Date: Mon, 18 Jan 2016 22:48:08 -0500
From: user459@mail.com
Subject: Meg's Bike 34

*Please remember that NIFTY needs your support and that if you want the
stories to continue, it's up to you to donate to  *http://donate.nifty.org/
donate.html


When we were all done, and had come down from the bliss of our various
pleasures, we got dressed.  Laura and Barbara dressed first.  Then I
dressed and finished the rest of Mitch's vital measurements, entered
information on his chart, and collected the sample vial from the
nightstand.  Again, they all went into an envelope for Mitchell's doctor. I
let Mitch get dressed.

"Oh, I got sidetracked," said Barbara.  "I never got to go over the
doctor's report with you!"  We ended up sitting at the kitchen island as
she read the report.  She quoted all the figures and percentages and
related where Mitch stood in relation to his peers.

"Wow!" I said, "He has shown definite improvement, according to the
figures.  I see him every day, so it's hard to get that perspective.  I
just know what I see day-to-day."

"And," she went on, "he is now making productive sperm!  He has become a
real man!  He may still be a little shorter than the average 12 year old,
but his parts are working and it seems he has a healthy sexual appetite.  I
think that's important, don't you?"  If she only knew!

"I've seen big changes in him, now that I think about it," I said.  "He's
not the same little boy you brought in to have his training wheels taken
off!  I've seen great changes in you, too."  She blushed and got a little
teary.

"I know I had been a real bitch," she admitted.  "It wasn't fair to
Mitchell.  I was stuck in a nasty marriage and that was my way of coping
with it.  I'm sorry.  I have tried to change."

"I didn't realize your husband had left, I said.  "It's none of my
business, but what happened?"  She sighed and then stiffened up and
composed herself.

"I should have recognized it long ago," she responded.  "It seemed all he
ever wanted was blowjobs and then he kept pestering me for anal sex.  He
ended up going off with another guy, the faggy son of a bitch!  I hope he's
getting his fill of both."

"It's not your fault, Barbara," I said.

"I know, but I can't help but think I did something wrong," she said.  "And
poor Mitchell is the way he is..."  I could see the rage building inside of
her.

"It's not your fault, Barbara," I said.  "You can't blame yourself."

"Yeah, but..." she started.

"It's not your fault, Barbara," I repeated.   She broke down and fell into
my arms.  She wept and soaked my T-shirt.  I let her go on until the sobs
let up and she wiped her eyes.

"I know; deep down I know," she said, "But I can't help it.  Those thoughts
keep creeping in.  Thanks for understanding, Mike."

"No problem," I said.  "That's what I do; I fix bikes and hearts."

"Well, you are very good at what you do!" she said.  The mood lightened,
and she gathered the kids and left.  I have to say, I enjoyed the silence
and solitude for a while.

Then I remembered my helper out in the garage.  I sure hope he had enough
sense to pack it in and go home.  I opened the door to the shop and saw the
lights were out.  I heated some of Barbara's casserole in the microwave and
retreated to my recliner for some food, rest and TV.  Before I knew it, my
eyes closed and I woke myself up with one particularly loud snort.  It was
time to hit the hay.

I was up at 5:30 am.  I don't know why I still do that; I'm just done
sleeping.  If I force myself to stay there, the dreams get more and more
disturbing and senseless.  I think my time in Southeast Asia has something
to do with it.  I was out in the shop with a steaming cup of coffee by
6:00, and soon settled into fiddling with projects.  I finished replacing
the brake pads on one bike and did a lube and service on another.   I wrote
down parts I had to order for another.  I had not opened the overhead door
yet, but it seemed like a good idea to let in some more air and light.  The
air felt good.  It had started to cool off a bit from the normal hot and
humid weather.  As kids rode by on their bikes on the way to school, I
noticed more of them had long pants on and a few wore hoodies.  It was
definitely a change from shorts and T-shirt weather, but I stubbornly
refused to give them up; at least in the shop.

