Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2)

by Alice May Ball

  I took a delicious nap on the chaise-longue, and when I awoke I tried my new trick one more time. It was still difficult, but I could do it, and it felt powerful and exciting. The thought of testing my skills on Blaze’s humongous cock thrilled me in the pit of my stomach.

  Thinking of how it would make him feel. Of how I would feel, with him inside me. So much of him, so deep inside me. And of how it would make him feel.

  I wondered whether it was worth trying the remaining bananas up my ass, but decided they weren’t tough enough for the task, so I returned to the bar downstairs and took a table near the back. Zelda had some chicken wings and fried potato skins sent over with a beer.

  Bikers and girls looked over to my table, but nobody bothered me. Probably because they’d seen my arrive with Blaze.

  Loud rock pumped out from a sound system, and a small stage nearby had a couple of silver poles. Three skinny girls wore sparkly g-strings with paper money hanging in the straps.

  They climbed and spun on the poles, pushed and squeezed their tits, flicked their nipples with their tongues and ground their hips for the customers. They’d lean over and push their breasts out for a guy, turn and bend over to wave some tush at him, generally encouraging more paper money into their g-strings.

  The customers seemed to like the game, and they’d cheer, yell, whistle or whoop every now and then. It appeared that a couple of dollars would buy quite a lot of groping, but everybody seemed happy enough.

  Girls sat at tables or hung at the bar, and occasionally a girl would take a biker through the door that led out back and upstairs. They’d be back about fifteen or twenty minutes later.

  As one song faded down and another was fading up, I heard the crackling roar outside that I immediately knew as Blaze’s Harley. I couldn’t see all the way through the crowd, but there was no mistaking the cheer that greeted the opening door.

  Shortly I saw him, leaning his head into Zelda’s ear. His eyes flashed and shone. She shrugged, but at the same time her eyes twinkled at me. I lolled in my chair, feigning as much indifference as I could. His eyes were on me as he strode through the crowd. His grin flashed dangerously as he took my hand. His eyes brushed over me, from toes to tits, and his tongue flicked to moisten his lips. He pulled me toward the stage, and his other hand stroked and patted the three skinny girls as we displaced them to the edge of the platform.

  He held me in front of him, pulled me to his hard, rippled stomach and chest. My mouth brushed and licked his neck and my nostrils filled with his mix of clean and dirty scents. A sweet note, like a tummy after a shower, and dark waves of secret, unspoken things.

  My soft breasts pressed against the ridges of his hard chest. His hand found where my t-shirt was knotted, and it yanked straight down. The loose cotton ripped, straight from the low neckband down. Around us I was aware of a roaring cheer, as I thrilled to his lifting my bare breasts into the lights.

  Heavenly thrills ran the length of my body as he put his face between them, made long, wide, muscular licks in the valley between them, under them, around them. I gasped as he sucked each of my throbbing nipples. He sucked them long and hard, as he pushed his hand up into the back of my cut-offs. He grabbed my ass from beneath, and squeezed it in a rhythm to match his sucking on my tits.

  I had to lift one leg, to give him access but also to keep my pubic bone grinding into his hip. I felt hot, wet juice drizzle down the inside of my thigh out of my panties and from my shorts to my stocking tops.

  One of the dancers was wrapped around his leg, and another one was between mine, her breasts sliding around and between my thighs. She licked the flesh above my stocking tops, inside my thigh, and up.

  Her mouth gave me a thrill, but more than once I had an urge to swat her away, though I refrained. Blaze snapped his fingers and the other dancer leaped over to him. He pointed and she slid her hands between us. I felt her open his belt, and his pants, and out came that hot, hard rod.

  His hand rested on top of my head to introduce the next segment of the dance. My lips and my tongue dragged all the way down his neck, his chest, the ridges of his six-pack and then side to side across his hips.

  On my knees I faced his shining, purple head, and I dove onto it, taking him right to the back of my throat. I paused as much for effect as for composure, then slowly slid my lips, gradually along and all the way down till my wet lips met his wiry pubes.

  A couple of short strokes there, and I slid back. The music was lost behind a deafening roar. I slid all the way back until his head reached my lips. I worked my lips around it, and my tongue under it and along, and then plunged again.

  He pulsed, hard and hot and thick in my mouth and when I had him in my throat, I squeezed rhythmically. My breasts hugged his thigh and I plunged and pulled and sucked and I sucked and licked and sucked until he yelled and my throat and my mouth were filled with gushes of hot, salty sweet spunk. It drooled from my lips as I stood, amid a roar.

  A dancer slid up my body, her breasts hugging my thighs, pressing into my crotch, wrapping and wetting my stomach, thrillingly dragging her firm breasts and the hard points of her nipples over my own, soft, swelling, yearning breasts.

