Making The Cut (Selective Sinners MC #1)

by S. D. Hildreth

  “Jesus God damned Christ, Slice. Kid’s got a cock like a mule,” Pete screeched.

  “Send his ass to Hollywood and pimp him to the porn industry, Slice,” Hollywood chuckled.

  Toad pushed his way between Otis and I, “Excuse me fellas, I need to see what we got here.”

  Toad stood between Cash and I and bent at the waist. His hands now resting on his thighs, he was a matter of two feet in front of Cash staring down at his cock. After a short study of the merchandise, Toad stood up, turned to the crowd and shook his head.

  “Don’t know that I call it a choad, but it damned sure ain’t much to brag about,” he chuckled.

  “Shit, Toad. Kid’s got a cock like a horse,” Pete chuckled.

  Toad shook his head and laughed, “Bullshit. Fucker’s three and a half inches long. And that’s a big maybe. It’s hard to tell, because half of it’s that huge fucking head. Shit, the head of that fucker’s as big as a Washington apple. I’m not impressed.”

  “Somebody grab the tape measure out of the toolbox,” I hollered over my shoulder.

  The head of Cash’s cock was the size of a teenager’s clenched fist. It made everything else seem disproportionate and rather strange. There was no doubt he belonged in a circus, but not for having the shortest cock on the planet. Sloan’s description was on track, but somewhat inaccurate. If nothing else, it was entertaining to look at. To me, it was similar to a hairless cat or a pug-nosed puppy, you stare at them in the pet store in amazement, but you’d never dare to take one home. As Stacey stepped beside me, he handed me a tape measure.

  “Good lookin’ out, Stacey,” I nodded as I grabbed the tape measure.

  “Now hold still,” I said as I pulled the blade out to 24” and locked the tape measure in place.

  I leaned down and pressed the end of the tape into Cash’s lower abdomen and looked down at the tape measure.

  3-3/4”.

  I pressed the lock and reeled the tape measure back into the case, “Three and three quarters inches fellas, from base to tip.”

  “Looks bigger; it’s probably that huge fucking head. That’s the biggest cock head I ever seen, short of on a Shetland pony,” Stacey chuckled.

  I shook my head and grinned as I pointed down at Cash’s jeans, “Pull ‘em up, Prospect.”

  As he jerked his pants up, he expressed his displeasure, “Fucking bitch.”

  “Well, what’d you expect? My source told me you told the girl you were gonna fuck her senseless. Now for you to do anything like that with what you’re packing would have required that she have a pussy attached to the bottom of her foot or the palm of her hand. But you God damned sure weren’t gonna fuck her senseless with that, with her being built the way she is,” I chuckled as I tossed the tape measure to Stacey.

  “Listen up, fellas. Now, the girl with the big titties from the bar, the one who rode back with Cash; she’s coming to the barbeque. I need,” I paused and raised my right hand in the air.

  “Oh hell, why don’t we say three volunteers? I need three of ya to agree to fuck this girl, and fuck her hard. I don’t want her to be able to walk for a week, nothing less. She says she likes big cocks, the bigger the better. Prospect, you’re out. Patches only. Who’s hung like a horse and wants in on this deal?” I hollered.

  Damn near everyone started hollering like a bunch of idiots. I raised both hands in the air and rolled my eyes in disbelief, “Hold up. Quiet the fuck down. Jesus. We’re going to have to go on seniority or something. Maybe draw straws again, fuck.”

  Toad stepped between Otis and I, bit the neck of his beer bottle in his teeth, and reached for his belt. In one effortless motion, he pulled the belt, unbuckled it, and dropped his three sizes too big jeans to the tops of his boots. No boxer shorts for Toad, he was obviously going commando. Now standing in the center of the crowd with the beer bottle still clenched in his teeth, he slapped his palms against his butt cheeks and stared straight ahead, stone faced.

  His cock was soft and about eight inches long. It looked like it weighed five fucking pounds. Without a doubt, when hard, he’d have a ten inch cock. I’ve never been one to actually want to see another man’s cock, but the baggy-assed jeans he always wore began to make sense. I raised my hands and slowly began to clap.

