Jojo Thought He Was A Loner

JoJo Thought He Was a Loner

And April Didn't Read the Signs

by

Donald Mallord

Copyright March 2025

5,000 Words and Change

Author's Notes

Reading Emily Miller's 'April's Cruel Days' set the impetus to write this tongue-in-cheek tale. Her story pushed my boundaries in both reading it and writing this one. Could I do as well as she? I set out in this effort to explore that dark corner of one's mind where forced sex may or may not be a good kink—unless it has some twists.

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A Few Words About JoJo's Past

Before the Story Begins

(Not into background? Skip down to 'Enter Montana!')

JoJo was a man who thought he was a loner, somewhat like that Beatles song... he had to leave town to hide out, to get away from them... all kinds of them.

You see, JoJo was a chick magnet who aroused every woman within eyesight, driving them to roaring endless moans in bed with his passionate lovemaking. It didn't hurt either that he stood six feet ten and a half in his stocking feet, resembling Paul Bunyan, with a chin like a Canadian Mountie and a smile that made even eighty-year-olds' hearts leap. Though he didn't have a big blue ox, he did have the equivalent: an oversized cock that drove women wild.

What was wrong with that, you ask?

Well, JoJo was an anomaly. He was born with a purple cock. On top of that, he was also a genius and an intuitive expert at just about anything he touched. For instance, once, as a passenger on an airliner in dire trouble, he fixed a stalled engine in midair with a paper clip. See? Genius.

The purple cock?

Well, that explains why women were so drawn to him. He had a lot of trouble escaping their grasp--they wanted him day and night. Doctors concluded that the allure stemmed from a rare physiological condition linked to pheromone stimulation in women, triggered by that purple appendage. Women didn't even need to see it; just moments spent near him were enough for any woman to succumb to the impulses to make love inevitably.

If you put JoJo in an elevator with two or three ladies of any status, by the time it arrived at its destination, not one of them would have clothes on!

Where's this going, you ask?

Enter Montana

Well, it brings us to how JoJo ended up wandering through the desert, searching for a promising land where he could rest and remain undisturbed. By day, he followed the sun's path. He slept on cold rocks by night, steering clear of hotels and the women who sought him out. He wandered for years, probably forty for sure. He believed an arid desert, with its alkaline flats and shad-scale saltbush, held nothing of value for lustful women. Brilliant as he is, he wasn't always right.

JoJo crested a high butte in Powder River Country, Montana, astride his battered but well-cared-for hog, the sun baking his back through a threadbare denim vest emblazoned with his gang's name Knights of the Open Circuit. [So... It's just one guy, but he commands respect when he meets other bikers on the road. Nerdy, but essential for self-protection as no one questions his affiliation. Not with his size!]

His Harley resembled a stripped-down version of the flats, reduced to the essentials needed: a kick starter, a headlight, a throttle, and the road. His hog—a '52 Panhead—rumbled beneath him, its rigid frame clattering over the hardpack. The old machine was a survivor; its once-glossy paint was now sun-faded and pitted from years of grit and rain, but the kicker still caught true, and the S&S carb still sucked in air like a gulp of whiskey. He named her 'Firefly' after an old sci-fi space-cowboy show.

He stopped on the butte's crest and gazed over the vast plain, a raw, unforgiving emptiness of alkali dust and sun-cracked badlands. His twenty-fifteen pilot vision spotted what he had set out to find on that lonely road: a waystation for bikers who'd ridden too hard for too long, searching for a place to rest amid the desert's desolation.

Arriving behind a dusty Interstate Greyhound, JoJo pulled up as the air brakes hissed. The door swung open, and a skinny figure stepped out onto the dirt with a guitar slung over her shoulder. A mass of state stickers covered the soft case. One glance his way and she couldn't help but lick her lips.

"Panhead '52?" she asked, her buttercup eyes roaming.

"Yep," he shot back. "You know your bikes."

"I know what I likes," she answered, the words coming out under a slight grin.

It left JoJo a little unsettled.

'Was she talking about hogs or that fatal attraction women always had for him?'

Still, she turned and headed to the bar. She was the type of kid no one gave a second glance to—in a bar—except as a last pick around closing time. Dressed in trendy jeans with fake rips and bleached pockets, she tugged her skin-tight midriff halter top back down over a generous set of tits. For a girl with such a slim frame, those breasts were quite disproportionate. She walked past an eclectic row of bikes lined up like dominoes in front of the desolate biker bar. Not a single car or truck was in that parking lot as she stepped onto the creaking old wooden porch.

