The Mambo's Tale free porn video

It ended, as so many things do, with pain, and with anger, and with recriminations that left more questions than answers in their wake.  It ended with the feral scent of blood; sweet and high.   It ended badly; with sirens caterwauling off nearby tenement buildings, with curious onlookers, with too much gossip and not enough truth.  And as dawn broke over a city facing its third thunderstorm in as many days, it ended in hushed tones, and quiet prayers, and mourning black.

***

Midnight came, went, and failed utterly to dull the atmosphere in the Vieux Carré, where music, laughter, and the assorted heady sounds of debauchery floated freely in the air.  Mardi Gras!  From the big-money tourists on Bourbon Street, to locals celebrating in the Faubourg Marigny, the party was in full swing. 

Mardi Gras! 

Crescent City, the Big Easy, laid-back Louisiana – call it whatever you want, just don’t try and stop it.

Mardi Gras!  -- Mardi Gras!  -- Mardi Gras!!!

Alone in her apartment overlooking the Saenger Theatre, Olivia downed her second glass of rye in ten minutes as she studied her efforts critically.  Not bad, she thought, not bad at all for a first attempt.  She refilled the shot-glass, draining it again in a single gulp, alcohol burning the back of her throat.

Chalked onto the bare floorboards of her living room, the rug pushed aside for the evening, was an intricate design – a religious symbol more commonly known as a veve – which she had copied from similar patterns seen on and around a dozen cemeteries throughout the city.  The chalk used to draw the veve had been purchased from a small, specialist shack located in the depths of the Bayou.  Any powder could have been used for the ritual, but sometimes it paid to be formal about these sorts of things.

As Olivia pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.  At twenty-eight she was still young, although to look at now she could be mistaken for someone perhaps a decade older.  Always slim, she bordered dangerously close to being skinny; a by-product of too many missed or half-eaten meals these past few months.  She wore a simple light-weight, white chiffon dress that buttoned up the front, and which practically hung from her slender frame.  Pale skin, no make-up; long red hair left loose to fall around her shoulders, and desperately in need of a salon’s attention.  Green eyes that caught the light.  Emerald eyes, Mason had called them.  They had always been the first, and last, place he kissed her each morning and each night.  

God, I miss him...

Olivia shook her head, concentrating on the task at hand, running a last minute check over the makeshift altar in the corner of the room.  Everything was still there, as it had been just five minutes earlier:  a cheap black-felt top hat; a pair of knock-off Aviators purchased from a street vendor somewhere in Elmwood; a litre bottle of spiced rum, carefully placed next to two fat Cuban cigars.  Satisfied, she picked up the well-thumbed ritual book and a small cup of chicken blood, and hesitated.

The Loa is very powerful, the bokor in the shack had told her.  The Guédé are cunning, and very dangerous.  If you are sure you must do this, then you must be careful.

Olivia risked another quick glance at the altar.  A Polaroid image propped upright between the gifts stared back at her.

Fuck it.

In one fluid movement, she sprinkled blood onto the veve and completed the incantation.

Nothing.

Olivia read through the ritual again, more slowly this time, making sure that every pronunciation of her patois was correct.  The blood had been sprayed properly, across the chalked cross at the centre of the veve.

But still, nothing.

She felt tension ease from her body, to be replaced with white-hot anger.  She had done everything with propriety and respect, invoking the Loa for permission to speak with the Guédé - and now there were chalk marks on the floor, a chicken carcass rotting in the trashcan in the kitchen and chicken blood slowly drying on the corners of the rug, and on the white cotton dress where it had inadvertently splashed, and there was nothing to show for it.

“Goddamn bastards!”

Olivia turned to face the altar, intent on taking her frustrations out on the flimsy pieces of ply-board, stopping suddenly as her brain finally caught up, almost unwilling to process what her eyes had already taken in.

The altar was empty.  The gifts had vanished.

There was a soft creak behind her - one of the floorboards groaning - and she spun around.

The veve remained intact on the floor, chicken blood congealing as it mixed in with the chalk.  The ceiling fan continued its slow rotation, ineffectually circulating tepid air.  Light from the kitchen spilled through the open doorway, warping shadows in the living room.  Olivia realised she was holding her breath, letting it out in a rushed sigh as she realised there was nobody behind her.

