8 comments/ 4999 views/ 7 favorites A Café with a View Ch. 01 By: KingsWoman Part 1 of 3 - The Bike Ride. For Mick - who gave me my first bike ride ;) with love. Carefully I dried the white plates and put them away on the shelves. I ran the tea towel over the cups and hung them on their hooks. No point putting the breakfast dishes for a family of four in the dishwasher. The quiet little café buried in the depths of the pine woods wouldn't be attracting many more visitors today. I almost always did the washing up by hand. I smoothed my damp hands over my hips like they do in '50s movies. I had the look - that arsehole Tony, my manager, made me wear some crappy little black dress with a stupid white frilly apron - small enough to remind men that I must have a similar shaped black bush under my crappy black skirt. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror that hangs by the toilet doors: tall, skinny, with my dark hair pulled into a pony tail off my pale face. My face would look young, except it has that scar down one cheek. Yeah, I've been around. Don't fucking try anything on with me, starshine. Hardly anyone came to that café deep in the woods. There were days when I could make myself a proper Italian coffee, sit out in the dappled sunshine on the step and work on my studies all day long without being disturbed. What? So fucking what, I was doing a bit of studying. I saw an advert, said you could earn and learn, study online. Graduate of the University of Life, that's me but I thought I'd give it a go. Piss off, I'm not doing any harm, just getting myself an education. It's my own fucking business what I do with my own time, isn't it. Occasionally, a family used to drive up to the café, especially if they'd been camping and it rained. More often it was lads on motorbikes. Not the wannabe one percenters, fuck, I'd had my gutful of them. They stick to the places they can hang out in their gangs. The roads near that café were a biker's dream, so sometimes the real riders - the ones who are in it for the bike, not the chance to look like an extra for a Mad Max movie - would ride through. They would come singly or in small groups. A gal like me could handle them easy. LOL. What! Yeah, I like something well hung on two wheels: hardtail or softail. So what. Easy pickings there at that café, I'm telling you. In fact, that day as I hung the cups on their hooks, I heard the sound of a single engine purring slowly up the track that turned off under the dark pine trees from the main swing through the hillsides. Putt-putt-putt, it pulled on up in front of the café and the rider cut the ignition. The stillness fell over the clearing in the pine woods again. A bird sang a few notes, another one replied. I stood waiting behind the counter with the red and black Gaggia espresso machine gleaming behind me and the cups and plates and glasses neatly stacked, shining clean. To my left, some fresh buns were temptingly displayed in a glass case. I quickly put my hands to my boobs and gave them a boost. They're not much to write home about, but a good bra will always showcase what you've got. Like in an essay. They don't let you have many words to write with but with a good structure you can make a couple of points stand out. After a while, I walked over to the door and went out to see what the fuck that fucker was playing at. A BMW K 1600 Gran Turismo in vermillion red had pulled over to the side of the quiet clearing. Clean as a whistle, I swear that was a nearly new machine. The chrome was glistening and the paintwork was as slick as a virgin's vagina. The bike was steady on the main stand and the rider was lying on top of the black saddle and trim, his head and shoulders up on the fuel tank. He was on his back with his legs down so that his feet were on the ground either side of the bike. He had on nearly new leathers - you know the kind, wanted to look like a hard man but couldn't bear to get his jacket scuffed. Fuck, I would have betted his mother fucking polished his trousers for him with handbag cream. Oh yes. His leather trousers were pulled down around his hips and his dick was sticking straight up in the fresh woodland air. Really? FFS. Word gets around quick, doesn't it. Fresh slag at the Hot Buns Café. Oh well, y'know. No point getting all stuck up about it and pretending I didn't like a bit of fun. In those days I was a bit of a good time gal. I had been through it, I didn't want any more trouble so I just used to take my fun where I found it - if you know what I mean. And I did find quite a lot of it in that café in the woods, LOL. I walked slowly over to the biker lying back over the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo with his leather trousers jerked down round his hips and his dick sticking up in the air. The six cylinder engine would still be boiling hot. I wanted to wave my hand gently near the cast aluminium frame to feel the heat but instead I stood by the bike and inspected the goods on offer. Reasonable size - and he knew it. Dirty fucker was showing himself off like he probably used to do in the changing rooms with the other lads at school. His cock was stuck up like a pole for me to dance around. The purple head was pushing at the foreskin and a bead of precum was already oozing from his slit, he was that up for it already. He had got himself all hot and bothered on the ride out, thinking about spearing hot slag with his sausage. By now the plonker was getting worried because I was just standing there by the bike not leaping onto his plonker. That thick dick must've been getting chilly poking up into the woodland breezes there. His stiffie was sagging. Awww, poor little thing! He flicked his eyes anxiously at me. Oooh, blue eyes under a mop of untidy dark hair. Mummy's boy or whatever, he was good looking. I gave in and put my hand out to wrap my fingers gently round his johnson. He made a sound somewhere between a sigh of relief and a grunt of lust. I eased my hand up and down to get him hard again. He was warm and thick in my hand. Guys go on about length but I like girth. I like a good thick one to stick in my hole and fill me up. I took my hand off his cock to pick out a condom from the pocket in my stupid frilly apron. He scrabbled about in the breast pocket of his jacket. I thought he had brought his own protection and was impressed at first but then he flourished a crisp note at me. WTF! Fuck you, fucking sonofabitch. Then I saw how much he was waving at me. TBH, if it had been a measly tenner or something I would've kicked that BMW Gran Turismo in its cast aluminium frame and toppled the whole thing over on top of him. But he was waving a fifty pound note at me. Well, y'know, fifty quid. That was a trip to Tenby for me and my mate Jan and the kiddo. Fish and chips, ice creams all round and a go at crabbing off the pier for the little 'un. They didn't used to get much of a break, Jan and Mickey, what with his special needs. Fifty quid was petrol in Jan's car and stick the bucket and spade in the boot, and we're off for the day. I took the note and with a little flourish I shoved it in my bra. As a thank you I showed half the bra cup to the fucker - proper nice from a posh shop in the city. I bought it in the sales one year. La Perla ivory satin and black lace with matching brief and suspender belt. Alright, alright, I like the Italian stuff. I dunno what it is. I love Italy, me. I had never been there, of course, hahaha. Picture me swanning about Firenze or wherever like that prissy tart in A Room with a View! See, I know the proper Italians call it Firenze not Florence, I'm not as thick as you think I am. Anyway, my Italian fashion flash was wasted on the blue-eyed boy. Talk about La Perla before swine, he just grunted some more, staring at my frilly white apron like he could see through it. He was in such a state I thought he was going to fall over without me pushing him - the BMW vermillion red Gran Turismo on top of him, squashing his pipework under the three-way catalytic convertor. I lifted up my skirt. No worries about him not appreciating that view. I was wearing no knickers so he got a straight eyeful of my tidy trimmed black bush, white lean thighs emphasised by the tops of my black stockings and the ivory satin and black lace straps of the La Perla suspenders. Now he was good and hard, his big thick dick sticking up in the woodland air. I fetched out one of my condoms. I thought it was going to be a quiet day, that there wouldn't be any more fuckers fucking along the woodland roads in search of a comfort stop. I picked out one of my favourites: reusable dotted and ribbed with the pleasure enhancing bump that rubs on my clitoris. If you're going to ride someone like I intended to ride this pony, that spur on the clit is a definite must. I fitted the condom over the quivering column of his flesh. He looked mighty fine once he was sporting that rubber rub-a-dub, I can tell you. I went round to the right side of the motorbike, put my hand over the handlebar - covering the brake out of habit, and then I put my other hand over to the other handlebar. My cleavage was riding above the blue-eyed boy now, and he couldn't help but look up past my titties at me although he did keep sliding looks down to where my skirt was hitched up and he could see my black-bushed pussy and white thighs against the black stocking tops. I stepped onto the peg, swung my leg and my weight over the bike and the blue-eyed boy all in one quick go. I knew the fucker wouldn't be fucking for long, he was leaking precum even before I fit that fucker of a condom on him. I aimed for his plonker and got it in the hole first shot. Ooh fucking gorgeous! I slid right down on him in one move, feeling the ribs and dots of the condom ripple against my slick quim. He jerked up into my cunt - ooh that cock thrusting up! The spur of the condom was immediately rubbing on my clitoris. Oh yes, baby! Gripping the handlebars and straddling him and the bike with my feet on the pegs, I started to rise and fall, clenching my cunt muscles around his cock, thrusting down on him and against the spur on my clitoris. Ooh fuck! ooh fuck! it was good! The fucker was spread out under me with his feet braced on the ground to make sure the bike stayed upright. He couldn't move like he wanted to. His body was racked out over the black saddle and trim, straining to keep still enough that the bike wouldn't fall over. I was hoping this would delay the fucking enormous orgasm that fucker was going to blow into the ribbed and dotted condom inside me long enough that I could get my jollies off too. In frustrated excitement, the fucker reached round and grabbed my arse cheeks. He sure wasn't a tit man, he was focussing on my butt, gripping the cheeks so he could pull me up and down on him. Hi ho, Silver away! I was doing my best, going up and down his pole like a carousel horse, my ponytail tossing in the woodland breezes. Ooh yes! those nobbles on the condom on his knob were really doing it for me. I could feel the sensations rippling out in my vagina and yes! yes! yes! the rubbing of the rubber spur on my love button. The fucker gripping my arse cheeks was pulling them apart as he tried to lift me and pull me down to his rhythm not mine. That allowed a fresh breeze to whisper over my arsehole - oooh yes! ooooh yes! I may not have big tits but I have a great arse with a lean meaty curve to it. My skirt had got caught up in the fucker's hands at the back so my whole curving arse was being shown off to the squirrels and bunnies: white and semi-circular like two half moons rising and dropping in the grip of his fingers above my lean white thighs with the black stocking tops ringing them. I heard the sound of vehicles approaching. Not a car, thank God, which might have meant kids. It was the distinctive rumble of a V-twin motor - a Harley Davidson, and there was the whining stutter of a Triumph and the clockwork spluttering of a Ducati. OMG, those fucking biker boys were going to get a fucking show as they came round the bend in the track into the clearing. I imagined what they would see: the leather-clad lad sprawled on his back on the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. My black-stockinged long legs against the cast aluminium. My bare white arse cheeks above the black stocking tops, with the ivory silk and black lace suspender straps taut down over my thighs. The whole moonscape bobbing up and down, thrusting my secret hole in its black bush up and down on the ribbed and dotted condom sporting cock of the leather-clad lad. His thick fingers gripping my meaty white arse cheeks to pull them open and show off my puckered plum arsehole. Fuck fuck, I got so excited that I screamed and my cunt muscles suddenly all bunched up and clenched on the fucker's plonker. He started shouting and swearing and cumming. I swear I felt the spurt of an eruption of cum thrust the top of the condom up inside of me. I was gripping the handle bars of the bike with my hands, the bike with my knees and his cock with my cunt and cumming like a fucking steam train - all whistles and bells. I came down off that fucking orgasm trembling and sweating. Behind me it was silent - apart from the birds and bees - so the Harley, the Triumph and the Ducati must just have been sitting with their ignitions switched off. I swung my leg off over the blue-eyed boy, who was lying back with his blue eyes shut and a huge grin on his face. My knees were trembling and I could barely stand, I had cum so hard. Sticky strings of pussy juice dangled against the tops of my thighs. I couldn't even move to turn round and face the lucky spectators of the show young blue eyes and I had put on. Strong hands took me gently by the arms and helped me into the café. I sat heavily in a chair, panting, and looked speechless at the three fuckers who had fucked up on their motorbikes. They were proper biker lads in weatherproofs. One had twinkling pale blue eyes and sandy hair, he was stockily built. I would have laid my La Perla knickers on it that he was Harley Owner Guy - the HOG. The taller thinner one who was still staring, and had not wiped the dribble off his chin yet, was probably the Triumph. Ducati was the bronzed bloke with what looked like a hired jacket over jeans - he probably hired the Ducati to come out with his mates 'n all. "Come on, lads, let's get tea on the go," the HOG said solicitously. "The lady's in need of some ... ah, liquid refreshment." Ducati went and bustled about behind the counter, mucking up my clean cups in search of teabags and some sugar and milk. Triumph was still looking hopefully at me. I found my breath at last. "Fuck off," I panted. I was sitting sprawled back in the chair with my legs spread so my soaking wet pussy could get some air. "I'm not giving out any more after that. Fuck off into the woods and have a wank." Triumph blushed deeply but the HOG laughed. Ducati came round with the cups of tea. "Sugar?" HOG asked. I held up two fingers, then turned them round politely. He put two spoonfuls in my cup and stirred it thoroughly. He went back to the door and picked up a bit of paper off the floor. Fuck me! it was the fucking BMW Gran Turismo fucker's fucking fifty pound note. It must have got jerked up in my bra cup with all the bouncing up and down and had slid out onto the floor. I would have been willing to fight the three of them off not to be raped, but I wasn't going to break my fingernails over a measly fifty quid. But the HOG just brought it over and put it down on the table beside me. We sat peacefully drinking our cups of tea. Triumph slurped at his but the HOG was a nice tidy drinker and Ducati seemed unsure if he really wanted his cup. "Buns?" I managed to ask. "Oh yeah, bung a couple in the toaster, Joe," the HOG said to Ducati. "I'm quite ... peckish," and he looked at me and sniggered, his eyes twinkling as if to tell me how much I'd turned him on. "Put a tenner on the counter," he added. "The lady can sort out our change in a minute." I was wondering if he was being sarky, calling me a 'lady' when he'd just seen my arse going up and down on a ribbed and dotted condom on the cock of a BMW rider in leathers. But I knew he meant it. I was touched by him paying up for the drinks and buns, too. Right little gentleman, LOL. As Ducati put the money under the saucer laid optimistically out for tips, we heard the bellied roar of the BMW kicking into life. Cwoar, that fucker. Never even came for a cup of tea, never mind a bacon sarnie. Tony would be going on again about the cash flow and saying senior management would come and shut the café down. Oh, but thanks to the HOG, Triumph and Ducati - and the family breakfast earlier, I'd have something to show for the day. Other than my trembling knees and the cum trails drying against my thighs and stocking tops that is. I was hoping the fucking BMW fucker had at least left my ribbed and dotted condom behind. It was supposed to be good for fifty uses so I had another thirty-eight to get out of it. "Well, thank you for the ... cuppa," the HOG said, with that naughty twinkle that told me he meant thank you for the whole show. He got to his feet and his friends followed suit. They all put their cups and plates tidily on the counter for me. "What about your change," I said, starting to try to get to my feet. "Don't you worry about it," Ducati said in a beautiful Italian accent that made my knees start trembling again. "Grazie mille for ... everything." I almost regretted telling the three fuckers to fuck off, but I was in no state to accommodate even one of them. Even a windswept blond bronzed Italian one. "You could come back next weekend," I suggested. My brain wasn't in top gear, I meant for the change. They sort of didn't look but they did look at each other out of the corners of their eyes. Triumph said huskily: "You'd do ... all three of us? Together?" I blushed furiously. I mean, of course I fantasised while playing about with a couple of toys but I'm not a slag who does gang