<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 he remembered one of the clerks at the desk. Fuck, remember her name. Shit, what was it. Ah! He remembered. He picked up the phone.

‘This is Fabian Ducasse,’ he barked with some irritation to the male voice which had answered. ‘Is Francine on duty?’

‘Oui, Monsieur Ducasse,’ the man informed him.