M𝐢r𝐚’𝐬 𝐇i𝐠h𝐰a𝐲 𝐇u𝐬t𝐥e: 𝐑o𝐮g𝐡 𝐑i𝐝e𝐬 𝐚n𝐝 𝐑e𝐚p𝐞r’s H𝐞a𝐭

The highway stretched like a fucking lifeline, my silver BMW E21 humming beneath me, the engine growling with every tap of my sneaker on the gas. I’d just come from an auction two hours out of the city, my wallet lighter but my hustle heavier after snagging a ‘70s Dodge Charger and a ‘90s Toyota MR2—both rough around the edges but screaming potential for a fat flip once I got my hands dirty. The sun was bleeding orange into the horizon, painting my pale ivory skin through the open window, my long, wavy hair whipping across my heart-shaped face. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview—brown eyes with long lashes, full pouty lips twitching into a smirk. My light-washed denim jacket hung open, sleeves rolled up to show off a turquoise beaded bracelet and a jangling charm bracelet on my wrist. The sheer floral top—pink and white—clung to my perky A-cup tits, teasing the curve of my chest, while my frayed denim short shorts hugged my plump ass and shapely thighs, leaving my long, toned legs bare down to my white sneakers with pink-gray accents. At 5’6” and 125 pounds, I knew I looked like a fucking snack, and I owned it.

The road was quiet, just me, the E21’s purr, and the buzz of a good deal in my veins. I was picturing the Charger’s V8 roaring back to life after a rebuild when three figures stepped onto the shoulder ahead, arms waving. My gut screamed trouble, but I slowed, figuring I could talk my way out of whatever shit they were pulling. I pulled over, gravel crunching under my tires, and rolled down the window, my pouty lips set in a cool line. Three white guys, mid-20s, closed in fast, their eyes hungry in a way that made my skin prickle. The leader—stringy black hair, acne scars pitting his gaunt face, brown eyes glinting—leaned close, his breath sour. “Nice ride, babe,” he said, grinning like he’d already won. His buddies flanked him: one with a buzzcut, gray eyes, and a silver lip ring that caught the fading light; the other lanky, with a patchy brown beard and green eyes that darted over my body like I was meat.

“Step out,” Stringy snapped, flashing a switchblade. My heart kicked up, but I kept my face blank, sliding out of the car, my sneakers hitting the dirt. My denim jacket slipped off one shoulder, the floral top shifting to show the swell of my small tits. Buzzcut moved first, his hands on me before I could blink, groping my chest through the sheer fabric. “Fuck, these tits are cute,” he muttered, his fingers rough, pinching at my nipples. I tried to shove him off, but Lanky grabbed my wrists, twisting them behind me, his other hand squeezing my plump ass through the shorts. “She’s got cash, bet on it,” he growled, his beard scraping my neck as he dug into my back pocket, pulling out the $350 I’d stashed. Stringy snatched my purse from the passenger seat, yanking out the iPhone Darius had given me—my fucking lifeline—and my car keys.

“Give that back, asshole,” I spat, twisting against Lanky’s grip, my long legs kicking uselessly. Buzzcut laughed, his hand sliding down my thigh, fingers brushing the hem of my shorts. “This slut’s got fire,” he said, then shoved me hard. My ass hit the ground, dust coating my thighs, my denim jacket half-off now, floral top riding up to show my flat stomach. Stringy hopped into my E21, revving it like a prick who didn’t know what he had. “This baby’s ours now,” he sneered, tossing my purse into the dirt. Lanky let me go, and they peeled out, my silver BMW disappearing down the highway, taillights mocking me.

I sat there, my brown eyes burning, but I choked it down—crying was for suckers. My plump ass stung from the fall, my shorts bunched, and my tits heaved under the floral top as I caught my breath. I stood, brushing off my legs, my pouty lips trembling with rage. Those fuckers thought they’d broken me, but they didn’t know shit. I’d get my car back, my cash, my phone—everything. The highway was dead now, and hitchhiking was a bust. Cars roared past, drivers eyeing my curves—my ass bouncing as I walked, my long legs gleaming—but no one stopped. Guess a pretty girl with a tight body screamed trap out here. My jacket hung crooked, the floral top damp with sweat, clinging to my tits like a second skin. I kept moving, sneakers scuffing, my charm bracelet jingling with every step.

