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.
