The Second Sight – Episode 16

THE SECOND SIGHT EPISODE 16

®20+ SNVL

 

ANACONDA HOLE

Location: LUSTFUL LIPS

BOAT

(feebly)

No, don’t do that.

VERONICA

(whispering)

And why not, darling?

Her voice is thick with lust.

Boat knows that voice.

It had preceded most of their sweet unifications. Even as his brain fights against it he feels the tension building up in his groin, and he exhales shallowly.

VERONICA

You’ve broken a lot of hearts this evening, Yaw, my love. Including me. I needed a little powder myself. You’ve been a very bad boy, and I’m going to punish you. Come to Mama, baby!

She begins to gyrate seductively towards Boat, her eyes half-shut and filled with sheer lust.

Long, lovely fingers pull down the zipper of the jacket slowly to her navel, and then she gently peels it off her shoulders.

One look at her sleek beauty, the wonderful swell of her firm breasts, and then Boat is lost.

Hers is a body made for love, a body that sets the pulses racing, crafted to create a figure that is in itself a sexual aphrodisiac.

As Bob used to say, she is well-bended! Not as crazy-bended as the naked woman I had made love to in the dark…

Very well-bended indeed!

Deep heat creeps up his neck, filling him with a desire that takes his breath away.

Boat watches, transfixed, as she glides seductively towards him. She is now in a scarlet G-string which accentuates the bulge of her intimacy, little tufts of silky black hair jutting out at the sides.

The jacket falls to the floor, and she turns slowly, her back to him now, long legs slightly parted, hips swaying.

Her thumbs hook into the G-string, and then she gently pulls it down, bending so that her firm buttocks are jutting out invitingly in the air.

The ache in his trousers is unbearable now.

Deep down in him a voice screams, seeming to wail out a warning. It is there briefly, and then it is gone.

Yaw Boat bridges the space between them and grips her sexy waist. She arcs upward, takes his hands, and drapes them across her breasts. He runs his hands over them gently, his thumbs elongating her nipples.

She moans deeply, her head pushing unto his shoulders so that he can clamp hot lips on hers. Her hands are working feverishly, pulling down his zipper, ripping him out of the confines of his boxers and expertly moving her hands over his turgid shaft, flicking it maddeningly-sweetly between the crack of her incredible buttocks.

Boat is a lost decadent pole behind her. She leans into him, parting her legs, angling waist forward slightly to rub him against her moist loins as the heat takes them by storm.

There is now no turning back as she bends and grips her knees, pushing against him, needing him inside her roiling depths, and with an animal grunt Boat thrusts into her jade gate.

She cries out in ecstasy and pushes into him deeply.

Deep down he suddenly heard that warning voice again:

Decadent soul…

Soul decadent…

Debauchery!

But it is faint, because he simply can’t resist the hunger of his body.

She moves away from him, turns and throws her arms around his neck.

She grinds into him as she kisses him with frenzied lust, and then she moves up, her legs winding around his waist as he holds her up and settles her once again on him.

Standing rigidly and holding her up, she uses her arms around his neck for leverage and grinds on him savagely until the floodgates open for both of them and, grunting with harsh bestial release, they explode simultaneously.

He puts her on the bed, and lies down.

He is not surprised when she reverses on top of him, her back to him, and lowers herself once again on his deflating member.

A few twists and tugs later, she has him raging again, and she groans and settles down fully on him…

Boat does not know for how long he slept, but he comes awake slowly.

Veronica is sprawled across him, sleeping soundly.

Boat pushes her legs off gently and gets off the bed.

He trudges to the small bathroom and takes a long ice-cold shower, and brushes his teeth.

He returns to the room and starts dressing, and then his eyes fall on Veronica.

She is lying on her back now, still naked, and her legs are spread.

Embedded deeply in her is a terribly-terrible demon that looks like an anaconda. It is fluid-like and scaly with changing skin colour. It seems to be curled around her with its tail in her throat and it yawning mouth framing her v****a.

Its mouth is open, and its fangs are splayed, terrible and deadly, inside her very core, so that it seems he has been sticking his p***s right inside the bloody mouth of that thing.

