Two Women on a Harley 883

"I read that book too!" she said, excitedly. "It's great. Especially when he picks up that Seventh-Day Adventist, who keeps quoting the Bible at him, but he ends up really liking the guy! That's the bit I always remember. And the bit where he comes across a concrete version of that old monument in England – what's it called? – Stonehenge. Only this is up in Montana or somewhere!"

We were on the same wavelength at last!

"Yes – I really loved his experiences. So I borrowed the Chevy and set off, with absolutely zero planning. I wanted to be sort of one half of Thelma and Louise. I wanted to be Thelma without... by the way, I realise I don't even know your name."

"Well actually," she said, smiling, "It is Louise!"

We both laughed, and then we hugged each other like old friends.

"Now," she said. "Let's get that shower."

I felt totally easy with that now, and we both simply got undressed and went into the bathroom. She started the shower running, and we both got in, shrieking like a couple of schoolgirls while it ran cold, and then again when we got it too hot. When we got the temperature just right, at around body heat, we set about the intimate business of washing each other. Just that. We didn't go into one of those "sex-in-the-shower" routines, but nevertheless what we did was so intimate. When I had cleared my eyes of water, and has a chance to run my lathered hands down Louise's body, I began to appreciate just how beautiful she was. Her hair, which had been full of body, bouncy and blonde, now hung dark and straight; but this showed off the perfect shape of her head, and accentuated her facial features, her high cheekbones, full, wide lips, and pointed chin. Her ears lay flat to her head. Her neck was long, balancing on fairly broad shoulders and two perfectly machined clavicles. Her arms were rounded but slim, with perfect muscle tone – she obviously worked out, but not to the extent that she had lost any feminine softness. Oh those breasts! Were they large or small? I couldn't tell, except they were exactly the right size, in proportion to the rest of her figure, firm, and sitting high up on her rib-cage. Firm was the right word for her stomach too, unfairly flat for someone in her thirties. Her hips and buttocks were rounded like peaches, her legs straight and long, a neat capital V of curls crowned her thighs. She had a slight over-all tan, which I thought might have been due to a Mediterranean ancestor – or a Creole? Or a Cherokee? Who could tell – the possibilities were endless. Or it may have been that she had found some place of utmost privacy, where she could walk around naked in the morning sunlight! She was about half-an-inch taller than me, maybe a little more.

I washed her all over, lingering over her breasts and her sex, and she grinned as she realised I was enjoying her body. Then she returned the compliment, and washed me all over. Her hands made my whole body tingle, but especially so when her massaging and washing became intimate. Just before we got out of the shower, she flicked the control to cold, and we both shrieked again at the tingle of chilly water. What with that and the vigorous rub-down we gave ourselves with towels, by the time we were dry our nipples were standing hard and erect. Mine felt like they were on fire!

Louise took me by both hands and led me to the centre of the room. Then she stepped back and looked me up and down. I felt embarrassed.

"My!" she said. "You are beautiful!"

I could feel myself blushing. Beautiful? Oh, not compared to her!

She stepped towards me again, put her face to mine, and kissed me tenderly. I guess I closed my eyes – I certainly gave in to the kiss, let my lips be forced a little apart, accepted a warm, teasing tongue into my mouth. Then I became aware of another lovely sensation; Louise must have cupped her own breasts in her hands, and must have started rubbing her nipples round and round on mine, because the fire there turned into lightning flashes of pleasure. So I grabbed hold of my breasts and copied her. We stood like that for several minutes, until suddenly she sat on the bed, put her hands round behind me, and pulled my body towards her. She fastened her mouth on one of my nipples, and sucked it. Then she went to the other one, then back again. My hands were behind her head, pressing it against me, as she sucked, them gently, and flicked them with her tongue. I could not remember when a woman had ever given my breasts such attention with her mouth – it was so great it almost hurt!

One of her hands was gently stroking my bottom. Then I felt her slide it round to my front, and down between my legs. Somehow I managed to part my legs and remain standing – it was an awkward and uncomfortable pose, but it enabled Louise to rub and stroke me right where a woman is most a woman! Oh this was unbelievable! I was so turned on! I was like a woman dying of thirst, who is allowed suddenly, when all hope is gone, to jump into a deep, blue, cool river! I could hear liquid noises, and I did not know whether they were made by Louise's suckling, or her working at my wet sex with her fingers.

