Gypsy’s plan was to surprise Hacker. She knew that he was going to get there early for the meet, and she thought that a little al fresco bj would perk him up before showtime. Through the gaping doorway of the main building, massive rusted chains hung from the high roof and piles of old tires and boxes stood by wet pools around the decayed concrete floor. Dripping water echoed in the gloom.
As soon as she stepped inside, Gypsy heard men’s lowered voices. She froze. She crouched at the doorway, trying to hear, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. The sound was coming from behind a stack of metal shelving, and through it she was able to make out the silhouettes of at least two pairs of legs. They were no more than fifteen feet away. Their heads were hidden behind the piles of stuff on the shelves. She kept very still as she tried to hear them.
The words were just a muffled noise and she couldn’t make anything out of them. With a chill, she recognized the voices. Boxer and Shank were just on the other side of those shelves, and she hadn’t a friend for ten miles or more.
They must have second guessed Hacker and shown up early with their own surprise for him. That didn’t bode well at all. Gypsy’s first instinct was to call Hacker, but she couldn’t risk having her phone flash or make a noise before got herself a safe distance away. That thought made her wonder how much distance she would need. It was very quiet around there, they would be able to hear her for some way. It was a miracle she had got as near as she was without being detected.
She crouched and started to back very slowly out. She would keep low and as close to the wall as she could to get away. Her foot dislodged an old can and it rolled very quietly across the concrete. The sound of the voices stopped abruptly.
Gypsy looked back at the shelves. No legs were visible. She turned to run. A huge hand fell on her shoulder and gripped, hard and she heard Shank’s voice, low and hard. “Partner, I believe we got us a bonus prize.”
Gypsy’s first thought was to brazen it out. She said, “Oh, boys, you know I’m glad to have found you. Let’s finish what we started earlier,” and she began to undo the buttons of her shirt. As Boxer came at her and she saw the feral look in his eye, she realized that they didn’t want her to be compliant. They wanted it to be rough. Well, to keep them busy until Hacker arrived, she was prepared to do that, too. She would put up a struggle. Hopefully not so much that they’d end up injuring her, but she could risk some bruises.
Gypsy was beginning to realize that she might do almost anything for Hacker.
Boxer moved towards her and arched her eyebrows into a frightened look. Gypsy had never been all that much for acting, but Boxer wasn’t hard to convince. She said, “Oh, no! Please don’t tear my shirt,” and he reached out to the front of her beautiful white cotton shirt. Buttons flew as he ripped right down the front. She reached for his wrist and he slapped her hard across the face.
The side of her face stung, and the shock sent her reeling. Shank was there to catch her as she fell. She turned her head and breathed hard on the hard bulge that strained the front of his blue denims. He grabbed her chin. Gypsy slipped and was falling awkwardly. Shank caught her hair. A shock of pain hit her as the whole of her weight was suddenly hanging from her scalp. She got her knees to the floor as Shank’s cock loomed in her face.
She shied away from it, hoping that while he made her suck his dick, it would keep him occupied and prevent him doing worse violence. That still left Boxer, of course, but he was yanking her ass up, and tearing at her panties. It took him three goes to rip the gusset out. When her flesh was exposed, Boxer helped himself to a generous feel along her clit, her slit, her lips and her ass. She squirmed as he shoved his fingers up in her pussy and, treacherous female anatomy, it was soaking wet.
Treacherous or maybe just self-protective. Boxer’s attention was certainly held at that moment. He worked his fingers up her, growling, “This little cunt’s as wet as a sump,” and, “horny little whore, she’s dripping for it.” Then he jammed his thumb up her ass. All the while, Shank’s cock was ramming her throat. She made noises of protest and Shank slapped her face. When he found out how much he liked that, the sound of the slap and the whack as his hand beat her flesh on his cock, he slapped her again, harder.
