This is follow-on story for the "Learning to Love Myself" series
*****
Hi everyone, Elain here again. I know I owe everybody the stories that I hinted at when closing my "Learning to Love Myself" narrative, but recent events make this tale more immediate. You see, Angel has gotten married.
If you haven't read my "Learning to Love Myself" narrative and don't plan to, let me at least give you this primer. I am: early thirties, bisexual, redheaded, mechanical engineer, with natural 36E breasts, a longstanding addiction to masturbating, and a penchant for fitness swimming.
My best friend is Angel. She's two years older and four inches taller than I am, part Portuguese via Brazil, long dark hair, olive skin and even bigger natural breasts, which run in her family as you shall see. We met a million years ago in college and had a wonderful on again / off again sexual romance. It was Angel that helped me come to grips with my bisexuality, and even though we were sexually active with each other, she's straight otherwise. Angel is the chief financial officer for a large acquisitions firm a couple of states away from where I live.
Everyone else, you can meet as we go. So let's do just that.
*****
I love the way the thing vibrates between my thighs. For a crotch rocket, it is truly a work of art. It's got so much power packed into three race tuned cylinders and a tiny little supermodel of a chassis – like a really loud two-wheeled sewing machine on steroids, especially since I put the after-market exhaust on it. Yes, my motorcycle, what were you thinking?
Of course, I know what you were thinking, but remember that I'm a mechanical engineer. This kind of thing gets me off too! Besides, it's red – the fastest color.
I was headed toward Angel's hometown at slightly more than legal speeds to help her get ready for and to be in her wedding in three days time. She hated it when I would tear-ass across multiple states on my bike. It was not meant to be a touring machine, but it does get you there quickly. Still, at the end of the day, I was going to be really stiff. She always worried about the wear and tear on me and the fact that she couldn't even call me on my cell phone to see if I was okay along the way. As promised though, I sent her a text message at each fuel stop so she'd be able to track my progress.
I geared down into the parking lot at the Thai restaurant where I was supposed to meet Angel and Eric, her intended, and spotted them at a table inside next to one of the large windows. I idled into a hash-marked parking place outside that window and killed the power. Swinging my leg off the beast, I shed the armored gloves and unzipped the top to my leathers. This, of course, unveiled (some would say "unleashed") the twins, proudly shoved up and together in a tight black halter top. Next, the helmet chin strap was unthreaded, the helmet lifted off, the ponytail sheath removed, and I shook my long mane of bright red hair loose like a shampoo commercial.
A high-school kid driving a pickup truck in the Burger King drive-thru next door ran over the curb; a guy crossing the parking lot with a takeout box dropped his food; and a Nissan rear-ended a panel truck on the road next to the restaurant. Oddly enough all eyes were fixed on me. Imagine that.
I popped out my ear plugs and dug my disc lock out of the tank bag; then bending over (at the waist, naturally) I put the lock on front brake disc, and the guy in the parking lot dropped his food again. I looked up to see Angel laughing and shaking her head inside and Eric wiping tears from his eyes, so I gave them a wink and headed for the front of the restaurant. It's hard to believe I used to be an introvert isn't it?
Moments later, I walked through the door, smiled my way past the hostess to their table, and plunked down my helmet in an unoccupied chair.
"It's amazing that you can move your hips that way when you walk in leathers," Eric said as he continued to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes.
"Hello big sister," I said and bent to kiss Angel.
"Hi baby," Angel replied after the kiss.
I turned to Eric and grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt in mock menace. "Hey sugar. Have you been behaving yourself?"
"Now why on earth should I start acting differently now?" he replied.
"By which he means to say, that he's as perfect as always," Angel interrupted.
"I hope so," I answered sweetly and blew him a kiss over my fist before letting him go. "Gotta pee, I'll be right back."
As Eric and Angel watched my rather saucy leather-wrapped rear end diminish toward the restroom, I overheard Angel remarking sideways to her fiancée, "She's always been really protective of me. You know she adores you, right?"
"I certainly hope so," Eric answered. "I think she's wonderful, and I know how important she is to you."
*****
Angel was right. I do adore Eric. If I had to design a man from scratch to ideally suit Angel, he would have been Eric. So what do you suppose this ideal man does for a living to make him especially compatible with our girl? Financier? Accountant? Entrepreneur? Nope, it's even better. He's a chef!
