by Cop Versus Biker) Christa Wick - Shield Her (A Bad Boys in Her Bed Menage
Fuck, I loved his cock, loved the feeling of that great bowing staff, rigid and stroking inside me.
“Slow, Reggie,” Carson warned as I tried to force myself all the way onto him.
Maddox broke the kiss, his fingers hooking inside my pussy as his thumb pressed against my clit, the firm, cupping grip ensuring I was held immobile and couldn’t hurt myself as Carson gently stretched my ass, his strokes slow and a little deeper each time.
“Fuck,” he rasped and bit at my neck. “You better get in her before we both pop.”
He wasn’t wrong. Even with the hard hold Maddox had on my pussy, I was working my muscles front and back to milk at the cock inside me.
“Hold her hips,” Maddox warned as he released me.
Another rip of a condom wrapper and more lube and then the fat crown of his cock was pushing inexorably inside me, widening me, taming the muscles that wanted to coil around him.
So full, so fucking full.
I groaned, mindless, needy. I tried to wiggle, mewled because there was so little room for me to maneuver. And then they took that last bit of space and obliterated it. Carson reached his long arms around, his hands locking behind Maddox’s shoulders as Maddox locked his hands against the small of Carson’s back.
Sandwiched tight between them, I was helpless. They see-sawed inside me, big thick cock pushing up while long curvy cock retreated, then long and curvy taking its upward stroke while a scream of impending release gurgled in my throat.
Maddox gnawed at my lips, his words stoking my fire higher. “Are you going to gush all over us, love? Is that hot, tight pussy going to squirt and squirt until we’re all soaked.”
I couldn’t answer, could only moan and groan and grind what felt like the smallest circle imaginable as they kept me cinched tightly in the middle.
“Fuck yes,” Carson answered. “I love it when we make that pussy squirt.”
I loved it, too, had never experienced it with any of my other lovers, had never felt so aroused by another lover. These two men made my body ache and react in new ways, made my mind turn into a completely blank space, my brain high on the endorphins created by the hard rolling climaxes that tugged at my pussy.
“Come on, baby,” Carson growled, his thighs tensing and holding behind me with the need to thrust hard and fast and reach his release.
“Fuck me,” I pled. “Harder, I can take it…I need it.”
Neither man answered with words, just groans. Their grip on one another loosened, a small distance opening front and back. Maddox pounded at my pussy, his hands securing my hips as Carson took long, ragged strokes, the head of his cock seeming to drag along my spine.
My clit danced, jerked, the pressure on it growing heavier by the second. Inside me, muscles swelled and knotted, worked up and down and up and down as my lovers thrust in and out.
“Now, love,” Maddox grunted. “Let that beautiful pussy come, let it come for us.”
I cried out, jerked, froze in time and space, my legs no longer supporting me as both men plunged deep inside and held, their bodies stiff and straining as they came.
Come spurted into me. Pussy and ass contracted. The first gush of my release splashed against Maddox’s lower stomach. I jerked again, the reaction of my muscles so powerful it lifted me up their cocks a few inches before plunging me down again, another squirt jetting from me as Maddox and Carson continued to come.
Fingers dug into my flesh, promising bruises when I woke in the morning. Teeth gnawed and tongues licked and I kept jerking, coming, riding and squirting until they had to carefully ease out of me and untie my limp body.
Carson took my blindfold off then Maddox gently placed me on the mattress. My muscles worked far beyond the point of simple fatigue, I started to shiver. They drew the blanket up and snuggled one on each side of me, hands caressing me into a deep sleep as their lips whispered against my skin how much they loved me.
********************
Eight Ball, real name Harold Posey, spent a day mulling over whether he could trust me not to screw him over before he summoned me and Carson to the clubhouse. Carson did an admirable job of being outraged that the club wanted to force me into money laundering, his underlying anger all too real. I fell back on my old standby of silence, since I wasn’t sure whether I should intentionally do a crummy job of acting surprised and upset.
When all the male gnashing of teeth was over, we settled down to planning. I wanted a list of assets, either owned by the club or club controlled. Eight Ball told me to fuck off on that request and that I would only be handling money.
Fine — I adjusted my plan. In the first week, I racked up eight phony felonies, with the club’s money actually being funneled into FBI holding accounts instead of overseas securities. On the second week, I gave the club back a quarter of its money via a cashier’s check, telling them it was the clean profit from one of the smaller investments at a four hundred percent return.
