Toward the end of the afternoon, you send me a text. I’m in the office and as I surreptitiously check my cell beneath the cover of my desk, your words set the heat rising within me.
Home already, waiting for you. But I can’t wait….
I know what that means. You’ve come home early; you’re lying on our bed, with your cock in your hand, your clothes strewn around the room, hurriedly discarded. For me, now the race is on. I’ve got to get back to you in time. Sometimes you can hold off long enough, but sometimes I’m simply too late. It’s a game we play and if I get home fast enough, sex is my reward.
I text you back.
I’ll be there.
I glance up at the clock; I’m contracted to sit in this chair for another fifteen minutes. I save the document I’m working on and power down my computer. Hoping no one will notice what I’m doing, I change my high heels for flats and get my bag ready to leave. My boss walks by my desk so I pretend to have my head down, reading an important paper. Thankfully he doesn’t stop to talk to me.
As soon as the minute hand reaches the vertical, I’m out of my chair and pulling on my jacket.
“Night all,” I call, as I hurry through the open-plan office toward the door.
Down in the parking garage I fumble with the combination lock on my bicycle. More haste, less speed—twice I get the numbers in the wrong order. But then the lock’s off and I strap my bag to the rack on the back. If only I had decided to bring the car this morning, I would have had a better chance of getting to you in time. Now I’m faced with a twenty-minute cycle ride, and I don’t want to be too exhausted at the other end for what you have planned.
I have to stand on the pedals to make it up the steep slope out of the office garage. I duck around the end of the barrier, waving at the security guard in his little box. Once I’m out on the street, it’s a downward slope and I’m able to settle back on the saddle to catch my breath. I love this old bike, but it’s hardly a racer. Several times you’ve offered to buy me something more aerodynamic, with a comfortable gel saddle and god knows how many gears, but I’m not interested. When I’d had this bike for a while, I christened it Barry. I’ve ridden miles sitting on Barry’s shiny leather saddle, which has been polished to a chestnut patina by the pumping action of my buttocks. And when I’m thinking of you as I ride, the hard, slippery saddle pushing up between my legs only adds to my anticipation.
The traffic’s heavy, but with the slight downward gradient I’m able to pick up speed. After seven blocks of rhythmic pumping on the pedals, I start to raise a sweat. I know the route like the back of my hand and I practically cycle on autopilot, so my thoughts turn to you, waiting for me at home. By the time I get back to the house it will be more than half an hour since you sent the text. I know you can wait that long if you want to; but sometimes you get bored and start without me. In my mind’s eye I watch you slowly moving your hand up and down your cock with the lightest of touches. Your eyes are closed and you’re totally relaxed as you lie there, savoring the sensations.
When this happens I try to creep into the room silently, listening to the small grunts and moans that you make as your grasp becomes firmer. It really turns me on to see you touching yourself, and I pedal even faster at the thought of it. Now I’m swooping across the sidewalk and through the park gates; there are no cars here and very few pedestrians, so I can really put my foot down on the pedals. I lift myself a little from the seat and my frantic peddling makes Barry lurch from side to side, the hard leather slapping against the inside of my thighs. I’m really flying now and the burning sensation between my legs is in direct contrast to the cold air streaming through my hair and blasting my face.
The path is flat around the lake and for several hundred yards beyond, but then I reach the steep hill that falls away to the other side of the park. As I go over the edge my speed increases; now I must stop peddling and start to use the brakes. I sit back hard on the saddle, pushing down with my hips, wondering whether I will be home in time for you. As I go even faster, I tuck forward, bending low over the handlebars. This makes Barry’s saddle push farther forward between my legs. I’m wearing a skirt today that hangs around my legs and the seat, rather than being tucked up underneath me; now, through the thin silk of my panties, I can feel the hard leather tip nudging against my clit. I’m still thinking of you, waiting for me in all your naked glory. I’m thinking of what I want to do to you when I get home. I want to take your huge, rock-solid cock into my mouth and suck on it as hard as I can. For as long as it takes, though that won’t be long as you’ve probably been playing with yourself for the last half hour. A shimmer of desire flutters through me, making me catch my breath and grip the handlebars more tightly.
