Ethan knows how to give Alexandra wheelie hot sex.
“You’re having a laugh, aren’t you, Alexandra?” Ethan said.
I hadn’t been. I’d asked what he wanted to do for Valentine’s Day, but as soon as I’d spoken I’d known it was a mistake.
My friends call Ethan my ‘bit of rough’ which is unfair – just because he works as a bike courier and I have a career in advertising. The thing is, Ethan’s an anti-materialist. He was born in 1990 at the height of the grunge era and his mother, Ella, gave birth with seventeen piercings in her nose and ears. I’ve met her a few times. She’s terrifying.
“Hearts and flowers? Don’t push your luck – just ‘cos you work in the myth-making industry, doesn’t mean we’ve all fallen for your lies.” Ethan was off on one.
I looked round the pub. It seemed to me that he was wrong – most people were buying into St Valentine: red balloons, heart-shaped beermats, all the guff.
“… helping my mum,” he finished. I remembered that on Bank Holidays and major festivals Ethan and his mum volunteered to serve sandwiches and soup to London’s rough sleepers.
“I’ll come,” I said, and then tried to keep a straight face as he cracked a crooked grin.
“I know you will, given half a chance,” he said.
It’s true. If he’d asked me what I wanted for Valentine’s I’d have said a good fucking. Whatever we disagreed on, Ethan and I were electric between the sheets.
We’d met when he ran me down (my story) or I walked out in front of him (his story). He came to A&E with me in a taxi and by the time the doctor had diagnosed mild concussion, I’d already felt up the length of his bike shorts until I found his hard-on and he’d fingered me, avoiding the suspicious eyes of the nurses who clearly thought we were some kind of Munchausen by Proxy perverts.
And now, because the man could make me come faster than anyone had before, I’d offered to spend Valentine’s night feeding crusty people.
Skort And Sweet
About the only present Ethan had ever given me was a skort – a garment that’s like a sporty pair of culottes, and works if you have to ride a bike and then go into a pub for a drink, say. The bike I’d had to buy myself, although he came with me to choose it.
So there I was, 10pm on Valentine’s Day, in my black skort, on my black Volk bike, Ethan at my side, as we set off across East London to spot rough sleepers. The idea was that we’d pinpoint them and Ethan would call his mum to bring up the van as close as possible – we’d talk to the ones that were awake and sane and tell them where to expect the van and give the locations of any that were too drunk or otherwise peculiar to make their own way to a hot meal and Ella, and her tattooed helper Ros, would take the food to where they festered. I thought it was a bit dangerous, letting two women wander around London’s great unwashed, until I saw Ros – she had a purple Mohican and shoulders like a linebacker.
Ethan grinned over his shoulder and set off at about thirty miles an hour. I followed more slowly. I’m pretty good on the bike now, but nowhere near as insane as he is. Ros started the van engine – I wasn’t sure that the van would make it to the end of the street; it was ancient.
By the time I caught Ethan up we were four or five streets from where we’d started and I was already puffing a bit. He’d stopped and leaned his bike against a lamppost so I stopped too. Ethan took my hand and lifted me off the bike, leaning it with his. I knew what was coming next and grinned at him as he led me into a dark service alley alongside a huge anonymous block of offices. One thing you can say for boys raised by militant feminists, they’ve had certain things drummed into them, and while Ella might be a mad anarchist, she’d taught her son that his job in life wasn’t just to get his end away but to make sure his partner did too.
Ethan knew I could come four or five times to his one, and he ensured it happened – which was why I was pressed against a rough concrete wall, while Ethan’s fingers snaked through the wide legs of my skort and slid into me. I tipped my hips so that his curled middle finger hit my G-spot and began to ride his hand until I came.
He watched me in the gloom, Ethan liked to watch, and I knew that if I began to make too much noise, he’d put his free hand over my mouth to shut me up. We’d got it off to a fine art, this fucking in London’s streets. Ethan found the locations during his working day, and later we went back and explored their erotic potential. So it was to be a night like any other, but I wasn’t complaining, even if all my friends were out swilling indifferent champagne, wearing itchy red thongs they’d been given by their lovers, before heading home for indifferent sex. Who needed that when four or five or more orgasms were on the menu?
Outdoor Sports
For an hour we rode, my pussy swollen and sensitive, crushed against the cruel saddle of the bike, Ethan calling Ella by Bluetooth, announcing each little cluster of homeless sleepers we came across. Then Ethan sprinted off again, his tyres squealing as he hit top speed, and I followed more slowly, knowing he’d got something in mind. But when I got to the junction, I couldn’t see him. There was an arrow, chalked on the opposite wall – a bent arrow. I shook my head, but followed it. Round the corner, another arrow. Along a narrow road, bouncing over a cobbled bit, where the hell was I? Another arrow, pointing into a kid’s playground. I spotted Ethan’s bike under a street light, chained up this time, and chained mine with it, before heading into the park.
