Chloe's Return

This story continues Chloe's timeline from "Riding With Dirty Girls," and "Chloe Rides Again." You can probably get something out of the sex scenes in isolation, but for background, you probably need to have read the other series' 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.

***

Chloe's Return Pt. 02

'Oo, Chloe, you're SUCH a bad grrl. I love that you just come to me and ask me that. Of course I'm up for it. I'd never turn you down Chloe. I love how you do it to me, with such passion.'

I beamed. Helen is so irrepressible. Her spirit and élan are unquenchable. Even when she's pretty beaten up, like now.

'Think a couple of orgasms might help me to heal, actually,' she said, with a wry grin. Endorphins reduce pain and promote healing, you know.'

'Who says we're keeping to a couple of orgasms?' I said mischievously.

I was super-horny. Almost salivating. I was aching to get my mouth on her pussy, to lick her all the way to heaven, to feel her climax flood her body, to taste it on my tongue, and to savour her ambrosia.

'Shall we go up now?' I asked, a little too earnestly.

'Yes, let's do that.' She smiled and my heart did a little skip. Oh Helen, how you fire me.

We went up and undressed without any further delay and she lay on the bed, still festooned with dressings, and a few spectacular bruises. I got on the bed and she parted those beautiful thighs in a breath-taking invitation.

I crawled up over her for a kiss, supporting myself on my arms so that I didn't put my whole body weight on her, and we softly smooched, lips and tongues just gently caressing.

There's a gorgeous tenderness to Helen's kisses sometimes. Her mouth becomes a seductively soulful instrument of pleasure, communicating her feelings, drawing me in and making me want more and more.

I could feel my passion rising as we kissed, but I tore myself away from her magical lips and moved slowly down the left side of her body, where all her injuries were, symbolically kissing all the hurt places; her shoulder, her elbow, her hip, her ankle...

She chuckled slightly. 'Do your lips have healing properties, Chloe?'

'I hope so. They can certainly bring you the endorphins you need,' I murmured as I began to kiss my way up her leg.

Her thighs are things of wonder. I know I go on about them, but I can't help it. I'm besotted. They have THE most perfect combination; muscular yet soft, smooth and feminine. I shouldn't say it, but they are even better than Licia's. I love Licia's, but they are a little more brawny.

I kissed my way up the inside of her left one, my whole body fizzing with arousal, along the subtle curve of her quads, and up the faint flesh-covered ridge of her gracilis as she flexed her leg slightly.

She sighed and squirmed a little as I reached the lovely little band of gooseflesh at the border of her vulva, and I paused for a moment to gaze at her pussy, beautifully pouty, with its patch of curly hair, like finely spun rose gold.

She parted her legs even more, and I traced a finger up the crinkled flesh of her inner lips, which were just peeping between her fubsy outer ones. She sucked in her breath as I collected her glistening moisture on my fingertip then sucked it. Mmm, delicious.

I used two fingers of one hand to part her lips, revealing her tumid little button, and I teased it with the tip of my tongue, thrilled to feel how hot it was. Then I trailed my tongue down into her honeypot, and back up, coating her lips in lubriciously slippery juice.

She gave a little 'Oh je' as I increased the intensity of my tonguing; lapping, licking, probing, and flicking, and I revelled in having my nose buried in those golden pubes, breathing her in as I ate her like an over-ripe fruit; the kind where you can't stop the juice from dripping off your chin.

My own pussy had already made my inner thighs slick and slippery, and I hadn't even touched it yet, but now I got up on my knees, bum in the air, and slipped the middle two fingers of my hand into myself. I was obscenely hot and wet and I could clearly feel the hardness of my clit against my hand as I plunged my fingers, full-length deep into my hole until the outer two fingers squished my labia majora.

Still gorging on Helen's heavenly honeypot, I started fucking myself zestily, until my whole hand was a mess of gooey, syrupy girl juice.

This was all I needed. THIS. Kneeling between Helen's dreamy thighs, gorging on her creamy cunt, and finger-fucking myself to sexual Shangri-la.

We stayed like this for ages, alternating orgasms. Each time she came, it made me come shortly afterwards, and that started her off again. It was a self-sustaining cycle. Only lesbian sex can do this.

