Taking The Heat

TAKING THE HEAT

S. D.  Hildreth

DEDICATION

Judging a person based on what we see, the color of their skin, race, creed, religious belief, lack of religion, sex, or appearance is wrong. In my opinion, to judge a person, even for their actions, is a difficult thing to justify. Having not experienced
their
life makes it difficult to judge their actions. In short, judging a person does nothing to define them, but does everything to define you.

This book is dedicated to those who have the ability to love all creatures of this earth.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.

All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT

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

TAKING THE HEAT 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

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

Covert art by Jessica
www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

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TOAD

I leaned forward and placed the folded sheet of paper on top of the headstone. I had every intention of leaving it and walking away, but for some reason I wavered. As if I expected an answer from a man who had been dead for a dozen years, I slowly knelt and stared blankly at the etched stone.

Cambio Salvadore Todelli

GY SGT

US MARINE CORPS

WORLD WAR II

                            May 8, 1920

Sept 16, 2003

PURPLE HEART

BRONZE STAR

“Everything’s going pretty good, Nonno. Mom made those meatballs last Sunday. You remember the ones we fought over right before I left for the war? The big fuckers with the thick sauce? You remember, the ones she makes with pork? Hell, I didn’t need the last one any more than you did, but I damned sure wasn’t going to let
you
have it,” I hesitated, wiped the dust from stone base with my index finger, and considered standing.

Instead, I maintained my kneeling position, inhaled a shallow breath, and continued speaking softly, “So we had this fella who stole from us. Well, he tried to anyway. And he damned near got two of the other fellas killed; two of the main fellas from the Executive Committee. They’re similar to officers in the Marine Corps. You know, it’s just like the Marine Corps, Nonno, we don’t do what we do for the sake of doing it; we do it for the man riding beside us. I’d die for each and every one of these men. I sure would. And they’d do the same for me. Maybe that’s why I’m in this damned club, because it’s the closest thing to the Corps I could find. It reminds me a lot of it to tell you the truth, the brotherhood and all.”

I blew the dust from the bottoms of the chiseled letters and grinned at the thought of him actually listening to me as I continued, “Well, anyway, we took care of him. I remember you telling me when I was a kid how it was my duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I suppose in a sense I was protecting the other members of the club from what he might expose them to. You know, harming them in the future or whatever. It all gets jumbled up when I think about it, really. But I know he was a terrible man, Nonno. And he almost killed two of the fellas. Well, he’s gone now, so the club’s a better place. I sure wish you were here to see how solid the rest of these fellas are, you’d be proud of ‘em for sure. Oh, and I wrote you another poem.”

I slowly stood, reached for the folded sheet of paper, and removed it from the headstone. As if rehearsed, I unfolded it and began reading.

The pages of the calendar blow in the breeze,

One by one they go.

A wounded boy stands from his knees,

The scars of war heal slow.

Wind at his face, dead men blow past;

The warm breeze dries the tears.

The sound of thunder fills the air,

And days fade into years.

With a watchful eye the boy checks his six,

For a ghost rides in his wake.

As the apparition weaves through the mix,

A second glance the boy must take.

He blinks his eyes in disbelief,

There is no need to fret.

An exhaled sigh, one of relief;

The wraith’s a combat vet.

The ghost rides past, his face is clear.

The boy grins and nods his head.

He rides without an ounce of fear,

For Nonno is not dead.

I folded the paper, placed it on top of the headstone and wiped the tears from my eyes, “I like that one. It’s better than the one I wrote last year, isn’t it? You give me the courage to stand up against evil, Nonno. And I know you’ve got my back. I appreciate you, old man, and I miss you. I miss you a lot. I better get back, it’s a long ride. Take care, and I’ll be back to see you real soon.”

My grandfather passed away after my first tour in Afghanistan. I felt as if he had waited for me to return from the war before he allowed himself to pass. As I knelt at his bedside, he held my hand and explained how he would continue to watch over me after his death.

