by K. S. Ellis
Fuck me, I think that maybe my little sex slave in her fancy tea dresses might even enjoy this just a bit. The idea has all sorts of dirty thoughts running through my head. Specifically, dirty thoughts about how much more fucking agreeable this is going to be if she’s into it. Clearing my throat, I let my hands drop away from her chin and climb onto my rig, turning to face her as she stands there, staring at me.
After what feels like a fucking age, a resigned look crosses her face and she daintily raises her skirt before coming astride my rig. I can feel her legs on either side of mine, and I know that this is going to be a fucking nightmare, riding home with a rock hard cock. Her hands are resting lightly on her thighs, so I reach down, picking them up, ignoring another fucking hitch in her breathing that I hear, and take a deep breath before bringing her hands to rest on my abs through my tee shirt. As her arms come around my chest, I glance down and notice that I was fucking right about the freckles. I can see them on her hands, with her fucking pale pink, short nails. Can't say I've ever seen nails like that before. As far as I've seen, fingernails are either short and blunt, or fucking colorful talons. I fucking wonder what she looks like without all that makeup on.
She grips my waist even tighter when I start the engine and we roar out of there, her breasts pressed against my back, and her crotch pressed against my ass. I can smell a faint scent of flowers, and realize that it's coming from her, and I can feel my cock harden painfully. Great. Real fucking great. Now I have to ride the whole way back to the clubhouse with a fucking painful hard on. At least the wind will blow that fucking floral scent teasing my nostrils behind us.
Chapter 3
LENA
The clubhouse looks much as I thought it would. We pull into the yard, through a large electronic gate that has a leather clad biker standing next to it like a sentry. Of course they need guards, these people are dangerous criminals. And now they own me. Like I'm a darn animal or something. Stupid Cory. I'm glad I'm still wearing the ugly ass helmet that the leader guy gave me, so that no one can see my smirk. When he first pulled the gun, I know I gasped aloud. I was just so shocked, and I thought that he was going to kill Cory. I mean, I hate the asshole, but I don't actually want him dead. Mainly because it would absolutely devastate my momma. Also, because it would mean that I was doing this for absolutely no reason. But when he shot him in the foot, and then told him off. God, I wanted to jump up and down with glee and clap my hands. About damn time someone taught Cory a god damned lesson.
The biker guy I'm currently clinging to for dear life pulls his ride into the parking lot out the front of their clubhouse and so do the other thirty or so guys that were riding with him. It was almost like an escort. Too bad this isn't a fairytale and I'm not a princess. He takes the helmet off me, and even though I'm scared shitless, I can't help but notice that he's a very good looking guy. I just hope whoever I'm supposed to belong to now is maybe just as handsome. Ha. Who am I kidding, with my luck they will probably be like fifty, overweight, smelly, and completely disgusting.
The clubhouse looks a bit like a converted warehouse, which I suppose it probably was at one point. We are in what appears to be an industrial area of San Remo. And one that I've never been to before. At least that means I'm unlikely to run into anyone that I know here, so that's a bonus. The harsh California sun bites down on the back of my neck, and it's almost refreshing when he puts his hand on the small of my back and propels me inside. It's much cooler in here, the space is air conditioned, and this appears to be a bar? At least, it has a bar, a metal and chrome monstrosity that stretches the length of the far wall. Sofas, easy chairs, and some bar tables and stools are scattered around the large concrete floor area. Two pool tables are over near the side wall, next to a jukebox, and I can see signs for both a ladies and a men’s restrooms. How civilized.
There is a door at the back that's also be guarded by a biker, so clearly, that's off limits, and an unguarded door next to it with a sign that reads "Kitchen". I eye it thoughtfully. If they have a bar, and a marked kitchen, I might get a chance to play around in a proper, industrial kitchen. Talk about silver linings. Wow. I am really grasping at straws right about now.
