Life is full of 'side effects,' some more obvious than others. A distraught stranger meets a deviant family, changing lives forever.
Thank you for taking the time to read my fantasy, if it tickles your fancy, I appreciate your vote, and any comments you may have.
This story may contain peanuts, so if you're allergic to, incest, father-daughter, brother-sister, blackmail, force, submission, domination, oral, anal, non-consent, rough sex, virgin, interracial, or sex in general, please do not go any further.
Please note, this tale is on the dark side, so it will not be for everyone. I debated submitting under non-consensual but felt the incest category is a better fit.
Enjoy!
Knightfantasies
This story may not be reproduced or shared without the author's permission.
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Side Effects
Doctor Cynthia Peters wisely waited until the big man composed himself before she continued. "I'm sorry Mr. Brody, the new test results confirmed the first set; cancer has spread throughout your body." She paused to make sure he was listening to her words. "At this point, treatment is not only useless but would take away any time left to wrap up your estate."
Brock Brody struggled to control his emotions as he ran his fingers through his thick hair. He absently starred at the doctor's large breasts, hidden under her white gown. The doctor's office smelled like a hospital; he hated hospitals. From experience, hospitals meant pain and suffering.
He stood up, pacing in the small office, thinking of his next step. All he wanted to do was get on his Harley and ride away; maybe that's what he would do. Ride off into the sunset, literally.
Dr. Peters hated this aspect of her profession as she looked on with empathy. "Do you have any questions?"
"Nah, but you better send me your bill quickly," Brock said, giving the doc a wink. His moment of self-pity passed, and his swagger returned. "See you, Doc," he said, walking out of the office without looking back.
Brock never anticipated the results would be any different, but still, he held out false hope. His day to day casual approach to life was over. He never had a master plan; he just plugged along doing the things that made him happy. Now, he was indeed on his own, with no family or close friends to stand by his side. He wasn't terrified of dying, and he had no regrets for the life he chose to live.
People quickly moved out of the way as Brock strutted down the sidewalk. His intimidating size and appearance did more than hint he was dangerous. At six foot eight and three hundred pounds of muscle and sinew, not many people dared to challenge him.
Brock carried his history on his face, a testament to his line of work. His nose twisted to the left, broken multiple times. The long jagged scar down his right cheek was due to a broken beer bottle from a punk's sucker punch; he almost lost his eye on that one. Most of the fingers on his gnarly hands suffered breaks at one time or another; bare-knuckle fighting was hard on the joints. His slight limp was due to taking a bullet in the leg years ago.
For the past twenty years, he worked as the head bouncer at 'Pretty Gals' strip club, protecting the dancers. His forty-one-year-old body endured numerous injuries and broken bones along the way. Brock's fighting skills were good, but no one was invincible. The guys that tested him were out to make a name for themselves; to fight Brock was a status thing in this town, even if you lost. Just like in the movie
Fight Club.
Now Cancer is taking a swing at him, and all his strength is useless.
He threw his leg over his pride and joy, a 1949 Panhead with tank shifter and foot clutch. Sure, there were better, more comfortable Harley's to ride, but he loved this old one. Brock shook his long dirty-blonde hair back and put on his vintage lid with leather straps. The law said he had to wear it; a stupid law passed by idiots who didn't know the joys of riding.
The roar was deafening as Brock worked the throttle, he smirked at the disapproving looks of pedestrians, laughing when an exhaust pop would make them jump. Vibrations surged through his muscular body as he listened to the symphony. Brock waited until the machine soothed his internal stress. Then, with a twist of his right wrist, he shot out into the traffic, ignoring the honking horn of some dickhead in a BMW.
There was no destination, just the freedom of rolling on. The wind whipped Brock's shoulder-length hair around as he exceeded the speed limit. The California sky was boringly sunny, and he weaved in and out of traffic, daring vehicles to hit him. Being terminally ill gave him a new outlook, a fuck-it attitude.
Brock's mind drifted as he faced his internal demons. He had never been a loving or nurturing man; from an early age, he learned to look after himself. His dad died when he was thirteen, and he fell in with the wrong kind of crowd. It was only sheer luck that he didn't end up in prison in his teens. Dealing drugs and fighting were the only things that made him feel alive inside; that and motorcycles.
