It was my fiftieth birthday, and my wife had rented a small lounge/restaurant for a party. The invitees were employees and agents of our real estate company. My wife was the owner/broker and never missed an opportunity for a team-building exercise, even if it meant co-opting my special day. I hadn’t realized it yet, but she was a real control freak with an unrealistic (and ultimately self-fulfilling) belief that I was screwing around on her.

The restaurant was a somewhat upscale Italian-themed place with delicious food and drinks, all for reasonable prices. We had rented the place a few times before and the owner had always given us “bulk” pricing, which we greatly appreciated. The owner was a divorced woman who looked delicious in her own right.

It was about 9 PM, everyone had arrived, and the closed sign was on the door, which remained unlocked for fire safety purposes. There had been a few rounds of drinks, mostly the establishment’s signature mimosas, and the food was being served. I had heard some loud motorcycle sounds outside, but we were so close to a major urban artery, and I didn’t give them a second thought. Then the door burst open and nearly twenty of the Dirty Dozen gang stormed in. The first one went to the hostess podium and ripped the phone cord from the wall. Another went to the cash register at the end of the bar and did the same. A third went into the back, presumably searching for more phones to disconnect. The last two took up guard positions at the door looking quite impenetrable.

A few of our people made various sounds, but my wife went into attack mode. “How dare you? Who do you think you are? You are not invited. Leave immediately!” As she addressed the interlopers in the top of her voice, she was moving rapidly and threateningly toward the closest one. I’ve seen this woman, armed with only a ballpoint pen, go after a large surveyor wielding a chain saw as she intended to defend a tree. Turned out, he was only lopping off the top few inches of a fence post so his transit could see over it. She could be stupidly fearless.

He was over twice her size, both in height and bulk. When she was just inches from him, looking pretty much straight up, they glared at each other for a few moments. Then he grabbed her shoulders, spun her around as he leaned over, grabbed her right tit with his left hand, and reached under her dress with his right. “For a loud-mouthed bitch, you got an okay body. We’re gonna have some fun, cunt.” That brought gasps and protests from our guests, but I noticed nobody moved.

Two of the bikers moved toward Anna, a small, Puerto Rican of mid-30s, single mom. She had a cute face and body, small tits, but no noticeable belly swell from carrying her son who was now in his early teens. “You kinda small. Think you can handle us both at once?” Anna’s naturally darkish skin seemed to pale under the glare of their sneers. She’d always had a “party girl gone straight” air about her and I wondered just how hot her Latina blood ran.

Janet, another agent, moved to Anna’s side, but that only served to attract the attention of three more bikers who moved to surround her from the rear. Janet was early forties, bleached blonde, voluptuous but sagging body that had seen too much sun, covered in clothing meant to teasingly reveal her ample assets while hiding other areas which were a little too ample for an aging woman still desperately clinging to her twenties. The man behind her reached around and hefted a breast in each hand, lifting and kneading them through the cloths of blouse and bra. “I’m looking forward to fucking these,” he laughed. Janet tried to squirm away, but the other two men each grabbed an arm. The one behind her continued, “Yeah, bitch, I’m going to titty-fuck you and cum in your mouth. I bet you swallow, don’t you?” Janet shook her head back and forth, making negative sounds. My impression of her was that she was probably more show than go. Not that she was a prude, like my wife, but I never got the sense that she had an adventurous libido. It was more that she was trying to attract a mate with her plumage.

Pamela, the oldest woman agent there and former owner of the office, was a trophy wife of a much older and very wealth man who she’d married for his money. She was in her mid-sixties, also clinging to her younger years, and also dressed revealingly. She had once had a dynamite body, and what remained was still fine to look at. I had a sense that she’d be willing and eager to do whatever was required to achieve her goal.

Meanwhile, my wife, Brenda, was standing frozen in mortification as the biker crushed her right tit in his left hand while the hand under her skirt was moving like he was finger-fucking her. Oh, my poor, old-school Christian-inhibited wife. I had a strong idea of what was going on in her head. She was a weird mix of inhibitions and repressed sexuality. She loved me going down on her and loved her ass being fingered and fucked, but otherwise, it was straight missionary. She wouldn’t even kiss me after I’d gotten her off with my mouth and my facial hair was drenched in her wetness. Personally, I loved her flavor and scent and feel. Sometimes, I’d push her beyond her limits, giving her samples of herself which she reluctantly tolerated. A couple of times, I wet my dick in her, then had her suck it clean. Oh, she hated it, so she seemed. But whenever I’d push her, she’d ultimately climax much harder and longer than when we remained within her boundaries. She had deeply repressed kinks that she enjoyed but refused to admit. I suspected that the biker’s fingers were getting drenched.

The biker who went into the back room returned with the restaurant’s owner, Helen. Like Janet, she was mid-forties but was childless and had not spent so much time in the sun, so her skin was much younger appearing. She was about Janet’s height, too, around 5’8” with large breasts, narrow waist, and flaring hips. Unlike Janet, she dressed to accent but not display. Everything properly and tastefully covered, yet under tight enough clothing to show shapes and curves. Right now, those curves were tucked, kicking and screaming, under the right arm of a hefty biker not much bigger than her.

Following him were three more bikers herding the restaurant crew ahead of them. Cook, busboy, and dishwasher, all Mexican men. “Fuck!” the head of the gang swore when he saw them. His expression said he was considering ending them, just to reduce the witness count. That didn’t bode well for any of us. “Motherfucking, goddamnit!” He stood there staring over them into the mirror behind the bar, thinking. “Toofee, Candyass, get some shit to tie these fuckers up and someway to blindfold them so I don’t have to poke their eyes out.” The Mexicans cringed at that. Well, they understood English and the biker boss noted with a loud sigh. They should not have reacted at all. The two guys came back with zip ties and dirty t-shirts which they used to bind, blindfold and gag the three.