Hard Won Territory

The Drillers stepped off their bikes, the hot motors tinking and pinging in the silence as they cooled in the hot and humid Louisiana air. Schlong placed his hand on one of the B's bikes.

"Still hot," he announced. The Bs hadn't been there long.

"You ready for this?" Gusher, his vice-president, growled.

"Yeah. Let's go," Schlong replied as he wrapped his arm around Lips waist and led her to the door.

Schlong, with Lips tucked into his side, led the Drillers into the Century. This was such a stupid way to exert their dominance. He'd gladly go back to the old ways of kill or be killed, but he hadn't set the rules, and if he could end this war without losing any more of his brothers, then like always, he was willing to do what had to be done.

In the aftermath of the devastation of Katrina, the two clubs attempted to come together to end the long and bloody stalemate. The clubs, weakened by the hurricane like the rest of the city, had agreed to meet at the Century to attempt to hammer out boundary lines both clubs could agree to. The negotiations failed in loud contention over control of the French Quarter.

The failure of the proposed treaty escalated the conflict, and after an especially violent and bloody confrontation, a confrontation where the clubs lost more than twenty members, and fifty prostitutes and drug dealers between them, both club presidents recognized that an agreement had to be reached to end the war or risk destroying both their clubs.

After three months of strike and counterstrike, Rick Skube, road name Scooby, president of the Hell Drillers, proposed a final solution. Drunk on his own power, he offered to meet Carl Mok, road name Mockup, the president of the GBBs, and decide control of the disputed territory in a contest of champions. No weapons would be allowed, and the club of the last man standing would win control of downtown.

Mockup had little choice. To refuse to meet Scooby would weaken him, perhaps fatally, in the eyes of his club, but to meet the Drillers' president and lose was equally unacceptable. With no escape, Mockup agreed to the challenge.

Scooby and Mockup met in the parking deck of the Century, along with their vice-presidents and sergeants at arms. Their contest was long, bloody, and violent, both men giving their all as they were cheered on by their respective sides. Finally, with Scooby on his back and his counter punching fading, Mockup pounded his fist into his rival's bloody and broken face over and over again. Fearing repercussions if Mockup killed Scooby, Gator, vice-president of the Fuckers, pulled his panting and bloody president off his opponent.

Battered, bloody, and barely able to walk, Gator and Tacks helped Mockup to his Harley, the basso profundo rumble of their bikes loud in the confines of the parking deck as they left in victory. Their celebration was short lived, however. The Drillers refused to accept the outcome, claiming Gator had ended the fight before Scooby surrendered.

Outraged by the betrayal, the Fuckers attacked several of the Drillers' key holdings in a bid take what they considered rightfully theirs. The amount of bloodshed as the clubs warred exceeded any time in their history. Over the next year, the two clubs lost half their brothers to violence.

Like aging boxers staggering around the ring, bloody and exhausted but unwilling to admit defeat, the clubs continued to pummel each other. Scooby and Mockup realized their clubs were on a course to destruction as the remnants of clubs they'd driven underground or absorbed began sniffing around like wolves, watching and waiting for their moment to strike as the clubs exhausted themselves.

Recognizing the common threat, a brief peace was called. A meeting was again arranged at the Century in an attempt to end the war. Neither club trusted the other. The Bs thought the Drillers had reneged on their agreement, and the Drillers believing the GBBs had attempted to steal the prize.

Neither club would give up the downtown area, and because of the distrust, neither would agree to share the territory. In a final, desperate attempt at making a deal, Scooby and Mockup agreed to a stopgap measure that prevented war until a final solution could be reached. The clubs presidents would once again meet in battle and decide control of the downtown area for the following year. Though the agreement was originally intended to be a temporary solution, that agreement, forged in desperation, was still in place.

Hotrod watched as the Drillers filed into the room and filled the area nearest the doors. The Fuckers, along with their old ladies, glared at the new arrivals, the distrust and hate between the clubs obvious to all.

The grand ballroom was cavernous, easily able to accommodate the nearly five hundred members and old ladies of the two clubs, and was stifling with the liquid heat of a Louisiana summer permeating the air. Other than the clubs first encounter, this room had been their battleground, it's walls and carpeting stained with blood, sweat, and come.

