Savage Angels: A Savage MC Erotic Romance

by Alice May Ball

  © Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014-2015

  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.

  Dedication

  for those who have ridden on

  and for all those who ride still,

  especially for those who give

  help and inspiration.

  Love, Alice

  Angel

  I wanted tonight to be the best that it could possibly be, something really special, for him as well as for me. That way, even if he killed me, at least I’d have tonight to remember as the lights all went out.

  If he knew what I’d done, I didn’t think that Cox would ever forgive me. I doubt it. Bikers don’t do much forgiving, and they’re even less likely to forgive a woman.

  We hadn’t put on the light in his upstairs room at the clubhouse, and the sun was going down. The fading sunlight that sloped in through the window splashed his hair with a golden glow.

  Watching his back, the Savage MC colors on his black leather cut, the denims loose over the muscular symphony of his tight, round ass. Knowing what I knew, I was on fire for him.

  I wanted that big, hot, wild intimacy, that sense of being lost, that feeling of falling, going over the edge. Falling though the fire, like we were the fire and the world would burn away around us. I called his name,

  “Cox?” and he turned slowly, the black leather creaked as he looked at me from under that unruly dark blond mop. He said my name back, “Nikka?” my stomach still dropped every time my name came out of Cox’s mouth.

  That look in his pale blue eyes, somewhere between rage and hunger, it always turned my knees to water, made my breath catch in my chest. I wanted to speak but the words clogged in my throat.

  So badly I wanted to explain things, but I didn’t know where to start, and I was afraid I’d say something there’d be no going back from. That I’d tell him something that would be the end of it all.

  I reached my arms towards him, but that doesn’t work with Cox. You have to be clearer. More... definite. I took a step towards him. The light from the window was sloping and fading, and it made the shadows deep and dramatic on Cox’s face as the sun turned the sky red outside.

  Coming closer, I felt him breathe. I felt the heat of his body. The swell of his powerful chest. I felt his heart pound.

  I said, “It doesn’t matter, Cox. Really it doesn’t.” Our eyes locked, “It doesn’t even matter if it’s only ever this one more time. This is now. Be with me. Now.”

  I looked at him as I put my hands on his hips. I searched the expressions that flashed through his eyes. Held him firm as I leaned closer towards him and felt all the muscles at the tops of his thighs slowly move.

  I said his name again, “Cox,” and I began to lower my knees. He blinked through a look like thunder as he held my shoulder and stopped me. A biker turning down a blowjob? This must be getting serious.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe he really was afraid of becoming too serious with me. All that talk about ‘old ladies,’ there was always a catch in his voice when he said it. He could never even say the phrase in front of me without getting into some kind of an explanation.

  Was he acting out of his concern for my feelings? The Vice President of the Savage MC? It seemed unlikely. But this man Cox, he was a mass of contradictions. Even if he did accept me, took me as his old lady, it would protect me from the attention of other club members, but it wouldn’t give me much in the way of rights.

  He would still be free to act in whatever ways he chose. In reality, it seemed as though all that it would mean for me was a lot of obligations. But I knew that I wanted it, deep down inside. I wanted the bond. The bond with him.

  I moved to stand a little closer. Looked up into his eyes. Wanting him. His head bent towards me and his lips came close to mine. Our mouths opened. He held the back of my head and his eyes flickered all over my face, from my eyes to my mouth, my neck, back to my eyes. Back to my mouth.

  Our breath touched and, as I breathed in to taste him, his lips touched mine. Our tongues met, like little children meeting, little children kept apart, but for no reasons that they knew. The softness and moisture of our mouths spoke for us. His lips and mine locked and there was nothing childish in the ways that our bodies wrapped and meshed and entwined.

  His low voice was firm. He said, “This is all too hot, too fast, Nikka. There’s been noise in at the club council table. People are wary about having the police chief’s daughter so close to club business.”

  “But I can help the club. You’ve seen that already.”

