Biker Boys Love Big Girls (A BBW Erotic Romance)

  Biker Boys Love Big Girls

  by Odessa Piper

  ***

  The Greasy Gasket, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Well, a hive of rowdy bikers and babes in leather, at least. It’s where I’ve bartended for the past ten years. The pay is alright, but I stayed behind that bar for the company more than the tips. The tips are nice, mind. But the clientele is really what gets me up in the morning.

  It’s the kind of bar frequented by burly dudes with big arms and bigger bikes. The kind of bikes that rumble and rattle your apartment windows when they tool down the street. The kind of arms that look like they could circle around you for days and hold you in an embrace that was warm and hard and a little bit rough. Just the kind of guys I like. Big arms, bigger bikes.

  The place has always been lit by lurid neon that's filtered through a haze of smoke and sweat and booze. It’s always been place that’s alive with the dirtier side of life, and it’s always had a big bossy girl behind the bar: me. Daria Shone. Yeah, I know, Daria. That’s the name my mom gave me, and outside of a few awkward years in school it’s done me alright. Most of the boys at the bar, though, they call me “Dee.” It’s served me better.

  The only real problem with this place is that all the boys that I dig are always taken. Always, always taken. And depressingly loyal. Not that I wanted to steal some girl's man, but when you spend all night behind a bar serving the kind of boys, the kind of men, that really turn your motor over, well, it's frustrating. And let me tell you, those tough leather-and-ink biker boys? They just put that on to hide the soft heart and the sweet words they got just under the surface.

  So that's kind of my life. Stuck in a rut, you know? Decent job, but a little lonely. Single for longer than I'd like to admit. All the guys in my life got girls to fill the second seat, or girls to ride along side them. At least, that was the story until the Friday night that Quentin walked in. Things changed, then.

  Quentin, now he was a man. Tall and lean and with his dark, new jeans and his darker, worn-out boots. But he wasn’t just tall, you could see the strength under that t-shirt when he took off his leather jacket. Face and arms tanned from days riding and working in the sun, with hands as wide as a catcher’s mitt and chest as broad as barn and… Well, I’m getting ahead of myself here.

  Quentin eased that tall, taut body into the Greasy Gasket one Friday, about the time the sun was just starting to melt into a bronze puddle on the horizon. His hair had been matted down by a helmet, but with a quick sweep of his hand the black, slightly-sweaty locks were put back into place like magic. Effortless beauty that was both annoying and endearing. A three-day beard dusted his thick chin and strong jaw. The domed muscles of his shoulders were visible under the shirt draped over them. I won’t even try to deny it, he’s the kind of boy I want the moment I lay eyes on him.

  But normally, boys like that? They want some tiny thing, a girl all blonde and bubblegum. I can’t remember a time they wanted a girl like me. I'm the kind of girl who never quite liked the “bitch seat.” Not because of the term, but because those things were always a little too narrow for my well-built backside, dig? Well, I'm not a huge fan of the term, either.

  That’s another one of the reasons I like bikers. Some of them are bitter-whiskey assholes, but most of them are secretly sweet dudes with strong arms and stronger grips. The kind of sweet dudes who like a girl like me. A girl who ain’t going to make any apologies for having a real healthy build. You know, big, bold, beautiful. And sometimes a bitch, sure. I'll admit it. But I try to be one in a good way. You know, not going to take anyone's crap. At least that’s the stuff I tell myself.

  Boys like Quentin, though? Usually just remind me of what the “real world” thinks. The world outside of the leather, the grease, the chrome. But Quentin wasn’t like that. Let me tell you what that boy was like.

  He came in before the gangs of regulars. Tight denim that flashed the curves of his thighs when the light hit him at the right angle. He shrugged out of his leather jacket effortlessly. He didn’t linger around the joint at all. He came right for the bar, almost as soon as he saw me, and settled down in the stool across from me. Tossed his jacket down to a stool next to him and raised a hand in a small greeting.

