No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  Like it had a life of it's own, Coyle's thick, rasping tongue slithered between the cheeks of my ass, and then swirled around the wrinkled knot of my asshole.

  I groaned, as I felt the probing tip press against me - nuzzling my tightly clenched butt open just a smidge...

  “I'm gonna get you so wet and slick, it'll be like sliding a shell into a twelve-bore,” Coyle purred, before he attacked my rear-end again with his eager tongue. “You're gonna love it...”

  And I just buried my face in the covers, and stifled another sob.

  I'd never experienced this before - a man licking my ass. And the worst thing? As humiliating as the experience was - and as much as I hated myself for betraying Mason by enduring it - it felt amazing.

  Coyle's fingers continued to fuck me with expert tempo. His tongue swirled, and probed, and was soon sinking inside my tight little ass - opening it up like a blossoming flower.

  I was panting like a bitch in heat... Coyle's saliva and my own wetness was running in rivulets down my thighs...

  I was getting closer, and closer, and closer to another humiliating orgasm...

  And then Coyle pulled his face from my ass, and I heard a long, drawn-out slurrrp as he sucked the fingers of his other hand...

  Finally - never breaking stride with his relentless fingering of my gushing pussy - Coyle pressed the spit-slick point of his other finger against the wrinkled knot of my asshole...

  ...and pushed.

  “Oh fuuuuuck!”

  There was no way Mason wouldn't have heard that, even outside the trailer.

  The moment I felt Coyle's thick finger sink slickly into my quivering little ass, I was struck with the most intense orgasm of my life.

  I arched my back so sharply, I thought I might break my spine. I felt a flood of wetness gush down my thighs. My nipples hardened so much it was painful...

  And then, oh God, I came...

  It was like every nerve-ending in my body exploded, all at once. It was like being slapped, and kissed, all at the same time. It was like a nuclear bomb had gone off, and the epicenter was right between my legs...

  I lost my mind for a second there... And when I finally came too, I found myself face-down, lying limply on the bed, with my ass still stuck up in the air.

  I could barely catch my breath...

  “That's my girl,” Coyle purred, pulling his fingers from inside me with a wet-sounding slurp.

  I mewled in disappointment, suddenly feeling so empty...

  But I knew that wouldn't be a sensation I'd have to worry about for long...

  And so did Coyle.

  With a groan, he clambered up off his knees, and I saw his shadow fall across the bed.

  I heard the rattle of his belt buckle, and the rustle of his jeans as he yanked them down.

  For a second, I glanced over my shoulder - and I saw the enormous biker gang leader towering over me.

  He looked like a giant - and from between his legs, Coyle's enormous cock reared like a veiny, throbbing tree-trunk.

  “I have waited for this,” he grinned, snatching a jar off the bedside table.

  I knew, from experience, that it contained coconut oil. I'd used it to give Coyle, and Bertha massages... He'd used it to grease me up when two or three of his boys had taken their turns with me...

  Taking a thick knob of coconut oil, Coyle began slathering up his veiny cock - until it glistened like polished oak.

  His eyes were burning with fiery intensity. His mouth was literally watering. He was looking down at my upturned ass like it was the Holy Grail, or something.

  “Ready, kitten?” He demanded, shuffling forward.

  Oh, fuck... Was I?

  Was I ready to let this big, biker boss do what no man had ever done before - and fuck me in my unclaimed ass?

  I sobbed.

  I couldn't help it.

  As I lay there on my knees, still quivering from that cannonade of orgasms, I felt my body racked by a heartfelt, anguished sob.

  I hated myself.

  I hated myself so much for this. For giving myself to Coyle, when the man I loved was waiting for me outside of this trailer...

  When he'd probably heard me cry out in climax...

  Mason must have thought I was a whore...

  As as I lay there, ass and pussy presented to Coyle like I was a mare eager to be bred, I realized I was a whore...

  And I was disgusted with myself...

  I sobbed again.