But then why did the floorboard...?

From a dark recess by the bookshelves, a tall, handsome black man stepped forward, politely tipping his cheap top hat to her as he did so.  “Madam,” he said, in a deep baritone. 

Olivia stared, the room suddenly stifling.  “Who...?” she managed to say, the words sounding faint and tinny to her ears. 

And then the world segued to black.

***

She regained consciousness to the rich scent of smoking tobacco.  Someone had laid her onto the couch and, she noted with distain, unbuttoned her dress and removed her bra to expose her pert breasts, her dark nipples stiffened by the room’s temperature – not helped by the window which had been opened, letting in more sounds of the city’s ongoing revelries.  Slowly, she sat upright and readjusted her clothing.

The black man was still there, fingering his way through the objects on her bookshelves as he smoked, and taking regular pulls from the bottle of rum she had bought for the ritual.  He was tall – well over six foot - and lithe with it, threading his way around the room with all the grace of a dancer moving to the beat of a rhythm only he could hear.  He noticed her stirring and glanced over his shoulder.

“Olivia LeBlanc,” the man said, flashing a wide, friendly grim.  His teeth were perfect, and almost blindingly white against his chocolate skin.

“You... You know my name?”

“Bien sûr.”  But of course.

“Do you speak English?”  

“I am Baron Samedi.  I speak all language.”  He grinned again.  “Women like man fluent in they native... tongue,” he said, winking. 

He had an odd way of speaking - fragmented and incomplete, as if plucking words from the air at random, seeing which ones fitted together.  And his voice was almost as crude as his costume, Olivia thought, eying up the shabby gray shirt that barely fit his bulky chest, worn loose over patchy black pants flecked with dust and frayed at the ankle, strands of cotton ringing his bare feet.  And, as it turned out, his manners were just as crude as his voice.  He noticed her eying him and casually draped the bottle of rum so it rested lightly by his crotch, before rubbing it back and forth suggestively.  The movement served to draw attention to his groin as well as stimulate his own pleasure, and Olivia couldn’t help notice Samedi’s manhood stirring under the thin fabric.  She blushed, turning away, and he laughed at her discomfort.

“Out there,” he said, gesturing to the city framed by the open window, “Mardi Gras – it just begin. Rum.  Smoke.  Sex.  All out there.  So why you call me here?”

Olivia shivered, gathering her thoughts together.  “I want to open the Loa,” she said.

“Co faire?”  Why? 

Samedi placed the bottle of rum onto a shelf and patted his pockets theatrically. 

“This?” he asked.

“That’s mine!”

“My altar.  My picture.”  Samedi stared at the Polaroid.  “Pretty boy.  Too pale.  But pretty.”

“He’s my... Was.  He was my husband.”

“So now you call me here.  It natural, no?  You alone... Young woman... Lonely...”  Samedi licked his lips.  “Horny, yes?”

He made a grab for her and Olivia scooted back, keeping the couch between them.  Safe behind the bulky furniture, she picked up the ritual book and quickly read through an incantation.  The Baron froze; his grin evaporating.

“What you do?!”

“Gree-gree,” Olivia said, shivering again as Samedi snarled at her, his handsome face twisted and his jovial persona suddenly gone.  “A binding spell.”

“Bitch! You bitch, girl!”  Samedi tried to move.  “Let me free!”

“Eventually.”  The spell was holding.  Oh, thank you, God.  Slowly, she moved around to the front of the couch and sat down; making herself comfortable as she watched the spirit struggle against whatever magic had him rooted in place, his movements restricted to his bottle and cigar, making frequent use of both in a bid to calm his frustration.  After a few moments silently staring at her reflection in the mirrored Aviators that the Baron had lifted from the altar, Olivia smiled brightly.

“It’s rude to talk with your eyes covered,” she said.  “Please remove the glasses.”

“Bitch!  Let me free!”

Olivia stopped smiling.  “You shouldn’t talk to a lady like that.  Now, please  - don’t make a bahbin, and remove the glasses so we can talk properly.”

Samedi laughed.  “Come take yourself.  You no mambo.”

