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Lady Guardians: Shifting Gears by Olivia Gaines (1)

1

Dust Bunnies

Boredom.

It settled on her skin, seeping into her pores like a villain clambering from the books on the dust-covered shelves, seeking a new soul to make miserable. Boredom was a flaky companion to share a life with as a body sat behind a desk, marking off dates, days, and seconds, until the months have passed a slow, painful death into another year. A year of uneventful days and long, intolerable nights mixed with another human companion that, truthfully, if he died tomorrow, the greatest response would be, “meh.” This wasn’t the way Keoni Wiles envisioned her life.

Tediousness.

The day-to-day rigors of her job were tedious. On most days, the only excitement which came into play at the southwestern branch of the Atlanta library, where she managed the facility was the occasional homeless person trying to make off with the large roll of toilet paper from the bathroom. Occasionally, an unlucky person could be spotted on surveillance taking a moment in the stacks to pleasure themselves over a racy erotic book. Most days consisted of taking books off the shelves, putting books back on the shelves, and offering half-hearted smiles to patrons while thanking them for using the public library system.

Monotony.

Last week, she recalled, offered a bit of excitement as a man with a set of plumber’s tools decided he wanted to steal the urinal from the men’s room. What he was going to do with it was unclear. How he planned to carry it out of the building also perplexed her because a urinal did not fit in a backpack, nor under his full-length trench coat on a hot Atlanta summer day. It was 98 degrees with a 103-degree heat index, and she didn’t even plan to mention the humidity. This morning, she’d left her home with her hair styled, and looking cute sporting perfectly set ringlets that bounced when she walked, but by the time she got to work, her hair appeared as if she’d lost a fight with Angela Davis. Every day in Keoni’s life was a struggle.

Routine.

Keoni also understood, after a fair amount of mental duress, that she was stuck in a routine with Carlton Gear, an accountant for the local arm of an international music conglomerate. However, the clients he serviced were all local wannabees with gold grills on their teeth, fake butts, and too much make-up. To Keoni, it all was too much. Carlton wasn’t really her man. He was her plus one and vice versa when the need arose. When they were both in a pinch and the desire to create friction against another human, an appropriate time and place was scheduled. She didn’t like to spend the night at his place since it smelled like disinfectant and unfulfilled dreams. He refused to spend more than 30 minutes in her home out of fear he would be infected with liberalism.

Repetitive.

It had all become so repetitive that Keoni didn’t realize until she walked into the biker bar searching for her friend Onyx that her life required a drastic change or she would die in the big chair in her living room with the Netflix remote stuck to her thumb. Tonight, adventure awaited as the black dress she wore clung to her thin frame, the small waist cinched to accentuate the handful of ass she was grateful to have inherited from her grandmother. This would be the evening to make a transformation in her life. Her immediate plans included finding a stiff drink and a stiffer man after, of course, she’d been given an opportunity to talk with the lady members in the biker club.

The Lady Guardians, an all-woman motorcycle club, were recruiting new members. Keoni didn’t own a bike. She didn’t even know how to ride one. Come to think of it, she’d never been on one, but hell, to add some spice to her life, she’d give it a go. As a kid, late on a Friday night, after her parents had turned in for the evening, remote in hand, she flipped the television to HBO. Flashing on the screen in full color were women on motorcycles in Bury Me an Angel. The power of the female lead tracking down the man who killed her brother along with two of her friends popped off the screen. In Keoni’s eyes, it represented power. A woman taking back control of her life, seeking justice as she hit the open road to explore the world while getting revenge. She sighed at the warm memory, wishing she had a motorcycle and belong to motorcycle club with a group of die-hard friends that would literally ride or die with her.

She wanted to be a Lady Guardian and a member of the club. If she were a member, she would belong to something greater than herself. On the weekends, she fancied herself wearing the leather, the bright, hot pink angel wings affixed to the back of her cut as the wind whipped past her face. The MC, or Motorcycle Club had a chapter in Atlanta in which her friend Onyx was a member. Tonight, she would be a “Hang Around” as newbies to the culture were called, to start her first steps towards membership. But first, there was a man inside that bar with her name soon to be on his lips. Tonight, was the night for transformation into being an official badass.

Entering the bar, loud music blared through the speakers as she made her way through the throng of leather clad sweaty bodies. A few had begun to separate themselves from the crowd, finding dark corners in which to whisper lies into one another’s ears to spark a flame of interest in igniting the fire to take the party to the next level.