  My tongue was sliding out to lap up the dribbles and drops of spunk, when it met the soft, wet muscle of the dancer’s tongue. She wanted that jizz, too. By reflex I had smacked her hard in the chops and knocked her to the floor before I even knew it. That cream was mine, and I licked and wiped and lapped every drop.

  It’s an old cliché that I never thought really meant anything, but the roar of the crowd then was so sudden and had such a force of exhalation, that it did feel for a moment as if it might lift the roof of that roadhouse.

  The room shook, and the small stage bounced so much, the dancer I’d smacked to the ground banged her head on the boards. Again, by pure reflex I bent to catch her head and make sure she was OK. I said,

  “Sorry,”

  She smiled and shook her head, I just about heard her say,

  “It’s OK,” but the cheering, shouting and stamping drowned out anything else.

  Zelda was in a corner, with a dark look on her face. Next thing I knew, Blaze’s hand was in the back of my belt. It hauled me up by the waist, my face still down. He reached around and undid the buckle, yanked open the zip and pulled the shorts down to my thighs.

  The panties, he just tore the crotch out. Then, no massage, no lube, no fingers even, his two thumbs pulled my cheeks apart and he drove his cock straight into my ass.

  I screamed. He fucked me dry like that, I yelled, I choked, my mouth watered, my eyes watered, my quim gushed. I mewled and whimpered and wailed and he slammed into me. Farther, harder, deeper, faster. FASTER. On and in and on and in and UP, oh, God it hurt.

  My crotch was drenched, and I felt something soft, warm and smooth on the lips and on my clit. The girl I’d knocked to the floor was stretching up from the floor to suck me off.

  I never had a girl do that before. I wasn’t sure I wanted it, either, but it took my mind and body away from the tunneling that was going on up my rear. Then I realized, that was why she was doing it, sweet kid.

  Right after I smacked her to the floor, too. And damn, she was good. Those sweet, sweet little strokes, she knew exactly what a girl wanted. I had absolute heaven on, around, in and up my pussy, and a hot poker of absolute hell right through my ass.

  I cried and I sobbed and I laughed and I shrieked as I came, and I came, and I came, goddamn. The dancer tasted it and she squeezed my thighs and sucked deeper and harder and harder on my clit.

  Blaze was still beating and banging and pounding into my poor, sore, red little rim, but after my last yelps of tortured ecstasy, I felt him slow down. He was holding back. He almost stopped. Then with a whole run of full-throated, rasping yells, he belted into me and his red-hot load pumped against the inside of my raw, devastated ass.

  As soon as Blaze hauled his cock back from my ass, my body crumpled to the stage like a rag doll. The dancer str
oked my head and my cheek. The noise of the crowd was so loud now, it was painful.

  Bikers were right there in front of me, yelling and shouting, but their thighs were at my eye-level, and the sound was one, indistinct rush. Blaze was standing, grinning, waving his arms in the air. Bikers pushed bottles of bourbon at him, as well as blunts, pipes and little packets, but he just put his hands on his hips, grinned and waved.

  He pulled me up by my hair and took me down from the stage, through the parting sea of grinning, shouting bikers to Zelda’s table. My t-shirt hung ripped and wet over my swollen, swinging breasts and grazed my hard, over-sensitive nipples.

  My shorts just hung open to my crotch, and my black sheer panties were no more than a whisp. The stockings were very laddered now, and one raw knee poked out through a rip. From my head to my knees I was shaking and soaking wet. To say that I had ‘Bambi legs’ would be an understatement.

  Half of those bikers must have cum right in their jeans at the slick, bedraggled sight of me. I barely made it to the table and I fell more than sat into the chair. Blaze basked in the celebration. I reached across the table for the bottle of Jack, and took a long, deep swig. Zelda put her hand on mine and looked in my eye. Her voice was quiet and low, and she said,

  “You’d stolen the show from him there, Lucy.” Her grip tightened on my hand, “You need to be careful, girl.”

  Every part of me was exhausted, and I couldn’t put together what she was telling me. Still looking very serious she said,

  “You can always call me here.”

  BLAZE

  Part 3

  BURN

  by

  Alice May Ball

  When Blaze was satisfied with my sword swallowing skills, we were practically never apart for the rest of the Organ Grind tour.

  It kicked off as Blaze took me to a hotel suite, and the party that went on for the next month, moving to another city every couple of days. The parties were two or three hotel suites, or, in one small town, a whole motel, all around a pool.

  Wherever we were, the place was mostly packed with hard-rock stars, dancers and bikers, as well as the crew and a few guys, usually in shades, who transacted business in bathrooms and didn’t stay too long.

  Every night Blaze played one or two songs with the Organ Grind, but the tour was more like a sideshow, an incidental to the epic partying. Blaze was never far from a bottle of bourbon, hardly ever slept, and he fucked me senseless at least half a dozen times every day.

  Where one day ended and the next began became more of a philosophical speculation whenever jokes ran slow.

