“I grew up similar to you,” the meek old lady named Pixie replies in her soft voice. “My dad is the Sergeant of Arms at the Tacoma chapter. Didn’t spend a lot of time with the brothers growing up, my mom wouldn’t let me. But I’ve always been an MC brat. I met Axel when he crashed at our chapter for a month, for club business. Axel was an S.S. nomad at the time, and it was love at first tattoo. I’m a tattoo artist by the way.” She raises her arms, chuckling. Her laugh is warm, and I instantly see her fitting in with the group of us. And the fact that she’s pocket sized, pretty, is a fellow MC brat, and colorful doesn’t hurt her case.

  “As you can see, I’m covered in them. Axel has a tattoo fetish as well. Funny story, the night we unofficially met he’d strolled into the tat parlor I was working at drunk off his ass.” The thoughtful smile on her face reaches her ears as she replays that night in her head.

  “I refused to tattoo him because he could barely string a sentence together. His southern accent made it almost impossible to understand him. At the time I was at the shop alone and knew he was a S.S. brother by his colors. I had to all but call my dad to get him to leave. On the way out of the door, he pulled out his gun and shot out the glass front door. It shattered all over the sidewalk and into the front part of the parlor, and he just left. The next day he returned, sober and dripping head to toe with apologies. He agreed to pay for the damage, and I agreed to tattoo him. After I was done, he took me to dinner around the corner at this burger joint, and the rest is history. He claimed me two weeks later. I’ve worn my property cut ever since. It’s been almost nine years,” Pixie finishes.

  “That’s so awesome,” Jezebel genuinely blurts, and Pixie blushes, popping back into her turtle shell. “My story is not a romantic one. I met Bulk eight months ago when he hired me to be his escort. At first I just thought he was a tough man with a high sex drive. About a month into our affair I found out he had a girlfriend and that he’s part of a motorcycle club,” Jezebel explains.

  “How in the hell didn’t you know he was in the club before this?” Chelsea asks, rolling her eyes. “I call bullshit.”

  “Call it whatever you want, bitch. When you fuck a man they are typically naked. Unless your man is doing it wrong,” Jezebel shoots back with an even tone.

  “Whatever,” Chelsea mutters, under her breath, crossing her arms defiantly over her small chest.

  “Anyhow.” Jezebel flips her hair over her right shoulder with flare. “I find this out, and I cut ties. As much as I loved sleeping with him three or four times a week and making lots of money doing it, the fact that he had a girlfriend turned me off, and I refused to sleep with him again. He was angry at first, and then stopped callin’. Six weeks later, I’m vomiting nonstop, my best friend takes me to the ER, and that’s when I found out I’m pregnant.” Jezebel’s hand drops off the table to rub her belly. “I have a daughter. She’s six. My husband, her daddy, died in Iraq five months after she was born. He never even got to meet her. So when I found out I was pregnant, I called Bulk right away and told him…” She sighs. “I know what you’re thinking.” Jezebel’s tone changes, and she looks down the table to Chelsea again.

  “What’s that?” Chelsea sarcastically inquires.

  “How do I know my baby is his? And why wasn’t I on birth control if I’m an escort? …I’ll tell you…” Chelsea motions with her hand for Jezebel to get on with it. “He was the only guy I was sleeping with at the time, that’s how I know. I got pregnant because I’d been on heavy antibiotics for a recurring bladder infection. Nobody told me it could lower the effectiveness. As soon as Bulk found out I was carrying his child, he dumped his girlfriend of eight months, dragged me to the courthouse against my will and forced me to marry him. I’ve been his old lady ever since. I’ve never even been to a clubhouse party or met any other old ladies until today. He gave me my property cut just before we left Kansas to come here. We left my daughter with my best friend while we sort stuff out here. I know this makes me sound like a dumbass, but I’m excited to be here. To meet other women who are in this lifestyle that Bulk has been a part of for a long time. You ladies seem really cool. I envy you in some ways. I don’t have much of a family so it’s kinda nice feeling like I’m a part of somethin’,” Jezebel finishes.

