Chloe Rides Again Pt 09

This series is a sequel to the earlier work "Riding With Dirty Girls." You can probably get something out of the sex scenes in isolation, but to fully enjoy the story you really need to read Dirty Girls first.

This is a work of fiction. A figment of the author's imagination. It is not meant to be big on realism. It's a fantasy. The culture around world-class women's cycling probably isn't a hotbed of lesbian lust, but wouldn't it be fun if it were?

All characters are fictitious, and any that are involved in sexual activities are over 18.

***

Part 09: Not Half a Race

I don't think I could ever tire of Molly's pussy. I love it in a completely irrational, primal way. When she opens her legs for me, I think I lose my mind.

We were alone in her living room. Fanny and Marianne had gone home, and we had three days to ourselves before my next race. There was no way I was going to resist her, and no way she was going to refuse me.

It was Thursday afternoon, and we'd been watching her win the Liège-Bastogne-Liège race in 2018. It was just like when we watched the vid of her winning De Ronde: I was enraptured. She looked so fit, so powerful, so confident, and so fucking hot as she crossed the line with arms aloft, her skinsuit perfectly showing off every subtle curve of her body. She was my hero. I wanted to be exactly like her.

I confessed to her that watching her win these races made me strangely horny. 'Does it?' she said with an air of surprise, but with a nice little smirk on her face. I could tell she liked the fact.

'Have you a cycling kit fetish, Chloe?'

'No, I don't think so, just a Molly fetish,' I replied.

She grinned, 'Shall I put a skinsuit on?' She was clearly feeling mischievous... 'Would you like to fuck me in cycling kit?'

OMG... 'Bit difficult in a skinsuit,' I said.

'Well I could let you peel it off me... that might be nice.'

OMG... I swallowed hard and looked at her. 'Fucking hell Molly,' I croaked...

She gave me the lewdest look and said, 'Wait here,' then she got up and headed for her utility room, where she kept all her cycling kit.

I lay back on the sofa and undid my shorts so I could play with myself as I waited for her to come back. The anticipation was beautifully excruciating. I felt a little dizzy, and my heart was thumping like I was climbing the Koppenberg.

She returned, wearing the red, yellow and black Belgian champion's driekleur skinsuit that she'd had on in the video.

OMG... A dream made real.

'Do you like this one? I'm naked under it.'

OMG... My finger was squeezing the very life out of my clit.

She came and stood near me and I admired her fabulous form. I hadn't really thought of cycling kit as fetish-wear before, but now...

Normally, there'd be layers under the suit; sports bra, shorts with a pad, etc, but here she was, with just a single layer of lycra, and it didn't leave much to the imagination. Her nipples were clearly showing how aroused she was, and her camel toe left little to the imagination. Even the pattern of her curly pubes showed faintly through the thin fabric. She was a mouth-watering sight.

'You like it, Chloe? Does it turn you on?'

'Jeezus Molly, you're so fucking hot,' I murmured as I leant forward to kiss her stomach and her ribs, running a hand up and down the slinky material on her hip.

The suit had a zip that ran from the neck down to her abdomen, and she started to undo it. I wondered how many people had experienced a world-class cyclist giving them a strip tease like this. How lucky was I?

She took the zip down to just below her boobs, then took hold of the two sides and slowly peeled them apart until her erect nipples sprang free. The stretchy fabric still had an uplifting effect, and her tits looked absolutely stunning as they bulged proudly.

She stopped and let me gaze for a moment, then she said 'Want to take it further?' and I nodded, speechlessly. 'Are you sure?'

I took hold of the zip and slowly pulled it down, all the way to the bottom, just short of revealing her pubes, and I kissed the pale bare skin of her stomach. She put a hand on my head and moaned. 'Ohh '

I was sure she must be pretty wet by now and I brought one hand up between her legs (the other one was busy) to have a feel. Sure enough, the lycra crotch was slick with lovely sex juice.

She moaned again, and started to shrug her shoulders out of the suit, and I reached up and helped her pull her arms out of the short sleeves. Then I started peeling it down, until her whole upper body was bare. Her hands slid down over her hips and helped me to push the suit down until her pubes appeared in the V at the bottom of the zip. I caught my breath and nuzzled my nose into the V to inhale her aroma and feel that lush bush I love so much.

I couldn't wait any longer. I tugged the legs down over her thighs, and buried my face in her. Just rapturously immersing myself in her sex. It was time for some pussy adoration,

I turned her with my hands, saying 'Sit,' and plonked her arse on the sofa as I hurriedly shed my shorts and knickers. Then, I got on my knees between her legs as she freed her foot from the skinsuit, which had now served its purpose -- very nicely indeed.