bangs. TBH, even with all that stuff I'd had to do before, I had never had the chance to pop my anal cherry. "Oh yeah sure," I said crossly. "Multi-hole orgy, why not." The HOG blushed but sniggered too. He knew I was joking. I was hoping he knew I was joking. "Is fifty quid the going rate?" asked Triumph rudely. I got very indignant at that. "I just took the money so I can help my friend with her kid!" I blurted out angrily. "His dad ran off when he was six months old and she's never managed to get a penny from him to help her. The kid has cerebral palsy." Why did I bother. They wouldn't believe me. They thought I stashed it and bought La Perla knickknacks. But WTF. Who cares. I felt very cross and got up to go and sling the plates in the washing up bowl. But not too hard. Tony would take it out of my wages if any got chipped. "I should think seventy-five at least would be the going rate for a multi-hole orgy," the HOG said. I could tell he was trying to make me laugh but I was pissed off. "Yeah, seventy-five quid. Each," I said. "Ta ta." I started to run the hot water and squish the washing up liquid into the bowl. I heard their heavy boots tramp out and the door shut behind them. My hands were still trembling with the adrenaline surge of the enormous orgasm I got off the fucking BMW Gran Turismo fucker. I knew I would be fantasising for a while about going up and down on his condom-covered pole while he held my arse cheeks open for the three bikers to stare at my arsehole. I wished I'd been able to see the HOG's face while he watched. Did his eyes twinkle? Or did they narrow up and get serious in lust. He had a nice voice - well posh. That one they called Joe - must be Giovanni. His accent was to die for. I gave a sigh and a smirk, put the last cup on the draining board and went to see if I could retrieve my ribbed and dotted condom with the pleasure enhancing bump from the pine-needle strewn floor of the clearing. A Café with a View Ch. 02 Part 2 of 3 - The Italian Stallion and the HOG. Copyright © Kingswoman 2015 (Many thanks to Mick and to J. for reading the story through for me.) ***** I'm really not that kind of person. It's been years since ... I did it for him really, with the other men ... Hey, I'm a free woman in a free world. I'm entitled to a bit of fun. TBH, I'm kinda pleased I can still enjoy a good fucking after what I've had to do. What it was, was Tony - my manager at the café in the woods. That fucking slimy shit. Somehow he heard that I occasionally dished up more than a cup of tea and a biscuit. So he thought he had the right to come and paw me about and try to get me to suck him off. FFS! Urgh. An occasional lad in leathers passing through and willing to put his dick out for the sucking is one thing. That stupid bully in a suit, swaggering about acting like he was God, no way José. Not to mention, he was a married man - with kids. No fucking way. I slapped him in the face and put a knee in his tenders. He did a number about how he'd tell senior management to shut the café down unless I shut up and put out. I told him to fuck off. He fucked off - in his runty little secondhand BMW Alpina. Well he had screwed me one way even if he didn't get to screw me the other. I was going to have to leave the job. Honestly, I could've cried. I did like it there, in the peace and quiet of the woods, getting on with my studies and with the occasional biker to get it on with. Big girls don't cry. I was just sitting at one of the tables in a fucking foul and sulky mood, rubbing my arm where Tony had twisted it. I was surprised to hear the two engines. It was only a week since the incident of the vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. TBH, I hadn't thought I'd hear the rumbling of the V-twin motor belonging to the Harley Owner Guy ever again. I knew he'd enjoyed the show, of course, but I didn't think he'd taken me seriously about the multi-hole orgy. I thought he knew I was joking, and I thought he wasn't the kind of bloke who dipped his dick in a cheap slapper like I must've looked like. I couldn't hear the whine of the Triumph. I got up and went to look out of the window and saw the hired Ducati - it was a Panigale, and the Harley Owner Guy on a Fat Boy. I kind of laughed a bit then in spite of my foul mood. I liked it that the HOG rode a Fat Boy, it was totally him: the style of a hardtail with the comfort of a softail. They came in the café, Ducati Panigale first: smiling and windswept. I wasn't quite sure how he fit with the HOG. He wasn't a real biker. I could sort of picture him back in Italy, riding a Piaggio Grillo in cut-offs and flipflops. "Buon giorno," I said. He gave this lovely pleased smile and said: "Buon giorno, signora. Come sta?" "Va bene," I said. "Where did you learn to speak Italian?" the Hog asked. "On my course," I said. "I'm ... studying." "Studying what?" he asked. "B.A. Combined Arts," I mumbled angrily. FFS. It was that fucker Tony. He'd upset me and if I wasn't careful I'd start spilling my guts about my life to these lads. They'd say: "How interesting." (Or in the case of Ducati Panigale, "interessante.") We'd have a nice cuppa then they'd fuck off. If I wanted a nice cuppa and a chat, I went round to my mate Jan's. I wanted a fucking royal fucking to get the taste of ... the idea of Tony out of my mouth. "That's very impressive," the HOG said, putting his helmet on a table. "Yeah," I sneered. "Just look how far it's got me, all the way out here North by Northwest of Nowheresville." "It is a bit quiet here," the HOG conceded in a friendly chatty way. That twinkle was in his eye. I laughed. "Yeah," I said. "I don't know why they put this stuff in." I waved my hand at the gleaming red and black Gaggia espresso maker and smart shelves of fine white china plates and cups, the glass cabinet for the buns and cakes. "They really missed a trick. Shoulda bought a franchise down by the campsite. There'd be a roaring trade in sarnies and kids' meals, never mind if you laid on a homemade lasagne or cottage pie ..." Fucking shit. There I went again. I wanted to know because I had never seen the bikes, only heard them, so I abruptly asked: "What bike was it your mate was riding? Your other mate." The HOG looked confused and said: "A Triumph." "No," I said impatiently. "What model." He looked taken aback and said: "A Triumph Bonneville." I grinned. A Bonneville! Very nice. "Have you got it, then?" I asked. "The seventy-five quid. Each." My cunt kind of quivered when I said it. I felt well fucking bad, asking these lads for a stack of cash to fuck me. It made me laugh inside to do it to them. I would've done them for free but the money made it even more of a fucking game. And if I was going to leave my job, I could do with it anyway. Ducati Panigale's eyes lit up. He started to put his hand in his jacket pocket for his wallet. Then he looked at the HOG. The HOG wasn't happy. But I wanted the HOG. Don't ask me why. He wasn't particularly good-looking: stocky build, sandy hair and pale blue eyes. He was a good ten years older than Ducati with a line or two on his forehead. Ducati was fucking drop dead gorgeous: bronzed tan and windswept thick blond hair. He was fucking Apollo Belvedere. He was so gorgeous, he didn't even know it. He just thought it was normal to go through life with women spreading their fucking legs for him. The HOG had something-else though. He was serious, a proper gentleman. He was a kind of man who would never even look at me unless he was paying for me. So I was going to fucking make him pay for fucking me. OK. It was more than that. The HOG had that twinkle in his eye. He got me. He knew when I was joking. I could make him laugh. I wanted to see what he was like when he wasn't laughing, when he lost the twinkle in his eye and got serious. I took a calculated risk and struck lucky. "You can have my arse," I said to the HOG. I saw his eyes narrow up and he sucked his breath in. I knew he'd been thinking about my arse all week. The previous Saturday he had ridden through the sun-splashed woodland roads, not thinking about anything much - just out with a couple of mates. He had come round the bend of the track to the café, to see my beautiful arse riding up and down - flashing white in the woodland shade. My arse crack had been held open by the thick fingers of the stupid fucker lying back for a fuck on the fucking vermillion red BMW Gran Turismo. The HOG had looked straight into my arse crack and had seen my arsehole and he had liked what he had seen. The HOG was an arse man. The HOG tried to laugh it off so I played my trump card. "I've never had it up the arse," I said, in a careless tone of voice but looking direct into the HOG's narrowed pale blue eyes. "You can pop my anal cherry." It was the cherry on the top and he bit the bait. He gave a sly sideways look at Ducati. His face was suddenly feral, he wasn't thinking clearly any more. All he wanted now was to fuck me in the arse. Ducati wasn't fussed but he would join in if there was any fun on offer. Ducati