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Several more females began banging on their doors, calling Heaven out of her name and spewing threats of violence toward her.
She bit the inside of her lip. She wasn’t About to do the back and forth, yelling and cursing at these hoodrat bitches. They were all irrelevant. Nonfactors. So she kept her eyes forward, and her mouth shut.
But her mind was made up. She’d have to take down that Goldie bitch next. And if she needed to hack her head off with a rusty blade, then throw it over the tier, she would.
“Yo, fam, that bitch really thinks she got that off,” another one of the females who’d jumped her from behind yelled from her door. Her birth name was Laveenia Carver, but in the streets, she was known as Red Bull for her red hair and aggressive nature.
Goldie snorted. “Nah, God. Fuck that. I give credit where the shit is due. She did get her shit off on the homie. But that shit ain’t ’bout nothin’. Chalk it up to the game, feel me? We go hard for ours. And that bitch on the menu.”
“Uh-huh. She about to catch it, for real.”
“You got that right,” someone else yelled out. “You know how we do. All day!”
“That’s right, baby,” Goldie said. “We fucking gladiators. We fight to the death.”
“Malone, you and your cronies had better shut the fuck up with that dumb shit,” the CO snapped as she handed Heaven a fresh pink jumper—the color for inmates in lockup, “before I write your ass up for making threats and trying to incite a riot.”
“I ain’t tryna start no fucking riot,” she spat. “All I said was that that bitch is good as got. Period. That ain’t no threat. It’s a promise.”
TEN
Pussy is Mine . . .
“Oh, God, yes,” she breathed. “It hurts sooo good.”
In her mind, she heard Marsha Ambrosius angelically singing out, “Your love’s sooooo gooood . . .”
God yes. And it was.
She’d had her share of big dick, but almost twelve inches was taking her to a new level of pleasure. And she was climbing, climbing, climbing. Rising over another wave, her orgasm building rapidly into a sea of pleasure-pain.
God, why did he have to look like a damn baboon?
Mm, but . . . but the . . . the dick—God, yes . . . it was everything.
Still, she wanted to be on top. Wanted to ride him deep into her guts. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to stomach looking him in the face. She’d have to keep her eyes shut tight. And he’d want her to keep them open. She knew he would. Men loved staring into her spellbinding eyes, especially when they were glazed over by heated lust.
But she simply didn’t have the stomach to stare back in his. The small space wasn’t dark enough. And, money or not, he just wasn’t worth the risk of puking up her breakfast.
So she contently lay on her side, her left leg lifted and bent, while he slow-fucked her from the back. A Sunday dick-down, he’d called it.
The weekends were the easiest days for debauchery. No administration, less chiefs, and lots of horny Indians.
“Uh, mmmmmmm . . .” She concentrated over her whimpers of passion and tightened her walls, grabbing him like a fist.
He growled. “Goddamn, baby.”
Then he licked his index finger and found her clit, setting his wet finger on her clit. And then came those magical circles over her clit, around and around, while his dick slid in and out. His muscled chest was pressed into her back, and she could feel every twitch, every strain, of his flesh as he worked his hips into her body.
His eyes flashed fire and his jaw clenched tight.
“This pussy tight,” he hissed, his thrust slow and deliberate so her body would gradually open to him—all of him. She was amazingly deep (gutless almost) and so fucking juicy. “Aah, Heaven, baby,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, and red-hot lust swam behind his lids as she whimpered low in the back of her throat and came around him.
It had taken CO Thurman almost three weeks to bag her. He’d waited until she released from lockup, then got up in her ear when he’d seen her leaving medical.
“Damn, you pretty, baby.”
“I’m not your baby,” she’d hissed.
