Biker Babe

What is a bootlicker to do when someone wants a fantasy that is consensual, but that still pushes on that line? What to do when the desires are a bit outside of what safety really covers, a fantasy that lasts too long to believe that it's all completely consensual?

My answer is simple. You'll see it below. But it begs the question: What actually happened?

Gutterslut


            “You know,” he said, his voice raised over the rumble of his bike, “It’s hard to consider this an abduction when you’re waiting for me with a suitcase.”

            Erica laughed and blushed a little bit. “Sorry,” she said. “I promise I’ll pretend I don’t want it.”

            “Damned right,” he said. He put down the stand, strapped her bag to the back of his bike, and handed her a helmet. “Though if you ever don’t, you know you just have to say the word, right?”

           “I know,” she said, putting on the helmet. “And I still want to be your bitch.”

           He got back on the bike “Did you listen to those CDs I made for you?”

           She got on behind him. “Every one of them,” she said. “But I don’t really remember what they were.”

           “Just some hypnotic stuff,” he said.

           “So I’m going to be hypnotized? Doesn’t that mean it won’t be real?” She leaned against him and smelled the sweet scent of sweat and leather.

           “Oh,” he promised, “It’ll be real.”


            Erica shivered on the cold concrete, her teeth chattering. She tried to hold her mouth closed, so her lip wouldn’t split open again, but every time she moved, the pain would lance up her body and make her wince. Nothing was broken, and the cuts were shallow, but that didn’t make her hurt any less.

           The door opened and he came into the garage, wearing his scrubs and rubber gloves. “Up,” he said. She pushed herself to her feet. She couldn’t stand all the way up; the chain from her collar to the bike wouldn’t let her. So she leaned over onto the bike, her legs spread wide the way she was taught. His boots clicked against the concrete as he walked over, and the wheel of his little cart screeched as he moved it closer.

           His touch wasn’t rough, not now. Now it was professional, careful, but not gentle. He went over her cuts one by one, making sure none were too deep. He ended up stitching one of them up, then spread something over all of them – maybe alcohol, maybe iodine. It didn’t matter which; they both burned. But the burn slowly died down, and the bandages he pressed onto her skin made her feel safer than she had before.

           She tried to sigh, but before she could he was there, between her legs, poking and prodding like she was some kind of cattle, like he was just inspecting his property. And he was.

           He pressed his gloved finger into her pussy, feeling around it in a way that got Erica all hot and bothered, but he pulled out before she could even let out a single moan of pleasure. He rested that hand, still damp with her juices, on her hip as his other hand explored her ass with the same clinical detachment as he did everything else when in his scrubs.

           She heard the snap of the latex as he pulled off the gloves, the screech of the cart as he rolled it away. Then he was right behind her, gently stroking her hair. He kissed the back of her neck with a tenderness no one who had seen them in public would ever expect. “Everything looks fine,” he said. “I’m sorry about the deeper cut.”

           “It’s okay,” she said to him. “I think I flinched too much.”

           “No excuse. I’ll be more careful.”

           She smiled at that, and he kissed her head. “I love you,” he said.

           “I love you too.”


            Erica wasn’t allowed to wear anything but leather any more. From a distance, it wasn’t much of a problem. Someone far away would see the leather vest, the bare arms, the engineer boots and the leather of her chaps and wouldn’t think anything of it. Only when they got close enough, when they pulled up right behind them would they see that her chaps weren’t pulled on over jeans, that her ass and her pussy were both as exposed to open air as the hair flowing out behind her. They’d have to really look to see the bare skin, but she knew it was there. Even if she forgot, he’d never let her forget for long.

           Every night, when the stopped, he would show her the stain she had left on his seat. Erica was always embarrassed, but never really sorry. The vibration of the bike was sometimes the only orgasm she was allowed, and the stain was a small price to pay. Even when he made her lick his seat clean, getting at both the sweat he had left behind and the remnants of her orgasms, it was still worth it. And it’s not like she had to do it every night. Just the nights when they rode from one place to another.

           He was sitting around a fire with a bunch of other bikers when she was finished with the seat. There was a beer in his hand, and he was joking with them. She crawled over to him, quietly moving between his legs. She unzipped his pants and pulled his cock into her mouth. His conversation never slowed, his voice never changed. He rested one hand on her head and pushed her down further and further for a while, but otherwise he completely ignored her. He came in her mouth, and held her there until he was sure she had swallowed, then let her zip him back up, crawl back to the bike, and lock herself to it. He put a can of dog food into a bowl for her when he finished his beer, then went back to spend time with his friends.


            Six months. Erica could barely remember her own name anymore. He never called her by it. Gutterslut. That was her name now. That’s how he introduced her to people. That’s what he called her. That’s what the tattoo on her lower back said.

