No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  “That’s my girl,” Coyle stroked my cheek, as I lost myself to a tidal wave of ecstasy. “You be a good girl, and cum thinking about all those cock in your ass.”

  And I did. As disgusting as it sounds, I succumbed to a shuddering climax as I imagined the whole gang of Knuckleheads taking my ass, one at a time – fucking me deep, and hard, and fast, and each of them blowing their loads in my tight, virginal little butt.

  And then I flopped onto the sheets, utterly spent.

  With a slurp, Bertha pulled her fingers from my pussy, and her face from my ass.

  “She’s an eager little slut,” Bertha grinned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I reckon with the right training, we could teach her to cum just from being fucked in the ass.”

  Coyle grinned too.

  Clambering up onto his knees, his massive cock bobbed up and down in front of me.

  “As fun as that sounds,” he grinned, “I can’t think straight with this to worry about.”

  And then he crawled around behind me, to wear Bertha had been just moments before.

  As I lay there limply, Coyle kicked open my legs, and crawled between them.

  He reached between us, and adjusted himself until his big cock was nuzzled at the lips of my pussy.

  All it took was one thrust and he was inside me.

  “Fuuuuck!” I clawed at the sheets, as his big cock stretched and filled me. “Oh, God!”

  And then Coyle lay down on top of me, and began to fuck me from behind.

  The bed creaked. His weight crushed me. His huge cock slithered in and out of me, perfectly positioned to pound my g-spot on every inward stroke.

  And as he fucked me, Bertha crawled in front of me.

  She spread her tanned thighs, and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

  Wrenching my head between her legs, she presented her pussy to me – carefully waxed, glistening and eager, and with her huge clit swollen and angry.

  “I gave you yours,” she growled, slapping my face. “Now you give me mine…”

  And as I’d been trained to do over the last few weeks, I did exactly that.

  “Oh, fuuuck,” Bertha groaned, as I closed my lips around her clitoris, and swirled my tongue around it – like I was giving a blowjob to a mini little cock.

  Like that, the three of us rutted on the bed for what seemed like an eternity. Coyle fucked me from behind. Me slurping and sucking and licking Bertha’s pussy.

  All the while, the inexorable pressure of another orgasm approached…

  It was when Coyle finally groaned, and wrapped his burly arm around my throat, that everything happened.

  I felt his cock swell, and throb inside of me – and on his final inward thrust, Coyle buried himself inside of me and emptied his balls in a serious of hot, powerful spurts.

  The sensation of being flooded with cum tipped me over the edge, and I squirmed in a shuddering, searing orgasm.

  Mindlessly lost in waves of pleasure, I licked and sucked Bertha’s clit, until she reached down to crush my head between her thighs, and reached her own orgasm.

  Like that, all three of us came in a shuddering, sweaty, squirming tangle of arms, legs and bodies.

  For an eternity, I was lost in pleasure… Then I slowly came back down to earth, and realized I was lying in bed, sandwiched between the two of them.

  “Oh, fuuuck,” Coyle groaned in satisfaction, pulling his softening cock from my pussy and rolling off me.

  A deluge of cum flooded out, soaking the sheets beneath.

  Bertha peeled me from between her legs, and gave me a rare moment of tenderness, as she stroked my cheek.

  “Good girl.”

  And then they were done.

  Coyle rolled over on the bed, and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

  Bertha literally hauled me to my feet.

  She tossed the robe at me, and ordered: “Get the fuck out of here.”

  I stood there on wobbly legs, Coyle’s cum dribbling down my thighs, and the taste of Bertha’s pussy still fresh on my lips.

  “Get out of here,” Bertha snapped, crawling onto the bed beside Coyle, like they were an old married couple.

  I nodded, and feeling numb and trembly, I walked bow-legged towards the door.

  A moment later I emerged into the warm, dark evening – feeling like I’d just been fucked, both literally and metaphorically.

