Four
I drove past his clubhouse. I just couldn’t help myself. Was I hoping for a glimpse of him? A chance to see him again? I’d stolen a different car this time, so they couldn’t possibly know it was me. I’d sweet-talked the prospect at the gate that night, telling him I was bringing my lover back. He took one look at the biker beside me and snorted, nodding at me to go through the already open gates.
I wore the wig; the one nobody looked past. Nobody noticed a damn thing. They saw long flowing blonde hair, and they looked no further. They never saw my flaws, and imperfections. They saw blonde hair first. Next they saw tits. Did anything else matter to men like them?
I didn’t want to give him up. That had become so clear to me since I’d left that place. I wanted to go back. I wanted to drag his bulky deadweight back into my car, as if I’d even have the strength. It took everything I had to get him into the car originally after our night together. The wheelchair had helped, but I didn’t have that now. Everything was throwaway. Cast off. Never revisited. It was how I’d been getting away with this for so long.
The men didn’t talk about what had happened to them. Women have a hard enough time with police and courts and media. Men declaring they’d been forced into sex? By a woman, no less? They’d be laughed out of the police station. Mocked. Teased. Slurred in the media. What kind of man can’t stop a woman? A weak one. A loser. Less than a man.
And they weren’t, or at least he wasn’t. He was pure man. Intense. Powerful. Strong. Sexy as hell, with a cock that reached my deepest places, and teased the best orgasm out of me that I’d ever experienced.
So I passed the clubhouse, on its normally secure grounds, with men on watch, their leather cuts showing the word ‘prospect’ on the back. They were probably easy to manipulate, or fool, but it wasn’t the time. I’d keep watching, and when he least expected me to show up, I’d be there. I’d take him again. And this time, I’d keep him.