IT HAPPENS EVERY TIME I smell engine oil, which makes taking the car for its MOT more hazardous than you might think. I have to inhale it deeply, and the corrosive petrochemical tang makes my heart sing and my clit grow fat. Everything in the garage makes me think of sex, from the jacks to the girlie calendars to the filthy rags, and once we come to the man in dirty overalls … well. Strong stubby fingers coated with black, greasy oil; biceps taut and gleaming underneath the heavy-duty material; big clumpy work boots; hair greased back out of the way; smudges on his honest, sweaty face. There is only one thing better than that for me, and that is a man in motorcycle leathers. Both would be ideal, but either would do. Either type of rough and ready, no-nonsense, straight on the level shag partner would fit my bill. But I seem to attract rich, ambitious men. Men in suits. Men who buy flowers and dinner. Never a man who flips me over the bonnet and ploughs right in, knowing what I need, knowing the shortcut that leads to split thighs and grunting, melting orgasms. I have tried to broach the subject of purchasing a motorcycle with a couple of past boyfriends, but both blanched and wittered about the danger and the expense. When I tried to set them on the path to discovering their inner macho brute, they were diverted by theatre tickets and champagne picnics.
What can a girl do? I’ve tried fabricating ridiculous problems with my car – but the mechanics at my local garage are such gents, and the one I usually deal with is older than my father. I’ve tried hanging out at the local bikers pub, but my friend said the smell of rancid scrumpy made her feel sick, and I did see her point. She thinks I should get a bike of my own and join some chapter of something – but I don’t want to be some Hell’s Angel’s ‘old lady’. I don’t want a ‘scene’ to join. It would be ruinous for my future career, for one thing! I just want an honest, hard shag from a hot man in leather. What on earth is so strange in that?
I suppose The Honourable Lucinda Ffolkes-Worthington is not supposed to have such appetites. But let me tell you now, no Eton boy in a Gieves & Hawkes suit is going to hit that sweet, secret spot at the core of me. I am out for a rough man or two, and I mean to get them.
So thank heavens for cousin Drusilla! She has saved the day by introducing me to two fellows that she supposes can help. And Mr Collins and Mr Bryant do seem to understand what it is that I propose. Dru swears that they are the very souls of discretion and nothing will ever get out – and I certainly don’t need a scandal, in advance of my possible selection for Great Gatherington at the next election.
So here I am. Primed and ready. I have driven to a remote and obscure town where nobody could possibly know or recognise me, and now I am in the car park toilets, dressing for the downest and dirtiest day of my life. Discarded on the floor lie my Jack Wills striped shirt and sensible pencil skirt, my tan tights and ballet flats. And, if I’m going to carry out this brief to the letter, I really need to take off my bra and pants set too. God, can I really go through with it? The garage is only a short walk down the main street of this one-horse town, but all the same … people will see me. Daytime people, I remind myself, seeking courage. Not working, city people who matter. Just old men and young mums and people on benefits in a distant town I’ll never revisit. Nobody, really. Besides, I’m not going to look like myself. Even if they do see me on Question Time one day, they won’t recognise the soignée, elegant woman on screen – what they will see today is a trampy piece of trash, signalling the generally available state of her genitals no less blatantly than if she wore nothing at all.
So off comes the underwear, and on slides the tight white lycra bandeau that calls itself a skirt until it stretches so perilously across my rump that the crack of my arse is almost visible beneath the thin second skin. There is no question of bending over in this thing without flashing my lady parts to all and sundry; I am going to have to watch how I walk. Over my bare breasts, I put a wholly inadequate thin white vest top with spaghetti straps. It outlines my tits with unforgiving accuracy, and the slightest chill leads to nipple-shaped dents in the well-worn fabric. I buckle a hideous purple vinyl belt, almost wider than the skirt, around my waist to make it clear that, just because I’m wearing white there is no need to associate me with anything pure or virginal. I cinch it in tightly, then I go for the finishing touches. It took me ages to decide which looked cheaper – stilettos or white gogo boots – but in the end I had to go for the boots, since the combination of white boots and pale bare legs is such a classic of tramp style. Now I need to brush out and back comb my hair from polished blonde chignon to wild porn-star shagginess, apply buckets of red lipstick, blusher and nail varnish, and I’m all set for my promenade.
