Sex on wheels
By Julie, julierich2@hotmail.com
A day of adventure on a high performance motorcycle


I was beating him by about five seconds and we were working opposite 
tacks.  Both boats strained for the slightest advantage as we sailed on 
the ragged edge of disaster.  Hulls flying we were slamming through 
heavy chop in clouds of spray.  I wasn't about to let a man beat me, 
especially a cocky one like Richard. 

"Hey Julie, I just got a BMW 1200.  Would you like to go riding 
Saturday?  He yelled as we both tacked and shot by each other.

"Sure, but only if you give me the bike!" I yelled back.

He did a double take and looked back over his shoulder at me.  That 
broke his concentration and he lost control in grand style.  His boat 
did a wild flip while I sailed home well ahead of the fleet and won 
easily.

Along with sailboats I have a passion for high performance motorcycles 
and I did notice a big red BMW K1200RS sitting in the parking as I came 
in.  "Yes, I would like to take that big bike for a spin!" I thought to 
myself.

This evening's event was a Holby Cat race sponsored by our local yacht 
club and I enjoyed letting off steam after a hard day at work.  By the 
time I put my boat away, however, I was late for a dinner appointment 
with my boss and some out of town customers.  Fortunately we were 
meeting at the Yacht Club and I had a dress in my locker.  

After a quick shower I toweled my hair dry, dressed and checked myself 
out in the mirror.  Since I always look a little out of place in an 
evening dress with my hard athletic figure, I do my best to look as 
feminine as I can.  I wear a push-up bra to get reasonable cleavage with 
my small breasts and I like to brush my long blonde hair down to hide my 
over-developed shoulders.  The dress was stretched a little tight across 
my butt and only came about mid thigh but that was ok.  I stand well 
over six feet tall in heels and like to show off my long legs.  

"Not bad," I thought to myself.  With that critical judgement I turned 
and walked out to the dining room where the group was sitting around a 
big table waiting for me.  It was a beautiful evening with lights 
sparkling off linen and crystal and a magnificent sunset casting colors 
across the marina framed in huge windows along one side of the room.

Men who had only seen me in office attire were suitably impressed.  "Why 
Julie, you look lovely," one of them gushed as he accepted my hand.  

Guys from the East Coast always seem to over dress and everyone was 
wearing coats and ties.  I knew my boss would much rather be casual so I 
tried to loosen things up as much as I could.  We started out talking 
business but as food and wine came, the conversation relaxed.  Ties were 
loosened and jackets came off, as the evening became more congenial.

Richard was sitting at another table with friends and kept looking my 
way.  At one point he lifted his glass in my direction and nodded with a 
smile.  I wasn't trying to ignore him but found myself far too busy with 
my group to pay attention.

After dinner we all walked out on the deck for brandy and cigars.  The 
smell of salt air and the clang of halyards on aluminum masts was a 
refreshing change from the air conditioning and canned music inside.  I 
suspect the men just wanted to see how a woman would handle a cigar and 
I didn't disappoint them.  I find the taste of cigar smoke pleasant and 
stimulating although I don't inhale.  After a full meal I often enjoy a 
fine cigar with a good French Cognac.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday morning I was sitting on my patio with a laptop checking my e-
mail when I herd the snarl of a high performance engine outside.  I 
looked over the balcony rail and Richard was standing beside the big red 
BMW holding the keys.  

"See you at the Cold Springs Tavern?" he asked tossing them to me.  

I thought for a minute them gripped the keys in my fist and gave him a 
"thumbs up."  He nodded and jumped in the right hand side of a Porsche 
idling by the curb and roared off.

Boots and riding leathers came out of the closet and I searched for 
gloves, helmet and the rest of my gear.  It promised to be a warm day so 
I stripped naked and zipped the soft leather on over my bare skin.  Some 
clothing and a few over night things in a small case and I was ready to 
go.

Throwing a leg over the magnificent road machine I paused to admire the 
deep luster of the paint and the shine of polished aluminum and chrome.  
Besides being the closest thing to sex on wheels, the BMW is a masterful 
blend of art and engineering.

Everything on the bike is adjustable for rider comfort and I spent a few 
minutes positioning the handlebars, footrests, windshield and seat to my 
liking.  With a touch the deep rumble of the four-cylinder engine 
greeted me and I was on my way.