  He wore a smile when I leaned on the bar in front of him, and his dark brown eyes that lingered on the assets I had below my shoulders before jumping upwards to meet my gaze. Not a leer, but a glance. It was quick, secretive glance that shot up to catch my gaze so he could disarm me with a more casual smile. A kind of lopsided grin that hit me and sucked the sass right out before I could even get my hands on my hips or a glare on my face. He was good.

  “What’s your name, ma'am?” he asked.

  His voice wasn’t the gravel and grit of most of the men who hung out. Probably didn’t smoke. But he was young, or at least younger. A lot of younger boys are a bit health conscious. The smoother voice makes them nicer to listen to but they don’t have the same hardness about them. Well, most of them. Of course, Quentin made up for that missing hardness in other places. In many more ways than one.

  The biceps that tightened into hard, tan rocks when he leaned in waiting for his answer... That was one of the ways he showed off his extra hardness. But not the most important. He had hardness where it really counted. We'll get to that in a bit.

  While I had been taking him in, I hadn't been answering his question. His eyebrows jumped a bit, he tried to coax the answer out of me. I gave him the best chilly gaze I could muster, considering how much fire he had put into my thighs just by flashing that smile, showing those arms, putting those hands close enough to let me see the calluses and the scars.

  “You can call me ‘Dee,’ kiddo. What’s yours?”

  “Quentin.” he gave a little up nod.

  “Well, what can I get you, Quentin?”

  He had a look in his eye, the kind that said he was interested in something other than drinks. But when you serve drinks as a woman you get used to drunk idiots hitting on you. That was the first time a sober boy gave me that look though. That look had a lot more power when it wasn’t dulled by the haze of booze. The raw, hungry lust made me take a step back, surprised, but also intrigued enough to lean in again.

  “I like a whiskey, no ice.” Quentin was a typical biker boy, went right for the stuff that made him seem hard, tough.

  His gaze slithered down again as he ordered his drink. I make a habit of wearing something low cut and kind of tight most nights. Really helps with the tips. But it also gave Quentin an eyeful of more-than-ample cleavage that lay exposed to him. It was another quick glance again, he just wanted a refresher for the sight he had enjoyed earlier. Then his eyes jumped back up, and he gave the disarming grin.

  “Make it a double, Dee.”

  It was easier to summon an icy stare when he tried the same trick twice in a row. Like I would be that easy to manipulate. He opened his palms before me and let me see the expanse of rough, rugged manliness in them. I won’t lie, it put some heat in my cheeks (and a knot below my bellybutton) when I saw how much those hands had worked.

  “Can’t blame me for liking what I see, can you?” he had an apologetic, but flirtatious smile.

  I shook my head and gave him a different kind of look, just out of the side of my vision, with my head turned, to hide the smile that crept onto one half of my mouth. He straightened up and laid his palms flat on the bar, showing the backs of those strong hands and the map of blood vessels that traced across them. Another nice thing to look at while I got him a glass and poured him a drink.

  “I’ve never seen you around here before. You think you can just get away wi
th hitting on the only girl who serves drinks here?” I plunked the bottle down on the bar and didn’t close it.

  “Probably not, but if no one else is here there ain’t much they can do about it.”

  Quentin was pleased with himself at that response, and he picked up his tumbler full of liquor.

  “Plus? It’s fun.” he added.

  Then he raised his glass and tilted it in a feigned salute before taking a quick gulp. He didn’t wince with his swallow, or after the heat of the liquor would have hit his throat. That was probably when I decided I was going to tolerate him. He wasn’t all fake, a pretty little boy who didn’t have any barbed wire in him at all would have winced. As much as I like the biker boys with the secret soft hearts, they have to have some barbed wire in them, too. No man has barbed wire if whiskey makes him wince, so he earned a few points.

  I leaned in over the bar and held my arms together against my breasts, and was glad he couldn’t see me from below the waist because my legs were wiggling back and forth with a new excitement that bloomed up inside me. A kind of excitement that made me hot in the thighs, and damp in between them.

