The Babe Bike Blues
Lubrican
The Babe Bike Blues
by Robert Lubrican
Copyright 2009 Robert Lubrican
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Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com
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Table of Contents
Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | Epilogue
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Foreword
This was supposed to be a short stroke story based on an idea generously provided by a reader who goes by the handle "Drunken Dwarf." I thank him for that idea.
The problem is that some characters refuse to restrict themselves to a short story, and some characters want to do more than stroke. The characters in this story are a good example.
Reading this book may be tedious, initially, because the lead female character stutters, and I spelled out every single place she stutters. I did that on purpose, because it makes for frustrating reading, just like talking to someone in real life who stutters is frustrating too. I wanted the reader to feel her frustration with her speech impediment.
If you are familiar with my work, you know that I don't do anything in a story without a reason. The stutter matters. So be frustrated for a while, but keep going. You'll get used to it ... just like you learn to be patient with someone who speaks this way in real life.
Bob
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Chapter One
Jennifer Brazelton sat, an intense look of concentration on her face. The tip of her unruly tongue was gripped lightly between perfectly even white teeth as she carefully penned the last of the letter she was writing to her Uncle Bob. She took great pride in the flowing script of her penmanship and wanted it to be perfect.
Though she wasn't conscious of it, the perfection Jennifer strove for in her written communication was an attempt to compensate for the fact that her verbal communication was typically a disaster. Jennifer stuttered - she had stuttered all her life.
If you never heard Jennifer speak, you would have thought she was no different than any other eighteen year old girl. She drew the eye, in fact, with her slim, athletic body and the hank of carelessly styled platinum blond hair that hung, usually straight, just past her shoulders. She looked like a California girl, straight off the beach, though she was missing the tan.
But when she was forced to speak, it was agonizing, both for her and the listener. Typically, whoever she was talking with ended up leaning forward, mouth working, subconsciously trying to help Jennifer get the words out. Her face was a picture of frustration in these situations, and the face of the listener was one of pity or sorrow.
Growing up as a stutterer is an education in how hostile the world can be. She'd had to learn to ignore the other children's cruel barbs and teasing. Kids who called her "J-j-j-Jenny" were put in the class of humans who didn't deserve any of her attention. She got used to being called "stupid" or "retarded."
Each new year meant new teachers, and new teachers always attempted to make her participate in class by answering questions aloud. She knew they thought they were trying to help her improve in some way, but they were simply torturing her. And when they finally gave up and stopped calling on her, she was immensely relieved.
All she wanted was to blend into the background and be as invisible as possible.
As time went on, the armor she developed to keep the hostile and uncaring world away from her tender underbelly got a little stronger, and she cried a little less. It no longer bothered her when someone assumed she was stupid because she couldn't say a complete sentence in less than a minute or so. She knew she wasn't stupid. Her teachers did too, once they graded her papers.
And she learned that the "do-gooders" as her father called them, really were trying to help, even if they didn't know how to and even if their efforts to include her in conversation only pulled her into the light, instead of letting her rest comfortably out of sight.
Most importantly, Jennifer learned that the majority of communication, when it takes place on a face-to-face basis, isn't done with the voice at all. She became a master of non-verbal communication, using a shrug, or nod, or any of a number of facial muscles to say something without words that almost anyone could understand at once.
Home was the most comfortable place for her to be. Don and Susan, her parents, were used to getting information in a halting, stumbling kind of way. It was normal for them. They'd tried everything when she was young, of course. Even now they had Jennifer in speech therapy on a regular basis. But, after years of disappointment, they had finally accepted their daughter as a beautiful, if slightly flawed young woman whom they loved, whether she stuttered or not.
She knew they loved her and home was a fortress in which she felt completely safe and mostly happy.
When puberty rumbled into her life, it was another disappointment. The girls she knew started dating the boys she knew. They didn't abandon her for these boys. Not really, because they had never taken her into their inner circles in the first place. But she heard them talking, and saw their body language as they flirted, and teased, and did the mating dance that almost all young women learn to do.
Almost all.
Other than her inability to speak without stuttering, there was nothing wrong with Jennifer. That included her hormones. Those hormones provided the same stimulus to her body that they did in other girls. She just had no outlet for it.
She was cute, and she smiled a lot, because she had learned that smiling was a way to satisfy people. If you looked happy, most people left you alone. And, boys being boys, when they looked at her and imagined her naked, writhing under them as they performed their part in the mating dance, they were interested. Some of them even asked her out. It always ended badly, though.
Four of them hadn't been able to make it through even an hour of a first date. They were used to rushing a girl through the conversation stage of things and getting right to the necking part. Jennifer, of course, never rushed anything ... even if she tried.
Two others thought they would be able to just skip the talking part altogether, and tried to go straight to the petting stage. One got slapped, the other walked bowlegged for two days.
One might wonder how a girl, then merely sixteen, with no real experience with the male of the species, might be knowledgeable of how to handle a boy in that particular situation.
She had a tutor, of sorts. And that tutor was her Uncle Bob.
He wasn't really her uncle. Bob Jefferson was her father's best friend. Other than her father, he was the only man in her life who really meant something to her. She had known him for as long as she could remember.
Bob was a confirmed bachelor, but it was more by choice of lifestyle, rather than any intent to avoid a lasting relationship with any particular woman. Bob loved women. But, he also loved the life of the nomad.
When he was seventeen he joined the Navy to see the world. He'd read books and seen movies about Navy SEALs and dreamed, like many young men dream, about how cool it would be to be accepted into that very special fraternity of men. Don Brazelton felt the same way, and fate had brought them together in boot camp.
The reality, of course, was quite different than the books and movies, but both young men were good at being challenged, and the teamwork they learned and participated in made them inseparable. Initially, it was them, and the rest of the trainees, against the Chiefs who seemed to be trying their best to kill them all during training. Later, when they were stationed together in the same SEAL team, they trusted their lives to each other on a regular basis during missions. While Don still dreamed of settling down some day, though, Bob was more the type to revel in the knowledge that he was a thoroughly dangerous man.
Six years later they both got out of the Navy. Don had seen the world, and there was a girl back home he was interested in. Bob's reasons for getting out were more complicated. First off, even though he trusted all his teammates, if Don didn't have his back, it wouldn't be fun anymore. He'd have to worry. Another reason was that he'd seen the inside of a brig more often than he would have liked, both military and civilian. He was pretty familiar with the procedures involved in a Captain's Mast too, though he always got his rank back eventually. He was one of their best team leaders, and they knew it. The rules and assholes who always seemed to end up with the most brass on their collar chafed at him, though. Had he been able to stay a team leader while the rest of the Navy (except a few logistics folks who kept the teams in beans and bullets) went on permanent shore leave, he'd have stayed in.
So, while Don went off to woo a wife, Bob did a stint as a Merchant Mariner. He'd gotten to see the world as a SEAL, but he'd never had time to explore all the exotic locales the Navy had whisked him to and away from. He spent seven years roaming the world before he'd seen enough to realize that people were pretty much people, wherever they were.
He left the Merchant Marine and went to see his "brother," where he met the wife and their seven year old daughter for the first time. He was captivated by the little girl almost instantly. She spoke to his soul in many ways. Having been in twenty-three countries where he didn't speak the language, communicating with this cute little girl was a piece of cake, and he could care less how long it took. She was a doll and her shy smile, as she looked up at the beefy man with the long black hair and bushy black beard, made his heart melt. Unlike most children, she didn't run screaming when she saw him. Instead she sat, rapt, as he told her stories about where he'd been and what he'd done there. He told her stories about her daddy too, when he could get away with it. Neither Don nor his wife, Susan were keen for little Jenny to know some of the things Don had had to do as a SEAL.
Of course those were the best stories and Bob loved telling them, when Don and Susan weren't around to tell him to knock it off.
He spent two months with them, doing basically nothing. Not that he was a drag on the family. He was good with tools and Susan's car had been giving them problems. It was soon running better than when it was new. Bob wiped out Don's "honeydo" list within a week and went on to find other things that needed to be done.
He spent a lot of time with Jennifer. It might be argued that both were a little lonely. He had no real ties, except to Don, and she had no friends to play with.
He took her with him grocery shopping one day. He liked to eat and his big frame took a lot of fuel. He didn't expect his brother's family to support that need.
Jennifer, on that shopping trip, was in seventh heaven.
As any parent knows, who has taken a seven year old to the grocery store, the vast majority of the communication between parent and child consists of "No," or "Put that back!" and maybe "That's not good for you. Let's get something healthy instead."
