Riding with Dirty Girls

This story 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. At the same time, they are all over 18...

***

Riding With Dirty Girls.

6. Trentino

I peered out of the window again and the snow was still falling, sweeping through the orange glow of the sodium street lights in whirling gyres of heavy flakes The TV was full of dire warnings about "essential journeys only" and "more snow to come," but the only thing that bothered me was whether I'd be able to do my planned ride the next day.

Oh well, no point in worrying about it, I'd just have to see in the morning. I turned the heating up a few degrees and settled down to watch a film.

The snow-plough/gritting lorry went past twice in the next couple of hours, its yellow flashing light flicking across my curtains.

Many people won't know this, but Scotland has over 100 snow ploughs/gritters -- lorries responsible for spreading rock salt, and clearing all the main roads -- and all of them have humorous names, given to them by their crews. Our local one is called "Spready Mercury."

Anyway, apart from Spready going past a couple of times, it was deathly silent. Everything was blanketed and nothing was moving. It wasn't looking promising for cycling the next day.

It was Saturday night of the middle weekend between Dublin and Trento, and I really needed to get a long Sunday ride in, before I tapered down to the next race, and if I couldn't get out I'd have to do a long session on the indoor trainer, which I hate with a passion.

Riding indoors on a static bike is THE most boring way to train; 20 minutes feels like an hour, and a couple of hours (the minimum I'd have to do) is a small eternity. PLEASE stop snowing...

After the film finished, I decided to relax myself with a little solo session, which always helps me to sleep more soundly. I took myself up to bed at something like 9:30pm, made the bedroom cosy, with soft lighting etc, and took off my baggies and knickers.

I left my sweatshirt on for a bit of warmth. It wasn't cold in the house, but it was snowing outside, so it was really just a psychological thing.

Towel on the bed (of course) and I lay back on the pillows with legs apart, and started playing... stroking my pubes, then squeezing my plump outer lips together. I know from the other women I've been with that my mons and labia majora are unusually full and fleshy. I always have to make sure my cycling shorts have a generous and well-positioned pad in them, otherwise the shape of my vulva shows embarrassingly through them.

I slipped a single finger between my lips, right at the bottom, where my little well of juice was forming, then trailed it up to my clit, parting my inner lips and anointing them with slipperiness. I parted my outer lips with two fingers of one hand, while circling my clit with the single finger. Oh, fuck that felt good. I closed my eyes and just savoured the feeling for a few moments. The beatific bliss of sexual stimulation. The pleasure of the flesh.

Suddenly, I had a devilish thought. I bet Maisie would love to see some lewd and improper images of me wanking. It would be very early evening in Atlantic City and just the right time to start her night off with a bang. It also took the pleasure of my wank up a few notches, knowing that Maisie would, in some small way, be sharing it, later that evening.

With nothing but fingers, I brought myself slowly to a wonderful, toe-tingling climax, pausing occasionally to take close-up photographs of my sex in all its stages of arousal. Sometimes, I had fingers deep inside, and sometimes I was just parting my lips, to show off my glistening pink wetness. The final shot was immediately post-orgasm, showing my dribble of grey-white cream, and the large damp patch on the towel. A very horny finale.

I sent the pics in a series to Maisie, with a message saying 'Here's something to make your evening go a bit more smooothly,' She didn't answer immediately (maybe she was busy or something), so I got up and went to the bathroom.

Before getting into bed, I looked out of the window again, to see that it had at least stopped snowing, and then my phone went ping.

'OMFG are you kidding me? Chloe, these are smoking hot. You're SUCH a bad, bad girl. I'm already taking my pants off...'

I chuckled to myself and sent back 'Enjoy,' with a lip-licking emoji, then I turned off the light and snuggled down under the covers.

In the morning, I was pleased to observe that the road was almost snow-free. The ploughing and spreading had done its job. So, I planned a route on main roads, which I hoped would all be clear, and just a short 4-mile link on a smaller road (amusingly called Twatt Lane) which I'd keep my fingers crossed for.

It went surprisingly well. Although the hills and fields were under a blanket of pristine white, the roads had been well-cleared and there were only a few little bits of slush to watch out for.

It was great, riding along through the winter wonderland, on roads that had been mostly cleared of traffic by all the dire warnings on the telly. I just enjoyed "the soothing feel of the rolling wheel," and escaped into reverie, as I sometimes do when I'm out on a basic conditioning ride like this. I think it's a form of Zen.

