Riding With Dirty Girls Pt 07

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.

Note: The name 'Magi' in this story is pronounced "Ma -- jee" and is short for Majera.

***

Riding With Dirty Girls.

7. Roubaix

"It looked suspiciously like a gifted win, to me."

That bastard journalist. Not even a proper journalist - just some bloke who has a podcast, a Facebook page and a channel on YouTube. One of those people referred to as an "influencer."

Despite Carmen giving short shrift to the notion that she gifted me the win in Val di Sole, despite all the reputable outlets like Eurosport, GCN etc. also giving the idea zero credence, and despite anyone and everyone close to the sport -- everyone who really loves the sport - knowing it was nonsense, all this guy had to do was put the idea out there on social media for it to gain traction.

Jake Logan, a guy with no background in cycling, or any sport, and his scurrilous cesspool of a podcast, SportScan, which has the sole purpose of digging up dirt and scandal around sport, even where none exists.

What a mean-spirited, cold-blooded occupation, spending your time seeking out opportunities to defame and smear sports and sports people. Besmirching people's reputations and undermining their achievements. Completely against the true spirit of sport.

In our case, it was disrespectful to Carmen, disrespectful to me, and disrespectful to the sport of cyclocross and its fans. I've always found 'cross to be an honest, simple, friendly sport. Despite its professionalism, it hasn't lost touch with the true principles and values of sport. It's like a sport from the past in some ways, which is one of the things I love about it.

To have it tarnished by baseless aspersions like this, and to have one of the greatest achievements of my life (so far) diminished, just for a bit of gossip, is odious and unforgivable. To me, that guy is lower than a snake's belly.

He surely can't continue doing this for long before he becomes persona non grata throughout sport though? Already, he'll never get access to Carmen or me again for interviews -- or to any of the other girls who show solidarity with us. Can it possibly be worth destroying his own reputation, just for a brief spell in the spotlight of notoriety?

The thing that fills me with dismay though is the fact that there's a vast swathe of the public that laps this stuff up. They can can't resist a bit of "juicy gossip." Logan's podcast has hundreds of thousands of followers, so all he had to do was put the insinuation out there and it instantly became a talking point. Sad.

During the week after the race, I had dozens of messages and phone calls, all of them supporting me, and slamming him and his shitty podcast. EVERYONE who mattered knew it was total bullshit, but the damage was done, and I seethed with indignation and anger that someone as scummy as him could take the shine off my first World Cup win.

As part of his grubby podcast, he snidely mentioned "the lesbian love club that seems to exist in women's cyclocross," and I realised with a shock how careful we needed to be. I could hardly imagine the scandal that would have ensued if my night in the cabin with Carmen had been discovered. It would definitely have been seen as evidence in support of the "gifted win" narrative, even though, if you've read Part 6 of this story, you'll know nothing could be further from the truth.

As always when I'm filled with angst, I take it out on the bike. There was only a week between the Trento race and the one at Roubaix, so I shouldn't have been doing any really hard training, but on the Wednesday, burning with rage and indignation, I went out and covered the route of our recent club ride -- 80 miles including two of the toughest climbs in the area -- as a fast time-trial. Throughout the ride, I was at the hard edge. Pushing the limit, trying to thrash the wrath out of myself.

On the club ride, we had taken most of the day, with a coffee stop in the middle, but on this solo rampage I ripped round the route in 4 hours -- an average of 20mph, which is madness on such a hilly course.

Molly would not be happy if she knew. Her training plan had me doing a 2-hour tempo ride at 60% of my max heart rate (which is 202 beats per minute) and I'd done double that at over 80%.

It did help to calm me - endorphins are magical like that - but I needed a final mental balm. I'd been so angst-ridden that I hadn't masturbated at all since the weekend, which is unusual. I often feel horny after a race weekend -- even though I'm tired. With me, the more sex I have, the hornier I get, and Mondays and Tuesdays can often be a pleasure-garden of wonderful wanking for me.

Not that week though. There are very few things that can interfere with my libido, which is such a towering monolith that it tends to dwarf most other aspects of my headspace at any given time. However, I found out that a combination of anger and indignation was able to supress it. Who knew?

That mad ride and its endorphins had helped though, and while I was in the shower I decided to call Maisie. I felt I was ready for a bit of Maisie misbehaviour. She must be psychic or something though because, just as I was getting myself ready, my phone rang.

