HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  With the top off of her Jeep and Jimi Hendrix’s Castles Made of Sand playing loud enough that I could recognize it, she shot into an empty stall, parked, and hopped out of the Jeep. Wearing her trademark attire of jean shorts, Chuck’s, and a tee shirt, she looked no differently than she had on the other three occasions I had seen her.

  “Nice day for going topless,” I said.

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band from her wrist. “Your subliminal suggestions are falling on deaf ears, biker man.”

  “It was worth a try, reporter.”

  While walking toward me, she dropped her sunglasses in her purse, removed a pair of glasses, and put them on.

  One of my weaknesses was a hot bitch wearing glasses. With her hair in a ponytail and the bold black frames fixed high on the bridge of her nose, my imagination took over. An image of her peering at me through the lenses while my cock was in her mouth quickly came to mind.

  “You wear glasses?”

  “My contacts were killing my eyes.”

  I admired her until she was at my side, then turned toward the entrance. “Inside or outside?”

  She stepped between me and the Toyota. “Outside.”

  We got our drinks, she declined a crunchy biscuit, and we sat outside at a table amongst several coffee-drinking sun worshipers.

  “So, did you remember my number?” I asked.

  “Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.”

  “Good memory, huh?”

  She laughed. “Like a fucking elephant.”

  “What was so fuckin’ important that you had to come by the shop last night?”

  She looked embarrassed for a split-second, but quickly donned a smile. “I was working on the piece, and realized I had no way to get ahold of you. I can’t effectively write something informative if my only way of obtaining information is by simply stumbling into you.”

  “How many more times are we going to have to meet?”

  After I asked the question, I realized sooner or later, the meetings between us would actually end. As much as I never would have guessed it, the thought of not seeing her again wasn’t something I looked forward to.

  “I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe ten or twelve.”

  “Ten or twelve?” I snapped back. “Jesus.”

  “Well, four installments.” She took a drink of coffee, then shrugged. “Three or so meetings for each article. It’s not that much.”

  “Guess not.”

  She pulled the recorder from her purse. “You want to do a little more now?”

  I wondered what else she might ask, and was anxious to find out. “Might as well.”

  She glanced over each shoulder, raised her hand to her mouth, and spoke. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price conducting my second interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 11th.”

  She placed the recorder on the table between us. “Are you single?”

  I nodded. “Have been since, shit…for ten years.”

  “Is your refusal to be in a committed relationship a result of not trusting women?”

  “I didn’t say I refused to be in a committed relationship. I just said I wasn’t in one.” I said. “And it’s not about trusting women, I don’t trust myself.”

  “You don’t trust yourself? Can you explain?”

  I glanced at the woman seated beside us. Long, lean, and tan, she appeared to be in her mid-forties. Her fake tits were bulging from her designer top, and her hands were covered in jewels. Although she sat with who I suspected was her husband, her focus was clearly our conversation. Her eyes dropped to my boots, and slowly raised

  “Here’s the issue,” I said. “I like pussy. A lot.”

  She wrinkled her nose and stared. “So much that it’s a problem?”

  “Prevents me being in a committed relationship, that’s for sure. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.” I shifted my eyes to the skinny bitch seated beside us, who was still ear hustling our conversation. “So I just fuck the shit out of every girl I meet, but make sure they’re well aware that all they’re gettin’ is my cock.”

  She cleared her throat. “I think she’s with someone.”

  I turned to face Peyton. “She’d take it if I was offering.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded. “Believe me.”

  “Would you give it to her?”

  I grinned a mischievous smile. “I sure would. And I’d make you hold her skinny ass down while I did it.”

  “I don’t think so,” she snapped back.

  I looked at the skinny bitch. She shot me a curious look while her husband poked his finger against the screen of his phone.

  Peyton knocked her knuckles on the edge of the table. “See if you can stay focused on the interview.”

  I shifted my focus back to her and chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Have any kids?”

  None that I know of.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have a mode of transportation for foul weather days? Anything other than the sled?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your thoughts on transgender bathrooms?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A person with a sexual identity that differs from their assigned sexuality. Transgender. Where should they go to the bathroom?”

  “Wherever they fuckin’ want to. People need to worry more about themselves and their fuckin’ kids, and stop worrying about what everyone else is doing or not doing.”

  “Do you believe in equality?”

  I believe I want to shove my cock down your throat.

  “I believe it doesn’t exist.”

  “Should it?” she asked.

  “Sure as fuck should.”

  “On earth and in your club? Or only where it’s convenient?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “It’s common knowledge that the guidelines for the Hells Angels MC prohibit black membership. The Bandidos and Mongols MC’s share this guideline. In fact, a 2008 federal indictment listed many racist acts that were allegedly committed by the Mongol’s members, including beatings and murder. Do the guidelines of your club allow black members?”

