Cocky Doms

by Lee Savino

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Jagger says proudly. “Most camps have bathrooms and showers in a separate building, like a campground. But Lincoln had the company build it to his specifications. The company wanted him as lead,” Jagger explains. He continues down the hall, pointing out the individual doors. “Usually there are just barracks, but we’ve got bedrooms. More privacy.” He swings open one of the doors, smirking. “This room’s mine.”

  “Great,” I murmur. There’s clothes and stuff strewn all over the dark space. Hovering over everything is the telltale musk of marijuana, confirming my suspicions: Jagger is the lumberjack equivalent of a college stoner.

  The door opposite Jagger’s is half open. Roy and Tommy pause mid-conversation to give me polite but guarded smiles. I nod to them and turn to my guides.

  “Where’s my bedroom?”

  “Other wing. But my door’s always open.” Jagger lopes back the way we came.

  My room is on the far end of the second hall. A twin bed, concrete floor, a battered dresser. All the charm of an empty dorm room.

  “Cozy.” My voice echoes a little. Jagger puts my bag on the bed. Elon fetches sheets and a blanket—more faded plaid—and I thank him. I sit down on the bed and bounce, testing the springs. Not that it matters. It’s way more comfortable than a doorway in an alley.

  “You want to hang out now, or nap or something?” Jagger asks, hovering over me.

  “Nap,” I say decisively. He looks disappointed but leaves without protest, shutting the door quietly.

  I close my eyes and sag back on the bed. Despite the nap in the car, I could sleep another hundred years. At least my stomach isn’t flopping like a fish. The mysterious illness seems to have been cured by food.

  I doze a moment before wrenching myself up. Just because I met the guys doesn’t mean my first day on the job is over. Lincoln is sold, Jagger and the twins obviously want to fuck me, but Mason definitely doesn’t. Saint, Tommy, and Roy also looked ambivalent. Fifty percent chance of keeping this gig, and I don’t like those odds.

  I’m almost safe, a hundred miles away from the Hell Riders’ territory. A hundred miles away from everything. I can’t go back now. My bones ache with the thought of running another step.

  I have to keep this job.

  After running a brush through my hair and straightening my clothes, I head back to the common room. Voices echo down the hall, loud and male.

  Mason stands in front of Lincoln, his arms outspread. Even if I couldn’t hear the argument, I could tell from Lincoln’s tight jaw that he’s getting shit.

  “This is fucked,” Mason spits. “I know you wanted a woman, but her? She belongs in a halfway house. Pussy’s probably so full of disease—”

  “If you want to talk about me behind my back,” I let my voice ring out, “make sure I’ve left the room.”

  Mason stiffens like I’ve touched him. “We don’t need a junkie whore.”

  “I’m not a whore. Whores get paid.”

  “You’re not getting paid?” Jagger’s brow wrinkles.

  “I’m getting paid to dance,” I emphasize. “I’m putting out for free.” I turn to Mason and continue coolly, “Get on my bad side and you won’t get any.” I glance at Lincoln to see if he’ll back me up.

  He nods. “That’s right. Paying for sex is illegal. But anything that happens after the dance is between consenting adults.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say to Jagger, who looks like someone cancelled Christmas. “I plan on distributing favors equally. I like men, and I like sex.”

  Mason opens his mouth but Saint lumbers past him to the table, sets something down and motions me over. He pulls out a chair and I sit automatically.

  “You’re too thin,” he rumbles.

  Don’t worry, big boy, I can take you. I start to say when the steam from the bowl of goodness hits my nose. My mouth fills with saliva and my stomach almost lurches out of my gut.

  Saint thumps a spoon down beside my hand. “Eat,” he orders.

  He doesn’t have to say it again. I shovel food in my mouth, not only because I’m hungry, but because Saint looms behind me with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at everyone and no one.

  “I fed her breakfast,” Lincoln defends himself.

  “I have a fast metabolism,” I mumble with my mouth full. “Damn, this is good.” The broth is just a touch spicy, there’s sausage and vegetables and rice. I’d sell my body for this, oh yes I would.