Dusk settled, the air cooling against my pale skin, when the growl of engines cut through the quiet. Two bikes rolled up, chrome flashing under the last light. The lead rider killed his engine, pulling off his helmet to reveal a face I knew—Crank, that grizzled biker from the Rusty Nail, his brown eyes squinting as he clocked me. He was in his 40s, white, bearded, tattooed, his leather vest worn over a faded tee, jeans hugging his thick legs. “Mira? What the fuck you doing out here, girl?” he asked, his voice rough, like he’d smoked a pack already.

The guy beside him swung off his bike—a matte-black 2008 Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide, all sharp angles and menace, with high handlebars, blacked-out wheels, and a skull-painted air cleaner. He stood 6’2”, lean and muscled, his loose blonde hair falling to his shoulders, brushing sharp cheekbones and a square jaw dusted with a short beard. Piercing blue eyes flicked over me, half-hidden behind sunglasses he slid off slow, revealing a weathered face that screamed road and trouble. Skull and snake tattoos curled over his arms, vanishing under a dark t-shirt, his black leather vest flashing “Iron Reapers” patches—a reaper clutching an iron chain. Faded jeans clung to his thighs, scuffed boots planted wide, a silver chain dangling at his belt. “Who’s she?” he asked Crank, his voice low, like gravel over whiskey, sizing me up with a look that made my thighs clench.

“Name’s Mira,” Crank said, scratching his beard. “She’s good people. Helped me dodge some heat once.” He turned to me. “Mira, this is Blaze. Ethan Ryder, but call him that and he’ll kick your ass.”

I straightened, my denim jacket slipping to show the curve of my shoulder, my floral top catching the light on my perky tits. “Hey, Blaze,” I said, my pouty lips curling just enough to tease, my brown eyes locked on his blues. “Got fucked over back there. Three pricks jacked my car—silver BMW E21—plus $350 and my phone. Left me high and dry.” My voice was steady, but my hands shook slightly, charm bracelet jingling.

Blaze’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he leaned against his bike—Hell’s Fang, Crank called it, its pipes still ticking from the ride. “Describe ‘em,” he said, his tone all business, but there was a spark in his gaze, like he was already planning to break heads. I ran it down: Stringy’s pitted face and greasy hair, Buzzcut’s lip ring and twitchy stare, Lanky’s patchy beard and roaming hands. Blaze spat into the dirt. “Fucking leeches from the suburbs. Small-time punks who think they’re hard. I know their hole.” He jerked his head toward Hell’s Fang. “Get on. We’re handling this.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I swung my leg over his Harley, my denim shorts riding up to flash my shapely thighs as I settled behind him. My hands slid around his waist, fingers brushing the hard muscle under his t-shirt, my small tits pressing against his back through the floral top. His leather vest smelled like oil and smoke, and I felt the silver chain at his belt against my wrist. “Hold tight, darlin’,” Blaze said, and the bike roared to life, the vibration pulsing through my plump ass, sending a shiver up my spine. Crank’s bike growled beside us, and we tore down the highway, wind ripping at my hair, my long legs hugging the bike’s sides.

The ride was twenty minutes, and I leaned into Blaze, my lips close to his ear to cut through the engine’s rumble. “So, you always this quick to play hero, or am I special?” I teased, my voice light, testing him, my fingers tightening on his waist.

He laughed, a deep, rough sound that vibrated through me. “Ain’t no hero, Mira. Just hate seeing good people fucked over.” His head tilted slightly, blonde hair catching the wind. “You’re calm as hell for someone who just got rolled. Most’d be shaking.”

I smirked, my thighs shifting as we hit a curve, my ass sliding against the seat. “I’ve seen worse than a few dipshits with a knife. Gotta keep my head if I’m gonna get my shit back.” My brown eyes caught his in the side mirror, his blues flicking over my heart-shaped face, my pouty lips parted slightly. “What’s the Iron Reapers’ deal?” I asked, steering the talk. “You guys kings out here?”

“Close enough,” Blaze said, his voice steady. “We’re a brotherhood. Run our own game—bikes, deals, whatever keeps us free. Clubhouse is home, out where the city can’t touch us. Been riding with Crank for years; he’s solid. Rest of the crew’s family too.” He paused, glancing back as we slowed at a turn. “You? What’s a girl like you doing flipping cars and walking highways alone?”

I laughed, my tits bouncing slightly against him. “Hustling, same as you. Got out from under some bullshit back home—parents who didn’t get me. Now I’m making my own way. Cars, cash, whatever it takes.” My charm bracelet clinked, my floral top fluttering in the wind, showing a sliver of my pale stomach. Blaze’s silence felt like respect, maybe curiosity, and I liked the weight of it, the way his body felt under my hands—solid, alive, dangerous. My ass tingled from the bike’s rumble, my thighs flexing, and I knew I wanted to know him deeper, see what made him tick.