I poke my head out of the door – the toilet block is a dismal cement bunker at the back of a cinder car park. Nobody else is around, so I begin to crunch my way across the expanse, over to the misleadingly-named High Street – at this point, I realise the wisdom of rejecting the stilettos, for the ground is rough and bumpy and would have made the walk tricky. All the same, I rather dawdle across, dreading the moment I might meet another face, wondering what its reaction will be to this human version of a blow-up doll in clothes that make the word skimpy look like an understatement.
I don’t have to wait long to find out. Two teenage girls, playing hooky in their vamped-up school uniforms, stare at me unabashedly, forgetting to swallow their mouthfuls of Diet Coke in the stunned moment.
‘Who the fook does she think she is? Lady Gaga?’ I hear one of them say before they both burst into wild giggling fits behind me. I have no time to process my slightly flattered reaction to this – Lady Gaga is rather popular, isn’t she? – before I am caught in a hard rain of wolf whistles, coming from the workmen digging up the other side of the road.
Oh. I stop and smile back at them, noting their dirty hands and their brawny forearms. Shame those high visibility jackets are so very anti-sexy. All the same, I feel now that I have got the look right and, where The Hon Lucinda might have marched over and castigated their shameful objectification of women, Tart Lucinda puts a hand on a hip and tries to perfect her bottom-wiggle as she moves away from them. Only three hundred yards to the garage. Nearly there.
I pass only an elderly gentleman on a mobility scooter and a pair of pushchair-pushers on the remaining leg of my walk of shame. I worry about the elderly gentleman’s cardio-vascular health, though he seems to take me in his stride; indeed, it is the young mums who seem affected the most, pursing lips and clicking tongues. I want to defend myself. It’s just sex, darlings, the very same thing that filled those pushchairs for you.
‘It’s eleven o’clock in the morning!’ one of them exclaims in my wake. Much too early to be on the prowl. Only the lowest whore would be walking the streets at this time. The thought pleases me. I am the lowest whore. And here is the garage.
A sign, rotating in the wind, declares that the place is closed, but I know better. I knock on the side door, breathing in the acrid fumes, already feeling that tingling below. My nipples harden beneath the thin vest and I fluff up my hair, probably more nervous than I planned to be, but determined to carry this off like a pro. Lucinda Ffolkes- Worthington does not let silly things like nerves stand in her way. Not at the party conference, not in a garage full of sex maniacs. Nerves are for little people.
The door is opened and a tall, bronzed man in a stained white overall towers in its frame. I think I actually lick my lips. Just what I ordered: a strapping lad with the shoulders of Atlas and the face of a Michelangelo sculpture, in dirty work gear. I bow to the genius of Collins and Bryant, and simper up into the man’s handsome face.
He raises an eyebrow and his smile is distinctly salacious.
‘Hello,’ he says, looking me up and down. That is what they call a frank gaze, I suspect. He addresses my nipples, asking them, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m afraid my car has broken down,’ I lie, leaning a hip on the door jamb, suggestively I hope. ‘I’m all alone in a strange town and I’ve no money and no idea what to do to fix it. Please, I’ll do anything if you’ll help me out.’
And I will. Anything at all! It’s all I can do not to lay my hands on him then and there. Behind him, lurking behind various broken vehicles and pieces of machinery, I spy two more mechanics, both looking on with lustful curiosity.
‘Come in,’ says Mr Handsome. ‘We’ll talk terms.’
He ushers me in and I cross the concrete floor to a doorless car one of the mechanics has been spray painting. ‘Mind that, the paint’s wet,’ he cautions.
‘I bet that’s not the only thing that is,’ says his friend slyly and they chuckle, making no attempt to be polite. Instead of leading me to a chair, Mr Handsome makes me stop dead in the centre of the floor while he leans back on a plywood desk at the side of the room, checking me out from head to toe.
‘So you want us to help you, but you can’t pay us?’ he says eventually, once I feel that I’ve been comprehensively pawed and felt up by their three pairs of eyes.
‘I haven’t got any money,’ I reiterate.
‘You’ve got something else you can use as payment though,’ says Mr Handsome, brutally honest, making me gush between my thighs. ‘You aren’t some vestal virgin, are you, dressed like that?’
‘Do you mean …?’ I stage-gasp.
‘You know what I mean.’ He beckons me with a finger. ‘Come here. Let me have a proper look at the goods.’
‘You want me to …?’ I do as he says, standing close to him, my bare knees brushing his rough serge-clad ones.
