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“DIRTY” – FREE CHAPTERS (the first four)

Posted in Forbidden Love, free best selling romance, free chapters, free ebook, free ebooks, Free erotica, free erotica novel, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle na fiction, free kindle romance, Free sex, free smut, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , on January 17, 2017 by scottdhildreth

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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 the 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.

ONE

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.”

I was lost. “What?”

“Lex.” She exhaled heavily. “She was at the 7-Eleven. A bunch of people were there and saw it, but the police haven’t done anything. I just…I thought maybe…you were the only person I could think of…”

Still confused, I reached for her other shoulder, steadied her shaking body, and looked her in the eyes. “Breathe. Just slow down. What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. “You remember Lex?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Alexandra?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Your little sister.”

“She’s not my sister.” Her eyes fell to the porch. “She’s my daughter.”

Now I was really confused. “Alexandra’s your daughter?”

She looked up and nodded. “Yes. And, someone has taken her.”

“What do you mean?”

She brushed her hair away from her tired eyes. “She was at the 7-Eleven. She was uhhm. She was…they kidnapped her. While she was getting in her car.”

“Holy shit.” I released her shoulders and crossed my arms. “Did you talk to the cops?”

The last time I had seen Alexandra, she was eight or nine years old. The thought of her driving didn’t quite register. The thought of her being kidnapped didn’t either.

She nodded. “The cops are a bunch of idiots. The guy at the register saw it all, and he gave a description. I just. With your connections…you know, to the gangs,” she stammered. “I thought maybe…I thought you could…”

“I’m not in a gang anymore,” I said. “Well, not really.”

All the air shot from her lungs. “You’re not? Oh God. I–”

I wanted to comfort her, but didn’t really know what to do. As I considered hugging her, she all but fell against me.

Out of reflex, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do you think you can–”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I assured her. “Did you get a good description of the car? Of the guys?”

“Uh huh. They were Mexicans, and they all had tattoos. The guy at the register got a good description of everything, even their tattoos.” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got a copy of the police report.”

If they were Mexicans and had tattoos, my guess was that they were in a gang. If they were, I could find out who they were. I didn’t want to give her any false hope, though.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

She leaned back, wiped away her tears, and then looked at me. Even with her make up running down her cheeks, she was beautiful.

“Thank you,” she said.

I looked her over, and couldn’t help but smile. In ten years, she hadn’t aged a bit. It was sad that her daughter’s disappearance brought us together, but I wasn’t about to complain.

Hell, maybe after I found her daughter I’d take the time to tell her how gorgeous I thought she was.

Maybe.

TWO

Lex

Standing up to our abductors wasn’t possible. Their overall treatment of us was proof that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if we challenged them.

As I was the eldest of the group, I felt obligated to take charge and attempt to protect the others from the wrath of the monsters who held us at their mercy. With limited resources, I had only one bargaining chip.

Offering myself any time the man with tattoos on his face wanted someone for sex.

I reached a point that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, because I did. But the only control I had left was to not react. And, not reacting meant nothing mattered.

I wouldn’t allow it to.

I decided I wasn’t going to allow them to cause me any more harm. So, what they did to me became insignificant.

I was done feeling. And, when I was numb, I could protect my captive family.

The minutes clicked passed one by one and managed to eventually shave an hour off the clock. The hours merged into one another, with us whispering stories of who we were and where we were from, and when it finally got quiet, we knew another day had passed.

With each passing day, as the girls went to sleep, I prayed. Not for freedom, for food, or for better conditions, but for strength.

I knew it was going to take a miracle for us to be freed, and I prayed for the strength to live long enough to witness it.

We memorized each other’s names, addresses, and telephone numbers, repeating them over and over while humming a song we made up. If one of us escaped, we were going to tell the authorities each of the other girl’s names and addresses.

We made a pact.

Sarah was the dreamer, and to pass the time and keep everyone’s spirits up, she led a nightly discussion of what we were going to do when we broke free. Our conversations typically included where we were going to eat, who we were going to see, and what being in that horrid place caused us to miss about the freedoms associated with living our day-to-day lives.

The list of the things we’d taken for granted was unbelievably simple.

Me: Being clothed.

Sarah: Sunshine.

Marbella: Her bedroom.

Kate: Going to the bathroom.

Jess: Not having to ration water.

Debby: Food

Leah: Hearing the birds sing.

And, Mary: Taking a walk.

Making simple choices no longer existed, and we were well aware of it. If freed, I told myself I would never again complain about the tag on my tee shirt causing me to itch, or how southern California’s sun baked my pale skin. I’d comply gratefully when my mother asked if I wanted to meet for lunch or go shopping.

Although I took part in the talks, I had very little concern with what my first meal was going to be, or how much I missed my family. My only real worry was survival, but I wasn’t about to share that with the other girls.

Somehow, be it a result of fate or by my insistence that he choose me first, none of them were abused after I was abducted. As a result, they all looked at me as their guardian.

In that type of situation, a person needs something to hold onto. Something that offers hope. A photo or a good luck charm would have been nice, but we had nothing but each other.

So, every night when it got quiet, we huddled in each other’s arms.

And, I prayed.

To live long enough to see the miracle.

THREE

Cholo

The rotten stench of the adrenaline-laced sweat that leached from the pores of drug dealers and their prey lingered in the air. Two stoned Hispanic men who looked like they hadn’t showered in a month were seated on the filthy tan sofa that was shoved against the far wall.

Beside the couch, a broken-down recliner that appeared to be stuck in the recline position sat empty – short of the half-eaten bag of chicharrones that sat on top of the pile of dirty clothes that littered it. The coffee table in the center of the room was covered with the previous night’s beer bottles, money, an electronic scale, a box of granola bars, and enough cocaine to get San Diego high for a year.

In the hallway to my left, a muscular Hispanic man wearing a stained dingy wife beater and khaki-colored Dickies leaned against the wall.

Directly in front of me, a shirtless man who was covered in jailhouse tattoos stood. The teardrop tattoos dripping from his eye let me know he wasn’t going to play nice, and the script tattooed across his muscular chest clearly identified the gang he was in.

Calle 18.

My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory of the threats. As I sized up each of the four men, the one in front of me grabbed a bottle of beer from the coffee table. As he lifted it, I made note of two things:

One, he was left-handed. And, two, there was a cigarette butt floating in the beer.

He took a few steps toward me, limping slightly as he walked.

The fingers of my right hand twitched, and I hoped he didn’t notice.

If he did, he wouldn’t know what it meant. But I knew. It was one of those tells that a professional poker player must hide to prevent the other people at the table from knowing when he’s bluffing.

Not that I was bluffing.

Because I wasn’t.

But my right hand wondered how I was going to get out of the room alive. I’d been in worse situations, I was sure of it. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t remember any of them.

With his eyes locked on mine, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, took a drink, and then spit it onto the floor in disgust. He glared at the bottle, and then looked at me.

He cocked his head to the side. “Quien te envio?”

Who sent you?

I pulled my hat down a little tighter and then shrugged. “No habla espanol.”

It was a lie. I spoke Spanish fluently, but at least one of them spoke broken English, I was sure of it. Speaking something other than their native tongue would keep those who didn’t speak English a few steps behind, and I needed all the help I could get.

He tossed the bottle onto the floor beside the table. As it belched out the remaining contents onto the carpet, he cleared his throat, and met my gaze.

His eyes fell to my feet, and then slowly rose the length of my frame. “Who seent jew?”

I locked eyes with him. “El mero chignon.”

No one had sent me. My response was a risk, but a minimal one. Within the ranks of Hispanic gangs, there was always an “el mero chignon.” In Spanish, it meant the head motherfucker, the one in charge, or the top dog.

He grinned and nodded his head, revealing a tattooed lower lip and teeth much whiter than I expected. “What jew want, Homie?”

I took a quick glance at the man in the hallway, and then shifted my eyes back to the shirtless man. I debated on whether to tell him the truth or a lie.

A lie would buy me a little time, but eventually I’d either have to beat the shit out of each of them, kill them, or tell them the truth and hope we could work out some sort of agreement. Regardless of my boxing experience, beating them with my fists– and succeeding – wasn’t really an option.

I brushed my left hand along the tail of my shirt until it was alongside the pistol that was tucked into my waistband and prepared to tell him the truth.

I locked eyes with him. “I’m here for the girl.”

He stared right at me for what seemed like forever. The lack of reaction from the other men led me to believe none of them spoke English.

His eyes went thin. “The girl?”

“Yeah. The girl,” I said flatly. “I’m taking her home.”

He spit out a laugh infused with insanity, and then reached behind his back with his left hand. His movements – at least for that instant – seemed to be in slow-motion.

Maybe it was because it was three in the morning. Or it could have been that he hadn’t slept in days. It very well may have been that he was just that confident that I wasn’t armed.

Regardless, his lackadaisical approach to producing what I expected was a gun left me plenty of time to react.

I pulled my pistol with my left hand at the same time I swung my right fist toward his temple.

My knuckles slammed against the side of his skull, knocking him completely off his feet.

“Que nadie se mueva!” I shouted.

Nobody move!

The man leaning against the wall spun around and began to run toward the back of the house. Letting him get away wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.

I took aim and squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom expanded throughout room, making the space seem smaller with each passing second.

The would-be escapee fell into a pile in the hallway at the same time the shirtless man crumbled onto the floor at my feet.

I pointed my pistol at the two wide-eyed idiots on the couch.

The one seated on the right nodded toward the table. “Tomo lo que quieras.”

Take whatever you want.

I pressed the sole of my shoe against the shirtless man’s neck and tilted my head to the side. “Alexandra! Get out here!” I shouted. “I’m taking you home!”

The silence that followed left me wondering if I was too early, too late, or had somehow managed to get the wrong house.

Fuck.

With my eyes still fixed on the two couch dwellers, I yelled her name again. “Alexandra!”

The man beneath my foot started to writhe around. As he did, the two men on the couch began to look around the room nervously.

“Alexandra!”

The shirtless man moaned. “Mataré a toda tu puta familia.”

I’ll kill your entire fucking family.

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d follow through with his threat. I pressed the sole of my shoe firmly against his thorax, wishing he would have simply remained quiet.

If asked, the men in my MC wouldn’t describe me as killer. At least not immediately. It wasn’t that I was incapable of it, or that I was unwilling. It simply wasn’t my answer to the majority of the problems I’d faced in my life.

Fighting was my preference, and I was good at it.

But, when someone threatened my family – be it blood or my brothers in the MC – it earned them a one-way ticket to meet their maker.

I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his chest and pulled the trigger.

My eyes shot to the two nasty fuckers on the couch. Wearing what at one time may have been khakis and moldy wife beaters, they looked like living hell. As the air between us thickened with the taste of cordite, I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.

I pointed the pistol at the man on the right. Greasy strands of jet black hair were plastered against the sides of his face. He wiped his eye with the heel of his palm, and then blinked.

“Donde esta la chica?” I asked.

Where’s the girl?        

He shifted his eyes toward the hallway. “Estan al final del pasillo.”

They’re at the end of the hallway.

The response of they instead of she took me off guard.

I raised the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cuantos?”

How many?

He shrugged one shoulder. “Cinco o seis?”

Five or six?

My jaw tightened. I had hoped to find Alexandra. I wasn’t prepared – physically or emotionally – to encounter five or six women.

“Quantos anos?”

How old?

