Savage Angels: A Savage MC Erotic Romance

by Alice May Ball

  He just said, “Where you headed now?”

  “No damned clue, biker,”

  “That’s right on my way,” his eyes sparkled as he said it, “Like a ride?”

  He pulled the helmet off his head and handed it to me. He leaned forwards to help me do up the chin strap, but I swatted his hands away, “I know how to do this.” I didn’t, of course, and I watched him chew on his lip as he watched me make a mess tying the straps together. He climbed onto the low, wide Harley and said,

  “Ready?” I got on behind him. My breasts pressed against his cut-off leather jacket and I put my hips as close to his ass as I could. Well, it was one hell of an ass. The motor crackled into life and the bike rose up as it shook beneath the saddle. Dull, heavy vibration ran up under my thighs and my hips were yanked forward as the machine tugged us onto the road and into the night.

  The bike rose with the road and I felt the dull thumping vibration of the motor beneath the saddle as it pulled us forward. Clinging tight to the biker, I pressed up against the back of his leather jacket. The colors on the back said, Savage MC.

  His body flexed and swayed, effortlessly leaning and guiding the huge machine around curves and sweeping us through the evening traffic on the old town highway. The cold air clipped my legs and arms, and I wrapped my body more tightly around his, pressing my breasts, still hardly covered, against his jacket.

  We moved through the loose lines of trucks and cars, like the rules were for them and we were a bird, a wild, free thing that made it’s own law. I wondered which district of ‘No Damned Clue’ he was aiming for. Turns out it was the MC clubhouse.

  The clubhouse was at the front of an old garage with pumps out front on the forecourt. When it was a gas and service stop, the front part must have been a bright restaurant with booths and benches, the kind of a place where travelers and locals would have perched at a shiny counter on high stools for their waffles or eggs over easy and gossip over endless refilled mugs of coffee. A sign over the entrance read, Hell’s Kitchen, Bar & Grill.

  Inside, some of the benches and booths were still there, but the brightness and shine had been replaced. The few lights seemed mostly to be red, maybe some were blue. The bar may have been where the counter was, and there was still a kitchen out back, judging by the scattering of plates with greasy burgers and fries, but the low stage with poles would not have suited the breakfast diner.

  Big bikers clustered and hunkered at the bar, in the booths and especially around the stage. On the stage a well-built girl with long, flowing dark hair was making lithe circuits of a pole. Her silver high heels and tiny sparkling thong set off her glistening olive skin, and thin sliver chains hung over her big, firm naked breasts.

  Her eyes flashed as she swung around the pole, her breasts fluid and bouncing and her dark nipples hard. She grinned at the bikers nearest the stage, just inches away from her hot flesh and she flicked her tongue across her big white teeth as she slid up and down against the silver pole.

  The men growled their appreciation as she squatted, her thighs wide, and she slowly rocked and rolled her hips. With one hand squeezing her breast, tugging on the pert nipple, her other hand wiped up her face, her fingers dragged through her hair, then reached back for the pole as her hips thrust out and bucked.

  I followed the biker through the crowd. Every man we passed made an acknowledgement to him, a small nod, a touch of knuckles or a hand on the shoulder. Any time I was with Daddy at the police station or the courthouse, I saw heavy male deference in action. These bikers all were showing respect to my gallant knight, Cox.

  He led me on to the bar, and there he demanded bourbon. “Two glasses. Keep ’em coming.” He handed me a shot glass. Raised the other and tossed the whiskey back in one. I did the same. Rough, dark whiskey with a sour kick.

  Another big biker appeared at my side. He growled in my ear, “Hey, sweetbutt,”

  “Chiz, give her space. I brought her here under my protection.”

  “Sorry, Cox, I’ll go turn on the whalesong in the crystal healing room. Those baby deer aren’t still in there, are they, Lump?”

  A shorter, barrel-chested biker with a red bandana said, “No, Chiz, but I put on the Hopi chant for the homeless beaver cubs we found on our woodland walk.” Cox gave both of them a look that said, so far and no further.