We rolled into a shitty suburban sprawl, houses sagging like they’d given up. Blaze pointed to a garage where my E21 sat, silver paint gleaming under a flickering bulb. “That’s their spot,” he said, cutting the engine. Crank pulled up beside us, both of them drawing pistols from their vests, the reaper patches on their leathers looking deadly now. “Stay behind me,” Blaze told me, his blue eyes hard, all warmth gone. I nodded, my sneakers quiet on the pavement, my denim jacket flapping, floral top clinging to my tits as I followed, heart pounding but my smirk still there. Whatever went down next, I was ready to take back what was mine.

The suburban street was a shithole, all cracked pavement and dying lawns, the kind of place where hope packed up and left years ago. My silver BMW E21 gleamed in the open garage ahead, its curves mocking me under a buzzing fluorescent light, like it knew I’d crawl through hell to get it back. Blaze and Crank moved like wolves, pistols drawn, their “Iron Reapers” vests dark against the dusk. Blaze’s blonde hair caught the glow, his blue eyes sharp as he glanced back at me. “Stay close, Mira,” he said, his voice low, a growl that sent a shiver through my plump ass. I nodded, my sneakers silent on the asphalt, my light-washed denim jacket flapping open, the sheer floral top clinging to my perky A-cup tits. My frayed denim shorts hugged my shapely thighs, my long legs flexing as I kept pace, my charm bracelet jingling softly. My brown eyes burned with focus, pouty lips set—those fuckers were about to learn who they’d messed with.

Crank didn’t hesitate. His boot hit the door, wood splintering like a cheap promise, and they stormed in, guns raised. I followed, heart pounding but my smirk intact, my dark wavy hair bouncing past my shoulders. The three pricks were sprawled in a dingy living room—Stringy on a sagging couch, Buzzcut chugging a beer, Lanky counting my $350 like he’d earned it. My iPhone sat on a coffee table, next to my car keys, glinting like a taunt. “Hands up, you fucking leeches!” Blaze roared, his Harley rumble turned deadly, his pistol trained on Stringy’s pitted face. Crank had Buzzcut in his sights, the biker’s brown eyes cold. The room froze, beer dripping from Buzzcut’s chin, Lanky’s hands trembling mid-count.

“Shit, man, we didn’t—” Stringy started, but Blaze stepped forward, cracking the pistol across his jaw. Blood sprayed, a tooth skittering across the floor. “Shut the fuck up,” Blaze snarled. “You thought you could jack her shit and walk?” I darted to the table, snatching my phone and cash, my fingers brushing the keys before yanking them up. Stringy’s eyes flicked to me, and I leaned close, my floral top shifting to show the curve of my tits. “Big mistake, asshole,” I hissed, pocketing my stuff, my ass swaying in those shorts as I stepped back.

Crank hauled Buzzcut off the couch, slamming him against the wall, the guy’s lip ring glinting as he whimpered. “P-please, we didn’t know she was with you,” he stammered, piss staining his jeans. Lanky tried to bolt, but Blaze grabbed his patchy beard, yanking him to the floor. “Stay down,” he growled, his boot on Lanky’s chest. I stood by the door, my long legs braced, watching Blaze and Crank work—fists and boots turning the robbers into a bloody mess. Buzzcut’s nose cracked under Crank’s knuckles, Stringy curled up as Blaze’s fist met his gut, and Lanky sobbed, clutching his face. “Mira’s under Reaper protection,” Blaze said, his voice ice. “Touch her again, and you’re fucking dead.”

I felt a rush, my pale ivory skin prickling, my pouty lips curling into a grin. My E21 was mine again, my cash and phone back where they belonged. Blaze glanced at me, his blue eyes softening for a split second, like he saw the fire in me and liked it. “Let’s roll,” he said, holstering his pistol. Crank gave Buzzcut one last kick, and we walked out, my sneakers crunching glass, my ass bouncing with every step. Outside, I slid into my BMW, the leather seat cool against my thighs, my denim jacket bunched around my elbows. Blaze mounted Hell’s Fang, his matte-black Harley growling, while Crank’s bike idled beside him. “Follow us to the clubhouse,” Blaze said, his beard twitching with a half-smile. “You earned a drink, darlin’.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in,” I said, my brown eyes locked on his, a spark flaring in my chest. I wanted to know Blaze—his edges, his heat, the way he moved like he owned the world. My E21 purred to life, and I trailed their bikes, the highway stretching into the night.

