This work is copyrighted to the author © 2015.  Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story.  All rights reserved.


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

Also: I need thank Pat Roberts.  A pioneer in the black rule genre, he authored Ebony High, White Sunset and African Renaissance University, all of which I would encourage you to read if you haven't as yet.  He is no longer contributing, but if you were to let him know how much you appreciate his work, perhaps he shall.  I hope so.


WARNING:  This story contains sexual encounters between men and boys.  Some sex is consensual, some not.  I don't condone it.  I'm not advocating it.  I may or may not even like it.  It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.


Before you read it, please note the following:

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

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

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


 Support Nifty: If you can afford to cough up a few bucks, the good folks who make this all happen would be much obliged.


                                                                                               Black Magic

                                                                                     (A Hacker's Tale Part 1)


                                                                                        Black Haitian Hacker


. . . Alex sighed and Ishmael, like the wolf, squeezed young Alex's jaw open and hawked up a quantity of phlegm and spit in his mouth.  "Ah, yes, boy, that's what boys do, as a rule to relieve a black man of his junk. cum, piss, no matter, you're my boy now.  Not Toussaint's but mine to rut, to love or treat you like gum on my shoe. You got that boy?"


"Yessss, sir."  He murmured through the fog of nitrites that laden his brain.


"One deep thrust, boy.  Just one and you're going to be seeing stars and cumin'.  With no hands!  No more!  Just the clit in your ass!  Oh yes," he moaned, "she's ready.  I can hear the kitty purring . . ."

Chapter I:  The Hacker


11 p.m., Brooklyn, New York:

The narrow beam of light cut through the darkness as the intruder worked his way toward the desk and the access point he sought.  It had taken him less than 30 seconds to pick the office door lock, and if all went true to form, within 20 minutes he'd be retracing his steps back out the door with a much fatter wallet, courtesy of the unwitting pigeons he was about to pluck.

Scanning the desktop he located a spot to set his laptop and booted up.  Then setting aside the penlight, he reached for the office phone to deal the access point number the phone company provided their technicians.  Upon hearing the tone, he linked up his modem and quickly punched in the 15 digit code found on a spec sheet he had pilfered from a technician's parked sedan.

He then sat down and watched as the sequence of ESN-WTF pairs scrolled down the laptop screen until the process stopped on the highlighted pairing.  He typed in the sequence of numbers that followed and an instant after hitting return a new screen appeared.  The top line now read Emirates Lt. Limo, Dubai, and again the cursor awaiting his response.

He was in!

It had all worked like a charm, from the slick bit of social engineering that landed him the access code, to the nifty little program that allowed him to weasel his way into the network's core.  Now all he need do is launch the scavenger `bot' and wait for the intercept to execute.

Thirty seconds later, the word "retrieving" began flashing on the upper left corner of the screen, followed by the data gathered.

"Gotcha!"  He muttered though a grin that would have lit up the room had he been plugged into that circuitry as well.

He had successfully intercepted the submission of the customer's information to the data base he wanted access to, only now with a code attacked that would give him administrative rights to the data base.  Once established, he immediately began to retrieve the stored data and downloaded it to his hard drive.  But before shutting it down, he did a quick search for what he had come here to fine.

He found 189 accounts that paid with Platinum cards or higher, all surefire keepers, while the remaining accounts were destined to be sold online.  However, from that pool of 189 he did one additional search.

He entered the 5 digit code used by the card company universally known to represent the crem della crem.  He asked for a quick blessing from the Lwa*, and the instant after pressing return, 9 names were listed.  On top of that list was Fariz El-Amin, a man who lived in the exclusive Hakim Towers complex in downtown Dubai:  His method of payment, an Ultra Black Business Card.  Once more, the fucker even had an "Rais" (an Arabic title) added to his name.

Needless to say, he was wearing a hefty smile after finding that particular card number.  It looked pretty damn sweet, so as a precaution against any unexpected foul ups, he plugged in a thumb drive and saved a second copy.

Without doubt, it had been a very successful session.  Perhaps not his best ever, but he had found the big fish he had been looking for.  Nevertheless, it had taken up far more of his time than expected, and now with only six minutes to spare, he quickly shut down his scavenger and initiated the transfer processes.

All pre-automated, he launched the code that initiated the long sequential chain through dozens of proxy nods that crisscrossed the world.  A minute later and the screen flashed "Done,"  telling him he'd successfully deposited the 30,000.00 dirham limit from each of the 189 Platinum accounts in his off shore account.  He then reset the register and entered the sizable amount Mr. El-Amin would be contributing to his bottom line, and then pressed return.

Not bad for a nights work.  Just one of many he had executed within a 5 days span of time.  But that's the way it worked.  You do you research, plan your attack, then like the hit-and-run train robbers of yesteryear, he packed up and headed back to his secret "Hole-in-the wall;"  That untouchable place where even if they somehow managed to track him down, he remained out of their reach.

Ishmael looked down at his watch and lit up with a smile.  Right on time!  Quickly he cut the connection, packed up and with penlight back in hand retraced his steps, exiting as he had entered just as the second hand hit the 20 minute mark.

*Note:  Lwa or Loa, the spirits, the Mysteries and the Invisibles.


Chapter 2

Alex Beckett

By late night the following day Ishmael 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.

Midway through the 4 hour flight, he was awakened by the passing of the steward walking down the aisle.  Looking up he quickly scanned the darkened cabin and saw a dozen businessmen.  Other than himself, only one other passenger was still awake.  "Typical for a late night flight," he thought.  "Come midnight on the red-eye, the place quietly becomes a pickpocket's paradise."

Feeling the need to stretch his legs, he got up to walk the length of the first class cabin.  As he approached the passenger still awake, a hand holding a can of pop swung out across the aisle colliding with his leg drenching his expensive slacks.

He looked down and saw a rather smart looking young man wearing a black bowtie and rose colored dress shirt that matched his complexion.  Just the way he liked them.

"Huh!  You're ruined my slacks, boy!" he glared angrily down at him.

"I'm sorry," the boy acknowledged meeting his gaze head on.  He was apologetic by not put off in the least.

"You need 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.

"Watch your mouth, moun sòt (idiot)!  In anger he had inadvertently let slip a word in his native tongue.

"Moun sòt?  Yeah, sure, look whose talking," he scoffed, remaining defiant.

"You little 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.

"Moun sòt 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.

The boy 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 be respected.


So instead 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.

"Hum, better," he thought, after reassessing the boy.  "I haven't run into many ignorant little shits riding on the red-eye.  Even fewer who can speak Haitian Creole.  What's your name, boy?"

"Alex Beckett, sir." He spoke quietly.  He had even added the word `sir', now sounding more the respectful young man than he did the teenage tough guy.

"Alex is 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.

Given his height and build he appeared to have crossed that bridge already.   He showed relatively good definition, clearly a notch above that of a boy, and he obviously had some spine.  But that face . . .  oh, merciful heavens was it sweet.  Eyes blue, his lips ripe and full, with light brown hair and a smooth, clean complexion that looked more apt to be nicked playing stickball than with a razor.

He looked 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.

"Well, Alex, you know what you've done, huh?  These are Clement Brothers slacks.  Custom tailored and $500 bucks a pair.  You got 500 greenbacks, boy?"

"No, sir," he shook his head.

"Go ask your daddy." Ishmael followed, a tad more adamant.

"I can't, he's not here." He replied, his voice wavering a bit.

"Then ask your mama."

"I can't she's not here either.  I'm traveling back home now."

"You travel alone then?"  He asked, and then looked off beyond the boy to see who else might be listening.

The boy looked back in the direction Ishmael was looking then back around.  "No need, sir.  I'm old enough.  I hope that doesn't surprise you," he ventured to say, though again, without a hint of the former snot nose delinquent.

"Ah, so you're a big boy," Ishmael chuckled.  "No more short pants."

"No, of course not, sir," he curtly replied, while trying to suppress a smile.

"Damn, this 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.

Then inhaling deeply, the intoxicating mix of flowery soap and untouched boy flesh that filled his nostrils lured him in still further.  He found him ripe and enticing, as did his partner in crime who had just picked up on the scent of the boy as well.  And now awakened, that deadly black snake began to slither down his pant leg in search of his prey.

Both predators and both dangerous, especially if you're a great looking kid with a killer smile.  Yum!

"Well then, I suppose we've got to find some way to rectify this matter ourselves, huh, boy." he said, his voice guardedly tempered.  While below, he felt the rising bloat of that black beast stretching the fabric down his thigh, the sight of which drew a fleeting glance from the boy.

"Yes, sir," he softly murmured, and then just as quickly diverted his eyes and blanched.

"Good boy!" 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!'"

But that 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.

Ishmael 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?

"Huh!  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.

Quietly Alex stood up and followed him through the darkened cabin to row 2, where he promptly sat his sweet young ass down in the seat beside the window.  Ishmael sat beside him then looked at the boy.  The dim cabin night-light framed his face making him appear oven more the white porcelain doll.

"Sorry, 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.

Alex looked 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.

"Don't cry 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 asking.

"Yes," he managed with a nod after catching his breath.

"Good.  Then let's try this again.  Since you've no interest in buddying up, why don't you just come sit on my lap," he said in effort to outflank the boy's defenses, then looked on to see how he would respond.

But again 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.

"Look, 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 time asking.

"Yes sir," he responded with eyes lowered.

"Good, so what will it be?  Either man-up and sit on my lap or lay across it like a boy," he bluntly stated his terms.


Alex again 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.

"Yes, yes, 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.

Which he 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.

"Much 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.

Yes, sir," 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 his pants.

"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."

"Huh!  Coincidence." Ishmael grunted.  "I'm booked for the same fight."

"You're going there too?"  Alex expressed his concern.

"Yes, of course, I'm Haitian.  I live in Pò-au-prens (Port-au-Prince)."


"That's where I live too," he managed to cough up, and then with eyes fixed on that amulet, he pointed and asked the question that was on his mind.  "Does that mean you're a . . ." 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?"

"Yes, only 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.

"Well, yes.  It is meant to make you think.  How long have lived in Haiti?" Ishmael asked.

"Two 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."

"Ah, Rue 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 boy's cheek.

"Soft and 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.

It marked 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.


He felt along and around them until, almost reflexively, or by habit, his lips pursed as if to invite the tip of his thumb in.  Then in effort to divert his attention, he decided to broaden his line of exploration.  "Do you know any black Haitian boys, friends, perhaps?"

Again, Alex didn't answer, but to Ishmael his beckoning lips spoke volumes.  "A black friend from school, perhaps?" he followed while pressing the tip of his thumb in so even so slightly.

"Or perhaps a boy on the street," he carried on, "A boy who stopped you on your way home from school asking for 20 centimes to buy a bottle of Couronne (soda)."  It was just a shot in the dark.  A story concocted in the heat of the moment to see how 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.

"Yes, 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.

"He might have even said you were pretty, which would have been true.  You're no doubt a knocked-off for your mother," he appraised.  "Your lips, eyes, hollowed cheeks, I'm sure you're daddy told you that, huh, boy?"

On that 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.

"Cheer up, boy," he quickly followed, lifting his chin back up with a finger, greeting him with a smile.

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!

Which was 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.

"There boy, 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.

"Mmm!" he 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."

Ishmael felt as though the kid had been on a collision course his entire live destine to run into him.

"Good boy," he carried on, playing the boy who he now knew was as queer as a fruit flavored M&M, strumming his chords with soppy sweet affections while his eyes remained fixed on that lovely hairless crack running down the length of that lily white ass.

Then finding it too irresistible to resist any longer, he slipped his hand down his slackened pants, pushing them down yet further to grab himself of a handful.  He cradled, then squeezed that plumb fleshy melon while softly, quietly, he encouraged the boy, "Go on boy, go on!  Tell me more about that black 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.

"You like 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."

"B-b-but sir . . ." Alex stammered.

"Go on, boy.  Go on." He continued to push.

"Toussaint!" 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."

Of course the arresting officer would know it was just a cop-out, and Ishmael saw Alex's response much in the same light.  He knew what he was doing then, just like he knew what he was doing now.  Shit doesn't just happen.

"Did he 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 head, no.

"Did you suck his cock behind the pile of trash in the alley?" he continued to prod, and this time Alex affirmed with a nod.

"Good, good!" he said, again wrapping an arm around the boy to draw him back in.

"You went out and found yourself a 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.

Alex 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.

"That-a-boy," 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.

Then 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, Unhg, 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.

But with 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.

He took hold of the hand that Alex had wrapped around his neck and pulled it down to his lap atop his cock.

"Feel that boy?  Huh?" he smirked, looking every bit the man who found his `boy'.  A beautiful kid, but more importantly, he was a 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.

"Yesssss," Alex murmured, now running his fingers alone the length of that long bulge as if trying to take the measure of it.

"Oh yes, Toussaint taught you well, and now it's my turn, boy!"  He followed, his eyes cutting through him like a blade.

Pushing the 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."

"I-I-I can't . . . ," young Alex stammered, his eyes watery, on the verge of tears.

"Sure you can, boy."  Ishmael said, now feeling embolden to take it up a notch.  "Stop playing the pouty little boy.   You own me $500 greenbacks for these custom tailored slacks and you're going to pay the bill.  Now pull up your big boy pants and come with me, or I will tell your mama what you don't want her to hear when she meets you at the airport."

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.

"Inside, boy," Ishmael said, offering no hint of concession.

He entered and Ishmael squeezed in, shutting the door behind.  It was a tight fit with the boy boxed in, and then hemmed in still tighter when Ishmael leaned back and sat on the toilet.

"There now!  See what you've done boy?"  He asked, pointing to the stain.  Only it wasn't the soda stain, but a new stain, the pre-cum that lie alongside the bulge topping his thigh.  The size, the shape, the pulse of the throbbing beast beneath his trousers robbed the boy of his breath.

"But . . . but, sir!  I didn't . . ."

"I don't want to hear it, boy.  You can't deny it.  You did it with your own hands, and now you're obliged to pay the bill."

"Pay . . .?  You mean . . .?" he murmured, while his eyes remained glued to that bulge beneath his slacks.

"Absolutely, 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!

"Hurry on, 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.

From the 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.

"Look what I found, baby boy," he quickly opened it up.

"Ah, here we go," he said, smirking as he opened it up and then pulled out an ID card.  "It says here, Alex Beckett of no# 28 Rue Delmas 45, Cite Saint-Georges, Pò-au-Prens, born Jersey City on February 8, `2k."

"That makes 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.

An 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.


Although 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.

"Damn!" he though.  Just like her son, "there seemed to be much more to Rosemary than just a pretty face." And the multitude of possibilities that thought conjured up set the wheels spinning in his head.

Suddenly that flock of sitting ducks he'd plucked from that Dubai Limo Service pool the previous night looked small potatoes.  But first he had work to do.

"Well boy, what do you say we clean up this mess," he bid, telling not asking.

Alex nodded, and then reached for the toilet paper only to have his hand slapped away yet again.  "Not with that, boy.  Uh-uh.  I need reparations, not a bigger mess.  First I want a 500 dollar blow job and then I'll need to make you my bitch."

"B-b-but, sir, please, people will . . . ", he said looking back toward the bathroom door.