Of course, I thought about racing, the races gone, and the ones still to come, and I thought about sex and the girls on the tour. Inevitably, my mind dwelled on Licia and those two magical days we'd just had.

My feeling on the plane home from Dublin was that I could easily fall for her. She pushed way more buttons than just my sexual ones, which was what I'd found so scary, but I had got my feelings in order again now. Yes, she was great, but so were, Maisie, Helen, Mari, Annike... Lucy. I had relationships with all these women on some level, not to mention Molly and Fanny, who were almost like family to me now. I reflected that I was in a happy place just exactly how I was.

And then I arrived at Twatt Lane. This minor road hadn't had any ploughing or gritting at all -- Spready had given Twatt a miss -- and it was under 3 or 4 inches of snow. There was just one set of tyre tracks, left by a solitary 4x4.

I stopped and took a picture of the lane's name sign, which I thought Maisie would appreciate, and I pondered for a minute. To complete my loop using only the main roads would add almost 20 miles, and that was unpalatable. I knew the lane was pretty flat, so there were no climbs or descents to deal with, and it was only 4 miles. Come on, Chloe, I chided myself, you're the leader of the Cyclocross World Cup, get on with it.

I embarked on the lane. I'd really rather have been on my 'cross bike, than a road bike, but it was manageable. I initially followed one of the 4x4 tyre tracks, where the snow was more compacted, but after a couple of miles that came to an end, where the vehicle had emerged from a gateway. I was then on soft virgin snow.

My initial thought was 'Oh crap,' but once I got fairly into it, I found it was great fun, powersliding on the bends, wrestling with the 'bars, and sometimes trailing a foot for balance like a motocross rider. I only came off once; a gentle slide to the ground when I fell foul of an adverse camber, which just left me sat in the snow, laughing.

At the end of the 4-mile link, when I emerged onto the main road again, I was enjoying myself so much, I almost turned around to do it again.

This little adventure had me super-stoked and, noticing it was exactly 2pm, I got my head down and time-trialled the remaining 25 miles home, on roads that were just wet, in a remarkable 1 hour and 4 minutes -- a time that would have placed me in the top 10 in the women's race at that year's Scottish National Time Trial Championships, and I was on a road bike -- not a TT bike -- and wearing non-aero winter kit. There was no denying it -- I was super-fit.

I got home buzzing, and surfing an enormous high. Despite the freezing temperature, I was hot. As I put the bike away, I was almost enveloped in the cloud of vapour I was producing. Like a racehorse steaming after a race. I actually had to sit OUTSIDE on my garden bench for a few minutes, as I would in summer, to cool off before going indoors. It was amazing. I was a raging life-force -- bursting with elemental energy.

At first, the cold air couldn't penetrate my aura, but eventually it did - otherwise I might have been consumed by my own fires - and I retreated inside.

I made a cup of tea -- usually my first order of business after a cold ride -- then got out my phone and sat at the kitchen table. I had heard a message ping in while I was in the middle of my final time trial, but I didn't let it interrupt me. Now, I looked and saw it was from Maisie.

'Hey, Chloe Clitoris' (her capitals) 'just to say your pics got me off twice. Once last night and once this morning. You interrupted my breakfast!'

I grinned and sent back, 'Sorry,' and an embarrassed emoji.

'DON'T be. It was fab. Keep being bad, I love you for it'

'Look where I've been today. I think it's right up your street.' I sent her the pic of the Twatt Lane sign, and got back a line of about 20 hysterically laughing emojis. Then, a follow up message.

'It's right up something but it aint a street.'

I sent back my own line of laughing emojis. God, I love chatting with Maisie.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to have a bath. 99% of the time, I take showers, not baths, but just occasionally, I like a long luxurious soak, and it's especially nice right after a winter ride.

I set the bath running, with just a tiny amount of bubble bath, then went down to the utility room, stripped off all my damp kit and stuffed it in the washing machine, then walked back upstairs naked.

I like a bath to be almost too hot to stand when I first get in, to maximise the time before it gets cool and needs topping up, and I tested it with my foot, and adjusted the mixer tap until I could just slip in without scalding myself.

