MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 5 Page 2

  “Her. Own. Father? It’s my duty to protect her, Sugar Tits. Not yours.”

  I’m not gonna touch that machismo with a ten-foot pole. “Do you seriously not want her waking up to Santa’s presents under the tree on Christmas morning?”

  Big tosses his hands up in exasperation, before returning them to their home below those yummy pecs. “Why do you think I said to put up a tree in her bedroom?”

  Oy vey. This man.

  “That’s not enough, and you know it.”

  “So instead of easin’ me into this, you decide to turn our house into Christmas fucking Wonderland? I say one thing, and you do the polar opposite.”

  Alright, I admit it, he has a point. A tiny one. Itty bitty. It’s so small it might as well be microscopic. The size of an amoeba. I could’ve gone with an average tree and some stockings. The stockings didn’t have to be custom black with white monograms. What can I say? Following stupid directions has never been my strong suit.

  As cool as ice I shrug one shoulder. “Christmas is supposed to look like Christmas. So yeah, I bought three trees.” Let’s see what he has to say about that. I also purchased lawn ornaments and an oversized snow globe with Santa riding a motorcycle inside it, among other holiday-themed decorations I found at the store.

  Big’s nostrils flare, cheeks flaming red. “Three. Fucking. Trees?”

  “Yes. A white one, green one, and black one.” I count them off for emphasis. Might as well be honest. He’s gonna find out anyhow.

  “Where were you gonna put these damn trees?”

  Up your tight ass if you don’t watch your tone.

  “Living room.” I raise my pointer finger, visibly counting like a sarcastic bitch. “Basement.” Up goes a second, my middle digit. “Bedroom.” I finish with a third.

  He smashes his lips together. They disappear momentarily as he curtails the outburst I know is simmering below the surface. He wants to yell at me, put his foot down, create a bigger scene; yet, he’s no moron. Big knows if he unleashes that foulness it won’t end well for him. “Which bedroom? You’d better say Leech’s.” Those back teeth grit together. His throat taut with restrained fury.

  “Ours,” I blurt, nudging him an inch further to the breaking point.

  “What. The. Fuck? Come on, babe. You’re pushin’ it here. Green shit over the cupboards. Ugly candle-lookin’ shit on the table. The tree—” Those pissed-off blue eyes shift to the living room.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  “…is ugly,” he finishes with a smug smile, single dimple and all. Stupid asshole.

  Agitated, I flip him the bird and rub the sentiment against my temple, down the side of my face, and across my lips like I’m applying lipstick before I reprimand the Grinchy bastard. “Fuck you. It’s not ugly. If I had my way, it’d be pink and black.”

  “That’d still be ugly.”

  Gah! This is why nobody will win. Time to change tactics.

  “Why do you hate Christmas so much?”

  “That’s not up for discussion.” A growl.

  Always with the brush-off. It’s fine and dandy to talk about certain things. Big’s past, not so much. Over the years I’ve learned bits and pieces of what went down before I was born. Little tidbits I’d be fed like a dog does treats. Enough to keep you content, but never enough to slake your voracious appetite. But there are gaps. Huge ones.

  “Yes, it is, if you expect me to tone it down,” I return in a less growly manner than him.

  “There is no expecting. It’s gonna happen. End of story. A tree in Leech’s room and… a stocking for her… only.”

  “Well, that’s just too damn bad because I already bought us each a stocking.” Even got an L one for Harley, to pacify her daddy and the ridiculous nickname he’s given her… which has unfortunately stuck. Figured if I got a B on mine and a B on Big’s, it was only fair. Would’ve bought everyone else stockings had it been necessary. Gunz still has the one I made him with gold puff paint when I was in second grade. I’d made one for Big around then, but I’m not sure what he did with it. It probably ended up in the trash.

  “That’s not my problem. You’re not puttin’ ’em up,” he argues, failing epically.

  “Yes. I am.” On the fireplace mantel.

  “Then don’t be surprised when they end up in the garbage.”

  I two-finger point at his giant six-foot-eight form. “If you ruin one more thing I paid for with my money, I’ll chop your nuts off.” Those digits pause their aim at his jean-clad crotch, where that impressive cock sleeps.

  Big smirks as if he finds me adorably funny. “If you do that, I can’t get hard. Which means no more dick for you.”

