Bad to the Bones

by Layla Wolfe

  Knoxie nodded. He knew he’d done a lot for the club. Each time he hit another Presención cartel member he pledged his loyalty to the club. But the Sinaloans had started to fight back. August, who ran The Bare Bones’ downtown pot dispensary, had almost been ambushed in the bathroom of a weed convention in Phoenix. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, leaving behind a pound of organic, long-flowering sativa. And Duji had been waylaid in the parking lot of a Pottery Barn. Luckily he was armed, but he’d had to explain to security guards why he’d been shooting off a Glock in a mall. His wife Dominique was even more pissed because she’d dropped and broken a lot of pottery, or whatever they sold in those places, Knoxie didn’t know.

  “Hey, Speed!” Some brothers from the Flagstaff charter approached. A painfully handsome guy Knoxie knew as Dayton Navarro asked Speed some questions about the shoes on his bike’s cam chains, so Knoxie wandered off. His eyes glazed over at that wrench’s talk, and Bellamy knew it.

  He saw Faux Pas doing tequila shots with some guys from Bullhead City. Gollywow, done up in his R&B threads—a purple glittery suit with wide lapels and a bouffant hairdo covered with a hairnet—was ogling a pass-around who turned out to have a Property Of patch on, so Knoxie made a sharp right in the direction of the hangar. It was almost time to empty the garbage bags from the bins around there.

  Ford stuck out an arm and stopped Knoxie. “Come on, man. I’ve got something to give you.”

  They wound their way through the crowd until they reached Ford’s IED building. NO SMOKING had been stenciled on the bricks sometime in the twentieth century. EXPLOSIVES. It was fitting that Ford still used it for that purpose.

  When Knoxie saw Lytton waiting inside with folded arms, he became wary. Why would the President and his second be pulling him aside during a big party? Lytton was holding a few pieces of paper stapled together, some form with blanks filled in.

  Ford started out. “We didn’t want to do this during chapel because it seemed more personal.” Lytton nodded in agreement. It was eerie how similar the two men looked, although they had different Native American mothers. “We just want to thank you on a personal level, not a club level, for all you’ve done for us. You were instrumental in getting those kooks run out of town. I’m sure the Attorney General never would’ve succeeded in getting Bihari declared an illegal city if it weren’t for all your efforts at the beginning. You were there with Lytton on that mesa when you first picked up those busloads of alkies—among others.”

  Knoxie had to grin at the oblique mention of Bellamy. This meeting was something fun, not something fucked. “It was mostly thanks to my CI’s help that I was able to infiltrate that loony bin.”

  Lytton handed Knoxie the papers as Ford went on, “So I came up with this way to thank you. You and Bellamy need a decent place to live. Not that there’s anything wrong with Lytton’s.”

  Lytton said, “Thank you for clarifying that.”

  “But let’s face it, it’s someone else’s backyard and house. You need a place, especially with those kids of yours visiting once a month. Teens need their own bedrooms. I know that from my own experience as a kid.” Ford seemed to get embarrassed then. “So here’s the deed to five acres near my house on Mescal Mountain. You can use the salary we discussed to build your new house. Oh hell, here she is. Am I going to have to say this all over again?”

  Just as Knoxie looked at the papers, the shed door opened and Bellamy stood in a rectangle of light. She had been allowed a few days off since her father was visiting for Passover. They had been at the Mormon Mountain cottage preparing some Seder dishes. It filled Knoxie with joy to see them together. He had never been able to feel affectionate toward his father before he had died. Watching Bellamy and her dad argue over wine, herbs, or matzo gave him a warm, familial feeling. He was still sore that Bellamy couldn’t have more children thanks to those fucktards in Merry-go-round Canyon.

  Now Knoxie gathered Bellamy to his chest, planting a kiss on her warm head.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “I was working in the hangar when Speed told me to come out here.”

  “No working,” declared Ford. “Your fiancé is the new landowner of five acres on Mescal Mountain. I was just handing him the deed.” Ford and Lytton both clapped Knoxie on the shoulder before vanishing into the rectangle of light, like aliens returning to their ship.