A few leather clad men are lounging around, and there are some scantily clad women there also, along with one who is dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, taking inventory from behind the bar. She looks over curiously, her eyes flickering between me and the leader guy. The super good looking blonde guy with the serial killer eyes, who has my suitcase, disappears upstairs with it, and I wonder if I'm ever going to see it again. Even with the few unsanctioned items that I slipped into it, I am going to be dressed so very inappropriately for this place, if its current occupants are anything to go by. They are all staring at me, by the way, eyeing me, sizing me up. However you want to put it, all eyes are on me, and I am feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure that they all know exactly why I'm here, and what I'm supposed to be. None of them look scandalized and, if I'm not imagining it, one or two of the whore-y looking women look a little, what's the word? Envious? But surely not. I mean. Gross.
I feel that strong hand on my back again, propelling me towards the staircase that rises from behind the bar, and find myself being walked upstairs. We make our way along the corridor, the sounds of the downstairs bar fading away, past several doors, until we reach one that has been left open. He steers me inside, shutting the door behind him, and I find myself standing alone with this guy, inside a large bedroom.
The main feature of the room is, without a doubt, the very large bed, which sits directly in the middle of the room, facing the door. It looks like it has black satin sheets, and a blood red duvet cover. How cliché romance novel. Very apt for a sex dungeon, I suppose. Two matching black bedside tables sit either side, with black lamps on top. I'm sensing a theme with the colors here. There is a black leather sofa along one wall, next to a dark wooden dresser and a built in wardrobe, one of those ones with the sliding glass doors. From where the bed is positioned, you would probably get a good view of whatever you were doing on it reflected back from those doors. Probably the point of the placement, really.
Along the other wall is a desk, with a laptop sitting on it, and an open door that leads to an ensuite bathroom. All in all, it is a much nicer room than I had been expecting to have, especially with its highly polished hardwood floors. But then again, they probably want their sex slave dungeon to be a nice place for them to visit. I have no doubt that it is my room, because my suitcase is sitting on the three seat leather sofa, next to a pillow and some blankets, which appear thankfully to be neither black, nor satin. Thank goodness. Hopefully I can use them to remake the bed once I am alone.
I turn to face him, and freeze. He is looking at me like he wants to devour me, but there’s also something else there in his eyes, something that I can’t quite name. Weird. Then he points to the sofa.
'You'll sleep there.' I blink, processing his words, then the meaning hits me. Oh. Oh shit. This isn't my room at all. Well, it is, but it's actually someone else's room, and I'm going to be living here too. Right. As their sex slave.
'I don't share a bed with anyone.'
My breath blows out of me in a single, sharp whoosh. He's the one? I can see that look in his eyes again, and I realize with a jolt that it’s resentment. He resents me. Just freaking fantastic. Tearing my eyes away from his, so that I don’t have to think about the fact that he clearly dislikes me, or maybe just the fact that I’m in his space, I let my eyes rake up and down his figure, deciding if that makes this better or worse. As I noticed earlier, he is a very good looking man.
If I had run into him in a bar, I probably would have run my tongue over my lower lip and pronounced him delicious. He has dark brown hair, cropped close to his head on the sides and back, and longer on top, looking windblown from the ride we just took. His jaw is strong, and covered in a layer of brown stubble, short enough that you can see the skin of his face through it, but long enough to show t
hat it's not a lazy, accidental look. His chest is wide and hard, I can see his pecs straining against the material of his black tee shirt, his leather vest, a cut? I think it's called, resting on top. I know he has at least an eight pack under there, because I felt it as I held on for dear life on the very first motorcycle ride I have ever taken, and a death defying ride I don't think that I will ever be able to forget. Numerous tattoos peek out from underneath his tee shirt at the neck, and burst out and run down his arms. It would take an age to study each one, though I see at least one butterfly and more than a few flowers, but the end result is mouth watering. Art flowing over bulging muscles. Tight black jeans encase his legs, ripped at one knee, not artfully, and probably not on purpose either. My eyes rest for a moment on the large bulge in the front of those jeans and I can feel the dryness of my mouth. This is it. The moment that I have been dreading.
