This work is copyrighted to the author © 2016. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved.
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Note:
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WARNING: This story contains sexual encounters between men and boys. Some sex is consensual, some not. I don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.
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* If you are under eighteen, do not read this story!
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Black Magic
(A Hacker’s Tale Part 1)
By
Black Haitian Hacker
She embraced the black magic like she flaunted the tattoo she wore on her tit. And just the thought of that brought on a contemptuous sneer to his lips. “The Slag! She’ll learn, and as sure as shit happens, l’wha will get what he is due!”
Chapter
I: The Hacker
A narrow
beam of light cut through the darkness as the intruder worked his way toward
the desk and the access point he sought.
It had taken him less than 30 seconds to pick the office door lock, and
if all went true to form, within 20 minutes he'd be retracing his steps back
out the door with a much fatter wallet, courtesy of the unwitting pigeons he
was about to pluck.
Scanning
the desktop he located a spot to set his laptop and booted up his data pirate
program. Then setting aside his
penlight, he reached for the office phone to deal the dedicated line number the
local Tele Company provided their technicians.
Upon hearing the tone, he linked up his modem and quickly punched in the
15 digit code found on a spec sheet he had pilfered from a technician’s parked
sedan just hours before.
He sat and
watched as the sequence of ESN-WTF pairs scrolled down the laptop screen until
the process stopped on a highlighted pairing.
He typed in the router path provided followed by the line number he
wanted access to. He hit return and
waited for his scavenger to worm its way through the system and until a new
screen appeared. The top line now read
Emirates Lt. Limo,
He was in.
It had all
worked like a charm, from the slick bit of social engineering that landed him
the access code, to the nifty little program that allowed him to weasel his way
into the network's core. Now all he need
do is launch the capture script and wait for the intercept to execute.
Thirty
seconds later, the word "retrieving" flashed on the upper left corner
of the screen, followed by the data gathered.
"Gotcha!"
he muttered, through a grin that would have lit up the room had he been plugged
into that circuitry as well.
He had
successfully intercepted the customers method of payment to the company’s data
base, only now with his code attached giving him full administrative
rights. Once established, he immediately
began to search for what he had come to find.
He found
189 accounts that paid with Platinum cards or higher - all surefire keepers -
while the remaining accounts were destined to be sold online. However, from that pool of 189 he did one
additional search.
He entered
the five digit code used by the card company universally known to represent the
crème de la crème. He quickly asked for
a blessing from the Lwa*, and the instant after
pressing return, nine names were listed.
On top of that list was Fariz El-Amin, a man who lived in the exclusive Hakim Towers complex
in downtown Dubai; His method of payment, an Ultra Black Business card. The fucker even had the Arabic title "Rais” added to his name.
Needless to
say he was wearing a hefty smile after finding that particular card
number. It looked pretty damn sweet, so
as a precaution against any unexpected foul-ups, he plugged in a thumb drive
and saved a second copy.
Without
doubt, it had been a very successful session.
Perhaps not his best ever, but he had found the big fish he had been
looking for. Nevertheless, it had taken
up more of his time than expected, and now with only six minutes to spare, he
quickly shut down the intercept script and initiated the transfer processes.
All
pre-automated, he launched the code that initiated the long sequential chain
through dozens of proxy nodes that crisscrossed the world. A minute later and the screen flashed
“Done,” telling him he’d successfully
deposited the 30,000.00 dirham limit from each of the 189 Platinum accounts
into his off shore account. He then
reset the register and entered the sizable amount Mr. El-Amin
would be contributing to his bottom line.
Not bad for
a night's work, but on the whole, it was just one of many he had executed
within a five-day span of time. But
that's the way it worked. He did his
research, planned his attack, then like the hit-and-run train robbers of
yesteryear, he'd packed up and headed back to his secret "hole-in-the
wall" - that untouchable place where even if they somehow managed to track
him down, he remained out of their reach.
Ishmael
looked down at his watch and lit up with a smile. Right on time! Quickly he cut the connection, packed up and
with penlight back in hand retraced his steps, exiting the way he had entered
just as the second hand hit the 20 minute mark.
*Note: Lwa or Loa, the spirits, the Mysteries and the Invisibles.
---
Chapter 2
Alex
Beckett
By late
night the following day Ishmael Duprè was somewhere
high above the Atlantic coast aboard a red-eye flight. Lying back in his seat, he was listening to
Rickie Lee's "Easy Money” and it never sounded better. Fariz El-Amin turned out to be a much bigger fish that he could have
possibly imagined. Once more, it all
went down without a hitch. It was just
as he had come to expect. The bigger the
fish, the bigger the fight, but in the end they are just as likely to make the
evening’s meal.
Midway
through the 4 hour flight, he was awakened by the passing of the steward
walking down the aisle. Looking up he
quickly scanned the darkened cabin and saw a dozen businessmen. Other than himself, only one other passenger
was awake. “Typical for a late night flight,” he thought. “Come
Feeling the
need to stretch his legs, he got up to walk the length of the first class cabin. As he approached the passenger who was still
awake, a hand holding a can of pop swung out across the aisle colliding with
his leg drenching his expensive slacks.
He looked
down and saw a rather smart-looking young man wearing a black bowtie and rose
colored dress shirt that matched his complexion. Just the way he liked them.
“Huh! You’ve ruined my slacks, boy!” he said, his
voice low and rough with a slight Creole accent.
Startled,
the boy gazed up at of the imposing black figure standing in the aisle. Looming over him like a stormy black cloud,
the gentleman looked angry and not at all the negotiable type.
“I’m
sorry,” he acknowledged. He was
apologetic but not put off in the least.
“You need
be more careful,” Ishmael followed trying to curb his anger.
“It was an
accident,” the boy lashed out, “I said I was sorry. Perhaps if you hadn’t snuck up . . .”
“Watch your
mouth, moun sòt! In anger Ishmael had inadvertently let slip a
word in his native tongue.
“Moun sòt?
Who, me?" the boy scoffed.
"No, I'm not!" he added, decidedly remaining defiant.
“You little
shit.” Ishmael was seething, but quickly
checked his anger when it dawned on him the boy had not only heard the word
before, but had repeated it as if he were a native speaker.
“Moun sòt means ‘idiot’! As in, fucking idiot! But then you already knew that, didn’t you .
. . boy!” he glared down angrily upon him.
Not that
the boy gave a shit. No matter who the man was, or thought he was, he felt no more
responsible for the mishap than the irate gentleman and was just as determined
to hold his ground - a right he was quite prepared to exercise when he took
notice of the amulet the man wore about his neck.
Carved out
of boar tusk, the amulet had an inlay of green pearl in the image of the
serpent spirit, the Lwa. Given the artistry and the painstaking
craftsmanship that went into creating the icon, the boy could tell it was a
venerable symbol that, like the imposing stormy black cloud looming above him,
needed to be respected.
So instead
of lashing out, the boy simple murmured, “Yes,” then lowered his eyes and
blanched.
It was a
distinctly different posture than the one seen just moments before, but then
that was the effect Ishmael Duprè had on people. He was a very imposing man. Tall and seemingly cut from a slab of black
marble, he looked as hard as he did dark, and had a temperament no less
severe. And if that didn’t set the table
even before he opened his mouth, then any tool in his box-of-tricks was fair
game to make him appear approachable and listened to, much like the subdued
young man he called "boy" - the boy who didn't shout "fuck
off," rather lowered his eyes and blanched. What more did he need to know about the boy?
Hum, better, he thought, after reassessing the
boy. “I haven’t run into many ignorant
little shits riding on the red-eye. Even
fewer who can speak Haitian Creole. What’s your name, boy?”
“Alex
Beckett, sir.” The boy replied. He had
even added the word 'sir', now sounding more the contrite young man than the
snot-nose delinquent.
“Alex is
it?” Ishmael sized him up, only now getting a true look at the young man. Or was it better said to call him a boy? It was hard to tell.
Given his
height and build, he appeared to have crossed that bridge already. He showed relatively good definition, clearly
a notch above that of a boy, and he obviously had some spine. But that face . . . oh, merciful heavens, was it sweet. Eyes blue, his lips ripe and full, with light
brown hair and a smooth, clean complexion that looked more apt to be nicked
playing stickball than with a razor.
He looked a
10+ by anyone’s measure, and though still young, he showed all the promise of
becoming quite the man’s man. But on the
whole he was a hard one to tag. Man-boy,
gay-straight or wherever he fell on the spectrum, there was much more to young
Alex than just a pretty face.
“Well,
Alex, you know what you’ve done, huh?
These are Clement Brothers slacks.
Custom tailored and 500 bucks a pair.
You got 500 greenbacks, boy?”
“No, sir,”
he shook his head.
“Go ask
your daddy.” Ishmael pushed on, a tad more adamant.
“I can’t,
he’s not here,” Alex replied, his voice wavering a bit.
“Then ask
your mama.”
“I
can’t. She’s not here either. I'm traveling back home now."
"You’re
traveling alone then?" Ishmael
asked, and then looked off beyond the boy to see who else might be listening.
The boy
looked back in the direction Ishmael was looking then back around. "No need, sir. I’m old enough," he said, though again,
without a hint of the former would-be tough guy.
"Ah,
so you’re a big boy," Ishmael chuckled.
"No more short pants."
"No,
of course not, sir," the boy held firm, but not so firm as to say it while
his eyes were scouring the floor beneath his feet.
Damn, this kid is like chum to a
shark, he thought,
finding himself taken in by the boy. He
didn’t know whether to romance the boy or eat him for lunch.
Then
inhaling deeply, the intoxicating mix of flowery soap and untouched boy flesh
that filled his nostrils lured him in still further. He found him ripe and enticing, as did his
partner in crime who had just picked up on the scent of the boy as well. And now awakened, that deadly black snake began
to slither down the length of his pant leg in search of his prey.
Both predators
and both dangerous, especially if you’re a great looking kid with a killer
smile. Yum!
“Well then,
I suppose we’ve got to find some way to rectify this matter ourselves, huh,
boy.” he said, his voice guardedly tempered.
While below, he felt the rising bloat of that black beast stretching the
fabric down his thigh, the sight of which drew a fleeting glance from the boy.
“Yes, sir,”
he softly murmured, then just as quickly looked off, his cheeks flushed red,
staring ahead into the faint cabin light as if wishing he could disappear in
the darkness.
“Good boy!”
was what he said, “gotcha!” was what
he thought after catching him looking at the rising bloat beneath his
pants. It wasn’t a lasting look, but to
Ishmael, the fire-red flush of his cheeks spoke as much to his unease as it did
to what had ignited the flame. The kid was gay, and judging from of his near
panicked reaction to having been caught looking, Ishmael had little doubt the
boy was still in hiding. Just sneaking a
peek, as it was, from behind the closet door.
Of course,
to an old pederast like Ishmael, it hardly matter whether the boy was still in
hiding or not. All that mattered to him
was that the boy was definitely showing an interest in exploring the terrain
now.
The only
question left for Ishmael for consider was now best to proceed. Romance him or skip the foreplay and fuck the
shit out of him now. It was a tough
choice, but in the end, one that took him only of 10 seconds to decide.
“Huh!” Ishmael finally decided after having mulled
it over. Romance him, definitely! That's just what a sweet thing like this
needs. Besides . . . he toyed with the thought.
“As ever wolf knows, if you want a clean
snatch, don't frighten the chicken before you enter the coop.”
There was
much that could be said about Ishmael.
He was a thief, a hustler, an unscrupulous predator without an empathic
bone in his body, but uncouth he was not.
There where rules to the games he played, the things that separated him
from the wild. Like civility, manners
and the romance in the dance between predator and prey; a dance that always
made his conquest all the sweeter.
Whether fleecing a dumb fuck like Fariz El-Amin or enjoying Alex Beckett's sweet young ass, it was the
intimate dance with his pray that got him off, and that was what Alex was about
to get in spades!
"Well,
like I said. I need fair reparation for
my ruined slacks, and since we can't negotiate here, I suppose you'd better
come with me so we can figure this out.” Ishmael urged while pointing the way
toward his seat.
Quietly
Alex stood up and followed him through the darkened cabin to row 2, where he
promptly sat his sweet young ass down in the seat beside the window. Ishmael sat beside him then looked at the
boy. The dim cabin light framed his face
making him appear even more the white porcelain doll.
“Sorry,
boy, if we’re to negotiate I need look you in the eye, man to man so to speak,
and I’m afraid the lighting is a bit too dim for that. So I think we’ll need to nose up a bit. That way we can keep it personal and not disturb
the sleeping gents back there.” He
nodded toward the rear of the cabin.
Alex looked
on for a long moment, then without asking, reached up to turn on the overhead
dome light, only to have his arm slapped away before reaching the button. It wasn’t a gentle slap neither, but a
resounding, backhanded blow that sent Alex reeling back down in his seat
looking stunned, his eyes widened, his mouth caught gasping as he rubbed his
forearm.
“Don’t cry
boy!” Ishmael abruptly sounded off. “You
bone up like a man you get slapped like a man.
There are folks trying to sleep and pay good money not to be bothered by
a snot nose yahoo like you. You hear me
. . . boy!” he scowled, with eyes like daggers, while inside, he reveled in the
sight of the agonized boy struggling to hold back the tears. The slap, the tears, the capitulation to
power - all part of the romance in the dance with his pray.
“Yes, I
heard you,” Alex managed with a nod after catching his breath.
”Good! Then let’s try this again. Since you’ve no interest in buddying up, why don’t you just come
sit on my lap,” he said as he pat his proffered knee, taking yet another step
in the furtive dance . . .
Alex looked
taken aback. But even a boldly intrusive
he found the offered knee, he didn’t pull away. Nor tell him to “fuck-off” and then hit the
road running. Yes, he remained cautious,
but acquitted himself as though it was nothing he hadn’t heard before, knew
what to expect, and wasn’t threatened by an imposing black Haitian demanding he
subjugate himself to his control.
“Look
boy. I was trying to go easy on you, but
$500 bucks is $500 bucks, and if you have no interested in discussing it, fine,
then I can put you over my knee and take my 500 out on
your ass. You understand, boy?” this
time asking.
“Yes sir,”
he responded with eyes lowered.
“Good, so
what will it be? Either man-up and sit
on my lap or lay across it like a boy,” he bluntly stated his terms.
Alex found
himself without a voice to respond. He
felt as though he was holding on to a live wire, one that held him in its
abiding grasp, and there was
nothing to be done about it but hope he survived the ride. Then too, there was that amulet. Even in the dim cabin light that
extraordinary piece had an unexplainable aura about it that drew just as
heavily upon him as did that live wire.
All of which gave him reason for thought, and only after considering all
the forces in play did he stand up and come about to front his knees without
uttering a word.
“Yes, yes,
that’s right, boy. Pull up your big boy
pants and saddle up,” Ishmael followed, patting his lap just south of that
long, thick bulge running its course down his pant leg, and clearly in his
view!
Nevertheless,
Alex did just that, promptly, showing not a spark of fear as he straddled
Ishmael's knees. In fact, he did it with
an unexpected ease, obediently, almost as if expected. The intimacy between man and boy just part of
the natural order of things, and just considering the implications of that had
the wolf of Port-au-Prince licking his chops.
“Anpil Pi bon" (Much Better)!
Now we can come to an equitable resolve to this matter, huh, boy?"
Ishmael again spoke in his native tongue, only this time with a purpose.
Yes, sir,”
Alex replied, clearly demonstrating his full grasp of the language.
"So
tell me, boy. Where did you learn to
speak Creole?” Alex really didn’t want to tell him more than he needed to
know. Then again, he knew Ishmael would
never let him be until he did. He was an
imposing man, an inescapable force that drew upon him in much the same way as
did that amulet - and yes, that amazing bulge beneath his pants looming just a
hair's breadth away from his own.
“I live in
“Huh! What a coincidence,” Ishmael grunted. “I’m booked on the same fight.”
“You’re
going there too?” Alex expressed his
concern.
“Yes, of
course, I’m Haitian. I live in Pò-au-prens (
That’s
where I live too,” he managed to cough up, and then with eyes fixed on that
amulet, he pointed and asked the question that was on his mind. “Does that mean you’re a . . . a . . . Houngan?" (a priest)
“Who,
me? No, no!
Just a Hunsi, a believer, not unlike you I
suspect," Ishmael replied, feeling confident there was something more
behind that look in his eyes other than mere fascination. That there was something about the 'mystery'
and the power of the 'Invisibles' that held sway over him as well. "Although, it was given to me by a Mambo
asogwe who speaks to the Gate Keeper, papa Legba,” he quickly followed. “You’ve seen one before, huh, kid?”
“Yeah, sure
I have, but not one like that. I mean,
it's . . . it's . . . it's so . . . oh I don’t know,” he paused, mulling it
over, “different, I guess. It kind of
makes my head spin,” he grinned an unsettled grin that he quickly shirked off
with a shrug, not knowing how else to describe the jumbled mass of feelings
racing around in his head.
“Well,
yes. It is meant to make you think. How long have lived in
“Four
years,” he said, suddenly more at ease.
“My mother was a stewardess until the company she worked for stopped
flying there. Now she just books flights
for a Haitian company which is okay, I guess, because she’s home a lot
more. We live on Rue Delmas
43, Saint-Georges, not far from the
“Ah, Rue Delmas 43, good, good, I know it well. The civilized rubble, where the savages shit
in toilets,” Ishmael chuckled, and then thinking it time up the ante, he took
yet another step in the dance between himself and his prey. Reaching out, he ran his open palm across the
boy’s cheek.
“Soft, smooth
and stubble free, just as advertised,” he though, while savoring the feel. And more surprising yet, Alex was gently
leaning into his palm, not pushing away.
Affectionately, like a puss rubbing up against his leg, absent only the
purr.
It marked quite
a change in the would-be tough guy. From
putting on a front to his abandonment of the barricades, his response to the
touch of his hand did nothing if not give him all the more reason to push still
further So, while still palming his
cheek, he traced the boy’s lips with his thumb without a sign of complaint.
He felt
along and around them until, almost reflexively, or by habit, his lips pursed
as if to invite the tip of his thumb in.
Whether intended or not, it was a gotcha moment for Ishmael to savor,
and the fact that Alex had given it up so easily was proof positive he was on
the right track. So .
. .
"Damn,
boy," he continued on with his rant.
"How a tasty white snack like you has managed to survive the swarm
of sharks lurking in that Delmas swamp you live in is
beyond me. Unless, of course, you got
yourself a hook-up. Huh, boy, is that
what you got? A black friend, someone to
fend off all them sharks?"
Again, Alex
didn’t answer, but to Ishmael his beckoning lips spoke volumes. “A black friend from school, perhaps?” he
followed while pressing the tip of his thumb in even so slightly.
“Or perhaps
a boy on the street,” he carried on, “A boy who stopped you on your way home
from school asking for 20 centimes to buy a bottle of Couronne
(soda).” It was just a shot in the
dark. A story concocted in the heat of
the moment to see how the boy would respond.
So no one was more surprised than Ishmael when he saw Alex wince and
shut his eyes as if to hide a secret.
"Ahhh, yes!" Ishmael sighed, "A boy on the street. A street rat, a thug, a piece of shit with a
cock!" he scowled, upping his tempo while his thumb gently combed along
the length of his fleshy pink tongue until striking a nerve, his lips closed up
like a Venus Flytrap around the partially embedded digit pressed half-in . . .
then slightly out, then pushed back in still further with a smooth even glide,
while the unrelenting verbal assault went on unabated.
"But
that's the way it works, right?
"You, the vulnerable white namby-pamby, and him, the streetwise
lout," he continued his harangue as his thumb pressed in to the knuckle,
causing Alex hack and again, open his eyes.
“I’m sure he gave you a pat on the back, and told you he liked you. Black boys love white boys, and not just for
their money. Huh, boy?” he winked."
“He might
have even said you were pretty, which would have been true. You’re no doubt a knocked-off for your
mother,” he appraised. “Your lips, eyes,
hollowed cheeks, I’m sure you’re daddy told you that, huh, boy?”
On that,
Alex let loose of his finger and looked away, leaving Ishmael to wonder where
he'd gone wrong. Had he been too abrupt,
pressed too hard or . . .?" And
then it dawned on him. Daddy! He had no daddy. "Is that right, boy? You got no daddy?" he asked, then smiled
when Alex affirmed with a nod.
“Cheer up,
boy,” Ishmael quickly came to his aid.
"All that bonding with daddy shit is way overrated. Unless, of course, you like your
self-righteous sanctimony served up with a shit-load of hypocrisy."
Alex looked
at him curiously for as long as it took for his words to sink in, and when
finally he had managed to unravel that amazingly complex puzzle of words did he
light up with a smile of his own.
Responding as he did without a sliver of fear in his eyes, as
comfortable with him as he was sitting on a strangers lap in that darkened
cabin long after
All of
which was good news for the wolf of
“There boy,
snuggle up and hold tight. I’m going to
teach you how a man and his boy are supposed to communicate,” he spoke quietly
and in a carefully modulated tone, wanting foremost to sooth the boy's unease
as he began to run his hand down the length of his back. While below, that slithering, drooling, black
Haitian snake butted up against the boy’s thigh, looking for a way to get
between the crack in his ass. That plump lily-white ass Ishmael could see
bulging half out his belt-less pants.
“Mmm!”
Ishmael breathed in, “Sweet!” he quietly murmured as the boy nuzzled close in,
his lips fronting his ear, seemingly quite eager to communicate the way a “man
and his boy are supposed to.”
Oh yeah, Ishmael waxed euphoric, this kid is a pederast wet-dream. He’s got it all. Killer looks, a sweet disposition and a
dimpled ass that could win him a seat on a Carnival float, his bare ass sitting
upon the Zulu King’s lap. Not only that,
but he understood Haitian Creole too.
