A Ride Too Far
by David Heulfryn
It seemed to happen so fast. I momentarily lost concentration and hit a rock in the road. I tried to stop, but I had just come into a corner. Instead of banking to follow the curve, I sat upright in an attempt to stop my bike pitching me off. I left the road and struggled on the roadside rough cobbles. It was a futile effort, and I was thrown, my body scraped the rough surface as I followed my bike, headfirst. It slid on its side to a lumbering stop.
I tried to get up. My arms and flank were badly grazed, blood seeped through my flimsy t-shirt, and I saw blood on my shorts. My legs were also severely grazed, but I felt no pain, yet; the adrenaline pumping through my blood killed any pain I should be feeling. As soon as I stood up and put any weight on my right leg, it collapsed, my knee unable to take the pressure. Standing again, I was careful not to put ant weight on my bad leg and hopped to my bike, its engine running and rear wheel still spinning. I turned off the engine.
A passing motorist had seen the incident and stopped, she spoke to me, but I could not understand.
“No hablo Español,” I said, but she could barely speak a word of English.
She helped pick up my bike, and I set it on its side stand. I retrieved my mobile phone and travel documents from the top box on my bike, and I gave my bike a quick look over; it did not seem too bad. The front indicator was gone, the screen was cracked, and there were deep scratches down the faring. My right pannier seemed to take most of the impact and protected the exhaust, but oil dripped from the engine to stain the beige rocks.
The lady fussed around me, and I heard what sounded like ‘ambulance’, and she was on her phone.
A policeman soon arrived, closely followed by the ambulance. As the two ambulance-men sat me down and cleaned my wounds, the policeman tried to speak to me.
I patted out the only phrase I knew in his language. “No hablo Español.” And he turned to speak to the woman who came to my aid.
The two medics wanted to take me to the hospital when the policeman came over and spoke in disjointed English. He wrote something down. It was an address. He would arrange for my bike to be taken there until I came to pick it up.
I felt very foolish. I should not have come off my bike. I should also have been wearing proper clothes, but it was a scorching day, and I had planned to spend it in Barcelona. If I had my leathers on, then I would not have been hurt at all, as it was, I was grazed, and my knee buckled no matter how little weight I put on it. But the roads were unfamiliar, and I was not yet used to riding on the wrong side of the road. I had spent several days riding from Calais, but it was mostly on the autoroutes or other major roads. Only when I reached Spain and set up camp at a pleasant campsite in Sitges did I start to ride the minor roads.
Sitges is only about an hour from Barcelona, and I decided to take the scenic route. There was an autoroute that took you straight there, but I was on holiday and did not want to spend it on motorways. I thought the coast road would be more interesting. I now wished I had taken the autoroute, if I had, I wouldn’t be in the back of an ambulance.
When we reached the hospital, I was put into a small booth, the curtain closed and left alone. A doctor came in after a few minutes. He spoke very little English but managed to make himself clear, medical expressions are very similar the world over. Telling him that I felt no pain, he declared that I would require an x-ray. I was relieved when he mentioned something about a translator, I would finally be understood. The doctor left.
The curtains opened, and a young lady came in to see me. She was the translator. I tried to ask her what was happening, but she insisted on seeing my insurance documents. Grateful I had the foresight to retrieve them from my bike, I handed over my E111, she glanced at it and left.
Returning shortly afterwards, she said. “This is no good.”
I let out a long sigh. As a British Subject, I thought that the E111 would entitle me for free emergency medical treatment in any EU country, but apparently, this did not include road traffic accidents. I went through the small bundle of papers I got from my backbox and found my travel insurance documents. I handed them over.
“This is better.” She said and left me once again.
Finally, I would get some medical attention, or so I thought. It was just my luck for me to have an accident at the start of the traditional Spanish holiday week. Today the majority of Spain went on their holidays, and so the roads were more busy than usual, and there had been several bad accidents. My poorly knee was not a medical emergency, and I was left on the trolley in my cubicle while I heard all the bustling outside my blue curtains.
My accident happened around nine o’clock that morning; it was nearly three in the afternoon when they finally took me for an x-ray. In that time, my knee began to get more painful. The doctor came briefly to take some water from my knee and inject an analgesic, but that was all.
It is not a pleasant experience being poked, prodded, and wheeled around a foreign hospital where everyone is talking about you to someone else because it is pointless speaking to you at all. I felt ignorant; I should have at least learned some of the language before coming here. I could speak a smattering of French and German, but Spanish was not a language I had any experience off. The hospital staff tried the best they could but other than saying hello we never understood each other. The biggest disappointment was that the translator spoke very little English and could tell me very little of what was happening, all she seemed to be interested in was making sure my treatment would be paid for. It was not until I saw a doctor back home that I learned all I had was a fractured kneecap and some ligament damage.
