I stepped out of the shower,
the hot water having scoured away the last of Gregor’s filth from my pale ivory
skin, the enema leaving me feeling hollow but clean inside. My dark, wavy hair
dripped as I toweled off, catching my reflection in the foggy mirror—brown eyes
with long lashes glinting with a mix of exhaustion and resolve, my heart-shaped
face framed by high cheekbones and full pouty lips that could charm a snake. At
18, a 5’6”, 125-pound trans woman, I was a fucking storm of curves and grit, my
perky A-cup tits and plump ass a weapon I’d learned to wield in this chaotic
city—a sprawling beast that chewed up the weak and spat out the broken.
I slipped into a
loose-fitting cropped white t-shirt, the hem barely brushing my ribs, my small
tits free and braless beneath the soft fabric, nipples faintly visible. Denim
short shorts hugged my shapely hips, the frayed edges riding high so the bottom
of my juicy ass cheeks peeked out with every step, a black G-string nestled
snug between them. I laced up a pair of white sneakers, the laces tight against
my long, toned legs, and styled my damp hair into tight boxer braids, the ends
brushing my shoulders. Grabbing my keys, I headed to my silver BMW E21, the
engine purring as I peeled out toward Rasta Roadhouse, my heart pounding with a
nervous fucking anticipation. A gunfight loomed, and I was ready to dive into
the chaos.
The neon sign of Rasta
Roadhouse buzzed in the distance, reggae beats spilling into the night as I
pulled into the lot. Kemar was already there, leaning against his ‘67 DeVille,
a massive 6’4” mid-30s Jamaican with dreadlocks swinging past his shoulders,
dark eyes sharp with focus, a gold chain glinting against his black tank top.
His muscled frame filled out faded jeans and boots, and that familiar patois
rolled off his tongue like honey as he spotted me. “Yuh ready to roll,
lioness?” he asked, his voice deep and rhythmic, sending a shiver down my
spine.
“Fuck yeah, I’m ready,” I
said, my pouty lips curling into a smirk as I slid out of my E21, my denim
shorts riding up higher, showing off the curve of my plump ass. My brown eyes
locked onto his, lashes fluttering as I adjusted my cropped tee, the fabric
clinging to my perky tits. “Let’s do this, Kemar.”
We climbed into his DeVille,
leaving my E21 behind, the engine rumbling as he pulled onto the road, heading
30 miles out of the city toward the motel rendezvous a mile from the abandoned
factory where Zion’s Blade and Iron Cross were set to make their deal. The city
lights faded, replaced by dark, winding roads, and Kemar’s voice filled the car
as we chatted, his patois a fucking turn-on that made my tiny 2-inch cock
twitch in my G-string. “Yuh lookin’ good, Mira,” he said, glancing at me, his
dark eyes tracing my long legs. “But dis fight, it nah go be easy, yuh know? We
haffi be sharp, seen?”
“I know,” I replied, my voice
low, my heart still racing as I shifted in the seat, my shapely thighs rubbing
together. “But I’m fucking ready, Kemar. We’ll take those bastards down.” His
accent was driving me wild, the way he rolled his words, and I decided to give
him a little treat to ease the tension. I leaned over, my boxer braids
swinging, and reached for his belt, my fingers deft as I unbuckled it, my full
lips parting into a wicked grin. “Let me take your mind off it for a bit,
yeah?”
Kemar chuckled, his deep
voice vibrating through me. “Yuh wild, girl,” he said, but he didn’t stop me as
I unzipped his jeans, pulling out his thick 10-inch cock, the shaft dark and
veiny, the head already glistening with precum. I wrapped my fingers around it,
the heat of him making my tight balls ache as I leaned down, my breath hot
against his tip. “Fuck, Mira,” he groaned, one hand on the wheel, the other
resting on my head as I flicked my tongue over his slit, tasting the salty
precum before swirling around the head, my pouty lips stretching wide to take
him in.
I sucked him slow at first,
my mouth working the tip, lips sliding down his shaft as I hollowed my cheeks,
the wet slurping sounds filling the car. My tongue pressed against the
underside, tracing the thick vein as I bobbed my head, taking him deeper until
his cock hit the back of my throat, making me gag hard. Spit dribbled down my
chin, soaking my cropped tee as I pulled back, gasping, before diving back in,
my throat stretching to accommodate his massive fucking dick. “Suck dat cock
good, lioness,” Kemar growled, his patois thick with lust, his hand tightening
in my braids, guiding me as I worked him, my hands stroking the base, twisting
and pumping in time with my mouth.
I deep-throated him, my nose
brushing his pubes, the musky scent of him filling my senses as I gagged again,
my brown eyes watering, tears streaking down my high cheekbones. I pulled off,
strings of spit connecting my lips to his cock, and I spat on it, my hands
spreading the slick mess as I jerked him fast, my lips sucking hard on the
head. “Yuh fuckin’ nasty, Mira,” he grunted, his hips bucking slightly, the car
swerving a bit as I took him back in, my throat convulsing around him, the wet,
sloppy sounds of my sucking echoing over the engine’s hum. I used every trick I
knew—flicking my tongue, humming to vibrate my throat, swirling my lips—until I
felt his cock throb, his breathing ragged.
