The bikers were almost silent and they had to crane their necks to see as I spun out, shaking my breasts low down, close to the floor of the stage. Then the slow horizontal crouch spin gave them a good long view as a reward. They made some noise, too in appreciation. Low grunts and leers.
They were stamping and banging their glasses by the time I finished and I got to my feet with a demure, delicate little bow. At the side of the stage, the dancer watched the whole show, nursing her bourbon, and her eyes smoldered.
I made my way back through the crowd to the bar where Cox looked at me, sardonically. “Getting yourself that well-known that quickly around here, you might get more attention than you’re ready for, girl.”
I picked up my shot glass and threw the bourbon back, loving how it burned my throat. I said, “The show wasn’t for them.”
“Oh?” he said.
I told him, “It was for you.”
The dancer was back. Razor said, “Well, Carla, what did you think of that?”
She looked at me with fire in her eye as she said, “Call that a pole dance?” Then to Razor and his sidekick with the bandana, “This is a pole dance.” She took the two bikers by their hands and led them onto the stage. The music got louder again.
Standing in front of Razor, she ground the cheeks of her butt hard into the front of his jeans, grinding up and down along the bulge that was growing. At the same time she slipped her hand down the front of Scooter’s shirt. She licked his ear and down his neck as her fingers slid south into his jeans.
The two bikers squeezed and fondled her big breasts as she swayed her ass hard into Razor’s crotch and worked her hand inside Scooter’s pants. Razor’s fingers were in Carla’s thong, slipping inside her.
Razor had his cock out, and Carla squeezed it, up between the tops of her thighs, rubbing her pussy hard along it. As she bent to get Scooter’s cock out, Razor smacked her ass hard and shoved her little thong to the side. I could see his cock pressing up the length of her glistening wet pussy lips, the head nosing the base of her clit. She was getting her head down to work her mouth on Scoter’s cock.
The noise in the bar became thunderous. Feet stamping, tables banging, deep, male shouts and calls. Razor lifted Carla, held her by her thighs like a wheelbarrow as he entered her. She had Scooter deep in her mouth by then, and he held her head to match the grinding slew of his hips, sliding his cock in and out of her mouth. She held on tight to Scooter’s ass, her fingers dug into his partly covered flesh and her back arched.
Scooter’s ass was clenching as his pelvis drove his cock in and out of her lips. He had a pretty mean looking ass, it has to be said. Carla’s neck and face were red and her breasts bounced as she was spit-roasted, impaled at both ends. The two men speeded up, concertinaing her hard and Carla’s eyes were wide.
The roar of the crowd formed into a word, repeated, rhythmically. “Facial, facial,” they shouted. The two men’s necks were pumped, the veins were standing out and arcs of sweat flew from their foreheads as they both grinned and nodded.
Razor lifted Carla to the floor and onto her knees. She grunted and gasped as both men, first Scooter, then Razor pumped with their hands and finished off with bolts of sticky wet spunk into Carla’s face and her hair. She grinned wide as she lapped the slick white goo and slurped it up with her fingers, hanging on to Razor’s ass for support.
Cox looked at me, studying me for some time. I was kind of stunned, very excited, probably pretty flushed, my face sure felt hot. The biker crowd certainly liked that show, but I wasn’t going back to the stage to outdo Carla.
I asked Cox, “So, what did you think of that show, biker boy?” There were some quiet intakes of breath around us at that, but Cox’s face didn’t register anything. He thought for a moment before he spoke, quietly,
“You got something to top that, Miss Congeniality?”
“I certainly have. But it needs just one man. And a room.”
He looked in my eye, “Careful now, child. You’ve only had boys, you don’t know what a man is.”
My stomach felt light and giddy and my breath caught as I was about to reply. He stepped forward and cut me off. He loomed up so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. He said, “Get upstairs.”
I hadn’t seen any stairs. I looked around. I saw his eyes go to a door ajar at the far side of the bar. I looked back to him. He said, “Go.” I felt awkward, conspicuous as I threaded my way to the door, and his heavy footsteps behind me made it worse. Through the door was a short, dark passage with a rough wooden staircase. As I started up the steps, I heard him behind me, closing the door.
I didn’t think it was going to be like that, the way that it was.
He had a room up there and I was surprised at what a nice room it was. Somehow I imagined a heavy-metal tip of brown blankets, beercans and sun-dried pizza, but it was nice.
We talked, I don’t even remember what we talked about, it was just… easy. We sat on the couch, sat on the bed, he played music on a stereo.
He knew how to touch me. First on my shoulders, then the top of my thigh, but softly. He stroked the inside of my forearm, touched my palm and my fingers as we talked. He touched me like he knew me, like he’d known me since I was a child, like he knew where I hid, and how I yearned to be found, discovered. Revealed. Opened. He opened me.