  Chapter Six

  Mason

  I’ve never been much of a sleeper. Not since we were caught in an ambush at 2am, way back in Fallujah. I lost two buddies that night, and ever since then, I’ve preferred to keep my wits about me – especially when I’m feeling vulnerable.

  And nothing had made me feel as vulnerable lately as that girl – Christi with-no-last-name. That heartbreaking face. That delicious body. The way the things they made her do – that she willingly did – tore my goddamn insides out.

  I shook my head.

  I needed to get her out of my fucking head.

  It was nearly 2am now, and I was kneeling beneath the light of an old security bulb, working on my bike. In the distance I could hear the thump-thump-thump of that roadhouse jukebox – but I was well out of the way, here behind these outbuildings.

  I enjoyed working on my bike. It took my head out of things – allowed me to shut down that whirling engine behind my eyeballs, and get some mental rest, even if I wasn’t get any physical rest.

  Besides, my bike had been firing rough the last few days.

  As befits the name, no member of the Knuckleheads rode on anything other than a OHV “Knucklehead” Harley Davidson – one of the big bore, 61bhp bikes with an engine that resembled the knuckles of a closed fist.

  Mine wasn’t anything special – a 1992 Twin Cam, in gunmetal grey – but I knew every inch of that bike like the back of my hand, and spent every free moment making sure she was running at peak efficiency.

  Even moments like this – in the middle of the night – I liked to make sure she was well-maintained.

  In this instance, I soon traced the problem to the ignition lead, and I had a spare of those to swap out.

  But it was too late to fire her up and take her for a test-drive, so I figured I’d done enough for the night. Reluctantly I started thinking about finally getting some sleep.

  And that’s when I heard it.

  The patter of bare feet through the fallen leaves.

  I glanced up, my military-trained instincts immediately sending a surge of adrenalin through my blood. Back on active duty, it was sounds like that – sounds the average person would ignore – that often gave Rangers like me the split-second advantage in whatever was to come.

  Only this wasn’t Iraq, I had to remind myself – and as dangerous as my brothers in the Knuckleheads could be, none of them were ISIS insurgents… or worse.

  Kneeling on the ground, I listened again – and identified the sounds as coming from the other side of the trees, outlying these old outbuildings.

  Clambering up to my feet, I started creeping towards the noise.

  Jammed in the back of my jeans was my 9mm, Army-issue Beretta 92F – but I didn’t reach for it. Chances are it was a dog, or something else equally innocent…

  …but you could never be sure.

  Silently, I crept through the trees. Even with the old twigs and crunching leaves underfoot, I barely made a noise. That was one of my talents – why I’d been a scout in the Rangers, and why Coyle had given me the nickname ‘Recon’ when I joined the Knuckleheads.

  On the other side of the trees, I saw what was making the noise… and my heart jumped into my throat.

  It wasn’t anything dangerous – not physically, at least.

  It was her.

  The Law of Attraction, my mom had called it. If you thought about something – or someone – hard enough, you’d manifest it right there in front of you.

  And proving my dear, departed momma right, there was Christi with-no-last-name, darting through the night like I’d wished h
er into being…

  I paused, crouched in the darkness, and watched what she was doing.

  The slender blond was wrapped in nothing but a robe – the same one she’d pulled on back in Coyle’s trailer. She was barefoot, and her pale skin practically glowed in the moonlight.

  As I watched, she darted out to a pile of rocks on the outskirts of the trees, and finally sat down on one of the biggest ones.

  I watched as she pulled a bottle from inside her robe – the Bib and Tucker bourbon I’d been sipping earlier – and pulled the cork out of the bottle with a ‘pop.’

  As I watched, she gulped down two mouthfuls without batting an eyelid. For a girl who weighed less than one of our Harleys, she sure could drink like a biker.

  And that’s when she froze.

  I hadn’t moved. Hell, I’d hardly even breathed. But as I knelt there, watching her, Christi turned on the rock she was sitting on, and looked out into the darkness…

  …directly to where I was hiding.

  I could see her hazel eyes were staring out into nothingness. She hadn’t seen me.