  “I can’t say I mind. But you know you ain’t gonna get anywhere, right?” I raised an eyebrow and leaned forward a bit more.

  Quentin poured the rest of his drink into his mouth and swallowed. When he spoke the lingering scent played on his breath, and mixed with the hint of his sweat I could catch as I eased myself closer to him over the bar. His eyes were sharp, and he had a smile that barely touched them.

  “You sound pretty confident, Dee.” he whispered, I wouldn’t have been able to hear it if the crowd had come in.

  “Lady bartenders. Lots of boys flirt with their lady bartenders, especially when they get a few drinks inside them. We get used to it.”

  Even as I protested his flirtations I let my eyes run over the thick forearms and big biceps and those rugged hands. It didn’t help my thighs stop wiggling, didn’t help me stop doing my little excitement dance. And that wiggling didn’t help cool off the heat that started to grow in my pussy, or the wetness I felt grow in my panties. It felt good to wiggle them, though.

  “You still have to go home after last call, right? Why go home alone?” Quentin’s voice had no playfulness in it.

  The bluntness of him gave me a little pause. Most boys, especially younger boys, they like to dance around the issue. He was driving right for it. Part of me didn’t really understand what a lean, hard boy like him would see in me, but that was also the part of me that forgot my keys in the morning and dropped my phone in the toilet. The smart part of me told me not to doubt it, even if it was a surprise. So I swallowed and ran my tongue across my lower lip and conjured up a little sass and wit.

  “You planning on hanging around here for four hours just for the chance to get a little plus-sized booty?”

  I squished my boobs between my arms a little tighter, and arched my back a bit. And I lowered my chin to touch my chest as I eased myself closer to him over the bar, close enough that I could hear his breathing, and smell the sweat and the hint of leather and grease that hung around him. I licked my lips again, slower, and curled my toes in my boots as things got hotter and wetter downtown.

  “I’d rather get you out of there before then, but I’ll wait a few hours if it means getting you out on my chopper.” Quentin edged closer, and kept his gaze fixed on my face.

  “What kind of chopper?” I asked, a warm whisper.

  “Custom built. It’s a monster. Roars so loud it can set off car alarms. Hell, roars so loud it'll wake the dead."

  Quentin slid one hand over mine, curled his scratchy, callused fingers across the back of my hand and gave it a squeeze. His palm was hot, and tough like leather. When his thumb stroked across my index finger it made a wave of goose bumps ride up my arms, and a spark shoot down my spine.

  “It’s satin black, dripping chrome, and two broad saddles ready for cross-country rides.” his voice was dark and smoky as he detailed his ride.

  I swallowed, and nodded once. My hand would have trembled if my nerves weren’t working themselves out with my shivering thighs. If my toes weren’t clenching open and shut in my boots. I wet my lips with my tongue again and slowly inhaled his scent before whisper back to him.

  “Long, low, and loud?” I asked.

  Quentin turned my hand over in his and closed tough fingers around my hand. The big mitts he had made my palms and fingers look small and delicate. The rough, workman’s hands held tight to mine, and thumbs and fingers moved with slow, persistent circles. He was close enough that I could see nothing but those dark, hungry eyes.

  “In more ways than one. You would look good on it, holding onto me. With my big toy rumbling between your thighs.”

  He smirked, and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath inward.

  “But you’d look even better bent over the seat, with me behind you, making you moan.”

  My lower lip quivered. I felt like someone had tied my lower stomach into a dozen knots. My pussy was full of heat, puffy and sticky. The kind of day I was glad I wasn’t wearing my jeans because I’d probably soak through the damn things. I was practically a downpour.

  “Where would we do something like that?” I asked with a whisper.

  “On the side of the road. Once we get too desperate and can’t wait any more.” his words were hard and confident, no dancing around the issue.

  “What if we get caught?” my fingers curled against his hand, I felt rough calluses and the bulge of veins.

  “We can worry about that when we see the cherry top. You should focus on thinking about that hard chrome and warm leather that you could be slung over.” his breath still had hints of whiskey.

