by Layla Wolfe
Outside, the motorcycle engine was cut, and a sense of panic began to well in my chest. I shook our hands almost desperately. “My salvation would be to make love to you, Father!”
What. The. Fuck. Did I just say?
My horrified, frozen eyes remained on Noel’s. And to be honest, he looked frozen and horrified, too.
Oh my fucking God! What did I just say?
I was too numb to say anything else. To laugh it off, to scoff, to make him think I was just kidding.
But after a few endless seconds of sitting there like two mannequins, Noel made a sudden lunge for me.
Cupping my chin in his hand, he kissed me.
And it wasn’t just a chaste, priestly kiss.
No, his lips parted, hungered for mine. He feasted on my lower lip, snorting hot breaths onto my cheek. I was so shocked I couldn’t move, but he nudged even closer to me, his free hand squeezing my thigh. His hand on my chin controlled my motions anyway, and he positioned my head up and down, left and right, so his lips could cover my entire mouth. He acted like a crazed man with only seconds left to spare, and I guess that’s what he was, because shortly engineer’s boots were banging on the front metal stairs, and of course no one had thought to lock the door.
Twinkletoes, since he practically lived there, just barged on in.
Either we broke apart in time, or he had zero suspicions about us and turned his back on us right away. The only part of us touching anymore was Noel’s hand on my thigh, and we scooted apart again.
“Man!” exhaled Twinkletoes, banging his helmet on the kitchen counter. “What a clusterfuck out there! I already watched Cecil Blackmountain’s pickup go racing down a flash flood gulley. Luckily it got snagged on a boulder by the window frame ‘cause he left the window open, so now it’s just kind of hanging there, being torn apart by the racing floodwaters. The bench seats are history, along with his sheep. I guess we’re not going out in the field anymore today, right?”
“Right,” I croaked.
Twinkletoes banged the hell out of the fridge, taking out a cold one and twisting off the cap. He chugged about half the beer loudly, Noel and I were transfixed to his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. “Ah!” He looked at us blankly. “What, what? Did I forget to put pants on? Why are you guys staring at me? Father, I’m glad you didn’t bring your bike. You’d get soaked between here and your church.”
So Twinkletoes didn’t figure anything out that day.
But Noel and I did. And what I figured out sent me into a panic the next hour until I saw Noel Moloney again.
CHAPTER NINE
HAVEN
A superior has to know when to give, and when to take away. For all intents and purposes, I was Ogden and Mike’s superior now, and I knew when to take them to a lavish dinner.
Ogden told me that Yiska Keetso lived in Parker, but there was a preliminary memorial rodeo in Flat Rock the next day. That was in his Four Corners neck of the woods and a long hard ride from where we were, so I decided we’d make it to Lake Havasu for dinner. Now I was on my turf and could pick the best restaurant, a steak place at the London Bridge Resort.
But Ogden seemed less than pleased.
He snorted, glancing around himself as though afraid of being recognized. “What the hell kind of place is this? A view of a fake London Bridge?”
We were seated on the deck, the hot June air coming off the lake feathering our arms. I rattled the menu Ogden held loosely in his fingers. “It’s the real London fucking Bridge, and choose your cut of meat.”
To my surprise, Ogden said, “I don’t eat red meat.”
Mike Drop lowered his menu. “Don’t eat meat? That’s just plain unnatural. And, coming from a red man who wears one Michael Jackson glove and is light in the loafers, that’s saying a lot.”
“It’s not a Michael Jackson glove,” I protested before Ogden had a chance to. “It’s not glittery or anything.”
“Yeah,” said Ogden, “and what’s this about loafers? I hardly prance around in loafers. I wear engineer boots like the rest of you.”
“It’s a saying,” said Mike with disgust. “I think it refers to the way you guys swish across a room.”
I angrily took a swig of my scotch and soda. “Let’s get one thing fucking straight, Drop. You currently seem to be working for an MC that is composed almost entirely of homosexuals. If you want to Prospect for us, and that’s a huge if they’ll even let you, you’re going to have to come to terms with that.”
“Yeah, who is this guy, anyway, Haven?” Ogden asked. “No one told me I’d be working with a homophobic Aryan with Carrot Top hair.”