I opened her pussy with my thumbs, revealing her thick, wrinkled inner labia - pink, engorged and glistening wet -- and I turned my head and sucked those succulent flaps into my mouth, savouring the salty, musky taste of her. She moaned 'Ohhh, yes Chloe. Eat me.'

She didn't need to tell me. I ate her hungrily, and she wrapped those gorgeous legs around my head, grabbed me by my hair and began a gorgeous slow humping of my face, gradually building up speed and urgency as her climax approached. We must have made a fine sight; me kneeling as if in some kind of reverence, while she fucked my face mercilessly.

I continued to tongue her delicious cunt until she built up to jerky thrusts of her hips, bouncing her bum off the sofa rhythmically, reaching out for her release.

I loved it. Every lip-smacking second of it. I loved the desperation of her, the sheer lust, and the ravishing experience of having her oh-so hairy, oh-so fleshy, and oh so creamy pussy thrust so powerfully into my face over and over again.

She came with a long, hoarse, breathy sound and Her rhythmic thrusting was suddenly replaced by an intense quivering, spasm. My tongue was bathed in a ambrosial dribble of her warm, piquant pussy juice, and I swallowed it with relish, savouring its smooth deliciousness in my mouth.

Her legs relaxed, freeing me to sit back on my heels, and I looked at her, sprawled there, legs akimbo, arms limp, nipples still pointing rudely to the sky, and eyes closed in her aftermath. As always, she just looked fucking gorgeous.

She opened her eyes and I smiled happily. I loved this. I could do this all day, just wallowing in her pleasure, and getting myself off with my fingers occasionally. This was some kind of Shangri-la to me.

I know Molly, and I knew what she needed now was a slower, gentler, less desperate come. I got up and lay on top of her, between her legs, and I kissed her, saying 'Do you want s'more?'

She sighed and murmured an affirmative, so I resumed my reverential position, parted her lips again and gazed at her pussy. So flushed and pink in its post-orgasmic tenderness. Her clit was almost bluish, straining from its hood in an engorged display of torrid arousal, and I loved the hint of blue veins under her skin as I stretched her fleshy lips apart. Her oozy little river was still trickling, and making a slick sheen on the leather cushion under her bum cheeks.

I pursed my lips and kissed the head of her livid little button - so hot and tumid -- and I blew on the wet flesh of her lips, making her shiver and squirm.

Hers is such a rude, flagrantly SEXUAL pussy, and I gloried in being lucky enough to be able to indulge my prurient lust and eat her to my heart's content. Feeling her damp, curly bush against my face, the thick meatiness of her fubsy lips, the firmness of her erect clit, and the sapid succulence of her secretions as I as I lapped them up like a cat.

I gave her two shuddery, whimpery orgasms, with a break in between, when I just lay with my cheek on her inner thigh and toyed affectionately with her lush pubes until I sensed she was ready to go again.

This was all about Molly. I didn't seek anything for myself, apart from the pleasure I got from pleasing her, and I was so friggin turned on I had no trouble giving myself multiple orgasms, just with my fingers, as I made love to her.

Eventually, we lay side by side on the sofa, sumptuously sated, and Molly gave me a sidelong look and said 'Whew, a skinsuit eh? Who knew it was sex-wear.' We both chuckled, and I looked at the skinsuit, lying on the floor. Wow.

A sudden chill made us get up and begin tidying up the profligate mess we'd made. Skinsuit, knickers, denim shorts, all into the wash, along with the towel we'd used to clean the sofa. We showered, dressed in our baggiest, comfiest, least sexy clothes, then went into the kitchen to cook.

I always enjoy my food, you'll know that by now, but after sex something happens to my appetite. My hunger becomes something akin to lust, and the pleasure of eating is suddenly a sensuous, primal experience.

I helped Molly to make frikadelles -- a bit like flattened meatballs or miniature burgers -- with her special seasoning, which we served with mashed potato and creamed cabbage with garlic. Plain fare but, My God. To me, that night, it was better than anything ever served in a 3-star Michelin restaurant.

Molly even allowed me a couple of glasses of wine -- she must have been feeling mellow for some reason -- but she said 'Teetotal from tomorrow until Sunday though.'

By 9pm, I was fading fast, and I said, 'I think I'll go to bed, Mol. You've tired me out with your abundance of good things.'

She smiled and squeezed my hand. We shared a little peck of a kiss and I headed to the spare room.

