Belles on Wheels
By Merz
Kathy and Betty hit the road for holiday adventure


"Sometimes I think about that man last Christmas. Victor. I never told anybody
in my family what I did. Joseph and Ernie suspect you broke that man's neck
and not even in self-defense. I can't tell them the truth, and they wouldn't
believe me anyway. Kathy, I killed a human being and I really didn't feel
guilty about it. I wonder what you would have done in my place."

"I thought you went to confession and the priest gave you whatever forgiveness
mattered. Don't you dare tell your brothers. Let them think whatever they want
about me and they won't be doing me any injustice, but there's no reason for
them to change how they look at you." I turned to Betty in the darkness and
took her hand. "If I had been in your place and caught that animal threatening
to shoot you I would still be killing him today, with several millimeters left
to go before I had finished with him. And I would have savored every moment of
every day of the process. Your family has the correct assessment of us both.
They're good judges of character, just as you usually are. But here you are in
a tiny tent with me."

"Of course I'm here with you. You're my guardian angel, always showing me the
right path and keeping me safe. Before we planned this trip I'd kept some
distance out of guilt for what I did. Do you really know what it's like? Have
you ever taken a life?"

I needed a few moments to answer. "Never taken. But sometimes I have opened my
hand and someone placed his life in it. Then I had to choose whether to give
it back or not, whether it was a gift they would handle responsibly. Victor
was irresponsible with life and bound to let his own slip away, but he was
just out of my reach when he found his way to you." I gave her strong hands a
squeeze and a kiss and pulled her closer against me in the darkness.

* * * *

It all started innocently enough one Sunday. "You never take a real vacation,
do you?" Betty Hunt asked out of the blue.

"No, running Perfectly Fit is my combination of work and guilty pleasure.
Sometimes I wonder that people pay me to tell them what clothes to wear when I
have always been happy to inform them for free. They seem more grateful when I
charge than when I just blurt it out, but it's all the same impulse and same
advice. Plus the women who come to my shop include several I would pay just to
watch parade around in some of the things I put them in. You being one. So I
take off for a long weekend holiday now and again, like a mountain biking
jaunt, but mostly nothing appeals more than reality. Besides, in my current
life I need an anchor or I'm apt to just run away and join a pack of wolves or
something. Work keeps me sane. How about you? You never seem to take much time
away either, aside now from the odd weekend with Julie and your brother."

"I never got into vacations either. Sometimes I do schedule a few days out of
the office, and I've gone off for conferences and clinics in nice spots a few
times. But really I like where I live enough that sight seeing elsewhere
doesn't hold much appeal. And then there are the obvious complications of
travel."

We were working out, Betty and I, with high spring exploding around us. We
hadn't got together on our exercise schedule in months, and had actually seen
little of each other until we forced ourselves to make this rendezvous. We had
done our first hour combining warming up with one circuit in the weight room
and now were pretending to do our cardio by rollerblading along the
waterfront. By "obvious complications" Betty referred to the fact she is
blind. Sight seeing would involve actions other than seeing, while negotiating
airports, shopping and simple logistics on her own in a strange place could be
enormously challenging. Not that she isn't up to any challenge I've seen
thrown at her; after all, she's the one who taught me to rollerblade and in
her competitive youth she had bench pressed nearly twice my weight. We manage
by holding a surgical rubber tube between us. I lead and she can tell by the
tension when I accelerate or slow down, she can hear my cadence and she
trained me to alert her to turns and hazards in the path. "Obvious
complications" is her best effort at wallowing in self-pity in all the years
I've known her.

"Ah. And if not for these complications where would you head? Light out for
the territories? Some theme park teeming with sensory overload and commercial
excess? A foreign land with exotic spices in the air and the happy babble of
strange tongues in the marketplace?"

"I have just two trips on my list. First, I want to visit Australia. And I
mean visit it intensely for months and hit a lot of different parts. The whole
idea of a continent being so empty in the middle, the native culture being so
unlike anything I know, and a population less than a tenth ours being able to
produce Bev Francis and Christine Envall just fascinates me. I even wonder
what Australia smells like, and if I could construct a map of Australian
smells. But that's a dream for some misty future when I can go away for
months. Perhaps when I retire I could move there for a year. Second, Julie and
Joseph just bought motorcycles."

I stopped abruptly and she ran me right over, sprawling onto the path but
taking the fall on her pads then bouncing upright and giggling. "Motorcycles?"
I asked as I sat on the pavement.

"Yeah. Julie rode around on one when she was in the army and thought it would
be a handy way to get to work at the firehouse as well as a lot of fun. Joseph
naturally went along and she's teaching him to ride. They took me out when I
visited last month. It reminded me how much fun you and I had that time. And
no, I didn't tell them you had let me drive and I didn't ask either of them
for a chance in front."

"Joey the biker. Forgive me, but that one is a bit hard to take. Let me hear
the rest of it. You never just offer up little wishes and wistful fantasies.
Where are we going and when do we leave?"

