RAGBRAI - Day 01

This is a fact-based work of fantasy. RAGBRAI, the State of Iowa, cycling, and the t-shirt slogans described are not figments of your imagination, but every sex act described is fictional and non-attributional. Any similarity to real people or events is purely coincidental or a literary crutch for your humble author.

Day 1

Clip...clop...clip...clop...

He waddled along, balls bruised, asshole raw, saddle sore, and thighs quivering from pulsing exertion. He imagined this must be how it feels to be on the receiving end of a gang bang, but in fact he'd just dismounted after an 80-mile bike ride.

The 50th edition of the Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI) had kicked off that morning, and he realized he probably could have trained a little harder. Still recovering from divorce, he'd sought a way to drown out the voices in his head and/or reconnect with a new community, deciding to revive a dormant endurance sport habit.

He walked along the stream of luggage laid out in the street until he saw his olive drab ALICE pack. Leaning over with what felt like the last of his energy, he heaved the bag onto one shoulder and continued waddling to the campsite.

10,000 registered riders and untold tag-alongs would be crossing the state like locusts - eating and drinking anything on offer and leaving little behind but overflowing porta potties and a thankful small business community. Many of them would stay overnight in hotels or chartered buses, while those on a budget and those who planned too little too late would typically camp in a public park or an accommodating neighbor's lawn. He found a patch of grass near a t-swing next to a middle school and figured it'd do.

After locking his bike to a tree, he knelt down and started to unpack his bag. Tent...check. Sleeping bag...check. Toiletry bag...check. Hoo Ha cream...had he grabbed the wrong tube when he moved out?...Vibrator...oh, fuck...anal plugs...lube...oh, fuck...he'd grab someone else's bag. And judging from the luggage she had anticipated a very different week than he had.

He delicately packed the bag back up and clip clopped his way back to the luggage line. Other than the fact that he was about three gummy bears from being completely out of calories, the worst part was that he couldn't even change into comfortable shoes.

He saw the bag's owner as he approached the line. She had his pack and was pacing back and forth, anxiously anticipating the ability to change into something other than body constricting Lycra.

"Oh, hey, I think I got your bag."

"Yeah, I guess so. How far did you get before you figured it out?"

"You have fewer secrets than before, but I tried not to reveal them all."

"I was pretty sure I wasn't a 32-32."

He could see she wasn't. She could have fit into one of his pant legs. She had the legs and ass of a triathlete but tits that looked like illegal floatation devices. They probably wouldn't be much trouble this week, but he couldn't imagine how she ran with them - although he enjoyed trying.

"You traveling with anyone."

"Just the team I met today. I'm meeting them at a bar later."

"Well, I'd be happy to share my t-swing adjacent lawn if you'd like to help each other pitch our tents."

"Looks like you've started that all by yourself."

He smirked. Despite the exhaustion his mind had lingered on her tits, and the bike short padding couldn't conceal his stiffening erection.

"It's been a minute. I'll be a perfect gentleman."

They took the opportunity to change their shoes and he carried both bags as they strolled back to the park.

"Is this your first time?"

"First time alone. I rode with my boyfriend a couple years ago. He got pissed when I started beating him and left."

"Well, RAGBRAI's a ride, not a race."

"Don't defend him."

"I'm sure he's an asshole."

"What's your story?"

"Newly-single middle-aged white guy trying to figure out how to start again."

"That's sad as fuck."

"Tell me about it."

They got to the campground and unpacked their tents. He helped pitch hers first and she returned the favor.

"Do you know where we shower?" he asked.

"I was just going to use some baby wipes and head to the bar."

"Glad we're sleeping in different tents," he deadpanned. She smiled.

He spied a spandex-covered caravan of folks with towels over their shoulder and figured, against his parents' best advice, that this time it might be okay to follow the crowd.

"If you keep an eye on my stuff while I shower, I'll hold down the fort while you're at the bar."

"You don't want to come along."

"I'm a friend of Bill's."

"Holy shit. And you decided to come here alone?"

"I've probably made better choices."

He headed to the shower, incredibly turned on, and hoping for a private stall. Unfortunately it was a standard issue public school shower with a dozen heads in one room and a line of anxious riders out the door. A couple of surreptitious tugs while shampooing his crotch and letting the high-pressure stream linger as he rinsed his ass was all he could manage. He wondered exactly how blue one's balls could get and feared he was going to find out this week.

He walked back to the campground and didn't see her near the tents. A little annoyed he quickened his pace until he got closer and heard a low mechanical vibrating. Oh...she hadn't abandoned her post, she was just a little distracted is all.

Careful to not disturb her, he crawled into his tent, zipped up the flap for privacy, took off his shirt, and eavesdropped - maybe not the perfect gentleman.

The vibrations alternated volume as her pussy muffled the sound with each stroke. The slow tempo of the changes suggested she was deliberate and patient, massaging rather than pumping, romancing rather than screwing.

He pulled out his cock and wished - just for a second - that he'd swiped her lube when he had her bag. He stroked in time to her tempo, imagining them masturbating each other rather than themselves.

He paused as the vibrations stayed loud for a minute, assuming she'd pulled out to stimulate her clit. Right hand still wrapped around his cock, he licked the tip of his left middle finger and tickled his asshole - matching the (imagined) focus of her excitement as nearly as he could.

After a few minutes of clit and ass play, the alternations returned. This time more quickly - and accelerating. The sound waves communicated her sense of urgency, her want, her need. She had stopped making love and had started fucking.

He matched his pace to hers. Stroking faster, gripping harder, and easing a knuckle into his ass. A guttural moan wafted from her tent to his and he heard - almost a whisper - "oh god, I'm cumming."