"Think I give a fuck, boy?" he teed off; quite sure the boy was just playing him.

"Now listen to me boy before I slap you silly.  Don't play the little boy with me when I know who you are.  You're a fag.  You had a taste of Toussaint's man-nut, and now you're going to taste mine.  Then, of course, I'm going to fuck you.  That's what I want in reparations, and it is simply yours to serve my cock and obey me."

"Got me, boy?" he snarled, gritting his teeth as if trying to suppress an urgent need.  Then as if summoned by the urgency, he quickly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers then lifted himself up off the seat to lower his trousers down to his ankles.

However, when he straightened back up so did his cock, slapping the boy across the face.  Like a chub of Meaty-Boy Salami, the thing swung across like a bludgeon, and with a wet sounding thud struck the boy on the face.

"Oh hell!  Sorry about that boy.  When ol' black snake gets hungry he's got a mind of his own."

The slap sent Alex reeling, but not from the shock of the blow.  Rather, it was from his first look at that uncut black beast in the raw.  Thick, long and heavy as a 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.

"Yes boy, it's a man sized job," Ishmael chuckled, after grabbing hold of his cock and waving it to and fro at the end of his nose, its gaping maw gulping hungrily.  "So, what do you say boy, ready to suck my cock?  Like you did for Toussaint, and no doubt his buddy's, huh, boy?" he asked, his brows arched as if trying to assess how close he'd come to the truth.

Alex stiffened up, though not fully understanding why.  Ishmael, Toussaint, Bernardo, Puma, what they wanted was all the same.  All of it relegated to dark corners between men and boys, between him and Toussaint, his friends.  Wanted by them, but needed by him.

So how was this any different?  Both Toussaint and Ishmael were Haitian and both treated him like gum stuck to their shoe.  Whether in a bathroom aboard a plane, or standing amidst the rubble 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.

Then after the rough up, Toussaint would throw a conciliatory arm around his shoulder and walk him over to a nearby wooden crate.  Where he'd sit and have Alex kneel so he could wipe away his tears 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 and 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 as me?"

There was nothing loving or caring about any of it.  They were hard and tough, more men than boys, who's only kindness was not to impair the cocksucking white boy in effort to keep the dope money coming.  Otherwise they could give a shit.  He'd always come back for the abuse, that much they knew.  Once more, he'd come with money in his wallet.  And so, "Hey boy, lick Puma's ass clean, fucking white boy!"


Like Toussaint, 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.

So slowly, 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.

Alex reared back and blew to clear his nostrils, and in the process, a blob of mucus dripped back down into his mouth causing him to pucker up and grimace.

"Sorry, boy," Ishmael chuckled.  "Shit happens.  But don't worry.  Snot, man-nut, and a bit of grime here and there, it all comes with the territory.  It's an acquired taste, a man's taste, like fine tobacco.  At first you cough, gag and sputter, but there soon comes a time when you can't live without it."

"So get to it, boy," he barked, and 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.

"Ti 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.

Ishmael was in ecstasy, savoring the joys of his success.  It couldn't have gone any better.  Once more, that might soon include snaring the boy's mother 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!"


Of course, it was still just supposition, one he had yet to explore, but as things stood he felt pretty damn confident. In fact, the way he had if figured the only thing needed to tie up the remaining loose ends was a picture.

"A Picture!  Of course," he thought to himself, remembering the cell phone he had tucked away inside the pocket of his trousers.  All he need do is discreetly reach down and then without warning, snap the shutter.

"Hey, boy, say cheeeese!"

Alex saw the phone and realizing what had just happened rose up, looking a bit disoriented.  His nose to his chin was covered with a pasty wet sheen, and hanging from his lower lip hung a long unbroken strand that extended to his cock.

"Vhy did vu do vhat (Why did you do that)?" he managed to spit out.

"Why?"  Ishmael followed up.  "Well, let's call it a gift for your nasty mama of yours, sweet boy.  Trust me; the tart is going to love it."

"No, no, please, don't send the picture.  Please, she'll find out.  She'll know and hate me!"

"Find out?  Find out what, boy?  Your little secret, huh?" Ishmael chuckled.  "Too late for that, boy.  You've got faggot written all over you."

"But enough!  It's time we get down to business.  Business I know you're going love, thanks to Toussaint," he chuckle.  "I've got to hand it to that bad ass *n-word*.  He knew how to spot`m."

"So, what'cha say, boy?  You ready to honor the Lwa and love, honor and obey your man, Huh?"

At the mention of the Lwa, Alex again looked at the amulet.  Then again at the phone – that picture – his secret shame.  Both reason enough for him to lower his eyes and then, trembling with excitement and fear all balled up as one, he nodded his head, "yes."

"Good boy.  Now let's get you naked."

"N-n-naked?" he stammered, his teeth near clattering.  "In here?"

"Yes, yes, of course.  What good is a cunt if kept hided in your pants?  And since you're not wearing a skirt . . .", he said without restraint, clearly wanting Alex to know exactly what it meant to be called his "boy."

Ishmael leaned back on the toilet seat and nodded encouragingly as Alex stood up and began to unbuckle his pants, thinking about other boys he'd broken, and where Alex stood on the continuum.  And, what better way to find out than to ask.


"Tell me, boy.  How was it?" he asked, while Alex was undoing his pants.

"Sir?" he asked, the mix of fear and excitement causing his chattering teeth to pound out a rhythm.

"Don't play coy, boy.  Sucking my cock, that's what!  Where you got what you've got between your cheek and gums still trying to impregnate your teeth."

Alex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then looked down upon the moist trail of dribble that stained his bow tie and down the front of his shirt.  He ran his fingers across the stains as if he wished he could undo them, but only now realizing what was done, was done.  For the good or the bad, he would forever more wear that stain.

"No need, boy.  I know it takes awhile, but trust me; you're going to love it.  You're a natural kid; a cocksucker, a fuckface faggot.  You just wait.  Soon you'll be shaking this snake as good as any bitch.  With your cunt too, huh, boy," he winked and a grin.

Alex straightened back up.  His pants, shirt, undies now gone, Ishmael got his first look at his new boy.  He was perfect!  Fallow chest, dime-sized nips, he was soft, splintery, an eggshell with a soft rosy hue, and only the one small tuft to mark where in the scope of things he stood.

"Damn, boy.  You are fine!" he murmured, as he combed his fingers along his thigh, so fresh, so soft, while the air emanating from his loins still smelt milk-fed.

Ishmael had indeed found his new boy.  He was soft and pretty and liked his black.  But more importantly, he was subservient to black rule.  Something he accepted simply as a matter of course, and now owned his soul.  And if he didn't already know that by now, his new "fuckface faggot" was about to find it out.

Ishmael reached down and pulled a bottle out of dress suit pocket, and then stood up to take possession of his new boy.  He held the bottle under young Alex's nose for as long as it took for him to inhale a lung full, sending the boy into orbit.  With his heading spinning and eyes glassed over, Ishmael cradling his face in the palms of his hands and lowered his lips to kiss him.

The differences between them were enormous, as different as day is to night.   Yet when Ishmael's tongue pierced the boy's lips and savored his taste like a fine wine, suddenly the big and the small, the black and the white meld together as sweetly as an ice cream sandwich.

Alex sighed and Ishmael, like the wolf, squeezed young Alex's jaw open and hawked up a quantity of phlegm and spit in his mouth.  "Ah, yes, boy, that's what boys do, as a rule to relieve a black man of his junk.  Cum, piss, no matter, you're my boy now.  Not Toussaint's, but mine to rut, to love or treat you like gum on my shoe. You got that boy?"

"Yessss, sir." He managed through the fog of nitrites that laden his brain.

"Good, boy!  Now hold tight, boy, cuz I'm about to fuck you like a cow caged in a breeding pen," he menaced, and then rose back up and again peered down to size up his captured prey he now owned.

"Turn around boy and bend over!"  There was no tint of concession in his voice now.  In Ishmael's eyes, Alex was no longer just a boy with promise who'd one day have the world calling at his door.  No, not any longer!  He was simply a boy for him to use.

Something that was foremost on his mind when he reached down between Alex's thighs and latched on to his balls.  Then clinching his fist, he yanked them down and back causing the boy to moan while his upper torso slumped down still further.


"Here kitty, kitty, kitty!" he beckoned to his asshole with a finger, his eyes fixed on that defenseless little gateway to pure heaven.

"Up, up, up, push back, that-a-boy.  Wide open!  Just the way I like them." he contemptuously wheedled, like a wolf playing with his prey, positioning the boy just as he wanted him.  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 of meat.

"Just 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 finger.

"Ummm, sweet!  The way she puckers up to kiss my finger and the sound of her purr.  My, my, she's such needy little bitch," he chuckled while pressing his finger up his ass to the knuckle, causing Alex to whimper and then bellow mournfully when Ishmael finally managed to 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. 

He was 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.


"One deep thrust, boy.  Just one and you're going to be seeing stars and cumin'.  With no hands!  No more!  Just the clit in your ass!  Oh yes," he moaned, "she's ready.  I can hear kitty purring, begging for it."

If Ishmael 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 spin.

"Can 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 ass.

"Well 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.

"Talk to me, boy.  Can you?  Can yeah hear her?"

"Y-y-y-yes." he uttered, his voice low and tremulous between panting breath, sounding as if on the verge of tears.

"Is 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.


"Needing me to do what?" he managed on the inhale. "BOY!" On the exhale.

"I-I-I don't . . . , I don't . . ."

"Sure you do, boy.  She needs me to fuck her, like the fuckface cunt YOU are.  Isn't that right, BOY?"

"I don't, I don't . . . I mean, oooh, oooh, yessssssssss, yesyesyesyes!" He wailed above his tears.

Ishmael needed to hear no more.  A moment more and he had his black Haitian cock lined up and ready to carve out a tunnel down to his tonsils.  Centering the tip in the unyielding ring, he started to lean-in, savoring the feeling of that portal slowly begin to give way.  Centimeter by centimeter until reaching the apex of the crown he could wait no more.  He grabbed hold of the boy's hips for leverage he set himself to drive in to the hilt.

He breathed in, and then on the exhale . . .

Knock, knock, he heard a knock upon the cabin door.

"Pardon, but will you be much longer?  There are others who require the use of the facilities as well."


Chapter 3

Baptiste du Pre International boys Academy

Ishmael was looking out the window as the twin turbo prop began its descent.  To the right, he saw the largely depleted landscape of 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.

Beside him sat Alex enjoying his morning juice and buttered croissant.  He looks rather relaxed and comfortable as well as thoroughly prepared for Ishmael's upcoming meeting with his mother.

Of course, after first leaning of Ishmael's intend to speak with her Alex looked fit to be martyred.  His mind full of all the horrors associated with her learning he was gay.  But his apprehension soon faded once Ishmael's assured him he wished only to speak with her about an opportunity available to him at a school he had extensive ties to.

As Ishmael pointed out, the change would not only afford him the opportunity to study under the finest professors and among the most gifted students in all of Haiti, but would also abate the bullying he endured at his current school.  In all, it sounded an offer to good to pass up, and Alex agreed.  In fact, the idea so excited him that he was looking forward to his winning over his mother to his way of thinking.

But as things go with Ishmael, the master of deception was at a high point in his game when it came to telling the whole truth about the school, or the reason why whites were being sought to integrate into an otherwise all-black school that followed the teaching of its founder, Baptiste du Pre.

Had either he or his mother known what those teaching were about, perhaps things might have turned out differently.   After all, Baptiste du Pre's ideological bent with regard to social class and the division of labor tended to be a bit to the right of extreme.  One in which whites were essentially relegation to subsistence level employment opportunities for which they were best qualified, while advancing blacks to the ruling class for which their superior intellect and strength made them eminently qualified.

Pretty much a deal stopper one would think, or at the very lease, give her second thoughts.  Then again, perhaps not!

Either way, it was highly motivated young Alex Beckett who soon after arrival embraced his mother at the gate.  In fact, he was so full of excitement that his mother simply couldn't wait to sit down with Ishmael to hear his carefully crafted offer no mother could possibly say no to.

The meeting with his mother at her Rue Delmas 45, Saint-Georges, flat had added a day to his already tight schedule.  Though in sum, it proved to be time well spent.  Not only had he found Alex's mother receptive to him, but after hearing her son's enthusiasm, she was surprisingly quick to sign her son over to the school.  Especially when first hearing of the "bullying" he apparently had been subject to, something she said she knew nothing about.

She was told nothing of Toussaint and his pals, of course, but after hearing of all the possible perils facing a "special" boy like Alex in public school she was quite anxious to hear more.  Especially after gulping down her second glass of cheap Haitian Clairin (aka kleren) she seemed wedded to.

"He is special," she admittedly confirmed after inhaling her third shot of that volatile rotgut shit.  Even going so far as privately conveying to Ishmael what a close friend of hers had told her about something he'd seen.  About the almost "flirtatious" manner he conducted himself around the street boys that hung out close to his place of work.  "Selvandieu," she had called him, a local shop owner and a gentleman friend whose Rasta colored scarf hung upon the clothes tree standing beside the front door.

"Wi (yes), madam, I believe I've noticed it myself.  I boyish fascination perhaps," Ishmael was happy to volunteer.

The implications were quite clear, but it didn't upset her as you might think.  If anything, she seemed resigned to what was said, and indicated as much when she replied with her words slightly slurred, "That's just his w-way.  Some boys fight and some . . ." she paused, mid-sentence, "Well, whatever you think b-best, Mr. Hada." she deferred to his best judgment.

"Wi, madam, the big fish will always attack the little fish that swims the bowl in the opposite direction."

He then went on to tell how the school only sought to bring out the full potential of every student, and did so in a secure, cloistered environment.  Delivering his sales pitch in the well practiced way you'd expect of a con like Ishmael, and when done, she was all too ready to sign the papers.

"When vill he st-start?" she 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

Only the 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

Still 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."

Thus, the "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.

The pod whites integrated into those traditionally all black groupings were referred to as "PodBoys," and the boys representing the greater Black Haiti communities were simply referred to as "Tops" by the faculty.

Today, the school houses 10 "pod" communities representing the 10 regional départements (districts) across the broader Haiti.  Ayizan Lords, 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.

However, 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.

Of course, neither Alex nor his mother was told anything about that.  There were no beautiful illustrated pamphlets or 8x10 glosses showing some sweet young lad amidst of group of Ghetto Blade bucks fucking his ass.  Nor did Ishmael trouble himself to explain the type of study Podboys were expected to excel.  They just heard what they wanted to hear and Ishmael was happy to oblige.

Still in all it wouldn't have matter even if he had.  Recruits were not sought from a pool of the unwilling.  Given Haiti's exotic subtropical local and its proximity to the land of opportunity (the US), boy's worldwide expressed an interest in attending the school, 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.

Of course, 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.

After leaving the Beckett residence later that evening, Ishmael ran into Selvandieu coming up the steps.  A black Rastafarian, he had matted dreads down to his nipples and was covered limb to limb in cult tattoo.  Come to find out, he ran the tattoo shop just a half block down.

Barefoot, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of haggard belt-less jeans that hung down low enough to see a sprinkling of pubic hair, he completed the picture of Rosemary Beckett.  The lady apparently in waiting, now lying flat on her back stewed to the gills on that cheap, one Gourde (dollar) a liter Clairin.

