Too Much of a Good Thing

"So whose room am I staying in?" she said quietly.

Just what I was wondering, but I must have gone white when she said it out loud. I gave him a worried look -- that wasn't my idea. "His, from the looks of it," he smirked, "but come back to mine later if you think of it. Kind of a cold night. Well, have fun, kids," he said. Only the way he fidgeted with his motorcycle helmet and gloves gave any apprehension away, but he covered that by quickly getting out his card key and disappearing into his room.

Yesterday afternoon, I had seen them. No, let's be honest. I saw her first, then I saw him. Maybe it was the Joe Rocket jacket, but more likely it was the long brown hair, or maybe it was the tan. Or the breasts, covered by a Lycra top (and partially by the jacket, which made it a tease and not just another woman showing off her big tits in something tight).

I saw all this while I was paying for lunch at a diner in Perry, Florida. She was the most interesting thing I had seen since breakfast, and perhaps all week. My week on the motorcycle had accomplished what I intended -- I was beginning to forget. But boredom was starting to creep in. Boredom with small towns and motels, boredom with questions about my motorcycle (an older model BMW) whenever I stopped.

And boredom is deadly on a motorcycle. I was debating with myself, as the waitress counted my change back at the register, whether I needed to stop for the day or try to make it on down to Crystal River. I'd be fresher the next day -- if I didn't watch TV all afternoon and then toss and turn all night.

I risked another glance her way. She was sitting in a booth next to a guy in a motorcycle jacket. Not matching jackets, I noticed with approval -- many "motorcycle couples" end up with everything matching, which makes them look like high schoolers on spring break. He saw me, and smiled. I was wearing the usual gear, and carrying my helmet. I'd already had a helmet stolen off my handlebars this trip. I debated about whether to speak with them -- this assumption that all motorcyclists have a lot in common kind of grates on me, and I've had a lot of unwanted company at restaurants. So I just smiled and waved back, and she motioned me over.

That did it. I walked to their booth. "Hi," I said.

'Hi. Sit down, if you've got time. I'm Stephen, and this -- is Jane."

"Not Plain Jane, though," I said. Wow, you've uncorked a dumb line already, and you're just sitting down, I thought.

"Thank you," she said, kind of giggling, and he laughed, which I guess made it okay. The bastard's probably enjoying this -- it must happen all the time, I thought. I shook hands with him, and her. I just managed to resist kissing her hand.

We talked about all the stuff travelers talk about, especially when they're on motorcycles -- weather, where we'd been, roads, traffic, how the machines were doing. He said they'd started out in Savannah, and that he had a couple of weeks before he had to get back to work. I didn't ask him where or what work was -- I hate those kinds of questions. They're nosy, and they tend to get me thinking about work, and home -- both things I've ridden hundreds of miles to get away from.

"Nice helmet," he said.

"Oh, that?" I said, sheepishly. "Thanks. I just got it yesterday in Pensacola. Somebody took mine at a gas station in Cantonment."

"That sucks," Jane said.

"Felt weird riding without one. I had just been in Alabama, where it's illegal, and I wouldn't ordinarily ride bareheaded, period. Felt strange to have the wind in my hair."

"But kinda nice in a way?" Stephen asked.

"Yes and no. Almost too much of a good thing, and then there's the constant worry. Which is kind of stupid when you think about it -- if you wreck, you're pretty messed up anyway. Which is why I ride so as not to wreck," I laughed. Jane laughed with me.

I was beginning to get comfortable with them. They seemed like two normal people on a motorbike, as opposed to some of the strange ones I've met at diners, gas stations, and truck stops along the way. And, of course, the yuppies. I wasn't going to ask what he or she did, but I could imagine him as an engineer or a high level maintenance guy at some factory. And I could imagine her in real estate or as a nurse. I could easily imagine her as a nurse.

We got to talking about where we were going next. Stephen said they were ultimately going to Orlando -- here he looked at Jane as if to ask if you want to, that is. They were apparently making it up as they went along, like me.

"Where are you going, Harry?" she asked. Here it came -- the "do you want to ride with us?" dance. I'd turned a lot of these down in the past week. There's not only concerns about who you're falling in with, there's the fact that all of you can't really want to go to the same place. It messes with the spontaneity. And there's this feeling that you're giving up and doing what someone else wants you to do.

