by Amy Law
He’d bring them around to see that he was their best asset and that his knowledge, expertise and advice would give them their best shot out of their predicament.
Daddy made you believe that whatever situation you were in, it would go better if you had him in charge. She wouldn’t be able to persuade them, three big, rough bikers, that they needed her to take control of them.
Tiffany didn’t know anywhere near enough about police tactics, about the law or about the psychology of the biker community.
From what little Tiffany knew about biker culture, she was sure they didn’t have any women telling them what to do. They were macho, alpha and driven by testosterone.
The conclusion was obvious. But she loathed it. Well, girl, how do you see your prospects in the life of a captive? Any other ways you might gain and establish some control? Whichever way she looked at it, it wasn’t a good choice. But it remained the only choice she could find.
The idea brought with it a reminder of Doctor Mastermann which Tiffany had trouble shaking off. A close-quarter kick to a vital zone had stopped him alright. He was known for his closet encounters, and Tiff got out of hers unscathed.
She hadn’t been able to reconcile how she felt about it, though. She was glad to have connected her foot to his very appropriate target area, and she’d welcome the chance to repeat the demonstration, but a part of her had wished she had waited. About another five minutes. That had scared her.
Soon, boots—it sounded like two pairs—clumped out of the room outside and, by the sound of it, left the apartment. The door slammed shut behind them. Tiffany waited. The only sound in the next room was an occasional shuffling of feet and the creak of a chair.
She was sure that there was only one biker. She had no way to know which one, but she knew which one she hoped it was. Either way, she only had the one plan, and she steeled herself to the idea of putting it into practice.
She got up and knocked on the door. When the door opened, the biker she’d called ‘Jax’ stood, big in the doorframe, relaxed and loose-limbed, his bandana and shades on, his hoodie up. She was at least glad that it was him.
Working hard to keep her voice from shaking, Tiffany told him, “I need to take a shower.” Not demanding, not too firm, not whiny. He looked at her, trying to decide.
He came into the room and pushed her backwards, in front of him. He pushed her with his outstretched fingers on her breastbone. She almost sank when his skin touched hers. He pushed her back against the wall by the door to the bathroom.
Held her there, three fingertips on her chest, while he opened the door. She could lift her hand. Lay it on his. What would he do? No, she told herself, Don’t lose yourself now, girl. Stay in control.
He opened the bathroom door for her and stood, blocking the rest of the room, blocking any other exit. In the bathroom, she stood with her back against the far wall. She pulled her hair up at the back and ran her fingers through it, letting it fall. Watching him.
Watching him watching her. She started to lift her top. Slowly. Not too slowly, not like a stripper, but slowly like a woman, exhausted after a grueling and hot day.
Her breasts were about to bounce free and he turned to face the other way. He gave her privacy. That was a surprise but Tiffany took it as being in her favor. She peeled off her clothes, opened the shower door and stepped onto the basin.
As far as she could see through the shower door, he was still facing the other way. In case he did turn, she wanted his view to be more than just steam, so she ran the water cool. It really was a relief.
Just to feel the water run almost cold over her skin, to ripple and run over her firm breasts, perking her brown nipples and raising gooseflesh all around them was a release. Some of her tension and stress drained as the water cascaded over her stomach.
She lathered herself with the body shampoo, carefully, thoroughly. Maybe he still wasn’t looking, she couldn’t tell, but he could hear. He could imagine.
And he would surely have to peek, once or twice, if only for reasons of security. She took the opportunity to caress and massage herself all over. It helped her to feel better, and it was bound to stir his imagination.
She turned off the water and stood, let it fall from her while she took a moment to gather her thoughts. She opened the door of the shower cabinet and saw the thin white towel on the rail. It would cover her. Barely.
She said, “Could you reach the towel for me?” While he hesitated, half turning, then quickly looking away again, she said, “Oh, never mind. I can reach it. If I stretch across.”
As the hot water stopped and the cooler air made her shiver, she didn’t think she could go through with it. The biker really made her hot, she really was attracted to him. Maybe it was because of the obvious power he had over her, but Tiffany was sure it wasn’t only that.
She thought that she could do what she planned if she had no feelings at all for him, but to use her feelings, to try and manipulate him with her body and her intimacy, she wasn’t sure that she could do that.
To misuse her true feelings however small, seemed such a betrayal of herself. As she rubbed the towel vigorously she told herself, This could be a life or death choice, Tiff. Don’t fuck about.
She toweled her body, careful to rub in all of the crevices. Still trying to set herself to her course, she dried herself twice as much as she needed. She saw the biker shift his weight more than once. At one point, she allowed herself a little, “Ah!” and a moment later, still facing away, he cleared his throat.
With the towel wrapped tight around her, Tiffany scooped up her clothes. His back filled the doorway. As Tiffany moved behind him, he shifted his weight. His buttocks clenched. His ass was fine, fine enough to make her stomach flutter. Enough to send shivers down her thighs.
