Chapter 26 - Arlene Part 5
I Finally Meet The Pagans
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The text in this story contains erotic material and is expressly written for
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This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise
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Copyright 2003
****
It was right after dusk Friday night when I slowed down and eased my newly
leased Harley into the parking lot of 'The Side Car'. It was a Pagan hangout on
Route 236 located outside the town of Plaistow, NH, a couple of miles north of
the New Hampshire and Massachusetts state line. It was the place where my Aunt
Carol had first met Charlie LeBeau twelve years ago. My aunt could get wistful
when she recalled her days with Charlie.
"He was French Canadian and loved to eat pussy. Charlie had a magic tongue."
I had driven by last Saturday to confirm that it was still there. There must
have been fifty Harley bikes parked out front. My Aunt cautioned me to take it
slow and give the Pagans time to get used to me. She also suggested that I try
to pair up with a leader as opposed to accepting the first Pagan that offers me
a beer.
"Arlene, first time, go in and buy yourself a beer, let them look you over,
don't approach them, they'll come to you. They have a sixth sense about people
who try to fool them. Act like you got all the time in the world, be nonchalant,
give them the impression you could give a shit less if they ignore you,"
"Suppose they do ignore me," I asked. After all I had been tattooed, publicly
gang fucked, engaged in heavy BDSM, and eaten pussy all in preparation for
meeting the Pagans. Being ignored was not an option. I had too much invested.
"Then come back on Saturday for another beer. Don't worry, you're pretty, much
prettier than most of the Pagan girls. They'll be checking you out."
"What do I say when they ask me why I like the Pagans?"
"They won't ask that for a while. When they do. Tell them being a Customer
Service Rep is the most boring job in creation. Tell them you crave some
excitement and that you're sick to death of meeting dickless wimps in fern bars.
Pagans think anybody who's not a biker is a cowardly wimp who'd love to be a
Pagan if he only had the balls."
I guided my Harley to an empty place along the rail, cut the engine, and
methodically removed my helmet and gloves and stowed them in the saddlebags.
"Never worry about theft. Pagans don't steal at least from one another and the
rest of the world's too chicken shit to steal from the Pagans," advised Aunt
Carol.
"Be cool, no rush," I told myself but my heart was beating ninety miles a
minute. My adrenaline was flowing as I climbed the steps and entered the
building.
I had on a pair of jeans because it was night and cool. I wore a leather vest
under my heavy jacket. The butterfly tats Earl provided me showed just enough
to make it interesting.
I took a deep breath, thought to myself "here goes nothing," and stepped
inside. Luckily, there were several unoccupied stools at the bar. I walked
slowly toward the bar and sat down. I ordered a Budweiser. This was definitely
not a fancy imported beer crowd. After a couple of swallows, I felt confident
enough to swivel around and survey the room. It was what I expected. Four pool
tables off to one side. There was an area for darts. Booths lined two walls. The
bar occupied another. There were tables in the center of the room. A small dance
floor finished off the place. It was definitely downscale. This was no trendy
Boston or Manchester restaurant or club where yuppies hung out. It looked well
used. The bartenders were Pagans. I later learned some Pagans owned The Side
Car. In all the times I was there I never saw anyone there who either wasn't a
Pagan or trying to become one.
Country and Western music was playing from somewhere. I could feel eyes on me
but for once I exercised some self-discipline and kept my cool. I had just
finished one beer and order another when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I had
almost decided that no one was going to approach me and that I was going to have
to come back another night.
"Put hers on my tab," said a man's deep voice right behind me.
When I turned around to say thank you there was this Pagan standing there who
would have been a GQ male model. He was drop dead handsome except for a long
jagged scar that went from his ear, across his cheek and only ended at the
corner of his mouth. Surprised, I stared directly at the white line bisecting
his deeply tanned face, "So much for being cool. Arlene."
"Knife fight," was all he said.
"Sorry, thanks for the beer." I had to force myself to stop staring.
"You into scars?"
"Yea, does the guy who did that have one too?"
"We could go dig him up and see."
