Chapter 3: "Meine Ehre heist Treue"

Catch up on the story:
Chapt 1

Chapt 2

Returning to reality after my all too brief reverie of the past, I shook off thoughts of David and my first taste of cock to see Ben still staring holes deep into my blissful face.

What manner of person was this that would approach me, openly challenging my inner sexual desire with a look that reminded me of a cherished memory while frightening my core with paranoid thoughts? With my mind racing faster as I attempted to grasp just what Ben was asking of me, various words spilled from my mouth in a torrent of petulant rage.

"Who the fuck are you and why do you know so much about me? How in the name of Athena do you know about who or what the fuck I like to do and where in shit to did you find out about what I choose to wear or not wear under my clothes?"

A slight smirk of a smile crossed Ben's face for a millisecond as he starred down towards his shoes, and I could almost see a glimmer of a dimple on his cheek as he began to talk to his feet. "Well, that's kind of a long story, and it is a bit secret, but we think that we can trust you with a bit of information at this point". 

Shifting his feet from the top of one Thom McAn to another (hey, a girl can tell a lot about a man by what kind of shoes he wears, and these were a strictly Industrial Office Type shoes that had been polished a many times) Ben began to vaguely describe a scene from my past, and not necessarily a pretty one that I chose to remember until he brought it thundering back.

"Do you happen to recall a fellow named Paul Stansfield? Big guy, about 6'6", 230 pounds, long haired fellow?"

Frantically searching my recollections from the hundreds of men that I had met in the past, not all of which I had dalliances with, I just couldn't recall the name in order to associate a face.

"Biker bar called On the Rocks in Virginia Beach ring a bell?

How about the name "Dagger"?

Oh.

My.

God.

Do ya know how some parts of you life stick out like a sore festering thumb while others just get buried farther as time goes on? The mind is like that. It shoves the bad stuff down in to little cracks and crevices and removes all traces of light from incidences that are best not remembered except in to a priest in confession. 

This was one of them, and a memory of the past came boiling to the surface as soon as Ben said the words "biker bar" and"Virginia Beach"; a sodden beam of wood swung out of left field careening off my head, forcing me to remember a time best left forgotten, dead and burred.

The name Dagger was a brick thrown straight to the center of my soul, shattering me emotionally as the whole episode came flooding back.

It was the mid 80's, I was young, and the Spring Break thing was into full swing. The headiness and pain of the 70's were thankfully giving way to the exhilarating optimism of the Reagan era; the greed generation was an unstoppable force with Bolivian Marching Powder leading the way. 

Knowing this, my college girlfriends and I saved as much as we could from performing drone jobs at the various low-paying slop outlets in town that employed 17 year old girls,  and pooling our resources, headed to a hot spot of teenage debauchery - Virgina Beach, Virginia.

Beach, beer, coke and cock - what more could we want?

Scoring a room near the beach, we spent our days lounging in the sun or playing bikini beach ball, hoping that our outfits were skimpy enough and our boobs bouncing hard enough to attract some young cock stud out on the make. The beer flowed and the sand flew as we made our choices for the night; a regular meat market affair on a grand and sweaty scale.

The first day in town, some of my girlfriends got gluttonous and hankering for the first cock they saw swinging in their face though swim trunks, began humping like whores in an orgy fuck fest with any and every piece of meat they saw.

Realization dawned with the morning sun that there were soooo many boys out there, they could actually be choosy. Now I hope this doesn't come as a complete shock to the guys reading this, but we girls want to be something more than a cum dump to be passed out on, or unceremoniously rolled out the door after a few minutes (?) of grunting a groaning.

Now oiled up, on the beach, and pulling hard on the occasionally joints passed my way, I laid back and perused the scene in front of me while enjoying the new-found freedom my pussy was craving after being in that God-forsaken Midwestern college town. 

I think it was the fourth or fifth night of beer, dope and random boys-fucks that it all began to actually get boring (I know! Listen to me!) and I began to crave something different, something more experienced, something a bit more randy, perhaps something with a hint of danger attached.

This in mind, decided to leave my less sexually advanced roommates behind and began Virginia Beach's famous Pacific Avenue sidewalk crawl in search of that certain something. 

What a scene this strip of asphalt was back in those days with the sidewalk vendors, buskers, drunks and bars!  It's more tightly controlled these days with cameras mounted on light poles and policemen quietly sneaking up on you via mountain bikes, but in those days, you could pretty much get away with smoking a joint out in the open as you walked down the street. 

Times and attitudes have changed. 