“Gonna cum, girl,” he warned,
his voice strained, and I doubled down, my hands squeezing his balls, rolling
them in my fingers as I sucked him deeper, my throat raw and aching. He groaned
loud, his patois spilling out in a rush—“Fuck, yuh too good, lioness!”—and his
cock pulsed, hot cum shooting down my throat, thick and salty, filling my mouth
as I swallowed hard, some dripping past my lips to soak my chin. I kept
sucking, milking every drop, my tongue lapping at his tip as he shuddered, his
hand loosening in my braids. I pulled off, gasping, wiping my mouth with the
back of my hand, my pale skin flushed, my cropped tee a mess of spit and cum.
“Shit, Kemar,” I panted, my voice hoarse, my brown eyes glinting with
satisfaction. “That was fucking hot.”
He laughed, adjusting himself
as he drove, his dark eyes warm. “Yuh a blessing, Mira,” he said, and I
smirked, settling back in my seat, my plump ass sticking to the leather, my
G-string damp with my own precum as we neared the motel.
We pulled into the motel
parking lot, a mile from the factory, the gravel crunching under the DeVille’s
tires. We were the first ones there, the lot empty under the flickering
streetlights. Kemar popped the trunk, revealing a stash of gear, and pulled out
a black bulletproof vest and helmet, his expression serious. “Yuh wearin’ dis,
Mira,” he said, his patois firm, holding them out to me. “Nah takin’ no
chances, seen?”
I rolled my eyes, my boxer
braids swinging as I crossed my arms under my perky tits, the cropped tee
riding up higher. “I’ll look like a fucking dork in that shit, Kemar,” I said,
my pouty lips pursed, feeling embarrassed as hell. But his dark eyes softened,
pleading, and he stepped closer, his massive frame towering over me.
“Please, lioness,” he begged,
his voice low, his hands gripping the vest. “Fi mi peace a mind. Yuh too
precious to lose, yuh know?” His sincerity hit me hard, and I sighed, grabbing
the gear with a huff.
“Fine, you fucking softie,” I
muttered, slipping the vest over my cropped tee, the weight heavy on my slender
frame, and pulling the helmet on, adjusting my braids underneath. Kemar handed
me a UMP45, the submachine gun fitted with a vertical grip, extended magazine,
and holographic sight, making it easier to handle. He showed me how to hold it,
his hands guiding mine, his patois calm as he explained the basics—how to aim,
how to fire in bursts, how to reload. “Yuh got dis, Mira,” he said, his gold
chain glinting as he nodded, and I felt a surge of confidence, my brown eyes
sharp with focus.
Soon, headlights cut through
the dark as Marco and nine of his boys rolled in—Frankie, a lean late-20s
Italian with slick black hair and green eyes; Vinny, a stocky late-20s Italian,
5’8”, 200 pounds, with a buzzcut and broken nose; Sal, a wiry early-30s
Italian, 5’10”, 170 pounds, with a scarred cheek; and six others, all armed
with assault rifles and shotguns, their accent thick as they muttered to each
other. “Ey, Mira, you lookin’ like a fuckin’ soldier, eh?” Frankie teased, his
accent heavy, his green eyes glinting as he adjusted his Beretta.
“Shut the fuck up, Frankie,”
I shot back, my pouty lips curling into a smirk, my long legs shifting as I
leaned against the DeVille, my denim shorts showing off my shapely thighs.
Minutes later, the roar of Harleys announced Blaze, Crank, and Sparrow. Blaze,
a 6’2”, 190-pound white biker, 36 years old, strode over, his loose blonde hair
falling to his shoulders, piercing blue eyes sizing up Marco and his boys, a
short beard framing his square jaw. Skull and snake tattoos snaked across his
muscled arms, his black leather vest bearing “Iron Reapers” patches over a dark
t-shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed boots, a silver chain dangling at his belt.
His matte-black 2008 Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide, Hell’s Fang, gleamed
beside him, its high handlebars and skull-painted air cleaner a fucking beast.
Crank, a 5’10”, 200-pound
white biker in his 40s, had a grizzled beard, brown eyes, and tattoos covering
his thick arms, his leather vest patched with the Reaper’s emblem—a reaper
clutching an iron chain. Sparrow, a 5’9”, 160-pound wiry white biker in his
30s, sported a mohawk, his lean frame tense as he gripped an SMG, his hazel
eyes scanning the lot. They were armed to the teeth—assault rifles, SMGs,
shotguns—and I couldn’t help but notice I looked finer than any of them, my
curvy frame a stark contrast to their rugged bulk, my pale skin glowing under
the streetlights.
The team mingled, Marco’s
boys barking in Italian—“Muoviti, stronzo, we gotta move!”—while Kemar’s patois
rolled smooth, “We haffi set up quick, seen?” Blaze pulled off his helmet, his
blue eyes locking onto mine, and gave the rundown. “We scouted the factory
earlier—nobody’s there yet. It’s a big open space, crates in the middle,
mezzanines and catwalks up top, broken windows all around. Good spots for an
ambush.” Marco nodded, his scarred face hard. “Then we hurry the fuck up and
take positions. Let’s move, capisce?”
We piled into our vehicles,
driving a short distance before hiding them behind a cluster of trees, then
made our way to the factory on foot. The night was thick with tension as we
split into two teams—me, Kemar, Marco, and seven of his boys taking the mezzanines
and catwalks inside the factory, while Blaze, Crank, Sparrow, and two of
Marco’s guys set up outside, ready to shoot through the broken windows. We
settled into our spots, my UMP45 heavy in my hands, my heart pounding as I
crouched on a catwalk, my denim shorts tight against my plump ass, my cropped
tee sticking to my skin under the vest.
