Beast: Part Two (4 page)

“RICARDO!”

His hand curls around my shoulder, comes over my throat, pressing just enough to scare me. “Beast. Beast. Beast.”

“Beast,” I
repeat.

“You like my cock inside you?”

“Yes!”

He thrusts.

“You need my cock inside you?”

“
Yes.” The word shudders from my mouth. “My pussy is so full!”

Another thrust. Pull out. Thrust
in. I’m pressed against the glass of the window. Eyes shut. His cock is gliding in and out of me. I clench around him.

“Picture my mouth on your clit,” he breathes into my ear. “After this, I’m going to suck your clit.”

It
throbs
.

With one strong thrust, he
buries his cock a little deeper. I’m
filled
. Filled so thoroughly I scoot on my knees so I can spread my legs a little more. Take more of him.

“Imagine my mouth on your nipples—sucking. That’s where they’re
gonna be, Angel. Me, sucking your tits. My tongue rolling all over you.” He rocks against me, drawing himself out a little before pushing back in.

“Feel me,” he says. “All of me.”

And I can feel him—every inch. His head, his shaft, even his balls, a gentle weight bouncing on my taint as he thrusts.

I groan.

He groans.

He picks up speed. His
hand comes around my hips, then down; his fingertips parting my lips. He drags one finger through my moisture, glides back up, over my clit. I’m shaking with his impact, poundPOUNDpound.

His dick in my cunt, slick finger on my clit, and then he parts my ass ch
eeks and he presses a knuckle gently at my back door.

T
hat’s the end of me. I shatter.

CHAPTER 4

Annabelle

“Tell me about yourself, Angel. I want to know about your family.”

“What about them?”

“Your mother is sick?”

I nod. “She has a brain tumor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry that it’s true,” I murmur.

“And you have a sister, too?”

“She’s mine. My baby. Adrian.”

His
palm cups my forehead, holding my head up as I lean forward, mostly limp. His fingers get to know each pressure point along my neck and shoulders. “You’re tight. Take a few deep breaths. That’s right, Angel.”

“This feels amazing.”

“Good. You deserve amazing.”

“So…nice of you,” I whisper.

“My pleasure,” he says. “In fact, it’s my demand.”

His voice, hanging in the air
behind me, asks, “How long were you looking for a job?”

“Long time,” I mumble.

“What kind?”

“Counseling.”

His fingers, on my forehead, press in a few spots, and I feel a floating sensation. “You like helping people, Angel?”

I can’t nod, so I say, “Yeah. When I can.”

There’s a pause, and I can feel the tension in it. “That’s not what this is about, is it? Pity?”

I’m so relaxed I’m drooling, but I manage to laugh. “No.
Of course not.”

He
takes my shoulders in his hands and turns me over, so I’m lying on my back.

“I don’t need your pity. You know that—yes?” As he speaks, he’s
peeling my clothes off.

I’m so limp and zoned out, I can barely nod.

“
It doesn’t surprise me,” he says as he tugs my jeans off, “that you like helping people.” He pulls my shirt over my head and deftly rids me of my bra. My breasts spring out, round and heavy, and his lips cover my nipple.

“Oh!” I arch.
I grab his neck.

H
e jerks my panties down, one-handed, and I feel the slap of cool air on my pussy. He runs his tongue along my slit. A few lazy circles around my clit and I’m clawing his face.

He parts my lips a little more and licks my sopping entrance. I arch up. “Inside. I need you…inside,” I pant.

“That’s too bad.” It takes me a few seconds to comprehend the words, and by then I’m being rolled onto my stomach once again.

I feel him leave the window seat for a second, hear him dig around for something. Another condom? 

A minute later and he’s back, kissing my neck, behind my ear; tickling my ass cheeks. He pushes a finger in between my ass cheeks, stroking in a way I almost like. And then before I know what hit me, there’s pressure back there. Not just pressure. I cry out as he shoves something inside.

Is it his
dick?

It
’s not his dick…

I shake my ass.

“What is this?” I moan.

“It’s a
buttplug.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you know what a buttplug does?” he asks.

I clench around it, and
on cue, it starts to vibrate.

I
moan, because the pleasure-pain I feel back there seems to have a direct connection to my cunt. I move my hips and clench my ass and feel my pussy pulse inside—as if it knows my ass is filled and envies it.

