He grunts and climbs into the cage. Michigan broods during the short trip from the church to the clubhouse where we trade the four wheels for our preferred mode of transportation. His hog is a matte black lowrider with no front fairing and the Death Lords emblem custom stitched into the saddle. Mine’s a softail, powder-coated black with orange accents over the front fender and along the tank. My bike’s name is Amber Whiskey. That’s the name the Harley dealer told me the accent color was. It’s a shit name for the color orange but a damn good name for a bike.
“Package is safely delivered,” I report cheerfully to Judge, our club president.
“Take yourselves home then. Mash tomorrow,” he reminds me. “I’ve got other things to take care of. Prospect Handfield will be at the door. Let’s try to keep the jailbait out this time.”
“Got it.” I stick the phone in the front pocket of my jeans and signal Michigan that I’m ready to roll out.
My former Marine battle buddy has never been much of a talker but the entire evening is spent with him not uttering one word. After watching the Twins blow through two pitchers in as many hours, he surges angrily from the sofa during the seventh inning stretch and I hear the growl of his bike a few minutes later as he roars down the street.
I don’t have to follow him to know where he’s going. It’s where I want to be too. No, I correct myself, I don’t want to be sitting in the dark outside the parish house. I want to be inside, sliding Annie’s clothes off, kissing her small tits and moving down the thin belly to those long legs.
Opening my jeans, I take out my heavy erection and begin to stroke myself. I wonder what she smells like between her thighs. Her neck smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. It was pretty damn hard not to lick her right there in the library earlier today even under the watchful gaze of her boss, two toddlers and a bright-eyed teenager.
It was even harder to hide the massive erection that sprouted when she stood close, giving me recommendations of books she thought I might like. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d been sent by Judge to keep an eye on her boss and make sure the chief of police or the skinheads from up north didn’t ruffle a single red hair on Pippa Lang’s head.
But one look at her long legs under that frumpy prairie dress and I turned hard as a rock.
She’s the one.
I don’t know if it was my dick or my head that called it out but I felt some unfamiliar pull toward her. She felt it too and she buzzed around the small library for the rest of the morning full of sexual anxiety. I’m not certain she knew what she was feeling. Her blush when I winked at her indicated her level of experience with men was pretty low.
That’s perfectly fine with me and it wasn’t a turnoff for Michigan either.
It’s not as if I can’t fuck without Michigan. I didn’t even know I liked sharing until I enlisted and was shipped off to the Philippines. Michigan, a six-foot brick house, was assigned as my battle buddy. He was quiet even then but formidable. I did the talking for both of us but he taught me a few things, like how giving a woman pleasure at the same time another man was taking her was a heady feeling.
We never have trouble finding a woman who’s willing to take a ride with us. The problem is finding someone we both want to spend the rest of our lives with, an old lady we can share. Michigan is convinced it isn’t ever going to happen. The sad sack hasn’t had sex in a year.
Nothing seems to move him these days and given the amount of ready snatch in the club, his disinterest is fucking with my head. Annie is just his type—long legs, a sweet disposition, and doe eyes that you can drown in.
Envisioning her on her knees, taking me into her hot mouth while Michigan is fucking her cunt has my balls tightening up. My guess is that her tits are small but perky and tight. My big hands would swallow them up. I could probably suck the whole breast into my mouth.
My imagination flicks through a couple more images. Michigan in her ass while I’m in her cunt as we both stand, bouncing her up and down on our cocks. The three of us tangled in bed, moving slow, enjoying the intense friction having both of us inside her at the same time would create.
It doesn’t take more than three rough jerks for me to spill into my hands, but even though my dick hangs limply between my legs, I know I’m not going to be satisfied until I’m coming inside of Annie Bloom.
* * *
A Death Lords mash is made up of two things. Sex and alcohol. Okay, three. We fight a lot. Sometimes we fight over women and sometimes we fight over who took the last beer or ate the last bacon-wrapped weenie. It didn’t take much. All that testosterone and liquor makes for a rowdy evening.