by Tia Siren
“That’s different,” Rocky said. “You want to fuck me.”
“Get out!” Jennifer yelled, trying not to wake up her son but unable to help it. Rocky stood.
“I can’t believe this. Blue balls for this shit? You owe me,” he said, and then he left.
Jennifer sat on her couch, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe what the biker had been thinking. Even worse, she didn’t know why her loins had begun to stir when he’d kissed her. She wanted him. She always had. But…she wasn’t ready. He was a bad boy. He would be rough with her. She didn’t need that. She needed Ryan.
When she got Jaxson to school, she called Ryan. He agreed to come over on his lunch break. She told him why she had been distant, what had happened. He held her. She kissed him. They made love. Afterward they lay together. He had been gentle, caring, sweet and tender. It had been what she’d needed, but it made her realize Ryan wasn’t the man she needed. Why couldn’t he look and act like Rocky but make love to her like he did? Couldn’t a good guy be a little bad? Or a bad guy be a little tender? Was that too much to ask for?
Ryan went back to work, and Jennifer knew she was going to break up with him. She needed a man who could keep her safe. She knew Ryan couldn’t. Sex had been the furthest thing from her mind as of late, but safety had been forefront in her mind. Somehow the two were mixing.
Jennifer didn’t like confrontation, something she had picked up by dating assholes. They were short tempered, and confrontation always led to fights, so she almost called Ryan when she knew he would be home from work. But she felt as though she owed the man more, so she went to see him after dropping Jaxson off with Barbara.
“Hey, hon,” Ryan said when he opened the door, but he must have seen something in her face, because he sighed. “Uh-oh.”
“How’d you know?”
“Go check in the mirror,” Ryan said glumly.
“Listen, it’s not going to work.”
“This afternoon…” Ryan said, but he trailed off, his words hanging in the air between them.
“I know,” Jennifer said. “You’re the best guy I’ve ever dated,” she added. “That’s no joke. I’m being serious.”
“Then why would it not work?”
“Maybe I’m not good enough,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re too good.”
“I’m too good to date?”
Jennifer sighed. “This is hard, all right, Ryan? Thank you for everything. You’re really something else, in a good way. You’re different than any man I’ve known.”
“I can give you time,” Ryan said. “I know what happened, and this afternoon, maybe we shouldn’t have, but you started it. I would wait; I will wait.”
“I don’t think you could keep me safe from that monster,” Jennifer finally said truthfully. “Maybe I need a monster of my own.”
And with that, she left the man, his mouth hanging open behind her, as though he were about to say something else. She didn’t give him the chance.
5
Finally, almost three weeks after she had been raped on the bar floor, Jennifer returned to Chuck’s. Brittany was behind the bar when she got there, and Andre was in the kitchen. He hugged her when he saw her.
“If I would have been here,” he started, but Jennifer smiled and shook her head.
“I know,” she said. “How’s the baby?”
Andre grinned. His wife had given birth less than two weeks before. “Fit as a fiddle,” he said. “You got to come by and see him, all right?”
“I will,” Jennifer said, and she went out behind the bar. Brittany gave her a hug too, but the younger woman didn’t know what to say, so she stayed quiet. Rose was at the bar, and she slid a shot across to Jennifer.
“On me, kiddo,” she said, and Jennifer took it, slamming the empty glass down on the bar when she was done. Her throat burned, but she started to laugh.
That night Rocky came in with a couple of his biker club pals. He paid Jennifer no mind, and she thought it would stay that way, but just after midnight he approached the bar and leaned against it.
“Can I talk to you?” he said.
“I’m a little busy.”
“No you ain’t. Come talk to me,” he said, and he reached for her hand.
“Out back,” she said with a sigh, not taking his hand, and then she disappeared into the kitchen, heading for the back door. Rocky went out the front and walked around the building.
“What?” Jennifer asked when she saw him. She was leaning against the wall next to the back door.