After getting a cast put on my leg, I was wheeled into a corridor where I waited for an ambulance to take me back to my campsite. I protested. The doctor had instructed me not to put any weight on my leg but had left me with no crutches.
“You buy those yourself.”
This was now getting ridiculous, I had to buy my own crutches, but all the shops were shut, it was Saturday afternoon and they would not re-open until Monday. I was also told that I would have to pay the ambulance drivers to take me back to the campsite. Despite all my previous criticisms about the NHS, I now truly felt grateful we had it. We may all be Europeans, but this was certainly a culture shock. I felt like demanding to speak to the British Consulate but thought it a tad over the top.
There was no way I could walk very far, and if I lay down in my small two-man tent, I would never be able to get up again. So, when the ambulance dropped me off, and I handed over the several thousand Pesetas, I sat in the reception area of the campsite.
Ringing the travel insurance company, I explained my situation. The police had impounded my bike, and I could not walk at all. I could not carry on, I had come to that realisation in the hospital, and I thought it best if I get home. I felt great relief when they said they would arrange for a flight home, but that would not be until tomorrow morning. I now had the problem of where to sleep. There was no way I could sleep in a tent tonight and insisted they sort something out. They tried but everywhere was full, it was the holiday season after all. I would have to be patient and wait for them to call me back.
They were cutting it a bit fine, and I was beginning to get very concerned. It was getting dark, and it was nearly ten o’clock. The campsite office would be shutting soon, and so I would be kicked out to wait on a plastic chair. Thankfully, they called back. They had managed to get me a hotel room.
I ordered a taxi, and one of the campsite staff was kind enough to pack up my tent. Climbing into the car, I was grateful to be going to a soft bed and then home.
The hotel was in the town and faced the beach. We passed all the bars and night-clubs I should have gone to, and I felt a tinge of sadness.
I had to give the driver a big tip to get him to carry my bags to the hotel foyer. I stumbled out of the car to lean against the nearest building. Hopping along, using the walls for support, I reached the foyer of the hotel.
As we appeared in the doors, the young man behind the desk approached us and took my bags from the driver. The driver grunted something in Spanish and left. I hobbled to the reception desk where my bags now rested.
“Hello,” I said, “you should have a room for me. The name’s Jones.”
“Yes, the Travel Company left us their credit card details.” His English was excellent. Where was he when I needed him, I thought. He was also very handsome. Jet black hair, a dark tan and a dark uniform that accentuated his features. His face was smooth and had dark eyebrows that almost connected above his nose; his long black eyelashes framed his bright green eyes that seemed to gleam with each broad smile he flashed at me.
He pushed over some paper that he needed me to sign and then handed me the key to my room.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot leave the desk. Can you manage your bags?”
He came round the desk and carried my bags to the lift. At least someone had the forethought to get a hotel with a lift; there was no way I could have got up the stairs.
When I reached my room, I flicked on the lights, closed the door behind me and dropped onto the bed, exhausted from dragging the dead weight of the plaster. My leg felt sore as the plaster rubbed against my thigh. Outside my window, I could hear the night just getting started: the loud voices, the laughter, the pounding beat of the music and the lapping of the sea as it hit the shore.
I wanted to get changed but had no clothes with me at all; they were still in the panniers on my bike. My shorts and t-shirt still showed the rusty stains of my dried blood. No clean clothes, no clean underwear and unable to shower, I felt awful.
I kicked off my trainers, gently took off my t-shirt and shorts and saw what damage I had done.
Fortunately, most of it was superficial. My right flank was red raw, I gently traced a finger along the collection of scabs forming. It seemed my right side took most of the impact. My right leg taking the brunt. Now, as I rested, my entire body felt sore.
I wanted to get up and turn the light off but was just too exhausted. I wanted to go to sleep but couldn’t with the light on, it was too bright. So I lay, motionless and listened to the sounds coming through my window.
There was a knock at my door.
“Hell,” I muttered. I could not remember if I’d locked the door. I looked down at my body, it would take too long to get dressed, so I took a chance and just stayed on the bed in my grey briefs. “Come in.”
The door opened, and I cricked my neck to see the young man from the front desk walk in. He looked different; his hair was dishevelled, and his tie was missing, the first few buttons of his shirt undone.
“I just finished my shift and wondered if you need any help.”
I thought this a little strange. “Um. I could do with a taxi to get me to the airport for eight o’clock.”
