HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  We ate our wonderful dinner, laughed about being on diets, and discussed how food had become such an important part of everyone’s lives. After we finished our wine, we moved to the couch and relaxed.

  He put a record on the turntable. As the music began to play, I smiled. “Marvin Gaye?”

  “It is. It’s his greatest hits record.”

  In my father’s words, Marvin Gaye’s music was music for fucking. As Tate inched closer to me on the couch, I wondered if my father was right.

  He turned my head to the side and planted a kiss on me that made my head spin. It wasn’t like the other times we’d kissed. It was slightly aggressive, and infused with passion. My entire body went numb during the kiss, and when our lips parted, I began to ache for more.

  I licked my lips and looked at him.

  He reached for my hand. Not one to argue about anything when it came to sex, I followed his lead and stood.

  He lifted my dress over my head.

  Dear God.

  The time had come.

  Apparently, we reached eighty-five percent while we were sitting on the couch.

  Standing in front of him wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, I quickly became self-conscious. After looking me up and down, he took a step back and shook his head.

  “Fucking hell,” he said under his breath.

  “What?”

  “You look fanfuckingtastic.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Really.”

  My face went hot. I knew I didn’t, but it was nice to hear him say.

  Before I realized what he was doing, he knelt in front of me, reached for my hips, and hooked his thumbs around the waist of my panties. I looked at him in disbelief as he tugged them down my legs and cast them aside.

  After kissing the inside of my thighs from my knees to my crotch, he stood. With his eyes fixed on mine, he pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and then unbuttoned his jeans.

  I had yet to see him without his shirt on, and now that he was naked from the waist up, I was aghast.

  His abs had abs.

  Tattoos of sugar skulls, flowers smoke and wings covered his torso, and there was a pair of brass knuckles tattooed on his lower abdomen.

  But his six-pack was free of any artwork.

  Incapable of doing much else, I fixed my eyes on his torso. While I slipped into a rippled ab induced coma, he unbuckled his belt. After tossing it into the pile, he raised his hands over his head, cocked his head to the side, and stretched his back.

  My lips parted, but I didn’t speak.

  I had nothing to say. I was way out of my league, and didn’t want to fuck up what we had. If I somehow did or said something that stopped him from continuing, I’d never be able to live with myself.

  For a nano-second, my eyes fell to his waist. Through all of the movement, his fly opened a little, giving me a glimpse at his well-manicured lower region.

  I knew there were a lot of ways that a girl could satisfy him, but there were only a few of them that worked for me. Despite his praise of my looks and my beauty, I was well aware that I outweighed him by quite a bit.

  Riding his cock in reverse cowgirl was on my bucket list, but for the night at least, it was out of the question.

  I lowered myself to my knees, unbuckled my bra and nervously lowered it to the floor. As Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On began to play, I reached for his jeans and pulled them down his thighs.

  As with any girl, I was curious. I told myself after the dick discussion at my father’s house that his size wasn’t going to matter.

  But. I secretly hoped he was hung like a horse.

  When it sprung free of its denim confines, my mouth flopped open in amazement. Like everything else on Tate’s body, his dick was perfect. I figured if his cock was in front of me, and my mouth was already open, I might as well take a moment and show him a little trick I liked to do.

  I wrapped my lips around the tip, slipped my tongue against the bottom on the shaft, and guided half the length into my throat. After a few strokes, I buried my face against his stomach and groaned.

  “God fucking damn,” he wailed.

  He pushed his hands against my forehead, pulling himself from my mouth in the process.

  “What,” I gasped, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “You didn’t like it?”

  “I loved it,” he said. “But if you want me to last, you can’t do that. It’s been too damned long.”

  “So, you do like it?”

  “I fucking love it. But unless you want that to be the end of our night, we need to wait.”

  The thought of sucking him to climax excited me. “I’ll do it.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said. “But I want…I want to…I want to fuck the shit out of you. I’ve been watching your sexy ass for what? A couple months? I can’t take it anymore.”

  He sure knew how to make me feel good. I grinned and stood. “Uhhm. Okay.”

  He tugged his jeans down his legs and tossed them on the couch. Wearing nothing but his socks, he led me to the bedroom. Seeing his muscular ass rise and fall with each step was the final straw.

  Whether he wanted to give it to me or not, I was getting laid. One way or another.

  When we reached the room, he guided me to the bed. I rolled onto my back, fully expecting he’d want to have me in the doggy style position, which was really all I knew.

  Much to my surprise, he buried his face between my legs.

  “I want to eat your pussy until you cry like a baby,” he said.

  I hope you’ve got a backup plan, because that ought to take you all of ten seconds.

  “Okay,” I muttered. I spread my legs as wide as I was able, allowing him free rein of my nether region. “If you hear me whimper, it doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”

  He looked up and chuckled. “I’ll remember that.”

  He sucked my clit like a romance novel writing guru, and then went to work on my pussy. I bit my lip and hoped to have an indiscernible orgasm or five. He licked my pussy and fingered me at the same time, making sure to bring me to climax twice as quickly as if he decided to simply choose either licking or fingering me.