Obviously, it couldn't go on indefinitely, but while it lasted it was pure bliss.

In the end, I had to stop because my neck was so stiff I could hardly hold my head up. Still, if that meant I might end up helplessly drowning in her, I might have just let it happen. But no, we were orgasmically spent. Don't ask how many, I don't have a number, but I think you could say, 'an ample sufficiency.'

After such a sexual melding (I think we bonded at a chemical level) there was no way I was going to the other bed, and we slept as before, with Helen lying on her right side, and me moulded to her, spooned together in beautiful intimacy. Oh, wonderful Helen.

***

Stage 3: Almuñecar-Sierra Nevada. 118km / 3800m of climbing.

It was another hectic morning. The stage start was at 11am in Almuñecar, a resort on the Costa Granadina, which was an hour's bus ride away, and we needed to be there for 9:30, to have time for all the pre-stage rigmarole. That meant an early breakfast at 7:30. Ugh.

You may wonder why we didn't stay in Almuñecar instead of Granada. Well, Stage 4 was a time trial in Granada, and Stage 3 finished close to the city too, so Granada was the most convenient base overall.

The accursed alarm jolted me awake at 6:50, and I groaned and jumped in the shower, making Helen a little envious because, with her multifarious dressings, she needed to wash herself more "strategically."

Some riders don't like the early breakfast because they say they struggle to eat at that time in the morning. I don't like it either, but it's nothing to do with any difficulty eating. I can eat at any time of day (or night).

As usual, I approached the breakfast table figuratively rubbing my hands. I love a Spanish breakfast, and I indulged myself with three popular favourites; toast with olive oil and tomato to start, then a slice of toast with Seville marmalade, followed by a huge croissant (borrowed from the French, I know) and then polished off two coffees and a slab of cake. Who doesn't love a country that has coffee and cake for breakfast?

I noticed Helen looking at me with a smile as I demolished all this with gusto. OK, I admit it, I'm a bit of a gannet, but I must be burning it, because my weight is remarkably stable between 57.5 and 58 kilos. I guess it's one of the advantages of being young and doing humongous amounts of exercise.

The best thing about it is I don't tend to suffer from the dreaded "hunger bonk" (running out of fuel mid-race).

'Right, I'm ready,' I announced. 'Let's get at those mountains.'

The stage started at sea-level, on the Almuñecar seafront, and started climbing almost immediately. It reached 1100 metres altitude after only 25km, at a pass over the coastal mountains, so it was an unusually brutal start.

A long undulating crossing of a plateau then led to a second pass, and a descent to the outskirts of Granada at 75km. It was then that the real fun started.

The stage finish was at 2700m, high on the Sierra Nevada, on a piece of road that was closed to traffic. Special permission was needed for the race to go beyond the normal "roadhead," and this was going to be the highest stage finish ever in the World Tour, men's or women's. Quite a coup for the Vuelta Femenina.

Stages of the men's Vuelta had finished high on the Sierra before, but only at the roadhead (2550m) never this high. The new finish, up a series of hairpins, made a dramatic finale, and I was looking forward to it immensely.

We got on the bus for the drive to Almuñecar, and I sent Licia a message; 'On our way to the start. 3800 metres of climbing coming right up. Wish me luck.'

She sent back a thumbs up and a message that made me giggle; 'Thinking about getting out of bed. Hard decision about what to have for brekkie coming right up. Wish me luck.' Oh, she does do me good.

We negotiated the sign-on, the sorting out of bikes and kit, and a spot of journalist-dodging, and soon we were assembling for the neutralised start. There was a quiet air of apprehension.

This was the toughest stage yet in the women's Vuelta -- or any stage race on the women's tour - and it wasn't just the total climbing that was feared, it was also the altitude of the finish. Many girls in the peloton had never been to such a height (me included) and it was plenty high enough for the thin air to have an effect.

There's a high-altitude training centre on the Sierra Nevada, at 2300 metres, where many pros go for altitude training camps. Well, the stage finish was 400 metres higher than that. It was a daunting prospect.

The neutralised start was the shortest ever; only 2 kilometres. No sooner had we cleared the outskirts of town than the flag was waved and we were off up the hill.