The abandoned factory loomed
like a fucking tomb in the darkness, its rusted walls and shattered windows
swallowing the moonlight. I crouched on a catwalk high above the main floor, my
UMP45 gripped tight, the holographic sight glowing faintly as I scanned the
shadows below. Kemar was beside me, his massive frame tense, his dark eyes
sharp as he whispered in his patois, “Stay low, lioness. Dem soon come, seen?”
Marco and his seven guys—Frankie, Vinny, Sal, and four others whose names I
didn’t bother to learn—spread out along the mezzanines, their Italian accents
hushed but clipped as they checked their weapons. “Ey, Sal, you fuckin’ ready
or what?” Marco growled, his scarred face barely visible in the dim light.
Outside, Blaze, Crank,
Sparrow, and two of Marco’s boys had taken positions near the broken windows,
their silhouettes just out of sight. My cropped white t-shirt clung to my pale
ivory skin under the bulletproof vest, my denim short shorts digging into my
shapely hips as I shifted, the bottom of my plump ass cheeks brushing the cold
metal of the catwalk. My boxer braids hung heavy, my brown eyes with long
lashes scanning the factory floor, my heart pounding so loud I swore the
fuckers below could hear it.
The Zion’s Blade crew rolled
in first, their truck rumbling to a stop outside. Eleven of them spilled out,
all Eastern European, their accents thick as they barked at each other, hauling
crates of weapons into the factory. I caught sight of their boss—a stocky
mid-40s white guy, 5’9”, 200 pounds, with a shaved head, cold gray eyes, and a
scar across his brow, his black jacket stretched tight over his broad frame.
“Where the fuck is Gregor?” he snapped, his voice gravelly, his accent dripping
with malice.
One of his goons, a wiry early-30s
guy with a buzzcut and blue eyes, shrugged, dragging a crate inside. “Went to
get a drink, boss. Ain’t seen him since. Phone’s off.” The boss cursed under
his breath, spitting on the concrete floor. “That fuckin’ idiot. Probably drunk
in some ditch. We don’t wait for him—Iron Cross’ll be here soon.”
They stacked the crates in
the center of the factory, the clatter of metal echoing as they pried one open,
revealing assault rifles, grenades, and fucking RPGs—military-grade shit that
could turn a small state into a warzone. My full pouty lips tightened into a
grim line as I adjusted my grip on the UMP45, my long legs tensing beneath me.
The Iron Cross showed up minutes later, ten neo-Nazi bastards rolling in with a
couple of beat-up cars. Their leader, a lanky late-30s white guy, 6’1”, 180
pounds, with a shaved head, green eyes, and a swastika tattoo on his neck,
stepped out, his sneer visible even from my perch. The rest of his crew
followed, all white, mid-20s to 30s, armed with pistols and rifles, their voice
sharp as they sized up the Blade crew.
It was fucking surreal
watching Jews and Nazis do business, their mutual hatred simmering but held in
check by greed. The Iron Cross leader inspected a crate, pulling out an assault
rifle and nodding. “Looks good,” he said, his voice cold. “Let’s see the rest.”
That was our cue. Marco signaled from across the mezzanine, a sharp whistle,
and we sprang the ambush.
I opened fire from the
catwalk, the UMP45 barking as I sprayed bullets down at the fuckers below, my
pale arms steady despite the recoil. Kemar unleashed hell beside me, his
shotgun booming, while Marco and his boys lit up the factory with their assault
rifles, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness. Blaze and his team fired
through the broken windows, their shots precise, catching the Blade and Iron
Cross crews off guard. We dropped ten of them in the first volley—five Blade,
five Iron Cross—their bodies hitting the concrete with wet thuds, blood pooling
beneath them. “Fuck yeah!” I shouted, my voice raw, my brown eyes wide with
adrenaline as I nailed a Blade goon in the chest, his body jerking before he
crumpled.
The survivors scrambled for
cover, returning fire, bullets pinging off the catwalks as I ducked low, my
boxer braids swinging. A shot caught me square in the chest, the impact
throwing me back against the railing, my breath knocked out as I hit the metal
hard. Pain exploded through me, my perky tits aching under the vest, but the
bullet didn’t penetrate. Kemar was on me in a second, his massive hands
grabbing my arms, his dark eyes wide with panic. “Mira! Yuh good, lioness?” he
shouted, his patois thick as he checked me over, his fingers finding the dented
vest. He let out a sigh of relief, his gold chain glinting as he pulled me to
my feet. “Yuh vest save yuh, thank Jah. Let’s finish dis, yuh hear?”
“Fuckin’ right,” I gasped, my
voice shaky but fierce, my pale skin flushed as I gripped my UMP45, my shapely
thighs trembling slightly as I got back into position. Below, the remaining
Blade and Iron Cross goons were fighting back, their shots wild but deadly.
Three Iron Cross bastards tried to bolt outside, but Blaze and his team cut
them down, their bodies dropping in the dirt just beyond the factory doors. I
took aim at a Blade goon hiding behind a crate, a stocky fucker with a
ponytail, and squeezed the trigger, catching him in the shoulder. He screamed,
blood spraying, and Kemar finished him with a shotgun blast to the chest.