  Having only read about such things left me in an awkward position. In the books I read, women lasted forever while the man licked their pussies. In real life, at least when Tate Reynolds was licking a pussy, it didn’t take a matter of seconds to bring a woman to orgasm.

  While he flicked his tongue against my hyper-sensitive clit, my lip biting orgasm disguise somehow got lost.

  I gripped his head in my hands and howled like a wolf while I came against his mouth. Repeatedly, he sucked and licked me to an ecstatic climax, leaving me as a limp pile of exhausted flesh when he eventually sat up and smiled.

  “That was awesome,” he said.

  I rolled to the side and smiled. “It was okay.”

  He chuckled. “You’re funny.”

  “Fat girls can do two things,” I said. “Suck dicks, and make people laugh. They’re our superpowers.”

  His eyes thinned. “Don’t say that again.”

  “What? Superpower?”

  “No, the other one. The F-word.”

  He was serious. Like, really serious.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it. Don’t talk about yourself that way. Not in my presence, and hopefully not in anyone’s presence.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you’re beautiful.”

  I swallowed heavily at the thought of it. “I’m. I’m beautiful.”

  “One more time.”

  “I’m beautiful.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

  He inched his way across the bed, positioned himself between my legs, and then looked at me. When our eyes met, I think I might have been in a little bit of a good mood because of
the whole say you’re beautiful thing.

  It took an otherwise awkward situation and made me feel normal. As close to it as I could, anyway.

  And then, he dropped the bomb.

  He wedged his hips between my thighs and smiled. “Hey, Beautiful?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  A tingling ran through me from head to toe. Other than my father, no other man had ever spoken those words. I shouldn’t have, I mean I really shouldn’t have.

  But I did.

  I just needed to hear it again.

  “Excuse me?”

  He cleared his throat. “I love you.”

  I looked at his massive chest, his chiseled abs, and his bulging biceps. At that moment, it was none of those things that I mattered.

  All that mattered was who Tate Reynolds was.

  “I love you, too,” I said. “I really do.”

  He pressed his chest to mine, held me tight, and kissed me until I was a submissive pile of sexual desire. And then, he did what real men do.

  Confident men.

  Men with great big dicks.

  He made love to me.

  Not by stepping on my head or bending me over a concrete park bench. He didn’t take me to a window and fuck me for the city to see, or fuck me in a movie theater. No one was restrained, and there were no handcuffs.

  They weren’t needed.

  When a man has a dick like Tate’s, and a heart of gold, he doesn’t need gimmicks, accessories, or people in the background clapping.

  He simply needs to do what God put him on this earth to do.

  Make love like a fucking boss.

  During that time, Tate Reynolds owned me. Fully. Completely.

  His hips gyrated magically, filling me with his magnificent cock with each thrust. I groped, grabbed, and dug my nails into his back, all of which seemed to drive him to last longer than I ever would have expected.

  Everything about Tate fit me. Where I had a curve, he filled it. Our bodies meshed. Perfectly. If two people were ever made to fit together, it was us. Elated that everything worked as well as it did, I relaxed and let him do what it seemed he was good at.

  He did it with care, caution, and, most of all, love.

  When I was no longer able to count the orgasms I’d achieved on my fingers, I started with my toes.

  Two toes into it, and I felt the mother of all orgasms building.

  My eyes shot open.

  Oh. My. God.

  He sensed it. Or he caused it intentionally. Something. But, somehow he knew. His pace increased slightly, but didn’t become savage. A few seconds later, his cock swelled to twice its original girth.

  I sank my fingers into his flesh with such force that I was sure he’d have scars, but I didn’t care. I mean, I did. But, I didn’t.

  And then, at that instant that he took the last stroke that I can recall, I burst into a million little pieces and showered the room with emotion.

  “Oh. My God!” I muttered, arching my back in the process.

  “I fucking love you,” he exclaimed.

  Together, like everything else we did that night, we came.

  At some point, I returned to earth. When I did, I realized something.

  Tate Reynolds wasn’t normal. He was an anomaly. A systems glitch. An oddity. But. He was mine.

  And I was never going to let him go.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Seven

  Tate

  Crip, Pee Bee, Cholo, Smokey, The Nut, Stretch and I rode to Chula Vista for Mexican food. The hour-long ride was well worth it, giving us plenty of time to talk, share stories, and enjoy some of Southern California’s finest tacos.

  Crip and I stood by the building and waited for Stretch to get done pissing. After a few minutes of waiting while the rest of the fellas goofed off, I glanced at Crip. “I can’t believe the old man came out today. It’s hot as fuck, and he doesn’t like the heat. Must have really wanted some tacos.”

  Stretch was the oldest member of the club. At 57, he was far from old, but he wasn’t in the best of health after a lengthy battle with pneumonia he simply couldn’t shake. To see him out during the hottest part of the day wasn’t typical.

  Crip glanced at the rest of the fellas, who were standing beside their bikes, and then looked at me. “We’re going to have a meeting when we get back.”

