Mechanical thunder reverberated around Glenda, shaking her body, adding to the vibrations of her Milwaukee Vibrator, a Harley Davidson Screamin' Eagle Fat Boy. The four riders who overtook her failed to achieve the surprise they hoped for with their intimidating tactics. Suddenly speeding from behind, two bikes came up beside her on the right and two on the left, surrounding her. Accelerating to zip past, they cut close in, reforming to ride side by side just in front of her. The old motorcycle gang maneuver, meant to unnerve the passed rider, didn't faze her. As an experienced rider, Glenda was aware of their presence as they rode up from behind, and their tactics didn't do anything but alert her to a possible threat, giving her the creeps.

Twice in the previous hour the same group of four--judging by their tags, local bikers--passed her. Glenda eyed them suspiciously. Both times, they slowed down long enough to give her bike a close, once-over inspection. Normally, that wouldn't have bothered her, she expected some lookers. Riding one of the newest--off the showroom floor--Harley Davidson Screamin' Eagle, CVO custom Fat Boy 1480cc motorcycles, she expected to draw envious looks. Co-owning a bike shop in Charlotte, North Carolina, she custom ordered the bike to fit her specifications. However, the third time they passed her, and in an increasingly threatening manner, she knew they were stalking her. Thankfully, the way she dressed didn't give away her gender, and her height added to the illusion she was just another guy.

A half-hour had gone by since the last incident, and she felt it might be safe; maybe they were hunting other game. She decided to take a short break. Easing off the Blue Ridge Parkway at one of the many scenic overlooks, Glenda gracefully extended the Harley Davidson's twisted, polished chrome kickstand with her black leather-booted foot.

Confidently, she leaned the seven hundred-plus pounds of finely tuned motorcycle onto the support, resting it on the asphalt. Glenda hit the kill switch with her thumb, and the rhythmic harmony of the 1480cc engine ceased to echo off the myriad of colorful trees that decorated the mountains of the Blue Ridge this time of year. She drew her black and deep blue full coverage helmet from her head, allowing her flowing blonde hair to spill down over her shoulders. "Damn, it's come loose again!" she said aloud in the still air, knowing no one was around to hear her swear. The overlook was empty. She straddled the bike, both long legs touching the pavement.

She reached inside the tank bag, drew out her hairbrush, pulled it through her heavy locks, and tossed it back in the bag. Dismounting, she took her keys, stretched a little to relax her muscles from the hours she rode the twisting roads that snaked up and down the steep mountains. Despite tight muscles from the extended jaunt, she felt invigorated. This was one of her favorite rides. One of the best ways she knew of to escape the stress of her sometimes-restrictive job.

Regardless of the scenery of the ride, the rhythm from the motorcycle between her legs did wonders for this single girl. She came close to a continuous orgasm riding the motorcycle. Newer Harleys didn't vibrate the way the older models were famous for; still the pulse was better than anything that could be bought as relief therapy. Her panties were always wet after a ride; her body humming in a constant state of arousal. A coy smile came to her lips, thinking of the familiar and private relationship she enjoyed with her motorcycle. She smoothed a hand over her tightly clad leather bottom. A comfortable fit, her pants tapered down over her calf into knee-high heeled boots, making her appear taller than her five foot seven inches. Glenda unzipped her leather jacket, considered a necessary piece of apparel when she rode, not only for warmth at this time of year, but protection against road rash in an accident.

Closing her eyes briefly, she drew in a deep breath of cool mountain air, her ears picking up the familiar roar of distant, motorized rumble drawing closer. More than one motorcycle from what her discerning ears told her. After the scrutiny by the four rough-looking bikers a bit earlier, the hairs on the back of her neck stood, alerting her to possible danger--something she rarely felt when she rode. Most bikers were law-abiding, defending other riders, men or women, from bad guys. The presence of other riders normally brought her a feeling of camaraderie.

Not today. The chill that raced up her spine had nothing to do with the outside temperature. Knowing the bikes were drawing near and fast, Glenda replaced her helmet without bothering to stuff her hair up. Instead, she let it fall inside her jacket, hidden, as she zipped up. Glenda was back in the saddle of her bike and had it started when the same group of four riders pulled onto the overlook.

