Ridin' Dirty (Diablo MC Erotic Motorcycle Club Biker Romance)

  Ridin’ Dirty

  by

  Ruby Winchester

  All rights reserved.

  Ridin’ Dirty

  Published by Ruby Winchester

  Copyright 2014 Ruby Winchester

  Book Design by Ruby Winchester

  Cover Image Copyright 2014 Vladimirs Poplavskis - Fotolia.com

  used under a Standard Attribution License.

  ***All characters are over 18 and fictional***

  I’m not a good girl.

  That’s the way these stories always begin. A good girl wanders into the wrong neighborhood and chooses the wrong bar. She sits down on the wrong barstool and chats up the wrong man. It’s all very sad and tragic, the story of a good girl gone wrong.

  That was never me.

  When that good girl walked in, I was the one lining up the shots, a lime in my lips and a line of salt across my ample cleavage. When a wayward hand slapped my ass and pulled me down onto his lap, I didn’t squeal like a schoolgirl and the only squirming I did was to get closer to the prize inside those dark jeans.

  Good girls don’t follow the Diablo MC. Good girls don’t let the man they want pass around other girls like a cigarette and trade them like a kid’s baseball card collection. Good girls don’t enjoy it.

  Glad I never wanted to be a good girl.

  ***

  When a girl wants to feel the rumble of an engine between her legs and the press of worn leathers against her body, she takes herself to Hades. It’s easy for a woman to walk through the door and settle herself on a bar stool. She’ll lean against the scarred bar and rest her round tits against her arms, putting them on display for anyone who might be looking.

  And they’re all looking. You don’t walk into a place like this as a stranger without having every eye focused on you. She’ll order a beer or, if she’s feeling daring, a shot of whiskey. She’s here because she wants a taste of the danger. Suburban life has gotten boring and her limp-dicked college boyfriends don’t make her wet anymore.

  Sometimes she waits for them to come to her, hard nipples straining against a too-tight shirt. Sometimes she chooses one of the men at random, picking one closer to her own age, as though they were equals. She sidles up to him and smiles, hoping she picked one in a receptive mood. If she’s bold or crazy enough, she doesn’t wait for the invitation and climbs right onto his lap and lets him feel what she isn’t wearing under her miniskirt.

  If she chooses the wrong one, she ends up dumped on the floor, jeers of “Get off me, slut” echoing in her ears. She doesn’t understand the dangerous game she’s playing. She might end up with a bruised face and a wounded ego if she picks wrong. She’ll run out and go back to the college boys and nurse her wounded pride.

  If she picks right, she’ll grind against worn leathers and rough denim and feel the bulge grow beneath her. He’ll push up her skirt, putting her shaved pink pussy on view to the bar, unzip and slide in. She may be on top, but this is his house. She’ll ride him, rocking and bouncing, making no effort to hide what she’s doing from the onlookers.

  Her tits sway with her movement, and she hears the hoots and cheers of the other members. He doesn’t touch her beyond a grope of her tits. Making her come isn’t his job. He rips her shirt and her round, perfect tits slip out into his hands. Across the table, the eyes are greedily eating up her body, wondering who she’ll be passed to next.

  Underneath her, he will tense and groan and fill her trembling pussy with his hot come. He doesn’t know her name. He doesn’t care.

  He pushes her off him. Maybe he says, “Thanks for the ride” with a smirk as he tucks his cock away. She staggers away on lust-weakened legs, come coating the insides of her thighs. Maybe she leaves. Maybe she doesn’t.

  Maybe she selects another from the crowd and drops to her knees on the sticky bar floor, mouthing his straining erection through dark denim before unzipping and revealing her prize. The tables are small and she doesn’t have much room to move. She traces her tongue up and down the length of his shaft while working him with her hand. He’s slippery already from pre-come and saliva, and she takes the head into her mouth, sucking with the pressure that made her so popular with her high school boyfriends.