“While I fought in
my
war, my grandfather watched over me; it’s what grandfathers do. I can’t keep a good eye on you from down here, the earth is too damned flat for me to see you with these old eyes. It’s time for the good Lord to drag my old ass up to the heavens so I can look over you. From up there I’ll be able to see it all, so don’t worry, I’ve got your six. I’ll tap your left shoulder if I ever need to forewarn you about anything life threatening. And if I don’t warn you, fight without reservation, Cambio.
Capisce
?” he whispered.

Outfitted in my Marine dress blues, I held his hand and attempted to force a smile. The thought of him dying was devastating to me.

“
Capisco
,” I nodded, “I’ll make you proud, Nonno.”

He closed his eyes and grinned, “You already have, Cambio. You already have.”

The next day he passed away. I went on to serve half a dozen tours in the war, and did so without much fear of death or even injury. According to those who fought beside me, I made some very courageous decisions; saving the lives of many Marines while I risked my own life in the process. As far as I was concerned, I was simply doing what I was capable of. Although I knew my grandfather wasn’t
really
going to warn me, I continuously told myself the absence of his warning tap on my left shoulder was reassurance there was no
real
risk in my decisions or actions while in combat. The entire time I was in combat I felt as if I had a sixth sense.

I have since left the war, but the war has never left me.

I doubt it ever will.

TOAD

When exposed to the brutality and horror of war, a man’s mind must decide how to process the terrifying experiences so the memories may be carefully filed away into the chosen portion of the frontal cortex of the brain; saved for long-term recollection. Some men seem to dwell on the horrific events, and allow them to chisel away at their life for all of the years which follow. Others become somewhat immune to the events of their past, or any similar circumstances which may present themselves in the future. I don’t believe the decision to either lose sight of the past or allow it to inhabit our mind is a conscious one, but more a matter of a person’s chemical assembly. The men who don’t seem at all bothered by their exposure to the atrocities of war are often perceived as evil, immoral, depraved, or wicked.

Hardened
.

I’ve heard some describe me as hardened. 

I couldn’t say I enjoyed what I witnessed in combat, nor could I accurately describe it as something I found to be horrifying. War happened and I was present. My mind processed the events, and for whatever reason, they were placed on a shelf along with chapters from various graphic books and scenes from B rate horror movies. I’m not so shallow that I perceived the war as a fictitious event, nor did I dwell on it as an absolute fact which required my continual approval or constant embrace. I did, however, realize my exposure to certain violent events had caused me to become
less
sensitive
to any and all things life now offered me; sex included.

In short, I needed tremendous mental stimulation of the violent variety incorporated into my sex. I needed it to be aggressive, rough, and unrestrained, or I wasn’t able to perform. My war-torn mind which had been pickled by the savagery of combat now needed violence to become aroused. There was no doubt in my mind I was a sexual misfit, and I realized my tastes and desires weren’t shared by the masses. The considerate side of me – the side my Catholic parents raised – often viewed my sexual side as a walking contradiction. I saw my sexual self as nothing short of a disaster. As much as I had tried to change it, I couldn’t. So, I simply considered myself damaged and decided to embrace it.

“Stop flopping the fuck around,” I sighed.

Considering my sexual tastes and lack of specific boundaries when it came to a
sexual
relationship, I was very thorough in my explanations of what my sexual partner and I were planning to do. The event, entirely, must be 100% consensual. If after discussing my sexual intention an agreement could not be reached regarding the intended event or events, the plan was changed until it was agreed upon. I may not be as compassionate as most men when it came to sex, but my partner’s knowledge of the situation and expressed consent was a
requirement
, not a recommendation.

I continued to wrap the Saran Wrap around her head at a rapid pace, covering her mouth, ears, and eyes with several layers. Too little of the plastic may allow her to force her tongue through the slit I intended to provide for her to breathe through; but in my opinion there was no such thing as
too much
. As I made one last revolution for good measure, her arms began to flap like a bird attempting to flee from a captor. Aggravated at her inability to hold still, I gripped the plastic wrap in both hands and pulled, stretching the material until it snapped. I pressed the loose end against the back of her head and grinned at my handiwork.

I quickly grasped the wrists of her flailing arms, pulled them behind her back, and wrapped them with several layers of the plastic, hoping to prevent injury. Now completely naked with her entire head and forearms wrapped in Saran Wrap, she collapsed onto the floor of my bedroom. Although her body began to convulse, I knew from experience it was mostly show and not solely from lack of oxygen.