Ishmael
felt as though the kid had been on a collision course his entire life destine to run into him.
“Good
boy," he carried on, playing the boy who he now knew was as queer as a
fruit flavored M&M, strumming his chords with soppy sweet affections while
his eyes remained fixed on that lovely hairless crack running down the length
of that lily-white ass.
Then
finding it too irresistible to resist any longer, he slipped his hand down his
slackened pants, pushing them down yet further to grab himself of a handful. He cradled, then squeezed that plumb fleshy
melon while softly, quietly, he encouraged the boy, “Go on boy, go on! Tell me more about that black
“Ooh . . .”
the boy sighted, as if lost in a swoon, feeling Ishmael's hand wringing out his
cheeks like a round billowy sponge.
Ishmael’s aggressive move on his ass had definitely struck a chord,
disrupting the boy’s thoughts and causing him to stir, anxiously.
“You like
that boy, huh?” he toyed with the boy, playing up his response, and then
encouraged him to, “Go on, boy. Pay my
finger no mind.”
“B-b-but
sir . . .” Alex stammered.
“Go on,
boy. Go on. What was his name?” He continued to push.
“Oh! I ah, I ah, Alex struggled to find his voice
for a long as he could hold it in, and then, from out of nowhere, he suddenly
burst out in a high-pitched squeal . . . “Toussaint!”
“His name
is Toussaint,” he quickly followed, then for some unexplainable reason he
straightened back up and shrugged. It
was the kind of thing you might see when a cop asked a criminal why he did it,
and the robber would say, “Don’t know,” and then with a shrug, “Shit just
happens.”
Of course
the arresting officer would know it was just a cop-out, and Ishmael saw Alex’s
response much in the same light. He knew
what he was doing then, just like he knew what he was doing now. Shit like that doesn’t just happen!
“Did he
fuck you?” Ishmael suddenly felt embolden to ask, looking him dead in the
eye. “Huh, boy?” he followed, to which
young Alex simply shook his head, no.
“Did you
suck his cock behind the pile of trash in the alley?” he continued to prod, and
this time Alex affirmed with a nod.
“Good,
good!” he said, again wrapping an arm around the boy to draw him back in.
“You went
out and found yourself a straight talking daddy. Someone to tell you what to do, and like a
good boy you did what was expected of you,” he spoke softly, but firmly, as he
ran his hand down his back and again, stuffed his hand down his pants to clutch
his ass.
He began to
squeeze them, knead them, and then feeling emboldened, he wormed a finger down
the crack of this ass, finding his target.
Applying pressure, he squeezed a fingertip inside the boy’s ass. Nothing overly indulgent, but just enough to
know his Haitian brothers were going to be lining up once they got a whiff of
his sweet ass.
Alex moaned
and squirmed, anxiously, while Ishmael . . . Well, Ishmael just pushed in a bit
more, slowly, steadily, until feeling no resistance, shoving his long black
finger up that lily-white ass an inch . . . two . . . three inches up until, “Ahhh! Owie, owie,” the boy squealed
when he thrust up to the knuckle.
“That-a-boy,”
Ishmael rubbed his daylong stubble against the boys flushed cheek. His finger finding and then gently stoking
that sweet spot, that special spot beneath the tip of his finger that made the
boy struggle just to catch his breath.
Then
changing his tact, he began to stroke up and down. Slowly at first, then quicker, harder, until
he stopped and pulled his finger out altogether, holding it up to his
nose. Inhaling the musky scent caused
his black snake to kick and leak a taste of man-nut, and him to purr.
But with the
meter that measured his patience bobbing on empty, he had no choice but to give
up on the toying and bring that sordid dance between predator and prey to an
end. The gloves simply had to come off. So he untied them.
He took
hold of the Alex's hand and pulled it down to his lap atop his cock.
“Feel that
boy? Huh?” he smirked, looking every bit
the man who found his boy. A beautiful
kid, but more importantly, he was a boy who preferred his gentlemen friend’s
black, extra sauce, hold the lettuce and tomato, please! Once more, it was built into his guidance
system, like an autopilot he followed simply as a matter of course, and now,
thanks to Toussaint, owned his soul.
“Yesssss,” Alex murmured though panting breath, now running
his fingers alone the length of that long bulge showing not a hint of
hesitation, and with well practiced hands.
“Oh yes, I
see Toussaint taught you well, and now it’s my turn, boy!” He followed, his voice biting, his eyes
cutting through him like a blade.
Pushing the
boy off his lap, he stood up and stepped out into the aisle, extending out his
hand for the boy to take. “Come on,
boy. Come with me.”
“I-I-I
can’t . . . ,” young Alex stammered, his eyes watery, on the verge of tears.
“Sure you
can, boy.” Ishmael said, now feeling
embolden to take it up a notch. “Stop
playing the pouty little boy. You own me $500 greenbacks for these custom
tailored slacks and you’re going to pay the bill. Now pull up your big boy pants and come with
me, or I will tell your mama what you don’t want her to hear when she meets you
at the airport.”
Ouch! That one upped his anxiety! To the point of again stoking his fear of his
being found out, his mother learning he like boys. That he had engaged in some shameful acts he
didn't want known, and need keep from being known regardless the cost. So instead of screaming out, "Fuck
you," Alex stood up and followed alone to where the restrooms in the first
class section were located.
"Inside,
boy," Ishmael said, offering no hint of concession.
He entered
and Ishmael squeezed in, shutting the door behind. It was a tight fit with the boy boxed in, and
then hemmed in still tighter when Ishmael leaned back and sat on the toilet.
"There
now, see what you've done boy?" He
asked, pointing to the stain. Only it
wasn’t the soda stain, but a new stain, the pre-cum that lie alongside the
bulge topping his thigh. The size, the
shape, the pulse of the throbbing beast beneath his trousers robbed the boy of
his breath.
“But . . .
but, sir! I didn't do that . . ."
"I
don't want to hear it, boy. You can't
deny it. You did it with your own hands,
and now you're obliged to pay the bill.”
"Pay . . .?
You mean . . .?" he murmured, while his eyes remained glued to that
bulge beneath his slacks.
"Absolutely,
there’s no way around it. It's a hands
n' knees job. Understand, boy?" He
asked, but not for approval. He didn’t
need it. Not from a fag who could no
more escape the pull of his cock than he could a black hole. It was simply his to serve it and obey him,
just as you did with Toussaint’s cock, and just like he was going to do now.
“Get on
your knees, boy!” He snapped impatiently, and obediently, Alex did just
that. Not only because he feared his
mother learning the truth about him, but more importantly he did it for
himself, simply because it was within him to do! What he needed to do to make him whole – full
stop!
“Hurry on,
boy,” he urged. “My cock grows
impatient,” he added, while Alex hurriedly squeezed into that tight space
between Ishmael’s out stretched legs until his lips hovered above that stain
drenched bulge, lying in that ever increasing viscous pre-cum pool.
From the
strong, heady smell to its sheer expanse he found it spellbinding, and for a
long moment, it was as if nothing else existed in this world. The spell broken only when he felt Ishmael
lean down to pick something up off the floor.
Looking up, he saw Ishmael smiling and waving about his wallet. While nestling in between his legs it had
somehow managed to slip out of his back pocket.
“Look what
I found, baby boy,” he quickly opened it up.
"Ah,
here we go,” he said, smirking as he opened it up and then pulled out an ID
card. “It says here, Alex Beckett of no#
28 Rue Delmas 45, Cite Saint-Georges, Pò-au-Prens, born
“01!"
he repeated, mumbling to himself. “That
makes you . . . hum, Well, let’s just say that makes you full of promise. Huh, boy?” he nudged Alex then lit up with a
smile. A smile that grew even brighter
when he found a picture of his mother, Rosemary Beckett, stashed behind the ID
card.
An
ex-stewardess, she was man-trap in heels and still quite young. No more
than 35-36 tops, he thought, and just as expected, Alex was made in her
image. His eyes, lips, nose, the very
contour of his face would have made him a perfect match on a photo lineup.
Although
what he found most interesting of all were the marking he saw peeking out just
above the plunging neckline of the halter top she wore. A tattoo!
A centipede and serpentine stamp that adorned the top of a bulging tit
he had not only seen before, but knew to be that of the Serpent Spirit, Damballah. Once
more, it was the kind of symbol only worn by those who wished to converse with
the Lwa.
Damn! he though. Just like her son, there seemed to be much more to Rosemary than just a pretty face. And the multitude of possibilities that
thought conjured up set the wheels spinning in his head.
Suddenly
that flock of sitting ducks he'd plucked from that Dubai Limo Service pool the
previous night looked small potatoes.
But first he had work to do.
“Well boy,
what do you say we clean up this mess,” he bid, telling not asking.
Alex
nodded, and then reached for the toilet paper only to have his hand slapped
away yet again. "Not with that,
boy. Uh-uh. I need reparations, not a bigger mess. First I want a 200 dollar blow job and then
in payment for the rest, I’ll going to make you my bitch.”
"B-b-but,
sir, please, people will . . . “, he decried, looking back toward the bathroom
door.
"Think
I give a fuck, boy?” Ishmael teed off; quite sure the boy was just playing him.
“Now listen
to me boy before I slap you silly. Don’t
play the little boy with me when I know who you are. You’re a fag.
You had a taste of Toussaint’s man-nut, and now you’re going to taste
mine. Then, of course, I’m going to fuck
you. That’s what I want in reparations,
and it is simply yours to serve my cock and obey me.”
“Got me,
boy?” he snarled, gritting his teeth as if trying to suppress an urgent
need. Then as if summoned by the
urgency, he quickly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and lifted
himself up off the seat to lower his trousers down to his ankles.
However,
when he straightened back up so did his cock, slapping the boy across the
face. Like a chub of Meaty-Boy Salami,
the thing swung across like a bludgeon, and with a wet sounding thud struck the
boy on the face.
"Oh
hell! Sorry about that boy. When ol' black
snake gets hungry he's got a mind of his own."
The slap sent
Alex reeling, but not from the shock of the blow. Rather, it was from his first look at that
uncut black beast in the raw. Thick,
long and heavy as a 2lb porterhouse, it rose up like a column of gnarly black
marble. Topped with an equally fearsome
plum-sized head, it reeked a strong heady odor and
beneath hung a huge set of low hanging balls ringed by a billowing thicket of
coarse kinky hair.
“Yes boy,
it's a man sized job," Ishmael chuckled, after grabbing hold of his cock
and waving it to and fro at the end of his nose, its gaping maw gulping
hungrily. "So, what do you say boy,
ready to suck my cock? Like you did for
Toussaint, and no doubt his buddy’s, huh, boy?” he asked, his brows arched as
if trying to assess how close he’d come to the truth.
Alex
stiffened up, though not fully understanding why. Ishmael, Toussaint, Bernardo, Puma, what they
wanted was all the same. All of it
relegated to dark corners between men and boys, between him and Toussaint, his
friends. Wanted by them, but needed by
him.
So how was
this any different? Both Toussaint and
Ishmael were Haitian and both treated him like gum stuck to their shoe; whether
in a bathroom aboard a plane, or standing amidst the rubble in a tin shack not
far from his home. The squalid place where
Puma and Bernardo would take him to steal his money, then laughing and calling
him names, they would knock him about while Toussaint stood back looking on.
Then after
the rough up, Toussaint would throw a conciliatory arm around his shoulder and
walk him over to a nearby wooden crate.
Where he’d sit and have Alex kneel so he could wipe away his tears,
bring order to his disheveled hair and fastidiously dust off the dirt from the
falls. The soothing, the preening and
the coddling, and then while wearing all the concern of one who cared, he'd
slap him. Hard! And then again after wiping away his tears,
he'd sooth, preen and coddle him until, like a bolt of lightening from out of
nowhere, whack! He’d slap him still
harder.
And so it
would go, always the same. The preening,
the coddling, the mocked concern followed up by a wicked slap, until he’d
unbuckle his pants and force his "ma'sisi"
(fag-boy's) head down atop his bloated cock.
"Manje mwen tenten,
Ma'sisi!“ (Eat my Junk,
fag-boy!), he'd say, and then when done, he'd press a thumb to the side of his
nose to blow out what clotted his nostrils into Alex's cum impregnated
mouth. “Now, ma'sisi! You
eat Puma's n' Bernardo's Junk too!"
Again and
again, round-robin, there was nothing loving or caring about any of it. They were hard and tough, more men than boys,
who’s only kindness was not to impair the cocksucking
white boy in effort to keep the dope money coming. Otherwise they could give a shit. He’d always come back for the abuse, that
much they knew. Once more, he’d come
with money in his wallet. And so, “Hey
Bernardo," Toussaint would call out.
"You got to piss bad as me?”
Despicable
characters? You bet!
From Toussaint's inane theatrics followed by a vicious slap, to Ishmael's
lording over him for his attention like a thug, it was that cold-hearted side
of them that left him trembling in fear.
But making it all the worse was the fact that both his fear of them and
his longing for them had become so entwined in his head they seemed to him one
and the same.
The yin and
the yang - The fear and his longings - The pleasure and the pain: The two contrary, yet interconnected forces
that pulled upon him with equal gravity.
Whether they kicked his ass or popped a load up his ass, it all occupied
the same place in his head. A place that
both stoked his fear, and by equal measure, it was also a place he wanted to be
- needed to be - to make him feel whole.
Full stop!
So slowly,
surely, Alex leaned in and then tentatively swiped his tongue over the drooling
maw that topped Ishmael's cock. And as
he did, that black Haitian cock kicked up and spat a blob of pre-cum that ran
up his nose.
Alex reared
back and blew to clear his nostrils, and in the process, a blob of mucus
dripped back down into his mouth causing him to pucker up and grimace.
“Sorry,
boy,” Ishmael chuckled. “Shit
happens. But don’t worry. Snot, man-nut, and a bit of grime here and
there, it all comes with the territory.
It's an acquired taste, a man's taste, like fine tobacco. At first you cough, gag and sputter, but
there soon comes a time when you can't live without it."
"So
get to it, boy,” he barked, and Alex did, stretching his jaw impossibly wide to
swallow up that great purplish plum, his lips stretched tight over the crown.
"Ti
gason bon! (good boy)," Ishmael softly droned while
squeezing the length of his cock, which in turn increased the flow down the
boy's gullet. Alex's eyes watered and
his throat bobbed with the swallow, stopping only for a moment to pluck a long
strand of kinky black hair pasted to his lips.
Ishmael was
in ecstasy, savoring the joys of his success.
It couldn’t have gone any better.
Once more, that might soon include snaring the boy's mother. That tattooed white bitch who thought it hip
to flaunt the spirit of Lwa. Embracing the black magic as though it was
just a fashion statement you wore on your tit.
And just the thought of that brought on a contemptuous sneer to his
lips. What little she knew, he thought . . . and all she is yet to learn!
Of course,
it was still just supposition, one he had yet to explore, but as things stood
he felt pretty damn confident. In fact,
the way he had if figured the only thing needed to tie up the remaining loose
ends was a picture.
A Picture! Of course! He thought to
himself, remembering the cell phone he had tucked away inside the pocket of his
trousers. All he need do is discreetly
reach down and then without warning, snap the shutter.
"Hey,
boy, say cheeeese!"
Alex saw
the phone and realizing what had just happened rose up, looking a bit
disoriented. His nose to his chin was
covered with a pasty wet sheen, and hanging from his lower lip hung a long
unbroken strand still tied to the tip of Ishmael’s cock.
"Vhy did vu do vhat (Why did you
do that)?" he managed to spit out.
"Why?"
Ishmael followed up. "Well, let's
call it a gift for your nasty mama of yours, sweet boy. Trust me; the tart is going to love it."
"No,
no, please, don't send the picture.
Please, she’ll find out. She'll
know and hate me!"
"Find
out? Find out what, boy, your little
secret, huh?" Ishmael chuckled.
“It’s too late for that, boy.
You’ve got faggot written all over you.”
“But
enough! It’s time we get down to
business. Business I know you’re going
to love, thanks to Toussaint,” he chuckle.
“I’ve got to hand it to that bad ass 'n-word'. He knew how to spot‘m.”
“So, whatcha say, boy?
You ready to honor the Lwa and love, honor and
obey your man, huh?”
At the
mention of the Lwa, Alex again looked at the
amulet. Then again at the phone – that
picture – his secret shame. Both reason
enough for him to lower his eyes and then, trembling with excitement and fear
all balled up as one, he nodded his head, “yes.”
"Good
boy. Now let's get you naked.”
"N-n-naked?"
he stammered, his teeth near clattering.
“In here?”
"Yes,
yes, of course. What good is a cunt if kept hided in your pants? And since you're not wearing a skirt . . .”,
he said without restraint, clearly wanting Alex to know exactly what it meant
to be called his "boy."
Ishmael
leaned back on the toilet seat and nodded encouragingly as Alex stood up and
began to unbuckle his pants, thinking about other boys he'd broken, and where
Alex stood on the continuum. And, what
better way to find out than to ask.
"Tell
me, boy. How was it?" he asked,
while Alex was undoing his pants.
“Sir?"
he asked, the mix of fear and excitement causing his chattering teeth to pound
out a rhythm.
"Don't
play coy, boy. Sucking my cock, that's
what! Where you got what you've got
between your cheek and gums still trying to impregnate your teeth."
Alex wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand, and then looked down upon the moist trail
of dribble that stained his bow tie and down the front of his shirt. He ran his fingers across the stains as if he
wished he could undo them, but only now realizing what was done, was done. For the good or the bad, he would forever
more wear that stain.
"No
need, boy. I know it takes awhile, but
trust me; you're going to love it.
You’re a natural kid; a cocksucker, a fuck-face faggot. You just wait. Soon you'll be shaking my snake as good as
any bitch. With your cunt
too, huh, boy," he winked and a grin.
Alex
straightened back up. His pants, shirt, undies now gone, Ishmael got his first look at his new
boy. He was perfect! Fallow chest, dime-sized nips, he was soft,
splintery, an eggshell with a soft rosy hue, and only the one small tuft to
mark where in the scope of things he stood.
"Damn,
boy. You are fine!” he murmured, as he
combed his fingers along his thigh, so fresh, so soft, while the air emanating
from his loins still smelt milk-fed.
Ishmael had
indeed found his new boy. He was soft
and pretty and liked his black. But more
importantly, he was subservient to black rule.
Something he accepted simply as a matter of course, and now owned his
soul. And if he didn’t already know that
by now, sure as shit happens, his new boy was about to find it out.
Ishmael
reached down and pulled a bottle from dress suit pocket, and then stood up to
take possession of his new boy. He held
the bottle under young Alex’s nose for as long as it took for him to inhale a
lung full, sending the boy into orbit.
With his heading spinning and eyes glassed over, Ishmael cradling his
face in the palms of his hands and lowered his lips to kiss him.
The
differences between them were enormous, as different as day is to night. Yet when Ishmael’s tongue pierced the boy's
lips and savored his taste like a fine wine, suddenly the big and the small,
the black and the white meld together as sweetly as an ice cream sandwich.
Alex sighed
and Ishmael, like the wolf, squeezed young Alex’s jaw open and hawked up a
quantity of phlegm and spit in his mouth.
“Ah, yes, boy, that’s what boys do, as a rule to relieve a black man of
his junk. Cum, piss, no matter, you’re
my boy now. Not Toussaint’s, but mine to
rut, to love or treat you like gum on my shoe. You got that boy?”
“Yessss, sir,” he managed through the fog of nitrites that
laden his brain.
“Good,
boy! Now hold tight, boy, because I’m about to
fuck you like a Rue Santara whore,” he menaced, and
then rose back up and again peered down to size up his captured prey he now
owned.
"Turn
around boy and bend over!" There
was no tint of concession in his voice now.
In Ishmael’s eyes, Alex was no longer just a boy with promise who'd one
day have the world calling at his door.
No, not any longer! He was simply
a boy for him to use.
Something
that was foremost on his mind when he reached down between Alex's thighs and
latched on to his balls. Then clenching
his fist, he yanked them down and back causing the boy to moan and the well of
his back to recede yet further below the rise of his ass.
"Here
kitty, kitty!" he beckoned to that perfectly posed pink puckered asshole
with a crook of a finger, his eyes fixed on that defenseless little gateway to
pure heaven.
"Up,
up, up, push back, that-a-boy. Wide
open! Just the way I like them." he
contemptuously wheedled, like a wolf playing with his prey, positioning the boy
just as he wanted him.
"Just
the way a man wants to see his cunt, boy, all eager
and ready, reaching out to smooch a man's cock, begging him to fuck your
ass! Your cunt!"
Your sweet boy pussy! Ishmael
cajoled and ranted while the boy moaned, his head still buzzing through space
as Ishmael traced circles around the puckered rim with a finger.
"Ummm, sweet! The way she puckers up to kiss my finger and
the sound of her purr. My, my, she's
such needy little bitch," he chuckled while pressing his finger up his ass
to the knuckle, causing Alex to whimper and then bellow mournfully when Ishmael
finally managed to squeeze in a second, then a third finger alongside. Three balled-up fat fingers pumping, digging,
twisting and stretching out that lovely hole to made way for what was coming.
He was
taking no prisoners now. He quickly
grabbed hold of his cock letting it slap down atop the boy's up thrust
ass. Jutting out over the small of his
back, a steady stream of thick viscous drool cascaded down upon his hollowed
back.
"One
deep thrust, boy. Just one and you're
going to be seeing stars and cumin’.
With no hands! No more! Just the clit in your ass! Oh yes," he moaned, "like a sweet
little bitch in heat."
