Cyclists

byLC10©

She liked to be in control and wanted to be able to see where they were going, or so she told him, so she was pleased when he let her ride on the front saddle. The front saddle was altogether nicer than the back one. It was a thin racing saddle with a smoothly pointed end canted slightly upwards which made pleasurable contact with her crotch which was further enhanced by the pedaling action of her legs. They were out for their usual Sunday afternoon spin with the cycling club on their touring tandem.

He enjoyed it when she rode in front, he liked to look at her undulating bum as her long elegant athletic legs turned the pedals. Her Lycra cycling clothes were not very sexy and he reflected how much nicer it would be if she was wearing the special underwear, the sexy lingerie, she wore just for him; the half cup bra, the French knickers, the stockings and suspenders and the high heeled shoes; the pedals would have to be specially adapted of course. How nice for the male members of the pelaton if all the ladies were dressed in a similar manner instead of being strapped in their tight fitting Lycra chastity belts. It would be so nice to see all those bums and tits bobbing up and down in synchronism with their pedaling. When she leaned forward in the racing position and got out of the saddle he was conscious of being very close to her vagina.

When she leaned forward over the handlebars and stood up on the pedals it was exactly the posture she sometimes adopted for sexual intercourse. He liked to enter her from behind as she knelt on the bed or sometimes on the sitting room floor supporting herself on her hands, or lying over the arm of a chair so that he could stand behind her and fuck her. She reflected that it would be more accurate to call it the fucking position rather than the racing position.

She wanted him to fuck her now while all the cycling club members watched them. If she was naked with her arse stuck up in the air and her cunt wide open right in front of his eyes he wouldn't be able to resist her. He never could, even after twenty-five years he still enjoyed fucking her and never experienced the slightest difficulty producing an erection whenever it was required. None of them would be able to resist her, she could easily bring them all to attention; she was definitely still very fuckable. Yes at forty-seven she was still an extremely attractive woman and she knew exactly how to read the signals when talking to other men. Their small talk might be commonplace pleasantries but their eyes often spoke of a different agenda.

She was realistic enough to know that her main attraction was that she was a tried and tested reliable model with quite a high mileage behind her, unlikely to breakdown unexpectedly and not requiring any special attention after a long ride. She was also aware that in an emergency a man would ride any serviceable model. But she still relished the unmistakable stirrings of lust she aroused while leaving them entirely disappointed.

As many men imagined, but only he knew, she looked absolutely magnificent when stripped down for servicing. Laid out on the workbench with all her accessories removed and with her legs splayed out wide apart so that he could examine her vital parts. It was necessary to shave off all her pubic hair to be able to closely observe the delicate moist folds of flesh, to gently tease them apart so that the pale pink juicy fleshy peach-like interior was fully revealed; that beautiful, desirable seething vortex of all his concentrated lust. A beautiful woman in a state of total sexual arousal; surely the most glorious thing in the whole world for a hetero-sexual man..

He often thought about his wife's sexual orifice, indeed it sometimes seemed he rarely thought of anything else. And sometimes he considered the various ways of naming it; vulva, clitoris and vagina, too medical and clinical; pussy, cosy and intimate and appropriate when covered in pubic hair; pubis, too gynaecological again; pudenda, rather elegant and discrete, goddesses would have pudendas; fanny, twat, and slit, very vulgar. But cunt was the only appropriate word to associate with hot sweaty fucking. Not for the first time he reflected on how uncomfortable it was to have a fierce erection restrained by tight Lycra cycling shorts; so much nicer to be naked.

He sometimes thought of designing a special stationary tandem for use in their bedroom; a bit like an exercise bike but exclusively for sexual activities. It would need handlebars for her to hold on to and spring loaded footrests at a suitable level so that her arse stuck up in the air at an appropriate height so that he could insert his prick in her cunt. He wouldn't need handle bars, he would hold onto her tits as he pedalled along, fucking her. As he turned the pedals his prick would move up and down inside her cunt; a perfect fucking machine.

She imagined that she was naked; her saddle had been replaced by a large dildo which was thrusting in and out of her vagina according to the rate at which she was pedalling. She dreamt of hours and hours of uninterrupted continuous fucking orgasmic pleasure with no premature ejaculations or inadequate erections; the perfect fucking machine.

She wanted to sit back down on her saddle but her partner seemed to be sitting there, stark naked, his huge stiff cock sticking upwards. She eased herself slowly, gently downwards trembling with pleasure as she felt him penetrate deep, deep inside her. On second thoughts, a cock was far superior to a dildo; how about a prick? Probably not. A prick implied a small sharp indentation not what she wanted at all. Willy, pecker and tool were all rather inadequate. Weapon was very aggressively masculine, too much like rape. No, the perfect sexual and alliterative combination was cock and cunt or perhaps prick and pussy for the quieter more intimate moments.