The fight was over in
minutes, the factory floor a fucking bloodbath—21 bodies scattered, the air
thick with the stench of gunpowder and death. I’d killed two goons and injured
a few others, my hands steady despite the chaos. Kemar had dropped four, his massive
frame heaving as he lowered his shotgun. Blaze, Crank, and Sparrow had taken
out seven between them—Blaze with three, Crank and Sparrow two each—while Marco
and his boys cleaned up the rest, racking up eight kills. Three of Marco’s guys
and Crank took hits, but nothing serious, just grazes and bruises. My crew had
outkilled theirs, and I felt a surge of pride, my pouty lips curling into a
smirk as I stood, my long legs steady, my cropped tee soaked with sweat under
the vest.
Marco barked orders, his
Italian accent sharp. “Load the fuckin’ crates back on the truck, now! We’re
takin’ ‘em to the warehouse, capisce?” His boys moved fast, hauling the weapons
back to the Blade’s truck, their movements efficient despite the blood on their
hands. Kemar, meanwhile, grabbed a duffel bag from the dead Iron Cross leader’s
grip, unzipping it to reveal stacks of cash. Marco watched, his scarred face
twisting with annoyance as Kemar counted out $200,000—our cut—before handing
the rest over. “You fuckin’ happy now, eh?” Marco growled, but he kept his
peace, knowing a deal was a deal.
Blaze and his boys stripped
the dead of weapons and ammo, their movements quick as they scavenged what they
could. Kemar and I split our reward—$40,000 each, the cash heavy in my hands as
I tucked it into my vest. Sparrow let out a whistle, his mohawk gleaming with
sweat. “Not bad for an hour’s work, darlin’,” he said, his hazel eyes glinting,
and I laughed, my brown eyes sparkling as we made our way back to where we’d
hidden the vehicles, joking despite the blood on our hands.
Kemar helped me pull off the
helmet and vest, my boxer braids swinging free as I handed him the UMP45, my
cropped tee clinging to my perky tits, my denim shorts riding up higher as I
stretched, my plump ass on full display. I was about to climb into his DeVille
when Blaze’s voice cut through, a playful pout in his tone. “Yo, Mira, you
promised to hang with me after,” he said, his piercing blue eyes locking onto
mine, his blonde hair catching the first light of dawn as he leaned against
Hell’s Fang, his matte-black Harley gleaming.
I smirked, my full lips
parting as I glanced at Kemar. “Go on without me,” I said, my voice teasing, my
long legs strutting toward Blaze. “I’m grabbing a drink with the Iron Reapers.”
Kemar nodded, his dark eyes warm as he climbed into his DeVille and peeled out,
leaving me with Blaze, Crank, and Sparrow.
Blaze straddled his Harley,
patting the seat behind him. “Hop on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low
growl, and I swung my leg over, my shapely thighs pressing against his hips, my
hands wrapping around his waist, feeling the hard muscle beneath his leather
vest. Crank and Sparrow roared off toward their clubhouse, but Blaze had other
plans. “Wanna see one of my favorite spots?” he asked, his blue eyes glinting
over his shoulder.
“What is it?” I asked, my
brown eyes curious, my pouty lips brushing his ear as I leaned in, my perky
tits pressing against his back.
“You’ll see,” he said, a
smirk playing on his lips as he revved Hell’s Fang, the deep roar of the engine
vibrating through me as we took off. We rode for a few miles, the cool morning
air whipping against my pale skin, until he pulled over near a tall billboard
on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the rolling hills outside the city. He
parked the bike, and we climbed the ladder to the catwalk, the metal creaking
under our weight as we sat side by side, our legs dangling over the edge.
The sunrise was fucking
breathtaking, streaks of orange and pink bleeding across the sky, the golden
light casting long shadows over the rolling hills outside the city. I felt a
rare moment of peace, a quiet I hadn’t known in weeks, my boxer braids swaying
in the cool morning breeze, my cropped white t-shirt fluttering against my
slender frame, the hem brushing my ribs as I sat on the billboard catwalk, legs
dangling over the edge. My pale ivory skin glowed in the dawn, the bruises from
the night’s fight barely visible in the soft light, my perky A-cup tits faintly
outlined under the fabric, my denim short shorts riding high, the bottom of my
plump ass cheeks grazing the cold metal beneath me.
Blaze sat beside me, his
6’2”, 190-pound frame a solid presence, his arm brushing mine as he shifted,
the contact sending a jolt through me, his tattoos—skulls and snakes—stark
against his tanned skin in the morning glow. His loose blonde hair caught the
light, falling to his shoulders, and his short beard framed his square jaw, the
scruff glinting with flecks of gold. He turned to me, his piercing blue eyes
searching, a storm brewing behind them as he pulled off his sunglasses, tucking
them into his leather vest, the Iron Reapers’ patch—a reaper clutching an iron
chain—staring back at me like a warning.
“What’s the deal with you and
Kemar?” he asked, his voice low, a rough edge to it, a hint of jealousy
sharpening his tone as his blue eyes narrowed slightly, his short beard
catching the light. His question hung heavy between us, the air thickening with
tension, his gaze boring into me like he could see straight through my
bullshit. I felt the weight of his stare, his muscled frame tensing beside me,
his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he was itching to grab
something—maybe me, maybe a fight.
