Tainted Rose

by Abby Weeks

A moment later, Rose felt Rust’s body press up behind her. She’d never been penetrated by two men at the same time before. She was terrified of what might happen. She had no idea of what to expect. Already, Murdoch’s fat, long dick was deep inside her pussy. Now Rust was behind her, pressing his cock against the crack of her ass.

  “You’re going to have to lube her up, cowboy,” Serge said, laughing.

  Rose kept her eyes closed. Murdoch stopped kissing her and she could finally breath. She waited to see what Rust was going to do to her. She felt something soft and wet touch against the very center of her anus.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder. Rust was down on his knees, licking her asshole. She gasped in shock. She hadn’t expected that.

  Her eye caught Serge’s and for a moment they looked right at each other. She couldn’t believe that he was allowing this to happen. She wanted to shout at him. How could he do this to her? How could he allow this to happen? But she knew there was no point. She knew that he would only laugh. Of course he could do this. She was just a possession to him. Everything that happened to her was just a game for his amusement. She belonged to him and he could rape her, he could hurt her, he could even kill her if he wanted. She was nothing.

  She looked at Serge as Murdoch’s cock began to slide back and forth very slowly, in and out of her pussy. He was swaying her a little so that she would slide up and down on his cock. At the same time, Rust continued probing her anus with his tongue, licking her in rapid little circular motions.

  With the cocaine flowing through her, she didn’t quite feel herself. She was confused. She was terrified, she wanted desperately to get out of that situation, but because of the drug she wasn’t in full control of her body. She could feel that she was getting wetter, getting hotter. The sensation was overpowering her ability to resist and her body was beginning to respond to all of the stimulation. She found herself rocking with Murdoch, moving back and forth with him, allowing his penis to slide in and out more freely and easily. She stopped herself when she noticed what was happening but the shock of realizing just how out of control of the situation she was almost scared her as much as the men did.

  “That should be enough,” Serge said to Rust.

  Rose turned around and saw that Serge had gotten up from his stool. She watched him walk around the bar to the grill. He picked something up and brought it over and handed it to Rust. It was a pound of butter, wrapped in foil.

  “Thanks, boss,” Rust said and immediately started rubbing the block of butter against Rose’s ass.

  “That’ll make her nice and slippery for you,” Serge said and went back to his stool at the bar.

  Rust continued to rub the butter on Rose’s asshole. She couldn’t have felt more humiliated. It was one thing to be fucked like a whore, but somehow it was even worse to have butter rubbed on her ass. It was as if she was a dish of food that the three men were digging into.

  Rust finished rubbing the butter on her and reached around and grabbed her by the breasts. Then he brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered to her, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to beg me to stop.”

  Rose said nothing. She closed her eyes. She could already feel the butter on her asshole beginning to melt. It was becoming wet and slippery just like her pussy was. There was no point resisting. These men had complete control over her. They had absolute power. She belonged to them and she knew it.

  “Give it to me,” she whispered.

  With that, Rust pressed his throbbing, veiny cock hard against the center of her asshole and began to force his way in past the tight ring of muscle. He was obviously used to forcing his way into women like this because he didn’t hesitate or hold back the way Murdoch had. He just held her breasts tight and pressed hard against her, his cock slowly sliding all the way into her anus.

  Rose gasped. She cried out.

  “That’s it, baby,” Murdoch said.

  He was thrusting up and down, bouncing her on his lap like a toy. At the same time, Rust was behind her and his rigid cock had slid all the way into the very center of her body. The tip of Rust’s cock was almost at the same place where Murdoch’s cock reached to from the front. Rose was being skewered by the two cocks, the two men thrusting up into the very core of her body, fucking her with an increasing sense of abandon and recklessness.

  “That’s it boys,” Serge called over from the bar. “I want her to beg for mercy.”

  Rose felt them increase their pace even more. She wouldn’t have thought it possible but they seemed to grow even harder, even more ravenous, as Serge called out his commands from his stool by the bar.