"There's a rally just across the state line for Fourth of July weekend. Joseph
and Julie can't go, but mentioned some other riders have been talking it up. I
figure a week away, allowing a couple lazy days to go down, the long weekend,
and a couple days back. Did you want me to ask about borrowing one of their
bikes, or did you want to talk with them? Or maybe you have another source?"

Betty helped me to my feet and took her end of the tubing once more, letting
me steal a squeeze of her biceps as I rose. "One of the things I like about
you is how many steps I can skip once I understand you've made up our mind for
us. You know that I'm not approaching either of them on my own. I respect the
institution of marriage too much to get near Julie without a chaperone just in
case her willpower proves as dodgy as my own. And I suspect Joey - excuse me -
Joseph is terrified of me for some reason. If I even dropped a hint he
probably would give me the keys to his bike along with the title in hopes it
would prevent me hurting him, and then I might feel guilty. By happy
coincidence I got a note from Renee saying she and Parker were on their way
back from Africa and wanted to spend the summer here while he wrote up some
articles based on his research. I'll see if she would like her old job for a
couple months so I can skip off for the week and not worry about the shop. Or
not worry more than one ought whenever Renee is involved. Would this be a
hotel trip or are you making me sleep in the dirt?"

I started off once more, heading back toward the gym by way of a couple steep
hills we could burn out our thighs on. Now and again I felt Betty's hand
lightly rest on my butt, and knew she wasn't accidentally brushing against me.
She was admiring my tight ass working in my thin nylon shorts, just as I would
be visually doing with hers if I could figure a way for her safely to lead. My
reward would have to await our return to the gym where I would gape and stare
at her incredible arms pumping up during our second set with the weights. And
then we would compare chest and thigh gains when we shared our shower. Fitness
is a long-term commitment for each of us.

"Camping doesn't have to be sleeping in the dirt. When I was a girl I went to
summer camp a couple of times and we slept in tents, built fires, all that
sort of thing. It wasn't so bad. And I was a Girl Scout "

"You're still a Girl Scout, and I never doubted it had started that early. How
much camping gear do you imagine us hauling on a motorcycle?"

"Not that I've made any sort of commitment, but we can ship a duffle bag ahead
with some people Julie and Joseph know, and stay in hotels during the trip
down and back. One duffle bag per bike. I want to hear how you manage packing
for a week with limits on how many clothes you get to bring. Carmen told me
about your trip to Sylvia's when the plane struggled to lift off because of
just your baggage."

"Carmen talks too much. Well, she hardly talks at all except to you, but
still. Once, a week mixing with motorcycle gangs might mean one outfit: blue
jeans with a leather jacket. But because I've got fussy in my old age now I
would insist on a change of knickers. You're the one with the sensitive nose.
How do you think you're going to cope?"

"I imagine myself being some adolescent's outlaw fantasy wearing only tiny
scraps. How much room can a rawhide bikini take up? Actually this is another
case where I'm afraid I'll have to put myself entirely in your hands, Kathy. I
have no idea what to take or wear. You get to pack for both of us. Just don't
make me look like your virginal cousin or your brother."

"No worries, as your Christine Envall would say. I was going to insist I
choose the clothes. As you said I never take a real vacation so this will be a
little marketing excursion where you and I show off what my shop has to offer
that special woman who can handle her own life and her own motorbike. I'll
charge you my cost for anything you decide to keep. I don't know what sort to
expect at this rally and at our stops to and from, but surely some of them
will be my kind of shopper and I'll make it up. I'll shoot for a gym bag's
worth for each of us to carry. As a Girl Scout you should know knots that will
lash the bags onto whatever bike we end up with. That leaves you to get
camping gear and the bike. And you will need to borrow a leather or stout
synthetic riding outfit including gloves, jacket and pants, and a helmet. If
it's mix and match I'm willing to sacrifice style for safety in this special
case. Julie's jacket and Joseph's pants ought to work if they're willing to
give up parts of both their outfits for a week. Just let me know the colors
enough in advance to plan some ensembles. You'll need leather boots that
extend up over the ankle as well. I don't think you own anything like that, so
will you prefer cowboy boots or some stylish bovver boots that take forever to
lace up? Oh, and the first thing to check on the bike is that the pillion is
comfortable for you, since those seats are afterthoughts on most brands. We
can work around the rest provided it has enough go-power to carry two."

