This story dates from when I lived in Italy. I was there for a year when I was 26 in a small town about 20 kilometres inland from Ancona. I was there as a coordinator for a programme my Paris office was running, but it soon became obvious that it was a gardening leave position and I was really only there while my other projects matured and head office could find something to do with me. As things turned out, I left the firm before that happened and my life took a different turn, but that's not really relevant to the story so imagine if you will a 26-year-old me stuck in small town Italy for what would be at least nine months doing effectively a job that didn't need to be done and drawing a decent wage for signing the occasional paper, writing a monthly report and enjoying the sun and the wine of eastern Italy.
There were only about twenty people at the site, including me - and nine of them weren't even in my division so I had direct oversight over ten people. I had a decent apartment five miles away and I bought my bike with me and was enjoying the freedom of racing along empty roads without having to wear a crash helmet on my daily commute. My bike is a 1969 BSA. It's a 900 CC model and I inherited it from my father who was a sometime collector of vintage motorbikes. By the time I was in Italy, British bikes had pretty much become rarities on the roads, and certainly in Italy, the only models you saw were Japanese and Ducatis. Mine turned heads - especially from those who knew their bike history. Triumphs, Nortons and BSAs still command huge respect in the bike aficionado's world and Nellie, as I call my BSA, is an attractive beast.
One of the people at my site that I officially had nothing to do with was Mattie. She was about 30 and she was a sort of cross between a PA to the Italian head of PR and a legal officer who took care of all the new EU law compliance that was starting to become a big part of the job for all of us in the admin division. Mattie had dark hair that she wore in a shoulder length bob. She was half Italian half French and spoke three languages fluently. Luckily for me, one of them was English. She dressed with the sort of impeccability you only associate with models. She had great legs and I have to admit I used to sneak long looks at them as she walked the long corridor back to her office from the printer we shared just outside my office. I only ever saw her wearing skirts and blouses. She smelled great too, and she occasionally wore glasses that emphasised her intellectual bearing - although when she left them on the printer one day and I tried them the lenses hardly magnified at all.
I'd met Mattie's husband before I met her. He was called Alberto. He had an office in the town near my apartment and we got to know each other because of Nellie. I'd parked at a little cafe in the piazza one afternoon early on in my stay and he'd remarked on the bike. He didn't really know a whole lot about bikes but he showed interest when I talked about how she had come to my family and in time to me. It turned out he lived only a block from my apartment and I gave him a ride back on the bike. Mattie was getting off the bus when we arrived at his apartment (in that part of Italy the bus pretty much stops wherever you ask the driver to stop) and Alberto waved to her and called her over. We exchanged a few words and I introduced myself and mentioned where I worked. They both cried out in surprise that that was the same office as Mattie and Alberto asked me if I would mind giving her a ride into work each day. I said sure. Mattie looked a little unsure, but I assured her there was plenty of room and I was a careful rider. She said she'd give it a go as the bus ride was uncomfortable and she could almost never get a seat.
So for the next morning there I was waiting outside Alberto's and Mattie's apartment at 7:30 AM wearing my suit with a leather jacket on top and sitting astride Nellie with the sun shining down on me and the prospect of a five mile ride with another man's wife sitting behind me. She came out alone and I could see she had not dressed for a motorbike ride. She wore the same high heels as always, a knee-length skirt, white blouse pale blue silk jacket and her small briefcase in her hand. I'd seen that coming and I had a spare jacket in the rack for her. She put it on without protest - although it sure as hell wasn't a designer brand like all the stuff she was used to wearing, put her briefcase in the rack and I helped her climb on.
Nellie doesn't have anything for a passenger to hang onto. There are footrests, and if you reach behind you you can hold onto the luggage rack, but most novices don't feel comfortable doing that, so I could sense her nervousness. I took her hands and placed them on my waist. Then I throttled back (just a little louder than was necessary) and we shot off. Instantly I felt her grip tighten and she moved her hands further round to my stomach. I tensed my muscles. I was in good shape and I was already feeling the thrill of having another man's wife sitting up close to me with her hands on my stomach. I took the bike up to 60 mph when we got to the highway and she kept the same grip. By now I had a hard on and was really enjoying myself. I saw in one mirror how her skirt had ridden up a little. Although I couldn't make it out for certain I was pretty sure she must be exposing her panties. The thought was thrilling.
I slowed down enough as we got close to the office to ask her if she was OK.
"It's wonderful!" she shouted back. She had a huge smile on her face. Throughout that day whenever I saw her she shot me a smile. I couldn't wait for 5 o' clock and the ride home.
