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 © 2024 LITTLESALLY666.

STORY CODES: Vodou, Witchcraft, Transgender, Interracial, WS, Anal, Blasphemy, Devil Worship, Human Sacrifice, NC, Ritalized Sex, Black Magick, Supernatural, Transformation, Huge Clits, Young.

CREATED: 02.05.2024 (V24)

The Dark Mambo’s Curse 2


Our protagonist, Melissa Billiot, is a university student, doing her major in African Studies. Actually, Melissa cannot wait to get away from her white, Christian lifestyle. She has just arrived in New Orleans and has been assigned to the Museum Of Afro-Caribbean Art, Religion & Culture. The place is reputed to house the largest collection of Vodou lore in the world. Its curator, Dr. Cassandra Mauvais, is said to be an expert on the subject. But could she be more than that? Maybe even a perverted Vodou priestess that serves the dark loa, “With both hands” — practicing for both good and evil? If so, what’s in store for Melissa, as she falls down this rabbit hole of evil and sexual perversion?


“Lesser known are the sexual demons referred to as the Bizango. An extreme form of Pedro Loa or evil spirit that takes the form of red-skinned women with horns upon their heads. Besides their obvious nakedness, what is most distinctive is their “horned” shaped clitoris which was often portrayed as being much larger than even a male phallus. Idols dedicated to this evil loa, often depict these devils as performing auto-fellatio, as they are attributed to having the ability to ejaculate during sexual congress or even during masturbation.” — Extract from “The Extreme Rituals Of Vodou” by Mirra Alfassa.

My name is Melissa. Melissa Billiot. Firstly, let me admit to you, that I’m a filthy little pervert with a very twisted mind and a dark heart. This is the story of my first time in New Orleans.

What you need to know is that for most of the twenty-two years of my life, I have lived under the strict control of my white, Christian, family in the middle-class suburbs of Baton Rouge. This was to be my first “away from home” internship.

Though both cities go back to the early eighteen-hundreds, my first glimpses of New Orleans, and more particularly, the French Quarter, were evocative of its quaint historical charm. It was as if time had stood still here.

Before this “journey” — I had always felt so deeply ashamed of my sexuality. My righteous family sort to marry me off to some nice, white, Christian man. They had my whole life planned out for me. He was probably going to come from our local church. We’d have sex only to procreate. I would never be brought to an orgasm. And we’d live a life according to the Abrahamic tradition.

My private thoughts are very contrary to this hapless vision.

My major at Louisiana State University (LSU) was in African Studies. It wasn’t the choice of my parents but they reluctantly agreed. I lied to them that it had ignited my curiosity to understand the various religions and the beliefs of the world. I kind of left out the bit that mentioned the strange sexual rituals and evil practices of Haitian Vodou that made me so wet between the legs.

I did have a remote cultural connection through my French grandparents. But to be honest, my interests were not wholesome at all — there was a perverted and wicked part of me that was strangely attracted to interracial sex, tribalism, occultism, witchcraft, phallic worship, transsexualism, and demonology. My masturbatory favorites.

One such interest included my focus on demon spirits. I had developed a fetish for an extreme “Petro Loa” spirit that appeared as a red-skinned female, with horns upon her head. They called it, the Bizango. The Bizango, to me, didn’t appear frightening at all. I thought she was beautiful. So wicked. I loved the idea of being fucked by her in some perverted ritual.

I had fantasized frequently through masturbation. My laptop hid many images of her with her enormous phallic clitoris, that she could even suck in her mouth. The Vodou concept was called the “Circle of life” — as the serpent consuming its own tail — It was totally disgusting and depraved — but I got off on it, every time!

And of course, I never mentioned any of this to my “God-fearing” parents, either.


My internship brought me to the Museum Of Afro-Caribbean Art, Religion & Culture. The Museum was rumored to house the largest private collection of Afro-Caribbean Vodou folklore. Kinky fucking shit! It sounded too good to be true. I was so excited.

The coach trip from home had taken little more than an hour. But it was somewhat of a cathartic feeling. I was leaving behind my conservative, boring, Christian life.

It was in the early afternoon that the coach drew into the French Quarter. I felt as if I had been transported back in time two hundred years. I’d been secretly fingering myself beneath my travel blanket and constantly tasting my dirty, little cunt the entire time.

I just couldn’t help myself. Evil thoughts constantly filled my aching loins.

My meager accommodation at the youth hostel afforded me a small but private room. Yes, I had in mind something suitable for my solo masturbation needs. And I needed to cum soon. The dorms were much cheaper, but I insisted that I have something more private with its own attached bathroom. I wanted to pray to the Devil and squirt my cum juices all over myself.

I was very excited to be here.

Upon arrival, I couldn’t wait to be alone, get naked, and masturbate furiously to all my sinful thoughts. Worship the image of the Bizango, maybe, without the fear of being discovered by my family. I felt such a powerful surge of sexual freedom being away from prying eyes and parental control.

Despite the urge to explore this exciting place or even to find something to eat … my carnal needs took preference. My wicked, little mind was wide open. I had it in my head that I would perform a private ritual to let the Devil know that I desired his wickedness between my legs. The more perverted the greater the thrill. And using the crucifix given to me by my fucking mother as a masturbation tool brought me to a pelvis-thrusting orgasm that left me gasping.

Yes, I liked it, on my own. As I edged all afternoon, throughout the evening, and into the early hours. It would be the first of half a dozen orgasms dedicated to the perverted demons that I longed to be fucked by.


The next morning, I walked the distance to the Museum, which was located three blocks away on Bourbon Street. Often, the French Quarter was called the Crown Jewel of New Orleans and was the home to a more bohemian lifestyle. It had an eerie energy about it. And the humid air smelled rich and fertile, being so close to the mighty Mississippi River.

As it was a Monday, the Museum would be officially closed.

I had been told to report to the head curator of the Museum, Dr. Cassandra Mauvais, a Cajun woman in her late forties. I had seen photographs online of her and was immediately sexually attracted to her. My little pervert mind was working overtime, imagining all kinds of deviant delights that I wanted to experience with her.

She was said to be an accomplished anthropologist with an extensive knowledge of Haitian Vodou. It was seen as a great privilege to serve under her for my six-month internship. My lecturers said she could be an intense person at times — and that I should always be on my best behavior. In my mind, I wanted to get between her legs and worship her wet nigger cunt.

Upon arrival, I was met by the head curator’s assistant. Ayida was a sexy young nigress. She was rather gaunt-looking. Thin and almost flat-chested. Was it my imagination? I felt that there was a mutual attraction between us. Maybe she wanted to fuck a nice young white girl. Fuck her nigger fingers into my virgin cunt. Maybe she desired to corrupt me. Or pervert me. I could only hope.