  Quentin leaned back a bit and took a quick glance out of the window to the parking lot. He gestured over to it with a bob of his head.

  “You can see the bike out there. The one you could have rumbling between your legs. The one you could be bent over and fucked on.” Quentin let his mouth slip into a lopsided smile again as he said that.

  My gaze followed, and I could just see the long, black-and-chrome monster he wanted me on. And seeing it, damn if I didn’t want to be on it, too. It had wide seats, great for a girl with a big butt and a big attitude. And it was just the right height to lean over on and really dig my heels in with a boy behind me. My skin tingled, every bit of it, and my face was almost as hot as my thighs, and almost as hot as the steamy flood of the lips between those thighs.

  “Alright. Let me call the manager. I’ll tell him… I don’t know. I’ll tell him something.” I tried not to sound as eager as I was.

  Quentin leaned back and his lips split into a wide, surprised grin. He squeezed my hands hard and shook his head as he laughed away the shock.

  “Hah, serious? Alright, let’s go.”

  "Hold on, I gotta wait for a replacement. I can't just leave the bar open."

  Quentin shook his head with a grin.

  "No one in here but us. Come check out the bike while we wait for your replacement."

  He started guiding me down to the exit of the bar with a tug at my hands. The strong, worn grip was nice, but what was even nicer was the thick knot I saw in the crotch of those tight jeans when the light hit them just so...

  ***

  The chopper thundered between my thighs, an earthquake just for me. The vibration from the engine rippled up into my legs and my rump, and into the hot pussy I pressed against the leather saddle. It had a knob just in the right place for me to rub against, and just in the right place to ease the rumbling of the engine up into my puffy, burning cunt.

  I held to Quentin’s firm stomach and rest my face against his back. If he could feel me humping his bike, grinding my soaked panties and slick folds against it, well, he didn’t say a word. Fuck, he’d probably have encouraged me, probably told me to go faster. To fuck his bike like he was going to fuck me. Hungry, desperate, like a wolf in heat.

  We roared into a sky that was
darkening and sped away from the town lights behind us. The wind and the engine too loud to speak, but I was already satisfied with the words he had used to get me on his bike and away from the bar. Any more would have been useless. Besides, I had an idea that I had always wanted to try, and it would have been too hard to explain. I decided to just go for it.

  My hands slid down Quentin’s trim stomach, down to his thighs, and then folded into his lap. I placed them over the spot where I had seen the hard lump in the crotch of his denim when he got me out from behind the bar. It was still hard, a turgid lump that folded against his hips and strained the fabric of his jeans.

  The engine was too loud for me to hear myself gasp, but when I got my hands on that lump I had to let my surprise out somehow. The thing filled both my hands and then some, and it was so hard that the denim couldn’t do anything to keep it squished against his body.

  That boy’s cock was just about everything I wanted. Real thick, a real double-handful, and long enough that I’d need to take some effort to get it out of his pants. I’ve always enjoyed having to put in a little effort to get a guy out and ready. Makes me feel like I’m unwrapping a present. But in that moment, it was enough just to feel it against my hands, even through the denim.

  Quentin tensed when I curled my hands against his crotch. He didn’t do anything to stop me, mind, so if he didn’t like having my hands on his junk while we tore down the highway he could have fooled me. But I wasn’t satisfied with just a grope, especially not with that leather saddle buzzing up against my puffy, soaked mound.

  Sure, it was dangerous. Still, when I squeezed that bulge in Quentin’s crotch he cranked the throttle and made the bike between our thighs roar like a beast made of chrome and steel. I pressed my face against Quentin’s back and hooked thumbs under waist of his jeans. My fingers searched for the buttons, and the bike roared again. I smiled as the wind swirled past us, as it danced through my hair.

  It was hard to get my fingers into his fly, his grip on the handlebars held him in a position that didn't give my hands much room. I could feel his chest and back swell with heavy breaths as my fingers worked those buttons open. The button fly would make it easier to get him free, but when I was opening up those tight jeans it just made my job harder.