took Cat to Arcachon, where the sand dunes were emphatically moonlit and all was gloriously private and, though a short car ride from Bordeaux, a million miles from the Tour de France, from the times and trials of journalism and medicine. Foreplay hardly figured. The last twenty-four hours had seemed to both Cat and Ben to have been a prolonged preparation for penetration.
The sand was cool and though Ben had thoughtfully brought a towel, they did not lie on it. They undressed themselves; standing naked and silent, Ben passed Cat a condom which she unwrapped and placed on him. They knelt, kissed and he entered her smoothly, easily. The feeling of being filled by a man whom she so desired, the sensation of a cock inside her after a barren few months, the sensitivity with which he kissed her eyelids, licked her neck, slipped his tongue into her mouth, the adeptness with which he moved his body into hers, made her come almost immediately. He let her orgasm subside. The feeling of a tight pussy of a girl he was mad for, the pleasure of hearing her gasp, the excitement of sensing her sex quiver and pulsate around him, the surprise of her tongue dipping in and out of his nostrils, his ears, made him come soon after.
The towel did come in useful. Ben and Cat skinny dipped, talking to each other with ease, embracing in the water. Ready for more sex. No more condoms though. No matter – there would be tomorrow. And there really would be tomorrow. This wasn’t to be a one off. Neither of them knew what it was to be but they were aware that tomorrow they would be together, the day after too, and the notion thrilled them privately.
What happened today, Cat? Apart from your fair share of orgasms, a head full of daydreams and a heart newly nourished and beating hard for more? The Tour de France? The Time Trial? Who won? What’s happening?
Read my report, I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. I can taste salt water on my skin. I can taste Ben still. Good night.
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN BORDEAUX
Against the setting of Computaparc, where a massive turnout of cycling aficionados rubbed shoulders with a huge crowd of somewhat nonplussed techno-geeks, the 54.5 km Time Trial of the Tour de France was run today and won in outstanding style by Fabian Ducasse of Système Vipère. Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s winner of the yellow jersey and contender for overall victory this year, rode brilliantly but Fabian rode better. It took 1 hour 9 minutes and 38 seconds for the French heart-throb to claim the maillot jaune and a 1 minute 18 second lead over the Russian defender, who now lies second.
Though there is no certainty that Ducasse will ride every day in yellow from here to the podium in Paris, the golden fleece will assist his passage and he will not relinquish it without the fight which many anticipate will take place between him and Jawlensky in the looming mountain Stages.
Fabian set his pace and held it, averaging just under 51 kph. He chose a huge gear and stuck to it, enabling his bike to gulp as much tarmac with each turn of the pedals as possible. He maintained his prawn-like position all the way; folded aerodynamically, his head tucked lower than his shoulder blades, his knees close to the frame, shoulders steady. Technique, however, went only part of the way in securing his victory today, determination played much the key role.
A Time Trial is lonely to ride and heart-wrenching to watch. Tarmac is ever unfurling and the wind seems to relish buffeting a cyclist out there alone, with no shelter, no slipstreams, no stretch where he can ease the pressure. How was it for Megapac’s Didier LeDucq, standing on his pedals to contend with the climb an evil 15 km from the finish, to have Ducasse power past him sitting deep and steady on the saddle? Time Trialling requires supreme strength, it needs calculation and brains and, ultimately, dogged determination to discredit suffering. Acknowledging pain does not win Time Trials. If your pulse is racing at 180 bpm and lactic acid is forming in your muscles but there are only a few kilometres to go – so what? Your soigneur, glucose and electrolytes can help later. Health does not matter to a rider midway through a Time Trial. A rider who can calmly dismount and walk himself to his soigneur did not Time Trial. Jules Le Grand, directeur sportif of Système Vipère, literally carried Ducasse from his bike. Similarly, Rachel McEwen, Jawlensky’s soigneur, eased the rider away from his machine, her supportive embrace holding him up, holding him together, as she escorted him to the privacy of the team bus.
<ENDS>
STAGE 8
Sauternes-Pau. 162 kilometres
Ben York awoke with an erection, as frequently he did, however this morning he knew it was not a physiological vagary of his reverie that caused it, but a lucid awareness of Cat’s existence down the road now replacing the image of her which had inhabited his dreamtime. He fingered his cock, gave himself a few soothing tugs and grinned, closing his eyes.
She’s quite something.
What are you going to do with her?
Something along the lines of what I did last night – but without the sand.
You have a sizeable grin on your face.
And a proportionately equivalent hard-on too.
You’re feeling pleased with yourself then?
Pleased? Yes. Happy.
You like her?
I’ve never met anyone quite like her.
You like her?
Yes, I think I do. I like the way that she’s a little naïve but feisty. She was so adorable all in a dither about Luca’s unintended innuendo a few Stages ago. And when she was mad at me with the Monique misunderstanding – all gorgeous fury and indignation in a see-through dress. Yet last night she blew my mind as much as she blew my cock. For one who’s so easy to wind up, she’s very sure of herself sexually. It’s surprising. I like that.
You like her.
I do.
Isn’t that something of a first for you? Recently, you’ve slept with women because you’ve liked what’s on offer more than you’ve considered whether you’ve liked their persons.
Touché. But true. I’ve had sex with women because I can. With Cat, I wanted to. I want to.
It was eight in the morning. Ben rose, showered, shaved, packed and then stood by the window of his hotel, its nondescript features providing an opportunity for his mind to wander approximately a kilometre away. He envisaged Cat sleeping soundly, her body supine, soft and at rest beneath the linen on the old iron bed in Auberge Claudette. He wanted to spy on her like that as much as he desired to be in the full throes of fucking her right now.
Is she awake yet?
‘I wonder if Ms McCabe would care to join me for breakfast.’
Fabian Ducasse awoke very much the accomplished pro cyclist with his mind settled, focused and full of his maillot jaune. Fabian also awoke very much the healthy virile man, his cock stiff and proud. He thought of his girlfriend. Fleetingly. He zapped through the television in search of porn but found only cartoons, quiz shows and the Tour de France. He began to masturbate but his right hand was not enough of a turn on, not even when coated with the hotel’s complimentary body lotion. And then
