Lwa or Loa, the spirits, the Mysteries and the Invisibles.
night the following day Ishmael 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 possibility
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 evenings meal.
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 still awake. "Typical for a late night flight," he thought.
"Come midnight on the red-eye, the place quietly
becomes a pickpocket's paradise."
need to stretch his legs, he got up to walk the length of the first class
cabin. As he approached the passenger still awake, a hand holding a can
of pop swung out across the aisle colliding with his leg drenching his
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
You're ruined my slacks, boy!" he glared angrily down at him.
sorry," the boy acknowledged meeting his gaze head on. He was apologetic
by not put off in the least.
be more careful." Ishmael followed trying to curb his anger.
"It was an
accident. I said I was sorry. Perhaps if you hadn't snuck up . . ."
He boldly lashed out.
mouth, moun sòt (idiot)! In anger he had inadvertently let slip a word in
his native tongue.
Yeah, sure, look whose talking," he scoffed, remaining defiant.
shit," Ishmael was seething, but quickly tempered his anger when it dawned on
him that the boy had not only heard the word before, but had repeated it as if
a native speaker.
means `idiot', as in you are a fucking idiot!! But then you already knew
that didn't you boy?" he then asked, glaring at the boy waiting for the "fuck
you" he knew was coming.
looked up with fire in his eyes and was about to unload on him too. That
is, until he saw the amulet he wore about his neck. Carved out of boar
tusk, it had an inlay of green pearl in the image of the serpent spirit, the
Lwa. It didn't take much to know it was an item of some importance and need
of lashing out the boy simple said, "Yes," in a much softer tenor, then dropped
his eyes and faced away, taciturn and subdued. It was a distinctly
different posture than the one seen just moments ago.
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?"
Beckett, sir." He spoke quietly. He had even added the word `sir', now
sounding more the respectful young man than he did the teenage tough guy.
it?" he said, 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.
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.
as soft and pretty as a lily in early spring, 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.
Alex, you know what you've done, huh? These are Clement Brothers
slacks. Custom tailored and $500 bucks a pair. You got 500
he shook his head.
your daddy." Ishmael followed, a tad more adamant.
he's not here." He replied, his voice wavering a bit.
she's not here either. I'm traveling back home now."
travel alone then?" He asked, and then looked off beyond the boy to
see who else might be listening.
looked back in the direction Ishmael was looking then back around.
"No need, sir. I'm old enough. I hope that doesn't surprise
you," he ventured to say, though again, without a hint of the former snot
so you're a big boy," Ishmael chuckled. "No more short
of course not, sir," he curtly replied, while trying to suppress a smile.
kid is like chum to a shark," he though, finding himself taken in by the
boy. He didn't know whether to eat him for lunch or romance the boy.
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 his pant leg in search of his prey.
predators and both dangerous, especially if you're a great looking kid with a
killer smile. Yum!
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.
he softly murmured, and then just as quickly diverted his eyes and blanched.
was what he said, "Fucking fag," was what he thought after catching him looking
at his dick. "This boy is dying to get fucked. No doubt about
it. It's written in his DNA, right next to where it read, `Make mine
black, extra sauce, hold the lettuce and tomatoes – Please!'"
would have to wait. To do otherwise would have tipped off his mark, and
as every wolf on the hunt knows, if you want a clean snatch, don't frighten the
chicken before entering the coop.
Hada understood how people saw him. 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?
Well then, I suppose you'd better come with me so we can figure this out." He
followed, while pointing the way toward his seat.
Alex stood up and followed him through the darkened cabin to row 2, where he
promptly sat his sweet young ass down in the seat beside the window.
Ishmael sat beside him then looked at the boy. The dim cabin night-light
framed his face making him appear oven more the white porcelain doll.
boy, if we're to negotiate I need look you in the eye, man to man as they say,
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.
on for a long moment, then without asking, reached up to turn on the 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.
boy!" he 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 wasn't
managed with a nod after catching his breath.
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 in effort to outflank the boy's
defenses, then looked on to see how he would respond.
Alex hesitated, although 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. Again, there seemed to be much more to young Alex
than just a pretty face.
boy. I was trying to go easy on you, boy. 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
he responded with eyes lowered.
what will it be? Either man-up and sit on my lap or lay across it like a
boy," he bluntly stated his terms.
eyed that amulet. Even in the dim cabin light the green pearl inlay
seemed to have an unexplainable aura about it. Something that 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.
that's right, boy. Pull up your big boy pants and saddle up," he
followed, patting his lap just south of that long, thick bulge running its
course down his pant leg, clearly in view.
promptly did, showing not a spark of fear as he straddled his knees. If
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.
Better!" Ishmael exclaimed, "Now we can come to an equitable resolve to
this matter, huh, bway (boy)?" he again spoke in his native tongue, only this
time with a purpose.
he replied, clearly responding to a word he had heard before.
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 he'd never let
him be until he did. He was an imposing man, an inescapable force that
bore upon him in much the same way as did that amulet and that bulge beneath
"I live in Haiti," he spoke sparingly. "My
mother and me. I just went to visit my grandmother in Jersey City and now I'm on my way back
home. I'll be catching the one
o'clock flight to Haiti in Miami."
Coincidence." Ishmael grunted. "I'm booked for the same fight."
there too?" Alex expressed his concern.
course, I'm Haitian. I
live in Pò-au-prens (Port-au-Prince)."
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 . . ." his inquiry fell short.
"A hunsi, a
believer, a devotee," Ishmael completed it for him. "Nothing more,
although it was given to me by a mambo who speaks to the Lwa, papa Legba.
You've seen one before, huh, kid?"
not so, so . . . , oh I don't know." He mulled it over. "Different, I
guess," he said with a shrug, not knowing how else to describe the jumbled mass
of feelings racing around in his head.
yes. It is meant to make you think. How long have lived in Haiti?" Ishmael asked.
years," he said, suddenly more talkative. "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."
Delmas 43, good, good, I know it well. The civilized rubble, where the
savages shit in toilets," Ishmael chuckled, then thinking the time right to
make his first move on the boy, he reached out to run his open palm across the
smooth, just as advertised," he though, while savoring the feel. And more
surprising yet, Alex was leaning into his palm, not pushing away.
Affectionately, like a puss rubbing up against his leg, absent only the purr.
quite a change in the would-be tough guy, which he found odd. But instead
of stopping to consider the reasons for the boy's sudden new appetite, it only
stiffened his resolve to push still further. So softly, with a thumb, he
began to trace the boy's lips without a flinch out of the boy.
along and around them until, almost reflexively, or by habit, his lips pursed
as if to invite the tip of his thumb in. Then in effort to divert his
attention, he decided to broaden his line of exploration. "Do you know
any black Haitian boys, friends, perhaps?"
