Hard Won Territory

The heavy rumble of massed V-Twin engines echoed across the city like thunder announcing an approaching storm. The Hell Drillers and the GBBs—short for Gros la Bite Baiseurs, Cajun for 'Big Dicked Fuckers'—were once again on the move. The Drillers and the Bs were the two dominant outlaw biker clubs in southern Louisiana, and between them, they owned the drug, gambling, and prostitution trades in the Big Easy, and all the surrounding parishes.

The two clubs, each over one hundred members strong, were mounted on their steel horses with their old ladies tucked in close behind, riding toward the long-abandoned Century Hotel located in the heart of New Orleans.

Rodger Hottier, road name Hotrod, with Trip-B riding bitch, led the rest of the GBBs into downtown. The GBBs were going to take back downtown, or he was going to break off his cock trying. The past two years the president of the Drillers, that horse dicked mother-fucker they called Schlong, had dominated the B's president, Butcher.

Butcher was only forty, and he'd served the B's well as president for three years, but in the battle between the Fuckers and the Drillers, presidents burned out quickly, and Schlong was bigger, younger, and stronger than Butcher. Butcher had put up a hell of a fight the first year they met, but Schlong's bigger dick and greater strength had been more than Butcher could handle. Butcher had tried to redeem himself last year, but he knew he was no match for Schlong before the competition even began and his cock had wilted only minutes into the fight.

This year it was going to be different. Hotrod was Schlong's equal in every respect. He'd taken over the club from Jason Boucher, road name Butcher, after Butcher couldn't keep his cock up. Standing a tick over six foot three, and heavily muscled, Hotrod had no doubts he could return control of downtown to the Fuckers.

He'd been training for this moment his entire adult life. He'd become a GBB 'hang-around' at sixteen, performing menial tasks for the club just so he could associate with the big, strong men and their incredibly sexy women. He'd spent every available moment after school washing bikes, sweeping, cleaning, and fetching, until on the day of his nineteenth birthday, in the proudest moment of his young life, he'd become a prospect. In celebration of his elevation, a club girl had taken him into one of the club house guest rooms and they'd fucked their brains out. It was his first time with a woman. Though he'd had plenty of practice fucking his fist, he didn't know shit about pleasing a woman, but what he lacked in skills he made up for with enthusiasm and the size of his cock.

As they fucked, Angel's wails of pleasure had drawn an audience. While watching, some of the Bs began cheering him on as he and Angel went at it like animals in heat, and that had excited him even more. The cheering crowd had filled him with a sense of invincibility and he'd power-fucked that bitch for over an hour, came all over her twice, and was still fucking the shit out of her when she'd tapped out and begged him to stop.

Over the next year every club girl wanted to have a taste of him, each of them certain she'd be the first to best him. They'd all tried, and they'd all failed, but with their failures he'd learned how to please a woman and control his orgasm. Knowing the women were trying to out fuck him, that his cock was competing against their pussy for supremacy, fanned the flames of his competitiveness and molded him into a hard-fucking beast that thrived on rivalry and dominance.

It wasn't until two of the club girls ambushed him in a double team that he'd gone down in defeat. The three of them had cried out in near simultaneous rapture as money changed hands on whether Hotrod could best them both. One of the women sat on his face and pinned his arms to the bed as he ate her alive, his skilled lips and tongue driving her into wailing rapture. As he devoured the pussy on his face, the other pussy rode his shaft furiously, the club girl's long, loud cries of completion mingling with his muffled roar as he came a third time, her hips still slamming down on his cock with frantic intensity as he filled her with his essence. It'd taken two women, and over eighty minutes of hard fucking, but after his third climax, he'd finally softened to the point he could no longer fuck. He'd enjoyed multiple rematches with various combinations of two, three, or more women, but despite his best efforts, and the efforts of the women he was fucking at the time, three shots were his limit before he needed an hour or so to recharge.

As a prospect, he'd worked hard for the club, using his charms, or his fists, to the Fucker's advantage. A year after his elevation to prospect he was patched in, and in a twist of fate, two weeks after being granted all the privileges of being a full Fucker, Ronda had joined the Bs as a club girl. When she heard about his sexual prowess from the other girls, she immediately wanted to take him on.