  “You think I’d want your dick after this?”

  A comical eyebrow arches. “You sayin’ you don’t?”

  “You’re gonna end up with ED soon enough anyhow, at your advanced age. Might as well start the process early.” Not the nicest thing to hit below the belt with, but he’s insufferable, and I’m gonna win this argument fair and square.

  That smirk washes clean off Big’s unshaven face, expression twisting into an unimpressed sneer. “I am not gonna get ED.”

  “You’re fifty-one. Any day now and he’s gonna be a soldier who’s laid to rest. No more pussy salutes.” There’s some truth to what I’m saying. He might be lucky and have a fully functioning pecker for his age. But there is gonna come a time it’s not gonna work.

  “Will you stop talkin’ about my cock like that?”

  Touchy touchy.

  “I’ll stop talkin’ about your dick if you…” Refusing to give him a chance to contest what I’m about to demand, I approach the beast, loop my finger through a belt loop that’s also occupied with his bike chain belt, and attempt to drag the stubborn ox into the living room. He doesn’t budge, and let’s be real, I can’t force Big to follow suit if he isn’t otherwise inclined. I don’t have that much physical power. I’m short. He’s more than a foot taller and much heavier. I’m also not pregnant anymore so I can’t cry about maybe hurting the baby should I strain myself. And I can’t use Pretzel to threaten the stubborn man, because our dog sleeps with Harley. It’s gonna take more than us bickering to coax Pretzel away from her bedside. Basically, I’m fucked.

  “What’re you doin’, Sugar Tits?” Big chuckles, thoroughly enjoying my pathetic struggle.

  “Christ. Come. On,” I grit, trying once more to yank him forth to no stinking avail. My feet slip and slide across the kitchen flooring, doing fuck-all to gain traction or move this Neanderthal. I spin around to face him, line both of my stocking-covered feet with his massive booted ones, toes to toes, and hook another finger through a belt loop—one on either side of his Sacred Sinners buckle. Then I lean back, using all of my weight to make him step away from the counter he’s leaning on, even if it’s a mere inch.

  Nada.

  Dammit. This ain’t gonna work. I’m either gonna rip his jeans or fall flat on my ass. Neither solves a thing.

  “Big,” I whine, getting frustrated with my lack of size and his refusal. “Come on.”

  Big grips my forearms, to steady me. “Babe, you’re gonna fall, and I’m not movin’ ’til you tell me what the hell it is you’re up to.”

  “Stop fighting me. Just come.”

  “Come where?”

  “In the living room.”

  “I don’t wanna come in the living room, I wanna come in your mouth.”

  “Jesus Christ. Do you ever not think about sex?”

  “Are you my old lady?”

  “Yes,” I clip, staring daggers at the infuriating biker.

  “There’s your answer. I’m never gonna stop thinkin’ about sex when I’m around your fine ass.” Big flicks his eyes to his zipper, and that’s when I notice a wet stain has begun to grow, darkening the denim. His budding erection flexes as if it’s showing off for its mate. Of course, he’s excited at a time like this. We argue, he’s hard. We don’t argue, he’s hard. If I haven’t showered in day
s, shaven my legs or pussy in three weeks, or brushed my teeth in eighteen hours, he’s still raring to go. There’s no such thing as dick repellent in this household. It’s weird. You’d think my unkempt hair and unflattering pajamas would be a deterrent. If anything, I gotta wonder if the mom vibe doesn’t fuel that incessant libido. Not that I’m much better. He’s hot as sin. Who wouldn’t wanna ride that dick? Don’t answer that, you sex fiend. It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t wanna have to go crazy bitch on your ass for wanting to play hide the bratwurst with my old man. Sometimes keeping your desires to yourself is a good thing. You don’t get cut. Capiche?

  Now… where was I? Oh, right, the living room.

  “Big, it’s time to bring you and your boner to the couch.”

  His head tilts, a smirk stretching until a flash of white peeks between those full lips. “What’s the magic word?”

  “I’ll let you fuck me?” Tomorrow.

  “Well, alrighty then. That works. Lead the way, hot stuff.”

  Men, always thinking with their tiny penis brains.