  “Eat more.” Saint rests his hand on the back of my neck—just for a moment, but there’s care in his touch.

  “Wow,” Jagger says when Saint disappears back into the kitchen. “He likes you.”

  “‘Cause he fed me?”

  “That, and he didn’t pick you up and throw you out,” Lincoln says thoughtfully. Mason grunts and stomps back to his bedroom.

  “You know why they call him Saint?” Jagger says. “He played football in college in Louisiana. Rumor is he was a top pick to go pro, but he finished his degree and came north instead. Fastest bucker around. Makes gumbo when he’s in a good mood, and if we’re lucky, he’ll share it.”

  “And you?” I ask. “Is your name really Jagger?”

  “I got moves.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Seriously. I’ll dance with you if you want.”

  “I’ll think about it.” We talk music as the room fills.

  More of the guys join us and despite Jagger making it sound like Saint is stingy with the product of his culinary genius, the big guy ladles generous gumbo portions onto their plates. Oren serves up plates of biscuits. I watch with wide eyes as each guy eats about twenty each. Both Lincoln and Elon sacrifice from their pile to put a few on my plate, and they just look at me when I protest that I’m full.

  By the end of the meal, I’m comfortable around the big guys. For the most part they treat me like a friend, or their best friend’s little sister. Jagger shares his Coke and I get in a burping contest with him. Even Saint joins in. Everyone except Mason, who wears his permanent expression of disgust.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he purrs, dark eyes on me. He’s balanced on the back legs of his chair. “Why doesn’t Sierra give us a show? Just a little taste of what we’re buying,” he adds, before Lincoln can remind him I don’t start work until after the doctor’s appointment.

  The guys start to protest that I just got here and I hold up a hand. “I gotta warn you, I’m really full. I have a food baby.” I pat my stomach.

  “That’s hot,” Jagger mutters.

  “But I think it’s a great idea, Mason,” I say sweetly. “Just let me get changed.”

  As I walk past him, I give his chair a little push. To keep his balance he has to set the front legs down hard. I hide my grin. Pissing Mason off is my new favorite hobby.

  Behind the closed door of my bedroom, I rub my face and will my heartbeat to settle. This is happening. I’m gonna strut out there in my skivvies and give them a show. This is what I signed up for, and I’m not gonna back out now.

  I just have to ace the group interview. I’m not naive enough to think that Mason still couldn’t convince the guys to send me back. So I have to show my stuff, and make sure it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.

  I’m the only woman around for miles. How hard can it be?

  When I re-enter the group room, every guy swivels to watch. Underneath the table, there are quite a few tents in the faded work pants. Pretty fuckin’ hard. But that’s how I like it.

  Some joker turned the lights down except for one that shines like a spotlight on a space besides the table, far enough so everyone can see me. I stop in the center of the makeshift stage and smooth my hands down the tails of my shirt.

  It’s now or never.

  I got this.

  I point to Jagger and he turns on the music. Into You by Ariana Grande. Good song. I roll my shoulders back, close my eyes and start swaying to the music. My fingers play with the buttons of my new shirt. I’m wearing Carhartt plaid ov
er my best bra and panties, and nothing else. My little lumberjack-themed stripper outfit. I’m only missing a pair of Timberland boots.

  Unbuttoning my shirt, I let my hips swing, twitching and dipping to the beat, giving the guys little glimpses of my skin under the red plaid. The chorus comes on and I toss my head back, peeling off the shirt and waving it around my head before tossing at Mason. He catches it before it hits him in the face. Nimble fucker.

  I strut over to the table, my eyes on Lincoln. He watches me warily as I grab his shoulders, straddle his lap, stick my barely clad boobs in his face and gyrate. Around us, the guys hoot. My smile stretches my face and Lincoln relaxes, his hands sliding up my back. I grab a biscuit, put it in my mouth, and scissor up to offer it to him. He snaps at it but I jerk away at the last minute, shaking my head. I bounce in his lap as I eat the whole thing, stuffing my cheeks like a chipmunk and licking honey butter off my fingers.

  By the time I’m done, Lincoln looks like he’s a second away from sweeping the dishes off the table and laying me there as his feast. Perfect.

