This work is copyrighted to the author © 2018.  Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story.  All rights reserved.


Note:  I’ve never been to Haiti, know diddlysquat about the place & I know even less about computers.  Like zero!  My level of competence approximates that of a sixth grader still trying to figure out the Command Key on his first iMac.  I’m just a guy with some time to spare and a vivid imagination.  So don’t blame me if the facts don’t jive - Peace, brothers.


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.


Before you read it, please note the following:

   * If you are under eighteen, do not read this story!

   * If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!

   * If it's illegal in your jurisdiction to read nonconsensual sex stories, don't read this story!


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                                                                                                                                Black Magic



                                                                                                                        Black Haitian Hacker

                                                                                                                        Picture Picture [cut/paste link]:



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


11 p.m., Brooklyn, New York:

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 tunneling script.  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 code to worm its way through his targets line of defenses and until a new screen appeared.  The top line now read Emirates Lt. Limo, Dubai, and again the cursor awaiting his response.


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 had just bumped the lock on his target’s front door.  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 midnight on the red-eye, the place quietly becomes a pickpocket’s paradise.”


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 punctuated with a glare.


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 piece, 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 replied, 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!”  Ishmael thought, finding himself taken by the boy.  “This kid is like chum to a shark!”  Quite honestly, he didn’t know whether he should be romancing the boy or eating 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,” Alex softly murmured, then just as quickly looked off, his cheeks flushed, 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. “. . . Play coy all you want, boy,”he though, savoring the prospects. “. . . It only makes the game all the sweeter.”


The only question left for Ishmael to consider was now best to proceed.  Romance the sumptuous little chicken or skip the foreplay and fuck the shit out of him now.  It was a tough choice, but in the end, one that only took a moment to decide.


Romance him, definitely!   That's just what a sweet thing like this need,” he surmised.   “Besides . . .,” he toyed with the thought.  “As ever wolf knows, if you want a clean snatch, don't frighten the chickens 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.  Even in the dimmest of light, his smooth, polished face shined with a luster that made him look all the more the white porcelain doll.


“There now, boy, you look a picture.  But I’m afraid 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 glared with a menacing face, 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 leaned back and pat his knee, taking yet another step in the furtive dance . . .


Alex looked taken aback.  But no matter his state of unease, 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 stated bluntly, holding up the flat of his hand.


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 Haiti ,” he began, timidly at first and then more boldly, “My mother and me.  I just went to visit my grandmother in Jersey City and now I’m going back home.  When we land in Miami I’m supposed to switch to flight 412 to Haiti.”


“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 (Port-au-Prince).”


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 (a high priestess) 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 Haiti?” Ishmael asked.


“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 Ayisyen-Ameriken School I go to in Port-au-Prince.”


“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 barricade, Alex’s 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 scum infested 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, a sweet little bite-sized white cracker, 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 midnight.  And not just any stranger, but a man carbon black sized like a heavyweight.  A menacing looking one at that!


All of which was good news for the wolf of Port-au-Prince, providing him with all the high-octane fuel he needed to step up the pace of that sordid dance between predator and prey.  Wrapping his arm half-round the boy, he drew him close in.  Close enough to feel the pounding of his heart, his labored breath rushing past his ear.


“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 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 Haitian street boy you befriended.  The boy you followed into the alley.”


“Ooh . . .” the Alex sighed, 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, until, from out of no where, 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 again 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 he could feel 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 gentleman friend’s black and in charge.   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 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 responded, 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 Jersey City on December 18, 02.”


“02!" 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 again begin to 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 looked toward Ishmael, his face a mess.  From his nose to his chin, his face 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 with 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 Pò-au-prens and its surrounding urban sprawl of shantytowns fanning out to the foothills, beyond which the vanquished terrain again re-emerged and continued on as far as the eye could see.


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 America.


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 Haiti.  Ayizan Lords, Zulu Kings,, Rasta Bosses, Obeah, Ogun Pound, Black Snakes, Gangsta Rappers, Baron’s Crypt, and two from Port-au-Prince, Papa Legba and Ghetto Blades.  All named by the boys themselves, and within each, a creamy white podboy puff has been added to "broaden cultural diversity."


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 Haiti’s exotic subtropical local and its proximity to the land of opportunity (the US), boy’s worldwide expressed an interest in attending the school.   Then when you add in those boys suffering the pangs of family and/or societal estrangement, the pool not only expanded exponentially, but afforded them the ability to choose the candidate that best fit their needs.


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 Baptiste du Pre Academy.  Set on a hillside on the outskirts of Pétion, the complex was modern though rather unique in design.  Made to blend in with the landscape, it was constructed using the same sun baked clay that permeated the landscape, and suffered the same tortured look beneath that searing Haitian sun.


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 New York?"


"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 New York too.”


"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, “Budapest, Singapore, Miami, wherever, but never from Haiti.  That's the rule you know that.  No fuck-bunnies from Haiti.  On that particular point houngan asogwe (high priest) La Menfo has been quite clear.  It's honor the Lwa or suffer the consequences."


“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 English Channel.”


“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 New Jersey.  The form his mother signed says as much.  A Houngan's edict or no houngans edict, he can’t be seen as anything but a young white American fuck-face faggot.  In other words, he’s the prefect offering!”


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 Bronx rapper to shame.  He shuffled and moved to the groove while his cock flung thigh to thigh half way down to his knees like a long fat length of fire hose - still leaking!


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 Port-au-Prince.


"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 Federal District in Port-au-Prince had turned the typical 35 minute commute into a three hour stint though hell.  The two lane road was strewn with stalled vehicles, and around the margins, toppled fruit carts and venders struggled in vein to recoup their goods and oxen beneath the down pour.


