The Babe Bike Blues

by Lubrican

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8-21 & Epilogue Available On

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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. The noise he made closing the door 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 if they can 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, OK?"

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 too. 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 OK?" 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 vibrated.

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!"

"OK," 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 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 arms 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-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."

"OK," 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-shower."

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