DISCLAIMER: The following is fiction. The content of the story is not representative of the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote any unlawful activity such as is depicted in the story. By continuing to read this work you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character that they are depicting but they remain at all times adults. All Rights Reserved © 2023 LITTLESALLY666.

STORY CODES: Black Magic, Witchcraft, Satanic, Snuff/Violence/Murder, Abuse, Vodou, Corruption, Evil, Devil Worship, NC, Sexual Sin, Sex Demons, Orgy, BDSM, Young, Pedophilia, Incest.

XP NOTES: Loosely based on one of my favorite stories (The Devil’s Advocate) — Justice was my opportunity to explore the ideas and themes that I thought about whilst watching the 1997 movie; reading the screenplay by Jonathan Lemkin and Tony Gilroy; and book by Andrew Neiderman of the same name. If you haven’t seen it or read it — It is a great story. Justice pays homage in part to all of these — but needs to stand its own ground as a tale of darkness and evil.

THANKS: To BG for not only proofreading this 26,000-word giant — but also for his critical commentary to help me improve the script.

CREATED: 08.03.2021 (V49) / REVISITED: 29.07.2023

Justice 4 (chapters 10 – 12)


Kevin Swift is a lawyer from Small Town. He’s very good at his job. In fact, he has never lost a case. In the courtroom, he has been faultless. After winning an amazing court battle, he becomes sought after by a large multinational law firm. They offer him a job and he and his wife move to Big Town and are soon swept up in the fairy-tale lifestyle of the rich, famous, and powerful. His new employer Milton Maximus — a legal genius himself — sets Kevin at work to free some of the most evil criminals possible. Not everything is as it seems. Soon Kevin finds he is making choices that impact both his relationship and his conscience. Though Kevin is far from being a boy scout, he is forced to ask what is the true nature of Justice, if not to find the truth. But Justice is blind, and the truth may be more evil and wicked than Kevin ever imagined.


Justice is the eleventh card of the Major Arcana — it represents accountability, objectivity, and outcomes — blind to sentiment and emotions and is focused on purely cause and effect. In sexuality, it is about asceticism. The sword aloft is in fact a phallic symbol. Like the donning of the strap-on — it is the equalizer that levels the playing field. Justice is depicted as both male and female. If female, she is depicted in a nun’s habit. As a male, Justice has a masculine face with long, feminine hair, rendering an androgynous quality to this symbol. The dual-sexuality of Justice depicts balance and impartiality. Justice sits enthroned between two pillars that represent the finite differences between right and wrong, good and evil, and life and death.


  • Kevin Swift — Protagonist, small-town defense attorney, 28
  • Mary Ann Swift — Kevin’s wife, 26
  • Shirley Mills — Pedophile defendant, 29
  • Barbie — Victim of abuse, 12
  • Lee Heath— Black lawyer at Maximas Corp, demon, 35
  • Alice Swift — Kevin’s religious mother, 44
  • Charlotte Stewart — Receptionist/Administrator Maximas Corp, 22
  • Christabella Andreoli — Lawyer at Maximas Corp, Kevin’s step sister, 28
  • Nikki Capone — Assistant to Milton Maximus, transgender, demon, 28
  • Milton Maximus — Chairman of Maximas Corp — AKA Satan, 60
  • Eddie Bates — Managing Partner of Maximas Corp, 55
  • Jackie Heath — Black, beautiful, wife of Leamon Health, demon, 30
  • Dr Phillipe Moyez — Black, Vodou Priest, Leader of Cartel, 48
  • Sandra Bates — Eddie’s wife, 36
  • William Bael— Billionaire developer, accused of triple murder, 52
  • Margaret Stains— William Bael’s secretary, 29
  • Louise Bael — William Bael’s stepdaughter, 14
  • Samuel Weaver — Special Prosecutor from District Attorney’s Office, 45
  • Chedeline Dorvil — Black, executive in Port-Au-Pearl, shemale, 28
  • Wyclef Duval – Black, Counsel for Dr. Phillips Moyez’s Cartel, 50


“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him. When tempted, no one should say, “God is tempting me.” For God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does he tempt anyone.” — James 1 chapter 12 verses 13

I gasped deeply and found myself standing in front of a mirror.

I looked at myself. I was dressed in my old suit and tie. It took a moment, but I realized that I was back in the familiar bathroom of the Small Town courthouse. The wild chaos seemed suddenly gone.

The Mills’ case? I stood at the white porcelain sink and took a long look at my own reflection. I splashed my face with cold water. The tap dripped — almost in slow motion

Drip … drip … drip …

Yes, I remembered this exact moment in my recent past. I had been so concerned, as my reputation was at stake. How my undefeated run could come to an end. I had been here to defend Ms. Mills as she faced the jury of her peers for her alleged sex crimes.

Drip … drip … drip …

I had wondered at that time … “who was I to judge?” … I certainly knew that I was not without sin — quite the opposite. But then was I truly born the Son of Satan? Crazy thought? What had happened to me? Was this a chance to set things right? Had I glimpsed at events, still yet to come? If justice was blind — was this how I could make her see?

Drip … drip … drip …

I collected my thoughts and walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

”Any quote for me?” Asked Larry. Larry was a reporter from the Times. “It was a good run — had to close out sometime.”