He did that a couple more times as Boxer’s cock was engaging in her ass. Next time Shank smacked Gypsy’s face, she let the impact bang her teeth into his cock. Just enough for the fun to have gone down out of that game for him. Boxer’s cock was splitting her ass wide, dry without even spit for lube. She didn’t need to pretend, her ass was shaking to get him out, whether she wanted it to or not.
Then a mechanical click echoed in the darkness of the decaying industrial shell and everything became still. After the click, Gypsy heard Hacker’s voice from behind her. “Boxer you can finish cumming up my personal sweetbutt’s ass, or you can get right on to explaining why I can’t see our money anywhere around here.” Then Gypsy felt a small ring of cold steel press against her temple.
Shank said, “Well, if she’s your personal sweetbutt, how are you going to feel after I blow her personal head open?”
Hacker said, “Not nearly as bad as you are, cause it aint my personal dick in her mouth. I doubt you want to blow your own dick off, Shank, but I can’t be sure. You are pretty fucking stupid.”
There was a silence. Hacker said, “And since she is my personal sweetbutt whose throat you have your dick stuck in, I wonder what she would do if I asked her nicely to chomp your dick right off.”
Gypsy bit on Shank’s cock. Not enough to draw blood, but nearly. Enough to show him that she would be happy to do it. The cocks in both ends of her were starting to wilt away.
The pistol barrel moved quickly away from the side of her head and upwards. Her ears hurt from the hard, loud echo that the gunshots made in the cavernous warehouse. Something burned her shoulder. Shank fell backwards. Went down like a log.
Gypsy turned, pulling her sore ass off Boxer’s cock. Shank lay flat on the ground, the gun smoking on the ground at his side. He had a startled look on his face. He also had a neat, red hole in the right of his forehead. A thick puddle of blood seeped out from the back of his head. Hacker’s gun was now up against the back of Boxer’s head.
Hacker said, “Now, Boxer. Tell me about our money.”
Boxer said, “It’s not here.”
“No, obviously it isn’t. But it will be tomorrow. You’ll bring it here and then you’ll leave it, with a twenty percent vig. And then we’ll decide whether to consider you paid in full. Otherwise, by this time tomorrow, you’ll be meeting up with your bro where you can both become useful parts of a new freeway intersection.”
Gypsy sat with Hacker on his unexpectedly neat bed.
Hacker took a long draw on the joint, held his breath in for a moment, then passed it to her. As she took a toke, he picked up a remote, pressed a button and set it down again. The stereo played Free, the Fire and Water album.
The grass was strong and smooth, fresh, natural Pacific Northwest produce. Straight away Gypsy was buzzing nicely. He moved to take back the joint. He was standing close. His chest was close to hers, and her breasts ached for him. She tipped her hip towards him, felt the heat of his groin next to the heat of her own. He said, “You can’t expect too much, okay?” She looked down at the big bulge in his jeans and said,
“I don’t know, Hacker, looks like you’ve got a fair sized package for me there.”
He said, “I mean after.” In his eyes, through the hard, protective shield, she thought she saw someone with a deep, dark hole inside. An unfilled need. She knew that feeling well enough to recognize it.
He leaned in towards her, “Let me look at your shoulder,” he touched it tenderly. After a gentle examination, he said, “You won’t need stitches, but I’ll put a couple of steri-strips on it.” He went to the bathroom and he returned with a medical pack. She said,
“I should take off my shirt. Right?” He almost broke into a smile and she almost caught her br
eath.
He watched as she shrugged out of the leather waistcoat. Since he was watching, she made a little show of undoing the shirt buttons, pulling the tails out of the leather skirt and then sliding the shirt off, one sleeve at a time. She put her elbows across her bra and looked up at him, checking that she wasn’t overdoing it. Maybe she was but he didn’t seem to mind. They both were buzzing nicely on the weed by then, so everything seemed more like fun and mischief.
He was attentive as he cleaned the wound up, although he didn’t mind looking at her breasts while he did it. He put three thin tapes across the gash, then a sticking plaster over the tapes. Then he inspected his work. Then he looked at her breasts again. Then he kissed her.