If Ishmael
were anymore amped he would be sailing the astral
plane. But to insure the edge he wanted,
he again pulled out that bottle of Amyl and inhaled, doing the same to the boy,
causing him to gasp and his head to waver as if lost in the spin.
"Can
you hear her, boy?" He followed, “Can you hear her hungry, needy, purr?”
he spoke with breath labored, while his hips pumped rhythmically, the
underbelly of his cock gliding along the crack of the boy's ass.
"Well
boy, can you?" He asked again, his
breathing deeper, his sigh more guttural, and what of Alex?
Well, Alex
was still caught in a struggle with himself.
Between the Yin and the Yang, those two contrary forces that occupied
the same place in his head - The place he both feared but wanted to be - needed
to be - to make him feel whole. Full
stop!
“Talk to me
boy,” he continued to rant. “Is she
hungry? Is she needy? Does she want to be fed?"
"I-I-I,”
Alex struggled to find the words, his voice low and tremulous between panting
breath, sounding as if on the verge of tears.
“Damn it,
boy, speak up! DOSE SHE WANT TO BE
FED?” He angrily vented his frustration,
punctuating his words with a swift, hard, painful slap on his ass.
Y-y-y-y-yes!" Alex cried out, finally giving
voice to his fear, and by equal measure, the yearning he felt welling up
within. . . . The Yin!
"Feed
you what?” Ishmael managed on the inhale. "BOY," on the exhale.
"I-I-I
don't . . . , I don't . . .”
"Sure
you know, boy. She needs me to feed her
my cock, to fuck her like the fucking boy cunt you
are. Isn't that right, BOY?"
"I
don't, I don't . . . I mean, oooh, oooh, yessssssssss, yesyesyesyes!" He wailed above his tears. . . . And the Yang!
Ishmael
needed to hear no more. A moment more
and he had his black Haitian cock lined up and ready to carve out a tunnel down
to his tonsils. Centering the tip in the
unyielding ring, he started to lean-in, savoring the feeling of that portal
slowly begin to give way. Centimeter by
centimeter until reaching the apex of the crown he could wait no more. He grabbed hold of the boy’s hips for
leverage he set himself to drive in to the hilt.
He breathed
in, and then on the exhale . . .
Knock,
knock, he heard a knock upon the cabin door.
"Pardon,
but will you be much longer? There are
others who require the use of the facilities as well."
"Bloody
Hell!"
Ishmael uttered in a low, guttural growl, "Bloody! Fucking!
Hell!”
---
Chapter 3
Baptiste du Pre
International boys Academy
Ishmael was
looking out the window as the twin turbo prop began its descent. To the right, he saw the largely depleted
landscape of sun baked clay peppered with a scattering of rust and green
reaching out far into the horizon.
Below, the city of
Beside him
sat Alex enjoying his morning juice and buttered croissant. He looks rather relaxed and comfortable as
well as thoroughly prepared for Ishmael’s upcoming meeting with his mother.
Of course,
after first leaning of Ishmael’s intend to speak with her Alex looked fit to be
martyred. His mind full of all the
horrors associated with her learning he was gay. But his apprehension soon faded once Ishmael
assured him he wished only to speak with her about an opportunity available to
him at a school he had extensive ties to.
As Ishmael
pointed out, the change would not only afford him the opportunity to study
under the finest professors and among the most gifted students in all of Haiti,
but would also abate the bullying he endured at his current school. In all, it sounded an offer to good to pass
up, and Alex agreed. In fact, the idea
so excited him that he was looking forward to his winning over his mother to
his way of thinking.
But as
things go with Ishmael, the master of deception was at a high point in his game
when it came to telling the whole truth about the school, or the reason why
whites were being sought to integrate into an otherwise all-black school that
followed the teaching of its founder, Baptiste du Pre.
Had either
he or his mother known what those teaching were about, perhaps things might
have turned out differently. After all,
Baptiste du Pre’s ideological bent with regard to social class and the
division of labor tended to be a bit to the right of extreme. One in which whites were essentially
relegation to subsistence level employment opportunities for which they were
best qualified, while advancing blacks to the ruling class for which their
superior intellect and strength made them eminently qualified.
Pretty much
a deal stopper one would think, or at the very lease, give her second
thoughts. Then again, perhaps not!
Either way,
it was highly motivated young Alex Beckett who soon after arrival embraced his
mother at the gate. In fact, he was so
full of excitement that his mother simply couldn’t wait to sit down with
Ishmael to hear his carefully crafted offer no mother could possibly say no to.
The meeting
with his mother at her Rue Delmas 45, Saint-Georges,
flat had added a day to his already tight schedule. Though in sum, it proved to be time well
spent. Not only had he found Alex's
mother receptive to him, but after hearing her son’s enthusiasm, she was
surprisingly quick to sign her son over to the school. Especially when first hearing of the
“bullying” he apparently had been subject to, something she said she knew nothing
about.
She was
told nothing of Toussaint and his pals, of course, but after hearing of all the
possible perils facing a “special” boy like Alex in public school she was quite
anxious to hear more. Especially after
gulping down her second glass of cheap Haitian Clairin
(aka kleren) she seemed
wedded to.
“He is
special,” she admittedly confirmed after inhaling her third shot of that
volatile rotgut shit. Even going so far
as privately conveying to Ishmael what a close friend of hers had told her
about something he’d seen. About the
almost “flirtatious” manner he conducted himself around the street boys that
hung out close to his place of work. “Selvandieu,” she had called him, a local shop owner and a
gentleman friend whose Rasta colored scarf conspicuously hung upon the clothes
tree standing beside the front door.
“Wi (yes), madam, I believe I’ve
noticed it myself. I boyish fascination
perhaps,” Ishmael was happy to volunteer.
The
implications were quite clear, but it didn’t upset her as you might think. If anything, she seemed resigned to what was
said, and indicated as much when she replied with her words slightly slurred,
“That’s just his w-way. Some boys fight
and some . . .” she paused, mid-sentence, “Well, whatever you think b-best, Mr.
Duprè .”
she deferred to his best judgment.
“Wi, madam, the big fish will always attack the little fish
that swims the bowl in the opposite direction.”
He then
went on to tell how the school only sought to bring out the full potential of
every student, and did so in a secure, cloistered environment. Delivering his sales pitch in the well
practiced way you’d expect of a con like Ishmael, and when done, she was all
too ready to sign the papers.
“When vill he st-start?” she slurred,
with her fourth glass of the rotgut Clairin still in
hand, and that Damballah tattoo all but spilling out
her crop top, replete with the tit that bore the stamp.
It was a
nice piece of work, but on the whole, the outcome was not all that
surprising. The tools at Ishmael's
disposal had already been in use for years prior. From the beautifully illustrated promotional
literature showing the multicultural, multiracial faces of boys actively
pursuing their educational pursuits, to the promotional video’s and
registration materials all done to the standards of comparable academies in
Only the
website he showed her was new, or at least in terms of the length of time the
scam had been in use prior to the internet age.
The marketplace was now open worldwide, giving anyone with a computer
access to all the promotional materials and admission forms at the click of the
mouse. That included Ishmael and the
thoroughly soused, Rosemary, who bought into beautifully illustrated web pages it as if it were gospel.
Still
further, the Baptiste du
Pre International boys Academy actually did exist. Though not highly publicized, it was a small
privately funded general arts school providing for the underserved Black
Haitian community, committed to the principal beliefs of Baptiste
du Pre, noted Haitian educator and author who wrote
extensively on bridging the cultural divide.
Specifically, the scope of multi-cultural programs in the learning
environment, and the problems associated with adolescent male multicultural
populations where conflict, rather than the assimilation of “sharing
strategies” more often than not tends to be the outcome.
It was his
belief that the solution lies "not" in narrowing the scope of such
multicultural variance, but the opposite should be considered: That, "only truly diversity which
includes the totality of the human experiences teaches students the importance
of community.”
Thus, the
"pod" system was created, where white and Asian populations from
throughout the world are integrated into traditionally all black Haitian
groupings to broaden the cultural diversity.
The pod
whites integrated into those traditionally all black groupings were referred to
as “PodBoys,” and the boys representing the greater
Black Haiti communities were simply referred to as “Tops” by the faculty.
Today, the
school houses 10 "pod" communities representing the 10 regional départements (districts) across the broader
So far, it
has worked pretty darn well. The sense of community within the various
groupings has never been stronger. As
well, when they return to their homes they take with them all they've learned
about the value of fellowship within the broader community.
However,
given that the turnover ratio among the integrated pod whites due to overuse
was quite high, there was a constant need for new recruits. Something Ishmael had in mind when he met
young Alex Beckett. First fuck him, and
then put him to work helping to bridge the cultural divide as only his sweet
white ass can do.
Of course,
neither Alex nor his mother was told anything about that. There were no beautiful illustrated pamphlets
or 8x10 glosses showing some sweet young lad amidst of group of Ghetto Blade
bucks fucking his ass. Nor did Ishmael
trouble himself to explain the type of study Podboys
were expected to excel. They just heard
what they wanted to hear and Ishmael was happy to oblige.
Still in
all it wouldn't have matter even if he had.
Recruits were not sought from a pool of the unwilling. Given
Of course,
that’s assuming they even had families who even gave a shit, which happened to
be the case more often than not. Then if
you were to include the families who saw it simply as a means to unload the
queen duck in their litter and you have a very large pool of prospective
candidates, indeed.
All that
said, no matter the whys or the how Alex’s mother came to sign the admission
form, it was a fine catch nonetheless. A
head worth mounting on his office wall, and when coupled with the looting of Fariz El-Amin’s account the
pervious night, Ishmael had good reason to savor the fruits of his labor. Still in all, it was good to be back under
the safe umbrella of home.
After leaving
the Beckett residence later that evening, Ishmael ran into Selvandieu
coming up the steps. A black
Rastafarian, he had matted dreads down to his nipples and was covered limb to
limb in cult tattoo. Come to find out,
he ran the tattoo shop just a half block down.
Barefoot,
bare-chested, wearing only a pair of haggard belt-less jeans that hung down low
enough to see a sprinkling of pubic hair, he completed the picture of Rosemary
Beckett. The lady apparently in waiting,
now lying flat on her back stewed to the gills on that cheap, one Gourde
(dollar) a liter Clairin.
“Yo, Brotha,” Ishmael greeted him
as he breezed pass.
“Bonjou brudda man!
(Hey dud!) Se femèl chen la andedan?
(Is the bitch inside?),” he asked rubbing his crotch and wearing a toothy grin
that stretched ear to fucking ear.
“Modi dwat (Damn right),
Rasta-man,” Ishmael replied as he continued on his way, then stopped and turned
back around. “Hey, Rasta-man!” he called
back, “Where’s Toussaint?”
The guy
turned back wearing that same pompous smile and says, “pita
li vini guete!”
(later he come to fuck).
Ishmael
turned to leave smiling. His only regret
was not having asked Rasta-man if Toussaint was coming to fuck Rosemary or
Alex. Or, perhaps, both!
Not that it
mattered. Not when in sight of an hour
he'd be home hooked up to the balls in the sweet French ass of Rene Leclerc, the newest, freshest, most delicious podboy “recruited” by the academy.
Oh,
yes. Fuck yes! It was good to be home again . . .
----
Chapter 4
Fine Art or
a Matter of more Natural Mechanics
The old
sedan rolled up the sun baked clay road toward the main entrance of
When the
old yellow ford pulled up in front of the school Commons, Ishmael paid the
driver his fee and then found his way to Cézar
office.
Cézar Roché,
the headmaster of the academy was a very influential man. His brother, Osahar,
was a prominent governmental figure who was himself an avid supporter of the Baptiste du Pre approach to
bridging the cultural divide. As well,
he was a stanch advocate of the "pod" system that was used by the
school as the primary vehicle of change.
His support
also insured that no matter how bad Ishmael screwed up, or whatever happened behind
these sun-baked terracotta walls, Ishmael was guaranteed a safe harbor - his
hideaway, his private hole-in-the-wall, where even if they could track him down
he remained out of their reach.
Ishmael
didn't knock, nor would he have, even if he had too. Finding Cézar out
of his office he decided to wait out on the balcony for his return. Off in the distance he could see all the way
from Pétionville to Delmas
and its ghetto like sprawl leading up to the foot of the hillside. While below where he stood, he saw the
"pod" units.
Linked to
the Commons by pathway, the pods branched out around the perimeter of the
building like spokes attacked to the hub of a wheel.
Leaning on
the railing, he saw a group of Rasta Bosses from the département
(District) of Sub-Est outside their pod caught up in
a warrior’s game of sparring about in mock combat. At first glance it looked like just a lot of
boyish horseplay. That is, until one of
the boys standing about moved off, clearing just enough space for him to see
young Liam Callahan centermost among the crowd.
Suddenly
all that jousting about took on a different slant. More like posturing than horseplay, much like
you'd expect to see of a buck challenging for the heart of a prospective mate.
The sight
brought a smile to Ishmael’s face.
Especially when he saw the lanky, red haired boy bent over with hands
dangling down to his toes, and his ass held up in the grasp of one of those
bucks ferociously pummeling his bleach-white Irish ass.
He showed
no mercy, no let up, and for however long it lasted, when done,
the rutting buck simply uncorked with a yank and handed that lily-white ass
over to the next buck in wait. His ass
passed on, like a gym class medicine ball handed over for the next buck to use!
"Ishmael!
Welcome back, my friend," Cézar bellowed as he walked in. A large man himself, he was also rather
rotund, to the point that his gait resembled more a waddle than a stride. He wore an amulet in the form of a skull, a
black tunic and top-hat with a vulture feather symbolizing his ability to tap
into the Lwa.
It wasn’t his usual school attire, but he wasn’t above flaunting that
skull and vulture feather either. Sort
of as a reminder that it’s never a good time to fuck with the Lwa.
Cézar embraced his friend then standing
off at arms length, leaned down to see which of the pods in view Ishmael was
looking at; and he hadn't to look far.
Below where they stood on the balcony, he saw a boy from Sub-Est staging a performance so explosive that by rights it
should have set off the fire alarm.
"Egads!” he exhaled.
Then with a shrug, "Well, what can I say? Boys will play, huh?"
"Play?" Ishmael quipped. "He looks like he’s boring down to the
depths for oil!”
"Ah
yes, well, that's Xavier," he replied, turning to face Ishmael once
again. "Don't be so hard on the
boy. I mean, you know the story. He was a soldier in the rebel army and
already on his way to becoming a barbarian before he turned ten. All that violent ...” he shook his head,
“Well, you know, all the pent up anger and rage has got to go somewhere, no?”
Ishmael
offered a warm smile and extended a hand to his dear friend. "I'm sorry my friend, but I think you
misunderstood. I wasn't speaking badly
of the boy. I've seen worse, and I
agree, learning how to channel those demons toward more acceptable modes of
destruction can only be a good thing.
Besides, I've used that Irish boy's fine ass plenty and I know he's up
to it. No harm done."
"Huh!”
Cézar grunted, “Acceptable modes of destruction. Bashing
heads, bashing assholes, you know, I never quite thought of it like that. Which reminds me,” he followed. “Now that we’re on the topic of bashing
assholes, how was the trip to
"Plentiful!”
he answered while rubbing his fingers together in that universally recognized
sign for money.
“You struck
a blow against the vices of dishonor and greed, huh?”
“Trust me, Hunsi Roché (devotee),” Papa Legba is smiling today,” Ishmael smirked as he pulled out
his wallet from his inside coat pocket and then a cashier’s check which he held
up in front of Cézar’s face. “Your 15%, I’m going to see Christof in the morning to give him his.”
“Gracious
yes! Praise the Lwa,
a fine offering, indeed.” He said while counting out the zeros. “Fact I can hear the gate opening up right
now.” He followed up with an appreciative smile and dollar signs in his eyes.
“So Tell me Ishmael,” Cézar then
asked. “Out of curiosity, what is it you
do with all your illicit gains, huh? I
mean, you don’t own a Mercedes or live in beachside Villa, and you don’t own a
golden boy to drain your wallet.”
Ishmael
draped an arm around his friends shoulder then leaned in close and personal,
fronting his ear. “Cézar,”
he quietly spoke. “Your grandmother
still lives in the same house where you grew up, right?” he asked, and Cézar affirmed with a nod, while Ishmael leaned in still
closer.
“And she
still spends her days rocking in the same old chair she did way back when, hum?”
Cézar again acknowledges with a nod, now thoroughly
engrossed as Ishmael went on.
“While
steps away out on the street the bandits and hoodlums steal and wreak havoc on
everything in their wake, yet no one has ever troubled her. Not just because she’s old, smelly and
decrepit, or that she lives the same poor life, but because they know if they
harm her the Lwa would cast his wrath down upon
them. Isn’t that right?” Cézar nods
repeatedly, and vigorously to show unanimity of that particular point.
“Yes, well
then, now picture her sitting there in that old rocking chair wearing the same
pair of old lady shoes she’s worn for years, only now, imagine them with a
hollowed out heal, and inside, a diamond worth more than a rich man’s
retirement.”
“Diamonds?"
he lit up, and Ishmael confirmed his assent with a
nod. “I know a man with
connections. He’s solid as the Bank of
England, guarantees delivery too.”
“So if you
were to buy such diamonds and you were me, that is
where you’d hide them?”
“Fuck no!”
Ishmael bellowed out. “Think I’m
crazy? That’s the stupidest fucking idea
I've ever heard,” he laughed.
“But you
said . . .”
“A story, Cézar, only what you wanted to hear. And if your fell for that one, good fucking
luck keeping them from taking her feet along with those shoes.”
“Which
reminds me,” he then followed, lightening up a tad. “Something else came of my trip to
"Oh?
Like what?"
Ishmael
pulled out his cell phone and showed Cézar the
picture of Alex sucking his cock. Then
pulled out a folder from his case, he handed over Alex's application for
admission to Cézar for his records.
"Sweet,”
Cézar returned the smile. “A new recruit?" he then asked while
opening the folder and began to peruse the documents.
“Wonderful,
perfect, nice, nice,” he mumbled under his breath as he read on and until he
found the flaw in that un-refundable black marketed diamond he had just bought
to protect his retirement. “Oh, shit!”
he bellowed. The kid lives in Delmas!”
“Yeah,
well, I know. But trust me, this one is
worth it. Have a look,” he again pointed
to the picture.
“Bad Juju,
Ishmael bad,” he shook his head, “
“Yeah,
sure, but what better offering can you make than something of such beauty?” he
pleaded, trying to find a way around all the Vodou
shit. “Trust me, once Papa Legba breaths in the scent of this boy he is going to be
opening up that gate as wide as the
“Hum,” Cézar grumbled, then after giving it though, “That is
true. He is a treasure. Under normal circumstances such a fine
looking ass to fuck would make a great gift to the Lwa. And the boys . . . well, I know they’ll be busting out of the
pants to make the offering. But . . .”
“Bull shit,
Cézar,” Ishmael abruptly cut in, “He isn’t even
Haitian. He’s from fucking
Like a
light suddenly beaming down from above, Cézar shook
off the jitters and lit up with a smile.
“Yes, of course. He’s an
American! Impure and rife with all the
vices of dishonor and greed, something that above all the Lwa
loathes. Oh yes, you are right. A gluttonous, decadent American! He’ll make the ideal offering." Cézar smirked, grabbing his crotch.
“I’ll send
his mother the usual package and inform her that Alex can begin on the first of
the month. That should do it.” He
beamed, obviously quite pleased to have found a rationale satisfactory to all.
“Oh yes,”
he then added, “I’ll need a copy of this photo so Bon Mambo Serafine
and myself can begin to construct the wanga (spell)
to um . . . to um, well, shall we say,
set him upon the path to explore the Mysteries and meet the Invisibles,” he
chuckled.
“Yes, hunsi Roché,” he returned the
smile. “I have his mother’s photo as
well. A perfect pairing that should
serve as one.”
“Yes, yes,
of course,” Cézar reassured him. “Twice the mischief I think. Papa Legba will be
delighted.”
After a
shared glass or two of fine Irish Scotch, Ishmael bid farewell to his friend
and returned to the hut he had been given to use. The place to do his research, strategize and
plan before again heading out to execute his plan of attack.
His hut was
located off the Commons building but close enough to the pod housing the Delmas Blades that he could afford to shut his eyes at
night. A luxury few could afford in his
line of work. Even as good as security
was, there was always the potential some highly motivated thieves from the Pétionville slum could find their way up the hill. And in that regard, the Delmas
Blades were nothing if not as fierce as a pack of wolves.
On the
other hand, the Blades were an extremely fun loving group as well. Truly!
They could find reason to rejoice in catching a bad case of the
flu. Just give them reason and they
could dance the night away while putting away insane portions of ganja and Clairin and still fuck all the other pods under the table.
Ishmael
enjoyed their company a lot whenever he was home and he'd never regretted it
once. Just as he thought to do again
today, and that was when he heard the ruckus coming from their pod. Curiosity getting the better of him, he
followed his nose until reaching their hut he saw Ezili,
one of the many security agents who patrolled the grounds. He was shaking his head and looked rather
flustered.
"Hey, Ezili, what's going on?" Ishmael asked, pointing to the hut.
Ezili stood there a moment without
speaking, looking as if debating himself over how best to respond. Ezili was a man of
few words, something Ishmael liked about him.
"They're
celebrating." He finally said,
albeit with a disdainful look.
"About
what?"
"Do
they need a reason?" he followed, only now behind pinched brows.
"No,
guess not," something Ishmael knew to be true. The Delmas Blades
didn't need an excuse to do anything.
Once they had their mind made up, they did it. Again, something Ishmael liked about them.
