Free Ridin' Dirty by Ruby Winchester

I’m not a good girl.
    That’s the way these stories always begin. A good girl wanders into the wrong neighborhood and chooses the wrong bar. She sits down on the wrong barstool and chats up the wrong man. It’s all very sad and tragic, the story of a good girl gone wrong.
    That was never me.
    When that good girl walked in, I was the one lining up the shots, a lime in my lips and a line of salt across my ample cleavage. When a wayward hand slapped my ass and pulled me down onto his lap, I didn’t squeal like a schoolgirl and the only squirming I did was to get closer to the prize inside those dark jeans.
    Good girls don’t follow the Diablo MC. Good girls don’t let the man they want pass around other girls like a cigarette and trade them like a kid’s baseball card collection. Good girls don’t enjoy it.
    Glad I never wanted to be a good girl.
    ***
    When a girl wants to feel the rumble of an engine between her legs and the press of worn leathers against her body, she takes herself to Hades. It’s easy for a woman to walk through the door and settle herself on a bar stool. She’ll lean against the scarred bar and rest her round tits against her arms, putting them on display for anyone who might be looking.
    And they’re all looking. You don’t walk into a place like this as a stranger without having every eye focused on you. She’ll order a beer or, if she’s feeling daring, a shot of whiskey. She’s here because she wants a taste of the danger. Suburban life has gotten boring and her limp-dicked college boyfriends don’t make her wet anymore.
    Sometimes she waits for them to come to her, hard nipples straining against a too-tight shirt. Sometimes she chooses one of the men at random, picking one closer to her own age, as though they were equals. She sidles up to him and smiles, hoping she picked one in a receptive mood. If she’s bold or crazy enough, she doesn’t wait for the invitation and climbs right onto his lap and lets him feel what she isn’t wearing under her miniskirt.
    If she chooses the wrong one, she ends up dumped on the floor, jeers of “Get off me, slut” echoing in her ears. She doesn’t understand the dangerous game she’s playing. She might end up with a bruised face and a wounded ego if she picks wrong. She’ll run out and go back to the college boys and nurse her wounded pride.
    If she picks right, she’ll grind against worn leathers and rough denim and feel the bulge grow beneath her. He’ll push up her skirt, putting her shaved pink pussy on view to the bar, unzip and slide in. She may be on top, but this is his house. She’ll ride him, rocking and bouncing, making no effort to hide what she’s doing from the onlookers.
    Her tits sway with her movement, and she hears the hoots and cheers of the other members. He doesn’t touch her beyond a grope of her tits. Making her come isn’t his job. He rips her shirt and her round, perfect tits slip out into his hands. Across the table, the eyes are greedily eating up her body, wondering who she’ll be passed to next.
    Underneath her, he will tense and groan and fill her trembling pussy with his hot come. He doesn’t know her name. He doesn’t care.
    He pushes her off him. Maybe he says, “Thanks for the ride” with a smirk as he tucks his cock away. She staggers away on lust-weakened legs, come coating the insides of her thighs. Maybe she leaves. Maybe she doesn’t.
    Maybe she selects another from the crowd and drops to her knees on the sticky bar floor, mouthing his straining erection through dark denim before unzipping and revealing her prize. The tables are small and she doesn’t have much room to move. She traces her tongue up and down the length of his shaft while working him with her hand. He’s slippery already from pre-come and saliva, and she takes the head into her mouth, sucking with the pressure that made her so popular with her high school boyfriends.
    She moans around his cock, wishing for just a moment that