Savage Angels: A Savage MC Erotic Romance (14 page)

His body flexed and swayed, effortlessly leaning and guiding the huge machine around curves and sweeping us through the evening traffic on the old town highway. The cold air clipped my legs and arms, and I wrapped my body more tightly around his, pressing my breasts, still hardly covered, against his jacket.

We moved through the loose lines of trucks and cars, like the rules were for them and we were a bird, a wild, free thing that made it’s own law. I wondered which district of ‘No Damned Clue’ he was aiming for. Turns out it was the MC clubhouse.

The clubhouse was at the front of an old garage with pumps out front on the forecourt. When it was a gas and service stop, the front part must have been a bright restaurant with booths and benches, the kind of a place where travelers and locals would have perched at a shiny counter on high stools for their waffles or eggs over easy and gossip over endless refilled mugs of coffee. A sign over the entrance read,
Hell’s Kitchen, Bar & Grill
.
 

Inside, some of the benches and booths were still there, but the brightness and shine had been replaced. The few lights seemed mostly to be red, maybe some were blue. The bar may have been where the counter was, and there was still a kitchen out back, judging by the scattering of plates with greasy burgers and fries, but the low stage with poles would not have suited the breakfast diner.

Big bikers clustered and hunkered at the bar, in the booths and especially around the stage. On the stage a well-built girl with long, flowing dark hair was making lithe circuits of a pole. Her silver high heels and tiny sparkling thong set off her glistening olive skin, and thin sliver chains hung over her big, firm naked breasts.

Her eyes flashed as she swung around the pole, her breasts fluid and bouncing and her dark nipples hard. She grinned at the bikers nearest the stage, just inches away from her hot flesh and she flicked her tongue across her big white teeth as she slid up and down against the silver pole.

The men growled their appreciation as she squatted, her thighs wide, and she slowly rocked and rolled her hips. With one hand squeezing her breast, tugging on the pert nipple, her other hand wiped up her face, her fingers dragged through her hair, then reached back for the pole as her hips thrust out and bucked.
 

I followed the biker through the crowd. Every man we passed made an acknowledgement to him, a small nod, a touch of knuckles or a hand on the shoulder. Any time I was with Daddy at the police station or the courthouse, I saw heavy male deference in action. These bikers all were showing respect to my gallant knight, Cox.

He led me on to the bar, and there he demanded bourbon. “Two glasses. Keep ’em coming.” He handed me a shot glass. Raised the other and tossed the whiskey back in one. I did the same. Rough, dark whiskey with a sour kick.

Another big biker appeared at my side. He growled in my ear, “Hey, sweetbutt,”

“Chiz, give her space. I brought her here under my protection.”

“Sorry, Cox, I’ll go turn on the whalesong in the crystal healing room. Those baby deer aren’t still in there, are they, Lump?”

A shorter, barrel-chested biker with a red bandana said, “No, Chiz, but I put on the Hopi chant for the homeless beaver cubs we found on our woodland walk.” Cox gave both of them a look that said,
so far and no further
.
 

I knew right then that I should have got out of there. Given that I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
 

After her show, the dancer came slinking over to us, well, to Cox. She looked in my eye and I was sure she knew me. I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember if it was from high school or if I’d maybe seen her in the tank when Daddy took me to the station house on Saturday mornings.

He’d do that to educate me in the consequences for people who fell foul of the law. Those didn’t know how to behave themselves on a Friday night. I just loved the ways they dressed, and I thought what fun they all looked. He meant it as a warning, I saw my dream playgroup. Still I couldn’t place the dancer, anyway, her attention had shifted from me to Cox.

She leaned her hand onto his chest as she purred into his ear, “Did you like my pole dancing, baby?”

I said, “Awww, do you call that ‘pole dancing,’ sweetheart?’”

Her eyes flashed at me as she said, “Why, Miss Congeniality, isn’t it? What would you call it?”

“Honey, I’d call that dancing next to a pole.”

I climbed onto the stage. I had to unroll the ripped hold-ups. You can’t grip a pole with nylons on. But I put the shoes back on. I tied the shirt up tight under my breasts. It was open so the tops of my breasts swelled out and the bra got a good exposure, too.

Someone turned up the music. The beat was hard and hot.

In my cheerleader troupe we practiced pole-dancing. Spins, climbs, inversions and aerials. Grab the pole with two hands, swing up with your legs wide and straight, pulling yourself up.
 

Hang from the pole by gripping it with your thighs and then wriggle like a fish to slide down, real slow. Good, pumping, grinding music helps ignite the effect. Spin up around one leg, hold on with just the one thigh and calf, so you can press your crotch against the pole.
 

Roll it around, slide in steamy, rhythmic pulses. Hang upside down, then pull back up to hang on with your hands as you slowly open your legs. Wide.

