I walk around Drake’s seat, teasing him with the crop before smacking it lightly against his crotch. He flinches, but hardens. Then I do the second thing I do best—dance. My focus is solely on him. No one else exists in the room. I don’t imagine he’s someone else or I’m somewhere else. I just let that feeling of power course through me. If I don’t already, soon I’ll own this motherfucker.
He’ll dream of me.
He’ll fantasize about me.
He’ll think of only me.
In the real world, a guy like him could never get a girl like me. He knows it. I know it. But right now, he could be the sexiest man alive, because I’m making him feel like it. And to me, he is. He’s important to someone who’s important to me. So I’ll show him the same courtesy I would them. I’ll give him everything I’ve got because the club deems him worthy. Therefore, I do too.
This is my job.
This is what I do.
For years I lived in a world where I didn’t matter. I was a nobody. I was weak. I’m still all of those things, just not in this moment. Right now, I’m the most powerful bitch in the room. And I don’t feel sorry for embracing the rare moments where I shine in my own glory. If that makes me a whore, then I’ll wear the title proudly.
So keep your morals. Stay at your nine to five. Judge me through your rose-colored glasses. View my lifestyle choices however you want. But if being classified as a whore is the only penance I have to pay to feel this good, then stitch an A on my chest. Carve a W on my forehead. Put a label on me to make yourself feel better. Because the reality is, I just don’t give a damn what you think.
CHAPTER 2
Even though it’s the Eagles’ newest patch holder, Drake, who should be occupying my room tonight, it’s the president of his chapter instead. Cape. Why does he go by Cape? I don’t know, but my best guess is because that motherfucker is like Superman. He’s in his early forties with graying hair, a warm smile, a stocky build and a dick like a Coke can. If he’s married, I don’t want to know it.
“Can you keep a secret?” Cape asks, standing just inside my doorway.
“For you I can do anything.”
He shoots me a sexy smile. “The only reason I come here is to see you.”
“You’re lying,” I say, closing the distance between us—crossing one leg in front of the other in that sexy way men love. I call it the Carrie Underwood walk. If I only had her legs…
“I don’t lie, ba—” The word catches in his throat at the sight of me hitting my knees, grabbing his ass and pressing his crotch into my face.
Dragging my teeth over the rough denim of his jeans, I feel his cock harden beneath them. I lift my eyes and smile. “You talk too much.”
In my experience, men like to feel like they’re a god in bed. They want you to moan, scream, gag and whimper like their cock is the biggest you’ve ever had. Like it’s almost too much to handle, but feels too damn good to stop. Not all dicks are as big around as a Coke can, so mostly I fake it. With Cape, it’s almost not necessary. Though I do oversell it just a little.
He’s in my mouth and I’m gagging. My eyes are watering. My throat is screaming no, but I’m pushing through and burying him deeper.
His hands are in my hair. His grunts are loud. Then he looks down at me and speaks, and ruins the whole fucking show. “You like that cock, don’t you, you dirty little slut.”
If I were his girlfriend, his wife or even his friend with benefits, I would probably want to hear something like that. But I’m none of those things. I am how he views me—how they all see me. I am a dirty little slut. I have to live with that knowledge. But I don’t need him or any other motherfucker to remind me of it.
Because I’m not a whiny, sensitive, emotional little girl, I don’t let his words stop me. But I can’t prevent them from drying me up in a place that only seconds ago was wet and ready for him. He’ll be getting no pussy from me tonight. My mouth is just going to have to do.
Like the trooper I am, I pump his cock with my fist while I work it deep inside my mouth. I suck hard, moan loud and milk his balls with my free hand, until his eyes are rolling back in his head. I don’t give him the option to take me any other way, because I’m making this just too damn good. And like I predicted, a couple minutes later, I feel him stiffen just before the thick vein running the length of his dick pulses with his release. Pulling him from my mouth, I continue to pump him in my fist and give myself a pearl necklace.
He takes a couple moments to recover, and by the time he does, I’m standing in front of him forcing a smile.
“That looks good on you,” he says, pointing to his sticky come that covers my neck, while he zips up his pants.