My bathtub is big, and takes up all of one wall of the bathroom, at the opposite end to the shower cubicle. It's a built in bath, with a wide surround, and it's very luxurious. It's a shame I don't use it more, really.

Anyway, I slipped into the hot water and slithered down until I was completely submerged apart from my head and my knees, and my nipples were just occasionally peeping above the surface. Then I just lay there wallowing in the wonderfully sensuous pleasure of warm immersion.

Why did this feel so sexual? Why did it make my pussy and my nipples tingle so? Was it something to do with the inescapable connection between sex and warm liquid? Or was I just a horny bitch who found eroticism in many, many things? I decided it was a bit of both.

My fingers brushed lightly over my nipples, making them stand proud above the water like a couple of little pink buoys. They just needed flashing lights on their tips... I chuckled at the silliness of my own thought process, then I squeezed my boobs together and let them slide back, their soapy surface smoothly gilding under my palms. Oh my, this felt so hedonistic.

My hands inevitably travelled down...There was no way on this Earth that I was going to resist touching my pussy and, despite the all-enveloping steamy warmth, I shivered as I teased my lips apart and thrilled to the feeling of hot water on hot, stretched flesh.

My clit was a resistant little pedicle, squirming cheekily as I teased it this way and that in the slippery, soapy water, and I thought of Maisie and chuckled again; Chloe Clitoris indeed...

I spread my inner lips with two fingers then slid those fingers down, squeezed them together and plunged them deep into my vagina. The feeling was divine, pumping those fingers in and out, submerged in a mixture of hot water and hot pussy juice - which put the soapy slipperiness completely in the shade.

I spread that wonderful oiliness up and over my clit then just concentrated on fucking myself with both hands. Three fingers of one hand pumping in and out of my lubricious vag, while the fingers of the other hand teased and toyed with my clit. It was an explosive combination.

My orgasm was exquisite, as bath orgasms always seem to be. It was tingly from head to foot. It felt like bubbles came out of my toes, and the bathwater was beset by a stormy tempest as my body jerked and juddered in its fitful throes. Wonderful.

I lay luxuriously in the water in the aftermath, until I started to cool, then I stood up, started the bath draining, unhooked the over-bath shower head, and rinsed myself off.

When I was dry, I put on my most luxuriously fleecy baggies, and settled on the sofa to watch telly. If laid-back is measured in degrees of inclination, I was beyond horizontal. Then I noticed a message on my phone. It was from Licia.

'Hi Chloe, I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed our days together. I've been on cloud 9 ever since. You are fantastic company, you know?'

I sent back, 'Hi Licia, well exactly the same here. I couldn't have put it better.' I got a blushing emoji, then my phone rang. She obviously wanted a little chat.

'So, what have you been up to?' She asked, 'Are you coping with the snow?'

'Yeh, been out for a brilliant ride today.'

'Really? Are the roads clear, then?'

'Yeh, most of them.'

'The weather news made it sound like you were completely snowed-in.'

'Ah, they always exaggerate. What's it like over there?'

'Plenty of snow on the Wicklows. We couldn't ride over the Sally Gap today, but nothing much here in Dublin.'

'We?'

'Yeh, me and my cycling mate, Sorcha. We ride together most weekends when I'm not racing. I met her at a cycling group that meet at the gym over the road. We just clicked.'

I didn't want to ask, and she saved me the trouble.

'And before you ask, no, she's not gay.'

'I wasn't going to...'

'Hmm, OK.'

'So are you all set for Trentino next weekend?'

'Oh, aye. It should be fun. Most of Europe has had snow, and that course is high. About 1300 metres, I think. Hope it doesn't get cancelled.'

The Trentino course was not in Trento itself. As Licia said, it was up in the mountains, in a high valley called Val di Sole. That place would surely be blanketed with snow. I thought about the fun I'd had on Twatt Lane, and I rubbed my hands... This could be brill.

***

Round 5: Trentino

The village of Vermiglio, in the Val di Sole, where the course is actually situated is not easy to get to. The nearest airport is Bolzano, but that's beyond Trento, and still leaves a 4 hour bus ride, involving three buses. A nightmare. There are no direct flights from Edinburgh to there anyway. I'd have to fly to London then change. It was a non-starter.

For Molly and the crew, it would be a 2-day drive with a hotel halfway, and halfway was (roughly) Basel in Switzerland. I discovered that there WERE direct flights to there... Hmm.