Spin back to hold the pole between your thighs a few feet off the ground, then, you lean and stretch all the way back, till your body’s a long curve and you can grab the pole with your hands. Then use your hands to spin slowly around the pole. As you swing by the faces of the men leaning in, it doesn’t hurt to lock eyes with them and run your tongue over your top teeth.

The bikers were almost silent and they had to crane their necks to see as I spun out, shaking my breasts low down, close to the floor of the stage. Then the slow horizontal crouch spin gave them a good long view as a reward. They made some noise, too in appreciation. Low grunts and leers.

They were stamping and banging their glasses by the time I finished and I got to my feet with a demure, delicate little bow. At the side of the stage, the dancer watched the whole show, nursing her bourbon, and her eyes smoldered.
 

I made my way back through the crowd to the bar where Cox looked at me, sardonically. “Getting yourself that well-known that quickly around here, you might get more attention than you’re ready for, girl.”

I picked up my shot glass and threw the bourbon back, loving how it burned my throat. I said, “The show wasn’t for them.”

“Oh?” he said.

I told him, “It was for you.”

The dancer was back. Chiz said, “Well, Carla, what did you think of that?”

She looked at me with fire in her eye as she said, “Call that a pole dance?” Then to Chiz and his companion with the bandana, “
This
is a pole dance.” She took the two bikers by their hands and led them onto the stage. The music got louder again.

Standing in front of Chiz, she ground the cheeks of her butt hard into the front of his jeans, grinding up and down along the bulge that was growing. At the same time she slipped her hand down the front of Lump’s shirt. She licked his ear and down his neck as her fingers slid south into his jeans.
 

The two bikers squeezed and fondled her big breasts as she swayed her ass hard into Chiz’s crotch and worked her hand inside Lump’s pants. Chiz’s fingers were in Carla’s thong, slipping inside her.

Chiz had his cock out, and Carla squeezed it, up between the tops of her thighs, rubbing her pussy hard along it. As she bent to get Lump’s cock out, Chiz smacked her ass hard and shoved her little thong to the side. I could see his cock pressing up the length of her glistening wet pussy lips, the head nosing the base of her clit. She was getting her head down to work her mouth on Scoter’s cock.

The noise in the bar became thunderous. Feet stamping, tables banging, deep, male shouts and calls. Chiz lifted Carla, held her by her thighs like a wheelbarrow as he entered her. She had Lump deep in her mouth by then, and he held her head to match the grinding slew of his hips, sliding his cock in and out of her mouth. She held on tight to Lump’s ass, her fingers dug into his partly covered flesh and her back arched.
 

Lump’s ass was clenching as his pelvis drove his cock in and out of her lips. Carla’s neck and face were red and her breasts bounced as she was spit-roasted, impaled at both ends. The two men speeded up, concertinaing her hard and Carla’s eyes were wide.

The roar of the crowd formed into a word, repeated, rhythmically. “
Facial, facial,
” they shouted. The two men’s necks were pumped, the veins were standing out and arcs of sweat flew from their foreheads as they both grinned and nodded.

Chiz lifted Carla to the floor and onto her knees. She grunted and gasped as both men, first Lump, then Chiz pumped with their hands and finished off with bolts of sticky wet spunk into Carla’s face and her hair. She grinned wide as she lapped the slick white goo and slurped it up with her fingers, hanging on to Chiz’s ass for support.
 

Cox looked at me, studying me for some time. I was kind of stunned, very excited, probably pretty flushed, my face sure felt hot. The biker crowd certainly liked that show, but I wasn’t going back to the stage to outdo Carla.

I asked Cox, “So, what did you think of that show, biker boy?” There were some quiet intakes of breath around us at that, but Cox’s face didn’t register anything. He thought for a moment before he spoke, quietly,

“You got something to top that, Miss Congeniality?”

“I certainly have. But it needs just one man. And a room.”

He looked in my eye, “Careful now, child. You’ve only had boys, you don’t know what a man is.”

My stomach felt light and giddy and my breath caught as I was about to reply. He stepped forward and cut me off. He loomed up so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. He said, “Get upstairs.”

I hadn’t seen any stairs. I looked around. I saw his eyes go to a door ajar at the far side of the bar. I looked back to him. He said, “Go.” I felt awkward, conspicuous as I threaded my way to the door, and his heavy footsteps behind me made it worse. Through the door was a short, dark passage with a rough wooden staircase. As I started up the steps, I heard him behind me, closing the door.

I didn’t think it was going to be like that, the way that it was.
 

He had a room up there and I was surprised at what a nice room it was. Somehow I imagined a heavy-metal tip of brown blankets, beercans and sun-dried pizza, but it was nice.
 

We talked, I don’t even remember what we talked about, it was just... easy. We sat on the couch, sat on the bed, he played music on a stereo.

He knew how to touch me. First on my shoulders, then the top of my thigh, but softly. He stroked the inside of my forearm, touched my palm and my fingers as we talked. He touched me like he knew me, like he’d known me since I was a child, like he knew where I hid, and how I yearned to be found, discovered. Revealed. Opened. He opened me.