“You’re right, I am no priestess.”  Olivia sighed, smoothing down the front of her dress.  “But still, I summoned you, and I bound you.  So please, remove the glasses.”

Samedi bowed stiffly and obeyed, yanking off the Aviators and tossing them across the room to smash into the doorframe, shards of mirrored lens tinkling across the floor as they scattered into various corners of the room.  Denuded, his eyes flashed red in the shadows of their sockets, making no attempt to hide his displeasure, and Olivia shivered under his glare.

“Thank you,” she said, attempting to disarm his anger with politeness.  Samedi just sneered back in her direction.

“The Loa not just serve.  The Loa also be served,” he said.

“You mean if I help you, you’ll help me?”

“As you say.”

Olivia nodded to herself as she considered his response.  “Fine,” she said.  The bokor had warned her that Samedi would expect to trade.  The Loa also be served.  Any price paid would be small if it allowed her to speak with Mason, even for just one last time.  Olivia smoothed down the front of her dress again, playing with the buttons as she stared hard at her feet.  “So what is it that you want from me?”

“To go. You let me free.”

“No.”  Olivia shook her head emphatically.  “What else?”

“Woman, I ahnvee!”   I hunger.  “Mardi Gras – she is calling me!”

“I said no.  I’ll set you free after you give me what I want, but not before.  Now, tell me want else you want to trade for helping me.”

The Baron sighed, and gestured with the now empty bottle.  “More rum.  More smoke.  Let me sit,” he said.

“Fine, you can sit.”  Samedi bowed again.  “No, over there,” Olivia said, pointing at an easy chair on the far side of the room.  “But no more rum until you’ve agreed to help me.”

“You damn woman.”  Samedi smiled at her as he moved over to where she indicated.  To Olivia’s astonishment it was the most genuine gesture the spirit had produced all night, and she watched him settle down onto the dark leather chair, one long leg draped over an arm rest, drawing her gaze to his groin once again.  The Baron caught her looking and ran a hand along the outline of his penis, emphasising its length and girth, but this time she held her focus.  Samedi laughed. 

“I like you,” he said.  “D’accor.  Go, ask me.  I do it.”

Olivia stood and walked over to the bookshelves.  To her right, through the open window, fireworks popped and fizzed over distant rooftops, colouring the sky to the sounds of jazz music and cheers.  The city was working its way towards the climax of this year’s festivities and Samedi fidgeted noticeably, Olivia having to snap her fingers a couple of times to regain his attention.

“The picture you have—“

“Mason.”

“—of... What?  H-how do you know his...?”

Samedi shrugged.  “All soul pass me on way to Guinee.  You love him, yes?”

“Yes!  Yes, I love him!”

“You want talk to him.” 

It was a statement, not a question, as if he could somehow read her mind; and to the unwary, possibly a trap.

“Yes! Yes, I want to talk to him!”

Samedi shrugged again, pausing in the act of lighting up his second cigar.  “Him sleep, him no want talk.  Him defan papa.  ”

Olivia clenched her fists.  “I know he’s fucking dead!  I was there at the hospital!  I was there at the funeral!  I was here when the last of him – his scent, his touch, his warmth – disappeared from this house!  I don’t care – I want to talk with him.  You promised me.”

“I no promise this.”

“You promised!”

The smile vanished from the Baron’s face.  “No,” he said.

Olivia turned away from him and with exaggerated patience, picked up one of the paperweights from a shelf, the crystal orb smooth and cold to the touch as she weighed it in her hands, contemplating the next move.  This was it – time to see if the bokor’s information was worth the money paid.   Please work.  Please.  If it didn’t, then there was no one else to turn to and Mason was lost to her forever.  Without warning the hand holding the paperweight started shaking, and she quickly placed it back.

“What about the Guédé standing between the living and the dead, between the candle and the darkness, connecting everything in the circle of the Loa?  Is that just shit?”  C’mon... C’mon...  Olivia realised she was holding her breath and exhaled, feeling slightly light headed as the intoxicating aroma of the Baron’s cigar flooded her nostrils.  If Samedi noticed, he let it pass without comment.

“No,” he said.  “We stand at crossroad.”

“So connect me!  Let me speak with Mason!”

