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Growing up in a Motorcycle Club is trouble enough. Made harder still by the lack of any kind of parental figure, three younger sisters to raise, and the constant need to look over your shoulder for the next old pervert trailing behind you looking for something you aren't willing to give. Viv Kingston survived it all and kept her sisters safe. Nevermind that she survived it by mass-murdering the entire club. She has one more thing to survive - Federal Agent Reed Becker. He's proving to be her biggest challenge yet.

Erotica / Romance
Age Rating:



Growing up as a runt to one of the most vicious motorcycle club isn’t an easy life. But it teaches you certain things. Things like how to fend for yourself, how to fuck like a porn star, how to take what you need, even how to survive catapulting pumpkins (more on that in a minute).

I already excel at all of this and I’m really just getting started.

Let me give you some background. My mother, may she rest in pieces, was a club whore. While I don’t slut-shame, you do you and all that, my mother was the worst kind of woman and when I call her a whore I don’t mean it to be complimentary. I mean it as a wholehearted insult. Why? Sure she sold herself, but more importantly, her children. She traded us for mediocre sex with overweight and under-washed men. I couldn’t tell you definitively who my father is, she couldn’t either. Aileen started hanging with the boys of the Nut Dynasty Motorcycle Club (that’s really the name, legend says it’s because of a pecan plantation, I’m not buying it) when she was just fifteen. She was caught up in the drugs, the booze, the parties. I came along just a few short years later. Three sisters followed within the next decade. I swear you’d think some adults in that club could muster up some damn birth control. A condom? Pull out maybe, but, nope.

You may have read some glorified romance about motorcycle clubs - painting some pictures of how they’re full of soft guys with hard shells. Or maybe you’ve seen that one show with that really hot guy who always wears white tennis shoes, and it taught you to think motorcycle clubs always take care of their own. Well, let me tell you how the amazing NDMC took care of the bastard children of their prized club whores.

Oh, they provided. You got food. If you didn’t mind instant dry noodles, boxed mac and cheese, nearly expired milk, and a constant supply of circus peanuts. Those were the staples in my house. My house. What a fucking joke. On the outskirts of the club’s compound, which is about twenty acres of dry dirt in the Praise Valley, California desert, sit two single-wide trailers. Each with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and leaky roofs. You were lucky if you got a bed to yourself. Shit, you were lucky if you got a bed shared with just a couple of other kids.

There were a lot of kids. Most didn’t stick around long, they’d usually get picked up by some sappy, estranged family member wanting to give them a better life. I hope they found that. I really hope they found a decent meal, at least.

Rarely, was actually one of our mothers at a trailer. They usually crashed at the clubhouse, passed out after a night of debauchery. We mostly raised ourselves. We didn’t really rank high with the adults in our lives. Unless they had a use for us, like cleaning up after parties. That’s one highlight from my youth. Nothing like being dragged across the compound and told to clean vomit off the floors, or dried up semen off the walls. Once I even had to wash the sheets after a, particularly violent orgy. Blood play is not something a girl should learn about at the tender age of ten, I’m just saying.

I can’t tell you how many bare hairy asses I’d seen before my teen years. The count on saggy ballsacks is pretty high, too. I won’t even get started on all the fake tits. Which, let me say, are the worst things ever if your budget was low. Really, what man wants to see two wrinkled melons NOT bouncing in his face - because they just don’t move. I’m not into women but even I can appreciate some great pliable jugs.

Growing up I had two priorities.

First, my sisters. Ada is three years younger than me, a slight little thing with a huge mop of dark hair and the biggest blue eyes you’ll ever see. She looks like a damn anime character and she’s been attracting the wrong type of attention her entire life. She doesn’t help by how she plays it up. Tiny clothes, big shoes, bright makeup that draws all eyes to her full lips. I’d call her the biggest hussie I know but the truth is, she’s actually still a virgin. I bet you are rolling your eyes. It’s okay, I am too. A twenty-something club brat virgin is unheard of. She’s the poster girl for ending up with some dominant billionaire who will sweep her away to his high-class high rise. I read steamy romance, I know how this plays out.

Eve, seven years my junior, looks nothing like Ada. They are near opposites in every way. Eve is the least girly, a true tomboy. Short pixie cut blonde hair frames her hard angles. I worry about her the most with the males that constantly prowl around. She’s a complete anomaly, talks more to plants than people, makes her own bras out of hemp, and smokes enough weed to keep several drug dealers in business, single-handedly. She hates guns, though she has a fierce protective streak, she’s quite the pacifist.

Fay is the baby. I suspect she and I are the only two who share a father, she’s my twin in nearly every way. We both have heads of fiery red hair. Long, thick, with a natural wave to it. Women would die for hair like ours but her green eyes show just enough evil that most women keep a safe distance. Do you know how they say redheads have no soul? That’s probably because of Fay. She came along ten years after me and is the last because Aileen didn’t survive a day past that birth.

Which brings us back to that pumpkin thing. The day Aileen came home from the club’s doc with Fay in her arms, the boys were playing with their new toy. They’d built their very own catapult. They thought, in all their divine wisdom, that a huge machine with little to no accuracy would somehow protect the compound if a rival club rolled up with semi-automatic weapons. They were testing it out with pumpkins and other various gourds. It worked fantastically. If the goal had been several more holes in the Brat Trailers and a deathly blow to Aileen’s head. Died instantly, still holding Fay.

Fay is my miracle and I would die for her. For any of my sisters. I’ll do anything to keep them safe and to get retribution from those who didn’t do the same. This is the most important thing you should know about me. Remember it.

