Chain - Heartlands Motorcycle Club

I pick up the leash and then move her to walk in front of me, watching her fucking incredible ass for days twitch and sway as we go.

“To your right.”

I sidestep around her and push the door the rest of the way open.

“Wow again.” She nods as she enters and I close the door behind us and turn the lock, drawing her eyes, then they come back to mine. “Your place isn’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Uh, a party house. Mattresses on the floor, walls spray painted, lawn furniture…”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“After the dungeon, it’s a welcome surprise.”

“Here’s the deal.” I point toward the bathroom. “Door stays open. I’ll take your leash off, but the collar stays. There’s towels in there and I’m going to watch, no negotiation.”

Her eyes dilate, and she blinks a few times as I see the wheels turning in her head. “Look but don’t touch? That’s the deal?”

“Remains to be seen.” I unclick the leash from the metal collar as she stands for a beat and I see nipples pressing out on her shirt while cum seeps from the tip of my cock, making my boxers sticky.

I sniff, nodding toward the shower, and she gives me a wry smile before easing her way through the door, turning the water on and turning around.

“Least I can do is give you a good show…” She winks, pulls the black shirt from her waist, up over her head and my heart nearly comes through my chest wall.

Chapter Seven

Meadow

You’d think I had a side gig as a stripper, the way I peeled my clothes off playing it up for Chain.

You’d also think I had some level of experience tantalizing men. When I got out of Africa after my parents were killed, I’d just turned eighteen. I got a small inheritance but I had no other family and my schooling was life, not books so getting a real job wasn’t happening.

I taught myself simple cons at first. Taking from assholes and bullies mostly then working my way up to bigger fish and better change. It’s been three years and it’s become my life. I don’t feel good about it, but I certainly don’t feel bad.

As well as running cons, I learned playing to men’s weakness when it comes to the fairer sex is part of the game. I know how to use my body, my eyes, my mouth in ways…but I never give anything up. I dangle the prize, make them want, make them wait, but never actually give.

But I’m giving to Chain. I’m naked under the streaming hot water, running my hands over myself like I’m in some cheap porno, playing with my tits as I lean my head into the water, arching my back.

But it’s turning me the fuck on. I’m no innocent. I’ve been with a couple guys, but it’s been years, and they never made me feel close to as turned on as I am with Chain—and he’s not even touched me.

When he’s around, even the last three days when he would be the one that came in the basement room, I felt alive. A humming energy wrapped itself around me and as pissed as I was to be kept like a prisoner, something about him made me feel safe.

And wet.

He’s cool, collected, composed. But I can see him watching me for the moment, the steam not yet covering the glass walls. His eyes are following my hands as he sits up, oddly straight in the desk chair situated in the doorway of the bathroom.

I feel so feminine. It’s not my norm for sure. In fact, I never gave too much consideration to my sexual nature. Guess it took a kidnapping to bring out my inner stripper.

I’ve never felt the raw masculinity that Chain emanates. He’s confident, not arrogant. Unique and unapologetic.

It’s an intoxicating mix and add the beard, bod, tats and blue eyes…all I can seem to think about is how he would be in bed.

Rough, I bet.

But in just the right way.

I bring my hands up to rub the slick soap around my neck, toying with the metal collar which should infuriate me but instead it only adds to the deep pulsing between my legs.

He’s a biker. I’m sure I’m nothing but a pain in the ass, or a piece of one, but for whatever reason, that doesn’t seem to have any dampening effect on my arousal.

But it’s more than just being turned on. My heart sort of does this thing when he looks at me. It clicks and it’s hard to breathe. When he was feeding me, gawd, fantasies of not just sex but of life with him crept into the seams between the horror of the dungeon room and the situation I’d gotten myself into.

I glance through the now steamed glass wall of the shower. Chain’s house is unexpected. Not huge, a sort of easy bungalow set back on some acreage on a dirt road in the less populated part of Seneca. Outside it’s neat, put together with a stone apron on the bottom and greyish-brown wood siding on the top half.