The Sidecar Tales Liz

You ride a motorbike, but you drive a sidecar rig. I'd taken a long-cut, away from major highways and primary roads in California, to get to a nice place I knew of. I was about half-way there when things kinda got strange.

I was about an hour outside of Barstow, California, on what was rapidly becoming a joke of a road. The guy at the service station had said that a street bike could make it to Vegas by this back road, but the edges of the pavement had crumbled well toward the center line, and there were more potholes that road surface.

I rested at the crest of a low rise, and stowed my helmet in the under-seat storage, choosing to put on a brim-hat for sun protection, as the temperature was well over 100 deg. and still rising.

I idly scanned the desert surface with my binoculars, looking for interesting rock formations in the distance, and maybe a bird, when I chanced to see a black speck moving. Since nothing else was moving, I scanned back, and saw the black speck again. I couldn't make out details in the heat shimmer, except that it was doing a stop-and-go motion, out at the long range of my optics.

Saying, "Oh, shit," I looked ahead and saw a turnoff about a hundred feet ahead. My rig was a Suzuki Burgman 650, which is a big, powerful maxi-scooter, with a sidecar rig, but NOT suited for off-road travel at all. Hard-packed gravel and hard-pan dirt were its limits, but I had to try. I scanned again, and the black dot wasn't moving at all. I took a careful compass bearing, and did a reference on my GPS, and started down the packed-dirt trail. I moved slowly and carefully, mentally noting where I could and couldn't go on the way back.

I got to within a couple of hundred feet of the speck, now revealed as a prone human figure, maneuvered the scooter rig back the way I came, and started off on foot, carrying basic supplies and lots of water.

I reached the figure in about half-an-hour, finding what' I'd hoped I wouldn't. It was a short-haired guy, dressed in a leather riding suit, complete with riding boots, but no hat. He was flopped forward, hands stretched out, breathing shallow, with bright red skin, and not sweating at all. I diagnosed severe heat exhaustion, and set to work.

I pulled out one of my liter bottles of water, and gently poured some liquid into his mouth. There was a gurgle, and then a convulsive swallow. I fed the rest of the bottle to him as rapidly as I could. I heard a raspy voice say, 'No ... throw up," so I said, as plainly as I could, "It's an old wives tale. You're severely dehydrated, and you stopped sweating. Drink until you slosh. Then drink some more."

Next came the hard part. We couldn't stay there, because the heat and dry air would pull the water back out faster than he could replace it. So I had to hoist him up, over my middle-aged shoulder, and slowly walk back to the bike. I had to rest twice, and each time, I got him to drink more.

We reached the bike and I set out a couple of mattress pads, and then rapidly set up a big space-blanket with rocks on the ends, tying it to the scooter. I had to get him—and me—out of the mid-day sun, into shade. I kept pressing water on him, and then started to pull his riding suit off, thinking to replace it with my spare cotton clothes.

He kept muttering in a dry, raspy voice, "No, no," as I pulled off his boots and started dragging the bottom half of his riding suit off, when I finally realized what the problem was ... since 'HE' was a 'SHE'.

I didn't hesitate, and I grabbed her head and made her look directly at me. I clearly said, "No force-fuck. Listen to me. No rape! No strings, no conditions, no fucking, no blackmail. No force! But, I've got to get you out of these hot leathers and into lightweight clothes, which have to be mine. Got that?"

My rescued damsel-in-distress somehow managed to smile a little, as she whispered, "Ok, do it. You can look if you want."

So I looked as I skinned her out of her off-road riding leathers, including her crusty panties and sports bra, and into my socks, pants, long-sleeve denim shirt. I told her that I looked. I made up a pillow for her out of my spare blanket and I made her drink and drink.

Finally, she told me she had to piss. This was good, and I tried to give her some privacy, on the other side of the space-blanket tarp, but she called out that she couldn't balance. So I helped her out of the cotton polyester pants, and, braced against me, she squatted and urinated. I came out very dark yellow, and stunk. She wiped with my spare tissues, and I helped her into the trousers again, and got her to drink even more.

Never go into the desert without plenty of water, and a means for shade. Figure how much you can carry, and then take twice as much.

As the first hour in the tent wore on, I simply asked, "Who?"