It was curiously calm. There were no attacks at all. The daunting toughness of the stage had an inhibiting effect, and no-one wanted to commit themselves so early. The peloton tapped out a robust climbing rhythm and everyone just sat in the wheels, with three or four teams sharing the lead as we gained height.

Although it was relentless, the climb had an average gradient of under 5%, so it was pretty easy as climbs go, and I just pedalled along, enjoying the beautiful views over the coast. Climbing like this on a bike is almost therapeutic, but I knew it wouldn't feel like this by the time we were high on the Sierra Nevada.

Eventually, and pretty painlessly, we reached the first pass, the Collada de Cabra Montes (col of the mountain goat) and the road embarked on a glorious corniche section, winding along the slopes with stunning coastal views. This was truly the cyclist's high.

I think we were all feeling a little high because when we passed through a short tunnel, everyone started shouting, childishly, just to hear the resonant sound. I guess you could say we were a happy band of pedallers as we started the plateau section and, finally, the attacks began.

By the time we reached the second pass, the Ultimo Suspiro del Moro (last sigh of the Moor) a small group of 6 had broken clear, but they would need to be extremely strong to survive what was coming.

As we skirted Granada, the break had a lead of 2.30 but then we headed into the mountains and the race really began.

An easy 10km up the valley of the Rio Genil almost lulled us into a false sense of security, but then the work started. We had a 35km climb from here to the finish -- I think probably the longest ascent ever seen in women's professional cycling - taking us all the way to the snowline.

The gradient of the normal ski-resort road wasn't too bad at 7%, but they didn't take us that way, did they? Oh, no... Instead, they made us first climb up to a village called Güéjar Sierra at 1000m, then plunge back into the river valley, then climb back up the other side to re-join the normal route, using a gnarly little road with sections of 20% and 21%. Cruelty.

The ascent to Güéjar was enough to start loosening the grip of some riders on the peloton, and by the time we started that steep climb to the Puerto de Hazallanas, some of the sprinters, and some of the lesser domestiques, had already been dropped, and we had almost caught the girls in the break.

The remaining peloton strung out as the climb began to bite, and an elite group inexorably started to form, consisting of the top climbers and the strongest super-domestiques, while others were distanced and left to fend for themselves. The 6 girls in the breakaway were picked up, one by one, as the leading group started to apply the pressure.

I was still in this group, and still feeling physically strong, but I had jittery butterflies. I'd never done a climb anywhere near this length, and I had no idea how long I'd last. The fear was real.

I looked around at the riders I was with; Tera, Zara, Lucy, Suzy, Pam, Leona, Elisa... all of them with way more experience. Impostor Syndrome was nagging at me again, and I knew I had to shake myself free of it.

I tried to think of Molly, of how many times she'd told me what I was capable of, and how many times she'd been right... '...one of the best climbers in the world...' Really? Was I?

We emerged on the main Sierra Nevada road, and the gradient became more amenable again. The group, now consisting of only 16 riders, settled back into a metronomic climbing rhythm, with Lucy's trusty right-hand woman, Olga, leading, and Lucy sitting pretty in the red jersey behind her.

Amstel-Rabo still had four riders in the group, and so did we; Zara, Tera, Marlen, and me, while other teams were more depleted. Leona had no team mates left with her at all.

The pace was sufficient to ensure that no dropped riders could get back on the train, and we forged ahead, all sharing the lead at various times.

We rose above the 2000m contour and everyone's breathing started to become a little more audible, but the group stayed together. There was no talking. The tension was palpable. Everyone was just concentrating on turning the pedals. I still had butterflies. Who was going to be the next to crack?

At 2100m we reached the entrance of the main ski complex, Solynieve (sun and snow), but we swung left and climbed up to a col called Sabinas, 100m higher, where an older section of road was joined.

This road was built in the 1930s and used to go all the way to the summit of Pico Veleta at almost 3400m, making it the highest road in Europe, but in the 1990s, a barrier was installed at 2550m and the upper section was closed to cars. The old road surface still survives a little higher though, and that's where we were headed.

At Sabinas the road rounded a hairpin bend, and became rougher and a little steeper. Everything suddenly got a lot harder and I detected a wavering in the pace of those ahead of me. I came to the front and lifted the tempo again and riders started to drop from the group, one by one. The final selection had begun.