  She moans around his cock, wishing for just a moment that she was more than a wet, willing hole to these men. She has no illusions though. She sucks harder and salt explodes across her tongue. She swallows and strokes him through the aftershocks. Maybe she pulls back a bit to soon and ends up with a few ropes of pearl-white come across her face. She lifts her head up from under the table and wonders who’s next.

  All the while, I watch from my seat in the back as this good girl lets herself get gangbanged by my club. If I had a cock, I’d probably be right there with them. When the club gets bored or she decides she’s had enough, she staggers out into the cool night air. No one stops her.

  She doesn’t come back.

  The good girls don’t want to be a part of this life. They want a story, a nasty, come-soaked night that they can look back on while their boring, perfect husbands fuck them. They want to remember the night they touched something dangerous while they slip their fingers between those wet, pink lips.

  I didn’t get my start as a bar slut. Barely eighteen and I was slinging shots behind the bar. My family was the worst kind of trailer trash, and I’d run off for the city and its promise of a more exciting life before my eighteenth birthday ended. Instead I ended up living out of my old junker car before I wandered into Hades.

  I knew approximately fuckall about being a bartender, but this wasn’t a place where people ordered mojitos. The most complicated drink I ever made was a whiskey and Coke. It didn’t take me long to realize that Hades wasn’t your typical dive bar. Every day, when the sun would dip below the horizon the bikes would line up outside – row after row of gleaming chrome and black paint, the throaty growl of the engine signifying that the Diablos had arrived.

  It was only my third day working when Dax walked in, flanked by three other Diablos. The snarling devil emblazoned on the back of their leather jackets stared at me as he settled into the one large table in the middle of the bar. The table had remained vacant the last two nights, despite the crowds. I quickly realized why.

  In those early days, I kept quiet and listened, soaking up the unfamiliar terms like MC and 1% and colors. Charlie, my boss, emerged from the back room with two cases of beer in his arms. I grabbed one and crouched down to refill the fridge. “Who’s that?” I asked softly. “The one at the big table?”

  Charlie chuckled. “That’s Dax, the MC president. Don’t worry though, you’re a little young for his taste. He likes them with a bit more miles under the hood.” Charlie snorted at his own joke before disappearing into the back again.

  Dax had close cropped dark hair and muscles the strained the seams of his leather jacket. A tattooed ring of flames circled his neck, and I could see the shadows of others through the thin white shirt he wore. A faded scar cut across his cheek, and instead of hurting his appearance, it added an extra edge. This life wasn’t something he was playing at.

  The men who rode with the Diablos were part of the 1% of bikers that weren’t upright and law-abiding citizens. They ran guns and drugs and treated most women like property. They weren’t the kindly bikers that collected toys for orphans. They were criminals, and they owned this city. You can’t blame a girl for wanting to get as close as possible to the source of the power, and it poured off Dax in waves.

  I looked away for a moment, trying not to stare, but my eyes travelled back to him like a magnet. This time
, his cold blue eyes were gazing right back at me. Silently, he crooked a finger at me.

  “Something I can get for you boys?” I asked. Acting like a timid little flower got you nowhere in this world.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Dax drawled.

  “Blanca,” I replied, holding his gaze. I knew I was attractive. My long legs tapered to a thin waist with a flat stomach that came more from being broke than from spending hours at the gym. The tight tank top I wore clung to my round, perky breasts, the word HADES scrawled across them emphasizing my lack of a bra. A wild mane of ebony curls framed my dark eyes. I might be younger than Dax’s usual playthings, but he was definitely looking.

  “Whiskey,” he said. “Four glasses and leave the bottle.”

  They sat, pouring glass after glass. The low din of the bar made it impossible to hear what they were talking about. As the level in the bottle grew lower, some of the tension faded out of Dax. As I passed the table on my way back to the bar, two empty bottles in my hand, Dax’s arm snaked around my waist and pulled me down onto his lap.

  “I like you, Blanca. You look like a girl who can keep her mouth shut.” Mutely, I nodded, wondering where he was going with this. “Charlie can hire whoever he wants, but they don’t stick around unless I approve.” His hand dipped between my legs, cupping my pussy through my cutoffs. I couldn’t hide the low moan that escaped me. Dax leaned forward, pressing his lips against my ear and breathed, “I approve.”

