EDIT 8/11: Cheers and thanks to everyone who picked up a copy of MotoBrat, we’ve broken into the Top 100 Lesbian Fiction eBooks on Amazon!
Welcome to this shiny new covered kindle edition of MotoBrat, a first person tale of a rebellious biker brat and the dominant woman she manages to attract through a sustained campaign of very misguided brattery. The new edition is pretty much the same as the old edition with minor edits, so if you have the old edition, you’re still good. If you don’t have it, you might find that you want it.
This was written back in 2010, which is about a decade ago in writer years. As I was re-editing it, I found myself surprised by how emotionally raw this story is in parts, and how warm it is in others. It’s odd, of course, but all my stories inevitably are. If you’re hanging about these parts, I assume you can put up with a fair amount of oddity.
Also, as a side note, I was thinking I might take a break from Lesbia and write some all new, all original F/F stories. Lesbia wouldn’t go anywhere, it would still be there, all 120k-ish words of it, and I’d no doubt return to it at a later date. It just seems to me that there hasn’t been a whole lot of innovation happening around here lately. And we need innovation. It stops things from getting that musty smell.
I love the sound of boots on linoleum. In my time as the checkout girl at Barbara’s Duck n’ Dive, I’d heard plenty of them. As was my wont when I heard a particularly alluring pair, I turned from my task, which happened on this occasion to be restocking the cigarette cartons and looked first at the boots, then at the woman who wore them.
The boots were well tended thick matte leather with a short heel – boots you could ride all day and night in. As my eyes ran up the length of their owner, I saw that she was also well tended in leathers over pressed dark jeans. Under her leather riding jacket she wore a checkered shirt that hung open just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. She was tall for a woman, with flaxen blonde hair that hung shaggily about her shoulders and a thousand mile stare that went right through me to the neatly lined up packets of cancer sticks behind.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I smiled brightly, pushing my short dark hair out of my eyes.
“Pack of 20’s,” she stated in a slow drawl native to the southern states, not taking her eyes off the cigarettes for a moment as she tossed a twenty dollar note down on the counter.
I was mildly offended. Here I was, smiling obsequiously and waiting to serve her every whim, and she wasn’t even looking at me. I wasn’t a person to her. I was part of the scenery, a fleshy automaton and nothing more. I hated customers like that, people who seemed to think that I existed only to serve them, and that the slightest polite courtesy was too good for a mere minion like me.
Maybe it was because she was hopelessly addicted to the ‘baccy. Maybe she was preoccupied with something else. Maybe it was because she was probably an older professional woman with just enough time left to ride on the weekends and I was little more than a college drop out keeping a roof over her head and gas in her tank by slinging jerky and tobacco.
Whatever the reason, I decided that I was going to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget quickly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am.”
Bam. The gaze was on me now. Seeing me for the first time. Her visage twisted in irritation. Yeah lady, that’s right. I exist. How you doin’?
“What do you mean?”
I kept my expression composed as I answered her, letting no sign of the deep mischief I was perpetrating show through in my face. “You’re supposed to be quitting, ain’t ya?” I wasn’t from the South, but I put a hefty dose of the accent in my reply.
Her expression of surprise was priceless. Her lips parted, but no words came out. I knew she was wondering how I could possibly know such a thing.
“You promised you’d quit.” I smiled seraphically as her confusion grew more intense. After a moment or two more of open mouthed staring, she grew resolute.
“Just give me the cigarettes, kid.”
If I had been temped to give her the cigarettes, her casual use of the diminutive ruined all chance of that.
“Not possible, I’m afraid, ma’am.” A madness had gripped me. I’d played games like these before, but I’d never gone so far as to actually deny a customer what they wanted. Barbara certainly wouldn’t be pleased if she caught me at this game.
Now the woman’s eyes were narrowed on me. She looked like the sort of lady who usually got what she wanted, whether it was a girl for the night, or a pack of cigarettes to take on a ride. Being denied what she wanted wouldn’t just displease her. It would confuse her.
After taking my measure for a few moments longer, she surprised me by relaxing and actually gracing me with a smile of genuine humor that made the fine lines at the corner of her eyes crinkle with warmth. She placed both her palms on the counter and leaned in towards me. “Alright kid, you got me. Good trick. Now hand ’em over.”
Biker chicks usually smelled like grease and sour sweat. This woman smelled of leather conditioner and vanilla, a surprisingly heady mix. I was tempted to do what she asked, really I was. But I was committed to a course of action now, and to sell her cigarettes would be to undermine my entire point.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you mean by trick.”
“You want to keep playing this little head game, huh?” Her expression had darkened again, but not with the same blank annoyance as before. Now she looked very much like she’d enjoy the game as much as I did if we kept on playing.