Like he knew the child in me, knew how to play with her, to coax her and release her, to stroke her and soothe her. He satisfied the child so that the woman in me could come out and be free.
He touched me softly, gently. His fingers knew just how to find and touch the parts of me that needed a man’s hand, a man’s arm, a man’s body. A man.
He had an instinct to touch me, and a slow, insistent rhythm in his strong fingers. A rhythm that knew what to touch, where to go. When to wait. But always with that pulse, like the beat of the pistons under the seat of his Harley-Davidson.
Like he longed for the strength and the sweetness in me, like he ached to tap the sap that rose in me.
He tasted me. Softly at first, gladly, with appreciation. Then hungrily. Then all over my body in a lashing torrent.
His body covered mine, wrapped it. When I first felt his skin against mine, my arms and legs snapped around him like they were sprung. He opened me and he filled me. He wound around and into and through me. Every part of me.
Every connection, every muscle memory, every moment of me he took and tamed. He stretched me out over himself, rolled himself into me. We melded together like two great currents in the sea.
And then, when I felt we’d known each other’s deepest inner selves for generations, like we’d been many lives apart to become this thing together, then, there where we were open and complete together, there he turned it all loose.
I clawed at him, I beat on him with my fists. Bit his neck, his chest, his thighs. I shrieked, I sobbed and moaned. At the end, he filled me so much, so hard, my legs crossed behind his back and they gripped with all the strength I had.
His body was hard as a tree trunk, and his sweet round ass pumped him into me like a freight train whipping through a mountain tunnel. My whole body clenched and convulsed and my head shook as I clawed at him and bucked on him.
The volcanic gush at the end, mine and his, went on and on, cresting, splashing and bursting. And he said my name,
“Nikka!” and it finally left me spent. I curled up in his huge arms wet, soft and helpless. My nose was in the ridge of his chest and I was drifting away on a misty lake and that’s when the noise started downstairs.
He was in jeans and a tee and at the door in a half a heartbeat, and I was behind him as fast as I could move. At the bottom of the stairs I caught him up by the door to the bar and I heard the rasping raised voice from amid the commotion in the bar.
“We are here acting on intelligence regarding a serious felony,” he sounded such a comical ass. As if anything that Dwayne would have told him could remotely be classified as ‘intelligence.’
&nb
sp; “You will all be checked and searched for drugs, firearms and parole violation.”
The scene in the bar looked like a freeze-frame in a biker movie. Cops all around the room, all pointing weapons, and about four times as many bikers sneering and snarling at them.
Scooter had his nose against the barrel of an evil-looking pump-action. Officer Glenn was holding it fairly steady, but you couldn’t mistake the beads of sweat on his top lip. The voice at the center of the room boomed on, “If anyone can provide us with information…” in the middle of the room he was actually standing on a chair.
I didn’t want to use the little girl voice. That may have been the first time I realized that was what I would normally do. Say, Oh, Daddy… and wait until he crumpled. I didn’t want Cox to hear me do it. And I didn’t want to hear me do it, I didn’t want be that whiny little girl any more. Somehow I was done with that.
I realized then that I didn’t want to do it to Daddy either. It was a big night of firsts for me. As it was, he stopped talking when he saw me.
The atmosphere shifted immediately. The electricity in the air somehow drifted, blew like smoke. Cops fingers were still on the triggers of their weapons, but the knuckles were not white anymore. There weren’t so many clenched teeth.
The cops all looked mightily relieved, most of the bikers looked bitterly disappointed. Daddy looked about an eighth of an inch smaller all round.
I said, “Daddy, let’s you and I meet at the diner for breakfast in the morning, OK? I’m here and I’m fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Cox said, “You go on with your daddy, Nikka. I’ll meet you at the diner after breakfast. If you’d like. Would you like that?”
God, he looked fine in loose jeans and a white tee. I said, “Yes.”
© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014
Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.
All the people and places are portrayed in this story are fictional. All characters are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary.
MAFIA stories
Pierce
© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2016
2nd Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.
All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.
Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
The wet eyes of Adelina Bontempi, the stunning young woman and wife of his business partner, blazed up at Pierce Agostini. Seeing her in public, you’d think she was a fashion model, probably a little aloof, well-behaved and most likely quite prim and proper.
Well, the first part would be right. Adelina Kean had been a model and she still made appearances as a brand ambassador and at charity functions. She didn’t seem too aloof, though, on her knees in the back of Pierce’s Bentley.
While he had her by the hair, she showed no sign of being unwilling to do what he wanted, and it was hardly what a well-behaved girl would do, much less someone else’s prim and proper wife.
She knew that Pierce wanted a copy of a document on her husband’s computer. She told him that she knew how to get it. Oh, but wasn’t there something that he could do for her?
Didn’t matter how beautiful she was, how many fashion magazine covers those full, wet lips had pouted on or how many double-page spreads her long legs had sprawled over, all of that cooing and simpering grated on his ear.
