17. Zoe
17
ZOE
Oh, don’t they have a way with words? I bring my knees even closer to my chest to distance myself from them as much as possible. Inviting them into my room was a mistake, but Felix’s threat has injected a high dose of self-restraint into my bloodstream. I trust my body to keep its distance.
“I protect myself.” The small, mousy sound of my voice suggests otherwise.
Bullwhip looks unconvinced, eyes hard. I hate his physique, how much it always makes me wanna crawl up into his arms and disappear.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Doing what?” asks Wrangler.
“Protecting me. Trying to get me away from Felix.”
“Do you trust us?” asks Bullwhip.
“Yeah,” I admit.
And I do. I guess that’s the positive that comes from living with Father, and then Felix—you have an eye for trustworthy individuals when you’ve spent your whole life sharing spaces with dishonest men.
“We care about you,” says Wrangler.
“And maybe”—Poet lowers his voice—“we could even go the stretch further to love.”
“Love?” Wrangler, Bullwhip and I all blurt out in unison.
Poet holds up his hands like he’s innocent. “Just being truthful.”
That changes things. Love? I thought they were doing this because they’re bikers. Outlaws are supposed to save damsels in distress, right? They charge around on their Harleys, coming to the rescue like modern-day Prince Charmings. They do it to pride themselves. Make themselves feel selfless. That’s what I thought.
And now Poet is saying he loves me.
Sure, he taught me a few years ago, and we had a fondness for Macbeth, but he barely knows me apart from that.
“Love?” I blurt out. “Where the fuck has this come from?”
Poet’s ice-blue eyes laser into my fucking soul. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”
Jane Austin, from Emma.
My eyes catch on the quote I sharpied onto the mirror when I first moved into Felix’s place. I never studied Austin in school, but Poet must have seen the quote to know I’m fond of her work. I feel my cheeks redden. I don’t know how I feel about him being in my bedroom.
All I know is that if he leaves now, I’ll be disappointed.
“Can we stop talking in riddles?” says Bullwhip. “And get to work.”
“Not yet,” says my mouth, without asking for my brain’s permission first. “Let’s stay here for a bit. It’s nice.”
And it is. Felix never enters my bedroom, so it always feels like a safe haven, especially now the bikers are here to keep me company.
It’s a bad idea letting them stay, but all my mind has been thinking about since the bathroom is what happened in the bathroom.
They fucked me before.
They can do it again.
I just have to hope they can orchestrate a plan good enough to get Felix off my case.
For good.
They’re determined, and determination is something I’ve seen lots of, but it’s always centered around money. The bikers show a different kind of determination, and it makes me hopeful. They couldn’t give a fuck about finances.
I’m all that seems to interest them.
I lie back, my thighs squeezed together. Already, my pussy burns for them.
Fine lines web around their mature faces. Felix has wrinkles, but they’re different to the bikers. They rot his face. Make him look even worse. He has a couple photo frames propped up from school and college when he aced his exams and scored top of his grade, and he looks slightly better, but still evil. Some people’s faces just don’t sit well in your gut, and I’m tired of acting like I find him attractive in front of others.
Bullwhip has that similar, dangerous aura about him, but his good intentions make that hard exterior all the more inviting. He’s dangerous, and looks like he could wolf me down in an instant.
And that excites me.
I catch Poet staring at me. He looks at me. Really looks, like he’s seeing straight into my soul. We share a love for Shakespeare, and now apparently Jane Austin, and we understand each other. We both know how it feels to be let down. Admitting his love for me is ballsy, considering he experienced a divorce a few years back, but he’s brave, and that bravery might just help him and the others execute something big.
“Fuck me. All of you.”
This turns Bullwhip into a statue.
Poet shakes his head. “Zoe?—”
“Please. Help me get it out of my system. I know you feel it too. Don’t lie.”
