Chapter Eleven #2
He led them to the rear of the market and onto a dirt path cutting through an endless field of sugar cane, the stalks towering a foot above their heads and swaying on both sides of the trail.
The green leaves created a soft swish in the ever-changing winds, which also carried the distant sounds of Rada drums.
“Is it always an adventure with you?” Issac whispered, giving Schuyler a flirty nudge and sliding his hand into Schuyler’s now that there was no one else around, swinging them softly. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“To the Hounphor. His temple.”
“The guest temple,” Papa Oddie corrected, as he stopped at a crossroad in the field and turned right.
A hundred feet ahead sat a modest shack, smoke billowing from its crooked, crudely built chimney. The shack was the source of the drumming, to which disembodied singing had joined.
The interior was dark, except for the area in front of the blazing fireplace.
From the mantle, a waterfall of melted wax flowed down in varying lengths from the dozens of multicolored candles sitting upon it.
Candles were also set around the creaky, wooden floor which had been covered in chalk drawings—sigils, or the Vèvè: intricate and sacred designs of the spirits.
Schuyler recognized the Vèvè of Ezrulie Fredda, done in blues and pinks in the sigil’s split-heart based center.
The design vibrated with intensity on the floor, ready to explode with anticipation.
Next to it, there were stars, Xs, and lines drawn which Schuyler noticed were a part of Baron Samedi’s Vèvè, the giver of life and death and a notoriously randy spirit, placed beside the one of love, passion, and queer acceptance.
Their offerings of liquor, cigars, and jewelry were laid out around the circle.
Papa Oddie slung himself down in the single wingback chair, opening his thick thighs, allowing his impressive manhood to press through the fabric of his shorts as he retrieved his lit cigar.
He addressed Issac, exhaling a huge plume of smoke lingering in the air, through which they saw a different version of Papa Oddie’s face, one covered in skull paint with glowing eyes.
“You have come for something odd. I had to search for what this twice-blessed meant—it confused me.
A coffin nail itself is a powerful item.
To bless it adds protection, amplifies it against negative energies.
“Why twice? The Lwa questioned me. So, I will question you.”
Issac looked confused, so Schuyler explained the Lwa were the saints of the Voodou religion, spirits they could commune with.
“I don’t know, honestly,” Issac admitted.
“My uncle didn’t really make this easy. He wrote parts in code and other half-notes.
I don’t think he believed anyone else would ever read his journal.
He didn’t include the background of the items. He wrote, ‘pierce the full bladder with a twice-blessed coffin nail.’”
Schuyler noted the new piece of spell information.
“Interesting, indeed,” Papa said, exhaling again and filling the room with the cigar’s flavorful, earthy aroma. His shoulders danced to the growing rhythm of the drums. His body reacted to the beat.
“This nail.”—he lifted up a silver plate to the right of his chair—“From the coffin of a whore who loved his work, used in a protection ritual and now blessed, came to me weeks ago. The same day as your return to our town, my love.” Papa shifted in his chair, his cock pushing against his shorts as he did—an entity unto itself, demanding to be seen. “Curious events.”
Schuyler also noted the synchronicity. “You’re so hot right now,” he whispered, knowing but not caring that he broke their code.
When Orenthal operated in Hougan mode, Schuyler needed to respect him as such, but seeing him do his thing, spread-legged and cocky, one of his top five favorite penises ever throbbing in front of him, turned him on.
Papa smiled briefly. “My love, please.” He returned his attention to Issac.
“I sought Papa Legba, communed with the Lwa, and they were offended. Asked to bless an item they have already graced? Nonsense.” Papa’s hips gyrated in the chair, his thighs flexing as he puffed furiously on the cigar.
“However,” he added subtly, “they were curious.”
Schuyler felt a vibration at his feet and noticed the chalk drawings were radiating off the floor, colors glowing brighter, the drums beating into a deeper rhythm as Papa danced in his chair.
“Two agreed. They will grant a second blessing upon the nail.” He stood, moving his hips to the music which grew louder.
“However, they demand a copious offering in return.” He stripped away the tank top; every abdominal muscle flexed and rippled as he rubbed his chest and teased his nipples.
“Life,” he declared with a boisterous laugh.
Issac, slightly scared, lingering in the uncertainty of what was going on, grabbed Schuyler tighter. “Is there a vegan option? A tofu sacrifice substitute, perhaps? It’s not really my vibe to kill innocent creatures.”
Papa’s left hand slid down along the side of his stiffening member as he moved around, losing himself in his dance. The room vibrated with growing sexual energy. “There are many forms of life worthy of offering.”
Issac turned to Schuyler, confused. “Our semen,” Sky explained, sliding off his shirt. “It’s life-force. It’s the offering.”
“And what does that mean?”
Schuyler was caught off guard by such naivete. “Oh cutie, we ‘bout to fuck.”
Schuyler lingered on Issac’s eyes. The pretty green, flecked with brown and gold, was now hidden by pupils fully dilated by the sexual energy being invoked by all.
Papa danced as the singing grew louder, finally joining the two who had begun to pleasure each other on the floor.
