Raising Hell: A Spicy MMM Novella, page 1
Raising Hell
A Spicy MMM Novella
G. Eilsel
Copyright © 2024 G. Eilsel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various brands, products, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
A poem:
Roses are red,
Demons from Hell,
They're very horny,
Now you are as well.
If you're following the count, the word "cock" is used 115 times, this time over 190 pages.
You're welcome.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Alternate Version
Before you get started...
Trigger warnings
Shopping List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Other Books by G. Eilsel
Alternate Version
There is another version of this series that is strictly MF (or MF+)
If your preference is to read that version, check out my alterate series:
One Handed Holiday
Before you get started...
You've found your way to my smutty novella series, and I don't know whether to say thank you or apologize in advance. It can get a little weird in here, y'all.
A few things to make note of:
This is an erotic, 18+ novella with minimal plot, ridiculous humor, and a whole lot of smut.
The sex depicted in this novella may not always be realistic, but that's part of the fun. Allow yourself to just be okay with the fact that stamina is high and refractory periods might be non-existent.
The length of these novellas means that there is always some level of insta-lust to insta-love involved, because since the sex is the plot, we're not devoting a lot of time to relationship building.
TLDR: It's nasty up in here. Have fun.
Trigger warnings
The nature of this novella as a smutty read means there are few triggers that don't have something to with sex. I've included a Shopping List on the next page that breaks down the majority of the kinks and acts included. Despite my best efforts, it's possible I missed something.
Other possible triggering matter that heeds mentioning, even if it's duplicated on the next page:
Death of a family member (in the past)
Violence
Shopping List
❒ Oral sex
❒ Use of horns for sexual gratification
❒ Cum play
❒ Begging
❒ "Good boy"
❒ Snowballing
❒ Gray sweatpants
❒ Bareback sex
❒ Threesomes (obvs)
❒ Anal sex
❒ Rimming
❒ Felching
❒ Irrumatio
❒ Orgasm denial
❒ Magically forced orgasm
❒ Double anal penetration
And in traditional fashion, way more cumshots and creampies than I could count.
Chapter 1
Rory
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no… Oh, sugar, this was not what I signed up for!” The red glow in front of me explodes, and my shriek could shatter glass as I reflexively cover my face, trying to shield myself from the blinding light. “Ah, William Shatner, no!”
My eyes squeeze shut, and the room’s vibrant redness transforms into a softer, orange shade behind my eyelids. Closed eyes…. just like I’m sleeping. That’s it… maybe if I concentrate all my energy into wishing this never happened, I’ll wake up in my bed and find that it was a bad dream.
That can happen, right? It’s a thing?
I’ll just will it all away… yep, that’s what I need to…
“Mwa-ha-ha-ha!” A deep, kind of cliche, undeniably evil laugh rings through the room, echoing from the walls, screaming from the empty corners, and surrounding me in a deafening blast of noise. My palms fly over my ears and push, humming as loud as I can while pretending the world isn’t descending into chaos around me.
“Just a dream, Rory. It’s just a dreeeEEAAAAH! Son of a biscuit maker, what was that?!” Something touched me. Something warm and solid, decidedly not imaginary, brushed against my arm.
This is not a dream—it’s a goddamn nightmare, and my attempts to ignore the truth unravel in an instant. Denial flies out the window as I decide to do the only logical thing.
I’m going to run.
I’m going to run, maybe until I hit the Gulf of Mexico, and then… then I’m going to swim. Abandon this disaster and pretend it never happened.
Hindsight tells me that running without the use of my eyes and ears isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but it’s where I am in life right now. My body twists towards the door, aching for the safety that lies beyond, and I summon every ounce of strength to sprint out of this attic as fast as humanly possible.
“Oof!” Air is forced from my lungs as I slam into an unyielding surface that’s strangely soft, and I open my eyes to come face to face with… a set of very defined abs. “Oh, SUGAR!” I screech as my gaze drifts lower and finds an impressively large…
You know what?
Let’s back up and start from the beginning.
“I can’t believe you have to tackle this on your own,” my friend Deanna says through the phone. I swing the camera around, showing her the piles of junk that fill my grandmother’s house. It’s not filthy, because she kept it quite clean, but filled to the brim with stuff.
I pick up a ukulele from a pile of newspapers and glide my fingertips over the strings. “Yeah, well… she left me the property. It’s a small price to pay to clean it when it means getting out of that tiny, overpriced apartment. And besides,” I backtrack into the living room and turn the camera to sweep through. “I’m almost halfway done.”
