Manipulate (Deliver 6)

“Fuck you!”

Her heart stopped.

She knew that American accent.

She knew it when it was gravelly with desire, sharp with frustration, and now stony with anger.

Her hand went to the pistol in her waistband. She flipped the safety off and took the first set of steps two at a time.

At the landing between the flights of stairs, she whipped around the corner and slammed to a stop.

A dozen men were gathered on the steps above her, and more spilled out of the top floor. At the center of the throng, Ricky lay on his back beneath four inmates, his body pinned to the steps.

On the landing above him, Martin fought four…five…six men and counting. Every time his fist connected with a body, he received three or more punches in return.

Her pulse exploded as she aimed the gun at the crowd and shouted in Spanish, “Get away from them!”

“Don’t interfere, little girl.” The man closest to her stepped into her space and crossed his arms. “This isn’t your business.”

Two more prisoners flanked him.

No guns were drawn, but if she fired her weapon, she would be staring down the barrels of a dozen or more guns.

One of the inmates holding Ricky’s legs rose to his full height.

Her stomach turned inside out.

It was Trog. The large, hairy man was known for having a huge penis and a harem of unwilling bed partners.

A zipper sounded, and Trog whipped out his two-foot dick.

“Suck on this, bitch.” He wrapped his hand around it, guiding it toward Ricky’s clamped lips.

Outrage blazed in Ricky’s eyes, his entire body flexing with murderous aggression.

He’d been disrespected by Trog and his dick. If Trog raped him, it would be the beginning of the end.

Once a bitch, forever a bitch.

“Name your price.” She glared at the men in front of her. “And get the fuck out of my way.”

Bribing them for their cooperation shouldn’t cost more than thirty soups or a couple packs of cigarettes.

On the top floor, Martin grunted and punched his way through a half dozen prisoners. Outnumbered and losing ground, he would never reach Ricky in time.

Ricky renewed his efforts to escape as his captors held his head immobile. They pried their fingers into his mouth and stretched his jaw open to accept the massive erection angling toward him.

Panic chased her heart to her stomach. Her spine slicked with sweat, and the ringing sound of her fear thrashed in her ears.

She jerked her attention to the men blocking her path. “I need an answer.”Ricky bit down on the fingers in his mouth and tried to summon his nonexistent gag reflex. If he could puke on these motherfuckers, it might give him a fleeting moment to escape.

“You have options.” The grizzly-bearded bastard with the donkey dick glared down at him. “While you’re staring at it, you can hit, kick, whimper, cry, lick, suck, spit, or swallow.”

What was funny about this was that the scaly, bulbous organ jutting toward his face was the ugliest goddamn dick he’d ever seen. What wasn’t funny was the likelihood of it ramming into the back of his throat.

“Or you can roll to your stomach, and I’ll visit China,” the grizzly man said. “I’ll leave it up to you and your personal survival instinct. But let’s be honest. You’re getting it one way or another.”

His survival instinct had been honed by six months of training.

An outpouring of adrenaline hit his system, boosting his heart rate and blood pressure. A surge of muscle strength made him feel invincible, but he knew he wasn’t.

No amount of training would get them out of this. There were too many men, and they were out for blood.

But he sure as hell wouldn’t lie here and take it quietly.

He jerked his head to the side, coughing away from the body odor as he said in Spanish, “Someone’s deodorant isn’t working.”

“It’s not me,” one of the dumbfucks said. “I’m not wearing deodorant.”

A round of laughter erupted, and he used the distraction to twist his arms and break free from the restraining hands.

With a hard shove of his feet, he gained some distance, moving his position two stairs closer to Martin. Then more hands fell upon him, holding him against the steps.

Rough fingers opened his fly. Others joined in, yanking his jeans and boxers to his knees. There was even a goddamn one-armed man in the mix, slamming his only fist into Ricky’s abdomen.

He tried to fight them off, wrestling and punching for a dominant position, but he was outmuscled and outnumbered.

With his groin exposed, he couldn’t stop them from grabbing and smacking his junk.

He trapped a roar behind his sealed lips. His vision clouded. His ears pounded, as the increased blood flow to his extremities energized his strikes, powering his punches harder, faster, with the intent to kill.

He tried to track the sounds of Martin’s fight above him. God knew how many men he was fending off. He was going to get himself killed.