During their frequent erotic struggles, he realized he'd finally met his match. Ronda liked to fuck, and she especially like to fuck him. Until Hotrod, no single man could satisfy her, and their fucking had become harder, and wilder with each encounter. Sometimes he tapped out, sometimes she did, but each time they met in erotic competition, their fucking was long and hard as his cock and her pussy warred to exhaustion in their bid to prove which was better.

Hotrod and Ronda were down for screwing any place or time, the thrill of banging in front of an audience increasing their excitement and driving them to fuck harder and longer. During one of their encounters, Hotrod was slumped on the big leather couch in the common room of the Fuckers' clubhouse, hips hanging off the front edge with feet planted, as his enormous cock slammed furiously into Ronda's pussy. When they'd started fucking, several members gathered around to cheer them on, urging them to fuck ever harder and to destroy each other with pleasure. His balls gleaming with leaked pussy juice, their teeth bared in snarling pleasure, neither was willing to accept defeat in front of the others. When money began changing hands on which of them would prevail this time, in her excitement, Ronda brutally twisted Hotrod's nipples. With a roar, he began fucking her even harder while twisting her nipples in return, both combatants crying out in pain and pleasure.

The sharp nips of pain only excited them more, and their fucking became even more aggressive. His face red as he struggled to draw a breath, teeth bared in growling effort, his massive cock pounded into her tight pussy with sweet savagery as they battled to make the other come first until, finally, Ronda had wailed loudly in ecstasy. It was then, jerking and bucking in the throes of her orgasm, her hands around Hotrod's throat as his hands brutally squeezed her giant tits, that she got tagged with her club name, and it'd stuck.

Their furious fucking had prepared him well, and now, twelve years on, he was the president of the club. The Fuckers were placing the fate of the club in his hands, and he wouldn't let them down. Five years ago he'd taken Ronda, club name Trip-B, short for Triple-B, short for Big Bad Bitch, as his old lady, and she'd done all she could to groom him to take and hold the top spot in the club.

Standing just under six feet tall, Trip-B was a brawling, big breasted, hard fucking bitch. She was the only woman who could regularly match him fuck for fuck, and their 'training' was legendary within the club. Hotrod liked his fucking rough and long, and so did Trip-B. More than once their passions had carried them away and they'd fucked while screaming and fighting until they were both sweaty, bruised, and occasionally bloody.

Now he was going to take those years of training and fuck Schlong up. Hotrod smiled as he led the Fuckers through the heart of New Orleans to their destiny. He and Trip-B fucked at least once a day, often twice, and sometimes three or more times, but in preparation for his battle, they hadn't fucked in almost a week. With Trip-B's big tits pressed into his back, and her hand roughly caressing his cock through his jeans, he was throbbing hard and ready to meet his rival.

His smile widened. After he bludgeoned Schlong's cock into submission with his own, he was going to give Trip-B a fucking like never before, and he was going to do it in front of all the Drillers. Today he put the Drillers on notice he was un-fucking-beatable and the GBB's were taking back downtown because he was a Gros la Bite Baiseurs, and he could out fuck and out fight any of those Hell Drillers pussies.

Shelby Long, road name Schlong, led the Drillers toward the Century Hotel and another crushing defeat of a GBB by his cock. He'd heard that the Bs had replaced Butcher as president with some swinging dick named Hotrod. He didn't know the man, but it didn't matter. He'd taken down Butcher, twice, and Butcher was the best the Bs had.

When Butcher took over leadership of the Bs, he first bested Chains, the Drillers president at the time, and then Skids and Pipe the following two years to keep downtown under the B's control. The Drillers held the record for the longest run, holding downtown four straight years before Butcher had snatched it away. When Schlong and Butcher met the first time, Schlong was determined to end Butcher's reign before the Bs could equal his club's record, and he had.

That Cajun bastard stood only about five-eight or so, but he was thickly muscled, and his short stature hadn't translated into the size of his cock. Schlong's cock had been bigger, but the size discrepancy between their dicks wasn't as large as the rest of their bodies. Butcher was likely the best the Bs could produce, and after beating him two years in a row, last year easily, Schlong was confident he could better anyone the Bs chose to put in the circle against him.