  Toad raised his right hand slightly and curled his fingers and thumb to form a “C”. Holding his hand at chest height and still staring straight ahead, he released the beer bottle from his teeth. As if he’d performed this trick in the bar a thousand times, as it fell toward the ground, he caught the bottle in his grasp without looking down. Standing expressionless, he raised it to his lips and finished drinking it. His pants still around his ankles, he tossed the bottle fifteen feet toward the trash. I shifted my gaze to the trash can as he released the bottle, aggravated he’d thrown it in the first place. Broken glass on the shop floor was one of my pet peeves. The bottle fell right into place in the center of the can.

  Toad bent down, pulled his pants up, and buckled his belt. With both index fingers, he pointed to his crotch, “Any of you fellas can fuck with that, get in line. I say we go off cock length, boss. You said the bigger the better; let’s give this girl a good solid Sinner fuckin’.”

  “Agreed,” I shouted, “If you’re hung like Toad, step up.”

  I crossed my arms and glanced at Otis. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his temples.

  Shit, Otis, I know you don’t have a moral bone in your body. Don’t act like you’re thinking about this.

  He lowered his hands and shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll do it.”

  No shit.

  “Alright. I’ve got Otis and Toad. Who else is hung like Toad here?”

  The fellas mumbled and grumbled, but not one volunteer stepped forward.

  Shocked, I raised my hands in the air and glanced at each of the members, “Come on. A shot at a God damned college girl the week before she graduates? Black hair, tight pussy, and tits the size of fucking watermelons? Says she loves sucking cocks too. Hell, I forgot all that part. I need one more, fellas. Who will it be?”

  Pete stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at his feet. As he looked up, he raised his right hand and stroked his beard, “I’ll do it if we got some rules to this deal, Slice.”

  Hollywood chuckled, “Rules? If it ain’t covered in the bylaws, it don’t matter.”

  I narrowed my gaze and turned my palms upward, “What the fuck are you talking about, Pete? What kind of fucking rules are there to a gang bang?”

  Pete released his beard and raised his hands, “I can’t do a gang bang, Slice. Hell, everyone here knows I’m hung like a mule, but I got a bad case a stage fright, Slice.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I chuckled.

  “Can’t piss or get a stiffy in front of another man,” he shrugged.

  I wrinkled my nose and stared, “No shit?”

  “Nope. Tried a time or two, and it don’t work. Not at all. I can go first, or in the middle, or hell, I’d even go last. But I can’t be all up in it at the same time one of the other fellas is, and I can’t have ‘em standing by me watchin’ either. If we’re taking turns, hell yeah, I’ll hurt that bitch,” he grinned.

  I glanced toward Otis and Toad.

  “I don’t need to watch that ugly prick fuck,” Toad snarled.

  “Same,” Otis sighed.

  “Your Ol’ Lady okay with this, Pete?” I asked.

  “She’s at her folks up in Milwaukee. I ain’t gonna bother askin’,” he grinned.

  I looked into the crowd, “Anybody else?”

  Silence.

  “Well, it’s settled; Otis, Toad, and Pete. I don’t want anyone else fucking with this girl. And I don’t want any one talking shit to her about it before it happens. I want it to be a surprise. Like it just happened. Understood?”

  Most of the fellas nodded or began to tell how they would have torn her to shreds if their Ol’ Ladies weren’t coming. I grinned and slapped Toad on the shoul
der.

  “Don’t be throwing beer bottles around the shop. One of ‘em breaks, and you’ll be sweeping it up, not the Prospect,” I growled.

  “Gotta miss the can to bust, Slice. I don’t miss,” he responded.

  Considering the amount of grenades he’d thrown in Afghanistan and Iraq, he probably didn’t miss. As the men all began to filter out of the shop and hop on their bikes, I glanced at my bike. Sitting in the rear of the shop with my new blanket strapped to the bars, it looked good. The lick ‘n stick was still on the rear fender from the night before. I shook my head and slowly walked toward the bike. I reached down and gripped the seat in my hands. As I lightly pulled against it to release the suction cups, I turned my wrist and looked at my watch.

