Club Rules

Bridget did her best to ignore the finger now working itself in and out of her tight asshole. She steeled her nerve, and address Meathead Moe.

"I'm here lookin' for Johnny Rockwell." she said, unconsciously biting her lip as her body began to accept the finger's deeper and faster proddings. Moe scratched his chin as he went over his men in his mind.

"Who?" he asked. For a moment, Bridget's mind went wild. What if Johnny had lied to her, never expecting her to actually take him up on the invitation? What if he hadn't even been introduced to Moe yet? She let out a small whimper as the escort's knuckle started to grind against her anal bud with each quick, hard jab into her.

"Johnny Rockwell, new recruit from Ratchettown. We've got unfinished business I plan to settle." she said as cooly as she could. She could feel the tension in the air as the enforcers began to look her up and down, just waiting for the word from Moe to take her. A hint of recognition crossed Moe's eyes.

"Ahh, the new kid. He'll be back inna' few." Her escort stopped fingering her and scoffed.

"You Johnny's girl he's always goin' on about?" the escort asked. Bridget blushed badly. She nodded, hearing someone else speak the words she secretly wished were true. This changed the dynamic somewhat, she realized. A slight smile crept onto her face. She couldn't know for certain, but some clubs respected their members' "claims" to avoid conflict. From the more relaxed, and slightly disappointed expressions on the men's faces, she suspected the Meatheads were one such group. It was a peculiar custom in Old Detroit harkening back to the pre-PRA era and one that had to be enforced with fists rather than civil citations. It was sort of charming in a backwards-thinking sort of way, though a man was expected to be "generous" with members of his club or union.

Moe sighed. "Alright, alright. Take a load off and wait here." he said, indicating one of the couches. Bridget nodded and turned to walk towards an unoccupied seat when he cleared his throat loudly to get her attention. "...right after you give us a demonstration of yer' hardware there." Bridget winced, hoping her first time using it would be with Cynthia; but nodded.

"So which one of you will it be?" she said, boldly stepping toward his enforcers; who began to shift uncomfortably in place. "I suppose it'll be one of your girls, then?" Bridget couldn't help but be proud of herself. She wasn't sure where this confidence was coming from, but she had to admit it probably came from having a 10" chrome "deterrent" jutting from her lower body.

"I'll give it a ride." she heard from over her shoulder. Bridget's eyes fell onto the short haired, tall blonde she had seen earlier. Her long torso was streaked in grease and smudge marks from both working on the cars and roaming, filthy hands upon her tone and tan body. She was already pushing her jeans down her slender, long legs as her pale blue eyes met the emerald shimmer of the ivory redhead's. Bridget watched as she sat on the edge of a pool table, casually drinking a beer as she spread her legs, beckoningly.

Bridget felt a dozen sets of eyes upon her as she stepped forward, clicking the button on the harness and bringing the piston to life. She leaned in, pressing her body against the stranger's, and kissed her passionately. The short-haired woman snaked a hand up Bridget's torso and pushed her shirt up, exposing her breasts as their tongues intertwined. Bridget put her hands on the woman's hip bones, and pulled her forward. The woman broke off the kiss to look down and guide the chrome phallus to her shaven, hot sex. Bridget's lips hovered inches from the woman's in an open, lustful smile as she watched her eyes flutter.

The lovely Irish woman glanced down to see the chrome disappear into tender pink flesh while the piston slid into her own body again and again. The woman sensually stretched her arms over her head and lay back against the smooth velvet of the billiard table as Bridget began to thrust in and out of her in time with the piston. The heavy guitar music from the stereo was joined by the sounds of the Meathead's zippers and buttons being opened. She could see out of the corner of her eye that another girl was already kneeling and sucking two of the red-bandana-wearing guards, but Bridget didn't care. She ran her hands up and down the woman's smooth inner thighs as she felt a wave of quivering warmth fill her.

Bridget's hand snaked down to the button as her other hand roamed the smallish, perky breasts of the grease girl. She swayed her hips, driving them forward into the shivering body of the woman as the piston shifted gears and hammered into her own body. The woman squeezed and twisted her own cherry-bud like nipples as Bridget grabbed her the thighs and lifted her legs so that they dangled on either side of her head, tightening her hole for the thrusting chrome cock even as her own wetness was penetrated and clit stimulated by the harness. She was loving every minute of it.

..............................................................................................

Meanwhile, Det. Dennis D'Souza sat with his feet propped up on his desk, jacket off, and leaning back in his chair. He had a small, wicked smile on his face as he waited for his partner Det Larry Hornbach to emerge from the restroom down the hall. D'Souza whistled an old Swing song he remembered from his youth in Cuba before fleeing as a child on his brother's yacht to Florida while his parents burned to **** in their countryside villa. He remembered his first time when he was of age, and how shocked and ashamed his foster mother must have felt at him using her. The Communists who had taken over his island had instilled in him an idea of how women were supposed to be treated and used: for the good of the Proletariat.

The political system was garbage, a fact that was thoroughly driven home by the successful Bay of Pigs invasion that left much of Cuba in flames and him an orphan; but the macho attitude followed him, even now. Part of him resented the Soviet "patrons" that had let his people be decimated to preserve the fragile alliance between the Allies and the Bloc rather than come to their defense, but over time he had come to relish in the freedoms his job, and considerable family holdings his parents had moved out of the country with Castro's ascension, had afforded him. He just needed one good case to make his jump from Detective to the D.A's office; and from there into Diesel City politics.

D'Souza leaned forward again and lifted the APB put out by the OSS Domestic Affairs office. "Wanted: Irish Female, 20-30 years old, pale skin, red hair, medium height. Suspect will have mechanical knowledge and rides a Skura Intimidator Motorcycle. Any information about the whereabouts of the suspect should be forwarded to your local FBI Field Agency at once. Apprehension of the suspect is considered high priority. Suspect is known to be armed, but not considered dangerous."

"That'll do." he thought to himself as Hornbach opened the door, hat already in place and ready to go. D'Souza picked up his badge and revolver and continued to whistle his tune as he twirled the squad car keys on his finger; his mind already working on exactly how he planned to get a confession out of the pale girl at Sid's Garage...