However, I said nothing. Did nothing. She suggested that I take a seat outside her office and wait. He explained that the Doctor was frequently late. Punctuality wasn’t one of her traits. So, I took a seat and waited.


I had been waiting a good hour and a half before the Doctor finally arrived. She appeared brisk and in a hurry but I put on a brave face.

“Ms. Billiot, from LSU?” asked the tall and exotic dark-skinned woman.

She appeared as sexy as her photographs. I immediately stood up as if standing to attention. I felt her eyes appraise me without comment. A small white girl. So innocent. So pure. Did she find me attractive? I hoped so.

“Yes, I’m Melissa Billiot,” I answered pretending to be shy.

“Come in my office,” replied the enigmatic Doctor in her strongly identifiable Creole accent. Turning to her assistant, she added, “And we’re not to be disturbed.”

Her comment was greeted with the Ayida’s nodding head. I sheepishly walked into the Doctor’s office. I heard the door close. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Don’t be shy,” said the Doctor, “Look around … if you like.”

It was an invitation that I couldn’t refuse. My curiosity was peaking. The room was large. The shutters closed which made her room look shadowy and secretive. I liked it already. It appealed to my perverted demeanor. The walls were covered with dark-stained wooden shelves, all filled with ancient leather-clad volumes and tribal art. What unholy delights lay between those pages? I kind of expected Vodou artwork, but the pieces on display were quite bizarre and very creepy looking. My kind of thing.

My little, white pussy became so wet, and without underwear beneath my short skirt, I felt a line of juices running down the inside of the leg.

There was an open alcove to one side, that housed an evil-looking altar that was covered with darkened wooden and grotesque artifacts, depicting demonic spirits, phallic-like serpents, and inverted crucified figurines that appeared to be naked children. At its center was a large carved idol of a demon that resembled my beloved Bizango — the idol was similar to the images that I had masturbated to, so many times before. The altar was a strange mix of twisted Christianity, carnal demonology, and dark sexuality.

Of course, my interest was peaked. Like a dream come true. It made me wonder if the Doctor ever masturbated before it. Of course, she did. I could imagine her fingering herself and smearing her slimy cunt juices over these evil-looking objects. My vagina was already open, dripping wet, and I continued to subconsciously leak down the inside of my legs.

“Ms. Billiot,” she said, “Ahhh … Your name is French, No?”

“My grandparents.”

“I see. You seem to be familiar with my personal collection. You recognize Gede, Rafa Iwa Ezili, Karou Legba.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“It’s not a test!”

She laughed and lit several candles across her strange altar. Her collection was particular. They represented some of the darkest of demons of Haiti Vodou. Explicitly sexual. Maybe she was a witch or a dark mambo?

There was some tribal music playing in the background — I recognized it as a Banda dance, fast and furious — I knew that the thumping beat would be usually accompanied by sexual hip-thrusting movements by naked dancers, masturbating as they became possessed by evil spirits.

“Well, Ms Billiot … you’d better take a seat.”

The Doctor pointed an elegant ringed finger towards a small backless-bench-like couch. She turned and hung her long coat. My eyes couldn’t help but feast upon her coffee-colored voluptuousness. Her bra top did little to cover the fullness of her pert breasts and hardened nipples, exposing her flat, athletic stomach, and bejeweled belly button. Her wrap-around skirt hung to her mid-thigh and gave glimpses of her shapely tattooed legs.

She noticed my stare. Then it was I, who fell under her microscope. I wondered if she could smell my sexual arousal.

“You know that I selected you from over three hundred other candidates. I spoke to your head lecturer, and she told me that you’re a gifted student. Hard-working, intelligent, and very curious about Vodou lore … but that is not why I selected you.”

The Doctor got up from behind her oversized desk and stood immediately behind me. There was a very large standing mirror that allowed me to see her face, without turning. I looked into our mutual reflection as she gently placed her ringed fingers on my shoulders.

“It was your essay piece that caught my eye, Ms. Billiot. I must say that I found it strangely provocative,” she said. Then quoting my essay, she added, “… I am drawn to the sacred connectedness of our physical and spiritual realms … there is a difference between studying something and experiencing it … life is not a study … You must join with it … Immerse yourself in its flow. For example, to experience the worship of such erotic demons as the Bizango … to join in their highly sexual rituals … participate in their perverted sex orgies and offer animal and even human sacrifices in their honor …”

I was shocked.

My face was flushed with embarrassment. I didn’t remember ever writing those explicit words in my essay. Yes, that’s exactly how I thought … but to pen that down was the last thing I would have done.

She lightly brushed her fingers against my neck, cheek, and long brown hair. A chill ran through my body. She felt more like a curator of dark magical things.

”The Loa. Petro Loa. The extreme of evil spirits. The Bizango. They all are so demanding. Their rituals are so sexually perverse — I sense, like me, that you are also greatly aroused by it — I like that.”

The air around me began to crackle. Was the room spinning slowly? My body seemed a tingle all over — especially in my groin. I did feel extremely aroused. Her special interest in evil was most infectious. I blushed at my telling reflection.

Her dark eyes studied my every reaction. It was as if her fingertips were sparking. It felt almost orgasmic. Was she a practitioner of black magic? Sex magick? Could she be a dark mambo that channeled sexual energy into her dark spells?

I looked back at our reflection and saw that, in the mirror, we appeared to be both naked. Completely naked. My young body looked so petite, white, and pale. The Doctor, on the other hand, appeared black as night as she stood immediately behind me. Her nipples were thick, very long, and very erect. I felt them pressing hard against my bare back. What was happening? I blinked again. She bent forward and whispered in my ear.

“Rub your horn.”

Rub my horn? I don’t have a horn. But then, looking back at my reflection, where my pussy was, my clitoris stood outward like an erect penis.

“Touch it. Yes. Rub it. Yes. Pleasure yourself before me.”

My hand was shaking, but I did as she said. My heart was racing. This was crazy. I was shocked, but my hand seemed to have a mind of its own. I gripped “my” penis and began to masturbate myself.

“Suck it. Take it in your mouth. Suck your cock.”

She pushed me forward so that my young flexible neck reached the tip of my new penis. She pressed me to take its head between my lips. I sucked it wantonly, as I rubbed the sensitive length of its shaft. A cock. I had a cock. This was wild.

“Yes. You’ll make an excellent student. Evil is the true power. Cum in your mouth and feel the power of my sex magick.”