“No problem.” He smiled. “I forget to mention it has already been arranged.”
He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. With his right hand, he traced the trail of broken skin on my side. “It must have been a nasty accident.”
“It was,” I said.
His touch was gentle and tender, and for a moment, I forgot the aches and pain. His hand went lower, tracing the curve of my hip, and I felt my dick stir. It pushed out against the fabric of my briefs.
“Are you in much pain?”
He traced his hand along my side again, my briefs being stretched further. This time when he reached my hip, he lightly brushed my bulge with his fingers, the tickle on my balls made me shiver, and my dick thickened even more. I was now half-hard and felt horny. Looking into the young man’s eyes, he sensed my desperation, my plea, and he gripped the front of my briefs and tugged them down. My fattened dick lay curled on my balls and in my course black pubic hair. Wrapping his hand around my sweaty dick, he gave it a few gentle pumps. It hardened in his touch, and when he released it, it stood proud, pointing to the ceiling.
With both hands, he gripped the sides of my briefs and gently pulled them to my feet, careful not to disturb my leg too much. I now lay naked and helpless, waiting for his next move. My hand moved to my dick, and I slowly wanked myself while I watched him slowly unbutton his shirt. I noticed his brown nipples were hard as he revealed his smooth tanned chest, a little hair around his navel led to the white elastic that poked above the waistband of his black trousers.
I looked at his face, which smiled down at me. “What’s your name?” If I was going to enjoy my stay here, I should at least find out.
“Just call me, Carl.” He whispered, and I supposed it was short for Carlos.
I watched his hands unclasp his trousers and lower his fly. As he pried them apart, I caught the brilliance of his white underwear, it shone out to me, hiding its enticing bulge. His feet shuffled, I imagined him kicking off his shoes, and he let his trousers drop. My eyes were drawn to the large bulge in his briefs, the fabric tented. He was hard. I saw a small wet spot slowly spread where the tip of his dick oozed pre-cum. He then took off his briefs.
When his straightened up, I stared at his hard cock. It was cut and looked me directly in the eye, its head glistening with the pre-cum smeared over it. His pubes were jet black and looked like they had been trimmed. Carl obviously took great care over his appearance. His body looked blemish free, and he was either naturally smooth, or he shaved regularly any body hair that was not above his cock or under his arms, those he trimmed neatly. I wondered about his sac and hoped it would also be smooth. I wanted to take his silky balls into my mouth and use my tongue to play with them.
Carl came closer. Climbed on the bed and straddled my chest, his leaking cock inches from my moist lips.
I licked my lips and flicked my tongue at the air between us, beckoning him closer. Carl obliged, and his wet cock touched my pursed lips. I opened them, and he pushed his cock into my mouth.
This was the first cut-cock between my lips, all my boyfriends and one night stands were uncut. It felt different; I had no skin to toy with and poke with my tongue. My tongue went to wrap itself around the head, flicking his slit and teasing his ridge on its way. I sucked down his pre-cum, he tasted sweet.
Carl pushed his hips forward, getting more of his cock inside me and only stopped when it pushed against the back of my throat. He pulled out to began to hump my mouth. My hands grabbed his buttocks and squeezed, they were firm. I eased my fingers down his crack and poked his hole with my index finger. As he brought his cock out from my throat, my finger pushed against his hole and popped through. It entered without any resistance; this boy was no stranger to being fucked.
I heard him moan as my finger hit his prostate, and my lips felt his cock thicken. He pulled it from my mouth and panted, holding back his orgasm.
He slipped down my body, my finger slid from his hole, and my stiff dick rested against his buttocks. He leant forward and kissed me.
Spitting on his hand, he brought it around his back and rubbed it over my dick. He lifted himself and aimed his hole above my dick. He slowly lowered himself, my dick slipping into him; he groaned as each inch went further inside him.
Carl rested when every inch of me was buried inside his arse, his dick still hard and leaking onto my stomach.
He started a slow grind before lifting himself from my dick and coming back down again. I was in no position to start humping his smooth arse, I was forced to lie still while he sat on my dick and fucked himself. I looked up at him bouncing on my dick, his own cock swaying up and down. He leant forward and twisted my nipples. It sent a shudder down to my dick.
It felt exciting to lie prostrate and passive while I had a sexy young lad pleasuring me, I had to consciously stop myself from trying to flip this lad over onto his back and ram my stiff dick up his arse.
