Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Part 2 of 3 – The Italian Stallion and the HOG.
Copyright © Kingswoman 2015
(Many thanks to Mick and to J. for reading the story through for me.)
I’m really not that kind of person. It’s been years since … I did it for him really, with the other men …
Hey, I’m a free woman in a free world. I’m entitled to a bit of fun. TBH, I’m kinda pleased I can still enjoy a good fucking after what I’ve had to do.
What it was, was Tony – my manager at the café in the woods. That fucking slimy shit. Somehow he heard that I occasionally dished up more than a cup of tea and a biscuit. So he thought he had the right to come and paw me about and try to get me to suck him off. FFS! Urgh. An occasional lad in leathers passing through and willing to put his dick out for the sucking is one thing. That stupid bully in a suit, swaggering about acting like he was God, no way José. Not to mention, he was a married man – with kids. No fucking way.
I slapped him in the face and put a knee in his tenders. He did a number about how he’d tell senior management to shut the café down unless I shut up and put out. I told him to fuck off. He fucked off – in his runty little secondhand BMW Alpina.
Well he had screwed me one way even if he didn’t get to screw me the other. I was going to have to leave the job. Honestly, I could’ve cried. I did like it there, in the peace and quiet of the woods, getting on with my studies and with the occasional biker to get it on with.
Big girls don’t cry. I was just sitting at one of the tables in a fucking foul and sulky mood, rubbing my arm where Tony had twisted it.
I was surprised to hear the two engines. It was only a week since the incident of the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. TBH, I hadn’t thought I’d hear the rumbling of the V-twin motor belonging to the Harley Owner Guy ever again. I knew he’d enjoyed the show, of course, but I didn’t think he’d taken me seriously about the multi-hole orgy. I thought he knew I was joking, and I thought he wasn’t the kind of bloke who dipped his dick in a cheap slapper like I must’ve looked like.
I couldn’t hear the whine of the Triumph. I got up and went to look out of the window and saw the hired Ducati – it was a Panigale, and the Harley Owner Guy on a Fat Boy. I kind of laughed a bit then in spite of my foul mood. I liked it that the HOG rode a Fat Boy, it was totally him: the style of a hardtail with the comfort of a softail.
They came in the café, Ducati Panigale first: smiling and windswept. I wasn’t quite sure how he fit with the HOG. He wasn’t a real biker. I could sort of picture him back in Italy, riding a Piaggio Grillo in cut-offs and flipflops.
“Buon giorno,” I said.
He gave this lovely pleased smile and said: “Buon giorno, signora. Come sta?”
“Va bene,” I said.
“Where did you learn to speak Italian?” the Hog asked.
“On my course,” I said. “I’m … studying.”
“Studying what?” he asked.
“B.A. Combined Arts,” I mumbled angrily. FFS. It was that fucker Tony. He’d upset me and if I wasn’t careful I’d start spilling my guts about my life to these lads. They’d say: “How interesting.” (Or in the case of Ducati Panigale, “interessante.”) We’d have a nice cuppa then they’d fuck off. If I wanted a nice cuppa and a chat, I went round to my mate Jan’s. I wanted a fucking royal fucking to get the taste of … the idea of Tony out of my mouth.
“That’s very impressive,” the HOG said, putting his helmet on a table.
“Yeah,” I sneered. “Just look how far it’s got me, all the way out here North by Northwest of Nowheresville.”
“It is a bit quiet here,” the HOG conceded in a friendly chatty way. That twinkle was in his eye.
I laughed. “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know why they put this stuff in.” I waved my hand at the gleaming red and black Gaggia espresso maker and smart shelves of fine white china plates and cups, the glass cabinet for the buns and cakes. “They really missed a trick. Shoulda bought a franchise down by the campsite. There’d be a roaring trade in sarnies and kids’ meals, never mind if you laid on a homemade lasagne or cottage pie …” Fucking shit. There I went again. I wanted to know because I had never seen the bikes, only heard them, so I abruptly asked: “What bike was it your mate was riding? Your other mate.”
The HOG looked confused and said: “A Triumph.”
“No,” I said impatiently. “What model.”
He looked taken aback and said: “A Triumph Bonneville.”
I grinned. A Bonneville! Very nice.
“Have you got it, then?” I asked. “The seventy-five quid. Each.” My cunt kind of quivered when I said it. I felt well fucking bad, asking these lads for a stack of cash to fuck me. It made me laugh inside to do it to them. I would’ve done them for free but the money made it even more of a fucking game. And if I was going to leave my job, I could do with it anyway.
