by April Lust
Victoria pulls her panties on, wrapping her arms around her chest the first chance that she gets. Her skin is red and hot, embarrassment and shame leaving her skin dark and her stomach twisting. “On what matter?”
“The fact that you’re cheating on the Duke of Cambridge,” says Carrie. “And that you’re in love with a supposed rapist.”
“Get out,” spits Matt, taking a threatening step forward.
Reporters, however, have spines made from steel and brains the size of a gnat. Carrie shakes her head. She takes another picture. “There are no legal reasons for me to leave. If the door wasn’t locked, it’s perfectly legal for me to be in here. Victoria, what can you tell me about the way your mother was speaking to you? Is she abusive?”
Victoria almost says yes just to spite the older woman. Thankfully, years of dealing with the paparazzi have given her much better sense. Instead, she stands up straight as she can, looks Carrie Martin straight in the eye, and says, “My name is Princess Victoria, and I am formally requesting that you leave my suite. The door may have been unlocked, but you are not invited. I know this is being recorded, and I will press charges if you use anything we’ve said in your papers.”
Carrie looks horribly disappointed. She lowers her camera, lower lip jutting out. “Not even a single statement?”
“No,” insists Victoria. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. “Not a single statement. Please leave.”
“Shit,” mutters Carrie. The woman takes one more picture and then scuttles outside, no doubt vanishing into the same dark crevice that she came from.
“Roaches,” spits Gabriella, “the lot of them! We aren’t finished here, Victoria.”
“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 Gabriella. “I refuse to leave you alone with that son-of-a-bitch.”
Matt raises his hands. He looks at Victoria, apologies written across his face, excuses swimming in his eyes. “I’m leaving, Tori. No offense but this is a little much for me. I’ll get in touch with you later, okay?”
Victoria 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 Victoria with a shake of her head. “I just want her to leave.”
Matt steps around the bed, pressing his fingers against the sheets. “I’ll come by and get my stuff later…”
“That’s fine,” says Victoria stiffly. “Just…please leave. Both of you.”
“You’re my daughter,” says Gabriella. “You’re my daughter, Victoria, 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.”
Matt sidesteps around the Queen, scampering out of the suite without another word. Victoria wishes her mother would do the same, but she's never been that lucky. Standing there now, Victoria knows she's never going to be that lucky.
“And the kingdom,” continues Gabriella, “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 Victoria. “You're the only one bothered by this, Mother!”
“Your father is in a rage!”
“You’re both insane!”
“Stay your tongue,” hisses Gabriella. “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 Gabriella. “I can't believe you. I can't believe you would do this to us, Victoria. Shame on you, Victoria. 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. Victoria sits down on the edge of the bed, hides her face in her hands, and starts to cry in earnest.
Chapter 23
The chains rattle against the hook. Bright pink fuzz circles Emily'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. Emily 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. Emily 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 Matt.
He was too selfish, too careful. Emily's ex had never wanted to share her. He'd never wanted to take that extra step, go the extra mile.
But Killian?
Killian will do anything for her.
He's said it before, and Emily is certain that the second-in-command of the Horsemen means it. He would never lie, least of all to her.
Killian's a good man.
Emily'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 Lair 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 Horsemen often come. It's one of Killian's personal haunts. These people here, they are his personal acquaintances, friends, and business partners.
It's an honor to be here with them. Emily would smile if she could. That honor is put into effect when a cock is pressed against Emily's lips. She's resting on the ground with her arms pulled up above her, shoulders twisted.
The gag is unhooked. Emily 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 Emily's face, fingers tangling in her hair, keeping her still.
In this situation, the control is completely stripped from Emily. It's the liberation that she needs, the freedom 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!”
Emily 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.
> Killian 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 Emily.
The man in front of her groans, his cock shooting hot cum down Emily'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 Emily'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.”
Emily 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.
