Biker Gurls by Paul Moore
“The place was packed with women dressed in leather and denim, studded arm bands and cabalistic jewelry, women with barbaric piercings and tattoos, women with spiked hair dyed unnatural colors, crew cut women, and women shorn. They shouted endearments, bellowed laughter, and snarled challenges. They leaned together to whisper obscenities while they danced. They groped each other in dim corners. Corrie stood in the doorway wearing a pastel pantsuit and clutching her purse like a missionary among savages.”
When Corrie’s employer catches her embezzling from the company, she faces a choice between jail and sexual slavery to her sadistic boss. Mr. Baron turns Corrie into a virtual sex slave; dressing her up to suit his fantasies, having her kneel before him, forcing her to wear plugs during work hours to remind her of whom she serves. Every detail of their affair is recorded in her diary; so she is terrified when it disappears from the locked drawer where she keeps it.
Then a mysterious woman phones and arranges to meet her in a lesbian biker bar. Corrie meets Miko, a gorgeous Eurasian girl decked out in biker leather. Miko admits to stealing the diary, but isn’t quite ready to give it up yet. While talking about Corrie’s missing diary, Sophie, a stunning blonde and friend of Miko’s introduces herself to Corrie. Sophie and Miko convince Corrie to come with them to their place so they can discuss the details of giving her the diary back. Once there, Corrie discovers she likes to turn the tables and become the dominant one with Sammy, the girls playtoy. With the help of her exquisite new friends, Corrie sets off on a wild trip to exact her revenge on the horrid Mr. Baron and discover who she truly is.
A tangled tale of corruption, blackmail, betrayal, and revenge with male and female domination of women, bondage, corporeal punishment and anal discipline. Included in this tale are Female and Male domination, bondage, humiliation, whipping, gags, enemas, lesbian sex, anal sex, plugs, clothes pins, paddling, strap-ons, caning.
Biker Gurls by Paul Moore
Cover Art Sergey Ryzhov – Fotolia.com
I was serving coffee to one of his clients when Mr. Baron told me that he would be needing my assistance after hours tonight, so I had to be extra careful not to slop any when I set their cups and saucers on the desk; not even to allow the slightest tremor to betray my reaction.
Accidents are always remembered and never forgiven. Refusing to show my fear is the only control I have left. It spoils his fun a little, but he always makes me pay for it later. He just tries harder – after hours.
He likes to drop these bombshells when he knows I can’t display any emotion. He likes to study my face for a telltale flicker of distress. I have learned to reveal nothing, but behind my mask is a scared little girl who just wants to be forgiven. That’s never going to happen.
We’re partners in crime now. I can’t tell anyone, because he would tell everyone. He would have proof and I would only have my own word- a thief’s excuse.
It seemed like such a teeny crime at the time. The phrase “petty cash” sounded like an oxymoron to me. The account had more money in it than I make in a year, just sitting there undisturbed, and I just needed to borrow a little once. Then it became once in a while. It wasn’t really stealing. I always paid it all back eventually. But there was always another minor emergency – the broken washing machine, transmission repairs, that week I was out with the flu. He had to discover it eventually, and offer me his devil’s deal. He gave me a choice between prosecution and accommodation, or as Baron the bastard so charmingly put it, a cock and a hard place.
So today I was the perfect secretary. I scheduled his meetings and wrote his memos without typos, ushered in clients and salesmen, and kept the coffee pot fresh. We were polite and correct at all times, when we spoke to each other at all. But running through the day was an undercurrent below our placid waters, a shared anticipation that tonight he would watch me sweat and scream and beg.
Doing penance, he calls it, but it’s more like hell than purgatory. He always wants more. What began with a quick blow job under his desk has gradually escalated, until I have become a virtual sex slave, indentured by guilt.
With a growing tightness in my gut, I watched my co- workers gather up their personal belongings and leave for the day. I saw them all off with a cheerful goodbye. Pretending is the easy part. It’s the waiting that’s hard. When I was sure that no one was likely to come back for something they had forgotten, I went into my bathroom.
No one questions his decision to provide me with a private washroom. They think that it’s a perk. Even the cleaning crew has no key. They would be shocked at some of the things they might find there.
I stripped naked and cleaned myself according to his standing orders. The humiliating ritual hardly ever varies. The enema and douche go without saying. I put a fresh blade in the razor before I scraped and rinsed. Legs, pits, and puss, everything has to be silky smooth for him. When I was putting on the lotion, I felt a little stubble and had to touch up. I can still see the fading marks on my ass from the last time I missed a patch.
All of my makeup had to come off before I showered and braided my hair. He always insists on braids. He says they make me look younger and more innocent. I think the braids just give him one more way to control me, another thing to grab a hold of, another convenient way to tie me up. He left the collar and cuffs laid out for me. There were tiny little luggage padlocks for the buckles. He had the key. They wouldn’t be coming off until he was through with me.
That was my entire trousseau this time. He wasn’t in the mood for fantasy tonight. There was no cheerleader outfit or French maid uniform hanging on the back of the door. He wanted me to report to his office naked. That usually meant he was in a bit of a hurry and would get right to the rough stuff.