Ethan was on a swing. He beckoned me over and, as I straddled him, sliding the skort out of the way, I pulled down his bike shorts so that instead of sitting on his lap, I was impaled on his cock which was already wearing a ribbed condom. Then he began to move the swing gently, keeping his feet on the ground, so that we swayed to and fro as he pumped inside me. I didn’t think I could come, in fact I was sure I couldn’t, but then he took my right hand and pressed it against the front of the skort. I took the hint and used the roughness of the fabric to massage my clit, rubbing my fingers up and down until I reached orgasm. Ethan was holding back, like the good equal rights believer that he is. He wouldn’t come until I said I’d had enough and I was nowhere near ready to do that. When I’d stopped shuddering and gasping, he lifted his feet and we rocked on the swing, getting higher and higher, him still inside me. It was weird; erotic and surreal – and very intense.
Back on the bikes for our next hour of homemless-hunting. I was starting to feel it in my legs now, not just the cycling but the fucking too – a sort of hot shakiness that meant the muscles were getting overtired. I imagined telling Ella that I couldn’t cycle any more and wanted to ride in the van instead and bit my lip. I’d rather die first.
By half-past eleven I was beat, and I knew it. Ethan was circling a precinct, muttering into his headset, and I stopped bang in the middle, dragged my bike to a bench, and sat down.
After a while, Ethan sat down beside me and pulled off the headset. “Knackered?”
I nodded, too tired to speak.
He put his arm round me and gave me a brief hug before dropping to his knees in front of me. “I’ve sent Mum and Ros round the long way, so we can have some fun.”
“Ethan, I’m really not interested in any fun right now.”
He just grinned and pulled some embrocation from his pannier. I lay back and let him massage the wintergreen smelling stuff into my calves – it stung but in a good way. His hands got higher and I decided I might be a bit more interested than I’d thought, after all, but he pulled away. I sighed and stood up; my legs felt a lot better than they had but I still didn’t relish riding again.
“Get on your bike, I want to show you something,” Ethan said.
“You can show me something without the bike,” I rubbed my hand against his hard-on but he pushed me away.
Sighing, I grabbed my bike.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “I think there’s something you could do…”
The words were strange, and I looked back at him as he stood behind me. He was grinning crookedly again as he put his hands on my hips and tilted them downwards, pushing me into the hard arc of the saddle, mashing my clit hard against the plastic. I yelped.
“Look, if you really press yourself down over the saddle and grind your hips a bit, backwards and forwards …” he was manoeuvring me into place as he spoke and sure enough I could feel a wave of pleasure radiating through my quivering muscles. I pushed off, wobbling around the precinct, trying to keep my balance and to get just the right bit of my anatomy in contact with the saddle. It worked, I was definitely getting warm waves and they were centring on my clit. If I could only keep the pressure on, I could come, I really could come!
I circled, my nipples tightening as I got the position exactly right and felt my clit swell. As I rode past Ethan he grinned and whooped and then began to trot alongside me.
“Do a wheelie!” he yelled.
I shook my head trying to concentrate.
“A wheelie!” he insisted. “It’ll bring you off, I bet!”
I glanced at him. He was serious. I puffed out air, feeling the strain of maintaining contact, and thought, why not?
I got up some speed and tipped back on the peddles, lifting the front wheel and slamming the saddle into my groin, and yes, I nearly came.
It was all I needed. I circled, heading for the long side of the precinct again, Ethan really having to run now, to keep up with me. As soon as I was at top speed, I dropped my heels and up came the front wheel! If Ethan hadn’t been there, I’d have crashed for sure, but he grabbed the handlebars and steadied the bike as I came. And when it was over my legs had gone completely and I had to sit down – high speed orgasm is really something!
Back To Earth
At work on Monday, the team were recounting their various Valentine’s experiences. Sara had been to Paris for dinner with her boyfriend, Annalou’s husband had booked them into a Covent Garden hotel, James and his boyfriend had gone to The Fridge.
“What did you do, Alexandra?” Sara asked me.
“Went for a bike ride,” I said, grinning smugly.
“Bike ride?” James looked pitying.
“Trust me,” I said, “you’ve no idea.”
Annalou shook her head. “Weird.”
I shrugged. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. In fact, I’m going for another one tonight.”