"Yo, Brotha," Ishmael greeted him as he breezed pass.

"You, 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.

"Modi dwat (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 Toussaint?"

The guy turned back wearing that same pompous smile and says, "pita li vini guete!" (later he come to fuck).

Ishmael turned to leave smiling.  His only regret was not having asked Rasta-man if Toussaint was coming to fuck Rosemary or Alex.  Or, perhaps, both!

Not that it mattered.  Not when in sight of an hour he'd be home hooked up to the balls in the sweet French ass of Rene Leclerc, the newest, freshest, most delicious podboy "recruited" by the academy.

Oh, yes.  Fuck yes!  It was good to be home again . . .


Chapter 4

Fine Art or a Matter of more Natural Mechanics

The old sedan rolled up the 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.

When the old yellow ford pulled up in front of the school Commons, Ishmael paid the driver his fee and then found his way to Cézar office.

Cézar Roché, the headmaster of the academy was a very influential man.  His brother, Osahar, was a prominent governmental figure who was himself an avid supporter of the Baptiste du Pre approach to bridging the cultural divide.  As well, he was a stanch advocate the "pod" system that was used by the school as the primary vehicle of change.

His support also insured that no matter how bad Ishmael screwed up, or whatever happened behind these sun-baked terracotta walls, Ishmael was guaranteed a safe harbor - his hideaway, his private hole-in-the-wall, where even if they could track him down he remained out of their reach.

Ishmael didn't knock, nor would he have even if he had too.  Finding Cézar out of his office he decided to wait out on the balcony for his return.  Off in the distance he could see all the way from Pétionville to Delmas and its ghetto like sprawl leading up to the foot of the hillside.  While below where he stood, he saw the "pod" units. 

Linked to the Commons by pathway, the pods branched out around the perimeter of the building like spokes attacked to the hub of a wheel.

Leaning on the railing, he saw a group of Rasta Bosses from the département (District) of Sub-Est outside their pod caught up in a warrior's game of sparring about in mock combat.  At first glance it looked like just a lot of boyish horseplay.  That is, until one of the boys standing about moved off, clearing just enough space for him to see young Liam Callahan centermost among the crowd.

Suddenly all that jousting about took on a different slant.  More like posturing than horseplay, much like you'd expect to see of a buck challenging for the heart of a prospective mate.

The sight brought a smile to Ishmael's face.  Especially when he saw the lanky, red haired boy bent over with hands dangling down to his toes, and his ass held up in the grasp of one of those bucks ferociously pummeling his bleach-white Irish ass.


He showed no mercy, no let up, and for however long it lasted, when done, the rutting buck simply uncorked with a yank and handed that lily-white ass over to the next buck in wait.  His ass passed on, like a gym class medicine ball handed over for the next buck to use!

"Ishmael!  Welcome back, my friend," Cézar bellowed as he walked in.  A large man himself, he was also rather rotund, to the point that his gait resembled more a waddle than a stride.  He wore an amulet in the form of a skull, a black tunic and top-hat with a vulture feather symbolizing his ability to tap into the Lwa.  It wasn't his usual school attire, but he wasn't above flaunting that skull and vulture feather either.  Sort of as a reminder that it's never a good time to fuck with the Lwa.

Cézar embraced his friend then standing off at arms length, leaned down to see which of the pods in view Ishmael was looking at; and he hadn't to look far.  Below where they stood on the balcony, he saw a boy from Sub-Est staging a performance so explosive that by rights it should have set off the fire alarm.

"Egads! He exhaled.  Then with a shrug, "Well, what can I say?  Boys will play, huh?"

"Play?" Ishmael quipped.  "He looks like he's drilling for oil!"

"Ah yes, well, that's Xavier," he replied, turning to face Ishmael once again.  "Don't be so hard on the boy.  I mean, you know the story.  He was a soldier in the rebel army and already on his way to becoming a barbarian before he turned ten.  All that violent ..." he shook his head, "Well, you know, all the pent up anger and rage has got to go somewhere, no?"

Ishmael offered a warm smile and extended a hand to his dear friend.  "I'm sorry my friend, but I think you misunderstood.  I wasn't speaking badly of the boy.  I've seen worse, and I agree, learning how to channel those demons toward more acceptable modes of destruction can only be a good thing.  Besides, I've used that Irish boy's fine ass plenty and I know he's up to it.  No harm done."

"Huh!" 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?"

"Plentiful!" he answered while rubbing his fingers together in that universally recognized sign for money.

"You struck a blow against the vices of dishonor and greed, huh?"

"Trust me, Hunsi Roché (devotee)," Papa Legba is smiling today," Ishmael smirked as he pulled out his wallet from his inside coat pocket and then a cashier's check which he held up in front of Cézar's face.  "Your 15%.  I'm going to see Christof in the morning to give him his."

"Gracious yes!  Praise the Lwa, a fine offering, indeed." He said while counting out the zeros.  "Fact I can hear the gate opening up right now." He followed up with an appreciative smile and dollar signs in his eyes.

"Tell me 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."

Ishmael draped an arm around his friends shoulder then leaned in close and personal, fronting his ear.  "Cézar," he quietly spoke.  "Your grandmother still lives in the same house where you grew up, right?" he asked, and Cézar affirmed with a nod, while Ishmael leaned in still closer.

"And she still spends her days rocking in the same old chair she did way back when, hum?" Cézar again acknowledges with a nod, now thoroughly engrossed as Ishmael went on.

"While steps away out on the street the bandits and hoodlums steal and wreak havoc on everything in their wake, yet no one has ever troubled her.  Not just because she's old, smelly and decrepit, or that she lives the same poor life, but because they know if they harm her the Lwa would set his wrath down upon them.  Isn't that right?"  Cézar nods repeatedly, and vigorously to show unanimity of that particular point.

"Yes, well then, now picture her sitting there in that old rocking chair wearing the same pair of old lady shoes she's worn for years, only now, imagine them with a hollowed out heal, and inside, a diamond worth more than a rich man's retirement."

"Diamonds?" he lit up, and Ishmael confirmed his assent with a nod.  "I know a man with connections.  He's solid as the Bank of England, guarantees delivery too."

"So if you were to buy such diamonds and you were me, that is where you'd hide them?"

"Fuck no!" Ishmael bellowed out.  "Think I'm crazy?  That's the stupidest fucking idea I ever heard.  I trust NO ONE but you, Hunsi Roché, and spirit you serve," he glared into his eyes with a cold hard stare.

"But you said . . ."

"A story, Cézar, only what you wanted to hear.  And if your fell for that one, good fucking luck keeping them from taking her feet along with those shoes."

"Which reminds me," he then followed, lightening up a tad.  "Something else came of my trip to New York too."

"Oh?  Like what?"

Ishmael pulled out his cell phone and showed Cézar the picture of Alex sucking his cock.  Then pulled out a folder from his case, he handed it over to Cézar for his records.

"Sweet," he uttered, "A new recruit?" he then asked while opening the folder and began to peruse the documents.

"Wonderful, 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 in Delmas!"

"Yeah, well, I know.  But trust me, this one is worth it.  Have a look," he again pointed to the picture.

"Bad Juju, Ishmael, bad," he shook his head, "Budapest, Singapore, Hoboken, wherever, but never Port-au-Prince!  That's the rule, Mr. Hada.  Salute the Lwa or suffer the consequence."

"Yeah, sure, but what better offering can you make than something of such beauty?" he pleaded, trying to find a way around all the Vodou shit.  "Trust me, once Papa Legba breaths in the scent of this boy he is going to be opening up that gate as wide as the English Channel."

"Hum," Cézar grumbled, then after giving it though, "That is true.  He is a treasure.  Under normal circumstances such a fine looking ass to fuck would make a great gift to the Lwa.  And the boys . . .  well, I know they'll be busting out of the pants to make the offering.  but . . ."

"Bull shit, Cézar," Ishmael 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!"

Like a light suddenly beaming down from above, Cézar shook off the jitters and lit up with a smile.  "Yes, of course.  He's an American!  Impure and rife with all the vices of dishonor and greed, something that above all, the Lwa loathes.  Oh yes, you are right.  He'll make the ideal offering." Cézar smirked, grabbing his crotch.

"I'll send his mother the usual package and inform her that Alex can begin on the first of the month.  That should do it." He beamed, obviously quite pleased to have found a rationale satisfactory to all.

"Oh yes," he then added, "I'll need a copy of this photo so Bon Mambo Serafine and me can begin to construct the wanga (spell) to um . . .  to um, well, shall we say, set him on the right path," he chuckled.

"Yes, hunsi Roché," he returned the smile.  "I have his mother's photo as well.  A perfect pairing that should serve as one."

"Yes, yes, of course," Cézar reassured him.  "Twice the mischief I think.  Papa Legba will be delighted."

After a shared glass or two of fine Irish Scotch, Ishmael bid farewell to his friend and returned to the hut he had been given to use.  The place to do his research, strategize and plan before again heading out to execute his plan of attack.

His hut was located off the Commons building but close enough to the pod housing the Delmas Blades that he could afford to shut his eyes at night.  A luxury few could afford in his line of work.  Even as good as security was, there was always the potential some highly motivated thieves from the Pétionville slum could find their way up the hill.  And in that regard, the Delmas Blades were nothing if not as fierce as a pack of wolves.

On the other hand, the Blades were an extremely fun loving group as well.  Truly!  They could find reason to rejoice in catching a bad case of the flu.  Just give them reason and they could dance the night away while putting away insane portions of ganja and Clairin and still fuck all the other pods under the table.

Ishmael enjoyed their company a lot whenever he was home and he'd never regretted it once.  Just as he thought to do again today, and that was when he heard the ruckus coming from their pod.  Curiosity getting the better of him, he followed his nose until reaching their hut he saw Ezili, one of the many security agents who patrolled the grounds.  He was shaking his head and looked rather flustered.

"Hey, Ezili, what's going on?"  Ishmael asked, pointing to the hut.

Ezili stood there a moment without speaking, looking as if debating himself over how best to respond.  Ezili was a man of few words, something Ishmael liked about him.

"They're celebrating."  He finally said, albeit with a disdainful look.

"About what?"

"Do they need a reason?" he followed, only now behind pinched brows.

"No, guess not," something Ishmael knew to be true.  The Delmas Blades didn't need an excuse to do anything.  Once they had their mind made up, they did it.  Again, something Ishmael liked about them.

"It sure does sound like they're having a good time though.  Is that what brought you down here?"

"No.  You know me.  I like a little boy tail as much as anyone, I suppose.  But I'm not much into that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" Ishmael queried.

He didn't answer.  He only turned his head and nodded toward the hut.  A moment more and Ishmael was heading for the door to see what "sort of thing" would turn Ezili away from the "boy tail" he so enjoyed.

The pair stepped inside finding the boys in the center most room lounging about watching as the last of the many who had recently fucked the podboy just finishing up.  Slumped over a makeshift wooden trestle, the boy showed all the signs of excessive wear.

There was nothing unusual it that.  The pod whites were there to help bridge the cultural divide, a duty this boy seemed to be performing splendidly.

At first glance the boy looked to be the Swedish boy, Lucas.  He had the same build, same light ivory tone, same nicely hung set of balls hanging beneath a donut shaped pussy with a permanently stretched hole.  Swollen, enflamed and raw from use, it drained like an open pipe from which a long, unbroken tendril of viscous white cum cascaded down onto the hard red clay.

Ishmael looked back around at Ezili, wondering what it was he found so unsettling in such a beautiful sight.

"Hey!  Ezili," he shrugged.  "What gives?"

Ezili didn't answer, but the young Delmas cocks-man did.  Now that he was done fucking Lucas, he turned around and answered in the form of a greeting, and then began cutting some moves that would have put a Bronx rapper to shame.  He shuffled and moved to the groove while his cock flung thigh to thigh half way down to his knees like a long fat length of fire hose - still leaking!

A moment more and the whole room broke out in a chaotic choir of boys who'd taken up the chant.  Then a moment later, they began stepping out to the hop-hop vibes of Shaggy's "Hot Shot" screaming out from an old school 8-tack boom box.  Enacting a scene that looked as much an expression of teenaged angst as it did some sort of eons old victory dance, celebrating the pillaging of that fine white boy ass.

In all the bedlam that ensued, Ishmael scarcely took notice as Ezili walked over to the slumped over Podboy.  He reached around to pull the boy up, and then turned him around toward Ishmael.

"Look!" he said, stating his case.

And so Ishmael looked, as did the roomful of boys.  Only the boys where laughing and cheering while Ishmael just stared, seemingly caught up on the wonder of it all.

In his eyes, it was nothing less than fine art.  Not only in the artistic sense, but the craftsmanship showed all the signs of a tradition 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.

"But what was it exactly?"  Ishmael wondered.  He didn't know as yet, though he felt certain the answer lie in its making.  From what he could see, it looked to be composed of some sort of fibrous twine.  Or, tendril perhaps; an offshoot of a root or plant still found beneath the forest canopy, a secret of theirs they have used for a century.  It was wound tight on one end and millimeter by millimeter grew increasingly wider along its estimated 5 centimeter (2 inch) length until it reached the base, where it flared out to conform to the contour of the chest.

In a way, he though it resembled the shape of a traffic cone.  But instead of the traditional orange and white coloring, it had a hard lustrous lacquered shell on top on which they had painted the cult symbols importance to the Vodou cultural.

"But why was it done?" he asked himself.  Perhaps they had followed the tradition of their ancestor's.  Those who painted symbolic pictorials that depict the Veve, or a symbol of the Lwa, like Papa Legba, asking him to open the gate.

Or, perhaps it was simply the meeting of science and art where such things as the natural elasticity of the skin come into play.  Knowing where and how to apply the right kind of bindings and materials to use that will allow the skin to continue to thrive, while adding just the right amount of tug to encourage the flesh to grow in the form you wish it to.

Of course, Ezili couldn't see any of that; Not the beauty, not the artistry, not the craftsmanship.  All he could see was the length of those two wrapped nipples drooping down his chest.  Like two beautifully ornamented fingers; Index finger on the left; ring finger on the right.

To which Ezili then added a third finger:  His middle finger, which he held up as he cursed in response.  "The way I see it, balls and a cock make a man.  A pussy and tits, makes a girl.  Having both makes you . . . makes you . . . aah, hell!  He barked.  "It makes you 'the sort of thing I'm not into'."

Well, at least Ishmael now knew.  A man of few words, Ezili sure knew how to get his point across.

Or had he?  Ishmael wasn't so sure.  One part of his brain kept telling him that Ezili was right; that all this was simply mayhem and rapidly spinning out of control.

While the other side of his brain was telling him, "No, no, don't be so hasty.  Perhaps it's simply a matter of more natural mechanics."  That the massive quantity of blood needed to inflate those elephantine cocks had deprived the brain of sufficient oxygen, thus rendering them a bit to the right of stupid.  A sort of temporary insanity, if you will, and there was nothing more to it.

Well, for better or worse, in terms of creativity alone the body art would have definitely earned them an A+ had Ishmael taught the class.  "It does show initiative" Ishmael 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?