I was overdue to call Licia. She'd already sent me a 'hard luck' message with a sad face, and I'd replied with a 'd'oh' kind of emoticon, but we hadn't actually spoken.

'Hi babe, how're you doing? How's the shoulder?'

'Oh, not bad. I can pick up a cup of tea with it now.'

'Ha! A milestone.'

'Yep. A pint of Guinness will be next.'

'Are you still gym training?'

'Oh God, don't ask me.'

'Why?'

'Well yes, I am still training, but I didn't know what I was starting with Lisa...She hardly leaves me alone. She gives me the eye, then goes straight into the store room, and if I don't follow her, she comes back out, looking for me.'

'Wow. You've obviously started a fire.'

'Yeh. Yesterday I had to tell her to wait til I'd finished my session and had a shower, and do you know what she said?'

'What?'

'She said "Skip the shower, I like a bit of fresh, salty sweat on you." She's gone from being a doubtful lesbian to a complete pussy-hound.

'Blimey.'

'When I finished my session and went to find her, she was behind the shelving, lying on an exercise mat, frigging herself. She hadn't even locked the door! She just said "Finally... come here and fuck my face. Keep your shorts on." She's a fucking sex maniac.'

I chuckled slightly. 'Could be interesting next week. I'm coming over to see you.'

'Are you? Yay! We can fuck the life out of her.' She laughed.

'Sounds like she might doing that to us, rather than the other way round.'

'Mm. That's actually something to look forward to... Anyway, what about Flèche? That kid with the bag's an idiot. He cost you the race.'

'Maybe. Suzy's group were coming strongly though. I might have got caught anyway.'

'Nah, you looked mega-strong. My money was on you, until bag boy ruined it.'

'Well, we'll never know. Gotta think about L-B-L now.'

'Yeh. D'you think you'll get freedom to attack again?'

'Hope so, but everyone's getting wise to me now. I'll be watched much more carefully, I think.'

I yawned. 'Gonna get my head down now babe. I'm knackered.'

'Expect that Molly has been working you too hard, eh? In more ways than one, I bet.'

'Could say that,' I chuckled. 'Night, babe.'

'Ciao.'

At breakfast the next morning, Molly's phone gave a little "ching" and she looked at it and said, 'Oh,' and looked a little surprised.

'News?' I said.

'Sort of. It's an email from the Sportwereld newspaper -- you know, they sponsor the Flèche. I nodded. 'They want to arrange a meet up with the boy who brought you down on the Mur, and his parents, so they can apologise.'

'When, and where?'

'Sunday, before the start of L-B-L.'

'OK.'

I had no issues with meeting up with them. As I said, I don't harbour any bitterness over the crash. It was just a silly unfortunate incident. One of the risks in a sport where you are, sometimes literally, rubbing shoulders with the spectators.

Obviously, the newspaper thought it would make a nice story, and if it served to educate the public not to wave things in front of the riders then I was all for it.

'I've mailed them back with a go-ahead... Are you ready for a nice ride out today? I'm going to take you over part of De Ronde and part of the Omloop. We'll do the Oude Kwaremont, the Kapelmuur and Bosberg Coffee in Ninove, then back to Oudenaarde to finish with the Koppenberg. About 130km.'

'Seems a bit long with only 2 days to go to the L-B-L.'

'We'll take it easy - like cycle tourists.' She grinned. 'And no racing up the climbs. Save that for Sunday.'

'Yes Mol.'

It was a glorious spring day, with bright sunshine and about 16-17 degrees. I wore shorts and short sleeves, and fingerless gloves, and Molly dressed similarly. I felt a little fizz go through me when I looked at her in her kit and thought about the previous afternoon's skinsuit delight.

We rolled out of Waregem and headed for Ronse, via the Oude Kwaremont, where I'd had that epic final battle with Elisa and Pam in De Ronde, but I hardly recognised it without the spectators etc. In Ronse, we picked up Marianne and headed for Gerardsbergen, joining the route of the Omloop en route. Wow, it seemed so long ago now.

Like the Kwaremont, the Kapelmuur and the Bosberg seemed like totally different places, though I did remember the road into Ninove, where Tera and I had towed Marieke to victory. I gave a little hmph to myself when I thought about it.

We enjoyed a coffee at the Cafe Den Bellman by the river, then set off back westwards towards Oudenaarde, on easy quiet lanes. One of Molly's traffic-avoiding routes.