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 so even so slightly.
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 he 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.
that's it, isn't it boy?" he lit up elated over his response. "Yes, yes,
indeed. A boy you meet on the street," he followed up 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 out, then pushed in still further with a
smooth even glide, while the unrelenting verbal assault went on unabated.
"A boy you
followed into an alley nearby to hand the money over, huh, boy?" he asked while
pressing 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.
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 the
boy let loose of his finger and then again looked down, leaving Ishmael to
wonder what he had said wrong. Then it came to dawn on him. "No
daddy, huh, kid?" to which Alex simply affirmed with a nod.
boy," he quickly followed, lifting his chin back up with a finger, greeting him
with a smile.
that Alex responded to with one of his own, acknowledging him 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!
good news for the wolf of Port-au-Prince, and now feeling it time to up his
ante, he wrapped a hand half-around the boy, pressing him up against in his
chest until his chin came to rest atop his shoulder.
snuggle up and hold tight. I'm your daddy now," the wolf murmured,
feeling the boy begin to relax as he rubbed his hand up and down the length of
his back as if trying to sooth an infant. 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 he
could now see bulging half out his belt-less pants.
breathed in, "Sweet!" he quietly murmured as the boy nuzzled close in, his lips
fronting his ear. "Oh yeah," he thought, "This kid is a pederast
wet-dream. He's got it all. Killer looks, a sweet disposition and a
dimpled ass that could win first prize at he county fair. Not only that,
but he understood Haitian Creole too."
felt as though the kid had been on a collision course his entire live destine
to run into him.
he carried on, playing the boy who he now knew was as queer as a fruit flavored
M&M, strumming his chords with soppy sweet affections while his eyes
remained fixed on that lovely hairless crack running down the length of that
lily white ass.
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 . . ."
he sighed, "sir," he moaned feeling his hand wring out his cheek 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.
that boy, huh?" he toyed with the boy, playing up his response, and then
encouraged him to, "Go on, boy. Pay my fingers no mind."
sir . . ." Alex stammered.
boy. Go on." He continued to push.
he finally managed to whisper. "It was Toussaint," he quickly followed
and for unexplained reason, he straightened up back up and shrugged. It
was the kind 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."
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 doesn't just happen.
fuck you?" Ishmael suddenly felt embolden to ask, looking him dead in the
eye. "Did he boy, huh?" he added, to which young Alex simply shook his
suck his cock behind the pile of trash in the alley?" he continued to prod, and
this time Alex affirmed with a nod.
good!" he said, again wrapping an arm around the boy to draw him back in.
out and found yourself a daddy. Someone to tell you what to do, and like
a good boy you did what was expected of you," he spoke softly, running his hand
down his back and again, stuffed his hand down his pants to clutch his ass.
He began to
squeeze them, knead them, and then feeling emboldened, he wormed a finger down
the crack of this ass, finding his target. Applying pressure, he squeezed
a fingertip inside the boy's ass. Nothing overly indulgent, but just
enough to know his Haitian brothers were going to be lining up once they got a
whiff of his sweet ass.
muttered an "oooh," 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! Ow, ow," the boy squealed when he thrust up
to the knuckle.
he rubbed his daylong stubble against the boys flushed cheek. His finger
finding and then gently stoking that sweet spot, his boy-clit, making the boy
struggle just to catch his breath.
changing his tact, he began to stroke up-and-down. Slowly at first, then
quicker, harder, rougher, his knuckles slapping up against his ass, sending the
boy bouncing and his ass to wobble like a bowl of peach jello.
Unh," Alex moaned along with the finger slapping hard up against his ass.
Then just as suddenly Ishmael 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.
the meter that measured his patience bobbing on empty, he had no choice but to
give up on the toying. No more hiding behind sheep's clothing for the
wolf of Port-au-Prince. The gloves simply had to
come off. So he untied them.
hold of the hand that Alex had wrapped around his neck and pulled it down to
his lap atop his cock.
boy? Huh?" he smirked, looking every bit the man who found his
`boy'. A beautiful kid, but more importantly, he was a submissive bottom
who loved his black, no condiments – please! Once more, it was built into
his guidance system, like an autopilot he followed simply as a matter of
course, and now, thanks to Toussaint, owned his soul.
Alex murmured, now running his fingers alone the length of that long bulge as
if trying to take the measure of it.
Toussaint taught you well, and now it's my turn, boy!" He followed, his
eyes cutting through him like a blade.
boy off his lap, he stood up and stepped out into the isle, extending out his
hand for the boy to take. "Come on, boy. Come with me."
can't . . . ," young Alex stammered, his eyes watery, on the verge of tears.
can, boy." Ishmael said, now feeling embolden to take it up a
notch. "Stop playing the pouty little boy. You own me $500
greenbacks for these custom tailored slacks and you're going to pay the
bill. Now pull up your big boy pants and come with me, or I will tell
your mama what you don't want her to hear when she meets you at the airport."
A threat is
a threat, and upon hearing that one loud and clean Alex stood up and followed
alone to where the restrooms in the first class section were located.
boy," Ishmael said, offering no hint of concession.
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.
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 . . ."
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."
. .? You mean . . .?" he murmured, while his eyes remained glued to
that bulge beneath his slacks.
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 you
knees, boy!" He snapped, and Alex did. He did it because Ishmael had told
him to. 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!
boy," he urged. "My cock is growing 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.
strong, heady smell to its sheer expanse he fount 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.
I found, baby boy," he quickly opened it up.
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 February 8,
you . . . hum," he pondered, then added, ". . . 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.
ex-stewardess, she was man-trap in heels and still quite young. "No more
than 33-34 tops," he thought, and just as expected, Alex was made in her
image. His eyes, lips, the contour of his face would have made him a
perfect match on a photo lineup.
what he found most interesting of all were the marking he saw peeking out along
the neckline of the halter top she wore. The centipede and serpentine
tattooed markings were unmistakably 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.
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.
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.
what do you say we clean up this mess," he bid, telling not asking.
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 500 dollar blow job and
then I'll need to make you my bitch."
sir, please, people will . . . ", he said looking back toward the bathroom
I give a fuck, boy?" he teed off; quite sure the boy was just playing him.
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."
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 then lifted himself up off the seat to lower his trousers
down to his ankles.
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.
hell! Sorry about that boy. When ol' black snake gets hungry he's
got a mind of his own."