Chapter 5

A Fractured, Impure Place

Ishmael hurriedly made his way toward the waiting taxi.  The driver stepped out and came about to open the rear door for Ishmael with umbrella in hand and a broad smile.

"Where you go mist'a, sir," beamed the cab driver, holding the umbrella overhead as Ishmael stepped in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him.

"Bilding nan Kapital (The Capital Building)," Ishmael said, then pulled a hanky from his breast pocket to wipe the droplets from his brow.

It was the beginning of the rainy season, and the first storm was upon them.  The hard clay slow baked over the long blistering summer months had turned the roadway into a 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.

"Okay, mist'a, sir." the cabby tried to reassure him.  "We make good time, no problem."  Ishmael certainly hoped so, but more importantly, that he got there in one piece.  The snarled, stop and go traffic that extended the entire 30 miles distance to the Federal District in Port-au-Prince had turned the typical 35 minute commute into a three hour stint though hell.  The two lane road was strewn with stalled vehicles, and around the margins, toppled fruit carts and venders struggled in vein to recoup their goods and oxen beneath the down pour.

The Third world disorder exacerbated by the weather slowed the pace of life down to a crawl.  Needless to say it was a painfully aggravating commute, but on the whole, not all that different from the "morning commute on the Long Island expressway," Ishmael mused, even as he remained pensive and alert throughout the perilous junket to Christof Eichel's office.

He found Christof toiling over the data he had compiled after the most recent hostile attempt to breach the government's network.  A German expatriate, Christof Eichel was a network security expert for hire.  Top of the class, he was as much a genius in keeping prying eyes out of their network as he was in creating his own schemes to circumvent the efforts of others to keep him out.

He was quite the innovator as well.  He had not only created the programs Ishmael used in his work, but was a principle architect in the creation of the pod system.  Something he felt strongly about, and excluding his love of money, the chief reason we find him laboring over the reams of data in faraway Haiti.  It also explains his connection with Ishmael, and why he immediately stopped what he was doing to greet his friend warmly as he entered.

"Mr. 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?"

"Yes, my friend, the program executed beautiful."  He replied, setting his briefcase beside his desk.

"No 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.

"So I surmise, otherwise you would not be here talking to me," he said in his usual curt, very German sort of way.  And then after glancing down at the check, "What d' fuck am I do with this?" he scoffed, straight-faced.

"Beats me!  Go buy yourself a Mercedes or something."

"I've already got one and another one back home in Germany," he followed, his expression equally deadpan.

"No doubt with a trailer hitch attached," Ishmael scoffed.  "To haul away all that Nazi gold you've still got buried, huh, Commandant?" he winked, grinning one of those `I-gotch'cha' grins.

"Careful 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 yours."

"Ja, Herr Commandant," Ishmael said in jest, clicking his heels together as he did.  Something he wouldn't dare risk if he hadn't long since proven his trust.  It sort of came with the territory between good friends.  He may well have been one of the smartest people in the world when it came to cryptography and data science, but he was foremost a friend.

Christof cracked a grin and then mocked a salute, "Ja, Ja, heil Hitler, and all that fucking Nazi shit!  Just leave the gear with me and it'll be ready tomorrow."

"Great, I'll be here by noon, hopefully!  The rain . . . you know . . ."

"No need.  I'll be visiting the school tomorrow myself."

"Oh?  Business with Cézar Roche?"

"No!" he abrupt said, loud enough to be heard in the adjoining suite.  "Harry, get in here, boy!"

The adjoining suite was one used by Christof when he required a respite, or when he had a guest.  Like Harry, who soon after opening the door walked over to Christof to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, smiling at Ishmael as he did.

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

"Alo ti gason dous (Hello, my sweet boy)," Ishmael winked while returning his smile.  "Have you been keeping that fine young 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.

Christof leaned down and met Harry's parted lips with his own, filling his mouth with his tongue and then licked the length of his face with his long fat tongue as if savoring a vanilla ice cream cone.

"Oh yes, an eager bitch she has been too." he replied, while devouring the boy with his eyes, cutting down through to a place only they know.  A place he now felt the need to visit again.

"Though not always," Christof then added, wanted to set the record right.  "She still ices up on occasion, and when she does, I thaw her out with a good taste of my belt.  Isn't that right, boy?" he nudge Harry, prodding him for an answer.


"Go on, boy.  Go on, tell Ishmael how my Tap-tap tapping on your ass-pussy lights you up."

Young Harry looked toward Ishmael and answered. His eyes as downcast as his voice, "Yes sir."

"Oh, and why is that, fag?" Christof asked tauntingly, as if to diminish him yet further down a rung or two.

"B-b-b-cause . . ." was all he could say, now dangling from the last rung, below which there surely was a hell.

"Because . . .  because why boy, because only my belt can reach that special place that gets your juices flowing? 

"You see," he then sought to explain. "It seems young Harry had himself a rather sadistic daddy. A twisted, fucked up closeted fag who 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 voice, his look, his words were heating up.  "And when I do it just right, his puss will simply screams out to me, `Daddy, daddy, feed me daddy.'"

"So I do, and the more I tap on that fag ass cunt of his, the more it glows red hot and opens all the wider for my cock.  Isn't that right . . . boy?  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 did.


"Oh, oh," Harry squealed like a stuck girly bitch with her cunt on fire.

"Well, say it, you faggot cunt, am I right?"  Christof was running at a fevered pitch, while Harry squirmed about balancing on the tips of his toes.

"Oh, oh . . .  please, sir, it's so b-b-b-b-b-big . . ."

Ishmael thought Harry never looked better, or prettier, responding as he was to every move of that twisting, turning hand trying to work its was up his ass.  Flailing about at the end of Christof's hand, it was an image he felt somehow suited the boy.  He was one hell of a great looking kid, but to Ishmael, it was his unparalleled thirst for abuse that made him shine.

That's how Christof saw him as well. He was a boy with a flaw in an otherwise perfect 5 carat diamond.  That 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.

Tall, lean, and winsome with a head full of wavy blond hair, he was a scrumptious piece of eye candy who had a certain ineffable quality about him that made you wonder what universe he belonged.  Be it in the world of men's fashions, or perhaps, women's.  If not, then he certainly came wrapped in the same package.  From the way he looked to 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.

In short, 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.

Making matters all the worse, Christof had dolled him up. The silk halter and bikini-briefs were a far cry from the everyday podboy tighty-whities by a degree to the right of pathetic. Plus, he had bunched up a handful of his untamed, wavy hair and tied it off into a fucking ponytail. Sheesh! Not exactly his cup of tea.

"Oh, oh, p-p-pleeeze, sir," Harry continued to plead, sounding all the more panicked with each thrust of his hand that was now on the cusp of disappearing entirely between the cheeks of his ass.  Ass cheeks he couldn't lift up high enough on the tips of his toes, and even that small grace denied him when driven up off his feet he was left to endure that final thrust that buried that hand to the wrist.

"OOo aahhh eeeeee . . ." he moaned.

"That-a-boy," Christof sweet talked the boy, running his other hand along his flanks to soothe and settle him as he would a restless horse.

It was a time-worn scene that never grew old.  Ishmael had busted many a fine young ass in his time, and seen countless others.  It was his favorite sport and enjoyed the game immensely.  As did that black snake slithering down his leg following the scent of the boy.

"Damn!" he muttered, once he'd spotted the rapidly spreading stain half way down the length of his thigh.

Christof looked up 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!"

"Easy now, cowgirl, don't go getting' your petticoats in no uproar." he said, taking on the guise of a cowboy, albeit with a thick German accent.  With the boy's ass now raised up high, 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, owie," Harry again squealed, as would anyone with a fist the size of a Texas grapefruit stuck up your ass.

That fact seemed to have escaped Christof however.  Instead, he simply chuckled, paying Harry no mind as he grabbed hold of his new ponytail to steer, and with the other hand, punched in his fist causing Harry to fumble forward a step just to keep upright.

"I can't, I can't, its tooooo big!"

"Whoa!  Easy there girl, easy!  You can do it.  Just take one step at a time.  Now, come on, girl.  Giddy-up!  The watering hole is just over yonder."  He cajoled, prodded and poked his ass as he pulled on the reins (aka ponytail) and guided Harry toward the "watering hole just over yonder" - in a slow waddle, one bowlegged step at a time; One fumbling foot to the left, "Owie!"  One struggling foot to the right, "Ooooh, aaah, eeee!"


Ishmael was laughing is ass off. He found Christof's impersonation of a cowboy with a German accent ludicrous to the extreme, yet somehow, hilariously funny.


"Whoa, girl," Christof sounded off when his pony finally nosed up to the trough - Ishmael's crotch!

"Good girl.  Now, drink up girl while I open up a can of whoop-ass to feed your cunt."

"Okay," Ishmael chuckled, hardly able to contain himself.  "I get it!  But tell me, what's with the silky feminine shit!"


"I named him Princess," Christof winked, grinning snidely.  "Well, actually Osahar chose the name, and well, the Khaki boy scout look would hardly be fitting, now would it."

"No, no not at all, my friend," he sighed, now relieved to learn that his friend hadn't gone bonkers after all.  That the tough, jack-booted Germany pederast he knew and loved was still alive and well. Only now, dressed in a hilarious spaghetti western guise.

"Don't tell me," Ishmael managed to get out above the laughter.  "When not knee deep in governmental affairs Osahar plays your bronco riding sidekick."

"Oh yes," he beamed, "he wears a cowboy hat too."  Ishmael was laughing so hard it took him three tried just to unbuckle his pants.

But his amusement didn't last long.  A moment more and he had his long black cock in hand and pressed up against Harry's nose.  "Dinner time, boy," Ishmael hissed, now heated to the boiling point.

Quickly, he latched onto the ponytail to yank his head down, and then wrapped his fingers around the boy's throat to follow the course of that long black snake sliding down the passage.  All the way down for the long plunge then back up the neck-straining 29cm the boy needed to again take a breath before going for the deep plunge again.


The pace of the gagging, sloshing, gurgling mouth fuck matched that of Christof's pumping fisted hand, which he did on occasion quite robustly.  Especially when he punched a bit too hard and Ishmael had to suffer a worrisome amount of Harry's teeth.  Not always, but increasing more each time Christof drove down to the elbow, causing the boy to gurgle and tighten up.  Alarming moments for Ishmael, and he wondered if he could get his friend to ease up a tad.

"You know, my brother, if you keep it up that cunt of his is going to be hanging down to his knees."

"Good!  That's what I want, low and swaying with the breeze.  That way I can affix little bells on his pussy lips to invite all cumers."  It'd make his closeted fag daddy proud.  Right, cowgirl?" he sneered and then tightened the muscles in his forearm to expand its girth, and along with it, Harry's pussy stretched threadbare around his arm like a furrowed sleeve a size to small.

Harry gulped and moaned, the contractions reverberating alone the length of Ishmael's cock.  "Oooh," Ishmael sighted, as the contractions squeezed out his junk, now flowing in copious amounts down the boys gullet.

Ishmael felt himself in a dream state.  Especially on the up swing then the sludge dredged up by his shaft dripped out Harry's nose in long pearly strands.  The whole scene sort of reminded him of Lucas's night in the Delmas Blades pod.

He didn't know why the thought came to him at that moment, but somehow the mental link between Lucas's new, artfully craft nipples, and Harry's ponyboy cunt seemed to fall under the same subheading.  And for equally unknown reasons he thought to share his thought with Christof.

"Have you seemed Lucas lately?" he managed to get out between the hissing "Oooo's" and the "ah's.

"The Irish lad?" Christof asked, while his hand shuffled about inside Harry's boy-cunt as if searching for something inside a lady's purse.

"Yes!" Ishmael grunted.

"No!  I follow the Judeo-Christian ethic:  One horse and one rider at a time!"  Christof looked over grinning.

"You're going there tomorrow, right?" he asked, followed with a hissing, "ahhhhhh!"

"Yes, Harry has his monthly checkup with the Gynecologist, Doc Dutillet.  The pervert!  You know what that man does to those boy pusses?"

"Ahhh, no!  I've not heard." he sighted, feeling the bob of Harry's throat, caressing his cock's sensitive underbelly.

"He's got this long needle he fills with some exotic plant extraction and sticks it in the prostate.  He said it makes it swell up, and when you touch it with your cock, the boy experiences the same sparks of ecstasy just like the real thing."

"What?" Ishmael sounded off, ". . . and that's bad?"

"Well, no!  The plumper the better far as I'm concerned.  And that's the hitch.  Now he cums like a bitch after serving a long stint in Sing-Sing, but when you pinch a nipple, nothing!"

"Oh, sure, 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."

"What were you expecting," Ishmael asked, "that you'd just tweak a nip to get him off?"

"Well, yeah.  Something along the lines of that red button you push to set off a hellfire missile.  Only instead of a fiery inferno of death and destruction, you get a fiery inferno of molten cum."

Harry tightened up, causing a twitch.  "Ahhh, damn, boy!" Ishmael huffed.  "I know you're hungry, but easy up on those fucking teeth."

Christof chuckled.  "See how he gets.  Just the thought of having nips you can toggle to set off an explosion gets him all excited."

"Ooo, ahhh," Ishmael sighed, "I don't know, my friend.  Sounds more like a nightmare to me.  Can he do it?"

"Not yet, not after three tries."

"Well, that's why I mention Lucas.  The Delmas Blades wanted bigger nips, and guess what?" he asks, and followed with a moaning, "Oooo, nice, that's it, boy."

"What? Tell me, what happened?" he peered in, apparently with quite an interest.

"He's got 'em!" he grunted, then moaned, "Oh, ah, eee-gads."

"You joke!  They got him bigger nips?  How?"

Ishmael grit his teeth.  Feeling the surge rise up from his balls he hadn't the wherewithal to respond, or do anything else but brace himself as that convulsing monster he had embedded to the root down the boy's throat bucked and kicked and added a deluge to the swamp pooled in this belly.

Christof watched and waited for Ishmael's engine to cool, then coast back into the physical realm before continuing.

"Do you think they could . . . ah, you know?  Help?" he gestured with a nod toward Harry.

"Don't know," Ishmael finally spoke through labored breath.  "But if you can get an ol' pederast like me to dig swishy ponyboys, brother, anything is possible!"

"Good!" Christof beamed, and then with a yank, splosh and a Ploop, pulled his hand out of Harry's ass.

Backing up, he peered in and examined the results of his handy work.  After giving it much consideration, his grin turned into a self-congratulatory smirk, then said to Harry, "Sweet!"

"But we're not done yet, Princess.  Nope, not by a long shot.  Right now I've got to run me a little errand, but when I get back, my belt is going to work on that sloppy bitch cunt of yours just the way she likes it!"

He turned and began to walk out, only to stop mid-way.  "Which would you prefer, chaps or a cowboy hat?" He asked Ishmael.

But Ishmael wasn't listening.  "Come on boy, lick it clean, and don't miss a smudge!"  Ishmael spat, too preoccupied to pay much mind to Christof's ramblings.

"Cowboy hat," Christof answered himself as he turned about and continued out the door.

With Christof now gone, Ishmael looked down at Harry.  With spittle still drooling out of his month, he reached down and lifted his chin to look him in the eyes.