  “What the fuck?” Bellamy said brightly, glancing at the paper but not daring to take it from him. Since gaining her ‘Property Of’ patch—and wearing the wooden necklace containing a photo of Knoxie—Bellamy had taken her role very seriously.

  Every day Knoxie thanked his lucky stars for Bellamy. Every day she was evolving, blooming, becoming more trusting, more open, more aware of herself. She had changed from the indifferent, callous waif into a curvy, sensitive—dare he say it, enlightened—woman of the world.

  The naïve refugee he’d found asking him to penetrate her was now an emotional, passionate woman discovering aspects of herself she never knew existed. One didn’t often find a twenty-five year old discovering the pleasures of the female orgasm. It made Knoxie feel younger just helping her explore. She’d been putting the puzzle pieces of herself back together again.

  He had to remind himself she’d been locked away in a bizarre world whenever she asked him something that seemed so basic, like who are the Kardashians, how do I text on this phone, or what is twerking. He loved her naivety. Most of the things she didn’t know weren’t a necessity anyway to become a fully-fledged human. He still had to go slow with her—bondage or discipline was not a good choice for someone who had been through her ordeals—and sometimes she scared him with her over-the-top reactions to unexpected things. But it was all a part of regaining who she was. Gathering all the parts together, closing ranks on herself.

  “Ford gave me five acres near his house. You like that view, don’t you?”

  “What the fuck? Holy shit! Yes, remember that time I had the meltdown and I cried for you? When you came, you were like a savior with a halo around your head. We stood on Ford’s deck watching the sun rise. I wanted so badly to throw my arms around you and kiss you. But we had too much strange shit going on.”

  “Strange shit going on,” Knoxie echoed, putting the papers down and taking big handfuls of Bellamy’s ass. She had gained weight and he loved how substantial she was. A full-figured, whole woman in his hands. He kissed her, fully savoring each small sip at her lips, tickling her tongue-tip with his. As he kissed the tip of her nose, then dipped his head to lick her little buck teeth, he turned her around. Now he could lift her with just a slight bend of his knees and place her on Ford’s bomb-making counter.

  “I can’t express how much I love you,” she whispered against his mouth.

  “I know the feeling,” he agreed, intent on gathering handfuls of her country and western skirt. She usually wore tight leathers and a sweet little tan buckskin bolero jacket with fringes—that’s where she’d sewn her “Property Of” patch—but this week she’d been dressing in a new, feminine, and frilly style, maybe to commemorate her father’s visit. “It’s hard to say in words.”

  “No,” she whined, ladylike. “I mean, it’s really hard to express, Knoxie. I literally can’t verbally express how much I love you. It’s too painful. It wrenches my heart.”

  Knoxie murmured, “Why don’t you just say it in sounds? I have a feeling you’ll be making some loud-ass sounds the second I move these booby traps and fuses away from your butt.”

  Sliding aside a pile of brackets, cylinder, and pipes, Knoxie yanked Bellamy’s skirt to her thighs, exposing the virginal white triangle of panty covering her pubic mound. Falling to his knees, he plastered his mouth to her swollen pussy and breathed out, warming it. Immediately, she let loose with a long, low wail, like a foghorn.

  He’d never been in a better position for praying. Better, more heartfelt, than any prayer he’d ever done in a church.

  BELLAMY

  I think I made a tiny little scream wh
en he first heated up my cunt with his mouth.

  It had been like a month since Knoxie had put his mouth near my cunt. I can’t blame him—last time he tried, I kicked him in the chest. It was a reflex, I swear! Not that anyone at Bihari had ever tried that stunt. They didn’t do intimate acts like that at Bihari.

  It was the fact that it was an intimate thing to do that had caused me to lash out. You have to understand. Knoxie is a world class pearl diver. His tongue muscles have muscles. And having his sculpted, exquisitely handsome face anywhere near my pussy just set me off like a firecracker. So last time, I kicked him. He flew halfway across the room. He pretended to laugh, but I’m sure he was offended.