I ignored his comments and headed back into the courtroom.

Inside the crowded courtroom, there was a sense of angry anticipation. Everyone seemed to be on nerve ends. I took a deep breath and then assumed my place at the defense table. I looked at Shirley Mills. She looked so harmless — yet I knew what she was really capable of; and if I helped her to beat the charges against her, she would not only re-offend; but would take things to a new level. I nervously looked around the room. I felt the cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck. Everyone was waiting.

I stood up.

“Your honor, I owe the court a grave apology as I must resign from this case.”

The room erupted into bedlam. It was like being at the center of a whirlwind. The judge banged his hammer, shouting for order. I turned and looked at Mary Ann. She smiled back at me — so sweetly.

“You can’t do this!” cried Shirley Mills, as she gripped my arm angrily.

I yanked my arm away without saying another word. Though “fuck you” did enter my mind. I didn’t know whether the judge would hold me in contempt of court or whether I would be disbarred for this rather radical move — but this was my choice.

As I turned, I saw the back of Lee Heath, retreating by the rear doors of the courtroom auditorium. No doubt Milton will know everything that happened today. I kissed Mary Ann and thought about what my mother had said while she held the gun against my forehead, “This is for Mary Ann …”

As Mary Ann and I headed out towards the courthouse’s main doors, Larry stood between us and the exit.

“Well, this has been one hell of a day. Have you got something for me? A quote? Something? What changed your mind? It’ll make the front page! Why did you do it?” demanded Larry.

“Sorry, Larry. No time to talk,” I answered.

“An exclusive? It will pay very well — you may need it if you’re disbarred. You know I am on your side — I only want to tell your story. Come on Kevin!” cried Larry desperately.

I held Mary Ann tightly by the hand.

“Look — give me a couple of days.” … Oh the ‘sin of vanity’ I thought to myself … “I’ll give you a call, once I’ve thought about it — okay?”


Three months had passed since the incident at the Small Town courthouse.

It all seemed a little fuzzy. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to make of it all. I tried to laugh at myself for all I could remember of what “never actually happened”. The vision seemed less clear … like a dream within a dream or more like a nightmare within a nightmare. But it still haunted my sleep, like a specter that gave me night sweats. The “never memories” of what could have happened if my mother hadn’t pulled the damn trigger?

The most disturbing part was that I still couldn’t get the image of Christabella out of my mind. Her rare beauty. Her androgynous body. Her evil, yet exciting demeanor … all my clandestine masturbatory fantasies seemed to revolve around her and her delicious cock. But that’s all they were … I told myself … just harmless fantasies.


We were beginning to settle into a routine. The familiar comforts of Small Town surrounded me. Church on Sunday. Mary Ann’s real estate business. Friday night poker. My mother was still constantly worrying and obsessing. It was driving me nuts. Mary Ann and I had been talking about starting a family, but to be truthful, I wanted it for her — not myself. And though I ached to get back to the courtroom — I knew it would be a bad idea … And who would want to hire the man that walked away?

So I looked for something else.

I had been referred by Larry from the Times to a company he knew down in Port-Au-Pearl. It was supposed to be an NGO gig. They needed help during a time when their founder had been taken sick … someone with legal experience to step in to structure their ongoing deals with local authorities and sponsors. Paperwork. Nothing too taxing. I wasn’t a corporate lawyer, but I kind of knew the ropes. It seemed pretty straightforward to me.

It was called the “Hope Foundation”.

No surprise, it was named after the founder, Mr. Michael Hope. I found out later that it had been rumored that Mr. Hope had actually been poisoned, rather than being sick, and was not in a good way.

So here was an opportunity — I thought to escape the mundane lifestyle of Small Town. The humanitarian organization was well-funded and purported to help the improvised people of Port-Au-Pearl. Their mission was to break the chronic cycle of crime, drug abuse, prostitution, and human trafficking. I would have to travel there with Mr. Hope’s executive, Ms. Chedeline Dorvil, to better understand the situation.

Mary Ann and my mother thought it was a good idea and were both supportive. They agreed that I needed time to get myself together and work for a good cause (instead of helping criminals) maybe fortuitous — a gift from God … if you will.

Chedeline Dorvil met me for the first time at the Small Town airstrip for the short flight down to Port-Au-Pearl. I had packed lightly and dropped my bag into the rear of the small light aircraft.

Chedeline was in her late twenties. She was an attractive Negro woman with coffee-colored skin, slender in build, and almost completely flat-chested. She wore bright traditional clothing and a headscarf. There was something about the way she smiled that looked slightly predatory. I must admit that I was attracted to her immediately. My cock moved in my pants and I wasn’t even five minutes out of Small Town and my mind was already thinking deviant things.

“With poverty comes many challenges,” explained Chedeline. Her French accent was very becoming, “Port-Au-Pearl used to be a French colony back in the day. Since we gained independence — things have got progressively worse.”

Impoverished was not the word! I found out that they had become one of the poorest countries in the world; with fifty-nine percent of its population living way below the poverty line; and 24% in extreme poverty. Two-thirds of their people had no real jobs. Everywhere there was corruption. Vodou was the unofficial religion, but the government endorsed it, and everyone there was extremely superstitious.

“Vodou?” I asked.

