Page 6 of Biker's Conquest: Property of Rage

He must be the biggest man I have ever seen – over six-foot-four, which is fucking scary. He has huge muscles that must require so much eating and exercise to maintain. His hair is red. I never saw myself as the type of woman who thought red hair was anything special, but I never saw what it looked like up close. It’s like he’s on fire and that intense erotic energy burned from him before I even saw his hair color.

Even with my eyes averted, I can feel his gaze roaming all over me. He has an intense, predatory scare. I reach for thewaistband of my panties, my heart thumping like fucking crazy as I slip my panties off in front of this complete stranger. He’s not just a complete stranger – he’s brazen with his darkness and his desire for violence. That’s what I came here for – to be an object for him to use.

It’s fucked up that I feel any satisfaction at all from making him cum quickly.

It’shard to peel the underwear away from my mound. I hope he doesn’t notice the smaller details of my undressing. I can’t help that it’s so cold that my nipples are hard. I can’t help that the underwear coming away from my body is so soaking wet that it sticks to my thighs and requires extra force for me to tug to the ground.

I hear him shift his body once I stand before him completely naked. No shoes. No underwear. Nothing covering my breasts. I don’t know what to do with my arms, since it’s way more obvious what to do in other sexual situations. They hang loosely at my sides. I still have my gaze down.

“How much do you weigh?”

Okay, damn. No games, huh?

“Around one hundred and eighty pounds.”

I can’t tell if the grunt he makes is out of satisfaction or disappointment. My stomach sinks. I don’t know why.I want him to be satisfied.But only for the money, of course. That’s why I’m here. It’s easy money – and a lot of it.

“You have a high tolerance for pain.”

I don’t, not really, and I honestly can’t tell if he wants me to respond, so I err on the side of caution and say nothing.

“I have new toys to play with tonight – aside from you, that is. I spent all week looking forward to this.”

Again, I don’t think he wants a response.

“I’ve never had a black woman before. I’ll have to hit you harder to see my marks.”

My stomach sinks. I knew he was a sicko before I got here, but hearing a human man actually say those words still scares the fuck out of me.He’s crazy. I know he’s crazy.

“Look at me,” he says. He doesn’t want a response, but he still wants control.

Lookingat him sends a chill down my spine, which I'm sure is exactly what he wants. The living room is dim, and so eerily clean, like he's auditioning for the role of Patrick Bateman. There is enough light for me to make out new details about him. He has big hands, for example. Hands that could probably choke the life out of you.

His eyes are a shimmery gray color, almost silver, almost blue. He looks serious and quiet -- exactly the type of man who would have this type of secret freaky life behind the scenes. It hurts to meet his gaze for long and I can tell that he thrives on my discomfort.

I knew what this was when I came here, but nothing prepared me for what would actually happen.

He strokes his beard as he continues to stare uncomfortably at my naked body. No man has ever looked at me this long. What would be the point? I can still taste his dick in my mouth and saliva pools in the corners while I try to hold my gaze steady. It must be a nervous response. I wish I could fidget, but I am way too scared to do even that. Rage's gaze drops from mine. He shifts his position on the couch and finishes the whiskey.

"I'll show you my playroom," he says. "Come closer."

Each command feels like a test. The sides of my cheeks ache and my throat tightens nervously at the idea that hemight be asking me to come closer so he can make me kneel, bruise my knees even more and shove his dick down my throat again.

But I move closer to him. Life-changing money. Fuck you, money. It's just one night. I only have to do this once and then I will never see this man again. I'm close enough that I can smell his cologne. Dizziness from the scent nearly throws me off balance. In any other situation, I would think that cologne smelled... incredible.

He stands up and my inability to predict what he might do next sends my chest into a flurry. I can't breathe. My palms are soaking wet -- embarrassingly wet. That makes his next action worse. He takes my hand.

I didn't expect that. But Deacon slides his large hands through mine, interlocking our fingers in strange, inappropriate intimacy. His eyes still look like they could cut me in half. He never for a minute turns off the darkness behind his cold stare, even as his thumb rubs the center of my palm in some strange effort to comfort me. I can't pull my hand away and I don't even dare.

"I'll take you there," he says. "The playroom has a hidden door disguised as a bookshelf. Impossible to get in without the key."

We walk down a clean but not very long white hallway until we get to an oak bookshelf that looks solid all the way through. Deacon uses his free hand to reach underneath one of the shelves. His hand stops beneath a clothbound version of Les Miserables. I hear the sound of a keypad, but I can't see the numbers at all.

He must get the combination right because there's a clicking sound and then the bookshelf slides aside slowly, just enough that he can push it all the way open and show me... this.

The playroom.I don't mind that the man walks ahead of me, keeping a tight grip on my hand while I enter the room. Once he has me all the way inside, Deacon lets go of my hand, blocks any path to the exit and shuts the door behind him. It's pitch black for a few seconds and then he presses a white knob on the wall and red light fills the room.

From this side, the door looks like a regular, opaque sliding door. The floor has a deep, burgundy carpeting and black walls with a mirror covering every inch of the ceiling. No bed. Just a raised platform in the middle of the room with an unlit bulb hanging over it.

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