"Who's Hotrod?" Schlong demanded as his brothers filled the room behind him, an invisible line the length of the room dividing the two clubs.

"I am," Hotrod said as he stepped from a cluster of his brothers.

The two presidents, their vice-presidents, and the presidents old ladies sauntered toward each other, feigning indifference of the looming conflict, before stopping in the center of the room.

"I'm surprised you had the balls to show up," Schlong sneered, his gaze sweeping the room before stopping on Butcher. "Especially considering what a weak showing you had last year." He smiled as four middle fingers appeared from Butcher and his old lady.

"This year's going to be different."

"Yeah? So, you're not going to last even as long as that limp dicked fucker from last year?"

Hotrod stepped in close. "You're going down Schlong. I'm the fucking best, and you're going to find that out the hard way."

Schlong smiled nastily. "Then let's get it on so we can find out if your cock can back up the shit coming out of your mouth."

The two combatants and their old ladies returned to their clubs and began to undress, peeling out of their sweat soaked and sticking clothes, nodding while accepting the words of encouragement and support from their brothers and their old ladies.

The rules were simple. The two club presidents would decide control of downtown in a no holds barred fight, as originally agreed, but instead of winner take all, the victor would control the disputed territory for the next twelve months. Because control would pass to the victor for one year only, the stakes weren't as high, and a loss wouldn't be the end of the loser's club. That removed the need to fight to the death, and each club agreed to abide by the decision until a final agreement could be reached.

Unlike the first time the presidents met, all members would attend the contests so everyone would see for themselves who won and which club had control the following year. It was decided that the clubs would meet on the anniversary of the original fight, the twenty-first of June, fighting it out at high noon on the longest day of the year.

The initial contests had been little different from the first fight, both clubs believing they could win, and would keep winning long enough to become too thoroughly entrenched to be dislodged. They only had to prevent the rival club from winning a toehold while also allowing them to believe they had a chance at victory. The fights served that strategy well, giving the losing club enough hope that they didn't feel trapped, and thus preventing them from launching a desperate attack in a bid to survive... at least until it was too late.

The Hell Drillers, realizing it was unlikely Scooby could best the younger Mockup, replaced him as president with Drew Tokin, road name Toke. Toke was young, only thirty-five, and massive. Standing six-foot one, with a broad chest, powerful legs, and bulging arms, he would serve as their champion.

At the prescribed time, the two clubs met, their hogs carefully hidden in the parking deck to prevent anyone from noticing the massed bikes and becoming nosy. Toke beat Mockup the next two years in bloody, but close contests. Though the Fuckers' grumbled over their losses, they abided by their agreement, each time believing they would gain control the next year, well before the Drillers became so deeply entrenched they couldn't be dislodged.

The third year, Mockup quickly dispatched Toke with three crushing rights to the face, blinding Toke in his left eye in the process. Though Toke and Mockup had been checked for weapons, the victory was too easy, and the Drillers had swarmed in when Toke went down. It was quickly discovered Mockup had a roll of quarters hidden in a concealed compartment in his cut. Mockup claimed innocence, but it was obvious to all that he'd used the quarters to weight his hand and solidify his fist. Though the Fuckers claimed ignorance, the Drillers were outraged. Before order was restored by the club's officers, seventeen members of the two clubs were dead or injured.

Neither club wanted to go back to the blood war, so it was agreed that since it couldn't be proven Mockup had cheated, the B's would take control, so long as Mockup was stripped of his patch, and next year, the fight would be conducted in the nude to prevent either side from hiding a weapon.

The Fuckers, left with little choice to avoid a return to war, voted to strip Mockup of his colors for his treachery two months later. Without the protection of his club, Mockup was quickly hunted down, Schlong earning his club's respect by being the man to get his hands bloody.

Schlong caught Mockup trying to flee the area and offered him a choice. He could either fight Schlong man to man, or Schlong would gut him where he stood. Taking the only chance he had, Mockup allowed Schlong to return him to the Driller's clubhouse. With Schlong's urging, the Drillers gave Mockup a fairer chance than he'd given Toke. If Mockup could take Schlong in a fair fight, the Drillers would give him a twenty-four-hour head start before they came after him.

