BIKER’S GIFT: Chrome Kings MC

by St. Rose, Claire

My daughter Opal is my whole world.

  And if her spitfire teacher thinks she’s going to come between me and my baby girl…

  I’m gonna have to teach her a lesson or two.

  I didn’t ask for a daughter.

  But as long as she’s my responsibility, I’m gonna be the best damn dad I can be.

  That means teaching my baby girl everything I know.

  How to ride a bike.

  Throw a punch.

  She ain’t gonna be a damsel in distress.

  Not on my watch.

  But her teacher seems to have an issue with my parenting style.

  And when she gets in my face to tell me how to raise my daughter…

  It ignites something in me.

  It won’t be enough to yell back.

  No, I need to break this woman down.

  I’m going to take her.

  Own her.

  And when it’s all said and done…

  I’m gonna put my baby in her belly.

  Chapter 1 NOAH

  It’s so motherfucking hot.

  I kick the sheet off of me and roll to my side. A small, delicate arm drapes over me, following my motion. Inside, I cringe. I absolutely hate it when they overstay their welcome. And this chick’s been here way too long for my liking.

  I slide her arm off of me, watching it fall fast to the bed below. I’d hoped that would wake her up, maybe even give her the signal that it is time for her to skedaddle, but she doesn’t do anything but snore softly through her open mouth. Is she this clueless with the other guys?

  After a few moments of staring daggers at her closely shut eyelids, I give up. I scoot myself over to the side of the bed and get myself up. It’s early still – probably only 5 or so. I should be sleeping last night’s ride off, but instead I was an idiot that took some company. I know better. After a turnout ride, I’m usually hyped up, amped up, ready to do some damage. Taking a broad from the club home is pretty much guaranteed to be bad news. They’re tired and run-down and this girl is no different. I’ve had her before.

  I groan as I emerge from the bathroom. She must have heard me leave. Now she’s sitting up near the top of the bed, her knees pulled to her naked chest. From this angle, I can just see the hint of curly pussy hair greeting me.

  Her cracking voice calls to me in the dark, “Noah, come back to bed. We got things to do.”

  I set down the glass of water I brought back with me on my dresser and stand my ground. “Get going, Roxanne. You know this ain’t a fuckin’ hotel.”

  “But I’m different. You know that.” She unwraps her arms, exposing her small, apple sized breasts to me. She’s young, perky, everything a club guy could want. And most of the men count down their days until it’s their turn to take her. But she’s vanilla. And once a girl’s been taken enough times, I’m ready to toss ‘em. No point in keeping bad pussy around.

  “Okay, Roxanne. Cut the shit. You know you can’t stay here. This ain’t your place, and it sure as shit ain’t your bed to sleep in. Get goin’.”

  She stands, her long, thin legs folding under her and those apple tits bouncing a bit from the motion. Her hips sway as they saunter in towards my direction. She lifts her arms above her head, bringing my eyes instantly to her chest. I can’t look away from them. They’re nearly perfect – just a little small for my taste. Still, I could suck on those perky pink nipples all night if I had the chance.

  Her naked form approaches me and reaches out a hand. She touches the black hair on my chest, running her fingers through it, slightly pulling at the edges. I stand still, trying to ignore the excitement bringing me to full attention. Her dark eyes flicker once, twice, three times, as she tries to focus on my face. Behind her sex-kitten bravado, I can tell that when she looks at me and my scarred face, she’s scared. I don’t blame her.

  Truth be told, I don’t treat women like her kindly. Not that I treat good women any better, mind. But she knows what she’s good for and what I want for her. Still, she gets off on it. And by the way her other hand is lingering between her thighs, I can tell that whatever danger she’s seeing in me is enough of an aphrodisiac.

  After a long second of her taking me in, she smiles coyly and says, “You’re right, Noah. That ain’t my bed, and I certainly shouldn’t be in it. But we don’t have to be in bed to do what we both know you want to do with me.”

  She doesn’t let me speak, which is good, ‘cause I don’t want to say a word anyway. She slowly pushes her hand down my chest towards my hips and down to my cock. It’s already bulging a bit as she places it in her cold hand. I have to grab on to the chest to steady myself as she pulls gently on it, bringing me closer to her. Her erect nipples graze my skin, and I can feel a bit of her belly against my thigh. She’s straddling one of my legs, enough for me to feel the hair covering her snatch.

  I get a small whiff of her hair – stale perfume, menthols, tequila. Even after an evening of rough sex, she still smells like every club girl I know – but it’s intoxicating nonetheless. And as she starts to move that hand up and down my shaft, I give in. What’s a man to do when it’s offered up on a silver platter?

  But when her lips come in for a kiss, I pull away. I’m not one of those guys who get off sucking face. I want what I want. And I want it now. Instead, I put my hand on her shoulders and force her down to her knees. She needs to concentrate on my needs, not on getting herself off. She places herself at my feet and I watch as her head slowly look up at me, finding my eyes in the darkness. Her face grins as she continues to stroke me.

  “Is this good, Noah?” she asks meekly, trying to play innocent.