He gazed at the floor, let out an exaggerated sigh, and then looked at me. “Uno es nueve.” He shrugged. “Uno es once. Las otras? Quizas…dieciocho.”

There were fifteen rounds left in the magazine. Upon hearing his response, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, shooting each of the men until all the bullets were spent and the pistol’s slide stayed locked open.

The thought of them having a nine-year-old girl held captive caused every muscle in my body to tense. I released the empty magazine, loaded a full one, and stepped over the dead man sprawled out in the hallway. When I reached the far door, I paused. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

Dear fucking God.

An otherwise naked girl who was partially covered with a bedsheet stood with her arms outspread as if protecting the girls who were huddled behind her from harm. She was the tallest, and appeared to be the oldest of the group. Her hollow eyes and bruised face were a testament to the brutality she had experienced during the living hell I was sure she’d endured.

The room, void of any furnishings, reeked of urine, shit, and the scent of sex. I swallowed the bile that was rising into my throat and pushed my pistol into the waist of my pants.

I gazed at the half-naked protector. She looked just like Lucy, only younger. There was no doubt in my mind that she was her daughter, Alexandra.

Before I could speak, she locked eyes with me. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “You’re not taking her. Take me.”

Obviously, she didn’t recognize me, and thought I was one of them. It came as no surprise, I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years.

I raised my hands in the air.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” I tipped my hat up slightly. “Your mother sent me. I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here – all of you – but I need to call for some help.”

I had to turn away. Seeing a room filled with petrified pre-teens was far more than my boiling emotions were capable of concealing. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and made the only call I knew would do any good.

He answered on the third ring. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

I struggled not to vomit. After swallowing repeatedly, I responded. “Peeb, I need some help. I’m at Fourteenth and Bush in Oceanside. Bike’s out front. I need six – no make it seven – of the fellas here as quick as possible. Tell ‘em each to bring a spare helmet and glasses. They’ll uhhm. They’ll each have a rider on the roll out.”

“How quick’s quick?”

“It’s a 9-1-1, Brother.”

“Headed out now,” he said.

“Peeb?”

“Yeah, Brother?”

“No kuttes.”

“Come again?”

The club required us to wear kuttes if we were riding, but I didn’t want anyone to be able to identify the MC. Retaliation for what we were doing would be swift if anyone found out who we were.

I glanced into the room. “No kuttes,” I said. “No exceptions. Tell the fellas. If they don’t want to come, I understand. And, another thing. I’m gonna need you to toss some of Tegan’s clothes in your saddle bags.”

“Like what?”

I tried to respond, and almost broke down. After prying my eyes away from the room, I gazed down at the floor and struggled to speak.

“Anything, Brother. I just…I uhhm…”

I knew saying too much on the phone wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t satisfied that I’d said enough. Regardless of my desire to continue, doing so wasn’t easy. “It’s a uhhm. Bring some…bring enough clothes to get…to dress eight teenagers,” I muttered. “It’s…I uhhm. They’re all naked, Peeb…I uhhm…I just need some help, Brother.”

I couldn’t say any more. I wanted to, but I simply couldn’t. The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.

“Hold tight, Brother. Be there in ten.” he said.

All the men in the MC were my brothers, but there was only one who I knew I could count on with no exception, and without question.

Our Sergeant-at-arms, Pee Bee.

I hung up the phone, stepped into the room, and lowered myself to the floor. I glanced at each of the girls, half of which appeared to be Hispanic.

“Habla Ingles?” I asked.

Eight heads nodded.

Undoubtedly scared, but optimistic that whatever was next would be better than their current situation, they looked back at me with eyes filled with hope. I fought against a tear that tried to wedge its way out of my eye, but didn’t succeed.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder.” I opened my arms and widened my eyes. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Although many would argue that statement to be false, I knew better.

And, I was pretty sure in ten minutes, the eight girls in front of me would agree.

***

We rode two abreast and six deep to the shop. After we rolled into the open garage, the president of the club pulled the door closed behind us.

He looked at me and then at Pee Bee. His eyes thinned to slits. “What in the fuck have we here?”

Crip was a stern man, a solid president, and one tough son-of-a-bitch. But, he was a no-nonsense motherfucker if there ever was one.

I flipped the switch and killed the engine. “It’s on me, Boss.”

He shifted his eyes from Pee Bee to me. “What the fuck’s going on? I got some half-assed message from Peeb that said you’re bringing half-a-dozen teenagers to the shop. I’m not looking to start a God damned day care or some biker babysitting ranch.”

“Calle 18 had them locked in a dope house, Boss. They’d all been kidnapped. It wasn’t pretty.” I lifted my leg over my bike. “We saved ‘em.”

Alexandra got off and stepped to my side. Crip looked at her, and then scanned the group. After taking a few seconds to ponder what he was seeing, his eyes fell to the floor and he let out a long sigh.

“God fucking damn.” He looked up. “Calle 18?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Of all the motherfuckers to get into it with…” He crossed his arms and glared at me. “Any reason I didn’t know about this?”

I tilted my head toward Alexandra. “She came up missing a few days back, and her mom came to me and asked if I could find her. After nosing around a bit, I found out who took her. Just went to get her back, and this is what it turned into.”

He glared at me and then waved his arms toward the long line of motorcycles. “So, this wasn’t your plan?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Had no idea the other girls were there. Thought it was just her.”

As the men got off their bikes and helped the girls to their feet, Crip watched. After seeing all there was to see, he turned to face me. His eyes were filled with anger, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

“Need I even ask about the Latino gang you took them from?” he growled.

I shrugged. “You can ask if you want.”

He raised both eyebrows. “I’m fucking asking.”

“Went to the house to see if Alexandra was there, and when I got there I heard a bunch of gunshots, and someone ran past me into the street. White dude with shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. I rushed in and found four of Calle 18’s men dead on the floor. I searched the house, and when I opened the door to the back room, I found these girls. Called the SAA, and him and a few of the fellas showed up to help me get ‘em out of there.”

He rocked back on the balls of his feet and chuckled out a laugh. “Some kid with a swastika?”

I knew better than to tell him the truth in front of the girls. The less they knew about what really happened, the better. To protect the club, myself, and the girls, I stuck to my bullshit story.

I nodded. “Yep.”

He looked at Alexandra.

She shrugged.

He locked eyes with me. “And this swastika guy, he killed the entire household?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head. “Fucking fuck. Nastiest bunch of fucking gangbangers in existence, and it just had to be them?”

“Suppose it could have been worse,” I said.

“I don’t know how.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then looked up. “We need to get these girls to their families, but they’re not coming here to get them. I can’t expose the club or my men.”

I hadn’t really thought about how we were going to get them to their families without questions being asked.

Crip looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. Get them something to drink, and get them fed. There’s shit in the fridge, make ‘em a sandwich or something. I’ll go rent a fucking van, and you can load ‘em up when I get back. Far as I’m concerned, you can drop ‘em off yourself. Best I can think of. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Appreciate ya.”

He shook his head and then turned toward Pee Bee. “Where’s your kutte?”

Pee Bee patted his chest and then looked down. He quickly glanced up as if shocked. “Fuck, Boss. I must have forgot it.”

He looked at Lefty. “What about you?”

Lefty shrugged. “Gang members were pimping out teenage girls, Boss. Took off in a hurry, must have left the fucker hanging there at my place.”

He looked at Smokey.

“Mine’s safe and sound at home, Crip,” Smokey said. “Just protecting the fuckin’ club.”

Crip looked at Pee Bee and then at me. “I’m fining each of you $100 for this. You know the rules.”

There were ten of us, total. “I’ll pay the grand,” I said.

“Twelve hundred,” he growled. “There’s twelve of you.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“And, you better get their heads together and make up some kind of story about where they’ve been, and how they got rescued. If you don’t, it’ll come back to haunt you. I guarantee you at least one of these girl’s parents talked to the cops. At some point, there’s going to be questions asked.”

In all the commotion, I hadn’t even thought of it. He was right, there would be questions asked, and they’d need to be prepared to answer them without exposing the MC. “I’ll come up with something.”

“Keep it simple,” he said. “It’ll be easier to remember.”

I nodded. “Will do.”

He glared at me for a moment, and then walked toward his bike. As he got on, I noticed he wasn’t wearing the MC’s kutte, only a plain leather vest. It was the first time I’d seen him without it.

I looked at Pee Bee and chuckled. “You notice that?”

Pee Bee nodded. “Told him to lose it. Don’t need anyone pointing fingers at the club.”

As Crip fired up his bike, Alexandra cleared her throat.

“He’s a dick,” she whispered.

I couldn’t argue with her. He was a dick. But he was a dick for a reason. “Yeah. He can be,” I said. “But he’s got his reasons.”

I turned around and faced the group. Eleven of my brothers stood beside their bikes, and seven girls who ranged in age from nine to twenty-one were at their sides. What had happened over the course of the night was staggering when I thought about it.

Pee Bee slid the door open, and after Crip rode through it, he pulled it closed.

I crossed my arms and glanced around the group. “He’s going to get a van, and then I’ll get you all taken home. Your parents can take you to the hospital, or wherever you need to go. Probably be about an hour before we head out. Bathroom’s back there, and there’s food in the fridge.”

I tried to imagine what the girls had been through, but for the life of me, couldn’t come up with anything that I felt could compare to what they’d experienced. As a few of the men led the girls toward the bathroom or the refrigerator, Alexandra looked at mem but didn’t speak. Her eyes couldn’t hide her desire to speak, though.

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said. “Not yet.”

“It’ll be an hour or so. You okay?”

She shrugged. “I’ll be okay, but I don’t want to go home.”

Other than having dirty hair, countless bruises, and scrubs that didn’t fit, she looked remarkably normal. It was hard for me to believe she’d been in the position she was in and somehow found a way to maintain anything close to sanity.

She must have been one tough little bitch.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

She shrugged. “With you?”

I shook my head. “After I take everyone home, I’m going for a long ride. Need to clear my head.”

“You need to clear your head?” She tossed her leg over my seat and grinned. “So do I. A lot more than you, I’m sure.”

After going through what she did, if she felt a ride would clear her head, who was I to argue?

“You sure you don’t need–”

“I need another ride on this motorcycle,” she said. “It’s hard to explain, but it makes me feel–”

“No need to explain,” I said. “I know exactly what you’re trying to say.”

Her eyes lit up. “So, you’ll take me for a ride?”

I nodded. “As long of one as it takes.”

“Be careful what you promise,” she said.

I wasn’t worried. She’d get sick of riding long before I did, that much I was sure of.

IF YOU’VE ENJOYED THIS SAMPLE, YOU CAN GRET THE ENTIRE BOOK HERE: http://amzn.to/2jUWqpd

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“SNATCH” is LIVE for those who didn’t get the chance the first time

Posted in Free erotica, free erotica novel, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle romance, Kindle erotica novel, kindle romance novel, Kindle Unlimited, Kindle Unlimited Reads, mind fuck, Mind Fuck Erotica, Mind Fuck novel, Must read erotica, Scott Hildreth, stockholm syndrome novel, Taboo Erotica with tags , , on March 8, 2016 by scottdhildreth

DTSRyan Capshaw doesn’t play the “Fuck, Torture, Kill” game like the rest of us.

He plays it for keeps.

If you didn’t get a chance to read “Dying to Survive” before Amazon banned it, here is your chance again.

Re-released under my name and with a new cover and title, Dying to Survive lives on.

It’s a shame the characters don’t. Well, at least not all of them.