already had his wallet halfway out of his jacket and now he pulled it all the way out and peeled notes off a big wad he was carrying. The HOG fumbled his own wallet out and checked it. He was a tenner short. He looked like he was relieved. Fate had let him off the hook but Ducati wordlessly put a tenner down for him and the feral look came back into his face. He swore softly a couple of times. He had started breathing faster. His eyes were not twinkling but glinting. I went back behind the counter and fetched out a jar of water-based lube I had stashed on the off-chance that I would one day be in the mood for some anal fun. (I never needed anything for my pussy; I'm naturally juicy.) I had always wanted to try anal sex, just never met the right fucking fucker for the job. Losing my virginity was something I rushed into to try and keep up with the other girls at school. I had to suffer the fucking plonker boasting to everyone who'd listen that he'd laid me for a couple of months before I shut him up by screwing his best friend. Tolerating the clumsy fumbling of the local lads was an occasional dull obligation until I met ... But that's a long story. FFS, I just wanted my first fuck in the arse to be more memorable than that inept poking at my vagina I had endured. "I haven't managed to eat breakfast today," I said to the HOG, "so I think I'm ... clean ... up there." "Right," he said, in this tone of voice that meant he didn't know what I was saying and he didn't care. "You'll have to stretch me," I said. "With your fingers." He was just staring blankly with that narrow glint in his eyes so I went and got him a pair of thin rubber gloves out of the first aid kit. Ducati was sitting patiently with his nicely shaped firm young butt perched on the edge of one of the tables. He had picked a more solid wooden family diner, rather than one of the flimsy little round plastic-topped tables. It looked like a good enough setup to me. I went and stood in front of him and reached under my skirt to pull my knickers off: Rigby and Peller black with red trim - perfect match for the Gaggia espresso machine, LOL. The HOG suddenly knelt behind me as I dropped my knickers and caught them before they hit the floor. I looked down into pale blue eyes raised up to stare into my eyes. Like I said: he was a gentleman. I felt like a fucking Princess for a second, when he did that. He looked around for somewhere to put the knickers, then he put them in his pocket. "You can have the Trojan Magnum," I said, like it was special because he was such a macho man. Actually he had to have a thicker condom for anal and the Magnum was extra lubricated. I gave Ducati a Fetherlite. He unbuttoned his fly no bother and rolled it on himself. He was already stiff: a nice length and a curve in his dick like some of the slow curves in the hill roads round the café. The HOG took the Trojan Magnum but he didn't undo his flies yet. I bent over beside Ducati, turning my head to find my eyes level with his nice curving cock. My heart was hammering and my cunt was loosening up and wetting just at the idea of doing it with two blokes at once. I knew my eyes must be sparkling. I grinned at Ducati's curving cock. I heard him laugh too. The HOG lifted my skirt and made a noise like he had forgotten how to breathe properly: his breath shot out very fast and hard and then he sucked the breath back in. Did I mention that my tits are not much but I have a fucking gorgeous arse? The HOG had put on the gloves and I felt his fingers in the thin rubber spread and flex on my arse cheeks. I was hot and wet, my pussy was throbbing as I thought about what the two men would be seeing. I like to show myself. I used to enjoy giving men a flash, making out like it was unintentional but if I caught their eye I'd burst out laughing. They'd know I'd meant it and we would exchange a conspiratorial grin. I knew the HOG would be seeing my rounded white arse cheeks with the taut lines of black and red suspenders across them. My pale thighs would be highlighted by the black rings of my stocking tops around them. The HOG would see a bit of black bush between my legs under the curving crack of my arse. He spread my cheeks to hold open my crack and expose my arsehole. I could almost feel his gaze boring into my arse. My thighs were quivering, my cunt was throbbing. Ducati wouldn't need any lubrication for his piston action in and out. The HOG brushed a fingertip on my arsehole. I swear, it was like sparkles in my arse, my hole lit up with pleasure. Tentatively he pushed and I began to moan as he got a fingertip in. My whole body felt like it was shouting Yes! to his finger coming in me. He pressed about, the ring of muscle was still clamped tight round his finger. He pulled his finger out. I wanted to shout at him, I knew I would punch him if he told me I was too tight and he wasn't going in there. Then I felt something poking at my hole again. The HOG was smart, he knew I wasn't ready yet for two fingers so he was pushing his thumb in me. I was looking at Ducati's long curved cock but I was picturing the HOG's blunt thumb thrusting gently at my puckered hole. The HOG eased his thumb about, spreading the cool lubricant and stretching my sphincter. Ducati was breathing hard now and his hand came up to play about with his cock. The HOG had greased me up well and could get two fingers in. He pulled them in and out, round my arsehole, making me whimper with pleasure and excitement. The HOG was grunting softly and saying: "Fucking Hell," under his breath. Ducati was panting as he handled his cock. The HOG pulled his fingers out. I turned suddenly round and went on my knees in front of him, sprawling my long legs in the black stockings over the floor. I put my hands up and unbuttoned his flies myself. He popped free as I pulled his flies open and his jockeys down. He had a good girth on him, I was glad he'd worked my arsehole wide. He was thick and hard, he didn't need me to get him any stiffer but I bent and put my lips to the pulsing head of his cock, thrust my warm mouth down the length of him until he was pushing at the back of my throat. A long groan escaped him and he put his hands to my head to try to keep pushing my mouth onto his cock. I pulled back from him, though. Any more and he'd blow in my mouth and I fucking wanted him fucking my arse. I got up and turned back to Ducati. Ducati was grinning and panting. He started to stand up from the table but I pushed him back. I got him to help me kneel up on the table over his nicely curved stiff erection, and with my skirt lifted for the HOG to get in my behind. The HOG was rustling the condom out of its packet. I held Ducati's curved dick and pushed the head up against the soft muscular entrance to my cunt, I tilted my hips and he popped in with a long "aaaaah!" of satisfaction. I pulled Ducati's hands round to my arse. He was busy staring down the front of my dress at my tits in the black and red Rigby and Peller bra. He pulled my arse cheeks open, laughing and groaning and giving a thrust up into my slick wet cunt. I felt the HOG's hands on my hips, getting me nicely positioned. I felt the head of his cock against my lubed and stretched sphincter. He pressed and I started screaming with pleasure as I felt his thick dick go through my anal ring and up inside me. Oh fuck! oh fuck! oh fuck! I could feel the two of them pressing up in me, pushing against each other through the membrane between my anal canal and my vagina. I knew they would be feeling not just me but each other. Ducati was content to lie back on the table and take it. His hands were still gripping my arse cheeks to hold them open for the HOG. The HOG was pumping into me and making me go up and down on Ducati. Ducati was moaning and going: Oh Gesù mio! Santa Maria Vergine. I was gasping and whimpering. The HOG was grunting. Suddenly he pulled my whole dress up at the back. He pulled his shirt up and he pressed his naked chest to my back. Oh fuck! oh fuck! his skin against my skin. I pushed back hard to that warmth, the feeling of the hairs on his chest rubbing on my back. I wanted to glue myself to him, to press the whole surface of my heated skin into his skin. He had pushed his hands round under my dress and was gripping my tits in the Rigby and Peller bra. Now he was pressing his head round over my shoulder. He was jerking his thick dick up into my arsehole between Ducati's hands holding my arse cheeks open. His face was pressed to the side of my face. Oh fuck! I couldn't help it. I turned my face to his, we were twisted to get our faces close and kiss. His lips pressed hard to mine, his tongue pushing at my mouth, his cock thrusting up in my arse. Ducati was cumming now with a high-pitched squeal of pleasure. His grip on my buttocks suddenly loosened. I heaved up with the HOG so that Ducati flopped out of my cunt. The HOG pulled me back down over his cock again. He started grunting hard, his cheek pressed so hard into the side of my face that the small bristles were scratching my skin. I felt the waves start flooding up from my arse, from him fucking me. I felt his chest pressing into my back. I felt his rough cheek press my cheek. I came in a gush: jerking and screaming and bursting into tears. The tears poured down my face and the HOG cried out, gripping his hands on my tits, pumping up disjointedly into my arse. I couldn't stop crying. The HOG was pulling out of me and turning me to hold me close to him, close to his naked chest. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "No, I liked it," I sobbed. He pressed in between my legs, in my arms where I was sat back on the wooden table beside the laid back Ducati. I clung to the HOG's shoulders and sobbed. Slowly I stopped crying so hard. I lay limply in the HOG's arms with my head on his shoulder. I could see sunshine falling on the café floor through a tear that hung on my lashes. I felt like a bloody fool, seducing the HOG into fucking me in the arse and then crying like a baby. But I felt strangely at peace too, as if my crummy life was a little better for the fine fuck we'd had. Ducati was sitting up, taking off his condom. He got up and went to the men's room. The HOG slowly let me go and stood back from me. "Did I do that to you?" He was pointing at the red marks on my arm. "Fuck no," I said, suddenly brought back to real life. "That was my manager, earlier." The HOG turned his head and looked at me very intently at that. "Fuck's sake," I said. "You don't think I fuck every fucker who comes along here? All he wanted was a cocksuck but I gave him a knee in the goolies when he tried to force me down on him." I wiped an arm across my wet face. I didn't want to look in the HOG's eyes. It was too much. It was too Pretty Woman. I shouldn't have let him kiss me. "Do you want a cup of tea?" I asked, shuffling off the table and staggering as I went to stand. The HOG didn't say anything, he was still staring intently at me. He looked really upset. What was he upsetting himself about now? He had enjoyed himself, when we were finished he even hugged me. "Cup of tea to go with my buns," I quipped, glancing quickly at him but there was no twinkle in his eye. He wasn't laughing. He looked like someone had punched him in the gut. Oh well, WTF. I could still feel the slickness where he had pushed in and out of my pulsing anal hole, and it felt fucking good. I would remember that feeling for a while to come - long after the HOG had fucked off. FFS. We had had our fun. Now fuck off where you can boast about what you did to a scrubber of a waitress with your pal Joe from Italy. To show him how little I cared, I scooped up the notes off the table and stuffed them in my red and black bra cup. I walked unsteadily off behind the counter without looking at him any more. The HOG went to the men's room. He and Joe came back out and went to the door. Joe grinned at me as they left but the HOG never looked at me. His head was down and he walked out like he was ashamed. WTF, couldn't he have given me a bit of a grin - we had had a right time of it, he'd shown what a lad he was fucking me in the rear. Why did he have to make like it was a bad thing we'd done. It was just a bit of fun. If he didn't like it, he didn't have to come back here, he could fuck off somewhere else on his fucking Fat Boy, cruising the roads instead of cruising women. After the rumble of the Fat Boy's V-twin engine and the Ducati's clockwork splutter had died away in the woods, I went and sat in a chair. I leaned my head in my hand and stared at a pattern of stars on the plastic tabletop. A Café with a View Ch. 02 My legs were trembling uncontrollably. The tops of my thighs were sticky with cum and lube. My arsehole was tingling with the afterglow of the HOG's thick dick thrusting me into orgasm. I started to cry again. Fucking men, eh. Fuck 'em. It's the only thing to do. Fuck 'em. A Café with a View Ch. 03 Part 3 of 3 - Up Close and Personal Copyright © Kingswoman 2015 Many thanks again to Mick and to J. ***** (Note for American readers: 'shite' is a lower class British way of saying 'shit', usually as an adjective rather than a noun.) I was surprised to hear a car coming up the track, the Thursday after I'd lured the Fat Boy riding Harley Owner Guy into fucking me in the arse. But fuck me, I was totally gobsmacked when I looked out of the window and saw the HOG getting out of a Skoda Fabia estate car. TBH, I never would have pinged the HOG for a Skoda driver. Mercedes-Benz cabriolet would've been my guess. I had last seen the HOG slinking out of the café, so fucking upset that he couldn't even look me in the eye. I never thought I'd see him again. When I saw he'd come back to the café, I suddenly felt so excited and happy. I'd been down ever since the HOG and his Italian pal had motored off out of my life. I told my mate Jan all about it, of course, about what a laugh I had fucking two blokes at once. How the HOG kissed me. How I felt totally fucking laid open. Maybe it was because it was the first time I'd done two blokes at once. Or being fucked in the arse makes you feel more ... vulnerable. Jan laughed and said I was finally over what That Turd had done to me, which didn't make any fucking sense. (That Turd was what she called my ex. She said he was too crap to have a real name.) I started to go for the door, to run out to the HOG. But then I felt worried. He wasn't on his Harley Davidson Fat Boy and he was dressed in a fucking suit and tie. (Some kind of shimmering pale grey. I have to say, it looked fucking fine on him - although I prefer him in his weatherproofs of course.) I knew that if the HOG had decided to come back and give me another fuck he wouldn't have come in a car, wearing a suit - on a Thursday. He'd have motored up on his Fat Boy on Saturday, pretending he was just passing through. Although, frankly, the HOG could fucking come and fuck me any fucking day of the fucking week, if you know what I mean. A fucking suit spelt authorities and trouble. Had someone's kids seen more than they show in the government approved sex education videos, and was the HOG a social worker come to ... no, that didn't make any sense. I stood by the window, waiting anxiously for the HOG to come in the café. He had got distracted and was walking to the side of the clearing. Shit. I remembered then that I'd left my bike there. Usually I put it round the back of the café but as I was just working out my two weeks' notice after resigning, I'd stuck it in the front. The HOG stood looking my wheels over. Then he turned and came up to the café. I moved behind the counter and stood in front of the red and black Gaggia espresso maker, wiping my sweating palms on my crappy little black dress. "Hullo," I said brightly when the HOG came in, pretending like I didn't know him. "Cappuccino? Latte?" "Is that your bike?" he said. "Yeah, why," I said chirpily. "D'you want to buy it?" "You'd be willing to sell that?" he asked incredulously. "Uh ... no," I admitted. "What is it?" he said. "Where did you get it?" "Deus ex Machina Grievous Angel," I muttered. I hung my head and said sulkily: "It's all my ex-husband left when he died." "Oh fuck," the HOG said, looking stricken. "I'm so sorry." "Oh no," I said quickly, lifting my head up so he could see I wasn't crying or anything. "Best day of my fucking life when I found out he'd taken a header off a cliff and broken his neck. He always took good care of the bike; there was barely a scratch on that luckily." The HOG looked like his face was trying to process six different emotions at once. I realised I hadn't explained things as well as I had hoped. In embarrassment I turned round and put a coffee on. He didn't really need to order. I knew the HOG wasn't a cappuccino drinker; he'd want his coffee stronger. The HOG sat carefully down at a table and put a briefcase on it in front of him. A fucking briefcase! Jesus H. Christ. How bad was this going to be? Was he going to sue me for coercing him into that arse-fuck? He didn't look like a lawyer, in spite of the suit, but you never fucking know, do you. I carried on babbling about That Turd, to keep the HOG from saying something that would finally show me he had not come driving all the way out here in a Skoda Fabia estate car to fuck me in the arse again. "I met my ex-husband when I was not long out of school. I never got much out of school. I was the one they said was the fucking slag of the year, I dunno why. I didn't really sleep around, I didn't even talk about it like some of the girls did, but they made out I was a tart and would drop my knickers for anyone." The coffee trickled blackly out of the spouts. I frothed up the hot milk with a hiss. I had run a couple of cups through the machine that morning; I always did that to keep it sweet. I went once by mistake into one of those lahdida posh cafés in the city. They did the coffee with heart and fern patterns in it! I thought that was so fucking nice. I blagged the guy into showing me how he did it. I think he just liked it that