Driving north on Pacific Coast Highway I fumbled with the gears and 
gradually got the feel of the big bike.  Past Malibu and up the 
Pepperdine hill I let the engine unwind and tucked myself in behind the 
tiny windshield.  I slowed down for traffic along the beaches but wound 
it up over a hundred on the straight between Carrillo and Mugu. WOW! A 
hundred and thirty horsepower on a bike can be truly addictive.

Back into traffic, I worked my way up through Oxnard and Ventura then 
took the 33 north in the direction of Ojai.  At the Wheeler cutoff I 
headed out on the two-lane blacktop and wound my way up through the 
foothills to the Wheeler Springs Inn.  

There was the usual collection of Harley Davidsons in the dirt parking 
lot and men in Levi's and leathers drinking beer on the big outdoor 
deck.  Pulling up on the rakish BMW I might as well have landed in an 
alien spacecraft.  Curious gents with beards and tattoos suddenly 
surrounded me wondering what I was riding.  I wear a European style 
crash helmet with a tinted faceplate so when I pulled it off and shook 
out my long blonde hair they really backed off and did a double take.  
In spite of their nasty reputation I find these knights of the road to 
be a gentle group, more interested in cruising their custom chrome 
stallions than creating trouble.

I accepted a beer from a man named Jimmy.  He told of riding with the 
Hells Angels since the fifties when as a young man he worked in the 
steel mill at Fontana.  Standing proudly in the shade of a big Sycamore 
tree was his spotless 1957 rigid frame Harley.  It had an original pan 
head engine and I concluded he probably bought it new.  Signs of wear 
from its long years on the road were apparent but so was the tender 
loving care he lavished on it.

Saying goodbye to the group I pulled out onto the blacktop just as a 
Ducati 916s blew by at speed with an exhaust note that was pure music.  
I couldn't help myself and took the BMW to the redline as I gave chase.  
The rider saw me getting bigger in his mirrors and the race was on.  
Sparks flew off footpegs as we both laid our bikes over in the tight 
turns up the winding mountain road.  

The big V-twin engine on the Ducati seemed to give it an advantage 
blasting out of the turns but I knew the road better and passed just 
before the Pine Mountain summit.  There were more tight turns on the 
downgrade and the other bike was glued right on my tail but couldn't 
manage to get by.  

At the bottom of the grade the road unwound and ran straight as an arrow 
across the high desert.  I twisted the throttle and heard the Bavarian 
masterpiece sing its sweet song.  One-twenty, one-thirty, one-forty and 
the Ducati was getting smaller in my mirrors.

We were approaching a branch in the road so I backed off and let the 
other bike catch up.  As he got closer I raised my hand and slowed down 
pointing to a dirt road heading off to the left.  He followed me and 
about a mile in we pulled up to a cluster of Sycamores next to a rushing 
mountain stream.

It turned out the rider was Italian and on a tour of the Western United 
States.  I really enjoyed the look on his face when I pulled off my 
crash helmet and he realized a woman had beaten him.  His name was Andre 
but he spoke very little English and I spoke no Italian.

The conversation was going nowhere and I was sweating from the heat and 
adrenaline rush of the race.  I started to unzip my leathers then 
remembered I wasn't wearing anything underneath.  

"Modesty be dammed," I thought to myself, "I'm going for a swim."

I wiggled out of the form-fitting outfit then did a flat dive into the 
shallow water.  It was only a few strokes across the tiny pool so I swam 
some laps to get used to the icy stream.  When I turned around I felt 
Andre next to me with his huge erection pressed against my leg. 

Reaching down I held his tool in my hands and was truly impressed.  He 
stood several inches shorter than I did but was hung like a horse.  
Standing face to face we were a pretty good fit so I took him right 
there in the shallow water.  It wasn't until I felt him deep inside me 
that I realized how aroused I had become.  As the thrill of my orgasm 
started to build I found myself lifting his hips and meeting his thrusts 
with mine.  I arched my back and was gasping with pleasure by the time I 
felt him pulsing inside me.  I squeezed myself around him as hard as I 
could and felt him shiver with his own pleasure.

Incredibly relaxed and relieved I swam a few more laps then found a warm 
rock to lie in the sun and dry off.  Just then the Ducati started up 
with a roar and I watched a cloud of dust head in the direction of the 
main road.  

