Tainted Rose (8 page)

*

S
HE HEARD SERGE’S BIKE BEFORE
she saw him rolling in along the highway. Serge was the only guy she’d ever known who pointblank refused to drive out in a truck. Up here, given the brutal cold of the winter, it was pretty normal for the bikers to drive trucks in the colder months. Serge never did it. He said he didn’t feel the cold and so, no matter how cold it got, even during snowstorms and brutal blizzards, he’d come out every week on his bike. When he pulled into the parking lot she saw that he had another rider with him, Rust Brody.

“We’re here!” Serge shouted as he came bursting through the door with Rust.

“Good to see you guys,” Murdoch said and poured them a couple of beers.

Serge and Rust pulled up some stools at the bar and slumped into them heavily.

“Fuck,” Rust said, “but that ride don’t get any easier no matter how many times I do it.”

Serge just slapped him on the back of his jacket. It was a thick, black leather jacket with the DRMC’s skull logo patched on the back. “You should try it in January,” Serge said.

Rose was amazed that it was April and still so cold. She would never get used to the climate in that godforsaken place. It took a long time for spring to arrive.

“Business has been slow,” Murdoch said as he passed a leather bag over the counter to Serge.

It contained the cash taken during the past week. Rose looked at it. You could fit thousands of dollars in cash into a bag that size. She knew there was just a couple of hundred in there, tops.

“It’s to be expected,” Serge said. “The highway’s barely passable. It will be getting better soon.”

Rose wanted to ask if he thought business would be picking up but she was too timid to speak without being spoken too. Serge seemed to be in one of his better moods, he didn’t seem to be high or anything, but it was always risky with him.

She sat alone at her end of the bar and looked at Serge and Rust. Serge was the bigger of the two. He weighed well over two-hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He was a real, old-school biker. He’d grown up with the lifestyle. It was in his blood. He head was shaved bare. Rose didn’t know if he was naturally bald or if he shaved it. His arms were thick in his jacket. The skull patch filled the back of the jacket, with crescent shaped rockers above and below it. They read, Black Rebel MC above, Val-d’Or, QC, below. Rust’s jacket was the same but beneath the logo on the back it said Montreal, QC. His chapter was based in the city.

Serge’s eyes were so blue they reminded Rose of sapphires. Anyone could tell right off he was intelligent. It was his eyes. They took in everything, like the eyes of a predator. He also seemed very calm. He moved deliberately, breathed with a controlled rhythm. If Rose hadn’t seen him lose it on so many occasions she would have thought he was completely calm and collected.

“You think spring’s finally here?” Murdoch said. Rose could tell he was just making smalltalk.

“It’s coming,” Serge said. He took a long drink from his beer. “The bars along the 105 are already picking up.”

Rose thought about Caribou Bill’s story. She wondered what it was that had set Serge off like that. Attacking customers was worse for business than anything else.

“Hey,” Serge said. He was looking at Rose, beckoning her over.

She put her coffee down on the bar and hopped off her seat.

“What can I do for you, Serge?”

“Take that robe off for a start.”

She took off her robe. She would have loved to ask Serge if she could have some money to get new clothes but she was too scared of him. She was wearing the black lace underwear she’d been wearing earlier in the week.

“Show Rust those fine tits of yours,” Serge said. “He doesn’t get to see tits like that down in the city.”

Rust Brody had seen Rose’s tits on numerous occasions before but that didn’t matter. She took off her bra and revealed her breasts to the two of them.

“That is some nice comfort right there,” Rust said and winked at her.

Rose smiled at him. It was all a game. She was tired of pretending to enjoy these guy’s attentions but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. They knew that, they were the ones who’d kidnapped her and forced her to work there, but they still seemed to believe she enjoyed their complements and attentions just because she flashed them a smile every time they said something.

Rust reached out and squeezed her breasts. He pinched her nipples firmly between his thumb and forefinger and made a little whistling sound. It hurt Rose a little when he pinched her but she didn’t dare flinch.

