On A Big Bike
Cause I want some pussy, from a back bitch on a big bike... on a big bike, yeah!
-- From the song "Big Bikes" by Kyuss ©1991.
That quote, in very few words, was my Sarah. Allow me to elaborate...
I was three months past my job transfer and had just about had enough of being alone all the time. I had work, which was plenty challenging and fulfilling, but no social life to speak of. You know me -- I'm not a casual hangout kind of girl. I don't socialize at the pool, my new neighbors were all either elderly retirees or established families, and I'm of the opinion that work is a good place to leave my coworkers. I was different and beginning to feel isolated.
I talked to Angel all the time and checked in with Ethan fairly frequently. I also emailed with Jessi-K often enough that I was in touch with what was going on in her life. I was connected, but all of it made me feel lonelier than not. Fabulous didn't help much either. She was still mopey about leaving Ethan. I swear she took the breakup harder than I did.
It was also mid-summer and I found myself driving past motorcycle dealerships... that weren't on the way home. That, I determined, was at least an opportunity for action, so I signed up for a Motorcycle Safety Foundation weekend basic rider course at the local community college.
When the date for the MSF course finally rolled around, I showed up with my second-hand safety gear I used to wear to ride with Ethan and joined the other twenty-four people for the Friday night classroom session. There were two instructors: an older gentleman and a big blonde woman. It was clear right away that they were both very competent but had been deliberately paired as complementary forces. The gentleman, Rick, clearly provided the "serious", and the woman, Sarah, provided the "color and enthusiasm".
For example, they signed off on my gear with the following two comments --
Rick: "Replace this [face] shield sometime soon. It's about at the end of its life, and you should look into putting an anti-fog insert in your new shield when you get it."
Sarah: "That jacket really fit over your hooters?"
By lunchtime on Saturday, after our first session of real engine-on time on the practice range, Hooters had become my "honorary biker name" according to Sarah. She was BB (for Big Blonde) and Rick was IceMan. Although politically incorrect, Hooters was unmistakably me. The only other female in the class was a gorgeous Asian girl in her early twenties who quickly got named Foxy.
The guys didn't fare any better. There was BugSplat (caught a katydid across the faceshield), Plumber (his pants rode low), Tailpipe (burned himself), Blipper (lacked throttle control), Dodgy, etc. My personal favorite was a sixteen-year-old kid that got stuck with the name Dump after he dropped his training bike three times trying to walk beside it and learn to find the friction zone of the clutch. The whole reason for these goofy names was to add some fun into a stressful training program, create that sense of all-one-team, and because they were easy to hear shouted at you through a helmet over the engine noise.
I won't clutter this narrative any further with the details of the training except to relay one really funny thing that Foxy said at the end of the day on Saturday. We were both getting a lot of attention in the testosterone charged environment, which was coming out as a lot of swaggering and poor riding. Foxy described it as, "these poor boys all tripping over their dicks." I caught me totally off guard, and I laughed the whole way home.
I graduated from the program the next day by passing my written and my skills test with minimal difficulty, and there you have it. A trip to the DMV later that week and I was a licensed motorcyclist. After that it was time to start shopping around for my own bike.
"You don't want that, Hooters."
That verdict drawled near my ear startled me out of my reverie. I had been mooning over a sexy black 600cc sport bike on the used side of the bike dealership. It looked deadly fast just sitting still. I turned to see BB standing behind me with her big blonde mane braided back and her helmet under her arm.
"You'd kill yourself leaving the damn parking lot," she continued.
"But it's so sexy! And it sits just right when I put a leg over it."
"Oh, I'm sure it does, but you need to wring out your panties and come to your senses. You need to be much more experienced than you are before you can safely handle a bike like that and not have to pay an ass-load of money to the insurance company. Maybe even take the Experienced Rider Course we teach."
"Maybe true, but I don't want a little 125 like we used in class. Besides, the way I did the swerve test and the slalom cones, IceMan said I'd be a natural on a sport bike."
"Could be," she acceded, "but even if you do go the sport bike route, there are lower power options to start on. A bike like this 600 is just too unforgiving for a novice rider. Be smart and try different kinds of bikes before you drop money on your own."