I was still leading as we passed above the high-altitude training facility, and up ahead I could see the sun glinting off the windscreens of a multitude of cars, parked at the roadhead at 2550m. It looked close, and after that, there would just be the final series of hairpins - zig-zags, switchbacks, whatever you call them -- up the Loma de Cauchiles to the finish.

I was still jittery though. Being on the front for so long was a questionable tactic, but my foggy notion was that if I kept the pace witheringly high, it would discourage any attacks, and I'd also get rid of a lot of the group, leaving just a small number of survivors to fight it out for the victory. Maybe I could even drop them all before the finish. It didn't quite work out like that.

Huge crowds had gathered at the roadhead, Hoya de La Mora (hollow of the moorish woman), all cheering enthusiastically, and I glimpsed a few Brits, waving flags and a banner that had my name on it. They'd been busy pre-race too: I spotted "Chloe" and "Lyoness" painted on the road a few times, which gave me a little lift as I led the remaining group of just 6 riders through the throng of enthusiastically cheering fans.

We rounded a bend and passed through the opened barrier onto the final, even rougher, section of road, and that's where Zara made her move.

To be honest, it took me by surprise, because I didn't think anyone would have an attack left in their legs at this point, but she wasn't the only one: Lucy was straight onto her wheel, determined to defend her overall lead.

To a casual observer, it probably looked like I'd been working for Zara all along, doing a perfect domestique job and launching her for this attack, but I knew nothing about it. We certainly hadn't planned it.

I was so unprepared that I didn't immediately respond, but as I rounded the next hairpin and looked back I could see that everyone behind was struggling. It was down to the three of us.

I could see Zara and Lucy up ahead, both still standing up in a slow-motion ding-dong battle. Zara trying to drop Lucy, and Lucy determined not to be dropped. The gap to them was growing, and I had to make a quick decision: Settle for third, or try to fight back?

Settle? SETTLE?... the demon was back. Of course I wouldn't settle...

I rose up out of the saddle and started mashing the pedals. My legs were made rubbery by the altitude, but I still had a little bit more speed in me. I wasn't done yet.

I saw that Zara had opened a small gap over Lucy, but they were both sat down again now, both hunched over the bars, and their weaving and meandering spoke of their fatigue. That little battle had taken its toll. My confidence rose.

They rounded the next hairpin just a few metres apart, and as they climbed the next incline they both looked down to me, anxiously.

I was well aware of the psychological battle that was going on here; I knew I needed to look good and threatening, so I stayed out of the saddle, trying to dance on the pedals, but in truth just rocking and rolling. Hopefully, I still looked strong and scary enough to strike fear into their hearts.

I gained a few yards, and all three of us were on the next incline together. Now, we were all sat down and just grimly grinding. The gradient was probably no more than 8% but there was a distinct lack of oxygen in the thin air. It was brutally hard.

I was gaining though. I was definitely gaining.

There were only three or four hairpins left now, and snow lay thickly on both sides of the road. It must have been cold up here but I didn't notice. My mind was focussed on catching Lucy, who I could tell was suffering.

Halfway up the next incline, I saw her head go down and I knew she'd cracked. I came gradually up behind her, agonisingly slowly - our speed must have been way down in single digits -- and I moved left and crawled past.

Zara was within reach now and I was seized with the lust for victory. Team leader or not, no quarter would be given if I caught her. I was not in the mood for gifts. If I could win this stage, I was definitely going to.

We were between the barriers now, less than a kilometre from the finish, and I had 30 metres to make up. Another crowd of diehard fans had gathered up here, and they were banging on the barriers, shouting, yelling, and making a hell of a racket, as they watched this slo-mo chase play out.

We were both meandering wearily, unable to keep a straight course, tired bodies starved of oxygen, legs gone to mush, but she was coming back to me, metre by metre.

She wasted time looking back to see where I was, which was a mistake. Molly always told me, in this situation, 'never look back, just GO.' I gained a little more ground.

The finish countdown markers arrived. 400 metres to go, 300... I was so close. 200... 100... I couldn't make it. She was almost in touching distance as she crossed the line, but a miss is as good as a mile, as they say, and I'd missed. Just.