CHEAP SMUT: Four Erotic Romance Novels (Boxed Set) (11 page)

“Ohhhh God yes,” I whispered as he continued to pinch my nipples and pummel my g-spot.

As I continued to float out into orgasmic heaven, I didn’t realize he had released my nipples from his grasp. Only when his hand came down against the side of my ass did I realize through my shock, stinging ass cheek, and heightened sense of sexual sensation that he had freed his hands from my boobs.

Slap!

The sound of the skin-on-skin contact echoed throughout the room. I glanced at the glass wall, for some reason expecting the people in the gym to have heard it and now be eagerly watching him continue to fuck me like his little sexual play toy I was eager to become.

“This tight little pussy of yours…” he grunted as he continued to pound his cock into my wetness.

“Is almost…too much,” he groaned as he gripped my ass with both hands.

My legs were rubber, my pussy was on fire, and my body felt like I was floating in a cloud of sheer bliss. As much as I wanted to continue to fuck, my poor pussy was incapable of even one more moment of punishment.

I was done.

“Cum on my face,” I murmured as he spread my ass cheeks apart with his hands.

I thought the offer alone would excite him enough to get him to stop fucking me for a moment and consider it. During his down time, I figured I could come up with something that might encourage him to pull out of my pussy and finish elsewhere.

“Titty fuck me,” I said.

“You horny little bitch,” he said as he slowly pulled his cock from my wet pussy. “Come here.”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair. I had obviously aroused the alpha male side of him I so desperately desired. As he tugged against my hair, I stood from my position at the table, kicked my shorts and panties to the side, and followed him as he shuffled toward the glass wall, restrained from taking large steps by the jeans still wrapped around his ankles.

As he came to a stop at the glass window, I looked upward and through the glass. The man and woman had stopped their workout, and stood talking beside the machines as they stared into the glass.

“Knees,” he demanded as he released my hair.

I eagerly dropped to my knees.

“Open,” he said.

I opened my mouth and raised my hands to my chest. As I massaged my boobs in my hands, he guided his cock past my waiting lips. He methodically began to work his manhood in and out of my mouth, allowing me to fantasize about the people on the other side of the wall actually witnessing me suck his dick. As I closed my eyes and drifted into la-la land, he slowly pulled his cock from deep inside my throat.

“Watch me,” he demanded.

I opened my eyes and anxiously watched as he stroked his cock vigorously. His swollen forearm and bicep were as much of a turn-on as him stroking his cock in my face. After roughly thirty seconds, he arched his back, began to moan, and pressed his free hand against my forehead, tilting my head slightly back. As I moaned in anticipation and continued to squeeze my boobs, he released my head and pounded his fist against the glass.

Kneeling in front of him squeezing my boobs like the sexually deprived woman I undoubtedly was, my eyes remained locked on his throbbing cock as his clenched fist worked to milk it of the special gift he reserved for me. I moaned in a combination of excitement and relief as I watched cum spurt from the tip and onto my face, lips, and into my mouth. As he groaned in pleasure, he continued to beat against the glass and grin like a mad man.

When he finally stopped plastering me with his warm wet sentiment, he shuffled to the side and grabbed a folded towel from the table behind him.

“Holy shit Otis, that was a lot of cum,” I said as I dragged my fingers across my face like little squeegees.

“Here, wipe off,” he said as he handed me the towel.

As I cleaned my face I noticed he glanced up at the glass and smiled.

Knowing the people in the gym had no earthly idea of what we were
really
doing, I wanted to play along, hoping to prolong Otis’ wonder of their voyeuristic nature.

“What?” I asked as I glanced up at him.

He shrugged his shoulders as he reached down to pull up his jeans. “They left after the show was over, but they got to see me jack it on your pretty little mug.”

“Well, at least they stuck around until the grand finale,” I said as I tossed the wadded up towel onto the top of the glass table.

After I found my shorts and panties, I got dressed. Otis was good for me in a really, really bad way. Saying
no
to him was impossible, and I liked that about him. He fully realized he was my Kryptonite, rendering me powerless in his presence, but although he might press right up against a few boundaries, he never took advantage of me. Knowing when to stop was a strength he seemed to naturally possess.

As we walked out of the room and into the hallway, he turned toward the gym and grinned.