To her dismay, one pulled in front of her, with two on her sides. She sensed the fourth behind, just off center of her rearview mirrors. By the obvious lack of care for their bikes, and condition of their gear, Glenda knew the type of men who surrounded her. Their machines ran in good tune, but needed attention. Their clothing didn't appear to have seen a washing machine in some time; their personal hygiene, of the three she could see, matched their dress. Inwardly, she recoiled; outwardly, she remained cool. Dressed as she was, it wasn't readily apparent she was a woman. Her height was deceptive and while more women were riding motorcycles, women on Harleys were less common. She had lowered her helmet's tinted visor, covering her face, but with this group that wouldn't matter. Envious stares warned her they wanted the specialized Fat Boy she rode, and by their arrogant stance, thought they blocked her exit well enough so she couldn't escape.

"Nice bike!" the rider on her left commented, yelling over the engine's roar.

Glenda nodded politely, unwilling to answer, not giving away her gender and allowing them another advantage to the situation.

"Very nice," the rider on her right agreed.

She smelled strong alcohol on his breath as he leered at her ride, leaning closer, trying to distract her. She still had not turned her head, and again nodded. One less engine contributed to the heavy reverberations, the rider behind her killed his engine, followed by the two beside her. Seeing her chance as they started to get off their bikes, she eased out the bike's clutch, maneuvering out the small opening they judged too narrow for her to pass.

Her rear tire lost traction, inwardly her stomach lurched. Maintaining control, she corrected for the slight slip. For a split second, her rear tire made contact with the forward bike's front tire, pushing it from beneath the unsuspecting hijacker, leaving the rider and bike lying on the pavement. Without a look backward, Glenda sped off on the winding mountain road. Her heart pounded in her ears. She knew they would soon chase after her. Calling on all her expertise, she would have to think fast. She prayed she could outride them.

Her bike, newer and better equipped, had the horsepower. But there were four of them, and should they catch up with her, she would have serious problems on a more deserted stretch of highway. One bike was possibly out of commission, at least for a time. When she hit it with her back tire, it probably bent the front rim which would have to be replaced. Hoping that reduced the risk to only three, she drew a deep breath and increased her speed.

After a short distance of clear roads, she saw a line of cars stopped ahead. Oh great, just what I need, a traffic jam on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Caused by a rockslide, there was no way around. Glenda knew she could not turn and go back. They would find her for sure. There were no turn-off's or places to hide. With no choice but to wait and hope the three hadn't followed her, she opened her helmet's visor and killed her engine. If they did follow her, there were enough sightseers, stranded also, while the road crews cleared the blockage, to afford her some protection. Two North Carolina State Troopers, directing traffic, did a great deal to ease some of her anxiety as well.

Both officers admired her motorcycle, and seeing her feminine face, grew friendlier. They readily admitted to being bikers themselves, and seemed delighted to get a close-up look at a new Harley, especially with a young, attractive owner.

"Best be careful, miss," one officer said, bending down to give her bike a closer inspection, then her figure as she unzipped her leather jacket, showing off her shapely frame. "There have been several motorcycles hijacked in this area lately," he warned.

Before she could say anything about her recent experience, the rumble of the other motorcycles--minus one, met her ears. They were coming. She started concentrating on escape as the officers walked away to direct traffic. Knowing she had no proof the three were stalking her, she couldn't approach the state troopers with her problem. Both would possibly have been happy to be her knight in shining armor and seen to her safety, especially on the chance of getting a date with her. Glenda thought about enlisting their aid, but knew they had their hands full with traffic problems.

Glenda watched carefully, as the road was almost cleared, and the officers began to allow one-lane passage of vehicles. Her side of the road was the most heavily congested, and being clear of debris, the officers moved her lane through first. As the three other motorcycles rounded the curve, the officers waved several cars in front of Glenda through, then her, with a friendly wave and a wink, followed by a couple of cars. Halting traffic in the lane behind her, including the bikers, they allowed the passage of vehicles headed in the opposite direction to pass, giving Glenda a good head start. The three definitely following her were forced to wait. Luck seemed to be with her. The traffic going the other way was now heavier, and the ten cars that waited to pass also had to maneuver around the slide to do so. Glenda breathed a short sigh of relief and began developing a plan in her mind.

