Entertaining at Large Ch. 10

'Your boss said nothing but the best. You can get changed in there.'

Over the next hour Adam got to know my body intimately. I was measured, weighed, tested on a number of machines, put on a variety of bikes, filmed, analysed and tested again. A critical point came when I had to choose my bike. I went for an endurance machine rather than an out-and-out race machine. Then the real work began riding on rollers with my hands in various positions on the bars. Adam made a series of small adjustments to stem, saddle, bars and pedals until at last he declared himself satisfied.

The machine was eventually rolled away to have road tyres fitted. Throughout the session Adam had gently quizzed me on what equipment I owned and made suggestions as to what I needed. By the time I was headed back to Muhammad I was carrying three bags of top end stuff. I couldn't look as he totted up the final bill; I bought a couple of caps with my own money. These I gave to Muhammad.

'They're for the girls.'

He looked into the bag and smiled.

'They'll love them. Thank you.'

I began to tell him about the bike, but he stopped me.

'Still don't care, still don't want to know. I'll bring the car round and we'll get off. I imagine you want to be out on that flimsy piece of nothing as soon as you can.'

I just nodded and stood by the entrance stroking the saddle on my new steed. I was in another place entirely. So much so that I was able to feign vague interest when Muhammad demonstrated the effortless way in which his new car converted into a spacious bike carrier by dint of seemingly magical disappearing seats. As the mystery voice led us homewards I let him talk about the wonders I was experiencing whilst my head was full of the routes I would take once left to my own devices.

He dropped me at home and left with a bag of my clothes. We had agreed to meet at his house for breakfast to work through Charles's report together once it arrived. The fact I'd get to ride there and home again afterwards was a mere secondary consideration.

I was out on the road minutes after he left, I acknowledged a wave from Mr J who was standing at his gate but was too hypnotised by the bling machine to hear what he was shouting to me. Once out on the road I was in heaven. Road tarmac appeared in the bright white beam of my my new headlight and was instantly devoured. Hills I had previously struggled up, I conquered with ease. The new music of tyre-hum and the wind in the spokes was all that filled my ears; it was hypnotic.

So much so, that when reality began to intrude – it was after all a pitch black evening in early January with near-zero temperatures and intermittent rain – I realised I was about twenty five miles from home. The normal indicators of fatigue were entirely absent; no twinges in leg muscles, no niggling pain in the small of the back, nothing to indicate that soreness in the bum was coming on. The combination of race-ready clothing and a tailor-made machine had masked all those. But I was aware that my feet seemed to be detaching themselves from my body.

The new shoes encased them like a pair of soft hands. What I had neglected to consider in my rush to get out on the road was that they were designed to dump heat. And I wasn't wearing overshoes to protect myself from that usually admirable quality. I turned round immediately and headed back.

I spent the return journey with at least half my brain communicating directly with my feet. I was trying to reach an optimal cadence where I could reach maximum speed for the least amount of heat loss through wind and the cold water bathing me from above or splashing up from the road. By the time I reached home and put a foot on the ground for the first time, I felt a numbness creeping up my calf and I felt like I was walking on stilts made of small icebergs.

'Here, let me.'

I heard a familiar voice behind me as I tried to extract my keys from the back pocket of my jacket. It was Mr J. And he had arrived with gifts. He put a covered tray gently on the top step of porch and shoved his hand behind my back emerging with the keys instantly. He mother-henned me into the house; I had decided that at least for tonight my bike could rest in the hallway. I leaned it against the coat rack and fell shivering onto the stairs.

'Drink this.'

I was handed a glass of some sort of thick yellow liquid. I took a tentative sip; it tasted like heaven.

'Recovery drink. A sort of suped-up banana milk shake really. Since young James has got me working on computers I've learned all sorts of new things.'

He stood over me as I gulped down the drink and started pawing ineffectually at my feet. The new shoes were secured by disc ratchets which tightened the laces. I couldn't get them to work. I looked up at Mr J pathetically. He knelt, had them off in and instant and gently massaged one foot after the other.

'You need to get in the shower to warm up. Supper will be in the kitchen when you're ready.'

I tried to speak but could only manage a pathetic squeaking noise.

'Go.'