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 Midland Texas
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 thicket of coarse kinky hair.
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.
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 of a tin shack not far from his home.
The squalid place where Puma and Bernardo would take him to steal his money,
then push and knock him around while laughing and calling him names while
Toussaint looked on.
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 and begin to fastidiously dust off the
dirt from the falls, and bring order to his disheveled hair. Soothing and
preening, and then while wearing the concern of a father who'd inadvertently
hurt his child, he'd slap him. Hard! And then again begin to wipe
away his tears, sooth, coddle and preen until, like a bolt of lightening from
out of nowhere, he slap harder still.
And so it
would go. The preening, the laughter, the slapping until he'd unbuckle
his pants and force his head down to his bloated cock. "Suck it boy."
he'd say, then when done, "Suck Puma."
again, round-robin, until, "Hey Bernardo," he'd call out. And then
wearing a vicious, insidious grin, he'd nod toward Alex, "You got to piss bad
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 boy, lick
Puma's ass clean, fucking white boy!"
like Ishmael, they were the same. From the way he was treated to how he
felt. Nor did he find Ishmael any less intoxicating. From the smell
emanating up from his manly loins to the thick coat of barberry hair that
bellowed out in bushes, the whole of him consumed him body and soul. Then
too, there was that great needy beast flush up to his nose. Thick and
near long as his forearm, it angrily thrashed about demanding his attention.
surely he leaned in and then tentatively swiped his tongue over the drooling
maw. And as he did, that black Haitian cock kicked up and spat a blob of
pre-cum that ran up his nose.
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.
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."
get to it, boy," he barked, and because it was not in Alex to say no, he opened
up and swallowed up that great purplish plum, his lips stretched tight just
over the crown.
gason bon! (good boy)," Ishmael softly droned while squeezing the length
of his cock, which in turn increased the flow down toward Alex's receptive
lips. His eyes watered, his throat bobbed with the swallow, stopping only
for a moment to pluck a long strand of kinky black hair pasted to his lips.
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 as
well. That tattooed white bitch who thought it hip to want to converse
with the 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!"
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.
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.
boy, say cheeeese!"
Alex saw the
phone and realizing what had just happened rose up, looking a bit
disoriented. His nose to his chin was covered with a pasty wet sheen, and
hanging from his lower lip hung a long unbroken strand that extended to his
did vu do vhat (Why did you do that)?" he managed to spit out.
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, please, don't send the picture. Please, she'll find out. She'll
know and hate me!"
out? Find out what, boy? Your little secret, huh?" Ishmael
chuckled. "Too late for that, boy. You've got faggot written all
enough! It's time we get down to business. Business I know you're
going love, thanks to Toussaint," he chuckle. "I've got to hand it to
that bad ass *n-word*. He knew how to spot`m."
say, boy? You ready to honor the Lwa and love, honor and obey your man,
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."
boy. Now let's get you naked."
he stammered, his teeth near clattering. "In here?"
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."
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
me, boy. How was it?" he asked, while Alex was undoing his pants.
he asked, the mix of fear and excitement causing his chattering teeth to pound
out a rhythm.
that was foremost on his mind when he reached down between Alex's thighs and
latched on to his balls. Then clinching his fist, he yanked them down and
back causing the boy to moan while his upper torso slumped down still further.
kitty, kitty, kitty!" he beckoned to his asshole with a finger, his eyes
fixed on that defenseless little gateway to pure heaven.
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. With hands up against the
wall, the deep well of his back forced the raise of his ass high up and pushed
back, presenting a lewd, wide open display inline with his restless, long slab
the way a man wants to see his cunt, boy. Eager and ready, reaching out
to smooch a man's cock, begging him to fuck your ass! Your cunt!"
You sweet boy pussy! Ishmael cajoled, and the boy moaned, his head still
buzzing through space as Ishmael traced circles around the brown rim with a
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 squeezing in a second finger
alongside. Two fat fingers pumping, digging, twisting and stretching out
that lovely hole to made way for what was coming.
taking no prisoners now. He quickly grabbed hold of his cock letting it
slap down atop the boy's ass. Jutting out over the small of his back, a
steady stream of thick viscous drool cascaded down upon his hollowed back.
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, "she's ready. I can hear kitty
purring, begging for it."
were anymore amped he would be sailing the astral plane. But to insure
the edge he wanted, he again pulled out that little bottle and inhaled, doing the
same to the boy, causing him to gasp and his head to waver as if lost in the
you hear her, boy?" He followed, his breath labored, while his hips pumped
rhythmically, the underbelly of his cock gliding along the crack of the boy's
boy, can you?" He asked again, his breathing deeper, his sigh more
guttural, and what of Alex? Well, Alex just waited, anxiously, eagerly
for what was to come, gulping for air like a guppy out of water.
to me, boy. Can you? Can yeah hear her?"
he uttered, his voice low and tremulous between panting breath, sounding as if
on the verge of tears.
she needing me, boy?" Ishmael prodded, in a deep, molten voice
bellowing out from his core. That same source of heat that propelled the
thrust of his hips, his cock to pulse, and the need to drive down deep to seed
his new bitch.
me to do what?" he managed on the inhale. "BOY!" On the exhale.
don't . . . , I don't . . ."
you do, boy. She needs me to fuck her, like the fuckface cunt YOU
are. Isn't that right, BOY?"
don't, I don't . . . I mean, oooh, oooh, yessssssssss, yesyesyesyes!" He
wailed above his tears.
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.
in, and then on the exhale . . .
knock, he heard a knock upon the cabin door.
but will you be much longer? There are others who require the use of the
facilities as well."
Pre International boys Academy
looking out the window as the twin turbo prop began its descent. To the
right, he saw the largely depleted landscape of sunbaked clay peppered with a
scattering of 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.
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.
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's assured him he
wished only to speak with her about an opportunity available to him at a school
he had extensive ties to.
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.
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.
a deal stopper one would think, or at the very lease, give her second
thoughts. Then again, perhaps not!
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.
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.
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.
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 hung upon the
clothes tree standing beside the front door.
madam, I believe I've noticed it myself. I boyish fascination perhaps,"
Ishmael was happy to volunteer.
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. Hada." she deferred to his best judgment.
the big fish will always attack the little fish that swims the bowl in the
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.
he st-start?" she asked, 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.
website 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 it as if it were gospel
further, the Baptiste du Pre International boys Academy actually did
exist. Though not highly publicized, it was a private 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."
"pod" system was created, where white and Asian populations from
throughout the world are integrated into traditional all black Haitian
groupings to broaden the cultural diversity.