“They got a hell of a show at the end,” he said with a nod.

I stopped and shook my head, laughing inside at the fact the glass was a one-way mirror.

“It’s one-way glass,” I said.

He shook his head. “Not when the lights are off in the pool room and dimmed in the gym. It reduces the reflective nature of the glass. They saw us, believe me.”

I considered what he said, realizing my eyes were closed at the end while he pounded against the glass. After a short consideration, I decided he was simply toying with me. I’d worked out in the gym on several nights of my week long stay, and all I had ever seen was my reflection.

“You’re full of shit,” I said.

He reached toward the door handle and pulled the door open.

“Go inside and look at the glass, smart ass,” he said as he tossed his head toward the door.

“Fine,” I huffed as I stepped through the open door and into the gym.

Although the lights were on, they were dimmed to a very low level of light, no different than they were when the couple was working out. I glanced around the room, and after a few seconds of my eyes adjusting to the lighting, I glanced at the mirrored wall.

The mirrored wall was no longer a mirror, but only a darkened sheet of glass. I gazed into the adjoining room and focused on the cum-covered towel I had wadded up on the glass table. As my mind filled with shock, my body and spirit filled with an eerie sense of sexual satisfaction knowing the couple had watched him fuck me and jack off on my face.

As I reached for the door handle I realized my life was going to be turned upside down in a very short period of time. Having Otis as a lover was something I knew very few women on this earth could handle, and I was one of the select few who were able.

Hell, I was probably the
only
one.

I opened the door, turned toward him and grinned. “What are we going to do when we get back to the room?”

“Could you see through the glass? See the pool?” he asked over his shoulder as he turned away.

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded his head.

“So what are we going to do when we get back to the room? Sleep?” I asked again.

“Back to the room? We aren’t going to the room,” he said as he turned down the hallway which led to the parking lot.

“Where are we going, back to the bar?” I asked.

“Nope, going out to the bike,” he said. “I want to lick your pussy while you’re sitting on my bike.”

Somewhat shocked by his statement, but excited at the thought, I spun in his direction.

“In the parking lot?” I asked excitedly.

“Yep,” he responded as he opened the door.

I glanced out into the parking lot at his motorcycle. As I gazed at the silhouette in the glow of the parking lot lights, I began to itch all over. Within a second or so, my pussy began to tingle. I glanced up at him and grinned as I stepped through the door.

“Sounds good to me,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders and walked past him.

Having Otis in my life again was not only going to be a challenge, but would require some significant adjustments.

Adjustments I was more than willing to make.

 OTIS

When I was eight years old, I wanted a B.B. gun for Christmas. After what seemed to be a lifetime of wait, Christmas morning came. I realized the elongated box Santa Claus had left by the tree could have contained anything, but as I tore the wrapping paper from the box, I hoped it was what I desperately felt I needed to move forward into manhood. Living in the Mid-west, a boy’s receipt of a B.B. gun was not only confirmation he was becoming a man, but proof he was a responsible young man worthy of the power the weapon possessed.

Much to my surprise and complete satisfaction, the box was clearly marked
Daisy
, the manufacturer of the undisputed king of B.B. guns. With my heart racing, I cautiously opened the box, being careful not to rip the precious cardboard.

As I hefted the gun from the box my heart swelled with pride. Fighting back tears of joy, I stood in my pajamas with the gun in my arms.

“He knew, Pop. He knew I was ready,” I exclaimed.

My father nodded his head. “Did he get you the right one?”

“Pop, it’s a Daisy,” I said with a grin. “The Red Ryder.”

He narrowed his gaze as he shifted his eyes toward the weapon. “Is that a good one?”

I grinned and nodded my head. “The best, Pop. It’s the best one on the entire planet.”

He grinned as he turned toward my mother. “Well, sounds like Santa Claus has got his shit together.”

And so began my love and respect for guns. I cherished the weapon, and at least initially I took it with me everywhere I went. It sickened me to go to school without it, certain I just might need it for
something
Axton and I encountered in our walk to school or on our way home. The excitement didn’t soon fade, and on a typical morning I’d immediately check the wooden rack on the wall of my bedroom as soon as I woke to make sure it remained where I had left it the night before. 

