Girlfriend Material

Wednesday, 29th July 1981

It was almost the end of July and, for the Wolves Motorcycle Club, the riding season was well underway. There was something on every weekend and, whether it was a ride-out, party, or weekend at a festival, Smudge, as a Prospect, was expected to be there doing the donkey work. For the past six weeks Smudge had spent most of his weekends tending bar, setting up camp, watching over bikes, tearing down camp, or generally cleaning up after everyone else. It was ball-aching work, but if you wanted to be a full patch member of any proper motorcycle club then you had to prospect for them first.

It had proven too much for his pal Spence though who, at the beginning of June, had decided to jack the prospecting in. He'd been getting serious with a student nurse called Caitlin and she'd not been keen on him getting into the lifestyle. In the end, Spence had decided that he wanted Caitlin more than he wanted the club. There was no animosity towards him from the club. This was the purpose of prospecting, to weed out those who weren't really suited to the lifestyle. Smudge and Spence would remain good friends. The only problem with Spence leaving was that it meant more work for Smudge and the other prospect, Crash.

Things had been going well though with Niamh, the petite redhead who Spence and Caitlin had introduced Smudge to. Like Caitlin, she was also a student nurse and since they'd first met at the beginning of May, Smudge and Niamh had seen a fair bit of each other. Niamh however had made it clear to Smudge that she didn't want to be a Prospect's girlfriend or, for that matter, limit herself to one man. 'Friends with Benefits' was how she described their relationship and what she did when he wasn't around, Smudge didn't ask and Niamh didn't tell.

Because of Smudge's prospecting commitments the two of them met mainly during the week, after work. Often they'd go to see a movie, paying extra for a couple's seat on the back row. Smudge couldn't have told you much about the plot of many of the films they'd seen, having spent most of his time making out with Niamh. She always wore a short skirt or summer dress and he always ended up fingering her while they kissed. Niamh was like no other girl he'd been out with before. His previous partners had, at best, tolerated his amorous advances, whereas Niamh it seemed actively encouraged them.

After the film was over, if it was a warm dry night, they'd go out into the countryside on Smudge's bike and find a quiet place to fuck. If it was a wet evening, Niamh let him do her up against a wall in the alleyway behind the cinema. It wasn't glamorous, but Wolverhampton in the 1980's wasn't that glamorous in general.

That Wednesday it was a warm evening and, after the film, Smudge and Niamh had ridden to a meadow on the outskirts of town. Smudge had taken to tying a bedroll onto his handlebars 'Easyrider' style so that they didn't have to fuck on the grass and, after they'd enjoyed each other's bodies, the two of them lay on it gazing up at the stars.

Neither of them could deny the elephant in the room however. Niamh's student term was ending that Friday and she was going back to Ireland for six weeks on the Sunday. Smudge was going to miss Niamh, probably more than she was going to miss him, he thought. He'd managed to get Saturday night off from his prospecting duties and was looking forward to spending their last night together. But then Niamh dropped a bit of a bombshell.

"I've been invited out on Saturday night," Niamh began slightly apologetically. "I set a friend up with a guy some time ago and they've just got engaged. Since it was me who introduced them they wanted to take me out for a meal to say thank you before I went back to Ireland. I thought we could go together. Would you mind?"

Smudge did mind but he kept his feelings to himself. He'd planned on pushing the boat out and taking Niamh to the Italian restaurant on the high street for a romantic meal. Then, afterwards, since his mum would be at her boyfriend's for the weekend, they could go back to his house for a night of passion. But Smudge knew he was in no position to dictate what Niamh did.

"We'll still get to spend the night together?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course," Niamh laughed.

"Then it sounds good."

"Lynne's a fully qualified nurse and he's a footballer. You might have heard of him, he's called Davey Swann."

Everyone had heard of Davey Swann. He was the only thing keeping Wolverhampton Wanderers in the top flight of English football. Smudge had actually met him, although briefly.

"He bought a bike from Richardson's a couple of months ago. I prepared it for him," Smudge told Niamh. "I met him briefly and his fiancé."

"What did you think of her?"

Smudge was always wary when girls asked questions like that about other girls.

"She's nice," he said.

"Do you think she's pretty?"

"I guess."

"Come on," Niamh laughed. "She's gorgeous."