“It’s usually very hard for “white” people to relate to our cultural norms. Vodou is in our blood. Since our days in slavery. But I was told that you are different?”

I was about to answer when the sound of the single-engine drowned out our voices — so all I could do is nod.


Port-Au-Pearl was extremely hot and humid. There had been a fetid stench to welcome us. Without much imagination, I could see how a backward slum like this, would be a haven for illicit drugs, prostitution, crime, corruption, and perversions of all kinds of persuasions — I was liking it already.

It’s not that I had completely forgotten about Mary Ann — quite the opposite — it was just that things were not the same. If I was brutally honest with myself … they were never going to be the same. I wasn’t the Kevin Swift that almost left Small Town. I was something else. I wanted to find out who that was.

Chedeline showed me to my meager accommodation. Actually, the word that crossed my mind was “squalid”. My room comprised a simple single bed, desk and chair, wardrobe, and a small attached shower. Chedeline warned me not to drink tap water. Maybe that’s how Mr. Hope ended up in the hospital. Chedeline had said that we’d get down to work tomorrow — whatever that meant.

She hesitated at the door. Though the woman hadn’t been overly friendly to me, up until this point, she coyly asked me if I would like a nightcap. And though I was feeling tired, I thought it rude of me not to accept. Chedeline smiled warmly at my acceptance.


In no time I found myself in a dingy bar, not far away from our lodgings, called “Maison Du Diable Maléfique.” My French is terrible. I knew it meant “house of something”.

Chedeline had obviously been there before. Maybe she was a regular? She nodded in acknowledgment to the two black bouncers that guarded the secretive entry. Without a single word, we entered. Inside the “Maison Du Diable Maléfique,” the music was raw and loud; the crowd was rowdy; and the crude flashing red lights were hypnotic.

Chedeline ordered us some shooters and we took a booth seat in one of the many secluded corners. As far as could see, I was the only Caucasian in the place. There was a real carnival atmosphere about the place. I could not help but notice that the couplings were not just male and female. In fact, I was finding it difficult to work out any particular gender pattern.

Chedeline removed her headscarf, to reveal that beneath it, she had a completely shaved head. There was a tribal serpentine-like tattoo around her neckline.

“Mr. Swift,” she said, over the loud music, “I hope you do not find it too forward of me. Port-Au-Pearl is a very liberal place. Anything goes here — we may be very poor — but we know how to have a good time!”

Chedeline downed her first drink in a single mouthful and encouraged me to do the same. I followed. We had another. And another. And yet another. She thought nothing of sitting so close that our bodies touched each other. Her arm slipped around my back as her hand rested on my shoulder, her fingers lightly caressed my sweaty neck … more like a lover than a colleague … as we watched the dance floor fill with gyrating bodies.

Now I was feeling more than a little intoxicated and very horny. My cock had hardened in my tight pants. Maybe it was a combination of the mood; the erotica of the dance crowd; and the blatancy of Chedeline’s sexuality.

“Do I turn you on, Mr. Swift? …” she brazenly asked me as her hand squeezed my upper thigh beneath our table.

I hesitated … only because the truth was that I wanted to see her naked; to kiss her lips and taste her mouth; to lick her cunt; to fuck her from behind …

“Tell me about yourself,” I asked, making some nervous small talk.

“What is it that you want to know … Mr. Swift?” she answered as her hand slid up against my crotch and rubbed directly against the hard-on that gave away my lustful thoughts, “You can find out a lot more … if you’re really interested?”

Chedeline leaned forward towards me. As she kissed my mouth, her silky pink tongue darted out between my open lips. She tasted of salt, cheap booze, and dirty sex. I open my mouth and my tongue met hers. They twisted together like eager serpents. While we kissed, she unzipped my flies beneath the table and slipped her agile hand around my aching cock.

While we eat other’s mouths, she began to masturbate me in time to the rhythmic beat of the thumping boula drum. Her strong brown fingers wrapped tightly around my white cock flesh; as her thumb rubbed back and forth in the wetness that pooled from the eye of my cock. The tightness of her grip was exquisite; as she rubbed my sensitive gland in continuous circles. She knew exactly how to please a man. Chedeline kept me on the edge for a while, without letting me get too close to ejaculation. Soon I found myself panting from sexual arousal.

Momentarily, she broke our fervent kissing. “Are you truly the one they call the White Devil?” She asked — her breathy voice was hot in my ear.

”I’m not sure what you mean?” I asked and Chedeline only smiled at my confusion.

“Yes you do … I want to have sex with the Son of Satan …” she hissed like a serpent.



“One of the heads of the beast seemed to have had a fatal wound, but the fatal wound had been healed. The whole world was filled with wonder and followed the beast.” — Revelation chapter 13 verses 3

I looked around to see if anyone was listening — but the horny crowd was otherwise occupied — with less and less clothing on. Some were even dancing completely naked; seemingly eager to show off their horny wet cunts, and others, their erections that pointed upwards as their dance orgy had deteriorated to a little more like grinding their sexual organs against one another. They frequently change partners. They kissed and tongued each others’ mouths as hands fondled and groped each other like there was no tomorrow. Some imitating penetration; male to female; female to female; and male to male.

”I think you know exactly what I am talking about …” Chedeline insisted.