The ride was half an hour, my BMW hugging curves as Blaze’s high handlebars cut through the dark, Crank’s bike a shadow beside him. The clubhouse was a beast of a warehouse, tucked deep in a pine-choked nowhere, bikes lined up out front like a steel army. Neon buzzed over the door, “Reapers’ Den” in red, and the air smelled of oil, weed, and freedom. Inside, it was alive—leather couches worn soft, a bar stacked with whiskey and beer, pool tables scarred from years of fights, a jukebox blasting Metallica. My sneakers echoed on the concrete, my floral top catching eyes as my tits bounced, my shorts showing off my long legs. My denim jacket hung open, charm bracelet glinting, and I felt every stare—hungry, curious, some wary.

Blaze led me in, his hand brushing my lower back, sending a jolt through my plump ass. “Meet the family,” he said, his voice warm now, gesturing to the crew. Tank, a bald Black guy in his 40s, with a gut and a booming laugh, clapped my shoulder. “Girl, you got balls rolling with Blaze,” he said, offering a beer. Sparrow, a wiry white dude in his 30s with a mohawk and green eyes, smirked, racking a pool game. “Heard you got jacked. Tough break,” he said, not unkindly. Doc, a gray-haired white guy in his 50s, scars crisscrossing his knuckles, nodded from the bar, his blue eyes sharp. Hawk, a lean Latino in his 30s with a buzzcut, and Fang, a stocky white guy in his 40s with a beard, raised their bottles. Reaper, a quiet Black dude in his 20s with dreads, just watched, sizing me up.

Tank’s girlfriend, Lena, a curvy Latina in her 30s with red lipstick and tight jeans, slid me a tequila shot. “You look like trouble, chica,” she said, winking, her hoop earrings catching the light. Sparrow’s girl, Jess, a blonde white chick in her 20s with a crop top and too much mascara, leaned close. “Love your top,” she said, eyeing my floral fabric like she’d steal it. I laughed, downing the shot, the burn settling in my stomach. “Thanks, Jess. Gotta keep it cute, right?” My pouty lips curved, my brown eyes scanning the room, landing on Blaze by the bar, his tattoos flexing as he poured a whiskey.

I mingled, beer in hand, my ass swaying as I danced to the music, my long legs drawing glances. Lena grilled me about flipping cars—my Charger and MR2 waiting for a rebuild—and I spun stories of auctions and greasy garages, my charm bracelet jingling as I gestured. Jess dragged me to the pool table, where Sparrow bet me a drink I couldn’t sink a shot. I leaned over, my floral top riding up to show my pale stomach, my shorts tight on my thighs, and nailed it, smirking as he cursed. Tank roared, slapping the table, and I felt at home, the Reapers’ chaos matching my own.

But Blaze kept pulling my focus. He leaned against the bar, his blue eyes tracking me, his blonde hair loose, beard framing a jaw I wanted to bite. I sauntered over, my tits bouncing under the sheer top, my shorts hugging my ass like a second skin. “You gonna babysit that whiskey all night, or you got something to say?” I teased, leaning close, my pouty lips inches from his, my brown eyes daring him.

He grinned, setting his glass down, his fingers brushing my turquoise bracelet. “You’re trouble, Mira,” he said, his voice low, like he was tasting the words. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand, his calluses rough against my pale skin, and led me outside to a shadowed corner behind the clubhouse, the air cool on my legs. Pines loomed, stars cutting through the dark, and he lit a joint, passing it over. The weed hit soft, loosening my shoulders, and we talked—bikes, the road, the way he’d rebuilt Hell’s Fang from scrap. “Took me a year,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Every bolt, every pipe. She’s my soul.”

I laughed, my floral top shifting as I leaned against the wall, my tits pressing forward. “Sounds like my E21. Fought like hell to get her back.” My thighs brushed together, my ass tingling from the ride, and I felt bold. “Thanks, Blaze. For stepping up.” My voice softened, my long lashes framing my eyes as I looked at him.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, stepping closer, his boots scuffing dirt. “Night’s young.” His hand found my waist, sliding over my denim jacket, and I tilted my head, kissing him hard. His lips were rough, tasting of whiskey and weed, his beard scraping my heart-shaped face. My hands gripped his leather vest, feeling the muscle beneath, my tits pressing against his chest. His fingers dug into my plump ass, pulling me closer, and I moaned into his mouth, my thighs trembling in those shorts.

I pulled back, breathless, my brown eyes locked on his blues. “Blaze, wait—I’m trans,” I said, my voice steady but raw. “Cock, balls. You need to know.”