"It
sure does sound like they're having a good time though. Is that what brought you down here?"
"No. You know me.
I like a little boy tail as much as anyone, I suppose. But I'm not much into that sort of
thing."
"What
sort of thing?" Ishmael queried.
He didn't
answer. He only turned his head and
nodded toward the hut. A moment more and
Ishmael was heading for the door to see what "sort of thing" would
turn Ezili away from the "boy tail" he so
enjoyed.
The pair
stepped inside finding the boys in the center most room lounging about watching
as the last of the many who had recently fucked the podboy
just finishing up. Slumped over a
makeshift wooden trestle, the boy showed all the signs of excessive wear.
There was
nothing unusual it that. The pod whites
were there to help bridge the cultural divide, a duty this boy seemed to be
performing splendidly.
At first
glance the boy looked to be the Swedish boy, Lucas. He had the same build, same light ivory tone,
same nicely hung set of balls hanging beneath a donut shaped pussy with a
permanently stretched hole. Swollen,
enflamed and raw from use, it drained like an open pipe from which a long,
unbroken tendril of viscous white cum cascaded down onto the hard red clay.
Ishmael
looked back around at Ezili, wondering what it was he
found so unsettling in such a beautiful sight.
"Hey! Ezili," he shrugged.
"What gives?"
Ezili didn't answer, but the young Delmas cocks-man did.
Now that he was done fucking Lucas, he turned around and answered in the
form of a greeting, and then began cutting some moves that would have put a
A moment
more and the whole room broke out in a chaotic choir of boys who'd taken up the
chant. Then a moment later, they began
stepping out to the hop-hop vibes of Shaggy's “Hot
Shot” screaming out from an old school 8-tack boom box. Enacting a scene that
looked as much an expression of teenaged angst as it did some sort of eons old
victory dance, celebrating the pillaging of that fine white boy ass.
In all the
bedlam that ensued, Ishmael scarcely took notice as Ezili
walked over to the slumped over Podboy. He reached around to pull the boy up, and
then turned him around toward Ishmael.
"Look!"
he said, stating his case.
And so
Ishmael looked, as did the roomful of boys.
Only the boys where laughing and cheering while Ishmael just stared,
seemingly caught up on the wonder of it all.
In his
eyes, it was nothing less than fine art.
Not only in the artistic sense, but the craftsmanship showed all the
signs of a tradition passed on by their ancestors. No question it was a thing of beauty. And Ishmael couldn't help but feel, in some
strange way, that it added to the natural beauty of the boy as well.
"But
what was it exactly?" Ishmael
wondered. He didn't know as yet, though
he felt certain the answer lie in its making.
From what he could see, it looked to be composed of some sort of fibrous
twine. Or, tendril perhaps; an offshoot
of a root or plant still found beneath the forest canopy, a secret of theirs
they have used for a century. It was
wound tight on one end and millimeter by millimeter grew increasingly wider
along its estimated 5 centimeter (2 inch) length until it reached the base,
where it flared out to conform to the contour of the chest.
In a way,
he though it resembled the shape of a traffic cone. But instead of the traditional orange and
white coloring, it had a hard lustrous lacquered shell on top on which they had
painted the cult symbols importance to the Vodou
culture.
"But
why was it done?" he asked himself.
Perhaps they had followed the tradition of their ancestor’s. Those who painted symbolic pictorials that
depict the Veve, or a symbol of the Lwa, like Papa Legba, asking him
to open the gate.
Or, perhaps
it was simply the meeting of science and art where such things as the natural
elasticity of the skin come into play.
Knowing where and how to apply the right kind of bindings and materials
to use that will allow the skin to continue to thrive, while adding just the
right amount of tug to encourage the flesh to grow in the form you wish it to.
Of course, Ezili couldn't see any of that; Not the beauty, not the
artistry, not the craftsmanship. All he
could see was the length of those two wrapped nipples drooping down his
chest. Like two beautifully ornamented
fingers; Index finger on the left; ring finger on the right.
To which Ezili then added a third finger: His middle finger, which he held up as he
cursed in response. "The way I see
it, balls and a cock make a man. A pussy
and tits, makes a girl. Having both
makes you . . . makes you . . . aah, hell! He barked.
“It makes you 'the sort of thing I'm not into'."
Well, at
least Ishmael now knew. A man of few
words, Ezili sure knew how to get his point across.
Or had
he? Ishmael wasn't so sure. One part of his brain kept telling him that Ezili was right; that all this was simply mayhem and
rapidly spinning out of control.
While the
other side of his brain was telling him, "No, no, don't be so hasty. Perhaps it's simply a matter of more natural
mechanics." That the massive
quantity of blood needed to inflate those elephantine cocks had deprived the
brain of sufficient oxygen, thus rendering them a bit to the right of
stupid. A sort of temporary insanity, if
you will, and there was no more to it.
Well, for
better or worse, in terms of creativity alone the body art would have definitely
earned them an A+ had Ishmael taught the class.
“It does show initiative,” Ishmael felt quite certain. Likewise, he felt certain that if they could
create that much havoc with just a bit of twine and some pigment, lord knows
the mayhem they could create with a doll (the gris-gris) and a straight pin(
used to evoke the spirit)."
“A red pin
in each nipple,” now there’s a frightening though, huh?
----
Chapter 5
A
Fractured, Impure Place
Ishmael
hurriedly made his way toward the waiting taxi.
The driver stepped out and came about to open the rear door for Ishmael
with umbrella in hand and a broad smile.
"Where
you go mist'a, sir," beamed the cab driver,
holding the umbrella overhead as Ishmael stepped in, placing his briefcase on
the seat beside him.
"Bilding nan Kapital
(The Capital Building),” Ishmael said, then pulled a hanky from his breast
pocket to wipe the droplets from his brow.
It was the
beginning of the rainy season, and the first storm was upon them. The hard clay slow baked over the long
blistering summer months had turned the roadway into a silty
stream of slipper red clay that followed the course of the road. Ishmael felt the tread-worn tires spin until
gaining traction they slowly made their way down the hillside toward
"Okay,
mist'a, sir." the cabby tried to reassure
him. "We make good time, no
problem." Ishmael certainly hoped
so, but more importantly, that he got there in one piece. The snarled, stop and go traffic that
extended the entire 30 miles distance to the
The Third
world disorder exacerbated by the weather slowed the pace of life down to a
crawl. Needless to say it was a
painfully aggravating commute, but on the whole, not all that different from
the "morning commute on the
He found Christof toiling over the data he had compiled after the
most recent hostile attempt to breach the government’s network. A German expatriate, Christof
Eichel was a network security expert for hire. Top of the class, he was as much a genius in
keeping prying eyes out of their network as he was in creating his own schemes
to circumvent the efforts of others to keep him out of theirs."
He was
quite the innovator as well. He had not
only created the programs Ishmael used in his work, but was a principle
architect in the creation of the pod system.
Something he felt strongly about, and excluding his love of money, the
chief reason we find him laboring over the reams of data in faraway
"Mr. Duprè ,
you look well." He extended his
hand, his face drawn with a dour look Ishmael had never seen him without. "Much success in
"Yes,
my friend, the program executed beautiful.
No traces as far as I can tell," he replied while pulling out a
check from his billfold and set it atop the desk.
"So I
surmise, otherwise you would not be here talking to me," he said in his
usual curt, very German sort of way. And
then after glancing down at the check, “What-da-fuck am I do with this?” he scoffed, straight-faced.
“Beats
me, go buy yourself a Mercedes or something.”
“I’ve
already got one and another one back home in
“No doubt
with a trailer hitch attached,” Ishmael scoffed. “To haul away all that Nazi gold you’ve still
got buried, huh, Commandant?” he winked with a snide grin.
“Careful
there my uppity black brother. The ears
have walls,” he broke a smile. “That
reminds me. I've made some changes to
the scanner. I speeded up the sorting
sequence a tad. So, if I am to keep you
one step a head of those who want yours, I need to install the new
configuration as soon as possible."
"Ja, Herr Commandant," Ishmael said in jest, clicking
his heels together as he did. Something
he wouldn't dare risk if he hadn't long since proven his trust. It sort of came with the territory between
good friends. He may well have been one
of the smartest people in the world when it came to cryptography and data
science, but he was foremost a friend.
Christof cracked a grin and then mocked a
salute, "Ja, Ja, heil Hitler and all that fucking Nazi shit! Just leave the gear with me and it'll be
ready tomorrow."
"Great,
I'll be here by
"No
need. I'll be visiting the school
tomorrow myself."
"Oh? You’ve business with Cézar
Roche?"
"No!"
he abrupt said, loud enough to be heard in the adjoining suite. "Harry, get in here, boy!"
The
adjoining suite was one used by Christof when he
required a respite, or when he had a guest.
Like Harry, who soon after opening the door walked over to Christof to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, smiling
at Ishmael as he did.
Ishmael had
had the pleasure of Harry's company before, of course. A white kid from the
"Alo ti gason
dous (Hello, my sweet boy),”
Ishmael winked while returning his smile.
"Have you been keeping that fine young puss of yours purring for my
ol' friend Christof here,
huh?" he added with an eye toward Christof who
had his arms wrapped around Harry, his hands latched on to his ass, wringing
out those firm fleshy melons like a sponge.
Christof leaned down and met Harry's parted
lips with his own, filling his mouth with his tongue and then licked the length
of his face with his long fat tongue as if savoring a vanilla ice cream cone.
"Oh
yes, an eager bitch she has been too." he replied, while devouring the boy
with his eyes, cutting down through to a place only he know. A place he now felt the need to visit again.
"Though
not always," Christof then added, wanted to set
the record right. "She still ices
up on occasion, and when she does, I thaw her ass out with a good taste of my
belt. Isn't that right, boy?" he
nudge Harry, prodding him for an answer.
"Go
on, boy. Go on,
tell Ishmael how my Tap-tap tapping on your ass-pussy lights you up.”
Young Harry
looked toward Ishmael and answered, with eyes as downcast as his voice,
"Yes sir."
"Why
is that, fag?" Christof asked tauntingly, as if
to diminish him yet further down a rung or two.
"B-b-b-cause
. . .” was all he could say, now dangling from the last rung, below which there
surely was a hell.
"Because
. . . because why boy, because only my
belt can reach that special place that gets your juices flowing?
“You see,”
he then sought to explain. “It seems young Harry had himself a rather sadistic
daddy. A twisted, fucked up, closeted
fag who liked to use his belt before feeding him his cock. Like daily, sometimes even with his
like-minded pals cheering him on.
Harry says
he didn’t like it, but apparently it fractured something inside and now he
needs someone, anyone with a belt to beat that nasty, fractured place to get
his girly asshole to open up wide and say ‘ahhh.’ Isn’t that right boy?” He again nudged Harry, only now, apparently,
just for the pleasure of watching the boy squirm.
His voice,
his look, his words were heating up.
“And when I do it just right, his puss will simply screams out to me,
‘Daddy, daddy, feed me daddy’.”
“So I do,
and the more I tap on that fag ass cunt of his, the
more it glows red hot and opens all the wider for my cock. Isn’t that right . . . boy? he continued on with
his harangue while he stuffed his hand down Harry’s white briefs and stuck a
couple of fingers up his ass, Harry rising up on his toes as he did.
"Oh,
oh," Harry squealed like a stuck girly bitch with her cunt
on fire.
"Well,
say it, you faggot cunt, am I right?" Christof was
running at a fevered pitch, while Harry squirmed about balancing on the tips of
his toes.
"Oh,
oh . . . please, sir, it's so
b-b-b-b-b-big . . ."
Ishmael
thought Harry never looked better, or prettier, responding as he was to every
move of that twisting, turning hand trying to work its was up his ass. Flailing about at the end of Christof's hand, it was an image he felt somehow suited the
boy. He was one hell of a great looking
kid, but to Ishmael, it was his unparalleled thirst for abuse that made him
shine.
That's how Christof saw him as well.
He was a boy with a flaw in an otherwise perfect 5 carat diamond. That flaw - that fractured ‘impure’ place
deep inside Harry was a place Christof knew about and
had touched. A place Harry needed
someone to touch regardless the suffering he need endure just to make him feel
whole. Still, despite all the ugliness
that lived within him, nothing could detract from the beauty you saw. And you only need see him to know how true
that was.
Tall, lean,
and winsome with a head full of wavy blond hair, he was a scrumptious piece of
eye candy who had a certain ineffable quality about
him that made you wonder what universe he belonged. Be it in the world of men's fashions, or
perhaps, women's. If not, then he
certainly came wrapped in the same package.
From the way he looked to his flag waving, heel to toe gait, he was as
lovely as he was faggishly ostentatious. And that's what Ishmael liked about the
boy. He looked as he fucked, and he came
when you fucked him. No hands!
Still in
all, he was an odd duck, a swish with a limp stick. Not the sort he liked to see attached to the
end of his cock when he woke up in the morning.
There simply wasn't enough man in him to suit his tastes. Least not like Alex, a boy who showed all the
promise of becoming quite the beef cake, whereas Harry seemed to have missed
that train altogether.
Making
matters all the worse, Christof had dolled him
up. The silk halter and bikini-briefs
were a far cry from the everyday podboy tighty-whities by a degree to the right of pathetic. Plus, he had bunched up a handful of his
untamed, wavy hair and tied it off into a fucking ponytail. Sheesh! Not exactly his cup of tea.
"Oh,
oh, p-p-pleeeze, sir," Harry continued to plead,
sounding all the more panicked with each thrust of his hand that was now on the
cusp of disappearing entirely between the cheeks of his ass. Ass cheeks he couldn't lift up high enough on
the tips of his toes, and even that small grace denied him when driven up off
his feet he was left to endure that final thrust that buried that hand to the
wrist.
"OOo aahhh eeeeee
. . ." he moaned.
"That-a-boy,"Christof sweet talked the boy, running his other
hand along his flanks to soothe and settle him as he would a restless horse.
It was a
time-worn scene that never grew old.
Ishmael had busted many a fine young ass in his time, and seen countless
others. It was his favorite sport and
enjoyed the game immensely. As did that
black snake slithering down his leg following the scent of the boy.
"Damn!"
he muttered, once he'd spotted the rapidly spreading stain half way down the
length of his thigh.
Christof looked up grinning. Kneeling upon one knee, he was shoving as
much of his fist up the boy's ass as would fit.
Then with the other hand, he grabbed hold of Harry's balls and
tugged. With a yank, he pulled Harry's
balls back between his legs causing him to double over and screamed out in
pain. “Aaagh!"
"Easy
now, cowgirl, don’t go gettin’ your petticoats in no
uproar." he said, taking on the guise of a cowboy, albeit with a thick
German accent. With the boy's ass now
raised up high, Christof was now free to straighten
back up, effectively turning the boy into a sock puppet, his every move
subjugated to the whims of his arm.
"Owie, owie," Harry again
squealed, as would anyone with a fist the size of a
That fact
seemed to have escaped Christof however. Instead, he simply chuckled, paying Harry no
mind as he grabbed hold of his new ponytail to steer, and with the other hand,
punched in his fist causing Harry to fumble forward a step just to keep
upright.
"I
can't, I can't, its tooooo big!"
"Whoa! Easy there girl, easy! You can do it. Just take one step at a time. Now, come on, girl. Giddy-up!
The watering hole is just over yonder." He cajoled, prodded and poked his ass as he
pulled on the reins (aka ponytail) and guided Harry
toward the "watering hole just over yonder" - in a slow waddle, one
bowlegged step at a time; one fumbling foot to the left, "Owie!" one struggling foot to the right, "Ooooh, Aaagh, eeee!"
Ishmael was
laughing is ass off. He found Christof’s impersonation of a cowboy with a German accent
ludicrous to the extreme, yet somehow, hilariously funny.
"Whoa,
girl," Christof sounded off when his pony
finally nosed up to the trough - Ishmael's crotch!
"Good
girl," he pat her flanks. "Now, drink up girl while I open up a
can of whoop-ass to feed your cunt."
"Okay,"
Ishmael laughed, hardly able to contain himself. "I get it! But tell me, brother. What's with the silky feminine shit?"
"I
named him Princess," Christof winked, grinning
snidely. "Well, actually Osahar chose the name, and well, the Khaki Boy Scout look
would hardly be fitting, now would it."
"No,
no not at all, my friend," he sighed, now relieved to learn that his
friend hadn't gone bonkers after all.
That the tough, jack-booted
"Don't
tell me," Ishmael managed to get out above the laughter, “When not knee
deep in governmental affairs, Osahar plays your
bronco riding sidekick."
"Oh
yes," he beamed, "he wears a cowboy hat too." Ishmael was
laughing so hard it took him three tried just to unbuckle his pants.
But his
amusement didn’t last long. A moment
more and he had his long black cock in hand and pressed up against Harry’s
nose. "Dinner time, boy,"
Ishmael hissed, now heated to the boiling point.
Quickly, he
latched onto the ponytail to yank his head down, and then wrapped his fingers
around the boy's throat to follow the course of that long black snake sliding
down the passage. All the way down for
the long plunge then back up the neck-straining 29cm the boy needed to again
take a breath before going for the deep plunge again.
The pace of
the gagging, sloshing, gurgling mouth fuck matched that of Christof's
pumping fisted hand, which he did on occasion quite robustly. Especially when he punched a bit too hard and
Ishmael had to suffer a worrisome amount of Harry’s teeth. Not always, but increasing more each time Christof drove down to the elbow, causing the boy to gurgle
and tighten up. Alarming moments for
Ishmael, and he wondered if he could get his friend to ease up a tad.
"You
know, my brother, if you keep that up that cunt of
his is going to be hanging down to his knees."
"Good!
That's what I want, low and swaying with the breeze. That way I can affix little bells on his
pussy lips to invite all cumers." It’d make his closeted fag daddy proud. Right, cowgirl?" he sneered and then
tightened the muscles in his forearm to expand its girth, and along with it,
Harry’s pussy stretched threadbare around his arm like a furrowed sleeve a size
to small.
Harry
gulped and moaned, the contractions reverberating alone the length of Ishmael’s
cock. "Oooh,"
Ishmael sighted, as the contractions squeezed out his junk, now flowing in
copious amounts down the boys gullet.
Ishmael
felt himself in a dream state. Especially
on the up swing then the sludge dredged up by his shaft dripped out Harry’s
nose in long pearly strands. The whole
scene sort of reminded him of Lucas's night in the Delmas
Blades pod.
He didn't
know why the thought came to him at that moment, but somehow the mental link
between Lucas's new, artfully craft nipples, and Harry's ponyboy
cunt seemed to fall under the same subheading. And for equally unknown reasons he thought to
share his thought with Christof.
"Have
you seemed Lucas lately?" he managed to get out between the hissing "Oooo's" and the "ah's."
The
Irish lad?"
Christof asked, while his hand shuffled about inside
Harry’s boy-cunt as if searching for something inside
a lady's purse.
"Yes!"
Ishmael grunted.
"No! I follow the Judeo-Christian ethic: One horse and one rider at a time!" Christof looked
over grinning.
"You're
going there tomorrow, right?" he asked, followed with a hissing, "ahhhhhh!"
"Yes,
Harry has his monthly checkup with the wacho
Gynecologist, Doc Dutillet. The pervert!
You know what that man does to those boy pusses?"
"Ahhh, no! I've not heard." he sighted, feeling the
bob of Harry's throat, caressing his cock’s sensitive underbelly.
"He's
got this long needle he fills with some exotic plant extraction and sticks it
in the prostate. He said it makes it
swell up, and when you touch it with your cock, the boy feels the same orgasmic
joy as a bitch in heat."
"What?"
Ishmael sounded off, ". . . and that's bad?”
"Well,
no! The plumper the better far as I'm
concerned. And that's the hitch. Now when I fuck him, he cums
like a sex-starved bitch serving a stint in Sing-Sing, but . . . but, when you
pinch a nipple – Nothing, as in zero, nil, nada!"
“Oh, sure,
they harden up like little missiles, but when you tweak'm,
jerk'm, pull'm, bite'm till he screams, he still ain't go'in to cum, leastwise not
without a fat schlong stiffed up his ass. That makes him a bloody liar to me.”
“What were
you expecting,” Ishmael asked, “that you’d just tweak a nip to get him off?”
“Well,
yeah. Something along the lines of that
red button you push to set off a hellfire missile. Only instead of causing a fiery inferno of
death and destruction, you get a fiery inferno of molten cum.”
Harry's jaw
again tighten up and again Ishmael felt the peril as a Harry's rather shape
incisors scraped along his gnarly shaft.
"Yikes! I know you're hungry
boy, but ease up on those fucking teeth."
Christof chuckled. “See how he gets. Just the thought of owning a pair of nips
that could set his world ablaze gets him excited.”
"Ooo, ahhh,” Ishmael sighed, “I
don’t know, my friend. Sounds more like
a nightmare to me. Can he do it?”
"Not
yet, not after three tries."
"Well,
that's why I mention Lucas. The Delmas Blades wanted bigger nips, and guess what?" he
asks, and followed with a moaning, "Oooo, nice,
that's it, boy."
"What?
Tell me, what happened?" he peered in, apparently with quite an interest.
"He's
got 'em!" Ishmael grunted, then moaned,
"Oh, ah, eee-gads."
"You
joke! They got him bigger nips? How?"
Ishmael grit his teeth.
Feeling the surge rise up from his balls he hadn't the wherewithal to
respond, or do anything else but brace himself as that convulsing monster he
had embedded to the root down the boy's throat bucked and kicked and added a
deluge to the swamp pooled in this belly.
Christof watched and waited for Ishmael’s
engine to cool, then coast back into the physical realm before continuing.
"Do
you think they could . . . ah, you know?