She looked down, and then back up, meeting my eyes. "I'm Elizabeth Prescott. Call me Liz. I'm a lesbian. If you call me Liz the Lez, I'll break your nose"

I thought this over for a couple of seconds, and answered, "Ok. I'm Tom Cattus, and I'm straight. Now that we have the important stuff figured out, tell me how you got out here, up to the time I showed up."

I won't go into a long boring explanation. Sufficient to day she had a longish affair with a dominant and possessive woman in Barstow. So, when Elizabeth said she was going away, said lover promised she would never have another partner. Liz had an old dirt bike, and took off on the back roads out of town, and things started going wrong about an hour out. Loosing oil. Battery dying. Strange noises from the engine. After a few minutes, the engine seized.

She had to abandon the bike. Then she did what most city-folks with no desert experience did—she decided to try to walk out, during the day. She had no hat and no signal mirror. Her GPS was dead, with no power, and she had no compass. She made a good 8 miles, over rough, no-road terrain. She found her liquids were contaminated with bleach.

She started hallucinating and falling about an hour before I found her.

I said, "Probably another hour or so, and you'd have been in heat-stroke territory, and dead by tomorrow." I added, "It sounds like your lover was one of those folks who decided, if she couldn't have you for herself, no one would. Guys do this, too, you know."

In the early afternoon, I said, "I think one of us ought to look at your feet, your scrapes and where you were chafed. You or me?"

Trying to sit up, she fall back, and wanly smiled, saying, "You!"

I pulled off the socks she wore, and attended to her blisters and chaffed feet, and her hands, using more water, antiseptic cream and big Band-Aids from my first-aid kit. Then I looked pointedly at her waist and raised my eyebrow.

She grinned a little, and nodded, as I pulled her borrowed trousers down, exposing her bare skin. She said, "Go ahead and look. I trust you."

Her hips were clean, only a little red where her belt had chafed. But parts of her crotch were red and raw ... which I could see clearly, because her pussy was shaved clean and smooth.

Looking alternately at her pussy and her face—to check for signs of panic and fear—I cleaned the raw spots with a little wound cleanser and water, and then patted the skin dry, and applied some cream. I looked back at her face, as she said, "Keep going. I know you like it."

"Tease," I muttered, as I attended to her raw spots. Then I raised the big question.

"I, uh, well, you, know, need to check, uh, inside, ah ..."

Elizabeth Prescott, Lesbian, shocked me into open-mouthed-stupor, when she giggled, rolled over on her back, pulled up and spread her thighs wide open, and then reached down with both hands and spread her outer vaginal lips open to my gaze.

It was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like a lot longer, when she asked, "Well? Do you see any problems?"

The flesh on her inner lips was bright pink, and I could clearly see her clitoris hood and the folds of her inner lips ... and the light reflecting off the wet surface of her vaginal opening.

I gulped, and stammered, "I think, ummm, things are, uh, all OK there."

Still grinning widely, and giggling, she slowly let go of her pussy lips and moved her hands up to cradle her head. Equally slowly, one leg at a time, she dropped her legs, and, not helping one little bit, made it difficult to get her back into my trousers.

It didn't help that I had a monstrous erection, which I couldn't hide at all.

Panting, I flopped down beside her, getting her to drink more water. Then she made me drink some. We shared a bottle back and forth, our lips getting closer, until then met and we kissed. Liz and I held it for a long while. When we broke, she looked at me, from a few inches away, and lazily said, "Let me teach you how to kiss like a woman?"

I said, intelligently, "Huh?"

She explained, "Guys kiss one way. Women, especially who want to be lovers, kiss differently. Look, a guy either kisses tentatively, trying not to do too much, 'cause he doesn't wanna spoil his chances of getting lucky. Or, if he does get lucky, he uses his tongue like a spare penis, thrusting and shoving into a girl's mouth."

"Now, women do it differently. We kiss to explore! We look, moment to moment, where our partner's greatest sensitivity is, and then we lick it gently. Our whole focus in our partner. Right then, she's the only other woman in the entire world. We take our time. And then we look around for other sensitive spots. Necks, shoulder, clefts between our boobs. We save licking clits for last."

"Now," she finished, "kiss me like a woman. I know you've got a big hard-on. I'm not worried. You keep your promises. You're not getting into me and we're not fucking either. Even so, I'm the last woman on earth, right at this moment, so kiss me like that."

