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When a Bike Breaks Down on the Trail, a Stranger Offers Help I had intended this to be a two or three part series, but as the characters developed, it seemed best to let the other two episodes take place in your minds. As written this story is foreplay for your mind. It is a story that will warm you up and usher you through the door. But from that point on, it is up to your imagination. = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century. Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician. Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden. …and then things took a turn
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When a Bike Breaks Down on the Trail, a Stranger Offers Help
I had intended this to be a two or three part series, but as the characters developed, it seemed best to let the other two episodes take place in your minds. As written this story is foreplay for your mind. It is a story that will warm you up and usher you through the door. But from that point on, it is up to your imagination.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician.
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It all started with a clicking in her left pedal. Bea didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to it. She often rode unpaved trails and her bicycle picked up a lot of dirt and dust. When she got home, she made sure the bike was thoroughly cleaned and used some spray silicone lube on the left pedal.
That worked for a while, but the click returned, and soon she found that she was having to use the spray before each ride. And despite that, the clicking was getting louder. She could even feel it in her foot if she was pushing hard on an uphill.
I really should stop at the bike shop and have them look at that, she kept telling herself. But she continued to put it off and put it off. Then the click became a continuous high-pitched squeal. It was somewhat annoying, but with regular squirts of the silicone lube, it no longer seemed to be creating drag on her pedaling, so she continued to put off getting it fixed. Now she was sitting in the grass alongside Milk Run Trail slowly moving her arms and legs to make sure that she wasn’t badly injured.
Having a bicycle pedal snap off at speed can be catastrophic. Luckily, her rear end was above the seat so that she slammed into that rather than the frame, but she was still bruised between the legs. Somehow she bounced her foot off the ground and retained some–but not total–control of the bike. Wobbling badly, she was able to brake and get into the grass, but that was it. When her wheels began to slip on the damp grass, she instinctively tried to press her feet down on the pedals to steady herself, but with one gone, her actions merely caused her to finally tumble.
Once she had assured herself that she was not significantly injured, she stood up and examined the damage to her bike. Except for the missing pedal, it appeared to be OK, but without the pedal, she wouldn’t be able to ride it.
She looked both ways up the path. She was approximately in the middle of what was called “the long loop” of the path. The long loop went through farm fields and a forest area and, except for a couple of trails that evidently led up to houses, there were no exits. In one direction it was about seven miles to the highway. In the other direction, it was about nine miles into town and the main entrance to the trail. Since she didn’t know which, if any, of the smaller trails actually led anywhere, those were her only options.
She pulled her phone out of her side pack and opened it to make a call, but then stopped. Who would she call? It wasn’t exactly like she could call AAA and request a tow truck out on the trail. She checked the clock on her phone and saw that it was just past 8:00 pm. No one else would be starting out on the path this late. She was on her own.
She again looked both ways down the path trying to decide which option would be best. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and said aloud to herself, “Either way, I am going to be walking in the dark.” Her choice was made. She starting walking her bike toward town.
The bike path she was walking down was called “The Milk Run.” Like many bike paths throughout the country, it followed what was once a railroad track. At one time there was an electric train that would slowly make the 32-mile loop from the local dairy to the farms west of town and back. The train stopped running “just before the war”– meaning early 1940– when they graveled the roads and milk trucks were able to reliably get to the farms.
Since the tracks were owned by the dairy, they sat idle until the late 1970s when the dairy went out of business. The town bought the old dairy and turned the land into a park. The tracks were removed and the right-of-way turned into a jogging / biking trail. Several shops, including a restaurant, an ice cream shop, and, of course, a bike shop, sprang up alongside the park.
The Milk Run was Bea’s favorite bicycle path primarily because it was so long and so isolated. Many people rode for exercise or to fit in with their friends. She rode for the solitude. She often had the ear pods of a music player stuck firmly in her ears as she rode, but the unit was never turned on. Instead, she was listening to– and watching– various erotic fantasies play out in her mind as her legs pumped automatically on the pedals.