I couldn't take much more of it, without bursting, exploding. I gave a moan, and half-collapsed, half-pushed her back onto the bed. Rather than giving in to my attempt to assert myself, she took over and pulled me down, so that we were lying side-by-side. Leaving my now-bruised nipples, tingling from her attention to them, she applied her mouth to mine, passionately, as though she would die if she did not kiss me deeply. We both opened our legs as wide as we comfortably could, and allowed the other to feel and stroke between them. I felt her push a finger deep in me, and nearly fainted with the sensation. I wondered how much more of this I would be able to take.

But Louise was now hungry, dynamic, ever-moving, not content to stay in one position for long. I was clumsy in my movements – I knew this, because it had been so long since I had had sex with a woman – but she moved around with such grace. Even as I was being driven wild by her fingers, and trying to do it to her too, she flipped over, and began to kiss me between my legs.

"Oh wow!" she said, between kisses. "Pretty pussy! Pretty pussy!"

I couldn't remember ever having heard my sex called by that name before. It sounded so... well... American! Louise's voice was so nice, such a lovely contralto, that the words sounded like music to me! And the rhythm of that music was the darting of her tongue – so recently in my mouth – against my clitoris and inside my vagina! She straddled me, bringing herself down to my mouth. Oh, the musk of woman – how long had it been since I had smelled and tasted this? Too long! I stretched up with my tongue to meet her, and felt the electric, citric tang as it touched her clitoris. For a while we just did this, quietly and urgently – licky, licky, licky, licky, licky! Gentle fingering and gentle tonguing. Waves of pleasure washing over me.

And then, suddenly, she was on the move again! Instead of head-to-tail we were tail-to tail. She held my legs apart, nestled hers either side of my belly, and worked herself down until my sex and hers were pressed together. Then she began to rub herself against me. Our clits were together, pressing, grinding, rubbing, with rude, liquid sounds. I was stretched back on the bed, practically unable to move because of the overwhelming pleasure; Louise, on the other hand, was half-kneeling, dominant, doing the most of the moving and rubbing, dictating the pressure and the rapidity. This was something I had never done with a woman before, and it was driving me wild. From her dominant position, Louise was able to reach over and massage my breasts, which she did, flicking mercilessly at my nipples.

I must have been crying out. I felt as though I was balancing precariously on a tight-rope, and that the tight-rope was twanging and vibrating but wouldn't buck me off. I was right at the height of things, but my orgasm seemed to be holding off, of its own cussedly awkward volition! I seemed to have lost control, but something was nevertheless controlling me. Was it Louise, in her dominant position? Maybe, but maybe not, because now her head was thrown back, and she seemed to be shuddering involuntarily, tremors coming in groups of three each time she rubbed against me. And she too cried out.

"Yeah!" – three tremors.

"Yeah!" – three more tremors.

"Oh yeah!" – three final tremors as she came, and a scream from me as, at last, my tightrope snapped and I had the most explosive orgasm I had ever experienced!

A few minutes later, as we lay in each other's arms, sweat cooling on us and raising goose pimples, the thought went through my mind that I hoped the motel clerk hadn't been snooping around. Or anyone else for that matter! The door was locked, but anyone passing would surely have been able to hear all the row we were making.

"You're beautiful!" said Louise.

"Don't say that," I said.

"Why not? You are beautiful."

"No I'm not. I have regular features and a good head of hair, and I guess my figure is OK, but I don't rate 'beautiful' as a description," I said. "It just doesn't feel right. It feels like flattery. It feels insincere. It feels like you're doing me a favour..."

My voice trailed off. Louise propped herself up on one elbow.

"Now listen here, Miss Famous Writer," she said. "I think you're beautiful. Very, very beautiful. And as far as I am concerned, mine is the only opinion I care about. You turned me on the moment you walked into the diner! As for doing someone a favour, I'm the one who feels privileged at this moment, because I have just made love with THE most beautiful woman I have met in a long time! Hey, I'll tell you this – you have THE most beautiful pussy I have ever gotten close to!"

That word again – that oh-so-American word for that oh-so private bit of British me! I fell silent, and snuggled close to Louise. After a while she spoke again.

"So, what part of England are you from?"

"I'm Scottish, actually."

"Really? You don't sound Scottish."

"Och weel – Jings, crivvens, help ma boab!" I said, and Louise laughed her broad laugh again.

"What did you just say? I didn't understand word one!"

