Chapter 3: The First Claim
The door sighed shut behind her, cutting off the night. The silence inside was worse than any roar.
Six pairs of eyes locked onto her from around the room. The usual haze of smoke and shouting was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity. They were all there: Viper leaning against the bar like a coiled snake, Cash idly stacking bills on the pool table, Tank a monolithic shadow by the wall, Track grinning from a torn armchair, Scribe watching with avian intensity from a stool. And Skull, standing central before the empty fireplace, his arms crossed.
The chemical fire they’d ingested shimmered in their gazes. It wasn’t lust, not simply. It was a brighter, harder thing—possessive, hungry, infinitely patient.
“Right on time,” Skull said. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet.
Cissy’s boots were rooted to the floorboards. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. She forced a breath, forced her chin up. She looked from face to familiar face, men she’d known since childhood, and saw only strangers now.
“Jacket,” Skull commanded, not unkindly. It was a test.
Her fingers were cold, clumsy. She found the zipper of her leather jacket, the sound absurdly loud. She shrugged it off, letting it slump to the floor at her feet. The cool clubhouse air hit the exposed skin of her stomach, her cleavage. The red lace harness, a web of crimson against her pale skin, felt like a brand.
A collective, guttural sound passed through the men. A low growl of approval.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Track breathed, shifting forward in his seat. “Mara outdid herself.”
Skull’s eyes traveled over her, slow and comprehensive. He didn’t smile. He assessed. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and held out a hand. Not inviting. Summoning.
Cissy walked to him. Each step echoed. She placed her hand in his. His grip was furnace-hot, calloused, absolute.
Without a word, he turned and led her toward the hall that led to the back rooms. The officers fell in behind, a silent, grim procession. She didn’t look back. The hallway was narrow, lined with old club photos, faces of dead men smiling down. The door at the end was scarred oak. Skull shouldered it open.
It was a room she’d never seen. A place for private parties, for business. A large, firm bed dominated the space, covered in a dark blanket. A worn leather couch was against one wall. A single lamp cast a dim, amber pool of light.
Skull released her hand. “On the bed. Center.”
She complied, climbing onto the cool fabric, sitting with her back straight. The men filed in, filling the room with their heat and scent—leather, bourbon, the sharp, clean sweat of the enhancer. They arranged themselves around the walls, a living audience. Viper by the door, his expression unreadable. Cash perched on the arm of the couch, already unbuckling his belt. Tank stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, blocking any idea of escape.
Skull stood before her, looking down. He reached out and hooked a finger under a thin strap of the lace on her shoulder. He tugged, not hard, but the message was clear. “This stays on until we say it comes off. It’s pretty. You’re pretty in it.” His other hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb rasping over the peak through the lace. She flinched, a tiny, uncontrollable jerk. He smiled then, a flash of white. “Nervous?”
“No.” The lie was brittle.
“Good.” His hands moved to his own belt. The buckle rasped, the zipper hissed. He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself.
Cissy’s breath caught. She’d felt it against her leg, but seeing it was different. It was thick, ruddy, and brutally erect, curving upward from a nest of silver-flecked hair. The head was broad, flushed dark, already glistening. It looked impossible.
“Look at me,” Skull said. She dragged her eyes up to his. “You know what this is. You asked for it. Now you get it.”
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. His hands pushed her thighs apart, his touch impersonal, efficient. He hooked his fingers into the sides of the red lace panties and tore them. The sound of ripping fabric was obscene. Cool air touched her most intimate skin. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes, Cissy. Look at them. They’re your brothers now. They watch.”
She opened them. She saw the ring of faces, hungry, intent. Track licking his lips. Scribe’s gaze fixed between her legs. Viper’s cold calculation. She was a spectacle.
Skull’s thumb found her core, rubbing roughly. She was dry, tight with fear. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and then rubbed the wetness against her. “Gotta get you ready for me, girl. Gonna be a tight fit.”
He positioned himself, the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He leaned over her, one hand bracing by her head, the other guiding himself. His breath, smelling of whiskey and mint, washed over her face.
“This is for your father,” he whispered, and then he drove forward.
A white-hot spear of pain tore through her. A sharp, tearing sensation, then a deep, impossible fullness. A choked scream, raw and unbidden, ripped from her throat. Her body arched, trying to rebel, to escape the invasion.
Skull froze, buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes, wide with a shock that mirrored her own, bored into hers. He was immobile for three heartbeats, feeling the fierce, tight clutch of her virginity giving way. A low curse hissed from between his teeth. “Jesus fuck. You’re a virgin.”
The men around the room stirred. A muttered “Holy shit” from Track. A dark, interested chuckle from Cash.
Skull’s shock hardened into something else. A grim, awed respect. His hand came up, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair from her wet cheek. “You stupid, brave little bitch. You saved this? For this?”
He didn’t withdraw. He began to move, a slow, deliberate retreat and then a relentless, deeper thrust. The pain was still there, a burning ache, but it was mixing now with a strange, fullness, a sensation of being stretched and claimed that was utterly foreign.
“Look at that,” Skull grunted, his rhythm building, his hips pistoning with a powerful, practiced cadence. “Takin’ every fuckin’ inch. Like you were made for it.” He was talking to the room now, to his men. “Her old man’s girl. A goddamn virgin. And she’s takin’ my cock like a champion.”
The men cheered, a low, growling encouragement. “Yeah, Prez! Break her in!” “Look at that cunt grip him!”
Cissy’s world narrowed to the slam of his body into hers, the creak of the bedsprings, the harsh sound of their breathing. The pain began to recede, replaced by a dull, building throb, a heat that coiled low in her belly with each brutal stroke. She was detached, floating, watching herself from somewhere near the ceiling, a girl in red lace being fucked on a bed by a world she desperately wanted to join.
Skull’s pace became punishing, his balls slapping against her skin. He was chasing his own end, driving into her with a focused fury. “Gonna cum inside this virgin pussy,” he snarled. “Gonna mark it. My claim. Then they get what’s left.”
He reared back, changing the angle, and she cried out again, this time not from pain but from a shocking, illicit bolt of sensation as he stroked a deep, hidden place. Her eyes flew open, meeting his.
“That’s it,” he panted, a feral grin on his face. “Feel that? Your body knows what it needs, even if you don’t.” He pistoned into that spot, again and again, and despite herself, a low moan crawled from her throat. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards.
“Attagirl,” Track roared from the sidelines. “She’s gettin’ wet for it!”
Skull drove in one last, searing time and held deep. A raw, open-mouthed groan tore from him as he came. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of him flooding her insides, a claiming so intimate it dwarfed the act itself. He collapsed atop her for a moment, heavy and sweaty, before pushing himself up and off.
He pulled out of her with a soft, wet sound. She felt empty, ravaged, and leaking his spend onto the dark blanket.
Skull stood, tucking himself back into his jeans, not bothering to fasten them. He looked down at her, sprawled and used, her chest heaving. He nodded, almost to himself. Then he turned to the ring of men.
“She’s pure club now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Broken in. But not broken.” He gestured to her. “She’s ready. Get her ready for the next.”
Cash was the first to step forward, his belt already undone, his thick, curved cock in his hand. He climbed onto the bed, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight. “My turn, sweetheart. Let’s see if the Treasurer can make a better investment.”
As Cash pushed her legs wider, whispering filthy promises about interest and deposits, Cissy turned her head to the side. She saw Skull take a seat on the leather couch, accepting a beer from Viper. He watched, his eyes hooded, as Cash began to use her. He took a long swallow, and gave her a slow, approving nod.
The initiation had begun.