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.
school houses 10 "pod" communities representing the 10 regional
départements (districts) across the broader Haiti.
Ayizan Lords, Gangsta Rappers, Rasta Bosses, Obeah, Ogun Pound, Voodu Kings,
Black Snakes, 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.
given that the high 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.
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
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, affording them the ability to choose the
candidate that best fit their needs. And the pool of the willing is vast,
from openly gay boys lured by the smell of a more accepting America near by, to boys like Alex, gay as
the day is long, but one confused motherfucker.
that's assuming they even had families who gave a shit, which happened to be
the case more often than not. Then if you were to include the families
who saw it as an opportunity 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.
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.
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.
Brotha," Ishmael greeted him as he breezed pass.
brudda man! 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.
(Damn right), Rasta-man," he said as he continued on his way, then stopped and
turned back around. "Hey, Rasta-man!" he called back, "Where's
turned back wearing that same pompous smile and says, "pita li vini guete!" (later
he come to fuck).
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.
yes. Fuck yes! It was good to be home again . . .
Fine Art or
a Matter of more Natural Mechanics
sedan rolled up the sunbaked 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.
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.
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 the "pod" system that
was used by the school as the primary vehicle of change.
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.
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.
the Commons by pathway, the pods branched out around the perimeter of the
building like spokes attacked to the hub of a wheel.
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
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.
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
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!
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
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.
He exhaled. Then with a shrug, "Well, what can I say? Boys
will play, huh?"
Ishmael quipped. "He looks like he's drilling for oil!"
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
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."
he 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?"
he answered while rubbing his fingers together in that universally recognized
sign for money.
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."
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.
Ishmael," he 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."
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.
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
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 set his wrath down upon
them. Isn't that right?" Cézar nods repeatedly, and vigorously to
show unanimity of that particular point.
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."
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
"So if you
were to buy such diamonds and you were me, that is where you'd hide them?"
Ishmael bellowed out. "Think I'm crazy? That's the stupidest
fucking idea I ever heard. I trust NO ONE but you, Hunsi Roché, and
spirit you serve," he glared into his eyes with a cold hard stare.
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."
reminds me," he then followed, lightening up a tad. "Something else came
of my trip to New York too."
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 it over to Cézar
for his records.
he uttered, "A new recruit?" he then asked while opening the folder and
began to peruse the documents.
perfect, nice, nice," he muttered under his breath as he read on and until he
found the flaw in the un-refundable black marketed diamond he had just bought
to protect his retirement. "Oh, shit!" he bellowed. The kid lives
well, I know. But trust me, this one is worth it. Have a look," he
again pointed to the picture.
Ishmael, bad," he shook his head, "Budapest, Singapore,
Hoboken, wherever, but never Port-au-Prince! That's the rule, Mr.
Hada. Salute the Lwa or suffer the consequence."
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
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 . . ."
Cézar," Ishmael cut in, "He isn't even Haitian. He's from fucking New Jersey. The form his mother signed
says as much. Lwa or no Lwa, he can't be seen as anything but a young
white American fag. In other words, he's the prefect offering!"
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. He'll make the ideal
offering." Cézar smirked, grabbing his crotch.
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.
he then added, "I'll need a copy of this photo so Bon Mambo Serafine and
me can begin to construct the wanga (spell) to um . . . to um, well,
shall we say, set him on the right path," he chuckled.
Roché," he returned the smile. "I have his mother's photo as well.
A perfect pairing that should serve as one."
of course," Cézar reassured him. "Twice the mischief I think. Papa
Legba will be delighted."
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
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.
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.
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.
Ezili, what's going on?" Ishmael asked, pointing to the hut.
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
celebrating." He finally said, albeit with a disdainful look.
they need a reason?" he followed, only now behind pinched brows.
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.
sure does sound like they're having a good time though. Is that what
brought you down here?"
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."
sort of thing?" Ishmael queried.
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.
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.
nothing unusual it that. The pod whites were there to help bridge the
cultural divide, a duty this boy seemed to be performing splendidly.
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.
looked back around at Ezili, wondering what it was he found so unsettling in
such a beautiful sight.
Ezili," he shrugged. "What gives?"
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!
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.
he said, stating his case.
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
eyes, it was nothing less than fine art. Not only in the artistic sense,
but the craftsmanship showed all the signs of a tradition past 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.
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
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
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.
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.
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'."
least Ishmael now knew. A man of few words, Ezili sure knew how to get
his point across.
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
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
nothing more to it.
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 had to agree. "If they could do that much damage with
just a bit of twine and some pigment, imagine what they could do with a doll (
the gris-gris to invoke the spirit), and a straight pin."
"A red pin
in each nipple!" Now there's a frightening though, huh?
Fractured, Impure Place
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
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.
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 small stream 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Hada, 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?"
my friend, the program executed beautiful." He replied, setting his
briefcase beside his desk.
traces as far as I can tell," he then added as he pulled out a check from
his billfold and set it atop his desk.
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 d' fuck am I do with this?" he scoffed, straight-faced.
Go buy yourself a Mercedes or something."
already got one and another one back home in Germany,"
he followed, his expression equally deadpan.
with a trailer hitch attached," Ishmael scoffed. "To haul away all that
Nazi gold you've still got buried, huh, Commandant?" he winked, grinning one of
those `I-gotch'cha' grins.
there my uppity black brother. The ears have walls," he broke a
smile. "This reminds me, I have updated your profile, so I'll need to
update the configuration to keep you one step a head of those who want
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.
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
I'll be here by noon, hopefully! The rain . . .
you know . . ."
I'll be visiting the school tomorrow myself."
Business with Cézar Roche?"
he abrupt said, loud enough to be heard in the adjoining suite.
"Harry, get in here, boy!"
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.
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.
ti gason dous (Hello, my sweet boy)," Ishmael winked while returning his
smile. "Have you been keeping that fine young pussy 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.
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.
yes, an eager bitch she has been too." he replied, while devouring the boy
with his eyes, cutting down through to a place only they know. A place he
now felt the need to visit again.
not always," Christof then added, wanted to set the record right.
"She still ices up on occasion, and when she does, I thaw her out with a
good taste of my belt. Isn't that right, boy?" he nudge Harry,
prodding him for an answer.
on, boy. Go on, tell Ishmael how my Tap-tap tapping on your ass-pussy
lights you up."
looked toward Ishmael and answered. His eyes as downcast as his voice,
why is that, fag?" Christof asked tauntingly, as if to diminish him yet
further down a rung or two.
. . ." was all he could say, now dangling from the last rung, below which there
surely was a hell.