He imagined her sitting on his lap, his cock deeply imbedded in her cunt, as she pedaled steadily along. Perhaps if she sat up a bit more he could squeeze and fondle her breasts. She had beautiful large firm breasts; he loved to play with them. How many times had they been out riding together? He tried to calculate; twenty five years married about four times a week, one year of passionate premarital secret illicit intercourse, at least six times a week. It took a few minutes but eventually he arrived at the answer; five thousand five hundred and twelve times. He had fucked her five thousand five hundred and twelve times!

He wondered exactly when it was that they had reached the five thousand landmark. He tried to work it out but gave up, defeated. Naturally he remembered the first time, rather uncomfortable actually, on the living room floor in her parent's house but not the five thousandth. That wasn't the totality of course; they sometimes went riding on their own or even shared the tandem with someone else; in round figures perhaps six thousand rides.

He had another thought. How much semen had he ejaculated into her or onto her in the past twenty-five years? He tried to imagine the contents of a used condom. Eight cubic centimeters perhaps; a total of about forty litres, nearly ten gallons, enough to fill the petrol tank of a car; probably enough sperm to fertilize the entire female population of the world!

He still loved riding with her, perhaps not as frequently or as fast as before; but she preferred a slower pace anyway, she liked to warm up slowly. But her mature well toned athletic body was still equal to all the demands of a long undulating ride.

They cycled steadily along, two bodies moving in perfect synchronism; she wriggling her cunt and he thrusting his cock with mounting mutual pleasure. They came to a steep hill, she stood up on the pedals swaying from side to side and thrusting up and down. It felt as though she was fucking him. One final effort was required to reach the summit. She was in charge as she rode his cock towards the final climax. Over the top they went; she sat back down wanting to feel that familiar explosive ejaculation spurting up inside her. Exhausted and out of breath she coasted down the other side of the hill imagining his hardness slowly softening and shrinking inside her.

They all stopped for a cup of tea at a roadside café. He asked her if she was enjoying the ride. She smiled and said she was and remarked that she was looking forward to another long hard ride home. He was looking at the girl at the next table; she and her partner were new members. They had all the latest equipment, everything brand new and in perfect working order. A sleek new model, designed for sprinting and they often took part in half a dozen short events in the course of a day. He wondered if she ever had a long ride; probably not, young men were too impetuous; but no matter there would soon be another sprint. She looked rather petite to accommodate a big cock, but you never could tell, by all accounts these modern girls were as horny as men and blossomed very quickly.

He reflected that his sprinting days were over; he preferred a more leisurely pace with time to admire the scenery. Never-the-less it might be fun to try a short ride on the back of her cycle although he certainly wouldn't be able to match her pace for long. But he was very experienced, perhaps he could help her with essential maintenance, assist with the lubrication of the important parts. How delicious to kiss her firm young breasts and caress her pudenda with his tongue, observe its delicate flowering, like a pale pink morning glory in the early sunshine. Yes she had pudendum not a cunt she was an unattainable goddess for him.

His Lycra shorts were beginning to feel tight and uncomfortable again and his wife might notice, so he tried to think of something else for a few seconds. Ten years ago his wife would have noticed and they would have slipped off to some secluded spot, stripped off their Lycra and swiftly dispersed his erection. Yes they did have a few short sprints themselves in those long gone days.

His wife didn't notice, she was admiring the tight fitting Lycra shorts of the other men. She could see their sexual members tightly restrained by the Lycra and speculated on just how large they would become with the appropriate stimulation. Six inches; seven inches; eight inches even. Now she wanted to get back on the bike again so that the saddle could caress her crotch while she thought about eight inch cocks.

No doubt that petite pretty new girl would stir them greatly; but she looked so tiny; could she accommodate eight inches? She dreamt of all those cocks standing to attention just for her to examine and feel their hardness so that she could select one for her own very special pleasure. Or perhaps she could become the club bicycle available for all the male members to ride; oh those delicious hard cocks! She vaguely recalled that riding a bike was a vulgar metaphor for fucking a prostitute. Alright she would be the club prostitute; so long as they all had eight inch cocks! She was really looking forward to the ride home now.

When they got home after a long day in the saddle they liked to take a leisurely bath together to ease their aching muscles. Afterwards the would sit together on the soft divan, in their dressing gowns, in a pleasant state of relaxation induced by the bathing and discuss the events of the day while sipping a glass of wine. Inevitably their thoughts would turn to the possibility of an evening ride; a ride conducted in the horizontal position on the divan entirely without the use of their tandem. Nothing too energetic after their hard days pedalling. They liked to lie together face to face in the missionary position gently talking and fondling and confessing there obscene thoughts concerning goddesses and eight inch cocks. On a bike of course the missionary position would be almost impossible not to say suicidal, but it was fine on a soft divan. Eventually he would enter her and fuck her for the five thousand five hundred and thirteenth time. Sometimes she would straddle him and ride on top. She liked to be in control.

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