Eight Ball should have been suspicious, but the first week of holding his hand through all the money transfers had led me to believe he was a firm believer in big returns for little effort, an impression reinforced by such prior criminal acts as turning Carson’s hard work in building up his shop into the club’s own little cash cow made out of stolen and counterfeit parts.
On the second week, with that return of “clean” money, I planted a bug in his ear about mortgage REITs, only what I said about that particular kind of real estate investment trust was far from accurate. I wanted him to take that return of clean money and lend it to the commercial properties he already controlled, with members of the club as the new buyers.
Doing so would give me the real names and social security numbers of every trusted member of the motorcycle club and, more importantly, it would give the FBI a list of properties that were possible sites where the death matches were held or where the fighters were kept imprisoned.
On the third week, when I handed him back another thirty percent of the original cash he wanted me to clean and promised a monthly five percent clean return on every dollar he put into the REIT, Harold “Eight Ball” Posey came down with an overwhelming case of greed that was accompanied by a co-morbidity of gross stupidity.
I arranged a special meeting with him at my office building on a Saturday afternoon with just me and a notary I could trust — provided Eight Ball agreed to bring the pre-signed mortgage agreements and ten thousand in cash for the notary.
He came with the money, the papers and his old lady.
“You make all your clients this much dough?” Priscilla asked, red lacquered nails strumming atop the teak conference table.
“Just the ones with big enough balls,” I answered and handed another mortgage agreement to my “notary.”
Maddox took the paper, typed the building’s address and the seller/buyer names and social security numbers into a computer before affixing his seal and signing the affidavit box stating that he had witnessed each of the parties physically sign the agreement.
Covering a three-county area, we had over fifty properties controlled by the Steel Tide, including Carson’s shop.
“Of course,” I added as Priscilla handed me the last mortgage agreement. “It helps if the client is more than willing to break a couple dozen laws several times over.”
“But, your honor, my financial advisor told me it was legit!” Eight Ball winked at me, something Priscilla didn’t fail to notice.
Given the murderous glare in her eyes, I was glad this was the last time I’d see her out of a courtroom.
Looking over the last mortgage, my hands started to shake. I had read the description of every agreement she had already passed to me, my heart sinking with each garage, strip club, barber shop and convenience store. I wanted to see a warehouse listed, one within the county so it met the thirty-minutes distance requirement for where I had met Ash and heard the other prisoners groaning in pain.
This was it.
Looking at Priscilla, I knew by the
hostile gaze that she had purposefully saved this one for last as a reminder to me of the consequences of betraying the club in even the smallest of ways.
I handed the agreement to Maddox, his expression giving nothing away.
Leaning back in my chair, I offered my “clients” a smug smile. “That’s five million in assets legally on your books with money you didn’t have to actually loan and can now funnel legally back to you as mortgage payments.”
“Fuck,” Eight Ball laughed, leaning back in his chair and grinning. “I feel like you should be handing me a fat cigar and a glass of champagne.”
“Champagne’s for pussies,” I said, my gaze flicking in Priscilla’s direction for a second before I pasted a flirty smile on my face. “So you should be buying me the champagne, especially since I’m not getting any commission.”
“Crazy’ll make sure you’re set up at the clubhouse tonight,” he laughed with a jerk of his thumb at Priscilla. “Won’t you, babe?”
The left side of her face, the side he couldn’t see, lifted in a snarl as she agreed. “Sure, I’ll make sure she’s properly impressed.”
Maddox sent the file he had been working on to the printer set up in the room. The machine spit out three sheets and he retrieved them over for Eight Ball to read and sign.
Without looking at the pages, Eight Ball scrawled Harold Posey on the last page and dated it.
“All this damn signing,” he complained, “is making me itch. Are we about through?”
“We are one hundred percent done,” I said, a very genuine smile covering my face as I stood up.
Maddox and I walked them to the elevator, where I said I would see them later. There were no handshakes, back slaps or high fives — at least not until the elevator doors closed on them and the couple unwittingly started their descent to the basement level, the elevator under the control of the FBI.
Maddox pulled me into a tight hug that threatened to crack a few ribs.
“You saw it, right?” I asked when he relaxed his grip a little. “The warehouse?”
“Yes,” he said, releasing me entirely and pulling out his phone. “I’m going to make sure the teams hit that location first.”
