Twisted Tales of Mayhem: 2019 MMM Special Edition Anthology

by Sapphire Knight

  "No," she whispered as her eyes twinkled. "My name is Megan Folly. And my son is Finnigan Graham Folly."

  "What's your middle name?" Deacon asked as he and Sal tried to contain the laughter on their faces.

  "I don't have a middle name. And yes, I know my initials are MF."

  The three burst out laughing with nervous energy until Sal lowered the lights and stepped forward. "We're gonna do this my way now. We're in my territory."

  "Yes, this is your territory," Megan whispered as Deacon pressed his bare chest against her back. "So, claim it."

  Licking his merlot lips, Sal muttered, "You realize what you are asking?"

  "Yes," Megan said, lowering her eyes and setting her hand on his pounding chest. "I'm begging for you both." Sal cocked a half-smirk at Deacon, mere inches away, and pushed ever so slight on Megan's shoulder. She dropped to her knees. With the direction of Sal's finger, she swiftly released Deacon from the binds of his jeans.

  "I fucking hate you, Raniero," Deacon muttered as she swallowed his cock whole. Sal grinned. "So, much."

  "Hate fuck, baby." Sal winked as his hand gently caressed her hair. Suddenly, he grabbed a fistful and forced her moves—faster upon Deacon. With no other option, Deacon closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let it happen. "Hold your fucking jiz, boy."

  "Hate. You."

  Sal snickered as Megan's hand ran up his leg and rested upon his hard dick. Her fingers toyed with the fasteners until finally, he sprang free. With an even pace, she sucked Deacon and stroked Sal. It wasn't until Sal almost lost his footing that he reached for Deacon's forearm. Bracing his nemesis, Deacon longingly gazed between the two as Sal whispered, "You can hate me, but you won't let me fall."

  "I can hate you and still think about it."

  "Is that a nightly occurrence, Cruz?"

  Deacon laughed once. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  Without warning, Sal dipped down, picked Megan up, and placed her on the padded table. His eyes skimmed over her leather corset and pants. "I fucking love packages."

  Dropping his jeans, Deacon straddled behind her as his mouth devoured her neck. His hands were in her hair and on her body as Sal took to a steady pace of nibbling and kissing her tender flesh while removing her clothes. "Are you going to whip me?"

  "Later, much later," Deacon answered.

  Sal blinked up. "Many, many times."

  "I think I may love you both," Megan gushed as her corset hit the floor and Sal worked his magic tongue against the ripened nipple. His fingers rubbed the other, intensifying his moves as she writhed between them. Breathing heavily, she declared, "God, someone, please, fuck me."

  Laying back, Deacon adjusted the pillow and prepared to receive the present. With a hasty lift by Sal, Megan plopped against Deacon's belly as he lifted his legs. "We going with me on top?"

  "We are,” Sal replied with a grin as he pulled up a chair. "So, I can savor every drop."

  "Oh hell," Megan sighed, disoriented from all the stimulation.

  "Whenever you are ready, baby," Deacon mumbled as his hands stroked against her back and over her thighs.

  Biting her lip, Megan slid on slow as Deacon helped her lower back to his chest and thrust up gently. "Oh fuck…"

  "Ya," Sal smiled wide, stripping off his shirt. "It's good; isn't it?"

  "You have no idea," Megan marveled as they rocked. But when Sal's lips hit hers, she skyrocketed into the oblivion. Running trails of kisses over her neck and breasts, he swirled his tongue in her navel and bit at the piercing.

  "Should I be prepared for more jewelry?" Sal mused as Megan grinned. "Damn, you got all the good stuff. I do, too." Taking a seat on the edge of the chair, Sal let his hands ease over her thighs as he watched Deacon going in and out of her wetness. "It's so fucking erotic."

  "What?" Deacon growled as one hand rested on her waist, and his other searched for Sal.

  "Seeing another guy fuck," Sal admitted, grasping Deacon's fingers. They would be okay. They would survive. And a little fairy named Meg would ensure it, sealing it with a kiss. "There's just something about the thrust into dew that drives my cock to a maddening state. Listen to it. Feel it. Makes me wanna do bad things."