As the lights flashed — I peered into the other booths. I noticed that I was not the only one being masturbated. In fact, most of the patrons (both men and women), were already performing oral sex on each other; while others were actually fucking.

Chedeline leaned closer and kissed me again. She held my wrist and guided my hand across her lap until it pressed between her open thighs and against the large bulge in her groin. It seemed that Chedeline had a secret surprise between her legs too.

My mind was reeling at the possibilities. I slipped by hand beneath the loose fabric of her short skirt to find that she wore no underwear. I rubbed my fingers with curiosity against the thickness of her throbbing erection.

“Don’t worry White Devil … nobody cares what we do here …“Maison Du Diable Maléfique” is known as the Devil’s sex club,” explained Chedeline, “So don’t be shy — White Devil … anything and everything is possible here …”

Chedeline slid back against the rear of the booth and guided my head forward and down into the darkness of her lap as she spread her legs wider. In the flickering lights, I saw that she was clean-shaven — her shecock twisted upwards — thickening in girth, towards her testicles. I immediately took her throbbing beef stick into my mouth, sucking its moist and greasy tip between my eager lips. Fuck, she tasted so horny. Salty, sour, and the aroma of nervous sweat and stale piss. My tongue slid down her veined shaft, as my thumb and forefinger continued to massage the bulbous crown of her engorged cock. Pre-cum slime flowed across my fingers and into my mouth. She groaned as I took her organ into the roof of my mouth — sucking it as hard as I could as I jacked up and down on her slick shaft.

”Mmmmmm … Yes … Fuck Jesus Christ … MORE … mmmmm … Fuck the Holy Spirit … Ahhhhhhhhhhh …” she blasphemed.

She lifted my face from her lap again and we kissed again — tasting the flavor of her own cock in my mouth. She pulled me to my feet and we both stripped naked, like most of the others around us. The tribal beat was raw and quickly I found myself dancing wildly as her stiff cock rubbed against mine. Soon we were mingling into the wriggling crowd of young dark-skinned fornicators. Everywhere I looked, I was surrounded by torrid cock and dripping cunt in a mad masturbation dance, among the thrusting mass of libidinous black demons; all with shaved heads, black cunts, and cocks. The smell of nigger sweat, precum, and semen was intoxicating. Chedeline, seemed to make it clear that I was with her, though others eagerly tongue-kissed with us, and frotted themselves against the pair of us both … but the White Devil was hers!

Just as I thought I’d seen it all … the lewd crowd parted momentarily, as a troupe of young boys and girls filled in between the narrow gap in the seething throng of demons. Their little nigger faces and bodies were painted like tiny skeletons figures (like the Day of the Dead). They all wore small grass skirts, and despite the heavy makeup, I could see that they were no older than ten or eleven years of age. Immediately the crowd pulled away the flimsy grass skirts of the small white-bone-painted young ones as they joined in the vulgar dance of the demon dance … shamelessly rubbing their childish genitals to the excitement of the perverted audience.

“Bonjou deyès Ezili …” cried the feverish crowd.

The intensity of the drums seemed to beat louder and faster. The niggers screamed blasphemously as their masturbation dance continued with even greater ferocity than before. Chedeline turned around and pressed her oily anus against my cock. I held her narrow bony nigger hips and sank the first few inches of my cock inside her eager bowels, before I thrust hard, so that I sank the entire length of my cock, balls-deep up her slimy shit-pipe.

“Fuck me, White Devil! Fuck me,” she screamed loudly, “Son of Satan … cum inside me!”

All around me was a whirlwind of depravity … as nigger demons thrust back and forth against each other; raping the tiny young ones in a sweat-drenched frenzy. Some of the young ones fought, but it was a losing battle, as they were easily overcome by the wantonness of the sex-crazed demons … their little skeleton faces were contorted in a mixture of pain and perverted ecstasy, as each was impaled upon long black pistoning cocks, fucking their cunts, asses, and mouths from all directions.




There was a knock on the hollow door that awake me abruptly. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. I was still in my travel clothes and laying across the top of the single bed in my accommodation.



”Coming,” I called out.

I got up and opened the door. Chedeline was standing there.

I hesitantly asked, “Errr … What happened last night?”

She looked at me inquisitively.

“Nothing? I brought you here. You looked very tired. We said goodnight.”

So the evil dreams had returned with vengeance?

“Sorry,” I apologized, “Give me five minutes to wash and change.”

“And don’t drink the water here,” she said and pressed a bottle of drinkable water into my hands, “I will see you downstairs, Mr. Swift.”


There was a brightly colored tap-tap taxi waiting. I jumped into the rear and sat down opposite Chedeline.

“There’s been a change in plan, Mr. Swift. It’s a little complicated,” explained Chedeline, “You see, Mr. Hope has to deal with some of the more clandestine activities of Port-Au-Pearl’s underworld. There is an overwhelming power in local vice – it is a thin line we walk between the light and the dark. Corruption is everywhere.”

“Okay,” I answered, unsure of where this was going.

“His name is Wyclef Duval,” said Chedeline, “He has the appearance of a man that stands as counsel for a charitable cause; but the truth is, that he is an evil man who represents one of the largest cartels in Port-Au-Pearl. They seem to specialize in child sex trafficking.”

“What else should I know?” I asked.