Wrenching my eyes back up to meet his, I can see the hunger in them. Though he had stood stock still while I perused him, he is definitely moving now. In three long strides he is in front of me, unbuttoning his jeans with one hand, the other on my shoulder, pushing me down onto my knees. His cock springs free from his jeans and I swallow, staring at it in shock. It is definitely the largest penis I have ever seen, and I don't think I'm going to be able to fit that monster in my mouth. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch it, and it jumps in my palm. A quick glance up tells me that he is watching me, a hooded look coming over his face. We stay there for a moment, my eyes roaming his face, taking in his dark brown eyes, which are growing ever darker with his desire, and the stubble covering his strong jaw line. As my eyes drop back to his cock, I remind myself that I'm lucky he's young and good looking.
Right, pep talk done. I wrap both hands around his shaft and lick my lips, which elicits a small growl from him. Well, that's a bit of a confidence booster. Squaring my shoulders, I take him into my mouth, he thrusts his hips slightly, and I grunt involuntarily when the tip of his penis hits the back of my throat. Thank god I don't have a gag reflex. He groans, and his tattooed fingers tangle in my hair as I begin to move my head, getting into a good rhythm as he bucks his hips in time with my movements.
Suddenly, his hands tighten in my hair and he is pulling me upwards. I stand, sucking in air as my mouth has now been freed, and he looks me dead in the eye as he holds my head with both his hands.
'Aric,' he says, his voice gravelly, laced with desire. I stare at him. What? 'That's my name,' he growls, 'and that's what I want you to say when you come on my cock.' I blink slowly, his words barely registering as he turns me around and pushes me towards the bed. The fronts of my thighs hit the side of the bed, and his hand on my back forces me to bend over it. I throw out my arms so that I don't face plant, taking my weight on my forearms. Yep, the blood red duvet cover is definitely satin. The shiny material sliding against my skin, giving absolutely no friction. Looking forward, I can see our reflection in the mirror, and realize that I'm going to be able to watch everything. I squirm slightly, not wanting to be turned on by this, but I can't seem to help myself.
I watch his reflection, since he isn't looking at the mirror. He is right behind me, lifting up the skirt of my ridiculous dress, and I can hear his breath hitch, and I can see the look that crosses his face when he catches sight of my knee high nude stockings, my light blue garter belt, and my matching light blue thong. Yeah, I matched my lingerie to my dress, and judging by the look on his face, it was definitely the right call. I wouldn't call it wonder, the look that crosses his face, but it is definitely a mix of desire and excitement. He pulls a condom out of his back pocket and rolls it on, and then I feel his hands on the backs on my thighs, tracing over my butt, squeezing and his fingernails grazing the skin slightly and I shiver. Both from his touch, and in anticipation. Then his finger pushes aside the scrap of material someone decided was enough to be called underwear and slides up, parting my wet folds. I can hear my breath hitch, and see the smirk pulling at his lips as he feels my wetness. His eyes flash to mine briefly and I squirm again, this time with embarrassment for being so turned on by this when by rights I should be horrified. Who knew I was such a freak? I sure didn't.
But I don't have much time to think about it, because before I know it he has slammed into me. I can feel myself stretched to accommodate his cock, and I groan at the sudden, wonderful feeling of fullness. It feels so much better than anything that I have ever experienced, and I hear his groan as well.
'Fuck, you're so fucking tight.'
He takes a moment to rake his eyes over both my body, and the scene in the mirror, and then he begins to move. Long, hard thrusts, almost completely withdrawing before slamming fully into me again. I brace on my arms, sliding on the ridiculous satin bedspread, hearing myself moan and pant with every thrust. He works at a brutal, even pace, pistoning in and out and I can feel an orgasm building. I remember his words before he positioned me like this and darn it, I hear myself calling out his name. Just like he said I would.
Chapter 4
ARIC
Fuck. She is so tight and wet, and looks like a fucking wet dream, bent over the bed, watching what we're doing in the mirror. She looked incredible, on her knees, dressed all prim and proper, taking my dick like a pro. It took all my self control not to coat the back of her throat with my cum. Then when I walked her over and pushed her down on the bed, and raised her fucking Mary Poppins dress, she was wearing fucking lingerie. And not just any lingerie; stockings, garter belt, lacy thong, and all the same fucking color as her dress.
