Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel (8 page)

She seemed to love it all anyway. That, or the force of his fucking overrode any hesitations or dislikes, plunging her deeper into Troy’s sadistic dreamscape of fucks with every new thrust into her tiny cunt. Her body so frail, so tiny, so breakable. He could see his bulge pushing up in her tummy if he angled her right. The thought excited him. It was too bad she was too skinny to properly bear children, otherwise he might even think about taking her as a mate.

“I’m going to-to...oh god,” her voice was low and exhausted, pushing into his sheets. “A-agaiiiin...”

Troy didn’t care. For some, an orgasm from a woman was a badge of honor. Something to be touted about with pride. For Troy, it was just affirmation that his cock—and his importance—were exactly what he knew them to be.

But hell, he hadn’t finished with a girl in some time. Why not give it a try. He let himself go, letting his will dissolve, and immediately his thrusts spasmed and jerked in wild order. His cock emptied out, but only on top of her. The hot goo spilling down onto her crotch, her belly and tits. Cruelly, he withdrew as she came, leaving her pulsing cunt empty, the overwhelming pleasure sourceless except for his thick, heavy load landing on her skin.

She wouldn't have his child. She didn't deserve it. His seed was reserved only for the very best of women. Someone like Robin, say—or just Robin herself. He'd love the look of his stepsister pregnant with his  load.

He stood over her, catching his breath. She looked exhausted. Troy could definitely wear out a woman.

Only moments after he set himself down to the rags of his bed, he pushed her away and toward the door. Her skinny frame rolled easily, compliantly.

“Out.”

She gathered up her clothes around her arms and tiny breasts. Big green eyes shining in the light. His cum dripped down from her tummy, intermingling with the juices from her sopping wet pussy, all across the floor.

“I-I was hoping...that maybe, you and I...I mean. You made me cum so, s-so, so hard, and—”

“Get out. I won’t tell you again.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He eyed the cum she let drip everywhere.

“And get someone in here to clean up your fucking mess!” he called after her.

A few minutes later, as Troy dozed in his heady post-orgasmic fog, someone knocked at the door.

“Come in, already. Took you long enough.”

But it was Pontoon, his second-in-command. Troy had his men, and Case his, and until the marriages were all final, the division between the various forces of the Family would remain. Pontoon was an older man, well past Case's or even Troy’s age. His hair thick black with streaks of gray, his handlebar mustache veteran in the world.

“I was at the Mud Pit with Case. Why aren’t you up?”

“Up? What do you mean, up?”

“Word just came in to Case a minute ago. They said everybody else had been told.”

Bilious rage rose up in Troy’s chest. Left out. Put apart. Not given the news. The same old shit. Was this what he was in charge for? Was this what Case meant when he said sharing the load on top of the Family?

“Everybody else.” He made a fist. “Been told what?”

Pontoon stepped lightly now. Old enough to know to stay out of an angry man’s way. “It’s Abigail. I mean, she’s fine. More or less. But the Cauldron, they took her. And they made her their own.”

“Indoctrination?”

“Yessir, that’s the whole of it.”

Troy took this news with delight. He could feel his rage subsiding, passed over by intense feelings of purpose.

“All right.” He stood up and began to get dressed. “You gather up the boys. Our boys. The ones we can trust. No more than five or six, I’d say, not including you and me. We got something to do.”

“Yessir. I’ll see to it.”

Leave him out of the news, eh? Time to make some news on his own.

––––––––

B
reakfast was hardtack and whiskey, served on the small table in Brall's tent. He approached it slowly; his stomach was a bit uneven that morning. In truth, Brall felt something he had never felt before.

In the long road on the wastes, there was never a lack for dust running into a man’s face. Wild storms of grit and steel passed overhead, the winds ripping so furiously that you had to take shelter or else be lambasted by the wreckage of extinct cities caught up in the air. Always in the air around these dead cities was the stink of death; rotting bodies of animals and men that had not survived the war and had not yet been completely exposed to the elements so that their remains could be eroded under the wind and sun. After a day’s ride, his enormous body would be thick with grime and dirt, every muscle layered in the darkness of the land. So much so that when he took off his clothing, thick outlines remained, millimeters thick sometimes, so that it looked as though he had been riding through some volcanic waste where the land itself was spraying onto him.