"Well, boy, did you like it, huh?" he asked, with a gaze cutting through to that fractured, "impure" place deep inside him Christof knew and had touched.

"Did you like the ass-kicking?  Do you like the abuse?"

With watery eyes, Harry lowered his head and whispered, "Yesss, sir, I liked it!"

"You need it to cum, don't you . . . daddy's boy!" he sneered, deriding the boy, wanting to make it clear that he now knew about that deep, dark impure place as well.

"Yes," he uttered.

"Good!" he sneered.  "Next time I'll be sure to wear a belt with some bite."


Chapter 6

Bridging the Cultural Divide

Three days later:

Budapest. HTK TeleKom, the Dunaharaszte Substation #23

An hour into his grave yard shift, Dominik Tamas pulled up in front of terminal substation no#23 in his UAZ Russian made van. The unpainted, concrete block building sat behind a gated cyclone fence topped with barbed wire, and lit up with flood lamps that illuminated the otherwise moonless night beyond the perimeter to the tree line 20 yards beyond.  

He stepped out of his van and retrieved a spool of keys to find the one needed to open the padlock attached to the chain securing the gate.  Once inside the yard, he found the key from the same spool to open the door to the building.  He entered and flicked on the vast array of interior lights before walking down the rows of racked switches until he found section 42-C, the row he was looking for.

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

"Shit!" he exclaimed as he swatted it off with the headset.

"Big ugly fucking bug!" he cursed, watching the spider scurry off down the aisle. After regaining his composure he again reached in to clip the leads to the terminal and punched in his number.

"Dominik Tamas, 1165," he gave his name and number to the technician on the other end of the line.

"Yes, yes, working fine, no problem.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fucking sure."

"No, it was a bug."

"No, no, not that kind of bug, a spider, a big one, the damn thing was the size of a Volga.  Yes, good news.  "I'll be back around 23:30."

"What?" a pause.

"No fucking way.  You want the damn bug then you get a hammer and a body bag and come get the fucking thing yourself."

"Yes, yes, bye then."

Dominik stepped down and took the ladder when had found it, then returned for his tools and his binder.  Completely unaware that he spec sheet for that particular job was no longer there. 

A few minutes later, he was again locking the front gate to head back to the main office.  As he departed, so did Ishmael, with the tech sheet in hand.  He tossed the jar that had contained the Hobo spider in the trash, then once again picked the gate lock and just as he had entered, disappeared back into the dark.


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

"Good morning, sir.  Can we see your passport please?"

Both officers wore the badge carried by Customs officers, so he promptly retrieved it from his inside coat pocket and handed it over.

"I've already passed through Customs, officer." Ishmael thought to remind him.

"Yes, sir, I know you have.  However, you are still in Hungary and are subject to our laws."

"Of course, officer, I understand."  He smiled.

"Your name is Ra Ebrahim, and you are an Egyptian national?" he asked, after examining the document.

"Igen (Yes)."

"And you speak Hungarian?" he asked with brows creased.

"Elég ahhoz, hogy a. (enough to get by)"

"So then, you are an Egyptian," the officer continued to quiz him, prodding around the edges to see how all the pieces fit together.  "And you have a clear grasp on English and you have a passing knowledge of Hungarian.  Am I to understand that right?"


"Blacker than most, don't you think?" the other officer cut in after giving it further thought.

"Yes, yes," his partner agreed after giving him yet another go over.  "A blue black, much darker than other Black Egyptians I've seen."

"Nice tailoring, too.  French?" he asked while fingering his lapel.


"Ah, you've lived there then."

"No, I live in Cairo."

"Oh, yes.  Yes, of course, your records would indicate as much."

"May I ask how long was your stay, Mr. Ebrahim?"

"Two days," he coolly replied.

"No, no," the other cut in, pointing to the passport he held in his hand.  "The stamp on your password says you arrived yesterday afternoon, less than 24 hours ago.  What was the nature of your business and can you give the name of your contacts?"

"Yes, of course.  I had business with Milan Jozsef Gosz."

"Milan Jozsef Gosz, the Parliamentary official?  He had business dealing with a black Egyptian?"  The other asked with raised brows.


"Important business then, huh?  And I suppose a record of that meeting with Mr. Gosz can be found on this laptop?" the Customs agent asked, while opening up Ishmael's briefcase for both he and the other Customs officer to see.

"Yes, of course." He replied, his voice as cool and sharp as a blade.  But then again, he had nothing to fear.  10 minutes after the executing his attack on the bank, he had installed a new standard OS drive, while the incriminating one now lay destroyed on the bottom of the Danube.

The two Customs officers stood back and studied him, looking for some clue that might help determine the truthfulness of his response.  Then after a moments pause the one with the computer in hand took the other office aside and they entered into a quiet conversation.

They both seemed a bit uncertain as to whether there was any merit to his claim, but upon hearing the boarding call for the flight, they returned, giving him back his computer and passport and simply said,  "Yes, sir.  Sorry sir, I apologize for the inconvenience.  Please, I hope your business with Mr. Milan Gosz brings you back often."

As he boarded the plane, he rolled up his eyes as though he was looking up to the heavens and whispered, "I owe you Mr. Ra Ebrahim."  The recently deceased Egyptian who's identity he had stolen and now appeared on his passport.

A short while later he was sitting next to the window in row 3, looking out and thinking about the other name that had saved his skin.  Jozsef Gosz, the name on an account he had hacked the night before.  A name he remembered because he was the big fish with a fat bank book, and a "PM," attached to his name.

Ishmael chuckled.  The irony that the man whose job it was to put him in jail was the very person responsible for saving his skin.  Plus, he had 90 grand of his money.

Obviously he couldn't wait to leave Hungary, but he would be chuckling all the way to the bank as he did.


The following day:

Having a few moments between meetings, Cézar Roche had finally found the time to stop by the Commons 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.

You would be hard pressed to determine the winner.  There was no self-congratulatory banter, no male ego-driven test of wills gone amok.  Instead, they relaxed leisurely in the lounge enjoying a bottle of Couronne (soda) and snacking on Papita (plantain) while participating in the school taught convention of Pataje Kado (gift sharing).

An etiquette fostered by the school, "gift sharing" builds bridges where there previously were none.  Providing an opportunity for groups like the Gangsta Rappers and Ayizan Lords, long time brothers-at-war, to rise above the animosity and find fellowship in a shared sense of community.

'Gift-sharing' could take many forms, of course.  From the 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.

In truth, 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.

"What better way to engender the spirit of fellowship than allowing another to add his nut to the pool already bottled-up inside your Podboy's cunt."  Cézar mused over the thought while sitting nearby enjoying his cup of java and watching the boys enthusiastically engaged in the act of sharing their prized boys.

Centermost, young Colin McGill and Nils Bergman were facing one another bent over at the waist and intimately entwined in a lip locking embrace.  Colin with his spiked blond hair was getting his much used Irish ass turned inside out, while young Nils was babbling some half-crazed Nordic chant to some higher authority who might afford him relief from the battering.

Cézar had to admire the boys for enduring as well as they did.  But then again, they were exceptional boys.  That is why they were selected above dozens of completing applicants.  Not solely based on their physical beauty, but in addition, they had to have a need for 'something' more.  Something they can only find in their surrender to the suffering they endure, and without which, fulfillment and release would be lost to them.

It takes a discerning eye to see that dormant seed in a boy, but when gotten right, they truly are a beautiful beast to behold.  Whether surrendering to a passionate embrace or leaning over and surrendering to the battering until gasping for air, they find their release and explode like a blast out of a water cannon.

The same could be said of the Haitian Tops (students) who attended.  Of course they were exquisite examples of physical beauty.  Of course they were high achievers, represented the brightest of the bright.  But it takes more than good looks and brains to make a man.  It requires the strength, will and ruthless determination to dominate in all aspects of his life.  Whether it is dominating his bitch with his cock, or fucking his competitors in the corporate world.

That's what the school 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.

The picture 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!"

"How's the coffee, Cézar?" Professor Tebogo asked as he came up from behind.

"Oh, hello, my dear friend, how were classes today?"  Cézar replied, greeting his fellow Alum.

"Fine, fine," he muttered while blowing on his steaming cup of coffee, and then took up a seat alongside Cézar.

"Ah, young Colin," he adds.  "A fine bitch, but I swear, the boy seems to be getting denser by the day."

"Oh, he had a particularly bad day today?"  Cézar asked between sips of his coffee.

"No, no, he contributes as best he can.  For instance, this week his class is studying the relative speed and velocity of an object in motion.   30 minutes of lecture followed by 30 minutes of lab work in which the students are required to design their own models and measure the results."

"Well, the group in which Colin was a member chose to use a 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."

"In 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?"

Cézar laughed and shook his head.  "Yes, I'm seeing more and more of that in the boy too.  Though I confess, his increasingly enfeebled state of mind does nothing but add to the brilliance of his performance." he said, with a nod toward Colin who was in the midst of being battered by a monster of a cock while shooting his own load several feet beyond.

"Hum, yes, I agree.  Of all the Pod whites, I find him one of the sweeter fucks.  In fact, he's been known to get me off a second time within the hour." he stated his case and then added almost defensively, "Although I can assure you, not at the expense of the others."

Cézar and Professor Tebogo continued on with their chat for a time, covering both the mundane as well as more important school matters.   Then a short time later the 'gift sharing' came to an end, and the boys now satiated, again turned their attentions back to the great outdoors for yet another game of fotoball. As they linger out they left Colin and Nils behind to clean up their pusses before again rejoining them on the sidelines to lead the cheers.

In passing on to the bathroom, Colin was called over to where Cézar and Professor Tebogo sat.

"Ah, hello, my dear sweet boy," Cézar greeted him.  "Did the `Tops' feed you enough nut Pâté to satisfy that hungry cunt of yours boy?  Huh?"

Colin sashayed over with a long strain of nut `Pâté' seeping out of his ass, leaving a slug-like trail in his wake.  He leaned down and gave Cézar a kiss on the lips, then took hold of the napkin Cézar held up for him to take.  "Clean up you puss, boy."

"Well if you'll excuse me, I've yet to prepare tomorrows assignments . . ." Tebogo intruded, as he rose up and extended his hand preparing to depart.

"Yes, of course, Professor." Cézar took up his hand, and when gone, he again turned to Colin who was holding out the clothe napkin sopping with the viscous slop.

"Set it on the plate." he told Colin, pointing to an empty plate sitting atop the table.  "I'll get you a spoon and a 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."

Colin had been slow in response to the flame that lit up his ass, but when it came to freeing up Cézar's cock, he did it with all the speed and accuracy of a half-starved whore.  7.2 seconds after asking, he had his pants pulled down to his knees.

"Fine, fine, now, hop aboard, boy."  He beamed while slapping his bare thigh, his cock standing bolt upright dousing his navel with pre-cum.

Colin straddled his legs and climbed aboard, again kissing Cézar upon the lips while lining up his puss to welcome his enflamed cock.

"No, no, boy.  Just sit back and do like this." He took hold of his cock in one hand and Colin's cock in the other.  Then positioning the boy as he wanted, he pressed the two together belly to belly and then had Colin entwine his fingers together so he could masturbated both cocks as one.

"Boy, that's one thing I like about you." he panted while pointing to Colin's rather substantial cock.  It was very impressive, even for a boy of his considerable size.  "You've got yourself a man-size cock and the abs that would do a gym-rat proud."

"Thank you, sir," Colin cooed, quite taken by the compliment.

"Yes, well, you needn't thank me bitch, because your snatch would make a Rue Santara streetwalker even prouder."

Colin nodded silently, letting his hands speak for him as he began to stroke their combined cocks using the pre-cum as lubricant.

"Ah-yes.  Fine, fine, boy.  Now we can get comfy, buddy-up, talk man to boy." he winked with a grin.  "So tell me, you having a fine day doing the fuck me rag for one fat cock after another?"

"Yes, sir," he answered, hoping to placate the man just as he hoped to please his cock.

Cézar had 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.

"Did you like it, boy?  Did you like being treated like shit?"  Cézar hissed, tauntingly, prodding the boy, wanting to tighten that screw still tighter.

Not at all comfortable with Cézar's sudden change of tone, Colin remained tight lipped.  Instead he put a little extra effort into soothing the beast.  With both thumbs together, he 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.

No question 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.

"Ahhhhh, shit!  Stop playing me, boy!  Cézar barked, his face suddenly turned, now plastered with disdain for the boy he felt was trying to waylay the inevitable.

"I asked you a fucking question, boy," he scowled, causing his jowls to redden.  "You like being treated like shit on a shoe?"

Colin wavered a painfully long moment, still in struggle with himself.  But the battle now long lost, he finally found the means to gather himself up, and uttered, "I-I-I suppose, sir".

It was a painfully gut-wrenching admission.  But even as humiliating as it was to say, he know Cézar would never let him be until he did.

"Suppose, suppose, what 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!"

"Yes!"  He finally admitted, "Yes, I like it."

"That's it boy. Embrace your Faggot.  Like I do, like your pod mates do, like your fucking daddy once did."

"No he didn't," he wanted it known.

"Your daddy didn't know you were a faggot?  If he didn't, it was because he was either blind, or a dumber shit than you."

"Yes, he knew I was homosexual, but he said it disgusted him, he didn't embrace it.  He said it was a bad thing and beat me with a strap, especially after he found out about Barry."

"Ah, finally the good stuff.  Come, come, boy.  I want to hear it.  Time to bear your soul!  Who's Barry?"

"He was a friend from school.  We had sleepovers all the time.  I think I was 9, almost 10, when we started playing around and my father found out."

"He'd beat you, boy?"

"Yes!  A lot!  Anytime he though I was 'acting homosexual'."

Cézar laughed.  "What in the hell was that supposed to mean?  Making googly-eyes at some boy?"

"I don't know, but he said he was going to beat it out of me before his parishioners found out and I bring his live to ruination.  He was a pious, religious man.  A pastor at Saint Agathus, so he'd beat me kneeling on the pew with my mom looking on, because, like my father, she thought homosexually was the gateway to hell.  Then when he found out about Mr. Sullivan, I got beat ever worse."

"Mr. Sullivan?"

"Ah-hu, he was my tutor.  The retired proctor my father had hired."

"Ah," he exclaimed, "you were a faggot and a dumb shit too."

"No, sir, I was a good student, but my father wanted me to go to a college, so he said it was necessary."

"Did 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 . . ."

"Until what, boy, until your papa caught him sucking your cock?"

"Um, well sort of.  He was fucking me when my dad walked into the room."

"He was the man who took your virgin ass, huh?"

"Yes," he again turned away."

"Funny, isn't it?  A pretty boy like you wants to save his virgin ass for his prince charming and you get busted by an ugly fucking toad."  Cézar chuckled.  "Did you vomit, spew all over that ugly blister face?"

"No," he uttered, still looking away.

"Good 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."

"No, he didn't!" he perked back up.  "Like I said, I always like boys.  But with my father always preaching to me about the evils of homosexually, I guess I was just too afraid to admit it."

"Your papa knew a homo when he saw one, huh?"

"Well, he said he did, but he didn't know Mr. Sullivan was a homosexual.  He was a reputable man and I think he thought Mr. Sullivan was just a retired teacher who was just too ugly to get married."

