It was the bike in the window that caught my eye. The sleek carbon machine was matt finished, and liberally equipped with all the bells and whistles that an aspiring triathlete doesn’t remotely need but seems to end up with anyway. It was out of my price range by a factor of, oh, all the numbers. You’d think after three years at a big City law firm I’d be rolling in it, but rent in this town is just stupid.
I went in anyway. A few minutes in the company of that glorious two-wheeled steed would rev me up nicely. I was racing at the weekend and needed a bit of inspiration. The woman at the counter flashed me a smile and then went back to tapping at her tablet.
I was browsing the cheaper end of the clothing aisle when she came over. Nut-brown skin and raven hair, bunched. Smile, perfect white teeth, the rest hidden under loose sweats. “You’re a cyclist, aren’t you? Just getting into tri?”
“Uh… yeah? How’d you know?” It couldn’t have been from looking at me. My tee and jeans were baggy enough me and my sister could both have fit in them.
“You’re still looking at the separates.” She waved her hand at the rack of shorts and tops. “But you shouldn’t waste your money. One race, maybe two, you’ll be right back looking for one of these.”
I’d never even considered wearing a tri suit. As a keen cyclist I was comfortable in a two-piece jersey’n’shorts ensemble. A tri suit was… overkill? For an amateur like me?
Did I say that out loud? “Nah, trust me, you want one. I’ve got just the thing. Perfect for cyclists. Cut a little bit bigger in the thigh, you know?”
I did. The pride I had in my thighs of steel! I caught sight of the tags. “A bit out of my range.” More money than I saw in a week!
“Just try it,” she countered. “Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
I let the slick fabric catch on my fingers. “Um…?”
“Through there,” she pointed.
I headed to the changing booth. Why was I nervous? I wore tight clothing out on my bike most days. I just… for some reason, now that she’d seen me how I like to present myself, that…
No wait, I should say, it’s not like that. I dress like a guy so I don’t get treated like a woman, that’s all. And I can’t be bothered with all that fashion shit. Having short hair and no tits to speak of just makes sport more fun. So I was nervous because…
… that would have to wait. “Getting on OK?” She was right outside the curtain. “Let me have a look.”
I was in it apart from the zip and it was comfy as fuck. Different from cycling kit. Thinner or stretchier or something. “Uh… just a sec…” The back zip was proving to be a bit more of a problem than I’d anticipated. I knew the theory but was having trouble catching hold of the leash. It kept whipping from one side to another in response to my ever more frantic attempts to grab it.
Eventually I stumbled into the curtain. She whipped it aside. “Steady, there.” She caught me by the shoulders. My cheeks flushed hot.
They do that a lot, my cheeks. I hate it.
She pointed me towards the mirror and then zipped me up. The shiny green fabric pulled tight across my front. I had to admit, it looked good on me. It helped that I have a weakness for the colour.
She was an inch or so taller than me, I noticed in the mirror. Once I’d finished ogling myself, that is. Also she had a good smirk.
And she’d been waiting for me to look her in the eyes. Her gaze tracked down to… my arm?
“Tell you what,” she said. “You arm-wrestle me and I’ll give you my staff discount on that. If you win.”
I must have looked hesitant. I mean, I have OK arms. Nice ones. Freckly. But not especially beefy.
“Come on.” She gave the leash a tug, then let it drop as she backed out. Had she been holding it the whole time?
We were on opposite sides of the counter. “Um… what do you get? If you win?” I asked.
Her smirk was a squint and a dimple. “I get to take that suit off you with my tongue.”
I blinked furiously. Then I looked at her again, more carefully. I’m not the most sensitive of people but I couldn’t see any obvious signs that she might be queer. No tats or even piercings. “I’m not,” I blurted. Well, I’m not. Not very. I’ve had a few experiences, but. Well. “I… like dick?”
She shook her head and planted her elbow on the counter. “I’m sure you do. Me too.”
She was just a little bit taller than me but she didn’t look as if she’d have a massive advantage in strength. “I don’t,” I said, still a little bit flustered.