That way cool exchange was my introduction to Kurt Lambert, the leader of the
local New Hampshire branch of the Pagans Motorcycle Club. Kurt was thirty
something, 6'4" of muscle who spent enough time in the gym to maintain a 4.5%
percent body fat ratio. Kurt was also a bipolar psychopath who was descended
from a long line of anti-social males. If you could use genetic engineering to
create the perfect anti-society, amoral, sociopath who had absolutely no
conscience the result would have been Kurt. He killed with the same insouciance
that others brushed their teeth.
Other than the scar, he was good looking enough to make any girl cream in her
jeans. For me, the scar added to the attraction. Later I got to run my tongue up
and down the path as my cunt produced enough lubricant for a hundred fucks.
Kurt was used to having an effect on women, especially those attracted to
Pagans. The Pagans had a saying I came to regard as true.
"Not many girls are attracted to the Pagans but those that are, are hardcore."
If a female was attracted to the Pagans then she was bound to be the type who at
a moment's notice could kick off her pants, lie down and spread her legs and
take on all comers. Being picky was not compatible with Pagan life.
After Kurt got a girl to push her jeans down to her knees, he had a solid
nine-inch cock that could stay hard until her cunt was raw and bleeding. Kurt
was a totally awesome fuck and to this day, I can still get wet remembering what
it felt like to ride his pole. He had a certain male chemistry that made me so
eager to please him it was amazing. I did whatever he wanted and he didn't have
to ask twice.
Kurt was callow, cruel, easily angered, vicious, and loved to cause pain
especially during intercourse. Did I mention that he was a big time drug dealer
and a serious user of chemicals such as crystal meth? He surprised me at times
in that he saw no conflict between his rigorous gym training and health food
diet and his consumption of large quantities of drugs on the DEA's Class A list.
If a girl wanted attention, conversation, or concern for her feelings, Kurt
was not the man to give it to her. But if she wanted to be fucked silly, treated
like a cheap whore, and fed all kind of drugs, then Kurt was ideal.
One more interesting fact in the Kurt Lambert biography was that he was the
Pagan's enforcer for all New England. If you crossed the club, interfered with
their business interests or did anything to annoy them, then Kurt showed up to
straighten you out. Mild infractions resulted in a beating that normally
required a one-month stay in the hospital followed by several months of physical
therapy. Kurt handled serious infractions by torture, castration, and death in
that order. Kurt always carried one of those military style K-bar knives to as
he called it 'denut the bastard'.
Kurt's MO was to first cut them off then make you swallow them. Supposedly the
authorities knew Kurt was the perp when the medical examiner found the
deceased's nuts in his stomach.
Kurt had a younger brother everyone called "Serge". Serge was a slightly
milder version of Kurt. By that I mean he seemed more normal than his brother.
Hell, Charles Manson would have seemed more normal than Kurt.
Of course, I write this from hindsight. When I turned around on that bar stool
that first night, I was infatuated, truly blown away. I had mentally prepared
myself to pair up with some smelly, gap toothed biker with greasy hair, pot gut,
bad breath, and a metal rod embedded in his leg from his last bike wreck. But
here was his good-looking dude, perfect except for the scar, (Wrong, the scar
made him more perfect.) that any girl would have been willing to spread her legs
for. At that moment, I though Kurt was way cool.
"You look like you are on a mission?" said Kurt. One thing else I will give to
Kurt. He was as clever and cunning as they come. I don't mean he could name all
the state capitals but he could read people. He could spot a lie in an instant.
He was also good at knowing what motivated people and what would make them agree
to do what he wanted. He sure took me for a long and eventful ride.
"Sex and the City is a rerun so I decided to take a ride." I thought that was
a cool reply.
"And you just stopped here?"
"They have a sign out front that says they sell beer. I was thirsty."
"Want to join us?"
"Who are us?"
"My brother Serge and his girl, Kristy, over there." Kurt pointed toward a
booth along the far wall. There was a guy there and a skinny young girl.
"What's your name?" I didn't want to seem to eager.
"Kurt."
"I'm Arlene."
"Nice to meet you Arlene." That was probably one of the few polite things Kurt
ever said to me.
"Sure, why not." At that point, the die was cast as the Romans say. I followed
Kurt over to the booth and sat down between he and Serge. Kurt introduced me to
Serge and Kristy. Kristy looked and was young. Sometime during that evening, I
learned she was a sophomore in high school that meant she was fifteen or sixteen
at most. At times, I found myself amazed that young girls from nice middle class
homes would take up with the Pagans. For Kristy, Serge was probably one of those
teenage rebellion things. Nothing would piss mom and dad more than to ride with
a criminal motorcycle gang, fuck anyone who asks and consume large quantities of
dangerous drugs. During my short time with the Pagans, I met a lot of "Kristys".