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Selected Sinners Book V, “Big Jack’s Book”, coming in mid-August. Here’s the first four chapters as promised

Posted in Free erotica, Kindle Unlimited Reads with tags , , on July 28, 2015 by scottdhildreth

PROLOGUE

A kiss doesn’t begin with a lean in or the pressing of my lips against another’s. It doesn’t begin with eye contact or an understanding, nor is it initiated by the mere anticipation of what is to certainly come.

For me, a proper kiss begins with a firm hand on my throat – a firm but caring hand. A hand not only securing my attention and shifting my focus, but one which will remind me of where my devotion and trust lie. A hand from a man capable of protecting me, nurturing me, and guiding me. Contrary to the belief of the unknowing, the steady grip on my throat from a man who loves me as much as I love him is not something I fear, it is my desire.

And it’s what precedes a kiss.

Always.

Sexually speaking, Jack Shephard owns me. I am his to do with as he wishes, and I cannot imagine life any other way; nor do I care to try.

I trust him fully. He has never harmed me or treated me with disrespect, and I know he never will. He leads me through life, teaches me how to serve him with respect, and he protects me from harm. He holds me in his arms when I need comfort, and I am at his mercy when I make mistakes. Although he never expresses anger toward me, I have seen disappointment in his eyes.

Seeing him disappointed with something I have done crushes me, and although I always recover, it is difficult knowing I have let him down. I learn from my mistakes, and as time passes I am becoming a stronger, more aware, and a far more capable lover.

To label our relationship with a name or an acronym would be impossible. I am a unique woman with extraordinary sexual needs. Jack satisfies me completely and wholly, leaving a longing within me to do nothing but please him in an equal manner.

Our sex would be described by most as being aggressive, wild, and sometimes on the cusp of torturous, but it always begins with his hand wrapped firmly around my neck which is followed by a kiss.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

JACK

September 16, 2007

Do you have any regrets? Would you do anything differently if you could do it over? If you could turn back the clock Mr. Shephard, what, if anything…

Each time someone asked me one of those questions, they got the same response as the person before them. Regret wasn’t something I had ever known. I lived life by my own set of rules, and I had never been ashamed of anything I chose to do in living it. Not always were my choices in line with the law, society’s belief, or what most considered being moral or just; but that didn’t make my decisions – or me – wrong. Because of my personal opinions and my adherence to my own set of laws, I had always perceived myself as being a man of honor, and one with a purpose. It didn’t necessarily provide any assurance other people understood me or agreed with me, but changing my ways wasn’t an option.

I realized in living my life I had made mistakes, I was no different than any other man; but realizing when I made them set me apart from most men. Recognizing my errors and realizing just what series of circumstances allowed them to come into play paved the way for me to always improve, making the days in my future fractionally better than the ones in my past.

Each new day in my life was always better than the one which preceded it.

Always.

He crossed his arms in what I had learned to be the standard prison Peckerwood pose, leaning to the side and studying me from head to toe as he did so. Standing six foot two and weighing roughly 220 pounds of solid muscle, Deuce would be intimidating to most men. No one, however, intimidated me. As he studied me I gazed around the cell, admiring the cleanliness. His cell was spotless and smelled like a hospital – at least what I remembered them smelling like when I was a kid.

“You can’t just go knocking a motherfucker out in this joint, especially one of the blacks. You ever done federal time before?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, “Been in jail a few times. Never locked up like this, no.”

He lifted his chin slightly and looked down his nose at me as he narrowed his gaze. “You bother to notice there’s segregation here? Cops don’t put blacks and whites in the same cell. Don’t mix whites and Mexicans either – or blacks and Mexicans for that matter. You notice at chow the blacks are on one side and the whites are on another? Same thing at the phones. Hell, look out on the run, they’ve even got their own place to post up. You notice that? Pretty hard to fucking miss.”

I’d never considered myself to be a prejudiced man. As far as I was concerned, men were men, and placing one in a category of any kind prior to knowing who a man was or what he stood for was wrong. I understood prison was different, and would require adjustments on my part, but I didn’t have to agree with why it was the way it was. After a short glare for him having me redirected to his prison cell in the first place, I nodded my head once in affirmation.

“Yeah, I noticed. Just what’s the fucking problem, Deuce? It’s Deuce, right?” I paused and glanced over my shoulder toward the man who was slowly inching closer to where I was standing.

“The problem is this. A white bustin’ the head of a black, especially the one you busted, can pop off a riot in here. You need to ask permission before you go thumpin’ another black,” he explained.

As Deuce spoke, I noticed the man who shadowed him everywhere had moved half the distance between the cell door and where I stood. I immediately turned to face him and raised my hands into a defensive posture.

“You wanting to fuck me or something?” I asked as I shifted my eyes along his lean muscular frame.

He was of average height, a little smaller than average size, and covered in an overabundance of prison tat’s, primarily swastikas and other white pride tattoos, including a 14/88 over his left eyebrow.  Dressed in white boxer shorts, white socks, no shirt, and his shower shoes, he looked like every other Peckerwood I’d seen, but the fact he was invading my bubble set him apart from the rest.

His eyes widened as he stammered to form a response, “I was just…”

“Well, you just better back the fuck up a few feet, little man. You rolling up on me like that is making me want to add you to the list of motherfuckers I’ve knocked out today,” I said through my teeth.

He leaned to the side and attempted to look around me – and toward Deuce – for answers.

“Stand outside, Junior,” Deuce chuckled from behind me.

“I’m not fucking around,” I said as I turned to face Deuce.

“You’re gonna have a tough life in here, Killer,” Deuce sighed, “You need to figure out how to do your time and keep your time from doing you.”

I shook my head from side-to-side as I gazed down at the toilet blankly. After a moment of collecting my thoughts, I shifted my eyes toward Deuce and pursed my lips. As soon as he showed outward signs of being nervous, I relaxed, realizing he was no different than anyone else.

Shot caller, my ass.

“Doing time?” I said with a laugh, “I’m not doing time. I’ve got life in this place. Far as I’m concerned, this is my new home. I don’t let people disrespect me in my home, and I’m sure as fuck not going to let them do it here – and as far as I’m concerned the color of a man’s skin doesn’t protect him from shit.”

He nodded his head and turned his palms upward. “In here it does.”

“Got my own set of rules,” I seethed.

He raised his right hand and extended his index finger. “If he disrespected you or the race, that’s one thing. But you need to get permission. There’s always, what do you call it? Circumstances. God damn it I can’t think of it right now, but it’s a kind of circumstance that lets you, you know, kind of step away from what’s normally…”

“Extenuating circumstances,” I interrupted.

“Yep. Extenuating. Appreciate ya,” he nodded, “So I heard he called you a ‘Wood, and you started beatin’ on his black ass?”

I shook my head, “Don’t know where you get your information, but that’s not even close. Here’s what went down, and I’ll tell you in advance, I don’t like repeating myself, and I’ve never been one to go over things and second guess my actions. Where I’m living doesn’t change that, so pay attention.”

He widened his eyes as he knelt down and squatted, pressing his back to the wall as he did so. I’d seen many of the people relax like this in the five days I’d been in prison; it was almost as if they were sitting, but without the aid of a chair.

“Have a seat,” he said as he tossed his head toward the toilet.

The six foot by twelve foot cell was no different than the other 1800 cells in the prison. It had two steel beds on one wall, one over the other, a steel desk anchored to the wall, a one-piece steel toilet with a sink contoured into the top of it, a steel locker anchored to the wall, and a steel cell door with a hinged slot. After excluding the space taken by the beds, toilet, and desk, there wasn’t much room left. I glanced toward the toilet, shifted my eyes toward him, and shook my head.

“No disrespect, but I’ll stand. So we were in the kitchen, in the dish room. He told me to work the back of the machine, grabbing the dishes as they came off the washer. I’d been working on the front of it for four hours, and I just got the hang of it, you know, I was kind of in a rhythm. So I told him to fuck off. I said ‘unless you’re a cop, you got no fucking business telling me what to do’. The motherfucker sized me up, pointed to the rear of the machine, and told me to ‘get back there, you punk ass bitch,’” I paused and waited for his reaction.

“Those exact words? Called you a ‘punk as bitch’?” he asked as he slowly rose from his seated position.

I nodded my head. Calling someone a punk in prison, or a bitch for that matter, was about as disrespectful as one could be toward another man. Men will generally fight for honor, to protect those they love, or to support their system of beliefs. It really was no different in prison. Calling someone a punk was indicating he’d let another man fuck him – and become his bitch. For a heterosexual man, the thought is unthinkable. To simply allow another man to do something like that would suggest a he was weak and incapable of standing up for something he held sacred.

And I was far from a weak man.

“Those exact words. So, I busted the disrespectful fucker in the gut with all I had. When he was trying to figure out what planet he was on, I got his ass in a headlock and beat him until my arm got tired,” I paused and shrugged my shoulders, “That’s pretty much it.”

“Well, if that’s what he said, he deserved everything he got. I’ll go to the black shot caller and explain, so there’s no need to worry. But there’s one more thing,” he paused and stepped within a few feet of where I stood.

“He’s tellin’ all the blacks he beat your ass. Price you pay for not markin’ his ass up,” he said under his breath.

Deuce had been locked up for eight years, and was the shot caller for the Peckerwoods, a white prison gang. The prison had many white gangs, and they all stood for the same thing, the belief their race was superior to any other. From my quick inventory of the gangs in the five days I had been imprisoned, I placed the Peckerwoods on the lower position on the totem pole, the highest being the most violent. The Aryan Brotherhood, Aryan Circle, Nazi Low Riders, Dirty White Boys, and Hammerskins seemed to be more violent – or at least more prone to it.

“My understanding was that I didn’t want to mark him up. If I did, I thought we’d both go to the hole. I looked at it like I did the disrespectful fuck a favor. So he’s saying he whipped my ass?” I asked as I raised my hand to my chin.

As I rubbed my jaw between my forefinger and thumb, he nodded his head.

“I suppose there’s a price you pay for making him look like he got his ass whipped, and a price you pay for leaving him looking like he ain’t even been in a fight. Depends on which one you’re most comfortable with,” he said.

“And you’re telling me I have to get permission to whip his ass?” I asked.

He nodded once.

“Well, when you go talk to the shot caller, tell him what happened, and tell him I’m going to beat that motherfucker again, for GP. If this is my new home, I’m sure as fuck not going to get off on the wrong foot,” I said through my teeth.

“You’re a hard case, Killer,” he chuckled.

“And that’s another thing. Don’t call me that. Tell all the ‘Woods, hell, tell everyone in this joint. My name’s Jack. Nothing else,” I said.

He clenched his fist and held it at arm’s length. I clenched mine and pounded it against his.

“Bet,” he said.

“Well, I’ll go tell Black what time it is,” he said as he peered through the cell door, “We got a half hour till lock down.”

“It’ll take me about sixty seconds to do what I gotta do,” I paused and narrowed my eyes slightly as I realized what he had said, “The black shot caller’s name is Black?”

He nodded his head, “Ironic, huh?”

I shrugged my shoulders and gazed out onto the cellblock as Deuce walked past me and made his way toward the other side of the run. A group of white men – all shirtless, covered in tattoos, and sporting shaved heads – stood against the handrail as they watched a group of Hispanic men assembled across the run fifty feet away. As they noticed Deuce walking along the run, one of them nodded his head in Deuce’s direction. I shifted my eyes to the right. A group of black men stood talking, studying the white men intently. Tension was just about what I expected – high at all times. The prison reeked of sweat, dirty clothes, and adrenaline. The salty smell of the sweat was so thick I could taste it.

