HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

And my body began to shudder.

  And something happened that had never before happened.

  I bellowed out onto the room as my body convulsed into an orgasm unlike anything I had ever experienced. My body convulsed, my pussy clenched his cock, and my butthole puckered to the size of a grain of sand.

  Although the dull thud of him continuing to fuck me continued long after I reached climax, I didn’t necessarily feel it. Everything became distant and foggy, like a dream. After what I expected was a few minutes time, I felt him folding my arms in front of me, and rolling me onto my back.

  The lights of the bedroom seemed blindingly bright as he rolled beside me and softly spoke into my ear.

  “Em…Em…are you alright?” he asked.

  It was as if he was somewhere else, but I knew he wasn’t. Incapable of responding, but feeling the need to do so, I said ‘Yes, Sir’ in my mind, but the words never escaped my lips.

  “Em…come on back, Em…come on, Baby…” he said softly.

  I felt him caress my face, and rake his fingers through my hair. After a few minute’s time of him whispering into my ear, and softly touching me, I returned from wherever I was, and into a state of something close to reality.

  He lifted me from the bed and carried me into the master bathroom. I blinked my eyes and attempted to focus as he lowered himself into the tub, holding me in his arms. The warm water felt fabulous against my skin.

  I glanced around the bathroom, still slightly confused, almost as if I had never seen one before. On the wire shelves beside the tub, were towels, washcloths, and fruit…

  Fruit?

  “Is that fruit?” I asked as I blinked my eyes and tilted my head toward the rack.

  “Yes, you’ll need the nourishment,” he responded.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You went into what’s called subspace. It’s a rush of endorphins that literally send you somewhere your mind has never experienced. The intensity of the orgasm from a session like that is ten-fold of what you’re used to. Then, you crash back down to earth. It’s called Sub Drop. If that’s not where you are now, you’ll probably be there pretty damned soon. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he said assured me.

  He stood from the tub and grabbed a banana. As he turned around, I gazed at his body. His chiseled torso had three words tattooed below his waist. As he peeled the banana, I studied the tattoo, and realized it was written in Latin.

  “What does that mean?” I asked as he handed me half of the banana.

  “I came, I saw, I conquered,” he responded.

  I bit into the banana as I nodded my head.

  “When did you run the bath water?” I asked as I glanced around the spacious bathroom.

  “When I left the room earlier. When I left the room a few minutes ago, I turned it off,” he said as he reached for the switch on the wall.

  “I’m going to turn on the jets. Ready?” he asked as he held his hand over the switch.

  I nodded my head, still pretty oblivious to my surroundings. “Yep,” I responded.

  I felt like it was the morning after a bad drunk. Mentally, I was completely lost. As he stepped into the tub, I focused on the half of a banana he held in his hand.

  “You gonna eat that?” I asked as I pointed at the banana.

  “No,” he chuckled.

  “It’s for you,” he said as he handed me the remaining banana.

  “So, what did you think of that?” he asked as he reached for the soap.

  “The banana?” I asked, knowing he meant the sex, but making at least an effort to be cute.

  “Yeah, Em, the banana,” he responded sarcastically.

  “The banana was kinda squishy, but the sex was some insane shit. What did you think?” I asked.

  “Me?” he said as he squirted some soap onto a Loofah. “I couldn’t be any happier.”

  Truth be told, I couldn’t have been any happier either. But what mattered more than anything was that he was happy, and knowing the answer made me even happier yet. As he wiggled his way past me in the tub and began to wash my back, I remembered the night we met, and how he beat the absolute shit out of the guy who was grabbing my boobs. I never would have guessed the man in the bar that night would be carrying me into the Jacuzzi tub and washing my back as I ate fruit.

  But again, I expected Jackson Shephard was unlike any other man on this earth.

  And he was slowly proving me to be right.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Four

  JACK

  June 28, 2006

  Hearing, smelling, and tasting had always been senses that brought back memories - some good and some not-so-good.

  The odor of Pine-Sol wasn’t something I ever cared to smell again, but sooner or later, it seemed to happen. Each time my nostrils flared from the scent, memories of the foster home filled my mind. The wife of the preacher cleaned everything with the solution at full strength, filling the house with a permanent stench of the cleaner. My memories of my slightly abusive and extremely controlling preacher who was our foster father were not fond, and in fact, I fought with myself not to return as an adult and beat him within an inch of his life.

  The taste or smell of bananas, however, was comforting to me. The small grocery store at the corner on our way to school always had ripe bananas, and often on our walks to and from school, the grocer would step out onto the sidewalk - his white apron tied tight around his waist - and give Sydney and me a banana as a treat. It wasn’t free, or provided out of sorrow; I cleaned his storage room on weekends - but I never told Sydney about my having worked to obtain the fruit. I allowed her to believe then, and continue to believe throughout our time in the foster home that there were people on this earth who were filled with love, willing to graciously provide gifts to children who were kind, polite, and eager to return the love with a gentle grin or the wave of an appreciative hand.

  As a teen, the earthshaking roar of a group of motorcycles was one that not only caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand, but something that I perceived as being a resemblance of power.

