by Craig Sorensen
(09/20/06)

By the time sunrise was slashing across his rearview, Aaron was deep into the hazy green of the countryside. The sparsely traveled road leading west had been steady and mostly straight, but he knew that the twists and turns would soon be upon him.

He was counting on it.

What was the point of a brand-new BMW if you didn't stretch it out? Aaron had traded up time after time, from a crappy old Chevy to a new Honda, working steadily upward toward his dream: a jet-black BMW with a tan interior. It was his badge, a symbol of his success to date and his successes yet to come.

Sure, it was a business trip, but that only sweetened the pot. The meeting in Pittsburgh was the culmination of a steady ascent to the top of the consulting business for the company Aaron and his partner Jarold had created.

Jarold still lived like a Spartan, carefully moving toe-to-heel toward success. Driving a six-year-old Ford. But not Aaron.

Aaron rode the waves like a Hawaiian surfer, always looking for the next crest. Jarold was the brains, of course: once in the door he made things happen, but who opened that door? The contract that waited in Pittsburgh was the pot at the end of the rainbow.

Back home, Sarah would still be asleep; she always seemed to be. She was the daughter of old money. Sarah was cute in a tilted-head, Beagle-puppy sort of way, almost as shapely as a tree trunk in profile -- not the sort of woman that Aaron went for in the past. His daring manner and smooth good looks had always attracted beautiful women. But. Sarah, in her own way, was like Aaron's BMW: she was Richard Heinrich's daughter: the Richard Heinrich, CEO of Celestial Dynamics.

Jarold had said, "Aaron, we're not ready for a contract of this size. We don't have enough contacts to fill all the positions."

"And we never will be, unless we strike now. Once word gets out that we have this contract, we'll have every independent around running to us. This, my friend, is the top of the hill!" Aaron replied.

"That's what you say every time."

"Well, I guess there's always a bigger hill." Aaron concluded after a wry pause, "You gotta guard against being too conservative." But even Aaron knew that Jarold's conservatism was a key to their continued success.

The road was beginning to wind gently. The sun had just edged up off the horizon. Aaron leaned back, testing the support of the bucket seat, then donned his Serengeti sunglasses. Downshifting, he pushed through a curve, testing his limits, a grin carved on his face. It would be another three hours of roads just like these until his destination. But on feeling the way his BMW responded, realizing just how fast he was being able to push it, he saw that he might be spending a few hours in Pittsburgh seeing the sights before his meeting. The curves grew sharper as he moved into low hills, chasing a ghostly morning mist.

The sun was beginning to fade behind the mist. "Damn," Aaron muttered. He tossed the sunglasses onto the passenger seat and leaned forward, squinting into the soft fog. The thrill of taking challenging curves had been replaced by the monotonous task of staying with the poorly marked country roads. The mere notion of taking the turnpike had been unthinkable a few minutes ago, but now he was considering it. "Nah, this will have to burn off," he mumbled to himself.

Aaron furrowed his brow low at a dim single light in his rearview mirror. It stayed at about the same distance, probably some old one-eyed Dodge. But its consistent presence behind him began to work on his nerves. Despite the thickening fog, he pressed his foot down and pushed to the limit of his capabilities. No one-headlight car could keep up with that. He smiled and looked in the mirror.

Still there.

Twice again he tried to lose his pursuer, and twice it remained at the same spot in his rearview. Close enough to see the light, but not close enough to make it out. So Aaron reversed his tack and slowed. It slowed down with him. "Fucker."

Just when Aaron was considering pulling off to let it pass, the light brightened. It was not some one-headlight car -- it was a motorcycle. Even in the mist, the bright green crotch-rocket glowed as it zoomed dangerously close to his rear bumper.

The bike sat on his tail as if it were attached. His eyes seesawed between it and the road in front of him. He began to look for a place to turn off, but suddenly, the cycle revved and eased up near the driver's side door. "Damn," he said as he glanced at the rider.

Sure muscles stretched skin-tight glossy black leather. The lean woman's lithe body flowed as a living extension of the sexy bike. Her black bell helmet and mirrored visor turned, almost acknowledging Aaron. But as they crested a small hill, she pulled back on the throttle and ripped out in front of him. Aaron pressed down on the gas to try to keep up, but she had disappeared.