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 Long Island expressway," Ishmael mused, even as he remained pensive and alert throughout the perilous junket to Christof Eichel's office.


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 Haiti.  It also explains his connection with Ishmael, and why he immediately stopped what he was doing to greet his friend warmly as he entered.


"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 New York, no?"


"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 Germany,” he followed, his expression equally deadpan.


“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 noon, hopefully!  The rain . . . you know . . ."


"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 Greenwich borough of London, he was the best pup in the litter as far as he was concerned.  He was a favorite of Cézar’s as well, though not above using the boy's much used ass to curry favor when needed.  As to what that favor might be he didn't know, but rest assured it was well within his nature to find out.


"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 Ahh-Eee . . ." 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 getting 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 Texas grapefruit stuck up your ass.


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 Germany pederast he knew and loved was still alive and well, only now, dressed in a hilarious spaghetti western guise.


"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 along 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:  Budapest. HTK TeleKom, the Dunaharaszte Substation #23


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 box 5582 on the top, far out of reach.  So setting down his tools and the 3-ring binder containing the tech spec sheet, he left to locate the ladder.  Upon his return, he aligned the ladder with the box 5582 and then climbed up and pulled out the drawer containing the unit he sought.  He then reached into the box to clip the leads from the headset to the terminal to run a check, and as he did, a large Hobo spider crawled out.


"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 Volga."


"Yes, good news."


"I'll be back around 23:30.”


"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 Fanz Liszt International Airport in Budapest.  The flight was destined for Lisbon where he was to connect to a flight that would take him home.  He was in line for boarding when two officers approached him.


"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 Hungary and are subject to our laws."


"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?"




"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.




"Ah, you've lived there then."


"No, I live in Cairo."


"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.




"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 Hungary, but he would be chuckling all the way to the bank as he did.





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 slide 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 deep his fisted arm or how big the bottle he managed to 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 Morocco.  In Tangiers to be exact!  Just a short flight from her home in Toulouse, and as luck would have it, close enough to the Ammar Aristide‘s Academy for Boys that its landmark sandstone turrets can be seen from the villa she resides.”


“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 Dark Continent, and to a one, prepared to meet the challenges of the 21st century.”


“That’s right, they are prepared thanks to the tools we arm them with,” the doctor continued to parry. “That’s why we’re here.  To Arm these new-world masters of the universe with all weapons 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 . . ."




". . . 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 Munich.  In front of him sat his laptop, the modem plugged into the phone line.  On his screen the digits scrolled passed for a short minute and then came to a stop, displaying the numbers he sought on top of the screen.


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, and 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 dèyè (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 could hardly still his heart, 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 felt taken, lost to himself, unaware of everything outside the feel of Fedji’s hand putting the squeeze 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 seemingly out of what little he wore.  No swank black tie, no undies, just a the pretense of 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 about the stiffened length of cock peeking out from beneath those horrendously brief shorts.


“I believe your new pod-mate might like you, Fedji,” Cézar chuckled, glancing at that little stiff prick, while Fedji, salivating like a half-starved wolf, again took hold of Alex to pinch his ass hard, as if he were pinching a dug-in tick off a dog.


“Ahh, shit!” Too hard, too hard,” Alex screeched, while undaunted, Fedji reached down to pinch the other cheek as well.   Then with an excruciating twist of his wrist, Fedji’s dug-in nails pulled those cheeks far enough apart to unearth his sweet virgin puss cozily nestled inside.


“Ummm!” Fedji inhaled a whiff.  “Dous!” (sweet) he beamed, then licked his lips as if savoring his soon-to-be coming treat.


“Yes, yes, very sweet,” Cézar  smiled in kind, then turned to the tearful boy who, in his anguish, was rubbing his bum where Fedji’s hard pressed nails had perforated the skin.


Not that Cézar gave a fuck, and the odious smirk he wore said as much.  In truth, he’d much rather be drinking a cupful of his tears than pretending he cared one damn bit.  But, there was a process and decorum he needed to follow, elsewise this whole damn cockamamie social experiment under his reign might come unglued.


"Gade! Sa a se kèk coco byen. (Look! this is some fine pussy),” a thoroughly aroused Fedji called out through the ruckus.


"Klas A, drenaj la pafè pou zozo mwen (class A, the perfect drainpipe for my cock!) he chuckled and began to rhythmically bump & grind against Alex’s half-bare ass as if to fuck it.


“Fedji says he likes you, Cézar smirked.  He says you’ll make a very good friend.  Which is quite good for you given he’s a head Top.  But more importantly, he’s 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 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, characterless doll, a djab (a wild spirit) sitting beside a pin cushion atop his desk.  It didn't take 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 a huge cock with a hefty set of balls hanging beneath.   The snake's eyes glowed a dark, piercing yellow, while 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 newborns head.  To Alex, the stunning display of those fierce guns was nothing less than spellbinding.  To Fedji, it was all just step one in a head-game meant to impart his absolute dominance over his boy.


"Touché, touché! (touch-touch)!  Ou renmen (you like), Huh?" Fedji leaned closer 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 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.  Then too, 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 Fedji 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.   Now, if you wish to bond with your Obeah brothers a simple yes will do to confirm your commitment."


“I – 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.


Quick to pick up on the boy’s reluctance, Cézar, leaned in and gazed as if to warn.  “I wouldn’t go hem-hawing around too much.  The tattoo worn by the Ogun Pound shows a dog fucking his bitch.  Only this particular bitch has got a nice pair of balls, and he’s fucking his bitch in his ass.  Get the picture?”