And yet that morning, as he ate his breakfast in the cool air outside his tent, Brall felt dirty for the first time in his life.

Taking Abigail like that. It had been wrong.

Oh, sure, she had wanted it. She had taken every last inch of him with gusto, and would have had a smile on her face if her mouth had not been stuffed full of cock the entire time. She had moaned his name, Carthage’s name; the names of every last alpha stud in the Cauldron that she had known. She had taken eight men on. Eight men inside her. Eight hard, warrior men with virtually limitless stamina and the endurance and strength to ride for days on end so long as their was fuel in their bikes. Men with muscles hard as the engines that took them from battle to battle, men with hearts that burned only with the desire to ravage and destroy, and she had taken
eight
of them, and had been covered with their cum dozens of times over.

She was an impressive, beautiful little demon, but no less a demon for it.

In his own heart, his own burning, conquering heart that itself had once wanted nothing more than to ravage and destroy, he felt a fraud. Fake. A liar and a fool.

He took a long sip of whiskey and then followed it with another mouthful of the hardtack of his breakfast. He wouldn’t have had a drink so early but he felt hungover from the night before. He'd had nothing to drink, but still his emotions and his mind felt wrenched like he had assaulted them all through the night with the liver-eating poison of alcohol.

Cradled in his arms, not even a day before, he’d held Robin and told her he loved her. Only her. Told her he wanted to be with her.

And he did. That was what he wanted, still.

His thoughts were caught up with the images of her tight young beautiful body. Holding her beneath him—fucking her mouth and giving her all that he could. The thickness of his shaft stretching out her lips, her throat, marking her as his and his alone.

Maybe putting her on the ground underneath himself. Sitting on those big beautiful tits, letting her gorgeous body feel the full weight of his body on her. Letting her know he was in control—that he was the one calling all the shots. His big balls resting of her chest, just underneath her chin. Right there for her to massage them with those slender fingers. His cock jamming down into her mouth and then down her throat.

When he was close enough, he would slide up on all fours, emptying all his passion, all his fury down into her mouth with unrelenting force. Every moan, every aching, heated cry would be a cry for more, no matter how much his cock strained her throat.

Or fucking her. Spreading out that beautiful set of legs and thrusting into her tight virgin cunt. The only man there. The
only
one. Never belonging to anyone else. Fucking her until she couldn't walk, couldn't move without the memory of his hardness filling her totally. The only time she would ever, ever in her life feel complete—with his cock delivering that completion.

And not just fucking her, but filling her with his child. Getting her nice and pregnant. His permanent partner. Marked by him. Owned by him. Layering her womb with wave after wave of his potent, hot cum. Brall had gotten many women pregnant in the past, but none had survived all the way to term. Pregnancy was hard on a woman on the road he led. But Robin would survive. She was strong. And when he owned Temple, with her at his side, there would be no stopping them.

He wanted Robin that badly, and yet still some part of him felt false for what had happened last night.

Leaving his breakfast aside, he stepped out from tent and into the camp of the Cauldron. Only a few hundred yards away were the walls of Temple. His camp, his soldiers, were positioned on either side of the road leading into the fertile town.

He knew enough of the Family to know Abigail and Robin were close. For Brall, a woman was a woman was a woman, and he could fuck any that he wanted. Were Robin to join with him, she would have to be all right by that. She may become his mate, she would surely be favored above any other he took, but Brall was a warrior natural-born and could not be expected to restrict the thriving virile gift of his seed to one woman alone.

No doubt Robin, raised in the family how she was, would understand that.

But still, that he had fucked Abigail would hurt her. He knew that. That in fucking Abigail, indoctrinating her into the Cauldron, he had hurt the Family—that would hurt Robin more. Somehow, in the hours preceding the gang bang—which had been as much a surprise to him as anything in his life—his heart had begun to soften. Considering what peace terms he might set out to live side-by-side with the Family.