someone was interested, cuz I was so interested I forgot to offer him a fuck for it and he never tried it on, just showed me how you make those patterns. OK! OK! yes, I was doing a fucking heart in the HOG's coffee. OMG, I'm like blushing now to think of it, how naff was that. I just did it, like I would do a fern for the regular tourists. I lifted my head from the coffee machine and saw out of the windows a breeze make the green leaves dance. It was as if I realised for the first time that the fucking awful time I had at school hadn't been my fault. "I suppose ... I was pretty," I know my voice had a note of surprise in it, to suddenly realise that. "Maybe some of the lads wanted to fuck with me, so they pretended I was easy. Then they were pissed off if I wouldn't, so they slagged me down. And the girls were jealous." I brought the coffee over, with my heart in it, and put the round white cup down in front of the HOG. The HOG looked up at me as I put the coffee in front of him like he didn't want to hear more but he really did. I pushed the sugar at him but he shook his head. Only took sugar in tea, apparently, I noted. "My ex-husband was in a bikers' gang," I said, sitting down opposite the HOG. There was no fucking nice way to tell him what I had got to say so I just tried to tell it as quickly and painlessly as possible. "You need a woman to get into the gang, you have to ... let the other men fuck her. He picked me up for that." The HOG made a move like he was going to put his hand over my hand but I moved my hand and folded it with the other hand in my lap. If he was kind to me I would cry too hard to tell him about it. I had cried enough about what happened to me. It was over. I just wanted to tell him about it so he'd understand and then I could try for an honest fuck with him. "I was just a thing to my ex-husband. He treated the bike better 'n he treated me. But at school I was nothing. At least I was something to my ex. And I thought ... I thought it was fucking cool. When I rode pillion behind him past those tossers and frigid bitches who made my life a misery at school, they were envious. "But a man like that doesn't treat you like a frigging person," I said, not looking at the HOG's face. "It was rough. Especially for someone young and pretty. He put me around all over; it gave him status to have this fucking young cutie who would put out to whoever he said could fuck her. I didn't mind the fucking around, I thought that was cool 'n all - 'socially subversive'," I made a face and then laughed. When they talked about 'subversion through art' on my modules, I used to just put my head down so they couldn't see me laughing. "Slowly I began to want to fuck who I wanted, not who he wanted me to fuck, and then he beat me. "I only thought about leaving twice. Once was three months after I'd met him. This lad from school ... came looking for me. We only had a bit of a chat but my ex-husband saw us and came after him with a length of chain. I managed to hold him off. I thought he would beat me up instead. The next day, he asked me to marry him. " I sighed and looked up at the ceiling so that the tears wouldn't spill out of my eyes. "I thought it meant he loved me," I said. "I was so fucking happy that someone loved me. I suppose he did love me in a way. But it was bad news for me. He loved me not for myself but like I was part of him. He would do anything not to let me get away, because that would mean he would lose face. I was like his pretty face. He would do anything - beat me, even kill me - rather than lose face." "Did he do that to you?" the HOG said in a husky voice, like he too was trying not to cry. Clumsily he gestured at my cheek. "Yeah, sure," I said, like I didn't care. "He was drunk. He was always drunk. He was always fucking pissed off about something and taking it out on whoever was nearest. I was nearest. "When you're living like that, you get hooked on it. The adrenaline is like a drug. It doesn't make you happy but after a while you can't function without the drama and the crises. There's the fear too, wondering when the temper is going to build up and blow and you'll get it in the neck. Sometimes it would get so bad, waiting and waiting, that I would do something to provoke him. Just to get it over with. And sometimes I thought I wanted to die. It was like living in Hell and you can't get away. "But I got away," I said, turning my head down and looking fiercely into the HOG's watery blue eyes. "It was the second ... no, it was the third time he'd put me in hospital. I lost another baby. My mate Jan had come in to help me. My ex was nowhere to be seen, of course. He knew I wouldn't file charges. I'd never dare. It wasn't just him, the whole gang would make sure I didn't live to testify. "Jan was sick of seeing me like it. She'd been offered a home for her and Mickey. It was all the way down here, far from where we lived. Well, that suited her. She told me, she was going. She said if I wanted, I could come with her but she would never come to see me in hospital again. I must get away somehow. She said she couldn't risk That Turd - that's what she calls him, being anywhere near Mickey. "I lay there for a week without any visitors. I waited for That Turd to come to see me but he didn't. I realised I had to choose between him and Jan, between death and life. The police and domestic abuse workers were coming round to try to talk me into testifying. I was terrified he would find out and think I'd split on him. I skipped out one night with stitches poking out of my face and all I had in a plastic bag. I hitched down here to Jan. I got jobs in burger bars and takeaway places, working double shifts till I saved enough for a deposit on my own place. "About a year later, a couple of the lads showed up. I was fucking shitting myself, thought I was going to be dead in a ditch with my face slashed to ribbons. But then I saw one of the lads was riding my ex-husband's bike. I knew he'd fucking bought it. I was crying with fucking joy. Laughing and crying all at the same time. Luckily the lads thought I was gutted he was a goner. They didn't blame me for running, he brought trouble on all of us because he was so out of control. I was his widow so they brought me the bike and treated me with respect." The HOG sat in the sunny café looking like he was going to cry his eyes out. But at least he hadn't opened up the briefcase. "Drink up," I urged him. Mechanically the HOG sipped at his cup. Then he looked at it as if he was surprised. I felt secretly pleased. I may be a cheap slag but I can make a bloody nice coffee. "Well then," I said breezily. "That's me. What's your story?" The HOG looked over the white rim of his cup at me. His blue eyes were still watering. He put the cup carefully down on its saucer, frowned and then sighed. He looked like he had come to a decision and felt better for it. "Nothing ... much," he said hesitantly. "I've been ... lucky." I waited. I knew there must be something. A bloke his age doesn't waft through the woodland on a fucking Fat Boy without something having happened. At his age he ought to be out camping by the pond down the way and teaching his kids how to cycle, not cruising alone on a motorbike to get away from it all. "School ... I did well," he said. He was too embarrassed to say it but I knew he'd had a nice family who got him into a good school and went to all the sports days and school plays to cheer him on. "I went to university. I did well there too." He did that sideways look, squinting quickly at me then looking away. "But ... I got a girl pregnant. I married her. Our families helped us. We could have had a good life." He lifted his head and looked out of the window. When he spoke again, his voice had a note of surprise in it. "Actually ... I wasn't unreasonable. I just ... wanted to have sex." I waited for him to say, he wanted to have sex in a public place or with other couples - swing a bit. But then I realised that was it. He wanted to have sex. With his wife. "I don't know what happened," he said. "Neither of us had much experience. I thought we would find things out together. She didn't want to. She made me feel ... dirty if I tried to talk about it. After a while I stopped asking." The tears were spilling down his face. "She always seemed to be complaining. If she had been willing to go out sometimes: to a party or barbeque, the cinema, the beach. Or if we could have gone somewhere on holiday. All she seemed to want to do at the weekend or if I had a week off, was get me to fix things around the house and mow the lawn." I put out my hands and he put his in them. I didn't know what to say. Fuck me, I had had a bad fucking life but his was fucking brain death. He was like my fucking mirror opposite. At least I had got an occasional fucking in my fucking life. TBH, more than I fucking wanted. But he got fucking nothing, not even a snog at the cinema. They say love can break your heart. IMHO, it's better to have your heart broken than your bones. What the