“I’d take good care of you.” She waggled her fingers at me. I imagined them worming their way between my legs… my cheeks did their thing. My nipples too. I was suddenly aware how gossamer light and conforming the tri suit was.
The adrenaline surge might have made me overconfident. “Fuck it.” I plonked my arm on the counter, turned my body sideways for leverage.
Her grin broadened. “What I like to see.”
We tussled for a long minute. I could feel my flush spreading and deepening. She didn’t seem to be breaking a sweat but I could feel a tremble in her arm occasionally.
Then she stopped kidding around and just crushed me utterly. So controlled I could tell she wasn’t even using half her strength. “Fuck,” I panted. “You played me.”
She nodded. “Well played.” A compliment or an admission? “I’ll explain later.”
And she whispered me a time and a place to be.
Her ankles tucked in behind my knees, her strong hands gripping my biceps, and I was helpless. I squirmed in her grip, and felt the pressure from the base of the strap-on grinding firmly against my sex, but it was too diffuse to do much good.
I had to have more. I started to thrust against her.
Her explanation was her body, which welcomed me at the door. Her lycra shorts and crop top conformed precisely to the contours of her muscles. If I thought my thighs were steel, hers must have been titanium or some even more exotic aerospace alloy. It was the same for her calves, her abs, her shoulders and arms. I couldn’t tell what was tit and what was pec, although she curved pleasantly enough. She didn’t wear any of it heavily, it was all framed just perfectly on her lithe brown body.
Fuck, but I was jealous. I’d been so thrilled when she offered me the strap-on. I’d never thought of myself like that, but suddenly I knew it was right. But she’d set things up to frustrate the hell out of me. This couldn’t be what having a dick was really like, could it?
Her whispered encouragements went some way to answering that for me. “Come on, boi. Come on. Harder. Harder. Come on. More. You’ve got more. Oh, you’re so fucking hard, you think you’re so fucking hard, come on, fuck me.” And on and on, like that.
It’d been how long? A half-hour already? The longest I’d ever had a hard cock in me was ten minutes, and he’d wanted a prize, that one. OK. It made sense.
I was less clear why she’d insisted I wear it over the tri suit. That was a bit kinky. Maybe it dulled the sensations a bit. Maybe so I looked more like a guy? Or was she some kind of perv?
It struck me that I was doing the thing that blokes do when they don’t want to come too fast: thinking about something else while I pounded away. I was using as much freedom as she’d let me have. Oh god, but she was strong. It felt so good being crushed into her, pinned from below. And she must have been getting closer, she was holding me tighter and tighter. The veins in her neck were bulging like crazy. Surely she wouldn’t be able to last much longer?
I felt her shift just a little, and suddenly with every thrust a spike of pleasure rammed through my crotch. I got hot and bothered in a hurry, my gyrations became jerky. I felt tightness coiling in my stomach and my neck. I needed just a little more.
She backed off, having tested my reactions. “That’s right boi, I’m going to make you come when I’m good and ready, now keep fucking me with that hard dick, like that, yeah, fuck, yeah…”
Every time she called me ‘boi’ I felt a little churn in the pit of my stomach. True, I’d never like being called ‘girl’. It was infantilising. But ‘woman’ had never felt quite right either. Impostor syndrome? Or was I just railing against the misogyny of the patriarchy?
“Focus, boi. Here we go.”
She proceeded to fuck my brains out. She made sure I lost it first, then she let herself go. She bit me on the shoulder. It was so fucking good. I’ve never worked that hard for an orgasm, and it blew me away. I moaned and writhed on top of her. Even through her own vocal, physical ride, she controlled my body, bucking and heaving so that I couldn’t get away from the feeling of being turned inside out.
Finally, she flipped us over and crushed the breath out of me until I saw stars.
I do some weights these days, but I know I’ll never match her on bulk. I’m going for stamina. If I can outlast her, I’ll be able to blow her mind harder than she blows mine. So far I haven’t come close, but we keep trying.
I get a discount on all my tri kit, now.