At the bottom of the hill I grind my hips in a side-to-side motion as the path swerves through a series of curves. I imagine I’m riding you like I’m riding this bicycle: straddling you and guiding your cock between my legs, rising up and down as you buck and swerve underneath me. I love to be on top and you love it, too. Can you wait long enough for that? Can you hold off for something better than just your hand? I bite my bottom lip, willing you to give me just a few more moments to reach you.
I fly through the park gates, nearly flattening a woman with a buggy as I cross the sidewalk. Thinking about you and what we’re going to do together is not conducive to safe cycling. The woman shouts swear words after me, but I’m long gone and I don’t care. I’m on a mission to get back to you.
Now comes the hard part. The long, drawn-out hill, the last climb toward home. Trying to make the most of my momentum, my legs start pumping the pedals. Heat builds in the muscles of my thighs and buttocks, matching the fire that your text started deep within me. My panties are damp, making me slip and slide against the saddle. Each rotation of the pedals presses me from side to side. Each turn of the wheels brings me closer to home. And each grind of my hips against my bicycle deepens the need in me for you.
I’m panting with the exertion of peddling up the hill. But that’s not the only thing making me pant. The sensations coursing through my body match the images in my mind. I need to reach you in time, before you reach your moment of no return. The pumping, grinding, pushing, gasping ascent is relentless. It goes on forever. I’m sweating now and tiring, but never for one minute will I consider getting off the bicycle and walking. It’s simply not an option.
When I reach the top of the hill my mouth is dry and my muscles are burning. I think about kissing you, on the lips and in other places, and my mouth floods with saliva. I can quite literally taste you: the sweetness of your mouth when you’ve been drinking wine, the salt of perspiration on your skin, the bittersweet taste of precum on the end of your cock. I’m hungry for you. Starving. I want to devour you and I can’t wait.
The road from here is straight and flat. I pedal hard enough to build up speed and then lift my feet from the spinning pedals. Flexing my hips backward and forward produces the most delicious sensation. I am so ready for you, no matter what you have in mind or what you want to do. My skirt flips up in a gust of wind and for a second I get a whiff of musk, the smell of my own anticipation. It turns me on even more, and I feel a warm rush between my legs. I’m wet, I’m sticky: I need you.
My feet find the pedals again for the final push. I fiddle with the gears to help me accelerate, though I’m already going as fast as I can. I’m nearly at the junction, the turn into the lane where we live. I pull up sharply to avoid a car that is indicating left, cursing the second that this will cost me. When my path is clear I push off again, and finally I am in our road.
A hundred yards or so, but my legs are complaining bitterly now. I am almost out of breath. But the vision of you keeps me going. We live in an old part of town, in a tiny cottage at the end of this narrow lane. Nothing has changed for a hundred years and beneath my wheels there are still cobblestones. Barry the bike judders and shudders and bumps on the uneven surface, the vibrations passing through the metal frame and the leather saddle. I sit back heavily on my seat and as the vibrations spin along my nerves and shiver through my bones, I can’t pedal quite so hard. The bicycle shakes beneath me, sending tremors up my spine. Inside my mind, you are underneath me, bumping and grinding, taking me to the brink, pushing me over the edge.
Ohhhh…
I can’t hold it. It’s too late. I’m coming.
I stop the bike and slump forward over the handlebars as uncontrolled pleasure flashes through me. I stand there in the street and think of you as my orgasm rips through me. I gasp and hang on to the bicycle to stop myself from sinking to the ground.
I’m so sorry, babe, I didn’t make it home to you. You’ll be waiting and wanting on our bed, and I’ll walk in sweaty and spent. It happened again. It always happens.
It’s those damned cobbles.
They get me every time.