He pulled me to my feet, turned me around and pushed me upwards. Did he leave his hands on my arse longer than was strictly necessary? Frankly, I was beyond caring. I just concentrated on getting one foot in front of the other.

I don't know who it was who invented the shower. But as I stood feeling the hot water run over me I resolved to find out – perhaps I could get Mr J to check it out – and send their descendants a thank-you note. Perhaps even flowers. I luxuriated in the simple pleasure it was giving me. I experimented by simply moving my head: one way and the flow massaged my shoulder, forwards and the stream ran down my back and between my buttocks tickling the bud of my bum thus allowing warmth to creep inside. A small shift of my body allowed my boobs, belly and pussy to enjoy the water's gentle caress.

Mostly though, I was delighted to discover that somehow they had managed to come up with a method of reuniting my feet with the rest of me. Should I send chocolates as well? Toe-waggling is a much under-appreciated pastime. When the pain of their initial reintroduction to the rest of me subsided I made up for lost time and waggled with a vengeance. It was only when I noticed my fingers were taking on the texture of large raisins that I reluctantly abandoned my attempt to master military drum rolls just using my big toes and stepped out of my new favourite place in the whole house. My nose made me aware that there was a new pleasure to be enjoyed.

The most beautiful scent I had ever smelled was permeating the building from the ground floor up. I couldn't recognise it precisely but it seemed to contain every ingredient on the planet. I pummelled myself dry and sprinted to the bedroom grabbing whatever clothes I could. A small synapse in the rational part of my brain managed to penetrate the aromatic hypnotism and remind me I needed to look after my feet. I grabbed a pair of woolly socks from a drawer and ran to the stairs.

'Lancashire hotpot.'

Mr J answered my unasked question as he ladled the steaming stew into a large bowl. He beckoned me to sit down and placed it in front of me. I was four spoonfuls in before I looked up. It was delicious. I searched for the words to describe the pleasure the simple combination of potatoes, vegetables and lamb was giving me. The small globules of fat which glistened on the surface of the bowl seemed to be winking at me. Mr J just smiled and pushed a thin dark bottle towards me with one finger.

'Worcestershire sauce?'

That took things to a whole other level. When the second, unasked for, bowl was filled I added the black liquid from the start. It was like a whole different meal. And the fresh wholemeal bread I eventually noticed? I just silently vowed to write to Jamie Oliver advising him to abandon the Italian stuff and get back home pronto. There was a fortune to be made here.

'More?'

'Perhaps just half a bowl.'

Mr J silently complied and retook his seat opposite me. I grinned at him between mouthfuls, he was clearly enjoying the show. I have no idea how to render the noises I was making into spelled words. He stood as I reached the pattern on the bottom of the bowl for the third time and went to the oven.

'Apple crumble.'

If I had been wondering how to top the magnificent first course, those two simple words would have given me the answer. I shovelled a huge portion into my mouth and was forced to immediately regurgitate it onto the spoon. Schoolgirl error. I had forgotten that when the crusty top is warm-to-hot the fruit beneath will have taken on the temperature and texture of volcanic lava. Mr J laughed as I blew on the pudding with the gusto required to extinguish the candles on a ninety-year-old's birthday cake.

About half-way through the dessert I started trying to put words together to thank him. It proved difficult as the need for another mouthful meant I could only get through half a sentence at a time. He just grinned back, nodding and took over the verbalising.

'The fire's on in the front room. I've made green tea. I thought we could drink it in there while you tell me about your day.'

I nodded as I licked the spoon clean and sat back, both hands on my stomach. I felt like Friar Tuck after a particularly large feast in Sherwood Forest. I would have been quite happy to stay where I was but obediently stood and followed Mr J out. I had spotted chocolate biscuits on the tray next to the teapot.

I stole a glance at my bike as we passed through the hall. It was after all at least an hour since I had last seen her. There was a cleaning rag hanging over the handlebars, it had clearly been used to dry off the frame. Beneath her wheels there was layer of newspaper protecting the carpet. I don't read papers. In Britain they cover that part of the political spectrum between conservatism and uninformed bigotry. I've never asked a doctor about this, but I'm sure they are dangerous both for your blood pressure and your mental health so I never had one in the house. Mr J, on the other hand, was taking on angelic status. He had clearly gone home whilst I was in the shower to get the necessary from there.

