The FedSex Man
Scott Hildreth
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
1. Jo
2. Tyson
3. Jo
4. Tyson
5. Jo
6. Tyson
7. Jo
8. Tyson
9. Jo
10. Tyson
11. Jo
12. Tyson
13. Jo
14. Tyson
15. Jo
16. Tyson
17. Jo
18. Tyson
19. Jo
20. Tyson
21. Jo
22. Tyson
23. Jo
24. Tyson
25. Jo
26. Tyson
27. Jo
28. Tyson
29. Jo
30. Tyson
31. Jo
32. Tyson
33. Jo
34. Tyson
35. Jo
36. Tyson
37. Jo
38. Tyson
39. Jo
40. Tyson
41. Jo
42. Tyson
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
To my only sister, Amy.
We talked more than usual while I wrote this book. For that, I’ll be forever grateful. While I struggled with the final touches, you died a tragic and very untimely death. As you floated to the heavens above, my mind seemed to blossom. I then made some changes, added a few things, and ended up with what I believe to be my best book to date.
Hope you and Pop enjoy it.
Kick his ass in Scrabble, will you?
I doubt (short of God) there’s anyone
up there to challenge him.
As God’s undoubtedly busy,
I know you’re just the one to do it.
Love you, Sis.
Hoot
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.
Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.
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.
THE FED SEX MAN 1st Edition Copyright © 2018 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 [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
Cover design by Jessica Hildreth
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Prologue
The helicopter’s crew chief adjusted the spotlight, shining it directly onto the frantic scene below. Littered about the officer’s feet, numerous brass shell casings glistened, giving indication of the utter hell that had been unleashed mere seconds before.
Standing nervously beside the bullet-ridden silver sports coupe, the officer stretched a rubber glove over his left hand, tearing it in the process.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he exclaimed, tossing the shredded rubber onto the ground at his side.
He anxiously rifled through the back pocket of his trousers for another. Simultaneously, his right hand blindly searched for the microphone that was clipped to his uniform’s lapel. Upon finding it, he pressed the button on the side of the newly-issued device.
“Four-Twelve-Bravo to dispatch, shots fired! Shots fired! North Central Expressway and East Park. Eastbound off-ramp. Requesting ambulance. Possible airlift. White male. Mid-thirties. Multiple gunshot wounds.”
“Roger, Four-Twelve-Bravo,” the dispatch operator said, confirming the officer’s request. “North Central Expressway and East Park. Do officers need assistance?”
The officer pulled his bare hand from his empty pocket, hesitated, and then placed his index and middle fingers against the blood-soaked neck of the man slumped in the driver’s seat of the car. A pulse, albeit faint, provided a glimmer of hope.
Please. Let this man live, the officer prayed.
“Dispatch to Four-Twelve-Bravo,” the operator called out. “I repeat, do officers need assistance?”
The officer’s eyes met the crying passenger’s tear-filled gaze. It’s going to be just fine, the officer thought. Don’t worry, help is on the way.
He gazed blankly at his bloody hand. How did things go to hell so quickly, he thought?
“Four-Twelve-Bravo, can you confirm officer casualties?” the operator asked. “Confirm by keying your mic, Four-Twelve-Bravo.”
“Negative, dispatch.” The officer traced his bloody fingertips along the side of the man’s neck once again, hoping the pulse hadn’t faded.
“We’re code two on that bus, dispatch!” the officer shouted. “What’s the ETA?”
“Ambulance en route, Four-Twelve-Bravo. ETA eleven minutes.”
Despite the young officer’s lack of experience, he knew one thing for certain.
Eleven minutes was too long.
1
Jo
A well-written book allowed me to experience the character’s hardships, joy, and pain no differently than if I was at their side. When I read, I was transported out of Allen, Texas, and into the book’s setting. Depending on the author’s ability to craft an artistic tale, my thoughts often remained with the book’s characters until long after I’d finished reading.
With my focus being independently published romance novels, I opened a small bookstore after graduating college. The location was in a run-down strip mall flanked by a cut-rate hair salon on one side and a seedy massage parlor on the other.
Hoping to share my passion of reading with others, I filled the shelves with books written by the industry’s most colorful authors. I developed a stream of loyal customers, most of which – at least initially – came from the hair salon.
The massage parlor offered no walk-in business from the unhappily married men who snuck in through the back door, but late afternoon entertainment seeped through the paper-thin walls that separated Cum-N-Go Massage from the bookstore.
