Caty (whatcatydidnext) wrote,

The Road. Ricky Deeming story Part 2. NC17

Still not sure if anyone is interested in my Ricky, but he's here anyway.
Oh and, before one of you very clever ladies mentions it, yes I do know that Hungarians call their language Magyar not Hungarian, I just thought I would try to be a bit more...inclusive.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and make no money from them.
Thank you Jen, for all your help with the Betaring stuff. xxxxx
Rating: NC17
Summary: establishing shots. Who, where, when. What and who with, ah now...

The Road 2

The evening light was fading fast. A pink and orange glow bathed the surrounding Edwardian suburban landscape and lent it a warmth and softness, that in daylight, it did not possess.
Ricky leant back against the Norton and lit up. The smell of the cooling engine and his deep inhalation of smoke combined to make him almost light headed. The ride from Gateshead had been exhilarating. The road virtually empty, allowing him to gun the throttle practically all the way.
The bike did not disappoint.

That was the feeling he loved; who needed the drugs that were peddled these days? This was a natural high. Brain and body pumping together. He liked his own biological mix surging, lifting him, feeling the power of the machine. It was addictive. Opening the throttle, pining it on the bends just as much as was possible, without compromising the traction of course. It was what the bike was made for, what he lived for.

The adrenalin rush from the ride had slowed, he was easing down now. A ciggie and the quiet, reflecting on the sensation of touching the sky, touching God. This was when his thoughts turned lyrical. Poetry, that was what it was, forget trees and fucking daffodils. It was The Speed, The Road, and The Bliss, that was poetry.
He looked up as a light snapped on in his aunt’s kitchen. It was odd because he was sure she was away on one of her weekends. But she did as she liked, came and went as she pleased. He ignored it and relaxed, folding his arms, enjoying the silence.

Then a female voice chipped at it.
“Yea, yea, yea…she…yea…oh, yea…” It was loud, broken and sounded curiously foreign. And it was coming from the kitchen.
Annoyed, he drew heavily on the cigarette. Couldn’t a man get five minutes bloody peace? He tossed the butt into the neighbour’s garden and pulled the bike up the pavement onto the drive. hefting the weighty machine over the gravel, he and the bike lurched to a stop at the back door. Annoyed he kicked out the stand with more force than was strictly needed.
Through the kitchen window, he could see a young woman in an unbuttoned nurse’s uniform. She was dancing, well, moving; utterly unaware she had an audience. The motions were rhythmic, flowing. Slightly surreal, almost erotic, just a body swaying, eyes closed. Her humming was the only music he could hear. In her hand, she held a small transistor radio, its earpiece in place.
Ricky smiled as he watched her, another of his aunt’s lame ducks, no doubt. Mind, at least this one was easy on the eye. Her hair was as black as night and alarmingly short. She was small; round-hipped and had tits that strained against the front of the uniform.
Hmm, could be interesting.
He opened the door noisily, hopeful not to frighten her.
She jumped. “Te jo isten!” She pulled the earpiece out as she turned.
“No, I just live here, for God, you’ll need to look elsewhere.” Smiling as he looked closer. Nice. “And who might you be?” He took in the smell of strong coffee.
“You speak Hungarian?” Surprised by his sudden appearance, she almost stumbled.
“No, not really, just a useful phrase here and there.” He had no intention of giving her more information than was necessary.
“Oh, you are Richard?” Her answering smile was grave, but she came forward, her hand out to formally shake his.”
“I am Piroska Janos; I…am from Sopron. I am staying here by…your aunt. She is so kind as to let me be…here.” She smiled shyly. A lot of effort went into her little speech.
Ricky quirked a smile back, took her hand and kissed it. The accent was cute. She was cute. Her tit's were very cute “Call me Ricky, only Aunt Pip uses Richard.”
“Ah…yes, my friends call me Piri.” Blushing prettily, she retrieved her hand. “But my mother and…aunties?” She smiled questioningly,
Rick nodded encouragement.
“Always they say Oskia…er, what you would call...a little name?”
“I quite like Piri.” Very interesting, he thought. Life was full of surprises.

“Richard! I didn’t expect you home till tomorrow? Ha, so you’ve met Piri?” Aunt Pip bustled in to the kitchen. “I need to speak to you dear, come out here for a moment.” She led Ricky out into the garden. Drawing him away from the house.
“About Piri, please be very careful with her. She escaped you see, terrible time she’s had getting here. All sorts of awful problems, her family dead in the uprising.” Aunt Pip spoke conspiratorially; as if it were a great and dreadful secret. “Her father had been a writer, such a loss. She was sent into a state orphanage. A tragedy. All very sad. She was…well, you know, the soldiers, young girls…quite, quite tragic.” Phillipa Deeming shook her head at the injustice of it all and smiled sadly.
Ricky drew a deep breath. Yes, he knew all about soldiers and young girls…and boys. Yep, he knew. Not that he would explain that to his aunt. There were things about his past that she didn’t need to know.
“But she’s starting her training at St. Mungo’s. Isn’t that wonderful? A new start for her.” Aunt Pip brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder. “I want her to be happy, to settle. No entanglements, nothing that…could cause her to regret coming here.”
“So no sex then?” He gave his aunt a wicked grin.
“You know what I mean, Richard, she’s young, impressionable. I would rather you were not the cause of any unpleasantness for her!”
Oh, that was great, he was being warned off already. He smirked, but put a conciliatory arm about his aunt’s shoulder. “I’ll try my best, not promising mind. She could fall desperately in love with me. But I’ll do me very upmost to discourage her. OK?”
“Just be nice, but distant dear, that will do. Now I think we should go and have some of that delicious coffee Piri has made.”
It wouldn’t be that hard, at the moment the debby Davinia was taking up the baton of his sexual gratification. To Olympic standard, actually. He laughed to himself. Nah, not a problem.

Tags: 1960's, gateshead, hungarian escapee's., motorbikes, norton's, ricky deeming, sex
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