‘Come and take a look, lads.’ He calls his minions over and they crowd me, three hungry men slavering over their lunch. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want it,’ he scoffs, and his hand, big and meaty, cups a breast, squeezing it, getting a smudge of oil on my white top. ‘You’d love it, wouldn’t you? Three big men at once. You look like the type.’
‘What do you say, luv?’ breaks in one of the others, a curly-haired gypsyish-looking man with a silver crucifix in one ear. Mr Handsome is stroking my stiff nipples with his thumbs and my knees are beginning to give. The gipsy-man puts a hand on my bottom and rubs it. ‘You want to swap parts and labour for your pussy? It’s wet already, I can smell it. It needs a cock, doesn’t it?’ He holds me against him with a sinewy forearm pressing into that ugly purple belt. I feel how hard he is beneath the uniform. There is going to be no dainty foreplay or delicate courtship here. I am revved up, almost ready to go already. It has taken so little! I feel I ought to slow it down a little, but how?
‘It needs three cocks,’ says the third man, a pretty blond thing who seems to model his look on David Beckham. ‘Don’t you reckon?’ He joins his friend at my rear and puts his mouth on my bare shoulder, sucking and nipping at it, moving up to my neck. Slowing this down won’t be an option. I see that now.
‘It’s a deal,’ I say faintly, and the three pairs of hands set to work on me, pulling down my vest front, letting my tits loose in the petrol-laden air. My skirt – such as it is – is harshly yanked up over my knickerless bottom and pussy, so that hands can forage and fumble and explore to their heart’s content. I am able to stand only because I am surrounded and propped up by three overalled bodies, pressing into me, three hard cocks denting my nude flesh, six hands plucking and probing, three mouths biting and marking me. I know my legs are split wide, held apart while some of thirty fingers take a slide up inside, adding my juices to the grease. My nipples are sore now, pinched and licked and cold and throbbing and my backside is being pummelled by great fists and hands, used as a kind of stress ball, helplessly mauled this way and that with strength much greater than I would ever be able to resist. I am helpless, completely helpless, yet wanting no help, just losing myself in this enormity.
‘She’s ready,’ says Mr Handsome, who seems to be in charge. ‘I’ll go first. Bend her over the bonnet of the Honda and spread her legs for me, Sean.’
Sean, the blond, supports me over to a bright yellow car – not the recently painted one – and lets me fall gratefully over its bonnet, my breasts squashed into the cold shiny surface. He nudges my feet apart with his, taking the opportunity to run his hands up my damp thighs and give my clit a little tweak. ‘She sure is ready,’ he confirms with a laugh. ‘Horny fucking slut. Go to work on her, boss.’
Sean and the gipsyish man gather round to watch while Mr Handsome appears behind me, unzipping his overall and letting it drop around his ankles, then adjusting whatever clothing he was wearing underneath before I feel his legs, hard and hairy, take their position between mine. His hands alight on my arse, kneading it, spreading the cheeks, giving him the optimum view of what is waiting for him in payment. ‘You’re going to get it hard,’ he warns me. ‘Brace yourself.’
He is in me before I can count to three, his hot length filling me to the hilt in a single stroke. Now I am here, in the heart of my fantasy, bent over and fucked in a garage while hot men in overalls look on and clap and shout encouragement.
I do my best to savour the moment, but Mr Handsome is intent on putting me through my paces, thrusting with sharp, swift urgency, as far and as fast as he can. He grunts with each thrust and his broad hands fall on my rump, hard, causing it to warm up and glow along with my well-worked pussy.
‘This what you wanted, hmm? Coming to my garage looking like a two-bit whore? This must be what you wanted?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I confess, each ‘yes’ a puff of winded breath as I bump and grind on the car.
‘Getting fucked now, good and proper. And my mates are waiting their turn. You’ll be walking like John Wayne when you leave here, babe.’
He grasps the inside of my thighs and pulls them upward, finding an angle that hits the g-spot with frictive precision. One hand finds my clit, strumming in time with each hard hump. ‘Watch her, boys, she’ll be coming any minute now. Watch the dirty slut come for me.’
His cock finds its target and I begin to wail, not wanting it to end now I’m finally here, but knowing there is much more to come, and grateful for that. A few big slams up into me bring me to that crowning moment and I lose myself underneath that glorious male body, impaled on his triumphant weapon, brought down to my true level by my own base lusts. He empties himself inside me and dismounts straight away, mindful of my instructions in the brief I sent the agency. No billing. No cooing. Just predatory, animalistic sex in the dirt.