Niamh was right, she'd had a great body.

"She's not as gorgeous as you," Smudge said diplomatically, which earned him a kiss.

"Actually, when I told Lynne you worked in a bike shop and rode with a bike club, she asked if you might give Davey a few pointers on riding. He keeps coming off his bike apparently."

Smudge winced at the thought of damaging such a nice bike.

"Sure. But how do you know Davey Swann?" he asked.

"I went out with him for a while when I first came to England," Niamh offered.

Hearing this hit a nerve with Smudge. Smudge knew he couldn't compete with the likes of Davey Swann. Top class footballers earned a fortune compared to lowly motorcycle mechanics.

"Don't be jealous," Niamh told Smudge. "Davey's a nice guy but he's not really my type."

"If you say so."

"Oh and Lynne's going to help me pack up my room on Saturday morning. If I put everything into storage then I don't have to pay for it over the summer. She also offered to give me a lift to the airport on Sunday, so I don't have to catch the bus."

"I could have given you a lift," Smudge said, slightly offended not to have been asked.

"I don't think we'll get me and my suitcase on the back of your bike Smudge."

"Oh right. Yeah I'd forgotten about that..."

__________

Thursday, 30th July 1981

In a way it was a good thing that Smudge and Niamh were just 'Friends with Benefits'. If they'd been anything more then Smudge would have felt the need to come clean about his side-line, ferrying Topper's wife, Irene to and from her 'exotic dancing' appointments.

It had started a few months back started when Topper, who was the Wolves' Sergeant At Arms, had asked Smudge to pick Irene up from a strip club in Walsall one Friday night. Irene was what they called an exotic dancer, which covered a multitude of sins back in the 80's. Anyway, Topper had wanted to spend the night with his girlfriend and told Smudge to tell Irene that he was on urgent Wolves business. Irene didn't believe a word of it of course and, to cut a long story short, Smudge had ended up fucking her. Or more accurately Irene had ended up fucking Smudge.

Smudge lived in fear of Topper finding out about what had happened, but surprisingly Topper then offered Smudge some work ferrying Irene to gigs. Smudge now found himself regularly picking Irene up from her various 'engagements' on a Friday evening while Topper found more 'urgent' Wolves business to attend to. Smudge would pick Irene up from whatever club she'd been performing in and give her a lift home on the back of his bike. She'd invite him in for a coffee, they'd fuck in Irene's kitchen and then Smudge would be on his way.

Occasionally, Smudge would escort Irene to other appointments, usually in her Ford Fiesta. These were often in working men's clubs or the back rooms of pubs and the shows tended to be a lot raunchier than what happened in the strip joints. Irene would go much further on these occasions and, if they were a young crowd, sometimes she'd go as far as letting guys fuck her (with a condom of course). Irene had a thing for younger guys but it was surprising though, given the opportunity, how many of them couldn't get it up when they had to perform in front of a crowd.

Smudge would sit at the back of the room and watch, just in case things got out of hand. Most guys weren't going to try anything on with a big burly biker present. But in case they did he carried a heavy brass knuckle-duster and a leather blackjack cosh that he'd found among his Dad's possessions after he'd died. So they were family heirlooms in a way. A good blow to the face from either of them and you'd be eating your meals through a straw for a month. Fortunately though, Smudge had never had cause to use them.

On Thursday afternoon, Topper, came into the bike shop where Smudge worked and asked to speak to him. Mr Richardson, the shop's owner showed him through to the workshop and the left the two of them to talk.

"Prospect, are you ok to ferry Irene to a gig tonight?" he asked and then added, "Usual rates."

"Sure Topper," Smudge said, glad of the extra cash and the opportunity to appear keen.

"Great. Be at the house for seven. You can take the car. She'll be a couple of hours probably."

"No problem."

"Thanks Prospect."

With that, Topper left. Smudge wondered what Topper did for a living that allowed him to drop by in the middle of the day. Despite having no obvious job, he and Irene lived in a nice house on a new estate. Irene's line of employment wasn't that well paid and so the money must have been coming from somewhere else. Topper obviously spent a lot of his time in the gym too and it was easy to see why the Wolves had chosen him as their Sergeant at Arms. Physically he was imposing and it was common knowledge that he certainly wasn't afraid of using a bit of violence to make his point, which only added to Smudge's fear that one day Topper might find out that he'd been fucking his wife.

