Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel (14 page)

But they didn’t want to stop it. Surrounded by thieves and murderers, looters and pillagers, what these gorgeous women wanted more than anything else was to be filled completely, again and again, their tight bodies stuffed until dripping with the avalanche of cum that these men could unleash.

There had been a war in the town of Temple, and all over a woman.

No matter what, this savage ceremony was going to end it all.

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I
t did not seem right to bury Carthage at the Temple cemetery. The man had never liked the town. It was a struggle just to get him to agree that it was a place worth establishing underneath the Cauldron—a home base for their future operations of conquest in the wasteland. But there were plenty of hills around Temple and plenty of ground worth digging in, and Brall’s men found a spot worthy of a man like Carthage after just a little time.

It was early in the morning, just past dawn. The sun dripped upwards on the horizon, blood red in the mud of the sky. Everything was hot, and long sheets of sweat had dripped down Brall’s brow since he woke. More sweat came still after he dug out the grave for Carthage, working mostly by himself. He did not need a break. Brall was a large man, and by the time he was done digging, it was nearing noon and he had made a hole as tall as himself. Garner was outside of it and helped him out and up.

“We would have wetted the ground for you,” said Garner. “Made the job easier.”

Brall shook his head and shoved the man away. He didn’t understand. There was a cleansing to effort. You could imagine the soul somewhere in your chest. And so in the way that hard work burned at your lungs, a man might imagine it burns also at some part of what tainted the core of him.

Nothing felt right. Nothing about this. He was in a war and it all felt wrong. Even the feeling of wrongness felt wrong—war—conflict—in the past had always been where Brall felt irrevocably right.

Somehow, he knew it all went back to Robin. God, he wanted her.

The last woman he’d had was Abigail. And even though she was perfectly hot, those big tits, that tight body, that long hot mass of luscious blond hair, she still wasn’t Robin. All Brall wanted was Robin. He did not care how. He did not who had to die for it. He just wanted his woman and he wanted her now.

Garner walked away, but now approaching was Miranda—Carthage’s girl. Petite, brown-hair, light blue eyes and a phenomenally balanced set of tits. They were perched appealingly in a tiny, tight leather vest. Brall looked down at them, leering openly, cock shifting. Even at a funeral, his friend’s funeral, he could not stop his body from knowing how full well he could dominate any old pussy he came across.

“Thank you for burying him,” said Miranda.

He shook his head. “Nothing to do for you.”

“Thank you all the same.” She minced slightly, one leg and then the other.

“What do you want?” asked Brall. “Ain’t you got work to do?”

Miranda shifted again. She clearly wasn’t used to talking back to Brall. Women in the Cauldron weren’t used to talking back to men, period. Women had a purpose under the Cauldron, but it was all for tasks. The infrastructure of the gang. Not a lot of thinking or talking. Women were prizes, not speakers.

She looked down at the grave that Brall had dug. And then she looked at the body of Carthage on the wagon nearby. He was covered entirely by a dark tarp; his death, like so many in the wasteland, had been a brutal one. There was no sense in looking at the stark, mean remains of his body.

“This war has gone on long enough,” she said softly.

“War? This ain’t a war. This ain’t even started.”

“Then don’t let it. You can stop it at any time. You can. You know you can.”

“Stop?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Blood needs blood. That’s how it’s always been.”

She pointed at Carthage. “Where did that get him?”

What he heard from her was something he had not heard from any woman besides maybe Abigail—anger. And not just anger, but righteousness. She didn't have any doubts. She really did think the fighting had gone on too long.

That sort of thought was anathema to Brall. There was nothing to life except fighting. You fought, and fought, and when you were done you had either been killed or wasted away. That was all there was. If there was something else, it was as outside of him as the stars were to the dust-covered land he stood in now.

“Carthage knew our way,” said Brall. “He wanted that kind of end, believe it or not. Maybe not so soon. But that’s how he’d want to go.”

“And what is it you want, Brall? Do you want a war? Really? You want to see more men die? Or do you want something for yourself?”