At the time, the thought of separating myself from my cherished gift left me feeling empty and exposed. Although I didn’t necessarily
need
it, being without it caused me to feel as if I didn’t appreciate it for everything it provided me.

With it in my presence, I felt a sense of self-worth and purpose I didn’t feel in its absence.

Separating myself from things I cherished for even a moment’s time had always been a difficult thing for me to do. The MC was a prime example of my inability to spend time away from something I truly held dear to my heart.

I glanced at my gun safe and grinned, knowing it still contained the B.B gun I had received twenty-eight years prior. Being at home while Sam continued to inventory her mother’s house was driving me insane. Similar to going to school without my B.B. gun while I knew it was at my disposal, being at home without Sam at my side left me feeling empty and alone.

I looked at my two motorcycles for a moment and eventually shifted my gaze to the car. Covered with a custom cover to preserve the perfectly restored condition, the car beneath the cover was an absolute pleasure to drive and a high-horsepower beast. I had purchased the car as a basket case when I was sixteen years old. In shambles, incomplete, and without a motor, transmission, or rear axle, my father had trailered the car home in piles and boxes. Together, over an almost two-year long time frame, we pieced the car together, and he loaned me the money for a driveline.

One of my father’s police force friends painted cars and did bodywork on the side for spare cash. After some negotiation and a little persuasive nature, my father convinced him to repair the car and paint it with a show quality paint job for my return of yard work. Halfway through my senior year in school, we completed the car.

Just in time for my senior prom and graduation.

Now, no differently than most other bikers, the thought of riding in a cage was repulsive to me. I reserved trips in the car for special occasions, often driving it once a month on a Sunday evening or taking it to local car shows. From time to time I’d remove the cover, drive it to Wichita, and street race some unsuspecting Corvette or a local teen with a Subaru WRX turbo he’d tricked out.

My special occasion 1969 Camaro Z-28.

I glanced at my Harley bagger. I shifted my eyes to my Heritage Softail. After a few moments of staring blankly at the bikes, I sighed, took a sip from my cup of coffee, and stared at the Camaro. I raised the coffee cup to my lips, finished the coffee, and placed the cup on the shelf beside the door.

I slowly walked toward the car, carefully removed the cover, and opened the door.

Fuck it.

If this isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.

SAM

Squatted in the corner of the back bedroom, I began to dig through a box I had found in the closet marked
Samantha School.
As I pulled each item from the box carefully, I realized just how much my participation in school activities meant to my mother. Report cards, photographs of me, and various newspaper articles announcing my successes in track, basketball, and debate were amongst the items I was surprised to find.

As much as I enjoyed the memories the newfound items brought to the surface, I realized I could spend nothing short of forever digging through the boxes in my mother’s home. Although she was a very neat woman, it was apparent she was somewhat of a pack rat, boxing up everything her life produced, keeping it for future reference or simply for the joy it brought her.

I glanced around the room as I dropped my 4
th
grade report card into the box. My mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotion, I tried to comprehend not only the work which was in front of me at my mother’s house, but the fact Otis was now back in my life.

Living in St. Louis wasn’t an option now, and although I knew after receiving my inheritance I didn’t
need
to work any longer, I felt I should to keep my sanity. Moving back to Wichita was going to take a little time, and thoughts of where I’d live and when I’d be able to move began to swirl in circles in my head.

I stood, stretched my aching legs, and gazed at the doorway.

“Meow…”

You disgusting furball.

Realizing my only way out of the room was blocked by the fuzzy varmint, I stomped my foot on the floor in an effort to scare her away. Although it appeared to initially startle her, she immediately settled into her sphinx-like posture again and stared at me with her golden glassy orbs.

As she stared at me, she blinked her eyes slowly a few times.

You nasty cretin.

I glanced around the room for something soft I could throw in her direction, and eventually decided it didn’t necessarily
need
to be soft. After some thought, I reached into the box, removed one of my brass medals from playing basketball, and slid it across the wooden floor, past her, and into the hallway.

Being the utter idiot she was, she quickly turned and ran toward the medallion, assuming it was alive. 

