Last year I went on a motorcycling tour of Scotland and had an unforgettable sexual experience. I'd twice before postponed the trip because of my wife's ill health, then we agreed I should go on my own as my health problems meant I could not handle a big touring bike for much longer. I left Bletchley on my testimonial tour in early July, to avoid the caravans and school holiday traffic. It was not a lonely trip; I bumped into many recently retired bikers. Sometimes meeting the same motorcyclists, the next day, a hundred miles away.
I was starting my journey home from the Scottish Highlands when I met Richard and Sheila. I'd stopped to admire the scenery in a place called Glencoe, on my way down the west coast to Oban. I was looking at my route on an old map, aiming to reach Dumbarton before nightfall. It was a long day's riding, but that is what I was there for. I was about to pack up when I heard a motorcycle crunching onto the gravel behind me. I thought I was going deaf because I didn't hear the big BMWs engine. Then I noticed there were no exhaust fumes. The driver must have coasted downhill. The bike stopped and couple on it were in the middle of a full-blown argument. Shouting to make themselves heard in their crash helmets. Forgetting the engine was not covering their voices.
"I told you we should have filled up at that petrol station last night but you knew better, didn't you Richard?"
The woman climbed off the bike and pulled her helmet off in frustration. She was a bottle blonde, about mid-forties, a trim figure in her leathers, and with her back to me she had a fantastic arse. I must have looked a bit too long because her husband caught my gaze and did not look best pleased. He tried to placate her. "Sheila babe, don't stress, it's all part of the adventure, I'll just get the AA out to fill us up."
I smiled. I'd tried to make my daily check in call to my wife earlier, only to discover there was no reception out here in the wilds. Sat nav was also useless, hence the maps. I could not leave them stranded, but I did not want to do the asking. A few moments later Richard discovered we were in a communication black spot.
Sheila looked at his phone and gave an exasperated, "For fuck's sake, Richard," and came over as I took my time fiddling with one of my paniers.
"Excuse me, I wonder if you can help? Sorry we have treated you to our scene of marital bliss, but we are stranded." Sheila smiled, and it transformed her face. The furrowed brow disappeared and the lines around her eyes and mouth softened. She knew from my reaction it was a winning smile.
"How can I refuse a smile like that? My name is James Sleaman," I said.
"I'm Sheila Black," she blushed "and that's my husband Richard, often known as Dick." She took off her glove to shake hands. Her hands were slim and warm. She wore bright red nail polish, designed to excite. She noticed me looking at her nails. "My weakness," she said.
"Yeah, she spends a bloody fortune on manicures. Don't you love?" said a disgruntled Richard.
Keen to avoid another round of their rucking, I jumped in. "According to my map, it's about thirty miles down the road to the nearest place likely to have a petrol station. I'm happy to do it, but we could try something else first?"
"What do you mean?" said Richard.
"I filled up yesterday and if I can get a few litres into your bike, then we can both get away. We just need to syphon the petrol out."
"I don't think that will work," grunted Richard.
"Richard, don't be such an idiot. James has been kind enough to help us. Let's give it a go before he has to make a sixty-mile round trip because you forgot to fill up. And Richard, you owe me, remember?" Sheilas look bore no argument and her husband head dropped in acknowledgement.
I didn't know what the last bit was about, but Shelia's tongue lashing got Richard involved in the search for plastic containers I could decant fuel into. We found two used water bottles in the rubbish bin. The two litre one would do as the filler and the smaller one with a lid could be the syphon. Our luck was in when we found four straws from fizzy drinks cups. I stuck three straws together and pierced a small hole in the bottom of the smaller bottle. The other straw stuck out of the side as a spout.
Sheila saw what I was attempting. "You are clever, James. Isn't he clever, Richard?" No surprise, Richard declined to comment.
I got Sheila to hold the large bottle up to my makeshift spout and sank the pipe of straws into my petrol tank. I began sucking the air out of a hole in the base of a small bottle and after about a minute petrol was syphoning into it and filling the large bottle through the spout. Sheila giggled in delight, but groaned when it leaked out of the gap between the straws and the bottle. "We need to plug the hole Sheila," I said. The dirty smile she gave me showed she had taken an entirely different meaning.
"I'll see if I can find something to plug the hole, James," she said in a way that had my cock at half-mast. As she walked back to their bike, I was sure she was flirting by wiggling that perfect arse.
Perhaps it was all in my mind, but either way I was at full salute by the time she got there. She rummaged in the top box and pulled something out and brandished it at Richard, who had retreated to the picnic table for a smoke. "I see you didn't forget this," she brandished a roll of duct tape.
I would not have given it a second thought but Sheila had stoked my fire and in my mind,I had an image of her tied to the bed with it while I made love to her. I had to shake my head to clear it. With the help of the tape, the two of us made airtight seals on the bottle. Our hands were in constant contact and more than once she ran her fingernails down the back of my hand as we struggled to cover the gaps. "Sheila please," I whispered. She looked at me slyly and it was all I could do not to pull her leather trousers down and fuck her over my bike while her husband pretended not to care what was going on.
We decanted four litres of petrol into his bike. Even Richard had to admit he was impressed.
