Helen marched across the street to her bike. She knew Mark was watching her from the window above, but didn’t acknowledge him. She wasn’t playing games – she just wasn’t ready for cheery waves or blowing kisses yet. Still it felt good to have his eyes upon her and she slowed her pace deliberately to enjoy it for a few seconds more.
She clambered on to her Kawasaki and turned the ignition. Her bike leathers and helmet were another form of armour for Helen, a space where she could exist alone and unmolested. But today, for the first time in ages, she felt she didn’t need it. That she didn’t have to hide from the world. What had happened with Mark had been unplanned and unexpected – which is probably why it had felt so right. When Helen had time to think, things often got overcomplicated and then didn’t happen at all. But today was just right. She wondered what Mark was thinking. Perhaps he thought she was odd – he wouldn’t be the first. Or maybe he found her intriguing. That was the best that she could hope for at this stage and she would definitely settle for that.
It was time to leave. The crazy fool was still watching, the curtain only vaguely hiding his naked form. For his sake as well as hers, she’d better go. So she revved the throttle and sped off down the road. As the wind whipped her body, she realized that today she was feeling decidedly unusual.
She was happy.
Martina pulled off her bra and thrust her naked breasts towards the other girl. Caroline – was that her name? – responded, licking her nipples with feverish, theatrical desire. Martina threw her head back groaning – and her eye was immediately caught by a dent in the roof of the van. How had that got there?
She’d done this so many times that it was impossible to keep your mind on the job. Whilst your body was bucking and cavorting for someone else’s pleasure, the brain disengaged and you found yourself wondering whether you could make it to the pub before closing time or whether you should go to Egypt on holiday or how much the other girl had paid to have her boobs done. It was amazing how mundane your thoughts could be really, especially when the girl – perhaps it was Carol, not Caroline – was going down on you. Martina moaned right on cue. The punters never guess of course. They are so consumed by the idea of what they are seeing – two large-breasted women devouring each other – that they don’t spot the tell-tale signs of ennui. Wouldn’t care if they did anyway.