He could respect a woman who would just tell him straight, ‘I want your hard cock to fill my mouth and stretch the length of my throat, to rev up the soft heat between my tits. Then I want you to spread my thighs and split me wide, prise me open and pound me over the edge of endurance.’
Why couldn’t they ever just say what they meant? ‘Rip through the clinging wet velvet of my hungry walls and ram into the backs of my thighs with the ridges of your rock-hard abs until I bite and scream and gush.’
That was what she meant and they both knew it. In the cozy hush in the back of his sapphire Bentley, she hadn’t waited five minutes to slip her tongue between his lips, to nuzzle down the ridges of his chest and all the way down his perfect white cotton shirt. Then to flash her dark eyes and shimmy out of her expensive satin dress.
After that, she panted as she slid her silky lingerie and her soft, peachy flesh all over his suit, over his shirt, inside his jacket. Snuck her fingernails in the gaps between his shirt buttons and shoved her eager hands into his pants.
She didn’t care about people on the street who could maybe see in through the tinted windows. She didn’t even care about Callaghan and Calhoun, sat up front both staring rigidly straight ahead.
She stretched and squeezed and cooed against the rising heat in his suit pants and then she peered up into his eye as she hauled his zipper down. Her hot breath made him so hard it hurt.
Her cool fingers trembled while they gripped him, as she leaped up to get her tongue down his throat. He smelled her perfume and her own scent as she blew and flicked her tongue in his ear.
Her soft, warm mouth made a slow journey down the side of his neck, over his chest and his stomach until her lips were sliding over the head of his aching pole.
He knew if he didn’t do something, she’d be there all night, so he flung her face-first into the upholstery. He could tell that she’d like that.
She howled like a drunken schoolgirl as he reamed and rammed her, doggy style, and slammed her sprawling into the deep softness of thick black leather. All she did was mewl and whimper when he stopped. By the time they got to the club, she’d got her breath back and started to beg for more.
Watching her shamelessly buck and roll along the hard length of his hot cock as she brimmed and burst took him up to the edge. He yanked her hair, and the cheeks of her bare ass rippled as he slapped them.
When she whimpered his name, his anger propelled him on to pump and fill her in hot, pulsing bolts. When he finished, she slumped, exhausted, and crawled to rest her head in his lap. She made it awkward for him to pull his clothes together and he resented her very presence.
Still, he needed her husband’s plan. He drew a slow breath, thinking that he might have to fuck her again to get it. He’d avoid that if he could. However much he wanted a woman when he first saw them, as far as he was concerned once he had them they were all used up. He hadn’t found one yet that he could stand to be around afterwards.
Like this one, the more he tried to get rid of them, the more they wanted him again. Each time he nudged her out of the way, she crawled back into his lap like a stray cat that slinks in out of a freezing cold night.
She was beautiful, like they all were. Sexy as hell, but they all were that, too. And looking at her reminded him, as they all did, of why his rule was such a good one, ‘One time and one time only. No exceptions.’
He thought she was going to follow him out of the car naked, but somehow she got herself covered and tottered behind him into the club. The nightclub was part two of the plan.
Part I
Princess loved almost every part of her work, except while she was actually doing it. In the dark and discrete basement off Wall Street, which was her daddy’s nightclub, she greeted the guests by name. She waited tables and knew all of their tastes.
The clientele were mainly rich men in the financial sector, and sometimes their egos would get the better of them. That was how she put it to Ethan, her BFF, a
nd she especially described it in those—or even milder—terms to her daddy.
The members, almost all of them men, treated Princess with a respect that she enjoyed, and while she had more than her share of compliments and admiring looks, the men understood that whatever else went on in the club, she was off-limits. There were always some who still had to test the theory.
However big the tips, the explosive testosterone of an overweight and over-intoxicated man in his fifties could be a challenge to deal with. The more so because Princess walked a diplomatic high-wire. If she didn’t, the club could run out of customers fast.
Daddy tried and tried to persuade her to go away to college, to learn other skills, meet different people, but she was determined to stay in Hotsteppa’s.
Princess had grown up among the explosive mix of bankers, jazz musicians, and the women who flocked to cluster around them. It was the life she was born into.
Her neat black blouse and skirt, the seamed stockings, and the black stilettos were her suit of power. Her battle dress. Her simple makeup, pale tan foundation with ruby red lips and nails, were her armor.
In Hotsteppa’s, Princess felt strong and in charge, even though Daddy was the law there. The outside world always seemed to her like a dull second best.
He told her she could learn and gain some experience of life, travel some, then come back if she wanted to. As far as Princess was concerned, there was more than enough education and experience to be had in the nightlife right here. The streets and neighborhoods of the financial district were all the travel that she craved, save for an occasional journey to Coney Island or up the Long Island Expressway.
Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) Page 68