  “How old are you?” I ask her.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “I’m thirty, and I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” I sincerely express, patting her on the shoulder. “You are right, though. We are a family, and both of you are our sisters.” I look to Pixie and Jezebel and back again, conveying my feelings of acceptance. Making a point to leave the bitch seated to the left of me, out.

  “Do you want to talk too, Chelsea? Or should we get on with the tour?” Candy Cane finally intercedes. Better late than never.

  Chelsea makes no attempt to speak as she slides off the bench and stands, rubbing her hands down her black dress pants. Another indication she doesn’t belong. I might wear dress pants to work, but I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them to a club event.

  All of us get up from the benches and walk across the lawn to the road that runs down the middle of the compound from the front gate down through what we like to call S. S. estates. I wave to Gunz, and then point to where I’m headed. He nods approvingly, and goes back to socializing with his brothers.

  Walking along the blacktop, all the women are at my heels and Candy Cane at the rear. We stroll the newly paved road, passing by the dog kennels that Dallas runs on the left and stopping at the shorter retaining wall and iron archway that separates the front part of the club property from the back.

  “This is the Sacred Sinners estates,” I explain as we cross the threshold out of the business part of the club, and into the family oriented section. Houses line both sides of the street; straight ahead is the cul-de-sac, and Big’s house that sits smack-dab in the middle. All of the houses are single story with many of them having finished basements. I once asked why there were no two-story houses, and Gunz explained that two stories are not as safe. If at any time our compound was under attack, they could easily shoot at a two story house, whereas a one story house is guarded by the tall wall that surrounds the compound. Pretty logical, if you ask me.

  Allowing the women to gander over the houses and assess the living conditions, I stop midway down the street and whip around to face them.

  “This is where you will live.” My hand sweeps toward the bungalows. “You will be afforded a house, for free. Your old man’s club dues will cover the cost of living as well as your trash, sewer, water, cable, and internet. You are required to cover your own gas and electric and maintain the property. The brothers here run a lawn service so you will not be required to cut your own grass or trim your trees. Should you want to plant flowers, you are to do so at your own discretion. All fruits and vegetables are communal and planted over there.” I point to the large garden at the right that is fenced to keep the critters out.

  “Should you use the garden, you will also be required to help maintain it. The house you are given will be based on availability and family size. You do not get to choose. You are given what you need. All houses come equipped with dishwashers, front-loading washers and dryers, refrigerators, stoves, and air conditioning. If yours breaks, the club will see that it’s fixed. If it needs replacing, they will do so. Living on this property comes with responsibility. You may not have anyone other than club members on this property at any time without prior authorization, which includes family not part of the club, friends, or anyone else. Understand?” They all nod in unison, curious eyes still wandering the property’s well-maintained expanse.

  “Once your old man becomes part of this club chapter, you will be required to do your part to help with parties, or anything the fairer sex is enlisted to do. You will eventually meet and get to know a few of the club whores. Candy Cane and I will be around tonight to introduce you to the ones that you should befriend and those to steer clear of. The clubhouse where you are originally from may not hold the same sets of rules as ours. No old ladies are allowed in the clubhouse at all after midnight unless Big has announced otherwise. You are not allowed in the clubhouse ever, for any reason, unless personally invited by Big or Steel, except Tuesdays when the clubhouse is open until seven for old ladies and children to socialize, play pool, and meet with Big if he’s available or whatever else may be needed. The weekend availability for old ladies to come in or out of the club is on the monthly newsletter along with monthly duties for each female member. Granted, it’s a small newsletter since our old lady population has dwindled severely over the past three years.” I take in a deep breath and relax my shoulders. The biggest part of the old lady introductions is done. “Do you have any questions?”

  “What about daycare? Or if we have outside jobs?” Jezebel asks, taking a hefty step forward.

  “Jobs outside are fine. And should you need daycare, we have an approved list of providers in the area. Same goes for everything else. No repairman can be called, you speak to my brother Jizz should you need any repairs or work done. You are only allowed to have your car serviced at our auto repair shop, which most of you passed on your way into the gates. It’s a half-mile down the road, closer to town. Everything you do or don’t do reflects on the club and your old man. We are your family, and we take care of you as such. Your commitment to the club reflects on how good of an old lady you are, including the use of our approved providers,” I finish.