Still bent over the bonnet, I try to catch a breath or two, feeling his cockload trickle down my thighs for all to see.
Sean barks a laugh. ‘She is fucked, man,’ he says. ‘How was she, Big Guy?’
‘Tight. But she won’t be by the time we’ve finished, I guess. And really, really wet. Wettest snatch I’ve had in a long time. She loves it. Give her a minute and you can have a go – make up your own mind.’
‘I want her to suck me off,’ says Sean.
‘How about she sucks you off while I’m fucking her?’ suggest the gipsyish man. ‘I don’t know if I can wait much longer.’
‘Deal,’ says Sean. ‘Shall I get the rug from the office?’
‘Yeah. And a few cushions. Let’s have her on the floor next.’
‘Sounds like a show,’ says Mr Handsome, taking a seat at his desk and leaning back, now all cleaned up and zipped again. ‘You ready for that, princess? A nice long fuck with your mouth full?’
‘I … think so,’ I say warily. My strength is slowly returning, but these two will have to take it a bit easier than their boss if I don’t want to be red raw before lunchtime.
‘Right. Can you stand up? Walk? Eamonn, do you want to get a bit of tissue and clean her up before you put yourself in there? She’s dripping.’
I am subjected to the curly-haired Eamonn’s tender attentions to my coated thighs and pussy with a length of kitchen towel before he helps me to my still-booted feet and walks me slowly over to a tartan wool rug festooned with various dusty old pillows.
‘Now, I’m going to get comfortable here, Princess,’ he tells me, lying himself down on the pillows. ‘And when I’ve done that, you’re going to get my hard cock out and take a ride on it. A good, long, hard ride. Are you ready for that?’
‘Yah,’ I say, a little dizzily, still feeling the after-effects of Mr Handsome’s brisk technique.
‘And when you’re in the saddle, all ready for a good canter, Sean here is going to kneel down and feed you your oats.’
I rather like this equine analogy. It is turning me on more than I imagined such talk would. I am a filly, a mare, to be put through her paces and stabled, steaming from the gallop, afterwards. I want to whinny. But I restrain myself, opting instead to crouch down and unzip Eamonn’s overall to the crotch, pushing up the faded T-shirt underneath so I can see a chest scattered with wiry black hairs. His boxers cannot conceal the towering erection beneath, so I skim the elastic over it and take a good look. If I am going to be a horse today, it’s just as well that my partner in pony play is hung like one.
‘Gosh!’ I say.
He laughs heartily. ‘Gosh, you say. Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now get on board for your second hard fuck of the morning. What are you waiting for?’
I straddle his still-overalled legs, feeling the rough material chafe my calves, and lower myself carefully down. I need to take this first bit slowly, and I wince a bit when the broad bulb of his cock tip makes its entrance inside my once-fucked passage.
‘Nice,’ he gasps, putting out a hand to steady my hips. ‘Nice and tight still. Get down, then. Right down.’
I shimmy down the pole, easing him in, feeling every inch spread and broaden my poor penetrated channel. He is very thick and long, and it seems to take a long time to accommodate his full dimensions. Once I eventually reach his root, I feel almost unable to move, so split and filled I need a minute to get used to the strange satiety of it.
‘Got you now,’ he crows, in a strained voice. ‘You’re going nowhere, lady, except up and down on my big fat cock. Now get to work.’
I try an experimental jiggle, and it doesn’t kill me, so I go further, grinding my pussy into his crotch, rocking back and forth, moving up only a little, but still getting a whole world of penetration sensation from my small circlings.
‘You’re so very huge,’ I explain, though I know he didn’t ask me to. ‘I can only just …’
‘You’ll need to work harder than that,’ Eamonn warns me. ‘I want bouncing tits.’
‘So do I,’ says Mr Handsome from over on the desk, somewhere to our right. I squint over at him, seeing that his is licking the side of his mouth, intent with concentration on our humping manoeuvres. ‘And get that arse up nice and high. I want to see you fucking yourself on that cock. Sean, fill her mouth. Perhaps you can give her the energy she’s going to need.’
Sean strips eagerly, getting his overall all the way off before approaching me with cock drawn, pointing at me square in the face.
‘Open wide,’ he croons, dropping to his knees, and I obey, letting him guide his salty length into my waiting mouth.
‘Now that looks filthy,’ comments Mr Handsome, and I can just about see, blurrily, that he is getting hard again, his hand cupped over his crotch. ‘I like it a lot.’
