Chapter 8

The white Bentley convertible roared through the pristine streets of Kennedy Vanderholt’s upscale suburb, Trayvon’s heavy foot on the gas, the engine snarling as K-Shank’s “Fuck the Rich” blasted from the custom sound system, its bass rattling windows and setting off car alarms. The hardcore gangsta-rap’s misogynistic lyrics pulsed through Kennedy’s sixteen-year-old body, her pale curves barely contained by a sheer white crop top and black micro-miniskirt, her massive fake tits bouncing with every bump. She gyrated against Trayvon’s 6’4” tattooed black frame, her pale hands caressing his chiseled ebony muscles through his leather jacket, cooing, “God, you’re so fucking hot, Trayvon. So sexy, my thug king.” His dark hand, adorned with gold rings, squeezed her thong-clad ass, making her groan, her underage pussy juicing instantly at his rough touch, soaking the hot-pink fabric.

Trayvon’s piercing stare flicked to her, his diamond grill glinting as he growled, “Get that mouth on my dick, jailbait. Suck your nigga off while I drive.”

Kennedy’s green eyes lit up with lust, her sixteen-year-old body trembling with excitement. She eagerly leaned over the center console, her glossy brown hair spilling across his lap, and unzipped his jeans, freeing his eleven-inch black cock, rock-hard and veiny from her nubile, fake-titted frame. “Fuck, it’s so big,” she purred, her pale fingers stroking the thick shaft, her lips parting as she dove down, taking him into her warm, wet underage mouth, worshipping his cock with fervent devotion as the Bentley tore through the neighborhood.

Rich white residents froze on their manicured lawns, their frightened glares locking onto the convertible—Kennedy’s pale, curvaceous body bent over, her head bobbing eagerly on Trayvon’s massive black cock, her micro-miniskirt riding up to expose her thong and creamy ass.

Trayvon’s menacing snarl met their stares, his dark eyes daring them to interfere, and they quickly averted their gazes, scurrying inside their mansions, hearts pounding. Kennedy’s sixteen-year-old pussy throbbed at the thrill of their fear, her tongue swirling around Trayvon’s shaft, savoring his musky taste as she sucked harder, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth, drool dripping down her chin.

The Bentley hit the freeway ramp into the city, and Kidney’s pussy gushed as Trayvon floored the accelerator, the convertible weaving recklessly through traffic, the speedometer climbing past ninety. The danger sent a jolt of adrenaline through her teenage body, amplifying her arousal as she deep-throated Trayvon’s cock, gagging wetly, her mascara-streaked eyes watering but gleaming with masochistic ecstasy.

His dark hand fisted her hair, forcing her down until her nose pressed against his pelvis, her throat constricting around him, her pussy clenching with every violent thrust. “That’s it, white slut,” he growled, his voice thick with dominance. “Choke on that nigga dick.” Her muffled moans vibrated against him, her pale fingers digging into his thighs, her body spasming with mini-climaxes from the reckless speed and his brutal control.

Cars swerved to avoid the Bentley as Trayvon pushed it faster, the wind whipping Kennedy’s hair, her fake tits jiggling as she bobbed faster, her lips slurping loudly, the wet sounds mingling with the rap’s pounding beat. Drivers and passers gawked, some horrified, others aroused, catching glimpses of the gorgeous teenage white girl worshipping the massive black cock of the gangsta thug. Trayvon’s snarls silenced their stares, his predatory glare forcing them to look away, clutching their steering wheels, pretending not to see. Kennedy’s pussy ached with the thrill of their exposure, her clit throbbing as she imagined their shock, her tongue teasing the underside of his shaft, coaxing a low groan from Trayvon.

Her sixteen-year-old mouth worked relentlessly, sucking with pornstar precision, her pale cheeks hollowing as she took him deeper, her throat gagging but refusing to stop, driven by the need to please her felon king. The Bentley’s speed climbed, the engine roaring as Trayvon wove through lanes, tires screeching, the city skyline looming closer. Kennedy’s pussy clenched with every near-miss, the danger of crashing only heightening her arousal, her body trembling as she felt Trayvon’s cock throb, his balls tightening. “Fuck, you’re a nasty white hoe,” he grunted, smacking her ass hard, leaving a red handprint on her creamy skin, her muffled scream pushing him closer to the edge.