Bob didn't speak that language.
"Sure, baby," he usually said. "Get two packages. One for you and one for me." In another case he said, "Oh yeah, Jeny. I love them. And that brand is the best! Those things will kill us for sure. They're loaded with sugar. Better get three."
They came home with eight boxes of cereal, three boxes of Ding Dongs, a variety of chips and dips, a jar of peanut butter that already had jelly mixed in with it, the giant community-sized economy assortment bag of practically everything the Hershey's chocolate company produced, and twelve frozen pizzas. There was also an assortment of Hamburger Helper, canned tuna, Spam and six pounds of string cheese. Of the twenty-four cans that spilled out onto the counter top at home, one was green beans. The rest were an assortment of Chef Boyardee's culinary offerings.
Susan didn't have a fit.
"Where are the fresh vegetables and fruits?" she asked.
"That's sissy food," replied Bob, smiling. "Scurvy is a thing of the past."
"We're sissies, Bob," she said calmly.
"No way!" he groused.
"Go back and get the vegetables and fruits, Bob."
"But I don't have to take anything back ... right?" he asked hopefully.
"Don't you think five flavors of ice cream is a bit much?"
"Of course not. Variety is the spice of life. I got cones, too. The good ones-the ones that look like waffles." He beamed proudly.
Susan gestured toward the refrigerator. "We don't have that much room in the freezer, Bob."
"Yeah, I noticed you guys need a deep freeze. Where could I get one of those? Does Don know anybody with a pickup truck?"
Jennifer had stood and watched, fascinated as the huge man stood politely while her mother looked up at him and calmly straightened him out.
And it was Jennifer who picked out the fruits and vegetables when they went back to the store.
Susan Brazelton was intimately aware of how important Bob was to her husband. He had talked with her about everything he'd done as a SEAL. She was fully aware that the reason she had a husband she was madly in love with was because this bear-like man had always brought the team back safely. For that reason, she considered his hijinks to be more of a distraction than a fault.
And he was very good for Jennifer.
It was impossible, however, for Bob to miss the fact that he was a square peg, while Don and Susan's world was full of round holes. He loved the time he spent with them, but didn't want to wear out his welcome.
Having seen the whole world, Bob decided that now he'd spend some time seeing the country of his birth. He had money and he had time. He bought a big touring bike, waved to the only family he had, and disappeared for three years.
His return, when Jennifer was ten, had been a surprise to both of them. It was as if he'd never left, except that he had more stories to tell.
Oak Valley, where Don and Susan lived with the delightful little girl who called him "Uncle Bob," wasn't big enough to support the idea Bob had for the foreseeable future. To do what he wanted to do required a larger population base.
He took his life savings and with two other former SEALs, opened a bike shop outside Atlanta. They specialized in custom bikes, both building them and servicing them. As with most things he'd tried, he was successful.
He thought of the house Don and Susan lived in as "home", but he only got home infrequently. Still, his time was still his own and he was the boss, so he was able to spend a week, several times a year, with the man he considered to be his brother. And each time, as far as Jennifer was concerned, it was like the big teddy bear, as she sometimes called him, had never left. He always had a big grin for her and always sat patiently as she brought him up to date on what had happened in his absence.
And, because he now had a fixed address, she began writing him letters.
She wrote him one a week. It took all week to write it, but it was almost like a hobby for her, so she didn't mind. On paper she could say whatever she liked, in long, complicated sentences that flew onto the white surface. Her letters were often five or six pages long, and she said everything to him that she couldn't say to the friends she didn't have, or the parents who no child can confide everything to.
In addition to his occasional long visits, he appeared for each of her birthdays. It was from him she got the almost life-sized Teddy Bear she named Bob. She'd never forget that day, her thirteenth birthday. She already knew the sound of the motor of the big hog her uncle rode. When she heard it that day and ran to the front window to look out, Uncle Bob rode in with the bear behind him, like it was his rider. He'd said he brought her a boyfriend and she hadn't cared that she was too old for stuffed animals. She'd slept with that huge four foot tall bear taking up most of her bed for years. She'd never tell anybody, but she practiced kissing that bear, too.
She never knew what to expect from him on her birthday. Sometimes he was extravagant, and sometimes ridiculously simple. On her eleventh birthday he gave her a sweatshirt that said, "If you don't want to know ... don't ask." For her fourteenth it was a pair of diamond earrings that were half a carat apiece. Her mother was scandalized. Susan was even more scandalized when he produced an identical set for her. To Don, he gave a case of Heineken.
On her sixteenth birthday she opened a little box to find a pair of big, red wax lips. When she looked at him in confusion, he returned her look with a serious face and said, "Sweet sixteen and never been kissed." Then he grinned. "So kiss them!"
She was quick on her feet, though, and saw that the wax lips were designed to be clamped in the teeth, so that they covered a person's actual lips. She handed them to him and just waited. It was he who was confused then.
"P-p-p-put them o-o-o-n," she said patiently.
"You're supposed to kiss them," he said.
"I w-w-w-will," she stuttered. "Wh-wh-when y-y-you p-p-put them on," she finished in a rush.
He smiled. "You don't want to kiss your grumpy old Uncle Bob."
She lost her patience then and shoved his gift carefully between his teeth. Then she kissed the hard, cool wax lips just like she'd practiced on Bob the bear. It wasn't very satisfactory, but she'd been too chicken to take them out of his teeth and kiss his real lips, which she was quite sure would feel much nicer.
For Bob's part, when he saw her close her eyes and earnestly kiss those silly wax lips, he felt a jolt as he realized she really was growing up. He slapped her on her denim-covered butt cheek and, when she jumped back and yowled, he grinned evilly and said, "That's one. You're how old? Sixteen? Oooo, this is going to be fun!"
He jumped for her, but wasn't really trying to catch her. He knew she'd be able to outrun him. She reminded him constantly that he was out of shape and needed to get back into the daily grind that had made him tough as nails when he was a SEAL. Still, it was fun to chase her around while she hooted and yelled. At least until Don or Susan yelled at him to act his age.
He'd tried to give her a Sportster for her seventeenth birthday, but her parents wouldn't let her have it. She'd had to settle for being taken out to dinner at the fanciest place in town. Uncle Bob had looked ridiculous in a suit borrowed from Don, which was probably two sizes too small. With his black hair in a pony tail and the ends of his moustache waxed and curled, he looked like a blacksmith from the fifteenth century trying to fit in to the twenty-first. Her mother had done her hair and loaned her what she called her "little black dress." She'd never felt so grown up in her life. He'd let her sneak sips of his wine that night while she ate things she hadn't even known existed, but which kept her almost breathless with the anticipation of what would come next.
He showed up for graduation, and gave her a Harley Davidson leather jacket - black, with silver studs and snaps. It felt like it weighed a ton when she slipped into it, but she didn't want to ever take it off.
Then, two months later, the night before her eighteenth birthday, he called.
"Sweet pea," he said. "I got this problem. A buddy of mine is in some trouble, and I have to go help him. That means I'm going to miss number eighteen."
Her disappointment was palpable in her voice, even though she only said two words: "Oh. O-k-k-k-ay."
"No it's not okay," he said. "But this is important. This guy saved my life one time and I owe him. I wouldn't miss your birthday for the world, but I have to go help him. I'll make it up to you, though. I promise."
"I underst-st-st-stand," she said, trying to make her voice light. "I l-l-l-ove you. B-b-be c-c-caref-f-ful."
"No sweat," he replied. "The bastards that are fucking with him will learn the error of their ways, and then we can talk about what I can do to make up for missing a very important birthday. Okay?"
"I said O-k-k-kay!" she barked.
"Okay," he said. "Give your daddy a hug for me. And slap your mother on her pretty little ass for me. Bye."
The next day was made less dismal when her parents gave her a car. She had decided college wasn't for her. She wasn't worried about the coursework, but communicating wouldn't be worth the trouble, especially since she had no idea what she wanted to do as an adult. For now she was going to stay at home, much to her mother's delight, and try to find a job somewhere where speaking with people wasn't part of the job description.
A week later she still hadn't heard from Uncle Bob. She had no idea where he was. He hadn't answered his cell phone, so she was writing this letter to him, telling him of her frustration that employers didn't seem to understand that she wasn't stupid and could do almost anything, as long as she didn't have to talk to the public.
Her mother stuck her head into Jennifer's bedroom.
"We're about ready to go. Are you sure you'll be all right? We'll be gone for two weeks."