It is not the easiest of rhythms to establish – sucking on one shaft while another mines my pussy – but we manage to get up a pace we can all work with. Sean helps by feeding me, rather than making me hold his cock, while Eamonn wants me to use my hands to squeeze my tits. I get accustomed to his outsizeness in the end, and I start to bump, up and down, bending low, crushing my nipples into his face, then straightening up proudly, letting hair and breasts fly.
‘Horny, this is horny stuff,’ commentates Mr Handsome, his voice getting ever rougher and growlier. ‘I want to bring myself off, but I have to save some for later. Fuck. I might have to go outside for a minute.’
He hobbles off, leaving the three of us to our base delights, Sean bobbing and thrusting into my mouth while Eamonn holds me firmly on his prong, keeping me exactly where I belong.
Sean, the younger man, is first to lose his self-control; abruptly and with a sulky moan of disappointment at not lasting longer, he pours his essence into my grateful throat and releases my mouth from its bondage. I continue my quest to give Eamonn satisfaction, giving my muscles an intensive workout, squeezing and stretching until I feel I am about to hit a wall, and then the sudden scrabbling of his hand on my clit gives away the closeness of his orgasm, and I let myself go, let myself fall and slump, twitching and groaning on his chest, racing to the finish line together while the steam rises from us.
‘That’s it, that’s it,’ he gabbles, clamping my hips and holding me down for the final rush. ‘What a ride. Fuck me, what a ride.’
I clamber off, my mouth tasting of one man’s spunk, while another’s washes around my pussy. I feel utterly bad, the baddest of the bad, total trash. This is what I was after – this feeling. This self-obliteration. Now I have tasted it, I can go back and serve my country. But of course, it isn’t over yet. I need feeding and watering, but there is one more twist in the tale to come.
Mr Handsome returns, a little shamefaced but no longer sporting the world’s most obvious erection. ‘I missed the money shot, did I?’ he asks, frowning. ‘Typical. Let’s have a look at her.’
He comes and towers over my limp body. ‘Get a mouthful, did you?’
I nod weakly. He crouches down, peering over one thigh to get a good look at my recovering pussy. ‘Christ, you really got it, girl,’ he says, awestruck. ‘Great job, Eamonn. I bet she can’t see straight.’
‘Not on your life,’ he says, sitting up and grinning. ‘Jeez, man, I’m starving. Will we have lunch now?’
‘Lady Muck here’s already eaten,’ says Mr Handsome with a cruel grin. ‘Ah, no, I wouldn’t do that to you. Sean, can you go over the shop and get us something to eat? And make it substantial. Some of us have an afternoon’s work ahead of us.’ He gives my thigh a light slap. ‘Don’t we, Princess?’ He winks and I let my eyes shut, ready to sleep for a thousand years.
But a millennium of sleep is not to be given to me. Instead I get a cheeseburger, fries and a thick strawberry milkshake.
‘You’re going to need the calories,’ says Mr Handsome. ‘Speaking of which, I’d better get going. I have a costume change to organise.’
He kisses the top of my head and saunters off, leaving me to masticate my fast food in the company of Eamonn and Sean.
‘Do you know,’ I say lazily, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten from one of these restaurants before. It’s awfully salty, isn’t it, but rather satisfying.’
Sean and Eamonn snort. ‘Is that the food you’re talking about?’
‘Of course – oh! Gosh! Yes, that did sound rather rude, didn’t it? Out of context, I mean.’
‘Do you mind my asking,’ Eamonn opens, ‘what makes you want to do this kind of thing? You speak like a rich lady, but you want this down and dirty stuff.’
‘I’ve never been allowed to be down and dirty,’ I tell him, not wanting to give too much away to this complete stranger, even though I’m assured of the absolute discretion of everyone on the agency payroll. ‘I suppose it’s the appeal of the forbidden.’
‘I suppose so. Me, I’m really a mechanic, in real life. So I like the idea of clean sheets and shagging in the shower. Perhaps there’s something in that.’
‘Is this not a turn on for you at all then? Getting down in the garage?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’re a fine-looking woman and all. But I suppose I’d rather do a thing in comfort than not.’
‘Well, yes. I’m not averse to a comfortable bed either. It’s just that this is my fantasy. A marvellous fantasy. I’m thoroughly enjoying it. Even though I think I might need to rest my private area for a while …’ I smile to myself, remembering the last part of my orders. Resting the private area won’t necessarily be a problem.