Help?” he gestured with a nod toward Harry.
"Don't
know," Ishmael finally spoke through labored breath. "But if you can get an ol' pederast like me to dig swishy ponyboys,
brother, anything is possible!"
"Good!"
Christof beamed, and then with a yank, splosh and a ploop, pulled his
hand out of Harry's ass.
Backing up,
he peered in and examined the results of his handy work. After giving it much consideration, his grin
turned into a self-congratulatory smirk, then said to Harry, "Sweet!”
“But we're
not done yet, Princess. Nope, not by a
long shot. Right now I've got to run me
a little errand, but when I get back, my belt is going to work on that sloppy
bitch cunt of yours just the way you like it!"
He turned
and began to walk out, only to stop mid-way.
“Which would you prefer, chaps or a cowboy hat?” He asked Ishmael.
But Ishmael
wasn’t listening. "Come on boy,
lick it clean, and don’t miss a smudge!"
Ishmael spat, too preoccupied to pay much mind to Christof’s
ramblings.
"Cowboy
hat," Christof answered himself as he turned
about and continued out the door.
With Christof now gone, Ishmael looked down at Harry. With spittle still drooling out of his month,
he reached down and lifted his chin to look him in the eyes.
"Well,
boy, did you like it, huh?" he asked, with a gaze cutting through to that
fractured, "impure" place deep inside him Christof
knew and had touched.
"Did
you like the ass-kicking? Do you like
the abuse?"
With watery
eyes, Harry lowered his head and whispered, "Yesss,
sir, I liked it!"
“You need
it to cum, don’t you . . . daddy’s boy!” he sneered, deriding the boy, wanting
to make it clear that he now knew about that deep, dark impure place as well.
“Yes,” he
uttered.
“Good!” he
sneered. “Next time I’ll be sure to wear
a belt with a whole lot of fucking bite.”
-----
Chapter 6
Bridging
the Cultural Divide
Three days
later:
An hour
into his grave yard shift, Dominik Tamas pulled up in front of terminal substation no#23 in
his UAZ Russian made van. The unpainted, concrete block building sat behind a
gated cyclone fence topped with barbed wire, and lit up with flood lamps that
illuminated the otherwise moonless night beyond the perimeter to the tree line
20 yards beyond.
He stepped
out of his van and retrieved a spool of keys to find the one needed to open the
padlock attached to the chain securing the gate. Once inside the yard, he found the key from
the same spool to open the door to the building. He entered and flicked on the vast array of
interior lights before walking down the rows of racked switches until he found
section 42-C, the row he was looking for.
He found
"Shit!"
he exclaimed as he swatted it off with the headset.
"Big
ugly fucking bug!" he cursed, watching the spider scurry off down the
aisle. After regaining his composure he
again reached in to clip the leads to the terminal and punched in his number.
"Dominik Tamas, 1165," he
gave his name and number to the technician on the other end of the line.
"Yes,
yes, working fine, no problem.
"Yeah,
yeah I'm fucking sure."
"No,
it was a bug."
"No,
no, not that kind of bug, a spider, a big one, the damn thing was the size of a
"Yes,
good news."
"I'll
be back around
"What?”
a pause.
"No
fucking way. You want the damn bug then
you get a hammer and a body bag and come get the fucking thing yourself."
"Yes,
yes, bye then."
Dominik stepped down and took the ladder
when had found it, then returned for his tools and his binder. Completely unaware that he spec sheet for
that particular job was no longer there.
A few
minutes later, he was again locking the front gate to head back to the main
office. As he departed, so did Ishmael,
with the tech sheet in hand. He tossed
the jar that had contained the Hobo spider in the trash, then once again picked
the gate lock and just as he had entered, disappeared back into the dark.
---
The next
morning he was boarding a flight at
"Good
morning, sir. Can we see your passport
please?"
Both
officers wore the badge carried by Customs officers, so he promptly retrieved
it from his inside coat pocket and handed it over.
"I've
already passed through Customs, officer." Ishmael thought to remind him.
"Yes,
sir, I know you have. However, you are
still in
"Of
course, officer, I understand." He
smiled.
"Your
name is Ra Ebrahim, and you are an Egyptian
national?" he asked, after examining the document.
"Igen (Yes)."
"And
you speak Hungarian?" he asked with brows creased.
"Elég ahhoz, hogy
a. (enough to get by)"
"So
then, you are an Egyptian," the officer continued to quiz him, prodding
around the edges to see how all the pieces fit together. "And you have a clear grasp on English
and you have a passing knowledge of Hungarian.
Am I to understand that right?"
"Yes."
"Blacker
than most, don't you think?" the other officer cut in after giving it
further thought.
"Yes,
yes," his partner agreed after giving him yet another go over. "A blue black, much darker than other
Black Egyptians I've seen."
"Nice
tailoring, too. French?" he asked
while fingering his lapel.
"Yes."
"Ah,
you've lived there then."
"No, I
live in
"Oh,
yes. Yes, of course, your records would
indicate as much."
"May I
ask how long was your stay, Mr. Ebrahim?"
"Two
days," he coolly replied.
"No,
no," the other cut in, pointing to the passport he held in his hand. "The stamp on your password says you
arrived yesterday afternoon, less than 24 hours ago. What was the nature of your business and can
you give the name of your contacts?"
"Yes,
of course. I had business with Milan Jozsef Gosz."
"Milan
Jozsef Gosz, the
Parliamentary official? He had business
dealing with a black Egyptian?" The
other asked with raised brows.
"Yes."
"Important
business then, huh? And I suppose a record of that meeting with Mr.
Gosz can be found on this laptop?" the Customs
agent asked, while opening up Ishmael’s briefcase for both he and the other
Customs officer to see.
"Yes,
of course." He replied, his voice as cool and sharp as a blade. But then again, he had nothing to fear. 10 minutes after the executing his attack on
the bank, he had installed a new standard OS drive, while the incriminating one
now lay destroyed on the bottom of the Danube.
The two
Customs officers stood back and studied him, looking for some clue that might
help determine the truthfulness of his response. Then after a moments pause the one with
Ishmael's computer in hand took the other office aside and they entered into a
quiet conversation.
They both
seemed a bit uncertain as to whether there was any merit to his claim, but upon
hearing the boarding call for the flight, they returned, giving him back his
computer and passport and simply said,
"Yes, sir. Sorry sir, I
apologize for the inconvenience. Please,
I hope your business with Mr. Milan Gosz brings you
back often."
As he
boarded the plane, he rolled up his eyes as though he was looking up to the
heavens and whispered, "I owe you Mr. Ra Ebrahim." The recently deceased Egyptian who's identity
he had stolen and now appeared on his passport.
A short
while later he was sitting next to the window in row 3 looking out and thinking
about the other name that had saved his skin.
Jozsef Gosz, the
name on an account he had hacked the night before. A name he remembered because he was the big
fish with a fat bank book and a "PM," attached to his name.
Ishmael
chuckled. The irony that the man whose
job it was to lock his ass up was the very person responsible for saving his
skin. Plus, he had coughed up 250 grand
of his money.
Obviously
he couldn’t wait to leave
----
The
following day . . .
Having a
few moments between meetings, Cézar Roche had finally
found the time to stop by the Commons canteen for his customary cup of coffee. It was late afternoon and with classroom
study now complete, the fotoball fields were teeming
with activity, while inside the eatery, Cézar found a
group of Gangsta Rappers and Ayizan
Lord fotoballers relaxing
together after a competitive game.
You would
be hard pressed to determine the winner.
There was no self-congratulatory banter, no male ego-driven test of
wills gone amok. Instead, they relaxed
leisurely in the lounge enjoying a bottle of Couronne
(soda) and snacking on Papita (plantain) while participating
in the school taught convention of Pataje Kado (gift sharing).
An
etiquette fostered by the school, "gift sharing" builds bridges where
there previously were none. Providing an
opportunity for groups like the Gangsta Rappers and Ayizan Lords, long time brothers-at-war, to rise above the
animosity and find fellowship in a shared sense of community.
'Gift-sharing'
could take many forms, of course. From
the familiar forms of verbal greetings to the sharing of things they most
valued. Art and narratives to name only
two, but the primary conveyor of the concept was the pod white who lived among
them. If not the most valued possession
they owned, the depository of all of their man-nut certainly had to be their
most treasured.
In truth, the
podboys helped relieve the burden of daily life in
countless ways. Their tongues often used
as soap and water when too busy or too lazy to bath their pits and soiled feet
of the accumulated grime. Their sweet
young asses often used as a punching bag to pummel with their cocks to relieve
the stress of everyday life.
What better way to engender the
spirit of fellowship than allowing another to add his nut to the pool already
bottled-up inside your Podboy's cunt, Cézar
mused over the thought while sitting nearby enjoying his cup of java and
watching the boys enthusiastically engaged in the act of sharing their prized
boys.
Centermost,
young Colin McGill and Nils Bergman were facing one
another bent over at the waist and intimately entwined in a lip locking
embrace. Colin with his spiked blond
hair was getting his much used Irish ass turned inside out, while young Nils was babbling some half-crazed Nordic chant to some
higher authority who might afford him relief from the battering.
Cézar had to admire the boys for enduring
as well as they did. But then again,
they were exceptional boys. That is why
they were selected above dozens of completing applicants. Not solely based on their physical beauty,
but in addition, they had to have a need for 'something' more. Something they can only find in their
surrender to the suffering they endure, and without which, fulfillment and
release would be lost to them.
It takes a
discerning eye to see that dormant seed in a boy, but when gotten right, they
truly are a beautiful beast to behold.
Whether surrendering to a passionate embrace or leaning over and
surrendering to an anal battering until gasping for air, they'd find their
release and cum like a blast out of a 20-millimeter cannon.
The same
could be said of the Haitian Tops (students) who attended. Of course they were exquisite examples of
physical beauty. Of course they were
high achievers, represented the brightest of the bright. But it takes more than good looks and brains
to make a man. It requires the strength,
will and ruthless determination to dominate in all aspects of his life. Whether it is dominating his bitch with his
cock, or fucking his competitors in the corporate world.
That's what
the school taught them. The ruthless,
unyielding, no 'holes' barred domination over the competition. A concept masterfully illustrated by the
picture that hung on the wall behind Cézar’s
desk. The one showing a ferocious black
Doberman with a bare-toothed snarl, and beneath him, a white male Toy Poodle
suspected mid-air at the end of the dobie's
cock - On the parquet flooring below them both, a puddle of cum and droplets of
blood.
The picture
said all that need be said, but if he need explain it to an inquisitive
visitor, he’d simply point to the caption below that read: "Think I give a shit!"
"How's
the coffee, Cézar?" Professor Tebogo asked as he came up from behind.
"Oh,
hello, my dear friend, how were classes today?" Cézar replied,
greeting his fellow Alum.
“Fine,
fine," he muttered while blowing on his steaming cup of coffee, and then
took up a seat alongside Cézar.
"Ah,
young Colin," he adds, taking note of his performance just a few yards
away. "He's a fine bitch, but I
swear, the boy seems to be getting denser by the day."
"Oh,
he had a particularly bad day today?"
Cézar asked between sips of his coffee.
"No,
no, he contributes as best he can. For
instance, this week his class is studying the relative speed and velocity of an
object in motion. 30 minutes of lecture
followed by 30 minutes of lab work in which the students are required to design
their own models and measure the results."
"Well,
the group in which Colin was a member chose to use a Photogate
infra-red light to start and stop a timer.
The six member team then had Colin kneel down on the lab table, set up
the timer and then struck a match under his puss. From the time it took for the flame to be
detected by the infra-red timer to the moment he screamed out was then measured
and compared to those of Mikel Chastain's performance
in the class before."
"In
Colin's case the relative speed was 0.7, or approximating the speed and
velocity of a slug slithering along a horizontal plane. Whereas the relative speed of Mikel Chastain was 3.82, or approximating that of a
bullet. Understand what I mean?"
Cézar laughed and shook his head. "Yes, I'm seeing more and more of that
in the boy too. Though I confess, his
increasingly enfeebled state of mind does nothing but add to the brilliance of
his performance." he said, with a nod toward Colin who was in the midst of
being battered by a monster of a cock while shooting his own load several feet
beyond.
"Hum,
yes, I agree. Of all the Pod whites, I
find him one of the sweeter fucks. In
fact, he's been known to get me off a second time within the hour."
Cézar and Professor Tebogo
continued on with their chat for a time, covering both the mundane as well as
more important school matters. Then a
short time later the 'gift sharing' came to an end, and the boys now satiated,
again turned their attentions back to the great outdoors for yet another game
of fotoball.
As they linger out they left Colin and Nils
behind to clean up their pusses before again rejoining them on the sidelines to
lead the cheers.
In passing
on to the bathroom, Colin was called over to where Cézar
and Professor Tebogo sat.
"Ah,
hello, my dear sweet boy,” Cézar greeted him. “Did the 'Tops' feed you enough nut Pâté to
satisfy that hungry cunt of yours boy? Huh?"
Colin
sashayed over with a long strain of that 'nut Pâté' seeping out of his ass,
leaving a slug-like trail in his wake.
He leaned down and gave Cézar a kiss on the
lips, then took hold of the napkin Cézar held up for
him to take. "Clean up you puss,
boy."
"Well
if you’ll excuse me, I've yet to prepare tomorrows assignments," Professor
Tebogo intruded, as he rose up and extended his hand
preparing to depart.
"Yes,
of course, Professor." Cézar took up his hand,
and when gone, he again turned to Colin who was holding out the clothe napkin
sopping with the viscous slop.
"Set
it on the plate." he told Colin, pointing to an empty plate sitting atop
the table. "I'll get you a spoon
and a cherry garnish to go with it soon enough, you hungry cunt. But first my balls are aching just from watching
you bridge the cultural divide with that sweet white Irish ass of yours,
boy. Come unzip my pants."
Colin had
been slow in response to the flame that lit up his ass, but when it came to
freeing up Cézar's cock, he did it with all the speed
of a half-starved whore. 5.2 seconds
after being asked, he had Cézar's cock swaying in
mid-air and his pants pulled down to his knees.
"Fine,
fine, now, hop aboard, boy." He
beamed while slapping his bare thigh, his cock standing bolt upright dousing
his navel with pre-cum.
Colin
straddled his legs and climbed aboard, again kissing Cézar
upon the lips while lining up his puss to welcome his enflamed cock.
"No,
no, boy. Just sit back and do like
this." He took hold of his cock in one hand and Colin’s cock in the
other. Then positioning the boy as he wanted, he pressed their cocks together, belly to belly,
forming a handlebar for Colin to grip and masturbate both cocks as one.
"Boy,
that's one thing I like about you." he panted while pointing to Colin's
rather substantial cock. It was very
impressive, even for a boy of his considerable size. "You've got yourself a man-size cock and
the abs that would do a gym-rat proud."
"Thank
you, sir," Colin cooed, quite taken by the compliment.
"Yes,
well, you ought to be proud. You need be
proud of that nasty snatch of yours too.
Never has a Rue Santara streetwalker owned a
nastier one."
Colin
nodded silently, letting his hands speak for him as he began to stroke their
combined cocks using the pre-cum as lubricant.
"Ah,
yes. Fine, fine, boy, now we can get
comfy, buddy-up, talk man to boy.” he winked with a grin. "So tell me, did those Gangsta Rappers feed you enough 'nut Pâté' to satisfy your
appetite?"
"Yes,
sir," he answered, hoping to placate the man just as he hoped to please
his cock.
Cézar had used him before, so he knew not
to expect an easy ride. But that aside,
anything would have been better than the shellacking his cunt
had just taken. Still seeping, swollen
and throbbing with pain, he felt a screw that’d been tightened to tight, and
the last thing he wanted was to rile Cézar.
"Did
you like it, boy? Did you like being
treated like shit?" Cézar hissed, tauntingly, prodding the boy, wanting to
tighten that screw still tighter.
Not at all
comfortable with Cézar's sudden change of tone, Colin
remained tight lipped. Instead he put a
little extra effort into soothing the beast.
With both thumbs together, he adjusted the glide path so that his gland
was sure to slid along the sensitive underbelly of Cézar's drooling purplish plum, making him purr.
No question
Colin was an artisan when it came to pleasing a man. In fact, Cézar
considered his skill set comparable to the best of whores, man or woman,
sauntering down the Rue Santara. There was a lot to like about the boy, but
what he didn’t like was being played.
"Ahhhhh, shit! Stop
playing me, boy! Cézar
barked, his face suddenly turned, now plastered with disdain for the boy he
felt was trying to waylay the inevitable.
"I
asked you a fucking question, boy," he scowled, causing his jowls to
redden. "You like being treated
like shit on a shoe?"
Colin
wavered a painfully long moment, still in struggle with himself. But the battle now long lost, he finally
found the means to gather himself up, and uttered, "I-I-I suppose,
sir".
It was a
painfully gut-wrenching admission. But
even as humiliating as it was to say, he know Cézar
would never let him be until he did.
"Suppose,
suppose, what kind of fucking answer is that?
Come on you fucking slug, cough it up.
I know you like the abuse, so man-up, say it!"
"Yes!" He finally admitted, "Yes, I like
it."
"That's
it boy. Embrace your Faggot. Like I do,
like your pod mates do, like your fucking daddy once did."
"No he
didn't," he wanted it known.
“What?"
he barked incredulously. "Your
daddy didn’t know you were a faggot? If
he didn’t, it was because he was either blind, or a dumber shit than you.”
"Yes,
he knew I was homosexual, but he said it disgusted him, he didn’t embrace
it. He said it was a bad thing and beat
me with a strap, especially after he found out about me and Barry."
"Ah,
finally the good stuff. Come, come,
boy. I want to hear it. Time to bear your soul! Who's Barry?"
"He
was a friend from school. We had
sleepovers all the time. I think I was
9, almost 10, when we started playing around and my father found out."
"He
beat you, boy?"
"Yes! A lot!
Anytime he though I was 'acting homosexual'."
Cézar laughed. “What in the hell was that supposed to
mean? Making googly-eyes
at some boy?"
"I
don't know, but he said he was going to beat it out of me before his
parishioners found out and I bring his live to ruination. He was a pious, religious man. A pastor at Saint Agathus,
so he'd beat me kneeling on the pew with my mom looking on, because, like my
father, she thought homosexually was the gateway to hell. Then when he found out about Mr. Sullivan, I
got beat ever worse."
"Mr.
Sullivan?”
"My
tutor, the retired proctor my father had hired."
"Your
daddy was a smart man. He not only had
you tagged as a fag, but a dumb shit too."
"I'm
not dumb. I got good grades. But my father believed getting good grades
just wasn't good enough for a pastor's son."
"Did
you like him, Mr. Sullivan?
There was a
pause. "No! He was mean and nasty
and made me want to vomit. I mean, his
face was cratered with pockmarks, and his nose hooked down like a beak. So, no, I didn't like him, but my father
did. Or at least he did until . .
."
"Until
what, boy, until your papa caught him sucking your cock?"
"Um,
well, kinda.
Actually he was fucking me when my dad walked into the room."
"He
was the man who took your virgin ass, huh?"
"Yes,"
he again turned away."
"Funny,
isn’t it? A pretty boy like you wants to
save his virgin ass for his prince charming and you get busted by an ugly
fucking toad." Cézar
chuckled. "Did you vomit, spew all
over his ugly blister face?"
"No,"
he uttered, still looking away.
"Good
boy, you learned early all that matters is a man’s cock and balls and not how
he looks. You must have liked him enough
though, because you didn't run off and turned you into a cock loving
faggot."
"No,
he didn't!" he perked back up.
"Like I said, I always like boys.
But with my father always preaching to me about the evils of
homosexually, I guess I was just too afraid to admit it.”
"Your
papa knew a homo when he saw one, huh?"
"Well,
he said he did, but he didn't know Mr. Sullivan was a homosexual. He was a reputable man and I think he thought
Mr. Sullivan was just a retired teacher who was just too ugly to get
married."
"Of
course my father told him about what had happened between me and Barry and said
if I didn't behaved or 'acted homosexual' he should punish me on the spot. He even gave him the belt he used on me,
giving him a free hard to use it how ever he wished."
"He'd
used it too, viciously, for no reason whatsoever. I mean, if I did anything he thought was the
least bit 'fag-like', he'd make me lay naked on the bed with my head down and
ass up with butt cheeks spread so he could strap my anus."
"Your cunt, boy," Cézar
interrupted.
"Yes,
my cunt. He'd
beat it hard too, telling me he need beat it to cure my affliction, my homo . .
.”
". . .
Your faggot, boy," Cézar again cut in.
"Yes,
my faggot-sexuality. He said he need
beat it out of me. To hurt me, plenty,
all the while telling me that was what faggots deserved. And if I didn't spread out my butt wide
enough, or let go, he'd start the beating all over again.
"That
went on for awhile before he started to fuck me. From then on it was beatings and fucking,
fucking and beatings. 'As punishment,'
he'd say. To hurt me because that was
what homosexually was all about.
Reiterating my father’s words, that "homosexually only means pain
and degradation."
"It
hurt, a lot, at least at first. But one
day all the pain just kinda just stopped hurting as
much. You know, like it had seeped
through my skin and became a part of me.
That's not to say he eased up any.
In fact, whenever my screaming grew less frantic, or the more I came to
accept the pain as part of who I was, he'd beat me all the harder. Even still, I wanted it. Especially the fucking, and the more I wanted
him to fuck me, the more he tried to hurt me because that was what I
deserved."
"That
went on until I was almost 16. By then
of course, I couldn't even get hard or cum without his dick up my butt."
