A short road trip

Thirty minutes later, showered and shaved and wearing a plain pair of jeans and clean shirt, you climb onto your 1983 Indian Victory and back it out of the garage filled with conservative looking sedans and SUV's. Other than a bright yellow Miata that probably belongs to one of the students, and a pick-up truck even older than your bike that has more rust than paint left on its sides, there is little to distinguish the vehicles parked in the garage. For a moment you wonder which of the array of boring sedans in accepted shades of black, grey, and tan is Ms. Naylor's, and if she drove something like the Miata when she was a student here.

The bike's ignition is smooth, a new battery and an overhaul of the Victory's electrical system three months ago was money well spent. As you cruise slowly up the ramp to the exit you run through your mental check list yet again. At this point the bike is mechanically in pretty good shape and the next steps are cosmetic - new paint, redo the leather seats, and find better wheels to replace the badly pitted ones that were older than Monica Fulton.

Driving out through the high wrought-iron gates you turn right on the quiet road and cruise slowly into town. Once you leave the ivy-covered brick wall surrounding the school grounds behind you start to see houses along the curving drive. The houses are all big, old and well maintained and you wonder how many of the original owners of these houses sent their daughters to the Academy to prepare them for life as the county's finest ladies.

One more turn past a stately railroad station built back when trains were a luxurious form of travel not just for commuting from A to B, takes you onto Main street. A white church with a tall belltower overlooks the center of town from small hill at the far end of the main drag. There are a collection of expensive looking restaurants on both sides of the boulevard and you see several well dress couples walking with teenaged daughters in and out of these establishments. You have little doubt that a good many of the families will be dropping off these young women at the Pink Rose before the end of the night.

You pull away from the center and head down the road into a more commercial section of town past a couple car dealerships and a diner and then, with a broad grin twist at the throttle and roar out onto a state highway. The road twists through a pretty forest crossed by the occasional stone wall and open hayfields, there is little traffic and you drive a bit faster than you probably should, but there are few things in life better than riding a beefy machine on a winding road on a late summer evening.

Your mind wanders, wondering if you should expect other horny young teachers to show up at your door. Your mind pulls up an image of Diana Naylor with her hand under her wool blazer playing with her breast and in spite of the most satisfying sex you just had, your cock thickens uncomfortably in your jeans.

You need a drink Hawk. You mutter under your breath as you head back into town, this time backtracking more slowly along the road until you find a bar you remember passing on the way out. A half dozen working class men are scattered about the bar getting a head start on their Saturday night. The only woman in the bar is the bartender, a thirty-something brunette with a long braid who eyes you up with professional interest.

"Hi stranger, what'll do ya?"

"Coors." You don't see anyone eating yet, but something's making your nostrils twitch. "What smells so good?"

"Willy's out back by the smoker, do you like pulled pork?"

Forty minutes later you're riding back into town when a bright yellow Mazda blows by you heading in the opposite direction going at least 90 mph. Makes you feel a little bit better about your speeding; compared to that brunette you were driving like a little old lady.

By the time you get home you're ready for bed. You pull your clothes off and tumble into it, wondering if tomorrow will be as eventful as your arrival.