Alex gasped, the sound of his alarm muffled by his hands and, a moment later, cut short by Cézar’s follow up to drive his point home.  “Personally, I fine the Obeah Pod tattoo far more pleasing to the eye.  Something any boy would find an honor to wear, don’t you?” he offered him an out from the hole he’d dug for himself.


“Oh!  Yes, yes I do,” he sighted in relief, more than happy to avoid falling into a deeper pit.  “I would love to wear it, err, well, I mean, if I must . . . I mean, if Fedji wants . . . I guess,” he managed, this time without the dithering.


"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 you worry.  Your pod mates will find your sweet spot.  Am I right, Fedji?” he asked with a conspiring wink and a nod.


“Wi mesye , Mwen jwenn ”(Yes sir, I find),” he beamed, grabbing his crotch, “ak zozo mwen (. . . with my cock !)” he quickly followed in a voice ripe with expectancy.  His face lit up with excitement for the feast he was about to enjoy.  Then licking his lips he again latched on the Alex’s ass, only now with both of his coal-black hands to knead those fleshy pink cheeks as a baker would attack a large ball of dough.


Cézar sat back a moment to watch the love birds begin to explore the perimeters of their budding relationship.  It was a heartening sight, but when he saw Fedji press his thumbs down deep into that ball of dough to broach his sweetheart’s tight virgin puss, he thought it best to re-establish control before losing it altogether.  Especially when he saw those hard pressing thumbs begin to stretch open that sweet puss full wide.


“Ahem!” he cleared his throat to gain their attention just as Alex’s greatly expanded puss had reached its insufferable elastic limit.


“Ahem!”  “Ahem!” he tried yet again to get their attention, catching Fedji just as he spat a load of phlegm down the chute to grease the skids.


“Ah-hem!” he sounded off annoyed.  “Boys, boys, Please!  Allow me to finish!”


On that note Fedji quickly unhooked his thumbs from his sweetheart’s ass and Alex hurriedly tried to put his unraveled self back together.


“Good!”  “Now then, have you any more questions?”


Y-y-yes headmaster, sir," Alex muttered once put back in order, though still suffering the pangs of a slackened puss.


"Wi, chica, what is it?”


"I ah, well, I was just wondering, you know,” He fidgeted and continued to mutter.  “Well, ah, I mean, these shorts!  They’re too short,” he squirmed about, still tugging down on that frightening short length of fabric that left more bare than it covered.  “I mean, look,” he sighed out of exasperation, pointing toward Fedji and the smart khaki uniform that made him look quite the stunningly attractive Boy Scout.


Cézar heaved a sigh of his own.  “Fucking dimwit!” he thought to himself, “The kid thinks we’ve dress him up like a trollop because we wanted him style himself after Fedji?   Dumb shit!”  It’s as thought the boy hasn’t a clue as to why he’s here.


Of course he knew from all Ishmael had told him that Alex was a perfect fit.  He was frustrated and tired of having to live in secrecy and wanted to be free to express himself here.  And, given his history with Toussaint, Bernardo, Puma and Salvandieu before them, he was a boy who needed to be here.  But more importantly, he was a clever lad, not at all like the dumb shit who was asking if he could dress like Fedji.  In his mind, the pieces just didn’t fit together.


Nonetheless, there he stood with his hands cupped over top of his little stiff prick to hide from view what shamed him, while just millimeters away from his hands, a long strand of Fedji’s spittle dangled down from out his puss like a wad of cum seeping out a whores cunt.  The contrast between the two images was laughable, and him as clueless as he looked.


Dimwit, Dumb shit, Clueless, all apt descriptions as far a Cézar was concerned.  But in the final analysis, it hardly mattered.  Pod whites weren’t sought after for their smarts.  They were here to be fucked, as Alex was going to be whether dressed like the bitch with a dick or a dumb shit who hadn’t a clue.  From now on his mode of dress will be determined by those who used him and how he was used, but dressed like Fedji?  Oh, No!  That was but a dream.  Perhaps, if lucky, he might be given enough cover to impede the flies looking to feast on the nut juice leaking out from his ass.  Or, if he was really, really lucky, he might be given something “a bit more imaginative to wear,” he played with the thought.  “Perhaps something even more basic,” or conversely, “Something soft and flowy, lacy and pink to match his complexion"


He was in the midst of conjuring up one of the many forms that “something soft and flowy” might take, when he heard Alex utter a soft cry.  Refocusing his attention back on Fedji, he saw the pinch-hold he had on Alex’s ball sac; a particular sensitive place that had fallen from beneath the cover of Alex’s hands.   With his dug-in nails, Fedji had pinched, pulled and stretched his ball sac down until stretched threadbare, the room light filtered through, highlighting the orbs within.


As expected, Fedji was bubbling with glee, while Alex looked in excruciating pain, and perhaps too, a bit taken by Fedji, that heartthrob in khaki who had put the hurt of his puss and was now breaking his balls, but as yet, still his heart.


Cézar found Alex’s response encouraging.  Although it wasn’t a definitive statement, it did speak well to his resignation and acceptance of who and what he was, and why he was here.  But to be sure, he felt it was his to probe a bit further . . .


“Boy,” he snorted.  “You do know why you’re here, right?”


“Y-y-yes sir, for school,” he tried his best to soldier-up even while Fedji was turning his nuts to mush.


“That’s right boy, to be schooled, just like I told your mama.  But, as I told her, turning a boy into well-rounded man takes more than chalk on a blackboard.  There’s a lot more to it, like character building and helping a boy acquire a skill set that will garner respect from his peers.  Let’s take Fedji for example.  A boy destine to command legends, he will not only learn tactical warfare, but how to inspire others with his commanding presence, both on and off the battlefield.  The smart uniform he is wearing reflects that, and why they are required wear for all the Tops.”