  The tone of his voice was such that I knew something was wrong. We hadn’t come to Chula Vista because Crip wanted a taco. We made the trip for another reason altogether, and I had a feeling it was about Stretch’s health.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ll talk when we get back, Meat.”

  “Maybe I want to talk now.”

  “And, maybe I don’t.”

  “There’s four of us left. You, Pee Bee, me, and Stretch. I got a right to know. There’s something going on, I know it.”

  “I said we’ll discuss it when get back,” he growled.

  “And, I said I wanted to talk about it now. Stretch has been around since the beginning of this, Boss. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He clenched his jaw, looked at the other men, and then locked eyes with me. “For now, this stays here. I’m telling Pee Bee later. I doubt he’ll take it well.”

  “What?”

  He let out a long sigh, and then looked at me. “He’s been HIV positive for some time, He’s got AIDS.”

  I suspected I reacted the way most people do. I denied it.

  I shook my head. “Impossible. He needs another doctor to have a look at him.”

  “They have.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’ll find a good one.”

  “I’ve had him at the best, believe me.”

  “He’s sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “HIV or AIDS?”

  “AIDS.”

  It made me ache to hear it. I had no idea with modern medicines how much time he may have, but I hoped it was a decade or so.

  “God damn.” I looked at the restaurants entrance, and shook my head in disbelief. “How much time does he have?”

  “Doubt AIDS will kill him, Meat. It’s the complications with everything else. He ain’t doing too good.”

  “How much time? Years, months?”

  “Might be months. Might not.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. Does he know how he got it?”

  “No. Don’t know that it matters. They said he could have had it for ten years, and not known.”

  “Fucking scary.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Makes a man think about wrapping his junk, huh?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “You and Bobbi going at it yet?”

  “I don’t know that’s much of your business, Boss.”

  He chuckled. “Always been the weird fucker, haven’t ya?”

  “It’s not weird to be a little respectful.”

  “Suppose not.”

  Stretch came outside, rubbing his stomach as he walked through the door. “Took about ten shits in there. That goat cheese tastes good as fuck, but my belly don’t like it.”

  “You ready, old man?” Crip asked.

  “Ready as I’m gonna get.”

  I looked him over, trying to find something about him that gave hint to the fact that he was dying, but found nothing. He was still the six-foot-three-inch one-hundred-and-sixty-pound old man that he always was. Convinced he’d somehow pull through it, I slapped my hand against his back and gave him some advice.

  “Blow the cobs out of that old Shovel, and it might run better.”

  “Runs better than that Evo of yours.”

  He sauntered to his bike, grabbed his helmet, and shot me a glare. “I say ‘prove it’.”

  “Race is on, motherfucker,” I said.

  “Won’t be much of a race.”

  He coughed a few times and then shook his head. “Not if you’re on that piece of shit Evo, it sure won’t.”

  “Stretch and me are racing,” I said. “You others can catch u
p once we get on the 5.”

  “Can’t wait to see this,” Pee Bee said.

  “Place your bets, fellas.”

  The group, entirely, bet on Stretch.

  We got geared up and started our bikes. Then, Stretch and I pulled out onto the two-lane highway that led to highway 5. While Crip and Pee Bee watched for cross traffic, the two of us tried to get side-by-side in a manner that wouldn’t give either of us the benefit.

  I seriously doubted I’d beat his hopped-up Shovel, but racing him would put a smile on his face, I knew that much.

  After we agreed that neither had the benefit, Crip stepped to the center lane between us.

  “You fuckers ready?” he asked.

  We revved our engines in response.

  He raised his arms.

  While I waited for him to drop them, Stretch released his clutch and shot off like a rocket. In a matter of seconds, he disappeared over the hill. The sound of his exhaust faded into the distance. It get lesser and lesser, until we heard nothing.

  Shocked, we all sat on our bikes and waited for him to return, but he didn’t. After half an hour, we decided to call it a night, and ride home.

  We were damned near to the Del Mar fairgrounds exit on the 5 when we hit the traffic. I knew in my gut that something was wrong. Crip must have, too.

  He signaled to split traffic.

  We rode between the cars that were at a standstill on the highway until we saw the flashing lights. Two ambulances were parked in the center of the freeway, half a mile ahead.

  Crip lowered his left hand and gave the signal to stop.

  Reluctantly, we complied.

  We didn’t find out what happened for another hour. After the coroner pulled away, we watched as they loaded the carcass of his bike onto a flat-bed truck.

  Considering the fact that he’d ridden almost thirty miles without turning around, and that he was one of the best riders I’d ever met, I assumed he committed suicide. The look in Crip’s eyes told me he believed the same thing. Without saying a word, the two of us decided to take Stretch’s secret to our graves.

  As many times as he’d driven us out of harm’s way, we owed him much more. But that was all that was left to give.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Eight

  Bobbi

  Police funerals had always fascinated me. When an officer died in the line of duty, fellow officers came from other municipalities, jurisdictions, counties, and even states to pay respect to their fallen brother.