"Of course my father told him about what had happened between me and Barry and 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."

"He'd 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 anus."

"Your cunt, boy! " Cézar interrupted.

"Yes, my cunt.  He'd beat it hard too, telling me he need beat it to cure my affliction, my homo . . .'

"Your faggot, boy," Cézar again cut in.

"Yes, my faggot.  He said he need beat it out of me.  To hurt me, plenty, all the while telling me that was what faggots deserved.  And if I didn't spread out my butt wide enough, or let go, he'd start the beating all over again.

"That went on for awhile before he started to fuck me.  '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 degradation."

"It 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 deserved."

"That 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."

"Probably because he was fucking me everyday after school, I guess." he added with a shrug.  Sometimes 2, 3 times a day, which was okay, I guess, because he fucked me a lot, and I liked it.  But the bad side of it was that I had come 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.

"Please, sir," I'd have to beg him, "Your cock!  I need to cum.  Please!"

Sometimes 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."

"Ahhh, 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.

Nonetheless, Cézar did like Colin.  He was as pretty boy with a big cock, and with his spiked hair and finely honed muscular frame he looked a delightful man-bitch as well.

He also enjoyed the telling of his story, though in all honesty, it was a story he'd heard countless times before.  In fact it was a chorus song by all the podded 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.

Of course they are pretty as shit and love to be fucked too.  But there is a difference between loving to fuck and standing up to the shellacking the pod whites took.  To do that requires a different sort of boy.  One who can only find the fulfillment and the release they desired in their surrender to the suffering.


Call it what you will.  Self-loathing, low self-esteem or even penance, but whatever you call their gluttony for punishment, it is the part of their make up that compels them to endure no matter how severe the torment others dish out.

"The fault of idiotic parents and a whacked-out, intolerant society," Cézar seemed to think.  "Their irrational beliefs that spawned intolerance and denied them acceptance turning their gay sons like Colin into punching bags."

"Though thankfully, not all," he took hold of that one beam of light.  "Most gays do find love and acceptance from family and friends, but for the "Podboys" of this world, life was a never ending cycle of embracing the punishment and the subsequent suffering 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 the scars.)

On that 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.

Cézar looked at his watch only then realizing that his next meeting was scheduled to begin in 30 minutes.  He returned his empty cup to the kiosk, and after thanking the attendant with a handsome tip, he left the student Commons as he had entered.

On his way back to his office he was approached by Doctor Dutillet.  In one hand he held some papers and in the other, a jar.

"Cézar, I've been looking for you."  He cried out, 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, yes, you have found me. What is it?"

"The 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 Mambo Serafine."

Cézar leaned in to give the tightly sealed jar a closer look.  "Yes, yes, I'll see that she gets it," he said, then quickly turned back to the documents to account for there accuracy.  "And the paper work, it's complete?"

"Yes, of course.  What do you take me for?" he sounded off."

"Oh, sorry my friend, I didn't mean to imply . . ."

"Yes, well, rest assured all the T's are crossed and I's dotted.  In fact, young Julien is already on his way this very moment, all comfy and snug as a bug."

"Hum, Julien, a fine boy in his time, no?" Cézar smiled on reflection.

"Yes, 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?"

"Any moment.  In fact I'm heading back to my office now, so if you'll excuse me doctor . . ."

Cézar turned to leave, but stopped mid-way to ask Doctor Dutillet something that had just come to mind.

"Oh, doc, I almost forgot.  Christof Eichel called me and said something about . . ."

"Harry Barber," the doctor 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, 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 did.

Doctor 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!  Fucking chaos!"

Cézar entered his office and walked over to the brilliant mahogany and glass cabinet that stood beside his desk.

Inside were several dozen jars identical to the one Doctor Dutillet had given him all exquisitely showcased.  Withdrawing a small gold skeleton key from his coat pocket, he unlocked the cabinet door and placed the jar alongside 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 building.

Cézar thought the boy looked every bit as sweet and lovely as the boy he saw attached to Ishmael's cock in the picture.  Again he smiled to himself.  Then upon hearing the approaching footsteps coming down the hall, he stepped back into his office.  His stride, hurried and heavy caused the cabinet to rattle, while inside the cabinet, the disturbance caused the rows of restless li'l bobs inside the neatly aligned jars to sway in unison to the ticking of the office clock.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick . . . tock . .  . tick . . ."


". . . tock!"

"Yes, please come in," he called through the door.

Pascal, his clerk, walked in.  "The new boy has arrived, Monsieur Roché.  Should I send him to the clothiers first?"

"Yes, Pascal, the usual engagement attire, and send Fedji to see me as soon as possible."


Chapter   7: New Obeah Boy

Alex's arrival

Dieter Fuhrman was late for a meeting.   He parked his van in the space reserved for him outside the PEC Telecom building then hurriedly dashed in the building still straightening his tie.

A moment later a maintenance man dressed in coveralls and carrying a broom came up alongside Dieter's parked van.  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.

Leaning inside, he quickly did the same to the lock on the Red Box attached to the floorboard.  As the box popped open he retrieved the folder stamped PEC Telecom Logistics Keys, and then slowly left the scene, whistling, just as he had entered.


Later that evening Ishmael sat at a desk in a closed Insurance office somewhere in Munich.  In front of him sat his laptop, the modem plugged into the phone line.  On his screen the digits scrolled passed for a short minute and then came to a stop, displaying the numbers he sought on top of the screen.

Jozsef Gosz was on the internet while typing a letter on the Word processor when Ishmael's program managed to weasel its way though 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.



Meanwhile at the Baptiste du Pre International boys Academy:

"Monsieur 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.

"What means 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.

Alex was 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.

"I believe 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.

"Ouch!"  Alex shrieked.  "Wi, mesye," (yes sir) Fedji followed, as he combed his hand along Alex's thigh, so perilously close.

"Yes, well, if you do not already know Fedji is the head Top of the Obeah Pod in which you are to be wed.  His English is not so good, but he's a fine fellow, and quit the heartthrob," he blatantly winked with a wolfishly snide grin.

"Wed?" Alex asked, his brows gathered, looking bewildered.

"Well, yes, 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?" he asked.

"I think so.  We're a family!" he nodded, following the logic, the tension in the air lessened a bit.

"Good!  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 likes better."

"You follow?" he asked and Alex acknowledged with a nod, though with a very confounded look.  His mind a mesh of disconnected threads and worries over bad juju, happy meals and now, heaven please help him, he had Papa Legba to worry about too.

"Good.  Now, like in any household, there are always rules you must obey.  In your house there are only 3.  You must always love, honor and obey your brothers.  Simple!  Follow the rules and you will not only avoid conflict, but learn the value of fellowship within the broader community as well.  Make sense?"

"I suppose," he shrugged, more in the way of appeasement than understand a damn word of it.

"Well, not to worry, you'll learn fast enough.  If not, don't come crying to me.  Every pod is responsible for governing themselves.  No oversight, no intervention.  Likewise, you alone must meet the challenges using only the tools you have at your disposal.  Understand?"

Again he nodded, though still not understanding, and again feeling a tad restless he ventured a quick look around.  Taking note of a small 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 of some.

"Huh!  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.'

"Now then, you know what is expected.  As for what else to expect, Fedji will see to it you are branded with your Obeah tattoo, 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!

"Ahh, tattoo? Alex's eyes spiraled up in alarm, his mind a whirl with images of strange rituals and fiendish practices.

"Yes," he 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.

"Lovely, 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?"

"Yes sir, 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.

"Yes, well, 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 still further.

"Wi mesye, 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.

"Fine!  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, 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 you part?"

"I-I-I," he stuttered, now looking thoroughly routed, his voice nowhere to be found.

"Fine!  Then I pronounce you wedded Obeah Top and podboy.  You may kiss, and then be off with you to bed.

Fedji pressed in close and wrapped his arms around Alex, his hands grabbing hold of his half-bare buns to give them a squeeze.  Leaning down, he devoured him with his lips.  His tongue probing deep, feasting on his new white podboy until getting his fill he withdrew his tongue and began licking the length of his face.  From lips to his brows in one long wet swipe, like a lion licking his cub.

Alex was breathless, 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 . . .

"Fedji!  Where are we going?"  Alex called out, winded, coming to a sudden stop in route to the Obeah pod.

"Where go? He managed, struggling though his rudimentary grasp of the language.  "Go?  Go pod!  Bed!  Come, come, you go!"

"But-but-but, Fedji," he felt himself pulled along again by that fierce wind that refused to let go of his hand.  Over the red clay path etched between the barbed Catsclaw and Bloodberry, until . . .

. . . Until 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.

"Ou tann, ou tann! (you wait, you wait!)" Fedji shouted at them, one hand waving wildly above his head as he carved a path through toward that red clay hut, dragging Alex along inside.  With Alex in tow, he raced across a sitting room, passed a study and into the billet lined with its rows of beds.  Behind them, a long line of walking, talking, bloated cocks followed, awaiting, anxiously.

"Fedji!  Is this were I sleep?" Alex asked, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, staring into what surely had to be his worst imagining come true.

"Sl-eep?" he asked, turning 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.

"You stay," Fedji huffed, hurriedly removing his Khaki shorts while the others gathered round and Alex, again blown by that fierce wind was set adrift amidst a roomful of bloated black Haitian cocks and the near riotous 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.

But more 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!

High-fives 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 asshole.

But those huge gleaming white choppers of his weren't done yet.  The young lion had his prize, but now feeling the need to taste him as well, he opened his mouth full-wide and bit down on a meaty chunk of his ass.

"Aaaah Shit!  What are you doing?  What are you doing?" Alex wailed.  His cheeks wet with his tears, his eyes darting wildly around the room.  Watching as those around cheered, pointing to the red embossed imprint of all 32 teeth smiling back up of them.

"Do-ing?" 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.

"B-b-but everyone is watching?" Alex screeched like a cat on fire, searching for something, anything to escape the pain he knew was coming.

"Yes, yes, Naruto, he watch!" He called out the name, "Naruto he fuck butt tou (too)!" followed by a fist-bump and a chortle from the slugger swing his long black bat against Alex's ear.

"Naruto?" his cried, the anguish written in his eyes.  "No, no . . ."

"Yes, yes, and Fidèle, Alphé, Najac" he calls out the names of those standing close in, with a fist-bump and a "bro" following each ". . . and Mathieu, and Olgues, and Jean-Claude, and . . . tout (all) Top's fuck podboy butt.  You like.  You wait."  He giggled, as he busily 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 . . "

A perfectly 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 thighs, 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!

And fuck him he did.  Hard, unrelenting, 60 plus RPM per minute, every fucking stroke balls deep, then back up that 78mm (3") wide bored out cylinder for 10 . . . 12 . . .15 minutes, a 3 mile run without pause.  Alex shrieked, sweat flew, the bed rocked nonstop and until he roared like a god damn madman busting a nut.

And then Fidèle hoped aboard to continue where Fedji had left off, starting the instant Fedji stepped around to have his cock licked clean.

Fidèle was no less relentless, no less fierce.  With his cauliflower ear and the face of a fourth rate boxer he wasn't exactly someone to write home about, but man could 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.

He fucked hard, his manner as brutish as a rutting Doberman, and buried beneath him, Alex.  The small white poodle who struggled just to hold on, and then as that breeding black bull bust his nut up his lily white ass, he too came like never before.


Then came Pascal - then Mathieu – then Alphé and then the lineup that followed until the break of dawn.  The moment Ishmael walked in to see how young Alex had fared.  He found all of them asleep, and in the middle, sleeping like a baby, Alex with a cock still in his ass, one in each hand and a puddle of nut-juice pooled on the floor.  But more importantly, he found him as he knew he would - With a contented look etched on his face!

He smiled and thought to come back later, and perhaps, if he was lucky, catch his sweet ass before they served it up for dinner.

Ding-ding-ding, Fedji rang the bell.

"Come this way Brotha Tops.  Succulent white podboy ass with taters and peas . . ."

"Dinner is served!"


Chapter 8Rosemary's Visitation

Struggling to find her footing, Rosemary dragged herself up off the cough and slowly managed her way across the room.  Her brain felt like mush and her crinkled, slept-in dress and unpinned hair looked the train wreck she felt.  Upon reaching the front door she stopped to quickly bring some semblance of order back to her appearance before looking to see who was there.

"Good morning, madam," Cézar beamed with hat in hand.

"Rosemary, please," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.  "It's early.  Would you care for some coffee?"

"Sounds lovely, Rosemary," he replied, not wanting to tell her it was well past noon.

He followed her through to the kitchen, dinning area, and in passing he saw a blanket on the couch where she had slept.  Atop the kitchen table, he saw a half depleted bottle of 100 proof Clairin, another empty and still another unopened.  He sat down at the table and waited as she continued on into the kitchen to pour each a cup of warmed-over coffee she had left on the coffeemaker from the night before.

"Sugar, cream," she asked, taking a seat across from him.

"No, no, thank you," he said as he took a sip of his and watched as he topped off her cup with what remained of that rotgut liquor before downing the cup.  "Well I hope you're finding our guest accommodations pleasant." He then asked as she sought to open the unopened bottle of the Clairin."

"Oh, yes.  It's lovely, just lovely, thank you.  It's spacious and that patio with all the flowers," she looked out through the sliding glass doors that led out on the wooden decking amidst a sea of lush green perennials.  Centering the patio deck was a table around which three boys sat.

She sat resting her chin on her hand pondering the beautiful array of colors when another boy walked through the gate.  He stopped to chat with his seated pals for a moment, then walking off around the corner where the sliding glass doors to Alex's room were located.

"Well, we do wish our guests to feel comfortable," he cut into her thoughts.  "Although I can see you've been quite busy." He followed with a nod toward the boys sitting outside.  Rosemarie briefly looked while refilling her cup once more to the brim, only this time sans coffee.

"Oh yes, all night long, the coming and going . . . and the noise," she managed before chugging down half the cup.  "You see when I slept," the nodded toward the couch.

"How unfortunate," he commiserated.  "The noise, they were disturbing your sleep?" he then asked while watching a previously unseen boy appeared from around the corner where Alex's patio door was located, still buttoning up his pants.

"Mhmm," she mumbled, "I haven't the slightest what they do, but the ruckus boarders on a riot.  The laughter, the horseplay and the jumping around on the bed like kids.  It's amazing it hasn't caved in.  And that headboard, merciful heavens, pounding against the wall the night long.  You'd think they'd grow tired and sleep."

"Huh!  Boys!" Cézar grumbled.  "Well, what can I say?  Boys will be boys.  I know your stay is just for the holiday weekend, but still they need be more courteous.  Perhaps I should speak with them."

"No, no," she sounded quite adamant.  "I want his friends to feel welcome, and I wish to give them the space to have fun.  Besides, everyone gets along so nicely."

"And Alex, how is he holding up having all his friends around?"

"Honestly, I really don't know." Rosemary replied.  "I've not spoken to him since Friday night.  But if I know my son, I'm sure he enjoys being the center of attention and probably can't get enough of it."

"Haven't you looked in on them?"  Cézar expressed his concern.

"No, should I have?" she asked.  "I didn't because I didn't want to disturb them.  Besides, I figured when they got hungry they'd come out and I'd get my fill of them."

