Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance

by May Ball, Alice

  Angelica beat wildly on his shoulders. His rhythm didn’t change. She slapped her hands on his face. Over and over. As fast and as hard as she could. He didn’t twitch.

  But the effort, while he was fucking her, so deep, so hard, while her hips, her treacherous little woman’s body, while her hips slid lasciviously along the length of his long, fat cock.

  The more she beat him, the closer she was to crying.

  She sunk her teeth into the top of his shoulder. He still didn’t seem to care. And rage was the only defense she had against the well of tears so close to bursting.

  So she rode his cock as hard as she could and through her teeth she shouted into the hard, muscled flesh of his shoulder, “Fuck me. Come on, American. FUCK ME! FUCK ME NOW!”

  The orgasm blasted into her like the Pacific smashing against high granite cliffs, breeching through vast, ancient caves, like a tsunami bursting into a bay, filling and consuming the coves and crags of the coast with white, raging foam.

  Lying back on the table, Angelica could hardly move. She ached all over, but all of her muscles sang. Never before had she felt anything like that. So powerful it almost felt religious. Maybe because she was exhausted and hadn’t eaten properly since the wedding.

  Whatever it was, it left her unbalanced. Confused. She felt drawn to this big biker like a father. Like a savior. And she knew that he wasn’t going to be either. Not for her.

  The sound of boots came from outside. Then a bang on the door and a rough male voice, “You done, bro? Ready to go?”

  Not taking his eyes off her, the biker said, “Ax there?” Another voice came from behind the door,

  “We’re all set, bro.” The biker called back,

  “Ax, take the merchandise and stack it in the cage. Call the geek and get him over. Don’t let anyone start to open anything before I get there.”

  “You got it. See you back.”

  “Ax?” the biker called again, insistent, “Nobody opens anything. No exceptions. Clear?”

  “Aye. You be far behind?”

  “No, I won’t be long.”

  As he fastened his silver buckle he told Angelica, “I hate to think of you being manhandled, mistreated and mauled, just to put money in Jake’s pocket,” he looked at her for a long time. Looked her over again.

  He said, “Seems tragic when you could fill my pocket instead.” She watched the emblem on his back. And she watched his ass. As it moved in the soft leather, she wanted his cock again. And then the door closed behind him.

  She must have slept, but not for long. There were sounds outside the door. The biker pushed the door open. The one with the red bandana and shades came into the room ahead of him, saying, “So, this gonna square us, right? The bust, Carter, the package you say you were short, we gonna be all squared away on that now. Right?”

  “All square. Only today’s thing left to complete.”

  “Brother, you paying a high price for a piece of tush. Let me take another quick look, okay? You sure she ain’t got diamonds in her pussy or a pound of crack in her bra? A weight of grass up her ass, maybe?”

  “This deal didn’t suit you, you wouldn’t be doing it, Jake. No more fucking around, okay.”

  “Okay, bro. She’s all yours. We’re good.” They clasped hands, locking their thumbs, embraced with their other arms and patted each other twice on the back. It was like a dance.

  The biker was leading her from the room. Whether this was taking Angelica to a better situation, she had no way to know, but the biker looked to her like a better bet than Jake in every way.

  She pushed away the thought that she had never experienced orgasms anything like those he’d given her. Whatever else, she was sure he was a pimp just like Jake. Allowing her emotions to get tangled up with him would probably not lead to a happy ending.

  As we neared the door she started to say, “My sister...” and realized immediately that it was a mistake.

  Jake grinned wide as he said, “Oh, you got a sister?”

  Jake learning that Inez was Angelica’s little sister, it wouldn’t do her any good at all, or Angelica either. Thinking fast, the best she could come up with was, “I gotta call my sister. Let her know I’m OK. And I want to know how her test went.”

  Maybe she went too far. From law school she remembered, the more detail a witness offers, the more likely they’re lying or trying to hide something. Either one of those lies should have been good. Saying both could have been too much and she may have given herself away.