Softly, she said, “I can come out now.” He moved aside, but still blocking the way to the other door, so she had to sidle along the wall. He put his hand on her breastbone. When his fingers touched her flesh a great, muffled thud went off deep inside her. She was sure she felt a tremble in his fingertips. He held her there as he closed and locked the bathroom door and dropped the key in his pocket.
The towel slipped as she reached up to touch the back of his hand. The tops of her breasts were exposed, and the front of the towel threatened to fall open. He pressed harder against her chest, then shook her hand away and seized her chin, just as he had in the parking level. She pressed her hips towards him. She felt his body tense up.
His heat was enough to penetrate the thin towel. She could absolutely feel him in front of her stomach, a fraction of an inch away, through the soft fabric. She felt him heat up and swell.
“I’m powerless,” she said, “helpless.” She looked up at him, trying to read him through the shades. “I’m a captive, totally at your mercy. Can’t you spare me just a little comfort?”
He didn’t move. She bit the side of her lip and looked at him, imploring him, “Please?” and the tip of her tongue pressed on her lip, where she’d bit. She let her mouth open.
Her chest was tight and her voice thickened. “I won’t tell. Not Anyone,” she breathed hard.
He pulled the bandana aside and yanked her face to him. He didn’t so much kiss her, as his tongue invaded her mouth. He explored her, he filled and took her. The coarse hair of his beard and mustache scraped her soft skin as his tongue drilled into her.
Her hands felt small against the hot uncoiling ridge in the front of his jeans. Her fingers crept upward, above his belt and found the soft cotton of his boxers. He pulled her to him, crushed her breasts against the rough workshirt over the hard ripples of his chest muscles.
His hand held the back of her head and his fingers wound into her wet hair, pulling. Tugging. She pulled at the waistband of his boxers, scraped her fingers inside. Grazed them against his velvety skin and dark fur.
His other hand gripped her ass through the towel. It was held up now by his hand on her rear, and the pressure of their bodies at the
front. Her damp skin pressed into him, molded itself onto him. Her fingers went down, into the front of his shorts.
He pulled her hair hard to yank her head back. His other hand reached up to put back the bandana. In the time it took, she saw the tense, animal rage in his taut mouth. The towel fell away and slipped to the floor.
Her skin glistened as it rose and fell. This was her plan. But she was getting lost in playing her part. He pulled her down to kneel on the floor.
As her knees slammed on the thin rug, She started to haul his belt buckle undone. She tugged at the rivet buttons of his fly. His white cotton boxers sprang forward, pushed by the weight of his hot rod of flesh.
Tiffany pulled the soft cotton down, unleashing his hard manhood, angry, red and pulsing. The scent of him swirled in her head. He pulled her hair from the top to drag her mouth onto him. His slick bulb popped through her lips and slid hard and fast over her tongue.
Tiffany choked as he shoved against the back of her mouth. Sweet saliva burst in a rush into her mouth, flooding her and dripping from her lips. She closed her lips around his huge cock, but they opened again each time his hips slammed it into her, and each time his hand drug her by the hair along the length of it.
Little gagging squeaks and cries bubbled from her mouth. He rammed into her face until her nose struck against his stomach. She felt his balls slap her chin. She sucked hard and wet as he pressed into her throat and held her on by her hair.
Her own juices were running thicker and faster than she had ever known them before. While she held a hand at the base of his shaft, she couldn’t keep her other hand out from between her legs, except when it flew up to squeeze her breast or pull hard on her nipple.
He drug her head off him and lifted her by her hair. He put a hand on her crotch and picked her up off the ground and in the process two fingers burst inside her. She felt tiny in his hand. He slung her onto the bed, then looked around the floor.
He came up with her panties in his hand. He balled them and jammed them into her mouth then flipped her over onto all fours. In her whole nineteen years, Tiffany had never felt even half as turned on as she was now. A little, low growl was seeping from her mouth, into the reek of her sheer panties.
His thumb was inside her wetness, his hand gripping her mound. Like that, he lifted her. She felt his mustache and beard between her thighs, his tongue roughly probing inside her, his lips mashed against her petals to press and spread her.
He dropped her on her knees back to the bed as his thumb moved to press between the soft, smooth cheeks of her buttocks and against her soft little star. Her head lay between her arms on the comforter as his thumb jammed her open.
He spat on her ass and worked her open, eased with the saliva. Not eased much, though. By the time he had three fingers into her, her eyes were wide and watering and she groaned long and hard, the sound muffled by the wad in her mouth.
He slung her onto her back and hauled her thighs in the air, holding her like a slaughtered lamb. His cock penetrated her, deep, hard and sudden and her whole body clenched and convulsed. Her back arched and her hands clenched and clawed.