Bullwhip squares his shoulders. He stands up straight from his position leaning against the wall, and his height rushes even more blood south. “Sweetheart, two minutes ago you were just saying?—”
“I trust that you can do something. Make a difference.”
Wrangler swirls around on the chair he’s been sitting on. That man’s cheekbones pop out of his face more every day. He purses his lips and they look even more inviting. All I want to do is kiss him.
All of them.
Rip off their clothes and straddle my legs around their bodies as they each individually fuck me. I want to feel sore like I did the morning after the masquerade. I want to limp down the street and have to purchase something to ease the burn because they fucked me that hard.
I stare at them.
They stare at me.
It’s like my whole entire life has been leading up to this moment. I’m at a crossroads.
Do I obey and remain starving for the rest of my life?
Or do I live ?
Common sense leaves my body.
Desire replaces it. It courses through my veins and fills every single cell in my body with a need. One that only these bikers can meet.
Like my life since being married to Felix, I feel my body slip away from me.
My mind tells it no, but it doesn’t listen.
But why should it? It’s human nature. When you’re starving and teased with a beautiful, homemade dish of spaghetti carbonara, it’s impossible to say no. You can try, but when it’s right there under your nose smelling of fresh parsley and sage and roasted garlic, naturally, you give in to that primal instinct and devour what’s yours.
There are seven pulse points in the human body.
But mine has just grown an eighth.
And it’s between my legs.
Rain thrashes against the window like needles, threatening to smash the glass. The wind whistles through the one-inch gap in the window, and the floor-to-ceiling curtains lift every time a gale passes through.
Lightning flashes.
Thunder crashes like colliding syllables.
Odds on me screaming louder than Mother Nature herself tonight?
I peel the comforter away from my body and crawl toward Poet, seated on the edge of the mattress. “It’s not very comfy down there, is it?” I pat a space for him. “Join me.”
I catch Wrangler’s hardened jaw in the corner, and extend my arm to him. “What’s the matter?” Bullwhip next. “You’re all awfully tense. Relax. You guys work hard.”
I jump off the bed. Offer them both a hand that connects all three of us together. Being sandwiched between them scorches my internal body temperature, especially when I catch Poet watching. I let go of their hands, and both of their arms flop back to their sides like they’ve lost control.
“I’m hot. Aren’t all of you?” I take a step back. Unbelt the gown. Underneath, I wear a pink lace cami set—not because I telepathically knew they were gonna come over or anything, but because lace makes me feel more like myself. Felix forbids me from wearing it. He says it’s too “sexual.”
Trouble is, I’m sexual by nature.
And I’m bored of dildos.
All six eyes lower straight to my breasts. No wonder. It’s a V-neck, and I must admit—my breasts sit perfectly in the two cups. Boys always used to compliment them in high school, said they were symmetrical, the best pair they’ve ever laid eyes on or whatever, but it hits different when the bikers comment on them.
“Look at her nipples, boys,” says Wrangler. “They could cut glass.”
I move closer to them. Massage one of my breasts. “Put your hands on me.”
“You’re naughty, darlin’,” says Wrangler. “Perhaps you should stand over here.” He gestures to the wall.
So I scurry my way over and press my stomach up against it.
“Punishment is in order, I think,” says Wrangler. “For being a dirty little tease.” He grabs my hips and turns me so I’m fully facing the wall.
I close my eyes. Anticipate something.
What my ass needs is a good slap. I need to be shocked, sexually.
Keeping me pressed against the wall, Bullwhip and Wrangler undress me until I’m butt-naked, baring my entire ass.
Then there’s shuffling. “Here,” says Poet. “Let me do it.”
I draw a breath.
BAM!
Right across the ass cheek.
I arch my back to accentuate the area even more. The other cheek feels left out.
“You like that?” says Bullwhip, mouth against my ear.
“Uh-huh.”
BAM!