Clearing the area, she poured on as much speed as she dared. Having learned to ride on dirt bikes at an early age, she pressed her skill level, as she swung around the curves in an easy, graceful rhythm.

Ahead was the turn-off to the cabin she had rented near Sparta, North Carolina. If they followed her here, she would know they meant her harm, but first they would have to find her. Should they, she would be waiting with a few surprises of her own. A mischievous grin on her sensuous lips, she slowed the Fat Boy down to ease the well-balanced bike around an off-camber turn that dropped sharply down the paved country road. Making her way past several private homes, she maneuvered two more turns, the last onto a hard-packed dirt road half a mile up a hill, to turn up the driveway to the cabin. She doubted they would be able to find her, but she remembered their local tags and from the state trooper's warning, she figured the hijackers knew the area. From her past trips, she knew it was a popular spot for bikers this time of year. As far away from other homes as the cabin was, it had no phone and this far into the mountains her cell phone wouldn't work. She planned on being prepared.

Parking her bike behind the cabin and for now, out of sight as much as possible until she could provide good cover, she surveyed the outside of the cabin. A spacious white deck built on the front of the cabin was accessible by a short wooden walk around the side entrance, connecting the deck that extended out over a sloping hill. A white decorative safety rail ran the length of the entire deck. The front door opened a few steps onto the walk and another door opened off the stilted deck around the front of the cabin. Glenda surveyed the cabin from the outside, seeing it from a different perspective than the cozy gingerbread-style cabin she first seen it as on her arrival the evening before.

Now she looked for ways a person intent on doing her harm could gain entrance.

She went inside, closed the long window blinds on the lower level; the windows were plate Plexiglas and didn't open. On this level, only the small bathroom window opened. As the structure was built on stilts on the side of a mountain, the bathroom window was too high to easily get into, and probably too small for the size of the three men she had seen. Yet, it was an opening and she considered it a potential entrance to be covered. Only one door opened in, the first door. The door on the wider portion of the deck opened outward. The first door would be the easiest way to enter the cabin.

Considering her options, she formed a plan and began to ready items should the bikers come looking for her. The stairs leading to the bedroom loft in the A-frame cabin could be lifted up even with the lower level ceiling, then secured with a heavy bolt from the loft. That would make her feel more secure when she slept.

The old country cabin was fully equipped, including cooking utensils, one of which was a large, heavy, cast iron frying skillet. Snickering, she made use of it, but not as it was intended. Tying a length of rope to the skillet and the other end to the high hook that supported the ceiling fan, she left it on the carpeted floor of the loft. Should an intruder attempt to come through the door on the wide part of the deck, she could drop the skillet, and attached to the rope, it would swing down, impacting the intruder somewhere on their upper body--hopefully, their head. Smirking as she checked her knots, the thought of a hit square in their chest would be good as well.

Glenda gathered a number of items she felt would come in handy and placed them in various obscure places in the cabin. Lastly, she dragged the large, heavy, gas grill to the garden shed and locked it away, keeping the cover for her motorcycle. Next, she cut a small plank out of the deck with a cordless saw. Not big enough for the back tire of her bike to fit into without letting out some air, it would make the bike more difficult to push. She could refill the air from the small compressor in the shed. Two or three men could push it out, or possibly ride the bike off the deck, if they had the skill, but after she chained it up for the night and covered it with the gas grill cover it wouldn't be noticeable. Should they discover the bike and attempt to steal it, the alarm it was equipped with would sound before they could get far. She would wire up one other little surprise as well, should they cut the extra chain and lock she planned on putting on the back tire. Chuckling, she flicked the switch on and checked how it worked.

Exhausted, as it was nearing sundown, she showered and changed into clothing more suitable for evening dining at a restaurant, yet comfortable to ride in.

Glenda headed into Sparta to one of the fine country restaurants for dinner. When she returned she would activate her little traps.