“I wanted to say sorry,” the biker said. “I was being an asshole.”
“You think?”
“I’m trying to apologize,” Rocky said, and she softened.
“All right,” Jennifer said. “I do appreciate what you did for me.”
“I would do anything for you,” Rocky said, and then he laughed. “Good lord, I sound like that dork you’re dating.”
Jennifer laughed and shook her head. “I broke up with him a couple of days ago.”
“How come?”
Jennifer paused for a moment, and then she shrugged. “He wasn’t you.”
Rocky tilted his head to the side and raised a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m an all right guy, you know,” he said. Jennifer laughed.
“No, you aren’t. How many times have you gone to prison?”
“I’m an all right guy for having gone to prison a couple of times.”
“You ever killed a man?”
“No,” Rocky said. “But the night’s young. I will kill that asshole when I find him. He might be long gone, though; they were heading out when I found him the first time.”
“Good riddance,” Jennifer said. “Let him go.”
“What if he comes back?”
“You better be there to protect me,” she said with a grin. Rocky stepped forward and they kissed.
He hung around Chuck’s that night and then followed her home on his bike. She asked Barb to keep Jaxson overnight, and then they went into the bedroom.
“Be gentle,” Jennifer said, as Rocky pulled his shirt over his head. “Can you?”
“Of course I can,” Rocky said, and then they were kissing again. He broke the kiss long enough to pull her shirt up and over her head, and then he was touching her back, his fingers moving up and down her spine, making her skin tingle. His touch was light and soft though his hands were that of a man’s, hard and calloused. She put her hands on his chest, felt his firm muscles there, and a warmth flowed through her crotch, soaking her panties.
Their kisses were tender and slow; their tongues danced together. Slowly they lay upon the bed, Rocky holding himself over her. She reached down, pulled off his belt, and unzipped his pants. He wriggled out of them, clad then in just his boxer shorts. Her fingers found their way through the flap at the front and wrapped around his member, half hard then, but growing rigid against her palm and fingers.
He tasted of beer and cigarettes, and Jennifer knew she was with the right man.
He got her bra off, and his eager lips found her nipples, but she could tell he was taking it slow, being gentle, and it meant so much to her. She smiled with her eyes closed and moaned in his ear. “Fuck me hard,” she said.
“Thank god,” Rocky said. He ripped her panties down her legs, tossing them over the edge of the bed. His kisses on her breasts became bites, piercing nibbles on and around her nipples that soaked her pussy even more. He had a hand down there, two of his fingers working in and out of her, the pad of his thumb grinding gently against her clit.
“Fuck me,” she moaned, and he did so. He pushed inside her, working at a furious pace, their skin slapping together, her juices flowing. Her breathing grew laboured, and he knew she was about to come, so Rocky leaned back, still fucking her but reaching down and rubbing her clit.
“Shit!” Jennifer yelled as an orgasm rocked her, his massive cock thudding in and out of her tight pussy as it co
ntracted around him. When she had come, he pulled out of her, standing and bending over to pick her up. He tossed her over his shoulder, her juices leaking from her snatch and running down her legs and onto his arms. They went to the living room like that, and he sat down in a chair next to the TV and he pulled her into his lap, facing away from him.
Jennifer braced herself with her hands on the arms of the chair and her feet on the carpet, her legs together as she sat on his cock. It pushed into her tight snatch, and she brought herself back up and then slammed down, riding him at a furious pace. He reached up and pulled her hair, yanking her head back until she screamed. His other hand slapped her ass, big and round and bouncing on his lap.
“Fuck me,” she screamed, over and over until he pushed her off him and then down to her knees. He stepped in front of her, and she opened her mouth so he could fuck her face. He held her head still, letting his hips control the pace. She was choking; her eyes burned as tears slid down her cheeks.
