Chapter 8

Clara;

When I woke, there was a moment of disorientation before I remembered how I came to be nude, in bed, with a naked man. Not just any man, but Rob. I also remembered being about to loose my virginity. Being frantic to lose my virginity. Having the very best orgasm ever thanks to his finger. Giving a blow-job for the first time. The taste of his cum in my mouth. I’d always thought it’d be disgusting, but it wasn’t. It was, after all, Rob. My Rob.

My head was on his shoulder, but I wanted ... His lips were just inches away. Morning breath? I didn’t give it a thought. But as I moved up, my nipples scraped through his chest hair and it felt like a series of electric shocks, zinging between there and my groin. As I reached my goal, he rolled toward me and his arms tightened around me. The kiss? Delicious.

“Good morning, my Beauty,” he mumbled.

“Good morning, my Knight,” I smiled.

He chuckled, a bit sleepily. “Sans peur et sans reproche?” he quoted, “Hardly!”

“And where’s the man I slept naked with last night? Who stopped me losing my virginity? I know you’re not perfect or faultless. You’re human. But you’re perfect for me.”

“Okay. I’ll let you have that one. Can you see the time?”

The clock was on the bedside table on my side of the bed, so my head was in the way of him seeing it. I rolled over, carefully ‘accidentally’ dragging his hand over to cup my tit, and wriggling backward. Yes! His erection was nudging at my bottom. Was I being unfair?

“It’s just after half-seven,” I informed him, pressing his hand against me. His hand squeezed. Fondled. Flicked my erect nipple.

“Perfect,” he murmured in my ear. “Don’t ever complain your tits are too small. Perfect.”

“I think I’d best get up,” I said, pushing back against him, and making no attempt to leave the bed.

“I’m not made of iron, you know,” he murmured in my ear.

“I know,” I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart, don’t be sorry. I just want you to know ... well ... resisting you isn’t actually easy.”

I twisted the top half of my body in order to kiss him again, then rolled out of bed. “I’ll remove the temptation then. Temporarily.”

Jessica was in the kitchen when we made it down there, and it was clear that she’d breakfasted much earlier, which was hardly surprising. She poured two mugs of coffee, one with, one without, milk. “Potato cakes. Eggs, baked beans, bacon, sausage or any permutation.”

Living by the sea, on the east coast in winter, I’d got used to substantial breakfasts, at least since encountering Rob, that is. Rob, of course, was used to cooked breakfasts from sailing. Jessica was very careful with her diet, though she did enjoy bacon or sausages fairly often. So Rob and I had our potato cakes, fried, with baked beans and sausages. As we ate, Jessica sat with us, sipping at her coffee.

“Rob,” she began, “Jenni and I need to kidnap your fiancée this morning to do some shopping. Perhaps you’d like to call the Vicar? Arrange a meeting to discuss the ceremony?”

“Oh ... yeah. I guess so. Suppose you have a number?”

“Of course.”

So there we were. Fed, dressed for the cold. In Jessica’s little Audi, leaving Rob to his own devices. We could have walked, I suppose. Even Jessica is still very fit and it’s only a couple of miles. With shopping to carry, though...

Felixstowe is a small town, but there’s almost everything you could want. First stop, though, waterproofs and lined boots for the motorbike. Oh, and a helmet. The waterproofs will be double service, though; sailing as well as motorcycling, so they should be pretty special.

We looked at dresses. A lot of them, most of them, had a lot of lace and such.

“Not me,” I said after the first two or three offerings. Then the proprietor produced a severely plain, white, dress. Ankle length, with a slight flare, fitted. I thought it would emphasise my large hips and small chest, but both Jessica and Jenni made approving noises.

“That’s it! Or something very like it,” Jenni said when I demurred. “You’ve a good figure, and should show it off.”

Incidentally, remember Rob’s morning comment about my tits? From time to time he threatens to spank me when I say anything negative about my body. I tried it on; it was a little on the large size, but Emma, the proprietor, did something with pins to make it right.

They pointed me at a full-length mirror.

Wow.

That’s not me, is it? Really?

As dresses go, it wasn’t expensive, seven hundred and ninety five. (I know why businesses take a fiver off the marked price, but I find it irritating. Disingenuous. But I suppose it works for them).

“I can alter it for you in a day,” Emma prompted.

“I lost a lot of weight last year,” I said, “and I’m gradually getting back to where I ought to be. By the time I’m ready for the wedding, I’ll probably be a few pounds heavier.”

“If you like the dress, I’ll set it aside for you, and we can do the alterations near the time?”