“How?  He happy in Guinee.  I no can take you meet him.”

“But can’t the Loa be ridden both ways?”

Samedi stood suddenly, sending the empty bottle of rum rolling along the floor through the remains of the veve.  He stomped his foot, making Olivia jump, and she started backing away before realising he hadn’t moved towards her.  The spell.  She relaxed, enjoying the sight of the spirit engaged in futile tantrum.

“No!  No one ride me!  No one!”

“So it can be done?”  Olivia watched as Samedi hesitated.  Ah.  She made a mental note to thank the bokor.  “Don’t bother lying,” she said.  “It’s clear that it can.”

The Baron sank back slowly into the armchair.  “Oui.  It can be done.”

“Then do it.”

“No.”

“I said, do it!  I command you.”

Samedi ‘s laugh was a deep rumble that vibrated through the room.  “With what power you commands me?”

“With Mardi Gras.”  Olivia spread her hands towards the open window, an expansive gesture made to include the city outside, with its smells, and sounds.   “The Guédé must celebrate at Mardi Gras.  But you’re trapped here.  Open the Loa.  Just five minutes, that’s all I ask for, and then I’ll set you free to go and join the party.”

He licked his lips slowly, mulling her proposition.  “Five minute, then you free me?”  Olivia nodded and he shrugged, accepting the bargain.  “Give me rum, I do it.  Leave me free, I do it.”

“Rum, yes.  But I’m not going to set you free.  You might attack me.”

“The Loa very powerful, even for Guédé.  If I free, I shake off power.  If I no free, it tear body apart and you gree-gree not stop it.  Leave me free, I promise I no hurt you.”

Olivia sighed.  “Fine,” she said.  “But if you come near me or try to leave, I’ll bind you here until cockcrow.”

When she returned from the kitchen it was to find Samedi stripped to the waist, his shirt wadded up into a ball and casually discarded on the leather armchair alongside the top-hat.  The way the material had hugged his chest earlier had hinted at the broad muscular frame beneath, but to see it like this...

The Baron’s skin was the colour of rich, dark-chocolate and like his head, was completely smooth.  Muscles flexed as he stretched and rolled his shoulders, working out a crick in his back, his biceps almost as thick as her thighs; his stomach moulded into a perfect six-pack, granite hard.  Though the night was cool Samedi’s body glistened with sweat, each bead and rivulet only accentuating his toned perfection.  The same veve Olivia had chalked on the floor, and which was to be seen in locations city-wide – Samedi’s personal veve, as she thought of it – was tattooed in light-blue ink on his body and seemed to writhe in the light as if it had life of its own, never quite in the same place each time you focused on it.  Olivia held her breath, wondering what it would feel like to touch and run her hands over this powerful man’s body.  Samedi caught her looking and winked, licking his lips.

“You like?  You want, no?” he said.

Olivia shook her head.  “No.  What I want is to talk to Mason.”  She held up the new rum she’d brought back from the kitchen.  “Here,” she said, tossing the bottle at him.  “Now open the Loa.”

Samedi caught the bottle single-handed, popped the cork, and drained half the bottle in one smooth gulp.  Then, settling cross-legged in the centre of Olivia’s chalked veve, he closed his eyes and began singing softly to himself.

Lights in the apartment flickered; softly at first, then with increased vigour as the power surged.  Behind her, Olivia heard a bulb in the hallway pop, followed by another in the bedroom.  The shadows in the lounge began to move of their own accord, forming strange new shapes - some human-looking, some animalistic, and others that Olivia closed her eyes against and wished she’d never seen.  The air seemed to thicken, twisting in on itself, ripples of black and purple.  Cigar fumes from the Baron’s stogie crept through the room, infusing everything they touched; and behind the rich scent of tobacco lay the high, spicy heat of chillies, and the musky, low earthiness of the bayou.

Samedi’s sing-song voice had been joined by whispered chanting from an unseen choir, right on the cusp of Olivia’s hearing; almost insignificant against everything else that was going on.  She stared at him, and for a moment thought he was shaking where he sat before realising that the tremors were coming from the house – no, not just the house; the whole neighbourhood.

And then everything suddenly stilled.