  His companions didn’t bother introducing themselves. Instead, three sets of eyes watched me silently as Dax worked his hand between my legs. I’d been wet from the moment he walked inside, and my nipples stood up like bullets through my thin top.

  One long finger pushed aside the crotch of my shorts and soaking panties to slip inside. That penetration was enough to push me over the edge and wring an orgasm from me. Shaking and whimpering, my hips bucked against Dax’s hand as I rode wave after wave of pleasure, not caring that the entire bar was watching.

  “Charlie,” Dax called, as I slumped boneless against him. “Blanca is taking a break. We’ll be in your office.” Before Charlie could reply, Dax was pulling me to my feet and leading me into the tiny back room Charlie used to do paperwork. The door slammed and I found myself pushed to my knees as Dax unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans.

  “Open your mouth,” he barked as he pulled his impressive length out of his jeans. Easily eight inches long and very thick, Dax had the kind of cock that sex toys were modeled after. I had no doubt that if I didn’t wrap my lips around his cock, I’d be unemployed and out on the street. Women couldn’t wear colors in the MC, and I’d seen too many girls get passed around and fucked every which way in the few days I’d worked here.

  For some reason Dax had decided he liked me enough to let me come first and to take me in private. I opened my mouth wide, feeling my lips stretch around his girth. Inch by inch, I swallowed him down, going agonizingly slowly as I tried not to choke. Dax’s hand tangled in my hair, and I expected him to shove me down, forcing the rest of his length into my throat.

  “That’s a good girl,” he purred, stroking my dark hair as my head bobbed. “That’s right, take it all.”

  Anyone else might have felt used and taken advantage of, being shoved onto her knees in a back room, but having Dax’s cock in my mouth gave me the biggest feeling of power I’d experienced in my short life. This was a man who controlled an entire gang of rough and more than a little frightening men. Guns and money flowed through this bar, all under his watch. Dax ruled the city, but in this moment, I ruled him with my mouth and my tongue.

  I relaxed my throat, fighting my own body’s reactions and winning. I felt Dax’s balls brush my chin as I finally managed to take the full length into my mouth. I cut my eyes upward and saw Dax staring at me with a look of blissed out wonderment on his face. “Fuck Blanca,” he groaned. “If your mouth feels like this, I can’t wait to try your pussy.”

  “Mmmmmm,” I agreed, the noise causing my throat to vibrate around his shaft. Dax bit off a loud moan and tightened his grip on my hair. My throat had gotten used to the stretching, so I picked up speed. My head bobbed in a steady rhythm as I sucked harder.

  “Fuck!” Dax snarled, yanking on my hair to pull me down deeper as he filled my mouth with the salty taste of his come. I swallowed every drop, gradually lessening the pressure as I worked him through the aftershocks.

  I sat back on my heels and let his softening cock slip from my mouth, before gazing upwards and licking my lips. Dax pulled me to my feet. “I am definitely keeping you around, Blanca,” he growled.

  Everything that happened next was a blur. Someone grabbed me and pulled me off Dax, throwing me roughly to the floor. Dazed, I looked up to see Charlie holding a gun on Dax.

  “I’m real sorry about this, Dax, but the Outlaws made me way too good of an offer to turn it down,” Charlie said, cocking the pistol in his hand. “They want your crew gone, but they REALLY want you gone.”

  Literally caught with his pants down, Dax was unarmed. Skinny and squirrelly, Charlie never would have had a chance against Dax in a fair fight, but a loaded .45 had a way of equalizing men. I could see Dax weighing the options of rushing Charlie or trying to reason with him, but precious seconds were ticking away. Then I noticed it.

  Abandoned and forgotten on the floor, just a few feet from me, was a box-cutter. Without pausing to think, a dove forward and snatched it from the floor, popping open the blade and jamming it into the fleshy part of Charlie’s thigh.