On cue, my new cock began to quiver and pulse between my lips. It was so alien. Unnerving. I’d experienced many female orgasms before, but this was new and very different, as I shook all over and shot semen-like fluids into my mouth.


“Miss. Miss. I am very sorry but the Doctor will be very late today.”

It was the voice of Ayida. I rubbed my tired eyes. I was still seated on the chair outside the Doctor’s office. What had just happened? Had I fallen asleep? Had I dreamt the whole episode?

“Are you okay?

I wasn’t sure what to say.

I still felt so incredibly weird. It wasn’t anything I could explain to Ayida. She would have thought me crazy. My groin was still strangely tingling from sexual arousal. A wet dream? Maybe it was all my imagination? But it had felt so real — I just didn’t know what to think.

She looked at me as if she could read my wayward thoughts. I felt a little weary of this, but there was something about Ayida — I would let this play out.

“Let me help you,” she said, as I tried to stand, “There is a place, I know, it’s not far. The mambo will have something to make you feel better … much better.”

I didn’t object. Instinct told me to go along with it.

I was shaken. Her delicate hands holding me felt strangely arousing. I smiled at her kindness. Did I smell her arousal? Maybe she was already excited by my deviant thoughts.



“There are many bizarre stories associated with the worship of the evil Bizango. Of all of the most demonic of Petro Iwas, the rituals performed for the Bizango, are known to be the most extreme and wild sexually. Worshipers are said to not only be possessed in their minds but are also transformed physically through the process. As bizarre as it sounds, there are many stories of dark, sexual rituals in which females literally grow phalluses to pleasure themselves and others in these dream-like encounters.” — Extract from “The Extreme Rituals Of Vodou” by Mirra Alfassa.

Ayida helped me gain my composure. We walked together, like two girlfriends out on a shopping spree. I was still very light-headed — maybe a little giddy. My mind returned to the dreamy experience in the Doctor’s office. The statue of the sexual demon, Bizango. A transgendered devil with a huge erect cock. The words of the Doctor (be it a dream) seemed to flicker from the back of my mind — “You’ll make an excellent student … suck your cock … suck your cock … suck your cock!”

“It’s not far,” Ayida reassured, “The mambo will know what you need.”

The New Orleans streets, of the French Quarter, were now becoming more crowded with mostly colorfully dressed tourists. Branded with expensive cameras and shopping bags of devilish treats. Most of the so-called authentic shops catered to the tourists’ thirst for fake voodoo paraphernalia — voodoo dolls, gris gris, charms, potion oils, demonic jewelry, tarot cards, fake skulls, black candles, incense sticks, and t-shirts with images of Mary Leveau. The crowds seemed completely self-indulgent and unaware of the real magick that cracked behind these facades.

Ayida stopped for a moment and we then turned down a blind alley off of Bourbon Street. The crowds streamed passed and all of a sudden, it was much quieter, darker, more intimate. We walked together towards a small quaint shop door. The hanging sign outside announced that we had arrived at the “Mambo Queen’s Voodoo, Witchcraft & Demon Worship Emporium” … it sounded very interesting.

The shop was deceptively larger once we were inside. It was filled with many shelves of curious things that only further stirred my nasty libido. It was an amazing mix of sexual tribalism, Haitian Judeo-Christianity, black magick, phallic worship, and explicit transsexualism. Not the usual merchandise to be found everywhere else. And there was a bizarre energy that felt so damn wicked — its darkness provoked my perverse curiosity. My naughty little cunt was wet again. My clitoris needed to be rubbed.

Ayida brought me to the glass-fronted counter. At the counter was a strange character of mixed gender who awaited our arrival. She had a bone necklace, long, dread-locked hair, and tattooed skin, that I could only describe as the scales of a snake. I quickly concluded that she must be, the Mambo Queen, herself. This was the real deal.

They exchanged nothing more than a glance. Ayida said nothing but the witch got up and went to the back room as if to fill an order for him — and without any words being said between them she returned with a greenish bottle of ointment.

Her body moved with the poise of a serpent about the strike her prey. My carnal mind wondered about her strange sexuality. Woman or man or something in between? I was in awe of her. It immediately reminded me of the strangeness of my dream back in the Museum. About the evil altar dedicated to the Bizango, to the conversation with the curator to the sensation of sucking my own engorged “horn-like” clitoris.

“White one,” the mambo said, “Rub this generously upon your genitals. You must do this every morning and night until the entire bottle is finished. You understand me?”

I understood.


Ayida escorted me back to the museum.

We arrived just in time, as the curator was already in her office. There was a moment of euphoria or was it panic? I felt as if I had already lived this experience once through my dream. Ayida walked me in.

“Doctor Mauvais,” she said plainly, “This is the new intern. Ms. Billiot. What would you like her to do?”

The office appeared as I had imagined, large, expansive, with lots of shelves of voluminous books and strange, wooden artifacts — but there was no open alcove — no altar. Nothing so obvious. No idol dedicated to the worship of the sex demon, Bizango. There was however a pair of sliding doors that seemed to obscure an area that was where the altar in the dream had been. Maybe it was hidden behind those doors?

“Well, Ms. Billiot, you better take a seat,” replied Dr. Mauvais.

Her voice was warm and seducing. There was a strong feeling of deja vu as the exotic Doctor stood up from behind her oversized desk, which was piled with papers and large reference books. She pointed an elegant ringed finger towards a backless bench-like couch. I moved as if following a dreamy script.

“You know that I selected you from over three hundred other candidates. I spoke to your head lecturer, and she told me that you’re a gifted student. Hard-working, intelligent, and curious … but that is not why I selected you.”

As in my strange dream, she walked around and stood behind me. I glanced over at the mirror, as I had done in my dream. Her hand rested upon my shoulder. My pussy was tingling.

“It was your essay piece that caught my eye, Ms. Billiot. I must say that I found it strangely provocative,” she said, “… I am drawn to the sacred connectedness of our physical and spiritual realms … There is a difference between studying something and experiencing it … Life is not a study … You must join with it … Immerse yourself in its flow …And experiencing it, you will.”

I felt the prickly sensation of sexual heat. No. My wetness was almost gushing.

Her hands seemed to linger, as her touch was teasingly soft and arousing. Almost inappropriately. And then she turned to Ayida, who had been standing in the open doorway.

“I want you to show Ms. Billiot around,” she said to Ayida, then turning to face my reflection as she continued, “Tomorrow we will begin your real work with me. I have an important appointment this afternoon. Ayida is most intimate with our exhibits here. She will help you familiarize yourself with our ways … As we do things very differently here at the Museum … We will talk again soon.”