I studied the group of black men as Deuce strutted past them, his chin high and his chest thrust forward. All eyes shifted to him as he walked past. I shifted my eyes to the Hispanics. One tossed his head toward Deuce as he stepped into the cell of who I expected was the black shot caller. As Deuce walked in, a thin black man emerged. Slowly, the group of Peckerwoods who were leaning against the handrail stepped away from it and backed against the wall.

Without a word spoken, it was clear what was happening. News in prison traveled primarily though body language – and it traveled fast.

After a matter of seconds, Deuce walked out, gazed my direction, and nodded his head once. I shifted my eyes around the cellblock. Batista, the man I had fought with earlier, stood against the wall with a group of four black men. As he noticed Deuce walking in my direction, his gaze shifted to where I stood.

Our eyes locked.

I grinned and raised my clenched fists.

“All clear, do what you gotta do, Killer,” Deuce said as he stepped between me and the open cell door.

“Jack, god damn it,” I growled.

He coughed a laugh and shook his head, “You’re a hard motherfucker, ain’t ya? Do what you gotta do, Jack.”

“How long they put us in segregation for fighting?” I asked.

“Thirty days in the SHU,” he nodded.

“See ya in thirty days,” I said as I turned away.

As I walked down the run, I heard a whistle from behind me, similar to a bird chirping. Immediately following the sound, the group of Peckerwoods began walking toward where Batista stood. My eyes shifted around the commons area. The group of Dirty White Boys who were surrounding the phones along the far wall began walking in the same direction, and as they did, one whistled a similar sound. Immediately, white men emerged from their cells like ants from a mound and assembled along the walls.

I’d always believed if a man couldn’t stand up for what he believed in, he must not believe in it with his heart. Fighting a man for suggesting I’d let another man fuck me might seem foolish to some, but as far as I was concerned, it was a matter of respect. If I was going to spend my life living in a place where only the strong survived, I needed to be strong, or be perceived as being strong. Allowing a man to treat me disrespectfully in my first week would only open the door for others to follow.

Although I may have been depicted differently by all who knew me, I doubt anyone ever described me as being weak. And, as far as I was concerned, thirty days in the hole, or Special Housing Unit, was a small price to pay for keeping my pride.

Taking my pride in this particular circumstance would require another man whipping my ass. I didn’t know Batista – and really I didn’t have to – fighting was something I did extremely well. I started at an early age, growing up in the orphanage. The loss of both parents before I was a teen angered me, and my release of the anger was fighting. Although I wouldn’t describe myself as an angry adult, fighting was sometimes an evil necessity.

“Telling the fellas you whipped my ass, huh?” I grunted as I worked my way through the crowd.

He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet like he was training for a boxing match. My mouth curled into a shitty little smirk as he pulled his clenched fists toward his chest. From what I could see, this was going to be easy.

“Come and get it white boy,” he growled as he tucked his chin into his chest.

Hell, I didn’t need an invitation, but it was nice of him to give one. As I positioned my feet and raised my hands, he swung a wild left hook toward my chin. I leaned back, and as his fist swung past me, I hit him with a hard right jab. The punch more than stunned him, and although I could have ended it right then and there, I felt I needed to make a better showing for the crowd who was gathered around watching. If they saw me knock him out with two punches, there was no doubt some might call it blind luck. If they saw what I was capable of, I suspected respect would be in order when I was released from the SHU.

And respect was all I wanted to gain.

I allowed him to regain his wits and come at me again. As he pulled his right arm back in recoil, I swung a hard left hook into his ribcage. He gasped for breath as his hands fell to his sides. Now standing before me a human punching bag, I viewed him as nothing more than an opportunity to earn my much deserved respect.

A very well executed barrage of punches to his mid-section, followed by half a dozen more to his face – all in a matter of seconds – was all it took. As he fell to the concrete, bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, one of the Peckerwoods behind me gasped his opinion of what he had seen.

“God damn, Killer’s got some hands on him.”

“Boxer. Heard he was a professional boxer,” I heard another respond.

The sound of jangling keys in the distance was unmistakable. In a matter of minutes, the equivalent of a SWAT team would be upon me. As one of the fast approaching officers screamed his command, bodies scattered like roaches.

“Lockdown! Get to your cells!” the officer bellowed as the group of officers rushed into the cell block.

“Inmate!” another screamed, “Get on the ground.”

I gazed down at Batista. If I was going to get a reputation, I needed to make sure my message was clear. As the officers worked their way toward me, shields raised, I glanced over my shoulder. Deuce stood across the cell block, beside his cell door. Many others stood outside their cell watching the commotion. As Batista attempted to raise himself onto his elbows, the entire cell block was focused on where I stood.

I swung my right leg back and kicked him in the face as hard as I could. More screaming and the clanking of keys from behind me reminded me I was soon going to be in worse shape than Batista if I didn’t stop.

But I had a point to make. If I was going to spend life in prison, I was going to do so being respected by all men. I really didn’t give two fucks if they liked me, but respect me they must.

“Don’t move, inmate!” an officer in front of me shouted.

I gazed over my shoulder. Behind me, a wall of federal officers with riot gear stood at the ready.

I turned toward my right. Another line of officers with riot shields and helmets stood in front of me. For lack of a more accurate term, I was surrounded. I sighed and gazed down at Batista.

“Inmate…do not move…get on the ground!” the officer demanded.

I swung my leg to the rear and kicked him with all my might one more time. Cheers erupted from the entire cell block. I did it again. More cheering erupted. I fully realized the majority of the men witnessing the beating viewed it as a racial incident. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. I beat Batista because he was disrespectful to me in a manner that was contrary to my survival in prison – and for no other reason. I gazed around the cellblock and raised my hands in the air as if I had just won the World Championship Heavyweight fight. Screaming, cheering, and beating on the steel cell doors echoed throughout the cellblock.

Although I received a beating from the guards much worse than the one I gave Batista, I did win something on that day, and it wasn’t the championship fight.

It was respect.

And that was all I needed to survive.

JACK

June 6, 2015

The adjustments a man’s mind goes through in prison, adapting to the differences between being free and being confined can’t be forced. Naturally, over time, the mind makes adjustments, eventually accepting confinement as being a way of life. I suspect no differently than animals adjusting to their surroundings in the wild, man adjusts to his surroundings in prison. The adaptation, at least for me, took roughly a year.

I had accepted prison as being my home, realizing there was no way I could change the situation to be something it wasn’t. Accepting it, however, didn’t change my mind’s inability to process the change. Living in a room the size of a child’s bedroom closet with another man, and never having so much as a moment’s privacy isn’t easy to adapt to. Initially, the days seemed as if they were hundreds of hours long. The weeks seemed like months, and each year resembled living a complete lifetime. I convinced myself with the slow passage of time I was destined to live the equivalent of many lives in prison, watching the clock spin at a rate much slower than it did in the free world.

After a year, something within me changed. In hindsight, I believe although I had become comfortable with being incarcerated, my mind had not. After a year’s time, my surroundings had not changed one bit, but my mind accepted my new home as being the only option.

Although many men find God in prison, often praying for change, acceptance, or protection from harm, I was not one of them. God had been in my life, my way of living, and my heart since I was a child. I doubt many people looked at me and categorized me as Christian, but I was and had always been.

When I was free, my family consisted of my younger sister Sydney and the men in the motorcycle club I rode with. Although I had written off the club early in my incarceration as being nothing more than a group of men who like to drink beer and fight, casting my sister aside was a difficult decision.

I loved Sydney in a manner differently than most brothers would love their sisters. Growing up, I acted as her best friend, brother, father, and family. We had very little as children, and went from foster family to foster family after the death of our parents. Eventually landing in a foster home where we remained until adulthood, I did my best to protect her from any and all things that would possibly cause her harm. Sydney was the world to me, and losing her had proven to be far more difficult than I could have ever imagined.

As much as I loved her I felt the need to cut all ties to her. I was spending the remaining portion of my life in prison, and from what I could imagine life would be like for her, allowing her to become part of the living hell I was in would be selfish of me. Separating myself from her and allowing her to live life without the attachment to me would force her to accept the loss of me from her life – no differently than if I was dead – and proceed living life without the day to day sorrow from having her only remaining family in prison.

“Step out of the cell, Shephard,” the officer barked.

I folded the letter, slid it into the envelope, and carefully placed the envelope in the shoe box of letters. After positioning the shoe box under the bottom bunk, I walked out of the cell and turned to face the guard.

“Another fucking shakedown?” I asked as I stepped out onto the run.

“Cell inspection. The new AW wants shit tightened up around here. He thinks your houses look like shit,” Officer Turner responded.

The new Associate Warden was an anal retentive prick. He had been relocated from a minimum security prison camp to the maximum security prison I was housed in. Immediately, he changed rules and regulations regarding paint, floor polish, cleaning supplies, and cleaning procedures. As much as he tried, he couldn’t change the fact he was in an actual prison and not in a prison camp that resembled a college dorm. I was quite certain his mind was adapting to the changes no differently than mine did.

“You’re going to need to get your shoeboxes of letters put up or toss them in the trash, Shephard. Same thing for your cellie. If it won’t fit in your locker, it’s trash,” Officer Matting said as he emerged from the cell.

“You know good and god damned well those boxes won’t fit in my fucking locker. Shit, I can’t fit my fucking clothes in the little fucker,” I paused and gazed past him at the two boxes of letters Sydney had written me, “Sorry boss, but I’m not tossing my letters, they’re all I’ve got.”

“Having a surprise cell inspection on Monday. Your cell can’t have anything on the floor. That’s the AW’s new rule,” Matting said.

I turned around and placed my hands behind my back.  “Cuff me and take my ass to the SHU now. I’ll take my letters with me. Fuck the AW.”

“I’m not taking you anywhere, Shephard. Just get all your shit off the floor,” Matting said.

I turned around and focused on Turner. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. I shifted my eyes to Matting. He shrugged and tossed his head toward the next cell.

“Step out of the cell, Newman,” Matting said as he leaned into the cell beside me.

I glanced down at the boxes of letters. They were all I had to remind me that there was a world outside of prison, and my only means of communicating with my sister – even if my communication was limited to reading letters I had never responded to. To toss them in the trash would be to walk out on what little life I had left. The letters kept me sane and provided me hope that Sydney would continue living the life I would never be able to. In some respects, I lived vicariously through her. And, although I hadn’t written her in over four years, the letters continued to come, one every other week, for eight years.

“Time for store,” Newman said as he stepped beside my cell door.

I nodded my head as I grabbed my mesh laundry bag from on top of my bunk.

“Big order this week, soap and Batteries,” I said as I buttoned up my shirt.

Earning $0.23 an hour wasn’t the wages I suspected I’d retire on, but there was no changing the work system in prison. Working 6 hours a day in prison earned me $6.90 a week to spend. With a bar of Dial soap costing $1.00, and a granola bar costing $3.00, my priorities quickly became the necessities, and nothing more. I treated myself once a month to a treat of some sort from the store, typically a candy bar. The order from the Commissary went in by filling out a request several days in advance, checking the appropriate box beside the item requested. The inmate placed his prison ID number on the request, and signed his name. The order was then waiting for him at the Commissary, and the money was removed from his ‘books’ or account to pay for the items purchased.

