by Nicole Fox
I am a big guy. I am not going to deny it. Most women wince, or cry out in pain when I try ramming the entirety of my cock inside them. But Erica...no. She was tough, and her pussy strong. With every thrusting lunge inside her, she moaned with pleasure, spreading her cheeks wider, and letting me pound her face in the bed. I could see her muscles bracing and the way her toes curled beneath her as she was overcome.
“You like that?” I demanded, increasing my tempo. “Yeah, you do, you slut!”
I was pounding her so hard that she was forced to let go of her butt, and brace herself with her hands upon the bed. She threw her head back, gasping for breath, and her breasts, now raised upward, pounced and trembled with the hard little points of her nipples drawing circles in the air. I reached around her and seized one, pinching it hard, and she had to lean down and bite a pillow to keep from screaming out with the intensity of it.
“Come here,” I ordered, my other hand clawing its way up her body and heaving her against me. There we were, my chest pressed to her back, her tits heaving, my cock now slamming at a new angle inside her pussy. I closed my fingers around her neck, not to choke her, but to show her how absolutely within my power she was. I could fuck her or destroy her as the fancy took me, and I wanted to make sure she knew it.
Dimly, I was aware of the thin scab that had formed over my wound ripping open, but I didn’t care. All the wounds and Crooked Jaws in the world could not have kept me from pounding her into oblivion.
Seizing her by the hair, I whipped her mouth to face me and kissed her, while my free hand pushed and prodded at her breasts, her clit. Her moan burst into my mouth, and a rippling of muscle in her pussy told me she had cum yet again. Then, I threw her down. It was end game. Time to focus on me.
My ramming intensified. Now, powerful, full-body thrusts that drove me all the way inside her. Next, jackhammering, my tip like a piston against the liquid resistance of her opening. Back and forth. Deep and shallow. Sending jolts of pleasure blasting through the length of my cock.
“I’m gonna cum in you,” I told her, feeling the load building. She dug her hands into the bedsheets, curling them tight beneath her fingers, bracing herself for the onslaught.
“Please…” She begged, her voice barely discernible amid my pounding. “Cum in me…”
“Almost!” I roared. I could have cum right then if I wanted, but I wanted it to be enormous. Explosive. Volcanic. I kept pumping, feeling the pressure build, until my tip seemed hard as metal and twice its regular size. And then…
“Ah, yes!”
The dam burst open. Her pussy saw a flood. Wave after shocking wave of it, pumped deep inside her. It splattered her g-spot. It filled her insides, so much so that some spilled out, coating the length of my dick, my balls, and her clit in an instant. She groaned, her whole body flexing to take it as I slowly decreased my pounding, still pumping her with the last few, sweetest drops.
At last, I stopped. My dick was still inside her, twitching, and sending jolts of pleasure through her body that I could feel all the way through her hips. I stroked her back, her butt, her hair, gently this time, as I waited for my manhood to diminish, and slip, with satisfying wetness, from inside her.
She collapsed onto the bed, gasping and trembling. With a sigh of satisfaction, I settled down beside her.
“Tell me, Erica,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her face and grinning. “Have you ever been fucked like that before?”
She blinked and gazed at me dimly, as if I had fucked her so hard that she had forgotten how to understand human language. After a moment, however, she was able to collect her thoughts enough to utter a single word: “No.”
“Which leads me to my next question,” I teased, tracing a finger around her nipple. She was so sensitive that she jumped at the slightest touch. “After everything that happened tonight…was it worth it?”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, relishing the scent of us that permeated that room. Then she rolled over and sat up, laying eyes on me that were this time sparkling and clear.
“Yes,” she said. “It was. Now, let me redress that damn cut of yours, before you ruin my bed.”
I laughed. We kissed. And I let her redress me.
Chapter Nine
Erica
That night, Dominic and I had sex three more times. By the final act, my hips, thighs, and jaw were so sore that I pleaded for him to finish quickly. He seemed to like that, and, soon afterward, we were panting and gasping once again in each other’s arms, lying naked on the bed. I fell into a deep and pleasant doze, enjoying the manly scent of him and the feeling of fullness in my pussy.
At about four a.m., I was dimly aware of him rising from the bed and making his way to the bathroom. I didn’t blame him. After the night’s festivities, we both really needed a shower.
Next thing I knew, I woke up at eight a.m., and the bed next to me was cold.
“Dominic?” I asked hesitantly, wincing as the pain in my hip and ankle flared when I stepped out of bed. I checked the bathroom first, but found it empty, and the water in the drain cold. The towels we had used and tossed aside the night before were now hung neatly across the bar.
“Dominic?” I said again, more urgently this time. I went to the living room, hoping, perhaps, to see him sprawled across the couch, or wrestling himself into his jacket. I even (though I felt silly for even thinking it) dared to imagine the smell of eggs and bacon frying in the kitchen, a good morning “thank you” for everything that I had for him (and let him do to me) last night.
Nothing. The door was closed. No note, no goodbye, nothing.