He squinted forward in the fog. He dropped into a long ravine where the fog was thinner, and though he could see much further ahead, it only confirmed that the cycle was gone. He let out a sigh. The marking of the road had improved, so he began to challenge himself in a new set of curves that presented themselves, neutralizing the image of the rider.

A single light appeared in his mirror again at the next straight stretch of highway. He slowed down, but it dropped back. He sped up to his limits on another set of curves. The light stayed with him.

Another straight stretch appeared, and he pushed his car as hard as he could, nearly losing control on a surprise curve. As he tried to steady his heart and swallow the inevitable burst of adrenaline, he noticed he'd been successful. The headlight behind him was gone. "Take that, bitch," he said. He pressed on, driving hard, for a few more minutes.

"What the...?" Right upon his bumper was the bright green motorcycle.

Again, it rode close until the road straightened and she could race up beside his car. The Helmet swung toward him. He looked at the visor, then let his eyes travel down. The black leather pants were gone. The morning mist collected on her bare legs so they shimmered in the dim light. His rod popped like a party favor.

Once again she goosed the throttle and raced out in front of Aaron, just as an approaching semi laid on his horn.

Aaron saw her pulling steadily away through a new set of curves. The fog had lifted a bit, and he was able to power up in pursuit. But quickly he realized that she had yet again escaped him. He slowed down, he sped up, he even stopped for a time in the parking lot of a weathered aluminum-clad diner. The bulge in his pinstriped pants finally receded; she was gone.

He reviewed his map and resumed his trek. He was still on schedule, though the fog and the distraction of the rider had slowed him. He tried to dismiss the image of the woman, her shapely bare legs tensing and relaxing as they commanded the motorcycle. If this was a game of cat and mouse, he should be the cat. He wanted his claws in her hide.

He turned his thoughts to Sarah. She was personable, and always friendly, and very intelligent. She treated Aaron well. Still aroused, Aaron thought of making love to Sarah, but Sarah's finest moments in bed were spent sleeping. Bless her heart, she tried. His mind drifted back to women he had known before Sarah, and he realized that was not a place he wanted to go. He shook his head, scattering the thoughts like an Irish setter just out of the lake. He returned his focus to the road.

"No!" he growled as he looked in the mirror. In the lifting fog, still commanding the limits of visibility, the same single headlamp burned. A grin spread across his face, and he backed off the throttle. The headlamp eased back too, like a synchronized swimmer. "Crazy bitch," he said with a light laugh, and again sped up.

His hand had become steadier, more confident in his abilities with the car, and with the thinning fog, he was able to rip through yet another set of curves. But again, he could not shake the steady light. He raised his hands and slapped them down on the wheel. "Give me a few more weeks of practice and a clear road, and you wouldn't stand a chance," he said. But he was beaten this time. He ignored the ever-present headlight, as if someone else were in the car who might appreciate his denial.

Finally, she pulled up behind him, crouched low over the gas tank. Something looked out of place, so he strained to see her from his side mirrors. At the next straight stretch, she raced up beside him, so close to the driver's side door that he could have touched her if he'd reached out.

"Holy shit."

Her jacket was gone. She was clad only in a leather g-string, ankle-high glossy black boots, skin-tight elbow-length black gloves and her ever-present Helmet. She turned her helmet toward him. He was sure the visor smiled as he looked on his own dumbfounded face stretched in the visor like a carnival mirror. His eyes trailed up and down her magnificent body. Her breasts were small but perfectly rounded, with Hope-diamond nipples cutting the headwind. Her stomach, rigid in controlling the bike, rippled like a belly dancer's. He was again as hard as his gearshift. He had not taken a breath for some time. He was dizzy.

As he drew a gulp of precious air, she again raced out in front of him and disappeared around a corner.

"Not this time," Aaron said, and he stomped the gas to the floor.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention -- something dimly red twinkling in a stand of trees he had just passed, so he turned around and eased back along the road. Hidden from the highway at an odd, hard-to-see angle was a small access road. This was how she was toying with him! She must know these roads like the back of her hand.

He began to edge up the overgrown access road, straining to see through the trees as he eased his way in. It was a simple farmer's road, and would certainly not run far.

He twisted along until he came to a barn. An old brick farmhouse lay just beyond it. Both were obviously abandoned, so he continued up the road. But as he looked back into the mirror, he saw a shock of bright green behind the barn.

"Gotcha!" He laughed as he shoved the car in reverse and roared back down the road.

