How Far Would You Go For a Story?
written by:
Naughty Miranda

Tuesday The elevator doors were still opening as I punched Mark's number into my phone.

"She said yes. Elaine said yes."

On the other end of the line, I could sense his dismay. "So you're going ahead with it?"

"You bet I'm going ahead with it." And feeling like one of those characters in a story, who trots out the back story so the reader is up to speed from the start, I blurted on. "Those idiots have been terrorizing the town for six weeks. All I want to do is get in there, find out who they are, what they want, and if there's anything we can do to get them out of here. And my managing editor just said I can do it."

Then, knowing from the last month's worth of arguing what Mark was going to come back with, "besides, it's not as though we're not talking about a chapter of Hell's Angels. It's probably just a bunch of middle-aged men with big motorbikes, who think it's clever to rev their engines n the middle of the night. How tough are they going to be, really?"

Mark simply sighed. "I guess you're going to find out." He hung up.

Friday How far would you go for a story?

Back in college, I lost count of the number of times I was asked that question. And of how many times I answered it with the same six words. As far as I need to. Although I was only thinking in terms of the law back then, or maybe a hint of deception, and that was as far as I'd ever needed to go.

As local newspapers go, I guess I landed a fairly sweet deal - not quite inner city, but not the suburbs, either. So I'd pursue politicians who looked like they might have something to hide, and I chased down a cop who was a little too free with his favors. And if the law of the land got a bit dented in the process, then maybe it should pay a little more attention to truth and honesty than it does.

Tonight, though... tonight, I'd gone further than I'd ever imagined. First to that store in the mall where they sell the kind of clothes that I'd only smirked at before, because the kind of women who wore them weren't the sort I'd ever spend time with. Maybe I did get a vaguely sluttish thrill as I looked at myself in the mirror, all torn tights and too-short skirt, a top that ended where my ribcage began, and my tits squeezing tight against their synthetic jail. But I was doing it for the story. The story has to come first.

Then to the newsstand, to at least get a working knowledge of what owning a motorbike was all about. Before he stopped picking up my calls, Mark told me there's a lot more to it than being able to read the brand name on the side, and he was right. A couple of hours with some bike magazines filled my head with so many figures that I gained a whole new respect for the people who read them. Because it felt like a foreign language to me. Biker-ese, I smiled to myself, and I knew I'd never master it all. But at least I was conversant, and that's all that mattered.

And then, last night, down to Dino's for Ribs'n'Things Thursday, to get the lay of the land and catch a few eyes, so when I returned tonight there would at least be a few friendly faces for me to hang out with. First in one of the booths where the whole gang had taken up residence; then up in the pool room, where the wagers ran from nickels to bike keys... and then...

How far would go for a story?

As far as I need to go

Yeah, and if I keep on telling myself that, maybe I won't gag on the fattest cock I've ever seen, being jammed down my throat by a guy who smells of stale beer and old sweat.

We're in the rest room. The ladies' rest room. I'd excused myself to go for a pee, an excuse to get down with some note taking, when there was a knock on the door, and a voice, "will you be long?"

"Just finishing." I tucked my notepad back in my purse, flushed and washed my hands, then opened the door to find Lars standing there, blocking my exit, and undoing his belt. Two hundred and fifty pounds of Lars, squat and dirty blonde, with a greasy bike chain hanging as a necklace, and a Guns n'Roses T-shirt that probably looked rancid when he bought it.

"Thought you and me should have some quality time together," he slurred. And then, as if he worried that I might not understand what he meant, "thought you and me should get to know each other."

He'd finished fiddling down there; I glanced down quickly and his jeans were pulled wide open, and a semi-hard cock lay on a platform of grubby underwear.

"You did, did you?" I smiled brightly back at him. "And what do you think Pete..." - the guy I'd been sitting with - "... would think about that?"

"He's already gone. Took off right after you did. So I figured that means you're anyone's now."

Shit. I'd been relying on Pete, not only because he seemed to have the loosest tongue of them all, but also because he appeared to have the highest set of morals.

My eyes darted around Lars' bulk, wondering if maybe I could squeeze past and run. He caught them and his already massive frame seemed to grow even bigger. "You're not thinking of running out on me, are you?"