  "Do them to my body," Megan begged as her eyes rolled back. "Please, Sir."

  Panting, Deacon mumbled, "He's stroking one off."

  "Nup, I'm waiting."

  "His pierced beast is a demanding bastard," Deacon added as they increased their rhythm.

  "You would know," Sal sparred as he dove between Megan's thighs and lapped at her nectar. The clit jewelry enticed his tongue with a succulent exclamation point, and he couldn't avoid it as the pronounced nub demanded his attention. Swooping his mouth low, he didn't hold back, running the tip at the top of her opening and flattening his tongue over the pistoning cock.

  "Really fucking hate you for doing that, Raniero."

  Sal squeezed his fingers as Megan yelped, "Oh Jesus Christ…"

  With the three moving in synchronicity, they found beautiful abandon in just being. It was glorious as they created a holy trinity amongst themselves. Unraveling all the fears and worries, they let the unknown turn to ash as they burned it up in the dungeon. More than another fuck, this was a new beginning for Raniero and Cruz to bring their spellbinding ways to the insensitive world and together, they could incinerate their enemies.

  "I'm going to come," Megan whispered, tangling her fingers in Sal's hair between her thighs. "I'm going to come."

  "Do it," Deacon encouraged as Sal let go of his fingers and tightly gripped his wrist. "I'll follow you."

  "Oh… God…" Megan muffled out as she trusted the boys to rule her body. Gripping onto Deacon's arm, she bucked up and cried, "Oh shit, Deacon… Salvatore…"

  With several deep grunts, Deacon released, closed his eyes, and covered his face. "Holy fuck."

  "My thoughts exactly," Megan giggled as Sal perked up from between her thighs.

  Licking his lips, Sal moaned, "Tasty."

  * * *

  Hours later, Megan slept in the four poster bed on the opposite side of the room as the boys pondered their predicament from the leather sofa.

  "She's fucking cute," Deacon observed, handing the pipe to Sal. "Damn sweet, too. Are we going to save her or did we bring her here to fuck her and wait for the obituary?"

  Taking a generous toke, Sal snickered. "We're keeping her, Cruz."

  "That sounds, oddly… twisted."

  "She's going to be the dirty little secret between us," Sal confided, taking a swig of the whiskey. "And you are going to watch after her until I figure some shit out."

  Leaning back into the sofa, Deacon agreed, "Absolutely. You want pats or surveillance on her?"

  "Not necessary." Staring at the girl, Sal tilted his head and muttered, "Really I want her at Juliet…"

  Deacon shot a curious look in his direction. "Why do I think your wheels are spinning?"

  "Because they always are, my friend."

  With the quiet moment between them, Deacon finally broke and asked, "Are you going back to the cornfields to play Farmer Sal?"

  "Only temporarily," he hastily answered, rubbing his washboard abs. "It's time to come home."

  "I'll keep the fire burning," Deacon offered, laying his hand on Sal's thigh. "I won't let anything happen."

  "I know you won't."

  "Nothing was your fault," Deacon whispered with a serious, but sympathetic tone. "I would tell you if it was. I was an asshole."

  "Doesn't eliminate the scars or the fury," Sal mentioned, blinking at Deacon. "I need to be able to think this through. I can't fuck up again. I need a plan to fucking work for one god damn time."

  A slight smirk rose up on Deacon's lips. "I know. I can help you with that."

  With a slight tug of the denim, Sal undid his fly but kept his attention on the darling Meg. Three years passed with never a good word between Deacon and Sal. In the end, there was no need to restore their bond because it never left. They were s
ilver threads wound around the other. "Thank you."

  "It's what friends do, Sal."

  About Kailee

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  Peligro

  A love story

  By

  Angie M Brashears

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Angelina Braga

  On a smothering night, a gentle breeze sneaks into the open window. Soft as a trail of kisses, it whispers across my cheek like the ghost of kisses past.

  Hovering between dreams and reality, I blink several times. Reality wins when the bed creaks beneath me. Wide-eyed, I peer into the darkness and wait.