“I had a girl down in Orillia a few years ago, had the plumpest little nipples you ever imagined,” Rust said. He took Rose’s nipple and put it in his mouth. “Now that is a ripe cherry,” he said when he took it out.

“Keep the beer coming,” Serge said to Murdoch.

Murdoch poured them some more beers.

“You fellas hungry?” he said.

“You still hawking those greasy beef patties?” Rust said. It had been a few months since he’d been there.

“Yes he is,” Serge said, “and we’ll have two apiece, with lots of ketchup.”

Murdoch got started at the grill and Serge said to Rust, “Rusty, open your fly.”

“What for?”

“Whip it out. I want to show you something else this bitch is good for.”

“Right here?” Rust said, looking up at the door.

“There’s no one here. You saw the highway, it’s barely passable.”

Rust shrugged. He had chaps on over his jeans but they were open around the crotch. He unzipped the fly of his jeans and pulled out a thick, soft cock. Rose watched. Serge did the same thing, pulling a limp piece of meat out of his own jeans.

“You,” he said to Rose. She waited, wondering what he was going to make her do. “You show my friend here how good of a dancer you are.”

Rose was relieved. She’d thought he was going to get her suck them both off.

“These are the rules,” Serge continued. “Neither of us is allowed to touch ourselves. We’ll see how hard you can make us just from dancing.”

“You got it,” Rose said.

She looked at Murdoch. He was busy at the grill with the burgers. She went over to the music system and turned it on. Then she got up on the platform at the back of the bar that served as a stage. There was a pole in the center of it. It had taken her a long time to master the pole dancing moves but she had them down pretty well at this point. She grabbed the pole with her right hand above her head and held herself up as her weight transferred from her legs to her arm. She swung her body around the pole slowly, spreading her legs wide open. The men’s eyes were glued to he wide-open legs. She climbed up the pole seductively and let herself rotate slowly as she slid back down.

“Take them off,” Rust called out.

She stood provocatively in front of the pole and played with the waist of her panties.

“Turn up the music,” she said to Murdoch.

Tainted Love
by Marilyn Manson was playing. She reached through her legs to the back of her panties and pulled them done to her ankles.

Rust cheered. She reached down and pulled them off and threw them at him. She glanced down at Rust and Serge’s laps to see how she was doing. Neither of their cocks had seemed to harden particularly. They were enjoying the show but they weren’t on the edge of orgasm or anything. Not by a long shot.

She turned around and bent over, giving them a nice view of her ass, and then she pulled open her butt cheeks for a second, flashing her anus. Bent over, she looked at them through her legs. Rust was grinning now. He’d stiffened up a little. Serge was looking at her too but more thoughtfully, analytically almost, like a horse trainer might assess a thoroughbred. She stretched open her butt cheeks and flexed them a few times. Rust cheered again. He was enjoying the show.

She wrapped a leg around the pole and gripping it behind her knee, leaning backward so that her hair was waving against the floor. The she reached with her other leg up the length of the pole and stretched out so that her pussy was wide open. She grabbed the pole with both hands and opened her legs even wider. She was practically doing the splits, but vertically, against the pole. She bounced in and out from the pole, letting her vagina touch it. The song was coming to an end. She was breathless. She climbed up higher, as high as she could go, and then stretched her legs out away from the pole, putting all the weight on her arms. It was a hard move, it took a lot of arm strength, and she let her body rotate like the arm of a clock in a half circle till her feet were below her.

She lowered herself to the ground. She was breathless. The song was over. She made to step down from the stage but Serge stopped her. He didn’t care that she was breathless.

“Hey,” he said, “who told you to stop?”

She looked at him and forced herself to smile. Men never realized just how physical pole dancing was.

“I’m barely half way there,” Serge said.

Rose smiled at him. She danced through the songs,
Closer
by Nine Inch Nails, and
Red Light Special
by TLC. She gave it everything she had, stretching out far from the pole, opening her legs as wide as possible, giving Serge and Rust the most perfect, revealing views of her pussy and ass that she could possibly manage. She pressed her breasts against the pole and got down on the floor and spread her legs and ass.