Jennifer's frustration with employers was transferred to her mother in an instant. She took a breath, but her face said it all. Her mother held up both hands, palm outwards.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you'll be fine. We'll call you when we get there. I left Aunt Linda's phone number on the fridge. I hope you find a job, sweetie."
There was a hug then, initiated by her mother, but entered into voluntarily by Jennifer as her irritation evaporated. She followed her mother out and gave her father a hug too, and a kiss on the cheek. They were hugs she'd be forever grateful she got to have, as things turned out.
Two days later the phone rang and Jennifer, still jobless, expected to hear her mother's voice on the phone. It was a woman who said she worked for the highway patrol in Arkansas. There had been an accident. She was trying to locate next of kin for Donald and Susan Brazelton.
She was bawling when Bob answered the phone. She'd dialed his number over and over for forty-five minutes.
"What?!" he barked.
It only took him seconds to recognize the voice. She was incapable of actually saying anything, both because of her speech impediment and because she was sobbing. A feeling of terror gripped the big man's gut. Instinct kicked in and he asked her questions that could be answered with a yes, or no.
"Are you safe?" he asked.
"Y-y-y-es," she sobbed.
"Are your parents okay?"
"N-n-n-oooooooooo."
"Are you at home?"
"Y-y-y-es."
"I'll be there in eight hours," he said. "I won't be able to answer the phone. Do you need the police or somebody to help you right now?"
"N-n-no." The helplessness in her voice was like a knife, turning in his heart.
"Hang on, Baby," he said urgently. "I'll be there. Just hang on."
Bob flipped the phone closed and stuck it in his back pocket. He'd only turned it on because now that he was inside and the perimeter was secure, he could be alerted by the men securing it if there was any trouble. It had rung before he could put it back on his belt. It hadn't been Matt, or Johnny or Ripper, though. It had been Jennifer.
He looked at the man lying on the floor under him, with Bob's left hand covering his adams apple, choking off all noise except for the wheezing of labored breathing. This man, and his gang members, were the reason Bob was in town.
The man, who called himself Sheik Abdulla Hamid, was a twenty-two year old African-American who had never been fifty miles from where he was born, except for an eighteen month stint in prison where he changed his name. "Tyrone Robinson" wasn't cutting it in the slam. He hadn't accepted any of the tenets of Islam while he was locked up, but he liked the sound of the names he heard and played the game to get one of his own. He was the leader of the gang that claimed this area as their turf.
Matt, also a former SEAL on Bob and Don's team, had caught one of Abdulla's minions trying to break into his car, and had stopped him from going further. It's hard to break into a car when both your arms are broken. It's hard to call for help too when the man who broke them drives away in the car you were trying to steal, leaving you lying on the ground helpless.
Sheik Abdulla had taken offence to Matt's actions. The car had been on a list that a particular buyer wanted, and that buyer had supplied Abdulla the owner's name and address. When they went to the address to get the car, it wasn't there, because Matt's wife Peggy had gone to the store in it. So, to soothe their honor they drove by and sprayed the house with gunfire. Matt's six year old son had almost been hit. Matt couldn't deal with the gang without leaving his family unprotected, so he sent out a call for help. Bob, along with three others, had responded. It was Matt and the three others who were securing the perimeter of Sheik Abdulla's current ... residence.
A Tec-9 was lying on top of a box serving as a coffee table nearby. Sheik Abdulla had laid it there when he got back to his pad. He hadn't had time to reach for it when Bob stepped out of the bathroom and put him on the floor. Bob had been waiting seven hours by then, and was a little impatient. He was even more impatient now.
"Okay," said Bob. "Here's the deal." His hand tightened on Abdulla's throat just enough that the man's eyes bulged. "Your pipsqueak got caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. My buddy broke his arms. You know who I'm talking about?" He squeezed just enough to cut off Abdulla's air and the man tried to nod frantically. He let him breathe as he went on. "You, or some of your people shot his place up. That's unacceptable. It's kind of like a declaration of war. What you need to understand is that the war is over. You lost."
Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife. His thumb moved the opening knob while his wrist flicked and the blade snicked out and locked. Before Abdullah's eyes could even register what was happening Bob's hand flashed down and Abdulla felt a searing, white hot pain on the side of his head. His scream was unable to exit his lungs, though, because Bob's hand clamped down on his throat again.
Bob wiped the blade of the knife on Abdulla's shirt and closed the knife one-handed before he put it back in his pocket. Then his hand reached and came back up holding Abdulla's ear in his fingers.
"We accept your surrender," he said as tears overflowed Abdulla's eyes and he dragged air in through the tiny opening Bob allowed him. "Consider this reparations for the damage your people caused to my man's house when they shot it up."
Now Bob reached behind him and removed the Colt .45 from the holster in the middle of his back, pulling it out from under his motorcycle jacket. He inserted the tip of the barrel in Abdulla's wide open mouth. Abdulla's eyes bulged even more and a strangled whimper came from his throat.
"Since you can't sign a formal surrender document, I'm going to keep your ear as sort of a sign of the agreement between you and me that the war is, in fact, over. Should you, or any of your people forget that the war is over, or should Matt or any member of his family come to any harm whatsoever, I'll be back for your balls. And just so your people understand too, it won't be just your balls we come back for. We'll make a whole collection of balls. You, as their leader, need to help them understand that part. Got that?"
Abdulla's eyes were beginning to glaze over and Bob released the pressure on his throat. He gave the man time to get some oxygen into his lungs, whereupon Abdulla began moaning. When his eyes had cleared Bob scraped the front sight of the Colt along the roof of his mouth.
"I really would rather just blow your fucking brains out, right here, right now, but I need you alive ... for the present ... to keep your associates in line. You think you can do that?"
The man's chin bobbed and he choked. Bob lessened the pressure on his throat some more.
"I can't hear you," he said softly.
"Yah!" choked out Abdulla.
"Is the ear enough, or do I need to take one of your testicles to convince you how serious this matter is to us?" Bob pulled the barrel just clear of Abdulla's mouth.
"No!" shouted Abdulla. "I mean yes!" he said as his eyes widened again. "No trouble!" he gasped, trying to find an answer that was safe.
Bob grinned. "Good. We don't normally leave survivors when the mission is complete. But this is a special situation. You really need to understand that part. As far as I'm concerned you're wasting perfectly good air just by breathing it." He reholstered his weapon and then reached for the Tech nine. Holding it by the pistol grip, he raised it and then smashed it down on the floor. Abdulla's head turned to watch as the barrel snapped cleanly and bounced a few feet away.
"Cheap, crappy gun," commented Bob as he bent the magazine of the weapon by smashing it on the floor again. "You won't be needing it any more anyway."
Then he clamped down on Abdulla's throat until the man lost consciousness. He called each member of the team. The perimeter was still secure. He told them where to rally, made sure Abdulla was still breathing, and then left.
Chapter Two
She was curled up on the couch, still by the phone, when Bob walked in the front door. Exhaustion had given her sleep, though it was a twitchy, restless kind of slumber. He was riding a quieter bike, so it was the noise he made closing the door that awakened her. She blinked, cried out, and then rushed into his arms.
It took him ten minutes to find out that Don and Susan weren't dead. A local driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and hit Don and Susan's car head on at high speed. Both were in the hospital, flown there by life flight. Susan's prognosis wasn't good and the hospital was asking for authorization from the next of kin for operations. Communication, under the circumstances, had been virtually impossible. Helplessly Jennifer was able only to get a number to call back and written that down on an envelope sitting by the phone. It was wadded in her hand.
The first thing Bob did was call the number. It was to the State Patrol, instead of the hospital. The ten minutes it took for him to explain the situation almost broke his patience, but he was finally given a number for the hospital. It took another ten minutes before he was connected with the right person there.
"Your name doesn't match that of the patients," said the woman.
"He's my half-brother," lied Bob instantly. "Do whatever it takes to give both of them the best chance of recovering."
"Mr. Jefferson, I hope you understand the delicacy of our situation here," said the woman. "Your half-brother has a number of broken ribs, which punctured one of his lungs. He's on life support, which will do his breathing for him until his condition is stable. One of his legs was crushed so badly that they're not sure they can save it. It will require a series of operations to try to save it, but it's not a life threatening condition."
"What about Susan?" asked Bob.
"I'm afraid I can't talk to you about her," said the woman. "You're not a blood relative. There are confidentiality laws."
"Her daughter is right here with me," said Bob.
"How old is she?"
"She's eighteen."
"Well why didn't you say so?" complained the woman. "She is who I need to be talking to in the first place."
"She has a speech impediment," said Bob. "It's very difficult for her to communicate on the phone."