  Merciless braying shatters the calm. The last traces of sleep are blown to smithereens when a car alarm comes to life. My lungs seize as all breathable air is sucked from the room. Terror wells within me as flashing hazard lights paint my bedroom walls red. Anxious for the owner to find his keys, I will it to stop. Hands pressed to my ears, I pray for it to end.

  After an indeterminable amount of time, it does.

  Only to be replaced by the sound of my own rapid breathing.

  My mind tries to crawl back to sleep, but it’s no use.

  “Peligro,” I moan into the nothingness.

  Then I hear it.

  The melodic opening chords of our song. Faint it wafts out the window of a passing lowrider, sails on the current, wraps around the fire escape and finds me. Tucked safely away in my second story walkup, it sounds almost melancholy, yet I am found.

  Man, that song takes me back. A golden oldie that seemed to play on every radio station the summer we met.

  Wistful, I’d said, “So romantic.”

  “More like a broken record,” you’d scoffed.

  My breath hitches. As if you’re really here with me, I can see that smirky smirk that accented those deep dimples of yours. You push that honey blonde hair back to show off those eyes. You know how I loved them. Backlit by a promise, deep green eyes that seared a hole right into my soul and buried down deep. You live there still.

  A sigh escapes me.

  It was my brother that called you Diablo. Incessantly preached against you and your kind.

  That ragtag bunch of gearheads that flocked around you. No shoes, No shirts, Full Service is how I thought of them. Naively, I’d thought they were just friends. But they were close enough to christen you, Reaper.

  The bringer of death, collector of souls, but the only captured spirit I saw reflected in your tortured eyes was your own. Calling out to me, it begged for release.

  No matter what they called you, I only knew you as “Rafe.” Burying my face in the pillow. I whisper your name like a sacrament. Anything to remember.

  The day we met, My Life wasn’t mine to give. The chokehold my brother had around my neck was just stifling…

  Chapter 1

  “Where the fuck are you, Fendi?” I grit around a ponytail holder clamped between my teeth.

  It’s bad enough that the Prada dress my brother picked barely covers my ass, I’m not going anywhere in less than thigh-high boots.

  Who cares if it’s just to witness my brother’s blood money hard at work. I’d been invited to the opening of the refurbished Youth Club on the beach. Fitting, since that’s where my brother intercepts all the gun shipments.

  The elders of our quaint coastal town might be a bunch of bootlickers, but they’re smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  My brother’s hush money was earmarked as a ‘contribution.’

  If anyone ever snooped in the City Planner’s books, everything would appear to be on the up and up. Nice and neat. That’s how the officials liked things. Even invited me, baby sister to local mobster Anthony Braga, to cut the ribbon.

  With the traffic the way it’s been on Sea Drive, the chances of me making the twelve pm reception are about slim to none.

  To make matters worse, I’ve got my overbearing brother to contend with.

  “Have Vinnie drive you,” Anthony calls up the stairs. A simple request, yet a favor just the same.

  Face screwed up, I mimic him. But only in private. Never to his face.

  From her deathbed, our own mother-Godresthersoul-had warned. ‘I know you love your older brother, just not too much. Protect yourself. Okay Ang?’

  At all times, Mom, I think.

  There it is. The toe of my errant boot peeks out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt. Right where I left it.

  “I’m good!” I yell and bend to nab it.

  My hand stops in mid-air when the voice from my nightmares chimes up behind me.

  “I’d like to drive something up that fat ass.” I glance back. Just as I suspected. All creepy and shit, my brother’s right-hand man is standing like a bouncer. Inside my room.

  What the…This bastard thinks I’m already his.

  After last night, there’s really no need to wonder why the help is in my bedroom.

  Thanks to a promise made over too many whiskeys, my brother, the high poohbah of everything, had spoken out of turn. Again.

  With dread in my heart, I turn to face Vincent Ramon and he’s doing it again! Right in front of me!

  Craning his neck to catch one last glimpse of my ass, it’s not hard to miss the hairy knuckles he’s skimming across the length of his cock.

  Unbelievable.

  Thoroughly disgusted, I refuse to be made a captive audience. Instead, I walk to the dresser and nab the keys.

  The whole time he’s watching me, there’s a possessive glint in his eyes that I don’t like. Something foul slithers behind the amber color. Calculating, biding its time, waiting to strike. I march toward the door and he sidesteps to block my exit.