Kennedy’s pale fingers massaged his heavy balls, her lips locked around his shaft, sucking with desperate hunger as the Bentley hit a hundred miles an hour, the freeway a blur. Her pussy gushed, soaking her thong, her body electrified by the reckless speed, the public spectacle, and Trayvon’s massive cock filling her throat. She felt him pulse, his dark hand shoving her head down as he growled, “Swallow it, jailbait.” Her green eyes rolled back, her underage body shuddering with a climax as his thick jizz erupted, flooding her mouth, overflowing down her chin, dripping onto her fake tits. She gulped greedily, savoring every drop, her tongue cleaning his shaft as he slowed the car, merging into city traffic, his chest heaving, his grip loosening in her hair.

Kennedy sat up, her swollen lips glistening, cum streaking her pale cleavage, her unfocused eyes gleaming with awe as she gazed at Trayvon’s tattooed frame. “You’re so fucking perfect,” she purred, wiping her mouth, her jailbait body buzzing with aftershocks. She snapped a quick selfie—mascara-streaked, lips puffy, cum glistening on her skin—posting it to Instagram with the caption, “Just gave my thug king the ride of his LIFE on the freeway! #FelonBae #CumQueen #WhiteSlut #ThugLove.” Trayvon chuckled, his dark hand squeezing her bruised ass, pulling her close as they cruised into the city, the rap still blaring, Kennedy’s pussy already aching for more of his savage dominance.

Trayvon’s deep voice cut through the pulsing beat of D-Rav’s “Street Royalty,” the gangsta-rap track shaking the Bentley’s speakers as they cruised into the city. “Freshen up, jailbait white slut,” he growled, his dark hand squeezing Kennedy Vanderholt’s pale thigh. “We hittin’ our spot soon, and you gotta look fine as fuck for your nigga.” Kennedy’s green eyes sparkled with devotion, her sixteen-year-old body buzzing from the freeway blowjob. She nodded eagerly, pulling a compact from her purse, her pale fingers wiping cum from her swollen lips and massive fake tits, the sticky streaks glistening on her sheer white crop top. She brushed her silky brown hair with her hands, fluffing its glossy waves, then touched up her smoky eyeshadow and red lipstick, pouting at her reflection, determined to look perfect for her thug king.

The Bentley slowed as they entered a run-down black neighborhood, dilapidated buildings looming—cracked facades, boarded windows, and graffiti-stained walls. The rap’s heavy bass vibrated through the streets, drawing eyes from black folks on the sidewalks. They stared as the convertible rolled past, Trayvon’s 6’4” tattooed black frame commanding attention, his diamond grill flashing. Kennedy clung to his arm, her pale curves pressed against his ebony muscles, her micro-miniskirt riding up to expose her hot-pink thong. She noticed their awestruck gazes, fingers pointing, whispers rippling through the crowd. Her sharp eyes caught one man’s lips moving, murmuring to another, “Tray’s back!” Her pussy throbbed at the reverence, her teenage body tingling as she realized this was Trayvon’s hood, his turf.

“Yo, this my streets,” Trayvon said, his voice thick with pride, his dark hand groping her bruised ass. “These niggas know I run this shit.” Kennedy giggled, her pale fingers tracing his gang tattoos, her pussy juicing at his dominance. The Bentley’s slow cruise amplified their spectacle—her curvaceous white body draped over his towering black frame, the rap’s misogynistic lyrics echoing her submission. Locals gawked, some nodding respectfully, others whispering Trayvon’s name, their eyes flicking to Kennedy’s fake tits and slutty outfit, her pale skin a stark contrast to the gritty surroundings.