Actually, more accurately, he's an executive chef. You'd think it would be better if he also owned his own restaurant, but he freely admits that end of the career is best left to others. "They can take all the business headaches; I just want to cook the food," he's fond of saying. Besides, if he owned his restaurant, he'd never be able to leave it. As it is, he makes plenty of money (according to Angel) and has a nice apartment, and he actually gets to spend time there.
He's also very good looking. Angel did well on that front. He's got that very clean, healthy, "I'm going to age disgustingly well", thing going on. He eats right, has no bad habits, is into Yoga, speaks well, laughs often, etc. etc. etc. If I didn't have my beloved Tess, I probably would have had to bonk Angel on the head and take Eric for myself. The way Angel sums him up is, "All this and he cooks too!" The girls in her office must loathe her.
The only thing I feel a tiny bit bad about is that Eric doesn't know the depth to which Angel and I shared ourselves when we were younger. I was her only girl, and she was my first girl. It's something that still warms me in the deepest parts of my heart to think about. I still love her more than I can easily describe, but it's not the kind of love that would ever have sustained as a romance. We're family and that's that. Fortunately Angel and I are completely on the same page with all this and figure it's best if it stays our secret forever.
That's not so say we're not intimate with each other any more. There's just no physical intimacy. We still share everything. I supported her through the bad time when her last boyfriend... well there's no need to go into that, but let's just say that it was an unexpectedly permanent breakup. She couldn't eat Thai food for a year afterward without crying. Anyway, she supported me through coming out to my parents about my bisexuality and the circus that ensued.
On that – things are fine now, but for about a year my Mom introduced me to every (and I mean every) eligible bachelor she could find. It took a while to get to the bottom of it, but what it boiled down to was that neither of my parents really cared that I was bisexual. Mom was just worked up because she felt that her chances of having grandchildren had dropped by half. Once she admitted that, it all became a non-issue.
But... I digress. Eric, he's great. Angel loves him and that's good enough. Like I said though, we share everything, so I have to let you know (as you knew I would) that she had also reported that he's awesome in bed. The word was that he actually put her pleasure first and was quite creative in his affections. In blunt terms, she claimed that he might even be as good as I was at eating her pussy. That made me jealous for all kinds of complicated reasons, but I had to remind her that I have gotten even better at eating pussy since those days. So there.
She never mentioned his cock, but perhaps she figured I wouldn't be interested in knowing. So, being me, I asked directly what it was like, and what he was like with it. All she would say is, "Better than any of them."
Shorter? Longer? Thicker? Heavier? Thinner? More skilled? More textured? More smooth? More staying power? What in particular? I asked all this and more.
She just shook her head, "Better than any of them. I'm not holding back on you, Elain; I wouldn't do that. I just can't explain it in any different words."
So that's when I cooked up my plan and we made our wager.
*****
Angel and Eric had taken off on a short errand to solve some problem with the reception venue, an activity from which I was grateful to be absolved. I, on the other hand, had left my bike at Angel's house and was sitting in her SUV on the freeway with eight billion (at least) of my closest friends on my way to the airport to pick up her grandmother from Rio. I was terribly afraid that I was going to be late.
I had never met Grandmother Angelina, so Angel had equipped me with a sign stating "Avó Angelina" to hold up in the international concourse. I hoped that I'd recognize the lady from her photographs, or at least from her infamous description:
Sweet, batty, little, old lady with breasts bigger than her head.
I remember laughing to myself that Grandmother Angelina would be pleased to see that Angel had inherited more than her name.
I slung the Toyota into a short term parking place, grabbed my sign, and scrambled into the international concourse with no time to spare. The monitors showed that the proper flight had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, so with any luck Grandmother Angelina hadn't cleared customs and immigration yet.
Trying to look calm, I stood with all the other expectant families for a few minutes until I spotted a lady matching Grandmother Angelina's description, thwacking her way though the crowd with a cane and a bright orange rolling suitcase, and rattling a non-stop string of what I vaguely recognized as Portuguese expletive street talk. She spotted the sign and bushwacked her way over to glare up at me momentarily before allowing her wizened old face to erupt into a joyous smile. Apparently that smile runs in the family, as well.
"Tarde boa, Avó Angelina," I greeted her respectfully and offered to take her suitcase.
"Boa tarde, doce menina," she responded, put her suitcase down, and gave me a hug instead. "You must be Elain. It is good to finally meet my other grandchild."