Ayida waited until the Doctor had left her study.

She looked at me, like a co-conspirator. There was a glint of something very unsavory in her dreamy nigger eyes. I liked it. I needed to touch myself desperately. I had felt the urge, the entire time I had been in the old museum. Was it me or was it this place? I just felt the urge to masturbate the entire time. Young Ayida appeared both anxious and excited. She did nothing to conceal it. Quite the opposite. She seemed to exude enthusiasm for my inculcation.

“Let me show you around,” she announced, “Bring what the dark mambo gave you at her shop.”


We had walked around the dark and creepy museum for several hours. I couldn’t hide the fact that I found the bizarre exhibits exciting. There were many strange costumes, ceremonial masks, and the instruments used by voodoo priestesses.

To my perverted delight, there were hundreds of large African phallic wooden carvings, demonic voodoo dolls, and even a skeleton with a large top hat, to represent Baron Samedi, a prominent figure in voodoo belief. I saw other representations of the Baron, endowed with a huge erect penis. Were they all supposed to provide the visitor with a unique glimpse into the rituals and symbolism of voodoo? It seemed the further we went, the less I believed so.

More obscene was the use of human parts in these exhibits — skulls, bones, teeth, and even hair — they all seemed to border on the unethical as if they were there to try to illicit a shock or revulsion … but of course, my reaction of none of these. Instead, they signaled something profoundly sexual that I couldn’t resist. It was like cemetery porn … tribal porn … demonic porn … that made my heart beat faster and faster.

Ayida kept a close eye on me the entire time … measuring my unchecked responses to the exhibits as they got more and more bizarre … more and more demonic … and more and more sexually explicit.

We entered a darkened room that was filled with various forms of wooden ceremonial masks and a collection of fertility statues with real hair, human teeth, and all with exaggerated genitals — huge erect cocks and open labia — some were even depicted with both.

”The Doctor said that you’ll not be like the other interns,” said Ayida.

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant or why she made this offbeat comment. But it felt like a compliment of sorts. As if there had been a test that I hadn’t been aware of. Maybe its roots were in my strange dream of the curator — our first encounter, that never actually happened.

”If you’re asking if I am shocked or frightened … the answer is no …”

Ayida pointed to the creepy old ceremonial masks from the exhibit.

“Pick one,” she said.

I did. My choice was a mask with a skull-like design. It would cover the upper half of your face, open at the eye sockets, with demonic teeth and horns. It smelt of burnt things. Just holding it in my hand, I found that it gave me a strange tingling sensation in my groin. It was as if the mask itself contained something preternatural. I imagined it to be an evil spirit seeking to possess me.

”She said you were different,” she said, “That you wouldn’t flinch. That … no matter how obscene or lewd our exhibits are … you’d be akin to them. She said that you were not like the other interns that we’ve had in the past … that you’re special … you’re one of us …”

“Tell me more about the mask. What purpose to they serve? Decorative? Spiritual?” … I asked.

Ayida seemed to know what to expect. She smiled sardonically. She returned her focus to the ugly masks.

“You can think of them as passports,” she simply explained, “They can transport us to other worlds … Take your chosen mask and bring it with you.”

Ayida selected a mask for herself and we both left the room.


As we exited the stairs at the rear of the museum, I noticed that the short antechamber was no longer lit with electricity, but torches that burned with an iridescent light and the walls appeared to be of solid stone — more fitting for a crypt than a museum.

There was the faint sound of slow drumming that reminded me of a Vodou funeral dance — the “Drums of Death”. There was a slight acrid smell of dead things, incense, and ancient humanity. Was it supposed to be a multi-sensorial exhibit? 

“This exhibit is what we call, the Secret Hall of Rituals,” she said.

“It smells so funky in here,” I commented.

Ayida laughed at my vagueness.

“You haven’t experienced anything yet,” she said as she handed me a short white surplice, “You must wear this before we’re allowed to enter the Secret Hall of Rituals. It’s considered to be a sacred place of worship.”

Ayida began to undress right in front of me. I didn’t look away. Her lithe and hairless body looked as dark as chocolate and very inviting. Her bright eyes noticed my interest but quickly slipped her white surplice over her head.

I did the same. My frail white body looked anemic against her dark skin. I stripped and took my time to don my surplice. “Look at me nigger girl,” I thought to myself, “Look at my nice white skin. Don’t you want to stick your long black fingers in my cunt?”

She watched me undress, unapologetically.

As we entered the hall, for the first time, I realized how large the exhibit was. It had high ceilings that extended up onto indeterminate darkness. The acrid-smelling torches cracked as they lit the raw earth floor below my bare feet. The dark walls seemed to be decorated with an assortment of human remains, bones, and adornments of unholy worship. Whether they were the victims of human sacrifice to Bizango or just the remains of the dead, I wasn’t sure — this was, after all, a museum exhibit — wasn’t it?

The smokiness and crypt-like aroma merged with ceremonial smells of burning incense and the stench of something that I could only imagine as human copulation. My eyes strained a little in the gloom but I noticed there was a small group of long-haired beauties dressed as we were, gathered in front of an imposing idol of the unmistakeable, Bizango. It looked so realistic.

In the flickering light, it was easy to imagine these nigger witches swaying and dancing slowly in a semi-circle around the blasphemous idol. Their bodies cast eerie shadows around the walls — as if the exhibit itself were dancing with them — their nubile bodies gyrated and twisted agilely, with their hands raised above their heads. The faces of the women, depicted in the exhibit, were covered with ceremonial masks — not so dissimilar to the ones we had brought with us. I secretly marveled at the obscene idol’s characteristic redskin, transgendered form, and huge phallic appendage lit the heat between my legs.

“Now … ” Ayida instructed with a touch of drama, “Put on your mask.”

I did as I was told. It was an unexpected sensation. My vision blurred a little as I peered through the maniac mask’s eye holes. Then it became clear. Crystal clear. The sight, the sound, the aromas … seemed amplified.

“Come,” said Ayida excitedly.

I felt her grip my hand tightly as she led me forward, over a low barrier, into the exhibit itself, and toward the ugly phallic idol. Looking at Ayida, with her face in the mask, had me dripping beneath my white surplice. I was so fucking horny. Even in the time I’d taken to adjust, it seemed that the group of women had begun to sing in a language that I didn’t understand. Could they be animatronics? No, it all appeared real as their surplice-covered bodies swayed erotically to the persistent tribal beat.

