What we also hadn’t planned on was Dawn walking in an hour before the store opened.
And of course, all of that happened. So now, two days in a row, Dawn knew without a doubt that we were treating the bookstore as our personal fuck space.
“Jesus Christ,” she said, seeing us on the floor. “Don’t you two have apartments? Like, one for both of you? You know you can fuck on a bed, right?”
Neither of us had the wherewithal to say anything. Her entry had woken both of us from a very deep sleep.
“Fine. You know what? Fine. Go ahead and fuck. I don’t care. We’re going out of business anyway. I’ll pay you as I can, but...the both of you ought to look for something new.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean that short of a miracle, we’re not going to be open past the end of this month, okay? That’s what I mean. I mean there’s just no money anymore. All right?”
But there would be. I held Mallory close to me, feeling the softness of her skin on mine. There would be money coming into this store, and I knew how to make it happen.
Other Books In This Series:
Owning My Boss
Owning My Ex
# # #
Gang Up: Overload
This hot saga centers on a dystopian town where the men are all huge, endowed biker studs and the women are eagerly fertile, servile babes aching to be the chosen mate of the biggest hunk around. When a new gang shows up on their turf, a love quadrangle explodes...and in every story in this series, the only way to solve the problems started is through an immense gangbang. It continues the babymaking gangbang action in “Gang Up: Lust War” and “Gang Up: The Big Gang Theory.”
It was close to done now. Brall’s men had been fucking girl for more than an hour, and with there being six of them and only one of her, she was finally starting to tire out. They worked inside a circle of small white stones, standing on thick jet black sand in a small valley between the rocky, desert hills beyond the town of Temple.
Not long ago, the girl was a prospect for marriage in Temple. Might be she could have ended up with some rich merchant or even a tradesman of some kind, or even married into the Family—the gang that owned Temple. But she was a gorgeous girl. Thick-waisted, with enormous breasts and a face that could melt any heart, save possibly for Brall’s. But even he had smiled at her once or twice as she served him drinks in her tight little corsets and tiny skirts. A rare honor, one she bragged of often. Not many earned Brall’s favor. Fewer kept it for long.
Brall was an enormity. Just over seven feet tall, his weight far past three hundred pounds. All of it muscle and bone. His hair thick and dark, running down halfway past his shoulders in a tangled mess. A beard gathered densely around his face. Under the night sky, he was shirtless, wearing only ragged canvas jeans that wrapped tight around the bulging muscles of his thighs. His immense chest gleamed in the light, thick with sweat from the heat pouring out off the bonfires they had arranged.
Vivienne was the girl’s name. She had stood up well to the indoctrination. Six of Brall’s finest men had pounded her voluptuous body and for every step of the way she had urged them on, swallowing their cum deep and moaning with hot lust as more and more of their cum spilled on her devilishly hot curves.
There was a glazed, orgasmic smile on her face. It had been there since the men started. She had been on her knees, calling out for more and more men. Only three men, technically, were required to perform the rite of passage on a new girl, making her officially one of the Cauldron Girls. Most girls asked for four, to ensure that all knew how enthusiastic they were about being owned and fucked by the soldiers of the Cauldron.
But Vivienne had asked for six huge studs to break her body and mind. That was as many as Brall had ever seen. Only a few others had been able to manage so many. Vivienne loved it. All those cocks pounding into her at once. All of her lusciously developed curves covered in a gooey, shiny mixture of cum from several biker warriors. Her thighs glistened with the hot substance, her mouth and face was sticky with it. None of the men seemed to mind all the cum everywhere. They had seen it all before, on different girls. Hell, they had participated in it—each soldier got to indoctrinate sooner or later.
This, the gang bang, was the indoctrination. Claiming Vivienne. Making her a member of the Cauldron and the Cauldron alone. After this, all of Temple would know that no other sort of man could ever have her. Only the Cauldron. And if anyone tried, they’d be strung up and left for dead in the middle of town, where everyone would see, and everyone would get the message.
Because Vivienne was gorgeous. Gorgeous girls in Temple belonged to the Cauldron, as far Brall was concerned, and the Cauldron belonged to Brall. They rode for him, they fought for him, and they killed for him, and nobody nowhere would ever stand in the way of what he wanted.
Yesterday, the leader of the Family had died. An old man. His time past due in this overheated wasteland, every breath a labor and every movement worked through a fog of radiation and terror.
His strength was what had kept the Family together; his confidence the mesh by which their various equipments found a common holding. Temple was a battleground, a fertile ground in a land where there was almost no fertile ground left. It was fertile for farming, and so fertile for commerce—and for Brall, fertile for drugs, guns, and trade.
He and the Family had battled much, but the old Skull leader, Titus, had kept him at bay. A crafty one, Titus. Always with three or four extra plans for every move Brall made.
No matter, now. Brall’s sights were on Temple for good. And yes—Titus’s daughter, Abigail, who had denied him for so long.
Vivienne collapsed in the stone circle, the last man finally done with her, ejaculating hard down her thoroughly-fucked throat. Two other men stroked themselves off on her face, all that cum hitting her all at the same time. Vivienne shivered in bliss, suckling up as much as she could, and then fell. The men wiped themselves off on her lovely body, a few giving her an admiring pat on the ass or hair.