As he started to dial, I asked him the second most important thing on my mind at that moment. “Can I let Carson know it’s done?”
He nodded then started talking into his phone.
I walked a little away so my squees of joy wouldn’t make him look bad with whichever FBI VIP was on the other side of his phone call.
Carson answered on the first ring, his voice one thick knot.
“It’s okay,” I said, my body bouncing with excitement. I glanced at the floor panel above the elevator doors. “Right about now they are saying ‘hello’ to a dozen armed FBI agents!”
I was really hoping everything was being taped down there and Maddox would be able to get Carson and me a private showing. I so wanted to see the “Double Eights” faces when they found out they’d just turned over the details of their illicit holdings to the federal government and were facing life in prison even before the FBI and city cops raided the warehouse.
“I think we found it,” I said, my voice turning suddenly serious. “It was the last damn mortgage that bitch handed me and I think she did it on purpose — a little reminder.”
“She’ll be in her own cage, soon, baby, and it’s all because of you,” he said, another knot clogging his throat.
“No,” I said. “We did this — the three of us.”
********************
Sunday morning, I found myself in a hospital intensive care unit, Maddox and Carson at my side as I looked through the glass window at a man hooked up to monitors and IV drips. His head was bandaged, the gauze covering his entire scalp and all of his left eye.
“You’ll need to scrub up and put on protective wear,” a doctor said, his gaze hostile because of the leverage Maddox had exercised in getting the hospital administrator to let me into the room. “And only one of you can go in with her.”
“You can,” Carson said to Maddox as he stood with his palms pressed against the glass and studied what might have been his future if he had tried to fight the club all on his own.
My arm around his back in a loose hug, I kissed Carson then followed the doctor into the changing area. As Maddox and I put gowns on over our clothing and disinfected up to our elbows before donning safety gloves, the doctor briefed us on his patient’s current condition, some of which Maddox had already relayed to me from the EMS team that had brought Ash to the hospital after the raid on the warehouse had found him near death in his cage.
An untouched steak on the floor of his cell attested to his having won his last match. Skull fractures and rapid swelling around his brain made it likely the uneaten meal would be his last.
Fuck! If only I had been able to convince Eight Ball a little sooner or the FBI hadn’t insisted on waiting until the weekend to execute the sting and city wide raids. We could have gotten to Ash before that fight, saving the lives of both combatants.
Seeing the tears in my eyes, Maddox squeezed my shoulder as we approached the bed.
I looked at the doctor, his face unreadable behind the mask he wore.
“Is it okay if I touch his hand?”
The doctor nodded.
“I don’t know what name to call you,” I started, lightly stroking at his closed fist.
Even unconscious, he was ready to fight.
“I know ‘Ash’ isn’t your real name and I know that bitch called you that for a different reason.” I took a slow breath in before continuing. I needed to force my hate for Priscilla and the rest of the club out of my voice because the doctor had said we needed to keep him calm.
“But it suits you in another way,” I went on. “You’re like the Phoenix, you keep rising up.”
I wrapped both hands around his fist and fought to keep from sobbing. I wanted him to wake up just once and know he was free, know that the horrible people that had done this to him were now the ones who were caged. I didn’t want him to die. But if he had that one moment of realization that he had survived his captors before he succumbed to his injuries, then maybe I wouldn’t hate myself for the rest of my life.
Air rattled through his chest.
My gaze jumped to his face but there was no change.
“Can you hear me? They’re in jail now, Eight Ball and Crazy Eights, every member of the club and the people who ran the warehouse.”
Another rattle shook his damaged body. The doctor warned me I would have to leave if it happened again.
The un-bandaged eye, the one that hadn’t been scarred over the last time I saw him, opened, the white and iris darkened by blood. The pupil drifted toward me and stopped.
“Can you tell me your name?” I asked as the doctor rushed to the door and called for a nurse.
His lips parted, moved, but no sound came out except for pained wheezing.
“It’s okay.” I stroked along his arm like I would pet an injured animal. “You need to stay very still because you’ve had surgery. You’re going to make it because that’s what you do. You survive.”
“That’s enough, Miss Fox,” the doctor said, ushering Maddox and me toward the door as the blips on the heart monitor accelerated and the numbers on the blood pressure readout climbed. “You’re not going to undo six hours of surgery getting him riled up.”