”Well … they privately own orphanages and abortion clinics. It’s not even the orphaned or street children that are at risk here Mr. Swift,” said Chedeline, “Children from the age of six are even purchased from desperate families for as little as fifty dollars, only to be used in child pornography and snuff; or sold into sex slavery and supplied to violent pedophile rings. Others end up as human sacrifices in local savage Vodou sexual rites. The money comes from legitimate donors who believe they are helping these children — but this only compounds their misery and more frequently leads to their death.”

As Chedeline spoke of such sanguine things — I knew I was supposed to be shocked and horrified — but her words had the opposite effect. What distressed me most was that I found myself turned on by this. My cock hardened in my pants and for a moment I wondered if Chedeline had noticed. Also, there was some time in the nefarious inflections of Chedeline’s voice, I also found a kind of kindred excitement, as she shared these diabolical acts.

“Tell me more,” I said, no longer pretending to hide my eagerness.

Chedeline smiled.

“Port-Au-Pearl is a very evil place, Mr. Swift,” she continued hastily, “You have no idea. It’s a losing battle here. We have seen it all firsthand. The ritual abuse. The offering of the goat without horns— abduction, murder, and even ritual cannibalization.”

“To propitiate by the offering of a human sacrifice!” I said.

“Satan is real, Mr. Swift,” said Chedeline, “The evil dark serpent rules over Port-Au-Pearl … this is His dominion. In one way or another, we all serve at His unholy pleasure,” she pause and grinned at me, opening her legs wide enough for me to notice that she wore nothing beneath her short black shirt … “Last night at the ‘Maison Du Diable Maléfique’ was a test — Mr. Duval wanted to be sure that you were truly the White Devil.”

My heart began to race. My mouth went dry … so it wasn’t a dream or just my overactive imagination. My evil past had returned to haunt me … Only in death had I escaped it once before. But, this time I was not fooling myself. “The law is the ultimate backdoor pass to all that is sinful, sordid, and corrupt” … what secrets could I unlock here? My Father would be watching my every move. “Satan is real.”

I could finally see that He wasn’t about to let a little thing, like my death, stand in His way.


We arrived at the Duval private residence. For the poorest country in the western hemisphere — it was in sharp contrast to the squalor and stinking slums that I had observed in Port-Au-Pearl. The wealthy minority lived an opulent and ostentatious lifestyle. My footsteps echoed in the long marbled hallway that lead to Mr. Duval’s offices. His manservant looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but greeted us with a sophisticated gesture. He indicated that we should enter. Chedeline accompanied me.

Wyclef Duval was a skeletal-looking man — gaunt and drawn in — his face looked like paper-thin black flesh drawn over his angler skull. He wore a bright white suit that was in sharp contrast to his coal-black skin. His age was almost indeterminable; at a guess, I would say he was in his seventies; but then again he moved like a gazelle and his eyes had the intensity of someone in their prime. He carried a walking stick, but with no specific need for its support — maybe it was more like a theatrical prop. He wore a wide-brimmed white hat with a white sash and matching white pocket handkerchief.

“Mr. Swift,” said Wyclef, “It is a great honor.”

“Mr. Duval,” I answered taking his bony hand and shaking it, “No, the honor is all mine. I believe you know my associate?”

Chedeline nodded but stayed respectfully at a distance.

“Welcome to my humble abode. Drinks?” asked Wyclef as he indicated that we take a seat on one of the large wide white leather couches.

His manservant poured burgundy-red wine into fine crystal glasses. The rich acidic aroma of the vintage filled my senses.

”Maybe we could talk in private Mr. Swift,” asked Wyclef.

I nodded to Chedeline and she left with the manservant.

“Now … let’s talk about what we have in common, you and I … Mr. Swift. I have been told about your many successes and with this new venture; it is my desire to keep you on a winning streak,” said Wyclef, “My employers are very keen to keep an open dialogue with the Foundation, so that we may unilaterally continue the good work here in Port-Au-Pearl.”

”Thank you, Mr. Duval,” I wanted to cut the bullshit, “Tell me more about our common interests and tell me more about your employers.”

”Suffice to say, my employers have vested interests in the same communities you support and are more than willing to assist your organization in helping the poor people of the slums — after all, we all deserve dignity — wouldn’t you say? In fact, Dr. Moyez, whom I represent whilst he is away in Big Town, has strong ties to the same local communities here.”

“Dr. Moyez?”

I had heard that name. Like a splinter in my mind. A Vodou priest in league with Satan himself.

”You have heard of him?” asked Wyclef.

”Our paths may have crossed,” I answered vaguely, “But let’s talk more about our aligned interests.”

“Let me be frank Mr. Swift — let’s pretend for a moment that the Foundation is just a front — to legitimize our activities — that your presence here, is to sanctify our actions. Neither my employers nor the Foundation care particularly about the well-being or prosperity of the people in the slums. Neither care about the plight of the poor and impoverished. And what the Foundation seeks is to invest in more profitable avenues; ventures that might, dare I say, be sometimes exploitative — but bring much higher returns. Do you understand me?”

“If we’re pretending for a moment — I certainly would understand your perspective,” I replied

” Ah,” exclaimed Duval as he wiped the sweat from his shiny brow, “I can see why you have been chosen.”

