My parents were supportive of pretty much anything we wanted to do…apart from one thing. NO motorbikes! My dad lost one of his brothers to a motorbike accident and my mum’s sister was badly injured in one. So we were told if we bought one, dad would take a welding torch to it.
Pity, really….
“Oh, I’ll take you….on my bike.”
Adam, one of my male employees offered to take me from my village pub to the one 8 miles away since my car was in for its annual service. He produced a second crash helmet and straddled the thing. It looked quite low down and I instantly realised why some people call them ‘hogs.’ Fortunately I was wearing jeans. Something I very rarely do these days. Clambering on it was…interesting, but eventually I got myself in the right position which involved spreading my legs….always a pleasure, and wrapping my arms around his waist.
Which he promptly said “not yet”. Then he stood up and kicked something using his full weight. Nothing happened the first couple of times but on the third time, the machine roared into life, and oooooooh dear!
I’m used to vibrations down there but this was a savage and unrelenting assault on my genitalia. It was bad enough on Rickover, but when he added some power and let the clutch out, I knew I was in trouble.
So much so that I had an orgasm before we left the car park. Adam told me that the bike would lean over when we went round corners and under no circumstances should I try to fight it. “Lean with me. It’s ok, you won’t fall off. Trust me.” He was right, I didn’t fall off, but I damn nearly came off, in both senses of the word.
I see the fascination of the open road in summer, roaring down country roads and sweeping into the bends. Trouble was, I was cumming almost the whole time, and between my legs was a hot mess. I was dreading getting off because I was certain my crotch would be visibly wet from the outside. I knew I’d squirted to the point of dehydration too.
I’m sorry to the motorcycle enthusiasts but I never did ask him what make of bike it was. All I know is that it was louder than anything else I’ve ever experienced. Not only could I hear the engine firing, I could feel it in my gut as well as between my legs. Dad was right, I would have killed myself on a motorbike. Cause of death…multiple orgasms! That would have looked good at the inquest!
Plus, I had my arms wrapped around Adam, and Miss Brain, ever one to join the party was asking me some very impertinent questions about Adam and his girlfriend, not forgetting to point out to me that my vulva was only a couple of layers of cotton away from where his girlfriend’s vulva would be. Miss Brain also wondered if his girlfriend had gone commando on the bike, and whether it had made her cum too? I even began fantasising about Adam fucking her on the bike. Maybe with her leaning right forward over the chrome handlebars and him up her from behind. I was almost tempted…no, that’s not true….I was tempted to let a hand slip between his legs, and Miss Brain painted a lovely picture of me unzipping him as we rode and wanking him off.
I had no idea modern crash helmets have speakers in them, but I suddenly heard Adam’s voice. “Want some fun?” Ooooh how I hoped he meant ‘fun’ kind of fun, because despite my unbreakable rule, I was soooo tempted to fuck him, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Suddenly we were really flying….so now I was horny and scared stiff, and let me tell you, that’s a heady combination!
Eight miles isn’t long at what felt like warp speed, and we soon (too fucking soon) pulled into my other pub’s car park. Adam stopped the bike but didn’t shut it off. I scrambled off it in a most unladylike way glancing at the leather seat and finding that it did look moist to me. I gave him the crash helmet back and my knight in shining armour roared off, hopefully to fuck the brains out of his girlfriend.
As for me, I found I simply couldn’t walk! With the stimulus gone, I found I could take stock of what was happening between my legs. My vulva had stopped convulsing and was engaged in writing a letter of protest to me. Since I couldn’t walk for a moment, I stood there looking round. My gardener has done a magnificent job! The car park now looks inviting, and there are hanging baskets cascading with flowers all round the pub itself. The pub has had several coats of paint and now looks like the 16th century building it is, but the beer garden that backs onto the canal is unrecognisable. I staggered and squelched my way over to it. There’s a decent landing stage now for passing boats to tie up to and from the canal it looks like a really inviting place.
Inside, the place was rammed with people! So different to the two old men and a cat I’d seen when I first bought the place., I keep changes of clothes in all five of my pubs, and when I got upstairs (it was an inn, where people could stay overnight…something I might reinstate) in my room I peeled off the jeans which, as expected, were visibly wet, but the panties….ohhh dear me…the panties….I have never seen a pair of my undies in such a devastated state. I had obviously let everything go as that bike tore orgasm after orgasm from me. No way were either of them salvageable, and the only other thing I had here was a dress and panties. So I cleaned up in the bathroom, put the dress on and left the panties for another day. The jeans and soaked undies went into a carrier bag.
I spent the afternoon there and took care of what I’d gone there for, and my only way home was the village bus.,it’s been a long time since I rode a bus, and this creaky old thing is exactly what you’d expect from a one-man business, and a vehicle that saw service in World War 2! It creaks and groans but somehow, year on year, he keeps it roadworthy. It’s so old, it has leather-trimmed horsehair stuffed seats, and the whole interior has that ‘old’ smell to it…a scent from another time, when we had such a trade as ‘coach builder’ and the bus had a solid, well put together feel that you simply don’t get from even high-end vehicles today.
We creaked and groaned our way back down the same road that only a few hours previously I was creaming my way down. I could even point out my ‘climax points’ to myself as we drove. I began to feel aroused, but on these highly absorbent seats that simply wouldn’t do, so for once, I snatched my thoughts out of Miss Brain’s lechorous control, and weighed up my business dealings to date.
First a small group of coffee shops, turned from loss makers into very good profit and sold on, more than trebling my initial investment. Then the second, much larger group of coffee shops, taken from loss again to substantial profit and bought out by a major coffee chain for an obscene amount of money. And now the pubs. All of which have turned around. All they needed was a lick of paint, and service offerings that people actually want. The way breweries seem to work is they lease a pub to a landlord, and then dictate to them how much beer and spirits they MUST buy from the breweries every month. The brewery don’t give a shit if it’s sold on or not, and many landlords go broke really quickly. The breweries don’t invest in the pubs, and the end result is they fall into the decrepit state I found them in. There comes a point where the brewery can’t wait to offload the entire thing, which is why pubs are closing at such a high rate these days. My head chef now looks after all five places, and she has a real talent for spotting opportunity food-wise. She does gourmet nights in two of the pubs one night a week, and they are booked solid well into the future. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she doesn’t gain herself a Michelin star or two at some point in her career. I’ll be lucky if I can keep her for long.
The account books look very healthy and my accountant is already talking of what the business might be worth to sell as a going concern. He has to do that, but I’m not interested in selling right now.
So, as I type this, I’m sitting, pantyless in my den, still imagining I can feel the roaring of that bike between my legs, and wondering when orgasms were last forced out of me like that? Like most girls, I know the delights of horse riding, but that’s a much much gentler way of getting there. This was primal, demanding, visceral…
…and yes, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
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