Ridden Hard: Taken by the Heaven's Assassins MC
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Authors: Gale London
Taken by the Heaven’s Assassins MC
Ridden Hard
Taken by the Heaven’s Assassins MC
Copyright © 2015 by Gale London
Email:
[email protected]
This story is intended for adult audiences only. It contains graphic detail of sexual situations and language which may be considered offensive by some readers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously.
All sexually active characters portrayed in this work are 18 years of age or older.
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T
here’s little
doubt that the
Devil’s Spawn
is the last bar that any self-respecting professional woman should be standing outside – never mind thinking about entering. Booming rock music and even louder chatter, the pungent stench of stale beer and sweaty masculine bodies, the cold glow of the flickering neon signs that provide much of the bar’s ambient lighting... it’s all an unwelcome assault on the senses.
Calling the place a ‘dive’ would be a disservice to actual dives. No, it falls more under the banner of a seedy inner-city biker bar – not in least because it’s frequented by members of the Heaven’s Assassins Motorcycle Club. Or, as they’re more frequently referred to on the evening news, “a notorious local biker gang”.
And yet, the
Devil’s Spawn
does have its good points. Namely, it’s in the same decrepit downtown neighborhood as my low-rent apartment, and it’s usually jam-packed with available men – both highly useful attributes if your primary goal is to scratch an urgent itch by picking up a guy.
Or, more accurately, be picked up
by
a guy, since I’ve found that it’s much easier to let them come to me. And in a place like this, they always do come... sooner more often than later.
It’s a little after ten o’clock on a Friday night when I pull open the stiff metal front door and make my way inside the overcrowded bar, wearing the sexy blue strapless dress I selected just for this purpose. I’ve come directly from the big law office where I work, having completed a grueling five hours of overtime prepping client exhibits for trial early next week. I don’t particularly enjoy having to work late, but it’s one of the main downsides to being the only girl there with no obvious personal life – at least, none that I would voluntarily broadcast.
However, no matter what my work schedule may demand of me, my body has its own particular needs that must be satisfied on a regular basis.
Tonight, those needs are leading me through a mob of rowdy drinkers to the last remaining empty stool at the bar, where I wedge myself in a long row of semi-drunk, heavily tattooed, black leather-clad men, and tittering young women of obvious loose moral character.
Not that I should judge.
Settling into my seat, I can feel everyone’s eyes fixed squarely on my back... or, more likely, my ass. No doubt, I stand out like a sore thumb in a place like this. I’m sure no one can fathom what this unimposing twenty-something girl in eye-catching business attire is doing inside this wretched den of crooks and cook wannabes.
Then again, I doubt that any would be particularly surprised to learn the truth!
The tall, dark, and rather handsome bartender comes over, deftly flips a cardboard coaster onto the bar top in front of me, and sets down a martini I didn’t need to order with a friendly wink. I’ve only been here twice before, the last time more than three weeks ago – so it’s telling that I was memorable enough for him to recall exactly what I liked to drink. He may have even figured out why I visit
there
of all possible watering holes... and potentially what I’m hunting for.
If nothing else should come up tonight, he might well be offered the chance to learn first-hand!
But, as I take a lengthy sip of my unexpectedly competently mixed drink, it doesn’t seem as though that’s going to be a problem.
“Hey, bartender! Another drink for the sexy devil in the blue dress.”
A man I’ve never met before is standing close behind me. I’m sure he thinks he’s being clever.
I turn my head slightly and observe what I can through my peripheral vision: average height, studded leather jacket with the Heaven’s Assassins patch, casual clothes beneath, long brown hair tied back in a bandana, medium-length stubble on his face. Overall, good looking, without being too imposing.
I’ll nibble.
“As you can see, I already have a drink,” I reply over the loud rock music, holding up my almost-full martini glass without bothering to turn around.
“Ah, but that will soon be gone, and then you’ll be looking for another. This way you won’t have to wait.”
I smile to myself and take a painfully slow sip. I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, as if daring me to turn around and look at him. “And what makes you think I don’t plan on nursing this one drink all night long?”
“Oh... call it a hunch.”
The bartender approaches with a second martini, sets it in front of me with a bemused smirk, and then quickly retreats. Ignoring the duplicate drink for now, I swivel on my stool and face the stranger, giving him a quick once-over from head to toe. Early thirties, good facial features, visible tattoos on his neck, chest and wrists, tight acid washed blue jeans hinting at a decent package lurking beneath.
Quite acceptable material for a quickie!
Raising the first martini glass to my lips, I jerk my head back and swallow its contents in a single gulp – olive and all.
Grinning coyly, I lick my lips sensuously as the slug of alcohol burns its way down my esophagus. “Good call there, cowboy!”