My income wasn’t much at first, but the satisfaction I received from being surrounded by something I was passionate about was priceless. Two years later, my growing success demanded that I hire a co-worker to aid me with my endeavors. After a painstaking process of interviewing two-dozen well-qualified housewives and one twenty-three-year-old high school dropout, I chose the high school dropout, Jenny.
Hoping the distance between her birthplace and her new home would be enough to deter her overbearing parents from monitoring her every move, she relocated to Texas from Phoenix, Arizona.
She was young, passionate about reading, and provided all-day entertainment by voicing her opinions without filter or fear of repercussion.
“BB Easton is a badass.” She carefully placed BB’s newest book, Star, at the top of the four-book display. “I would love to be her for a day. Not now. But, like, when she was in school. When she was with Knight. If we had guys like that in my high school, I would have stayed.”
“I didn’t like
that guy at first” I admitted. “He was the first anti-hero that I warmed up to.”
“Anti-hero?” Her nose wrinkled in opposition to my statement. “He wasn’t an anti-hero, he was a man who was misunderstood and under-loved.”
“In the end, I really liked him.” I added, gesturing to the book in question. “Getting to that point wasn’t easy, though. A wannabe skinhead with a penchant for kicking guys in the kidneys with his steel-toed boots isn’t my typical hero.”
“I like the thought of a guy who’s willing to stand up for himself much more than a guy without a backbone.” She twisted her long blonde hair into a quick bun, revealing her underlying brunette roots in the process. “Nothing turns me away quicker than a man who isn’t willing to protect what he loves.”
“There’s a big difference between protecting what one loves and blindly beating anyone who opposes you,” I quipped.
“Whether we feel threatened or not,” she traced her fingertip along the cover of the book on BB Easton’s display. “Women find value in hiding under the umbrella of belief that our man can protect us from the demons that wander this earth.”
Jenny had a strikingly beautiful face and an equally gorgeous body. Her personality was magnetic, and she was easy to talk to. Discussing matters with her never turned into an argument, leaving the conversations enlightening and fun.
The resting bitch face she often wore was enough to ward off many potential beaus. The few that remained were often turned away by her foul mouth and unfiltered manner of spewing out her beliefs.
Wearing a denim skirt, embroidered cowgirl boots, and a sleeveless white Chris Stapleton concert tee, she looked the way she always did.
Cute.
“If you found a guy who was protective and handsome would you date him?” I asked.
She thought for a moment, and then shrugged as she turned away. “I doubt it.”
I giggled. “Why not?”
She faced me. “You asked me if I’d date him. I might fuck him, but I wouldn’t necessarily date him. For me to date someone, I’d have to be interested in him. For me to be truly interested in a man, he has to have three things.”
“Just three?” I leaned against the book shelf and gave her a curious look. “What are they?”
She extended her index finger. “One. He’s got to be sexy.”
“What’s your definition of sexy?”
“Not what you’d think. Sexy can be the way he walks, carries himself, or if he’s a really good storyteller.”
“A storyteller?” I’d never thought of a good storyteller as sexy. “You think that’s sexy?”
“You know the kind of guy that uses his hands when he talks?” she asked, waving her hands as she spoke. “I think it’s sexy when they wave their hands around to make a point.”
I didn’t find hand waving sexy. In fact, I found hand-talkers to be annoying. “That drives me nuts,” I said. “What are the other two?”
“Number two.” She extended her middle finger. “He’s got to be gifted in the dick department.” She raised her eyebrows and ring finger at the same time. “And, number three, he’s got to be loyal.”
“It’s that easy, huh?”
“Easy?” She laughed. “Guys who tell good stories never have big dicks, and from what I can tell, nobody in this state is loyal to anything other than football.”
I had no experience with big-dicked storytellers, but I couldn’t argue the loyalty issue. During football season, the only thing that mattered to the citizens of Allen, Texas was football. It consumed my father entirely from August until February, leaving only a small window of time for him to pay attention to me during my childhood.
I had a great relationship with my father, but because of what I felt I forfeited so he could enjoy the sport, I detested football and those who devoted any measurable portion of their life to it.
“Those are tough shoes to fill,” I said. “Football is all people seem think about.”
“Here?” she said. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“You mean in Allen?”
“In Texas.” She pursed her lips and looked away, but quickly returned her gaze to meet mine. “Not in other places, though. Arizona wasn’t like this, I can tell you that much. I think the men here have shriveled hearts, great big egos, and little bitty dicks.”