“There is constant worship here,” whispered Ayida, “Day and night. Night and day. The Bizango is a greedy spirit. She is never sated. Do you feel it?”

”Yes! Yes! I feel it,” I responded in my hushed voice.

I did feel it. In every sinus of my body. It made me tremble and was almost overwhelming. My senses … all of them … seemed dominated by the unnatural sensuality of this wicked place. Bad things happened here, I was sure. Maybe not today. But, there was a maliciousness that was hanging in the air.

“Rub the ointment on your genitals, as the mambo said, and pray with me,” whispered Ayida.

I did as she told me as I watched the young women begin to remove their surplices and continue their dance completely naked before the evil, Bizango. They gyrated together. They thrust themselves, back and forth to drums of death.

The ointment had felt cooling for a second as I spread it across my mons and then deeper into the folds of my labia. It began to tingle. There was a pulsating sensation as my finger found my clitoris. The ointment began to feel warm … then warmer … then hotter … then even hotter …

I no longer could resist plunging my fingers into my hungry cunt as I watched the elegant dancers perform their naked ritual.

Ayida’s eyes watched my every movement. Her hands were between her legs as she began to masturbate herself in the same insanely fast rhythm as the Pedro drums. Was I losing my grip on reality? Ayida had said that the mask was a passport to another world — was this another world?

The Secret Hall of Rituals seemed to pulsate around me — spinning — like I was tripping. I was no longer just standing passively as a voyeur, as a mere spectator … No, we were both dancing. Thrusting, gyrating, and cavorting. I didn’t remember removing my surplice, but I knew I was also naked. Ayida was naked too. We’d seemed to have moved forward to join the witches in their maniac dance before their evil sex demon.

The women were chanting louder and louder, as my mind spun with their erotically charged movements, masturbating, dancing, praying … it all went black.


I awoke in my bed. I was back in the youth hostel. It felt intensely hot inside my room. There was no air conditioning or even a fan. I pulled back the damp bed sheets to find that I was still naked. Funny, I couldn’t remember how I managed to get back. My memory of the events of the previous day seemed rather hazy. The one thing I couldn’t help but notice was how pronounced my clitoris looked.

I touched it. Ohhh … it was so sensitive.

A delicious wash of perverted excitement shivered through my torso and hummed around my perineum. I got out of bed and looked in the bathroom mirror. My clit had never actually stuck out that much from within my labia minor, but now, it looked at least two inches long. The skin connecting it to my vagina gave it a curved, upside-down horn appearance. I touched it excitedly. Yes. It felt so wicked.

I remember the ointment. I applied it generously. The same tingling sensation sparked an unstoppable urge to reach orgasm. My fingers of my left hand slid in and out my wet gash, and my thumb and forefinger rubbed my little horn.

Glimpses of the night before, at the museum, began to flood back into my consciousness. The Secret Hall of Rituals had been everything I could have hoped for. The rawness. The naked demon demanded a sacrifice. Its huge cock seemed to drip with demonic precum. Yet it felt as if I had just scratched the surface of this unnaturally evil place.

A vivid memory of the strange dancing women. Of how Ayida and I had joined in with the naked black-skinned devils. We both seemed so incredibly horny. Squirting their slimy juices over each other. The smell of nigger sweat, bodily fluids, sexual secretions, and urine, filled my nostrils. The dull thud of that zombie beat — the death drums — and the ghostly chanting, filled my ears.

As I recalled these bizarre memories, my fingers were already thrusting up myself to the third knuckle — I was uncontrollably fucking myself as hard as I could.

Another flash in my mind.

I felt the burning sensation of heat and momentary glimpses of their shiny oiled bodies, feminine breasts, and thrusting hips. As they all turned to face us, my jaw dropped at the sight of their huge deformed clits … were they still really clitorises? No, they all looked more like inverted horns extending upwards from above their wet, shaved, nigger cunts.

Several of them looked about five or six inches in length, others were larger. They all gripped them tightly, rubbing themselves to the rhythm of the death drums. It was a carnal dance of shiny slick-black she-demons.

I remembered vaguely from my studies that the name, Ayida, was the female counterpart of the evil loa spirit, Dumballah. She was submissive and very delicate. She was the rainbow. A serpent-like demon. Her naked body rubbed against mine. As we danced, rutting against each other, her horn penetrated me.

Our eyes were fully dilated — we could see deeply into our twisted souls — as another orgasm rippled through me.



“The worship of the sex demon goddess, Bizango, had been outlawed. But this only swept the rituals and rites to this evil creature underground. It was rumored that possessed worshipers were somehow transformed into her transgendered likeness during their violent sexual rituals, while indulging in all manner bizarre sexual fetishes, cumulating in the rape of innocent young victims, animal and human sacrifices, and even cannibalism.” — Extract from “The Extreme Rituals Of Vodou” by Mirra Alfassa.

I had called in sick the day before.

I had just felt so out of it and didn’t want anyone to see me in this awful state. Was I coming down with something? I didn’t understand it. I was feverish — both hot and cold — sweating one minute and then shivering the next.

Maybe I just needed time to just sleep it off.

I had diligently applied the ointment to my engrossed clitoris. This had been accompanied by an incredibly horny sensation that filled my body, mind, and spirit — like a powerfully deranged aphrodisiac. I couldn’t stop myself from playing with it, rubbing my cock — as I imagined having sex with the red-skinned nigger goddess — Bizango — as the dream-like quality of being fucked by Ayida fired my perverted libido.

My cunt was so red and sore. The soreness didn’t seem to stop me either. I jerked uncontrollably with involuntary contractions, and orgasmic spasms deep from within my vagina, as I furiously masturbated all night long. Eventually, I must have passed out with little recollection of what had transpired.


The next morning, I felt alive, vibrant, and strong.

I got up, showered, and dressed for my first day of research work with the Doctor. Why bother with either my knickers or bra? I looked at my scrawny white body. SO shapeless. So boyish. I was no seductress. Was I hopeful that something extremely naughty was about to happen? I knew I was looking forward to starting my assignment, with the enigmatic and sexy curator.

When I arrived at the Museum, Ayida was not around, as she’d been sent out on some errands.

“Dr. Mauvais …” I said peering around the corner and into the entry to her office.

“Come in, come in. And please call me, Cassandra,” said the Doctor as she stood behind the low sofa table, “Now lock the door behind you.”

I did as she asked.

“My apologies about yesterday, Cassandra,” I said meekly.

At first, she said nothing or queried my non-attendance. There was no mention of my misadventures with her sexy assistant from the day before. There was no talk of the power of the mask or the Secret Hall of Rituals. The Doctor seemed more engrossed in other matters — she had a large manuscript laid out on a sofa table.