“As for you, a boy with a slightly less commanding presence, needs to be taught from a slightly different playbook; one that teaches alternate approaches to conflict on the battlefield.  A situation in which a more aggressive boy would charge into the fight fist flying, while you, in your more servile manner will do what you must to placate the savage beast.  And just like Fedji, your uniform reflects that, and why the light, airy, sweet confection you have on is required wear for all you pod-boys.”


Of course that’s not to say the rules are so etched in stone as to not allow certain alterations.  Not all boys sport the same tastes.  I recall one particular modification that was approved to suit the Rasta Bosses, and indeed, the added rear zipper to Tomás  Ricci’s shorts did improve accessibility.   The strategically placed zipper with its easy pull slider has since become an approved modification for all.”


“Here,” he said as he leaned down to reach into the bottom desk drawer to find a file. “I’ve a picture of the arrangement to show you should you have an interest.”


Cézar scarcely had time to locate the file when Alex began to whimper.  His voice, quavering and shrill, was enough to alert him something of interest was a brew.  Looking up, he could see that Fedji had managed to capture one of Alex’s balls between his fingers, and now pinched off, the grossly extended ball bulged out an angry red courtesy Fedji’s rapid fire blows with the palm of his hand.  With each wet sounding thud on that protruding ball, Alex shrieked and shook in agony, while Fedji, all smiles, lorded over his boy . . .


“A gen goumen kont li boy-bouzin. ((Don't fight it bitch boy), he chuckled, he swat, “Bam!”. . .  and Alex, “Aieee!”

“Bay pous, rann tèt nou ba a doulè, (Give in, surrender to the pain.)” he spat, he whacked, “Pow!  . . . and Alex, “Eeeee-yow!”

Ii pral pote ou plezi,” (It will bring you pleasure !!!) . . .”


It was a brutally painful assault on the boy’s balls, one worth remembering.  But it was the look on Alex’s face that truly captured his attention.  While his tears flowed like rain and his lips trembled like jello, his smile, even as twisted in agony as it was, never faltered.


“Yes, yes, that’s it!” Cézar softly purred, “That’s the boy Ishmael told me about.”  It was his first true look into the inner gears and levers that compelled the boy to offer his ass up to Ishmael on that night flight to Miami.  The boy who came to embrace the pleasures once he’d given in and surrendered to the pain.


That was the boy Ishmael saw, and now he did as well.  A  boy struggling to endure the suffering, but in his unfaltering smile he saw a boy who was where he wanted to be, needed to be, or the pleasure and ultimate release (thanks to Fedji’s cock) would forever be lost to him.”


“Good, boy,” Cézar uttered, “Very good!, he followed with a moan as he sat back to watch Fedji spin his magic to win the boy over with his irresistible mix of masculine beauty and all consuming power.  The power to bring on the sweet torture that boys like Alex would’ve walked over a hot bed of coals just to offer their ass up to him.


Lucky for Alex he hadn’t to suffer the blistering feet.  Still in all, when you take into account Fedji’s merciless treatment of his balls and the outflow of tears, you can see the distance he would have done just to please Fedji.   And given the hardness of his little stiff prick due to the pain, or, despite the pain, Cézar felt certain the boy was ready.  Just as ready as he so sure that the boy would’ve offered up his ass in a flash had he asked Fedji to fuck him right here, right now.  Once more, he would have done so in his servile way, doing what ever he must to placate that savage beast no matter the tears – no matter the pain!


“Well then, since you no further questions,” Cézar said, once sitting back upright in his chair.  “I think it’s time to bring this chatter to and end.”


“But  . . .” Alex tried to cop a plea once Fedji had relinquished his hold of his tortured ball, now swollen, blistered and throbbing in pain.


“Enough, boy,” he chided with a sudden change in his tone.  “I’ve heard it, and I’ve told you, your uniform is required ware.  And since you haven’t expressed an interest in the approved alternative we discussed, that concludes our discussion.  Besides, I see no reason not to like them.  Fedji surely does as do I, and I know your pod mates will be all smiles once they see them.  So I think it’s past the time for you to man-up and stop the sniveling!” he spat, airing his exacerbation with a swipe of his hand.  His way of telling the new Obeah pod cum-sop that his sweet ass was about to make his brethren a very happy meal, easy glide rear zipper or not!


“Fedji,” he called. “Se Grandè l 'pare?” (Is ‘His Greatness’ ready).


Wi, Mesye (Yes sir),” Fedji buoyantly beamed before stepping back to give himself room to pull down his shorts.  Then, once done, Cézar immediately began to prompt Alex to turn about so he could embrace the sight of ‘Se Grandè’ !


So he did, wearing the same fidgety smile he had worn throughout and until the moment his eyes met up with “Se Grandè.”


Alex ogled in disbelief.  With his eyes spiraled up and feet glued to the floor, he stared in awe at that monstrously long slab of black meat. Thick as a wrist and bloated with a full pint of blood, the god-damn monster lolled heavily 30 degrees to the vertical like a foot-long black snake - A deadly, merciless black snake without a hint of mercy on his face.


“Bo, Bo (kiss, kiss),” Fedji spoke with an utterly insistent voice, “Ak lang (with tongue),” he followed through grit teeth, trying as he might to keep that black snake in check.  While Alex, compliant to a degree, did as he was told.   Lowering his lips he kissed that colossal one-eyed Cyclops on the forehead.  Then, extending his tongue outward, he did for that restless beast just as he had for Ishmael, Toussaint, Bernardo, Puma and Salvandieu before him - with lots of tongue!


“Good boy,” Cézar all but purred.  Meet your new master, boy.  Kiss him!  Lick him!  Worship Se Grandè (His Greatness)!  Your NEW GOD” !!!!