  In a house in Beverly Hills, Blaze took me from behind in an infinity pool, the valley stretched out in front of us, bathed in golden sun, and about twenty old geezers on a ‘Homes of the Stars’ tour bus shouted and waved at the sight of my big tits splashing in the pool.

  That and my head thrashing from side to side, plus my keening wails from Blaze reaming my ass for the third time that morning. The wives of the old geezers weren’t such big fans of the show, although one sweet-looking white haired old girl had her nose so hard up against the bus window, I thought her face was going to burst like a balloon full of water.

  I felt like one of those old-time screen goddesses, being gallantly sired by Douglas Fairbanks or Cary Grant.

  We fucked in the aisle of a Learjet over the Grand Canyon, and Blaze tried to get the cabin attendant to join in. She wasn’t having any of it, but Blaze teased her, had her really drunk and got her skirt hiked up. She sat on my face and I sucked her as Blaze fucked me wheelbarrow style.

  She came like a sleepy, mewling kitty, stretching. The taste and the feel of her puss, I kinda liked, Her, not so much.

  We did it at the top of the Coit Tower, the San Francisco bay and the Golden Gate bridge twinkling in the evening fog, although I didn’t see much of it upside down from between his thighs. My thighs were on his shoulders for the standing sixty-nine.

  He was farther up my throat than ever that time, and I hardly moved along his shaft, just squeezed him with my throat, my mouth and my lips, lolled my tongue around him, slicked him in slippery saliva and sucked. We barely moved, only filled and gave to and took from each other, more and more.

  It seemed like forever, and he moaned some of the sweetest sounds I that ever heard him make. After the smoky taste of precum, my tongue lapped and pressed out to the hilt of his shaft, and he began to pump, so gently and so slowly, until I moaned, and the low vibration triggered him.

  Then he started to move and he was pumping cum so hard into my throat, I had to pull back to get the head of his love muscle in my mouth, or I wouldn’t have got a taste at all.

  The last night of the tour is in Madison Square Garden. Blaze is pumped. He plays three songs on stage with The Organ Grind, plus they hauled him back for the second encore.

  His vocals are all smack on the money, and his guitar solos all catch fire. In the last encore, Blaze and Chainsaw improvise an inspired guitar duet, harmonising higher and higher, spinning faster and faster licks, and the crew let off a surprise firework display at the climax. And the song is Lovelace Lies Bleeding.

  A fleet of hummers, limos, trucks and bikes sweep the band, the crew and a comet’s tail of wild revellers back to the 42nd Street hotel, where the top floor is all ours. Blaze and I stepped into the suite together, into the noisy throng.

  Dancers, showgirls and all-purpose floozies stretched and posed and cavorted, with and on the men, all manes, tattoos, leather and denim. The scents of testosterone and its female counterparts were intoxicating.

  Dancers in heels, stockings and nothing else but filmy scarves were on all the window sill ledges. thumping rock cranked out of the sound system, and the riggers, bikers, players, techs and liggers drank, dallied with dancers, and generally found much great cause to whoop and holler.

  We were on the balcony slamming tequila shots with champagne. Slammed into a foam, it hits the bloodstream fast. Coming off the tour, the final concert and the sheer adrenaline rush from the Garden in full throng of thunderous appreciation, the energy crackled in everyone.

  All eyes sparkled and flashed, no drink was drunk unclinked in toast to some triumph. Blaze tried to act cool, but everywhere I touched him, all of his muscles twanged and vibrated. His eyes flashed with fire. He cupped my chin in his hand and his eyes snapped into mine.

  A rush of emotion flashed through me, and I could see that he was welling up to say something to me. Those moments were apt to be explosive. Blaze expresses himself with actions, or he makes jokes. Straight talk is a precipice for him.

  My hand was on his chest and his heart thumped under my fingers. My sense was to calm him, to soothe him, but I ached and yearned to know his mind.

  He pulled me closer, and my breasts met his silk shirt, still wet from exertion on the stadium stage. The ripple of his stomach muscles, under the shirt, met my hardening nipples. My breasts pressed against him, and I felt as though all of him, all that was inside of him was ready to burst into my breasts.

  He cupped them both in his hands and squeezed. When he did stuff like this, especially in a room full of people, it was always bravado, a show. This was something different. His grin wasn’t the showman’s leer, it was something connected.

  It felt wonderful, it felt like the heavens would open and a deluge would fall on us, soak us and cleanse us. A renewal. But it was uncharted territory, new ground, and it frightened me, because it could be an overdose of the thing that he feared.

  I didn’t know what that thing was exactly, but I had a sense of what would touch it, and I longed to heal it for him. He squeezed my breasts and my heart raced, but something told me there was danger in the night air, forty floors above Manhattan. His cock stirred and snaked up against my tummy, and I hugged him, to feel it, to feel him, enfolded in my rising breasts. He said,