“Jerk me off onto your face,” he commanded, and Jennifer was being used once more. But the fact that he had been willing to be gentle, to go slow, it meant she was fine with it. She wanted him to use her for that; a woman should be used in the bedroom, at least sometimes. And sometimes a man should be used. Rocky was a man who was willing to go both ways. One wasn’t better than the other. She gripped him in her hand and jerked him until he came, his thick white come sloshing across her lips, her face, and up into her hair. When he was done, she smiled. She knew it was the beginning of a wonderful relationship.
*****
THE END
Outlaw Biker’s Baby
1
The young woman looked over the bike. She put her hand on her chin, the way she remembered her father doing when she went with him to used car lots. He was a car guy; he loved buying old beat-up ones, working on them for months at a time, and then selling them for huge gains. She stroked her chin though she obviously didn’t have a beard the way her cuddly bear of a father had.
Her name was Vanessa Keller, and her father had been dead for ten years by the time she was staring at the Harley at age twenty-two. His name had been George Keller, and from the time her mother passed away when she was two, it had been just the two of them until he died. Mother dead as a toddler, father dead at twelve, and then she had gone to live with Aunt Kathy out in Utah.
She hated Utah. It was too hot, too dusty, too boring. Well, mostly boring. From a young age and through her teen years, Vanessa had found one thing she loved about Harrington, Utah, the small town her aunt lived in: A massive biker gang, one of the largest in Utah, was headquartered in Harrington. They were the Pythons, and the men in the biker gang all wore vests or jackets with an insignia stitched onto the back, a massive green snake coiled around a skeleton.
There were no women in the club proper, though each man always seemed to have one on the back of his bike, thick girls with massive breasts and fat asses, long blond hair, and as many tattoos as the men had.
Vanessa didn’t look like that, not as a teenager and not as a young woman. She was taller, thinner. She had rounded feminine hips and a taut ass, but it wasn’t big. Her breasts were perky, perfectly formed, but she didn’t bust through her bras the way the biker chicks all seemed too.
She was beautiful, though. Her face was angular, perfect, her lips plump, her eyes a soft blue. She’d had a long string of boyfriends throughout school, but she always went for the bad boys, and things ended badly.
Yet still she was missing something. Those boys, the bad boys of high school, they weren’t bad enough. She had a thing for the bikers she saw all over town. Not the old ones, of course, the fat guys with their big white beards—she liked the young ones, thin and tanned, with hard eyes and harder muscles. That was what she wanted.
When she graduated, Vanessa had planned on moving far away, but something had stopped her. Instead, she went to a local college and got a degree in creative writing. She had always loved writing. She lived with her aunt while she went to school, commuting to the small campus every day. And then she graduated, and she didn’t know what to do.
She wanted to write, to be a writer, but she didn’t know what. She felt as though she had stories within her, stories she wanted to tell, but how to get started?
She wrote short stories and sent them into magazines and websites. Most were rejected, but some were published. Still, it wasn’t enough to live on. Aunt Kathy had always loved her and taken care of her, but Vanessa could tell her aunt would be happier if, now after college, she found her own place. Aunt Kathy had been married once, but divorced since before Vanessa’s father passed away. She dated off and on but had grown to enjoy a solitary lifestyle. She had no kids of her own and liked it that way. Vanessa sat down with the older woman and told her she would be getting a job and moving out. They hugged, and Vanessa felt a bit sad. She could feel the relief flowing off her aunt.
She needed a job before she could find her own place. There were small apartments down on Mill Street, which was the main street that ran right through the centre of Harrington. She could afford one if only she could find a job.
She was drawn to a few places downtown. There was a small antique store owned by an old woman who was an antique herself. Another place was Nathan’s, a small diner. Vanessa was pretty sure she would make a good waitress. The last place she was considering applying to was the Devil Dog. That was a seedy bar at the far end of Mill Street, a place usually full of bikers, and Python’s more often than not. She could tend bar there, she was pretty sure, and she would be around the guys she had lusted after for so long.
