Free Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel by Nadia Nightside

definitely wear out a woman.
    Only moments after he set himself down to the rags of his bed, he pushed her away and toward the door. Her skinny frame rolled easily, compliantly.
    “Out.”
    She gathered up her clothes around her arms and tiny breasts. Big green eyes shining in the light. His cum dripped down from her tummy, intermingling with the juices from her sopping wet pussy, all across the floor.
    “I-I was hoping...that maybe, you and I...I mean. You made me cum so, s-so, so hard, and—”
    “Get out. I won’t tell you again.”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    He eyed the cum she let drip everywhere.
    “And get someone in here to clean up your fucking mess!” he called after her.
    A few minutes later, as Troy dozed in his heady post-orgasmic fog, someone knocked at the door.
    “Come in, already. Took you long enough.”
    But it was Pontoon, his second-in-command. Troy had his men, and Case his, and until the marriages were all final, the division between the various forces of the Family would remain. Pontoon was an older man, well past Case's or even Troy’s age. His hair thick black with streaks of gray, his handlebar mustache veteran in the world.
    “I was at the Mud Pit with Case. Why aren’t you up?”
    “Up? What do you mean, up?”
    “Word just came in to Case a minute ago. They said everybody else had been told.”
    Bilious rage rose up in Troy’s chest. Left out. Put apart. Not given the news. The same old shit. Was this what he was in charge for? Was this what Case meant when he said sharing the load on top of the Family?
    “Everybody else.” He made a fist. “Been told what?”
    Pontoon stepped lightly now. Old enough to know to stay out of an angry man’s way. “It’s Abigail. I mean, she’s fine. More or less. But the Cauldron, they took her. And they made her their own.”
    “Indoctrination?”
    “Yessir, that’s the whole of it.”
    Troy took this news with delight. He could feel his rage subsiding, passed over by intense feelings of purpose.
    “All right.” He stood up and began to get dressed. “You gather up the boys. Our boys. The ones we can trust. No more than five or six, I’d say, not including you and me. We got something to do.”
    “Yessir. I’ll see to it.”
    Leave him out of the news, eh? Time to make some news on his own.

Chapter 12:
    ––––––––
    B reakfast was hardtack and whiskey, served on the small table in Brall's tent. He approached it slowly; his stomach was a bit uneven that morning. In truth, Brall felt something he had never felt before.
    In the long road on the wastes, there was never a lack for dust running into a man’s face. Wild storms of grit and steel passed overhead, the winds ripping so furiously that you had to take shelter or else be lambasted by the wreckage of extinct cities caught up in the air. Always in the air around these dead cities was the stink of death; rotting bodies of animals and men that had not survived the war and had not yet been completely exposed to the elements so that their remains could be eroded under the wind and sun. After a day’s ride, his enormous body would be thick with grime and dirt, every muscle layered in the darkness of the land. So much so that when he took off his clothing, thick outlines remained, millimeters thick sometimes, so that it looked as though he had been riding through some volcanic waste where the land itself was spraying onto him.
    And yet that morning, as he ate his breakfast in the cool air outside his tent, Brall felt dirty for the first time in his life.
    Taking Abigail like that. It had been wrong.
    Oh, sure, she had wanted it. She had taken every last inch of him with gusto, and would have had a smile on her face if her mouth had not been stuffed full of cock the entire time. She had moaned his name, Carthage’s name; the names of every last alpha stud in the Cauldron that she had known. She had taken eight men on. Eight men inside her. Eight hard, warrior men with virtually