Ducati Panigale’s eyes lit up. He started to put his hand in his tire escort jacket pocket for his wallet. Then he looked at the HOG.
The HOG wasn’t happy. But I wanted the HOG. Don’t ask me why. He wasn’t particularly good-looking: stocky build, sandy hair and pale blue eyes. He was a good ten years older than Ducati with a line or two on his forehead.
Ducati was fucking drop dead gorgeous: bronzed tan and windswept thick blond hair. He was fucking Apollo Belvedere. He was so gorgeous, he didn’t even know it. He just thought it was normal to go through life with women spreading their fucking legs for him.
The HOG had something-else though. He was serious, a proper gentleman. He was a kind of man who would never even look at me unless he was paying for me. So I was going to fucking make him pay for fucking me.
OK. It was more than that. The HOG had that twinkle in his eye. He got me. He knew when I was joking. I could make him laugh. I wanted to see what he was like when he wasn’t laughing, when he lost the twinkle in his eye and got serious.
I took a calculated risk and struck lucky. “You can have my arse,” I said to the HOG. I saw his eyes narrow up and he sucked his breath in. I knew he’d been thinking about my arse all week. The previous Saturday he had ridden through the sun-splashed woodland roads, not thinking about anything much – just out with a couple of mates. He had come round the bend of the track to the café, to see my beautiful arse riding up and down – flashing white in the woodland shade. My arse crack had been held open by the thick fingers of the stupid fucker lying back for a fuck on the fucking vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. The HOG had looked straight into my arse crack and had seen my arsehole and he had liked what he had seen. The HOG was an arse man.
The HOG tried to laugh it off so I played my trump card.
“I’ve never had it up the arse,” I said, in a careless tone of voice but looking direct into the HOG’s narrowed pale blue eyes. “You can pop my anal cherry.”
It was the cherry on the top and he bit the bait. He gave a sly sideways look at Ducati. His face was suddenly feral, he wasn’t thinking clearly any more. All he wanted now was to fuck me in the arse.
Ducati wasn’t fussed but he would join in if there was any fun on offer. Ducati already had his wallet halfway out of his jacket and now he pulled it all the way out and peeled notes off a big wad he was carrying.
The HOG fumbled his own wallet out and checked it. He was a tenner short. He looked like he was relieved. Fate had let him off the hook but Ducati wordlessly put a tenner down for him and the feral look came back into his face. He swore softly a couple of times. He had started breathing faster. His eyes were not twinkling but glinting.
I went back behind the counter and fetched out a jar of water-based lube I had stashed on the off-chance that I would one day be in the mood for some anal fun. (I never needed anything for my pussy; I’m naturally juicy.) I had always wanted to try anal sex, just never met the right fucking fucker for the job. Losing my virginity was something I rushed into to try and keep up with the other girls at school. I had to suffer the fucking plonker boasting to everyone who’d listen that he’d laid me for a couple of months before I shut him up by screwing his best friend. Tolerating the clumsy fumbling of the local lads was an occasional dull obligation until I met … But that’s a long story. FFS, I just wanted my first fuck in the arse to be more memorable than that inept poking at my vagina I had endured.
“I haven’t managed to eat breakfast today,” I said to the HOG, “so I think I’m … clean … up there.”
“Right,” he said, in this tone of voice that meant he didn’t know what I was saying and he didn’t care.
“You’ll have to stretch me,” I said. “With your fingers.” He was just staring blankly with that narrow glint in his eyes so I went and got him a pair of thin rubber gloves out of the first aid kit.
Ducati was sitting patiently with his nicely shaped firm young butt perched on the edge of one of the tables. He had picked a more solid wooden family diner, rather than one of the flimsy little round plastic-topped tables. It looked like a good enough setup to me. I went and stood in front of him and reached under my skirt to pull my knickers off: Rigby and Peller black with red trim – perfect match for the Gaggia espresso machine, LOL.
The HOG suddenly knelt behind me as I dropped my knickers and caught them before they hit the floor. I looked down into pale blue eyes raised up to stare into my eyes. Like I said: he was a gentleman. I felt like a fucking Princess for a second, when he did that.
He looked around for somewhere to put the knickers, then he put them in his pocket.