  “Fuck her like the pig she is,” he shouted.

  “No,” Rose cried out.

  She knew it would do no good to cry. She knew it would only spur them on to fuck her even harder, but she couldn’t help it. They were destroying her. They were taking away her very soul. It was as if they were ruining her body and her heart so that when they were finished with her she would be completely and utterly worthless. She would be so terribly defiled that no man would ever be able to love her. That was how she felt as their two long, rigid cocks pumped up into her body, one from the back, one from the front, like machine pistons pulverizing an engine.

  “No,” she cried out. “Please. Stop.”

  Murdoch grabbed her head and pulled her to him so that he could force his slimy tongue into her mouth. Rust was holding her breasts from behind and squeezing them so hard that the pain was unbearable.

  She struggled for breath. She struggled to free her mouth of Murdoch’s horrible kiss but she couldn’t get away from him. There was no escape. Every direction she tried to move, there he was, his wet lips waiting for her.

  And then, in a soul-destroying, terrifying moment of climax, she felt Murdoch and Rust both grunt in the throes of orgasm simultaneously.

  “No,” she cried out as first one and then the other penis began to squirt thick, fulsome gushes of gooey, oozing semen into both her asshole and her pussy.

  She could feel the stuff filling her up just as Serge had commanded. He’d wanted them to stuff her so full of cum that she’d burst, and that was exactly what she felt was happening. She thought it might kill her. She thought that the humiliation and anguish of such an episode would change her forever. It would destroy her.

  “Yes,” Serge screamed from his position at the bar.

  He could tell that his two men were climaxing. He could sense the orgasms that they were having. He knew exactly what they were doing inside her.

  “Yes” he screamed, and at the same time Rose screamed her own, heartrending cry, “No.”

  When they were finally finished, Rust and Murdoch pulled out of her and let her fall to the floor. They were finished with her now. She was something worthless, to be discarded. She had been defeated. She could feel it. They’d beaten her. The process of destruction that had begun when they’d first captured her two years ago had finally reached its ultimate conclusion.

  They’d taken a strong, free woman and turned her into a slave. They’d taken a happy, healthy girl and made her wish that her life was over. They’d taken a desirable, lovable woman, someone who had a fine and bright future ahead of her, and turned her into an utterly defiled whore who no man would ever want to touch.

  They’d broken her. She knew it.

  “Hey,” Serge said to her.

  She was on the floor panting, shivering, she couldn’t take any more torture. She looked up at him.

  “Clean them off,” he said.

  Slowly, with all the strength left in her body, she got up on her knees and sucked both of their penises clean.

  XIII

  THE MAN THAT Rose and Serge saw on the ride out from Val-d’Or was not a drifter. He was tired, he’d hitchhiked the past couple hundred miles and had covered a lot of the distance on foot. He’d lost his bike and killed the man who’d wrecked it. He was exhausted, battered, worn out, but he was no drifter. He was as driven and de
termined as a man could possibly be. His name was Josh Carter. He was looking for a girl he hadn’t seen since she was twelve years old, when her father had been brutally killed. He was keeping a promise he’d made a long time ago. Rose didn’t know it yet but he was going to change her life forever.

  *

  JOSH CARTER GREW UP RUNNING tobacco, alcohol, guns and other contraband over the Canada US border at the Mohawk Nation of Akwesasne. It was a remote reserve located in the very north of New York State, right by the Canadian border as well as the Ontario and Quebec provincial boundary.

  The international boundary went right down the middle of the Saint Lawrence River with Île Saint-Régis, Île Châtelain and Île Simard all being on the Canadian side. When the river froze over, Josh and his friends could cross the ice and get from New York to Quebec without having to deal with customs and border guards. The only thing they had to worry about were the New York State Troopers and the river ice. The troopers patrolled highway 37 and the other smaller roads in and out of the reservation but they never came onto the reserve itself. Far more treacherous, far more likely to get you killed, was the river ice.