Satisfied, I tossed the remaining roll of plastic wrap beside the bed.

I pulled my knife and flipped the blade open with my thumb. As it snapped into locked position with a pronounced
click
, she began to whimper and squirm on the floor. I knelt beside her and pressed against the back of her head with the palm of my hand, tilting her head slightly to the side. As I positioned my mouth against her plastic covered ear, I spoke clearly and with a tone of authority.

“I know you can hear me, this isn’t my first time doing this. Just listen. You’re fine. It’s only been about twenty seconds. Now, I’m going to poke a hole in this shit with my knife, which will allow you to breathe a little. The opening won’t be very big, but it’ll be enough for you to survive. If you flop the fuck around while I’m trying to poke this hole, it’ll just cut your face, and I don’t want that. I’m going to let go of your head, but you need to hold still, okay?”

As soon as I lifted my hand from her skull she nodded her head eagerly. Although she continued to moan and sob, she was otherwise motionless. Gripping the knife with one hand and holding her head with the other, I carefully poked the tip of the blade against the material which covered her mouth. A small slit roughly an inch long developed between her lips. As I tossed the blade on the floor beside the roll of Saran Wrap, I watched the plastic heave inward and outward with each labored breath she took. Her muffled sobs only added to the excitement of it all.

Fuck yeah.

This is the good shit.

This not being my first time at doing this, I knew
for the most part
what to expect. All people are different, and each one will react differently to the same situations. I did know the small slit would allow her to take in enough oxygen to survive, but her attempts to breathe with an elevated heart rate while I fucked her senseless wouldn’t be easy. Probably similar to running a full out one hundred yard race with your mouth covered and one nostril plugged, she’d be convinced each breath would be her last. In the end, she’d realize she was far more resilient than she originally thought.

As I stood and unbuckled my belt, I felt my cock rapidly rising against the fabric of my jeans. Prior to seeing combat, the mere
mention
of sex made me hard as a rock. After the war, the thought of simply having sex no longer made my cock hard; regardless of whom my potential partner may be. As past-war fate would have it, the notion of tying someone to a bed and fucking them into a whimpering pile of flesh excited me greatly. Additionally, the thought of a blowjob no longer aroused me. However, grabbing a woman’s skull firmly in my hands and face fucking her until the eyeliner ran down her cheeks provided me tremendous satisfaction.

I suppose in the eyes of many, I had become a casualty of war. I, on the other hand, looked at it as a blessing. I no longer had the luxury of even being able to muster a stiffy if the anticipated sex was going to be mundane or simple. For me it was a gift; God’s way of weeding out the few who may be unwilling; or women who were satisfied by simplistic sex. If there was a drawback, it was that I was always seeking someone who was able to withstand my sexual punishment. My definition of
rough sex
as compared to the opinion of the women I had fucked was in clear contrast.

As a result of my past problems with women and their inevitable gasps of,
oh my God, you’re an animal,
I made it a point to explain in great detail what it was I expected, wished for, and intended to do; sexually speaking. If someone wasn’t willing, neither was I. If women weren’t absolutely eager to attempt to out-fuck me, I never felt it was my job to convince them to do so. A person needed not only to be willing, but eager. Somewhere in the mix, I always made it clear early on that I wasn’t into kissing. Kissing, as far as I was concerned, was the definition of intimacy, and intimate I was not. At least not to the women I was fucking.

Lastly, I made it crystal fucking clear there was no possibility of a future relationship. I didn’t doubt
my
ability to be faithful to a woman; in fact I knew I was more than able to do so. However, I was quite uncertain of my capacity to be faithful to a
typical
woman. At some point in time, boredom would surely set in. For me, adventurous sex was a must; and nothing was more satisfying - long term - than the thought of wild sex with countless willing women.

“If you keep breathing like that, you’re going to pass the fuck out,” I said as I reached down and grabbed her bound wrists in my hand.