Teachers and coaches tried to help along the way, but he was too stubborn to listen or care. He had the potential to go to university on a full football scholarship, but instead, he dropped out of school to be a pimp's muscle. The seduction of free pussy and the chance to use his fists drew him further into the dark side. It was ironic that one of the 'street girls' he protected changed the course of his life when she introduced him to the owner of a strip club.
The bleached highway disappeared under his wheels as the scenery seemed to stay stagnant, time was no longer on his side. Reluctantly he took an exit when he felt the need to drain the dragon. He would have preferred to keep going, to not think about the future, or what little he had left, but a full bladder on a rigid frame Harley wasn't the most comfortable feeling.
Brock counter-steered into the run-down gas station, a small independent no-name, a dying breed among all the big conglomerates. He parked his bike at the gas pump, topping up the tank, noticing he was the only customer. There didn't appear to be an outside bathroom, so he headed to the main entrance. His black biker boots added an inch and a half to his height, and he ducked going through the door.
Rati watched from behind the counter, as the tough-looking blonde giant entered; she had never seen such a big man. Colorful sinister tattoos covered his bare arms; a tight black tee-shirt stretched to contain his muscles. The leather vest made her think he belonged to a motorcycle gang. Her not so innocent eyes drifted down to his tight jeans to see the large lump in his crotch, and she subconsciously licked her lips.
"Hi, what can I do for you?" Rati smiled. Her East Indian parents named her after the goddess of love. She didn't know if her name was the cause of her lust and passion, but her nineteen-year-old body constantly sought out sexual pleasure from a young age.
The short brown girl was cute in a puppy dog way, with her wide-eyed enthusiasm. She barely came up to his belt buckle. Her tight yellow top accented small perky tits, and her semi see-through leggings couldn't be any tighter. He could feel his cock react to his dirty thoughts. After watching the 'girls' in the strip club get demeaned by drunk men for the past twenty years, he took pride in not being a misogynist jerk. With cancer raging through his body, life was no longer normal.
"Well," Brock said, eyeing up the young girl, "I need to use your bathroom to take a leak." He casually let his eyes roam over her body again; she was curvy and tight in all the right places. She seemed to bask in his attention and even pulled her shoulders back to show off her small tits. His mind reminded him he wouldn't have many more opportunities to flirt with young girls like her.
"You have a pretty smile," he complimented. "Nice full lips. I would love to see what they feel like wrapped around my cock." He expected the young girl to scream and call the cops, but all she did was smile even more flamboyantly. Son-of-a-bitch!
Rati looked around for Laki, her sister. The two of them had the morning shift until their dad Sam and older brother Aadi came in. The service station was a struggling family business, and her dad made all the siblings help out.
"Wow! I don't know if that line works with all the girls, but it works with me!" she laughed, trying to visualize the size of his cock in his tight jeans. Rati could hardly control her excitement. This morning's shift was turning out to be awesome! Any day she got to suck a cock was a good day. "Let me find my sister, and I will show you what my lips can do!"
"Well, that was unexpected," Brock said in disbelief as the tiny thing ran into a back room. After a few moments, the clerk dragged out another brown girl, taller, older, and by the looks of it timid. The older sister dressed more conservatively, in torn jeans and a loose tee-shirt with a UCLA logo. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, accenting her high cheekbones. Even with the loose top, he could see she had a tempting body underneath.
"Dad will kill you if he finds out!" Laki whispered in distress. She did a double-take when she looked at the big white man. He was huge. Her eyes locked on his as he undressed her visually. She tried to stop, but her mouth gave him a slight smile before rendering her face in a delicate blush.
"Are you going to tell him?" Rati asked in a threatening tone. As soon as Laki submissively shook her head no, Rati excitedly grabbed the man's hand. "Follow me, big boy!"
The young girl's hand felt small in his over-sized mitt. The older girl was demurely smiling at him, showing off her dimpled cheeks. When he winked, it made her blush deepen.
Rati led him to the storage area filled with inventory; boxes of potato chips and chocolate bars sat adjacent to cartons of windshield fluid and oil. It was orderly, but not really.
"Can I watch you?" she asked brazenly. "You know. When you're peeing."
Brock's deep laughter bounced off the walls in the room. "Watch? Fuck, you can hold my cock if you want to."