  Josh was born in Coteau-du-Lac, Quebec but his father brought him to Massena, New York when he was still a kid. His father was a biker and a gunrunner for a club called Black Rodeo and it wasn’t long before Josh was prospecting for them. Even while he was still in school he was ferrying packages across the frozen river on specially altered snowmobiles that could float like jet skis if the ice broke. It was a dangerous job. You couldn’t do it unless you were willing to risk your life. Often the ice cracked and when that happened it was a coin toss whether you went under or not. If you went under you weren’t coming back up. Josh had seen it happen. He’d been running a load with another prospect, a kid a few years older than him called Sonny Ernst. The ice gave way close to the New York shore at a place called Chico’s Marina. It was a narrow channel between the mainland and Île Jaune where the ice was usually pretty solid. One moment the ice was cracking and the next Sonny and his vehicle were gone. Josh was out at the edge of the ice in a second but it did no good. Sonny was gone, and Josh never forgave himself for it.

  It was the same when his father had died. Josh had a habit of blaming himself when things went wrong, even if there was nothing he could have done differently. The night his father was killed they’d been on a run across the river. They were moving marijuana north into Canada. The indians grew it in big crops on some of the islands in the Saint Lawrence. Something went wrong with the deal, a disagreement over price, and shots were fired. Josh couldn’t believe it. They’d been dealing with the same club for five years and there had never been a disagreement before. Josh had always known the men from the other club to be honorable and fair. He’d met a lot of them. But one minute he was sitting on his snowmobile watching his father negotiate, and then suddenly he saw a flash of light like a camera flash in the dark, and then he actually saw a splash come from his father’s head. It was as if his father was made of water and someone had thrown a rock into him. By the time he got to his father he was already dead and the man who’d shot him was riding off into the dark on some Harley CVO.

  That changed everything for Josh. He was seventeen at the time. He was a prospect for the Black Rodeo. He hadn’t sworn in at that point but he wore the Black Rodeo prospect patch on his jacket and everyone knew he’d become a full member when he came of age.

  When Black Rodeo voted to do nothing about his father’s murder he couldn’t believe it. His father had ridden with them for twenty years. How could they fail to avenge his death? It changed the way he saw the club and the way he saw his place in the world. He didn’t want to be part of a family that did nothing to protect its own. As far as he was concerned, a motorcycle club was only as good as it treated its members, and if they didn’t care, then why should he remain loyal?

  He challenged the club and they told him he was out of line. He told them they were cowards for doing nothing over his father’s death. He told them a club that couldn’t be counted on to stand up for its members wasn’t worth its name. The vice-president of the club had to physically kick him out of the clubhouse because Josh refused to leave. A couple of others came out after him and beat the shit out of him. He’d spent the night unconscious in the mud outside the clubhouse because of the beating they gave him but he didn’t care. He was glad to be done with them. They’d torn his Black Rodeo patch from his jacket and he was glad to be rid of it. He didn’t want to wear the patch of a club that stood for so little.

  He knew it was all politics but that shouldn’t have made a difference. The Black Rodeo couldn’t afford to start a war with their partner club in Quebec, the Sioux Rangers. They’d been doing business with the Rangers for a long time and it had always been a good club to work with. The Sioux Rangers had said they would discipline the man who’d killed Josh’s father and that was enough for Black Rodeo, but it wasn’t enough for Josh. If he’d been older and wiser he might have been able to think about it more logically, but he was seventeen and he’d just seen a man shoot his father in the head in cold blood. He had to get revenge.

  The Sioux Rangers were based on Montreal. They weren’t the biggest MC in Quebec but they were still a hell of a lot of muscle for a seventeen-year-old kid to take on by himself. He didn’t tell anyone in New York what he was doing. He didn’t ask for permission from Black Rodeo. He knew what they’d say, and besides, his relationship with the Rodeo was finished. He didn’t need their permission to act.

  Josh knew he might be killed in Montreal. He didn’t care. His father had been all the family he’d ever known and now he was gone. The club was gone too. What did it matter if he lost his life avenging his father? Wasn’t that what sons were supposed to do?