* * * *

The rally itself went off pretty tamely. Betty figured out our tent by touch
after I had abandoned hope that it ever could become a standing structure. But
I was the one who got our sleeping bags zipped together. The skinny little air
mattresses were a step above the dirt, but it was a baby step from my
perspective. That left me torn between stalking the camp looking for a better
mattress with an owner ready to share, or spending idyllic but sleepless
nights in the arms of my best friend. At first she didn't seem torn at all and
struck up an acquaintance with a handsome young doctor she met an hour after
our arrival. I in turn had to cope with the attentions of a gaunt Irishman who
had to have been sixty. He offered no financial prospect, neglected his motor
terribly, would have looked a sight in a gym, but sang in the sweetest tenor I
had heard crooning above me in years. And he proved himself remarkably durable
under a variety of poundings and probings, as well as happily creative when he
got the chance. Still, in the end Betty and I couldn't stand the idea of
sleeping apart so any trysting with the boys had to be fit into daylight hours
when we pretended to be off enjoying rally events.

I dealt with the clothing issues creatively, of course. I borrowed parts of a
dressage outfit from my client Annie, and augmented it in perfect Master of
the Hunt fashion with a dressy top hat above my frock coat that bore some
nearly invisible bloodstains. With the hat flattened and the coat tightly
folded I smuggled them off with our camping gear. The set worked equally well
with the jodhpurs I rode down in, the fishnet hose, or tights. In the heat of
the day I left it off and went with a wrap-around batik skirt and halter. And
SPF 50. For riding I had the jodhpurs from Annie, her cast off riding boots,
and my venerable leather jacket excavated from the depths of my trunk. It was
my first purchase where I abandoned consideration of price and seized on
exceptional quality in a timeless design. While Bob Dylan was singing the
praises of Spanish boots I made a lifetime investment in a Spanish jacket. The
philosophy of paying as much as good clothes are worth rather than only as
much as I could afford began on that day and marked me for life.

To an extent I accepted Betty's notion of barbarian fantasy so she got to wear
her dressy leather pants as often as the heat allowed, leather shorts for
later in the day, striped tights in between times, and a leather vest that
went well with bare skin or a variety of tops underneath. The sixteen-eyelet
boots became a bit wearying for her to constantly lace and unlace at every
costume adjustment, but worked well with all of her pants options. I topped it
all for her with some wrap around sunglasses. She resists wearing sunglasses
because she thinks they make her look blind. I explained that we would be in
the sun, after all, and she would look more out of place being the only one
without appropriate eyewear. Hers had a green metallic sheen and gave her a
vaguely catlike, predatory look that I enjoyed very much.

The second evening at the encampment Betty confronted me and demanded I either
return the money that appeared in the top hat I left near our tent or I
contribute it all to some worthy charity. Upon arising and in mid afternoon we
would to strip to our minimums and apply suncream to each other as I
encouraged Betty to flex and stretch for the good of her metabolism. In my
turn I put on my own stretching display, emphasizing my leg development and
midsection in contrast to the concentration I gave Betty's arms and back. The
second morning I convinced her to press me over her head and the crowd
reaction to that may have tipped her off. But I had to set my hat somewhere,
and is it my fault our neighbors mistook our precautions against melanoma for
entertainment? I didn't think Betty knew about the donations and I hadn't
wanted to burden her with it. She never did learn of the payments I demanded
from those seeking to film our proceedings.

Otherwise the trip was a modest commercial success. A few women were
interested in some sleeveless striped tops, and Betty's pants and vest were
upscale versions of a popular uniform. One of the biggest male bikers liked my
top hat and formal jacket, but he'll need to find another source. My biggest
hit was a pink ruffled halter that I wouldn't wear, but had brought knowing
the right person would be there to model it. I found her and she was thrilled
to be able to parade her pair of breast implants that were as hard and round
as her biceps. I locked my principles in the closet while I made several
transactions to mail order the same item to other women pursuing similarly
schizophrenic body ideals. I won't carry it in the shop because I object to
clothes designed around phony breasts, but somehow I was able to rationalize
playing the pusher for women needing a frilly fix to counterbalance their
pursuit of curvaceous arms. I did make headway planting the notion that women
capable of managing a hundred horsepower between their thighs have stylish
options in dressing for the various parts they might play, and that Perfectly
Fit stands ready to help.

We lay abed a little late on the final day, then had to move quickly to fold
up our tent and pack things back into the duffle bag for shipping. We hit the
road ahead of two thirds of the crowd, Betty having made her farewells the
previous afternoon to her doctor and I managing to avoid the leprechaun who
had attached himself to me. Our indirect road home would lead first to an arty
little town I had read about but hadn't previously visited. When I had mapped
our route it seemed a nice way to break up the trip home and allow us a final
evening before returning to our real lives. Now it just seemed like a place to
take a hot shower and sleep between freshly laundered sheets. Year by year my
yearning for creature comforts increases, but at least the level of refinement
in those comforts stays low to the ground. I will choose indoor plumbing over
French cuisine every time.