"You kidding?" Okay, I'd tried cowardice, now it was time for some bluster. "I just wanted to make sure there wasn't a line for the ladies. This could take some time." Then I fell to my knees, took his cock in one hand and, eyes closed, I popped him into my mouth.

I don't know what I was expecting. I'm not one of those girls you read about who creams her jeans at the thought of sucking cock - if I'm going to do it, it's rarely a premeditated decision; it happens in the heat of a particular moment, because I know my partner likes it, or just because I want to. Certainly the idea of cold-bloodedly kneeling on a bathroom floor and sucking a stranger's cock for any reason had never crossed my mind, and even as I drew Lars's thickness into my mouth, a part of me couldn't believe that I was doing it.

But another part was wondering why I'd waited so long to try. It wasn't the best tasting dick in the world, and being that close to his crusty clothes wasn't exactly a thrill, either. But the picture in my mind... prim and proper Patty, so middle-class it hurt, on her knees in a puddle of (I hope it's) water on the red-tiled floor of a rarely-cleaned bathroom, sucking on a biker's dick as though it's a five-star restaurant special. That was exciting. That did make it all worthwhile.

Lars wasn't going to last long, I could tell that from his movements, and from the way his cock was swelling in my mouth, growing hotter and harder as his balls tensed and... for a moment, I wondered if I should try and slow him down, but only for a moment, because that's all the time I had before he came with a cry that must have been heard throughout the building, and I braced myself for the flood of fluid - that never came.

There was come, but ... what? Maybe half a teaspoon full? Not enough to think about, that's for sure, so I held it in my mouth while I sucked his softening cock and, as I released him, I let his emission go as well, then wiped my mouth as lasciviously as I could, and gave him a breathy "wow."

The door to the bathroom was still wide open, and I could see a few of his friends watching us. But I stood up and kissed Lars' bearded cheek, then squeezed past his bulk and went back to my table. Fuck, I needed a drink and, when Lars made his own way back to the booth, so did he. He didn't say a word to me, though; didn't even try and catch my eye, just kept his head down all evening, sinking his brews. Was he the weak link I'd been hoping to find? Because if he was, then I'd just found his weakest point.

Saturday I don't know if I'd describe it as respect, but when I turned up at Dino's the following evening, there was definitely a sense that I'd earned something last night. I made my way to the same booth I'd occupied last night, and instead of the surly boots that reluctantly shifted to let me pass, they moved like lightning out of my path. And the guy whose jacket lay on my seat? He snatched it up before I even made to sit down.

I took out a cigarette, wondering how far this newfound chivalry might stretch... not that far, obviously. I lit it myself, then signaled to the waitress to bring me a drink. A few seats away, Lars was deep in conversation with a few other bikers, and didn't even seem aware that I'd entered.

I wasn't sure what to make of that. I'd already come to the conclusion that "steady" girlfriends were not a commodity this crowd were familiar with - that the women who ran with them, and there were three or four at least, seemed to be passed around between whoever needed their company. Thanks, Pete, for that little nugget. At the same time, though, I was hoping there'd be at least a hint of acknowledgement of what happened last night.

Pete wasn't here either, so I smiled at the guy who'd swept his jacket off my seat and asked which of the bikes outside was his. He told me; I nodded. "You like it?" I did. "Come on, then."

Now this I could handle. I said earlier that I didn't know much about bikes. That's true. But I grew up around them anyway, my three brothers each had one (at least until one of them crashed and almost wound up dead in a ditch), and I'd spent at least a part of my childhood on one pillion or another. Maybe if they'd run with a gang, I'd have found other things to do as well, but that's another fantasy.

Vic... he told me his name as he kicked her into life... held out his hand to haul me on board behind him, then grunted happily as I wrapped my arms round his waist - and we were away.

She was loud, she was fast, and Vic handled her well. I squealed the first time we took a sharp corner, convinced that my shoulders were just inches off the road, and I felt his frame shudder as he laughed at me. I clung on a little tighter, loving the feel of his bare arms against mine, the strength of his back as my breasts pressed against it. I wondered if he could feel how hard my nipples were - he was wearing an even skimpier top than I was, and as his shoulder-length hair flashed back into my face, I realized how wet my pussy was too.