fuck is fucking sex? Everyone thinks they want someone who would be so close, to have fucking amazing sex with. Sometimes people say they want someone who feels like a part of them. But some people will nearly fucking kill you because they hate themselves and if you are a part of them, they can put all their hatred on you. Others will push you away because they're frightened and can put all their fear onto you. It's hard to find someone who loves you for you, not like part of them, and hard to accept being loved like that. The HOG took one hand out of mine and wiped it across his eyes. "I started working long hours," he said. "I would find training courses to do at the weekends. Then my P.A. had an accident and was off sick for a couple of months." P.A.? WTF!! I cast an anxious surreptitious glance at the briefcase. Just who was the HOG? "A temp came in to cover. She was a younger woman. At first she seemed ideal. She worked the long hours that I did and very ably supported me." (Yeah I fucking bet she did! the gold-digging little tart.) "She started bringing takeaway meals in for us. And wine. One night ... she made a pass at me. "But I realised," (what a slag she was?) "that if I left my wife on the back of an affair there would be all Hell to pay. I told Kristen that I was sorry. I was married with a child and that was important to me. I offered her a golden handshake to go quietly. I scaled down my workload and made a final effort at my marriage, dragged my wife to counselling. When it became clear that it wasn't going anywhere, I offered her a generous financial settlement. We're ... actually good friends now," the HOG said with a wry smile. "Oh you have a kid!" I blurted out. The HOG looked sideways at me. I felt fucking crap then. Of course he wouldn't want to talk about his child to some cheap slapper who'd blagged him into fucking her in the arse. The HOG got out his wallet and opened it to show me a picture of a freckle-faced boy with a toothy grin. The kid had his eyes. That kind of hit me in the gut somehow. I never cried to talk about my shite life or hear about his dead marriage but the tears spilled over when I saw the kid had his eyes. The HOG put his wallet away and I sniffled up my stupid tears. Hopefully he hadn't noticed, or he thought I was crying over That Turd. God. Jesus. I couldn't bear it any more. "So," I said. "What's in the briefcase? My knickers?" Fuck, I was pissed off when I realised the HOG had fucked off with my Rigby and Peller knickers in his pocket. I never even bought them in a sale. I paid full fucking whack for those, worked extra shifts at the burger bar, and now I was stuck with the bra and suspenders and no matching knickers. The HOG gave me an extraordinary look. It was sort of scared and sly. It was feral, like he'd looked when I offered him my arse. He looked like a kid who'd stumbled on a secret stash of torn porno mags. I laughed because I realised the HOG would never give me back my fucking knickers except to personally take them off me again and fuck me. "I hope you've washed them," I quipped. The HOG grinned and looked away. Then he straightened his shoulders and became serious. It was as if the HOG disappeared, his eyes lost their twinkle. He became the suit. "Miss Donnelly," he said. He boggled and said: "Mrs. ... Ms. Donnelly." I was fucking laughing incredulously. WTF? Was he going to tell me that my long-lost uncle had snuffed it and I was now fucking Lady Poo, or what? Too bad I don't have any uncles. The HOG got very embarrassed and a bit cross. Then he reached out and took my hand again. He held my hand so gently. Even when I was dropping my knickers for him to fuck me in the arse on top of another man, he always made me feel like a fucking Princess. "We got your resignation letter on Tuesday," he said. We? Who the fuck was 'we'? "At first I thought ... it was because ... of what I had done." Arse-fuck, mate. It's called an arse-fuck, or buggery is another good word for it. "Then I realised that you were leaving because Tony ... harassed you." He spoke like he knew Tony. I felt fucking worried when I heard that. Jesus H., when you've seen men hang together in a bikers' gang, you don't even ask if one of them is going to stand out from the crowd and do the decent thing by you. "I shouldn't have come myself," the HOG said gravely, "but ... I ... thought ..." It was fucking obvious he had thought with his dick. I was very pleased when I realised that. I began to hope I might get another fuck out of the HOG after all. I wouldn't mind screwing him in his nice suit, maybe sitting on top of him in one of the chairs. If you do it like that, you can get good friction on your clit and a sharp angle for the bloke's todger inside you - everyone's a winner. "I spoke to your tutors at the university." I was extremely annoyed to hear that. WTF right did he have to go and ask about my private studying? WTF harm was I doing anyone, by writing a few essays and doing group assignments about bloody Romantic poetry. (That's Romantic with a capital R, fuckface, not Mills and Boon and that shit.) "Your tutors gave you glowing references," the HOG said. "They said you have intelligence, dedication, creativity, articulate writing skills and excellent understanding of social media." I should fucking hope I would! the amount of porn surfing I do. "I decided to offer you a management position in the company." A Café with a View Ch. 03 I fucking tell you what. He might as well have said he was going to send me to Alpha Centaurii with a ten tentacled alien as a personal escort. I could not believe my fucking ears. I sat there totally speechless. LOL, that's a first! "I was very impressed when you spoke about the potential for a franchise by the campsite," the HOG-suit said. He appeared to be completely serious. My brain could still not process it. There was a very large missing link for me. "Who the fuck are you?" I blurted out. I didn't mean for it to sound so angry but I was getting scared. I don't like to be out of my depth. You wouldn't either if 'out of your depth' had ever meant way over your head having the crap beaten out of you and the brains fucked out of you. The HOG looked taken aback. "I ... I own it," he stammered. "I own the chain. This café, the whole chain is my family business." Oh. My. Fucking. God. Talk about the big one. I had to go and flash my arse, fucking a man on a motorbike (and a fucking BMW FFS), in front of the big boss. And then seduce him into an arse-fuck. Fuck me slowly over a barrel. (That's not a fucking invitation, because I am a one man woman these days, starshine.) I started hysterically laughing. It was too much! I thought the HOG was cruising along the woodland roads for pleasure - but he had fucking come out himself to check out a dip in his family's catering business cashflow. And had ended up dipping his dick in it. I think it was the rollercoaster emotions really. I mean, I was that fucking glad when I saw the HOG had come back to me. Then I was so scared because he was in a suit. I poured my guts out because I needed him to know: what my life had been like, how I'd ended up such a slag, that I wasn't really a slag. I felt so sorry about him never getting a fuck off his own fucking wife (or rather, non-fucking wife) and pleased he'd seen through that little tramp who tried to poach him off her. And now this. I was having a fucking full blown hysterical fit, rocking to and fro, crying, hiccoughing with laughter. The HOG fetched a glass of water and threw it in my face. I sat gasping and still sniffing and crying. "I'm so sorry," the HOG said contritely. "I've totally fucked it up." Well I started laughing again then and he made a move to get more water. "Fuck no!" I cried out. "I'm fine, I'm fine." I wiped the tears from my eyes, the water from my face and tried to stop giggling. "I expect you need time to consider my offer," the HOG-suit said. I sat on the chair in the sunny café in the woods, my face and the front of my crappy black dress soaking wet. "That was a really nice coffee," the HOG-suit said. "I genuinely think your understanding of the business needs in this region will be a considerable asset in our next planned phase of expansion." I'm not fucking kidding you, he spoke just like that. He was so fucking sweet, trying to convince me that he wasn't just doing this to get into my knickers. The HOG was nobody's fool. He knew he would be welcome to stick his dick over my knicker gusset into any hole he wanted to put it in. Anyway, he was right. I was fucking smart, really, and capable of doubling his company's turnover. If you'd asked me back then, I would've pretended I thought I could do that and said: "Fuck you, I could treble it." Last year, the HOG and I together put the company on the stock market and we made a fucking mint so now I know that I can do it. I said to the HOG: "Would you be willing to fuck one of your managers, though?" Now it was the HOG's turn to burst out laughing. He said: "I will never fuck with you. I