She left then, dropping a few gathered flowers at the foot of Carthage's grave. His anger was rising and it would take a fool not to see the incumbent rage for what it was.

He wasn't angry with Miranda. He was angry with the Family, angry for his friend's death. But as he continued with the day’s work, sliding his friend into the grave and then burying him down, his head filled with Miranda's words.

What is it you want, Brall?

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T
he morning after Robin had been filled—utterly—by all the worthy and strong male studs of the Family, she was in her room in the bunker again. Hostilities had not ceased with the Cauldron, and as a valuable commodity—a beautiful, fertile woman—she was to be protected in the safest of all possible environments.

Of this—being treated like property—she had little opinion. That was the way it had always been. Why change it now? It was enjoyable, in a way, to be treasured and admired for what she possessed by birth. She had been raised to believe this was how it should be.

But at the same time, her heart sung with rebellious thoughts. She wanted Brall. Was that possible anymore, at all? She thought not. She thought perhaps he was too proud a man to take someone who had been fucked like she had last night. And that made it all the more unfair for her—it was
good
, what happened last night. Case’s cock. Troy’s cock. Everyone’s cock—she had been
born
to take a fucking like that. Her tight, firm body was ready for another, even now.

If anything, she felt more equipped to deal with a super-stud like Brall than ever because of what she had been through. Her plan was still formulating, but she knew that if she could just speak to him for a little while—somehow, some way—that all the pieces could fall together in the right order. But she was stuck in this stupid bunker, far from the man she wanted. The man she loved.

Did he love her? Could he, still, after what had happened? Her heart shook with anxiety.

It wouldn’t be
fair
of him to reject her because of what she had done, what she had
loved
. But that’s how men were in Temple. That’s how men were in the wastes. If you weren’t their special pretty dirty princess, and theirs alone, they got all up in arms about morality.

And that hurt her too—because as much as she had loved taking every last cock she could find last night, practically bathed in layer after layer of cum, she would been perfectly happy curling up underneath Brall's feet for the rest of her life, suckling mindlessly on his cock whenever he had need of her.

Events had conspired against her.

She stood over her bed, working over a ledger she had for the supplies for the next month. The Family would be well-stocked for the coming conflict, but she didn’t know if they would be able to hang on long with the Cauldron waiting outside to attack at any time. The Family's compound was secure, but the areas outside the compound—the town of Temple itself—was very much not. There was no easy way to keep the Cauldron out.

Now that Robin had been made a proper part of the Family, she had her own leather vest. It was slender, but tough, like her. A patch with the Family seal was on the top left, on one shoulder. She liked the vest. It went well with the tight white shirt she had, displaying her globular tits, the skinny leather pants that shaped her long legs and framed the luscious shape of her ass. She thought she looked tough—but hot, too. It was important to look hot for the men in the Family, for men generally, even still.

She had spent her whole life making sure she was pretty enough—her thick dark hair coiled in a small bun above her head—and she wasn’t going to just stop now. After all, Brall might come around.

He
might
.

There was a knock at her door, and her heart jumped just slightly. Could it be? Just like that? Just from thinking of him?

She opened it to find two leather-vest men with guns in their hands. Both of their cocks had been in her the night before. Neither were as big or as brutally hot as Case.

One had a long scar over his lips and neck. “Come with us.”

They were not Case’s men. They were Troy’s. She knew them both—Potter and Altan, those were their names. Potter had a thick, silver-handled handgun at his belt. Altan had a rifle slung around his shoulders.

“For what?”

“You just have to come with us. You don’t have to say nothing.”

“You don’t have to make this rough, neither. But it can get that way in a hurry.” Potter smiled. “We already know you got no problem taking us in you.”

Go along, or else they'll fuck her until she was too cumdrunk to fight back. A tempting thought. Her pussy tingled with the idea, letting that phantom sensation of two cocks inside her body once again float her thoughts upward. But she pushed it away—she may as well be businesslike for a while. And so, she went along without protest.