Her erotic fantasies were the reason that she was on The Milk Run tonight. Her late evening rides were when those fantasies often became more than just in her mind. There was a small rest stop for bicyclists about a mile past where her pedal broke. More than once, she had ridden to that small oasis just before dark and then walked her bicycle onto the small path that led out behind the shelter. After hiding the bike– and her clothing– in the bushes, she would return to the table and lay upon it masturbating with one of her favorite dildos. There was a motion-controlled light in the shelter, but she had learned that there was a switch for it on one of the back posts, high on the outside nearly at the roof where it was not visible from the bike path.
She often imagined herself tied to the table, being ravished by pirates or convicts or gangs of unbelievably handsome outlaws. Only once had she even come close to being caught. She was lying on the table in the darkness when a lone bike went past on the trail. Whoever it was probably lived somewhere on the path and was riding home. They had a small headlight aimed at the path and evidently did not see her on the table in the darkness.
The thought of tonight’s missed rendevous brought a wry smile to her face... and a yearning between her legs. She was tempted to complete her fantasy here in the middle of the trail, but her soreness from the fall had broken the mood. Besides, she had a long walk ahead of her. As she walked slowly toward town, she tried to turn on the headlight and taillight, but neither was working.
Oh, well , she thought, at least I’m visible to anyone with a headlight.
Bea was indeed visible. To most people who regularly rode The Milk Run, she was known as “The Queen B.” That was because of the distinctive outfit that she always wore. The skin-tight bicycle shorts were black with a four-inch stripe of color down each side. Most people called it yellow, but it was actually “visibility green.” The center inch or so of the stripe was reflectorized.
The equally tight-fitting blouse was also black with wide, horizontal stripes of the same visibility green. A one inch vertical stripe beneath the arm and the lowest stripe on her sleeve were also reflectorized. In the middle of her back was a huge, reflectorized “B”, also in visibility green.
It was that large “B” which had caused her to purchase the outfit from a French on-line site. Her full name was Beatrice Beverly Bomgartner. For some reason her mother was infatuated with old-fashioned names. She hated the name Beatrice and had gone by Bea or “B” since grade school. She consoled herself with the fact that at least she didn’t have to deal with Myrtle as did her older sister.
The large “B” caught her eye as she was searching for black bicycle shorts. Black hides many things, but Bea was not looking for something to hide her shape or any oddness to her figure. She had perfect muscle tone and was exactly where the charts said her weight should be for her height. What she needed the black shorts for was to hide the fact that she was often very wet between her legs when she finished her fantasy-filled rides.
She didn’t realize how bright the outfit actually was until it arrived. She also hadn’t known that the large”B” stood for “bicycliste.” The high visibility outfit was designed to appeal to nighttime riders training for the Tour de France. She had first worn it three years ago, and it immediately become her trademark. She ordered two more identical outfits so that she would always be “The Queen B” of the local bicycle paths.
When she first began wearing the outfit and heard people calling her “The Queen B”, it sparked a new fantasy for her. She knew about the mating habits of bees. Her uncle kept hives and had explained it all to her as a child. As she rode, she envisioned herself as a true queen bee on her mating flight surrounded by drones. A vibrator inside of her that day took the place of their endophalluses– their little bee pricks which broke off after flooding the queen with sperm. The orgasm that resulted from that fantasy was so intense and overwhelmed her so suddenly that she had also found herself tumbling into the grass.
A sudden call of “Passing Left,” broke her out of her reverie. A bike was approaching fast. All that was visible was a bright headlight in the darkness. There was a blur as it passed and then a blinking red light that was fading into the distance. But the red light was slowing and the headlight swung in an arc and began coming back to where she stood.
“Looks like you’ve got a problem,” said a deep, rich voice from the darkness. Bea recognized the voice but she couldn’t say from where.
“Broke a pedal,” she answered the unseen man. “Looks like I’m walking home.”
“Not necessarily,” he answered. There was a click and his bike bobbed slightly. Then he stepped around into the glare of his headlight.
He must have one of those European style double kickstands, Bea thought to herself.
As he stepped into the light, she could see that he was a young man in his mid to late twenties. His helmet hid his hair and much of his face, but what she could see could have been right out of her fantasies. His arms were obviously well-muscled, but not grotesquely so. His face had that Slovic sharpness to it, but the chiseling was just enough to give him an air of authority without making him look like a movie thug. His eyebrows, which she could see beneath his helmet were thick and a deep black, so that was probably the color of his hair.