She was dressed in a simple long tribal slip. As she moved, I couldn’t help but notice her hard nipples brushing up against the silky fabric from beneath. She must be naked beneath her gown, I surmised. Her eyes followed mine as if she could read my thoughts.

”It looks very old,” I said, “Is it in French?”

“Yes … It is very old indeed. It is one of oldest in the Museum’s cursed books.”


The Doctor laughed.

“Well, it is rumored to have been subjected to sexual spells and demonized by soul-sucking loas,” she replied in a rather casual manner.

“Oh. Cursed … Demonized … Sexual spells …” I mumbled to myself.

“I thought it would be a good place for you to start to help me with my research. Now come round and take a closer look. Tell me what you see. What do you believe that it means?”

I moved around the low sofa table, purposefully to stand closer to the Doctor. Just being near her gave me shivers of arousal.

I tried to focus analytically on the book. The manuscript page was covered in various intricate Haitian Vodou vèvè. Lacy-like drawings of symbols. The book was old and the vibrancy of the artwork had faded back to being almost monochromatic. At the center of the age-stained page was a symbol that I recognized as depicting the twin intertwined serpents or snakes.

“You can touch it,” said the Doctor offered, “But beware, it’s evil and very enchanting.”

Enchanting. Cursed. Evil. Sexual spells … my curiosity was peaking.

I leaned forward over the low table and tentatively turned the heavy parchment to the next page which was covered with an illustration that I immediately knew was a sexual demon, the Bizango. The demon was surrounded by her naked worshipers. The elaborate drawing was an entanglement of African tribal femininity and phallic sexuality.

My eyes immediately dilated. Beneath my short skirt, I felt my clitoris stirring at the sight of this perverted depiction of evil eroticism. Maybe I was shaking. The Doctor seemed to know something about my reaction. It was as if she’d expected it.

“Ah, I see you are familiar with this particular she-devil … The Secret Hall of Rituals … You experienced her, first hand in one of our many exhibits dedicated to her … She uses ‘glamor’ to seduce both her followers and her victims … Mmmmm … You must understand that occult knowledge is very powerful … You feel her enchantment, No?”

“Yes … It’s fascinating … I don’t know how to describe it …” I lied.

“Go on,” encouraged the Doctor.

I turned the page to a vision of the sex demon with its long, red cock deeply embedded in the anus of a bound victim. There was a young male that had been hung upside-down. All around the evil sex demon, were her frenzied worshipers, all of them seemed to be transformed, in her likeness. A dark dream come true, I thought … Seeing the young black girls with enormous penal clitorises — all depicted, either self-sucking or masturbating their long black clits — as they cavorted around her. I had so many questions. Was this the dance of death? We they performing a human sacrifice? Why did the Doctor select this manuscript to commence my learning?

I realized that I had been holding my breath the entire time and just touching the parchment gave my fingers a bizarre prickly feeling.

”It’s sex magick,” I said.

“Yes, it is. Exactly Melissa. Excellent. But what else?” the Doctor nodded and beckoned me to continue.

“The worshipers seem to be making offerings … Could it be a rape ritual … An offering of a human sacrifice … And they dance … So that the evil spirit of the Bizango will possess their souls.”

“Very good.”

“They … They seem to be … Transformed through their evil ritual … So that they may perform unnaturally depraved acts for her explicit pleasure …”

“Exactly. And do you want to see more of these unnaturally depraved acts?”

She knew I did.

“Yes …”

“Then you must give the perverted book something in return,” replied the Doctor, “You’re at the gateway of the twin serpents. You must ask Damballah Wedo, to let you in …”

“What do you mean?”

”You know what I mean. Get up upon the table. Rub yourself against it. Let it taste your sexual arousal.”

My horniness overcame my shyness. I removed my sandals and with bare feet, I stepped up upon the Doctor’s sofa table.

“Face me,” she instructed, “I’m glad to see that you wore no underwear. I can smell your horny little cunt. Mmmm … I was right about you. A pervert, like us. And you have been using the mambo’s ointment, I see. You are an excellent student. Now, feel the perverted enchantment, rub your clit-cock, and squat down lower over the open pages of our evil book.”

I did exactly as she instructed.

I steadied myself and began to rub myself as she watched intensely. My clit felt even bigger and longer than it had done the night before. It felt more like a real cock but shrouded in the skin, still attached to my labia, as it stuck out, about four inches in length. My cunt juices began to drip over the open pages of the perverted book.

”Jeune just. Oui . Beaucoup de jus jeune. Excellent. l’offrande doit être faitee,” (Young juices. Yes. Lots of young juices. Excellent. The offering must be made) mumbled the Doctor as she knelt closer to the edge of the sofa table in front of me.

The Doctor pushed my hands away from my cunt and began to suck my four-inch clitoris between her darkly painted lips. Her sucking only made my cunt juice flow even more. They dripped copiously onto the filthy old book between my open legs. Her fingers stroked around my perineum, fingering both my cunt and anus, deliberating allowing my juices to flow over her hand and continue to drip downwards into the pages below.

“Ta chatte est délicieuse, ma chérie,” (Your cunt is so delicious, my dear).

The Doctor seemed even more animated, rubbing herself against the edge of her low table as she sucked and fingered me.

“Aaghhh …” I gasped as she brought me closer to a powerful climax.

“Éjaculez pour votre déesse, complétez l’enchantement,” (Ejaculate for your goddess. Complete the enchantment) she groaned.

As the words left her mouth, I began to buck against her nigger face. The power of my orgasm made me gush. I’ve never been exactly a squirter, but this time, I emptied my entire bladder over the Doctor’s face.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she seemed pleased with my efforts.

She helped me down.

My slimy cunt juices should have soaked the old book, but as I stepped down from the table, the book looked unchanged. Its pages were unaffected by the wet cascade of vaginal secretions and hot salty urine.

The Doctor’s face and long black hair, however, were drenched. She pulled me closer and we kissed, mouth to mouth. Her thick penal tongue fucked my mouth.

“I knew you would be an excellent student,” said the Doctor, licking her salty lips, “I will return the gesture soon … but first … the book seems to have responded to your offering … you have unlocked it … ah… see how it glows … so magickally … its evil enchantment awaits us both …”

It did. There was a pale glow from the pages. The Doctor retrieved a mask from her draw. It looked similar to the one that I had worn the day before. The one that Ayida had described as a passport to transport us to another world. It was the same one. The Doctor smiled knowingly.