  I ooze off him and skate by the twins, letting my fingers trail along their necks. Their heads turn like owls as I sashay past Roy, pausing to writhe my body between him and Tommy. I dance over to Jagger and his arms open to welcome me. At the last minute, I flip around and lean back into his hard torso. I twerk into his crotch as he crows—I knew he’d like this.

  Around the table, all eyes are on me. Even Mason’s, who’s balanced on his chair’s back legs again, arms crossed, jaw clenched, shadows pooling on the hard planes of his face.

  Smiling, I leave Jagger’s clinging arms, stepping from his lap onto the table. I toss my head and dance my heart out, my hips hitting the beat hard, my shoulders swiveling. I step carefully to a bare spot in front of Saint and crouch down, then crawl like a panther toward him. His eyes glint in his stone mask. I know just what to do to make his expression crack. I lean back on my arms, plant my feet wide, and rock my hips back and forth, waving my pussy in front of his face. I flip off the table and lean over it, sticking my tailbone in the air and swaying my ass in Saint’s direction. I pretend to spank myself until he breaks position. His huge hand covers my small butt-cheek. Chuckling to myself, I twist and dance away, shaking my finger at him. There’s no mistaking the hunger in his eyes now. I wink at him, my pout promising plenty of opportunity to spank me later.

  Everywhere I look, I’m met with the same glorious horny gaze. Even Mason doesn’t bother to hide it. Jagger tries to grab me as I moonwalk by.

  I’ve done it. They all want to fuck me. And they can’t. Nuh uh, my wagging finger says. I lick it and circle one pointy nipple until my body screams, It’ll be worth the wait.

  The song is ending. Time for the big finish.

  I grab my chair and drag it near the light. Sit with my knees on either side of the seat. My crotch on display, I stick my hands in my see-through panties and rub, closing my eyes and smiling to myself, imagining how jaws have hit the floor. The song switches over to Candy Shop by 50 Cent with Olivia and I fondle myself in front of my audience, shivering with pleasure. I writhe on the chair like it’s a lover. Ride it like a rodeo bronc while eight guys fuck me with their eyes. I’ve never done anything like this before. Not that I’m sheltered—I grew up around girls putting out for their biker of the month. It wasn’t a party if a half-naked woman wasn’t getting felt up in the corner, drinking a beer, and giggling until the guy dragged her to one of the private rooms. Or peeled down her Daisy Dukes and boned her in front of everyone. When I started dating Jack, I made him claim a room for us before we did more than heavy petting. I never thought I could get off with an audience.

  I was wrong.

  Lightning sizzles under my fingers and I arch my body into an exaggerated bow. I’m so close. So close. But for some reason, I want to savor this moment. Dance on the edge.

  As the song wraps up, I pull my fingers out of my panties and lick them clean. I’m a hot little number. Oh yeah.

  Without a backward glance, I rise and strut back to my room.

  “That’s all for now,” I call over my shoulder. “Night night, boys.”

  There’s a clatter of chairs. I’d bet a grand half the guys go right to their rooms—or the shower.

  I close the door to my room and lean against it, shaking. I did it. There’s no way they’ll get rid of me. Not even Mason will push for it now.

  I curl up on my new bed and pass out like I got fucked eight times.

  Saint

  Lincoln’s door shakes as I approach. When I want, I can walk lightly enough to pass like the Angel of Death over the homes of the Israelites. Tonight, I want to give warning.

  Lincoln sits on his bed, hands dangling between his knees, staring at nothing.

  I stop in the open doorway and wait until he looks up. My shadow stretches to cover the tips of his boots, so it doesn’t take long.

  “Saint.” He gives me a rueful smile and runs his hand through his hair.

  “We need to talk.” If I want, I can make my voice light and smooth, a Barry White timbre that flows like warm honey. Or I can hit the lower reaches of my register, the gravel rumble of an oncoming avalanche. Tonight, I want his bones to shake.

  “Yeah.” Lincoln passes hand over his face and stands. “Yeah, we do.” He knows what he did. He knows he’s earned this talk and he’s willing to take it.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Every other word has the weight of a punch. Lincoln winces. I lean into his room, but don’t enter and don’t shut the door. If I wanted, I could make Lincoln follow me somewhere we can talk privately. Tonight, I want all the guys to hear.

