Chapter 23: Bandidos

The sun dipped low as our convoy rumbled into the dusty lot of a rundown motel on the outskirts of a sleepy town, the kind with faded signs and cracked sidewalks. Harleys lined up like a steel wall, claiming half the parking spaces, engines ticking as they cooled. The guys scattered—some vanishing into the squat rooms with their wives or girlfriends, arms slung around waists, while others headed straight for the neon-lit pub next door, the air thick with the promise of beer and brawls. Rex gripped my arm, steering me toward the pub, my body still humming from the day’s ride, the chains under my jacket tugging at my piercings with every step.

Outside the pub, the gravel crunched under our boots, and there it was—a scruffy male donkey tethered to a post, munching on tufts of dry grass in the fading light. Its mottled gray coat was dusty, but what caught my eye, what made my breath hitch, was the massive cock dangling between its hind legs like a fifth limb, thick and veined, swaying heavily as it shifted. A flush crept up my neck, heat pooling low despite the exhaustion clinging to my bones.

Inside, the pub was a haze of smoke and low chatter, wooden beams overhead and sticky floors underfoot. Our crew pushed through the door, but the mood shattered the second we spotted them: the Bandidos, rivals with their leather cuts emblazoned in red and white, a pack of about fifteen, more Mexican and Latin American faces among them, tattoos snaking up necks and arms. The air crackled—hands dropping to knife hilts, chains rattling, a pistol glimpsed under a jacket. ‘Pinche gringos,’ one snarled, eyes narrowing at our patches. ‘You Angels think you own every shithole town?’ Another spat slurs, voices rising in a storm of threats: ‘Motherfuckers gonna bleed tonight.’ Fists clenched, chairs scraped back, the fight teetering on the edge like a lit fuse.

Rex stepped forward, his broad frame cutting through the tension, voice steady and low. ‘Easy, brothers. No need for blood on this floor. We’re all just passing through.’ He scanned the room, then locked eyes with their leader, a stocky guy with a scarred jaw. ‘How about we cool it with some entertainment? Something to share.’ He turned to me, unzipping my jacket in one fluid motion and shrugging it off my shoulders. Cool air hit my naked skin, tattoos gleaming under the dim lights—’Whore’ etched across my cheek, ‘Slut’ on my forehead, ‘Public Cum Dump’ sprawling over my chest. I stood there, bald head shining, piercings glinting, labia still laced with the Ben Wa balls inside, the butt plug a constant pressure. The Bandidos’ stares burned, lust replacing fury, murmurs rippling through them. ‘Yeah,’ their leader grunted, a smirk twisting his lips. ‘Show us what that puta can do.’ Agreement spread, weapons easing back as the idea took hold.