Ink ed In
The motorcycle underneath Miranda roared to life, as the rumble from the engine reverberated through her body. As always, it sent waves of warmth through her body. If given a choice, she would much rather straddle her hog than any man, though plenty of men had tried to prove that they were better than the beast. Everything about her bike enlivened her senses. The way the metal gently bit into her bare thighs and the warm leather of the seat caressed her backside was better than any lover could be.
The wild, open road was in front of her, free to be explored by anyone brave enough to take it on. Miranda slid a tube of red lipstick over her bottom lip, then donned a pair of sunglasses. She was a nomad, a drifter. She was unshackled by society, by a husband, by anyone. Her motto was Live free, or not at all . It was even tattooed on her lower back in lacy lettering.
Miranda cranked back the throttle and her hog bucked and kicked underneath her. The vibrations sent shooting sensations between her legs, as warm tingles radiated to her thighs. Then, off she went, into the breaking dawn. There was nothing but asphalt and desert for the next hundred miles, just how she liked it.
The bike show was in Black Hills, Nevada this year. Bikers from all over the States would be there. It was the biggest biking venue in America and boasted the best barbeque, the coldest beer, and the coolest tattoos. The promises of fun and fortune were the only way you could get a biker to sit still that long.
For Miranda though, it wasn't about the event itself, she had a job to do. Even she wasn't free, not completely. Her lifestyle required a reliable source of income, and a hefty one. So for the past six months, she had been working as an assistant at a tattoo parlor called The Bandit's Hideaway . She hated having a boss, but secretly loved the work. There was something about fresh ink and smooth skin that really got her motor running. She loved watching the needle bury itself into bronzed skin, over and over. It was so satisfying and sexual for her.
Miranda did the body sketches, so the artist could ink it in. In her time at the parlor, she had run her hand over more than a few chiseled bodies. As the road rushed by, she couldn't help but keep thinking about the last man she had sketched on. He wore a long, leather jacket, with nothing but his bare chest underneath, revealing his bulging muscles. When he sat next to her, his rich, leathery scent nearly made her lose control. She remembered the way his tight jeans hugged up against his package. She had wanted desperately to run her hands down his abdomen and grab his thick member. That would have been what a real believer would have done. That would have been true freedom. Instead, Miranda had simply smiled vacantly and completed the sketch.
The man’s tattoo had been on his left peck, a cross with someone’s birth and death date. It must have been a friend. Memento tattoos were very common, yet Miranda could not forget this particular one or the broad, rugged man she drew it on. It was only at night, when she was all alone, that she could indulge in her fantasy of him.
Focus, Miranda , she thought. This trip to the Hills wasn't for pleasure, but for business. The rally drew a big crowd, and the streets would soon be filled with drunken renegades, anarchists, and people who weren't afraid to indulge on impulse. The people at the rally allowed themselves to fulfill whatever whims crossed their minds. These were the kind of people tattoo parlors profited from, and the kind of people Miranda loved. They were modern day Sioux Indians. They rode around on steel horses through the plains, equipped with lash and leather. They followed the herd, whether it be beer or bison. No one could tell them where to go or what they know. It was the only lifestyle worth living, in Miranda's eyes. She truly believed that anything else would only be a lie.
When
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