"Well hell, I've got my honkin' Nomad cruiser, an old 250 Eliminator, and a couple of two-stroke dirt bikes myself. You should come over to the garage sometime, and we'll take some things out."
She gave me her phone number and directions to her house, and that was the start of a great friendship and a dangerous acceleration to the second half of summer. Nearly every weekend, I would head over to Sarah's garage, and we would go out for a ride.
Her garage was a neat setup too. It was a separate building from her house (which I didn't go inside until months later), but it was climate controlled and had a sofa, a fridge, and a full bathroom. It was like a guest house with a roll-up door and a bunch of rolling toolboxes and lifts. I'll spare you the details of all the rides we took, but in summary, I was gaining mileage and determining that what I really did want was a sport bike.
It was also pretty clear early on in our friendship that Sarah was hitting on me. She was not subtle at all, but she was fun about it. I can't count the number of times she got a leg over her Nomad and told me to "climb up behind me and grab my tits so you don't fall off", which I never actually did. Or she'd pat my butt through my leathers when we finished a ride and dismounted back at her garage. It was always playful and easily dismissed if you didn't know how to read the signals. I never reciprocated except in joking ways.
That changed once we started hitting the dirt bike course. Since the sex in this narrative is the interesting part, I'll skip ahead to three progressive incidents of that flavor, two of which are among the wildest I have ever experienced.
Three things to know about my time spent riding dirt bikes: it's ridiculously fun, it's extraordinarily dirty, and it's extremely physically punishing. If I never see another kick start as long as I live, I will be happy. I have seen really good dirt riders just glide their machines over the berms and jumps, but I am certainly not one of them. Every session at the motorsports park left me feeling like someone had picked up the motorcycle and beat me with it. On the positive side, however, it was really good experience for me to learn to ride a machine under barely controllable circumstances. It taught me that I could take a fall, and also that I could avoid them with skillful riding. It instilled a lot of respect for the machines and the safety gear, but also eliminated a lot of the fear of actually being in the saddle and whacking the throttle open. That experience was invaluable.
Focus for the moment on the second thing I said to know: it's extraordinarily dirty. In dry weather you get dusty, but in wet weather (which is no deterrent for riding) you get positively painted in mud. You know that state of dirty where you actually wonder if it's possible to get any dirtier? That's dirt bike riding in the rain.
The first time we came back to the garage completely covered in mud, we actually hosed each other off in the driveway along with the rest of the gear. After that we took turns showering in the garage's bathroom. I went first and was lounging on the sofa in sweatpants and a tank top, waiting for Sarah to come out before I went home.
So, let me take this opportunity to spend some words on what Sarah looked like. Sarah was over ten years older than me and her nickname, BB, was accurate. She was a big lady. Whereas Angel is tall and curvy, Sarah was big all over -- from the piles of unruly blonde hair, down to full lips, humongous breasts, round belly, wide hips, and thick shapely legs. These days the term is Big Beautiful Woman or BBW. To have just called her "fat" or "heavy", would have been criminally unjust to her real attractiveness. BBW covers it nicely. Her towel, however, did not.
Sarah came walking out of the bathroom with her hair wound up in one towel and a second towel pinched together at her upper chest. She might as well have been wearing nothing. The mass of her tits split the two edges of the towel into an upside-down V that covered her nipples but left everything in between clearly visible, including her belly and smoothly shaved pussy.
She didn't even seem slightly embarrassed as she stopped in front of me and said, "I forgot to bring a robe."
"Well... this is an icebreaker."
"I didn't figure you'd mind."
"Oh, I don't. Are you making me an offer, BB?"
"Maybe. You interested?"
"I don't know. I like what I see," I admitted.
"No strings, just for fun?"
"Sorry, I'm not a 'no strings' kind of girl."
"I can dig that," she said and dropped the towel on the sofa.
I talk about Angel and I being all curves, but I sat there corrected by shiny, wet reality. I was stunned silent and blinking slowly. Sarah was ALL curves. She sat down naked on the towel she had dropped and then unbound her hair to shake it out so it would dry.
"Just wanted you to know I was definitely interested," she continued.
"How'd you know I liked women?"
Sarah looked at me and smiled sideways, "Hon, you don't get to be my age and not be able to spot your own kind pretty reliably."