The man’s eyebrows curve upwards in mild surprise, and he tilts his head back and takes a swig of his own drink – a bottle of cheap American beer, which is definitely the bar’s top seller. “Well then... you’re welcome. New in town?”
“Nope.”
“Mmm, still... don’t think I’ve seen you ’round here before.”
“Oh? Then you must not have been paying very good attention. And that hurts my feelings.” I pout playfully.
“Entirely my loss, I’m sure. It’s just... well, you look a little out of place with that fancy dress on.”
I bashfully touch the front of my form-fitting but certainly not “fancy” dress, running a finger around the inside of the swooping neckline and casually pulling it a few inches lower to expose more cleavage. “Oh. Well, do you think I would look more in place
without
the dress?”
I watch the man’s pupils dilate which he quickly covers by taking a long swig of beer. I’m sure he’s thinking he just hit pay dirt!
“Um, perhaps we should take a ride back to my place... where I could give you my honest opinion. At least, before you go and do anything too drastic in front of these, um...
sensitive
folk.”
Glancing at the veritable sea of menacing bikers and cheap women surrounding us, I snort with amusement. “Oh, but I do so
love
being drastic! Still, perhaps we should stay in neutral territory. For now.”
“Your place then?”
Chuckling softly, I reach blindly behind my back for the second martini glass. “No, I think not.” Raising the full glass to my lips, I take a slow sip and re-cross my legs in such a way that he’s guaranteed to get a flash of white panties. “But, if you’re interested, you could always give me your honest opinion without leaving the bar.”
“Yeah? What did you have in mind?”
I smile and hold out my free hand, which he quickly grasps. Rough, calloused skin – and yet remarkably well manicured nails, too. Clearly someone who works with their hands, but cares about their personal appearance.
Sliding off the stool, I lead the stranger through the noisy throng of inebriated humanity, past two rows of deeply scarred pool tables, and towards the center rear of the bar.
The man hesitates when it becomes obvious that we’re heading to the restrooms. “Um, yeah, could you wait here a second? I should let my, uh,
friend
know not to come looking for me.”
“Which one’s your friend?” I ask, genuinely curious.
The man cranes his neck, trying to see past people’s heads, and then points. “Over there, by the darts. Blackish hair. Sunglasses.”
Following his finger, I spot a tall and ruggedly handsome middle-aged man flirting with a cluster of young women. He seems to be attempting to impress them with his dart playing skills. It’s almost endearing that someone would be so willingly clichéd as to wear sunglasses, indoors, at night!
“Mmm, well... why don’t you invite him along?”
The man seems taken aback. “Sorry... what?”
“Too shy to share me with your buddy there, cowboy?”
“No, I uh, it’s just that he’s actually more of a—”
“Go get him,” I command firmly. Best to have a backup plan just in case this guy can’t get the job done. Besides – who doesn’t like having an audience?
As my future hookup makes his way across the floor towards the dartboards, I smile and sip daintily at my martini, not wanting to consume it too quickly. I don’t even know this guy’s name, and I don’t particularly care to. These things usually work out better that way!
B
efore long,
the three of us are inside the otherwise empty men’s washroom. As with the rest of the bar, it captures “shabby” with particular gusto, but completely misses out on “chic”: unreasonably dim lighting, cracked mirror, chipped and stained plastic countertop, taps that won’t quite shut off, and a battered metal toilet stall inscribed with the telephone numbers of countless “good times”.
The first man closes and locks the restroom door, sealing out the loud thumping of rock music, while his friend opts to remove his sunglasses and paces nervously back and forth in front of the lone urinal, eyes fixed downwards on his black leather boots.
Finally, the second man throws up his arms. “Like, what the fuck, dude!” he exclaims irritably. “What’s so fuckin’ important you had to take me away from those wet college cunts? I was about to score with a pair of teenage dykes!” He gives me a wary glance. I suppose he figures I might not appreciate hearing such crude comments, but I’ve heard far worse.
I take another slow sip of my martini, appreciating its soothing burn. Alas, it’s nearly finished. “Oh, please – be serious!” I retort. “Aren’t you old enough to know you ain’t gonna get anywhere with those girls?
Especially
if they say they’re lesbians. They’ll keep stringing you along ’til last call for all the free drinks, then leave you with the number of the pizza joint across the street.”
The second man clenches his jaw and grunts unhappily, but doesn’t argue. “Whatever... but what the fuck am I doing here, then, besides being insulted by a bitch in blue?”
With a sexy smirk, I hook my fingers under the bottom hem of my tight blue dress and tug it upwards, shimmying the fabric past my ass to expose the lacey white front of my panties... and the flawless smooth skin of my well-toned abdomen.
This action has a marked effect on both men.
“Mmm, well,” I purr, “your friend here’s decided he’s gonna share his conquest tonight. Right, cowboy?”