Our course took us through rolling pastoral countryside. Now and again we
would top a rise and be hit in the noses with the undiluted scent of dairy
farming, producing a giggle from Betty as she found her sense of smell as
overwhelmed by the odor as was her hearing by the blast of the engine and roar
of the wind. To make the miles pass more quickly for her she occupied herself
playing with my clothing: zipping down my jacket, undoing my shirt, fondling
my breasts or leaving me to take a chilly blast on a shaded lane in
bare-chested discomfort. Another hour or two of that and I would have stopped
the bike to give her a firm talking to. The traffic was sparse so only one
pickup swerved and struggled for control as the driver registered the
unexpected sight of a pair of breasts whipping past at 45 miles per hour.

Perhaps her distractions kept me from spotting the approaching line of riders
in my mirrors until I heard the deep roar just off my rear fender on either
side. Betty noticed as well and made an attempt at tucking me in and zipping
me back up before the other riders could pull along side. They came up in two
columns, four riders in each. I held a line a bit left of the center of our
lane, which they took as an invitation to pass on either side. The first pair
roared by, then criss-crossed about twenty feet in front of me and slowed so
our formation passed them by as they moved to the side for us. Then the second
pair went by, crossing a little closer and dropping back into line. Soon they
had perfected their game of passing closer and closer to our flanks and
executing the crossover nearer to my front wheel. I held my position in the
lane and concentrated on being predictable for them to play their tricks
around. Meantime I prepared for the inevitable moment when one of them would
miscalculate, doing what I could to assure that his machine would go down
rather than ours and that even if we became airborne we would alight rubber
side down. I mentally rehearsed my sequence if one of them cut things too
close: unweight the front wheel, hit the throttle, try to run the dead bastard
straight over rather than at an angle, and post with my legs to absorb the
shock when we came down on the far side. If their intent had been to frighten
us, it was working. If they thought they could cow me through fear they were
in for a rude surprise. I would seize an escape route if I could find one, but
I would never surrender the initiative to these hooligans nor let them
continue endangering Betty.

We passed driveways at intervals in this mad race, but it seemed hours before
I saw a proper road coming in from the right a ways ahead. I guessed I had one
minute to prepare to escape from this childish game and get Betty and me away
before someone got hurt. Once I had a little space between them and us I felt
confident I wouldn't repeat the mistake of allowing them to pull alongside.
While their machines roared with greater horsepower than ours, and most of
them carried less weight than the combined 350 pounds of Betty and me, I would
be dictating the rules of the race. Their riding positions ranged from slumped
back to nearly reclining with feet propped up on a virtual Ottoman. Our
sportier style bike kept us more coiled over our legs, a position much better
suited for quick changes in direction and terrain. So far as I could manage it
my race would be a steeplechase rather than running a straight line down an
open road.

I reached down to pull Betty's arms more tightly around my middle and shifted
my butt back and upward into the pit of her stomach, taking my weight on my
legs and beginning to lift her as well. She got the message and I felt her
rise slightly from her little pad and cling more closely to me along my back.
She rode me as close as a snug knapsack, moving with my every move, pulling me
back against her without in any way interfering with my steering or my
pivoting as I kept an eye on the riders edging closer on both sides. She
instantly picked up on every shift in my position, every adjustment forced by
irregularities in the tarmac, putting none of her weight on me despite draping
over me as tightly as a second thick jacket.

I couldn't plan my turn as well as I wished. For one thing, I couldn't tell
what the surface of the side lane was, whether gravel or tarmac. That would
make a big difference in road grip when it came time to lean the bike sharply
on the new surface. And I couldn't calculate ahead of time where the
overtaking rider would be, how steep my angle would have to be to miss him
while still hitting the opening of the lane.

From fifty yards away I spotted gravel spilled onto the main road from our
sanctuary. That told me I had loose footing ahead, and suggested the road
might dead end after only a short run. Closing my mind to the possibility of
being cornered where that sorry little track ended I made my move. I began my
turn by twisting the throttle and leaning sharply to the right, leaving a
couple inches to spare for the rider coming up my side to miss my rear fender.
I had barely an instant to see him begin panic maneuvers when I needed to
focus on missing the rider drifting to the back of his pack along the verge of
the road. A slight hesitation as he slipped past, then I really had to lay the
bike on its side to enter the road, praying Betty would keep her right knee
tucked in close so it didn't drag on the asphalt. This proved no problem as
she kept her knees clamped tightly against my thighs. I felt the instant my
rear wheel began to slide on the loose gravel, and righted the front to catch
us before we went down. Then some fishtailing to regain control and we were
set, except for one problem: we weren't straight in the road but headed for
the ditch alongside.

Heaving myself backwards into Betty I jerked up on the bars to lift our nose
as I gave the bike more throttle. We banged the far side of the ditch and flew
into the hay field beyond. My butt crashed onto the bike seat and Betty's chin
smashed into my shoulder while her pelvis slid up and down my back. Her death
grip around my middle left me barely able to gasp tiny breaths from the cloud
of dust and chaff that arose around us. We both posted up again as I wobbled
around through the tall grass and soared back onto the road. I saw the first
of our pursuers enter the lane as I got us pointed in the right direction. He
accelerated after us, to be greeted with a pelting of stones as our rear wheel
spun for traction in the loosest spots I could find, wallowing back and forth
across the road before I gunned the engine for a straight run as far as the
road allowed. Our pursuer dropped back out of range and disappeared in the
dust cloud thrown up by our passing.