“You can have the Trojan Magnum,” I said, like it was special because he was such a macho man. Actually he had to have a thicker condom for anal and the Magnum escort tire was extra lubricated. I gave Ducati a Fetherlite. He unbuttoned his fly no bother and rolled it on himself. He was already stiff: a nice length and a curve in his dick like some of the slow curves in the hill roads round the café.
The HOG took the Trojan Magnum but he didn’t undo his flies yet. I bent over beside Ducati, turning my head to find my eyes level with his nice curving cock. My heart was hammering and my cunt was loosening up and wetting just at the idea of doing it with two blokes at once. I knew my eyes must be sparkling. I grinned at Ducati’s curving cock. I heard him laugh too.
The HOG lifted my skirt and made a noise like he had forgotten how to breathe properly: his breath shot out very fast and hard and then he sucked the breath back in. Did I mention that my tits are not much but I have a fucking gorgeous arse? The HOG had put on the gloves and I felt his fingers in the thin rubber spread and flex on my arse cheeks.
I was hot and wet, my pussy was throbbing as I thought about what the two men would be seeing. I like to show myself. I used to enjoy giving men a flash, making out like it was unintentional but if I caught their eye I’d burst out laughing. They’d know I’d meant it and we would exchange a conspiratorial grin.
I knew the HOG would be seeing my rounded white arse cheeks with the taut lines of black and red suspenders across them. My pale thighs would be highlighted by the black rings of my stocking tops around them. The HOG would see a bit of black bush between my legs under the curving crack of my arse.
He spread my cheeks to hold open my crack and expose my arsehole. I could almost feel his gaze boring into my arse. My thighs were quivering, my cunt was throbbing. Ducati wouldn’t need any lubrication for his piston action in and out.
The HOG brushed a fingertip on my arsehole. I swear, it was like sparkles in my arse, my hole lit up with pleasure. Tentatively he pushed and I began to moan as he got a fingertip in. My whole body felt like it was shouting Yes! to his finger coming in me. He pressed about, the ring of muscle was still clamped tight round his finger.
He pulled his finger out. I wanted to shout at him, I knew I would punch him if he told me I was too tight and he wasn’t going in there. Then I felt something poking at my hole again. The HOG was smart, he knew I wasn’t ready yet for two fingers so he was pushing his thumb in me.
I was looking at Ducati’s long curved cock but I was picturing the HOG’s blunt thumb thrusting gently at my puckered hole. The HOG eased his thumb about, spreading the cool lubricant and stretching my sphincter. Ducati was breathing hard now and his hand came up to play about with his cock.
The HOG had greased me up well and could get two fingers in. He pulled them in and out, round my arsehole, making me whimper with pleasure and excitement. The HOG was grunting softly and saying: “Fucking Hell,” under his breath. Ducati was panting as he handled his cock.
The HOG pulled his fingers out. I turned suddenly round and went on my knees in front of him, sprawling my long legs in the black stockings over the floor. I put my hands up and unbuttoned his flies myself. He popped free as I pulled his flies open and his jockeys down.
He had a good girth on him, I was glad he’d worked my arsehole wide. He was thick and hard, he didn’t need me to get him any stiffer but I bent and put my lips to the pulsing head of his cock, thrust my warm mouth down the length of him until he was pushing at the back of my throat.
A long groan escaped him and he put his hands to my head to try to keep pushing my mouth onto his cock. I pulled back from him, though. Any more and he’d blow in my mouth and I fucking wanted him fucking my arse.
I got up and turned back to Ducati. Ducati was grinning and panting. He started to stand up from the table but I pushed him back. I got him to help me kneel up on the table over his nicely curved stiff erection, and with my skirt lifted for the HOG to get in my behind. The HOG was rustling the condom out of its packet. I held Ducati’s curved dick and pushed the head up against the soft muscular entrance to my cunt, I tilted my hips and he popped in with a long “aaaaah!” of satisfaction.
I pulled Ducati’s hands round to my arse. He was busy staring down the front of my dress at my tits in the black and red Rigby and Peller bra. He pulled my arse cheeks open, laughing and groaning and giving a thrust up into my slick wet cunt.
I felt the HOG’s hands on my hips, getting me nicely positioned. I felt the head of his cock against my lubed and stretched sphincter. He pressed and I started screaming with pleasure as I felt his thick dick go through my anal ring and up inside me.
Oh fuck! oh fuck! oh fuck! I could feel the two of them pressing up in me, pushing against each other through the membrane between my anal canal and tire escort bayan my vagina. I knew they would be feeling not just me but each other.