As Newman and I stepped into our place in line, I gazed down the ranks of men. In my time at Big Sandy, I’d seen men come in, leave, be transferred, and get killed. Although one would suspect someone like me would have no worries after doing eight years, the opposite was true. In prison, a man must always be on guard and attentive to his surroundings at all times. A new inmate attempting to make a name for himself, or someone trying to get his patch with one of the gangs was always a threat. As I studied the men, their movements, and listened to the faint whispers, I relaxed slightly, feeling minimal tension amongst the crowd.

“No talking during movements,” the guard bellowed.

After being escorted to the store and waiting in line for my turn, I stepped up to the window and held my ID up for the officer to see.

“Shephard,” I said.

“Double A’s and Dial?” he asked.

I nodded my head, “Sounds about right.”

He handed me the items and printed a receipt. As he handed me the receipt, he nodded his head toward the piece of paper. I glanced down to see my balance, but based on his gesture, I figured my funds had diminished beyond my previous calculations.

$2,542.36

I gazed down at the paper for a moment, wadded it up, and placed it into my pocket.

“You saying that’s what I got on my books?” I asked.

He nodded his head once.

“Next!” he bellowed as he peered past me.

I slapped my hand against the counter. “Gimme a jar of motherfucking peanut butter.”

“Shephard, you know there’s no substitutions. Get it next week. Next!” he hollered.

“Where’s my order sheet?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “In the trash by now, why?”

“Had a peanut butter on it. All I got was batteries and soap. Need that peanut butter, boss,” I responded.

He shook his head and grinned.

“Missed a jar of peanut butter for Shephard,” he barked over his shoulder.

The inmate working in the commissary walked up and handed the officer a jar of peanut butter. The officer printed a new ticket and handed me the jar.

“Next!” he hollered.

I stepped aside, peered down the ranks of men toward the guard, and twisted the lid from the jar. As I studied the guard, I shoved two fingers into the jar of peanut butter and slid them into my mouth.

I found it odd something as simple as a jar of peanut butter was able to provide tremendous satisfaction to an inmate in federal prison, and be nothing more than a snack to someone in the free world. All of the things I had taken for granted on the outside were now viewed as luxuries.

Being touched affectionately. Listening to a bird chirping. Turning a door knob and opening a door. Deciding what to wear. Petting a dog. Sitting at a stoplight. Deciding what to eat.

Taking a shit without an audience.

These were simple things I would never do again.

I dropped the peanut butter into my laundry bag and reached into my pocket. After stepping to the side and away from the watchful eyes of the other inmates, I removed the wadded receipt and stared down at the balance.

$2,542.36

Many people over the years had made a promise to place money on my books, but very few ever delivered. Most deposits into my account were in the first few years, and after that, nothing ever came. I had no idea who sent the money, but whoever had just changed my way of living, and for that I was grateful.

“You must have long money on your books, buying peanut butter and shit,” Newman said as he tilted his head toward my bag.

“Living the dream,” I responded.

And for now, the statement was true.

I was living the dream.

One scoop at a time.

JACK

July 1, 2015

After almost a decade of incarceration, a person loses all hope for any change to take place. During the first several months, everyone tells themselves they were wrongfully convicted, they hope for an appeal, or they believe someone or something can or will eventually save them from the unthinkable – remaining in prison.

But the appeal never comes, and no one ever emerges to save them from anything. Acceptance of life in prison is difficult, but necessary. Hope, to a prisoner, is like a cancer. Hope eats at your ability to accept life as being what it is. Hope will make a strong man weak, and a weak man dead.

In prison, there is no hope.

“Mailcall!” the officer barked form the end of the run.

I stood at the cell door and watched the men gather around the officer. As he pulled the mail from the basket, he shouted the names of the respective inmates. After a few minutes, my gaze became more of a blank stare, and my mind faded to thoughts of Sydney and me as children.

Newman hollered at me, snapping me out of the shallow daydream.

“Mail,” he shouted.

“Last call, legal mail, Shephard, Jackson!” the guard shouted.

Legal mail?

“Shephard, right here,” I hollered as I walked toward the guard.

He handed me the letter over his shoulder. I gazed down at the envelope and studied the addresses to make certain it was mine. I glanced around the cellblock and turned toward my cell. After walking into the cell, I opened the envelope carefully and removed the letter. After unfolding it, I began to read the typed words.

Jackson,

You don’t know me, but my name is Avery. I’m a friend of your sister, Sydney. I work for a law firm in Wichita, and I was initially intrigued by your case when hearing of the ATF and their persistent requests for you to admit to wanting to kill a member of a rival club. After having my first two letters I had written to you rejected and returned, I decided to write you an official legal letter, as this matter is now officially official (sorry, but I laughed when I wrote that).

I’m the Ol’ Lady of the President of the Selected Sinners, a Kansas based 1% club. The club is thirty strong in Wichita, and has chapters in Oklahoma and Texas as well. Overall, they’re a tight knit bunch of brothers who would do anything for each other, or for the cause.

I’m far too excited to go very long without just getting to the point I would like to make, but for the sake of safety, I’ll request you take the time to sit if you aren’t already sitting.

Now, I’ll assume you’re sitting and I will continue with my announcement.

I paused, peered over my shoulder, and into the cellblock. After reassuring myself no one was watching, I sat at the desk and continued.

I filed an appeal on your case based on you being provided an attorney who wasn’t sufficiently defending you, and secondly on your being entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime. The appellate court accepted the appeal, and has responded.

I really hope you’re sitting down right now.

Jackson, they’ve accepted your appeal. You’re going to have a new trial, and if they find you were entrapped, you’ll go free. For what it’s worth, the attorney taking your case will be my boss, and he has never (yes, I said never, as in NEVER) lost a federal case.

The cost of the trial, the fees, and the paying of the attorney has all been done in advance, and will be of no cost to you.

Mr. Shephard, breathe easily. Your life is in very capable hands.

I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through, or what you go through on a daily basis, but I have a favor to ask of you. The club placed some money in your account, so I know you can afford to do it. I’ve done a lot for you, and I want something in return. It will cost less than a dollar, and will take only an hour’s time.

Write your sister a letter.

She loves you dearly, and would love to hear from you.

That’s all.

Well, I can’t wait to meet you in court, and Sydney’s looking forward to seeing you as well. She’s the Ol’ Lady of the club’s SAA, Toad. All of the fellas send their best, and Axton (my Ol’ Man) made it mandatory for the club to attend the trial, so you’ll have the support of the club and you won’t go through this alone.

I know it’s been a long time, but do your best to recall everything that happened through the course of the investigation. We’ll have almost no time to prepare, so anything you can remember will be used in your favor.

All my best.

Avery (the bad-ass bitch who got you a new fucking trial)

I dropped the letter onto the desk and gazed down at the neatly typed pages. As my mind swirled into a whirlwind of emotion, the unthinkable happened.

My heart filled with hope.

JACK

Present day

I felt odd sitting in the courtroom. My memories of my initial trial were not good ones, and I believed at the time that I was railroaded through the system and sent to prison on a bullshit charge. Although I accepted it as being part of life, and realized I wasn’t capable of changing it, I didn’t like it then and I didn’t like it now.

The attorney appointed to my case was an extremely aggressive man, and was much better prepared than my original attorney. As he asked the questions, I did my best to answer in a manner I expected he wanted me to.

“Did you know agent Blackburn was an ATF agent at this time?”

I leaned toward the microphone and spoke clearly, “No, Sir.”

“Did you view the members of your club as brothers?” he asked.

I nodded my head.  “Yes, Sir, I sure did.”

“Family?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir, I did. They were my family.”

“Mr. Shephard, where is your mother today?” he asked.

I hoped he knew the answer, and it seemed odd he would ask even if he didn’t know, but as much as I was offended by the question, I suspected somehow it must have had merit.

“She’s dead, Sir. She passed away when I was a very young boy,” I responded.

“I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?” he asked.

“The same, Sir. He passed at the same time. I grew up in orphanages and eventually in a foster home with my only sibling, my sister,” I responded.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” he responded as he turned toward the jury and appeared to be wiping tears from his eyes.

Oh, this motherfucker’s good.

“Would it suffice to say the club and your MC Brothers were the only family you had?” he asked.

I nodded my head toward Sydney and responded, “Yes, Sir, them and my sister.”

“And you perceived agent Blackburn as a brother?” he asked.

I glanced toward the prosecuting attorney’s table. Blackburn sat at the table with a shitty grin on his face. The cocksucker had infiltrated our club, and became a fully patched in member. To me, he was a brother, and I would do anything for him. In all actuality, he was an undercover ATF agent, and was attempting to arrest as many of the members of the club as possible. In the end, he arrested me and charged me with conspiracy to commit murder. In my eyes, he was rotten and marked for death. If not from me, he’d no doubt get it from someone.

“Yes, Sir, I did,” I responded.

“To the best of your knowledge, were the Shovelheads MC a 1%er club?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir, they were,” I responded.

My attorney walked away from his post and slowly approached the witness stand. He looked confused. As he rubbed his jaw in his hand and glanced toward the jury, he spoke, “And Hell’s Fury was also a 1%er club?”

“Yes, Sir, we were,” I responded.

“When a 1% club who has claimed territory – for this sake I’ll call them the parent club -has another club ride into the territory without permission, wearing their colors including a lower rocker claiming the same territory, how does the parent club perceive this trespass?”

“As disrespectful, it’s considered a threat,” I responded.

He widened his eyes as his mouth fell open comically, “A threat?”

I nodded my head and leaned toward the microphone, “Yes, Sir.”

“And when a 1% club makes a threat, what might that threat include, generally speaking?”

Oh, I see where you’re going…

“Violence,” I responded.

“Violence. I see. Let me back up a little bit, to where we were before. This club, the Hell’s Fury, these fellas were your family, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir,” I responded.

“I see. And when agent Blackburn asked you what you’d do if they came into your territory, wearing a lower rocker claiming Texas as if it their own, what was your fear, if any?”

“They were a rival club, always causing problems and talking…” I paused and turned toward the judge.

I knew what I wanted to say, but had no idea if I would be allowed to.

“Can I cuss?” I whispered to the judge.

“Yes, son, you can,” he responded.

I leaned toward the microphone and continued, “Talking shit. Saying they were going to do this, and do that. If they rode in wearing their colors, I guess my fear was that they’d probably kill us, or at least try.”

“So, your eventual response to ATF agent Blackburn was one more of protection than of aggression, was it not?”

“Objection, your honor. He’s leading the witness,” the prosecuting attorney complained.

“Granted. Rephrase your question,” the judge instructed my attorney.

“Why did you eventually respond in the manner you did to the ATF agent? Agreeing that you’d kill members of the Shovelheads if they came to town?”

I’m trying to stay with you, brother. You’re shocking the shit out of me. See what you think of this.

“I didn’t realize he was an agent. At the time, he was a brother, you know, part of my family. My fear was that the Shovelheads MC might hurt him or some of my other brothers. My thoughts at the time were that I needed to protect my family,” I responded.

“Your only family?”

“Yes, Sir, my only family,” I responded.

“No further questions for this witness, your honor,” Kurt said flatly.

I left the witness stand feeling good about my case and the new trial. Win or lose, at least I was being allowed to have my sister, her new friends, and the jury hear the truth. In my first trial I was not asked many questions, and the information projected to the jury was one-sided and left me feeling as if I did something wrong, all the while knowing all I did was respond to a question in a half-drunken stupor.