On that, Fedji pulled young Alex up and pressed in close.  With his cock pressing up against his lover’s sternum, he wrapped his arms around him and grabbed hold of his ass.  Then, without so much as a hint of a warning, he shoved three long, fat fingers straight up his ass driving him up atop his toes.


“Ahh-Eee!” Alex squealed, while Fedji, consumed by his hunger, lowered his head and devoured him with his lips.  His tongue probing deep, he feasted on his new boy 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.


“Kote (Where) go?" he managed, struggling though his rudimentary grasp of the language.  “Go?  Go pod!  Bed!  Come, come, U’s 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, pulling Alex along inside.  With Alex in tow, he raced across a sitting room, passed a study and into the billets lined with its rows of beds.  Behind them, a long line of walking, talking, bloated cocks followed, waiting, anxiously.


“Fedji!  Is this where 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), U’s sleep,” he said once he’d 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 sea 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.


“Ahh, 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 g-o-o-o-o-d.” He beamed, as he slapped his huge cock atop his ass.  Then spreading his cheeks he again 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 Mookie . . . tout (all) Top’s fuck podboy butt.  U’s like.  U’s 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, his thoroughly ripped back muscles 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 that 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 was 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:  New Bride, Same Old Tricks


Two Weeks late . . .


Cézar entered the Anton Bolivar Building with notebook in hand to begin his daily stroll.  In his administrative capacity it was his job to observe and provide feedback to the professors on what he saw that was working and what wasn’t.  As he entered he was immediate struck by the sounds of boys busily engaged in their studies, and other than the occasional squeal coming from a overtaxed podboy, everything was exactly as he’d come expect.  He was also happy to see that the chairs placed outside each classroom door were their usually hub of activity, with one podboy or another sitting atop the lap of a pod mate to either empty his bloated balls or rid him of his piss.


As he looked down the hall he could see that all but 1 of the podboys were busily giving it their all to relieve their pod mates of their load.  And by the sound of the grunts, groans and sights of relief, they looked to be performing their daily duties quite well.


Down at the end of the hall he saw Jean Baptiste shaking his drained dick over Markus Müller’s mouth, while upfront and immediately to his right he saw Budry Selassie sitting outside the door to Professor Trumbo’s Physics class.  The head top of the Rasta Bosses, the burly black Rastafarian was doing his best to pulverize Mateo Conti’s ass.  It was a brutal assault to the tune of pounding flesh and the clank-clank-clanking of his long beaded dreads slapping up against the wall behind.  Each violent thrust of those massive thighs sent the 19 year Italian flying right along with those long stains of colorful beads.


Cézar had to admire Mateo for holding up as well as he did.  But then again, that’s why he was here.  Like all the pod-whites, he was an exceptional boy.  Not just because he was as gorgeous a boy to ever grace the halls, but more importantly, because within him lived a hunger for the sense of fulfillment he felt after a good dicking and a rapturous cum.


The same could be said of Lucas Carpè who sat on the opposite side of the hall outside Professor Bastien's door.  On his knees, he was snorting out remnants of Rojé Pierre’s junk that gummed up his nostrils all to the ire of the Ghetto Blades head top.


“Damn it, boy,” Rojé said with a huff, while busily toying with a sticky mix of cum and snot that was ran like molasses from out his nose.  “This mess belongs in your belly along with the rest of the slop, not painting my nuts.”


Cézar felt a bit dishearted by the sight of the mess.  But by the same token he could also see from the sight of his bloated belly that he’d had a busy day.  And while he was pleased to see the belly-bump, he didn’t like finding him looking a shade of blue, a sure sign oxygen deprivation resulting from the blotched throat fuck.


Needless to say Cézar felt a tad perturbed to find him off his game, although it didn’t change his opinion of the boy.  Lucas’s bungled throat fuck aside, he remained one of his favorites.   Obviously not so much for his oral skills as it was his nipples that protruded out from his lean chest like two reddish-brown acorn caps.  In that regard he was a wonder to behold and thought about walking over to tweak one of those delectable girlish knobs when he heard Fedji’s voice coming from further on down the hall.


Looking that way he saw Mookie (aka Cassius Bunja) with Alex in hand and Fedji dancing around them throwing jabs like a boxer shadow boxing before a match.  Although he looked as serious as a bull of the rampage, the fact that those jabs weren’t landing and delivered one handed, made it quite evident that something else had to be in the mix.  A notion further cemented in his mind by the fact that Fedji’s other hand was putting the squeeze on his crutch as if needing to piss.


“Vin sou, frè. Tanpri! (Come on, my brother.  Please!!)   Mwen gen yo Piss. (I gotta Piss.  Bad.)”


Of course, everyone knew there were toilets just down the hall for him to use should he actually prefer a porcelain pot to pee in.  Just as they felt quite certain Fedji, the prankster, was simply putting on a show to either spoof the Professor or to impress his mates.  Either way it made little difference to Mookie.  It was his turn to use their pod-white and wasn’t about to give him up.


“La med! (Fuck you!),” Mook growled back.


“M balles mi yo plen epi Pete yon ekrou.” (my balls are full n’ I got’ta pop me a nut, so get out of my face!) se konsa jwenn soti nan figi m '!”


As the two would-be combatants looked all too ready to go at it, Cézar hurriedly dashed off to front Fedji.  Only by the time he had arrived Professor Gordo was already there standing between them, looking rather angry and nose to nose with Fedji.


“Boy!” he said to him with a gaze that could punch nails through steel, “You got to piss, then go use the porcelain pot!  Otherwise get back to your studies!”


Getting the message, Fedji threw up his hands and with a sheepish grin returned to his seat.  While his classmates, very much in tone with the prank he’d just tried to pull on Mookie, were rolling on the floor in hysterics.