Schlong had risen rapidly through the ranks of the Drillers because he never shied from doing what had to be done. Shelby was born to an alcoholic mother who often had hard, angry oil-field workers over to their tiny, disgusting apartment, men who would fuck, and often beat, his mother. The men, after tiring of beating his mother, sometimes slapped the young Shelby around for any perceived offence, no matter how slight. Rather than cower, Shelby had sought refuge from his mother and her lovers on the streets, eventually ending up with the Drillers. Finding the ten-year-old Shelby sleeping in the shade under a truck parked outside one of their brothels, the Drillers has taken him under their wing, allowing him to stay at their clubhouse, and used him to perform menial tasks while paying him a stipend so he'd have some spending money. Shelby worked hard for the club, willing to do anything to have a place to sleep and hang out so he didn't have to go home.

Shelby learned the lessons of life well. Emulating what he saw in the Driller's, he'd learned to think and fight for himself, and though he spent most of his time at the Driller's clubhouse, he still had to return home occasionally. As he became older, and bigger, using skills learned from the Drillers, the hard men banging his mother quickly realized that Shelby wasn't someone to be fucked with, not unless they wanted to leave her apartment broken and bloody.

The Drillers admired the scrappy kid that always got up, no matter how many times or how hard he was knocked down, and they'd brought him into the club as soon as he was old enough to be a prospect. Their grooming hardened him and turned him into a lethal weapon. Over the years he'd proven time and again he feared nothing or no one, and that he was willing to do whatever was required for the Drillers to succeed.

Two years ago, after another defeat of their president by Butcher, Pipe stepped aside and the Drillers asked for volunteers to lead the club. Because he never shrank from a challenge, when nobody else stepped for forward to defend the club, Schlong tossed his cock into the ring.

Standing a hairsbreadth under six-three, he was confident he could out fuck and out fight any man. His old lady, Lips, kept him in prime condition for fucking by riding his big cock long and hard every chance she got, and being the primary enforcer for the Drillers kept his body lean and thickly muscled. Because of his reputation and skills, he rarely had to resort to his knife, pistol, or other weapon to exert the club's will, his size, attitude, and fists normally sufficient for the task.

He'd been with the club his entire adult life, becoming a patched member at twenty, and had risen to president faster than any brother before him, being elected to lead the club less than a month after his thirty-first birthday.

He hadn't let the club down. Only six months after assuming the role of president, he'd entered the Century Hotel and taken Butcher down in a hard-fought match, breaking the hold the Bs had on downtown before they became too entrenched and powerful to dislodge. Now, with Lips pressed into his back, her hand teasing his cock through his pants, he was leading the Drillers to another victory. If his club could hold the downtown for another few years, they could end these stupid contests and finally defeat those Cajun bastards once and for all.

Many of the Drillers claimed the war with the GBBs was over, but Schlong didn't subscribe to that notion. They were still at war with their mortal enemy, but now, instead of fighting with guns and knives, they fought with their cocks, and the war was as intense as ever.

Their battles were shaping the presidents, and the rest of the members, in each club. The members of both clubs were becoming ever bigger, leaner, more muscular, and most importantly, bigger dicked. Chains had lasted only four years as president before he was replaced. Butcher made it three before being defeated, and four before he was replaced. Schlong knew unless he could hold off the B's challenges long enough for the Drillers to establish an insurmountable dominance of downtown, he'd eventually be replaced by someone bigger, stronger, and meaner than himself. He didn't intend for that happen. He was going to go down as the president that finally defeated the Bs, established the Drillers as the dominate club in the Big Easy, and eventually, all of southern Louisiana.

Hotrod leaned his hog into the turn as he rolled on the throttle, powering up the rough and weedy ramp of the crumbling parking deck at the Century, a hundred more Harley's following him up to the second floor of the four level structure. The deck was empty. Good... the Drillers hadn't arrived yet. He braked to a stop and began backing his bike into a spot, blipping the throttle just to hear the machine's beating heart reverberate off the surrounding concrete.