I shrugged and stood up to go, "Dirt track again in a couple of weeks?"
"Sounds good. I'm also following a lead to get you on a 250cc sport bike to see how you like it. An acquaintance of mine claims he's soon to be selling one, and he owes me a favor."
"Awesome! Let me know."
"I'll call you," Sarah said, "and you let me know if you change your mind about those strings."
"I'll do that," I agreed and leaned down to give her a tiny kiss on the lips. While I was close to her face, I looked down toward her parted thighs and added, "Like your haircut."
"Gotta keep it that way," she stage whispered. "I'm not a natural blonde."
This was only the first incident that I mentioned, and it was not one of the wild ones.
Okay, go back the "it's extremely physically punishing" aspect of dirt bike riding. That very next dirt session ended early when I got overconfident and washed out the front end of the bike. What that means in brief terms is that the front of the bike stopped suddenly, but the back of the bike (where I was perched) didn't. I ended up being jerked sideways by the handlebars and breaking a rib on one of them as I was thrown forward. I completely missed the chest protector and all my natural cushioning. I also tore up some skin on the clutch mounting, but otherwise the protective gear did its work, and I was able to walk away from it - well, limp maybe.
Having a broken rib is awful. Everything hurts and there is very little you can do about it. Well maybe that's a slight exaggeration; not everything hurts, but breathing does, and you just can't help doing that. So, I wore a tight wrap around my middle to minimize flexing and the doctor gave me some very strong pain killers. If I hadn't been in so much pain, I think I would have liked the corset effect of the bandage; however, I ended up in bed for the rest of the weekend in a narcotic stupor until I made the decision that I'd rather hurt than be doped up to immobility. One of the things that made that decision easy was what happened Sunday night.
"Well, how's the victim?" Sarah asked, from her seat at the edge of the bed.
"Not feeling it, so that's good." I didn't remember when she got there or how long she'd been there. Time was kind of fuzzy around the edges.
"Have you been able to take care of the basics?"
"Yup. Eating, sleeping, peeing, sleeping. All good. I just got a hot shower little bit ago. Need to get my wrap back on, but I was kinda dizzy."
"How's your side look?"
"Abso-fuckin-purple! See?" I seem to remember saying and pulled the covers down to show her the misshapen purple pattern on my side. I was naked, like I always am in bed, and I clearly remember my breasts wobbling around as I tried to turn to show her how far around the discoloration went.
"Oh honey..." she said with none of her normal joking tone or sarcasm. She traced her fingers lightly around the edges of the wound, "That looks rough."
"It's not so bad since I feel like I'm watching it hurt from the moon," I said (or something like that).
I turned back over awkwardly and then took hold of my breasts to stop all the wobbling again. The soft weight of them felt surreal to my hands, like they belonged to someone else, or from the other side of it, like someone else's hands were holding them.
Sarah laughed, "I have the same problem. Gotta throw my tits over ahead of me when I turn over in bed. Of course, mine are not as upright as..." She trailed off.
I was staring off into space and caressing my nipples. It really felt blissful, stimulating in a very soft fantasy kind of way, slow motion rubbing of my big soft tits and a spreading warm feeling from my nipples as they began to stiffen under my fingers.
Then things fade to a swirly blur for a while. A lot of it felt like I was watching it from outside my body, but here is what I remember...
Sarah leaned in and kissed me very softly and slowly on the lips. There was no urgency to it at all - just a beautiful softness and confidence that I can only guess came from her greater maturity. I think we kissed for quite a while, and as far as I know I kept massaging my nipples the whole time. I remember her kissing my belly, and I remember opening my legs for her. The next clear memory is cumming hard on her hand with her fingers buried in my pussy. Arching against her hand made my rib hurt, and the intensity of the orgasm also brought me into a little more focus out of the pain killer haze.
I looked over at her and saw that she was just as naked as I was; her huge tits piled up against my shoulder as she looked down into my eyes and continued to work her hand against my pussy. I had never noticed how deep her hazel eyes were and how soft her lips were -- how beautiful and feminine her face really was under all the biker chick attitude that she wore. I tugged on my nipples and came again, pressing toward her warmth and the softness of her body next to me.