She knew him from somewhere, but where?
He reached up toward his shoulders and slid a backpack to the ground. “All you need is a tow,” he said.
Bea laughed and answered, “Yeah, I figured that, but Triple A doesn’t have a tow truck small enough to come down the path.”
He returned her laugh and said brightly, “You should have called a tow bicycle.” He then opened his pack and carefully extracted a length of rope.
Bea caught her breath as she watched him slowly pull the rope out of the backpack. Two things caught her attention. One, the rope was soft, about a half-inch thick, and pure black. And two, as he pulled the rope out of the pack, a piece of leather that looked like an overly-wide dog collar fell onto the path. She recognized it immediately as a restraint cuff, and the rope looked exactly like the bondage ropes of her fantasies. She could feel the wetness returning to her crotch.
He quickly scooped up the leather cuff and put it back in the pack with the comment, “Don’t need that tonight.”
He then pulled his backpack into place and went over and unclipped his headlight from his handlebars. Using the light, he carefully examined her bike. “Looks like you hit pretty hard,” he said. “You’ve knocked the batteries loose in both your lights.” After a few clicking sounds, a bright spot of light was shining from her handlebars and three small red lights were blinking just beneath her seat.
Standing in the pool of light in front of her bike, he said, “Get on your bike. I’m going to tie this to the frame here, just below your handlebars. Then, I’m going to tie the other end to my seat post. That way I can tow you to the parking lot at the park.” He paused before adding, “I assume that’s where you parked your car.”
“Actually, I rode from home,” she replied, “but getting me to the park makes my walk a lot shorter.”
“Then we’ll just have to stop at the bike shop and get your pedal fixed,” he said with a grin.
She started to tell him that the bike shop would be closed, but he was already back at his bike. “Keep alert,” he shouted over his shoulder as he tied the rope in place at that end. “You’ll be pretty close behind me and I don’t want you ramming into my ass if I have to slow down suddenly.”
He started very slowly and gradually picked up speed. Soon Bea was rolling down the bike path behind him. One foot was firmly on the right pedal, the other was balanced precariously on the stub of her left pedal.
There is an old saying, “If you ain’t the lead dog, the view never changes.” For some reason Bea thought of that as she watched his legs pumping rhythmically in her headlight. His legs matched his other Slavic features with dark hair evident from THE END
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician.
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It all started with a clicking in her left pedal. Bea didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to it. She often rode unpaved trails and her bicycle picked up a lot of dirt and dust. When she got home, she made sure the bike was thoroughly cleaned and used some spray silicone lube on the left pedal.
That worked for a while, but the click returned, and soon she found that she was having to use the spray before each ride. And despite that, the clicking was getting louder. She could even feel it in her foot if she was pushing hard on an uphill.
I really should stop at the bike shop and have them look at that, she kept telling herself. But she continued to put it off and put it off. Then the click became a continuous high-pitched squeal. It was somewhat annoying, but with regular squirts of the silicone lube, it no longer seemed to be creating drag on her pedaling, so she continued to put off getting it fixed. Now she was sitting in the grass alongside Milk Run Trail slowly moving her arms and legs to make sure that she wasn’t badly injured.
Having a bicycle pedal snap off at speed can be catastrophic. Luckily, her rear end was above the seat so that she slammed into that rather than the frame, but she was still bruised between the legs. Somehow she bounced her foot off the ground and retained some–but not total–control of the bike. Wobbling badly, she was able to brake and get into the grass, but that was it. When her wheels began to slip on the damp grass, she instinctively tried to press her feet down on the pedals to steady herself, but with one gone, her actions merely caused her to finally tumble.
Once she had assured herself that she was not significantly injured, she stood up and examined the damage to her bike. Except for the missing pedal, it appeared to be OK, but without the pedal, she wouldn’t be able to ride it.
She looked both ways up the path. She was approximately in the middle of what was called “the long loop” of the path. The long loop went through farm fields and a forest area and, except for a couple of trails that evidently led up to houses, there were no exits. In one direction it was about seven miles to the highway. In the other direction, it was about nine miles into town and the main entrance to the trail. Since she didn’t know which, if any, of the smaller trails actually led anywhere, those were her only options.