  When I was a thirteen, a motorcycle club moved into town, opening a new chapter. Members wearing their cuts from Colorado Springs came into the city, and stayed for some time. After a matter of months of admiring them on every opportunity I was provided, a local chapter developed. As the number of members grew from six to over twenty, I watched in admiration of the power, the brotherhood, and the elegance of the club as they rode together side-by-side, ten motorcycles deep in a long thunderous line.

  I told myself one day I would join them, and counted the days until I was eighteen and able to escape the rules and regulations of my foster home. I knew as soon as I was able to buy a motorcycle, pay my dues to the club, and become a vest-wearing member of their club that no harm would come to me or those I loved, because as far as I was concerned, the men in the leather vests were untouchable.

  Em gripped my waist lightly as we pulled out of the fourth stop on the poker run. The day couldn’t have been nicer even if it had been chosen solely for our enjoyment. For late June in Kansas it was unseasonably cool, but at eighty-two degrees and sunny, it was perfect for riding, enjoying the scenery, and spending time with the woman I had come to believe was placed on this earth for one reason and one reason only.

  “There’s a river down at the bottom of the hill. Close your eyes and see if you can tell when we pass it,” I said over my shoulder as I rolled on the throttle.

  Two motorcycles were in front of us, riding side-by-side. The side-by-side pattern continued for approximately fifty bikes behind us. A large group of us left the American Red Cross building together, and had ridden as a group throughout the day. The rumble of the exhaust from the motorcycles could be heard and felt for miles prior to our arrival in the small cities we were riding into.

  The streets in the small town of 691 people we had just ridden out of were lined with children and their parents, gathered on their respective lawns, wavin
g as we passed by on our way to the fire station. If being an outlaw, riding a Harley-Davidson, and being admired by the children of a small town in the Midwest wasn’t my calling in life, it sure was something I enjoyed.

  As I passed the spring-fed river, Em tapped me on the shoulder. A combination of the shade from the trees, the cool water, and the lower elevation caused the temperature to drop ten degrees as we rode over the bridge.

  “I love it,” she whispered into my ear. “Smell the flowers?”

  I turned my head to the side slightly and nodded once. I had ridden by the river countless times, more often alone than with a group. The all but deserted county roads in the state were perfect for late evening rides as I attempted to accept the deaths of my two previous lovers, and I enjoyed the road we were riding along more than many of the others in the state.

  Riding with Em was similar to riding alone in some regards. Many women who had ridden on the back of my motorcycle looked at it as an opportunity to twist, turn, shift their weight, and test the resistance of the rear shock absorbers by bouncing in the seat.

  Each movement on the rear of a motorcycle not only had an effect on the path the motorcycle would take, but the stability of it while doing so. To have someone ride on the back of the seat and actually sit still was priceless. Em was a natural at riding, and she allowed me to enjoy having her with me as much as she was appreciated being there.

  As we pulled into the next town, lining the street in front of the bar, I couldn’t help but grin. The ‘town’ of a claimed 138 people had a bar, a post office, and a handful of houses. Our presence wasn’t as welcome - or at least not as appreciated - as it was in the much larger town of 691 we had just left.

  “Is this the last stop?” Em asked as we rolled to the stop.

  “This is it,” I said as I shut off the engine. “Latham, Kansas. Big fucker, ain’t it?”

  “I didn’t realize there were still towns this small. Did you see the sign when we pulled in?” she asked as she stepped off the back of the bike.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “It said Latham, population 138,” she responded.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve had the pleasure of being here before. Quite a few times, actually.”

  “Can I get the card punched?” she asked as she pulled it from the front pocket of her shorts.

  “Yeah, it’s across the street,” I said as I tossed my head toward the bar.

  “Fu…fu…fu…fucking…tah…tah…town gives me the wuh…willies,” Chili said as he stepped off his bike.

  “Afraid one of these farmers is going to shoot your ass, Chili?” Sarge chuckled as he walked alongside our bikes.

  Chili gazed up and down the two blocks that made up the small town. After a short study of the dozen or so homes, he removed his sunglasses, narrowed his eyes, and ran his hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair as he shook his head.

  “Luh…Luh…like a fucking go…go…ghost town,” he said.

  “I’m hungrier than a motherfucker, they got food in that shit-hole bar?” Sarge asked as he rubbed the sweat from his bald head.

  “Hamburgers and hot dogs from what I can remember,” I said.

  Chili tossed his hands in the air as if frustrated. “Cuh…cuh…come on. I’m creeped the fuh…fuh…fuck out.”

  Chili was as solid of a man as I had ever met, and would do for his brothers in the club much more than he would do for himself. He was a man of average height with an above average build who stuttered terribly unless he was drunk. When he was drunk, his speech was soft, clear, and concise. When sober, he had a difficult time saying almost anything at all; therefore he chose short simple sentences. His stuttering and stammering earned him the name Chili, a modified version of chilly, a description the club decided fit him well, as it initially appeared he was always stuttering as a result of the chilly and wet winter weather when he began prospecting for the club.

  “Well, let’s get this over with, Chili. A forty minute ride and we’ll be home,” I said as I stepped around him.

  “You ready?” I asked Em.

