HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Ladies fuh…fuh…first,” Chili said as he released Em and patted her on the back.

  “I need a winner,” she said as she reached into the bag of chips.

  She removed her hand, looked at the chip, and screeched as she held it in the air for me to see.

  “Twenty-one,” she wailed.

  “What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” Sarge complained as he reached for his ears.

  The man took Em’s card, punched the number twenty-one, and handed it back to her. She turned to face me, raised herself onto her tip-toes, and leaned into my shoulder.

  “Our anniversary,” she whispered.

  I nodded my head, slightly shocked she remembered the day I made our relationship official, and equally surprised she labeled the day as such.

  “We’re gonna win,” she announced as she waved the card toward Sarge and Chili.

  The sound of the long line of bikes riding out of town reminded me we had a forty mile before we would have our envelopes opened and judged. I turned toward the street, fully hoping Em was right. She seemed to get tremendous satisfaction out of small things, and seeing the look on her face if she won the grand prize would be a joy in itself.

  As we sat on our bikes in the sun and waited on the rest of the fellas to make their way through the line, Em tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced over my shoulder, well aware her chin was resting against my upper back. As our eyes met, her mouth curled into a genuine grin.

  “Best day ever,” she whispered.

  I reached over my shoulder with my right hand, gripped the back of her neck, and pulled her face forward, pressing it against mine. As I positioned my mouth against her ear, she closed her eyes.

  “I’m going to fuck your sexy little ass ragged at Chili’s party later. When we’re done it’ll be the best day ever,” I growled into her ear.

  “Oh god,” she cooed.

  “Oh god is right,” I said as I released her neck and started the motorcycle.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, huh Sarge?” I said over the rumble of the exhaust.

  “Just as well,” he shrugged as he nodded his head toward the bar, “This could take all fucking day.”

  Em turned her head toward Chili.

  “When’s your party start?” she asked.

  “Soon as wuh…wuh…we…get buh…buh…back,” Chili responded as he started his bike.

  “I’m ready,” Em announced cheerily.

  “I doubt that,” I said as I released the clutch.

  But, deep down in my heart of hearts, I was pretty damned sure she was ready for anything I had to offer.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Five

  EMILY

  July 26, 2006

  Although it had only been two months since Jackson and I had met, we really hadn’t been separated at all during that period of time. And, if a person had the means and methods to measure the quality of time we had spent together, they would without a doubt agree our life together had been nothing short of a living dream.

  As a young girl, I often guessed what my life would become, and when I would reach a point that I was satisfied with what I had either obtained or achieved. I suspected I would be fifty or maybe even slightly younger, but certainly not twenty-one. If given an opportunity as a high school girl to paint a perfect picture of what I expected my dream man to be, I never would have painted a picture of Jackson, but maybe that’s why so many relationships when we are young and foolish just don’t seem to last beyond a matter of weeks.

  In my opinion, when we’re young, we don’t really know what we need, and it seems we settle for what we desire. Our desires are based on the thoughts and feelings of our inexperienced youth, and therefore aren’t in line with what we truly need, leaving us in the not-so-distant future in a position to choose either settling for what it is we have, or moving on in an attempt to find what we have come to believe we actually need.

  And most women I knew seemed to settle for what they had, choosing not to seek what it was they truly needed.

  I was fortunate. Jackson found me. And, be it by blind luck or fate, he had proven to be exactly what I needed.

  “Put the fuckers wherever you want them,” he said as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  The July sun bore down on us like a heavy weight, the humidity from the previous night’s rain making the air so thick it was difficult to breathe. As if the temperature and my exposure to the sun over the course of the morning had caused mild brain damage, I continued to stare like an idiot at the ground.

  “Okay,” I said as I gazed blankly at the pots of flowers we had brought home.

  Jackson stood, studying the hole he had dug, and eventually turned away and walked into the garage. In a few minutes he returned with a small green box and carefully placed it into the hole. After tossing some dirt on top of the box, he lowered the rose bush into the hole and began adding some of the bagged soil we had purchased.

  In the previous month I had backed out of the lease on my apartment and moved all of my belongings into Jackson’s home. Although he continued to call it our home, I really felt like it was his, and that I was invading his space. The addition of the flowers we had purchased together was a great help in convincing me it was a home we shared, and not one I was simply a guest in. As I continued to stare at them, I wondered if he realized in suggesting we plant flowers together that it would make me feel more comfortable.

  “You realize those impatiens are annuals, and they won’t come back next year, don’t you?” he asked as he finished planting his rose bush.

  “Huh?” I responded as I gazed down at the pots of flowers, confused on where to put each one of them.

  “Annuals will last for this season and die. Perennials will come back year after year. The rose bush is a perennial; we’ll have it for as long as we live here. It’ll be ours forever…well…as long as it lives, but they say they live thirty years or longer…” he explained as he shoveled the extra soil into the wheelbarrow.

  “So these guys are gonna die?” I asked as I peered down at my flowers.

  “That’s why they were on sale. We can enjoy ‘em for the rest of the summer, though,” he said as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

  “Put it back on,” I said jokingly as I covered my eyes.