           That had been a difficult moment, a hard decision for her. It wasn’t the only ink she’d gotten, but it was the most obvious. More obvious than the Kanji for ‘servant’ behind her ear. More obvious than the boot tread on her inner thigh, or the dog collar around her wrist, spikes seeming to dig into her skin. It was right there, direct and impossible to explain away, impossible to ignored. She could tell people that the Kanji meant something else, or that the collar was a bracelet. But Gutterslut, in clear black script; how could she explain that?

           She probably would have said no, would have called it all off, if he hadn’t presented her with the solution. The cover up tattoo was already planned out. Once it was done, there’d be no way to tell what had been there before. She didn’t even need to find a great artist; they had the picture, the stencil. Anyone with steady hands could probably do it. When the time came, if the time came, she could hide her new name behind a pretty image, one that was a bit more respectable, one that, as he side, would trick people into thinking she was a real person.

           So she got the ink. And now, when they rode, she knew that Gutterslut was visible to anyone who drove by. It identified her. It was her name.


            The beer was cold on her back, a ring of condensation that felt good against the sweat and heat. Her body was too warm, and the cocks in her mouth and her ass didn’t cool it off even a little. So when the men rested their beers on her back, it was almost a relief. It almost felt good.

           Gutterslut –Erica– tried not to think too much about the beer. She tried not to worry about the ashtray that rested in the small of her back, or about the cigars smoldering as it rested there. She couldn’t feel any heat, but that wasn’t the point. They were using her as a table. She tried not to think about it.

           She felt the cum spurt into her mouth, and swallowed it without thinking. Her mouth wasn’t empty for long. Barely a second passed between that one pulling out and another thrusting its way in. Gutterslut kept her mouth spread wide; she didn’t want her teeth to touch the cock even a little. Last time that happened, the boys had warned her, had even discussed the possibility of having her teeth removed. She didn’t need them, after all; the dog food was wet and mashed up. All teeth could really do was hurt. Better if the Gutterslut just had gums to rub against cock.

           She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t argued; she knew better by that point. But the idea had terrified her. They were right, after all; there was no need for her to have teeth. All her mouth was ever used for was sucking cock. It had been so long since she’d had to speak that Gutterslut wasn’t even sure she remembered how. Thankfully, he had intervened. He had said no, had insisted that the others not even mention it again. He was her protector. He would keep her safe, as he always had. No matter what was done to her, no matter how much she was used, he always kept her safe. He always made sure she was okay, made sure she was happy. He kept her safe, and she was, as always, his willing property.

           But still, she tried not to let her teeth touch the cock. She tried to hold still so that beer wouldn’t spill. She closed her eyes as the cum dripped down her leg and the cock in her ass pulled out to be replaced by another one in her pussy. She ignored the feel of the cards being dealt onto her back, and instead concentrated on holding still, on letting the men fuck her without knocking over their beers. Without spilling the cards off the table.


            Her belly was almost big enough to touch the floor, even on her hands and knees. She couldn’t stay that way for nearly as long. There was a lot she couldn’t do as well anymore. And no one let her forget it. They kept reminding her that she was used up, that she was trash ready to be thrown away, any day now. Sooner or later, it would be her last mile. They would leer at her, especially in the mornings when she moved around the group to receive the meal of their sperm, and they would tell her that it was probably the last time. That sooner or later, she’d be useless to them. Sooner or later, they’d throw her away like the used cum dump she was. They’d drop her off in a gutter, where she belonged, and they’d ride on.

           “Does it bother you,” one of them asked, “That you don’t even know who the father is?” He laughed at her and flicked some ash from his cigar onto her cheek. It wasn’t hot, but it didn’t have to be; his opinion of her was clear enough with cold ash. “What are you going to tell that little bastard when it asks about its daddy? You going to just give him a list of names, and tell him that one of us is probably his father?”

           He laughed.

           “How long would that list be, anyway? Ten names? Fifty? How many cocks have spurted inside that little cum hole of yours? How many?”

           Asking the question was apparently enough. He came in her mouth and pushed her away with his boot. It was more gentle than it had been before she had started showing as much, but it was still a kick.

           Gutterslut crawled back to her bike, ready to cry. She felt sick, but that was nothing new. At least she still had her teeth. She put her hands to her belly, trying to calm down the little kicker. She only took her hand away long enough to attach her collar to the bike, then leaned against it and closed her eyes.

           She felt more than heard him sit down next to her. Not on the bike. On the floor. “I think we’re done,” he said. “It’s getting dangerous to keep going. Our baby is going to be born soon.”

           She laughed and shook her head, but didn’t say anything.

           Didn’t have to.

           “It is our baby,” he said. “Don’t listen to them. I’m telling you that it’s mine, and it always will be. It’s mine, you’re mine, and I’m going to love you both for the rest of my life.”

           She opened her eyes and looked at him. The tears budding there made the world shimmer around him, made him look almost angelic.

           “It’s okay,” he said. “Everything is okay. I love you. Erica.”

           Her head felt clearer than it had in a very long time. Erica took a deep breath, and spoke for what seemed like the first time. “I love you too,” she said.