Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  A finger slowly pressed its way deep into my ass.

  Oh. My. God!

  Another finger slid into my pussy, alongside his massive girth.

  Oh Lord.

  I gyrated my hips wildly. The time for precision was long gone, I was frantically fucking him without regard for any style or finesse.

  I felt fumbling around my throbbing – and well worn – pussy, and then…

  ANOTHER finger.

  With his cock and two fingers in my pussy, and a finger in my ass, my eyes shot open. Wide.

  The same smug grin covered his face.

  He was a gorgeous man, there was no doubt. Having him as a permanent part of my life, even if there wasn’t anything to tie us together except our love, satisfied me.

  I arched my back a little more, and pressed my pussy down the base of his shaft, and ground my hips against his balls, and every digit he had stuffed me with.

  And it came.

  My eyes rolled back in my head.

  A tingling shot through me.

  And, finally, I could speak.

  Kind of.

  “Holy Craaaaaap!” I wailed.

  As I began to come, his girth swelled to two-fold his normal size.

  It drove me into the most intense orgasm of my lifetime, sending me into a mindless frenzy of bucking my hips, crying, and blubbering out incomprehensible jibberish.

  Half way into my orgasm, he released inside of me, which drove me into another orgasm altogether.

  Within thirty seconds, I’d collapsed onto his chest, a fraction of my former self.

  I closed my eyes and rested my head against his chest. “I’m…done.”

  Both exhausted, and afraid to move for fear of upsetting the other, we lay motionless at each other’s side.

  “You alive,” he asked after some time.

  “Barely,” I said.

  “Wake the fuck up,” he bellowed.

  “I can’t.”

  “So, you’re worn the fuck out?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re going to put up minimal resistance?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I realized what I was opening myself up for. “Please, don’t fuck me again,” I murmured.

  “I won’t.” he said. “But I’ve got something I’ve got to do really quick. I just wanted to see if you were going to put up a fight.”

  “No fight.” I muttered.

  He rolled off the edge of the bed. In a moment, he returned.

  He rolled back onto the bed, at my side. After a few seconds, I smelled a familiar musty odor. I opened my eyes.

  The Scrabble box was at my side.

  I blinked. “What are you doing?”

  He cleared his throat. “A wise man once told me that the foundation of a healthy relationship was formed by playing that game. Or, something like that.”

  I grinned. “He told me that, too.”

  “Open it.”

  “Brad, I’m so tired, I can’t--”

  “Open it.”

  “Seriously, Brad. I can’t even lift--”

  “Jesus fuck, Tegan. Open the fuckin’ box. One more game, for fun.”

  He sounded more and more like Bradley every day. I liked that about him. It allowed me to do so much more than cling to distant memories of his father. Bradley may have left the earth, but he didn’t leave me. A little of him came into my life through the actions, words, and expressions of his son.

  I was grateful for their similarities, and for their differences. Win, or lose, I now loved Scrabble even more than before.

  I expected Bradley was peering down on us as we argued about Scrabble, and I felt terrible. I mustered enough energy to open the box, and sighed at the thought of another game. But I didn’t really mean it.

  After all, Scrabble was the foundation of any good relationship.

  I raised my head, rested it against my palm, and lifted the worn lid from the box.

  I lifted the velvet bag, loosened the drawstring, and dumped the letters out on the inside of the lid. As I spread the tiles about and flipped them over, something glistening caught the attention of my tired eye.

  I reached for it, and then paused.

  It can’t be.

  I blinked. Repeatedly. My heart worked its way into my quickly tightening throat.

  I looked at Brad.

  He smiled, and reached toward the tiles. “The same wise man once told me, when you know, you just know. And, that day in the burger joint, I thought I knew. But, when I kissed you a half hour later, at your house, I knew. It took me this long to gather the courage to ask.”

  He pinched the ring between his fingers, lifted it for me to see, and looked me in the eyes. “Tegan, I love you. You’re one of a kind. And being with you make me feel like I’m one of a kind. I love you, and that will never change. Will you make today and all of our tomorrows special by agreeing to be my wife?”

  I nodded and murmured my response. “I will.”

  With a shaking hand and a dimple producing grin, he slipped the ring onto my finger. “I love you.”

  I arched my back, looked up at the ceiling, and winked.

  I kept my promise.

  I met Brad’s gaze. “I love you, too.”

  And somehow, I knew that this love would last a life time.

  Dedication

  Three words.

