The Bent Zealots MC Box Set #4 MM BDSM

Dedication To Olivia Black for giving me invaluable advice about gayrom. And Kenna Greebo, here is your story about Turk…finally! A Dangerous Reality Book 1 of The Bent Zealots MC ByLayla Wolfe Copyright 2015 © Layla WolfeSmashwords EditionALL RIGHTS RESERVED Cover art by Red Poppy Designshttp://poppyartdesigns.comEdited by Carol Adcock Bobby Creighton photographed by Island Male Graphics Regarding E-book Piracy This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book. This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. Keep your lovers close—and your enemies in bed. TURK My club sent me to track him down. And when my mission was over, I never wanted another one again. When I found him, I kicked the crap out of Havelock Singer. I issued the mightiest beatdown of all time. Problem is, we’re evenly matched. We’re equals in every way, and when we finished whaling on each other, exhausted, we fell into each other’s arms. It’s been the ride of my life. But loving another man in the MC world is a risky business. As if our business isn’t already brutal and ruthless enough, Lock’s sergeant-at-arms Stumpy blackmails us into doing some of his dirty work, or be exposed for what we are—a couple of deviants. This run into the Indian reservation is sleazy and beneath us, but now I’m cornered, and I’ll do anything to keep my sweet Master from being lynched by his club. LOCK When that kingpin Carmine Rojas got a load of my beautiful stallion Turk Blackburn, he’d stop at nothing to have him. It’s my fault we’re in this situation. I should’ve kicked Turk’s ass and sent him packing back to The Bare Bones. I can hear my destiny calling me. Either I’ll slink back to my club like a slimy bounty hunter with no morals—and no respect from anyone in my own backyard—or I’ll step up to the plate and be the lion of the day. Either way, we’re screwed. Our clubs are going to hound us underground or into another country before we escape this mess—if we don’t die trying. Publisher’s warning: This book is not for the faint of heart. It contains scenes of gay sex, consensual BDSM, illegal doings, dubious consent, and man-on-man violence. Table of Contents Dedication Title Page Copyright Page About the Book Epigraph Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue About The Author More Books from Layla Wolfe More Books from Karen Mercury Living off the grid and being kind of an outlaw brings a dangerous reality. –Ron Perlman CHAPTER ONE TURK I was antsy and restless. The last several runs hadn’t ended well. Our club, The Bare Bones, was at war with the Presención cartel, and the tension was wearing on everyone. We weren’t in lockdown per se, but we may as well have been. Our clubhouse, The Citadel, was truly becoming one now, a fortress with futons strewn in the War Room like a pack of playing cards, sweetbutts draped from every coat rack like lingerie displays, patch holders camped out in tiled bathrooms where the plumbing hadn’t worked since the Vietnam War. Men kept watch at broken windows, cleaning and polishing their weapons, peering out as though at the lunar wasteland scene of a Jewish ghetto, wisps of battlefield smoke rising from the desert spires and mesas. We were hunkered down like soldiers in our dismal, depressing trenches. The aura of rancid bacon grease permeated everything, as if bacon was the only thing bikers knew how to cook. It was a rainy winter and spring, and everything made of leather started growing mold. I became irritated by the same old, same old sight of my brothers. Even the nearly twin, stunningly handsome faces of the Illuminati brothers, Ford and Lytton, were becoming like nails on a blackboard to me. Standing next to them in the Crowd Pleaser toilet trailer, pissing side by side, brothers in arms and all that, made me want to take them by the neck, throttle them, and toss them into the airplane hangar like grenades. So I got out on a few runs. But there seemed to be a black cloud hovering over us, some kind of hellhound karma that we couldn’t seem to shake. Riding down to Nogales to hit a Presención trap house only wound up in a clusterfuck of epic proportions. I guess we had the wrong intel or the wrong code knock. When no one answered the door, although we could clearly see the flickering glare from at least one TV through the closed blinds, we busted on in there like a SWAT team. Un-fucking-fortunately, instead of finding our mortal enemies waiting to engage in fair, competent, hand-to-hand battle, we were suddenly pointing our Russian ladies at a BDSM dungeon full of poor fucks who just wanted to have a little spin on the St. Andrew’s cross. One girl was cuffed there, her blubbery ass being whipped into a froth by some smelly devil in a PVC Y-harness that went up his ass crack. He wasn’t messing around, either—his cat was slicing actual bloody welts into her skin. She bit down on her ball gag and tears dripped copiously down her face. Another guy chained to what might pass for a spanking bench wore a total latex hood with a closed zipper for a mouth. I’ve been to a few bondage clubs in my time but never had I witnessed extreme “play”