Owned by the Biker: Desperados MC
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Carol looks horribly disappointed. She lowers her camera, lower lip jutting out. “Not even a single statement?”
“No,” insists Isabella. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. “Not a single statement. Please leave.”
“Shit,” mutters Carol. The woman takes one more picture and then scuttles outside, no doubt vanishing into the same dark crevice that she came from.
“Roaches,” spits Alexandra, “the lot of them! We aren’t finished here, Isabella.”
“This is my suite,” says the young princess, voice wavering. “And I want you to leave. My name is on the room. It’s on the key. Mother, you need to leave.”
“Not if he’s still in here,” says Alexandra. “I refuse to leave you alone with that son-of-a-bitch.”
Gabe raises his hands. He looks at Isabella, apologies written across his face, excuses swimming in his eyes. “I’m leaving, Izzy. No offense but this is a little much for me. I’ll get in touch with you later, okay?”
Isabella sniffs. The thought of being alone makes everything worse. The walls of her bedroom are too close together. The weight of her title seems crushing. “I don’t care,” says Isabella with a shake of her head. “I just want her to leave.”
Gabe steps around the bed, pressing his fingers against the sheets. “I’ll come by and get my stuff later?”
“That’s fine,” says Isabella stiffly. “Just…please leave. Both of you.”
“You’re my daughter,” says Alexandra. “You’re my daughter, Isabella, but I can’t accept this. You’ve ruined your life. You had best hope that this sluttish behavior of yours hasn’t ruined mine, as well.”
Gabe sidesteps around the Queen, scampering out of the suite without another word. Isabella wishes that her mother would do the same, but she's never been that lucky. Standing there now, Isabella knows that she's never going to be that lucky.
“And the kingdom,” continues Alexandra, “the kingdom will never be the same! Do you know what a scandal like this could do to us? The entire country could be ruined!”
“The country isn't going to be ruined,” snaps Isabella. “You're the only one bothered by this, Mother!”
“Your father is in a rage!”
“You’re both insane!”
“Stay your tongue,” hisses Alexandra. “Have you lost your entire mind? I won't allow you to speak to us nor about us like that, you plebian slut!”
“Do you even hear yourself? Listen to what you're calling me!”
“I call you what you deserve,” snaps Alexandra. “I can't believe you. I can't believe that you would do this to us, Isabella. Shame on you, Isabella. Shame on you for being such a raging slut. Try to keep your legs closed tonight, won't you?”
And then the Queen spins on her feet and storms out of the room. Isabella sits down on the edge of the bed, hides her face in her hands, and starts to cry in earnest.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The chains rattle against the hook. Bright pink fuzz circles Renee's bruised wrists. The handcuffs are padded this time, a request after last week's romp under the sheets ended up with split skin and awful bruises.
A ball gag has been wedged into her mouth. Teeth press against the red rubber ball, just large enough to keep her jaws pinned open and her mouth from closing. Her lips are split. Drool runs out of the sides of her mouth, leaving her chin damp. It drips onto the pillows that are beneath her head.
She's on display more than anything. Pinned to the bed spread eagle, stretched out for everyone to see. Black silk ropes are wrapped around her ankles, keeping them pinned to her calves. The floor bites into her bare legs.
Her wrists are cuffed together. A hook has been slipped into the connecting chain. It's attached to the ceiling, dangling from the top of the room. Renee isn't wearing anything, showing off her body for everyone in this bar to look at. Her breasts shake and tremble with every deep breath.
Short brown hair hangs around her face. Renee blinks, lashes brushing against the black silk over her face. She can't see anything. It's unnerving, but it's exciting, too. This is what she loves, what she could never get with Gabe.
He was too selfish, too careful. Renee's ex had never wanted to share her. He'd never wanted to take that extra step, go the extra mile.
But Slade?
Slade will do anything for her.
He's said it before, and Renee is certain that the second-in-command of the Desperados means it. He would never lie, least of all to her.
Slade's a good man.
Renee's thoughts are ripped back into the present when someone cuts off the jukebox. It makes her stomach churn with anticipation and a touch of unease. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a muffled, unintelligible grunt.
Bar isn't the right word. The Eagle's Nest is more than that. It's a private club that pays their annual taxes in advance, one of the larger tax bills in the county. They pay out countless checks to local charities, enough so all the important groups in town have a positive impression of them. But they show no interest in participating in local affairs, and no one knows much about them.
It's not a place where the Desperados often come. It's one of Slade's personal haunts. These people here, they are his personal acquaintances, friends, and business partners.