  Jen. Campbell. Rocks.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  DIRTY 1st Edition Copyright © 2017 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover model: Alfie Gordello

  Photography by: Reggie Deanching @ R+M Photography

  Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

  Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth

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  Created with Vellum

  Prologue

  Lex

  Three weeks before my twenty-first birthday, I was kidnapped on my way out of the 7-Eleven. Whatever preconceived notions I may have had of being ripped away from the life I was living were all promptly thrown out the window, because what happened after they took me was much worse than anything I’d conjured up, even in my vilest of nightmares.

  They shoved me into a cab of a pickup truck in broad daylight. Although people walked in and out of the busy convenience store, nobody cared enough to do anything.

  Hands came from everywhere, touching me in places I reserved for invitation only. Initially, I fought to get away. Each time I did, the man with the tattooed face hit me with his closed fist.

  After being punched in the face repeatedly, my desire to try and escape dwindled to nothing.

  As they drove me to a house in one of Oceanside’s drug-infested neighborhoods, the smell of my own blood amalgamated with wafts of sweat, beer, and the sheer filth that already inhabited the cab of the truck.

  Fearing what may happen once inside the shitty rathole they parked in front of, I kicked and screamed in protest, but they dragged me inside the house by my hair anyway. In the distance, I heard a car trying to start. The smell of something burning momentarily replaced their repulsive scent, but it didn’t last.

  I heard children talking, but couldn’t see them.

  As I tried to dismiss the odor and appearance of t
he revolting house that they tossed me into, I concluded that the hellish pit could never be considered a home. Now trapped, and at their mercy, I was left to wonder how everything happened to me while so many people looked on.

  The beating I got in the truck was nothing compared to what happened inside the house. The man with the tattooed face hit me in the stomach so hard I vomited. Then, he punched me in the face so hard it blinded me. The beating continued until I collapsed on the floor.

  I remained still, hoping he would stop, but what came next was worse. There were four of them inside the house, the man with the tattooed face, another man who was short and muscular, and two grotesque piles of filth that looked like twins.

  I was pulled to my feet by my hair, and while I was groped by so many hands that I couldn’t keep track of what was happening, the sound of laughing, shouting, and my own crying filled the air.

  The man with the tattooed face cut off my shorts, but he wasn’t careful when he did it. The tip of the blade sank into the skin of my thigh as he slashed at the fabric.

  I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t allow me to simply get undressed, but later decided it must have been part of the process of breaking my spirit.

  In just moments, I felt like a week’s time had passed. Once again, I was on the floor.

  But this time I was naked.

  Humiliated.

  And incapable of resisting much more.

  The filthy twins masturbated on me while the other two men laughed and drank beer. I tried to wipe their release from my skin, but was kicked in the ribs for my effort.

  Then, the muscular man forced me to suck his dick.

  What begging I had done was met with a quick fist, so I complied, all the while relying on the little strength my prayers offered.

  I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around his flaccid shaft. He didn’t speak English, but through repeated slapping and hand gestures, I realized he wanted me to keep my eyes open.

  I couldn’t force myself to look at his dick, or at his face. I fixed my eyes on his hip, and with reluctance, took him into my mouth. As he became more aroused, an obscene scent secreted from his pores. Soon, it seemed to loom over me like a thick cloud.

  After he hardened, he pressed his hands against the back of my head and forced himself deep in my throat. With each thrust of his hips, his putrid flesh smashed against my nose. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the odor of his existence all but suffocated me.

  Each forceful shove made me feel more helpless, less like Alexandra, and, for some strange reason, guilt was overtaking me.

  He pounded what little hope I clung to from my grasp.

  As much as I continued to tell myself it was okay, it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t sexual, nor was it sensual. I tried to force myself to find a way to accept it, but I couldn’t and I feared I never would.

  The forceful blowjob lasted for what seemed like an entire lifetime. It was as if the clock turned at a much slower speed once it all started.

  Exhausted, I laid lifeless on the floor. I hoped that it was finally over.

  My hope was crushed when the man with the tattooed face snatched me to my feet by my hair. With the barrel of his gun pressed against my temple, he forced me to suck his dick.

  With my spirit crushed, and my ability to reason gone, I had no mechanism left to mentally fight against what was happening to me.

  So, I complied.

  I felt like I was another person, one outside of my body who was watching the former me as she performed these vile acts while the real me was elsewhere.

  Somewhere safe.

  Surreal wouldn’t come close to describing it.

  I may have been scared, but I don’t really know. Not really. I was covered in their cum, their scent, their sweat, and my blood. I don’t remember feeling anything but dirty. It was the kind of dirty that sticks with a person for a lifetime.

  The kind of dirty that causes a person to stand in front of the sink and scrub mercilessly in hope of somehow cleansing themselves of the filth that they would later find out had become a part of their very being.

  The kind of dirty that soap could never wash away.