"Well, be that as it may, my hands are tied, Mr. Jefferson."
"How about if I translate for her?" asked Bob.
In the end, the receiver was placed between Bob's and Jennifer's heads, so both could hear. The woman wanted some information from Jennifer, who stuttered through her full name, address, date of birth and the full names, addresses and dates of birth of her mother and father. The woman also wanted Susan's maiden name before she was satisfied that Jennifer was, indeed, their daughter, though how she could have checked to see if the information was correct was a mystery.
Susan's pelvis had been crushed. She was in a drug-induced coma. There had been one operation to deal with the internal bleeding, but there was severe liver damage and it was possible that she would lose one of her kidneys. Further surgery was also needed to repair the pelvis. Jennifer simply said "D-d-do it."
"And the operation on your father's leg?" asked the woman.
"D-d-do an-n-n-nything th-th-th-they n-n-n-need," she gasped.
"That's good enough to start," said the woman. "I'll need your signature on a number of forms, though. When can you get here?"
Bob spoke then.
"I'll bring her straight there. We have to come by motorcycle, and it's six hundred miles, so it's going to take us a couple of days. Just get started on them. We both want them to have whatever it takes, okay?"
It was five in the evening when they started out. Bob had taken what he called his "babe bike" on the trip to help Matt, because it was the one he would be less unhappy about if anything happened to it. It was a special construction custom hard tail that he'd built from the frame up, using a RevTech 100 motor assembly and a RevTech 5-speed tranny. It had a springer front end that was six feet long. A black pearl paint job had red and yellow flames draping the gas tank, and then licking back across the air cleaner covers and back fender, it was low slung, almost deadly looking. He'd fitted it with a custom made king and queen seat. The queen seat was backed by a twenty-four inch tall padded sissy bar. It was not the bike they needed for a six hundred mile trip, but he was stuck with it. He didn't want to take the time to ride the wrong direction to Atlanta and get his cruiser. He lowered the air pressure in the back tire by six pounds. It was all he could do to soften the ride a bit.
He took some things out of the rucksack he'd taken with him, to make room for a change of clothes for Jennifer. They'd have to rough it, but she probably wouldn't notice, as torn up as she was about her parents. He thanked his lucky stars that he'd taken two helmets with him too. You never knew when a babe would react to the babe bike, and he always tried to mix a little pleasure with business. He hadn't met any candidates, but now he had helmets for both of them. They'd be driving through three states that required helmets.
He put Jennifer in the queen seat, fired up the hog, and drove west.
There was a lot going on with Bob, so perhaps he may be forgiven for forgetting why he called the bike they were riding "the babe bike."
Jennifer found out right away, though she didn't realize it on a conscious level. She'd ridden with Bob before, but never on this particular machine.
It had been Drunken Dwarf's idea, originally. His actual name was Herman Thompson, but ever since he'd been a Seal he'd been known as Drunken Dwarf, or just Dwarf, for short. It was one of those strange names that didn't seem to make sense, since he was six foot three and built like a refrigerator. And nobody had actually ever seen him drunk. The name came from his skill at unarmed combat. A team member, after watching him take out three enemy soldiers in hand to hand combat, commented later that he fought like a drunken dwarf from the Forgotten Realms book series, and the name had just stuck. He had been the first to join Bob's new business enterprise.
They were sitting around shooting the shit one night, drinking beer after they locked the front doors of the shop, and he'd had this idea. The other two men present, Bob included, blew beer through their noses when Dwarf told them his idea.
Bob was building what would become known as "the babe bike," and, for the hell of it, tried out Dwarf's idea. It called for a king and queen seat.
If you're not a motorcycle kind of person, a king and queen seat is one in which the driver sits more or less where any driver would sit, but has his own seat. Behind, and usually above that seat a bit, is the one for the passenger. In the old days there was just one long seat, and both people sat on it. The king and queen seats can be sculpted to fit the average butt, or not. What separates it from the normal seat is that each person on the bike has his own personal place to sit.
With that in mind, Bob looked for a particular style of king and queen seat. The one he chose was wide and comfortable for the driver, letting him rest his weight in line with his spine. The queen seat, however, had a high, steep cantle, to put it in saddle terms, which caused the passenger, intended to be a female, to slide down and forward towards the driver. The "horn" of the queen seat was the back support of the king seat and the cantle forced the woman's weight to push ... well ... her crotch ... against the horn.
Now bikes vibrate. It's just the nature of the beast. All those moving parts in the engine transfer vibration through the case to the frame, and the seat is fastened to the frame. Any of you ladies who have ridden on a motorcycle where your butt wasn't taking all your weight know what I'm talking about.
But for the babe bike, that wasn't enough. Bob actually enlisted the help of a couple of the biker babes who frequented his shop, having them sit on the intended queen seat and carefully measuring where their girly parts pressed against the horn.
Then he cut out a vertically oval piece of the underlying metal frame of the seat. A half inch metal rod was welded to the underside of the oval. That rod went down to a top rear head bolt. What he ended up with was an oval piece of metal, in roughly the shape of a woman's labia, that was independent of the seat itself, but upon which rested the woman's ... well ... labia.
They dubbed it "the clitty whizzer."
Of course there was a cover on the seat, and most of the seat had foam between the cover and the seat frame. But that oval had a piece of hard rubber on it, instead of foam.
When all was said and done, any woman sitting on that seat would have the vibration of the motor transmitted directly to her pussy, and her whole body weight would be forcing said pussy against that vibration. Combine that with the hard tail, which transmitted every bump to whatever was supporting the riders, and it was the equivalent of a gigantic vibrator for the woman riding behind Bob.
Horsewomen have been known to have orgasms while riding. On the babe bike, many women had had one within the first ten miles. In fact, a woman could have an orgasm while the bike was standing still if Bob just let it idle. That was the point at which the engine was the least stable, and vibrated the most. Milking the throttle caused the engine torque to move that little oval back and forth a quarter inch too.
It was this little feature of the bike that Bob forgot all about when he settled Jennifer into the queen seat of the babe bike and took off for Arkansas.
Those first miles were confusing to the distraught young woman. She was worried about her parents, which was a downer of the worst kind. At the same time, Uncle Bob was being the best ever. He'd never let her down before, and now he was there for her. Her arms, wrapped firmly around his waist, were in a hug she didn't have to let go of. And his gruff voice, when he turned his head to talk loudly into the wind blowing past her face, told her that everything was going to be all right. She began to relax, and turned her head to lean it against his back.
That's when she felt the zings of pleasure between her legs.
Jennifer hadn't been raised in a vacuum. Even if she didn't have any experience with boys, she still knew how much fun it was to rub and stroke the little button between her pussy lips. Somehow, it was that feeling that was coming to her attention.
That was very confusing, because she was most definitely not rubbing.
But the sensations were impossible to ignore, and they just kept getting stronger and stronger until she moaned into the air whipping past her face.
Bob felt her arms tighten, but didn't think anything about it. He checked the oil pressure automatically, and then the speedometer. The last thing he needed right now was to have a run-in with the cops. Her arms tightened again, and he grinned. He loved her. He was glad he'd answered that phone call, and glad he could do something for her. Despite, or perhaps because of all the tough situations he and Don had been in back then, he was an optimist. He was sure things would work out.
It was obvious to Jennifer that something was terribly wrong.
She had never had more than one orgasm in day. When she rubbed, she did so until that delicious feeling came and suffused her body with what felt like golden light. Then she went on with whatever she had been doing before the urge to have that orgasm had hit.
Now, though, she had had six of them, if she was counting correctly. And they had happened more or less in a row. True, there were about fifteen minutes between each one, but practically all fifteen minutes were spent working up to the next one, and she didn't have to do anything at all.
She began to get scared that something was wrong with her. How could this be happening? Her parents were in the hospital. She had nothing to be happy about.
But she couldn't stop the feelings!
It was the seventh time her arms suddenly squeezed him tightly that he heard her moan. He turned his head.
"You okay?" he yelled.
"I d-d-don't think so," she yelled back.
There was a town up ahead. He needed to top off the tank anyway. It was a beautiful teardrop tank, but it didn't hold a lot of gas. Maybe she needed to pee. A bike could do that to you.
He saw a station and pulled in, parking at the pump. He got off, and turned to help her dismount. She was flushed, and breathing hard as she removed her helmet. Her hips gave a little wiggle and, in that second, Bob remembered about the clitty whizzer.
"Oh shit," he said softly.
"W-w-what?" she asked, her voice weak.