Mockup took the deal, but it hadn't mattered. Schlong beat Mockup to death with his bare hands behind the Drillers' club house and then dumped the body in an alley where the B's would find it. The condition of Mockup's body left little doubt of how he died, or who was responsible.

That was then, but this was now. He hadn't had to kill Butcher, and he probably wouldn't have to kill Hotrod, but the stakes were just as high now as they'd been all those years ago. To lose was unacceptable. He'd always done what he needed to, what had to be done, using either his fists or his cock, and he'd do the same today.

Schlong handed his cut to his sergeant at arms, stripping out of the rest of his clothes as Lips did the same. He and Hotrod locked gazes as they undressed. Hotrod was fucking huge, easily matching him in height, and was as thickly muscled. His light brown hair was worn shorter than his own mane, and he was clean shaven, but he had swagger and intensity. He was also hung, his enormous cock standing proudly erect. Schlong set his jaw. Schlong had been considerably bigger, physically, than Butcher, and his cock was also an inch, perhaps two, longer, with slightly more girth. It was hard to tell at this distance, but it appeared that Hotrod was his equal there as well. Schlong was used to being the biggest and baddest man in a room, and he still was. Hotrod might be a big as he was, but it took more than just size and arrogance to win a fight. It took grit, and the ability to get up after taking a punch, and that was something he could do better than any man alive.

Hotrod glared at Schlong as they undressed. He'd seen what Schlong was packing the previous two years when he'd battled Butcher, but he could tell Schlong was reappraising his opponent for this year. Schlong wore his dark hair long, with a three-day beard, a look that gave him an 'I don't give a shit' attitude that, combined with his powerful body and massive cock, probably got him all the pussy he could handle. Hotrod sneered. He'd had plenty of pussy over the years, but he knew all the pussy fucking in the world wouldn't matter today.

"That's right, you mother-fucker," Hotrod growled under his breath. "It's not going to be so fucking easy this year."

He thrilled with the idea of besting Schlong in the rawest, most primitive battle possible. No weapons other than their bodies, and no protection, just him and Schlong battling it out man to man. He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, anxious to meet his foe in battle, his hard cock already leaking in anticipation of the war to come. Hotrod smiled, remembering the first time he'd seen the clubs battle for control. It'd been the first fight after Mockup had been stripped of his colors. What a fight that had been!

Ripper, the Drillers' president had met Couteau—French for knife—the Fuckers' president, in a long and bloody brawl. Near the end both men were exhausted, beaten, and blooded, rolling around on the floor as they drove powerful fists into hard muscles, their opponent's blood mixed with their own smeared over their naked, sweat soaked bodies. Hotrod had been throbbing hard as he cheered his president on, the raw nature of their fight exciting him, but in the end, Ripper had gained the upper hand and defeated his president.

Even though Couteau surrendered, Ripper didn't stop, and continued pounding Couteau's face into a bloody pulp in revenge for last year's treachery. The two clubs had swarmed in again, and before order was restored, two members from the two clubs had been killed and eleven more injured.

Hotrod had mourned his lost brother, but he'd never forgotten the excitement he felt as he watched the two men fight, screaming and cursing in pain and anger in the ultimate contest of manhood.

When the four combatants were undressed, they again strode to the center of the room as the remainder of the two clubs formed a large circle around them. Sweat already beading on their bodies, the two massive men stopped nose to nose, chest to chest, their hard cocks rubbing together as they glared into each other's eyes. Their faces hard, showing no trepidation or weakness, they raised their hands and locked their fingers as the vice-presidents checked them for weapons and bound their wrists with wide leather cuffs attached to a twelve-inch length of thick polished chain. As one man bound their wrists, the other checked their hands. Cuff's secured, the two vice-presidents switched roles, and the tightness of the cuffs were verified while the other man confirmed the absence of anything that could be used for an unfair advantage.

The beating of Couteau led to additional changes in the rules of engagement. The contest was created in an attempt to stop the bloodshed, but in two years, thirty members had been killed or wounded during the competitions, twenty-seven more than had been killed on the streets.