  Hot, anguished tears ran down my cheeks.

  “Jesus...”

  It was Coyle. He sounded angry.

  “Jesus,” he repeated. “Are you... Are you fucking crying?”

  I didn't answer him. I just buried my face in the covers and tried - yet failed - to suppress another sob.

  “Oh, for Christ's sake,” Coyle growled, as he loomed over me, stroking his oiled-up cock. “Stop that!”

  But I couldn't. Now the floodgates were opened, I couldn't hold back the tears any more than you could hold back a tsunami.

  I sobbed again, and this time didn't even try to conceal it.

  Coyle was not amused.

  “Jesus, Christi... You can't be fuckin' crying on me.”

  But I was. I was sobbing like a little girl - big, fat tears gushing down my cheeks.

  Coyle looked down at me, and his cock started to wilt.

  “Oh, for fuck's sake,” he growled. “I can't... I can't fuck you when you're crying.”

  “I-It's okay,” I sobbed, taking a big sniff. “J-just... Just do it. We had a deal, okay? My ass, for Mason's life.”

  And then I sobbed again.

  Coyle was still trying to stroke himself, but now he might as well have been oiling up a thick length of rope.

  “Jesus, Christi,” he growled. “I'm not going to take your ass when you're like... like...” I couldn't see him roll his eyes, but I knew he did. “When you're like this.”

  “I-It's okay,” I sniffled, and waggled my bare ass at him, as if inviting him to just take what he wanted. “Just do it.”

  But he didn't.

  I heard the rustle as he yanked his jeans up, and the clatter of his belt as he pulled it tight.

  “No,” he told me, as I buried my face in the tear-soaked sheets. “I've done a lot of shitty thing in my life, kitten - but one thing I'd never do is stick my dick in a girl when she's fuckin' crying about it.”

  “P-please,” I begged, ass and pussy still presented obscenely to him. “We had a deal.”

  “Yeah, well, the deal's fucking over,” Coyle growled. He stumbled back from the bed, and yanked open the door. “The deal was your ass for Mason's life...”

  And then he was stomping down the aisle of that little trailer.

  “...and you failed to deliver.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Mason

  The door to the Airstream trailer came crashing open, and Coyle stomped out of it like an angry rhino.

  He resembled one, too - as his boots hit the ground, and the flickering flames reflected off his leather jacket.

  He was huge, and hulking - and steam was practically snorting from his nostrils.

  I stood there, across the abandoned foot court from him, and realized that this was the first time I'd seen Coyle this way before...

  Mad.

  Oh, I'd seen him pissed off before. I'd seen the leader of the Knuckleheads snarl, and hiss, and curse under his breath...

  But this was different.

  He stood at the foot of the trailer steps, with his big chest heaving. His eyes were narrow slits - scanning the abandoned food court for something...

  Someone.

  And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who.

  Confirming that suspicion, Coyle’s steely eyes fell on me.

  “There you are, you son of a bitch.”

  Like the rhino I'd referred to him as earlier, Coyle started stomping across the cracked and broken concrete towards me.

  I didn't move.


  Part of me screamed to just run...

  But I wasn't going to give anybody that satisfaction – not even Coyle. Especially not while Christi was still left behind.

  Speaking of her - the door of the trailer rattled open again, and Christi came stumbling down the steps, yanking up her jeans...

  “No! Coyle, wait!”

  He ignored her - stomping onwards relentlessly.

  What the fuck had been going on inside that little trailer?

  A raw surge of jealousy hit me, as I wondered what Coyle might have been doing to the woman I loved...

  I'd heard the muffled cries through the aluminum panels of that trailer... But I'd assumed they were just arguing...

  ...but now? Now I wondered if it had been something else entirely... Something that left a bitter swell of rage build inside my stomach.

  It was a valid enough query - but not one I had much opportunity to think about. Coyle was nearly on me.

