Chapter 2: The Second Claim
The silence after Rex’s words was a physical thing, a pressure on the eardrums. India’s weeping had subsided into shaky, wet breaths. Matt moved on stiff joints, the concrete having bitten into his knees. He found his hat in the shadows, but didn’t put it on. He just clutched it, the felt damp in his sweaty hand, as he approached the mattress.
She flinched when he touched her arm. Her eyes, swollen and glazed, looked through him. “India,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He fumbled with the zip tie on her wrists, his nails breaking before he managed to twist the locking mechanism enough to snap it. Her arms fell to her sides, lifeless. Raw, angry welts circled her wrists.
“Got a sink in the shitter,” Rex said from his chair, lighting another cigarette. “Clean her up. Then get your asses back here. Prospect duties start now.”
The bathroom was a horror of cracked porcelain and grime. Matt wet a wad of rough paper towels under a dripping, rusty tap. The water ran brown for a minute before clearing. He knelt beside India, who leaned against the piss-stained wall, shivering. He started to wipe the mingled sweat and drying semen from her inner thighs. Her dark, curly hair was matted.
She grabbed his wrist, her grip surprising in its strength. Her brown eyes finally focused on him, burning with a feverish intensity. “You said it would be a party,” she hissed. “You said it would be like the others. Just… rougher. This is not that, Matt. This is something else.”
“I know,” he mumbled, unable to hold her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
“You said ‘thank you’.” The words were an accusation, a blade.
“He would have killed me,” Matt said, but it sounded weak, even to him. He continued cleaning her, his touch gentling as he wiped her stomach, the curves of her ass. A sick sense of ownership returned as he tended to her—this was still his wife, his submissive. But the feeling was fouled now, poisoned by the echo of Rex’s grunts and Tiny’s laughter.
When they returned to the main room, Rex was gone. Tiny was there, slougging against the bar with two other men, their cuts all bearing the same devil’s-head patch. He grinned when he saw them. “Pretty boy and his used-up cunt. Welcome to the bottom.”
One of the men, older with a gaunt face, tossed a bundle of greasy rags at Matt’s feet. “Clean the fucking bikes outside. Every inch. Use the solvent in the red cans. And your woman makes the brothers lunch. Kitchen’s through there. Don’t fuck it up.”
The work was mind-numbing, a blessing. The solvent fumes burned Matt’s lungs and made his eyes water as he scrubbed decades of grime from the chrome and black of a dozen motorcycles. His back ached. Through a grimy window, he could see the vague shape of India moving in the clubhouse’s tiny, filthy kitchen. Every so often, a biker would wander in, and Matt would tense, watching. He’d see a hand grab her ass, or pin her against a counter. He’d hear their laughter. He just kept scrubbing.
The light was fading when Rex returned. He strode directly into the garage where Matt worked. “Enough. Inside. Time for your second lesson.”
The main room felt different. The bikers, maybe ten of them now, were lounging with fresh beers, their attention homing in on India, who stood wiping her hands on a dish towel. Fear poured off her in waves.
“See, a woman gets comfortable,” Rex announced, his voice cutting through the low chatter. “Thinks one fuck is all it takes. But to be proper club property, she needs to be broken in everywhere.” He snapped his fingers. “Tiny. The bar.”
Tiny lumbered from a back room carrying a heavy, steel-spreader bar, its ends fitted with leather cuffs. The metal gleamed dully under the neon.
“No,” India breathed, backing up until her hips hit the pool table. “Please, not that.”
“Ankles on the cuffs,” Rex said, his tone leaving no room for debate. Two other bikers moved forward, grabbing her. She fought, a brief, wild thrashing that ended when one backhanded her across the mouth. The sound was a sharp crack. She went limp, sobbing as they forced her to lie back on the pool table, felt rough under her bare skin. They strapped her ankles to the ends of the bar, then cranked a mechanism in the center. The bar extended, and with a series of clicks, her legs were forced brutally apart, spread wide and high, exposing everything to the room.
Matt felt the world tilt. Her most intimate places were on grotesque display, the dark hair of her pussy, the tighter, hidden furl of her asshole. The position was one of utter vulnerability, of livestock presented for breeding.