They all got more than they bargained for.
Kristy looked totally stupefied. She had the ultra thin look of a model. She
was pale as death and about as alert as a paperweight. She barely raised her
head when I arrived.
"Crank?" asked Kurt pushing a small packet of white powder my way. Other than
smoking a ton of pot and occasionally taking a hit of "E" when I was in club, I
wasn't much into the drug scene. I did know that Crank was one of the half a
dozen street names for methamphetamine. The paper had done several articles on
drugs and I'd done the research for the lazy ass feature writer who got full
credit for the story. Crank was also known as tweak, go-fast, and just plain
crystal. Aunt Carol had mentioned drugs were common among the Pagans but I had
figured I wouldn't need to get involved with them. As usual, I was wrong.
"Sure," I responded as I picked up the packet. My immediate problem was that I
couldn't recall how I was supposed to get the white powder inside my body. Was I
supposed to swallow it, dilute in my beer, snort it up my nose, or find a
syringe and inject it into my vein? Fortunately, Kristy came to my rescue.
"I want some," murmured Kristy apparently waking up to the possibility of more
drugs.
"She's had enough," spoke Kurt.
"I've only had one. I need more," replied Kristy in a spaced out druggy voice.
I should mention that Serge had supervised Kristy's transformation into a heroin
addict. Serge thought it was cool to meet very young girls, get them hooked, and
sell them to a pimp. The entrepreneurial spirit was not lacking among the
Pagans.
"You've had enough," said Kurt.
"Serge, make him give me another hit. I'll suck you off, baby, right now,"
said our little sophomore reaching down between Serge's legs. Who said drugs
cause you to loose your moral compass.
"Come on, I could use a blowjob, give her one more, Kurt," asked Serge basing
his decision on the fact that Kristy had his dick in her hand.
In a rare moment of brotherly love, Kurt slid another packet across the table
toward Kristy. She opened it and poured the powder on to her tongue. Well, at
least I knew what to do. I carefully followed suit. I was aware that Kurt was
watching me closely.
The Pagans manufacture crank in secret laboratories around New England. I
never learned where any of them were located. From my newspaper research, I knew
that a crank laboratory was not a bright, clean 40,000 sq. ft. plant but a
trailer or a farmhouse with a very busy kitchen. Crank is a form of speed that
makes you believe you have a mountain of energy and can go and go until you
drop. The problem is that you can drop awfully far when you run out of it, crank
that is. I certainly felt a strong surge after I dropped that powder on my
tongue and swallowed it.
"Time to suck some cock, Kristy," said Serge as he put his hand on the back of
Kristy's neck and started to push her under the table.
"Here?" asked Kristy momentarily looking a little embarrassed at the idea of
going under the table in a public place. I wondered if Kristy thought Serge was
going to take her to the honeymoon suite at the Boston Marriott and let her do
him there.
"Here and now, get to it, bitch," said Serge placing his hand on the back of
Kristy's head and shoving her downward.
"All right," said Kristy climbing under the table. The girl was so zonked she
would have done it on top of the bar.
Over the course of the next few months, I was to witness hand jobs, blowjobs,
and multiple forms of vaginal and anal intercourse at The Side Car plus a gang
bang or two. I could hear Kristy start to suck Serge's cock under the table.
Kurt must have decided he wanted a piece too because he pulled me closer and
slipped a hand inside my vest cupping my breast. We kissed trading tongues. I
was starting to get sufficiently worked up to go under the table myself.
I would probably have wound up downstairs with Kristy except at that moment
she chose to puke her guts out all over Serge's lap. The vile smell of fresh
vomit filled the air. Kurt and I jumped up to avoid being splattered.
You could hear Kristy heaving under the table like a woman with a bad case of
food poisoning. While you couldn't see her, you got the impression that she had
emptied her stomach's contents and was now engaged in a noisy round of dry
heaves.
"Stupid cunt, I told you to get rid of her," snapped Kurt to his brother.
