Biker Gauntlet

The back room door sticks. He palms it. It gives. Consent is the first rule. Color checks come easy. Then the heat rises and never lets go. Tabby and Lena ride hard and walk into a bar that knows how to keep pace. The offer is simple. A clean gauntlet. Side by side. Stop means stop. Water means pause. Praise in the ear. Aftercare on the other side. What follows is a raw, step by step spiral of want. Tongue and hands. Knees on old wood. Wall stands that shake the breath loose. Rope that holds without bite. Blindfolds that sharpen every sound. A wand that sings.

The door sticks. The rope sings. Consent first. Aftercare last. Between those points, Tabby and Lena ask for harder. Partial suspensions with feet grounded. A bit gag with a bell to stop. Mirrors that double every breath. Ice, warm oil, plugs that scale with patience, and a wand that writes yes into skin. They stand side by side, bound and steady, while the crew follows every rule. Stop means stop. Water means pause. Green means go. Yellow means ease. Red means out. No marks where they did not agree. Praise when they need it most.

Tabby wants control she can feel—collar on, hand at her throat for hold only, stillness that makes her shake and stay. Lena wants to anchor her through the climb, palm to wrist, voice in her ear, and then take her own turn under a slow count that does not break. The crew knows the rules. Stop means stop. Water means pause. Green means go. Yellow means ease. Red means out. They follow every word.