So, we cooked up a plan, where I would fly to Basel while Molly and co were driving from Waregem. I'd meet them at the airport, stay with them in the same hotel, then travel with them the second day to Vermiglio.

I'd no idea how other girls were getting there. Licia's trip from Ireland was sure to be a logistical nightmare, let alone Maisie's from the US, so once again I said a prayer of thanks for Molly and Team Lyon.

Our plan worked well. I flew to Basel on the Thursday, met up with Molly and Fanny (Marianne couldn't make it this time) and spent the night in a chain hotel nearby. Then we drove to Val di Sole the next day.

On the final approach to Vermiglio, we had to cross two mountain passes, and the road was deep in snow both sides. The road at the highest points had snow on the surface, but Molly's Audi Quattro estate car had no problems, and soon we were rolling into the village, where the roads were clear but all around was white.

I still half expected the races to be cancelled, but there was no suggestion of it, and when I was dropped at the hotel, everyone was preparing as normal.

'No, it's going ahead,' said Sharon, when I asked her about it. 'The course has about 8 centimetres of snow in places, but most of it is actually quite rideable.

Over dinner, everyone was abuzz about how different it was going to be, with a lot of speculation about who might be the "dark horses," - those who might do unexpectedly well in the snow. The consensus was that the bigger, stronger girls would be suited to it. Girls like the Swiss, Anna Alphubel, Olga, the Russian girl, and our own Helen and Sandi.

I kept very quiet because I believed, like heavy mud, the snow would throw the emphasis not just onto strength, but also onto bike-handling skills, and I had just recently had a little practice...

In fact, I found it hard to imagine that it wouldn't come down to the same 7 as always, with the possible exception of Maisie, who's lack of outright strength might count against her.

I was quite sure that Femke, Lucy, and Carmen would all be equal to the conditions, and would certainly be able to give me a run for my money.

Vermiglio seemed a very small place but it actually had ten hotels and it was easily able to accommodate the whole of the Cyclocross World Cup and its entourage. It was certainly a lively place that night, with a festival atmosphere, making it feel like a ski resort. Christmas lights were up (it was now December 9th) and bars were all selling cyclocross merchandise, like stickers, flags, hats etc. The town had really taken us to its heart.

The whole team -- including Sharon and the physios etc - went out to explore, and it seemed like the entire place was full of cyclocross riders. I went on a hug-hunt, seeking out Licia, Maisie, Lucy, Carmen... all the girls I had special regard for and who I hadn't yet embraced that night.

God, I loved all these women. Is that even possible? To love someone platonically, and sexually, yet not romantically? It seemed ridiculous and impossible when I thought about it, yet that's where I was. Even my relationship with Molly and Fanny seemed enigmatic. Molly was my coach and, yes, if I'm honest, a mother-like figure to me, and yet we'd enjoyed the most torrid sex together. Just thinking about this filled me with wonder.

I didn't stay out late, obviously, and I made Helen aware that I was heading back to the hotel, so that she could join me, if she wanted to. She was deep in conversation with her compatriot, Kat Bohringer, and she just briefly smiled and waved when I made the universal "I'm going" signal of cocked head and thumb.

I wasn't really bothered either way. If she was enjoying herself talking to Kat, that was fine. I wouldn't have any trouble sleeping, of that I was sure.

I walked back up to the hotel, greeting many other people en-route, let myself into the room, and got ready for bed.

Strangely, I had no nerves about the race at all. I was quite relaxed, and I drifted off to sleep very quickly once I was under the covers.

I was vaguely aware of Helen returning fairly soon after me, but I was in a half-asleep state so I didn't move, but then I felt her climbing into my bed next to me, and I began to wake. I felt her blood-warm skin touch my arm, and her slightly frizzy hair tickle my cheek, and when I got a lovely waft of her faintly citrus scent, my sexual sidhe stirred. I was lying on my back, but I turned on my side to face her, found her lips in the darkness and kissed her.

She responded, and the kiss deepened. Oh my... a heavenly Helen kiss...

The warm and scented femininity of her was dizzying. The soft fullness of her breasts, pressing against mine as I pulled her to me, her soft lips and languid, loving tongue, her arm, curling around me to match my embrace, and the revealing, sultry aroma of our arousal under the warm covers. I kissed her with a desire that was suddenly overpowering.