HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

  The secret entrance was through a utility closet, by the men’s bathrooms. It was perhaps less-than-glamorous, but as I had learned a long time ago: a gaudy biker is a dead biker. Thunder and I knocked, paused in order to give the men downstairs time to arrange themselves, and entered.

  They saw me, and immediately they were silenced.

  “Hello, everyone,” I said, and nodded to the inner-circle of the Broken Spires. Though we sometimes disagreed, I respected every single one of them: Thunder, the VP and my closest friend. Dorian, the sergeant-at-arms. Fernando, the road captain. Tristan, the Secretary. These were men who could be trusted, who deserved to know the truth.

  “Last night,” I told them, “I was attacked. The Crooked Jaws are growing bolder. My instincts tell me that someone is working alongside or even above Marco Herrera––”

  “Ridiculous!” Fernando interrupted. “La Gancho would never permit anyone to rival him in power. You should know that better than anyone, Dominic.”

  Another President may have come down on him for speaking out of turn, or even for the veiled insult he had just sounded. But I valued Fernando for his forwardness and his bravado. It was what made him a great road captain.

  “I would agree with you, Fernando,” I responded politely, “except there is more. I don’t think that this new force is what we would call a ‘typical’ biker. Because of that, La Gancho may feel less threatened.”

  I told them about the Crooked Jaw’s complaints, overheard at the biker’s bar. Then, I gave them a minute or so to mull it over.

  “So the question is, then,” Thunder offered at last, “how, if at all, does this affect our plans. Dorian?”

  Dorian, the sergeant-at-arms, sighed deeply and then began his recitation. “Well,” he said, “we do know that the Crooked Jaws have been involved in some major money laundering scams, much beyond their usual practices.”

  “He’s right,” supplied Tristan. “Usually, they just stick to dealing, but we have evidence that they have become involved not only in that, but in prostitution and child slavery, too.”

  I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Drugs were one thing. People chose to do drugs. Slavery, though? That was a whole different matter in my book.

  “Our plan,” Dorian continued, “was to strike this enormous cash flow at a vulnerable point, before it could be distributed––”

  “Yeah, bankrupt them for good!” Fernando roared, interrupting again. “Make the Broken Spires the top dogs, once and for all!”

  “Fernando,” I cut in, and with only his name silenced him. I stood, careful not to wince as my side unbent. “It is a good plan,” I said, nodded to the men in the room, the masterminds behind the heist. “But we still don’t know how they are organizing all this. As we’ve said, it’s not Herrera’s style. Perhaps, we should delay until we find out more. We don’t want to walk into a situation too dangerous for us.”

  I, of course, did not believe this. Nothing was too challenging for my Broken Spires. But it was important to at least sound the word of caution.

  “Bullshit!” Cried Fernando. “We continue as planned! No skulking coward hiding in the shadows is going to keep me from this heist!”

  “That’s one for,” I said. “Thunder, what do you think?”

  He looked at me sadly.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, boss,” he sighed, “But last night you were almost killed. I know you’re looking to retire soon, and you want to go out with a bang…but, I’m afraid that desire will make you more likely to go out with a bullet.”

  Fernando snorted at these words, obviously thinking Thunder a coward, but I knew better. I trusted his instincts, and he obviously sensed something was up.

  “Tristan, what do you think?”

  He chuckled. “Hell, you know what I’ll say. We need more funds. We want the money.”

  I nodded. That was to be expected. “Dorian?”

  “Hey, it’s up to you, boss,” he said, raising his hands. “We’ve trusted you this far. You’ve never lead us astray.”

  I gazed around at my men. One against. Two for. One abstaining.

  It was, indeed, up to me.

  “Alright, men,” I declared. “We are going to do this. There are still a few more details that need working out, though. Dorian? Thunder? You good on that?”

  “You got it, boss,” they replied. Thunder might have wanted to call the thing off, but now that we had decided, I knew he would follow me to the end.

  I just hoped that “the end” involved me lying on a beach, soaking up some rays and perhaps getting my cock sucked. Not, you know, the sort of end that involved any one of us six feet under.

  “Very good,” I replied. Then, I nodded to each of my men in turn, and left. Dorian could handle the details of the rest of the meeting.

  Thunder followed silently behind me. It was not until we were past the secret entrance, out through the bar, and getting into his car that he voiced his concern.

  “Are you sure about this, boss?” He murmured. “No one will look down on you if you change your mind.”

  I thought about the group of men––eager, violent, and energetic––working out the details of the heist down below. Then, strangely, I found myself thinking of Erica. Of how my actions had put her in danger and how, despite my best efforts, I ended up helpless––my life had relied entirely on hers.

  For the president of the Broken Spires, that simply would not do.