  12:48.

  I pressed the seat back into place and threw my leg over the seat. As I relaxed into the seat, I raised my hands to the apes and rested them on the grips. As if programmed to do so, I twisted the throttle twice, pulled the choke, flipped the ignition, and hit the start button. As I pulled out of the shop and toward the gate, several of the fellas turned and stared.

  “Last man out lock up the shop,” I hollered over my shoulder.

  Because this might be an all-nighter.

  AVERY

  For a woman to accurately determine what a man is really thinking would be similar to a man having a full understanding of what it’s like to go through a menstrual cycle. It’s never going to be completely clear to either party no matter how much a person tries to explain.

  “So, let me get this straight. I’m not trying to play with words, or be a smart-ass; I’m really not. But let me see,” I paused, and as I stood from the park bench I forced my hands into the rear pockets of my shorts.

  I twisted myself into my best naïve schoolgirl pose just to throw him off a little. The shorts I was wearing were absolutely killing my pussy without any underwear, but they looked hot as fuck. As much as I wanted some relief, I pulled back on the pockets and tried to give him just a little of a show up front. He sat quietly on the park bench and stretched his rubber band to the point of complete failure.

  Snap!

  Good. Now, if you like it, take it.

  I pulled my hands from my pockets and tossed my hair, “So, I’m going to stick by your side and stay quiet. If someone talks to me, I will respond. If they don’t, I stand, smile, and look pretty. If anyone asks if I’m available, I say no, and if they ask if you and I are together, I say no. And if someone asks if I’m your Ol’ Lady, I say hell to the no. Lastly, if anyone fucks with me, I find you or if I can’t find you, I find Otis. So, technically I’m not spoken for, but I’m not available either. Right?”

  “You coulda left the last part out, but that’s it. You got it,” he nodded as he played with the rubber band on his wrist.

  I lowered my hands and stuffed them into my rear pockets again.

  Holy fuck that’s uncomfortable.

  I bent my knees slightly and rocked my hips back and forth. After he snapped the rubber band again, I lifted my right shoe slightly and dug the toe into the dirt, twisting it back and forth as I watched the impression I was leaving in the sandy soil. No one knew better than I did that I didn’t have any tits, but what little I did have was exposed to the world through the opening of my vee neck tee shirt. As I felt the early evening breeze across my nipples, I glanced in his direction. His eyes were fixed on the opening of my shirt.

  Get an eyeful, Axton.

  “You want to sit the fuck down, you’re making me nervous,” he grunted as he shifted his gaze upward.

  As I tilted my head and gave my best duck face, he snapped the rubber band twice.

  Good, all that practicing I’ve been doing in front of the mirror worked.

  “My legs are cramping. I need to stand,” I lied.

  He stood from the park bench and pulled his knife from his pocket. As he raised it to his other hand, he flicked the blade open. Now focusing on his fingernails, he fidgeted with his knife and stopped paying attention to me altogether. Frustrated, I turned away from him and dug the denim out of my sore pussy.

  “What are you afraid of, Axton?” I asked over my shoulder as I turned to face him.

  He looked up from the half-assed manicure he was performing, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “With us. You and me? What are you afraid of?” I shrugged.

  He folded his knife, clipped it to his pocket and lowered his chin slightly, “A lot of motherfuckers will claim it, but only a handful actually mean what they say; I’m one of that handful. I’m not afraid of a God damned thing on this earth.”

  “So what’s keeping you from making progress with me?” I asked.

  He turned and stared at me as if I were absolutely insane. As he crossed his arms and continued to stare, it was obvious I’d touched on a subject he really wasn’t ready to discuss. The muscles in his biceps pulsated. As soon as he began speaking, the tone of his voice was sterner than before.

  “You just don’t get it, do you? I am making progress with you. More than I’ve made with anyone in the last fifteen God damned years. It’ll probably come as no fucking secret, but I fucking hate women. Last I checked, Avery, you’re a woman,” he paused and tilted his head toward the bike.