That was, over the course of a longish time, out there in the California Desert, when I learned to kiss like a lesbian woman.

In the very late afternoon, I got Liz into the sidecar, and belted in for safety. I packed us my emergency supplies, and prepared to gun the street machine back up the dirt road, and onto the pavement (such as it was). I convinced her to come back to my suite at the Residence Inn.

Liz stopped me, and gestured that I should kneel down, saying, "I want you to know that, if I were straight or bi-sexual, I would have torn your clothes off and jammed your huge man-machine into my body, and sucked the jism out of you, as many times as you could have gotten it up. Just wanted to let you know that I've even thought of doing it as a lesbian, but having sex with you is just too kinky for me. But I think you're that hot, along with proved-of-being a 'good-guy,' and I'm gonna trust you, alone in your room, even in your bed. OK?"

All I could do was nod.

Once back in Barstow, at the inn, I ordered it pizza. Then I shooed her into the shower, bathtub and hot-tub. She came out wrapped in three towels, around her hips, shoulders and around her head. I had to ring for extra towels. I gave her my extra key card for the room. We watched a bit of TV together, and then she started to yawn, so I showed her the king-size bed, muttering something about 'putting something down the middle.'

Liz gestured 'no,' turned back the covers, put one knee on the sheet-covered bed, and looking straight at me, casually dropped her two towels, kicking them onto the floor. She stood there for about three minutes, while I started at her as though her was a fine old-masters painting of a slender, small-breasted nude woman.

Equally nude, I complimented her by exposing my full erection, pointing the helmet head at her, but doing nothing else. She blew a kiss at my cock, and then another at me, slid into bed and turned over.

She fell deeply asleep within a minute.

It took me quite a while longer to deflate, so I could sleep.

About two o'clock, or so, I came awake, to hear Liz moving softly around the room. I heard her getting dressed in her leathers. I lay there, not moving, as she stood over me, and, by the sounds, went through my wallet. I heard something I thought was a sob, and then a click as the door opened and then closed.

I cried for a while. Checking my wallet, I found only a couple hundred gone, and no credit cards missing. I cried some more, and then fell deeply asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, it was full light. The sun's rays, streaming through the window, revealed a totally nude Liz, setting in an easy chair that she'd somehow dragged close to my side of the bed. She was sitting, both hands on the chair arms, one leg crossed over the other, with her bare pussy facing me, bare breasts quivering and lightly moving with the rhythm of her breathing.

Saying nothing, I just watched, my cock rising again.

In a strong contralto voice, she said, "Let me tell you a story."

Once upon a time, a traveler went into a small town. While there, he saw an antiques store, but the sign said, 'JUST PLAIN BILL.' The old guy who owned the store was sitting outside, and the traveler asked about the sign. The owner said:

Well, son, I was born into a rich family, and I was named William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III."

When I grew up, I entered college and earned my Bachelor of Sciences degree, so I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS.

I went on into graduate school, and earned my Master of Sciences degree, so now I was William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS.

Having lots of time and money, I went on to get my Doctor of Philosophy degree., so then I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D.

Doing so well in school, I entered medical school, and went on to get my Doctor of Medicine degree, so then I proudly became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D., MD.

Being a patriotic American young man, I then entered the Air Force, and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, so I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D., MD, DFC.

However, when I celebrated my victory in the local whore-house, I contracted the dreaded affliction, VD, so I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D., MD, DFC, VD.

Well, the Air Force only wanted pure-hearted American men, so when they found out about my affliction, they took away my Distinguished Flying Cross, so I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D., MD, VD.

But you can't have VD and be a doctor, so the Medical School took back my Doctor of Medicine degree, so now I was William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, BS, MS, Ph.D., VD.

That was bad, but when my university discovered I was infected with VD, they took away all my degrees, so I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, III, VD.

Then my family's lawyers found out about my awful condition, and they took away my access to my family's ancestry, so then I became William Prescott Dingle-Dangle, VD.

At the end, my grandparents disowned me, forbidding to use the dear name of their heirs, so I became William Dingle-Dangle, VD.

Then, my parents recoiled in horror, and disowned and disinherited me, so I became Bill Dingle-Dangle, VD.

Finally, just before it dried up, the VD got the dingle-dangle, so now I'm JUST PLAIN BILL.