Rex unbuckled his belt. “This one’s mine. This hole.” He ran a thumb roughly over her asshole. India whimpered, her body straining against the unyielding metal. He took a bottle of cheap liquor from the bar, took a swig, and then poured a stream of it over her back door. It dripped, cold and stinging. He used his fingers, slick with the alcohol, to work against the tight ring of muscle. India screamed, a raw, ragged sound, as he forced first one, then two thick fingers inside her.
“Hush now,” Rex murmured, a twisted parody of comfort. “Gotta loosen you up for Daddy.”
He positioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing where his fingers had been. He leaned his weight forward. “Watch, boy,” he said to Matt, without looking away from India. “Watch where your woman really belongs.”
He pushed. The resistance was palpable. India’s scream tore through the room, a sound of pure, animal agony. Her back arched off the table. Rex shoved harder, a relentless, inward drill. There was a terrible, yielding pop, and he was in, buried to the hilt in her ass. He stayed there for a moment, letting her sob, letting the room absorb the fact of the violation.
Then he began to move. Short, grinding pulls that became longer, smoother strokes. The sound was different here—tighter, drier, despite the liquor. A brutal, squelching rhythm. India’s screams dissolved into choked gurgles with every inward drive.
“Tiny,” Rex grunted, his pace increasing. “Get the cuck involved. He’s too detached.”
Tiny grinned. He walked over to Matt, who was frozen, his guts liquid with horror and a shameful, relentless arousal. “You heard him, prospect. You don’t just watch. You participate.” Tiny unzipped Matt’s jeans, reached in, and pulled out his cock. It was half-hard, a traitorous response to the primal scene. “You stroke that thing. You get off on this. You show your President you appreciate the lesson.”
Matt’s hand trembled violently as he wrapped his fingers around himself. He couldn’t look away from the point where Rex’s body disappeared into India’s, from the stretched, glistening rim of her anus clinging to his shaft. He started to jerk himself, a slow, sickening mimicry of Rex’s fucking.
“That’s it,” Tiny whispered, his own breath hot and excited. “See how he owns her? That’s your wife’s ass, man. And it’s his now. Forever. You’ll learn to love this. You’ll learn to need it.”
Rex was pounding now, his balls slapping against her, his hands gripping the spreader bar for leverage. India’s body was convulsing, but not in pleasure. It was a seizure of pain. Her dimples were etched in a permanent rictus of suffering.
Matt stroked faster, his own breath coming in short gasps. The shame was a fire in his brain, but his body responded, hardening fully in his hand. He was going to come. Watching his wife be brutally sodomized, he was going to climax.
Rex saw it. His ice-blue eyes locked onto Matt’s, a cruel connection. “Yeah,” Rex growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. “That’s it. You belong to us too. Your pleasure is ours. Your woman’s holes are ours. Come for me, boy. Come for your President.”
With a final, deep roar, Rex slammed home and shuddered, pumping his release into India’s bowels. At the same instant, spurred by the command and the devastating sight, Matt’s orgasm ripped through him. Jet after jet of cum spattered onto the concrete floor at his feet, a pathetic, wasted offering.
He slumped, empty and ruined.
Rex pulled out slowly. India’s asshole gaped, red and used, leaking white. He patted her trembling flank. “Good girl. You took it all.” He looked at the stunned, silent room. “This is Lucifer’s Cunt now. Remember that.”
He unlocked the spreader bar cuffs. India’s legs collapsed together. She curled onto her side on the pool table, silent, shaking, lost in a faraway place.
Rex zipped up. He walked to Matt, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Matt flinched. “You did good,” Rex said, his voice almost gentle. “The hardest part’s over. Now you’re really one of us.” He leaned closer. “Tomorrow, we heat up the branding iron. She wears the club’ mark. And you’ll hold her down for it.”
He walked away, leaving Matt standing in the faint, sickly glow, the smell of sex, solvent, and his own shame thick in the air. The meat hooks swayed gently in a draft from a broken window, their points gleaming.