Home > Hellraiser (The Devil's Own #2)

Hellraiser (The Devil's Own #2)
Author: Amo Jones

 

 


This book is dedicated to all my loyal readers. Thank you for always believing in me and having my back during my journey.

 

 

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

—William Shakespeare, The Tempest

 

 

HELLA

Rubbing my dick into dirt was never my intention, but the way a cunt would contract itself around my shaft always had me yearning, no matter who the owner was.

Girls went in categories for me automatically. When I’d see a girl, my mind knew in less than two seconds whether I’d be delivering to her or not. And that didn’t go by how hot she was—although, of course that’s always a bonus. It went on her dick-taking abilities. You could tell a lot by the way a girl would carry herself. A whore could wear pigtails with her ass planted on a church bench on Sundays and I’d still be able to read the level of kink she had.

My taste was unusual, yes, but sometimes pussy was pussy, and judging by the way my firm grip was wrapped around this junkie’s throat, I’d say her abilities didn’t matter to me right now. Jessica Bryant was a preppy, rich bitch junkie with daddy issues. She chose to fill the void her parents left her while jet-setting around the world with blow. She was choosing to repay me in sexual services, only she didn’t know yet that I didn’t accept getting my dick wet as payment. If anything, she’d owe me more money.

“Yes.” Jessica’s back snapped, her ass pressing against my pelvic bone in a circular motion. I gripped onto her sharp hip bones, squeezing tightly. “Fuck me until I come, Hella,” she whispered in muffled tones, her face pressing into the pillow.

Bringing one of my hands to the front of her neck while my other came to the back, my grip tightened and her body stilled, her vein pulsing under my palm from her panicking. My cock hardened at her fear, feeding off of it like a dried out whore locked in a monastery. Bending down, I brought my lips to the back of her ear and growled, “Shut the fuck up. And one more thing,” I added, bringing my hips back. “It’s until I come.”

My hips thrust forward, my cock colliding with a foreign wall deep inside her around the same time she let out a deathly scream. Wrapping her hair around my fist, I shoved her off me roughly, the cold air whipping around my shaft.

“The fuck?” I said, stepping back and looking down at my blood-smeared cock. I looked back at Jessica, who had to be a couple years older than my fifteen. “You a fucking virgin?”

She raised her hand up to her mouth, shaking her head, her platinum blonde locks falling over her shoulders. “No, Hella. That’s never happened before. I’m so sorry, I’ll get a towel.”

Fucking liar.

I chuckled, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket before banging one out on the palm of my hand. I placed it into my mouth, sparking my Zippo and inhaling deeper as my eyes ran over her body, big tits, slim waist, and runty legs that were pulled up to her chest to cover her pussy. I smiled, placing the smoke back into my mouth and inhaling again. “Nah, Jess. No towel needed.” Her body visibly relaxed, her eyes calming a smidge, but not enough so she could smile. She was scared of me, like most smart people. “You can come wrap that filthy mouth around my cock and suck me clean.”

She paused, swiping her hair away from her face before crawling across the bed. I stepped up to the foot of the four-poster bed, my knees hitting the end. Her hands came up to my thighs, eyes widening in horror. Rolling my eyes, I gripped onto the back of her head and shoved her down over my cock, the warm cushion of her mouth welcoming me while her moans vibrated against my shaft.

After nutting in her mouth, I shoved her back onto the bed. She ran the back of her hand across her lip.

I pulled my jeans back on. “Drop the cash.”

She hurried to her bedside drawer and pulled out her wallet, dropping down two-fifty large. “You wanna stay?”

I cocked my head back. “Did I fuck you brain dead? No.”

“Where do you live?” she asked, reaching for her panties that were torn and lying on the carpet. “I’m just saying. No one is here but me and Renee, our maid. I won’t mind.”

After shoving my shirt and hoodie back on, I walked up to her, wrapping my hand around her chin, squeezing it and tilting her eyes to meet mine. “I don’t need your fucking help.”

She pulled her face out of my grip. “Fine, walk yourself out.”

I laughed, putting a cigarette back into my mouth. “You know where to find me if you need more.”

“Yeah,” she called out just as I hit the door handle. “Under the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The moonlight reflected off the still water of the East River, and I drew my legs up, resting them on my knees. The darkness of the night was blinding, with light only coming from the bridge and the burning bin that was sitting on the edge of the river bed. Tippy, one of the old homeless men who had been here longer than I had, lights it every night.

I’ve been under this bridge for two months now after living in and out of foster care my whole life—courtesy of my crack whore mother and nonexistent father. Being on the run was the only life I knew, and it contributed to the ice-cold blood that now ran through my veins. I wasn’t sorry about that. Selling coke for wannabe gangsters who live in the Bronx probably wasn’t the ideal lifestyle for a fifteen-year-old boy, but I adapted to my life a long time ago. I learned to fight when I needed to, and anybody who’s anybody knew who I was around here. Tippy and I had it better than some homeless; we had the river, shelter from the bridge, and for the most part the cops left us alone. I looked older than fifteen; you could see the lifestyle I lived just by looking into my eyes. I was built bigger than other fifteen-year-old boys. I took every chance I got to lift anything heavy and maintain my size. Though I was big, size didn’t mean shit if you didn’t have the fight, but the fight inside me was more than heartless; it was unmercifully cold-blooded.

Throwing my hood over my head, I reached into my pocket to fish out my cigarettes just as Tippy came walking toward me with his trench coat on that reeked of sewer and stale, cheap whiskey. His unruly beard ran long down his chest, and his grey hair tied to the back of his head.

“Didn’t I say you should start washing your clothes, old man? There’s detergent under my sleeping bag. There’s no need to smell like that.”

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