I joined in her laughter, but then suddenly I had a sobering thought. I sat up, and wrapped myself in some of the bedding which we had disturbed.

"Oh no," I said. "What about that wretched, wretched car? Gerry will kill me!"

"Gerry?"

"The friend who lent it to me. It's his pride and joy, and I broke it – way out here in Whereverville, West Whatsit!"

Louise sat up too, and grabbed a share of the bed-covers. Then she leant over and kissed my neck.

"Don't worry, Hon," she said. I had never in my life been called "Hon" by anyone. "I know a guy who fixes old cars – he'll be in seventh heaven to get his hands on a '57 Chevy. I'll come round for it tomorrow with my pick-up. Hey, I know what – I have some time due to me. I'll take a week off. You check out of here tomorrow morning, and come and stay at my house. We can do some of your road trip on the Harley!"

At first I had my doubts about all this – OK we had just had sex, but my British reserve [yes, there really is such a thing!] held back from imposing on her. Imposing! She had just brought us both to an amazing orgasm, she obviously liked me very much, and here I was worrying about imposing on her! She could see that I was hesitating, and for a brief moment I thought I saw disappointment in her eyes. I realised then that this meant something to her – it wasn't just kindness, she was actually longing to be with me, to spend time with me. It almost made me cry.

"Louise, it would be wonderful!" I said. "I can't think of a better way to go. If I can't have a Chevy, I'll have a Harley. Yes – let's do it! Let's do it!"

The wonderful smile returned to her face. She became almost businesslike, picking up her clothes and getting into them, straightening her hair in the mirror, finding her helmet, checking for her keys. I followed suit, sort of, and by the time she was ready to go, I had my jeans and my bra on. She took me in her arms, and kissed me.

"Mmmmmmm," she said, as she held me. "How are you going to get through the rest of your life without anyone saying 'I love you' to you?"

Then she was through the door. I heard the Harley's engine start up and roar away. I just stood there in the middle of my room, still only wearing my bra and jeans, wondering whether I had just dreamed it all – the best sex I had ever had, with the most beautiful woman I had ever met! There seemed nothing to do except to sort out all my luggage and belongings. I did this frantically, as if it were already the morning and she was outside honking the horn of her pick-up. I packed, unpacked, repacked. I carefully left a change of clothes for myself, and a few toiletries on a shelf. Then I arranged the luggage in a different pile, closer to the door, and moved the toiletries back to the bathroom. I was high with nerves. Eventually I sat on the edge of the bed, and zapped through the channels on the TV until it grew late.

I switched off everything, and lay on the bed, in the dark. I couldn't sleep, and kept looking at the clock. Eventually I dropped into a fitful doze. Incongruously, I dreamed about the first boy I ever kissed – cute, younger than me – a poignant dream of loss with a subject matter that had been buried deep in my subconscious for years. I awoke in the middle of the night, cold, alert, but not knowing where I was – an unfamiliar, curtained window showing faint, grey light – until the events of the previous evening flowed back into my mind. My real-life love-making with a beautiful woman jarred with my fleeting dream, and disoriented me again. I did not go back to sleep, but seemed to switch the light on every ten minutes or so, until I felt that I could get up, get washed and tidied, get dressed... unpack, repack, re-stack.

Eventually I opened to door, and stepped outside to look at the dawn. I listened to the Mourning Doves – an alien and plaintive sound. Then, leaving the door ajar, I went and sat on the edge of the bed again, fully awake, but tired and yawning.

Possibly I had dozed off again where I sat, because the first sound I was conscious of, other than the doves, was the honking of a horn. Louise had arrived in her pick-up, and I had obviously not heard its motor. I went outside, and she jumped down from the cab, dressed in overalls.

"Hi Hon," she said, and, after checking that no one was watching, grabbed me by the hand, pulled me behind the cab, and kissed me quickly but warmly. The clerk had been watching, but we were out of sight of him, and there was no twitching at the curtains of any other occupied room. We woman-handled the Chevy round, so that it nosed up to the pick-up, and Louise hitched it to the tow-bar. I paid the clerk, and we were off.

Breakfast at the diner – I had freshly-griddled buckwheat pancakes, smothered in maple syrup, and each delicious, waistline-ruining, immoral bite went warmly down my gullet, like a friendly hand going down my knickers! No more yawning – I loved life!