She smelled her juices gushing as he filled her and drilled her, sawing in and out without mercy, each stroke harder than the last. Her groans rose in pitch. His torso slapped against the backs of her thighs, stretched high as he held her by her ankles.
He used his grip on her ankles to slam her even harder onto the length of his throbbing shaft. Her pussy lapped and gushed for him and held him, singing as he drove in and filled, pining at the void as he pulled out.
As he drove into her, she arched and pressed down to take him deeper. Her little mewling whimpers were muffled in her mouth. His hot shaft filled and stretched her, tore into her and possessed her.
After a long series of hard slams, he pulled her ankles up to lift her cheeks even higher. The blood rushed to her head and she felt giddy and vague.
Then he dragged his cock out and it invaded her ass. The raw friction burned and stung. She thrashed her arms on the bed, her hands clawed at her hair, pulled on her breasts and grasped for him. Her thighs shook and her stomach rolled in quaking convulsions.
She felt his cock begin to pulse hard and she knew that he was about to come. Outside in the next room there was a sound.
He stopped. A rasp of annoyance escaped his throat. Someone was at the apartment door.
He dragged his cock out of Tiffany’s ass and pulled his pants together, looking towards the door. Tiffany tried to say, “Go, go.” Her eyes were pleading but the gag still muffled her voice.
She waved her hand to the door and crawled in agony beneath the comforter. Almost silently he closed the door behind him, as the lock on the apartment door turned and a pair of boots clomped in.
She felt wretched as she pulled her bunched, wet panties out of her mouth and she sobbed in silence. What the fuck had she done?
Chapter 5
Even though it was agony to move, Tiffany slid to the end of the bed and padded silently to crouch with her ear pressed against the door. She wanted desperately to process the whirl of confusion that the past fifteen minutes had left, in her mind and in her soul, but she knew that anything she could hear of what was said right now could mean life or death for her.
Still trembling and disconnected in the aftershock waves of rough and punishing sex, her emotions were a chaotic blur. Tiffany made herself focus her mind on what she heard, but it was hard to ignore her heart jumping at the sound of his voice.
“I let her take a shower. I think she’s sleeping now.”
The other biker’s voice she couldn’t guess, but there was a leer in his tone when he said, “Must have been some shower. You give her a rub-down, too?”
Jax said, “Don’t be a jackass, Mace.” Mace! She had a name for one of them! But which one was he?
A chair scraped on the floor. Footsteps moved across the room and Tiff heard the pft of a refrigerator door open, a clunk of cans and the fridge squeaking as it closed again. Mace’s voice was farther away. He was the one at the fridge. He said, “He’s going to play ball.”
“You haven’t spoken to him, have you?” Jax creaked his chair. He was still sat at the table.
“Of course not, bro. It’s what I got from my little mouse. He wanted to handle it with his buddies from the Marines, but they couldn’t see how to make it play out right.”
There was a tense silence, broken by the fizz of a beer can opening.
Mace said, “They made the right choice there.”
“I think he’s still going to try something.” Were they talking about her Daddy? Tiffany’s heart jumped in her chest.
Mace, “Not before he gets her back he wont. Then, after that, we give him our little surprise and he’s going to be a good boy from then on. Trust me, bro.”
There was a pause before Jax replied, “A lot’s riding on this.” His voice was lower.
Mace was aggressive, irritated, “You know it. We all know it.”
Footsteps came towards the door. Tiffany leapt for the bed and dragged the comforter over her. She heard the door open, but she kept absolutely still. She wasn’t sure which biker was watching her, but she guessed it was Mace, and she was sure that was what he was doing.
Did they suspect that she’d been listening to them? When whoever it was closed the door again, Tiffany did everything she could to fix in her mind the few details of the conversation she had overheard. The pictures kept playing in her head of Jax’s hands on her, of his body covering her, penetrating her and controlling her.
His roughness, his strength and the violent passion of him in her—she had never before experienced anything like it. She had never been filled and driven so completely, so hard—never felt so overwhelmed. Her stomach fluttered and her breath caught at every memory. Every replayed moment made her heart soar.
How could something that was so very wrong in every way have felt so absolutely right and so frighteningly good?
Reme
mbering the strength and the heat of him rekindled the scents and the sounds of them both, together. And the sensations. Her idea had been to make a connection.
To share something, maybe some intimacy, to try and persuade the biker… Tiffany didn’t want to face the thought, but she had to… to try and give him reasons not to kill her. She had to remain realistic about her situation. There was a good reason for what she did. And yet…
Bikers weren’t known for their sentimentality and the Blades MC had a brutal reputation. She knew that her chances of survival were less than fifty percent. And she knew that giving one of the bikers some pussy wouldn’t improve them by much.
But she couldn’t see anything else she had at her disposal. She wouldn’t get far if she tried to fight her way through three bikers armed with a slice of pizza and some warm beer. What else did she have?