He chuckles.

He presses his hand against the
buttplug. I guess part of it is sticking out?

He pushes it in a little mor
e, sending pleasure through me. It vibrates through my inner walls, rings through my cunt, sends mini shock-waves to my clit.

“How’s that?” he rumbles.

He rolls me back over and spreads my legs wide, drags his finger through the wetness of my pussy lips.

I moan
. It echoes through the room, but I don’t care. I lift my ass up off the window seat, hungry for his fingers inside me. His cock inside me.

“Oh God!”
I’m about to come.

And
then he withdraws his fingers and leaves the bench.

My eyes peek open as my hips continue surging. I’m stunned to see him standing several feet away.

“I’m going to
go make some measurements for shelves. You stay here.”

I’
m in a thick daze, rolling my hips and craving cock. “I can’t! Don’t leave!”

“I want to know more about you,” he says
with a satisfied little grin, as he walks to a stack of plywood a dozen feet away. “Tell me about something illuminating. Let’s try…high school.”

I’m panting. I’ve got my hand over my cunt, and only pride is stop
ping me from rubbing myself off.

I shift my lower body, clenching around the plug, my cunt squeezing tight in anticipation of what it wants inside
. “High school,” I say hoarsely. “That’s when I had…a major crush on you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“
You…should remember me.” I writhe.

“In college, were you over that
crush?”

I press my legs together.
Deep inside my ass, the vibrations feel incredible. My cunt is a creaming bliss bucket. My clit is swollen. Hot. Needy.

Wh
at did he ask me? About college? “You were…here,” I pant. “But…no.”

Something passes over his face. Just a flicker through his cheeks and brows, but I’m too strung out to name it.

He holds up another board and begins making notches on it with a pencil. Damn, those biceps… I look at his fingers. Down to his crotch. I can see his erection, outlined by the fabric of his jeans.

Inside me… Get inside me…

“I want to hear about the first time you had sex,” he tells me.

“Come closer.”

The hand between my legs has lost restraint. I’m playing with my pussy, my fingertips skating over my slick clit.

He smirks a little—or is that a smile—and closes the distance between us with his long legs. He peers down over me. Folds his hand over mine.

“Annabelle,” he purrs. “So desperate. Tell me… What should I do for you?”

“Lick me,” I gasp. I reach out and grab his other arm. “Fuck me! I just…need you. Either one!”

He props the board he’s been holding up against the wall, climbs onto the
window seat atop me, and parts my knees with his big hands. He leans down over me, and my heart goes crashing back in time.

“Lick you?” he says. “Where?”

I rock my cunt up to his face, and he drops down on me. His mouth and tongue are hot silk. Magic. Parting my swollen pussy lips, flicking up and down. He rolls the tip of his tongue around my clit as two fingers slip inside my cunt and his pinkie puts some pressure on the plug.

I feel so teased, so full, so drunk.

He lifts his mouth off me and looks into my eyes. “Come now,” he says, and when his warm, wet lips touch back down on me, that’s exactly what I do.

I come with a shriek, feeling like I’ve been thrown into the air. I sink back down. Peek my eyes open.

Beast is sitting with one leg pulled up on the bench. The other dangles down. My eyes gravitate toward his cock. It’s hard and thick inside his jeans. Already, I want him again. I push myself up onto my elbows, feeling shaky. Raw.

“I want to hear…
about you too,” I murmur.

He smiles.
“Time is up, Angel.”

From somewhere behind him, he produces a clean, wet rag and spreads my lips apart to gently wipe me down.

When the rough texture of the cloth skates over my clit, I start to pant again.

“You dirty Angel,” he says. Then his jeans are down, his cock is
in his hand. His head is at my entrance. He’s stuffing himself inside me, and we’re riding…riding…riding away.

I cling to his shoulders.
His hands lift my ass up off the ground as he thrusts. Somewhere in the space between my legs, his huge cock and the buttplug send spirals of pressure bouncing off each other, lighting me up thoroughly inside.

I come with a gasp. He pulls out, his seed straining against a white condom I didn’t even see him roll on.

“Let’s try this again.” He smirks, and wipes me gently as I shriek and writhe.