The day whizzed by.  I was using some heavy-duty varnish remover in the
shop, so I left the door open for ventilation.  I even ate my lunch out in
the garage.  The only thing missing in my garage was a bathroom, and I had
the world's largest urinal just outside the back door!  In fact, I was out
there pissing in the palmettos, when I heard someone call out a greeting
from the shop.  I shook the dew off the lily, zipped up, and went inside.

I was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged man and a tall, slender teen
girl.  He was ruggedly handsome; she was pretty, but gangly and in the
midst of development into a young woman.  Between them stood a tall
cardboard box, I immediately recognized as a new bike box.  I wiped my
hands on a rage and extended a hand to the man.

"Hi," I said.  "I'm Mike.  The kids call me the bike guy."  He shook my
hand and nodded in acknowledgement.

"I heard that about you," he said.  "That's why we're here.  One of Kathy's
friends told her about you.  I don't know the first thing about putting
these things together and I want it done right.  I heard you are the wizard
of all things bicycle related."

"That's probably going too far," I said, "but I'll take it as a
compliment."  I probably held onto his hand a little longer than I should
have, but I didn't feel like breaking the eye contact we had established.
I got the shivers when I finally let go and went to examine the box and its
contents.  Kathy stood by, arms folded, while her dad and I talked about
the bike.

"I'm Randy, by the way, and this is Kathy," he said.  I shook her hand,
too, and noticed how soft it was.  She was a bit thin and bony, but lovely
nonetheless.  In my day we would have called her "willowy".  I even manage
to elicit a smile from her.

"Who told you about me?" I asked her, still holding onto her hand.

"My friend Meg mentioned how you helped adjust her bike and how other kids
have been helped by you." She answered.  "She's a bit younger than me, but
we've been friends a long time."

"How old are you, honey?" I asked in the most fatherly tone I could
muster.  I couldn't help but wonder how much Meg had told her about our
encounters, but I held that in check.  I surmised from her height and her
meager development that she was between twelve and thirteen.  Her nylon
track pants and team shirt hid most of the indicators that would help me
properly guess her age.  I thought I could detect the start of some breast
bumps and her hips had the bare beginnings of flair to them.

"I'm going to be twelve this weekend," she said.  "This is my birthday
present."

"Congratulations!" I said.  "Now, let's see what we have here."  I picked
up a box cutter and sliced through the packing tape.  Alter pulling out
tons of styrofoam and plastic wrap, I got to the frame and lifted it from
the carton, along with other bits and parts.  Finally, I got to the bag
containing the screws, nut, and bolts plus the assembly manual.

"Do you want me to take the box away with me?" Randy asked.

"No. I don't like to get rid of it until the bike is all assembled," I
answered.  "Sometimes there are stray parts hidden in the packaging.  I
will ask you to take it away when I'm done, though, if that's OK with you."

"Sure," he said.  "We have a dumpster at work I can throw it in.  Is it OK
if I leave it with you?  I have a few errands to run."  He turned to Kathy.

"Do you want to come with me or stay and help Mike?" he asked her.  She
looked at her Dad, then at the bike box, then at me.

"I think I'll stay with Mike, if he's going to start on the bike," she
said.  "I'd like to help so I can see how it goes together."

"That's fine with me, if it's OK with Mike," he said, looking at me for the
OK.

"I plan on starting right away and I would appreciate the help," I said.

"Then, I'll be off," he announced.  "Call me on my cell phone when you're
ready to come home," he instructed Kathy.  He once again extended his hand
to me and said thanks.

I was already engrossed in the assembly manual, trying to translate the
Chinamerican English to something I could understand, but I am a firm
believer in reading instructions.  As I read them, I instructed Kathy on
where to lay out the pieces.  She moved gracefully and covered the floor
with the parts.  Then, as I called out for them, she handed me the pieces,
one by one.

In short order, a bike started to take shape.  I could see the delight in
Kathy's eyes at being a part of its assembly.  I even let her do some of
the assembly herself.  She knew how to use a screwdriver and a wrench,
perhaps better than her father did.  He had seemed at a loss with
mechanical things.