His eyes widened, sunglasses long gone, but he didn’t flinch. “No fucking way,” he said, then laughed, warm and deep. “Mira, you’re a goddamn goddess. Don’t give a shit what’s between your legs.” He cupped my face, kissing me again, deeper, his tongue claiming mine, and I melted, my pale skin flushing, my ass grinding against his hand. “Come inside,” he whispered, his breath hot on my neck. “Got a spot we can… talk.”

I nodded, my pouty lips parted, my heart hammering. “Lead the fucking way,” I said, my voice husky, ready for whatever he’d give me. He took my hand, pulling me back into the clubhouse, past the bar and pool tables, toward a door in the back, my sneakers squeaking, my floral top damp with sweat, my thighs aching for what was coming.

Blaze’s hand was a fucking anchor on mine, his calluses scraping my pale ivory skin as he pulled me through the clubhouse, past the haze of weed and whiskey, the jukebox’s metal riffs fading behind us. My sneakers squeaked on the concrete, my light-washed denim jacket flapping open, the sheer floral top clinging to my perky A-cup tits like a tease. My frayed denim shorts hugged my plump ass, my shapely thighs brushing together, long legs flexing with every step. My dark wavy hair bounced past my shoulders, my brown eyes locked on Blaze’s broad back, his “Iron Reapers” vest a dark promise. My pouty lips parted, breath hitching, my charm bracelet jingling as we hit a narrow hall. My tiny cock twitched in my panties, tight balls aching already—he hadn’t even touched me yet, and I was fucking burning.

He kicked open a door at the hall’s end, revealing a small room—bare except for a cot with a thin mattress, a scratched wooden chair, and a single bulb flickering overhead. The air smelled of leather and stale beer, a gritty edge that matched the heat in Blaze’s blue eyes. He shut the door, the lock clicking, and turned to me, his blonde hair loose, beard framing a smirk that made my thighs clench. “Just you and me now, darlin’,” he said, stepping close, his boots heavy on the floor. His tattoos—skulls and snakes—flexed on his arms, his dark t-shirt stretched tight over muscle, that silver chain at his belt glinting like a dare.

I leaned back against the door, my floral top riding up to show a sliver of my flat stomach, my denim jacket slipping off one shoulder. “You gonna keep talking, or show me what you’ve got?” I teased, my voice husky, pouty lips curling. My brown eyes flicked over him, heart pounding—Blaze was trouble, and I wanted every fucking inch of it.

He laughed, low and rough, closing the gap until his chest brushed my tits, his hands finding my waist. “You’re a mouthy little thing,” he growled, fingers digging into my denim shorts, grazing my plump ass. I tilted my head, kissing him hard, my full lips hungry, tongue sliding against his. He tasted like smoke and sin, his beard scraping my heart-shaped face, and I moaned, my long legs trembling. His hands roamed, one sliding up to cup my tit through the floral fabric, thumb circling my nipple until it hardened. “Fuck, these are perfect,” he muttered, breaking the kiss, his breath hot on my neck.

I grabbed his vest, yanking him closer, my tits pressing against him, my tiny cock straining in my panties. “Get this shit off,” I said, tugging at his t-shirt, my charm bracelet clinking. He grinned, pulling back to strip, his vest hitting the chair, t-shirt peeling off to reveal a chest dusted with blonde hair, abs carved from years on the road. His tattoos wrapped his shoulders, a reaper inked over his heart, and I licked my pouty lips, wanting to trace every line. My hands went for his belt, the silver chain rattling as I unbuckled it, his jeans dropping to show black boxers stretched over a bulge that made my ass clench.

“Hold up,” he said, his voice thick, grabbing my denim jacket and sliding it off, tossing it to the floor. His fingers hooked under my floral top, pulling it over my head, my dark hair spilling free. My perky tits bounced, nipples pink and stiff, and he groaned, palming them, his thumbs rough. “Goddamn, Mira, you’re fucking gorgeous.” I smirked, stepping out of my sneakers, my long legs bare as he knelt, unbuttoning my denim shorts. He yanked them down, my thong—a lacy black scrap—barely covering my tiny cock and tight balls. His blue eyes widened, a flicker of shock crossing his face, and I froze, my pale skin flushing.

“Told you I’m trans,” I said, my voice steady but raw, my brown eyes searching his. “You still in?”