. . . because why boy, because only my belt can reach that special place
that gets your juices flowing?
he then sought to explain. "It seems young Harry had himself a rather sadistic
daddy. A twisted, fucked up closeted fag who like to use his belt before
feeding him his cock. Like daily, sometimes even with his like-minded pals
cheering him on.
He 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 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?
Daddy's little fag ass cunt?" he added with a smirk as he stuffed his hand down Harry's brief white briefs
and stuck a couple of fingers up his ass, Harry rising up on his toes as he
oh," Harry squealed like a stuck girly bitch with her cunt on fire.
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 . . . please, sir, it's so b-b-b-b-b-big . . ."
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 fractured, `impure' place deep inside he had touched. That
place Harry needed someone to touch, and no matter how impure, belied the
beauty you saw. And you only need see him to know how true that was.
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 the way he strutted the wears with that dandified gait,
he wasn't a boy any reputable pederast would want to jump into bed with without
first checking out what he had stashed beneath those panties.
he looked as he fucked, and he came when you fucked him. No hands! And that's
what Ishmael liked about the boy. He was a great fuck. 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. 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.
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, 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.
aahhh eeeeee . . ." he moaned.
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.
he muttered, once he'd spotted the rapidly spreading stain half way down the
length of his thigh.
looked up and grinned. 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, that caused Harry
to double over and squawked out in pain. "Owie!"
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, he 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," Harry again squealed, as would anyone with a fist the size of a Texas grapefruit stuck up your ass.
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.
can't, I can't, its tooooo big!"
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, aaah, eeee!"
laughing is ass off. He found Christof's impersonation of a cowboy with a
German accent ludicrous to the extreme, yet somehow, hilariously funny.
girl," Christof sounded off when his pony finally nosed up to the trough -
girl. Now, drink up girl while I open up a can of whoop-ass to feed your
Ishmael chuckled, hardly able to contain himself. "I get it! But
tell me, what's with the silky feminine shit!"
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 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
tell me," Ishmael managed to get out above the laughter. "When
not knee deep in governmental affairs Osahar plays your bronco riding
yes," he beamed, "he wears a cowboy hat too." Ishmael was laughing so hard it took
him three tried just to unbuckle his pants.
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.
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.
know, my brother, if you keep it up that cunt of his is going to be hanging
down to his knees."
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
gulped and moaned, the contractions reverberating alone the length of Ishmael's
cock. "Oooh," Ishmael sighted, as the contractions squeezed out
his junk, now flowing in copious amounts down the boys gullet.
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.
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.
you seemed Lucas lately?" he managed to get out between the hissing
"Oooo's" and the "ah's.
Irish lad?" Christof asked, while his hand shuffled about inside Harry's
boy-cunt as if searching for something inside a lady's purse.
I follow the Judeo-Christian ethic: One horse and one rider at a
time!" Christof looked over grinning.
going there tomorrow, right?" he asked, followed with a hissing,
Harry has his monthly checkup with the Gynecologist, Doc Dutillet. The
pervert! You know what that man does to those boy pusses?"
no! I've not heard." he sighted, feeling the bob of Harry's throat,
caressing his cock's sensitive underbelly.
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 experiences the same sparks of ecstasy just like the real
Ishmael sounded off, ". . . and that's bad?"
no! The plumper the better far as I'm concerned. And that's the
hitch. Now he cums like a bitch after serving a long stint in Sing-Sing,
but when you pinch a nipple, nothing!"
they harden up plenty, but he sure as hell isn't going to cum without a fat
dick up his ass. That makes him a liar to me."
you expecting," Ishmael asked, "that you'd just tweak a nip to get him off?"
Something along the lines of that red button you push to set off a hellfire missile. Only instead
of a fiery inferno of death and destruction, you get a fiery inferno of molten
tightened up, causing a twitch. "Ahhh, damn, boy!" Ishmael
huffed. "I know you're hungry, but easy up on those fucking
chuckled. "See how he gets. Just the thought of having nips you can
toggle to set off an explosion gets him all excited."
ahhh," Ishmael sighed, "I don't know, my friend. Sounds more like a
nightmare to me. Can he do it?"
yet, not after three tries."
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."
Tell me, what happened?" he peered in, apparently with quite an interest.
got 'em!" he grunted, then moaned, "Oh, ah, eee-gads."
joke! They got him bigger nips? How?"
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.
watched and waited for Ishmael's engine to cool, then coast back into the
physical realm before continuing.
you think they could . . . ah, you know? Help?" he gestured with a nod
know," Ishmael finally spoke through labored breath. "But if
you can get an ol' pederast like me to dig swishy ponyboys, brother, anything
Christof beamed, and then with a yank, splosh and a Ploop, pulled his hand out
of Harry's ass.
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!"
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 she likes it!"
and began to walk out, only to stop mid-way. "Which would you prefer,
chaps or a cowboy hat?" He asked 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
hat," Christof answered himself as he turned about and continued out the
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
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
you like the ass-kicking? Do you like the abuse?"
eyes, Harry lowered his head and whispered, "Yesss, sir, I liked it!"
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.
sneered. "Next time I'll be sure to wear a belt with some bite."
the Cultural Divide
Budapest. HTK TeleKom, the Dunaharaszte
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.
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
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.
he exclaimed as he swatted it off with the headset.
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.
Tamas, 1165," he gave his name and number to the technician on the other
end of the line.
yes, working fine, no problem.
yeah I'm fucking sure."
it was a bug."
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."
fucking way. You want the damn bug then you get a hammer and a body bag
and come get the fucking thing yourself."
yes, bye then."
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.
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.
morning he was boarding a flight at Fanz Liszt
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
morning, sir. Can we see your passport please?"
officers wore the badge carried by Customs officers, so he promptly retrieved
it from his inside coat pocket and handed it over.
already passed through Customs, officer." Ishmael thought to remind him.
sir, I know you have. However, you are still in Hungary and are subject to our laws."
course, officer, I understand." He smiled.
name is Ra Ebrahim, and you are an Egyptian national?" he asked, after
examining the document.
you speak Hungarian?" he asked with brows creased.
ahhoz, hogy a. (enough to get by)"
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?"
than most, don't you think?" the other officer cut in after giving it
yes," his partner agreed after giving him yet another go over.
"A blue black, much darker than other Black Egyptians I've seen."
tailoring, too. French?" he asked while fingering his lapel.
you've lived there then."
live in Cairo."
Yes, of course, your records would indicate as much."
ask how long was your stay, Mr. Ebrahim?"
days," he coolly replied.