  I’ll give her this – she ain’t a beginner at this sort of thing. She knows what to do with her hands as she begins alternating back and forth from the left and the right in a steady rhythm. My cock is responding by pulsating around her pumps. The motion grows faster and faster, and even I need to stagger out of her grip so I can rest my back against the cold plaster wall of my bedroom.

  She laughs as she follows me to where I've moved. That’s enough. This girl has had too much fun. As she stands, thinking that I’m done with her, I push her back down. Hard. She nearly flies to the floor with a thud, but she catches herself with her hands. I wrap and twist her long, black hair around my hand and order her head to look at me. With a growl, I say, “You fucking laughing at me? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  She doesn’t answer. She’s a good little servant. She wants this. She wants to get punished by the second in command. This is like biker club heaven for a low ranked pass on like her.

  I add, “Now, you’re gonna take my cock in your mouth and suck it like the slut you are. You got it?”

  I don’t let her say a word. I push her head towards my bulging, hard cock and let her suck me in. Her mouth is dry at first, but I can feel it become moist and soft with each of my thrusts into her. She gags and coughs as I go deeper but then steadies herself. She gets into it, rocking in and out towards me without me having to do the work. Her hands grip onto my thigh as she lets out a long moan. I pull tighter on her hair. I don’t need to hear her to get off.

  Her mouth takes me in as I push and she pulls. I can feel her tongue brush up against me with each motion. She’s getting to the bottom of my shaft now as I watch in satisfaction as she follows my lead. I hear her let out another moan and I push even harder to her, not caring if she's ready for it or not. She takes it over and over again until I’m through with her.

  I push her off of me, sending her backwards towards the ground. I don’t give her a chance to move on her own. Instead, I wrap my arm around her waist and stand her back on her feet and place her stomach and chest on my old oak dresser. I hear it creak against her waist, but it holds steady as I find her wet folds in the darkness, driving a finger deep into her. She lets out a yell and I react instantly. I place my hand around her mouth and then enter her. I can feel the deep, moist breaths of her cries against my hand.

  I ease into her, wanting
a taste. She’s soft and smooth. I can tell why the guys like her. She’s still just tight enough to have some traction, the good kind, the kind that puts the right friction against the flesh. I move faster, wanting to feel her folds tighten around me. I push hard, so hard the dresser almost tumbles to the ground with her on it, but I catch it with my free hand, the other still covering her mouth.

  I place the dresser back into place and then take a deep breath in. I don’t need to drag this out. I want to get off, and I want to get off in this girl. I go fast, pushing into her like I'm riding my bike – fast, furious, and without limits. She’s screaming more and more now as I pump my cock into her tight little hole, and I can’t hold her yells back with just my hand. Instead, my hand moves towards her neck, slightly choking her.

  She lets out another yell, and I’ve had enough. I pull her to standing so that my cock is still inside her. I grab a bandana from the top of my dresser and stuff it in her mouth as I place my hands on her hips and pull her up and down on my cock.

  I’m in control, total control. That is until my body tightens and my skin pricks. A warm feeling overtakes me and I let go of her. She falls back towards the dresser, exhausted. I pump in and out as I release myself into her, emptying every last bit of me into her stretched out vag. I can feel our juices rolling down hers and my leg.

  She removes the bandana from her mouth, spitting it out. After clearing her throat, she turns herself towards me, flipping herself back to face me, “God, that was amazing. I had to have cum at least twice. I love a rough guy.” She stands straight up and places her hand around my neck.

  I push her away, and grab my phone from under her. My eyes bulge as I look at the time. “Fuck! Get your clothes. It’s time for you to go.”

  She protests as I throw her a blue blouse she discarded earlier. “Come on, Noah… let’s do thi—”

  “Did you not hear me? Get the fuck out of here!” I grab my pants and slip them over my still dripping wet cock. I run down the stairs past the four rooms. Two of them still have men snoring loudly in it from last night’s activities. The couches and living room floor also are crowded by men in leather jackets as I step over a few of them on my way to the kitchen.

  I swing the door open as I hear a small voice cry out for me, “Daddy! We’re gonna be late!” Opal throws on a backpack over her shoulders as she waits impatiently for me to walk her the six blocks to school.

  Chapter 2 FAYE

  The capital of Illinois is _______________?

  I’ve read that question about twenty times and have yet to have one student write anything else but “Chicago” in that blank. My red pen is working hard today – not too pleased about that . I make a note in my small, black teacher’s notebook to revisit the difference between state capitals and big cities on Monday.

  After I finish grading the last test, I place everything in a neat, orderly stack. Each is in their place, in alphabetical order by last name. Then, I tuck them into the student’s individually color-coded file. Each file has a color-coordinated note from me about their grade and progress. Everything is exactly as it should be. Tidy, neat, sensible.

  I stare out at the empty desks in front of me, studying the uniformity. Three straight rows with straight lines. I even made “x” marks so students know where their seats should be placed if they scoot them together to do group work. Today, only one desk is out of place. I roll my eyes as I stand up from my teacher’s chair and walk towards Opal Cruz’s desk. This has got to be the hundredth time this year I’ve moved hers back in place.