“Mmm.” It’s all I can manage.
Bowing like a fool, he grins at me. “Until next time.”
I close the door behind him, before quickly making my way to the bathroom to wash the remnants of Cape off me. Superman. Hmph. From now on, I’ll refer to him as Superdick.
Shit.
I reckon that’s a compliment too.
There’s really no reason for me to hate him for saying what he said. But I do. At the Devil’s Renegades’ clubhouse, I’ve always had the power to decide who I choose to sleep with. As of ten minutes ago, Superman Cape the Superdick became the first man on my “Do Not Fuck Roster.”
****
“Lookin’ good this morning, sugartits.” I glare over at Regg who’s in mid yawn. When his eyes close, I flip him the finger. The moment he opens them, I’m smiling.
“Now, how do you know my tits taste like sugar? You’ve never even tried them.”
Giving me his full megawatt, all-teeth-baring smile, he wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s not too late.”
Looking over my shoulder at the clock on the coffee pot, I find my own self yawning. “It is late. It’s after six in the morning. Red probably has your face on the back of a milk carton by now. Why are you still here?”
He shrugs. “Drank too much to drive home.”
Regg and Red live in Collins, a good forty-five-minute ride from here. I’m surprised that Regg is staying—with her consent nonetheless. She’s not a big fan of him hanging around loose women. The two of them try to pretend they don’t have jealousy issues, but when circumstances arise, they can’t deny their insane possession of each other.
Once, I saw a man just look at Red and wink. It’s like Regg could read the dirty thoughts going through the man’s head. Red, in her flirty nature, smiled back. The man had only taken a couple steps toward her before Regg intervened, telling him he’d kill him if he ever looked at her again. Regg, who is almost always fun, relaxed and laid back, wore a look in his eyes that made me, the man and everyone else in the place believe him. To my knowledge, that man has never returned to the Devil’s Renegades’ clubhouse.
Then one time I saw Red go bat-shit crazy when she overheard two of the girls here discussing what Regg would be like in bed. She made such a big spectacle of herself, Regg had to carry her out of the bar over his shoulder. I heard she got her property patch taken from her for a few weeks as punishment—not for being a jealous wife, but for busting several beer bottles, numerous glasses and Luke’s favorite barstool. Needless to say, I stay the hell away from Regg.
“I’m going to bed, sugartits. Or barbequetits. Or buttertits…whatever the fuck they taste like,” he says, standing and stretching. “But”—he points his finger at me, his look becoming serious—“if I ever find out they taste like sour gummy worms, I’m cutting them off your chest and taking them home with me.”
“Goodnight, Regg,” I call to his retreating back. He throws up his hand on a wave as a chorus of “Goodnight, Regg” sounds around the room from the other women.
Shoving my hands in the hot, soapy water, I wash the glasses in the sink and look around to see who is still standing. It’s only Friday night, meaning tomorrow will be just as busy as today. The club parties hard on the weekends, no matter if they have something to celebrate or not. I love my job. I enjoy being here. But I also look forward to the weekends the men are out of town and we get some time off.
Time off consists of different things for different people. Most of the ladies return to their homes, and their normal lives. Since I don’t have one of those, I use my time to sleep mostly. Every once in a while I’ll go shopping, hit a random club or catch a movie—none of which I really enjoy.
Drying the last glass, I feel a smile forming as two of my favorite guys approach—Scratch and Crash. They’re like night and day, but both of them have qualities that I love.
Scratch is tall with a bigger build, a shyness about him I find charming and hair that reaches halfway down his back. He’s a cautious lover, always allowing me to take control and trusts that I’ll bring him and myself the most pleasure possible. I don’t really have to spice things up with him. He’s content with my same old boring moves, which are never really that boring.
Crash is the youngest of the group, but in my opinion, one of the most skilled with his tongue. At only twenty-two, the boy knows how to eat pussy like an old pro. His mother was a lesbian, and taught him at an early age how to make a woman feel worshipped. He’s shorter and smaller in size than Scratch, but way more confident. Actually, he’s a little cocky. But he has every right to be.