  “You!” This time, Coyle wasn’t talking to me. He was pointing a thick finger towards one of his biker brethren, and demanding: “Get me my baseball bat!”

  “Yes, boss!” The biker scurried off.

  “No!” Christi came running across the expanse towards us. “Don't hurt him! Please, don't hurt him!”

  Coyle paused, and turned around.

  “You!” Again, he was pointing at another biker - one among a group who'd gathered to see what all the noise was about. “Grab that bitch! Now!”

  “Nooo!” Christi tried to dodge out of the way, but with instant obedience, the biker Coyle had been yelling at reached out and snatched at her flailing arms...

  When he missed, two of his buddies ran after her, and one wrapped his arms around her waist with the practiced ease of a college linebacker.

  “No!” Christi kicked, and struggled, but they held her firm. “No! Please!” She turned desperately to Coyle. “Don't do this! I beg of you!”

  But Coyle wasn't listening.

  I heard his boots scrape on the broken concrete, and then he was towering over me, like the grim reaper.

  I stood firm, looking up at him defiantly, even though every fiber in my being was telling me to run.

  For a moment, Coyle didn't say anything. He just looked down at me, like I was a cockroach and he didn't know if he wanted to dirty up his shoes by stepping on me...

  Panting, the biker who'd run off to find Coyle's baseball bat returned, holding up the gleaming old Louisville Slugger like it was a sacrificial dagger.

  Which, I was loathe to admit, it kind of was.

  Coyle snatched the bat from his flunky, and I heard a malevolent whoosh as he swung it through the air.

  “No! Please!” Christi was writhing and squirming now, kicking and fighting to break free. “Don't! Don't do it!”

  But Coyle ignored her.

  His attention was on me.

  Resting the bat on his shoulder, Coyle peered down at me, and then loudly called out: “Boys!”

  His voice echoed back and forth across the cavernous ceiling of the abandoned food court.

  “Boys!” he repeated, and Knuckleheads suddenly appeared from all directions - ducking out of the shadows and crawling from dingy corridors like cockroaches scuttling out from under the refrigerator.

  “Get over here, boys. It’s time to take care of some business.”

  Soon a crowd had gathered - forming a semi-circle of thirty or forty men behind Coyle's massive bulk.

  Christi was sobbing now - sinking to her knees as the biker behind her clung to her outstretched arms.

  “Don’t do it,” she begged, voice barely audible now. “Please…”

  But Coyle ignored her.

  “Boys,” he repeated again, grinning in satisfaction as he finally turned back around to face me. “Looks like it's about that time.”

  He stood looming over me, and for the first time in my life I understood the urge to piss yourself.

  “That time?” One of Coyle's bikers growled: “You're goddamn right it is!”

  “It’s time Recon got what was coming to him,” sneered another.

  Soon there were more cheers and sneers from the gathered bikers - all peering on as their leader confronted me.

  “Oh, God,” Christi was sobbing, as she watched them circle me like a pack of hyenas. “Nooooo...”

  Coyle turned to face me. Leaning back in that theatrical manner of his, he turned on his performance voice, and announced:

  “Recon! You have been accused of breaking the one and only rule of the Knuckleheads Motorcycle Club - betraying your brothers.”

  A roar of cheers came up from the crowd behind him.

  “Double-crossing rat!”

  “Fuckin' fink!”

  Coyle ignored them, and kept talking:

  “It's been revealed that you joined our illustrious brotherhood under false pretenses. That you were an undercover cop the whole time you rode with us.”

  More cheers, and whoops and hollas.

  Coyle took a step forward, his boots crunching on the broken concrete:

  “Recon,” he peered down at me, looking right into my eyes. “How do you plead?”

  We were standing face-to-face – but his face was still eight inches or so higher than mine.

  Nevertheless, I didn’t cower. I didn’t tremble. I didn’t blink.

  I just gulped dryly, and tried not to let my voice crack as I announced:

  “Guilty. I plead guilty.”