"You're right, this is it, I've fucking had it, I'll sell her to Geraldo,"
replied Serge who was busily pulling napkins out of the dispenser to wipe the
puke off his cock.
The rest of the room was looking at our booth and laughing. Being laughed at
was not exactly something Kurt was used to. Kurt spoke to a nearby Pagan who was
apparently much amused by the sound of a fifteen-year-old girl with a bad case
of dry heaves.
"What the fuck you looking at?" demanded Kurt.
"Nothing, Kristy going to be all right?"
"Like you give a shit, mind your own fucking business."
"Sure, Kurt, just joking around," said the Pagan sitting back down.
The laughter subsided quickly when everyone realized Kurt was pissed. I
remember thinking to myself, "Now there's a real man." Brother, was the crank
clouding my mind.
"Let's get out of here," said Kurt to me.
"Where to?" I asked. I later learned never to ask.
"This place I know," was his highly informative response.
"Serge, Geraldo tonight, I don't want to see that puking bitch again," said
Kurt to his brother right before we left. Let's face it. Spaced out teenage drug
addicts are not a lot of fun. They wear on you and its better to get rid of them
before they become a bore. That was something I learned from the Pagans.
I later discovered that Geraldo was a Hispanic pimp who had a string of
prostitutes that worked the streets of downtown Boston. Geraldo maintained his
control over his girls by the liberal application of a pimp stick. I never saw
Kristy again. I imagine she wound up on a corner in Southie wearing a tiny
little skirt that barely covered her ass and soliciting Johns as they drove by.
The going rate was probably $20 for a blowjob and $50 for a fuck. Actually, she
ended up better than me when I think about it.
I followed Kurt out of The Side Car. We mounted up and rode off. I thought he
was taking me to his place to fuck me. While he eventually did just that, it
wasn't our first stop. I followed him for about an hour. The Crank was working
on me. I kept wishing Kurt would stop somewhere and fuck me up against one of
those trees that kept appearing in the headlights of my bike. We traveled way
out in the woods. Finally I saw him hit the brakes and turn off onto an unpaved
road that went back into the forest. We drove a mile before we came to a large
Quonset hut. The place was half as big as a football field. There were a large
number of bikes, cars, and pickup trucks parked in a gravel lot. I noticed that
several of the cars were Mercedes Benz 600S the same model as the one driven by
the owner of the Manchester Union. There was also a Jaguar and a Bentley.
Ten minutes later I realized Kurt had taken me to the dogfights. Now, I'm not
a member of PETA or someone involved in animal rights. I do or rather did have a
cat named Cleo that is the sweetest thing alive. I hope by the way that Cleo has
found a new home and didn't starve to death in my apartment. My Mother has a key
and must have come looking for me when I disappeared. Oops, I'm getting my story
out of order again. Thinking about Cleo got me emotional and caused me to
digress. I just wanted to say that dog fighting is a terrible thing.
A guy cradling an M-16 waved us through the door. He must have known Kurt.
Inside they were stands on three sides of a small-enclosed area where two pit
bulls were being introduced to one another. I could tell they didn't care for
one another by the way they bared their fangs and growled.
I stayed close to Kurt. This was not a nice crowd. Over in a corner I saw a
blanket covering what I assumed were dead dogs. You could see legs poking out
and there was blood seeping through the fabric. At the time, I thought dog
fighting was the most sordid, depraved and heartless thing I'd ever experienced
but that was before I got to LaPenera.
"$10,000 on Kayo," said Kurt to a man standing by the pit.
"$10,000 it is," said the man scribbling in his notebook with an expensive
Mont Blanc pen. There was something very upper end about dog fighting and that
surprised me.
Kurt walked over to a bench and sat down. I was staying close. There were only
a few women there. One of who was expensively dressed like she had just come
from a dinner party at the Ritz-Carlton. Her male companion was wearing a
tuxedo. Most of the crowd wore jeans but there were some expensive looking
business suits too. Even the guys wearing jeans were sporting diamond crusted
Rolex's. My prior view of dog fighting fans was a collection of welfare
recipients trying to make a buck out of their rotweiler. Sometimes things
aren't what you think. Later, back at the Union and doing research, I found some
recent articles about dog fighting that said wagers of up to $100,000 were not
uncommon. I guess it was the new sport of kings.