‘Well, then, I suppose we’d better get on with it,’ says Eamonn, zipping himself up and tossing the remnants of the food packaging into the bin in the corner of the garage. ‘Come on, Sean. We’ve got to hose her down.’
Sean leaps up and grabs a length of rubber coiled on the floor while Eamonn heads for the taps.
‘It isn’t going to be too cold, is it?’ I am suddenly rather fearful. I strip off my remaining clothes and take my place on the dirty concrete, ready for my DIY shower. A jet of water – thankfully quite warm – arcs through the air and splashes over my shoulders, then moves lower to blast my breasts and belly. I hop about, squealing and laughing beneath the heavy pressure of the water, letting Sean soak me, then letting him hold me still with one hand while he gives my pussy a vigorous cleansing.
‘Ready for anything now, aren’t you?’ Eamonn hands me a towel and lets me rub myself dry. ‘You’re to get that hooker gear back on now and wait for our next customer. Why don’t you sit on the desk with your legs nice and wide open, so he doesn’t get the wrong idea.’
‘Well … he will get the wrong idea if I sit like that … won’t he?’ I pull on the unforgiving lycra once more, knowing that my make-up is utterly wrecked and not caring a jot.
‘No, he’ll get the right idea – the idea that you’re available for fucking, any time, any place, by anybody.’ Eamonn helps me buckle my lurid belt, running his hands over my hips in the process. ‘As I well know.’
I’m somewhat relieved that Mr Handsome, with his manageable cock, has taken responsibility for my final fling. I’m not sure I could manage Eamonn’s monster again. Especially considering what I have in mind.
I take my position, sprawling on the desk in a most unladylike pose, while Eamonn and Sean don visors, pick up some metal thing or other and … oh, what do you know … they actually are mechanics.
They are still respraying the car when I pick up the sound of something revving furiously outside the front doors.
‘Boys! I say, boys!’ I try to attract their attention, but their sprayers are noisy and they don’t notice at first, until I get up on the desk and begin to dance an energetic striptease number.
‘Jesus, will you look at that!’ Eamonn switches off the spray and stares. ‘Was that in the script?’
Sean, slack-jawed and close to drooling, just shakes his head.
‘Listen!’ I urge them. The noise, like an angry beast waiting to break through the doors and slaughter us, persists. It is, of course, the happy, happy sound of a motorcycle engine. I revert to my original pose, my face wreathed in anticipatory smiles. This might be my favourite part of the whole thing.
Eamonn wrenches off his visor and opens the double doors to admit a sleek, shining bastard of a motorbike, driven by a sleek, shining bastard in neck-to-toe tight black leather.
It is all I can do not to whoop and clap my hands, but I maintain my thighs-akimbo stance, while the biker removes his helmet to reveal himself as, surprise surprise, Mr Handsome. I liked the overalls, but the leathers are even better, moulded to his body in second skin perfection. His backside is taut and smooth, curving in to a long straight back and broad shoulders. I don’t care about the ragged state I’m in; I want him. Badly.
‘Can I help you at all?’ Eamonn asks. He is a bad actor, the lines coming out unconvincingly.
‘Maybe.’ Mr Handsome is better. He looks over at me and winks. ‘I’ve come for a spare part for my bike.’
‘Oh, right, what is it you’re after? The bike looks in good nick to me.’
‘The bike’s fine, but what I really need is a dirty slut for the pillion. Would you happen to have one of those in stock?’
‘Well, sir, I think you’re in luck!’ exclaims Eamonn delightedly. ‘I’ve a top of the range model for you, if you’re interested. Take a look and see if it’ll do for you.’
He follows the line of Eamonn’s outstretched arm, walking over to me, inspecting me with fingers stroking his chin. ‘Looks rough enough,’ he says. ‘Looks second-hand, actually. Is this one used or new?’
‘Used, I have to admit. But still in tip-top condition.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Can I take a good look all over?’
‘Sure. Stand up, slut.’
I rise to my feet, hip thrust out, trying not to look sulky or combative, which is my surprising natural reaction to this scenario.
‘OK.’ Mr Handsome is thoughtful, his hands tracing my breasts, poking around the nipples. ‘Nice rack. Turn her around; a good arse is my number one requirement.’
Eamonn shoves me around by the shoulder so that Mr Handsome can give my buttocks a comprehensive tactile examination.