Bob had a problem. He couldn't tell her what was going on. The women who had volunteered to help make the whizzer were a different sort of woman than his best friend's daughter. He actually thought of Jennifer as his niece sometimes, and he wasn't about to tell her he'd invented a thing he used on unsuspecting women just so he could get laid.
"Nothing," he said. "I think there's something wrong with the bike. It feels funny."
"I th-th-think I f-f-felt the same th-th-thing," she sighed.
"Yeah ... maybe," he said. "Why don't you go get us something to drink and I'll see if I can figure it out."
He got a five out of his wallet and handed it to her. She walked away bowlegged. He'd seen that walk dozens of times. It usually meant he was going to get his dick wet. Idly he watched as she corrected, and started walking more normally. Her hips swayed in the most delightful way. He shook his head.
He didn't have to examine the bike to know what needed to be done. He needed a seventeen millimeter stubby box end wrench. The problem was that it was a head bolt he needed to take loose, and just pulling one, out of sequence, wasn't a good idea at all. Heads had a tendency to warp when that happened, particularly when they were hot. He'd never considered the possibility that he might want to have a girl ride with him on the babe bike and not get her clitty "whizzed".
He sighed. He didn't have a seventeen millimeter stubby box end wrench anyway. He had no idea what to do. He filled the tank and went inside to pay. Jennifer was nowhere to be seen, and he assumed she was in the bathroom.
She was, in fact, in the bathroom. She was in a stall with her jeans and panties, which were soaking wet, down around her knees. She felt fine now. Nothing itched. She had no urge to rub. She had thought maybe she had a yeast infection or something, but there were no signs of that. She folded up several layers of toilet paper and used them as a panty liner. She wasn't willing to undress enough to remove the panties, and there wasn't anything else she could do.
Bob was standing, staring at the bike when he looked up and saw her coming back, her platinum blond hair blowing in the wind. He saw a man at another pump staring at her. She looked good in that black leather jacket, just like the one he was wearing. He realized the man at the pump was assuming they were a couple.
Jennifer walked up to him and handed him a bottle of Dr. Pepper. Her own was already open. She had thought and thought about it, and the only thing she could think of was that the bike was doing it. And she couldn't do anything about that. She couldn't tell her Uncle Bob that she was cumming all over his motorcycle seat. She'd be embarrassed to tears. But she also knew she couldn't take a lot more of what had been happening. They'd been on the road for two hours, and there was a long way to go yet. She was still feeling the aftereffects of her latest orgasm.
"I'm n-n-not used t-t-to th-this," she mumbled.
Bob could imagine how unused to it she was. She probably had no idea what was happening to her. He'd have bet his last cent she was a virgin, and she'd complained to him for years about how unfair it was that she didn't get to date and explore boys like other girls did.
"I think I've got a worn bushing," he said. "It's causing some pretty serious vibrations. Nothing that will slow us down, but it might be uncomfortable on your butt. There's not all that much padding on the seat."
"I think y-y-you're r-r-r-right," she said. "I d-d-don't know ho-how much m-m-more I can t-t-take."
He thought of something then.
"Be right back," he said.
He went in and Jennifer saw him speak to the cashier, who pointed and talked while Bob nodded. He came back.
"I have an idea, and the clerk told me where I can find what I'm looking for. Think you can take it for a few more minutes?" he asked.
She nodded. They climbed on the bike. The toilet paper actually helped a little bit, but it felt funny. They only went a block and he pulled in to the parking lot of a store that had signs all over it that said everything cost a dollar.
"I won't be long," he said.
He went in, found a box with throw pillows in it and grabbed one. He paid for it and took it out. He had her stand on the pegs while he got it into position and she settled down on it.
Five miles later he turned his head.
"Better?" he called back.
This time the squeeze of her arms around his waist simply meant "Yes!"
The motel they stopped at was the first one he'd seen in miles. He'd stayed in worse, and who knew when another one would show up so he pulled in. It was one of the old time kind, like used to be everywhere along most of the roads. It was shaped like an L, with the office being on the short leg and a row of one story rooms stretching away from it. The garish neon sign out front was in the shape of what could be a 1970-something Ford Country Squire station wagon, right down to the fake wood panels on the side. The letters "Drop Inn" were under it, and below that was a flickering "Vacancy" sign.
Bob climbed off the bike and then helped Jennifer off.
"You want me to get you a separate room?" he asked.
She blinked at him.
"Of c-c-course not," she said. "I d-d-don't want to s-s-stay in a r-r-room all b-b-by myself!"
"Okay," he said.
He went in to find a middle aged woman sitting behind the desk, watching a small TV. The bell above the door rang twice as the door hit it opening and closing, and she looked up.
"I need a room," he said.
The woman looked past him at the motorcycle and girl, visible through the plate glass window.
"She legal?" asked the woman. "We don't run no whorehouse here."
Bob was used to this reaction from people. Something C.S. Lewis had said one time popped into his mind: "What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing. It also depends on what sort of person you are." This woman revealed something about herself when she automatically assumed that Bob was with an underage whore.
"Well, Ma'am," he said politely. "The fact of the matter is that it's really none of your business how old she is. Your business is to rent me a room. I have cash. We'll be staying one night."
He waited. He thought she was going to resist ... to insist on being in charge of things. If she did, they'd just leave and find someplace where their business was valuable. But then she snorted and reached for a piece of paper which she launched his way. It fell on the countertop right in front of him.
"Name, address, license number of both your motorsickle and your driver's license. No smoking in any of our rooms, and if you call out for food have them bring it straight to your room instead of bothering me."
Bob put his name on the form and the actual number on the plate of the bike. Everything else he made up. He handed the form back to her.
"That'll be forty-two twenty-three with tax," she said.
He gave her two twenties, two ones and a quarter.
"Keep the change," he said, smiling widely.
She took her time getting him the key, which was on a board within arm's reach. He figured it was her way of paying him back for a two cent tip.
Jennifer looked around the room curiously. She'd stayed in a motel exactly once in her life, but that had been a Holiday Inn. Both her mother and father liked to camp out when they traveled, and she'd done a ton of that, but she had very little experience with motels.
"Th-th-this p-p-place is a d-d-dump," she said.
"You take what you can get," said Bob, smiling. "Would you have rather ridden for another hour, to find someplace nicer?"
Jennifer was still exhausted from the string of orgasms she'd had before he'd padded her seat. They had been nice, but she'd also felt helpless, and that had scared her. She shook her head.
"N-no," she said. "How can y-y-you p-p-possibly stand r-r-riding as m-much as you d-d-do?
Bob looked away. He didn't want to explain why her ride had been so different from his own.
"I'm used to it," he said casually. "It won't be so bad tomorrow, as long as you use the pillow."
"Okay," she said smiling. "I w-w-wonder how M-m-mom and D-d-dad are d-d-doing."
"We won't know until we get there," said Bob. "Try watching TV or something to distract yourself."
She turned and went to the set. There was no remote and she had to push a button on the set to get the screen to light up. There were a total of five stations.
"I need a shower," said Bob, not interested in the TV. It had been two days since he'd had a chance to clean up. "You hungry?"
"N-n-not r-really," she said. She'd been distracted on the bike, but now the worry about her parents was making her feel restless. "When y-y-you're d-done I'll t-t-take m-my sh-sh-sh-shower."
Chapter Three
Jennifer was mildly interested in CSI Las Vegas when Bob came out of the bathroom, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist. It looked like a pretty small towel when she glanced at him. She'd never seen him like this. She stared at his chest and the muscles rippling there as he used another towel to dry his hair. He caught her staring.
"Sorry," he said. "I forgot to take my clean clothes in with me, and I've been wearing the others for two days. I couldn't bring myself to put them back on."
"It's ok-k-kay," she said, feeling a little flutter in her belly. She'd examined her uncle before, and had decided he was handsome in a dangerous looking way, but she'd never thought about what he might look like naked. That she suddenly found herself thinking exactly that confused her. Her eyes flitted to the front of the towel, which seemed to be tented out quite a bit. She felt guilty for wondering what the thing causing that tent looked like, but she still couldn't help herself.
"I left you some hot water," he said, tossing the towel in his hand onto the bed. He bent over to get his clean shirt and pants out of the backpack and the towel ends split apart on his right thigh. She stared at that area and saw muscles rippling there too.
"R-r-right," she said a little breathlessly. She bounced up out of the chair and hurried into the bathroom.
She kept thinking about Bob as she showered, running her hands over her naked body. She suddenly realized her right hand was between her legs. It had already done everything necessary to get her clean down there, but it was lingering. She remembered all those delicious orgasms and, curious, began to feel around to see if anything felt different. It didn't, but she got excited and continued to rub.