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?"
of course. I had business with Milan Jozsef Gosz."
Jozsef Gosz, the Parliamentary official? He had business dealing with a
black Egyptian?" The other asked with raised brows.
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.
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.
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 the computer in hand took the other office aside and they
entered into a quiet conversation.
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."
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
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.
chuckled. The irony that the man whose job it was to put him in jail was
the very person responsible for saving his skin. Plus, he had 90 grand of
he couldn't wait to leave Hungary, but he would be chuckling all the
way to the bank as he did.
few moments between meetings, Cézar Roche had finally found the time to stop by
the Commons building for his customary cup of coffee. It was late
afternoon and with classroom study now complete, the fotoball fields outside
were teeming with activity, while inside, Cézar found a group of Gangsta
Rappers and Ayizan Lord footballers relaxing together after a competitive game.
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).
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.
could take many forms, of course. From the common forms of verbal
greetings to the sharing of things one 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.
they 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, their assholes, their soiled feet of the accumulated grime. Their
sweet young asses often served as a punching bag to pummel with their cocks to
relieve everyday tensions.
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
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.
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 the battering until
gasping for air, they find their release and explode like a blast out of a
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.
the school had taught them. It was much like the picture that hung on the
wall behind Cézar's desk. The one showing a ferocious black Doberman in a
bare-toothed snarl and beneath him a small, white male Toy Poodle caught in a
pitiful yelp suspected mid-air at the end of the dobie's cock. Below him,
a mixed pool of cum and blood.
said all that need be said, but if he need explain it to an inquisitive Top
(student), he'd simply point to the caption written below that read:
"Think I give a shit!"
the coffee, Cézar?" Professor Tebogo asked as he came up from behind.
hello, my dear friend, how were classes today?" Cézar replied,
greeting his fellow Alum.
fine," he muttered while blowing on his steaming cup of coffee, and then
took up a seat alongside Cézar.
young Colin," he adds. "A fine bitch, but I swear, the boy
seems to be getting denser by the day."
he had a particularly bad day today?" Cézar asked between sips of
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."
the group in which Colin was a member chose to use a CPO photogate, an
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 photogate 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."
Colin's case the relative speed was 0.7, or approximating the speed and
velocity of a slug slithering along a horizontal plane. Where as the
relative speed of Mikel Chastain was 3.82, or approximating that of a
bullet. Understand what I mean?"
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.
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." he stated his case and then added almost defensively,
"Although I can assure you, not at the expense of the others."
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.
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?"
sashayed over with a long strain of 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."
if you'll excuse me, I've yet to prepare tomorrows assignments . . ."
Tebogo intruded, as he rose up and extended his hand preparing to depart.
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
it on the plate." he told Colin, pointing to an empty plate sitting atop
the table. "I'll get you a spoon and a cheery to go with that soon
enough, you hungry cunt. But first my balls are aching just from watching
you help bridge the cultural divide with that sweet white Irish ass of yours,
boy. Come unzip my pants."
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 and accuracy of a
half-starved whore. 7.2 seconds after asking, he had his pants pulled
down to his knees.
fine, now, hop aboard, boy." He beamed while slapping his bare
thigh, his cock standing bolt upright dousing his navel with pre-cum.
straddled his legs and climbed aboard, again kissing Cézar upon the lips while
lining up his puss to welcome his enflamed cock.
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 the two together belly to belly and then had Colin entwine
his fingers together so he could masturbated both cocks as one.
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."
you, sir," Colin cooed, quite taken by the compliment.
well, you needn't thank me bitch, because your snatch would make a Rue Santara
streetwalker even prouder."
nodded silently, letting his hands speak for him as he began to stroke their
combined cocks using the pre-cum as lubricant.
Fine, fine, boy. Now we can get comfy, buddy-up, talk man to boy." he
winked with a grin. "So tell me, you having a fine day doing the
fuck me rag for one fat cock after another?"
sir," he answered, hoping to placate the man just as he hoped to please
used him before, so Colin didn't expect an easy ride. But that aside,
anything had have been better than the shellacking he'd just taken when helping
to bridge the cultural divide with his ravaged cunt. 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.
you like it, boy? Did you like being treated like shit?" Cézar
hissed, tauntingly, prodding the boy, wanting to tighten that screw still
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 pressing down the way he knew Cézar
liked, sliding the tip of his gland along the soft underbelly beneath his drooling
purplish plum, making him purr.
Colin was an artisan when it came to pleasing a man. In fact, Cézar
considered his skill set comparable to the best whores, man or woman, strolling
for Johns along Rue Santara. There was a lot to like about the boy, but
what he didn't like was being played.
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.
asked you a fucking question, boy," he scowled, causing his jowls to
redden. "You like being treated like shit on a shoe?"
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, what the fuck kind of answer is that? Come on you fucking slug,
cough it up. I know you like the abuse, so man-up, say it!"
He finally admitted, "Yes, I like it."
it boy. Embrace your Faggot. Like I do, like your pod mates do, like your
fucking daddy once did."
didn't," he wanted it known.
didn't know you were a faggot? If he didn't, it was because he was either
blind, or a dumber shit than you."
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 Barry."
finally the good stuff. Come, come, boy. I want to hear it.
Time to bear your soul! Who's Barry?"
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."
beat you, boy?"
A lot! Anytime he though I was 'acting homosexual'."
laughed. "What in the hell was that supposed to mean? Making googly-eyes
at some boy?"
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."
he was my tutor. The retired proctor my father had hired."
he exclaimed, "you were a faggot and a dumb shit too."
sir, I was a good student, but my father wanted me to go to a college, so he
said it was necessary."
you like him?
There was a
pause. "No! He was mean and nasty and the look of him 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 . . ."
what, boy, until your papa caught him sucking your cock?"
well sort of. He was fucking me when my dad walked into the room."
was the man who took your virgin ass, huh?"
he again turned away."
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 that ugly blister
he uttered, still looking away.
boy, you learned early that 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."
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."
papa knew a homo when he saw one, huh?"
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."
course my father told him about what had happened between me and Barry and told
him if I didn't behave or 'acted homosexual' he should punish me on the
spot. He even gave him the belt he used on me. So he started using
it, for the least little thing."
make me get naked and kneel on the bed with my head down and ass up.
Then, he'd make me reach back and spread my cheeks so he could strap my
cunt, boy! " Cézar interrupted.
my cunt. He'd beat it hard too, telling me he need beat it to cure my
affliction, my homo . . .'
faggot, boy," Cézar again cut in.
my faggot. 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
went on for awhile before he started to fuck me. 'As punishment,' he's
say. To hurt me because that was what homosexually was all about.