“I resent the Carrot Top implications,” said Mike.
Ogden smashed his menu onto the table. “See? See what I mean? That’s what he took from that, the ginger haired association? Didn’t bother him one shred to be known as a gay-bashing Nazi.”
“Actually,” Mike said, polite as ever, “not being a Nazi is what got me into trouble with the Hellfires. My views didn’t quite mesh with their hating-everyone stance. There were some groups—lots of them, as it turned out—that I didn’t quite loathe with the appropriate vim and vigor. I was just stuck with the Hellfires because I grew up with them in Gila Bend and my big brother was a Hellfire. But I was always the odd man out, the outcast. Their creed never sat right with me. I was always being left out in the cold.”
Ogden snorted, his chin resting in his fist. He rolled his eyes. “I wonder why? Maybe it’s because your personality is completely repulsive.”
“Ogden,” I snapped. “That’s no way to talk to—well, anyone. This isn’t fucking prison. Remember, we’re tolerant. We’re outcasts ourselves. That’s why we’re called the Bent Zealots. We’re twisted, and proud of it. You of all people should be aware of this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Haven,” Mike Drop said priggishly. “I’m glad someone in this derelict club remembers what it’s like to be an outlaw. And now, if you don’t mind. I believe I’m ready to order some melting, mouth-watering Kobe beef. If it doesn’t disgust you too much.”
Ogden shrugged, sitting up straight again. “Who gives a shit? I used to rodeo. I’d be shit out of luck if I freaked out at the sight of raw meat.”
The words “raw meat” in Ogden’s sensuous mouth threw me completely for a loop. My jaw hung low, and he looked at me around the corner of his menu, slyly. Did he know my cock had instantly started erecting at the round, tempting, erotic sound of those nasty words? Not only did any idea of reprimanding him for his daring behavior fly out the window, but to be honest, he sort of had me in his spell again.
Yeah, I was weak for this toppy little sub. Our last scene, where I’d spanked his high and tight ball sac, where he’d cried out and called me daddy, where I’d finger raped him—was he going to let me repeat that scene? Then I realized it wasn’t a matter of him “letting” me do any damned thing. I was going to demand that he suck my dick. After all, I was the Dom. How had the power balance between us already become so skewed that I was the one pining after his hungry little mouth?
I needed to take control of my own sub. I reached out and shook Ogden’s menu again. “Then order some fucking fish.”
“Yes,” sneered Mike Drop. “Unless you’re a pesce-pescetarian. Someone who only eats fish that eat other fish.”
I could never be sure if Mike Drop was being serious or not, but I knew this whole dynamic had gotten away from me. I needed to reign it in. Luckily the waiter came then. I ordered first, then Mike, and only then did I allow Ogden to order his stupid Chinese Chicken Salad. The fact that he ate chicken made me wonder how beef had traumatized him. Must’ve had something to do with the rodeo, and I was leading him right back into it. It would be arousing beyond belief to see him back in his milieu, wearing a knotted kerchief around his neck, maybe even riding a bronc.
Holy hell. Thinking of Ogden straddling a gelding bareback, clutching its flanks between his nicely-molded thighs, I was nearly drowning in fantasy again. It
was too bad I had such a wild imagination, because now I knew I wouldn’t rest until I saw this buffed jock riding a bronc.
“Look,” said Mike Drop, back on his phone, “these ruins I keep telling you about? They’re near the rodeo in Flat Rock.”
“Let me see that,” said Ogden, whipping Mike’s device from his hand. “You keep talking about these fucking ruins. I should be able to—oh, fuck me sideways!”
I’d like to. Once again, Ogden seemed to be taking control of the power exchange of our group. I had to snatch the phone from him to reassert my authority, though I had no idea what I was looking at.
“What?” asked Mike. “What?”
“Those are no fucking ruins, you utter clownfish! That’s a fucking—”
“Pot farm.” Ogden and I said it both at the same time. I would’ve laughed, it was so synchronous, but I had to remain serious. I handed Mike back his phone. “It’s a fucking pot farm, you doofus. Some Diné has got fences and greenhouses and a well and outbuildings. Can’t you see the green squares standing out against the red sandstone?”