But I was starting to get used to the sight of her by now. "Well, I'm kind of drifting south. Orlando's nice this time of year, if you guys don't mind me riding along."

Both of them said that would be fine. They paid up and we met in the parking lot. His bike was a late-model Triumph Bonneville, which of course prompted some of the usual kidding about German and British engineering. My bike was parked across the lot; he said he'd wait for me. As I started walking off, he had gotten on the bike and I looked back to see her settling on -- it's actually a little harder to get on when you're riding pillion on a bike, but her long legs made it look easy. Her leather pants made it hard to look away. She cuddled up to him and smiled at me -- she'd caught me looking.

We got on the road and I decided I was glad I had come along -- and that he had taken the lead. Stephen had fitted the Bonnie with a tank bag and soft saddle bags, and Jane was wearing a small backpack purse. They were traveling light, which for some reason I find kind of sexy in its own right. And of course that also left my view of her ass unobstructed.

Thank goodness for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course. It teaches you to constantly scan for potential hazards, and warns of the dangers of fixating on anything up ahead. I had to make a constant effort to watch the lines on the road, scan intersections, watch for trucks -- to look at anything but the back of Jane -- her leather-sheathed buttocks, her narrow waist, her shoulders (broadened by the pads in her crash jacket), and her ponytail fluttering behind her helmet, which turned me on as much as anything else. At least once she turned around -- to see if I was still back there? To see if I was looking at her? I made it a point to move my eyes all over the road, and she winked at me.

Too much of a good thing -- when we got to a stop light, I took the opportunity to take the lead for a while. At least the boredom was gone, for now.

When we got into Gainesville, Stephen pulled into a Starbucks. It was about four in the afternoon. We ordered coffee. They sat together on a couch, and I sank into a cozy chair beside them. "I don't know about you two, but I think this is where I want to stop for the evening. Should be someplace we can stay around here and walk over for dinner and drinks," Stephen said.

"Sounds good to me," Jane said. "my butt's getting a little sore, and I'd like to go somewhere for dinner dressed like a girl for a change."

Neither of us could argue with that. Truth be told, my saddle was getting to me too. We asked the baristas, and they said there was a LaQuinta just around the corner. A local Italian restaurant was in a shopping center practically next door. A little bit corporate all the way around, but this was Gainesville, not Mayberry.

A few minutes later, we were checked in. It was the off season, and we were able to park our bikes right in front of side-by-side ground level rooms. I could hear the shower running as Stephen and I helped each other check oil, lube, and coolant levels and wipe some road grime off our bikes. Motorcycles aren't as maintenance-intensive as they used to be, but they can still leave you by the side of the road (or worse) if you don't take care of them, especially when you're putting hundreds of miles a day on them. By the time we did all that, it was a little after five.

I told Stephen to come get me when they were both ready. Something told me I would be ready before they were. I got my gear out of my saddlebags and got into my room. I stripped off and got into the shower. I thought about the way our doors adjoined and our room layouts and realized the bathrooms shared a wall. I could hear the water running before I started my shower, and thought I heard an occasional sigh, but maybe that was my imagination.

Then I heard a thud, followed by an unmistakably rhythmic sound -- feet? Asses? Hands on the wall? Whatever was making the sounds, it wasn't hard to imagine what they were up to, especially as the sighing turned into low moans, and then into higher-pitched little cat-like shrieks. So she was a bit of a screamer. I love women like that -- you always know how you're doing.

I went and got some hand lotion, leaving a wet trail on the floor between the shower and the sink. Soon I was blissfully stroking myself to the rhythm they had created, biting my lip to stay quiet, even though I knew they had to realize I was just a thin wall away from their wild, noisy humping, and probably didn't care. Regardless, I was rock hard before I even got started, and came in less than a minute. And came and came. It had been two or three days. Yes, there are plenty of chances to masturbate when you're alone in motel rooms night after night, but honestly I had gotten bored with doing that, too.

I made sure all the semen made it down the drain (one of my quirks -- I hate for motel maids to know I've been jacking off in their bathrooms) and started washing the grime off. They were reaching a rapid finale themselves, from the sound of things. By the time I was drying off, all I could hear was running water. I was getting semi-hard again, but decided any further relief could wait until after dinner, when I might hear another installment from the even thinner walls between our headboards.