Reiterating my father's words, that homosexually only means pain and
hurt, a lot, at least at first . . . but, you know, I liked it too. And
after a while it stopped hurting and I guess he thought I wasn't hurting
enough, so he hurt me even more, but I still wanted it. And the more I wanted
him to fuck me, the more he tried to hurt me because that is what I
went on until I was almost 15. By then of course, I needed to be fuck by
him before I could cum. Or ever get a boner, really."
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 depended on him to make hard and me cum. And if he pulled out before
I did cum, I'd have to ask him to please fuck me some more until I did.
sir," I'd have to beg him, "Your cock! I need to cum. Please!"
he would put it back in, but sometimes he'd just sneer and say I was
disgusting; that I should be hurting, not enjoying myself. So if I wanted
it, I'd have to beg. `Please hurt me more,' because I was a faggot and
that was what I deserved.
He hurt me
too, but no matter how hard he fucked me, or how many fingers, toes, wine
bottles or whatever he shoved up me, I always got hard and would cum. In
fact, the day my father walked in and found out about us I was begging him to
please fuck me hard. I was almost screaming it, just so he'd fuck me and
make me cum."
Damn boy! Cézar groaned as he bust a nut, his cock shooting off like a
geyser. He sat and watched Colin licking his hands clean, 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.
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 man-bitch as
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
whites. 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.
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. One who
can only find the fulfillment and the release they desired in their surrender
to the suffering.
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
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
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 and pain they come to
associate with making love to another man - If not self-inflicted, then by
others." (Side note: Just one mans view, spoken by a man who carries
thought he waved good-bye to Colin as he 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.
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
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.
I've been looking for you." He cried out, 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 scientist two steps off
the deep end.
yes, you have found me. What is it?"
transfer papers for Julien Dejardins." he said as he handed them over and
then held up the jar giving it a slight shake. "This is for Bon
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?"
of course. What do you take me for?" he sounded off."
sorry my friend, I didn't mean to imply . . ."
well, rest assured all the T's are crossed and I's dotted. In fact, young
Julien is already on his way this very moment, all comfy and snug as a
Julien, a fine boy in his time, no?" Cézar smiled on reflection.
but a rather skinny, blown-out cow now. Don't go getting all sappy on me
now. The boy was well past his prime. And the new boy?" he then
asked, "When will he arrive?"
moment. In fact I'm heading back to my office now, so if you'll excuse me
doctor . . ."
turned to leave, but stopped mid-way to ask Doctor Dutillet something that had
just come to mind.
doc, I almost forgot. Christof Eichel called me and said something about
. . ."
Barber," the doctor cut him short. "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, but the next time he calls me a quack it'll be his head in that jar and
not some asinine Vodou mumbo-jumbo!" He angrily turned away while flipping him
off as he steamed off back to his clinic, mumbling something about black magic
and gris-gris as he
Dutillet was already half way down the walk before Cézar extended a parting
gesture, then shaking his head and muttering, he too turned to leave. "Chaos!
entered his office and walked over to the brilliant mahogany and glass cabinet
that stood beside his desk.
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 another
on the third row down.
He took a
moment to insure the label 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
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
tick-tock, tick . . . tock . . . tick . . ."
". . .
please come in," he called through the door.
clerk, walked in. "The new boy has arrived, Monsieur Roché. Should
I send him to the clothiers first?"
Pascal, the usual engagement attire, and send Fedji to see me as soon as
7: New Obeah Boy
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.
later a maintenance man dressed in coveralls and carrying a broom came up
alongside Dieter's parked van. Slowed 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 as he
stood close in the front passenger side door, he pulled out a snap gun and
bumped the lock, unlocked the door.
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
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.
was on the internet while typing a letter on the Word processor when Ishmael's
program managed to weasel its way though the modem and desktop firewalls to
log-in to his computer.
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 three
hours to the minute to pocket over a two hundred and fifty grand.
at the Baptiste du Pre International boys Academy:
Roché," Pascal gaily announced, "Votre jeune tepette, (your young fairy)" he
trumpeted, and then swung open the door to make room for Alex to pass with
Fedji attached. He had one hand brushing up against his forearm, the
other clutching his ass.
tepette?" Alex whispered off to the side so Fedji might hear. "Bèl
(beautiful)," he returned the whisper with a lie, only one wrapped around a
giggle as sugar sweet as the boy putting the squeeze on his ass.
blushing like a tart with a schoolgirl crush. He clearly was smitten by
the boy, 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 performing machine. Then
give that machine a face that gave meaning to, "drop dead gorgeous", and you
know why Alex looked near faint, lost in a swoon.
Or was it
his manner of dress that turned his cheeks a scarlet red? No shoes, no
undies, just the briefest white satin halter that barely covered his
nipples. And below, a pair of matching shorts cut shorter yet. So
short that the crotch seam crowded his balls, and the leg openings had been
widened to such a degree that the pink helmeted head of his cock and three-quarters
of his plump white ass hung out on full public display.
He felt bare,
near naked, and when he came to stand in front of Cézar's desk, he fidgeted
anxiously, not knowing what to do with his hands, or the slightly stiffened
pink helmeted head bulging out beneath the diaphanous white satin.
young Alex might like you," Cézar chuckled, raising the level of Alex's unease,
while Fedji, catching the vibe, pinched Alex on the ass and lit up with a grin
that showed nothing but gleaming white teeth the width of his face.
Alex shrieked. "Wi, mesye," (yes sir) Fedji followed, as he combed his
hand along Alex's thigh, so perilously close.
if you do not already know Fedji is the head Top of the Obeah Pod in which you
are to be wed. His English is not so good, but he's a fine fellow, and
quit the heartthrob," he blatantly winked with a wolfishly snide grin.
asked, his brows gathered, looking bewildered.
in a manner of speaking. We are one big 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?"
so. We're a family!" he nodded, following the logic, the tension in the
air lessened a bit.
Now as a brother in a large family your job is to bring a smile to a grumpy
face. 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 being open and receptive to their
wishes, needs, et cetera, and then 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
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, heaven please help him, he had Papa Legba to
worry about too.
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?"
suppose," he shrugged, more in the way of appeasement than understand a damn
word of it.
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?"
nodded, though still not understanding, and again feeling a tad restless he
ventured a quick look around. Taking note of a small statue of a djab (a
wild spirit), standing beside a pin cushion atop his desk. Knowing full
well that even a tiny straight pin can be mightier than the sword in the hands
Well, just remember. Don't come crying to me, or Papa Legba neither,
because sure as shit happens, he is going to be conjuring up a sèvitè, (a
servant) to stick a pin in your eye and another up your rag doll ass."