“She’s in,” Brall said to his second-in-command, Carthage.
Carthage, a huge black man made for wars and warring, nodded and signaled to the troops. The initiates began to clean it all up.
soldiers, his veterans, had women at their sides already, women who passionately stroked their men’s cocks while they had witnessed the indoctrination. These women had been indoctrinated themselves, willingly. They’d give up anything to have it happen again, to feel the lust of so many primal warriors piling into their hot, fertile bodies once more. Brall’s power over the men, therefore, gave him terrible power over the women. At any time, he could give any last one of them their true heart’s desire in a furious gang bang.
But Abigail yet eluded him. Daughter of another gang. Owned by the Family.
He would take her, and then she would be his, forever.
* * * * *
Thunder of dozens of engines powered through the cemetery air. The old King was dead. All that was left now was to crown the new one.
All atop an old hill outside town they had gathered. Family and Kin and citizens alike. All of them paying their respects for the old ways. None of them knowing yet that new ways were upon them, seizing their underbellies hard and fast and furious. The day was hot, but the days were always hot out there in the apocalyptic wastes leftover after the Long War.
Several hills formed a perimeter around Temple, part of its natural defenses. The cemetery had been started long ago by Titus, the very man buried there that day, Case’s father, and it had started off as small thing on the hill, barely taking up a portion of its space. Now the graves were overcrowded and often the Family would not bother to report the dead of those who were not members of their warrior circle. The Family were the only ones who mattered, after all. Titus had taught them that.
Bikes made the din of the day, crowding out every noise. No one could talk and hear themselves; it was the entire Family warrior retinue revving their bikes, sendin
g Titus off to the afterlife. They would go on for five or ten minutes yet and then file back down to the Family’s Compound and garage their bikes. After that, there would be a lot of drinking and fucking and then the men would file back out once again, but this time into the wastes to retrieve wealth for the town of Temple.
The grave was nice enough and the tombstone made from real granite, not limestone like so many of the others circulated upon the embankment. Case was pleased with the arrangement, if not his father’s death. It had not come at a good time for him. Probably a murder never did, though.
If he could, Case would throw all of his resources at finding out who was responsible for his father's murder. But there was no time for that—the fabric of society in Temple was fragile, and always needed more attention.
Another two years, maybe, and Case would have had everything well in hand. Brall and his damnable Cauldron would have been taken care of, Troy would have been quietly killed off, and he would have married Abigail the very same week his father died. That had always been his mind.
The patrons began to file back out down toward the town. Case stayed at the grave, watching them go. Abigail had gone with them, had gone with her mother, Sandra, before leaving Case with a short hug around his muscled form, which was all she was able to give him in public. It was not enough. He wanted all of his stepsister, and he wanted her all the time.
Then Case was left alone at the top of the hill with a shovel in his hand and a hole to fill and nothing but time to do it with. Case shoved his boot into the dirt, walking around the grave. They had buried the old man with his bike—or the shell of it, anyway. The engine was too good to throw away and probably Brall’s people would have tried to steal out the grave if anything valuable was left behind. The Cauldron might have had a code, and were damnably disciplined, but they didn’t have morals.
Even with his size, which was considerable, Case had plenty of stamina. Plenty of endurance. His muscles were large and the leather vest denoting his status as a leader of the Family fit tight around bulging lats and rock-like trap muscles. He was about six foot five, his body tapered and almost deceptive in the way sometimes he would look lean, even though every part of his body was overloaded with hard, dense, work-earned muscle.
It took Case a good hour to fill in the hole and then he rode back down to town himself, following the same path as everyone else. The streets of Temple were paved with broken concrete, holes layered over with gravel and sometimes black pitch. There were a few sturdy buildings—the bank, the armory, the eponymous temple itself—but besides that everything outside the Family’s Compound was made to break. Boards and clay and tents. On the far east side of Temple, outside the town's walls, was the shantytown where Brall and his Cauldron reigned. He was a problem, and Case had known it to be so. But Troy wanted to deny the collected power of so many people under such a man as Brall, and Titus had lost his teeth with age. Once upon a time, it would have been war, right away, after the first suspicion that Brall had taken a trade shipment from the Family.
Old days, gone away now. But Case would start new days, and better times. All he needed was a little luck.
The Family's Compound was a series of squat concrete buildings reinforced with steel and layered over again with lead. A safe place from the ever-oozing radiation of the world outside.
The bar in the Compound, the Mud Pit, was open to pretty much anyone with money. Traders would come in and spend their dime there on the Family’s whores and good moonshine. But anyone who wasn’t Family, or didn’t give the Family good regular money, took their chances by being present. Death was common, and fights more common still.
From just outside the poorly-painted building, Case could hear the reverie. Stories being swapped by old timers and veterans at the near end of their riding time themselves. Lots of swashbuckling bravado being spouted about Brall and the Cauldron by the younger men—each one to a man, almost, being one of Case’s men.
The men were divided up now between belonging to Case and belonging to Troy. Troy had been Titus's second-in-command, and had earned much loyalty from his duty to the Family. And always, there was the talk of his sister, Robin—probably the most beautiful girl in the entirety of the wasteland.
