Misadventures of a Biker

by Scott Hildreth

  I’d never had a hand job. Considering all the available options for arousal to the point of ejaculation, a hand job was the clear loser in my opinion.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” I replied. “Twenty bucks?”

  “I paid three bucks for one in Da Nang in nineteen sixty-nine,” he said. “She yanked on that fucker like she was trying to start a goddamned lawn mower. Each time she tugged on it, I came up off the bed about six inches. I finally told her to stop. Gave her another three bucks for a blowjob. She wanted five, but I talked her down. Felt like I’d cheated her afterward, so I gave her a five-dollar tip. Considering that was fifty years ago in Vietnam, I’m thinking a hand job will go for fifty, here in the States. Maybe more.”

  “Fifty?” I stared in complete disbelief. “Who’d give fifty bucks for a hand job?”

  He nodded toward the living room. “People like him.”

  “A hand job’s worth fifteen bucks and five for the tip,” I said. “Twenty total.”

  He considered my reasoning. He shook his head in opposition. “I bet twenty bucks would buy about three strokes.”

  “Three strokes?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s seven bucks a stroke. Applying that math, the fifty-buck hand job you’re talking about would buy seven strokes. A girl would have to be pretty talented to finish a guy off in seven strokes.”

  “Bet that gal you’re seeing could get it done in seven strokes, can’t she?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “She’s never given me a hand job.”

  His fork fell from his grasp and hit his plate with a clank! “What?” He seemed appalled. “Why in the hell not?”

  “Who wants a hand job?”

  He reached for the fallen utensil. “Who doesn’t?”

  I shrugged and commenced eating my dinner. “I don’t.”

  His wrinkled brow furrowed even more. “Why not?”

  “They’re dumb,” I said over a mouthful of food. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of options to relieve myself. A hand job is my last choice.”

  He leaned forward, hovering over his plate, his brows raised in wonder. “Does she give blowjobs?”

  “She sure does.”

  He relaxed into the back in his chair and whistled through his teeth. “Who in their right mind would want a hand job if that was an option?”

  I chuckled. “Precisely.”

  “Does she have you finish on a tissue, or does she collect it in her hand? Midge used a tissue.” He shook his head, as if recalling one of their sexual activities together. “Drove me nuts. She always had her left hand dangling at her side clutching a Kleenex. Made it hard for me to stay focused.”

  I chuckled again. “Neither.”

  He seemed confused. “What’s she do with it?”

  “She swallows it.”

  “Jesus jumped-up Christ,” he blurted. He straightened his posture and clapped his hands together. “That gal’s a keeper.”

  “Because she swallows my spunk?”

  He raised his index finger. “She’s motivated.” He raised his middle finger. “Devoted to her job.” He continued extending his fingers with each point he made. “Financially stable. Gorgeous. She’s got a nice rack. She’s got a great personality. And she’s willing to do what she must to keep you happy.”

  She might have taken a ride on my motorcycle, but that didn’t make her willing to do whatever it took to make me happy.

  “I’d agree with all of them except for the last one,” I said. “It has yet to be seen.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “There’s not a girl on this planet who sits in front of the television at night thinking to herself, damn, I wish I had a mouthful of come. If they sold that shit in stores, nobody would buy it, even if they set it right beside the Coca-Cola. If restaurants offered it by the glass, nobody’d order it, either.” He shook his head as if disgusted with me. “That shit’s nasty, and you know it. If she swallows it, she’s doing it for no other reason than to keep you happy.”

  I’d taken her willingness to swallow my load for granted. He had a good point. I doubted anyone yearned for a mouthful of come.

  “You’re probably right,” I said in agreement.

  “If she can choke down a mouthful of that shit without complaining, that damned woman’s willing to go out of her way to please you,” he said, seeming upset that he had to mention it again. “Women like her are few and far between. Understand that. A woman’s desire to please a man is worth a lot more than looks or money, that’s for damned sure.”

  “So, I should keep her because she swallows my come?” I asked, my tone coated in sarcasm.

  “No,” he snapped back. “You keep her for all the reasons I gave you a minute ago, one of which is that she’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep you happy.” He picked up his plate and stood. He gave me a flippant look. “You might be intelligent, but you’re slowly proving that common sense isn’t something you possess.”

  “Fuck you, old man.”

  “I made my point.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Now you need to prove your worth by being man enough keep her.”

  I had no immediate plans to get rid of her. If nothing changed, I could see us staying together until I was free to decide where I chose to call home.

  “I’ll probably keep her around until I’m free to go to the other side of the state,” I said. “Then I guess we’ll see what happens. I doubt she’s up for a move to Miami.”

  “Miami?” He tossed his plate into the sink. “There ain’t one of those pricks you used to run with who gives an honest fuck about you. Your best bet is to make a change with who you run with.”

  “They’re a good bunch of guys,” I said. “They really are.”

  Now facing me, his disapproval of my claim was apparent. He looked like he just swallowed a cat turd.

  “Are they?” He put his hands on his hips. “How many of ’em came to visit you in the joint?”