“So, when can I inspect the operations?”

”You are a man that likes to get into the thick of it?” asked Duval.

”Let’s say, I want to sample your merchandise.”

“Yes, indeed. And it’s a time-honoured tradition in Port-Au-Pearl to make an offering together, at the start of such an important venture. To honor Loa with a sacrifice — the ‘goat without horns’ — possibly?” Asked Duval.

“A tradition?” I answered a question with another, “I seemed to have traveled to the right place then?”

”Yes, it seems you have Mr. Swift. Port-Au-Pearl is full of evil men and women — some say they are devils and demons — they have been accused of many things, like abduction, sexual abuse, rape, torture, murder, and cannibalism. Are you such a White Devil, Mr. Swift?”

“And if I were?” I asked.

”Then I would say … Bonjou Satan!”

He raised his glass.

”Bonjou Satan!” I replied and raised mine.



“Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.” — Jude 1 chapter 7 versus 1

The festivities began just after midnight at a private graveyard that was owned by Dr. Moyez. Chedeline and I arrived in the company of Wyclef Duval.

“You will be one of our honored guests tonight, Mr. Swift,” swooned Duval, “The ‘White Devil’ will take his place at the feasting table. The ‘goat without horns’ is a delight that is to be truly savored. A special celebration that will bring prosperity to both of us and our endeavor. Dr. Moyez and a colleague from Big Town arrived in Port-Au-Pearl this evening and they are both eager to meet you.”

Once inside the locked gates of the high-walled graveyard, we walked up the graveyard pathway that had been lit up with burning torches positioned every three or four feet along the path — a curve of lights through this midnight world of death. Ahead of us was an old seventeenth-century church that had been desecrated and subsequently converted into their Hounfour — a place that Duval described as ‘the abode of evil spirits’.

Sacred music was already echoing across the decorative tombstone city; that comprised of many above-ground tombs; like a city of the dead. As we entered the desecrated church, the tribal dancing and chanting greeted us with all the energy of an exuberant celebration. The young dancers dressed in scanty white outfits moved as if in a sensual trance; as their heads lulled back and forth; and their bodies gyrated hypnotically.

“They tempt the evil sexual spirits to possess them,” explained Duval, as we the guests watched them cavort around semi-naked, even touching themselves to the pulsing beat, “They are the children of the spirits now! How delicious they all look,” he remarked as he made no secret of rubbing his own bulging crutch.

“Yes, they certainly know how to whet the appetite,” I added.

My own erection pressed outwards beneath my outfit.

”This is a very divine place,” said Duval as he gestured with his ornate walking stick, “Many centuries ago when my ancestors were brought here from the shores of West Africa to serve the exploitative French colonist as their menial black slaves. They worked hard and prayed hard. And were rewarded with much cruelty and suffering. Ironically, beneath this place, the Freemasons had built a secret Masonic hall for their Devil worship. It was already possessed by great evil even back then. The church and its pathetic Catholic priesthood tried to sanctify the ground. They built this grand church. They buried their dead here in the graveyard of bones. They held even held exorcisms — but the sexual evil was too strong and eventually they all became possessed and incredible things happened.”

Looking around the desecrated church — reminded me of Dr. Moyez’s pornographic basement.

“Dr. Moyez took this over as a distressed asset from the Church. They were very willing to let it go for a song. You can imagine. They never knew about the secret basement. And we were free to use the Masonic hall as our Serpent lure — a temple dedicate to only the most profane of our rituals. The ‘goat without horns’ in Port-Au-Pearl is a tradition that we have upheld for the pleasure of our elite — for once you get the taste of human flesh, Mr. Swift — you will certainly want more. The young ones are always the most tender,” he licked his lips as he massaged his cock through the thin material of his pants, “They are brought here from our many orphanages. We imprison them; we terrorize them; we abuse and rape them; and then we roast them alive for our most unholy of feasts.”

I listened to the intensity of Duval’s evil story. My cock twitched in anticipation.

”Dr. Moyez and his guest will join us for the grand orgy, the sacrificial rites, and the after feast,” continued Duval, “Yes, he is most interested to meet you, Mr. Swift. And he brings his Advocate from Big Town — Ms. Andreoli — with him. I believe she has partaken in the ‘goat without horns’ on many occasions. He said that she brings a message from your Father?”

A name that I had not expected to hear so soon — Christabella Andreoli — was this my destiny? Was my Father already pulling the damnable strings of His puppets — to make us all dance to His wicked tune (once again)? My mind was reeling with thoughts of lust and pandemonium. To give rise to the Antichrist. The thought of seeing my half-sister again — my every evil fantasy moved within my desperate groin — made my heart thump loudly against the inside of my chest; as well as make my cock so hard, I thought it would rip straight through the fabric of my pants.

“My Father?” I asked.

“That’s what he said.”


After traveling down a steep spiral staircase we were now deep inside, what use to be, Mason’s demonic hall.

It was a subterranean lair filled with blackened statues dedicated to their Vodou spirits … evil idols to concentrate the wickedness … horned skulls, carved wood, and crossed bones (both human and beast) … all bizarrely forming the baleful shapes of crucified devils with exaggerated genitalia … covered in shells and nails; and charred from burnt offerings and smeared with dried blood and human waste.