“You remember your first journey. This will be another level,” she said as she handed me the mask and placed another upon her face, ”Undress. We must kneel naked before it — so that it will share its depraved delights — for our masturbatory pleasure!”

I caught a glimpse of the Doctor removing her piss-soaked slip. I was naked. I put on the mask. My eyes immediately began to focus on the old book. I was kneeling on the rugged floor in front of the low sofa table. My hand was shaking as I reached to touch the evil book once more.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Was it to be like the night before? What happened certainly wasn’t anything that I would have expected. As I touched the pages, a living vision, filled my perverted eyes. Not a drab drawing on a page in an ancient book, but a clear vision that filled all my senses.


We were no longer in the Doctor’s office.

We found ourselves transported to a clearing, surrounded by lush green vegetation and the broken walls of a vine-covered, decaying temple — so thick, that I couldn’t see very far beyond the perimeter before it was simply too dark to make out anything.

In a way, the place itself reminded me of the Hall of Ritual. But here, there were no walls. Everything was open to the steaming jungle surroundings. The sounds of insects trilling and wild beasts roaring echoed out of sight. It felt unkept, wild, and raw. Bright fires lit the perimeter of the broken walls that remained, though the light couldn’t penetrate passed the temple’s edge. Beneath my bare feet and knees, the ground felt soft, like dirty sand. The air was just too warm, almost stifling, rancid, and clammy. I felt my sweat beginning to run down my bare back. There was a strong odor of blood, urine, and feces.

“Is this what you envisioned?”

I turned to find the Doctor standing behind me. Her face was covered by her choice of evil mask — its curved horns, blacked eye-sockets, and nose, with a bone forehead covered in inverted crosses. Her black nigger body was lithe and bony. Her breasts looked firm and full, and her nipples were overly large, long, and blackened.

“The book has brought us both to the old twin serpent temple. We’re somewhere in West Africa. This is where the rituals of the Bizango began many centuries ago.”

“Is this a vision?”

“No. Not exactly. It’s where our masks have brought us … And what the book wants us to see. It holds many dark and evil secrets. Its enchantment is both lure and liberation. It has brought us here. The both of us, for a reason. Maybe to observe. Maybe to experience. Maybe to participate. Are you afraid of what lies ahead?”

Truthfully, I was afraid. Just incredibly horny.



“The worship is the devil, Bizango, has been described as simply barbaric. A blood-thirty sex goddess that demands, not just the semen or the non-sensual orgasm of their victims, but always ends in rape, castration, and even death. Some say she is a deity of opposites or extremes. On one hand, fiercely female, provocative, sensual, and lewd. Then, on the other, almost male, powerfully phallic, sadistic, and hungry for lustful penetration.” — Extract from “The Extreme Rituals Of Vodou” by Mirra Alfassa.


I awoke in an unfamiliar bed and I was not alone.

Passed out, next to me, was young Ayida. We were both lying naked in a windowless room. It was hot and I turned onto my back and lay looking upwards at the mirrored ceiling. I remembered glimpses of what had transpired the day before in the Doctor’s office, or wherever it was that the ceremonial mask or the enchanted book had transported us to … Maybe it was somewhere in West Africa. Maybe to the origins of the Bizango?

The old manuscript. The Doctor. The demons. The strange jungle-like temple of the twin serpents. Now it was all starting to come back to me. There had been a ritual sacrifice. The estranged Doctor had been standing upon a dais. Her face was hidden behind an evil mask. She had brought me to the altar and there, had administered a special “initiation” … I remembered a magic potion in a strange bottle shaped just like a human skull. Yes, I remember how bitter it had tasted — foul and metallic-like — drinking the bitter elixir of pure evil.

The masked Doctor had said some Creole words during my initiation. Maybe they were the words of mischief — of lewd enchantment — of black witchcraft or some kind of conjuring of sex magick.

“Deyès nwa! Pedro nwa! Vini non epi posede veso sa a ak move lanvi ou. Ranpli ren li. Ranpli lide li. Pran lespri l kòm pou ou.”

(Dark goddess! Dark Pedro! Come forth and possess this vessel with your evil lust. Fill her loins. Fill her mind. Take her spirit as yours.)

I felt her evil potion sliding down my gullet. A slight burning sensation … But no nausea or pain … I was shaking like a leaf as if it were corrupting me from the inside out. Not poisoning, maybe more like possessing me … changing me. Transforming me. Had the potion any aphrodisiacal qualities? Oh yes, but more than just a sexual arousal, more like a bizarre hunger inside of me. An evil thirst that needed to be quenched.

It was as if the Devil’s lust was looking for a way to escape the confines of my small, white-girl body. I felt the vibrations of my metamorphosis — these unnerving and unnatural feelings that both repulsed and attracted me.

I was not the only one in this predicament. Though it was all new to me, I could feel the other worshipers were equally stirred. They pulled, tossed about, and tore at their thin clothing. Some rolled wildly upon the bare earth. Their sexual arousal was more than obvious — it was obsessive. Their unholy desires stirred to near boiling point.

“Nou onore w, Bizango! Vini non ak lans ki pa sen ou! Se pou nou bese tèt nou epi ofri ou sakrifis nou an!”

(We honor you, Bizango! Come forth with your unholy spear! Let us bow down and offer you our sacrifice!)

The sights and sounds of their occult ritual overpowered my emotions.

I noticed Ayida’s — she was one of several young females playing the Pedro drums. They were all naked. The black skin shone in the torchlight. I saw her frenzied hands as they thumped the agitated beat. And her wet cunt thrust hard against a hard wooden phallus that protruded from the side of the vibrating instrument.

Their powerful beating had me move without any conscious thought.

I was not alone. Everyone around me was screaming and dancing, wilder, and wilder … And yet even wilder. All, now, naked. All excited. A masturbation dance. Their perverted energy heightened my arousal to the point of being almost orgasmic.

Then I saw her. She was now standing on the brazen altar. The masked Doctor. Their witch priestess. Their caplata. Their Mambo. More like the goddess … More like the Bizango herself. Yes, that’s how I saw her now. No longer human. A devil. A sex demon. Her strange cacophony of female and male anatomy was on full display for her worshipers to see. It was huge. I mean, her clitoris was huge. It reached vertically upwards over her stomach from just above her open vagina, like a huge fleshy spear.

“Bizango! Bizango! Batize nou! … Bizango! Bizango! Batize nou! … Bizango! Bizango! Batize nou! …”

(Bizango! Bizango! Baptise us! … Bizango! Bizango! Baptise us! … Bizango! Bizango! Baptize us!)