And then that bitch had ruined it all.

No way would there be peace now. Not any time soon, anyway. Now, there was too much pride at stake. The sister of the Family’s leader? No way. Not even if they split leadership between the two men—Troy and Case—like Brall had heard.

Across the camp grounds he waved to Carthage. There was a man who could sort all this out. Always with a plan. Always with something smart to say, even if he didn’t look it. Large, black, with a wide flat face that looked like a mountain torn open. A crude man himself, Carthage knew all the crude angles to get things done. Normally, if a woman was indoctrinated into the Cauldron, she was indoctrinated, and that was that. There hadn’t been any sort of turning-back process for as long as the Cauldron had been around.

But what if a woman was sick? Wouldn’t they be obligated to leave her out then? Oh sure, cure her if they could cure her. But the Cauldron was for the strong. Not the sick or the elderly or the weak.

And in Abigail he saw a sickness to be sure. A sickness of the mind that afflicted her every action, that poisoned even the air she moved through. It stunned him that he had not been able to see it before. His idiot lust had blinded him.

She was crazy, sure enough, and crazy didn’t have a place in the Cauldron. Foolhardy, sure. Brave, definitely. Mean, callous, vicious, and dangerous—all of these had a place.

But the Cauldron was built on a bedrock of discipline, and discipline had no place for crazy for crazy itself had no place for discipline.

Carthage approached through the camp, walking through the various shanty tents and tall spiraling piles of wood that the Cauldron used for its signal fires. The Sooner crew—hard soldiering men from Oklahoma that Brall trusted as steadfast shock troops in the thick of battle—hailed Carthage as he walked past. With those men, Brall soon would be ready for war. A few days at most.

Bikes rumbled down the trail. A convoy, most like, though Brall had not heard of one leaving that day.

Strange.

At the head of the group was Troy—the lieutenant from the Family. His gun out. Brall could see it all happening before it did, useless foreshadowing that preceded the action itself only by moments. Not enough to be heard. Not enough to change anything. Only enough to feel helpless.

Two bikes rushed forward and knocked Carthage around in the road. Chains swinging out like thunderbolts. A pipe, reading at easily fifty miles an hour, hit him in the leg. Somehow he only fell to a knee, swearing and promising revenge. The next bike hit him in the head. Like clockwork they went, knocking him down. Troy swept by and shot him three times in the back and then all seven of them drove out into the wastes.

Their bikes motored into the distance and Carthage was left motionless on the ground. Dead or dying. No way around it.

Brall grabbed Garner. A stout man, long burn scars down one side of his face. He was fast and able as any on his bike.

“You bring me a head from them,” Brall pointed to the trail of dust behind Troy and his men, “or you don’t come back here.”

Garner nodded and in less than a minute he and six others were off.

Brall, though, stayed behind. Everyone understood. It wasn’t just to grab Carthage’s barely alive body and get it out of the road—though there was that. It was in case there was another round of attacks. The Cauldron would need leadership present. There was a protocol to every eventuality.

And whether Garner succeeded or not, there was another protocol the Cauldron was now apart of. With the indoctrination of Abigail, they had hit the Family. The Family had hit back.

––––––––

R
obin snuck out from the Compound on her own—with Abigail nowhere to be found to serve as an escort (and with Robin certainly not trusting anyone else to escort her)—and arrived at the general store a full half-hour before she had arrived the day before, hoping beyond hope that Brall might have the same idea. They could ease the day away again, somehow morphing the bare minutes of time they had together into hours or even days of full-blast loving. Instead, though, she waited, and waited. Just like she had waited last night.

God, to taste him again...to feel that gorgeously hot spray land against her throat. Her fingers digging into those chiseled-hard abs. Nails sliding into that tight, sculpted ass, tugging it hard so his crotch slammed against her needy face for more and more of his enormity. Her body burned with the need to feel that again.

To feel that, and to feel so much else. To feel him inside of her. For him to be her
first
. For him to know that she was pure, totally pure, totally his. His little virgin slut, made for him to fuck and own and even impregnate, if he wanted.