Blaze’s shock melted into a grin, his hands gripping my thighs, thumbs brushing my tight balls through the thong. “Fuck yeah, I’m in,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’re perfect, cock and all.” He kissed my stomach, his beard tickling, and I laughed, relief mixing with heat. My tiny cock twitched, two inches hard, as he peeled off my thong, leaving me naked, my plump ass swaying, long legs spread slightly. He stood, kicking off his boots and boxers, and I gasped—his cock was thick, eight inches, veiny, with a fat head, balls heavy beneath. My pouty lips parted, my ass aching to feel him, but first, I wanted a taste.

I sank to my knees on the cold floor, my shapely thighs spread, my small tits jiggling as I settled on the cot’s edge, Blaze standing before me. His cock bobbed inches from my face, precum beading at the tip, and I licked my lips, my brown eyes locked on his blues. “Fuck, you’re big,” I said, my voice a purr, one hand wrapping around his base, fingers barely meeting. His shaft was warm, pulsing, and I stroked slow, feeling every vein, my charm bracelet glinting as I moved. My other hand cupped his balls, heavy and tight, rolling them gently, and he groaned, his hand tangling in my dark hair.

“Suck it, Mira,” he growled, his hips shifting, and I didn’t need telling twice. I leaned in, my pouty lips brushing his tip, tasting salt before parting wide, taking him in. My tongue swirled around the head, flicking the slit, and he cursed, his grip tightening. I sucked deeper, my lips stretching, his thickness filling my mouth, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged softly, spit drooling down my chin, but I didn’t stop, bobbing slow, my long lashes fluttering as I looked up at him. His blue eyes were dark, hungry, his beard framing a jaw clenched with need. “Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered, his other hand cupping my heart-shaped face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.

I hummed, the vibration making him twitch, my tiny cock leaking onto my thigh as I worked him. My hands moved—one stroking his base, the other squeezing his balls, nails grazing just enough to make him hiss. I pulled back, lips popping off his tip, a string of spit connecting us, and lapped at his shaft, tracing veins with my tongue, slow and sloppy. “You like this, huh?” I teased, my voice muffled, sucking his head again, harder, my perky tits bouncing as I leaned forward. My ass swayed, plump cheeks flexing, and I felt his eyes on me, drinking in every inch of my pale skin.

“Keep talking, and I’ll fuck your throat raw,” he warned, his voice rough, and I grinned, taking the challenge. I swallowed him deeper, my throat relaxing, nose brushing his blonde pubes as I deep-throated him, gagging but holding it, spit soaking my chin and dripping onto my tits. He groaned, hips bucking, fucking my mouth slow, his cock sliding over my tongue, filling me until I could barely breathe. I moaned, my tiny cock throbbing, my tight balls aching as I sucked harder, lips tight, tongue working his underside. My hands gripped his thighs, nails digging into his tattoos, and he cursed, pulling my hair, guiding me faster.

“Shit, Mira, you’re a fucking pro,” he said, his voice strained, and I pulled off, gasping, my pouty lips swollen, spit glistening on my pale skin. I stroked him, slick with my saliva, my brown eyes teasing. “Not done yet,” I said, diving back in, sucking his balls one by one, my tongue rolling over them, wet and warm, while my hand pumped his shaft. He growled, his hand slapping my ass lightly, the sting making my plump cheeks jiggle, my tiny cock leaking more. I took him back in my mouth, bobbing fast now, my long legs trembling, thighs slick with sweat and precum. My floral top and shorts lay crumpled on the floor, my naked body his to claim, and I fucking loved it.

I slowed, teasing, my lips kissing his tip, tongue flicking lazy circles, drawing it out. “Fuck, don’t stop,” he begged, his voice cracking, and I smirked, sucking deep again, my throat tight, spit pooling on the floor. My perky tits brushed his thighs, nipples hard, and I felt his cock pulse, warning me he was close. I pulled back, stroking him slow, my pouty lips parted, brown eyes daring him. Blaze’s blue eyes were dark, his blonde hair damp, tattoos flexing as he gripped my dark wavy hair, his eight-inch cock glistening with my spit. My pale ivory skin flushed, my tiny cock leaking onto my shapely thighs, tight balls aching on the cot’s edge, my plump ass swaying, naked and ready, long legs spread wide.

“On your back, Mira,” he growled, his voice raw, pushing me down, the mattress creaking under my 125 pounds. I sprawled, my long legs splayed, perky A-cup tits heaving, my tiny cock—two inches hard—twitching against my flat stomach. My brown eyes locked on his, pouty lips parted as he knelt, his hands hooking under my thighs, lifting my plump ass high. My pale skin prickled, my heart-shaped face flushed as he spread my cheeks, his beard brushing my inner thighs, blue eyes hungry on my tight hole. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, his tongue darting out, lapping slow at my rim, sending a jolt through my tight balls. I moaned, my long legs trembling, toes curling, my charm bracelet forgotten on the floor with my denim jacket and floral top.

