Pedal Me: MC (Manly Cyclist) Parody Erotica

by Roxanne Sweet

  “The way you acted yesterday was totally unacceptable,” I pant. Naked, with his weight on top of me, I’m having trouble breathing.

  He stands up abruptly, pulling clothes on. “Me? I’m not the one who spent the night flirting with some spandex loser,” he says with a derisive snort. I can see he’s shaken by my changed attitude, though. Me standing up to him is another new thing.

  I cover myself with a sheet. “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the way you abandoned me when I was hurt, you didn’t help me, and when I got to the bar without any help from you, you got violent and then ignored me all night.”

  Gordon just laughs. “Maybe it wasn’t the best way for me to act, but good luck finding someone who will treat you better, looking like you do.” He pokes me in the chest, and my tit jiggles. He’s right. I’m a curvy girl. My boobs are too big for anyone to want me.

  “I…”

  I start to tell him I’m sorry, that I still want him. But the thought of Nick stops me. Someone out there does want me and will treat me better. If I can’t find Nick again, it will be someone else.

  And even if I don’t find someone else, it’s okay.

  I climb out of the bed, the sheet wrapped around me like a toga. I think it gives me a regal attitude as I shout my next words. “I’d rather be alone than with someone like you!”

  Gordon’s jaw drops at my outburst. I’ve definitely never spoken to him like this before.

  “Are you serious, Sophie?”

  “Dead serious. Get your shit and get out!”

  It takes a few minutes to remind him that I pay the rent on this place and that he has no legal right to be here if I don’t want him here. But for once, his cheap nature is an asset to me. “I’m going,” he says resentfully.

  I watch over him as he packs a couple of trash bags with his stuff. All his shit has to go. I don’t know how he’s going to transport it or where to, and I don’t care. That’s his problem. After he leaves, I don’t want another sign that this son of a bitch was ever in my life.

  “That’s everything,” I finally tell him. “Now, get the fuck out!”

  He leaves, trash bags in hands, but he pauses at the doorway. “This isn’t over,” he hisses. “You’re going to regret this!”

  His words are menacing and I don’t quite understand what he means by them. I try to stop shaking as I pace around the apartment, rearranging stuff and throwing out any small things that he forgot. I know it’s not true. I’ll never regret tossing him to the curb. My only regret is not having done it a lot sooner.

  Once my heartbeat settles to a normal pace, I start to think about what to do with the rest of my day. I text a couple of friends, telling them about all the things that have happened in the short period of time. Although there are a lot of other things I could or should do, all I can think about is the promise I made last night. I promised Nick I would get a bike.

  The sporting goods store has a pretty good selection. “I don’t need anything fancy,” I tell the sales clerk, a girl younger than me with toned muscles that seem almost out of place on her small body. “Just something to get me from place to place. I’ve never really biked before.”

  I end up with a bike less slim and sensual than Nick’s bike, but more practical. It’s dark pink and just high enough for me to sit on comfortably. The saddle sits pleasurably against my clit when I test ride it around the store.

  I also purchase a helmet that flattens my hair attractively, a bell to let people know I’m coming, and a few other accessories just in case. I want to give this biking thing a real shot. It was a promise that I made to Nick; I don’t want to half-ass it.

  The sales clerk rings me up and I walk the bike out of the store’s automatic doors, feeling like the world is lying at my feet. I can go anywhere on this bike. No more waiting for buses or begging for rides. Never again will I walk hours to get somewhere I could have biked in a few minutes. I’m free!

  My new bike rolls companionably next to me as I walk back to my place. I’ll call her the Pink Lady, I decide. She’s so pretty and feminine that the name suits her perfectly. For the moment, I decide to leave her outside.

  I forgot to buy a lock, I realize, resolving to get one as soon as I can. The last thing I need is for the Pink Lady to get stolen. I can’t get one right now, though. It’s time for me to go to work.

  The restaurant where I wait tables is quiet this afternoon. There isn’t much of a weekend rush. Even my boss seems relaxed today, yelling at me less than usual. Between refilling customers’ water glasses, I can spend almost all my time daydreaming about Nick and how handsome he is.

  I daydream a bit about the Pink Lady, too. I can’t wait to get her out on the road and test her outside of a store. I want to feel her seat between my legs as I tear down the road powered by two wheels and my own two feet. I want to go as fast as Nick does.

  A few hours into my shift, business is so slow that I have time to check my phone after taking an order. There’s one new text, and it’s from Gordon.

  I cringe just seeing the name. He can’t have anything good to say to me. I hover my finger over the “delete” button, tempted to get rid of the message without even reading it.

  Curiosity wins out in the end, though. And it’s a good thing it does.

  “I have your new bike,” the message from my ex-boyfriend reads. “If you want it back unharmed, you will do as I say.”