Boat’s knees go week, and his stomach muscles give way, and suddenly he rushes to the bathroom and vomits violently into the sink, his face tortured by the sight, his whole body weak with horror.

He is filled with deep revulsion.

Trembling, scared, and full of remorse, he returns to the room and dresses quickly. He puts an envelope filled with money and with her name on the back down on the dresser, and then he flees from the room.

The sounds from the casino are muted.

Many people have left, evidently. Boat has predictably overslept. The sight if that demon in Veronica intrudes again, and Boat stops suddenly, putting his hand against the wall and trembling violently.

BOAT

(horrified)

Oh Lord… oh, my dear Lord!

He can’t take it anymore.

He is going home to wait for his father. This thing is surely going to drive him mad.

Boat shudders again violently.

He knows, for a certainty, that he is not going to ever make love again… not ever!

Because he is certain that he is never going to be able to have an erection again, and be able to put it inside a woman, any woman, even Elaine, his angel.

He will always have that image of that anaconda demon receiving his d**k inside its mouth…

BOAT

(trembling)

Oh, Awuradze! Awuradze Nyankopon! Wetin sef be this now? Oh, my dear Lord!!

He takes the back door which leads him to the swimming pool area. There are a lot of people still in the pool. The weekend party is still on.

He is threading his way through the sprawled bodies, making for the door that leads to the bar, when steel-like fingers suddenly clamp themselves on his arm and grip hard!

Boat turns with a savage curse to face whoever is holding him, but I swallows the outburst that has risen to his lips when he sees that his antagonist is ZEKE.

Zeke is as huge as an elephant, and seriously retarded. He is squat, and his breadth is incredibly amazing. He is so broad that he finds it difficult fitting his shoulders through doorways, and always has to move in sideways.

Bob had once told Boat that Zeke suffers from some kind of hormonal deficiency which has given him his atrocious enormity and savage strength.

His clothes are always tailor-made to fit.

He has the biggest head Boat has ever seen on any shoulders. His eyes are close-set and skewed, and his lips are full to the point of being gross. He has arms like a gorilla, and over-sized hands that are perpetually bent into half-claws.

Boat relaxes, and doesn’t bother to struggle free now.

He knows that once Zeke’s fingers close around your arm it will take a nuclear weapon to dislodge them. He looks at Boat impassively.

When he speaks his voice is surprisingly tiny and soft, like a little girl’s voice, which belies the sheer malice trapped inside that massive body.

ZEKE

Jonny wants you.

The ‘Johnny’ he is referring to is JOHN STYLES, a handsome bas***d who calls himself the “Stylized Pimp of the New Century”.

He can supply you with any number of women you want, of any nationality and age, at any time on any day.

Some of his women are willing, others are coerced, some blackmailed, and some simply kidnapped. He is as despicable as they come. And, of course, he is an important link in Boat’s clientele chain, or used to be.

Zeke eats out of Johnny’s hand, and will ki*ll at Johnny’s cough.

Boat doesn’t owe John any money, though, because he has given the money to John’s cousin earlier that evening, and so he wonders what that despicable man wants from him at a time when all he wants to do is get out of the club, away from all the hell and decay.

BOAT

(calmly)

I don’t have anything to discuss with your master, Zeke. So leave my arm.

His nostrils flares instantly with sudden wrath; he was that bad-tempered.

ZEKE

You come. Or Zeke cracks your head.

Put like that, Boat has no option but to allow himself to be pushed forward.

The pool area is in semi-darkness.

Soft music floats through hidden speakers, making the atmosphere just right for a tango with lust.

Couples are frolicking in the pool. Others seek their pleasures on towels and mats. Others sit at the pool-side tables and drank quietly or engaged their own kind of sexual bliss.

Boat and Zeke walk through wide French windows and climb a flight of spiral stairs to the wide reserved terrace where late diners were eating. The Terrace is always booked in advance, and it isn’t open to regular customers.

Topless waitresses move between the tables with laden trays. The upper terrace is set in the mode of some exotic African garden. Real and artificial flowers have been elaborately arranged. Flowers in bloom give the air a clean aroma, although it did nothing to minimize the mind-boggling uglies floating all around.