"Guess he didn't want to hang around for an encore," I murmured to 
myself.

Back on the two-lane blacktop again I negotiated the winding turns 
through the Sierra Madre Mountains to the coast.  I hit the 101 just 
north of Santa Maria and pointed the big bike south.  

Out on the open road the urge was strong to cruse at speeds the BMW was 
designed for.  I knew the Highway Patrol would be active in this area so 
I kept my urge under control and admired the majestic scenery of the 
California coastline.

Rounding a bend I heard a rumble in the air and saw a column of at least 
a hundred cycles.  The awesome thunder of Milwaukee iron carried for 
miles and echoed off the hills in a symphony of sound that only a Harley 
Davidson can make.

As I passed the column I studied the faces of the riders, most of them 
in pot helmets and dangling from "ape hangers."  There were a few 
grizzled veterans of the road but most were young professional looking 
types in designer jeans on shiny new custom bikes.  The only women I 
could see were on the back leaning on the "sissy bars."

"It's amazing how the motorcycle culture is catching on," I thought to 
myself.  "Men who would have looked with disdain on the Hells Angels a 
few years ago are going out and buying cycles to answer the call of the 
open road."

"You women don't know what you're missing," I mused with a smile.

I took the Los Olivos cutoff and headed out across the beautiful Santa 
Ynez Valley.  This is an area of sprawling horse ranches and fine 
boutique wineries.  Residents have names like Ronald Reagan and Michael 
Jackson.

The low-slung buildings of the Firestone Winery beckoned to me and I 
decided to stop and freshen up.  Perched on a hill it has a commanding 
view of rolling hills and pampered vineyards.  I knew I was back in 
yuppie country when the sight of a tall blonde woman dressed in leathers 
and riding an exotic motorcycle didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

Sitting on the patio sipping a fine light Chablis I thought about my 
destination.  The Cold Springs Tavern and Inn were a stopover on the 
main stagecoach line between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo in the 
early frontier days.  Situated at the end of a narrow canyon with 
buildings on both sides of a rushing mountain stream it has long since 
been bypassed by an arched bridge on the main highway. 

Big name bands play the tavern most Saturday nights and the room 
typically overflows.  The party spills out into the parking lot and big 
windows are opened up all the way around so everyone can enjoy the 
music.

The crowd arrives in everything from Porsche Boxters to Harley Davidsons 
and it isn't uncommon for a group to show up in a chauffeured limousine.  
The narrow canyon clogs with parked cars and late arrivals get a long 
walk.  

There are a few of the old cabins at the Inn that can be obtained by 
special arrangement but they no longer regularly cater to guests.  The 
main attraction is the dining room featuring fresh local game.  I 
particularly like venison when it's available, cooked over mesquite and 
seasoned with sage.

Back on the road it was a quick run past Lake Cachuma and up the San 
Marcos Pass to the Cold Springs cutoff.    

The distinctive exhaust note of the big BMW echoed up and down the 
canyon as I approached and Richard was walking out to meet me when I 
rolled up to the Inn.  

"There's a great band here tonight, Julie. Would you like to freshen up 
a bit before they get started?"

"Sure, show me where we're staying and help me off with my leathers," I 
replied.

We walked to a tiny cabin set back in a glade of tall pines not far from 
the stream.  It sported a stone fireplace and a big feather bed.  A 
braided rug partially covered the uneven wood floor and the scent of 
redwood was heavy in the air.

As we stood there in the shadows Richard unzipped my jacket and stroked 
my erect nipples.  I felt a rush over my whole body and responded by 
unbuckling his pants and sliding them down his hips.  His huge manhood 
spring to attention and we both dropped the rest of our clothes without 
ceremony.  As he lay back on the big bed I knelt over him and slid 
myself onto his erect member.  I was so moist and aroused that I think I 
surprised him as much as I did myself.

The feeling of a man inside me was exquisite and I was sweating by the 
time I built up to my first climax. That wasn't anywhere near enough so 
I just kept going.  I looked down at Richard, lying back with a big 
smile on his face.  His hands were clasped behind his head and his eyes 
closed.

"Cocky bastard," I thought to myself.  "You have no idea what a day on a 
motorcycle does for a woman."

But then again I'm sure he does.

Julie