It's an honor to be here with them. Renee would smile if she could. That honor is put into effect when a cock is pressed against Renee's lips. She's resting on the ground with her arms pulled up above her, shoulders twisted.
The gag is unhooked. Renee opens her mouth without hesitation. The cock is thick but short. Even when her nose is pressed into the man's groin, it doesn't slip into her throat. All the same, the man seems content. His grunts and groans fill the air as he fucks her mouth. A hand presses against the back of Renee's face, fingers tangling in her hair, keeping her still.
In this situation, the control is completely stripped from Renee. It's the liberation that she needs, the freedom that she can't get in her everyday life.
Hands are on her elsewhere. Fingers play at her nipples, causing her to gasp. More digits slide under her legs and began to play with her wet cunt, and she moans. Lips kiss down her bare back to her bottom, and she groans in excitement as the unknown lover presses his face into her cunt from behind, lapping at her pussy.
Hands behind her want more; she feels someone scrabbling at her back, at her hips. The position keeps her from moving at all, but it also makes her more difficult to access.
“Fuck her, guys. Make her feel it.”
“Great tits, crazy swinging.”
“Gag her throat!”
“Stretch her pussy!”
Renee isn't the only woman in here like this. That's the pride of this club, in a way. It's the reason why so many people come here. She is, however, the only one that doesn't charge.
Slade doesn't want to slander her body by charging a renter's fee.
He loves her too much for that. And maybe it's a warped way to think, but it's a mindset that works well for Renee.
The man in front of her groans, his cock shooting hot cum down Renee's mouth. He might not be particularly well-endowed as far as length is concerned, but his balls must be massive. It seems endless—spurt after spurt of semen flooding into Renee's mouth until she can't swallow any more, until she's gagging and sputtering about the weight laying over her tongue.
“We're moving her,” grunts someone. “I can't reach shit like this.”
Renee doesn't want to be moved, but the gag is shoved back in her mouth. It's hooked tighter than it had been before, tight enough that it's not horribly comfortable. But then she's being lifted up by the waist and the black silk strips around her ankles are being pulled away.
A cock lines up with her pussy. Hands keep her supported. The man plunges in with a low moan. He buries himself into her forcefully, fully. Her channel is slick—wet with lube applied earlier in the night—and offers little resistance, but the suddenness of his invasion takes her breath away.
On the other side of the bar, Slade sips at his whiskey and pays the woman no mind. No matter what Renee thinks, there's no real love between them. Slade is the second-in-command of the Desperados, a motorcycle club that is struggling to keep its head above water.
He also happens to be the former best friend of Gabriel; a man currently on the front page of the Enquirer.
The image is grainy, but it's in full color. The Princess of Davaria is standing nude before her dresser, with the Queen grabbing hold of her wrist. Gabe sits on the bed, naked save a blanket draped about his waist.
Both Gabe and the Princess look thoroughly fucked.
It makes Slade's stomach churn. He is so pissed off, the very thought of Gabe getting with someone so high class makes his head spin.
This isn't the first time that Slade has seen them together, of course. He's tried already to disrupt their little romp, but the princess had been surprisingly unwilling to sleep with him.
I already have a boyfriend, she had said. At the time, Slade had thought it was just the ramblings of a nervous woman.
Now, though, Slade knows otherwise. Now, he can tell that the young Princess of Davaria is coming to mean much more to Gabe.
It's clear from the pictures. There's love in her eyes, confusion and fear in Gabe's.
“Well,” says Slade, “this is proving to be very interesting.”
A man laughs. Renee moans, loud even with the gag in place.
Slade ignores her and the men enjoying her body. Instead, he pulls a phone from his pocket and dials a number. “Winston? I have a favor to ask you. No, it's not something anyone else can do. Yes. Yes, that's exactly it. You always know what I'm thinking, Winston. A pal, surely.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Winston Pordue is a founding member of the Desperados. He's been with the motorcycle club since the very beginning. His Harley is an ever-present fixture in the parking lot of their usual haunt-turned-headquarters. No one really knows where he came from or why he's stuck it out so long. They just nod at him when they wander into the pizza shop, like he actually might belong.
He does, as far as personality is concerned. Winston is harsh and cold with a straightforward attitude and a willingness to get anything done, no matter the cost. But as far as looks are concerned, the man lives up to his name.
Even now, at near ten o'clock at night, there's something strange about walking into Pip's Perfect Pizza and seeing Winston sitting there. His ring-covered fingers drum against the red laminated tabletop. His white button-up shirt is done up near to the neck, black suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. His leather vest also rests over the back of a chair.