When he’s finished, he turns to dispose of the condom and pull his jeans back up.

I struggle to get mine back on as well.

He helps me off the window seat and is buttoning my jeans before I realize—

“Omigod, the buttplug! It’s still in me!”

“Take it home.” He grins.

My face heats so much my eyes water. “I can’t wear a buttplug home! And ride in the car with that guard—”

“Oh, you won’t.” With a smack of my ass—it sends so much pleasure through me, my legs almost fold—he takes my elbow and leads me to the door. I’m still unsteady—still panting. He
wraps an arm around my back, punches some numbers into a keypad I’m too lust-drunk to even see. “I’ve got another car for you—for this very reason.”

When he pushes the door open, there’s a black limousine
idling in the wet grass.

I wrap my arms around him, feeling weak-kneed
and faint. The plug is still vibrating. “Can you walk me out?”

He shakes his head, and moves his leg. It takes me a moment to see that there’s a metal band there.

“Just take it slow. Think of baseball.”

I smirk.

He grins. “Bye, Angel.” He bends down to plant a hard kiss on my lips. “Tomorrow. Clinton again.”

“But I never got to ask you any questions.”

He laughs—dry and self-deprecating. “It’s been an unproductive few years.”

Something about
the easy way he says it makes me very sad. So it’s all the weirder when I get into the limousine and almost fail to hold my orgasm back while the limo bumps over the dirt road.

When I get out at my apartment complex, my knees are so weak, my body so shaky, I can barely make it up the stairs.

I go straight to my bathroom and start the shower, prepared to pull the buttplug out.

Instead I wind up on my back in the bathtub, my legs propped against the shower wall, my knees spread wide
, so the water spewing from the faucet hits me exactly where I need it to.

I emerge, clean and stretched and tired and finally plug-free, two hours later, feeling like I
tumbled into Wonderland.

CHAPTER 5

Beast

Blaine McGuire is head of the Aryan Force at La Rosa, and despite our obvious aesthetic differences, I consider him a friend of sorts.

After the first two years of my ruse, once I killed a few man and let the surviving gang leaders see I had control of this place, I started offering them freedoms. Freedoms only I could give, because only I work under someone high-enough-up to grant me the power to hand them out for the purposes of winning gang leaders over.

I started offering
them freedoms, protection from uprising—until I got an order to end their lives, anyway—and what you might call financial planning. Three of them—McGuire’s predecessor, Tommy Smith; T-Dog Bosman, head of the Guerrillas; and Juan Juarez—were still running gangs outside the walls. Over the next year and a half, I worked hard to get them in my pocket, helping them strategize and helping them invest their illicit monies in accounts whose information could later be given to my bosses.

I benefit, too, in some ways. I can wear jeans, for instance. I’ve got a swanky cell. But in other ways, this is hellish. I have enough guilt over the way I got in here, and that was before I started ending lives on the inside.

Smith, I killed in on the basketball court with a well-placed elbow to the temple. My superiors let T-Dog die at the hands one of one of his underlings, an ambitious thug named Bently Kennard, who turned out to be much easier to manipulate than was T-Dog. And Juan Juarez is still in play. Still head of the Julio gang here at La Rosa.

Of all the point guys, he’s the one I know the best. Although I know the world would be better off without him at the helm of a large terrorist organization, I’m kind of glad it’s not him I’m doing in tonight.
Fucker is funny and we share an appreciation for Marlon Brando’s acting.

Like me, McGuire is segregated from the general population. He stays in a two-story cement penthouse
at the end of the Aryan hallway. It’s a decent enough space, and it comes with a private shower. Unlike me, McGuire hates his private shower. He’s never been so direct with me, but my impression is he was raped in the shower as a kid. So unbeknownst to almost everyone, he showers in the Aryan communal room around three o’clock in the morning, when a white power guard named Tom lets him out of his cell and escorts him to the ‘stalls.’

This means that by two a.m.
tonight, I need to be in Fred Burns’ cell, smacking tape over his mouth, tying rope around his ankles and wrists, and hauling him off to my own cell, where he’ll wait under Clinton’s watchful eye until I’ve finished off his boss. There, he’ll be in the ideal position for indoctrination—indeed, for ordination—by yours truly.