Keoni was in search of just such a spark. A hot one that would burn through the satin bodice of her dress and soak her underwear down to the seams. If she were lucky, a hot body with a thick gear shaft would suit her fine as they danced the night away. A few well-placed strokes and she would be satisfied. Her last intimate encounter with Carlton had left her wanting. At this point, she was afraid that if someone blew on her neck hard enough, a pent-up orgasm would shoot out from under her dress and drown a boy. She searched the small club for possible victims. The fluorescent light above the bar flickered as if asking her to look up. She did. Panic filled her as realized she’d come to the wrong biker bar. Her eyes focused on the grimy mirror behind the bar to find a quick exit out of what she knew was going to be a night of trouble.

It was too late. Trouble was approaching and he was serious. Breathing deeply the toxic air filled with stale cigarette smoke, wasted booze, and a whiff of just been humped, she girded herself for a fight.

A burly man with a ratty beard in a worn cut, the leather frayed around the armholes, made his way over. His gaze was set on the fresh meat and he bore down on her, coming fast. Mistaking his intentions, Keoni moved quickly to the other side of the bar to order a drink. His purposes did not change direction just because she did. The big man, with some effort, shifted as well to follow her.

Throttle the Stave as the members of his MC called him, spotted the burly man going after the pretty young woman that wandered in through the doors of his bar. She had no idea of Big Jock’s reputation for tender morsels in his bar, especially on a Friday night. The cute little dress she wore advertised her as bait and the sharks were about to start encircling the prey. He hated when fresh meat came into the joint- especially on a Friday night. It always ended in a fight or some young chickadee on the menu for hungry hunters with a free night away from the wife and kiddies. Consent was an ugly word to many of them and if they managed to get their prey separated from the pack, her chances of going home unharmed were unlikely. A sweet little thing like that had no business in a place like this.

“Hey, I’m Big Jock,” the burly bearded bitch buster said to Keoni. “Wanna know why they call me that?”

Before she had a chance to answer, Big Jock unzipped his pants and reached inside to pull out what looked like a dead rooster with a bulbous red head. He shook the dead meat at Keoni, who looked at it, uninterested, and went back to her drink as if the man hadn’t just revealed to her his prized possession. The character was also a bore to her; there were more fascinating homeless people in her library. She’d seen better penises on the dirty homeless men who liked to flash their wares outside her office window.

“Bartender, can I get another, please?” she asked the man behind the bar, who was staring at her in disbelief.

“Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!” Big Jock said. “You won’t be so high and mighty once I ram this in your mouth.”

Keoni turned up her drink and the ice cubes rattled in the dingy glass as she sucked too hard to drain the last remnants of hard liquor lingering around the bottom of the container. Her week had been shit and there was a very large turd also lingering around her with a dead bird hanging out of his pants like it was some sort of Christmas present. The day had been the worst and tonight, she wanted a hard man, very few words, and a few orgasms before she climbed into her bed with the remote that loved the feel of her thumb pressing down on its buttons. The last thing she wanted or needed was this loudmouth limp dick to screw it up for her.

“Are you planning to wake it up or resuscitate it first?” she asked, waving at the bartender to hurry with her drink.

“That’s what your mouth is for pretty lady,” Big Jock said.

“Seems like that dead cock is in need of more than just a mouth,” Keoni told him, picking up her third drink. “Put it away before it wakes up and you scare someone.”

The gathering crowd began to laugh at Big Jock, who took exception to being turned down by the wisp of a woman. He could easily snap her in half with one thrust after he bent her over the pool table. She wasn’t going to talk to him like that.

“Bitch, I said…,” Big Jock began but got silenced by the slapping sound of Keoni’s small hand. He didn’t believe, although he just witnessed the small woman getting off the stool and slapping his limp noodle several times as if it had been naughty.

“I know what you said, but your friend ain’t listening,” she said as the music in the background stopped. The loud slaps of her small hand against the flaccid meat reverberated through the club like a baker smacking on a ball of unwilling dough. “This limp sausage ain’t in no position to threaten anyone, let alone entice me to put it in anything, except maybe some warm water to see if it can get some life in it.”

The gathering crowd roared as Throttle fought his way through the group. The woman was going to die soon if he didn’t get to her. Big Jock wasn’t a man to embarrass and she was doing a good job by the sound of it. Throttle arrived just in time to break through the crowd of onlookers. Big Jock reached for the woman, about to grab a handful of her hair and introduce her to Easy Rider, as he liked to call his member. He’d seen it at full peak before and from what he’d seen, it wasn’t an easy ride for any woman. The more violence Big Jock used, the more rigid Easy Rider became. If, just if, he managed to garner a whimper from the woman’s mouth, the party would begin. The crowd knew it. He knew it.