I had been dressed for fifteen minutes and had been watching ESPN for ten minutes more when I heard a knock on my door. I answered it -- "Hello?!" Jane had knocked, not Stephen. He was right behind her, dressed in a somewhat cleaner version of what he'd been wearing on the road.

She, on the other hand, was wearing another form-fitting top, with a short denim jacket over that, and a mid-thigh denim skirt and high heels. Her hair was still damp and she had pulled it back in a ponytail. A turquoise Kokopelli pendant hung between her breasts on a silver chain. Her makeup was minimal, and perfect, and a slight scent of shampoo drifted in with her, along with an even fainter scent that could be a spicy/musky cologne or could be the natural scent of a woman who'd just been fucked half senseless. She had the look -- sparkling eyes and slightly parted lips. Stephen looked about the same as he had when he was working on the bikes with me, except he was smiling a lot.

"You look different," I said, wanting to pay her a compliment but not wanting to go too far out on a limb.

"Well, thanks, I think," she laughed. "I hope so."

"Ready?" Stephen interjected.

"And waiting," I said.

Drinking some wine and waiting for dinner to arrive, we talked about our motorcycling experiences. Stephen was one of those guys who'd grown up on dirt bikes. He said he'd ridden little 50cc bikes as a kid before he learned to ride a bicycle. I, on the other hand, had taken it up as a beginner only about a year ago.

"I've gotten the hang of everything, I think. But one thing I haven't done," I said, draining the last of my third glass of wine. Fatigue and a little bit of dehydration was causing the wine to hit me about as fast as I was hitting it, but it tasted fantastic. I wasn't going to ride again for 12 hours -- I could afford to get a little wasted.

"What's that?" Jane asked.

"I haven't carried anyone pillion."

Stephen and Jane looked at each other. I started blushing a bit. "Oh, that wasn't a suggestion. Just something I haven't ticked off on my motorcycling resume." I told myself it was the wine talking, but it was more likely because of the daydream I'd been having all day long -- her thighs around my hips, her breasts up against my back, her hands on my waist.

Some signal must have passed between Jane and Stephen that I didn't catch, because she said "I'll ride with you some tomorrow. It's no big deal." She smiled at me when she said it.

Stephen became all business. I was getting more and more convinced he was an engineer. He talked about how the extra weight affects balance and braking. He got swatted on the arm at least once by Jane for using the word "weight" too often. "Jane's obviously an experienced pillion rider, which is what you need for your first time out," he said. "Let's get out of Gainesville and onto the highway in the morning, and then she'll get on with you at our first stop."

"Do you have someone back home you want to take riding with you? Your wife?" she asked.

"Not exactly," I said. "My wife wouldn't ride with me. Of course, she hasn't lived with me for a few months, so..."

"Oh, sorry," Jane said. Her features clouded over. I'd only known her for about eight hours, and that was the first time I'd ever seen that look, but I hated it already.

"Why? It's not your fault," I joked, and I reached across the table and picked up her hand and kissed it. Maybe I was already drunker than I thought.

About two that morning, I awoke with my cock in my hand, already hard. I could hear them going at it on the other side of the wall, and this time without the sounds of the shower half-drowning it out.

"Oh, God," she said over and over.

"Turn over," I thought I heard him say. Her mewing sounds stopped.

"There?"

"Yeah, there, baby. Oh fuck yeah."

"More lube if you're going at it that way. Slow, baby, slow. Oh, God, yeah, slow, slow, slow," she said. "Careful if you want me to be able to ride with him tomorrow," she laughed, and the laughter became a moan.

I wasn't sure what he was doing with her, but in my mind she was taking me up the ass, and I was being very, very careful, because I sure wanted her to ride with me tomorrow. There was all the lube in the world for this job, and it was going to be done right. I eased into her, my hands steadying myself on her hips. I was her passenger, and there was no way I was falling off the saddle. I only went faster when she started begging me to, and screaming for it.

I moaned myself when I came - very loud. The sounds on the other end stopped for a moment, and then there was a giggle, and then another moan, and another.

