This story is a fantasy featuring mostly heterosexual female on male sexual encounters, mostly older participants. Any similarities to real persons is unintentional. All characters are of age and consenting. This is a long read, not a quickie. Slow build to, hopefully, a good payoff. Reflects the author's preferences and proclivities. Not for everyone. Enjoy. If not, thanks for giving me a try; there are many other great stories and authors to enjoy here.
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The sun was already high in the sky, even though it was only late spring. It was warm, in the low 70's, but it would be much hotter later. The road I was on led away from the edge of town, out into the countryside. It felt good to be back riding my road bike. Seemed like I hadn't ridden a bicycle in weeks. Months maybe? It was easy to lose track of time these days.
This part of Washington State, where we'd found the lakeview property, was set with rolling hills, blanketed with old apple orchards and new vineyards. We loved it here. The perfect getaway from Seattle. Just about a four hour drive, if we stopped at our favorite greasy spoon along the Yakima River for lunch. I loved riding along the quiet country roads, where I rarely encountered traffic. And if I did, the cars and farm trucks of the locals gave me a wide berth and a friendly wave as they drove slowly by.
Our house was located on the edge of the small town, about one block up a short hill from the lake. It had afforded us a spectacular view of most of the lake, without the high cost and annoyances of a waterfront property. Which is what we told ourselves whenever we looked longingly down at our neighbors lounging on their wharves at the water's edge. We'd built the house to our specifications, and it was -- by all accounts -- quite spectacular. Not large by modern standards, but with clean lines, a couple of guest bedrooms, and a private pool located in a sundrenched patio out back. A good tech-exit for me when I left a major software company, and my wife's long successful career as a corporate counsel -- also in tech - left us with a comfortable nest egg upon our early retirement. We kept our modest home in Seattle's Magnolia neighborhood, and built this "retirement cottage" for us to spend our holidays and long weekends while maintaining our city lifestyle and friends when we wanted it. Lake, pool, sunshine, wine, new friends: we loved the country lifestyle after two decades in the city.
Of course, that was all before the diagnosis, the shock, the tears, the long decline, the hope, the letdown, the pain and suffering and final (mercifully) peaceful death of my wife. Together for more than thirty years, our marriage had ended in sadness and personal tragedy that so many couples go through. Perhaps fortunately, we'd had no children. No kids or grandkids to comfort and console. It left me somewhat alone in the world. I was born an only child, and both my parents (and hers) passed long before my wife was taken. Thankfully, an extensive network of friends and extended family members on both sides had offered me loving and unending support during the first eighteen months of my grieving process. I don't think that I would ever get over the loss of my wife, but with almost two years since her passing I had transitioned from sorrow into practical numbness tinged with some rare hope for my future. I was getting by day-to-day, and without a job to go to, I was starting to look for distractions to fill my time. I had recently joined a pickle-ball club for fun, on the recommendation of one of my senior neighbors here at the lake. I bought an electric piano and took some online lessons. Kind of half-heartedly if I'm honest. But it was a great learning curve and I was enjoying tinkling amateurishly along with the instruction videos. Then I got my older roadbike out of storage and refurbished it. And now I was out enjoying the mid-June sunshine. It was helping, too. I needed the workout. I'd put on a ton of weight after my wife passed. I wallowed in self-pity. Got no exercise. Drank too much. Ate more. Grew a paunch that my slender frame had rarely exhibited before. But the cycling, and frequent jogs had helped to take care of that. Now, my waistline was within an inch of what it was when I got married. I was very far from ripped, but for a man in his fifties, I was passably fit. The gray hair at my temples, and plenty of salt mixed in with the pepper in my ever-present stubble, pegged my age for anyone that noticed. I wasn't bad looking, although had never considered myself handsome. Some friends once said that I could pass for the actor John Cusack in my prime, and his. But I'd say that was extremely generous.
Whenever I rode, it gave me time to let my mind wander. It was probably the closest I came to mindfulness. Although I liked to think of it as mindlessness. Cranking hard up one of the steep hills, or idling lazily down the other side, I enjoyed the freedom that it brought to my brain cells. It also felt good for my muscles. And I felt fit, even though I knew I was "healthy" rather than truly fit. I had even broken down and bought proper riding shoes that clipped into my pedals, tight lycra shorts (that I wouldn't wear around polite company), a tight riding jersey, gloves and a good helmet. The outfit made me feel more capable than I truly was. But it was better than the worn out board shorts and cotton t-shirts that I'd worn before, which flapped in the wind and didn't breathe when I started to sweat.
And now I was sweating as I came up a short steep hill that hid a blind curve to a downhill run. Just as I came over the crest, and was keenly anticipating the long gentle downward slope on the other side, I rode past a cyclist stopped on the side of the road. As I passed on the way down, I could see something was wrong. The rider was standing beside the bike. The bicycle was resting upside down on its handlebars, and clearly the rider was bent over working on the rear wheel. I braked hard as I passed. Turned and rode back up. I had a decent toolkit in my seat bag and -- hey -- you always stop to help a fellow rider. Maybe a flat tire. I had a CO2 pump with me.
As I rode up to the rider, I noticed it was a woman.
"Hey, need some help?" I asked, dismounting my bike and laying it on its side in the weeds bounding the orchard beside the road.
"Hey", she said, looking up at me. "Mayyyybe?" and laughed.
I noticed she was a little older, probably my age or so. Short. Slim and trim. Still had her helmet and sunglasses on. Dressed like me, in riding gear. Smear of black grease across her cheek where she'd adjusted her glasses or wiped a bug off her face.
"I was in the wrong gear coming up that hill and geared-down part way up. Like an idiot." She shook her head at herself. "Gear changer gave that ratchet-y noise and drove the chain right off the ring."
I looked down at her pedal crankset and saw that, indeed, the chain was driven deep behind the large front sprocket. Usually it goes off at the small ring on the rear wheel. Not this time.
"Oh yeah, that happens," I said. "Been there". Hoping to make her feel better.
I paused and looked up at her face.
"I've got some tools. Would you like me to have a go?" I took off my sunglasses as I spoke. Looking at her through her shades.
"Oh, that would be awesome," she sighed. "If you don't mind. I've been at it for forever. Can't budge it."
She took off her sunglasses and extended a greasy right hand. "I'm Samantha by the way. Sam." She looked down at her grease-covered hand and retracted it with a light laugh. "Whoops," and gave me a small wave instead.
I looked at her, a little recognition.
"Uh, Samantha?.... Sam? Is that you?"
She looked at me vacantly for a second, and then her smile crept back.