Mike sputtered, looking helplessly at his screen. “But...those are green hieroglyphics, you know, the Chariots of the Gods, giant graffiti painted on the ground to tell aliens where to land.”
Ogden chuckled. He was even more handsome when smiling. “And these ancient Hohokam people had green spray paint? Those are pot plants, you dickwad.”
Mike pointed. “But what about these? These are clearly the ruins of some dwelling.”
Ogden leaned over. “That’s a dwelling, all right. It’s called a hogan. We still live in them.”
So I felt better that Ogden and I were on the same page, both laughing at Mike Drop’s expense. I thought the dinner went well, and Ogden wasn’t surly again until we arrived at my house in the Rough and Ready burg in the hills above Lake Havasu proper. I had lived with Mayo Snodgrass at his house until recently. When we split, I refused to rent some low-budget condo. I made decent money in the racing circuit and at my auto mechanic business. An assistant was running it for me now. So I’d purchased one of the mid-century homes with deep eaves and plenty of glass up in Rough and Ready. Turk and Lock were here, as well as Anson and Ormond and their adopted baby. Harte and Bond were the closest, right around the corner.
But not all sat right with the uppity little brat again. Mike Drop seemed satisfied with the guest room I’d arranged for when my brother was in town, but Ogden poked his nose into my other two bedrooms to no avail. One was a workout room, with a few select pieces of bondage furniture thrown into the mix, like a spanking bench. The last room I’d filled with sporting stuff, my gun safes, bullet reloading table, archery equipment, bookshelf for books on—you guessed it. Shooting things. It really was a true bachelor pad.
“Well where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?” whined Ogden. “For a guy who loves running around cutting fingers off people, you sure don’t have any knife books.”
I folded my arms with authority. “For a guy who isn’t even a Bent Zealot, you sure frown on lots of things. Shut up and get in the shower.”
Ogden distractedly clenched a handful of his T-shirt. “Yeah. Could use that.” He looked around at the sporting equipment as though about to be murdered. “Haven, is your club going to be fine with you cutting off Ernesto’s finger?”
“He was stealing from us.”
“He was being extorted.”
“That’s still theft. I know these guys well enough to know they’d approve of what I did.” Actually, Ogden was giving me doubts. So I bluffed my way through. “That’s part of being a Prospect, part of moving into fully patched status. Making decisions on your own without consulting people at every turn. You think you might want that?” If I could get one or two Prospects to replace me, my chances at a full rocker were enhanced.
Ogden didn’t say no. He shrugged, looking everywhere but at me. “Might,” he finally conceded.
I got Ogden set up in the master bathroom shower and gave him ten minutes to get clean. I heard him coughing in the shower, clearing his lungs, and I wondered if it wasn’t something other than smoker’s cough. He really didn’t smoke that much that I’d seen. I quickly googled “lung cancer” and “Navajo” and “uranium.” It said that lung cancer was common among Navajo, though working in uranium mines was banned on their land in 2005. Did Ogden fucking have lung cancer? If so, did he know it? Was he hiding it from me?
I stripped standing in the open bathroom door. Ogden had to have seen me, but he gave no sign. His ever-present shades were on the vanity, and I picked them up to look through them. Aha. Prescription. My boy was blind as a bat. Deformed, riddled with cancer, and blind.
And I was falling in love with him.
He squeezed the suds from his mane of long red-black hair. Soapy water on the opaque shower door smudged his image into an impressionist painting. He was a sweet young cockhound, and he was mine. I would just have a hard time juggling his rebellious nature with the side of him that was eager to please. My dick was at half-mast already watching him slide his palm down his lean abdomen, over his pubic mound, to lather his balls.
I was ready.
I quickly stepped into the enclosure with him, shutting the door. Bending at the knees, I spooned his meaty ass to my crotch, easily slipping my erection between his thighs like I was forking him. Obediently, he moved his feet closer together so I could get some friction going. But the second I stabbed him between his luscious ass cheeks, I felt about to come, so I had to slow down.