I’m Viv, by the way. Viv Bee Kingston. Notice our short names, did ya? My mom thought it was cute. She used to tell me she gave us ‘exotic’ names so we’d be remembered. We also all share the middle name Bee. I suspect all our names are short because she couldn’t spell anything longer than three letters. Which brings me to my second priority. Education.

There is little about the club that is admirable. But one thing the prez of the club, Bull, did right was push us rats to go to school every day. He just wanted us out of the way and getting free meals each day. Whatever the reason, I loved this small favor. School was my haven. I didn’t care about the social aspect of it all, I thrived on the knowledge. I was a sponge, it didn’t even matter the subject.

When Aileen died, I thought I was screwed. I was sure I’d have to quit going to school every day. I was the oldest of all the kids at the time. The NDMC’s were dwindling down and babies were popping out much slower. Probably because most of the whores had been around so long their uteruses were drying up. I was in charge of all the rats in both trailers. Everyone except, Eve went to school all day so it was doable. I worried non-stop about leaving Eve at the clubhouse all day but I had little choice and even at three years old, she was smart enough to find a peaceful place to hide when shit got weird. I usually found her in the clubhouse’s backyard hiding in bushes and eating dirt.

But when Fay came along, I couldn’t leave her with some random club whore and the NDMC’s didn’t do ol’ladies. There was only one and she was a rickety old bitch who hated everyone. She made her living as a professional dominatrix. Bull had actually banned her from the clubhouse because she kept trying to give the whores pointers and most of the boys hated ‘bossy pussy’.

It was Mrs. Palmer, the local bakery owner, who heard what was happening and took pity. She let my two youngest sisters stay with her at Wake and Bake every day. I owe a lot to the Palmer family.

Because of them, I was able to continue my education. I wanted to learn everything about everything.

And so I did. I actually graduated at the age of sixteen. Top of my class, at that. Not that Praise Valley has a very large school, I shined none-the-less. This community took notice. While most club members, club associates, and club kids were given side-eyes and wide berths...the town sort of took me under its wing.

I was given smiles, favors, and odd jobs whenever I needed a hand. I was trusted and I made sure that I never took advantage. I portrayed a timid and friendly creature. I let them see the side of me that learned to bake like Paul Hollywood at the age of twelve. They saw the girl that wore her hair in pigtails every day, with a fresh face that showed a spattering of freckles across her nose. They saw the girl that formed the one member (just me) town welcoming committee. I was the cute young woman who took care of everyone she knew. Innocence and sweetness, that was what they thought of me.

They didn’t see my mind was always working. Always planning. Scheming. I traded hard work and kindness so that I could always be in the right place at the right time. I learned everyone’s lives, their habits, and most importantly, their secrets.

They certainly didn’t see the complete nympho I was. Well, am. I love sex. Dirty sex. The dirtier the better. Blame it on growing up in an MC and witnessing everything under the sun. It desensitizes you somewhat. You can only be scandalized so many times before it all becomes the norm. It’s really hard for me to get off now. I try. I try hard and a lot. Unfortunately, it just takes a lot of extra effort.

But I’ve been careful about who sees that side. I never fucked anyone I went to school with. I never had a boyfriend and I never dated. Luckily, I had my pick of prospects over the years and what happens on NDMC land stays on NDMC land.

Nut Dynasty Motorcycle Club was vicious out of stupidity. Bull wasn’t smart enough to be anything but violent, a bull (hence the road name) who charged into every situation without thought, which was his downfall. He never saw a threat coming. He never saw me coming. He trusted me enough to let me run the books for the club’s business, a porn studio, of all things. He trusted me not to siphon money from the club, which I did anyway. It helped ensure there wouldn’t be many quality prospects coming along. The smart ones found a much more lucrative club chapter. He must have believed, as I did, that Fay and I were his spawn. Because he also trusted me with his legacy and willed the land to me. The compound and all the club’s businesses were mine when he died. When that happened, I immediately closed the porn house, I didn’t need it. I had amassed quite the bank account with my embezzlement and careful investments.

He shouldn’t have trusted me with his money. He sure as hell shouldn’t have trusted me with his life. Or, trusted me not to poison him. I did that, too. It was the VP’s birthday. Pork was turning 60 and had spent over thirty years living in that clubhouse. It was going to be a special day.

I’d spent the entire week planning. I also spent the entire week fucking Billy. He was the newest prospect. Moved to the desert to hide out from his old MC, who he was trying to quit. Bull was going to help him. Billy had a big dick and I didn’t mind a bounce on it until I saw him paying too much attention to a fifteen-year-old Fay. Then he became my patsy.

When I made the batch of porcupine shaped cookies (that was how Pork got his nickname…thin dick, just like a porcupine quill), I made sure Billy was there. I made sure to make cutesy little videos of us covered in flour and icing. I even filmed Billy loading those cookies on his bike to drive them across the compound to the clubhouse. I made sure those videos got posted to social media. I just didn’t post the part where I snuck in and laced the lot of them. I often made treats for the boys to eat during church, which is what they called their meetings. Prospects weren’t invited to those meetings, only fully patched members. Only the members that I had spent years, not always successfully, fending off. Members I had watched take advantage of and abuse other girls. Members who deserved to die for what they put all us children through, for what they put me through.

I made sure to feed Billy plenty of sweets before he left and hoped he’d not sneak a treat before they made it back to the clubhouse.

It was pretty easy. Too easy, honestly.

It helped that Mrs. Palmer’s son happened to be the sheriff in our small town and that he was like a brother to me. Well, and that he was a little in love with Ada.

It helped a lot.

Now, this clubhouse and this town are mine. I intend to keep it that way.
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