Sandy was an old biker babe. She was old and she liked old bikers. Old for bikers is over fifty. She could still throw a hairy tattooed leg over a chopped hog and stick to the seat. It was the combination of vibrations that did "it" for her. The four stroke Harley engine puts out the main two per. She preferred the chain drive over the belt drive. She liked the subtle amped up per, put out by the rear sprocket which was directly under her to the left. Under her and to the right was the one per vibration and patented sound of the big cube V twin. This was a wonderful one per vibration and sound thumping from each exhaust pipe. The power stroke was every other cycle. She didn't care her ass was not that sensitive.
Her clit was and she kept it slammed against the double sewed seams of the "Bailey's Wild Ass" logger jeans she was sporting. Her clit was in fine shape. She was well hooded and had no calluses, rings or road rash incidents. She could clit count the seams everytime she was joggled on railroad tracks. Curley loved railroad tracks. He was the male of the species that she had been packing with, since the death of her biker husband. Curley wasn't a biker he was a weekend rider with a 2003 100th anniversary soft tail heritage classic.
Her biker husband rode a 51 pan head he bought new from the Hog shop in Warren, Ohio. (Later they established the largest Hog shop on the planet in Daytona Beach, Florida) He had cut and raked the frame three quarters of an inch and mounted a 12 inch extended springer front end. He had never changed over his intake manifold seals from brass. He still had the 6 volt system, generator and battery. He had removed the spark advance on the left grip and added a small spring to the distributor. He threw out the foot (suicide) clutch and added a mousetrap eliminator. Tank shift became foot shift, this kept two hands steering the two wheeled 500 lb vibrator.
Sandy's biker husband was well known with the local rider's. He was the guy that would get fired up on whatever was available then brag that he "Had a cock that hung below his knees."
He would then pull up his pant legs to reveal a tattoo of a rooster with a noose around its neck.
Curley was a polite rider; his only weakness was that he loved railroad tracks. He always warned her, "Hang on baby, are you still there." Then he would reach behind his back and palm up grip her snatch with his hand. She would response by grabbing around him and leaning her 44 double EE's into his back. They were hanger's, soft over ripe melons in skin socks on a slow path to her waist line.
Curley would give out a baritone "Yahoo" as they crossed the tracks. Then he would comment on losing his hand, or hand entrapment. "Give me my hand so I can circle back, I think I saw a ten dollar gold piece on the tracks. Gold's high we got to go back."
When they circled the tracks several times Curley would get all excited because he could feel Sandy's nipples serenading his back. They were calling to him they needed attention. If any tracks were in the path of their travels. Curley had to get some tittie time. Curley was convinced that to live long and prosper you needed to spend time with titties. "Its simple math, I got two hands, you got two tits."
Curley had checked they were a perfect fit for his hands. "You wouldn't want me to get muscle atrophy in my hands. How could I steer and operate the clutch and throttle of this Harley with bad hands."
They were putt-ing over to a bikers place along the Big River for an old bikers party. The ride down the river was slow and easy. They drifted across the lanes following the bends of the stream. No smiling or talking, too many bugs out looking for impact blood.
The river shack was a survivor of annual spring floods and an occasional flash flood. "The water comes up, the water goes down." When the water goes down they get new washers and dryers from FEMA. The river leaves a slime coating that is easy to squeeze out, if it is still wet.