I grabbed a handful of his soapy pubes and tugged. His own hand was lightly wrapped around his impressive hard-on. I longed to fist his boner, but right now I was here to assert my authority. He had said he didn’t polish anyone’s fucking chrome. They all wanted to polish his. We’d fucking see about that.
“My boy has got the sweetest, meatiest ass,” I murmured, nibbling on his earlobe. Immediately, goosebumps raised on his shoulders, despite the still-warm water now needling his side. I slapped his ass with a resounding crack, then moved to pinch an erect nipple. I rolled the bud between thumb and forefinger as I tugged at his mound. I was barely moving by then, just lightly screwing him between the thighs, constantly on the verge of losing my load. “You’re a needy bastard, you know that? And you know what you need?”
His voice was low, salacious. He wriggled his hips slightly, torturing my cock. “I think I have an idea.” He must’ve known I was looking longingly at the thick, juicy pecker in his hand. I scrubbed his mound, my fingers speared through the mat of soap, my fingers straying once in a while to the thickly veined root of his dick.
But I had self-control. A good Dom always did. I scraped his taut nipple now, giving a big lunge of my prick captured between the globes of his sublime ass. “You need your mouth filled with my penis. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t wait to eat my dick, isn’t that right? You’ve been craving your daddy’s long, fat dick for a while now.”
“I have,” he admitted. His eyes had slipped shut, and he raised one elegantly sculpted arm above his head, feeling for my neck. “I felt how hard you got when you spanked me. When you punished me. It turns you on to spank your boy’s butt. You slapped my cock and made it hard.”
Wow. This little jock knew how to play the game. There was desire on both sides of the aisle, and he was getting me to admit mine. “Who wouldn’t get turned on spanking a brat like you?” For emphasis, I spanked his ass now. Again. And again. Between spanks, I let the well-rounded globe fill my hand. Fuck, how I wanted to be on my knees taking a bite from that juicy meat! Separating the saucy globes, tonguing his fresh little pucker.
But orgasm denial was my game, so I punched the water off and dragged Ogden out of the shower. “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson,” I said, his bicep in my hand. He was fucking stunning all wet like this, sleek as a seal, those seafoam eyes dazzling in the rays of the setting sun coming in the little window. I rattled him to show I meant business. “You’ve been drooling ov
er your dad’s cock, haven’t you? I can see by your pouty little lips you’re a cocksucker to the bone. How many cocks you sucked in your life? Two hundred? Four hundred?”
“Not nearly,” Ogden protested, seemingly genuinely taken in by my role playing. That was fine. Let him. Or maybe his acting was better than mine. “Men always want to suck on me! I don’t get down on my knees for any old grey-haired wang.”
Though I had no grey hair, it was perfect timing for me to shove him to his knees. He hit the ground with a bang muffled by the bathroom rug, and he was face to face with my giant dick. I’d been to The Blue Oyster in downtown Lake Havasu many a time. I knew my dick was giant. And what gay man worth his salt hadn’t amply perused the miles of porn titles available, especially “two big-dicked men fight in oil and the winner fucks the loser”? Those dicks weren’t so big.
Taking a handful of his dripping wet hair, I steadied my prick in my fist, using it as a cock ring. “You’re hot for daddy’s dick, aren’t you, boy? Come on, admit it. Admit you’ve been hungry to swallow my meat.”
Ogden did have that innocent, dewy look to him. It wasn’t hard to believe he’d barely sucked cock at all in his three decades. “No. Why would I want that? Men suck on me. I don’t suck them.”
Oh ho, so this was how he wanted to play it? I rubbed my cockhead against his parted lips until it was a blur. “You know what? I don’t give a good god damn what you want, you fucking punk. You’re going to take my big dick into your mouth and suck like there’s no tomorrow.” A few drops of jizz had dripped from my slit, and I now rubbed it like lube against his shapely lips.
He turned his head aside. “No. You suck me.”
“I’ll do no such fucking thing. You think I’m gonna give you that satisfaction? You come when I say you can come, boy.” I followed his face with my cockhead, pressing ever more urgently against his lips. “But by fuck, you’re gonna satisfy your daddy. That’s what you’re here for. You can’t admit you’re hot for my meat but you’re gonna take it in the mouth for me.”
