The hot Nevada sun blinded her as she stepped out on the street, fishing in her bag for her sunglasses.
Suddenly a low rumbling, like a squadron of vintage fighter planes, began to grow louder. She turned to see a gang of motorcycles roaring down the highway toward her, two abreast. Each bike had two riders, a black leather-clad man in front and an equally leather-clad woman behind.
One motorcycle, on the inside lane, had only one rider, a grizzled man of indeterminate age, sporting a long, black beard, sleeveless jeans jacket over a tight white t-shirt, and red bandana tied around his forehead. His face turned toward her as he passed, eyes obscured by mirrored shades. She watched as he glided over to the shoulder of the road, then after the last pair of cyclists had passed, made a long, slow arc back to where she stood on the side of the road, watching him. He passed her to turn once again, making a smaller circle, then stopped next to her, facing the westerly direction the rest of the gang had taken.
"Hop on," he commanded, but with a smile in his voice.
The thin leather cobra seat felt good on her bare pussy. He hit the throttle as she placed her arms around his beefy chest and she felt the rush of acceleration. The vibration from the powerful two cylinder engine through the seat sent a wave of pleasure through her loins.
"Are you ready?" he called over the roar of the engine.
"Are you?" Victoria answered, and they took off.
At first it was the intoxicating rush of speed, motion, and wind, whipping her hair around her head like a thousand sparrows. Then she got used to that, got used to the hair and sound of wind roaring by, the low rumble of the engine beneath her, between her smooth tight thighs. It was then she noticed that the slight tingling in her crotch was becoming more insistent. What had been an insect buzzing and alighting on a flower was now a bumblebee, now a hummingbird, now becoming wilder and going deeper. The tingle began to spread, radiating out from her clit like the spreading stain of spilled wine on a white tablecloth.
Her thighs were getting hot but she couldn't tell if it was from the cylinders firing beneath her or the molten liquid rising from the well of her womb. Her calves tingled, all the way down to the toes in her sandals. She flexed her butt muscles and the wave of pleasure intensified. She became conscious of her nipples standing out rock hard through the thin silken fabric of the black nightgown she was still wearing under the rabbit fur coat. She hugged the biker tighter pressing her tits into the back of his jacket. Could he feel her hard nipples? She pressed harder while pulling him into her with her arms. Clenching the seat with her thighs she ground into the leather and let the first orgasm wash over her body. He grinned as her grasp around him tightened, then released.
"First time on a Harley?" he asked with a slight laugh.
"Oh yeah..." she mustered, giggling. "Oh yeah."
The orgasmic pattern repeated every fifteen miles or so. Slow build up. A tingle spreading up her spine. Wetness between her legs, a pool of honey. The widening spread of warmth. Tightening, clenching, building. Then a rush of release, a dam breaking, her thighs squeezing his hips for all she was worth. Then breathing again, a sigh that shuddered her body. When they finally stopped for gas she felt as if she'd melted onto the seat. As she staggered toward the restroom she wondered if everyone could smell the pussy smell that filled her nostrils.
She emerged wearing a fresh pair of jeans and tight pink low-cut t-shirt. And panties.
"Where are you headed?" the biker asked.
"Where are you going?" Victoria countered.
"The Red Dog Saloon in Virginia City, some friends of ours have a gig there tonight. We should get there before dark, it's only about another 300 miles."
Victoria felt her knees begin to buckle.
"Are you okay?" he asked, concern wrinkling the parts of his face she could see between his bushy beard and shades.
"I've been coming like a motherfucker, I don't know if I'll survive four or five more hours of this. But goddamn I'll try!"
"We'll stop every couple of hours to gas up and piss, you'll be okay," he smiled, kindly. "We'll crash at the Farm tonight and you can recuperate in the hot spring. It's totally mellow. In the meantime, have one of these," he said, handing her a piece of dried mushroom. She placed it on her tongue, closed her lips around it, and began to chew it gently.
"That'll take the edge off a bit," he said, pushing her hair behind her ear then stroking the back of her head softly. "I'm Eddie."
"I'm Victoria" she answered.
"You're a pretty girl."
She closed her eyes and smiled. "I'm a kitten," she said and began to purr.
Her eyes were still closed as they pulled out of the gas station and onto the highway. Aretha had been playing on the diner's jukebox as they walked out -- 'I ain't never loved a man' -- and the song continued to play in Victoria's brain as they hit highway speed. The biker revved the engine and her thighs awakened -- 'the way that I -- love you' -- and as the horns opened up so did Victoria's sex. She kissed his scruffy neck and sang along with Aretha. The shroom was kicking in and the first orgasm washed over her gently and lingered rather than receding. The wind made it feel like the top of her head was open and life was pouring in to infuse her body with joy and wonder. She opened her eyes and legs and could see everything at once with complete knowledge of its past, present, and future.
By the time they rolled into the Red Dog the sun had set after politely asking her permission, which she freely and generously had granted.
***
They could hear the steady beat of dirty electric blues as they glided up to the front of the Red Dog. The double front doors were open wide to the summer night air. Suddenly Eddie revved his engine and vaulted up the curb to the open door and nosed his cycle in, engine running. The band kept playing, as if this was a normal occurrence. The lead guitarist, a dark-tanned boy of eighteen or nineteen with blond curly hair tumbling out from under a battered cowboy hat, looked up with recognition. He nodded to Eddie, who waved back.
"Come on in," the guitarist said into the mic, and with that Eddie hit the gas and the bike shot into the bar with a deafening roar. Victoria held on for dear life as patrons scattered in either direction. Eddie pulled the bike up to the far end of the bar and cut the engine. The band never missed a beat.
The blues song continued, but it didn't sound like any blues rock Victoria had ever heard. The drummer, short and stocky and playing shirtless, was riding his bass drum between the primary beats on the toms. The bass player, sporting a Fu Manchu and an obvious erection, was playing hardly any notes at all. Eddie's friend was in his own world, bending notes and pointing his Telecaster toward the amp, drawing an other-worldly screech that bounced off the ceiling. Off to the side an electric organist held down long, eerie notes that ran under the other instruments like a river.
Kaleidoscopic patterns of colors vibrated against the wall, pulsing with life, adding to the surreality. Victoria had never heard a live rock band before. It didn't sound anything at all like the music on the top 40 AM station out of Dallas. It wasn't just live -- it was alive, a living, breathing creation of its own momentum. She was spellbound. Eddie had silenced the bike and now led her to a table near the front. The music, the lights, the smoke, the laughter, everything spun around her and wove a blanket of stunning peace. "It's beautiful," was all Victoria could say.
Eventually the band strummed its last chord and the let the sound ring into the night.
