Goose

by Hildreth, Scott

“The best,” Ally responded. “It comes with garlic mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon and onions, and two hot rolls.”

  “You better be hungry,” Lawson added. “It’s a twenty-ounce chunk of meat.”

  My appetite had finally returned. I had a week of making up to do. A hearty meal sounded good. “I’ll have the same.”

  He pointed to Ally. “Cooked medium? With milk?”

  “Please, and yes, please.”

  He shifted his eyes to me. “How would you like it cooked?”

  “Medium.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I’ve still got some.”

  “It’ll be about fifteen minutes on those,” he said, turning away as he spoke.

  Ally twisted her hair into a bun. “So, you think I’m attractive, or whatever?”

  “I do.”

  Although a petite woman, Ally had a set of tits and an ass that transformed her into a curvaceous beauty. Body aside, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her eyes alone would attract the attention of any man. Her full lips and long brown hair added to the ensemble, making the complete package irresistible.

  Seeing her hair up gave her an elegant and refined appearance. I’d always found a woman’s neck sexy. As I became lost in admiration, it was immediately obvious my cock agreed.

  Concealed from view by the table, I attempted to force my stiffening manhood into submission.

  She gave me a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I murmured.

  She looked me over, pausing at my flexing bicep. “You’re doing something.”

  I continued an unsuccessful effort to wrestle my cock into a flaccid state. “Were you going to make a point, or was that just a question you were wondering about? The attractive thing?”

  She leaned to the side and peered beneath the table. Following a lengthy assessment, she looked up. “What are you doing with your dick?” she whispered.

  “Trying to get it to settle down.”

  “Is it out of control?”

  “It’s getting that way.”

  She put on a look of innocence. “Why?”

  “Because it likes it when your hair’s up, that’s why.”

  “It’s gets excited over that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It gets excited over weird shit.”

  Wearing a smile of accomplishment, she nodded toward the incident in question. “Is it getting any better?”

  “It is now that we’re talking,” I said. “Just keep talking.”

  “It doesn’t like talking?”

  “My dick?” I chuckled. “No, it hates talking. Talking bores it.”

  She laughed a dry laugh. “But my hair up excites it?”

  “Apparently.”

  She reached for her bun, unraveled it, and then shook her hair down over her shoulders. “Better?”

  It began to recede. I conjured up an image of a coast to coast trip in her Volkswagen. The reaction was instantaneous.

  I reached for my coffee. “It’s headed in the right direction.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  A few seconds later, I’d succeeded. I rested my forearms against the table and wrung my hands together. “There. All better.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Dicks are weird.”

  They were. She should try having one. I laughed. “Tell me about it.”

  Lawson reached over her shoulder and handed her a glass of milk. “Here you go. Food will be just a bit.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Thank you.”

  When he was gone, she sipped her milk. “Do you control it, or does it control you?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” I responded. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, look at it this way. When it gets excited, do you react? Or does it react when you get excited.”

  I’d never given it much thought. After she’d mentioned it, I found it amusing. I made decisions based on what my cock was doing. When it got hard, I reacted. There was no two ways about it, my dick led me in the direction it wanted me to go.

  “I think it’s always dick first, me second,” I admitted.

  “So, if I wouldn’t have let my hair down, you would have been forced to react?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I would have left my hair up, you would have stayed aroused. Sitting there with a stiff dick, you would have been forced to react, right?”

  “React or leave,” I said. “Or be in agony, I guess.”

  “Which would you have done?”

  “I’d have probably left,” I said in a dry tone.

  “Oh really?” She lowered her chin and gave me a look like I’d told the lie of the century. “You’d have left?”

  I fought to remain straight-faced. “Probably.”

  “Probably, huh?” She wagged her head from side to side mockingly. “I think you’re full of shit.”

  I took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “Everyone’s got an opinion.”

  She glared at me for a moment. She began unbuttoning her dress. With my eyes glued to her delicate hands, I watched intently as she unfastened it past her flesh-colored bra.

  She pulled the cups of her bra down and exposed a set of very perfect tits. She cupped them in her hands. As if it were an everyday occurrence, she peered down and squeezed the flesh.

  My cock rose against my jeans with such force that it sent a wave of pain through me. I glanced over each shoulder and then gave her a narrow-eyed look. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Checking my boobs for lumps.” She tilted her head toward my crotch. “What are you doing?”

  “Put them up,” I demanded.

  “You said I was attractive. So, are you scared of sex?” She squeezed her boobs. “Or just scared of me? It’s one or the other. Or, it could be the other thing I mentioned.” She squeezed them again. “The one that made you mad.”

  I’d been chased by the cops, shot at, stabbed, hit in the head with a baseball bat, and been in more armed stand-offs during bank robberies that Bonnie and Clyde. I wasn’t scared of her. I wasn’t scared of sex.

  I wasn’t scared of anything.

  “I was joking about saying I would have left.” I nodded toward her tits. “Put ‘em up.”

  “Make me.”