He kissed her softly at first, then deep, slow and soulful. Gypsy responded. The music carried their bodies together and she went to take off his jacket. He pushed her back firmly. The look in his eye was enough and she remembered. You don’t mess with a biker’s jacket, or with anything that has their colors on. A biker’s colors are as sacred as his bike. She said she was sorry. He said, “There are rules. You don’t want to fuck with them.” She wanted to say, No, I want to fuck with you, but his face didn’t look like it was ready for a jokes.
They smoked some more of the joint, passing it between them. He said, “You didn’t have a figure like that in high school.” She asked him,
“Would you have paid me more attention if I had?”
“I might have fucked you,” he said, “You were a couple of years below me, though. I wouldn’t have risked jail for it.” He pulled back and looked at her breasts again. Then his eyes slid up her neck. Then down to her legs. Slowly they traced up her thighs. After a long toke he said, “Okay. I might have.” His hand slipped around to her ass and he pulled her in for anther kiss. This time hard. Deep and wet. His tongue inside her mouth. Gypsy’s heart pounded as he pulled her hips against his groin and her breasts crushed into the muscles of his hard chest.
She grabbed his ass and felt fires igniting all over her. Her mound was squeezed in her wet panties against the uncoiling bulge in his jeans. Her clit buzzed hot and raw in the friction. She pulled hard at his ass, and her body stretched up along his. She wanted to feel his skin. She wanted her hands on his flesh. She wanted him on her. In her.
She ached to taste him. To feel him part her and plunge into her. Her lips and her tongue wanted to feel his hot, hardening cock. The cock that pressed at her through her tiny leather skirt. Her skirt that was riding up. His thick, hard thigh wedged in between hers. The denim grazed soft flesh above her stockings. She gripped him with her thighs. The heat of his cock rubbed against the swollen hood of her clit.
His hands were on her breasts. Cupping them, squeezing them, teasing and kneading them through her black lacy bra. He slipped the straps down off her shoulders then licked and sucked at her heaving breasts, slipping his hands into the cups to circle and roll her stinging hard nipples. She unsnapped the bra and let it drop. His lips and his tongue were on her nipples, suckling and pulling them. As he sucked on one, he tweaked and stretched the other with his fingers. Gypsy’s breath caught in her throat and her heart thumped in her heaving chest.
Her desperate pussy ached to get out of her wet panties and along the hard evil curve of Hacker’s hot cock. It rubbed against his jeans, making her moan and quiver with excitement and pent-up passion. The nub of her clit sawed out under its swollen hood and it twanged and stung from wanting.
His hand slid over her stomach. Down her leather skirt. Then up inside it. She bit on his shoulder, grazed his chest with her teeth. She growled into his neck as his hands slipped past all of her remaining clothes. She moaned as his fingers found her weeping flower, dripping hot with need. She said through a growl, “Hacker, whatever of your clothes you don’t want me to touch, will you please fucking take them off. I want you.”
Hanging naked, upside down with her thighs on Hacker’s shoulders, his tongue buried itself in her puss, his lips pressed hard against her petals. Her throat hugged the length of his cock and her mouth slewed along the length of it as she sucked him deep and brought him to another climax.
The Cutter
The Norwegians were getting to be a lot of trouble and a lot of cost. Supplies at the bar were depleted and everyone was getting tired of having them around. The girls were all showing bruises or worse, and they were all saying that they had doctor’s appointments or they needed to visit distant relatives.
Bogart tried to persuade Angelica and Inez to entertain the Scandinavians but his heart wasn’t in it. Angelica said, “You kidding me American.” She looked in his eye. “Jurgen, Bent, I don’t mind them.” But she knew that neither of them was part of the problem that Bogart was trying to solve.
She was firm as she said, “One of those other two comes near me, they going to find out what testicles taste like when they been pre-chewed.”