My office adjoins his, but I have to leave mine and pass through the corridor to get to his door. This puts me in full view of the typing pool and the windows beyond. The desks were all empty at that hour, the room silent, the keyboards idle, but it is always unnerving to be naked in a place where clothing is normally expected. A few hours earlier, I would have drawn shocked stares parading by in nothing but a few bits of leather.
Beyond the windows was blackness, lit here and there by the squares of windows from the offices across the street, where other people were working late or keeping trysts of their own. The harsh daytime lighting in the typing pool had been reduced to a mere glow by the last employee out the door, but anyone watching from across the way could have seen my pale form flitting about. Feeling exposed. I covered the distance between doors quickly.
He always makes me wait outside his door for permission to enter. When he buzzes me in, I kneel just inside the door where he can observe me without his desk getting in the way and spoiling the view.
He was on the phone tonight, talking to a potential customer in Iowa. The customer will be flying in after the summer retooling shutdown. I could tell by Baron’s unctuous tone that this was a deal he would very much like to close.
He let me kneel there until my knees began to ache. He was enjoying my discomfort, knowing that I awaited his pleasure while he compared golf scores and planned a meeting. He was taking his time. I was just his slave, after all.
He was fawning over his client to the last farewell. I expected him to make little kissing noises into the phone as he hung up.
“Is there something that you find amusing?”
My face froze immediately into the blank mask that has served me so well in the past.
“No, Sir!” I spoke my lines loud and clear, like a Marine in boot camp. If I mumbled, he would have felt compelled to prompt me. Then the whip would have made an early appearance.
He stared down at me for a long moment, as though considering whether or not my answer was satisfactory, just letting me squirm.
“Inspection position!” he barked.
I leaped to my feet and spread my legs, lacing my fingers together behind my neck and arching my back to present my breasts. I focused my stare on a window across the street. Some anonymous man over there was hunched before a glowing computer screen with his back to us. He needed only to turn around and admire the view.
Mr. Baron opened a desk drawer and took out a box of latex gloves. He snapped a pair on before he stood up. He took his time doing it of course, smirking up at me. He had already removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was ready now. There was no danger that contact with this unclean slut might contaminate him. There wouldn’t be any telltale stains on his clothing, no lingering scent on his fingers to carry home.
I have never met his wife. The word around the office is that she is a beautiful woman, self centered and not very bright. She devotes much of her life to campaigning for charitable causes of questionable value. Last year she flew by private jet to a conference on clean air and energy conservation. I saw her once from the office window, waiting for him in the car below. She was no more than an elegant silhouette, preferring to wait in the limo rather than risk contact with the unclean proles inside.
Still, it rankles that he is betraying her even as he blackmails me. I could call her up and tell her, but even if I did it anonymously he would know. The police would arrive with an arrest warrant for me the next day. Any counter charges I brought against him would be impossible to prove, and the prosecutor would dismiss them as an attempt to misdirect.
“Bend over.” He was already unscrewing the jar of lubricant.
I bent until my back was parallel with the floor, keeping my spine carefully arched. It would have been an easier position to maintain if I could have braced my hands upon my knees, but I was forbidden to move my hands from the back of my neck. It often pleases my Master to keep me this way until I am trembling with strain.
He always takes his time with the lube. If I am dry and resistant when he begins, I am wet and open before he finishes. Perhaps it is such moments that sustain me when I consider tearing everything down, like Sampson in the temple, accepting my own destruction as the price of revenge. His fingers never force me, they insinuate and tease instead. They find the sweet spots and return to them, but only after I have nearly reached the point of begging.
I have long since abandoned any pretense of resistance. If rape is inevitable, the adage goes, one might as well learn to like it. I respond to him as a brood mare to a stallion, stimulated by mere chemistry and nervous habit. Perhaps I have been too eager to surrender my body, but a thief sacrifices any claim to lost virtue. It’s not as though anyone will ever find out anyway.
So I rocked back to meet his hand, rolling my hips like a lap dancer as his fingers churned slowly in and out. He always starts with my pussy. He has long, thick fingers, but in a few moments he was twisting at least two of them inside me, tapping against the “G” spot with soft insistence and rolling across the soft membranes within until they were ready to yield.
“So easy!” he murmured. “You’re nothing but a horny little slut.”
It’s a litany I know well already. “Yes, Sir! I am nothing. I am a horny little slut!”
He has no requirement for me to simulate affection for him. My shame is his payoff. Knowing that he disgusts me makes my submission sweeter.
His fingers withdrew and I heard the jar lid rattle behind me. He was dipping out more lube. I felt it cold against my ass before the insistent pressure of his fingers forced me. I have learned to relax. Resistance is futile, not to mention painful. As he opened me with one finger, then two, his free hand found my undefended breasts and twisted my nipples until I gasped. His hand steadied me and braced me against the jabbing fingers.
I should be beyond shame or self pity by now, past caring or crying, but my cheeks were hot already, and my eyes were beginning to burn with the tears I would shed for his amusement.