Smudge turned up at Topper and Irene's house just before seven. He parked his bike on the driveway and knocked on their front door. Irene opened it and he couldn't help noticing that she looked different. Irene had the classic stripper's body, great legs and big tits and usually she wore a short skirt and tight top that showed off her assets to their greatest advantage. But tonight, she had on a long pencil skirt and a white blouse which showed just a hint of a white bra underneath.

"They want me to look young and innocent," she laughed, noticing Smudge's surprise. "And they're paying top dollar as well. And I mean top dollar."

Smudge drove the little Ford Fiesta while Irene navigated. They headed out of town towards Bridgnorth but, as Irene read out the directions, the roads became progressively smaller until they were driving down a long driveway, arriving at a rather grand house. It was very different from the usual places Smudge was used to escorting Irene to.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Smudge asked.

"Manor Farm House," Irene said, looking at the name by the front door. "This is it."

Smudge and Irene got out of the car and walked up to the front door. Irene rang the doorbell and a chinless wonder of a man in his late thirties opened the door holding a glass of champagne.

"Perfect timing," he said to Irene then called back into the house in a very cultured accent, "The entertainment's arrived."

Smudge took an instant dislike to the slimeball. But in truth Smudge would have taken a dislike to anyone who sounded that posh.

"There's a pub down the road on the left," he told Irene. "Your man can wait there. We'll call the landlord when we're finished."

"That's not how this works," Smudge responded.

"After what I've paid, it is tonight," Slimeball told him. "Now be a good fellow and trot along."

"It's alright Smudge. Go get yourself a pint," Irene told him. "I'm sure I'll be alright with these gentlemen."

"We'll treat her like a princess," Slimeball replied with a leer.

Smudge had his orders. He got back in the Fiesta and drove towards the pub but as he got to the end of the long driveway he changed his mind. If anything happened to Irene, Topper would tear him apart, literally. So he parked the car out of sight and keeping to the treeline worked his way back to the house on foot.

Crouching under the living room window, Smudge could hear voices and the occasional squeal of laughter from Irene. From what he could make out there must have been three or four men, all posh types. It all seemed harmless though and Smudge was beginning to think his instincts had let him down on this one.

After a while the group moved upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Obviously the action was about to start. It was a warm evening and the windows were open. Smudge could still hear the occasional murmur of laughter. Then he heard a small scream followed by the windows being shut.

Smudge didn't know what to do. People let out small screams during sex all the time and the last thing he wanted to do was spoil everyone's fun by going in all guns blazing. So he waited.

It went quiet again for fifteen minutes or so then, through the closed windows Smudge thought he heard another scream. He went to the rear of the house and finding the back door open he crept through the kitchen and up the stairs.

The screams were more obvious from inside, although it sounded like Irene had been gagged. Smudge listened for the room they were in then slipped on the brass knuckle-duster and gripped the blackjack cosh tightly.

When he burst into the room everyone was surprised, including Smudge. Irene had been tied to the bed and gagged. She'd been slapped around a bit and her make-up was now smeared across her face. There were four men were gangbanging her. One was on top fucking her, while another was ramming his cock down her throat while he half strangled her. The other two watched, naked and waiting for their turn.

Smudge snapped and attacked the men like a whirling dervish. He drove the knuckleduster into the head of the man who was currently on top of Irene, rendering him instantly unconscious. Then set about the other three with the knuckleduster and the cosh.

It's hard to fight when you're naked and Smudge made short work of the three, still conscious men, not stopping until he'd reduced them to whimpering messes, begging for mercy.

"On your fucking knees and don't move," he told them when he finally stopped. Then he pulled out his pocket knife and cut Irene free from her shackles.

He hadn't expected it but Irene, still gagged, then jumped of the bed and started laying into the guys herself. Smudge let her get it out of her system then pulled her back.

"I'm phoning the cops," Smudge told everyone.

If it had been Wolves business then he wouldn't have involved the police. Bike clubs sorted their own problems out their own way. But his wasn't Wolves business.

"We've got money," Slimeball blurted out. "Five hundred. How does five hundred sound?"

Smudge looked at Irene who nodded.

"Make it seven-fifty," Smudge replied.

"You thieving little shits," Slimeball said, almost spitting the words out.