Profane was the right adjective to describe the ambiance — the entire Serpent Temple was phallic in its decor; with the reliquary skulls and bones of those that had been used as Moyez’s “spiritual currency” — their remains were an acute reminder of the vehemence of the faithful. There was a strong stench of unholiness and I felt the malevolent — like a voltage of evil power that permeated the very walls of this dark cavernous vault.

All the worshipers, including myself, had changed into nothing but simple white tunics (much like the exotic dancers). At a guess, I would have said that there had been about fifty or so worshipers gathered around in the cathedral-like basement.

At first Duval and myself were together with the rest of the expectant audience. They all seemed intense and edgy, as we all sat upon carved wooden seating that was raised up above the Serpent Temple floor (as if we were spectators in times of old at the Roman games of slaughter). Then, as the celebrations got underway, Duval beckoned me to join him and we both made our way down to stand closer to the edge of the Blood Altar.

“It’s Moyez. He is here …” Whispered Duval

He stood in the light of one of many burning fires that made the Serpent Temple hot and smoky.

I hardly recognized Dr. Moyez as he entered (from the vague dream-like memory of what could have happened if I had taken the trip to Big Town). He wore the trapping of infernal priesthood with a feathered headdress and necklace of human bones. He was their Dyab (Prince of Darkness) … And unlike the others, his face and body were painted white like a human skeleton (his own skin tone being the canvas). He wore a short loin cloth and carried a staff that was topped with a skull and more feathers.

Moyez was followed next by a procession of the dancers that we’d witnessed earlier. Then came his horned mambos. They were all completely naked except for the long snakes that draped around their slender necks. The dancers and the mambos all gathered around the circumference of the Serpent Temple’s center as Moyez stepped before the unhallowed Blood Altar and the looming idol that combined the petrified remains belonging to both humans and exotic horned beasts.

Moyez moved slowly and spoke as if lewdly possessed. His arms were held outstretched as he embraced the dark energies of the Serpent Temple. I could not understand the words he spoke as they were in Creole, or so I thought — maybe the mutterings were unintelligible invocations.

“Ade beaucoup Damballa. Donne-moi tout le pouvoir, je t’en supplie!”

The mambos held their heavy snakes aloft and the rhythmical chanting and praying increased in both volume and tempo. The drums beat loud and fast and the wild dancing began. The dancers throw their heads whipped left and right, while their arms flailed up and down, they stomped their bare feet and their hips jerked back and forth as they fucked imaginary spiritual partners. They pulled at their white tunics, lifting them to expose themselves momentarily. I saw their naked breasts; their bottoms; and their erect penises and their open cunts — as they cavorted around, praying before their evil idol and their Dyab.

Five small figures were pulled into the center of the Serpent Temple. Small in stature and completely naked. They were the ‘goat without horns’. With their ceremonial arrival came loud depraved screams of the mambos.

“Ofri sakrifis la bay move lespri yo! Bonjou Satan!*

The offerings looked very young. Preteen. Older male worshipers held them firmly as each of the child sacrifices struggled against their captures — twisting and turning but finding no purchase. Finally, with their trembling arms and legs stretched painfully outwards; they were all secured between the upright poles decorated with skulls, bones, feathers, and shells so that they all faced the evil idol — their bodies each forming a perfect “X”.

The bound victims cried out in vain — as if the sex-crazed audience was going to somehow help them. They were bitterly mistaken. The “goat without horns” would find no mercy here. Not from these satanic cannibals. They were to be terrorized, abused, tortured, raped and then burnt alive as an offering to the greedy malevolent spirits.

The mambos masturbated against the scaly bodies of their long pythons — rubbing themselves against their reptiles and enticing them to enter the wet holes of their vaginas — as they too began to get caught up in the maelstrom of vigorous motion. Dancers tore off their remaining clothing — some fell to the Serpent Temple floor, rolling around naked and wriggling in their own private ecstasy. Others frotted urgently against each other and against the child sacrifices (as they hung terrified and helpless).

Moyez held up his skull staff.

“Bonjou Satan! – O kite sakrifis la kòmanse! – O kite sakrifis la kòmanse!”

The crazy drums just seemed to beat even louder and louder and even faster and faster. Many of the onlookers began to join the hysteria. Duval and the other nigger guests were lost in the throng of naked worshipers. Most were already masturbating furiously to the frenzied rhythm of the Petro drums. Their eyes were wide and mouths hung open, watching voyeuristically, as the demented dance began to turn into a spontaneous rape ritual as dancers, mambos and onlookers alike began to eagerly rape the young children in all their holes — virgin cunts, asses, and mouths.

”Brother,” said a voice that I instantly recognized.

Christabella emerged from the shadows and stood immediately behind me. Her hands rested upon my shoulders as she pressed against me. I could feel her erection through the flimsy fabric of her white slave tunic. She began to gyrate to the beat of the drum; pressing harder and harder, against the furrow of my backside.

“Our Father awaits our unholy union. He wants a baby.”

The hands traced the outline of my arms until the fingers of her hand gripped mine and pulled them to the sides of my body. We both stood together. Brother and sister. Frotting against each other as we watched the evil ritual spiral downwards into total satanic anarchy and chaos.