Another slap. This one is harder. Pain heats the area, and damn, it feels good. There’s some umph—something that can’t be said about Felix’s slaps. His are feeble. He wields very little strength, and it’s no surprise. Wrists are the only thing he ever conditions, and it’s from typing on computers all day. He threatens to kill Fiona, but how does he expect to do that with flabby biceps and rounded shoulders?
He should scare me.
But he doesn’t.
Something leather slides up my ass cheek.
“That feel good, darling?”
This pain oozes wetness out of me. So much that I feel it drizzle down my leg.
“Bullwhip here enjoys a whip,” says Wrangler.
“And it appears,” Poet says, “that little miss here likes to receive them.” A finger dips between my thighs to mop up a trickle of wetness. Then there’s a sucking sound. “Mmmmm. Tastes like somebody’s been preparing for round two.”
Another finger joins the action.
A third.
Their moans harmonize, and I stick my ass out even more.
“Look at you,” Bullwhip says. “All wet and open for three men that aren’t your husbands. You’re a daring little thing, aren’t you?” A finger plunges inside of me, causing me to lose my grip on the wall. “Oh, sweetheart. You feel even better than last time.”
Poet enters my vision. “Let’s get you laid down on the bed.”
Lace shorts pool at my feet. I’m still clothed from the waist up, but not for long.
They lay me in the center of the bed and pull down my cami top. My breasts spring out.
“Oh, Zoe.” Is that drool hanging from Poet’s mouth? “How I missed your breasts.”
I straighten my arm and strain to reach for Poet’s pants. We’ve done this dance before, but things are different now. These dicks no longer belong to strangers. One belongs to my old literature teacher, and the others to his two hot besties.
Wrangler sits on the side of the bed and teases his hand between the valley of my breasts. Then he squeezes them. Puckers a nipple.
The sensation shoots straight to my clit.
I widen my legs.
The other two grab my ankles and help me widen them further.
“You’re so wet I see it leaking out of you.” Poet examines my pussy like it’s a Shakespeare play or something. He weaves his finger through my folds, making my breath hitch. “I love it when you squirm.” He flicks my clit, and what do you know—I spasm out. “Like that.” Blue recedes from his eyes, and his pupils expand. “You’re so easy to tease.”
I sit forward and caress his erect dick through the leather pants. “Did you not want me to stop the first time, when I was on the back of the bike?” I run a seductive tongue over my lip. “I didn’t want to stop. I’d have let you bend me over that night.”
“ Zoe .”
“And let you take me from behind.”
“Young lady.” Wrangler abandons the nipple stimulation to face me, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. The warm brush alone tingles the area. “I won’t be able to control myself if you keep speaking like that.”
I bite my lip. “Really? How so?”
Lightning strikes outside, illuminating Wrangler’s face. The iron-gray stubble on his cheeks outlines them perfectly. Seeing him play out his former life as a rancher would’ve been fun. I imagine him caked in dirt, smelling of sweat and musk and horse. They have that nice, earthy smell to them from munching hay all day. There’s something so masculine about it—it’s the same with the bikes.
I liked Mr. Reeves before—the blue tailored suits always complemented his eyes, but something about exhaust fumes and gasoline and tattoos flick on a switch inside of me that instructs my mouth to say yes to pretty much anything they request. That’s what draws me to them. They’re the opposite of everything Felix represents.
His OCD won’t permit him to wear clothes without dry-cleaning them first, and he arranges pens the same width apart on his desk to satisfy that part in his brain that strives for perfection.
Poet, Wrangler, and Bullwhip ride into the wind and don’t comb their hair after, and they leave their facial hair alone.
Wrangler positions himself over me, so I peel away his jacket lapels to expose a black shirt underneath which must be the club’s uniform or something—they all wear black.
My nostrils catch a whiff of musk.
If it was sexy to do so, I’d snort more of it in. They all smell so fucking good.
Felix sprays overpriced colognes that claim to be made with “one-hundred-percent essential oils,” but it’s bullshit, and it makes him smell like a science lab.