"Bitch, didn't read her sign," JoJo huffed as he slid his massive frame off his Harley. The shadow he cast upon that arid ground looked exactly like ol' Paul Bunyan, redhead and all. Twisting his hips left and then right, he rolled his head to ease the kinks before strolling up the steps shortly thereafter.

"This ought to be fun."

The bar noise buzzed like an outhouse in June. Flies zoomed everywhere, licking up spilt beer and only God knows what else. They flew in a place that looked and smelled as if it hadn't seen a broom or mop in at least thirty years. Still, it was cooler inside than out, so, there was that.

JoJo sauntered in and came to a standstill. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, which allowed the bikers some time to size him up. Once his vision had adjusted, he did the same... He counted fourteen, scattered around two pool tables and a few oak picnic benches. Of those, he figured four might engage in a fight; the others would watch and wait, ready to take their shots after the fighters had done their damage. The odds weren't in favor... JoJo had them outnumbered, and the smug bastards had no clue. He'd take 'em down without giving them a chance. Ain't no such thing as a fair fight, he learned that ridin' the road.

Meanwhile, the curly redhead was chatting up the equally red-headed barkeep as JoJo sat nearby.

Red spoke with a soft southern accent: "So, I sing my own songs. I could split my tips with you, maybe... 25%, if you let me use your place."

The barkeep grinned and shrugged. The bikers stopped shootin' pool to listen in as she got flustered and raised her voice.

"Okay... how 'bout 40-60? I can give you a preview before the crowds show up. Deal?" she asked, changing her cut to sweeten the offer.

"Tits," he shot back, "this is the crowd... where do you think you are, the Ol' Opry? But make yourself at home. Get what you came for..." He grinned, glancing over at the Paul Bunyan-sized giant that had sat down.

"What's your poison... stranger?"

"Beer," JoJo chuckled, having eavesdropped on the busty woman's whine and dilemma.

Satisfied that the barkeep wouldn't take a cut, given the small crowd size, Red continued, "When does the bus come back?"

"Four o'clock," he answered, setting JoJo's beer on the bar before him.

She looked up at the wall clock. "In the morning?" Her eyes rose. The frown was like another woman's letdown at not achieving orgasm in under three minutes.

The bikers grinned at finding her stuck with them for a while. That'd be fourteen to one.

JoJo's lips pursed, trying to hold in another chuckle.

'Most men could have gotten in a fast fuck in those three minutes of despair,'

he mused.

"Yeah.

Friday morning."

The red-headed bartender dropped another shoe. You might have thought the other redhead was born blonde, but she wasn't. In fact, she was the spitting image of the bartender. You know what they say—all redheads look alike, right?

Tits' mouth dropped. "Fuck, that's four days away. What am I supposed to do now?"

"Sing until then, I guess," the fatherly old-timer snickered. "There ain't nothing around here for a hundred miles. You could sleep on the picnic table; I got a few blankets out back."

JoJo chuckled, imagining some slut trying to sleep on a picnic table in a biker bar. What were the odds she'd get any sleep? He figured it was 1.235 million to one, give or take a thousandth.

She shot him a hussy's look of just having been called a hussy. Then she scanned the bar for the first time. Like JoJo, she counted head.

'Fuck! I'll be lucky to get a buck tip a head from these guys.'

"Food?" she suddenly blurted. Four days was a long damn time to divide the four Snickers Bars she had in her backpack.

"I make a mean dog in a bun, Tits," the barkeep laughed. "Tell you what, sing for your supper, little Miss Tommy Tucker, and I'll feed you a wiener... on the house."

"Okay," she acknowledged his generous offer. Still, there was something about the way he emphasized 'wiener.' That felt off.

Then, too, she was too pissed to digest that comment because of the giant sitting nearly beside her.

'That fucking giant didn't need to chuckle so loudly about it that he nearly spat beer across the bar. What a dick head.'

Meanwhile, the fourteen pairs of eyes had been studying the only woman in the room as though lunch was ready. She glanced up, feeling the eyes bearing down on her. But she was somewhat used to that in crowds. It made her feel like she was something special.