"Huh! He said, creasing his brows.  "Do you mind my having a look to see how he's doing?"

"No, not at all, last door on the right, next to mine.  I'll cook a little something should anyone care to come up for air to eat."

"Don't trouble yourself, Rosemary.  Let them fend for themselves."

"Prepare breakfast themselves?" she asked.

"For you, Rosemary, as a courtesy if nothing else," he sought to clarify.

"For me?  Oh my, what a lovely thought. I could only wish, Mr. Roché," she said with a sigh, and then stood up to go to the kitchen.

"As you wish, Rosemary," he put the matter to rest, but not out his thoughts where her response continued to linger.  "Yes, well then, if you'll give me a moment . . ." Cézar gathered himself up then stood and walked down the hall, stopping just a moment to peer into her bedroom.

He could see that her bed had not been slept in and did, indeed, butt up against the wall to Alex's room.  "There would have been no escaping the ruckus," he thought.  Although, at the moment he found it surprisingly quiet.  He was also surprised to find the door to Alex's room wide open.  In fact, someone had even wedged a chair against the knob to insure it remained that way.

When he looked in he saw everyone asleep.  On the bed he saw Alex along with three boys, and three others on the floor.  Centermost lay Alex.  He rutted asshole the focal point that framed the picture, and above it, his new Obeah tattoo.

The tattoo reached from the small of his back to the crack of his ass.  Above the green cobra's head it read "Obeah Pussyboy," and below it hung a hefty set of balls that draped down under the snake head like a pair of black bulbous jowls.

Just like the tattoo inked on Fedji's shoulder, the serpent spirit was coiled around a large black Obeah cock, only now, the cock faced down.  It ran all the way down to the crack of his ass, and below the bloated head, a stream of cum flowed down to the crack of his ass.

Cézar thought it was a majestic piece.  Certainly the depiction of serpent spirit was noteworthy he thought, especially the work that went into the creation of his long red forked tongue.  They had placed it so that whenever his ass cheeks quivered the tongue would appear to wag about as if in the act of speaking.

He was also rather impressed by its size.  Clearly it was bold enough to be seen beneath his clothes from some distance away had he been wearing any, and most certainly by his mother had she ventured a look.

On one side of Alex lay Fedji.  His long, thick black cock lay draped across Alex's thigh like a long, sagging black sausage, and on the other side of Alex lay Najac.  His trunk-like black cock was still butting up against his ass.  Red, swollen, and half-open, it was still leaking like a drain pipe.

But the big surprise was seeing Jomo Cazelar leaning up against the headboard, his head drooping down sound asleep.  Alex lay between his out stretched legs, his head lying upon his thigh and alongside his cock that ran the length of his face.

Jomo belonged to the Rasta Bosses and member of the Delmar gang called the Rat Army, a long time foe of the Danger Boys, the gang with whom Fedji had been affiliated.   It was good to see that in this particular circumstance, harmony was the order of the day.  Alex obviously had done his job well.                      

Walking back into the kitchen he could hear fresh coffee percolating and the smell the warmed-over gravy she had reheated to go with the leftover biscuits from the night before.  Rosemary was sitting at the table nursing a hand she had accidentally burnt on the stove.

"Oh my, allow me to help, Rosemary," he said as he came up alongside.  Taking up a pat of butter from the butter dish nearby, he began to spread the butter on the slight, superficial burn on her wrist.

"The boys have settled down, yes?" she asks, her tattooed tit all but hanging out in open display.

"Yes, they are resting." He smiled warmly as he gently tried to comfort her.  "You know, you are gifted to have such a special boy.  The boys all love him.  But I'm sure you know that already."

"Yes," she said with a sigh, though he could see in her eyes that her thoughts were elsewhere.  "Caught up in the moment," he thought.  "Or, perhaps it was a combination of things."  The liquor, matters regarding her son, or perhaps, it was the effects of his gentle touch.  The soothing relief brought on by his fingers that were now kneading a broader area along her arm adjacent to her tit to ease the tension and counterbalance the bodies natural inclination to tense up when hurt.

"Well, it is obvious where Alex got his warm and giving heart," Cézar followed.  "I just wish every boy had such a loving, caring mother.  If he is an angle, then you, Rosemary, are the angel's guardian."

"Kisa ki te pase? (what has happened)," Jomo called out from behind.  Cézar looked up to see Jomo standing behind, and except for a Damballah sachet dangling from a gold chain worn about the neck, he was bare ass naked.  The long black cock hung heavy by its weight half-way to his knees.

"Momma Alex was preparing a breakfast and has hurt herself," Cézar said to the boy.

"Oh, moms pòv (Oh poor moms), he cried, as he came up and stood alongside, the pendulum-like sway of his cock inches away from her face.  Then taking off the Damballah sachet he wore about his neck, he opened it up and sprinkled out a small mound of a brownish powder onto his open palm and sang out as if in prayer. 

"Oh, papa Damballah, I ask you please bring well being to this good woman.  Share the gift, share the gift," he recited while he placed his open palm in front of her nose, and then with a twinkle in his eye he puckered up and . . . blew!"

"Fffffffffffff  Puff!"  He blew upon the powder, causing a cloud of dust to engulf her face.

Rosemary grew dizzy sending her mind adrift.  She clenched her eyes tight then coughed and sputtered while Cézar and Jomo looked on smiling.  When again she opened her eyes, it was like looking through a red-filtered, fisheye lens.  One might imagine it being like looking into a convex mirror, or in this case, through the eyes of the serpent.

As she looked up she saw Cézar peering in closely as if examining her eyes.  His distorted wide-eyed, grinning face magnified ten-fold filled her view, while the rest of him receded in size into the backdrop.

She shifted her eyes to the side and again, Jomo's cock loomed thick veined and heavy.  Only now the distortion optics made it appeared so large and near she could see the moist remnants of a recent fucking.  Its Intoxicating aroma surged through her with a rush, leaving her body wracked with the sensation of an approaching orgasm.

The sensation that coursed throughout her body was simply exhilarating, unlike anything she'd ever felt before.  And it didn't come to her in the way of a craving or an urge either, but seemed to her almost hardwired, as primal as the need to breathe.  His cock so vital she felt she could not live another moment without it.

Once more, everything she saw was coming through in waves.  All she perceived seemed to ripple and shimmer and breathe, reducing her reality to a sequence of warped, flicking scenes.  Sometimes in ways that approximated reality and sometimes like some bizarre drug induced dreamscape in which she was left to wonder.

"Ah, yes, I see she has arrived safely in the arms of Damballah," Cézar said.

"Yes, she is in safe hands now," Jomo replied, then looked toward the hall that led to Alex's bedroom where he heard the creak of bed springs and the knocking of the headboard.  The boys out on the patio heard it too, and immediately dashed off toward the glass doors that lead into Alex's room.

"I think I go back now," Jomo said to Cézar with a nod toward the hall.

"Yes, I think she will be well now." Cézar answer back, and then after giving it a moments thought he added, "Perhaps Moms would like to go look too, huh?"

"Yes, lift her spirits, I think," Jomo beamed, again looking at Rosemary, her eyes riveted to the tick-tock, near hypnotic sway of his cock inches away from her nose.

"Come moms," he followed, taking her hand while Cézar helped her to stand and then steady her as they slowly led the way.

From Rosemary's perspective, her new contorted world view warped her perceptions to such a degree that the distinction between illusion and reality was lost to her.  Her only remaining refuge was that orgasmic sensation rising up from her loins, and Jomo's cock.  Filtered an eerie red, the convex image of his cock loomed like an anchor to moor her psyche, while its hypnotic, metronome-like sway led the way until they stood before the open door.

Inside, she saw the faces of 9 naked boys, all of whom were rolling over in hysterics upon seeing her.  "Come moms," Jomo encouraged while helping her to sit upon a chair that fronted Alex's red, raw, gaping asshole atop which sat his new tattoo.

"Moms," they greeted her, stroking their cocks around the curved periphery, while close-in and dead center, her son's ass was propped up with the aid of by a support pillow.  And then there was the green headed serpent atop his ass that seemed to be smiling at her.  His long red forked tongue snaked out between close-set eyes that seemed as aware and full of life as the boys poking their cocks in her face.

Then emerging out from the periphery, Fedji's grinning face leaned close-in.  "You like watch, moms?" he asked, before straightened back up and turned toward Alex's ass.  He slapped his massive black cock atop her son's lily-white ass, and then positioned himself slightly to the side to assure Rosemary a clear view.

"You like moms?  Alex boy ass is tops, moms.  Very good pussy." he beamed a zillion watt smile.  "You watch and see, moms," he followed as he aligned the helmeted head of his cock to the gaping hole to fuck him.  All the while looking and grinning at her as he slowly pushed in, inch by inch until pulling it back out he stopped to pose.  His shoulders bowed back, the 10 inch long black shaft poised like an arrow cocked and aimed at the bulls eye - his rutted out, silver dollar sized hole!

"Nice, huh, moms?  Alex boy good bitch.  See!" he followed with a sweeping showmen-like gesture of his hand over the raw, red hole.  "Now I fuck Alex boy good for you moms."

And commence to fuck him he did!  Ruthlessly, like a bull in rut.  His huge balls banging out a rhythm on Alex's ass, while the sloshing, whooshing sound that billowed out his ass stirred the orgasmic sensation percolating up from her loins.  A sensation that now consumed her, growing all the more as the minutes rolled on - as the tens of minutes sailed past - as he fucked her son with reckless disregard to all but his pleasure.  But always slightly to the side to insure "moms" got a clean view.

"Look see, moms!" the boys clamored excitedly.  "Alex boy cums," they pointed at the pearly white strand dripping down off his cock onto the bolster pillow.   "See moms!  No hands.  Like you, moms!" the boys shouted out above the boisterous laughter.  "White bitch in love," said yet another, pointing out the mollified look plastered on Alex's face.

But for all the horseplay, Fedji remained manically on stride.  Again and again he reamed out that hole on the in-stroke, and wore it like a rose-pink sweater sleeve on the outstroke.  Like a pile driver on speed, Fedji grunted, Alex whimpered and that headboard pounded a thump, thump, thumping rhythm against the wall, until pulling out to show "moms" her sons gapping hole from which his own cum now cascaded down onto the bed like a stream of curdled milk out the spout of a creamer.

"See, moms, Alex boy good fuck hole," he turned around to say, while Jomo moved in to take his place.  Then inching in still closer to where Rosemary sat, he pressed his sopping, smudge-ridden cock up to her lips.

"You clean, moms," she heard him say through the chaos that cluttered her brain.

The distorted optics that were now her reality rolled though her psyche in wave-like surges, creating a motion that seemed to transform Fedji's cock into a living, breathing entity all to its own.  While beyond, the red forked tongue of the tattooed serpent spirit looked to be speaking his mind.

"Honor the Lwa," he seemed to be saying, encouraging her to open her mouth.  Then the serpent's smile broadened still more when she swallowed that black plum whole.  From her son's ass to her mouth went the slime and the sludge with a swirl of the tongue, and when she swallowed, that orgasmic sensation inside her exploded.  KaBOOM!!!

Her body rocked and she was sent adrift upward.  It was as though her having cleaned his cock had "opened up a pathway to the heavens." Or so she believed when the great serpent spirit gifted her with what appear to be an all too real wink and a nod of approval.

"His approval!"  No longer was he just some red-filtered, optically distorted image she couldn't comprehend.  Now, that serpent spirit was as real as the psilocybin that had fractured the mindscape.

"Here," she heard someone call from beyond, and shifting her vision that way, she saw a boy placing another pillow beside her son.

"Put moms here . . ."

"Yes, yes," Cézar called out.  "Let me help you moms," he reached out to support her.  And then when comfortably seated beside her son's raised ass, he pointed to where the serpent spirit's tongue snaked down to the crack of his ass.

"That's it moms." He consoled.  "Now just rest you chin righted here.  Close to the serpent spirit and one step closer to the gate to heaven!"  Like a soulless automaton (zombie-like?) she followed the script while Cézar looked on smiling, and Jomo once again leaned down and with his open palm fronting her nose, he blow a wicked amount of that brownish powder up her nostrils . . . and then, presto, she was gone, gone, gone!

"I'm next," Alphé said, who then stepped up, aligned his cock and drove all ten inches up Alex's ass, literally, under her nose.  Alphé fucked his ass like a mad dog, using her hair as a handle and the drool from her mouth as lubricant.  And when he couldn't hold back a moment more and was to ready to shoot his wad . . .

. . . "Open you mouth, moms!" he said as he pulled out his cock.  "The Lwa embrace you," he beamed a wicked smile skewed a tad to the lopsided.


Chapter   9:  Home Is Where the Spirit Lies

Paddock Police Station, London:

Detective Stan Wimple was sitting in his office going over his notes when chief inspector Morris walked in.  "Morning Stanley, let's hear what you've got so far," he asked as he took up a seat fronting his desk.

"Yes sir.  Well, as you already know Mr. Thomas Jones brought to our attention a severely damaged hard drive he found at his place of work.  As he reported the incident, the previous night he was outside taking a smoke break on the decking of the Morris Cable building located at the foot of Old Wharf Lane where he works as a night watchman."

"About 5 minutes into his break he saw a man walking the promenade along the Thames River waterfront immediately beneath there he stood.  He described the man as well dressed, black and in his words, `in a hurry.'  He said that he watched as the man approached the levy wall then pulled out the hard drive in evidence and attempted to toss it into the river."

"Mr. Jones then went on to explain that the gentleman in question tossed it high enough to clear the wall, but not high enough to clear a row of nearby river pilings.  As a result the item in evidence hit one of the posts, and ricocheting off it landed atop another.  And as good fortune would have it, the piling it landed upon was close enough to the levy wall that he was able to retrieve the item once the gentleman had departed."

"Mr. Jones couldn't provide a better description of the man?" Inspector Morris asked.

"Unfortunately not!  It seems it was a bit too dark to see much else in detail.  But the cabby did."

"He came by cab?"

"I've yet to discover how he happened there, but after departing the scene the gentleman did flag down cab number 883 on the corner of Old Wharf Lane and Mayfield a half block away.  Mr. James Butler, the driver, said the man asked to be taken to Heathrow and was dropped off in front of the international terminal at 10 p.m.  The driver described the gentleman as black, approximately 6-3, 6-4, 220-230 pounds, well dressed and spoke English with an accent.  Unfortunately, the gentleman said little more than where he wanted to go.  Not enough to determine where he might be from, but enough to know he wasn't British and probably Caribbean."

"Oh?  And how was he able to determine that?"

"The manner in which he said `Heathrow'.   Apparently he has a neighbor from Jamaica and they both pronounce the word in the same way."

"And forensics, what have they to say?"

"Very little and quite a lot actually.  They were able to determine that the destruction of the drive was intentional, and it was done with some sort of Thermite devise designed specifically to burn a hole through the drive and render it unrecoverable."

"They call it a very professional job, but enough of the boot sector remained untouched to determine that the drive booted to a command prompt as opposed to an operating system.  In other words, the uses for this drive are quite limited, and when combine with the fact that it's an extraordinary small capacity drive makes it suitable for use only by someone with a specific purpose in mind.  Say a computer technician or by someone with nefarious purposes in mind, but certainly not by a layman."