Heaven is what Wrangler, Poet, and Bullwhip smell like. It’s gasoline, musk, leather and sweat all combined into one, and I call the fragrance “Male Pheromones.”
My hands grapple with the shirt hem and start to ride the material up. Just as I remember—jacked as ever. Columns of sculpted torso shine golden in faint lamp lighting, and oh my god, now I’m the one salivating.
Wrangler tosses the shirt away into the room—and I make a mental note to retrieve all garments of clothing this time.
“What are you waiting for?” I eye Poet and Bullwhip. “You too.”
They remove their shirts, screw them up into balls and throw them away.
A faint spell overcomes me. Holy fuck, what a look. Tanned, topless, and in nothing but black leather pants, they remind me of those hot male models calendar companies hire to feature in their latest collections.
I don’t expect Poet to swipe his tongue between my folds so soon.
“OH! FUCK!” My eyes snap shut, and then I see him.
It’s four years ago and he’s delivering a presentation at the front of the class, standing with his feet shoulder width apart in brown polished shoes, gray tailored pants, and a navy shirt that matches his eyes. Those eyes cut to me, and my heart flutters. My throat closes up every time I get too close to him. He makes me nervous, but it makes my day when his mature eyes land on me like that. I know it’s wrong and that he’s almost twice my age.
But he’s so fucking hot.
“OH!” I scream. His tongue presses against my clit and another wave of pleasure bolts through me like the lightening outside. “Oh god.”
“Good girl,” he says.
And this time it’s not because he liked my answer in class.
He likes what’s between my legs.
“I need you now. Please. Oh—” Another wave of pleasure cuts me off.
Then there’s the sound of unzipping.
Poet takes a step back to unbuckle his pants, and that’s when Bullwhip takes over. He holds a belt and pulls it taut in his hands to?—
“Oh, fuck?—”
Rub it against my pussy.
The cool leather doubles my pleasure even more.
Bullwhip then trails it up to my breasts, the accessory curving around them. After teasing some more, he whips it against my skin, and the warm tingle blossoms all over my body, sending even more pleasure south to my now throbbing clit.
Poet returns between my legs. I could pass out at his size. I forgot how big…
“What’s wrong, beautiful?”
“Nothing, it’s just…”
No dildo could replicate this size.
“Get inside of me,” I command.
I bring my legs to my chest and open them wide.
Poet scoots me to the foot of the bed, and standing up in front of me, inserts what feels more like a hot steel rod.
His head rolls back. “God, Zoe.”
“Does it feel good?” asks Wrangler.
“Even better than before,” grunts Poet. He tenses his face.
It’s better than a fucking porno.
I could be a porn star. For them.
Exclusively for them.
Shit, I’d do anything for them.
Bullwhip walks around to my head, and my hands fight his zipper. As soon his pants fall down, I release his dick from, of course, black boxers. Surprisingly, I’m still conscious enough to see the color.
I fondle his balls and insert his dick into my mouth.
It’s an explosion of flavors.
He tastes so fucking good.
He guides my head as I fit more of him in.
Wrangler squeezes both of my breasts, contorting the tissue like he’s kneading dough or something.
My bedroom walls close around me, and the next bellow of thunder crackles someplace distant, like it’s storming in the southern hemisphere, not right outside. Reality doesn’t exist anymore. Each time Poet thrusts, it fades just that little bit more.
Until my ears can no longer pick up the storm.
It’s kind of like sound waves. Human hearing only picks up a range, but the frequencies stretch far, making it impossible to pick up every single noise to ever exist. Scientists suggest that it’s not necessary to hear every single noise, so the human range spans from twenty hertz to two thousand for a reason—those are the only sound waves important to us.
Having sex with Poet has shortened my range significantly. It’s like nothing in the world matters, like nothing exists outside of this bedroom.
The only things my ears pick up are our aspirated breaths, and the men’s harmonizing moans coming together in symphony.