Pat Robertson has his church here, the "moral majority" came into power, and Virgina Beach became more "family friendly" so they don't cotton to the open attitude we so earnestly embraced back then.

Out here on Pacific Avenue I felt a bit freer, and even though I was surrounded by a crush of people, I kept my eye out for just that one Big Thing. Suddenly, there it was. 

Stopped at the intersection of Pacific Avenue and 22nd street were several big Harley Davidson motorcycles, mounted by big hairy men sporting glorious multicolored muscled arms. 

Sitting there on glittering chrome beasts waiting on the traffic light as the late afternoon sun beat down hard upon them, revving their engines every so often; the vibrations pulsating through me and of course, my pussy by proxy.

Something suddenly came over me - call it youthful hubris I guess - but I ran towards to nearest rumbling chrome stallion and hopped on the back, embracing the huge guy piloting this throbbing beast around the waist just as the signal light turned green. He roared off toward the South side of town without even acknowledging my presence, almost like I wasn't there or perhaps this sort of thing happened on a daily basis. Whatever it was, I was on board and the throbbing engine thrilled my young pussy, that much I can tell you for sure.

I thought it strange that he didn't say anything or react in any way to this intrusion of his mechanical solitude, but a mile down the road I heard him grunt "Wot's yer name?" in a rumbling voice that matched his bike's motor.

"Uh, Debbie" I said back. "Speak up girl!" the biker shouted again.

"DEBBIE!" I shouted into his ear.

"Name's Paul, but my 'bros call me Dagger"

Dagger.

Dagger danger. Danger dagger. Danger, meet Dagger - Dagger, danger.

It was about then that I realized that he was wearing a vest

stitched with patches, the top one with "Pope's of Hell" embroidered upon it. 

I said it before and I'll say it again: Oh. My. God!

As Dagger went zooming hard into a sharp corner, my hands slipped down for a better grip and I suddenly understood his nickname.

It was a dagger all right, one I found out later originally given to the notorious Oskar Dirlewanger by the equally loathsome Heinrich Müller, later returned to the SS chief in proof that Dirlewanger had indeed been arrested by the French. After that, it was lost to history and the conquering Allied armies of World War II.

Dagger was reluctant to say more about his namesake, save that his grandfather had given it to him before he died.

Finally turning the huge Harley into a parking lot of what resembled a large, broken down shack bearing a bent up sign reading "On the Rocks", Dagger brought the bike to a halt, put it's kickstand down, shut off the engine, and just sat there. 

One of his fellow bikers sauntered over and after giving me the once-over, then saying to the biker "Hey bro, looks like ya picked up a little baggage in town!" 

"Yeah, but I ain't seen her yet. She a dog?"said Dagger in a low bass voice that sounded straight from the gravel pits.

"Hell no Dag, she's a goddamned stone cold teen fox an looks like she got a nice rack on er too!" said the biker that came over. Ugly little toad; had warts too.

Dagger replied with a slow Southern drawl that reeked of shit-eating grin, "Yeah, I figgered that when I felt 'em press'n in me on the turns." Turning, he looked at me, "Well bitch, you gonna get off er wot?"

Climbing off the big Hog''s back butt pad, I realized my mouth must have been hanging wide open due to the rather candid conversation that was taking place in front of me because Dagger's biker brother chuckled as he leered at me."I reck'n a mouth flapp'n open like hers could suck start 'ol Betty any day dude, er fer that matter, any one of our Hogs!"I presumed "Betty" was Dagger's bike. I hoped..

Both laughed hard and long and as I watched them exchanged a High Five, knew there was a bit of trouble in my immediate future, how much I would just have to find out on my own. 

Hell. That's why I went looking, right? I wanted a 'real' man and a bit of danger didn't I?

Little did I know where that spring break fling would lead in the future.

"Well," said Dagger to his biker bro, "she DID say her name wasss 'Debbie' so she can't be all bad, eh?" and with that, the two men fell all over each other howling and hooting.

My name has given me trouble ever since some boys in 6th grade class snuck into a local porn store. Debbie Does Dallas. Infamous not only due to the star's prodigous oral abilities that I shamefully admit emulating in later years, but also because she was underage at the time. 

All hell broke loose when that tidbit of knowledge was later released and all prints were seized by the Feds, but bad Beta video copies were made that are still somewhat available if you look hard enough I suppose, but they carry a hefty price tag.

I say it's all BULLSHIT, because there are stills and video on the internet for all to see from the 1928 movie Child Bride as a basic example, but I'm pontificating here instead of relating what happened next with Dagger and his fellow bikers.