"Probably
because he was fucking me everyday after school, I guess." he added with a
shrug. Sometimes 2, 3 times a day, which
was okay, I guess, because he fucked me a lot, and I liked it. But the bad side of it was that I had come to
depend on him to make me hard and cum.
Must often
he'd accommodate me, but sometimes he'd just pull out before I could cum. Not because he had lost interest in pummeling
my butt. He hadn't. He did it simply to hear me beg. To sneer at me with loathing, call me
disgusting and that I should be hurting, not enjoying myself. So if I wanted him to put it back in, I'd
first have to beg him to beat the faggot out of me.
So I'd beg,
and he'd blister my ass and like a desperately needy drug addict I'd take
it. No matter how hard the strapping I'd
embrace it. No matter how many fingers,
fists or thermos-bottles or whatever else he could stuff up my butt I always
got hard and would cum. In fact, the day
my father walked in and found out about us he had one hand stuck up my ass
while strapping my balls with the other."
"Ahhh, Damn boy! Cézar groaned as he
bust a nut, his cock shooting off like a geyser reaching up to coat Colin's
face. "Whoa! That was one hell of a story, boy," he
panted and then sat back to watch Colin clean his face and lick his hands
clean. Colin was smiling, seemingly
quite pleased with himself, though true to form, he hadn’t cum. For that, he needed a cock in his ass and a
whole lot of hurt.
Nonetheless,
Cézar did like Colin.
He was as pretty boy with a big cock, and with his spiked hair and
finely honed muscular frame he looked a delightful young man-bitch as well.
He also
enjoyed the telling of his story, though in all honesty, it was a story he'd
heard countless times before. In fact it
was a chorus song by all the podded white boys. A song they had learned to sing long before
they landed on the Academy's doorstep, and one of the principle reasons why
they were chosen over other application who wished to attend the school.
Of course
they are pretty as shit and love to be fucked too. But there is a difference between loving to
fuck and standing up to the shellacking the pod whites took. To do that requires a different sort of boy -
A boy who could only find the fulfillment in his surrender to the suffering.
Call it
what you will. Self-loathing, low
self-esteem or even penance, but whatever you call their gluttony for
punishment, it is the part of their make up that compels them to endure no
matter how severe the torment others dish out.
"The
fault of idiotic parents and a whacked-out, intolerant society," Cézar seemed to think.
"Their irrational beliefs that spawned intolerance and denied them
acceptance turning their gay sons like Colin into punching bags.”
"Though
thankfully, not all," he took hold of that one beam of light. "Most gays do find love and acceptance
from family and friends, but for the "Podboys"
of this world, life was a never ending cycle of embracing the punishment and
the subsequent suffering they come to associate with making love to another
man. (Side note: Just one mans view,
spoken by a man who still carries the scars.)
On that
thought he waved good-bye to Colin as the boy took his much used ass back out
to join the others in his pod, no doubt to be fucked many, many times more
before the day was done.
Cézar looked at his watch only then
realizing that his next meeting was scheduled to begin in 30 minutes. He returned his empty cup to the kiosk, and
after thanking the attendant with a handsome tip, he left the student Commons
as he had entered.
On his way
back to his office he was approached by Doctor Dutillet. In one hand he held some papers and in the
other, a jar.
"Cézar, I've been looking for you." He cried out from a distance, his voice as
sour as his manner. The gray haired and
perpetually cranky old man dressed in his lab coat, looked one part the caring
doctor and 9 parts the mad scientist two steps off the deep end.
"Yes,
yes, you have found me. What is it?"
"The
transfer papers for Julian Desjardins." he said as he handed the papers
over and then held up the jar giving it a slight shake. "And this is for Bon Mambo Serafine."
Cézar leaned in to give the tightly
sealed jar a closer look. “Yes, yes,
I’ll see that she gets it,” he said, then quickly turned back to the documents
to account for there accuracy. “And the
paper work, it's complete?”
"Yes,
of course. What do you take me
for?" he sounded off."
"Oh,
sorry my friend, I didn't mean to imply . . ."
"Yes,
well, rest assured all the T's are crossed and I's
dotted. In fact, young Julian is already
on his way this very moment, all comfy and snug as a bug."
"Hum,
Julian," Cézar smiled on reflection. "Such a delectable French treat. I shall miss him."
"Yes,
well, it was his mother, Chloé Desjardins, who
requested the transfer not me,” the doctor responded testily as if in
defense. “She said it was just a matter
of convenience now that she has taken up interim residence in
“Turrets,
indeed,” Cézar chuckled. “The cannons and other munitions are long
gone, thankfully, but the battlements themselves still stand guard. As you know, the Academy resides behind the
very same walls that once housed the notorious El Azib
slave processing center. That
insufferable 17th Century voice from our slave era past that now,
ironically, serves to educate the 1st generation of African boys to
enjoy the privileges of black rule.”
“How rich,”
the good doctor summed his thoughts, “from slave to slaver!”
“Personally,
I prefer to think of them as a new breed of Black youths. Boys who are valued more for the superiority
of their intellect and the strength of their character rather than the strength
of their backs! Boys who can be found
throughout the
“That’s
right, they are prepared thanks to the tools we arm them with here,” the doctor
continued to parry. “Arming those new-world masters of the universe with all
tools they need to win a seat at the table and always lie down the winning
hand.”
“Of
course,” Cézar followed, “and to the victor go the
spoils. Whether it’s fucking his
competitors in the corporate world, or dominating his bitch with his cock.”
“Well,
they’re getting one fine bitch in Julian Desjardins, I can testify to
that. Speaking of whom,” the doctor then
thought to ask. “When can we expect his
replacement to arrive?”
“Any
moment,” Cézar said curtly. “In fact I’m heading back to my office now,
so if you'll excuse me doctor . . ."
Cézar turned to leave, but stopped
mid-way to ask Doctor Dutillet something that had
just come to mind.
"Oh,
doc, I almost forgot. Christof Eichel called me and
said something about . . ."
"Harry
Barber,” the doctor completed his words for him. “The piss ant!” he hissed bitterly, “That
kraut, Eichel, is a fucking madman.”
“Yes, but a
madman I need, complaints I don’t. You
will call him, no?” he asked, hoping to quell the passion.
“Yeah,
yeah, but the next time he calls me a quack it’ll be his head in that jar and
not some asinine Vodou mumbo-jumbo!” Angrily the good doctor turned away and
stormed off back to his clinic, mumbling something about black magic and
gris-gris as he did.
“Chaos!
Fucking chaos,” Cézar muttered to himself
before he too turned to leave.
Cézar entered his office and walked over
to the brilliant mahogany and glass cabinet that stood beside his desk.
Inside were
several dozen jars identical to the one Doctor Dutillet
had given him all exquisitely showcased.
Withdrawing a small gold skeleton key from his coat pocket, he unlocked
the cabinet door and placed the jar alongside the another’s
sitting on the third shelf down.
He took a
moment to insure the label was aligned with the others, then
smiled as he noted the still unsettled, tick-tock sway of the article suspended
in the amber medium.
As he did,
he heard the sound of the vehicle he had sent to pick up Alex Beckett, the new Podboy to be, coming up the road. He hurried closed the cabinet door and
stepped out onto the adjoining balcony to watch the young man step out of the
vehicle, while the driver collected his bags before escorting him inside the
building.
Cézar thought the boy looked every bit as
sweet and lovely as the boy he saw attached to Ishmael’s cock in the
picture. Again he smiled to
himself. Then upon hearing the
approaching footsteps coming down the hall, he stepped back into his
office. His stride, hurried and heavy
caused the cabinet to rattle, while inside the cabinet, the disturbance caused
the rows of restless li'l bobs inside the neatly
aligned jars to sway in unison to the ticking of the office clock.
"Tick-tock,
tick-tock, tick . . . tock . . . tick . . ."
"Knock-knock!"
". . .
tock!"
"Yes,
please come in," he called through the door.
Pascal his
clerk walked in. “The new boy has
arrived, Monsieur Roché. Should I send him to the clothiers first?”
“Yes,
Pascal, the usual engagement attire, and send Fedji
to see me as soon as possible.”
------
Chapter 7:
New Obeah Boy
Alex's
Arrival
Dieter Fuhrman
was late for a meeting. He parked his
van in the space reserved for him outside the PEC Telecom building then
hurriedly dashed in the building still straightening his tie.
A moment
later a maintenance man dressed in coveralls and carrying a broom came up
alongside Dieter’s parked van. Slowly he
began to sweep around the vehicle while whistling a tone. Periodically he would pause, wipe his brow
and look about him as if to see who might be looking. Then standing alongside the passenger side
door, he pulled out a snap gun and bumped the lock, unlocking the door.
Leaning
inside, he quickly did the same to the lock on the Red Box attached to the
floorboard. As the box popped open he
retrieved the folder stamped PEC Telecom Logistics Keys, and then slowly left
the scene, whistling, just as he had entered.
Later that
evening Ishmael sat at a desk in a closed Insurance office somewhere in
Jozsef Gosz was
on the internet while typing a letter on the Word processor when Ishmael’s
program managed to weasel its way though his desktop firewalls to log into his
computer, all while the unsuspecting Mr. Gosz
continued to type away.
It was a
crowded environment to be sure, but hardly a problem for an old hack like
Ishmael. Inside of five minutes he had
downloaded over a thousand documents from his computer without a hitch in his
giddy up. It took but a minute more to
scan the documents he had retrieved to find the one he wanted. Aptly named, “passwords,” ten accounts were
listed, including the password that would give him access to his Majosi Bank, NA, account.
It was a
cold, grizzly night, the air heavy in advance of the coming autumn
snowfall. Standing outside the Oley
hotel, Ishmael was waving down a cab.
“Munich International, bitte” he told the
driver. Then as the black Mercedes’ cab
sped off down Babrielstube, he checked his
watch. From the moment he’d entered the Dasute Insurance agency to entering the cab, it had taken
him one hour to the minute to pocket over a two hundred and ninety grand.
-----
Meanwhile,
at the Baptiste du Pre
International boys Academy . . .
“Monsieur Roché, “Votre nouvelle tepette, (your new fag)!" Pascal announced, then swung open the door to make room for Alex to pass with Fedji's hand attached to his ass.
“Sa
ki tepette vle di?" (What means tepette)”
Alex whispered off to the side so Fedji might
hear. “Bèl
(great ass),” Fedji replied with a lie, only one
wrapped around a smile as sugar sweet as the boy in his grasp with the
irresistible ass.
Alex was
blushing like a tart with a schoolgirl crush.
Clearly he was smitten by Fedji, and for good
reason. Fedji
was nothing if not written into the definition of masculine beauty. Tall, lean and agile as a gazelle, the 19
year old coal black Haitian looked the perfectly honed machine. Then give that machine a face that gave
meaning to, “drop dead gorgeous”, and you know why Alex looked near faint, lost
in a swoon.
Alex felt
adrift, unaware of everything but Fedji's hand on his
ass. That is until Fedji
came to a stop and Alex again felt grounded and painfully aware of Cézar’s eyes dressing him down and out of what little he
had on. No swank black tie, no undies, just a uniform comprised of a sleeveless khaki
shirt sizes too small that exposed his navel, and a pair of khaki shorts cut
shorter yet. Cut so short the crotch
seam crowded his balls, and so high up his hips that half of his plump white
ass hung out on full public display.
His state
of dress, or undress, left him feeling shamefully bare, near naked, and when he
came to stand in front of Cézar’s desk, he fidgeted
anxiously, not knowing what to do with his hands, or the snippet of cock
peeking out from beneath those horrendously short shorts.
“I believe
your new pod-mate might like you, Fedji,” Cézar chuckled, raising the level of Alex’s unease, while Fedji, salvating like a
half-starved wolf, pinched Alex on the ass and lit up with a grin that showed
nothing but gleaming white teeth the width of his face.
“Ouch!”
Alex shrieked. “Wi,
mesye," (yes sir) Fedji
followed, as he combed his hand along Alex’s thigh, high up and so perilously
close.
“Yes, well,
if you do not already know Fedji is the head Top of
the Obeah Pod in which you are to be wed.
His English is not so good, but he’s a fine fellow and I'm told, quite
the heartthrob,” he winked, smiling broadly.
“Wed?” Alex
asked, his brows gathered, looking bewildered.
“Well, yes,
in a manner of speaking. We are one big
happy family. You might think of Fedji as the papa, your pod mates as you brothers. That would include the fellows who reside
outside your pod as well. In other
words, all two-hundred boys who attend this school are your brothers. Understand?”
“I think
so. We’re a family!” Alex nodded,
following the logic, the tension in the air lessened a bit.
“Good! Now, as a member of our happy family it is
your job is to make sure everyone is satisfied with your contribution to the
group. In other words, no grumpy
faces! As the saying goes, 'A sad puss
makes bad juju,' something that pisses off the Lwa,
and what you are here to prevent. We
call it, helping to bridge the cultural divide.
Papa Legba calls it good juju.”
“How you do
that is quite simple. You do it by
sharing what you have to give. Reason
being, sharing builds bridges, and in return, your brothers will share with you
all they have to give in abundance. We
call that gift sharing. Papa Legba calls that a repa kontan (a happy meal), and trust me there’s
nothing he likes better.”
“You
follow?” he asked and Alex acknowledged with a nod, though with a very
confounded look. His mind a mesh of
disconnected threads and worries over bad juju, happy meals and now, he now had
Papa Legba to worry about too.
“Good. Now, like in any household, there are always
rules you must obey. In your house there
are only 3. You must always love, honor
and obey your brothers. Simple! Follow the rules and you will not only avoid
conflict, but learn the value of fellowship within the broader community as
well. Make sense?”
“I
suppose,” he shrugged, more in the way of appeasement than understand a damn
word of it.
“Well, not
to worry, you’ll learn fast enough. If
not, don’t come crying to me. Every pod
is responsible for governing themselves.
No oversight, no intervention.
Likewise, you alone must meet the challenges using only the tools you
have at your disposal. Understand?”
Again he
nodded, though still not understanding and again feeling a tad restless he
ventured a quick look around. Taking
note of a small statue of a djab (a wild spirit),
standing beside a pin cushion atop his desk.
It didn't much to make the connection, knowing as he did that in the
hands of some, even a tiny straight pin can be
mightier than the sword.
“Huh! Well, just remember. Don’t come crying to me, or Papa Legba neither, because sure as shit happens, some sèvitè (a servant) is going take umbrage and stick a pin in
your eye and another up your raggedy-doll ass.”
he said with an icy glare while pointing at the
doll.
“Now then,
you know what is expected. As for what
else to expect, Fedji will see to it you are branded
with your Obeah tattoo tomorrow.
“Tattoo?"
his eyes spiraled up in panic mode.
“Yes, of
course, it's a symbol of group affiliation, a source of pride that unites them
together as brothers."
"Fedji !!"
he then called out, "show Alex your Obeah tattoo!” Which Fedji
promptly did, wearing that same shit-eating grin as he stepped forward and
rolled his sleeve up over the ball of his shoulder.
There,
penned in an array of colored inks, was a picture of a Cobra coiled around an a huge cock with a hefty set of balls hanging
beneath. His eyes were dark, piercing,
and his forked tongue danced among the droplets of creamy white cum that rained
down in an umbrella-like spray from above.
Alex stood
dumbstruck, his mouth gapping, noticeably disturbed by the sight of that
horrific tattoo.
“Lovely,
isn’t it?” Cézar looked on admiringly. As did Fedji, his
face lit up with pride. It was as though wearing that symbol of belonging to
the Obeah brotherhood made him a part of something bigger than himself. The logical side of his brain couldn't grasp
the importance of that to him. But to
the boy still hiding in the closet in fear of discovery, seeing Fedji's expression of pride in something so demonstratively
gay was nothing short of a transformative statement. A declaration to all that unlike him, Fedji was not, and would never be
a boy in hiding.
That was
what he saw written on Fedji's face. Empowerment!
That 'something bigger' that gave him license to wear his pride on his
sleeve. The free, liberated part of him
that had already captured Alex's heart, but now, made him impossible to say no
to - ghastly tattoo and all!
"Ou renmen (You like)?" Fedji smiled hungrily while eyeing the new boy, his boy,
who was about to make the evening meal.
Licking his lips, he immediately proceeded to ball up his fist and then,
leaning in, he began to flex his tattooed arm at a rhythmic pace. And along with that curling forearms rise and
fall, his sleeve-busting, tattooed bicep would rapidly
swell and deflate, swell and deflate, and swell yet again to the size of a new
born babies head. To Alex, the stunning
display of those fierce guns was nothing less than spellbinding. To Fedji it was
script torn straight from the pages of his 'playin-ur-boytoy'
playbook.
"Touché,
touché! (touch-touch)! Ou renmen (you like), Huh?" Fedji leaned in and nudged Alex, encouraging him to feel
the tightness of his bulging bicep.
"Yes,
yes, Fedji," Alex responded to the nudge and
began to run his fingers over top that massive ball of flesh as asked and
thought he'd hate, but instead felt his throbbing heart and an undeniable
feeling of adoration. A sort of hero
worship, the kind that rendered him purblind to all but the beauty he saw
beneath that ghastly tattoo. And then,
of course, there was his smile. It was
one of those 'think-I-give-a fuck' smiles, a boastful, prideful smile, the kind
that said all that need be said about who, and what he was. The kind of smile Alex loved, and again, made
him impossible to say no to.
"It's
big," he said of the massive bicep he felt beneath his fingertips, ".
. . and hard, and, and . . . beautiful!" He softly whispered.
"Yes,
it is beautiful," Cézar beamed, obviously quite
pleased. "That stamp means
everything to your Obeah brothers. It's
the stamp that binds them. Like a ring
bonds husband to wife. A leash bonds a
pet to his master. That's it! There's nothing more to it. Now, if you wish to join your Obeah brothers
and bond with Fedji you need tell me."
“I -
I," Alex stammered, while he shuffled about uneasily after having just
come to the realization that his praise for that pumped up bicep had been
mistaken for his love for that tattoo, something he'd not intended. Still in all, he'd already endured a life
times worth of anguish just to get to this point in his life, and while he was
still wallowing knee deep in uncertainty, in the end he knew he had but one
choice. He'd follow Fedji. To be like Fedji! -
That proud, flag waving, drop dead gorgeous perfectly honed machine - ghastly
tattoo and all.
"Well,
ah, I mean, you know . . , if I must . . , I mean, if Fedji
wants . . .I guess," he managed to hem-haw his
way through.
"Yes, Fedji wants," Cézar replied,
pointedly. "Of course you won’t be
wearing your tat on the ball of the shoulder like Fedji. That's his place of strength, his sweet spot,
much valued by the Gatekeeper, papa Legba. But don't worry, I'm sure Fedji
and the others will quickly have that sweet spot of yours nailed down just as
soon as they can whip out their hammers.
Am I right, Fedji?” he asked with conspiring
wink and a nod toward Alex’s half bare ass, hanging out like a flashy show
piece.
“Wi mesye! No-o-o pwoblèm!
(Yes, sir, No-o-o problem!),” he beamed his excitement while nodding his head
with great rapidity like a kid when offered a sweet treat.
"Now
then, any more questions?”
“Y-y-yes
headmaster, sir," he muttered.
"Wi, chica,
what is it?"
"I ah,
well, I was just wondering why we, us podboy's I
mean, why we don't wear khakis like Fedji?" he fumbled through
while pointing to Fedji’s smart Khaki uniform that
made him look quite the stunningly attractive Boy Scout.
“Yes, well,
your present attire isn’t for everyday use, rather a special one to celebrate
the occasion of your arrival. It's a
formal occasion after all, not unlike attending a baptism, or an unveiling, or
whatever. Personally, I think you look
rather well and good. So now that I've
answered your questions I believe we are ready.
"Fedji, if you would please stand alongside your new boy and
take his hand we will begin.” Which Fedji promptly did, turning to face Alex and taking up his hand.
“Good,
good. Now, Fedji,
do you take Alex as your pod-white to love and cherish
until the day you part?”
“M
fè!”
(I do!)” He trumpeted, licking his chops with eagerness.
“And do you
Alex, take Fedji and his Obeah brothers to love,
honor and obey until the day you part?”
“I-I-I,” he
stuttered, now looking thoroughly routed, his voice
nowhere to be found.
“Fine!
Then I pronounce you wedded Obeah Top and podboy. You may kiss, and then it's off you go and
celebrate the union.
Fedji pressed in close and wrapped his
arms around Alex, his hands grabbing hold of his half-bare buns to give them a
squeeze. Leaning down, he devoured him
with his lips. His tongue probing deep,
feasting on his new white podboy until getting his
fill, he withdrew his tongue and began licking the length of his face. From lips to his brows in one long wet swipe,
like a lion licking his cub.
Alex was
breathless, like a kite caught by a breeze and lost in a spin. And when Fedji
pulled him by the hand out the door, it was as though the kite was sent
windborne, blown down a path that led to . . . that led to . . .
“Fedji! Where are we going?” Alex called out, winded, coming to a sudden
stop in route to the Obeah pod.
“Where
go?" he managed, struggling though his rudimentary grasp of the
language. “Go? Go pod!
Bed! Come,
come, you go!”
“But-but-but,
Fedji,” he felt himself pulled along again by that
fierce wind that refused to let go of his hand.
Over the red clay path etched between the barbed Catsclaw
and Bloodberry, until . . .
Until, they
approached the courtyard that fronted the hut where twenty black Haitian boys
from Grand ‘Anse stood waiting bare ass naked. Cheering and strutting around with bloated
cocks slightly curved up and swaying heavily like long leathery elephantine
trunks.
“Ou tann, ou
tann!
(you wait, you wait!)”
