PART ONE
My name is Giovanni Sterling. I'm a half British, half American mean slab of raw steak with dark brown hair. People, girls that is, call me a bastard. I agree, I am a full out bastard. I have to be. I'm defending motor scooter world champion. Let me tell you about motor scooter racing. It's a crazy fuck filled world with thrills, kills and million dollar bills. It's a full contact hunting sport. Each competitor has a high powered scooter, each geared to look like the Lambretta scooters that Mods and Mediterranean fuck sticks zip about on. Our scooters though are rocket fast. The aim is to fucking win not ponce about, so the engines are suitably fucking monstrous. Anything goes during the race. There are traps, there are blunt end weapons, there are retro explosives and each scooter is booby-mined. If an opposing racer activates the slam pad on the rear end of your bike then the front brake locks and you are sent over the handle bars to your doom. It's a cow kicker of a game, but the sex life of a motor scooter racer is better than that of any junked cock jocky drummer in a funk band.
Let me start my story at the end of last year's championship. I had just won the Pan-Atlantic Grand Prix held on Ascension Island, which is the refuelling base for half the world's navies. The place is jam full with whores, lap dancers, horny navy girls and freshly served women slave convicts. For the last week in March it's the place to be, not only for the Grand Prix but also for the annual Military Sex Festival which coincides with the motor racing. I had won the world championship so I was presented with my prize by the president of Ascension, which was five unlimited bids for five freshly captured slave convict girls of my choice.
The night of my championship winning party I was too pumped to go market shopping for whores though. I was busy getting the leather sofa treatment. The leather sofa treatment is a tradition as old as motor scooter racing itself. The winning rider sits on a leather sofa, a ridiculously big leather sofa, more like a bed, and is carried around for the night by the female crew members of the other teams. While you're on the leather sofa, women will scrabble up to you, thrusting their tits at you and pawing at your cock, desperate to touch the victorious winner. Many times I had experienced the leather sofa and heard countless easy women beg me to let them put their lips around my shaft. With each victory and leather sofa I got more and more audacious and demanding. So I made an announcement, shortly after winning the Pan-Atlantic Grand Prix, that the only women who would be allowed to join me on the leather sofa that night for a suck on my massive cock would be women who had shaved their pussies, died their hair pink and wore a gingham school-girl dress. At the time I said it I was addressing a crowd at a book signing in a drunken slur. I was leery with my own sense of self importance. The crowd went quiet. There were children present. I wasn't supposed to talk about my sexual exploits or massive cock until the watershed, which on Ascension Island is 4pm. My bitter rival from the Soft-drink team, Captain Dangler, glared at me with jealous hate. I didn't give a fuck. Some of the women in the crowd stared at me, seething with venom. I could hear one of the pit girls, a saucy piece I had lusted after for six months, called Becky Potter, call me an arrogant selfish prick. I looked into her eyes. She was hot and bursting with ripeness. I licked my parched lips as I ran my eyes through her full body and bulging round tits. She knew what I was doing and turned away in disgust. I watched her struggle through the crowd to complain to the race director about my disgraceful and uncouth behaviour. The race director, though, dismissed her complaints and I watched her storm out of the building. I lusted after every inch of her as I watched her leave.
At 11.30 pm in The Dock Yard Bar I was summonsed to my Leather Sofa. I sat on it with great arrogance and regal aplomb. I was wearing a White Naval Uniform in the rank of Rear-Commander, presented to me by the C-in-C of the Atlantic Fleet. I noticed that the slacks of the uniform fit snugly and accentuated the size of my already ample cock. I told this to a nearby Destroyer Captain.
"Of course" he said "Us Naval High Brass enjoy sliding whores just as much as you scally-wag sportsmen."