She had already called me on the Monday, to express her disgust at the Jake Logan crap, and tell me (as everyone did) to just ignore it / rise above it / don't waste any of your energy on it. I couldn't help it though. Even though everyone was right, it inflamed me. I can never help but react violently to things that are just WRONG.

Really, Carmen had as much reason as I had to feel aggrieved - her racing reputation was being tarnished -- but compared to me, she seemed quite laid-back about it (at least outwardly) saying 'We both know it's mierda, Chloe, so just ignore it.' Easier said than done for someone like me though.

Anyway, Maisie called on the Wednesday night and said 'How are you now, Chloe? Feeling any better?' I told her about the ride I'd just done, and she said, 'Wow, I'd struggle to do that time on the flat for an 80 miler. I hope you haven't burned yourself out for Saturday.'

'No, I think I'm fine. I feel strong.'

'Good, but now relax until Saturday. No more bike thrash therapy.'

I wanted to change the subject, so I switched to her travel plans. 'So when do you fly?'

'Oh, this bird has already flown, sweetie. I'm in Cabourg, France. Spending the holidays with my sister Betty and her friends. I don't fly home until the 3rd. Handy for the races, hm?'

'Oh, wow, yeh. Why Cabourg though?'

'Betty's friends Marc and Lou have a house here. It's a sister city to AC.' (Atlantic City, Maisie's home town)

'Brilliant.'

'Yeah, it's good. Cycling is good round here too. Quiet coast roads and not many hills. I've rented a bike. I like it here but I'm not used to living with other people though. I miss my privacy a bit. I can't quite do what I want like I can at home, obviously.

'You have your own room though?'

'Oh yeah, I have my own space. Couldn't manage without that.' I could almost see her fruity smirk.

'Did you get any... er, fun, after the race last weekend?' I asked her. I knew Maisie was always on the lookout for a bit of girly fun, and I wondered what she'd got up to.

'Yeah, I was lucky enough to be roomies with Sabina. Oh my God, she's so amorous. She spent so much time on me, and so little on herself. It was 4 orgasms to 1 by the end of the night. Seems a little unfair but she was happy with it. You know that syrupy Swiss-French accent of hers? "I loove to giive pleasuure" (she did a pretty good impersonation of Sabina's voice). ' I've even got her interested in a bit of golden rain... She doesn't rule it out.'

I think I probably pulled a face.

'Anyway, I heard about you and Carmen... was it good?'

'How...? Oh of course... Helen. Yeh, it was good. We rented a cabin, gazed at the stars. It was quite special.

'Sounds romantic,' she sniggered.

I mused...'Mm, I guess it was.'

Maisie suddenly became a little wistful -- a side of her rarely seen. 'We have to get together again soon babe. It must be a couple of months since Brussels.'

'Eight weeks this Saturday -- not that I keep records or anything,' I chuckled.

'I mean, the phone sex is great, but it's no substitute for the real thing, is it?'

'No, I know what you mean... We will get together again -- soon -- with just one condition.'

'What's that?'

'No golden showers.'

'Aww, spoilsport... OK then.'

It looked like phone sex was not going to happen. We had both got into a slightly maudlin frame of mind, and we just made small talk for a while, and then ended the call.

I didn't even get myself off before going to sleep that night, which was also a little unusual in the circumstances. That sexual beast was still lurking within me though, and it would have its way with me, one way or another.

I was prey to a series of erotic dreams. They were abstract and random, but very, very, vivid. And they weren't just images. I could feel them, smell them, taste them, as if they were real.

As I slept, fitfully, deft, delicate fingers gently plucked at my nipples, big, sumptuous breasts enveloped my face, lissom loving tongues danced with mine, harsh wiry pubes rasped against my nose, soft plump lips planted kisses on my labia and sucked gently on my clitoris, strong luscious thighs squeezed my cheeks, fleshy, dangly pussy lips squished against my mouth and swaddled my nose, and the almost palpable taste and smell of female sex pervaded my whole being.

I rose to a semi-somnolent state with my fingers already deep inside me, fucking myself in an unconscious, automatic, auto-erotic response, and I cried out my ecstasy as an exquisite orgasm fizzed through me, leaving me suddenly awake and trembling as if in shock.

I emerged from sleep on a soaringly high plateau of arousal, and my loins were crying out for more. More of this euphoric sexual intoxication. This carnal drunkenness.