With the peace hanging by the thinnest of threads, it was decided going forward the combatants' hands would be bound together, thus limiting their ability to inflict serious damage, and the men would decide the winner with their cocks.

The rules continued to be minimal and simple. The men could have a club girl or old lady, if they chose, to stand behind them to help them keep their cock up and use their dicks as weapons. The women could touch only their man, and while there were no limits or rules to what the men could do to each other, the men were only allowed to touch their woman. The first man to come, go soft, or tap out lost, and the contest was declared over.

Since the final change in rules were made, no one else had been killed at the contests, and the injuries were limited to club pride and the combatants themselves. More than one dick had been broken in battle, but minor surgery could correct the wound, leaving behind only bad memories and embarrassment.

"You know the rules," Trotter, the vice-president of the Drillers growled as he finished checking the lashings.

As the challenger, Hotrod was expected to go first. "Fuckers! This is between me and Schlong! Don't interfere!" he called, never looking away from Schlong's glare.

"Drillers! This is between me and Hotrod! Don't interfere!"

"What do you say we spice this party up?" Trip-B asked the moment Schlong finished speaking. She reached around Hotrod and gripped his long, thick cock, forcing it down so it pointed at Schlong like a dagger. "Winner fucks the loser's old lady. You up for that, you bitch?" she growled

Hotrod looked at Trip-B in surprise. They hadn't discussed this, and it wasn't part of the agreement between the clubs.

"Fuck that," Schlong snarled. "This is between the two of us. Stay out of it."

"What's the matter, Schlong?" Trip-B sneered, her disdain clear by the way she emphasized his name. "Afraid you can't take my man?"

"Fuck you, bitch!" Lips snarled from behind Schlong, looking around his broad back as she gripped his huge cock and forced it down to point directly at Hotrod's member. "He's going to beat your boy's dick down so badly he'll never be able to get it up again!"

"Then what have you got to lose? Why don't you put your pussy where your mouth is?"

"You're on, you fat bitch!"

Hotrod looked at Schlong's old lady. Her hair was a dirty blonde tied up in a ponytail instead of a mass of curls like Trip-B, and she was at least five inches shorter but more muscular and athletic than his old lady. She might not be as tall or curvy as Trip-B, but she was still built for fucking and her lean, taunt muscles made her look like she could ride a man for hours. The thought of besting Schlong and then fucking his woman in front of him made Hotrod's cock so hard it ached.

Schlong glared at Hotrod before his eyes flicked to his old lady. A fiery redhead, Hotrod's old lady was fucking huge for a woman, her giant tits and round ass just begging to be fucked. She was a little on the thick side, but she was still sexy as hell with her porn-star body, and she looked like she could suck a cue ball through a garden hose while fucking the cock off a man.

Schlong imagined Hotrod's dismay as he plowed his bitch, the thought threatening to make him smile. He returned his gaze to Hotrod, forcing away the smile before it touched his lips. "You want to do this?" he rumbled.

Hotrod smiled. "Let's fucking do it. When I get done with her, I'll be the face she sees when you're fucking her."

After reaching adulthood, Schlong had never lost a fight, and he wasn't going to lose one today. "Fuck you! Even if you were to win you wouldn't be able to handle her."

Hotrod stepped in closer, pressing his body against Schlongs, their cocks and balls trapped between their hard bodies. "You're about to find out what I can handle. I can out fight and out fuck any Driller, male or female."

Trip-B turned to face the Fuckers. "Listen up you Fuckers! The winner is going to fuck the loser's old lady! Fuckers, don't interfere!"

Lips smiled. "Drillers! The winner is going to fuck the loser's old lady! Don't interfere!" Her smile spread, but there was no pleasantness in it. "I'm going to enjoy watching Schlong fuck you until you're begging for mercy."

Trip-B mirrored Lip's smile. "Never happen."

"You ready?" Trotter asked pointing at Schlong, the change in rules agreed to by all parties.

Schlong nodded, his jaws clenched tight.

"You ready?" Snapper, the Fucker's vice-president asked, pointing at Hotrod.

"Let's fucking do this!"

"Begin!" Trotter barked as he chopped his hand down and then stepped back to give the combatants room to move.