We halted, and I wondered how anybody ever thought this was a good place for a diner, out in the absolute middle of nowhere, with nothing but flat prairie for miles around. A broken-down pick-up sat outside, its natural color indistinguishable from the rust that coated it. But as we rounded the building, a real, old fifties style chrome creation, half a dozen gleaming motorbikes were gathered round the railings, and Vic slipped in alongside them with a throaty purr.

"Thought you'd like to meet some real riders," he said. "They'll probably be more your speed, as well."

In for a penny.... I looped my arm in his and let him walk me inside. A couple of guys looked up and nodded, another glued his eyes so firmly to my bouncing tits that they could still feel his gaze with my back to him. We sat, and Vic flicked through the menu, ordered for both of us (coffee and burgers, I'm fine with that), then draped an arm across my shoulders, his hand casually toying with my breast.

I could still feel the other guy staring, and knew before he'd even moved that he was about to make his way across to our table.

"Found yourself a new one." It was a statement not a question, rumbled out around a cigarette that hung inches away from a scrappy black beard.

Vic nodded. "Why? You want some of it?"

I bit my tongue.

The newcomer's eyes appraised me some more, and a black gloved hand brushed my hair from my face. "Nah," he snarled. And then, "wouldn't mind watching, though."

Vic grinned. "Oh, she likes an audience, this one. You should have seen her with Lars last night."

"What, fat Lars with the chopper?"

"Yep."

"Hmm. Maybe she's not as prissy as she looks." And, as though I wasn't even there, Vic launched into a literal blow-by-blow of what he'd seen through the open door, not quite sticking to the facts as I knew them, but spinning a hell of a yarn all the same. "And when he came... well, you know Lars. I thought he'd blow the back of her head off. But damn, she took it calm as you like, and swallowed him down like an oyster."

"Fuck."

And I wondered. Either I'd caught Lars on a very bad night, or he had one hell of a reputation. Made me think about rustling up a second round sometime.

Our food arrived, and we ate in silence. Or I ate in silence, because it felt as though that was what Vic expected. He, on the other hand, held glorious court, and again I wanted to learn more about Lars. The way Vic was talking, and the others were listening, you'd think I'd tamed a wild animal.

A voice to my side. "So you must think you're pretty hot stuff, yeah?"

Vic nudged me. "He's talking to you."

I looked up from my plate. Another beard, a broken tooth, a leather jacket, a tattooed throat... an eyepatch. Really? An eyepatch?

"Well?"

I lay my fork down and lit a cigarette. Then picked at my fries while I surveyed my interrogator. "Who's asking?"

"I am."

Around me, I heard a few smirks. And I don't know where the nerve came from, but fuck it. It was there and I was going to use it. "Yeah, I'm hot stuff. You wanna try your luck..." I stopped talking. I'd been about to call him "sonny," but that might have been going too far. Assuming I'd not already done that.

Vic's arm had fallen away from me. Suddenly I felt alone. Exposed, even. Whoever this guy was, or whoever he thought he was, Vic was right. These guys were the real riders, not the wanna-be delinquents who hung out down town. And this particular guy looked like the realest of them all. Especially when he smiled. I've seen crocodiles smile more friendly than that.

Two fingers reached out, curling down my bottom lip, then forcing themselves into my mouth. Oil, nicotine, leather. At least he'd taken his gloves off.

I didn't resist, let him keep pushing. Then grasped his wrist in mine and, though I knew I couldn't stop him if he'd wanted to continue, relied on surprise to hold him still. My head went back and now I clutched the fingers. Kissed them. "Yeah, you can just push it on in if that's what you like. Or, you could let me really show you how it's done."

My tongue snaked out, coiling around his fingers, nibbling a little, nuzzling, gnawing. And both my eyes were locked onto his, as I smiled and sucked and licked... and then flicked his fingers with my thumb and index, as though dismissing them from my sight. "So what's it gonna be?"

"You wanna ride?" He jangled the keys that hung from his belt, and I nodded. Saw Vic in the corner of one eye, his face a mask of caution and doubt; and, for a moment, I thought he might say something. Instead he just shook his head as Eyepatch glanced down at him. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back in one piece." He slapped my ass, pushing me in front of him, and we stepped back out into the night.