  I had to maintain my cool now. He began mashing my clit through the cotton of my panties, just chomping away with that maddening layer between us. I spread my thighs like a fucking Bone Licker, just a wanton, loose slut. The thrills and layers of sexual escapades had been a constant eye-opener for me. I had only ever experienced the fumblings and bumblings of the teen thugs who hung out with Maddy and me. That, or the violent assaults of the Bihari “teachers,” but I can’t even classify that as sex. Sex is warm, thrilling, loving. The Bihari stuff was just a lesson in abuse.

  Hitching a finger around the elastic, Knoxie drew my panties down. I felt my pussy quiver in anticipation of his touch. I even mentally steeled myself as I gripped the edge of the counter. I tried to let a ruler or steel bar digging into my tailbone distract me, but when Knoxie touched the tip of his tongue to my clit I went apeshit.

  I shot off the counter like a cartoon character who had sat on a firecracker. I found myself clutching some overhead leather straps as I panted wildly like a mother doing Lamaze. Finding I could trust the straps, I lowered my bare ass to the cold metal table while Knoxie dug in, his face between my thighs worrying my pussy lips.

  It was so exquisite it was difficult to relax into it. What would happen if bliss overwhelmed me? Would the top of my head shoot off? There is such a thing as “feeling too good.” My toes curled inside my cowboy boots as Knoxie flicked his tongue across the crest of my clit. His fingers slithered around my outer pussy lips from behind as he cradled my ass as though opening up an orange. I jumped, hissed, and gasped, but I kept my ass firmly planted against the metal.

  I felt so sorry for Knoxie! How hard men had to work at it, when women could just take a big cock in their mouth and move it back and forth—a lot, I admit—until the man shoots his load. It seems so much harder for men and maybe that’s why they rarely ever do it. Knoxie showed his devotion to me by worshiping at my most feminine shrine. The feel of his solid, muscular shoulders propping up my thighs, the heat of his breath against my labia, and the ultimate crescendo of bliss, his talented tongue whipping my clit into a frenzy.

  I exploded in one overwhelming spasm of ecstasy. Maddy had told me about the physiology of feminine orgasms. The vast majority of the clitoris is internal, and there are arms that go around and sort of hug your vaginal canal. That’s why when an orgasm grips your pelvis it’s so explosive. Virtually every organ in there is being massaged into a state of bliss. Doctors didn’t figure this out until 2009 when the first 3-D sonogram of the internal clitoris was made—in France. A doctor who treated genital mutilation worked on it for years without funding.

  Knoxie knew it now. He knew he could massage me into being his devoted slave if he just kept this up. That asshole.

  So I dug my fingers into his shoulders as wave after wave of delirious euphoria washed over me. I think I was making loud barking sounds like a seagull or a high-pitched turkey call. Who the hell cares? We were at a biker rally inside an explosives shed, so we probably weren’t about to start reading the Bible.

  I swear, it took a full five minutes for him to bring me down. Sometimes I collapsed in a puddle of goo, but this time I was energized. Knoxie stood, wiping his face with the back of his hand. That boyish expression of victory always slayed me. This time I grabbed the lapels of his cut and twirled him around, smashing his butt onto the counter. Boldly I grabbed the fat bulge in his 501s, my nose nearly touching the tip of his.

  “You’re not getting away that easy, you fucker.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Knoxie teased. “What’re you going to do to me, woman?”

  In a flash I had his fiery hot cock in my fist. “I want you inside me. I want you to penetrate me.”

  I could see the surprise in his eyes. We didn’t do that as often as some couples might due to the negative connotations that were planted in my brain. But right now I was crazed with lust. I didn’t dare rip off his cut, but I could sure as hell clamber onto that counter and glue my cunt to his cock. I swiveled my hips around like a crazy doll for a while, smearing my ample juices up and down his shaft. He leaned back on his palms and just enjoyed the scene, his lovely heavy-lidded eyes assessing me.

  I couldn’t resist rubbing my hand all over his closely-shorn hair. It stimulated every nerve ending in my arm, stiffening my nipple. I yanked down the elastic neckline to my puffy shirt, enjoying the way his topaz eyes darkened. Men were such suckers for tits, even smallish ones like mine. My eyes locked onto his, wanting to see his reaction when I sank down on his cock, spearing him deep inside me.