The road ran straight and flat for half a mile, then turned abruptly right and
climbed a short hill. From the top I glimpsed the lay of the land around us.
At the bottom of the hill the road made another 90 degree turn to the left. I
saw neither an ending nor a junction, so this route remained a journey into
mystery. Starting down I impulsively turned right off the graveled track and
into the field once more. We bounced and twisted downgrade across the brown
meadow, letting the bike twist and struggle beneath us as I kept my knees and
arms loose, guiding rather than fighting our course. It was a single-track
run, except just the clothing in our bags weighs as much as the mountain bike
I normally pilot down such terrain. Betty's grip around my middle was
unbreakable but not once did I feel my balance disturbed by her motion. We
might as well have been connected with our rollerblading rubber as we each
followed the bike down across furrows and ruts. At the edge of the field I
followed a fence line to an opening, surged across the adjoining ditch and we
were back on the proper roadway sailing back the way we had come.

Ten minutes later we wheeled into a gas station with a neighboring ice cream
drive-in. I would have preferred putting more distance between ourselves and
possible pursuit, but Betty had ridden in silence from the onset of our fright
and I needed to check on her.

As soon as I stopped she stepped off the back of the bike and peeled her
jacket and helmet off. As she draped the jacket over the machine I noted how
the black riding pants and thin sleeveless striped top gave her the look of a
powerful French apache dancer, an impression somewhat distorted by the great
winged bug that had smashed across one lens of her sunglasses. I made a note
to wash it off before we got back on the road. At a loss for the right
question or comment I began stretching the stress of our escape out of my
shoulders and back. Betty rolled her shoulders a couple times, gave her torso
a twist, then stood listening to the creak of my leather as I unkinked
alongside the bike.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she spoke at last, reaching out to grip my
arm.

"Go straight forward about fifteen feet and you'll find the building. The
ladies is ten feet to your left," I told her. "I don't see a sign about
needing a key." I gave my arm a tug to get it back and finish my stretching
before checking the bike for damage. Pain shot up my arm as Betty tightened
her hold.

"No, show me. I need you to go with me."

Surprised, I started walking to the lavatory door as Betty shifted her hand to
just touch my elbow. "Looks clean enough," I said when I opened the door. I
didn't bother turning on the light because the daylight from behind me showed
the windowless little room posed no imminent threat to human health, and Betty
wouldn't need a light to do her business. I started to step aside to let her
enter when I was seized from behind by a hurricane-like force that lifted me
right off my feet and propelled me inside. The door slammed, plunging the tiny
chamber in pitch-blackness.

Betty's right hand was clamped on my crotch, holding me off the floor as she
quickly felt out the lay of the room. Her left hand wrenched down the zipper
of my jacket, stripped it down off my shoulders, and ripped open my shirt. Her
breath came panting in soft moans. I felt myself slapped against a cold metal
wall as she jerked my trousers down and began fingering my clitoris
insistently and rapidly, all the while grinding her crotch against my thigh.
The room echoed like a bass drum from my impact against the wall, then gave
off a drum roll sound from her efforts. She drove her shoulder into my back
below my shoulder blades, the metal room again reverberating, and reached
under my arm with her free hand to massage my breasts. Hanging breathless off
the ground in total darkness, my best friend gasping hot in my ear, unable to
resist her power to pin me there like an insect displayed under glass I became
utterly disoriented. I struggled to push myself away from the ringing sheet
metal wall but I couldn't budge an inch against Betty's incredible strength
and urgent assault. She shifted her left hand to explore further over my
chest, then along my arms as I pushed for all I was worth to gain enough space
to draw breath as she crushed me flat. "God, you're so strong," Betty moaned
as I succeeded in pushing us half an inch away from the echoing metal, my arms
trembling from the effort. "I need to share your strength." Her hand clamped
over my arm squeezing, measuring, admiring.

I tried to choke back my shrill cries of ecstasy as orgasms convulsed me,
stoked and maintained longer than I would have imagined possible. Just as I
collapsed from my effort to press us away from the wall I felt as if I were
flying backward through the darkness until Betty's back crashed against the
door. She held me trembling in her iron embrace a moment longer, then let me
sink slowly to the floor. My legs couldn't support me and I melted down to a
heap between her feet.

"Oh, Kathy, that was the most incredible experience of my life. I never
dreamed you could be so aggressive at the same time you were driving the
motorcycle. You should have given me a little warning if you started feeling
horny and were about to assault me. All of a sudden you just started driving
me wild, especially when you hit that gravel road. I just about crushed the
bike between my knees from the way you had me turned on. One minute I was just
holding you and the next it felt like I had grabbed an electric wire and
couldn't let go. I'm still feeling weak from it."