His tongue swirled, wet and rough, teasing my asshole, circling the sensitive skin before pushing in, stretching me slow. “Shit, Blaze, that’s good,” I hissed, my perky tits bouncing as I arched, my pale skin gleaming with sweat. He groaned, the vibration hitting my core, his hands gripping my plump ass, fingers digging in, bruising me sweet. Spit dripped down my crack, soaking the cot, and he tongue-fucked me deeper, his beard scraping my thighs, making my tiny cock leak a steady drip. I rocked my hips, grinding against his face, my shapely thighs clamping his head, my brown eyes rolling back. “Fuck, don’t stop,” I begged, my pouty lips trembling, my long legs locking him in place as he sucked my rim, then plunged his tongue in again, fast and relentless.

Blaze’s fingers joined, one circling my hole beside his tongue, slick with spit, easing in to stretch me further, pleasure spiking through my tight balls. “Goddamn, you taste like sin,” he mumbled, his voice muffled, his other hand pinching my nipple, my tits jiggling under the dim bulb. I cursed, my pale skin slick, my plump ass clenching around his tongue and finger, the burn mixing with heat. He alternated long, sloppy licks with deep thrusts, his tongue curling inside me, hitting nerves that made my tiny cock throb, my long legs shaking like I’d snap. “You’re fucking killing me,” I whined, my hands clawing the cot, my heart-shaped face twisted with need. He slowed, teasing, his tongue lapping lazy, drawing it out until I was a writhing mess, spit pooling beneath my ass, my perky tits heaving, my brown eyes pleading for more.

He pulled back, his beard glistening, blue eyes dark as he stood, his thick cock bobbing, precum beading. “Ready for me, darlin’?” he asked, stepping between my thighs, my long legs still spread, my plump ass raised on the cot’s edge. I nodded, my pouty lips parted, my tiny cock twitching as he gripped my hips, his fat head nudging my spit-slick hole. “Fuck me, Blaze,” I gasped, my pale skin flushed, my perky tits trembling. He pushed in, slow, his eight inches stretching me, the burn making me moan, my tight balls aching as he sank deep, his balls pressing against my ass. I arched, my shapely thighs wrapping his waist, my brown eyes locked on his blues, feeling every vein as he held still, letting me adjust, his hands rough on my thighs.

Then he thrust, steady at first, pulling out halfway and sliding back, his cock grazing my prostate, sparks shooting through me. “Fuck, that’s it,” I moaned, my long legs tightening, my tiny cock leaking onto my stomach, my perky tits bouncing with each snap of his hips. He leaned down, kissing my pouty lips sloppy, his beard scraping, his tongue claiming mine as he fucked me harder, the cot creaking loud. “So fucking tight,” he growled, his hands sliding to my tits, pinching my nipples, making me curse, my pale skin reddening. I rocked against him, my plump ass meeting his thrusts, pleasure coiling tight, my brown eyes hazy as he pounded my core, his balls slapping my ass, wet smacks filling the room. “Harder, you fucker,” I demanded, and he obliged, slamming deep, his cock hitting my prostate relentless, my long legs shaking, my tiny cock throbbing, so close but not there yet.

He pulled out, sudden, leaving me gasping, my hole clenching empty, but he flipped me fast, my perky tits pressed into the cot, my plump ass raised high, shapely thighs spread wide. “On all fours, Mira,” he ordered, his voice rough, kneeling behind me, his hands spreading my cheeks, his cock nudging my stretched hole. My brown eyes glanced back, pouty lips parted as he slapped my ass, the sting making me moan, my pale skin blooming red. “Fucking take it,” he growled, thrusting in, one hard push burying his eight inches, my moan muffled in the mattress, my tiny cock swinging beneath me, tight balls bouncing. My long legs trembled, my dark wavy hair spilling over the cot as he gripped my hips, fucking me doggy-style, his hips slamming against my plump ass, his cock dragging over my prostate with every stroke.

I pushed back, fucking myself on him, the stretch burning sweet, pleasure spiking through my tight balls. “Shit, Blaze, wreck me,” I hissed, my perky tits scraping the mattress, my shapely thighs flexing as I met his thrusts, his balls slapping my ass loud. He yanked my hair, pulling my head back, my pouty lips gasping, my brown eyes tearing as he pounded harder, his cock filling me raw. “You love this cock, don’t you?” he growled, spanking my other cheek, the crack echoing, my plump ass rippling, my tiny cock leaking onto the cot. I moaned, my pale skin slick, my hole clenching tight, pleasure coiling tighter, my long legs barely holding me up. He leaned over, his chest against my back, kissing my neck, his beard rough, fucking me relentless, his cock hitting deep, making me scream his name, my heart-shaped face twisted with need.

