But that day, the Monday I stepped through the door the breath caught in my throat, because on that podium there was a simple old Raleigh three-speed in all it's boxy, dowdy, upright, terribly British conceit. Its dark finish made the shining bits, like the handlebars, stand out even more, glittering in the spotlights.All the bikes around the walls face that centerpiece as if paying homage to nobility."Bessie?" I whispered.She was gracefully aging royalty holding court, surrounded by admiring subjects."Bessie?" I half-whispered again, afraid I was seeing things, afraid I'd break the spell. Shrugging out of my backpack and setting it down quietly by the door I tip-toed closer, cold sweat prickling my nakedness. "Is that you?"It couldn't be her! When Maria and I had brought Bessie in last Thursday she'd been a basket case, and we'd been told it'd be at least a week, maybe two before they'd even have the parts, and who knew how long it would take to get her put back together. Maybe it. Some time later I am awakened by Sandy's movements. At first, it seem she is snuggling with me – then I realize it's something else. She's pressed firmly within my embrace, her subtle motions keeping rhythm. I quietly turn my head and look at her through half-closed eyes. Her eyes are closed, but she isn't asleep – her breathing is shallow and steady and her mouth is open. I carefully turn my head further and notice her hand is between her thighs and the rhythmic pulse is Sandy reacting as she masturbates. I remain still and observe as she continues. She shudders and gasps. I don't want to disturb her and have her stop. Sandy looks at me through her aroused stupor – she sees me watching her but doesn't stop. Her shudders are more frequent, her breathing quickens. Sandy shifts herself and lifts her legs, spreading them apart. “I can help,” I whisper. She nods open-mouthed as her orgasm approaches. I reach down past her busy hand and slide two fingers inside her. She is incredibly.
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