Black and white photo of a fishnet-stockinged leg in a red high heel beside a chrome motorcycle engine, with a partly visible black and grey tattoo on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fishnet leg and red heel beside a motorcycle engine

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A woman's leg in fishnet stockings and a red high heel rests against a chrome motorcycle engine with a large air cleaner marked Super. The tattoo on the upper thigh is partly visible, with fine black and grey shading and linework. The image is almost entirely black and white, with the red heel and red tank as the only colour accents, and the composition is close and cropped to the leg and engine.

Thigh High heel Leg Engine Tattoo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Super air cleaner had been bolted on wrong, and Ray Tolley knew it before he'd finished his tea. Somebody had set it a quarter inch proud, so the chrome caught the bench lamp like a dropped coin. He didn't say so. Cora Vane sat on an oil drum with her boots crossed at the ankle, watching him the way she watched carburettors, as though they might owe her money.

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The bike was a bobber built out of a wrecked police job, its tank painted the red of a pillar box after rain. Cora had bought it off a man in Dagenham for forty quid and a promise. Ray had spent three weekends pulling the top end apart and fitting new rockers, and now the engine idled with a dry clatter that sounded like someone counting out change.

On Sunday they wheeled it out to the flat track at Hatfield Common, where the grandstand smelled of fried onions and wet tarmac. The first heat went off with a bark that rattled the fence wire. Ray stood at the rail with his hands in his coat pockets, listening past the noise for the knock he had spent all week hunting, and when the bike came round the far bend the engine sounded clean as a bell.

Afterwards the crowd drifted towards the burger van, and Cora pushed the bike back through the gate, its engine ticking as it cooled. She stopped beside him and rapped her knuckles on the air cleaner. 'You moved it,' she said. 'Didn't touch it,' he said. She looked at the chrome and the small stamped word catching the late sun, then at him, and neither of them mentioned the quarter inch, which had been wrong all along and suited her fine.