"So what have we got?  Enough to go on?"

"Well, not all that much, but yes, I think so.  Only two international flights departed after 10 p.m. that night.  One going to Amsterdam with no blacks aboard, and the other was a flight to Miami that had eleven black gentlemen aboard.  Review of the security cameras came up a bit short, but an Interpol review of the boarding list came up with one particularly interesting name."


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

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

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

"Now, it isn't for me to say he is our man, but just given the probability I don't see how we can afford not to pursue the lead.  I mean, over the course of the last 18 months someone using the exact same method of operation has looted the equivalent of over 3 million pounds from banks and private accounts worldwide.  200 hundred thousand of which was stolen from Global National just two hours before he was spotted trying to dispose of the drive.  That makes him number one on my most wanted list."

"Huh!  Well then, what would you propose we do?"

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

"Yeah, okay.  Just be careful."

"How's that, chief?"

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

Meanwhile back in Haiti . . .

Rosemary Beckett woke up in her bed.  The peace and quiet soothed over her like a balm, and the pleasantness never felt better.  It was the first time since her arrival she'd slept on the bed, and as she stretched out to savor the luxuriousness, she found herself wondering why that was so.  Especially given the cloud like comfort she wished she could remain embedded in forever.


She rose up out of bed never feeling brighter or more chipper.  Slipping on a robe, she made her way toward the bathroom near dancing on her toes, wondering what it was she did the night before that brought with it such a euphoric feeling.  She felt sure it would come to her, but at the moment she didn't even remember going to bed.

Upon reaching the bathroom, she turned on the hot water to dampen a face clothe and wash the sleep from her eyes.  "How wonderful," she thought to herself as she lifted her head to look into the mirror where she saw staring back out at her the white painted skeletal face of papa Legba.

"AAHHHHH!" she screamed out in horror as she fell to the floor.  She was trembling, shaking in fear, the nightmarish image still lingering in her mind's eye.  She braved a touch of her face finding everything as it should be.  But she couldn't shake the feeling that somehow she still hadn't woken up.  That the euphoric state of mind she woke up to was just an illusion, and that shortly, she'd wake up to the world-class hangover and the shit pile of grief that always greeted her in the morning.

She got back up on her knees and cautiously crawled back over to the sink, and then pulled herself up to look again into the mirror.  From all she could see, she looked right with the world.  But no matter how good she looked, she couldn't escape the unsettled feeling that still haunted her.  It was a jittery, unsure feeling not unlike standing upon a perilous ledge.  A feeling that caused her to gasp and jump with a start when she heard somebody called out from behind.

"Morning, moms," she heard a boy say. Turning round and saw a number of boys standing immediately behind her, just inside the door to the bathroom.  All stood in a regimented line dressed smartly in their Khaki uniforms.  And centering the group stood Alex, her son, looking quite the stunningly attractive Boy Scout dressed in his khakis.

"I'm sorry," she apologetically tried to cover her unease. "I-I-I don't hear you coming," which she hadn't.  Not an utterance!  Absolutely nothing over and about the sound of her own heart!  It was as though they had appeared from out of nowhere.

"No worry, moms.  We comes like U asked," the boy said.

"I asked?" she questioned her memory, having absolutely no remembrance of having even met the boy before.  

"Yes, moms, for breakfast, like U's ask."

"But I-I-I don't remember."  She stammered, not knowing how any of would be true.  "I didn't hear you, I mean, where did you . . ." she trembled, "where did they come from," she pointed toward all the boys piling-up outside in the hall.  A dozen?  Two?  She couldn't count nor could she fathom how all those boys could have possibly been in the house all this time without having heard them.

"No worries, moms.  Obeah boys make good breakfast," he said as laughter broke out."

"Breakfast?"  You wish to make breakfast?"

"Yes moms, for you moms.  As you wish."

"I-I-I wish?

"Yes moms. No worry.  Obeah boys cook up plentiful breakfast.  You no go hungry . . ."

Meanwhile, in the office of Cézar Roché . . .

The light from the candle danced on the wall, broken only by the undulating silhouette of Bon Mambo Serafine looking skyward consumed by the religious visions she saw, her arms raised high as if possessed by a powerful spiritual force.

She swayed, she chanted, "Come great Papa, come make U mischief and I give to this, ha! ha! ha!," she sang out in a deep baritone voice that seemed to come from without her.  In her hand she held up a lock of Rosemary's hair.

She then reached down to pick up a jar to hold up alongside the shorn off lock of hair.  ". . . and this," she bellowed as the restless li'l bobs suspended in the amber medium shimmered in the candlelight.

On the floor beside her sat Cézar in a trance-like state.  His face painted white in the image of a skull.  Atop his head sat a top hat with a vulture feather, and in the dark recesses, his eyes peered out reflected the flickering candlelight as he breathed in the smoke from the Jimson Weed burning inside an aerated brass burner on the floor beside him.

Cézar swayed along with the chant and until Bon Mambo Serafine leaned down and pressed in close.  Her painted face loomed large and ghostly above the flickering candles as she engaged her devotee.  "Es time, Hunsi Roché (devotee)," she hissed.  "Papa Legba make he's mischief." She followed as she held out a doll dressed to look like Rosemary.

Reaching out to take possession, he stared up into her eyes as she held up three straight pins, each with a different colored cap.  A black one and one blue to provide the Lwa his moment of fun, while the third one, the red pin, he was to use to grant the Lwa the spirit of the undead that would be his.

"Jan ou vle, moms (as you wish)," he murmured, and then taking the black pin in hand, he stuck it into the belly of the doll!

Meanwhile over in Rosemary's bathroom . . .

"Oh!" Rosemary gasped and hunched over with a spasm holding her stomach as the penetrating sting spread throughout her like a wildfire.

Gasping for breath she looked up again at the boys, only now her vision was red-filtered, her ocular view, lens-like and distorted.  Feeling disorientated, confused and in near panic, she turned again to the bathroom mirror hoping to see what her mind couldn't grasp.

Hunched over, she struggled to reach it.  And when at last she had, she again saw the white painted skeletal face staring back out at her. "Oh, gawd," she shrieked as she stumble back in terror. 

While over in Cézar's office . . .

Cézar flicked the black pin with his finger causing Rosemary to double over once again.  He then took up the blue pin and stuck it in the mouth of the doll.

Rosemary again felt the penetrating sting course down her throat and down into her belly, where the sting quickly turned to a warmth and then into a heat that radiated throughout her body.   The heat grew with her every breath, and along with it, a tingling sensation not unlike an approaching organism consumed her body and soul.

Her thoughts quickly became as purblind as her vision, and when all but that over-powering need to cum pulsed through her veins, Cézar reached for the third and final pin.  The red pin that would grant Papa Legba the spirit of the undead he was due.  Taking it firmly in hand, he pushed it into her heart.

The sensation of that pinprick ran roughshod over her every thought, taking such control over her that even her voice was lost to her.  Then like a fish gulping for air out of water, she again turned toward the boys as if looking for help.  Only now she saw them just as they had always been.  No spiffy Boy Scout uniforms, no schoolbooks, but naked and stoking their bloated cocks.  And standing in front, her son bent over wearing a tiara with a bridal veil tossed back over his hair.

But it was the sight of those bloated cocks that called out to her, stirring in her a great hunger in her belly.  It was as though nothing else existed.  As if her need for them was hardwired, as primal as the need to breathe.

"No worry, moms, Fedji said above the riotous laughter.  "Papa encase you now . . ."

"Encase you now . . ."

"Encase you now . . ."

"Encase you now. . ." his words echoed in her head, bringing on that euphoric feeling once again.  She closed her eyes for a short moment to savor the feeling, and upon reopening them, she saw herself lying upon her bed once again.  She again felt the comfort, and wanting to luxuriate in the warm soothing embrace beneath the sheets, she stretched out her legs.  Only now her feet butted up against a hard wooden surface.  Looking down toward her feet she saw she wasn't in her bed at all.  Rather it was within a box she laid.  A wooden box, not unlike a coffin - Beside her, above her, below her the hard wooden walls that `encased' her.

Nonetheless, she delighted in the comfort, and wanting still more, she sat up and rose out of the enclosure where she came to occupy a different space.  A space with blue skies above and acres of lush green grass in all directions that beckoned her to run her toes through the heavenly softness.

She saw herself walking beneath the clear blue skies until coming to a stop when she saw before her a mound.  And upon that mound was an upright gray marble slab, a headstone, only in the form of a door.  Her door, the door to her flat that bore her name, and below her name the image of the Lwa welcomed her.


She smiled, happy to be home once again.  She walked toward the foot of the stone and saw herself opening the door to her home.  Walking in, she saw the clothes tree standing inside the door where Selvandieu's scarf still hung.  "Oh, how wonderful," she though.  "Selvandieu is here," she was elated with happiness.  Then feeling the need to freshen up, she walked toward the bathroom where she saw Selvandieu clutching Alex in a warm embrace.

"Morning, moms," he looked up to greet her.  She returned his smile, so pleased to see the two getting along so well.  Alex, her son, had his fingers wrapped around his thick cock, crisscrossed along its length with a gnarled mass of purple veins.  A cock that loomed large and heavy unlike any other that had filled her belly.  Just the sight of it caused her to salivate and wish she too could hold it, smell it, taste it like her son stooped down to do.  Wrapping his lips around the large spongy head, he moaned euphoric as Selvandieu showered him with his love and endearments.

"Oh yes, you skanky fag ass bitch, suck up the slop," he snarled, expressing his love for her son in that same ruthless, contemptuous way he always spoke to her.  It was the savage in him that thrilled her, and she was so happy for her son who now knew the same thrill that came with satisfying Selvandieu's cock with his mouth.

And her reasons to rejoice grew even more when after, Selvandieu grabbed hold of his head and shoved it half down his throat.  As Alex choked and gagged and struggled for air, she luxuriated in the heat that radiated up from her loins.  A heat that grew into a fire as she watched Selvandieu tighten his grip and drive his cock down to the root with all the savagery of an African Bushmen spearing his prey, finishing the kill.

Alex arms flailed about as if wounded, yet it all seemed so normal to her.  As if treating her son like a whore, and fucking his throat to the point of strangulation was the highest order of affection.  And no matter the savagery, no matter how thuggishly brutal he fucked her son's throat, she envied her son and so loved her Selvandieu and wanted to tell him as much.  But when she looked up to embrace his smile, she saw that it wasn't Selvandieu who was strangling her son with his cock at all.  It was Fedji who smiled back, and beside him, Jomo, whose hard bloated cock stood out like an arrow pointing at her son's asshole.

"Look moms, you watch." Jomo smiled, standing off to the side to give `mons' a clear view of his cock nudging her son's gaping hole.  Then with a sweeping gesture of his hand, he pointed to the tattooed image of the serpent spirit on her son's ass.  "Papa encase him now . . ."

"Encase him now . . ."

"Encase him now . . ." the words again echoed in her head as she looked into the eyes of that tattooed serpent that now, very much alive, rose up to speak to her.  Only now he appeared embodied within Jomo, a transformation that took place before her eyes.  His eyes glowed red and his tongue snaked out of his mouth long and thick and enflamed a bright red, like a cock with a forked crown.

"Watch moms.  I breed my bride. Ha! Ha! Ha!" the serpent laughed joyously, and then leaning down he wormed his tongue up her son's ass to fuck him.  The sight of that deep, hard fucking again caused a heat to build within her.  With every stroke the heat grew and along with it, a tingling sensation not unlike an approaching organism consumed her body and soul.  The pleasure she felt so overwhelmed her she grew weak at the knees, and as she began to falter she felt a hand upon her shoulder.  Looking around, she saw Bon Mambo Serafine, and beside her stood an upright coffin.

"Come, chwal (the horse that carries the spirit)!  Come lie, and U start U walk among the tombstones again!!!"  Rosemary backed in, the lid was closed and again her journey continued . . .

Rosemary Beckett woke up in her bed.  The peace and quiet soothed over her like a balm, and the pleasantness never felt better.  It was the first time since her arrival she'd slept on the bed, and as she stretched out to savor the luxuriousness, she found herself wondering why that was so.  Especially given the cloud like comfort she wished she could remain embedded in forever.

She rose up out of bed never feeling brighter or more chipper.  Slipping on a robe, she Made her way toward the bathroom near dancing on her toes, wondering what it was she did the night before that brought with it such a euphoric feeling.  She felt such it would come to her, but at the moment she didn't even remember going to bed . . .

Meanwhile back in the office of Cézar Roché . . .

Later that evening Mambo Serafine was deep in meditation when Ishmael walked in.  Beside her sat Cézar, his hands held in prayer while his eyes, wide-open, stared blankly toward the heavens in some drug induced haze.  The man looked lost to this world whereas Mambo Serafine kept an alert eye on Ishmael as he quietly knelt down to sit down beside them.

"Ahhh, brother Hada.  It is good I see you," she said, her voice hushed.

"Yes, Bon Mambo Serafine, it is good to see you," he bowed his head as he held up his hands in prayer.

"Especially good for you, I think." She replied, lowering her eyes and gazed intensely into the flickering flame of the candle fronting her.  She stared at the flame a long moment and then closed her eyes and said, "I see a man." Then after watching the flame dance for a moment, "This man looks for you, Hunsi Hada (devotee)." She uttered in whispered tones.

"Do I know this man, Bon Mambo?"

"No," she shook her head.  "I see he travels along.  He is a non-believer and pays good money to find Mesye (Mr.) Guilloteau Dessalines, a man who speaks to me from his grave," she stated the name quite emphatically.  A name Ishmael did indeed know.  It was the name of the deceased man he used on his password on his recent trip to England.

"You know of him, I think," she said, reopening her eyes.

"Yes, Bon Mambo.  How is this man called, Bon Mambo?"

"He is called Wimple, an English, I think.  He bring bad juju, despair for you."

"Where can I find this Wimple, Bon Mambo?" he wanted to know.

Again she looks into the flame.  She began to chant then placed her palm above of it, close enough to the heat that it seared her palm.  "I see he sleeps in a room on Rue Louverture.  Tomorrow he visits the German.  He grows closer, Hunsi."

"The German," he followed, "Chrisof Eichel?"

"Yes, he grows closer, unless . . ."

"Unless what, Bon Mambo?" he asks as she reached into a pocket and then held out her open palm to show Ishmael what she had.

"Hunsi Lavolier, works where he sleeps finds this on his pillow," she glanced down upon the single strand of hair. The artifact of power she needed to cast her wangal (spell).  "Unless he his cast away!" she looked on, her skewed, smiling face cast an almost demonic image in the candlelight.  "Or, should you like, to walk about the tombstones on the midnight until damnation."

Ishmael returned her smile then took up her hand.  "Or spend his days walking Rue Santara, huh?" he winked, "Dressed like a man whore, his past, his name lost to him!"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" She sang out in that deep baritone voice that seemed to come from without her.   "Yes, good mischief for L'wah, I think."


End Part I


Part II


Chapter   10:  Pod White Rising & Whatever Happened to Detective Stanley Wimple?


Comments:  bhh.hunsi@gmx (.com)


Peace, brothers

Black Haitian Hacker (bhh)