Olivia’s heart pounded against the cage of her chest, as if it realised something was amiss and wanted to make an escape whilst it still could.  Alone in the centre of the veve the Baron was immobile, frozen in place by the magic he’d conjured, not even breathing; his eyes resolutely closed.

Olivia took a tentative step towards him.  Nothing.  She took another.  And then as she took a third step Samedi opened his eyes slowly, staring straight at her, unblinking, cutting her approach dead.

The Baron’s irises had been a fiery red.

These eyes were light blue, tinged with grey.  Mason’s eyes.

How?

How is this possible?

“Is... is this some kind of trick?”   It had to be.

“No.”  The voice was quieter, and lighter in tone than the Baron’s.  “Oh, God... No.  Olivia, it’s no trick.”

And finally the tears came flooding.  “It’s really you?”  Mason nodded.  “Oh, God, Mason!  How... how long can you...?”

“Not long enough, honey.  I’m tired, so tired; and I can feel the Loa fighting him.”

“No... no, it’s too soon!  The police still haven’t... I mean, no one has... Oh, shit!  Mason, I’ve failed you!”

“Failed me?”  The mouth creased into Mason’s familiar gentle smile.  “Oh, honey – how could you ever fail me?”

“By not finding the bastard who...”  Olivia gave a small cry of frustration and collapsed onto the couch.  “There’s no justice!”

“In the end, there rarely is.”

“It’s hard, Mason; so hard without you.  I miss you!”

“I miss you too, honey.”

The Baron shuddered where he sat and the air rippled in colours again, purples and blacks splashing against the apartment’s plain-white walls.

“Mason!  Please don’t go!”

Samedi blinked, red irises slowly surfacing from beneath the familiar blue as he looked up at Olivia. 

“Child, the Loa want him stay,” he said, softly. “It fight for him. Fight very hard.”

“Please!”  Olivia wiped her eyes on her forearm as she pleaded with the spirit.  “I can’t lose him again!  It’s too soon – make him stay!  Just a few minutes more...”

Samedi shook again, sweat dripping from his body as his muscles strained against the power attempting to tear him apart.  Olivia could see claw marks in his chocolate skin where the Loa was ripping into his flesh.

“It hurt, child!”

“Please!  There must be something you can do?”

“Peut-être.”  Perhaps.

He stood slowly, fighting an invisible weight, and moved towards her.  “You miss him, child,” he said.  “Him miss you too.  His mind whisper to me.”  He bent down and picked up the forgotten cup of chicken blood.  “Mardi Gras give power, give last gift for you.”

Samedi dipped his fingers into the blood, using it to draw a complicated mark over the tattooed veve on his body that vanished where it touched his flesh, before leaning in and repeating the same action on Olivia, daubing blood onto her forehead.  She smelled the faint scent of Gaultier aftershave on his skin.   Mason’s fragrance.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

“I stand at crossroad between life and death.  I stand between candle and darkness.  But it no matter, because I stand between.” 

He blinked, pupils flaring grey-blue as he leaned in slowly, strong hands gripping her arms, preventing her from moving away.  Olivia closed her eyes, feeling the air twisting around them; a sudden burst of heat.  And then it was Mason kissing her - not Samedi; her husband kissing her with as much passion as he had on their wedding night, his tongue running along the fullness of her lower lip and softly darting into her mouth to meet her own tongue like a long-forgotten friend.

And with her eyes still closed, Olivia sighed as her body responded in kind.

I ahnvee...

Pushing back into Samedi’s embrace, she could feel the muscular hardness of his chest; his skin smooth under her fingertips.  Strong hands ran across the front of her dress, pinching her nipples through the thin fabric.  With her eyes still closed, she felt his breath on her neck as he kissed his way down to her shoulders.

With her own hands, Olivia traced a line along his stomach until she reached his waistband, and then lower, feeling his reaction as she brushed against his groin; softly at first, but with increased confidence as she felt his erection stir.  The hands on her body grew more frantic now, too strong for the chiffon dress she wore, and it ripped with an audible tear, buttons bouncing along the floorboards as they scattered in different directions.  Not that Olivia cared as she helped push the dress down her body, stepping clear from the pool of fabric.