  Arms crossed, he stares down at me. Patiently waiting for me to ask…. nicely.

  That’s not going to happen. Enveloped in the stench of him, I squeeze by until I pop into the hallway like a Pillsbury biscuit. Great, now I smell like a burrito left out in the sun too long. I think I have Febreeze in my car. I keep cans of the stuff everywhere.

  Because of him and his obsession with me. My private space is supposed to be off-limits to my brother’s men, but I wouldn’t put it past the skeevy fuck to come in and use one of my prized stuffed animals to rub one out. This is what happens when you give a gorilla free range. The damn ape thinks he’s the ringleader!

  Rage simmers beneath the surface. Chin held high, I hiss, “You shouldn’t be in my room.”

  Obtuse, his thick lips begin to flap. Talking about taking what’s his. This asshole really thinks drunken confessions will hold up in court!

  If I don’t stand my ground now, I’ll never be clear of him. I whirl around. Off guard, his scarred face freezes in an obscene sneer.

  Why inthehell do I even bother? Spelling it out as plain as I can, I say, “My brother may have made a drunken promise to you, but it’s still my decision as to who I’ll marry.”

  At the mention of marriage, his vile sneer spreads until it feels like some gets on me.

  Yuck.

  Revolted, I say, “And I haven’t said yes. Crowding me isn’t going to squeeze an answer out of me. I’m not a friggin loaf of bread. I’m a woman.”

  “Oh, you finally got some hair on that pretty little pussy?” he quips back.

  “Watch yourself, Pretty Boy.” Stunned speechless, my brother’s pet name was the only thing I could think to say. Looking up into murderous eyes the same color as his five o’clock shadow, I wished I would’ve kept my big mouth shut.

  Fighting tears, I dash down the staircase like I’ve got a big gorilla on my tail. Because I do. Thanks to my brother’s toast from the night before.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why my presence had been requested at Vincent’s retirement party. The food was good, I got to see some of the old guys, it was turning out to be just a regular night. Then I caught the beginning of my brother’s toast. “In a world where dark deeds are rewarded with malevolence. Crimson splashed surprises await us all.”
r />   Fearing where this was headed, I tried to catch Anthony’s eye. But his glass was raised and the slurred toast was already made. “Vincent Ramon, you’ve served me well. You take a life, one is given in return. My gift to you…my baby sister Angelina.”

  My heart stopped midbeat when all eyes fell on me.

  Instead of a gold watch, he gave the aged gangster…me?

  Stunned, I fled the formal dining hall. As I passed, men nodded. Stogie in hand, Uncle Jose even went so far as to say, “You should be proud that your brother picked such a dangerous man to bed you. He must want you protected at all costs.”

  The last thing I felt was safe as I scurried to my room.

  “For my protection,” I muttered and pushed the heavy dresser in front of my door. Feeling more exposed than I’ve ever been, my eyes stayed on the slowly turning doorknob all night.

  Emboldened by my brother’s blessing, what’s to stop Vincent now?

  I’d love nothing more than to flee this Mobsterleum for good. Trapped in the old ways that I do not care to know, I hate this fucking place and everything in it.

  My bootheels echo through the foyer like someone’s shooting the place up. One hand stretched out in front of me anticipating the knob, I begin to dream. Maybe I’ll find a place of my own. Nothing glamorous. I’ll even move to Compton as long as there are locks on the door.

  I can practically smell the sea air. Just need to get past Anthony’s study and I’m home free.

  “Did Vinnie find you?”

  My battleship is sunk before I’ve even set sail. I’m not even startled by my brother’s voice-so nonchalant-like he doesn’t tug every string. I’m just surprised that he let me get this many steps in without his approval.

  Though it pains me too, I stop. Feet spread wide to bear the coming load, I suck in a lungful of air and turn to face the Master of Puppets.

  Chapter 2

  In a room that sophisticated people would call a study, Anthony is seated in an English high back chair, acting the part. With the smell of expensive coffee hovering in the air and the newspaper opened to the financial section in front of him, he can almost pass as civilized. You might even think him gentile.