'Your day?'

He had poured out mugs of the pale green liquid as I arranged myself on the sofa and stretched my legs out towards the hissing gas fire. Normally when we sat together in my front room he took the armchair. Tonight he was beside me, slightly turned inwards and resting an elbow on the soft cushions as he supported his head with his hand. His face had an expression of patient expectation.

I must have spoken non-stop for over an hour. Words poured out of me like water from a breached dam. I told him about Charles, about Muhammad's report, the meal and the oily restaurant manager. It was one of those narratives where you have to stop yourself and double back when you realise you've missed out something important for the development of the tale. When I got to Jade and forgotten teaspoon, for instance, I remembered I hadn't told him about the flowers.

Mr J was wonderful. After my exertions, the food and the enveloping warmth of room I was feeling physically as well as mentally settled. As the words continued to flow I realised this was just what I needed. The confidentiality which covered the events of the last couple of days meant I had not had a real chance to put them in perspective. I needed to get my thoughts out if only in order to begin to make sense of what was happening. And he was the perfect listener. If I glanced at him he was always smiling patiently; he would give an encouraging nod. At other times he was interjecting those words or noises good listeners make to support the narrative flow. The 'uh-huhs', 'goshes' and 'wows'; you know the kind of thing.

It occurred to me, somewhere at the back of my brain not engaged in story telling, that if men took cooking lessons and a short course in listening skills, they'd get laid a lot more often. I almost told Mr J so, but at that point I was in the middle of a particularly intricate description of the differences between mechanical and electronic gear systems on bikes. It wasn't an appropriate time for diversions.

It was sometime about then that I felt something gently stroke my pussy. It was almost imperceptible, a feather-light kiss of a warm finger which had been pulled slowly from close to my bottom up to where my labia met below the soft curls of my remaining strip of public hair. Whilst the caress stopped there the physical sensation continued up through my stomach and meandered to my brain, more inarticulate whisper than clearly articulated message. I pulled my brain back to the moment.

'Mr J. What are you doing?'

'Keep talking, I'm listening.'

He was smiling gently at me, as he had been since he entered the house, and gave a short nod. I looked down. The skirt I had pulled on in my haste to get dressed was bunched at my waist. My legs were splayed apart. I was not sure how that had happened. The first thing I remember thinking was that I should stick a post-it note on my bedroom door to remind myself to put on some knickers before leaving the house. Going commando was becoming something of a habit.

'You were describing the difference between aero-design spokes and the ones on ordinary bikes.'

He was exerting more pressure with his fingers as he drew his hand once more over my mons. This time I was fully aware of what he was doing and shivered as a wave of warmth pulsed through me. I tried, for reasons I still do not fully understand, to pick up my description from the point I had reached and blurted out something irrelevant about the development of carbon fibre equipment. When he started massaging my clitoris in slow circular passes I abandoned the attempt at speech altogether.

My first moan was soft and low. I leaned my head back, eyes closed and let if drift out of me. I gasped in a breath as it tapered out; I needed to be ready for the next one. I plucked at my tits with one hand trying to remember what clothes I had put on and what was the quickest way for me to access bare skin. I compromised by squeezing and massaging myself through my clothes. I almost laughed as my body messaged my brain that I had omitted to put on a bra. Was this the time for sartorial concerns?

I think it was me pinching my own nipples which unleashed a torrent of vaginal lubrication. It could have been Mr J's more insistent stroking of my labia which did it though. Whatever. A slim finger slipped inside me and sent a jolt of pleasure through me which seemed to exit somewhere at the back of my head. I forced my whole body back into the cushions and let out a groan which ended with a sob.

I was vaguely aware of Mr J moving his head closer to mine and licked my lips expecting a kiss. When he simply exhaled hot breath over my ear I surprised even myself by letting out a short, sharp scream. I opened shocked eyes and turned to gauge his expression. For some reason I was concerned not to frighten him. He was still smiling indulgently when I focussed. I was overcome by an urgent need to feel his tongue inside my mouth and pushed my lips against his.