My Father was there. I should have known. He was always there, watching over me and my sister. Kevin and Christabella. Our fate, one way or another, was bound together. We were the change agents. The ultimate provocateurs. Our unholy union would bring forth the new world order. A world ruled by the Devil and His demons. On Earth as it is in Hell.

Christabella was to be the mother of all demons … like Lilith tempting Adam in the Garden of Eden. Had Mary Ann been my Eve? I saw how the parallel could be drawn. Now all that remained was for us to fulfill our destiny and mate. She would give birth to the Antichrist. The Second coming. The Pseudokhristos. The little horns. I thought of 1 John chapter 2 verse 18 …

“Little children, it is the last hour: and as you have heard that Antichrist cometh, even now there are many Antichrists: whereby we know that it is the last hour.”

As Christabella kissed my sweaty neck, a flood of unexpected images filled my mind, as I saw Mary Ann with a clipboard under her arm. She was dressed in her usual khaki-colored trouser suit. She looked so real-estate-professional. It seemed to be one of her many home openings. It was a farming property, remote and secluded. I could hear her voice, as clearly as if I was standing there next to her. She was describing the features of the available property to a potential buyer. A dream within a dream. I half-remembered Mary Ann’s same-sex fantasy …

I then saw the two of them together. In the master bedroom of the empty property. Mary Ann seemed hesitant at the other woman’s obvious sexual advance. I tried to turn in my dreamy vision to try to see the face of the buyer. I heard her voice. Sensual and seductive. It sounded so damn familiar … of course, it was familiar …. it was my sister … Christabella’s.

I saw them embrace. They began to kiss as lovers. Mary Ann quivered as their mouths met and closed around each other. Their tongue lustily danced back and forth. Christabella was the mistress of seduction. Mary Ann was like putty in her demonic hands.

My sister broke their passionate kiss; and pushed Mary Ann down gently; so that now she knelt between my sister’s long legs that ended in a four-inch-spiked stiletto. Mary Ann’s quivering hands reached up and held the stockinged flesh of Christabella’s upper thighs. The succubus racked her short skirt higher and higher; so that eventually her see-through-panty-covered cock was fully in view. I saw Mary Ann’s look of complete surprise, but also in lustful desire, as she began to kiss Christabella’s bulging erection … kissing it ardently, wetly with her full lips, then licking down its length through the translucent fabric. Christabella moaned and twisted her long fingers in Mary Ann’s wavy hair and began to grind harder against Mary Ann’s sweet little face.

Christabella’s expression was one of absolute triumph.

“Eve, tempted by the wickedness of the Serpent in the Garden of Eden?”

… soon her throbbing cock flesh was inside Mary Ann’s delicate mouth. My sister began to fuck her face, harder and harder. Lipstick smudged. Mary Ann sucked it like a complete whore — nothing like her meager attempts of pleasing me that always seemed to have been so reluctant — this was quite the opposite. Mary Ann looked totally animated and lustful as she sucked eagerly upon her androgynous lover’s cock.

The images seemed to only move faster and faster — like someone had pressed the fast-forward button … I saw the crumpled pile of khaki clothing, discarded on the floor. Now, I saw my wife completely naked. She was drenched in sexual sweat. Moisture dripped from her neck and ran down her delicate breast flesh. Her white-skinned bosoms looked beautiful crowned with hard aroused nipples. She was crouching on her hands and lowering herself upon Christabella’s rampant cock. Christabella lay upon her back across the ruffled bedding of the master bed.

My wife’s fingers busied themselves, rubbing her erect clitoris as she rode up and down upon Christabella’s cock. She orgasmed loudly, arching her back as her body quaked in a tidal wave of pleasure. But the vision did not end there. Mary Ann faced her androgynous lover. Mary Ann was still finger-fucking her wet little hole, as my sister’s cock began to penetrate her tight anus.

“Ahhhhhhhhhgggg …” Mary Ann, again, groaned loudly.

Her cunt juices squirted forth over Christabella’s stomach and boyish breasts. Mary Ann seemed to wince momentarily in pain and cry out — but immediately began to ride high upon her lover’s magnificent cock as it sodomized her shit hole, deeper and deeper. I heard more blasphemous moans from both of them. My evil sister thrust purposefully upwards to meet Mary Ann’s downward movements. They fucked wildly! Faster and faster as they both praised the Devil.

I wasn’t sure how to feel. Jealous? No, not at all. It had been a beautiful sight to behold.

Was this real? Did this happen en route to Port-Au-Pearl? Was this about to happen soon? I wasn’t sure. But then again, I wasn’t sure about anything anymore …

Then I saw Milton Maximus. He was there too. He had been in the shadows watching the both of them. He smiled wickedly and then turned as if I was standing there next to him … then, as the farmhouse image blurred to whiteness … and I was once again standing next to Christabella; as we held each other among the Vodou mayhem in the Serpent Temple.

My Father smiled at us.

“I see the future of the world.”

I heard his words and I knew what He meant. This time there would be no stopping our procreation. And what about the promise of eternal bliss? The pleasure in wickedness? The ecstasy of evil? What would become of our world? That, I’m afraid is a story for another day, my dear friend.


To be continued …


If you have enjoyed this story or would like to offer praise to the author, who is always hungry for encouragement and affirmation, please email xpanther2019@protonmail.com