Tasks like this are few and far between,
but lately, my superiors are beginning to seem antsy. I haven’t figured out exactly why, but I don’t like it.

I’ve got a ritual I do before something like this. Showering and meditating and reading from the Bible. I know it’s fucked up, but since I’ve been here and started reading as much as I do, I fucking love the Good Book. Poetry of War, they might have called the Old Testament.

When that’s done, I communicate via Bluetooth with the guards on staff tonight. Almost everyone at La Rosa is in my pocket, but there’re a few who aren’t. I can’t control them all, even with an outlandish amount of support from Holt and his junior wardens.

So I have two of the ones I can control send the one I can’t out to grab some grub from a burger joint a few towns down.

The signal I give them is: “I’m using my juice card.”

I
n prison-speak, that means I’ve got something to take care of, but I’m not going to tell them what. The guards may not know who I’m working for, but Holt’s immediate subordinate, Perkins, is tight with me, so instructions to support me trickle down.

I nab Burns without incident, lock him in my cell, and
make another call, this time only to Perkins, the interim warden who knows my secrets. Perkins doesn’t know my real situation, but he knows I’m in charge here. Doesn’t hurt that I pay his mortgage and bought his mistress a Mercedes.

“Back door parole for McGuire,” I tell him.
“Hold the bugs.”

After a brief hesitation, he says, “You got it
, Beast.”

As I leave my room, I think how sick it is. The way people just…bend to me. Because I pay them, or do them favors. I shouldn’t be allowed to do what I’m about to do. Not without more trouble. It seems somehow doubly unjust.

I find McGuire in the showers. He
’s hunched over, like he’s washing his legs. He knows something is wrong when he sees my face, and immediately straightens up. He takes a few steps back, inching closer to a soap dish where I imagine he keeps a shank or other weapon.

It’s pretty obvious he’s reaching behind himself, but still, he
casts his eyes down as a sign of respect for me, as if everything is normal. I close the gap between us quickly. I step into the cool spray and clamp a hand on his shoulder.

“
Get down on your knees, McGuire.”

They call this going Prison Wolf, and it’s not something I get off on. But I’ve done it a time or two, and I’ll do it again now, because if I can get his lips around my cock, I can stab him in the base of his head, and he’ll go fast and painless.

Unfortunately, my guess seems to’ve been correct about his history with bathing. Rather than suck my dick in a shower, McGuire goes for his own shank. He’s juiced up on adrenaline and moving fast. Still, I could evade him. I just…don’t.

I let him get me in the ribs, just under my
pec, and then I drive my longer, heavier shank into his back.

It’s not a clean kill.

We wrestle in a spray of water droplets and a haze of steam, rolling in a sea of blood so thick I’m glad I know McGuire tested negative at his physical a week ago.

I
drive my shank into his muscular neck, and the smell of blood fills my head. Oh. Because it’s spraying all over me.

He’s
fallen down on his back beside the drain. His eyes are slits, but his body is still twitching, still trying to buck although he doesn’t even have the strength to jeopardize my balance as I straddle him, preparing to get him once more in the jugular.

“W-why?” he
coughs. Blood gurgles in his throat. The smell is so overpowering, it takes everything I have not to get up and stumble out of the shower room.

I’m feeling head-fucked, so I end things quickly,
burying my shank in his jugular then climbing off his body fast.

I think, after I
rinse myself off and walk back toward my room in my wet clothes, how I could have answered: “For those kids you were picked up with that time in ’03.”

Motherfucker might have been raped, but he turned into a rapist, too. That’s not why he was in—McGuire
headed up an MC, where he killed anyone he didn’t like—but he was a diaper sniper, too. I’m probably the only one around here who knows it.

I shake my head.
Hold out my arm and run my pruned-up fingertips along the cement wall. I’m feeling light and airy, like a helium balloon.

I
barely make it to my door without tripping or passing out. As soon as I’m inside, I puke in the sink, then use one of the many prepaids I have to let my boss know it’s been done.

“Burns has been instructed to lead the group in the way that I described? With focus on cocaine and heroin?”

“Coming up,” I tell him.