Jennifer was a virgin, as Bob believed. She had played with herself before - lots of times - but she'd never actually inserted anything other than a tampon in her body. Now, tentatively, she began exploring deeper with a soapy finger. It felt completely different from when she just pushed her clitty around with a fingertip. She realized she was trying to have another orgasm and felt embarrassed. What was happening to her? Was she turning into some kind of sex fiend?
She jerked her finger out of her pussy and quickly washed the rest of her body. She washed her hair too, even though it would just have to dry nature's way.
It wasn't until she got out that she realized she'd done exactly the same thing ... she'd forgotten to bring in a change of clothing.
There were two towels left. She wrapped one around her body, which left a little cleavage exposed and barely covered her butt. The other she wrapped around her hair. Her comb was in the backpack. She looked in the mirror and blushed. Then she went to the door and opened it four or five inches.
"Uncle B-b-bob?" she called out. She peeked through the door to see him sitting on the end of the bed. He leaned forward and pushed the off button on the TV. He had on jeans, but no shirt. He looked around at her.
"Yeah?"
"I f-f-forgot my c-c-clothes. Just d-d-don't l-l-look when I c-c-come out, o-k-k-kay? This t-t-towel is k-k-kind of s-s-small."
"No problem," he said, turning back around.
He really didn't intend to look. But with the TV off, the screen became a poor quality mirror and when she ran to the bed, where the backpack was, he couldn't help but stare at her reflection. With that other towel piled high on her head she brought to mind an exotic Egyptian queen.
When the towel around her body came off, he couldn't help but admire her full breasts, capped by nipples he wanted badly to turn around and look at directly. He wondered what color they were. It took her a while with her arms raised to work the neck of the T shirt over the towel on her head, and he was reminded of the statue of the Venus de Milo. His eyes dropped to her lower body just before the T shirt fell to cover her hips. The afterimage of the fluff of stark white hair on her mons was still in his mind as she wiggled into clean jeans. He realized she'd put on neither panties nor a bra, probably because of her hurry to get dressed. Twice he saw her reflection dart looks at him.
"Okay," she said as she buttoned the jeans.
He turned to see her lifting her hands to the towel around her head. The T shirt was maroon, and those nipples, which might be maroon colored too, pressed outwards proudly through the dark cloth. She was, in his opinion, as close to perfection as anything he'd seen, and he just watched as she dug a comb out of the backpack and started running it through her tangled locks.
"W-w-what?" she asked, stopping long enough to stare at him.
"Nothing," he said. "You're just all grown up now. I hadn't realized it until right now, I think."
"I d-d-don't f-f-feel all g-g-grown up," she said sadly.
"Well you are," he said firmly. "And you're drop dead gorgeous to boot."
She stopped and put her hands on her hips.
"Y-y-you always s-s-say th-th-that," she said, laboring as usual.
"Because it's true," he said, grinning. "Now, don't argue with me. We've got a long day tomorrow. You're a stone fox, but I need my beauty rest." He looked around. Other than the bed, the only furniture in the room was the credenza the TV was on and one plastic chair with steel legs on it. The bed only had one pillow on it. At least there was a thin rug on the floor. He picked up the pillow he'd bought to defuse the problem with the babe bike. "You can have the bed."
She went back to combing her hair out, and her tugs at her hair suddenly seemed to be producing the stutter in her speech.
"You c-c-can't sleep on th-th-the f-f-floor."
"Sure I can," he said. "I've slept on dirt plenty of times."
"W-w-we'll b-b-both sleep on th-th-the b-b-bed," she said.
"I don't think so," he said. "Didn't you just hear me tell you you're all grown up and beautiful? Who knows what evil things I'd try to do to you in my sleep?"
"Ha ... ha," she said, slowly and with obvious effort not to stutter.
"I'll be fine," said Bob. "Trust me on this, Princess. The last thing you need is me hogging the bed or rolling over and squashing your pretty little self all flat. Besides, your daddy would skin me alive if he found out I slept in the same bed with you."
"W-w-we're w-w-wearing clothes!" she said, frowning. "And D-d-daddy w-w-would n-never hurt y-y-you. You're his b-b-best f-f-friend."
"Just get some sleep," said Bob. "I'll probably get you up way earlier than you're used to."
He got into position on the floor, on his back, with his arms spread wide and the small pillow under his neck. He only intended to use it to keep his head from rolling to the side, which might cause a kink while he slept. This position was one he was very familiar with. It was for power naps and he firmly believed that twenty minutes of sleep in this position was worth two hours in a bed.
"Get the light, would you?" he said to the ceiling. His imagination was running wild. He thought he smelled pussy.
The room went dark and he heard the bed move as she got into it. It was quiet for half a minute, then she shifted, making the bed creak. She tossed and turned some more, but didn't say anything. He sensed the bed moving and heard the rustle of the sheets and blanket as she tried to get comfortable.
He was almost asleep when her voice came from right above his face.
"Uncle B-b-bob?"
He opened his eyes and saw the silhouette of her head, hanging over the edge of the bed.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sc-sc-scared."
"There are no monsters under the bed," he quipped. "I checked."
"Th-th-they m-m-might d-d-die." He heard tears in her voice and felt like a heel for having joked.
"They're getting the best care," he said softly. "We'll get there tomorrow and then you'll get to see that everything's going to be Okay." He hoped he was telling the truth.
"I'm st-st-still s-s-scared," she moaned.
He stared up at her dark outline.
"I know, baby," he said. "Just try to remember something good. Concentrate on that memory and don't think about anything else. You'll fall asleep. I promise."
Jennifer stared at the ceiling. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and there was a surprising amount of light coming through the front window in the room. She tried to do what Bob had told her to do, but it was hard. Every good memory she thought of included her parents. Frustrated, she tried to think of something else. The recent motorcycle ride popped into her mind. She thought about all those delicious orgasms she'd had sitting behind Uncle Bob as the feelings overwhelmed her over and over.
Her hand drifted to the crotch of her jeans. She pressed firmly and felt tingles of anticipation. She unbuttoned the jeans, intent on keeping that feeling of anticipation in her mind, and slid her hand inside them. The jeans were too tight and she wiggled them down off her hips. Then, unable to spread her legs, she worked them all the way off. That was better. She stroked her pussy lips gently and let one fingertip find and produce zings from the hard little button that had so recently flooded her body with pleasure.
She felt a stab of shame that she was doing this while her parents were on death's doorstep in the hospital, but shoved that thought away. She concentrated on what she was doing, trying to keep her mind clear of the fear that went with thinking about her parents.
Bob woke, suddenly alert, and then realized it was just the bed that was making noise as Jennifer tossed and turned. He heard her make a little sound in her throat. Was she crying? The bed moved more and she whimpered. He sat up. His eyes had adjusted to the dark too, and he saw her bare legs, knees slightly bent and spread-her hand busy at the juncture of her white thighs. He watched as her neck arched and a long sigh escaped her straining throat muscles.
He lay back down, aware that his jeans were uncomfortably tight. He had a raging boner. His mind whirled. She was grown up. She was fully a woman. If she wasn't his best friend's daughter she'd be a prime candidate for the Babe Bike. It had obviously gotten her going, and now she had him going.
He thought about masturbating too. The thought of doing that along with her was very appealing, but he had nothing to shoot his spooge into and he wasn't about to put it on the carpet. He felt helpless, something that was very unusual for him.
He listened and realized he hadn't heard her moving for a while. Maybe she was finished. If he played it cool, he could get up, go to the bathroom, take care of his aching prick and she'd be asleep by the time he came out.
He got up and, facing away from her, went to the bathroom.
Jennifer was in the middle of making slow, soft circles with three fingers, rubbing the tips of those fingers over the slippery lips that folded together to cover her clit. It had been delightful. Knowing now that she could have more than one of those delightful feelings in a row, she was slowly working her way up to another one.
Then she froze in horror as her uncle suddenly stood. She felt completely exposed, but could tell he wasn't looking at her. She pulled the sheet over herself as he closed the bathroom door. Light suddenly shone brightly through the crack at the bottom of the door. She played possum, wanting him to think she was asleep when he came out.
It took so long she was actually sleeping when Bob slipped out of the bathroom, his prick now soft and empty. He couldn't help but look at her as he returned to his part of the floor. He'd thought about her the entire time he'd stroked his manhood. He knew he should feel bad about that ... but he didn't.
Ten minutes later there was only the sound of two people breathing as they slept.