  He would miss being part of the club. Apart from his father, it was all the family he’d ever had. He’d lived with those guys, grown up with them, worked for them, risked his life running their contraband across the Saint Lawrence, but when he saw that they were unwilling to do what needed to be done for his father, it was as if they’d died to him. Who needed a family like that?

  He rode out of Massena under a silver, winter moon on his father’s FX Super Glide. He took highway 37 out past the reservation and crossed the border into Canada at Fort Covington. In Quebec he took 132 along the south bank of the Saint Lawrence and crossed the bridge over to Grand Île. There was something he needed to do before reaching Montreal. He knew he was going to spill blood, he was going to kill a man for the first time in his life, and he wanted to make sure he was ready. Josh had never been the kind of kid who was prone to violence. He’d never hurt anyone in his life without having good reason to do it. If he was going to kill a man, he needed to prepare. He had his father’s ashes with him and he had a place in mind to spread them.

  He rode across the southern half of the island and crossed the rapids at Île d’Aloigny. The river was frozen solid. It would have been a perfect night for smuggling. The moon was bright enough to see by. He stopped on the bridge over the rapids and stared at the river of solid ice beneath him. He knew that beneath that thick layer of ice the river flowed on as it ever did, a strong, gushing current like a blood artery. It flowed over a thousand miles from the Atlantic to Lake Ontario. It was that same current that had taken Sonny Ernst. It was that same river that had brought the first French explorers into the Canadian interior in the sixteenth century. Just like him, they’d been gun traders and rum runners.

  If the river had been flowing he would have scattered his father’s ashes right there. He had the urn in the back of his saddle and it would have been as good a place as any to do it. But something about the river being frozen put him off. There would have been no where for the ashes to flow. They would have sat on the ice like dirt till the spring thaw. That wasn’t what he wanted.

  He rode on till he got to the rise overlooking Coteau-du-Lac, the town of his birth. Josh didn’t know much abut the town, he hadn’t lived there since
childhood and he and his father had never had much call to go back and visit. His mother was buried in that town. He looked down at the lights of the town nestled in among the cedars. The trees grew on the slopes leading to the gulf. He knew instinctively that this was the place for his father’s ashes. There was a strong breeze coming down along the Saint Lawrence and it would take the ashes and bring them a long ways.

  He took the urn from his bike and shook the contents out into the wind. The wind took the ashes, and it took Josh’s silent prayer too.

  *

  THEN HE GOT BACK ON his bike. He rode through the night. He came into the city through Les Cèdres and Pointe-Claire. The Sioux Rangers clubhouse was in LaSalle and Josh went straight to it. It was almost dawn by the time he pulled into the heavily industrialized area along Rue Cordner where the Sioux Rangers had their clubhouse.

  He got some suspicious looks from the guys at the door when he walked past them but there was some big party going on in the clubhouse and they must have assumed he was part of it because they didn’t try to stop him.

  The clubhouse was full of people. The Sioux Rangers weren’t a big club, probably no more than twenty members, but it seemed as if all of them were there at the clubhouse that night. And their families were there too. The men were sitting along the bar, drinking and laughing. Out back, a band was playing heavy metal on a concrete pad lit up by christmas lights. The wives and girlfriends and children all seemed to be out there watching the band play. There must have been fifty people there, men and women and children.

  No one paid him much attention. He was clearly just a kid. He wore his hair down to his shoulders back then too. He was good looking with a friendly face, brown eyes and a mischievous grin. He meant business that night but a lifetime’s worth of goodnatured laughter and humor still showed on his face. He didn’t look like trouble.

  Behind the bar was a big flag with the Sioux Ranger club logo on it, an indian riding a bike. There was also a row of old jackets hanging under the flag with the same logo on the back and names arched across them on patches stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Josh assumed those were the jackets of fallen members. Most clubs worth their salt had their share of dead brothers, those who had died carrying out the work of the club, fighting its battles.