Zeke leads Boat to a corner table where John Styles is sitting with a beautiful lady.

He is dressed in a well-cut tuxedo, and puffing on a cigar. He looks up and smiles. He is a very handsome man, although his good looks tends to be skewed toward the feminine.

The full, sensuous lips, the long eyelashes, the fine nose and huge eyes all give the impression of a beautiful woman trapped in the body of a man. His hands are delicate and finely manicured. His hair, left to grow and then made wavy by chemicals, is slicked back from a fine forehead, a few locks falling over the eye to give him a slightly dishevelled look which added to his allure.

He gestures to Boat to sit down in the chair opposite his, then he leans forward to plant a sloppy kiss on the lips of the woman beside him.

There is a glass of wine on the table beside a plate of partly-eaten salad and prawns in front of the woman.

Something makes Boat take a second look at her as he pulls out the chair and sits down.

There was an aura around the woman, a barely discernible halo, like the dying embers of the force-field Boat has seen around the poor widow and Mrs. Sam.

The woman with John Styles is dressed in a grey suit with an inner white shirt. Her thighs are pressed together tightly, one of her hands is lying protectively over her exposed thighs, the other hand trying unsuccessfully to hold the open neck of her shirt together, to cover the tops of her exposed creamy breasts.

Her face is dull, squeezed up in a silent cry for help. Even in the dim light Boat can see the sheen of tears on her cheeks, and the glazed look in her eyes, as if she has been drugged.

She is certainly not the type of lady that frequents the Lustful Lips. She is the type of woman you send home to meet Mama, the kind of girl who will pull down the edge of her blouse to cover any exposed panty edge, the type of girl who will smoothen the hem of her skirt down to cover her thighs as she sits down, legs properly kept together, hands linked on top of her thighs for good effect.

She is now making whimpering sounds in her throat, her head lolling on the shoulder of Styles, her whole demeanour that of a distressed lady.

It doesn’t take the abilities of Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Styles has drugged her. He has opened her shirt, and has obviously been mauling her breasts.

The skewed skirt tells Boat that Styles’ hands have found their way to her inner depths too.

Boat can now see the last vestiges of the force-field hovering around her, and then slowly disappearing from around her.

It is the first time Boat is seeing such a phenomenon, and he is greatly affected.

So it can disappear? It can be lost? That incredible force-field that shields the Chosen Ones can be lost?

For no apparent reason Boat feels incredibly sad!

That force-field is something he has coveted ever since he set eyes on it. To see this beautiful innocent-woman losing such a great thing really cuts through Boat’s heart.

He is right then.

She is a Christian, and had evidently entered the Lustful Lips covered with the glory of her force-field.

Somehow she has lost it; whether permanently or temporarily Boat doesn’t know. What he knows is that Styles has had a hand in it. He had obviously lured her here, on some pretext, drugged her, and is now having his way with her.

___________________

THE STYLIZED PIMP OF THE CENTURY

Location: LUSTFUL LIPS

Boat begins to get really angry, and then suddenly he begins to feel a very alien and dangerous emotion…

Pity!

He feels sorry for the lady, whoever she is.

STYLES

(with false reverence)

Welcome, Boatyard.

Boat has always wondered if he hates Styles so much because of his girlish good looks, or the business he is in, or simply because he insists on calling him Boatyard.

BOAT

(furious)

What the f**k is the meaning of this, Styles? I gave your damn money to your boy, so you better have a good reason for forcing me here.

Styles takes a puff on his cigar and giggles stupidly, his eyes straying fractionally to his Zeke.

STYLES

(patronizingly)

Want a drink? Such anger, Boatyard! I’ve always been telling you this anger will send you to your grave. Loosen up, boy. Life is full of zesty joys. Have a life, Boatyard!

Zeke sits down next to Boat, cutting off all chances of a quick escape.

It makes Boat’s blood boil. He hates to be pegged, and he dislikes being put into any situation he has no control over.

If that halfwit Zeke hadn’t been around he would’ve gladly flattened Styles to pulp, and Styles knows that.

Their dislike for each other is mutual and legendary, although none of them can give any real explanation for it. Sometimes things works out like that.