  “Yes, Thunder,” I responded. “I am sure.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dominic

  I had several days before my next mission in the heist, and I knew, therefore, that the most important thing for me to do right now was to recover. And yet, part of me was stubborn: I insisted Thunder take me to where I had hidden my bike before scoping out the Crooked Jaw bar, so I could ride it home.

  It hurt, yes. By the time I got to my place the stitches had torn at my skin, staining yet another white t-shirt with blood. But I did not care. I needed to ride. I needed that freedom. I could not lay my finger precisely on what it was, but something was bothering me.

  At last, I made it to my place: a penthouse apartment on the top floor of a ritzy apartment building. Honestly, I would have preferred a more humble house––on the coast, maybe––but this place was an important seat for operations. From here, I could easily access anywhere in the city, and, because of the natural security of the building, it would be much harder for the average Crooked Jaw to stage an attack.

  I parked in my private garage, locked my bike up securely, and ascended in the elevator to my floor.

  It was a true bachelor pad. Black, gleaming wallpaper. An enormous TV. Bed sheets of Egyptian cotton, and a Jacuzzi tub I often enjoyed with a number of ladies I brought home.

  Strangely, the place felt cold.

  Shrugging off my clothes, I tossed them into the hamper, and, mindful of the plastic webbing over my stitches, I stepped into the shower. It had a double head so that my companion and I could each enjoy a warm, steady flow.

  Why then, was I suddenly thinking of Erica’s shower, with the pair of us pressing together to try to fit beneath the single, spluttering spray of warmth?

  It did not occur to me until that moment how strange the whole experience really had been. I had showered with a beautiful woman––and did not have sex with her. Sure, she touched my cock and all, but there was a complete absence of penetration.

  I struggled to think of a shower I had enjoyed more than the one I’d shared with her.

  “Fuck it, man,” I muttered to myself when I failed to come up with anything. “You’re just tired.”

  And I resolved then and there to get that silly girl out of my mind.

  After the shower, I threw on my finest satin bathrobe and sunk onto my leather couch. I clicked on the TV, found nothing worth watching, then clicked it off again. Next, I tried picking up a book. Nothing new held my interests, and none of the old familiars engaged me at all.

 
After about twenty minutes of trying, I realized that I could not sit still. So then, knowing I shouldn’t, I threw on a pair of beat-up pants and a t-shirt, rode the elevator back down to the garage, and shimmied my way under the bike to work on its oil. It didn’t need the work, and I shouldn’t have been doing it. Every inch I scooted on that cold cement floor sent harsh jabs of pain through my body. And yet I did it anyway. If anything could distract me from this gnawing restlessness, it was working on my bike.

  I changed the oil. I polished the chrome. I even picked the rocks and dirt from the wheels. And when I was finished, I felt just as restless as ever.

  “Goddamn it, Dominic!” I swore aloud, startling the security guard lounging at the entrance to the garage. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I had never been this jazzed up before a heist. Was it fear? No. That was ridiculous. Then what was it?

  I had never been an introspective man, but, at that moment, I thought some reflection was exactly what I needed. I closed my eyes, allowing the wrench in my hand to hang loose and my mind to wander freely. And what did I come up with?

  Erica, on her knees before me, sucking with her expert, ruby lips on my cock.

  “Ah, that’s what the matter is,” I muttered victoriously. “You’re horny.”

  There was a very easy solution to that.

  After straightening my tools for about the eighth time, I returned up to my apartment and switched on my laptop. I had a whole file of favorites. Women, apparently, are very eager to take their clothes off and pose for the head of a major motorcycle club.

  I went to Janet, a very reliable girl, pictured as she was with her legs spread and a cock-teasing smile on her mouth. Grinning myself, having finally found the solution to my problem, I opened my fly and reached down between my legs.

  Nothing.

  Unperturbed, I switched over to Tracey. She was an Asian girl. Exotic, and dolled up in the finest slut-clothing. Thank God for black leather, I thought, giving myself a squeeze.

  And still, nothing.

  Now, I was starting to get annoyed. These girls usually were an instant erection for me. When the pictures alone weren’t enough, I had dozens of real-life memories I could refer to: fucking across this very couch; splayed across the seat of my bike. In the bathroom of my biker bar, her screams of pleasure muffled with my hand.

  But try as I might, my hand and my imagination elicited no results. Finally, it occurred to me: “It’s like when you can’t get a song out of your head. Just listen to it once, and your brain is satisfied.”

  That was the answer. If I wanted to stop thinking about that damned goody-two-shoes girl, I’d have to go for it one last time.

  I slammed my computer shut, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

  I would totally dominate her. No more of this be-careful-I’m-injured crap. If this girl refused to get out of my head, she would have to deal with the consequences.

  I imagined her on her knees, her hands tied with my belt behind her back. She’d be wearing stockings, and a black lace garter, topped off with a leather bra that lifted her breasts into incredible, tit-fuckable cleavage. That was the view I got as she eagerly began sucking my cock; deep, deep down between her breasts, and beneath that, the flashing pink glimmer of her pussy.