I
pull on a jacket and step into my closet, where I shake off all vestiges of pain and weakness and spend two hours getting Burns hyped up about his new position. When I’ve guaranteed his loyalty to me and proposed a few lucrative-seeming business deals, promising to use some of the Hammond fortune to funnel into his group’s illicit accounts—thereby getting my bosses the account numbers—and suggesting there is good money right now in cocaine and heroin, if his guys can get it from this supplier I know down in Colombia—I cut him loose and peel the jacket off.

Lots of blood.

My blood.

Fuck.

I stumble
toward the shower, but my head is spinning. Re-route to my bed and reach my shaking hand under the pillow. The creases around my fingernails are still lined with blood, but I’m too tired to get up and wash again. I know I’m contaminating the screen of this outdated iPhone, but I don’t care. I just want to see her face: Angel in Technicolor.

So many pictures… Paid someone to get them. Lots of years.

High school prom.

College
…soccer.

Angel.

I call Clinton right before I pass the fuck out. The smell of blood… Her face. So many stars. “Go get her. I don’t…care what time…it is.”

*

Annabelle

Mom’s night nurse wakes me a little after five a.m. with wide eyes. She whispers that there’s someone at the door.

“Clinton, he says it is.”

And that’s the first of the alarm bells.

The second, really. His arrival at
this early hour is the first. I pull a robe over my night clothes and hurry to living area. I swing the door open and check him out. He looks normal enough in his brown uniform and boots.

“Clint
on. What’s going on?”

“I came to get you,” he says.

“Right now?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Why? He asked for me?”

“That’s why I come and get you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Guess so. What’s with the early hour?”

He shrugs.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow at him, then leave him waiting as I change out of my pajamas, call Holly over, and get an update on Mom, who seems to be fading even further, having not opened her eyes in almost four days now. I’m all too glad not to think about that as I grab my clutch, slip into sneakers, and pull the front door open. I stand there for a long moment, breathing in the dewy, pre-dawn air and assessing the guard for warning signs that I shouldn’t go with him.

“Is something unusual going on?”
I ask.

“Don’t think so.”

But I can tell. I can just tell he’s hiding something. Normally, he’s looser. Less…still. Tonight he seems subdued, almost frozen, as if he doesn’t want to say or do something wrong.

Still standing in the doorway, I bite my lip and shake my head
. “Clinton, I’m really sorry, but can I get you to call the prison and let me speak to your boss? Or maybe just him? Beast?”

He nods.

“Can you call him?” Clearly, Beast isn’t foolproof in the trustworthiness department, but he was normal enough to me yesterday.

Clinton
nods and slides his phone out of his pocket. “I can call him. If that’s what it takes for you to come.”

I roll my eyes
and abruptly change my mind. “Whatever. Let’s just go. Live dangerously and stuff. Going early today will help me be home in time to spend the day with my little sister, Adrian.”

“That’s good,” he says, but he seems distracted.

By the time we roll through the last of the gates, I’m absolutely positive something is wrong.

Despite Clinton’s
repeated insistence that everything is fine—and his insistence that we listen to Mariah Carey’s debut album on CD—I’ve got a creepy crawly feeling in my stomach.

I decide to go out on a limb as he slides into a parking spot just in front of the main entrance.

“Is this a test? A trap? Be honest with me, because right now, I’m kind of scared.”

What if something happened
to Beast and the others…I don’t know…take me? The thought makes me want to lock the doors and stay inside the car.

Clinton’s brown eyes rest on mine.
“It’s not a test. Or a trap. He just wanted to see you.”

“Is something wrong?”

He puts the Explorer in park and turns off the ignition.

“So something
is
wrong!” I notice an ambulance parked over to the right and point accusingly at it. “Did he get hurt?”

“You’re about to see him,” he says, and gets out of the car. I know he’s walking around to open my door, something I’m pretty sure is common in the Southern U.S., where Clinton’s accent indicates he’s from.

The center of my chest goes hot and
melty at the thought of something happening to Beast, even as fear floods in behind concern. I shouldn’t be here if something’s wrong. I can’t take care of myself here without the aid of someone much stronger.

Clinton opens my
door, and when I get out, he gives me a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t let you do something dangerous. I’m a warden, not a prisoner, remember?”

I nod.

He’s latched his arm companionably through mine, but when we go through the doorway, he takes his arm back and moves away from me.

“Go through the
metal detector, Miss Mitchell,” he tells me.