“Of course, Erica,” I scolded myself aloud. What did I care that I was talking to myself? It’s not like anyone was around to hear me. “This is how these things work. They fuck you, and then they leave. You knew that.” Suddenly, without meaning to, I felt tears spring to my eyes. My ankle ached. My hip scalded. My pussy and breasts were sore. Every part of me seemed as if it was in pain. Clumsily, I slid to the floor, covering my eyes with my hands.
“Oh, Erica, you’re so stupid,” I sobbed, shivering naked in the early morning light. “Why on earth would a guy like that be interested in anything you have to offer except sex? Ha! You were lucky even for that!”
I could imagine him now, returning to his biker’s gang to report his latest conquest. “He’s probably even getting my name wrong. Calling me ‘Stella’ or something.” And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst thing, by far, was the feeling of loneliness I had upon awakening in an empty bed.
“You were so close, Erica,” I whimpered. “So close. The husband. The job. The white-picket fence. Everything I ever wanted….”
“At least,” I realized, “everything I’d ever been told to want.”
That thought made me pause. I remembered being five years old, and dressing up as a bride for the amusement of my parents. In the weeks leading up to prom, my mother told me that handsomeness and charm would end up being a good indication of the man I would one day marry. “If you go with a loser, Erica-Bella,” she’d said. “You’ll end up marrying one, too. And God forbid you not find a date at all!”
In the end, my prom date had been sweet and charming and a joy for my mother to behold. They, at least, did not have to see him puking behind to gymnasium after one too many swigs of Jack Daniels.
I remembered Brian. He, too, had been the epitome of my parent’s wants. I had never found him exhilarating, of course, but he was a safe, sensible choice. He would make sure I got my house, and my clothes, and my children.
Out of spite, I imagined Dominic being a father. “Ha,” I thought. “The kid would probably be dead by six months.” This disdainful laughter hurt the bruise on my hip, and I grimaced.
Still, as angry as I was at Brian, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how right my parents and my friends were. In the five years I had been with Brian, the most dangerous thing we had experienced together was buying marijuana from some co
llege kid at a concert we’d gone to, and smoking it giddily in the fields. For weeks afterward, that memory had filled me with rebellious euphoria. It was my pride and joy––an exciting thing for me and Brian.
Now, after the night I’d just had, this adventure suddenly seemed laughable. But wasn’t that the point? Brian had hurt me, of course. He’d fucked up big time. But in all the time we’d spent together, wasn’t only having one fuck up a good thing? Exceptional, even? Wasn’t he perfect, in every other way?
As I thought this, I dried the tears from my eyes, rose to my feet, and stiffly marched my way back to my bedroom, where my cell phone was waiting on the nightstand. Absent-mindedly, almost without any conscious thought, I clicked it on, and scrolled down to Brian’s number.
“You should call him,” I told myself. “Think of how shitty you feel now. You’re going to feel this shitty every day for the rest of your life if you don’t get back with him.”
I imagined it: waking up in a cold and lonely bed, perhaps winning an hour or two of fucking amid endless solitude, until at last I became an old spinster, dried-up up-top and dried-up below. That’s what Brian was, really: a safety, a vaccination against a life of loneliness.
My finger hovered over the call button, about to descend, and…
“Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!”
It suddenly burst to life in my hand, vibrating violently as it received a call. I did not stop to think. Instead, I pressed to answer and swept it to my ear.
“Dominic?” I spurted stupidly.
“Dominic?” The loud, ugly voice growled back at me. “What, are you drunk again, Erica my sweet?”
I scowled, and held the phone as far away from my ear as the volume would allow. It was Mr. Blade, my boss.
“No, sir,” I responded wearily. I had in fact never been drunk at work, despite his numerous offers to pour whiskey into my coffee. I made very sure not to leave my drinks open around him. The incident he was specifically referring to occurred at the end of a seventy-hour work week, when I had been too tired even to string my words together.
“Well, if you’re not drunk,” he continued, “where the bloody hell are you? It’s almost ten, you lazy cow!”
I winced, hating when he called me ‘cow’. It made me think of an open-mouthed, stupid creature, staring blankly at the wall. Which is how I spent most of my time at work, actually—it was that or erupt at him in anger, –which I was never brave enough to do.
Lazy cow. I guess I deserved it.
“No, it isn’t,” I said, “It’s…” I glanced at my watch and was stunned to see that he was correct. “Sorry, sir! Sorry!” I cried, dashing frantically to my wardrobe to fling together an outfit. “I’ll be there soon!” Click. I hung up before he had time to respond, to question me about where I was last night to make myself so late. After finding an acceptable outfit, I ran a comb through my hair––wrinkling my nose when I realized I would not have time to shower. My colleagues were just going to have to live with dirty Erica for a day.
My outfit assembled, I wrestled on a pair of pumps and rushed to the door, grabbing a granola bar for breakfast as I went. It was not until later––after I had started my car and pulled out of the driveway––that I realized how strange it was that I was not hungrier. One would think, after all the activity of last night, I would be starving––but no. I was full.