  In real life and in my imagination, my hand fastened around my cock. Oh, yeah. It was working this time. I worked it with my fingers, and, feeling powerful, I drew it back and slapped it against my thighs, envisioning all the while it smacking loudly against her cheeks.

  “Please,” the imaginary Erica begged. “Put it in me. I need your cock.”

  That she did.

  Still working my shaft with my hand, I imagined myself now sitting on my bike, fully done up in leather, but my dick free in the moonlit air. Erica was there, stark naked this time, her sweet buttocks splayed before me across the seat like two pieces of fruit side by side. I entered her, so her hands reached out to the handlebars and squeezed as the concussive pleasure overtook her.

  “That’s right,” I thought, picturing myself fucking her harder and harder, until her tits flew about and her nipples flashed like quarters tossed through the air. “Get out of my head, you slut. Get out!”

  As my climax began brewing, I could feel my restlessness, my preoccupation with her slowly draining from my system, like a poison leaching from a wound. I’d cum, and then I would be able to focus on the things that mattered: my final heist, and then my retirement.

  Suddenly, my imagination changed. Instead of picturing her bent over, being fucked so hard in doggy that my balls slapped her whole pussy, I envisioned the two of us, as a pair, sprawled out on a beach somewhere, perhaps with me applying sunscreen to her milky white breasts.

  “Jesus Christ!” I croaked, tossing the vision away as if it was something vulgar. I forced my brain to return to the pornographic version of her, her lips spread in a scream of pleasure as I pounded her again and again, until, finally, “Ahhh…”

  I came. At first, I thought I’d cum on the imaginary Erica’s face. “But no,” I thought affectionately. “She deserves a pussy shot.”

  And so I gave it to her.

  Spent, and at long last satisfied, I cleaned myself up and sagged blissfully into the cushions of my couch. For the first time in what felt like ages, my side didn’t hurt, and my brain wasn’t buzzing. I was able to, at last, close my eyes and get some restful, wonderful sleep.

  That night, disturbing dreams came. They weren’t my usual nightmares. No, they were so common they were like old, ugly friends, popping ’round after midnight for a beer. I had learned a long time ago to handle those.

  The dreams that came were even more disturbing.

  Erica and I, once again on a beach, but this time without even the childish fantasy of rubbing sunscreen on her breasts. Instead, we were just lying there, talking. I didn’t even know what about. All I know is that she turned to me, and kissed me, and at the moment her lips touched mine, I jerked awake, sweaty and breathing hard.

  “Who is this witch that has set upon me?” The stupid, three a.m. me thought. “Did the Crooked Jaws unleash her?”

  Thank God, at that point, my rational mind caught up with my sleeping one, and I was able to push those idiot questions aside. I closed my eyes, reminded myself that I was Dominic Molina, and no woman had a hold over me.

  I quickly fell asleep, and did not wake again until morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  Erica

  I managed to get to work without causing any major vehicular accidents. There was even a plus: keeping myself from crashing took so much concentration that I was actually able to, for a moment, get the thoughts of Dominic out of my head. Feeling refreshed, I parked my car and strolled inside.

  Mr. Blade was waiting for me right inside the door. At the sight of him, all my good thoughts vanished.

  “About time, Erica my sweet,” He said, handing me an enormous stack of papers which had been resting both beneath his arm and atop his round, bulbous belly. They were moist, and even when I held them at arm’s length I could smell his stinging, acrid cologne that had been absorbed by the pages.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blade,” I replied noncommittally. “I’ll get to these right away, sir.” “Yeah, after I let them air out by the window.” With a smile, I plowed right for my desk, but Mr. Blade shifted at the last moment so that the back of his hand brushed my hip. I winced, and not because he had landed on my bruise. Still, I had learned a long time ago that it was better not to say anything. I sat down and began organizing myself for the day, refusing for a long moment to look up. I was really, really hoping that he was done with me.

  But no. I sensed his hovering. It was in the tingling of my cleavage and the hoarse whisper of his breath, like rubber dragging through wet sand.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked, at last looking up. He smiled at me, revealing yellowing teeth.

  “You know, Erica,” he began, “being late not only aff
ects your own performance, but everyone else’s as well. Though we, of course, try never to put too much pressure on you, poor thing, we still nonetheless depend on you to make things run smoothly around here.”

  “I understand, sir,” I replied, thinking: “Just agree with him and he’ll go away sooner.” I refused to look into his eyes. Instead, the buttons of his shirt, strained almost to breaking, fascinated me. When he shifted to retrieve more papers from a tray behind him, they creaked audibly.

  “Therefore,” his slimy, slithering voice continued, “We believe that, because of your tardiness today, you should be the one who has to work late. We’ve fallen behind on these reports, and they need doing.”