“Where is it all going?” she asks, wide-eyed at the clean, clutter-free space.
“Most of it will be donated, but a lot of it is being sent straight to recycle or to the dump.” Granny Petra is probably rolling over in her grave knowing I’m throwing away some of her beloved things, but nobody needs hundreds of plastic Arby’s cups… even if they’ve been washed.
Sorry, not sorry. Like, at all.
Then there’s the bizarre stuff I’ve found… glass jars full of objects that might be fur or teeth, and liquids in unnatural colors that seem to always be bubbling. There are a few small skeletons that I’m hoping are just tacky Halloween decorations.
Until I figure out what in the world I’m supposed to do with them, they’re packed away in a box.
And handled with gloves… toxic waste, and all.
Look at me, saving the planet one corpse at a time.
We chat for a few more minutes with mindless gossip until the work at hand beckons me and I end the call. Hands on my hips, I survey the room, mentally cataloguing the junk with a loud sigh.
This is going to take forever.
Fur brushes against my leg and I glance down. “There you are, Shadow,” I say, leaning to give her a gentle scritch under her chin, while the vibrations of her purr rumble against my fingertips. She was also Granny Petra’s and has loved me since the day I met her almost a decade ago. Shadow’s head tilts and her tail flickers around my ankle, staring as if she’s waiting for me to take the lead.
“Alright, kitty, let’s get to work.” Her meow sounds suspiciously like an agreement.
The next morning, I wake up to the gentle touch of sunlight on my face, and I groan in protest, pulling the pillow over my face to protect me from the solar attack. It’s still strange waking up here, even though I’ve spent the past week and a half sleeping at Granny’s house. My new house, I correct in my head. Shadow stirs on my chest, kneading the blankets before curling back up without a care.
For a few minutes, I bask in the serene warmth of the morning and enjoy the gentle vibration of purrs, but soon enough, reality beckons. “It’s the weekend, Shadow,” I say as I drag my fingers through her silky black fur. “Which means I have to get some stuff done around here.” The process of cleaning has been slow and tedious, especially when I have to squeeze it in between my work schedule.
Despite that, most of the house is finished, with one last area that requires my attention.
I walk over and pull it open, the hinges squealing under the sudden movement and the stale smell of unused space hitting me in a pungent punch. Each stair squeaks as I climb, and I shudder as I ascend into the darkness.
“Seriously, why are attics so creepy?” I mutter, fumbling as I search the wall for a light switch. When I can’t find one, I use the flashlight on my phone and shine it in a half-circle. The clutter is just as overwhelming up here, and as I look around in dismay, I notice the dust dancing in the beam of sunshine sneaking through a crack in the window.
In my hunt for light, my eyes settle on a long Bic lighter and a table with a handful of candles. I ignite two, gulping as I switch off my flashlight. My hand only shakes a little as I pick up a candle in a brass holder, shivering at the flickering shadows created in the room. “Who doesn’t put lights in their weird death attic? Love this for me.” As I glance around at the stuff accumulated up here, I shake my head. “No way in hell I’m doing this by candlelight.”
A few hours later, armed with industrial work lights, an extension cord, and an energy drink that’ll probably just give me anxiety, I can finally begin bagging junk and hauling it downstairs. Long, grueling hours and several trips to the dump later, I brush my hands off, surveying the open, airy space with an immense sense of satisfaction. There are a few larger pieces of furniture up here that I won’t bother to move, and an oversized rug housing a few decades’ worth of dust between its fibers placed in the center of the floor.
A loud meow comes from my right, and I grin at Shadow strutting along the edge of a desk, tail flickering as she stares at me. I run my hand down her silky back, feeling the flex of her muscles as she arches against my touch. She purrs loudly, pacing back and forth as she nuzzles her head against my fingers.
A barely audible click catches my attention, and I glance at her rear paw, where a small square of wood is pressed into the surface of the desktop. My eyes widen as a hidden drawer pops out, just an inch or two. “What the…” I whisper as I reach and slide it open.
A large leather-bound book sits like a lost relic, its cover embellished with mesmerizing gold-leaf patterns and a cryptic symbol at its center. A small lock holds it closed, but other than the book, the drawer is empty. I dig through every nook and cranny of the desk in search of a key but come up empty-handed.
My fingers run over the soft, pebbled material of the cover. The whole thing has an ancient, otherworldly aura about it, a charge like static under my fingertips as I trace the filigree. I flip it over and glance at the back, but it’s only covered with more of the unusual markings.