She’d touched it. Smacked it even, by the sounds of it. Her voice carried over the crowd, and if anyone were to ask, the lady invited Big Jock to do his best. At least, that’s what he’d heard. The next move was crucial to the woman, the bar, and himself. The last thing they needed was another charge filed against them or the bar would be shut down.

“Damn Baby, I been looking all over for you,” Throttle said as he reached Keoni’s side. “I know you ain’t up in this bitch trying to give away my good-good to this big, ugly bastard.”

Keoni looked the man over. Her hero of the moment was scruffy, wearing leather chaps, tight jeans, sporting a nice bulge and decent muscles. He’d do for the night. Plus, he was kinda sexy.

“Took you long enough to get here,” she said to the scruffy man. “This dead chicken is waking up over here and my girly bits was about to give it some consideration.”

The crowd seemed disappointed that Big Jock wouldn’t give them a show. The lust hungry onlookers wanted to be entertained. Whispers milled through the crowd as someone called for the Low Rider. Keoni didn’t know what that was, but she figured it to be a chair or a table that women were thrown upon for Big Jock to stick with his big block of a cock.

“Low…Low…Low,” they all began to chant. Throttle was breaking into a sweat but he and the feisty lady had to give them a show or she would be passed on to the Big Jock and whomever called next.

“Get your sexy ass over here and kiss me like you missed me,” Throttle said to Keoni. The chanting of the crowd made her feel bold. The nerves of her brain understood what had to happen next, screaming at her to run. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. Boredom spoke to her again, reminding her she came to be fed. Hungry. Her nipples tingled for action and poked upward in the satin of the bodice of her dress as a large chair on wheels with chopper handlebars made its way to the center of the room. Keoni’s eyes were wide as she eyeballed the chair, the placement of the one seat, and the cushion between the handlebars. It was a big fucking chair.

The scruffy man grabbed her by the hand pulling her to him, his lips on her neck, his large hand on her ass. In her ear he whispered, “Either you make it look real or it will be Big Jock and whomever calls for next.”

“That’s a big fucking chair,” she said, pulling him by the hand to the seat of honor. The crowd went mad as her hand pushed him into the cracked leather seat and she reached for his belt buckle. Keoni tugged at it as if it were a normal routine for the two of them on a Friday night in front of the fireplace for shits and giggles.

“Yeah, that is exactly what the chair is used for,” he said into her ear as she bent down, unzipping his pants, reaching inside to pull out his best friend. His best friend liked the lady. He came alive in her hand.

“Nice,” she said, fumbling in her bag for the protection she brought with her. Holding it high in the air, she called out, “Safety first, and somebody buy me a drink!”

Three drinks were slapped on the wide base of the seat that held the big chair. Keoni made a big show of raising her dress hem high enough to get the crowd worked up as she flung a well-toned leg over him and straddled his lap. Her new boyfriend’s hands went to the chopper bars holding tight as if he were about to take her for the ride of her life on a low rider. She braced her feet on the reverse bitch stirrups, raising the tail of her dress just enough for hidden hands to roll on the rubber. Her right hand rested on his shoulder as she called out for the next drink. In half a gulp, she drank it down, pouring the remainder in his mouth.

“Fire up this moferker!” Keoni yelled as Throttle raised his feet to the faux pedal of the chopper, shifted the pretend gear and gave the lady some gas with his hip. He could feel the heat from her center, but even with the condom, he wasn’t getting past the underwear, so he moved her body as if he were. Keoni’s mouth came to his for a kiss, which went from exploratory to carnal in a matter of seconds. Soft moans whispered into his mouth, catching Throttle up in the energy of the crowd. The chants still going, “Low, Low, Low,” as she moved against him. Their tongues dueled as if their mouths searched for a lasting connection, her hands roamed through his hair, and more than anything, Throttle wanted the moment to be real.

“Throttle her good!” someone yelled out.

“You’re the man, Throttle!” another call came from the crowd.

Keoni was about to burst from the need to have him inside of her body. The man kissed like the Devil himself had sent Mr. Scruffy to steal her soul. He couldn’t have her soul, but he was about to get a hearty helping of horny librarian. It only took a flick of her wrist and her panties were pushed aside and the tip of his interest was in place.

The kiss ended as her eyes met his. His mouth opened wide as he watched, daring the woman to make the connection real. Encouraging her at the same time, he mouthed his thoughts. “Do it,” he said, with just his lips.

