HOGTIED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan's Chaos MC)

by Nicole Fox

  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 affects 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.”

  “We?” I thought. “You mean ‘I.’” But aloud, I answered, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He patted me on the head and waddled away. I closed my eyes and waited until he was gone, the shape of his hand burning on my scalp where he had touched me.

  “Goddammit,” I swore, sighing deeply as I looked at the additional work he had plopped down onto my desk. “This will take hours!” More, even, as I was still tired and harried from the adventures of the night before. I knew, though, that I had no other choice. Complaining meant talking to Blade again. He’d probably try to touch me, give me a comforting hug. No. When forced to decide between paperwork and being alone with him, I decided on paperwork.

  Shifting until I found a comfortable way to sit, I took a deep breath and began my work.

  # # #

  By the time eight p.m. rolled around, I was nearly in tears. The workload he had
given me was enormous, and, on top of that, I kept making stupid mistakes, causing me at one point to have to start over again. Perhaps it was my exhaustion. Perhaps it was my lingering thoughts of Dominic and the resulting throb between my legs. All I knew was that everyone, one by one, gathered their papers together, smiled sadly at me, and left for the night.

  By nine p.m., I believed I was alone in the office. The fluorescent lights cast a dreary, flickering glow over the sterile decorations, the wilting- yet -fake, flowers. Any view I might have of the surrounding city was washed out by their pallid gleam, so that I felt enclosed in a bubble––no, an envelope. A stupid, bureaucratic, red-tape envelope, sealing me away from the rest of the world.

  My bruise smarted. My pantsuit itched. The worn wire of my bra dug into my side uncomfortably. Inside my cheap, faux-leather shoes, my feet ached and sweated.

  “Aw, fuck it!” I cried at last, kicking my shoes off under my desk and unhooking my bra. With an immense sigh of relief, I wrestled it out from beneath my shirt and stuffed it into my purse. Damned thing. Evil, vile contraption. What did I care now that I wasn’t wearing a bra? It’s not like anyone was around to see me. I might as well be comfortable.

  “Long day, Erica my sweet?”

  The voice splashed over me like cold water, filled with stinging, salty seaweed that clung to me long after the sound of it had faded.

  “M-Mr. Blade!” I gasped, watching him emerge from his darkened office, a leering, jack-o-lantern grin on his face. “I thought you were gone for the night!”

  He smile grew. His eyes fastened on my breasts, my nipples––no longer protected by my padded bra––poking through the sheer fabric of my undershirt. “Evidently,” he said. Even his glance made me burn with discomfort.

  Frantically, I tried to squeeze into my shoes beneath the desk, all the while trying to figure out a way to slip my bra back on without him noticing. Perhaps I could make an excuse, go to the bathroom with it slipped under my skirt or something.

  But no. He was approaching.

  “I’d hoped you’d work late tonight,” he continued, his waist now touching the opposite end of my desk. Was I imagining things, or did I see a bulge growing there, in the crotch of his pants?

  Dear God, no, I thought. And yet, what he’d said rankled me enough to tear my gaze away.

  “Sir, with all due respect, you knew I’d be working late. You’re the one who assigned me all this work!”

  His eyes widened, as if surprised to hear me actually say what I was thinking. Then, his smile returned, but this time, it looked more like an animal baring his teeth.

  “With all due respect, yes,” he murmured, circling around my desk. From my seated position, my face was now just above his belt line. He reached out and stroked my hair, freezing me to the spot. “You do respect me, huh? You have to. You want to keep this job.”

  His hand traveled down my brow, to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. An aura of disgust radiated from his touch, and I saw something shift between his legs. Yes, I realized dimly. I was not imagining things.

  “Please don’t touch me,” I stammered, feeling pathetic even as I said it. He did not pull his hand away.

  “And why shouldn’t I?” He crooned. “I’m a respectable man, and you’re a beautiful woman. Besides, do you know how much shit I have to put up with from you as a worker? How many times I could have fired you, but didn’t? You owe me.”

  Humiliated, I felt tears spring to my eyes. “That’s not true,” I said. “I’m good at what I do!”

  He smiled. “Yes, you are,” he whispered, circling around me so that my back was to him. I could practically feel the heat radiating off his crotch. “You are very good at what you do. You poor thing, working so hard…Such long hours…”

  His hands spread across my shoulders and began to rub, giving me a massage. My muscles tensed, hard as rock beneath his touch, which inspired him only to squeeze harder.