  I was tossed into a room with windows that were boarded shut, a door that only had a handle on the outside, and a bucket that sat in the corner for seven of us to share as a bathroom.

  Other than a few blankets, there wasn’t anything else.

  We had no clothes.

  No toilet paper.

  No tampons.

  And, no hope.

  The days blurred together. Hope faded, and fear set in. Humiliation followed, but it didn’t last long. A lifetime’s worth of pain replaced it.

  Then, the eighth girl joined us. She would be the last.

  Somehow, she made it into the room without being sexually assaulted, but had been scared and humiliated to a degree that left her stuttering every time she tried to speak. Later, on the night that she came, the man with the tattoos on his face opened the door and demanded that she come with him.

  Cowering in the corner, and in fear of what they were going to rip from her, nine-year-old Marbella clung onto a sliver of hope – and my legs.

  Yes. She was nine.

  I offered myself in her place, but he only grew angrier.

  I offered to suck his cock. When he said no, I insisted on it. I told him I craved it. That I loved feeling him pound himself into my throat. As I spoke to him, I fondled my tits in hope of luring him to accept my offer.

  Eventually, he agreed.

  While he lowered his pants to his thighs, I knelt in front of him with the splinter of wood I’d pried away from the doorframe cupped tightly in my hand.

  As I took him into my mouth, I swung the tip of the wooden spike deep into his thigh.

  The butt of his pistol against my skull knocked me senseless for a moment. According to the others, he stumbled away with the promise of returning for Marbella, but that time never came.

  Minutes later, there was a gunshot. And then another. I counted fifteen more, and then they stopped.

  The bedroom door opened.

  A tall muscular man wearing a black baseball cap stood in the doorway.

  I glared at him. As the other girls sought shelter behind me, I mentally prepared to do whatever I had to do to protect them from the new monster.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  He knelt on the floor and let out a sigh. I looked at him with jaded eyes, but then a tear rolled down his cheek. It was then that I knew he wasn’t a monster.

  “In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder,” he explained. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

  Ten minutes later, there was a horrendous thunder. A thunder so powerful that it shook the walls and the floor.

  Then, one after another, the angels came.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Cholo

  Many of the men in the MC didn’t have jobs. They hustled for their money. Debt collectors, bail bondsmen, skip tracers, custom bike builders, and thugs for hire were some of their careers. Although I was completely devoted to the club, I chose to work for a living, and owned my own company.

  Purchasing a home in southern California wasn’t cheap, or easy, but I was getting there one kitchen remodel at a time.

  I pointed at the corner of the ceiling. “You see that gap in the crown molding?”

  Steve nodded. “You can see it looking straight at it, but from the side, it’s barely--”

  “It looks like shit. Redo it.”

  He looked at the imperfection and shook his head. “That’ll waste sixteen feet of molding, and that shit’s expensive. You don’t even see it if you’re not looking for it.”

  “Fix it. It’s either right, or it’s wrong. And that’s far from right.”

  I was a perfectionist to a fault, and my work reflected it.

  He let out a sigh. “Jesus. Fine. I
’ll replace it.”

  I looked around the kitchen. “Rest of it looks good as fuck, huh?”

  He nodded. “Big change from when we started.”

  After eliminating an interior wall, we’d replaced the cabinets, the flooring, the countertops, and fitted new tile for the backsplashes. What started as a dark and dated kitchen was now bright, open, and inviting.

  The owner was away on vacation, and was scheduled to be home in two days. It was my hope to have the job completed before she arrived.

  “She’s gonna be happy when she gets home.”

  He looked around the kitchen. “She ought to be. This fucker looks like it should be in a magazine.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Steve and I exchanged a look. He shrugged.

  “Fix that molding,” I said. “I’ll answer that on my way out.”

  I sauntered to the door, pulled it open, and was surprised to see one of my old neighbors at the door. It wasn’t just any neighbor, it was Lucy.

  She still looked every bit as attractive as she did the last time I saw her, and it had been more than ten years since that day passed.

  I had a severe crush on her for what seemed like forever. She was tall, had long lean legs, and was built like a brick shithouse. She was ten years older than me, but it didn’t stop me. I crushed on her hard all through high school, and until she moved away a few years later. I never bothered to tell her how I felt, though.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Lucy?”

  She stood on the porch, clutching her purse and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She forced a smile, and then broke down in tears. After an awkward moment of me not really knowing what to do, she looked up and apologized.

  “I’m so sorry to… I hate to bother you,” she said between sobs. “But your…your sister said I could find you here. I uhhm. I don’t. The police, they won’t do anything…I can’t…”

  “Slow down.” I reached for her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  She looked up and wiped her eyes. “Lex.” She gulped a breath. “Someone’s taken her.”