I froze for a second, my
brown eyes with long lashes widening slightly, my heart kicking up a notch as I
registered the challenge in his voice. My full pouty lips parted, a breath
escaping as I turned to face him fully, my boxer braids swinging, my shapely
thighs shifting on the catwalk, the denim of my shorts rubbing against my skin.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended,
my slender frame tensing as I crossed my arms under my perky tits, the cropped
tee riding up to expose a sliver of my ivory midriff. “You got a fuckin’
problem with Kemar?”
Blaze’s jaw tightened, his
blue eyes darkening as he leaned closer, his leather vest creaking, the silver
chain at his belt glinting as he moved. “I ain’t got a problem with him,” he
said, his voice a growl, his gaze flicking down to my lips, then back to my
eyes, his jealousy simmering just below the surface. “But I saw the way you two
were lookin’ at each other back at the motel. All cozy in his fuckin’ DeVille,
suckin’ him off on the way over, huh? You his girl or what?” His words were
laced with accusation, his hand clenching into a fist on his thigh, his tattoos
flexing with the motion, the air between us crackling with unspoken heat.
I bristled, my brown eyes
flashing with defiance, my high cheekbones flushed as I leaned in, my face
inches from his, my breath hot against his skin. “You don’t get to fuckin’
grill me, Blaze,” I snapped, my voice low and fierce, my pouty lips curling into
a sneer as I jabbed a finger into his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath
his dark t-shirt. “Kemar’s been there for me when I was fuckin’ drowning in
this city’s shit—saved my ass more times than I can count, yeah, even sucked
his dick to keep him sweet. But I ain’t his girl, and I ain’t yours either, so
back the fuck off.” My words were a challenge, my long legs tensing as I
prepared to stand, my heart pounding with a mix of anger and adrenaline, the
sunrise forgotten as the tension coiled tighter.
Blaze’s blue eyes flared, his
hand shooting out to grab my wrist, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers
rough against my pale skin as he held me in place, his gaze locked on mine. “I
ain’t backin’ off, Mira,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, his beard
brushing my cheek as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I see
how you move, how you hustle, and I fuckin’ want you—more than he does, more
than anyone. You’re a goddamn wildfire, and I ain’t lettin’ you burn me out.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, my tight balls aching in my G-string, my
tiny 2-inch cock twitching despite my anger, the heat between us shifting from
conflict to something rawer, hungrier.
I yanked my wrist free, my
brown eyes narrowing, my full lips parting as I glared at him, my chest
heaving, my perky tits rising and falling under my cropped tee. But then I saw
the flicker of vulnerability in his blue eyes, the way his jaw softened just a
fraction, and I felt the fight drain out of me, my shoulders relaxing as I
sighed, my voice softening. I laughed softly, the sound light but genuine, my
pouty lips curling into a smile as I reached out, my fingers brushing his short
beard, tracing the line of his jaw. “He’s a loyal friend, Blaze,” I said, my
voice soft but firm, my brown eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet
intensity. “Saved my ass more times than I can count, yeah, but that’s it. I
don’t belong to anyone—I’m my own fuckin’ woman. I hope you’re a loyal friend
too, Blaze, ‘cause I could use more of those.” My words hung between us, a
peace offering wrapped in steel, my long lashes fluttering as I tilted my head,
my boxer braids swaying, my pale skin glowing in the dawn light.
Blaze’s expression softened,
the tension in his frame easing as he nodded, his blue eyes warming, a small
smirk tugging at his lips. “Fuckin’ right I am,” he said, his voice rough but
laced with something softer, his hand reaching out to cup my high cheekbone,
his thumb brushing my full lips, making my breath hitch. And then his lips were
on mine, his kiss hard and hungry, his tongue claiming my mouth as I moaned
into him, my hands gripping his leather vest, feeling the hard muscle beneath
as I pressed my curvy frame against him. We made out passionately, the sunrise
forgotten as our bodies pressed together, the heat between us building fast, my
perky tits squishing against his chest, my shapely thighs straddling his lap as
I surrendered to the fire we’d ignited.
Blaze’s lips crashed against
mine, his kiss a fucking inferno, all teeth and tongue as he devoured me on
that billboard catwalk, the sunrise painting the sky in fiery hues of orange
and gold. I moaned into his mouth, my full pouty lips parting as his tongue
tangled with mine, the taste of whiskey and smoke on him making my head spin.
My pale ivory skin flushed hot, my boxer braids swinging as I tilted my head,
deepening the kiss, my hands fisting his leather vest, feeling the hard muscle
of his chest beneath. At 5’6” and 125 pounds, my hourglass frame pressed tight
against his 6’2”, 190-pound biker body, his tattoos stark against his tanned
skin, his blonde hair brushing my high cheekbones as we made out like fucking
teenagers.
“Goddamn, Mira, you taste so
fuckin’ good,” he growled against my lips, his piercing blue eyes dark with
lust as he pulled back, his short beard scraping my chin, leaving a delicious
burn. His hands roamed my body, one gripping my slender waist, the other
sliding down to cup my plump ass through my denim short shorts, squeezing hard
enough to make me gasp. “Been wantin’ to do this since I saw you in that
fuckin’ parking lot, lookin’ like a wet dream,” he said, his voice a low
rumble, his fingers digging into my juicy cheeks, the bottom of them still
peeking out from my shorts.