‘Outstanding quality,’ he drawls, giving them a little pat. ‘Can you bend her over for me. I just want to make absolutely sure.’
Eamonn makes me lean over, elbows on the desk, bottom up high so that the lycra strains around my thigh tops, easily revealing my pussy to anybody’s curious view.
‘Ah, yeah, I can see that she’s used now,’ says Mr Handsome, peering up the canyon of my thighs. He puts a hand at the slope of each bottom cheek and pulls them apart, nudging up the lycra. I can feel his thumbs press into the soft inner cheek, feel my tensed anus under close inspection. ‘Not so much here though. This part looks almost pristine. I’m happy with it. I’ll take it. How much do you want for it?’
‘Well, considering the stretched state of the front hole, I’ll knock it down to a tenner.’
‘Hm, make it a fiver and you’ve got a deal.’
‘Well …’ Eamonn crouches beside Mr Handsome, staring up at the pussy he fucked so diligently earlier that morning. ‘OK. Five pounds. It’ll last you ages though, and it can take all kinds of hard use. You’ve got a bargain there. I’m robbing myself really.’
Mr Handsome just laughs and hands over a crumpled banknote before slapping my backside and ordering me over to his bike.
‘Come on. I’ve got plans for you,’ he says, handing me his spare helmet. I struggle to fasten it, never having worn one before, and he has to help me, keeping one hand on my tight lycra-clad bottom while he fidgets with it.
‘Right. Hop on. The bike, that is.’ He winks, climbing astride the seat and waiting for me to arrange myself behind him. I have to spread my legs over the leather pillion and my pussy is all but open to the air; the skirt hovering around the crest of my bottom cheeks. Anyone driving behind will glimpse a strip of split flesh between the sleek black seat and the tight white lycra.
‘You ought to be wearing jeans and a jacket, for safety, but I’ll take it as slow and easy as I can,’ says Mr Handsome, twisting his head round to me. ‘Hold on – hang on to me round the waist if you want, or you can hold the handle behind you.’
I don’t feel confident enough to hang on behind, so I place shivery arms around his waist. I have a feeling this is going to be a cold ride, despite the early summer warmth, and I half wish for a set of my own leathers, although that would negate the Ride of Shame element of my fantasy. Ah well. The practical and the fantastical rarely marry, and, so far, things have gone rather more swimmingly than I expected. A little discomfort won’t kill me.
The engine surprises me, flaring into sudden life, and I squeeze Mr Handsome tight. The vibrations roar through me. Oh, I am going to hate this. And I am going to love it. I have my eyes shut when he begins to wheel the bike slowly out of the garage, and shut even tighter when he turns into the High Road, building up speed, but keeping it steady and the pair of us upright. I open my eyes for the last few yards and am gratified to see some poppy-out eyes and dropped jaws on the pavement, following our progress out of town.
The bike takes us down into the valleys, along the shining snake of a river, and, although I hate the hairpin bends that force us to lean sideways until we almost touch the tarmac, I do enjoy the straight bursts that make my neck want to snap back and the wind sweep all around me. I laugh. I am exhilarated. It is almost what I thought it would be, and I am always pleased when my expectations are borne out. Perhaps, after all, I have missed my calling and was born to be wild. Rather inconvenient, if so. I shall put the thought from my head and resolve to simply enjoy this interlude for what it is, rather than where it could lead – for it really can’t lead anywhere.
Mr Handsome steers his monster off the beaten track and into coniferous woodland, finally coming to a halt in a pine-needly patch of makeshift car park, overhung by trees and completely deserted. It would be quite easy to believe that nobody had ever been here, if only the car park didn’t make it rather obvious that they had.
‘Here we are.’ Mr Handsome removes his helmet and places booted feet on the soft ground, grinning at me. ‘Enjoy the ride?’
‘Actually, yes. It was super.’
‘Good. I hope you enjoy the next one too. Get your helmet off and bend over the seat. Quickly!’ The last word is a growl; he grabs my wrist and pulls me off the bike. Once again, I can’t make head nor tail of the helmet, so he removes it for me, then nods, grim-faced, at the bike seat. I swallow. This is it. It is going to happen. I am going to be buggered over a bike in the open air, just as planned.
The trees swish and birds tweet. It’s all so wholesome I can hardly bring myself to … but I do it. I fold my stomach over the leather, still warm where we sat, and attempt to get comfortable while also ensuring that my legs don’t accidentally touch the hot exhaust pipe. So many things I hadn’t imagined having to consider … but now we are here, and now it will be done, and Mr Handsome gives a very good impression of a man who knows what he is doing, so I will just let him … do.
