There is no explicit description of sex in this story.
*****
On the eleven o'clock evening news the weather forecast called for a severe winter storm to arrive late the next day. The storm was predicted to pass well to the north of where I lived. Tomorrow might be the last chance for a bike trip before the onset of Winter would shut down all riding until Spring. I decided to get up early and take a ride over to Bentonville, a small village some sixty-five miles away, have some breakfast and then take a leisurely ride back home.
Saturday morning arrived bright and cold. Donning leather chaps over my jeans and and zipping up my heavy leather motorcycle jacket with a woolen scarf around my neck I strode through the combination mud and laundry room into the garage. Fastening my helmet and slipping on my gloves I threw a leg over my Harley and the big fuel-injected v-twin cranked right up.
Of my many toys this one was my favorite. It's a '04 Harley Heritage Classic Softtail, special edition blue with orange flames paint job, special chrome and leather handle bar grips with a chrome front end. A stage II exhaust system gave it a satisfying throaty rumble, not to mention improved performance.
Easing out of the garage I activated the remote closing the garage door and opening the wrought iron gates guarding the entrance to my driveway from the street. Once on the road in front of my home the gates closed behind me.
The morning was cold and crisp and I was thankful for my heavy leather chaps and motorcycle jacket. The road to Bentonville was through a national forest. Lots of curves and hills made for a pleasant, interesting ride. This early on a Saturday morning there was hardly any traffic on the road which made the ride even nicer.
A little over ninety minutes later I arrive at my destination the quaint little town of Bentonville. As I stopped to fill up my Harley's gas tank across the street from the diner where I planned on eating breakfast I noticed a line of nine
choppers parked in front. Just before I finished gassing up I saw ten guys exit the diner. I guess one was riding double. They appeared to be the typical biker gang displaying the club name on the back of their jackets . . . 'Wildcats From Hell'.
Eight of the bikers took off down the direction I came from. The remaining two seemed to be having a rather animated discussion. The smaller of the two had a full face helmet with a heavily tinted visor which I thought was odd. Most biker gangs just wear the smallest helmet the law allows. The bigger of the two got on his chopper and gestured for the other to follow. After a moment of indecision he got on and they left tearing out from the parking lot just missing a passing car.
I finished fueling my bike and rode over to the diner. Parking and locking the front forks I went inside. Taking a seat at the counter I picked up the one page menu. The waitress came over and asked if I wanted coffee and if was I ready to order.
Sounds good I told her. "Coffee . . black, no sugar, no cream. I'll have the two egg special over easy with bacon, hash browns, wheat toast, no butter just some orange marmalade."
"Coming right up." She said turning to put the order slip on the pass through counter to the kitchen and then pour my coffee.
The television, mounted up on the wall in front of me, was tuned to ESPN so I watched clips of the previous night's college basketball games. Before the end of the first commercial break she returned with my breakfast. It was just as good as I remembered from the last time I was here.
As I finished the last bite of toast a severe weather alert bulletin broke into the broadcast. The winter storm that was forecast to pass to the north had intensified and was now moving rapidly toward us. Heavy rain and sleet followed by a snowfall of eight to ten inches was now the prediction. So much for last night's weather forecast.
I decided it would be in my best interest to turn around and head back home. Hopefully, I would be able to make it before the storm broke. Paying the bill and leaving a healthy tip for the hard working waitress I picked up my helmet and gloves and headed out.
Firing up my bike I headed back the way I had come earlier. The only bad part of the route back was the fifty miles of nothing through the national forest. If you were to have a breakdown, get stuck and not get some help you'd most likely die in this coming storm.
As I headed back out of town I saw the dark storm clouds building in intensity behind me. The temperature had already dropped a good ten to fifteen degrees from earlier in the morning and with the storm behind me I hoped to be able to out race it home.
Twenty miles into the national forest and I had not seen another car or truck coming toward me. I hadn't noticed any headlights behind me in my mirrors either. Rounding a curve I saw a solitary figure walking along the road. It was the same guy I saw at the diner, the one with the full face helmet.
Rolling up to him I killed my engine and shouted for him to get on. "There is a bad storm coming. I'll give you a lift to the next town."
He shook his head no and kept walking. "If you don't get on you will die out here!" I yelled at him.
With that he reluctantly climbed on behind me as I re-started the bike. With the noise from the exhaust pipes and the roar of the wind in our faces it was impossible for any kind of communication.
Twenty miles from the village, where I intended to drop the fellow off, a cold, drenching rain began, forcing me to slow down considerably. I decided to just go to my home. It was much closer and I already felt my passenger, sitting closely behind me, begin to shiver from the cold.
Coming down the road I lived on I thumbed a remote by my left handlebar grip and the gates to the driveway opened. Thumbing it again, as I made my way up the driveway, the gates closed and the garage door opened. I rode inside, killed the engine and we dismounted.