  I look down at the wooden top. She’s managed to carve her initials in the wood with who knows what. Maybe scissors? It’s crude, but I can clearly make out a big, looping M and a jagged R . Just another thing to add into my book of what to talk about with her once lunch and recess are over.

  That reminds me that my lunch period is almost up. I only get a short amount of time to get everything I need done and ready for the second half of school, which basically leaves me zero time to eat. I quickly grab my wallet that’s hidden behind the placard that reads “MISS SPRINGER” in gold letters and walk out the door into the hallway of Washington Grade School.

  I always love walking outside the classroom between lunch periods. The hallways are relatively quiet this time of day. The little ones are napping away, tuckered out from an earlier lunch. The big kids down in the middle school wing, meanwhile, are still in their first block of courses. And the primary kids are on the other side of the building or outside for recess.

  ...except today, they’re not. As I head out into the hall, I enter into complete chaos. The hallway is absolute anarchy. A third grader comes running past me totally uncaring who I am. He’s shouting towards another third grader, “She’s gonna kill him! She’s gonna kill him! Go tell Patrick!”

  My stomach rumbles, but I can’t ignore that threat. There should be other teachers or supervisors to handle this, but from the looks of it and the sounds coming from around the corner of my classroom, I’m guessing none knows. Or, worse, maybe no one cares.

  I pull off my heels and run off towards them. They come to a stop in front of a group of about thirty other students who are already gathered in a circle next to the lockers. Fists are raised high as the kids cheer and clap wildly. I hear the all-too-familiar noise of a body being slammed into the metal locker. And then a small, shrill voice cries out, “Don’t you fucking talk about my mother like that, you asshole!”

  I waste no time, pushing myself through the kids. Once I get to the center, I watch for a moment as a small girl with dark curly hair and a tattered red sweater is straddling a boy about twice her size. Her fists are small, but they land several punishing blows to his face, connecting square on his nose and eyes. Small splatters of blood pool around the boy. Tears stream down his face.

  The girl shouts again at her victim, “Who do you think you are, Corey? Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re nothin’ , you worthless piece o’ shit! You fuckin’ hear me? Nothin’! ”

  She lifts another fist high as he turns his head quickly in anticipation. I've got just enough in me to grab her by the arm, taking her down next to him. I scream at the crowd, “You’ve got exactly one second to clear out before I assign all of you detention!” I watch the onlookers slowly file out, looking back at the girl, the boy, and me all crouched on the floor in exhaustion.

  “Opal Cruz!” I shout, but realizing I can’t let my temper get the better of me, I take a deep breath and continue more quietly, “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  “Miss Harvey!” Opal protests defensively. “Corey was talking shit about my mom, saying my dad killed her! He doesn’t know nothing!” She’s panting, trying to get every word out of her mouth as quickly as she can, but her work is done. The boy she beat up is in pretty bad shape. His face is already turning a sickening shade of purple, blue, and green. He can’t even defend himself; his mouth is too bloody to get out a word.

  I don’t have a moment to sort through any of this before I hear a familiar click of heels on the tile floor behind me. Then, a shout rises from the quiet, “Miss Harvey! What is going on here?” There’s a pause as I watch Principal Western kneel down and examine Corey. She then reels her head towards Opal and me noting how I’m still holding Opal in place. Ms. Western’s voice peeks as she exclaims, “Opal Cruz! I should've known…” Ms. Western speaks into her walkie talkie, requesting the security guard and the nurse be brought immediately to us.

  I stand, taking Opal with me. I get a second to whisper to her, just out of earshot, “Go back to the classroom. Don’t you dare go anywhere else. Wait for me there.” She runs off quietly, avoiding Ms. Western while her back is turned.

  The scene is picked up quickly as Corey is led away by Nurse Granville and Officer Oaks. The janitor arrives seconds later with a mop as the blood mixes with the white tile on the floor. Finally, Ms. Western returns her attention to me. “What happened here, Faye?”

  I hesitate, know
ing that what I'm about to say could've consequences way beyond my control, “I was walking to the teacher’s lounge for my lunch when I saw a few third graders running and shouting. I followed them and found Opal Cruz and Corey Matthews fighting. When I separated them, I sent the other kids back to recess and talked to Opal. She said it start—”

  Ms. Western interjects, uncaring what the rest of the story is, “I don’t want to hear excuses, Faye. This is Opal Cruz’ third fight this quarter. She's expelled.”

  “What!” My head races at her instant judgment, “You can’t expel her. Corey Matthews clearly started this by talking about Opal’s dead mom. There’s obviously something bigger going on here!”

  Besides being OCD about things like lines and color-coordinating, I stand up for my students, and I don’t back down. I don’t know much about Opal Cruz, but I know she has a tough life. And being someone who also lost her mom at a young age, I know how hard it is to be ten and motherless. This girl doesn’t deserve swift punishment; she needs understanding and guidance. And I’m not going to back down from this.

  But neither is Ms. Western, “Are you questioning my call, Faye? I'm the one who sets the rules. It’s your job to enforce them. If you can’t do your job properly, I suggest you start looking elsewhere for teaching positions!”