Fedji shouted at them, one hand waving wildly
above his head as he carved a path through toward that red clay hut, dragging
Alex along inside. With Alex in tow, he
raced across a sitting room, passed a study and into the billet lined with its
rows of beds. Behind them, a long line
of walking, talking, bloated cocks followed, awaiting,
anxiously.
“Fedji!
Is this were I sleep?” Alex asked, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, staring into
what surely had to be his worst imagining come true.
“Sl-eep?” he asked, turning over the pages of the English
text etched in his head. “Wi (yes), Sleep,” he said after having found the word. “Aprè!
(After!),” he then thought to add, grinning.
Then he wrapped Alex up and hoisted him up over a shoulder, carrying him
like a sack over to the closest bed, where upon he dropped him, belly down ass
up.
“Ou rete (You stay)," Fedji huffed, hurriedly removing his Khaki shorts while the
others gathered round and Alex, again blown by that fierce wind was set adrift
amidst a roomful of bloated black Haitian cocks and the near riotous shouting,
back slapping, fist-bumps, et al.
One part of
him wanted to fight against that stiff breeze, get to his feet and run, run,
run. But there was another part of him
too. The part of him that had seen Fedji's face when showing him that tattoo. The pride he felt in belonging to something
bigger than himself. It was that pride
that empowered him and what Alex 'loved' about him - and again, why he couldn't
say no to him then, just like he couldn't say no to him now.
High-fives
and fist bumps abound when Fedji stuffed a pillow
under him to prop up his ass and then spread his legs before hopping
abound. He placed one hand on the small
of Alex's back and with the other, he reached down and
grabbed hold of the crotch seam that ran between Alex's parted legs. With a tug, he pulled the fabric up and out,
and then with a crazed grin, he leaned down and ripped the fabric apart with
his fucking teeth! In one ferocious
chomp he had opened up an expressway to his asshole.
But those huge
gleaming white choppers of his weren’t done yet. The young lion had his prize, but now feeling
the need to taste him as well, he opened his mouth full-wide and bit down on a
meaty chunk of his ass.
“Aaaah Shit!!! What are you doing? What are you doing?” Alex wailed. His cheeks wet with his tears, his eyes
darting wildly around the room - Watching as those around cheered, and pointed
at to the red embossed imprint of all 32 teeth smiling back up of them.
“Do-ing?”
Fedji asked as he ran though the list of verbs
running through his head. “I did-he
does, I, ah, I . . . yes! I do!” he
beamed. “I do fuck! Fedji fuck you butt
goo-o-o-o-d.” He beamed, as he slapped his huge cock
atop his ass. Then spreading his cheeks
he hawked up a wad and split on his hole.
“B-b-but
everyone is watching?” Alex screeched like a cat on fire, searching for
something, anything to escape the pain he knew was coming.
“Yes, yes, Naruto, he watch!” He called out
the name, “Naruto he fuck butt tou
(too)!” he followed with a fist-bump and a chortle from the slugger swing his
long black, thick-vained bat against Alex’s ear.
“Naruto?”
Alex cried, the anguish written in his eyes.
“No, no . . .”
“Wi, wi
(Yes, yes), and Fidèle, Alphé,
Najac” he calls out the names of those standing close
in, with a fist-bump and a “bro” following each “. . . and Mathieu, and Olgues, and Jean-Claude, and . . . tout (all) Top’s fuck podboy butt. You
like. You wait.” He giggled, as he busily aligned his cock up
with Alex's tight, unbroken hole, and then without so much as tease, he grit
his teeth and drove down with all his weight, slamming that hefty slab of meat
half way to the balls in one fell swoop.
“Ahhh! Ow, ow OOooo . . ”
A perfectly honed machine!
That’s how Alex thought of him, and you only need see him in motion, in
beast mode, to know how true that was.
His thighs,
his ass were as exquisitely sculpted as any Lachasie
male form cut from black marble. Hard,
smooth, sinuous, his long striated muscles uniformly swelled and tightened the
length of him as though one solid propulsion machine designed with one purpose
in mind. To provide the torque and power
to drive his cock up some sweet boy’s ass with all the precision of a Porsche
power train. Vroom!
And fuck
him he did. Hard, unrelenting, 60 plus
RPM per minute, every fucking stroke balls deep, then back up that 78mm (3”)
wide bored out cylinder for 10 . . . 12 . . .15 minutes, a 3 mile sprint
without pause. Alex shrieked, sweat
flew, the bed rocked nonstop and until he roared like a god damn madman busting
a nut.
And then Fidèle hoped aboard to continue where Fedji
had left off, starting the instant Fedji stepped
around to have his cock licked clean.
Fidèle was no less relentless, no less
fierce. With his cauliflower ear and the
face of a fourth rate boxer he wasn't exactly someone to write home about, but
man could the brute fuck. His huge low
hanging balls bounced off his ass like a cue ball off a cushion, while his
massive thigh and gluteus muscles rhythmically thumped – thumped - thumped like
a tribal drumbeat.
He fucked
hard, his manner as brutish as a rutting Doberman, and buried beneath him,
Alex. The small white poodle who
struggled just to hold on, and then as that breeding black bull bust his nut up
his lily white ass, he too came like a geyser venting a gusher of steam.
Then it was
Pascal’s turn to go for the deep plunge; followed by Mathieu, then Alphé and then the lineup that followed until the break of
dawn. The moment Ishmael walked in to
see how young Alex had fared. He found
all of them asleep, and in the middle, sleeping like a baby, Alex, with a cock
still in his ass, one in each hand and a puddle of nut-juice pooled on the floor. But more importantly, he found him as he knew
he would - With a contented look etched on his face!
He smiled
and thought to come back later, and perhaps, if he was lucky, catch a piece of
his sweet ass before they served it up for dinner.
Ding-ding-ding,
Fedji rang the bell.
“Come this
way Brotha Tops.
Succulent white podboy ass with taters and
peas . . .”
“Dinner is
served!”
-----
Chapter
8: Rosemary’s Visitation
Ding-dong!
Struggling
to find her footing, Rosemary dragged herself up off the cough and slowly managed
her way toward the door. Her brain felt
like mush and her crinkled, slept-in dress and unpinned hair looked the train
wreck she felt. Upon reaching the front
door she stopped to quickly bring some semblance of order back to her
appearance before looking to see who was there.
“Good
morning, madam,” Cézar beamed with hat in hand.
“Rosemary,
please,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“It’s early. Would you care for
some coffee?”
“Sounds
lovely, Rosemary,” he replied, not wanting to tell her it was well past
He followed
her through to the kitchen/dining area, and in passing he saw a blanket on the
couch where she had slept. Atop the
kitchen table, he saw a half depleted bottle of 100 proof
Clairin, another empty and still another
unopened. He sat down at the table and
waited as she continued on into the kitchen to pour each a cup of warmed-over
coffee she had left in the coffeemaker from the night before.
“Sugar,
cream,” she asked, taking a seat across from him.
“No, no,
thank you,” he said as he took a sip of his and watched as she topped off her
cup with what remained of that rotgut liquor before downing the cup. “Well, I hope you’re finding our guest-pod
accommodations pleasant.” He then asked as she sought to open the unopened
bottle of the Clairin.”
“Oh,
yes. It’s lovely, just lovely, thank
you. It’s spacious and that courtyard
with all the flowers,” she looked out through the sliding glass doors and onto
a yard that looked a sea of lush green perennials. Centering the yard was a table around which
three boys sat.
She sat
resting her chin on her hand pondering the beautiful array of colors when
another boy walked through the gate. He
stopped to chat with his seated pals for a moment, and then walked off toward a
small one room windowless hut located in the far end of the courtyard where
Alex slept separate and apart from his mother.
“Well, we
do wish our guests to feel comfortable,” he cut into her thoughts. “Although I can see you’ve been quite busy.”
He followed with a nod toward the boys sitting outside. Rosemarie sighed, and once again reached for
the bottle to refill her cup, only this time sans coffee.
“Oh yes,
all night long, the coming and going . . . and the noise right beneath my
window,” she managed before chugging down half the cup. “You see where I slept,” she nodded toward
the couch.
“How
unfortunate,” he commiserated. “The
noise from outside, disturbed your sleep?” he then asked while watching a
previously unseen boy emerge from Alex's hut still buttoning up his khaki
shorts.
“Mhmm,” she mumbled, “heavens yes. I know how they love to play cards. At school, here, wherever they gather, but
honestly, I don't know what there is about a simple game of cards that could
account for such rambunctious behavior. I
mean, the shouting, the hysteria, the high-pitched shrieking, like kids being
stung by a swarm of bees. It was almost
as maddening as the incessant pounding upon the furnishings and the thump,
thump, thumping sound that reverberated off the walls the night long.
“Card,
Huh?” Cézar sighed, somewhat relieved. “Well, what can I say? Boys will be boys. I know you are staying just for the holiday,
but still they need be more courteous.
Perhaps I should speak with them.”
“No, no,”
she sounded quite adamant. “I want his
friends to feel welcome, and I wish to give them the space to have fun. Besides, everyone gets along so nicely.”
“And Alex,
how is he holding up having all his friends around?”
“Honestly,
I really don’t know.” Rosemary replied.
“I’ve not spoken to him since Friday night. But if I know my son, I’m sure he enjoys
being the center of attention and probably can’t get enough of it.”
“You
haven’t looked in on them?” Cézar expressed his concern.
“No, should
I have?” she asked. “I didn’t because I
want to afford them some privacy.
Besides, I figured when they got hungry they’d come out and I’d get my
fill of them.”
“Huh! He
said, creasing his brows. “Do you mind
my having a look to see how he’s doing?”
“No, not at
all, I’ll cook a little something should anyone care to come up for air to
eat.”
“Don’t
trouble yourself, Rosemary. Let them
fend for themselves.”
“Prepare
breakfast for themselves?” she asked.
“For you,
Rosemary, as a courtesy if nothing else,” he sought to clarify.
“For
me? Oh my, what a lovely thought. I could only wish, Mr. Roché,”
she said with a sigh, and then stood up to go to the kitchen.
“Alright
Rosemary,” he put the matter to rest, but not out of his thoughts where her
response continued to linger. “Yes, well
then, if you’ll give me a moment . . .” Cézar
gathered himself up then stood and stepped outside to make his way to Alex's
hut.
Opening the
door he peered inside and he saw several boys asleep on the floor and several
others sleeping in chairs around the card table. But most revealing of all was the sight of
Alex asleep upon the bed amidst a tangle web of body parts belonging to three
others. And centermost was Alex. His rutted asshole the focal point that
framed the picture, and above it, his new Obeah tattoo.
The tattoo
reached from the small of his back to the crack of his ass. Above the green cobra’s head it read “Obeah Pussyboy,” while below it, there hung a hefty set of balls
and a long red forked tongue that slithered down to, and between, the crack of
his ass.
It was a
fierce, nasty looking piece, more than enough to scare the shit out of his
mother, much less Alex had he been able to see it. Cézar on the other
hand thought it was a majestic piece.
Certainly the depiction of the serpent spirit was particularly
noteworthy he thought, especially the work that went into the creation of his
long red forked tongue. They had placed
it so whenever his ass cheeks quivered the tongue would appear to wag about as
if in the act of speaking.
He was also
rather impressed by its size. Clearly it
was bold enough to be seen beneath his clothes from some distance away had he
been wearing any, and most certainly by his mother had she ventured a look.
On one side
of Alex lay Fedji.
His long, thick black cock lay draped across Alex’s thigh like a long,
sagging black sausage, and on the other side of Alex lay Najac. His trunk-like black cock was still butting
up against his ass. Red, swollen, and
half-open, it was still leaking like a drain pipe.
But the big
surprise was seeing Jomo Cazelar
leaning up against the headboard, his head drooping down sound asleep. Alex lay between his out stretched legs, his
head lying upon his thigh and alongside his cock that ran the length of his
face.
Jomo belonged to the Rasta Bosses and
member of the Delmar gang called the Rat Army, a long time foe of the Danger
Boys, the gang with whom Fedji had been
affiliated. It was good to see that in
this particular circumstance, harmony was the order of the day. Alex obviously had done his job well.
Walking
back into the kitchen he could hear fresh coffee percolating and the smell of
warmed-over gravy she had reheated to go with the leftover biscuits from the
night before. Rosemary was sitting at
the table nursing an injured hand she had accidentally burnt on the stove.
“Oh my,
allow me to help, Rosemary,” he said as he came up alongside. Taking up a pat of butter from the butter
dish nearby, he began to spread the butter on the slight, superficial burn on
her wrist.
“The boys
have settled down, yes?” she asks, her tattooed tit all but hanging out in open
display.
“Yes, they
are resting.” He smiled warmly as he gently tried to comfort her. “You know something, Rosemary? You truly you are gifted to have such a
special boy. The boys all love him. But I’m sure you know that already.”
“Yes,” she
said with a sigh, though he could see in her eyes that her thoughts were
elsewhere. “Caught up in the moment,” he
thought. “Or, perhaps it was a
combination of things.” The liquor,
matters regarding her son, or perhaps, it was simply her reaction to his gentle
touch. The soothing relief brought on by
his fingers that were now kneading a broader area along her arm adjacent to her
tit to ease the tension and counterbalance the bodies natural inclination to
tense up when hurt.
“Well, it
is obvious where Alex got his warm and giving heart,” Cézar
followed. “I just wish every boy had
such a loving, caring mother. If he is
an angle, then you, Rosemary, are the angel’s guardian.”
“Kisa ki te
pase?
(what has happened),” Jomo called out from
behind. Cézar
looked up to see Jomo standing behind, and except for
a Damballah sachet dangling from a gold chain worn
around his neck, he was bare ass naked.
The long black cock hung down heavily by its weight half-way to his
knees.
“Momma Alex
was preparing a breakfast and has hurt herself,” Cézar said to the boy.
“Oh, moms pòv (Oh poor moms), he cried, as he came up and stood
alongside, the pendulum-like sway of his cock inches away from her face. Then taking off the Damballah
sachet he wore about his neck, he opened it up and sprinkled out a small mound
of a brownish powder onto his open palm and sang out as if in prayer.
“O'wa Papa” (Oh Papa), “Pote bon sante ak
konfò (bring good health and comfort) to Moms
Alex. I Share the offering, I share the
offering,” he recited while he placed his open palm in front of her nose, and
then with a twinkle in his eye he puckered up like a blowfish and . . . blew!”
“Fffffffffffff Poof!” He blew upon
the powder, causing a cloud of dust to engulf her face.
Rosemary
grew dizzy and her mind was set adrift.
She clenched her eyes tight then coughed and sputtered while Cézar and Jomo looked on
smiling. When again she opened her eyes,
it was like looking through a red-filtered, fisheye lens. One might imagine the image as something you
might see reflected in a convex mirror, the sort found between the aisles of a
convenience store, or in this case, through the eyes of the serpent.
As she
looked up she saw Cézar peering in closely as if
examining her eyes. His distorted
wide-eyed, grinning face magnified ten-fold filled her view, while the rest of
him receded in size into the backdrop.
She shifted
her eyes to the side and again, Jomo’s cock loomed
thick veined and heavy. Only now the
distortion optics made it appeared 10 fold larger than his receding torso, and
so near she could see the moist remnants of a recent fucking. Its Intoxicating aroma surged through her
with a rush, leaving her body wracked with the sensation of an approaching
orgasm.
The
sensation that coursed throughout her body was simply exhilarating, unlike
anything she’d ever felt before. And it
didn’t come to her in the way of a craving or an urge either, but seemed to
come from some fundamental circuit within, as if hardwired, as primal as the
need to breathe. His cock so vital as to
be programmed in, like a command line build into that circuit giving her no
choice but to follow.
Once more,
everything she saw was coming through in waves.
All she perceived seemed to ripple and shimmer and breathe, reducing her
reality to a sequence of warped, flicking scenes. Sometimes in ways that approximated reality
and sometimes like some bizarre drug induced dreamscape in which she was left
to wonder.
“Yes, yes,
I see she has arrived safely in the arms of Damballah,”
Cézar said.
“Yes, she
is in safe hands now,” Jomo replied, then looked
outside toward Alex's hut where he heard the renewed creak of bed springs and
the knocking of the headboard. The boys
out on the patio heard it too, and immediately dashed off toward the hut to
join the queue.
“I think I
go back now,” Jomo said to Cézar
with a nod toward the sliding glass doors.
“Yes, I
think she will be well now.” Cézar answer back, and
then after giving it a moments thought he added, “Perhaps Moms would like to go
look too, huh?”
“Yes, lift
her spirits, I think,” Jomo beamed, again looking at
Rosemary, her eyes riveted to the tick-tock, near hypnotic sway of his cock
inches away from her nose. Tick, tock, tick....
“Come
moms,” Jomo followed, taking her hand while Cézar helped her to stand and then steady her as they
slowly led the way.
From
Rosemary’s perspective, her new contorted world view warped her perceptions to
such a degree that the distinction between illusion and reality was lost to
her. Her only remaining refuge was the
sight of Jomo's cock - that eerily red filtered,
distorted image she seemed hardwired to follow, while its hypnotic,
metronome-like sway led the way until they came to a stop in front of Alex's
hut.
Inside, she
saw the faces of 9 naked boys, all of whom were rolling over in hysterics upon
seeing her. “Come moms,” Jomo encouraged while helping her to sit upon a chair that
fronted Alex’s raised ass atop of which sat his new tattoo.
“Moms,” the
boys greeted her, stroking their cocks around the curved periphery of her
vision, while dead center and magnified 10 fold, her son’s ass was propped up
by a support pillow. And then there was
that green headed serpent tattoo atop his ass that seemed to be smiling at
her. His long red forked tongue snaked
out between close-set eyes that seemed as aware and full of life as the boys
poking their cocks in her face.
Then
emerging out from the periphery Fedji peered in, his
grinning, magnified face, obscuring all else from view.
“U’s
like watch, moms, huh? U’s likes see Fedji fuck Alex boy?”
He asked, he grinned, he leaned-in closer yet
to make his intentions known. “Wi, wi
(Yes, yes), I hears U’s, moms, I hears U’s.
No problems,” he added, sounding quite confident while projecting a
sense of cockiness that somehow fit that ostentatiously proud, drop dead
gorgeous perfectly honed ‘fucking’ machine;
A machine with the power, the skill and the equipment to stir
trepidation in the heart of any woman, man or boy, like Alex, whose world he
was about to rock.
”No worry, moms.
Fedji shows U’s,” he said before straightening
back up and coming about to front her son's rear raised high over the
bolster. Then like the consummate
showman he was, he promptly slapped his massive black cock atop her son's
lily-white ass before shuffling his own finely honed ass slightly off the side
to provide Rosemary her clear, unobstructed view.
“U’s
sees, moms?” he beamed while pointing at the gapping, red rimmed grotto. “Dous (Sweet),” he
uttered with a balmy inflection as he hands ran along his quarry’s flacks as if
to settle a young filly before taking her for a ride. “And (Mou) Soft,”
he continued to adulate, “and (swa lis) silky smooth, like a glove (tankou
gan)!”
“U’s be fyè (proud), moms, Alex boy's ass trè
byen (very good) pussy,” he followed as he aligned
the helmeted head of his cock to the gaping hole to fuck him. All the while looking and grinning at her as
he slowly squeezed that plum-sized head in an inch or two before pulling back
out to strike up a pose. With shoulder
bowed back and hips thrust forward, all 29cm of his hefty slap of meat was
posed like an arrow aimed at the bull’s eye - Alex's rutted out, silver dollar
sized hole!
“Bèl (nice), huh, moms?" Fedji
grinned. "Alex boy good fuck
boy. See!” he followed with a sweeping
showman-like gesture of his arm over the top of her sons raw, red hole. “Now I fuck Alex boy pussy good for you
moms.”
And
commence to fuck him he did! Ruthlessly,
like a bull in rut. His huge balls
banging out a rhythm off Alex’s ass, while the sloshing, whooshing sound that
billowed out her sons ass stirred the orgasmic sensation percolating up from
her loins. A sensation that now consumed
her, growing all the more intense as the minutes rolled on - as the tens of
minutes sailed past - as he fucked her son with reckless disregard to all but
his pleasure. But always standing
slightly to the side to insure “moms” got her good clean view.
“Look you
see, moms," yet another boy nearby clamored excitedly. “No hands!
No hands!" he shouted.
"Alex boy cums moms, no hands, just like
you!” he wildly bounced about while pointing toward the tiny white bead
bubbling up out of the tip of "Alex boy's" cock.
But for all
the horseplay, Fedji remained manically on
stride. Again and again he reamed out
that hole on the in-stroke, and wore it like a rose-pink sweater sleeve on the
outstroke. Like a pile driver on speed, Fedji grunted, Alex whimpered and that headboard pounded a
thump, thump, thumping rhythm against the wall, until pulling out to show
“moms” her sons newly rutted out hole - a dark, red rimmed cavern from which
his deposited cum poured down upon the bed like a stream of curdled milk from
the spout of a creamer.
“See, moms,
Alex boy good fuck,” he turned around to say while pointing toward Jomo who was already saddling up and aligning his hefty 11
inches amidst a riot of high 5's and cheers before putting it in gear and
punching the pedal to the freakin' metal. Vroooom!
"Trè byen, Trè
byen" (Very good, very good), Fedji laughed as he turned back around to face 'moms' and
then pressed his sopping, smudge-ridden cock up to her lips.
“Ou pwòp" (You clean), moms,”
she heard him say through the chaos that cluttered her brain.
The
distorted optics that were now her reality rolled though her psyche in
wave-like surges, creating a motion that seemed to transform Fedji’s cock into a living, breathing entity all to its
own. While beyond, the red forked tongue
of the tattooed serpent spirit looked to be speaking his mind.