He had a permanent smile on his face, and I knew I could not hold out much longer. His silky insides sucked my dick with each plunge. His hands released my nipples, and his humping became more vigorous, his dick slapped against my stomach as he came down with more force, ensuring as much of my dick was inside him. I felt his muscles squeeze my dick and I groaned, throwing my head against my pillow. My dick throbbed, and I knew it was almost time. I tried to speak but could not as my mouth let out a guttural groan as my dick exploded and pumped my cum into Carl. He carried on humping as my dick spewed out more cum. I felt it trickle down my dick and onto my balls.
Then he stopped; my dick still inside him, releasing its last few drops of cum. I lay panting, exhausted from my orgasm. I felt his arse squeeze my dick, milking it for more juice.
His face grinned down at me, and I saw his cock was still hard. I reached out to grab it, but he pushed my hand away. He climbed off my dick and let it flop into my nest of pubes. With one hand on my shoulder, the other on my hip, he rolled me over. Before I could protest, I felt his tongue licking my crack and pushing to connect with my hole. I had very rarely been fucked and was not expecting this. It was usually my dick up an arse; I had only been the bottom a few times and did not particularly enjoy it. Now I felt his tongue against my pucker trying to enter me. I was tight and naturally resisted. I heard him mutter something in Spanish and then felt him plunge a finger inside me.
I gasped and bit my pillow. It stung like hell. The sensation eased as he pulled out, but it quickly returned when he rammed it up again, sending a stabbing pain deep inside me. He kept it inside and twisted. It began to feel more pleasant, but as he slowly withdrew his finger again, I felt empty and wanted it back.
Carl pushed inside me again, this time, it was thicker, and the pain was back. He used two fingers to ease me open, but I sensed his impatience. He quickly twisted his fingers and pulled them out. I waited with my pillow still between my teeth. I felt something touch my hole and knew he was about to plunge his dick into me.
Without any tenderness, he rammed his dick deep inside me. If the pillow had not prevented my scream, I would have woken up the entire floor. Just like he used my dick, he now used my arse, ramming me like he had not fucked anybody in a long time. I wished he had given me time to get used to his dick then I could have enjoyed it more. I slowly adjusted, and with each thrust, the pain subsided, and I gradually began to feel the pleasure only being fucked up the arse could give you.
I lay still while he ravaged my hole, his thrusts deep and forceful. In my mouth, the pillow suppressed my yelps and groans as I felt a mixture of pain and pleasure.
Humping ever faster and harder, I knew he was nearly finished. His breathing became shallower, and he let out little whimpers.
Whimpers turned to grunts, and I could feel his panting breath on my back.
He thrust, he groaned, he stopped.
His dick deep inside me throbbed and grew longer and thicker as he let out a low resonant sound and his dick pumped cum to grease my insides. As he came, I expected him to collapse onto me, but his arms kept him propped up. I spat out the pillow as he let his dick rest a while inside me.
I sighed as he slid his softening dick from my hole, and I think he kissed my buttocks. I did not move.
While he dressed, I lay silent, my head on its side staring at the wallpaper. As he left my room, he flicked off the light, and I closed my eyes. I was tired and quickly drifted to sleep, still lying facedown on top of the bedclothes.
The morning sun shone across the Mediterranean and through my window. Its intensity woke me up, and I realised I was still in the same position when I went to sleep. My arse felt sore, and my body still ached from the accident.
I shuffled off the bed to where my clothes lay in a heap on the floor and gingerly put them over my aching limbs.
Picking up my bag, I hopped out of my room and to the lift. I must have looked a sight with my right leg in plaster and blood stained clothes.
In the breakfast room, a young waitress took pity on me and went to get me a selection of breads, cooked meats and cheeses. When offered coffee I asked for tea, knowing my holiday was over I felt the need to remember England before I left.
After breakfast, I just sat in the hotel foyer until my taxi arrived. There was a different young man on the front desk, and I wanted to ask him about Carl but thought I should leave last night alone, my last real memory of Spain. He kept glancing over at me, but I ignored him and just looked at the sea through the open doors, feeling the fresh morning breeze on my face.
I sat in silence as the taxi driver took me to Barcelona airport, again I needed to give him a big tip to help me with my bag, and he got me a trolley. Once I was holding on to the trolley, I could hop my way to the check in desk.
I was well looked after at the airport. I had been given a first class ticket, and they had arranged for a wheelchair. I was wheeled to the first class lounge where I waited, making full use of the free bar and snacks. Everyone else in the lounge ignored me; they were suits reading ‘The Financial Times’ or ‘The Times’ they had picked up from the complimentary newspaper stand.
For that one day, I was treated very special. Even a man holding a sign with my name on it met me at Heathrow. My holiday may have been ruined, but the trip home made up for all the disappointment.
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