  Three

  My bike! The Pink Lady, my brand-new, beautiful bike! I have to get her back.

  How did Gordon even know about her? I quickly put the pieces together. When I texted my best friend about our break-up and the bike, she must have texted her boyfriend, who’s a good friend of Gordon’s. He must have told Gordon, not expecting Gordon to freak out and kidnap my new bike like this.

  No one would have expected this from Gordon. He’s always been inconsiderate, but to actually hold my poor bike hostage? He’s gone off his rocker.

  Now I approach my boss cautiously. “Is it okay if I leave early?” I ask, trying not to look as panicked as I feel. “It’s a family emergency.”

  He looks at the cell phone that’s still in my hand and glares at me. “You shouldn’t be texting on the job. Under the circumstances, though, I’ll let it slide.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I nearly hug him. I have a chance of saving the Pink Lady now. Hopefully I won’t be too late to get her back unharmed.

  I don’t even want to think about what Gordon means by “harming” her. Visions of him kicking in her tires or swinging a sledgehammer against her hot pink paint invade my mind, making me want to vomit. I have to get her back before he hurts her!

  As I leave the restaurant, I text Gordon. “Where are you?”

  His response comes back immediately. “The scrap metal yard on the north side of town.”

  Scrap metal? My Pink Lady can’t have anything to do with scrap metal. Can she?

  Another text lights up my phone. “You better get her quick. I’m planning to find out how a bicycle will hold up in the car crusher.”

  He’s evil. He’s pure evil. How could he even think of doing such a thing to my innocent bike? With all the time we spent together, I never imagined he would be capable of this. I’m not surprised that he’s angry with me, but to take it out on my bike? It’s just not fair.

  I hurry down the street, only realizing at the last minute that I have no idea where I’m going. The north side of town is far, too far to walk. And after all the money I spent on the bike and accessories, I can’t afford a taxi.

  Stopping in my tracks, the answer comes to me. Nick is the one who can help me. Nick has a bike that can get me where I need to go.

  And I know exactly where to find him.

  According to Google, the only bike repair shop in town is only a few minutes’ walk away. It has to be the one he said he helps out at! I jog the whole way there, not even letting my lack of breath slow me down. This situation is too urgent.

  I stop at
the end of a side street, looking at a small building with a barely legible sign. “Manly Cyclist,” it seems to read.

  Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. The inside is full of bikes and bike parts. Chains and tires hang from the walls, and bins full of nuts and bolts dot the floor. Screwdrivers, oil bottles, and bike pumps appear to have been discarded carelessly wherever the people who use this place happened to want to leave them.

  All of that is in the background, though. All I notice at first is the eight or ten men who are now looking up from the bikes they’re working on and staring at me.

  “What do you want?” one says brusquely.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m… I’m looking for someone.”

  “No girls are allowed in here! We’re the Manly Cyclists!” another biker yelps.

  Just as I’m about to stutter out another apology and back out the door, the first cyclist stands up and comes forward. As tall and skinny as Nick, his gray hair shows that he’s also much older. “Stop it, Wheel. Maybe she knows one of our members.” To me, he says, “Who are you looking for?”

  “Nick.”

  The older man seems to think about it. “Nick… I’m not sure. Do we have a Nick?”

  A third cyclist yells from across the room. “That’s Axle.”

  “Right, Axle!” The gray-haired man nods. “Wheel, go get Axle, would you?”

  The man named Wheel leaves in a huff, but returns a minute later with the man I’ve been longing to see since the night before. Shirtless and with a dirty rag tucked into his belt, Nick looks even better than he did yesterday.

  “Sophie,” Nick says with surprise.

  Suddenly shy, all I can say is “Hi.”

  He takes me by the arm and leads me to a corner of the room, seeming to sense that I need privacy. The mess of assorted bicycle parts around us is almost comforting in its chaos.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this,” I tell him. In as few words as possible, I explain the events of the past day: the break-up, the bike purchase, and the kidnapping.

  “That bastard kidnapped your bike?” Nick – or Axle – barks. “I’ll have his head for this!” His reaction is even stronger than I had hoped.

  “What can we do, though? Do you think we can get there in time?”

  “We’ll get there,” Nick says, his eyes as intense as they were when he made me promise to buy a bike. “I’m a one-percenter.”

  A memory of him saying something similar last night comes back to me. “You told me that,” I say, remembering, “but I didn’t really understand.”

  The gray-haired cyclist approaches us. “Axle means that ninety-nine percent of cyclists only cycle to work or to school,” he says, giving me a dark look. “The one percent cycles for more than that. We cycle for pleasure.”

  I take a deep breath. “So you mean…”

  “I mean he can get you anywhere you need to go, as fast as you need to go,” he says.

  Nick looks at me, nodding. “Chains is right. Basically, I’m not going to worry about things like speed limits or laws to break.”