If I heard Kurt right, he had just bet $10,000 on a dog named Kayo. If Kayo
killed the other dog, Kurt would be at least $10,000 richer, maybe more,
depending on the odds. I was impressed that Kurt considered $10,000 a bet. I
invested $1.00 each week in New Hampshire's Megabucks lottery and considered
that a major expenditure. Occasionally, if I were feeling lucky, I'd blow $5.00
on scratch tickets, the lottery's answer to those who require immediate
gratification or most often disappointment.
A gong sounded. Kurt and I stood up. We walked to the edge of the pit where
two bulldogs were getting psyched up to kill one another.
"Which one's Kayo?" I asked. I figured if I was going to have a dog in this
fight, I should know which one. You can cheer for anything when you're on Crank
even which doggie gets to kill the other one
"The black one with the white star on his head," responded Kurt.
Dog fighting is an utterly savage and sickening thing to watch. The handlers
released the dogs and they came together like a pair of onrushing freight
trains. The fight lasted quite a while. The dogs are bred for stamina. I thought
Kayo was finished several times when his opponent had him on his back and seemed
to be crushing his shoulder. Finally, Kayo must have gotten the proper hold on
the other dog's throat because he slowly strangled the animal. The handler used
some sort of special wooden pry bar to remove Kayo's jaws from his now deceased
opponent's neck. The whole thing made me want to throw up but keeping my cover I
acted like it was the most exciting thing I'd ever seen.
I laid some serious kisses on Kurt and he responded by untying my vest and
exposing my breasts so he could play with my tits while he watched the dog
fight. I did more crank so I didn't mind I was in a crowded place with my boobs
hanging out. Kurt and I did some serious tongue kissing when Kayo won. I ignore
the fact that Kurt was pawing and sucking my tits while a crowd of dangerous
criminals watched. I fantasized that they all wanted their turn with me and each
was picturing exactly how they would first torture then rape me. I have an
active imagination.
We stayed for three more fights. Kurt bet $5,000 on the next fight and won
again. That seemed to put him in a good mood. He handed me another packet of
crank that I dutifully dropped on my tongue and swallowed. Kurt took a hit of
crank at the same time. That stuff does work. I felt like I could stay up for
days, even go into work Saturday and write the entire Sunday edition of the
paper all by myself.
Kurt only bet $1,000 on the third fight and lost it. Number four was between
two pure white pit bulls that were incredibly hard to tell apart. Their white
coats contrasted with their blood as they mauled each other. Kurt's dog won. I
didn't hear how much he bet but I think it was $5,000.
"Let's go," announced Kurt as the handler was dragging the dead body of one of
the pit bulls out of the enclosure. He walked over to the man in the suit and
was handed a thick amount of cash. I had no idea how much. It was all $100
dollar bills. It filled two large brown paper sacks.
"Did I bring you luck?" I asked Kurt as we were leaving the Quonset hut. He
looked at me like I had two heads. I fucked that man a hundred times and spent
days in bed with him but I never knew what he was thinking. He was a total
enigma. I also have to add that you could spend twelve hours with him and not
get him to speak twelve words. He never answered a direct question. He never
asked me anything about myself. I don't know why I concocted an elaborate cover
story. It was like fucking the Sphinx.
But the fucking was the absolute best. I followed him to a condominium complex
right near Methuen, MA. We parked our bikes in his garage. Then he took me
upstairs to a nicely furnished three-bedroom townhouse and gave me the best
screwing I'd ever received. It was awesome. I was flying high on the crank and
that nine inches of hard peter became my nirvana. I was so happy when it was
inside me as deep as it would go. I felt a sense of pure joy when it stretched
apart my pussy lips and slid inside me. I considered myself so grateful that I
went out of my head squeezing his cock with my Tantric trained cunt. That
impressed him mightily.
"Good fuck," was his only comment when four hours later, we finished for the
sixth time. I had used every trick I knew from the Arlene Fairchild book of "How
to Fuck Like a Professional?" I honestly believe I impressed him when I got on
my back and hooked my ankles behind my neck and rhythmically opened and closed
my asshole. That kind of extreme shit always impressed the Pagans. All I can say
is that afterwards my keggles were engaged in replacing worn out muscle fiber.