Damn, the fact that this sexy woman had dressed up for me was doing crazy things to my mind. The thought of her dressing up for this moment almost made me unman myself right then and there. Then she felt so fucking amazing, her hot, wet cunt tight around my cock. I was probably a little rougher than I had intended but, fuck me, she felt so good. What really undid me though, and caused me to groan out my orgasm, was when she came, her already tight walls squeezing even tighter, holding my cock in position, milking it as she shuddered her way through an intense orgasm. But it wasn't that amazing feeling, or even the look of complete abandon on her face that I could see in the mirror. No, it was the fact that she moaned out my fucking name as she came. Hearing my name on her pretty pink lips, moaned almost worshipfully, it was like she had a fucking direct line to my balls. I felt them tighten immediately and then I was coming, my fingers kneading the soft skin of her hips hard enough to leave marks, my breath coming out in a shuddering exhalation.
I pull out and stride into the bathroom to dispose of the condom, and when I get back out into the bedroom, she's tidied herself up and is sitting on the sofa, knees and ankles together, hands clenched in her lap, staring at the ground in front of her. I feel a little bit bad about that, but then I fucking remember how much she just enjoyed herself. I saw the fucking look on her face. I'm not the fucking bad guy here. She fucking agreed to this, we didn't force her. Walking over to her, I put my fingers under her chin and tilt her head up until she's looking up at me.
'You should probably stay up here for a bit,' I tell her, and a look of, possibly relief, crosses her face. 'There's going to be a bit of a party downstairs, and it might be a bit rough for you.' A bit rough? She's dressed like she's about to take fucking tea, she'd probably faint or some shit if she was downstairs with an entire MC. And I know that Killer, my father's sergeant-at-arms has organized for some of the strippers from our club to come over and perform. I wonder if she's ever seen a fucking stripper before, probably not, I think wryly, before watching her nod, and then heading back down to the bar for a bourbon. She's still sitting on that fucking sofa when I close the door behind me.
My Dad is sitting at the bar, nursing a bourbon, while my Mom is serving drinks up the other end. Next to my Dad is Fangs, an old timer who patched in at the same time Dad did and the current club treasurer, and they are talking with Killer, the club's sergeant-at-arms, and next to them, part of the conversation, but not really, is Bruiser, our best enforcer.
I knew Bruiser from school. He was a violent kid, kind of on the fringes, but he's fit into club life like a fucking hand in a glove. Fucker can get anyone to talk. As VP, sometimes my duty is to sit in on his interrogations. Most fucked up shit I have seen in my life. Usually need to get black out drunk just to sleep after that.
Creepiest fucking thing is that he seems to enjoy it. He's a big guy, just a shade taller than my six foot four, muscles bulging, colorful fucking cartoon tattoos all up and down his arms and back, with two wild hawks diving into a fight on his chest. The hawks are the only tattoos he has that aren't cartoon-y, and that's because they're the club ink - I have the same thing tattooed across my back over my shoulder blades. Blonde hair, blonde beard, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, he looks like a fucking model, except his icy blue eyes that make you feel like you just dove into the fucking Atlantic Ocean and tread water for days. No matter how tough I feel, I swear I always fucking shudder a bit when I have to make eye contact with him for too long. I know the club groupies like to fuck him doggy style, so they can enjoy the sex without having to look into his eyes.
I used to feel sorry for him about that, them not wanting to look in his face during sex, then I became VP and I would fucking give anything for that. After my rise in the ranks every groupie I fucked got that look on their face like they're hoping I liked it so much I'm not going to kick them out of my bed, and that I'm going to make them my old lady. Fuck that shit. I don't need the drama that comes with an old lady, hence why I wasn't totally opposed to my supposed "sex slave". She's not going to be hankering to be an old lady, and as soon as I get tired of her, she can go back to her fucking country club life. Hell, she'll probably be able to dine out for years with stories of her time "on the wrong side of the tracks". Those country club types love a bit of fucking rebellion when they're young. Shows that they haven't had a silver spoon in their mouth their entire fucking lives, or some shit.