As I lifted her to her feet by her wrists, she struggled and groaned against the unforgiving food storage wrap which encompassed her head. When she finally stood on her own, I grasped the inside of her hip on the right with my fingers, and placed my left hand against her upper back. As I pushed my lips against the plastic which covered her ear, my warm breath condensed to moisture on the surface.

“Settle the fuck down, you need to pace yourself. Just like we talked,” I breathed into her ear as I kicked my jeans to the side and bent her over the bed.

Using my right foot, I swept her feet outward, forcing her to take a wider stance. I was tall at 6’-2”, but Sloan’s legs were much longer than mine. Standing, her pussy was naturally even with my belly button. Lowering it down to a place where I could pound it into a swollen mound of flesh was crucial to the success of this little romp.

While she grunted and whimpered, I guided my cock between her upper thighs. As I felt the warmth and wetness of her pussy encompass the head of my cock, I shoved her full of every inch of my throbbing shaft. It wasn’t my intention to simply fuck her and fuck her hard; I wanted her to feel as if she was going to die from what I was doing to her. I pressed my hand against her back of her plastic wrap covered skull and pushed her face into the comforter as I began to work myself in and out of her pussy without so much as an ounce of mercy.

I watched my cock disappear in and out of her glistening mound repeatedly. The sound of flesh on flesh motivated me to continue until my breathing was labored and I felt weak. Considering my physical conditioning, this was quite an accomplishment. Although I hadn’t checked the time, I suspected I had pounded away at her doggy style for no less than fifteen minutes; and not one second of it was slow or sensual. I beat my throbbing cock in and out of her as if my life depended on it. As I finally became conscious of what I was doing, I pushed my cock deep into her and held my hips against her ass cheeks. She arched her back and moaned as I felt myself bottom out.

“You young little bitch. You really thought you could keep up with me? I warned you. Ten inches of cock
real slow
is one thing. Getting your shit beaten to a pulp is another. Now I’m going to fuck you into a coma,” I grunted as I held my cock deep inside of her.

I pressed my hand against the back of her head and shoved it deep into the bedding. Again, I pounded my cock inside of her as fast and I was able. My balls steadily slapping against her clit with each stroke began to become hypnotic. A low groan as I tilted my head back and studied the ceiling was confirmation of my deep feeling of satisfaction.

As I continued to force my cock in and out of her dripping wet pussy, I released her head from my grasp and gripped the twelve inches or so of hair draped from underneath the plastic which covered her entire head. As I pounded my swollen shaft in and out of her, the sound of my hips slapping against her ass echoed throughout the sparsely furnished room. I pulled against her hair, forcing her to arch her back and lift her head to an elevation where I could see her face.

She arched her back to relieve the pain, moving her head toward my hand. In response, I pulled her hair downward, forcing her head to the side. As she turned her face upward, I could see the plastic stretched over her mouth was covered in moisture from what were certainly her continued efforts to breathe enough to survive. My continuous pounding of my cock deep into her soaking wet pussy wasn’t helping her situation at all. As I stared down at her face, I wished I could clearly see her eyes as I fucked her mercilessly.

“Kind of tough breathing through that little hole, isn’t it? My guess is when we’re done, you’ll decide you don’t want to do this again. But that little twat of yours sure loves it. I just love filling you with this big fucking cock,” I looked down as I pulled my hips rearward, watching my entire length slide from inside of her. 

I slowly thrust my swollen cock inside of her until my balls were against her clit, held it for a moment, and then began pounding away furiously, “And God damn your pussy is fucking
tight
. Too bad your face is covered in plastic.”

Her muffled moans provided the fuel for me to continue.

“I’m really diggin’ the thought of covering your pretty little mug in cum,” I growled as I gazed down at her face.

I shifted my gaze to the cheeks of her well rounded ass and watched my thick cock continue to disappear in and out of her swollen pussy. Although her mind might have been telling her she wasn’t enjoying this torturous event, her pussy was conveying an entirely different story. As her juices dripped from my tightening ball sack, I released her hair and slapped the right side of her ass with all my might. I smiled at the red hand shaped welt as it began to rise on her pale skin.

“Fuck yes. That fat little ass of yours loves being slapped,” I howled as I raised my hand in the air.