The warm mouth left her neck, moving downwards.  Olivia felt his tongue lazily circling the areola on her right breast, teeth pulling gently at the teat before the mouth relocated to repeat the action on the other nipple.  She shivered with excitement, her skin prickling with arousal, and she cusped his chin in her hand, bringing him back up to kiss her again.

It all felt familiar and at the same time unfamiliar, Olivia’s mind torn between two lovers at once.  With her eyes open, it was Samedi who ran his hands across her skin with undisguised excitement, exploring her body for the first time; with her eyes open, it was this devilishly handsome black man – an alpha male, if ever there was one – who kissed her, and who rubbed his cock against her leg, every movement designed to convey exactly what he wanted.   Yet with her eyes closed, she knew it was Mason who touched her, soft and gentle; Mason’s familiar moans of pleasure as he reacquainted himself with every inch, and every curve, of his wife. 

With absolute certainty, she knew that both men wanted her as much as she wanted them.  Unconditionally, she surrendered to them equally.

Olivia gasped as Samedi grasped the waistband of her panties, tearing the material apart in his eagerness to get to the warm pussy beneath, his red eyes staring deep into hers as his fingertips ran around the edges of her vulva.  She knew she was wet, but even she was surprised at how easily his fingers slid between the juicy folds of her sex, two and then three stretching her wider than she could have thought possible.  She wiggled her hips against his knuckles, trying to get as much of him inside her as she could before closing her eyes to feel Mason, who always knew exactly where to touch, and for how long, in order to bring her to orgasm.

But even as the first waves of pleasure coursed through her body she felt Samedi hold back, slowly withdrawing from her.  She opened her eyes ready to protest, still trying to hold him inside, and he smiled, resting a finger against her lips.

“Hush, child,” he said, “the night is young.”

The look in his eye made her pause, and almost without thinking she leaned forward, taking the fingers that had been buried inside her pussy into her mouth, sucking them clean.  The action surprised her – it was something she’d never done before; certainly not with Mason - and she was surprised by the taste: sweet, sticky and musky, her obvious arousal made physical.  Samedi smiled again, moving closer to taste her juices off her lips.  Then he pulled back and sank to his knees, kissing his way down her stomach.

Olivia watched Samedi’s dark, bald head working its way slowly to her sex, eyes instinctively closing as his mouth found her labia; and then it was Mason’s tongue that sought the hardened nub of her clitoris, teasing it before moving to taste her fully: long licks that ran the length of her slit before plunging deep inside.  She rested her hands lightly atop the head so playfully exploring her wet cunt, where, to her surprise, her fingers found themselves tousling a thick, soft mop of curls.  Yet when her eyes opened, the sensation faded and once again, it was Samedi working beneath her.

 She sighed softly as she gave in to the feelings now running through her body, alternating between closing her eyes to feel Mason, and leaving them open to enjoy Samedi.  Her core felt fuzzy and warm, and Olivia knew she was close to orgasm, grinding her pussy against the mouth lapping at her soaking entrance, this strange Samedi/Mason hybrid intent on pleasuring her; her breathing more laboured and her clitoris swollen and sensitive to touch; her cunt aching as her lover jabbed his tongue in faster and deeper, with increased enthusiasm as she wiggled and moaned her way to climax.

“Oh god... God, yes!... Faster!  Oh God!... Fuuuuck....!”

When the waves of pleasure finally stopped, she looked down and found Samedi staring back up at her, his mouth covered in the slick sheen of her juices.

“That was intense,” she said, trying to steady her breathing as the Baron smiled, hauling himself upright.

“My turn,” he said.

With trembling hands, Olivia helped Samedi loosen his belt, yanking his pants down to about mid-thigh before he took over and completed the rest, kicking them free to stand completely nude.  His cock was long and smooth, veins standing proud of the shaft which was far thicker than anything she’d seen outside of an adult movie.  Eyes widening, Olivia reached down, running her fingers along its length, noticeably struggling to fully close her hands around its girth.  Yet with her eyes closed once again it felt more familiar, and manageable – more akin Mason’s cock; not exactly small, but in comparison...

And then the sudden need to have him – Samedi; Mason; both of them – inside her.