She pulled her phone out of her side pack and opened it to make a call, but then stopped. Who would she call? It wasn’t exactly like she could call AAA and request a tow truck out on the trail. She checked the clock on her phone and saw that it was just past 8:00 pm. No one else would be starting out on the path this late. She was on her own.
She again looked both ways down the path trying to decide which option would be best. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and said aloud to herself, “Either way, I am going to be walking in the dark.” Her choice was made. She starting walking her bike toward town.
The bike path she was walking down was called “The Milk Run.” Like many bike paths throughout the country, it followed what was once a railroad track. At one time there was an electric train that would slowly make the 32-mile loop from the local dairy to the farms west of town and back. The train stopped running “just before the war”– meaning early 1940– when they graveled the roads and milk trucks were able to reliably get to the farms.
Since the tracks were owned by the dairy, they sat idle until the late 1970s when the dairy went out of business. The town bought the old dairy and turned the land into a park. The tracks were removed and the right-of-way turned into a jogging / biking trail. Several shops, including a restaurant, an ice cream shop, and, of course, a bike shop, sprang up alongside the park.
The Milk Run was Bea’s favorite bicycle path primarily because it was so long and so isolated. Many people rode for exercise or to fit in with their friends. She rode for the solitude. She often had the ear pods of a music player stuck firmly in her ears as she rode, but the unit was never turned on. Instead, she was listening to– and watching– various erotic fantasies play out in her mind as her legs pumped automatically on the pedals.
Her erotic fantasies were the reason that she was on The Milk Run tonight. Her late evening rides were when those fantasies often became more than just in her mind. There was a small rest stop for bicyclists about a mile past where her pedal broke. More than once, she had ridden to that small oasis just before dark and then walked her bicycle onto the small path that led out behind the shelter. After hiding the bike– and her clothing– in the bushes, she would return to the table and lay upon it masturbating with one of her favorite dildos. There was a motion-controlled light in the shelter, but she had learned that there was a switch for it on one of the back posts, high on the outside nearly at the roof where it was not visible from the bike path.
She often imagined herself tied to the table, being ravished by pirates or convicts or gangs of unbelievably handsome outlaws. Only once had she even come close to being caught. She was lying on the table in the darkness when a lone bike went past on the trail. Whoever it was probably lived somewhere on the path and was riding home. They had a small headlight aimed at the path and evidently did not see her on the table in the darkness.
The thought of tonight’s missed rendevous brought a wry smile to her face... and a yearning between her legs. She was tempted to complete her fantasy here in the middle of the trail, but her soreness from the fall had broken the mood. Besides, she had a long walk ahead of her. As she walked slowly toward town, she tried to turn on the headlight and taillight, but neither was working.
Oh, well , she thought, at least I’m visible to anyone with a headlight.
Bea was indeed visible. To most people who regularly rode The Milk Run, she was known as “The Queen B.” That was because of the distinctive outfit that she always wore. The skin-tight bicycle shorts were black with a four-inch stripe of color down each side. Most people called it yellow, but it was actually “visibility green.” The center inch or so of the stripe was reflectorized.
The equally tight-fitting blouse was also black with wide, horizontal stripes of the same visibility green. A one inch vertical stripe beneath the arm and the lowest stripe on her sleeve were also reflectorized. In the middle of her back was a huge, reflectorized “B”, also in visibility green.
It was that large “B” which had caused her to purchase the outfit from a French on-line site. Her full name was Beatrice Beverly Bomgartner. For some reason her mother was infatuated with old-fashioned names. She hated the name Beatrice and had gone by Bea or “B” since grade school. She consoled herself with the fact that at least she didn’t have to deal with Myrtle as did her older sister.
The large “B” caught her eye as she was searching for black bicycle shorts. Black hides many things, but Bea was not looking for something to hide her shape or any oddness to her figure. She had perfect muscle tone and was exactly where the charts said her weight should be for her height. What she needed the black shorts for was to hide the fact that she was often very wet between her legs when she finished her fantasy-filled rides.