I was slowly dragging myself up at least to my knees and off the floor of a
public w.c. as her meaning began penetrating my rattled brain. With one arm
hanging on around her leg I reached up to her belt for my next handhold as I
inched my way back from oblivion and pulled myself higher against her. Then I
had the snaps to her riding pants open while I lurched to my feet and rammed
my shoulder into her stomach, lifting her off the ground and pulling her away
from the door so I could finish opening her riding pants and start dragging
them down along with the tights underneath.

"Betty, that had nothing to do with sex," I snarled. "I was trying to get us
away from a bunch of maniacs!" I dropped her to her feet and sank back to my
knees, drawing two layers of clothes with me halfway down. "When I want to
jump your bones, by God you'll know it!" I slid my face between her legs and
realized from the moistness and scent that at some point during our wild ride
she had climaxed at least once as she banged along behind me. I put my tongue
to work, assuring she reached another peak but this time with me facing her.

She arched against me as I shoved her back against the door. I felt her thighs
tense and swell in my hands and I took her full weight, lifting her as I
pursued her passionate explosion. I sensed she had spread her arms and was
pushing the narrow walls of the tiny cubicle like Samson about to bring the
building down on top of us. The metal groaned from her power as I drove her on
and on until her muscular spasms shook me to my boots and her throaty moans
echoed in the tiny dark space. As she went limp I stood to catch her into my
arms, hugging and rocking her until the reverberations of her orgasm passed.

When she began holding some of her own weight again I felt around on the wall
behind her until I found the light switch and flicked it on. "Did I just rape
you?" Betty whispered hoarsely into my ear as I continued holding and rocking
her.

"Better men than you have tried, love. Besides, I think the victim has to be
unwilling on at least some level for the charge to stick. No, you just got a
bit of a head start on me." She laughed.

I released her and stepped back the half foot the cramped space allowed so I
could survey the damages. Betty was getting her pants hitched up again and
looked no more disheveled than a morning run on a motorcycle should leave a
person. Her arms looked gorgeously pumped from tossing me about like a rag
doll and from her isometrics against the walls. My shirt had lost its buttons,
but I crossed the tails in front and tucked it in to keep my modesty within
its normal bounds. I would owe Annie for a new one, but she has met Betty and
has felt impulsive urgency herself from time to time so no hard feelings would
result. No blood, no obvious bruising, but a sudden ravenous hunger. We kissed
and I opened the door to find what the place might offer to stop my stomach
growling.

"Women. Women on scooters." If Betty with her keener ears had not missed it as
well I might have been embarrassed that five large motorcycles could roll up
on the other side of a thin metal wall without my noticing. Well, I had been
distracted again. The speaker was a pigeon-shaped chap in a fringed leather
jacket. His few strands of gray hair were pulled into a little ponytail shaped
like the handle of a delicate teacup.

"We had two riders go down from your little stunt. We call that leaving the
scene of an accident, bitch. One of them, we had to call an ambulance on my
cell phone." He indicated a fellow with his arm in a sling. "And Harold's bike
looks about totaled even if he isn't. He just broke a collarbone in that field
you ran through. You're looking at a serious personal injury lawsuit out of
this."

"Take that up with my solicitor here. She witnessed the whole affair,
beginning with your harassment of us. Your actions endangered us and anyone
else on the road. Anything we did to remove ourselves will come under the
heading of self defense."

Behind me Betty murmured, "Thank God they're talking legal action so you won't
drag us into a fist fight like you usually do. They're speaking my language.
Let's not have any violence over this." She adjusted her sunglasses and
stepped around so she confronted them with me looking over a shoulder. Maybe
she had to study posing for juries somewhere along the line, because she hit a
stance that would take away the breath of anyone able to see it: a hand on a
cocked hip, chin at a defiant angle, shoulders squared, chest out. The
impression was slightly compromised by the great smashed bug that still
obscured one lens of her dark glasses.

"Bring the suit and we'll be in and out of court quicker than you can say 'ex
turpi causa non oritu actio'. The tire marks will demonstrate you were passing
on the right when we made a legal turn, so we had the right of way with which
you were interfering. Meanwhile we'll have our counter suit underway and will
have impounded all these motorcycles. You'll get them back, but not before we
take every one apart looking for additional evidence. Any questions?"

The scruffy bunch fell back a few steps from Betty as she slowly pivoted her
head from approximately one end of their line to the other. Whether it was her
eighteen-inch arms, her fluency in Latin or her indifference to the fat,
squashed insect on her sunglasses she definitely made an impression where I
had thought only a Sten gun could. I don't think she consciously pretends to
anyone she has sight, but she knows how to hold herself so it isn't obvious
she can't see at all. I stepped forward to touch her elbow and guide her to
the door of the sweetshop so she could lead our exit smoothly without having
to grope her way. My traffic laws expert: next summer I'll set her up to
umpire a baseball match.