  Jake said, “It’s okay, I’m sure Bogart will let you use the phone in your suite. You gonna put her in the penthouse, right, Bogart? With the rooftop infinity pool? You gonna let her use the chopper?”

  Bogart. So that was what they called him.

  Bogart said, “Don’t worry, Jake, she’ll be on a chopper night and day. She’s headed straight for the panthouse.”

  Out at the back of the shed, in darkness again. Seemed like the sun had taken a vacation. “Hold onto here,” he pointed at a grab rail below the seat of the huge motorcycle. Angelica clambered onto the back of the saddle and grabbed the chrome rail and he flicked a pair of cuffs over her wrist, chaining her wrist to the bike’s rail.

  He said, “If I’d expected a passenger, I’d have brought the Softtail. The Sportster’s higher, less of an easy ride. Just hold on, lean when the bike leans, go where the bike goes.” He swung his legs over the front of the bike, sat and turned the key.

  The engine burst into a crackling roar beneath us, with a steady pulse from the pipes behind. The thing jerked forward and she didn’t think that she was going to be able to hold on. They rode for what seemed like hours to Angelica.

  With both hands gripping on to the grab rails under her ass, Angelica’s arms felt like they had turned to ice. Her legs were freezing so much in the wind that her knees shook violently for the whole trip. The rags of the tee snapped and flapped around her bare breasts.

  The bike’s powerful engine thrummed underneath her. Reminded her of her Mama’s tumble drier, the way it shook her. Only, Mama’s tumble drier did that because it was a cheap appliance.

  It shook because it wasn’t made well enough not to. This thing, this bike, it vibrated with a precision, speeding up, slowing down. Always with a force. And a beat.

  This machine rocked her clit and her pussy and her insides, it even made her breasts shake. And it did it like it meant it. The feeling of his ass, like steel balls between her shaking thighs did nothing to lower the effect.

  That whole journey Angelica was freezing and almost edging at the same time. Most uncomfortable ride she ever had.

  Eventually, they came to a big roadhouse in a blasted crater of dry scrub. The red neon over the entrance said, HELL’S KITCHEN, BAR & GRILL. A heavy metal thud oozed out through the walls. Several bikes leaned outside, plus a number of pickups and a big container rig.

  Probably like the truck the girls had been brought in from the Mexican border. They had been loaded in and out in pitch dark so it could be the same one for all she would ever know.

  She saw Bogart look over a couple of the big, shining bikes, listen to them crackling as their engines were still cooling. Rocked one on its stand. He felt them, for the temperature she guessed, patted them like they were faithful horses, not just hunks of metal bolted together.

  Bogart unlocked the cuffs and led her in through the bar doors. What lights there were behind the bar, on the stage or from the gambling machines around the walls. Red, blue or amber lights and logos flashed and flickered through the dark press of leather, denim, metal and hair.

  Still shivering from the ride, Angelica had to stop a while to warm up. Bogart waited with no sign of impatience. Through the shadows and the mostly male bodies, she saw two or three girls gyrate around the stage.

  They wore sparkly heels. That was about all. Maybe some glitter and rhinestones. They slithered and writhed in easy reach of the customers.

  Sliding after Bogart through the crowd in the
tiny cut-off denims with flaps of the tee hanging from her shoulders, she felt more naked than the dancers, and none of the bikers failed to notice.

  When they saw who she was with, they kept their observations to themselves and they all greeted Bogart like some emperor returning from a conquest.

  A cute, black-haired dancer crouched at the edge of the stage in front of a customer. Her big, round breasts pressed against him. Looking closer, Angelica saw that his cock was standing out and the girl had it wedged between her breasts.

  She slid up and down, reaching under his balls. Some bikers were clapping time and stamped until the guy’s cock went off in the girl’s face.

  She pulled on it and sucked on it to drain it dry, then she wiped all the cum from between her breasts and on her face into her mouth and licked her lips theatrically.