  “So you do all of this stuff for the club, but you don’t live here? And you don’t have an old man?” Pixie asks, and I bob my head.

  “Yep. But I do have a room at the clubhouse should I need it,” I confirm.

  “If old ladies and club whores have clubhouse rules, why don’t you?” Chelsea asks, and surprisingly, it comes out more as confusion and not a rude accusation.

  I wonder the same thing all of the time and have since I was a kid. The rules don’t seem to apply to me for whatever reason.

  I shrug. “To be honest, I’m not sure why I don’t. I think I’ve been considered part of the clubhouse because I lived there as a child. Brothers are required to act a certain way when old ladies are present. It’s a respect thing that Big Dick makes a priority. Those same rules have never been enforced when it comes to me.”

  “Big Dick carries out a different set of rules pertaining to Bink. The brothers know them, and they abide by them, or shit like that stuff with Viper occurs,” Candy Cane chimes in. “If you should have any other questions, please feel free to ask. I live over there should anyone be interested to see it.” She points to her yellow single story with the wraparound front porch. “I’ve lived there for many years with Tripper. And Debbie, the old lady you saw earlier, she lives in the blue house two down from mine.” Candy Cane points. “Now let’s head back, it’s getting to be time to feed the kids again, and for them to head home and the club whores to arrive.”

  We all follow Candy Cane’s lead back up the road to the clubhouse. The noise is rising from the clubhouse’s backyard, which means the men are getting shitfaced early. It’s going to be a long night.

  “You sllllurrrr I can…n…t… interest you in some bud.” Blimp tries to pass me his pot filled pipe again. And again, I push it back at him, declining to take it, and blow out an exaggerated sigh.

  “I don’t smoke,” I repeat for the umpteenth time. You’d think after knowing me most of my life that Blimp would have gotten the memo that Bink doesn’t smoke anything, illegal or not. And that I only drink whiskey, which is what I am sipping on right now. It’s a bold and straightforward kind of drink. Something I can respect. The thought of drinking anything with fruit leaves my stomach churning, as the bile in my throat rises to an uncomfortable level.

  It’s after midnight. We’ve been partying for the first twelve hours and we have twelve more to go. The kids are home. The old ladies are slowly dropping like flies, and a slew of club whores are preying on the drunken imbeciles wearing cuts, getting their fill with open displays of sexual proclivities. One of those being the triplets, having three men lined up against the brick wall of the clubhouse, their leathers around their ankles, sucking their cocks in unison. The girls aren’t really triplets, but they do it all in threes, and they all have the same badly dyed bleach blonde hair. Their physical resemblances die at that.

  Niki and Dixie, my favorite club whores have taken up residency in Runner’s lap on a picnic table bench. Dixie’s stroking his cock, which she’s tugged out of his jeans, while Niki devours his lips in a feverish kiss. I can hear him panting from where I stand, which is next to the largest fire pit with my newfound friends Jezebel and Pixie standing idly amongst us, keeping to themselves. Even Candy Cane has gone home for the night. Lazy old bitch couldn’t stick around; she went home to catch a few Zzzzz’s after the long day we’ve had. Not that I blame her. Even though I don’t appreciate being the only responsible lady left to babysit these drunk fuckers that have half a brain at best.

  “Do you really think I’m going to let a bitch ride my bike?” one of the newcomers with a green Mohawk growls, taking a swig of his beer. “If you do, you are fucking crazier than I am.”

  “What’s wrong with a woman riding?” I break into some sort of ongoing conversation, having no damn clue what was said beforehand.

  “Women ride bitch, plain and simple. Any female who does otherwise just wishes she had a cock instead of a pussy between her legs.”