I'd looked at the clock on the wall as we passed through the door. It was just a moment past midnight.

Sunday Forget the story. How far would you go to prove a point?

That's a trickier one. Lectures on first amendment rights, the sanctity of sources, the privileges of the press, they always fell short of answering that... never quite outlined the precise point in time when a writer stopped pursuing a story because it was her job, and started to chase it for pride instead.

Up to a couple of hours ago, when I agreed to go for a ride with Vic, I was pretty certain I was still on the trail of the story. Everything since then, though... well, there was a degree of simple survival in there, not wanting to blow my cover. But more than that, it was stubbornness. A refusal to back down no matter what was being thrown at me. A refusal to even privately concede that I was finally in way above my head.

Which I was, but fuck, it had its benefits. I mentioned my brothers' bikes before, and yeah, I figured out very early in that... well, how to put it politely? The faster they drove, and the tighter I sat... I must have had a thousand orgasms before I even knew what an orgasm was. And that was on a Suzuki 250. Vic's was bigger, 1000, I think, and there were a couple of 1500s parked outside the diner.

Eyepatch had 2500 cc. I almost creamed just looking at her. By the time I was astride, and he was through with revving the engine, he could have tied me to a cactus and fucked me with one, too. I was thatwet.

Instead we just rode. For mile after mile, at speeds I'd never imagined, across a landscape I'd never dreamed. And when lights did finally come in sight again, we were back at the diner and I was wrung out.

Eyepatch knew it as well, slapping my ass and then sniffing his fingers. "You did good. Take care." And then he was off, leaving me to stagger through the door into the brightly lit diner, looking as though I'd done a dozen rounds with a psychotic fucking machine. Which was probably the impression Eyepatch intended me to give.

Tuesday UR STILL IN 1 PIECE THEN?

I'd not heard from Mark in almost a week and, to be honest, I was still feeling pissed off that he'd vanished like that. But I took a deep breath and responded to his text. "Everything's cool."

He shot back a few questions, I answered them quickly. I'd made some good progress and a few contacts, too - Lars was still avoiding me, but Pete had shown up last night, while Vic seemed to have appointed himself my guardian biker, constantly hovering within arm's reach of me, and stepping protectively closer if he felt the need. Must have been the handjob that I gave him as we drove back the other night.

Although I didn't tell Mark about that.

Didn't tell him how hard it was to get Vic's cock out of his trousers... a zip and buttons? I'd never encountered that before. Didn't tell him how huge he felt, bunched in my tiny fist. Didn't tell him how good het felt, how hot and alive, beating to the roar of the engine, roaring to the beat of my heart.

I wanted to scream for Vic to stop, to leap off the bike and fuck me there and then... any hole, all my holes, just fuck me and fill me and screw my brains out. But the wind in my face and the noise of the bike, and thrill of the throb as I jerked him with my hand wrapped tight... he came and the wind whipped his sperm into space, and he didn't say a word till he finally dropped me off, then a grin and a compliment... "you're a crazy bitch, you know that?"

Mark and I arranged to meet for a drink that evening, and I filled him in on a little more detail. Vague stuff in the main, suspicions and theories, a few overheard comments. Nothing anyone could make a story out of... unless that person was me. I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I just needed to make certain of a couple of points.

Friday Fridays were the nights when everyone gathered. I knew that. Fridays were the nights when they made their weekend plans. I knew that, too. An impromptu parade down Main Street, clogging the traffic, scaring pedestrians, wheelies on the sidewalk, a couple of bins knocked over.

A few concerned citizens had made other allegations, but nothing I'd seen... and, checking with my contacts at the sheriff's department, nothing they'd been able to prove... backed them up. And that included my own assumption that we were dealing with a bunch of middle-aged men. Lars was probably the closest to forty, but the rest were still in their twenties and thirties. Talking with Vic at Dino's last night, I realized he's probably the same age as I am.

But leathers, shades, beards and bandanas, they may not be a disguise but they're certainly wonderful camouflage. Which is why I'd cashed in a few small stocks I'd once bought, in a fit of premature retirement fund panic, and bought my own leather jacket and pants. I'd have bought a bike as well, if I'd dared, but five minutes in the club house made it clear that I'd never have to walk some place again. Or buy myself a drink. Either word had got round, or the outfit impressed them, but I felt like a queen that evening.