I smirked, my brown eyes
glinting with mischief, my long lashes fluttering as I nipped his bottom lip,
my voice teasing. “Then fuckin’ do it, Blaze,” I purred, my hands sliding down
his chest to his belt, the silver chain clinking as I unbuckled him, my fingers
deft as I yanked his faded jeans open. His cock sprang free, a thick 8-inch
beast, curved slightly to the left, the head flushed and leaking precum, veins
bulging along the shaft. I wrapped my fingers around him, the heat of his dick
making my tight balls ache in my G-string, my tiny 2-inch cock twitching as I
stroked him slow, my thumb smearing the precum over his tip.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Blaze
groaned, his head tipping back, blonde hair catching the dawn light as I leaned
down, my pouty lips brushing his cockhead, teasing him with a flick of my
tongue before I sucked him into my mouth, my lips stretching wide around his
girth. I worked him slow at first, my tongue swirling around the head, tasting
the salty precum as I hollowed my cheeks, the wet slurping sounds echoing over
the quiet morning. My hands pumped the base, twisting as I bobbed my head,
taking him deeper until his cock hit the back of my throat, making me gag hard,
spit dripping down my chin to soak my cropped white t-shirt, the fabric
clinging to my perky A-cup tits.
I pulled back, gasping,
strings of spit connecting my lips to his dick as I spat on it, my hands
spreading the slick mess as I jerked him fast, my lips sucking hard on the
head. “You like that, huh? My fuckin’ mouth on your cock?” I taunted, my voice
hoarse, my brown eyes watering as I dove back in, deep-throating him until my
nose pressed against his pubes, the musky scent of him filling my senses.
Blaze’s hand fisted my boxer braids, guiding me as I gagged again, my throat
convulsing around him, the sloppy wet sounds of my sucking driving him wild.
“Fuckin’ hell, Mira, you’re a goddamn pro,” he grunted, his hips bucking,
fucking my throat raw as I choked, tears streaking down my high cheekbones, my
pale skin flushed with the effort.
I hummed around his cock, the
vibrations making him curse, his grip tightening as he skull-fucked me, his
cock slamming into my throat, making my eyes roll back. “Take it, you filthy
little slut,” he growled, his voice rough, and I moaned, my hands squeezing his
balls, rolling them in my fingers as I let him use my mouth, my throat raw and
aching. He throbbed hard, his breathing ragged, and I knew he was close, but I
pulled off with a wet pop, my lips swollen, spit and precum dripping down my
chin as I grinned up at him, my brown eyes glinting. “Not yet, big guy,” I
teased, stroking him slow, keeping him on the edge as he groaned, his blue eyes
burning with need.
Blaze yanked my cropped
t-shirt up, exposing my perky A-cup tits, the cool morning air making my
nipples harden as he growled, “Fuck, look at these perfect little titties.” He
leaned down, his mouth latching onto my left nipple, sucking hard as his tongue
flicked over the sensitive bud, his teeth grazing it, making me arch my back, a
sharp moan escaping my full lips. His hand squeezed my other tit, pinching the
nipple between his fingers, rolling it until I whimpered, the mix of pain and
pleasure shooting straight to my tiny cock, precum soaking my G-string. “Blaze,
fuck, that feels so good,” I gasped, my pale skin prickling as he switched to
my right tit, sucking and biting, his beard scraping my soft flesh, leaving red
marks across my ivory skin.
He worked my tits for what
felt like forever, his mouth relentless, his hands groping and squeezing, my
body trembling as I clutched his blonde hair, my boxer braids swinging with
every shudder. “You like that, huh? My mouth on your fuckin’ tits?” he mumbled
against my skin, his voice muffled, and I nodded, my brown eyes half-lidded, my
shapely thighs clenching together as my tight balls ached with need. He pulled
back, his blue eyes dark with lust, and pushed me down onto the catwalk, the
cold metal biting into my back as he yanked my denim short shorts down, leaving
my G-string in place, the black fabric stretched tight over my tiny cock and
balls.
Blaze spread my long legs
wide, my shapely thighs quivering as he hooked a finger under the back strap of
my G-string, yanking it aside to expose my tight asshole. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he
muttered, his breath hot against my skin as he dove in, his tongue lapping at
my hole, the wet heat of it making me cry out, my hands gripping the catwalk’s
edge. He ate my ass like a man starved, his tongue circling my rim, teasing the
sensitive skin before plunging inside, fucking me with his mouth as his beard
scraped my plump ass cheeks, the burn driving me wild. “Blaze, shit, you’re
gonna make me fuckin’ cum!” I moaned, my voice raw, my pale skin flushed as he
sucked on my hole, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open as he
tongue-fucked me deep, the wet slurping sounds obscene in the quiet morning.
He pulled back, his lips
glistening, his blue eyes wild as he growled, “Not yet, sweetheart. I’m fuckin’
you first.” He pushed me onto my back, my long legs spread wide, my shapely
thighs trembling as he knelt between them, his 8-inch cock hard and leaking as
he pressed the head against my slick hole, my G-string still yanked to the
side. He thrust in slow, the stretch burning as my ass took him inch by inch,
my tight walls gripping his cock as I moaned loud, my brown eyes rolling back,
my full lips parted in a desperate cry. “Fuck, Blaze, you’re so fuckin’ big,” I
gasped, my hands clawing at his shoulders, my cropped t-shirt bunched above my
perky tits, my pale skin slick with sweat.
