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Amanda’s Demons



An Erotic Biker Romance


By Katie Isles



(c) Katie Isles

This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All represented characters are consenting adults eighteen years of age or older – any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters engaging in sexual relations are over the age of consent. This work is the property of Katie Isles – not to be reproduced without consent.














Chapter One: Finding Demons M.C.


Chapter Two: Robbing, Fucking and Threesomes



Chapter Three: From School Teacher to Biker Slut



Chapter Four: Mak is Full of Surprises


















This book is dedicated to all of the people who have supported me as I have written this, my debut novel. It is thanks to my wonderful husband, my family, my two amazing children that I have found the time to craft this erotic masterpiece.

I would also like to say a special thanks to the women I have interviewed, whose stories and fantasies I have used in weaving this erotic tale.

Lastly to the Biker Gangs of America, who allowed me into their world to research this book. Thanks for your hospitality guys!

Keep on riding









Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. “Yes” is the answer. “

Swami X


“Sex is as important as eating or drinking and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.”

Marquis de Sade


The connection to place, to the land, the wind, the sun, stars, the moon... it sounds romantic, but it's true - the visceral experience of motion, of moving through time on some amazing machine - a few cars touch on it, but not too many compared to motorcycles. I always felt that any motorcycle journey was special.

Antoine Predock






It is a warm, summer’s morning. The birds are chirping in the trees, the American flag is fluttering gently on its pole, the schoolyard is filled with the fulsome throb of a hundred juniors enjoying life. In 1981, there was nothing to trouble the all-American picture of family wholesomeness. The Soviets may have invaded Afghanistan. Libya may have been bombing planes, but as far as this corner of small-town USA was concerned, the only people ‘Under Pressure’ were David Bowie and Queen.

Juliette is not happy though. She does not feel the warmth in the air, but the cold, the ice-cold barbs of torment and abuse. In the corner of that schoolyard, it is forever winter. There, where Juliette goes every morning to cry and to nurse her bruises from the previous night’s drunken and drug fuelled beatings, the bullies seek her out.

They are merciless, the children who crowd around her. Blocking out her light, pushing their faces up against her, taunting her, calling her loser and no-friends.

“Names can never hurt you” they say in school.

“Just ignore it” her teachers respond, to her once frequent, but now very seldom appeals for help.

Today, Juliette is feeling the pressure more than other days. The usual crowd of fat, mean girls and boys are gathered around her, while the schoolyard supervisors take cigarettes and coffee and turn the other cheek. She is feeling pressure because she has a plan.

She has a plan. And she has a gun.

Today, while her Mom and some guy she doesn’t really even know are slumped on the floor of their dingy apartment, she has tiptoed over to the nightstand, opened the drawer and rummaged through the cigarettes and drugs paraphernalia to find the snub-nosed revolver. The Saturday Night Special that Mom keeps for protection, and for when she needs more drugs money.

Juliette is packing heat, on this hot summer’s day, and the next person who calls her that is going to find out how much names
hurt you.

“Worthless piece of shit!” calls out a snot-nosed boy, barely old enough to speak, let alone know such awful words.

He leans in close to her face, ready to spit them at her once again. His friends lean in closer, wolves closing in for the kill.

What was that? A loud bang.

Fireworks? Automobile misfiring?

Everyone looks around.

Except snot-nose. The back of his head is now a puddle of red goo.

His shocked friends scatter. For some it’s too late.



Two more bodies lay twitching on the school yard floor, before the staff fully realized what was going on. By then though, it’s all too late. Juliette too is lying on the ground, bleeding from a single, self-inflicted gunshot through the stomach.




Everyone said it had been a miracle that she survived the shot. She was nursed slowly back to full health, before being locked away in a secure hospital. She was clearly deranged. No set of circumstances could have caused such a young girl to react so violently, could they? It couldn’t be the system at fault. She must be mentally ill.

It took over 30 years of therapy, drugs and incarceration before Juliette was deemed fit to rejoin society. Of course, she couldn’t go back to her old town, with her old name. There were still many people who couldn’t forget her. Her crime had made international news. America has a long memory.