After breakfast, and after dropping the Chevy off at a run-down house in the back of nowhere – Louise assured me it would be OK – we drove the ten or so miles to Louise's house. It was remote, in the country, and yet it seemed friendly and unthreatening; but perhaps I was projecting the personality of the owner upon it. Louise dumped my luggage in her hallway, and ran upstairs, shouting as she went.

"Give me five minutes – maybe ten – then we can hit the road!"

Boy! She didn't waste time!

I decided to explore her house, downstairs at least. I don't know what I expected to find. Maybe the traces of a long-gone husband, or another woman? A secret stash of booze? Un-emptied trash? Why did I want to find something bad about my new-found woman? I crept around rather guiltily, finding nothing but wooden floors, comfortable but old furniture, superficial tidiness overlaying a dynamic house, lots of books and a few stacks of magazines, a sewing machine. It was the house of someone used to frugality, but appreciative of a few precious things, like her Harley. In a back room – a place of private comfort and activity, where she kept her computer, some art materials, and an easy chair – I found another treasure. A thing which, like I said, defined beauty and defied improvement.

"You've got a Strat!" I yelled, excitedly.

It was light blue. The cutaways, the shape, the white scratch-plate, everything was unmistakeable. A Fender Stratocaster! I checked it out at close quarters, and found the letters "USA" right where they should be! So it wasn't a Korean or a Mexican model, but the real Hiram McCoy! Now, with a Strat you have to ask before you borrow it, but I just couldn't resist it. I picked it up, and slung the strap over my shoulder. Once, just once, when I dated someone in a band, I had held one of these, and a few times I had held passable copies, but that was a long time ago. I had forgotten how good it felt. Even though I can hardly play one note, the fit and feel of the instrument was magical – to me it felt almost as good as having Louise in my arms, to hold something so intimately hers close to me, and to run my fingers along its neck. I plugged it into its practice amp, and switched on. There was a hum, a slight twang of open strings as the humbuckers reacted to my inexpert handling of the instrument. I tried a chord. Wow! I tried it again, and this time – beeooww – moved the whammy bar in and out. I felt the vibrations go deep in my belly, and I remembered how the young Suzi Quatro once admitted that she could bring herself off with the vibrations from her bass. I could believe it!

I decided to see if I could string together the accompaniment to a song, and, as I was here in the country, why not make that song a little "wangle-dangle-dang" number? I started to pick out another chord, and to sing the first line of the only country song I could remember. Of course I had picked a key way too high for my voice, and had to shriek to hear myself over the guitar.

"Sometimes it's hard to be a woman..."

"Oh heck no!" Louise was at the door, looking clean and gorgeous in jeans and a T-shirt, and amazingly she wasn't annoyed by my violation of her treasure. She was smiling, laughing.

"Give me that thing," she said, and I yielded it. She hung it round her shoulders, turned the amp a couple of notches down, and began to finger-pick a "dunk-tiggy-dunk" rhythm. Then, looking at me with mischief in her pretty eyes, she began to sing.

"I'm a stand-by-your-woman woman, 'Coz that's the kinda gal I am. I'm a stand-by-your-woman woman, 'Coz I never got nothin' outa standin' by a man! There ain't no one in the world like my own dear gal, She's a real bosom-buddy and a life-long pal. Yes I'd rather lick the honey from my own Queen Bee, 'Coz my woman does it right for me!"

Well wangle my dangle and whoop my doo's! I just had to let out a "Yee-haw!" and we both laughed and embraced, with the guitar in between us, humbuckers still a-humming! What more wonders did Louise have for me?

She switched off the amp, and put the Strat down carefully, lovingly – it was at that moment I realised how presumptuous I had been, how valuable to her it was.

"I got you my spare helmet," she said. "And I got you a jacket. It might be big for you, but try it and see."

The next wonder. Out in the hall was the jacket she had picked for me – yep, brown leather, USAF pilot's blouson. OK it was slightly big, but it smelled of her, and it was comfortable. I took her in my arms again, and hugged her.

Every day for a week we set off in a radial pattern from her house, the two of us on her Harley, exploring as far as we could. We would stop in small towns, look for other diners, and once Louise deliberately pulled up where there was a handful of other, bigger Harleys – I followed her into the place with some trepidation, but the bikers there, even though they looked a little fearsome, were polite and friendly, more interested in the bike than in us. One of them had an 883, and his companions ribbed him.