Trayvon pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Rusty Blade, a dive bar with flickering neon signs and barred windows. “We meetin’ my niggas,” he said, parking the Bentley. “My old gang. You my bitch, so you better shine.” Kennedy’s heart raced, her barely-legal body buzzing with nervous excitement. She took a moment to doll up further, reapplying glossy lipstick, fluffing her hair, and adjusting her crop top to showcase her bruised fake tits, wanting to be the perfect trophy for her nigga. Trayvon smirked, his dark eyes approving as she preened, her underage curves ready to impress.

He led her inside, the bar’s dim interior reeking of stale beer and smoke, its scarred wooden floor and peeling walls nearly deserted. In the back, at a battered table, sat four black thugs—each radiating menace. One, lean with a shaved head and gold chains, lounged with a cigarette. Another, stocky with a scarred face and cornrows, sipped a bottle. The third, wiry with a goatee and red bandana, leaned forward, eyes sharp. The last, broad-shouldered with dreadlocks and a silver grill, cracked his knuckles. Kennedy’s pulse quickened, her pussy tingling at their dangerous aura, her pale hand gripping Trayvon’s arm.

Trayvon strode to the table, Kennedy’s six-inch stilettos clicking behind him. The thugs rose, their faces breaking into respectful grins. “Tray, my nigga, you out!” the lean one said, dapping him up. “Fuckin’ king back on the streets,” the stocky one added, clasping his hand.

Trayvon grinned, his diamond grill glinting. “Y’all know I was comin’ back to run this shit. Owe it to my new white bitch.” He pulled Kennedy forward, her pale curves on display. “This Kennedy. My prime slut.”

Kennedy’s cheeks flushed, her teenage body tensing under their stares, but their misogynistic praise washed over her. “Damn, Tray, she fine as fuck,” the wiry one said, eyeing her fake tits. “Them curves? Shit, you got a bad white hoe,” the broad-shouldered one added, licking his lips.

Kennedy glowed, her nervousness melting as she vamped, arching her back to accentuate her bruised implants, twirling a lock of brown hair, and pouting her glossy lips. “Thank you,” she purred, her voice sultry, basking in their objectifying lust, her pussy throbbing as she preened for Trayvon’s gang.

“Yo, this Tyrese,” Trayvon said, nodding to the lean one with gold chains. “Malik,” he pointed to the stocky, scarred one. “J-Rock,” the wiry one with the bandana. “And Dante,” the broad-shouldered one with dreadlocks. Kennedy repeated their names in her head, determined to impress her nigga’s crew, her green eyes flicking to each, memorizing their features. They sat, Trayvon pulling Kennedy onto his lap, her thong-clad ass grinding against his cock bulge, her pale skin stark against his black leather jacket. The bartender, a grizzled older man, brought a dozen bottles of malt liquor, the dark liquid sloshing in frosted glass.

The thugs raised their bottles, toasting Trayvon’s release. “To the king, back to fuck shit up!” Tyrese roared, and they chugged, the foul liquid glugging down their throats. Kennedy, eager to fit in, grabbed a bottle, her pale fingers wrapping around the cold glass. She tipped it back, the harsh, bitter taste burning her throat, making her cough, some spilling onto her massive fake tits, trickling down her cleavage.

The thugs laughed, Malik grinning, “Yo, she tryin’, Tray.” Kennedy giggled, wiping her chin, her teenage body buzzing with the thrill of their approval, her underage pussy aching as Trayvon’s dark hand squeezed her thigh, his dominance anchoring her in the gritty world of his gang.

The air in the Rusty Blade grew thick with smoke and the clink of malt liquor bottles as Trayvon and his gang leaned back, shooting the shit. The music emanating from the bar’s shitty sound system faded into the background, replaced by their loud, crude laughter. “Yo, Tyrese, you still fuckin’ Jamal’s sister?” Malik cackled, his scarred face twisting. Tyrese grinned, gold chains glinting. “Man, she wild, suckin’ dick like a pro.” J-Rock, his red bandana tilted, chimed in, “Heard Dante smashed that hoe from 12th Street, got her screamin’ his name.” Dante’s dreadlocks swayed as he smirked, raising his bottle. Kennedy, perched on Trayvon’s lap, sipping the malt liquor, getting used to the harsh taste, her pale curves pressed against his 6’4” tattooed black frame. She giggled at their raunchy gossip, her sixteen-year-old body buzzing, her thong-clad ass grinding subtly against Trayvon’s cock bulge.