should like to make love to you, though." Oh man. He fucking broke me up. I couldn't even look at him after he said that. He must be the only man in the fucking world who can shut me up. "How about it?" said the HOG. Then he put the cherry on top. "We have a partner company in Italy. There are frequent business trips out there." The fucking bastard. He had found out I had specialised in Italian studies all through my degree. I was so excited I was wetting my knickers nearly as much as my chest and face. If he had gone on one knee and asked me to marry him, I couldn't have been more thrilled. I started babbling. "Can we ride on a Vespa? Can we go to the Vatican and see the Apollo Belvedere?" "A Vespa?" he said in astonishment. "You ride a Deus ex Machina Grievous Angel and you want to ride a Vespa?" "Like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday!" I explained. "And Gucky? Can I go to the Gucky shop?" "Gucky?" he said. "What's Gucky?" Doh! Fancy not knowing Gucky! "You know," I said impatiently. "Gucky, the leather shop." "Ohhhh," he said. "Goochy." His eyes started twinkling and he bit his lip. Fucking Hell. What a fucking stupid way to say it. I mean, would you ever imagine something spelt Gucci would be pronounced Goochy. Stupid fucking Italians. I was very cross. The HOG tried hard to placate me. "With your salary you'll be able to buy out the whole shop," he said. "Well ... half of it perhaps." He was still laughing, the fucking bastard. I got off my chair and went to smack his face. He caught my hand and we looked at each other and then we walked into each other's arms and began to kiss. It wasn't very elegant. My face was wet and the HOG was still snorting with laughter. Our lips mashed in and I pushed my tongue in his mouth. He hugged me very close, sucking on my tongue. I made a choking noise because I had started to cry again. We just carried on kissing and crying and laughing. When we finally stopped kissing, I stood away from the HOG and said stupidly: "What the fuck do you want me for?" As I said it, I had swung to the side and I caught sight of myself in the mirror by the toilets. My eyes were still blurry with tears so what I saw was in soft focus and maybe that explains it. I don't have curves like that actress but I saw my face looking just like the young girl's in A Room with a View. It was shy and uncertain, the face of someone who knows at heart what she wants but is too scared to take it when it's being held out to her on a plate. I had a crappy black dress on but I'm tall with nice legs and a great arse. In a little black dress with my hair scraped back in a pony tail, I looked like Audrey Hepburn. I looked back at the HOG under my lashes. I used to think men went for me because they are dogs who will fuck anything. Then I saw myself through the HOG's eyes and I knew I was beautiful. The HOG and I went out to his car and fetched a picnic rug he kept in the boot. I locked up the café and we walked off deep into the woods. We threw the rug down and started to undress. We undressed ourselves and each other. It took a long time. We were kissing and trying to unpick each others' buttons at the same time. I felt bad that I only had on a pair of cotton knickers and an old bra. The bra was a favourite of mine I hadn't been able to bear to throw away: pale green with a tiny silver heart dangling in the cleavage. The HOG fingered my heart while I undid the bra straps. I don't have much tit to boast about, like I said before. But size doesn't matter, eh boys? It's not what you've got, it's what you do with it. And what the HOG did to my boobs made me cream and moan and practically cum on the spot. He put his hands over my tits and fingered them gently. He put his mouth to one and sucked it and licked it till the nipple was standing out like the liquorice sticking out of a sherbert fountain. He carried on fondling my other tit with his fingers while sucking on my left tit until I was fucking fizzing like the sherbert in the fountain. It was his turn. I knelt in front of him wearing only a pair of old cotton knickers and pulled his cock out of his grey suit trousers and jockey shorts. He was already stiff, precum in a drip on his slit. I licked the head of his cock bulging out of the foreskin. I pressed my fingers gently on his cock while I took the head in my mouth. Slowly I sucked the whole of his shaft in, moving my head to and fro to give the HOG good vibrations. I went down and down his shaft, the HOG was grunting and pushing my head but suddenly he said: "Fuck! I can't take any more!" We would have to do the full blowjob another day. Sometimes sex is for fun, but that day the HOG and I needed to get deep in and close. I eased my mouth off his cock and lay back. The HOG pulled my cotton knickers off my long legs then he sniggered and put them in his pocket. He went down on me with his eyes twinkling. He started lapping at my cream, sticking his tongue around my cunt. He played his tongue around my clit until I was writhing and begging him for it. Like I said, the HOG is smart so although he thought he was coming out to offer me a management position not the missionary position, he had brought along a Mates UltraThin. He slipped it on and came up to lie naked in my naked arms. We stared into each others' eyes, lying just holding each other for a moment. I felt his whole body lying the length of my body and his gaze going deep down into my eyes. The HOG's pale blue eyes weren't twinkling, they had that serious keen gleam in them. Whenever he looks deep into my eyes with that keen stare, it makes my heart bump in my chest and my cunt cream. Above his head, I could see the branches of the trees and the blue sky. I felt the head of his cock against the mouth of my cunt. He slid in through my lips, his thick girth gliding up in me, his cock up inside me, his pubis pressed to my clit. His naked chest was pressed to my breasts. The HOG started rocking into me. I was spreading my legs and rising up to him. My cunt was clasping round his cock. I felt all of him pressed over me, over my hot sensitive skin. I was thrusting my whole body against his: my cunt round his cock, my clit to his pubis, my skin to his skin, my breasts to his chest. His mouth came pressing against my mouth, seeking my kiss. The feelings were rolling up through me from his fucking cock deep in me. I was hugging him close and wrapping my lips round his as we came to orgasm. His sweating hot skin was pressed hard into my belly, my breasts, in my arms. He was fucking deep down into my cunt, with my muscles gripped round his cock to pull him in. When we were done I didn't want him to pull out but the HOG is a smart gentleman. He pulled out before he could spill out of the condom. He dragged the side of the picnic rug over us and we lay in each other's sweating embrace, grinning and staring into each other's eyes. I said idly: "Why the fuck does your family keep this café open anyway. It must've been losing money for years." "Oh," said the HOG. "This is where my dad met my mum. She was a waitress in the café. He bought it because he was too shy to ask her to go to the flicks with him." Epilogue - Roman Holiday The HOG and I got married six months later, during a convenient break in my studies. Jan was my maid of honour and Giovanni - the son of the firm's Italian partners - was best man. Maybe he didn't properly understand the British tradition of totally shaming the groom in the best man's speech as he never let on that he had been fucked by the bride while the groom screwed her in the arse. I thought about buying my husband a Gucky wallet for a wedding present. However his little lad and I agreed that a Mercedes-Benz cabriolet would be lots more fun (for us, that is!). My husband gave me the café in the woods for my wedding present. I converted it into a holiday cabin, it's very convenient for a weekend stopover if we're checking up on our local campsite cafés. Sometimes too we go for a lazy cruise along the curving woodland roads on our motorbikes. It's great to go back to our cabin in the woods, the kitchenette with the red and black Gaggia espresso maker and a solid wooden family sized dining table. My husband can always be relied on to fuck me in the arse on that table for an anniversary treat. It's surprising how many fucking occasions there are which need to be properly celebrated. There's a sign marked private on our gate. If stray bikers come up the track looking for a free ride, my husband tells them to fuck off in a voice so fucking posh it hurts, LOL. Naturally we went to fucking Italy for the fucking honeymoon. We rode a Vespa and went to the Trevi Fountain and ate gelati (that's pronounced jellati FYI) and had a lot of other fucking delicious food I had never fucking heard of before in my fucking life. We went to the Keats-Shelley Museum and I told my husband all about the Romantic poets and he only yawned three times. I never bothered to go and buy any Gucky stuff, though. I don't need Gucky; I got lucky.