Tits approached an empty picnic table in the corner, climbed onto the seat, and sat facing the biker audience.

Quietly, she unzipped the guitar soft pack and strummed a little, gathering her stage presence while doing a short, deep breathing exercise. Each time she did this, it felt like the very first time, as if all eyes were undressing her, peeling her like a banana, and hoping to devour her. The same thoughts always coursed through her mind as she closed her eyes and felt the first wave of passion spread up her thighs. She squeezed them together, feeling the comforting slight tingle it gave her clit. Her warmup routine had her flush and helped her overcome initial stage fright. Those lascivious thoughts readied her to perform.

"My name is April," she announced, opening her eyes and smiling. "I hail from Alabama, as you can tell from my accent. I write my songs and hope you enjoy them. Mostly, I live on tips... So, if you would be so kind as to lay me... some on the table, er, leave me something, I'd appreciate it."

April was a bit distracted, catching the grin on the giant's face. Something about him was affecting her.

JoJo watched the boys sizing her up as she started with her routine. The ballads she sang weren't bad, and her acoustic guitar skills weren't either. But the bikers weren't much interested in her songs. They watched the vertex of her tight jeans outlining a generous camel toe. Her legs relaxed as she soulfully sang with her eyes closed.

Biker eyes darted between April from Texas and a snarly-looking toad JoJo quickly realized was their leader. JoJo wondered how long they would wait for a sign like the one Tits missed while passing that row of hogs lined up like dominos ready to be knocked down by a sharp Montana wind.

April from North Carolina didn't read the sign outside about this being a biker's only spot in the middle of nowhere with its own set of laws and rules. She didn't read the audience sign either as the boys moved closer and surrounded her. She sang on, having trained herself to look over an audience heads to salve her stage fright. She missed all the signs.

The pack leader leaned over and spoke softly to two of his tribe. They glanced over at JoJo and got up.

'Here it comes,'

JoJo figured, swallowing a pint of beer in two gulps. They came straight for him.

The larger one stood in his face, squaring off, right within ball-kicking range.

"This is our bar, stranger. Our place. Our rules. You got a problem with that?"

"Nope. Nothing but respect for your crew," he answered. That caused eyes to dart back to the boss in the back corner again. Like that wasn't the answer they expected.

"You got colors." The other said, looking at the monogram on JoJo's faded vest.

"Knights of the Round Circuit," JoJo replied, sipping his beer, "like it says."

"Got a buck-forty rolling in tomorrow. Came ahead to scout." His tone was casual and nonchalant, aiming not to disturb Tits' performance. He figured that a small lie would earn him a bit of back-off respect. He wasn't looking for trouble; he just thought that telling the lackey that over a hundred more riders were coming tomorrow would be cause for a bit of respect.

"You guys?" JoJo asked, looking at the ragtag band of fourteen.

"We're... The Twelve Disciples," one answered, clearly working on the fly.

"There're fourteen of you..." JoJo said with mock seriousness.

"Yeah, I guess we need to work on that..." the short, stocky one replied, looking a bit sheepish as he realized the biblical reference wasn't working.

"Boss wants to know if you got any objection..." the long-haired biker whispered to match JoJo's volume. His head nodded toward April from South Carolina.

JoJo glanced at the two of them, the other twelve, and the sheep that was about to be devoured by the twelve or fourteen disciples, then turned his gaze to Tits. She looked over them and straight into his eyes. His effect on women seemed to be taking hold of her. She smiled.

"Save me Tit's ass," JoJo smirked to the pair of them.

Rattrap and Weasel interpreted that as a

'no objection answer'

and turned away, giving a thumbs-up to their gang leader. He noticed JoJo's grin, thinking maybe he wanted to join.

April finished her first set and looked down to see the circle had tightened around her. "Whoa, guys..." That was as far as she got before it turned into a scream.

It wasn't a fair fight. Not at all. She struggled and pleaded. But a hundred and fifteen pound woman with big tits was no match for them. Not at all.

"Make this easy on yourself bitch! Stop! Fight us and get hurt. Be nice... and the big guy over there is gonna take you safely out of here."

"Promise?" she wailed. Her eyes darted across the room at JoJo as he listened to her cries and took a gulp of beer.