He fucked me
missionary-style, his hips slamming into me, his cock pounding my ass raw as he
leaned down, his mouth claiming mine in a sloppy kiss, his tongue fucking my
mouth in time with his thrusts. My long legs wrapped around his waist, my white
sneakers digging into his back as he railed me, the catwalk creaking beneath
us, the sunrise glowing behind him like a fucking halo. “You take my cock so
fuckin’ good, Mira,” he growled, his hands gripping my hips, bruising my ivory
skin as he pounded me harder, his balls slapping against my plump ass with
every thrust, the wet smack of our bodies echoing over the cliff.
He shifted us, kneeling as he
straddled my left leg, flipping me onto my left side, my right leg bent around
the right side of his waist, giving him deep access to my asshole. “Fuck, this
angle’s gonna wreck you,” he grunted, his cock slamming into me, hitting my
prostate with every brutal thrust, the pressure building fast as I screamed, my
voice raw, my tiny cock leaking precum onto my G-string. “Blaze, fuck, I’m
gonna cum!” I cried, my pale skin flushed, my boxer braids splayed across the
catwalk as he pounded me relentless, his hands gripping my right thigh, holding
me in place as he fucked me deeper, the pleasure overwhelming.
I came hands-free, my tiny
cock spurting ropes of cum onto my G-string and thigh, my tight balls pulsing
as my ass clenched around his dick, the orgasm ripping through me, my brown
eyes wide, my full lips parted in a silent scream. Blaze groaned, his thrusts
slowing as he watched me cum, his blue eyes burning. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he
muttered, but he didn’t stop, flipping me again, pulling out just long enough
to sit back against the catwalk railing, his cock glistening with my ass juices
as he patted his lap. “Ride me, sweetheart,” he ordered, his voice rough, and I
obeyed, straddling him, my long legs on either side of his hips, my white
sneakers scraping the metal as I lined up his cock with my wrecked hole.
I sank down on him, my ass
taking his 8-inch cock to the hilt, the stretch burning as I moaned loud, my
hands gripping his shoulders, my perky tits bouncing under my cropped t-shirt
as I rode him hard, my plump ass slamming down on his thighs, the wet smack of
our bodies loud in the morning air. “Fuck, Blaze, you feel so fuckin’ good,” I
gasped, my voice raw, my brown eyes locked on his as I bounced, my boxer braids
swinging, my pale skin slick with sweat. He gripped my hips, his hands bruising
my ivory skin, guiding me as I fucked myself on his cock, my tight walls
gripping him, the pleasure building again as he hit my prostate with every
thrust.
“Cum for me again, Mira,” he
growled, his hands sliding up to pinch my nipples through my t-shirt, twisting
them hard as I cried out, the pain pushing me closer to the edge. I leaned
down, kissing him hard, our tongues tangling as I rode him faster, my ass
clenching around his cock, my tiny cock leaking again, the pressure unbearable.
I came hard, my cum splattering onto his stomach, my tight balls pulsing as I
screamed into his mouth, my orgasm shaking me to my core. Blaze groaned, his
cock throbbing inside me as he flooded my bowels with his hot cum, his hips
bucking up, filling me deep as we made out, our lips locked, our bodies
trembling together, the sunrise a distant memory as we lost ourselves in the
heat.
Blaze’s cum leaked out of my
wrecked asshole, dripping down my plump cheeks as I collapsed against his
chest, my pale ivory skin slick with sweat, my cropped white t-shirt bunched
above my perky A-cup tits, soaked with spit and precum from our earlier chaos.
My G-string was a mess, the black fabric sticky with my own cum, my tiny 2-inch
cock and tight balls still tingling from the two hands-free orgasms he’d fucked
out of me. I panted hard, my full pouty lips parted, my brown eyes half-lidded
with exhaustion and satisfaction as I nuzzled into his neck, his short beard
scratching my high cheekbones, the scent of leather and sweat on him grounding
me. His 8-inch cock softened inside me, still buried deep, his cum a warm flood
in my bowels as we lay there on the billboard catwalk, the sunrise now a full
blaze of gold and pink over the hills outside the city.
“Fuckin’ hell, Mira,” Blaze
murmured, his voice a low growl, his piercing blue eyes soft as he stroked my
boxer braids, his fingers gentle despite the roughness we’d just shared. His
blonde hair caught the light, his tattoos stark against his tanned skin as he
held me close, his leather vest creaking under my weight. “You’re somethin’
else, sweetheart,” he said, his hands sliding down to cup my plump ass, giving
it a lazy squeeze.
I smirked, my pouty lips
brushing his jaw as I shifted, his cock slipping out of me with a wet squelch,
more of his cum dripping onto the catwalk. “You’re not so bad yourself, big
guy,” I teased, my voice hoarse from all the screaming, my long legs trembling
as I sat up, straddling his lap, my white sneakers scraping the metal. I pulled
my G-string back into place, the fabric sticking to my cum-soaked skin, and
tugged my shorts up, the denim tight against my juicy ass. My cropped t-shirt
fell back down, clinging to my perky tits, the fabric damp and clinging to my
pale skin as I adjusted my boxer braids, the ends brushing my shoulders.
We cuddled for a good half
hour, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder as we watched the sky shift
from dawn to morning, the air cool against my flushed skin. “This is fuckin’
beautiful,” I said softly, my brown eyes tracing the horizon, my heart finally
slowing after the adrenaline of the fight and the intensity of our fuck. Blaze
nodded, his blue eyes warm as he pressed a kiss to my temple, his beard
tickling my skin.
