Page 28 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

Because why should she trust me at all? Zayna's breathing slows down as mine speeds up. She presses her back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as she can -- but still watching.

"I wish I could cum in your mouth..."

Again, honest, but I don't exactly mean for the words to fall out of my mouth the way that they do. This woman gets me weakat the knees. Bracing myself against the shower door, I pump my dick furiously, desperate to drag myself over the edge. I'm close. So close. But my body craves so much more than this fucked up masturbation scenario. Zayna makes a soft, terrified whimper and I know that's all it will have to be.

She's in luck with all that whimpering because her soft, feminine and downright terrified mewls that she's so desperate to hide push me right over the edge. I groan, my eyes fluttering closed as I feel the first eruption from my dick. I cum everywhere -- and much more cum than I normally muster up.

The first spurt of cum flies out of my dick with so much force that my balls ache and as I brace myself against the shower door to field the mixture of pain and pleasure, three more spurts of my baby juice burst out of my dick and paint the clear shower door a creamy, white color. Zayna's relief is immediate and obvious. It's the first thing I notice when I open my eyes.

That, and she's looking at my dick again. Staring at it.

"It didn't even get smaller,"she whispers. I don't think she means for those words to come out of her mouth and I pretend I don't hear them. My dick has been the subject of far too much conversation for my entire life. Even Doc told me when I was a baby, my dick was so big mom sent pictures to the entire family.

My egg donor fails to see why I have a problem with that to this day. Although that was honestly just the beginning of it. I could only wear sweatpants to school from middle school and I never liked going, never liked sports, never liked anything that put me close to other people. I only ever liked Doc because he was quiet and I respected him -- and he could kill a deer from over 600 yards with a clean shot to the heart.

Euphoria flushes through me as I catch my breath. My dick feels thick in my hands, even if I'm not hard anymore. I could goagain. If I wanted to. If I even stood a chance of getting my dick inside Zayna. Judging by the look on her face, I won't be able to make that happen without a fight.

And I'm fuckingtired of fighting.

"Get my clothes,"I tell her. "I'm ready to get my ass to bed."

She skedaddlesout of the bathroom without a sassy comment or a follow up question. The damn woman doesn't even ask where to find my clothes. Jerking off makes everything better. Zayna returns faster than I expect with a pair of black basketball shorts and a white tank top. She hands me my underwear on top of the stack of clothes without looking at me and I take the rest from her so I can suit up for carrying this woman off to bed.

Zayna seems even more relieved than before once I'm dressed.

"Bed,"I whisper, patting her gently on the ass, trying to ignore my dick as she makes the softest, hottest yelp of surprise from my hand's contact with her soft, extremely tempting ass cheeks.

Chapter Thirteen

Zayna

Massachusetts, 2 years ago

I'm safe at home. Completely safe. I slide onto the couch I bought with my ex-boyfriend at Costco back when I thought I knew exactly how my life was going to go. He changed his mind about a quiet life just outside of Boston working at a prep school and last I checked, he was still "finding himself" in The Netherlands. (He's unemployed.)

The couch is a memory of something I used to have. Something I always wanted. Companionship. A warm, broad chest to rest my head on. A man who would only gaslight me when he really wanted to protect my feelings.

I throw open my laptop, loneliness and frustration churning through me. Checking up on my ex would be too depressing. He hard launches a new "love of his life" on Instagram every time he moves to a new Dutch city, and I don't want to see which variation of a six-foot-tall blond he's going to spend forever with next.

Another darker thought crosses my head. What if I looked them up on social media?

The kids.Ha. It feels downright ridiculous to think of these teenage monsters as kids. They use the most foul and disgusting language you have ever heard in your entire life. It's like their career plans are becoming porn directors straight out of high school and judging by the way the phrase "OnlyFans" is thrown around my classroom by underage kids, maybe I'm not too far off.

It's enough to make you lose hope in the entire country, not just this next generation of kids, although both are definitely doomed. The four kids who keep harassing and threatening me are all football players. Barbour-Barnes & Goodenough Academy's football team has their own social media page where they tag the students.

How hard would it be to find these three fucking monsters? (Although, I have no idea what I would do with that information.) They're my students. It's not like I don't know their names.

Brooks Astor

Grant Fairfax

Reid Moreland

The most insufferablepreppy asshole names you could think of. Ugh. I hate when my inner thoughts don't sound like a teacher, but these kids have beaten the soft-hearted idealist out of me. That woman feels dead. But even as I'm tempted to conduct a thorough social media investigation of my students... I just can't bring myself to do it.

I shouldn't let those creeps have that type of power over me. Instead of succumbing to that particular dark age, I open up my non-school email and type three words into the subject line.

My Resignation Letter.

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