All White Alphas: Four Adult BWWM Stories

by Aaliyah Jackson

  Her body was rocked by the force of the thrust and her groans got louder as the prince hammered his stiff shaft into her cunt. He became a man possessed and took out his lust on her naked body in a frenzied onslaught. The feel of his cock pounding in her pussy set her body alight and she slapped her palms on the desk to push her ass back and meet the thrusts hitting her from behind.

  Prince Nathanial only increased his efforts as the sex came to a high. It sent Monica careering towards a climax and her knuckles grew white when she gripped the edge of the desk and held on. She was being hammered from behind and desperately tried to hold in the moans for fear of anyone passing the door hearing. It proved impossible when the burst of pleasure rushed out of control and she pressed her mouth against the wood to muffle the sound.

  The orgasm ripped through her as cock continued to ravage her cunt and she was held at the peak of her passion until Prince Nathanial finally couldn’t control himself. He plunged deep as the shudders of his climax sent a torrent of white spurts flooding Monica’s wet hole. The spasms of her pussy walls tightened her around the hardness and she writhed around on the table top as she and the prince shared the most intimate of moments. He withdrew his cock before his release came to an end and groaned as he watched the last of his cum splash white streaks on black skin.

  His legs trembled and he grabbed Monica’s hair to drag her head back and turn it when he leaned forward. It allowed him to kiss her and their lips remained locked together as they tried to recover from the exertions of the sex. He only straightened up when his legs stopped trembling and he looked down at the way his new assistant was splayed across his desk.

  “We should have a meeting every morning,” he said and let out a quiet laugh.

  Monica got herself up from the desk and turned to face him. She looked down at her disheveled clothing then the prince’s.

  “Will our meetings always end up like this?” she asked him.

  The grin spreading across his face showed that he hoped they would. Monica knew it was crazy, but she wanted the same thing. Unless Rebecca’s attitude towards her changed, she wasn’t even sure how long she would have a job, but as long as she remained employed she planned to make the most of her time with a charismatic prince that lusted after her.

  Taking On The White Bikers

  Aaliyah Jackson

  Chantel runs an idle finger over the rim of her martini glass, her heart thumping in her chest. How could a woman not get turned on by a motorcycle? She thinks. She bites her lip, looking out the front window of the bar, to the machines parked out on the curb. They’re long and sleek, with engines promising power between your legs. The streetlights overhead give the chrome and steel a liquid sheen. Chantel takes a sip from her glass, imagining how it would feel, 65 miles per hour on the freeway, the wind blowing through her hair, the bike gently buzzing against her spread thighs.

  “Chantel? You okay?” Tamika tilts her head into Chantel’s field of vision. “You want to talk about Marc? You were dating for a year. This is a major life moment, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Keeping her eyes to the bikes outside, Chantel sits back in her chair. The DJ, couched in a far corner of the club, switches songs, the tempo suddenly slower and strong.

  “He cheated on me, Tamika,” Chantel says. “He’s a creep. I haven’t been happy with him for 6 months.” Chantel tosses her head back, finishing the last slithering drips of her drink. “Honestly, Tamika, I haven’t felt this happy in a long time. I’m only 23, I’m a hot young black woman, I feel like now that Marc is gone, that the whole world is open, like it’s a buffet just waiting for me to try everything, you know?”

  Tamika nods. “Okay then, girlfriend,” she breaks into her trademark toothy grin, “lets get fucked up!” She raises a finger in the air to hail one of the servers buzzing about the club. “Two tequila shots for me and my newly-freed girlfriend!”

  “To freedom and new experiences!”

  Tamika clinks her shot to Chantel’s. “To freedom and new experiences!”

  Her heart still racing, the air hot and buzzing with each breath, Chantel throws the shot back in a single gulp.

  “Whoa whoa, there, Min,” Tamika says. “You’re five-foot-five and 110 pounds, you’d better be careful slamming drinks like that. You know they make them strong here. We don’t want another Pukesgiving on our hands.”

