Chapter 4

Gene Di Fazio was smoking a cigarette contentedly as the big jet began circling the open field lined with flares. He was checked out in this plane, but this kind of hairy bush landing required the unique skills of the fag pilot. His impulse to accompany the ten mil in cash to the exchange with Borget had been readily approved by the bosses, it made them nervous as hell to put that much coin on a plane without someone they trusted. He knew that the final payment would be wired to the Columbians as soon as he landed and loaded up, but he planned to take the time to watch the voodoo "ceremony" Andre had scheduled to cover the swap.

The enforcer he used for wet jobs had said he should make sure to take in the show. He had described it as the hottest fuckfest going, way better than anything Las Vegas or Cuba could offer. "They fuck right there, these hot native cunts, drugged out of their skulls, everybody standing around beating off, just sexy as hell, Gene. Some of those bucks have ten inch cocks, damn near as big as yours."

He would be sure to take care of business, of course. Business School had not prepared him for the deceit that pervaded this Mob world, but after ten years, and rapid advancement, he was used to double, triple, who knew how many crosses some of these huge deals would create. This one was relatively simple. Andre offs Borget, takes the money, and they're off to the races. The black queer had promised him a mil as his taste, which he had immediately revealed to the bosses. They said go ahead, at least the black man wasn't going to bail out like Borget planned. They figured they could get a half dozen swaps for planeloads of coke before Andre started trying to solo, when his fate would be sealed.

Gene licked his lips at the prospect of having that sweet blonde wife of Borget's on this plane, under his control. He had told Andre he'd kill the deal if they tried to keep her in Haiti, or let Borget get her killed. No sir, he'd seen that hot number swivel around when he had first put Jack under surveilance, and she was worth making a six hour trip. If she cooperated, he might let her go back to her life, preserving the ability to use Auberge in the future. Otherwise, he figured she'd be a good addition to the string of whores he ran in New Orleans, great looking broads in nice, comfortable apartments who serviced all comers for at least a grand a night.

Gene had a talent for recruiting beautiful women. He was cultured, charming, handsome, and once he got his cock buried inside them, gently at first, always, they couldn't get enough of it. Renee Borget had the look, a frustrated housewife with a fool as a husband, just ready to descend into the world of frenzied sex he offered. The most he'd ever seen of her was that sheath she'd worn to the Disco one night, nipples stiff, showing through, those trim hips undulating, long legs moving with athletic grace on the dance floor. But in his imagination, she was the best looking one he'd ever gotten this close to recruiting.

He stubbed out the butt, buckled in, and let his hand dangle near the throttles. Ever since that other ass hole pilot had tried to crash with three bosses on board, it was his habit. It had earned him a lot of points, getting the nose up and staying airborne with just one hand, the other choking the life from the dumb bastard. Fucking Angelo had actually kissed him on the mouth. God, they were all dumb assholes. But they made a lot of money.

Even as they landed, he saw the two jeeps pulling out of the brush, heading toward the braking aircraft. He scrambled back and opened the door, then hopped out as three big blacks started loading the fifty pound cakes through the hatch. They all had that funny, vacant look he'd seen before. But he was used to it.

When they finished the loading, one of the men mumbled something into a walkie talkie in the fucked up french they used. There was a pause, then a static clouded command, and the men jumped in the jeeps and sped in the direction they came. Gene grabbed the suitcase, and headed for the fire he could see burning in the woods a couple hundred yards away. The pilot called "Don't fuck around, okay Di Fazio. And tell Andre I'm here."

Andre met him in the dark just before the clearing with a huge bonfire casting a ten yard lit spot, and Gene could make out the shadowy outline of a bunch of blacks, men and women, in a semi circle outside the fire's light. A heavy drumbeat pounded from somewhere. About ten men were kneeling with their bare backs to him, as Andre handed the suitcase to a large black buck who was one of the regulars.