  But nevertheless, she still called out:

  “You can come out. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Holy shit. How did she know?

  For a second I knelt there, not wanting to give my position away… But then I realized I already had. She must have had that same rare, sixth-sense as I did. The ability to feel somebody’s eyes on you, even if you couldn’t see them.

  Taking a deep breath, I straightened up, and stepped out of the darkness.

  “Funny, little lady,” I told her, as I stepped into the moon’s light. “You notice a stranger staring at you in the middle of the night, and the first thing you think of is to say that you ain’t going to hurt him.”

  Christi’s eyes widened as she recognized me, and she smiled as she did.

  “Well, you of all people, Mister ‘Recon’, should know I’m a very dangerous animal to get on the wrong side of.”

  And with the protection of Coyle behind her, little Christi with-no-last-name wasn’t kidding.

  I stepped up to the rock, and reached out a calloused hand.

  “Tell you what,” I told her. “Since you’re promising not to hurt me, and all, maybe you can split me a drink.”

  And with her pretty lips curling into a smile, the beautiful blond handed me the bottle.

  Chapter Seven

  Christi

  Recon’s jeans creaked as he sat down on the rock next to me.

  I handed him the half-empty bottle of bourbon, and he lifted it to his lips – gulping down two straight mouthfuls without missing a beat.

  Then, smacking his lips, the handsome biker passed the bourbon back to me.

  In silence, we turned and looked out across the vista of California wildlands – the rolling hills, and shrubs, and trees. It was beautiful, in a still and eerie kind of way. We could have been alone in the world, just the two of us, if it wasn’t for the distant ‘thump-thump-thump’ of ZZ Top playing on the Roadhouse jukebox, way back in the distance.

  After a moment’s companionable silence, Recon turned to me and said: “What are you doing out here?” He shrugged those broad, muscular shoulders of his. “It’s not safe, y’know.”

  I snorted.

  Turning to the handsome biker, I reassured him: “I can take care of myself.”

  It was his turn to snort.

  “Listen,” he grinned. “I know you’re Coyle’s woman, and all – and in normal circumstances, not one of those assholes would mess with you because of that.”

  He jerked his thumb towards the sound of the roadhouse, in the distance, where all the Knuckleheads were still partying.

  “But once they get a few shots of tequila in ‘em, all good sense flies out of the window.”

  I stared across at his face, bathed in the moonlight.

  Reaching across, I squeezed his big, burly bicep playfully.

  “Aww, you’re sweet,” I teased him playfully. “But I don’t need Coyle to protect me from you bikers.” My lips curled. “You’re tough, and all – but you aren’t that smart.”

  Recon flinched, as if he’d been slapped. An amused – or possible bemused – smile crept across his handsome face.

  “Oh, really?” He mocked.

  “Sure,” I took another swig of whiskey. “In fact, the first night I started rolling with you Knuckleheads – before Coyle took a fancy to me – I ended up getting cornered out behind a roadside bar by a big bastard with a hook for a hand.”

  Recon’s eyes widened. He must know the biker originally known as ‘Captain Hook.’ You don’t have a big iron claw where your right hand used to be without people remembering it.

  “He was real friendly my first night,” I told Recon. “Bought me drinks. Cosied up to me. Promised me I could ride with him to Fresno when you all rolled out the following morning.”

  Recon was watching me, hanging on every word.

  “Towards the end of the night, he drags me outside for a cigarette – but I should have known that’s not what he wanted my lips wrapped around. He backs me into the corner, unbuckles his pants, and next thing I know he tells me I’ve got to earn all those drinks he bought me.”

  Recon’s face was a mask. After he’d seen my ‘performance’ with Rooker and Bowser tonight, I guess he didn’t know where this story was going.

  “When I tell him no,” I explained, “he grabs me round the neck with his one good hand, and starts pulling down my pants with his hook. Tells me he’s going to take what I owe him…”

  “That son of a bitch…” Recon mouthed.

  I snorted.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I reassured him. “He hadn’t even got my pants down when I told him: “Go ahead.”“

  Recon blinked.