She wasn’t the only strange sight. No. The women around me. All of the nigger-black witches seemed to have changed too. Transformed from our natural state to a preternatural one. They all looked transgendered. Like shemales with large, hard cocks in their hands. Masturbating furiously. Jerking to bring forth their juices.

It was then, that I began to get a tingling sensation in my groin … It felt warm at first … Getting hotter and hotter … then it was like a fire … I was burning red hot from her powerful Vodou magic. Her poison was changing me. My hands were between my legs. I felt differently down there. My clitoris … So swollen, so elongated, and so disfigured … It was no longer feminine … More like a rampant cock … Stiff and wet, as I rubbed myself in time to the throbbing beat.

The nigger witches cavorted around the Bizango. A small slumped or drugged figure of a young boy was brought forward. He was held firmly between two of the naked witches. They quickly secured him by the ankles and wrists — so that he was hung upside-down, with his legs wide apart, between the two carved poles, that resembled their large clits.

The boy, a sniveling young male, hung there, limply. He was fully awake and aware of his predicament. He lifted his heavy head that nearly touched the floor. I could see the terror in his eyes — they were wide open in complete disbelief — and they seemed to speak, what his lips failed to say, that he was surrounded by evil … Sex demons … the darkest of loa … Conscious enough he seemed to realize that things were only going to get worse — that they were not going to end well for him.

“Move lespri … (Evil spirits)” he moaned soundlessly as he hung upside-down.

The chanting of the black witches had gotten louder. These cock-demons were almost deafening. Masturbating furiously, they were screaming more than chanting as they continued to dance wildly around the shivering naked boy.

The niggers made room as their witch priestess, who descended from the brazen altar, to stand before the young, limp boy. She reached out and began to stoke his limp penis, petting him, like an animal ready for the slaughter.

She wiped the juices from the tip of her fleshy spear across his lips. In an instant, he became fully erect, though his fear and terror had not subsided at all. His unconscious arousal seemed to only scare him more. His body jerked against his restraints, as if in a fit or convulsion.

The witch priestess continued to stand over him. She stood wide-legged as she laughed and urinated on his prone body. Several witches assisted her. One holding her labia wider, so that her urethra sprayed her liquid waste over his bound body. Another witch was rubbing her urine over his face — making sure he drank from her golden fountain of foulness.

I knew without knowing, that a sacrifice was about to be made. The boy was the sacrifice. He was the “goat with no horns”. The witches needed his semen. They needed his non-consensual orgasm. His final pleasure would be his demise — and his life-blood — was this their way to appease the devil, the Bizango?

The dancing and chanting continued around them. Another witch brought forth a half skull cup and held it near to his throbbing erection. The witch priestess had positioned herself above him, just between his parted legs, so that her fleshy spear, once bent forward, would be perfectly aligned with his anus — sodomy was the sex of witches.

“Sakrifye ti gason an … Sakrifye ti gason an … Sakrifye ti gason an …”

(Sacrifice the boy … Sacrifice the boy … Sacrifice the boy …)

The witch priestess pressed her shecock against the brown flower of his bowels. Upside-down and bound in this awkward position would have been painful enough … Now saturated in her urine and with the witch priestess forcing her enormous horned clitoris up his shit hole, the boy began to twist and scream relentlessly.

The witches seemed to be delighted!

They pushed me forward before him. I wasn’t sure why. But they guided me over his face so that my cunt was just inches away from his screaming mouth. I knew what to do. I wanted to do it. It was an incredible feeling of power over this hapless boy-sacrifice. A power that I’d never experienced before.

They nodded and pressed my shoulders so that I crouched down directly over his upturned face. One of the witches grabbed the boy’s cock and rubbed it against my engorged clitoris. The sensation was incredible.

“Aaarghhhhh …” I groaned unabated.

Another witch held the half skull in readiness for the boy’s cock jerked uncontrollably as he ejaculated. My open cunt smothered the boy’s breathing, covering his nose and mouth — his efforts to get air seemed to only amplify my perverted pleasure — I was close to a ripping orgasm!

I looked upwards as the witch priestess bucked her hips, hard against the young boy’s asshole, almost ripping him apart with the power of her thrusts. She grunted with pleasure, as the other witches grunted … as all awaiting our communal orgasm.

“Sakrifye ti gason an … Sakrifye ti gason an … Sakrifye ti gason an …”

(Sacrifice the boy … Sacrifice the boy … Sacrifice the boy …)

The boy bucked and bucked against my suffocating cunt. Finally, all the pressure of the witch priestess’ clit cock up his sphincter, pressing against his prostate, made his young, fresh semen spurt into the half-skull cup. The witch priestess however never stopped. Her powerful hips kept rocking back and forth, even faster, driving her fleshy spear further and further into the depths of the young boy’s colon.

“Wi! deyès! Pran sakrifis nou!”

(Yes! Goddess! Take our sacrifice!)

I watched as they poured his semen into the open mouth of the evil witch priestess as she began to fucked him to death — his limp body bounced beneath me — as her horned cock plowed in and out, deeper and deeper, down the furrow of his ass. It seemed that I felt, what she felt as if we were all connected … All felt that same desire to reach our awaited climax … As if nothing else mattered, except the sensations created by our goddess, the Bizango.

Then, before my eyes, she started to buck wildly. Uncontrollably. It was as if he was having a seizure. All of a sudden, it was as if the dam had been broken. My cunt instantly exploded and I almost doubled over, convulsing with the power of our collective orgasm …

“Aahhhhhhhhh …” I screamed.

My face lay across the piss-drenched dead body of the young boy. His spent body was motionless now. The witch priestess slowly withdrew her horned cock from his lifeless anus and stood above me, looking down. I could see her satisfaction. Her evil grin said more than words. She would know exactly how I felt in the afterglow of my earth-shattering cum.

This had been the longest-lasting and most powerful orgasm, that I had ever experienced.

Ayida stirred next to me.

She’d been there. She’d witnessed it all. Probably, not for the first time, but now her erection beckoned me. I needed more horn-cock. Lots of horn-cock. I was hungry for it. It was as if I hadn’t eaten in weeks — an unnatural need for satisfaction, like a vampire’s need for blood. Of course, she wouldn’t satisfy me … It would only be a reprieve … What I needed was another ritual sacrifice … Another young boy off the street, that no one would notice was gone … And to appease my goddess … 

Cursed or damned … My soul now belonged to the Mambo, to the Bizango. I would never be able to return to my former white, Christian life back in Baton Rouge. Would they try to find me? Probably … But that’s another story for another day … 




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