  “I heard you say this is a matter of a kidnapped bike,” the older man, Chains, continues. “If there’s anything the Manly Cyclists can provide for you, whether it’s a new set of pedals to make you go faster or a wrench to defend yourselves when you do arrive wherever this asshole is, don’t hesitate to ask. We take bikes extremely seriously here.”

  A wave of gratitude washes over me. Maybe I will get my Pink Lady back after all. With Nick at my side and the entire Manly Cyclist club backing me up, I just might have a shot.

  I could spend an hour thanking Chains for his kindness, but Nick rushes me out before I can thank him more than five or six times. “Come on, Sophie, we have to go,” he says. “Time is of the essence!”

  He pulls me out the door, dragging the sexy blue bike he rode last night along with him. “Get in the basket,” he says.

  “In the basket?” It’s a small wicker basket. There’s no way I’m going to be able to fit myself in there.

  “There’s no time to lose. Let your legs dangle out. I’ll bike you there!”

  I climb into the basket, my ass barely fitting inside and my legs dangling awkwardly out of the side. Nick begins to pedal me down the street, and the wind sends my hair streaming behind me.

  So here I am, crammed into the tiny bicycle basket that I mentioned before, flying down the street at speeds approaching eighteen miles per hour. That’s how I got here. But I still don’t know what will happen next.

  Nick pedals wildly. His strong legs are making us go much faster than I could have gone on my own, either walking or running. He’s an amazing cyclist; even I can see that.

  “Tell me about the Manly Cyclists,” I say, unsure if he’ll even hear my voice in the wind the bike is creating as I yell backwards at him.

  “They’re a group of one percenters,” he calls back. “Serious bikers who care about repairing and restoring bikes.”

  “Is that all you guys do?”

  “We’re brothers. We back each other up, help each other out. When one of us gets in trouble, we know we can always rely on each other.”

  I’m enjoying our conversation, the words half blown away in the wind between me and Nick but the connection between us as strong as ever.

  Something is wrong, though. My weight is shifting the bike forward. We’re off balance, and Nick isn’t going as fast as he would be otherwise. As fast as he would be without me.

  “Are we okay?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” he calls. “I’m pedalling as fast as I can, but we’re going a little bit slowly.”

  “What should we do?”

  He brakes, bringing the bike to an abrupt stop. “I think you need to take over,” he says. “You need to cycle.”

  “Me?”

  Nick nods, his blue eyes staring intently into mine. “Only you can save the Pink Lady. It might take you a little bit longer to get there, but it’ll still be faster than me biking both of us.”

  I’m not sure if I can do it. Am I strong enough? Smart enough? Can I make it there by myself?

  “I’ll try,” I tell him. Anxiety is already building within me. “What about afterwards, though?”

  “After you get your bike back, you bring it right on down to the MC,” he says. “The Manly Cyclists and I will fix it right up for you.”

  Taking a deep breath, I climb onto his bike. Waving goodbye to Nick, I grab the shiny metal handles and take off on my own.

  My sadness at parting from him quickly disintegrates. The seat sits solidly against my most sensitive parts, only heightening the moment as the thrill of sitting high on a powerful two-wheeled vehicle comes over me.

  The best part is that Gordon isn’t here to tell me I’m being stupid. I can just imagine all the things he’d have to say about how fat girls look silly riding bikes. I laugh out loud as I bike down the street, cars moving rapidly on my left side. He has no power over me now.

  I zoom through traffic, enjoying the freedom to do anything I want to do. Sometimes I’m a vehicle, sometimes a pedestrian. I weave through cars when traffic is thick, going from the sidewalk to the street and back, and running red lights if I want to. No one can stop me. I’m a cyclist!

  All the while, my ass cheeks rock against the seat and it presses firmly against my clit. Every bump in the road that I bike over heightens my arousal. My unbelievable wetness makes a puddle on the saddle and drips onto the road I bike over.

  I’m biking across a path of pleasure, every circle of my legs bringing more and better sensations between my legs.

  “Oh,” I whisper to myself as I bike over across a particularly large pebble. “Oh! Oh!”

  In this way, I arrive much faster than I want to. I mean, I get to the scrap metal yard quickly.

  I could have spent the day biking and enjoying the pleasurable feelings that the two-wheeled machine and the thick saddle convey to my clit. When I get my Pink Lady back, I’ll have to do just
that.

  If I get her back.

  At a sign for the scrap yard, I bike down a long driveway. The so-called yard is a more like wasteland, a wasteland of old and broken cars. Piles of crushed metal are stacked around me, so brutalized that I can’t even tell what color they used to be. They could have been car parts or bike parts before. It’s impossible to tell now.

  As far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but metal and tires. In one corner, four cars are stacked together, waiting to be compressed to nearly nothing by a car crusher. My bike is awaiting the same fate. But where is she?