Worn lettering is hand-printed on the spine. Spells, Enchantments, Curses, and Charms. “Strange,” I murmur as Shadow meows next to me, butting her head against the book. “Maybe it wasn’t Granny’s…” The words die in my throat as I flip back to the front cover, seeing a tiny inscription in the bottom corner that reads Property of Petra Blackwell.
Well, so much for that theory. The book feels like it buzzes in my hands as I frown at it, the cat purring up a storm as I twist the lock between my fingers.
“What the heck were you into, Granny?”
Chapter 2
Rory
At the kitchen table, my dinner sits untouched as I lazily move the food around on my plate. Today was… awful.
My job was already a nightmare, working as an administrative assistant to someone who could easily be mistaken for Lucifer’s right-hand man. However, losing it out of the blue just because his college friend’s daughter showed up, with her perky twenty-one-year-old boobs and long blonde hair...
That shit stings.
“Why me, Shadow?” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes as she leaps onto the table and tilts her head. Even the damn cat feels sorry for me.
It’s pitiful.
At thirty-two, I have nothing… not really. I haven’t had a boyfriend in years, and my work schedule has made it impossible to keep up with myself. I tug on one of my red curls and watch it pop back up into its usual chaotic coil. The mousse I put in this morning is long gone from the number of times I pushed my fingers through it today, so everything is extra frizzy.
A walking pom-pom.
Go, team.
It’s not like I hate my body. I don’t stand an inch over five-foot-seven, which put me in prime twink territory when I was younger. As the years have gone on, I’ve developed too much softness over my once-tight abs, so if I wasn’t too old to be one anymore, I’d certainly be too flabby.
Honestly, though, it doesn’t bother me. Physical appearances rank pretty low on my list of priorities, because, despite my current pity party, I know what I have to offer… even if I don’t have someone to share it with at the moment.
The rest of my life, on the other hand, could use adjusting. New job, new adventure… Lord knows I could use some excitement. The house was a good start, but even now, what am I doing?
Eating a giant spoon of peanut butter as dinner and wearing a pair of sushi pajamas while the sun is still out. All alone.
A furry head butts against my cheek with a quiet mrow, and I glance up with a small, rueful smile. Okay, maybe not all alone. Her fur is soft between my fingers as I pet her, nodding and giving a very unmanly sniffle. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to stop moping. There’s no point in stressing over things I have no control over, and I can’t get my job back now. I don’t even want it back, so why am I blubbering about it?”
My eyes shift, staring at the book on the table. Despite tearing the attic apart, as well as searching every piece of furniture in the house, I haven’t been able to find the key—or any explanation to what the book is or why Granny had it. There’s a nagging fear in the back of my mind that I threw the key away with the trash, but I can’t explain why it bothers me so much.
Why I have such a need to open it and read… to understand.
I shovel the giant spoon into my mouth, licking it clean before stretching to grab the book.
The pensive silence is broken by a crash that almost makes me jump straight out of my skin. Once I verify I am not, in fact, a walking skeleton, I turn to find Shadow on the fireplace mantle, her attention fixed on the shattered vase on the ground. “Sugar! Pesky cat!” I tiptoe over, gingerly stepping past the splintered pieces to grab the broom and dustpan from the closet.
Shadow paces on the mantle, pleased as a pickle with the mess she’s made. As I sweep up the broken ceramic shards, a shiny glint catches my eye. Shocked, I reach for the tiny key buried in the dust and blow it off, studying it before my eyes meet Shadow’s. She sits there on her butt, tail flickering back and forth with what I swear is a smug expression on her face.
“No way,” I mutter under my breath as I return to the table and drag the book in front of me. Shadow bounces up beside me, tail still swooshing as I push the key into the tiny padlock and hear the quiet click. My eyes meet hers, finding another of those proud grins in place, before I turn my attention to the book and slide the lock off its small metal hook.
The cover arches open with a melancholic creak, like the material is mourning the years of stillness, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me as the musty smell of old books floods my nose. Shoved inside is a note, and my eyes get wider with each word I read.
Rory, if you’ve found this, it means that I’m gone and everything that was mine is now yours. Use it carefully and know that I’d give anything to be there with you.
I pull it out, finding a small, bittersweet smile on my face at the sight of her dramatic, loopy handwriting. Every single thing she did was infused with her one-of-a-kind, sometimes wacky, character. As I set the note aside, I can’t resist the urge to run my fingertips over the surface of the book’s first page. The paper has a unique texture—a thicker, softer material that seems like it would stand through the test of time.