Kurt strictly followed the dictum that the woman was responsible for both hers
and her partner's orgasm. The good part was that I could bury his thing inside
me and cum like a bottle rocket. A Kurt Lambert fuck left me with sore nipples,
he liked to twist them till I started to cry. Tears of pain streaming out of the
corners of my eyes were the best way to get him to cum. I always left Kurt's
with a sore vagina, a well-punished clit, nipples that looked like mashed
raspberries. Also, Kurt loved anal and my asshole wouldn't fully close for
hours. I was also very sexually contented. My pussy satisfaction meter went off
the scale when I was screwing Kurt.
That first night, we screwed until the sun came up and then slept. I was
awakened toward noon by Serge coming into the room. I didn't bother to cover up.
"Geraldo gave me $15,000 for Kristy," announced Serge sitting on the edge of
the bed.
"Shit, she was worth $20,000," responded Kurt.
"He claimed she was so fucked up on crank and H, it'd be weeks before she
could earn her keep."
"Did you tell that spic bastard, she was only fifteen?"
"Yes, he said fourteen was getting to be the best age for street whores."
"I'm going to take a shower," said Kurt getting up obviously unimpressed with
his younger brother's negotiating skills.
"How was she?" asked Serge indicating me. I repeated my name for Serge. Pagans
usually didn't bother to learn a girl's name until after a half dozen fucks.
If you are offended by being talked about in the third person, you should stay
away from the Pagans. Women are much less important than Harley's, drugs, other
Pagans, etc.
"She's a hot fuck. Go ahead, try her." Well, I never thought it would be true
love and after all Serge was his kid brother. I suppose their mom taught them to
share. However, I didn't expect to be given away quite so casually. I stifled my
feminine ego and responded by putting my arms around Serge and kissing him with
my mouth open. My response was the correct one based on some advice from Aunt
Carol.
"Think of sex like a man does and you'll do okay," advised my aunt.
"And how does a man think?"
"It's just there and expected like water from a faucet or electricity from a
wall plug. Fucking is no big deal. If anybody wants a piece, just spread your
legs and give them a little. Treat it as a casual thing that you enjoy but don't
attach a lot of importance to. "
Anyway I rolled over on my back, spread my legs and hand motioned for Serge to
climb on. I fucked him slowly, squeezing his cock with my sore pussy, and he
wasn't bad. It lacked the raw energy and sexual passion of fucking Kurt but
Serge was well equipped and I got into it.
Afterwards I joined Kurt in the shower. I wasn't sure about my next move but
he solved that for me after I got dressed to leave.
"See you at the Side Car tonight," said Kurt.
"All right," I replied.
As I rode up I-93 to Manchester and home, I congratulated myself on having
successfully made the first step in becoming a Pagan girl. I planned to call
Aunt Carol as soon as I got home and give her a progress report.
Over the next several months, I sort of became Kurt's Pagan girl, not that it
meant fidelity or had any permanence. I screwed Serge when he wanted me and
participated in several group gropes with Serge, Kurt, and a black girl named
Wanda who replaced Kristy. Several times, it got wild.
Kurt and Serge had a party at their condo over the July Fourth weekend. Orgy
would have been a better way to describe it. I stayed high on crank and fucked
anybody that asked. At one point, there were eight of us girls down on the floor
on our hands and knees and the guys were fucking up dog style switching ever
minute or so to the girl on the left.
Other Pagans left me alone when Kurt wasn't around. I guess that was the fear
factor at work. Once or twice I brought up the subject of politics and Senator
Candace Williams. No one seemed to know shit. I doubted that the average Pagan
could name a single elected official other than the Attorney General and the
District Attorney. I suppose they didn't see any point in crowding their minds
with useless information such as the name of the Governor or the members of
their Congressional delegation.
They did know the names of the local sheriff, town police chiefs and members
of the state highway patrol. Several times I was surprised to learn how much
they knew about the members of the New England DEA. The DEA was a frequent topic
of conversation. If I were a DEA agent, I'd be less than thrilled if I found out
the Pagans had a computer database of agent information including home
addresses, wives names, and children's schools. I once listened to a
conversation where the Pagans were discussing that a local DEA agent was getting
a divorce and whether that might distract him from his duties. To the Pagans, it
was truly a drug war and the DEA was the enemy army.