  Having someone shake their bare tits at me in a restaurant wasn’t something I was accustomed to. A girl with a sassy mouth was new to me as well. Apparently, I liked both. My cock became an entirely different degree of hard. One I had no idea existed.

  I clenched my jaw. “Put. Them. Up.”

  She squeezed her tits and grinned. “Make me.”

  “You little smart-ass,” I said though my teeth. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again.” She did the side-to-side thing with her head. “Make. Me.”

  I could feel each pulse of my heart in my groin. I glanced at her tits and then met her gaze. Auburn ribbons of hair trickled over the front of her shoulders, coming to rest against her cream-colored skin. She was irresistibly adorable.

  I considered my options.

  I stood.

  My cock ached. My head spun. I was in agony. I grabbed her wrist. “We’re leaving. Put your dress up, or I’m going to drag your smart-mouthed ass through this restaurant with your tits hanging out for everyone to see.”

  “Where…where are we going?” she stammered.

  “To your car,” I growled. “I’m going to teach you a lesson about talking shit to bikers.”

  10

  Ally

  The pale blue glow from a distant streetlight filtered through the windshield. I lowered my bare ass against his legs. Smashed into the passenger seat, he struggled to get comfortable. With each movement he made, his stiff cock teetered back and forth, banging against the inside of my thighs.

  I ached to feel him inside of me.

  He exhaled a forced breath. “Do these seats recline?”

  I pried myself away from
the dash. “There’s a lever on the right. Lift it up.”

  The seat shot back with a snap, taking him—and me—with it.

  Giggling, I sat up. “That’d be the one.”

  He pushed his hand against the center of my back, forcing my chest against the dash. “These little pieces of German shit weren’t made for fucking in, where they?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never—”

  The tip of his cock grazed my clit. My body tensed. The pressure against my folds became intense. I was soaking wet, but it didn’t seem to be helping matters.

  I clenched my teeth. “Maybe we should—”

  His girth sank into me slowly, taking my words—and my breath—away completely.

  I slapped my hands against the windshield.

  Dear fucking God.

  I had no expectations that dinner in a fancy French restaurant or a bouquet of flowers would precede my first sexual romp with Goose. Ultimately, I wanted his dick, his heart, and his trust. He’d impaled me with the first part of that equation. The second would come naturally. The third, with time.

  I braced myself and drew a deep breath.

  He gripped my waist and lifted my weight from him, slightly. His hips—and his cock—withdrew.

  “Jesus,” I breathed. “It felt like you shoved a—”

  He slammed himself into me fully.

  Fuck.

  “Fuck!” I howled. “Easy, I’m not—”

  He did it again.

  I pressed my hands against the dash and flexed my biceps. Hoping to prevent him from using me as a platform for his jackhammer-like antics, I forced myself against him.

  It was an exercise in futility. My strength was no match for him.

  He continued to pound away, filling me with every inch of his thick cock each time his hips slapped against my ass with a clap.

  If my childhood taught me nothing else, I learned to embrace the unthinkable. So, that’s exactly what I did. I closed my eyes, became limp against his strength, and allowed him to use me at his will.

  He did just that.

  Frantically, he tore at my dress. “This. Motherfucker’s. Got. To. Go.”

  Seconds later, the flowered garment landed in a pile beside me. My bra followed.

  I was stark naked in my car at 6:15. Thankful that it was winter—and dark—but aggravated that I hadn’t spent the money to tint my windows, I glanced toward the diner.

  He must have noticed my lack of attention toward what we were doing.

  His hips slammed against my ass. My head came crashing against the windshield. I felt his cock in my chest.

  “Something in there you’re worried about?” He cupped my boobs with his massive hands. “You’ll be back in there as soon as I pump your tight little pussy full of cum.”

  I was a sucker for dirty talk. My eyes fluttered, and then fell closed.

  Do it.

  “Do it.” I clenched my jaw and braced my hands against the windshield.

  His fingers sank into the flesh of my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Pulling against them, he forced me to lean forward, giving him more room to work his dick magic.

  I wanted to say something smart-assed to rile his temper and get him to fuck me like he was mad at me, which was basically what he’d been doing since we started. I liked being fucked hard when I was in the mood.

  I was in the mood.

  I recalled the author’s instructions in the book I was reading. Lure with a question that invites the reaction you’re hoping for.

  “I like being fucked hard,” I admitted, my tone soft and pleasant. “You can get ahold of my hair if you want, just—”

  Before I finished the thought, he had a fistful of my hair. He pulled against, it, forcing me to arch my back.

  With one of my boobs being assaulted by his hand, and his hair-filled fist against the back of my head, he fucked me like I would have expected a biker to fuck me.

  The sound of bare skin slapping bare skin filled the gaps between the sound of our erotic grunts.

  Every few strokes, the tip of his cock would grind against my g-spot, nearly sending me to the moon with pleasure. Hoping to find the perfect angle for repeated pleasure, I arched my back. He cinched his grip on my hair, pulling my shoulders closer to his chest.

  The tip of his dick tapped my g-spot.

  Then, it happened again. Our positioning was perfect.