Abigail would have protested. Abigail would have gutted them both, a seductress one moment and then a demon the next. Robin was mad at her friend—former friend?—but still missed her. Robin missed Abigail's fire, her zest, her sureness in all her insanity. Robin wished she could have all those qualities from Abigail. She felt like she had been channeling her friend all last night.

Potter and Altan took her across the underground lair of the Compound and into the section where all of Troy’s men congregated. The bodies of old automobiles made up the different sections of the walls and ceilings, adding extra support and color to the hallway.

The gunmen led her to Troy’s small office. He was behind a desk, head rolled back. Underneath his desk, Robin saw high heels sliding around. Soft schlicking and slurping sounds filled the air.

“Hello, Robin.” He smiled lustily.

His hand floated down, holding the girl on his cock firm. Her legs spread out wide, a surprised moan filling the office. Her heels spread out side, her entire weight thrust into his shaft.

Robin sniffed. “Brother.”

That
got him excited. “Sister...”

Now he thrust harder. The girl on his shaft groaned even louder, heels lifting up off the ground as she took shot after shot of his goo into her throat and stomach. You could not hear a man cum, not really, but all the same she felt she heard his hot load striking the back of whatever sexy bitch he had underneath his desk. Her moans were loud, theatrical, and Troy kept whispering that part—“Sister, Sister, Sister...” as he shuddered and came.

“Out,” he said, when he was finally done.

He spoke to the girl under the desk. She crawled out past Robin, a glazed look of lust on her pretty face. Robin knew her, but could not recall her name right at that moment. Shaunda? Colette?

When the girl was finally gone, Troy gestured for Potter to shut the door behind her. Troy leaned forward then, his cock maybe still hanging out for all Robin knew, leering openly at his sister’s hot body.

“You got me excited last night, sister. I've been goddamn insatiable ever since.”

She smiled, a false thing. “I'm glad to have had an effect.”

“I'm sure you are. You were really asking for it last night. Really and truly. I always knew you were a slut. Your good girl, prim-and-properness all some mask. A slut like all the rest of them.”

It's only an insult, thought Robin, if you let it hurt you.

“Perhaps I am.” Robin shrugged. “I guess that means your cock isn't very special, if I'll just take anyone's. Potter offered a turn with me before we got here. I think I'll give him a handjob after we talk so he doesn't get too excited.”

Potter's face lit up, tapping Altan excitedly. But Troy stood, his massive shaft slapping hard and wet on his desk.

“No!” He banged the desk. “Potter, you touch her, and I'll cut off your goddamn hand. Got that?”

Immediately, Potter's grin faded. “You got it, boss. No touching.”

Troy sat back down, still displeased. His thick face a long grimace.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” said Troy. “You’re going to be under my care, now. Not Case’s. Certainly not the Cauldron’s. Mine. Mine alone. You understand that?”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “No.”

There was no reason to play along if he was just going to make her do whatever he wanted anyway.

“Well, too bad. That’s how it is. You’re mine, now. Just like you were supposed to be.”

“You don’t own me, Troy. The Family does.”

“I
am
the Family, you understand me? I am
your
family. Don’t you tell me what I own and don’t. Or I’ll make it all real, real unpleasant for you.”

“You're going to fuck me again, Troy?” She smiled, seductively she hoped. Her best Abigail impression. “Do you promise?”

“What a fucking whore you've turned into. All it took was a little cock.” He shook his head.

Robin smiled. “Is yours the little cock we're talking about?”

“That's right, it—”

Altan coughed, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Enough!” Troy banged the table again. “You're such a stupid goddamn slut. I'm
not
gonna fuck you until I say. And no one else is either. I'll keep you in line a better way, all right? You think I keep killers and looters around me just for show? What, because I like their fucking company? No. It's because they keep cunts like you in line.”

Robin was surrounded by two men with weapons. This time, she stayed quiet. Slowly, Troy seemed to calm. He zipped up his pants, shaking his head.