  Unhooking one finger, I use the other to drag Ebenezer to one of our black leather couches. I position him in front before shoving that beefy chest, and down he drops onto the cushions. They groan in protest as the leather forms to his impressive backside. Knowing he won’t sit there for too long without an incentive, I straddle his lap and lock my fingers behind his neck. His low ponytail tickles the backs of my fingers as Big settles his paws on my plump ass cheeks.

  “This is nice.” Leaning in, he nips my bottom lip. “I like you on me.” To cement that thought, Big uses his strength to grind my pussy against his straining erection. It nudges my clit on the first try sending fireworks of pleasure through my core, turning me on. The bastard.

  That’s not how this is gonna work. We’ve got a Christmas debate to handle.

  Sex can come later, if I’m not pissed. If I am, he can suffer from a case of blue balls. At least we didn’t have to ask Gunz to leave. He must’ve slipped out when we were fighting.

  “Tell me why you don’t like Christmas.” I dive straight in before my hormones win and I’m stuck with no agreement and a pussy full of cum.

  “Is this why you brought me over here, to coerce me into tellin’ you shit I already said is not up for discussion? Using your pussy as bait?” He spanks my ass to show me how much of a bad girl I’ve been, then grips both globes, kneading the flesh. I bite back a groan. My eyelids flutter as I drop my forehead to his shoulder, getting a headful of his intoxicating scent: man, wind, leather, and spice. Damn. Why do I love him so much? This shouldn’t be foreplay, yet is. The sting radiates through my backside, followed by an ache. A deep, sensual one that awakens certain parts of my anatomy that need to stay asleep for a little while longer.

  I refrain from answering his questions. They’re rhetorical anyhow. He knows I use my assets to my advantage. Who wouldn’t? Just as he knows by spanking me, I’m growing wetter by the second. “If you want me to concede a little, you gotta do the same,” I mumble to his throat, lips brushing there, reveling in his warm pulse as it beats against them.

  A lighter spank is delivered. It’s more like a firm pat. “You gonna throw the decorations out if I tell you?” Big nuzzles the side of my head with his nose, eliciting a shiver.

  Two can play at that game. I unthread my hands from behind Big’s neck and drag them down the front of his chest to the hem of his shirt. Big sucks in a sharp breath as I dip underneath, smoothing my palms up the warm, hard slab of his stomach. “No. But I’ll… not set up the bedroom Christmas tree. If you tell me enough to make me understand, maybe I’ll even give up a couple other decorations.” Leaning in closer, I lick from shoulder to ear, where I pause to nibble his lobe between my teeth. Not enough to make him moan, but enough to make his balls feel it—the need to unload. To win, I’m willing to play dirty.

  “Wh-what about the living room tree?” Big croaks, as a shudder rushes through him, fingers digging into my ass. There’ll be bruises tomorrow.

  “That’s non-negotiable,” I husk, laving my tongue across his deliciously salty throat.

  Big wraps his palm around the base of my neck, asserting his dominance. And I let him. Just as I let him carefully pull my head backward, forcing me to garner eye contact. “The hell it is,” he grates as my blues delve into his heated ones, fusing hot and heavy. There’s a neediness simmering beneath the hardtack surface, as hunger swirls in the depths which we both feel, yet refuse to confess. I want him as much as he wants me. But what I want more is to win this Christmas showdown. Attaining the upper hand against a man who always wins in other facets of his life, beyond the scope of our relationship; I wrap his hot body, heart, and soul around my pinkie finger. Stubbornness might be Big’s middle name, but Bink’s the name he moans as he licks my pussy night after night. The name he’s claimed as his. He might be the president of the Sacred Sinners Motorcycle Club—feared and revered by many, but to me, he’s mine. I own him. And as fate has decreed, he owns a little bit of me, too.

  Tracing shapes across his abs with my fingertips, I cup his face with my other hand. The graying scruff abrades my palm in the sexiest of ways. “It’s for Harley. Don’t take this from her,” I plead in the softest voice.

  “Fine.” He sighs. “I can survive the tree. But those bulb candle things on the table have got to fuckin’ go.”

  See? Progress.

  I brush my thumb over the sharp edge of his jaw. “Agreed.”

  “And don’t go overboard in the clubhouse either. I know you well enough. If you give shit up here, you’ll make it throw up elsewhere. That’s not the deal. If I compromise, you have to agree not to do your deceitful woman shit and truly meet me halfway.”