“Well, I can’t say I blame him,” Cézar chuckled, pointing toward Alex dressed as he was in those abbreviated shorts that were now minus the seam that ran down the crotch thanks to Fedji’s gleaming white choppers.  “So what happened here, professor?”


“Ah, well, I apologize for that.”


“No, no, no apology necessary,” Cézar followed, taking note of the fact that his balls, his dick, were now free to flap in the breeze.  “It’s just his mother will be visiting and I was just wondering whether we need the tailor craft him another pair.”


“Hum, well, for a visiting mother I suspect adequate covering would be in order regardless, out of decency if nothing less.  But with regard to the torn seam, I’m told we have Fedji to blame for that.  Apparently during last night’s inaugural bedding he had some impulse control issues.”


“Oh?” Cézar query while surveying the damage, taking note of the embossed impression of all 32 teeth midway up the swell staring back up at him.  “Well, professor, you know how he gets once he has his mind set of something.”


“Of course, I deal with it everyday.  He’s either mellow as a cello or as excitable as a kid stuffed with cake demanding still more.  Frankly, I just wish there was a better way to quell the beast than just feeding him more red meat,” he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation.  “I mean, this is the third pod-white Fedji has gone through since his arrival two years ago.”


Cézar chuckled, “Yes, well, Fedji isn’t the only occupant in the Obeah pod to rut his ass you know.  On that account the queue is quite long.  But whatever the demand, he wouldn’t be out there if I didn’t think he was up for it.  He’s taller and far more robust than his predecessor, Julian, and in my opinion, should hold up fare better over the long run.  Plus, Alex has alot to offer, the least of which is a tasty prime cut American rump roast for his mates to enjoy.”


“But yes,” Cézar then thought to add, “I know how excitable Fedji can get.  I’m sure the unmanageability quotient must be maddeningly off the charts.  Nonetheless, to me, it’s in that madness where great things lie.  I’m certain you can appreciate that, professor.”


“You’re expecting great things from a boy who still speaks English on a primary level after two years of study?  Your optimism is heartening.  But you are right about Alex.  All I hear the day long are the boys fighting amonst themselves like dogs in rut just to be next in line to tie-up and bred him.  And who can blame them.  He’s a beautiful boy.  The perfect example of a pure bred, milk-fed, creamy white American Beauty,” he appraised as he spun Alex round by the hand in one direction then back around the other as if he were admiring a white porcelain doll twirling around a spindle.


“See this,” he stopped the boy in mid-spin with a bowlers grip on his ass.  “His cheeks are as soft and smooth as a fair ladies bosom.  Hardly fitting a boy, much less suited to handle a monster like that!.” he followed while point toward Mookie who was now sprawled out on the chair, his cock bolt upright like a column of black marble.  With his ass all but hanging off the seat, his powerful, thick thighs stretched out like an airstrip for Alex to launch his amazing act.


As the gentleman continued on appraise Alex’s many charms, Mook was busily finding his comfort zone now that he’d successfully managed to scoot his ass over the edge of the seat to make enough room for Alex to work is magic.  And when feeling the time right, he beckoned Alex to come closer so he could whisper in his ear.


The stool, no hands!, Ok, boy?” Mook whispered, then with a wide-eyed giddy face, he exuberantly began to nod “Yes, Yes” repeatedly, encouraging Alex to agree in kind.


Not that Alex had a choice regardless of how he felt about the butt busting maneuver.  But even if he had, the same conflicting push-pull that lives within us all in one form or another was a quagmire he could never escape.  Should he risk exposing himself, leaving his vulnerability hang out there for others to exploit?  Or, in Alex speak:  Should he endure the hurt to get-along-to-cum-along, or run long and hard in the bargain lose the one thing he desired most?


That was the conflict he now faced every day, every time a pod-mate would force his head down until his forehead touched his knees to brutalize his ass.  Or when asked to kneel to relieve a mate of his burden and then carry it within him until he was able to stand before a porcelain pot to release his own.   Their demands were hard and insufferable, and while he always feared what might come next, he surrendered to them regardless, simply because his overwhelming desire to be dicked wasn’t a bargain he was prepared to make.  His fear and his desire!  The push, the pull; the conflicting mire he could never escape.


So while what Mookie had asked him to do sent a streak of fear down his spine, once he’d straightened back up, he somehow managed to brave a smile before hopping aboard Mookie’s massive thighs.


“The stool?” Cézar asked, only to be shushed by the professor.  “Watch, I’ve seen it before.  You’ll not see better at Barnum & Bailey’s.” He said in hushed breathy voice while his eyes remained riveted to the sight of the oncoming train wreck.


Lying atop Mook’s parted thighs, Alex cautiously tucked his knees up under him and then his elbows before pushing himself up onto this hands and knees.  Then after taking a moment to muster himself, he slowly position his feet in effort to stand.  Like a surfer seeking to find the right footing and balance to stand upon his board, Alex stretched out his arms wing-like as he unsteadily rose up upon his feet to ride the crest atop his thighs.


It was remarkable feat, but on he face of it, almost laughable when you calculate in the odds of his slipping off and cracking his nuts on Mookie’s knee.   The truth be told, it took the elasticity of a rubber band and near Zen-like concentration just to fine and then hold his balance.


Fortunately, that was something that our lanky, sandy haired rubber band had abundance.  The survival skills he’d learned having served as Mook’s three legged stool before, and now used to help him though the struggle to find his footing.  And when at last he had, and was stable enough to look down to align his puss over top Mookie’s cock, he took a deep breath to steel himself for the hell he was about to unleash.  Then with a sigh, he bit his lip and slowly stooped down and sat back to grab hold of that great purple knob with the only hand he was permitted to use - His gapping puss!