  She showed her tongue to the crowd with a drooling hunk of spunk on it. She swallowed, licked her lips again and grinned. Her eyes shone and she shouted, “Who’s next?” and reached for the belts of the two nearest bikers.

  Bogart steered Angelica to a room out back. Inside was a large empty desk with a wood swivel chair behind it, a black safe by the side, and two more chairs in front. A picture hung behind the desk of some men in another desert, in combat uniform. A tattered flag hung in a corner, and a big tapestry of the Savage MC colors hung on the wall opposite the desk.

  Bogart offered her a chair. Wouldn’t seem like much normally, would it. “Sit. Relax.” But it was the first straightforward act of kindness that Angelica had been shown since she was taken from her family’s village two days before. Or was it three days, she couldn’t tell any more. Now was the first time that she felt truly tired, too. He poured bourbon into two shot gasses. Handed her one of them.

  Not something she would usually drink, but these weren’t usual times. It was sinking in that usual times were fading into the past and behind her. Whatever the future would be, it wouldn’t be anything like the past.

  She thanked him for the seat and for the whisky. He paused a moment, letting it hang. Like he was looking at it. Then he made an acknowledgement with a cock of his head. It seemed elegant somehow. “So,” Angelica asked him, “Is this a brothel too?”

  His voice was hard and even, “Asking questions, especially questions around business is a dangerous sport in these parts.”

  She wanted very much to know where ‘these parts’ were, but she figured that whatever she wanted answers for, she better find them for herself, and be very discrete about it.

  There was a knock on the door. He told her, “Wait here.”

  She said, “Hmm. Should I postpone my drive to Acapulco? Skip the flight to Rio maybe? Okay, you know what, I’ll wait here.”

  He looked back at her from the door, “Help yourself to more bourbon if you want it. Seems to do you good.”

  As he left she watched his tight ass roll in those leathers. After that she did take another shot of bourbon.

  Bogart was away for some time, and as well as the noise from the bar there were sounds of boots and boxes and animated talk among the bikers. Through the door and the thin, wood walls Angelica heard talk of ‘shipment,’ ‘packaging’ and ‘cut.’ Also there was mention of a ‘city alderman,’ either in the bar or coming to the bar.

  When he returned, Bogart said, “Angelica, I hope you’re going to be happy here and do well. I hope we’re both going to do well. But make no mistake, I’m not your knight on a white steed. You’ll be working here, just like you would have been with Jake.” He looked at her, hard over his shot glass. “That’s the way it is.”

  She said, “There’s one thing.”

  He said, “Your sister. I know we’re going to get to that. You think Jake was thrown by your, ‘Oh, I got to call her’ routine? Wondering about her test scores? It was quick thinking, woman, but you may have overplayed it.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that, too. But I think he bought it. He was too busy showing off to you, Bogart.”

  “I see your situation. But you cost me dear, woman. You want me to go back and bargain with Jake for another girl? Forget it.”

  She looked hard into his eye, “Okay, look. I’ll do whatever you want, alright? You want me to fuck some guy for you, no problem. Sleazeball, dirtbag, don’t matter. You want me to struggle and pretend to fight back, you got it. Fists, nails, teeth, whatever. Act like I never did it before? Sure. Two guys? Three? Bring ’em on. I’ll make you money, I’ll sweeten your deals, I’ll help you do exactly whatever you want, American.”

  She looked at him long and hard. She wanted him to see that she meant it and that she could do it. She stood and took a bite of the bourbon. What few fragments of clothes she had left were hanging in rags. Her skin glistened, she breathed hard and her eyes blazed as he looked her up and down.

  He saw a woman in shape, a woman with a woman’s body and a woman’s passion. A woman with a fire in her belly. He saw a woman who meant what she said.

  They looked at each other a while. Her, trying to persuade him. Him? Who ever knew what that man was thinking? Everyone around Bogart knew that whoever thinks they know what Bogart is thinking, they’re usually heading straight for an ugly surprise.