I fucked myself again, eyes closed in bliss, mouth open in an expression of pure sexual delirium, and primal sounds came from my throat; ungh, ungh, ungh, ungh, as I pounded my fingers urgently into my aching squelching cunt-hole - this pleasure centre that had taken over my whole being - until I came again -- even more intensely. Howling, humping, thrusting, dribbling, drooling, through layers of prurient, corporeal pleasure, and then descending natantly back to dry land and sensibility.

I used both hands to spread my juice -- my liquid joy -- all over my face, smearing it on my lips, and licking my fingers clean, lasciviously.

As I cooled, and my senses re-engaged with normality, I began to feel chilly, and became acutely aware of a certain squidgy clamminess between my bum cheeks. I sighed, and headed to the bathroom to clean myself up, then stripped the bottom sheet off the bed and replaced it with a clean one.

Finally, I crawled back under the duvet and waited for warm cosiness to return, and as it did, I spiralled into a profound and dreamless sleep.

***

Round 6: Roubaix

On Friday morning at 5am, I was on my driveway, scraping ice off the windscreen of my trusty little car. I'd had a choice of two flights to Brussels. One at 8am and one at 8pm, and I'd chosen the former because I didn't want to spend all day waiting around and then end up getting to Molly's late.

I'm not a natural early riser but I felt it was worth it to get there earlier and have some quality time with her, and maybe Fanny if she was there. The 8am flight meant I could be there before lunchtime, and Molly had promised me she would make one of her special stoofpots -- a delicious stew -- for lunch.

Spready Mercury (my local snowplough/gritter) went past while I was de-icing the car, and the crew honked the horn at me. I don't know them, but I suspect they acknowledge anyone they encounter outside at 5am on a freezing morning.

By 5:15 I was on my way to the airport, with the heater on full and my fingers thawing out nicely. It was still more than 2 hours to sunrise, so it was a dark drive to Edinburgh on roads that would have been treacherous if they hadn't been gritted. Thank goodness for Spready.

The flight to Brussels only takes 1:35 and I was lucky enough to have a seat on the port side of the plane so I was able to sit and watch the sun rising over the North Sea as we flew down the east coast of England. It was a beautiful crystal-clear morning.

I emerged into the arrivals lounge and my face broke into a beaming smile as I saw Molly waiting there for me, looking tall, beautiful and stylish in her bright yellow puffer jacket, with her spiky black hair and dark eye-makeup. She grinned back and we embraced. 'No Fanny?' I asked.

'No, she's busy today. We'll see her tomorrow. Her and Marianne.'

We set off for the 1-hour drive to Waregem and, inevitably, the subject of Jake Logan came up again. 'I hear that the organisers at Roubaix have given him a press pass, despite what he's been saying,' said Molly.

I ground my teeth. 'Have they? It won't make any difference. Nobody will talk to the fucker. He's well on his way to being a total pariah, and it will be good riddance when that happens.'

'I don't get him at all,' Molly continued, 'He's British, you're British. You're the biggest success story Britain has ever had in women's cyclocross. Why does he want to undermine you?'

I turned my palms upwards and sighed. 'Do you think I can understand the mindset of a TOAD? I've no idea. It will be short-lived anyway. This time next year, when I'm defending my World Cup title...' I looked at Molly and she grinned '... people will say Jake who?'

We got to Molly's and the smell of the stoofpot was truly mouth-watering. 'Oohh, the stoofpot Molly... It's almost better than sex!'

She laughed. 'Ha ha... well I take that as a compliment -- on my cooking - but perhaps I will have to prove it wrong...'

'Oo, please do. I'd LOVE to be proven wrong.'

We ate, and it was, as always, transcendent. I looked at her mischievously and said 'Mm mmm, You're going to have to go some to beat this Mol,' and she looked at me with a smirk.

'You little vos, you're teasing me deliberately, aren't you?'

'Yes I am. I think you like it.'

'I do... Are you feeling frisky?'

'Oh, yes. I'm completely frisk-filled. I'm hoping you can get it out of me... somehow.'

'Not all. You need some for tomorrow.'

'I have plenty,' I grinned.

It would have been easy to go straight to sex at this point, but we reigned in our rising ardour and ate dessert, then spent the afternoon sat on her big comfy sofa, watching some cycling and just relaxing.