  Chantel, catching gazes with the server that now seems to be hovering around their table, raises her finger for another. “First,” she says, turning back to Tamika, “Last Thanksgiving was bad because no one told me that drink was made with Jaeger, which was your dumb ass mistake. You know what happens when I drink Jaeger. Second,” she pauses as the server quickly darts in to nestle another martini glass in her palm, “I’ve lived in Marc’s shadow for too long. It’s time for me to open up my arms and accept what life has to offer, you know?”

  Tamika nods, taking a slow sip of her appletini. “You know I love you, girl, but—”

  Chantel stands, the seat accidentally toppling from beneath her. Not wanting to hear the “but” to Tamika’s sentence, she grabs her friend by the hand and drags her away from the table.

  “No time to talk, bitch! It’s time to dance!”

  A glass breaks behind them but Chantel doesn’t bother looking back. What’s a broken glass on some club’s floor when there’s a whole world, a big apple waiting for her to take a bite? As if by providence, the song shifts up tempo, the rhythm compelling Chantel to bounce on the balls of her toes.

  “Ok, wow,” Tamika shouts into Chantel’s ear, trying to speak over the deafening music. “You’re already drunk, huh?”

  “Fuck yeah I am,” Chantel says. “I had a few before you showed up. Let’s get some shots up in here!”

  Tamika again leans in to say something to Chantel, but the words are lost in transit. Dancing to the song’s pulse, Chantel feels her body expand, melt into the very essence of the music itself. The words from Tamika’s lips fizzle and die in the newly-expanded air. Sweat trickling down her face, Chantel swims through a warm tide of color and sound, her body abuzz with every flicker. The last thing she thinks, ready to explore a whole new world, is who came on those motorcycles. Maybe they’d like a drink or two…

  -

  In her half-dreams, Chantel feels the vibrations of a motorcycle against her legs. She feels the wind fluttering through her hair, a breeze on her flushed cheeks. Then she feels something else, something a shade more delicious. Her thighs seem to melt out from under her, a force examining every inch of her naked skin. She sees a vision of a man’s chest, his muscles smooth and taut under her fingers, a dragon tattoo slithering over the hard flesh.

  The bedspring creaks like a needle in Chantel’s ear.

  “Uhhh…” It feels like she spent all night doing crunches, her stomach cramped and tight. Sensations trickle in one by one before the world as a whole seems to come together. In the blackness, her eyes still clamped shut, Chantel hears a low murmuring sound, like a faraway stream. She breathes in and her nose is filled with the sting of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. A warmth rests across her chest.

  “Mornin’ sunshine.” A thick, heavy voice whispers in Chantel’s ear, pulling her eyes open. Chantel turns to the voice, still half in a dream, to see a squared jaw dusted with heavy stubble. Lips spread into an easy smile and green eyes ablaze in the morning light look to her.

  “You’re all kinds of feisty, you know that?” The vibrations from his voice pulse down through the bed where Chantel lay.

  This is the moment where it all comes flooding back to Chantel. The voice and the face and the cigarette-smelling room all come back to her. Chantel bolts upright in bed, instantly regretting the action. It feels like someone is driving nails through her forehead.

  “Oh god,” she moans. “Did…,” she turns to the man laying in bed beside her. Dusty blonde hair falls down past the diamond studs in his ears. His shoulders have more muscle than Chantel has in her whol
e body. Chantel takes a deep breath, both to calm her brain and her stomach. “Did we sleep together last night?”

  The man rolls onto his back and folds his hand behind his head. “You don’t remember, darlin’? Hm. And here I thought I was more memorable than that.”

  “World War 3 could have happened last night and I wouldn’t know.”

  The man laughs, a deep, chest laugh that shakes the whole bed. “Honey, what we did last night would make World War 3 blush.” He turns again onto his side, hand propped in his hand. His other hand slides up from the bed, his fingers dancing a little waltz over Chantel’s dark skin.