Liz went on, "So here we are. I'm Elizabeth Prescott. No relation to the guy in the story. I'm your damsel-in distress, your rescued maiden, the woman you saved from certain death in the desert. I'm your dyke lesbian friend and your teacher of kissing."

Standing up, she took the single step to the bed where I lay. I was erect. She pulled the covers back, eyed my rigid cock, and smiled, saying, "Turn over on your back. Yeah, that's it. Let's leave all that aside. For right now, until I leave you, whenever that is, I'm Liz. Your chance-met companion and your sexy fuck-buddy. You turn to me whenever you get the slightest sexual urge. I want you to push your hard meat into me every chance you get. You'll get blowjobs to get you up and do deep screwing. Got that?"

She grasped the base of my penis, and started a slow, steady stroking, which caused a further hardening, as she climbed onto the bed and straddled me.

She looked down at me, with what I could only think was a wicked smile, and said, "You might feel that what's gonna happens is sexing between a guy and a girl, but to me, it's the most kinky, perverted thing I've ever done." Her hand continued to stroke, as she added, "And I kind of like it, because it's the nastiest, most naughty thing a true dyke can do." She shivered all over.

Positioning my firmly grasped, hard shaft directly against her cuntal opening, she clearly said, "You're gonna like this!"

Her body fell, as my cock slid smoothly and wetly into her body. I watched her eyes go wide, then squeeze shut, and open again, as her descending body met my pubic bone. My entire length—not at all small—was buried inside her, and I knew I wasn't getting out until I came.

She leaned forward, with her stiffened arms on my shoulders, and we both watched, as my cock disappeared and re-appeared in her cunt, in a steady slow rhythm. We both wordlessly gasped and groaned with pleasure, as the pace gradually increased. I watched her small breasts shiver and shake with her quickened breathing, the nipples standing up, engorged and firm, evidence of her lust.

My evidence was hard and deep inside her.

"Yes, watch me. I love you to watch me fuck you. I wish to hell I could get you to watch me with another woman, too. Oh, damn you're big, you fill me up. Come on, fuck me. Hard and long. Don't be shy. If you can see it, it's yours. Fuck me. I want you to fuck me. I want it. Cum in me. Cum deep. Squirt me full. I want to hold your jizz inside me all day."

She accelerated, throwing her head back and saying hoarsely, "Yeah, I'm cumming, you're making my pussy cum, that's it, fuck me fast. I want you to cum in me! Yeah, cumming again. Harder, faster, deeper."

Her hips mover faster and faster, and I felt the dull tingle of approaching orgasm. It hit and I yelled and screamed, and thrust up inside her, splashing my sperm into her waiting, spasming, squealing body.

We both collapsed into the bed. A timeless period later, I said, "Thank you so much for coming back. I cried when you left."

Heavy-lidded, she looked over at me, saying, "I didn't know you were awake. I took the money from your wallet."

I smiled the best I could, from a place about an inch from her lips, which I wanted to kiss, and said, "I would have freely given you ten times that amount. No strings, no deals. Just give. Another motorbike. More stuff."

"Not for sex, you won't."

"Not for sex. For ... for ... just because. Because you trusted me not to pull your leather pants off you and force-fuck you in the desert. For being truthful to me. For sitting there, in the sunlight, telling me your story, and letting my eyes roam all over your figure, pussy, boobs and woman-parts. Just because."

She looked at me, and smiled more broadly, saying, "You're my fuck buddy, aren't you?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Well, then, you don't ever have to wait for just the right moment to kiss me. You can do it any time, and, if it leads to your big cock penetrating my waiting body, even better. You do want to kiss me, right now, don't you."

I managed to get about a quarter of the air needed to sustain life, for the next half hour. Another hour later, my cock surged to life, and I practiced forcing my new fuck-buddy (except, it's true, you can't force or rape a willing woman).

Two days later, I bought her a new Kawasaki KLR650 dual-sport motorbike. She started to protest, and I dragged her into the women's bathroom of the dealership, and had her, up against the wall. When one of the secretaries walked in, and found us banging away, the girl—cool as you please—did her business, waited and watched for a minute or so, told Liz to quit complaining and to let me buy the damned bike. I paid for the insurance, and outfitted her with accessories. After dealer prep, we picked it up the next day, and happily toured around the Barstow area until the break-in period had passed.