Even Lars gave me a quick smile. But only a quick one because, I now knew, the woman behind the cash register just happened to be his wife. And she was one scary woman. It had been her night off, the night that I... well, you remember. But he lived in fear of her ever finding out, and though I knew that she was already well aware ... ("leave the waitress an extra tip, and we'll forget it ever happened," were her exact words), it suited her to keep her husband guessing.

What else did I know? I knew that the "gang," as the town continued to call them, was no more a threat to law and order than a July Fourth pageant, or a bunch of unruly trick or treaters.

I knew their only goal was to be invited to merge with the guys out at the diner, and that Vic was the go-between who was greasing the wheels... not with cash or favors, but by proving that his mob had "what it takes"... whatever that might be.

And I knew that tonight was the night they'd find out.

Because Eyepatch told me last night.

He'd been waiting for me as I walked out of Dino's, heading out to my car with Vic close behind. His bike was already roaring, and he scarcely needed to gesture for Vic to get the picture.

A man of few words is Eyepatch, but I didn't need him to speak. Just walked across to where he was sitting, then wrapped myself around him and his saddle. And we were off. Out into the prairie, away past the diner, into a darkness so profound that it felt as though the entire world had suddenly been switched off. Just the stars and a slither of newborn moon as we came to a halt by a battered RV, parked for so long that there were grasses growing around the wheels.

Lights were on inside, voices and music. And I think I knew what was coming.

What surprised me was how calm I felt. And, strange though it surely sounds to you, how safe.

As though this, not the story, was what the past week and a half had been leading up to. As if this, in a way, was the story, and everything else... the investigating, the interviewing, the notes I'd taken and the thoughts I'd filed... were simply a necessary form of foreplay, setting the scene, creating the mood. Getting me wet.

We walked in and three guys were sprawled out in armchairs... one got up and moved to the bunk when he saw us. Eyepatch took the chair, then leaned across to a boombox that looked as old as me, and turned up the music. And I just stood in the center, waiting for my cue.

Any cue.

It didn't come, so I gave it myself, starting to dance to whatever was playing... some old R&B, maybe Motown or Stax. Oldies radio stuff, but it was fine, a beat that made you want to move, a rhythm that made you feel good.

Making eye contact with my audience, looking past the outfits, the tattoos and the grins, sizing them up as their expressions gulped me down. Tugging at the zip of my jacket... still new, still tight, but it peeled down easy enough... then running a hand across my torso. My tits looked good in the tank top beneath, and I knew my nipples were rock hard from the ride. But my palm skirted them anyway and I suppressed a gasp... they've always been sensitive, but tonight they were on fire.

Damn that Harley.

The jacket stays on... for the moment. Now I was undoing the top button of my pants, and hoping I wouldn't struggle with the ones beneath it. Just the first one or two. Just to open things up a little. In the back of my mind, I wondered about my boots. They'd need to come off if my pants were going anyplace, but I'd worry about that when I came to it. Because now the jacket could be shrugged to the floor, as I leaned in towards Eyepatch and stroked his face with a fingernail. Not hard, but not gently, either. A friendly reminder that the cat has claws. But she still wants to play.

I pulled at my tank top to flash some flesh, then my hand slid down the front of my pants. I closed my eyes and smiled, then raised the fingers to my lips. Sucked at them while my gaze locked onto the guy in the chair alongside me. Not the only one in the room whose hand was now resting on his crotch, but the one who was being the least subtle about it.

I raised my left leg, placed my boot on his knee. He looked at it for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then tugged at the laces, loosening their grip and slipping my bare foot out. I turned, leaving him holding the boot, and offered my other foot to his neighbor.

No hesitation at all.

I undid another button and shimmied my hips so the pants rode low. Then pulled again at my tank top, up to my breasts and then over them. Slipped my head and arms through the openings, and ran my hands across my tits. Squeezed the nipples between fingers and thumb.

The first cock was on show, its owner slowly masturbating as he stared at my grinding hips. I walked slowly towards him, dropped to my knees; then smiled and returned to my feet. Walked around the arena, close enough to touch, hot enough to touch them back. I wanted one, I wanted them all. All they had to do now was take me.