  Charlie screamed in surprised agony and lost his grip on the gun. It went off when it hit the floor, the bullet embedding itself harmlessly in the wall. I pressed myself back against the wall, shocked and more than a little horrified at what I had done. Charlie yanked the blade out of his leg and a near torrent of blood followed. Before either of us could react, he half-ran, half-staggered out the back door.

  The three men Dax had arrived with burst through the door, guns drawn. “What the fuck was that?” the largest one asked, scanning the room for the threat.

  “Charlie works for the Outlaws now. Apparently, they want us dead,” he added casually. Obviously threats like this were nothing new to him, but my heart was still pounding. “Blanca here is pretty handy with a box cutter.” Dax helped me to my feet. I tried to keep my tough girl face on, but my trembling hands gave it away. Whether I meant to or not, I had definitely declared my allegiance today.

  “Rico, Charlie went out the back. I think she might have nicked an artery, so he isn’t going to get far.” With a nod, Rico and one of the others hurried out the back door.

  I sat down at Charlie’s desk, not trusting my shaky legs to hold me up, and tried to listen to what Dax was saying to the third man, but it flowed over me like water. I didn’t need to know the ins and outs of the MC to know I had just participated in the start of a war.

  ***

  That’s how it all began. With Charlie gone, the bar needed a new owner, and Dax made it very clear that anyone who had a problem with that owner being me had to take it up with him. Needless to say, there weren’t any takers.

  My days became filled with inventory and shipments, counting cases of beer and cases of guns off the same trucks. I took over Charlie’s old apartment above the bar, after I let a few MC members toss the place for any valuable information of how deep Charlie had gone with the Outlaws.

  They found a stash of cash way larger than the amount Charlie would have made off the bar and his work with the MC. Good old Charlie had been skimming from the club and figured that he’d get caught eventually, so he gambled on a big payday with the hit on Dax. Charlie never was a very good gambler.

  He was found in an alley a few days after the showdown. I had come close to finishing him off with the box-cutter, but he had managed to make it back to his new friends. The Outlaws weren’t too happy about Charlie failing in his job and letting Dax know they were out after him. Bye-bye Charlie, and then the war really started.


  My bar was a safe haven for all the Diablos, and I quickly learned the names and faces of the entire crew. While Charlie had been more interested in hiding in his back room and counting the money, I knew they way to make myself valued as more than a pretty pair of tits by the club was to stay visible and knowledgeable. My teachers had always told me that I could really make something of my life if I would just apply myself. Somehow, I don’t quite think this was what they meant.

  The three men I met with Dax on that first day were Dax’s most trusted allies, and they quickly grew to be my own as well.

  Rico was the muscle. Six foot five with black hair and black eyes, Rico cowed most people with just a glance. A ragged scar cut across the length of his face, adding even more menace to his appearance. He rarely spoke, and when he did, the object of his wrath usually backed down fast.

  Despite all that, Rico was actually the only one of the four with a wife and a kid. Life as an MC wife was. . . weird. All the women seemed to tolerate and even expect that their men would have a fair amount of meaningless sex with whatever bar skank they might find. As long as that bar skank never messed with their standing in the club, nothing was said. Jealousy wasn’t tolerated, and neither were revenge fucks. An unattached woman could spread for any guy she wanted, but if you were caught with your dick in someone else’s old lady, you might end up losing it.

  Rico’s wife was a tiny redhead named Gina. Barely five feet tall, she seemed to be the only person who wasn’t even a little bit afraid of Rico. I never met their son, but in the few unguarded moments where Rico had mentioned Danny, he obviously cared for the boy and wanted to keep him out of the life until he was old enough to pick up his father’s colors.

  Ray was Dax’s right hand and a champion shit-talker. For every word Rico said, Ray had fifty more to add. He’d grown up with Dax and that brought with it the kind of loyalty you can’t buy or intimidate your way into. They were as close as brothers, and I never doubted that Ray would take a bullet or more if Dax asked him too.