I WANT IT AND I’M GONNA GET IT!
I wasn’t one of those blokes who could call themselves a ‘stud’ by any means. At just about five feet and six inches tall I am definitely not the sort of guy that immediately attracted the attentions of the opposite sex, more’s the pity. So, to an extent I’d given up trying, concentrating instead upon the things in life that I could do well. Like riding a motorbike for example.
Now, I’m not claiming here that I could ride to the standard of a Moto GP professional of course, like nearly everybody who rides a bike, I can’t hold a candle compared to one of those obviously, but in my own circles I was definitely the ‘top dog’ when it came to the matter of riding ability. I was part of a group who all rode bikes, and most Friday evenings would participate in an almost ritual of riding up to Chelsea Bridge, one of the many such structures straddling the River Thames in London.
At some point, totally unofficially, a group would set off for the ‘run’ towards Heston services on the M4 motorway heading out of the city. Which became a ‘race’ of sorts, again totally unauthorised naturally, and looking back now, bloody dangerous. Taking place on city streets, well the first part of the journey until the motorway itself was reached. And it was here, that my reputation as someone who could ‘really ride’ was established, as I triumphed in many an unofficial ‘race.’ Yes, yes, I know, on reflection sheer lunacy, how I emerged from those days utterly unscathed and not being seriously injured or even worse, also not receiving an official legal blemish upon my driving licence, I’ll never know. Somehow, I avoided both, however.
One of the other members of my ‘gang’ was Tom West, somebody whom I’d known well since school and had become one of my close ‘mates.’ Who had an older sister, named Rachel, who often accompanied him on these outings, not owning a bike herself.
Said sister was a very big girl, but wasn’t overweight at all, her size being comprised of pure muscle rather than fat. This was a very strong woman, one who worked in the construction industry, whose employment took the form of quite hard, and well-paid, labour. She used that money to purchase a flat of her own, mortgaged naturally, she wasn’t THAT well paid, having ‘flown her parents’ nest as it were. And sure, whilst she couldn’t be described as ‘sexy’ in the normal sense, as I say she wasn’t fat in any manner, her body was extremely well proportioned and she could, quite justifiably, be called attractive. Just big and tall.
Obviously I knew her well, if not intimately, especially after she’d moved out and bought her own place, I now only ever saw her on the occasional Friday evening when she was on the pillion seat of her brother’s bike. She was always friendly towards me, and it seemed to be almost insignificant that she was indeed a female, to me she was simply one of the ‘gang.’ But on one particular Friday night, that situation was to utterly change.
I suppose that one could argue that the actual event that led to this technically occurred on the Thursday evening before, as my mother called me to the ’phone she was holding out, the events I’m describing here taking place during the mid-1980’s, therefore long before the advent of mobile telecommunication devices, shouting, “there’s some girl on the ’phone for you!”
It turned out to be Rachel, who had a favour to ask of me. “Tom has promised to take me on tomorrow’s Chelsea bridge run, but he’s ill with some sort of tummy bug, so probably won’t be going now. Would you mind taking me instead?”
At first, I wasn’t sure, knowing that carrying a passenger would slow me down and cramp my style somewhat, but then she was a ‘mate,’ one clearly needing my help. “Sure, Rach, no problem. Although I’ve never actually been to your pad, so you’d better give me the address.”
She did so. “Hold the line a mo. Rach, I’m just going to get the A to Z.” Of course, not only had the mobile ’phone yet to make an appearance upon this earth, but certainly to the ordinary man, the internet and ‘Goggle Maps’ weren’t available yet. So having retrieved just such a printed paper publication map book, I looked up the address that she had supplied me with. “Rach, I’ve got it, yeah, I know where that is now. Pick you up about seven, that ok with you?” After she had responded positively, I put the ’phone down, our conversation at an end. And thus, Ladies and Gentlemen, the ‘die was cast!’
Then, as now, I was employed by one of those sensible companies whose working week ended at lunchtime on Fridays, with the other four days featuring slightly longer hours in order to compensate for this. Amongst the tasks that I attended to that afternoon, being the required small changes to the suspension settings of my motorbike with carrying a passenger in mind. I was possibly a little bit early when I arrived at Rachel’s home, but she was already waiting outside, it was Summer, and the weather was kind. Wearing her two piece ‘biker’ leathers, although hers were in a shade of white, as opposed to my normal black. She climbed aboard, having placed her helmet upon her head, and we were off.
To not immediately head to Chelsea bridge, but to the pub where the ‘gang’ normally met, had Tom not been indisposed this is where I would normally have rendezvoused with him and Rachel. And, yes, this was a pub, but I always had a policy of restricting myself to one pint of beer only, as did all of the other riders, although much of the riding following was highly reckless and completely illegal, none of us were THAT stupid! Fully recognising that fast motorbikes and large quantities of beer DON’T mix well.