“Honor the Lwa,” that tattooed serpent seemed to be saying,
encouraging her to open her mouth.
"Louvri, louvri,"
(Open, open) that blotch of ink grew more insistent and then beamed a smile
broader yet when she did open up to swallow that black plum whole. From her son’s ass to her mouth went the slime
and the sludge with a swirl of the tongue, and when she had swallowed his junk,
the orgasmic sensation she felt within her went off like a stick of TNT. KaBOOM!!!
Her mind,
her body rocketed skyward, and when she have reached the apex of that flight it
was as though her she could see the heavenly gates before her, the gatekeeper -
that great serpent spirit - sitting alongside the gate greeting her with what
appear to be an all too real wink and a nod of approval.
“His
approval!” No longer was he just some red-filtered,
optically distorted image she couldn’t comprehend. Now, that serpent spirit was as real to her
as the psilocybin that had fractured the mindscape.
“Isit la (Here),” she heard someone call from beyond, and
shifting her vision that way, she saw a boy placing another pillow beside her
son.
“Put moms
here . . .”
“Yes, yes,”
Cézar called out.
“Let me help you moms,” he reached out to support her. And then when comfortably seated beside her
son’s raised ass, he pointed to where the serpent spirit’s tongue snaked down
to the crack of his ass.
“That’s it
moms,” Cézar consoled. “Now just rest your chin righted here, beside
the serpent spirit to welcome the dawn of your rebirth.
Her
"rebirth, rebirth," his words reverberated about in her head, making Cézar's words all too frightening real. But that it was said of her was so insanely
unreal as to be the product of a nightmare.
Yet, how else could she explain the unintelligible, phantasmic
landscape that now defined her new mind-bending reality.
It was a
change in her world that couldn't have been any more thorough, more dramatic,
or have happened any quicker had she placed a revolver to her head and pulled
the trigger! Pow!
In an
instant she had gone from an ex-stewardess, consummate drunk, and mother to a
son held captive by his own desires, to her having transformed into something
'other' than the woman she once was.
What that
'other' was she didn't know. There
simply was not enough left of the rational world to figure that out, much less
raise a single cogent thought. Only the
sight of Jomo’s cock and the subsequent orgasmic
bliss remained to compel her forward like a mindless, aimless dead to the world
zombie. An undead entity simply there to
follow a script, while Cézar looked on and Jomo once again leaned down, and with a wicked amount of
that brownish powder sitting in his open palm, he fronted her nostrils and . .
. Blow!
POUF!!!! And she was gone, gone, gone!
“I’m next,”
shouted Alphé as he stepped up, hopped upon the saddle
and drove all ten inches up Alex’s ass, literally, under her nose. Alphé fucked his
ass like a mad dog, using her hair as a handle and the drool from her mouth as
lubricant. And when he couldn’t hold
back a moment more and was ready to shoot his wad . . .
. . . “louvri (open), moms!” he said as
he pulled out his cock. “I manje Moun k'ap
veye" (I feed the Gatekeeper), he beamed a
wicked smile skewed a tad to the lopsided.
----
Chapter
9: Home Is Where the Spirit Lies
Paddock
Police Station, London Detective Stan Wimple was sitting in his office going
over his notes when chief inspector Morris walked in. “Good Morning,
“Yes
sir. Well, as you already know Mr.
Thomas Jones brought to our attention a severely damaged hard drive he found at
his place of work. As he reported the
incident, the previous night he was outside taking a smoke break on the decking
of the Morris Cable building located at the foot of Old Wharf Lane where he
works as a night watchman.”
“About 5
minutes into his break he saw a man walking the promenade along the
“Mr. Jones
then went on to explain that the gentleman in question tossed it high enough to
clear the wall, but not high enough to clear a row of nearby river
pilings. As a result the item in
evidence hit one of the posts, and ricocheting off it landed atop another. And as good fortune would have it, the piling
it landed upon was close enough to the levy wall that he was able to retrieve
the item once the gentleman had departed.”
“Mr. Jones
couldn’t provide a better description of the man?” Inspector Morris asked.
“Unfortunately,
not! It seems it was a bit too dark to see much
else in detail. But the cabby did.”
“He came by
cab?”
“I’ve yet
to discover how he happened there, but after departing the scene the gentleman
did flag down cab number 883 on the corner of Old Wharf Lane and Mayfield a
half block away. Mr. James Butler, the
driver, said the man asked to be taken to Heathrow and was dropped off in front
of the international terminal at
The driver
described the gentleman as black, approximately 6-3, 6-4,
220-230 pounds, well dressed and spoke English with an accent. Unfortunately, the gentleman said little more
than where he wanted to go. Not enough
to determine where he might be from, but enough to know he wasn’t British and
probably from the
“Oh? And
how was he able to determine that?”
“The
manner in which he pronounced Heathrow. Apparently he
has a neighbor from
“And
forensics, what have they to say?”
“Very
little and quite a lot actually. They were able to determine that the
destruction of the drive was intentional, and it was done with some sort of Thermite devise designed specifically to burn a hole
through the drive to render it unrecoverable.”
“They call
it a very professional job, but enough of the boot sector remained untouched to
determine that the drive booted to a command prompt as opposed to an operating
system. In other words, the possibly
uses for this drive were quite limited, and when combined with the fact that
it’s an extraordinary small capacity drive, makes it suitable for use only by
someone with a specific purpose in mind.
Say a computer technician or by someone with nefarious purposes in mind,
but certainly not by a layman.”
“So what
have we got, enough to go on?”
“Well, not
all that much, but yes, I think so. Only
two international flights departed after
“Oh?”
“Yes, the
name David Grant, a
“All well
and good, but in truth you don’t even know if
“Well, yes,
I’ve considered that. And what I’ve
found is that of all the airlines operating out of the
“Now, it
isn’t for me to say he is our man, but just given the probability I don’t see
how we can afford not to pursue the lead.
I mean, over the course of the last 18 months someone using the exact
same method of operation has looted the equivalent of over 3 million pounds
(4.8 million U.S. dollars) from banks and private accounts worldwide. 200 hundred thousand of which was stolen from
Global National just two hours before he was spotted trying to dispose of the
drive. That makes him number one on my
most wanted list.”
“Huh! Well then, what would you propose we do?”
“I’d want
to go to
“Yeah,
okay. Just be careful.”
“How’s
that, chief?”
“
-----
Meanwhile
back in
Rosemary
Beckett woke up in her bed. The peace
and quiet soothed over her like a balm, and the pleasantness never felt
better. It was the first time since her
arrival she’d slept on the bed, and as she stretched out to savor the
luxuriousness, she found herself wondering why that was so. Especially given the cloud like comfort she
wished she could remain embedded in forever.
She rose up
out of bed never feeling brighter or more chipper. Slipping on a robe, she made her way toward
the bathroom near dancing on her toes, wondering what it was she did the night
before that brought with it such a euphoric feeling. She felt sure it would come to her, but at
the moment she didn’t even remember going to bed.
Upon
reaching the bathroom, she turned on the hot water to dampen a face clothe and
wash the sleep from her eyes. “How wonderful,” she thought to herself
as she lifted her head to look into the mirror where she saw staring back out
at her the white painted skeletal face of papa Legba.
“AAHHHHH!”
she screamed out in horror as she fell to the floor. She was trembling, shaking in fear, the
nightmarish image still lingering in her mind’s eye. She braved a touch of her face finding
everything as it should be. But she
couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow she still hadn’t woken up. That the euphoric state of mind she woke up
to was just an illusion, and that shortly, she’d wake up to the world-class
hangover and the shit pile of grief that always greeted her in the morning.
She got
back up on her knees and cautiously crawled back over to the sink, and then
pulled herself up to look again into the mirror. From all she could see, she looked right with
the world. But no matter how good she
looked, she couldn’t escape the unsettled feeling that still haunted her. It was a jittery, unsure feeling not unlike
standing upon a perilous ledge. A
feeling that caused her to gasp and jump with a start when she heard somebody
called out from behind.
“Morning,
moms,” she heard a boy say. Turning round and saw a number of boys standing
immediately behind her, just inside the door to the bathroom. All stood in a regimented line dressed
smartly in their Khaki uniforms. And
centering the group stood Alex, her son, looking quite the stunningly
attractive Boy Scout dressed in his khakis.
“I’m
sorry,” she apologetically tried to cover her unease. “I-I-I didn’t hear you
coming,” which she hadn’t. Not an
utterance! Absolutely nothing over and
about the sound of her own heart! It was
as though they had appeared from out of nowhere.
“No worry,
moms. We comes like U’s asked,” the boy
said.
“I asked?”
she questioned her memory, having absolutely no remembrance of having even met
the boy before.
“Yes, moms,
for breakfast, like U’s ask.”
“But I-I-I
don’t remember.” She stammered. "I-I-I didn't know you were here. Where did you come from," she followed
while pointing toward all the boys piling-up outside in the hall. A dozen? Two? She couldn’t count nor could she fathom how
all those boys could have possibly been in the house all this time without
having heard them.
“No
worries, moms. Obeah boys make good
breakfast,” he said as laughter broke out.”
“Breakfast?
You wish to make breakfast?”
“Yes moms,
for you moms. As you
wish.”
“I-I-I
wish?
“Yes
moms. U’s say, ‘I can only wish we made
breakfast.’ But no worry, Obeah boys cook
up plentiful breakfast. You no go hungry
. . .”
-----
Meanwhile,
back in the office of Cézar Roché
. . .
The light
from the candle danced on the wall, broken only by the undulating silhouette of
Bon Mambo Serafine looking skyward consumed by the religious
visions she saw, her arms raised high as if possessed by a powerful spiritual
force.
She swayed,
she chanted, “Come great Papa, come make U mischief and I give to this, ha! ha! ha!,” she sang out in a deep
baritone voice that seemed to come from without her. In her hand she held up a lock of Rosemary’s
hair.
She then
reached down to pick up a jar to hold up alongside the shorn off lock of
hair. “. . . and this,” she bellowed as
the restless lil' bobs suspended in the amber medium
shimmered in the candlelight.
On the
floor beside her sat Cézar in a trance-like
state. His face painted white in the
image of a skull. Atop his head sat a
top hat with a vulture feather, and in the dark recesses, his eyes peered out
reflected the flickering candlelight as he breathed in the smoke from the
Jimson Weed burning inside an aerated brass burner on the floor beside him.
Cézar swayed along with the chant and
until Bon Mambo Serafine leaned down and pressed in
close. Her painted face loomed large and
ghostly above the flickering candles as she engaged her devotee. “Es time, Hunsi Roché (devotee),” she hissed. “Papa Legba make
he’s mischief.” She followed as she held out a doll dressed to look like
Rosemary.
Reaching
out to take possession, he stared up into her eyes as she held up three
straight pins, each with a different colored cap. A black one and one blue to provide the Lwa his moment of fun, while the third one, the red pin, he
was to use to grant the Lwa the spirit of the undead
that would be his.
“Jan ou vle, moms (as you wish,
moms),” he murmured, and then taking the black pin in hand, he stuck it into
the belly of the doll!
-----
Meanwhile
over in Rosemary’s bathroom . . .
“Oh!” Rosemary gasped and hunched over with a spasm
holding her stomach as the penetrating sting spread throughout her like a
wildfire.
Gasping for
breath she looked up again at the boys, only now her vision was red-filtered,
her ocular view, lens-like and distorted.
Feeling disorientated, confused and in near panic, she turned again to
the bathroom mirror hoping to see what her mind couldn’t grasp.
Hunched
over, she struggled to reach it. And
when at last she had, she again saw the white painted skeletal face staring back
out at her. “Oh, gawd,” she shrieked as she stumble
back in terror.
----
While over
in Cézar’s office . . .
Cézar flicked the black pin he had
embedded in the doll with his finger causing Rosemary to double over once
again. He then took up the blue pin and
stuck it in the mouth of the doll.
Rosemary
again felt the penetrating sting course down her throat and down into her
belly, where the sting quickly turned to a warmth and then into a heat that
radiated throughout her body. The heat
grew with her every breath, and along with it, a tingling sensation not unlike
an approaching organism consumed her body and soul.
Her
thoughts quickly became as purblind as her vision, and when all but that
over-powering need to cum pulsed through her veins, Cézar
reached for the third and final pin. The
red pin that would grant Papa Legba the spirit of the
undead he was due. Taking it firmly in
hand, he pushed it into her heart.
The
sensation of that pinprick ran roughshod over her every thought, taking such
control over her that even her voice was lost to her. Then like a fish gulping for air out of
water, she again turned toward the boys as if looking for help. Only now she saw them just as they had always
been. No spiffy Boy Scout uniforms, no
schoolbooks, but naked and stoking their bloated cocks. And standing in front, her son bent over
wearing a tiara with a bridal veil tossed back over his hair.
But it was
the sight of those bloated cocks that called out to her, stirring in her a
great hunger in her belly. It was as
though nothing else existed. As if her
need for them was hardwired, as primal as the need to breathe.
“No worry,
moms,” Fedji said above the riotous laughter. “Papa encase you now
. . .”
“Encase you
now . . .”
“Encase you
now . . .”
“Encase you
now. . .” his words echoed in her head, bringing on that euphoric feeling once
again. She closed her eyes for a short
moment to savor the feeling, and upon reopening them, she saw herself lying
upon her bed once again. She again felt
the comfort, and wanting to luxuriate in the warm soothing embrace beneath the
sheets, she stretched out her legs. Only
now her feet butted up against a hard wooden surface. Looking down toward her feet she saw she
wasn’t in her bed at all. Rather it was
within a box she laid. A wooden box, not
unlike a coffin - Beside her, above her, below her the hard wooden walls that
encased her.
Nonetheless,
she delighted in the comfort, and wanting still more, she sat up and rose out
of the enclosure where she came to occupy a different space. A space with blue skies above and acres of
lush green grass in all directions that beckoned her to run her toes through
the heavenly softness.
She saw
herself walking beneath the clear blue skies until coming to a stop when she
saw before her a mound. And upon that
mound was an upright gray marble slab, a headstone, only in the form of a
door. Her door, the door to her flat
that bore her name, and below her name the image of
the Lwa welcomed her.
She smiled,
happy to be home once again. She walked
toward the foot of the stone and saw herself opening the door to her home. Walking in, she saw the clothes tree standing
inside the door where Selvandieu’s scarf still
hung. “Oh, how wonderful,” she
though. “Selvandieu
is here,” she was elated with happiness.
Then feeling the need to freshen up, she walked toward the bathroom
where she saw Selvandieu clutching Alex in a warm
embrace.
“Morning,
moms,” he looked up to greet her. She returned
his smile, so pleased to see the two getting along so well. Alex, her son, had his fingers wrapped around
Selvandieu's thick cock, crisscrossed along its
length with a gnarled mass of purple veins.
A cock that loomed large and heavy unlike any other that had filled her
belly. Just the sight of it caused her
to salivate and wish she too could hold it, smell it, taste it like her son
stooped down to do. Wrapping his lips
around the large spongy head, he moaned euphoric as Selvandieu
showered him with his love and endearments.
“Oh yes,
you skanky fag ass bitch, suck up the slop,” he
snarled, expressing his love for her son in that same ruthless, contemptuous
way he always spoke to her. It was the
savage in him that thrilled her, and she was so happy for her son who now knew
the same thrill that came with satisfying Selvandieu’s
cock with his mouth. And then when she
felt as though the plateau of her climatic joy could go no higher, Salvandieu raised that plateau up another notch.
Grabbing
hold of her sons head, he snarled like a madman and ruthlessly shoved his cock
half down his throat in one mighty thrust.
As Alex choked and gagged and struggled for air, she luxuriated in the
heat that radiated up from her loins. A
heat that grew into a fire as she watched Selvandieu
tighten his grip and drive his cock down to the root with all the savagery of
an African Bushmen spearing his prey, finishing the kill.
Alex's arms
flailed about as if wounded, yet it all seemed so normal to her. As if treating her son like a whore, and
fucking his throat to the point of strangulation was the highest order of
affection. And no matter the savagery,
no matter how thuggishly brutal he fucked her son’s throat, she envied her son
and so loved her Selvandieu and wanted to tell him as
much. But when she looked up to embrace
his smile, she saw that it wasn’t Selvandieu who was
strangling her son with his cock at all.
It was Fedji who smiled back, and beside him, Jomo, whose hard bloated cock stood out like an arrow pointing
at her son’s asshole.
“Look moms,
you watch.” Jomo smiled, standing off to the side to
give moms a clear view of his cock nudging her son’s gaping hole. Then with a sweeping gesture of his hand, he
pointed to the tattooed image of the serpent spirit on her son’s ass.
“Papa encase him now . . .”
“Encase him
now . . .”
“Encase him
now . . .” the words again echoed in her head as she looked into the eyes of
that tattooed serpent that now, very much alive, rose up to speak to her. Only now in the form of an apparition that
possessed the head of the serpent and the embodiment of Jomo,
a transformation that took place before her eyes. His eyes glowed red and his tongue snaked out
of his mouth long and thick and enflamed a bright red, like a cock with a
forked crown.
“Watch
moms. I breed my bride. Ha! Ha! Ha!” the
serpent laughed joyously, and then leaning down he wormed his tongue up her
son’s ass to fuck him. The sight of that
deep, hard fucking again caused a heat to build within her. With every stroke the heat grew and along
with it, a tingling sensation not unlike an approaching organism consumed her
body and soul. The pleasure she felt so
overwhelmed her she grew weak at the knees, and as she began to falter she felt
a hand upon her shoulder. Looking
around, she saw Bon Mambo Serafine, and beside her
stood an upright coffin.
“Come, chwal (the horse that carries the spirit)! Come lie, and U start U walk among the
tombstones again!!!” Rosemary backed in,
the lid was closed and again her journey continued . . .
Rosemary
Beckett woke up in her bed. The peace
and quiet soothed over her like a balm, and the pleasantness never felt
better. It was the first time since her
arrival she’d slept on the bed, and as she stretched out to savor the luxuriousness,
she found herself wondering why that was so.
Especially given the cloud like comfort she wished she could remain
embedded in forever.
She rose up
out of bed never feeling brighter or more chipper. Slipping on a robe, she Made
her way toward the bathroom near dancing on her toes, wondering what it was she
did the night before that brought with it such a euphoric feeling. She felt sure it would come to her, but at
the moment she didn’t even remember going to bed . . .
------
Meanwhile
back in the office of Cézar Roché
. . .
Later that
evening Mambo Serafine was deep in meditation when
Ishmael walked in. Beside her sat Cézar, his hands held in prayer while his eyes, wide-open,
stared blankly toward the heavens in some drug induced haze. The man looked lost to this world whereas
Mambo Serafine kept an alert eye on Ishmael as he
quietly knelt down to sit down beside them.
“Ahhh, brother Duprè, it is good I
see you,” she said, her voice hushed.
“Yes, Bon
Mambo Serafine, it is good to see you,” he bowed his
head as he held up his hands in prayer.
“Especially
good for you, I think,” She replied, lowering her eyes and gazed intensely into
the flickering flame of the candle fronting her. She stared at the flame a long moment and
then closed her eyes and said, “I see a man.”
Then after watching the flame dance for a moment, “This man looks for
you, Hunsi Duprè
(devotee).” She uttered in whispered tones.
“Do I know
this man, Bon Mambo?”
“No,” she
shook her head. “I see he travels
along. He is a non-believer and pays
good money to find Mesye (Mr.) Guilloteau
Dessalines, a man who speaks to me from his grave,”
she stated the name quite emphatically.
A name Ishmael did indeed know.
It was the name of the deceased man he had used on his password on his
recent trip to
“You know
of him, I think,” she said, reopening her eyes.
“Yes, Bon
Mambo. How is this man called, Bon
Mambo?”
“He is
called Wimple, an English, I think. He bring bad juju, despair for you.”
“Where can
I find this Wimple, Bon Mambo?” he wanted to know.
Again she
looks into the flame. She began to chant
then placed her palm above of it, close enough to the heat that it seared her
palm. “I see he sleeps in a room on Rue Louverture. Tomorrow
he visits the German. He grows closer, Hunsi.”
“The
German,” he followed, “Chrisof Eichel?”
“Yes, he
grows closer, unless . . .”
“Unless
what, Bon Mambo?” he asks as she reached into a pocket and then held out her
open palm to show Ishmael what she had.
“Hunsi Lavolier works where he
sleeps finds this on his pillow,” she glanced down upon the single strand of
hair. The artifact of power she needed to cast her wangal
(spell). “Unless he his cast away!” she
looked on, her skewed, smiling face cast an almost demonic image in the
candlelight. “Or, should you like, to
walk about the tombstones on the
Ishmael
returned her smile then took up her hand.
“Or spend his days walking Rue Santara, huh?”
he winked, “Dressed like a man whore, his past, his own name, lost to him!”
“Ha! Ha!
Ha!” She sang out in that deep baritone voice that seemed to come from without
her. “Yes, good mischief for L’wah, I think.”
End Part I
------
Part II
Coming Soon
. . .
Chapter
10: 20 Centimes or, Whatever Happened to
Detective
-----
Well, you
made it this far, so I'm assuring you might well have an opinion. Should you wish to express it, you have my
ear.
Peace,
brothers
Black
Haitian Hacker ( bhh.hunsi@mail.com )
---
Acknowledgement:
I need
thank Data Fever for graciously provided his time and support in helping me
make this an enjoyable read. He is truly
an exceptionally skilled profession with a humongous heart.
I need also
thank Pat Roberts. A pioneer in the black
rule genre, he authored Ebony High, White Sunset and
=================================================================================================