"You got one more in there," she said close to my ear and licked my earlobe and neck while she did something that I can only describe as magical with her fingers. She was right. I had one more in there, and I moaned it out into her mouth as she moved her lips to mine.
Then I think I fell asleep.
Maybe I passed out. Who knows?
I woke up in pain from my rib in the middle of the night, and Sarah was gone. I got up and took some ibuprofen instead of the other stuff, rewrapped my middle, and went back to bed. I saw the paper on the nightstand just before turning off the light. It said, "Call me when you can. --BB"
I woke up just long enough when my alarm went off to call work and tell them that I had a broken rib from a motorcycle accident and that I would be out for the day to give me time to come out of the effects of the pain killers. The human resources department sent me flowers that afternoon. My company rules.
I called Sarah that night.
"How you doing, Crash?"
"Okay, I think. I quit the heavy pain killers last night. I'm just on regular ibuprofen, so I'm much less dopey now."
"That's good. How's the pain though?"
"Manageable, but certainly noticeable," I admitted. "I'm going to try to go back to work tomorrow."
"Take it slow and make sure not to sit all day. You'll just stiffen up," Sarah advised. "I'm glad you're less foggy in the head."
"Yeah... but somewhat more tingly between the legs though."
There was a silence on the phone for several heartbeats before Sarah responded.
"I really should apologize, but I don't regret it," she said slowly. "I will admit that I took advantage of you. I'll say that straight, but I don't regret the way it felt. I wanted you really bad, and you were receptive... so I just did it."
"You did take advantage of me, but I don't feel wronged. I guess I wanted it too, but I wish I was more a conscious part of the decision to do it. I can't deny that it sure felt good -- that you felt good. Was it what you wanted?"
Sarah sighed and almost groaned out her answer, "It was just a taste that has made me want you more, but I'm going to lay it on you to make the next move. When you are ready -- if you want me -- I'll be here."
"I need time to heal my body," I said after a moment to let that sink in, "but I think I'm going to take you up on that."
It took seven weeks to be healed enough that I felt comfortable throwing a leg over a moving bike again.
The bad news was that in the intervening time, Sarah's friend with the 250cc sport bike sold it before I could get a look at it. The worse news was that the kid he sold it to dumped it within a week, tore all the faring off the left side, and scratched it all to hell. The excellent news was that (at Sarah's urging) I showed up with some impressive cleavage and sweet-talked him out of the wrecked bike for comparatively no money. Even replacing the damaged hard components and the faring made my total cost significantly less than the original seller's price. It was too good a deal to pass up.
Sarah helped me fix it back up and tune it properly and in the process, I fell in love with it. IceMan had been right. I was a natural on a sport chassis. All the dirt bike training paid off, and I was able to shift and ride smoothly from the first try. I had to adjust my technique to tuck in on corners instead of throwing a leg out, but it only took a couple of rides to get that nailed down. Sarah also put a big red sticker right on top of the gas tank where I had to see it every time I got on the bike. It read: NEVER LOSE RESPECT FOR THIS MACHINE. It was enough to remind me to keep my head and my speed under control.
Even Angel (who had been a complete mother hen through this whole "motorcycle phase" of mine) had to admit that the bike fit me, and that I was getting to be a better rider all the time. It is difficult to describe how much that meant to me.
It was right after this that Sarah threw herself a birthday party. I will follow the rule of ladies everywhere and not say which birthday it was for her, but it was one that deserved a party.
I rolled up on my 250 and was happy to park in a crowd of other bikes -- smoky cruisers, full baggers that cost more than I made in a year, shiny exotics, vintage café bikes that would have had Ethan salivating, and (thankfully) even a few sport bikes like mine. I could tell that the bike talk alone would probably make the party interesting.
Sarah opened the door to my knock and hugged me inside. It occurred to me then that I had never been in her house before. We had only ever spent time in the garage since it was self-contained. It also occurred to me pretty quickly that I didn't know anyone else at the party. It was about half and half men and women and a range of ages from me to a gentleman who was probably in his seventies. Every last person there was a rider of some sort, including a couple of guys from a real outlaw motorcycle club that I will not name here. Imagine my feelings when Sarah called out to the crowd, "Everyone! This is my friend, Hooters. She's a former safety course student of mine and a novice 250 rocket pilot."