Masturbating had helped Jennifer get to sleep, but it didn't keep the nightmares at bay.
She woke, crying out at a dream in which two coffins were being lowered into one hole in the ground. She clutched at Bob, when he appeared on his knees beside the bed, and pulled him up onto the bed. It was just natural for him to hold her as she sobbed, stroking her back, whispering into her hair that it was going to be okay.
It was natural for her to fall back to sleep in his arms as the comfort he offered slowly soothed her fears. It was also natural for him to resist disturbing her by getting back on the floor. He was fully dressed, after all.
But he knew she was not. All it took was for his hand to slide down her back just a little too far ... just once ... where it slid off of the material of her T shirt and onto the smooth warm skin of her bare bottom. His reaction was natural too.
This time he couldn't do anything about it, though, and he finally fell into a troubled sleep with another erection straining in his jeans.
Bob woke to the feel of a warm, good smelling woman rubbing her pussy on his thigh. It was a languid, slow movement, but the leg thrown over his thigh made it clear what was rubbing against his leg. He opened his eyes. Her face was pressed against his chest and one of her arms thrown over him in a loose embrace. He couldn't tell if she was awake or not, until he concentrated on her breathing, which was the slow and measured cadence of sleep. He also couldn't tell if the erection in his pants was from what was happening or just his usual morning wood.
He realized suddenly that there was warm skin under his hand. He was cupping her butt, not exactly helping her rub, but not far from it. He lifted his hand and rolled away from her.
Her breathing changed and she lifted her head, looking around with sleep-glazed eyes.
"Morning," he said softly. "It's time to get up and go."
Her hand tightened on his shoulder and she pulled herself against him.
"I love you," she sighed.
He noticed the lack of stutter in her voice just as she noticed she was still grinding her naked pussy on the rough cloth of his jeans.
"Oh!" she yipped, rolling away from him. They both looked down to see that her T shirt had ridden up during the night, leaving her loins exposed to their eyes. Her platinum pubes were stuck together with the juices her body had produced, both before and during her sleep.
"Oh!" she squealed, blushing furiously as her hands scrabbled, trying to grip the cloth of the shirt and push it downward. It was made very difficult by the fact that it was clear up to her rib cage and she was lying on top of it.
Bob rolled off the bed, fully awake, and landed on his feet. He turned his back to her.
"Come on, sport," he said, his voice over-loud as he tried to ignore what had just happened. "No time to lollygag around in bed. We've got miles to go and I need something to eat." He stayed where he was, though, waiting until he thought she'd had time to rearrange things. "You decent now?"
"Y-y-yes," came her muffled reply.
He turned to find her sitting up, her lower half covered by a sheet quickly pulled over her legs. Both hands were covering her flaming red face.
"It's no big deal," he said, heading for the bathroom. "You ain't got anything I haven't seen before. Get dressed while I take care of things in the bathroom. Then you can have your turn."
Jennifer got up, feeling miserable and embarrassed. She had been in the process of waking slowly, enjoying the dream she was having, and not wanting to let it slip away from her. It had included Uncle Bob, somehow, in some hazy way, and she was about to have another one of those delightful, wonderful orgasms she'd had so many of recently. His sudden movement had confused her, because his moving wasn't part of her dream. Then, as she realized he was pulling away from her, her dream mind didn't want to let go of him. That was when she'd told him she loved him, hoping he'd come back.
Then she woke fully, and the dream turned into a disaster.
She found her jeans and wiggled into them, still without panties, again because she was in such a hurry. The T shirt she just left on, because that's what she had intended to wear for the day anyway. She only had two changes of clothes in the backpack, and was obviously going to have to wear each set for more than one day, unless she could find a washing machine somewhere.
The bathroom door opened, but only a couple of inches.
"Safe to come out?" he called.
"Y-y-yes," she moaned. Her face felt hot and she wished she could run away. "I'm s-s-sorry," she whined as he opened the door the rest of the way and came out.
"Nothing to be sorry about," he said briskly. "I told you you were all grown up. That's just part of being that way. Don't worry about it."
What struck her was the sincerity in his voice. She could tell that he really meant what he was saying. He didn't think she was some kind of slut, or that she had done anything horrible. She felt an explosion of relief and warmth suffuse her body and she lurched toward him. His hug was both strong and gentle at the same time.
"I love you, too," he said softly. "Now, let's get moving and get something to eat so we can go yell at your parents for worrying us."
The truck stop he pulled into was about ten miles down the road from the motel. She had been relieved when the pillow, back in place between her crotch and the motorcycle seat, had let her ride without those feelings which, right now, were the last thing she wanted to experience. When they got off the bike, though, she didn't know what to do with the pillow. He plucked it from her hand and stuffed it between the sissy bar and the seat. They took their helmets inside with them.
Inside, seated in a booth, Jennifer looked everywhere except at Uncle Bob. She knew she was still blushing because she could feel it in her cheeks. He ignored her, his eyes scanning a menu.
"No coffee," he said. "Coffee means potty breaks and we don't want those today."
"Ok-k-kay," she said.
The waitress arrived with silverware and two glasses of water.
"You need more time?" she asked, pulling a pen and her order booklet from her apron. "Coffee?"
"No," said Bob. "Water is fine. I'll take the biscuits and gravy, extra gravy, and some fried potatoes."
The waitress wrote it down and looked at Jennifer. Having done this before, Jennifer just pointed to what she wanted on the menu.
"Toast or pancakes?" asked the waitress.
"T-t-toast," Jennifer stuttered.
The woman looked at Jennifer and then at Bob, who leaned back, unconcerned.
"Toast it is," said the waitress. Then she turned and left.
Bob couldn't think of anything to say, so he just kept quiet. Jennifer saw the waitress go behind the counter and put their order up on a big silver wheel that had clips around the outside of it. Then she leaned over to talk to the man on the other side of the window, in the kitchen. The man looked sharply in Jennifer's direction and seemed to ask the waitress several questions.
Ten minutes later the man from the kitchen brought them their plates of food. He set them down and stood, looking at Jennifer.
"I didn't know what kind of jelly to bring you," he said casually. "Connie forgot to ask you."
Jennifer looked at Bob, who was pulling his plate in front of him. She looked back up at the man who was staring at her intently.
"G-g-grape," she said somewhat explosively.
"Are you okay?" asked the man suddenly. "Do you need help?"
Bob looked up at him, his eyebrows raised.
"Is there a problem?" he asked the cook.
"You tell me," said the cook, who was a big beefy man. "This little lady looks awful uncomfortable."
Bob looked at Jennifer, who looked flustered. Her cheeks were pink and she was obviously uncomfortable, but that wasn't unusual when she had to speak to strangers.
"She's uncomfortable because she has a speech impediment," said Bob calmly. "And having to answer questions from strangers bothers her."
The cook looked at Jennifer.
"Is that true?" he asked. "If it's not, you just tell me. If this guy is holding you against your will or something just say the word, 'cause we can solve that little problem right pronto."
Now Jennifer had the look on her face that Bob knew well. It was the look of someone who didn't want to talk being forced to, under circumstances that were getting more and more embarrassing. He didn't stand up, because he knew that would only escalate things.
"Look," he said calmly. "If you think she's been kidnapped or is in some kind of trouble, then call a cop. Right now we'd like to eat our breakfast before it gets cold, okay? We're not going anywhere."
Now the cook looked uncertain. His eyes swiveled from Jennifer to Bob several times. Finally he said, "Grape ... right?"
Jennifer nodded and he left. She looked at Bob.
"You really do look uncomfortable," said Bob. "Don't worry about it. Eat something and then get up and go to the bathroom."
Jennifer looked confused. "I d-d-don't have to g-g-go," she said.
"I know, but that will show them you can move around of your own free will. But eat before it gets cold."
They ate in silence. Suddenly Jennifer scooted out of the booth and stood up, looking around for the bathroom. Bob ignored her when she walked away. He wasn't surprised when Connie, the waitress, arrived at his table with a coffee pot and cup in hand.
"You sure you don't want coffee?" she asked. She didn't sound at all nervous.
Bob glanced at the helmets sitting on the table against the window.
"How many bikers come in here and order coffee?" he asked.
That flustered her.
"Just tell whoever's bothering my niece to get finished so she can finish breakfast and get back on the road. Her parents are in the hospital and we're on our way to see them. She stutters, and it embarrasses her. You guys are putting her through the wringer because of how we look, and it's starting to piss me off. She doesn't need this shit on top of everything else that's happened. So just do whatever you have to do to figure out nothing is wrong here and leave us the hell alone, all right?"