  Seeing him shirtless was sheer torture. His body was as perfect as I suspected anyone’s could ever be, and seeing it covered by a tight white tank tormented me enough. When he removed his shirt, I was forced to accept him as being a shirtless gorgeous tattooed biker until he chose to make sexual advancements toward me.

  I had learned a lot about Jackson since we met, and although I initially tried dressing scantily, acting horny, and making idle sexual suggestions, I learned he was a far too disciplined to allow me to coerce him into sex. I simply had to enjoy watching him and wait until he decided he was ready.

  As he pushed the wheelbarrow toward where I was standing, the muscles on his biceps flared. His washboard abs appeared to be chiseled out of stone, a product of his daily workouts, eating properly, and rarely enjoying sweets. The closer he got to me, the more I wanted to look away, but doing so was as impossible as any other time he was close enough for me to admire. As the sweat covering his torso glistened in the hot afternoon sun, I forced myself to tear my eyes from him and once again gaze down at my poor choice in flowers.

  “Staring at ‘em isn’t going to do a lot of good,” he said as he shoved the end of the wheelbarrow into my thigh.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going,” I said as I shoved against it.

  He released the wooden handles, walked around me as if I wasn’t there, and slapped my ass as he passed by. After turning on the garden hose, he dragged it toward the rose bush he had planted, placed it on top of the new soil, and returned to my withering one-time-only and soon to be dead choice of flowers. As he placed his hands on his hips and gazed down at the flowers, he exhaled a sigh and shook his head lightly. />
  “What did you bury with the rose bush?” I asked.

  He shifted his eyes upward, met my gaze, and grinned.

  “Something we’ll dig up together on a rainy day,” he responded.

  “What are we going to do with these guys?” I asked as I kicked my toe against one of the pots.

  “Don’t get mad because they’re going to die, Em. Everything dies. Everything has a beginning and an ending. Just be glad you’re allowed to enjoy them while you’re able,” he said as he picked up two of the pots and placed them into the wheelbarrow.

  “Where are we taking them?” I asked.

  “Well, they’re best in low sunlight, so maybe if we take them to the north side of the house and plant them over there…”

  “Which way’s north,” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Where the front door is.”

  “Oh,” I said with a nod.

  “There’s a planter over there under the window outside the kitchen, we can put them in the planter, it’ll look nice,” he said.

  “A what?” I asked as he picked up two more of the pots.

  “A wooden fucking box affixed to the side of the house, Em. You probably didn’t notice it because it’s empty. Grab those two and come on,” he said as he began to push the wheelbarrow toward the gate.

  “You can’t go out front with your shirt off,” I said as I bent over to pick up the flowers.

  He stopped the wheelbarrow and turned to face me. “Oh no?”

  I shook my head. “Neighbors will complain.”

  He cocked one eyebrow and stared. “About?”

  “Uhhm. Half-naked bikers?” I said.

  The thought of another woman walking by, driving by, or peering out her window at him made me angry. I would have never described myself as a possessive person, nor had I ever been the jealous type, but with Jackson, things were much different. As comfortable as I was in his presence, and as pleased as he made me with his treatment of me, I lived in constant fear of losing him. I really had no reason to believe my fears were warranted, and in fact, they weren’t, but I harbored them nonetheless.

  “Well, can I take off my shirt?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said as he pushed the wheelbarrow through the gate.

  “Don’t think I won’t,” I said.

  He stopped, turned to face me, and stared for a moment. Standing with a flower pot in each hand, I wondered what I might have gotten myself into. As I stood knowing he was going to do or say something to make me regret my smart assed remark, he grinned and lifted his chin slightly.

  “Take it off,” he said.

  I gazed around the yard. The back yard was protected slightly by a privacy fence, but it in no way prevented everyone from seeing in the back yard. The neighboring homes were two story houses, and anyone from a second story could see right into the yard if the wished.

  “Come on, let’s get these planted,” I said as I took a few steps in his direction.

  “Take off your shirt, Em,” he demanded.

  I lowered the flower pots to the ground, glanced around the yard, and lifted my shirt up and over my braless boobs. Now standing shirtless in the blazing sun, I felt slightly embarrassed, but the embarrassment only lasted for a few seconds.

  As the sun warmed my bare skin, I began to feel sexy and increasingly horny with each passing second. With the shirt dangling loosely from my fingertips, I waited for further instructions. I had learned over the last few months I wasn’t only acting as a submissive to fulfill Jackson’s desire, but I was doing so for myself. From what he had explained, and it made perfect sense, I desired pleasing him as much as he desired being pleased.

  In short, I yearned to make him happy with me, and knowing he was pleased with my actions, decisions, or thoughts pleased me to my core.

  After a few minutes of admiring me, he waved his arm toward my shirt-filled hand.

  “Put it back on,” he said flatly.

  I pulled the shirt over my head and down along my sweaty torso. Surprised my hardened nipples hadn’t shredded the fabric as I pulled it past them, I situating it along the waist of my shorts and waited for his next demand.

  He pointed toward me and wagged his finger up and down.

  “Take ‘em off,” he said.

  “My shorts?” I asked.

