I Got Caught with a Flat

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I Got Caught with a Flat, Well, How ’bout That?

I’m a bit of a closet Tgurl. I doubt I will ever come out. That, however, does not stop me from wearing panties, nylons, scented body wash and any girly stuff I think I can get away with. I am, of course, most likely massively deluded, but what is a girl to do?

I woke up and felt like some exercise, so I had a quick bath, washed my long, brunette hair, and finished up by using way too much spray and perfume.

I have a hybrid bike, the sort with the large wheels and skinny tires. It is about an 8 kilometer ride to the nearest town, and that was my destination. I had just the other day bought some really slutty, black yoga pants, shot through with pink. I could never wear them out unless I pretended they were cycling wear. So, emboldened with that thought, I dressed in nice, tight girly knickers, the black and pink yoga pants, and a longish, white T-shirt that covered the most exposed parts of my bum.

I live in a small town, at the top of a large, steep hill. It is a very conservative area. Despite this I didn’t think that a lot of people would recognize me, so off I went, hitting 30kph down the hill, the saddle rubbing nicely between my thighs. Once clear of my immediate neighbors I popped my red Lolita heart shaped shades on to keep the bugs out of my eyes.

At the bottom of the hill I turned onto a quiet, secluded cycle path. I was going along nicely, just listening to some music from my vintage smart phone through my headphones. What I didn’t see, until it was too late, was the glass from a broken beer bottle. The back of my bike did a little waltz, then seemed difficult to steer and I ground to a halt. The back tire, my beloved Kenda hybrid 700cx35, was flaccid and deflated. I’d only recently bought them so I could expand my terrain options.

I was wondering what I could do. I was not passable as a Tgurl that day at all. I was sort of thinking that the speed of the bike would keep me from being scrutinized too closely. The pants I was wearing are more pink than black upon reflection, and they have little slutty cut out black fishnet mesh panels at the backs of the knees. I never wear a huge amount of makeup, all the same I had lipstick, eyeshadow and a touch of mascara applied. And to top it all off I’m almost 5km from home.

I sat a while, resigned to having to walk the bike all the way back home, including through my village with its curtain twitching busybodies. It was urfa escort a long while till dusk, but perhaps that might be a last ditch plan.

I had been sat about 20 minutes, thinking about life, the universe and everything when I noticed a cyclist coming into view. Most cyclists will stop and ask if you need a hand, but who would stop for an unconvincing Tgurl in black and pink leggings and Lolita shades?

I have a tendency to overthink situations. Maybe despite, or perhaps because of, my cross-dress overload and fail, the cyclist slowed to a stop. The guy was riding a Dawes Galaxy with the drop bars and a ton of gear strapped to both front and rear panniers.

“You OK, young…” he hesitated. I knew I was busted. He was going to scowl and ride off into the sunset and leave me to my fate. “…lady?” he finished after what must have been a whole five seconds.

I was speechless. He dismounted and leaned his tourer against a nearby hedge. Still wondering what was happening I could only gesture to my rear tire.

He said he had a puncture repair kit in his pannier and that he could fix it in a few minutes. I recovered and agreed to this unexpected stroke of good fortune as quickly as I could. The Dawes cyclist was really, really good looking, tall at maybe 5’10”, lightly built but not meanly thin, and the muscles I could see, those in his arms and legs, looked toned and tanned. He had blond hair, shaved at the sides and a flat top, and was wearing a nice t-shirt and baggy, light brown mountain biking shorts with black Lycra cycling shorts peeking out at the knees visible underneath. I swallowed nervously, trying to regroup and not let my tongue hang out.

I was overjoyed. All the time he was fixing the bike, I was vamping as best as I was able without making it seem too blatant. I am not a good looking gurl, but as an avid cyclist my legs, even in the badly selected slutty yoga pants, are still pretty killer. So I bent and reached over the bike as he worked, passing the spanners to him, showing off my legs and bum as best as I could, invading his space more than a little, confident that I smelt good.

He didn’t seem to mind, and I’m pretty sure I could tell in a millisecond if it was unwanted attention. He said his name was Ian, and he explained that he was cycling the 70 miles round the Island in two days, for fun just before he had to start his third and final year at uni.