While she attempted to bat the medal across the floor with her disgusting paw, I escaped the room, stepped past her, and down the hallway toward the living room. Feeling as if I needed to try and assemble a plan for my near future, what I was going to do about moving, and where I intended to live, my mind instead began to think of Otis and what little precious time we had spent together. As I sat on the loveseat recalled my best version of our pool room sex, a loud rumbling sound from outside caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

It sounded like the world was coming to an end.

Curious as to what the noise might be, I stood and walked across the room. As I got closer to the window, the level of the sound increased and seemed to become closer and closer to the house. As the noise reached an all-time high, I pulled the curtains to the side and peered outside.

Immediately, my stomach filled with butterflies.

Is this even possible?

You still have it?

I ran to the front door and yanked it open. In the driveway, grinning from ear to ear, Otis was seated in what appeared to be a very nice likeness of the 1969 Camaro he drove throughout the latter years of our relationship. There was no doubt he had the ability to excite me sexually, but his car absolutely drove me into an entirely different type of sexual frenzy.

His car made me wet.

“Looks just like your old car,” I shouted over the sound of the exhaust.

He turned off the car and stepped into the driveway. Standing beside the car in a tee shirt, jeans, and his sneakers, he looked just like he did when we were in high school. As I stood on the porch admiring him and the car it seemed as if we had never been apart.

“It
is
my old car,” he said.

“You still have it?
Seriously
, is it?” I screeched.

He nodded his head proudly.

I jumped from the porch, ran to the passenger side of the car, and carefully opened the door. A quick glance of the glove box provided all the confirmation I needed to see. The
Sublime
sticker I had affixed to the center of the glove box door remained right where I had stuck it in 1996.

The lead singer of the band had died of a heroin overdose the day before we graduated high school. Paying tribute to him and my love of the band, I had stuck the sticker on Otis’ glove box while I waited in the car as he and Axton discussed our after graduation plans.

I glanced over the top of the car.

“It’s still there,” I said.

“Right where you left it,” he said. “I wanted to kill you for sticking that fucker on there, but I could never bring myself to remove it.”

“The memories this thing brings back,” I said as I glanced up and down the side of the car.

“Good ones,” he said as he walked around the front of the car.

“Take me for a ride,” I said as I reached for the door handle.

He turned around and walked back to the side of the car.

“Get in,” he said as he opened the door.

As the engine started, it startled me. The sound of the rumbling exhaust, thoughts of all the times I had sucked his cock while we’d driven to the movies, and the sheer excitement of seeing the car again caused me to begin to shake. I held my arm to the side and flattened my hand as he backed out of the driveway.

“Look,” I said as he shifted the car into gear.

“What?”

“I’m shaking,” I said as I nodded my head toward my hand.

“Why?” he said as he released the clutch.

I shook my head. “This car, you. Memories. Jesus, Otis. This is just crazy. I can’t believe…”

“Well, believe it. I’m not letting you get away this time,” he said over his shoulder as the car inched along the street.

“Promise?” I asked.

He released the gear shift, held his right hand at his side, and extended his pinkie finger from his otherwise clenched fist.

“Pinkie promise,” he said.

A chill ran down my spine.
He remembered
. We had made dozens of pinkie promises as kids, but he would never pinkie promise we would be together forever because he said he couldn’t
guarantee
it. According to Otis, and to his father, breaking a pinkie promise was punishable by cutting off the pinkie of the one who broke the promise.

I pointed my extended pinkie finger at him. “If you break a pinkie promise…”

“I’ll let you cut the fucker off with my dad’s pocket knife,” he said before I finished speaking.

“You sure you want to do this,” I asked.

With lightning-like speed, he reached for the gearshift, shifted gears, and thrust his hand into the air, locking my pinkie with his. Now with our hands in the center of the car with our pinkies intertwined, everything I had sat in the room and worried about no longer mattered. Now, I had Otis right where I wanted him.

In my life forever.

“There, now you’re stuck,” he said.

I stared down at our locked pinkies.

“Couldn’t be happier,” I said.

He released my finger and shifted gears again. I gazed at him admiringly, and realized he wasn’t wearing his motorcycle vest. Maybe, I decided, it was because he wasn’t riding his motorcycle. To let him know I noticed, I opted to mention it.

“Not wearing your biker vest today?” I asked.

He shook his head as he turned the corner onto Central Avenue. “Not allowed to wear them in cars. The vest is called a
cut
. And we call cars or any kind of vehicle a
cage
. And there’s no cuts allowed in cages.”