Ducati was content to lie back on the table and take it. His hands were still gripping my arse cheeks to hold them open for the HOG. The HOG was pumping into me and making me go up and down on Ducati. Ducati was moaning and going: Oh Gesù mio! Santa Maria Vergine. I was gasping and whimpering. The HOG was grunting.
Suddenly he pulled my whole dress up at the back. He pulled his shirt up and he pressed his naked chest to my back.
Oh fuck! oh fuck! his skin against my skin. I pushed back hard to that warmth, the feeling of the hairs on his chest rubbing on my back. I wanted to glue myself to him, to press the whole surface of my heated skin into his skin.
He had pushed his hands round under my dress and was gripping my tits in the Rigby and Peller bra. Now he was pressing his head round over my shoulder. He was jerking his thick dick up into my arsehole between Ducati’s hands holding my arse cheeks open. His face was pressed to the side of my face.
Oh fuck! I couldn’t help it. I turned my face to his, we were twisted to get our faces close and kiss. His lips pressed hard to mine, his tongue pushing at my mouth, his cock thrusting up in my arse.
Ducati was cumming now with a high-pitched squeal of pleasure. His grip on my buttocks suddenly loosened. I heaved up with the HOG so that Ducati flopped out of my cunt. The HOG pulled me back down over his cock again. He started grunting hard, his cheek pressed so hard into the side of my face that the small bristles were scratching my skin. I felt the waves start flooding up from my arse, from him fucking me. I felt his chest pressing into my back. I felt his rough cheek press my cheek. I came in a gush: jerking and screaming and bursting into tears. The tears poured down my face and the HOG cried out, gripping his hands on my tits, pumping up disjointedly into my arse.
I couldn’t stop crying. The HOG was pulling out of me and turning me to hold me close to him, close to his naked chest.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“No, I liked it,” I sobbed. He pressed in between my legs, in my arms where I was sat back on the wooden table beside the laid back Ducati. I clung to the HOG’s shoulders and sobbed.
Slowly I stopped crying so hard. I lay limply in the HOG’s arms with my head on his shoulder. I could see sunshine falling on the café floor through a tear that hung on my lashes.
I felt like a bloody fool, seducing the HOG into fucking me in the arse and then crying like a baby. But I felt strangely at peace too, as if my crummy life was a little better for the fine fuck we’d had.
Ducati was sitting up, taking off his condom. He got up and went to the men’s room.
The HOG slowly let me go and stood back from me. “Did I do that to you?” He was pointing at the red marks on my arm.
“Fuck no,” I said, suddenly brought back to real life. “That was my manager, earlier.”
The HOG turned his head and looked at me very intently at that.
“Fuck’s sake,” I said. “You don’t think I fuck every fucker who comes along here? All he wanted was a cocksuck but I gave him a knee in the goolies when he tried to force me down on him.”
I wiped an arm across my wet face. I didn’t want to look in the HOG’s eyes. It was too much. It was too Pretty Woman. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I asked, shuffling off the table and staggering as I went to stand. The HOG didn’t say anything, he was still staring intently at me. He looked really upset. What was he upsetting himself about now? He had enjoyed himself, when we were finished he even hugged me.
“Cup of tea to go with my buns,” I quipped, glancing quickly at him but there was no twinkle in his eye. He wasn’t laughing. He looked like someone had punched him in the gut.
Oh well, WTF. I could still feel the slickness where he had pushed in and out of my pulsing anal hole, and it felt fucking good. I would remember that feeling for a while to come – long after the HOG had fucked off.
FFS. We had had our fun. Now fuck off where you can boast about what you did to a scrubber of a waitress with your pal Joe from Italy. To show him how little I cared, I scooped up the notes off the table and stuffed them in my red and black bra cup. I walked unsteadily off behind the counter without looking at him any more.
The HOG went to the men’s room. He and Joe came back out and went to the door. Joe grinned at me as they left but the HOG never looked at me. His head was down and he walked out like he was ashamed. WTF, couldn’t he have given me a bit of a grin – we had had a right time of it, he’d shown what a lad he was fucking me in the rear. Why did he have to make like it was a bad thing we’d done. It was just a bit of fun. If he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to come back here, he could fuck off somewhere else on his fucking Fat Boy, cruising the roads instead of cruising women.
After the rumble of the Fat Boy’s V-twin engine and the Ducati’s clockwork splutter had died away in the woods, I went and sat in a chair. I leaned my head in my hand and stared at a pattern of stars on the plastic tabletop.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32