  I knew right then that I should have got out of there. Given that I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  After her show, the dancer came slinking over to us, well, to Cox. She looked in my eye and I was sure she knew me. I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember if it was from high school or if I’d maybe seen her in the tank when Daddy took me to the station house on Saturday mornings.

  He’d do that to educate me in the consequences for people who fell foul of the law. Those didn’t know how to behave themselves on a Friday night. I just loved the ways they dressed, and I thought what fun they all looked. He meant it as a warning, I saw my dream playgroup. Still I couldn’t place the dancer, anyway, her attention had shifted from me to Cox.

  She leaned her hand onto his chest as she purred into his ear, “Did you like my pole dancing, baby?”

  I said, “Awww, do you call that ‘pole dancing,’ sweetheart?’”

  Her eyes flashed at me as she said, “Why, Miss Congeniality, isn’t it? What would you call it?”

  “Honey, I’d call that dancing next to a pole.”

  I climbed onto the stage. I had to unroll the ripped hold-ups. You can’t grip a pole with nylons on. But I put the shoes back on. I tied the shirt up tight under my breasts. It was open so the tops of my breasts swelled out and the bra got a good exposure, too.

  Someone turned up the music. The beat was hard and hot.

  In my cheerleader troupe we practiced pole-dancing. Spins, climbs, inversions and aerials. Grab the pole with two hands, swing up with your legs wide and straight, pulling yourself up.

  Hang from the pole by gripping it with your thighs and then wriggle like a fish to slide down, real slow. Good, pumping, grinding music helps ignite the effect. Spin up around one leg, hold on with just the one thigh and calf, so you can press your crotch against the pole.

  Roll it around, slide in steamy, rhythmic pulses. Hang upside down, then pull back up to hang on with your hands as you slowly open your legs. Wide.

  Spin back to hold the pole between your thighs a few feet off the ground, then, you lean and stretch all the way back, till your body’s a long curve and you can grab the pole with your hands. Then use your hands to spin slowly around the pole. As you swing by the faces of the men leaning in, it doesn’t hurt to lock eyes with them and run your tongue over your top teeth.

  The bikers were almost silent and they had to crane their necks to see as I spun out, shaking my breasts low down, close to the floor of the stage. Then the slow horizontal crouch spin gave them a good long view as a reward. They made some noise, too in appreciation. Low grunts and leers.

  They were stamping and banging their glasses by the time I finished and I got to my feet with a demure, delicate little bow. At the side of the stage, the dancer watched the whole show, nursing her bourbon, and her eyes smoldered.

  I made my way back through the crowd to the bar where Cox looked at me, sardonically. “Getting yourself that well-known that quickly around here, you might get more attention than you’re ready for, girl.”

  I picked up my shot glass and threw the bourbon back, loving how it burned my throat. I said, “The show wasn’t for them.”

  “Oh?” he said.

  I told him, “It was for you.”

  The dancer was back. Chiz said, “Well, Carla, what did you think of that?”

  She looked at me with fire in her eye as she said, “Call that a pole dance?” Then to Chiz and his companion with the bandana, “This is a pole dance.” She took the two bikers by their hands and led them onto the stage. The music got louder again.

  Standing in front of Chiz, she ground the
cheeks of her butt hard into the front of his jeans, grinding up and down along the bulge that was growing. At the same time she slipped her hand down the front of Lump’s shirt. She licked his ear and down his neck as her fingers slid south into his jeans.

  The two bikers squeezed and fondled her big breasts as she swayed her ass hard into Chiz’s crotch and worked her hand inside Lump’s pants. Chiz’s fingers were in Carla’s thong, slipping inside her.

  Chiz had his cock out, and Carla squeezed it, up between the tops of her thighs, rubbing her pussy hard along it. As she bent to get Lump’s cock out, Chiz smacked her ass hard and shoved her little thong to the side. I could see his cock pressing up the length of her glistening wet pussy lips, the head nosing the base of her clit. She was getting her head down to work her mouth on Scoter’s cock.