During the summer of 2005, the Century Hotel had been inundated by flood waters from hurricane Katrina. Even after the water receded, the once lavish hotel never reopened and began its long decline into dilapidation. Because of its location at the almost exact midpoint between their territories, the clubs had selected the abandoned hotel as ground zero for their contests to decide control of the disputed territory. The chipped and graffitied parking deck served well to hide their motorcycles from curious eyes, and the building's once elegant ballroom provided plenty of space, and more importantly, privacy, for the competitions.

Trip-B dismounted as the bikes fell silent. Once she was clear, he leaned the hardtail onto the stand, swung his leg over, and then pulled her into a lusty kiss, their tongues warring as he gripped her breast and she squeezed his cock.

"You ready to fuck this asshole up?" she breathed as their lips parted.

"You know I am," he rumbled in return.

He and Trip-B had talked strategy to work out his best chance of defeating Schlong, and decided that abstinence before his fight was the answer. She wanted him running hot to keep his cock up during the fight. He relished the idea of dominating another man in the most primal of contests, but with their lack of fucking leading up to the contest, there was the danger was he'd be wound so tight he'd come. After much discussion, they'd decided it was worth the risk, deciding he was more likely to go soft than come, and he was confident that he could hold his nut since he wasn't into men. Despite the sexual nature of their combat, this was a contest of strength and endurance, not pleasure.

"Let's go fuck up a Driller," Hotrod growled, giving Trip-B's breast a final hard twist, her soft gasp of pain and desire making him ache for a fuck.

As he led the Fuckers into the Century, he envisioned the looming conflict, the idea of two champions putting their dicks on the line in a battle for supremacy making his cock even harder.

Between the mid-sixties and the late nineties, the Hell Drillers and the GBBs had absorbed or destroyed competing clubs in the area, and in the process gained control over the illicit and black-market economy in and around New Orleans. As the clubs secured their gains, and continued to grow in size and power, their areas of control slowly inched closer to one another. By the turn of the century their claims of territory began to overlap in the downtown area. The Drillers and the Fuckers both knew the club that secured control of downtown would become the dominant club, growing in wealth and power until the club could eventually overpower and destroy their rival.

The Drillers controlled from Kenner and the airport in the West, along Lake Pontchartrain in the North, East to the Pontchartrain Causeway, and South to the Mississippi River. The GBBs, or Bs as they were often called by outsiders, or the Fuckers as they called themselves, controlled from Slidell and White Kitchen in the East to the Inner Harbor Navigation Canal in the West, and from Lake Pontchartrain in the North to the Mississippi in the South.

The area between those boundaries, the lucrative downtown area of New Orleans, including the notorious French Quarter, was no-man's land. Both clubs claimed the downtown, but neither could hold or control it, and rivers of blood had been spilled in the attempt. Brief periods of peace punctuated the violence, but the lulls lasted only until a club member, drug dealer, bookie, or prostitute was beaten or killed when one club or the other attempted to make a move. Each attack was answered in kind, and with interest, to start the cycle of murderous violence once again.

Hotrod put his shoulder against the door leading into the hotel and shoved hard, forcing the door open with an ear-piercing squeal of tortured and rusted metal. He didn't pause, leading the rest of the Fuckers into the lobby. The furnishings had long been removed, but the once fine carpeting was stained and smelled of rot, while the walls were covered in spray painted graffiti and punctured with holes. None of that mattered. It was fitting that the building, their battlefield, reeked of decay.

Hotrod turned down the wide hall and led his club to the large ballroom. As the rest of the Fuckers filed into the room, he paused and hauled Trip-B into a torrid kiss, a kiss she returned in kind to keep him primed and ready.

Schlong turned his Harley onto the ramp of the Century's parking deck and powered up the incline, the down below still submerged and probably full of gators. He smiled as the Drillers roared past their rival's bikes and began to park their own rumbling, vibrating, machines. The Bs were already there. It didn't matter. There were no points awarded for being early, and it was the Bs showing their nerves, arriving first to try to get into his head in a psychological ambush. It wouldn't work.