  The sizzle of his fingertips against her brings another splash of realization. Chantel looks down from the bed to see her best club clothes—the hundred-dollar jeans and the silk blouse—crumpled on the floor beside the bed. A bra and thong hang from the nearest bedpost. Sucking in a panicked breath, Chantel looks down to the hand caressing her skin, bringing her to goosebumps, to see she’s completely naked.

  The man raises his finger, curls a digit around her nipple. The motion makes her whole body scream with desire, a flash of hot lava overcoming her. Chantel exhales her held breath and jumps from bed. She grasps onto the rag of a bed sheet, trying desperately to wrap it to cover her breasts and butt. The sheet refused, doing little more than clinging to her stomach.

  “Oh god,” Chantel says. “I… I swear this isn’t what I do… Pick guys up in bars.”

  “You’ll get no judgment from me, love,” the man says through a smile. His eyes slowly wander up and down the curves of Chantel’s nude body, taking in the youthful bounce of her breasts.

  Chantel swoops down to get her clothes from the floor, but it seems her brain is filled with wet sand. Suddenly top heavy, she loses her balance and falls back to a seat on the bed.

  “Whoa there, little lady,” the man says. “I can give you a hand with that. There’s no need to rush.”

  Chantel looks back over her shoulder. Their lone sheet now in a ball on the floor, the man lays naked. The view takes a breath from her chest and she pauses for a moment, hand reaching down to her jeans. Though not a bodybuilder, his physique suggests long days of physical work. The muscles in his arms and stomach make Chantel think for a moment what he could do… could he lift her? Do with her as he pleased?

  “I get it that you’re a little embarrassed, but there’s no rush, love. My name is Jake, by the way.”

  Chantel pulls her eyes from the V of his abdomen, pointing down to his… and gathers her clothes from the floor, trying to bend at the knees so as to protect what remains of her modesty.

  “I’m Chantel,” Chantel says. Her mind racing, she’s surprised she even managed to say that correctly. “And its nothing against you, Jake, from what I can remember you were…,” Chantel pauses, her mind flashing with images of Jakes hands exploring her every curve. Even though the room is warm bordering on hot, she shivers. “You were great, but I really do have to go.”

  Jake shrugs and rolls back onto his back. “If you say so, love. You’re welcome back any time.”

  Jeans and blouse positioned over her bathing suit areas, Mind swipes her under things from the bedpost and pulls open the bedroom door. The fizzy crash of noise intensifies through the open door. With one final look back to Jake, wishing she could remember a few more details of the previous night, Chantel steps from the room.

  The moment her foot crosses the threshold from the bedroom, all noise comes to a deafening silence. Chantel looks up from the doorknob to see a large room, tables dotting the floor, each holding three or four men drinking and playing cards. They wear leather and denim, each with emblazoned with a skull and spokes. A motorcycle—one of the ones parked in front of the club the evening before—sits in the far corner of the room.

  One of the men closest the door, older with crackled skin and a white beard, smiles to see the woman exiting from Jake’s room.

  “Well, boys, I say ol’ Jake did pretty well for himself last night, huh?”

  The silence breaks in a pulse of laughter and commotion. Some of the men simply go back to their card games, their drinking. Others lean back in the wooden chairs, taking wide-eyed glares at the exposed skin of Chantel’s body. Chantel’s jaw drops open. Words pass through her brain too quickly for her tongue to make much sense of them. Though her lips move, she can only manage a squeaking moan. Her body goes cold, muscles tight.

  With an audible gulp, Chantel sidles back through the open door. Her chest heaves panic breaths, the world a swirling mist of black and white. Quick as a flash, she turns back to Jake, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “What..?” Chantel says through panic breaths. “What.”

  “You don’t remember, do you?” Jake scoots up on the bed and sits crosslegged. If he’s modest about being naked, he makes no show of it, his member bouncing down to the bed.

  “Obviously not,” Chantel says.