  “I absolutely hate, and I do mean hate having that seat on the fender of my bike. About every ten minutes when you think I’m rubbing my cheek, I’m not. I’m looking over at that God damned lick ‘n stick and wondering if it’s eating through the clear coat on my fender. But I’ve left that motherfucker on there for what seems like a month straight. Do you want to know why?” he rested his hands on his belt and raised both eyebrows while he waited for me to respond.

  I was beginning to feel small. I swallowed heavily and nodded. A very inaudible yes puffed from my lips.

  “Because I like having you on the back of my bike. I have no fucking idea why, I really don’t, because I hate bitches on the back of my bike. But for some God damned reason, having you back there makes me feel, at least for as long as we’re riding, like I’m normal. Well, Avery, I got a news flash for you. I’m far from normal,” he hesitated and snapped the rubber band more times than I could count.

  Yeah, that’s not the ‘I think you’re way too cute’ snap, is it?

  “I’ve been shot at and missed, and I’ve been shot at and hit. I’ve been beaten, burned, cut, stabbed, and I’ve gone long enough without food and fucking water that I should have died. I’ve been in more fucking fights than any professional boxer, and my left arm is pinned back together with metal screws - because the third time it broke, I didn’t have time or the money to fix it. I’ve been to jail more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. No, Avery, I far from normal. You want to know why they call me Slice?” he growled.

  I stood and stared. I suppose I should have been scared or surprised. For some reason I was neither. I was beginning to like him more. For the first time since we had been spending time together, he was coming out of his shell. I attempted to swallow the rock in my throat, but couldn’t, so I simply nodded my head once. He reached down and grabbed each side of his cut, and pulled upward, unsnapping it.

  He leaned over, hung the vest from his ape hangers, and turned toward me. As he stood facing me, he reached down and pulled his tee shirt over his head. He quickly turned, tossed it over his shoulder and onto the seat of the bike. As he turned around, now shirtless, I gazed like an idiot at his upper body.

  Oh my God.

  His chest was massive, and far more defined than I would have imagined. His stomach didn’t have an ounce of fat on it. In fact, it was chiseled to perfection. His upper arms were solid muscle, and now that he was angry, were quite swollen. But my focus wasn’t solely on his muscles or well-proportioned body. My focus, at least now, was on the twelve inch long scar on his stomach.

  And the one below it that was eight or so inches long.

  And the one across his chest.

  And the one that went from his ri
b cage toward his back and appeared to never end.

  The wounds didn’t seem to have ever been stitched or taken care of by a medical professional. It looked as if he’d been tortured by a chainsaw wielding maniac. As I stood and stared, he slowly shuffled his feet and turned around.

  On his back were smaller scars, but there were more than I could count. They ranged in size from an inch to several inches long. Without speaking, he turned around again and grabbed his tee shirt. As I stood and stared, he pulled it over his head and covered his body.

  “That’s why they call me Slice. Now, before you ask, about three or four of them came from fights. The other thirty or so?” he paused and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “My Ol’ Man. You wanna know why I don’t have any on my arms? Because a shirt wouldn’t hide ‘em when I went to school, that is on the days he would let me go. And none of them ever got stitched because I couldn’t let the doctors see ‘em or he’d have been arrested. When I was a kid he’d already been to the joint twice. One more time, and it’d been life in prison. Well, now he’s doing life in prison, and I’ve got these to remember him by,” he hesitated and held his hands at waist height.

  “Turn around,” he demanded and he stepped toward me.

  “Axton, I…”

  “Turn the fuck around you question asking bitch,” he demanded.

  Reluctantly, I turned around. The park bench was only a few inches in front of me. I felt as if I was trapped, but I faced it anyway. As he positioned himself behind me, he raised his hand to the left side of my jaw, clenched it between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted my head to the right. As he breathed into my ear, he pressed his hips into the back of my ass.

  His breath against my ear caused goose bumps to rise along the length of my arms.