It was too early for lunch, but warm enough now for ice cream to take the edge
off the hunger that had followed our morning's various encounters. Besides, it
seemed safer to have a door between them and us as they figured out their next
move. One could hope they would just call it a day and ride off, but I wanted
my feet on the ground if they chose a path of confrontation. I sat Betty at
the single table in the middle of the room and ordered two sundaes just as the
door opened on a delegation from the black leather brotherhood outside.

A tall man in filthy jeans and the standard black jacket led the way. At his
elbow came a portly fellow, his belly hanging over his belt and spilling from
the front of his denim vest. Third came a medium sort looking uncomfortable in
this company, his jacket and leather pants matching perfectly and looking
spanking new.

"You turned your back on the head Desperado without his saying you could,"
announced the tall one. I accepted our spoons and dishes and set one in front
of Betty as I sat, again turning my back to the posse. "This club might be
overrun with a bunch of lawyers and accountants now, but there's some of us
old riders who still know how folks should behave to a Desperado."

He stalked around the table so he stood on the far side of Betty with a full
view of my face. His partner waddled over to stand by me, bringing a scent of
sweat and dirt and spicy food poorly digested. The third one hung back, pacing
slowly behind his friends.

"I don't believe this one is speaking your language. It's not much of a
language at all, but I believe I get the gist." He stood by Betty who looked
as if all her attention was focused on her ice cream while I knew her every
sense was trying to fix locations in space for the room and the men around us.
"I'll try a few phrases and see if I can get through. Listen, m'lad, you'd
best take yourself off. When most of your group were still in nappies I rode
with a cricket bat in a scabbard on my fork. Any Sloan crossing my path risked
the flat of it, and the Teddies got the edge. Best if you all toddle down the
road and give us a wide berth."

"I don't know if that's his language or not, but I didn't understand a word of
it," Betty commented. "I really will be very grateful if you don't start a
fight here. This is supposed to be quiet vacation for us."

"I'm open to suggestions. So far we haven't found the magic words to make this
lot go away and leave us in peace."

"Desperados go when and where we choose. And I think you two ought to plan on
coming with us. You ride pretty good for a woman. Make us happy and maybe we
could find room in the Desperados for you both. I like a woman with spirit.
And I reckon blondie here would like the view from the back of my bike better
than your Jap knee-dragger out there."

I didn't even try to hide the fact I was wrapping my folded bandana tightly
around my left hand. "Betty, the one doing all the talking is about what, six
feet two inches tall? Or maybe an inch more, is that correct? And the one by
me is somewhat less although he is more heavily built. And there is a third
one standing off a bit. I can't decide if he wants to be part of this or not,
but he came in with the other two. No matter, we'll sort it out in due course.
Did you want to start things or shall I?"

"I told you I wanted to avoid any violence. Yes, I figured more than six feet.
And thanks, I wasn't sure if the third one I heard come in was part of this
group or not. I hate what you're getting us into, but if they forced it I'd go
when he gave the word. That way I wouldn't have to hunt around. But maybe we
can still convince them to leave us alone, or is this just some menopausal
thing of yours?"

The nasty brute looked puzzled as we discussed his height. He exchanged
questioning looks with the great lump standing by my shoulder. Smiling
pleasantly up at them I ignored Betty's impertinent question as I hoped for a
way out or for the tall one to say something that would start Betty on the way
to her target. Instead of speaking he reached down and cupped Betty's right
breast in his oil stained hand.

Betty came out of her chair like a rocket and slammed the heel of her hand
against the chin of the tall man as her legs were still powering her upward.
He was nearly lifted off his feet by the impact. She immediately grabbed his
shirtfront and drove an uppercut into his midsection, then spun him about and
kicked his knees out from under him to hurry his descent. She ended by driving
him face first into the floor. The instant she made her move I likewise spun
out of my chair and drilled my right fist halfway to the elbow into the
stomach of the smelly man, hooked my wrapped left fist against his jaw,
followed with a right to the body and a second crashing left fist to his head,
dropping him senseless at my feet. The third, silent partner took a fraction
of a second too long to absorb all this before turning to run off. I took a
long step toward him before he could start his retreat so I was in position to
kick his left foot and tangle it with his right as he started to run, causing
him to trip headlong onto the floor. I hopped onto his back, letting my weight
crush all the air from his lungs when my derriere landed. Then I wrapped my
legs around his neck and squeezed until I felt him go unconscious. Some men
have enjoyed that experience but I don't think he was able to look at the
positive aspects of his situation.

I quickly got up to check on Betty. As usual my concern was unnecessary as she
stood with one foot on the neck of her victim, feeling him squirm weakly as
his wits slowly returned. His nose had been irregular before and now was
spread wide across his face.

"Did you really hit yours in the head with your fist? I always found we could
break the bones in our hands a lot easier than we could do much damage to the
other person. I really didn't think we had a chance against three men."

