Chapter 10: Taken for a Ride

Spent in the parlor, they dressed, but not me. ‘Ride time.’ Outside, Harleys rumbled in the lot, chrome gleaming under the streetlights. The gang had swelled, word must have spread fast among the brothers, drawing in more riders from nearby chapters. Now it was a full procession: thirty, maybe forty bikes idling like beasts, engines growling low, exhaust fumes curling into the night air. Leather-clad men straddled their machines, vests patched with the Hell’s Angels skull, women perched behind some on bitch seats, all eyes turning to me as Rex and Jake hauled me out, naked and freshly tattooed, freshly fucked.

‘Can’t have our prize slut flopping around unprotected,’ Rex barked, grabbing a full-face helmet from his saddlebag. It was black, anonymous, the kind that swallowed my features whole. He jammed it over my head, buckling it tight under my chin, the visor snapping down to shield my eyes. No one would recognize me now, not with my face obscured, even though my ink-fresh skin was exposed for the world to see. My long black hair was stuffed inside, ponytail tucked away. Naked except for the helmet, I stood there shivering, arms crossed over my tiny breasts, the new tattoos itching under the cool breeze.

But they weren’t done prepping me. Jake smirked, holding up two massive toys from his truck. Thick, black dildos, each as long as my forearm and ridged for maximum stretch, with bases flared into suction cups. ‘Gonna make this ride memorable.’ Rex snatched them, slathering the first with lube right there in the lot, the slick sound obscene amid the revving. He bent me over his bike’s tank, ass out toward the crowd, and without warning shoved the first into my pussy. I gasped into the helmet, the girth splitting my swollen lips, filling me to the hilt. The base ground against my clit. There was no mercy for the second. He spread my cheeks, the ‘Anal Slut’ tattoo winking at the onlookers, and rammed the anal plug in deep. It burned, stretching my ring around its veined length, the dual fullness making my knees buckle.

‘On the tank, whore.’ Rex hoisted me up, positioning me straddling the tank, legs splayed wide over the thick motorcycle fuel tank. The suction bases of the toys stuck firmly to the fuel tank. Rex revved the engine and I gasped, the engine’s growl translating to relentless vibration inside me, teasing the walls of my pussy and asshole. Cum from the parlor still leaked around the edges, mixing with fresh arousal as my body clenched involuntarily, my back arching in ecstasy. The gang whooped, engines roaring to life in a thunderous wave. Rex gunned his throttle, the surge sending shockwaves through the dildos, intense vibrations that made me jolt, muffled moans escaping into the helmet.

We peeled out first, the procession snaking behind like a metal serpent. Thirty, forty bikes thundering in formation, two abreast down the wide streets, headlights cutting the dark. Wind whipped my bare skin, chilling the drying cum and piss crusting my thighs. The helmet on my head dulled my senses but made my laboured breathing impossibly loud in my ears, the deafening roar of the engine. Every pothole bounced me, the tank hard under my ass, plugs shifting deeper with each jolt, vibrations ramping up on straights. Rex’s free hand roamed constantly, groping my tits, pinching the ‘Cum Dump’ and ‘Free Use’ ink until I whimpered. He’d slide down, fingers probing the plug bases, twisting them to grind against my spots, or slap my mound, making the ‘Please Fuck Me’ tattoo sting. ‘Hold tight, slut—gonna feel every mile.’ His other hand worked the bars, weaving us through traffic, but his gropes never stopped, kneading my flesh like owned property.

Strangers gawked from sidewalks. Pedestrians freezing, jaws dropping at the naked girl helmeted and plugged, riding exposed on the lead bike. Whistles pierced the roar, middle fingers flipped, one guy yelling ‘Ride that bitch!’ from a porch. Cars honked, swerving, but the gang owned the road, cops nowhere in sight. My heart pounded, humiliation burning hotter than the vibrations coiling in my gut. The dildos vibrated mercilessly in me, in tune to the engine’s roar, low growls on cruises, frantic shakes on accelerations, building pressure in my core, tipping me over and over and over, right there in public.

The route twisted through town, past quiet suburbs with picket fences and glowing porch lights, the facade of normalcy mocking my exposure. Then, the church loomed. The white-steepled beacon of community where Mom and Dad dragged me every Sunday. Services in starched collars, hymns about purity, Dad’s sermons on temptation as the pastor’s daughter proxy. Tonight, its doors spilled light from an evening prayer group, dozens of parishioners milling outside under the floodlights.