  “Pinch my nipple,” I said through my teeth, my demand near frantic. “Pinch it, pinch it, pinch it…”

  He complied. The sensation of being pricked by pins and needles ran through me. From my nipples to my nether region, it stripped me of any civility as it traveled through me.

  Until that moment, he had been fucking me.

  Overcome by desire, and inches from climactic bliss, my carnal instinct took over.

  I bucked wildly, taking the entire length of his shaft with each gyration of my hips. As my ass slapped against his thighs, the soft skin of the tip of his dick pushed against the sensitive flesh of my g-spot.

  “Fuck yes, you sexy little motherfucker,” he said under his breath. “Fuck me.”

  I found my rhythm and did as he asked. He released my hair and clawed to find a bare breast. His swollen cock filled me. His breath warmed my neck. His hands kneaded my flesh. His fingers pinched my nipples. The combined sensations became intoxicating.

  My vaginal walls clenched.

  I closed my eyes.

  My pace slowed.

  As my pussy tightened around his shaft, I rode his cock in perfect timing, slowly milking the length of his shaft from tip to base with each stroke.

  His girth swelled.

  “Give it to me,” I pleaded. “Please.”

  My softly spoken words were the last straw. Together, as if connected by something more than our bare flesh, we reached the pinnacle of sexual climax as one.

  Oh. My fucking. God.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed.

  As he came, his chest pressed against my back. His hands, pinned between me and the dash, continued to knead my flesh.

  When it ended, I collapsed against him, completely stripped of my strength.

  “That was fucking amazing,” he murmured.

  “That’s the first thing we’re going to agree on,” I said with a laugh. “It was.”

  “Your pussy is perfect.”

  “So’s your cock.”

  He let out a breath and laughed a light laugh. “Wonder if our food’s cold.”

  I glanced toward the diner. The car’s windows were fogged so badly that seeing through them was impossible.

  Denial of what we’d done to anyone who’d bothered to pay attention would be impossible.

  I didn’t care.

  I’d finally got what I was after.

  11

  Goose

  Despite the popularity of motorcycles in Southern California, the distinct sound of Harley-Davidson’s Shovelhead engine was something rarely heard. As the replacement for the unreliable Panhead engine, the now outdated and underpowered Shovelhead was produced from 1966-1984.

  Hardcore bikers outfitted their motorcycles with the engine for reasons unknown to modern-day wannabes who chose to ride their machines with multi-colored metal-flake paint schemes to Starbucks every other Sunday for a cup of overpriced coffee.

  Upon recognizing the distinct sound, I peered over the edge of the roof. The low idle speed and the unmistakable exhaust note each time the approaching motorcycle came to a stop was an all too familiar sound.

  Shovelhead’s ran like a striped-assed ape and sounded like absolute shit. They were beautiful and grotesque at the same time.

  Baker pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I pushed my shears into my back pocket, stood, and surveyed the morning’s work.

  “I’m up here!” I shouted.

  The sound of his boot heels against the concrete drive confirmed he’d traveled alone. As soon as he stepped onto the roof, I knew some
thing was amiss. His long face and tired eyes warned me not to bother asking. He sauntered toward where I stood.

  I could count Baker’s solo trips to my home on one hand. Each one brought with it a unique revelation. He never stopped by “just to talk”.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, turning away. “Beer or tea?”

  “Whiskey,” he replied. “Something smooth.”

  Whiskey at ten am on Sunday. I didn’t like the sound of it. Nonetheless, I returned in a few moments with a bottle of Macallan single malt and two glasses.

  After pouring two shots of mind-numbing size, I set the bottle aside and handed him one of the glasses. “You look like hell.”

  He held the glass beneath his nose and drew a breath. “I’ve got a cop’s head in one of my saddlebags. It’s not a good feeling.”

  He downed the shot.

  I wasn’t thrilled about a five-month-old head being parked in my driveway. I’d chosen to relocate to the beachfront getaway to stay one step ahead of the police, not give them an invitation to raid my home for evidence.

  I drank the shot in one gulp and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “You don’t say? Any idea where the rest of him is?”

  He looked like he was going to puke. “Hands and feet are in there, too.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of bile. “What about the rest?”

  “There’s only one more piece,” he said. “Cash has got it in the bed of his truck.”

  I suspected at ground level it smelled pretty fucking ripe. Luckily, the fifteen pots of freshly-planted marigolds were keeping the roofline from falling victim to the dead cop’s stench.

  “All the fucking cops will have to do is follow the trail of swarming flies,” I muttered. “What the fuck were you thinking, Bake? Coming here?”

  “Last I remember, you said you wanted to be involved,” he grunted. “Consider yourself involved. And, for what it’s worth, it doesn’t stink.”

  “According to who?” I asked. “All that hair on your face is blocking your nose. The son-of-a-bitch has been dead for five months. Depending on where’s he’s been—”

  “Encased in concrete.”

  I was impressed. Not a lot, but for having Cash involved, I felt that I should at least pat him on the shoulder the next time we saw each other.