Schuyler and Issac moved to worship him, their tongues leaving crisscrossed trails of saliva over his entire body.
Every muscle admired, every finger and toe acknowledged.
All three kissed, lips moving from one to the other, tongues entwined. Their bodies were in constant motion, pushing, pulling, sliding across a floor that no longer felt like wood but satin cushion. The chalk from the vevés adhered to their skin as they rolled across them, still glowing.
A playlist of tri-flavored positions followed, where all of them were mouth-to-cock or mouth-to-ass, ensuring the round-robin of pleasure never faded as the drums and vocals steadily increased.
Issac, who’d been on his knees with Papa behind him, bent forward into Schuyler’s lap.
With his head craned up, he looked at Sky with the dopey glow of satisfaction across his face.
Issac’s tongue flattened against the shaft of Schuyler’s penis, sliding upwards.
The sight—beautiful—yet Sky’s gaze was drawn past Issac’s bobbing head and the lithe body he felt honored to touch.
Past the crest of an ass offered up in appreciation and eagerness to Papa’s prodigious cock, which rose between Issac’s creamy cheeks. Leaking. Ready.
He locked eyes with Schuyler, not as Papa Oddie but as the Lwa, Baron Samedi, a guest within Orenthal’s body, one he enjoyed greatly. Stroking his endowment, he reveled in the muscular body with a lit cigar dangling from a wicked yet sensuous grin.
Schuyler looked at Issac, and without exchanging words, Issac nodded, continuing to satisfy his desires. Schuyler nodded. The Lwa smiled. Papa ran his hand along the length of his wet shaft, pushing it down between Issac’s cheeks. The bulbous head bullied its way inside.
Schuyler throbbed at the sight of Papa pushing deeper, until all ten glorious inches disappeared, reappeared, and vanished again, matching his rhythm to the steady progression of the drums. The voices of the disembodied singers rose, encouraging Papa.
Issac ceased pleasuring Schuyler to focus on being penetrated.
Sky reached under Issac, grabbed his rigid penis, and began to stroke, moving in time with the instructive beat of the music.
Within his sexual delirium, Issac kissed on any part of Schuyler’s body he came in contact with.
Clawing at Sky’s chest as he tried to wiggle away from the pounding, too overwhelmed to form the words to request a break he in truth did not want, endlessly moaning, crying out.
Papa’s grip on his waist held him firmly in place.
There was no intention of releasing him until all were finished.
Schuyler kissed Issac as passionately and lovingly as he could, trying to usher in contrast to the indifferent pounding he received, while continuing to coax the offering out of him. The rising wet slaps of their bodies rose above the frenetic drums and singers.
Issac began to wriggle and buck, his orgasm growing closer. Schuyler slid the silver tray with the coffin nail underneath Issac. Papa howled as his hips thrust forward with each ferocious beat of the drums. The singers rose in intensity, ready to bring the song home.
Issac cried out when Papa hit his prostate, right as Schuyler brought his hand up in a forward stroke, and the orgasm overtook the young man.
Convulsing as he erupted, his offering shooting onto the coffin nail.
Schuyler, enamored by the sight of Issac’s propulsive orgasm—the young man’s body still convulsing, still shooting—bequeathed his own offering upon the nail in tandem.
Papa used Issac for a few more moments, savoring the ass which he dominated, before stepping back and blessing the nail with a copious amount of his own offering.
As the drums faded out, the singers reduced to a low hum; the shack went silent except for the labored breathing of those spent and exhausted lying on its floor.
“What was that?” Issac asked, finally regaining his breath as they composed themselves and redressed. Papa Oddie applied an herbal salve to Issac’s rear, ensuring no lingering discomfort, only echoes of the pleasurable.
“That,” Papa said with a laugh, now himself once again, “was Voodou.”
As he led them back through the sugar-cane trail, Papa Oddie placed the now twice-blessed coffin nail into a bubble—the same kind of trinket Sister Superiora had crafted—and handed it to Issac.
“You asked about cemetery dirt as well? I have many, but I need more information. Cemetery or grave? You must be specific.”
Issac grabbed his phone and pulled up the note where he’d written the information.
“My uncle wrote ‘and a handful of dirt from the Spyder Gates Cemetery. Crossroads preferably, but hey, I’m not a picky witch, I’ll take whatever.
” Issac slid his phone back in his pocket and rubbed his slightly sore rear as he followed them.
“My apologies. I can assist no further. I have only dirt from surrounding cemeteries and a few specific graves.” He laughed softly, placing his arm around Schuyler. “Oh, my love, bad news.”
Schuyler shuddered to think. “What?”
“I know who recently came into a collection of cemetery dirt.”
“Would they be willing to help?” Issac asked.
Papa laughed again. “Indeed, but that is not the question. The question is: will you accept their help?”
Schuyler stopped the parade back to the market, demanding to know what Orenthal meant.
“My love, the dirt is with Az.”
Schuyler, who’d been riding a true high since the threesome, felt all those good feelings vanish at the mention of one name: Azrael.
“Fuck.”