  “You what?”

  “I told him: “Go ahead,”” I repeated. “I told him to do what he was going to do, I wasn’t going to stop him. And then I just went limp.”

  Recon stared at me, astonished.

  “And you know what?” My lips curled as I recounted him. “The big, dumb asshole didn’t know what to do. You can’t rape the willing, my mom always used to tell me. And I wasn’t willing… But I wasn’t kicking my heels, or putting up a struggle…”

  I laughed.

  “He was there with one hand around my throat, and his pants around his ankles, and he couldn’t even get it up.”

  Recon blinked.

  “And that’s when I laughed at him. I asked him when he was going to take what I owed him. And then, just as he was starting to get mean about it, I told him to pull up his pants, and let me the hell go, or I was going to tell everybody I knew that this big, scary, hook-handed bastard couldn’t even get his pecker up.”

  I shook my head.

  “He changed his tune real quick after that – and he still let me ride with him up to Fresno the next morning.”

  Recon whistled softly.

  “Yeah,” I reached over and patted his knee. “I might not be a big, strong man like you – but I can take care of myself, alright.”

  Clearly not knowing what to say, Recon reached for the bottle of bourbon, and I willingly handed it to him.

  After gulping down two searing mouthfuls, the handsome biker turned to me and demanded: “So. What’s a girl like you doing riding with the Knuckleheads anyway? You look far too…”

  “Too what?” I threw back. “Too nice?” I snatched the bottle of whiskey from him, and took a swig. “You saw me in the bar tonight. I don’t think anybody’s mistaking me for a nice girl.”

  I could see his cheeks burn at the memory – of watching me get fucked by those two big, bikers.

  “I’m here because you Knuckleheads are the most dangerous bastards on the west coast – and that makes riding with you the safest place for me to be right now.” And then, turning to Recon, I warned: “And that’s all I’m going to say about that… for now.”

  He nodded. Clearly this stud knew a thing or two
about discretion.

  “So, what’s your story,” I continued, throwing it back on him. “What’s your name, handsome? Or did Momma and Poppa really call you Recon?”

  The handsome biker snorted, his lips curling.

  “My name’s Mason,” he told me. “Coyle just called me Recon when he heard I used to be in the Rangers. I’m his bodyguard and scout. Seemed appropriate.

  “Mason,” I mouthed the name. It felt good.

  “Mason Stone,” he told me, before adding: “Don’t laugh.”

  “Mason Stone?” I couldn’t help myself. “Are you kidding?”

  He laughed, and it was as warm and comforting as the sound of a crackling log fire.

  “Yeah, my parents thought it would be funny,” he admitted. “Man, I hated it growing up – as soon as I figured out a ‘mason’ was a guy who worked on stone. They might as well have called me Layer Brick, or Carver Wood.”

  I reached over and squeezed his knee.

  “Hey, I think it’s cute,” and when I didn’t move my hand away, I felt Mason drop his own heavy hand over my own.

  “Yeah, well ‘cute’ isn’t something I get called very often.”

  “I don’t know,” I purred. “You’re cute in a high-school-prom kind of way. Cute, but you look like you’ve got a few miles on you.”

  Mason nodded, then, and pulled his hand away.

  His blue eyes grew misty, as he stared out into the night sky.

  “Oh, I’ve got a few miles on me, alright,” he admitted. “Fifteen thousand, round trip. Not that I’m counting.”

  Fifteen thousand miles. The distance to the Middle East and back.

  I wasn’t dumb. Riding with the Knuckleheads, I’d crossed paths with more than a few veterans.

  “Iraq, or Afghanistan?” I asked.

  “Iraq,” he replied, turning to me with an impressed look on his face. “2nd Battalion, out of Fort Lewis. I did three tours out there before my enlistment was up – and when I came back, I guess I just couldn’t fit back into society.” He shook his head. “I bummed around a bit. Took security jobs. Bodyguarding… Then one day I just sold my shit, bought a bike, and the next thing I know I’m riding with these motherfuckers.”