“Is that statement made based on experience?” I asked with a laugh.
“It is,” she responded. “I’ve had two sexual experiences since I moved here. Both guys had tiny cocks and huge attitudes.”
“So, everything’s not big in Texas?”
“The first guy?” She held her thumb and index finger about two inches apart. “It was the size of one of those weird-shaped tomatoes.”
I laughed out loud. “A Roma?”
“Yeah. A freaking Roma. Or an egg. It could have passed for either.” She shook her head in clear disgust. “Second guy was just as bad, but his wasn’t as thick as the other guy. His was the size of my thumb. I think I hate this state. If I didn’t like working here so much, I’d probably go to Alabama or Arkansas.”
“Arkansas and Alabama?” I gave her a crazy-eyed look. “What’s there?”
“Nothing. But, I’m guessing if the arrogant egomaniacs in Texas have small dicks, the hillbillies in either of those states have got to be hung like horses. Humble and hung, that’s what I’m thinking.”
I mentally laughed at her theory but couldn’t help but agree with her logic. “You know what? You’re probably right.”
She adjusted her bun and grinned. “I’d take a well-hung hillbilly in a twenty-year-old Mustang over one of these cowboy hat wearing egg-dicked jerks in a new pickup truck any day.”
“Just because he’s hung doesn’t mean—”
“A big cock is a prerequisite,” she insisted. “A guy with a little dick and a great personality will never do it for me. Ever.”
Although I’d read enough to qualify for having a lifetime of relationships, I had minimal real-world experience with men. Through reading, I’d deduced that well-endowed men came with no guarantees, other than an assurance of multiple orgasms and earth-shattering sex.
“You don’t think that’s shallow?” I asked.
“Shallow?” She laughed. “Not at all. Being boned by a guy who’s packing a pencil is like being finger-banged, only there’s some idiot on top of you breathing heavily. I can finger myself, I don’t need someone to do it with his dick.”
Any dick was a good dick, as far as I was concerned. I was a book nerd in high school and remained a book nerd. Men’s lack of interest in women like me made sure my dick well was constantly dry. I’d take any dick I could get my eager hands on, big or small.
“So, if you met the perfect guy, but he had the Roma tomato thing going on, you wouldn’t give him a chance?” I asked. “You couldn’t love him?”
“Nope.”
“Even if he was perfect?”
“If he had a little dick, he wouldn’t be perfect,” she insisted. “He’d be a guy with a fabulous personality and a little dick.”
The various shapes, length and girth of a man’s penis fascinated me. I’d spent countless hours looking at them on the internet. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be impaled by one of the record-breaking schlongs of the porn industry’s leading men. Nonetheless, I stood firm in the position I’d taken in our dick-debate.
“So, what happens to all the guys with little dicks?” I asked with a laugh. “Do they wander the earth aimlessly looking for women they’ll never satisfy?”
“They end up with women who have miniature vaginas,” she said matter-of-factly. “Either that, or they stay single forever. Single and searching for that girl with the little va-jay-jay. One that fits their tiny wiener like a fleshy little glove.”
I choked on a laugh. “This conversation is ridiculous.”
She curtsied and turned away. “Glad I can entertain you.”
After unlocking the front door, she p
ropped it open. A hint of freshly cut grass and the sweet smell of honeysuckle replaced the lingering smell of coconut-scented massage oil that permeated through the ventilation system. I closed my eyes and let the aroma of early spring find its way to my nostrils.
“Oh. My God,” Jenny squealed. “He’s coming around the corner.”
My eyes sprung open. “Who?”
“That guy,” she said.
I peered through the window but saw nothing more than a few passing vehicles. “What guy?”
“The one I told you about last week.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The FedEx man.”
Her earlier description of the new driver left little to the imagination. I felt she’d embellished the portrayal of him she’d given, as no delivery driver had ever captured my interest in the manner that she claimed he’d garnered hers.
A handsome man with massive biceps and a million-dollar smile definitely wasn’t the typical hiring requirement for the Allen, Texas FedEx drivers. Repulsive looking men who were six inches shorter than me with sparse beards and bulging calf muscles seemed more the norm.
I nudged my way between her and the doorframe. As I gazed toward the street, his truck came to a stop at the curb in front of us. A quick glimpse of the driver’s profile before he disappeared into the back of the truck was enough to make me feel like a nervous high schooler.
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 1