She adjusted her position and began to slide forward. The more she moved, the deeper he went. His jaw was slack from the sweet connection as the crowd chanted louder. Keoni began to grind her hips against him to the rhythm of the sing-songy taunts. Each low call from the crowd, she pumped her hips.

He felt so good inside of her she didn’t care if she were screwing a stranger in public on a chair that would probably give her a rash if her skin contacted the fabric. Right now, her focus was on the hardened stranger giving her more pleasure than she’d experienced in years. Encouraged, horny, and craving more than wanting a good finish, she gave the crowd the show they chanted loudly to see.

“Damn, baby,” he said, trying to hold onto the handle bars, but he had to let go to get a grip on her hips.

The hot little number used the bitch stirrups for balance as she half stood, rocking hard against him, the sensations shooting through him as she gyrated, pumped, and humped him until he started to drool like he was having a stroke.

“I’m close, make me call your name,” she said staring him in the eyes.

“Throttle,” he whispered, taking a hold of the handlebars, planting his feet and thrusting his hips upwards.

“Oh shit, Throttle,” she yelled as the crowd went mad. “That’s it, more Throttle. Do it, Throttle. Give Mama some more gas!”

The audience began to chant his name as his left hand cupped her breast, his hot mouth landed on her neck, and she let loose. Keoni rode him as if he were the last horse available to canter out of a one-horse town. She bucked against him so hard the chair began to roll across the floor, heartening the crowd who began to throw money at them.

Keoni didn’t give two fonts in a pack of twenty letters about any of those people. All she wanted was the release he promised, and Throttle delivered. Bigly. Her body shuddered through her release as he pumped his hips, pulling her face to his as he grunted, yanking her hard against his body, frowning at the delight from the freedom of the weight being released from the heavy sack of blue balls he’d been carrying.

Her body, damp from the exertion, lay against him as the music kicked up and people offered them praise.

“Good show, Throttle,” one lady said.

“Can I have next?” a man in the back asked.

“No, she is my girl,” Throttle said, looking at her. The brown eyes looked back at him. So many questions. Such a hot encounter. He didn’t know what to say.

“Baby, you got a man?” he asked.

“I do now, if you’re available,” she said, kissing him passionately, almost waking the snake she’d just drained for another round of oh yeah.

“You got a name, Hot Stuff?” he asked.

“Keoni,” she said, her mouth dry even after all the booze she had just drunk.

“I like Hot Stuff better,” he said, taking a black marker out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “It’s not permanent but will stay for a minute.”

Calloused fingertips rolled across her soft skin, lowering the silk bodice of the top of the dress, and he wrote his number on her breast. Their bodies were still connected and she didn’t want to let him go.

“I need to get you out of here,” he said, shifting her legs to the floor. He stood up, breaking the connection, shoving his best friend, still in its holster, back in his pants. He dragged Keoni out the back door. “Where’s your car?”

“Blue Ford,” she said, pointing at the small SUV.

“Keys,” Throttle said.

“Purse,” she told him.

“Open it.”

“The purse or the car?”

“Both,” Throttle said, all but shoving her inside. “Go home. Don’t stop. Call me in a day or two.”

“Okay,” she said, starting the Ford as men came out the rear door of the bar. Throttle slammed the car door and tapped twice on the roof, as she put the Ford into gear and drove off. Just as he suspected, the members of the Club came looking for them. This was the part he hated about owning this fucking bar. Last week he’d gotten an offer to sell. In the morning, he would take them up on the proposal to purchase the bar. Facing these men every Friday night as they hunted fresh meat had gotten old.

Plus, he wasn’t getting any younger. It was time for a change. The conversation with the members was never going to be different, and he didn’t like being in a rut. The groove they’d carved into the landscape became an outlet for the men on weekends. Most of it made his flesh crawl, but he wasn’t a died in the wool 1%. He prefer 99% of living a quiet life, free of violating the law and unwilling women. She’d been willing for him, but not the whole crew.

“Where is she going, Throttle?” Big Jock asked.

“The hell away from here,” he said, watching the red lights of the tail of her car speed off. Lucky for them both, the little blue Ford was dirty and no one could see the plates. Waving his hands like Moses, the black leather clad sea of men parted to let him walk through. Throttle needed to get to the bathroom where he took care of the waste and stared at himself in the dirty old bathroom mirror.

He hadn’t been fucked that good in a long time.

He wished to hell she would call him.

Throttle wanted another ride on Hot Stuff, only this time, he would do the real driving.