“God boy,” Mookie moaned when that soft, smooth, girlish ass was close enough for that sweet puss to kiss his great purple plum atop his head.


Mookie looked on for a moment to appraise the match-up.   His enormous mushroomed doom deeply cleaved by the slit looked ready to widen the crack of his ass by a factor of two, while just above, dangled the fluted rim of Alex’s protruding anus.  Swollen and colored an angry red, the distended rim was still soiled with the remnants of a prior fuck that had coalesced into a single pearly strand. 


Taking a moment,  he sat back to watch the thin, milky strand slowly seep down to see if it would come to fuse with the pearly bubble of pre-cum that crowned his own.  And when the two wads of man-junk did in fact merger, and thus assuring perfect cock to puss alignment, he was about to tell Alex to sit when he suddenly became aware of the prevailing silence that filled the hall.


Looking up, he saw professor Gordo, Cézar, the boys in the hall and even Fedji and the others leaning out the classroom door waiting to see the premiere event with bated breath.   For a boy who’d grown up in the squalor of the Cité Soleil slums, it was pretty heady stuff to suddenly find himself in the limelight for something other than hooliganism.  At first he didn’t know what to think about the instant stardom, but when he saw a thoroughly pissed-off Fedji flipping him the finger, he knew it was something he could grow to like.


But first he had a show to do.  So as Alex was ready to turn his trick, he locked his hands behind his head and then with a steely-eyed look of a man on a mission, he growled, “Sit, boy!”


And as asked, Alex did, slowing lowing himself down past that beer can thick great purple plum and down along an equally fierce stem where the mounting friction tugged, pulled and stretched his pink anal sheath to its insufferable elastic limit.  It was a frightfully agonizing accommodation beyond anything nature could have prepared a script to cope. Not so much due to the size of Mookie’s cock as it was the due to the buckled position he had to assume.  Sitting back, midair, upon unsure footing atop the Mookie’s thighs had his every muscle and tendon in his body tied up in knots.  Especially his ass that was buckled and pinched so tight it would have pained him had Mook penetrated him with a fat finger.


Needless to say, Mookie’s fat 9 inches was more that enough to fill him to his core, forming a tie so tight that every pulse of his cock coursed through his anal sheath and resonated through his own body as if the muscle palpitations were his own.


All told, never had Alex felt so tied to another man.  Not just physically, but like a symbiont attached to his host, Mookie’s fat cock became the center of his world, the axis around which all things were grounded.  And that’s what made the “Stool” (Mookie’s specialty) standout above the typical everyday fuck.   Without hands in play, neither Mook’s nor his own, he depended on that cock planted up his ass as his sole source of stability.  His cock - that third leg of the stool - had become his anchor.  The tie that grounded him, and it did so as surely as did that immutable meld between them tied him to Mook.


Still, there was nothing Mookie could offer to mediate the pain he endured while powering himself up and off that third leg of the stool.  Nor help to steady him when once free of his cock he was left to stand, swaying unsteadily on unsure feet riding the crest of Mookie’s thighs.  But far worse was his having to suffer the far greater pangs of separation from his host!  His cock!  The source of the substance he needed, no matter the tears, no matter the pain!!


And it only grew worse each time he sat back a gravity defying 5 degrees to the horizontal to embed his cock within the fluted rim of his protruding anus before he could again slide down the stem and come to rest in the vast web of pubic hair.


Up, down, up, down time and time again, and all the while pushing out as if needing to shit to help lessen the friction that was on the cusp of turning his ass inside out.  He was immersed in a fog of pain, his only lifeline, the sound of Mook’s impassioned groans and the mule-kicking pulses from his cock that, like a great engine, was increasingly building up stream.  Faster and all the more intense every go-around until, at last, those groans turned to grunts and snorts as he shot his nut up his ass - A shot that came with another ferocious kick and the crossover spark that triggered a blast of cum of his own.


“Look, Mesye, “The greedy bitch wants more,” Mook radiated his delight as Alex, still seated on his cock, was affectionately cradled his balls with his palms as tenderly as he might a newborns head.  The torment and pain now gone, he sat and radiated the glow of a boy awash in the pleasures that follows an excruciating ordeal.  His rectum still bloated with his man’s warm seed, his fingers lovingly tracing over the fist-sized sac as if wishing to coax out still more.


“Oh, yes, yes, Mookie . . . ,” he sighed an impassioned sigh while facing away as if ashamed to own up to the admission, and the radiant glow that lit up his face.


“Bravo, Mookie!” Cézar applauded. Had he a pair of tits you couldn’t have done better by the boy.  Once more, wearing those open-air shorts proved to be convenient as an expressway.  Access is unlimited and no need for hands by either party.  Should you boys bring the concept up for consideration, I’ll gladly throw in my support.  I might even suggest a few alternations of my own.”


“No doubt something with a tad more flair I presume,” the good professor added with a tinge of sarcasm.


“Indeed,” Cézar, promptly replied with a professional demeanor.  I see no reason why boys fashion need always be so tight reined.  A bit of leeway with regard to styles and color can do as much for a sweet cupcake like Alex as the khaki does for a trooper like Mookie.”


“That’s just my opinion of course, but a matter I hope to soon present to the board.  After all, how can it hurt if the boys in one particular pod of another wish to sprinkle a bit more sugar atop their cupcake to enhance his tastiness.  Or, conversely, cut the trimmings down a modest amount to showcase the voluptuous curves of his upturned girlish ass.”


“Agreed, professor?  He asked, looking for agreement, only to find the good profession shaking his head in disbelief over what he’d just heard.