  “Bikers aren’t much for visiting prisons,” I replied.

  “How many of ’em wrote you letters?”

  The only person who wrote me while I was locked up was Herb. I’d looked forward to his letters as much as I’d anticipated the arrival of Christmas as a child. Without them, I would have had no connection to the outside world.

  “I’ll take that dumb look on your face as a response that none of them did,” he quipped. “Any of ’em send you a few bucks for snacks?”

  They hadn’t, but I hadn’t expected them to, either.

  He coughed a dry laugh. “That’s what I thought.” He turned toward the living room. “You’re like that Ferrari that’s always parked down at that crappy car dealer on Pine Ridge. Your presence elevates their worth. They keep you around because it makes them look good. Rest assured, none of those worthless bastards will be at your side when you’re drawing your last dying breath.”

  I felt the need to rebut his statement, but I couldn’t. As much as I didn’t like hearing them, the points he made were all valid.

  None of them, however, were what I wanted to hear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Teddi

  Seated beside me on the couch, Devin held his phone at arm’s length. He gave me an apologetic look. When the voice on the other end went silent, he raised it to his ear. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. You can stop calling. Everything’s fine.”

  Having Devin stay in my home was a huge step for me, even if it was only for one night. My life’s sexual encounters hadn’t been infrequent by anyone’s standards, but I had a rule I followed with each man I slept with.

  I didn’t bring them into my home.

  The exceptions were the two long-term relationships I’d been in. Having both of them end poorly supported my belief that allowing men into my home was a precursor to a relationship’s failure.

  I hoped that this time things were different.

  “Fine,” Devin said, his voice thick with frustration. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

 
; He hung up the phone. He tossed it to the far end of the couch and shook his head. “That old man drives me nuts.”

  “I think it’s cute that he cares enough to call.”

  “Three times?” Devin asked. “Since we got off work?”

  “What do you two normally do on Friday night?”

  “Same thing we do every night. Watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Talk about whatever is in the news. Get into an argument about our differing opinions. I go to the gym at the clubhouse and work out, and he goes to bed. Same thing every night.”

  “He probably misses you.”

  “I’m sure he does,” he said. “But I’m not going to live with him forever.”

  A tinge of hope ran through me. But I feared asking where he intended to move would produce an answer I didn’t want to hear.

  “How long has it been since his wife passed?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Ten years, maybe?”

  “I’m sure he looks forward to your company. This is the first night you’ve been away, isn’t it?”

  “Since I moved in? Yeah.”

  Being in a relationship required maintenance, part of which was provided—to me at least—in the form of advice from friends who had been through the same experiences. I wondered if Devin relied on Herb for advice, or if Kate was his go-to sounding board.

  “What do you guys talk about every night?” I asked.

  “Dumb shit.” He chuckled and then looked at me. “What’s a hand job worth?”

  I gave him a look. “A what?”

  “Hand job,” he said. “You know. Giving a guy a handy.”

  I repositioned myself to face him. “Jacking someone off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it worth? Like what should a prostitute charge?”

  “Someone in a massage parlor,” he replied. “How much extra should it cost for a hand job? On top of the massage price. This was our topic of discussion last week.”

  “What’s a massage cost?” I asked.

  “Hundred bucks.” He shrugged. “Give or take.”

  I’d given a plethora of hand jobs in my days, but I wouldn’t jack off a random guy for any amount of money. If a massage therapist’s menu included hand jobs, I suspected they’d be priced affordably and within reach of his or her clientele.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Two hundred bucks?”

  “Two hundred bucks?” He looked at me up and down. “For a hand job?”

  I’d lived a somewhat sheltered life. Feeling foolish for my response, I scrunched my nose in dramatic fashion. “Is that too much?”

  “I’m guessing for two hundred bucks you could have sex with half the staff.”

  “Really?”

  “It can’t cost more than a hundred for sex,” he replied. “I’m not speaking from experience. That’s just a guess. I bet it’s accurate, though.”

  I couldn’t claim that I’d never had meaningless sex. I could, however, state that I’d never had sex for money. I saw the two as being completely different. Being a prostitute required a woman to have sex with anyone who could afford to pay for it. Having meaningless sex with a random barfly allowed the woman to choose her partner.

  “That’s gross,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Which part of it?”

  “That someone would have sex for a hundred bucks.”

  “What if they charged a thousand?” he asked. “Does that make it classy?”

  “No,” I replied. “It’s still gross.”

  “What about the hand job? Is that gross, too?”

  In high school, I viewed sex as a sacred act. Consequently, I doled out hand jobs to my male classmates like ammunition to a deployed brigade of US Marines.

  “Jacking someone off is different,” I replied. “It’s not sex.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hand job.”

  He laughed. “You act like you’re experienced.”

  “I’ve given a few,” I said.

  “Define a few.”

  We’d agreed to be transparent with one another. As much as I hated to admit the truth, I felt I had to. With some reluctance, I responded in a less than definitive manner.

  “In high school, I didn’t have sex. With anyone. So, I gave hand jobs.”

  He laughed. “Two-hundred-dollar hand jobs?”