Instinctively knowing what she needed Samedi pushed her back onto the couch, and with surprising gentleness lifted one leg aside, widening his access to her; holding her steady as he moved in closer, rubbing the engorged head along the slick entrance and against her clitoris.  Olivia pushed her hips forward slightly as he ran his length against her slit again, and this time the head slipped in between the folds of her sex, stretching her opening, making her gasp.

“Be gentle,” she said.

“Hush child,” Samedi said, smiling down at her.

Olivia stared at him as he paused for a moment longer, before slowly inching his way inside.  She felt her pussy stretching to accommodate his thickness, her insides tight but still slick enough to allow him to keep pushing into her until he could enter no further.  Then, with her cunt wrapped firmly around his cock, he moved his pelvis in to meet hers, with only a few false bumps before they found their rhythm, hips rocking back and forth, meeting every time like old friends.  The pace increased into something approaching frenzied fucking, his mouth seeking hers, almost animalistic in his desire to taste her.  Yet when she closed her eyes the world around them seemed to slow down and instead of Samedi, it was Mason gently making love to her, smothering her mouth with soft kisses.

And then it didn’t matter who was fucking her – Samedi, or Mason, or the strange and exciting hybrid of the two – all Olivia could feel was pleasure flashing through her senses like volts of electricity, her skin suddenly warm and vibrant; breaths coming in short, sharp stabs as she pulled her lover closer, wrapping her legs around his back to hold him in place.  Her core felt fuzzy, and through it all she could sense him getting closer, the cock buried inside her almost swelling in its need for release.  With great effort, Olivia opened her eyes and reached up to take Samedi’s face in both her hands, forcing him to look directly at her.

“I need you to cum,” she said, watching Samedi’s pupils dilate with pleasure as he thrust into her.  She closed her eyes again, instantly feeling Mason’s body now wrapped around her own.  “Now,” she repeated, for her husband’s benefit. “I need to feel you cum in me...”

And with her eyes still closed, Olivia felt her lover grunt, thrusting up into her pussy one last time as he flooded her womb with his seed; thick ropes that splashed against her insides.  That was all she needed to tip her over the edge, and the warm fuzziness enveloping her body seemed to explode outwards as she climaxed again, crying out as she came.

For what seemed like the longest time they lay there, his cock still deep inside her pussy, both of them panting from exertion.  After a few moment collecting their thoughts, Samedi slowly withdrew from her body and stood, before stooping back to scoop her limp body into his arms.  Without any apparent effort, he carried her out of the living room and down the hallway to her bedroom, gently laying her onto the bed.  Only now, did she stir, staring up at him.

“Don’t leave,” she said, reaching out and taking one of his hands into her own.  “Please don’t leave yet.”  

“As you command, child,” Samedi replied.  He took her hand and bowed, raising it to his lips and softly kissing the fingers.  “I am here.  Relax, just relax.”

The bedsprings groaned as Samedi eased himself onto the bed and snuggled up behind her, wrapping his arm around Olivia as she slowly drifted into sleep, feeling the warmth of the body curled up to hers.  The physical form did not matter; with her eyes closed it was Mason who caressed her, and who sang softly to her as she slept.  And at cockcrow, when she felt him leave, it was Mason who kissed her eyelids and whispered, “I love you”.  Finally alone, curled up in the bed sheets, Olivia smiled sleepily.

I love you too, Mason.

***

It began, as so many things do, with pain, and with joy, and with forgiveness that gave more answers than questions asked.  It began with the feral scent of blood; sweet and high.   It began with optimism.   And as the warm sun broke over the quiet waters of the bayou and the last of the contractions faded, it began with cries that echoed around the maternity ward, and eyes of blue tinged with grey.

* *** *

Disclaimer (a.k.a. getting the excuses in early...):- An apology for anyone familiar with New Orleans and its patois, or with voodoo in general.  In a beautiful world filled with otherwise generic cities, New Orleans is a mystic gem with truly legendary status.  Or so they tell me; I’ve never been, though I’ve long wanted to.  Whilst I’ve done honest research, I appreciate that the interweb doesn’t always live up to ‘boots-on-the-ground’ experience.  So if there’s anything anyone desperately wants me to change let me know in the comments, and please forgive me if I’ve phrased anything wrong.  Although it is fiction, after all...