  If I wanted to spend the entire holiday season fighting him tooth and nail, I’d do what he claims. However, I want this to be special. I want us to make our own traditions. That’s the goal. Not fighting, even if that often leads to fucking. Delicious hate fucking. Last week, in the clubhouse kitchen, I’d snapped at him for something or other, and ended up bent over the counter with a dick in my pussy. This old lady stuff is hard business, I tell ya. So hard.

  “I won’t,” I vow and mean it. “Just a few decorations, a tree, and a chair for Santa at the clubhouse.” And mistletoe over every doorway.

  Those perfect eyebrows jump to his hairline. “Santa, really?”

  “Gunz already agreed to play the part.”

  Big’s eyes roll, lips thinning. “Of course, he did.”

  I pat his cheek in mock discipline. Just because he’s the Grinch, doesn’t mean Gunz has to be. “Don’t hate. He wants to give Harley the best first Christmas. And the other kids a nice one, too. It’s not just about us. It’s about Jez’s kids, Debbie’s. This is also our nephew’s first Christmas, in case you forgot.”

  “I know.” Dropping his head back, resting it on the top of the couch, Big sighs long and hard as if this is killing him to concede. “You weren’t here last year. We didn’t get to spend Christmas together,” he complains to the ceiling.

  Leaning forward, I drag my pillow-soft lips across the span of his throat. “I know, babe,” I whisper there, kissing the hollow at the base before delving the tip of my tongue inside to sample. Mmmm… more Big… my favorite.

  A rumble of pleasure percolates in that muscled chest.

  Testing the band of my pajama bottoms, Big slips his hand into them and my panties, to palm my bare ass. “I didn’t like that shit.”

  “Me, either. Is that why you’re extra salty about it this year?”

  “A little… But you know I had a shit childhood. Boss Man didn’t think I was worthy of presents. The club whores always gave me something.” A shrug.

  My poor poor man.

  “And your mom wasn’t around.” A statement, because that’s something I know is true.

  A stiff nod. “Right.”

  “You know you deserve love.”

  Grunt.

  “I lov
e you.”

  He swallows hard.

  “A lot,” I add.

  “Yeah.” Big’s voice cracks, throat working.

  To tear him from whatever unpleasantness brewing inside that thick skull of his, I rock against Big’s waning cock to wake it back up. Our lives aren’t perfect. Our love isn’t perfect. Hell, it’s stressful as shit sometimes. We bicker a lot. The club always comes first, and that can take its toll. Especially when he can’t share things with me that eat at him. His past isn’t an open book. I’ve accepted that. What I don’t like is him letting that past rule our family’s future. Harley can’t carry her father’s baggage any more than I should have to carry my own father’s.

  “I want you inside me,” I whisper against the hollow of his throat.

  “Fuck.” Big slips a hand deeper inside my panties. Two fingers part my soaked folds. “Fuuuck,” he moans, noticing how wet I am for him. The digits swirl around my entrance before one dives home, impaling me in a single, delicious thrust.

  I groan low and achy, relishing the invasion, eyes falling shut. Teeth sink into my bottom lip as he fucks me with that thick finger, pretending it’s his swollen cock. Wanting him deeper, I rock in time with the assault. Sparks of pleasure burst inside my channel, igniting the insatiable hunger that exists in the depraved part of my soul. Rubbing my nose along his neck, he growls his own satisfaction as I reach for his belt buckle and undo it. Then, everything moves in slow motion. The pop of his button, as I clench around that perfect digit moaning like a wanton slut. How his zipper catches, refusing to budge. His grunt in frustration for it taking too long. Mine that matches.

  “I want you to come,” he husks as I force his zipper down. If I break the damn thing, who cares. I can buy him a new pair of jeans.

  “Not until you’re in me,” I pant, resting my forehead on his shoulder. Mouth slack, I draw in shallow, needy breaths and scoot backward on his thighs to snake my hand inside his jeans and extract his member. Big releases the softest moan as I wrap my fist around the thickness, delighting in the pulse that thrums against my overheated skin. Pre-cum bubbles at the tip. I smooth the silkiness around the head with the pad of my thumb. So fucking sexy. If only I could suck it into my mouth and tease the V underneath with the flick of my tongue until he begs me to engulf him whole… to put him out of his misery.