Listening to the popping and sizzling sounds of the rainwater as it dropped from the frame of the bike and hit the exhaust pipes I made my way to the door to the mud/laundry room.
"Follow me," I said opening the door. "We'll go inside, warm up and wait out the storm before I drive you into town."
Removing my helmet and gloves I then took off my jacket and chaps. My jeans were still dry but my shirt was wet from where the rain had gotten down through my jacket collar. So I threw it into the washing machine.
Turning around I saw that the guy hadn't even bothered to take his helmet off.
"Hey, what's the matter with you? You're already shivering. Get that helmet and those wet leathers off before you freeze."
When he unstrapped his helmet and removed it I discovered he wasn't a guy. He was a she and a very pretty she at that.
"Okay, now the jacket and pants." I said.
"I can't. I'm not wearing anything underneath my riding gear." She whispered, obviously embarrassed.
Opening one of the cabinet doors that lined the wall opposite the washer and dryer I removed a pink sweatshirt and matching pants.
"Here, these belonged to my wife. You are about the same size. Put them on. And here," I said handing her a towel with which to dry herself off. "When you finish dressing come inside. I'll make something hot for us to drink. What would you like coffee or hot chocolate?"
"Coffee will be fine," she replied still trembling from the cold.
Closing the door behind me, to give her some privacy, I made my way upstairs to my bedroom and found a dry shirt before heading back to the kitchen. I have one of those machines that grinds the beans and brews one cup at a time in less than a minute. Removing two coffee mugs from the cupboard I just finished brewing the first cup when she emerged wearing the pink sweat suit.
As the second cup started brewing I asked her if she took sugar and/or cream.
"Black will be just fine," she answered.
Removing my cup from the counter I picked up a bottle of Napoleon brandy and poured a healthy amount into it. I held the bottle up and she nodded her head yes.
Handing her a mug of the fortified coffee I said. "Let's go into the sun room. Its comfortable in there and you can relax and tell me a little about yourself and why you were out on the highway alone."
"By the way my name is Scott, Scott Mueller," I offered.
I led the way to the sunroom which also doubles as a greenhouse. One of my wife's passions was roses. There are almost thirty varieties growing in there and there are always flowers in bloom. I keep the temperature at a constant seventy-eight degrees year around and the humidity is adjusted as needed to prevent diseases and fungus. The air was filled with their scent.
Just as I offered her a seat my German Shepard, Gunner, wandered in to sit by my side. He looked at her and began to growl.
"Gunner . . . No . . . Friend." I said to him.
He immediately stopped, went over to her and sniffed her hand before licking it. Returning to me he sat by my side and I began petting his head and scratching his ears.
"He's beautiful," she said. "How old is he?"
"Gunner is about two years old. We . . . I got him when he was just an eight weeks old puppy."
After taking a sip of her coffee she said. "Where do you want me to begin?"
"Why don't you start with your name," I replied.
She told me her name, Tracy Bennet, and then gave me a brief history of her life. I found out she was twenty-four years old and had her younger sister living with her after the death of their father. Her mom had died giving birth to her sister, Pamela, eighteen years ago. Pamela was finishing her last year in high school having to repeat the year she lost helping to take care of their dad while he, unsuccessfully, tried to recover from a severe heart attack.
Tracy told me everything was fine until she lost her job. She continued on telling me she was out job hunting one day while her sister was in school. One of the neighboring apartments caught fire and the entire building was consumed with flames and had to be condemned.
She and her sister had no place to go. Then a friend of a friend of hers, Frank Stilton, offered to let them move in with him. She said it was okay for a few weeks until he bought that damn motorcycle. He changed becoming more demanding and wanting to control all aspects of both their lives.
He told her that he found a motorcycle club that he wanted to join and that they would be going to meet up with some of the club members that morning. She continued telling me that they rode to a diner in Bentonville and met up with eight of the club members. It was then she was told that price of his admission into the club was dependent upon her having sex with each of the members.
"Either put out or get out," she said Frank told her in the parking lot before they left. "What was I going to do? I had no choice. So I got on behind him and we left."
"We rode out of town and before he could catch up with the others I made a decision not to do what he wanted." She continued explaining to me.
"We were in a really desolate area when I began to poke him in his back. He stopped and I told him I had to pee really, really bad. I walked into the forest and just kept walking away from him and the road until I found a place to hide."
"I could hear him yelling for me to get my ass back," she said. "I didn't move from my hiding place until I heard him re-start his motorcycle and leave."
"Then I waited another ten or fifteen minutes to be sure he wasn't going to come back before making my way to the road. I walked in the direction he had left knowing that if I saw him returning I could escape back into the woods before he could see me. Then you came along . . . and you know the rest of the story," she finished.