Connie looked nervously in a direction behind Bob, who did not turn around to see where she was looking. Then she hurried away. Perhaps five minutes later Jennifer returned to the table and slid back into the booth. She stared at Bob.
"P-p-eople are s-s-stupid!" she snorted. Now the tinge in her cheeks was from anger, instead of embarrassment. "I h-h-had to t-t-tell them t-t-to leave m-m-me al-l-l-one!"
"Sometimes they see bad things in places like this," said Bob, trying to calm her down. "Truckers pick up runaways ... stuff like that."
"I t-t-told them n-n-nothing was wrong!" she almost shouted.
"Okay, okay," said Bob, raising both palms to face her. "Just finish your breakfast and we'll be on our merry way."
She ate quickly then and glared at Connie, who finally brought two packs of grape jelly to the table.
"Check, please," said Bob to the woman.
"Gus said it's on the house," said Connie somewhat stiffly. "We were just concerned."
"I know," said Bob. "Every biker who comes in here must drink coffee and kidnap little girls. It's got to be a real trial for you."
"You don't see the stuff I see!" Connie said, defending her assumptions. "You don't see the poor girls who come in here wishing they'd never left home!"
"I'm glad for that," said Bob. "Tell Gus thanks, but bring us a bill anyway. I wouldn't want there to be any more misunderstandings. If we come back through here on the way back home maybe we'll take him up on his offer."
"W-w-we're not coming b-b-back here!" Jennifer exploded.
Connie fled.
When they were done, Bob left a twenty on the table and told Jennifer not to hurry on the way out.
Chapter Four
Jennifer was so distracted by what had happened in the truck stop that she forgot all about the pillow. She just climbed back on the bike without putting it back in place. Bob didn't notice either. He was more concerned with not appearing to speed off. He wasn't worried if the cops stopped them, but it would cost time, and he didn't want that. As he pulled out across the parking lot, heading for the exit, Jennifer leaned forward and spoke in his ear.
"I'm n-n-not a little g-g-girl!"
Bob laughed and turned his head as images from last night flashed through his mind.
"You got that right, Princess. You're for sure not a little girl any more."
Jennifer felt the warmth of satisfaction in her chest as she squeezed Bob. Then he turned onto the highway and accelerated, and then she remembered the pillow as those disturbing/delicious feelings began to pummel her.
She took it for five miles before she knew she had to do something. She reached behind her and tugged at the pillow. Then she had to stand up on the foot pegs to try to get it into place. The bike wobbled a little and Bob turned his head.
"Sit still!" he barked.
"The p-p-pillow!" she shouted.
He slowed while she stood and stuffed the pillow into place. She got it almost all the way under her, but when she sat down her butt was still being vibrated, just at the bottom of her slit. It wasn't so bad, though, so she squeezed him to let him know she was settled.
For the next hundred miles she leaned her head against his back and just enjoyed the buzz. When they stopped for gas she was turned on and had to admit it to herself, even though her butt hurt a little. She got off the bike and walked around, feeling bowlegged. To her disgust, she felt like rubbing. When she got back on the bike she fiddled with the pillow and found that, with it in just the right place, she could lean back against the sissy bar, which prevented the exquisite feelings. But if she leaned forward, the crotch of her jeans came into contact with the seat of the bike and, though she didn't know it, the clitty whizzer.
For another hundred miles, she alternated between leaning forward long enough to have a glorious orgasm and then leaning back to recuperate from it.
It took Bob fifty miles to figure out what she was doing. He didn't quite know what to think. The bike was doing its job. And she'd masturbated herself in bed the night before. She was an adult, technically. But he also thought of her as his niece and, therefore, untouchable.
Still, when they stopped for gas the next time, he had to adjust the boner in his jeans.
Three hundred miles was all they could take that second day. With the hard tail suspension, even Bob was ready to stop, even though it was only three-thirty in the afternoon. They had spent an hour having lunch, and going on two lane roads with towns slowing them down regularly, had only averaged about fifty miles per hour. They agreed to stop for the day when Bob filled up the third time.
Jennifer's thighs ached and her butt hurt. Her abdominal muscles, unused to both the stress of leaning back on the pillow and the five orgasms per hour she'd been having since breakfast, felt like she'd done too many sit-ups. She couldn't help but walk bowlegged when she got off the bike at the Comfort Inn he pulled into.
"We're going to have someplace nice tonight," he said, leaning back to stretch his back. "Maybe there's a laundromat around here, too."
The clerk at the desk was completely polite and assumed nothing about them except for one thing.
"We've got a hot tub in the pool area," he said helpfully, looking at the helmet cradled under Jennifer's arm. "I hear it soaks the aches and pains away really well."
"Th-th-that sounds d-d-divine!" sighed Jennifer, completely unconcerned that she was stuttering.
"Laundry facilities?" asked Bob.
"A block and a half that way," said the clerk pointing. "And a Super Wal-Mart down the street another mile or so. There's a card in each room with places that will deliver takeout, and there are tons of places to eat on the strip."
"Got a double?" asked Bob.
The clerk checked his computer.
"I have a room in the back with two queens," he said. "It's non-smoking, though."
"Perfect," said Bob.
In the room Jennifer flopped onto one of the beds.
"Everyth-th-thing h-h-hurts," she moaned.
"The hot tub will fix you right up," said Bob.
"I d-d-don't have a b-b-bathing s-s-suit," she sighed.
"Wal-Mart will," said Bob. "You want to take a nap before we go get one?"
"N-n-no," she said. "I w-w-want to b-b-be ab-b-ble to j-j-just crash wh-wh-when I g-g-get out of th-th-the t-t-tub."
"That means getting back on the bike," he said gently.
"Ohhhhhhh," she moaned.
"You want me to go pick you something out?"
She sat up and looked at him like he was crazy.
"L-l-like you'd g-g-get the right s-s-size!" she said, as if it was obvious that was impossible.
They spent an hour in Wal-Mart while she picked out a bikini and he found a pair of baggy trunks. He also picked up another back pack that he was pretty sure he could fasten to the handle bars. It would look goofy, but would double the storage room they had. They each got two more T shirts and he got them each a pair of gym shorts to sleep in, so they wouldn't have to wear jeans. He also bought a small bottle of laundry detergent, and they returned to the motel.
When Bob stepped out of the bathroom, wearing the trunks he'd gotten at Wal-Mart, Jennifer was ready to go. She had changed into her new bikini and put a T shirt on over it. He handed her a towel and they headed to the pool area.
Jennifer walked straight to the hot tub and dipped her hand in the water.
"Mmmmmmm," she said. Then she whipped the T shirt up and over her head.
Bob hadn't paid any attention to the two piles of cloth that she'd put on the conveyer belt at Wal-Mart. He'd been getting the credit card he intended to use out of his wallet as the cashier had scanned the items and bagged them. He was therefore unprepared when he saw the bikini on Jennifer's body.
It was black and stood out starkly from her untanned skin. It showed a lot of that skin, even though it was relatively modest by most standards. The bottoms consisted of two triangles that covered front and back, while rising high on each hip, connected only by two bows. The bra covered the front of her breasts, but exposed the sides and all of her cleavage. The bra cups were connected by another bow. Spaghetti straps went around her back and neck to hold the cups in place. As she shook her blond hair, straightening it from being mussed by the T shirt, he gazed at what was most assuredly a very grown up looking Jennifer.
He felt his groin tighten and, afraid that his stiffening prick would show in the baggy suit, scrambled into the hot tub rather too quickly.
"Ahhhhhh," he groaned as the steaming hot water felt like it burned his skin.
Jennifer got in more slowly, bending over to smooth water over her arms and shoulders as she slowly lowered her buttocks into the water. Bob stared helplessly as her hanging breasts wobbled in time with her hand and arm movements. Even the heat of the water didn't keep him from getting fully erect.
Jennifer had paid him no attention at all as she eased herself into the water. Once she was in up to her neck, a dreamy smile suffused her face and her eyes closed. She wobbled in the water, and opened her eyes to see Bob leaning back against the wall of the tub, gazing at her.
"Feels good," she sighed, without stuttering. She moved toward him and sat next to him, leaning her head back on his arm, which lay on the edge of the tub. Her hip pressed against his and she leaned into his side. "Mmmmmmmm ... soooo good."
Bob was fine, as long as he didn't have to stand up. He didn't want to anyway. She was right. This felt really good. The clerk had been right, too. He could already feel the aches and pains oozing out of his muscles. As long as her hand didn't land in his lap, everything was good.