Trayvon’s diamond grill flashed as he steered the talk, his voice hardening. “Enough bullshit. What’s good with the gang? Y’all holdin’ my streets or what?”

The table fell quiet, the thugs’ faces dropping, sheepish and embarrassed. Malik rubbed his neck, avoiding Trayvon’s piercing stare. “Shit, Tray, it’s rough. Numbers way down. Lost mad niggas to lockup or bullets.” J-Rock shifted, his goatee twitching. “Rival crews ate up our corners. Bloods took the west side, Latin Kings snatched the docks.” Tyrese added, voice low, “We barely got the block outside this bar, man. Shit’s fucked.” Dante nodded grimly, his silver grill catching the dim light. “Ain’t like it was when you ran it, Tray.”

Trayvon’s dark eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as their words sank in, each loss fueling his agitation. Kennedy felt his muscles tense under her pale fingers, her teenage hand stroking his thigh, caressing his chiseled ebony biceps through his leather jacket, trying to soothe him. “Baby, it’s okay,” she purred, her glossy brown hair brushing his chest, her massive fake tits jiggling in her sheer white crop top.

But Trayvon’s frustration boiled, his dark hand gripping her bruised ass harder, making her pussy throb despite his anger. “Y’all let my empire crumble?” he snarled, voice rising. “Fuckin’ weak-ass niggas!” The thugs flinched, their bottles frozen mid-sip, as Trayvon pounded his fist on the table, the wood shuddering. “We takin’ our turf back, startin’ now!”

J-Rock leaned forward, his wiry frame tense, skepticism in his sharp eyes. “No offense, Tray, but you rollin’ in with a teenage white slut don’t change shit. We need muscle, not pussy.” The others nodded warily, their gazes flicking to Kennedy’s pale, curvaceous body.

Trayvon’s snarl turned vicious, his dark hand yanking Kennedy closer, her thong digging into her creamy ass. “This ain’t some random white bitch,” he roared. “This my prime white jailbait hoe. She got connections, money, and a fine-ass crib that’s mine now.” He turned to Kennedy, his voice a command. “Show ‘em your shit, slut.”

Kennedy’s green eyes gleamed with purpose, her barely-legal body straightening as she grabbed her phone, her pale fingers swiping to photos of the Vanderholt mansion—sprawling marble halls, crystal chandeliers, the lavish driveway with Richard’s cars. “This is my family’s place,” she said, her voice sultry but firm, passing the phone to Tyrese. “Trayvon’s runnin’ it now.”

The thugs leaned in, eyes widening at the opulence, Malik whistling low. “Damn, that’s some rich-ass shit,” Dante muttered, his dreadlocks swaying. But J-Rock’s brow furrowed, still skeptical. “Nice house, but we need more than a crib to fight back.”

Kennedy’s temper flared, her teenage narcissism kicking in as she slid off Trayvon’s lap, standing tall in her six-inch stilettos, her fake tits thrust forward. “I ain’t just some tight-ass teenage pussy Trayvon likes to fuck,” she snapped, her voice sharp, leaning into J-Rock’s face, her pale skin glowing under the bar’s dim lights. “I worked my connections, manipulated my daddy into droppin’ hella cash to get Trayvon out. Lawyers, bribes, whatever it took.” She glared at each thug, her green eyes fierce. “Y’all at the bottom in this city, scrappin’ for scraps. You don’t got choices about who helps you now. Respect my shit, or you’re fucked.” Her words hung heavy, her pussy throbbing at her own boldness, her pale hand resting on Trayvon’s shoulder, claiming her place.