Savage Angels: A Savage MC Erotic Romance

by Alice May Ball

  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 breath.

  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 lea
ves 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.

  Couldn’t take that away from Dwayne, the man had a prodigious portion, a massive mast of manhood. He had one of the hugest fucking cocks that I ever in my life attempted to swallow.

  I got to my knees and my weight pressed into the roadside shale. By then I had learned something about finding sources of pain and relishing them inwardly, secretly. This was something that I wanted badly to explore and experience with a partner, but I wouldn’t trust the partner that I had, so it had to be just me and me for the time being. It worked.

  Then he hauled that great trunk out of his pants in front of my face, and the heat and the musty scent of him made my head spin. His hands plunged into the back of my hair and I twisted my head away. He loved to feel that I was resisting, like he was forcing me. He pulled, I pulled, all the while I let my hot breaths fan against his cock. I let him feel the edges of my teeth. He got bigger and harder with each breath.

  Then he got my lips pressed against it and they popped apart as I let him push it in. My hands grabbed the hard globes of his ass as his hard ridges slid through my lips, over my tongue, down to the back of my throat.

  I gripped through his soft cotton sweats into the crease between the clenching cheeks of his ass as he humped his hard hammer into my throat. Saliva cascaded sweet and gooey into my mouth and dribbled around my lips in the cold night air. The sweet wetness dribbled out as he sawed in and out of my hot mouth. Drips fell onto the tops of my bouncing breasts as Dwayne shoved deeper and harder into me.

  Dwayne fucked my face, faster and deeper and I thought he was losing it, but it was probably just the crack. He dragged me up and said he wanted to ‘bust my ass.’ He loved that phrase. He loved what it meant, too. Now he wanted to bend me over the hood of his old car, or over a rock, and ream my ass right out in plain view, probably hoping one of my Daddy’s deputies would come by.

  Only, at that point I’d had it with Dwayne. If he’d sucked on my pussy maybe, or even just finger-fucked me with some hint of consideration but no, Dwayne wants to bang yo ass, bitch. I told him he could wank himself off, go find a whore or we could both sit back and enjoy the show watching his balls change color.

  He took a swing at me and I sidestepped. As he swung back I blundered into his fist. He caught me off balance and hit my cheek hard. I fell to the ground, landed on my elbows.

  A very big, very dull black motorcycle swept up the hill and came thumping up, and stopped right behind Dwayne.

  The biker’s voice was hard and firm, “Game over.” He stayed on the bike, the motor still thumping. Dwayne whirled around and yelled at him,

  “You need to just mind your goddamned business, greaseball.” By the time he’d finished the sentence he was looking down the massive barrel of a handgun, the same dull black as the bike. His cock was still jutting out and pointing now at the biker. I couldn’t keep from giggling. Man’s got a gun in his face, Dwayne’s got his cock aimed at the guy.

  The biker’s voice didn’t change as he stepped off the cycle, keeping the gun right in Dwayne’s face,

  “You need to reassess your situation, citizen.”

  Even whacked on crack, Dwayne wasn’t quite stupid enough to argue with a gun in front of his teeth. The biker waved towards the car. “Drive carefully, citizen.” Dwayne hesitated. The biker cocked the pistol’s hammer.

  Dwayne slid around and got into the car, still trying to cram his cock back into his pants. It was still too big. With the car door in one hand and his cock in the other, he almost fell back out, and he had some trouble getting himself behind the wheel with his hand and his cock in the way. Dwayne was always wonderfully coordinated, right up until any time he had to think.

  Finally, with his face red he fired the engine, he looked over at me, maybe still thinking there was a chance I’d scuttle in beside him. Poor Dwayne didn’t know much, and he sure as hell didn’t know me at all. His wheels kicked up some dust as he spun the car around and away.

  The biker smiled as he watched Dwayne’s big exit. Then his blue eyes found their way back and along over to me. He stood looking at me for a while. I was one hell of a mess spread out there on the ground. The pink tip of his tongue touched his lips, and he pulled his lips in between his teeth to get it back in, and to stop himself from grinning. Then he started towards me.

  His walk was quiet, a slow, feline roll. His feet slung wide and his shoulders rocked, his hips swung in counterpoint. All the time his head was steady, low but watchful. Hot, supple flesh hung with leather and denim, with the swinging beat of a piston-driven machine.

  Our eyes locked and something like a piston banged in the pit of my stomach. This boy was more than just trouble. He was mayhem and pillage. This was a man who could hurt you in all the right ways. I should have run. I should have thanked him and stepped neatly away into the night. Called a cab on my cellphone. I should have called my Daddy. But I was pinned down on my elbows.

  One knee up, stockings ripped and my legs apart, I was rooted to the spot. There was blood in the corner of my mouth. I licked it away with the tip of my tongue. My skirt was around the tops of my thighs and my thin, sheer panties were soaked and clinging to the swollen lips of my aching, gasping pussy. My big round breasts heaved almost uncovered in the night air inside my thin, open shirt.

  I thought that this rough biker, padding towards me with that gleam in his eye, I thought that he might haul up my ass in his big paws, rip my panties aside and take me right there. Shove me onto my back, pry my thighs farther apart, rise up, hi
s hips pressing between my legs, denim against the cool skin of my buttocks.

  Feel his way into my panties. Penetrate me, impale me on his long, hard rod. Force himself through my hot, unprotected petals. Nail me right there on the ground. He could have me right there and then, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I was so open, so exposed.

  But, no. He held out his gloved hand, with a faint, shy smile like a gallant and chivalrous knight. His eyelids fluttered as he said, “Ma’am.” I might have kicked him if I wasn’t lying down. He was almost ready to take his hand away before I reached out for it. As I stretched my fingers reluctantly towards him, he did whip his hand away. He quickly took off the glove then offered his upturned hand again.

  As my fingers touched his palm, a jolt like an earth tremor shook through me. I was sure that I saw his eyes widen at the same moment. He pulled me up. My cheeks came up level with his hard chest. I felt the heat from his body reach my breasts and my breath stuck in my throat.

  “I’m Cox,” he said. My chest seemed to swell and fill up as I said,

  “Is that short for something?” He looked slowly down my body as I hastily rearranged my clothes, fasting the bra and buttoning the shirt, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement as he said, “Not right now it isn’t,”

  He took his sweet time getting his eyes back up to mine. They strayed around my skirt and my breasts and then slowly up my neck on the way. Was he going to ask my name? Didn’t look like it. I told him,

  “I’m Nikka,”

  As he looked back at me, I thought about him asking if it was short for anything, or making some kind of a joke about it. I kind of wanted to hear him say it. To hear him say my name. I wanted my name in his mouth. On his tongue. God, this wasn’t like me. Had my inner squirmy schoolgirl somehow got loose?