She didn’t realize how bright the outfit actually was until it arrived. She also hadn’t known that the large”B” stood for “bicycliste.” The high visibility outfit was designed to appeal to nighttime riders training for the Tour de France. She had first worn it three years ago, and it immediately become her trademark. She ordered two more identical outfits so that she would always be “The Queen B” of the local bicycle paths.
When she first began wearing the outfit and heard people calling her “The Queen B”, it sparked a new fantasy for her. She knew about the mating habits of bees. Her uncle kept hives and had explained it all to her as a child. As she rode, she envisioned herself as a true queen bee on her mating flight surrounded by drones. A vibrator inside of her that day took the place of their endophalluses– their little bee pricks which broke off after flooding the queen with sperm. The orgasm that resulted from that fantasy was so intense and overwhelmed her so suddenly that she had also found herself tumbling into the grass.
A sudden call of “Passing Left,” broke her out of her reverie. A bike was approaching fast. All that was visible was a bright headlight in the darkness. There was a blur as it passed and then a blinking red light that was fading into the distance. But the red light was slowing and the headlight swung in an arc and began coming back to where she stood.
“Looks like you’ve got a problem,” said a deep, rich voice from the darkness. Bea recognized the voice but she couldn’t say from where.
“Broke a pedal,” she answered the unseen man. “Looks like I’m walking home.”
“Not necessarily,” he answered. There was a click and his bike bobbed slightly. Then he stepped around into the glare of his headlight.
He must have one of those European style double kickstands, Bea thought to herself.
As he stepped into the light, she could see that he was a young man in his mid to late twenties. His helmet hid his hair and much of his face, but what she could see could have been right out of her fantasies. His arms were obviously well-muscled, but not grotesquely so. His face had that Slovic sharpness to it, but the chiseling was just enough to give him an air of authority without making him look like a movie thug. His eyebrows, which she could see beneath his helmet were thick and a deep black, so that was probably the color of his hair.
She knew him from somewhere, but where?
He reached up toward his shoulders and slid a backpack to the ground. “All you need is a tow,” he said.
Bea laughed and answered, “Yeah, I figured that, but Triple A doesn’t have a tow truck small enough to come down the path.”
He returned her laugh and said brightly, “You should have called a tow bicycle.” He then opened his pack and carefully extracted a length of rope.
Bea caught her breath as she watched him slowly pull the rope out of the backpack. Two things caught her attention. One, the rope was soft, about a half-inch thick, and pure black. And two, as he pulled the rope out of the pack, a piece of leather that looked like an overly-wide dog collar fell onto the path. She recognized it immediately as a restraint cuff, and the rope looked exactly like the bondage ropes of her fantasies. She could feel the wetness returning to her crotch.
He quickly scooped up the leather cuff and put it back in the pack with the comment, “Don’t need that tonight.”
He then pulled his backpack into place and went over and unclipped his headlight from his handlebars. Using the light, he carefully examined her bike. “Looks like you hit pretty hard,” he said. “You’ve knocked the batteries loose in both your lights.” After a few clicking sounds, a bright spot of light was shining from her handlebars and three small red lights were blinking just beneath her seat.
Standing in the pool of light in front of her bike, he said, “Get on your bike. I’m going to tie this to the frame here, just below your handlebars. Then, I’m going to tie the other end to my seat post. That way I can tow you to the parking lot at the park.” He paused before adding, “I assume that’s where you parked your car.”
“Actually, I rode from home,” she replied, “but getting me to the park makes my walk a lot shorter.”
“Then we’ll just have to stop at the bike shop and get your pedal fixed,” he said with a grin.
She started to tell him that the bike shop would be closed, but he was already back at his bike. “Keep alert,” he shouted over his shoulder as he tied the rope in place at that end. “You’ll be pretty close behind me and I don’t want you ramming into my ass if I have to slow down suddenly.”
He started very slowly and gradually picked up speed. Soon Bea was rolling down the bike path behind him. One foot was firmly on the right pedal, the other was balanced precariously on the stub of her left pedal.
There is an old saying, “If you ain’t the lead dog, the view never changes.” For some reason Bea thought of that as she watched his legs pumping rhythmically in her headlight. His legs matched his other Slavic features with dark hair evident from THE END
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