  “Listen,” Jake says. “You came up to me at the club last night. You said you’d never been on a motorcycle before and asked if you could have a ride. I don’t usually give joyrides, but I said, ‘what the hell, why not?’ There’s worse things than a pretty girl sitting behind you on a bike.” Jake tries to chew the inside of his cheek to stifle a growing grin but fails horribly. “When I asked where you wanted to go, you said you wanted to go back to my place.”

  With a heave, Jake stands from the bed. He spreads his arms, suddenly looking like the DaVinci drawing, the naked man in the circle. “This is my place. Welcome to the Clubhouse of the Gypsy Jokers Motorcycle Club.”

  Chantel’s lip trembles. “M-m-motorcycle club?”

  Jake bends down and plucks a pair of boxer briefs from the floor. With a little wiggle he slides them up over his thighs. “You know, I thought the motorcycles and motorcycle jackets out in the other room would have been a dead giveaway.”

  Thinking of all the men out in the other room, drinking and playing cards, Chantel’s blood runs cold. “Did…,” she stutters for the words. “Were they in here too?”

  Jake slides on his jeans, wearing denim the way models wear Versace or Gucci, and smiles. “Please, Chantel. We may be a motorcycle club, but we’re not savages. It was just you and me in here last night.” Leather vest in his hands, Jake walks to the door where Chantel still stands. He leans in, a gentle hand brushing the auburn hair from her cheek. “And let me tell you,” he whispers, taking small nips of her exposed ear, “it was all you could do to handle me last night. You were sensational. Tell you what,” with one final nip, Jake steps back. “I’ll leave you be in here and go out with the other boys in the meeting room. You can take your time, get dressed in peace, collect your thoughts, whatever.”

  Chantel has to concentrate to catch her breath. Her knees wobble and the moment Jake steps away from her, she wants nothing more than for his body to again be close.

  “Thank you,” she manages to say.

  Jake nods. “Sure thing.” One hand dug in the front pocket of his bulging jeans, he then turns around and points to the window. “And if, once you’re all ready, you decide you don’t want to face all those guys out there, just go ahead and climb on out the window here. We’re on the first floor. There’s a road not more than fifty yards straight ahead. You can just catch yourself a cab and go on home and I’ll not think any less of you, Chantel.”

  Chantel looks out the window. A grove of trees sways in a breeze, leaves fluttering to let in little pinpricks of light. Jake puts his hands on her shoulders, and after a brief moment, plants a gentle kiss on her lips.

  “But if you want to spend some time with me, and let me say, Chantel, I’d really like to spend some time with you, you just come on out. Most of the boys are pretty civil whenever anyone stays over and if anyone tries to give you any lip, I’ll put them in their place, okay?”

  Chantel nods, trying to decide whether she should lean in to kiss Jake again. Before she can make up her mind either way, he winks and slides out through the open do
or. Gently closed behind him, Chantel stands in an empty room, clothes clutched to her body. The warmth under her fingers seems somehow foreign.

  “Well…” she looks again to the window. Outside a soft rime of frost tips the grasses in the shadows of the trees. The very thought of climbing out and trodding through the damp grass to some god forsaken makes Chantel shudder.

  She steps into her panties and slides them up, the edges scratchy and stiff with last night’s sweat. Chantel turns, the bra dangling from her fingers, to the closed door. Somewhere, just beyond that thin plank of wood, Jake probably sits, whiskey already sweating in one hand and a five-card stud hand in the other. Chantel slides her bra straps over her bare shoulders. The padded cups tickle her breasts, shooting Chantel’s mind to Jake’s finger, gently curling over her nipple. Chantel shivers, this time in a hot fit of remembered delight. It’s a pity, to have a night with such a specimen of a man and hardly remember a minute of it. For a brief heartbeat, standing in just bra and panties, a small voice in Chantel’s head tells her to run out the door and demand Jake come back in for round number two. The little voice doesn’t pass, but only quiets as she slides the jeans over her hips and buttons her blouse. It’s the hungry little voice in her head, the same one that told her to keep drinking at the bar.