Poet loses rhythm. “I’m gonna come.”
“Me too.” I close my eyes as an orgasm crashes over me stronger than a high tide.
Poet fills me with his cum and then withdraws.
I prop myself up on my elbows and ask, “Who’s next?”
“You can go again?” Bullwhip chuckles.
“I could go all night.”
Bullwhip scoops up my body like I’m featherweight and turns me around, hands instructing me to stick out my ass, which I do gladly.
“Good.” He whips me, and I feel the cheek recoil.
That starts up the arousal again.
He enters me, and I arch my back to fit him in. Stretched out already, it’s easier to accommodate his even bigger size.
He begins slowly. But it’s deep.
Deep enough for me to scream his name and clutch the bedsheets.
Wrangler and Poet watch the action unfold, and for some reason, this turns me on. I don’t know how to describe it. Their eyes start fires inside of me that I don’t know how to put out.
Wrangler’s hands return to my breasts. A nipple graze elicits a high-pitched moan out of my throat.
I just hope and pray Felix hasn’t returned home. If I can’t hear the thunder, my ears aren’t gonna be in range to pick up the sound of a door being unlocked.
Bullwhip’s balls smash against my ass. I readjust my position slightly so they brush against my clit.
His tip finds a sweet spot inside of me.
I roar.
The penetration hurts a little—he’s deep and probably bruising my cervix right now, but the pleasure exceeds the pain, so it’s easy to forget.
“Keep going,” I instruct. “Please. It feels so good.”
I was silent when Felix and I slept together on our wedding night. All I remember was those hospital-white bedsheets, and the boredom. He didn’t brush up to be much of a looker, even on his wedding day, but if he was at least good at sex, I remember thinking I’d be OK with that.
He wasn’t, of course.
His fans kick up a fuss over nothing. It’s the middle-aged moms that fancy the pants off him, commenting, “Looking good,” and, “Oh Fernando”—referencing Abba—on his posts. I used to scroll through his posts to try and understand what they see in him. It took me a few days. Money . You have it and people somehow think it makes you instantly talented in bed.
I don’t know how much these bikers have in their pockets, but one thing’s for sure—they know how to have a good time.
Bullwhip continues thrusting deep, and I continue arching my back to accommodate.
God, I’d usually be exhausted at this point, but they breathe life into me every time they enter my body. I grip the bedsheets, stick out my ass, and groan like a woman possessed. Except I’m not possessed. I’m revived. Stepping into my power.
Felix would see it differently, though. Horny, he says, derives from the word “horn.”
“And what wears horns?” he seriously asked me once. “Devils.”
So, when he caught me browsing pornography, he was basically telling me I’d been cursed, and that a place in hell was waiting for me.
In memory of this, I flex my back, shut my eyes…
And ride out my second orgasm of the night.
Bullwhip screams danger, and as a former adrenaline junkie, I think that’s what draws me to him. But it’s not just that. It’s something more. I see his eyes. He’s an onion, and there are many layers to peel. Something tells me things haven’t been easy for him in his life. Poet joined the club for a career change, and Wrangler rides for his family—what urges Bullwhip to hop on the Harley every morning and bounty hunt? The dark expressions suggest he’s here for the very nature of the job—to kill.
And though that should scare me, it doesn’t. It’s exciting.
My walls begin to tense. Fire burns inside of me. Bullwhip reenters, and this time it’s too much to contain.
The orgasm bursts me open, and I let my body react however it wishes.
Bullwhip comes straight after, finishing deep inside me.
I collapse onto the bed after that to relax my muscles momentarily. But I’m not done.
Last but not least—Wrangler.
“Are you ready to ride, baby girl?”
That turns back on the switch.
He lowers himself onto the bed on his back.
I’d marvel at him all day if I wasn’t so desperate to fuck him.
Mounting his dick releases everything. Tension. Nerves. The grudge I’ve been holding against the world ever since Felix and I tied the knot. It feels like I’m transitioning into a bird, wings peeling open at my back.