  Angelica’s voice was low and husky. She said, “I’ll go back into the bar right now. Grab two drunks and a psycho. I’ll do all three of them in here, right in front of you. You can put it on fucking YouChoob, you hear me?”

  He chuckled. That was a rarity. “Angelica, you are some kind of a woman. No, do not go back to the bar and do not drag three random scumbags in here. You’re going to work alright, but you aren’t for the scrotes. Well, not the scrotes in the bar at any rate. You’re strictly for the high-class clientele.” He lifted a shot glass, “Megascrotes only for you. Scrotocracy.”

  He leaned back. Looked her up and down. Deciding something. Right then she so wanted to fuck him. Most men, that would seal the deal. This man, this Bogart? Angelica stood with her legs a little farther apart, tilted her hips towards him, put her hand in the back of her hair.

  Looked at him under her eyebrows as she let her head fell a little forward. Bit her lip. His black leather jeans, right in the front, they were moving all on their own. Like a cat was waking up inside. Stretching itself. He stood up. Took her elbow and led her out.

  He led her down a corridor to another room. Inside, it looked like the finest room in the tackiest hotel in town. Big room, huge bed, red, shiny cover, plump red and pink cushions. Brown wood wardrobe, dresser, table and drinks cabinet. Red drapes on the walls, closed to distract from the fact that there were no windows. A worn leather sofa and chairs, dark brown like the carpet.

  He held up one of the drapes. “Big mirror.” He said, revealing a huge mirror surrounded by a very heavy and ornate gilt frame. She noticed that the mirror wasn’t hanging and tilted forward, it was absolutely on a plane with the wall.

  She said, “And what’s on the other side of the mirror?”

  Bogart said, “Damn, you are sharp, woman. I’m going to have to watch you.”

  He opened a door to a shower room with a hand basin, a mirror and a lavatory. He said, “Take a look in the wardrobe. Pick something out.”

  She opened the wardrobe and as she looked through the hanging clothes asked him, “What’s the occasion?”

  He said, “First day at a new job. Look your best and be ready to celebrate.”

  She picked out a long silky dress, very low in the front and back, split up the side. About as classy as the room, but in a blue that could definitely work on her. On a shelf was a pair of heels that fit her okay and could match.

  The shoes weren’t made for long walks. There were new pairs of hold-up stockings, so she chose a dark gunmetal pair. She said, “Any makeup?” He looked at her a moment. She saw his pants stir again.

  He said, “There probably is, but it’ll be cheap. You really don’t need to fix your face. It looks just fine.”

  She thought that what he meant to say was, ‘Your face l
ooks just like the face of a whore, and you’re going to be whoring.’ But when he said about her face, “It looks just fine,” she thought she detected a tiny crack of an emotion sneaking out under the words. He worked the muscles in his jaw and quickly looked away after he had said it.

  She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her face had smears of mascara and lip polish. It did look to her exactly like the face of a whore, and a tired, hard-worked whore at that. She closed the door and changed into the dress, put on the stockings and shoes. “C’mon,” he called from the room.

  When she stepped out, his dark eyes widened and then narrowed. The slinky dress wasn’t exactly Parisian haute couture, but it displayed plenty of skin. Her simple silver chain with a small crucifix from her Papa and the little St Christopher she had worn since her first communion were now the only things Angelica wore that belonged to her.

  The blue dress draped and flowed over her ample breasts well enough, and below the slashed back it shimmered and made something of her ass. The long slit showed her thigh as far up as the stocking top. His voice was thick as he put out a hand and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Out in the bar, Bogart had Angelica walk ahead of him and he steered her through the dense crowd to a table in a set-off area in the far corner. A pudgy man in a nice grey suit was sat at the table trying to look comfortable in a dark room full of bikers. Like this was the kind of a place he usually hung out for his gin and tonic after work. He looked up and caught sight of Bogart, his eyes showed recognition. And some relief. Then he got a look at Angelica. That woke him up.