But Case and Troy were at odds to running the family. Case knew it; Troy knew it; everybody knew it. They had to consolidate power soon or else all of Titus's work would be for nothing. The peace was uneasy between the Family and the Cauldron. It rested only on the fact that not a single drop of blood of either side had been shed so far. Not even in bar fights. Brall’s men were disciplined, Case had to give the man that.
The second Case walked inside the Mud Pit, the swarming chatter reduced to a somber rumble. Case pointed to the bartender and ordered everyone up another round on the house—the whole night on Case, as a matter of fact—and there was a cheer went up behind him as he walked to the back.
Troy sat at one end of the bar and Sandra the other. Both blamed one another for Titus’s death, gunned down in the open street. No witnesses—and in the town of Temple, no witnesses only meant that everyone who knew was paid off, loyal, or dead. Temple was too small for no witnesses.
The idea was that Troy had murdered Titus to gain power; or that Sandra had murdered Titus to put her stepson in power, who she had always favored so much. Case rejected both of these hypotheses; too distasteful by half. But Case would have to deal with the dislike between Troy and Sandra, and soon. They weren’t the allies he wanted, but there was a war coming with Brall.
Like Titus always said, you don’t go to war with the army you want. You go to war with the army you have.
* * * * *
There was a cloud of grief hanging over The Mud Pit, and Robin wanted no part of it. She lived in a cloud of grief. For everyone else to be feeling sad only made her feelings seem all the more disingenuous. But there was no one to talk to—no one who understood, anyway.
Abigail was Robin’s best friend, and her advice wasn’t ever any good.
“Just kill him.” Abigail would say. “I’ve fought off five or six guys like that. No one seemed to mind.”
“You weren’t killing your own clan, though.”
Abigail would grin at that. As if maybe to say—just give me the chance.
Across the bar, she saw Troy looking at her again. Eyes roaming up and down her body. Her stepbrother was an enormous brute, thicker almost than he was tall and far too cunning to ever take for granted. If Robin had a little more time, in a year or two, she might have been able to take over for Sandra’s position as auditor, deciding where to send out the Family for loot. And she might have decided to send Troy out into the White Waste, a heavily radiated area blasted by nuclear energy where no one ever returned...
A comforting thought, but not a real one. Troy glanced at her again. Robin caught his glance this time, glaring back at him and then rolling her eyes. He just grinned.
Robin was used to male attention. She was a looker, or so Troy said. So many men said. Blue eyes. Her hair a deep, dark chestnut color and vibrantly thick. Her body was athletic, toned with muscle from the hard-living in the wastes, but she had trouble finding clothes to fit over the impressively large bust she sported. Even now, sitting at the bar after a funeral, her button-up blouse only managed to close just above the line of her nipples, leaving a long line of enticing cleavage open for any prying eyes. Her neck, slender and fair, was like a handle for any of the strong men in the bar to pin and fuck her against the wall until she was begging to be bred for years and years, begging to be relieved of all thoughts of responsibility and worry.
And she knew it. A Family girl knew exactly what her place was, or else.
Titus had taken a soft spot for Robin. Protected her for all the years that Troy had wanted to fuck her brutally and invoke his right of clan on her body. But now Titus was dead.
The right of clan was taken from time to time to ensure that a family’s bloodline was protected. It would never result in marria
ge—that was strictly forbidden. Families, even stepsisters and stepbrothers, could not be allowed to intermingle. After the Long War had devastated so much of the population—Robin had heard estimates as high as ninety-five percent of everyone just being gone—the humans left had a population to rebuild. That couldn’t happen well by intermixing self-same bloodlines through marriage.
But. A bloodline could be continued, if it was small enough and its clan felt threatened, by invoking the right of clans, whereupon a stepfather could take a stepdaughter, or a stepbrother a stepsister, solely to get them pregnant.
Robin knew that Troy jerked off to just such a thought. She knew it because he told her almost every day, that sick grin on his face.
She had lived in fear. Now, with Titus dead, she lived in terror.
Case walked across the bar and spoke to his stepmother, Sandra, and then across the other way and spoke with Troy.
Sandra was a small woman with deeply tanned skin. Nearing forty, she was almost the oldest of any woman that Robin had seen in her life. Easily the oldest who looked as good as she did. Her hair, dark and full, still retained some shine, and her skin had not yet developed overmuch the telltale wrinkles from years of radiation exposure. She stayed inside as much as she could and lived easy, ensuring to only eat the crops nearby which had been crafted with safe conditions. It was an expensive way to live, to be sure, but the wife of the Family’s leader could afford it.
Titus had run the overall decisions of the Family. Who to attack. Who to trade with. Where to fortify and where to retreat. The Family’s region was nearly the size of the entire Texan panhandle, with several towns under their purview, and all of their strength relied on Titus’s clear decision making. But it had been Sandra who ensured that warriors were fed, that supplies were delivered, and yes, that women were passed out equally. Warriors had to be taken care of with plenty of fresh, willing pussy.
Nadia Nightside's Best of 2015 Page 10