This is what freedom is supposed to feel like.
Poet holds me in place, and Bullwhip, after he’s finished cleaning himself up, snakes one of his heavy-duty arms around my waist, dare I say lovingly? It’s like all three of them are counting on my arousal. They want me to finish. And I hate how close I am already.
I drive my hips forward. Swirl them in circular motions.
The boy from high school who took my virginity—his name unknown to me now—once asked me to spell out “coconut” with my hips to make it feel good for him. I didn’t, and I told him to get back on top after that because it was my virginity he was taking, not a porno with me on top going ham. Anyway, even if I was more experienced, I wouldn’t have performed any bedroom tricks. He was a selfish asshole only concerned with his own pleasure, and the guys after him were all the same. No foreplay. No nothing. We went from zero to one hundred every time, and then they were always straight out of the door.
Point is, enhancing the experience for partners is something I’ve always refused to do. Men have it easy in this life, so they don’t deserve to be pleasured the extra mile during sex. They don’t birth children into the world and get ignored by their fathers for being too emotional, and they certainly don’t get the short end of the stick when it comes to marriage contracts.
Before Felix, I had sex for my own selfish reasons, not because I was in love or wanted male attention, but because I desired to escape and forget about the outside world. Forget about Father’s inability to parent, and Fiona’s depression that started to eat me alive every day after the knife incident. All I wanted to do was forget.
But ever since the masquerade, all I’ve done is remember.
I circle my hips and spell out “coconut,” accelerating my own arousal by watching Wrangler’s reaction. He crumples his face and chokes out a moan.
I know I’m onto something here when pleasing the male species doesn’t ick me out.
I smooth my hands up his bronzed chest, feeling the muscles contort as I deepen the penetration. The other two prefer to dominate, and this comes as no surprise considering Poet’s past teaching career and Bullwhip’s thirst for violence. Wrangler, however, prefers submission. I see it in those silver eyes. The way they glint with pleasure.
He chokes out a moan.
“She feels good, doesn’t she?” Poet says, hands wrapping around my chest.
“More than good.” Wrangler parts his lips to grunt a second time. “It’s heaven.”
Pleasure surges through me at a rate far too great for me to control. It’s sensitivity overload, and my body shakes harder than an earthquake. It ripples from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. The storm no longer bellows outside. It exists inside of my body, fueling my soul with passion and this newfound zest for life that’s been absent for far too long.
Peace infuses the very fabric of my being, like it did three years ago.
When it’s all over, sleep weighs heavy on my eyelids and forces them to close. I slump over Wrangler, and our exhausted bodies mold into one another.
He might just be the most generous man I’ve ever met. Riding for Venom Vultures to retire his parents? That’s the most selfless act…ever. He could buy a car, a good one too, and purchase all the cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans in the world.
But he doesn’t.
In fact, none of them do. They each own like, two outfits.
And in a world of social media and fancy shoes, of million-dollar handmade dresses and luxury, state-of-the-art mansions, it’s refreshing to see them with the bare minimum, even though outlawing seems to be quite lucrative.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.” Bullwhip helps me off Wrangler, and lays me back down on the bed. “Remember,” he says in a sidenote to the other two, “we still have work to do.”
I search blindly for the alarm clock on my nightstand, and wink open an eye for the time. “It’s nine thirty. Hurry. He’ll be home soon.”
“Alright.” Bullwhip claps his hands like he’s getting ready to assign duties. “I’ll head down to the office now and get started. You two clean Zoe up, and join me when you’re done.”
I expect him to fly out of the door. Instead, he retraces his steps toward the bed to plant a kiss to my forehead.
Forehead. Like he cares about me.
Layers.
I knew it.
“Thanks.” I tip my chin to smile up at him. “Now hurry, please. Felix is a man of his word. Find that contract before he finds all three of you in his house.”