"Ordinarily that's true about breakage, but I wrapped the hand I was going to
hit his head with. Like you boxers taping up before putting the gloves on. It
holds things together so one can get away with it. Tell me again about the
violence thing and how you hate it. You seemed to get into the spirit quickly
enough."

"Kathy, he touched me. I didn't believe I would really ever be able to throw
the first punch until I felt his hand on me. Let's get out of here."

Outside the windows the remaining bikers just stared in, not rushing to aid
their comrades and not quite knowing what to do next. Our best bet was to
seize more of the initiative and let them know exactly what they should not
do. Moving quickly I led Betty out the door and struck a pose of my own. With
my jodhpurs, high boots and weathered leather jacket I was sure I outdid
Indiana Jones as I stood, fists on my hips and feet spread wide. When packing
I had considered a scarf to accessorize my outfit, but hadn't thought it
practical for riding in July. It would have added even more swash to my
current image.

"A few more of your riders down. If I catch any of you crossing my path again
my friend and I will finish with you and these great, gaudy behemoths you
ride. Your road from here leads that way, opposite from ours. Don't dare set a
tire off it before your dinner time."

I began striding to our motorcycle, Betty at my elbow. "Mind the bike coming
up two feet to your left," I muttered.

Betty reached out to feel it, then paused to put up a foot and heaved the
beast over on its side to the sound of tinkling mirrors and lights. "Sue me,"
she tossed over her shoulder as we reached our motor where she pulled her
outfit on again. The remaining three men at our backs stood stunned to
silence, then began shuffling indoors to gather their latest casualties.

I mounted and waited for Betty to climb on behind me. Before switching on and
heading toward our day's destination I gathered my courage. "I have to know.
Do you look at one more night on the road with me as a curse yet, after all
these days together, and after getting you into another fight?"

She hugged me tight. "It's more time than I've spent with another person since
I started living on my own. I can't think why you and I haven't done this sort
of thing before. It's all been wonderful. How about you? Can you stand even
another hour with me hanging on around your neck, like that dead albatross in
the poem?"

"I've been dreaming up a way to carry you off to Australia for a year. You and
me, arm in arm with Christine Envall, walking nude on a white sand beach. This
has been the best week of my life despite the nuisances along the way." I
started the engine and began wheeling toward the road.

"Do you think we could make it home tonight, rather than spend another night
in a motel? Now that I've toughened up with a few nights camping maybe I'm
ready to try sleeping over at your loft again," Betty yelled, her mouth
against my helmet. "Have you swept since I was there last?"

My heart leaped. Betty still had another day of holiday from her office, a day
of indolent excess together in my bed. I shouted back, "You haven't been near
the place in six months."

"My point exactly. I don't expect you'll have the same paths cleared from the
door to the kitchen or from the bed to the bathroom as last time. And I don't
expect there's anywhere open to sit down. I just wondered if the place has
seen a broom since I did the honors when I was there."

I thought quickly about my loft, about the heaps of magazines strewn about,
the bicycle in the kitchen where I had patched a tire, the racks of clothes on
their way to or from the shop, and I began to despair. No, I hadn't bothered
with a broom recently and don't own a vacuum. "Maybe if you kept your shoes
on," I began hesitantly.

Betty laughed and hugged me still closer as she leaned her head on my
shoulder. "Not a chance. If you want me to sleep over you have to either sweep
the whole place or carry me where I want to go. That ought to make up for a
few days away from the gym for you." I hit the gas and leaned a little lower
to speed us on the shortest way home, looking forward happily to an evening
and morning of carrying around 185 pounds of beautiful blonde muscles. God
knows it would be easier than cleaning the place.

* * * *

Like all children of my generation I grew up on American westerns. I learned
the two main story lines. In one the cowboy hero and his sidekick ride into
town and somehow butt into someone else's business, then ride off again after
sorting out whatever the trouble may have been. In the other the peaceful
villagers unite behind some brave individual too good for them and defeat
marauders threatening their simple lives. In both the solution that slowly
emerges to the problem is to shoot someone. I grew up with the stories but
thought it all silly bosh by the time I was ten. By the time I was twelve I
knew I wouldn't be in the hero's role, even if the part were open to girls,
and that I certainly wouldn't be anyone's sidekick. That left the villain
part, and my family did its utmost to persuade me that was where I was headed.
With all the rebelling I had done up to then I accepted their judgment.
Despite now being a shopkeeper sprung from a nation of shopkeepers, the rest
of my life has felt like waiting for my villainous opportunity, without ever
quite tipping over the edge into the hands of the law. In the interval I've
been struck several times by how false is the image of troubles ending by one
violent act. In life the gunshot at the end of the final reel keeps echoing,
drowning out what might be expected to be a rousing musical finale. The story
can't end until the hero gets the girl, as my hero keeps proving to me.