  “You helped us out of some trouble with the police, it’s true. But some say that we would never have had that trouble if you hadn’t have been here.”

  I looked in his eyes as he said, “Nikka, it isn’t only about what I want.” I took his hand,

  I told him, “I know.”

  We Still Kill the Old Way

  The night that all the damned trouble got started I was still new to the clubhouse. Not quite as green as that young tush, the redheaded girl with the big bouncing puppies fighting to get out of her tied up gingham shirt, the girl who was sliding her pert ass in those tiny denim shorts along the bench towards Snori and Trols, the two big Norwegian bikers.

  Snori, like a man mountain with a red forest from under his nose and down to his chest and a pink, pointy peak on top of his head. Trols, smaller, wiry, with black hair and a mustache that both are too black to be for real and mean, narrow eyes.

  The redhead shook her shoulders some, lifted her cascading curls, then she leaned over to Snori while she looked up at Trols. She grab herself a red bush of Snori’s huge beard, slid her fingers inside his plaid shirt, run them around in some chest hair.

  She leaned her hand on Trols’ thigh, dragged her nails up the inner seam. In no time she had the fronts of those two pairs of jeans open and two fat, angry hunks of manhood rose out, long and preening proud in the club lights.

  All the confidence she had in those big, sultry eyes, you knew she was going to have a couple of tricks to show off. A party piece or two. Smart money says that she can roll the muscles in her throat up and down while something keeps her windpipe open, real wide. We’d soon see.

  She grabbed Snori’s cock, while she pushed her creamy tits out towards Trols’ face. He got his nose in between them, lifting them out of her push-up. Sucking on them. While she stroked and pulled on Snori’s hard cock.

  The bikers cackled and laughed like schoolkids. Only time a biker’s happier than when he’s about to get his dick sucked is after he’s got all the pipes on his bike cleaned out.

  Norwegian bikers are just like American bikers, it turns out. Only difference I’ve seen is that they’re even more vicious and way more ugly.

  I’d overheard Cox talking with Bogart, the Savage MC president. The Norwegian biker club Kaos Anarki brought a shipment. Guns from NATO, out of Afghanistan, and Russian grenade launchers and other heavy weapons from Georgia and Belarus. Big business for the club, and the party in the clubhouse was in their honor.

  Cox steered me to the big table away from the center of the room. At the head of the table was the club president, Bogart. Tall, broad and very handsome under his shades, he had a tattoo on his cheekbone of the dagger from the
club’s colors and a high, tight pony tail. Maybe the oldest man in the club, he must have been in his late forties at least. Still a very handsome guy, with a solid assurance in himself. Maybe like Cox, only a much older version of him.

  When Cox introduced me to Jurgen and Bent, the two senior bikers from the Norwegian club, he told them that I was his old lady. That got Bogart’s attention and Jurgen was quick to pick up on it. “Oh, you sure about it, Cox?” Bogart watched Cox as he told Jurgen,

  “I’m sure, brother.”

  Bent said, “Shame. She’d be a great asset to the club if she weren’t.” Cox took it like it was a compliment, and I didn’t say anything. My eyes kept on trying to connect with Cox’s, but he was all wrapped up in the business of making the Norwegians feel at home.

  Hearing him say call me his old lady made my heart leap, but it was so far away from what he’d been saying to me upstairs. Meanwhile Cox’s attention wasn’t on me at all.

  He was holding the head of the table with the club president, and they were entertaining important foreign guests. Every part of the club business was a serious matter for Cox. The only thing more important to him was the care and maintenance of his bike. As he talked to the Norwegians, Nikka saw an authority, a different kind of strength in him. Yeah, maybe like a younger version of Bogart. Fresh and new.

  Maybe the bouncy redhead wasn’t so green after all. She had something about her, a professional poise. The way she stroked Snori’s cock, slower and slower, while Trols got hot pulling on his own rod and watching her suck on Snori. Looked like she could be in control of that situation.