I hear him behind me; boots on the soft needles, then his leather trousers nudge my nude thighs, and he is standing over me, hard crotch perched between my exposed bottom cheeks, looking down at the picture I make, laid in readiness for my sodomising.
I wonder what he is waiting for when he makes no move for a minute or two.
‘You sure about this?’ he says softly.
‘Excuse me, I am the paying customer here,’ I tell him. ‘If I’m not sure about something, you can be quite sure I will tell you.’
My condescending tone spurs him into immediate action, as I hoped it would. He lifts the inadequate scrap of fabric over my bottom, unzips a pocket and uncaps something – I can guess what. I have guessed correctly, as the chilly drip of a gelatinous substance hitting the target between my parted rear cheeks is the next sensation. Mr Handsome’s rough, stubby fingers dive into the splodgy lube, smearing it all over the back entrance, working it in, making me twitch and quiver, making me delirious with the knowledge that I have no escape, that I must just bend over and take it.
‘Your arse is getting fucked,’ he tells me, as if I needed to be told. ‘And if I had my way, I’d be spanking it first, but you didn’t put that in your list …’ He trails off, waiting for a yea or nay, hopeful of the former.
‘No, I didn’t. I’m not into pain. Only humiliation.’
‘Right. Humiliation coming right up.’ His thumb spears me, easily sneaking through the sphincter and inside the back passage, where it jiggles for a while, as if measuring dimensions. I squirm on it, happily helpless, loving the sound of his leather trousers creaking downwards, releasing the cock that has already fucked me once today.
His thumb pops out and then there is something wider and heavier there, backed by pressure that would be far too strong to fight. Mr H’s hands are beneath my thighs, holding my legs straight and still, clearing the way for his intent prick. It makes its first bold sally into the tight breach, half-opening me where I have sealed shut on the exit of the thumb. My body tries to resist at first, in its inevitable way, but I manage to still my reflexes and hold tight, pushing out while he inches in, letting this man who is a stranger further and further up the forbidden passage until I feel his balls swing against the curve of my cheeks and I am full. Uncomfortably full, it must be said. But gloriously, uncomfortably full.
‘This is what you need,’ he grunts. ‘What you’ve been after all along. Isn’t it?’
He begins to thrust. He is not ceremonious or sensitive about it. He gives me the hard, fast bangbangbang I dream of, pinning me to his machine, slamming me into the cushioned leather. It is a miracle that the bike stays upright, but somehow it does, all the way through, from the opening of my arse to the filling of it with hot cream, from making me feel the thrill of submission to making me feel the thrill of orgasm. The bike triumphs – I think it is a Triumph, actually – and I take what I deserve.
When I stop howling, the birds are still tweeting, the trees still swaying. It is comforting to know that the world is still the same. Mr Handsome is still pulling out, and my muscles are doing that strange, possessive thing, as if they want him to stay for ever, when I start moving on in my mind, thinking about what I have to do when I get home, and whom I need to call, and how my hustings speech is only half-written.
He straightens up, puffing, chuckling a little under my breath.
‘Christ,’ he says. ‘I could do that all over again.’
I breathe out, then find the forest floor with the soles of my gogo boots.
‘Awfully sorry,’ I say turning and pulling the tight skirt back down over my sore backside. ‘But it’s highly unlikely that you will.’
‘I know.’ He smiles. ‘I can’t promise I’ll vote for you, but I think I’ll be getting a special feeling in my trousers every time I see you on the news. I wonder what your leader would say if he knew …’
‘Well, he won’t know, will he?’ I am irritated with Mr Handsome. I want to brush him off like a fly. He has served, and now he should just back discreetly away. If I could make his memory of today vanish with the flick of a switch, I’d do it.
I think he realises this.
‘Hop on then, if you don’t want to do post-shag conversation. I’ll get you back to your car.’
‘Fine. Thanks. Really, thanks for everything.’ I soften a little; he is trying to be nice, after all. He smiles and winks, then does the honours with the helmet again, and before my legs have recovered, I am back on the bike, sailing through the highways and byways, back to that same cindery car park the day began in.
I think of the road ahead – a long, hard road. Late nights, early press calls, endless canvassing. But at least that dark edge has been taken off now and I can face the future: true to my country, true to my heritage. I might buy a bike though, all the same.