  “No, your fucking Chuck’s, Em. I want you to take off your shoes. Jesus H. Christ, yes, your god damned shorts. And if you’ve got on any fucking panties, I’m going to drag you in by your heels and paddle that ass of yours until you can’t walk for a week,” he said.

  I had found out he preferred I not wear panties, but it certainly wasn’t natural - at least initially - for me to do so. I had worn panties with every outfit I had ever chosen to wear, and the thought of not wearing them had never really crossed my mind - pre-Jackson, that is. Although I had acquired quite the collection of panties over the years, I now found not wearing them a guilty little newfound pleasure. As I unbuttoned my shorts and pushed them down my hips, I twisted my mouth to the side and acted as if I didn’t want to take them any further.

  “Off,” he demanded.

  I kicked my ragged shoes to the side and continued to play the hesitation game as I watched him become more anxious. Eventually I pushed my shorts down my thighs and dropped them to my ankles. As they came to rest at my feet, I stepped through the leg with my left foot and kicked my right foot upward. My shorts flew in a perfect arc toward where Jackson stood. Without expression or changing his stance, he reached up and plucked them from the air as if it were a daily occurrence.

  Now standing in the back yard with my cleanly shaved pussy out in the open for all to see, I waited eagerly to see what his next instruction was going to be. I suppose I should have felt embarrassed, or maybe even slightly guilty, but I didn’t. My only concern was what Jackson expected of me. As I stood twenty feet in front of him naked from the waist down, my pussy began to tingle as I thought of the possibility of him fucking me in the grass.

  As he stood and gazed at me, I focused on the crotch of his jeans. The shape of his zippered area changed from flat to full, and then slowly began to rise.

  Score!

  “Get your little ass in the kitchen,” he demanded as he pointed toward the door leading into the garage.

  “Yes, Sir,” I responded as I slowly walked toward the garage in my best sexy runway model impersonation.

  As I stepped over the threshold of the door, I feigned stubbing my toe, and bent over as if to grab my damaged digit. With my ass in the air and my pussy pointed directly at him, I winced in non-existent pain and waited for him to scream.

  “In the kitchen, you little shit,” he bellowed.

  I stood, hobbled through the garage as if damaged, and ran into the kitchen as soon as I was out of his eyesight. Once in the kitchen I waited eagerly for what was sure to be some insanely satisfying sex for us both. As I leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for him, I did my very best to arch my back and thrust my non-existent ass in the air.

  Although I initially expected all of our sex would include some version of me being bound, gagged, or mildly tortured, I was proven wrong. I learned the BDSM acronym stood for Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism, and Masochism. With Jackson, his satisfaction wasn’t so much about any one of the aspects of the acronym, it was about control.

  He enjoyed variety, and in fact, we had sex on many occasions that was pretty conventional. Regardless of the flavor or intensity of the sex we both enjoyed it very much; but he was always in control, even if it was something as simple as telling me to get my ass in the kitchen. The control satisfied him, and me relinquishing control, and my living in the unknowing world of what was next satisfied me.

  He told me in the beginning he was different that anyone else I could ever encounter in life, and he was sure right.

  “Stand on your fucking tip-toes,” he barked as he entered the room.

  The sound of his voice startled me.

  �
��Yes, Sir,” I gasped as I stood on my tip-toes and peered over my shoulder.

  “You didn’t stub your fucking toe, you little shit. You think sticking your little pussy in the air is enough to fluster me?’ he asked as he walked toward the sink.

  As he washed his hands, I responded.

  “No, Sir,” I said over my shoulder.

  It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but it was without a doubt what he wanted to hear, and therefore what I needed to say.

  “Face the other direction,” he demanded. “Snd don’t turn around again.”

  I turned away, wondering if he was really upset over the toe thing or if it was just a show. Most of the time, I never knew for sure. I guessed it was probably best that way, and although it often caused me slight grief, I realized it was exactly what he wanted.

  I rested my elbows on the kitchen counter and anxiously waited for him to call the next shot. After a few seconds, he leaned forward, pushing his massive chest against my back. His forearm slid against my right elbow, and his mouth moved alongside my cheek, resting at my right ear. His warm breath against my ear sent chills down my spine.

  “Put these in your mouth,” he whispered as he held three ice cubes in front of my face.

  What the fuck?

  As I reached for the ice cubes, he placed a small glass bowl of ice on the countertop in front of me. The ice wasn’t the square or rectangular cubes, but the half-moon style the ice machines on refrigerators typically make.

  I slid the three cubes into my mouth and began juggling them with my tongue. About the time I realized my mouth was much fuller than I was really comfortable with, and as I hoped the ice would quickly melt away, his freezing cold finger pressed into the folds of my pussy and caused me to jump.

  With my mind focused on the mouthful of ice, I was beyond startled by his half-frozen fingertip being shoved into my twat. I immediately jumped, banging my hips on the edge of the countertop. I then gasped from the pain, choked on my mouth full of water, and immediately coughed. Water shot out of my mouth and all over the counter. As I wailed in pain from my soon to be bruised hips, a piece of the melted ice escaped my mouth and slid along the length of the kitchen counter.