“I love the dress,” I admitted. “I never thought I could look like that.”

“Well, if you’re happy with it, I think we should break for lunch,” Jessica suggested, “Then look at shoes after.”

“Shoes?”

“You don’t think you’re going to wear trainers or brogues with that dress, do you?”

“Oh.”

She’s right. But, you know, I’ve never been like that, thinking about the right shoes for an outfit. I’ve done camping, travel, and student life, but even as a student I was never into bare midriffs, short skirts and spike heels. To be fair, most of my contemporaries were only into that for the odd night at the weekend. Anyway, we walked towards the sea, turned off before we got there, and found a fish restaurant on Orwell Road. Wonderful, juicy, fresh fish; something which inland towns can only hope to emulate. Then it was into lingerie, hosiery, court shoes. I found some I could tolerate, for an hour or so, anyway.

By late afternoon I was ready to collapse. I suspect Jenni wasn’t much better, as I’m pretty sure she’s not much more into shopping than I am. Jessica? She’s amazing for her age. We bought crusty bread, nice cheese from a deli in town, and went back to the Ferry.

Rob again.

I know shopping is a girl thing, and something most men don’t appreciate. I certainly wasn’t about to trail round town after the ladies, even had I not suspected my company was neither wanted or expected. They said they would eat in town, so I intended to indulge in fish’n’chips in the Ferry Cafe. First, I rang the Vicar, and arranged to meet him the next day. Then, still before lunch, I set off walking by the side of the river on my own, painfully aware of Clara’s absence.

Lunch. Fried fish, fish which was in the sea barely a couple of hours before. Chips, fried to perfection. Mushy peas. People think I’m strange, sometimes, but I think mushy peas are a delicacy; peas which were once a vital part of seamen’s diet, and subject of that nursery rhyme. ‘Peas pudding hot, peas pudding cold... ‘ Coffee. Chocolate fudge cake. I knew I needed another walk.

But I didn’t get that walk. When I left the cafe, I glanced across the gravelled car park and noticed a grey-headed, bulky man, tending an old motorbike. I like old motorbikes. My Oscar isn’t actually old. In fact, he was new when I bought him. But he’s built to a design dating to the mid fifties, updated only as far as necessary to fit him for modern conditions. Some force like gravity drew me across the space.

“Afternoon,” I offered.

He looked up. “Afternoon.”

“Nice bike,” I commented. “Nineteen sixty?”

“Fifty-five,” he answered, “though the motor is sixty-two. The earlier motor had dynamo electrics. Six volt dynamo’s no good if you want to ride at night.” He stood with a stifled groan. “Charlie Taylor,” he said. He glanced at his hands which were pretty grubby. “I won’t offer to shake,” he grinned. “Yeah,” he sighed. “It is a nice bike. I don’t ride any more, though.”

“No?”

“No. Too old and stiff, and my balance isn’t all it might be, either. But I love the old bike. Wheel it out every so often. Run the motor, make sure everything’s as it should be, as far as I can. Can’t bear to part with it.” He hesitated. “You’re the one staying with Jessica Yeomans, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“This bike belonged to her husband, Dave. I kept it for him. Inherited it when he passed on.” He looked at me, frowning. “Like to ride it?”

That was a surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s taxed and insured. Any rider. Twenty miles or so. Get it nice and hot.”

“Okay!” I almost ran back to Jessica’s to get my gear and helmet. Charlie was waiting when I got back. I pushed the old Norton off its stand and straddled it – not without difficulty; it’s got a wide seat and is quite high off the ground.

“Look, son. Magneto ignition, with a manual advance. Always retard it before starting.” He pointed to a small lever on the handlebars, then another. “Choke,” he said. “you’ll need that first time.” Then down. “Right hand change. Don’t get muddled. Up for down; one up, two three four down. Okay? Take your time. Think about it.” He stepped back.

I duly retarded the ignition, closed the choke. Turned the ‘key’, which was just a spade. Checked my balance, and stood on the kick-starter. I felt the kick as it went over compression, but it didn’t start. Try two, and it rumbled into life. Advanced the ignition lever, and opened the throttle a little until the motor started to sound lumpy, then opened the choke. See? I can do basic primitive biking.

That old twin was pretty smooth, and the power came in evenly after I kicked it into gear and moved off gingerly across the loose gravel. The speedo took a little getting used to as it jerked about. But I got onto the road and up to thirty. It was nice. Less vibration than Oscar, but still quite a bit. Power came in smoothly. Light clutch. No indicators, though; the throttle twist-grip had a friction setting, so one can take one’s right hand off in order to signal. Back in time!