Styles had provided good money, and Boat had provided good drugs. That is as far as their acquaintance went, but the dislike is something deep within their souls.

BOAT

(coldly)

Get on with it, Styles. You aren’t exactly the kind of face I wanna see at my dining table.

He smiles humourlessly and glances at his watch.

STYLES

You know something, Boatyard, hmm? I’ve always wondered why the two of us have so much in common. For a fact your face makes me want to puke. I’ve a date lined up for tonight, a date that will bring me a lot of money! You see this Christian b***h right here? She wanted to deliver me from my sinful ways, poor girl. Know something? I want to bring her to my sinful ways! It was a sort of secret challenge. She wanted to take me to her world, and I wanted to bring her to mine, so it was a matter of who will win, although she obviously didn’t know that was how I was planning our little relationship. Some Italian clients of mine saw her this evening, and they have the hots for her! They’re offering a lot of money to gang-bang her Christian pu$$y. I want to sample her first, you know. A devout Christian like her is sure to have one of the sweetest pussies you ever fucked, don’t you think? Hmm, yummy! Tight pu$$y, don’t you think, like a virgin as***ole?

He bursts into raucous laughter, gags on cigar smoke, coughs a bit and wipes tears from his eyes.

He grips the girl’s cheeks quite cruelly, pulls her forward and clamps his lips on hers.

There is a choking sound from her throat, and her hands beat feebly against his shoulders. His right hand enters her blouse and pulls her left brea$t out of her bra, and he kneads her brea$t roughly.

It takes all his self-control to prevent Boat from knocking his face in.

Styles lets her go at last.

Her hand comes up, obviously trying to put her brea$t back in her bra, but the effects of whatever chemical she has been drugged with is too powerful, and her hand drops limply.

Agonized tears fall down her cheeks silently.

Styles wipes his eyes with a handkerchief sodden with perfume, and delicately puts it into his pocket.

STYLES

I’ll sh00t straight, Boatyard, because I want you out of my face quickly so that I can take this b***h upstairs and f**k her senseless. I heard old Bob bought it today, in a gruesome manner. Heard he decided to hang himself from the windscreen of a truck. Always knew that guy was crazy.

BOAT

(coldly)

Is that what you want to talk to me about? Bob’s funeral?

His eyes come up then and drills right through Boat.

His gaze is all steel. Sometimes Boat sees glimpses of that steel, which reminds him that nobody could have risen in the business of prostitution without having a reliable set of ruthlessness.

It makes Boat wonder if he sometimes underestimated John Styles.

Styles leans forward and grinds his cigar out viciously in an ash tray, and then he leans back again and regards Boat with those cold eyes.

STYLES

(softly)

Let’s not talk about Bob’s funeral for now, Boatyard. Let’s talk about Bob’s market.

And then Boat finally understands what Styles is after.

Greed, in all its ugly glory, is the factor here.

Bob had controlled the Beach County drug scene.

He had ruled with an iron hand, and had not tolerated any competition. People who tried to cut in had ended up badly dead. There had been a period, about a couple of years ago, when the market had been flooded with cheap cocaine from a supplier no one knew about.

One weekend four bodies had floated up to the seashore, decapitated, genitals missing. They had all been suspected to be partners of the new drug lord. The gruesome murders had not been solved, and the new cheap drug had disappeared from the market in a flash.

Boat had grilled Bob about the gruesome murders, knowing Bob had a hand in the macabre slaughter, but apart from a lopsided grin Bob had made no comment about the whole affair.

Bob’s relationship with John Styles had gone sour after that incident. Styles had kept away from Bob as if he was the plague. Much later Bob had confessed to Boat in a drunken stupor that Styles had been behind the attempted takeover of the market, and that he was going to cut off ‘that homo’s short d**k and stick it up his a$$’.

Styles had gotten the message, and had stuck to his whoring business.

Now Bob is gone, and the sharks are moving in.

A new turf war is going to brew in town, the fight for supremacy. Beach County, in all her glory, is a seedy joint underneath, contributing a great deal of money to the drug business. Whoever captures the market will make a lot of money.

Styles knows the big predator Bob is no more, and greed is swimming in his eyes, ready for a takeover.