He pulled in next to the barn and got out of his BMW, then walked around to the back where the motorcycle sat. The engine was hot. He found a battered side door and entered the barn. It was dark inside, illuminated only with slats set in the walls at intervals to let in the grey morning light. He saw nothing, so he remained fixed near the door and listened.

Finally, a creak from above. He felt along a dark rut in the hardened ground until he reached a ladder. He paused, and after a few moments of delicious anticipation, eased up toward the loft. At the top there was a little more light. He squinted until his eyes came to rest on something shiny. The Helmet!

And beneath it was the beautiful body of his pursuer. She eased back silently into a dark corner; there was no escape where she went. He covered the path to the ladder as he moved in toward her.

Trapped, she stepped out from the shadow into a beam of light that cut through a hole in the barn roof. She took a deep breath, then held it before coming close. She rested her hands on his chest and then tugged gently at his tie. He took the cue -- he removed both tie and shirt.

She took them, folded them, and placed them on the floor. The Helmet tilted toward his feet. He nodded and took off his shoes, which she put neatly next to the shirt and tie. She waited, clearly anticipating his next move.

He removed his pants. She folded them and placed them carefully on the shoes. The Helmet nodded pointedly at his crotch. He should remove his underwear. But he shook his head, and pointed at her g-string. The helmet shook "no," and she pointed at him. As if speaking had become pointless, he shook his head and pointed at her groin.

He could see her shoulders rise with a deep breath, then he heard a soft sigh emanate from The Helmet. She hooked her leather thumbs into the sides of the g-string, let out a breath that barreled from The Helmet, then compliantly eased it down.

A redhead.

Now he eased down his boxers, and she sighed at his rigid hardness. The two stood staring at each other for a moment, then she pointed to his socks. He shook his head no. A man had to draw the line somewhere. He reached out, trying to take The Helmet, but she backed away like a scared deer.

What was she? Ugly as sin? He looked up and down that elegant body and could see nothing but beauty. So, she wanted to wear The Helmet. Who was he to argue? He wasn't getting any softer. She eased up close again. He felt the smooth surface of her gloves stroking his chest, then the seam of the glove lightly scraped the sensitive skin between his legs. He let out a groan as she encouraged him gently down to the floor and massaged his bare chest. The Helmet let out a creamy moan of approval as it scanned his form, up and down. The wide visor fixed between his legs, reflecting his rod. He tried his best to breathe while she straddled his stomach, her wetness soaking the hair that pointed down to his member.

Deftly, she retrieved a small pouch from one boot and zipped it open. Her strong grip eased a rubber over his penis, then firmly stroked him several times. He cradled his head on interlocked hands as she leaned back and took him inside her.

Her head rolled back, and his eyes fixed on the cut of her sharp white chin. He was sure, farther inside The Helmet, that he could make out full, bright red lips. She was an artist. She savored him while her hands wandered over his torso.

This was the first good sex he'd had in over a year, and he could not restrain himself. While his fingertips tasted her soft skin, he arched and let go so hard, so suddenly, that he shuddered and called out.

His body went limp, and she eased off of him. He drew a few hard breaths, and looked toward her. "Who are you?" he said. Her finger eased up to the helmet as if shushing him. The Helmet shook, "No."

"Come on, what are you hiding?"

She drew a breath. He could hear the hiss within The Helmet, then unclasped her chin strap. His eyes widened in anticipation. She paused. Finally, she gestured for him to turn away, and held up all ten digits of her gloved hands. He got the message, and he turned away and counted to ten. He heard her creaking movements behind him and bit his lip in excitement.

He got to ten and paused. What if she was ugly?

Oh, what the hell, and he turned back.

Nothing. No woman, no clothes. He heard one engine rev up, and then another. The second was his car, his precious BMW. He raced across the floor, nearly tripping. The ladder was gone, so he lowered himself down from the upper floor and dropped to the hard ground. Too late. The motorcycle had just raced off, and his BMW wheeled down the road, out of reach.

"No, NO! Stop! Goddamn it!"

He stood dressed only in his socks, watching The Helmet naked at the wheel. His proud badge of success, his black BMW with tan interior, raced down the hard, pocked dirt road and vanished. A cardinal's shrill whistle sliced the sudden numb silence.

He thought of Pittsburgh.

He looked down at his softening rod, still clad in the wet, crinkled rubber. He said, "Well, at least you had a good time."

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