  She nodded her head as she studied the envelope she held. The card hidden inside was marked along the outer edge with each of the fifty-two cards from a deck. On the outside of the envelope were fifty-two numbers. At each stop, a random number was drawn from a sack of chips, and the respective number on the card was punched with a hole punch. As each of the cards hidden inside the envelopes had playing cards in different orders, and no one was able to see into the sealed envelope, no one knew until the ride was over who had which cards punched on the card inside their envelope.

  After the completion of the ride, the envelopes - each marked with a rider’s name and telephone number - were provided to a proctor who opened the envelope and ranked the hand as if it were a poker hand. The three best poker hands of the ride won prizes, the best hand of the ride receiving six hundred dollars.

  Over the years, I had won with five of a kind, and had a hand as bad as ace, deuce, three, five, six. It was anyone’s guess what you’d receive, and there was certainly no skill whatsoever required to win.

  “It creeps me out a little bit, too, Chili,” Em said as she stepped between us.

  Chili nodded his head and patted her on the shoulder as we walked across the street toward the bar. A line of thirty or so people still filtered out the door into the street, all waiting on getting their card punched.

  As we waited in line, Sarge stuck his head inside the door and screamed toward one of the many waitresses working the bar.

  “Gimme five cheeseburgers and another one without cheese. Just holler at me when they’re done. I’ll be standing out here in the sun withering away,” he chuckled.

  “You skinny little fucker, you need to eat something,” he said with a laugh as he slapped his hand against Em’s back, almost knocking her off balance.

  “I had eggs, a bagel, and some sausage for breakfast,” she said as she spread her feet shoulder width apart, undoubtedly preparing for the next playful slap of Sarge’s hand.

  “Stuh…stuh…stop picking on my guh…guh…girl, you big fuh…fuh…fucker,” Chili said as he put his arm around Em.

  I glanced over my right shoulder as she playfully nestled her head into Chili’s chest. As our eyes met, she winked. I winked back, not really caring if either of the two fellas saw me or not.

  Contrary to the belief of most, one-percenters were not all lady sharing, womanizing, male chauvinists. Over the years, I had been around a few dozen one percent clubs, thousands of various members of clubs, and countless parties, clubhouses, and bike rallies. One thing shared by all members of one percent clubs that many civilian ‘riding clubs’ didn’t practice was respect of a member’s Ol’ Lady. If a patched member had an Ol’ Lady, no one messed with her. Sometimes the men accepted an Ol’ Lady easier than others, and often they simply put up with them because they had to, but they never treated another brother’s Ol’ Lady with anything but respect. The receipt of an Ol’ Lady with open arms generally meant she was perceived as being as solid as her Ol’ Man.

  Club whores, stripper poles in the clubhouse, and orgies amongst the ranks of the club weren’t something that ever happened in my presence with Hell’s Fury, nor in the presence of any of the other clubs I had exposed myself to. The stories of such things were often told by the liars, wannabes, and bullshitters.

  There was no doubt life in a one percent club was full of fights, shootings, felonious activities, murder, and an occasional alleged rape, but often the allegations of rape were not true and sprouted as a result of a barfly who got fucked in an alley, only to find out the man she had just fucked was married or had an Ol’ Lady waiting in the bar.

  It satisfied me greatly to see Sarge, Chili, and the other men accept Em as being an extension of me. Although I didn’t share my sexual experiences with the men, they all knew I was far from promiscuous. They more than likely perceived Em as being no different than the two women who had been in my
presence in the past - a permanent fixture in my life - and therefore an eternal extension of one of their brothers in the club.

  “Fifteen dollars,” the waitress said as she raised a brown paper bag dripping with grease in front of Sarge.

  “Fifteen bucks?” he said. “For six fucking burgers?”

  “Two fifty each,” she nodded.

  Sarge reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten and a twenty and handed her both bills.

  “There’s thirty, keep it,” he said as he stuffed his wallet into his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said cheerily as she shoved the money into the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Here,” Sarge said as he slapped a burger against Em’s back.

  She shook her head and chuckled as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed the burger.

  “Whu…whu…what did I…tuh…tuh…tell ya?” Chili said as he raised his fists in front of his chest.

  “He doesn’t scare me, Chili,” Em said as she waved her hand toward Sarge.

  “Here,” Sarge said as he handed Chili and me each a burger.

  The line slowly progressed as we stood eating our burgers. As I suspected, Sarge ate two, we each ate one, and there was one left. As Sarge shoved the remaining burger into the front pocket of his cut, Em challenged him.

  “What’s that for?” she asked as she wadded the wax paper from her burger into a ball and nodded her head toward Sarge’s cut.

  “What the fuck you think it’s for? It’s for fucking later,” he responded.

  “Just wait, he’ll pull it out and eat it on the way home while we’re riding down the highway eighty fucking miles an hour,” I assured her.

  As a group of four men stepped through the door and past where we stood, I realized we were next in line for having our cards punched.

  “Next,” the man sitting behind the table bellowed as we stepped into the bar.

  The previous four stops had three or four people working at each table. The lack of progress in our line was now apparent as I realized one lone man was working the line which would eventually produce over six hundred cards.