“Well just a thought.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must depart,” Cézar abruptly concluded upon looking at his watch.  “As I’ve mentioned, Rosemary Beckett will be visiting this coming Monday for the week, and I told her I’d be calling this afternoon to see if there is anything I can do to help in her preparations.”


“Alex’s Mother?” he asked with an eye toward Alex who was now licking and mouthing Mookie’s balls as he might a candied apple.


“Yes, of course,” Cézar spoke a bit louder then the boys bidding to see who’d do Alex next. “She’ll be staying in the visitor’s cottage, and as Alex will also be staying in the attacked slave quarters he might be missing school, though on that we’ll have to see.”


“Well give her my best and be sure to tell her Alex is real charmer and his fellow mates can’t get enough of him.” He replied, only with brows raised as he watched Alex pay homage to Mookie’s ass with his deeply embedded tongue.


“I will, professor.”


“Oh, yes,” professor Gordo followed, “. . . and don’t forget the flowers”


“For whom, professor?” Cézar asked lightheartedly, “Rosemary or Alex?”


“Professor Gordo said nothing.  He simply shook his head and walked out smiling.”





Chapter 9:  Rosemary’s Visitation



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 noon.


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.  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 was the Head Top of the Zulu Kings and a member of a 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 30cm 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 bitch.  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 real 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 in her 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.  "Fedji, he fine Alex boy’s Girl-spot,” he shouted, wildly bounced about while pointing toward the tiny white bead bubbling up out of the tip of "Alex boy's" cock.  See moms, he cums like a bitch.  No hands, no more, just a cock in his pussy,”


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.


“Ici (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 10:  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, Stanley, let’s hear what you’ve got so far,” he asked, as he took up a seat fronting his desk.


“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 Thames River waterfront immediately beneath there he stood.  He described the man as well dressed, black and in his words, in a hurry.  He said that he watched as the man approached the levy wall then pulled out the hard drive in evidence and attempted to toss it into the river.”


“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 the agent assigned to investigate the matter was able to retrieve it himself. / 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 the man in question happened to get 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 10 p.m.


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 Caribbean.”


“Oh? And how was he able to determine that?”


“The manner in which he pronounced Heathrow.  Apparently he has a neighbor from Jamaica and they both pronounce the word in the same way.”


“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 10 p.m. that night.  One going to Amsterdam with no blacks aboard, and the other was a flight to Miami that had eleven black gentlemen aboard.  Review of the security cameras came up a bit short, but an Interpol review of the boarding list came up with one particularly interesting name.”




“Yes, the name David Grant, a Fort Lauderdale insurance salesman who resided at 2677 Palm Street.  What makes it so interesting is that Mr. Grant died over three years ago.  So, yeah, I think we’ve got enough to go on, and I’m pretty damn sure our man was on that flight.  Once more, I believe he has used this route before under another alias and will do so again.”


“All well and good, but in truth you don’t even know if Miami was his final destination.  You said he had a Caribbean accent.  Perhaps he boarded a plane to Jamaica, or Puerto Rico or any number of destinations.”


“Well, yes, I’ve considered that.  And what I’ve found is that of all the airlines operating out of the Caribbean, only two listed outbound passengers who have yet to return on the date of our inquiry.  That is, save two, Jamaica and Haiti!  And of those, only Haiti included the name of an inbound black male traveling alone to Haiti that did not appear on the outbound manifest in the last 30 days.   Mr. Guilloteau Dessalines.”  It too is a name we’re found on a Haitian list of the deceased.”


“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 Haiti and see if I can track down Mr. Guilloteau Dessalines.  The last name is unquestionable Haitian, so I knew he’s not some outsider just looking in.  Interpol agrees, but wants to wait to see if the name reappears somewhere down the line.  But if I’m right about this guy, I don’t suspect we will.  When he comes out again it’ll be with yet another assumed name and we’ll be back to where we started.  Give me 30 days, chief, and if I come back empty handed you can trim my feathers.”


“Yeah, okay.  Just be careful.”


“How’s that, chief?”


Haiti!  They say it’s like falling through the rabbet hole where nothing appears as it seems.”




Meanwhile back in Haiti  . . .

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.


“Ahh-Eeeee!” 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.  Plantain n’ fre krèm (cream), 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, (as you wish),” 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, doubling over while holding her stomach as if suffering a spasm.  “Ahhh!   Ahh!” she soon cried out in agony as that penetrating sting began to 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 and suffering, 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 stumbled back in terror.



While over in Cézar’s office . . .


Cézar playfully twisted and poked the black pin he had embedded in the doll’s belly causing Rosemary to double over once again.  He then took up the blue pin and stuck it in the doll’s mouth.


Rosemary again felt the penetrating sting course down her throat and into her belly, where the sting quickly turned 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 orgasm consumed her body and usurped her every thought.


Soon after, her thoughts had become 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, his ass held high in the grasp of another.   He looked haggard, used, and altogether a different boy.


But it was the sight of those bloated cocks that filled her being, turning that spark of orgasmic heat radiating out from within into a bonfire.  A fire so intense it was as though nothing else existed.  As if her need for them was hardwired, as primal as the need to breathe.


“U’s sees, moms, no worry,” Fedji beamed, igniting a roar of laughter.  “Papa he comes to encase you now . . .”


“Encase you now . . .”


“Encase you now. . .” his words echoed in her head, bringing on that safe, warm, 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.  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 orgasm 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 England.


“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 midnight until damnation.”


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.”



The End





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.





Black Haitian Hacker ( )






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 African Renaissance University, all of which I would encourage you to read if you haven’t as yet.  He is no longer contributing, but if you were to let him know how much you appreciate his work, perhaps he shall.  I hope so.


* Art by W. Dunbar