"Are you going to take in the show, Mr. Di Fazio? Just to watch, we charge fifty dollars, but to be down in front, it's two hundred. For that, you will recieve a glass of tangia, and one of the girls will fuck you. You may wear a skin if you wish, though I assure you they are all disease free. Tonight is very special, we have a white american witch." Gene felt a surge of excitement, wondering if the american was Mrs. Borget. Wouldn't that be something.

He protested to the faggoty black man "Jesus christ, Andre, I just handed you ten million dollars, less my share. Don't you think you could comp me?"

Andre smiled, and said "They are two different matters, Mr. Di Fazio. My sister always insists on the payments, they have religious signifigance to her. They are backsha, gifts to heaven. I will repay you next time, if you wish. Is Leonard out at the plane?"

As Gene worked his way down to the edge of the group in the cleared area, he noticed little details that decorated the area, torches describing a semicircle, with strings stretched between them that were hung with little bits of cloth, rattles made of wood, a low slab of stone about half way between the roaring fire and the kneeling men. Closer, he could see the men were all naked, and had hardons that looked almost painful. With a shock, he realized one of the men was Borget. Off to the left, a heavy, coal black woman was straddling a black man, her furry cunt enveloping his cock. Her enormous tits were bouncing and weaving as she fucked, staring at him with a leering smile. Christ, Gene thought, she isn't worth the trip.

Before he had a chance to ponder the meaning of Jack's presence there, he saw a series of torches being lit at a forty five degree angle to the clearing. As several started to burn, he could see a black man racing from one to the other, setting them afire with a small lighter, until they finally formed a sort of wide aisle from the depths of the forest. The play of light hinted at movement at the beginning of the twin row of lights, and he realized a procession was starting. Ah, now comes the good stuff.

Looking around, he realized he was the only guy in sight dressed, and pulled his golf shirt over his head. When in Rome, he chuckled to himself. He looked back at the oncoming parade, still too far away for any details, then heard a scream as the fat woman orgasmed. A minute later, he could just make out two huge niggers walking ponderously at either edge of the aisle, a hazy pale figure slightly behind them, and a dancing woman prancing around. As he squinted for a better look, he smelled the musky odor of fuck sweat, and the fat black whore handed him a small glass with a white liquid. As he downed it, he thought vaguely they probably wanted him drunk, but he knew how to hold his liquor.

Everything began to happen at once. He could see that the dancing figure was a mulatto woman, wearing a chain of bones and rattles around her neck so that as she moved, they bounced against her large, firm tits. The figure behind her was a tall, pale blonde woman with a translucent cape draped over her, all the way to the ground, but not fastened in front, so that it swung with her steps, giving brief flashes of white skin, and a small tan triangle in her crotch. The drink hit his stomach with an explosion of heat and desire. His cock leaped to full hardness, frictioning painfully against his pants.

A chant had started, following the rhythm of the drum, and his eyes were riveted to the white witch. Her body undulated behind the cape, hinting at a statuesque voluptuousness that had Gene gulping for air. Unconsciously, he unzipped his fly, and freed his tool of its cage. The woman stopped at the edge of the fire's halo, and began staring at each man, one by one. Her face carried a smile that said fuck me, as she licked her lips, while a ripple of gasps and cries came from the kneeling men. When her eyes found his, her smile widened, as though she recognized him, and he thought he would cum on the spot.

He had hardly recognized her, but now realized it was, indeed, Renee Borget. Her pale golden hair, that had always been carefully coiffed, was now hanging in a wild, slightly curly mass down past her shoulders. Several small ornaments were speckled out in the lovely mass. Her eyes were heavily made up, making them appear even larger than usual, dark and exotic. She writhed as she stood there, listening to the chants, her eyes began to close, and the black woman who had danced behind her reached around and freed the neck clasp. The gown dropped open, hanging up on the wonderfully large, firm tits, but letting him see the dimpled, taut abdomen, bellybutton, and small tan trianglular fur of her cunt.