Fan Appreciation Day
I roll back into the pits after our first official guided lap around the Malapae Ultra Road Races course and bloody hell, I can’t wipe the grin off my face. Right proper that was. Hitting the open roads at near race speeds was absolutely brilliant. It’s a fight not to break the rules and hit the throttle for another go ’round. I don’t know about the eighty-nine blokes rolling in behind me, but knowing I’m going to be riding full speed on these roads tomorrow gives me a hard-on that could cut glass.
Adding to the commotion, half a dozen race marshals wave their hands around trying to herd us to the staging area, like we’re stray sheep. Bikes roll to a stop, their engines are cut; mechanics, pit crew, race organizers, and press swarm in. There are lots of laughter, slaps on the backs, and big smiles. It appears that the first-ever MURR is starting to come together.
I glance past the crowd of men and spot my gal, Chase. She’s wearing a girly yellow sundress, standing by the entrance to the men’s toilets. We make eye contact and she gives me this oh-so-naughty grin before disappearing inside.
“So, how was it?” Simon, my head mechanic, is right by my side for feedback. I raise my visor. “Cracking. Beyond amazing.” Then I use an American accent. “Totally awesome.”
He laughs and asks how the bike handled. I mention something about slightly adjusting the suspension heading up the volcano towards the Hanson Coffee Plantation, but my attention is elsewhere. Chase is in that building, waiting for me.
It’s her wish—her desire—to be shagged rotten while surrounded by men.
Ever dated a bird you had great chemistry with in bed, but not much else going on? Yeah, well, I’m dating one who’s got it going on in and out of the sack.
She’s a tart and I’m a horn dog. Rock ‘n’ roll, man. Rock ‘n’ roll.
I tell Simon I’ve gotta take a piss and he takes hold of my machine, gloves, and helmet. More riders roll in. A reporter approaches me eager for a sound bite, but I move fast, jogging past him. I’m on a mission. I gotta spend a penny.
I head inside the brand new building—toilets built especially for the Malapae Ultra—that features a window along the top on all sides that lets in air, light, and noise.
Very distinct low, breathy moans seduce me, like a siren’s song beckoning. I can’t help but follow, my racing boots clomping on the concrete with the sound reverberating throughout the space. When I find my gal in the last stall, my knees nearly buckle. “Bloody hell…” I whisper.
Chase is bent over facing the wall, skirt hiked to her waist, knickers around her ankles as she works away, frigging her clit, getting wet for me.
Knowing that any random bloke could have stumbled upon her sweet pussy all juiced up for pounding nearly blows me over. Exhibitionism and quickies are a hell of a combination. She hasn’t even turned to see if it’s me. I could be anybody. I hurry to unzip my leathers; I can’t peel them from my shoulders fast enough. When I finally squeeze out of them, I let the suit fall below my waist. Lucky for us, I race commando.
I grab hold of my cock and in one smooth move, slip it inside. No hellos, no formalities, I just start fucking. We’re like two horny dogs humping away. I don’t even bother closing the stall door. The risk of getting caught heightens the thrill. I’m really digging this fetish of hers. It’s taken our sex life to a whole other level.