Smudge smashed Slimeball in the face with his bare fist and he fell to the floor.

"Ok, seven-fifty," he replied, the fear in his voice palpable...

Irene was quiet in the car on the way back. She looked in tatters. Her blouse and pencil skirt, along with her underwear, had been cut from her after she'd been tied to the bed. So she sat in the passenger seat, naked except for Smudge's jacket. Smudge wondered what they'd have done with her if he hadn't turned up when he did and thanked his lucky stars he hadn't gone to the pub.

"I should have listened to you, Smudge," Irene told him. "If it wasn't for you I could be in some ditch now."

"You weren't to know," Smudge said trying to reassure her.

"Thanks for looking after me."

"It's what you pay me for," Smudge chuckled.

"I owe you," she said, resting a hand on Smudge's leg.

Smudge let go of the steering wheel with one hand, placed his hand on hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

When they arrived at Topper and Irene's house, the lights were on and Topper was home. Smudge wondered how Topper would react when he saw the state of his wife. Unsurprisingly, he went ballistic, initially at Smudge for not doing his job, but then Irene explained exactly what had happened.

"So you see it was my fault, Topper. And if it hadn't have been for Smudge I'd have been in deep shit," she told him.

Topper grunted in acknowledgement

"You should consider him, Topper. He can think for himself and he made a better job of punishing those blokes than most of your Wolves would have. You should have seen them when he was finished. Plus he got them to pay a penalty."

She reached into Smudge's jacket and pulled out the seven hundred and fifty pounds, laying it out on the table.

"I'm going up to get a shower," she said walking out of the room.

The two men watched Irene leave the room, Smudge's jacket not quite covering her naked bottom.

"It looks like you've got a fan there, Prospect," Topper told Smudge when she'd gone. "Did it really go down like she said?"

"Pretty much," Smudge confirmed apologetically. "I should have stuck to my guns and stopped her going in on her own. I'm sorry for that."

"You did what you were told, Prospect," Topper replied in a surprisingly conciliatory tone.

Topper picked up the cash and separated off two hundred and fifty pounds.

"Your share," he said handing Smudge the money. "Now what are you drinking, Prospect?"

Topper was drinking whisky and so Smudge had the same.

"So you're not afraid of getting your hands dirty if you have to?" Topper asked.

"Not really," Smudge replied, curious where this was going.

"Just like your Dad," Topper laughed.

"You knew him?"

"Nah," Topper admitted. "But I knew of him. I guess those were his knuckledusters you used tonight."

"They were," Smudge laughed. "To be honest, I don't know about that side of his life. I was too young and my Mum never talks about it."

"Listen. I could use someone like you on the Wrecking Crew," Topper said, changing the subject. "Some of us train at the club on Park Road, Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Why not come along, if you're up for it?"

Smudge knew of the Wrecking Crew. They were the Wolves' private army. When diplomacy didn't work then the Wrecking Crew did what was required. It was an honour to be in the Wrecking Crew but one that was usually reserved for fully patched members of the club.

"But I'm only a prospect," Smudge pointed out.

"Are you up for it or not?" Topper repeated, avoiding the question.

"Definitely up for it," Smudge replied.

"Good," Topper said, refilling their glasses with whisky.

Smudge couldn't believe it. There was a substantial amount of kudos to being on the Wrecking Crew.

When Irene had finished showering she came down and joined the two men. She wore the flimsiest of robes which did very little to cover her great legs and sizeable breasts. Irene poured herself a glass of wine then plonked herself in Topper's lap on the sofa.

"So, have you boys talked about what you needed to talk about?" she asked.

"We have and it's all good," Topper confirmed.

"Good. So, does that mean we can have some fun now?" she giggled, trailing her fingers across Topper's chest.

Topper undid the belt on Irene's robe, pulling apart both sides, to give Smudge a great view of her breasts. Then he pushed his hand between Irene's legs making her squeal with delight.

"You're insatiable," he told her.

"If you remember that was one of the reasons you married me," she retorted.

"True," Topper admitted.

The two of them laughed then both turned to Smudge, who wasn't quite sure where to look.

"It's alright Prospect," Topper told Smudge. "I know all about you fucking Irene. It was me who set you up, remember. I thought she might enjoy you. Turns out I was right."