  “Generally speaking, there are black MC’s and there are white MC’s. The FFMC is an MC that chooses not to discriminate.”

  “Do you have any black members?”

  “No.”

  She widened her eyes. “Will you ever?”

  “If a man wants to prospect with the club, and he’s a solid dude, we’ll consider it. If he passes the initiation without problems, he’ll be a patched-in member. Skin color has nothing to do with our decision making process.”

  “What, specifically, is the initiation process?”

  I admired her for a moment. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards. With the glasses on, she was irresistible. As I felt my cock began to go stiff, I pressed the heel of my palm against it.

  I exhaled heavily. “By invitation from a fully-patched member, someone becomes a hang-around. A hang-around is a person that comes to club functions by invitation only, and only with the member who vouched for him. After some time, say, after six months, they may become an associate. An associate is a glorified hang-around. Maybe they’ll attend a few organized rides with us, go to a few parties, and hang around the clubhouse – again, by invitation only. Then, if agreed by the membership of the club. They may become a prospect. If so, they prospect with the club for a year, and then must receive a unanimous vote for membership.”

  “So, the process takes eighteen months?”

  I nodded. “At least.”

  “Have you denied anyone membership?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who and why?”

  “Who is none of your god damned business. Why? Because they weren’t capable.”

  “Capable of what?”

  I considered my response, and gave one that lacked specifics, but was reveal
ing enough to keep her from continuing. “He wasn’t capable of satisfying every member of the club that he was who we needed.”

  She nodded, took a drink of her coffee, and gazed beyond me for a moment. After zoning out for some time, she met my gaze. “Your club, no differently than other outlaw MC’s, claims territory. Often, when many clubs claim the same territory, there’s bickering between the clubs. Does the FFMC have issues with any clubs? Do you have a rival?”

  “Off the record, there are always issues with someone. On the record. No.”

  She reached for the recorder, turned it off, and cocked an eyebrow. “Off the record.”

  I shrugged. It was no secret that FFMC and Satan’s Savages were rivals. “Off the record, Satan’s Savages are poking around where they shouldn’t be.”

  She nodded and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  I locked eyes with her. “Take off those glasses.”

  She grinned. “Why?”

  “Because I want to fuck your pretty little mouth when I look at you. Take ‘em off.”

  “I can’t see without them.”

  “And I can’t promise you I’ll keep my cock in my pants if you leave ‘em on.”

  “So, you’re going to mouth rape me if I choose to wear them?”

  I chuckled. “Pretty tough to rape a willing mouth.”

  “Who says my mouth is willing?”

  “I just did.”

  She tried to look surprised at my claim. It didn’t work.

  She scrunched her brow. “Based on what?”

  I stood from my seat, stepped to her side, and pressed my mouth against her ear. “I want you to suck my big cock, reporter.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me?” I growled.

  She nodded, and an almost inaudible uh huh escaped her lips.

  “I want to feel those full lips of yours wrapped around it while you dig your nails into my ass. I want you to force so much of it down your throat that your fuckin’ eyes water,” I whispered.

  “I uhhm. I…”

  “So, you don’t want it? You don’t want to suck my big fucking dick?”

  “Uhhm. No,” she murmured.

  I reached below the table and slowly dragged my finger along her inner thigh, giving her plenty of time to resist. After no such protest, I forced my finger beneath the denim of her shorts and slid it into her soaking wet pussy.

  “You’re drenched, reporter. It appears your twat doesn’t agree with that bullshit your mouth is trying to sell me. Your wet little pussy wants you to suck my cock.”

  “We can’t keep doing this.”

  I pulled my finger from inside of her and wiped it on the thigh of my jeans. “Doing what? We’re just talking.”

  “We’re…uhhm…we’re…” she stammered.

  I sat down and took a drink of my coffee. “We’re talking. I thought that’s what you wanted. To talk.”

  Her glasses were askew on her face, one side sitting much lower than the other. Probably a result of me pressing my cheek against hers, but seeing her appear unkempt was satisfying in its own regard.

  “Fix your glasses, reporter. They’re crooked.”

  She took off her glasses, scowled at me, then placed them back on her face perfectly.

  She reached for the recorder, tossed it into her purse, and sighed. “We’re done for the day. Now, I want a ride on your motorcycle. For the sake of the article, of course.”

  “God damned shame I don’t have a helmet you can wear. State law requires passengers to wear ‘em.”

  “Oh really?” she asked.

  “Yep. Hell, if I had one for you, I’d give you a ride. Might be uncomfortable, but it’d be a ride.”

  “So the helmet’s all that’s keeping you from it?”

  I had no desire to give her a ride, but I nodded anyway. “Yep.”

  “Good.” She stood up. “I’ve got my Biltwell in the Jeep. Let me get it.”

  I stood up. “Your what?”

  She took off toward her Jeep in light jog.

  “Helmet,” she responded over her shoulder.

  Fuck.

