New England Triad – Chap 8 by Peter_Cleveland
It’s looking like the beginning of the end for Stephen and Beth–so Beth shares hers.
Author’s note:
Category: This chapter (#8) does not fit neatly into any of Literotica’s categories. “Anal” seemed the least-bad fit, as the chapter’s one extended, graphic sex scene is indeed anal. For those wanting to cut to the chase: the scene begins about 2/5 of the way through the chapter.
This chapter–like the previous seven–is not really a self-contained short story. Rather, it is another slice of a long story. For best results, read the chapters in sequence.
If you’re starting at Chapter 8 (or just want your memory refreshed), the first six paragraphs will give you the background information you need. The narrator is Stephen Lancome, age 39. He is a college professor, Ann’s husband, and Beth’s lover. Dev is mentioned later in the chapter: she is Beth’s sweet but uninhibited housemate.
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When I first met Beth, on the rail trail back in July, I thought our relationship had potential–as biking companions. At least until her back healed and she started racing around again on a lightweight sports bike–then she’d probably leave me in the dust. In my fantasies, our shared interest in bicycling might even develop into a nice friendship.
Much to the surprise of both of us, two hours later we were lovers.
The irony is, we hadn’t gone biking together since. Each of us had commuted to the other’s house by bicycle. But then we always wanted to switch to a form of exercise that didn’t require shoes and a helmet. Or pants.
At this moment, in late October, the weather was perfect. But winter rains would come soon and then snow. I called Beth and proposed a ride for Saturday. She happily accepted.
My wife Ann was happy too–to have me out from underfoot so she could do the weekend tasks she likes without tripping over me. At this point she still was not thrilled about Beth’s and my affair, but the matter no longer seemed like an urgent crisis demanding a speedy resolution. Besides, she and Beth liked each other and also worked together at the office. Twice they had even had sex with each other. And the second time they were sober! To say nothing of Ann’s one-night stand with old college pal Justin, in Pittsburgh, six weeks ago.
So the situation remained a big muddle. At least it was a friendly and loving muddle. I’ve been in muddles that were considerably less pleasant than this one.
Beth and I came up with a nice route for Saturday’s bike trip. We would meet in Andover at the little historical museum right by the covered bridge. We’d ride the rail trail westwards to Bolton, then take the streets south to a little state park halfway between Beth’s house and mine. I’d bring a light lunch for us. I wasn’t sure of the mileage: somewhere around 50 for each of us, door to door.
Saturday morning I arrived at our starting point about ten minutes ahead of Beth. As usual, the museum was closed, the gravel parking lot empty. I leaned my bike against the building’s white shingles. It was peaceful here, well above the roads and a little below the rail trail. Not much action on the trail this morning. The day was looking to be unusually warm for late October. No complaints there.
I watched Beth bike up the steep gravel driveway. She was standing on the pedals of her borrowed Nishiki, moving with strength and grace. She dismounted, wheeled the bike to me, and kissed me.
“It looks like your back is doing much better,” I said. “You looked strong and lovely coming up the driveway.”
“Thanks. Yes, I’m feeling close to normal. I do have to pee, though. Would you mind?”
Of course she meant, would you mind holding my bike? I smiled and grasped the handlebar stem.
She quickly saw the best spot: just beyond a corner of the lot, by a large bush that would block the view from the trail. My view was unobstructed. She went there, stood facing me, smiled, and eased her bike shorts down to her knees. Once again I admired that lovely pubic mound and the sweet brown curls on top. Then she squatted and opened her legs as best she could. First a trickle then a good flow of urine left her lovely body, arced underneath her bunched shorts, and landed on the crabgrass.
At last she stood, legs spread, still facing me. She retrieved a Kleenex from a pocket in back of her jersey and wiped.
“Need a touch-up?” I offered.
“No! If your face gets within five inches of there, we both know what will happen. And there goes our nice long bike ride!”
We both smiled. She was probably right. She pulled up her shorts. No trash can was in sight, so she tossed the tissue into her handlebar bag. We wheeled our bikes up the path to the rail trail. We’d start by crossing the covered bridge, heading westwards. A beautiful start to what I hoped would be a beautiful day. Beth led.
A couple hundred yards later Beth stopped. We were on the side of the ridge overlooking Route 6. Overlooking the auto garage and, beyond that, the patch of woods and the clearing where we had become lovers. I pulled up next to her.
“What do you think?” she inquired.
I pondered for a few seconds. “I’m thinking, let’s not go. The place is so special to me… my memories are so beautiful… I kind of want to gaze on it from a distance and not risk doing anything that might modify those memories in any way…. How are you feeling?”
Beth reached out and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine with that,” she said. After a pause: “We can move on when you’re ready.”
I spent about 15 seconds debating whether or not to tell her I love her. A couple weeks back we had sort of, more or less, kind of said this to each other–but not quite. I decided this wasn’t the best time and place. We mounted and headed out.
Sometimes we rode side by side. More often we had to ride single file because of ruts in the trail or patches of silt or other people on the trail.
We were now on an incline that would last five or six miles–until the Bolton Notch area. Beth was biking a little stronger and faster than me; I had to push myself to match her pace. Beth sensed this and tried to throttle herself back a little–but bicycling a little slower than your muscles want to go is actually uncomfortable.
Normally I would have told her to go ahead and wait for me at Steele’s Crossing Road in Bolton–our exit. But a blanket of fallen leaves was completely obscuring this part of the trail. I knew the trail pretty well here, but this was Beth’s first visit. I had to stay in front of her and pick out the way. Riding off the edge of the trail could cause nasty injuries.
We left the trail at Steele’s Crossing and started on that mile-long uphill stretch of asphalt. We’d stop for a break at the gazebo on the town green, a mile and a half ahead. I invited Beth to go ahead. Just turn right at the big white church, and I’ll meet you on the green. She smiled, blew me a kiss, and pulled ahead. I followed, admiring her lovely, taut bottom until it was too far away to see clearly.
This summer Beth and I would have been good biking buddies: comparably skilled and pretty well matched in strength. Now, with her back nearly healed, she was ahead of me. And as the weeks rolled on she would only get stronger and faster. After 39 years I knew my body pretty well: I would never be an athlete. Beth was one. We both realized that this, our first long bike ride together, would probably be our last.