Page 7 of Bought By the Biker

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YOLANDA

“She’s mine,” growls the gray-bearded silver-haired biker-looking guy wearing a leather vest with patches sewn into the leather, one of which says SKULLS MC, SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS. “How much, Kazi?”

I’m standing in front of three men, one of whom is Kazi, the second this muscular older biker who looks a bit like a silverback gorilla. There’s a third guy, younger, with longish brown-red hair and deep green eyes and reddish stubble covering a strong jaw. He would almost be handsome if he weren’t a perverted asshole like the rest of the guys. He also looks like a biker, but his jacket is unmarked black leather, none of those motorcycle club logos or patches or whatever they call them.

This third biker-guy hasn’t spoken yet.

Not in words, at least.

But he’s saying something with his eyes.

Whispering something with his gaze.

Something that sends tingles up the back of my bare legs.

I shift in my bare feet, curling my toes on the tiles. The floor is black granite, cold and harsh, just like my future. That older Russian woman is even meaner than Kazi. She slapped me twice across the face just for the hell of it, then cursed me out in broken English, calling me an ugly slut and a fat whore, promising me that my buyer will tire of my pussy within weeks and then I’ll be dead, food for the rats in some garbage dump.

Except these two bikers seem to be American, so maybe it’ll be an American garbage dump, comes the gloomy thought. I consider saying something to the bikers, reminding them that hey, you know it’s now illegal in America to buy human beings to use as fuck-holes, right? But I keep my mouth shut. I’ve thought it through, and I know it’s useless to protest or argue or fight while still in Kazi’s possession.

So I’d decided that my best chance to survive was to keep my trap shut, get up on that stage, smile for the perverts, and wait to be bought. Because then at least I’m out of Kazi’s clutches, and maybe I’d have a chance to escape from my buyer.

Hell, maybe I’d even be able to convince my buyer to take what he wants from me and then let me go. The fantasies of freedom had flooded my exhausted mind as I lay bound and gagged in Kazi’s backseat as the Range Rover bumped and bounced towards my unknown future. I’d thought about the millions of women through the ages who’d been stolen by men with power, their pussies taken as prizes. I’d closed my eyes and thought about the very first cavewoman dragged by her hair to some lumbering giant’s cave to be fucked by his meat-club of a cock. I’d imagined those dark ages when invading tribes murdered all the men in the village and stole the women as war brides, keeping them alive because of their precious pussies, their magical wombs, their ability to arouse, their power to give pleasure.

And nothing has changed in two million years, has it, comes the dark thought as I sweep my gaze past the three men gaping at me like I’m an object, a possession, property to be purchased, a tool designed to be used, a toy created for amusement, a hole to put their cocks, a womb to carry their babies.

The last thought almost makes me snort. Maybe a caveman two million years ago was driven by wild instinct to put his throbbing dick in a cavewoman to reproduce. But these modern cavemen don’t want children and families. They’re just monsters drunk on their own power, predators yearning to satisfy urges that are more about violence than sex, twisted pleasure derived from preying on the helpless. They’re filth, and I’d rather die than give birth to any of their monstrous spawn.

Now my angry gaze meets the silent biker’s dark green eyes, and suddenly that strange tingle ripples through me again, up the back of my thighs and around to the front, making my pussy clench beneath my panties like it’s got a mind of its own, is reacting to something my brain hasn’t picked up yet, hasn’t understood yet, hasn’t accepted yet.

That I want him to buy me.

“You cannot afford my price to buy her outright,” Kazi is saying to the silver-haired older biker who asked how much. “Better to wait for the auction, Durand.”

“I don’t want to wait,” growls the man Kazi just called Durand. “You’re right, Kazi. There’s something about this bitch that makes my dick hard. She’s not that pretty, doesn’t have a great body. But damn, there’s something in me that wants to get between those thick thighs, spread her so wide she sobs, fuck her so deep she wails. Maybe there is something to the whole virgin crap after all.” He beckons me with his head to come closer like I’m some pet animal. “Let’s take a look, sweetie. Lift up your dress and show me what I’m paying for.”

My stomach lurches as Kazi nods like it’s his decision, not mine. I’m frozen in place, my body stiff like a board, thighs clamped tight together. Of course, I’ve got no real choice here. Protesting is going to get me smacked across the face or worse. And as revolting as this scene is, the truth is Kazi won’t let anyone touch me until he’s made his sale.

“Do not make me come over there, Yolanda,” Kazi snarls from near the bar. His fists clench by his sides, knuckles bulging bigger than golf-balls. “Take off your panties. Lift your dress. Be a good girl, because you know what Kazi does to bad girls, yes, baby?”

Durand chuckles, licking his lips and then wiping his whiskers on his sleeve. The third guy still hasn’t said a damn word. He isn’t even looking in my direction anymore, just staring into his glass of whiskey, his annoyingly handsome face twisted in a frown like he’s thinking hard.

That strange tingle goes through my legs again, and I blink in surprise, flashing a quick look at the silent biker’s furrowed expression, not sure why my body’s reacting in this strange way like it actually wants this brooding biker to look, to see, to claim, to fucking take.

“Take your panties off or I will do it for you,” comes Kazi’s voice again, low and threatening. He pushes himself away from the bar, takes a step in my direction, then stops and smiles when that older Russian woman strides out from the dressing room, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath as she heads towards our little group. “Or better still, my mother will do it for you.”

I’m about to blurt out something to express my shocked surprise that this is a family operation, but Mother Kazi slaps me across the face for the third time today, then reaches under my sundress, grabs the waistband of my beige satin panties, and yanks them halfway down my thighs before I submit and take over, rolling the underwear down past my calves and off my bare feet.

Blushing with a mix of rage and humiliation, I straighten up and stare defiantly at each man in turn, making sure they see me as a person whose most basic rights are being violated in the most visceral way. But if I hoped to see a flicker of guilt, that hope disappears when Kazi gazes back at me with dead coldness in his bearlike eyes and Durand doesn’t even meet my gaze because he’s staring at the rising hemline of my sundress, licking those sunburned lips like a grizzly savage preparing for a feast.

As for the third guy, the silent biker?

He doesn’t even look in my direction.

My heart sinks in a strangely inexplicable way, the darkness of despair closing in again when I realize that Durand is no better than Kazi, and this third guy isn’t interested.

That doesn’t make him any less of a monster, I try to tell myself, sucking in a breath and forcing my mind away from this place as I lift the hem of my sundress up over my hips for these perverts to see. The cool air-conditioned air swirls through my delicate curls, sending a shiver through my body as the warm scent of my sex rises up from between my legs.

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