Another button, the final one. My pants were held up by willpower alone and I swayed over to the guy on the bunk, turned and bent slightly, my ass in his face. His hands on my waistband, tugging it down. All the way down. I stepped out of the leather that was wrapped around my feet, then out of his reach to Eyepatch. One layer to go, but he didn't move.

Stalemate.

We stared at one another, but neither of us moved. Behind me, the sound of hand beating meat was as loud as the music, and I wondered how long the deadlock could last. Then suddenly he pushed me, his hands against my shoulders, sent me sprawling across the room, into the arms of the guy behind me. I felt him catch me, his hands hot and sweaty, and when I looked around, he kissed me firmly. Then grasped my head and held it still as Eyepatch rose to stand above me.

His cock stood rigid through his opened pants, his hand stroking it harder. Pointing it at my face. I reached up to grasp his wrist, trying to pull him closer. But he stepped back, a short laugh in his throat and his one eye glinting scornfully. Bent and grabbed my feet, pulled and I tumbled onto the carpet. Opened my mouth to protest and the guy I'd been sitting on pounced, dropped to his knees and pushed his prick into my mouth.

Two other cocks forced themselves into my sight line, one to my left, the other my right. I reached for them and began to jerk, rolling the flesh, finding a stroke and squeezing, then squeaking around my fat, meaty mouthful as Eyepatch drove a finger into my ass.

An arm loomed over me, started rubbing my pussy, stretching and pulling. The cock in my mouth sank deeper, the finger... fingers?... in my ass pushed harder. Then slipped out to be replaced by something even fatter and firmer, infinitely longer and gut-poundingly deeper, driving into my very core.

My mind struggled with the sensations. Fought to find the pain that it knew I must be feeling, but gave up because all it could locate was pleasure. Bundles and wraps and rolls of it, a comforter made from the most incredible sensations, and all I could do was burrow beneath it, inside it. Drowning within my own endless orgasm.

Hands on either side of me, under my shoulders and hips raised me up. My head bent back painfully and the cock was in my throat, I could feel it pushing the sinews aside, feel the movement and the tightness as my windpipe began to protest.

It felt as though I was flying, borne up not by hands but an impossible length, a rod of living flesh that flowed through my body, never ending, never slowing, a relentless metronome of meat that stretched wide the holes through which it entered, and then met in the middle with a long, drawn-out thud that sent fresh paroxysms of ecstasy screaming through my frame.

They came.

All four of them.

Synchronized spurting.

I felt it in my throat, but deeper than that.

I felt it in my ass, but higher than that.

It shot from my hands to spackle my tits.

And then they lowered me down, passed me a beer, lit me a cigarette, kicked my clothes closer to me. And I just sat there and looked all four in the eyes, each of them in turn and said,

"Is that really the best you've got?"

And that's when Eyepatch told me. My club had passed the test. My club.

Monday And that's it, really. I showered, and Eyepatch joined me, washing me down with a tenderness that I have to admit surprised me, and then fucking me once we were both soaked in soap. I came three more times and he laughed and asked if I ever got bored with orgasms... "I don't think you've gone more than five minutes without having one since the moment I met you."

Which, when I thought about it, was probably true.

Or, at least, a lot truer than his eyepatch. Which he removed before he got into the shower, and his left eye was as sharp as the other.

He took me back to Dino's, and I did make him stop on the way, and I saw him again on Friday after one of his lieutenants had delivered the news. I even let him take me back to his RV again, but this time it was just the two of us and we didn't stop fucking till dawn.

And now I'm sitting in Elaine's office, wondering how to convince her that the story she'd agreed to, about the evil gang of bikers who were destroying our community, had taken a detour a few miles down the road, and was now extolling the virtues of the bikers themselves, and the even stronger community that they were creating in our midst.

A simple piece really, on the dangers of rushing to judgment and the need to throw away stereotypes. About how it was possible to build an alternate society within society itself, without either of them threatening the other's right to thrive.

And, although I probably won't mention this to Elaine, or anyone else for that matter... if you really want to make people lighten up a little, and stop bitching about everything that they decide they don't approve of, sit them on the back of a monster motorbike, and let them spend the next two hours in a state of constant coming.

Well, it worked for me.