After a short recess, my attorney began questioning the ATF agent. The questioning was difficult for me to listen to, as his responses reminded me of the ‘lost recordings’ and what I expected to be bullshit answers – primarily lies – prepared to insure my case was lost and I went back to prison.

I really didn’t expect anything less.

I leaned back, gazed toward the witness stand, and studied agent Blackburn.

If I get out of here, I’m going to hunt you down and make you pay, you cock sucker.

“How long was your investigation of the Hell’s Fury?”

“Two years and one month,” Blackburn responded.

“And in that time, twenty-five months, how many arrests were made?”

One, you piece of shit…

Me.

“One,” Blackburn responded.

“One? A twenty-five month long investigation of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and it only produced one arrest?”

“Yes,” Blackburn snapped back.

“Did the ATF make a decision not to prosecute the other cases?”

“There were no other cases,” Blackburn responded.

“Let me get this straight. You successfully infiltrated an outlaw gang of motorcycle thugs for twenty-five months, and produced this as your only case? Seems more like they were a group of good old boys, not an OMG…” my attorney stated.

“Your honor, I object. It appears the defense counsel has chosen to provide his own testimony,” the prosecutor howled.

The judge turned toward the jury and raised his index finger in the air, “I’ll ask the jury to strike the last statement made by the prosecutor. Counsel, you have been warned.”

“In discovery, I requested the voice recording of the conversation on the night of the instant offence. I was advised it did not exist in legible format. Are you aware of the lack of availability of said recording?”

“Yes, Sir, I am. Unfortunately, the recording device did not work properly on that evening, and background noise made the recording worthless,” Blackburn responded.

“I was provided recorded conversations before and after the date in question. In fact, I have a few hundred hours of recorded conversations. Almost four hundred hours if memory serves me correctly. Now, my question to you is as follows…” Kurt paused and turned toward the jury.

“Agent Blackburn, how many conversations through the course of the investigation were unintelligible, to the best of your knowledge, that is?” he asked as he continued to face the jury.

“One,” Blackburn breathed in response.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your response. Can you speak into the microphone?”

Fuck yes, make him repeat it ten times.

Blackburn leaned forward and resonded, “One.”

“Only one missing, and it just so happens it’s the critical one,” my attorney seethed.

“Strike that last statement. So, agent Blackburn, I’m curious. During your infiltration of the group of outlaw bikers, did you give them your actual name?” he asked.

“No,” Blackburn laughed.

Sure as fuck didn’t, you chicken-shit.

“Did you make one up?”

“Yes, I did,” Blackburn responded.

“Did you give them an accurate history of who you were?”

“No Sir, I provided fictitious information. Information believed to be more acceptable to the type of people I was investigating,” Blackburn responded.

“So you lied. You told lies to the bikers to get them to either like you or accept you, is that correct?”

God damned right, he lied.

“I object!” the prosecutor yelled.

“Your honor, the witness stated he provided inaccurate information to the group during his investigation. I’m simply…” he paused and shook his head, “I’ll rephrase the question.”

“Was the information you provided the bikers regarding your background and your name the truth?” he asked.

“No,” Blackburn snapped.

“Was it a lie?” he asked.

“Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor hollered.

“I’ll allow it, but you shall make your point in a timely manner, counsel,” the judge stated.

“Yes,” Blackburn said through his teeth.

“Explain your thought process to me on lying to these men during the investigation. Why would you feel compelled to tell them lies?”

“To preserve the investigation, we are taught to give either limited information, or false information. It provides protection to the bureau and to the agent,” Blackburn responded.

“You’re taught to lie during your investigations?” Kurt asked.

Blackburn glanced toward the judge. The judge nodded his head.

“Yes,” Blackburn muttered.

“So, through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?”

“Objection, your honor, asked and answered,” the prosecutor hollered.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.

I studied Blackburn. This was an interesting approach, making him out to be a liar.

“I’ll ask the question again. Through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?”

“Correct, we’re often required to lie, as you say, to preserve the investigation,” Blackburn responded.

“Do you only lie during the course of work?”

“Yes, during the course of my work, and when required for my work,” Blackburn responded.

“Are you being paid for your testimony today, agent Blackburn?”

I locked eyes with him and waited for him to respond. He sat motionless with his lips pursed.

“You must not have heard me. You testified that you told lies through the course of your work to preserve the investigation. My question was this: Are you being paid for your testimony today? Are you working?”

“Yes, I am,” Blackburn murmured.

My attorney raised his finger in the air and spoke. “No further questions, your honor.”

Fuck yes, you lying son-of-a-bitch.

After the prosecution rested, both attorneys gave their closing arguments and we were released while the jury went to deliberate. Having no idea whether it was going to take hours, days, or a week, I was thrilled to be taken to the county jail and not back to the USP at Big Sandy – at least not yet. The new scenery and different living quarters might have been temporary, but it was a welcomed change. As the US Marshall loaded me onto the elevator, he received a call on his radio.

“Looks like you’re going back to court,” he said as he pressed the button to open the door.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Jury reached a decision,” he said as the elevator doors opened.

“In ten minutes? What’s that mean?” I asked.

He shook his head, “Hard saying. Might be good, might be bad.”

In a slight state of shock, I followed him into the courtroom. After finding my seat beside my attorney, I gazed around the courtroom and eventually fixed my eyes on Sydney and her friends. Win, lose, or draw, I appreciated all they had done for me, and if nothing else, Avery had secured Sydney a spot in my life as a pen pal forever.

“Counsel, please stand,” the judge said into the microphone.

My attorney and I stood. He turned his head to face me and whispered.

“No matter what the outcome, hold your head high,” he said.

I swallowed heavily and nodded my head once, “I will.”

The judge cleared his throat and gazed out into the courtroom as he spoke, “I want it understood there will be no outbursts in my courtroom, regardless of the verdict.”

The judge turned toward the jury.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

The foreman nodded his head, “Yes, your honor, we have.”

“In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States of America, what say you?” the judge asked.

I gazed down at the floor.

Your will, not mine.

“In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States, we the jury, find him not guilty; as he was entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime listed in the indictment, your honor,” the foreperson responded.

Not guilty?

Not?

I glanced over my left shoulder. Sydney sat between a man and a woman with her hands covering her mouth, crying. I shifted my eyes toward my attorney.

“So now what? Back to Big Sandy for a bit? Another appeal on their part?” I asked.

He shook his head and grinned as he patted me on the shoulder.

“You’re a free man,” he responded.

A lump rose in my throat unlike anything I had ever experienced. My eyes welled with tears. I gazed down at the floor and stared for a few seconds. Finally, I swallowed heavily and shifted my eyes upward.

“Free?” I asked, “It’s over? That’s it?”

“Free to do whatever you want. Congratulations,” he said.

“Can I go hug my sis?” I asked.

“You can do whatever you want, Mr. Shephard, you’re a free man,” he responded.

I was overwhelmed. I turned and attempted to stay standing on my shaking legs. Although I fully expected to be tackled and handcuffed if I continued, I took a few steps toward Sydney. She stood beside a man crying. He stood an easy six foot six, and seemed to be solid muscle. I wondered if he was her boyfriend, and looked forward to meeting him I f he was. Slowly, I began walking in her direction, peering over my shoulder as I approached, expecting a guard to stop me before I got to where she stood. I bit my lower lip, and continued until I had walked across the courtroom.

This can’t be happening.

I released my quivering lip, opened my arms, and grinned. Somehow, I managed to speak.

“Gimme a hug, sis,” I said.

She vaulted herself over the handrail and onto the floor beside me, almost tackling me as she did so. As she held me in her arms, she blubbered into my shoulder. After a few minutes of sobbing, she collected herself and looked up into my eyes.

“We’ve got a place for you to stay for as long as you want. You’ll have your own room. And Cambio’s got a bike you can ride. His old Softail, he said you can have it. He said you won’t be truly free until you can ride,” she said excitedly, wiping tears from her face as she spoke.

I glanced to her left. A man wearing a cut with the Sergeant-At-Arms ribbon stood at her side. His patch read Toad.

“You Syd’s man?” I asked.

He nodded his head as he extended his hand, “Toad.”

“Jack,” I said as I shook his hand.

“Well, you ready to get out of this shit-hole?” he asked.

I glanced around the courtroom. With the exception of us, the room was empty. As hard as it was to believe, it appeared I truly was a free man. The thought of not going back to prison still hadn’t quite sank in. I turned toward Toad and nodded my head once.

“You up for a ride?” he asked.

“Right now, nothing sounds better,” I responded.

The man standing behind him raised his hand in the air. “Saddle up,” he said.

Saddle up.

I never thought I’d hear those words again.

Sydney stood beside me, grinning and crying softly. I glanced around the courtroom as men began walking toward the door. Normally, hearing my little sis cry would cause me pain, but now it was music to my ears.

I still didn’t feel free, and as awkward as it seemed as I walked out of the courtroom, a certain comfort washed over me.

I now had a second chance to live my life.

And I intended to do just that.

Live my life.

FREE SEX CHAPTER FROM THE BOXER EROTIC ROMANCE SERIES – “UNSTOPPABLE”

Posted in Best Erotic Romance novel #1 best selling Unstoppable Boxer Erotic Romance, Free erotica, Free sex scene from #1 best selling, Male Erotica Author Scott Hildreth, Scott Hildreth author with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 11, 2014 by scottdhildreth

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“Chuck what?” I asked, not really sure of what he said.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” he responded.

He tossed his shirt over the arm of the couch and reached for the waistband of his shorts. I watched his hands as he fumbled with the button. His knuckles were covered with scars, and his hands were huge. If what they say about a guy’s hands being large is right, this may just make for a really fun night. Something about a tattooed, muscular fighter with a sense of humor was a huge turn on; and this guy was all of the above.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasped as his shorts fell to his ankles.

“What?” he said as he kicked his shorts free of his shoes.

“Your….uhhm…cock,” I stuttered as I pointed to the massive cock that hung between his legs like some other form of appendage altogether.

“The piercings?” he asked as he looked down and started stroking it.

“The what?” I asked as I watched his hand slide up and down the shaft.

“Piercings?” he said as he lifted his cock and exposed the underside.

“Holy fuck, what are they? Oh God. It’s getting hot in here. Brandee, come here,” I squealed as I waved my arms.

Brandee stood from the barstool and shook her head as she walked toward the portion of the room where we were standing. Her eyes widened as she saw Ripp standing naked, wearing only his shoes and holding his massive cock by the head. Although Brandee rarely spoke, she looked down at his cock, up at his face, back down between his legs, and almost screamed.

Oh my fucking God, that’s hot. Are you going to fuck him?” she rested her hands on her thighs and bent her knees slightly, staring across the room at his cock.

Brandee and I had a rule. We never had sex with the same guy. We almost always traveled together, and were quite close, but we never crossed those lines. Several guys tried, and many had fetishes, but we always stuck to our guns in that respect. She knew if Ripp and I had sex, she was out of the equation.

“Uhhm, yeah. He’s mine,” I mumbled as I licked my lips.

“Quit staring at me, you’re making me self-conscious. I’m not some fuckin’ circus animal,” Ripp laughed as he started to stroke his cock.

“What is it called?” I asked as I stared at the jewelry in the bottom side of his cock.

“This,” he pointed to a hoop that was pierced through the tip, “is a Prince Albert.”