I have no idea how long we kissed. I was lost in the sensation of my mouth being filled by his long tongue and mine pushing it back and exploring the moist warmth of his mouth. For a time I was lost in the pure physicality of it all. My boobs, pussy and mouth alternated as the main focus of my pleasure as at least two orgasms exploded through me. We eventually broke by some mutually agreed need for greater oxygen intake and I took some kind of stock.

There were probably three fingers, I estimated, pumping my pussy with a vigour no doubt gained from years of studied masturbation. I was holding a breast in each hand. The blouse, only now did I remember putting it on, was half open, at least one button torn off. My nipples were a deep shade of red. I stroked them with dampened fingers trying to match my rhythm to Mr J's probing. His breath on my ear was now broken and driven more by his own need that any attempt to stimulate me, but our combined efforts - inadvertent or not – were working me towards another inevitable climax.

I realised suddenly I had done nothing, so far, to physically stimulate or excite my partner. Through hooded eyes I noticed he was still fully dressed. Only his disarrayed hair and flushed face gave any indication of his enjoyment. I told myself to pull my hands away from my tits and help him undress but, at that moment, the silky pleasure I was getting as I rolled my nipples between moist fingers and thumbs overwhelmed my priorities.

As if to preempt any move on my part, Mr J slid between my legs. I tipped a hat to Mandy. Clearly the non-scientific exercise regime she had been putting him through had lubricated old joints. The first time he had gone down on me it seemed to take him an age to creak to his knees. His fingers in my slit and thumb on my clit barely broke rhythm as he started gently kissing the insides of my thighs. Then my pussy barely had time to acknowledge the change from fingers to tongue. I exhaled sharply as he gently took my small nub between firm lips for the first time.

If I had given him his first lesson in cunnilingus, Mandy had clearly been putting the time in to take him to a whole other level. I was lost in ecstasy as he massaged and probed. I was barely aware of what was tongue, what lips, when fingers took over and exactly how his thumb managed to extend my clit to a length I had previously been unaware it could reach. By the time he pulled back and I could look down at him red-faced between my legs, I had come at least twice more. It could have exceeded that number.

My whole body was in a state near to shock as muscles spasmed and tensed. His face was soaked in my juices, I almost came agin as he licked what he could reach with his tongue and clearly savoured my flavour. I released my left boob and slid my hand down my stomach to slowly stroke myself as he watched. I needed a change of texture as much as anything.

'Do you mind?'

He had pulled himself to his feet and was unbuckling his belt to release his clearly visible erection.

'Condoms. Upstairs.'

Was all the answer I could manage as I watched, fascinated, as he manipulated trousers and pants over his throbbing cock. I smiled with recognition and expectation as it sprang free. Somehow it seemed longer and thicker than I remembered. Good old Mandy. He grinned at me enjoying, no doubt, the sight of my glistening, wide-open gash. I spread the lips wider to fully expose my clit in its bed of soft pink flesh and smiled back.

'I carry my own these days.'

He produced the johnny between his fingers like some kind of magician. I forced myself upwards and snatched it from him as he was in the act of raising it to his mouth to rip it open. It was the quickest I had moved since the first spoonful of hotpot. The least a girl can do I told myself as I opened it up and stroked his length to prepare it for ensheathment. He thanked me with a small groan of satisfaction as I cupped his balls when I finished rolling the rubber down over his hard, surprisingly hot, penis.

I used slight finger pressure behind his sac to guide him down on to me as I simultaneously swivelled to lie full length on the sofa. I left one leg on the floor and pulled the other up to rest across one of the cushions as he slid into me. He needed no assistance, his cock was like a compass needle homing in on magnetic north. We grunted in unison as he reached full penetration and our pubic bones touched. It made us both laugh.

I remembered Mr J as a gentle lover and that was how he began, lifting himself upwards slightly before slipping back home. I shifted my hands behind my knees to keep my legs high and to allow deeper penetration. As I began to pant with the pleasure of his dick inside me – he was augmenting his thrusts with gently kisses on my neck and tits as he filled me each time – his rhythm suddenly increased. Compared with the Mr J I had known he suddenly became a savage, out-of-control stud. I was bounced back hard into the giving cushions, somehow my head hung sideways over the edge and still he thrust down as if he was trying to pin me to the floor. His testicles slapped by buttocks, the slap sounded like a sponge hitting a tiled floor so much liquid had I produced from vagina and sweat glands.