Boat smiles at him, and he knows his smile isn’t quite nice.

BOAT

(coldly)

I own the market now, Styles.

Styles’ face clouds over with dark anger.

He is like a spoilt child, used to getting what he wants. Not many people have ever opposed him. He doesn’t like Boat, and that added an additional salvo to his anger.

Of course Boat isn’t interested in the drug world anymore. He is on his way out, and he doesn’t care two hoots what happens on the turf, but he will be damned if he gives in to Styles now and allows him to flex his muscles.

Styles’ teeth are clenched so tightly that Boat can make out the deep veins standing angrily on his jaw line.

He leans forward suddenly, thrusting his face against Boat’s, reaching out and grabbing Boat’s shirt in both hands, pulling him forward across the table.

STYLES

(hissing)

Now listen, and listen good, b***h! I’m not alone in this. I’ve got some very bad partners who’re moving into the market, butch, and you don’t want to cross them. I don’t like you, Boatyard, so I’m not going to warn you again. But from tonight, if you so much as hit the field with even a fingertip of coke, you’re dead. Remember that, b***h!

The fury is like a living animal within Boat, and with one movement he spins to his right, slamming Styles’ hands off him and pushing him hard in the chest.

John Styles is hurled back violently into his seat, his face betraying his sudden alarm.

Boat has known it the encounter will turn violent eventually. He has been wishing it to turn violent, although it is more like a death wish with Zeke breathing down his neck.

Yaw Boat has never been one to shy away from a fight, but he knows that even being a martial arts expert is no weapon against Zeke.

Unconsciously, Boat has decided to help the poor girl Styles wants to hand over to the Italian rapists.

It is crazy, of course, because just a couple of days ago Boat would have walked away without so much as a backward glance at her. She wanted trouble, and she has found it.

Boat has never one to stick his nose into another man’s business if I can help it.

Now everything is different.

Maybe, unconsciously, he is beginning to take sides.

Maybe he wishes to be on the side of those few guys with the force-field. Maybe he has had enough of all those vile creatures controlling his life, hedging him in and scaring the living bejesus out of him.

Maybe he is sick to his guts of people trying to walk all over him, doing what they want with him.

Whatever it is, once he begins, he means to see it through to the end.

He had been watching Zeke as he spoke to Styles.

Zeke’s appearance is that of supreme confidence. He knows he can rip Yaw Boat apart anytime, and so he is so relaxed.

Boat knows that he has no advantages against Zeke except complete surprise.

Boat has been planning his attack, and he has noticed an iron flower pot that is standing near their table, some heavy-scented flower with spindly leaves growing out of it.

It looks sturdy and handy, but he doesn’t go for it right away.

Before Styles hit his chair Boat is already on his feet, already spinning towards Zeke, who has been in the process of pouring himself a drink from the wine bottle, and it takes a second longer for him to grasp what is going on.

His close-set skewed eyes narrow fractionally, but Boat is already swinging.

Boat doesn’t go with a fist, no, because Zeke’s jaw looks as hard as his body, and Boat doesn’t want to break his knuckles on the steel chin of that man.

His martial arts teacher, Wailer Vroom, has taught him that when fighting bulls like Zeke it is best to go for the sensitive parts, the bruising places.

Four of his right fingers are pointing straight, hard and deadly, and they zoom straight into the abnormal eyes of the giant, and Boat rakes downward.

Zeke utters a strangled grunt, and his hands go to his face. He is momentarily blinded, and that is when Boat goes for the flower pot.

He holds the neck of the iron pot with both hands and pivots, gauging distances and proximity.

Zeke is on his feet, huge arms reaching our blindly for Boat, who swings the iron pot against the side of Zeke’s head with all his strength.

There is a dull metallic thunk, and Zeke’s head moves to the side. He grunts again but he doesn’t go down, his eyes open now, red from the abuse Boat’s fingers have caused them.

Boat brings the pot down again, so hard that he feels the jarring shocks in his shoulders.

It catches Zeke flush on the top of his double December head, and this time it drives him to his knees.

 

To be continued…

©Aaron Ansah – Agyeman

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