We left some things, like the handlebars and seat, just finger tight,
knwong they would need final adjustment and fitting to Kathy unique
build.   We mounted the rims and tires to the front and rear and used the
air compressor to inflate them to the proper pressure.

"It's important to keep the tires inflated correctly," I told her.  "The
bike will roll better on properly inflated tires and will last longer."

"But I don't have a tire pump or an air compressor," she lamented.

"You are welcome to come by any time and use mine," I said.

We set the bike upright and checked out he kickstand.  It worked well and
the bike was now all together.

"Wow!" she exclaimed.  "I can't believe it's finished!"

"Not quite," I said.  "We have to adjust it to your ideal riding position.
Come over and straddle the bike."  I flipped up the kickstand and held the
bike upright while she swung her leg over the back.  This was not a girl's
bike with the swoopy, step through frame, but a proper unisex bicycle.
When she gripped the handlebars, I could tell that both the seat and the
brs had to be raised.

I tackled the handlebars first, raising them to the appropriate level and
then rotating them back toward her.  I tightened them down.  I stepped back
toward the back of the bike to make the seat adjustment.  This was my
favorite part.

"The seat seems too low," she observed.  I loosened the nut that clamped it
to the shaft.

"Now this may get a little personal," I warned her as I raised the seat
closer to her crotch.

"That's OK." She said.  "I don't mind."  I wasn't sure what that meant; if
I had been given permission to touch her there, or if I was allowed
accidental contact.  I didn't want to take any chances at this point, so I
preceded cautiously.  When the seat was just touching the material of her
track pants, I tightened the securing nut partially.  I slid my hand into
the space between the seat and her actual flesh.  It was close, however,
and I felt my hand graze the warmth of her crotch.  She didn't flinch or
move.  In fact, she seemed to settle down on my hand a bit.  It felt warm
and a bit moist to me.  I pulled my hand out and raised the seat to where I
thought it should be, and tightened it.

"There, that should be about right," I said.

"Shouldn't you check it again?" she said softly.  She took hold of my wrist
and drew my hand toward the bike seat and her crotch.  She seemed
physically warmer and I knew I was getting physically harder.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked.  At her direction, I cupped her pussy
and she trapped my hand between it and the seat.

"Meg told me about this part," she said, "and I thought it was just so
damned hot!"  I felt her rock back and forth on my hand and my left hand
went to her skinny butt to steady her.

"Are you wearing panties?" I asked when I felt her smooth ass.

"No, Meg said you liked your girls without them," she said.  That was very
true, but I needed to talk to Meg about spreading that information around.
Right now, I didn't care;  I had my hand in the crotch of a budding young
girl and was hoping to go further.

"What else did Meg tell you?" I asked.

"Don't be mad at Meg," she pleaded.  "I've learned so much from her and I
made her tell me where she learned it.  I promised not to tell anyone
else."

"I guess I'm not mad," I said, "but I want you girls to realize that I
could be arrested for showing you this stuff."

"We don't want to get you in trouble, Mike," she said.  "We'll be very
quiet about it."  With that, she ground her pussy into my hand and pulled
my head down to hers for a deep, sensuous kiss, far more than I expected
from an almost twelve year old.  As we kissed, I kneaded the flesh in my
hands and she squirmed and moaned.  I pulled my hand from its confines and
inserted it into her track pants.  I felt bare flesh, with just a hint of
peach fuzz as I felt lower and lower.  Just at the far edge of her mound, I
felt her warm slit and followed the moist trail with my middle finger.  Her
lips parted as my finger entered her slippery channel.  I could feel every
feature of her female anatomy and I explored each one.  She gasped as I
neared her vaginal opening.

"Are you OK, Kathy?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" she said.  "It's just that I've never been touched by anyone
down there."

"I thought you said that Meg had taught you a lot of stuff," I said.

"We just talked about it; we didn't do anything," she replied.  "I wanted
to do it with you first."

"And just what is it you want to do?" I asked.

"Everything," she replied.