It was decided that she would be relocated to a town far away from her terrible crimes. A town far away from anywhere. A desert backwater.

As she had shown so much intelligence while locked away, favors were called in and strings pulled in order to find her a teaching post. She had no choice, and she was reminded, by all those who had made their careers from caring for and studying her, that she was lucky to be going at all. So much luckier than those poor children she had wiped out.

She would be constantly monitored. She didn’t know when, or by whom, but
would be there. She could be sure of that.

The only thing she was allowed to choose was her new name. So she named herself after a memory. A faint ghost that lived in her dark history. Her Mom.





















Chapter One: Finding Demons M.C.



That’s what it meant to me to be in this biker gang. The freedom to go where we wanted. The freedom to ride the open road with the wind in my hair. Freedom to drink. Freedom to fight.

Freedom to fuck!

Who I wanted and when I wanted. And I had quite a choice!

As we sped along the desert road, the flies hitting my visor and the sun beating down on my bare arms, I looked around me, taking in the muscular, tattooed, long haired bikers to my left and my right. Each one of them a throbbing meat sack. Every man with a big, unshaved cock in his oily denims. Yes, every one of them would get his turn with me.

I pulled my arms tighter around Mak, my ride for the day and gave him a squeeze. He put his hand on mine and we held that position for a while as I nuzzled my cheek into his back, hot skin on cold leather. I had never felt more alive.

I loved this life. A life that until very recently was completely alien to me. Men who, just two short months ago, would have scared me completely as they drove through my town, whooping and hollering, taking over the nearest bar, shooting pool and playing the juke box.

I reached around Mak to his pants and grabbed a hold of the bulge in his crotch. He felt warm and hard, with a satisfyingly large handful of flesh in my grip. As we drove, the gruff bark of 50 Harley Davidsons ringing in my ears, I unbuttoned his fly and dipped my hand into the opening. He was going commando, of course, I had yet to fuck one of the gang that wasn’t. I wrapped my hand around his hairy cock and felt it harden in my hand. It satisfied me, to think that I was able to turn a man like this on so quickly, to make him want me so much. He leaned his head back and through his Mexican moustache whispered

“Do me baby”

We both knew that I would. It was the price of a ride on one of these metal steeds.

I felt underneath his cock to his big hairy ball sack. It was warm and tender in my hand. His balls circled in my fingers as though they had a mind of their own. Like they were breathing, coming to life. Then my fingers took back their rightful place on his thick long shaft.

I pulled him out of his pants and gave myself the room to carry out my task. I started to pull him, gently at first, feeling his cock start to become warmer and fully hard. I pulled more quickly now, feeling him throb and twitch. Up and down I worked his shaft. I licked the fingers of my other hand and they joined together on his cock, two hands, wetting the head of his cock and working them around. In the past two months I had become an expert on hand jobs! The convoy started to speed up and give us some room at the back. This had become the protocol for the gang when I started to work my magic. Even bikers like to give their buddies some privacy. It was almost touching.

I started to feel the silky wet pre cum forming on the end of his cock. I lubricated my fingers, letting them slip around his cock as I pulled it back and forth in the hot summer sun. He began to breath heavily, holding a dead straight line on the road, never taking his eyes from the hot, dusty concrete ahead. He put his head back slightly and smiled at me. I kissed his neck, feeling turned on and horny as hell. I loved doing this. I loved feeling the effect such an act had on men. I loved it when they came!

He started to throb and twitch in my hand as I speeded up the pulling. He was getting close now. His breathing deepened, seeming to match the sound of his Hog as it tore down the road. I got ready to feel the splash of hot cum on my fist. He began to shake and twitch. I could feel my pussy well up with juice as I began to squirm my hips upon the seat, my short leather skirt riding up over my thighs, neatly trimmed landing strip for all to see, my moist lips opened up and wetting the leather bike seat. I went commando too!

He moaned and his stomach twitched, and I felt the tell-tale warm splash of liquid on my fingers. He shot his cum out onto us both, coating my hand and my forearm with his molten milk.