  “What?” I blurted. “No.”

  “Earlier, you said a hand job should be worth two hundred bucks. Were yours worth two hundred?”

  “I never had any complaints,” I replied, reflecting more pride in my response than I probably should have.

  “I’ve never had a hand job.”

  There was no way he’d gone a lifetime without being jacked off a few times by nervous high school girls who were saving their virginity for marriage. I suspected what he meant was that he never had a hand job worth mentioning. I wanted to hear the sordid details surrounding his haphazard hand jobs.

  “You’ve never had a good one?” I asked.

  “I’ve never had one, period.” He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I alternated eager glances between his dick and his eyes. “You’ve never had a hand job? Not even a bad one?”

  “No.” He calmly stroked his cock. “I haven’t.”

  I pried my eyes away from his cock-filled hand. “Why?”

  “Hand jobs are stupid,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even come.”

  “Can I try?” I asked excitedly.

  “Well,” he said with a laugh, “I didn’t get it out so I could play with it.”

  A tinge of anxiety tickled my senses. Enthusiasm promptly replaced it. I sprang from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”

  I ran to my bathroom and grabbed my lotion from the vanity. I had no doubt that I’d be a little rusty after two decades of hand job inactivity, but a bone-dry tug job would place me in a category where I clearly didn’t belong.

  Nina Hartman might have been the homecoming queen of Gulf Coast High, but I was the unnamed hand job queen. I fully intended to prove it to a man who appeared to doubt my worth.

  Lotion in hand, I returned to the living room. Hoping to dispel the myth that hand jobs were stupid, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “Jeans and boxers off, mister.”

  “Oh. Wow. You’re serious.”

  “That’s right.”

  He rid himself of his boots, jeans, and boxers. As if it were an everyday occurrence, he took his seat and continued stroking himself.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  With his thick shaft clenched in his fist, he gazed at me with eyes of uncertainty. “Are you?”

  I pumped a few squirts of lotion into my palm and met his doubtful gaze. I reached for his cock. “I am now.”

  “Want to make a bet?” he asked.

  I stroked his shaft once. “What kind of bet?”

  “Whether or not you can make me come.”

  “What’s the wager?”

  “The winner gets sex on command from the loser.”

  He had my full attention. I swallowed heavily. “On command?”

  “Yep.”

  If he won, he’d probably demand that I fuck him in my office or in the front seat of my Range Rover at some busy intersection. If I won, I’d come up with something far more interesting.

  “I’ll take that bet,” I said with a nod of reassurance.

  He playfully wagged his cock at me. “Get to work. Let me know when your arm’s too tired to continue. I’ll finish it off.”

  I looked at him and smirked. “Just relax. This will be over before you know it.”

  I stroked his shaft from the tip to the base a few times and then paused. “Are you opposed to standing?”

  “Whatever you think might give you the edge,” he said with a light laugh. “But it’s not going to work.”

  I inched away from the couch and removed my shirt and bra. I cupped my boobs in my
hand and gave him an innocent look. “When you come, would you do it on my boobs?”

  He stood. “You’re not going to have to worry about that.”

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, mister.” I gestured to his shirt. “Toss the shirt too, boss.”

  He removed his shirt and added it to the pile. His midsection was chiseled to perfection. The washboard of muscles covered in tattooed skin tapered to a prominent V. Beneath it, a gorgeous cock that was arrow straight and as thick as my dainty wrist.

  His body, in its entirety, demanded admiration. It begged to be touched. I knelt in front of him and traced my fingers over the ripples of muscle that separated his chest from the object of my current desires.

  I reached for his cock. “Prepare to be defeated.”

  He crossed his arms over his tattooed chest and glared.

  I fixed my eyes on the prize and stroked his entire length with a firm—but gentle—grip. Hoping for reassurance that my efforts were pleasing him, I glanced up.

  He peered at me with disbelieving eyes. “I don’t think being jacked off is my thing.”

  I wasn’t about to forfeit my crown. I cupped his balls in my left hand and shortened my stroke. Paying special attention to the rim of the head, I stroked his stiff dick like I was jackhammering through construction rubble—all the while holding his doubtful gaze.

  I parted my lips slightly. “Come in my mouth,” I cooed. “Or on my face.” I tossed my hair over my shoulders and gave him my best sultry look. “Just cover me in it. Please.”

  The doubt in his eyes faded to nothing. Eager to win the bet, I continued my firm-gripped onslaught, maintaining a methodical pace. I daydreamed of the places that I might command him to have sex with me. The sound of his irregular breathing brought me from my dreamlike state.

  His eyes widened. His back arched. The worried look on his face gave indication that he was seconds away from losing his composure—and the bet. A few strokes later, his cock swelled in my hand.

  With my mouth agape and tits at the ready, I stroked his thick shaft vigorously. Hoping nothing came between me and success, I mentally prepared for him to release his pleasure, wondering just how much a man like him would discharge.

  If masculinity had anything to do with it, he’d unload a quart. If sexiness were involved, it’d be a gallon. If the size of his cock or balls came into play, it would take me an hour to clean up.