Chapter 13
Tuesday thought the ol’ladies would have to clean up after the party, but Angelica told her, “Oh, no. The prospects will do that while we sleep. Whichever of our men have to handle sentry duty tonight will keep an eye on them, but mostly, they know how to clean shit up, or they wouldn’t have made it this far into the process. ”
Knife took her ass before they fell asleep, but he must’ve been as tired as her, because it barely lasted ten minutes.
He took even less time getting his rocks off inside the same damn hole the next morning, but he denied her an orgasm before plugging her ass, slapping it hard, and telling her she’d remember who fucking owned her orgasms all fucking day long.
But now it was ten, and she was sitting behind Knife on his Sport Glide with the morning sun warm on her back. Apparently, Duke starting his bike was the signal for everyone else to do it. All at once.
The sound hit her like a physical force when they all roared to life, and Tuesday realized this was going to be a completely different experience than riding solo with Knife. The deep, thunderous rumble reverberated through her chest, stomach, and clit.
Not to mention how the heavy plug filling and stretching her sensitive asshole amplified it, the low frequency making the unforgiving steel buzz against her inner walls — and the denied orgasm from hours before grew into an unbearable, pulsing ache that made her thighs clench and her hips want to rock, searching for friction, for movement, for anything.
Then the bikes began to move, forming a long, snaking line of chrome and leather that rolled out of the compound like a living thing, and it felt as if she was part of something much bigger.
The vibrations seemed to fade a little until they roared up the ridge cut, and the extra RPMs along with the climb made the heavy, thick steel buzz more and more with every surge of the engine until her thighs clenched hard around the seat, and her entire focus was on her swollen, aching clit.
Her hips twitched forward, chasing pressure she wasn’t allowed to have.
The interstate part of the drive was mostly about people staring at them, and she needed to talk to him to keep from noticing — and to get her mind off the damned plug, if that was possible.
“No one can hear us on these radios, right?” she asked.
“Not right now, but always check with me if it’s something you don’t want others hearing. I’m on two channels right now, so I can hear the road team and you, but no one can hear you, and I’m muted on the other channel.”
“What was up with Lexi not picking Gen for paintball?” She had to fight to keep her voice steady, the constant vibration from the plug and the low thrum of the bike making her pussy throb with denied need.
“Ah. Gen hurt her leg and hip in a bike crash a few years ago, and when she’s tired, she still walks with a limp.
She’s never really been into that kind of thing, even before she was hurt, but with her leg not quite right still, Duke wouldn’t be happy if someone tried to pull her in.
He sees her as human and fragile, which I gather pisses her off, but he isn’t wrong. ”
He detailed the club protocol for how the group has to stay together in public, and ended all the rules with an explanation for why they’re necessary.
“A lot of people look at taking out a biker as bragging rights, yeah? And we aren’t really worried about someone sucker-punching us and actually hurting us, but bystanders are likely to call LEO if they see a fight involving bikers, and we’d all rather avoid that.
It gets expensive, not to mention, it gives them an opportunity to ask other questions we’d rather not answer.
So, no one goes off by themselves. Go to the bathroom when the other ol’ladies go, so you’re all in there together, and then everyone returns with the group.
At least one of us will wait outside the bathroom for all of you, and will walk you back and forth.
Other than the bathroom, you’ll be attached to me the whole time. ”
When they hit the mountain, everything changed, and she truly understood the club’s name. Rolling Thunder.
She leaned into the curves with Knife, and thought the men had their own kind of graceful ballet, moving together through mountain curves in a long line, swaying back and forth through the twists and turns, the road unspooling up the Ocoee River gorge with the river running beside them and the trees arching overhead.
She held onto Knife and just let herself be part of it, but every lean and shift of the bike made the heavy plug grind deeper, the vibrations traveling straight to her clit and asshole, keeping her right on the edge of desperation.
They rode over curvy backroads to Reliance, threaded a softer gorge near the Hiawassee River a while, and finally stopped at a mom-and-pop diner on 411 that reminded her of the place on Monteagle he’d taken her to.
She ordered the country-fried steak and the shepherd’s pie, because she was hungry and couldn’t decide between the two. Both were exceptional, and she was pleased most of the other shapeshifters also ordered two or more entrees.
They were back at the compound by five, and she followed his truck back to his place, the plug shifting every time she changed gears and accelerated rapidly.
The moment they were inside, he told her, “Strip and bend over the table.”
She thought he was finally going to fuck her and let her come, but he merely swapped the plug out for a five-pound monstrosity, but she refused to whine or in any way let him know how badly it hurt going in.
It shifted inside her when he ordered her to stand, and she had to squeeze hard to keep it in.
“Find something to keep yourself occupied while I get started assembling your closet organizers. Don’t care what you do, but you aren’t allowed to touch yourself except to wipe, and there will be consequences if you lose the plug.”
The next few hours were a strange mix of normalcy and constant, low-level torment, the heavy plug shifting inside her every time she shifted, sending fresh sparks of need through her already aching core.
She edited to show the best camera angle for each scene, moving back and forth for interest, inserted b-roll, and added a few seconds of Meg Ryan having a fake orgasm in a restaurant.
It wasn’t until she was adding a few seconds of Mickey Rourke feeding a blindfolded Kim Basinger that she realized maybe the orgasm denial was leaking into her video.
She had to watch five minutes of the scene from Nine and a Half Weeks to figure out which seconds to include — her thighs pressing together under the table while she didn’t dare touch herself.
She decided both clips worked, so she left them, but chose to cut to an Italian mobster teaching how to make perfect tomato sauce the next time she needed an outside injection to make a point.
Once she had all the clips decided on, she rotated and zoomed in on them, then distorted the audio to fool the stupid bots.
The channel was bringing in enough money for her to pay someone to do this part, but she found she didn’t want to give up that much control over the end product.
Throughout the day, every time she moved, the steel weight inside her was a constant reminder of exactly who owned her body.
By the time he finished working upstairs, she was aching and desperate for relief, which was only made worse when she had to squeeze hard to hold the plug in as she made her way up the steps.
But he didn’t fuck her. No, he sat on the sofa with his legs spread and ordered her to her knees. “Slow. Be my little cock-sucking fucktoy for a little while, so I can wind down.”
He didn’t move his hips, just sat still, one hand tangled in her hair, guiding her slowly.
She could feel him relaxing, hear his breath evening out.
Eventually, his pulse sped along with his breathing, and then he held her head between his hands and fucked up into her mouth, using her like some kind of living, breathing fleshlight he could get himself off on — which he did, emptying himself with a satisfied growl.
He held her in bed while she lay frustrated and needy, but she fell asleep fast, since she’d only had a few hours’ sleep the night before.
The next morning, there was no sex. Just a quick breakfast. When they finished eating, he told her, “I’m hoping to get your closet finished today.
While I handle the dishes, take your plug out, use a glycerin suppository, and then bring me the large glass balls sitting in the top organizer section of the kink chest.”
Twenty-five minutes later, he was in the bedroom when she came out of the bathroom, holding what looked like anal beads on steroids. The first was the size of a large marble, but the next two were golf-ball-sized, and the biggest was the size of a small orange. An actual orange, not a clementine.
“Let’s do knees and chest on the bed for this,” he said while he pumped lube into his hand.