He raised his cock back up, exposing the underside. Four shiny shafts of metal with little balls on each end pierced the skin along the shaft. As if hypnotized, I stared while he spoke.

“And these are called a Jacob’s ladder,” he said as he held the head of his cock between his thumb and forefinger, stroking the tip of his other index finger along the underside of the shaft.

“Does it hurt?” Brandee asked.

“Go back in the other room,” I pointed toward the bar, “you’ve seen enough.”

“Fuck you, I wanna see it,” Brandee whined as she continued staring at his cock.

“Get. Go back to the bar, Brandee,” I demanded.

Ripp stood and smiled as he began to stroke his cock more aggressively. As his massive hand slid from the tip to his balls, it became apparent just how large his cock actually was. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and realized my pussy was absolutely soaked.

“Is it hot in here?” I asked again.

“It’s Austin, babe. It’s always hot,” Ripp laughed, “I feel like I’m in a bad porn movie. This is gettin’ weird quick. What are we doin here?”

“She’s going to sit on her bar stool, and you’re going to fuck me. Do you leave the stuff in, or take it out?” I asked as I pointed to the barstool and nudged my head toward the bar.

“I didn’t put all of these in here to take ‘em out during sex,” he shook his head and smiled as Brandee walked back to the bar.

“And you’re leaving your shoes on?” I asked as I looked up at his torso.

He was massive and tattoos littered his upper body, randomly placed on his arms, chest, torso, and ribs. He stood in the center of the floor stroking his cock and smiling as he looked down at his Chuck’s.

“Well, I can’t Chuck Fuck without ‘em, now can I?” he asked.

“Uhhm. No,” I responded.

My pussy was uncomfortably wet.

I walked the few steps that separated Ripp from me, and kicked my shoes off as I approached him. With each step, I could feel the wetness between my legs. I’ve always joked    a wet pussy knows what a mind won’t always admit. My wet pussy knew it wanted his pierced cock inside of it. As I closed the gap between us, Ripp smiled.

He was as big of a man as I had actually ever seen, and covered in tattoos. His head was smooth shaven, and his muscles flexed when he walked. I’ve been going to MMA fights for five years, met a lot of fighters, and watched many fights. I have never seen anyone punch as fast as he did when he fought Monkey, or hit as hard with his punches. But something about him, something was just…

Adorable.

“Can I suck it?” I asked as I knelt in front of him.

“Well, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna bitch about it if you do,” he laughed as he looked down at his cock.

“I didn’t know with all of the, well…the stuff in it,” I whispered as I reached out and wrapped my hands around it.

“It’s still just a cock. If you’re scared…” he began.

“I’m not scared,” I said assuredly as I carefully reached for his cock.

As I got ahold of his cock, it was apparent just how big it was. My fingers wouldn’t completely make it around the circumference of the shaft. I stared in awe, wondering if it would even fit inside of me – and if so, what it would feel like. Gripping it, I glanced at my wrist and compared it to the size of his cock.

The exact same.

“You know what’s cool about you having little bitty hands?” Ripp asked as he looked down into my eyes.

“Huh? What’s that?” I stammered.

“Your little hands make my cock look huge,” he chuckled.

“Your cock is huge,” I laughed.

Unable to last another moment, I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around the shaft, and flicked my tongue against the Prince Albert piercing. When I did, he looked down and into my eyes. I watched as he placed his hands on his hips, leaned back, and began to moan.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned as he looked up at the ceiling.

“Holy shit, girl. You know your way around a cock, don’t ya?” he groaned as he looked back down toward me and bit the side of his lower lip with his teeth.

Pleased he was enjoying my mouth on his cock, I slowly slid my lips up and down, feeling the little steel shafts bumping against my lower lip as I worked my mouth up and down the length of his cock.

“Did that sound bad? I didn’t mean it to,” he chuckled as he looked down again.

His cock still in my mouth, I shook my head lightly and opened my eyes a little wider. The little pieces of metal in my mouth were starting to make me even more excited. Feeling them slide past my lips and along my tongue reminded me they were there. The constant assurance made me start to wonder how good they would feel as they popped their way in and out of my wet pussy. The girth of his cock would make the jewelry much more enjoyable. Sucking it was starting to make me extremely and uncomfortably wet. I reached under the hem of my dress with my left hand, slid my fingers into my panties, and rubbed my index finger against my clit. The excitement and intensity of everything made me shudder.

“Wet as fuck, isn’t it?” he half whispered as he rocked his hips back and forth.

I nodded my head and forced my tongue against his piercings. His size, muscles, tattoos, good looks, childish nature and huge pierced cock had become more than I could take. I forced two fingers into my pussy as deep as I could as I sucked his cock slowly. As my fingers slid in knuckle deep, I closed my eyes and moaned against his cock.

“Whoa. Bored? You fucking bored?” the question came out in a half angry groan.

I opened my eyes and looked up at his face.

“If you close your eyes when you’re sucking my cock, I gotta think you’re bored. That’s one of my rules, sister. Stand up,” he commanded in a sharp definitive tone as he reached for my armpits.

His cock slid from my mouth as he picked me up from the floor.

“You on birth control?” he asked as my feet dangled a foot from the floor.

“Uhhm. Yeah. Yeah, I am,” I responded.

“I get checked once a month, I’m clean. It ain’t gonna feel as good for either of us if I wear a rubber,” he breathed as he started walking toward the kitchen.

“No. No, I uhhm. I want to feel that. Those,” I pointed down at his cock.

“In me,” I sighed in anticipation as he stopped on the tile floor of the kitchen.

He lowered me onto the floor and looked in my eyes almost as if he were going to interrogate me.

“You got any pussy diseases?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

Although I didn’t intend to, I laughed as I started to speak. Quickly, I covered my mouth with my hand, a little embarrassed and fractionally disappointed I was laughing at this point of what was going to be our initial sexual escapade.

“This is serious. I ain’t looking to get any fuckin’ diseases,” he pressed his hands to his hips and cocked one eyebrow.

“I’m sorry. It’s just. Well, it’s tough to take you seriously. You’re huge, tattooed, and bald. And that,” I smiled and pointed at his face.

“That thing you got going on, the hair on your chin. It’s just. You’re like way hot. And you’re standing here naked, except that you’re wearing tennis shoes,” I giggled as I looked from his face to his feet and back up, admiring his physique and pierced cock.

“Well again, I sure can’t Chuck Fuck you without ‘em. And they ain’t tennis shoes, they’re Chuck’s,” he said as he grabbed his ankle and raised his foot up to the height of my chest.

“And you didn’t answer my question,” he stood with his ankle in his hand, staring at his shoe.

“Uhhm, no. No pussy diseases. I know you probably think I am a slut, but I’m not. I’ve had sex with two people in my life,” I lied.

I had been with far more than two people, but I didn’t feel a need to be truthful. Not now. I didn’t want to chance fucking this up. I stood, stone-faced, and waited as he lowered his foot to the floor.

Nothing. He bought it.

“And, I have been checked, because my last boyfriend was a douche, and that was over a year ago,” I sighed.

“Well, sounds like we’re good to go,” he clapped his hands and pointed to the countertop.

“Hop up there,” he said as he motioned to the kitchen island.

I turned and looked behind me at the countertop, confused. As I turned to face Ripp, he placed his hands under my armpits and hoisted me onto the island.

“Get undressed and toss one of those legs over my shoulder. I’ll hold you, and then you can throw the other one up here,” he spread his feet to a wider stance and smiled as he patted his shoulder.

“Excuse me? What…uhhm. What are we doing?” I looked down and couldn’t help but smile.

“Chuck Fuckin’. We been over this,” he shook his head as if I had asked a ridiculous question.

I pulled the straps of my dress over my shoulders, and pushed it down my thighs and off my feet. As I unhooked my bra and pulled it off, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. While I pushed my panties down my thighs, he patted his shoulder again.

“Right here, toss your right leg up here,” he held his arms out and bent his knees, lowering his shoulders a little.

As I lifted my right foot over his shoulder, he reached for my left thigh, and pulled it toward him. As my foot lifted from the counter and I started to fall backward, he slipped his left hand behind me, and against my back to stabilize me. With both thighs over his shoulders and my pussy against his chin, it was now apparent what it was he had planned. As his other hand slid behind me, I sighed.

“I’m gonna suck on your clit and lick your pussy ‘till your good and wet. After you’re soaked, we’ll get to Chuck Fuckin’,” he said as he tilted his head back a little.

“Till I’m soaked?” I whispered.

“Yup,” he nodded.

“Shouldn’t take long,” I whimpered as I bit my bottom lip and gripped the back of his head with my hands.

“What’s that?” he asked as he started slowly walking across the kitchen floor.

I barely got the word, “Nothing,” out, and he buried his tongue into my pussy.

“Holy shit,” I squealed as his tongue flicked against my clit.

In a predictable but ever so pleasing pattern, his tongue worked from the bottom upward, into my pussy, gradually up, and against my clit. As his tongue touched my clit, he flicked the tip against my clit a few times, and then started all over again at the bottom.

“Oh holy…Jesus. I uhhm. Oh God. Oh God,” I mumbled as he licked and nibbled at my wet pussy.

After what was probably a minute at the most, I was done. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, and I had achieved orgasms no less than two times. I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I tried to focus on what I was feeling.

He groaned and moaned as his tongue continued to torture me.

Something about sitting on a man’s shoulders and having him lick my pussy was more than I could take. Coupled with the fact the person doing it was covered in tattoos and had a pierced cock, I was a literal mess of sexually tortured pleasure.

I felt my back slam against the wall, and his face press harder into my thighs. His tongue slowly worked into my pussy, up against my clit, and stopped. Between his upper lip and tongue, my clit was now held captive to a humming, groaning, unexplainable vibrating tongue dance I am certain he had spent countless hours perfecting. As I began to reach climax, I felt as if my head were going to explode.

“Oh holy fuck stop. I am so serious. Stop. Oh…no. Fuck,” I opened my eyes and saw spots.

Everywhere.

Spots.

The orgasm continued to shoot through my body as his tongue and lip took ownership of my clit. I closed my spot-filled eyes.

Holy fucking Jesus fucking God. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

A tingling sensation ran from my face to my crotch and up to my nipples. I felt as if I had a thousand feathers tickling me at once. I had no idea of what he was doing to me for certain, but it did not matter. He sure as fuck knew what to do, and he was damned good at it.

“Scrmmm,” his mumbling vibrated against my thighs and pussy.

I opened my eyes and looked down. My entire field of vision filled with grey spots, and my body trembling, I tried to remember how to make my mouth form a legible sound.

“What?” I blurted.

He continued to own my clit.

“Scrmmm,” he grunted.

I may or may not have had another orgasm as he grunted. I closed my eyes and opened them again.

Spots.

“Whaaaaa?” I shouted.

He pulled his face away from my pussy and looked up into my eyes.

“One more time. And this time, scream when you cum. It’ll feel good,” his lower face covered in my cum, he smiled as he spoke.

I generally don’t know very much, and by most peoples accounts I am a dumb blonde, but I knew this much; I needed to buy some time or he was going to kill me. Death by orgasmic pleasure.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I looked down and whispered.

“Lickle,” he chuckled.

“Huh?” I muttered as I tried to catch my breath.

“Lickle,” he licked my cum from his lips.

“What the fuck is that?” I sighed as I tried to get my eyes to focus.