'So, was Sharon OK with you not joining the team at the hotel tonight?' Molly asked.

'Yeh, she knows you live near the venue, so she understands. I feel I've let Helen down a bit, but she has Mari and Annike to keep her happy. I'm sure they'll be fine. What about Fanny though? Wouldn't she usually be here on a Friday?'

'Not always...' She looked pensive. 'Oh Chloe, you need to stop worrying about Fanny. She knows you're here, she knows what might happen. She's cool with it. She doesn't worry about it, doesn't feel the need for a threesome, and doesn't get jealous. She'll be watching a film with her most comfy old PJs on and eating liquorice drops. She'll be happy.

'Fanny and I are the best of friends, Chloe, and if she needs a bit of loving I'm always here for her. It's all she needs from me.'

I smiled. It seemed a happy arrangement. Happier than many "exclusive" couples manage. I wondered if I could find a situation like that, and If so, who would it be with?

During the winter, I was quite content with the whole vibe around the races, and the abundance of opportunities for sexual encounters, but in summer I sometimes felt a little barren and isolated.

I wasn't sure I could maintain a relationship at the level that Molly and Fanny did though. I was fine with completely casual, and "no romantic attachments," but I wondered whether I would have a tendency to fall hard if I let it go beyond that. I suspected I would.

We ate a light pasta salad for dinner, then returned to the sofa. The promise of sex was hanging heavily and deliciously in the air, and my anticipation and desire had been building all afternoon as I watched her and marvelled at how effortlessly sexy she is, but I knew Molly wouldn't make the first move. She never does. She always waits for me. I think it's her way of reassuring herself that she's not taking advantage of me, or abusing the older coach - younger athlete relationship.

So, as we sat watching TV, I spread my legs and put one of them across her, on top of hers, in an unmistakeably provocative move. I had a pair of very tight fitting track bottoms on and Molly immediately started massaging my thigh through them. 'Mmm, you have GREAT legs, Chloe. Not just athletic, they have a beautiful shape. I bet they'd look wonderful in stockings.'

I turned to look at her. I'd never suspected she had any kind of penchant for lingerie, but this was interesting. 'Do you like stockings?'

She blushed slightly. 'Well, yes. It's not only men who appreciate a woman in lingerie.'

'Oh I know that...I've watched some glamour porn. It's definitely hot. I didn't know it was a thing for you though. Next time I come, I'll bring a pair.'

'Do you have some?'

'No, but I'll buy some, just for you.'

She looked at me, wide-eyed. 'Will you?

'Of course.' I looked at her and just blurted out, 'I love you Molly.'

She looked nonplussed. 'What?'

'I mean... I don't mean I've fallen in love with you in a romantic way, but I love you. You are so many things to me, Molly. I could never have achieved what I have without you.'

I moved my leg and turned to kiss her. An affectionate non-sexual kiss at first, then we separated and gazed at each other. The combination of her grey-blue eyes and her dark, smoky makeup was just gorgeous, and I felt my desire welling up like lava. I kissed her again and this time it was a properly carnal, lust-filled kiss. God, our relationship is so complex.

I climbed astride her and pulled my tops off, leaving me in just my bra and bottoms. My nipples were almost poking through the fabric as I reached behind me to unfasten the hooks, and Molly looked at me with those dusky eyes and said 'Are you sure?'

'Oh yes. I'm very sure.'

The bra came off and I leaned forward so she could reach me, and she sucked my nipples, reaching up and squeezing my modest little tits together with her hands until they actually looked quite impressive. My nipples were fit to burst, and she kissed them, suckled them, and rolled her tongue round and round them in turn, switching back and forth as if she couldn't decide which was the most succulent.

I reached down and slipped my hand into my trackie bottoms, to feel my wetness, and I groaned with the double pleasure of having my nipples sucked and sinking my fingers into my hot, slippery honeypot, which always feels so wonderfully libertine.

I brought my hand up and smeared a nipple with my juice, and Molly immediately moved her lips to that one. Now it was her turn to moan as the flavour of my arousal hit her, and my hand went back for more.

This time, I brought my fingers up to her mouth and I pushed her head back with the other hand and bent to kiss her, with fingers in between. Our tongues fenced deliciously over my wet fingers, as if competing for the most juice, and then my hand returned to my pussy and we were left just sharing a sublimely earthy kiss, as my fingers sought more.