“Glad you like it,” he said,
his voice rough but tender, his hand resting on my slender waist, his fingers
brushing the curve of my hourglass frame. “Knew you would.” We sat in
comfortable silence, the world below us waking up, the distant hum of the city
starting to creep into the morning. But I wasn’t ready to leave this moment—not
yet.
Eventually, we climbed down
the ladder, my long legs steady despite the soreness in my ass, my shapely
thighs flexing as I followed Blaze to his matte-black 2008 Harley-Davidson Dyna
Super Glide, Hell’s Fang. The bike’s high handlebars and skull-painted air
cleaner gleamed in the morning light, its blacked-out wheels and thick tires
ready to roar. I swung my leg over the seat behind him, my hands wrapping
around his waist, my perky tits pressing against his back as he revved the
engine, the deep rumble vibrating through me, making my tight balls ache all
over again. “Let’s head to the clubhouse,” he said over his shoulder, his blue
eyes glinting, and I nodded, my boxer braids bouncing as we took off, the wind
whipping against my pale skin.
The Iron Reapers’ clubhouse
was a gritty warehouse in the middle of nowhere, its walls covered in graffiti,
the Reaper’s patch—a reaper clutching an iron chain—painted massive on the
side. Inside, the place was alive with the smell of beer, weed, and leather,
Harleys parked in rows, music blaring from a jukebox in the corner. Crank and
Sparrow were already there, nursing beers, their leather vests patched with the
Reaper’s emblem. Crank, the 5’10”, 200-pound grizzled biker in his 40s, gave me
a nod, his brown eyes glinting, his tattoos flexing as he raised his bottle.
Sparrow, the wiry 5’9”, 160-pound biker in his 30s, smirked, his mohawk slick
with sweat, his hazel eyes tracing my curvy frame. “Lookin’ good, darlin’,” he
called, and I flipped him off with a grin, my pouty lips curling as I strutted
in, my denim shorts showing off my plump ass, my cropped t-shirt clinging to my
slender frame.
Blaze led me to the bar, his
hand possessive on my lower back, and introduced me to the club’s president, a
burly mid-50s white guy named Dread—6’0”, 240 pounds, with a shaved head, a
gray beard, and cold green eyes, his leather vest heavy with patches, a massive
skull ring on his finger. “This is Mira,” Blaze said, his voice proud, his blue
eyes glinting as he pulled me close, my shapely thighs brushing his hip. “She’s
the one who led us taking down those Blade and Iron Cross fuckers.”
Dread sized me up, his green
eyes hard but approving as he nodded, his voice a gravelly drawl. “Heard you’re
a fuckin’ badass, girl,” he said, offering me a shot of whiskey, the glass
small in his massive hand. “Welcome to the clubhouse.” I took the shot, the
burn steadying my nerves as I smirked, my brown eyes glinting, my full lips
parting to reply.
“Thanks, Dread,” I said, my
voice smooth despite the hoarseness, my long lashes fluttering as I downed the
whiskey, the heat spreading through me. “Just doin’ what I gotta do to survive
in this fuckin’ city.” He laughed, a deep, booming sound, and clapped Blaze on
the shoulder, his approval clear as we settled in.
We drank and danced for
hours, the clubhouse alive with laughter and music, the Reapers treating me
like one of their own. I grinded against Blaze on the makeshift dance floor, my
plump ass pressing into his crotch, his hands gripping my hips as we moved to
the beat, my cropped t-shirt riding up to show off my slender waist, my boxer
braids swinging with every sway. Crank and Sparrow joined in, their beers
raised as they hooted, the energy infectious as we partied until 10 a.m., the
morning light streaming through the warehouse windows.
I was buzzed, my pale skin
flushed, my body sore but buzzing with adrenaline as I leaned into Blaze, my
lips brushing his ear. “Take me back to the city, yeah?” I murmured, my voice
soft but firm, my brown eyes locking onto his. “You can crash at my place, rest
up. I owe you a proper thank-you for tonight.” My words were laced with
promise, my full lips curling into a wicked smirk as I pressed my perky tits
against his arm, my long legs shifting, my shapely thighs catching his gaze.
Blaze grinned, his blue eyes
dark with heat as he nodded, his blonde hair falling into his face. “Fuckin’
deal, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low growl as he grabbed his keys,
leading me out to Hell’s Fang. The other Reapers catcalled as we left, Sparrow
whistling, “Don’t wear her out too bad, Blaze!” I flipped them off again,
laughing, my boxer braids bouncing as I swung my leg over the bike, my hands
wrapping around Blaze’s waist, my plump ass snug against the leather seat.
We roared out of the clubhouse lot, the Harley’s engine a deep growl as we hit the road back to the city, the city skyline looming in the distance, a jagged beast of steel and glass. The wind whipped against my pale skin, my cropped t-shirt fluttering, my denim shorts tight against my hips as I held onto Blaze, his leather vest warm under my fingers, his tattoos flexing as he rode. My heart raced, not from fear this time, but from the thrill of the night—the fight, the fuck, the victory—and the promise of more chaos to come. I’d survived another round in this fucked-up city, my hustle sharper than ever, my body bruised but unbroken, ready for whatever the city threw at me next.
No comments:
Post a Comment