Turning quickly to hide my red-faced embarrassment at what I knew to be all too true, my back was to the bikers and gaze focused on an empty lot across the street when I felt a hard stinging slap on my ass. A huge, calloused hand grabbed my left arm and swing me around hard to face Dagger. 

"Lemme look at you girl" he said as I stumbled under his firm grasp.

Looking me up and down like an auctioneer sizing up a steer for sale, his gaze stopped when they beheld my bikini-tethered breasts and I saw his focus narrow on them, felt my nipples quickly stiffen in a combination of excitement and fear.

"Damn! You got some nice titties there little girl, some FINE ass titties!"

A look of fear and trepidation must have crossed my face momentarily, and after Dagger lead me to the entrance of the bar with his other club members, he suddenly stopped for a second, looked me in the eye and asked me how old I was.

"How old do you think I am?" I stammered. 

"That's not the point", Dagger hissed, "Tell me the truth."

"I'm 21" I said looking him in the eye as I spoke. I lied, or course.

Perhaps a tiny muscle twitch somewhere on my face betrayed me, I don't know. Dagger surveyed me for another moment, and I felt a lump forming in my throat. Steely gaze narrowing as he sized me up, one eyebrow cocked in the air momentarily as a furrow crossed his forehead, and then with my arm still in a firm grip began to walk me towards the entrance of his club's hangout or clubhouse, I didn't know.

He muttered something that I didn't quite catch sotto voce under his breath, but I thought I heard the words "gonna regret this".

We walked towards the door and Dagger said in a low but clear voice and in a tone that was as serious as the steel namesake on his belt, "OK, you're "21" and you wanna party with the big boys. I can dig it, but if you wanna leave at any time, you let ME know. You're here with ME, and you're safe as long as I'm around, but don't go off anywhere with any of the other bro's or you're on your own, savvy?" A sigh of relief somewhat crossed my mind hearing that, and there was some strange comfort in the accentuation of his words,  and I felt myself begin to lighten up a bit.

On The Rocks

Dagger led me into his hangout, clubhouse, bar or whatever the fuck that shit hole was and after my eyes adjusted to the much dimmer neon and tobacco smoke enhanced light, a visage of how I imagined the stereotypical biker bar would look now came into focus.

Growing up in the White Bread Midwest, there had been a never ending plethora of late-nite babysitter B-movies from the 60's on TV running late into the night until the now-sleeping brats owners returned, gloriously boozed up and well after 2am.

Often these poorly shot, acted and edited films were social commentary on society at the time or simply exploitation films, but many featured rough edged biker maniacs, floozy girlfriends with questionable morals, always some nameless debauchery that I could only guess at given my age at the time, and setting the scene was a dim, dirty, smoky worn out bar. Just like the one I was entering, I swear to God.

Loud music blared from a jukebox - I swear to God it was "Tequila" by The Champs - in front of me stood a long grimy bar framing a guy passed out prominently in the center, two of worn pool tables, an old pinball machines, and an overpoweringly sickly sweet smell of beer or some other liquid spilled on the floor ages ago. Whether that 'liquid' was out of a glass or out of a stomach, was entirely up to interpretation.

Several women dressed in jeans and leather vests that had been talking to each other began pawing over a few of the bikers we came in with, and looking to their right saw a small stage lit by blue and red floodlights, a large pole rising floor to ceiling in the center. 

Having never seen or been in a strip club before, I deduced from the girls slobbering over the men and descriptions I read in novellas as a horny teenager that this was indeed a strip club or sorts, albeit, probably private.  After all, I thought, who in their right mind would come in here?

"Ya wanna beer?" slurred Dagger as we slid into a side wall booth. Noting the parched feeling in my throat after the bike ride, I nodded acceptance at the offer. 

"Doris! Gimmee four Millers, four shots of Jack, and get the lead out bitch!" he screamed at the bartender over the background music.

Turning back to me, he asked me why the fuck I jumped on back of his bike at the stoplight, and if I realized how dangerous that sort of stunt was considering my age. His questions came more rapidly than the bartender with the beer - where was I from, how many siblings, did I go to school, who was I here with and most importantly, did my friends know where I was or what I had just done.

I needed that beer desperately but told Dagger about my life in the Midwest, college and why my friends and I came to Virginia Beach: cock, beer and drugs.

"Oh yeah, spring break... lots of pussy, an ocean of beer, and tons of drugs. Ain't America great?"

I had to agree with him that it was.

Next: Secret Sins: Chapter 3 -
"Meine Ehre heist Treue", Part II