  She bobbed down, a cock in her mouth and a cock in her hand. The bikers’ hands meanwhile were on her tits and cramming into her little shorts. The big guy Snori’s hips pushed his cock into her mouth while his fingers pressed greedily into her hot little wet pussy.

  Her head lolled back, her eyes rolled up-wards and she bit her lip. Then she squeezed her eyes shut as the biker’s hand went faster into her pants. A dark patch spread under where she sat on the bench. She writhed and moaned and her head thrashed and her hips bucked on Snori’s hand.

  She got the two guys standing, she went down on her knees and got ready to suck them both off.

  Her lips slid over Trols’ cock first and her little pink tongue wriggled out along the bottom of it. Tickled his nuts as her head bobbed and she got him deep into her throat.

  He had to take the huge serrated knife out of his belt. The evil blade glinted menacingly as he laid it down, gently like it was some religious piece.

  The guy’s jaw worked as he reached for her hair, but she was onto the other one. No matter, since Snori had a fistful of her hair he shoved her head onto his bro’s cock. Bikers love to share.

  She sucked expertly on them both in turn, taking them into her wet mouth, lifting her eyes up to theirs as she blew them with soft, wet friction. Then Snori reached down to lift her ass and slipped her little shorts down to her thighs.

  He rubbed his hand between her legs, making her wetter and wetter. Her head bobbed harder and faster on Trols’ cock until Snori jammed the head of his cock into her little pink ass. Then she straightened up, her eyes and her mouth wide.

  Snori lifted her by the tops of her thighs, pulling them apart as he pulled her down onto his fat cock, and Trols moved in between her wide open legs.

  Trols’ cock slid into her pussy as Snori was reaming her ass, and her eyes and mouth fell wide. Bikers all around the clubhouse bar were stamping and shouting as her head lashed from side to side and the two big Vikings slammed into her. Chains jingled in rhythm and the wooden clubhouse floor shook with the stamping of heavy boots.

  Hacker’s unruly mop of straw-colored hair bobbed through the crowd and he came with a bottle of bourbon to join our table. Younger than Bogart, about Cox’s age, Hacker was the man Cox was closest to, the one he trusted most in the club. When Cox was out on club business, Hacker was the man he most often took with him.

  Hacker gave a hug to each man at the table before he sat. He greeted me with a lift of his hand and said my name. “Hey, Hacker,” I said. Sometimes people called him ‘Hacks.’ He didn’t like that, so I didn’t do it.

  Bogart lifted a shot glass and said, “Here’s to the successful partnership of our two clubs. Let’s make it the first of many.” Someone said something about hands across the water. The Norwegians drank, but they didn’t say anything.

  Two prospects were at the table with us. Cap was young, good-looking with an easy smile. Toned and muscular and a promising prospect, by what Cox had told me. He had his head shaved into patterns.

  I remember Cap said that when he earned his top rocker, got the patch as a full member of the club, then he’d get the Savage MC colors tattooed on his head. Somebody said there might have to be a council meeting on it, because that had never come up before.

  Beanie, the other prospect was more broad and round, with his black hair in a short marines style cut, but with little red, white and blue points. Among the older bikers, these two prospects looked like a new generation, like a step for the evolution of the club.

  Talk at the table was some bragging, some bonding and some one-upmanship, like it always was, only tonight, with foreign guests, it was all on a more intense level.

  Turns out the Norwegians weren’t too crazy about our bourbon, and they pulled out bottles of some thick, clear, totally lethal stuff called Aqua-Vite. They were pretty happy with the clubhouse girls, though.

  Those Scandinavians, they loved to tell tales. Whatever they wanted to say, it came out piece by piece, like a drama. A really long drama in seven series’ of thirteen episodes. Jurgen was talking,

  “American sanctions, they are efficient and professional. They’re done, almost always like the mob do it. Tidy, close up assassination. Head shots, two bullets. One front to back, one in the side, left to right.”

