Hard Road, Easy Riding: Lesbian Biker Erotica

Hard Road, Easy Riding: Lesbian Biker Erotica

Sacchi Green

Price: $7.00


On the road, brief encounters come with the territory. In Rakelle Valencia's Bikeless and Bored on Snow Days a rock musician plays a few bars with a would-be groupie, while Judy Snow's Motorcycle Week Virgin gets the most out of a day at a biker rally. An EnduroCross competitor in Muffin McGill's The New Sport takes a quick dip with a casual acquaintance, and a world war is the force that throws two women together and tears them apart in Connie Wilkins' Riding the Tiger.

Bike-riding dykes span a broad spectrum of roles and images as well. Alison Laleche's Sweet Thingfeatures a seductive minx. The boss's wife rides Val Murphy's mechanic in Hot Rides. The leather biker in Jess Davis's Shifting meets a determined Catholic schoolgirl. And Jake Rich's Speed Junkie Johnny is a blue-collar butch getting by on hard work and loving memories

ISBN: 1590210689
CATEGORIES: WomanLove, Contemporary, Erotica, Fem Dom, Anthology
KEYWORDS: erotica, lesbian, motorcycles

EBOOKS BY Lethe Press

EBOOKS BY Sacchi Green

COPYRIGHT Sacchi Green/2008

What the hell?

A streak of Day-Glo yellow zipped around my Indian Spirit and out of the parking lot, rocketing through the gap between logging trucks barreling down Crawford Notch. That punk on the Suzuki lowrider had cut me off! And the hotshot damned near ended up dangling from the trailing end of a pine log like some over-sized Tweety Bird served on a skewer to a Sylvester getting lucky at last.

My bike made it through ahead of the next big rig riding gravity to glory. A helmet-framed face fl ashed briefl y backward to see if I was following. Damned right I was. Whatever the kid had in mind,challenge or just a conversational gambit, I was primed to deliver. And then some.

In the two-minute climb from the parking lot at Silver Cascade to Saco Lake at the top of the Notch, I had time to be amazed at the excitement fizzing through my veins. For the first time in more than a year, I was anticipating, if not fun, at least some diversion.

If my hunch about the narrow back and shoulders tilted forward for the steep uphill ride was wrong, what the heck, I'd just deliver a fire-and-brimstone lecture on biker etiquette and safety and put the fear of big salt-and-pepper dykes into some testosterone-drunk adolescent.

But if my hunch was right—and the more the curves in the road let me see of those long slim legs straddling the banana, the surer I was—there could be a hell of a lot besides a lecture in store. And damn, was I ready for some of that.

Maybe the insistent, cunt-jogging vibration of the Indian on this long cruise had cracked the thick walls of ice encrusting me since Nadia'd been gone. Or maybe it was just time. Whatever, I'd known I was in trouble this morning, when even my own naked reflection in the mirror at the Rustic Roost motel had looked good to me. The rider darted another glance backward, white teeth glinting in an unmistakable grin. My own mouth demonstrated that it hadn't forgotten how. If trouble was gunning for me, why should I duck?

The parking areas along the lake and railroad tracks were so thick with motorcycles you'd think some cattle drive was under way, with longhorns built of chrome and steel instead of beef and rawhide.

Most of the bikers would be heading back south before dusk to the Memorial Day Rally Week at Weirs Beach, after "riding the notches" from Franconia to Crawford to Pinkham to maybe even Evans Notch over in Maine. But some would stay longer in the mountains, making the legendary trek up Mt. Washington or exploring trails and dirt roads reaching far into the National Forest. I was here for the mountains alone. And for remembrance.

My personal troublemaker clearly had thoughts of pulling over by the lake, but I moved up hard on the Suzuki's tail, honked, and jerked my head toward the road ahead. The yellow-striped black helmet bobbed in acknowledgement. I entertained a thought or two about giant bumblebees burrowing into honeypots.

On the western slope the road descended more gradually. Convoys and smaller posses of motorcycles claimed long stretches of the highway, but SUVs and family campers held their own. The mom-and-pop-mobiles even dominated some areas, such as the major scenic pull-off where the vast panorama of the Mt. Washington massif dwarfed its stately white two-hundred-room namesake hotel. Just as well neither of us showed any inclination to squeeze in among the crowds.

I knew where I intended to corner my prey. As it turned out, my prey seemed to have the same notion and swung off the road before I could go into herding mode. I’d noticed the New Hampshire plates; could be local, or at least close enough to know the territory. It didn't matter. I closed in fast with a your-ass-is-mine flourish and a plume of dust, blocking the escape route just to show who was in charge.


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