I guess that’s what great sex does to you.
As I accelerated down the road, speeding to work as quickly as I could, I realized that however much I wanted to bash Dominic for being who he was, great sex is exactly what I experienced last night. I remembered what he had asked me when we’d finished: “Was it worth it?”
I let my mind flow over my body. My sore breasts and pussy. My bruised ankles and hips. My messy hair, which I knew would draw looks from my coworkers. And yet, I realized: Yes. Definitely worth it –
“Ahhh!” I slammed on my breaks, narrowly avoiding running a red light. A group of bikers, clad entirely in leather and black helmets, rode by on the perpendicular road. I wondered if they were part of the group that shot at us last night––the Crooked Jaws or something. I hoped not. Instead, I wished them to be Dominic’s group, and that Dominic was among them. It would be impossible to tell, for they were going too fast and most of their faces were hidden, but I thought that I could still recognize him if given the chance.
Though I did not want to, I was still thinking about him. I wondered, half-ashamedly, if he was still thinking about me.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
The rampant sex with Erica had exhausted me until I was able to sleep. But then, in the small, desolate hours of the morning, the pain gripped me until I awoke. Erica was still sleeping. Her hair was fanned out behind her head, and her hand was thrown over her face, like a woman who’s just received terrible news. It made me smile, to see her looking like this, so I gave her nipple an affectionate squeeze before weaving to the bathroom.
Her bandage had already filled with blood. If I was going to heal quickly, I would need to do more. Fortunately, the Broken Spires had a medic––a veterinarian in his old life––who could patch me easily. I washed it the best I could, covered it again with fresh gauze, dressed, then tiptoed as quietly as I could from Erica’s room.
I decided not to wake her. Surely, after last night, she would want nothing to do with me. She’d had her fill, being fucked silly by a biker. Now, she was free to return to her happy, normal life.
I gathered up my belongings, and I left.
Twenty minutes later, Thunder was at the curb, his car idle as he waited for me to bend into the passenger seat. He was one of the few Broken Spires who actually had a car, for I knew from long experience, there were situations in which one can come in handy.
Like this for instance.
I loved my bike, but the smooth, easy ride of his Lexus was much preferable to the roaring jaunt that it would offer.
“Jesus Christ, Dom, what happened?” He asked, as I gingerly buckled the seatbelt around my waist. I smiled. Thunder never missed a thing. As briefly as I could, I relayed to him the events of last night.
“Damn it, man,” he sighed, slipping swiftly and surely through traffic. “You’re lucky you didn’t get killed, and luckier that dame you were with wasn’t killed, either. Did you find out anything useful?”
I told him my suspicions regarding an alternate leader of the heist, besides La Gancho, of course. Surprisingly, that pronouncement made him grimmer than my brush with death.
“Yes, I suspect that also,” he said. “But be careful in how you bring it up in the meeting. You know how determined those guys are.”
I nodded in agreement. Managing a biker’s club was a lot like transporting explosives. There is power, yes, but so much unpredictability.
Fortunately for me, most bikers are a nocturnal bunch, so Thunder was able to take me to the Vet to stitch me up before the meeting. He was a wise man, who had entered the biking profession too old to ever be a grunt, but that did not mean that the Broken Spires did not value his skills highly. Without asking any questions other than what he absolutely needed to know––what caused the wound, for example––he fixed me right up. Of course, not being a licensed doctor, he did not have any access to pain medication. But a shot of whiskey and a deep breath is all any respectable Broken Spire needed.
I spent the day recuperating, smoking cigarettes in silence with Thunder. He was the Vice President of the Club––the position directly under me––and I appreciated that, in other clubs, this would have been a source of suspicion. Hell, La Gancho maintained power over the Crooked Jaws only by having anyone he viewed as a rival conveniently “eliminated” before things could progress too far. But I trusted Thunder. Not only was he a loyal VP, but a life-long friend as well.
Difference numero uno between the Broken Spires and the Crooked Jaws.
At last, it was time for us to leave. We took Thunder’s car; the stitches were in, but my side was still sore.
After a quiet drive with smooth jazz, to get me into the bargaining mood, we pulled up to the Broken Spires clubhouse.
On the surface level, it appeared just to be another biker’s bar––less seedy than most, but still with that familiar aroma of cigarettes and cheap beer. What one wouldn’t see, however, was the level beneath; in the old days, the bar owners used it to conduct illegal gambling games. The Broken Spires, however, offered them a much more lucrative and reliable business.
Thunder and I parked and waited. It was important for the high-ranking members of the Broken Spires not to be seen entering the bar all at once. It would make far too tempting a target for our enemies. As we watched, I saw the sergeant-at-arms and the road captain slink in, casting cautious looks over their shoulders as they did so. I supposed that, despite the Vet’s discretion, news of my injury had somehow gotten out. At last, with a nod from me, Thunder and I exited the car and marched––proudly, and without a hint at the wound punishing my side––into the bar.