When she looked up at them at the end of the third song they were rock hard. Both of their cocks were sticking up from their pants like tent poles. She took deep breaths, regaining her composure and her breath after the exertion of the dancing.

“Not bad,” Serge said, “have a drink. You earned it.”

“I’ll have a beer,” she said to Murdoch.

The burgers were ready and Serge and Rust put their rock hard dicks away so that they could eat.

VII

L
ATER THAT NIGHT THE PLACE
actually filled up a little. Two trucks pulled in to the lot and their drivers, men Rose had never seen before, came into the bar and ordered beers. Serge and Rust were still at the bar, smoking cigarettes and drinking, and they all made smalltalk with each other. The truckers both worked for a logging company way north and were headed for a paper mill close to the border.

Rose sat with them at the bar and sipped vodka and coke. Every half hour or so she got up and danced for a few songs. The men all watched, especially the truckers. She could tell they were lonely. They must have been up north for a while. The farther north you got, the fewer women there were. It was like the old west. As you approached the frontier of civilization there were fewer and fewer women and the men got lonelier and lonelier.

Rose could sense it from them. They wore their loneliness on their faces, in their body language, even in the words they chose. She’d always imagined that being out in a wild place like that, places where there weren’t any women, that the men would get harsher and more aggressive. And in a way that was true. They did get rougher. Their clothing got dirtier, they stopped shaving, the washed less than they should have.

But there was also a gentleness that crept into the men after they’d been that far north for a while. It didn’t happen in Val-d’Or and the towns around there, but farther up, along the northern routes where there were no more towns it happened. Once the men had to spend prolonged periods up there alone without any women and children they started to quiet down. Their speech grew softer, their manners kinder, they grew more gentle. They reminded Rose of bears, large and strong and rugged, but also gentle.

“You got a private room in this place?” one of the drivers said to Murdoch.

He hadn’t realized that Serge was the boss of the place. Serge and Rust just looked like two more customers. Murdoch was the one behind the bar.

“We do,” Murdoch said.

“How much is it?”

“Depends how long you want. I could give you a song for ten dollars, or three for twenty” Murdoch said.

The driver nodded. He took out his wallet and thumbed through the cash. Rose could tell he was counting it.

“I got forty bucks here,” he said, taking out the bills. He put them on the counter. Murdoch took the money and put it in the till.

“Go right ahead,” he said to the man.

Rose was watching. She looked at Serge and thought about the story Caribou Bill had told her. What the hell was the point in getting mad at your own customers? She hoped Serge didn’t do anything like that tonight. It didn’t make any sense, but when she saw Serge reach into his pocket and take out a little vial of pills she got worried. He spilled two pills from the bottle onto the palm of his hand and put them in his mouth. Then he swallowed them with beer.

Rose had a very bad feeling about it but there was nothing to be done. Serge was her boss and her job was to take that customer into the back and dance for him.

She got up and went over to the man.

“Come on, honey,” she said. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer her. He was a gentle man.

She took him by the hand and led him to the back room. It was locked, as usual. She had no idea why Murdoch insisted on keeping that room locked, there was nothing in there apart from a worn out old speaker, a painted-red light bulb, and a faux leather bench against the wall. She got the key from the office and opened the door.

“What’s your name, honey,” she said again to the driver.

He was a kind man. She could tell. He walked quietly, as if afraid of waking someone.

“Jérôme,” he said.

“Well, let’s see if we can give you a nice time, Jérôme,” she said.

She sat him on the bench and took off her robe and underwear. She didn’t want to waste any of his time. She could tell how lonely he was. She just prayed that Serge didn’t do anything crazy while she was in there.

“How long were you up north?” she said.

“Two months,” he said. He had a thick French accent.

“Bien alors,” she said.

She put her leg over him, straddling his lap. He had the perfect view of her pussy, smooth and soft and delicious. She reached down and pulled open the lips of it so that he could see everything inside. She knew that was what they liked. That was what they wanted to see.