  “Relax, Erica my sweet,” he whispered. “Relax…”

  His hands shifted down, across my collarbones, touching the very tops of my breasts with his fingertips. I gasped, trying to pull away from him, but he held me firmly.

  “Hey,” he murmured. “Why don’t we make a deal, huh?”

  His palms slid down, cupping the top of my breasts, above the shirt.

  “You’re a woman. I’m a man. You have needs: you want this job. You want…pleasure.”

  Touching the top of my shift. I squirmed, squeezing my eyes closed, pretending I was somewhere, anywhere but here.

  “And me?” he continued. “I have simple wants…simple needs. And, Erica my sweet, I’d like you to help me satisfy those needs––”

  “No!” I whirled to my feet, suddenly electrified. His hands had just dipped beneath my shirt and pinched, with icy fingers, my nipples. Now, they burned as if scalded. I gazed at him in horror, and he leered back, all semblance of a grin left behind. Now there was nothing but savage, animal longing.

  “Come here, my darling,” he growled. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “No!” I cried again, darting away from him. My sore ankle, half-trapped in my shoe, caught, and I suddenly found myself falling. I seized the edge of my desk, and––Boom!

  My chin clipped the edge, leaving me flickering and dizzy.

  “Now, now. See what happens when you try to defy me?” He cackled. I heard the grating of a chair being flung away, and suddenly he was behind me. I felt him press against my back, something small and hard poked through his jeans.

  “No!” I screamed. “No!”

  He seized my jaw and held me up against him.

  “Listen, toots,” he grunted, the smell of his breath making me even dizzier. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way ends with me pumping a steaming load of cum inside you, and perhaps an orgasm or two for you. The hard way? Well, let’s just say you’ll end up on the floor covered in as much blood as semen.”

  My heart raced. Tears of terror flooded my eyes. His hand covered my mouth so I could no longer scream, and I felt his other hand burrow behind me, unbuckling his pants.

  “So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart?” He asked. I could feel his naked cock pressing against my clothes. Naked. Naked!

  Flooded with adrenaline, I opened my mouth and bit down, hard, on his hand. He yanked away, and then smacked me across the face, knocking me once again across my desk. He seized my arm and bent it behind me, wrenching upward so far that I thought my shoulder would break.

  “There you go, lovely,” he spit into my ear, licking the lobe and my neck. With his free hand, he reached around me, tearing my breasts from my shirt. My nipples smacked against the cold veneer of my desk, which was so much better than the icy claws he dug into my flesh.

  “Please,” I begged, sobbing now. “Please don’t…”

  But he ignored me. Instead, he released his hold on my breasts and slithered his way down my legs, gripping my skirt and wrenching it upward. He tore my underwear aside so hard that it bruised, and then, like red-hot iron, I could feel the tip of his dick burn against my inner thigh.

  “Is there a problem here?” A deep voice, a soothing, fatherly voice interrupted. Blade whirled, his contact with me snapping. I squealed, then fled under my desk, clutching my knees and sobbing.

  “No problem!” He snapped. “Now why don’t you do your fucking job, you fucking mop monkey.”

  I chanced a peek around the desk. There was Mr. Belton, the evening janitor. He did indeed have his hand around a mop, but he stared at Blade with shrewd, cunning eyes.

  “I will, sir, don’t worry,” he said. “But first, I’d like to walk Ms. Carter out. It can be dangerous at night, and I thought I saw some hooligans by the parking garage. She should be finished by now. Right, Ms. Carter?”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Belton,” I stammered, emerging from my pathetic little hiding place, visibly trembling. The top of my shirt hung dangerously low, and my skirt was all the way up around my hips. I straightened them as d
iscreetly as I could. “I’m all set, sir.”

  “You’re fucking pitiful,” a cruel, harpy’s voice spat in my ear. “Groveling even to the fucking janitor.”

  And yet, as I looked at him, with his scuffed mop and his horrible, greenish jumper, he seemed a knight in shining armor, here with his lance to save the day. “Thank you, sir,” I continued, emphasizing the title. “That would be wonderful.”

  Mr. Belton nodded, then held out his hand like he would for a child. Hesitantly, I approached, pausing only long enough to grab my purse. I did not look at Blade as I walked by him––and yet, without even seeing him, I could tell that he was trembling with rage. Still, the part of me that remained capable of reason told me that he could do nothing: Belton had spotted us. I was visibly hurt. He was lucky Belton was simply leading me away, rather than calling the police.