“Lickle, I invented it. It’s a tongue control deal. I make my tongue vibrate,” he stuck his tongue out of his mouth and held it still as the tip flicked up and down like a child’s wind-up toy.

“It’s like licking but it tickles. Lickle. You ready?” he asked as he squeezed my waist in his hands.

I had no idea of what to do, and was almost able to breathe normally again. As with anything else pain or pleasure related, it’s awfully easy to tell yourself once it’s over it wasn’t that bad. After he had stopped, I convinced myself that I was able to take the Lickle torture again without incident.

I did all I knew to do, considering all things.

Like a cowboy preparing to ride a bull, I gave my sign. I inhaled, closed my eyes, and nodded once.

The vibrating immediately began again, followed by his moaning and groaning. Initially pleased with my ability to take the torture, I almost instantly felt a tingle in my nipples followed by an aching inside my pussy. His tongue in Lickle mode, my clit felt like it was growing in his mouth as he ground his face into my pussy. As if he knew exactly how I felt, he reminded me of our agreement.

“Scrmmm,” he no more than mumbled, and I exploded.

“Holy fuck Ripppppppp!” I let go of his head and slapped the wall with both hands.

“Oh my..”

“Oh my God.”

“Ripp…”

I opened my eyes to a spot filled room. The wall against my back, I had no means of escape. I bucked my hips against his face, attempting to move myself away from the wall. My entire body tingling, and on the verge of dehydration from cumming my brains out, I pushed my hands against the wall, knocking him off balance.

“Yougottastop. Imgonnafuckingexplode,” I exhaled in two jumbled words.

He pulled his face back from my inner thighs as he stumbled backward, looked up, and smiled. His hands slid up my waist to my ribcage and gripped me tight. As he lifted me from his shoulders, I raised my shaking legs to clear his upper body. As he lowered me to the floor, I realized just how weak my legs had become.

“Lay your chest on the countertop and spread your legs a little,” he said as he motioned to the kitchen’s island.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me, I need a minute,” I sighed as I placed my shaking hands on the counter.

“Hell babe. We ain’t even got a good start. You ain’t fuckin’ some punk MMA fighter. We’re Chuck Fuckin’ baby. Spread your legs,” he laughed.

To anyone who has ever jumped rope, this may make a little sense. Jumping rope, in a matter of thirty seconds, will exhaust you. It might take fifteen minutes to catch your breath after a minute and a half of exercise. Boxers jump rope for an hour on end. The stamina a boxer has is incapable of being compared to any other athlete. While I recalled just who it was I had signed on to have sex with, he began to stroke his jewelry filled cock.

I leaned my chest onto the countertop and laid my face down on the cold surface. After a second of catching my breath, I spread my legs somewhat, and arched my back. As my ass lifted in the air, I felt his fingers begin to slide in and out of my pussy. I got lost as he gently and slowly worked two fingers in and out of my pussy.

God this feels good.

His fingers working in and out of my wet pussy began to feel so good, I felt as if I could fall asleep. My eyes closed, and my body exhausted from half a dozen intense orgasms, I relaxed my muscles and exhaled. The cold counter felt relaxing on my nipples.

“Ready?” his warm breath against my ear startled me.

“Whaaaa?”  I muttered as I opened my eyes.

“For?” I drug the word out for a good three seconds.

“The cock, baby. I need to show you a trick,” he breathed into my ear.

“A trick?” I raised my head from the countertop.

“Kinda like Lickle?” I asked over my left shoulder.

“Yup,” he answered.

We all yearn to be satisfied – to have that earth shattering orgasm – to feel as if we have been teleported to sexual heaven, but I felt as if I was way out of my league with Ripp. I had no idea what else to do. I lowered my head onto the counter and nodded my head.

“Do it,” I whispered.

I suppose all along he knew how important the preparation was, the lubrication. The extreme wetness. The opening up of my pussy like a flower to prepare for him to enter me. His Lickle trick was just that, a necessary preparation. In no way, however, was it enough.

“Oh my fucking God.” I raised my head from the countertop and slapped my hands against the surface.

His cock slowly started to force itself inside of me. The pain wasn’t really a pain, but a pleasure combined with an odd feeling of pain. I felt as if I were sixteen again, losing my virginity to Reece. As my eyes opened wider, I felt his balls pressing against my swollen clit.

“We’ll go easy at first, then I’ll show ya,” he gripped my waist in his hands and slowly slid his cock out of my pussy.

As he carefully slid in and out of my pussy, I decided regardless of where this ended, whatever we were to have after this night was over, I could never ever be satisfied again by any other man who didn’t have a massive cock. Having your pussy full – absolutely stuffed absolutely full of cock, was like – I’m sure, drinking a fine Cognac. Once you’ve tried it, you’ll never be satisfied by the cheap shit.

“Oh my God, Ripp…I’m gonna…” I opened my eyes, unsure of what was about to happen.

“Scream,” he insisted as he continued to fuck me slowly and steadily.

His cock slowly worked in and out of my dripping pussy as my body began to shudder. As I felt his hips press against my ass, his balls massaged my clit. I closed my eyes as he slowly slid it out and prepared for the in-stroke. Slowly, he began to force himself inside again, as I tried to take a breath. A short and choppy one was all I could get.

“Holy…”

“Fuuuucccckkkk!” I screamed as my legs began to shake.

My body exploded with an orgasm to end all orgasms. Simply and slowly fucking me after a few minutes of Lickle, and this man owned my pussy. My legs shaking and my pussy throbbing, I opened and closed my eyes, once again, to spots.

Owned it.

Whack!

The sound immediately beside my head frightened me. I turned to the right, somewhat startled by seeing his very large canvas Chuck Taylor sneaker right beside my face.

“What the fuck?” I screeched.

“Dekk’s girlfriend read it in a book. Head steppin’,” he said.

“Uhhm, no,” I mumbled.

“I ain’t steppin’ on your head babe. But this shit’s awesome. Just hold on,” he explained.

With his right foot beside my head, and his left on the floor, his hips were at an awkward upward angle against my pussy. My position, however, had not changed. As his hips slowly worked up and down, I was quickly reminded the bottom of his cock was pierced.

Oh. My. God.

At this new angle, his Jacob’s ladder was just that – a fucking ladder leading to the land of orgasmic pleasure. Against my clit, the pieces of steel banged. On the in stroke; tap, tap, tap. And. On the out stroke; tap, tap, tap. I bit my bottom lip and counted as he gripped my hips and did what he seemed to do oh so well.

One. Two. Three. I inhaled sharply. One. Two. Oh my fucking God. I exhaled, followed by a severe head-rush.

His hips pressed against my ass.

Three.

With my eyes closed and my mind in suspension, I tingled. Over and over, with each stroke, my clit pulsated as his piercings tickled me into a heavenly bliss. Small orgasms continued, one after the other. I lost track of time, my existence, and specifically what was going on. I wasn’t having orgasms. I became an orgasm.

“What are we doing, babe?” he shouted as he worked his cock up and down, in and out.

“Whaaa?” I opened my eyes and exhaled sharply through the small opening between my teeth and lip.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” he hollered.

I closed my eyes and began to feel faint. The steel rods banging against my clit as his massive cock filled the inside of my soaking wet pussy, sliding in and out, tapping my clit further into ownership. The speed in which he was fucking me increased as the seconds passed. As my body started to tingle, the sound of his voice brought me back to earth.

“What are we doing?” he asked again.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” I screamed.

“God damned right, we’re Chuck Fuckin’ baby,” he yelled as he continued to pound in and out of my pussy.

My nipples began to tingle and my butt felt as if it were being electrocuted. I felt my pussy swell as if it were going to explode. I bit my lip harder and grunted, never having felt quite like this before.

“Oh God Ripp…”

The feeling of pleasure was more than I felt I could enjoy without collapse or brain damage. I was actually scared I was going to squirt cum it felt so good. Uncertain of what was happening, my mouth and eyes opened at the same time.

“Cum, I’m going to cum,” I stammered.

“Fuck yes. Do it,” he demanded as he slapped his hand against my ass.

As his massive cock filled me, the steel piercings made me melt. I never want a man without a piercing ever…

“Oh…”

“Fuck….”

“Ahhhhhhhh Fucccckkkkkk,” my eyes opened and closed repeatedly.

My hearing went completely blank. He fucked me deaf. I opened my eyes, and saw nothing. Not even spots. Deaf and blind. As my ears began to ring, my vision repaired itself to seeing spots. A steady dull ring from my ears was a reminder of the intensity of the orgasm. I raised my hand from the countertop and looked at it.

Shaking uncontrollably.

“Get out. Don’t touch me,” I whispered as I pulled my hips toward the counter.

“We’re just getting started,” he laughed.

As his cock flopped from inside of me, I reminded him.

“Do not fucking touch me. Jesus. I need,” I paused and looked around the room, “I need a minute.”

I looked down at my shaking legs. I turned to face Ripp, who stood smiling, his foot still fixed firm on the countertop.

Limber bastard.

“I need a minute, seriously,” I sighed as I attempted to catch my breath.

“Lickle time,” he said as he lowered his foot to the floor and scooped me from my feet.

He raised me over his head and ducked under my legs, resting my thighs on his shoulders. As his mouth smashed against my soaking wet pussy, I felt the tingle against my clit, and heard him begin to hum and groan.  Closing my eyes was the only thing I knew to do. I bit my lip and felt my eyes roll back into my head so far I felt they’d dislodge.

And. I. Came.

I have no real complete recollection of how long this lasted, or when for certain it stopped. Although I had not had any alcohol or drugs, Ripp later told me I was Fuck Drunk. I’m sure he was right, Fuck Drunk I was. When I came back to consciousness, I heard him in the kitchen.

I looked around the room, confused.

“What happened?” I asked across the room.

“I walked in here to cook some eggs, I got hungry after you rode my cock while I was on the floor,” he said over his shoulder.

Standing naked at the stove, wearing only his Chuck’s, I wanted to take a picture of him.

“How’d I get here? To the couch?” I asked.

“You just sat there when I walked in here. You’re Fuck Drunk. Too much good sex,” he responded as if it were normal.

Light-headed, I walked to the kitchen and stood behind him.

My vision was blurred. I felt as if I had run six miles as fast as I could, and had stopped immediately and unexpectedly. Full of endorphins, emotion, and wonder, I wrapped my arms around his back and slid my hands to his stomach. I nudged my hips closer to his tight butt muscles and sighed.

I had never had so many orgasms in my life.

This was crazy, but one night of sex.

Just one.

And I was falling for Mike Ripton.

Well, at least falling for fucking him.

As he stood naked and scrambled the eggs, I hoped for a sign. Something. I wanted him to tell me I was different. That something had happened in this night filled with orgasms and sex which would separate me from the many others.

“Barbee,” he paused as he stirred the eggs.

“Yeah Ripp?” the words hung on my lips for a long second.

“You think your sister would be up for a three-way?” he asked without looking up from the stove.

Not exactly what I was hoping for.

My heart sank a little bit, and I fought with what I wanted to say. My response needed to be something that might preserve a possibility of seeing Ripp in the future. I opened my mouth and closed it a few times, incapable of speaking. Finally, the words came.

“Brandee,” I screamed over my shoulder, “come in here for a minute. Mike and I have a question.”

As I heard Brandee’s feet coming down the hallway, an almost inaudible sound came from where Ripp was standing. I’ll never be one hundred percent certain, but it sounded like…

Fuck yes.