I nodded my head as I glanced down at my pinkie.

“I see.”

Considering Otis was now in an
actual
motorcycle gang made me a little nervous. Although he and a few friends - Axton included - had ridden motorcycles since they were kids, he was never in a gang in the past. My experience with motorcycle gangs was limited to what I saw on the news, and although I hadn’t seen much, I couldn’t help but see the nationwide coverage the biker gunfight in Texas was given.

“So, this gang you’re in, do you…”

“It’s a
club
, not a gang,” he interrupted.

“Okay,” I said. “Your
club
, what is it that you guys do?”

With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he responded without emotion.

“We ride bikes and drink beer.”

“That’s it?” I asked, somewhat relieved and slightly shocked.

“Can’t really say, Sam. It’s like this,” he said over his shoulder and he changed lanes, “We’re a private club. Club business is
club
business, and no one else’s. We don’t discuss it with anyone. It’s nothing against you, and even though you’re the only woman I truly trust, for sake of the club and everyone in it, I’m sworn to secrecy so to speak.”

I turned to the side and faced him directly. “Secrecy? So we’re going to keep secrets?”

“Sam…” he said.

“You aren’t like those guys down in Texas, are you? The ones that got in a gunfight?” I asked.

I stared at him as he gripped the steering wheel in his hands. Obviously he was slightly offended by my question - the muscles on his biceps flared as he clenched the wheel. After swallowing and giving his response some thought, he glanced in my direction.

“There’s motorcycle clubs, and there’s 1%er motorcycle clubs. The 1% club is a name that dates back to World War one, and is indicative of the belief that only one percent of people who ride motorcycles are outlaws. A 1%er club is called an outlaw club. They were an outlaw club,” he explained.

“Are you…or is your club an
outlaw club
,” I asked.

He nodded his head. “Yes we are.”

“So how long until you guys decide to shoot up a bar and go to prison,
Otis
?” I asked sarcastically.

“We don’t shoot up bars, Sam. We’re not like that,” he said over his shoulder.

I glanced up as he turned the car into the parking lot of a Starbucks coffee shop. Although I’d been to the intersection, the last time I had been there, there wasn’t a coffee shop, but a gas station.

“When did they put this here?” I asked.

“Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he responded.

As I glanced at the building over my shoulder, I realized in my time away a lot of things had changed. I turned toward Otis and crossed my arms.

“Well, I don’t like the secret thing,” I huffed.

He raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples for a long moment. As he lowered his hands, he sighed. 

“Look at it this way, Sam. I just made a pinkie promise with you. Do you think I’ll break it?” he asked.

“No, I sure don’t. I know how you’re weird about promises. I like that about you,” I responded.

“Okay, look at it this way. I took an oath with the club. I made a promise, under oath, to never discuss the intricacies of the club or club business with an outsider, all in an effort to protect the club and the men in it. For me to break that promise would be no different than breaking my pinkie promise with you. I gave my word. It’s all I’ve got, Sam.”

As much as I didn’t like it, everything now made perfect sense. Otis was a prideful man, and he had always been a man with tremendous moral values. I’m sure he took great pride in being able to offer the club his absolute silence when questioned of their activities.

“Okay, I’ll respect that,” I said with a nod. “What are we doing here?”

“Well, now that we’re done arguing about that, I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I thought we’d relax out here in the sun before it gets too hot, maybe get lunch, go to a movie, and then we’ll see,” he said.

“You going to let me suck that big cock of yours in the movie?” I asked.

He reached for the door, opened it, and turned to face me.

“Does a shark shit in the sea?” he responded.

“Sure does,” I said.

“Answer’s yes,” he responded.

As thoughts of sucking Otis’ cock in a half-filled afternoon movie filled my mind, concerns and worries about his involvement in an outlaw motorcycle club slowly vanished. One thing about being in a relationship with Otis was that all the time I had spent with him was filled with love, sex, and passion, leaving very little time for anything else.

And, as love, sex, and passion were on the top of my relationship priority list, I didn’t complain one bit.

“Well, let’s choke down a cup of coffee and get to the movie,” I said over my shoulder as I reached for the door handle. “I haven’t been to the movie in years.”