At around ten o’clock, after day had turned into night, off to the ‘bridge’ we set, for the twenty-five or so miles it took, the pub in question being just outside of Dorking, a town on the very edge of the London conurbation.
Although, certainly compared to later on, this ride was comparatively sedate, I used it to become fully acquainted with its extra ‘load,’ and the effect that Rachel’s presence aboard had on the general handling etc. Resolving to take thing easy this evening, not to get carried away, avoiding any unofficial duels and the like. Bearing in mind now, that it wasn’t just my life that was at risk if my right hand had got the better of me.
After we had arrived at the ‘bridge,’ parked up and as usual chatting to other bikers for some time, the then starting of engines announced that the run to Heston was due. And during it I actually managed to execute a fair degree of self-control, that involved not getting mixed up in any ‘shenanigans’ while I was carrying Rachel aboard my machine. To her great dis-appointment though, she knew that I was a much faster, note in those days I would have said ‘better,’ rider than her brother, and she had been looking forward to some action in that regard. Remember we were addressing a real ‘tom boy’ here, one who found high speed exciting rather than frightening.
Which she let me know, in NO uncertain terms when we’d arrived at the services. “Come on, I was expecting some REAL action here, instead you were bloody slower than Tom. I’m looking for you to show me just what you’re made of on the way back, and don’t you worry about me, I CAN handle it!”
Oh Rachel, just be careful what you wish for! Because the thought went right through my head, ‘well she’s ASKED for it……….’ She had made a direct attack upon my ego!
Because for the ‘return’ leg my normal competitive gander was well and truly ‘up,’ just as my passenger had requested of course. I vividly remember riding around the outside of somebody mounted upon the recently released Kawasaki GPZ 600, seen as the direct four-stroke rival to my two-stroke Yamaha RD 500 machine, clocking well over the ‘ton’ ( 100 Mph/160 Kmh ) during one of the bends of the ‘elevated’ section of the M4, completely blowing him away, leaving him, in the language of the day, well and truly ‘burnt.’ Much to the delight of Rachel, who showed that joy with whoops of sheer excitement, proving that her boasts of being able to handle high speeds, weren’t at all empty.
However, whereas just like my own, her blood was REALLY pumping around with sheer adrenaline, her body was also experiencing emotions that mine was not. She was becoming more and more turned-on sexually.
There and then she decided to reward me for treating her to such an exhilarating ride upon my bike, with one in return with her in bed! Of course, she had NO idea of my reticence when it came to the ‘pleasures of the flesh,’ and that, although not a complete virgin, I possessed very little knowledge regarding sex, with nowhere near the level of self-confidence that I displayed towards riding motorbikes, for instance. Maybe while, as she told herself, no normal male would refuse a ‘free shag’ was probably a true enough statement, but then was I just such a red-blooded male?
Having briefly stopped again at Chelsea bridge, it was time to return home. A journey that was once more conducted at highly illegal speeds, bearing mind it was VERY late by now, and the traffic levels were extremely light, high enough to maintain those excitement emotions within my passenger, very much including the ones of a sexual nature.
So, when we arrived at her place she asked, what was in those days almost an unofficial code question for inviting a ‘guest’ in for a shag, “you coming in for coffee?” And I, being so naïve at that precise time, interpreted her question in completely the wrong manner, taking it to literally mean she was inviting me in for a drink, and NO, not of her sexual juices! So instead of politely declining and riding off, which I would have done had I realised just what I was being asked here, I stupidly agreed
Having pushed the bike into her communal back yard, out of sight of the road, into Rachel’s flat we went. Having taken off our leather jackets, I started to wonder as she proceeded to remove more clothing instead of filling the kettle. As she was puzzled by my lack of stripping activity.
“Come on love, get your kit off! The bed awaits!”
“For what?” Yes, I really was THAT naïve.
She still hadn’t clicked that I was. “You can’t give me a right good shag if you’re still wearing your clobber, can you? So, stop your faffing about and strip off!”
The reality of the situation began to dawn upon me. “What the hell are you talking about, Rach? You invited me to come in for a cup of coffee, not for sex! I think I’d better leave right now!” Moving to retrieve my removed jacket, crash helmet and gloves.
The next thing I knew was that a violent shove had sent me crashing into the wall, followed by Rachel pinning my body, face forward against it, grabbing one of my arms and twisting it, painfully, behind my back. No doubt about it, she was FAR stronger than me! Next thing, her voice was in one of my ears, in a such a menacing tone that I’d never heard her use before. “Oh no you don’t, you little worm, I WANT IT AND I’M GONNA GET IT!”
A short post is better than none! 
Love to be tied-up, gagged and tickled ! 