  The noise in the bar became thunderous. Feet stamping, tables banging, deep, male shouts and calls. Chiz lifted Carla, held her by her thighs like a wheelbarrow as he entered her. She had Lump deep in her mouth by then, and he held her head to match the grinding slew of his hips, sliding his cock in and out of her mouth. She held on tight to Lump’s ass, her fingers dug into his partly covered flesh and her back arched.

  Lump’s ass was clenching as his pelvis drove his cock in and out of her lips. Carla’s neck and face were red and her breasts bounced as she was spit-roasted, impaled at both ends. The two men speeded up, concertinaing her hard and Carla’s eyes were wide.

  The roar of the crowd formed into a word, repeated, rhythmically. “Facial, facial,” they shouted. The two men’s necks were pumped, the veins were standing out and arcs of sweat flew from their foreheads as they both grinned and nodded.

  Chiz lifted Carla to the floor and onto her knees. She grunted and gasped as both men, first Lump, then Chiz pumped with their hands and finished off with bolts of sticky wet spunk into Carla’s face and her hair. She grinned wide as she lapped the slick white goo and slurped it up with her fingers, hanging on to Chiz’s ass for support.

  Cox looked at me, studying me for some time. I was kind of stunned, very excited, probably pretty flushed, my face sure felt hot. The biker crowd certainly liked that show, but I wasn’t going back to the stage to outdo Carla.

  I asked Cox, “So, what did you think of that show, biker boy?” There were some quiet intakes of breath around us at that, but Cox’s face didn’t register anything. He thought for a moment before he spoke, quietly,

  “You got something to top that, Miss Congeniality?”

  “I certainly have. But it needs just one man. And a room.”

  He looked in my eye, “Careful now, child. You’ve only had boys, you don’t know what a man is.”

  My stomach felt light and giddy and my breath caught as I was about to reply. He stepped forward and cut me off. He loomed up so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. He said, “Get upstairs.”

  I hadn’t seen any stairs. I looked around. I saw his eyes go to a door ajar at the far side of the bar. I looked back to him. He said, “Go.” I felt awkward, conspicuous as I threaded my way to the door, and his heavy footsteps behind me made it worse. Through the door was a short, dark passage with a rough wooden staircase. As I started up the steps, I heard him behind me, closing the door.

  I didn’t think it was going to be like that, the way that it was.

  He had a room up there and I was surprised at what a nice room it was. Somehow I imagined a heavy-metal tip of brown blankets, beercans and sun-dried pizza, but it was nice.

  We talked, I don’t even remember what we talked about, it was just... easy. We sat on the couch, sat on the bed, he played music on a stereo.

  He knew how to touch me. First on my shoulders, then the top of my thigh, but softly. He stroked the inside of my forearm, touched my palm and my fingers as we talked. He touched me like he knew me, like he’d known me since I was a child, like he knew where I hid, and how I yearned to be found, discovered. Revealed. Opened. He opened me.

  Like he knew the child in me, knew how to play with her, to coax her and release her, to stroke her and soothe her. He satisfied the child so that the woman in me could come out and be free.

  He touched me softly, gently. His fingers knew just how to find and touch the parts of me that needed a man’s hand, a man’s arm, a man’s body. A man.

  He had an instinct to touch me, and a slow, insistent rhythm in his strong fingers. A rhythm that knew what to touch, where to go. When to wait. But always with that pulse, like the beat of the pistons under the seat of his Harley-Davidson.

  Like he longed for the strength and the sweetness in me, like he ached to tap the sap that rose in me.

  He tasted me. Softly at first, gladly, with appreciation. Then hungrily. Then all over my body in a lashing torrent.

  His body covered mine, wrapped it. When I first felt his skin against mine, my arms and legs snapped around him like they were sprung. He opened me and he filled me. He wound around and into and through me. Every part of me.

  Every connection, every muscle memory, every moment of me he took and tamed. He stretched me out over himself, rolled himself into me. We melded together like two great currents in the sea.

