream I had ever had.
“Cass, my friend” I don’t know why I added her name as an explanation.
“She said she’d meet me in there.” I pointed a finger round him at the nightmare door.
“You a friend of Cass?” There was a hint of a twinkle in the blackness but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
“Yes.”
“You’d better come in, then.” He turned and strode into the pub, forcing the door open like they do in Westerns. Light flooded out. He paused at the door, looked back at me one final time as if to satisfy himself I wasn’t a figment of his imagination, and bellowed inside,
“Cass?”
“What?” The response had a familiar shriek to it. Memories surged back.
“I found this outside, says she’s with you.”
Silence. Shriek.
Cass came down the aisle of the pub like a steam train on acid. She hadn’t changed. Denim skirt, cowboy hat, cowboy boots, tight white T-shirt and frizzy blonde hair. The only thing missing before she crashed into me was the pull of the hem. As she squeezed the life out of me, I had the chance to look round the inside of the pub. Through the red haze of my asphyxia, I took in Cass’ local. If you can imagine the space bar scene from Star Wars but shot in the East End, you’ve got it.
“You met Tone then?” She had let me out of the death hug and had hooked her arm into mine.
“Who?”
“Tone,” she slapped the man-mountain to indicate who she meant,
“my baby” she slapped him again.
“Thanks Babe” she stood on tiptoe and gave the man-mountain a kiss full on the lips holding on to her hat. If it was possible, I would have said Tone blushed.
“Come on” said Cass and dragged me bodily through the crowd,
“Ain’t he gorgeous?” she whispered to me as we made our way to a table in the far corner,
“Yeah, real cute.”
We got to our table. I was introduced to a line of men, all in bike leathers. When the introductions were finished, Cass shrilled,
“Okay boys, piss off, girl talk.” The men dutifully “pissed off”.
“‘ere” she said not lowering her voice one decibel.
“You still collecting them mucky stories?” A few people looked around. I’m hardly a prude, considering what I write, but I do want to keep a modicum of secrecy over the matter,
“Erotic encounters” I replied lowering my voice,
“Yeah them.”
I nodded.
“Brill, I’ve got one for you.” I leant forward to hear her better as thankfully she had lowered her voice,
“‘Ere Tone” she bellowed at full register, I shot back in my seat again, clicking my jaw to get my hearing back,
“Grab us some Asti will yah, we’re celebratin’.” My taste buds shrivelled in horror.
“You up for it?” She asked.
“Yeah absolutely” I said, “fire away.”
***
I was walking past this garage in the East End after I got back from Ibiza last summer. I knew this guy rented it to do up old bikes. I love bikes. Nothing beats the smell of oil and leather. Anyway, I’d never been in and so I thought, well, why not?
I got level with the doors and there was this awesome throaty roar. Not the whine of some modern Japanese thing. I’m talking deep, like a lion in heat on the Discovery Channel. The alley was shaking with it.
I stuck my head around the door and there was this huge guy, Tone. T shirt, beard, leathers, revving this 1960s classic Triumph Bonneville. He was intent on this baby, like there was nothing else in the world. I didn’t think he had noticed me as I walked in. I can make an entrance especially as I had my beach body on and was brown as a nut from Ibiza; but, bugger me, he was so concentrated on this bike the world could have ended and he wouldn’t have known it’d gone.
The place was immaculate: it wasn’t so much a garage as a shrine. This guy was obviously a real engine-head. Tools were laid out in order, engine parts were laid out on benches. The lathes and grinders were sparkling. There’s this smell in the air of engine oil, petrol, grease and sweat. Working on bikes is real heavy work. You can’t work on a bike without generating serious body heat. Last summer was hot and it was hotter in the garage than it was outside. As I walked in, he was squatting down by the tail pipe and was teasing the throttle. His eyes were closed, he was communing with it. In real deep, zoned out. The noise was deafening. I couldn’t hear myself think. He said afterwards he heard me come in, said my heels were off with the tappets. He stood up wiping his great big hands on this rag. Tone is tall and he kept going up. He was a full two foot taller than me when he stopped. I barely came up to his chest. He was like a great big grizzly bear. He didn’t say much. He’s a man of few words. He doesn’t need many. He’s got these great eyes, and great big hairy arms. Hands as rough as shovels when he holds you. God knows how many pairs of tights I’ve gone through since I met him.
He was looking at me, like, what you doing here.
“Hi” I said all nonchalantly, and he just stares at me.
“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 brin
ging 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.
Karen - The Laptop
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.