Two other men hold her legs apart, each with a grip under her knees. Hands hold onto her waist. The man waits, just for a moment, and then starts fucking Emily in earnest. It's a powerful, artless rhythm which makes her gasp and sigh.
On the other side of the bar, Killian sips at his whiskey and pays the woman no mind. No matter what Emily thinks, there's no real love between them. Killian is the second-in-command of the Horsemen, a motorcycle club that is struggling to keep its head above water.
He also happens to be the former best friend of Matthew; a man currently on the front page of the Enquirer.
The image is grainy, but it's in full color. The Princess of Vertsea is standing nude before her dresser, with the Queen grabbing hold of her wrist. Matt sits on the bed, naked save a blanket draped about his waist.
Both Matt and the Princess look thoroughly fucked.
It makes Killian's stomach churn. He is so pissed off, the very thought of Matt getting with someone so high class making his head spin.
This isn't the first time Killian 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, Killian had thought it was just the ramblings of a nervous woman.
Now, though, Killian knows otherwise. Now, he can tell the young Princess of Vertsea is coming to mean much more to Matt.
It's clear from the pictures. There's love in her eyes, confusion and fear in Matt's.
“Well,” says Killian, “this is proving to be very interesting.”
A man laughs. Emily moans, loud even with the gag in place.
Killian ignores her and the men enjoying her body. Instead, he pulls a phone from his pocket and dials a number. “Kenny? 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, Kenny. A pal, surely.”
Chapter 24
Kenny Knox is a founding member of the Horsemen. 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. Kenny 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 Pizza Villa and seeing Kenny 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 Kenny's eyes seem too large. He watches as Matt crosses the room, ordering half a pepperoni and a bottle of beer from the front counter. The owners keep beer around just for the Horsemen. They trade away other customers for guaranteed business, for the chance to charge a bit more on every pizza.
“Hey,” says Kenny, in that strong English accent of his. “You got a moment, Matt?”
“No, I thought I'd come out here just to take off.” Matt snorts but looks around the pizza shop like he's trying to find someone else to sit with.
No one else is here. Kenny chased everyone out almost half an hour ago. When it becomes clear that there's no way out of it, Matt walks over and drops down in the chair opposite of Kenny. Matt asks, “What's up?”
“Why don't you tell me?” Kenny slides a piece of newspaper across the table. It's from the Enquirer. “What's all this about?”
“It's not about anything,” says Matt, pushing the paper back towards Kenny. “What the fuck, Kenny?”
“You see that picture?”
“I've seen the fucking picture.”
“You see how clear your face is?”
“Kenny, 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.”
Kenny's lips draw into a thin line. He pushes the paper back towards Matt, 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.
Kenny isn't here for the rush, after all. He's not here 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 Killian is trying to put into motion. If things go right, Kenny will become one of the most powerful men, not just in Georgia, but in the whole South.
“That's not good,” insists Kenny. “You understand that, right?”
Matt snorts. He's clearly getting pissed off over the conversation. This time, rather than shove the paper back at Kenny, 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 Kenny. “You the one that knocked her up?”
Matt stutters. “What?”
Kenny 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 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!”
Kenny shrugs. He folds his hands on the top of the table and leans forward. “I know what I know. Pictures are proof, Matt, and you know that. Someone's going to see that picture, and it's going to cause trouble for us. It was stupid.”
Matt sneers. “It was my decision. It had nothing to do with the club!”
“That's not how a leader talks,” says Kenny, 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 Kenny isn't willing to give up.
Matt bristles. He sits up tall as he can. The pepperoni pizza and open can of beer is deposited at the table; the owner’s a smart guy who can read the atmosphere, and he doesn't stick around any longer than he needs to.
Matt spits out, “Are you challenging my decisions?”
“No,” says
Kenny. “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, Matt. You know this is bad business.”
Matt, this time, doesn't protest. He's watching Kenny 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 Kenny. “You need to figure out what you're going to do about this.”