He balıkesir escort soon had the repair done and he triumphantly flipped my bike back onto its wheels. I handed him the tire pump and he started to inflate the tire. I actually was getting too excited at the view. I’m sure you can imagine exactly what this looked like, with blond Ian hunched over the bike, working that pump, making both the tire and me, hard and inflated.

When he finished, he stood up, grinning, and said, “Back on the road.” I was so grateful. It wouldn’t be the end of the world for me to be outed, but on the other hand, I could really do without being gossiped about.

“You’ve saved me a long walk home pushing my bike…fantastic! I am so happy,” I said smiling and then grinning like a mad kitten.

I felt I should make an effort to show him how pleased I was, so I asked, “Can I give you a big hug?” He didn’t say anything but I could tell he would be OK with it. I leaned towards him and, standing on tip toes (yeah, I’m not tall), wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged with all the sexiness that a hug permits, the whole length of my taut body pressed against his, maybe for a moment or two longer than was necessary. My nostrils were filled will the odor of him, sweat from long hills, tires and spanners, mowed lawn and distant faded deodorant. I broke the hug and stepped back.

I asked, “Is there anything I can do to repay your kindness?” I don’t do demur. Nevertheless, I was gazing down at my feet and was sort of rocking to and fro on my heels a little at the same time.

“Another hug would be nice… and a kiss?” I couldn’t wait but suddenly I was torn by doubt.

Now, I do over think situations as I said earlier. What if he hadn’t realised exactly what sort of girl I am? I decided to be very blunt to slay any doubt. I leaned into him again, my arms going around his neck again, brought my mouth close to his ear, and whispered, “You do know what sort of girl I am, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, a pretty one,” was the reply, and as that was all I ever wanted to hear, I kissed him deeply.

After a few minutes of just kissing and stroking, I maneuvered him over to a nearby tree. I had the giggles a little. I felt a bit stoned, stoned on lust, but I leaned him back against the tree and knelt down right in front of him, pulling the brown mountain biking shorts down to his ankles as I did so. I rubbed my trabzon escort hand from the top of his cock to the base, still clad in the black Lycra cycling shorts. I could tell from the ragged intake of breath that my efforts were not wasted. I moved my hands up to the waistband of the cycle shorts and pulled them down to join the other pair around his ankles. His cock was just the right size at 6 or 7 inches with a nice shape, just right for sucking. I love to suck cock and I like to think I’m good at it.

I was going all the way up and down the shaft, twirling my tongue around the head at the end of each stroke. I was on my knees, gazing up into Ian’s eyes and batting my lashes. If his cock had been chromed I would have sucked that chrome right off.

I used a variety of techniques on him, starting with my lips clamped firmly around his shaft. I also used my tongue to press his head into the roof of my wide open mouth and was alternating that with running it up and down the underside of his penis with every movement of my head. My left hand began to massage his inner right thigh and my right made little circles around his belly button.

No one who is subjected to such an unexpected sensory assault could be expected to last long.

After only a few minutes, I felt his balls start to rise and he gasped. “I’m going to cum,” he said almost inaudibly.

“Cum in my mouth. I want you to,” I replied. I had the tip of his cock firmly trapped against the roof of mouth with my tongue curled around it so that when he sprayed his cum it wouldn’t make me gag.

He panted and moaned, his body bucked and his pelvis thrust towards me uncontrollably. Then I felt his body shudder and he pumped his sperm into my mouth. And he came a lot, so much that it leaked out of the corner of my mouth and fell onto my shirt. I carried on gently licking him till he had entirely finished, and then made sure that his cock was entirely spotlessly clean. I then helped Ian get his two pairs of shorts back on. He still seemed a little dazed, so I hugged him tight and helped him onto his bike.

And off he rode into the sunset, a true hero.

There is just one more thing I should confess to before I use that last and final full stop: I didn’t actually ride over any broken glass, but that tire did pick that moment to go flat. I found out later that one of the spokes had worn into the innertube. But upon seeing Ian come into view, I did use a piece of the bottle to puncture the tire before he arrived.



The title is, of course, shamelessly stolen from Richard O’Brien’s “Rocky Horror Picture Show” and I have to hope that he will not mind the theft.

The author asserts that this is an original work and that the copyright belongs to Hialtitude.

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