“Uuuuggghhh fuck me!”

I lifted my finger to my mouth and drank a mouthful of his cum. It tasted sweet and salty, an erotic combination of flavours. I bit his ear. Hard. Pain when you cum. Is there any better feeling. So erotic! I whispered

“Fuck me later, big boy”









We carried on down the road, still with my fingers wrapped around the cock, softening and returning to its former shape in my hand. I began to drift away, my head leaning against his powerful shoulders, the smell of worn-out leather and cum in my nostrils. I thought back to how I had met and joined this gang of renegade bikers, and how different my life had been just two months before.

I was a kindergarten teacher and a wife. Every morning I would leave my little 2 bedroom townhouse and drive the 15 minutes to school. My husband was a sweet guy. Boring, but sweet.

We had married far too young and too quickly. A wave of optimism and euphoria had crashed us together. The high school sweethearts, me the cheerleader, blonde hair and perfect teeth. He the captain of the school football team, muscular and perfect. All the girls wanted him, so when he asked me to go with him to the Highschool prom, of course I said yes. I could almost hear the wedding bells in my ears as we shared our first kiss, on a dance floor streaming with coloured lights and spinning stars from the mirror ball.

Our courtship followed the same pattern. Drive in movies, burgers and shakes, and then when I finally hit legal drinking age, the odd beer. Nothing to excess.

Even our lovemaking was as though it were our parents making it. In fact, I was convinced that my Mom, a sprightly 50 year old into her third marriage, had a lot more, and a lot more exciting sex than I did. She was a sensible, grounded woman, but under the apple-pie-baking persona that she exuded to the local community, there was an experienced woman who knew a hell of a lot about sexual satisfaction.

“Amanda, you need to get out there and sow a few wild oats before you settle down” she said to me once.

I was shocked and intrigued. She was right of course, but by that point in my life, just 19, I was already on a collision course for Marriage and Kids-Ville. My career was mapped out. James, my football playing stud jock had proposed to me, a proposal which only a fool would turn down. My place in teacher training was assured. It seemed like a comfortable, but boring life was mine for the taking.

So it was that we settled down to suburbia. Like good Americans. We went out on Saturdays. We had boring, twice a week, missionary position sex. We saved for our house, we made payments on the car, we decorated the nursery and waited for our first baby.

We waited.

And we waited.

Then we had tests. Then ovulation charts. Then more tests.

Nothing, it seemed, was wrong with either of us. He shot grade A seed, which, once a year on his birthday, I tasted. Yup, tasted fine to me (not that I had any experience of anyone else, James being my first and only lay, until I met the bikers of course). I was sending my eggs every month to be fertilized, to meet up with the tadpoles coming their way from my adoring husband.


I knew this made James sad and frustrated. I knew that sometimes, instead of coming straight home from work, to my lovingly home-cooked meal and his perfect, all-American housewife, he would go to the bar and pound a few beers with his buddies. I didn’t even mind, well not really anyways. He at least had something which I envied. He had friends. He had a place to go out.

He had excitement!

I wondered, looking back on the day that the Renegade Bandits M.C. rolled into town, if I would have reacted differently had I a little bun in the oven, or perhaps a toddler rolling around at my feet. As it was, I was staring wistfully out of my classroom window the day that Zach, Billy-Bob, Johnson and the others drifted into town, exhausts growling, modern-day cowboys looking for a watering hole.

I wasn’t sure what it was that dragged me over to the bar. Something took hold of me, standing there in my prim gingham blue dress and flat shoes, a far cry from the badass leather mini skirt, sleeveless leather waistcoat and  black lace bra that I had on right now, riding on the back of Zach’s hog, cock in my hand. I simply got up and walked out. There was no goodbye to the class, sitting and staring up at me, wide-eyed and innocent. It was as though some kind of tractor beam had dragged me out of my classroom, out of the school main doors, past the quizzical looks of the office manager, and the shouts of “Amanda, are you feeling ok?” from my teacher colleagues.

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