Of course, Vanessa didn’t want to be at any of those jobs for long; they would just do until she wrote that great American novel she had in her. She ended up applying to all three places, and all three interviewed her.
In the end she was offered a job by the old woman at the antique store and Chet, the grizzled man who owned the Devil Dog. She took the job at the Devil Dog.
The hours were tough, but she had always been a night owl anyways. She worked five days a week, all nights, going in at seven and getting off at three in the morning on Mondays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. She had back-to-back days off, which was nice, and it turned out to be sort of like the weekend.
Chet was a nice man, if a bit short with his employees. She didn’t get much guidance from him when she started beyond “show your tits off and you’ll get more tips.” Luckily Susan took Vanessa under her wing.
Susan was in her early fifties, and she had been a bartender at the Devil Dog for over fifteen years. She was pretty, but her lined face was evidence of a live hard lived. She had been an alcoholic, she freely admitted, though she had managed to be sober, even working in a bar, for over three years.
She spent a week showing Vanessa the ropes, and they often worked together. The only time Vanessa tended alone was on the ultra-slow Mondays, but she had one of the two cooks with her then—both of who were large, muscular men—in case anyone got out of line.
In the Devil Dog, people got out of line often. Most of the customers were bikers, their black and chrome hogs like beasts from hell when they pulled into the parking lot, and they were parked, slanting slightly against kickstands, in front of the long porch that wrapped around the front of the bar.
Most of the bikers were Pythons, but a few other clubs frequented the place as well. When that happened, the place was always likely to go up like a powder keg. It only took one wrong word, one sideways glance, and men would be throwing punches. The bikers took their clubs seriously, and a slight against one man meant a slight against his fellow club members too. Vanessa found the whole thing a little bit silly, and by her second week there she was wondering if she had made a mistake in picking the bar over the antique shop.
As ridiculous as the grown men playing war was, she had to admit that the younger men were exactly the type that got her motor revving, so to speak. There were strong and tough, and they weren’t afraid to
show their interest in her.
One of the most handsome, and one of the boldest, was a man in his mid-twenties named John. Of course, like most of the bikers who frequented the Devil Dog, no one called him by his real name. He had a nickname. Since starting her new job, Vanessa had been assaulted by idiotic nicknames every night. There was the Python with the bald head but walrus-like moustache called Snakebite, and a younger guy with glasses everyone called Dipstick. John, though, as far as biker nicknames went, his wasn’t bad: Tank. It wasn’t good, of course, but at least it wasn’t Dipstick.
Vanessa was fairly sure she knew why he was called Tank. His arms were massive, barely constrained by the sleeves of the leather jacket he always wore. His pecs pressed against the thin material of his T-shirts, and his legs were thick like tree trunks. He was a muscular man, and Vanessa was sure Tank could best any man in the bar when it came to a fight or feat of strength.
Tank had taken a liking to Vanessa. She had seen him with women before, pretty but overdone young girls with massive tits and short skirts. Vanessa knew she was prettier, and she had heeded her boss’s advice and bought a few low-cut shirts when she was hired, but she still was restrained when compared to Tank’s girls. He cycled through at least three, and they would come into the bar with him and giggle and laugh as he pulled them onto his lap, where they would grind their pert asses against his cock through his jeans.
The young bartender found herself growing jealous whenever she saw that. She yearned to be pulled onto his lap; she yearned to feel his dick grow hard beneath her. No matter if he was with a girl or not, when Vanessa worked, Tank was sure to spend some time at the bar, bullshitting with her.
One Saturday, after she had been working at the Devil Dog for almost three months, she finally gave in to him. It was late, nearing three, when the bar shut down and the bikers had to go find a bed to sleep it off in. Tank had come in with a girl, a pretty little blond thing named Tiffany, but she had drunk too much, throwing up, and had been taken home by a friend of hers. Since then Tank had been at the bar, smiling at Vanessa, flexing his muscles, and coming on to her in his own special way.