He said with an icy glare, putting particular emphasis on the word `doll.'
you know what is expected. As for what else to expect, Fedji will see to
it you are branded with your Obeah tattoo, and tomorrow, Papa Legba willing,
I'll see to it you are issued a more practical pair of podboy whites. "A
zippy!" he then wanted to add, but didn't for fear the shorts, zippered on the
rear, would trigger the boy's panic button. Perhaps even more so than
hearing of his upcoming branding!
tattoo? Alex's eyes spiraled up in alarm, his mind a whirl with images of
strange rituals and fiendish practices.
replied, "Fedji, please show Alex your Obeah tattoo" Which Fedji quickly did,
wearing that same shit-eating grin as he stepped up and rolled his short sleeve
up over the ball of his shoulder. There in multi colors of ink was a
picture of a cobra coiled around a huge cock with a hefty set of balls hanging
beneath. The cobra was smiling. His head alongside that of the
helmeted cock, out from which a gusher of creamy white cum exploded upward in
an umbrella-like spray.
isn't it?" Cézar looked on admiringly. "Of course you won't be wearing yours on
the ball of the shoulder like Fedji. That's not your place of
strength. Yours will be penned above the place where your strength
lies. That place will soon be determined by Fedji and your pod
brothers. Any more questions?"
please," he finally braved to ask. "Why can't I wear khakis like Fedji?"
he wanted to know, pointing to Fedji's smart Khaki uniform that made him look
quite the stunningly attractive Boy Scout.
your present attire isn't for everyday use, rather a special one to celebrate
the occasion of your arrival. Personally, I think it looks rather
nice. Don't you agree, Fedji?" he asked while scrutinizing Alex's attire
yon lot! (yes sir, a lot)," he beamed while reaching down to grab his
crotch. Obvious Fedji wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree, but with a
body and face like his, who gave a fuck.
Then if you've no other questions I believe we are ready. Fedji, if you
would please stand alongside your new boy and take his hand we will
begin." Which Fedji promptly did, turning to face Alex and taking up his hand.
good. Now, Fedji, do you take Alex as your pod white to love until the
day you part?"
"M fè!" (I
do!)" He trumpeted, licking his chops with eagerness.
"And do you
Alex, take Fedji and his Obeah brothers to love, honor and obey until the day
stuttered, now looking thoroughly routed, his voice nowhere to be found.
Then I pronounce you wedded Obeah Top and podboy. You may kiss, and then
be off with you to bed.
pressed in close and wrapped his arms around Alex, his hands grabbing hold of
his half-bare buns to give them a squeeze. Leaning down, he devoured him
with his lips. His tongue probing deep, feasting on his new white podboy
until getting his fill he withdrew his tongue and began licking the length of
his face. From lips to his brows in one long wet swipe, like a lion
licking his cub.
breathless, a kite caught in a breeze lost in a spin. And when Fedji
pulled him by the hand out the door, it was as though he were a kite sent
windborne, blown down a path that led to . . . that led to . . .
Where are we going?" Alex called out, winded, coming to a sudden stop in
route to the Obeah pod.
He managed, struggling though his rudimentary grasp of the language.
"Go? Go pod! Bed! Come, come, you go!"
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
a moment more 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.
tann, ou tann! (you wait, you wait!)" Fedji
shouted at them, one hand waving wildly above his head as he carved a path
through toward that red clay hut, dragging Alex along inside. With Alex
in tow, he raced across a sitting room, passed a study and into the billet
lined with its rows of beds. Behind them, a long line of walking,
talking, bloated cocks followed, awaiting, anxiously.
Is this were I sleep?" Alex asked, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, staring into
what surely had to be his worst imagining come true.
he asked, turning the pages of his English text over in his head. "Yes,
yes. Sleep." He said after having found the word. "Aprè! (After!),"
he then thought to add, grinning. Then he wrapped Alex up and hoisted him
up over a shoulder, carrying him like a sack over to the closest bed, where
upon he dropped him, belly down ass up.
Fedji huffed, hurriedly removing his Khaki shorts while the others gathered
round and Alex, again blown by that fierce wind was set adrift amidst a roomful
of bloated black Haitian cocks and the near riotous clamor.
One side of
him wanting to scream, to run, but there was another part of him wanted him to
stay. For Fedji - that definition of masculine beauty - that perfectly
performing machine. Someone he wanted to please because Fedji had told
him to stay.
importantly, he wanted to stay for himself. To do what was in him to
do! What he needed to do to make him whole – full stop!
and fist bums 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 his back and with the other, he reached down between his legs and
grabbed hold of the crotch seam that ran between his legs. He stretched
the diaphanous satin up and then leaned down and ripped the fabric apart with
his teeth. In one ferocious chomp he had opened up an expressway to his
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.
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, pointing to the red embossed imprint of all
32 teeth smiling back up of them.
he asked as he ran though the list of verbs running through his head. "I
did-I does, I, ah yes . . . I do," he beamed. "I do fuck! Fedji
fuck you butt goo-o-o-o-d." He hissed as he slapped his huge cock atop his
ass. Then spreading his cheeks he hawked up a wad and split on his hole.
everyone is watching?" Alex screeched like a cat on fire, searching for
something, anything to escape the pain he knew was coming.
Naruto, he watch!" He called out the name, "Naruto he fuck butt tou (too)!"
followed by a fist-bump and a chortle from the slugger swing his long black bat
against Alex's ear.
his cried, the anguish written in his eyes. "No, no . . ."
and Fidèle, Alphé, Najac" he calls out the names of those standing close in,
with a fist-bump and a "bro" following each ". . . and Mathieu, and Olgues, and
Jean-Claude, and . . . tout (all) Top's fuck podboy butt. You like.
You wait." He giggled, as he busily lined up his cock up his hole, and 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 . . "
performing 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 ass were as exquisitely sculpted as any Lachasie male form cut from black
marble. Hard, smooth, sinuous, the long striated muscles uniformly
swelled and tightened the length of him as though one solid propulsion machine
designed with one purpose in mind. To provide the torque and power to
drive his cock up some sweet boy's ass with all the precision of a Porsche
power train. Vroom!
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 run without pause. Alex shrieked, sweat
flew, the bed rocked nonstop and until he roared like a god damn madman busting
Fidèle hoped aboard to continue where Fedji had left off, starting the instant
Fedji stepped around to have his cock licked clean.
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 he 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.