He mouthed in reply, "me too."

The reality of her voice combined with his vision of her stuffed pussy - and maybe a pinched nipple - was enough to send him over the edge and he spurted twice, the first one hitting him in his beard.

He lay there recovering for a few minutes as he heard her getting up and around. She "knocked" on the tent and said, "I'm headed out."

He hurriedly toweled off his chest and popped his head out of the tent flap.

"Thanks for watching the stuff. I'll keep it safe the rest of the night."

"Hmmm...you got a little something right there," she said leaning in and kissing his cum stained beard.

She licked it off, kissed him on the lips, and whispered in his ear, "Thanks for the company."

***

"Honey, I'm home," she whis-slurred as she unzipped his tent and crawled in next to him. She'd already made him the little spoon by the time he realized he wasn't dreaming and that her hand was actually fumbling with his waistband.

She smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, weed, and sex.

"So, you found your friends?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know if they're friends but I definitely found the DICKs."

Her hand finally unknotted the drawstring of his sweats and she started fumbling - inexpertly, drunkenly - with his cock and balls.

"The dicks?"

"Yeah, the DeKalb Illinois Cycling Klub - with a K."

"D-I-C-K? DICK. I get it."

"Yeah the ol' boys lived up to their name."

"What'd y'all do?"

She described what started as a pretty typical RAGBRAI night. The bar was taken over by riders, edging out the regulars and monopolizing the jukebox. Beer flowed, smoking ordinances were ignored, tits were flashed, and dicks were measured - metaphorically and actually.

At last call, the crowd booed, the leader of the DICKs tipped the owner five hundred bucks, and while the door was locked and blinds were drawn, the party continued.

Someone decided it would be a good idea to do carrier landings, so the floor was cleared, the last of the keg was emptied onto the hardwood, and they all took turns slip-and-sliding from one end of the bar to the other.

After she gave it a try and turned to the crowd for some well-earned appreciation, there was a veritable record scratch moment. Every conversation stopped and every jaw dropped as her perfect tits stretched the now soaked, now see-through, white tank top. She hadn't worn a bra to give the girls a chance to breathe and avoid more chafing after a long ride, and everyone appreciated her self care in that moment.

One of the women offered her a hoodie - "you want to cover up, hon?" - while one of the men offered to take her somewhere private - "you wanna warm up in my truck?" - before his wife cuffed him on the back of his head.

She walked halfway down the bar and was stopped by a DICK still wearing his kit - three-quarter zip jersey unzipped to reveal a muscled chest and spandex shorts already bulging.

"It'd be a shame to let this moment go to waste."

Drunk, buzzed and remembering her appetizer from earlier than night, she agreed. Standing tall she stripped her tank over her head as her nipples hardened from the chill in the air. She squatted in front of his bulge - despite the 80 miles of riding that day, she wouldn't give the guy the pleasure of seeing her on her knees. She hooked her thumbs in his waistband until his cock popped out, leaving him standing there with his tight shorts binding his thighs together.

As she took his cock in her mouth and started bobbing up and down, the rest of the team formed a circle around her, each exposing their dicks, some stroking, and a few looking around to see if they'd have to wait or if someone wanted to help the soon to be overworked cock sucker.

She did what she could, letting the first guy face fuck her while blindly reaching out her right and left hands until she found new toys to stroke. She felt the cock in her mouth was close to cumming and, despite her gratitude to him for helping her check this item off her bucket list, she wanted to make him pay for his gaul and presumption. Just because he wasn't wrong about her willingness doesn't mean he should be rewarded for being impolite.

With her teeth lightly scraping his cock, she pushed him away, guided her cock-filled right hand to her mouth, and reached out for someone else to stroke. Every few minutes she braided the participants, left over right, then right over left, swapping hand to mouth and backfilling her empty palm until everyone on the team was hard.

She reveled in the tastes and smells. The salty sweat, the unwashed urine, the coppery scent of ass sweat, and the spilled beer. Unless she was mistaken, a few of them hadn't showered since they last came and at least one of them had already had some pussy. She wondered how the other girl would feel if she knew it wasn't the only time his dick would get wet that night - she got aroused imagining the other girl in the bar right now.

After another fifteen minutes of attentive edge management, she got tired and distracted, and one of the younger ones surprised her with a load of warm cum on her shoulder and in her ear. She felt bad that he hadn't had a second turn in her mouth yet, so she abandoned the rotation and sucked him dry while playing with his balls. Youth and enthusiasm being what they are, he came again within minutes. This time, she was prepared and at the last second aimed him at her breast.

Understanding the fluffing line was now a firing line, the rest of the team lined up and took their shot. One by one, she took them in her mouth, sucking, licking, and flicking. Most of them had kept stroking while they waited their turn, so most just needed a few seconds of warm wetness and a soft landing spot for their seed before figuring they'd made the most of their night. She swallowed what she could, got a fair bit of moisturizing cream for her face, and enjoyed watching her tits get covered in semen by those so inclined.

"So the last will be first and the first will be last," the muscular instigator quoted as he made his way to the front of the line.

"I didn't know you were a church boy. You should probably go to confession."

She stood up, accepted the long ago offered hoodie - "you can keep it, sweetie," - and asked the wife of the guy with the truck for a ride back to the t-swing - "yeah, I know where it is. I'll swing back to get him later." Mr. Muscles stood there stoically, arms akimbo, with a bruised ego and a softening cock drooping over the top of his shorts.

"And then you decided to come back here and tell me this story," he asked.

"You didn't seem to mind," she replied, licking his cum off her fingers.