  “I think it’ll work out.”

  “She looks like she’s got one foot in the grave.”

  “She was hungry and cold and alone. Caught me outside the strip club. She had been begging Randy for a job so she could eat.” He spreads his hands and his voice rises. “What was I going to do?”

  “Drive her to a shelter. Give her some money. This isn’t a halfway house.”

  “She was one second away from offering herself to any trucker walking the streets. I thought it would be better to bring her back here.” He raises his chin. “I think she can do the job.”

  “This isn’t what we agreed to.” I fight to keep my voice level. “We discussed this. We need a woman who can take us.” I could see her in my mind’s eye, the type of woman I’d choose. A painted jade, made of makeup and plastic, who could play a part. A woman who’d chosen the role long ago. A cum doll in a candy-coated shell, choosing johns who can pay for her next boob job or coke habit. Not a girl, trying so hard to be brave. Not an innocent with no armor. Not Sierra, pale and lissome and wholesome as a dairy maid, with nothing to defend herself but brash wit and sheer stubbornness. “This kid can’t do what’s necessary.”

  Lincoln shakes his head, his breath hissing out. “I thought so too, and then I spent some time with her. You gotta get to know her, Saint. She’s... her will is strong.”

  “Her will is strong,” I repeat with heavy sarcasm. “Fuck. You fucked her.”

  With another shake of his head, Lincoln starts to turn away.

  “You fucking fuck.” My fingers catch the edge of his shirt. “You took advantage of her.”

  “Fuck I did,’ Lincoln snaps around. He wades forward, crowding me until we’re chest to chest and glaring, two seconds away from beating the shit outta each other. Big guy, Lincoln. Tall, good fighter. Any other guy facing him would shake in their boots. Not me.

  “I fed her,” he snarls in my face. “I got clothes for her, stuff she needed. I protected her.” His eye slides to the side catching on a memory. “She’s in trouble. Running from something.”

  “No shit. So you brought home a stray.” My tone tells him just how stupid I think he is.

  “Sierra isn’t a stray. You saw her tonight.”

  Without permission, my thoughts snap to the dance. The pool of white light, Sierra’s small body twit
ching as she brought herself to the brink of orgasm in front of us. I wanted to go to her, kneel down and finish her. Feel her warmth on my fingers and taste her sweetness.

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “That was something.”

  “She was magnificent. Admit it. After that performance, you really gonna look at me and tell me to send her back?”

  Despite myself, my right hand curls. Not into a fist to beat some sense into Lincoln, but as if I’ve caught hold of a ghost, a slight, dancing angel, and I want to hang on and see if I can catch her. Keep her.

  Fuck. I want Sierra.

  “Saint?”

  “One week,” I say. “She has one week to prove herself. Then we send her back.”

  Sierra

  My clit wakes me. Swollen and angry, it pulses, reminding me that I fell asleep before rubbing one out. It wants me to finish what I started in the main room. After stroking myself for a few minutes, I sit up and head down the hall.

  The door next to mine is open and I peek in as I pass. Two red heads swivel my way. Twin blue-eyed owls.

  “Lincoln?” I ask, and Oren points down the hall.

  “Last door on the right,” Elon says. With a wink, I thank him and tiptoe to Lincoln's room. A brief knock, and I enter without permission.

  The big guy sets aside a worn paperback, frowning as I slip to his side.

  “I don't want to sleep alone,” I snuggle next to him under the blanket.

  He shifts to make room but it’s no good. I have to plaster myself against him to fit next to his large body in the narrow bed. “You need to rest.”

  I let out a huge sigh.

  “Don’t worry”—his fingers play with the lines on my forehead—“they already like you.”

  I snort. “Mason doesn't.”

  “Mason doesn't like anyone.”

  We lie side by side, edges glued together. I hinge toward him.

  “I'm horny.”

  It’s his turn to sigh. “You don't want to save it? You might get tired of entertaining us.” His fingers slide down my arm.