  Coyle didn’t smile as he heard me say that. In fact, his mouth narrowed to a thin line.

  “Then there is only one thing left to do,” he growled. “And we only have three punishments here in the Knuckleheads.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “A beating, exile, or death.”

  “Death!” Screamed one of the biker from behind Coyle.

  “String him up,” barked another. “Fuckin’ kill the double-crossin’ rat!”

  Their words hurt.

  Not just because they wanted to kill me. I mean, shit, I’d spent eight years in the US Rangers, and travelled the world to meet people who wanted to kill me.

  No, it hurt me because before I’d been exposed, these people had been my brothers. As close to friends as I’d ever made, since leaving the military.

  And now they were demanding my life.

  Perhaps not without good reason.

  “Death!” The crowd was chanting now, their voices finding unison. “Death! Death! Death!”

  The refrain echoed back and forth in the cavernous food court. It was practically deafening. For a second I realized what it must have been like in the darkest days of history – when faceless crowds got a taste for blood, and nothing else would satisfy them.

  “Death! Death! Death!”

  I couldn’t even hear Christi over the sound of the chanting, but there she was – on her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, powerless to prevent what was about to happen next.

  And, to his credit, Coyle didn’t exactly look happy about it either.

  He stood towering over me, and his face was a grim mask.

  “Okay,” he nodded. “You heard the sentence.” He leaned down, bringing his face closer to mine. “You ready to take it like a man?”

  I gulped, although there wasn’t any saliva in my mouth to swallow.

  “Y-yes.”

  Fuck.

  This was it.

  Eight years in the military. Months with Homeland Security. And now this was how it was all going to end – in an abandoned food court, in the middle of nowhere, at the hands of a man who I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to love, or hate.

  I turned once more to look at Christi.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Even with tears streaming down her face, and her mouth contorted in pleas for my life.

  For a second, I hesitated. For a second, I considered turning to Coyle and begging for my life – begging desperately for the chance to be with her…

  But I knew Coyle di
dn’t respect begging… And I knew I wouldn’t respect myself if I tried.

  I’d rather die with the courage of a Ranger, than begging for mercy that would never come.

  “Get on your knees.”

  Coyle’s order was not to be disobeyed.

  “Get on your knees,” he repeated, bringing the baseball bat off his shoulder. “Turn around, and get down on your knees with your hands behind your back.”

  Butterflies churned in my stomach. This really was it.

  I turned to Christi one final time, and our eyes met.

  For a second she stopped crying.

  Even across the wide expanse of that abandoned food court – even with fifty bikers between her and I – for a final moment we were alone together.

  I lost myself in her eyes. I took a snapshot, and seared it into my memory. I wanted the last thing I remembered to be the beauty of her face.

  Finally, I mouthed the words: “I love you.”

  And then I turned, and faced the dark emptiness beyond.

  I had my back to Coyle and the bikers now, as I sunk to my knees on the hard, broken, concrete floor.

  I put my hands behind my back, as if I was going to be handcuffed.

  Coyle took a step forward, until his shadow fell across me.

  “Recon,” he announced, his voice cracking. “You have plead guilty to the charge. Your brothers have sentenced you.” He took a ragged breath. “Any last words?”

  I gulped, staring ahead into the empty hallways and corridors of the abandoned mall.

  “Only that I’m sorry,” I announced.

  There was a murmur from the bikers – so I clarified:

  “I ain’t sayin’ I’m sorry to try and convince you not to do this. I’m not saying I’m sorry to try and save my life.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’m sayin’ sorry to you all because I betrayed you. You took me in. You made me one of your own. And this is how I repaid you.”

  Coyle’s bikers had been whooping and hollering for my death just a few minutes earlier. Now, while I couldn’t see any of them, I was almost deafened by their collective silence.

  “The only place I’ve ever felt at home was in the Rangers,” I announced, my voice echoing across the abandoned food court. “And the only place I’ve ever felt like that since I left the military was here, with you guys.