I pulled forward, his cock slipping out, and turned, pushing him onto his back, the cot groaning. “My turn,” I said, my voice husky, straddling his hips, my long legs bracing, my plump ass hovering over his glistening cock. My perky tits bounced, my tiny cock hard against his stomach, tight balls grazing his skin as I gripped his shoulders, my brown eyes locked on his blues. I lowered slow, his fat head stretching my hole, filling me deep, my pouty lips moaning as I sank down, his hands guiding my hips, my pale skin glowing. “Fuck, you’re huge,” I gasped, rocking slow, grinding, his cock hitting my prostate, pleasure sparking through my tight balls. I picked up speed, my shapely thighs working, my plump ass bouncing, the cot creaking wild, my dark hair swinging, my perky tits jiggling as I rode him cowgirl, hard and desperate.

His hands roamed—one squeezing my ass, the other jerking my tiny cock, his thumb rough, making me shudder. “Come for me, Mira,” he growled, his blue eyes burning, and I did, my tight balls pulsing, my tiny cock spurting ropes across his abs, my moan ripping free, my plump ass clenching his cock tight. I slumped forward, panting, my perky tits against his chest, my pale skin sticky, but he flipped me again, fast, my long legs over his shoulders, my plump ass raised, my brown eyes wide as he thrust in, relentless, his cock pounding my prostate, chasing his edge. “Fuck, Blaze, give it all,” I begged, my pouty lips swollen, my hands clawing his back, nails digging into his skull tattoos, my shapely thighs locked tight.

He fucked me missionary, brutal, his hips a blur, his balls slapping my ass, my tiny cock twitching, building again. My pale skin bruised, my dark hair tangled, my perky tits heaving as he leaned down, kissing me sloppy, his tongue deep, his beard scraping. I wrapped my slender arms and long legs around him, pulling him deeper, my tight balls drawing up, and I came again, weak spurts spilling between us, my moan lost in his mouth. He groaned, his cock pulsing, flooding my insides with hot cum, his thrusts slowing as he pumped me full, dripping down my plump ass onto the cot. We lay there, wrecked, my pale skin slick, my dark hair tangled, my perky tits pressed against his chest as he held me, his cock softening inside me. “Fucking hell, Mira,” he muttered, kissing my forehead, his blue eyes soft now, blonde hair damp with sweat. I laughed, weak, my pouty lips brushing his neck, my long legs tangled with his. “Worth the ride,” I whispered, my brown eyes closing, exhaustion claiming me. I fell asleep in his arms, the cot creaking softly, my tiny cock and tight balls nestled against him, safe for once.

Morning hit like a slap, sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, the room smelling of sex and leather. Blaze was up, pulling on his jeans, his tattoos glinting as he grinned at me. “Get up, darlin’. I make a mean breakfast.” I stretched, my plump ass sore, my long legs unsteady, my pale skin marked with bruises and dried cum. My floral top and denim shorts were a mess on the floor, so I grabbed Blaze’s t-shirt, slipping it on, the fabric dwarfing my perky tits, hanging past my thighs. My brown eyes twinkled, pouty lips smirking as I followed him to the clubhouse kitchen, my charm bracelet jingling, dark hair a wild mess.

He cooked—eggs, bacon, toast—on a griddle, the Reapers’ crew trickling in, Lena winking at me, Tank laughing about my “walk of shame.” I ate, perched on a stool, my shapely thighs crossed, Blaze’s hand brushing my back, his blue eyes warm. “You’re trouble,” he said, low, and I grinned, my pale skin glowing. “You love it,” I shot back, my pouty lips greasy with bacon, my brown eyes daring him.

We finished, and he walked me to my E21, parked among the bikes, my Dodge Charger and Toyota MR2 hopefully waiting for my hustle back in the city. I slid into my car, Blaze leaning on Hell’s Fang, his Harley gleaming. “Come back soon,” he said, his voice rough, blue eyes holding mine. “We’ve got unfinished business.”

“Count on it,” I said, my pouty lips curling, my long legs shifting as I started the engine. I peeled out, his bike roaring beside me to the city’s edge, my heart pounding, my plump ass still tingling from his cock. We parted with a nod, my brown eyes lingering in the rearview, knowing I’d ride with Blaze again, ready to fuck and fight my way through whatever came next.