  I wondered why in the fuck she’d have a helmet in her Jeep, but was afraid to ask.

  “It’s got to be DOT approved,” I shouted.

  “It is.” She leaned into the back of the Jeep and quickly produced a gold and burgundy helmet. “I bought it for snowboarding, but it’s a motorcycle helmet.”

  “You snowboard?”

  She turned around, removed her glasses, and pulled the helmet down over her head. “Yep. Snowboard, skateboard, surf, rock climb, bungie jump. If it makes my heart pound, I’ll do it.”

  Crazy little bitch.

  She put her glasses back on. “Ready?”

  I pointed to my bike. “I’m a man of my word.”

  But at that particular moment, I wished I wasn’t.

  Chapter Nine

  Peyton

  Riding on the back of the motorcycle was exactly what Navarro said it would be. Uncomfortable. Although the motorcycle was designed to carry two people, he had modified it to carry only one, leaving a slight piece of leather on the rear fender for a passenger to sit on. Even at that, it was much better than skateboarding, far more satisfying than surfing, and was a close second only to snowboarding.

  Having my arms wrapped around his waist made what would have been extremely uncomfortable seem almost sensual. The vibration from the V-twin engine did the rest. It felt like I was riding a 600-pound vibrator, and having Nick Navarro’s muscular torso in my hands made matters that much better.

  The sound from the pipes as he shifted the gears was a reminder of the power that was wedged between my thighs. I found the entire experience thrilling, and realized as we slowed to as stop that even if Navarro never wanted to give me a ride again, the thrill-seeking part of me would forever yearn for another taste.

  He tilted his head toward a bar at the intersection. “Want to grab a bite at this bar?”

  “Sure,” I shouted.

  “It’s a biker bar.

  “I’m okay with that.”

  He nodded and released the clutch lever. “They’ve got good burgers.”

  Although I had my purse – and my recorder – I had no intention of ruining our lunch by interviewing him. A simple discussion over lunch would be nice, even if he didn’t think so.

  I realized figuring out who Navarro really was may not ever happen, but obtaining a closer look into his life was an exciting addition to mine, that was for sure.

  He pulled into the parking lot, turned the motorcycle around, and parked backward in the parking stall, facing the street. Short of his motorcycle and a few other cars, the parking lot was empty.

  He switched the ignition to off. Even in the absence of the engine running, my legs, ass, and pussy continued to vibrate. “I really like riding on this thing.”

  He removed his helmet. “Cheapest therapy money can buy.”

  I took off my glasses and unbuckled my helmet. “Can I leave this out here?”

  “Just hang it on the handlebars. Nobody fucks with helmets on a Harley.”

  “Why?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like a nice guy?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “That’s why.”

  I hung my helmet on the handlebars. “Nothing we talk about here is for publication, by the way. This is all off the record.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Good to know.”

  “I do have some questions, though.”

  He turned toward the door. “Ask away.”

  “Why do you park backward?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you were in a car, you’d park facing the building. But you parked facing the street.”

  “When we’re ready to leave, all we’ve got to do is fire that pig up and go. It only goes in one direction, forward. So if I was facing the building, I’d have to push it around t
o face the street before we could go. Doing it when you park makes leaving, I don’t know, easier.”

  “A quick getaway?”

  He pulled the door open, motioned toward the open bar, and chuckled. “Something like that.”

  Surprised that he opened the door, I promptly thanked him. “Thank you.”

  The bar resembled the bar I met him in. It was dark and void of any wait staff. Two rough looking men sat at the bar drinking beer, and they were the only patrons I could see.

  “Out of curiosity, how’d you find me on that first day?” he asked.

  “I’m a reporter. We investigate things.”

  “Just like a junior fucking federal agent, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “Like a private investigator.”

  “Same fucking thing.” He stepped up to the bar. “What do you want?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever’s good. Order for me?”

  “Pete, give me two burger specials and two bottles of Budweiser.”

  Oh my God. Budweiser.

  Barf.

  The bartender opened two bottles of beer and handed them to Navarro. “Burger’s will be right up, Nick. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Appreciate ya,” Navarro said with a nod.

  He handed me one of the bottles of beer. “Table or booth?”

  I took a drink. It was better than I expected. “Booth.”

  I followed him to a booth in the rear of the bar and sat down. “Riding on that thing is addictive.”

  He picked at the label on his bottle. “Sure is.”

  “You know what they say about people who pick at their beer labels, don’t you?”

  “Guess not.”

  “They’re sexually frustrated.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “You’re sexually frustrated?”

  He grinned. “Take off your glasses, and I’ll be fine.”

  I took a drink of beer and returned a smile. “Suffer.”

  I fully realized it had been less than a week, but he had already fingered me, fucked me and brought me to climax no less than half a dozen times – counting the two times I masturbated while thinking of him – and I felt like we were developing an odd friendship as a result.