  His eyes rolled up in his head as it drooped on a weak neck. Now Knoxie was in the deep space bliss that I had just been in. I worked that cock like a porn ho, squeezing it with my inner pussy muscles as I swung my pelvis forward, then back. I slid my palm under the hem of his T-shirt, fingering only the uninjured nipple. His nostrils flared with pleasure as I worked him in several spots at once. I had never asked him how his pectoral had gotten so chewed up, but he never wore the garnet nipple bead again, and switched to decorating the other one.

  “Do it, stud,” I urged. “I want to feel you splash my womb with your sweet, delicious semen. Do it. Let go, babe. You know you want to.”

  Oh boy, did he want to. My toes curled inside my boots when his whole body stiffened. Only his eyelids shivered as his prick erupted against my cervix. Now I sat heavily on him, my boots behind me in the air, the better to feel his glans spurting.

  I loved this part more than anything. I had tried to look on the bright side of being infertile. For one, I never had to use birth control ever again. We could fuck without worry. The agencies would never let a biker couple adopt a child from Russia or wherever, but maybe we could find a dog that wasn’t motorcycle-shy. I’d seen them riding in sidecars before, so it had to be possible.

  “Whew,” he panted. I speared my fingers through his hair and held his face to my naked tits.

  After a while, he looked up at me. He had that weak little boy’s grin that told me he was helpless. Helpless against my feminine forces, the power of my pussy juices. “I’ve got something else to give you. I’m afraid you’ve smashed it, though.”

  I gasped. “What?” Never one to turn down a gift, I instantly jumped to my feet, swirling my skirts around my boots. I stuffed my boobs back into my bra so as not to distract him. “Did I wreck it? Did I wreck it?”

  It was like in a romance novel when he pulled a brown velvet jewelry box from his front jeans pocket. We were already engaged to be married, and I sported a diamond ring that was quite hefty, by all reports. His ex-wife loathed me, never having met me, and I was working hard on getting his children to accept me. It was a long tough road, gaining the acceptance of teens.

  He said, “I saw these in an ad you had on your old cubicle wall. I figured you stuck it there because you liked them. Well, now I can afford to give you the things you want.”

  I noticed my hands really were trembling as I opened the box. Holy Jesus on a stick.

  Chocolate diamond earrings.

  Yes, I had stuck that ad on my wall, many months ago. I hadn’t thought it would ever impact my real life, to be honest. I didn’t know men noticed shit like that. But Knoxie, being an artist, had an eye for detail. Each stud earring was two horseshoes intertwined, one with white diamonds, the other with chocolate set in ro
se gold.

  Tears came to my eyes. I didn’t trust myself to take one from the box, my hands were shaking so badly. I had gone from someone who didn’t know how to cry to a person who cried at the drop of a hippopotamus. It was ridiculous. Dr. Petrie said this was part of my assimilation of all the aspects of my personality, like some kind of broken Sybil-type split personality. Each tear represented one emotion I now owned fully and completely.

  “Knoxie, I don’t know what to say,” I sniffed. I stood between his thighs as he cinched his belt tight. He was pleased as punch, I could tell. I mean, Jesus. In the past hour, he’d just basically gotten me a house and the most kick-ass pair of earrings that were ever created. Yeah. He was on a roll.

  He cupped my face in his hand. “Say nothing, babe. I just want to know that you’re mine. That no one is going to lay a fucking finger on you ever, ever again. Capisce?” He had been incorporating his Italian heritage lately by brushing up on the lingo. He steadfastly refused to look into the Catholic faith again, but he sure liked the lingo.

  “Capisce,” I agreed, just as the shed door rattled.

  A beam of light hit us full blast. Reflexively, I threw my arm up to protect my face. A female figure told me, “Your dad is here, Asanga—I mean Bellamy. He says he’s taking you somewhere.”

  “Yes!” I cried.

  Rhetta had come down with us from Bihari, along with Gia and Sunyade. Three more female refugees were picked up on our way out of the canyon. The women were understandably pretty messed up, but the club took them in. Rhetta was the only one who had been in on Operation Eggplant, the sick plot to poison the salad bars of P&E citizens. She sang like a canary, telling all, really helping out the Attorney General, as well as Paul Goodhue, who had levied a one million dollar fine on the cult for illegal wiring.