  Cap asked him, “Is it the same if they’re back to front instead and – the other way, which was it? Right to – I mean, does it...?”

  “Ja,” said Jurgen, “has to be the right way. And it matters what order they’re fired in.” Everybody could see that Jurgen was pulling the prospect’s chain,

  “But still you have to say the special spell. Or they’ll come back to haunt you.”

  Cap was pale.

  Everybody laughed, drank and slapped Cap on the back. He just looked around, confused.

  Beanie said to Jurgen, “You guys must never have seen any of Butcher’s work,” and the atmosphere at the table chilled before he finished the sentence, “He’s not neat and professional he’s more... what would you say, Bogart?”

  “Jurgen and Bent knew Butcher in Iraq, and they’re probably as happy to forget about him as we would be,” and he gave Beanie a long look.

  Jurgen picked up and went on, “Ja, but Scandinavians, our culture goes back to the ancient times. Times when we carried civilization across the seas and oceans. We still kill in the old ways.”

  Cap was laughing, “By ‘civilization’ you mean the looting, raping and pillaging that the Vikings are so famous for.”

  Jurgen’s smile melted away and his voice flattened out, “Don’t fucking call us Vikings, yank,” and Bent’s hand was on a huge, wide hunting knife in his belt. It looked about a hundred years old.

  Cox changed the subject, told Bent that he wasn’t too clear on Scandinavian geography. Bent said, “Okay, brother, it’s no problem. I’ll tell you this once and you’re never going to forget,”

  These Norwegians were quick to anger and hard to read. I couldn’t tell if he was getting ready to tell a long Viking saga or if he was about to pull a gun.

  “Here it is, okay, next time you look on a map, Scandinavia is Europe’s cock, alright? Norway is the top half and Sweden is the bottom half.”

  Jurgen joined in, “Norway is the helmet. Sweden is the saggy foreskin.”

  Laughing hard, Bent said, “and Finland is the ball sack.”

  Cox, Bogart and H
acker laughed too. Bogart said, “What’s Denmark?”

  Bent and Jurgen looked at each other very seriously, then turned back to Bogart and said together, “Spunk.” There were back slaps all round, and another round of bourbon refills.

  I heard Jurgen tell Hacker, “This run is worth it for only the smoke. If we come here and we get only the smoke, I’m happy. There is nothing in Europe like this good, fresh grass. Almost everything is either dry African shit or that indoor grown skunk.”

  Bent leaned across the table, “Ja, bloody Dutch hydroponic crap, grown in plastic tomato tunnels by piggy-eyed geeks.”

  From the next table over, I caught Lump’s voice. Lump was short, but big and round. He always claimed he was all paratrooper muscle, although I couldn’t see what kinds of exercise would build that much stomach and ass muscle.

  Even for a biker, Lump was, to say the least, insensitive, and he was holding court with Chiz, big, bald and bulging, and Mo. Stoned, bearded Mo. Maybe Lump was making a show for them. The older and more senior bikers, they often get around a couple of drinks and they love to be giving out their wisdom and instruction to whoever will listen.

  Lump was the only charter member apart from Bogart who wasn’t dead or in jail. Not counting Butcher, of course. The rasp of Lump’s voice sawed through the air, “Damnit, man, their English. I can’t hardly understand a word they say,”

  Chiz joined in, “Even their names, man. ‘Trols,’ ‘Bent,’ what the fuck?” then their voices were rising,

  “What about ‘Snori’?”

  Chiz said, “‘Trols,’ man, I mean, really, ‘Trols’?”

  If I could hear it well enough, then so could Jurgen and Bent. I was thinking about shifting location when I saw that Cox and Hacker were already looking to move, too. We all got up, just as Jurgen and Bent were moving to the next table.

  Lump was saying, “Man, whoever heard of an angel called ‘Bent’?”