  And then, when I felt we’d known each other’s deepest inner selves for generations, like we’d been many lives apart to become this thing together, then, there where we were open and complete together, there he turned it all loose.

  I clawed at him, I beat on him with my fists. Bit his neck, his chest, his thighs. I shrieked, I sobbed and moaned. At the end, he filled me so much, so hard, my legs crossed behind his back and they gripped with all the strength I had.

  His body was hard as a tree trunk, and his sweet round ass pumped him into me like a freight train whipping through a mountain tunnel. My whole body clenched and convulsed and my head shook as I clawed at him and bucked on him.

  The volcanic gush at the end, mine and his, went on and on, cresting, splashing and bursting. And he said my name,

  “Nikka!” and it finally left me spent. I curled up in his huge arms wet, soft and helpless. My nose was in the ridge of his chest and I was drifting away on a misty lake.

  And that’s exactly when a hammering started on the door. A voice outside said, “Cox, you got to come. Looks like a raid.”

  He was in jeans and a tee and at the door in a half a heartbeat, and I was behind him as fast as I could move. At the bottom of the stairs I caught him up by the door to the bar and I heard the raised voice grating from amid the commotion in the bar.

  “We are here acting on intelligence regarding a serious felony,” he sounded such a comical ass. As if anything that Dwayne would have told him could remotely be classified as ‘intelligence.’

  “You will all be checked and searched for drugs, firearms and parole violation.”

  The scene in the bar looked like a freeze-frame in a biker movie. Cops all around the room, all pointing weapons, and about four times as many bikers sneering and snarling at them.

  Lump had his nose against the barrel of an evil-looking pump-action. Officer Glenn was holding it fairly steady, but you couldn’t mistake the beads of sweat on his top lip. The voice at the center of the room boomed on, “If anyone can provide us with information...” in the middle of the room he was actually standing on a chair.

  I didn’t want to use the little girl voice. That may have been the first time I realized that was what I would normally do. Say, Oh, Daddy... and wait until he crumpled. I didn’t want Cox to hear me do it. And I didn’t want to hear me do it, I didn’t want be that whiny little girl any more. Somehow I was done with that.

  I realized then that I didn’t want to do it to Daddy either. It was a big night of firsts for me. As it was, he stopped talking when he saw me.

  The atmosphere shifted immediately. The electricity in the air somehow drifted, blew like smoke. Cops fingers were still on the triggers of their weapons, but the knuckles were not white anymore. There weren’t so many clenched teeth.

  The cops all
looked mightily relieved, most of the bikers looked bitterly disappointed. Daddy looked about an eighth of an inch smaller all round.

  I said, “Daddy, let’s you and I meet at the diner for breakfast in the morning, OK? I’m here and I’m fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Cox said, “You go on with your daddy, Nikka. I’ll meet you at the diner after breakfast. If you’d like. Would you like that?”

  God, he looked fine in loose jeans and a white tee. I said, “Yes.”

  Dogs of War

  Bogart had offered men and equipment to Butcher, as much as he needed. He said that all that he wanted was explosives and heavy ammunition. Nobody knew all of the details of the deal, not even the full council.

  When Butcher came to the club to pick up his supplies, even the Norwegians were quiet. Everybody watched in silence as the huge man, covered in ink and scars, lumbered through the clubhouse to the back, picked up two massive crates and carried them, one on each shoulder, back out to his truck.

  He wore a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, open, nothing covering his trunk of tattooed muscle. Along with a heavy belt hung with black leather pouches and several sizes of hunting knives, he wore combat fatigue pants and heavy boots.

  Leather straps were wrapped tight on his biceps and around his ridged, sloping forehead. His thick bottom lip was studded, and he had four sliver teeth. He was bald with no eyebrows, a thin black mustache and he was ugly enough to frighten coyotes.

  He took the stairs up to the small room upstairs in the corner. Left a couple of backpacks up there and the floor shook as he lurched back down, and out. On his back was a patch that said, Warhog. The clubhouse stayed quiet for a many twenty minutes after he left.

  This was some heavy weather.