JoJo, the Paul Bunyan of a man, considered his promise to the gang and the one the gang had just made for her. They seemed equally true to each other. He wasn't here to stir up trouble, and April from Georgia was no concern of his. So, he nodded and gave her a thumbs up. If she had hope for what was to come, it would make everything easier for Tits and the twelve or fourteen disciples about to worship her.

Still, it didn't calm her much as they began.

Hands grabbed her halter top and tugged it away as she whimpered, "Easy, please, take it easy! That's the only top I got!"

More hands grabbed mounds of fleshy titties and squeezed. She squealed, "Not so damn rough!"

The sight of grapefruit-sized breasts with strawberry nipples seemed to set off a frenzy. One yanked her by the hair backward and flat onto the table. She cried out when a mouth sucked it in and bite down on a rigid nipple.

'God, that feels... I can't be feeling this now. Not now!'

Her mind reeled with emotions as other hands stripped her tight-fitting jeans down.

"Hot damn! She's wearing a thong!" Then, like the pants, it was gone.

"What a fuckin' cute puss!" said another gruff voice as he thrust in two fingers.

Her legs attempted to recoil, but with little success as hands more firmly held her. She squealed at the intrusion. The cry of fright was met with laughter as they recognized her naked body was theirs and ready to be taken.

April's hands tried to cover herself, but there was too much exposed flesh to conceal. Too many hands were grabbing her. Her eyes darted from one face to another while their gazes fixed on her body. Stretched out like a starfish, they appeared to be getting organized more effectively. Sets of groping hands held her now, spread out like someone about to be drawn and quartered.

Still, she wiggled, trying to fend them off. "You're hurting me!"

She looked about frantically for help... from anyone. Her eyes locked on the old man behind the bar and saw a look of lust in his eyes.

'No fuckin' help there!

Next, her eyes landed on the giant at the bar. He'd promised to take care of her, yet he sat there sipping his beer.

'Bastard, you're enjoying this as much as them!'

April from Louisiana didn't have much time to try to read the room anymore. It was filled with her cries and a mixture of curses from guys wanting her, licking and squeezing her, poking her pussy with their rough biker fingers until they soon turned slippery as her body twisted and bucked, soon finding a rhythm that contrasted with her will, of course.

For Tits it was a losing battle. Her face flushed with exertion, and a rose blush tinged her neck down to her breast and below. She huffed, feeling the surge of tingling sensations growing inside her pussy. The harder April fought, the more energy she wasted. The bar scene resembled a battle with a marlin; the disciples slowly allowed her to struggle until her fury drained away. Finally, like a worn trophy, they reeled her in, taking up the slack. From that moment, the fun began.

"Oh, God, show mercy!" she huffed, feeling a growing flow of pleasure in spite of her precarious situation. Her head dangled off the table. A biker scrambled aboard her and positioned himself like riding his hog. His cock speared her without a thought about how he split her asunder or a need to go easy so she could stretch to accommodate the invader. No, it was a plunge in and out, again and again. She tried to raise her head to see who had invaded her, but that was stopped by an engorged cock thrust against her gasping mouth.

"Suck, my dick, bitch!"

She had no choice. She gave in. Took it in. Rolled it with her tongue and sucked it as well as she could in her current flat-on-her back position with her head hanging over the picnic table.

The cock in her mouth took advantage of that and as his orgasm neared, she felt it driving against her until it was in her throat. She gagged and coughed. Her head sprang upward in a fight for survival. For a second, she could breath, but the cock came back and again it was the same. Until it worked out a rhythm, in and out, deep then shallow, breathe, gasp, back in and out deep then over and over until she mastered the pattern so she no longer had any trouble in deep throating him. He came with a loud gasp as his balls banged her face with that classic three hard thrust bang, balls deep, as he came. Then, a reprieve as it withdrew.

"Thank, God..." she cried. But before she could add, "That's over..." another thick cock took his place and the process began again. Though easier this time, she had found her mojo.

'Fuck, this is... beginning to feel so... damned... good.'

The onslaught of sensory overload had her body worked into a frenzy. She had been focused on breathing, but she'd raised her knees skyward somewhere in that fight, planting her feet flat on the table; she spread her legs. It made things easier. She sensed cocks had been going in and out of her pussy, different ones mounting and dismounted in frenzied surges and lunges as they assaulted her. No one held her down any longer. Her body had given up the fight for that freedom. Now, it was a flood of euphoric currents of pleasure coursing through her. She wanted them all—twice if they could.