We detoured to take in the Koppenberg, because Molly can never resist "her hill" and I enjoyed following her up the climb, watching her dance on the pedals, slim but shapely hips swaying rhythmically, exactly like they did when she made her winning attack here, a few years before. Poetry in motion.

From the top, we looped round, close to Ronse, waved bye bye to Mari, and headed back to Waregem, where Molly got a little surprise.

We put the bikes in the garage, took off our cycling shoes, and I followed her up the three steps into the house. God, she makes me so hot! Just the way she climbed the steps in her stocking feet... so fucking irresistibly slinky. As soon as we got into the kitchen, I pounced on her like a horny wildcat.

I turned her to face me, and kissed her rabidly, making her gasp with surprise. She didn't resist me though, and we hurtled headlong into a scorching sexual kiss. A kiss I'd been yearning for all afternoon. She didn't even get the chance to ask me if I was sure. Of course I was bloody sure.

I tugged her shorts and sports knickers down to her ankles and ate her wildly on the kitchen table. After almost 7 hours of cycling, she wasn't exactly like a fresh, dew-filled flower. She was clammy, steamy, salty, and that was exactly how I wanted her. It drove me mad with a prurient lust, and I gorged on her, salaciously.

It took her quite a while to come, but that was fine by me; more time in pussy paradise. When little jerks and gasps told me she was near, I introduced my fingers and drove her mercilessly over the edge, into table-banging orgasm.

My fingers had also been busy in my steamy little hot box, but I wanted her to give me the final rush. I got rid of my shorts and knickers, climbed up on the table, and got myself off on her face, while she was still reeling from her own climax.

It was intense. An outpouring of lust and libido, and I think we were both a little shocked by it. As I hopped back down onto the floor, Molly shook her head and laughed, 'Oh my, THAT was unexpected...' then she hastily added, '...but in a good way. I'm very flattered that I have this effect on you Chloe... Not very hygienic though, on the kitchen table.' She pouted, ruefully.

Saturday was a very quiet day. We were pretty much shagged out, literally, and Molly had counselled abstinence anyway; 'You don't want to be on that start line, yawning.'

I did a 45-minute ride on Molly's rollers, just keeping my legs awake, and spent the rest of the day relaxing, eating a lot of carbohydrates, and getting my head ready to race again.

***

Liège-Bastogne-Liège

L-B-L, as it's colloquially known, is a very old race. Well, the men's race is, anyway. Its origins can be traced back to 1892, making it the oldest of the 5 Monuments of cycling, hence its nickname, "La Doyenne" ("The Old Lady"). There have been some route variations over the years, but it always starts in the north, runs down to Bastogne in the south then returns north by a different route, either to Spa or Liège.

The current course between the two cities is well established at around 260km which makes it one of the longest of the classic races, and it is also one of the hilliest, with up to a dozen steep climbs to be tackled. It is considered one of the toughest one-day races in the world.

I'd love to take it on, but unfortunately, the women's race is much shorter. It actually starts in Bastogne and only does the northward leg, so it's only half a race really. B-L, rather than L-B-L. It measures only 153km, but it does have a lot of climbs, including the most famous and difficult, the Côte de La Redoute. It's also way younger than "La Doyenne," -- the first edition was in 2017.

The addition of these women's versions of the Monuments shows the growth of women's cycling, but we have a way to go before we reach parity, both in race distances and in prize money. Ain't that always the way?

Still, if we don't compare it to the men's race, it is a tough course in its own right. It actually includes most of the same climbs as the men's race -- 10 of them. The first comes after only 16km then they are one after another all the way to Liège. A race is a race, whatever the distance, and I was looking forward to the challenge.

Liège, where the men start, and where my team hotel was located, was way over at the eastern end of Belgium, and about a 2-hour drive from Molly's place, so we set off at about 4pm to drive there, with one of Molly's bikes on the roof.

Molly hadn't originally intended to come. Her plan had been to drop me at the team bus in Brussels then return home, but the newspaper wanted her to be with me when I met the errant spectator, probably because they thought her fame would add a certain extra interest to the story. So, she booked a hotel and we drove over together.

She was bringing a bike so that she could ride out to La Redoute to spectate. It's always easier to spectate by bike. Many of the roads on the race routes are closed early to motor vehicles, whereas bikes can usually access them almost up until the race arrives. Parking a car at a popular place like La Redoute would be a nightmare, anyway.

L-B-L was the last of the spring classics, so during the drive to Liège the subject of my plans beyond it came up. 'Have you thought about any more races after this weekend, Chloe? Or are you just going to put your feet up for the summer?'