In her first five years of life, she had seen way too much casual sex all around her. It meant nothing to any of the participants except for power or a quick release. It wasn’t until many years later she realized none of what she saw had any meaning. None of it meant anything to the people involved.
The Originals who forced women didn’t do it for the sex, especially since they had their choice of volunteers who would fuck them without being forced.
No, they did it because they could.
Because they liked the fight.
Or the fear.
Or the sense of power it gave them.
Or because they thought they were teaching a female a “lesson” on which gender was stronger.
Or smarter.
Or whatever their fucked up reasoning was.
But to most of them, the sex meant nothing. It was a quick bang and a release of their load until they picked their next target.
For the women... Well, Jemma didn’t want to judge. They had their reasons and so did the men. If a woman took multiple dicks voluntarily, that was on her. If she was forced to take them, that was on the men.
Jemma never remembered any of the Originals showing any mercy to a woman who was crying or begging to be released. Or not conscious, whether by the excessive use of drugs or alcohol, or even being beaten.
Not once.
They figured if a female showed up at the warehouse, they only showed up for one thing. To be used and abused.
That’s what they got.
The only women who received some level of respect were the ol’ ladies. But all the ol’ ladies had to get their foot in the door one way or another.
Which made her think of Angel and her false hope of becoming an ol’ lady.
Jemma always wondered how many bikers Trixie had to do, what abuse she had to put up with, until she finally got to wear her “Property of Ox” cut. Once she wore that, she was protected. But Jemma was sure it took a hell of a lot to earn it.
Once a woman was claimed by a brother, it was her choice who she did and when. If her ol’ man allowed it.
They usually didn’t. And if they got caught cheating, there was hell to pay.
Unlike all the cheating their ol’ men did. That was a given. That was expected. They could stick their dick into any woman they wanted and their ol’ ladies couldn’t say shit. If they did, it usually went badly for them. So, they accepted it. For the most part.
Jemma shoved her XC40 into Park, hit the ignition button to shut off the engine and sat in the dark interior, her eyes on the still figure sitting outside the temporary mobile home.
He had waited up for her.
He’d never done that before. Even when she came back at an earlier hour.
He also never waited outside. He’d be crashed on the couch or actually passed out in bed, if Dyna was asleep.
But he sat there looking way too relaxed in one of those chairs. When she looked closer, she could see the glow of one of the hand-rolled cigarettes he smoked as he lifted it to his lips. She saw the lit end flare brightly as he took a deep inhale.
Those movements were the only ones he made. He reminded her of a lion lying in wait to pounce.
She considered her options. Get out and hope he didn’t stop her from heading directly to bed? Or drive away and try again even later?
Neither was going to happen. She wasn’t a coward, but she was also too tired to continue discussing something she didn’t want to admit to.
Which was just how much he got her blood pumping and her pussy throbbing.
If he kept trying to convince her they could do casual without any fallout, she might break and agree. But fallout always occurred with casual. One reason why she didn’t do it.
Not that she’d had any luck with anything more serious, either.
Her groan filled the interior of the car.
She’d been hanging onto the excuse she “didn’t do casual” by her fingernails, hoping it would help her resist him. But, in truth, no man had stuck in her life. Not because she wanted them to, but because she didn’t.
She wasn’t in a rush to settle down, but she also liked steady. She needed steady in her life. She wasn’t going to get that by letting men in and out of her life or bed, like a revolving door.
However, her answer was not sprawled in that fucking plastic chair.
No, what was sprawled in that chair was her problem.
A big problem she would have a difficult time ignoring.
She sighed, then mumbled a “fuck.” She could start her car and go. And never come back.
The problem in that trailer wasn’t hers. The problem in that chair shouldn’t be hers, either. If she got out of her Volvo, she was making them hers.