Seven hours later, we were pulled over in a grocery store parking lot a few miles outside of Gainesville. Stephen was parked. I was idling my bike, and I was about to receive my first lesson with Jane on the back. I had both feet planted, as instructed. Jane seemed to have just a little more difficulty with the height of my seat, and getting her legs around the hard bags, but she was soon settled on. "Take her around the parking lot and practice a few starts and stops before we get on the road. Easy does it," Stephen said. "By the way, since it's hard to talk on the road, you need a signal or two. Two taps from her left hand mean 'slow down' or 'take it easy -- I'm getting nervous.' Two taps from her right hand mean 'we need to stop as soon as possible.'"

We bumped helmets the first time I took off. We both had our visors up. Jane got up close enough to my ears to say "Slow, baby, slow," and giggled. I thought I was going to lose it then, but overall it wasn't as difficult as I thought it might be. The BMW pulled fine, and stopped okay. I'd just need to plan ahead a bit more than I usually did. He was right -- Jane knew how to ride pillion. She was very relaxed and still, especially at low speeds and in turns when it counted. We got back out on the open road, and I'd say at times I almost forgot she was back there. Except for the warmth of her thighs, and when her hands moved to different spots on my jacket or waist from time to time, or when I could feel her breasts move across my back (with two motorcycle jackets between us, unfortunately). In other words, practically constantly. But I wasn't complaining. I could feel the weight shift slightly as she craned her neck around -- I was in the lead at the moment, and I figured she was turned around, giving Stephen a look like she had given me yesterday. Perhaps a wink. Toward the end of the ride sometimes I wasn't upshifting as soon as I should have. The BMW's opposed twin motor buzzes awfully hard at high RPMs. I could feel her starting to squirm on the seat a little when I did that. Finally, I got two taps from her left hand on my hip, and I quit doing it.

"Bastard," she said into my ear at the next stop light, and giggled.

We had gotten into this place called Fruitland Park and pulled into an ice cream stand. Jane was licking an ice cream cone, holding her helmet up on her waist like a football player. The picture kind of made me laugh, and finished off what little doubt still lingered that I desperately wanted to find out what she was like in bed.

Stephen, whom I was now entirely convinced was an engineer, said to Jane: "So what do you think of the BMW? Not as smooth as the Triumph, right?"

"Oh it vibrates more. But that's not entirely a bad thing," she purred, and stuck her tongue out at both of us. It was coated in vanilla ice cream.

"Well, you might want to get back on board with Stephen," I said as we finished our ice cream cones. "We're going to be getting into traffic."

"Oh, I trust you. You're doing fine, let's finish the ride." she said, and put her arm on mine. I looked back at Stephen -- that wasn't my idea. He shrugged and we walked back to the bikes. We had looked over some tourist maps, and discussed where we wanted to eat dinner and stop for the night. This time, Stephen wanted to eat dinner in Altamonte Springs at a steak place he had heard of. It would be dark by the time we finished, but traffic wasn't bad in the off-season and the roads were all lighted between here and the International Drive area, where there were great deals on motels.

We got to Altamonte Springs before dinner time, so we found a big book store and looked around. I made it a point to leave them alone. Maybe they needed to sort some things out. I had no idea if they were married or not, but clearly they were lovers. Something had transpired between us, and I didn't want to break them up. If nothing else, I didn't want to have to witness an argument. Then I really would feel like I was back home.

As we went back and forth through the sections of the book store, though, we inevitably crossed paths. They were quiet, but there didn't seem to be a strain. Maybe she was just flirting. Maybe he was a good sport. Maybe they were swingers, both trying to seduce me. Maybe it was all my imagination and they were just two generous people helping a newbie rider learn a new skill. I walked over when I heard them laughing, and I found that we were in the "Self Improvement" aisle, i.e. where all the sex books were. They had an illustrated Kama Sutra open to a page showing a particularly intricate position. "Harry, can you imagine me doing this?" Jane laughed.

"I can try," I blurted out. Jane doubled over with laughter. I'm one of those who think you can tell something about how a woman makes love by the way they laugh, dance, or, for that matter, ride on the back of a motorcycle. Jane laughed from the belly, from the loins. Stephen smiled, almost fatherly.