Chapter 2

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.