  Alright, now this man is starting to piss me off. I shoot back my whiskey and toss the red cup into the fire. “Oh really?” I throw out my attitude in spades, cocking my head to the side, my hands securely on my hips. This sexist bullshit that I hear spouted all the damn time has got to stop. I don’t care who you are, ignorance is not motherfuckin’ bliss. It pisses people off. Fuck, it pisses me off. And what pisses me off more is when they run with it, and I’ve added whiskey into the mix. That shit takes any sort of level-headedness I might possess away, and you’re left with the raw, honest, no-holds-barred Bink.

  “Yeah, really. No man wants a bitch he has to contend with. I’d never take an old lady who thought she deserved her own bike,” he replies, his eyes daring me to say more.

  “Why? You afraid her nuts would be bigger than yours?” I shoot back with no decorum.

  “Bitch, you don’t know what you are fuckin’ talkin’ bout.” He shakes his head. I know I’m pissing him off. The taut line of his lips, and his firm stance, tells me that much.

  “I own a hog. I’ve also been riding my own motorcycle since before I could drive a car. And I have no desire to have a cock. If I had one, I wouldn’t get off every time I ride my bike, and let me tell ya, I enjoy coming on my bike.”

  He spits out his beer, eyes going wide. “What did you just say?”

  Blimp starts to hysterically laugh beside me, as do many of the other men in the group. Jezebel and Pixie both cover their mouths with their hands, laughing behind them. I didn’t think it was that funny. Truthful, hell yeah. But funny? No.

  “You heard me.” I boldly cup my pussy over my shorts. Leading by the example that many bikers have shown me when they grab their dicks. “This cunt of mine that I am very happy to possess gets lots of juicy, make-me-want-to-scream orgasms when I ride my hog. So you saying that women only want to ride because they have gender identity problems is bullshit to the tenth degree, asshole. I was eleven when I had my very first orgasm. And guess where that took place? On. My. Hog. Been hooked ever since.” I chuckle, and the men start to shove at the dumbass, teasing him for being told off by a girl. Lots of ‘Bink told you’s’ are muttered, and he just stares at me, stunned, shrugging off the playful ridicule when each hand pats him on the shoulders and back, taunting him further.

  I shoot him a sly smile before excusing myself from the crowd and walking over to the table we now have lined with bottles of liquor. Pouring myself a half full glass of whiskey, I’m startled when a hand lands on my shoulder.

  “You know, talking about your pussy to a bunch of drunk bikers kind of ruins the example I was tryin’ to set today. Ya know, the one where they leave you alone. Tempting them with your pussy isn’t smart,” Big Dick explains. “You’re the club’s forbidden fruit. Lots of men want to taste it. But I’m the gatekeeper and they have to stay out of your orchard, or I’ll slay them where they stand.”

  “That’s quite the poetic analogy, Prez. Can I get you anything?” I gesture toward the bottles.

  “Naw, I’m good.” He raises his bottle of Bud. “Tryin’ to keep my wits about me.”

  “Hey, Big.” A club whore meanders over to us, topless, with a tattoo of a dragon sprawled across her pudgy stomach. “You want some company?” Her hand runs down the length of his arm, as her body melds against his. The brunette’s breasts thrust upward, offering a clear invitation. Big glances down at her, suggestively licking his lips, eyebrow cocking upward.

  “If you can fit my cock in your mouth. I’ll take you to bed,” he smoothly replies. A rehearsed phrase no doubt.

  A giddy expression fills the club whore’s face and she drops to her knees in the grass and reaches up to his zipper. He shakes her off.

  “My cock’s too big to fit out of my zipper. Let me unbuckle.” He unhooks his weighted buckle and tugs the belt off, dropping it onto the table beside us with a loud thud and sucking back the remainder of his beer, before tossing the empty bottle aside. “There,” he offers.

  The girl, who can’t be any older than twenty-two drives for his crotch, frantically unbuttoning his jeans and ripping down the zipper. His erect cock springs free and I take in a sharp breath. He’s not wearing any underwear. I can’t believe I am watching this. Why didn’t I walk away by now? I must look like a complete idiot for actually watching this desperate girl beg for his dick. I’m envious of her in a way for being so bold.