Bogart, Cox and Hacker took it to the table. Closed session.
Nobody liked it, but nobody had a better idea. The Norwegians needed their money, Savage needed the Norwegians paid and gone and Savage MC’s credibility was at stake.
Harsh enforcement was the only quick route that anybody could think of. Relations with the Placid PD wouldn’t take much more strain right now and, even with Alderman Greaves in their pocket, Savage MC needed better public relations not worse. A gang war between Savage and Los Muertos wouldn’t be any help at all.
The vote was taken, Bogart and Hacker went to find Butcher.
Machine Head
When I first met Cox he rode up out of nowhere, a knight on a black Harley, come to rescue me.
Daddy’s good little girl was what I was always supposed to be, and that’s exactly what I was. Up until I discovered all the fun that Daddy’s bad little girl could have. That’s when I began to figure out that the bad boys had the keys to the funhouse.
Have you any idea what you can get away with in a small town like Placid, CA, when your Daddy is the police chief and he won’t ever believe one bad word about you? Daddy the police chief, his baby girl the cheerleader, voted Most Popular and Miss Congeniality. I don’t know how many popularity contests I won in high school and it took me years to work out that it wasn’t because everyone liked me. Almost no one liked me. They were all afraid of me. They were afraid of what I could get away with. They were afraid also of what might happen if I turned my Daddy on them, and that was something that I could do with the crook of my finger.
Dwayne was a lazy punk car mechanic. Jacked cars, held up a liquor store, my kind of a man. And he sold some crack. Gave me crack. I hated it. I like the feeling of getting messed up on bourbon, it leaves me feeling loose and in control at the same time. I love the mellow hit from a fresh Californian or Oregon weed. I love that almost in the way that Daddy and his stupid friends get all wanky over the wines from the other side of those same western hills.
But smoking crack? Get out of my face. I can get fucked up, wired and stupid all in one hit? Like John Fogerty said, it ain’t me. I did it to try it but I told Dwayne, Thanks, but no thanks.
For Dwayne that’s a red rag. That was the first time he hit me. Like, really hit me, I mean. Left a mark. I wanted to kill him. I swore I would never breathe the same stinking air as him again. Somewhere deep inside me, the shock and the pain lit a powerful fuse, but I knew that wasn’t something to share with Dwayne. His pathetic little wooden room shook when I yanked the door open.
He just sneered at me with that look on his face that said, You’ll be back, Baby Doll. I stamped out of there with that angry red splash across my cheek and when I slammed the door behind me I heard a small, satisfying sound of breaking glass.
When Daddy saw the red mark, it made him so angry I thought he’d explode. He told me his house, his rules, I told him, I’m nineteen, Daddy, my LIFE, my rules. Then I realized that I wanted Dwayne again.
We were out by the edge of town, looking down over the miserable little Friday night light show, not much different
from any other night, just with a few more flashing blue lights. I thought, There’s Daddy’s men, keeping all the good people safe from themselves.
Dwayne was high on crack, of course. Wanted to fuck right there by the side of the road, with the town spread out below us. There was hardly any traffic, so I couldn’t see much point. Still, he’d grabbed my tits, got my shirt open, my bra unhooked. Sucked on my nipples. I loved the way that he held my breasts. Grabbed them, squeezed them hard. Needy. Almost desperate. Sometimes he shook.
Then rubbing the bulge in his pants against my short denim skirt. The skirt rode up, and his jeans scraped against my sheer panties. They were so wet by then I could smell them, and my hips were rocking hard against him whether I wanted them to or not, scraping up and down along the line of that bulge.
His hands were on my breasts, on my neck, pulling on my shoulders. I knew what he’d want. His little baby doll cheerleader, kneeling on the rough ground, gravel ripping and laddering my expensive hold-ups. My big blonde tresses bobbing, knelt in front of him for all the world to see, while my hot, wet mouth and the top of my supple throat worked a wonder on his telegraph pole of a cock.
Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance Page 30