Shetani's Sister Read Online Free

adjusted his baby-blue tie and palm-brushed his luxuriant mop of processed curls. He finger-stroked a widow’s peak that slashed down across the ebony forehead of his ugly-handsome face. He gazed hypnotically into his strange eyes, burning like green lasers in their deep sockets. He adored his unforgettable face. He was proud of the mesmeric pull and fascination it had held for the platoons of young whores who had humped their hearts out in the street so he could afford to live like a prince for the past twenty-five years.
    An orphan and escapee from a final horrible foster home, he had made his debut as a street hustler at fifteen in Harlem. He remembered why, at twenty, he dropped his real name, Albert Spires, for “Master Shetani,” his moniker. One night, he had been drawn to the scene of a street emergency in Harlem by the flashing red lights of an ambulance. The attendants lifted the alcoholic victim, a middle-aged African immigrant, onto a stretcher. She suddenly opened her eyes and stared up into the apparently unearthly face of Albert Spires, awash in fire-red light. She recoiled in terror and jumped from the stretcher. She fled into the night screaming, “Shetani! Shetani!,” which a fellow bystander translated as “Satan” in Swahili.
    Now Shetani turned away from the mirror. He stepped through black satin drapes into a blue-lit sunken living room. His ethnically mixed stable of young junkie whores, lounging on couches and giant silk floor pillows, broke into ecstatic chanting: “Hello, Master Shetani! Hello, Master Shetani!”
    He threw up a palm to silence them as he moved to seat himself in a thronelike chair of royal-purple velour.
    All sixteen of the girls were bathed and naked for the delicious ritual of the spike. His compelling eyes fixed on the face of each girl with deep, probing intensity. He did this to reinforce their conviction that he could read their minds.
    He nodded to Petra, his main woman and stable straw boss, seated beside him on a pillow. The ravishing blonde Amazon said softly, “Master, love, no one requires punishment and everybody’s money is respectable. May I rise?” He nodded. She went to a corner of the spacious room and wheeled a blond wood serving cart back to Shetani. He shuffled through sixteen envelopes, with stable names and cash amounts noted in ink on each.
    All eyes watched raptly as he put premeasured amounts of distilled water and China-white heroin into a miniature brass pot atop a tiny butane stove. He turned it on and watched blue flame lick at the pot bottom for a minute or so before he turned off the stove.
    He took a syringe marked “P.” for “Petra” in ink on a strip of masking tape, from among fifteen other syringes individually marked on the cart top. He wrapped a bit of filter cotton around the needle point. Then he drew the syringe full from the pot.
    Petra positioned herself on hands and knees with her buttocks between Shetani’s legs. He shot the dope into a vein between her vulva and high inner thigh. Petra kissed her master’s feet and seated herself on the floor beside him. She watched as the others received their good-night dope. She hugged each of them.
    Petra and Shetani were finally alone. “Master, later I’ll show you a surprise package I brought you. May I sit on your lap so you can hold me?” she said in a child’s voice, with her dope-dreamy eyes upturned.
    He flung his arms open. “Get up here, sweet bitch, close to my heart, where you belong,” he said in his silky baritone that vibrated in the blue-lit stillness like muted thunder.
    She rose from the floor pillow and nested her naked curves on his lap. He held her very close. He rocked her gently as he made an erotic crooning sound deep in his throat that shivered her with excitement.
    “Oh, Daddy darling, I’m going to start missing you terribly the minute I get on the plane to L.A.,” she whispered.
    His white teeth fanged into the side of her throat, and she gasped