Thick coke-bottle glasses make Winston's eyes seem too large. He watches as Gabe crosses the room, ordering half a pepperoni and a bottle of beer from the front counter. Pip and his brother, Miser, keep beer around just for the Desperados. They trade away other customers for guaranteed business, for the chance to charge a bit more on every pizza.
“Hey,” says Winston, in that strong English accent of his. “You got a moment, Gabe?”
“No, I thought I'd come out here just to take off.” Gabe snorts but looks around the pizza shop like he's trying to find someone else to sit with.
No one else is here. Winston chased everyone out almost half an hour ago. When it becomes clear that there's no way out of it, Gabe walks over and drops down in the chair opposite of Winston. Gabe asks, “What's up?”
“Why don't you tell me?” Winston slides a piece of newspaper across the table. It's from the Enquirer.
Winston asks, “What's all this about?”
“It's not about anything,” says Gabe, pushing the paper back towards Winston. “What the fuck, Winston?”
“You see that picture?”
“I've seen the fucking picture.”
“You see how clear your face is?”
“Winston, this is bullshit. My name's not on there anywhere, and I fucking know it. Even if it was, that wouldn't matter. Everyone's just up in a tizzy over those bruises.”
Winston's lips draw into a thin line. He pushes the paper back towards Gabe, determined to get his point across. There's a hefty amount of money in it for him, after all, and a guaranteed position at the top of the chain once the current leader of the motorcycle club, the man sitting before him, is out of the way.
Winston isn't here for the rush, after all. He's not hear for the roar of the bike. He's here for the power, and there's something insanely powerful about being the second-in-command of a biker group, especially considering the plans that Slade is trying to put into motion.
If things go right, then Winston will become one of the most powerful men, not just in Georgia, but in the whole South.
“That's not good,” insists Winston. “You understand that, right?”
Gabe snorts. He's clearly getting pissed off over the conversation. This time, rather than shove the paper back at Winston, he grabs it and rips it in two. “It's a picture. There's nothing more to it but some backwoods reporter trying to get some extra cash.”
“It's going to be hell for the club.”
“It's not going to affect the club!”
“You're sleeping with a princess,” says Winston. “You the one that knocked her up?”
Gabe stutters. “What?”
Winston sighs. “Are you the one that knocked her up?”
“So what if I was?”
“Then that's even worse. You've been in charge for a while now, buddy. We might not be into running anything, but you know how many other clubs are pissed that we've got this side of town as ours. If you don't think that they aren't going to see this picture and try something, you're just fooling yourself.”
“No one is going to give a shit if I've shown up in some shitty picture. This whole thing's just a scam. You know that!”
Winston shrugs. He folds his hands on the top of the table and leans forward. “I know what I know. Pictures are proof, Gabe, and you know that. Someone's going to see that picture, and it's going to cause trouble for us. It was stupid.”
Gabe sneers. “It was my decision. It had nothing to do with the club!”
“That's not how a leader talks,” says Winston, and he's still keeping his voice level, making sure not to sound too invested in this one way or the other.
There's a lot at stake, after all. There's a lot being offered that Winston isn't willing to give up.
Gabe bristles. He sits up tall as he can. The pepperoni pizza and open can of beer is deposited at the table; Pip's a smart guy who can read the atmosphere, and he doesn't stick around any longer than he needs to.
Gabe spits out, “Are you challenging my decisions?”
“No,” says Winston. “But a lot of our men will. You know that.”
“What's the point of this damn conversation?”
“The point is stopping a problem before it starts. You're not a fool, Gabe. You know this is bad business.”
Gabe, this time, doesn't protest. He's watching Winston from weary, half-narrowed eyes. “So what?”
“So we need to get a handle on it before the others come in here spitting whiskey flames,” says Winston. “You need to figure out what you're going to do about this.”
“I'm not going to do anything about it. This is no one's business but mine, you hear?”
“You got a royal whore you're fucking on the side and a royal kid on the way. Everyone in the fucking country's seen your face next to hers. If they don't try something because of who you are—”
“I'm not anyone!”
“—then they're going to try something because of who she is,” finishes Winston. He's quiet for a moment, just long enough to let that settle in Gabe's mind, and then he says, “I think you should resign.”<
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Gabe balks at the sentence. “What?”
“I think you should resign,” repeats Winston. “This club, it ain't good for a kid, and it ain't good for a princess. And you ain't good for this club, Gabe. Look at what you've done, putting your face out there.”